Right-Hand Of The Father

Chicka-Plow

SUMMARY: The battle was over.

The dust had settled, canons ceased to shake the earth and Alexander thought that he could relax, at least as much as he possibly could during this Revolution. He would parade back to camp with his fellow soldiers, would bundle himself in the scratchy blanket inside of his and Washington's shared tent and begin writing the next hundreds of letters to Congress.

His father's proud smile would warm him heart more than any thin clothe ever could.

That was before the last bullet went off and Hamilton's side blooms in fire.

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A/N: Yes yes another Hamilton fanfic 😆 I had a lot of fun writing this one and I hope you all enjoy it too! 🥰

**TRIGGER WARNING: graphic descriptions of blood, war, death and injuries**

Disclaimer: I do not own Hamilton or any related materials.

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Alexander hears Washington's muffled shout of terror before the pain sets in.

It blazes down his arm, shooting through his ribs, tearing all the air from his lungs as he sinks to his knees. Around him, his fellow soldiers stand, watching with various degrees of horrified-pity and relief warping their dirty features because it's not me, it's not me. . .

Out of the corner of his eye, through the haze of agony and red that stretches across his vision, Alexander can just make out the body of the british soldier drop to the dead grass a few feet away.

His skull, behind his left ear and running down his jawline, is caved in, blown open wide by a frantically placed bullet. His eyes are no better, a lifeless and dead blue-gray stare that reflects the setting sun in a bitter gold. The ground around them both is stained with blood, rapidly growing pools.

The man, not much older than Alexander himself, was one of the last prisoners of war the American troops had managed to snag before they were forced to abandon the battlefield.

He was supposed to be unconscious. The Redcoat, he was nearly dead when the Americans had come across his body draped across a ditch, but he was alive enough for the men to hopefully attempt interrogation.

Alive enough, it seems, to rage to consciousness, grapple with the inexperienced soldier carrying them, grab his gun and aim for the first flash of blue he saw.

Which happened to be Alexander.

Another sharp spike of pain travels up from his left shoulder, the bullet hole throbbing against the ground as Hamilton finally gives in, sinking inward toward the grass with a cry of pain. He gasps as he gets gently rolled over, Washington's panic stricken face above him now.

"Hold on, son." The General says, ripping the sleeve of his uniform and pressing the clothe against the blood soaked injury, wincing himself at the agonized cry Alexander lets out. "Shh, shh, it's alright Alex-- We need a doctor! "

One of the soldiers nearest them -- Laurens, Washington realizes -- races off with one last glance at his friend on the ground, his dark eyes wide in panic and fear, the boy's own uniform soaked with blood. Lafayette and Mulligan, faces pale, come around to stand on Hamilton's right side, both of them jerking as the younger boy lets out another pained cry.

"The Redcoat?" Washington's voice is tense, weighted with the intensity of his fury.

"He's dead, sir." Mulligan says. He sounds like he would be pleased if not for the circumstance. "Dumped in the river, I believe."