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Hercules saw Alexander enter the bar from his periphery, sliding in with a heavy coat to stave off the New York winter’s chill. With bright, wind whipped cheeks and glassy eyes, he settled in next to John and Gilbert, who hovered behind the table. Hercules watched his competitors - four British soldiers and three other random men - peek at their cards before tossing in to the pot.
Alexander asked, quietly, “What is going on?”
“Brag.” John answered.
Silence followed for a moment, before Alexander asked, softly, “A gambling game?”
Hercules peeled the corner of his cards up. A four, a seven, and a queen greeted him, and he glanced across the table at the two remaining players; the British men mirrored his glare. Though he felt relatively confident that, with the end of the deck of cards already dealt, and most face cards having already been played, he had the advantage. He was willing to bet his remaining six shillings and twelve pence that they were bullshitting him with their crooked grins and drunken daze. “I raise one shilling.” Hercules said, before tossing in three coins total. The men at the table gasped in disbelief.
“Daring, that one.” someone in the crowd said.
Another voice hummed in agreement. “Indeed. Quite the braggart.”
Behind him, Alexander asked, “How do you win?”
Gilbert spoke softly, “ C'est un jeu de voleurs. You lie, mon amie . It is all a lie.”
“Or cleverly evading suspicion.” John added.
The British officers still playing snickered to one another, talking to the fellow soldiers who had dropped out earlier that round with hushed voices. Hercules piped up, “I thought we agreed there would be no collaborating.”
One of the men snarled at Hercules. He spat, with black teeth and even blacker eyes, “Shut your mouth and mind your own business!”
“It’s against the rules.” John spoke behind Hercules. He felt John’s strong, nimble hands land on the back of his chair as he leaned in and said, “Break the rules, break the pot. Instant forfeit. It’s your call, gentlemen.” Hercules could practically feel the salty satisfaction oozing off of John.
“Whatever!” A yellow-toothed officer shouted. He glanced at his cards once more before calling, throwing in the same amount Hercules had. His comrade did the same before both stared up at him, waiting for his move. “You’re turn, tailor .”
“It is.” Hercules rolled two pence in his palm. “And I raise you two pence.”
“I would like to try.” Alexander said, voice high with excitement.
Hercules heard the rustle of him rummaging through his pockets when the black-eyed officer barked, “Wait until the round is done, you fool!”
“When is the round done?” Alexander asked. His words held little weight of care for the British man’s frustration as he continued, “Am I not allowed a seat at the table until the round is over?” The hollow scream of a chair dragging across the hardwood echoed in Hercules’ ears as Alexander pulled up next to him, in between him and the last in the line of British men at the table. He flashed a curt smile at the others before saying, “Please, do not let me bother you. Continue.”
“We will.” The yellow-toothed officer flopped his cards down and said, “I’m done here.” The black-eyed officer still playing looked offended by his quick retreat, but swallowed harshly with confidence reigning in his stare as both he and Hercules flipped their cards at the same time.
Nine of clubs, two of spades, king of hearts.
Hercules’ stomach dipped as the British men roared with glee, clapping each other on the arms, speaking in slurred tones as they ushered the bartender for more drinks. Alexander glanced at Hercules and flashed a smile. Over the uproar of the officers, Alexander said, “We will win this round. Just you wait.”
“Is that so?” One of the British men stumbled over his words. Hercules cringed. The man appeared far more inebriated than his fellow officers, with a flushed red face and drunkenly hazed eyes. “We’ll see about that…”
“We will,” Alexander folded his hands on the tabletop. “When you lose and we win.”
The three other officers booed Alexander, but found their places quickly. The red-faced drunkard plopped heavily down next to Alexander, nearly tipping over in his chair and knocking into Alexander. The winning officer raked in his coins quickly. One of the others began to reshuffle the deck and start anew. He asked, from across the table, with a light and airy voice, “You know how to play, kid?” His short hair curled into his eyes, dark and thick, shadowing his stare.
“I’m a quick learner.” Alexander said. He raised his chin. “Don’t worry about me.”
The man ducked his head and laughed, “Well, less competition there, I suppose.” He turned to the oldest officer at the table - the black-eyed winner - and passed the deck. “Eldest deals.”
Three cards slid into Hercules’ hand. He glanced over Alexander one last time before he lifted his cards and kept his eyes glued to his hand, his coins, and the eyes of the men around him.
As much as he loved Alexander, he knew the brat was sly. He could swindle cheap prices and swipe wallets if he wanted, and was equally as clever with his hands as he was with his mouth and his brain. Gambling would be no issue for the kid, even if he was new to it. Therefore, as the pot slowly began building, Hercules didn’t hesitate to raise Alexander one whole shilling.
Alexander smirked over at him. “Oh?”
“No friends at the table, Hamilton.” Hercules smiled.
“I see.” Alexander threw in another shilling. “You’re on, Mulligan.”
“There are others at this table!” The drunken officer spat in Alexander’s face. He called before his turn moved, mumbling, “colonist scum” under his breath as he went for another drink.
Quickly, people began dropping from the round. Hercules would have liked to think it was due to his insufferable competitivity becoming intimidating to the men, but he knew that, with all his heart, it was Alexander’s arrogant disposition setting everyone off. Even Hercules himself found himself doubting the pot when Alexander raised shilling after shilling, not touching his pence.
“Ballsy, that kid.” The yellow-toothed British man - already out for the round - ground out. He leaned back, folding his arms tight across his chest. “How fucking annoying.”
“Takes one to know one, good sir.” Alexander bowed his head coyly. He raised another shilling.
John’s hand found Alexander’s shoulder and he squeezed. “Careful. Do not waste all of your money, Alexander.”
“No collaboration!” The black-eyed officer growled. He slammed his coins down and slid them into the center. “It’s your turn, sweetheart.”
The drunk man glared at Alexander, inching closer with every heavy breath. Alexander seemed to pay no mind, gathering yet another extra shilling into his hand. Hercules internally groaned. As his turn came around, he gently folded his cards face-down onto the table. “I’m finished.”
Down to the dark-haired officer and Alexander, the British man raised double of what Alexander tossed in - a total of ten shillings - and said, deeply, “Flip your cards, boy.”
Alexander set his jaw. He turned his cards. Fanned out on the table, Hercules glanced between the two. Both had relatively shit hands, but Alexanders was only less shitty, with a two, a three, and a nine, and the officer having a three, a five, and an eight.
White fire lit up Alexander’s eyes, brightening his expression as he whispered, “Got you.”
“Indeed you did.” The dark-haired officer bowed his head, a soft smirk growing on his lips. “What a liar you are. I thought you must have had a prial.”
“Not quite.” Alexander giggled. He reached out, slowly pulling the coins in closer to himself. He lazily stacked them, a cat-like grin plastered on his face as he asked, “Another round, gentlemen?”
That smug shit. Hercules hid his laugh with a weak cough. “Yes. Let’s.” He glanced at the officers, whose stacks were wearing thin and their faces flushed with alcohol. “Unless, of course, you men wish to retire for the evening.”
The drunkard was the first to respond. He settled down heavily next to Alexander, breathing as if he were gasping for air, hissing out, “Another round.” Malice swelled his cheeks, darkened his eyes, brightened his expression into twisted glee as the dealer began again.
Alexander finished leisurely stacking before turning to the drunk man and saying, “You are far too close. Please, back up.”
Only then did Hercules realize just how tense the air was. The drunkard wasn’t the only man riled up; the other two officers, one with yellow teeth, the other with black eyes, were glaring at Alexander from across the table, raking their fingernails across the tabletop, their knees bouncing in anticipation, faces wrenched tight with frustration.
They looked ready to fight.
It wasn’t uncommon, Hercules knew. Bar fights between colonists and British officers happened more often than King George would like to admit, but Hercules would have much preferred to avoid said fight. They were raking in quite a lot of cash, and the more they pulled in, the more could go to the revolutionary efforts. If they were to lose all of that to a schoolyard skirmish between mostly grown men, Hercules would go red with shame.
He glanced around their surroundings.
Most onlookers had occupied themselves elsewhere or left entirely, leaving the bar relatively empty. The other three men at the gambling table were likely not looking for a fight, so Hercules dropped them from his game plan instantly. He figured the highly intoxicated man would be of little to no use should a fight break out, hence leaving their four against the British three. And, with the dark-haired officer seemingly having a steady head upon his shoulders, Hercules hoped that he could reason with the man and end the brawl quickly. But the other two would fight, and John and Alexander would be quick to pounce, regardless of whether Hercules could come to an agreement with the dark-haired man.
Alas, it would be two against three - Gilbert, John, and Alexander, fighting the yellow-toothed man and the black-eyed man - and, with those odds, Hercules felt himself relax. He eased further into his chair as the round began.
Only then did he notice the drunk man.
The officer, already far too close for Alexander’s liking, was practically fuming over the teenager, a permanent snarl curling his lips as he mumbled under his breath. He occasionally glanced to his cards, and sometimes would struggle over fishing the right coins from his stack to toss into the pot but, for a majority of the round, his eyes were fixed on Alexander, bright with rage and blind with too many beers. His free hand fiddled with what Hercules figured to be his pocket, something on the side of his breeches.
Alexander seemed to pay little attention. As the round went on, with him raising shilling to shilling, draining most of the men at the table dry, the drunkard leaned closer and closer until he was practically breathing down Alexander’s neck.
Hercules dropped out third-to-last. One of the three civilian men dropped out next. The drunkard boiled over as he raised Alexander double, calling for yet another showdown. “I’ve got you now, you piece of shit. My hand will destroy your bluff!”
Alexander snickered. “Aye, I hope so.”
Both men laid down their cards. The drunk man had quite the hand, with one queen, one three, and one jack. But as Hercules’ eyes trailed downwards, to Alexander’s hand, he didn’t even need to process what he was seeing in order to know his boy won: three queens, a prial, a prial of face cards no less.
“I win.” Alexander raised his eyebrow. “No bluffing this round, good sir.”
The drunk man shook with rage.
He surged forward, stomach on the table. Hercules instinctively grabbed Alexander. The drunkard ripped something from his side, bringing it swinging down fast. Within a blink of his eyes, a long knife went straight through Alexander’s hand, through to the other end of the table, hilt to the bone. A weak grunt ripped up Alexander’s throat - a reflexive sound, Hercules guessed - as he gaped down at his hand pinned to the table.
Alexander blinked.
The pain hadn’t hit yet.
Hercules curled himself over Alexander as the brawl broke out. Only then did he hear the guttural scream underneath him as Alexander began wailing, shouting profanities at the drunk officer. He reached out with rage and agony on his side, trying to grab the man as he reeled back from John practically tackling him. Hercules held Alexander back.
John threw punches at the drunk as Gilbert grabbed the coats of the yellow-toothed and black-eyed officers. The long-haired man attempted to usher his soldiers outside to no avail. The civilians at the table scurried backwards as shouts and deafening arguments ripped through the bar.
Underneath him, Alexander shifted. He stared up at Hercules with impossibly wide eyes as he gasped, “I...He stabbed me. That son of a bitch-- ”
“Alexander.” Hercules held Alexander’s captive wrist to the table.
Alexander ranted, “--and I didn’t do anything wrong and now my hand is pinned to a table by a knife , thank God it was not my writing hand, for which I--”
“Alex!”
Alexander whipped around, looking up at Hercules. Hercules grabbed his chin in a tight grip, enough to bruise, and said, “my apologies” before reaching over and yanking the knife free in one clean swoop.
Alexander shrieked. He cradled his now-free hand to his chest, tears rolling down his cheeks. Hercules heaved him to his feet, shoveling as much pot money as he could into their jackets before snapping, “Laurens! Laf! Let’s move!”
John ducked an awkward punch from the drunk before rushing over, leaping over a chair to reach them. Gilbert joined them at the front door. They rushed out and around the corner, into an alley, as dozens of British officers flooded the bar.
Hercules dragged Alexander forward. He ripped Alexander’s wounded hand away from his chest, wrapping his much smaller hand in his own large palm, tight enough to elicit a cry from Alexander and a sluggish oozing of blood from the wound.
“Enough! Enough! Arrêtons nous! ” Gilbert shouted as they rushed down another winding alleyway. Hercules skidded to a stop. Alexander flopped against him before John guided him towards the brick wall.
With a pale face and sweaty brow, Alexander mumbled, “Is my hand…?”
Hercules said, “Let me see.”
John hissed. Gilbert, from the entrance to the alleyway, murmured some French nonsense to Alexander, hushing his pathetic whimpers as Hercules gentle rolled Alexander’s wrist in his hands, his hands that were slippery with blood, that were clammy from the adrenaline. Gummy black blood bubbled up from the jagged hole, pooling in the cracks of his fingers, in the folds of his palm.
“Piss poor shot, that one.” Alexander croaked. “He completely missed the table.”
“I do not believe he was playing five-finger-fillet, Alexander.” John shook his head solemnly. “I cannot believe you find it in yourself to joke at such a time.”
“Well, I have nothing better to do.” Alexander had been looking away the entire time, up at the stars, over at Gilbert, sideways at Hercules, before his eyes naturally fell to the wound. His face when even more white at the sight as he giggled hysterically, “I feel faint all of the sudden. How odd.”
John hissed, “No joking, Alexander!”
“Keep your head, man.” Hercules said. He squeezed Alexander’s wrist tighter, staunching the blood flow. “We need to find a surgeon. Gilbert, do you know of any nearby?”
Before Gilbert could answer, Alexander said, “I am serious.”
John managed to ask, “You are?”
Alexander’s eyes rolled up. He sagged forward into Hercules' open arms.
--
“I am embarrassed ,” Alexander whined. His left hand sat awkwardly on his desk, resting in a position where it looked as if it wanted to do something but, with thick bandages and an inability to move properly, it just sat there. “It was...not my best of moments.”
Seated on the edge of Alexander’s bed, Hercules had watched for the past half-hour as Alexander struggled to write coherently. Even with his right hand in tact, without his left to balance, Alexander was significantly slowed, oddly enough, almost like a carriage: two horses were needed, even if one could technically do the job. Hercules had laughed at the prospect. What was meant to be a nicety to visit after nearly a week from the initial bar fight, turned into Hercules watching a red-faced Alexander fuss over his now-poor writing and lamenting over utter humiliation over the entire situation.
Upon first waking in his room, his hand stitched and cleaned, Alexander was clocked with horror, then egotistical gloating at his new battle wound. Only when John recounted Hercules having to carry him to the surgeon's house like a swooning bride over the relatively minor injury overall did Alexander lose himself to a fit of embarrassment, ushering everyone to leave, to leave him in peace and quiet and let him die in his own filth of humiliation.
“Plenty of people feel faint at such gruesome sights.” Hercules nodded to himself. “I myself have experienced such a thing.”
“You have?”
Hercules hummed. “Yes. Though, it was actually due to a woman being crushed from the torso down in a broken water wheel.” Alexander’s face fell, his ears red still. Hercules quickly remedied, “But, both were quite traumatic, see? There was quite a lot of blood with your wound.”
Alexander's expression soured. "You pity me."
"I do not." Hercules clucked his tongue. "I merely wish to say that there is a difference between fainting from the sight of another's injury, and fainting at the sight of your own injury. It's quite frightening."
Alexander shrugged. "I did have a hole in my hand."
"You still do." Hercules gestured to Alexander's limp limb. "Hence, it is quite reasonable to be so...off. Yes?"
“Not enough to be rendered useless.” Alexander’s free fingers twitched. He fiddled with the corner of the parchment sprawled over his desk “I am truly pathetic."
“Not pathetic,” Hercules rubbed his chin. “Just...troubled. For now.” He smiled. “You have survived much worse, I am sure.”
Alexander’s eyes deadened, then. They dissolved into a faraway place, seeing something Hercules knew he would never likely see himself, even if Alexander decided to discuss the details. He had lived with Alexander for some time, had known of the night terrors, the squeamishness surrounding storms, the hesitation to be around sickness no matter how mild. Alexander was a man filled to the brim with secrets, and Hercules knew that, even if Alexander had decided to open up and share with him, or John or Gilbert, it would be clipped, never the full truth, because when man’s eyes got that distanced, that cold, the truth was just too much to relive.
But Hercules felt content with that. Because he would rather have only a part of Alexander with Alexander’s full trust, than nothing of Alexander, prying information in ways that betrayed his friend. To know that, one day, Alexander may trust them enough to even utter one of his memories to them, recall one of his nightmares, filled his heart with hot pride and love.
Eventually, Alexander said, “You’re right.”
“I am.” Hercules nodded. “You will find a way.”
“I will.” Alexander turned around on his stool, facing his desk once again. Settling his arm against the top corner of his paper, he plucked his quill from his inkwell and slowly began to scribble out onto the parchment. Though his hand slipped strangely, and he fumbled occasionally, the thoughts were finally being written after nearly a weak of inactivity.
It was good to see the teenager finally doing what he was best at: using his brain and writing .
Hercules rose to his feet. Alexander was already knee-deep into his letter, or whatever it was he was writing, so much so that he didn’t bat an eyelash at Hercules waving to him from the doorway. He said, “I will see you tomorrow, yes, Alexander?”
Alexander didn’t respond.
As Hercules slipped outside, he heard Alexander mumble a soft, “Thank you.”