Now
"Well, why don't you start by telling me the reason you rescheduled our appointment, John?"
Doctor Johnson says kindly, in the same cajoling tone she uses every Thursday. The therapy is not something John particularly likes, but it keeps the hospital HR off his back and minimizes the pitying look on his friends's eyes and the worried check ins. All in all, it's a small price to pay for a bit of peace.
"It's just- my friends, they were a little worried with the, uh, you know." He vaguely gestures his face, pointing out the black and blue bruises, and she nods.
"But that's not the only reason, is it?" the doctor asks softly, "you've came here in worse shape before, John. Did something else happen?"
"No, not really, I mean, yes, but- I don't know," eyes closed, he exhales and runs a shaky hand through his hair, a futile effort to sort out his thoughts, "they think it's nothing."
"But you don't?"
"No, I mean, it has to be, right?"
"Why don't you tell me from the beginning?"
"Yeah, sure, it was a Saturday-"
.
.
.
48 hours earlier
John leaves his apartment in a hurry. There is a steady pounding in his head and the world seems unfocused, pain courses through his veins at every breath and every move. It's not unusual for him to go out on a daze, sometimes he does that, he starts walking without direction and doesn't stop until his lungs are burning.
So, it's Saturday and the newspaper ad repeats on his mind, whispering the words, telling him but what if.
It nags and chews at his brain because who else would know? And why would anyone else put it there anyway?
But what if
John digs his nails on his palms, he shakes his head, tries to disperse the train of thoughts. He walks until he becomes aware again of the headache and the way the lights blind him and the city noises pierce his skull. He walks until he remembers he is hungover and beaten up and hurt.
John stumbles in the Central Park, seeking shelter on the shades of the trees and the considerably more silent environment. He lays on the grass and watches through half-closed eyes as people come and go on the streets outside. He lays there, feels the grass tickling his bare arms, watches as a woman walks her dog, as a little girl chases a bird, as cars speed by, as Alexander hurries along the street, as-
In all his life, that's the second time John's world stops spinning.
He jolts up, a sharp pain on his head almost knocks him down, but he sees him. It's him, he knows it, he cut his hair, sure but it's him, walking briskly, fast-paced as always, on the street outside, it's Alexander, John knows it.
Except, Alex is dead, John was there when it happened, he had held him and put pressure on the wound and yelled at him not to move, not to talk, not to sleep. John had done everything he had been taught at med school, his hands had been covered in blood - Alexander's blood - and his shirt and jeans, they had all been stained with angry red, John had been there on the ride to the hospital, John had been there when Alex died so John knows Alex can't be walking by the fucking Central Park. Except, he is.
So we beat on, boats against the current-
So John runs as fast as he can, stumbling and uncoordinated, because Alex is dead but Alex is walking down the street.
-borne back ceaselessly into the past.
John runs but as he finally makes it on the street, lungs burning and head pounding, Alex is gone, swallowed by the crowd.
He stands there, in the sidewalk, looking around in searche of wide, hazel eyes and tanned skin. He must look crazy, John knows, all bruised and disheveled, whipping his head around. He feels his heart fall on the sidewalk and splinter into little shards, feels the hope swirls and die and turn into smoke.
John thinks of the newspaper, of the note, of Burr saying will you stay? on a Friday night with snow falling outside, of a name written in hurried hadwriting on the bottom of a paper. He thinks of blood stained clothes and a gun going off and the monitor flatlining. It makes his head hurt and nothing seems to fit right, like someone mixed two different puzzles and left John to piece it as only one picture.
Still, John hopes.
.
.
.
Now
"They think I'm losing it."
"Who are they, John?"
"My friends, they think I'm going crazy."
"Did they tell you that?"
"No, but-"
"Then, why do you think that?"
John sighs, looks around the office. It's very ordinary, nothing that stands out or catches his eyes, it's the kind of place to fade away from memory, that maybe years from now will have blended in with a thousand other rooms. Except, there was the elephant in the room, the reason why John was there at all. It wasn't something you forget, no, it was the kind of thing that will still claw and burn and hurt no matter how many years pass. It was the kind of wound that festers, that infects and rots and poisons.
Still, John looks around the office, nothing stands out or catches his eyes. He knows the answer, it's clear, it's painted all over his face, it's on the bags under his eyes, it's on the bruises and it's on the broken bones, it's on the shaking of his hands.
"Because I think I'm losing it, okay? I'm going crazy, I'm hallucinating and-" he puts his head on his hands, screws his eyes shut, tries to block the world out, to stop the tightness building in his chest. Then, he deflates, "I just want it to stop."
John risks a look at the doctor. She stares at him with the usual pity and condescention dancing in her blue eyes and he once more wonders why the fuck he still comes here every week. Because it doesn't matter, because you never think there will be a next week.
"John, do you want to know what I think?" she waits for him to nod along, "Well, I think you saw a passage of one of Alexander's favorite books in the newspaper and worked yourself up, you are with me so far? So later when you saw someone who looked like him, well, you saw what you wanted to see."
She pauses and John mulls over her words. He wants to believe her, he wants to take her words and replace it on his thoughts because she is right, she makes sense. He repeats it over and over until it drowns out everything else.
"John, you are not crazy. Given everything you've been through, it's perfectly normal to feel lost in your grief."
He sighs, thanks Doctor Johnson and leaves the building.
John Laurens is used to not having a home. He has lived in many houses, yes, but none of them had been home. That is, until he moved to the little apartment in off campus. That had been the first place he called home. But then, he had been alone at the time. After that, home began to grow. It wasn't only his place, home was Lafayette's silly jokes and Burr's deadpans. It was calling his sister every Sunday afternoon and doodling on Angelica's notebook. But that was before Alexander. After that, home became the one particularly sloppy star painted on his ceiling, it was coffee stains on papers, it was sarcasm and passionate speeches, it was typing at 3 am and it was whispered conversations until the sun came up. Home became Alexander and everything that came with him.
But now, with Alexander gone, John is left without a home. It's not a foreign feeling for him, it's familiar, it's almost the beggining of home again. As he walks, John thinks this he can deal with. He's done it before, he knows how to build from scratch. He remembers.
.
.
.
Before
John drums his fingers on the armrest of his seat. He looks at the sky on the window, a light blue stretching endlessly, the horizon faintly curved. On the speakers they say they will be landing soon and John looks down through the window, he watches as the skyscrapes stand proudly and New York comes to view. It all seems tiny from so up in the sky. The people, the cars the world.
John watches the city that never sleeps on the early hours of the morning from his seat on the airplane and he feels strangely calm. He feels the remnants of South Carolina finally leave him, he feels free for the first time in years. John sees his future waiting for him on New York, he has his whole life ahead of him, he can be whoever he wants here.
John steps out of the airport, bags clutched tightly and breathes in the air. It's dry and filthy and full of smoke and it makes him cough, but it's so different from his father's state and he can't tell if he feels breathless from the smoke or from the thought.
And as he opens the door to his new apartment and lays on his bed, John finds himself scared and alone and a little lost. But, listening to the traffic outside and smelling the fresh pastries from the bakery across the street, he also feels excited and new and free, and he thinks this must be the best feeling in the world.
.
.
.
Now
John knows there is no way his apartment will ever be home again. There is too much left and too much missing. It's a scar, it's a reminder, it's a memory but it's not home.
So, John knows what he needs to do. He needs to find home once more in what he has. Maybe Lafayette doesn't joke as much as he used to and maybe his friendship with Burr is more strained than in the past, but still, there is peace on Lafayette's french accent and he is grateful for Burr picking him up at odd hours of the night. And now, there is also Eliza's soft voice and Peggy's bright smile and Mulligan's booming laughter.
Maybe all of them have a little more darkness in their eyes than they used to, but John can work with that. Even if they are all a little broken, even if Mulligan and Burr work more and more hours and Angelica looks as if she is carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, well, he doesn't mind, he is not whole either. But despite what they all think, despite the nagging on his mind, he can do it again, he can find himself a home, maybe not home, but close enough.
This is all on his mind as he steps into the coffee shop and takes a seat across Lafayette.
John orders his coffee and raises an eyebrow at the way his friend keeps fidgeting, eyes finally falling on the copy of the New York Times on the table. He reaches for it but the frenchman snatches it from his grasp.
"John-"
Lafayette's eyes are filled with concern and doubt and John knows he needs to see it. He takes it and scans through the classsified section again, eyes alert and searching.
"- it's a very common quote,-"
He keeps reading, looking for something to hold on to.
"- anyone could have done it for any reason-"
John feels his heart accelerating on his chest, the blood rushing through his veins as he reads it out loud, "Things are always better in the morning." He looks at Lafayette, finds the same worry but also doubt and he thinks maybe this is a battle he can win, "Laf, you remember, you were there too."
"John-"
"Gilbert."
They stare at each other until Lafayette finally sighs, curses in french, relents, "If we look into this, will you stop the bar fighting?"
John nods vehemently and stands, eyes filled urgency and determination and hope and life as he drags his friend out of the coffeeshop.
.
.
.
Before
John feels numb as he hungs up the phone and lets it fall on the ground. His fathers words repeat themselves on his mind, i don't have a son anymore don't come back Jack disowned don't come back until you're fixed-
He can hear his friends laughing in the living room, he can hear Alexander talking loudly over the argument. He doesn't know when he joined them at the couch, but now they are all silent and Alex is looking expectantly at him.
"I said, John, are you okay?"
Maybe it's the worry laced in Alexander's voice, or maybe it's the warmth of his hand on John's shoulder, or maybe there is no particular reason at all but suddenly he realizes how utterly helpless he is. John realizes that disowned means no more med school, it means no more apartment outside campus, it means he has no idea what to do with himself. It means not seeing his siblings again or visiting his mother's grave. It means having his whole life ripped out of him and teared to pieces.
John becomes aware of all of this and suddenly he can feel everything.So he cries and sobs and clings to Alex's shirt. He tells them his father's words and pulls at his hair and rages until he is left empty.
Then, Alex holds him and kisses him and tells him to sleep, he says things are always better in the morning. John sees Lafayette nodding and feels Hercules squeezing his hand, so he repeats Alex's words in his mind until he almost believes them himself.
.
.
.
Now
"Mon ami, I just don't want you to hurt any more than you already are. Don't get your hopes up, oui?"
John offers Lafayette a shaky unconvincing smile. They stand in front of New York's 25th precint, newspaper clutched tightly on his hands. As they enter, a familiar figure leaves the building.
"Burr? What are you doing here?"
John watches as Burr freezes and stares at them with wide eyes.
"Well, I was with a client."
"You? Taking a case on Harlem?"
"I need more pro bono hours. Now, if you excuse me."
As the man leaves hurriedly, Lafayette looks at John, shrugs, "well, that was weird even for Burr."
"Guess he's still pissed at me."
He shakes his head, focus his attention in navegating the office to Mulligan's desk. John smiles at the sight of someone as intimidating as the detective melting in Lafayette's arms, in his chest something stings with longing and he wonders if they were ever like that, Alexander and him.
John never understood how Alex befriended Hercules, he asked him once but Alex simply said he was my first friend here and sure it explained why but not how a lawyer student and a young officer became friends. It was unusual but well, a lot of things about Alexander were unusual, and as John explains the situation, he has never been more grateful for Hercules's friendship. That is, until he says no.
"You want me to hack into the New York Times archives and find the IP of whoever sent that ad? Did I get that right? And all because you saw someone who looks like Alex?"
"I know how it sounds but-"
"John. No. I love you, youare my friend, my brother, but you need to let it go. Alex is dead. Don't go around chasing ghosts. This ads must be some book club or something."
"Mon amour, now, we know that. But if it will help ease our little John, then wouldn't it be worth checking?"
"Yeah, if it turns out a dead end, I'll drop it, I promise. Herc, please, I need to be sure. Please."
John bits his lip, watches nervously as Mulligan shakes his head muttering under his breath and then sighs, nods. The detective hesitantly types on the computer and then scribbles a series of numbers on a paper.
"It's from a public library computer. How did you even know I could do it?"
"We all just assume you can do everything."
"Yeah, we stopped questioning long ago, man." John agrees and is about to leave when an idea pops on his mind, "hey, can't you trace the card number or some shit?"
Mulligan hesitates, eyes flitting around before he shrugs and types some more. When he speaks, his voice is tired and defeate and John duly wonders if they are breaking some laws, "Yeah, it's on the name of a Juan Alvárez. No criminal records, no pictures."
"Thanks, man"
"Hey, John? Just be careful, both of you, hear me?"
John nods, feeling strangely as if he is missing something, but then he meets Lafayette outside and the name Juan Alvaréz echoes on his head. Still, even as they wait for a cab, he can't stop thinking about Alice falling and falling deeper down the rabbit hole.