Falling Through Time: Basking in Firelight: Book 2

Ice

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Warnings: Blood, dead bodies, violence, cussing, PTSD

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The last thing Hamilton could remember was Jefferson's body dropping, him seeing red, and somehow getting his hands on an automatic weapon. Everything after that went to hell.

It was a blur.

The next thing he knew, he was standing in a hallway, surrounded by corpses, breathing heavily.

They shot Jefferson. They fucking shot him.

"Hamilton?"

He swung around, aiming his gun at the source of the voice. It clattered to the floor when he saw who stood there.

"Jefferson?"

"But you're dead. They shot you, you're dead," Jefferson said in disbelief.

"No, they shot you. How are you here? I watched you die."

Jefferson stared at Hamilton for a moment, reliving what he was sure had happened. Not knowing it was the exact same thing Hamilton had seen but reversed, Hamilton getting shot instead of Jefferson. "Fucking holograms. They used fucking holograms."

Hamilton cracked. He burst into a fit of laughter, doubling over, clutching his stomach. Jefferson watched, slightly worried about Hamilton's mental health. Shit, Jefferson was worried about his own mental health.

Hamilton's laughter finally died down enough for him to speak, "Look at you! Look at me! We're covered in blood, clutching stolen weapons that we ripped from our captor's hands. They showed us holograms so we'd break and spill everything we know. Oh, we broke alright. Ha! Broke and slaughtered everyone here."

Jefferson walked forward and pulled Hamilton into an embrace. "I thought you were dead."

Hamilton pulled away, "Let's get out of here."

"About bloody time."

Guns slung over their shoulders, Jefferson and Hamilton walked out of the compound and into the light of the late night moon.

***

Jefferson had returned home but found he couldn't stay there anymore. Every creak was a footstep. Every echo and scream. Every silent moment was another moment bleeding out in that stone cell. The day he walked into his house again, he went straight for his closet and pulled out an old polished wooden case, running his hand over it before flipping the lid open and pulling out the bane of his existence. Dual, gleaming, silver pistols. And then he left and never went back. Now he was staying in a hotel room, both of the pistols hidden in holsters tucked under his arms. He be damned if he was ever caught without them again.

He did, however, do exactly what he said he would. He stuffed his face with mac and cheese the first moment he got the chance. It was a moment of pure bliss and satisfaction. Jefferson had no idea what Hamilton was up to, he straight up disappeared. As soon as they got out of that hell hole, they went their separate ways. Jefferson could remember. They stepped out, blinking in the sunlight, shielding their eyes from the intensity of the light, both swearing they'd never get used to it again. Then they looked at each other, nodded and walked away. They both had their own things to see too.

They had been in there for several months and the world went on without them. The Rebellion collapsed just as they thought it would and the Government swept in and reestablished and fragile control. There was no real Revolution to go back to. Just a couple of rebel camps that were barely holding together. There was no point anymore. So they both just, disappeared. They didn't discuss it, they didn't say a word, but somehow, they both just fell off the face of the Earth. The whole world thought they were dead.

But that hellfire still smoldered in the pit of Jefferson's stomach and a storm brewed in Hamilton's veins. It would only be so long before one of them stepped up again and threw the world back into chaos. But for now, Jefferson ate mac and cheese, tried and failed to sleep, and took late night walks. He hadn't touched his violin, he couldn't bring himself to.

Jefferson wondered what Hamilton was up to.

Hamilton was lying on his couch, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. He never slept much before, but he slept enough to keep going. Now he couldn't sleep at all. If he did, nightmares. Terrible, horrid nightmares.

He wondered what Jefferson was up to.

Hamilton drank lots of coffee, just like he said he would. It delicious and felt like a part of him that had been missing was returned. Coffee, such a beautiful thing.

Hamilton hadn't been working, his hotel bill sat on the counter, unpaid. He was going to get kicked out if he didn't do anything about it. Not that he cared at that point. Too many echoes for him to care. Why should he care? Everything he fought for had fallen apart.

Ice. He needed ice. There was an ice machine just down the hall. All he had to do was get up and get some. Hamilton didn't want to get up. He made himself anyway. Ice would feel good on his face. He walked out of his room and down to the ice machine. There was someone already there. Hamilton debated turning around and going back later, but then he recognized the hair, the stance, the set of the shoulders. Well, he'd be damned. It was none other than Thomas Jefferson.

"Fancy meeting you here," Hamilton cooed, causing Jefferson to jump, reaching automatically for a weapon, but he only twitched toward it before the voice registered and he relaxed slightly.

Jefferson turned and saw him. "Hamilton? You look awful."

"So do you."

"Bitch, I always look amazing."

"Yeah, all the time except right now, because you look terrible. Not sleeping?" Hamilton asked.

"Not really, you either, huh?"

"Sleep is for the weak."

"Sleep is for the healthy and mental sound," Jefferson replied. "I'm guessing you came for ice?" he asked, stepping out of the way of the machine.

"Yeah."

"How long have you been staying here?" Jefferson asked.

"Ever since I came to Virginia."

"Didn't you say something about needing a roommate back-I mean, a while ago?"

"Yeah."

Hamilton knew what Jefferson was thinking. They both didn't want to admit it, but their time in that hell hole made it hard to be alone, in the silence. Jefferson was probably dying for company just as much as Hamilton was, but neither of them was going to do anything about it and admit weakness to the other. That's how they survived, Hamilton and Jefferson, by staying strong. If they broke, it would be the end. They couldn't break. That's just how it was.

Jefferson took a deep breath, "Well if you're in a tight spot, you can room with me. I'll get a suite-style, with two rooms. I'm well off so you wouldn't have to worry..." Jefferson trailed off.

Hamilton wanted to accept, was dying to, he couldn't take another second of his quiet hotel room, but could he? Could he accept such a thing from Jefferson? "Sure," Hamilton found himself saying, surprising them both.

"Ah, great, I'll go make the arrangements then," Jefferson said, "I'll text you the room number when I get it and you can meet me there. What's your number?"

Hamilton gave it and left for his own room to gather his things, not bothering to check out since he was technically dead anyway, while Jefferson took care of getting a new room. Aliases were a wonderful thing. Hamilton couldn't say he would miss this place. There was no reason to. No good memories, but no necessarily bad ones either, unless nightmares counted, but he'd have those anywhere.

He wondered if Jefferson had them too.

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