Alex woke to phantom hands on his body, fingers in his hair, on his shoulders, digging into his open wounds; the ghost of foul breath on his face, a disembodied voice taunting him.
He jerked halfway upright before the sharp pull on the welts on his back forced him to a stop. His heavy, too fast breaths cut through the silence of the dark tent, and he carefully moved himself into a proper sitting position as sweat dripped from his forehead. His hands shook when he lowered them into his lap.
That man just wouldn't leave him alone.
"Darling?" a groggy voice sounded next to him, and it hit Alex where exactly he was.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," he said, but his efforts to keep his words calm and level were for naught–he sounded upset, even to his own ears.
"It's fine," John muttered. A hand settled on his upper arm and tugged with gentle insistence, and Alex went along with it, laid back down almost completely on top of John, his head tucked under his chin and their chests rising and falling in tandem against each other.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he said and stroked Alex's hair, like he had done a thousand times before, like he usually did when he wanted to comfort him–it sent a shiver down his spine. Alex shook himself and made a conscious effort to relax under the touch.
He turned his face, buried his nose in the collar of John's nightshirt and inhaled deeply; the scent was familiar, like a warm fire during a long winter, rain after a drought, a salty breeze from the ocean. It smelled like home.
It was just John. He was safe.
"No," he said , but it felt wrong as soon as the statement had left his mouth. Did he want to talk about it? About Smith?
No. Yes. Perhaps. Not with John.
"I… I need to speak to my father, I think," he mumbled. It was late, though, and he loathed the prospect of waking him up now, after they had spent a good twenty minutes that evening convincing him to go to bed, that they would be just fine without him there. Alex knew he needed the rest; he couldn't imagine his father had taken proper care of himself while he had been gone, and especially not after they had made it back.
But Smith just wouldn't leave him alone, and his father had known him, and- and Alex needed answers.
The hand on his head stilled.
"Now?" John asked, doubtful. He probably had the same reservations about that as Alex did, but it couldn't be helped now.
"Yes."
John exhaled a loud breath, something that might have been a sigh if he had been more awake, and kissed the top of his head.
"Fine," he said. "I'll take you."
Alex smiled into John's neck. Tomorrow he would be annoyed that John thought him so fragile he needed an escort down a couple rows of tents, but at that moment, his worry filled his chest with warmth.
He raised himself up to hover above him and looked down into his face–he could just barely make out his eyes, the line of his nose, the curve of his lips.
Alex ducked down and pressed a kiss to those lips, another to the corner of his mouth.
"You will do no such thing. Go back to sleep, John," he said. John's hands came up to cup his face, and a thumb swept along the arch of his cheekbone.
"And what if something happens, huh?"
Alex snorted, kissed him again. "What's supposed to happen? The walk takes literally a minute, I think I can manage on my own for that long."
John heaved a proper sigh that time. "If you're absolutely certain you feel up for it-"
"I am," he said and kissed his cheek. "Sleep, my love."
"Fine," he breathed out, giving in even though Alex could hear his reluctance clear as day. John pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead and let his hands drop away. "Don't push yourself. I love you."
"Love you, too," he said and peeled himself out of the covers, slipped his boots on without bothering to tie them, and stepped out into the night.
The walk may have been less than a minute, actually, and Alex thought it did him some good. He hadn't moved any noteworthy amount in over twenty-four hours, and it felt nice to stretch his stiff muscles.
He didn't knock or say something to announce his presence; no matter what he could have said, if someone were to overhear, it would have raised eyebrows. It was long after midnight, after all, and if he went for a 'It's Hamilton, Sir', it would only feed the disgusting, unsavoury kinds of rumours that circulated camp. What would an aide want in his superior's private tent at that hour? No thanks, Alex had heard enough of those to be traumatised for life.
The alternative of calling out to his father and identifying him as such wasn't any better, though. The situation was sticky enough for them without Alex straight up admitting to the nature of their relation.
So, Alex wormed a hand into the crack between the flaps of canvas and undid the fastenings on the inside; it wasn't the first time he had broken into someone else's tent, he knew what he was doing.
He slipped in and secured the fastenings again, fumbling a bit in the dark. The cot creaked behind him, and a metallic clink reached his ears–a pistol being cocked. His father had been a light sleeper as long as Alex had known him, and paranoid on top of that.
"It's me, Pa," he said.
His father let out a long, controlled breath and dropped the gun on the nightstand, judging by the wooden thunk, and a few moments later Alex had to squint against the light of a newly lit oil-lamp.
When he turned to face him, he was presented with his father's patented look of parental disapproval, worry, and tired resignation.
"What have I told you about sneaking up on me, Alexander?"
"Sorry," Alex said and swallowed the lump that formed in his throat as he reminded himself why he was there in the first place. "I just… need to talk to you."
The disapproval morphed into a look of soft understanding instantly, and his father moved to sit on the edge of the cot, stretched his arm out to his side in invitation.
"Come here, love."
Alex sure as hell didn't have to be told twice. He sat next to him and slid off his boots, fit himself neatly to his father's side, and swung his legs up onto the cot, tucked them underneath himself as his father's arm settled around his shoulders.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said quietly with a careful squeeze to his shoulders. Alex nodded, knowing full well he wouldn't actually.
He had made that mistake before. As soon as he had, his father had withdrawn from him, had only touched his head or his hands for weeks after, and Alex really couldn't afford that kind of nonsense right now.
He had longed for his father's touch, and he could take a bit of accidental pain if it meant he got to keep it.
Satisfied with his little white lie, his father smiled at him, indulgent.
"So, what business brings you my way in the middle of the night? Is John's snoring that bad?"
Alex snickered, even as an overwhelming sense of happiness unfurled in his chest. It meant so much, more than he could say, really, that his father not only acknowledged their relationship, but also attempted to joke about it with him, as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world. It was just amazing to Alex how far he had come.
"I'm used to John's snoring," he said, and his mirth fell away as fast as it had appeared. "No, I- umm. I mean-"
His father watched him stutter from now obviously worried eyes- you have his eyes, spoken in that tone of mocking delight, reverberated around his head, clear and loud as if the bastard had just said it to him.
He swallowed as tears shot to his eyes. "How did you know Smith?" he finally forced out.
The arm around his shoulders tightened. His father looked down, away from him, and he didn't answer for several moments.
"We served together," he admitted, still not meeting his eye. "In the french and indian war. We were… acquaintances. Not friends, not close, but we knew each other well enough, I suppose. Saved my life, once."
Alex watched his father's face as he talked, but he had closed himself off to him–he couldn't read him, he was too careful to conceal his thoughts.
He hated it when he did that. Alex felt his lower lip quiver and took it between his teeth to still it, felt the sob build in his chest and sniffled.
That drew his father's attention. His eyes softened as he took in Alex's pathetic state, and he brought his other hand up to Alex's chin, put his thumb just underneath where his lip was caught between his teeth, and tugged gently.
"How often do I have to tell you to quit doing that?"
Alex hiccuped a weak laugh. "You're not my boss."
His father regarded him with raised brows. "Aren't I? You are on my payroll for some reason. Better take you off, then," he said, and Alex chuckled. He felt like he was going insane with how fast his mood was swinging between devastated and cackling like an idiot.
His father sobered as he looked back at him, took note of the tears still unshed in his eyes.
"Something was off about him, even back then," he said and pulled Alex closer again. "That's what stopped me from getting too close. He took pleasure in taking lives."
Alex's hands began to tremble in his lap, and he balled his fists until his nails cut into his palm; his injured hand thanked him with a dull throb of pain.
His father watched with furrowed brows and reached out with his free hand, gently worked his fists back open, and hummed his disapproval.
"Don't, Alexander."
Alex swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. "Sorry."
Neither of them said anything for a short while, before Alex couldn't take the silence any longer.
"So, what I'm hearing is, that guy had always been a massive weirdo," he said, and his father snorted a laugh. It sounded pained, but Alex pretended he hadn't noticed.
"You could say so," he agreed, and sighed. "I suppose that's the kind of man boys who enjoy war too much grow into."
Alex just rested more of his weight against his father and let his eyes slip shut for a moment.
"He talked like he knew you," he said, eyes still closed, and hoped the out of place feeling of betrayal every time he remembered the confident air with which Smith had spoken about his father didn't carry in his voice or show on his face. He knew it wasn't his fault, he knew he hadn't meant for any of that to happen, but the fact that man, that disgusting man, had had a prior history with his father- it just didn't sit right with him.
A sigh hit the top of his head, followed by a short press of lips. Alex smiled, despite himself.
"He probably thought he knew me… and maybe he did, back then, if just a little. But Alex, that was so long ago–I was a different man back then. Lord, I was barely even a man at all, I must have been younger than you are now when I first met Smith."
Alex opened his eyes and looked up at his father, but he had turned away again, an expression like he was somewhere else, far away, on his features. A different place, a different time, in the company of someone else.
"How were you different?" he asked, just because he needed something to distract him from the goddamn tremor that took hold of his hands again. He hoped that fun little gimmick would fuck off sooner rather than later–he wouldn't be able to write like that.
His father chuckled as he returned to there and then, back to Alex and their conversation. "Oh, I was very different. I honestly don't think you would have liked me back then; I had a quick temper, for one, and was prone to angry outbursts over the stupidest of things, sometimes. Hotheaded. Brash. Too loud, probably. I drank too much, never thought anything through to the end, picked fights, and- Lord, was I reckless back then. If you even attempted to pull one of the idiotic stunts I did, I would have you shipped back home to Martha."
Alex's brow furrowed more and more the longer he listened, and he shook his head when he had finished, backed up a little and stared at his father with narrowed eyes. It even slipped his mind to comment on that thing about being sent back home.
Alex blinked. At least his hands had stopped shaking. "You… do realise you just described John, right?"
A slow smile crept over his father's features, a smile that turned into a grin, even though he obviously tried to hide it.
"Huh," he said. "I guess I did… maybe you would have liked me too much, then."
Alex groaned and hid his face in his hands as his father ruffled a hand through his hair, trying and failing to choke back laughter. Mortification settled cold and hard in his stomach, spread to his limbs and made them feel tingly and off.
"Ew," he said, a bit too loud. "Don't say things like that, Pa!"
"All right, all right," he said, his amusement finally dying down. "I'm sorry, dearheart. But also, you were the one to point it out."
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled and dropped his hands back into his lap; his perfectly steady hands. Hm.
They sat in silence for a minute, but then his father nudged his arm gently, muttered a soft, "Hey."
"Hey?" Alex repeated with raised brows.
He looked back at him, serious once again, but his expression was still open, still readable to Alex.
"I only counted off negative things. What is it that you actually like about John?"
Alex blinked once in confusion and lowered his gaze as heat crept up his neck and into his cheeks. That wasn't part of the joke–his father genuinely wanted to know.
"He's really sweet," he began after a short pause, quiet and, Lord help him, shy. "And kind. Patient. He doesn't mind listening to my ranting, and he's- well. Just a strong person. He's dedicated and passionate, and really intelligent."
He regarded him with an odd look Alex couldn't place, but it was replaced by a thoughtful expression soon after–there was a slight twist to his lips, though, and that told him he wasn't being serious.
"In light of recent events… are we sure about that last thing?"
Alex rolled his eyes and swatted at his father's shoulder, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face no matter how hard he tried. "Don't be mean, Pa."
"I'm just saying, intelligent wouldn't have been the word I-"
"Papa!"
Alex dissolved into helpless giggles as his father chuckled along with him, a warm, familiar sound from deep in his chest, and Alex was- content. He was content, for the first time in a while.
"I just want you to know," he said after they had calmed down, and cupped Alex's nape. He leaned into the touch; it reminded him of home, too. "if it's really a man you want… we can find you a better one."
"No, I want that one," he replied without hesitation, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest with how much it had just swelled. He had always known his father had nothing against people like him, like John–but that didn't stop him from worrying when he first got into a relationship with John. He'd feared it would be different for his father when it wasn't just some stranger, but his own son; and it hadn't been easy in the beginning, far from it, but he had come around to them, and to hear him say something like that-
It made him forget about his troubles and sorrows for a while. He was truly, stupidly happy as he sat on his father's cot in the early hours of a new day and listened to him make fun of the man Alex loved.
His father sighed, exaggerated. "Fine. If that's what you want, I'll allow it."
"Lucky me," he shot back, dryly. Then, after a beat, more subdued than before, "Thank you, Papa."
"Oh, Alex…" he sighed and brought both his hands to Alex's face, looked at him with such adoration that it made him ache. "You are one of the most important things in my life, dearheart. You have to know that there is nothing I wouldn't do for you."
Alex swallowed, a lump back in his throat. That knowledge, so effortlessly spoken into existence by his father, lay heavy on his shoulders, his conscience. There were things Alex wouldn't want him to do for him, but that was a topic for another night–his mind was tranquil for once, there was no part of him that tingled with the touch of invisible hands, no voice whispering to him from behind.
He took a deep breath; his eyes were wet, but his smile sincere. "I love you, Pa."
His father kissed his forehead, his temple, and tugged him close again, mindful of his injuries and deliberate in where he placed his arms; at no point did he accidentally hurt Alex.
"I love you too, my heart," he said, pressed another kiss to his hair. "More than you know."