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Summary
John Laurens has a peculiar way of showing affection. Hamilton just hasn’t learned it yet.
The first sign was a feather.
John had found it outside camp, during one of his long, aimless walks that always ended in Hamilton’s tent. He brought it in like a gift, held delicately between two fingers, the pattern brown with white splattered dots, and set it down beside Hamilton’s ink pot.
“For you,” Laurens said, smiling faintly. “It reminded me of something sharp. And clever. I am pretty sure it was from an owl.”
Alexander blinked. “It’s a feather.”
“Exactly," he said, as if that explained everything. “Sorry, it’s just that you go through quills unlike anyone I ever saw, so I thought you might care for a new one.”
or that one in which Laurens flirts like a bird
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Bookmark Notes:
Peak fic
Good neurodivergent representation in this -
Bookmark Notes:
Lams