Mon Ange (Angelica-x-Jefferson)

"Mon Ange"
Series: Hamilton: An American Musical
Genre: Hurt/Comfort; [light] Romance (ish)
Couple: Jefferson/Angelica
Rating: G
Summary: Angelica gets sick; luckily, she has her angel.
First Published: 2/20/2017 at 11:55 PM on Tumblr
Written by: FoxieSango/Rikareena

A/N: With less than 5 minutes to spare before President's Day is done, here's my second Angelica/Jefferson piece for the first day of #Reneeappreciation week.

I really wanted to get this done this evening because I doubt I'll have time to work on it, or any other pieces this week (I have to go back to work). It's short, but sweet! I do hope I can do more Angelica/Jefferson fics soon! Anyway, enjoy!

(Please forgive any typos)!

She absently felt herself floating…which was strange because she also felt as if she was secure. She was hot, drenched in sweat from head to toe, and her stomach felt like the tumultuous waves of her last voyage from London to New York.

"Hang on mon ange. I've got you," a voice. Deep. Warm. Safe.

….

Angelica opened her eyes to a blurry vision of a relatively lavish room—she found herself reclining on the silk sheets of a canopy bed. She groaned and pressed her hand to her stomach under the covers, only to find that she was donned in her chemise —her under-slip. Flushing in embarrassment and confusion (which only made her current fever worse), she tried to figure out where she was, and why she was only in her slip. She moved to sit up and felt the room tilt, instantly regretting the decision.

"Woah, woah, woah, hey…easy," she felt herself gently pushed back onto the plush pillows. Turning her head slightly, she saw a very worried Thomas Jefferson leaning over her.

"Mon ange… vous allez bien? (My angel, are you alright?)" she furrowed her eyebrows. Typically, he simply called her Ange…the shortened form of her name. But….Mon ange…? His angel…and there was a different tone there than usual. She took a breath and looked at him as a cold towel was pressed to her forehead.

"J-jefferson…wha–?"

"Shh, just rest, now, you're okay," he said, pushing a strand of her hair back from her face.

"But I…what…I don't…?" he sighed at her curiosity. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to remember and process what had happened and how she'd gotten there.

"Geeze, even when you're not well, your brain is non-stop, isn't it. I wonder if you got that from Hamilton or if he got that from you," he chuckled. The man then leaned all of his weight on his left hand, which was placed on the opposite side of her form. His right hand covered hers on top of the sheets. A worrisome look crossed his face again as he furrowed his eyebrows and threaded her fingers with his own; they were clammy.

"The dinner party. I…it…well, heh you know I can never resist showing off," a wry smile played at his lips at the memory as he continued, "Everyone around here has been freaking out about tomatoes being poisonous vegetables but, I knew better. Thought I could prove I was a badass and eat one of them; it petrified everyone. But…but you…" he tightened his grip on her hand and she noticed that he was shaking. "I-I heard you before I saw you. You…hit the floor pretty hard when you collapsed and…I thought it was because of me. That I…I don't know…" he anxiously ran a hand through the kinky mess that was his hair.

He didn't know what he'd thought. In hindsight, he supposed it was a ridiculous notion, really, to think that she'd gotten sick to the point of passing out simply from seeing him eat the tomato. But it seemed logical at the time, and he wondered if he had gone too far. The only thing that had filled his vision was her lifeless body on his marble floor. After much commotion, they were able to determine the true cause of her condition,

"We found out you had some form of food poisoning. I panicked, I thought it was maybe one of my dishes but…it turns out someone else had brought something…still, I—I've never been so terrified in my life. You were pale, and could hardly breathe. You were vomiting, drenched head to to in sweat and I just…" he voice cracked and he couldn't stop the tears from pattering atop the sheets. A few fell on the back of her hand, so slender and small in his own. He lifted it and pressed a gentle, warm kiss to her knuckles.

"I'm so sorry, mon ange," he whispered.

"So…you brought me…?" she let the question hang. She was still a bit disoriented, but she recognized the octagonal ceiling above her, and knew this was a rarely used guest room in the Monticello estate.

"Yes. It's quiet up here, for no one to disturb you," he lifted his left hand up and brushed her hair back again.

"They've called for a doctor," he added. The guests were still downstairs, she could hear them clamoring about.

"You're, not going back to the party?" she asked, her voice in a whisper. He laughed.

"You're more important, mon ange. I can entertain anytime," he said. And she felt at ease under the watch of his dark eyes. He smiled softly before leaning forward and pressing his lips to her forehead.

"Just rest. I'll be right here. I won't leave your side," he said. And she nodded tightening her grip on his hand before closing her eyes.

She knew she was safe under the watch of her angel.

Reviews are welcome!