Alexander Hamilton (unimpeachable) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2022-03-03 21:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | alexander hamilton, lisa cuddy, ~bucky barnes |
Who? Hamilton & Open (or narrative)
Where? Bucky's cafe
When? Friday, early morning
What? Mosquitoes are the actual worst
Open? Yes
Hamilton had really been going non-stop since he'd been abducted by the station. Actually, he'd been going non-stop back home as well. Of course he had been, he had a war to win, men to lead, a wife and unborn child to get home to. But rather than rest once he got to the station, he'd kept going as hard as if he were at home. That desperate need to prove himself had started early in his life and it had never really left him. Plus, he was afraid that if he stopped for a minute then the enormity of what had happened to him would come crashing down and he'd never stop freaking out over all the magic, the shapeshifters, the technology, the time travel...
Better to just adapt quickly, make himself useful, get a crash course in technology, and work. He had only been there a couple of weeks, but he had managed to speak with almost every resident in that time, and he'd had time for some laughs and some socialising as well. The wine and tacos with O'Hara, and his wife, and that funny Darcy fella; the garden party at Black's that had been beyond anything he could have imagined.
And that's what he'd thought yesterday was all about. Just a hangover, an intense hangover, but nothing that wouldn't pass. He was surprised, then, when he woke up in the middle of the night Thursday to find his bed soaked with sweat. He'd stumbled his way to the bathroom to be sick, and he was sure he'd lost an hour or so just lying on the floor. Maybe it was all the modern food and drink. It was the only logical explanation.
He had to get up and get on with it. He'd washed, and dressed, and gathered up some work and decided he would stop at Bucky's before he went into the office. A tea, some buttered bread, something plain and easy on the stomach. He sat at a table and read as he ate and drank, but he couldn't concentrate. God, it was so hot. Why was it so hot? The words kept swimming on the page, and he'd blink to refocus and forget where he had been. He just needed to rest his eyes for a minute. Just for a minute, until it stopped swirling about. He'd just rest for a minute.
But it wasn't just a minute. At first, he probably just looked like a tired man at breakfast, but time ticked away and he slumped awkwardly forwards, an angle that couldn't be comfortable, and he didn't budge again.