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Henry leaned against the desk in his office. Out in the main area of the morgue, moving between the metal slabs lost in his own thoughts and work, Lucas busied himself with papers and tests and films. Henry watched him, his arms folded across his chest and a small smile playing across his face.
He was so young – Lucas was. He was naive, and innocent, and childish, and lost in fiction. He tried so desperately to please, and pulled so much trouble down upon his head with his attempts. He was often underfoot, and he could easily be distracted and deceived, and he rarely thought before speaking.
But he was smart. Not at first, and not to people who wouldn't listen – but he was. He was childish and naive – but he would learn. Someday, his innocence would be sullied and reality would crash down around his head – but not for a while. He was still a child – trusting of anyone even while imagining conspiracies and who knew what else. He tried his best to please people; and – even while it sometimes annoyed Henry – he couldn't help but smile at it, seeing his son in the child.
Whether or not Lucas knew of his condition, Henry still saw him as family. Abe said that he didn't live – that he needed to trust and depend on more people – and Lucas had somehow wormed his way through Henry's defenses to take a place in his heart, sometime after one of his many invitations to drink and his ramblings about detective teams. Even now, Henry would do anything to protect him – even if it meant exposing himself.
Lucas would do the same for him – had already broken rules or exploited technicalities to help him – and Henry was somewhat surprised to know that he trusted the child. He was loyal, and the Doctor wasn't worried about how his exposure would be taken.
He was loyal, and he reminded Henry of another, of another child in a different time...
Henry flinched back, the smile dropping off his face as he tensed in memory. The pain, the fear, the anger, the sorrow flashed through his mind and rippled through his body – and he turned away from the ghosts surrounding him.
The boy was there, scared and trembling, but strong beneath and struggling to convince himself that the lies were for the best – that his conscience wasn't right this time. That the good of the many outweighed the good of the few. The boy stood there, twisting his hands together as his eyes darted around a room that flashed between a dank cell and a poorly lit surgical ampitheatre.
Henry could feel the manacles clasped around his wrists and the straps over his body; and he could see the boy standing in the corner of the room, fidgeting. He wanted to cry out to the boy – to tell him to run, and to beg him for help; but he couldn't catch his breath.
Suddenly, the boy changed, and in his place stood Lucas. Lucas had no idea what was happening around him and merely waited for instructions – waited for something to do. Henry couldn't bring himself to ask the child for help – to tear apart his innocence himself. He couldn't do it, he wouldn't do it – he had to stay here; eventually they would die and he would be free, and the youth would be untouched. Just a little while...
"Hey, Doc?"
Henry flinched back, straightening up abruptly. Forcing himself to relax, he glanced around the room again, noting the absence of the maudlin ghosts from his past. "Yes, Lucas?"
"I was just wondering, since there's about thirty minutes until the morgue closes and since there's really nothing else to do tonight, I was wondering if I could go home early? I've got a script I want to work on, and a new graphic novel to read, and I was thinking about maybe trying this new recipe! See, it's made of some pasta noodle, and then stuffed with an egg and cheese mixture or something – and it looks really -"
"Yes, of course, Lucas." Henry interrupted, cutting off his assitant's rambling explanation and digressions. "Thank you."
"Really? Thanks, Boss! And don't worry," He gave a mock-salute as he backed away, "I'll be here all the earlier the next morning!"
Henry adopted a stern expression. "See that you do, Lucas Whal!"
"Hey, Cratchit got his salary increased, maybe it'll work out." Lucas grinned and shrugged.
"Ah, but that was on Christmas – and I am quite certain three or four ghosts will not be visiting me tonight."
"Yeah, probably not. Besides, you're a good man anyway. Anyway! Thanks, and I'll let you get back to...whatever it was you were doing before. See you later, Dr. Morgan!"
"Yes. And Lucas?"
The assistant paused in the doorway, halfway turning back in expectation. "Yeah?"
"Truly, thank you for all you do. You are an excellent doctor and assistant."
"Really? I mean – yeah, thanks, of course. 'Night, Doc!"
Henry waved him off, his smile widening. "And God bless us, every one..." He whispered.
AN: Hm. More vague than I envisioned - but these rarely turn out correctly. The boy is Henri Matheiu from my A Real Doctor and Rumplestiltskin's Illusions. Thank you for taking the time to read this - and thank you again for the permission! Gramercy, and God bless you!