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Chapter Text

Lafayette isn't sure how much time has passed, doesn't know what day it is when they come for him, Hamilton and Laurens and a number of Continental soldiers with them.

He's not sure, because every day is spent the same, staring into darkness, punctuated only by sessions of torture.

Maybe it doesn't much matter, though, because come for him they did, with the resounding booming of gunshots moments before the door to his cell had swung open and his friends fell to their knees in front of him.

Lafayette had hardly dared to hope in what he was seeing, that it was real, it would crush him if it was merely a figment of his imagination brought on by hunger, thirst, pain.

But then, Hamilton is reaching out, patiently allowing Lafayette’s instinctive flinch that he can’t help at the anticipation of physical contact. And when all is still, he takes his friend’s bruised and bloodied face between his hands, his thumb ghosting across his swollen cheekbone as the furrow in his brow deepens.

“Shh,” Hamilton whispers at the half whimper Lafayette gives. “Take it easy, Fayette, we’re here now.”

And they are. Laurens is making quick work of cutting through the bindings that are cutting off circulation to his wrists while Hamilton takes the ropes wrapped tightly around his ankles.

It hurts, the way the raw skin of his wrists are irritated by the removal of the ropes, and even the slightest movement that jostles his broken left forearm is agony. It draws a hiss of pain from his lips for as careful as he knows his friends are trying to be, and he makes to shy away, only to still his movements at the sound of Laurens’ voice.

“I know it hurts, but you’ve got to let us help you.”

Laurens then sucks in a sharp breath as he takes in the sight of the deep wounds made in each of his forearms that have only recently stopped bleeding, visible even in the near absolute darkness.

That’s far from his only injury, though, and it takes no time at all for Hamilton to find others. He doesn’t comment on them, the raw patches of flesh where his skin was peeled away or the burn marks that seem to cover him for the way they seem to be on fire. He only fixes Lafayette with a terribly pained look that has him wanting to shrink away.

Hamilton gets to his feet, holding out his hand for Lafayette to take, but even the act of reaching for him in turn drains him of energy, and in the end, it is only Laurens’ hands supporting him at his waist that are keeping him standing.

“It’s clear, sir,” a soldier reports to Hamilton, peeking his head in through the door to the cell. Before he can stop himself, Lafayette stumbles back into Laurens who slips his arms around to encircle his waist. It serves a practical purpose, sure, in keeping him from tripping and thus hurting himself further. But it also acts as a means of comfort, it sinks in after a moment, when his friend doesn’t release him even when the tension in Lafayette ebbs slightly, and instead he tightens his hold.

“‘S alright, we’ve got you, just relax.”

The soldier that Lafayette knows he knows without being able to place his name meets his eyes with his own wide ones as he looks him over. He isn’t afforded much of a chance to, as Hamilton shifts to stand in front of him, effectively hiding Lafayette from view.

Hamilton inclines his head, but doesn’t move, not until the young man leaves at the obvious dismissal. He then turns his attention back to Lafayette who can’t seem to stop shaking in Laurens’ arms.

“We're going to get you out of here,” Hamilton tells him, and Lafayette feels the loss of Laurens’ arm like he has nothing else. He doesn't go far, though, instead moving to Lafayette’s side to drape his good arm across his shoulders.

Initially, Lafayette wishes to protest, and how could he not? How has he, a major general in the continental army, been reduced to this trembling thing, complete with the wounds to show his physical weakness, and tears that cut rivers through the blood and grime smeared across his face to bare his mental ones?

A part of him wonders if he didn't say all of that out loud as Hamilton's expression morphs to one of understanding. Either that or his friend must know him just that well, because he echoes Laurens' words of earlier.

“Let us help you.”

It's a plea and a command, and it doesn't matter, if it ever did, that Hamilton is below him in rank. Lafayette is his and Laurens' to command, and obey, he does.

Chapter Text

Lafayette has been gone for four days, and every second that passes Washington by seems to tick backwards. It's agonizing, knowing how terribly close he is, mere miles away in British custody, and yet having so little information otherwise.

They could be doing anything to him, and the thought alone is enough to have Washington's stomach in knots. Officers on either side of this war ought to be treated with at least a modicum of dignity and respect, though he knows that to be wishful thinking.

To the British, Lafayette is a prize capture, a symbol of hope for the Continentals that they can't afford to lose. And Washington understands that well. Negotiations with the French are under way, with Lafayette playing a major role in securing foreign aid, they need him.

More than anything, Washington just wants his son back.

Hamilton and Laurens, along with some of the army's finest soldiers have been sent to retrieve him, and Washington is certain that they will not return without their friend.

He only wonders what state the Marquis will be in when they next meet.

There's a light rapping on the door, and Washington has to fight the urge to tug at his already mused hair in frustration.

He needs to think, needs more time to ruminate on the particulars of Lafayette's capture, on how everything could have been prevented had he not given him a command that day.

Lafayette had asked only once, but Washington knows his young friend well, and he knows how eager he is to prove himself no matter how many times he already has.

God above, if only he'd have said no.

“General Washington?” A voice calls hesitantly, and Washington grimaces.

There are still piles of paper work to be sorted through, orders to give, inspections. His duties as commander in chief will not cease to exist because the boy he loves so much has been taken from him.

“Enter.” Washington has to wince at the hoarse sound of his voice before quickly schooling his features to an expression of neutrality. He has to be strong, and that’s damn near the hardest part of it all, having to put up the front of being unaffected, pretending that he’s not mere words away from falling apart.

The door opens and a young man steps inside. He looks unsure, shifting his weight from foot to foot anxiously. Washington has to fleetingly admire his bravery, however, as he opens his mouth to speak before being asked to give his report.

“I am sorry to interrupt your work, sir,” he says in a rush, though he does sound sincere. “But I have news. It is regarding General Lafayette.”

And Washington’s heart skips a beat before stopping altogether at the brief silence that follows.

“Hamilton, Laurens, and their men have just returned with the Marquis.” Washington feels his breath catch in his throat. “He is being seen to in the medical tent.”

That shouldn't be surprising, and Washington supposes it's not. Lafayette is bound to have a vast number of wounds that must be tended to if the tales of British brutality are to be believed, but he can't help the irrational spark of anger that ignites in his chest.

He has wanted nothing more in his life than to see his friend, to take him in his arms where it feels there alone he will be kept safe.

Washington stands, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. His legs threaten to fold under his weight at the surreality of it all, so he locks his knees until they stop shaking.

He's not ready for this, not even a little bit, but that doesn't matter. All that does is seeing Lafayette, and Washington is brushing past the young man before he can get another word out.

Chapter Text

Hamilton stiffens at the harsh crunching of leaves under foot, the noise growing ever louder outside the medical tent.

It could be anyone, but as Laurens’ spine goes rigid, Hamilton knows his friend shares the feeling of fear he cannot suppress.

More than likely, it is merely one of the medics come to check on their patient, or even one of Lafayette’s men to ask after their commander. It would be exceedingly unlikely for even a single British soldier to be able to infiltrate the Americans’ camp unnoticed.

Even so, Hamilton can't help but prepare himself for the worst as he rises from the chair he had pulled up to the side of Lafayette's cot. Laurens stands too, joining Hamilton as he moves to stand in front of their unconscious friend. They're ready, prepared to fight tooth and nail with whoever it is mere feet away from them now.

Lafayette had been taken from them once before, and it is only through dozens of stitches, bandages, and bloodshed that they have him in their possession now.

Hamilton's hand moves to the pistol at his waist without his conscious thought.

“Who's there?” he demands, voice hard, betraying nothing of the adrenaline that sings in his veins.

He is not given the opportunity to get another word out, as in the next moment, the tent flaps are being thrown open.

“How is he?”

It's Washington, eyes wide, a deep frown pulling at the corners of his lips. His uniform is rumpled in a way it never is, never should be, but Hamilton can't hold back the sigh of relief that escapes him at the sight of the Commander In Chief, even if a measure of anger still remains.

Lafayette doesn't stir, not even at Washington's voice, sharp with an anxiety that he is unable to hide, and it has Hamilton's stomach sinking. It's been hours since he had last seen his friend's eyes open, glassy with tears of pain though they were.

Shouldn't he have awoke by now?

“He sleeps still,” Laurens answers, and for that Hamilton is grateful, he's not sure what would come out should he open his mouth to speak.

Washington, for his part, looks close to collapsing, and Hamilton wants to be sympathetic, should be, because it is a sensation he shares, the weak knees, the lightheadedness.

Maybe it's wrong, but all he can think when his eyes meet Washington's is how this is the general's fault. And it's not that he doubts Lafayette's capabilities as a commander, but he is still so young, younger even than Hamilton, and God above, he doesn't deserve this.

Washington takes a step closer, his bottom lip trembling now as he takes in the sight of the Frenchman.

“Will he be alright?” He dares to ask in a whisper, and Laurens nods after a quiet moment has passed.

“The doctors have said as much, in time.”

Washington does sink to his knees then at Lafayette's side, a nearly inaudible prayer of thanks offered as he bows his head to meet Lafayette's shoulder.

There's so much which remains unsaid, things that do not need to be voiced. Because physically, Lafayette may heal. Hamilton is not sure how long it will take his mind to do so as well.

The bandages will come off, and the sutures will be removed, hopefully in the near future, but their friend is certain to have a multitude of wounds that cannot be seen.

It's a hard fact to swallow, as is knowing there is precious little that he himself can do to remedy that.

All the same, Hamilton vows to be with him no matter what comes.

Chapter Text

Laurens doesn't remember drifting off when he wakes with a start.

Lafayette's room, that is where he is, he sees at once, it having been his turn to watch over his friend as he recovers. Hamilton is asleep in the next room as Washington too, rests in his quarters, and fleetingly, Laurens wonders if they startled awake with the cry that cut through the night air as he had.

If they did, there is no indication, it seems it is only he and Lafayette who are awake at this ungodly hour.

Lafayette who is mumbling desperate pleas under his breath. “No, no, please-”

He has his back pressed against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest as he wraps his arms around his legs.

He looks so painfully young, so terrified as he flinches in response to Laurens’ hand that reaches for him on instinct.

“Don't! Please, l-leave me alone,” Lafayette chokes on the words, a sob building in his throat that escapes in the next moment.

This isn't right, Laurens can't help but think bitterly. Lafayette shouldn't ever be in the state that he is, tears streaking his cheeks as he trembles violently.

“It's alright,” Laurens begins anyway, but the words sound hollow to his own ears. “It's alright, it was only a dream.”

“No,” Lafayette insists, “no, it was-it was real!”

And Laurens supposes that he cannot, in good conscience, argue against that. Whatever it was he saw in his nightmare was undoubtedly based on real events.

God, he can't imagine, the terror that Lafayette must feel at being forced to relive those memories even in his sleep.

He settles for a different kind of reassurance this time.

“You are safe now, my friend, you are home.” And that is true. Laurens would just as soon die before he would allow anyone to lay a hand on the Frenchman a second time.

Mercifully, his words seem to have something of a positive effect, as Lafayette looks to be considering them.

“But I-they-” he stutters before Laurens cuts in.

“They cannot hurt you anymore, Fayette.”

The familiar nickname appears to soothe Lafayette somewhat, as his features relax a touch. He bows his head, burying his face in his knees with a shuddering breath.

Laurens allows him the space he needs, and it is only when Lafayette's eyes rise to meet his that he gives into the urge to offer a gesture of physical comfort.

To his surprise, he allows the contact, not shying away at the brush of Laurens' fingers against the back of his hand.

It's a start.

“You do not have to talk of what you dream of if you do not wish to,” Laurens nearly whispers, the words for Lafayette's ears alone. “But I am here if you have need of a listening ear.”

A fresh wave of tears spill from Lafayette's eyes before the younger man hurriedly swipes them away.

“It is nothing. I am a fool to allow it to bother me so.”

The words alone are enough to cause Laurens' heart to break, let alone the expression of guilt on Lafayette's face. He shakes his head in firm disagreement.

“It is no weakness that you still bear the wounds of that which was done to you.”

There is a sharp intake of breath, and Laurens understands why. Because until now, Lafayette's time in British hands had not been spoken of aloud. It is a subject ever so carefully tip-toed around, no one being eager to rub salt into wounds still so fresh.

Maybe it had been a mistake bringing it to light now, because Lafayette looks every bit a deer caught by surprise at the snapping of a twig in the forest.

He is about to apologize, but Lafayette's mouth opens and closes once before he gives a bitter chuckle.

“I do not know how well I bear it now.”

It's said softly, but Laurens hears it all the same, hears the strain of the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.

It hurts, an ache so deep Laurens does not know what to do with such pain.

‘You do not bear it alone’, is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't let the words pass his lips. It sounds too simple, another empty reassurance that, while well intentioned, lacks any real power to lessen the pain of another.

So, he settles for squeezing Lafayette's hand instead, allowing the gesture to convey what words cannot.