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The tent is dark, save for the small lamp on Washington’s desk. The soft rustle of papers and occasional sentry passing by just outside, soft crickets in the otherwise quiet night. But in the otherwise on edge stillness that comes with this edge of war- the front less than ten miles away.
Washington’s sharp eyes flick up from the medical charts before him. There, silhouetted against the faint moonlight, is a familiar form.
“Hamilton, what do you think you’re doing?” Washington calls, his voice low to keep from disturbing patients, but with an authority that can’t be missed.
“I’m fine, sir,” the boy replies, though the strain in his voice gives him away. “I just thought I’d-”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Washington’s tone hardens and he rises from his chair, crosses the length of the tent in a few quick strides. “You’re barely two days out of surgery, Hamilton. I’ve treated you enough times to know you are not fine.”
Alexander grimaces. “The front needs me, sir. I can’t just lie around while-”
“The front needs soldiers who can stand without leaning on the closest wall for support,” Washington cuts in. He glances at the way Alexander clutches the tent pole to steady himself.
“I’m fine,” Alexander repeats, more firm now as if he’s trying to convince even himself. “I’ve had worse, sir. You know that.”
Washington sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. The boy has been here five times in four months, more than any soldier should. “This isn’t a contest of who can withstand the most punishment, Hamilton. You’ve torn yourself up enough for one lifetime. Don’t push yourself.”
There’s a flicker of defiance in Alexander’s eyes and he straightens himself, slow and deliberate like he’s trying to avoid pain. “I’m not pushing anything. I can handle it.”
Something about the way the boy exhales makes Washington’s brow furrow in concern. He lowers his gaze, and in the poor lighting he still spots the darkened stain growing across his side. “You’re not handling anything, son, you’re-”
“Don’t,” Alexander snaps. His eyes are suddenly wild. “Don’t call me that.” The boy tries to push away, he sways a little, barely catching himself.
“You’re bleeding through your damn dressings,” Washington interjects before Alexander can argue any further. The boy stiffens, his breath hitching for just a second. A dark red stain creeps through the fabric wrapped around his abdomen. He must have felt it, but ignored it until now.
Alexander draws a short, shuddering breath, and in that moment, all of that defiance and energy seems to drain out of him. A soft sound passes his lips, barely a gasp. “Oh, that’s not good."
Washington’s face tightens, the worry unmistakable beneath his stern demeanor. “Sit down. Now.”
Alexander shakes his head, forcing a smile. “I-it’s nothing. Just a little-”
“I said sit down!” Washington’s voice cracks like a whip, and Alexander sways on his feet.
Washington lunges forward, catching Alexander by the arm as his knees buckle. The younger man mutters something, tries to pull away, but Washington holds firm, easing him into the nearest chair. Alexander’s face is pale, the fight draining out of him along with the blood soaking his bandages.
“You’ve reopened your stitches,” Washington growls, grabbing his kit from the table. “Damn it, Hamilton, why can’t you sit still for five minutes?”
Alexander responds with a weak, breathy laugh. His eyes flutter, unfocused. “Can’t afford to. Not while…”
“Shut up,” Washington orders, kneeling down to inspect the wound. “You keep talking, and you’ll pass out faster.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Alexander slurs. He slumps in the chair, breaths growing shallow.
Washington works quickly, pressing fresh gauze into the wound. Blood seeps through faster than he’d hoped. He knows Alexander will need surgery. Again. “Stay with me,” Washington says, his voice softer. “Don’t you dare fade on me.”
Alexander’s head lolls to the side and his body sags against the back of the chair. Washington curses under his breath and pulls him upright, wraps an arm around his shoulders. His fingers are coated in the boy’s warm blood as he checks for a pulse. Weak, and his skin is clammy. Closer inspection tells Washington that Alexander has told his stitches open.
“You damn fool,” Washington whispers, throat tightening. “You don’t know when to stop.”
He lifts Alexander from the chair, pulling the younger man against him as gently as he can. Alexander’s head rests on his shoulder, his breathing barely audible. Washington holds him close, feeling the ragged pulse beneath his fingers.
“I’ve got you,” Washington murmurs, though it feels like a promise he’s not sure he can keep. “I’m not letting you go, do you hear me?”
But Alexander is already gone, limp in Washington’s arms. He sits there for a moment, cradling the boy he’s come to care for more than he can admit. This war has taken so much from the both of them. He won’t let it take Alexander too. Not tonight.
Not ever.