You’re goddamn motherfucking right we’ll be seeing Washington. TBH I’ve basically been waiting to get an ask about Washington before I move on because I’ve been plotting the next scene FROM THE GET GO and really wanted to write it, so you get to jump the line ahead of everyone else. Without further ado: HERE COMES THE GENERAL.
Edit: I started writing this like…maybe over a month ago? But then finals happened and other shit happened and I’ve been, A, too busy to write, and, B, desperately lacking in inspiration for this. So now we’re back with the AIOS thing.
It’s only the first day of proper classes and John’s already giving Alex that look of exasperated concern. The how late were you up last night and have you considered a meal today look. The General Washington doesn’t need that letter for a week and you look like a dead man walking look. The coffee is not food and your hands are shaking look.
Alex is fine. John is paranoid. And they have class.
“A class we already know everything for!” John shouts as he sprints after Alex, two protein bars and a bottle of water in hand. John is still unfairly tall, and he catches up with Alex in a heartbeat, snatching Alex’s two books away and shoving all three items into his hands instead. “I didn’t even buy the books, and I know Laf didn’t either. And you remember better than I do!”
Alex scowls, but eats the protein bars. They’re chocolate-flavored and it’s possible he got too absorbed in writing up his latest blog post to remember to eat dinner, so he generously decides to forgive John’s hovering.
“It’s class, John, why wouldn’t you buy the books?” he demands between bites, jabbing at the book in question with the hand holding the water. Alex sees more than a few students watching them in mild concern—their conversation probably looks like a fight from an outsider’s point of view—but can’t really bring himself to give a damn.
“Because!” John shakes the books at him like he’s resisting the urge to throw them at Alex’s head. “They’re about us, for the love of God, the whole reason we’re taking this class is for the easy history credit. You could write these!” He pauses, looks at the books, and adds in a tone of consideration, “And they’d probably be thicker.”
“But,” Alex says, tossing the wrappers for the protein bars into a trash can, “now I have the books that are required for the class. So fuck you.”
John huffs, shaking his head, and points at Alex. “Drink your water and shut up, Ham.”
Alex smirks. “How long do you think it’ll take the teacher to figure it out? Professor Whatever.”
“Professor Walker. Probably a while, you and Lafayette won’t even be on the attendance sheet after switching in And it won’t matter if we get kicked out for missing the first class,” John remarks, looking at his watch. “We’re going to be late as it is.”
“We wouldn’t be if you hadn’t started throwing food at me,” Alex points out, and darts away before John really does throw something at his head.
They’re not incredibly late, but they do burst through the door into a lecture hall while someone—presumably Professor Walker, according to John—is talking. Apparently he’s a punctual guy. At least Lafayette’s poof of black hair is also absent, because Lafayette’s many positive qualities do not include punctuality except when someone’s life is on the line.
“—probably figured out, I am not an American Revolution historian,” the man is saying. He’s tall, probably on a level with John, with broad shoulders and a hard-lined face with mid-range dark skin, under a neatly shaved scalp. He’s well-dressed, in muted blue and black, with his hands tucked neatly at the small of his back and a commanding presence. There’s a briefcase, two stacks of papers, and a coat on the table behind him. “However, I do have a certain level of expertise due to my past life as a general, so I’ve been press-ganged into service for the third year running, and you two gentlemen are late.”
He adds it without missing a beat and turns stern dark eyes on Alex and John, still standing in the door.
Alex blinks once, twice, and looks at the coat again. It’s long, such a dark blue it’s almost black, and he looks back at the professor with the feeling that he’s been hit hard between the eyes.
“General?” he asks, bemused. The man inclines his head ever so slightly, and the familiar gesture makes Alex grin so hard it makes his cheeks ache. “Your Excellency, it’s me!”
Washington’s shoulders loosen and he tips his head to the side as he examines Alex closely. “Alexander Hamilton,” he says in surprise, and steps forward, a warm smile making his eyes light up. “It’s good to see you again, son.”
“Don’t call me–” Alex bites off the rest of the habitual complaint—he’s over it, really, but it’s instinct now—as Washington sweeps him up into a fierce hug. “I missed you too, sir,” Alex says, struggling not to drop anything in shock. “Um,” he says once Washington lets him go, his hands till heavy on Alex’s shoulders as he studies him. Washington looks…Alex isn’t sure what Washington looks like. He looks a little bit like he’s just seen his child returned from the dead, and a little bit like he’s planning to throttle Alex for getting shot in the first place. “Your Excellency, I’m sorry we’re late–”
“You can stop calling me ‘Your Excellency,’ Alexander,” Washington says. “It’s been two hundred years.”
“Right, um, yeah,” Alex says, and goes a little limp with relief when Washington turns that piercing regard on John. Washington is always a little nerve-wracking, but Alex recalls vividly the amount of trouble he used to get himself into with his runaway mouth.
“And you must be John Laurens. Inseparable as ever,” he notes.
“The more things change, General,” John says, grinning, and he handles the hug with slightly more grace than Alex did.
It’s only once Washington has clapped John on the shoulder and stepped back that Alex realizes the entire room—and he means the entire room—is watching them.
A girl in the front row clears her throat delicately and asks, “I’m sorry, did you say Alexander Hamilton? As in Hamilton Hall?”
“Oh Lord,” Washington mutters, and Alex grins again.
“I like Columbia,” he says defensively when John jabs him with an elbow.
“Isn’t it kind of cheating to take a class your past life was around for?” the girl asks, critical, and Alex feels his grin take a smug turn.
“No,” he says. “John checked.”
The door crashes open again—much more loudly, Alex would like to point out—and a long-limbed figure bursts through, already apologizing.
“Désolé, professeur,” Lafayette pants. “I got lost, I’m so—mon petit leon, ça va?” he asks Alex, pulling up sharply to avoid crashing into him.
“C’est bon,” Alex says, half-laughing, and Lafayette gives him a grin before he looks up at the professor he’d already been in such a rush to apologize to.
Lafayette’s always had a dramatic bent and a good eye for detail, so Alex is somewhat less than surprised when he gasps and bounds forward like a puppy without so much as asking why they’re still loitering by the door.
“Mon cher Général Washington!” Lafayette cries, and throws his arms around Washington in unabashed glee, pecking a kiss to each cheek. Washington, who in Alex’s memory wasn’t often pleased about being tackled, grips Lafayette so tightly Alex expects to hear ribs creak. When they finally pull apart, Washington touches Lafayette’s cheek and offers a faint, shaken smile.
“Gilbert,” Washington says quietly.
Lafayette blinks, tears beading on his lashes as he laughs. “Just Lafayette this time. I never much liked Gilbert.”
Washington nods, an unbearably soft look in his eyes. “Whatever you say, my boy.”
The room has progressed from quiet observation to deathly silence. Alex sees Washington close his eyes a moment before the same girl shoots to her feet and demands, “Did you say General Washington?!”
“Ten years I’ve worked here,” Washington says, eyes still closed. “And I’ve managed to keep that under wraps since I was sixteen.”
Lafayette winces. It would be more convincing if he stopped grinning, in Alex’s humble opinion. “Désolé, Général.”
Washington opens his eyes and looks out at the class. “Well,” he says dryly. “On that note, allow me to introduce your three class tutors, my aides Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens, and the Marquis de Lafayette. I don’t suppose there’s any way I could ask you to keep this quiet.”
Alex counts nine phones already out, and a few shamefaced headshakes of denial.
“Sorry, sir,” a boy says with an apologetic shrug.
Washington shakes his head, turning to walk back to the table with his briefcase and papers on it, and pauses to direct his next words at Alex and the others. “If any of you attempt to convince me to go into politics again, you will suffer dire consequences,” he says, and the threat is softened by the genuine delight in his eyes when he looks at them.
“Yes sir,” they chorus.
“Now go sit down, if you’re so determined to take my class.”