She's in the kitchen at the crack of dawn
Bacons on, coffees strong
Kids running wild, taking off their clothes
If she's a nervous wreck, well it never shows
The last to go to bed, she'll be the first one up
And I thought I was tough
It starts with a bottle of cough syrup.
Did you know they expire?
Alexander didn't. He bought it when William was sick some years ago. Completely forgot about it, until it turned up again, nearly empty.
William never used it, they were healthy family, and none really fell sick that often.
(wow, does that seem ironic to say considering the proceeding year and...Philip).
That had happened mere months ago.
It was a car accident. Drunk driver. Not Philip, god no. The other one, a George Eacker.
He goes to jail, but it doesn't matter.
Philip is on life support, Alex and Eliza are barely speaking after the Maria Reynolds scandal.
(He's sorry, he's so sorry, he's been spending the last year trying to make up for it, sleeping in the study and taking the barest scraps of acknowledgement Eliza threw his way.)
They sit by his bedside, while the doctor tells them that his body is alive but he will never come back. He'll never smile, walk, talk, not ever again.
They stand by while Eliza lifts her hand to turn off their firstborn's life support. She can't complete it, though, her hand shakes violently with sobs. He lays his hand over hers, fitting her against him, and she doesn't object. They press the buttons together, watch the line of their son's heart slowly flatten. At the long, whining beep, Eliza screams in anguish and throws herself into Alex's arms. He clutches at his wife as she clutches at him and they sob together.
(he had leant Philip his car)
That was the beginning of everything.
That and the damn bottle of cough syrup.
After that night, he sleeps in their bed. He never goes back to the office.
Angelica breaks.
And the world keeps turning.
Fast forward a few months. The family is still knitting themselves back together. They're not recovered, he hates that word, they'll never be recovered.
But they're surviving.
Eliza develops a cough as the weather turns, one that shakes her body and gets worse and worse.
He makes her some slightly burned soup and she laughs, asking him how he managed to burn soup and pressing a kiss to his lips.
That laugh and that kiss get him through the next few days.
And three days later, he finds that bottle of cough syrup, nearly empty.
He finally manages to force Eliza to the doctor one day, after literally holding her up when a coughing fit nearly sent her to the floor.
"Love, we are going to the doctor." he tells her.
"I'm fine," she insists. "It's just a cough, and I have children to care for."
(it's not a lie. The children have been particularly needy recently, given everything.)
But while she may have children to care for, he has her to care for.
"Eliza," he cajoles, lifting her chin to look at him. "You've had this cough for weeks, you can barely breathe, you're tired, what is the harm in getting it checked out?"
It's a personal victory when she nods. He books the appointment before she can change her mind.
On the day of, they see the doctor quickly (perks of being a senator) and he examines Eliza, looking into her mouth and listening to her rattling breath.
Alexander holds her hand for the majority of it, until she frees her hand to gesticulate something about coughing up blood (one time she stresses). She's not really looking at the doctor but Alex is, and he sees the man's brow furrow when he takes his wife's fingers into his gloved hands.
His heart beats a little quicker, as the doctor examines the tips of his wife's fingers, but he can't possibly imagine what may be wrong with fingers.
"Your fingertips are a bit swollen," the doctor notes. "That does fit the theme of chest issues."
He turns to his desk and scribbles an order on a prescription pad.
"Mrs. Hamilton, I am sending you to get a chest x-ray at the local hospital. If you go right there, I'm sure they can squeeze you in today."
"A chest x-ray?" Eliza groans. "Is that really necessary?"
The doctor smiles reassuringly. "It's painless. And it's just a precaution."
"She has no problem with pain, doc," Alex smiles. "Seven kids and married to me."
She heaves a small laugh, and relents.
And now I'm still learning the lesson
To awake when I hear the call
And if you ask me why I am still running
I'll tell you I run for us all