Work Text:
George eased the door to the office open, mentally preparing himself to give a quick lecture when soft light spilled from the room out into the corridor, meaning someone–someone, as if he didn’t know damn well who it was–was still there; the clock had struck midnight a while ago, and all his aides were supposed to have retired long before then.
Unfortunately, ‘all his aides’ very rarely included his son.
He stepped into the room and closed the door, trying and failing quite spectacularly to fight down the smile when he saw Alexander asleep on his desk, his head pillowed on top of his folded arms, strands of hair that must have come undone hours ago obscuring his face.
Idiot boy, he thought with a fierce flare of affection.
George heaved a sigh and crossed the room, settled into a crouch next to his son, and stroked the hair from his face with careful touches.
God, he- he looked so young. No, he was so young, he was just about to turn twenty-two, and he was already overworking himself enough to fall asleep at his desk in the early hours of the morning, all for this goddamned war George shouldn’t have let him join.
Alex was just a boy.
A boy with dark bags under his eyes and perpetual stress-lines between his brows when he was awake, who was covered in scars from injuries and tortures he should never have had to endure, because George had failed to protect him, after he had promised he would-
He shook himself out of his spiralling thoughts.
“Alex,” he murmured, low and gentle, and gripped him by the shoulder to carefully shake him awake. “Come on, dearheart, time for bed.”
His son’s peaceful expression scrunched into a frown, and he blinked his eyes open with palpable reluctance.
“Sir?” he slurred and turned his face into his arms for a moment, perhaps to spare his eyes from the dim lights of the room. Something deep within George gave a painful squeeze, a quick flare of hurt and a dull throb afterwards, similar to when he twisted an ankle.
“Try again,” he said, smoothing his hand over Alexander’s messy curls.
Alex let out a long breath and raised his head, bleary eyes focusing on him. “Pa,” he said with a lopsided smile, and the tightness in his chest relaxed.
Better.
He wasn’t Sir, he never wanted to be Sir, not to Alex.
“You fell asleep over your work again, my love,” he said and moved his hand from the back of Alex’s skull to brush the unruly strands of hair away that had once again fallen into his face.
Alex just hummed and leaned into his touch; he probably hadn’t registered a word of what he’d said, but he couldn’t say he minded too much.
When all the hair was out of the way, another achingly fond smile spread unbidden over his features–a dark, thick line of ink smudged along the boy’s cheek, just above his jawline, and Lord help him; the only thing George could see before his mind’s eye were all three of his children, aged ten to twelve at the time, covered from head to toe in every hue Patsy’s painting-kit had had to offer.
Someone had said something–he’d never gotten all the details of what exactly had happened, had been too busy with shepherding them down into the river to take care of most of the damage before Martha saw and had a heart-attack–and then someone had escalated by flicking their brush at them.
It had been ridiculous.
George desperately wished he could go back.
He forced those thoughts away even though the damage was already done and reached out to gently brush his thumb over the splotch of ink. Long dried, of course.
“I hope you didn’t fall asleep on anything important, dearheart,” he said, and Alex frowned at him, eyes bleary and confused, before realisation flickered in them.
“Ah, that- no, that happened before I fell asleep,” he said, as if that alone was explanation enough.
“Alright, then,” he said, not about to question that any further, and pushed himself back upright. “Come on, you should have been in bed hours ago.”
Alex returned his gaze, his head tilted back to meet his eye, and his lower lip caught between his teeth. A brief flash of annoyance zapped through him, because how often did he have to tell him to stop that-
“You go on, Pa, I’ll just finish this up, it’s almost done,” he said and made to grab for the thankfully closed inkwell.
George got there first and moved it farther away, countered his son’s tired, petulant glare with a stern look that made him duck his head after just a few moments.
“No, Alexander. You can finish this later. Go on, now, son,” he said and waited for Alex to let out an annoyed breath and push his chair back.
He stood, but he wasn’t happy about it. George couldn’t say he cared.
“I’m not a child,” he grumbled as he shuffled some of his papers into order, and George had to try very hard not to laugh at that, because he was.
“You’re my child. And you always will be,” he said.
Alex rolled his eyes at him but didn’t argue, so he decided he could let that slide this once. The boy was exhausted, after all.
“Come on,” he repeated, gentler now, and settled a hand on his boy’s back to guide him along. “John has to be lonely by now.”
Alexander’s faintly sour expression softened in an instant. How he wished he’d had a John Laurens, something that lifted Alex’s spirits just by mentioning it, when the boy had been a moody teenager.
That for sure would have made some things much easier.
“I know I work too much. I don’t mean to,” he mumbled, eyes on his own feet as they left the office behind; George would return to put out the lights later.
Or perhaps he would get some work done–he had slept a few hours earlier, and he knew he was unlikely to find sleep once more that night.
“I know, love,” he replied, rubbing small circles into his back. “And I understand. This is important to you. But you are important to us, so take a break on occasion. Yes?”
Alex gave him a smile, genuine and warm in a way that reminded him of both women who’d raised him, and George tugged him a little closer.
“Yes,” he said. “I promise, Pa.”
“Good.”
They arrived in front of Alexander’s door, and George’s hand dropped away as the boy turned to face him.
“Goodnight, Pa,” he said, still smiling softly.
“Goodnight, dearheart,” he responded, and, unable to resist, raised his hand to cup Alexander’s cheek. “Get some rest.” He brushed an insistent thumb over the spot of ink. “Wash your face.”
Alex chuckled quietly. “Yes, Sir,” he said, and that queasy feeling from before returned to his stomach. It was a joke, he knew, but he still didn’t like it.
The moment passed, and Alex’s demeanor softened again. “But you try to get some sleep as well, alright?”
George hesitated for a heartbeat. “I- yes. Alright.”
His son scrutinised him from eyes too sharp for how tired he seemed; he raised his hand, all his fingers curled into his palm except the last one, and held it out to him.
“Promise,” he demanded, and George could have burst into tears on the spot.
Pinky-promise.
They hadn’t done that in- he couldn’t even remember, it had been so long.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat and forced his turmoiled emotions back down, then raised his own hand, and hooked his finger into his son’s.
“Promise,” he croaked. Alex drew back with a pleased grin and pushed the door open, disappearing into his room with a last Goodnight, Papa thrown over his shoulder, leaving him to stand in the relative darkness on his own, his chest feeling like it had been punched in and ripped open.
George gathered himself for a few long moments, breathing deeply, and then he went back down to the office–to put out the lights and go to bed.
He couldn’t break a pinky-promise, after all.