Chapter Text
The grief was never truly gone.
It sat in the back of his mind, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. A constant companion to go along with the one he gave himself years ago, in the fiction that he’d been led to believe.
It was always at the most inopportune moments. Always something small, something almost innocent. He’d catch the eye of a werewolf lounging on the floor of a saloon, and he’d remember the stories Hank told about Lupe. He’d be standing at the wings, watching Mary sing the intro and waiting for his cue, and he’d see Helen in her place. At the end of every song, he wanted to ask Han what she thought, if there was anything he should change.
But she wasn’t there. None of them were. And even with Mary there, even with Hurl, he felt alone.
In moments like that, Henry almost wished that he’d asked Mary to wipe his memory before they came back to the cabaret, and leave him as Henry the Alchemist again. He couldn’t have done that, though. They were his friends, and they deserved better than that.
Things were better now, in the cabaret. He was more than just a performer, he didn’t wake up every week on stage. He and Mary had lives outside of the show, actual lives. It wasn’t always easy, though. He woke up most nights with a gunshot still ringing in his ears, or with the sound of Han sobbing fresh in his mind. Faint memories of Gadfly, pacing and panicking and going mad in a place where all he had to look forward to was an ass. He was beginning to remember other things, too. Bits and pieces, flashes of a life once lived. Kneeling beneath a holy symbol as he was beaten, sobbing as they tried to remove his sin. There was no life for him outside of the cabaret. He’d known that; it was why he chose to stay with Mary. Remembering only drove the point home.
At least he had easy methods of escape. Plans for when things got to be too much to handle. Letting Hurl out was easier now; he’d stopped drinking his elixirs when he came with Mary into the cabaret, and it only took a moment of fantasy for the beast to rise and take over. Hurl was always happy to come out and give Henry a break. He was nowhere near as hurt by all of this; after all, his needs were all met in Lost Hollow. Henry was the one left dealing with the aftermath of these visits. The debilitating hangovers, the walks of shame. Sometimes, even that was too much for him. When he had a moment free, some time to burn, he’d hop on Yates and ride past the edge of town, out into the desert.
It was easier to process everything away from the town, away from the constant reminders of his missing and fallen friends. Sitting in the sand, his back pressed to a rock as he stared out over the horizon, he wondered if his was how Helen felt when she thought of Shira, of the carnival, and her knowledge that someday she’d end up there too.
For once, he understood.
He couldn’t do this forever. There would come a time, someday, when it had to end. The carnival music would play, and he’d make his way back to Raven and the floozies. Hurl would like it there. The wild man had been right beneath the surface the whole time they’d been there.
The sun had just begun to rise when Henry made his way back to town, ready to face another day and survive.