A/N: I know it might seem like I'm posting two chapters in one day, but where I am it's been a day since I posted, so...
"You can't die."
The accusation is a familiar one, having come several times before – too many times for him to keep track – but for the first time since the early days, he could feel anxiety grip his limbs in a tight vise as crystal blue eyes met his dark brown evenly, blank of all emotion other than curiosity.
"Excuse me?" he somehow manages to ask, making his tone incredulous enough to believably pass as a real reaction to such a ridiculous statement, his face a mask of polite befuddlement as his thoughts spiraled with dread.
She doesn't appear bothered by his ruse; instead, she simply holds up a fragile-looking piece of paper he hadn't noticed before – he'd been too distracted by the way her hair lit up like a halo under the hospital lights – and he stares at it with a raised eyebrow.
It's a lovely picture – the proud unveiling of the completed raising of the statue of Horatio Nelson in Trafalgar Square in London – but, visible at just the edge of this particular shot, is himself, looking not a day younger than he is now, smiling fondly at a small team of ecstatic workmen who had aided in the statue's construction.
He didn't have to turn the picture over to know the date, but he does anyway – November 15th, 1843.
102 years ago, or just about.
He hadn't exactly pictured being found out like this, though in hindsight he should have with the invention of the camera. A part of him wants to question her on where she got this picture, how she got it, but in the end it doesn't matter; she knows something is very, very wrong now.
Inwardly he shied away from saying anything resembling the truth to this girl – this lovely, talented, kind-hearted girl, whom he already adores after only a few short months together – but his face remained impassive, refusing to show his inner turmoil.
"Oh, this?" he says, allowing himself to smile winningly, "This is a photograph of my great-grandfather; however did you find it?"
"Henry," she says flatly, clearly unamused even as he suppresses a flinch, "Please do not lie to me."
It's the tone of her voice that really gets to him – despite trying to remain steady, there's the slightest hint of disappointment, of dismay at his obvious excuse – and he looks at her for a long moment, resisting the urge to shift awkwardly on his feet at her unimpressed not-glare.
Finally, he sighs heavily in defeat and shakes his head.
"It's a long story."
A/N: I think I forgot to mention that most of these one-shots are set in a random order unless stated by me; they happen at random, really. However, this chapter and the next are connected. You have been warned.
~Persephone