Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Seventeen: That Would be Enough

Elijah's POV

I see Alexandra enter the room, and I feel the warm relief course through me, even though she brings a dark cloud in with her, and her boots leave mud tracks across the floors. Rushing to her, I pull her close to my chest, ignoring the prickling at the back of my throat and my eyes as they blink rapidly.

She simply stands there limply, not embracing me back. Sighing, she leans her head against my torso, just letting it hang there. I can feel her shaking as she finally breaks, silent tears running. Finally she clutches me back, and can sense the desperation in every fibre of her being.

"Look around," I sing quietly, rocking her gently as I recall that bright afternoon in the city, Angelica teasing Aaron, my hopes shining more brilliantly with every worker I encountered. "Look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now. Look around, look around..."

As I trail off, I cup her dusty chin with my hand, before glancing down at her stomach, where I know my child is sleeping. Alexandra looks back up at me, terror flashing in her eyes for a moment as she pulls away, clasping her arms around her sides.

"How long have you known?" She asks, but her voice has no edge to it. Just resignation.

A soft smile breaks my face, but my eyes are filled with concern, as I answer vaguely, "A month or so."

This approach doesn't calm her down though. She's nearly in hysterics, partly because of hormones, mostly from exhaustion. "But, Elijah, I didn't tell you," she protests, and I hear the paranoia, the feeling of Dear-God-who-else-knows-how-do-I-keep-them-from-knowing. It tears me apart, to see her wonderful mind so afflicted.

"I wrote to the General a month ago."

"No," Alexandra gasps, as she sinks slowly onto the chair, no longer scared or upset, just full-out mad. Furious. Betrayed. Wounded.

But I don't ask her forgiveness. I don't beg, or rationalize. Instead I say, "I'm not sorry," which doesn't seem to be the kindest or most conventional way of dealing with this particular situation, but I know it's the quickest way to make her understand. She lowers her head into her hands, willing herself not to cry.

"I knew you'd fight until the war was won," I offer as an explanation, keeping my tone gentle and my hand resting comfortingly on her shoulder. For a moment, there is silence, then a muffled, weak retort:

"The war's not done."

This isn't quite as easy as I expected.

Oh, who am I kidding, it's not quite as easy as I hoped. It's exactly what I expected. The woman's pregnant and overworked, pretty much dead on her feet, and still she refuses to take a break. It's insane. 

"But we deserve a chance to meet our son." No response from my wife, just a heavy sigh that catches in her throat halfway through, and I start rubbing calming circles into her back, which is heaving with every breath she takes.

I sing the familiar line again, "Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now..."

It's not working. Turning back towards me, Alexandra stares me right in the eye, doing nothing to hide the tracks her tears have scored through the layers of grime, baked on from hours in the sun. Her brown eyes seem to pierce me, no longer gifting me wings upon which to soar to new heights, but are designed specially to shoot me down.

"I will not relish being a poor man's wife," she says, the rage seeping into the air around us, souring the room around us. "Unable to provide for our life."

Do you? her eyes seem to accuse. Do you want this? Do you want to subject our child, my son, to this? I have seen poverty. I have seen suffering, barely escaped it. And yet here you are, pleading with me to throw it all away.

Quenching any doubts that crawl to the surface of my mind, I say quietly, "I relish you as my wife." Silence. I take her hand. "Look around, look around.

"Look at where you are. Look at where you started. The fact that you're alive is a miracle. Just stay alive," I plead, and she turns her head, from shame or something more, I can't tell. "That would be enough."

"And if this child," Alexandra looks back at me, and I see she's crying shamelessly, holding nothing back, and I struggle to keep my composure, "shares a fraction of your smile, or a fragment of your mind, that would be enough."

Finally I crack, and hot tears spill down my face. Stained hands reach up to wipe them away, smearing dirt over my cheeks, and I let out a little choked laugh. Even though I'm overcome with all sorts of emotions, I keep going, saying, "I don't pretend to know the challenges you're facing, the worlds you keep erasing and creating in your mind.

"But I'm not afraid," I assure her, and Alexandra smiles, but her tears don't stop. "I know who I married. So as long as you come home at the end of the day, that would be enough.

This part is possibly the most important. I need to make sure she understands that we don't need anything but each other, before she gets it into her head that she has to do something reckless. "We don't need a legacy. We don't need a legacy. If I could grant you peace of mind. If you could let me inside of your heart..."

"Oh, let me be a part of the narrative of the story they will write someday," I beg her, because they will tell her story. She will change the world. Her name will never be forgotten, and I want to stand next to her throughout all of time.

"Let this moment be the first chapter, where you decide to stay.

"And I could be enough." 

My voice cracks.

"And we could be enough." 

Alexandra lays her head on my shoulder, sighing with contentment. I hold her close, and I cry again, soft drops slipping out of my eyes and sliding down my cheeks.

"And that would be enough."