Alex lay curled up on his side on his father's cot and watched him work at his desk, the parchment he signed coloured yellow in the warm light of both a candle and an oil-lamp.
The scene took him back to years ago, when Alex had been a boy; he had liked to join his father in his study as he worked, and read. They hadn't talked a lot, but the silence had been comfortable, and if Alex was being honest with himself, which he hadn't been because he had been ten, he had really gone in there for the company. He hadn't liked the thought of being alone as a child. He still didn't.
"Do you think I look like you?" Alex said, just as his father put his quill down and corked the inkwell.
He turned to face him, a thoughtful expression in his eyes, and Alex knew it wasn't because he contemplated the answer to his question–he wondered about why he had asked it in the first place.
"No," he said after a short pause, unbothered. Too unbothered. He suspected where this was going. "I think you look like your mother. And my brother, for some reason."
Alex chuckled a little at that and shifted, rested his head on his folded arm. "Your brother?"
He nodded. "My brother. Lawrence. I have my moments when I look at you and can't help but think of him. He would have loved you–but let's not change the subject. What brought this on, dearheart?"
Straight to the chase, as only his father could. Alex sighed and let his gaze drift along the canvas of the tent, painted a soft gold.
"Burr is infuriatingly certain that I'm your son," he said, sending a silent prayer off into the void that his father wouldn't connect that fact with the little incident from the day before.
He prayed for naught. "Is that the reason your idiot punched him this morning? Really, Alex, as much as I want to tolerate Laurens and whatever the hell he thinks he's doing, I should have thrown him out of the army after his little disappearing act. I didn't even demote him, and now he's going around punching his colleagues! Control your…" he paused, searching for the right word. "John, if you would."
Alex heaved a sigh, but it settled into a fond smile. John had returned to him that morning after an absence of perhaps ten minutes, a self-satisfied grin on his face and the knuckles of one hand bloodied, and had informed him that 'Burr got what he had coming'. Alex had scolded him, of course, but he'd also kissed John's knuckles better when he had asked him to and then proceeded to take a nap on top of him, so that lecture probably hadn't made it through.
"I told him off, don't worry, Pa," he said.
"People are going to start accusing me of favouritism! Because of Laurens!" he went on. Alex knew he was genuinely upset about any accusations of favouritism or nepotism, but he could also recognise that right now, he put on a silly little act for Alex's sake. Well, it absolutely worked, because Alex had to turn his head to stifle a snicker into his bent elbow.
"Laurens has never been my favourite in anything," he huffed and turned his chair to face him. Alex swallowed the urge to make a quip about his old back not being able to take twisting around like that anymore. "While we're on the topic of that golden-hearted fool: wouldn't you rather spend the evening with him, love? Not that I'm trying to get rid of you, but I wouldn't want John to feel neglected."
"It's sweet of you to pretend to care about John's feelings," Alex said. The sudden warmth in his chest almost brought tears to his eyes–his father was trying so hard to accept them, to understand them, and he did it all for him.
"But he'll live. I-" His chest wasn't the only warm part of him as he forced himself to return his father's gaze, even as the blood rushed to his cheeks. "I wanted to spend time with you. I missed you a lot when I was- gone."
The look on his father's face could only be described as heartbreak, and Alex cursed himself for reminding him of it, of the whole ordeal, because he was just like his son in that respect–he dwelled on things. Too long, sometimes, and he couldn't have many moments where that thing wasn't on his mind. And Alex went and forced it back upon him.
"My sweet boy," he muttered, soft, like it wasn't necessarily intended for Alex's ears. He rose from his chair and sat down next to him on the cot instead, so Alex raised himself up into a sitting position to make space. A wince slipped past his carefully sealed lips when there was a sharp stab of pain just underneath one of his shoulder-blades, and his father's frown deepened.
Alex watched as he took a deep breath and seemed to prepare himself for something, and his stomach sank. This was the Conversation. The one his father always insisted on having after something bad happened. He hadn't skipped it this time, he had just put it off until he thought Alex well enough to have it.
"Look, Alexander. I know this is very hard for you, as it is for me, as it is for John," he began, his voice so gentled it didn't even really sound like him anymore. "This was a horrible thing to go through, and I can't tell you how relieved I am to have you back, and without lasting damage on top of that."
Alex just nodded and cleared his throat, but the lump didn't disappear. Tears already pricked at his eyes, and he looked away from his father, from the painfully honest expression on his face, and stared at the sheets between them.
"Please look at me, Alexander." Of course he wouldn't let him get away that easy.
He looked back up and met his father's eyes once more.
"We know about the nightmares, dearheart. There are things you're not telling us–and that's fine. You are not obligated to share this with either of us, but-" He reached up and cupped Alex's jaw, put his thumb just underneath his lower lip and tugged it free of his teeth–he hadn't even noticed he had taken it between them. "I can tell just how much it's eating away at you, my love. I want you to remember that you don't have to do any of this on your own, all right?"
Alex nodded. He averted his gaze again as his sight became blurry with tears, and why did he have to cry all the time, anyway? He was sick of it, sick of the useless blubbering that did nothing but hurt John and Pa further, that forced them to deal with his problems for him.
His body didn't care, as usual, and the tears spilled with his next blink; he did choke down the accompanying sob. He had done enough of that yesterday.
"I- I hated him so much," he said as his father stroked the tears off his cheeks before they could drip down his chin. A stupid thing to say–it was quite obvious he would hate the man who had taken him prisoner, who had tortured and belittled him.
"He touched me a lot." From one moment to the other, his father's face was thunderous, the fury burning bright in his dark eyes, and Alex realised his mistake. "Not like that! Just… my hair. Arms. Face. That's what the nightmares are about. That, and the things he said."
The expression on his father's face still didn't settle back into the soft, open one he had started off with, the upset obvious in his furrowed brows and the way one corner of his mouth twisted off to the side.
Alex liked it better that way. It reminded him that he wasn't the only fool with emotions.
"I can't seem to get rid of him," he said, but his voice cracked on the last word, and his breath hitched, and he knew he had lost that battle. He ducked his head, let his hair fall forward around his face, like a curtain, and sobbed.
"Oh, Alex…" his father said, but Alex couldn't look back up, not even as careful hands stroked his hair back and came to rest on the sides of his head. "Give it time, my heart. It has only been a few days. Your mind needs time to recover, just as your body does. It will get better, you'll see."
Alex grabbed for his father's wrists and held on, desperate to ground himself in the moment, to not slip away again like he had the day before. Like that, he had to look directly at his bandaged arms, and he screwed his eyes shut.
"But what if it doesn't?" he pressed out and paused, forced himself to take a few deep breaths, but they did nothing to calm his cries, slow his tears. "I- I'll always be reminded of him, Pa. He'll always be there, I'll look down and see his marks. He carved himself into my skin, and I won't ever be able to forget."
He hadn't even finished speaking before his father pulled him close to his chest, one arm around his shoulders, a comforting weight that Alex had associated with protection and safety since he was a boy, his other hand carding through his hair.
He buried his face against his father's strong shoulder as he tried to shush him, but Alex wasn't done, he needed to spit the thoughts out before they poisoned him.
"The scars will be there for everyone to see, and you will have to look at them, John will have to look at them, and- and Ma and Jacky will see them and ask about them, and then I'll have to tell them, and-" he drew in a shaky breath and let it out too quick, dug his fingers into his father's wrist, even though he knew it had to hurt him. "They're just so ugly, Papa. I feel ruined."
"Alexander, stop," he said, and he sounded choked up, like he had started crying–of course, Alex thought, a bitter taste on his tongue, because the only thing he ever did was hurt people.
"You are not ruined, dearheart. You are not ugly." He pried him away gently, careful like he was made of glass–which was fair, because that was what Alex felt like. Fragile, thin, transparent.
His father slipped his hand from his hair, down to his chin, and tilted his head up so he could look him in the eyes. Alex fought the urge to avert his gaze. He knew he was a mess, and Pa was far more patient with him than he deserved. His father had acquired many scars in twenty years of service, and there his pathetic, selfish son was, bawling like a child about the few he had.
"Do you want to know what John and I will think every time we see those marks, Alex?" he said and didn't pause to let him answer, which was the smart thing to do, because Alex would have shook his head. "We will think Thank God he's alive. Thank God he's here. You survived, Alex. You came out of that, and we're so proud of you."
Alex swallowed, attempted to get his breathing under control, and sniffled. He felt disgusting. His father didn't think so, apparently, because he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, to both of his tear-stained cheeks, and Alex couldn't help the vague sound of amusement he made at that.
"I'm proud of you," he repeated. "You were so brave and strong, and you got yourself out of there. That's amazing, my love. You are amazing."
Alex shook his head and looked away. He was pathetic. It was over and done with, and yet Alex couldn't pick up the pieces and go on, couldn't just move past it.
"Hey," his father said and gave his chin a little tap to draw his attention again. "Have I ever lied to you?"
He chuckled weakly. Well, tried to chuckle. Made a sound that might have been one on a better day. "No."
"So, when I tell you that it might never fully stop hurting, but it will hurt less and less over time, when I promise you that you are strong enough to make it through this–what's that?"
"The truth," he answered.
"Exactly." He drew him close again, kissed the top of his head, and just held Alex for a while. Feeling his father's chest rise against his own and thinking about John who waited for him in their tent, alive and unharmed, Alex thought that the whole thing had been worth it; even if it had torn a wound that would never fully heal.
When Alex came back from the general's tent that night, two things were very clear to John: One, he had been crying–fair, all things considered, but the realisation still punched a hole into his chest. Two, he was on a mission.
That mission being getting into John's pants. John did not know how to feel about that. They hadn't- not in a while. Not since. And Alex had been crying, for God's sake. He could still taste the salt on his lips.
Alex shifted on his lap, ground down, and John hissed as his hands flew up to his hips and stilled them.
"Darling-" he mumbled against his lips, and the arms wrapped around his shoulders squeezed.
"Please, just- I need you," Alex interrupted, kissed a trail from the corner of John's mouth down along his jaw. And fuck, had he missed this, his scent, his weight, his warmth, his lips, just Alex, but… but Alex had been crying.
"What happened, Alex? We won't do anything before you tell me what made you so upset."
He paused at the crook of John's neck. "I'm not upset."
John sighed and rubbed his open palms over the hip-bones in his grasp in what he hoped was a soothing motion.
"What was that about being honest with each other?"
The arms slipped off his shoulders, and Alex sat back on John's thighs. He worried his lip between his teeth and stared back at him with unsure eyes, still a little red-rimmed, and it tore at John how insecure he looked. Alex wasn't supposed to look insecure; he was always so sure of himself, of his abilities, and for good reason.
"If you don't want to, I'll stop," he said instead of telling him what it was that bothered him, which was typical, really.
"Alex," he said, but it sounded like a sigh, and slipped his thumbs underneath the fabric of Alex's shirt, drew soft circles onto warm skin. "It's not that I don't want to… in general. I do. But I can tell that you were crying not too long ago, darling, and this would be the first time since-" he cut himself off there, not sure what to say, how to say it. "Just tell me what's wrong, please?"
Alex deflated, shrunk into himself, and avoided his eyes. He had a knack for making himself look small, John thought, even though he wasn't actually as physically small as some might think just from looking at him sometimes. He wondered why that was, and decided to delve into that issue some other night.
He stayed silent for a long time, but John was a patient man–well, he could be a patient man, if something was worth the wait. Alexander always was.
"Do you- I mean-" he began suddenly and shattered the tense silence that had fallen over them. He still wouldn't meet his eye, John noted, his stomach laying itself into knots with worry.
"Do you still want me?" Alex blurted out, stock still on top of John, staring off into the shadow cast by the cot they sat on.
John blinked. Did he still want him? "Could you… elaborate?"
Alex fell into another silence, and his face grew redder by the second. "Do you still want me… like this?"
By 'like this', John assumed he meant, well, being intimate with each other, but that did nothing to lift his confusion. Why wouldn't he want him? He was still the man he loved, the absolutely stunning-and-he-knew-it, brilliant man he fell for.
"Of course I do, darling. Why wouldn't I?" he said, shot him a playful grin and pecked his nose, just to hear him let out an annoyed breath.
Alex stroked his hands up and down John's chest, absentminded, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it, and continued to stare just past John.
"Even with the scars?" he asked quietly, his voice delicate, thin even, as though he was afraid of the answer.
The breath stuck in John's throat. So that was what this was about.
If Alex hadn't stabbed the asshole John would have left right then to do it himself.
"Alex, darling," he said, softly, and withdrew his hands from his hips, brought them up to cup his face instead, and turned his head the slightest bit, so John would be in his direct line of sight. "You will always be beautiful to me."
He pressed a gentle kiss to those clever lips. "Gorgeous." Another. "Just lovely."
John pulled back a little and looked Alex in the eyes–they brimmed with such vulnerability, such open affection and doubt and something so tender and breakable, John just wanted to hold him tight and make him forget about it all.
"Show me?" Alex said, almost shy.
John smiled, nothing like the grin from before, soft and private, something that was for Alex only.
"Anything you want, darling," he muttered against his lips and drew him close again, but he wouldn't let go this time.