cuts from lafayandre fic
Jan. 26th, 2016 01:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticitythe introspection about andre ham has about why laf likes andre was different in v1, mostly because i really liked ham being reminded of this dinner. i actually want to put more stuff into why laf likes andre into the story but there just wasn't a bit. and i guess it's pretty obvious that laf cares about andre a lot even without all this other stuff.
André had even been well-studied in the arts and not only had taught him a new dance which they had all decided Eliza would be thrilled with, he had even had the confidence to do so while taking the woman’s position. He had proven himself to be a capable poet as well as a musician, and he had certainly used a man’s violin to much greater effect than anyone else had managed. Although it was clear from the moment the man had been brought into camp that he would have to be executed (short of them trading him for that disgusting traitor Alexander preferred not to mention), he had more completely deserved a more honorable death than hanging.
With Laurens away, Alexander had not had anyone he felt comfortable working through his own head with, but he suspected that Lafayette liked André because there was something eminently old world about him, which Alexander could not hope to match, being, of course, an orphan from a backwater trade island. He could imagine Lafayette was dreadfully homesick, and perhaps a man of such refinement had helped the Frenchman feel less distant. Perhaps André had reminded Lafayette of France, or Britain, or some friend he had had in Europe. Perhaps it was simply that André bore himself and spoke with the confidence and grace of being highborn, which was sorely lacking in their continental camp.
He had seen them speaking in Lafayette’s quarters about some poem they were both familiar with, and André was speaking with what Alexander learned to be his calm, self-assured confidence, while Lafayette had nodded eagerly along, as if no one could ever be as right about it as the Major was currently being. When Lafayette spoke, waving his hands wildly, André had smiled and laughed at what Alexander had guessed had been the exact particular time.
----
also there was a medium happy ending to this story before i decided to go with grief-rage drunk, but then i cut it, becuase i despise joy. also there i was a really sharp tone shift that didn't work. maybe there will be a happy ending at some point in the future. (just kidding, everyone has a bad ending.)
“If you would like, Marquis, you can sleep in John’s bed while he is away.” He gestured with his own glass, mostly empty, to the other bed in their small room. “I am sure he would not mind.”
“That is a marvelous idea, Hamilton,” Lafayette said, and he began to take his boots off. “It is too cold to go outside again, anyway. It is very, very late. Let us retire. The war does not rest.”
Alexander made an agreeing noise and watched the Frenchman. He could still see the grief that Lafayette wore like a mantle. They crawled into their beds, and Lafayette blew out the candle that held the only light in their room.
The dark was quiet.
Alexander enjoyed and was well-accustomed to silence. But this silence was a vicious one, and reminded him the hot, stinking smell of a summer battle or some aggressive heat. This silence was not their friend, as Alexander was accustomed to. This silence sought to suffocate them, and quash out any remaining laughter or joy they could feel.
“I can’t believe that rat Arnold,” he said, apropos of nothing. He wondered what Arnold was doing right now, if he was sleeping in some magnificent British bed. He wondered if Arnold had been told what had happened to the better half of his terrible deal.
He had, all of a sudden, an urge to get out of bed and check on Andre’s corpse, which he quickly suppressed.
Instead, he spent awhile talking to nobody, making up and tossing out new invective about their ex-general. He could do it without thinking, and it took his mind off everything else that had happened, and it fought against this mysterious silence that disliked him so.
Additionally, it allowed him to pretend he didn’t hear the small sounds of sobs from the other bed.
He spoke in a low voice until a predawn light shone into the room, and fell asleep midword.
* **
He was alone when he awoke.
He startled.
It was late. The sun was up and shining in the sky, faking the promise of warmth. He had no idea what time it was.
He stared at his room.
The shattered glass had been picked up and the sheets of Laurens’ bed had been spread across the side of the room to dry. The bottle of brandy was nowhere to be found, and the other glass had been set upright, next to the familiar stack of papers on his desk.
Where was Lafayette?
He threw back on his clothes, grabbed his sabre, his jacket and hat, and hurried up to the tree. He ignored the biting cold and the songs men sung to distract themselves from hunger and misery. He ignored those who called out for him.
There were common soldiers filling in the grave when he arrived.
Observing the men were the two men he was looking for, Lafayette’s standing in Washington’s shadow. Despite that the men were close in height, Lafayette looked smaller, his shoulders folded inward and head bowed, and he seemed to making an effort to fit into Washington’s side. The general, of course, always managed to seem larger than his substantial height.
He cleared his throat, and both men looked over at him. Lafayette looked away, and Alexander was not sure if his cheeks burned from shame or the icy wind.
“Good morning, colonel,” Washington said, nodding his head in welcome. His expression, as usual, was unreadable.
“Good morning, Your Excellency, general,” Alexander said, saluting. “I completed the reports you gave me last night and request further orders.” His gaze turned towards Lafayette, trying to meet the Frenchman’s eyes, questioning.
“I am sure General Lafayette can find something for you to do. When that’s finished, come see me in my office,” Washington said, and he turned and walked away, as good as a dismissal.
The men patted the ground with their shovels. Lafayette turned from Alexander to the group, who were looking collectively expectant for the Marquis. The Frenchman inspected the grave impassively, then studied each of the thin-faced men in turn.
“Good,” he announced, “You can return to camp. I’ll speak to your officer and let him know to grant you all extra whiskey.”
The men whooped and turned as a group, leaving Lafayette and Alexander alone.
“Hamilton--” Lafayette started, but Alexander shook his head.
“I am sorry for your loss, Marquis,” Alexander said. “It may be worth nothing, but I still consider you a very capable officer, and my friend.”
“Au contraire, mon ami. Nothing is more valuable. I can only offer my apologies for my abysmal behavior, even though I do not deserve your forgiveness. I have been a fool. Even if I still grieve, I cannot permit myself to be so senseless.”
“Your apology is accepted, and I have forgiveness to give in spades.” Alexander touched the man’s shoulder and offered him a smile, and found himself pleased to get a little one in return. “We all grieve for our losses, no matter what coats they may wear. I only hope that your pain may be eased, even a fraction, by the pleasure of my company.”
Lafayette even managed a chuckle at that. Despite the dark circles that had formed under his eyes, he looked better in the sunlight, and stood a little taller. “Perhaps you will entertain me with one of your rants about politics. Certainly such a thing could distract even the most mournful man from his thoughts.”
“You know me too well, I admit,” Alexander said. “Come, let us get away from this morbid place. I am sure the general will have much pointless minutia for me, and I must write a letter to Laurens about Major André and that rat traitor Arnold. He will be upset if he does not hear about it from me.”
“You will not include my lapse in sense, I hope.”
“If you wish it to be forgotten and disappeared into oblivion, it shall be.”
Lafayette nodded gratefully, and Alexander felt heartened. He watched as the Marquis crouched low over the grave, drawing his fingers over the freezing dirt. The man’s expression seemed impossibly distant. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the sketch of himself, looking at it for a few moments. Then he kissed the paper, folded it back into his jacket, and stood in a resolute manner.
“There is a war to win, Hamilton,” he said. “I will need you at my side to do it.”
“Me, at your side?” Alexander replied, casting his friend a shocked glance as they strode back into the camp proper, “If you are lucky, I will permit you to acquire half my glory.”
The Marquis grinned at him - a little grin, but a grin nonetheless, and one that at least made some effort to reach his eyes, even it could not entirely overcome the grief that hung there, plain as day.
It was a start.
André had even been well-studied in the arts and not only had taught him a new dance which they had all decided Eliza would be thrilled with, he had even had the confidence to do so while taking the woman’s position. He had proven himself to be a capable poet as well as a musician, and he had certainly used a man’s violin to much greater effect than anyone else had managed. Although it was clear from the moment the man had been brought into camp that he would have to be executed (short of them trading him for that disgusting traitor Alexander preferred not to mention), he had more completely deserved a more honorable death than hanging.
With Laurens away, Alexander had not had anyone he felt comfortable working through his own head with, but he suspected that Lafayette liked André because there was something eminently old world about him, which Alexander could not hope to match, being, of course, an orphan from a backwater trade island. He could imagine Lafayette was dreadfully homesick, and perhaps a man of such refinement had helped the Frenchman feel less distant. Perhaps André had reminded Lafayette of France, or Britain, or some friend he had had in Europe. Perhaps it was simply that André bore himself and spoke with the confidence and grace of being highborn, which was sorely lacking in their continental camp.
He had seen them speaking in Lafayette’s quarters about some poem they were both familiar with, and André was speaking with what Alexander learned to be his calm, self-assured confidence, while Lafayette had nodded eagerly along, as if no one could ever be as right about it as the Major was currently being. When Lafayette spoke, waving his hands wildly, André had smiled and laughed at what Alexander had guessed had been the exact particular time.
----
also there was a medium happy ending to this story before i decided to go with grief-rage drunk, but then i cut it, becuase i despise joy. also there i was a really sharp tone shift that didn't work. maybe there will be a happy ending at some point in the future. (just kidding, everyone has a bad ending.)
“If you would like, Marquis, you can sleep in John’s bed while he is away.” He gestured with his own glass, mostly empty, to the other bed in their small room. “I am sure he would not mind.”
“That is a marvelous idea, Hamilton,” Lafayette said, and he began to take his boots off. “It is too cold to go outside again, anyway. It is very, very late. Let us retire. The war does not rest.”
Alexander made an agreeing noise and watched the Frenchman. He could still see the grief that Lafayette wore like a mantle. They crawled into their beds, and Lafayette blew out the candle that held the only light in their room.
The dark was quiet.
Alexander enjoyed and was well-accustomed to silence. But this silence was a vicious one, and reminded him the hot, stinking smell of a summer battle or some aggressive heat. This silence was not their friend, as Alexander was accustomed to. This silence sought to suffocate them, and quash out any remaining laughter or joy they could feel.
“I can’t believe that rat Arnold,” he said, apropos of nothing. He wondered what Arnold was doing right now, if he was sleeping in some magnificent British bed. He wondered if Arnold had been told what had happened to the better half of his terrible deal.
He had, all of a sudden, an urge to get out of bed and check on Andre’s corpse, which he quickly suppressed.
Instead, he spent awhile talking to nobody, making up and tossing out new invective about their ex-general. He could do it without thinking, and it took his mind off everything else that had happened, and it fought against this mysterious silence that disliked him so.
Additionally, it allowed him to pretend he didn’t hear the small sounds of sobs from the other bed.
He spoke in a low voice until a predawn light shone into the room, and fell asleep midword.
* **
He was alone when he awoke.
He startled.
It was late. The sun was up and shining in the sky, faking the promise of warmth. He had no idea what time it was.
He stared at his room.
The shattered glass had been picked up and the sheets of Laurens’ bed had been spread across the side of the room to dry. The bottle of brandy was nowhere to be found, and the other glass had been set upright, next to the familiar stack of papers on his desk.
Where was Lafayette?
He threw back on his clothes, grabbed his sabre, his jacket and hat, and hurried up to the tree. He ignored the biting cold and the songs men sung to distract themselves from hunger and misery. He ignored those who called out for him.
There were common soldiers filling in the grave when he arrived.
Observing the men were the two men he was looking for, Lafayette’s standing in Washington’s shadow. Despite that the men were close in height, Lafayette looked smaller, his shoulders folded inward and head bowed, and he seemed to making an effort to fit into Washington’s side. The general, of course, always managed to seem larger than his substantial height.
He cleared his throat, and both men looked over at him. Lafayette looked away, and Alexander was not sure if his cheeks burned from shame or the icy wind.
“Good morning, colonel,” Washington said, nodding his head in welcome. His expression, as usual, was unreadable.
“Good morning, Your Excellency, general,” Alexander said, saluting. “I completed the reports you gave me last night and request further orders.” His gaze turned towards Lafayette, trying to meet the Frenchman’s eyes, questioning.
“I am sure General Lafayette can find something for you to do. When that’s finished, come see me in my office,” Washington said, and he turned and walked away, as good as a dismissal.
The men patted the ground with their shovels. Lafayette turned from Alexander to the group, who were looking collectively expectant for the Marquis. The Frenchman inspected the grave impassively, then studied each of the thin-faced men in turn.
“Good,” he announced, “You can return to camp. I’ll speak to your officer and let him know to grant you all extra whiskey.”
The men whooped and turned as a group, leaving Lafayette and Alexander alone.
“Hamilton--” Lafayette started, but Alexander shook his head.
“I am sorry for your loss, Marquis,” Alexander said. “It may be worth nothing, but I still consider you a very capable officer, and my friend.”
“Au contraire, mon ami. Nothing is more valuable. I can only offer my apologies for my abysmal behavior, even though I do not deserve your forgiveness. I have been a fool. Even if I still grieve, I cannot permit myself to be so senseless.”
“Your apology is accepted, and I have forgiveness to give in spades.” Alexander touched the man’s shoulder and offered him a smile, and found himself pleased to get a little one in return. “We all grieve for our losses, no matter what coats they may wear. I only hope that your pain may be eased, even a fraction, by the pleasure of my company.”
Lafayette even managed a chuckle at that. Despite the dark circles that had formed under his eyes, he looked better in the sunlight, and stood a little taller. “Perhaps you will entertain me with one of your rants about politics. Certainly such a thing could distract even the most mournful man from his thoughts.”
“You know me too well, I admit,” Alexander said. “Come, let us get away from this morbid place. I am sure the general will have much pointless minutia for me, and I must write a letter to Laurens about Major André and that rat traitor Arnold. He will be upset if he does not hear about it from me.”
“You will not include my lapse in sense, I hope.”
“If you wish it to be forgotten and disappeared into oblivion, it shall be.”
Lafayette nodded gratefully, and Alexander felt heartened. He watched as the Marquis crouched low over the grave, drawing his fingers over the freezing dirt. The man’s expression seemed impossibly distant. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the sketch of himself, looking at it for a few moments. Then he kissed the paper, folded it back into his jacket, and stood in a resolute manner.
“There is a war to win, Hamilton,” he said. “I will need you at my side to do it.”
“Me, at your side?” Alexander replied, casting his friend a shocked glance as they strode back into the camp proper, “If you are lucky, I will permit you to acquire half my glory.”
The Marquis grinned at him - a little grin, but a grin nonetheless, and one that at least made some effort to reach his eyes, even it could not entirely overcome the grief that hung there, plain as day.
It was a start.