Chapter Text
Riding through the forest at high speed, Alexander Hamilton’s sole focus is on reaching the camp not far off. The horse gallops, hooves beating against the ground in time with Hamilton’s breath. He’s focused, driven, and carrying a batch of missives that are vital, and must get to General Washington’s hands immediately.
Hamilton is tired. He aches. He’s been riding for hours, but once he hands off these messages he can rest. Usually not one to indulge in even short breaks, Hamilton thinks this one time he can allow himself a few hours.
The back of his neck prickles with the anticipation of… something. Perhaps he might’ve ignored the sting of his danger receptors, had he not then been given ample reason for them a moment later.
His horse abruptly stumbles and shrieks, and Hamilton suddenly finds himself not in the saddle. The poor animal hits the ground and legs flail wildly in the air. Hamilton lands nearby flat on his back, all of the air knocked from his lungs.
Black spots appear in front of his eyes as he tries to gasp in a breath. The world around him rings, and somewhere through it he hears his horse still screaming like she’s been hurt. Hamilton knows he needs to get up, check on her, but it’s difficult to move; his lungs strain from lack of air.
“Whu…” He coughs, waits a minute. The breath comes, finally, easier, and easier each time he greedily sucks in air. The threatening blackness fades, and at last Hamilton can sit up. His back and shoulders ache from the sudden fall, but he can get past it, ignore it. He pushes himself to his knees.
It’s quiet, he belatedly realizes. Hardly more than an arm’s length away, Hamilton’s horse lies on the ground. She’s gone still and silent, the screaming ceased. When he leans forward he realizes why; a bullet hole has pierced the animal’s chest.
Hamilton is barely able to find his feet before he’s set upon. The footsteps, the sudden weight come out of nowhere. A heavy limb slings around his neck and pulls him away from the animal. His head is forced up, but all he sees are patches of yellow and orange leaves and gaps of sky peeking through them above.
“Let… go!” He grunts past the grip on his throat, digging with his fingernails. Hamilton kicks, squirms, but he can’t get away as he’s forced against something solid. He can’t see his attacker beyond the white sleeve pinning him. Clearly the stranger is strong, solid. Hamilton can put up a fight, but there’s just nowhere to go, so he resorts to a string of curses and threats.
That doesn’t garner any kind of response either.
He turns into the grip, fighting for leverage. For a moment Hamilton finds some success, but all too quickly his opponent adjusts. He tries to swing a leg backward, hoping to strike a leg or something more solid, but no, he’s forcibly twisted the other way and loses his footing.
He can’t turn his head, can’t see behind him, but whoever it is that’s grabbed him almost seems to know what kind of moves Hamilton intends before he does.
It’s maddening.
The arm moves a little lower, braces against his chest and jerks him sideways. Hamilton doesn’t have a moment to react before the knife sinks into his side between his ribs.
For an instant that stretches into an eon, the world freezes. Hamilton’s eyes go wide, the air races from his lungs again, but this time in a way that seems cold, permanent. The arm securing him lets go, and he instantly crumples to the ground, hands flying to his side. They come away so covered in blood that he almost thinks it can’t possibly all belong to him.
Did he fall on the horse?
...Horse?
Hamilton is turned onto his back, and pain flares through his whole side. A figure leans over him, a warm hand grasping his chin. A thumb pulls down on his lower lip, but the only sound that he can manage is a choked gasp. It toys with the edge of his teeth, presses against his tongue so he gags and wheezes.
A face leans close to his. It’s so hard to focus; he can’t quite make out any features. He doesn’t recognize this man.
There’s a flash of white teeth. “Just relax, boy,” Sounds slowly begin to fade, but there’s no concern, no urgency in that voice. “I’m here to help.”
As the pain slowly recedes unconsciousness reaches up to claim him, Hamilton thinks he hears a chuckle lingering in the air. The world goes black, and can’t remember what was so funny.
When he regains consciousness he’s far warmer. That’s all he can remember, for a while; that he’s warmer than he was. It’s a pretty useless thing to remember, he concedes.
Determined to rectify this, Hamilton forces his eyes open and blinks their sleep addled haze away. A fire crackles behind him, and now that he has started to regain his senses he realizes he’s cocooned in the cotton quilt of his bed.
That doesn’t seem right. It feels like that should be quite improbable, but he doesn’t remember why.
Washington enters his field of vision, relief shining clearly through the general’s eyes as he pushes a rebellious piece of hair away from his aide’s face. Hamilton groans, something akin to a grin quirking his lips. A full-bodied ache follows as he wakes up properly, quickly turning his expression to a wince.
“Easy now,” Washington rumbles when he tries to move, “just rest. You were hurt.”
Ah yes, now he remembers. That explains the ache.
“ ‘m chest,” he mumbles, “I was-”
“Stabbed, yes. We know.” Hamilton’s cheeks flush, because of course they know, it’s rather hard to miss. “Gave everyone a bit of a fright I’m afraid,” Washington grins humourlessly, his voice still hushed.
Hamilton hums. “Suppose a little excitement never hurt anybody. Help me up.”
“I must disagree with you on that, my boy,” Washington huffs as he grasps the boy’s arm and steadies Hamilton with a palm against his back. “Do you recall what happened?”
“I was stabbed,” the boy offers cheekily. The grin returns at the general’s reprimanding look. “I was riding hard, I had… I had missives for you! Were they taken? They were dreadfully important.”
Washington reaches into his coat, produces the letters. Hamilton relaxes, to Washington’s amusement. “I worry your regard is far too often on your work and not your health,” he teases. “You were, as you said, stabbed.”
“Yes, well,” Hamilton continues, “my horse was shot and killed, and then a man was on me. He had an arm around my neck, and I couldn’t fight him off. He exposed my side and stabbed me.” Hamilton drops his gaze. “Quite efficiently, really,” he finishes, far more conversationally than the sentence entails or he really feels.
Washington shifts, his mouth opening as if to reply once, twice, and then closes. “You’re safe now,” he finally offers. “I should introduce you to your rescuer, in fact.”
Out of civility, Hamilton nods. He doesn’t particularly want visitors right now, excluding the general of course. Washington stands and makes his way to the door, which sits slightly ajar. He opens it and returns with a man.
Hamilton sees the man and feels his entire body tense, but it isn’t until he speaks that Hamilton knows.
“I’m glad I was there to help,” he says, flashing his teeth. I’m here to help he remembers his attacker sneering, gripping his face.
He’s here. Dark brown hair falls into a casual braid, his skin creases in all the right places and smoothes in all the others to give away his age, and there’s a glint in his eye which Hamilton instinctively knows is dangerous.
The man takes a step towards him and Hamilton gasps, jerks himself backwards before the pain reminds him that he shouldn’t move.
“Hamilton…?” Washington asks worriedly, his brow furrowing.
“He attacked me,” Hamilton whispers, before gaining volume, “he’s the one who attacked me.”
The general meets the man’s eye calmly, confusion reflected in both their expressions where only alarm shines in Hamilton’s.
“He brought you here, Hamilton,” Washington explains. “He saved your life.”
“I’m just so glad that I was in the area, I was returning from a scouting expedition you see, carrying the report, and I found you on the road. Why, you looked half dead already and I admit I wanted to turn away from the sight; I thought you dead, Officer Hamilton.” Hamilton doesn’t like the fact that he knows his name, as inevitable as it is that he would. “I apologize, I’m being terribly rude. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Sergeant Samuel Davies, at your service.”
He extends his hand, expecting a handshake which Hamilton is reluctant to provide. The aide looks to Washington, who is also clearly expecting Hamilton to reciprocate the gesture.
“Colonel Hamilton,” he finally supplies, albeit stiffly. “At yours.” He shakes the man’s hand, wanting his own released as soon as Davies grips it.
“No first name?”
“None worth mentioning, sir.”
This time it is Davies turn to glance at the general. Washington cocks a brow, but does not force Hamilton to reveal his first name. And technically, as Washington’s aide-de-camp, Hamilton doesn’t have to, he’s a higher rank than Davies; though he imagines only half his age.
“I apologize, gentlemen” Hamilton says softly, letting his muscles relax against the cotton, “I do believe I’ll be slipping into sleep soon.”
“Yes, of course.” Washington is always so quick to coddle him. “We’ll leave you to rest. Sir, after you,” he urges, unwilling to give up this rare occasion, where Hamilton volunteers himself to rest.
Davies leaves the room but his presence lingers like an oppressive force. Just as Washington is about to take his leave Hamilton calls for him to stay.
“Yes?”
“Sir, please. Listen to me, that man is the one in the forest, the one who stabbed me,” Hamilton whisper-shouts.
“You’re confused, perhaps you drifted in and out of consciousness and-”
“I know what I saw, you must believe me!”
Frustration begins to tint the boy’s voice and heat his blood. He tries to make another move only to fail once more with a hiss. The general moves to hush his injured aide back down into the sheets. Hamilton feels his weight dip onto the mattress.
“What use would Davies have in saving you, if he were loyal to the British?” Washington lowers his voice so that it is far more alike the crashing of waves against a beach or a light rain against canvas tents than his usual thunderous roar.
“He’s closer to you, far closer than any other redcoat has managed,” Hamilton rebuts in an equally hushed tone, feeling sleep truly come for him. “Don’t let me alone with him, please.”
There is just enough fear in the boy’s voice that Washington agrees without question. “Alright,” he murmurs, “but never mind that now, and focus on resting.”
Exhaustion pulls at him, and despite this unease he finds himself forced to give in. Washington leans back a little, concern evident in his eyes, brow furrowed. Hamilton keeps his gaze on him, even as his eyes begin to slip closed. The realization hits belatedly, but it’s painful nonetheless.
“You don’t believe me.”
The general may have responded; Hamilton hears his voice, but he can’t pick the words apart. Unconsciousness claims him again, and there, at least for now, he is safe.
Nearly two days pass before Hamilton is well enough to sit up in bed, converse without pain or weariness dragging at his ability to remain awake. He’s requested work. Washington’s refused via Laurens, tied up in meetings himself. “He says when you can get out of bed to retrieve your work yourself, then you may work,” Laurens’ tone is not as light as he’d like. The general, and Laurens, are not joking.
Hamilton, to his benefit, has the sense not to try to rise. Even shifting his weight slightly on the bed is agony. Loathe as he’d be to admit it to anyone, he probably cannot get up.
Winter is approaching. Everyone is busy, too busy for Hamilton to have company through the entire day. He is not in any danger. He is bored, and sleep is far less satisfying than it was two days ago.
It’s late afternoon when he hears footsteps in the hall- too light to be Washington’s. They reach the door and stop. Hamilton doesn’t know why a sudden unease clings to him, but it creeps up his spine, makes the hair on his neck stand on end until the footsteps retreat.
Hamilton wonders if the room is suddenly stuffy as he struggles to breathe normally. The quiet, he thinks, is getting to him. He hates the quiet.
The sun has already begun to set when the door opens, the creaking sound catching Hamilton’s attention.He shifts against the wall, stiff and slumped at an awkward angle, and pain explodes from his side. He doesn’t recall falling asleep, but it must have happened. With a hiss Hamilton curls in on himself, patches of black popping across his vision.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, strong and steady, and probably keeping him from falling out of bed. “Breathe, my boy. You’re all right,” Washington’s voice is close by, a presence instantly calming.
Hamilton lifts his head as the pain fades. Washington is seated nearby, one hand still resting against his shoulder. He looks tired, but concern lingers behind his eyes.
“Sir,” Hamilton shifts uncomfortably, “is Davies?”
Washington sighs, “I’ve told him you were not well enough to receive visitors. He understood, but-”
Hamilton’s eyes go wide, “He’s still here? But, sir, he attacked me, could have killed me! And you-”
The general holds up a hand, effectively cutting Hamilton off, “Easy son, he explained it to me. He said when he happened upon you it couldn’t have been more than two minutes after your attacker left- your coat wasn’t bloody yet. In a situation like that, I imagine it’s easy to become confused.”
Hamilton scoffs, “Confused?” His temper threatens to erupt. Washington, the man he trusts more than anyone else in the world, doesn’t believe him. It hurts more than he’d ever thought something like this might. “All due respect, Your Excellency. I was there. You were not, and-”
“Stop a moment, Hamilton, and think about this,” Washington says gently, cutting him off again. Hamilton turns red at the indignity and barely holds his tongue. “No man in the world is foolish enough to cause a man harm and then walk into the enemy’s camp with his victim.”
Washington is right there- that part doesn’t make sense, but still, Hamilton huffs in frustration, “It was him, sir.” The general fixes him with an unreadable look, so Hamilton presses even more. “Had you ever seen him, heard of him, before he showed up in this camp?”
“There are a lot of men in the army, Hamilton.”
“Still,” Hamilton goes on, hating how desperate he sounds in his own ears. Washington has to believe him. He has to convince him. “I was not on a well travelled road. How did Davies know exactly where to find me?”
“Son-”
“No, listen. Please, sir. He may very well be here to target you. Why else go after me? Walking in here claiming to have rescued me. I said it before, sir. It puts him right next to you. He only needs to bide his time and wait for the perfect moment to strike.”
“Alexander,” Washington responds instantly, with enough force that Hamilton jumps at the sound of his own name. “Listen to yourself.” Those piercing eyes search his, but he doesn’t speak again.
Hamilton draws one more shallow breath, and speaks far more quietly than that boom of Washington’s. “And even if there is no plot here, sir,” He saves his most logical argument for last. “How would Davies have known beforehand to bring the medical supplies needed to staunch the bleeding, to an all but unknown road outside of camp, when he wasn’t intending to meet anyone until he arrived here?”
Something sparks in Washington’s eyes, much to Hamilton’s relief. “I’ll send for Davies in the morning and question him myself,” he agrees. “For tonight, I’ll post one of my guard at the door to the quarters he’s assigned to.”
Hamilton feels as though a great weight is suddenly lifted from his chest, and he only notices it now, that Washington’s hand has rested against his shoulder this whole time. He shifts awkwardly away, and the general’s hand drops into his own lap. Hamilton mutters some word of gratitude, though a ‘thank you’ is perhaps too much. It took far too much convincing to get Washington to see, and the general usually trusts him fully.
To be doubted hurts more than Hamilton can say.
“Get some rest, Alexander,” Washington says at last as he rises from the chair. “We’ll have this all sorted out by tomorrow.”
As Washington moves to the door, Hamilton allows himself to settle back into the bed and close his eyes.
“And Alexander,” Washington calls from the door, capturing his aide’s gaze, “it is foolish indeed for a British soldier to infiltrate the camp, yes, but I assure you that to do so by harming you is suicide.”
Hamilton nods, allowing himself to be reassured by the general’s words. For the first time in days, he finds himself unconcerned about the footsteps in the hall and restful sleep finds him before pain and exhaustion.
Hamilton wakes, groggy and tired, and at first he’s not sure why. There’s a small candle lit on the table next to the bed, and through a sleepy haze he realizes he did not leave it there. He blinks, furrows his brow, and looks at the form seated next to it. Shadows streak long across the room, and shapes are hard to pick out. Hamilton squints and takes his best guess. “Sir?”
Perfect white teeth appear in the darkness, brightened by the candle. “Not sure I’d mind you calling me that.”
He freezes, breath catching in his chest. “Davies. The general said-”
“That he placed a guard on me? I’m aware,” The man leans forward in the chair, his face coming more into the light. There’s some emotion in his eyes, fixed and wanting and makes Hamilton want to run. Davies flashes a dagger in front of his eyes, shining wet. “He wasn’t a problem.”
Instinct takes over and Hamilton opens his mouth to shout for Washington, for anyone, but a hand clamps firm over his mouth and stifles the shout. “Trust me when I say, you do not want to scream. I’m merely here to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Hamilton bites out once the hand is removed.
Davies ignores the pass off, shifts in his chair so he sits more comfortably. The dagger remains in his hand. He toys with it, fresh blood glinting from the blade in the candlelight. “Faucett,” he comments.
Hamilton pales, heart stuttering in his chest. He stares at Davies, barely able to contain a sudden rush of energetic terror. “What did you just say?”
A smile, “It was your mother’s name, wasn’t it? The one she was born with anyway.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Your father left you both,” Davies continues as though he never heard the interruption. “My own did much the same. How brutal fathers can be. But it makes me curious; why did you seek out another one?”
Hamilton gawks at him in the blink it takes for him to realize what he means. “Washington is not my father. He wasn’t then, he is not now.”
Davies shrugs playfully, “Yet he calls you son. He calls you Alexander,” Hamilton shudders at the way his given name comes from the man’s lips. The realization comes a moment later that he did not tell Davies his name. “Hardly a basis for a professional relationship, I’d think.”
Heat rises in Hamilton’s cheeks at what Davies is insinuating. He is not going to discuss this with a stranger who’s snuck into his room with a weapon in the middle of the night. “You’re about to be found out,” He says with a puffed bravado.
Davies just smiles. He moves slowly, with purpose, but somehow Hamilton doesn’t react before fingers tightly grip his hair. Hamilton hisses as he’s jerked closer. “No, your general is about to have other things to worry about.”
He jerks Hamilton forward until he’s halfway leaning off the bed, his injured side exposed. The pain in his side comes to life, sudden flames where there had been a dull ache. With a twist of the dagger in his hand, Davies drives the hilt into the exact spot where he’d stabbed Hamilton days before.
Something gives and tears under Hamilton’s ribs, and all the breath rushes from his lungs on a silent cry. He lists to the side and Davies catches a hand against his cheek and caresses gently with a thumb. “You’re pretty when you’re hurting. I do hope you survive this. I’d love to see you again.”
Davies lets him go and Hamilton drops through the air, his front half landing hard on the ground, his legs still tangled in the blankets of the bed. The pain is abrupt, overwhelming, all consuming. He gasps in a breath. It’s not enough, not enough air. His fingers claw desperately against the floor. Across the room, he’s vaguely aware of Davies leaving the room, closing the door behind him.
Hamilton struggles. He has to get up. Get up. Arms tremble as he tries to push up. Anguish threatens to claim him right there, and Hamilton struggles to move. He needs to find help. Before it’s… before he can’t.
His stomach rebels suddenly. One moment he heaves, and the next he’s lying on the ground again, head next to a puddle of bile and blood. Hamilton stares. He’s done for, he’s sure.
Voices, not far off but miles away. Hamilton shifts and pushes far enough from the sick to avoid falling in it. He hears his name flutter from the other side of the door, and his brow furrows. Familiarity, an even tone.
Washington. It’s Washington. Hamilton coughs, and a warmth trickles down his cheeks. The general will find him.
He waits. Washington doesn’t come, but Hamilton still hears him speaking. Why? What’s he waiting for? Doesn’t he know? Another cough. Blood sputters from his lips.
On the other side of the door Washington is still speaking, quiet and even. Hamilton shifts, reaches for the chair near the bed. Agony pulses along his middle, up and down his injured side as he reaches for one of the legs. He manages to pull it, and it tilts, crashing to the floor close to his head.
And still Washington doesn’t come.
Hamilton coughs again, heaves, his throat is on fire, raw. He feels it rip. He tries to call, but no, there’s not enough air in his lungs. He tries to crawl, pull himself forward inch by inch.
All at once his strength gives out. Hamilton collapses, boneless on the ground, the last vestiges of awareness quickly spiraling away. Just before he fades away completely, he thinks he sees the door open, and a familiar pair of boots in the darkened doorway. As his eyes slip closed, Hamilton only knows that it’s too late.