George Washington sighed deeply as he attempted to concentrate on the report in front of him while he sat in his empty office.
He had been in a foul mood for the last two days, the aides deciding to give him space, as his argument with Hamilton weighed heavily on his mind.
Washington knew deep down that he was too hard on the younger man, he had seen the flash of hurt in his aide-de-camp's eyes at his cruel dismissal, but it seemed like the general was overly emotional in all areas involving Alexander these days.
Any other sensible leader would have given the boy a command by now. To put it simply, Alexander was brilliant. His stamina and dedication were fiercer than any other man Washington had come across, and those qualities would surely carry into battle, spelling out countless victories for the revolutionaries.
And yet…
Washington was hesitant.
From the moment the young man had walked into his tent all those years ago, Washington could not ignore the stirrings of parental affection that formed in his chest at the sight of the man dressed in a coat that was too large on his small frame with a fiery passion in his eyes that the Virginian thought was not unlike that of a wild stallion's.
The fierce protectiveness that Washington had for Hamilton had only grown since then and had transformed into something that the general had only felt with his own children. At first Washington was ecstatic that he had a newfound son, even if Alexander obviously did not reciprocate his affections, but that joy quickly morphed into horror as he realized that his son was in the middle of a war.
And Washington had painted a target on his back.
So the general had backed off. He only spoke of his deep levels of affection for him in his letters to Martha in secret. Only showed minimal levels of fondness to the lieutenant, not willing to give the enemy any motive to attack the secretary more than they already had.
Despite his attempts at distancing himself from Alexander, Washington could not stomp out the protective instincts that flared within him whenever the boy went out on a patrol or left to deliver correspondents, fear lingering in his heart that was only eradicated once the boy was back at camp and safe.
Well. Safer.
The general was not oblivious to the malicious whisperings and jealous murmurs directed at Alexander when Washington's back was turned. Men were envious of the immigrant's status as his right hand man and were not afraid to make that clear to Hamilton. Some things that the men insinuated made Washington's blood boil, and he had to restrain himself from court marshalling the perpetrators right on the spot in fear of making the rumors about his favoritism only grow.
If Washington could not protect Hamilton from his own allies, how would he protect him from the enemy?
That was only one of the many thoughts that made the war-worn general lie awake at night.
It haunted his waking hours as well, echoing in his mind, making him shoot down Alexander's persistent requests for a command vehemently.
A scene of a recurring nightmare of Alexander dying amidst a mass of gun downed soldiers, the light having left his eyes by the time Washington stumbled to his side, flashed in front of the general's unfocused vision and he moved a hand up to rub at his eyes in an attempt to alleviate his pounding headache.
The letter that he had been holding for the last hour crinkled slightly in his grasp and Washington finally tore his eyes away from where they had wandered to Alexander's empty desk for what seemed like the one-hundredth time that day.
Right. Time to get to work.
...
'You shouldn't have yelled at him'
The commander-in-chief let out another exasperated sigh before abandoning his fruitless effort of getting any work done.
The shouting match between Hamilton and himself had been going through the general's mind on a loop. Every harsh word exchanged, every anger-filled glare stuck in his head like a bad aftertaste, unable to be erased no matter how hard he tried.
"Call me son one more time!"
Washington's eye twitched.
Hamilton's past was still somewhat of a mystery to Washington. He knew that his aide-de-camp was a very private person, but Washington could not help but want to learn more about his unspoken charge's upbringing. Everytime he tried, however, he was immediately shut down.
The general had gotten lucky only one night.
During a rainy week that past spring, Alexander had worked himself half to death and was practically drunk from exhaustion. Washington had gently scolded the half-awake, twenty-two year old before carefully escorting the teetering man to his bed down the hall. Washington had removed his boots and lifted up the covers for him like he would for a small child, and with a rush of parental affection he couldn't quite squash, he had brushed a stray strand of hair away from the boy's face before heading towards the door.
"I've ne'er had a fath'r before. It's n'ce,"
The sleep filled voice stopped him in his tracks, and warmth spread inside of him at the same time ice pooled in his stomach.
"Go to sleep, Alexander," he simply whispered softly before fleeing towards the glowing light of his office.
In that moment, everything became so startlingly clear to the general. His son was a bastard. Hamilton's father had either abandoned him or had not been in the picture at all. The flinches away from a gentle, fatherly hand on his shoulder, the denial at the title of "son", and the ever present suspicion that appeared in his young charge's eyes at any caring comment all added up to create a heartbreaking picture.
"Go home, Alexander. That's an order from your commander,"
"But, sir-"
"Go. Home."
Washington buried his face in his hands.
The look of complete betrayal on Hamilton's face at his dismissal was what stuck with Washington most.
It was the look of a son being betrayed by his father.
And Washington had simply turned his back on him with a glare and let him leave without even a goodbye.
With a start, Washington sat up straight at his desk, hands fumbling for the letter he had discarded, when he heard the telltale sound of the door knob turning.
To his relief and disappointment it was Hamilton's best friend and his other aide-de-camp, John Laurens, simply there to deliver a bundle of letters. The tiredness the general felt over his concern for Alexander reflected in the young man's eyes for a brief moment before Washington schooled his face into the scowl he had been so fond of displaying over the past two days. Laurens, seeing the closed off expression, snapped to attention.
"I have incoming correspondence for you, sir,"
"Yes, I can see that, Lietenuit,"
A shadow passed over the younger man's face and the general wanted to kick himself for his harshness.
"Feel free to leave them on my desk. You are dismissed, Laurens," he said in a much gentler tone, something akin to an apology shining in his eyes.
With a brief upturning of his lip, Laurens deposited the stack on his desk and left.
For the third time in the past hour Washington sighed once again and sent a disparring glance towards the pile before-
He looked again.
Then again.
And again.
Because there, clear as day, at the bottom of the stack was a letter whose corner was stained with blood.
With uncharacteristically trembling hands, he reached to remove the letter from the pile like it was a wild animal that would lash out at his exposed hand at any sudden movement.
His fingers closed around the letter and he immediately drew back. The blood was fresh.
His fingers came back red.
But who's…?
His eyes slipped towards Alexander's desk and realization struck.
Slipping out of his shock, he violently ripped open the red stained envelope, uncaring of the blood - Alexander's blood- now staining his fingertips, dreading what the letter would say, but unable to bear not knowing if his suspicions were correct.
Confusion overtook him when he saw who it was addressed to. It was to Martha in his own hand, but then icy terror shot through his veins when another spot of red, this time on the paper, caught his eye.
...the man I consider a son…
It was underlined with red but in a darker shade, and with a sinking feeling in his gut he realized that meant it was old.
Seeing nothing else on the front he flipped the letter over frantically, wanting- no needing more information.
The letter fluttered to the ground.
Washington stood up so quickly that he knocked his chair over in the process, but his wide eyes remained glued to the taunting words that glared up at him in red.
Hamilton sends his regards.
The conformation that the British had Alexander would have been enough to send Washington over the edge, but it was the signature, written pristinely at the bottom in blood, signed by a man that Washington knew hated him above everything else that made his world collapse.
Your old friend,
Benedict Arnold
A low buzzing noise had started to fill Washington's ears as the shock of the situation he was in began to overtake him.
Arnold had Hamilton.
Arnold had Hamilton.
Arnold had Alexander.
Arnold had his son.
He knew. Washington knew this would happen, but his own selfish emotions had gotten in the way, and now Alexander was going to pay the price.
Oh God, had they jumped him the moment he stepped foot off camp? Had he missed the boy's call for help while he was stewing his own anger?
Had they shot his horse out from underneath him? Washington had seen men be crushed under the weight of their steeds, and the pain was incredible.
Was he even alive? Was the letter sent to flaunt the boy's death by the traitor's hands?
All of these thoughts hit Washington in a tidal wave of panic, each one more terrible than the last. But then one thought hit him that nearly made the general's already weak knees almost give out.
He had sent Alexander away.
This was his fault.
The blood Alexander would shed would be on his hands.
His blood stained fingers once again stared up at him, but this time the meaning was so much worse.
But then, another set of slightly smaller hands were tightly gripping his own bloody ones.
Funny. Washington didn't notice anyone walk in the door.
"-ir! General! General Washington! Where are you hurt?"
Somewhere in the back of the general's mind he belatedly realized Laurens was now at his side. Inquiring about his health with an alarmed expression on his face. He must have heard the crash from the hall, ran back, took in the blood, and jumped to the wrong conclusions.
Now aware of himself, Washington held up a shaking hand signaling the young man to stop his insistent tirade.
"I'm fine, Laurens," the general said in what he hoped was a steady voice. "I simply cut myself on the letter opener and surprised myself,"
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to tell him the truth.
If Laurens found out that his best friend was suffering in enemy hands, he would be inconsolable.
At the slightly suspicious look thrown his way (George was never a good liar) he made sure to reassure him once again.
"Honestly, lieutenant, I'm alright. I've just been a little on edge the last few days. I'm sure you can understand why,"
Guilt burned in the back of his throat at the faroff look the statement put in his aide's eyes, but it needed to be done.
"Oh, of course, sir. I'll go retrieve some bandages for your hand," and he was out the door without another word, his suspicion forgotten in his own turmoil.
When the boy's coat had disappeared around the corner, Washington bent down to pick up the fallen letter, holding it like it would turn to dust in his hands, and put it in the farthest recesses of his desk.
By the time Laurens returned with the bandages it was long hidden. But the final word sloppily written on the bottom of the page in Alexander's hand was seared into his mind.
Boston