Work Text:
It was a rare thing; a fragile, delicate sort of peace that they’ve carved out for themselves after a summer filled with death and bloodshed and battle after battle. Washington sometimes still couldn’t believe that they - his nation, his army, the little family he made in it - got this far. They’d danced too close to complete obliteration far too many times.
And of course, the war was still not won. The British wouldn’t fight in winter, not in an unfamiliar land against people who knew every rock and tree in it, but that was little relief. They would still have to threaten, cajole and reason Congress into giving them sufficient supplies for the winter, and that was a task he wasn’t looking forward to… There was still so much to do.
But for now they were all safe in this sheltered, sunny little valley, hidden from their enemies and protected from the elements.
Washington stared out the window at the forest of tents surrounding the house he’d taken for himself and his aides. Despite the clear signs of the war still around them - in the weather bleached uniforms, the bayonets, the tired men milling around - the land was breathtakingly beautiful. The hills around them were covered in thick woods, the leaves changing hue from day to day, the small creek running across the camp filling the night with quiet chatter.
Even with all the responsibilities they would have to shoulder looming on the horizon, he felt restless. The days were going by way too slowly… He hadn’t even been bothered by a letter or a report in hours.
Though the notion was unfamiliar in such troubled times, it appeared like Washington would have to look for a way to occupy himself.
The house was smaller than the places they usually commandeered for their offices - only one story, but with a spacious layout. His room was the only one with any kind of privacy, and it opened right into a large foyer, where his aides still worked on furniture improvised from crates and planks.
Washington stepped out quietly, enjoying a moment of invisibility as he surveyed his family. Trumbull was sleeping, slouched over his table, his mouth slightly open and drooling on an unfinished letter.
His dear Lafayette was flirting with young John Laurens in the corner under the pretense of helping him with his French.
Tilghman was reading some correspondence - personal in nature if the flush in his cheeks was any indication.
And Hamilton was working.
Washington could feel a bittersweet pang in his chest just looking at him… It’d been only a week since Hamilton recovered from a fever - apparently a frequent visitor from his childhood, but made only worse by the conditions of army men - and still, he was there, hunched over one of his notebooks, scribbling feverishly and muttering to himself.
Washington sighed… It looked like the most important task at hand was making sure that his dearest aide-de-camp wasn’t rushing himself back to a sickbed. Washington had quite enough of seeing him weak and shivering with illness like he wouldn’t make the night. Enough for a lifetime, if he was to be honest with himself.
He cleared his throat, watching with a rare smile as everyone - except for the dozing Trumbull - sprang to their feet. As one, his aides looked at the sleeping man, like this would be the last time they could lay eyes on him; after all he would surely be dead when their General finished with him, but Washington was feeling generous.
“At ease,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, watching them take their seats once again. He raised an eyebrow at Lafayette giving him a cheeky grin from the corner. “No need to disturb poor Mr. Trumbull, he will need his rest if he’s going to take the night duty.”
The aides snickered quietly, even Hamilton’s lips twitching at the corners, despite his well-known love for strict and instant military discipline.
Washington carefully sidestepped Trumbull’s desk and walked to the door, patting Hamilton’s shoulder on the way.
“Colonel, if you would. There are some matters I need to discuss with you.”
The young man got on his feet immediately, and it didn’t escape Washington’s gaze how he held onto the edge of the desk until he was safely standing. Some fresh air would do him good. Probably would help with his lackluster appetite too.
Once out the door, Washington took a deep breath of the crisp, autumn air. It was tainted a bit by the smell of cooking fires, but was still leagues better that the stuffed smell of the insides of the house.
He looked down at Hamilton standing beside him, feeling another of those painful little pangs as he took in his small, slight frame. For the unsuspecting eye, the boy - because he was barely more than a boy despite his feverish energy - didn’t look like much of a soldier. Of course, by now Washington knew the steel keeping that elegant spine straight and the molten fire of the intellect behind the dark eyes. Hamilton might not have been soldier material, but he definitely was commander material.
“Are you chilled?” he asked. It wasn’t too cold yet, but out of the warmth of the fire it felt cooler than it had a right to be.
Hamilton shook his head curtly, not - Washington suspected - like he would have admitted to such mortal inconveniences. His dear Hamilton was more prideful than it was healthy.
“Would you like to survey the troops, sir?” the boy asked him instead. It wasn’t unusual for the general to make rounds around the camp; both to keep up morale and to make sure all was well. But that was not Washington’s aim at the moment.
“Maybe later,” he said dismissively, starting off towards the wooden fence they’d erected around the camp. Hamilton fell into step beside him easily, but Washington could almost taste his confusion.
He led the young man by the sentries, out the gates and up the little path he explored on a previous, sleepless night. It had been beautiful in the silvery moonlight, and he expected it to be just as breathtaking by the rays of the setting sun.
“Your Excellency?” Hamilton asked him, slowing down once they were out of sight of the men. He was never one to question his general in front of others, and Washington appreciated it, especially because he knew all too well how much faster Hamilton’s mouth could be than his brain.
Washington considered him for a moment and then took the liberty of taking him by the arm.
“Walk with me,” he said. The young man went stiff with shock under his hand for a long second but he quickly recovered. Washington slowed his gait to make sure that Hamilton could keep up with him, despite their considerable difference in height.
“You wanted to talk to me, sir?” the boy asked finally, almost tentatively. It was so out of character that it nearly made him question what he was doing.
But alas, the woods were magnificent, dressed in the colors of gold and ruby and they both needed to stretch a little.
“Tell me what you’re reading,” Washington ordered, following the winding path climbing gently up the hillside. Hamilton made a small noise of confusion.
“What… what I’m reading, sir?”
Washington waved his hand in the air vaguely.
“You are always reading,” he said, his eyes caught by a squirrel hurrying up the trunk of a tree. “You are always working, and when you’re not working, you are reading one thing or the other.”
Hamilton spluttered beside him, obviously taking the comment as an attack on his work ethics. Everything was a slight against his honor for Hamilton. Washington sighed and shook his head.
“I did not mean it as a reprimand, Colonel, I was merely trying to… converse.”
God, but why did he have to be so wretched with words? Then again, his lack of expression was exactly the reason why he needed the outstanding mind of his dear Hamilton so much.
“Oh,” the boy said, sounding surprised and young. Washington was careful to hide the fond smile on his face. He didn’t doubt that his mirth would be taken as offence.
There was a pause with only the sound of leaves crunching under their boots, and then Hamilton spoke.
“I’m studying Suetonius, sir… When I can, that is,” he added hastily.
Washington hummed under his breath.
“The Twelve Caesars? That’s not something to come by easily in times like these…”
Hamilton licked his lips.
“A friend of mine managed to send me a copy in Latin to the last camp,” he said, his voice picking up confidence the longer Washington let him speak. “I must say, as educational as the material is, I feel like the man puts a little too much credit into baseless gossip… Even with the first few chapters of Julius Caesar’s biography lost to time, I have to say it seems quite impossible…”
Washington smiled, listening intently, letting the cadence of Hamilton’s voice wash over him. It was a lovely voice; colorful and expressive. It arched in incredulity or dropped with sarcasm and danced with emotion at every turn. He’d heard - from Laurens and other youth from New York - what a fiery public speaker his dear Hamilton was, and hearing him now it wasn’t hard to imagine him igniting passion in the masses.
Surely, if he’d chosen the path of God, he would have converted the whole world by now.
He led them up the hill, letting the cover of the trees convince him for just a second that they weren’t at war, that this was a more peaceful time. Nothing but a couple of intelligent gentlemen taking a leisurely walk in the woods. When they reached a small clearing Washington let his head drop back, enjoying the warmth of the late october sun on his skin. God, he missed being home. He missed Martha’s calm friendship. He missed peace.
Then again, he wouldn’t have his dear Hamilton’s company back home, and that was enough to make him hesitate in what he wished for.
He was shaken out of his thoughts by a slight tremble in the arm he was holding, and worry took instant hold of his mind. He pulled them to a stop, but Hamilton barely even noticed it, rambling on, as he would, about a particularly inaccurate assertion about Augustus’ character.
“Hamilton, my boy, are you cold?” Washington asked him, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice. At least it was enough to stop the young man’s declamation.
“I’m sorry, what? Oh, no, Your Excellency, I’m quite warmed by our walk,” he assured, but Washington thought he was a bit too pale, a bit too worn. Some of his hair had escaped the confines of his plait, and was stuck to his temple that was now shining with sweat.
Now that they’ve stopped, the air did seem a bit chillier than what was good for a young man still on the path to full recovery.
“Forgive me, my dear Colonel, I shouldn’t have dragged you quite at this pace,” Washington said, cursing himself for always falling back to his military training, and ending up at a march rather than a casual stroll, no matter how careful he was.
But no apology would make Hamilton warmer, and there was only one remedy for the chill.
“Here, take my coat,” Washington offered, not even surprised when Hamilton nearly staggered back a step.
“Sir! I couldn’t possibly!” he said, vehement in his protest, but Washington wasn’t about to be swayed.
He held out the coat with a raised eyebrow.
“I will make that a command, Lieutenant Colonel, if I have to,” he assured.
Hamilton looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but relented after a second, his shoulders slumping as he obediently shrugged the coat on his slight frame. The clothing was way too big for him, the sleeves hanging low enough that only his delicate, ink-stained fingertips peaked out from under them.
Washington didn’t quite know what to make of the swell of emotion in his chest.
“Is this to your satisfaction, sir?” Hamilton asked, with a sour expression, pulling the coat tighter around himself. “Just for the record, Your Excellency, I will quite possibly never forgive myself if you catch a cold.”
Washington laughed, the sound echoing around them between the trees. Hamilton smiled at him, looking pleasantly surprised at managing to elicit such joy from his general. There was a stray leaf stuck in his hair above his ear; bright gold and red around the edges, making him look like a nymph or a faun. Some otherworldly creature.
“Stay,” Washington told him, his voice more hushed than it should have been as he carefully plucked the leaf from his dear Hamilton’s hair, letting the ball of his hand brush the side of the young man’s face for just a fleeting second.
Hamilton cleared his throat, his jaw twitching as he held carefully still, like he couldn’t bear to break the fragile atmosphere of tension surrounding them. The boy’s eyes were darker than he ever saw them before, swallowing the autumn sunlight and Washington himself along with it.
From the distance, a horn sounded, urgent and demanding like a wounded animal.
Hamilton snatched the leaf from Washington’s fingers and turned on his heels, starting down the path they followed up here, to this overcharged moment.
“It might be supplies, or sentries reporting enemy movement,” he said over his shoulder to Washington who still haven’t managed to make himself move. “But whatever it is, it will need your attention, sir.”
***
It took Washington two days - two hellish days busy with correspondence and fortification - to find the brittle, dried leaf tucked carefully into the inner pocket of his coat.
The memory of their walk rushed back to him at once, making him smile despite himself.
What an evening it had been…
What an evening.