Work Text:
Alexander lay sprawled out across the couch in his home, one leg crossed over the other as he stared at the ceiling. He was contemplating something, but the thoughts in his head turned over so slowly that he had difficulty holding onto them. A strange numbness steadily crept up on him. It was stalking him from the shadows, and he was helpless to stop it. There was no fleeing; there was only this state of melancholy and dread.
Get up, Alexander tried to tell himself. He tried to force himself to move his legs off the couch, but they didn't move. He was frozen in place. His eyebrows furrowed and he tried to swing just his left leg off the couch, but once again, his efforts were futile. Had he been in a normal mood, he would've panicked, thinking himself to be paralyzed. Yet now, all he could do was lay back and accept this fate.
Why would he want to get up anyway? Outside his office, all that existed was more responsibility for Alexander to shoulder. There was always someone who couldn't bear the brunt and would toss it aside, leaving someone else to pick up the pieces. More times than not, that ‘someone’ picking up the pieces was no other than Alexander himself, because he'd be damned if his beloved country broke apart due to another’s carelessness.
He cared so much. He cared so much that it made him want to scream at times, if just to get it through the thick skulls of some of his colleagues. The War hadn't marked the end of their battle and the entire world was waiting with bated breath, awaiting the failure of their dalliance with democracy, especially their former mother country, Britain. No doubt she would watch from across the pond, smiling as America fell, but Hamilton would not stand for it.
Failure was not an option. It never was.
So why was he lying here, thinking pointless thoughts and being useless?
Get up, get up, get up.
Alexander decided to start small. Slowly, he wiggled the fingers of his right hand. With that bit of success under his belt, he tried to push himself off the couch again, yet something unusual happened. As if out of nowhere, he could feel something blocking him, physically. He felt the weight of thousands of pounds weighing down on him and fell back, blinking rapidly.
He wasn't okay.
Alexander was drifting. Somewhere, somehow, he was drifting.
Time passed by, hours ticking by with nothing to differentiate them. Dusk turned to dawn faster than he could count to five.
Laying here, he had no idea what was happening at the White House. He had had multiple people attempt to call on him, likely to inform him of the shitstorm his disappearance had caused, but he hadn't opened the door.
No one should see him like this. No one should see him weak.
Whether it had been hours or days before he came, Alexander didn't know, but one moment he was alone, and the next, a flurry of bright magenta greeted his vision and Jefferson was in his face, lips drawn back.
“Where the hell have you been?” The man hissed, eyes narrowing as Alexander slowly leaned back. He could feel the man’s anger, crackling in the air.
Don't hurt me.
“Get out.” Alexander muttered, his head beginning to throb again. These headaches had accompanied him throughout this entire miserable process, and Alexander doubted he would shake them anytime soon.
Jefferson interrupted those thoughts. “We have all been knocking for—God, days! It's been four days! Your fucking nerve!” he ranted, his eye twitching as fury coursed through him, “Leave it to the oh-so-great Alexander Hamilton to leave us high and dry! You already abandoned France; are you going to abandon your own damn country too?”
Alexander slowly breathed in and out. The headache was starting to really bother him. “Get it over with and call me useless.”
That answer made Jefferson physically recoil. His face phased through multiple different emotions ranging from fury to shock, but then evidently landed back on shock. “Useless? Useless? I wouldn't have bothered breaking down your door if you were useless!” he said, no doubt wondering why he needed to say something so obvious.
“I understand your sentiment, but—”
“No, I am not going to hear your excuses! Washington has been worried sick and we both know he can't do this without you! Now get off your ass and come with me!”
Alexander’s eyes slowly closed. “I'm tired, Jefferson.”
“You're what?” Jefferson said in an incredulous voice. That was the final straw; in an instant, Alexander’s eyes were wide open and he launched into a tirade.
“I'm tired!” he yelled, “I've been so damn tired for years and I never get a break! I'm always left behind to pick up the pieces everyone else discards, but it's hopeless, don't you see? So get out of my house and let me rest, Jefferson!”
After his outburst, Alexander fell back down on the couch. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising in ragged breaths. Beside him, Jefferson was left reeling.
“I'm sorry, I was not aware,” he whispered.
Alexander chuckled bitterly. “Of course you didn't know. It was never your fault.”
Jefferson rolled his shoulders. “You say the situation is hopeless." he murmured, gaze fixated on Alexander's face. Alexander turned his head away, only nodding in response.
Jefferson suddenly kneeled beside the couch. "I believe you to be wrong," he began, a softer, kinder note entering his voice, "There is hope for this country, Mr. Hamilton. Take a look outside; we have already come so far. We have defeated the strongest military in the world, and we have created the greatest nation to ever grace this Earth. We have come so far at the cost of great men, but that is what makes our nation so beautiful; this experiment has never rested on one man's shoulders, and certainly not yours."
Alexander shook his head. “When you came, you said Washington couldn't do it without me.” he said, his voice still coming out too watery for his liking.
“Likely not in the long-term, no. But Hamilton, he has capable people to pick up the slack. You can afford to momentarily step away without the nation crumbling at your feet.”
A metaphorical weight was taken off Alexander’s shoulders, and with it, heaving sobs clawed their way out of him. Jefferson gently placed his hand on his thigh. “You're foolish, you understand? The world has never revolved solely around you.”
“You find a way to insult me, even now?” Alexander hissed, hurriedly wiping his eyes. Jefferson frowned.
“It wasn't intended as an insult.”
Alexander looked away again and said nothing. Jefferson cleared his throat, then slowly rose to his feet. “Stay here.” he said, leaving the room. A fear seized Alexander, and he was plunged into the cold depths once more. There he was, drifting along—
In the back of his mind, he could hear Jefferson in the kitchen, no doubt cooking something if the clanking of pans was anything to go by.
Alexander sighed, leaning back and trying to force his body to release its tenseness. Briefly, he closed his eyes and lost himself in thoughts of wondering what kind of state he was in, to be so worried that Jefferson would leave him.
Thankfully, Alexander couldn't get rid of the Secretary of State that easily. When Jefferson returned, he was bearing soup. He kneeled once more and set it on the coffee table in front of the couch, then lifted a spoonful to Alexander’s lips. Alexander moved to refuse, but Jefferson was insistent. Alexander was forced to swallow the soup, and Lord, he'd never known the man was as competent a cook as he was. The soup had the perfect texture and different flavors all exploded in his mouth at once—basil, rosemary, the broth... Even worse, Alexander was positively starving. He sat up and snatched the bowl from Jefferson’s hands, earning a disapproved huff from the man. Alexander didn't care—the soup was by far the best thing he'd ever had the pleasure of eating.
“I see you have taken a liking to my cooking.” Jefferson said dryly, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. Alexander nodded around a mouthful.
Jefferson grasped the arm of the couch to rise to his feet. “I'll see myself out. I expect you to have made yourself presentable when I make my return this time tomorrow.”
Alexander nodded again, but then his head snapped up. Return? Tomorrow? He had many questions, but Jefferson had already made his leave. Even more shocking, as he sat there, warm bowl in his hands, the world had ceased closing in on him. Life moved on, and Alexander too would move on with it.
Now, as he sat back, he began looking forward to tomorrow.