Chapter Text
Hamilton’s breaths are coming fast and short, his eyes are blown wide, and he what he can move of his face looks horrified. He’s covered in the splatter of Davies’ blood. Washington focuses on Hamilton, only on the boy in his arms. He does not stop to examine the body beside them.
“Wh-why…?” It’s still hard for Hamilton to speak, even without the aftershocks of the paralytic further forcing his silence. “Why would y’do that?”
“Shush,” Washington is efficient, focused. He checks Hamilton for additional injuries, but other than the lingering effects causing his limbs to refuse to move, a barely bleeding cut on his neck and the twin burns on his cheeks already fading, it seems Davies did not cause any further physical damage. Hamilton makes an odd, strained sound as Washington rises with him.
It’s only once he’s on his feet that he remembers the far more serious injury to Hamilton’s side and murmurs a quick apology. With the boy in his arms Washington has no choice but to walk back to camp- a jostling ride on the back of the horse will do no good for that wound.
The trip will be a lot longer on foot. His horse waits patiently where Washington dismounted.
“Why?” Hamilton croaks again. It’s a clear struggle for him to move his lips and force his voice to work. “He- th’orders’ll be sent. Leave me, you c’n stop ‘em.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“But-”
“No, Alexander,” Washington pulls him a little closer without a second thought. Hamilton’s muscles go tense, but he can’t lift his arms or pull away. He knows too, the situation is dire. Hamilton seems certain that Davies was telling the truth- he intercepted those outgoing orders.
It makes sense. Davies got the letters from Laurens, returned the one he sent his father, because surely the man would recognize his son’s writing, and sent just one note back with contradicting orders. One note as a mere preview of the chaos about to ensue if they do not figure out a way to stop it.
Washington got Alexander back. He can stop this too.
“He… I w’s there when he…” Davies brought Alexander with him when he’d given the orders to the messenger. God, they were alone together for hours .
“Are you hurt?” What a stupid question, but Washington’s eyes scan the body in his arms, searching for any damage that might still be hidden.
The answer doesn’t come quickly enough. Hamilton’s eyes slip near closed and for a beat the general verges on panic.
“Hamilton, are you-”
“He… didn’t,” the boy struggles through words that should be so easy to say. “Didn’ hurt me.”
Hamilton doesn’t add anything else to the statement, but Washington understands. Davies would have waited to cause any further damage until he was certain Washington was going to walk away. He’d have wanted the general to know exactly what he was condemning Alexander to.
Another quick glance at the boy’s face betrays just how exhausted he is. Thinking back over the whirlwind of the last day or so leaves Washington unsteady enough- he can’t even think of when Hamilton may have last slept. He adjusts his grip carefully and apologizes again when a hiss escapes Hamilton’s teeth.
Truthfully, Washington is worried about the coming storm as well. He didn’t know what he’d do now, but he did know that he’d turned away from Alexander and heard Davies speak to him like that and knew he’d sacrifice anything to keep him safe.
After this, Washington is never going to be able to let Hamilton out of his sight without feeling the stirrings of panic in his chest; that cold that had become so consistent in the past few hours.
Hamitlon drifts off to sleep within minutes of their short conversation. It can’t be comfortable, but Washington imagines this is the safest he’s felt in the weeks since Davies showed up in camp with him.
He walks for what seems like ages through the woods back in the direction of camp, and it dawns on Washington how tired he is as well. Everything aches and he feels twenty years older.
It’s something of a miracle that Laurens and another aide meet them halfway back to camp. After a brief reunion and exclamation that Alexander is alive, which the boy in question sleeps through, Washington falls back into that natural mode of giving orders.
“Colonel Laurens,” The short, clipped words come with easy efficiency. Take care of the most serious issue first. “Return to camp and send out the fastest riders you know to any battalion that may have gotten an order in the last two weeks, no, make it three weeks. They are to stay whatever orders they've been given and shall send a representative to headquarters where we will work out a signal for relaying orders in the future. That way men with wicked intentions cannot intercept and change outgoing instructructions.”
Laurens stares at him for a moment, eyes widening as realization of what happened with the letters at camp dawns on him. He glances once at Alexander, and then gives a nod. “Yes, sir.”
As Laurens rides off at rapid speed Washington shifts his attention to the other man. Now for a more grim task.
“Back that way, in the clearing,” Washington nods in the direction he and Hamilton have come. “You’ll find a man’s body. Burn it and leave no trace of items that may identify him. You should find my horse nearby as well. Return to camp with him once you’ve finished.”
The other aide nods, salutes, and rides off in the direction opposite Laurens.
Washington takes a moment to close his eyes before resuming their trek. Finally, finally, this nightmare is at an end.
Hamilton wakes, groggy and aching and finding an unfamiliar low ceiling overhead. The room itself is surprisingly warm, and two small windows nearby let in afternoon sunlight and make the room bright enough for him to realize a few seconds later that he does not know this place.
Davies.
He lets out a wild sound, something akin to a growl, and quickly sits up. His side flares in pain, and Hamilton nearly loses his balance and falls off the bed. In fact, he would have ended up with his face against the floor had something sturdy not reached out to steady him.
“Relax, son,” the familiar voice is close by, attached to the hand holding him more or less upright.
Hamilton isn’t sure how he missed it when he awakened, but Washington is seated in a chair directly next to the bed. He looks tired, but sits, posture erect as ever, and Alexander wonders how much time has passed since he planted himself there.
“Where?” The first question seems the most sensible. His throat is dry, but the single word is the closest to normal his voice has sounded since this ordeal began.
“One of the locals was kind enough to lease us temporary quarters, at least until our own can be rebuilt. You’re safe here.”
It’s not that he doesn’t trust his general, but unease lingers in his chest. “The fire- it was Davies. He knocked over a candle and he forced me to drink something and I couldn’t move . I don’t… is everyone all right?”
Hamilton can’t bear the thought that more men have died because of him.
Washington nods, “Everyone escaped the blaze, though we thought for some time we’d lost you.”
“Davies,” Hamilton closes his eyes. That face lingers in the darkness, grinning at him, and he quickly opens them again.
“He’s dead,” Washington finishes. “Do you remember?”
He does remember the grip around his waist going slack, warm blood against his face, but instead of relief, it’s anxiety that creeps up Hamilton’s spine. “No, Davies had messages. He stole them from headquarters somehow and changed every order to pit our troops against each other and-”
“It’s taken care of,” Washington replies in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. “Laurens and our fastest riders are out putting those orders right. You’ve been asleep nearly a full day.”
Hamilton hums as he tries to push away all of that built up concern, but finds he has trouble doing so, even as the general helps him to lay back on the mattress once more. Once he’s prone again, he finds his gaze drifting away from Washington. If he’s been asleep nearly a day it doesn’t feel like it, because sleep is already reaching to pull at him again.
“Alexander…”
“Hm, sir?” He focuses his eyes again, concentrates on Washington’s face. It takes effort.
“My boy, I owe you so many apologies. If I’d believed you, trusted you in the first place, the moment you said Davies was the man who attacked you, none of this would have happened. I’m sorry. I know that will never be enough, but I am. And I will not allow this to happen again.”
Hamilton stares at the general with wide eyes until he feels something pricking at the corners. He blinks rapidly, turning his cheek against a pillow. What does he say to that? What can he say? Davies came after him, caused pain on a level he’s not experienced before, toyed with the general’s emotions and ultimately lead to the deaths of more than two dozen men, the loss of their headquarters, and who knows how much important information regarding the war.
It’s not all right, it never was, and yet…
“I forgive you,” He murmurs, sleepy. There’s nothing he can add to that to make it seem more eloquent. The whole situation serves to prove that the general is as human and prone to fault as any man. That frightens Hamilton a bit. “I’m sorry too,” he adds uneasily, recalling an outburst and refusing to speak to Washington just before the fire.
Washington sighs, and as Hamilton’s eyes drift closed again, he feels a gentle hand squeeze the back of his neck. “You’ve done nothing you need to apologize for.”
…
Washington leaves the room once he’s certain Hamilton is asleep again. The relief to see him awake, lucid, is almost overwhelming. The boy is alive, recovering- the doctor reported that he will probably be able to get out of bed in a couple weeks, and resume most of his typical duties a couple weeks after.
The notion leaves Washington both thrilled, and terrified.
The aide he’d sent to dispose of Davies had returned just as darkness fell the night before, confused. He was unable to find a body. Nor did he find Washington’s horse. Perhaps he wound up in the wrong clearing.
A number of things could have happened here. He knows he shot Davies. He knows where his bullet struck. He remembers the stain of blood on the man’s teeth. Washington shouldn’t dwell on it, shouldn’t worry, but God, he does.
When Washington returns to the room he’s been loaned for use as an office, a small space he’d typically assume is for storage, he finds Laurens waiting outside the door. The man looks like he’s barely on his feet, likely he rode through the whole night, but he still straightens and offers a salute.
“We were able to reach the other battalions without much trouble, sir,” Laurens begins. He follows the general into the little office, and then, seeming to think better of it, lingers near the door. The room doesn’t seem quite large enough for two men. “There was some confusion, and some men had begun marching, but they were stopped before any damage could occur. Each camp will have a man here to discuss how to prevent this in the future- a week from yesterday.”
“Good,” Washington’s reply is quick, even. He doesn’t need to put emotion into it for both of them to realize how dangerous this situation might have become.
“Sir,” Laurens doesn’t wait to shift the conversation. “Is Alexander…”
Washington looks up from a paper sitting on his desk and nods, “The doctor thinks he’ll be recovered within a month. It seems after being abducted he wasn’t injured any further. He’ll need time to heal.”
“I’d like to see him.”
Washington doesn’t want to say how relieved he is at that. If Laurens wishes to go sit with Hamilton, then he can push away the worry that still clings to him, at least for a little while. “He’s sleeping now, but when he wakes I believe he’d enjoy the company. Up the stairs. The last room on the right.”
Laurens nods and moves to leave, his back is turned when Washington’s voice stops him.
“Laurens,” the general calls, hesitance in his voice. The boy turns his head to watch him. “I am truly sorry for how I behaved after the news of the lost men came; I regard my actions as inexcusable but if you’d find it in yourself to forgive me-”
“I forgave you the moment after it happened, Your Excellency. The stress and pain you were under… I not only sympathize, I understand.”
The words lift a weight from Washington’s shoulders. He nods and offers as friendly as an expression as he dares. “Hamilton is lucky to have as brave and as kind of a man as you are as his best friend.”
Laurens grins and thanks him, quietly leaving. Washington picks up a pen and turns his attention to the stack of papers. Anxiety still pulls at him, teases him and makes him almost want to run upstairs too just to check on Alexander.
Almost.
Instead Washington takes a breath and begins to work. They’ll all recover. They’ll all get past this eventually.
They’ll have to.
They never recovered Davies’ body. In the month following the whole ordeal Washington had searched the clearing himself, and while there was blood staining the forest floor, there was also the absence of a body. He prayed that it meant some animal dragged him away, but that little inkling of worry started to overflow.
Hamilton’s recovery is going smoothly, albeit slowly. The wound in his side still pains him, Washington knows it does. Alexander tries to conceal his limp, how much it hurts to put any pressure on his side still, but Washington sees through it.
“There’s no shame in it,” he says one day. “That wound hasn’t been allowed to heal correctly since it was inflicted, it’s expected that the healing be slow.”
“I have no shame,” Hamilton hisses back defensively. “I’m fine - or getting there at least. I don’t need to be coddled so.”
But there was no real malice in his words, just a bit of frustration. He’s walking at least, and his voice is the same as it was.
Washington moves him into his chambers after everything that happened. The risk to Hamilton’s life is too glaringly obvious to ignore any longer; Davies said that he had been sent, if there is even a remote chance that the English had ordered Davies to attack Alexander specifically he will respond accordingly.
So the boy stays in a bed brought to Washington’s personal chambers, with the other aides sleeping in another room down the hall.
Washington barely lets him out of his sight, insistent of doing everything for him, and worries constantly about the things he does for himself.
It’s maddening.
It’s not that Hamilton doesn’t understand, he does. He jumps at shadows, closes his eyes and all he can see is that grin, he hears whispers too close to his ear that were never there.
Washington’s presence helps him; the opposite might also be true but he doesn’t know - Washington had almost sacrificed the war for him, and they were… closer than most employers and aides generally are, and at some point Hamilton has to admit to himself that that indicates a far more familial relationship between them. But he doesn’t know what to do with that.
He liked how it was before, when it was just this unspoken thing between them, but now actions have spoken louder than words and yet it’s still unspoken.
Also maddening.
Now, they are in an area that is horrifically grey; what is overstepping? What is too formal? And in Washington’s case, what qualifies and being too protective?
This , Hamilton argues, is not protection but control. He’s hardly allowed to go anywhere without a supervisor .
“I’m not a child,” he bites one day. “We’re in the middle of camp, I needn’t a guard.”
“And yet you’ll have one,” Washington replies without looking up from his notes. “We agreed you’d at least try not to fight me too hard on this Hamilton.”
“And I think you’ll agree that I’ve been spectacularly patient with it, but really-”
“I do not want to take the chance-”
“What does it matter, if Davies is dead?”
“He was sent here Alexander!” Washington roars, struggling to control his growl. “If not in the original orders, the British certainly know your name by now, he’d of reported back to them.”
“And so what if they know of my name! There is very little stock in a name like mine!”
“That’s not the point and you know it!” Washington stands. “Your position, your proximity to me has made you a target and I will not let this happen again.”
Hamilton also stands, but winces and clutches the back of his chair, pain shooting through his side. “I am no different than any of the other aides.”
Again, Washington shoots him a look, which somehow pierces into Hamilton’s very core. “Do not be purposefully blind to the facts,” he rumbles lowly. Both parties having lost their steam, Washington sits again. “You’ll be accompanied by the guard whenever you’re not in these quarters.”
Hamilton hears what’s not said: End of conversation.
“Your missives then, Your Excellency ,” he hisses, angry. He takes the pile of messages and letters from his coat, depositing them unceremoniously on the desk. “I’m taking my leave now, in case you need to document it somewhere or send four watchdogs after me.”
The boy spins on his heel before Washington can reply, marching his way out the door with a slam.
He considers following him, but that’s probably not wise right now. Instead he leafs through the missives which had been thrown onto his desk so carelessly. Most are relevant to Congress, but there’s one that makes him stop dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat.
He knows the handwriting; had seen it in his nightmares for a month.
It’s just his name, folded and held together by a nondescript seal. Washington tears the letter open, that cold terror pooling in his gut. There’s only one line, but it’s enough.
Do you really think you can keep him safe every hour of every day?
Davies. He survived. But- but that was impossible, Washington had delivered that wound himself how could he possibly...?
That didn’t matter; he needed to get Alexander back here, needed to be able to see him, protect him.
“Guard,” he calls, summoning the man into the room. “Call Colonel Hamilton back, I’ve… work for him to do.”
“He said he’d be with Colonel Laurens, Your Excellency,” the guard replied, seeming uncertain of his next words. “Would you still like him back or shall I deliver-”
“Did I not just order you to fetch him? Go.”
“Yes sir.” The guard leaves with a quick bow, something Washington still occasionally cringes at.
He worries the note in between his fingers; he can’t tell Hamilton, the boy will never be able to recover if he’s constantly worrying about the threat. He’ll just protect him, he’ll have to. Hamilton might not like it, but he’ll just have to get used to the security.
He can’t- he won’t- what if Davies… Alexander needs to come back, he needs to come back right now.
The door opens, Washington stands expectantly, waiting for Hamilton to storm into the room. But he doesn’t come. The guard reenters instead, timidly clearing his throat at the general’s intense scrutiny.
“Colonel Hamilton was not with Colonel Laurens, sir,” he begins, prematurely wincing at Washington’s dark look. “Colonel Laurens says that he wanted to ride into town to deliver a message himself sir. It- it is not far.”
“I do not care of the distance, call him back now, ” Washington thunders. The poor soldier wastes no time in rushing away, shouting commands to the men downstairs.
It might be embarrassing but he’d rather the boy is humiliated than taken again.
It is a great relief to the soldier that they are able to stop the colonel’s ride, he shudders to imagine the general’s rage otherwise. The colonel’s ire is a different story, he knows what to expect and still winces at Hamilton’s fiery stare.
“Washington summoned me you say?”
The guard nods stiffly, averting his eyes. Hamilton is a perfect picture of Washington when he’s angry. “General Washington indicated he had work for your doing.”
“Work,” Hamilton sputters indignantly, “this work could not wait the hour’s time this ride will take?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Frustrated, Hamilton shoves past the guard and renters the headquarters. “Deal with the horse then,” he spits - he’ll regret his rudeness later but right now he isn’t in the mind for it.
Washington is quite sure this time, that the person exploding into his office is Hamilton, no one else would dare slam the door open the way he does. But instead of raging fire in the boy’s eyes there is only ice.
Hamilton says nothing, glaring at the general and approaching his desk like a chained bear. He’s still in his riding gear, it amplifies his rage somehow.
Still silent, the boy reaches for the pile of correspondences and stalks to his desk. He leaves the one the general thumbs at, barely casting a second glance.
The air itself is tense, Hamilton’s stiff obedience and Washington’s anxious worrying thick enough to cut.
Alexander is angry, that’s fine. Let him be. But Washington won’t sacrifice his safety for anything, not even their relationship.
Davies’ words echo in his mind, a taunt and a threat and a promise all in one; Do you really think you can keep him safe every hour of every day?