Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Henry Morgan may have been over 200 years old, but he remembered every person worth remembering. And as he helped the detectives he so admired on this particular case, he couldn't help but think of someone who was once very dear to him. Someone he would have given anything to see again.

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Hanson's forehead became more and more consumed by the frown that had lain on his face ever since this case had started, now becoming more defined as he paced back and forth, looking at a seemingly innocent brochure, "You're telling me he willingly sent his own kid to that place?"

This case hadn't been easy on Jo either, who was struggling to find the right words to describe the man that now sat in Interrogation Room 2. A sigh and several euphemisms would have to do, she decided, though her thoughts now drifted; not focusing on the cold blooded father but on the smiling, sweet, dead and buried 15 year old boy she saw on his sophomore school ID, now rendered useless forever.

"How can people be so cruel." the words came out, charged with more sorrow than she had anticipated. The kid looked so young, so full of life, of love. He had so much ahead of him, and all of it was taken away from him when his not so full of love father had sent him to Willow Tree Camp for "troubled boys". That name, written on the top of the brochure Hanson had thrown away now, exasperated with the whole situation; was code for Willow Tree Conversion "Therapy"/Torture Camp for gay teens.

"Cruel is an understatement. I mean, he knew what that place was gonna do. He f*cking knew what they were gonna do to him- and he sent him anyway!" Even if his voice was raised, no one thought to try to calm him down. He had kids of his own, and they could all see the utter disbelief he was feeling after the revelation that Danny Baker's father had sent his son there voluntarily, essentially sending him to his death.

As his and Jo's faith in humanity had slowly been drained from their souls throughout the case, through the ungodly "therapy " session tapes, children's testimonies, conservative parents' complaints and several of Henry's "AHA!" moments which had thankfully lead to the end of said conversion camp; she had watched her unofficial partner's dissociative trips down memory lane closely. He did that a lot, just stare out into space and be somewhere (more like somewhen) else most cases, yet she could tell this one had something about it that bothered him profoundly.

At first, she had been worried he was slightly homophobic. Maybe without the slightly as the case progressed. Now that she knew how old he really was, the idea that his old-fashioned manners and tendencies could extend to outdated beliefs wasn't too far of a reach. Still, she knew Henry, now more than ever, thanks to a particular decades old photograph; and he wasn't the type to judge others for that kind of thing. He was kind, accepting and, of course, Henry "the least judgemental person you'll ever meet" Morgan. He wasn't like that. He couldn't be. Not at all. So that thought had come and went never to return.

She had tried asking him about it, why he had been uncommonly dry when talking to the kid's parents, why he had run after the staff counsellor at the camp with her, why he had taken the opportunity to grab him by the collar and stare through his soul, even if he knew she was right behind him and would catch the unarmed and slightly sadistic counsellor either way. However, Henry had made it clear it was something he wasn't ready to talk about, and she knew better than trying to make him spill. She had worked hard to gain his trust and she wasn’t about to chase him away.

So she waited, and watched, and gave him reassuring looks, hoping he would let her in. Its not that he was still keeping secrets or anything from her now. I mean, it had taken some time for him to completely tell her everything, from the Empress of Africa to Grand Central to Abigail and Abe and even Adam, but once he had gotten talking, opening up, Jo had found he sometimes couldn't shut up. It was a wonder how he kept it all in before- the man was a complete babbler. She didn't mind the lectures, of course; in fact, she loved hearing about it all. How each case would stir up old memories from ancient times, and he would tell her about the roaring 20s, funky fashion trends or forgotten wars. What's more, she could tell Henry liked confiding in her too. And that meant the world to her.

So, what was different about this case? Why the sudden sullen silence, the monosyllable answers? Was he shutting her out again? Had something happened? Maybe this case reminded him of something that happened more recently, and he simply hadn't gotten over it. She doubted that, he would have told her. She was certain of it. There had to be more to it than his emotional walls simply going back up without warning. Thinking of him, and the young boy who had never and now never would have the chance to love without being judged, she made her way downstairs, hoping her partner was alright.

Henry sat in his office chair, looking at a copy of the same photograph Jo was minutes ago. Such a bright future, he thought, a pointless tragedy. Such a loss. He just sat there, feeling for the boy. Hated for loving. Killed for it too. Henry liked to think things like this had gotten better and, in so many ways, they had, at least in this part of the world. Nevertheless, some things never change, no matter how hard some people try. Because there are others pushing back just as hard, with false claims of what steps to take for salvation, verses on why loving can be considered a sin, affirmations that what they were doing was “unnatural”. Last time he checked, killing someone is much worse than love. How ironic that the all-welcoming "love thy neighbour" community only loved you if you met certain criteria.

Henry had encountered many similar situations in the past, senseless casualties product of senseless principles. No matter how old he was, how many years passed, all of those he had come across would stick with him; but this one, this specific boy, he would never forget. He looked at his glistening blue eyes, his golden curls and crooked smile and, only for a second, he thought he saw a modern-day picture of his brother staring back at him.

April 1791, England

“Where do you think you are going?” Oh well, out the window with the “going unseen” plan.

No matter, Nick knew just what to say.

“For a walk, miss” Nicholas said casually, hoping she would let them go without too much of a fuss.

“I do not believe your father has authorised you gentlemen going out right now. If I remember correctly, you, Mr. Morgan, are supposed to meet with him in under half an hour to go over your study plans, are you not?”

Father had been forcing Nicholas to spend an hour every night with him in his office to teach him how their family company worked. He was set to go to Oxford in autumn to complete his classical education. Nick didn’t mind the idea of university, though he hated anything business or economy related profoundly. However, at 17 years old, he knew his future as the eldest son was already written in stone. The Morgan Shipping Company one day would be his. At least, he thought, Henry would be able to be… well, Henry.

Knowing that his brother would be able to live as himself and not fall prey to their father’s tedious enterprise brought him comfort. Nicholas had high hopes for him, and ever since he had thrown that fit years ago when father had taken him hunting for the very first time, begging to save the wounded bunny’s life, he had known exactly what Henry would grow up to be. He had always been the smart one.

It was too bad he wasn’t a doctor yet, because unfortunately the bunny had succumbed to his bullet wound.

“You are not mistaken, no. Even so, Miss, it is a beautiful day. And it has been raining for weeks now, and I would very much like to take my brother on a walk” when Miss Smite opened her mouth to shut their expedition down, as the designated killjoy in the Morgan estate (oh, and the housekeeper as a secondary occupation), Nick waved his hand up to silence her- not discourteously, but in fact rather amiably, “A moment’s walk, of course, brief enough to allow me to be on time and ready to join my father upstairs.” He beamed at her, innocently tilting his head, making sure his puppy dog eyes made the wished upon effect and she would stop asking questions. “The sunset is set to be upon us presently” he added softly.

He always had a way with words, Henry thought as they exited their home by the kitchen door.

He followed his wild haired brother across the fields, who was ushering him to go faster. Henry didn’t know where he was taking him, but he followed him anyway.

Through the white flowers blooming in the sunset’s familiar gleam, a warm coloured blanket thrown across the sky, the Morgan brothers made their way to an old oak tree, a favourite of Nick’s.

Henry struggled to climb it and would never have been able to without his brother’s help. He had cursed him in his head when he fell down the first time, and apologised mentally back when Nick held out his hand for him to take.

Sitting on one of its top branches, Henry got lost in the gorgeous landscape before him.

“It helps quieten the constant humming, does it not?”

Henry hadn’t even heard him at first. Then, he thought it was a rhetorical question. His brothers soft laugh beside him, a laugh directed at him, made him snap out of it soon enough.

“I suppose it does, then” Nick managed to say in between faint chuckles.

“What do you mean” he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Your mind,” he said as he teasingly shook the young boy’s head, “you told me it never allows you to breeeathhe.”

“Oh. Right. Yes, then. I, I suppose it does help, yes.” His eyes wandered to the view again, and Nick followed suit. Silence had never been a gift either of them were given, but they did not speak for several minutes, the quietness comfortable and reassuring.

Nick broke the silence first.

“When I leave for university in September, this tree will stay behind. It can be here for you if you may need it, you know. Think of it as my less charming temporary surrogate. If you need me, I will be here. In between these leaves”

Henry looked at the ground for the first time since he had climbed up, the well-acquainted restlessness in his head stirring up again. He had been thinking a lot about what his best friend leaving would be like. And he did not like it one bit.

No one took him seriously at home, he was so young then, even though his pre-teen mind held more information than most people did. He also was deemed too strange in general. His eccentricities had always been a part of him, and highlighted through time and even stranger experiences.

Only Nick saw him for who he truly was. Only he knew his heart.

“I wish I could come with you”

“Well, Oxford is not a place for children, I’m told. However, I do believe you would make short work of even the most upstanding students”

Henry smiled while his brother ruffled his hair in a swift motion, lowering himself a bit before letting go and falling on the ground fairly gracefully.

“Come on. It’s getting late”

Henry got ready to do the same, but before he could, Nick advised him to take a safer route through the branches, so he did.

The walk back was peaceful at first, nothing but their footsteps braking the stillness. Still, after a short while, those same heavy footsteps became lighter and quicker, their laughs becoming more amplified the less rays of sunshine that remained. If they did not hurry, Miss Smite would have both their heads.

Henry had already left the building when Jo’s elevator arrived at the -1 floor where the gooey side of their investigations took place. Before meeting henry, she had despised going down there. The smell alone was a little off-putting, but the worst part of it all was, ironically, the living. The MEs were always one of two things: they either were boring and detached, almost colder than the bodies they were examining, or they were stereotypical narcissistic slightly morbid doctors. Thankfully, Henry was neither, though he could be cocky when his theories were confirmed (which was pretty much all the time) and those who didn’t really know him could argue he could be distant.

Jo begged to differ. He was too sweet to be labelled as such. as Dr. Wilcomb informed her that she had just missed Henry, she let out a sigh, thinking that he had probably left in a hurry to avoid her inquisitions about his current mood. Obviously, this was very, very true.

Because, as he had finished Daniel Baker’s final report, echoes of his brother’s fate had filled his skull like a siren, plaguing him with images he had tried hard to bury. At the same time, he had held on to those painful memories for no other reason than that he didn’t wish to forget the last time he had seen his brother- alive and, much to Henry’s heartache, dead.

Chapter Text

Jo had given up on interrogating Henry for the time being- she would compassionately ask him about it tomorrow. Right now, she could really use a drink.

She made her way to their usual bar, aware that Hank, the rugged and kind bartender, would pose several “are you okay”-like questions if she went to drink alone. Nonetheless, after this case, Jo couldn’t care less what she seemed or what Hank thought (no disrespect to him, he truly was a good guy; but Jo was more interested in how good his martinis were that night).

The bar was its own sort of time capsule, always the same. It was nice to have something so constant in her life, something that would always be there (she hoped to still come here when she was 70 and white haired… would Henry still come here then?). She quickly pushed that thought out- she didn’t want to end up spiralling over Henrys condition yet again. It had been a tough few years. For both of them.

At least they had gotten closer, and this newfound closeness brought on not only lectures, but meaningful glances and even a couple of rare hugs with it too. And oh, how she had loved those hugs.

This string of thought came to an abrupt end when she saw the man that had been consuming all of her thoughts moments before sitting on the bar. I guess he also needed a drink. Or two, judging from Hank’s warning “take him home” look. How on earth had he gotten tipsy so fast? He had left work 10 minutes before she had.

“Ah, detective!” he held his cup up at her and motioned for her to sit down next to him with a grin, “I was just about to order another Scotch. Shall I make it two?”

Yes, he was definitely drunk. Shit. Or… no, she couldn’t take advantage of his slurred speech like that. She would ask him everything she needed tomorrow morning, after he had taken as many coffees as drinks he had downed that night. Although, it would be so easy to just get him to talk now… No. she couldn’t. He was her friend, and she would let him decide what feelings he wanted to share. What memories.

Even though she had set out to be moral and an upstanding friend, Henry would manage over the course of the walk to her car and the ride home to answer all her questions without her having to utter a word.

After some incoherent rambling about how unfair Danny Baker’s death had been as Jo struggled to keep Henry walking to her car, she thought she heard him say “Nick” in between several “tragedy”s and “cruel”s. Who the hell is Nick?

She didn’t pursue it, trying hard to retain the detective urge in her to ask questions and her growing curiosity, but she wouldn’t have to. Jesus, just how drunk had Henry managed to get in so little time?

“…I mean, the poor boy was failed, you see, failed by the system, his parents, by everyone in his life, you know. Everyone. Just like what happened to Nick, just like it” his voice had cracked a bit as he had said that last part, just when Jo was shutting the passenger door of her car. She hoped he wouldn’t puke or something. It would be very uncharacteristic of him too. I mean, Henry? Vomiting? That must be a sight. All in all, it was very rare to see him drunk too so, who could really know? Jo just hoped for the best and resolved to ask about Nick tomorrow. If Henry shut up, that is.

Much to her surprise and slight disappointment, he did quieten in the car a bit. He stared at the window, his head resting on his hand, his elbow perched on the window frame as he watched the dim lighted streets go by. He was thinking of Nick, whoever he was. If Jo hadn’t been told about Abigail and Nora and hadn’t witnessed Henry flirt with several women now, including maybe her a couple of times (she hoped he had been flirting, at least), her front theory would have been that Henry was gay and Nick was his long lost lover from a time when it wasn’t allowed. Of course, she had discarded that theory the second it entered her mind. Most of her had followed logic to that end, based on everything already established. Part of her had thrown the theory out because she thought the two of them had shared a few moments in the past couple of years since they met. Moments she thought were real. And she really hoped more moments like those were on their way.

“I’ve seen this before, you know. Hate driving people to do such unspeakable things. Hate against love, no matter who the person loving is. No matter if they’re adults, 15 or 17. It never matters to them.”

The anger imbedded in his words had taken her aback, but they didn’t surprise her. He must’ve seen horrible things throughout his long life. Jo didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say, other than to quietly agree with him. She knew the history and she had seen what happened to Danny.

“Hate has killed millions,” he stated, “ Hate killed my brother too.” He said this last part under his breath, well, more like mumbled it. But Jo heard it alright. She had heard stories of Henry’s past, of little Abe and beautiful Abigail and many other important mentions like Nora or even famous intellectuals and writers, like Hemingway, who had apparently stolen Henry’s girlfriend in the late twenties. She had heard very few, however, of his life pre-immortality. And she was sure he had never, ever mentioned a brother. And she had the feeling she was about to find out why.

Henry’s mind was set on Nick. Nicholas Morgan. Nicholas Lawrence Morgan, beloved brother and son. He remembered thinking that Nick would hate being buried under some impersonal and boring engraving on his headstone. He remembered being so upset about it that he had gone to their old oak tree on his own, to carve a proper goodbye, one he deserved. Sitting on Jo’s car, he wondered if the old oak was still standing. How many people would have seen the words he dedicated to his brother over two centuries ago? Would people who found it research it, and find out what had happened to Nick? He thought it couldn’t have been many, if any at all.

Nick existed in his mind only now, remembered only by him. He had hardly even talked about him, even with Abe. With that in mind, guilt and regret deep-seated in his soul, he decided he would bring him back to life tonight. Not his body, of course, he had failed to do that long ago; but rather his memory.

“His name was Nick. Well, Nicholas Lawrence Morgan. But I called him Nick, much to my father’s disapproval” he let out a quiet snicker at that which made Jo smile. She wasn’t going to pressure him to say anything, but she wasn’t going to stop him from venting either. He needed this. That was clear enough.

“He was supposed to leave for Oxford, a place I would attend years later. He never did get the chance to go. Hate killed him before he could. Just like with Daniel Baker.”

Henry let that sit for a minute before continuing to recount one of the worst moments of his entire life. For a 236-year-old who had been in wars and seen the worst the world had to offer, that’s saying a lot.

“I don’t know how they found out. They were both very careful with it all, with their secret meetings and subtle love letters. I believe I helped deliver a couple of those without arising suspicion” he smiled at this, thinking of the good times before all hell broke loose.

“Anyway, I suppose they found one of them. The letters, I mean. The next thing we knew, Thomas was being accosted by his father’s men. They had tried to stage an accident, and he had barely gotten away. It was all concocted by his father, he was a very wealthy landowner, and most men would do almost anything to gain his favour back then. Including help murder his son to keep his honour as well-preserved as a situation like that allowed. Remind you of anything?”

He was referencing Danny Baker, hinting at what the story had in store. Jo looked at him solemnly as long as the traffic light allowed and saw Henry’s piercing gaze for what it was: rage.

“Once my brother heard of it, there was no stopping him. I tried to, Thomas was as good as dead already, and Nick hadn’t been associated with it all yet, thanks to the mythological names they signed the letters with. If he made it known he was the sender, it would all be over. They would exile him, send him away. Or even kill him too, which seemed the most likely course of action given how Thomas’ circumstances were playing out. Either way, Oxford was no longer going to be an option.”

Jo pulled the car over and parked in front of Abe’s, her heart breaking for Henry and those boys he was talking of, who couldn’t have been very old if 15-year-old Danny had made him think of them. When the car stopped, she turned to look at Henry, who was looking up into the sky, as if trying to prevent tears from falling. It was hard, seeing him like this.

“I begged him not to go. I really tried.” A sigh escaped him, a single tear falling down his face, the words he spoke 200 years ago coming back to haunt him.

June 1791

“Please. Please don’t go, Nick. You are going to get yourself killed!” his prepubescent voice cracks weren’t helping him get to Nick at all. This was a serious situation, and he cursed himself for sounding like a broken bagpipe.

“I’m not getting myself killed. If I die tonight, it won’t be because of me. Only they are to blame” he snarled, as he rummaged their father’s drawers, hoping to find one of the guns he owned and never used.

“Nick, stop this! You are not thinking logically. Just sit down and think for a minute. If you go and try to help him, they’ll know you are the ‘Achilles’ who signed that letter.”

When Nick didn’t stop, his resolve to dive into danger growing hand in hand with his impatience as he pawed through the second to last of the wooden drawers, Henry continued, determined to make his brother see it as he was.

“They won’t have mercy, Nick. It won’t matter who father is if it hasn’t mattered who Thomas’ is. I realise he did play a part in all of this and father is nothing like Thomas’ and a good man, but I still don’t think he will be able to help you if you do this. Please, Nick. Thomas might as well already be dead, but you don’t have to be.”

Nick reached for the gun, hidden between a couple fuzzy sweaters, and looked at his younger brother, registering for the first time the urgency in his voice. He would most likely die soon, and he would be leaving Henry behind, not for the school year like he had intended, but forever.

He crouched down next to his little brother, looking him in the eye and, with his hands on the child’s shoulders, he simply said: “Henry, no matter what happens tonight, you keep the part you played in helping us a secret. You could be considered an accessory. They can never know you helped us.”

“But-”

“No. They can never know. Promise me you’ll keep yourself out of this.”

Henry didn’t respond. Maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, Nick would have to stay longer, and it would all be over before he got himself into the trouble he was running head-first into.

“Promise me, Sandy” he loved it when Nick called him that. ‘Sandy’, for Alexander. His middle name. They were obsessed with code names and forming their very own secret language when they were little. It was that same idea that drove the young lovers to communicate through their not-so-secret-now letters.

Sandy. Hearing him utter that name again made the pit in his stomach heavier.

Coming to terms with the fact that Nick was not going to let this go, Henry closed his eyes for a second. And with a heavy heart, a deep breath and a single tear dropping from his eyes, Henry muttered the last words he would ever get to say to his older brother.

“I promise”

Henry had kept his promise to not speak of the times he had passed down their notes and yet the love he felt for his brother had been far greater than anything he could ever tell him not to do. So, he had gone out into McGreal’s fields, where it was said to be happening. He had raced through the weeds, all the way from the Morgan estate, his breathing fast and shallow. A voice in his head was telling him Nick had a way with words, that he would convince them to stop, that he could convince anyone to do anything. He was almost there, hope growing in his chest, when he heard the shots. Both of them.

He had been late to save his brother, who lay still on the ground when he got there, his hand stretched out in Thomas Draycott’s direction, as if he was reaching for his dead lover.

Henry remembered kneeling down beside him, trying to stop the bleeding. He remembered his father arriving moments after, Henry already stained with his brother's blood, tears swimming in his eyes. He remembered hearing the men argue amongst themselves about what to tell people, what to do, and he remembered yelling at them, begging for help. He remembered no one doing so, his father telling him Nick was gone and the others, Mr. Draycott among them, pulling Henry away from the body as he kicked and screamed and tried to claw his way back to Nick, who he last saw being carried away, his hand limp and bloody.

Jo sat there, next to him, not knowing what to say. She had held his hand in both of hers as he had told her of his brother’s death, and how he had been too late to save him. How he wished he had locked him in their father’s room, even if it meant he would have hated him for the rest of his life. Because if he had, at least there would have been a “rest of his life”.

Still, deep in his heart, he knew Nick would have found a way to go, and that he himself would have never dared to retain him against his will, mainly because he respected his brother and his choices and what he was willing to do for those he loved. And Henry knew he would have done that and more if he had been the one in danger.

“I’m so sorry, Henry.” She sighed, rubbing her fingers against his palm. She wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. That he was loved and cared for and that she felt for him. She wanted to be there for him because he was letting her be and that was a rare sight. She wasn’t going to let him down.

They stood that way, hands drawn together, for what felt like hours. His buzz had dialled down too, which meant he was sober enough and still willing to stay there with her.

“What pains me the most is, I had the chance to say goodbye, and I didn’t.”

Jo looked at the broken spirited man before her, his vulnerability shining through. Yes, this certainly was a rare sight.

She was about to speak, what of she hadn’t really known, when Henry suddenly moved to take off his seatbelt and open the door, all quickly and efficiently. In a matter of seconds, before Jo could say anything, he was out the car and had waved her goodbye with a forced smile and a brief “Goodnight, detective”. Alright, this was more on brand for him.

She wanted to follow his lead, run after him and hug him tight, but something inside her told her it was best to leave him alone. It was enough a step forward that he had shared that story with her. One that he had clearly buried long ago, along with Nicholas Morgan, the reason Henry had actually decided to become a doctor.

Chapter Text

Nicholas Morgan wished he had listened to his brother. Thomas had died, died right in front of him, and there was nothing he could have done. If he had been able to save him then, he would probably have been hung later on. Thomas’ father would have made sure of that.

Nick’s wasn’t like that. Nick wouldn’t have had to die, just keep his mouth shut. Hell, even if his father had found out, he probably would have kept the goddam secret, whether it would have been because he truly loved his son or to maintain the family’s reputation intact, it didn’t matter. Maybe he wouldn’t even have sent him far, far away where the world would forget him, as others did sometimes when their sons turned out to be huge disappointments, or worse. However, he had been found out, rather dramatically, with Nick waiving his gun around and all.

Nick just had had to play the hero, and he had screwed it all up. He had hesitated to shoot, and they didn’t.

He had gotten himself involved and discovered, shot in the gut. Even if that last part hadn’t happened, things couldn’t go back to the way they were. No one, not his father, not the God whose lead the men who killed Thomas claimed to follow, could have set time back.

Still, as he lay there on the dirt, he knew he would have tried to save Thomas in every universe, because he didn’t deserve what he got. Not in a single one of them.

Yes, he would have done it again, he thought as he stopped trying to identify the voices around him, as his eyelids shut and the pain started to fade into nothingness.

This conviction would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Because yes, there was a rest of his life.

A freakishly long one.

September 1791, somewhere in Scotland

Sitting on a hard mattress that reeked of mildew and years of sweat, his father had told him what he already known: that he couldn’t go back, that it was too late, and it was better for him to stay away. What he had failed to mention is that he had told Henry he was dead.

He would figure it out in time, as the seasons passed and his little brother didn’t visit him. He got that that was an awful place filled with awful people- not the inhabitants, but rather the sadistic minions, as he liked to think of them (the so called “medical staff”, who had been trying to cure him of his so called “disease” for months now), though he really missed Henry’s weird rants and bad jokes.

After a harrowing year, much of which he had spent being forced to undergo special “treatments” he had spent thinking of how he let both Thomas- who he hadn’t been able to save- and Henry- who he had left alone- down, Nicholas realised it had to be his father’s doing. His brother would have come by now, if only once or twice. He theorised that father hadn’t let him go, because of the nature of the place. He imagined Henry, resolved to see him, plotting a way to go see him, managing to get kilometres away before his father’s men caught him, father himself waiting to tell him off at home, at that candle-smoked office of his.

Nick held onto the hope that one day he would come, as he did the hope to someday be able to convince his doctor that he wasn’t sick, not anymore. Maybe he would one day convince himself.

Hope he would get away and see his brother again was always there, kept hidden from the doctors, his cellmates. He kept it close to his chest, the only thing he had left- the only thing that kept him alive.

It was all in vain, though- the doctor would never stop their sessions and Henry would never come. So he vowed he would one day go to him.

January 1808

It took a wave of unprecedented luck and a few loose canons for him to finally escape.

There had been a fire, started by his elder fellow captees, who had managed to steal food from the kitchen for the past couple of months, building up their strength, taking advantage of the new head of the B wing, Dr. Mills, who was young, ambitious, and too preoccupied with reforming the worn-down establishment to realise what the grey haired, gap-toothed men were planning.

Nick wasn’t aware of the plan and, if he had been, there’s little chance he would have been able to escape- he would have been too busy actually helping ignite the fire that would eventually bring the whole place down.

They used scraps torn from their scratchy no-good blankets and from their own clothes as fuel, and a stolen kitchen candle as the well-awaited fuse. Their ticket out of there.

Thank God for Grandpa Rusty and Toothless Ted, Nick thought. He never knew their names, but trust he would remember them forever and ever as the men who saved his life from that hellhole and, ironically, the ones that started the chain of events that would ultimately lead to his death.

He barely made it out, his wardens struggling to keep everyone in line and alive, some putting in more effort than others, and got far away enough that they didn’t see him as he entered the forest that had stood outside his window for half his life now and had never been able to set foot in until now.

He didn’t allow himself to look back- if he had, he would have been overwhelmed with the urge to help Mad Maxxie, as he had nicknamed her from the moment he had seen her eat a cockroach his very first week, who was unfortunately being held down rather harshly by Dr. Mills’ lackies.

Getting back to Henry would be a long journey, filled with unpleasantness, nostalgia and a little money-begging here and there. Nevertheless, he was sure it would be worth it.

His brother was 29 now. Maybe he was married. Would he have children? Would he still struggle to tame his unruly curly hair? Would he let out a loud huff when he didn’t seem to be able to put on his cufflinks properly in under a minute, like he always used to? Would he recognise his own brother, who had been dead to him for longer than he had known him?

Nick felt his heart slump at that.

It would take him 6 years to get back home. Yes, seems like a lot. But when you escape an asylum where you have been for almost two decades, living in a haze and forgetting how to maintain a conversation with someone who hasn’t been irreversibly traumatised and tortured every day, especially if you’re unlucky enough to find yourself in the beginning of the 19th century, it can be a little hard.

Oh, and dying a half a dozen times and becoming an immortal at 34 years old only complicated things a teeny bit more.

December 1808

“Oi, goldilocks, don’t touch me apples if you’re not buying!”

Thanks to his natural and oh so alluring charm, Nick had managed to save up a bit as he had made his way south. Still, he wasn’t close at all to appearing as if he was as wealthy as he once had been, so he resigned himself to nod and grin at such comments. He found he liked mingling with those he hadn’t been allowed to befriend before. They felt real, human.

He wandered through the market, which was glum and grey with barely any fruit left at this time of year, and stopped at a few posts, watching, inspecting and calculating which buys would save him the most money and keep his stomach full. For someone who had once tried hard to not pay attention to his father’s lectures on the economy and good deals, he sure knew how to make his money stretch further than most. Turns out the lessons had taken roots after all.

He felt at peace then, perhaps still partially broken, pieces of him lost in the prison he had left behind that could never be retrieved again, yet a weight had been lifted from him the minute he had breathed fresh air outside those walls.

It would take time, he mused. However he may still become a semblance of a man again.

As he paid the lovely lady in the brown dress and thought about how cold she might be and how all that time imprisoned had served no purpose considering he had felt nothing for this beautiful, doe-eyed woman who had clearly felt something for him; he heard an altercation nearby.

He should have ignored it, should have turned his head, been on his way, not involved himself in something that could get him hurt again. What he shouldn’t have done is step in between the red-headed red-faced man and the dark-haired angular-faced other guy, trying to dial the situation down. He shouldn’t have stayed in place, as the first man took out his knife, and the second kept on provoking the first off-puttingly calmly, his words almost calculated, as cold as ice. And he definitely shouldn’t have stepped in front of the apparent instigator, not caring whether he deserved to be saved or not, only to end up taking that same knife to the chest.

While all this happened, bystanders scattered, unwilling to become witnesses or victims, leaving the three men on their own to decide their fate. The knife-holder, the big, now also red-handed man left as soon as Nick hit the ground, blood gurgling in his mouth, decided he wouldn’t stick around to be blamed for his crime.

The other man, the mysterious agitator who hadn’t wielded the knife but had clearly started the fight from what Nick could tell, stood by a little longer, his piercing eyes looking into Nick’s.

Kneeling down beside a dying Nick, the dark-haired man simply said:

“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting this much entertainment tonight, but you sure made it worth my while. I apologise for the knife in your chest. Certainly not a pleasant way to die.”

With that and a nod, the reason Nick died for the first time walked away, oblivious to the fact that he had just helped create the one kind of person he had been searching for for thousands of years.

Chapter Text

April 1814, England

Arthur Morgan died with guilt on his conscience. Guilt surrounding the slaves, mostly, but also guilt for never telling Henry Nick had been alive when his youngest son had reached for the bleeding one, that he had been carried away and his life had barely been saved. But that he had been saved after all.

It didn’t matter now. Arthur had been told of the fire, and anyone who hadn’t been found alive was assumed dead. So he had grieved his eldest son in secret, knowing that telling Henry the truth at this point could only hurt him more. Knowing that Henry already hated him, and if he were to tell him what a liar he had been even before the slaves, he would never forgive him. Arthur took what he believed to be the truth behind his eldest son’s first death to the grave. However, perhaps Henry not forgiving him was inevitable nonetheless, considering he had been less talkative than a stone wall since he learned of his side hustle.

Arthur was not surprised that he showed up on his last moments despite all of it, because he had raised a good man. A selfless, righteous, brilliant doctor whose future was bright in his father’s mind.

As Arthur Morgan struggled to speak, and as Henry fought back the urge to properly bid his father goodbye, he gifted him the golden watch that had always been meant for his son. Not this son, of course, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

Henry wouldn’t meet his eye. He had come to see him, and that was better than he deserved.

The past few months had been hard. He had watched his father, the man he had held in such high esteem his whole life, as he had withered away into a man he did not recognise anymore, did not want to even know.

Still, Henry struggled to keep his voice from flailing, his hands from shaking and his eyes from wandering to his dying father before him. No, not just his father. A slaver, he reminded himself.

Why was he fighting back tears, when he knew what he had done? How could he still love him? After all the souls he had sold, not as people, not as anything worth more than a few coins.

Henry wondered if his father had done anything else this wrong before. It was plausible that Henry didn’t know. After all, he hadn’t known his father was involved in the Slave Trade until some gentlemen had spelled it out for him. It was the look in his father’s eyes when he had confronted him that sold it.

It went not only against everything Henry believed in, but everything he had been taught. Clearly, practise what you preach hadn’t been a motto his father had lived by.

But Henry would. He would dismantle it all. After all, once his father died, the company would be his. He was the only living heir. And he was going to make the most of it. Piece by piece, he would take it apart. Every shipment, every load, all for every person he could save. He would turn it all around, he promised himself. He would not be like his father. He would be brave, stand up for those who couldn’t.

A faint memory of his brother, swished through his mind, head held up high as he set out to do just that. If Nicholas had been alive, perhaps none of this would have happened, he would have found out about the slaves the minute he had been introduced to the company. And he would have made sure Father stopped it. Henry had spent his whole adult life repeating to his father that he wanted nothing to do with the business, that all he ever wanted was to help people, to heal. Being a doctor was what he was supposed to do, he had just known.

Now, as his father gave him an all too familiar watch and took his last breath, Henry remembered that his brother had not wanted to be part of the business either. And yet, he had agreed to it. Because it had been his duty. Henry had rejected his duty to the family business. And hundreds of people had paid the price.

If he had taken an interest in his family’s affairs, or if Nicholas had been there to do it for him like was supposed to be, he wouldn’t have had to enlist as the doctor on board the Empress of Africa, to undo what his father had done. He wouldn’t have had to scourge the ship looking for a man who knew English, so he could understand the course of action Henry was planning to set in motion. And he definitely wouldn’t have had to play the hero, refusing to move, to let his father’s actions take yet another life.

Ironic, isn’t it? That that the last of his father’s victims was himself.

June 1814

He had thought that with being away for so long he wouldn’t recognise the streets he grew up in. But walking through what used to be McGreal’s field, with the same yellowish glint that predated the incoming summer, just as it had the last time he was there; he found he could almost smell the blood that had been spilt on these grounds. His own included.

Nicholas thought of all the times he had died up until now. There was his first death, the knife to the chest. Not particularly pleasant, especially considering that that was the one death he was convinced he wouldn’t come back from. He had had that same conviction years before, when he was shot here. But that had been different, because he had been saved. Or was it? Had he been “saved” too when his heart had been punctured with that god forsaken blade? Was there someone, or something out there, looking out for him? Bringing him back every single time? Did he have his very own guardian angel?

He quickly pushed that thought out- if he did have a guardian angel, he wouldn’t have been in those situations in the first place. And he would never had died, almost died, or been stuck in a torturous mad house for an excruciating 17 years. Half his life up until his first real death.

No matter, in some time 17 years wouldn’t feel quite so long.

As he made his way back to the Morgan estate, walking the same path he had run in reverse some time ago, through the grass patches and past people he may have recognised today if he hadn’t been almost murdered and sent away, Nicholas mulled over the words he would say to his brother.

“Yes, hello, I know you think me dead, but I can explain. Oh, where have I been all this time, you ask? Yes, that’s a good question. Ask Father, he might know. That murderous bloody bastard son of a-”

That was one way to put it.

He skimmed through his options, trying to come up with something that wouldn’t send his brother into a coma-like state. Or worse, one that wouldn’t end in him in a similar mad house again. If telling Henry he had not in fact died how their father claimed he had and that he had rather been kept captive by people trying to cure him of his attraction to members of the same sex for years on end was a bit of a stretch (however truthful it might actually be), there was also the fact that he had to explain why he had taken so long to get home since he escaped during the fire in 1808.

There was no way he could just walk up to Henry, adult, brilliant, possibly Doctor Henry Morgan, and tell him all that had happened up until his first death and then expect him to also believe the fact that he had conquered death. About 7 times now, not including his near-death experiences. Knife to the chest, impaled by a sword, trampled to death by a rather angry group of wild horses (not his favourite way to go), drowning, shot by a madman with a musket, fell from a cliff (no- pushed from a cliff, he corrected himself) and, oddly enough, another fire- one he hadn’t escaped.

All of his deaths had proved to himself beyond a reasonable doubt that he, Nicholas Lawrence Morgan, was immortal. Still it felt strange to say, to believe. So, making Henry believe was not going to be easy.

Maybe he would kill himself. Quickly, he thought, with a blade to the wrists. Or the neck. That sent shivers down his spine. He had never liked the sight of blood, and was still getting used to seeing his own be spilt so many times only to do it again later on. He wondered how Henry did it, be so calm in the face of so much red, supposing he had actually become a doctor, of course. It had been a while since he saw him last (a bit longer than a while, he thought).

Finally, after an actual short while, Nicholas came face to face with what once was his home. He assumed Henry didn’t live here anymore, but if he was going to find out where his idealistic brother was, he needed guidance. And he figured his father owed him as much.

He entered the estate through the kitchen door, trying not to raise any alarms. He half expected to see Miss Smite inside with her arms crossed, ready to chastise him for taking so long to come home, or at least some maid going about her day, but all he saw was emptiness. And silence. Too much silence.

He made his way through the door that led to the corridors, then to the hall, the lounge, the dining room. All empty, all left alone. A sudden wave of uncertainty passed through him. Where the Hell was everyone?

He made a few rounds around the house, stopping by his room, which he had to open by almost kicking down the door since it had been locked, presumably long ago, judging from the catastrophic amounts of dust his once treasured things held. Henrys room was different, neater and less lived in than he remembered. Of course it is, it’s not 1791 anymore. At least the medical books that sat on his clearly unused desk confirmed what Nicholas had hoped.

Once he was sure the whole house was empty, which was incredibly strange, considering how bustling with life it had been when he lived here, Nicholas made his way outside, set on finding his brother. Nothing was going to stop him, not even death, or so he thought.

Because, unfortunately, death seemed to have something against Nicholas Morgan, and since she hadn’t been able to get to him, she had taken his brother instead.

Henry Morgan’s headstone stood on St. Andrew's cemetery a few walks away. It had no other engraving on it, besides his name and birth and death dates. Even so, the death date wasn’t complete, and Nicholas wondered why it only revealed the month and year. April, 1814.

Two months ago. His brother had died two months ago.

He had been searching for his brother for years, the thought of seeing him again fuelling his will to live on, through the “treatments”, the torture, the cold nights after an unpleasant death, the bloody horses. And all for his brother to have died two months ago.

Nicholas stood there, speechless. What could he say, that would do justice to what he felt? To honour the memory of his brother? What should he be allowed to say, if he didn’t really know the man who lay buried before him?

He felt defeated. There was no other word to describe it. Death had won, tipping the scales in her favour, by taking Sandy. It was over. He had been too late. His brother was gone and he wished he was too.

As he exited the resting place of so many people who hadn’t been as lucky (or unlucky) as he had been, not noticing his own headstone a few paces away, Nicholas vowed he would never come back home again. Not when the only good thing “home” had to offer was gone forever. And forever, for someone like him, was quite a big word.

Chapter Text

Back to January 2016, New York

Damn, he hated getting murdered.

It hadn’t even been his fault, this time round. He had been staying in New York for a few days now, courtesy of his unusually fulfilling job, walking late at night through Central Park (still not my fault; never blame the victim, remember?), when he heard it.

A scream. No, no. A shriek.

Nicholas spurred into action, the hairs at the back of his neck standing upright as he tried to make out where the uninviting sound had come from. It had been a girl, or a woman, but she had sounded fairly young, so he assumed it was a girl. He hoped he was wrong about that, because his gut told him she wasn’t screaming her head off just because she was afraid of the dark.

Scream again. Fight back, he mumbled to the darkness.

The night stood quiet for another thirty seconds, the breeze slightly blowing through Nicholas’ curls, now shorter than what they used to be, but still as golden as ever. He held his lips in a tight line, and his head tilted to the side, as if it would help him determine where the altercation was happening.

Come on. Come on.

“Help m- AH!”

There you are, Nick thought.

He sprinted through the branches, his breathing accelerating as his legs took him towards the girl who had called for help. His hands were already curling into fists as he strode along the bushes, as he almost fell down after tripping over something on the ground.

A tree log, he had thought initially as he had gotten up to carry on, his feet taking him as fast as they could, now with dirty pants and a wrinkled shirt. His leather jacket was fine, however, and he had come to find that it survived just about everything. Except for his deaths. Which is why this was leather jacket number who-knows-at-this-point.

However, he stopped in his tracks when he realised that it was not in fact a log he had tripped over. It had been far too smooth, too bland. And it had been a couple minutes since he had heard anything else. Shit.

He turned around, pacing back to the mysterious non-log, who he now clearly saw as an unconscious girl. Dark wavy hair, freckles, red lipstick, mini skirt, wound on her head. She couldn’t be older than 20. He looked around first, because this girl didn’t end up unconscious on the ground by herself and, immortal or not, safety first, because he kind of wanted to be around to fight for her if it came down to it.

It was too dark to see anyone or anything, though, so he settled for the lack of sounds around him. He could only hear two sets of breathing, which was good, because he had noted that the other one besides himself came from below him, from the girl. She was alive. Good.

He crouched down and leaned over to feel her pulse, which was a bit erratic but calming down. Before going any further, he took out his cell phone and called an ambulance. Or at least tried to, because the second he started dialling 911, someone struck him from behind. With a log, this time. Definitely a log.

The worst part of this death wasn’t the fact that he had been hit on the head with a fucking tree log, of all things, repeatedly, but rather that if he’d killed him so violently, so full of an almost tangible rage, he couldn’t bring himself to think what he would have done to the poor girl. What he could be doing right now, he thought, as he swam towards the riverbank, making a brief and automatic mental note to buy yet another leather jacket.

He had hidden a bunch of clothes under some rocks when he had come to New York, in the same place he used to back when he lived here many years ago. Well, 17 years ago, so, not that long ago to him. Not anymore.

But before he could get to his magical in case of death emergency kit, a mix of blue and red lights stopped him in his tracks. Great. Just what I needed tonight.

He tried to tell the officers that there was an attack going on at Central Park, that they should inform whoever and go there now before it was too late. He might have come across as a lunatic, naked and wet and raising his voice at two guys with guns holstered at their hips. Perhaps they thought he was trying to get himself off, so that they would leave for Central Park and he wouldn’t have to be arrested. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about getting arrested. But they didn’t know that. And they didn’t seem to believe what he was saying either.

So, as the officers arrested him and read him his rights, Nick had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t be able to get them to believe, and that if no one stepped in to help the girl now, she would be dead by morning.

In the back of the police cruiser, cuffed and feeling powerless, he listened in on the radio as they approached whatever precinct they were taking him to. He had learned the NYPD codes by heart now and was heartbroken to hear a certain code accompanied by even more crushing words.

“10-61, homicide at Central Park”

The men in blue sitting in front of him turned their heads to look at him, rather dramatically. He would say Told you so; but given the situation, it didn’t feel right. A life had been cut short tonight, far too soon.

On a more positive note, he would now get to spend the night not only in NYPD sweats and imprisoned, but as a fantastic bonus, he would get to explain how he had known there was a murder taking place while he was busy skinny dipping in the East River, a good 15-20 blocks from Central Park. What a wonderful night he had ahead of him.

Not to worry, Nick had a way with words. And had acquired convincing acting skills through the years. It had been a long time since he had pulled off the psychic bit, he mused. Perhaps it was time.

Jo Martínez got the call unbearably early in the morning. Lieu wanted her (and Henry, obviously) at the crime scene right away. Which sucked, because A, someone had died; and B, it was really early in the morning. And she was really not a morning person.

She struggled out of her bed, trying to keep her eyes open long enough to get to the shower and not bump into anything on the way. She hated cold showers, but it was the only thing that could get her awake at that ungodly time.

The second she stepped out of the bathroom; she was on a roll. Yep, cold showers are the best way to torture yourself into lucidity. She got dressed quickly and efficiently, taking no more than a couple of minutes to put on some basic makeup, as she always did. The only thing she took a slightly longer second on was the scar under her eyes. She had done so ever since Henry had pointed out how uneven she’d done them the day they met.

 Apparently, that and a few other slight tells was all he had needed to make the assumption that her husband had died less than a year ago. She hadn’t known what to think of him then, and the sentiment remained years later, though before it had been because he was weird and slightly too observant and not because he was her immortal best friend.

Yep, best friend. The one that had been visiting her in her dreams alarmingly often lately.

That had been around a year and a half ago. It seemed like it had been longer, with all the craziness and newfound feelings and supernatural elements. She’d coined this mind-boggling time blurring swirl The Henry effect, which seemed appropriate.

Ready to go, she made her way to her car as she buried her head as much as she could in her scarf, cursing out New York under her now visible breath for being so frigid this time of year, and wondered what scarf Henry himself would wear today. The thought of it served as a central bodily heating mechanism, and so as of now she found she didn’t feel so cold anymore.

Officer Krowitz hated his job. When he had joined the force, he’d thought being a cop would be exciting. But he had found since that arresting guys for skinny dipping was neither as adrenaline inducing nor fulfilling as he once had thought.

Of course, it was funny sometimes. Like with the strange ME that sometimes wandered the East River naked and waiting with a charming smile to greet his arresting officers when they saw him. He’d never had to arrest him himself and had never had the privilege of actually speaking to him, but he’d watched him work alongside detectives Hanson and Martínez for some time now, and he found him fascinating.

Weird, sure. But so fascinating.

 The absolute crazy stories and rumours about this guy were astounding, from the skinny dipping to his medical heroics out in the field to his stalker and then the betting pool regarding his and Martínez’s future relationship. Pretty much everyone in the 11^th was in on it, or at least knew of it. It was a fun distraction from their work, and they hadn’t got caught by the Lieutenant so far, so… yes, the bet was still on.

Last night, when he had seen a butt-naked guy emerging from the river, he’d hoped it was the Doc. When he realised he wasn’t and that a boring booking was ahead of him, he had been disappointed. Nice arrest, Miles. Keeping the crazies off the streets (or rivers). Good job.

But the second the naked man opened his mouth, something inside of him told him it would not be a boring night after all. And the longer this wacko spoke, the more Officer Miles Krowitz became convinced that it would be a long night instead.

Henry was already there, when Jo got there, kneeling down beside the body. Of course he was. Because unlike her, he was a morning person. 200 years of habits die hard.

She spent the entirety of Henry’s detailed explanation as to how their vic (who they had been able to ID thanks to Henry yet again as Amy Parker, 19), trying to stay awake. The relied upon marvels of the cold shower were dying out, having been replaced with plain old cold weather.

“.. so he grabbed her over there. See the footprints? It looks like he hit her over the head, perhaps with a log or tree branch, like this,” he recreated the motion swiftly as he said it, “and then once she was down, waited until she woke up to finish the job. The bruising is consistent with strangulation.”

He looked up at her then, and Jo blinked a few times to adjust her view, she had been spacing out. And by the wry smile on his face, he definitely knew.

Henry was about to speak, possibly to mock her lack of attention, when Lucas thankfully stormed in, waving a bloody log in the air.

“Hey, Doc! Look what I found! Murder weapon. Boo-yah” he looked so proud of himself, seeking Henry’s approval, as always, like a lost puppy.

“That cant be the murder weapon, Lucas. She was strangled.”

“It might be what he used to knock her out though, right?” Jo asked, but Henry didn’t respond.

Henry grabbed the log and examined it, frowning.

“What is it?” Jo said, finally tuning in.

“Strange. There is far too much blood on this log.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it just doesn’t make sense. Her head wound is hardly this extensive. She was merely hit once, swiftly and efficiently. Perhaps even too strongly for our aggressor’s taste at first, given that he waited until she woke up to actually strangle her. Which means this can’t be her blood. She would have died if she had lost this much, and wouldn’t have been awake while he strangled her, which clearly was the nefarious purpose all along.”

“Wait, how do you know she was awake?”

“Scratch marks on the ground and dirt under her fingernails. If we’re lucky maybe some skin too.” He answered absently, still staring at the bloody log.

“Okay, so if that isn’t her blood, and you said that amount of blood would mean she would have been dead before he got to the strangling part, then that thing was used on someone else. There could there be another body.”

Henry nodded to agree with her, finally looking up from the log and past Jo, to someone coming up behind her.

“Morning, team,” Mike clasped his hands, “So, what do we got.”

“Nice of you to show up, Mike.” Jo teased, hands still buried deep inside her pockets.

“Oh, I’ve actually been here a while, partner. Canvassing the area and such. You should try it sometime”

Jo scoffed, and Henry stopped paying attention to the following banter between the detectives, clearly mesmerised by the log again.

“There might be another body, detective,” he cut them off, “There is definitely brain tissue on this log.”

Mike pulled a disgusted expression accompanied with an audible ugh.

Jo frowned, trying to concentrate. “Unis haven’t found another body, though. Have you seen anything?”

“Nope,” Hanson shook his head, then pulled out his phone and held it up, “but I got an interesting phone call earlier, and I know exactly who to ask.”

“Who?”

Henry’s eyebrows shot upward, seemingly impressed Hanson had already produced a lead.

“One of yours” he gestured towards Henry, who clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

“One of mine?” he said slowly, drawing out the words.

“Another member of the Skinny-Dipping Club. Although this one has a different explanation for his trips to the water.”

Hanson grinned as Henry tilted his head, eyebrows sky high, clearly not amused. Before, Jo would have found this interaction funny. Of course, now that she knew what truly happened every time Henry was arrested for skinny dipping, the jokes became morbid reminders of the fact that Henry had died hundreds - perhaps thousands - of times. She tried not to think about it too often to no avail because, holy shit, Henry dies and then you see him at work the very next day like he hasn’t just been murdered or run over, or God knows what.

Because of the uneasiness that built up inside her every time she thought of it, like right now, she had tried to dissuade Mike to make jokes about it without explicitly telling him about the whole “our ME is immortal” thing, which clearly hadn’t worked.

“What do you mean? What did he say?” Lucas looked from Hanson to Henry and then around and around waiting for the silence to end.

Hanson, finally content with the effect this conversation was having on Henry, who looked more annoyed now, arms crossed and everything, put the phone away and simply said: “He says he’s a psychic. Which is how he was trying to explain how he knew there was a murder going on here before us cops did.”

“Wait, he knew there would be a body before we did?”

“Yep. So, I figure if you say there’s another body, maybe wonder boy knows something. How about we go question the other skinny dipper, huh, Doc?” Hanson said, patting Henry’s back playfully as they all made their way towards the cars, “Since he’s part of your club, maybe you know him”.

Jo couldn’t see Mike’s face, but she could hear the smirk on it perfectly. Henry also had his back to her right now, and something told her he wasn’t smiling back at Hanson.

“I can assure you, Detective - I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Henry didn’t know what to think of this case–and that was bugging him greatly.

First of all, what was Amy Parker doing out in Central Park in the middle of the night? It seemed like she had been dressed for a date, or a party, yet Henry couldn’t think of any reason to meet up in Central Park with anyone at 3 am. No legal reason, of course.

But she didn’t look like a prostitute. She had hardly had any makeup on, besides the red lipstick, couple brushes of blush and a little mascara, nothing too out there. And she was so young. He was aware prostitutes were young, in general–he was not naïve–but this girl had just looked so… innocent? Even with the bruising on her neck and the dried blood on the back of her head, it had looked as she was sleeping, even if she had been laying on dirt.

Then there was the log. No other bodies had been found. However, Henry couldn’t help that sinking feeling that someone else had died last night. And judging from the amount of blood and matter on it, it had been a rather unpleasant death. Not as bad as say, being burned alive or sustaining a long fall, but off-putting nonetheless. Certainly in the top 30 worst ways to die.

And what of the skinny dipper? Hanson had said he was a psychic. Henry, having come in contact with his fair share of those who claimed to be blessed had figured out long ago the only thing that couldn’t be explained through science (yet, he tried to assure himself), was his own curse. For which there had to be an explanation for, one that didn’t involve deities or miracles. Meaning that, whoever this other skinny dipper was, he was most definitely a charlatan.

He supposed Jo would come to the same conclusion and question this man to get to the bottom of how he knew about the murder beforehand, and given Hanson’s amusement back at the crime scene, Henry assumed he wouldn’t believe this nonsense either.

He wondered if he would ever believe him, if he ever dared to tell him. Probably not.

Lucas, however, seemed to be invested in this psychic thing. And he wouldn’t shut up about it.

“Maybe he’s like Professor X, you know.”

Henry did in fact not know.

“Who?” he regretted it the second he asked.

“Oh, you know. Charles Xavier. X-men?” Lucas kept listing as Henry’s frown deepened. “Marvel…? Seriously? No? Okay, wow. We really need to get you up to date.”

Lucas proceeded to go on a fifteen-minute-long rant on mutants (had he heard that right?) which Henry chose to completely ignore. The precinct coming into view had never looked so good.

Nick had been arrested many, many times for indecent exposure. He’d had to take numerous mug shots and had been mocked by several arresting officers. Never in his life had he felt so under inspection than at the 11^th Precinct.

He didn’t know why, but something aside from the psychic bit was making these cops double their nosy glances. Some even seemed not only curious but amused. The whispers had been going on all night, and he’d even met the Lieutenant–a tall imposing woman that freaked him out–,who had said all of two words before sending him off to the interrogation room.

So, feeling like he was under a microscope, Nicholas shifted in his chair inside interrogation room 2, waiting for the detectives that were supposed to come interview him. He only hoped they were at least a bit gullible and as superstitious as cops usually were. Words only get you so far.

Hanson looked at the arrest report for their psychic again.

No way.

He’d just been teasing the Doc before about him maybe knowing him, but man, it was getting easier at every turn.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jo approach after dropping off Henry and Lucas at the morgue.

“So, Henry was right, as usual. Strangulation. TOD at 2 am. What do you got?”

Hanson thought it best just to show her, and, with a massive smile on his face, held up the report for her to see.

Jo looked at it and frowned, apparently missing the point of his giddiness.

“Nicholas Ryder–British–only priors are a couple of other indecent exposure arrests in San Fran and LA a couple weeks ago. You know, I was joking about the Doc knowing him before, but the more I learn about this guy, the more it seems like they could be related or something. I mean, it’s not just the skinny dipping–look at him. The curly hair, the smug mug shot, the accent?”

“I don’t think skinny dipping is genetic, Mike.”

“Right, yeah, sure. But, come on, Jo, look at him! You can’t deny the resemblance. Could he actually be related to Henry?”

“Mhm..” Jo said, deep in thought, peering into the mug shot as if it would come to life and give her the answers.

“Jo?” Mike said, after one too many seconds of Jo’s staring contest with the other skinny dipper’s photo.

“No, I don’t think so,” she shook her head. “Henry has no living family, as far as I know.”

Mike scanned her expression. Whatever she was thinking, it had to do with something only she knew about Henry. Meaning, she wasn’t going to share.

Mike wasn’t bothered by this closeness between them, usually. In fact, he went out of his way sometimes to give them alone time, refusing to get labelled their official third wheel, and maybe hoping they’d stop dancing around it and get together already. He hadn’t entered the betting pool, out of respect for Jo (and Henry, he had developed a soft spot for the Doc after all), but he knew it was only a matter of time.

“I’ll go get Henry, and we can interview the guy, okay?” Jo said, already halfway to the elevators.

Off she went again, to see the good doctor. Mike smiled to himself.

Some things never change.

Down in the morgue, Henry and Lucas worked on rechecking the body, in case they’d missed something. Then, just as Henry told Lucas to get the tissue on the log to the lab, Jo appeared, quickening her step as she got closer with a somewhat vexed expression.

“Is everything alright?” Henry said.

“Yeah, fine. We’re gonna talk to the psychic now, if you want to come with.”

Henry smiled, allowing himself only a nanosecond to dwell on how unspeakably beautiful Jo looked today–especially now that she wasn’t hiding in her winter clothes–before the guilt swept in and he said: “Let me get my scarf.”

Jo returned the smile and waited as he popped into his office to retrieve it. He cared about Jo, he’d cared for her for a long time now and was all too afraid to admit but also unable to deny that he had feelings for her. Feelings one could call love, even.

But he couldn’t do that to her. Not after all the heartbreak she’d been through, all the nights she’d spent drinking to forget. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if in thirty- or forty-years’ time he became the reason behind one of those late nights, after the weight of time forced them to part, or worse. No–he wouldn’t do that to her. And he couldn’t do that to himself, either.

A few minutes and an elevator ride later, they were upstairs and on their way to interrogate the suspect. Well, Jo was–Henry was just going to watch. They never really let him into the interrogation room much these days–they said he could get a bit too intense. Henry preferred the term enthusiastic.

But today that excitement didn’t get a chance to fully germinate inside of him, instead replaced with an off-putting sensation product of one too many stares from Jo’s fellow officers, reminders of the nature of this case and their so-called psychic: the skinny dipper.

As Jo and Hanson stepped into the interrogation room and Henry followed to watch from behind the two-way mirror, Henry braced himself for the days ahead. Hopefully, the skinny-dipping subject would be dropped soon.

“Mr Ryder, I’m Detective Jo Martínez, this is my partner Detective Hanson, and we’re going to be the ones conducting this interview, all right?” Jo said, extending her hand, as she sat down in front of the—

The suspect.

The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood on end, the uneasiness he’d felt regarding this case before replaced with good old-fashioned fear.

He knew this man. He wasn’t sure where from, but there was certainly an air of familiarity surrounding him. He recognised the golden tone of his curls, the cerulean eyes, the pointy canines revealed when he tried the most innocent smile he could muster as he greeted the detectives.

Yes: Henry knew this man. But he didn’t know from where. This was certainly not a good situation to find himself in.

Knowing how very dangerous this could become if the other skinny dipper saw and recognised him in return, perhaps thinking of a time when he was younger and pimply while Henry looked perpetually just short of 35, Henry started to plot an exit strategy in his head.

He could say he had a lot of work to do down at the morgue and that, unfortunately and despite how much it pained him, he would not be able to assist on this case (the detectives and Lieutenant would see through that one). Or better yet, he could say he felt ill, go home, take a few days off and let the detectives handle this case themselves.

Then the image of the dead 19-year-old popped into his head without warning, and he knew he couldn’t quite let go of it just yet.

So, he would have to be careful, and have a story prepared in case he was recognised; but it would be alright. He could handle this. He’d definitely handled worse before.

“So, care to tell us how you knew about Amy Parker?” Jo asked, eyeing her suspect carefully in search of signs of guilt.

“Who’s Amy Parker?” Ryder asked in a similar accent to Henry’s (related! I was right–they’re related!), trying to pass as innocent. Hanson had his doubts about how much truth there was to that question.

“Oh, just the girl we found murdered all the way in Central Park–pretty far away from where we found you,” he said, laying down a photograph of the victim on the table, a technique used to get a feel on the suspects’ reactions.

It worked instantly, seeing how Ryder averted his eyes from the dead girl in front of him. But to Hanson it seemed less a sign of remorse and more plain old human nature.

“Recognise her now?” Jo asked, eyebrows arched imposingly.

He didn’t say anything for about a minute, just kept staring to the side, head ducked, so as not to look at them or the photograph in front of him.

“Yes. I do,” he said, finally lifting his gaze to look them in the eyes. “From my dream.”

Hanson took a deep breath, then said: “Okay, I’ll bite–what dream.”

“Last night, I had a dream a girl was being attacked in Central Park. When your officers arrested me by the river I had to tell them. I was trying to prevent it,” Ryder said, the urgency in his voice growing as he spoke.

“Right, when our officers arrested you by the river. 20 blocks away from Central Park. Where a girl was being murdered. How does that work, Nick? Can I call ya Nick?” Hanson deadpanned.

“I realise how insane it sounds. Trust me, I hardly believe it myself sometimes; but it has happened enough times for me to be unable to deny it,” Nick said, pointing a finger at the desk, now free of the gruesome picture. “Every time I wake up in the river, whatever my dream was tends to come true. I don’t know why it happens or how to stop it. And before you ask–I don’t know why my clothes seem to get lost in the process either. All I know is I wanted to try and save that girl.” A pause, then, solemnly, he said, “Amy. You said her name was Amy.”

No way psychics are real–Hanson knew. But there was something about this guy that bugged him, and he genuinely seemed to care for that girl’s life, to have wanted to save her. But psychics aren’t real, and foreboding dreams don’t exist. So why the hell would this guy lie?

Jo seemed to be caught in the same line of thought, a frown forming on her face. Whatever the reason, this guy was lying–of that he was clearly guilty. But strangling someone to death? He didn’t fit the profile. At all.

After a hundred more questions surrounding his weird as hell dreams, Hanson had begun to question his own sanity, because at some point he’d started to actually believe this guy skinny dipped when his dreams were gonna come true.

 He also started wondering if that’s how Henry knew all the stuff he knew. Maybe he also had dreams, but didn’t tell people because it sounded crazy. Maybe he had dreams of the murdered victims that turned out on his slab the next day, and used ‘powers of deduction’ to determine how they died. Maybe the hours spent on an endless loop of unanswerable questions about fantastical dreams had made his head hurt so much he was the one going crazy.

Or maybe this guy was lying and knew more than he let on.

“And please, even though you think me a lunatic,” Ryder continued, voice strained after hours of talking, “do consider this: what would I have to gain by reporting the crime if your officers didn’t know yet? It only makes me look guilty. Not a smart strategy for a cold-blooded log-wielder hoping to get away with murder now, is it?”

Hanson almost missed it, disguised in the midst of the migraine he felt coming on and all the rambling as a light-hearted if not a bit morbid joke.

But he didn’t. And Jo hadn’t either, her outstretched legs before her and crossed arms morphing into a more offensive stance–back straight, elbows propped on the table, leaning forward.

“Log-wielder? Tell me, Nicholas: what exactly did you see in your dream?” Jo asked, her body taking on a certain kind of tension. The kind you get before a confession.

Ryder seemed to notice he’d made a mistake of some kind, because it took him a moment to respond. No–not just to respond: to make up a lie.

Hanson almost grinned. Got ya.

“A man, wearing some sort of hooded sweater, hitting the girl. Then he killed her,” he said, a little slower than the previous confident ramblings and avoiding the word ‘log’ and the implication she’d died hit by one now altogether.

He was a good liar–Hanson would give him that–but the detectives had something to their advantage, because Ryder seemed to have no idea how Amy Parker had actually died.

Which meant two things: one, he was full of shit about the dream thing (how do you see someone die and then forget how it happened) and he’d definitely found out about the murder some other way; and two, he wasn’t their killer (duh, he was 20 blocks away).

 So, one question remained: why lie? He had to be involved, somehow.

Actually, there was also the question of why he’d gone skinny dipping, but Hanson decided to take things one step at a time, and he’d come to know that skinny dippers don’t usually tell you the why: they just keep swimming.

Nick cursed whatever god was out there for bringing him the only two cynical cops he’d ever met.

They’d been at this for hours, and he’d apparently made a mistake, only to realise what it was when Detective Martínez told him Amy Parker had been strangled later on (not beaten to death with a log, so at least her death was lower on the worst ways to die list he’d made, which brought him at least a bit of comfort), and asked him again how’d he’d known a murder was taking place.

He hadn’t known how to respond, and had asked for a bathroom break instead. That way, he could either gather his thoughts or, if the detectives kept pressing as hard as they were, kill himself in the stall or something and be gone from New York as soon as possible. A shame, really–he’d grown to love New York over time. The only child he’d ever had was buried there, after all.

After washing his face and taking a look at his dishevelled self for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do next, he decided he’d keep the bit going just a while longer. If he disappeared and ran away, the police would spend too many resources going after him rather than the actual murderer. He’d already failed Amy. He didn’t want more blood on his hands.

He left the bathroom and caught a glimpse of the detectives and some other guy that had his back to him by what he assumed were their workstations, most likely talking about him and their theories on how to break him (Nick was aware he was not being believed). He went by quickly to make his way back to the interrogation room with the officer that had arrested him for skinny dipping (Officer Krowitz, he’d been told was his name), not really taking the time to wonder who the unknown third party the detectives were talking to was, until he saw him fish out something gold and shiny and reeking of memories out of his pocket.

It was his watch. Father’s watch, that is, though he knew it would have been his had he not screwed up so immensely. He hadn’t thought of it in years, not of the watch and certainly not of his father. Why would he? The last thing he’d heard of him (now hundreds of years ago) was that he’d been involved in the Slave Trade. It had been that revelation that had convinced him never to call himself a Morgan again.

It was more practical too, using different names, a new one for each identity. It was fun sometimes, getting to choose (come on, Ryder is such cool surname), to reinvent himself. He’d had many names, many jobs. He’d been Sargeant Turner (and Private Williams and Scott and Marks and on and on), Agent Paradise (he was proud to call himself one of the founding MI6 operatives), and even Dr. Jones (not that kind of doctor, though, he might be used to blood by now and that was exactly why he didn’t seek out seeing more).

Of course, however, he’d been Nicholas Draycott first. That name had lasted the longest, longer than Morgan, even. He’d only given it up when he’d joined his first war, when it would have been suspicious to have a new Private Draycott once a week.

And yet, despite it all, and even if he knew changing his name had been the right call, he had to admit he missed it: who he used to be, before the incident, when he was still one of the Morgan boys, Arthur Morgan’s (who was still respected and deemed a good man then) son, and, most importantly, Henry’s older brother.

But Henry was dead. And so was Nicholas Morgan.

So he only let himself stare at the watch for a few seconds, because any more would have opened the door he worked hard to keep shut, despite memories knocking on it from time to time, ringing the bell to remind him he would never be able to escape his freakishly long past, to truly break free from that pain, the pain that sometimes came banging on the door wearing the face of people he used to know, of people he would give anything to see again, but never would.

It wasn’t until the man turned that Nicholas saw what face the pain was wearing tonight, the face of the pain that had apparently finally managed to kick the god-forsaken door down for good.

They locked eyes and held each other’s gaze for a second, a minute, the two centuries they had been apart. No one said anything, not the face, not himself, not the detectives that Nicholas barely registered were watching; until a single word, one he thought he would never get the chance to say again, one that he had almost forgotten how to pronounce, escaped him in a rushed whisper: “Sandy.”