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Alex found himself in a place that wasn't awake or asleep.

The sheets wrapped around him were soft, the bed below him perhaps the most comfortable he'd ever been in. The room was warm too, he could hear the crackle and spit of a fire, smell the slightly smoky scent to the air.

There was a familiar voice humming, and the sound of a quill scratching on paper.

It was soothing.

Alex was exhausted, he wanted to rouse himself properly, but he just sank lower into the layers of sleep.

He found himself in this place several times. Sometimes there was a hand through his hair, a damp cloth on his forehead, a hand in his. Instead of the humming, sometimes he was being spoken too, he heard someone else telling the voice he was improving, and he knew who that someone else was too. He recognised all the voices that came and went, even if he couldn't put a name to any of them, but one was consistent.

He had no idea how much time was passing.

It felt like every time he tried to summon the strength to wake and every time he failed.

He finally cracked his eyes open.

"Alexander?"

The hand holding his squeezed, and his eyes found the face above him.

"Pa?" he heard himself mutter, but he sipped back under before the General could respond.

The next time he woke, the world had been thrown into far sharper relief.

If nothing else, the pain was back. His arm was killing him, his throat felt raw, his mouth dry, head pounding. He could feel the shivers and shudders but he was too hot, sweat across his brow. His chest was tight, and god did his body hurt. He almost missed the quiet, unknowing of the void he'd been in.

The quill scratching was back, but it paused as he tried to sit up, only to start coughing.

There was a chair scraping, then hands helping him upright, and a pillow pushed behind him that he was settled against as he regained his breath. He knew this room, it was the General's room, the General's bed. It was the General, his father, who stood above him, relief and worry painting his face.

"Sir?"

"Oh Alex, thank God."

"Wh'" he cut off, feeling like he's basted his throat in chalk, and a cup of water was pressed into his hands, steadying them as he lifted it to drink.

"Small sips, small sips."

"What happened?"

"You went into the Schuylkill river, then walked yourself back to camp. You've been asleep for over a week, son."

"Oh... my men?"

"All accounted for. Two were killed, but you were the only one missing."

"The river, my arm, I couldn't... I'm sorry..."

"I shouldn't have let you go. The doctor warned us, said your arm could act up in winter, I should have sent someone else. I'm sorry I didn't think of it."

"We succeeded?"

"The flour was destroyed; the British didn't get any of it."

Alex felt his eyes sagging with a sudden wave of exhaustion. His father moved the cup from his hands to the table besides him, brushing a hand through his hair.

"It's ok, son, sleep. I'll let the doctor know you woke. And Ben and Billy and Lafayette and John, they've been worried. We've all been so worried."

"I'm sorry."

If he'd stayed awake longer, he would have seen his father frown, and heard him insist the apology was not his to give.

.

.

.

The next time he woke, Billy had run for the doctor.

The doctor who checked him over and deemed him recovered from the hypothermia.

Miraculously, he hadn't lost any fingers or toes to frostbite, but because the cold had stolen so much energy from him, he'd contracted a sickness. The man had made him sit, despite the strain, and listened to his lungs with a frown. Pneumonia, he'd declared. There was nothing he could do but prescribe rest and hydration.

Once the doctor had left, the General sat himself onto the bed next to him, and manoeuvred Alex against him, leant into the warmth, semi-upright and shivering.

"I do hate winter."

"Believe me, son, I'm starting to."

"I was looking for the stars and the snow started, didn't help me home."

"But you did make it home. You're here now, safe."

He felt awful, incredibly unwell. There was a weight on his chest, and judging by the coughing he'd done since he'd woken, it was only going to worsen. His head was spinny and despite the sweat, he shivered. His whole body ached, and he was glad to be partially upright, because when he'd been lying down, he'd been barely able to breathe.

All in all, it sucked.

A hand threaded through his hair and he leant into it, letting his eyes flutter closed for a few seconds or minutes, trying to ignore the tickling in his throat, before he was struck by a thought.

"Aren't people going to notice I've been in your room?"

"As far as most people know you're just in here because the building is warm."

"Rumours are going to fly."

"They always do, and many of them sicken me, but there are many rooms in this building, who's to say you're in this bed and not one in your or Ben's office below. Besides, no-one will begrudge you a warm bed, the story of how you saved your men has spread through the camp. A tent would be too cold in this weather, in your condition. You nearly died for them. We thought you had, when they returned without you, they said you'd been taken by the river. They said you were gone. I thought I'd lost you again."

"I'm sor..." he broke off, body heaving with the force of the coughs. There were hands on his shoulders, supporting him, until the coughs passed and he fell back against his father, short of breath and exhausted. The hands on his shoulders became arms wrapped around him, supporting him where he was slumped and wrapping the thick duvet back over him.

"I'm sorry." he finally managed, chest heaving with the effort.

"No, you did the right thing. I'm so proud, you have no reason to apologise, little one. You saved them. And you will recover, Alex."

If there was one thing his father was very good at, it seemed it was comfort.

For a second, he imagined sickness as a child, imagined instead of dealing with it alone, or working through it, or being held in his mother's... no, he cut that train of thought and imagined being sick instead in their care.

Imagined being held by his real father as sickness wracked his body, held with comfort he'd never really been afforded, in thick blankets instead of the ratty thin rags, with pillows and mattress instead of planks and a bundled-up jacket.

James Hamilton Sr had never comforted him in sickness. Not once.

He imagined being held like this, soft humming behind him, rather than struggling onwards alone, but couldn't summon the anger that had once burnt so fiercely within him.

He was so tired of being angry about what had happened. So tired of getting annoyed about everything he could have had and everything he'd lost.

He wanted to get over it.

"Sleep, Alexander, you're safe. Just rest."

He let his eyes fall closed, head resting against his father's chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat. There was humming again, and one of the hands holding him moved to stroke his hair.

He'd never fallen asleep so quickly in his life.

Awww, Alex got the hug he needed.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.

Please R+R.