Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ragged coughing and gasping constitute most of Hercules’ lung power. In most cases, he is levelheaded, especially when it counts the most. Viktor and Yegor have taken a brief break, at Robespierre’s shout, “ Stoy!”  Hercules is pretty sure his ribs are bruised and his jaw is fractured. His legs are stinging and his wrists are smarted. Blood is pouring from his nose. However, he’ll bet he doesn’t look as bad as he feels.

“The General has such a powerful influence on you boys,” the commissioner praises. “The toughest ones always get it the worst, you know.”

Hercules spits out a clot of blood, and with it, one of his teeth. His breaths are shallow and coming like an irregular pulse. “I ain’t gonna talk. You’re gonna have to fucking kill me.”

“That can be arranged,” Robespierre muses. “But I thought you would realize by now that I have more people who could give me Hamilton. You’re useless to me at this point.”

Hercules huffs, casting a glare to Robespierre, body wracking with every strangled breath. “My loyalty is to the General. To Alex .”

Robespierre rolls his eyes. “Ah, yes. Loyalty ,” he snarls. “Loyal to one’s fate. Loyal to a fault. If I were you, I would consider accepting what I offered you.”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to negotiate with me.” Hercules growls, slumped in his chair.

“Because I like you. Are you willing to throw your life away for Alexander Hamilton ? Need I remind you that you have eight premeditated murder charges under your belt already?”

Hercules’ eyes glint but he does not respond.

Robespierre continues. “August, 1992. You gunned Armie Shapiro down in cold blood in the parking lot of a convenience market. October, 1992. Vinnie Baschal. Found dead on a children’s playground set. January, 1993. Wolfgang Hurst was stabbed to death outside of a bar. April, 2000. Benny Friedman was kidnapped and beaten, body found in a stairwell. June, 2000. Carlton Mark was found in his garage, beaten to death with his own bat.” He folds the list in half. “These were brutal fucking murders, Hercules. Were they assignments from your capo?”

“Yea, and they all deserved what the fuck they got,” the soldier spits again. His jaw is sore.

“Seems like you took a break from playing vigilante for a while. But then in October, 2009 you bashed in Manny Dupree’s head with a sledgehammer. What was that about?” Robespierre asks, but his words are not innocently curious. His tone is dark.

“That one was personal. Boosted some of my boss’s dough. I remember him ‘cause he had this nasty scar across his face from when Benedino smacked him up.” He closes his eyes. “He was the only one who didn’t beg for his life.”

“June, 2013. Arlee Addison was found dead in his apartment. And, of course, January, 2017, Louis Capet was found dead behind that church. Isn’t that right, Hercules?” Robespierre sneers.

The soldier snorts. “I didn’t kill him.”

“But the jury doesn’t know that,” the commissioner says, matter-of-factly. “Not to mention the plethora of racketeering, gambling, armed robbery, drug trafficking, child endangerment, and aggravated assault charges you have on top of all this. You won’t be subject to sympathy, Hercules. You have a minimum of four lifetimes in prison.” He scoffs and adds, “It wouldn’t even have been a question to put you out of your misery, like putting down a rabid dog.”

Hercules sits forward, and takes a good long look at the commissioner. There’s something inside of him that just refuses to break. It’s reckless and it’s brave but it’s stupid and he knows it. Very slowly, he says, “Commissioner, I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.” His insides are shaking but he refuses to allow it to overtake him. “I might be a murderer. I might be a liar, a thief, a cheater, a bad father, a felon. I might even be a goddamn soldier in the Washington Syndicate.” His nostrils flare at the intensity of his exhale. “But make no mistake. There is one thing I am not. A snitch .”

Robespierre howls with laughter for a solid minute. He slaps his thigh repeatedly, as though he has never been more amused in his life. His crazed laughter shrieks, and he nudges Viktor and Yegor as if to ask if they share his amusement. They don’t move.

“How noble! Hercules, you poor fucking thing,” Robespierre jeers. “You sound ridiculous! Do you think any of them are gonna give a shit once you’re dead? We’re going to find out where Hamilton is, anyway, and they’ll trace it back to you! They’re going to see you for what you truly are: weak .”

He leaves the room, leaving Viktor and Yegor staring at him intently, but neither of them says a word. The faint sound of Robespierre’s annoying laughter is still reverberating in the hallway beyond the door. Hercules closes his eyes.

The air is suddenly a lot colder than he remembers it being. It nips his skin and chills his bloody lips. His fingertips are numb and he can only hear himself breathing. It’s distant and abnormal, the way his whole body heaves for the fraction of a breath.  

A loud slam has his anxiety spiking and for the first time in a long time, dreaded fear sinks into his gut. He hasn’t felt this fear since the day his wife died. He doesn’t look up. The solid click of heels on the floor and the swish of fabric sound normal, and for a moment, he convinces himself that he’ll live.

“Viktor. Yegor. Ukhodi. ” he hears a warm, deep voice. The two men obey his command and leave, conversing in Russian. Hercules lifts his eyes and finds the unfamiliar man from before, eyes boring holes through him. The man approaches him with his hands in his pockets, casually appraising him before saying in clear English, “You don’t have to deal with this, you know.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Hercules mutters, voice hoarse.

“He wasn’t bluffing about the murder charges,” the man continues, stooping in front of Hercules, face to face.

A scoff, and Hercules responds, “I know how this is gonna end. And it won’t end in a fucking courtroom.”

“That’s true,” the man concedes. “Those men are going to beat you until you’re dead, and Max is going to let them.”

“So what are you?” Hercules snorts, his heart jackhammering through his veins. Fear tears into his chest and up into his throat like ice. “Some sort of chaplain? Here to get my confession?”

“I’m here to convince you that you have a rich future. It seems pointless to let you die,” the man says flatly, merely observing Hercules with courteous speculation.

“So you’re helping me?” the captive inquires. Something is not adding up, and something about this guy is off putting. He can’t put his finger on it, though. But he’d like to get his arms untied.

“Well,” the man says shortly. “Yes.”

“Untie me.”

“No.”

Hercules groans, defeated.

“Let me rephrase that,” the man says at last. “I’m helping you help us . The objective is to find out where Alexander is. Beyond that, you aren’t of much use.”

Hercules coughs again, wrenching his chest as he struggles to breathe. He hisses at the pain.

“Do you read, Hercules?” the man asks casually, returning to his full height, and pacing the otherwise empty room. His loud heels click on the concrete floor. He doesn’t get an answer, so he continues. “Your name is striking.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” the captive mumbles.

“How are you always so composed?” the man asks, eyes glinting. “I’m curious. You haven’t shed a single tear and yet I’m fairly certain your ribs are fractured.”

“What are you, a doctor?” Hercules scoffs.

“Yes, actually.”

Of course. He doesn’t respond. Focused on his breathing, he wonders what the world would think of him if his heart just stopped, right now. These fractured ribs would turn to dust and he would fade like the final notes of a symphony.

“You’re not afraid to die,” the man says plainly. “Isn’t that right?”

Hercules has never considered that before. He understands that at this point, he is faced with sudden death, but he isn’t afraid. If anything, he’s curious. Daring. He shifts his his seat, eyes on the man. “So what if I’m not?”

The man regards him with a formal interest, quizzically scrutinizing the captive. “Fascinating. Absolutely astonishing.”

He feels unease overcome him, a daunting, looming light in the back of his mind flashing a warning signal. He closes his eyes and feels his breath escape.

“Yo.” John talks around the cigarette hanging from his lips. Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, he holds his magazine in one hand, and his drink in the other. He has just finished an article about the earliest human lifeforms and their tools that have been recently recovered.

“ Jean . We have a task,” Lafayette says from the other end, wind whipping through his words. “Where are you?”

“Task?” John mumbles, removing the cigarette, tapping it on his ashtray, and flipping the page. “I don’ recall agreein’ to a task, Marq.”

“Protection,”

“Protection?” the capo repeats, just shy of bewildered. “Who’re we protectin’?”

“ Alexandre . Amant du général. There is an immediate situation. I need to meet you in my room now.” The Frenchman sounds disoriented. He must be driving, John reasons.

“Need me to round up somma my guys?”

“This would be preferred,” Lafayette punctuates, and the line clicks.

John takes a drag from his cigarette and begins skimming the next article. He vaguely wonders what situation might have Lafayette jumping to defend Alexander, unless of course, it is an order from the Boss. Then he wonders what situation might have the Boss jumping to call a crew of boys to protect Alexander. It must be serious, because otherwise, this is just an overreaction. However, he heeds Lafayette’s wishes and begins scrolling through his contacts.

Hamilton recalls Lafayette’s exact words, later that night in the shower. He said Mulligan told him, and Hamilton is damn sure that means Hercules Mulligan. Besides, it would only make sense if Hercules is in the police precinct, with Robespierre. With all that said, how come Hercules hasn’t texted him, then? It would be normal for the man to send some form of outreach to Hamilton, considering the stakes are pretty high. Or maybe it has slipped his mind. Hamilton spends the night mildly ignoring George, who is in his study, reading.

Hamilton watches his phone, wondering if it will vibrate with a text from the man. He suddenly feels guilty of his mistreatment of the man. The hours stretch, pulling light away from the sky. He does not receive a single message. He sighs.

On the other side of the city, Robespierre waits patiently in his car, next to his Russian counterpart. Both he and the doctor are wary of disposing of any bodies.

“Tell them to dispose of him quickly and quietly,” Robespierre orders. “I want him buried in the cut. Not a soul will know.”

The doctor nods and turns to Viktor and Yegor in the backseat, translating Robespierre’s commands into perfect, pretty Russian. “ Vyryt yamu v gryazi i ubit etogo cheloveka (dig a hole in the mud and kill this man).”  

The men gruffly mumble their pledges of obedience, and drag Hercules’ bruised body out of the car, down onto the side of the road.

His head lolls, staring up at the spinning sky. He closes his eyes in prayer.

“ Nachat kopat (start digging),” Yegor mumbles, dropping Hercules’ feet into the mud.

“ Ne govorite mne, chto delat (don’t tell me what to do),” Viktor growls in response.

“Stop that,” the doctor snaps, and they fall silent. “ Both of you start digging or I’ll bury you both with him.”

The men exchange bitter glances, and get to work.

The doctor paces--which annoys Hercules--while he waits for the men to complete their task. Soon, with muddy hands, Viktor and Yegor have produced a hole, four feet wide, three feet deep. Hercules is slumped against a tree, watching through the darkness. He closes his eyes, sighing into the quiet night air. He can see Robespierre’s car through the trees, headlights low, car in hazard mode. He never thought he would die like this, but then again, only a dead man considers death.

He looks up to the doctor, who has not looked up from his phone.

“You are ready to die?” Viktor growls in poor English, saturated with his Russian accent.

Yegor says nothing, only wipes his muddy hands on his jeans.

The doctor, at the sudden noise, looks up, and then down at their hole. He scrutinizes it, and then shrugs. “Well, men. Get it over with. Idti .”

Hercules’ heart stutters, throbbing loud in his ears. Panic turns his legs to plasma, wrenching in his gut. He stares at the hole, not making a sound. The men stalk toward him, grabbing him by his shoulders and shirt collar, pulling him to his feet.

He stumbles through the mud, barely able to move. But he won’t run. If he dies, he’ll die with dignity. His vision is blurring and he’s forced to his knees, at the edge of the hole. He closes his eyes.

“Are you a religious man, Hercules?” the doctor inquires.

He hears the click of a cocked gun, and a cool metal tip pressed to the back of his scalp. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “No. But I believe in God.”

“God has done you a favor today, indeed.”

Hercules feels hot, ugly tears pouring down his cheeks and he hadn’t realized he started crying. His heart is fighting to crumble the tower of ribs that encase it, pounding so hard, his neck is throbbing. Maybe his heart wants to tear down the fragile shell, that Hercules has come to know as his own body, and fly away. Take all of his hopes and dreams and run, leaving Hercules numb before his execution. His breaths are coming in gasps, but if these men think he will break, they’re goddamn wrong. He’s sure Alexander would do the same for him.

“ Poluchit Maks .” The doctor says, and he hears one of the men depart, but the gun stays at Hercules’ head. “ On zakhochet uvidet (Get Max. He will want to see).” A moment of silence passes. “Do you have any final wishes?”

“Find someone to look after my daughter,” Hercules whispers. “Find someone to take her away from this fucking city.”

The doctor nods slowly. “I will agree to that. You have my word.”

“Tell her I’m with her mom.” the man says, and his voice breaks. His words are coming out, choked through his tears. “Tell her I love her and I’m proud of her and I’m always with her. Tell her to say her prayers and that I’m so sorry,”

The doctor shows no sign of interest, mildly observing Hercules. “You’ve had a tough life, boy.”

Hercules doesn’t respond. The sounds of boots crunching through sticks and squishing through mud is enough to let Hercules know that Viktor or Yegor has returned, and with them, came Robespierre.

“It’s a shame that it had to end this way,” the doctor says fondly. “ Viktor. Pristreli yego (Viktor. Shoot him).”

Gunfire rings loud through the clear night.

Everything is still, except for the trees when the wind rustles the branches, pushing the green leaves against the black sky. The doctor looks on, appraising the situation, staring at the the dead body, which thuds on the cool mud as it falls, splashing the doctor’s boots. He makes a mental note to discard these when he leaves here. Viktor and Yegor remain silent.

Hercules opens his eyes, staring at the stars as they blend into the satin sky. He holds no weight in his heart anymore. He looks up to the doctor, confused. He’s speechless.

The doctor smiles. “My name is Josef Cvitanovich. Pleased to meet you.”

If that name is supposed to mean something to Hercules, it doesn’t. He stares in silence, still trying to understand what has just happened. He looks behind him and sees Viktor and Yegor watching him, but he doesn’t see Robespierre, until he looks down into the mud. He looks back to the doctor, still unable to form words.

“ Pokhoroni yego (bury him),” the doctor commands, and both Viktor and Yego move to drag Robespierre into the hole. “Stand up, Hercules.”

Hercules scrambles to his feet, mouth dry, eyes wide, cheeks hot.

“I just spared your life. Do you understand?” His tone is no longer warm.

He nods.

The doctor looks him over, grimacing. “You’re now indebted to me. You owe me your life .”

Hercules doesn’t speak.

“I have a mission for you,” he continues, offhandedly. “We’ll be in touch.”

Somewhere in the back of his foggy mind, Hercules knows that eventually he will wish that the doctor had just let him die. But for now, he just wants to go home and hug his daughter.