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"Alex?" a voice sounded from behind, and Alex flinched, fumbling to cap his inkwell and almost knocking it over in the process.
He glanced back over his shoulder to see his father standing in the doorway, out of his military attire for the night and watching him with his own distinct flavour of parental disapproval.
"I can explain," he said and ducked his head, sheepish, feeling a bit as though he was a child again and his father had just caught him and Patsy sneaking out on a warm summer night to go catch frogs down by the river.
His father shook his head and raised a hand to his face to rub at his brow, the lines on his forehead and around his eyes made prominent by his obvious exhaustion. Alex bit his lip and cut his gaze away, guilt bubbling up from the depths of his unexplored well of emotions.
"I don't want an explanation, I want you to go and get some sleep, dearheart. Whatever you're doing will still be there in the morning, I promise."
Alex hesitated, his mouth half open, eyes firmly on the ground.
The oil-lamp only provided dim light, and he couldn't even make out the grain of the wood.
A sigh sounded, followed by slow footsteps, and a calloused hand settled gently under his chin, tilted his head up with care.
Alex raised his eyes with reluctance and met his father's gaze; he was tired. Pa was always tired, and every time he had the opportunity to rest, he had to come take care of Alex and his non-existent problems instead, because he was irrational and a burden and couldn’t deal with them himself-
His father made an odd noise in his throat, almost bordering on distressed, and Alex forced himself to focus back on him, blinked a few times–and was startled when his vision blurred.
"Hey," Pa cooed and slid his hand up to cup his cheek, stroking away the lone tear that had somehow escaped him. "What's wrong, my love?"
Alex just sat for a moment, hands trembling in his lap, the horrible squeezing emptiness he'd thought he had finally managed to leave behind spreading in his ribcage, devouring his heart until there was nothing but cold void left.
"I- I don't know, Pa," he choked, helpless to hold his unreasonable tears back.
"Come here, sweet boy," his father mumbled gently, his tone low and soothing and absolutely nothing like the hard, collected voice General Washington tended to speak with.
General Washington had already retired for the night.
This was just Pa.
Alex didn’t resist when his father tugged him up from his chair, and he stepped willingly into the offered embrace.
He hid his tears against his shoulder, concentrated on his father rubbing his heaving back and stroking his fingers through Alex's loose hair instead of the pulsing sensation of nothing in his chest.
God, he loathed it, this feeling, this helplessness, the fact that he was powerless to predict or stop it–the fact that it even still happened at all.
It shouldn’t, it was supposed to be gone-
"Sorry, Papa," he sobbed into his father's nightshirt. "Sorry, I don't mean- I thought I was better now. I thought it was gone."
"Shh, dearheart," he said and pressed a light kiss to his temple. A bit of warmth returned to his chest, a small flame sparked into the consuming darkness. "It's alright. I know. You can't help it."
"I just, I don't understand. Today was fine. It was good, even, but-"
"Alexander," he interrupted softly and pried him away, just far enough he could see Alex's tearstained face. He brushed his tears away for him like he had done a million times before, and Alex felt like breaking down all over again. "You can't control it. No one can. I have these feelings, too, dearheart."
"You do?" he asked, small and wounded, wanting nothing more than to hear that his father got into these kinds of moods as well, and that there was nothing wrong with Alex after all.
"Of course," he said, pausing to kiss his forehead. "Of course I do. I know it's hard, love, but I want you to remember that you never have to do this alone, alright?"
Alex sniffled and managed a weak nod, leaned into the broad palm that cradled his cheek.
"Don't hide somewhere with your work when it gets bad, just come find me–or John, if you must," he added with a hint of put on distaste. Alex knew he had long left his initial dislike of John behind and just put up a pretense to make him laugh, and he chuckled a bit, his chest bursting with too many conflicting emotions.
Pa offered a smile in return and stroked his thumb along his cheekbone.
"You're not alone, my heart," he said and tapped his chin to make him meet his eyes once more–Alex conceded.
The sheer and overwhelming affection in his father's eyes shone like a beacon in the dim room, and Alex's throat grew tight again.
"I'll always be there when you need me."
Alex pressed his lips together, a desperate attempt to contain the sob, but he knew he would lose that battle; so, he tackled himself back into his father's arms, prepared to cling to him for however long it would take for his breathing to calm and his tears to dry–and reassured in the knowledge that his father wouldn't mind one bit.
That he wanted to be there for him.
"Thank you, Papa," he mumbled, muffled by his shirt, and Pa laughed, low and fond, pulling him even closer and pressing a kiss to his hair.
"Of course, dearheart," he said, a calm rumble against his cheek; Alex hid his small, hurt smile against the fabric that already smelled like his father, like safety and care, and the squeezing void in his chest shrunk just a little.