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Jan. 29th, 2016 10:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticity Martha gives him a gently chiding look, but he goes anyway. He has a good idea of where Hamilton has ended up, knows enough about young and stupid and understands the city. He has done work with the homeless, and he has done more work with Alexander Hamilton, in the way the boy lets him. Hamilton is easy to work with, and on, in the way that nothing is more difficult. He is a man only interested in engaging in challenging tasks with rewarding endings. He only does the crossword puzzle on Saturday, and sometimes Friday.. But his affections (and they are that, as Martha will always be quick to point out) for Alexander have long since stretched outside of his desire for challenging projects. It is that there is something in the core of Hamilton that he wants to nurture. He has plenty to do so - Martha's children, here when they can manage - but it is different. He prefers not to think of it. There are many good things. He should never focus on the ills of his life, as few as they are. And things, as Martha always says, would be different if they were different.
He pulls on his scarf and his jacket and his hat, and his gloves, and he takes his briefcase. Not his briefcase for work, but his briefcase for Alexander Hamilton; food, mostly, the kind a too-proud will accept without knowing how good it is for him - protein bars and bars and granola with dried fruit in it, gatorade and fruit juice, beef jerky. There is an extra set of gloves in case the boy has lost the first pair George bought him. An envelope with money in it that he has become good at putting in the boy's pockets without him noticing.
It is a very cold, very long walk in the park, pretending that he enjoying freezing at two am, lit only by streetlamps. But he is a man accustomed to challenges like frozen nights, and he is both cheered and downtrodden to see a splash of red hair and a too-new jacket shivering on a bench, half-snowed. He makes no pace to hurry; he does not want to seem a monster to anyone else. It is as he suspected, and all the things are true, and he sighs. He puts his hands on the man's shoulder, protectig his face agianst the wind. Alexander does not wake up.
George picks up him in his arms. Alexander does not wake up; he is disturbingly light for a man of his size and attitude. He consdiers taking the boy to the hospital to see if there are any long-standing issues, but decides it is not worth it. Hamilton would never forgive if for taking him to the hospital. nothing could offend him more.
He hails a cab back, and thanks God that the city does not think it so strange a man carrying a fully grown boy in his arms is so peculiar.
"He looks white as a sheet," Martha says, frowning.
"Somehow it becomes very easy to look terrible when you sleep on a park bench," George replies, and the two of them settle the sleeping man into the guest bedroom. Hamilton doesn't wake up throughout their process. George wonders how long the boy was awake before he finally curled up. Hamilton was in his class, just yesterday. He had looked bad. Not sleep on a bench bad. But bad. But Alexander regularly looked bad, bad enough that George found himself wondering how long he'd been sleeping on a bench. Washington had found out only by accident, when the delivery man had called him in confusion that no one was there.
"Uh, are you home? This door's locked? And no one picks up when you buzz in."
There had been a fear, and he had told the man to call Hamilton, and Hamilton had not picked up... so him and Martha had eaten the food, and then he had called Alexander, who...
... would not say where he lived, or what he was doing, or the last time he had eaten.
"He's going to be mad when he wakes up," Martha said, as they had drifted back into bed together, her slotting perfectly into his arms.
"He is never not mad," George replied, kissing her. "He is powered only by ambitious and the Great Wall which he has perched on his shoulder. And we will deal with that tomorrow."
Martha rumbled in contentment in his arms. It was easy to sleep.
*
He was an early riser and always had been; Martha never was, and she grumbled at him and fell back asleep. He set the coffee to brew and picked up the newspaper. There was not much more joy to be found than watching the sun rise and fighting the crossword.
Footsteps, with the intent to hide the sound.
Alexander made eye contact with him.
He pulls on his scarf and his jacket and his hat, and his gloves, and he takes his briefcase. Not his briefcase for work, but his briefcase for Alexander Hamilton; food, mostly, the kind a too-proud will accept without knowing how good it is for him - protein bars and bars and granola with dried fruit in it, gatorade and fruit juice, beef jerky. There is an extra set of gloves in case the boy has lost the first pair George bought him. An envelope with money in it that he has become good at putting in the boy's pockets without him noticing.
It is a very cold, very long walk in the park, pretending that he enjoying freezing at two am, lit only by streetlamps. But he is a man accustomed to challenges like frozen nights, and he is both cheered and downtrodden to see a splash of red hair and a too-new jacket shivering on a bench, half-snowed. He makes no pace to hurry; he does not want to seem a monster to anyone else. It is as he suspected, and all the things are true, and he sighs. He puts his hands on the man's shoulder, protectig his face agianst the wind. Alexander does not wake up.
George picks up him in his arms. Alexander does not wake up; he is disturbingly light for a man of his size and attitude. He consdiers taking the boy to the hospital to see if there are any long-standing issues, but decides it is not worth it. Hamilton would never forgive if for taking him to the hospital. nothing could offend him more.
He hails a cab back, and thanks God that the city does not think it so strange a man carrying a fully grown boy in his arms is so peculiar.
"He looks white as a sheet," Martha says, frowning.
"Somehow it becomes very easy to look terrible when you sleep on a park bench," George replies, and the two of them settle the sleeping man into the guest bedroom. Hamilton doesn't wake up throughout their process. George wonders how long the boy was awake before he finally curled up. Hamilton was in his class, just yesterday. He had looked bad. Not sleep on a bench bad. But bad. But Alexander regularly looked bad, bad enough that George found himself wondering how long he'd been sleeping on a bench. Washington had found out only by accident, when the delivery man had called him in confusion that no one was there.
"Uh, are you home? This door's locked? And no one picks up when you buzz in."
There had been a fear, and he had told the man to call Hamilton, and Hamilton had not picked up... so him and Martha had eaten the food, and then he had called Alexander, who...
... would not say where he lived, or what he was doing, or the last time he had eaten.
"He's going to be mad when he wakes up," Martha said, as they had drifted back into bed together, her slotting perfectly into his arms.
"He is never not mad," George replied, kissing her. "He is powered only by ambitious and the Great Wall which he has perched on his shoulder. And we will deal with that tomorrow."
Martha rumbled in contentment in his arms. It was easy to sleep.
*
He was an early riser and always had been; Martha never was, and she grumbled at him and fell back asleep. He set the coffee to brew and picked up the newspaper. There was not much more joy to be found than watching the sun rise and fighting the crossword.
Footsteps, with the intent to hide the sound.
Alexander made eye contact with him.