That afternoon, after they had helped Alex move to their own tent and got him comfortable there–well, as comfortable as possible, that was–John made his way to headquarters.
The others involved in this goddamned affair had of course heard he had made it back with Alex, but no one knew what happened yet; the general hadn't left his son's side once, and he wouldn't for the foreseeable future, John knew. Washington couldn't take his eyes off Alex, he spent every waking moment sitting at his bedside and watching him sleep, kept him entertained and feeling safe for the short bouts he was awake.
John understood, oh could he relate. He wanted nothing more than to spend every available second with Alexander, if just to make sure he was there, that he was protected and well cared for and comfortable; the fact that he thought someone had to fill their friends in didn't mean he would let that keep him any longer than was strictly necessary.
The second he set a foot into headquarters, the tent fell silent. Every aide present stared at him, some with surprise, some with anger–they knew what he had done, they had lived through the aftermath, more so than he had. A few looked worried, though; he didn't know how much of the whole situation the others had disclosed to them while he had been missing in action, if anything at all, but before he had left, they had kept it quiet. No one had lost a word about what happened that day in that clearing.
That was very suspicious, he was aware. They had returned one man short after all, and it had been a man whose absence was not easy to miss–they didn't call him the little lion for nothing. Alex had an air about him that was impossible not to notice and left a very obvious scar when removed.
They had known Alex was missing, or at least in no condition to work. They had watched the general's state deteriorate.
And now, John was back and they had yet to see even a glimpse of Washington. It was all very suspicious.
John didn't care.
Lafayette zeroed in on him immediately, and he hurried towards him just as Tilghman put the stack of papers he'd been holding down and headed his way as well. Burr took a moment to stare, in typical fashion for him, always waiting for something, for the other shoe to drop, but he eventually decided to join them.
He turned and walked off without having uttered a single word to the other occupants of the tent. They kept the silence until they reached the tent Lafayette shared with Burr and ducked inside; as soon as they were out of the public eye, Tilghman, vibrating with nervous energy, blurted out,
"Hamilton is back, then? You actually did it? Is he all right? What about the general?"
"I can't believe whatever stupid plan you concocted worked out," Burr said with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed tighly over his chest.
"I don't even care anymore, what about Alexander?" Lafayette threw in.
They all watched him, expectant, as John stood there and tried to come up with the shortest way to phrase that whole story.
He settled on covering the basics and leaving the details up to imagination. How he'd gotten into the camp, was thrown back out, and how Alex had met him at the gates–how Alex had slit his captors throat as he slept and freed himself, how he had made it out on his own, injured, feverish, and in pain as he was.
"He's resting. It will take some time for him to recover, and the general has been staying with him, as I have. Alex is… rattled," he finished.
"Good Lord," Burr said and left it at that.
"Mon dieu," Lafayette agreed and rubbed his hands together, the unease rolling off of him in waves. "Mon petit lion… he will be all right, though, won't he, John?"
John shifted on the spot and didn't meet his friend's eyes. Of course he would like to think everything would be back to normal in no time at all, but he knew it wouldn't be that easy. Alexander was hurt, and he would continue to hurt for some time to come; it wasn't just his body, as the medic had said that night, his mind would bear scars, too.
He startled awake more often than not, most likely by a nightmare he refused to share with either of them when they asked, and he insisted on touching and being touched when he was awake, but would wake in a state like panic when they touched him while he slept.
Washington and him would be there every step of the way, of course, no matter how many steps that way would end up being.
"I… hope so, Laf. It's hard to say," he said at last, after his silence had already stretched too long.
Lafayette closed his eyes and nodded. He had probably expected an answer along those lines, but that didn't make it any easier to hear.
They fell silent for a few moments, each stewing in their own thoughts on the matter, before Tilghman spoke up again.
"Not to take this away from Hamilton and how he absolutely kicked that creep's ass, but- well, I have to admit I'm not entirely convinced about that thing with him and the general being some spontaneous, clever plot. He's been sitting with Hamilton the whole day, we haven't even seen him since yesterday."
John just stared and wondered if he would find the energy and willpower needed to have that conversation again.
"He's worried. Alex went through all that, through, need I remind you, actual fucking torture to save his life, to save our lives. Maybe you would do good in expressing some more gratitude instead of doubting him at every turn, Tilghman." He would have mentally patted himself on the back for how plausible that explanation sounded if he wasn't so tired of that line of questioning. Besides, he had spent enough time there; it was high time he got back to Alex.
Tilghman had the good sense to avert his gaze in shame and mutter out an apology while Burr just kept looking at him like he had caught John in a lie. John decidedly did not care at all.
He clapped Laf on the shoulder and excused himself, was out of the tent and out of sight before anyone could say anything else.
Washington sat on John's own cot when he came back into the tent. His eyes shone with poorly concealed worry as he watched the medic clean Alexander's arms.
Alex himself was awake and sitting up, and his gaze found John the instant he entered. He looked so tired, John thought. Sickly. Pale, with his hands shaking where the medic had a hold on one of his wrists to allow for better access to the wounds–and Lord, there were so many.
John hadn't gotten a good look at his arms yet, the last time he had seen them bare they had been covered in dried blood, but now that he could see them, a spike of whitehot anger shot through him. Alex's arms were completely cut up, a mess of red lines and raised skin. It didn't even look like there had been any method to how the wounds had been inflicted; the placements seemed random, some cuts longer than others, some even bending and changing direction, as though Smith had been drawing lines on a piece of parchment instead of human skin.
And, of course, some were a deep, angry red–infected. As if Alex hadn't suffered enough already.
"Hm," the doctor hummed. John glanced from Alex to Washington and back, not sure if that was a good sound or not.
"Well, the good news is that the infection is unlikely to spread. The cuts are shallow, so as long as they are cleaned properly, it should be fine."
"And the bad news?" Alex asked before either Washington or him could do it.
The doctor picked up a roll of bandages and got to work wrapping his arms back up with smooth, practised movements. "They will scar. Not badly, and they might fade over time, but they will be there and you will have to see them."
Alex didn't say anything to that, just watched with glassy eyes as the damage disappeared beneath white fabric; John ached with the need to hold him, to tell him how loved he was and reassure him that everything would be all right.
He stayed where he was, though. The doctor did a truly masterful job at pretending the situation was normal, that treating an aide in his own tent instead of the sickbay was procedure and that the continued presence of the actual head of their army was not unusual at all–but if John were to cuddle up to his patient, to kiss him and whisper sweet words to him, well. That would surely be the straw that broke the camel's back.
When Alex laid back down on his stomach, face turned towards the canvas and away from them, John averted his gaze. He wouldn't watch the man clean those wounds, he didn't want to know how many lashes exactly Alex had suffered through on their behalf; he couldn't face that reality, not yet.
Washington seemed to share the sentiment, as his eyes were fixed firmly on the ground beneath his feet.
"Well, at least these don't show any sign of infection," the doctor said, like that was supposed to lift their spirits.
"Fabulous," Alex responded, dryly and muffled against the pillow, and the medic snorted a laugh. John thought nothing about the situation funny, but he supposed the man was numb to things like that by now; he saw a lot worse, after all.
When he was done with the cleaning, Alex sat back up to give the doctor better access to dress the wounds. He pulled his shirt back on, wincing as he did, and John pressed his lips together and refrained from showing any outward reaction to that, even though the sound jabbed into his heart like a knife.
"Until tomorrow, Hamilton," the medic said and picked his satchel back up.
"Looking forward to it," Alex answered with a humourless smile. He seemed to be getting back to his usual self rather quickly, but John didn't fully trust that development.
It was obvious he was still in a lot of pain, a lot of turmoil–but he wouldn't push it. Alex would open up in his own time, pushing an issue with him had never once worked out in a way that hadn't ended in a screaming-match.
The doctor left, and they were alone. Washington was instantly back at Alex's side, but John stayed at his spot for the time being. He had to give them some space; he couldn't put his finger on what it was that made him so sure of that, but something had shifted in their relationship–or perhaps something had shifted in the way John perceived their relationship.
While he had always thought them to be close, closer than he had ever been with his own father, in any case, something had been different since Alex first woke.
Alexander seemed desperate for his father, for his presence and the easy way he showed him affection, just as Washington was desperate to be close to Alex at all times.
That was fine with John. He knew where he stood, and he knew Alex needed him, but he had been through something horrible and traumatic; it only made sense that he would turn to his father for the aftermath, someone who had always given him a sense of security and who loved him without question or condition, no matter what.
"Are you hungry?" Washington asked, words soft and expression open, unguarded.
It blindsided John every time anew when he saw him like that–General Washington, commander in chief of the continental army, a stoic, no nonsense, hard-boiled veteran of many a conflict, looking so kind and tender-hearted. He only got like that around his son, or at least that was when John had seen it, and especially when Alexander was vulnerable; when he was sick, or hurt, or sad. At that instance, he was all of those things, and the general's demeanor reflected that.
Alex just shook his head, the movement small and lethargic, and let his father put a gentle hand to his forehead, then to his cheek. John could tell from the expression on Washington's face that he still had a temperature, which was, well. Not optimal.
"I'm just tired," Alex said as the general removed his hand, and brought his own up to his face, rubbed at his eyes.
John and Washington shared a look. Alex never admitted to being tired. That man kept going until he collapsed, and under normal circumstances, it would test the patience of a saint to get him to rest when he was sick.
They had a long way to go, it seemed.
"Of course," Washington said, still in that same quiet, sympathetic tone he adopted whenever he addressed his son. "Rest, dearheart. Your body has a lot of repairing to do."
He kissed the top of his head, and Alex smiled up at him and nodded. Washington got back up and switched to the chair John had dragged in there, the one formerly occupied by the medic, to give Alex some space.
Alexander probably noticed they tended to move away from him when he was about to fall asleep, but he didn't comment, and as long as he didn't say anything, they would keep doing it.
"John?" he said, and John shook himself out of his daydreaming.
"Yes, darling?"
Alex looked up at him from where he still sat on the cot, a faint dusting of pink on his cheekbones, and fuck, he looked so helpless like that, so vulnerable it yanked John's heartstrings so hard it almost hurt.
"Can I have a kiss?"
That man would be the death of him, he thought, his heart swelling in his chest.
John grinned like a fool as he sat down next to Alex, cupped his jaw and kissed him, poured all the love and adoration he could into the soft press of their lips.
"If I ever say no to that," he said when they had separated and put another kiss to his brow. "please just put me out of my misery."
Alex chuckled and leaned their forehead together, stole another quick kiss.
"For God's sake, Laurens, the boy is supposed to rest," the general said, unamused but lacking the venom a situation as such would have called for from him a mere week ago.
"Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir," he responded and kissed Alex again, just because he could, before he stood and sat on his cot instead.
Washington shook his head at him, but didn't comment further as Alex laid back down and curled up on his side, facing away from them.
His smile dropped as he looked at that back, bandages peeking out from the neckline of his shirt. There were so many things Alex hadn't told them yet, things John knew ate away at him–the nightmares were proof enough of that.
He looked over at Washington; his face had closed off, the mask of the unaffected commander back in place, but the worry-lines between his furrowed brows, on his forehead, at the pinched corners of his mouth betrayed his concern.
John sighed quietly and smiled, even though it probably looked unconvinced. He would stay positive, remain optimistic, for Alex. Lord knew the last thing he needed was the burden of John's emotions added to the weight of the world already on his shoulders.