Shared Secrets
"Hello, Detective. Do you have a new mystery for me to solve?"
"Yeah, I think, uh, you could say that." Jo raises her hand, revealing his pocketwatch nestled in her palm.
"Thank goodness," he says with a sigh, recovering the watch and looking up at her with a smile. "It was just stolen, I was about to file a police report, and, well, here you are."
"Y'know, I figured you'd say that. I also found this." She holds up the picture, the one Adam had, of him and Abigail and baby Abe. His face falls slightly, the smile fading. "I was hoping you could explain it to me,"
Henry takes the the photo from her, feeling again that acute sense of loss and longing, the one he always feels when thinking about Abigail.
"Tell her," Abe says from over his shoulder. Henry looks at Abe, who nods encouragingly.
Her eyes search his face, hopeful, scared. He looks back at her, just as frightened, just as hopeful. The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"It's a long story,"
He tells her everything.
They sit on two old chairs in the basement, their cushions well worn with use (he and Abigail bought them when they first moved to the city – comfortable, functional – though they've been reupholstered a time or two), looking across at each other. Abe brings them tea and disappears up the stairs to give them some privacy.
She is quiet through the telling, tea untouched as she listens to his story. Her eyes rarely leave his face as he goes through: his birth, his first death, his first wife's betrayal, the War, Abigail, Abe, his many deaths, the constant running and hiding to protect his secret. He considers leaving Adam out, but since she already knows about his stalker, he tells her anyway (he leaves out the part where Adam is now laying in a hospital bed, awake but unable to move for all of eternity thanks to Henry).
When he finishes, he looks at her, nervous now. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, faster than normal, waiting for what she will say, if she'll believe him.
She looks down, brow furrowed, eyes unfocused, studying her hands in her lap as she processes his story. After what seems to him like an eternity, she looks up.
"Does it hurt?"
He blinks, considering his answer carefully. "Yes. And no." He glances down and back up. "Physically, it depends on how I've died." He meets her gaze. "It hurts more when I have to leave the people I've grown to love."
She stares back at him, not coldly, but clearly thinking. He can tell her heart rate increased by the subtle flush in her face, visible even in the ill-lit basement, if you know what to look for (and he does).
"It's a lot to process, Henry," she says, rising from her chair and stretching. He rises as she does, ever the gentleman. They've been sitting down here for hours and neither of them has moved much in that time (he did say it was a long story). "I mean, the idea that you've been alive for over 200 years..." she trails off, shaking her head. "A lot to process."
He smiles tightly. "Indeed. I've had all this time and I'm still processing."
She smiles, and he lets out the breath of air he didn't realize he'd been holding. Then she pauses and frowns slightly, switching back into detective mode. "And you have no idea why it happened, or how?"
He shakes his head ruefully. "I don't even know if it will last forever, or if there is actually a way for me to die permanently." He thinks of Adam's theory (which was a solid one, if wrong), thinks of all the times he's poisoned, cut, shocked, shot himself, all to no effect. It's tiresome, continually dying. He always feels a little drained after he climbs out of the East River.
She gives a short nod, accepting that information, and heads for the stairs. He follows in her wake, "guiding" her to the door of the shop (she doesn't need help, but he hovers his hand just above the small of her back, longing for contact, scared to initiate). His nerves are jangling, not unpleasantly, at her nearness, at concern for his secret. He had been hoping to be able to stay in the city for a while longer. He doesn't think she'll tell anyone, but...
They've reached the shop entrance. Her hand is on the handle.
"Jo?"
She turns to look at him, and their eyes search each other's faces, each seeking answers to questions they cannot quite articulate. He breaks the momentary silence.
"Will you keep my secret?"
Fear wars with hope as she continues to study him. After a beat, she leans close, lips brushing his cheek in something more than a friendly kiss. He can smell her perfume (light, floral, not too overpowering), and he closes his eyes, savoring the scent.
"Only if you'll keep mine."
She is gone before he can say anything, and he is left standing in the doorway of the antique shop, hand to his cheek, watching her retreating back disappear into the crowds.