Work Text:
The sun will rise
And we will try again.
Stay alive, stay alive for me.
It was always so hectic in a war zone.
Alex almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of that thought, which had just flitted across his mind. "Hectic in a warzone". Always hectic, like a preschool is, or a football stadium. Most people wouldn't phrase it like that. Most people would use "hellish" or "complete and terrifying chaos", but Alex preferred hectic. He preferred that juxtaposition of such an innocent word to such a horrific background. It made him smile to twist the language around like that, to squeeze it and manipulate it to be fit his own narrative. His and John's.
John.
There wasn't much Alex could do to change the language around that.
He sat in the cloth fold-up chair, blood that wasn't his drying on his hands and vest, and he stared the dirty wall across from him.
In retrospect, the signs were all there. The casual, "I'd die for that," followed by a hasty laugh and slap on the back to make sure Alex knew John wasn't serious, of course he didn't want to die. The way his eyes darkened when anyone mentioned Senator Laurens, or South Carolina, or anything about his childhood, but, when asked, he would smile hollowly and change the subject. The fearlessness that Washington so admired which turned to self-destructive recklessness. How he'd nearly drink himself to death and bounce back the next day, refusing to discuss how unhealthy his habits were, how quick he was to volunteer for dangerous missions.
Lafayette once told him, after Schuylkill where Alex was presumed KIA, he had walked in on John holding a pocketknife to his wrist, just staring at it.
Ah.
Well.
Alex swallowed thickly, trying to rid his mouth of the dust and grime that seemed to have made a home in there.
There was no way he could rework the language around this one.
They had been moved incredibly close to the front last week, forsaking their cushy (though it didn't seem it at the time) office buildings for dusty, cold tents. The fighting had gotten so close. Twice, they had been on lockdown when a gunman entered the camp. Everyone was settling into their new routine of death as a near constant figure, always looking for homemade bombs being lobbed over walls, bullets from snipers flying from high places.
So, late at night, when bullets started flying over their heads, Alex took it as a fact of life, and groaned slightly as he fell flat on the dirt as fast as possible. Lafayette had done the same. Alex could nearly see him rolling his eyes as he did so.
But what Alex didn't expect was for John to stand up straighter.
Then drop his Kevlar vest, which he had been carrying his arms.
Then run straight at the source of the bullets, rather than hit the ground.
"You want of a piece of me, you sonuvabitch?" He screamed hoarsely. Alex had grabbed his ankles futilely, frantically whispering for him to get down. John had shaken him off, beating his chest wildly.
"Come at me, motherfucker! If I'm going down, you're going down with me."
Well, he was right on one count. There was a rapid pop-pop-pop, a strangled gasp, and John hit the ground a few seconds too late.
Alex couldn't remember feeling any emotions when this happened. He could only remember the sheer adrenaline that rushed through his veins. He crawled over to John, and stared helplessly at the three holes in his blouse. In his chest, Alex corrected himself. Three holes in John's chest. John had fixed him with such a blank stare. Alex could only think of one thing from his first aid training. Pressure. Damn right he was under pressure. He had pressed into those holes as hard as he could, barely hearing Lafayette radio for help in the background, only watching as blood gushed through his fingers and wondering if this was it.
"Alex?"
Washington had come into the room. He had a weary look on his face. Alex wondered if he was simply just noticing all those lines by his eyes, or if they were new.
"He's in post-op. Asking for you."
Alex nodded mutely and got up from his chair. Washington led him past a few curtains, a door, three exhausted looking nurses, and into a sectioned off room.
"He's through here, son."
Alex couldn't muster the energy to bite back with his usual retort, so he just nodded and pushed through the curtain Washington was pointing at.
John lay on a bed.
He didn't look dead. But he didn't quite look alive, either. An oxygen mask was strapped to his swollen, pale face. Tubes protuded from both arms. His chest was bare, but wrapped in gauze with small shadows of blood staining them. He looked up as Alex entered, his eyes only half open.
Alex had an odd sense of deja-vu as he walked towards the bed.
"We, uh, seem to have issues staying out of hospitals, you and I. Y'notice?" Alex said quietly.
John huffed a small laugh, a tear tracking his cheek as he did so. Alex thumbed it away, willing to any god that existed that his eyes wouldn't start doing the same.
"I'm.....sorry..." John said, struggling to get the words out.
"Shh, shh, don't talk. It'll hurt more. Save your strength." Alex said. He ran his fingers through John's sweaty hair. He missed the boyish curls John had in college.
"Also, don't be sorry. Don't let it happen again." Alex said. "I don't know what happened out there, what made you think that was a good idea, but I do know that was the most terrifying hour of my life, John. I never want to feel that way again. I never want you to feel that way again. Ever."
The tears were running pretty steadily down John's face, no doubt aided by the cocktail of drugs in his system, and, judging by the sudden blurred quality of his vision, Alex was crying too.
"I've been where you are before. You know that. I know that I can't ask you to be okay just like that. I know," Alex's voice cracked. "I know. So, just. Stay alive for me until tomorrow. That's all I want. Nothing else but to see you tomorrow. Okay? Truce?"
John nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Okay. Truce."
"Truce" John mouthed under the mask.