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Alexander hears Washington’s muffled shout of terror before the pain sets in.
It blazes down his arm, shooting through his ribs, tearing all the air from his lungs as he sinks to his knees. Around him, his fellow soldiers stand, watching with various degrees of horrified-pity and relief warping their dirty features because it’s not me, it’s not me. . .
Out of the corner of his eye, through the haze of agony and red that stretches across his vision, Alexander can just make out the body of the British soldier drop to the dead grass a few feet away.
His skull, behind his left ear and running down his jawline, is caved in, blown open wide by a frantically placed bullet. His eyes are no better, a lifeless and dead blue-gray stare that reflects the setting sun in a bitter gold. The ground around them both is stained with blood, rapidly growing pools.
The man, not much older than Alexander himself, was one of the last prisoners of war the American troops had managed to snag before they were forced to abandon the battlefield.
He was supposed to be unconscious. The Redcoat, he was nearly dead when the Americans had come across his body draped across a ditch, but he was alive enough for the men to hopefully attempt interrogation.
Alive enough, it seems, to rage to consciousness, grapple with the inexperienced soldier carrying them, grab his gun and aim for the first flash of blue he saw.
Which happened to be Alexander.
Another sharp spike of pain travels up from his left shoulder, the bullet hole throbbing against the ground as Hamilton finally gives in, sinking inward toward the grass with a cry of pain. He gasps as he gets gently rolled over, Washington’s panic stricken face above him now.
“Hold on, son.” The General says, ripping the sleeve of his uniform and pressing the clothe against the blood soaked injury, wincing himself at the agonized cry Alexander lets out. “Shh, shh, it’s alright Alex-- We need a doctor! ”
One of the soldiers nearest them -- Laurens, Washington realizes -- races off with one last glance at his friend on the ground, his dark eyes wide in panic and fear, the boy’s own uniform soaked with blood. Lafayette and Mulligan, faces pale, come around to stand on Hamilton’s right side, both of them jerking as the younger boy lets out another pained cry.
"The Redcoat?" Washington's voice is tense, weighted with the intensity of his fury.
"He's dead, sir." Mulligan says. He sounds like he would be pleased if not for the circumstance. "Dumped in the river, I believe."
"Good."
“Is there--” Lafayette starts, his french accent thick. He swallows. “Is there anything we can do, Your Excellency?”
Alexander, from his place on the ground, watches with blurry eyes as his father frowns, glancing away from him for just long enough to point behind them, to where the crowd of soldiers still stand, awaiting orders.
“Get them back to camp.”
Hercules steps up, eyes flickering between Hamilton and his general. “We’ll send a few men back, once the doctor is done with-with Alex.”
“Thank you. Dismissed, gentlemen.” Is all Washington says, brows furrowed as he focuses back on Hamilton, pressing against the bullet hole again and Alexander whines, trying in vain to squirm away.
“Hurts.” The 17-year-old whispers, kicking his legs. Tears make their way down his face, clear rivers running through the dirt and George wipes them away without hesitation, cupping his child’s chin in his free hand. “Hurts, Da, it burns, please--”
“Shh, son.” George coos, pressing down with more vigor, smoothing Alexander’s sweaty hair from his forehead as the boy keens in pain. The pool of red around him grows and Washington swallows down a sob of his own. “The doctor’s coming, Alexander, just hold on, dear heart, hold on--”
Finally, after what feels like a million years, the doctor jogs into view, satchel already open. His movements are professional, almost emotionless and he moves George out of the way with a quick shove against the general’s arm.
“Put this in his mouth.” He says, practically throwing a thick strip of white cloth into Washington’s hands. “I need to pull out the bullet and we can’t have the Lieutenant biting through his tongue.”
Alexander lets out another harsh sob when George scoots back, holding out a shaking and blood-soaked hand toward his father. “D-Don’t go--”
“I’m not--” Coughing, the general blinks away his own tears, cradling Hamilton’s face in both of his hands. “I’m not going anywhere, son, promise. I need you-you to bite down on this for me, alright?”
“It hurts, it hurts , please, please, Da --”
“We’re going to make the pain stop, love. Shh, shh.”
Bracing himself, George heaves Alexander so that he’s half in his lap, the boy’s head resting against his chest, his mouth open in a silent scream. Quickly, the general ignores his own pain and guilt, shoving the white rag in-between his son’s gasping jaws. Faintly, he’s aware of Alexander gagging, squirming as the doctor leans over him.
The doctor’s grimace is apologetic, dark eyes narrowed in concentration. “Hold him tightly, sir. I’m afraid this will be far from pleasant.”
That’s all the warning Alexander has before his arm catches fire.
He screams .
He screams until his throat is raw, until the sound gives way completely and all that’s left is low wails that drag out of his chest. He bucks, attempting to move away from the doctor, from the metal clamps digging into the already torn skin of his shoulder. George shifts behind him, drawing him as close as possible while still allowing the doctor room to work and Alex sobs harder, curling his fists like an infant as he reaches out for his father.
Alexander’s babbling, his words slurring together, high pitched and youthful in his terror as he jerks against Washington’s chest.
“Please, please--” He pants, throwing his head back, keening in agony as the doctor gives a particularly hard jab into the wound. “Burns, burns , hurtshurtshurts Da, make-make it stop make it-- gah-- ”
“It’s okay, son. Shh, shh, dear heart, shh, just let it out Alexander, everything’s alright. You’re doing so well, darling boy, so well, hold on for a little longer, yeah? Shh.”
George swallows, blinking away tears. His hands are shaking no matter how hard he tries to keep them steady, brushing away stray locks of his son’s hair back, gripping the boy’s wrists when Alexander attempts to move away from the doctor. The general doesn’t look at what the medic is doing, just the glint of the man’s blood-soaked supplies enough to cause Washington’s stomach to churn.
Finally, the doctor leans backwards, scooting away from the camp’s aide with a pair of bloody twissors held in one hand.
The bullet, a small spear of metal barely even the width of Washington’s thumb, gets placed into a jar and shoved into the satchel and the medic rises after carefully wrapping Alexander’s arm up.
Hamilton, for his part, is silent now, the only sign of his consciousness being a low, barely audible groan as George finally gathers the boy fully into his arms. Alexander’s brows are pinched, his dark eyes narrowed in exhausted agony and he wordlessly buries his face in the general’s chest, his injured hand coming up to weakly grasp Washington’s uniform collar.
Rising to his feet, his son held safely in his arms, George turns toward the doctor as the man wipes away the last of Hamilton’s blood from his hands. “Is he, I mean--?”
“He’ll live.” Glancing over his spectacles at the Colonial general, the doctor frowns, taking a step toward where his horse stands a few yards away. “As for the pain, I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do for that. I have a few quarts of mercury compound, which will numb the area more than alleviate any aggravation.”
George follows, smoothing his fingers gently through Alexander’s sweaty hair.
“I’ll take anything you can give me. About his writing--”
“Is he left-handed or right?”
“Uh,” Glancing down at his son, Washington swallows. “Right. Hamilton’s right-handed.”
“Then there should be no problem with him continuing to write as normal. I would, however, recommend waiting at least 3 days, so that his stitches can settle. Too much movement, and they’ll come loose, which increases the risk of infection. Keep it clean, don’t pour water directly over it, dab with a damp cloth, repeat a few times every five hours.”
Head spinning, George just nods, wordlessly taking the jar the medic hands him, shoving it into his jacket pocket before tightening his hold on Alexander. His son hasn’t moved since he’d first been picked up and the only thing keeping Washington from having a complete heart attack being the gentle rise and fall of Hamilton’s chest against his own.
Taking a second to softly cup his child’s slack face, the general glances back toward the doctor as the other man mounts his horse. “Whatever you heard, sir, well. . .”
“People say insane things while in pain, General Washington.” The medics dark eyes seem to glow in the dusk, staring down at George. “Mistakes in judgement, lapses in recognition, they’re normal in times of stress. For all parties.”
“Yes, yes of course.”
“I will be stationed in the next town over until Friday. The medicine should hold the Lieutenant off until then, however, if you suspect otherwise, send word and I’ll come look him over.”
Clearing his throat, Washington nods, scooting to the side to allow the other man to pass, his horse’s hooves sloshing in the damp grass.
Through the thin stretch of woods to his right, the general watches as three of his soldiers stumble out of the tree line a few yards out, their uniform buttons catching the fading sunlight above. Leaning down in the few available seconds of relative privacy, George presses a kiss against his child’s forehead, feeling Alexander cuddle closer even in sleep. The boy, when Washington leans back, lets out a low sound, almost a whimper and the general coos, beginning to meet his men and start the slow walk back to camp.
The men, Lafayette, Laurens and Mulligan, Washington recognizes, don’t speak as they fall into step on all sides of the general, the metal of their bayonets reflecting the final few seconds of daylight before the sun finally slips below the horizon.
“He's alive.” Washington breathes into the night and he can see all of their shoulders droop in what can only be exhausted relief. “He’ll live.”
Their eyes are wide as they flicker from the overgrown trail in front of them to Hamilton, but they stay silent and for that George is grateful.
“ Da. . . ”
The word is soft, so silent that George feels it breathed against his neck and he swallows, curling his arms tighter around his son as they finally cross the treeline, the sight of the Colonial camp’s fires a welcome relief from the chill starting to settle around them. George doesn’t respond with words, just holds Alexander close, tucking the boy so that he’s cradled under his father’s chin.
His heart beats against Washington’s and the general swallows down a relieved cry of his own.
I’m here, my son, my darling boy. I’m here.