Chapter Text
Washington hadn’t spoken to his majesty in quite some time, their letters used to be rather frequent before, before the revolution, before everything. It seemed awfully quiet; it had been ever since the missives stopped arriving to or exiting his tent. It felt like the tent had shrunk, like the space to fit his busy mind had been limited to the very extinct of minimum. The desk felt rougher under his strong hands, his nails sinking into the wood with a grip of iron. Washington had tossed his tricorn hat to the side, a piece of clothing that symbolized his position, a position in which he was granted due to his excellent way of leading. Leading against the British, not associating with they’re king in such a romantic way. Or, perhaps George hadn’t meant the letters as romantically intimate? Maybe it was just the way the British wrote? It certainly had to be the second option; it had to be. He left out the part about they’re shared time together.
It had been years, six to be exact. He should’ve forgotten about this a long time ago, forgotten about him. No matter the effort Washington put into the problem, the crown still lingered in the depth of his engraved thoughts. He hated the British; he hated the king. He really did. At least, he swore he did. Perhaps if he thought about George that way forever it would become reality.
They’d shared...moments, sure, a simple conversation, a brush of hands, a kiss once…twice…possibly three times, nonetheless, it couldn’t have meant anything. Not to mention that all of this had occurred before the conflict. He wasn’t like that anymore, not some foolish man reckless on the subject of romance, following his instincts instead of common sense. Especially a romance with royalty, and certainly not with another man.
A dilapidated piece of paper lay besides his clenching hand, the ink barely visible anymore. It appeared to be one of the missives from George. Old? Certainly. This exact letter had been sent to him in early May seven years back, despite himself he still traced his fingers over the letters, only to drag the paper across the desk, grip desperately at the wood and regret his decision moments later. Which seemed to be the current issue.
He shouldn’t be referring to him as George, King George was the name he usually used for him while having conversations with colonists, most people seemed to refer to him as the “Tyrant”. Washington had used that name too, surely, however it didn’t feel right on his tongue. It should’ve, it’s what the king is. A reckless, awful, lying tyrant. He hated George.
Suddenly, the flaps of the tent opened. Immediately, Washington scrambled away the letter, forcing it into the drawer, a piece of paper being ripped halfway into the compartment. Before him stood aide-de-camp Alexander Hamilton, a curious smile on his face. Hamilton was always like that. Curious. Annoyingly so. However, he was always so sure of his decisions. Washington was usually quite sure himself, of course, he just wished he could have even an ounce of that self confidence in this situation. Alexander’s hand was still planted onto the entrance of the tent, panting like he had been running, or at least in movement. Once he spoke his voice came out in breathy words.
“General Washington, we are in serious need of your help.”
Washington’s fingers loosened. “Why so, if I may ask?”
“It’s Lee, sir. He keeps spreading these rumours about you, we need to-“
Washington shot Hamilton a glance, interrupting him with what could be compared with a groan. “Christ, you’re all acting like children. His words cannot harm me, and so it is not important.”
Hamilton’s body strained, his hand dropping from where it was gripping the tent flaps. “But sir-“
“Enough.”
Another shadow appeared by the tent, giving the aide-de-camp a warm smile before stepping inside.
“Ah, Lieutenant colonel John Laurens, how may I assist you?” Washington spoke politely. Laurens nodded to the general, before slipping something out of his pocket, pinching it between his fingers.
A letter.
“It’s for you, sir. I believe it’s from Britain.”
He confirmed.
Ah, probably another desperate attempt to get the colonists to stop their rebellion against them.
“And who is this missive is from?” He asked, a relaxed expression on his face. He already knew how he would reply to the letter. Nothing more but a simple no.
Laurens flipped the missive over in his hand, his eyes roaming over the text there before shifting his gaze back to Washington.
Laurens spoke in the background, Washington wasn’t clearly listening to him, engraved in the thought about the look on the British people’s faces. Then a familiar name occurred. He froze. He must’ve heard wrong.
“Pardon?” He forced out, his eyes widening.
Laurens looked almost startled at the sudden word before speaking again in his previous tone.
“George, sir.”
And suddenly Washington didn’t have a clue what he was going to reply with after all.