Congratulations America! It’s a great day for democracy, and this Canadian is celebrating with you!
@stegekay and I wrote this West Wing AU in celebration, please give it some love on the archive, it’s a bit too long to post here without Tumblr’s coding going a little funky.
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Preview:
Washington spends the hours, the days pacing his room. He rarely leaves, rarely eats, rarely sleeps. Only the most important briefings are brought to him. Everything else is handed off to now-President Davies. The hastily signed document from two weeks ago seems like a blur now, but Washington doesn’t regret the decision. Alexander is more important. The only person that truly matters to him.
He can’t stand to turn on the television anymore. The coverage is constant, on every station.
The President’s son vanished at a party.
Eighteen years old. Likely targeted.
Two Secret Service agents were injured trying to prevent the abduction; one in a medically induced coma with severe internal bleeding after being shot in the abdomen, the other left with a severe concussion.
I love the hc that Washington is super protective of his son *ahem* aide, especially when it comes to his colleagues who stare at him a lil too long, and make comments on how “pretty” he is, how appealing.
This headcanon contains nonconsensual kissing and attempted noncon.
Most of the time it’s not said out loud. People aren’t foolish enough to make comments about Hamilton’s appearance when Washington is within earshot, but nonetheless he is thin, almost delicate, and more than once the term pretty is mentioned. Hamilton himself, naturally observant, sharp, knows when eyes linger on him for longer than acceptable.
But Hamilton also knows that he is a nobody from nowhere. There are times where he must hold his tongue. Times when he cannot cause trouble.
The first time is before an important meeting. Hamilton is a new aide and at the time did not even know the man’s name. He carries a ledger across the room intended for the General, and suddenly a much larger man is in his path. Nothing happens, not really. The man tells him he’s the prettiest thing he’s seen in months. It’s all Hamilton can do to keep from breaking his hand when those fingers stroke his cheek. But then Washington enters the room. The man steps back. Hamilton heaves a sigh of relief. The General looks confused, and some other emotion lingers behind his eyes, but the meeting carries on as scheduled.
The second time is another gathering, away from headquarters. Hamilton serves as a translator between the General and a trio of French officers ready to serve in the army if the price and rank are right. These men are not like Lafayette, who is eager and willing to learn. They are more intent to point out everything Washington has done wrong. Hamilton snorts. In the end, the men are turned away. They will not get what they want. One of them lingers, corners Hamilton in a hallway. This man towers over him, backs him into a wall. He is too close, reaches forward and toys with a button on his coat.
Washington finds the scene. Hamilton doesn’t know, never asks what goes through his mind, but he drags the man forcibly out of his space.
It ends with Hamilton insisting he’s fine. He is! He doesn’t need Washington worrying about him every moment of the day and he can take care of himself.
The third time he is drunk, or well on the way to being so in some tavern between here and there. Someone in a uniform hauls him out of a chair and Hamilton finds himself pinned against a wall, arms on either side of his head and nowhere to go. It’s a bit difficult to process, but he thinks there’s a knee between his legs and unfamiliar lips too close to his. There’s a whisper in his ear- no need to struggle, he’ll enjoy this, pretty thing that he is. Those lips seal over his and muffles Hamilton’s startled shout. He tries to push away. Fingers tighten in his hair. Another hand finds the ties of his breeches. Hamilton is jerked back into his head. He struggles, pushes back against a firm chest. Panic. Maybe he won’t get away from this.
Footsteps approach, and next he knows Hamilton sags to the floor, knees trembling with some odd combination of inebriation and adrenaline. When he looks up it’s Washington of all people, dragging the man away. He lands a couple punches, sends the stranger spiraling to the ground. As he climbs slowly back to his feet, Hamilton is all too aware of the silence in the tavern. It’s no stretch to say every eye in the place is on them.
What they must think.
Washington doesn’t seem to stop to think. He orders the man thrown out. He’ll deal with the rest of it tomorrow. Time seems to stop as Hamilton’s gaze finds his. There is absolute murder in the General’s eyes. He could have killed this man.
It’s fine, Hamilton insists again. He can take care of himself.
Washington doesn’t say anything in reply as he escorts him from the tavern and back to headquarters. Hamilton wonders, worries, if it’s something that’s his own fault. He worries how far the General’s protectiveness goes. From this last time he thinks Washington would kill to protect him.
Hello! Chapter five of ‘the end for which we live’ is out! We hope all of you have been safe, healthy, and happy. As always this was a collaboration with my wonderful friendo @stegekay.
If you have not read part one of the Past Patiently Waiting series it is in my masterlist and on my a03 called ‘waiting in the wings’ as is chapter one through four of this piece, part two!
Read it on A03 here!
tw: implied/referenced non-con, non-consensual drugging, references to torture: beating, burning, cutting, references to captivity
...
Alexander cannot hold on for himself as they ride, so Washington keeps a tight grip around the boy’s waist, not daring to go any faster than a gallop. Whatever Davies forced down his throat is long past the point of being able to get rid of through sick.
It’s surreal, the general realizes, this entire night has been surreal.
He has Alexander Hamilton back, he himself is unharmed, Davies just… let them go. Why? Why would he do that?
He stalked Alexander for months; he was nearly killed in his first attempt, and now that Washington has reclaimed his stolen aide, surely that madman knows he won’t let anything happen to the boy again.
And yet, Washington has the distinct feeling that he is not the one with the advantage.
The nighttime air is still, quiet, but Washington knows that there are predators out here still.
He tightens his grip on Alexander and urges the horse just a little faster; he wants to go home. He hopes that there is still a scrap of home left in his poor aide. Alexander doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, through the entire trip.
The first emotion his men at camp feel that Washington can tell is relief, and understandably so. Until… well, until the last five minutes of that encounter that dinner was a suicide mission.
And then after the relief there is shock, because he’s brought Alexander Hamilton back.
He does not care what emotions his men are feeling however - well, perhaps one, wherever Laurens has gone off to tonight - right now he focuses on shouting for a medic and carrying Alexander into his own quarters.
That spike of fear is still ever present in his chest, after this it would probably never go away, and he moves quickly for fear that the shouts of celebration and preparation outside would startle Hamilton, pull whatever foundation he has out from under his feet, but there is nothing, still.
Alexander stares up at him blankly and waits for his orders.
The general does not want Hamilton’s comrades seeing him in this state, and he is sure in his right mind Hamilton would not either, so he locks the door behind him once he’s up, promising to open it for no one but the doctor.
A miracle with talons indeed, Washington can already tell that the road to recovery will be a long one.
The doctor will likely arrive within minutes. Washington isn’t totally sure what to do. He sets the boy on his feet and pulls an extra blanket from a trunk. Anything to keep the boy more comfortable.
“Hamilton, if you’re cold…”
Nothing. He doesn’t even blink.
“Hamilton?”
The boy doesn’t even acknowledge him. He does not move as Washington carries the blanket to the bed.
“Alexander…?”
He turns back to the boy, this skinny shadow of what he was some months ago, and this time there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. But before he can speak, there’s a commotion in the hall.
“No, let me pass. I need to see him, dammit!”
Laurens. In the few minutes since they’ve arrived in camp someone must have found him and told him that Hamilton has returned.
There’s still no reaction from Alexander himself. The boy stares at nothing in the direction of the far wall. Washington frowns and leaves him there as the footsteps in the hallway grow heavier.
Washington barely has time to close the door before Laurens bumps into him and tries to push past, eyes wide and frantic. “Hamilton, you found him? You brought him back?” There’s a wild look to his eyes, like he won’t believe it until he can see his friend himself.
“Yes,” the general struggles to keep him at a distance. “John-”
“I need to see him,” He tries to push past Washington again. There’s desperation to his voice that crushes him all the more. “Please, sir-”
“In the morning,” Washington says quietly. That’s his final answer. Laurens freezes, looking crushed.
“But-”
“I’ve no doubt that Hamilton is exhausted. I’ve already called for a doctor,” Washington is able to let go of Laurens, and the boy steps back. “Allow him to rest for tonight. I’m sure he’ll be better able to speak to you in the morning.”
“Is he hurt? Is he okay? Sir I-”
“As far as I can tell he is in no danger, you will be able to speak with him tomorrow.”
Laurens doesn’t look any less upset, but he seems to understand. He nods slowly and steps back as the next set of footsteps approach. The doctor. Washington nods in a short greeting, clasps Laurens’ shoulder for a moment, then steps back into the room with the doctor right behind him.
Alexander hasn’t moved. He still stands in the middle of the room, gaze fixed and empty on the wall. Worry curls in Washington’s gut. He approaches the boy and guides him to the bed to sit. Alexander offers no resistance, no comment. He follows and sits with ease. As the doctor sets down his bag and takes a few supplies, Washington leans into Alexander’s line of sight.
“Can you hear me, my boy?”
“Yes.” The answer is instant, emotionless. Alexander doesn’t shift his gaze in the least.
This evening he let Davies rest a gun in his mouth, and Washington is reminded of that now. It is not a reminder that he wants.
Washington has to force himself to step back when the doctor approaches to examine the boy. He stays close, barely more than an arm’s length from the bed. He won’t let Alexander further away now, not when he finally has him back.
Even if it’s only some of him.
The doctor asks questions, asks what happened to Alexander during his captivity. There is no answer.
Washington can answer a few though, the words from Davies’ letters still branded into his mind, how Davies taunted him with Alexander’s torture.
“Take off your shirt please, Colonel,” the doctor asks, stepping away to give Hamilton the room he needs.
There is no movement.
Hamilton stares.
The doctor clicks his tongue, and his expression is not one that Washington welcomes. He looks worried almost, concerned.
“More… more direct,” Washington says in a whisper, recalling how Davies had spoken to the boy earlier, and how he hadn’t responded to his last name just minutes ago. He does not want to emulate that man in the slightest, but he swallows his disgust and does it, for Alexander’s own good.
“I’m sorry?” The doctor raises an eyebrow.
“Take off your shirt, Alexander.” Washington has to force himself to speak, and when he does it is the general’s voice, not the father’s.Hamilton moves, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it down his shoulders immediately.
“Does that have anything to do with that concoction you mentioned to me?” The doctor speaks as he rounds Alexander’s back, pulling on the boy to get him to turn where he needs him.
“I imagine so, yes,” Washington chokes.
Alexander’s back is scarred, most of them are still red and raised. It’s not from whippings it’s-
“A blade,” the doctor examines them clinically, almost tracing the scars, “these are all from a blade, except… these here,” he points a cluster of scars out, more coarse and jagged than the rest, “these I believe are burn scars.”
Washington feels sick.
That’s not even accounting for the bruises scattered along Hamilton’s chest and arms, and the newly bloomed one along his cheek.
Some are yellowed and faded, some are black, some are varying shades of purple; they all amount to the same conclusion: Alexander was beaten, often.
“You might want to step out for the next part of the examination, for the boy’s decency.”
Washington furrows his brow, about to insist he stay, when he realizes what the doctor means. He needs to see the rest of Hamilton.
“I have a privacy divider,” he mumbles, “I’ll stay in, but we’ll move it here.”
The doctor nods and stands to help Washington move the divider, and Hamilton once again stays absolutely still when they move away and come back.
Washington hears the order for Hamilton to take off his breeches and has to grip the wood of his desk to keep himself from shouting in frustration. Now more than ever the unfairness of the situation sets in; Alexander Hamilton was a bright boy, he was brilliant, and kind - albeit reckless and foolhardy - and above all else he was innocent.
He was not this, he was not obedient and docile and empty. And what had he done to garner such treatment? Been attractive to the wrong man and close to Washington.
The doctor finishes his exam and collects Washington, Alexander is sat on the bed fully clothed when the general looks back around the privacy shield.
“There is much the same along his hips and legs, Your Excellency,” he informs Washington, “and there seems to have been quite a severe fracture to his wrist, it has not set right. I do not think that even rebreaking would help it.”
“Well, what does that mean?” Washington’s brows knit together as his arms cross. This cannot mean… Hamilton could not have lost-
“His motor control has most likely been impacted, I do not know if he will be able to write as he once did.”
Is there any limit to what Samuel Davies can take from him? He cannot walk properly, he cannot write properly, his emotions, his mind, what is left of the boy Washington knew? His body? Even that is scarred by that psychopath.
“General,” the doctor pulls him from his thoughts, “if you’d be willing, we might step into the hall to discuss… some of my other findings.”
Dread curls sour in Washington’s gut, but he nods jerkily. He does not think Alexander will move while they are gone.
The door clicks shut behind him and the doctor, and he cannot but help to feel like he’s abandoning Hamilton all over again.
When the door shuts however, Alexander stands. He blinks. Knows this place.
He pads lightly over to Washington’s desk, where parchment and quill wait, and the quill up, dips it into the inkpot and hovers it above the blank parchment. But he can’t get himself to write a word, he has a thought… wants to write it out, break through the fog, but- he can’t.
It’s not as distressing as it once was, that he can no longer write, but it is curious. He feels like he should be able to do something but can’t. The thoughts no longer become movements, and his wrist spasms painfully from holding the quill anyways.
Maybe he isn’t able to write, instead. Funny, he thought he could.
The door knob turns and Hamilton is back sitting where Washington left him almost instantly, carefully placed and sitting straight, waiting for new orders.
He watches warily as the general enters the quarters once more, looking paler than he had before. He glances once at Alexander and then crosses to his desk, withdrawing a small coin purse from one of the drawers. Small as it may be, Hamilton knows it would carry a considerable amount of money when full, which it looks to be.
There are murmurs outside, if Hamilton concentrates he can hear some of them.
“-this stays between us.”
“Of course, General.”
And the doorknob jingles again. Washington returns without the coin purse.
The general steels himself before turning back to Hamilton, donning the most reassuring expression he can manage. “Well,” he starts softly, “I think we ought to head to bed, my boy.”
Alexander grins and nods, standing up and taking a few steps towards Washington.
Washington’s expression morphs from confusion to horror as Alexander begins to unfasten his breeches a few paces away from him, and then unbuttons his shirt, stepping forward as if to do the same to Washington.
“N-no, Alexander,” Washington hurries to stop him, catching the boy’s wrists gently. “Not like that. Just lay down on your bed,” he points to Alexander’s bed which he never had removed, “that one, and… just go to sleep.”
Alexander tilts his head, blinking in confusion a few times before he silently nods and backs away.
This silent spectre that he’s retrieved is so different from the Alexander Hamilton that Washington knew- knows , it breaks his heart.
He makes sure that the boy actually gets under his covers and waits for his breathing to even out into sleep before even trying to get into his own bed.
He doesn’t sleep, feels like he might not sleep ever again. No, Washington stays up and curses Samuel Davies to Hell and back, and vows that he’ll send him there one day, properly.
…
Washington wakes before the sun comes up to a soft, insistent knocking at the door. He’s slept in a chair next to the bed, waking often to make sure Alexander is still there, still breathing. It wasn’t a dream. Washington got him back, he’s safe.
He lights a candle on his desk and crosses the room to the door quietly as he can. Before he opens it Washington glances back to the bed. Alex is lying there, candlelight glinting against his eyes. Quiet as the general tried to be, he woke him.
Laurens stands in the hall with a small stack of letters in his hand. Washington sighs and allows him in; clearly he hasn’t slept at all.
“Letters from Congress,” he explains quietly, offering the papers to Washington. “Smith’s just returned as well.”
It takes a moment for the name to register in Washington’s mind, but then it clicks. One of the scouts that had encountered Davies, and ridden straight to Congress. So these letters surely contain inquiries about what he is doing to capture Davies.
Washington nods and sets the letters on his desk. As soon as he has Laurens kneels next to Hamilton, movements slow and gentle just instinctively. Washington could reprimand him for not being given leave to do so, but he hasn’t the heart.
Alexander’s disappearance took such a toll on Laurens as well.
“Hi Hammie,” John whispers, watching Alex’s eyes belatedly focus on him. Washington isn’t sure if the drug has worn off yet, and he's about to tell Laurens so when Alex grins, reaching out and brushing a piece of hair away from John’s face.
“Hi John,” he whispers, “missed you.” His eyes flicker to Washington, he takes a moment, finding the name. Not He, but Washington. “Hello, Sir.”
...
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Hey guys, how’s everyone doing in quarantine? Kay and I have been absolutely run ragged with trying to deal with the stress of life in a pandemic, but I’m finished school now and we were finally able to sit down and write out the next part to our Cop AU. Hope you enjoy, and stay safe!
Washington waits, and waits, and waits. He waits for the x-rays to be finished for what must be hours. These things do take time, he knows that more than most thanks to Alex’s reckless streak, but it shouldn’t be taking this long.
When he asks about it though, he’s brushed off and told that he just needs to be patient, which, when you’re inquiring about your shot son, is irritating. The nurses change shifts and he’s still waiting, anxiously pacing the length of Alexander’s room.
Finally Washington's patience comes to an end and he steps out of the room and stops the first passing nurse in the hallway. She’s tall and thin and carrying a couple clipboards. Clearly she’s just starting her rounds, but Washington is frustrated and someone needs to give him answers before he starts going room to room to find Alex.
“I’m looking for a patient,” He starts, and doesn’t give her the chance to interrupt. “He was taken for x-rays over two hours ago now and he hasn’t returned. Alex Hamilton.”
The nurse blinks, and then nods as the name seems to sink in. She flips through the pages of one clipboard, then the other, reading through names and notes. “Hamilton…”
“Police officer. He was brought in with a gunshot wound to the chest, caught by a bulletproof vest. The nurse earlier took him for x-rays to make sure there were no complications from a broken rib.“
“I don’t have that name on my list,” She shakes her head as the papers fall back to the clipboard. Her lips purse together and she looks back up at Washington, “How long did you say you’ve been waiting?”
“Two hours.” It’s been at least two hours. Washington can’t recall the exact time.
“I’ll check the computer, see if anything’s been entered,” She turns back toward the nurse’s station and Washington follows. He is not going back to wait in that room again.
The short walk to the station is silent, and Washington is tense. He's frustrated, a simple x-ray shouldn't take this long. As they approach the open office area at the end of the hall he has to stop himself from following her around the desk. She sits at a computer and begins to type, and Washington forces his eyes elsewhere, struggling to keep from demanding answers this very moment. There's a list of names on the wall behind her, nurses on the current shift. The name at the top, Angelica, the Charge Nurse, that must be the woman he's speaking to.
"It looks like an Alexander Hamilton checked himself out an hour and a half ago. I have a digital signature. " Washington's head snaps back to her at that. No, that's not right. Alex wouldn't just leave without a word to him.
He pulls his dying phone from his pocket and sends a text.
/Where are you?/
Washington waits a minute for a response, but none comes. Nurse Angelica makes a confused sound and furrows her brow.
"What is it?"
"It looks like the x-ray was ordered, but he checked out before it took place."
But that- that doesn’t make any sense.
Alexander is stubborn and reckless and he doesn’t like listening to him but he did in this case. Especially with something like this, if only to calm Washington’s anxieties.
Angelica pulls her phone from her pocket and dials a number. When she puts the phone to her ear, it’s only a second or two before she makes a disappointed face and hangs up. She sends a text, and frowns. “Phone’s off,” She mutters before sending another text, and then pocketing her phone.
Washington feels the same panic rise in his chest as when he first entered the hospital hours ago. Something is wrong. Alex would not just leave without telling somebody. Washington steps away from the desk and takes his own phone again. He dials Alex’s number, and the dread builds even more when the call goes straight to voicemail. Alex never turns his phone off. He’s always insisted he can sleep through anything.
Next he texts Lafayette and Laurens. Surely if Alex left on his own he would have told one or the other. But those responses come quickly. Neither have heard from him since they left the hospital.
When Washington looks up again he spots Angelica standing next to her desk, her lips set in a drawn line as she taps another message on her phone.
“Anything?”
She seems startled, looks up, and pockets her phone much more quickly than she did the last time. “I- no. My counterpart has her phone off. Must’ve been a long shift. I’ll see if anyone else here saw Officer Hamilton before he left. I already have a call in to the floor manager.”
Washington almost interrupts. He wants to tell her to check security cameras, but he’s certain she doesn’t have the authority to allow that.
“You look like you need to rest. Go home for now. Leave me your number, if you don’t mind,” Angelica hands him a slip of paper and pen from her desk. “When I find out what happened I’ll contact you right away, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Washington.”
“Oh,” Angelica briefly flushes red and takes the paper back once Washington writes his number down. “My apologies, I just assumed the name when I realized you’re his father.”
Washington gives her a look that he’s sure, with over two decades’ experience in his job, seems suspicious. “How did you know that?”
“I see parents in here with their children all the time. The age doesn’t matter, fatherly concern is easy to spot. There’s nothing more you can do here for now, and I’m sure we can get this straightened out.. Go home.We’ll call you once I speak with my counterpart.”
Washington opens his mouth to argue, but after a moment closes it again. She’s right. There’s nothing he can do here except follow this nurse around while she checks paperwork and rooms. He deflates, nods, and turns to go with a muttered thanks. Just before he exits the hall Washington glances back.
Angelica is texting again, but even from this distance he sees the look of concern on her face.
...
Washington paces his living room for the hundredth time in the two hours since arriving home.
He wants to cling to the belief that Alex will come home, that he just got frustrated enough that he stormed out of the hospital and is taking a walk or getting food or anything of the like.
It is so much easier to believe that he was safe than the alternative.
But the fact of the matter is this; Alexander would never do this. He would never disappear without a word to Washington or his friends, not after what happened today; he would never leave George in this panic.
They have been through too much together for that to be even a possibility.
But it is so much easier than believing the alternative.
Washington sends out another text and then nervously fidgets with his phone. /Alexander, where are you? I’m worried./
He paces.
Time is agonizingly slow and passing in the blink of an eye all at once.
His son doesn’t reply.
More time passes. The sun goes down.
Washington knows something is wrong here, so he calls it in. He knows how Missing Persons works, he knows that Alex is an adult, and he hasn’t been missing for twenty-four hours, but there’s something wrong, he can feel it. This can’t wait any longer.
The dispatcher picks up on the first ring and the words rush out, “My son is missing.”
“Okay sir, don’t panic, how old is the child?” The dispatcher’s voice is calm, she doesn’t miss a beat, trained to be perfectly collected in the face of tragedy.
“He’s not- he’s twenty-four.” Washington knows what comes next.
“How long has the individual been missing?”
“He- he disappeared from the hospital earlier today and-.”
“Sir, there’s a twenty-four hour period before you can report an adult missing-”
“I know, but he wouldn’t do this! I know the procedures, I know, but my son is in danger, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry sir, I’d be happy to direct you to a local precinct to speak with-”
Washington hangs up the phone with a huff of frustration and growing dread; something is wrong, his son is in trouble and there’s nothing he can do about it.
He tosses his phone onto the couch, sinks into his usual seat, and the phone immediately buzzes. Washington jumps and scrambles to pick it up. His heart is pounding as he unlocks and just as quickly he deflates. It’s Lafayette.
/We’ve dispatched an officer I’m coming with. Do you need anything?/
Yes. He needs Alex home. Now. He doesn’t respond to the text, and puts the phone down again. The instant he lets it go, there’s another buzz.
Washington expects another message from Lafayette, telling him he’s bringing food or planning to stay with him or maybe bringing John as well.
But this is a blocked number. His chest tightens as he unlocks and opens the message. There’s a picture of Alex, eyes closed, lying on a bed that is not his. Another buzz, another picture from a few steps back, Alex’s hands bound over his head. Washington rockets to his feet and his hands are shaking as he starts to type a response. Another message cuts him off.
/Tell anyone and he dies./
There’s a knock at the door.
Washington doesn’t know the officer at the door, but Lafayette stands right behind him, and there are two police cars parked on the street. Lafayette offers a smile, but Washington is frozen there, his phone against his chest in a vice grip. The officer says something that barely registers against the ringing in his ears. He doesn’t move from the doorway, so Lafayette slowly steps forward.
“Can we come in, Captain?”
He nods slowly and leads them to the kitchen, ice settling in his heart. The officer- Washington blanks on his name, asks all of the standard questions, questions Washington himself has asked parents, siblings, friends, dozens of times in his career. He answers them all, forcing a calm tone that almost sounds numb. He doesn’t look at Lafayette once during the whole thing.
Finally the officer closes his notebook and gives another speech Washington knows well. He’ll be in touch once he can officially file Alex as a missing person- tomorrow morning. In the meantime if he hears anything from ‘the subject’ he needs to call immediately. Ultimately Lafayette gets up to show the officer out and the moment both of them leave the room his phone buzzes again.
/He’s awake./
And again.
/What should we play first?/
Washington’s fingers tremble. He shouldn’t respond, he knows it, but he’s typing out a reply before his brain catches up.
/Let him go and I’ll give you whatever you want./
There are bubbles, a response coming, and then footsteps in the hallway, coming closer. Washington rises quickly enough this time that his chair falls back and slams against the floor.
Lafayette appears in the doorway, jumping at the sound, “I told you I was coming back.”
“I’m sorry,” Washington closes his eyes a moment, sets his phone down and uprights the chair. “It’s just…”
“It’s Alex, I know,” Lafayette smiles. “This was hard to do, but he’s all right, I’m sure.”
Washington wants to scream about the texts, the pictures, but he holds his tongue. He offers the younger man coffee instead, which he accepts. For a few minutes while Washington searches for mugs and pods he tunes Lafayette out. He tunes everything out.
And then his phone buzzes again. Lafayette reaches over and picks it up from the table where Washington left it. “This is probably him now-”
“Gil-” Washington doesn’t get farther. His hand is half outstretched to his phone and he sees Lafayette pale. Slowly, he turns the screen for Washington to see.
"Captain? What is this?”
It’s another picture of Alexander, awake, eyes wide. And a message underneath.
/I already have what I want./
…
When Alexander claws his way back to consciousness it feels like he’s moving through molasses, the world is ringing in his ear and his eyes struggle to open, mouth feeling stuffed with cotton.
He groans, and tries to move, can’t.
No, no he can- barely. Ankles bound. He jerks his arms. He notices they’re above him. Tied to the headboard.
“I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
Alex gasps at the sudden voice, whipping his head to the side to face the other person in the room, swallowing the nausea the movement caused, how did he not notice him before now?
He can’t make his voice work, the bound officer can hardly make a sound, never mind a word. He observes the stranger - his captor - with widened, frightened eyes, yet still clinical - always - trained to be that way.
He looks just a little younger than Washington is, white, early forties maybe, with short brown hair that’s beginning to grey in some places, a kind of cold violence lurking behind the man’s dark eyes, a promise of pain hidden in the way he tipped his lips upwards into a grin.
Alexander’s brain catches up with the fact that this man has let him see his face, and his eyes fill with fear again; he won’t be leaving here.
“Oh look at that,” the man coos, advancing on the bed, brushing an errant piece of hair behind Alexander’s ear, his grin never dropping, “you look so pretty afraid, darling.”
Alexander can’t say anything, the drugs or the fear preventing him from even trying, he jerks his wrists weakly and earns a chuckle from his captor.
Who is he? What does he want with him? He doesn’t understand but he’s scared.
“Do you remember me?” The man murmurs, keeping his fingertips brushing lightly against Alexander’s cheek.
The boy’s eyes widen and fill with confusion tangled with his fear, his breathing picking up and stuttering. The man only chuckles again and withdraws his hand.
“That’s a no then,” he comments casually, reaching into his jacket and retrieving a case, opening it without so much of a glance at Alexander. “Don’t worry,” he says, and Alex sees the flash of a needle as he removes the contents of the case, a flash of teeth at the same time, predatory. “You will.”
Did I spiral again? Absolutely. Is this becoming an actual story with a proper plot and continuation plan? Yup. Am I mad about this? Absolutely not; I love this AU.
A new instalment of our Stand Back, Watch it Burn verse!
...
Alexander doesn’t know what’s going on.
Everything had been fine an hour ago, Washington had let him hide from his tutor for the day in his office. (He let Alexander do this far too often, but every time his boy stared at him with that expression he gave in.)
Alexander enjoys his time in his guardian’s private office, Washington rarely let anyone else in with him - not even Laurens - while he works. If the general anticipates needing to work closely with his aides he works at a desk in the workroom. His office is for his private work, when he doesn’t like to be disturbed.
And yet he lets Alexander sit with him whenever the boy wants.
Even when the boy is being a purposeful nuisance. Like today.
“Alexander,” Washington sighs warningly, “stop.”
The boy glances at him from the chaise, where he’d been ‘innocently’ reading some book or other that the tutor had assigned. There’s mischief in his eyes though, and when Washington fixes him with a look he sighs and snaps his fingers. All the papers that somehow mixed themselves on his desk flutter back to their proper places.
“‘m practicing,” he defends, throwing his head back morosely.
“No, you’re bored, and when you’re bored and restless you make a habit of coming in here and causing mischief.”
“Well you scold me when I cause mischief out there,” Hamilton grumbles.
“What was that?” Washington quirks a brow, fixing his ward with a warning look.
“Nothing, Your Excellency.” Alexander grins at him, and he still has that mischievous glimmer in his eye.
“Oh nothing?” With a twitch of his finger Alexander is off the couch and floating just above it with startled shout. Water manifests in little tendrils, twining around him and playfully splashing against his face and arms. “Nothing you say?”
The boy is laughing, kicking his legs out and shielding himself from the water hitting his face where he can. He manages to splash Washington once or twice with water of his own, but he’s not well practiced in holding up shields and wielding the elements at the same time.
Washington sets him down with a fond grin, and the boy looks positively scandalized. “You scold me for causing mischief and yet you’re just as bad!” But he’s still laughing, shaking the water droplets from his hair and holding them hovering in the air. Washington sees the moment the idea pops into Alexander’s head.
“Alexander... no,” he tries, as the boy threateningly advances the water towards his guardian only to jerk it backwards. Alex is smiling, that little grin children often have when they know they’re being disobedient, he jerks the water forwards and backwards again. “Alexander, no, I have important letters here-”
“Shield them,” he says simply, quirking an eyebrow in a manner very reminiscent of Washington himself.
“Don’t-” forwards, backwards, “Alexander, don’t be a-” the water finally rushes forward and Washington has just enough time to shield his work before the water splashes against his face, “brat.”
“I’m told being a brat is in my nature,” Alexander smiles and winks, Washington rolls his eyes.
“And who told you that?”
“Mmm Laurens or Lafayette, I’m not sure. Probably Laurens because if Gilbert thought me a brat he’d just reciprocate.”
“You two should stop picking on Colonel Laurens with your magic,” Washington scolds, standing from his desk for the first time in hours.
“But picking on him without magic is alright?” Alexander could make a fine lawyer someday. Washington crosses the room and stands in front of his ward, who’s suddenly not meeting his eyes. “You’ve been working so late for so long, maybe tonight we could take supper with Laurens?”
Alexander always seems younger when he makes requests like these, more vulnerable. He plays with the ring Washington gifted him for his birthday, his family’s signet ring.
The general cups the back of Alexander’s neck, smiling gently down at him. “Of course we can-”
“Your Excellency!” Laurens bursts through the door, and something must be terribly wrong because Washington can feel Alexander’s dread through the bond. He might not himself be an empath but he always feels Alexander’s reactions as he reads other people.
“Laurens, what’s the matter?”
“A message just arrived sir, they say they’ve captured a mage sir. One that employs Dark magic.” Washington stiffens. Dark magic is archaic, so few use it and the ones that do use it are corrupted down to their very souls. “They are bringing him here, Your Excellency, for they figure you’re the only mage powerful enough to make wards to seal him.”
Washington’s stomach drops. He blocks his emotions from Alexander, the boy doesn’t need to know how scared he is at this news. “Stay here,” he orders the boy, already rushing away with Laurens.
His office is heavily warded. No one comes in without his express permission except for Laurens and Alexander and when he was here and not France, Lafayette.
“Wh-what? Washington?!” Alexander stumbles to the door of his office but Washington’s already halfway down the hallway. His guardian shouts back once more not to leave the wards and he’s gone.
And that’s where he is now, waiting for Washington to return and explain what the Hell is going on.
He doesn’t know what’s going on.
…
Washington is immediately warding a room, adding onto the layers his mages in the camp had begun.
The room is in his home, he has a child and they’re bringing this man to his home.
He knows it’s no one’s fault, he’s kept Alexander a secret from a majority of the world, but the idea that he has to keep a Dark mage so close to him… these wards must be perfect.
“His magic will already be bound, I’m assuming,” he asserts.
“Partly, Your Excellency,” one of his mages starts, “they’ve managed to bind it so that he needs to give spoken commands to control someone’s will.”
Washington stops and rears on the mage. “That still poses a considerable risk to everyone in this camp, why hasn’t he been properly bound?”
“They’re unable, General Washington, he’s too powerful a mage to completely bind his powers. As he was, he was able to control our all our troops at one battle just by looking at them, he turned them against each other. To revoke his power to give non-verbal commands or control with his eyes alone is a great feat.”
The danger of this man is indescribable, and he must surely be completely corrupt. “Can someone tell me why are we preparing a holding room and not the gallows?”
“Congress, sir. They are deliberating what should be done with him, whether he can be traded for anything from the British.”
“Well I’ll make it known immediately that my recommendation is that this man, if you can call him that, is executed as soon as possible. Dark magic like that has no place in this world.”
…
Alexander paces the floor, that remnant dread still clinging to his gut from when he felt Laurens’ fear.
/Washington?/ He reaches through their bond, trying to speak with the man. /Washington what’s happening?/ He feels the resistance before he can even finish his sentence, Washington is blocking their bond.
All at once something else comes, it invades Alexander’s body down to his very core. It skitters along his skin like spider legs, he feels the gooseflesh rise against his skin and he knows it’s wrong.
That’s not even the beginning. That wrongness sits in his stomach and rolls it, and Alexander is sure he’s going to get sick. And that skittering doesn’t go away either, soon it’s in his head too, the world tilting a little too much when he tries to take a step. His head feels very light.
/Washington? Washington something is wrong./
His guardian doesn’t answer. Alexander wants him. He needs Washington, he doesn’t feel well and he can tell instinctively it’s because of his magic.
It’s a split second decision, Alexander needs Washington - he leaves his office, the wards, and seeks out his guardian through the bond.
He finds him outside, standing with Laurens and a few other officers Alexander recognizes as being his mages in camp. The man turns to meet him with widened eyes before he even shouts his name, arms coming to meet him as Alexander races towards him.
“Alexander you shouldn’t be out here-“
“Something is wrong, I don’t- it’s wrong, it feels wrong.” Alexander is breathless, clutching his guardian’s hands without care of the spectacle it’s causing. Washington glances to his side, and Alexander’s stare follows.
Across the camp there’s a man - a mage, he realizes - staring at them. It’s so far away he shouldn’t have such an effect, but Alex knows without a doubt that he’s the reason he feels so sick.
Their eyes meet and Alexander feels another jolt of that something rip through him.
Washington must feel it too, or feels it through their bond, because he snaps into action. He pulls Alexander behind him, out of the mage’s stare. “It’s dark magic,” he murmurs into his ear, “that’s what’s making you ill. I’ll come to you in a little while, lay down a moment, once you’re in your rooms’ wards you’ll feel better.”
Washington reaches with one hand and takes Laurens by the shoulder, pulling him away from the line. “Sir?”
“Take Alex to his rooms, and then stay there with him, I’ll collect you both after he’s dealt with.” Washington doesn’t want either of these boys anywhere near this mage.
Laurens nods, taking Alexander’s hands from Washington. “Yes, Your Excellency. Come on Alexander.” Even he’s unnerved by that man.
He escorts Alexander to his room, the boy is barely walking on his own. He’s the only one who can get into this section of the manor, save Washington, without Alexander allowing them passage through the wards. The boy is in no state to do that now, so he’s glad he’s been given such a privilege.
Alexander makes it a few steps into his parlour before throwing up.
…
That. That boy is the source of the power he’s felt?
Why he went to the trouble of getting captured to begin with?
Well, that’s… interesting. Intriguing. What is a boy doing in a war camp? In proximity with Washington? How has Washington hid him for so long?
The pair of them have enough power to radiate for miles away from the camp, it’s what drew Davies there in the first place. There should have been more mages wondering the same, had they all assumed it was only Washington’s power?
A ward, perhaps, a son?
And the other one, that one has no magic but Washington is clearly just as fond, trying to shield them from his gaze. The things he could do with them, to them.
This venture is well worth it then. Behind the muzzle Davies grins.
Washington won’t have to worry about his ward for much longer.
…
When Washington slips into Alexander’s rooms the boy is still retching. Laurens is trying to soothe him, catching the vomit in a bucket and wiping his mouth, rubbing designs onto his back in an effort to relax his muscles.
If this is the reaction a young mage has then Davies soul is truly corrupt.
“Boys,” he rumbles from the doorway, “I’m sorry I took so long.”
He takes some of the disquiet from Alexander and the boy stops retching. Davies’ presence unnerves him too, but he has defences from him, experience and age alone providing a certain amount of shielding.
Laurens relaxes for a moment when Alexander does, but he’s up and saluting in the next breath.
“At ease, John,” Washington moves slowly, like he’s exhausted or sore. Laurens figures he probably is, it takes a lot to make wards the way he had to today. “I’m sorry you’re so affected Alexander, I’m trying to have him dealt with as quickly as possible.”
Alex nods from his place on the floor, letting his head rest against Laurens’ shoulder in exhaustion. For a moment the pair of them just breathe, and Laurens too looks exhausted. He’s also splashed in vomit.
“John, you may change your breeches.” Washington and Laurens exchange a glance, Laurens understands he wants a moment alone with his ward.
“Yes sir, and what after, sir?”
“Return here, we’ll take supper.” Alexander brightens at that, and both Laurens and Washington notice.
“Yes sir,” Laurens grins, gently nudging Alex off him and against his chaise. He stands, and poor boy, he’s splashed with quite a bit of vomit. Washington vanishes most of it but the breeches will still feel dirty. His aide tips his head in gratitude and moves for the door.
Once it’s just the two of them Washington lifts Alexander and puts him on the chaise, banishing the rest of the vomit.
“Why does it feel so… bad,” Alexander settles, he can’t be eloquent right now.
“Dark magic doesn’t mix well with proper sorcerers, it’s archaic and corrupt. Sometimes young and new mages react like this.” Washington runs his fingers through the boy’s hair, pulling him against his chest. “It’ll go away when he’s gone and I’m going to make sure that’s close to immediately.”
Alex hums, listening to the sound of his heartbeat and relaxing closer and closer to sleep. Washington makes a few lights, just a bit away from the boy’s face, and grins when Alexander smiles contently at them.
“You can nap,” he murmurs, “Laurens, you and I can take supper later in the evening.”
“D’nt need naps,” the boy grumbles, already settling closer to Washington, eyes already slipping shut. “‘m not a child.”
“I know, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Washington replies. The stars he’s made slowly begin moving, slow, rhythmic patterns dancing around the pair. He feels the boy relaxing further and further in his hold.
As suspected, Alexander is asleep before Laurens returns.
Washington doesn’t hear the other boy enter, too lost in his own thoughts. He only notices because he turns around and Laurens too is watching the lights, a look of awe upon his face as he tentatively touches one that hovers near him. Washington grins, they never truly outgrow this.
Laurens notices the scrutiny and feels his cheeks warm. “Apologies sir, I should have announced myself.”
The stars fade and Washington slides Alexander away from him, so he’s on the cushions and that’s all. “Never mind, Colonel, better you don’t anyhow. Since supper is evidently delayed, accompany me to my office to draft a letter to Congress, nothing in this world is worth keeping that mage alive.”
Laurens nods and bows shallowly, following after Washington exits his son’s rooms. Once again, he is not sure where he falls in Washington’s affections but in his staff he is ever the dutiful aide-de-camp.
At times like this it can become confusing.
Washington drafts this letter, then realizes another needs revision, and another urgent message has arrived which must be replied to. This is often a trend when he sits at his desk.
John doesn’t need to be an empath or a mage at all to tell that Washington’s torn about needing to work and leaving Alexander alone.
“I can revise a few letters with Alexander, sir,” Laurens suggests quietly, almost timidly. “He does enjoy it, if he’s awake. If he’s not I can sit with him a whiles, he was… unsettled by our prisoner today.”
Washington glances up gratefully but guilt shines in his eyes as well. He’d promised Alexander they’d dine together tonight. “Yes, please Colonel. I’ll- I’ll be there in a moment’s time. Just this last letter, I swear. It won’t be too late of a supper.”
Laurens quirks his lips into a half-grin, and he looks so much like Alexander; Washington wonders if Alexander has influenced him or vice versa. The aide gathers his papers, assured that there’s ink and quill in Alexander’s room.
“I’ll tell Alex you’ll join us briefly then, if he’s awake,” Laurens assures. There’s a piece of hair in his eyes that he absentmindedly blows away. Washington doesn’t know why, but it’s this sudden reminder that this boy is only twenty-three years old.
“Please do.”
John nods his head and moves towards the door, stopped only by Washington’s voice at the last moment. “Do not think you need to work too hard, Colonel. There’s no one on my staff more devoted and I am cognizant of this fact. Tonight was supposed to be a time off for you to dine with Alexander, you needn’t spend it working now that we’ve been interrupted.”
His hand is already holding the doorknob, he turns back towards the general with the slightest grin and tips his head again. “Yes sir, thank you sir.”
Washington watches him slip out the door, his own small grin growing.
Laurens’ steps are quiet, he knows these halls well and he knows which places squeak even better. (Alexander’s birthday celebration comes to mind and he shudders, it’s a blessing Washington did not end up discovering them.)
He knows the way to Alexander’s room so well that he moves most of the time without conscious thought, his father always said he was far too wanting of daydreams and senseless bouts into his thoughts for a gentleman to be.
A hand snatches around his waist while another slaps over his mouth. He feels his back impact the wall and a man’s hand hold him there, his other still clamped over his mouth to silence any shouts for Washington that are desperately trying to be heard.
“Now, now, don’t be fussy,” a voice says, and he’s not sure if it is inside or outside his head. “Look at me boy, that’s it.”
Laurens feels the moment the man - the mage, he realizes, fear stilling his heart and inciting him to try and scream again - dives into his mind. It’s seconds and his mind is no longer his, there’s no fight, he can’t.
“Don’t scream,” Davies orders, removing his hand from Laurens’ mouth because he knows he will be obeyed, and he is. “So, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens is it? You are going to help me with a little endeavour.”
Here’s a small ficlet Kay and I have written as a kind of prologue/teaser to the much awaited second part of the Past Patiently Waiting series. Enjoy! :) written by @stegekay and @accidentally-a-writer
...
It’s late in the evening when a knock at the door disturbs General Washington from his work. Almost two months’ worth of work has piled up on his desk in the time since Samuel Davies entered their lives. Hamilton is resting upstairs in Washington’s private quarters, cleared to return to his duties, but the general is hesitant. He hasn’t told him yet. Another knock, and Washington rises from his desk.
Two months ago he’d have allowed whoever’s on the other side of the door to enter the office, assured it would be one of his own men, someone he could trust. That is no longer the case, not since..
He opens the door and finds John Laurens standing there. Of course it’s Laurens. Washington’s asked him to report in after each time he goes out, undertaking the mission he was given.
“Sir,” Laurens greets him and tips his head but there’s something behind his eyes; there’s always something behind his eyes nowadays, conspiratorial and shrouded. Ever since Washington pulled him into his office and spoke in whispered voices, not to be repeated to anyone else.
“Colonel Laurens.” Washington shifts so that the boy can slip into the privacy of his office. He closes the door behind him. They always have this meeting behind a closed door. Once the door is shut the general looks over his shoulder at his aide, his voice coming inexplicably expectant and hopeless. “Have you found anything?”
“No sir,” Laurens replies. “I cannot find a trace of Davies nor his associates anywhere near our base and to an extent I’d even say the outer towns of this area. He’s gone.”
“We both know-”
“And perhaps it is time that it is not just us two that do know, Your Excellency.” The title is tacked on to the end of his sentence as he remembers himself, but Washington knows that Laurens speaks to him now not as a subordinate but as a confidant. “You are certain that this letter is from Davies…”
“I know it is, the handwriting-”
“I understand that sir,” the boy interrupts him once again, and he’s so like Hamilton Washington almost smiles - they make a fine pair of comrades indeed, “but of all people who should know if there’s even a chance that that man has survived, why am I the one to carry that knowledge while his intended victim remains in the dark?”
“Alexander is still recovering, to worry him with this will do nothing but agitate his state. He will never be able to focus on his own recovery if he is constantly looking over his shoulder.”
“So that burden now falls to me.”
The words fall heavily from Laurens’ lips, and stay stagnant in the air like they have a malicious presence of their own.
Washington knows that it is not fair to the boy; it is Laurens and Laurens alone who knows of the letter Washington received. He’d asked the boy to try and find Davies, or at least an idea of where the man may be. There had been no leads so far but still every few days Laurens goes, hoping to end their nightmare once and for all.
No one knows what his expeditions are for, and no one asks. They are sanctioned by Washington and that is reason enough. But it must be terribly isolating, to hold that truth - one that threatens everything he holds dear - completely alone save his superior officer.
And Washington knew it was dangerous.
They all got a taste of what Davies was capable of in just a few weeks in enemy territory, if he were to capture Laurens and bring him to his own place…
“Colonel Laurens is a rather dashing man as well...”
The panic abruptly building in Washington’s chest is familiar now. He’s felt it so many times over this last month that it’s practically become second nature. This is foolish, this search after what they’ve been through. Washington is risking Laurens’ safety and he cannot-
“Sir?”
Washington lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “I’ve asked a great deal of you in the last few weeks, Colonel. Consider your mission complete.”
Laurens stares at him, completely stunned by the abrupt change in orders. Over the last several weeks Washington has asked him about the search any time their paths crossed. It was fast becoming an obsession. Laurens understands the urgency, but he’s come up with nothing. Still, if the general orders him to search, then search he will.
“Are you sure, sir?”
Washington almost hesitates, almost orders him to go out and search again even knowing that Davies will not be found unless he wants to be, and this time he’s put another boy in danger. “I’m certain,” He manages to keep his voice even. “We’ll not search again. Perhaps… perhaps you’re right and he’s moved on. The man at the very least had a brush with death. Maybe he decided returning is not worth his life.”
“Yes, sir.” Laurens studies him a long moment, and seems to be waiting for Washington to change his mind. He won’t. He’ll not risk another of his boys now.
“Dismissed, Colonel. Thank you.” Laurens salutes and turns to go, and Washington takes a step after him. “Wait.”
The boy stops and turns back. “Sir?”
Washington lets out a slow sigh. He should not continue this secrecy, but still… “You’ll continue to keep the details of your mission confidential. No one need know.” The tone is every bit a detached order from a general.
Laurens presses his lips together, holding in some argument, and he nods once. “I understand, Your Excellency.” And then he leaves.
Once he’s alone again Washington rounds his desk and retrieves the letter from his bottom drawer. He needn’t read it now; he’s memorized the words. He sees it perfectly when he closes his eyes.
Indeed, nobody else needs to know.
Washington crosses the room and stands before the fireplace, studying the flames with intensity. There’s no doubt as to his decision. He crushes the paper in his hand, and tosses it into the fire.
The flames take it immediately, and in seconds the parchment turns to ash. Washington watches it burn and then steps away to return to his desk. He’ll be ready, he’ll have to be, if Davies attempts to return.
He tells himself he’s done the right thing. That he can keep the boy safe. Washington closes his eyes for a moment as he sits, and the words jump out at him.
Do you really think you can keep him safe every hour of every day?
Value me. Maybe Washington telling Alex that he’s not so expendable as he originally thought?
It takes Washington a moment to gather his composure and get past the sinking feeling in his gut. It's now, of all times, that Hamilton has ceased following his instructions. Those dark eyes peer at him without a hint of fear.
"My boy, I am ordering you to leave. Go, now, while you still have a way out of here."
Hamilton is close and even in the poor light Washington sees him smile. "I couldn't leave you now, sir. Not when you still have need of me."
Washington sighs at the stubborn boy. He shouldn't be surprised, but now is not the time to argue. "The British will be here in minutes, son. They intend to arrest me for a trial, but you…"
Lord. If the enemy, the victors get their hands on Hamilton, they will kill him here and now; shoot him, hang him, whatever is easier.
"I'm still willing to die, sir," Hamilton's voice doesn't waver in the least.
"And I'm not willing to see that come to pass, son." Washington stalks to the far end of the small safehouse. It's sparse, but enough room to support two these last few days. The floor where he stands creaks awkwardly under his weight. He reaches for the boy, standing an arm's length away, but he stops, hesitates. Hamilton never welcomed a friendly touch. He likely won't now either. "I won't see them kill you. You mean too much to me, Alexander."
Hamilton doesn't seem to know what to do. There's a shimmer against those dark eyes. He clenches his teeth and balls his hands into fists. "I'm not leaving." Washington isn't sure if he imagines seeing the boy's lower lip tremble or hearing his voice waver.
The floor creaks, breaking the sudden silence. Washington glances down and spots the trap door beneath his feet. A crawl space. The British know he is here, but Hamilton…
"Son," He reaches out and this time grasps the boy's arm.
"Sir, I don't-"
Hamilton doesn't finish the protest before he's pulled into a bear hug. Even now, of all times, Washington expects him to struggle, to pull away. He doesn't.
For once Hamilton goes lax in his arms and buries his face in Washington's coat. "It's been an honor, sir. If I die for this country, then-"
"Shush. You're not dying today."
Before the boy can react, Washington grabs his pistol with his free hand and brings the butt of it down on the back of Hamilton's head. He instantly goes limp, and Washington scoops him up.
"I'm sorry for the headache you'll have when you wake, son, but you'll be alive to have one," Washington muses to the unconscious boy. He steps off of the trap door and pulls it open. The crawl space is small, almost too small for Hamilton, but he makes it work. He lays a hand against his cheek, memorizes that face for the last time, then closes the hidden door.
Outside music approaches. Celebratory gunfire. The British are here. Washington doesn't intend to give them reason to search the place. He leaves his pistol on a rickety table and steps outside.
They may have lost. The war may be over. But tomorrow Washington knows that Hamilton will still be alive, and that's enough.
***
Well. I have no idea what I was going for, but this is the first thing I've managed to write in like two weeks.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I did it guys! Chapter 14 of my ongoing story “Look at Where We Started”. This chapter has been two months in the making, so if you can please pop over to A03 and tell me what you think of it. Or come scream at me in the asks, both are good :)
