When John arrived at the tent, he was on edge.
It was late, the night beyond the borders of camp pitchblack, and he had been ordered to the General's private tent; not unusual, not anymore, but-
But the letters hadn't held any good news for weeks, and he was queasy with unease every time he spotted that now familiar handwriting peeking out from a stack of correspondence.
Ellie was sick. Had been sick for a while already.
She was just a baby, and fever was… dangerous. He had seen grown men die from a bad fever, and she was barely even three months old, goddamnit.
He could only imagine what kind of waking nightmare Alexander had to be going through, considering what had happened to his mother, what had almost happened to him; and he was all alone because John was fighting this cursed war they had joined together, that had brought them together in the first place, that had ripped them apart.
John knocked on the tent-pole and entered without awaiting an answer–the General had sent for him, John would be expected.
Washington sat on the edge of his desk, a glass of whiskey clasped between his hands, and he looked… crestfallen. Shell-shocked.
He raised his head upon his entrance, his tired, red-rimmed eyes finding John's, and he was struck with the sudden thought that Alexander's eyes probably looked very similar right then. Exhausted, blood-shot, and- teary?
John's breath hitched as he looked closer and found that, yes, those eyes, the same eyes Alexander had, brimmed with tears. He swallowed, throat too tight, and blinked, waited for his commander to say something, his heart dropping and sinking and picking up speed with every second that passed by in silence, wasted.
Washington drew a deep breath and reached out to his side, plucked a second glass up from the desk, and held it out to him.
"Come here, my boy. Have a drink," he said, raspy and a bit stuffy, too, as though he'd been crying-
John forced himself to step farther into the tent and take the glass from Washington with stiff fingers. He raised it to his lips immediately and took a gulp, focused on the harsh burn of the alcohol, and tried not to think about what could have happened that had his stoic and battle-hardened commander look that defeated.
"I- we have news," he said, and John closed his eyes for a moment, knowing, knowing, knowing in his heart that whatever it was, it couldn't be anything good.
The morning began like any other–he startled himself awake with a nightmare that fled him upon waking, twisted out of the grip of his consciousness like elusive fog; and then, John spent a few minutes staring up at the canvas ceiling of his tent. Gathering himself. Looking, but not seeing.
Trying to find the strength within him to get up and dress himself. He didn't think any farther than that, yet. If he were to, he would turn over and go back to sleep.
The void in his chest, the odd, out of place spot of just nothing, pulsed and twisted and squeezed like a pit of live snakes, and John was sick of it, so sick, sick and tired of spending his waking hours in a numb half-existence and descending into a realm of nightmares when he went to sleep.
There was just no fucking escape, no reprieve, not a single moment of peace, because-
His daughter was dead.
That was the first thought in his head every morning when he awoke, and the last every night before he fell asleep.
His daughter. Alexander's daughter. Their baby.
And he… hadn't been there. For neither of them. He had left Alexander alone, when he should have been there, when he should have supported him through the pregnancy, should have held his hand when he gave birth, should have been his rock when Ellie got sick, should have been there to grieve with him when-
But he hadn't been.
And now, it was too late.
John closed his eyes and waited for the tears biting at the corners of his eyes to subside before he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot, scratching along his stubble with a tired sigh.
He hadn't shaved in a few days; he wouldn't today, either.
It was near impossible to care about the odd looks he got from his comrades, the slow glances from him to the General, as if they were waiting for Washington to say something. To reprimand him for neglecting his appearance like that, for breaking dress-code, and tell him to leave headquarters and come back once he'd gotten himself in order.
But he never did. Washington let him get away with a lot, these days.
There was a tap on the tent-flap, and John looked up just in time to see Lafayette stick his head in.
His friend gave him a quick once-over, the ever-present concern in his gaze only growing, but John… he just couldn't. Couldn't explain it, couldn't talk about it, couldn't keep his mind off it.
"Le général wants to see you. In private," he said, and John closed his eyes and nodded.
It had to seem odd to an outstander, how often they met in private now.
There were probably all kinds of filthy, despicable rumours already floating around, but God, did he not give a single fuck about them.
Let people think what they wanted. Washington was the only person who knew, who shared the burden and the heartache.
They only had each other in this, and John couldn't lose that, too.
"John," Washington said, quiet and entirely unlike how he usually spoke, a softness to his voice John had only ever heard from him when addressing Alexander.
He didn't respond.
She- Ellie succumbed to the fever. She's… in a better place now. I'm so sorry, son.
The words swirled around his nebulous brain, spun and scrambled together until they no longer made sense.
And they didn't make sense, maybe they never had, because what did he mean his daughter was gone? She couldn't be, after- after everything his Alexander had already been through, it just wasn't possible, it couldn't be–God, the universe, whatever fucking force moved this forsaken earth, couldn't truly be cruel enough to take his baby, too.
Their baby.
The baby John had never even seen, never held, the baby named after the mother he had lost so long ago, the baby he would never get to see-
John downed the rest of the whiskey in one swallow, but the burn didn't even register this time. The glass slipped from his limp fingers; it hit the soft, earthy ground with a dull clink, didn't break, didn't shatter. Stayed whole.
He had never been jealous of an inanimate object before.
"John," Washington repeated and stepped closer. John didn't know if he'd said anything in between, and he didn't care, either.
A broad hand settled on his cheek, a thumb brushing away streaks of hot wetness he had taken no notice of.
He blinked and raised his gaze.
The General's eyes shone with unshed tears in the light of the single oil-lamp that lit the tent and cast odd shadows over his features, making him look far beyond his years.
"My daughter," John said, croaked the words from his resisting throat, and Washington's face twisted with it. "She's- Ellie, my daughter, our baby, she's-"
"Gone," he confirmed. His voice broke on the word, and he tugged him closer, brought his other hand up to rub along his upper arm, over his shoulder, down again.
It was a gesture that would have soothed Alex. It was meant for Alex, not him.
Washington was hurting, too, and he wanted to be with Alexander just as much as John did, and fuck, he would let him have this.
Let the man attempt to console him like he would his son. Let him pretend he could do anything for Alex.
John moved with him when he pulled him in even closer, stepped into his embrace willingly, buried his tears against his shoulder and held on. Washington clung back just as desperately. His arms around his back were the only thing holding all the broken pieces of him together, but John knew that eventually, he would have to let go.
Eventually, Washington would step back, let him fall apart-
And watch him shatter.
Dawn hadn't broken yet when John left his tent for Washington's.
The sky was the colour of his uniform coat, and the brightest stars still remained on its canvas, defying the creeping pink rays of the sun as it climbed the horizon.
John just stood there for a few long moments, listening. The camp came to life around him, the birds chirped, a horse whinnied somewhere.
Everything kept going; he would have to as well.
The walk wasn't a long one, a few minutes at most, but John took his time, focused on the bite of the cool morning air on his cheeks and nose, watched his breath steam, contemplated that in another thirty minutes, it would already be too warm for his breath to mist like that.
How long had it been? Three and a half months?
John stopped dead in his tracks, fists clenched where they were buried in his coat-pockets, his eyes unfocused and vision swimming with tears.
She'd been gone for longer than she had been alive. Ellie had been three months old.
He drew a long, unsteady breath and forced himself back into motion, relied on his muscle-memory to guide him to Washington's tent, as he couldn't see shit past the moisture in his eyes.
It hurt. God, did it hurt.
He couldn't fathom how it could hurt so bad, how he could ache for someone he had never even met–how he could miss someone he'd never met. Had never gotten to meet.
Fuck, John had never even wanted children-
No, that was a lie.
He was the oldest of five, he had done a fair amount of child-rearing in his time, and he was good at it. John was good with kids.
Apart from his general enjoyment of caring for children, it had just been expected of him; marry well, carry on the family-name, have at least one son and however many daughters it took to get there.
And then, he'd realised.
Had finally understood what exactly was wrong with him.
He'd stopped wanting children, then. Why want for something he knew he couldn't have? John would never desire a woman that way, so he'd made his peace with it; he hadn't had much of a choice, after all.
And then, he'd met Alexander.
His Alex, his darling, who'd come into his life in a flurry of genius and action and swept him off his feet, who'd made him fall harder than he'd ever fallen for anyone before, and God, he missed him so much-
He truly hadn't wanted children. John could still see him when he closed his eyes, what he had looked like that night, how hard he had cried when he told him he hadn't had his monthlies in quite some time. How he had sobbed out that the doctor said he was already too far along to try and terminate the pregnancy, that it would simply be too risky, that he would have to carry to term.
That there would be a baby Alex hadn't wanted–a baby John would have wanted, had Alexander come to him with a smile that night.
A baby Alexander had learned to love, only to have it ripped away.
Sometimes, John just wanted to scream.
He didn't even know what she'd looked like.
Didn't know if she'd been a fussy baby, or if she'd been calm. Didn't know the exact colour of her eyes, or that of her hair.
Perhaps John would have found something of his mother in her smile, and something of Alexander in the way she watched the world around her, maybe even something of the General in how she frowned or grinned or laughed-
But there wasn't much sense in dwelling on it.
Because his daughter was gone.
Alexander was back.
John froze in the entrance of the tent and got smacked in the back of the head by the falling tent-flap.
Washington turned to him and shot him a smile, the first real one in quite some time, and John just stood there like an idiot, blinking, trying his best to find a fault in the scene before him, a clue that he was still asleep on his uncomfortable cot and this was a dream.
He did dream about Alexander a lot, after all.
Those were the good dreams.
Alexander, tucked into his father's side as though seeking protection or comfort–and who could blame him–turned as well.
The instant their eyes met, John knew it was real. This was him.
Alexander.
For an infinite moment, nobody moved.
John just looked, let his hungry, starved eyes roam over Alexander's form, and he almost burst into tears when he noted that the hue of his beautiful eyes was the same as he remembered it, that his hair, though a bit longer now, still curled in the exact same way, that he looked broken and tired and like there were pieces missing from him, but still alive, he looked alive, he was alive, he was breathing and he was beautiful and he was right there.
"John," Alexander breathed, hushed like a prayer, and not a second later, he was across the tent and slammed into him.
"Alexander," he replied, choked and weak with tears, and ripped his arms up to catch him, crush him against his chest, hold him tight and never let him go again.
Alex shook in his arms, his face hidden against his neck.
He was warm. Warm and solid and real and alive.
John turned his head and buried his nose in those dark locks to breathe him in; he smelled like home.
Alex was his home.
He squirmed in his arms, pushed himself away only far enough so they could look each other in the eye, and brought his hands up to cup John's cheeks.
Tears gleamed in the dim light of the new morning. The expression in his eyes was so pained, so lost, and John knew Alex could see the exact same one in his.
"You let your beard grow out," he said with a wet chuckle and stroked his fingers along his jaw, a gentle caress-
He couldn't take it any longer.
John yanked Alex back in with a hand on the small of his back, cradled his cheek in the palm of the other, and finally, after a goddamn year without him, after the hardest year of his life, after two and a half months of hell, he got to kiss him again.
Their lips met, fit together perfectly like they always had, and everything fell away.
Alexander strained up into the kiss, all desperation and loss and hurt, but also joy. The bitterness clashed with the sweetness, mixed and swirled together, leaving him with a messy heap of emotions tumbling around his chest and tears running down his cheeks.
He couldn't say how long it was before they pulled apart, but it had been long enough to leave him breathless; that could have just been Alexander, though. He had that effect on people.
"You're scratchy," Alex said, softly stroking his fingers through John's beard, looking at him with such love reflected in those incredible eyes that John had to choke down a sob.
"I'll shave," he replied, stuffy and wet, and kissed Alex's forehead, his nose, his lips.
"You better. I'm not kissing you like that," he said and immediately contradicted himself when he braced his hands flat on John's chest and leaned back in for another kiss.
John tugged him close again, wrapped his arms around him, and held on. They just- fit. Always had, and still did; it was a relief, almost, to know this hadn't changed them to the point they no longer fit together as though they were made to do so.
"I love you," he mumbled into Alex's hair, and it felt so fucking good to say it again, to speak the words aloud and know he would hear them.
Alex made an odd sound in his throat, like a pained laugh. "I love you, too, John. I love you," he whispered back, muffled against his skin, and John pressed a kiss to his hair.
He raised his gaze then, forced himself to return to reality, and remembered that Washington was not only still in the tent with them, but also very much watching.
"Sir," he croaked, an odd mixture of emotion fighting for control inside him. "You didn't- why didn't you tell me he was coming back?"
Alex tensed in his arms and half-turned, fixed his father with a confused look. "You didn't tell him?"
"No, dearheart," he said, and John bit the inside of his cheek to prevent the wince he felt building at the back of his throat. Dearheart. He wondered if Washington would have called Ellie that as well, or if he would have picked something else for her.
John himself was partial to love. That was what he would have called her. His love.
He shook himself.
"I didn't. In case you wanted to change your mind," he explained, and an incredulous chuckle ripped from John's throat.
It made sense, of course–keep him in the dark, and he wouldn't spiral if Alex decided he wanted to stay with his mother, after all, but god fucking damn it-
"Sir. With all due respect: I would be punching you in the mouth right now if I wasn't so- so goddamn happy," he said, and Washington snorted a laugh.
"I'm sure you would try," he said, a humorous glint in his eyes, and for a brief moment, the situation felt almost normal. Just a beat later, though, he sobered again and stepped closer, raised his hand to first give a soft squeeze to his shoulder, then stroke a strand of hair from Alex's forehead. "Take the day off."
"Yes, Sir," he responded with a dutiful nod; and a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, despite himself. The General shot them a small smile that was entirely for Alexander and stepped out into the morning, leaving them just with each other for the first time in a year.
They had a lot of catching up to do, he thought, a familiar sense of numb dread washing back over his mind.
John passed out from exhaustion later that night, curled up into a tight ball of misery on his commander's cot, the tears still fresh on his cheeks.
Washington sat with him and stroked a gentle hand through his hair as he would have done for his son, trying and failing not to imagine what his boy had to be going through right that moment.
They lay on their sides on John's narrow cot, facing each other.
Alexander clung to him, his arms like vices around his back and his face tucked into his chest. John ran his fingers through his hair, over and over, the strands feeling like fine silk against his skin.
He had been crying quietly for a while now. Alex's tears seeped into his shirt, and his shoulders quaked ever so slightly under John's gentle touches.
"Darling?" he whispered, and Alex stiffened, his breath catching.
"Say that again," he said and lifted his head, showed him his swollen eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.
Oh.
"Darling," John repeated and brought one of his hands up, gently stroking the tears from Alexander's beautiful, tired face. "My darling."
He kissed his forehead, and Alex sobbed.
"Tell me about her?" he requested, voice quiet and unsure–he knew that was the reason he was crying, and he didn't want to make it worse for him, but- Christ, she had been his, too. She had been theirs.
"She had your eyes," he responded immediately, as if he'd just waited for him to ask that question, and John's heart cracked so hard he could feel it reverberate in his fingertips.
His eyes.
He had always imagined her with Alex's, for some reason.
But no. His eyes.
John turned his face into the pillow and set his jaw, determined not to make a sound.
"She- she was perfect," he went on, sniffling, but he could hear the tiniest of smiles in his voice. "Always looking around. Ma said-" His breath hitched, and John forced himself to face him again, watched him try to force down the sob. "My mother said she had that from me."
Alexander drew a deep breath, presumably to calm himself, but his brow crinkled with grief again right after.
"She was born with a full head of hair. Dark. Dark hair, like- well, both of us, so that wasn't a surprise, I suppose," he said, and John closed his eyes for a moment, let his tears fall, only to have them wiped away by Alex. "You would have loved her," he went on, shaky, his thumb stroking back and forth over his cheekbone, and John reached up to cover that hand with his own. "She- she was so small- God, our baby- you would have loved her so much, John-"
"I did," he said, thick with tears, and drew Alexander closer, turned his head and kissed the palm of the hand still against his cheek. "I do."
Alex screwed his eyes shut, his pain so obvious in the crease of his brow, in the way he bit down on his lower lip until it turned white, until John was worried he would draw blood.
"I wish you could have met her. I wish we could have been a family, just… for a little while, before-"
And that did it.
The fine sliver of control he had worked to regain over the last two months snapped apart.
Everything came rushing back, every little thing that had run through his head that night after Washington had told him his daughter was gone, every single projectile that had lodged itself into the shattered remains of his heart.
The grief was too heavy, the sheer weight of that loss too much. It was crushing down on him, and he couldn't take it, he wasn't strong enough, he couldn't-
John buried his broken sobs against Alex's heaving chest, clung to him like he was the only thing keeping him afloat on this ocean of agony, and Alex clung back, held him just as tight as both of them let go, knowing that they didn't have to hold back with the other.
Safe in the knowledge their pain was the same. That they understood like no one else could.
They laid there, pressed close, seeking and providing comfort in each other's embrace, until they had no more tears left between them.
After, John just looked at Alex for a long time, at his red, blotchy cheeks, his swollen eyes, the permanent stain in them–the mark a great loss had left.
He was beautiful. Beautiful in the way broken glass was when the sun hit it just right.
"Hey," John said, his voice not quite his own after all that crying, hurt and scrubbed raw. He stroked a misplaced curl back behind Alexander's ear with light, gentle fingers, and he leaned into the touch. "I love you."
A tiny smile flashed over his features–like a bolt of lightning. There for only a fraction of a second, but able to illuminate the darkest of nights with ease.
"I love you," he mumbled back and breathed a kiss to his lips.
They still fit, but it wasn't like it had been, before.
Something was missing.
Something with dark hair and John's eyes, something that had had a little bit of both of them, a small but so important piece that had been lost, that had ripped gaping holes into both their chests.
John closed his eyes and leaned his forehead to Alexander's.
It would never be the same again. Both of them knew. There would always be an achingly empty space nothing could fill, a blank where Ellie was supposed to be.
At least they were together once more, and, John swore to himself, he would make damn sure it stayed that way.
His mother had been right, he thought, drifting in and out of consciousness.
The most beautiful flowers were always the first to fade and wither away.
