Chapter Text
Pressing the key into the lock feels almost as exhausting as it always does, even though today has been… different, to say the least. What isn’t different is the warm welcome he always gets from his dog, who bounds over, tail wagging wildly, to give him kisses and ask for belly rubs. Mutt always acts as though it’s been a million years since he last saw Henry, but is always so happy to see him, even if Henry is already yawning when it’s barely evening.
Henry is more of a morning person, so most of his classes tend to be earlier too. It's a bit of a vicious cycle, between frequently working nights, staying up for class and then crashing only to wake up and do his homework, still half-asleep and hung over on the desire for unconsciousness. He rarely gets enough sleep, but considering when he did have the time, he usually spent it quivering and breathing through the panic of another nightmare, he's simply resigned himself to the reality of being exhausted.
His own hours vary daily, but the same can be said for Sam, who owns a bar and only recently got the staff he needed. Training was the hardest bit, having to be there to micromanage in the early stages of its opening, but it was a dream made possible by his on and off again situationship with one John Lichtenstein. It's always been odd to him how the two of them seem to end up in the orbit of the wealthy—John, Žižka, and now Hans—but neither he nor his brother are particularly interested in handouts. Henry's night position as a bouncer only came about because one of the early hires kept calling out and Sam was at his wits end. And when his exhaustion reads more as resting bitch face, paired with how burly he is, he makes a pretty good bouncer. The two of them negotiated his hourly wage, when he could realistically be able to work, and since then, Henry's been more or less his partner.
Less, really. He has no real stake in any of the background aspects of owning a business, but when a coworker is dumb enough to run their mouth where Henry can hear it, his loyalties lie with Sam. It works. Just like living together works, even if Sam is a picky, temperamental fucker who has an odd knack for knowing when to mince his words—even if that isn't often. Honestly, owning a bar suits him. Being his own boss does, even if there's a measure of financial debt to his… booty call? Boyfriend? Investor? All of the above?
It's complicated. Down to the nitty gritty of getting the joint off the ground, so it's a surprise when he walks into the living room with Mutt right behind him, only to see Sam sitting on the couch with a newspaper and his stupid reading glasses on. He looks like a disgruntled grandfather, about to gripe about the news, but Henry knows he’s just there for the crossword.
“Henry,” Sam greets, lowering the paper into his lap. “You're home.”
He quirks a brow. “So are you.”
A novel experience to be sure, as most of their communication happens at the bar in stolen moments or via text or handwritten note. A post-it with a reminder or vague threat. A text telling him their rent has gone up and now Henry owes fifty dollars more than last month.
He joins Sam on the couch, plopping down next to him with a heavy sigh, head leaning back against the couch and letting his eyes close. Mutt sits at Henry’s feet, giving his own heavy sigh in solidarity as his big head comes to rest on his knee, which Henry idly pets.
“Your new job started today, didn't it?”
“It did.”
There's a pause, as there often is with Sam. He's a thoughtful man. “It went well?”
“It… was certainly something.”
Henry can feel Sam’s deadpan boring into the side of his head. “If you do not want to talk about it, just say so.”
He can’t help the grin that quirks on his lips at that. Always to the point with Sam, no fucking around. In a lot of ways Henry likes that, but sometimes you just have to let a guy sigh it out first.
“There was definitely a lot more to it than Žižka implied.” He huffs a laugh just thinking about the conversation he’s going to have with his friend next time he sees him. “I thought he’d be an old fart, but he can’t be any older than you ‘n me. Lives in a penthouse. I think we could fit our whole apartment in his closet.”
Sam snorts. “Were you expecting something else? He has so much money that he doesn’t know what to do with it other than pay you to clean his home.”
Henry swats him. “Shut up. I’m good at it. You just don’t let me.” Sam just hums, so he continues. “Anyways, that’s... about when it started getting a bit weird. He uh...” he trails off a little, unsure how to broach this. “When I walked in there was a maid dress waiting for me. I thought it was a joke, but this guy wasn’t kidding.” He leaves out the part about how skimpy it was. Sam doesn’t want to hear that. “So basically I just have to wear that and... let him watch, while I. Y’know. Clean.” He starts to get a little awkward at the end there because of the way Sam is looking at him now — brow furrowed even more than usual, mouth slightly open, somewhere between aghast and holding in a laugh. Henry feels his face get warmer the longer Sam just looks at him, as though waiting for the punchline while Henry squirms. “Christ, Sam, don’t look at me like that. It’s good money.”
That seems to snap him out of his reverie, and instead he just looks confused. “And what is he getting out of this, other than a clean home? Is he touching himself? Or you?”
Jesus, right to the heart of it then. Henry shrugs, having to look away from the severe look in Sam’s eyes. “Kind of? Maybe?” He hears the newspaper crinkle in Sam’s hands and laughs nervously.
“Who is he?” Sam asks pointedly.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s good money.”
“It does matter. Tell me who he is.”
“I signed an NDA, Sam!”
“That is not why you’re not telling me.”
Henry groans. “I’m not telling you because I’m fine with it, and I don’t need you breaking my employer’s fingers.”
That makes Sam pause, his grip on the newspaper loosening, and he instead just tosses it onto the coffee table in front of them. “You’re fine with it?”
Oh. He had said that, hadn’t he? He’d been thinking about it the entire bike ride home, and apparently he’s come to a conclusion about it subconsciously. He nods.
“And you don’t feel forced? You know you don’t have to do this, I can get you more hours if you need them,” Sam offers, as if Henry doesn’t know he’d be pulling those hours out of his ass, at less than half the wage. Unfortunately, student debt can’t be paid with tips.
“I don’t feel forced. It’s just... Strange. I didn’t expect it, tha’s all. And he’s hot,” he states plainly, because it’s true, and without Hans here to take that inch and run a mile, it’s easier to admit.
Sam gives him another look that Henry catches from the corner of his eye. “You say that as if that is the strange part.”
Henry grimaces. “What, that someone I think is hot thinks I’m hot? Yeah, it’s strange.”
“Is that why you want to do this, then?”
“Christ, no. But I have to admit, getting paid to be felt up by someone who’s actually attractive doesn’t sound like a bad deal, does it?”
“Or, and this is a revolutionary thought—” Oh, here we fucking go. “You could pursue an actual relationship. With someone who isn’t paying you.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “That’s rich, comin’ from you.” Now it’s Henry’s turn to get swatted. “I don’t have time for a relationship, Sam. You know that.”
“I’m serious, Henry. You do not need to beg for crumbs when you could have whatever you want elsewhere. You can make time, if you really wanted to.”
“Then maybe I don’t want to,” he huffs indignantly, scruffing a hand through his hair. He bites at the inside of his cheek, thinking of what Hans said earlier. “It would just be... convenient. Two birds, one stone, y’know? Besides, if I was gonna have sex, wouldn’t you rather I did it somewhere else, and not on the other side of the thinnest wall in the whole fuckin’ country?”
Sam clearly knows this reasoning is flimsy at best, but this is apparently one of those rare times where he minces his words, and he pivots. “Pavel has feelings for you.”
Henry gives him a look as though wishing he hadn’t said that and sighs, defeated. “I don’t have time, Sam. For any of this.”
Sam studies him for a few long moments, but takes the hint and lets it go, if only for now. He stands, rolling up his sleeves. “Well. You have time for dinner. You will chop vegetables for me.”
Henry can’t help but grin, because Sam always knows. When to press, when to back off. What to say, what not to say. How to make Henry feel better. He always knows.
After an amicable and delicious dinner, it’s Henry’s turn to take out the trash. He ambles down the stairs and out into the parking lot behind the building, tossing the bag and heading back inside. But then, at the elevator, he sees an older woman with a neat bunch of grocery bags pressing the button to go up, and he walks over.
“That elevator hasn’t worked in two years, I'm afraid,” he explains ruefully, “‘N frankly I wouldn’t trust it if it did.”
That gets a gentle laugh out of the lady, and as she turns to see him, recognition immediately blooms on her features. “Henry? Do my eyes deceive me?” She looks familiar, but it takes Henry a few moments to try and remember where he’s seen this woman before.
Her eyes are deep brown, her dark hair streaked prettily with strands of silver where it’s pulled into a neat bun. Her features are lined with wrinkles that denote years of smiling and happiness, but the bags under her eyes hold a lot of sadness. Then he sees the nightingale brooch on her coat, and it clicks into place.
“Magdalena?” He asks in return, and she looks delighted that he’s remembered.
“Yes! Though you used to call me Maggie,” she chuckles. “Oh, how long has it been, dear?”
“S’been… Six years, I think.”
“Has it really? My, and you’ve gotten taller,” she notices, and reaches up to gently pinch his cheek, and he has to make a concerted effort to not flinch away from the contact. “Do you live here, too? I just moved in yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” he asks, surprised. “I didn’t see any movers.”
“Well, I didn’t have much, you see,” she smiles a little sadly. “But perhaps we can sit down and catch up some time.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to,” he grins, then looks at the groceries at her feet. “Can I help you with those?”
“Oh, that would be lovely, dear,” she says, and he promptly picks up the ones that look heaviest, and walks with her up the stairs. She lives on the second floor, so it’s not all that far. She digs through her coat pockets for her key, and when she opens the door, Henry can see that most everything is still packed in boxes, dotted sparsely throughout the apartment. But she gets his attention back by taking her groceries from him with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Henry. Still such a helpful lad,” she muses, and Henry just scratches the back of his neck with a bashful smile.
“S’no problem. I’m glad to help. And if you ever need anythin’, we live on the fifth floor, apartment C.”
“That’s kind of you, Henry. Would you like some tea? Have you eaten?”
He laughs, waving off her kind concerns. He remembers them well from when he was younger, always sneaking him treats. “Yeah, we had dinner already, don’t worry. How ‘bout we have that tea tomorrow?”
She nods, and subconsciously reaches to touch her brooch. “Tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Henry.”
“G’night, Maggie,” he says, making her smile at the nickname, and he waves a little until she shuts the door.
Small world, he thinks to himself as he climbs the rest of the stairs back to his apartment. As he’s on his way back in, Sam is on his way out, heading to the bar for the night. They exchange quick goodbyes and Sam leaves with a thinly-veiled threat about touching the leftovers.
Leaving Henry alone in the apartment. He never quite feels alone though, especially with Mutt. Before him there was the idle chatter and laughter coming muffled through the walls from other apartments, people walking through the neighbourhood outside, music playing from the corner store across the street. There was—and still is—always some kind of white noise to fill the blanks, something to soothe and distract him from the deep-seeded loneliness that curls up like a neglected dog in his chest. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. Now he has a friend who shares his bed with him, keeps him company even when he's just napping for the nth time on any given day and who will lick his face and wake him up before his night terrors can do it themselves.
So instead, he drowns himself in more work. He has two assignments due in the next few days until he goes back to work on Saturday, after all.
But the next day, he keeps his promise and goes to see Magdalena around lunch time. He knocks and she greets him warmly, ushering him inside for some tea and snacks.
It seems that with some heads-up that he would be coming, she moved most of the boxes to one corner of the living room, though they remain unopened. The furniture is mismatched but comfortable, and she explains that it isn’t even hers, but left by the previous tenant.
“It was fortunate for me really,” she says, that same sad smile coming over her as she pours tea for them. “Because I had no furniture left at all. There was a fire at my old home, and I lost just about everything. After the blaze was put out, I was able to collect some things that survived, but most were ruined by fire and smoke.”
“I’m so sorry,” Henry murmurs, and then the fact that she lives here alone dawns on him. “What about your husband?”
“My Shkoda? He passed three years ago. He got sick, and... Well, I’m glad he didn’t have to see what became of our house. He built it himself, you know. It’s a terrible thing, to lose one's home.” She sighs sadly, and Henry’s heart pangs in empathy. “But between the insurance for Shkoda and now for the house, I have enough to live off of. I’m quite used to living humbly after all.” Well, that explains why she moved here of all places, with rent as cheap as it gets this close to the city.
She waves her hand as though to dispel the sadness. “But that’s far too much out of me. You don’t need to worry about an old crone’s woes. I’d much rather hear about you, dear. How are things in your life?”
Henry fumbles around trying to articulate what his life has become in the last six years, without worrying this poor woman who has enough to worry about as it is. “Ehm… Well, I got into college. And I live with my brother Sam upstairs.”
“Brother?” she says, surprised by this revelation.
Henry laughs a little, scratching at his cheek. “It’s a long story. But basically, my Pa had another son that he didn’t even know about. And…” he trails off a little, but it’s not like it’s something she doesn’t know. “After he died, that’s how I found out. ‘N we’ve been together ever since. His family basically took me in as one of their own now.”
She smiles warmly. “That’s lovely, Henry. I’m so glad you’ve found family again. I can only imagine how difficult it was for you, to lose your parents so young. Martin and Ana were such lovely people. They would surely be happy for you.” Her eyes dart away for a moment, as if debating if she should say something else before she decides to continue. “...Have you not been to church this whole time?”
Henry’s shoulders tense and he grimaces, having expected this question but still reacting poorly to actually hearing it. He averts his eyes with shame he wishes he didn’t feel. “No. I stopped going, after… Y’know.”
He starts to preemptively close himself off, even if he feels a little bad being cagey towards her. But he’s heard it all before – ‘The congregation is your family’, ‘God does everything for a reason’, ‘Only through prayer will you find peace’. All of them lies. There was no reason for what happened to his parents, and the idea that there might be one never sat right with him. He's supposed to believe that ‘God wanted his angels back’ or something? They're platitudes, and they were more dismissive than anything.
Sure, the congregation was happy to fawn over him for a time, but when it came to supporting him, freshly eighteen, through the trials of arranging a funeral—which is a ridiculously expensive venture—they were nowhere to be found. When Henry had to sell his family home just to pay for the damn thing, suddenly the church wasn’t concerned with the needy. They came to the wake, gave condolences, told him that they would pray for him. But what good are prayers to a boy who’d lost everything?
But what cuts through his sour thoughts is Magdalena’s gentle voice saying, “I understand.” He looks to her, and her expression is one of soft empathy, not pity as he’d seen many times before. He tries to swallow around the emotions building in his throat as she continues. “I must admit, after losing my husband and then my home, I felt abandoned in many ways by the church, and by God. I lost my way. But my journey back to Him has been my own. You are on your own journey, and wherever it takes you, I only wish you peace and happiness.”
It’s the most open-minded anyone from Henry’s past has been, and he feels relief wash over him. Honestly, it took meeting Sam to rekindle his faith, after how hard it had wavered in the wake of it all. He'd struggled to pray, resented that man can't truly converse with God the way he can with his fellow creations and there was an agony to losing the only thing he'd had left. He lacked direction, and Sam was the one who reminded him that faith and organized religion are separate things. Some may find faith through organized religion, but faith is individual and fostered in one's own heart. Since then, Henry has much preferred spending time with him and his family during Jewish holidays. It beats any of the boring masses he used to attend in his youth.
His relationship with religion has changed, but it hasn’t entirely broken. Yet another thing he simply doesn’t have much time for. But to simply be a good person doesn’t take much time at all.
He only just manages to not have his voice break as he says, “Thank you, Maggie.” Tears sting at the back of his eyes. “You're a good Christian.”
She looks touched by the sentiment, but she waves him off, as humble as anyone who deserves to be called a good Christian. “Enough about that, then. Tell me about Sam, hm? An entire child your father didn’t know he had? How in the world did he manage that?”
That gets a watery laugh out of him and Henry rearranges himself on her couch, arse and hands sinking in. He perches a little closer to the edge. “The way Sam tells it, he’d had a woman before my mother but her father ran him off. Martin didn’t know she was pregnant and never had any way to find out. I’d say it was chance that we met, but Sam… he heard about Martin’s passing and ended up finding out about me in the process. Maybe you can meet him one day. He works odd hours because he owns a bar downtown, but I think you'd like him.”
She smiles sweetly and nods. “I’m sure you’re right, dear. You said you go to school now, eh? What are you studying?”
Well, at least that’s easier to talk about. “I’m working at becoming an architect like my Pa.”
“How wonderful! Just like my Shkoda. Your father was his best apprentice, you know. The things they built..!” She trails off wistfully, absentmindedly reaching to touch her brooch again. “You know, Henry… Shkoda’s workshop was one of the only things that remained mostly untouched by the fire. I have many of his tools and supplies, sketches and all sorts of notes, bits and bobs that I certainly won’t have any use for. I want you to have them.”
Henry looks at her wide-eyed. “Oh, no, I–I couldn’t. You should keep them, Maggie.”
“Nonsense. They’re simply going to sit here and collect dust, when they could be passed on to another in the line of craftsmen that my husband would be proud of. Just like he was of your father.” She gets up, clapping her hands together resolutely. “Come then, at least take one box with you, you’ll be doing an old woman a favour by giving me less to unpack!”
He opens his mouth to protest again, but the look on her face leaves little room for argument, daring him to try. So he sighs, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Alright then. Just one, though.” But he knows just from her smile alone that by the end of the month, he’ll likely have them all.
After exchanging goodbyes, Henry brings the box (and of course some additional goodies to “share with Sam”—we’ll see about that–– back to the apartment, setting it down on his bed to peruse. Mutt hops up as well to sniff it to high heaven, always crazy for new smells. Henry bats his snout away gently so he can get into the damn thing, and starts to rifle through the contents.
It’s mostly as Magdalena said; notebooks, pencils, and drafting supplies. Blueprints for all sorts of projects, some more fleshed out than others. He’s casually flipping through some of them when he finds a familiar mark. His father’s mark. He pulls it out and finds what appears to be an early blueprint of the home Martin built for their family, following in Shkoda’s footsteps in yet another meaningful way.
Henry traces the lines of it, vision blurring with unshed tears, making them all wobbly. He really misses it; the doorframe that marked his height over the years, scratches on the floor from all the times his mother had rearranged the house on a whim, and the bay window in the living room that overlooked the garden she tended, even if her thumb wasn’t quite as green as she would have liked. But it wouldn’t have felt right to stay there. All by himself in a house filled to the brim with memories like a dragon stubbornly hoarding them, unwilling to let go. Even if their apartment is a little shitty, it’s home, here with Sam and Mutt.
But to see the plans that his father had made for their future together… It warms his heart. He takes the draft and pins it to his bedroom wall, alongside miscellaneous pictures, posters, and a calendar two years out of date.
He sets the box aside next to his dresser to be dealt with later. Sam will gripe about more clutter, but that’s for future Henry to worry about. Instead, he sits down at his desk to get back to work, helping himself to one more of Maggie’s cookies. Sam won’t know how many there were to begin with anyway, and most of the time that sweets end up in their home, Sam is particular about them, often leaving the majority to Henry anyways.
The salty-sweet taste coats his tongue as the crumble of shortbread dissolves, with all of the comfort of a hug, and for once, his responsibilities feel just a little less daunting.