Work Text:
"Laf says it's gonna storm tonight," John hopped onto Alex's desk. "Goddamn. Of course it would rain the one night the General isn't here, and we're free."
"Yeah," Alex agreed distractedly. He finished the letter he was typing with a "respectfully, General George Washington", looked up at John, and realized he hadn't heard a thing John had said. "Sorry, what?"
John rolled his eyes.
"How you ever got promoted is beyond me, Colonel Hamilton.”
“ ‘Cus I got brains up in here, “ Alex tapped on his forehead. “Unlike your empty skull, Colonel Laurens. Maybe we could use it as a punch bowl or something.”
John made an obscene gesture with his hand, and Alex a sound of mock indignation.
“Anyways, what I was saying before was that it’s gonna storm tonight.”
“Oh?” Alex said casually. It sounded slightly forced.
“Yeah. Bad, they think. Lafayette said a low hurricane level, but you can never trust those French, they’re total drama- Alex?”
At the word “Hurricane”, Alex, who had been reaching for his canteen, knocked it over. It flew from his desk and onto the ground. John kneeled down and picked it up.
“You okay, buddy?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just, uh, tired. Can I have that, please?” Alex reached for the canteen, but John withheld it.
“Alex, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting all jumpy and shit.”
“When was the last time I was 'all jumpy and shit'?” Alex said crankily.
“Last time it-oh.” John put the canteen down. “Last time it stormed.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. Alex stared at him.
“What are you doing?” Alex asked.
“I’m staying here.” He said.
“What? Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s going to storm.” John said simply. “You don’t like storms.”
“I’m fine.”
John quirked an eyebrow.
“Really!” Alex insisted. “Last time was a fluke, anyhow. I haven’t gotten that freaked before.”
“Uh huh. This coming from a man who said that meningitis “wasn’t all that bad.”
“Seriously? It wasn’t. Anyways, what were you and the French Nightmare up to?”
“Well, we were gonna go tan on the roof and get drunk off our asses. Laf has a contact in the Quartermaster’s office. He got some Guinness.”
“You mean some shitty beer that taste like water mixed with vinegar.”
“Yeah. But it’s got an alcohol content, so,” John shrugged, grinning. “beggars can’t be choosers. But that got cancelled, cus-”
“It’s gonna storm.” Alex finished.
“Yeah. So we were gonna go get drunk off our asses in the Mess instead.”
“Sounds like you got big plans.” Alex said.
“Oh yeah. They’d be writing about it for months.”
“I don’t want to keep you.”
“You’re not.” John said. “I don’t want to go, anyway.”
Alex shut his laptop and looked at the freckled man sitting across from him.
“Go. I’m fine, really. Go. I’m going to bed soon anyways.”
“No, Alex! Storms are-”
“Go.” Alex said sharply. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m..” He trailed off.
John stared at him for a few moments, then got up and put on his uniform blouse.
“Fine. I’ll see you later. Try and go to bed at a decent hour.”
That was the apex of John-being-irritated. He turned on his heel and all but marched out of the room, leaving Alex alone with a bunch of empty desks and a stack of unfinished work.
“-yeah, he was being really snippy to me. You know how he got when Washington put him in charge of the entire Eastern campaign for a few days?”
“Oui. It was the worst three days of my life. And I was shot in the leg once.”
“Well, that’s how he got.”
“Aw, you and Hammy having marital problems, Laurens?” Mulligan teased from across the table. “Don’t worry, Alex will never leave you. Too in looo-oove.” He sang the last word, then downed an entire mug of beer.
John rolled his eyes.
“I don’t need counseling from you, Hercules .”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Who put the glad in gladiator? HER-CUL-ES! Who -”
“Point taken. Just stop singing.” Mulligan groaned.
“Anyways.” John turned back to Lafayette. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. When I mentioned going out tonight this morning, he was all for it.”
“Well, what time is it now?”
“12:30. He’s probably still working.”
“Nah, he’s sleeping.” Lafayette said.
“Bet you five bucks he’s working.”
“Deal.” Lafayette held out a hand, then revoked it when John spat in his own palm and held it out.
“What?” John said.
“What was that? That’s disgusting.”
“No, that’s American.”
“You people…” Lafayette shook his head. “Come on, let’s go check on the petit lion .”
The downpour, of course, had started as they were walking from the mess building to the command building. Thunder rumbled in the distance as they shook water off their covers.
“He’s asleep, Laurens. This is ridiculous.”
"Ah, my French friend." John waggled his eyebrows. "You have yet to experience the terror that is Alexander Hamilton on a work high."
"Ah, my American ami. You're drunk."
"Ya got me there, du Motier."
The two walked through the empty back rooms and pushed open the door to the Aide office. One small lamp was illuminated in the back, and a young man sat ramrod straight, staring at his laptop.
"You owe me five bucks." John announced loudly. "I bet him you'd still be working, Alex."
Alex didn't respond.
"Oh, ya missed it. Laf tried to hit on that girl on Mercer's staff. It was truly entertaining."
"Hey! John was singing Disney!" Laf protested.
Still no response. Alex looked straight at the screen.
"Alex?" He said cautiously, moving closer to his friend. John finally noticed that Alex wasn't typing. His hands gripped the edge of the table with white-knuckled intensity. Thunder cracked outside, and he jerked back as if he had been shot.
"Alex!" John dropped his cover and jacket on the ground and rushed forward, crouching next to him, searching him for any sign of a wound or illness. Alex gave no indication that he noticed John, but squeezed his eyes shut.
"What's going on, John? Should I call for a medic?" Laf asked.
"No, don't. It'd only embarrass him."
"But-"
"It's a panic attack." John said shortly. As if of its own accord, Alex's hand moved to his head, rubbing a long white scar that wrapped around his skull. His breath came in short gasps.
"Alex, Alex, look at me." John said. He grabbed Alex's wrists, feeling the erratic pulse beat beneath his thumbs.
"Alex, you're here. In the command building. It's 2016. You're not home."
Thunder boomed again. Alex jumped again. Tears ran down his cheeks, his chin pushed into his chest.
"You idiot.” John murmured. “You promised me you were fine.” He gently pushed Alex’s chin up, and looked straight into the bloodshot eyes that refused to meet his.
"Alex..." John entreated softy.
Finally, he met John's eyes.
"Good. Now, breathe."
John took overly deep breathes, trying to help Alex match it.
Just as it seemed that his pulse was slowing and his breaths deepening, the window beside Alex's desk turned white with lightning. Wind shook the building. Alex's eyes grew wide and he slid from his chair onto the ground, head to the wood.
"Alex?!" John grabbed his shoulders and shook them violently. When there was no response, he turned Alex over. His eyes were rolled back into his head, his entire body slack.
"He's unconscious." Lafayette said. He kneeled next to Alex.
"Okay." John pulled Alex's head into his lap, still gripping his hands. He took a deep breath. Alex’s health was more important than his dignity. "Okay. I think we need a Medic." Lafayette nodded solemnly and pulled his receiver out of his pocket.
"This is Colonel du Motier, requesting Medic-1 to Command building, Washington Aide Offices, over."
John couldn't make out the response, but Lafayette thanked them and put it away.
"On their way." He said.
"Can you grab his blouse, please? He's shivering." John asked quietly. Lafayette retrieved the jacket and draped as well as he could over Alex's torso.
John rubbed circles into Alex's wrists, willing him to wake up, to open his eyes. This had happened before, but it had never gotten this bad.
"So," Lafayette said awkwardly. "Is this a common occurrence?"
"No. I mean, thunderstorms aren't exactly frequent in northern Syria."
"You know what I mean, John."
"Right, the panic thing."
Like a whip above their heads, thunder cracked. Alex seemed to respond unconsciously, crying out in pain. John muttered soothing nonsense as nausea swelled in his stomach.
"When Alex was younger- wait, you know he grew up in the Caribbean, yeah?"
"Nevis, he told me. That’s how he knows français.”
"Yeah. With his mother and older brother."
"I didn't know he had an older brother."
"Neither did I until last year. Anyway, when he was young, he and his mother get sick. Really sick. His mother passes away, Alex barely recovers. He and his brother get placed in the system and end up at some fuckwad of a cousin's house. He commits suicide a few months later. A few years later, when they're living with their uncle, this terrible hurricane hits their town. Like, wipes it out. Alex's older brother drowned. Alex almost died. He was hit by a piece of metal. That's where he got the scar." John traced the thin scar around Alex's skull. "It took him months to recover. Ever since, he's hated thunder storms."
Lafayette sat slack jawed.
"I-I think I would too." He said, after a long silence. John laughed derisively.
"I think anyone would."
The door to the office flew open, and Ed Stevens ran in, soaking wet, pulling on gloves.
"What happened?" He said urgently, kneeling on the other side of Alex and looking for a pulse.
"He, uh, had a panic attack. It got really bad, and he fainted." John said haltingly. Alex would hate it if he knew what John was doing.
"Did anything set it off?" Stevens asked.
"The storm."
As if on cue, thunder rolled.
"Huh. How long has he been out?"
"Maybe five minutes."
"Okay." Stevens sat back. "We really can't do anything. Let's get him to his bunk and get him warm. Someone needs to be with him at all times until he wakes up, alright?"
"Of course."
1:30 AM, the small clock next to Alex's bed displayed. The owner of the bed was currently swathed in blankets, and being watched hawkishly by two men sitting on the bed opposite.
"God, this makes me so anxious." John said. He had picked at his fingers until they bled, paced the room until Lafayette yelled at him.
"He'll be fine, mon ami. Give him time."
Lafayette left around two. John had migrated first to the ground, then to a chair next to Alex’s bed, then onto the bed, sitting with his back to the footrest and staring at his friend’s unconscious figure. Stevens had said to call if Alex wasn’t awake by four.
When Alex finally stirred, moonlight was streaming through the window; the storm was long gone. He opened his eyes blearily, and looked, confused, at John, who was sitting still with his knees drawn to his chest across from him.
'Hey!" John said softly, scrambling up. "How are you feeling?"
"Shitty." Alex said. He sat up, wincing slightly. "Full offense, Laurens- why're you in my bed when there's a perfectly good one not three feet away?"
"You don't remember." John stated. Was this a weird effect of panic attacks? Was something wrong?
"Remember what? Oh god, did I kiss you? It was the alcohol, I swear-"
"Alex, you didn't drink last night."
"Then why-"
"There was a storm. A bad storm."
"...Oh. Oh, shit ." Alex stared defeatedly at his roommate. "Did I...?"
"You did." John confirmed. "It was bad, Alex. You fainted."
"I fainted?"
"And fell down. Laf thought you were dying."
"Laf saw?" Alex said weakly.
“Yeah, you idiot. You said, and I quote, “I’m fine, John. Why don’t you go and get drunk with Lafayette and come back a few hours later to see me in the midst of a serious panic attack? I’m fine, I promise!”
“Did I say that, really?”
“Verbatim.”
“Amazing how well I can predict the future.”
John glared at him.
“This isn’t funny. You need to be honest with me, Alexander.”
“Ohh, full name. This is serious.”
“Stop. You passed out in front of me last night. This is not funny.” John said. He had grabbed Alex's arm tightly and stared at him with a mix of anger and concern.
Alex looked down.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. From now on I’ll tell you when I’m going to pass out.”
“Or, y’know, don’t pass out.”
“Oh, was that an option?”
“Alex.” John said.
“Yes, dear?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Yes, dear.”