Alex suppressed a yawn and stretched his arms up above his head, leaning back in his chair as it gave a creak in protest. His tired eyes directed themselves to the window, drawn by what was by all means a beautiful sunrise, the clouds painted with vibrant reds and oranges as the sun inched up from behind the horizon, but his mood was too bitter to really appreciate the sight.
"Remind me why we didn't just tell them no?" he said without looking at his father, who was sat at his own desk with a similar attitude as Alex, as he couldn't quite summon the willpower needed for a task as strenuous as turning his head.
His father just sighed, long-suffering and like he was asking himself the same question. "Because we can't afford to, love, you know we can't. Congress is barely cooperating with us as is, imagine how huffy they'd be if we just flat out told them we don't want their representative here."
"A risk I, for one, would be willing to take," Alex griped back and dropped his raised arms to his sides.
"I know," he said. "Which is why you will make an effort the next few weeks, do you understand me? No snide remarks, no stirring up trouble with the man, and if I catch you rolling your eyes at anything he says, you will get a time-out. This is an order, just so we are clear on that."
Alex crossed his arms and sunk even further down into his chair, suddenly overcome by the desire to still be in bed next to John.
A time-out. He hadn't had a fucking time-out since he'd been ten. "I can play nice, Pa. I'm not a child. This is not the first rich asshole I've had to charm, it won't be a problem."
His father hummed, contemplating. "Maybe don't refer to him as a 'rich asshole', though."
"I won't. Not to his face, at least," he said and gathered himself enough to turn his head and throw his father an uninspired smirk.
All he got back was another sigh, more tired than the first one–Pa really wasn't in the mood today, huh. Well, Alex couldn't blame him; it wasn't like he himself was, either.
Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder what congress talked about all day, what those people thought the army was doing. The idea alone, the concept that they could sit there, in the warmth, in comfortable, plush chairs with their stomachs always full, and decide what needed to be done was not to simply give them what they had asked for time and time again, but send a representative to assess their situation–it just baffled Alex. Truly baffled him. That thought-process must have been astounding to witness.
He was ripped out of his less than amused reflections about their situation by the sound of bouncing footsteps from the hallway, and not a second later Harrison appeared in the door-frame.
"Good morning, Sir!" he called, but all he got in response was an affirmative nod, not that the lack of greeting was in any way disheartening to the man. "And good morning to my little lion. You look like shit, Hamilton."
Harrison strode into the room and perched himself on the edge of Alex's desk, squinting at him in silent scrutiny, and Alex rolled his eyes.
"Thanks," he grumbled and picked up a wrinkled piece of parchment he had used to jot down random things yesterday, crumpled it up, and threw it at Harrison's head. It bounced off the side and landed back on the table. "Get off my fucking desk."
Harrison gasped in mock-offense, but did push himself off to track over to his own workspace. "I cannot believe you would treat me so callous, did no one ever teach you to respect your elders?"
Alex snorted and tilted his head over the back of the chair so he could watch Harrison act all nettled. "You're thirty."
"Slander! I'm thirty-two," he said and dropped to his chair with a disgruntled sound of indignation.
"Oh, well, in that case-"
"Hamilton," his father interrupted with yet another sigh, giving him a look that very clearly told him to cut it out. Hm. So he really wouldn't be any fun today. "How about you practise exercising some self-restraint before the Senator gets here."
"That would give him all of five minutes to practice," Harrison said, and his father turned to him instead. "A coach pulled up outside just now. Tilghman and Maede are handling it, but perhaps you should go out to greet him as well, Sir. We wouldn't want our esteemed guest to feel neglected, after all."
"No, that's the last thing we'd want," he agreed, his sarcasm so dry Harrison probably didn't even pick up on it, and rose from his chair.
Alex sighed and enjoyed his last moments in relative peace before he got up as well and fell into step behind his father, the ever dutiful shadow at his back. The next couple of weeks would be challenging, and he wasn't looking forward to any of it; they would have to entertain the senator, and the work of whoever was on babysitting-duty would suffer, which was really not something they could afford.
Then, there would be the man's 'assessments'. Alex wondered what the hell that guy would even look for. Most senators hadn't even set foot into a military-camp before, they didn't know what it was supposed to look like–this whole endeavour was probably just another thing they had come up with to inconvenience them, there was no other explanation for this harebrained idea.
They stepped outside into the crisp early-morning air, and Alex breathed deeply. There was something special about the first breath of fresh air of the day, in particular when the night's frost still laced it.
Tilghman and Meade rounded the corner, suitcases in hand, and threw them a quick 'good morning' before they hurried past them into the house. Alex watched them disappear down the corridor for a moment, and when he turned back, his father's demeanor had changed. His shoulders were a bit more tense than a moment ago, and his brow furrowed just the slightest bit–someone who didn't know him as well as Alex did wouldn't notice anything off.
He followed his gaze, and his eyes fell on a well-dressed man, perhaps in his late forties to early fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a nose like a hawk-beak underneath hard, dark eyes. He held himself with an easy confidence, a set to his shoulders like he was used to being obeyed, and his poker-face was truly a work of art. Alex couldn't guess what was happening inside the man's head as his eyes roamed over them, but he doubted it was for lack of anything happening at all–he seemed sophisticated, at least, if not straight up intelligent. He couldn't tell that just yet.
"General Washington," the man said in a way of greeting and stopped a respectful distance away from them.
His father inclined his head, seeming vaguely uncomfortable, even if the senator probably couldn't tell.
"Senator Laurens," he said back, and they began exchanging the usual niceties, but Alex didn't hear any of them.
Senator Laurens. As in Senator Henry Laurens, as in John's father, as in the shitstain who had hurt his husband.
Why hadn't John told him his father was coming?
Alex shoved the brief flare of hurt aside and forced himself to think with some semblance of rationality. John couldn't have kept something like this from him even if he had wanted to. He would have started acting suspicious a week ago, and he would have been positively bouncing off the walls yesterday night at the latest; but nothing had been out of the ordinary, John had been his usual self.
He didn't know. Oh Christ, John didn't know, he'd had no time to prepare himself for this, Henry fucking Laurens would completely blindside him-
Well, that explained why his father was acting so odd, at least.
Alex blinked and tackled himself back into the moment, just in time to see his father give him a pointed look–of course, Senator Fucktard didn't know who he was.
"Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, Sir, at your service," he said, respectful but without even a hint of a smile.
"My right hand man," his father added, his voice a bit warmer and with a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and Alex fought the urge to duck his head bashfully. Pa always sounded so proud when he said that. It was nice.
"Pardon me, Sir," he said as they began to move again, ascending the steps back into the house. "I happen to be quite close with your son. He didn't mention you were chosen as the representative."
Laurens' lips twisted as he regarded him, as he looked him up and down like he was some kind of unknown specimen, and everything Alex could think was bitch.
"Quite close, you say? He's never mentioned you to me, Colonel Hamilton," he said. It sounded like it was meant as a jab, but Alex couldn't find it in him to care. "And he couldn't have said anything, as I simply did not tell him."
No, of course not, you fucking wet blanket.
"I'm sure he will be glad to see you regardless," his father said, perhaps sensing that Alex wanted to kick the man where it hurt until his voice was stuck two octaves higher in pitch for the entire duration of his stay.
"Oh, I don't know, General," he responded, smooth but with an odd glint in his eye. "Boys that age, they can be difficult."
And what the fuck was that supposed to mean? Boys that age? John was a twenty-three year old man, and Alex bristled at the implication that he was nothing more than a petulant child.
His father didn't respond to that, but really, what could he have said? Jacky was twenty-three, too, and he'd been married for years and had children of his own–and while Pa liked to affectionately refer to him as his idiot boy on occasion, he was nowhere near sharing whatever sentiment Laurens had just expressed to them.
"I could go fetch John for you, Sir, if you'd like," Alex said, in the hopes he could get to John before John got to them, and warn him.
Laurens smiled; a politician's smile, Alex had seen it often enough, on a broad spectrum of sleazy men. Fake and just the slightest bit condescending, as though he thought himself superior and knew he couldn't let Alex know, but he really wanted him to know, anyway.
"If it's not too much trouble," he said.
Alex turned to his father, not intending to waste more words on Henry Laurens than was strictly necessary. "Sir?"
His father nodded once. "Dismissed," he allowed, and they shared a look before Alex turned away and hurried up the stairs. Pa wasn't at ease, he could tell. The situation worried him just as it worried Alex, and he couldn't help but wonder why–how much did Pa know about the difficult relationship John had with his father? How much had John drunkenly disclosed to him that night six weeks ago?
But he could fret about that later. Right now, he had to be there for his husband.
John looked up from where he fumbled to tie his boots, his lethargic fingers struggling to cooperate so early in the morning, when the door to their room opened and Alex entered.
He shot him a tired smile, but all he received in return was a nervous twitch of his lips as Alex locked the door behind himself and came to stand in front of him, then dropped down into a crouch so they were level.
"Is something wrong, darling?" he said and reached out, stroked the back of his fingers gently along Alex's freshly shaven cheek.
Alex opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out for a long moment was a sigh.
"The representative from congress just arrived," he said, and John tilted his head to the side, waiting for him to go on.
Another sigh pushed past Alex's lips. "It's your father, John."
The impact of those words reached him a full ten seconds after the words themselves had.
He felt himself go pale, his eyes widened, and Alex looked at him like he hated to see him like that, but at least not with pity.
"Shit," John said, because he didn't think the words he needed to express just how much he didn't want this to happen existed.
"I know," Alex agreed and took his face between his hands, which was a good move–John's heartbeat was all kinds of fucked up right now, and the tips of his fingers had gone numb. Without Alex's touch anchoring him, he knew he would spiral, panic, probably cry a whole lot.
"Fuck, he always- that fucking man, he always has to pull something like this, and shit, Alex, I didn't even respond to that fucking letter, he'll have my head-"
"Shh," he said, tenderly, and kissed his forehead, both his cheeks, and finished with a chaste, comforting kiss to his lips. "It'll be all right, my love. We'll be fine. This will pass."
"I- God, Alex." John reached down, gripped Alex around the waist as gently as he could in his frenzied state, and tugged him up. Alex went along and let himself be guided to sit on one of his spread thighs, wrapped his arms around him to pull him even closer when John buried his face against Alex's shoulder.
John didn't cry. He held the tears back with every scrap of self-control he could find within him–his father would take a single look at him and see his reddened eyes, his blotchy, raw cheeks and nose, and he would call him a pathetic child, tell him that soldiers shouldn't cry, that real men had no business shedding tears for anything apart from perhaps a death in the family.
He did tremble like a newborn calf, though, and it took him a few minutes and a whispered stream of sweet words from his wonderful husband to calm himself enough to stop it.
"I love you, John. I love you. You're so strong, I know you can make it through this," Alex mumbled into his hair, and John drew a shuddering breath, thoughts of just how much he didn't deserve that man tearing through his head.
He peeled himself out of the firm embrace carefully, then pulled Alex down for a close-mouthed kiss.
"Thank you, darling. I love you," he said, and Alex smiled and pecked his cheek before he slid off his leg and settled back on the floor.
John watched in mild confusion as Alex adjusted himself a bit and began lacing up John's boots for him with practised, sure movements.
"John," he said as he fastened his second boot closed, which snapped him out of the daze he had fallen into as he watched Alex do that for him. To have him kneel at his feet and essentially dress him, it was… intimate. Comforting.
"I want you to remember you're not a child anymore. You are a grown man, and if Henry fucking Laurens crosses a line with you, you can just walk away. You are not obligated to listen to anything he says."
Alex got back to his feet, and so did John, even though his heart didn't rise with the rest of his body–it dropped down into the pit of his stomach like a stone and rolled around until he thought he was going to be sick.
"I know," he said, because he did know that. He just doubted he would be able to turn his back and leave the room when his father barked at him to look him in the eye and stop fidgeting, goddamnit, show some respect.
Alex straightened out the lapels of John's coat, his eyes crinkled in a smile as John pressed a last kiss to those clever lips. He yearned to shrug his uniform back off, to free Alex from his own, to kiss every new inch of skin he uncovered, and spend the next few weeks of his father's stay in bed with him.
"I'll see you tonight, Colonel Hamilton," he said with a thin smile that did nothing to hide his nerves. Alex, his godsent of a husband, didn't comment on it.
"Until tonight, Colonel Laurens," he responded. They both took a moment to shed their private personas and get back into the roles they needed to play before they left the room, Alex headed for their office, and John left to stand at the top of the stairs and brace himself.
He hadn't spoken to his father face to face in over a year. They had maintained somewhat of a correspondence in the beginning, if only so John could inquire about his younger siblings, but that had died down after not even three months–his father's most recent letter, informing him he was to marry some girl he had never once met in his life, had been the final nail in the coffin to John.
But now his father was here, forcing himself into a space where John could be himself–well, as much as was safe–and where John was just plain comfortable. He had friends here, his comrades and brothers in arms, the family, as the general fondly referred to them sometimes, he had his Alexander, and- well, he had whatever the hell the reluctant bond he had formed with Washington was.
His father would do his best to ruin it, like he had ruined everything else John had ever built for himself.
John forced his stiff legs to carry him down the stairs, step after painful step. He could continue to stand there and hope for some kind of divine intervention, but he knew the wait would only make his father impatient and rile him up.
At least the room they had prepared for him was downstairs, not upstairs with their rooms; the lesser the chance to run into him on accident, the better.
He arrived in front of the door and made himself knock before he could think about it too hard, and pushed the door open as soon as his father's controlled voice called out for him to come in.
John entered and closed the door behind himself with care, stared at the ground underneath his feet for a moment before he could build up the courage to meet his father's gaze.
He hadn't changed at all. John would look different to him–or at least he thought so. He had changed a lot since he'd joined the revolution, not just his body, leaner from combat and too small rations, and adorned by many new scars, hidden away under the layers of his uniform. No, he as a person had changed as well, mostly thanks to Alex.
But then, his father probably wouldn't notice that; it wasn't like he had ever made an effort to get to know him at all.
"Father," he said and left it at that. His voice was calm, a bit more distant than was normal for him, but all in all, it hadn't sounded meek or shaken. He would book that as a success.
"Jack," his father responded, and John had to make a real effort to refrain from grimacing. Hearing that nickname left a bitter taste on his tongue after he had gone so long without it.
It just didn't fit him. Jack, that was who his father wanted him to be, his perfect son, his heir, someone who obeyed his every word. He, well, he was just John. Just John, who had run off to join the army, almost entirely cut contact with the man who raised him, and who couldn't carry on his precious family-name.
Good thing John still had one brother left for that, he thought with an ice-cold vice squeezing his heart.
"It's good to see you, my son," his father said. The words held no warmth, and neither did his eyes–John was hard pressed to find anything at all in them. No love, no joy, not even contempt. Nothing. It was like they didn't even know each other.
"Likewise," he replied.
A brief silence fell over them, and he noticed how far apart they were. There were several feet of empty space between them, but John had no desire to lessen the distance. In the unlikely case his father wanted him closer, he would have to make the first step.
Both of them remained where they stood.
"I have been waiting to hear from you," his father said, and now there was something in his eyes, a spark–anger. Yes, John knew what that looked like.
John tensed, if only to keep from fidgeting, from flinching, from turning around and just leaving. He was tempted to play dumb, to pretend he had never laid eyes on that letter, ask and why is that, Father?, but little Jack from fifteen years ago, cowering somewhere in the farthest corners of his mind, reminded him why that was a bad idea. Every time he had lied as a child, the consequence had been a slap to the face. Well, two slaps to the face, most of the time, when he had dared to cry after the first one.
An irrational thought. He wasn't a child, if his father tried to hit him, he could just catch his hand at the wrist and twist it behind his back, no problem, but… he still wouldn't lie. John was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. He would look that man in the eyes and tell him just what he'd thought about that letter.
"I received your letter," he said, and his father's eyes narrowed, the cold glint in them the only warning-sign in his otherwise impassive face that John was wading into dangerous waters. "I burned it."
That got him a reaction.
His father stalked closer, expression thunderous, face reddening in anger at an alarming rate.
John fought the impulse to move back and keep his distance–trying to run would only make it worse, making him have to catch John would just stoke his fury-
Jesus Christ. Get a fucking grip, Laurens, he can't do shit to you, you're grown.
"I will give you one chance to explain yourself, Jack, so you better come up with something good, you insolent little brat," he snapped. They were less than three feet apart now, and John's skin crawled.
"I won't marry that girl," he said, watched his father's eyes darken, swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to keep talking. "In fact, I won't marry anyone."
A beat passed between them, silent, and with every second his father wasn't yelling or spitting threats at him, John grew more nervous. Sweat stood on his brow, and his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides in an uneven rhythm.
The longer they stood and watched each other, the more insistent the small voice in the back of his mind grew, whispering you shouldn't have said that, you shouldn't have talked back, just keep your head down and do as he says.
God fucking damn it, shut up, Jack.
"You are my son," his father said, deceivingly calm and level, even quieter than the volume he usually spoke at. "And you will do as I say, Jack."
John drew a slow breath and looked back at the man who'd sired him, took in the anger, the venom, something that resembled loathing even, with which he regarded him. Him, his own son.
He conjured an image of the general into his mind, put a similar expression on his face–not a difficult task, as he had often looked upon him like that when he had first found out about him and his son. Then, he attempted to fit Alex into that scene. Attempted to picture Washington looking at Alexander like Henry Laurens looked at him.
The image collapsed into itself. Washington could never treat his son like this, with cruel, cold authority and scornful words.
"No." The word fell heavy off his tongue, quieter than he had intended it to be. His whole body was rigid, paralysed with what he had just done. To tell his father no, it made his heart beat quicker and his palms clammy, but this- this wasn't the kind of thrill he got in battle, when he had to fight. This was the kind of adrenaline-surge that made his knees weak, but urged him to run.
John was terrified.
Which was why he missed it when his father pulled his hand back and only noticed what he was doing when he had already struck John across the face.
John blinked, a dull throb in his cheek, and wondered if Henry used to hit harder or if a slap to the face was simply nothing next to getting shot. Even though it hadn't really hurt in the sense of the word–Washington had smacked him harder before–his eyes watered, and his father snarled when he noticed.
"You will-"
"No," John interrupted and braced himself, but the expected slap never came.
"Yes, you will, or I will cut you out of my will and disown you!"
John thought for a moment, asking himself if he was supposed to consider that a threat.
"Fine by me," he said. His voice sounded flat to him, like it wasn't really him speaking, and he hated it. "Make Henry your heir. I can't give you what you want."
"You would let yourself fall into disgrace because of something as irrelevant as a marriage?" he spat, face twisting into a sneer, and John could barely keep himself from sneering back.
It wasn't irrelevant. Alex wasn't irrelevant.
"If that's your opinion on marriage, why not just let me be?" he pressed out, jaw clenched.
"You know why, Jack! Because of your- your disgusting disposition."
John reared back, hit harder by those words than by the actual blow.
Henry did know. He was aware of the way John was, and yet he still insisted he drag some poor woman into it, who would be just as miserable with him as he would be with her.
"Don't think I don't know why you ran off to the army, don't think I haven't heard of what men resort to during wartimes. Take a wife, put an heir into her, and you can go back to fucking every man who will give you his time of day, it's not that difficult!" Henry's nostrils flared with heavy breaths, his eyes narrowed, and he didn't even attempt to conceal the hatred in them.
John felt sick.
He wouldn't grace anything of what had just spewed out of Henry Laurens' mouth with an answer. He wanted to be away from him, he wanted to bury the scared little boy inside him and move on, he never wanted to have to look at that man again–and he wanted Alex.
"If you ever put your hands on me again," he said in a hoarse whisper, his balled fists trembling at his sides. "Or if you even attempt to speak about any of this, to me or to anyone else, I will tell General Washington you hit me, and he will make sure you are removed from the premises." And of that, John was certain. Washington would protect him if he asked him to.
Henry Laurens' face warped with repulsion, and John could already hear the disgusting comment he was about to spit at him, so he turned and fled the room without another word. If he had implied something foul like that about the general, he wouldn't have been able to hold onto himself any longer.
He would have hit him back.
A few tears spilled over his lashes, and he wiped them away quickly. John was alone in the corridor, but he needed to go up to the office, fit himself in there and do his work; now was not the time for tears. As long as he was in the company of other people, Henry couldn't do anything.
Besides, a bit of work and friendly banter with the boys would take his mind off of this shitshow, at least for a little while.