Work Text:
He says his name is Henry.
The others call him Uncle, but she’s not like the others. He tells Eleven all sorts of secrets. About her mom, about Papa, about the truth of this place. There’s a whole world out there, Henry says. With grass and sun and things called flowers. It’s hard to believe him sometimes.
Henry brings her things, every night. Stolen things. Precious things. She keeps a box of them, hidden under her bed during the day. One night, he brings a bird. It doesn’t have eyes because the sun is too bright. The sun sounds kind of scary, but Henry says it’s okay if you wear glasses.
On other days he brings flowers. Daisys. Tulips. Blue hydragons. Henry laughs in her face when she asks for more hydragons, says it’s called hy-dranges, something like that. She cries. The next night he brings her a rose.
Roses are okay, but she thinks her mom would like the hydragons. Her mom is still alive somewhere, waiting for her to come home, cooking dinner every night just in case Eleven finds her. That’s what Henry says. All Eleven has to do is work very hard, so she can become strong—stronger than Two and Six, even—and they can escape. Together.
Henry touches her sometimes.
It’s always late at night, after he brings her the gifts. She has to be quiet when he does it, because otherwise Papa will get upset. Papa will be jealous. And Papa might hurt her if he’s jealous.
The thing about secrets is that it doesn’t feel good to be on the outside of them. To be the one left out when the group is whispering to each other and glancing back at you like you’re a hydragon they stepped on with their shoes. But to be the one who has the secret? That feels good. That feels like… like wearing a white frilly dress and twirling in Henry’s arms and learning to laugh with her eyes and not her mouth. Like the way his mouth feels on hers when he says goodnight. She could keep a secret forever, like that.
She doesn’t really like the other ways Henry touches her. It makes her feel squirmy and wet, even when he puts the flowers all around them on the bed. But he calls her a good girl, says it’s okay, honey and sometimes even whispers Jane in her ear after he’s done, and Eleven likes that. Having a name.
“Why can’t I do it?” Eleven whispers one night, curled up in bed, her fists bunched up underneath her chin. “What is wrong with me?”
Henry’s face softens. It’s a special look he has just for her. He kneels beside the bed and rests his hand over both her wrists. “Nothing is wrong with you.” Henry starts to brush his thumb over her knuckles. He’s so warm. The way he looks at her is so intense. She wishes he had brought her a dress instead of having to wear these scratchy paper gowns.
“How do we escape with no powers?”
“You’ll get it,” Henry says. He’s always so sure. “I know how hard this is, Eleven. I used to be just like you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But I learned. I learned so well it made Papa scared. He doesn’t want anyone more powerful than him. So he took it away.” He takes Eleven’s hand and slides it across smooth skin, around the back of his neck. She can feel the chip there, watching him, imprisoning him. “It’s good that they don’t understand you yet. It can be a secret when you develop your powers. Our secret.”
“Secret,” Eleven whispers. Henry smiles at her, and suddenly she misses how soft his lips are. He moves her hand on his neck, just a little, until she can feel his heart beating. It’s soft, too.
“This is where we keep a secret.” Henry says it so quietly that his lips don’t move at all. “Your heart protects it, and only safe people can get in.”
Eleven moves her other hand to Henry’s chest. “Safe?”
“Yes, honey.”
The room is silent, and usually she hates it when it’s quiet because everything else inside her is so loud. But this is nice. It feels like a hundred roses.
Henry closes his eyes. Eleven traces his eyelash and thinks about secrets.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“What is honey?”
Henry opens his eyes again, and he licks his lips before he whispers, “Honey means I like you best.”
“Oh.”
She feels like she might cry, but she doesn’t. Eleven will be strong, for both of them.
She does learn. It takes a very long time. She has a whole garden of flowers under her bed before she manages to move someone from their circle during lessons. But it’s enough. It has to be enough.
The flowers are dead, but Henry keeps bringing her more every day, and his smiles get bigger and bigger. He teaches her to hide what she’s learning. Only showing a fraction of what she can do, letting them think she’s weak. Useless. But she won’t be anymore.
She won’t be anymore.
As her abilities grow, so does her discomfort. She dreams of awful things. Her mother, screaming for her and being dragged away. Henry, convulsing on the ground and crying in pain. Blood. Tears. Children with no eyes.
But Henry never stays the night, even after spending hours touching her. He says the dreams aren’t real. That they want to know the secrets of Eleven’s heart, too. But she has to keep the secrets safe.
So she does.
This morning feels different from the others, but she can’t really figure out why. Nightmares have kept her up the entire night, so she sleeps past morning free time, walking into the rainbow room and rubbing at her eyes.
“Well, well. Look who decided to join us today.” Eleven looks back at Henry and hides a smile. For all their secrets, he is not good at hiding the affection in his voice. “Someone’s a sleepyhead this morning.”
Eleven sighs. “Nightmare.”
Henry’s face twists in sympathy. He holds out his arms, and Eleven can’t resist stepping into them, even though she can feel everyone’s eyes on her like electricity. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay,” she whispers. She’s not sure he should be touching her like this, in front of everyone.
Henry lets go of her and takes her hand instead. He sinks to his knees, and his other hand slips inside his pocket. He lowers his voice so much that Eleven has to strain to hear. “Today’s a very special day, Eleven. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t have to keep secrets anymore.”
“But—I-I don’t think I’m ready yet—”
“It’s okay,” Henry says. “Just trust me. Can you do that?”
Eleven takes a big, deep breath, just like Henry taught her to do whenever she hurts. She thinks about wearing his prettiest dress and putting a hydragon in her hair and twirling in the sun while Henry holds her hand.
“Okay.”
“Good girl.” He slips something from his long sleeve into the palm of her hand, and she hides it instinctually, crossing her arms over her chest like nothing had happened at all. It’s small and thin and rectangular. “I want you to meet me downstairs after your lesson today. Don’t speak to anyone about this, or about anything, okay?”
Her heart is pounding in her chest, all its secrets threatening to spill out at once. Would it be like the sun? Would she wither and die like the flowers and the birds?
“After,” Eleven manages to say, past her dry throat, “will I still be honey?”
Henry smiles. “More than ever.”