Alex maybe couldn't stake his claim on John by yanking him in by his cravat and kissing the breath from his lungs in the middle of the office, but at the end of the day, Alex was a man of innovation. Of adaptation.

John had been a bit annoyed when he'd discovered the lovebite just underneath the line of his jaw; dark purple, very obvious, too high up to hide–and he had good reason.

Their colleagues were all a bunch of nosy little bastards, and as soon as the first man saw it, the news that John Laurens had gotten laid last night spread through the office like wildfire.

He would never hear the end of it.

Alex had the luxury to just stand back and grin like an idiot; he was not incriminated, after all.

Well. Except Tilghman knew about John and him, and the one and only time their gazes met that day, he blushed up to his forehead and almost ran straight into a wall in his attempt to break eye-contact.

Oops. Alex had not considered that.

Still, he couldn't deny that leaving a mark in such a visible place was… thrilling. Their comrades could see it and know John had been with someone–which, as expected, was made very obvious by a litany of innuendos they snarked his way over the course of the day, ranging from clever to downright ridiculous–and Alex couldn't help but smile every time his eyes caught on the lovebite.

Another added bonus was that John spent pretty much the entire day with a flush high on his cheeks, colouring the tips of his ears; one that deepened and made his freckles stand out with every new alteration of what kind of bed-bug bit you, Laurens their insanely clever colleagues came up with. Alex did enjoy the view very much.

There was something else that had slipped his mind, though–or rather, someone else.

He thought he had actually been privy to his father's soul leaving his body when they had first come in and Pa's eyes had immediately been drawn to the mark like a moth to a flame. Alex had flushed a little, then; while he was fully aware his father knew they were intimate with each other, and quite frequently at that, he never went out of his way to remind him of it.

John froze, eyes wide and terrified when they met his father's slightly narrowed ones, and bolted to the other side of the room like a spooked deer the first chance he got, but Alex remained. He was the right hand. His place was with his general.

"Was that really necessary?" Pa muttered under his breath once Alex was close enough to hear it, low and a little gruff, eyes on some correspondence he shuffled through.

Alex cleared his throat and twitched his shoulders, nervous and with embarrassment pricking his nape.

"Absolutely," he said nonetheless.

His father sighed and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Be glad your mother isn't here to see it. If she was, you would soon find yourself in need of a second husband as well."

Alex had to pinch his thigh hard to stop himself from bursting into startled laughter, and Pa's eyes crinkled at the corners in a fond half-smile as he slid over a stack of parchments for Alex to take care of.

To his chagrin, Colonel Eli fucking Brown didn't seem all too perturbed, though.

And he saw the mark. Alex knew he did, his eyes lingered on it when he stood still way too close, even though John, bless him, really did make a visible effort to put some distance between them every time he moved too far into his space.

Alex shrugged it off and went about his day as he usually would–well, he made an honest attempt to do so, and that was good enough, he thought. He just couldn't help glancing their way at least every ten minutes or so, but his mood didn't sour quite as intensely as it had the day before.

After the night they'd had- Alex blinked, the heat creeping out from underneath his collar and up his neck, and ducked his head.

After that conversation and everything that followed, John's body a comforting weight on top of him, his eyes overflowing with adoration, his perfect lips pressing sweet thing after sweet thing into his skin- he couldn't really find it in him to feel threatened by Brown's audacious attempts.

John wanted him. Only him.

He repeated that to himself like a mantra, similar to the counting he used to keep himself from panicking, and he got through the day without incident.

After they'd all vacated the office, Alex dropped by their room to take a short breather before he went to join his parents for the evening.

Even though he thought he had handled everything quite well that day, it had taken a lot of effort to not let Brown's obvious flirting with his husband get to him over prolonged periods of time.

But it was fine.

The day was over, and it had been so much easier than yesterday had been. He could make it through the next few weeks.

Alex took a quick drink of water and stretched his arms up over his head. His spine popped and cracked, which was not all that surprising, but still made him wince, and then, he turned to leave.

John was… somewhere. Out with some friends, probably, maybe with Lafayette who had dropped by earlier and devolved into a fit of helpless gasping, trying to suppress his laughter, when he saw the lovebite that adorned his neck.

He felt vaguely bad about abandoning him for two evenings in a row like that, and Alex really wished he could take him to spend a few hours with both his parents, but he knew that wouldn't end well, at least not yet.

It was a different thing when it was just them and his father. Pa loved John; no matter how much he liked to deny it, how firmly he plastered on the façade of annoyed exasperation, it was obvious in how well they got along now. He could see it in all the little gestures, how Pa sometimes tucked John's hair back behind his ear, and how he smiled at him all proud when he did something well.

Frankly, it was adorable.

But his mother wasn't ready yet. And Alex knew damn well how John would react to her disapproval–he would bend over backwards to make her like him, courtesy of the shitbag Henry Laurens who had spent years of John's life shoving him into more and more demanding, increasingly impossible poses that had him collapse in the long run, just to please the asshole.

So, no. Not yet. Alex would get her to soften up a little, and they would spend some time all together before she had to leave again.

He shook his head free of those contemplations and made his way over to the door, but before he reached it, it swung inwards, and John stepped into the room.

Alex opened his mouth to ask what was going on, what he was doing there, but he hesitated.

John pointedly avoided meeting his eye. His gaze was fixed to the ground, and his shoulders were hunched–he looked almost ashamed, as if he thought he'd made a mistake that would inspire his ire.

Alex stood and waited, the quiet click of the door closing almost too loud in the absolute silence of the room.

"What's wrong?" he asked, careful. "I thought you would stay out tonight, I was just about to leave-"

"Eli kissed me," he said and rubbed a hand down his face with a weary sigh, turned away from him, and Alex just stood there, dumbfounded. "God, I- you were right, I'm so sorry-"

Alex blinked, cleared his throat, wondered why he didn't feel anything.

Eli kissed me.

And yet, the asshole was still Eli.

"What did you do?" he interrupted, toneless.

John whipped his head around to face him, and their gazes clashed for the first time since he'd come in.

"What do you mean, what did I do? What-"

"Did you kiss him back?" he asked, a pit in his stomach. He knew John wouldn't have. He didn't know why he'd even asked that question.

John reared back, his hands formed fists at his sides, and his shoulders squared. It was by all means an aggressive stance, but Alex knew that wasn't what he meant by it.

John would never hurt him.

"Of course not! I pushed him off and told him I was with someone, and then I left. Do you- you didn't really think I would have kissed him, did you?" His voice held a slight tremor; he sounded almost desperate.

Alex was aware he had probably hurt him by questioning his faithfulness. Especially after he had come straight to him to tell him what happened, but-

Something was wrong. He just didn't feel right.

"No," he said, and something in John's features relaxed ever so slightly. "I know you wouldn't have, and, and it's not your fault. I'm… not mad." He wasn't. All he felt was an odd numbness, and it worried him a little.

"You're not," John stated, swallowed, and let out a long breath in something like relief. "You're not. God, I'm glad, I- I feel horrible, I really didn't think he would-"

"I know you didn't," he said and cleared his throat, blinked a few times. The unusual tightness squeezing in from his nape, a pressure as if a heavy hand was weighing him down, did not subside. "Anyway, I, um, I'm late. I have to go."

With that, Alex fled the room and slammed the door shut behind himself in his hurry to get away, cutting off John's tentative call of his name.

He needed to- he wasn't sure. But the quiet that enveloped his mind, the complete absence of any emotion at all, was familiar. He knew it wouldn't last, and Alex would like to be with his mother when everything came crashing down.

His eyes were on the floor, and they didn't burn, they weren't wet–he wouldn't cry, that would be stupid, this wasn't an issue, but his sight was… a little fuzzy. It didn't help that the corridor he hurried down was mostly dark, except for the little light that spilled in from lamps around the staircase at the end of the hall.

That, coupled with the fact Alex wasn't looking where he was going anyway, meant he was not even a little surprised when his shoulder bumped a soft, warm, boney mass; the impact had enough force to turn him halfway around, which was perfect, because he needed to apologise to whoever he had just run into-

"Christ, Hamilton- careful, I don't think you need to be moving quite so swiftly at this late an hour," the man said with a hint of humour and put a steadying hand to his shoulder as if to belatedly catch him, and Alex swallowed–he wasn't in the mood for humour, and he was most certainly not in the mood for some man putting his hands on him in a dark corridor.

"Sorry," he mumbled, shuffled out of the loose grip. "I'm sorry, I didn't watch where I was going, I was- a bit distracted."

The man chuckled, low and warm but with a bit of an edge. Strained, almost.

The sound prompted Alex to finally raise his gaze from the floor; he looked up to find too familiar green eyes watching him.

Colonel Elijah Brown, of all people.

He could have fucking screamed.

All the anger he couldn't direct at his husband because none of this was actually his fault came rushing, crashed through the walls of his non-emotive state and ripped him down into a current of fury.

"It's alright, I- I wasn't really looking, either, to be honest," he said and scratched the back of his neck. His boot slid along the wooden floor as he shifted his weight–he looked uneasy, nervous.

Good.

"I- I don't mean to be a bother, but- have you by any chance seen John around?"

He had to be fucking kidding him. There was a ringing in his ears, a screeching, almost, similar to the sound a kettle might make when the water boiled- perhaps that was the sound of his blood cooking up in his veins, rushing in his ears.

"Why? What is it you want from him?" he hissed, more aggressive than he'd meant to, and Brown took half a step back. He obviously hadn't expected such a hostile reaction.

"I don't think that's-"

"Any of my business?" Alex paused, clenched his jaw until his muscles strained from the effort, and he narrowed his eyes. "Get it into your head, Brown: He doesn't want to kiss you."

The moments that followed were like the tense anticipation in the adrenaline-fueled heartbeats just after one heard the unmistakable boom of a cannon being fired. The still horror, the locking eyes with one's comrades, the call of Incoming!, the frantic scattering.

Brown's eyes widened until they looked ready to fall out of their sockets.

The gravity of what he had just snapped at the man only dawned on him after the cannonball had already barreled into the midst of their troops and devastated dozens of men; neither of them moved, even though Alex wanted nothing more than to bolt.

"What did you say?" Brown choked in a hoarse whisper, and even in the dim light Alex could see the absolute and complete terror in those eyes he so despised, but- he hadn't meant, he didn't want to scare him like that, he wanted him to stay away from his husband, not have him fear for his life-

"Oh, God," he rasped and stumbled a step farther along the hallway, put more distance between them. "God, I- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have- I overstepped, I'm sorry!"

He whirled around and bounded down the rest of the corridor, turned the corner, and dove into his parents' room without knocking first.

His mother unsurprisingly jumped and clutched at her chest when he so brazenly ripped the door open and closed it behind himself with too much enthusiasm.

It looked like she had been in the process of cleaning up a little before Alex had burst in; her brows set themselves into a stern line, and her mouth was already half open for the scolding he was sure to receive for startling her so, and it's the polite thing to knock, Alexander, you weren't raised in a barn.

But her features softened once she took in Alex's state.

"What's wrong, love?"

Alex stayed silent for a moment, hating that even now, he felt compelled to give her an out before he started talking.

"It's about John," he said.

Nothing in her expression changed; it remained concerned, and it did not gain a note of even the vaguest disapproval.

The realisation that perhaps his mother was indeed coming around to the idea of John and him would have sparked a lot more happiness had he not just struck the fear of execution into a man's heart.

He drew a shaky breath and blinked–now there was a suspicious wetness behind his eyes, and he wanted to slap himself, what the fuck was he crying about? That his loving husband had shut down a romantic advance on him and then immediately come to tell him about it, even apologised for not taking his concerns more seriously?

That he had just unwittingly made a man think he was both aware of and repulsed by the fact that he had kissed another man? Another man who hadn't been receptive, who had run off and told someone else right after, and God, what kind of impression that must have left on him.

With a flash like cold lightning Alex remembered how he had shaken his hand off, as though he was disgusted by him, how he had snarled at him that John didn't want anything from him-

He probably hadn't come off as a jealous lover, it was more likely he had seemed like someone whose close friends just disclosed a serious transgression done to him, someone who was in a hurry to get somewhere in a state of heightened emotion–Brown knew his station of chief aide, he knew he had a direct line to General Washington-

He had to be so scared.

Alex hadn't meant to, he truly hadn't-

He just hoped the man went on to find John and would have the situation explained to him.

"Alexander?" his mother said, and Alex snapped his blurry gaze up. He had been silent for too long, lost in his swirling guilt.

She stepped closer, her concern quickly overtaken by full-fledged worry, and she stopped just short of him, raised her hands to his face and cupped his cheeks.

"I fucked up, Ma," he said.

She clucked her tongue at the language but didn't reprimand him.

"Hm," she said, hands slipping down from his cheeks to fix his collar instead; it was such a her thing to do, and a spark of warmth filled the icy cavity around his heart. "You'll have to tell me all about it and let me be the judge. Alright."

She smiled up at him and booped his nose like she used to do when he'd been a child, turned on her heel, skirts swooshing softly, and made for the fireplace.

Alex remained, blinking, and scrunched up his nose belatedly.

"Don't just stand there, love, go sit on the bed. I'll make some tea and then you tell me what happened."

He furrowed his brows and glanced at the bed, then the perfectly good armchairs near where his mother boiled some water.

"Why the bed?" he asked, then remembered what she was doing and added, "And it's fine, you don't need to-"

"Because I want to cuddle," she cut in and gave him a look, one glinting with amusement, but also one telling him he had no say in the matter whatsoever. "And of course I have to. You're upset, so you get tea."

Alex pursed his lips, tempted to argue some more just for the sake of crafting some playful banter to distract himself from the situation he had caused and then promptly ran away from, but that wouldn't get him anywhere in the end.

He settled on crossing over to the bed, slipping out of his boots, and sitting down with his back to the headboard and his knees to his chest.

A few minutes passed like that, with Ma humming softly to herself as she prepared tea. Alex was suddenly struck by how frequently he felt himself reminded of his childhood during her visits; this was another scene he had experienced so often that it awoke an odd sense of deja vu in him.

Not only of her, though.

Back on Nevis- not everything had been bad, not always. James Hamilton had had a tendency to just disappear sometimes, and those times had almost been good. Money had been tighter, of course, but Maman had been happier, and Alex had valued her smile over a pair of shoes that fit, anyway.

She used to take them to the beach on her days off. Jemmy and him ended up soaked every single time and were instantly bundled up in a pile of towels once they got back home, towels that looked comically large on their small frames, and Maman would laugh at their attempts to wiggle their heads out and call them her little hermit crabs.

Sometimes he could still smell the salt, feel the breeze tousling his hair, the sun on his skin, hear her voice calling out for him to not wander off too far.

Ma had warned them of that as well, every time they went down to the river to play.

Alex was jerked back into the present by a warm cup pressed carefully into his hands, followed by the bed dipping next to him when his mother sat down at his side, folded her legs up on the mattress, and smoothed her skirts out.

He blinked down at the cup in his hands for a moment, watched the steam rise, then shifted his focus back to his mother when she softly bumped their shoulders and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek.

"Chamomile blossom for my little chamomile blossom," she said, and Alex groaned, embarrassed, and attempted to hide his furious blush behind a curtain of hair.

Not that that worked very well. She simply brushed his hair away from his face.

"Ma," he mumbled, but she just chuckled.

He had brought her little bouquets of chamomile from time to time when he had been around ten–almost twelve years ago, and yet, every time he thought that perhaps she had finally forgotten about that pet-name, she brought it up again.

"Alright, alright," she conceded and reached over to the nightstand to take up her own cup. "Now, tell me what spooked you enough to have you burst in here pale as a sheet and on the verge of tears?"

Alex ducked his head and swallowed, took a sip of his tea to buy himself some time–he could detect a hint of sugar; he hadn't even asked for that, hadn't reminded her that he took his tea like that, she had just done it, and Alex almost teared up at how attentive she was to him.

He shook himself, forced his mind to focus.

Another moment or two passed in which he drew a deep breath to steady himself, did his best to gather his thoughts–and then, he started talking.