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New Year's Eve, party of one. Lucas sighed. He'd had plans—epic plans, the kind of epic you prepare for months in advance. But instead of getting his freak on in a sick zombie costume, he was alone, shuffling like a zombie around his kitchen in search of a boring snack and his bottle of painkillers, having the worst New Year's Eve ever.
Getting shot sucked. He wouldn't recommend it.
At least he had the good drugs, he thought, as he grabbed the bottle of Vicodin and shook it just to hear it rattle, Dr. House-style. They always knocked him out, though, which was totally unfair and no fun for anyone, and they were even less fun when he dropped them while trying to slip them in his sweatpants pocket.
The bottle clattered on the floor and rolled under his small kitchen table. Lucas swore. His stomach already burned with dull, insistent pain, the last dose of his meds was wearing off, and he did not want to know what awaited if he didn't take them. God, picking up that bottle would be hell, though. But maybe...
Pursing his lips, and pressing a hand to his side, Lucas ran through a list of ideas in his head, ruling each one out with a quick mental "no." Most ended with him having to stoop down to get it anyway, while others would inevitably lead to a comedy of errors that would leave him in more pain before. Oh, he really should've taken someone up on their offer to let him stay with them.
He decided to try the simplest solution first, and attempted to get down on his knees. The pain flared brighter, red-hot and breathtaking. Clutching his belly and swearing virulently enough to make his Grandma Jane proud and to give Grandma Anne a heart attack, he slumped against the fridge, and he whimpered.
No, getting shot didn't suck—that was too mild. Mediocre movies sucked. Instant coffee sucked. Spam sucked. An itch in that spot on your back that you just can't reach sucked. The stomach flu sucked. Getting kneed in the crotch sucked.
A bullet slamming through your skin and muscles and guts? That didn't "suck." The horrific pain afterward didn't "suck." But between the opiate haze and the incessant and awful pain, pain, pain, Lucas just hadn't found a better word yet.
And Don't take a bullet for Henry again was totally going to be number one on his list of New Year's Resolutions.
A knock on the door, barely heard over Mr. Jacobson next door's too loud TV, interrupted his bitter internal monologue. Firm, quick, polite—probably not one of his neighbors, then. Serial killer? No, they'd be more stealthy. Robber? Why bother with him? Friends? Ha.
With a groan, Lucas pushed himself away from the fridge and staggered toward the door, still holding his side. For a moment, he considered calling out, "Who is it?" but that sort of thing always, always ended in slasher flick carnage. No need to tempt fate.
He peered through the peephole, then stepped back. "Huh," he said. No, that couldn't be right. No way. He shook his head, then looked again. Same dark and curly hair, same scruff, same scarf. Lucas's heart clenched. Every time Henry stopped by, his heart clenched. It was awesome.
Lucas yanked open the door, and he greeted Henry with a beaming grin and a hug. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice muffled by Henry's green scarf.
Unsurprisingly, Henry was taken aback, and went stiff in Lucas's arms. "Ah, hello to you, too, Lucas," he said, giving Lucas an awkward pat on the back.
Wary of the angry wound in his gut, Lucas squeezed Henry harder, until Henry relaxed and gave in to the inevitable. Gingerly, he wrapped his arms around Lucas, and Lucas let out a happy sigh. Much better.
Once they got the greetings out of the way and he let go of Henry, Lucas had to ask, "Okay, not that I'm complaining, because I'm totally, totally not, but, seriously: What are you doing here?"
"Well," Henry said, and ducked his head slightly, "since it is my fault you're not ringing in the new year with your friends, I thought I'd come and apologize, and see if perhaps you'd like some company."
"Really?" Lucas's voice came out too high. He cleared his throat, and tossed his hair, trying to look aloof. "I mean, really?"
"You seemed quite upset when I talked with you last," Henry said, "and you mentioned the party you were planning to attend quite a lot before—" He nodded toward Lucas's stomach, and, reflexively, Lucas laid a hand over the wound. "Before."
Before he got shot. Henry didn't meet his eyes, couldn't even say the words, it seemed. "It wasn't your fault," Lucas said. Henry winced. "I've told you that, like, a million times already. It wasn't your fault."
The only thing that had been on Lucas's mind when the shots rang out was protecting Henry. If you looked up "brave" in the dictionary, you would not see Lucas's face, but it had nothing to do with bravery or thought. It was instinctual, getting in between the bullets and someone he cared about. No, someone he loved. "I did what I thought I needed to do."
"But you didn't need to," Henry said.
No, Lucas hadn't needed to take a bullet for Henry. Before Lucas had registered his own pain, he saw the dark, wet blood pouring from Henry's chest. God, Lucas would never forget the cold, hollow dread, the anguish. He'd seen enough GSW's on Henry's table to know what was coming.
Or so he thought.
Lucas shook away the memories. "Hey, what matters is we both made it out alive, in the end. You're here, I'm here, and the new year is almost here. Which reminds me—I need to turn on the TV."
Except the couch was horribly uncomfortable, dammit. Too hard, too short for Lucas to lie on, and there was that one spring that jabbed everybody in the ass. And the burst of energy from Henry's arrival was already fading away, weakness and exhaustion dragging Lucas down again, and, Jesus, his stomach hurt.
Bed. He needed his bed. "Mind if we watch in my room?"
Henry's brow furrowed. "Watch...what?"
"Seriously?" Lucas's eyebrows shot up. "The countdown, the ball drop..."
"Oh, that, of course," Henry said. "They televise it. Sorry. I—"
"Don't watch TV, yeah, I know." Lucas chuckled. Sometimes, Henry's cluelessness was adorable. "You've probably only ever seen it in person, and not on some crappy little TV or anything."
"Not in a while," Henry said, with a wry grin. "But it's also been a while since I watched in person—the crowds have become much too large for my taste. And the dawn of yet another year doesn't hold nearly as much significance as it once did, I'm afraid. Usually Abe and I sleep through it like the old men we are."
"And you're giving up that extra sleep to hang out with me this year? I'm touched." Though Henry would probably take it as a joke, Lucas meant it. "You are a good man, Henry Morgan."
Lucas went to drape an arm over Henry's shoulders, but he moved too fast, and harsh burst of pain left him doubled over and gasping, and cursing between each muttered "ow." Tears blurred his eyes. Immediately, Henry went into doctor mode and began questioning him. Through gritted teeth, Lucas insisted, "I'm fine, I'm fine, Doc. Just need my meds. Dropped the bottle. Couldn't pick 'em back up."
"Let's get you back into bed," Henry said, and steered Lucas toward the bedroom. "You need to be resting, not standing about chatting with me."
The short distance between the front door and the bed seemed endless, but they made it. Still holding his stomach, Lucas carefully sank down on the blissfully soft mattress, and he struggled to catch his breath. "This really sucks."
"I know," Henry said, his voice gentle, as he helped Lucas lie on the bed. "Believe me, I know exactly how miserable you are. But I'm going to take care of you, all right?" After Lucas nodded, Henry went on, saying, "I'm going to fetch your medication, and then I'm going to check and make sure everything is all right with your wound."
Henry took off at a near run, headed for the kitchen, while Lucas fought to get comfortable. Miserable was an understatement. He'd never felt so awful, so helpless and weak, and he'd never imagined it was possible to feel this much pain. If it wouldn't hurt so damn much, he'd curl up on his side and sob until he passed out, but, hell, that required moving and breathing. Lucas settled for closing his wet eyes and some more hard-earned whimpering, and reminded himself why he was in so much pain.
Because of Henry. Because he'd wanted to make sure Henry lived. Brilliant, beautiful Henry, a rare genius and one of the few genuinely remarkable people in the world. All Lucas had wanted to do was protect that, protect Henry, and he'd failed. Sure, Henry was still alive, but only because he happened to be immortal. Lucas had come so close to dying himself, but he couldn't forget the sound of Henry's last breath, the horrible agony of failure and grief before Henry vanished.
"I retrieved your meds," Henry said, as he came in, "and I've brought you a bottle of water, and—oh, Lucas."
Henry rushed to Lucas's bedside, and he gave Lucas a pill and held the water to Lucas's lips. Once Lucas choked them down, Henry sat next to him, and began rubbing Lucas's back. "It'll be all right," he said, in a soothing tone. "The pain will start to fade in a moment."
Shaking his head, Lucas said, "It's not the physical pain that's bugging me."
"I know." One of Henry's warm hands wrapped around Lucas's free one, and Lucas clutched it. "I know, Lucas. But they are linked, and the sooner the pain in your abdomen eases off a bit, the sooner the rest will become easier to bear. Now, I want you to take some slow, deep breaths with me, all right?"
Lucas groaned. "Breathing sucks."
"I know," Henry repeated, "but you need to relax. I know it's hard, I know it hurts, but you are strong. I wouldn't be telling you to do it if you couldn't. You can do this, Lucas. I promise."
With Henry's guidance, Lucas breathed through his nose, while Henry murmured encouraging words and stroked Lucas's hair. Lucas bit his lip against the pain, and he clutched Henry's other hand, clinging to the comfort. Henry was alive. They'd both made it out of that apartment alive, in the end. They were both safe, both healing, and a new year was on its way, bringing a fresh start along with it. They'd be okay. Yeah, they'd be okay.
Soon, Lucas's breaths became easier, and the awful pain in his side went from a hellish inferno to a mere godawful burning throb. He collapsed against Henry, exhausted, and Henry held him upright and murmured, "I've got you, Lucas. I promise. Nothing's going to happen to either of us tonight."
"You're staying?" Lucas asked, and Henry let out an affirmative hum. Thank goodness. "Then kick off your shoes and get comfy."
Henry did as he was told, carefully pulling away from Lucas to remove his shoes and his coat, his jacket, his scarf. "You wear too many clothes," Lucas mumbled, and Henry laughed softly. "You probably get that a lot, don't you?"
"Oh, yes," Henry said, "from Abe especially." Then, he carefully wrapped an arm around Lucas's shoulders, and pulled him closer, and in a more serious tone, said, "Listen, Lucas: I want you to know that I do appreciate what you did that night, needless though it was."
"Was 'cause I care about you." Lucas nuzzled against Henry's shoulder, and closed his eyes. Gosh, Henry's cologne smelled good. "If I, like, went back in time or something, I'd do it again."
Henry sighed. "I wish you hadn't. I've lost far too many people because they tried to protect me. I haven't forgiven myself for those deaths, and I don't think I would've been able to forgive myself for yours, either." Gently, Henry put his hand on Lucas's belly, over the wound, just for a moment. "I'm not sure I can forgive myself for this. You getting hurt because of me."
Then, with a forced smile, Henry asked, "May I look at your injury?"
In reply, Lucas tugged up his shirt, exposing his bandaged side. "I'd do it again," he repeated, "if it all happened again."
"Don't," Henry said, and pausing as he reached for the bandage. "Never again. Please. Promise me you won't try to save me again."
As Henry removed the bandage, Lucas considered the idea. Part of him resisted. He wanted to protect Henry, to keep Henry from getting hurt. Logic reminded him that Henry would survive whatever danger life threw at him, and that Henry had already been through more than Lucas could imagine. It would still be terrible for Henry, and Lucas didn't like that one bit, but it would probably be worse if Lucas died.
And, god, the idea of getting shot again—or worse—scared the hell out of Lucas. "Okay."
He could almost hear Henry's frown. "'Okay?'"
"It's not a hard question," Lucas said. "I'm mortal, you're not. I'm a chickenshit, you're—"
"You are a courageous man," Henry said, firmly, "with a wonderful heart. You've no need for that sort of self-flagellation, and I shall not hear another word of it. Look at me." Lucas turned his head, and Henry gave him an emphatic look. "What you did that night was very brave. A bit foolish, yes, but a, ah—" Henry cleared his throat, and made a face. "—'chickenshit' would not jump between a gun and their boss."
Warm affection filled Lucas's chest. Aww, Henry liked him. That was awesome. "Friend," Lucas corrected. "I took a bullet for you; you have to call me your friend now. And we're officially on a first-name basis from now on."
"Very well," Henry said, with a nod. "Friends. But, my point is that a coward would not risk their life to save another, regardless of whether that person is a friend or not, nor would a coward go behind their boss's back to help a someone find their missing mother, or risk an obstruction of justice charge and jail time without knowing why."
"Yeah, I, uh..." Lucas looked away, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I kind of love you a lot," sprang to his mind, a truth he both wanted to say and never, ever wanted to admit. He went with the explanation he'd rehearsed a thousand times. "I figured that, because it was you that wanted it, you had a really good reason."
And Lucas had been right. Adam was the kind of dude that gave Lucas nightmares. The guy had seemed pretty harmless and small in that hospital bed, but there were plenty of villains who seemed totally unassuming on the outside but carried a whole buttload of nefarious plans in their heads. Granted, most of those villains were fictional, but they were a good lesson nonetheless.
"You're one of the good guys."
Henry sighed. "Oh, you have far too much faith in me," he said, and patted Lucas's arm. He bent over, eying Lucas's wound, taking care to avoid touching it. "No swelling, no unusual redness or tenderness, no other indications of any problems..."
"It just hurts," Lucas said. "A lot."
With a sympathetic smile, Henry once again said, "I know. Gutshots are always, always horrible: Slow to kill, unless the bullet hits an artery. High risk of infection, even after the damage is repaired and cleaned—you've no idea how grateful I am that you've been spared the nightmares of peritonitis and sepsis." He shuddered. "And, of course, it's incredibly hard to avoid irritating the injury further just by moving. But in my professional opinion, your surgeon did a magnificent job, and you're healing beautifully. You are incredibly lucky to be alive and recovering as well as you are."
Lucas considered that for a moment. Hey, maybe... "Maybe I am kind of tough. Or pretty healthy, at least."
"Both." Henry grabbed the discarded bandage and got up from the bed, then handed Lucas the TV remote. "I assume you've not moved the bandages since I visited this morning, have you?"
"Nope," Lucas replied, around a yawn, and he turned on the TV and slithered down the bed, until he lay flat on his back. "Barely left the bed." As his tired body sank into the mattress, he almost moaned in relief and pleasure. Bed, bed, bed, yes. How could your bed feel like the greatest place on earth one day, then make you feel like that princess with the peas under her mattresses another? One of life's greatest mysteries. Best not to question it during one of the good times, probably.
As Henry went to retrieve the bandages, Lucas tried to focus on the television. Onscreen, noisy people got ready to ring in the new year, but Lucas's eyes kept falling shut. Tired. Tired, sore, tired. All his brain cared about was the pain in his gut and the fatigue sucking at his soul like a black hole in his bones. Those all-nighters back in school couldn't compare.
Maybe he could rest his eyes for a moment. That sounded awesome.
He dozed off, lulled to sleep by the sounds of revellers onscreen, the thumping bass from his downstairs neighbor's stereo, and Henry preparing to play Mother Hen-ry again.
After what seemed like seconds, Lucas woke to Henry gently shaking his arm. "It's almost midnight," Henry said, voice barely above a whisper. "Are you going to watch?"
Lucas squinted at him in confusion. "But it's—" Not just a few minutes after ten, it seemed. Oh. Henry'd already had time to replace the dressings on Lucas's belly and get nice and comfy on the bed.
And Lucas didn't feel the least bit rested. Funny, that.
With Henry's help, Lucas sat up again, propped up by pillows and Henry's warm and sturdy body. "Been making yourself at home?" Lucas asked.
"Hardly," Henry replied. "More like getting a reminder of why I dislike living in apartments like this from all this noise, and feeling so very, very old. I tried adjusting the volume on this thing, but, well. I seem to have broken your television instead." As though demonstrating, Henry snatched up the remote and dropped it back down on the bed. "Everyone is green."
Lucas forced open his eyes, then bit back what would've been an agonizing belly laugh. An ugly green tint filled the screen, turning everybody into the Wicked Witch of the West's cousins. It was great. "How did you do that?" he asked, snickering.
"Damned if I know," Henry said. "It's not permanent, is it?"
"Nah," Lucas assured him. "I can fix it later. No problem."
They watched in silence—or would have, if Lucas had been able to stop laughing. It looked like aliens had visited New York and replaced everyone with green-skinned humanoids—and, hey, that was a good idea. He needed to remember that for his next film.
But that would come later. Right now, it was time for the countdown. He counted out loud, and, to his surprise, so did Henry.
The clock hit midnight, and bursts of excited shouting came from every direction, barely muffled by the thin walls. He and Henry turned to each other. Lucas's stomach fluttered.
"So—" Lucas began.
"I—"
"New Year's kiss?"
"Well, it is traditional."
"And you're a pretty traditional guy."
Both of them leaned in, and their lips met. They shared the tiniest of kisses, a tentative brush of lips that sent a jolt through Lucas's chest and a wave of giddiness through his blood. Henry was kissing him—him, of all people. Best New Year's Day ever.
But before Lucas could really get into it, Henry pulled away, an almost shy smile on his face. "I hope that wasn't too forward of me."
Too forward? Lucas opened his mouth to respond, and his brain stuttered to a stop. All he could think of was Henry's lips on his, soft and gentle, and the faint rasp of Henry's stubble against his. All he could say was, "Guh."
"'Guh?'" Henry repeated, a puzzled look on his face. "Is that good or bad?"
"I..." Lucas opened and closed his mouth, unable to find the right words. "Good. Good 'guh.'"
Henry still seemed baffled. "Over something that barely even qualified as a kiss?" Then, he shook his head and chuckled. "I must say, I'm quite flattered."
"You should be," Lucas thought, and tried to collect himself—or to at least pretend he was collected. Cool, calm, collected Lucas, who'd just been kissed by the totally awesome Henry Morgan.
He wasn't going to get very far with that act, was he?
Luckily, Henry was still coherent. "Happy New Year, Lucas," he said, his voice warm and soft. "May it bring you great joy and a speedy recovery."
Lucas had a feeling it would.