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“Pops!”
Alexander Hamilton opened his eyes at an ungodly hour to see a monster approximately 2 centimetres from his face. Well. Not so much a monster as a six year old staring him in the face.
In his opinion the words were synonymous.
“What is it, Philip.” He tried not to let his voice fall flat, but he’d only fallen asleep— he passed a glance to the clock on Aaron’s side of the bed— an hour ago. Great. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily since his son was so unperturbed at waking him at such a late hour, Philip didn’t seem to notice the unwelcome tone.
Philip leaned back onto his feet, and Alexander was suddenly aware he had his school uniform on. “And why do you have your uniform on?”
“I want to go to school.”
How to explain man’s yielding to such primitive keystones as light and dark, or perhaps simply general social norms concerning the consistent arrangement that were school hours. It wasn’t even dawn.
Alexander shot another glance over to where Aaron slept, blissfully undisturbed. His nose wrinkles as Alex watches, but he doesn’t rouse— he’s been trying some new medication recently that knocks him out a straight eight hours, at least. And while Alexander is glad his husband was finally able to get some needed rest, there was a fair amount of jealousy that his night wasn’t disturbed by small children with no concept of time. He tears his gaze away, enviously, and smooths his expression for Philip’s benefit.
Something elsewhere in the house creaks, and oh, this couldn’t get any better, Alexander thinks dryly.
“What was that noise, my darling son?”
It sounds stiff to his own ears, but again, six year olds don’t tend to notice things like that.
“Angie. ’S waiting at the door.” The oblivious grin Philip shows off shouldn’t be so cute.
Alex huffs, but it’s fond, and swings his feet over the bed. Resolves to get their kids back into their beds as quickly as possible, mind already detailing a plan. He has to be out of the house in just over three hours, he’s going to cash in on some rest before then if it’s the last thing he does.
Grabbing Philip by the ankles is easy enough, and hoisting him up onto his shoulders elicits a small squeal that sends happiness all the way to his soul. Never let it be said that Alexander Hamilton didn’t love his kids.
True to form, he doesn’t actually find Angie at the front door. Alexander isn’t actually sure she’s ever been there in her life,
(Whenever the Burr-Hamilton household want to go out anywhere, Angie is never ready at the door of her own making. Aaron always pretends like he’s leaving without her to make her stop wasting time… say, looking for her shoes in the garden, or her coat that magically disappears once the mildness of April rolls around, and actually get into the car.
That wasn’t really Alex’s style, of course, the poor face of a child who thinks they’re being abandoned for being late was always enough to crack him, but it sure was the most efficient, and, like most parents, half a decade of this has worn him down.)
The faint sound of crinkling foil alerts him to her location. The kitchen.
At this point Philip wriggles around enough that Alex pretends to drop him, before setting him down on his own two feet. There’s a moment where the six year old very obviously doesn’t know what to do with himself, before wrapping a very small hand around two of Alexander’s fingers and following his steps.
This lasts approximately three seconds before he sees the night snack his younger sister has put together, and darts like a bat out of hell to stuff his face.
The well loved Trash Drawer, as it was dubbed, lay wide open and half empty, the chocolate and sugar treat wrappers festooning the rest of the countertops. He lets the two of them finish what’s in their mouths before letting them know that he wasn’t going to be cleaning up the mess in here.
“And I don’t think you want dad to see what you did to his beloved kitchen.” Burr likely wouldn’t care, but Alex has long learnt just what makes his kids tick. They know who’s in charge of rewards and punishment, mostly because Aaron is the only one who really remembers to follow through with what’s gone on, at home.
Okay, step one and two of operation sleep complete (locate kids and have them clear up whatever they’ve done), so what’s next? Ah.
“Teeth time.” And Philip puts his arms out to be picked up again, so why not? The three of them make their way to the bathroom for a quick brush. He doesn’t bother timing the two minutes but it feels like forever getting the proper size of toothpaste, checking to see if the two of them were brushing properly and all over… Then of course he has to brush his teeth too or it’s “not fair,” as Philip so eloquently whines.
He almost has them in bed when a major problem arises. The sun starts to rise.
Philip gets somehow more excitable than before and Alex has to explain that just because the sun is up doesn’t mean it’s a reasonable hour to get up as well. He shudders to think about what life will be like once Philip learns how to tell time next year.
But, sliding back into bed, he wouldn’t have it any other way.