Hamilton One shots and Stuffs

Hercules x Reader Au

This is kinda sad. I was on a happy streak, too. At least it's long
(longest thing I've written on here, at 2000 words, exactly)

I laid there, staring up at the glow in the dark stars littered around my ceiling. They barely made any light, it had been years since I put them up there, and many had fallen off. But I couldn't bear the thought of tearing down the rest.

As I thought about the happy years all ago, small warm tears dripped out of my eyes and down the sides of my face.

And as I laid there, my tears coming faster, I wonder why the good years had to leave. Why dad had to leave, my why dog had to leave, why mom had to loose her job.

Why my sister had to leave. Why the girl who raised herself, and me, has to leave without a goodbye.

The top bunk still laid untouched. Mom hadn't had time to get me a new bed, or the money, so I was still sharing a bed with my ghost of a sister.

I missed her giggles as she ran down the hall, all the times when she wanted to do my makeup, and her smiling face hanging down from the top bunk to wake me up.

Sometimes I wished I had died with them.

"It's not healthy to think that way," a deeper voice spoke, making me jump up. I looked around my small room to try to figure out where it came from. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage.

The person sitting on my bean bag was far too large to be sitting on my bean bag. Judging by the size and voice, it was a man. Defantly an adult.

"Who are you..." a whispered, sitting up in my bed, never taking my eyes off of the man. The tears dried up suddenly.

"Hercules Mulligan." He answered simply.

"What do you want?" I tried not to let my voice quiver too much, but I could tell I was failing.

"To help you. I don't want to hurt you, more of the oposit," I could see his arm raise up, and with a snap of his fingers, my bedside table light turned on. I could actually see him now, which took some of the edge off.

He had darker skin, fit with dark, short hair. His hair  had a small dark bandana around it, maybe green. The oddest thing wasn't what he looked like, but what he was wearing.

While I had never been the best at history, unlike my former history teacher of a mom, I could tell his outfit was something from the past. A long blue coat, knee high black boots, tan poofy pant thingies, a matching tan button up shirt.

And a red stain on his stomach. A large red stain.

He seemed to notice my gaze looking at the area, and he lightly smiled, "took a bullet for my friend. Shot me right in the abdomen, that stupid loyalist. Doctors tried everything they could, but believe it or not, 1780s medicine isn't that great."

"Er... So you're a... ghost?" Either he had a great imagination, or a really cool story to tell.

"Guardian Angel," the way he said it made it seen like something that was normal to hear. Something he's said many times before.

I repated his answer with a more skeptical tone, which he relied with a nod of comfirmation.

"But like how?" I sat on the edge of the bed now, still skeptical of this man. "And why?"

"Well, when a person dies protecting or saving someone else, and they have done no major sins, they are turned into a Guardian Angel. They protect others until all of their feathers are turned white." It was then that I saw them. The large pure white wings. Exempt for one little down feather, still a dark gray.