Or, the one where Henry and Jo take a city drive, stroll through the park, and have one hell of an emotional conversation. A long while later, Henry shares some tender moments with Lucas, and then Abe.

This chapter just might take all your Forever feels to a whole new level. Be warned, though: this latest installment's got brief mentions of suicide/blood. So if you know you can't handle that, then you do you and skip right over it.

Fanfic seems to be deleting chapter eight, for some reason. If you can't remember if you've read that bit, yet, I'd suggest pulling this baby up on AO3 and making sure. Sorry for the inconvenience, site seems super buggy lately!

And as always, your kind words, kudos, and endless encouragement mean the world to me. And I hope the long, long chapter (longest to date!) makes up for the delay!

"Did you have any particular destination in mind, Detective?" He asks as Jo turns the key in the ignition and starts the engine. The snow's coming down slower, now, gleaming golden beneath pools of yellow lamp light on the streets and sidewalks. She shakes her head at his question and murmurs no, not really, but says that her older brother Gabe used to drive her around after she'd go into panic attacks as a kid.

"It helped…kinda. So I just thought maybe-" She gives a shrug of her shoulders as she pulls out into the street. "Maybe it'd help you too, y'know?"

A smile touches his lips, then, voice going low and warm and wistful when he murmurs, "You know, it's not often in this life I meet someone who surprises me." And he dares look to her profile as they turn onto an unfamiliar street, blue lights of the dashboard softening the line of her jaw and tangling in the shadows of her hair. Oh, how he wishes he were brave enough to run his fingers through her hair while he's still got the chance, wishes he were bold enough to run his fingers across her jaw while the city still sleeps. But he's not.

"It's even less often that I like those who surprise me, truth be told." He adds a beat later, a certain sort of wonder, of sorrow, in his voice when he ventures on. "But I think I'll miss these moments quite a lot, really."

Much like I'll miss you, sits just on the tip of his tongue, and he brings himself to swallow the words before they can make themselves known. But he thinks she hears them anyway, thinks she knows they're there.

She meets his gaze as they come to a stoplight a good few moments later, the red of it splashing across her face when she asks, "How d'you know we won't have more of them?"

"The same way I know much of everything else: time and experience." He says around a rueful smile.

Jo gives a little shake of her head, the barest hint of a smile on her face as they move through the intersection, "Yeah, well. Maybe experience will prove you wrong this time."

And he just grins at her gentle optimism as they pass row after row of apartments that'd been slow to build but beautiful, stunning, once they were finally finished, as they pass storefronts and take-out restaurants and all the wide-windowed cafes he'd come to imagine them in. "Ah, but time will catch up to me. It always does."

How he wishes he could slow it down, live in these quiet moments with her care and her trust and the quietest whispers of all the things she won't say. But he cannot, and the moment fades and slips away just like any other. She fills the space between them with stories here and there, and his own voice ebbs and flows as he, too, regales her with a few tales of his own. And though he wishes and wants and ache to keep vague about the details, wishes and wants and aches to ease her toward the truth with slow, steady steps, she manages to draw a number of names and dates from him anyway. The city lay dark and still-sleeping around them as they drive, streets as quiet as they are lovely in the deepest hours of the night. It's not often he takes time to truly look at the city, to look and see and behold all its beauty. So he takes his time, now, for once getting lost in all there is before him rather than all that lay in the past. He thinks Jo glances to him every now and again, gaze sweeping over the set of his hands and line of his mouth. Assessing. Wondering. Is he okay?

In the space between one red light and another, he thinks he is. And if not okay, then at least better - all thanks to her.

Jo eases her car into a spot by a nearby park some time later, and Henry takes a deep breath of air as they get out and stretch their legs. The snow's long stopped by now, leaving a light dusting of it on the ground before them. He does feel a little better, now. Less manic, restless. The fear's still there, but it's quieter in his head and softer in his stomach as she moves to join him on the grass. It's wet and shimmering with fallen snow, and she holds out a hand to him once more as they start down the trail that moves through the park.

He takes her offered hand in his own, then, and they walk like that a ways without saying much. It's a while before either speaks again. He wonders, for a moment, if she's wholly absorbed in trying to process all he's told her so far. If she's trying to work it out in her head the way she often tries to work out a case. And he knows, then, that Jo could turn his whole life into a case. Easily. She could dig deep into his past and find all the things Liz hadn't patched up. She could find all the bits about himself he'd tried so hard to leave behind, leave buried and gone. She could do that, could unravel the secrets of his life, his past, with a few well-worded internet searches and phone calls. She could.

But she's still got her hand in his, still got her gloved fingers wrapped around his own. And in that moment, he believes that she won't do any of it. Because even if she doesn't believe a word of his story, even if she no longer wishes to choose his insanity, she's stayed with him. Her shoulder's warm for every time it brushes his, and her boots crunch on the snow-crunched ground as they walk amongst the trail and the trees, and she's stayed with him, she's still here.

"Thank you." Henry says, then, slowing his stride to look at her - really look at her.

Something in her expression shifts and softens as their gazes meet. There's a moment where she looks utterly confused, blinking the stardust of his words away as she gives him that familiar tilt of her head and wide-eyed stare. He knows not when he's come to adore the gesture so much, but he does. He really does.

Though she's seemed to rid the stardust from her eyes, it lingers in her voice when she asks, "For what, Henry?"

"For the drive." He says in answer, smile curving his lips upwards as he adds a soft and honest, "For our partnership. Your companionship."

A look passes over her face, then, a myriad of emotions rolled all into one. And he wonders if she imagines their forever just as he'd done a few hours before, wonders if she pictures all those shared moments they've had together. Holding hands, holding breath, sharing food, sharing looks…he wonders if it all comes back to her, then. It all comes back to him, then - without a doubt. He remembers, but he doesn't linger in the past as he usually would. Nor does he begin thinking the worst about the future.

No, Henry finds himself wholly grounded in the present when he dares add, "Your laugh, too. It's one of the best things I've heard in quite a long while."

And she does laugh, then. He smiles at the sound and murmurs that yes, it's certainly still one of the best things he's ever heard.

"One day," Henry ventures some time later, as their walk takes them through the dark line of the trees and towards the river. "If you ever believe this insanity, if you ever believe me…then I'd like to take a trip with you." He pauses here to lick the inside of his lower lip before speaking again, voice soft. "Anywhere you'd like, any time you'd like." He grins, then, crooked and warm, as he murmurs, "But I could understand if you had some reservations about Paris."

She looks to him with that classic disbelieving tilt of her head and wide-eyed stare, then. But her eyes are soft and her voice warm when she asks, "Henry Morgan, are you flirting with me?" around that of a smile.

"I think it best I leave that to your better judgement as well, Detective." He says around one of his own.

And she grins at him, really grins, when she says that maybe they should start with a trip to the museum, first. He thinks that fair and tells her as much, their shoulders brushing as they walk. The city is lovely even now, amidst the haze between the dark of the night and soft, muted hours of the morning. She is, too, and he tries once again to memorize all the subtle details he's come to love about her. He knows he'd need a lifetime to do it right, do it properly, but he finds a lifetime in a moment. It's not hard, with her. It's never hard, with her.

They walk a ways without saying anything more, quiet falling over them like the snow once had. It's peaceful, this walk, and for a moment he dares let himself believe that something good will come from it. He's not let himself get this close to someone in years, in decades, not since Abigail. And he hadn't planned on telling even her his story, had left a letter on the hotel nightstand in way of explanation before he'd left. But she hadn't accepted that, his leaving, and he thinks Jo wouldn't either.

As if sensing that thought, reading it, Jo turns her warm, dark eyes on him and asks, "You won't leave, will you?"

Henry shakes his head at that and moves to tuck a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. "No. I can't, Jo."

And he doesn't know if it's because of the night or the morning or because tomorrow, he will lose her, but he slows his step to look at her, then, voice sounding the way sun-warmed honey tastes when he murmurs, "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

She nods and says that yeah, yeah she did, and they walk for some time more before she settles down on a bench by a nearby fountain. It's pretty, the fountain, lit against the dark of the night and casting a soft, yellow light across the water within. He joins her without a word, feeling impossibly young and yet so very old as his eyes meet hers. The trust in them, the faith in them, is enough to steal his breath and all the words he'd thought to say on the drive over here.

Jo casts a glance around them, then, looking to the park and the street and the quiet hum of a city not yet awake. "There's something more, isn't there? This…whatever this condition is, it doesn't stop at what you've told me, does it?"

"No." He says around a shake of his head, rueful smile on his lips when he says, "I could show you, Jo. But if I did..." He pauses here, swallowing hard as he weighs the weight of his secret against the weight of their friendship.

There's no contest, no comparison. So he ruins it all. The moment, the morning, everything. Because in the space between one quick beat of his heart and the next, he looks to Jo and murmurs, "If I did, I'd have to die."

"Don't." Her voice is loud, fierce, urgent, cutting through his every thought as she moves to cup his cheek in her hand. He can feel her fingers trembling just so as they meet his skin - and his heart aches at the thoughts that must be racing through her mind.

He wonders if she's thinking of all those times he's stepped in front of moving cars or tried shielding her from harm. He wonders if she's recalling all those times he's gotten injured on her watch, wonders if she's remembering all those times he'd taken bullet wounds and slashes of a knife like they were nothing more than minor scrapes and paper cuts. He thinks she has to be, thinks she must be, because there's no other reason for the urgency in her voice and fierce look in her eyes. Or at least, none he'll allow himself to think of in this moment.

"Don't." She says again, softer, but in no way less urgent. "Whatever it is you're running from, whatever it is you're trying to keep a secret…" She pauses here, sucking in a sharp breath of air as though to steady herself, keep her composure. "It doesn't have to come to that."

"But it might." The words are up and out of his mouth before he can think about them, stop them. He moves to correct himself, to still the rising tide of manic urgency in his voice, in his very soul. "I don't want it to, Jo, but it might."

"Henry, no…" Her gaze is steady, searching, as she looks into his eyes. "Look, I've been there before. And it gets better. A year ago, I didn't think I'd have any of this. I thought-" She shakes her head, here, pausing a moment as a memory flits before her eyes. "I thought it'd be easier to give up, give in. But I didn't."

A hundred and one horrible scenarios race through his mind, then, just as they had in the car all those nights ago. Sometimes, there is blood. And sometimes, there is not. But always, he imagines her gone to the world, her dark eyes empty of all warmth, feeling. And his heart aches once more, pulse echoing in his ears as he moves a hand over hers so their fingers rest together over his cheek. She is here, he reminds himself. She is here.

"And I'm glad for that every day, Detective." Even this is a whisper of the truth he's not yet told her of. And he could ruin this shared moment between them by bringing up that truth, that other secret, but in this moment, he is selfish. For he wants this moment to linger, to stay. He doesn't want her to leave any more than he wants to lose her. But one way or another, he knows he is going to lose her. Because nothing gold can stay, and she is so very gold as she look to him with the night in her eyes and the morning in her voice.

"So am I. Always." Jo looks at him, then, really looks at him - and for an instant, just one, he thinks he sees a flicker of that second truth mirrored in her gaze. The barest hint of hope sparks within him in that same instant, and he brings himself to swallow it down, tamp it out.

"But I want you to promise me you won't do it." She sucks in a breath of air again here, fingers still kissing his stubbled cheek and palm still warming his jaw. How she can still bear to touch him, to even look at him, he doesn't know. A thought comes to mind, then, a thought that whispers of that second truth he'd thought he'd seen mirrored in her eyes minutes ago - but he pushes it down, away, and nods his head in agreement that yes, he won't do it. He won't die.

But she isn't having any of his wordless gestures and cues today - because today, she needs more. She needs the vocal and solid reassurance that he won't, much like she needed a vocal and solid answer as to why a thirty-year old case had him acting so out of sorts, so unlike himself.

"Promise me." The words are softer still and quieter, but he can feel something inside him unraveling when she says it all the same. He knows, then, that he cannot show her - for if he shows her, if he even attempts, he thinks the trust and faith and soft flicker of something she has for him will be forever extinguished, snuffed out as easy as candle flame. He can live with the third fate, can live with knowing his feelings are not reciprocated. But losing her trust, her faith…her friendship? He could go on, but his world would narrow to what it was before: death and his work. Death would become his only work. And that's a lonely existence for anyone, even him.

So Henry looks into Jo's dark eyes and murmurs, "You have my word."

He wonders if she knows it isn't the only thing of his she's come to have. Later, much later, when she's tired him out of stories and near exhausted his voice, she presses a lingering kiss to his cheek and offers a thank you of her own. It is a soft thing, as soft as snow and warm as honey and melted chocolate.

And then it's his turn to give her a confused tilt of his head and ask, "For what, Detective?"

"For letting me in." She says as she rises from her sitting position, smile in her voice when she adds, "For trying."

"I will always try, when it comes to you." Cheek still warm from where she's kissed, he stands to meet her halfway.

"Hanson and Reece put you up to it?" He thinks that smile in he voice turns a shade knowing, now, and he pauses a moment to try and delay her satisfaction. But it's no use, for as soon as the murmured, "perhaps…they played a part" is out of his lips and into the chilly air around them, she is grinning, grinning, grinning.

"Knew it."

And though both linger there, standing close but not quite touching, he knows this is goodbye. He knows it in his head and heart but hopes, hopes with his very soul, that it is not forever. She doesn't quite look at him when she says that she needs some time, and he nods his understanding. For a moment though, just one, it almost sounds like she is talking about something other than his secret.

Something that has nothing to do with his long, long life and inexplicable immortality. Something that has nothing to do with running, with disappearing into the night and becoming nothing more than a ghost to all who once knew him. Something that has nothing to do with falsified records, secrets, and lies. Because for a moment, it sounds like she is talking about them. About almosts and maybes and another life, a better life, where Paris is possible, where they are possible.

The moment passes as soon as it comes, and he blinks the stardust out of his eyes before he murmurs, "If there's one thing I have in this life, it's time. And I want you to take all the time you need."

He reaches into his inner coat pocket, then, bringing out his pocket watch for her to see. The gold of it glimmers in the low light of the lamps and the snow, and he offers it to her with no pretense of ever taking it back. She sputters something about it being expensive, to which he replies that he cares not for its monetary value. She tries again to refuse it, murmuring that it's a family heirloom. And he cannot help but smile at her as he moves his free hand to ghost over her cheek. She falls quiet at the touch, closing her eyes for the barest hint of a moment before opening them again.

"I wouldn't make such an offer if I didn't already consider you family, Jo." It's rare for Henry to call her by her first name, with only the deepest of emotions drawing such an informality out of him. But here, standing beneath the midnight-blue sky with all its stars hidden by cloud cover and snowstorm, he cannot think to call her anything else. The single thought whispers again of the truth he won't say, but he thinks she knows anyway.

Jo takes the pocket watch from him, then, takes time from him, then, around the softest of smiles. He has lived lifetimes, centuries, with the constant tick of time echoing in his ears. And he's not given it up to anyone, not even once, in the way he's giving it to Jo now. He thinks this too, whispers and even aches of the second secret that lives in his heart, his soul. Because not once in his life has he dared lived without his pocket watch, without time, to ground him to the present. But he doesn't need it anymore, because he has Jo to ground him, now. And maybe she will not always be here, maybe she will not always be a lighthouse calling him home, be an anchor mooring him to reality, but for now? For now she is. And she needs time.

He is not afraid to give that to her, in this moment. He is not afraid to be open, to be vulnerable, to feel in this moment. It is breathtaking, this moment. But then again, he really shouldn't be surprised - because so too is the woman he's sharing it with.

The storm starts up anew on the walk back over to her car, flurries of snow crystals crowning their heads in a fine layer of white once again. He looks to the sky for but a moment, then, catching sight of a single star glimmering above him. Its brilliant gleam lasts but an instant, but he'd recognize that brilliance in this world or the next, in this plane of existence or any other.

And Henry cannot help but smile, crooked and warm, as he meets Jo's gaze again. "I know you may not yet believe me, but I want you to know that I've meant every word I've said tonight."

Then, he dares draw closer to press a barely-there kiss to her hairline before pulling away. "Because you are more than my partner, my friend."

They're standing so close that their noses nearly brush, and if either of them were to move but an inch closer, he thinks he could press a barely-there kiss to her lips. But what he has to say in this moment is infinitely more important than a kiss. Though his voice sounds much like the way one feels when he murmurs, "You are someone I cherish, deeply, and someone I consider family."

She seems different in that next moment, detached from the situation. For she's less Jo and more Detective Martinez in that moment - and he wonders if exhaustion and disbelief's driven her there. He can't fault her for her sudden shift in mood, thinks it much like earlier, when she'd had a fierce need to have him promise he wouldn't do anything rash, anything dangerous He imagines that this second shift is born less out of concern for his wellbeing and more concern for her own, though. And really, he cannot fault her for it, either. He can understand the need to distance herself from all he's told her thus far, can understand the need to take a step back from the situation. For it's as impossible as his life.

She doesn't touch him, now, only offers him the smallest of smiles as she murmurs, "You too, Henry. You too."

But the single phrase is enough for him, in that moment. Because even though she doesn't understand, even though she might not even want to understand, she still thinks of him as family. All the family he has is long gone, and he knows little of the family she has. But to be a part of one of her innermost circles of loved ones, to be included in the intimacy and importance the word "family" stirs...oh, he hadn't dared dream she'd ever say those words to him, especially after delving into the impossibility that is his story.

She's gone after those words, though, ducking into her car and driving away into the night rather than lingering any longer. The red of her headlights seeps onto the falling snow, and he's never felt at once so heavy and hopeful as he does now, standing in the swirling of two storms. One unfolds in the air around him, and the other…the other resides in his heart. He doesn't hope that she believes him, for that doesn't truly matter. No, he hopes instead that she stays - and he hasn't hoped for such a thing in a long, long while. It's been years, even decades, since he last dared hope. But he supposes it's been just as long since he's allowed himself to be so open, so vulnerable. And it thrills him as much as it terrifies him.

The wind works against him as he makes the long walk home, trek made all the longer by the snowstorm. His mind wanders over many a thing as he walks, but always, it comes back to Jo. He knows well that she doesn't believe him about his immortality. And really, why should she? He's given her no tangible proof of it, and she needs that proof. So when he arrives home at last, he shrugs off his layers and gets to work.

Compiling photo albums, journals, even various pieces of clothing together, all to try and provide her with the evidence she so desperately needs to believe him. He knows that he could show her all manner of objects and it wouldn't be enough. He owns an antique's shop, after all, and the photographs he holds in his hands could've been manipulated with some software or another. Or even staged from the very beginning, he supposes as he sinks down onto the couch. He's at once exhausted and so very awake, mind alight with what he needs to do next. He needs to do something, distract his head and hands so as not to be overtaken by another wave of madness.

A long shower and change of clothes later, and Henry deems himself ready to face the day. He's not yet had his morning tea and breakfast with Abe, but he reasons that it's much too early for even his son to be awake. So he makes himself a cup of tea and pours it not into his usual cup, but a thermos, before starting out for the morgue. The cold's set in and covered the sidewalk in a few awful patches of ice here and there, but he'd prefer to walk rather than hail a cab. Though it's been months since that night in the cab with Adam, he still can't get the image out his head - and he wants not to play into the man's twisting and disgusting idea of a game. He takes a long sip of his tea and heads inside a quaint and cozy cafe on his way to work. The line's not too long, though he knows he'd wait even if it was.

"Hi! What can I get you today?" Says an Asian young woman with a bright smile once he arrives at the counter.

He scans the menu for something Lucas would like and settles on a dark roast coffee and a doughnut.

"Would you like sprinkles with that?" She asks then.

Henry smiles at the question and, knowing his assistant, murmurs, "I uh…yes, that'd be lovely. Might you put rainbow sprinkles on the doughnut, if at all possible?"

The girl gives a nod of her head and another smile as she says, "Totally possible!"

She rings up his order after that, and he gives her more than enough money to cover the coffee and sweet treat. When she moves to hand him his change, he shakes his head and murmurs that she should keep it. She blinks once, twice, as if she hadn't heard him right, as if somehow she's been mistaken. Henry imagines that her tips are few and far between this early in the morning. Her name tag reads Jia, and he looks to it a moment before again saying that she can keep the change. Jia. Oh, where does he know that name from?

When he picks up his order a good few minutes later, he smiles at Jia and murmurs, "Thank you, Jia. Have a lovely morning."

Jia just grins and grins and grins at him in response. It's only once he's moved towards the door that he hears her call out, "Hey, could you tell Lucas to call me?"

He turns, then, smile still lingering on his lips as he says, "Ah, so that's where I've heard your name from." His assistant talks about her about as much as he talks about his graphic novel happenings, and that's saying something. She lets out a laugh, then, and he adds, "Yes, I'll tell him" around a smile before ducking out of the shop and heading on his way.

It's a long while before Lucas arrives at the morgue. He leans against the doorway for quite some time, just watching Henry do his work. And Henry doesn't mind, really. For he's used to the casual observation by now, wholly accustomed to being observed by his assistant. He knows not why Lucas admires his work so much, but he appreciates that admiration all the same.

"I left your breakfast in the break room. One dark roast coffee and rainbow-sprinkled doughnut to go." He says without looking up from one of last week's victims. They hadn't quite manage to solve her case, then, but he imagines that looking to it with a clearer head now will help, some.

"You remembered how I take my breakfast." Lucas says in response, wonder coloring his words. "I…no one here's ever bought me breakfast." He seems to consider that a moment, and is quick to add, "Well, not since Anton, anyway. And that doesn't really count, seeing as the doughnuts were just a distraction."

Used to Lucas' ever-changing trains of thoughts, Henry simply smiles and says only, "A rather good one, if I remember correct. And if I forgot to mention it before, then Jia said she'd like you to call her."

His assistant brightens somewhat, smile blooming across his lips at the barista's name. Henry thinks that his assistant murmurs something about calling her after work, or on his lunch break or something. And upon remembering the endless, endless night before, Henry suggests that he talk to her soon, before he loses the chance. Lucas seems to take the suggestion in stride and agrees, with Henry turning his attention to the victim again soon after. There's something here he isn't seeing, something he's missing even now. But what? He isn't ready to declare that their victim wasn't truly murdered, because he has a feeling that she most certainly was. If only he could figure out how…

"I'm sorry about your wife, by the way." Comes the sound of Lucas' voice from the doorway. If it weren't for the words that'd just left his mouth, Henry'd probably think it ridiculous he hadn't ventured into the room yet.

But his mind catches and snags on wife, then, and he has to wonder when Jo told him. Or if he even needed to be told at all. For Lucas is rather brilliant, and often strings together the vaguest of details on their cases to arrive at an answer. It seems he's applied those same skills to arrive at his current thought, or been told about as much by one detective with dark hair and warm eyes. He can't say he minds much, in either case.

"Thank you, Lucas." He says around a grateful half-smile as he looks to him.

And Lucas just gives a shrug of his shoulders and murmurs that it's no problem, that there's no need to thank him. Henry knows, then, that Lucas isn't judging him or his relationship with Abigail. He asks not how old either of them were when they met, nor does he inquire about their marriage. He only tilts his head to the side and asks, "Y'need some help with Janie?"

Henry glances to the victim laid out before him, then, looking all too small on the examining slab. The back of her heels don't even meet the slab's end, not by any stretch of his imagination or Lucas'. And that's saying something, for Lucas' imagination is near infinite in its abilities, as his assistant's proven time and time again. Henry knows he'd gotten near to a breaking point the last time he'd endeavored to go at a case like this alone, and he doesn't want to reach that same point now.

So he gives another half-smile at Lucas' offer and murmurs, "Yes, I think I quite need your assistance and attention to detail with our Jane, here."

Lucas steps into the room as Henry moves a stray dark lock of hair behind the victim's tiny, tiny brown ear. They work in silence a long while, neither speaking as they try to determine her identity. Her weight's normal for her age, and her height taller. She's of Indian heritage and very, very small. It seems everything else they find leads to dead end after dead end, no matter how many tests they run or pieces of promising evidence they find. Nothing's adding up, nothing's making sense, and he needs it to. He needs it to, because he is looking into the chest cavity of a child and trying, trying, so hard to find a way her death makes sense. But he cannot make sense of the senseless, cannot see why anyone would do such harm to a child. He knows not how long he and Lucas work, only that his hands ache with the effort and his joints cry out in agony for every minute he remains standing. But he won't let himself sit, for if he sits, he knows he will crumble under the weight of this case.

"I was thinking I might take some personal days off." Henry says after long, long minutes of quiet.

And Lucas just looks to Henry's office, where a monstrous stack of forms sit on his desk. Lucas doesn't mention that he's not taken a day off in the three years they've known each other, or dares ask why he's taking those days. Because he knows. He knows and he just winces and asks, "Doc, how long have you been here?"

"Since about five thirty seven this morning, but I've been awake for far longer." His assistant's gaze sweeps over the dark half-moons under his eyes, then, and he adds a softer, lower, "Not that I was keeping track, anyway."

Lucas tries telling him to go home, get some rest, to which Henry looks to the child between them and says, "Her family deserves to know what happened, and Jo's-"

"Gonna be here tomorrow." Though Lucas knows not what's happened between them, he says it again with such conviction that Henry almost believes him. "She's gonna be here tomorrow, Henry. Always is."

Of course she'll be here tomorrow, Henry reasons with himself. Of course she will, for this is what she does each day. But he doesn't think she'll be here in the morgue, doesn't imagine her venturing all the way down here as she would any other time. Because this isn't any other time, for any other time he'd almost come to expect to hear her approaching footsteps or warm voice as she stepped off the elevator to meet him halfway. But he can't expect that now, doesn't, because she'd asked for time and he respects that wish. Understands it, even, the need for some time away. Time to think, to process. And quite possibly, to consider if they're still partners. He hopes that at the very least, they can still be that much. Oh, dear Gods, how he hopes they can still be that much when all of this is said and done.

"And don't worry about Janie, okay?" Lucas' gaze moves from Henry to the small girl, then, and he brushes her bangs back behind her ear before he meets his eyes again. "If I find something, anything, I'll call you and let you know."

"Please do, her-" He pauses here, breath catching on a wave of emotion. "Her family will probably want to cremate her as soon as possible, once they're able to claim her. But we need her name first, Lucas."

"I'll get it." Lucas says then, before he murmurs, "Promise, Doc. I'll figure it out, and I'll call her family the minute I do."

He believes him, in that moment. If not about Jo, then at least about their Jane Doe. If he could entrust this particular victim with only one person in the morgue, he'd surely entrust her to Lucas and Lucas alone. Not only because he is brilliant, but because he understands. Beneath his ever-changing trains of thoughts and random, rambling stories, he understands the mark death leaves on those closest to a victim. And Henry knows his assistant will figure this out.

"Thank you, Lucas." Henry moves around the examining slab and presses a kiss to Lucas' temple, then. Lucas just shakes his head, grins, and lets him go.

The snow's near melted away by the time he sets out for home again. He slips inside the shop and moves up the stairs to their loft otherwise undetected. Huh. Strange, Abe's usual one to walk about the shop floor as he awaits a customer to come in for their appointment. But the place is devoid of people altogether, and he's almost worried when he doesn't hear Abraham's shuffling footsteps in their apartment.

His worries are soothed when he hears his son's voice calling to him from the kitchen. He thinks he says something like ya missed breakfast!, but he can't be quite too sure over the noise of the city and pounding headache starting just behind his eyes.

"You haven't passed up on my English breakfast in years, Pops." Abraham says as he moves into the living room, gaze steady on Henry's as he asks, What happened last night, huh?"

Everything, he thinks as the night's events replay before his eyes. He thinks his son already knows how the first half of the night went, the whispered "just once" between him and Jo included in that. But he recounts the previous evening for Abraham anyway, choosing to skim over that soft conversation he and the good Detective had had on the couch. And though Henry has a feeling Abe knows he's getting the condensed version (he always has, even at the tender age of nine and a half), he bothers not to interrupt or ask for more details. They'll come out someday, as they always do. He tells him all about their living room conversation, and the almost surreal walk to her home, where the snow felt like a whisper of approval from their ghosts. He tells him all about their talk in Jo's own living room, too, before they'd donned their layers anew and drove 'round the city.

Here, he gives Abe a pointed look and says, "But you know, I do still wonder how she got hold of one of my scarves. Curious, that little detail."

Abraham gives a duck of his head that doesn't quite hide his smile, then, like he's still very much nine and a half and guilty of some small wrongdoing. "Curious indeed. But the blue suited her, didn't it?"

Henry exhales long into the morning and shakes his head. "Only you, Abraham. Only you would incriminate yourself in such an easy manner." And he, too, cannot quite hide his smile as he says so.

He goes on to recount their city drive, then, smile lingering on his lips when he murmurs that Jo'd thought it'd help ease some of his panic, his fears. Abe tilts his head to the side in question, as if to ask, and did it? Henry hears the unspoken questions, reads it in his expression, and says that yes, it did - if only somewhat. But it'd been enough, and he'd opened up to her a touch more as they began their stroll through the park. He again finds himself skimming over the more private details of their conversation, leaving out his not-so subtle attempt at voicing his feelings for her and her not-so subtle attempt at calling him out for it. Yet he cannot bring himself to skip over one particular point of conversation between them, though it pains him to even mention.

He heaves out a heavy sigh and murmurs, "I told her, Abe. Or I tried. But she didn't believe me, didn't know what to think, and when I offered to show her, she-"

He pauses, then, moving a hand over his face and exhaling long into the day. As he moves his hand away from his face a moment later, he reminds himself the scenario could've gone much, much worse. She could've stormed away from him without another word, could've stared him dead in the face and said she never wanted to see him again. She could've called him a liar and told her they were through. And though he knows she didn't, hasn't, the conversation still looms heavy in his heart and mind. Heaviest, he thinks, in his heart.

"Dad, I thought we agreed you weren't gonna pull that one again." Abe's voice cuts into his thoughts, then.

"Yes, well-" Henry shakes his head as he ventures into the living room and settles down in the reclining chair, feeling tired in a way he hasn't in months. Years. "I suppose I don't think quite as clearly when I'm scared."

"You? Scared? But the only thing you're afraid of is…" And then, as if all at once, Abraham realizes Henry's second truth: that he is wholly and unendingly in love with one Detective Jo Martinez.

Secret more or less revealed, now, Henry confesses that when she'd asked him for time, he'd given her his pocket watch and told her to take all the time she needed.

"And I intend to honor her wishes." He says then, voice lower and softer when he muses, "Though really, upon thinking about it, I don't think it truly matters if she believes me or not. I'd like her to, of course, but-" Here, he shakes his head and murmurs that her belief isn't the point. "Because the point is that I don't want to lose her friendship, Abe."

"Oh." Abe looks to him with a mix of wonder and outright surprise when he says it again, then. "Oh."

A rueful smile curves his lips at the phrase even now. Heaven help him, for all he'd thought in the last fourteen hours. He'd thought her lovely, unendingly so. He'd thought her arms felt like home and her kiss like finding shore after a long time underwater. He'd thought today would be the end of them, of all they'd come to be. He'd thought she'd want nothing to do with him once he'd begun telling her his long, long story. He'd thought she'd give up on him, maybe even turn him away. But she'd laughed at his awful jokes about time as they sat on his couch and smiled at him as they walked towards her home together. And for the first time in a long time, he'd thought to hope. Because she'd dared try to soothe his worries, ease his panic, and hold his hand even after all he'd told her. For that and so much more, infinitely more, he'd thought himself lucky to have lived this long, long enough to meet her, know her.

Abe offers to go make Henry tea, then, muttering something like, "How in the world did I not see this before?" as he moves into the kitchen. Henry accepts the offer as he lounges in the chair, somewhere between the waking world and that of dreams.

Long beats of quiet pass and stretch before him, but he knows not how much time passes. He doesn't have his pocket watch anymore, and he doesn't care to look at any number of the antique clocks hanging up on the wall. For the latter would mean opening his eyes, and the movement seems like far more trouble than it's worth.

He's roused from that hazy, soft place between dreams and the waking world when he hears someone step into the room again. Abe?

"Tea's ready." Comes a voice somewhere above him, sounding much too loud for such close proximity. Definitely Abe.

Henry drags himself up from the depths of exhaustion, then, opening his bleary eyes to focus on his son as he stands there with a teacup in hand. He takes the offered cup and cradles it with both hands, inhaling the rich aroma that rises from the tea in warm tendrils of steam. Abe takes up his own cup and settles down on the couch beside him after a moment.

They drink in silence a while, each leaning forward to grab a biscuit off the tea tray sat on the table. Both of them then dip said biscuits into their tea, with Abe's movements a near mirror to Henry's. Or perhaps it's the other way around, really. He supposes that he could've learned such a gesture from Abe years and years ago, but imagines that in truth, both simply picked it up from Abigail.

Abe tilts his head to the side as he looks to Henry, now. "Where d'you go when you do that whole unseeing-thing of yours?"

"Better times, usually." Henry murmurs in between sips of his tea, easy smile on his face as he says, "Mostly those with you and your mother. Or the ordinary instances that take place before I die. It depends on the day, I suppose."

Abraham smiles too, then, though it proves fast-fading as a dark look flits across his features.

"Speaking of Mom, I uh…" He heaves a long sigh before speaking again. "I heard back from the crematory people today."

"Oh?" A few days ago, he's sure the words would've knocked the breath out of him. And though they certainly weigh heavy on his heart, now, they don't threaten to crush it to dust as they might've before. So he can breathe, can think past crematory.

Still, Henry's glad for Abraham's hand squeezing his own as he nods his head in agreement and says, "Yeah. They asked who'd be completing the release forms, but I told them I'd have to get back to them on that."

"And why ever did you say that? I thought we'd already agreed-" Henry starts, then.

"We did." He finishes. And life surprises him in the next moment, Abe surprises him in the next moment, when he says, "But I thought we'd fill it out together" around a smile.

Henry gives him a grateful half-smile in return and murmurs that it means a lot to him, such consideration. And Abe just shrugs his shoulders and says that he thinks it's what his mum would want. Conversation shifts to where they'll scatter her ashes once the whole process is through, though Abe does veer off topic a touch when he questions the antiquity of the urn they'd selected.

"I swear, you've become even worse than your mother." Henry says around the rim of his cup, taking a long sip of tea before speaking again. "She'd once told me, 'y'know, darling, we could have all of your belongings appraised.'"

Abe sputters with laughter Henry finds contagious, and he can't seem to keep it out of his voice when he goes on to emphasize, "My belongings, Abraham! We hadn't even been married a year, then!"

They share stories of Abigail, then, as they so often do on cold, gray days like the one outside their windows.

"D'you remember Hanukkah, 1958?"

"As though I could forget that one," He says around a smile before he gives a fond shake of his head and murmurs, "She burned the brisket for the fourth year in a row."

"And then dragged both of us into the kitchen to help with the kugel and latkes."

The conversation continues on like this for quite some while, ebbing and flowing as they refill their cups with tea and add more biscuits to the tray. He feels lighter than he has in hours, days, though exhaustion weighs on him even now. He's just about to start in on the days of their car chase in Milan when Abraham says, "But enough about Mom, Henry."

Before he can steer the conversation back to safer territory, neutral ground, Abe tells him that he isn't going to let him run from this. "I can't babysit you forever, y'know. Because unlike you, I'm not gonna be around that long."

"Abraham, please-" He's all too aware of his son's own morality, in these moments, and it scares him.

"No, no." Abe holds up a staying hand. "Lemme finish, Pops."

He takes Henry's silence as a sign of agreement and continues on, then. "You're happy here in New York, and you're happy with Jo. You know how long I've waited for that, for you to trust someone like that again?"

"Since the early 1970s, I imagine." Henry mutters under his breath as he moves to set his empty tea cup down on the coffee table.

Though Abe surely hears his comment, he ignores it all the same and says, "I think she's gonna come around, Dad."

He exhales through his nose and murmurs, "I'm not so sure about that, Abraham."

Though for a moment, he allows himself to imagine another world, a better world, where Jo does come around to his secret. Where perhaps she doesn't quite believe him, doesn't quite understand how it all works, but stays around anyway. And in this better world, they are okay, he and her. In this better world, they figure it out, he and her.

Abe moves off the couch and reaches for their teacups, then. Henry assumes that Abe moves everything over to the tea tray after that, but he can't be quite certain as his eyes close to the waking world once more. The sound of Abe's footsteps blend with the noise of city life outside, and both easy comforts lull him into a deep, dreamless sleep in mere minutes. So when Abe comes back from the kitchen, it's to find Henry nodded off in the reclining chair.

He smiles at the sight and tugs a blanket over him before giving his dad's shoulder a good squeeze and murmuring, "Yeah, but I am."

Anyone need tissues? Maybe some ice cream? *leaves 'em out on the table just in case*

Next up comes the beginning of the end, for we'll delve into the start of episode 01x22. But the ride's not over yet, friends, so don't worry! Between packing for an incredible semester ahead and acclimating to everything Irish, I think updates will be a bit sporadic from here on out. Promise I'll finish this baby, though!

*Henry Morgan voice*

You have my word.