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By the time the 21st century had gotten underway, Henry Morgan was increasingly aware that he couldn't maintain his identity on his own. Where once he could have exploited a disaster to a records room—a fire or flood, or some enthusiastic employee making space—there was now a digital trail to worry about. The advent of computers had, at first, provided him with other excuses; a failure to digitize records or corrupted files were the modern person's equivalent of lost in the mail. The expectant failures of an emerging technology were all but behind him as he applied for a job in the New York City Office of Chief Medical Examiner.
The job was a calculated risk. "A bit of a gamble," he admitted, both to himself and to Abraham. He was carefully filling in the paper application—which he'd insisted upon when he'd inquired about the opening—in neat flowing script. He paused between questions to, well, stall. Again. As if the answer to whether this was a good decision would appear the next time he looked down. "It would be easier to be something else with a greater degree of anonymity and less scrutiny."
"It would," Abraham agreed.
"I am not averse to a bit of manual labor."
"No one said you were."
"It's just that maybe I should—"
"Henry," Abraham said his name sharply enough to stop the next musing mid-thought. "Why do you want the job?"
"It's a chance to study death up close without the flourishes added by the rest of the death business. Make use of my skills in the field of medicine. I know I'll appreciate the puzzle of it. I need an intellectual challenge." They both knew what Henry was saying without saying it. Now that the all-consuming grief had finally begun to lift, he needed more than just a job, but some true purpose to his days.
"This is a good choice," Abraham declared, willing Henry to believe him. "Besides, there's few repeat customers in a morgue. No one should recognize you."
Henry chuckled hollowly. "There's nowhere to escape that risk anymore."
"There you go."
"I don't follow."
"If it's just as possible you'll be recognized walking down the street or bussing dishes, then you might as well do something that puts a bit of spark in those ancient eyes of yours."
Henry harrumphed as he went back to filling out the blanks. "People require so much proof these days. Maintaining basic identification is challenging enough. My recent work is, I suppose, sufficient for putting together an honest, if unusual, resume. However, how do I deal with the rest of this? References, copies of certifications."
Abraham nodded sympathetically. Keeping this secret meant making Henry's links to the past vague, not meticulously documentable. "I'll figure something out for the rest."
"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Henry said, grimacing as he signed the application. He wasn't sure what he disliked most: the risks, the dishonesty, or the fact that he was yet again relying on his son.
Less than a week later, the conversation and his misgivings were still weighing on Henry's mind as he lifted the polished knocker on Riverside Drive. It was not the sort of place he expected to find a document forger or an FBI consultant. Not that there was exactly a standard he had been picturing, but this house wasn't it. Nor was he expecting the house staff or the hotel-quality breakfast tray he was proffered when he reached the apparently famous Neal Caffrey enjoying the Saturday morning sunshine on his terrace.
The young woman who showed him up the stairs retreated hastily, and Henry got his first good look at the man who would help him to mislead the medical examiner's office and the NYPD. Mr. Caffrey's gaze sharpened as their eyes met. Clearly they were both getting a measure of each other.
"Good morning," Mr. Caffrey greeted him brightly. "You're welcome to breakfast if you'd like. You're a bit early."
"Don't mind if I do," Henry settled himself in a chair and accepted a cup of coffee. "Do all your clients get such service?"
"I don't do this very often."
Neal thought back on the conversation that had gotten him here. It began, as calls with Mozzie often did, with Neal feeling like he'd missed an earlier part of the conversation.
"Are you interested in an odd job?" Mozzie had asked when Neal picked up.
"That depends on whether you mean odd as in temporary or odd as in strange."
There was a brief silence in which Mozzie nodded at the phone. "Both. Definitely both."
"Then no. I have all the work I need with Peter."
Mozzie snorted dismissively. "You didn't even hear about the job."
"You're right," Neal agreed, but then curiosity got him. "What is it?"
"Documents. An identity package plus educational proof to get a job as a medical examiner here in New York."
Between his own needs and seeing the FBI put together backstories for cover identities, Neal had a better idea of what this person needed than ever, but still. It wasn't the time to go borrowing someone else's trouble. "Moz, if you think this is a legitimate ask, refer them. To someone who does this regularly and doesn't have an FBI handler."
"I would have. It's just they wanted you specifically."
Against his better judgement, Neal asked, "Who?"
"The immortal doctor and his roommate."
Neal used the hand not holding his phone to run a hand through his hair, summoning his patience. "Moz, is this guy from one of your preferred newspapers, or did you fall asleep watching BBC America?"
"Neither. There wasn't an article about him, he found me, and not that kind of Doctor. At least I don't think he's that kind of Doctor."
Once Neal dragged the subject back away from the possibility of Timelords among their midst, the conversation stretched on only a bit longer. Mozzie did ultimately convince Neal of this guy's sincerity if not his status as some sort of well-preserved zombie or whatever.
Which was how they both came to be here on the terrace, Neal sizing this Dr. Morgan up as he sipped a mug of June's Italian roast and ate a cheese-apricot danish with a knife and fork.
Dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin, Henry spoke, "Thank you for having me, Mr. Caffrey. And for the refreshments."
"Please, Neal is fine, and I can't take credit for the rest. My landlady is responsible for the hospitality."
"You may call me Henry then. Please do give her my thanks and compliments on her home."
"It is incredible. Especially when the weather is good for enjoying this view."
"Must be among the most lovely in all of the city."
Neal hummed in agreement, and let them both finish their coffee, before he said, "I'd like to be blunt."
"By all means, Neal."
"If you're planning to use my help to hurt anyone, then a pleasant breakfast is where this ends."
"I am aware of your reputation towards non-violence, and glad for your help specifically because of it." It was true. When Abraham had said he'd sought assistance from a professional, Henry agreed to consider it if and only if he found a decent fellow.
Neal didn't bother to hide his skepticism. "How did you learn about me?"
"My roommate, Abraham, met your landlady at some sort of jazz function. She highly recommended you. In any event, I know it's a little unrealistic to be selective in my position, but I can assure you I don't intend anyone any harm."
That certainly hadn't been the answer Neal was expecting, but he left his expression unchanged, as if they were still blandly discussing the terrace. "Why do you need these documents?"
"Is that important?"
"Not important to the craft necessarily, but the more information I have, the better for crafting a story you can live with telling." Neal got up, collected a pen and paper from inside his apartment, and returned to the table. "It will also help me determine whether you're a risk worth taking on."
"I suppose you might call my situation something of a self-imposed witness protection program." Henry congratulated himself on an answer that wasn't even inaccurate. He had witnessed a heinous crime all those years ago and plenty since that fateful day. "Unfortunately, without the benefit of your marshals or formal assistance, I'm fending for myself."
Neal crossed his legs at the ankle running the heel of one foot up his calf and back down to the anklet. "That has its advantages."
An uncomfortable sympathy shone in Henry's eyes. "I believe you would know."
It was a sore spot and Neal closed himself off visibly. "Yeah, I do. Let's get to work."
Henry hopped up and followed Neal back inside the apartment. Meanwhile, Henry mentally kicked himself for making things awkward before they'd even gotten to anything difficult, but Neal thankfully didn't toss him out.
Neal, meanwhile, got down to business. "Do you have the photos of yourself I asked for?"
Henry shifted uncomfortably as he set them on the table. "I brought two. I don't pose for many photographs."
Neal scrutinized them. The Henry in front of him and the one in both images all seemed entirely identical. "Are these both recent?"
"No." Henry didn't elaborate further. Eager to change subjects he asked, "Is there anything else you need from me?"
"Yes. What age would you like your paperwork to give you?"
Henry decided to seize the rare opportunity to gain a professional assessment of his age. "Assuming I wanted to aim as young as reasonable, what would you suggest?"
Without hesitation, Neal replied, "Thirty-one. Anything in the late twenties is too early to have completed medical school, had time to develop a number of hobbies, and take up a sidebar profession as a gravedigger, was it?"
"Yes. Grave digging is a time-honoured vocation, and I hope my years there demonstrate my respect for the deceased," Henry explained.
"Right, so that's real then?"
"Yes."
"As I was saying, thirty itself is a milestone and draws attention to your age, so unless that's your actual age..." Neal trailed off.
"I'm definitely not thirty. Thirty-one sounds acceptable."
Things moved along smoothly as Neal proceeded through the rest of the questions for a new state ID. Neal made note of Henry's listed height, weight, eye and hair color, as he looked over the ID Henry was currently using with a frown. "Not an organ donor. Want to be on the next one?"
"Regrettably, no. My organs couldn't do anyone any good." Henry cast a chagrined look at the floor.
Neal waited for more information but, when nothing was forthcoming, he reluctantly switched over to education. "Let me make sure I have this right. You want me to forge you proof of a complete medical degree, from Guam. Even though you are already licensed to practice medicine. Why?"
"Was. Was licensed to practice. Not a disciplinary issue," he added quickly. "It has...lapsed."
"Because you were busy pursuing other work, including the gravedigging."
"Yes!" Henry was pleased. Neal still couldn't see why. "You've got the right of it now," Henry said.
"I don't think I do."
"Well, you see, I took refresher courses recently in Guam, so I thought that might be a useful jumping off point."
"Maybe. Where did you originally study?"
"In the United Kingdom, but my actual medical degree goes back...further than I can reasonably explain."
Neal mulled this over. "It can't be more than 20 years ago. Wherever you've studied in the UK must have—"
Henry interrupted, "They can't produce them, and it is earlier than that. Just." Henry took a deep breath. "Please, can you mock up something that makes it look like I got all my credentials in Guam?"
"What, were you some kind of child prodigy?" Neal scoffed as he added, "Or do you really believe you're immortal?"
Neal caught the flinch, even as Henry protested, "That would be absurd. No one is immortal. Where did you get that idea from?"
Neal laughed because it really was ridiculous. Moz and his theories were clearly getting to him. "My friend asked Abraham why you were looking for new papers."
"And?" Henry pressed, clearly agitated and no longer caring that Neal could probably tell.
Neal wondered why Henry was suddenly so edgy. "Abraham said something like, 'What difference does it make if he's a purple space alien or secretly 175, or just all of his records were trashed in a recycling accident? Does why change anything?' And really, all I cared about is whether you're some kind of cannibal or serial killer."
"Neither of those," Henry said.
"My friend just took it a bit more literally. He thinks I should be examining you for skin seams or asking over and over again, 'Tell me your real birthday'." Neal chuckled.
Henry knew that was rhetorical and further knew that if he planned on answering, even in jest, the best thing to do was pick literally any other date but his tongue betrayed him. "19 September 1779."
Neal froze. He had plenty of experience with liars, and somehow Henry Morgan just told him the truth. Henry really did think he'd been around for over two centuries. What was Neal getting himself into?
"Do you plan to hurt anyone?" Neal asked quietly.
"You asked me that before and the answer is still no. If anything, I hope to do some good. Death is a puzzle to which medical examiners provide answers and dignity to the end of people's lives."
Neal could feel that Henry believed that too.
Henry, meanwhile, could read Neal's confusion. "I'm not particularly good at dishonesty," Henry admitted. "That's probably strange to you, in both of your lines of work, but believe me if I could tell you and everyone else the absolute truth I would."
"Like being born in 1779?"
"Something exactly that preposterous, yes."
For a second Neal tried to imagine it, starting over the way he had when he fled home, not once, but a dozen times or more. In a lonely lifetime, it had been the loneliest choice he'd ever made. One he already didn't look forward to making again someday if things here with Peter ever truly fall apart. He shook off that thought and decided he would help.
"Do you have someone down in Guam who can accept a call and back you up?"
"Er, no, I don't. Will that be a problem?"
"I know someone who can handle it."
"What will that cost me?" Henry asked cooly. While he'd gladly pay just about any sum, he knew enough not to appear over eager.
"We can work out something acceptable."
Henry nodded, finally seeming to relax a little. "Thank you."
"I don't want there to be cracks in this any more than you do. There might come a time when I could use a contact in the medical examiner's office."
Henry grinned. "I'd be honoured to help you out. As long as you don't plan to hurt anyone."
Henry met with Neal two more times in quick succession. Once, to go over some last details and loose ends. The next time to collect the physical copies of the papers, some computer thing that Neal assured will help him to update everything "should he need to do this again" and to pay. He didn't expect to hear from Neal again.
So it came as a bit of a surprise when Abe held his mobile phone out to Henry one morning, and there was Neal's voice at the other end of the line. "Remember when I said I might need your help?"
"Of course."
"I'm going to need to die in a few days' time. It's a long story. Can you come over? I'm still living on Riverside Drive."
"I can be right there. I have some experience with long stories."
Neal was pacing like an agitated zoo animal by the time Henry arrived at his apartment. The same sympathy from their last meeting radiated from Henry. Neal couldn't tell Henry the whole truth of the disastrous situation with the Panthers, but Henry didn't seem to need it. Neal had anticipated employing Henry solely to sign off on his death warrant and to move his "corpse" for the escape, so he was caught totally off guard when he commented on the chemical Neal had picked out. "Brilliant choice for mimicking the appearance of death."
"Thank you. You think it will work?"
"I do. A bit of post-mortem makeup and none will be the wiser. But you knew that already."
"I appreciate the confirmation from an expert in manners of death and the arrangements beyond."
"Yes, well." A long pause, before Henry added, "It's going to hurt. Reviving yourself from that sort of suspended animation."
"So I've heard. But you know that how?" Neal squinted at him. Henry knew that look. He was starting to regret coming.
"I just do. Can you accept there are secrets to both sides of this conversation? Unless you no longer want my help."
"Sorry, sorry." Neal really did look it. "I do. Want your help."
"Apology accepted. If there's nothing else..." Henry turned to go.
"One more question. No more prying. Honest."
Henry turned back, nodded warily.
"Any advice on starting over when you really don't want to go?"
"Are you sure it's the only way?"
"Regrettably," Neal answered, and a weight of shared understanding settled between them.
"In that case...hold tight to the good reason you've been forced into doing it for. It never gets any easier, so try not to waste time wishing it would. Find a city worthy of getting lost in and allow it to sweep you away. The world is full of beautiful places for mending a broken heart."
Neal shot him a grateful, if dim, smile. "Thank you."
"You can thank me after you cheat death, from wherever you land next. Now I really must be going. I have your subterfuge to plan for." Henry showed himself out but paused at the door. "But you're welcome. I won't let you down."
Although Neal's preparations were solid Henry was already forming a list of his own. He would need to ask Lucas to borrow some of those high-grade movie cosmetics. Find some else in the department to deliver remarks to Neal's work colleagues. Most importantly, Henry wanted to make certain Neal was scheduled with someone easily misdirected for transport. At the same time, the driver couldn't be so unscrupulous as to divert 'the body' to some nefarious scheme before Neal reached his contacts in wait at the funeral home.
Henry would have to follow the truck, he decided, to see it through until Neal rejoined the land of the living and got on his way. After all, Neal was right about his expertise.