Alex sat on his cot, his legs folded underneath himself and a book open in his lap. He had no clue what it was about–he couldn't focus for long enough to find out, but he wouldn't just give up and put it away. Maybe, if he kept staring down at the pages long enough, his brain would shake awake and be able to make sense of the words.

There wasn't much to do anyway, so it didn't matter if he wasted his time like that. He wasn't allowed to do anything; he could, theoretically, if he wanted to. Because he was alone. It was the first time since they had made it back that either John or his father had left him for more than a couple of minutes at a time–or for the night, in his father's case.

They were off trying to smooth things over at headquarters, had come up with a plan and a story and everything. Alex had been present when they had, of course, but he couldn't recall a single thing about it. He had been drifting, it seemed. He did that a lot lately.

They deserved a break from him, though, so Alex didn't care about the finer details concerning the circumstances of that break.

He knew he could be a lot, and he was clinging, he was aware, and- and he just wasn't getting better fast enough. It was pathetic.

So no, Alex didn't mind that they had left. It gave him time to think, which would have been nice if his thoughts weren't so… scattered, as of late. Running too fast for him to get a hold of one for one moment, crawling along syrupy like honey the next.

He did think about his mother a lot- well, mothers, more like. Probably because he missed the one he still had, and because he knew his father did, too. He could tell, even though Pa liked to hide his own pain from Alex.

She would know what to do with him, recognise what was wrong with him and help him fix it–she had spent the last twenty years of her life looking after another stubborn soldier, after all, and she excelled at it. Ma was familiar with all the things war could do to one's head.

She had been the one to introduce the rule of 'no sneaking up on Pa' that his father still liked to remind him of to that day, and had been vigilant in enforcing it, had sometimes added on a subclause of 'no loud sounds around Pa' and wrangled three rowdy children into obeying.

Alex had thought it odd back then, when he was a child of eight or nine, but he understood now. He had grown up to be a soldier like his father, no matter how often the man himself had tried to dissuade him from that choice of occupation, and he, too, had the sounds of canonfire and gunshots and screaming deeply ingrained into his mind.

That was what was happening to him, probably. The same thing that had Pa wake at the slightest of sounds and reach for his pistol, that had made him twitch into the beginnings of a fighting-stance every time Jacky had jumped out of somewhere and startled him, the same thing that had made him drop to the ground with glazed over eyes at the slam of a door once.

With Alex, it was different, though. It was touches that set him off, the ones he hadn't seen coming, and it were whispers that haunted his dreams instead of the sound of canonfire.

Weak. Pathetic. At least his father had real reason to be unsettled.

Ma wouldn't see it that way. Be gentle to yourself, Alexander, she would say, and Alex would ask why and she would smile at him with a hint of what he'd later recognise to be sadness, and keep silent.

He missed her. Alex wished he could at least write to her, but that would seem odd–granted, an aide writing to his commander's wife and making polite smalltalk wasn't unheard of, but he could hardly write her what he really wanted to say. If someone were to intercept that letter, it would raise a lot of uncomfortable questions.

He sighed and ran a thumb along the edges of the book in his lap; how long he had been sitting there and staring down at it, motionless, he couldn't say, but it couldn't have been for a healthy amount of time.

A sharp knock on the tent-post ripped him out of his contemplations, and he snapped his head up.

"Come in," he said, expecting John or his father for some reason, even though he knew damn well they seldom ever knocked before they came in.

To his mild surprise, the tent-flaps fluttered shut behind none other than Aaron Burr.

Alex blinked once in confusion. His thoughts crept along like an injured insect, and for a few moments it was like his brain had forgotten how to have a social interaction with anyone not John or Pa.

"Well, if it isn't Aaron Burr," he said into the awkward silence created by his own hesitancy and summoned a sly smirk to his face. Burr was clever. Alex had to pretend he was fine in front of him.

"Alexander," he greeted and inclined his head, a pleasant if slightly worried smile on his lips. His eyes were as sharp as ever, Alex noted, and they flickered from his face to the book in his lap, from there to his bandaged arms, up to his collarbone where he knew a flash of white was visible from the neckline of his shirt.

Alex clapped the book shut–that caught Burr's attention again, and he focused back on Alex's face. Good.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Laurens and the general are back at headquarters at last, so I assumed you were on your own–I came to see how you are doing."

Alex frowned. That… raised several red flags. If Burr weren't his friend–somewhat–he would have been unnerved by that line of thought. Why did he need to get him alone? If he had come to check on him, he could have done so in the presence of either John or his father.

"You do realise how suspicious that sounds, right? What is it you really want?" he said, brow furrowed and fingers tightening around the book in his grasp. Was he getting nervous? He shouldn't be getting nervous. It was just Burr.

Burr sighed, rubbed a hand down his face and took another couple steps into the tent; Alex sat up straighter, squared his shoulders.

"Look, Alexander, I- well, first of all, I really wanted to check in on you, but you don't seem to be in the mood for company, so I'll keep this short."

He paused, but Alex didn't say anything, so he heaved another sigh and kept going. "You know I consider you a friend."

Alex nodded.

"Good. Keep that in mind and don't be alarmed." Alex did not like where this was going. Burr turned and looked over his shoulder as though to check if there was someone in front of the tent who could overhear, stepped further still into the room, and spoke in a hushed voice.

"I know about you and Laurens. And so does Tilghman–I'm sorry about that, I blurted that out in front of the others. Not one of my finer moments, I admit. But Lafayette and the general knew already, didn't they?"

Alex stared and didn't answer. He felt the familiar sensation of a tremor starting up in his hands, and he gripped the book tighter, tight enough his knuckles appeared white as bone.

If Burr had said that in front of the others–his father and John knew that he knew. They knew and they hadn't said a word to him about it. That almost hurt more than the fact Burr had figured them out.

They thought he couldn't handle it. They thought he was too weak.

"Keep that to yourself, if you would," Alex uttered and ripped his gaze away from the other man, stared back down into his lap like he had done before he came in.

"Of course. That's not all, though." No, it wouldn't be. "About you being the general's son-"

"Not true," Alex cut in and heard Burr sigh, but he refused to meet his eyes again.

"Alexander, please-"

"No. It's not true, Burr. My father's name is James Hamilton, and I haven't seen the bastard since I was six. General Washington is a concerned friend, and nothing more." His voice was steady, but it held a weird note of bitterness. Burr had to have noticed, and Alexander realised too late that he had sounded frustrated, defensive. He hated only having half a working brain.

Burr crossed his arms in front of himself and arched an eyebrow, regarded him with a challenging look. "So Laurens keeps saying, too. Which is exactly why I don't believe that for a second. That man would kill and die for you, I don't think lying is where he would draw the line."

Alex took a deep breath, swallowed the frustration and stamped out the glowing embers of anger inside his chest, schooled his features into something neutral, he hoped, as his hands began to noticeably shake around the book.

"The general-" he tried again, but Burr wouldn't even hear it.

"Your father," he corrected. "You don't need to worry about me, Alexander, I won't tell. I'm not here to taunt you. I just- those are secrets that could ruin you if they came out to the wrong person. Guard them more carefully."

"You can't know for sure," Alex said and looked back up at him, took in the sure set of his shoulders and his calm demeanor, the half-smile on his lips- was that pity? It had to be. Alex was pathetic and Burr knew it, like he knew all his other secrets.

"But I do, Alexander," he responded, not unkindly. He nodded at him and turned to leave, but glanced back at him over his shoulder, one foot already out the tent. "It's the eyes," he said, and was gone.

His world screeched to a halt as those words slammed into him again.

You have his eyes. Alex made an odd sound in the back of his throat, something like a whimper, and hung his head, made himself smaller, less of a target.

His trembling hands came up and tangled in his hair, pulled, yanked, and that- were that his hands? Or were they someone else's? No, they were his. He was alone. Alone, all alone, like he had been-

Every breath he took came quicker than the last one, but his lungs were still empty, straining, and he couldn't get enough air, he couldn't breathe, his chest hurt, his scalp stung- was he alone? He should be, but someone was screaming- was that him? He needed to be quiet.

The hands gripped tighter, pulled harder, and it hurt, and were those really his hands? He wasn't sure anymore- There was a flash of blue. His skin felt too tight, his lungs shriveled up inside his chest, his heart would shatter his ribcage from the inside, there were hands in his hair-

There was someone behind him.

Alex wanted to beg, but he didn't have enough air, he wanted to call out, to John, to Pa, but he couldn't, the breath stuck in his throat and his lungs burned with the need for it.

He was so scared.

The afterimage of hands ghosted along his arms, his neck, his face, and he felt tainted, he felt ruined, he felt dirty, he was-

He was pathetic.

Alex sobbed, the only thing he was aware of the hands on his body, his own heaving wails, and the soft tap tap tap of his tears on the leather of the book in his lap.