#ficever

Henry drapes another blanket over Lucas's trembling shoulders, and Lucas's bone-white hands whip out from beneath the pile to clutch at the edges of this one, too. Oh, he's so young—a hair older than Henry had been his first time, but no age is old enough for this. No one is ever old enough to bear the burden of experiencing their own true death and remembering it afterward, nor for the repercussions of it not being the last. "I'm so sorry."

Lucas nods, and tugs the heap of blankets up to his nose, a muffled, quavering, "Thanks, Doc," barely making it through chattering teeth and out of the pile. Henry's heart breaks all over again—he's long lost count of the number of times that has happened today, from the moment Lucas leapt between Hanson and a bullet until now. That it brought his own secret into the light matters little. For now, all he cares about—all anyone cares about—is Lucas.

"Just wanted to help," Lucas says, with a faint, ironic smile, a near-echo of what he said as he bled out beneath Henry's hands. "Just trying to help," words that will linger in Henry's brain for centuries to come. He has far too much experience with words like those, with last words. He'll remember them. And, for better or worse, so will Lucas.

So will Lucas. Lucas is alive. After today, unless Henry finds a solution, Lucas will always be alive. He died a hero...only that wasn't the end of his story. And nothing will ever be the same.

But because of him, Mike Hanson will go home to hug his rambunctious children and kiss his beloved wife. Another good man will keep breathing, and he will go on to rain justice upon the guilty shooter. Hanson's world is different now, too: a little bit stranger than before, yes, but not tarnished by his own death, nor by the loss of a friend and savior.

Henry lays a hand on Lucas's shoulder, though he doubts Lucas can feel it through the thick, thick blankets. "You did help, Lucas," he says, soft and gentle, and Lucas's hint of a smile grows. "You did good."

"Thanks," Lucas says, quietly, ducking his head, and some color finally—finally—appears in his cheeks. He goes silent again, but not for so long this time, thank goodness. "So, uh...eternal life, huh? How does, uh...how does that work, exactly? And, um...it's not all bad, right?"

Some might say it is. Some days, Henry might say it. But even though another man, a friend, now shares his curse, that friend and another are alive. Who wouldn't see that as a victory? A bittersweet victory, yes, but a victory nonetheless. "Correct," Henry replies. "Eternity is difficult, yes, but there are far worse things in the world."

"Cool," Lucas says. "And, hey—now you've got a friend to share it with. So, uh, you won't be alone."