Uuuuupppddaaatteee...

I don't own.

Hope you enjoy.

George remembered staring at the snow, a sinking feeling in his chest.

Part of it was from the conformation that the winter had come so early that Martha would not be making it to camp. The window had passed as the weather had closed in, meaning he would likely not see her until spring if they were lucky, with things how they were. He wished he'd bidden her a better farewell at the Party held at Arnolds home, but he hadn't known then he wouldn't be seeing her again that year. Alexander hadn't even had the chance to see her, he hadn't been able to make it to the party.

Alexander hated the snow.

That was where the true dread was spawning from.

Alexander hated the snow, bitterly.

He remembered he'd thought that, staring out the window, knowing Alexander was out there, most likely on his way back from the mission.

He remembered Billy Lee coming to him to report that Alexander's group of men had stumbled back, chilled to the bone, just before dawn, many suffering with hypothermia and chills.

He remembered scanning their numbers in the dawn light, too far away for faces. Two bodies, one missing.

He remembered the young man, reporting in Alexander's place.

Because Alexander wasn't there.

He was stuck out in the snow.

Alexander hated the snow.

They said he was a hero, that he'd saved the lives of most of the men there, in one way or another, but that the river currents had pulled him from their grasp. Literally torn from the hands of the men trying to pull him to safety.

He was alone in the snow.

Alexander wasn't fond of being alone either.

This was not the first time someone had told him Alexander was dead, no, he'd heard it to many times after his kidnapping, but he'd never given up.

He wasn't giving up now.

Alexander was out in the snow, alone.

He had to hold onto hope.

He wasn't the only one. Benjamin had asked permission to take out his Dragoons immediately to search, officially, for Redcoats pushing an advance following their attack, but realistically for Alexander.

He'd given permission without hesitation.

Lafayette had volunteered to tell Laurens, poor boy must be heartbroken, and he'd ordered Billy Lee away so he could be alone.

Martha.

Oh how would he be able to write a letter to Martha to tell her he'd failed their son again.

The snow fell more heavily.

Alexander hated the snow.

.

.

.

It was just past noon when his boy returned.

Before Benjamin's patrols, without Benjamin's patrols, his boy had found his way home.

George had seen him stumble into camp. The same path his men had taken early that morning. He'd looked blinded by cold and exhaustion, unreactive to the men who called his name.

He'd caught the boy as he fell, and his eyes had looked up with something like recognition before they'd rolled into the back of his head.

George had seen the corpses of too many drowned men not to recognise the look on his son, but his son lived.

His son lived.

George had never been happier to greet a failed patrol than here, where he could tell them Alexander had made it home before them.

Ben's knees had given out with relief, and it was something George had experienced himself when Alexander had returned.

And yet, Alexander didn't wake.

He warmed, until the doctor was no longer worried about the cold, but he did not wake.

It was in this time he penned the letter to Martha, explaining Alexanders sickness but firmly stating he was alive. He insisted she remained safe away from the war and the battles and the danger not to mention the issues the early onset of winter on traveling, and prayed she'd listen.

He gave his son his bed, took a bedroll and blankets on the floor for himself, and made sure the fire never dimmed. There were nights, colder nights, where Alexander wouldn't stop shivering and thrashing in his sleep, nights where he couldn't rouse himself to full wakefulness to escape whatever he could see in his dreams, where George sat in the bed with him, held him close until the quaking died down and he calmed back to a deeper sleep.

He was not alone in his vigil.

Laurens asked entry more than once a day. He was not alone in it, no Benjamin and Lafayette asked to see him persistently, but Laurens...

Did the boys really think he hadn't noticed there was more between them than friendship?

Oh, they were subtle, very much so, but George was Alexanders father and years of separation or not, there were things a parent would just know. The lack of protest when ordered to share a bed with Laurens, the way their hands brushed slightly when they passed, the word dearest added to a note. The quiet early hours of the morning where they sat together in the candlelight alone in their office. The way they worried for one another when they were away, or injured, or sick.

He did not care who his son had chosen to love, beyond the sympathy of knowing it could not last. They would both be expected to marry and have children, this could not last beyond the war. It was not fair, but there would be nothing he could do to change what society thought. Of course, if they were ever discovered, Laurens was to blame and his son was a victim, because he would not watch his son hang.

He could not lose him.

Alexander first showed signs of waking a week after his arrival, stirring in the late evening, while George had been holding his hand.

He fell back asleep within the minute, but he'd responded to George.

It warmed his heart to be called pa by his son, it warmed his heart to know his boy lived and was recovering. But would Alexander ever call him pa when he was awake, or would it be reserved only for when he was delirious with sickness?

The second time, Alexander was awake for far longer.

He had woken while George was writing a response to General Arnold, and broken into a coughing fit. But from there, he'd managed to hold a conversation, asking for his men and the result of the mission rather than his own health. Once the coughing had subsided and he'd wetted his dry throat.

He again had not remained awake for long, at least not as long as George would have hoped for, and this time he seemed sicker. His breathing had become more laboured over the day prior to his waking, and the coughing fit, he knew, had to be a bad sign.

He worried greatly for his son, despite how much his son worried about worrying people. It was a father's job to worry for their child. That he would apologise for worrying them after his near-death experience, it was terrifying.

And his arm, why had George let him go on the mission? Sure, the doctor had said it was fine, and for months it had been no issue, but it was winter now, the cold was back.

Should he not have foreseen that this could happen?

Oh, his dear son. How he had failed him so.

Then pneumonia.

Such a sickness could take him with all too much ease.

He wondered what he had done to curse his son so, what had placed this burden on his son that a terrible fate would always befall him. Why could he not have a break? Why could he not have happiness?

George braced his boy as he coughed up what sounded like his lung. Listened as his breathing stuttered.

Oh little one.

He returned to stroking the boy's hair and he knew from the way Alex's posture softened, it was a comfort. Alex's head was resting on his heart, listening to his heartbeat. He'd done it as a baby too, George recalled, listened to either his or Martha's heartbeats to sleep. It had been the easiest way to calm him.

All these years and Alexander still slept better with a heartbeat under his head.

Of course, as a baby, Alexander had been small enough to lie completely on his torso and had fit into his arms.

He's been so small.

He pressed a kiss to his son's forehead. He'd done that too, when Alex was little.

Another round of coughing and wheezing shook Alexander's body, although he didn't wake.

He'd pull through this, he'd recover.

He had to.

.

.

.

It took over a week for Alexander to shake the cough.

A week of listening to him cough his lungs up, watching him sleep more in one week than he probably had since joining the camp, shivering and rosy cheeked.

A week of endless worry.

But once the cough was loosening its grip on his chest, he was insisting on returning to his work.

Twice, George had found him at his desk, shaking not with the cold but with the effort it had taken to get there. And once more collapsed on the floor having made the attempt.

The boy'd thought it was funny.

He laughed as George carried him back to the bed, not even losing his grin when a cough overtook the laugh, dropping his head to George's shoulder once it was over. Apparently, there was something funny about falling from exhaustion and not being able to make it back to his desk or even to his feet, but George couldn't see it.

This was his baby, he couldn't bear to see him anything but happy and healthy and strong.

Worse, when he'd lifted Alexander, he'd weighed so little. He knew sickness stole weight and Alexander had been sick indeed, but he should not have been able to heft his boy like a small child. He needed to get him eating more again, before the winter shortages came in.

But once tucked into his bed he'd started protesting his boredom once again, he'd definitely inherited George's stubbornness.

In the end he let him write from his bed, and limited how much he was allowed to do a day. He was not letting his son make himself sicker but he also wasn't letting him hurt himself trying to alleviate his boredom and busy his mind.

The sooner he recovered the better.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.

Please R+R.