Chapter Text
In the middle of the night, John woke up with a lurking feeling of abject terror. He blinked a few times, trying to remember why, but his murky searches were impeded by a weight across his torso and a head pressed into his neck. He realized his arm was around Alexander, and the weight across his own torso was Alexander’s arm, slung over his waist.
Then he remembered the reason for the terror, and he pulled Alexander as close as he dared. How could he have thought this man was dead when he was, even in sleep, so obviously alive?
He jumped a little when Alexander started talking, something about money and death and giant rabbits, but as the words grew less and less coherent and as Alexander didn’t stir, John remembered other nights like this, when Alexander had spoken without awaking. He smiled to himself. Of course Alexander’s brain couldn’t cope with not talking for eight or so entire hours.
The next time John woke up, it was without any feelings of great dread. It was, however, with a confused Alexander Hamilton’s face a mere two inches away from his own.
“Why am I here, John?”
John smiled. “Because I was afraid that you might not be.”
Alexander’s face clouded over as he tried to interpret this. “I was reported dead. You were worried about me.”
“We all were.”
“You needed to sleep in the same bed as me to make sure I was okay.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
But Alexander was smiling. “You care about me.”
“Far too much.” Even that admission was too much. John shook his head to clear it. “But concern was within us all. Lafayette, General Washington…”
Alexander shot up into a sitting position. “General Washington.”
“Is there something in particular about him?”
“Does he know that my fate was not as reported?”
John pushed himself up, slowly realizing what Alexander was getting at. “You ought to tell him.”
“Would you join me?”
“Someone does have to explain before a ghost appears in his tent.”
Both men stood up.
“I’d wager I can dress faster than you, Hamilton,” John said.
“You’re on.”
They rushed to get their uniforms in order, flinging coats around their shoulders, fiddling with buttons, pulling on socks, then boots. John looked up as soon as he was done. Alexander was still tying the laces on his boots. “I won.”
“I resent you.”
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
They made their way to Washington’s tent. John poked a head in first. “General Washington?”
Washington was at his desk, his head down. He raised his head, greeting John with a weary look. “Yes?”
“Sir, there has been an interesting turn of events since the announcement of Hamilton’s death.”
“And that would be…?”
“Hamilton is not dead. It was a false report.”
Suddenly, Washington looked a little less weary. “He’s not?”
John stepped all the way into the tent, grabbing Hamilton’s arm and pulling him in.
“Deepest apologies, General Washington, for not telling you sooner,” Hamilton began. “It was inexcusable, I know, and I regret that the thought slipped my mind—“
“No need to apologize for being alive, Hamilton,” Washington said. “I do wish you had told me sooner, but your apology is wholly unnecessary.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I do wish you would not put yourself in the line of fire so often, however. Let this be the last report of your death, false or otherwise.”
“Understood, sir.”
A small smile touched Washington’s face. “Thank you, Hamilton.”