Chapter Text
Sep. 3, 1777
Alexander Hamilton is an idiot.
That’s what he’s decided to make of himself, anyways.
He knows he must be an idiot because he is exactly the opposite. It takes a humble person to acknowledge their faults, and that is something Hamilton most definitely is not. However, he is also aware that it takes a man with a good lot of intellect to notice and admit that he is an idiot.
…Okay, perhaps he simply made an idiotic decision, which does not confine him to the term “idiot”.
Nonetheless, he should not have ended up in this position. He’s sure somebody knows how it happened, but Hamilton’s usual ability to think— and his wit, with it— has been spent. His ability to remember and call moments to the front of his mind seems useless as well, for the time being.
Truly, Hamilton lacks any understanding of how he got here. Focused on scolding himself, he’s forgotten to take in his surroundings. He’s sitting down, arms tied behind his back with careful intricacy—Christ, the rope is strong enough to be leaving marks—and skillfully laced through the back of the chair he’s sitting on. The table before him is bare, except for a candle and the candle’s wax, which is dripping down on to the table and solidifying when they make contact.
A quick look around confirms it- he must be in a British tent. The cot seems much too thick, if only by a few inches, to be one of the Continental Army’s. And then, of course, there is the fact that he would not be tied up in his own camp. It’s truly beyond him, even more so than any of the other facts he’s gathered, how he is still alive.
Although, it doesn’t take long for him, even in a state of disarray, to piece things together. He is one of General Washington’s closest confidants— not that he particularly prides himself on that fact.
No matter.
If they want information, Hamilton can give them information. His brain starts to pick up its usual speed, thinking over all the army’s plans and twisting them into something that the British would think likely. Something smart, but not something too smart. His careful strategizing is interrupted by voices from outside of the tent.
They start out muffled but are eventually enough to shut up the loud thoughts and calculations running through Hamilton’s mind. Reluctantly, his focus shifts to their conversation.
“You…in, I swear, the General will…” The voice is unfamiliar, hushed, and most definitely accented. Hamilton, ever the lucky man.
“Oh, Colonel Laurens, I shouldn’t…leave me be.” A new voice, a bit louder but still hard to hear, responds, and remains undeniably British.
Hamilton doesn’t know what he’s expecting. He is on a British campsite— there’s no reason for anybody he knows to be here. Unless, of course, they were looking for him.
He doesn’t want to think about the likelihood of that.
Although, it poses another question- just how long had he been gone?
The experience is blurry now, as it starts to come back to him- wandering off amidst his own frustration, damn him and his prideful nature when it comes to arguments, running into a redcoat, begging for his life. Pathetic, the redcoat had said. He must have recognized Hamilton as one of Washington’s and brought him back to camp. All of that could have happened within thirty minutes, if he’s being generous, which is already longer than he’s usually gone for.
The voices coming from outside of the tent are louder now, and clearer. The two people seem to be having a disagreement, and should Hamilton be conceited enough to think it concerns him, he should, then he hasn’t got much time to-
“Fine, but you are to tell the General if something goes wrong.” It’s the first voice—Colonel Laurens—and before he knows it, the canvas to the tent is parting.
But good Lord, the flaps might as well be the pearly gates of heaven.
The man who steps inside is nothing short of angelic- to begin with, he has at least a few inches on Hamilton. His blond hair is pulled back neatly in its queue, a few strands escaping in the fading humidity of an early September evening. His facial features are sharp, but soft where they must be, a perfect sculpture of all things bright and sunny and perfect, tied together with his pale and lightly freckled complexion. And oh, Hamilton can see himself getting lost in those eyes even in his most unfortunate position.
The dim flame from the candle on the table before him seems to dance around in the pale blue, so light they almost seem transparent; all-seeing. Hamilton’s much darker eyes slowly take everything in- his sharp cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, his neatly tied cravat; and then, of course, he’s made it to his chest, his body, and oh, if this guy is as muscular as Hamilton can only imagine he is, then he-
Red. The realization hits him a moment too late.
This is a redcoat he’s dealing with. Hamilton remembers, in that moment, why he had thought himself an idiot just moments before.
The enchanted expression he’s sure had come over his face is gone with the appearance of his rational thoughts. It’s replaced with a stony, cold look; one of distrust. He’s practiced for moments like this. It seems the jests that Meade and Tilghman had tortured him with are suddenly being made worth it.
The soldier before him, who must’ve caught on to his short-lived…interest, seems to stiffen before realizing his position— he has the upper hand, as he is not tied up in a chair— and chuckling. He brings himself towards the table, leaning his forearms against it and letting his feet fall to a more comfortable position upon the floor. His arms are really all that’s keeping him from face-planting into the table. This man is going to be the death of Hamilton.
“I assume you’re slightly confused.” The redcoat looks at him earnestly, and like that, Hamilton is sure he’s being taunted. He is far too drained to put up with this.
“Bold of you to assume such a thing—being on the other side of the war does not make me devoid of intelligence.” Hamilton does not meet his eyes, though he cannot say exactly why. Perhaps he doesn’t want to give this Colonel Laurens the satisfaction of marveling at them.
He laughs again. It does not go unnoticed. Hamilton is not one to mix such playful matters with his work—aside from the short-lived jests with his fellow aides, it seems completely unnecessary. A small part of him hopes to hear the noise again. The larger part reminds him that he is an idiot.
“Believe me, sir, I do not doubt your character. It’s just- these experiences can leave one feeling dazed, no?” Something lies under the English accent in which he articulates his words, but Hamilton isn’t in the right mind to question it.
“I suppose, though I can assure you, you needn’t summarize my situation,” Hamilton looks up, an unexpected defiance suddenly seeping into his voice, “as I find myself to be quite attentive. Even in said experiences.”
The soldier eyes him pensively, seemingly considering something. If it has to do with his approach towards interrogation, Hamilton isn’t going to give him an advantage. He lifts his chin almost imperceptibly in mock-defiance.
And just like that, with the smallest of movements, something changed. Before him, the colonel mutters an awed huh, his once calm and controlled eyes lighting on fire. The flames that had been dancing in them before have become all-consuming, and Hamilton is bound to burn.
The soldier walks at a tantalizing pace; slowly, he makes his way towards Hamilton, eyes scanning, watching, seeing him. Hamilton knew that war could change people, and he was sure that’s all this man was dealing with- although, the redcoat’s movements looked...natural. Purposeful. Perhaps the fire hadn’t lit him up—he was going to use it for himself.
Hamilton’s trance is broken when he notices breath by his ear; a slow, steady rhythm, completely different than the loud pulse in Hamilton’s neck. Why must he get so close and why must he be a redcoat and why must he be so damn—
“Look. I don’t do this often,” the soldier starts, voice low and gravelly and dangerous, “but I’ve decided I’m going to let you go. You are far too attractive to have to deal with the General’s anger tonight.”
Those words in that voice were enough to make Hamilton crazy. With every inch of his being, he prays that he wouldn’t turn red, prays that the redcoat wouldn’t move, prays that they could just stay—and then he remembers that he’s an idiot.
Goodness, he’s had enough of it.
“Lovely, and as I am inclined to believe the word of any attractive man, I will comply to whatever means necessary.” He regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth, pressing his lips into a straight line. If he’s killed today, he’s got nobody to blame but himself. Idiot.
The threatening response Hamilton feared never comes. Curiosity urges his eyes upwards, and he notices that the colonel has gone a terribly endearing shade of pink. He stands stiffly, as if he’s been shot, looking vulnerable. It’s honestly quite a sight—a redcoat, a member of the most relentless and powerful army, vulnerable. Hamilton stores the picture in his brain, silencing all thoughts that attempt to stop him.
Wordlessly, confidence gone, the man walks behind Hamilton and unties the ropes around his wrists, freeing him from the chair. Immediately after it’s done, he turns to walk away, and stops as his hands meet the canvas separating them from the rest of the camp.
“Behind the tent is the woods, where he-” Laurens gestures towards where he and the other person had been arguing before with his chin, and Hamilton almost swoons, “-says he found you. I suppose that’s the way back. It was…” The soldier pauses to think, and shakes his head forcefully, regaining some composure. He walks out without another word.
Hamilton shrugs to himself. He’s got more things to worry about than some redcoat who is painfully attractive. He needs to get back to his General. The aides.
Quietly, as if nothing more than an extension of the late summer breeze, Hamilton sneaks out of the tent. The camp seems relatively empty, though he supposes most officers have retired. On the edge of camp, where he finds himself, the security is thinner; he spies one guard, whose back is turned.
Maybe you are lucky, after all.
His path lit only by moonlight, Hamilton runs through the forest, leaping over roots and taking note of streams he passes. He’s not sure how long he runs for. All of this feels like a fever dream- perhaps he is feverish, for it is way too hot for exercise such as this.
He wants to laugh at his internal complaints immediately.
Hamilton thinks of nothing important other than staying as silent and quick as possible. He doesn’t think of how the other aides will react when he returns. He doesn’t think of what information he could relay to Washington. He doesn’t even think about that redcoat’s eyes, those stupid, perfect eyes-
Well. He tries not to.
—
“Hamilton? Is that you?” A voice calls to him, the figure whom it belongs to shielded by darkness. Based off what little he can see, the figure’s upon a horse. Ah.
“Aye. The General is here, correct? I have things I must speak to him—” He trails off, the figure before him, now identifiable as Caleb Gibbs, Washington’s lifeguard, beginning to chuckle.
“Have I done something worthy of jest, then?” Hamilton’s glare, though powerful enough to do many things, was not able to shut Gibbs up in that moment. The lifeguard simply shook his head as though Hamilton was a child as the laughter died down.
“All I can say is I believe you are more important to the others than you think you are. I’ll see you come morn.”
Hamilton waves off the statement gently, letting on no other opinion—though, it would be a complete lie to say he didn’t—and walks inside.
Perhaps he should listen to Gibbs more often.
Upon entering, Hamilton is filled with a sense of safety- familiarity, comfort, maybe even home, if he’s to allow himself another one of those. Although he and the other members of Washington’s staff are constantly in danger, considering the cause, these are people who he’s found accept him despite his flaws. Whether it’s simply because they must isn’t worthy of his thought.
Regardless, the weight from the earlier incident lifts upon stepping inside. He enjoys the normalcy of it all, how he knows what to expect. He believes all is well until he hears Meade.
“Is it—it is! Tilghman, look who showed up!” Meade, a fellow aide of his remarks. He stands from his desk with a smile and—a look of relief? As he makes his way over, another man stands from his desk.
“Why, Meade, it’s our little lion!” He cocks his head, as though he’s forgetting something, before continuing; “Oh, someone should inform Lafayette of this. Lafaye—”
“Hamilton!” Hamilton is sure he’d recognize that voice anywhere, despite how little time their acquaintance has had to grow. The French accent is perhaps a bit too recognizable. He doesn’t have much more time to think before Lafayette bounds into the room, throwing his arms around Hamilton and nearly picking him up.
Curse his stature.
Lafayette mumbles excitedly before pulling away, and Hamilton is met with the sight of his three friend’s faces, mouths agape and all sharing a similar expression. He smiles back, involuntarily, but this attention is not enough to cure his confusion.
“What is the meaning of this, then?” His eyes scan over their faces, searching for an answer.
“Oh, Hamilton, you must understand what your absence has done to us! It’d only been—what had it been, half an hour? —before all of us were just about sick with worry. Especially our Lafayette, here.” Tilghman walked over to the Frenchman, who, despite being such a new addition to the army, had become fast friends with everybody. Tilghman clapped his hand over the Marquis’ shoulder, whose eyes shown with unapologetic affection.
“Well, you see, mon ami—we all knew you’d gotten into an argument of sorts, what with how you left the office. But, we didn’t expect you to be gone for so long! Tell us, will you, of what happened?” Hamilton’s brow furrowed, thinking. If he were to recount the story, what would he say of the redcoat? Colonel Laurens? Surely not of how attractive he was, no. Honestly, that was never the point. It wasn’t what held him up—was it? If he’d—
“Hamilton?” As he regained focus, Lafayette’s imploring eyes upon him, he decided it truly wasn’t much of a deal. He’d be honest.
“If I must, then I shall.”
Hamilton spent the evening away from work, sharing his experience, perhaps exaggerating some parts (the others didn’t need to know that the redcoat who’d found him kept him alive voluntarily, right?), but in the end, having fun being able to provide some form of entertainment for his fellow aides.
He thought back, that night, on the British colonel’s laugh. How it had reverberated through the tent, permeating the walls he put up around himself. He scarcely remembered letting himself be so free with his thoughts anywhere else. It was something about that man, with his freckled face and eyes and hair light enough to classify him as an angel. An angel who happened to be a redcoat—a British soldier.
It's final, he decided. I am an idiot.