Author's Note: Hey guys! So this is something I wrote a while ago, based on a writing exercise. If a heart wasn't just a metaphorical thing you give to someone, but real and physical, what would Henry Levison's look like? And where would he keep it? 

I have one of these for Sam as well, but I can't quite finish it without crying. :') 

***

 He'd been sick for days. Not that he'd tell her, of course, but she knew it anyway; it was evident in the sweat stains on his pillow, the untouched Oreos in the cabinet. He lived on a steady diet of tobacco and long showers when he was ill. "Just one good puke," she could hear him through the bathroom door, pleading with himself. "C'mon. Just get it out of your system and it'll be fine."

She'd learned not to press the issue. He was fine. Fine. Fine fine fine. Didn't need a mother. Didn't need her. She still wrapped him in blankets when he slept and kept a bottle of Tylenol within arm's reach. Superman played on repeat.

One evening she came home to find him draped over the back of the sectional, eyes dull, hands shaking. "Don't mean to alarm you, Ada, but I think I'm dying."

She'd laughed, surprised, but there was nothing funny in his face. He'd always been a little anemic—his mind and body frequently fought over what he was capable of—but he looked lifeless. Like a corpse. "Do you think you can see a doctor? We could take you to the ER."

He flapped a hand in her direction. "No. This has been a long time coming."

"Henry Levison, stop this." She brushed a handful of wet curls from his face. "You're going to usurp Teddy as drama queen."

His eyes rolled up as he gave her a ghost of a smile. "'Bout time somebody gave him some competition—"

Then he lurched over the side of the couch, cheeks full of vomit. He'd managed to catch most of it in his hand but some still pooled on the floor. Black ichor, thick, viscous like oil. Ada could see her reflection in it.

She wanted to be scared by it. A small voice in the back of her mind demanded it. But he shivered so hard it bordered on convulsions, eyes panicked and confused, and she couldn't. She stroked the top of his head sympathetically. "It's okay. Let it go. I can mop it up."

He nodded. It oozed from his mouth in a congealed ribbon. Some of it lapped at her shoes, but she didn't care.

"Sorry," he said, wiping at his mouth.

"No—don't be. You're sick."

"You don't know the half of it." A second wave struck him and he doubled over. It was dry heaves this time, gut-wrenching, each retch threatening to send him into unconsciousness. Ada wiped the sweat from his brow. He gagged on something. She stooped to look into his face but he held out a black-smeared hand to stop her.

It was solid, just large enough to take up the whole of his palm as he spit it up. It fluttered in three-fourth measure, each beat sending another cascade of black tar to the floor. Henry stared at it for some time, face unreadable, before offering it up to Ada.

His heart.

"Oh." She held it carefully.

"Sorry," he said again.

She shook her head. It was surprisingly heavy in her hand. With a thumb, she wiped away some clotted black mess to examine its surface, getting only a brief glimpse of cherry wood before it was coated again.

"More trouble than it's worth," he murmured. "Should've thrown it away when I got the chance."

"Aren't you worried about ... this?" Ada held it up to stare at the sticky web of black strings stretching from Henry's heart.

He gave a bark of bitter laughter. "It just spent the better part of a week trying to claw its way out of me. Think I got bigger things to worry about."

As Ada walked it to to the hall closet to get the mop, leaving a trail of black droplets, she realized there was no practical place to keep the thing. Though she'd never admit it, she wondered if Henry was right.