Hamilton awakens in pain, all sorts of pain. There is not a part of his body that isn't sore; his tongue is dry and parched. His head thuds, not with a sharp war-beat but with dull, sickening beats like cannon blasts.
He opens his eyes.
Ned slumps beside him.
There are blood-stains on his coat. Hamilton is, as far as he can tell, not bleeding -- and neither is Ned.
So...?
The room smells of Washington. It is the President's house, Hamilton thinks -- the whole damnable place smells of Washington, that oppressive alpha-of-alphas that he always gives off.
Hamilton stirs, and so does Ned.
"Alexander." Ned is wary.
Hamilton sits up, the room spinning. Laudanum, he thinks. But he isn't injured, he isn't ill. He looks down at his hands, and thinks of the weight of a pistol.
"Oh," he says.
Ned's hand touches his forehead. "I thought you might go into a fever," he says. "But I think you've dodged it."
Hamilton does not know what to feel. He is simply exhausted, as though all the emotions in him have been spent and spent and spent again, leaving nothing left in his various glands and secreting organs. He is sore, and he is tired.
"Aaron." Half-statement, half-question, but it takes on the tenor of a prediction as there are footsteps approaching in the hallway, as the door opens, as Aaron appears. Hamilton feels as though he is cast in iron and lead as he rests his eyes on his mate. It takes strange strength to reach out his hand -- but if Aaron places his hand in Hamilton's, it takes no strength at all to lift it to Hamilton's lips and place a kiss on the back, press that hand to his cheek.
no subject
He opens his eyes.
Ned slumps beside him.
There are blood-stains on his coat. Hamilton is, as far as he can tell, not bleeding -- and neither is Ned.
So...?
The room smells of Washington. It is the President's house, Hamilton thinks -- the whole damnable place smells of Washington, that oppressive alpha-of-alphas that he always gives off.
Hamilton stirs, and so does Ned.
"Alexander." Ned is wary.
Hamilton sits up, the room spinning. Laudanum, he thinks. But he isn't injured, he isn't ill. He looks down at his hands, and thinks of the weight of a pistol.
"Oh," he says.
Ned's hand touches his forehead. "I thought you might go into a fever," he says. "But I think you've dodged it."
Hamilton does not know what to feel. He is simply exhausted, as though all the emotions in him have been spent and spent and spent again, leaving nothing left in his various glands and secreting organs. He is sore, and he is tired.
"Aaron." Half-statement, half-question, but it takes on the tenor of a prediction as there are footsteps approaching in the hallway, as the door opens, as Aaron appears. Hamilton feels as though he is cast in iron and lead as he rests his eyes on his mate. It takes strange strength to reach out his hand -- but if Aaron places his hand in Hamilton's, it takes no strength at all to lift it to Hamilton's lips and place a kiss on the back, press that hand to his cheek.