I wrote one of those fics that got way out of control. This is a sequel to one of my one word prompts, Carry.
Lots of angst ahead. This was supposed to be a little bit of angst and a lot of fluff. It's...about 99% angst with a little bit of hope at the end.
Once Hamilton is finally given permission to leave his bed, his first few attempts at walking are first- painful, and second- complete failures. The boy, being who he is, refuses to allow anyone to help him, and winds up crashing ungracefully to the floor more than once. Nothing injured beyond his pride, he curses and shouts in frustration until even his closest friends are chased from the room.
Which is of course when Washington hears of it.
He finds Hamilton in much the same way the others left him, sitting on the floor, barely an arm’s length from the bed. The boy’s face is flushed, eyes red rimmed and his chest heaves rapidly, breaths too short. He has always been thin, but he’s lost weight in the two months or so he’s been confined to bed. His shirt is too large, hair overgrown, arms and legs thinner than should be healthy. In short, he can’t look much more pathetic.
Hamilton’s head shoots up with the door opens and he looks ready to shout, demanding to be left alone, but when he realizes who it is standing in the doorway he quickly closes his mouth.
“Your Excellency,” There’s still something harsh in the tone, even if Hamilton has tried to pull back his frustration at the sight of his General. Dark eyes quickly flick away from Washington and fix on the floor. A short, sardonic puff of a laugh escapes his lips. “Forgive me for not saluting, sir.”
“Hamilton,” Washington takes a step further into the room and closes the door. For a moment he’s at a loss for what to say. Save for when he carried the boy, delirious with pain, back to camp when he was first injured, he’s never seen him like this. Hamilton is not the sort to wallow in self-pity, but that’s precisely what he’s doing now. Washington draws a wary breath as he debates how to proceed. “Do you need help getting back into bed?”
The boy flinches like he’s been slapped and responds with a sharp, hissed, “No.” The answer isn’t a surprise, but the venom behind it is a bit. Of course, were he in Hamilton’s place, Washington doesn’t think he’d want to see that bed for at least another two months.
“Then how about getting off the floor?”
He recoils again. For a moment Hamilton pretends not to see the offered hand hovering close to his face. In their time together they have an understanding even before the injury, and that stubborn expression softens a bit- the boy realizes he’s not going to be left alone. He doesn’t make eye contact, but nonetheless his hand finds Washington’s.
Washington uses careful strength to help him upright. In an instant he feels the strain in Hamilton’s back, his legs; trembling in their effort to keep him upright. Most of his weight rests against Washington’s side once he’s on his feet, and the General doesn’t dare let go.
“All right?” Washington asks him cautiously. If this is too much he will order the boy back to bed.
Hamilton gasps against him, and for an instant it seems he might pass out. “Fine,” He manages, barely more than a breath. Sweat beads along his forehead as he tries to straighten himself. Somehow his breathing sounds worse. He looks at Washington for a moment, then attempts a step.
Washington puts him back to bed, calls for McHenry.
Another week passes before Hamilton is allowed out of bed again.
Two days after that, Washington finds himself again supporting most of the boy’s weight in the hallway. It’s easier to attempt to walk here. Tentatively, Washington lets the boy go, and he shifts his weight more against the wall. Hamilton manages a few slow, unsteady steps on his own, most of his weight against the wall.
They notice it at the same time: a pronounced limp on his injured side. Hamilton pales to the point that Washington fears he’ll pass out again, but no, it’s more fear than pain behind his eyes. The words must run through Hamilton’s mind just as quickly as Washington’s- lame, cripple, helpless.
He takes another step. The limp is obvious.
“I… it didn’t heal right,” Hamilton’s voice nearly breaks, bordering on panic.
“You don’t know that,” Washington tries to reassure him despite the worry clutching at his own heart. “These kind of injuries need time to—”
He shakes his head, “No.”
Washington frowns, “Hamilton…”
That spark of fear in his eyes dulls, and Hamilton sags against the wall. “I’m tired,” He mutters.
Washington knows he should argue, should encourage the boy to keep going, but the distraught expression stuns him. He takes the boy back to bed.
The following day Hamilton says he hurts. He doesn’t want to get up. He says it again the next day, and the day after that. Washington is distracted by correspondence, meetings, but he checks on the boy when he can. Most of the time Hamilton feigns sleep- Washington is no fool and he has raised two children.
He can tell when a boy is merely pretending to be asleep.
After four days Washington has had enough. He has enough time to himself to approach politely once. Hamilton all but refuses to get up, his nose buried in a law book. His temper flares. He cannot let the boy get accustomed to this. He is not about to allow Hamilton to give up on himself.
Without as much as a greeting he strides across the room and plucks the book from Hamilton’s hands. “Sir!” The response is a startled annoyance as Washington approaches the bed again.
“You’ve laid here long enough, my boy,” He says evenly, reaching to pull back a blanket. “You need to get up and try walking again.”
Hamilton flushes red and shakes his head once, “My hip’s bothering me, sir. I’ve been told not to push if it hurts and-”
“Stop the bullshit, Hamilton,” Washington snaps. His temper threatens to broil out of control when Hamilton opens his mouth to retort. The boy stops himself, however, and the General drags him from the bed before he can mount another protest beyond the squawk of surprise he gives when he’s scooped up.
Washington carries the boy into the hallway, where everything went wrong days ago. Mercifully it’s empty of any witnesses. The General doesn’t slow down- he makes his way to the far end of the hall and carefully puts Hamilton down.
The boy’s knees threaten to buckle as he scrambles to steady himself against the wall. Washington hangs onto his arm. Hamilton glares at him and tries to jerk it away, but he holds firm. This needs to happen, but that doesn’t mean Washington is so heartless he’ll risk the boy hurting himself.
“I’ve got you,” Washington says through a long breath, forcing himself to calm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Try to take a few steps,” It’s more an order than real encouragement, but anything that may work is worth a try.
Hamilton stares at him, and after a few moments, does as he’s told.
The first couple steps are more stumbles. Hamilton almost falls flat on his face, but Washington catches him and holds tight. A few more steps. The limp is there, pronounced, as though the injury has left one leg a little shorter. Washington suspects it will be there for the rest of his life.
He can tell from the look on Hamilton’s face that he believes that too. Tears prick the corners of his eyes; he stumbles another step forward, pulling away from Washington.
“I don’t want to do this,” Hamilton says, dejected. The tears threaten to spill. He hiccups softly and seems to do everything he can to hide his face.
“Hamilton,” Washington keeps his tone firm, much as it tears him apart to see this. The boy so terrified that everything he wants to do, everything he’s planed, all of it threatening to go up in smoke the moment he takes another step.
“I can’t carry messages, I can’t ride…” Hamilton finally breaks. The tears overflow and trail down his cheeks as a sob wracks his body. All of that fire and energy turned inward, tearing him apart. “What use do you have for a soldier who can’t march?”
The moment Hamilton utters the words his knees buckle, and Washington rushes to catch him. It results in a sort of awkward embrace, and Hamilton lets out another sob against his coat. For a long moment Washington stands there, supporting the boy’s weight, arms wrapped around his back securely. For a few minutes, he can only listen to his cries. For a few minutes he feels as though he really is holding a child, one who’s just been told his carefully crafted future’s been wiped away.
Washington has heard some of what the boy has gone through in his short life. This is one more stumbling block, another tragedy he shouldn’t have to deal with.
“You’re not useless, my boy. Not to me, your friends.”
“You’re needed. Whether you can sit a horse or not,” Washington pauses a moment, too aware of the trembling muscles under his hands. “I need you.”
Hamilton doesn’t reply, but the next cry is quieter, stifled.
He holds onto the boy for what seems like hours, until Hamilton nearly falls asleep. Grief, exhaustion, pain all work to wear him down quickly, and he sags, nearly boneless in Washington’s arms. He is careful to adjust his grip as he carries the boy back to bed. Hamilton doesn’t speak, completely drained. He’s asleep before Washington can even cover him with the blanket.
In the morning Hamilton will wake with a headache, miserable and embarrassed.
But his General is sitting right next to him, urging him to try again.
