SUMMARY: Alexander Hamilton, despite having the spitfire of a million British canons, is short.
He knows this (and will deny it to his very last breath) and George certainly knows this. His son, however, is stubborn as a mule and will go to great lengths to not ask for help. Even when that means Alexander's unable to mount his horse, causing his entire fleet to be delayed in traveling.
Good thing Washington's always around to help his short, stubborn son, even in the middle of a war.
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A/N: I was doing some research for another fic (that will hopefully be done by the end of the week), when I came across the fact that Alexander Hamilton was only 5'7" (170 cent.) while George Washington was 6'2" (187 cent.).
Me, loving any sort of height difference for any sort of relationship, romantic or platonic (which this one is strictly platonic thank you very much), immediately got to work on this fanfic because the idea of Super Tall WashingDad with his Short Angry HamilSon was just honestly too perfect to pass up 😂
Also I'm projecting onto Alexander just a little bit in this story because I'm 21-years-old and am only 5'1" (154 cent.) with no nope of growing virtually in my future so this is partly a vent fic too lmao
Like all of the stories in this universe, I am using the Hamilton play's fictional versions of the Founding Fathers, however the same real-life height difference found between Hamilton and Washington is at play (hehe) here.
That's the only historically accurate aspect of these stories lol Aside from the fact that yes, Hamilton did have a horse named Peacock during his time as aide-de-camp for Washington. Why Peacock? I have no clue.
Anyways, now that we have that explanation and disclaimer out of the way (thank you for reading it if so), please enjoy the story and don't hesitate to tell me when you think! 🥰👀👏🏻
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George knows that his son is short.
It's sort of hard to forget, honestly. Every time the boy would stand beside him, his posture ram-rod straight and his dark eyes focused in a youthful, endearing way, Washington would notice the way Alexander's head doesn't even come up to touch the General's chin.
It causes a protectiveness, sometimes so strong that it steals his breath completely, to curl in George's chest and each time he tries his hardest to push it away.
He can't allow that to choke him, not in the middle of this war.
Alexander makes it extremely difficult sometimes, however. It's early morning in camp, the fresh rays of the sun settling along the dew-soaked grass and George squints against the glare, reaching up to adjust his hat. A few yards away, the last of the scouts are assembling, passing around what appears to be a small cup of muddled coffee before mounting their horses for the day's patrol.
All except for one.
Hamilton stands off to the side of the group, his back to George, but the General would recognize his son's frustrated stance anywhere. Alexander's saying something to Laurens, the other boy's chest shaking in laughter from where he sits on top of his horse. Alex, however, doesn't seem to share his friend's mirth, instead throwing his arms up in exasperation after a second.
Frowning, George begins the trek over to where they stand, scooting around a particularly deep mud puddle. He manages to get close enough to hear John's final words before he rides away around the long line of trees, toward where the rest of the patrol now stands.
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Right-Hand Of The Father
FanfictionA series revolving around the idea of Alexander Hamilton as George Washington's adopted son and how that affects them, both on the Revolution's battlefield, among their troops and in their personal lives as they struggle between familial bonds and t...
