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It was supposed to be a fool proof plan.
Okay…perhaps he was using that phrase rather loosely. In hindsight, he didn't have a plan outside of Laurens beating Lee and hoping Washington wouldn't say anything since he technically didn't go against his orders.
The first part of his "strategy" went smoothly. The second part…
"What is the meaning of this?!"
…didn't.
Hamilton and Laurens both winced at the generals' outraged cry. The joy of victory was quickly replaced with fear and dread. The two men locked eyes, a silent understanding between them as they thought the same thing.
Let's get the hell out of here.
Laurens quickly but silently took off and Alexander trailed closely behind. A crowd began to gather and smoothly blended in. Over the sound of whispering and speculation from the other soldiers, the aide de camp distantly heard their leader thanking Lee for his service. The immigrant sneered; it was because of his "service" that this ended up happening--
No. There was no time for that. First, he has to get away from the scene of the crime and hope that Washington is too busy with the fallout to deal with--
"Hamilton!"
Of course. Alexander paused his attempt to get away and cringed from the shout. He quickly gathered his bearings and fixed his commander with what he hoped was an innocent expression. "Sir?"
"Meet me inside." Washington hissed; face made entirely of stone. He then swiftly turned on his heel and marched toward his private tent, not even bothering to check and make sure the young man would obey.
Alexander followed the general doing his best to not appear as if he was sulking. Dutifully ignoring the jeers from the stragglers of the crowd, focusing only on his commander's back which seemed to radiate disappointment and suppressed anger.
The walk to the General's quarters was somehow short and long. Alexander had only just begun to put together a, in his mind, good reason for his actions today when they finally reached the flap of the tent. The commander and his assistant entered the tent silently. Neither man wanted to speak first, for very different reasons. Not one for awkward silences, or any kind of quiet really, Alexander opened his mouth to spout off excuses when his leader beat him to it.
"Son..." The older male started, but Alexander refused to let him finish.
"Don't call me son," the soldier muttered, a dark shadow overtaking his face. Washington either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him as he went on scolding him about how infighting. Alexander immediately countered Lee's rumors and accusations, but the General didn't want to hear it. As the accomplished writer stood there being chewed out, annoyance began to steadily build in his chest. Didn't the general know he did this for him?
"Son--" Washington said again, and the anxiety from being reprimanded vanished and was replaced with bubbling rage.
"Not your son," The soldier growled, eyes glued to the ground. Wishing to burn a hole into it. Why was Washington getting so worked up over this? Laurens and he walked away unscathed, and they defended their commander's honor. What was the problem?
"Watch your tone," he hissed in warning, "I am not a maiden in need of defending, I am grown. "
So am I. I'm not a child. Hamilton thought, bitterly.
"Charles Lee, Thomas Conaway. These men take your name, and they rake through the mud!" Alexander seethed, teeth and fist clenched tightly. As he reminded himself of the dishonor those soldiers brought upon his superior his hatred resurfaced.
"My name has been through a lot; I can take it." Washington replied dismissively and crossed his arms over his chest.
Alexander swelled with anger. "Well, I don't have your name!" Alexander shouted, his voice wavering from all the overwhelming emotions he was feeling. "I don't have your titles, I don't have your land," an idea quickly struck him and his face split into a grin, "but if you--!"
"No." Washington said, sounding both exasperated and stern.
"If you gave me a command of a battalion, a group of men to lead, I could fly above my station after the war!" Alexander explained, like he has a million times before. He was meant for so much greater. He was sure of it! If Washington could give him a chance, he could prove it! He could win this war and make him proud--!
Wait–
“Or you could die, and we need you alive!” Washington yelled, completely fed up with his aide de camp bargaining and pleading.
Alexander flinched back from the shout, but quickly said. "I'm more than willing to die." Couldn't Washington see he would do anything to help win this war! Everyone is willing to die for this cause, that's why we're all here! Why did he care --?
Washington continued to shout, almost begging him, telling him that Eliza needs him alive, and he knows that, of course he knows that but he can't just sit here and write and do nothing! His face grew hot from frustration, and he was trying to bite his tongue before he said something he might regret–
"Son, I need you alive--! "
Alexander didn't even hear the last part, his brain too focused on the word that caused him never ending pain and grief. A thousand bees seemed to take up residence in his head, muffle everything around him and he saw red.
"CALL ME SON ONE MORE TIME!" The immigrant screamed, his body moved on its own accord and shoved his commander away. He can vaguely recall Washington stumbling back and hitting his desk but he was more focused on his pounding heart and swirling thoughts. He despised that word. Being a son meant being worthless, abandoned and shamed. Alexander worked too hard to become his own person to have it be thrown away due to favoritism, special treatment or pity.
Besides...who would want him as a son? His own father certainly didn't. So why would Washington...
The young man's vision blurred and he quickly wiped his eyes and ran out of the tent. He wasn't even sure where he was running to, all he knows is he wants to get as far away from Washington as possible.
Unfortunately, for the second time today, his plans of escape were thwarted; Washington quickly caught up to him and snagged him by the arm. Alexander jerked back and barely regained his footing. The orphan threw the general a cold look. "Let me go, your Excellency."
Unsurprisingly, the renowned leader did not release him.
"You were not dismissed, Hamilton." Washington's voice remained cool and composed, but Alexander could detect the hint of anger. "This isn't over--"
"Yes, it is." Alexander interrupted, tugging his arm, but to no avail. "If you are hoping for an apology then I'm not sorry to say you will not receive one."
It was a relatively warm day, but Alexander was sure the temperature dropped exponentially after his statement.
"Is that so?" Washington said, his tone even. All traces of displeasure disappeared, and his face returned to its normal stone facade. A shiver of nervousness crawled up his spine.
"Yes," he said, though he didn't sound as confident as he normally did. "My actions were just, and I will not apologize for putting Lee in his place." A few random soldiers that were passing by stopped and watched their argument. Alexander looked at them out of the corner of his eye. Good. Time to make a point. "I will take whatever punishment you give, though I don't deserve it, but I have no regrets. In fact, I will duel again, if it's necessary and nothing you say or do will make me change my mind!"
The silence that followed was damn near breathtaking.
For the longest time, Washington said nothing, just simply stared at the young man, eyebrows knit tightly together, eyes blazing with fire and disappointment, a look he wasn’t too unfamiliar with; Alexander often pushed his commander to the limits of his patience, so he's used to the older man's glare. For a brief moment, he thought he had won and felt a surge of satisfaction run through him, but that quickly dissipated as the general continued to glare rusty daggers at the immigrant. It was a glare that he swore he'd seen before but he couldn’t quite remember where.
Before he could really process it, Washington spoke at last. "We'll see about that."
Alexander opened his mouth to argue but instead let out a startled yelp when he felt himself being dragged back to Washington’s tent. He glanced up to see the soldiers that were watching their fight were huddled together, whispering amongst themselves as they witnessed the aide de camp being led by hand like an unruly child. Alexander’s ears burned and he looked away, swearing under his breath. They once again reached the leaders quarters and the tent flap closed behind them, somehow more ominously than before. Washington still hasn’t said a word even as he briskly walked to the middle of the room and pulled out a small stool and placed a single foot on it.
“S-Sir, what are you–?”
It all happened in an instant.
One second he was struggling to break free from his commanders vice grip, eyes locked onto the man's stern and determined face, and the next--
--He found himself draped over the general's knee, staring at the ground.
The orphan's eyes widened. Due to his short stature, neither his hands nor feet reached the ground, rendering him completely helpless in this position. Immediately recognizing his vulnerability, he tried to balance himself, or at the very least, pull himself into a standing position. His efforts were prevented from a firm, heavy, object on his waist and something gripping his hip to hold him steady. It took him a little bit to realize it was Washington's arm.
Before the immigrant could process anything else, a sharp pain struck across his backside which was accompanied by a loud smack. Alexander gasped, a bright red flush bloomed on his cheeks, suddenly painfully aware how thin the tents were.
"Wha--?" He started, only to be silenced by another swat on the opposite side of his rear. Followed by another and then another and another--
"Y-Your Excellency?!" Alexander spluttered, wincing when another slap landed on his posterior. "What is the meaning of this?!"
"This is your punishment, Alexander." The general said, not once pausing the assault.
"My puni-- Sir! " The young man yelped when a stinging swat was planted on his thigh. "You can't be serious?! Don't you think this is unbefitting for a soldier?!"
"You said you would take any punishment I would give you. Don't tell me you're going back on your word, Alexander?"
Washington wasn't letting up at all, the immigrant couldn't help but squirm from the reprimand and the growing burn. "Well," he sniffed indignantly, “I was under the impression I would be given something more suitable for my age . Really, sir, you're aware I’m not,” a gasp slipped out when a swat landed on a tender area, "not a child?"
"You've certainly been acting like one," Washington rebutted, his hand not faltering.
"I have not--"
Alexander let out a yip akin to a puppy when two slaps struck both cheeks in quick succession.
“Yes, you have,” Washington interrupted. “The second you discovered a loophole, you disobeyed a direct order , threw yourself and everyone else in danger and caused a rift among our allies, all over a silly disagreement.” His hand fell more heavily on the last two words.
“It wasn’t silly, your Excellency! Lee was–” The immigrant's retort was cut off by another slap on his upturned rear.
“Lee’s actions are not the topic of this discussion, Alexander." Washington scolded, letting his hand crash down a solid three times on his right cheek. “Your pride, recklessness and insubordination are why you are over my knee.”
Alexander was silent for a moment. "...I'm still far too old for such treatment," he grumbled to himself.
Washington heaved a sigh. "Well," he shifted the young man further over his knee, and began peppering his upper thighs with stinging swats, "you've done a pretty poor job at proving me wrong."
Alexander scowled at the ground, but for once didn't comment. He was too focused on trying to remain stoic and racking his magnificent brain for a way out of this. So far, he was coming up short on both challenges.
Alexander bit his lip, face burning. Honestly, he's a grown man for Christ sakes. He's been through far worse ordeals in his life to break from a simple spanking; he could handle this.
For the next few moments, the only sounds in the tent were dull thwap of a hand striking a clothed bottom and the occasional pained grunt or hiss. Alexander squirmed; though the general had created a simple pattern, each spank came as a surprise to the orphan and the pain was getting harder to ignore.
A harsh swat on his upper thigh stole his breath and he gave a futile kick.
"You're Excellency!" He growled to hide the whimper in his voice. "I believe you've made your point, so stop it!"
"Alexander, you have never been in a position to give me orders, especially not now. This will end when I'm certain you've learned your lesson."
"You son of a– ow! Okay, okay, I've learned!"
"Have you? Because I'm not so sure," Washington said, aiming for his aide de camp's sensitive spots. Alexander would like to clarify that the sound he made was no way in hell a whine. “If I let you up right now, and if someone had insulted me or you, would you let it be?”
Alexander winced and went quiet again. He has more or less resigned himself to his fate, some of his anger subsided somewhat, allowing him to think a bit more rationally. He knows what he would have done, but admitting to it would not get him out of this quicker. "...Yes?"
"Yes what?" Washington's hand stilled, allowing his subordinate to catch his breath.
"Yes, I would…let it be." He affirmed, somehow keeping his voice level, staring intently at the ground. A few seconds of stiff silence passed between the two men and Alexander decided to risk it and snuck a glance at his commander.
Washington stared back at him; completely stone faced, a single brow raised as he surveyed the young man dangling off his leg. Alexander couldn't help but squirm and sweat under his gaze.
Suddenly, the hand collided with his backside again. Hard.
"Ah!" The orphan cried, legs jerking upward in surprise.
"Hamilton," the general said, his tone cool as he ignited the fire in his soldiers behind, "lying does not look good on you."
Alexander opened up his mouth to protest, but all he could manage was a weak groan. This was ridiculous!
"It seems," his hand alternated between cheeks, "that this isn't getting through to you. That stubbornness is going to be your downfall and I will not let that happen." An extra hard swat struck his thigh. "Stand up," Washington ordered.
Alexander obeyed, blinking back the tears that managed to form in the corner of his eyes, he slowly slid off the general's leg, eyes glued to the floor. The orphan discreetly rubbed his sore rear, a blush staining his cheeks. Though he loathed to admit it, he knew he was pouting.
“Lower your trousers, Hamilton.”
“I–what?” Alexander stuttered, completely thrown off.
“I want you to pull down your breeches, son.” Washington repeated, patiently.
For the first time, he didn’t overly object to the endearment, too horrified by the order that his merciless commander just gave him. He watched completely shell shocked as the older man began to remove his blue coat and gently laid it near his desk. The general looked up and saw his aide de camp was frozen in place.
“Today, Hamilton.”
The immigrant swallowed thickly. “Sir–”
"If the task is too arduous for you, I’m willing to offer my assistance.” Washington suggested, his tone polite but Alexander caught the hidden warning.
Alexander opened his mouth but quickly closed it, he shot a glance at the tent flap and briefly considered escaping. He gave a quick shake of his head and reached for the button of his pants, trying to keep his fingers from trembling. With shaky arms he dragged his bottoms to meet his knees, eyes fixated on his feet, the hole in the far corner of the tent, a random worm crawling among the ground; anything but his commander's eyes.
“Linens too, soldier.”
Oh, hell. “Sir,” he complained.
“Now.”
Alexander's insides twisted almost painfully as he undid his drawers and had them meet his trousers. The second the cool air hit the back of his thighs; he couldn’t help but let out a shuddering gasp. Once his breeches were as low as they could go, he straightened his back, waiting for further instruction. Standing there, hands fisting the end of his shirt, eternally grateful it was long enough to preserve his modesty, entire face burning crimson, he felt so much smaller and younger.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to suffer the indignity of standing half naked in front of his superior for long. Washington gently grabbed him by the arm and guided him back over his leg, a startled choke bled past his lips when the tail end of his shirt was flipped out of the way.
“This is absurd, sir.” He muttered, sourly. Utterly dismayed when he was maneuvered into a less than favorable position. “Not to mention unprofessional, inappropriate and–ah!” A sharp swat landed on the exposed skin, electing a high-pitched yelp.
“--Long past due,” Washington finished, his palm striking the bare flesh, keeping a firm hold on his wriggling right hand man. "There will be no more complaining. The only words I want to hear from you are ones of repentance.”
"My stance hasn't changed: Lee deserved it and I've done nothing to warrant this punishment!"
Washington sighed, disappointed. "Then it seems that we'll just have to keep going until the lesson sinks in." With that, he looped an arm around the boy's waist and rained down a series of slaps all over the bare bottom.
Alexander had to literally bite his tongue to keep from crying out. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop his hips from twisting and legs kicking out with each swat. This was so much worse. Without his pants to act as a barrier, the smacks were louder than gunfire and he was certain anyone walking by the tent would hear and know what was happening. Not to mention it felt awful. The pain is escalating sure, but he was no stranger to that. No, what's making this so unbearable is the skin-on-skin contact. The general's palm was warm and calloused; he could feel every scar etched into the skin, but after a few minutes or so, he would grant them both a break and gently rubbed his back before starting back up again. To be scolded, punished, and reassured by the same hand was so confusing and foreign to the orphan. The only other physical contact he's had that resulted in pain was the scraps that he had got into growing up. Though, not even the ones he lost made him feel this humbled, but he could always brush himself off and continue on.
This wasn't a fight, nor was this a simple case of military discipline despite who was administering the punishment.
This is almost like…how a father would discipline his–
"Son."
Alexander inhaled sharply, a wave of horror washed over him when he noticed his cheeks were wet and he had the general's leg in a vice grip.
“Don’t,” he snarled, throat scratchy from stifling his cries and anger, “call me son.” His voice cracked on the last word. He expected to be swatted for the attitude, but the hit never came. Washington could probably hear the turmoil in his tone and let it slide out of pity.
The thought alone enraged him.
"Alexander,” he tried again, and he was just now realizing that the general had stopped spanking him altogether. “Have you reflected on why this is happening?”
Do I even have a choice? “...Yes,” he said with more bite than he should have given his position. Washington patted his backside in warning, but still didn’t strike him.
“Then do you know why I am punishing you?”
Alexander had several answers to that, but none of them would be beneficial to his predicament so he settled with, “I disobeyed orders and helped duel against Lee, can this be over now?”
Washington sighed, deeply. “Son,” he ignored the feral hiss that came from his aide de camp, “I can tell you still haven’t grasped the severity of your actions.” The general’s hand landed several slaps on his thighs. Alexander yelped and started squirming again. “You still seem to believe you are in the right.”
“I am! Lee deserved it!” The immigrant yelled at the top of his lungs, kicking wildly.
“Why?”
Alexander went still. "W-what?"
“Why do you believe that Lee deserved it?" Washington asked, his tone patient as he let up a little.
For a moment, his mind went blank, the sudden question left him completely baffled. He knows the reason why he did this, yet somehow it didn’t fill him with the same satisfaction from before.
"Well, um,” he floundered, “he, he was disrespecting you!"
"Really?" Washington said, sarcasm lacing his tone, as if he had said something stupid.
"Yes,” he insisted, deeply offended. “Someone had to hold him to it! Teach him a lesson about respect–!"
"And you thought the best way to do that would be to disrespect me by going against orders?" Washington interrupted, coolly.
With exception of his ragged breathing and a few soldiers chattering in the distance, Alexander could have sworn the entire world went quiet. As he laid over his commander's knee, completely dumbstruck, he slowly processed the words the general had spoken: a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
“I,” he swallowed the stone that had somehow gotten lodged in his throat, “I-I didn’t think–”
“That,” a hard swat crash landed on his right cheek, and it took all his willpower to not howl, “is obvious, Hamilton.”
A barrage of smacks rained down on his already burning backside before he even had a chance to blink. He thrashed with the intensity of a wild animal caught in a trap, but his wiggling did little to hinder his commanders ‘mission.’
"S-Still," he stuttered, each slap was making it harder to form words, "I couldn’t just let it go! If you had heard what he said about you, you would have–!"
“I did hear,” Washington said, the familiar authoritative growl returning. “Contrary to what you men think, I am well aware of what goes on in my camp.”
“You didn't even know there was a duel going on.” That remark earns him three crisp slaps on his sit spots.
“We are in the middle of a war,” he continued, aiming for areas that Alexander swore he hit almost a hundred times by now. “We do not have time to waste on petty fights, nor enough men to kill and alienate. I would have thought you of all people would have understood that.” Another hard whack greeted the middle of his butt. "What would you have done if Laurens had gotten shot? Or you for that matter?"
"That wouldn't have happened," he argued, though his voice lacked conviction. "Laurens wouldn't--"
"You couldn't have known that!" Washington scolded, the spanks falling much harder. "You had no way of knowing how that duel could have turned out!"
“You ask for a command, but you can't even follow my orders! You are far too important to run off and get yourself kill over a stupid argument that would have costed you nothing to let go. As my right-hand man, I expect you to set an example for the other soldiers and you have disappointed me greatly, Alexander Hamilton.”
Alexander didn’t think he could take much more of this. The pain, the shame: it was all becoming too much for him to handle. Washington’s pace was relentless, an itchy burn was spreading all over his ass and it was becoming unbearable.
“Y-Your Excellency, stop!” Alexander demanded not begged; he tried to convince himself, throwing an arm back to stop the blows. Washington caught the appendage before it had even a prayer of protecting him and pinned it to his lower back, completely useless. His commander began focusing on his sit spots and upper thighs and he could no longer hold back the whine in his throat.
“No more, sir! I-I understand, please, I can’t take it anymore, I’m sorry!”
A sob bubbled up, but he managed to swallow it, though he couldn’t stop his eyes from leaking. The salty water stains the ground, deepening his shame. Was this Washington’s objective; to reduce him to a sniveling brat? Well, it appears he’ll have to disappoint the man for a second time today because he has no desire to cry like a child in front of his superior.
Thankfully, it appears he gets his wish; Washington gives one last hard smack before stopping. Alexander lets out a watery sigh of relief, glad he was going to be allowed to keep at least a shred of his dignity.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, solemnly.
“Are you now?” Washington questioned, his stone hand resting on his aching backside, almost threateningly. “For what, exactly?”
A redcoat. His commander had to secretly be a redcoat, that is the only explanation for this level of cruelty. “F-For…” he took a deep breath, trying not to sniffle. ‘For disobeying you, going behind your back, and…disappointing you.” Tears returned with a vengeance, and he fought hard to keep them at bay.
Washington hummed in approval but didn’t say a word. Was he angry? Without really thinking, Alexander glanced over his shoulder to gauge his expression. There was no sign of hostility on his face. In fact, when their eyes met, his gaze softened, and he shot him an almost comforting smile. Alexander could only imagine how pathetic he must look to warrant such a reaction: eyes red rimmed, cheeks flushed and streaked with tears, hair askew.
A perfect picture of a chastised little boy and he most certainly felt like one.
He quickly turned away, blushing brightly. “So, are we done now?” He huffed, humiliated and sore beyond belief.
"Not yet." Washington informed him, calmly crushing all the hope in his chest. "Just a few more and then we're done."
"Your Excellency," he wasn't even going to deny the fact he was pleading, "I'm sorry, truly. I've learned my lesson."
"I know, son." Washington said and Alexander didn't object to that word, not if accepting it means he would be granted clemency. "I just need to make sure this lesson sticks."
Alexander wanted to protest further, but the general shifted him forward over his knee and he knew arguing would be pointless. A couple of seconds passed where nothing happened and for a brief moment, he believed that Washington had changed his mind.
Then the general made some foreign movements and heard the spin chilling sound of a belt being pulled through the loops.
"Sir," he squeaked.
"I don't normally do this," Washington said, as he effortlessly folded the strap with one hand and held the quivering soldier with the other, "but considering the severity of your actions, I think I can make an exception. Besides, given your track record, a hard lesson seems the only way to get through that thick head of yours."
Not since his mother died has Alexander wanted to cry so badly. He has gotten the belt a few times in life, and it's always been an unpleasant experience.
"You'll be getting ten," he couldn't help but jump when the cool leather lightly tapped his bottom. "Then, it'll be over, and all will be forgiven, okay?"
Not trusting his voice to remain steady, Alexander gave a short nod. His hand gripped the man's ankle for dear life, and he squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for the first blow.
The strap landed on the crown of his butt with a sharp crack, and the only reason he didn't scream was because the hit knocked all the air out of him.
Washington delivered the second swat just below the first and stars danced in front his eyes. The third came much quicker and struck both cheeks at once, a whimper tumbled from his lips. By the sixth swat, he was positive that he was going to have stripes permanently imprinted on his ass. He has officially given up on keeping his composure; legs flailed, and he hollered so loudly he was worried King George's army might be able to find them. The leather kissed the taunt skin where cheek meets thigh, and he released an unmanly squeal.
Eight and nine assaulted his thighs and that was the last straw: he went limp and let out a long, drawn-out wail, a waterfall of tears rolled down his cheeks. He no longer cared about his pride, he just wanted this to be over.
And, after one final swipe on the back of his legs, it was.
"Okay, that’s it." Washington murmured; his voice barely heard over the immigrant's heart wrenching sobs. "It's over, you're done."
Washington set the belt down and carefully lifted the young man, no, boy off his knee and let his feet plant themselves gently on the ground. Alexander still hadn’t stopped crying, far too focused on the pain in his hind end and all these overwhelming emotions. He didn’t dare look his general in the eye, terrified of the disgust and pity he would see for falling apart in front of him, and over something as childish as a spanking. A large hand rested on his shoulder, and he nearly glanced up but quickly squashed the instinct.
“Son.”
Something in his brain snapped.
“DON’T!”
With a whirl, he swiftly slapped away the hand on his shoulder, the warmth from it burned almost as much as his backside. He glared at his commander with wet, bloodshot eyes, teeth bared as his lips twisted in a snarl, shaking from head to toe.
“Don’t,” his voice was barely above a whisper, but the venom was there clear as day, “don’t, don’t, don’t…call me–” Small hands clenched into fist as his chest swelled with rage, eyes wild and crazed. He opened his mouth and–
–Promptly burst into tears, again.
It was somehow louder than before too, which he honestly didn’t think was possible. Alexander wrapped his arms around his quaking frame, trying to pull himself together, or at the very least breath: both seemed impossible for him right now. This could not have gone worse. He needed to get out of here, away from Washington, away from this camp, and far, far, far away from all this shame, guilt, and the memories of a man walking out a door, not even bothering to look back–
A pair of strong arms envelope him in a warm embrace, and he finally remembers to breathe.
“Alexander,” Washington said, shushing the young soldier softly as he rubbed his back and, okay, he might not allow the general to call him son, but he can allow this, at least. “It’s okay, just let it out. I'm not going anywhere.”
He does. He buries his face as deep into his commander's chest as humanly possible and let’s go completely.
Using his superior's uniform as a muffler, he screamed and bawled into the shirt as much as he could, all the while soaking up all the comfort and attention he'd been deprived of for far too long. Washington alternated between stroking his hair or rubbing his back, every little touch brought out another sob. Alexander knew that this is no way for a soldier who is ready to lay down his life should be behaving, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. For the next few minutes, no words were exchanged, just his commander's gentle shushing and his dwindling cries.
After what seems like a century, his blubbering desists, save for the occasional sniffle or hiccup, and slowly pulls away from the general. Watery eyes landed on the very large stain on the front of his shirt and the shame from earlier returned. If he wasn’t planning on facing the man before, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do so now. A cold wind blew through the tent opening and he shivered, he realized his trousers were still bunched around his knees and his bare bum was on full display. Great, more humiliation to add to the pile. Quickly, he replaced his clothing, hissing when the rough material made contact with his ass, eyes still on the floor, even after he had been properly redressed.
The quiet was awkward, but he still preferred it rather than talking about what just happened. There are just some things that should never be addressed.
Still…perhaps he should say something.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a few seconds, his tone sincere. He’s not sure why he’s repeating himself, forgiveness has already been granted, but he didn’t know what to say.
“Are you?”
Alexander thought about it. “...Well, not on the Lee issue.” he answered, a little too truthfully as he shot his commander a guilty grin. “But” his face returned to that of remorse. “I am sorry about going against orders.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Washington said, he didn’t smile but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Don’t let it happen again, soldier. You are a smart, brave, and incredible man, Alexander. I don’t want to lose you.” He put a finger underneath the peach fuzz chin and forced the boy to look up at him. “If you pull another stunt like today, I won’t hesitate to take you in hand again. Are we clear?”
Alexander cringed and his hand automatically went back to rub his bottom. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He released his chin and stood straight, eyes stern. “Hopefully, you’ll use your time away from here wisely and you’ll come back with your head on straight.”
“My time away from–sir, you don’t mean…?” There was no hiding the hurt and betrayal in his eyes.
“You are being sent home.” Washington confirmed. He held up a hand when the immigrant opened his mouth to argue. “This isn’t me punishing you further, nor is it up for negotiation. Your wife has something important to tell you, and she has asked me to send you home at the earliest convenience.”
“Eliza? What happened, is everything okay?” He demanded, panic seeping into his voice at the thought of something bad happening to his lovely wife.
“She is fine. She just needs to talk to you.” Alexander looked at his commander, almost hopefully. Washington smiled slightly. “No, Alexander. I will not tell you. Now, I believe we wasted enough time. Go pack.”
With that Washington turned away and strode toward his desk, signifying this conversation was over. Alexander sighed and began making his way to the exit.
“Alexander.”
“Sir?” His hand was just within reach of the tent flap.
“Do me a favor,” Washington had sat down and didn’t even glance up from his papers. “If you see John Laurens before you leave, tell him to come here.”
***
So, this must be what the walk of shame is. Was the only thought in Alexander’s mind as he trudged toward his and Laurens tent, face bright red, carefully avoiding the eyes of the other soldiers. Even though he knows that no one knows what had transpired in the generals' quarters, he still couldn't help but feel as if everyone was watching him. The fact it was probably still written all over his face didn’t help. Though he made sure to thoroughly scrub away the tears and school his features before venturing outside, there were still signs of him crying. Not to mention, he was walking rather funny as every step rekindled the flame in his backside.
Oh dear, what was he going to tell his dear Eliza?
He wasn’t given any more time to ponder that thought as he finally reached his tent. Just before walking in, he sent a quick prayer that Laurens wouldn’t be inside. As much as he desired to see his friend, and he was supposed to relay a message, he really did not want to face anyone so soon after being thrashed. He pulled back the flap and peeked inside.
“Alexander! There you are! I was worried that Washington actually ended up killing you.”
Fuck.
“Not this time,” he replied, his usual grin on his face. “Though he came close, he quickly realized he would have to man his own journals from now on, so I was spared.”
Laurens barked out a laugh, eyes shining brightly. “Gotta says I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I thought the general would yell at you until the next sunrise. What are you doing back here, don’t you have work to do?”
He winced. “Yes, well,” he stalled, eyes darting around. “I came here to gather my things. I’m being sent home.”
“What?!” Laurens yelped, aghast. “You’re being dismissed. Is this because of the duel?!”
Alexander shook his head quickly. “Oh no, no, we already had…words about that. This is a personal matter. Eliza wishes to see me about something.”
Something shifted in Laurens expression, but before he could decipher it, he shrugged and said, “Well, that’s good. I hope everything is okay. I’ll leave you to it.” With that he made his way toward the tent flap.
Alexander quickly remembered Washington’s words and called out, “Laurens!”
“Hmm?” He poked his head back in.
“Um, well, Washington wants to see you,” he found himself unable to look his friend in the eye. “Now.”
A look of pure dread appeared on the freckled face. They both know what this is about. “How pissed is he?”
Alexander debated that answer for a short while. He wanted to be the good friend and warn Laurens about what’s about to happen, but another part of him didn’t want to admit what he suffered out loud.
He looked at his friend and gave a smile that was both nervous and cheeky. “Let's just say he’s quite sore with us.”