Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

First of all, my apologies for being so late in updating my other fic, "A Pugio Tale". This has happened in the past where I've run into, let's call it, uncertainties about how to continue or end a story. So, in an effort to keep my creative juices flowing and convince myself that I can still come up with SOMETHING, here is the first chapter of a totally different story. Makes sense? No? Okay. Well, I hope you still enjoy reading this one anyway.

vvvv

New York City, a bright spring day in late May …

Fifth-grader Mike Hanson, Jr., and his classmates followed their teacher, Miss Goia, along a section of the footpath in Ft. Tryon Park’s Heather Gardens in Manhattan. The lone parent chaperone, Karen Hanson, took up the rear position to help keep the children together. They soon approached the spot where a murder had occurred a few years ago, one which had been investigated by Mikey’s dad, Det. Mike Hanson, Sr.

Mikey eyed the bench on which the young, murdered woman had been found. Only today, three very alive park goers occupied the infamous spot. They must not know or must not care that they were sitting where a dead woman had once sat, he mused.

The sight of a young boy about his own age standing in a thatch of grass near the manmade lake caught his eye. The dark-haired boy was not only oddly dressed, but he appeared to be upset as he stared at something near a tree a few feet in front of him.

Curious, Mikey managed to leave the group while both adults were distracted and he scampered over to where the boy was.

“Hey, kid,” he said when he got close to him. “What’s with the crazy outfit?” When the boy failed to respond, Mikey asked him what was wrong.

The boy only frowned at him slightly and then returned his gaze toward the tree, pointing toward it. Mikey turned around to see what was drawing the boy’s attention. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped at the sight of a man’s dead body, slumped against the bottom of a tree.

“Whoa,” he breathed out. He then quickly turned to ask the boy how long he had been standing there and what he might have seen, but the boy was gone. Astonished, he looked left and right and beyond but there was no trace of the boy. Where the heck had he disappeared to so quickly, Mikey wondered. When he heard his mother calling his name, he knew what he had to do.

vvvv

Mikey watched somberly as his father and his fellow crime solvers scoured the area where the man’s dead body had been found. The area was roped off with the familiar yellow tape that blared the black-lettered warning, CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. Never had those words hit him as hard as they did now. At one time, he had thought that seeing his dad in action would be exciting. But not after having seen an actual dead body. Someone who had only a little while ago lived and breathed just like he was doing now.

“Your Dad’s coming over to give us the third degree again,” one of his classmates whispered in a teasing manner when they saw Hanson approaching them.

“Shut up, Peter!” Mikey admonished him.

“Yeah, somebody died,” another classmate, Rachel, sternly reminded him.

“I know, I was just ---” Peter clamped his mouth shut when Hanson towered over them.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Hanson told Miss Goia. “You can take the kids away now. We know how to reach them and you if we need more information.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Miss Goia replied, breathlessly grateful to finally leave. “Will you … I mean your son, too?” she asked uncertainly.

“I’ll take him home,” Karen replied. She and her husband eyed each other uncomfortably while the teacher led the other children away.

Hanson dropped down to his son’s level. He put his hand on his arm and said, “Sorry you had to see that, Sport.” He glanced apologetically up at his wife and then looked at his son again. “Tell me about this other kid you saw. What do you mean he had on a crazy outfit?”

“It was kind of like the way people were dressed in that old movie we saw last weekend,” Mikey replied.

Hanson thought for a moment before he replied. “The, uh, pirate movie, Captain Kidd?”

“Yeah,” Mikey replied, nodding up and down.

Huh. Hanson didn’t know what to make of that. Maybe the kid was wearing a costume from a play or something. “You’re a pretty good artist”, he told his son. “Think you’ll be able to draw him for me? It would help us out a lot.”

“Not right now,” Karen intervened. Hanson stood up quickly, frowning slightly. “I’m taking him home. You can get the drawing later.”

Hanson knew not to argue with his wife when she looked him dead in the eye and used that authoritative tone of voice. “Okay,” he said and kissed her on the cheek. He watched his wife and son walk away and then turned to look back at the spot where Mikey had said the oddly dressed boy had stood. He looked at his notes again and scratched the top of his head.

“Captain Kidd,” he scoffed. “Where are you?”

VVVVVVVV

Author’s notes:

Ft. Tryon Park’s Heather Gardens in Manhattan is once again the chosen locale for a murder scene, borrowed from one of my previous Forever fics, “The Pink Balloon”.

Chapter Text

The 11^th Precinct, Lt. Reece’s office, the next day …

Lt. Reece stared incredulously at the drawing handed to her by Det. Mike Hanson.

“This is our possible witness?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Hanson replied sheepishly.

“A young boy dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy,” she said sarcastically.

“Look, my kid drew him just the way he said he looked to him,” Hanson explained. “If my kid said he looked like that, then ---”

“Alright, alright, Mike,” Reece said with a sigh. “No one’s accusing your son of lying or anything.” She sighed again. “Just … why was he dressed like this? Is there a Renaissance Faire in town or something?”

“No,” he replied. “I checked. No play, no festivals. His outfit doesn’t match up with any school uniform around here or anywhere, for that matter.”

“Hmmm,” Reece said. “Okay. We focus on his features, then. Somebody must know who this boy is and where he lives.” She handed the drawing back to Hanson and instructed him to have BOLO flyers printed and spread around.

He nodded and walked back to his desk with the drawing. He placed it on his desk and quickly went to work to get the BOLO flyers made. After a few moments, his official partner, Det. Jo Martinez, joined him at his desk.

“So, this is it, huh?” she asked as she surveyed the drawing.

Hanson raised a finger as a silent request for her to give him a moment. “Okay,” he told the person on the other end of the phone line. “I’ll bring it over now.” He then ended the call and stood up next to Jo, who appeared to be deep in thought.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, just … wondering who this little fella is, that’s all,” she replied. Satisfied that Hanson seemed to believe her, she watched him leave to have the flyers made, then she returned to her own desk and dropped down into the chair when her knees gave way. Could this be happening again? she asked herself.

She recalled a bizarre incident that had occurred when her immortal husband, Henry, had unknowingly made a simultaneous wish with his younger self through the stretches of time, and they’d switched places with each other. Henry had miraculously found himself back in the garden on his boyhood estate in 1787 while his younger self had wound up in the antiques shop last year. Only Henry, Abe, and she knew of it since neither of them had wanted anyone outside their small family to know of such weird goings on surrounding Henry.

But Mikey Hanson’s drawing of the boy with those distinctive eyes, curly hair, and old-fashioned mode of dress could mean only one thing to her: the curious little boy had broken his promise never to make such a wish again, and he had returned. And she concluded, if the boy was here, then that meant that Henry ---

She placed her hand on her desk phone’s receiver but thought better of it. She withdrew her hand and called the morgue from her cell phone instead. A smile broke out over her face when she heard Henry answer the call.

“Henry! You’re here!” she happily declared.

(“Of course, I’m here. I’m working on the corpse of the man recently found in the park.”)

“Yes,” she replied. “Th-that’s good.” She frowned and then swallowed before continuing. “But if you’re still here and he is, too …”

(“Who are you referring to? Jo is there something wrong?”)

“Yes,” she said unable to hide the alarm in her voice. “I believe that our unexpected little visitor from last year has returned.” She waited during the silence on the other end, assured that Henry was slowly understanding what she was talking about.

(“Are you sure?”)

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” she replied.

She ended the call but not before they agreed to go and examine the large painting of Henry and his family that had been placed in storage last year.

vvvv

Later, in the storage locker …

Jo turned on the light while Henry retrieved the painting from the back of the storage unit. He brought it closer to her and lifted it out of its casing. He then set it up on some other boxes so they could both examine it. To their astonishment, the figure that represented Henry as a young boy was still there. But the figure that had represented his older brother, William, was missing from the painting.

“What the ---?” Jo whispered, astonished. She pointed to the empty spot on the painting and asked, “Wasn’t your brother right there?”

Henry’s brow furrowed over his large, worried eyes. “Yes.” He couldn’t imagine what had happened.

“Is, is he, I mean, was he like, like you?” she asked haltingly.

“No,” Henry adamantly replied. “We buried him. We saw his dead body.”

“Could you have been mistaken?” she asked.

He looked at her directly and assured her, “Jo. I was a doctor to the living at that time. My brother was dead.”

Just then, Jo’s cell phone rang and she put it on speaker before she answered it. “Hi, Abe. What’s up?”

(“I think you guys better come home. Right away.”)

“Abe, we’re still at work,” she told him. “We’ll be home in a few hours.”

(“No, you’d better come home now. Quick. We have company.”)

They both could hear the controlled panic in Abe’s voice.

“What is it, Abraham?” a concerned Henry asked.

(“Remember that little deal with the kid poppin’ off the painting last year? Well, like I said, we have company.”)

“Good Heavens!” Henry hissed. “We’re on our way, Abraham,” he said in a louder, stronger voice. He quickly placed the painting back into its casing and returned it to the back of the unit.

“Maybe we should take it with us,” Jo suggested.

“No,” he quickly replied. “We keep the confounded rendering out of our home.”

With that, they locked up the storage unit and quickly headed over to the shop. Once they arrived, they looked worriedly at each other when they saw the Closed sign in the window. Henry unlocked the door and they entered the shop, making their way up the stairs to the living quarters. In the kitchen, they found Abe seated at the table across from a young boy who appeared to be enjoying a plate of oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk. A young boy, who looked exactly … like …

“William,” the immortal man whispered as he slowly approached the boy. “My brother. How is this possible?”

The boy wiped some cookie crumbs from his mouth with his napkin and reached for the glass of milk. “Wishful thinking, Henry. Wishful thinking.”

Chapter Text

“William,” the immortal man whispered as he slowly approached the boy. “My brother. How is this possible?”

The boy wiped some cookie crumbs from his mouth with his napkin and reached for the glass of milk. “Wishful thinking, Henry. Wishful thinking.”

VVVVVVVV

Henry studied the young boy for a few more moments before he straightened up and sat back in his chair, his chin jutted out, and his eyes narrowed a bit.

“You’re not William,” Henry confidently stated with a little bit of suspicion.

“Oh, but I am,” the boy countered while he thoroughly enjoyed his snack of cookies and milk. He picked up one of the half-eaten cookies and looked at Abe.

“What nature of delicacy is this?”

Abe chuckled softly before he replied, “Oatmeal cookies.”

The boy’s smile on his face morphed into a deep frown. “You have fed me horse fodder?”

“Hey, that’s not hay,” Abe replied mildly insulted. “It’s made with oats specially prepared for human consumption.”

The boy traded his frown for a look of acceptance as he studied the cookie. “Well … I don’t suppose it will harm me since … I’m not really real.” He shot a quick mischievous look at Henry and then finished off the cookie, his last.

Henry shared a look of surprise with Jo before he addressed the boy again.

“What do you mean, you’re ‘not really real’?” he asked cautiously.

The boy wiped his hands and mouth with his napkin and then dropped it onto the table next to the empty glass of milk. “I am not your brother … exactly. I am merely a manifestation of him.” His eyes roamed over each of them and then he continued. “We were all painted onto that canvas. It was as if for a long time, we didn’t really exist or we were asleep. I can’t explain it quite right; but when your image left the painting, I felt it and became aware of what I was. Merely a likeness of a living person, who had died.”

He frowned slightly and blinked several times. Then, he looked at Henry again.

“You see, your likeness sort of tagged along with your past self, the wish was so strong. I suppose it’s because of what you are. You’re still alive; and have been all these many, many years.”

Henry started to say something then stopped, placing his hand over his mouth, his eyebrows raised. He lowered his hand and clasped both of them together, his lips curled in.

“Are you saying the painting is … alive?” he finally asked the boy or the likeness, or manifestation, or whatever he/it was.

“No,” he quickly replied. “The others are just as they appear to be. Painted likenesses of people you knew a long time ago.”

“Then, how is it possible for you to be here now?” Jo asked.

The boy looked up at her where she stood next to Henry. “I don’t really know.” He then looked at Henry again. “Maybe it’s because you and your brother were always so close when you were growing up. I felt your likeness leave the painting when you and your past self had made that simultaneous wish.”

“I wanted to see the garden on our estate again,” Henry explained. “There is no way that my past self could have known anything about this time and place.”

“It’s most likely because you are the real person,” the boy said. “Your desire to be in the garden was much stronger than that of of your past self. So, he was catapulted to your time, and you back to your childhood estate.”

“Then … you’re not here because my brother is … still alive?” Henry asked hesitantly.

The boy shook his head. “No. Your brother, William, is dead. Dead and buried. Right where you left him so long ago.”

Briefly, Henry thought it would have been nice to have his brother in his life again. One of his family members from long ago. But he also realized that William would have had to suffer greatly from time to time just as he had during his unusually long life.

“Okay, so you’re not really real,” Abe said. “You’re not William.” And when did something like that become so easy to say?

The boy appeared to take exception to that. “Well, I am a manifestation of him. His likeness. His essence, so to speak. So, yes, I am William.

That was debatable, Jo thought to herself. But she didn’t want to argue with a, a cartoon. A walking cartoon! Who looked like a real boy!

“I’m sorry, I can’t address you as William,” Henry admitted. “But you can’t stay here, either. You must return to, to the painting.”

“Uh, Henry,” Jo interrupted. “May I talk to you for a moment? In private,” she added, motioning with her head toward the adjoining sitting room.

He nodded, stood up, and followed her into the sitting room. He frowned slightly in confusion when she closed the French doors to give them more privacy and walked quickly up to him.

“Henry, you’re forgetting that whatever he is, he might be a witness to a possible murder,” she reminded him in a whisper.

“Certainly, you’re not suggesting that we haul him down to the precinct and question him,” Henry said, remembering to keep his voice down. “He isn’t even real!”

“He still might have seen something, and we have to find out what,” she said more forcefully. “We can figure out later how to fudge our report, if we have to. It’s not like I haven’t fudged them before whenever something like … this … is involved.”

He set his lips into a thin line. “You mean something weird like me.”

With a slight smile on her lips, she stepped closer to him and fingered the knot on his tie, while batting her beautiful big brown eyes at him.

“Something weird and … cute and … adorable like him,” she stated. Her hands snaked up over his shoulders and around his neck. “Like you,” she added, pecking him on the lips.

He gave in to her with a smile as his large hands found her tiny waist and he pulled her closer. He didn’t know why, but he just loved it when she played with his tie.

“Alright,” he told her, his grin growing wider. “We find out what he might know so we can help our latest deceased guest in the morgue.”