Because before there was Jo, before there was Abigail, the only love for Henry was that of one James Carter. And Henry's not above flirting with those who bear this close of a resemblance.
Inspired by and gifted to the lovely idelthoughts.
"This is probably going to sound terribly cliche, but d'you have a cup of sugar I could borrow?" The stranger's laughing eyes are light with flecks of burnished gold, and the mere sound of his voice has Henry's stomach dipping and warming with a vivid memory.
It'd been 1905, then. They'd gone drinking and dancing with some of James' mates, and the lot of them had had a grand old night out on the town. But after all the others had gone and James had turned away every pretty dame with painted lips and bedroom eyes, he'd moved to murmur low by Henry's ear, "Think it's quite time we give the game away, now?" as his fingertips ghosted down the nape of Henry's neck.
"James." Comes the sound of Henry's own voice, now, whisper-soft and wonderstruck as he stands there, the tea cup he cradles in his hands all but slipping from his fingers and shattering to shards at their feet. He manages to keep hold of it between two fingers, but only just. It must be sheer coincidence, a remarkable resemble and nothing more. It must be.
The stranger flashes him a wide, white smile, then, one that's slow to bloom but brilliant all the same. And it's made all the wider, warmer, by the dying light of the London sun as they stand there together. "Thomas, actually. Thomas Crane."
And oh, how he'd dared hope, in between loud, stuttering beats of his heart. But now his hope lay shattered on the floor.
"I've a thing for feeding the hummingbirds, see, but I haven't been able to get to the store in the midst of this storm."
"Right. Right, I-" Henry pauses, here, trying and failing to shake off the memory of the last time he and James had gotten caught in a summer storm together. The memory of James' body against his own is alive in his mind, then, so real and solid that for a moment, Henry swears he can almost feel the phantom touch of his wandering hands and taste the sudden, wild crush of James' lips over his own.
"My apologies. The name's Henry, by the way. Henry Morgan. I take it you're new here?" They shake hands, then, and he has to stop himself from imagining if Thomas' breath would hitch just the same way as James' had all those years ago, when Henry had pressed him flush against the hard, wet brick of the dance hall and kissed him, kissed him, kissed him.
"That I am. 7C, just down the hall." Thomas says around an easy grin, one Henry's sure he'll find in the depths of his dreams tonight. "If you've not the sugar to spare, though, I could just..."
And because he'd never been able to deny James a damned thing, not his cursed truth, warm bed, or bruised, battered heart, Henry murmurs that no, no, that'll be fine. He disappears back into his apartment, then, still trying and failing (miserably, absolutely miserably) to push away the last of his bedroom thoughts. But already, he knows it's a battle he won't win, for it's one he never emerged victorious from before. He returns with the sugar a long moment later, all thought of the past wiped clean away when he's hit with the full extent of Thomas' smile.
Oh, dear Gods.
The man's fingertips brush Henry's own as he moves to take the offered cup, and the connection's instant, moving through Henry like a live wire that sets his whole arm alight in warmth, heat.
He manages a soft, "There you are, then. A cup of sugar."
"The birds appreciate it." His new neighbor says in a low murmur as he moves to lean flush against Henry's doorjamb, steady gaze warming with a smolder.
"Do they, now?" Henry asks around a crooked smile as he dares return the advance.
"Oh, they do." Thomas murmurs in agreement, gaze flickering and lingering on the set of Henry's lips as he adds, "And I appreciate the view" in a voice that flirts and flirts and flirts.
"Mm, well." And here, Henry pauses to lick the inside of his lower lip, crooked smile dipping into that of a smirk when he sees how Thomas' eyes follow the slow path of his tongue.
He knows damn well this could be dangerous and welcomes that danger, revels in it, even, as he dares lean so close, his next words kiss the line of Thomas' jaw. "Then don't hesitate to ask for another cup or two, sometime."
Later, much later, when he's an ocean away and knee-deep in memories, he'll tell an infuriately lovely detective that before there was her, before there was Abigail, the only love for him was that of one James Carter. But for now, he's not above flirting with those who bear such a close resemblance.
Henry Morgan is Bisexual 2k15.