CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of suicide

November 12, 1864

Washington, D.C.

Four days after the 1964 Presidential Election

Alfred had never been much of a drinker. He drank beer, sure, and was known to enjoy more than his fair share of bourbon, but over the years he'd found it next to impossible to drink to excess. Perhaps it was his immortal nature, or some other ephemeral quality about his person, but drunkenness had never come naturally. Still, he wondered now if this is how drunkards felt when all hope had been stolen away, when all the alcohol in all the world had evaporated, and all that remained was tremors and the blinding cold to remind you that you were all alone.

He was so tired. More tired than he could ever remember, and more lost.

It was hard to believe that only four years ago, he'd been a decent sort of person. He'd dined in the White House, and entertained ambassadors from all around the world. He'd written to his allies and spied on his enemies, all the while wearing a dashing tie and keeping his hair in pristine condition. Now, he was sweaty, frozen, clothes ratty and riddled with bits of straw. A forgotten prisoner, unbathed and unkempt in a basement prison, forgotten by even those men who'd put him here.

It'd been four years ago that he'd first encountered Andrew, The Other. It'd been a while now since he'd last heard from him, but the threat remained omnipresent. His imprisonment was testament to that. Oh, how he wished he'd known sooner how catastrophic The Other would truly be, he would never have ignored it for so long.

Alfred shifted on the pile of straw and thought not for the first time that it had been some time since they'd replaced it. The straw was all but flat now, and just as sweaty and dirty as he himself was. But how could he possibly ask for new straw, in such a state? He leaned his head back against the cool stone of the cell and remembered a time when he asked for coffee, maps, and ink, and received them all. The day they'd deposited him here, he remembered asking for his books. So long as I have something to occupy my mind, he remembered thinking at the time, I can outlast this. I will be fine. Oh, how naive he'd been.

He shivered and pulled his coat closer around him. They still weren't allowing him any blankets, fearing he might try to harm himself again, but they'd made an exception for a sturdy wool coat, which he now huddled under to keep warm. The underground spaces of the Capitol were warmer than those exposed to outside air, but the swampy grounds nurtured by the Anacostia kept the whole place damp, which let the cold find him and leech into his bones.

Time passed at a meaningless pace. Whether it was day or night did not matter. Whether he was awake or sleep did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the fact that each breath he took was one breath closer to an End; an end to his consciousness, an end to the war, and end to his life, it did not matter what kind of end it was, so long that it arrived in its proper time. He shivered some more, and wished that he would die or fall asleep so he would not have to feel himself shiver anymore. How had he forgotten how exhausting it was, just to shiver? There was no way he could fall asleep like this.

"Alfred?" said someone. One of the guards, probably. He should answer, but he was busy trying to figure out if he had any way to kill himself, so he could get some rest.

"Alfred, are you awake?"

Oh, he would do just about anything for a hot drink right now. His ribs ached both from shivering and from trying to stop. Another guard cleared his throat loudly.

"Sir, we need to come inside. You have a visitor."

That got Alfred to raise his head. The door creaked open and two guards let themselves in while their comrades stood watch at the door. Still hunched under his coat, Alfred did not move from his place on the filthy straw as he looked up at them, silent.

"Hands, please," said one guard, producing a pair of irons. Alfred did not know why they needed him cuffed, but he did not ask. He held out his hands, watching with detached annoyance as the guard had to hold his wrists steady because they were shaking too much from the cold. Once they were done, Alfred drew his cuffed hands back to himself, trying to warm up the cold metal irons with his own body so they would not sting so badly. He curled into a half-ball, not wanting to give up any heat if he could help it. Head and eyes pointed down, the only part of the guards he could see were their shoes. A third pair of shoes appeared in front of him, longer than that of the guards and polished to a midnight shine.

"Mr. Jones," said the newcomer, and Alfred's heart lurched. Slowly, he twisted his head to look up, up, up at the etched face of Abraham Lincoln. Alfred did not know what was expected of him, so he only said,

"Mr. Lincoln." Then, not needing to be told the news directly, he added, "Mr. President." If Lincoln did not seem surprised by Alfred's precognition.

"Your people have spoken, and I will serve," he said. I will not hide from you my great surprise at being allowed to persevere in this office, but I will tell you of my great relief, and the sense of urgency it instills in me to preserve this nation in any way I can."

Alfred tried to nod, but it probably looked like another shiver.

"I have also come to introduce your new Vice President," Lincoln stepped aside, and another pair of shoes, far more hesitant than any of those present, appeared. Alfred's eyes trailed up the legs and body that held them, until he reached the uncomfortable and incredulous face of Lincoln's Vice President, Andrew Johnson.

"I wish we could have met differently, Mr. Johnson," Alfred said weakly. "I'm afraid you've arrived at an unusual juncture in my life." He knew he looked disgraceful; he could smell for himself how filthy he was. "My apologies."

Johnson said nothing, and stared at Alfred with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Alfred ducked his head. Not all of his politicians believed that he was who he claimed to be, what he claimed to be. It had always been so. He did not have the energy to endure this man's repudiation.

"It is our task to serve this country," Lincoln said when Johnson remained silent. "Just as it is my duty to serve you, Mr. Jones." The silence stretched out between them. Alfred was, just as he always had been, existing here at the pleasure of Congress and the office of the President. Congress had been unable or unwilling to give him much compassionate care by dint of his volatile condition, and if Lincoln knew the gruesome details, he'd done nothing to alter Alfred's environment, so he must've believed this prison was, at some level, necessary. It made Alfred feel small and hopeless once more, and he tried to tuck the sleeves of his coat up over his hands, around the irons, to keep his fingertips from freezing.

"I have heard from your people, Alfred. I would hear from you: what would you ask of your government?"

It took a moment for such a question to register. When it did, Alfred's face crumpled and he tried not to cry. It had been years since anyone had asked him what he wanted. He drew in a shaky breath, keeping his head ducked toward the warmth of his own body.

"Win this war," he begged, voice cracking from disuse. "Please. Please get me out of this war. I want to go home. I want to see the sky. I want…" he had to stop while he waited for his chin to stop shaking; he told himself it was the cold. "I'm so lonely," he confessed. "And so tired. And so… so sick of dying, and waking up, and dying again. I'm sick of turning into… into him. I'm so tired, Mr. Lincoln, I—" he tried to stop the sob, so it choked out into a whine, which sounded even more pathetic. "I can't do this anymore. I just want to go home. Please, please let me go home." He hid his face into the scratchy wool sleeves of his coat.

He was not expecting to feel the weight of a human hand on his head, nor for the hand to be so incredibly warm.

"It is, as it always has been, my sole aim to preserve this Union," Lincoln said quietly, patting Alfred's hair with incredibly awkward but sincere affection, despite how filthy it was. "Just as it is my aim to see you endure to that same end, Alfred. This war will end in your victory. That, I promise you. If it is the only and last thing I'm able to do for you, I will see that you return home."

Alfred was crying silently into his coat, wanting desperately to believe his president. He did not thank Lincoln for such promises, because words meant little in this war. Alfred did want to thank him for something, though, so he said,

"And hot water. It's become cold again, and I… if it's possible, I'd like some hot water."

"Of course." Lincoln must've shot the guards a stern look, because one of them hopped to straightaway and left the cell, presumably to fetch the requested hot water.

"Thank you," Alfred said at last. Lincoln gave his head a last pat before withdrawing.

"Courage, America," he said.

America. It'd been years since anyone had called him that, and the name reminded him of life as it had been, as it yet could be. Alfred drew in a shivering, shaking breath and breathed it out again. Head still hidden in his sleeves, he nodded.

Historical notes:

1. Fun fact: the area of land where Capitol Hill is located, along with the bulk of the federal downtown district of D.C., is actually a floodplain! The District's landmass is kind of 'bowl' shaped, and the downtown area is the bottom of the bowl. The Potomac and Anacostia rivers feed the floodplains there, and while it hasn't truly flooded in some time thanks to human intervention, the whole region remains incredibly wet and humid, which makes the summers feel hotter and the winters feel colder than they actually are.

2. Abraham Lincoln hated the nickname "Abe". If people called him that, they never called him that to his face. Various accounts exist of Abe calling others by their respective nicknames, or pet names in the case of his family, but others usually called him "Mr. Lincoln", even if they were close colleagues. Oh, also, yes, Lincoln was a very awkward man when it came to interpersonal skills and affection. He had few close friends, and those who knew him well described him as very reticent and secretive. Affection is not this man's strong suit! Poor, awkward Abe.

3. The fact that Lincoln won his second term in 1864 was actually quite shocking. He was not all that popular due to the length and cost of the war and the controversy of how he handled Emancipation. His opponent was the former U.S. General, George McClellan, who advocated for immediate peace with the Confederacy, even if that meant that slavery would continue in the southern states. Lincoln was, up to the election, quite pessimistic about his chances for re-election, and went through many contingency plans prior to Election Day to mitigate the fallout of his loss. He asked his cabinet to sign a letter that swore their unwavering loyalty to the Union, no matter the outcome of the election, and he worked with Frederick Douglas to formulate plans to get as many Black people out of the South as quickly as possible before election day, fearing that if Lincoln were to lose, the Emancipation Act would dissolve and all Black people behind behind Confederate lines would be trapped. So, while Lincoln is of course dedicated to serving the U.S., the fact that he could continue to do so was shocking to many, no more so than Lincoln himself.

4. Andrew Johnson is probably one of my top five least favorite presidents, for a lot of reasons, and it probably shows here. He was not actually that close with Lincoln, and was selected as his running mate mostly because his Tennessee heritage gave him appeal to southern-sympathizing voters. Johnson seems to me like the sort of man who would not only not understand what Alfred is, but would flat out not believe that Alfred was what he said he was. He's silent and standoffish here for that reason.