Work Text:
George wakes with a start, gasping. The room is dark and unfamiliar, and George seizes with panic and confusion. He sits up slowly and allows himself to suck in a few deep breaths. Then he hears someone vomiting in the bathroom and a bolt of anxiety hits him, shooting from his head to his toes. Martha must be sick from chemo again, he thinks dully. He needs to help her.
He tries to move, but his eyes are adjusting to the darkness and he suddenly realizes that this isn’t his home in Richmond or Mt. Vernon. He’s in a hotel room in Florida. George groans and rubs his face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare and the foggy confusion.
Then the vomiting starts again, and George’s stomach drops. Alex must be sick.
“Fuck,” George mutters to himself as he turns on the lamp beside him. “Alex, sweetheart?” he calls out as he gets out of bed. He has to steady himself against the bedside table when he gets lightheaded, his vision going fuzzy and his ears ringing. He shakes his head and approaches the bathroom slowly. “Hey, Alex, are you okay? Can I come in?” George raps his knuckles on the door and shifts his weight nervously. Alex just moans in response, and George pushes the door open.
Alex is slumped over in front of the toilet with his head resting on the seat. His hair is limp with sweat, sticking to his face and frizzy at the back of his neck. George immediately goes and wets a couple of washcloths, one with cold water and one with hot. He kneels next to Alex and carefully cleans his mouth and chin off with the warm washcloth; then he wipes Alex’s sweaty forehead with the cold washcloth and gathers his hair up so he can drape it over the back of his neck.
“Thanks,” he slurs tiredly. George just nods, focused on the task at hand.
“Do you have a hairband? I need to put your hair up.”
Alex shakily pulls a black band off of his wrist and hands it to George. George does his best to tie Alex’s hair up, careful not to tug on any of the strands or make it too tight. Once he’s finished, he fills up a glass of water.
“Drink some of this,” he says as he sits back down. Alex nods and takes a few small, meek sips of the water.
“Did I wake you up?” he asks. George shakes his head and helps Alex set the water down.
“No. How long have you been up? You should’ve gotten me up too.”
“About an hour.” Alex shivers and groans softly. “I didn’t want to bother you. You haven’t been sleeping well.”
“I don’t care,” George says automatically. “You’re sick.”
George is starting to sweat, the room suddenly feeling too hot. He swallows against the wave of anxiety, trying to push it down. His father was sick. Lawrence was sick. Martha was sick. Alex is sick.
George squeezes his fists and takes a small breath. Alex probably has the stomach bug. He’s going to be fine. But a little voice in the back of his mind is listing off a million diseases, a million things that could be wrong. Appendicitis? Pancreatitis? Something could be wrong with his kidney? Or his intestines? He could be dying.
Alex is talking to him, telling him something, and George tries to listen, but the room is fuzzy and gray and everything sounds very far away. George’s heart is thudding loudly in his chest, and his chest hurts with each breath he takes.
Anxiety attack, George’s brain helpfully supplies. He manages to suck in a deep breath, followed by several more.
“—feel like fucking garbage. Damn steak. I swear to God I’m never eating steak again,” Alex is in the middle of saying. George nods dumbly, not completely registering what he’s saying. The room is still suffocatingly hot and the acrid smell of vomit is making George nauseous.
“I’ll be right back,” George says, cutting Alex off. Alex furrows his brows.
“Are you okay? You look sick, George.” Alex sighs exasperatedly. “Don’t tell me you ate the steak too. You can’t start puking all over the place. You’ve got a debate tomorrow.”
“I’m fine,” George hears himself saying. “Just need some air. I’ll go downstairs and see if I can find you some Gatorade.”
George gets up and walks back into the bedroom. He pulls his shoes on and goes to the door. Tallmadge and Tilghman are flanking it, and they give him concerned looks that quickly melt into bewilderment.
“Sir?” Tallmadge asks, his eyes wide. “What’re you doing?”
“Alex is sick to his stomach. I need to get him some Gatorade,” George says. It’s like he’s in a dream, floating around not completely aware of what he’s doing. Everything is still so damn far away and distorted.
“Sir, are you alright? I really don’t think going downstairs is such a good idea,” Tilghman says gently.
“Why?” George asks, furrowing his eyebrows.
“Sir, you’re only wearing your boxers and they don’t leave much to the imagination,” Tallmadge says slowly, glancing away. George looks down at himself and frowns. Sure enough, he’s in only a pair of tight, blue boxer briefs and his sneakers.
“Oh.”
Tallmadge frowns and pats George’s shoulder. “How about you get changed and I’ll go with you downstairs, Sir.”
George nods and slips back into the room. He hastily pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t shirt. Alex is vomiting again, and it makes George’s skin crawl. What if something’s wrong with his brain? Aneurysm? Tumor? Alex mentioned steak, but what does he know? It could be something serious that they disregard. Then Alex will get sick and die just like Lawrence and Martha.
He goes back outside and Tallmadge is waiting for him.
George starts to walk toward the elevators, barely realizing that he’s walking. It’s like he can’t feel his feet touching the floor. Tallmadge puts his hand on George’s shoulder and it grounds him a little. He blinks and everything feels a little bit clearer.
“I’m sure Alex is fine, Governor,” Tallmadge says softly. “I’m sure it was something he ate.”
“You don’t know that,” George says sharply.
“Governor—”
“Don’t,” George snaps, his voice loud. He takes a breath and stops in front of the elevators, agitatedly pushing the button. “Don’t tell me that he’s fine,” George starts again. “With my brother it started as just a cough. With my wife it was just some headaches. Now they’re dead.” George blinks and clenches his fists. “Please don’t.” The elevator comes and they get in. The silence is heavy and thick, and it only adds to George’s anxiety.
The little store in the hotel lobby is thankfully open, and George buys several bottles of Gatorade and a small box of plain crackers. His hands shake noticeably when he gives the cashier his money.
They go back to George’s room in silence. Tallmadge quickly falls back into his place by the door.
“Thank you Tallmadge,” George says softly. Tallmadge nods, and George slips back inside. Alex is vomiting again. George reminds himself to breathe. “Hey sweetheart. I got you some Gatorade and crackers.” George sets the stuff down on the bedside table and goes into the bathroom. He kneels next to Alex and rubs his back.
“I don’t think—” Alex hunches over and heaves, and George politely turns his head. Alex takes a deep breath, and George reaches over to flush the toilet for him. “I don’t think,” he starts again, “that I could keep anything down right now.”
“That’s okay,” George murmurs. George goes back to rubbing Alex’s back, periodically wiping his face off with a washcloth.
Soon Alex is reduced to painful dry heaves that George tries to help him through, rubbing his back and gently encouraging him.
Alex collapses back against George’s chest and shivers, whimpering softly. George wraps his arms around Alex and kisses the top of his head.
“Can you please just kill me now?” Alex mutters. “I think I’m dying.”
George’s whole body tenses, and he feels the familiar swell of panic low in his belly. Alex grunts and squirms in George’s arms. “George, you’re hurting me. Stop squeezing me before you make me hurl again.”
George somehow gets his arms to relax, and he reminds himself that Alex was joking. He’s fine. George takes a breath and tries to slow his heart from its jack rabbit pace. Alex reaches over and grabs George’s hand, squeezing it gently. “George, honey, what’s wrong.”
“Nothing,” George says, squeezing Alex’s hand back. “You’re sick, don’t worry about me.”
“I can hear how fast your heart’s beating, and I’m pretty sure you stopped breathing there for a second.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, actually you’re just a horrible liar.”
Alex scoots out of George’s arms and sits across from him, crossing his legs.
“Alex,” George sighs, crossing his legs to mirror Alex’s position and slumping forward, resting his head in his hands. “You’re sick. Please just hush and let me hold you. Or, you know, you should try to shower while your stomach isn’t so upset.”
“I’m not doing anything until you talk to me.”
George looks up and sees Alex glaring at him, challenging George with his eyes. George sighs.
“How about a compromise?”
Alex opens his mouth to respond, but George holds his hand up and gives Alex a pointed look. “We’ll take a bath together so you can get clean, and I’ll talk to you”
“A bath?” Alex quirks an eyebrow at George.
“You’ll be too tired to try to stand in the shower and the steam will make you dizzy. A bath is just easier, and we can bring the little trashcan over there. Then, if you need to get sick I can just grab it for you and it won’t get everywhere.”
George climbs to his feet and starts trying to figure out how the knobs work, cursing under his breath.
“You’re good at taking care of people,” Alex says. The comment is innocent enough, but George recognizes the connotations behind it.
“I guess so,” George says, trying to keep his tone blasé. He keeps fiddling with the knobs, growing frustrated when he can’t get the water to turn hot. “Dammit! This shower is so fucking complicated,” he snaps. “I just need to get the water hot.”
“It’s okay,” Alex says soothingly. “Let me help.” Alex slowly stands up and walks over, carefully bending down to look at the knobs.
“You’re sick. I can do this. You shouldn’t be up walking around.”
“It’s fine. I’m not gonna vomit into the bathtub.” Alex turns the knobs some and hums in satisfaction after a few seconds. “Okay, got it.”
“Thanks,” George mutters. He gets undressed and then gently helps Alex out of his sweaty shirt. “You okay?” George asks as he grabs the trashcan and sets it next to the tub. Alex nods and manages to conjure up a smile, though it looks more like a grimace on his drawn, pale face.
George helps Alex into the tub and then settles in behind him. He pulls Alex’s hair out of its ponytail and starts to wash his hair, carefully dumping handfuls of water on his head.
Alex relaxes against George while he washes his hair. Once George rinses out the shampoo and lathers in the condition, Alex clears his throat.
“You ready to talk now?”
No.
“Sure.”
George starts to wash Alex’s body with a washcloth, scrubbing him clean.
“What’s going on with you? You’re obviously not okay. Just because I’m not feeling well doesn’t mean that your problems aren’t valid.”
“Just a little anxious,” George says lightly. He starts to wash Alex’s body a second time, wanting to get all of the sweat and grime off.
“Why?”
George grinds his teeth and shifts his weight in the tub, which sloshes the water and creates a series of waves that lap at the sides of the tub.
“I don’t know—”
“Yes you do.”
“I don’t handle sickness well, okay?” George says quickly. He immediately starts to rinse the conditioner out of Alex’s hair, making it hard for him to respond. As soon as George is finished, Alex leans back against George’s chest and kisses his jaw.
“I think you’re great at taking care of people. You didn’t even act grossed out watching me puke.”
“No, it’s not—It scares the shit out of me, Alex. You could be dying and we wouldn’t even know it.” George’s breath hitches and he blows out a frustrated huff of air. “Lawrence and Martha were sick and then they died. Lawrence just had a bit of a cough. Martha got migraines sometimes. Then all of that innocent little stuff turned into diseases that destroyed the people that I loved most in this world. I can’t survive that happening again. I love you so much that it takes my breath away sometimes, and the thought of you possibly getting sick and dying brings me actual physical pain.”
Alex is silent. Instead of replying, he leans forward and opens the drain. The water starts to swirl away, and George immediately stands so he can help Alex out of the tub. George gets two towels and hands one to Alex.
Alex still hasn’t said anything, and it’s starting to make George more anxious than he already is. He follows Alex into the bedroom and gets dressed.
“Do you want to go back into the bathroom? Or would you rather me bring the trashcan in here so you can lay in the bed.”
“I’m starting to feel really nauseous again, so I’m gonna sit in the bathroom.”
“Okay. Do you want me to sit with you?”
“If you want to. It’s almost 5 in the morning. You should try to sleep again. You’ve been up since like almost 3 now.”
“It’s fine,” George says quickly. “I want to be there to help you.”
Alex shrugs and George follows him back into the bathroom.
Within a few minutes, Alex is vomiting again, so George reassumes his position and rubs Alex’s back. When he’s finished, George flushes the toilet for him and holds him close.
“I can’t promise you that I’m not going to die,” Alex says softly. George swallows and nods, anxiety burning in his stomach.
“I know.”
“But I do feel fairly confident that I’m not going to die today. It’s just food poisoning, George. I promise.” George bristles and shakes his head.
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s either food poisoning or the stomach bug. Either way, I’m just gonna puke a bunch and feel like shit for a day or two. Then I’ll be fine.”
“How do you know it’s not something more serious? You could have appendicitis or something could be wrong with your brain or your intestines could be messed up. You might have pancreatitis or, God, you could have cancer. You could be dying right fucking now and we wouldn’t even know it—”
“George,” Alex says sternly, cutting him off. “Breathe, baby.” George nods and takes a deep breath. He clears his throat and squeezes Alex in a gentle hug.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I had a friend in college who was a bit of a hypochondriac. Then he became a doctor.” Alex chuckles and shrugs. “If I start to feel worse, or if I think something might be wrong, then I’ll tell you so we can call a doctor, alright? Sound good?”
George nods and kisses Alex’s head, relishing in how warm and solid he feels in George’s arms.
Alex kisses George’s jaw and nuzzles his neck. “Honestly, the only truly bad thing to come out of this is the fact that I won’t be able to kiss you after you kick Jefferson’s ass in the debate tomorrow.”
“You know no one actually wins debates right.”
Alex elbows George and rolls his eyes. “Oh fuck off. Everyone knows that there are winners and losers. I honestly don’t see why we don’t start keeping score and stuff. I think that would make them more fun.”
“That would be horrifying.”
“No, that would be dope as hell.”
“Have you been in a presidential debate? They’re already nerve wracking without actual judges scoring you.”
“Yeah but you keep winning so does it even matter?”
“You’re gonna jinx me,” George says playfully.
“It’s not my fault that you’re so much better than Jefferson. I mean, George, he sucks. No one likes him!”
“James Madison does.”
“No one likes him either!”
George laughs and shakes his head. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”
“Do you think they fuck in Jefferson’s office or Madison’s office?”
“Alex,” George laughs. “Jesus, I doubt they’re sleeping together.”
“They totally are, are you kidding me? They’re your classic closet gay Republicans. I’m sure half of Congress has screwed each other.”
“I don’t want to think about that.”
“I know. Thinking about so many old white men fucking is kind of distressing.”
“So many old white men,” George mutters.
“Okay, fuck, marry, kill: George Clinton, Henry Knox, John Adams. Go.”
George groans dramatically and laughs. “Oh my God, no. Pretty soon I’m gonna be the one puking.”
“George,” Alex whines. “Please? I’m sick and need some comfort.”
“And me picking between three gross white dudes will provide you comfort?”
“Duh.”
George rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fine. Fuck George Clinton, marry Henry Knox, kill John Adams.”
Alex gasps and puts his hand over his heart. “You would kill your own vice president?”
“Well I sure as hell wouldn’t fuck him.”
They both laugh, and Alex grabs his stomach, his laugh tapering off into a groan. “You okay?” George asks, rubbing Alex’s back soothingly.
“Yeah. Just a cramp.”
“I’m sorry sweetheart. Lets go get in the bed for a little while. I’ll bring the trashcan.”
Alex nods and slowly gets to his feet. George follows him into the bedroom and sets the trashcan down on Alex’s bedside table.
Once George lays down, the exhaustion catches up with him and his eyes droop closed. He very gently wraps his arms around Alex’s waist, tugging him close, but keeping his grip loose so Alex can sit up if he needs to.
“Hey George?” Alex says softly. George cracks his eyes open and grunts, already half asleep.
“Yeah?” he whispers, his eyes falling closed again.
“Thanks for taking care of me. I wasn’t lying earlier when I said that you’re good at taking care of people.”
George smiles and gently squeezes Alex in a hug. “I’ll always take care of you.” George kisses and nuzzles Alex’s neck. “I love you sweetheart.”
“I love you too, George.”