A/N: I wrote this for the Henry's 236th Birthday Gift Exchange on Tumblr. The recipient was bearholdingashark, and the prompt was "Fluffy Henry/Abigail."

So here it is: a fluffy Forever+? fusion AU. The other half of my inspiration is listed at the end-see if you can guess what it is. :)

WHERE OR WHEN

The moment the petite blonde woman walked under the jangling bell and into Ageless Antiques, she took his breath away. Considering that Henry had been drowned, smothered, hanged, and otherwise asphyxiated more often than he cared to remember, that was saying something.

She wasn't dressed to kill, or even to draw attention, yet Henry immediately fixed on every detail of her. The jeans, sleeveless blue top, and flat sandals she wore were the same style modeled by thousands of New Yorkers that summer. The same could be said of her simple ponytail and large-framed sunglasses. No, those details weren't the reason Henry had stopped breathing. It was the way she carried herself, slowly turning her head to take in his shop without hiding her curiosity behind jaded disinterest; the way she wore a private smile in a public place; the way her fair skin glowed.

Henry shook himself a little. He was happy to appreciate female beauty and wit when he saw it, and he enjoyed their companionship now and then, but he did not wax poetic. He certainly did not notice glows. Not in the last hundred years, anyway. Glows led to attachment, and his attachments always ended badly.

The woman was taking a few casual steps around the edge of the space, getting her bearings and surveying the objects on display through the dark lenses of her glasses. Henry finally remembered his manners and crossed from his desk to where she stood. "Good afternoon. May I help you find something in particular?" Despite his hyper-awareness of her, he wore what he hoped was a pleasant but casual smile.

She ran a hand lightly over the surface of a sideboard table. "This is a lovely pre-war piece. Is this the original veneer?"

His casual disinterest slipped a notch. She knew a little something about antique furniture, not to mention she was a fellow Brit. "It is—though I imagine it's difficult to see the details in such low light."

The corner of her mouth quirked in an odd combination of suspicion and amusement that he found completely charming. "Was that an incredibly British way to suggest I take off my sunglasses? You're right, of course. Unforgivably rude." She slid the glasses onto the top of her head and looked up to meet his eyes.

Any progress he'd made in regaining his equilibrium was lost. Her blue-grey eyes were the color of the summer sea and just as deep. They contained the same spark of humor and sense of adventure he'd noticed in her demeanor, but the effect was infinitely more striking here. A polite smile never left her face, but Henry detected an added hint of steel behind it now, almost a challenge, and a bit of weary acceptance, like she was expecting trouble from him. He suspected he knew why. A woman this beautiful must receive unwelcome advances constantly, so often that she had come to expect it from every man she met. He understood the compulsion—he felt it himself—but he resolved not to join the ranks of those men who had caused that weary look—even though he felt her pull like gravity; like destiny.

He mentally shook himself again. He was being maudlin and ridiculous. He didn't believe in destiny. At least, that's what he told himself often enough, all personal evidence to the contrary. He refused to become yet another smitten, unwelcome suitor. She was a customer, nothing more.

"If this is the sort of piece you're looking for, I have a few others over here that might also suit."

She only paused for a moment, but Henry saw it. She had expected a different response from him, and a flicker of pleasant surprise crossed her features.

"Thank you, but I stopped in for a different reason. Do you carry records?"

Now it was Henry's turn to falter for half a beat. It was usually young people wearing skinny jeans and glasses with large plastic frames—what were they called? Hipsters?—who came in looking for vinyl. The albums they sought were not antiques at all, but that never seemed to deter them. He defaulted to a polite, if somewhat stiff, smile. "I do have a small number, but nothing recorded after 1957."

Instead of looking disappointed, she grinned at him, eyes twinkling. "Is it all stereo recordings you object to, or just rock music?"

He relaxed again. "Laugh if you must, but it's a slippery slope from Elvis Presley to disco, and I won't have it in my shop."

"Then it's lucky for me that I'm not looking for Sgt. Pepper. I'm looking for a song on 78 called 'Where or When.' Do you know it?"

He gestured for her to follow him to the cabinet of records near his desk, where the phonograph sat ready on the corner. "Of course—music and lyrics by Rodgers and Hart. One of the great American standards." He had also seen the original 1937 production on Broadway of Babes in Arms, the source of the song, but he didn't mention that. "There have been some rather horrid modern recordings made of that song, but personally I think the best interpretation was by Peggy—"

"Peggy Lee." She spoke the name in stereo with him.

For a moment, he stopped breathing again. "Christmas Eve, 1941. Benny Goodman Trio." Their gazes were locked, and he was vaguely aware that they were now completing each other's sentences. "She was only twenty-one, just starting out in her career, but she filled those three minutes of music with so much experience, such bittersweet…"

"Longing." He didn't say anything at her assessment; he didn't need to. Surely she felt the current of understanding passing between them as well as he did. Hadn't he intended to keep this conversation professional? He couldn't for the long life of him remember why. Henry sensed that this woman had tasted the bittersweet already in her life. How had she come by it at such a young age? He very much wanted to find out.

"Impending war can make you grow up fast," she said thoughtfully, and Henry was surprised by this. He almost asked what war she had experienced, until he realized she was still talking about the 1941 recording. "Then again, some people just have old souls." She tilted her head just slightly to one side. "Have you ever looked behind someone's eyes and seen more years than they've had time to live?"

That was, in fact, exactly what he had been thinking, but when it was directed at himself instead of her, it skirted the edges of a dangerous secret. Henry cleared his throat. He had already revealed too much, and certainly more than he ever told a stranger. "Yes, well, when it comes to that, the soul is merely a collection of neural paths and chemical reactions given a fanciful name."

"An antiques dealer and a scientist? Unusual combination." She didn't press him further, at least not out loud, but those eyes of hers were the perfect combination of teasing, questioning, and disarmingly beautiful. He didn't stand a chance.

"I was a doctor once. I needed a change of pace." She cocked her head, waiting for further explanation, but he wouldn't allow himself to give it. This was coming dangerously close to something more than friendly, and more than fleeting. Something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a very long time. With one final grasp at self-preservation, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.

"I'm terribly sorry, but it's almost time to close up. I don't have a copy of the record you want on hand, but I do know a few dealers who specialize in that era. If you'd like to leave your contact information, I'll look into it for you."

She gave him the same look as before: part suspicion, part ready defense. There was something else going on here that he didn't quite understand, some missing piece of the puzzle.

Whatever was causing her conflict, she seemed to make a decision. "Yes, I'd like that, thank you." She turned to the desk and wrote down her first name and phone number on a pad of paper, then pulled off the small sheet and slid it over to him.

"Abigail," he read. "My name is Henry. Henry Morgan."

"Henry," she repeated. "Lovely to meet you." She held out her hand, and he took it.

"And you as well," he answered, then added more quietly, "very lovely indeed." She arched an eyebrow at the thinly-veiled compliment, but he didn't back down, and she seemed pleased. Their handshake had slowed to a near stop, but neither one of them was willing to let go yet.

Throwing caution and his own better judgment to the wind, Henry blurted out, "Perhaps you can stop by again. We can talk more about…pre-war veneers."

She smiled apologetically. "I would love to...talk about veneers, but my itinerary in New York is tight. Business trip, you see." The buzz of the silenced phone in her pocket shook them both out of the moment, and they pulled their hands back like they were coming out of a hypnotist's trance. She glanced at her phone. "My ride is here."

"Yes, of course. Never mind, then." He winced at the sound of his disappointment leaking through the nonchalance. He walked with her to the door and held it open.

She paused in the doorway and turned to him. "Thank you for a very…unexpected afternoon, Henry. I hope to hear from you soon."

He nodded briskly. "I'll let you know about the record."

She leaned in ever so slightly toward his ear and said almost shyly, "It doesn't have to be about the record."

Henry didn't know what to say, and she smiled at his speechless gape. A man was standing on the sidewalk just outside and staring at them like he was waiting for them to stop blocking the door. His attention seemed to snap Abigail into action, and without another word she drew her sunglasses down over her eyes and walked briskly to the curb. A town car with tinted windows was waiting, and the driver got out to open the door for her.

Henry stepped outside and turned to tell the new customer that it was closing time, but the man had no interest in shopping for fine antiques. He was holding his phone in front of him, taking photos of Abigail as fast as he could manage. She quickly slid well into the car and out of sight. The driver shut the door and, with a disapproving look at both Henry and the other man, got behind the wheel and drove away.

Henry snatched the phone out of the man's hand and shook it at him in a scold. "That was extremely rude. Is the sight of a beautiful woman so rare you need to document it?"

"No, but the sight of Abigail Price is. She's barely ever seen in public." The man snatched his phone back.

Henry frowned. "Do you know her?"

The man looked at Henry like he was waiting for the punchline. "Um, yeah? Everyone knows her." Henry continued to stare back blankly. "Everyone except you, apparently." He rolled his eyes and lifted his phone again, pushing a button. "Here, look. Siri, show me pictures of Abigail Price." He turned the screen to face Henry, and there she was, over and over and over again. Henry swiped his finger up, and photos of the woman he'd just met scrolled by in an endless parade of glamorous awards ceremonies, publicity photos, movie stills, and the occasional grainy street scene.

The man put the phone back in his pocket, and Henry frowned and stated the obvious. "She's an actress."

"Way to understate, Sherlock. You're telling me you've never seen any of Abigail Price's movies? Not even Where or When? She won Best Actress for it last year, and Best Song for the title track that she sang. I don't usually go for singing movies, but she's just so damn good. And hot. I mean, really hot. And she went into your shop? Lucky bastard, what did you two talk about?" When Henry continued to stare blankly at the sidewalk, the man looked up at the sign above the door. "Wow, you really are an antique." With that, he continued in the direction he'd been heading before his brush with celebrity.

Still lost in thought, Henry mechanically stepped back inside, locked the door, and flipped the sign to "Closed." He walked back to his desk and picked up the paper she had left him. Their entire interaction replayed through his memory, this time with that vital piece of information in place: Abigail was famous. Not just famous; a major Hollywood star. And he hadn't known her from Adam. Not only that, he realized with chagrin, but he may have insulted her both professionally and personally with that "horrid recent recordings" comment.

Still, she had given him her number anyway. There was a chance it was a fake to throw him off, but Henry didn't think so. She had felt it too, this gravity between them.

It made a kind of sense, at least on his side. Stars and other celestial bodies always come with their own gravity, and he'd been pulled in. Why she was drawn to him was less clear, but his instincts told him it was true.

Henry thumbed through the records behind the desk in his personal collection until he found the one he was looking for. He fitted it onto the spindle and dropped the needle, and a smooth, melancholy woman's voice sounded through the horn:

It seems we stood and talked like this before

we looked at each other in the same way then,

But I can't remember where or when.

This was merely the Benny Goodman/Peggy Lee collection, not the original 78 RPM version Abigail was looking for. He didn't know if he could find what she wanted, but he would try.

Some things that happen for the first time,

Seem to be happening again.

As for more personal reasons he might call Abigail, there were many reasons why he shouldn't. She probably lived in LA, he lived in New York; she was Hollywood high society, he preferred a book and a quiet night at home; and most daunting of all, she lived her life under a microscope, while he was doing his best to pass unnoticed through the world. It would be pure madness to accept her invitation. If he were smart, he would shred her number right now.

And so it seems that we have met before

and laughed before

and loved before,

But who knows where or when.

As Benny played on and Peggy crooned, Henry thought again about gravity. It made things crash, and it made things break, but it also helped to hold the universe together. Come what may, maybe it was time he rejoined that universe.

He folded the paper once, twice, and tucked it securely inside the cover of his watch.

THE END...ish

A/N: Have you guessed? It's Notting Hill. :) Also, I kind of fell in love with this concept and may continue the story sometime in the future. But for today, September 19th, Happy 236th Birthday, Henry!