Summary: You shouldn't wander alone in the Underworld.

Henry steps carefully through the barren town. It's strange, the not-quite-right mirror of Storybrooke that this Underworld is.

He knows he shouldn't wander off alone, he really does. But there is so much going on in this weird waiting room for the dead, so much to find, so much he could do. He can help protect his mom, and maybe even help the good ones move on. He can be useful, he knows he can.

So he feels a little resigned when he turns down another nook, and catches the sight of cropped hair and blue eyes.

Grandpa is in the distance, looking around the buildings, presumably for him. Henry's shoulders slump, and grudgingly drags his feet as he approaches the older man. He is about to step from the alleyway and into view when he is stopped suddenly, a hand around his waist and another over his mouth.

His eyes go wide, and he starts to struggle, but the person's hold is tight and unyielding. But, as he watches, the man he thought to be his grandfather pulls Cruella into an embrace, kissing her hard on the mouth. His fear extinguishes as he realizes that he was almost tricked.

His body slackens. He knows that his grandpa has a twin, has read his story numerous times. He wants to kick himself that he was fooled by the appearance of … he thinks his name is James? He should know better by now.

James and Cruella stalk off into the distance, the later laughing boisterously as the former pulls her in.

He huffs, and the person holding him lets go.

"That's not David," the person says unnecessarily. But the voice, it is accented and familiar and clicks inside him.

He wrenches his head back to meet the cobalt eyes he knew he would see. His mouth drops, and he gapes up at the man. He looks just like he did that last day, the day he came to ask if he was in his book, the day Henry told him about his heart, the day he believed him.

Graham gives a cautious smile, a faint quirk of the lips. "Hey, kid."

It's like something breaks inside him, collapsing under the structure. He darts forward, catching him around the ribs and burying his face into his arm, tears down his face before he realized they were falling. Slowly, Graham returns the embrace.

They never got this close before, not with Regina making sure no one got this close. It had only been simple pats, small smiles, hushed talks after running away. But somehow it feels like a memory sliding into place, like an action he'd dreamed about finally taking shape.

And then Henry remembers the part that he had locked into his heart, the memory of the fears that had gripped him when he died, and he holds onto him tighter, the tears more audible against his shirt sleeve.

A ragged breath is exhaled over his hair, and Graham bows his head as he grips him tighter. "I missed you, too," he says lightly, and though it is meant to be joking there is a seriousness and a shakiness to his tone that makes Henry all the more bitter.

Henry pulls back, needing to see his face again. Graham's eyes are alert, rapidly bouncing over him with a small, easy smile on his face that opposes the tear that tracks down his cheek. Henry swallows thickly, biting back the sob that wants to escape again. "Where have you been?" he asks, finally, because they've been down here ages and why is he just seeing him now?

The older man's face falls slightly. He takes a long breath and then reaches out to push back the hair that had gotten mussed from Henry's forehead. "You've gotten tall," he remarks simply.

Henry wants so badly to be angry, to demand the answer, but his lip quivers instead. "You're the same."

Graham gives a small shrug and nods. His clothes are the exact ones he wore that last day, the red tie and dark vest, and his hair slightly longer than usual, and his stubble is still coarse but trimmed.

(He doesn't wear his jacket, because that is still at the station, residing there as if it belongs)

It makes him realize just how long it's been since he's seen him, and how missing the person that had been such a fixture in his life, before Emma, had left a gaping wound that Henry hadn't had the chance to mend.

He feels drained, his feet stumbling as he backs into the wall of the building. "It's been so long. I wanted … it's been so long."

"I'm sorry." His lips press together and he glances away. "I can't help," he says after a beat.

Henry's breath tightens. "Because of Hades?"

Graham gives a strained smile, but shakes his head. "Because of your mom."

His mind flashes to Emma so immediately with that title that it takes a full minute to realize he's talking about Regina. And it's like the realization he made, so long ago, is crashing into him like it's new again. He sways in nausea, remembering all at once. "She killed you."

He says nothing, only adjusts the shoulder of his vest. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, avoiding his eyes straight on, and Henry understands the non-answer.

Why does the knowledge feel new, like it was a breach from the depths, a long breath after an extended dive? Had he really locked that information so tight within him that he hadn't remembered?

(a brief flash, of dark hair and a swipe of the hand, but it hurts his head and he doesn't linger on it)

His mom … Regina … it was so much easier to explain away the soldiers and the villages from long ago, when Henry was never a thought in anyone's mind.

Graham … he had died … was murdered … not quite two years ago. He feels sick.

The older man sighs, and Henry turns to look at him through blurred vision. "They don't remember anymore, or maybe they just don't want to. They trust her … so I can't help. I'm sorry."

"Mom doesn't know," he blurts out, eyes watering again. "I couldn't tell her … it wasn't safe. Emma doesn't know she had your heart."

His lips part, and he looks away. He looks pained, eyes shaded in something like longing. "Maybe that's best," he says softly.

Henry watches him, and he is stunned to realize he knows what the look means.

You kissed my mom?

I'm remembering this because I kissed your mother?

"You love her, don't you?"

Graham's lashes flick over his cheeks. "It doesn't matter, Henry," he says slowly. "What matters is that you get back safe."

"You said you couldn't help, but you helped me," he asks. "Why?"

He chuckles under his breath, a crooked smile tugging on his lips. "I was going to stay away, the whole time you all were down here. But I can't help watching when you go off on your own."

Henry's quiet at that. Graham had always been the one to track him down, whenever he'd run away. It makes his heart ache that it is something innate in Graham, not an order to be followed like he had sometimes assumed. "I can write that we save you," he blurts out.

Graham's gaze shoots up, confusion crossing his features. "You can't sa—you can't bring back the dead, Henry," he says, struggling through the words.

But isn't that exactly why they were there? To bring back the dead? Graham deserves it, just as much as Hook does. He knows that he just can't write that he's alive, but there's got to be a loophole somewhere.

A plan is already half-forming in his mind, but he keeps quiet about it for now.

He doesn't need another adult telling him not to be a hero.

"Mom … Emma, she'll will want to see you, too, I know it," he says instead. "She doesn't say, but I know she misses you."

Graham looks at him, jaw working a long moment. Finally, he shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I can't." His voice cracks, and it almost alarms him.

He wants to protest more, to tug on his hand and insist, but another part pulls back. If he can get him safe, there won't be need for goodbyes. "Think about it?" he asks. "Please?"

The older man presses his lips together and finally nods. "I'll think about it."

It's bright, the emotion that lights inside him. He doesn't know if he should keep it, that hope that sparks.

But maybe that hope isn't unrealistic, not anymore.