~Excerpts from a leather-bound journal, hand stitched with clumsy strokes, collecting an almost absurd number of pages. Some of them are chronological. Most of them are loose and jumbled, fitting for her thoughts~
Entry #1
… Entry. God. this is already sounding like some sappy teenager's diary, isn't it? Or worse, a backlogged police report. Henry keeps telling me I need to 'loosen up,' which is absolutely hilarious coming from the stuffy, 18th century Brit, but…
Okay.
How's this?
There are two goldfish in a tank. One turns to the other and says—
—'You man the weapons, I'll drive.' Eh? Eh?"
Jo spread her arms, going so far as to make finger guns and shoot him a couple of times. Henry managed to look remarkably exasperated for a man who was also trying to hide a smile.
"That was atrocious."
"You loved it."
"Hardly. And must all humor be violent nowadays?"
"Says the guy who cracks open cadavers for a living."
Henry glared good-naturedly, muttering about dystopias, cyprinidae, and weaponry. He took the spoon from its pot and pointed it at Jo from across the kitchen. A tiny dot of marinara fell to the floor, unheeded.
"Do you know what the true epitome of humor is?" he asked.
"No." Jo grinned. "Humor me."
"Immortality jokes." Henry turned smugly back towards dinner. "They never get old."
Silence descended on the kitchen.
"… oh I fucking hate you."
Log Entry #2
Wow. Never-mind. Now I just sound like a Starship captain.
To boldly go where no overworked-detective has gone before.
Jesus.
Random Thing You Should Know #3
This'll work.
Right. Henry despises peas. This is important largely because the last time Abe snuck them into a potpie I thought we'd set off World War III + Henry is a whiny, 238-year-old toddler who will dump his dinner into the trash with little regard for your effort, the fact that our trash bags can't handle that kind of viscous dump (no, don't cave to his apologies. Yes, make him clean it up himself), or that there are kids starving horribly over in Africa, at least according to my late mother. Don't even attempt the guilt trip. He's 100% immune.
…
…..
… You should also probably know that there are other immortals out there.
Or, at least one.
Just saying.
He—
—refused to apologize, not for keeping her safe, and Jo lost it in a way she hadn't since she found the last voicemail, email, candy wrapper that Sean had left behind. During those three months—during numerous broken plates, pounding runs, damage to her ears and heart, reckless stunts on the job, cries of 'justice' and accusations of naivety—Jo visited a particular room in a particular hospital that housed one very peculiar individual.
He was smaller than she imagined.
Henry was massive. His fine clothes and quick wit, perhaps even some instinctual knowledge that there was something off about him, all of it drew the eye and gave him a presence unrivaled by any mortal (ha). This man had none of that and Jo spent a long hour wondering how long it would take her to go mad from the machines' beeping. Or the white walls. She stared at a pale, slender foot peaking out from a blanket and had a vicious need to wiggle her own toes.
She didn't once look at the man's face. Jo didn't know what she'd do if his eyes were open.
Two hours into her vigil Henry appeared, totally silent like some goddamn ghost. The first time Jo had seen him in person in weeks and he wasn't even looking at her.
"Jo, meet Adam," he said, gaze hard as steel on the bed. "Adam—"
"I don't want to know his name," she interrupted and pushed past them both. As she did Jo brushed the sleeve of Henry's coat, sending sparks up her arm and into her neck. She arched into the feeling and blew out a frustrated breath because she knew, without a doubt, that she couldn't leave this man, not any longer than the three months, six days, and seven hours that they'd already been apart.
Jo caught that sleeve and dragged it with her.
She still sent flowers to the hospital though. Like an offering to a man never dead.
RTYSK #4
~written hastily in the margins~
He prefers baby carrots to peas.
RTYSK #862
I don't know what kind of job you have. Honestly, Henry's been ridiculously lucky so far. Tough-as-nails army nurse. Take-no-shit detective. Or that's his type. Or he's making up for Nora.
If you don't know about Nora yet, don't ask. That goes for everything in here really.
… Probably should have mentioned that earlier.
RTYSK #863
There was a point to that last entry. Look. I don't care what you do. Writer. Teacher. Firefighter. Baker. Those poor employees stuffed into hotdog outfits and forced to wave flyers out in the cold—whatever. What I'm saying is if you've already got some training, great. If not, get some. If you're reading this then Henry gave it to you and if Henry gave it to you then you've been dating for at least a year. If it's at least a year it's serious and if it's serious you've probably already run into some kind of life and death situation together. This isn't rocket science on my part. Immortality and his smart mouth attract danger like fucking flies to honey.
Take some self-defense classes. Learn to use a gun if that's your thing. Carry pepper spray and a—
"Scarf?" Jo asked, eyeing the fabric. Henry pulled it from his neck as he clucked at her critically.
"Don't laugh," he said. "To the properly trained, nearly anything in this world can be used as a weapon, but scarves are particularly useful, innocuous objects. Observe," and before Jo had time to register the change, Henry had ducked and slid behind her, bringing the scarf up around her neck and tightening it dangerously. He leaned back in a quick drop and planted his knee in the small of her back, providing leverage. Jo felt her airway cut off for just a split second before the scarf dropped away, Henry moving off to the side with his arms raised above his head.
"Jesus," Jo wheezed.
"Indeed. As I said, phenomenally useful. I can't tell you the number of attackers in my life who have rethought their insults regarding my fashion sense."
"Right. Sure showed them..."
"As I'll show you," Henry extended the scarf with a flourish. "Your training is already far superior to mine, of course. I'm not a fighter. But I've picked up a few tricks over the decades that I'm more than happy to share. Perhaps then you'd be more willing to leave your gun at home when we go out." He smirked.
"Fat chance of that. Gimme."
Jo had mastered the move in under twenty minutes. She pointed out that scarves would also be great for binding attackers and the two of them set to work, developing a series of knots that allowed for security without permanently damaging the material itself. Henry's scarves were expensive, after all.
Jo bought a selection for herself a week later.
The rumor mill at the precinct went wild of course—They were matching now.
Jo maybe, possibly, just perhaps, enjoyed those whispers just a little more than she should have.
RTYSK #1,527
~written in all caps, the writing barely legible. the bottom of the page looks like its been stabbed~
GET A POOL. A FUCKING POOL. JUST DO IT. I DON'T CARE HOW EXPENSIVE IT IS OR IF YOU'RE STILL IN THE GODDAMN CITY THIS HAS GOT TO STOP OH MY GOD JUST GET A LARGE BODY OF WATER BUY THE MAN A LAKE IF YOU HAVE TO FUCK YOU HENRY MORGAN GUESS WHAT YOU'RE GETTING FOR CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR I—
RTYSK #1,528
I can't actually afford a lake dammit
RTYSK #1,260
~charred edges, the pungent smell of smoke~
It's days like this I wish I'd started this project on a computer like the rest of the sane world. Something I can backup. But that also means it could get hacked and literally no one is going to believe that I'm writing pseudo-fiction in my free time. Best-case scenario, all my friends and acquaintances think I've lot it. Worst case… someone actually uses this against Henry.
Sometimes I think about burning it myself.
It's comforting for him though. Not so much me. I mean, I'm not really the write-down-your-thoughts-and-reflect sort of person, in case you haven't already figured that out. But Henry likes it. He still puts too much stock in the material, like a bunch of hand-bound pages somehow has a better chance of making it than a digital copy. Hell, maybe in his hands it does. Plus I think he likes that we're talking, even if it's not for real.
Still think about burning this stupid thing though.
Sorry the fire started the job.
RTYSK #103
This is actually important: don't rib Henry too much about not carrying a phone, keys, or wallet. You should know by now that he won't admit to anything unless it's absolutely necessary, which is exactly what I'm here for.
Think about it. He loses everything when he dies. Clothes and what's inside the clothes. That idiot will go through a fortune in iPhones and wallets just to make you happy, so save yourselves the cash and deal with his eccentricities. These ones at least.
Memorize the payphone locations in your city.
Hide a key by the front and back door.
Glare at anyone who gives him a hard time about writing checks.
RTYSK #597
Kiss his scar. He needs it.
RTYSK #2,084
You've got to get over these bloody body these issues. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he—
"Love you," Henry murmured, trailing kisses along Jo's stomach. Her body tightened in response, though not as it normally did—in adoration, anticipation. Now all Jo could focus on was how Henry's lips caught on slackened skin, that the hair he was running his hand through was wiry and stiff. Jo tried to arch into his touch—determined if nothing else—and hissed at the now familiar ache in her knees.
"Jo?"
"I love you," she said it back and at least that much hadn't changed.
RTYSK #2,087
~an entry marred by tears~
Don't offer to let this fool find pleasure somewhere else. It'll only start a fight.
… I do love him for insisting though.
RTYSK #988
Okay, okay, I MAY be a horrible person for this but goddamn immortality is useful when you've got the flu. Feeling like shit? Know it won't go away for weeks on end? Bam! Down some poison from your own personal lab (seriously, never eat around there), wake up a little wet, a little cold, but all cured!
This actually isn't fair. I'm jealous. Shit.
~written directly under entry #988~
Update: Henry got sick again from being out in the Hudson River in fucking February.
There may well be a God.
RTYSK #1,797
You've got a friend. You know the one. The one who's too smart for their own good and just trust me on this, they're going to figure things out and—
"—of course I figured things out!" Lucas shrieked. Jo would have sworn the painting behind her rattled at the volume. "Oh my god! I'm not stupid!"
"I am well aware that you are far from stupid, Lucas." Henry tried to placate him, which worked about as well as a bunny placating a bear. That is, if the bunny was naked except for a hastily donned bathrobe, dripping wet, and the bear was a skinny guy gripping his hair and hopping from foot to foot.
… Maybe Lucas was the bunny.
"Don't take it personally," Jo said, rubbing at her eyes. "He didn't tell me either. He won't admit to anything, not even under torture."
"And I'm very good at withstanding torture," Henry interrupted.
"Not unless you're already convinced he's immortal. Which is a feat. It took a point-blank shot to the head to convince me—oh, Abe, great timing."
He'd arrived with wine, passing very full glasses around to all in need. Lucas was a tad busy though. He'd moved from furious to terrified in a second flat, scurrying over to press tentative hands against Henry's scalp, gently palpitating the skin there.
"You got shot?" he gasped. "Are you okay?"
"… I do believe you've already forgotten the definition of 'immortal,' Lucas."
"Okay, now you're just being a dick. Maybe you can't die but that doesn't mean your body recovers from damage indefinitely. Not to mention the psychological toll! People aren't meant to get shot like that and just because you're okay doesn't mean you're okay—"
"Which is what makes you extraordinary." Henry gripped the younger man's hands, drawing them down between them. "Please listen. This is what I admire about you, above all else. You have talents innumerable, but ultimately your compassion outweighs them all. Me? Unique? Hardly. You are irreplaceable, my friend, and beyond my wife and my son, I wouldn't have had anyone else but you learn of this."
Lucas gapped a moment, then released an exquisite smile.
"You r-really mean that?" he asked, stuttering slightly.
"Absolutely."
"Wow… wow, that's—hey, wait. Wait, wait, wait, SON?"
Abe leaned across the back of Jo's chair, pouring her more wine with one hand and twiddling his fingers.
"Howdy."
RTYSK #303
Ooooookaaaaay. Put aside a fund for bail money and invest in a good lawyer.
Preferably one who has experience with public indecency charges.
RTYSK #110
~more tears~
Fuck. Wedding rings are considered clothes.
"I'm sorry," he gasped after the first time he'd died. The first time after the wedding.
Jo realized in that moment that there would always be ramifications. She'd always be learning new, potentially horrible things about her lover, beyond the fact that he'd outlive her. Really, it was the smaller things that hurt the most.
… but they were ultimately small.
"It's okay," she said and let him bury his head against her for just a moment. "It's alright. I'll get you a new one. You can keep it on your desk."
RTYSK #3,669
~the oldest entry, though there's evidence that there were more, now lost. the words in that old, shaky penmanship make you smile~
Guess who bought this asshole a lake today.
~what's left of the book is restored and reordered. pages are added. the woman who came after Jo picks up her pen~