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George knows that his son is short.
It’s sort of hard to forget, honestly. Every time the boy would stand beside him, his posture ram-rod straight and his dark eyes focused in a youthful, endearing way, Washington would notice the way Alexander’s head doesn’t even come up to touch the General’s chin.
It causes a protectiveness, sometimes so strong that it steals his breath completely, to curl in George’s chest and each time he tries his hardest to push it away.
He can’t allow that to choke him, not in the middle of this war.
Alexander makes it extremely difficult sometimes, however. It’s early morning in camp, the fresh rays of the sun settling along the dew-soaked grass and George squints against the glare, reaching up to adjust his hat. A few yards away, the last of the scouts are assembling, passing around what appears to be a small cup of muddled coffee before mounting their horses for the day’s patrol.
All except for one.
Hamilton stands off to the side of the group, his back to George, but the General would recognize his son’s frustrated stance anywhere. Alexander’s saying something to Laurens, the other boy’s chest shaking in laughter from where he sits on top of his horse. Alex, however, doesn’t seem to share his friend’s mirth, instead throwing his arms up in exasperation after a second.
Frowning, George begins the trek over to where they stand, scooting around a particularly deep mud puddle. He manages to get close enough to hear John’s final words before he rides away around the long line of trees, toward where the rest of the patrol now stands.
“It’s okay, Hammie, we all need extra help sometimes, nothing to get short-tempered about.”
Alexander huffs, his back still to George. “Asshole,” He says once John’s completely out of ear-shot, kicking a stray rock toward the tree-line. “Tonight, I’m gonna replace his pillows with leaves, see how he likes it--”
“Son--” George says, holding up his hands when Hamilton immediately whirls around with a yelp, his dark eyes wide. “Are you alright?”
Alexander blushes, eyes darting everywhere but up at the General’s face and Washington frowns again, reaching out to settle a warm hand against his son’s shoulder. A few yards behind them, Hamilton’s horse stands, her tail flicking lazily at the flies buzzing around her legs.
“Yes, uh, yes sir!” Alexander says after a second, still not meeting his father’s eyes.
“We’re alone now, Alex, no need for the formalities.”
“Right,” His aid nods, swallowing. “Sorry, Da, force of habit.”
“Why are you not with the rest of the patrol?” Washington asks, gently reaching out to bump his son’s chin up with his hand, ducking down so that they’re at eye-level. “Is something wrong with your horse--?”
His aid shakes his head, glancing back to where the animal stands. “No, nothing’s wrong with Peacock.”
“Then what is it, son?”
“Ah, well, uh--” Alexander frets, picking at a button on his shirt and George tuts, gently pulling his son’s hand away from his collar. Taking a step back, Hamilton clears his throat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “It will hopefully be slightly less embarrassing if I just show you.”
Furrowing his brow, George follows behind his son as the 17-year-old makes his way closer to Peacock, the horse’s ears flickering as her rider stops beside her.
Oh.
Now George understands.
As a gift from their new French allies, most of the high-ranking officers in the army had been given new saddles for their horses. Bigger ones, with a slightly higher seat so that the rider can keep out of the rises of mud sometimes encountered on the trails, as well as keep a lookout for approaching British soldiers through the thick tree-lines.
The problem? The seat now rests a good 5 inches above Alexander’s head.
Swallowing down a chuckle at the high blush still decorating his son’s cheeks, George gently pats Peacock on her flank, glancing down at Hamilton as the boy shifts. “You can’t get on your saddle, my boy?”
Alexander groans, ducking his head again. “Da, please , it’s already embarrassing enough.”
“Maybe you need a smaller horse, actually.”
“No, I like Peacock. She’s a good horse, a loyal companion. You can’t get rid of her, Da!” He whines, patting Peacock’s side as she snorts. “First, you’re laughing at me and now you want to take away my horse. . .”
Holding up his hands in the universal sign of surrender, Washington can’t hold back his fond chuckle anymore as the slight pout now decorating his son’s face, stepping slightly closer. Placing both hands against Alexander’s shoulders, the General waits until the boy looks up at him again, his dark eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“I’m not making fun of you, son.” George says, squeezing Alexander’s shoulders before releasing him. “And we aren’t taking away Peacock, alright? Would you like some help, though? Maybe we can just take the seat off, replace it with your old one--”
“No!” Hamilton practically yelps, shaking his head. “No, no, Da, I don’t need you to help me get onto my horse like I’m some little boy again, okay? Besides, the others, they-they would notice that my saddle’s different. I can’t have them thinking that I’m some incompitent bastard. I mean, I’m a Lieutenant in the Continental Army.”
“You’re still my son, Alexander.” Washington reminds the boy. He relents after a second, however, taking a full step backwards and watching as his aid frowns in confusion. “But alright. If you don’t want my assistance, so be it. I am going to stand here to make sure you don’t fall and break your neck.”
“Everyone will see.”
George shakes his head. “They’re behind the trees, son. Probably happy that we haven’t started our patrol yet, to be honest.”
“But--”
“ Alexander. ”
Hamilton sighs. “Fine, fine. Here we go. . .”
With a grunt of effort, Alexander manages to heave himself up onto Peacock’s side, struggling for a second to reach up to grab the saddle’s handle on it’s otherside. Finally, he manages to grip it, starting to pull his legs up and over the seat.
He had barely managed to make it a quarter of the way through, his left foot barely reaching the foot rests, before he’s slipping backwards.
“Damn it.” He hisses, curling his fists in youthful rage. George grins. “Let me try again, hold on.”
The result, however, is pretty much the same and finally, Alexander relents, nearly panting as he finds his footing along the grass again. He looks up at Washington, crossing his arms over his chest and George is reminded of the same look, a few years ago, when Alexander was a boy of mere 12-years of age and found that he couldn’t quite reach a sack of flour along the top kitchen shelf at Mount Vernon.
He had called on George then, pointing with his smaller, not quite as dirty fingers toward the jar with his face set in an annoyed glare and the General feels the same exasperation fondness fill his chest now.
Once his son, always his son, that Alexander.
“Do you--?” Washington starts but Hamilton cuts him off, waving his hand angrily at a buzzing fly.
“Yes!” He growls, looking to be almost a moment away from stomping his foot in anger. He appears to gather himself, however, glaring up at his father with his eyes shimmering in the morning light. “Can you help me get on this stupid saddle so we can go do this stupid patrol and then we can forget about this forever and I can at least keep a mere fraction of my dignity intact?”
“Of course, my boy.” George says, knowing that his lips are twitching in a fond smile but doing absolutely nothing to stop it. “Lift your arms.”
Rolling his eyes with a huff, Alexander complies, letting out a laugh in reflex when George’s hands brush against his sides. Cheeks heating even more, the 17-year-old allows his father to lift him up with no more complaints, bringing his right let up and over the seat once able.
His arms, for a split second, wrap around George’s shoulders to steady them and the General feels a pang fill his chest.
Always his boy, yes, but becoming a man faster than it takes the sun to rise above the trees.
Finally, Alexander settles himself into the seat, unwrapping his arms around his father. Clearing his throat, the teenager pushes a stray lock of hair from his face, shifting against the saddle. He looks down at Washington, an unreadable expression in his eyes, his grip along his horse’s reins white-knuckled.
“Just like your mother.” George finds himself saying almost absentmindedly, brushing his hands against his uniform front. “Martha and you share that stubborn streak an ocean wide, son.”
Both him and Alexander are silent for a few seconds, listening as the bird’s chirps fill the early morning around them.
“Thank you, Da.” The boy finally whispers, his voice strained and choked in a way George understands completely. “We’ll be back before, uh, before nightfall. I’ll make sure the men stay on course, you can count on me, sir.”
George can only nod, reaching out for a second, relenting, it seems, to the parental instinctual worry and love always getting shoved back each and every time he’s near his child. The middle of a war is no place for his fraternal affections, but it seems that Washington cannot convince his heart of this, no matter how many times he tries.
“I never doubt it.” He whispers, patting Alexander’s hand. “Stay safe, dear heart.”
His son blinks down at him, swallowing. The early light of dawn reflects in his eyes, gold against the deep brown, so much like George’'s own. Finally, Alexander flicks Peacock’s reins, sending him and his horse galloping around the trees, toward where his other fellow soldiers still wait.
George watches as they disappear over the hills, before he sighs, turning around and making his way back toward the camp’s center. All’s fair in love and war, they say. Romantic love, they mean, but all different kinds of love exist, George knows this, of course. He feels his heart be filled with it for his own son every single day.
But no one talks about the consequences of love in war, however.
Washington selfishy wishes, stepping silently through the dew-soaked mud and grass toward his and Alexander’s shared tent, for a split second, that they would.