In Sickness And In Health (Jeffmads): a Hamilton fanfiction

Chapter 5

Chapter 5! Please enjoy, and remember to RR.

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Madison's p.o.v

Unconsciousness is fun. I should try it more often.

They say that you don't dream whilst you're unconscious. I beg to differ. My mind was rife was thoughts and fantasies (not sexual, all you perverts out there) of Thomas. Walking through, it was almost like a timeline of our lives together, all the way from tiny children to me dying in his arms by the side of a dirty NYC road. Sure, if I had died, he'd probably have been upset for a few weeks. Would've dented the wall like he did when his hamster died when he was 7. But he would've got over it, moved on, got on with his life. If I hadn't have shoved him out of the way, he would've died, I think. I wouldn't be able to live without him: I can't even think about without shuddering.

I don't know how long it was before I felt the pull of reality. At first, I resisted, making a indignant noise, but then I remembered that I could see Thomas again, in person this time, and I eagerly swam towards consciousness.

That first opening of my eyes, as they weren't used to the light, let alone harsh hospital lights. Almost immediately, I snapped them shut again, hissing in pain. Much of my body felt pleasantly numb, and I assumed that they'd given me pain meds, morphine, most likely. With renewed strength from the darkness, I tried again, managing to keep them open.

"Mr Madison?" someone said, and the bright light disappeared into a softer glow.

"Mm," I mumbled. "T'at's me."

"He okay?" I heard... hang on, was that Hamilton?... say.

"Where's Thomas?" I asked, more alert now, but my jaw refused to co-operate and I came out all slurred and sloshed together, like a toddler's finger painting.

"He's asking after Jefferson," Hamilton translated, and for once, I was happy for that arse being there. "Jefferson's fine, Madison."

"Wanna see him," I said as firmly as I could, trying to sit up but being pulled down by a sudden sharp pain. Looking down, I started at the criss-crossing of stitches on my abdomen, and the heavy cast my arm was encased in.

"I think he's still asleep," Hamilton replied. "When he wakes up, I'll send him in here."

I smiled gratefully at him, finally getting a good look at the doctor. She was a young woman, about 24, and very pretty, her dark hair falling in her face. All I wanted was Jefferson, though. I needed to make sure that he was okay. Determined to stay awake, I watched as Hamilton disappeared for a few minutes before coming back with Thomas in tow. He looked awfully tired, a large gauze pad obscuring his forehead. Clearly he had been admitted, because I spied the admission band under the dirt-stained cuff of his hoodie, but, being stubborn as ever, he had changed into normal clothes, and he had somehow purchased a pair of grey joggers from somewhere.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly, kneeling next to my bed with some difficulty.

"Stop with this namby pamby shit," I told him. I didn't want to talk to socially-acceptable Thomas; I wanted to talk to my Thomas. "I'm not dead, so can't complain, really."

He laughed, clutching my hand.

"Jesus Christ, never do that to me again," he said. I nodded my head, my face mock-serious.