Sep. 7, 1940
There was a clear sky that day.
That's always the first thing he recalls, when asked about it later; the sky had been clear, and he had decided to take advantage of such a rarity and head out to the local pub for a drink.
Henry rarely ever saw the need to drink – the after-effects of doing so were incredibly troublesome and there was no telling what he'd say if he became inebriated – but he was, quite literally, shipping out tomorrow for France, so he thought he'd take advantage of his last twenty-four hours in London and indulge himself, if only for once.
The pub was a quaint establishment, known for its friendly atmosphere and good, cheap beer that didn't taste like complete rubbish.
He wasn't the only one in uniform tonight; a trio was chatting with some lovely ladies near the piano, and a whole table packed with half-drunk soldiers was the source of much boisterous laughter and off-key singing.
The other soldiers were clearly either too drunk or inexperienced in the arts of war to truly appreciate the crisp clothing they'd been given, carelessly sloshing their drinks on the fabric, unaware of the stains of mud and sweat and blood they were likely to pick up in the coming few weeks.
Henry just smiled sadly, discreetly – young people truly didn't understand war, no matter how much their elders moaned about it, until they experienced it firsthand – and skirted around the raucous groups, taking a seat at the bar and ordering a brandy.
"Glass of Schnapps, please," a crisp voice says from beside him, and he looks to the right to see something he definitely hadn't been expecting; a lovely young woman with brunette hair, wearing a soldiers' uniform much like his own, only with a slightly different color scheme.
He blinked a bit in surprise, but decides it's not bothersome in the slightest – the world was growing up, growing out of it's ridiculous gender roles; to be honest, he's rather glad it's finally getting a move on on that front – but suddenly he's caught her eye as she turns a bit, and she raises her eyebrow a bit, obviously daring him to say something about her uniform.
He flushes a bit – half in embarrassment at being caught, half in shame for staring – and quickly says, "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, I just-" he casts his eyes around the room, at the far less decorous men rowdily drinking, before smiling slightly "-I didn't expect to see a person so proper being shipped out with us."
She blinks, looking pleasantly surprised – she noticed the 'person' used instead of 'woman' – and nodded slightly, casting her own eyes on the other soldiers with not a small amount of disdain. "I'm not that shocked to find them like this. They won't be home again for months. Some won't come home at all; it's only natural that they have a bit of fun." Though, as she said it, she still rolled her eyes when a loud belch came from across the room.
"True," Henry sighed, taking a sip of his brandy, "But they could try to be a bit more decent. They are going to represent King and Country, after all."
She smiles a bit at that, amused. "What makes you think you're representing King and Country any better than them when you're here to get drunk as well?" she asks haughtily, baiting him.
He falls for it, a little; he draws himself up, with a mock superior look. "I never intended to become drunk, ma'am. I am simply here to while away my last few hours at home before I have to go bandaging up everyone in sight."
"Ah, a doctor, then? I heard the demand for those has gone up," she says, and suddenly she's not goofing about anymore; her smile has slipped into a more somber frown.
Henry sobers instantly at her words, nodding wordlessly. There's not much to say to that.
They sit, and drink, in silence for a few moments – not exactly an awkward silence, but definitely not a friendly one either – before she looks up at him again.
"What's your name, doctor?"
He tilts his head, but answers, "Henry. Henry Morgan."
Her lips tilt up the slightest bit. "I'm Peggy Carter."
She lifts her glass, still half full. "Good luck tomorrow, Doctor Morgan."
He breathes deeply for a moment, both moved and shocked at the toast offered, before lifting his own glass and clinking them together. "To you as well, Miss Carter."
"Agent Carter," she corrected.
"Agent Carter," he parroted, and they both drained the last of their drinks in one go.
This is where things get a bit hazy for him.
He'd saluted Carter outside the pub, about to head off – him to find somewhere else in London to await the days end, her to report to her superiors – when a low drone had filled the air.
He hadn't thought much of it, but at Carter's sharp gasp he'd followed her gaze upward to where dozens, if not hundreds of planes were flying overhead.
His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Those aren't ours," he'd said uncertainly.
"No," Peggy agreed, and she grabbed his elbow.
He turned toward her, intending to follow her, when a loud whistling sound came, and suddenly a building not far from them blew up.
It was all chaos after that; he remembered following Carter in a mad dash to try and put out the flames that had erupted after the explosion, but it soon transformed into him pulling Carter away from the burning building and back to the relative safety of the alleyways when the whistling continued and more and more buildings collapsed or exploded.
They'd ducked behind a taller residence when the whistling came again, higher and louder than before, and he barely had the time to pull Carter into an awkward embrace before the world erupted and he was suddenly flying through the air, a deep pain in his left side and the familiar feeling of blood spurting from a wound and he hit the ground hard enough to snap his right arm with a crack and dear God that hadn't happened in a while, OW, he wasn't used to anything beyond a few seconds pain between death and reawakening but this was just awful-
"MORGAN!"
-through the god-awful pounding in his head that had started up due to blood loss and harsh contact with the ground, he heard Agent Carter's voice snapping at him.
He inhaled sharply, barely managing to groan in pain as two unfamiliar hands groped across him, finding the piece of timber that had dug into his lower intestine and obliterated his left kidney and pressing against the sides of the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood despite the fact that he was well and truly impaled by a piece of house.
"Carter," he manages to gurgle, but she shushes him, and he blinks his already darkened eyes to try and focus on her.
Her hair is in complete disarray; there's red on her uniform; there's a cut on her right arm; that idiotic droning-whistling sound is still happening, and he wishes it would stop, because it is not helping his headache and God this hurts
"Stay awake, Doctor," orders Carter, and her eyes are a bit shiny, shinier than they should be, and he feels bad because she shouldn't be sad – not for him, he'd be fine in a minute… but she didn't know that, did she? Still, why did she care? He was just the odd bloke she met in a pub before everything blew up; she shouldn't be sad.
He must've said that last bit out loud, because she snaps, "That doesn't matter, Morgan, you just need to lie still-"
But he can't do that – he'd fading fast, already going, Lord have mercy but it stings – and there's something… he can't lose something important, he needs to
He manages to lift one hand – the one that isn't broken; that one's already gone numb by now – and reaches into his inner breast pocket, sluggishly grasps cool gold in his palm and drags his favorite possession out into the open for Agent Carter to see.
"Do me… favor… hold this," he slurs.
He barely sees her head nod and hears her say, "Sure thing, but I need you to stay awake, Morgan-"
before she's gone
he's gone
where's it all gone?
And then he's swimming out of the Thames, gasping and choking on river water, the drone of enemy airplanes still in the air and the whistle of falling bombs still raining down on London, and he's naked in the river in the middle of complete mayhem, and he's just glad that he managed to give Agent Carter his watch before he died, because if that disappeared in his rebirth process, who knew what his century-dead father would say?
A/N: The Other Doctor got such a popular response, and I got smacked in the face by a boatload of ideas, that I decided to start a series of stories! I'm not sure when part 2 will come up, but rest assured it should be coming up soon!
~Persephone