Work Text:
Washington considered sending Hamilton to negotiate with General Gates - among others of his standing in the northern forces - both the best and the worst decision of the goddamned war.
On one hand, it was unquestionable that Hamilton more than lived up to the gargantuan task of relaying Washington’s will, and had a way with words that allowed him to coerce people twice his age and experience into serving the greater good of the Continental Army. Washington never doubted for one second that his young aide was the perfect man for the mission, and could even understand the boy’s enthusiasm for the unprecedented challenge of taking veteran Generals on as if he was their equal.
Alas, on the other hand he should have foreseen how taxing the whole affair would become both physically and mentally. Nobody would have been able to ride hundreds of miles tirelessly, then have the intellectual fortitude to argue his way to victory and come away unaffected.
The truth was, that as much as the news of Hamilton’s ailing health on the way back from up north tied his stomach in knots, he still couldn’t fathom that anyone else would have been able to do his bidding with quite as much fervent vigor and precision.
Hamilton should have arrived before breakfast after multiple setbacks of being unable to ride thanks to his seasonal fever returning aided and abetted by his exhaustion. He always took the time to inform Washington of his delays, sending him regular reports whether he was only stopping to change horses or to spend the night somewhere.
Those short letters had been his only consolation in the past weeks, despite the worrying picture they’ve painted of Hamilton’s troubles.
Understandably, it was a great relief that morning when a young boy of about 12 was led to his study in the manor housing them for the time being, supposedly with news about Hamilton.
The child was dressed in a too big shirt and a frayed pair of pants, his bare feet dirty against the polished wood of the floor. He looked quite intimidated, but stood steady under Washington’s gaze. Good lad.
“You have something for me, son?” Washington asked after the door closed behind a retreating Laurens.
The boy nodded his head, his face serious as he procured a slightly misshapen envelope from the inside of his shirt. Washington took it without further words, unable to stop himself from reading it right away, his audience be damned.
General Washington,
I have been delayed once again at an inn only a meager twenty miles from camp, but this time I assure you it is no fault of my own.
The wretched woman who runs the place appropriated my horse-
Washington frowned, glancing up at the lad standing in front of him. He didn’t think that someone would be quite stupid enough to rob an army officer this close to his forces, but Hamilton did sound rather pained. In any case, he read further.
The wretched woman who runs the place appropriated my horse and refuses to give her back unless I sleep a ‘few hours’ whatever that nonsense means.
The nerve these people have, my General, the nerve!
I would not repeat the language she used against me, as just the thought of you reading about it is enough to shame me, but she appears to fancy herself as a do-gooder and me some pathetic, lost child in need of care...
Washington could barely hide a grin. Ah, now he understood the petulant tone.
He grabbed a shiny, red apple left over from his breakfast and threw it to the boy still standing in front of him.
“Eat, make yourself comfortable,” he commanded. The lad was all too happy to comply, and Washington continued on with the letter.
Were she a man, I would have sought a duel to show her the price of such impertinence, but alas, she is not. I assure you, I would have been perfectly capable to ride the last few miles to camp, but there is no reasoning with this creature. At the very least she agreed to send her son forward with this note to explain my absence. I should be following no more than twelve hours behind it, or sooner, if I can steal the horse back.
Your loyal servant,
LtCol A. Ham.
Washington shook his head fondly.
“Your mother sounds like quite a formidable woman,” he told the boy, who have proceeded to eat the apple - core and all - and now nodded back at Washington with all the gravitas of a child.
“That she is, sir,” he said.
Washington gave him a smile and went to his desk, rooting around in the drawers until he found what he was looking for; a comb of Martha’s - silver and ivory, misplaced during her last visit to camp. She didn’t seem bothered by losing it when she realized what happened, so Washington felt no guilt handing the delicate little thing over to the boy who looked at it with wide eyes, like it was a treasure of Solomon himself.
“Give this to her on your return along with my warm regards and sincere apologies for whatever curses my man undoubtedly threw at her.”
The boy’s hands shook as he took the comb, carefully tucking it away in his shirt.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. Washington ruffled his hair.
“Find the man downstairs who let you in and tell him I want you to be fed properly before you leave.”
***
He would have never admitted it, but for the rest of the day Washington found it incredibly difficult - sometimes nigh impossible - to concentrate on anything. It was the unfortunate side-effect of the knowledge that Hamilton would be returned under his roof soon after such a long time on the road.
He found himself equal parts happy at the prospect and ashamed for the distraction when there was a war around them… If no one else, at least his dear Lafayette and the young Laurens understood his predicament perfectly, and took over his service completely to shield him from the potential criticism of his other aides.
Washington had a light lunch between bouts of dictating letters and surveying supply requests - most of the afternoon eaten up by the dreadful boredom of administration.
By the time he had dinner with the aides downstairs and the sun began to set over the tents outside, he was barely able to cover his distress. Hamilton should have arrived by now. The fact that it started to rain did nothing to lighten his mood, and his men were careful not to stroke his anger by idle chit-chat, making the meal a quiet and tense one.
This whole day was slowly giving him a headache of epic proportions.
***
It was all too easy to imagine what could go wrong on a muddy, rarely travelled road; a single rider could easily be unseated, a horse could fall, slipping and trapping her owner underneath her weight…
These were the thoughts running through Washington’s mind as he sat in his room, staring out into the darkness. He didn’t know the exact time, but he knew that all his aides had already retired, and for all intents and purposes, he might have been the single soul awake in the building.
A part of him was furious that he wasn’t able to sleep, waiting up instead like some lovesick maiden eager for her lover to return… Hamilton would better have a damned good reason for his delay.
Then again, he wished for that reason to be something banal, something they could laugh about tomorrow at breakfast, and not the young man being out there in the rain, hurt or worse…
Despite his uncharacteristic nerves, he might have dozed off a little in his chair, because the next thing he remembered was someone clearing his throat in the door.
His neck hurt as he got to his feet, squinting in the dim light to see who thought it appropriate to disturb him in the middle of the night.
He really should have known.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” Washington said, his voice rusty with disuse and maybe softer than proper. He tried to rein it in - God knew, Hamilton would not welcome his show of relief. The boy was a walking contradiction; courting fame and appreciation but balking at the first sign of honest affection. “You’re late.”
“My apologies, Your Excellency, my horse lost a shoe…” he said with obvious annoyance at his misfortune. “Excuse me for bothering you at this hour, sir, but I’ve seen that you had a candle lit, and wanted to report to you immediately, if possible.” Washington was certain that he merely imagined the hint of emotion in his voice.
Washington nodded his head, motioning for the smaller desk his aide usually used. Except for brief periods of time it had been abandoned since Hamilton’s departure, but the boy didn’t need to know that.
“Sit then, and report.”
He watched Hamilton closely as he made his way deeper into the light, noticing with significant worry how pale and underfed he looked. His clothes were wet as well, and his long hair seemed to be barely held in place… His eyes - usually full of intensity and fire were sunken, half lidded with exhaustion and the lingering traces of his sickness.
Washington didn’t like the look of him at all.
“On second thought, Colonel, if there’s nothing urgent you would like to discuss, maybe you should get some rest before we talk, you don’t seem to be quite yourself,” Washington offered and saw right away that he somehow misstepped enormously.
Hamilton shot him a look that could fell a horse, and opened the big, waterproofed deerskin wallet he used to keep his correspondence undamaged on longer excursions. Despite the banality of the act, Hamilton somehow made it look hostile.
“I can assure you, Your Excellency, that I’m in immaculate possession of all my capacities. The news I’m carrying had been delayed long enough on my account, I would rather not bear them for another night.”
Washington sighed. Once again, he meant no offence, and once again, he somehow managed to step on Hamilton’s toe. The dance was familiar, in fact, it was like the man never even left. And now there would be no way to convince him to at least change out of his damp uniform.
“Very well, Colonel.”
***
The next few hours were spent with Washington stretched out in his chair - as much as the unyielding furniture allowed - and listening to Hamilton’s voice reading for him. It seemed like every living person up north felt the need to penn him a personal letter; some scolding some adoring and so very, very few containing actually useful information.
Washington dropped in comments whenever the need arose, and Hamilton scribbled them down quickly on the margins. Nothing more than a few words and remarks, but more than enough for him.
Washington didn’t realize how much he missed this; Hamilton had the almost magical ability to intone his will perfectly, to compose whole letters with barely any instructions and still make them sound exactly how Washington intended them. It was refreshing after having to dictate everything word-for-word to his other aides while the young man was away.
“... and let the General know that while I appreciate his ‘worry’ the Continental Army is in good enough hands without him having to lend us his nephew in any capacity,” Washington finished his comments on Gates’ letter. It had been the longest one so far, and he almost didn’t notice that he couldn’t hear the familiar sound of Hamilton’s quill rushing over the paper.
He looked up, and noticed with equal amounts of alarm and fondness that the man was sleeping. He was still poised to write, but his head was tipped forward, eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open.
Washington got up slowly, making his way over as careful as he could, praying for the floorboards to stay silent for once.
He was facing a dilemma. Hamilton’s room was not only on the other side of the building, but also on another floor… He could wake the boy and send him on his way, but god only knew he might fall and kill himself on the stairs in this state.
Or, he could just…
Washington plucked the quill from Hamilton’s hand - the poor man’s fingers didn’t even twitch - and capped the ink.
“Son,” he said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. At least it looked like his clothes were mostly dry by now. “Son, I need you to stand up.”
Hamilton twitched, jerking back in his seat and looked up at Washington with confused eyes.
“Sir?” he asked, voice barely more than a mumble. He still looked half asleep, and Washington had a hard time restraining the affection welling up in his chest.
“Up, my boy. You need a bed and a good night’s rest.”
“Sir… I can’t… we’re still not done…” Hamilton said, his words slurring together even as Washington helped him up. The poor thing seemed nearly drunk with exhaustion, and he wanted to berate himself for keeping his dearest aide this long.
“You are most definitely done for today, son,” Washington assured him quietly, carefully leading him towards the bed. It was the softest one in the manor - a bit too soft for his tastes actually - but he was grateful to have it at his disposal if it meant Hamilton would be comfortable and warm for once. “You will rest now, that’s an order.”
Hamilton hummed under his breath, unable to keep his eyes open even on the short distance across the room, leaning heavily on Washington. The young man felt way too thin and fragile against him, and the General vowed to get some hearty food into his boy the second an opportunity arose.
But for now he would content himself with getting him to catch up on some very well deserved rest.
Hamilton sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, looking around blearily like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was… Washington dearly hoped it was only the result of his exhaustion and not the dreaded return of his delirium.
God only knew, he wasn’t sure he could survive hearing Hamilton asking for his mother at the height of a fever again.
He knelt down in front of the boy. He knew the position should feel indecent; the General in Chief of the Continental Army on his knees in front of a mere aide and an immigrant at that, but he found that he wasn’t the least bit bothered.
At times it was worrying, the notion that he might do everything in his power so that his dear Hamilton survived the war.
Best not ponder on those thoughts with only the two of them alone in the night.
Washington pulled off Hamilton’s boots one by one, noting with satisfaction that they kept his legs mostly dry. The boy would need a new pair soon though, because these had already started to come apart at the seams.
“What… what are you doing?” Hamilton asked him, his voice still raspy with sleep, but tinted with incredulity. For once in his life, Washington wished that his sharp wits would stay buried under his tiredness, if only to make caring for him easier.
“Nothing, nothing, we’re almost done,” he told Hamilton, patting his knee as he stood. “Let’s get you out of that jacket.”
Hamilton didn’t resist him, but he seemed too sleep addled to help - probably for the best. Washington extracted him from the heavy blue coat, and then his waistcoat too, after a second of consideration.
The boy looked way too thin in only his shirt, his already slight frame just further pronounced without his uniform to buff him out.
“You should take better care of yourself,” Washington muttered under his breath. It was almost laughable how he was supposed to care for a whole nation when apparently he could barely keep his own aide from starving himself to death.
“Yes, Sir,” Hamilton slurred, and the easy agreement might have been the most worrying response all night.
Washington turned down the dove feather duvet, and nudged the boy’s shoulder.
“You should start right now then, lie down,” he dictated. Hamilton blinked slowly at his hands folded in his lap and then shook his head.
“Can’t.”
Washington raised an eyebrow at him. Just like Hamilton to contradict his superior right after a Yes, Sir .
“And why is that, my boy?” he asked with considerably more patience than he thought possible.
Hamilton blinked again, slowly raising a hand to his face, his eyes narrowed as he tried to focus.
“I’m all dirty,” he said, like it was obvious. “I will get the linen messy...”
Washington sighed, rubbing at his forehead. As much as he loved the boy, he wasn’t exactly easy to handle.
“To hell with the linen, Hamilton!” he said, maybe with a bit more force than necessary. The boy jerked back, his eyes becoming more alert, and that was the opposite of what Washington wanted. He had no doubt that if Hamilton got hold of facilities again he would insist on returning to work.
“Sir… I…”
“No, no,” Washington said quickly, closing the distance between them and putting a hand on the nape of Hamilton’s neck to stop him from getting up. He squeezed down gently; it was a neat trick he learned with his step-children. A warm touch could go a long way to settle the mind.
Hamilton seemed to slump in on himself, listing to the side until his head was resting on Washington’s hip. The intimacy made him freeze, too scared to move.
Unfortunately he had to, if he wanted the boy to get any rest, not to mention that he was a bit too old to be standing there for the rest of the night. His eyes caught on the washing basin, sitting on a little stand by the window. He would have preferred to get Hamilton into a warm bath if he had the choice, but for now this would have to do.
“Alright, my boy, just stay here for a second,” he said quietly. Thankfully Hamilton didn’t topple over when he stepped away, but it was a near thing.
Washington made quick work of wetting one of his own monogrammed handkerchiefs and then sat down on the bed beside the boy, their thighs touching. The proximity was almost indecent, but Washington tried not to pay attention to it.
“Give me your hand, son.”
Hamilton obediently reached out, and Washington took it gingerly, his own blunt, thick fingers feeling clumsy and rough against the young man’s delicate ones. Even in the flickering candle light he could see that Hamilton had been right. His digits were stained with ink. Some spots were worn and faded, but others were fresh enough to leave a mark on Washington’s palm.
He carefully ran the cloth over them, feeling out of his element, like he was handling some precious, rare musical instrument. Hamilton was watching, his eyes clouded with exhaustion, his face relaxed. He probably wasn’t even really aware how his General was washing his hands with such reverence and… that was probably for the best.
Washington wasn’t sure he would be able to explain this away as paternal care - he was never known to lie.
“Good. The other one.”
Hamilton’s left was decidedly cleaner, but Washington still repeated the motions, holding the delicate wrist, rubbing along the long, slender fingers. It felt like a prayer.
Please, God, protect these hands.
When it was done, he let go with selfish reluctance. Standing up felt like breaking a spell, so he did just that.
“Now sleep, my dear Hamilton,” he said, and this time the boy obeyed without arguing, eyes falling shut the second his head hit the pillow.
Washington exhaled slowly, pulling the heavy, soft duvet over him, tucking it in around his shoulders. Hamilton looked like a painting of a saint with his dark hair and pale face sharp against the white linen.
He was just about to straighten up when the boy caught his hand, hold surprising strong despite his apparent fatigue.
“Thank you, Sir,” he murmured into the pillow.
For a second Washington couldn’t breath, his wits only returning after Hamilton’s hold went lax around him.
“Good night, Alexander,” he whispered back, quiet enough to keep it a secret.