They sat there and just watched Alex breathe for a long time after they had calmed.
The exhaustion tugged heavy on John's limbs, put an iron weight on his eyelids; he couldn't imagine how Washington had to feel, as he was fairly sure that was his third night in a row without any real sleep.
Neither of them would go, though, they wouldn't rest until Alex woke, so they waited in silence–until they didn't.
"I'm sorry I hit you," Washington said, eyes fixed on his son's relaxed face as his fingers stroked tirelessly over his hair. "I mean, you deserved that first one. The other two were… unnecessary. That wasn't a very professional reaction."
John sighed and smiled, a small, tired, but genuinely happy thing.
"I dare say it was a very human reaction, Sir. I don't blame you."
Washington sighed, ripped his gaze away from Alex and looked John in the eyes, the corners of his mouth turned up the slightest bit, too mentally and physically drained to make it to a full smile.
"It wasn't a reaction fit for a commander. I have no right to treat you that way, John, no one has." He raised his free hand and laid it on the side of John's neck, warm, calloused fingers a surprisingly comforting pressure on his nape. "And, well, you did bring my son back. I can't thank you enough."
John shook his head and looked back at Alexander; sweat stood on his brow, and it hit him that he still had that fever. He grabbed for a rag and wet it the basin on the table next to them, wiped it gently down Alex's face.
Washington watched and, with a pat to his shoulder, pulled his hand back.
"Can I confess something, Sir?" he said, with a careful hope the general wouldn't slap him again after he had just apologised for doing so in the first place.
He just raised an eyebrow in answer and gave him an expectant look.
"I really had no idea what I was doing the entire time I was doing it. I just needed to do something, but Alex got himself out in the end. I was just there to catch him and bring him back to camp."
Washington just sighed. "I hadn't thought you had an actual plan, my boy. That's one reason why I was so upset when we discovered you were gone. I know you better than that, Laurens."
The side of John's mouth lifted to a half-smile and he made to answer, but at that moment, Alex stirred.
There were fingers in his hair.
Smith had woken before him again.
Alex turned his head, hid his face in the- pillow? Odd, but the madman would have his reasons–and waited for the hand to grip and pull, to drag him up and make him meet cold, blue eyes.
A few moments passed, and nothing happened. He cracked his eyes open, but saw nothing but blurred shapes and fuzzy colours; he blinked, trying to clear his sight, and his other senses seemed to return to him one after the other.
"Alex?"
Oh, God. He'd know that voice anywhere. He shouldn't- John was supposed to have left, but of course he wouldn't, of course not, and now he was there with him, trapped just as Alex was-
He shot up from where he lay on his stomach, only to almost topple over and fall off the cot as blinding pain erupted across his back. Strong arms wrapped around his chest and caught him on his upper arm, and another pair of hands settled on his shoulders and carefully pressed him back until he was sat on the cot, and Alex stared back at John with wide eyes, his breath coming too quick and a heavy weight pressing in on his chest.
Why wouldn't he just leave and return to where he would be safe, that thickheaded son of a-
"Easy, my love. It's all right, you're safe."
Alex stopped dead. He'd know that voice anywhere as well.
He whipped his head around and locked eyes with his father–his father, who looked worse than Alex felt, who rubbed a hand along his upper arm in a steadying manner and reached out to tuck Alex's loose hair behind his ear.
God, how much he had craved that touch, how much he had despised the warped imitation Smith had taunted him with.
With how drained he felt, he wouldn't have thought it possible he still had the stamina to cry, but his vision was shrouded with tears the instant it hit him: They had made it out. It hadn't been a dream conjured up by Alex's fever-tormented brain, he had killed Smith and made it out of that camp, and-
And they were safe.
"Papa," he choked out around a sob and almost climbed into his father's lap in his hurry to get as close as possible to him as fast as he was able to.
He wrapped his arms around his back and held on, clung to him like he was a child again, buried his face in the crook of his father's neck and sobbed with abandon.
All of it, all the horrible, dark emotions that had gathered inside him since Smith had taken him, it all wanted to get out at once. He was distantly aware that he was being too loud, but he couldn't stop it–all the hurt and shame, the pain and fear and the consuming rage, they formed a perfect storm inside him, one that needed to burst out before it ripped him apart.
His father in turn laid a hand just underneath the base of his neck, far enough up his back there weren't any injuries, and put the other back on his arm, traced it up to his shoulder and down to his elbow in a rhythmic, soothing motion that made Alex cry all the harder for the care and love it expressed to him.
It seemed so long since someone had touched him in a way that wasn't supposed to hurt or humiliate him.
"Oh, my sweet boy, my brave, wonderful boy, you're safe now, we've got you, everything will be all right, dearheart," he cooed at him, doing his best to comfort him even though Alex could hear the tears clear in his voice as he spoke, and pressed kisses to his hair, rubbed circles into the back of his neck with his thumb.
Alex didn't say anything as he cried himself dry, finally back home and safe in his father's arms, just listened to him talk in that low, familiar, and comforting way of his, whisper soothing nonsense into his hair; but fuck did it soothe him, did he relish in being able to hear it again at all.
When he had run out of tears, he leaned back a little, peeled himself away until they could see each other's faces, and smiled up at him–that was his first genuine smile in quite a while, and it felt so good. He felt lighter; the storm had passed.
His father took his face between his hands and wiped away his drying tears with practised sweeps of his thumbs.
Alex grasped both his wrists and held on, sniffled a little as he tried to get his bearings back. "I'm so sorry," he said. Then, because he'd been afraid he would never get another chance to say it again, "I love you, Papa."
"Lord, Alex," he said, choked up. "Don't apologise. I love you too, my heart, so much, and don't you forget it." He kissed the crown of his head, his forehead, both his cheeks, and Alex's eyes slipped shut as he let himself enjoy the affection, given so freely.
Alex was reluctant to move off his father, but he had other business to attend to. Business in the shape of the wonderful idiot he had fallen in love with and who watched him from tired but happy eyes as he turned to face him.
He took a moment to look John up and down, to make sure he hadn't somehow been hurt while Alex was out, but he seemed whole and healthy at first glance; so Alex didn't feel bad when he struck out and slapped him across the face. It wasn't a hard slap, anyway, but it was the thought that counted.
John, to his credit, looked neither surprised nor offended.
"That one's definitely yours, Sir," he said as he got up from his stool and sat next to Alex instead, close enough his warmth enveloped him like a favourite blanket.
Alex didn't ask what the fuck he was talking about, he just put a hand to his face and drew him closer until he could kiss him.
The second their lips touched, something tight in Alex's chest relaxed and uncoiled itself, like a weight lifting. He sighed against him as John exhaled, his shoulders losing their tension as well, and cupped Alex's face in both hands, kissed him back soft and slow as he caressed his cheeks.
He made no move to take control of the kiss, and Alex felt like crying again–John was so sweet, so considerate, and he knew when he had to be careful with him, even when Alex wouldn't admit to it.
"You colossal moron," Alex said after they had separated and sniffled through the smitten smile that stole itself onto his features. "I love you so much."
John's eyes glistened with a sheen of tears and he pressed another gentle kiss to his lips. "God, darling," Alex's breath hitched at the term of endearment; he hadn't been aware of how much he'd missed hearing it. "I love you too. These past couple days, I couldn't even think straight, I-"
"We hadn't noticed," his father quipped from behind him, and Alex couldn't help but snicker, even if it sounded a little wet.
"I knew that whole thing wasn't your idea, Pa."
"Of course not, that idiot boy went off on his own after I told him not to, but really, I should have expected that. That was on me," he said. John smiled sheepishly past Alex–he didn't have to turn around to know the look he received in return was as unamused as it got.
His chest seized; he had missed them so much.
Alex dropped his forehead to John's shoulder as his eyes clouded over again and tried to keep his breathing even. He was safe now; Pa had said so, and Pa never lied to him.
"Darling…" John mumbled and carded his fingers through the tangles on the back of Alex's head. "Can you tell us what happened? How you got out, I mean?"
Alex stiffened and swallowed, reached behind him and swiped his hand around blindly until he found his father's and grasped it; he probably held on too tight, but he didn't get a word of complaint, so he didn't ease up.
"I- I knew you wouldn't leave. I knew you would try something stupid and get yourself killed, so I- I decided to do something stupid, too," he began. His father squeezed his hand encouragingly, and John pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
"I was about to do something stupid when you came out and met me," he said casually, in an attempt to lighten the mood somewhat. Alex chuckled, but it felt more like a sob.
"I stole a scalpel from the medic," he went on. His father shifted nearer and laid his other hand over their clasped ones, and that simple act alone kept his breathing from picking up.
"I waited until… Smith," he pressed out, the name leaving a taste like rot on his tongue. "fell asleep. I cut the rope." The hand he had cut into as he did so lay on John's lap and his unfocused eyes caught on it; a white bandage wrapped around his injured palm. "Only cut myself up a little bit."
"Was that where all that blood came from?" John asked, voice soft, and rubbed his shoulder.
Alex closed his eyes as something bright and cold like ice flashed in the darkness of his mind.
"Not exactly," he said and began to count along with every breath he took, as he had made a habit of over the course of the last three days. "I, umm, I didn't just leave." His grip on his father's hand tightened–it had to be uncomfortable by now, but he just stroked over the back of his hand and let him hold on like it was his lifeline.
Alex hated how shaky his voice was all of a sudden, but no matter how many calming breaths he took, it wouldn't steady; so he pressed on.
"I took his dagger, and- well, he was asleep, he didn't notice, I was quiet, and-"
"Darling-" John began, probably about to tell him he didn't need to finish, as it was quite obvious where the story was going, but he cut him off.
"I stabbed him straight through the throat. Twice. That woke him. He- he stared at me the entire time, and it took so long, so long for him to bleed out, and he just kept looking, and I kept looking, I watched, I don't know why I did, but I couldn't move-" he broke off into a choked sob and pressed his face to John's neck as John held him close and played with his hair, and Pa moved even closer, a comforting presence at his back.
"That- that was his coat, huh?" John asked, careful and in a way that suggested he already knew. Alex just nodded without a word and cried until he couldn't for a second time that night.
"I'm so proud of you, son," his father said in that soft voice he only ever used behind closed doors, when they were on their own. Alex's breath hitched. "You thought quickly and did what it took, and the idiot you fell for for some godforsaken reason was in the right place at the right time to get both of you back to safety. And now it's over."
"And now it's over," John echoed and pressed another kiss to his head.
Alex sniffed and moved himself back upright, scrubbed at his tear-stained face with the back of his free hand and grabbed John's when he was done with that.
John lifted that hand and kissed his knuckles, and Alex smiled despite himself. He looked over at his father, who watched him with such a sense of relief and warm, glowing happiness, of pride, love, and dedication, but also worry and grief on his behalf, that Alex felt himself tear up again.
"You should rest, my love. You are ill and still have a lot of recovery to do before I'll let you even come near a desk."
Alex nodded and closed his eyes, swallowed thickly. "You're right. You're right, but- I mean-" He blinked his eyes back open and looked from his father to John, down at their linked hands. "Just don't leave me alone. Please. I don't want to be alone again."
John looked at him with utter heart-break written all over his face, and his father kissed his temple, but Alex didn't turn, afraid to see what would be on his.
"Of course not, darling," John said.
"We'll be right here, don't you worry," his father added, and Alex felt himself engulfed in warmth–but the good kind this time.