Chapter Text
1751, Virginia
“What are you doing, George?”
He lowered the bag he was stuffing randomly chosen articles of clothing into and turned, a sigh on his lips. His presence didn’t come as a surprise, of course, but George had done little to prepare himself for this particular conversation.
Lawrence leaned in the doorway, his shoulder to the frame and arms crossed loosely over his chest; the picture of nonchalance, even though both of them knew that was nothing but a façade.
“Packing,” he said, flourishing his bag.
His brother nodded, thoughtful, sharp eyes sweeping along his whole form.
“And where are you going?”
George hesitated, and he averted his gaze and resumed his packing before he answered, “I’m not going far.”
“Hm.” He chanced a glance back at his brother, found him watching with something like disappointment in his eyes, and turned away again. “The distance might not be far, but you know your mother doesn’t see it that way. To her, you’re off to the moon.”
Christ’s sake.
There were plentiful upsides to having a brother thirteen years one's senior, but also significant downsides–the borderline paternal lectures, for example.
“Call me ‘young man’ and tell me to get lost next time, then you’ll really sound like Father,” he said. George just hoped Lawrence was in the mood for a bit of friendly if slightly bitter banter; if not, he had just damned himself to another lecture.
A quiet sigh halted him again, and he put his bag down and faced his brother once more. Lawrence pinched the bridge of his nose, his brows knotted in a frown, and George had the decency to feel a bit bad. He knew he had been unwell for a while now, and this whole situation was most certainly not helping the matter.
“This is what I mean. You’re- God, you might be eighteen now, but that doesn't make you a man yet. What gave you the brilliant idea to run off and join the army? You mouth off to one of the officers, they’ll have you flogged, George.”
Another downside. His brother would probably never see him as more than the child in his care.
Well. That would have to change.
He shrugged. “You’re the only one I mouth off to,” he said and shot him a halfhearted smirk–it was not reciprocated. It seemed his teasing would not be appreciated today. He sobered. “As for why… What else is there for me, Lawrence?”
“I’m sorry?” he said, both brows raised, incredulous. “What else is there for you? What else, besides signing your very life over to the crown, spending your days packed into dirty military-camps, and dying young either of camp-fever or a bullet to the stomach? George, do you even hear yourself?”
Of course he would do this, treat him like a child, assume he hadn’t put a second of thought into this decision; act like he needed his brother to take him by the hand and guide him to what was best for him, because he couldn't possibly know himself.
“This is why I didn’t tell anyone,” he bit out and bent to pick up his pack that had apparently slipped from his fingers sometime during that lecture. “Because I knew you would patronise me, and I knew Mother would try to fucking forbid it like I’m some kind of child, but neither of you get to make any decision for me. It’s my life, I get to do with it as I please, and I’m not throwing it away as you seem to think I am.”
He snapped his head around and glared–Lawrence rubbed a hand down his face and let out a long, exhausted sigh; when he dropped his arm back to his side, he looked… older. Aged. Worn.
George tried to keep the guilt from putting out the indignant flames in his chest.
“Why not stay home?” he said, quiet and tired. “Why not come live with me and Anne, the house is big enough, and I could show you the ropes around the plantation? Father never got to teach you, but it’s a fine profession-”
“It’s your estate, Lawrence,” he interrupted, and his brother closed his mouth without voicing even the slightest of reprimand for that. “Are you suggesting I leech off of you for the rest of our lives? I don’t think so.”
Lawrence pressed his lips together and set his jaw, regarded him in silence for a moment. "It's not all mine, George. A significant part of it is yours, and if you just let me teach you how to take care of it-"
"Perhaps someday," he cut in again, and the crease in his brother's brow deepened. The ice he was inching along on was getting thinner. "Not now. Now, I have a commission to get to, and once that's over, I'll see where I stand."
Lawrence shook his head and heaved a long sigh, but he ceased his attempts to change his mind–somewhere along the line, it must have set in that this was something he needed to do.
"With both legs still outside the grave, hopefully," he said. His tone of voice made him think it was supposed to be a joke, but his stonern expression hadn't changed.
In any case, George would take it.
A brief silence settled, and he finished his packing and slung the bag over his shoulder.
He would leave. It was an odd thought, one that had existed in the back of his head for a while now, but one he had always been somewhat removed from. That had always been future.
The future had arrived, and he was going, against the wishes of his family.
He hadn't cared for his mother's opinion in years–Lawrence, he hoped, would find it in himself to forgive him.
"George." That snapped him out of his contemplations, and he turned back to his brother.
Something tight loosened in his chest when their gazes met; Lawrence's eyes were no longer hard with disapproval and budding anger.
"That offer will always stand. When you feel you've had enough of military life, you come home to Mount Vernon, and I show you how to take care of the land, alright?"
George blinked and lowered his head, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.
"Alright."
He was lucky.
He knew that full well, just how lucky he was to have a place to go after that first commission was up, that he had a brother like Lawrence who would always have his back, no matter how much of an idiot he thought George.
Lawrence stepped into the room and came to stand just an arm's length from him, and George raised his head.
"Be careful," he said, staring right into his very soul. "Be smart. Just- for once in your life, use your head before you act."
Maybe he should have been offended, but goddamnit, Lawrence was right. He tended to act first and think about it later, when the unavoidable consequences were already closing in on him, and that- that had potential to cost him his life someday.
"I'll do my best," he replied, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Yes, I'd feared you would say that," he quipped back and clapped a hand to his shoulder, flashed him a brief smile before he sobered again. "Come back home, George. Ideally, in one piece–and if you don't, well, there will be dire consequences," he said, a glint in his eyes and a humorous twist to his lips. "Young man."
George groaned and slapped his brother's arm away. "Fuck you, too," he said, and Lawrence snorted.
He caught him around his bicep when he made to step around him and halted him in his tracks; George raised an eyebrow at him, confused, but he got his answer when he was yanked close and wrapped up in a firm embrace.
"I'm serious, George. Don't make me bury you," he mumbled against his shoulder.
George didn't know what to say to that, so he just hugged him back and hoped it would be enough.
They separated after several long moments–an unbidden lump had formed in his throat, and all of a sudden, this goodbye seemed a lot more difficult than it had just a few minutes ago.
He was leaving.
Lord help him.
"Be careful. Be smart," Lawrence repeated, this time with more weight behind it, and George swallowed, forced himself to give a stiff nod in response.
"Careful. Smart. Use my head–got it," he said in a perhaps wrong-footed attempt at humour, his throat constricting further with every new breath he took, and Lawrence shook his head, fond.
"Off with you. Go knock in some heads, and don't let anyone stab you," he said and gave a last affectionate squeeze to his shoulder before he stepped back.
"Yes, Sir," he croaked and cleared his throat. "I'll see you. I promise."
"You better," he said, looking at him in a way that made George think he knew every single thought running through his head right then–and perhaps he did. Well. He almost certainly did; Lawrence had raised him, after all.
George took a deep breath, steeling himself, nodded to his brother for the final time, turned on his heel, and strode out the door.
1755, Nevis
"Where the fuck do you think you're going, missy?"
George looked up from the glass of whiskey he had been staring into, lost in thought even though he couldn't recall a single thing that had run through his head these last twenty minutes, and his eyes were drawn to the source of the noise: a rather drunk man a few steps from the bar he sat at.
The guy had dirty blond hair falling into his face, and he wore a shirt and waistcoat that didn't match his breeches.
Intriguing. Perhaps he had already been drunk when he had woken and dressed for the day.
Oh, come off it, Washington, it's not like you look any better.
George frowned and shoved all his out of place judgements aside, focused on watching the scene unfold instead.
The girl who'd just been yelled at by the rather intoxicated gentleman quickened her stride but didn't turn.
"Oi, I'm talking to you, bitch!”
His eyes narrowed, and his grip on the glass tightened. Perhaps he had been right to judge, after all. Fuck that guy.
The girl hurried past George, keeping her head down–he only noticed the tray she clutched in one hand when she passed by him, headed for the door into the backrooms, and that was when he realised the poor woman worked there. That she was just trying to do her job when some idiot had decided to harass her.
The man grumbled something under his breath and stalked after her, made to grab her before she could even reach the door, and George was on his feet before he knew what he was doing.
He planted himself in the guy’s way and glared when he slid to a sudden halt mere inches from him.
A look of candid confusion contorted his features, before his drink-addled brain seemed to catch up to the proceedings and his cloudy eyes filled with blind fury, his mouth twisting into a scowl.
“What the fuck- move, mate, this is none of your fucking business,” he hissed, and George raised his brows.
“What were you going to do to that lady once you caught up to her, hm?” he said, not overly interested in hearing the answer, but everyone sober enough had turned to watch the confrontation, and he wouldn’t be the one to escalate it in front of all those people–being arrested for a bar-fight of all things seemed awfully inconvenient, especially when he considered that this was supposed to be a business-trip.
Business-trip. Keep on pretending.
He shook himself.
The man hadn’t given an answer, he realised, and it didn’t seem he intended to do so, either–he was staring past him, and a second later, there was the creak of a door being shut.
The girl must have hesitated in front of it to watch the proceedings as well; at least she was safe now.
“You don’t even know what this is fucking about, pal, and you would do better keeping to yourself and letting people handle their fucking issues as they see fit,” he ground out, silently seething now that the girl had successfully gotten away, the words just a notch too pronounced, too sharp–in an attempted to hide his slurring, he suspected.
George blinked at the man, took in the make of his mismatched clothing; the quality seemed good, but it was worn. Old, and ill taken care of. He’d had money, once, but not anymore.
“I’m not your pal,” George said, dry, and someone behind the bar snorted; he wouldn’t take his eyes off the man to see who it was, though.
Never turn your back to the threat.
Be careful. Be smart.
Not that he considered this ridiculously wasted man a threat, but old habits died hard.
“Ah, I see,” he said in the exaggerated way of the drunk. From some corner of the bar an annoyed ‘oh, sit the fuck down, Hamilton’ sounded, but he acted like he hadn’t heard it. “A funny one, aren’t ya? Marvelous. Go make your quips somewhere else, pal. No one’s crowned you protector of the fucking whores, so get off it, before someone comes along and knocks you down.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but George made an effort not to show any reaction to the asshole’s–Hamilton’s–empty threats.
Still, despite his attempts to control himself, a quiet rage flickered to life in the pit of his stomach; he had never been one to stand by and tolerate such blatant disrespect to any woman, if he personally knew her or not.
Unfortunately, Hamilton wasn’t done yet.
He raised his voice and yelled past him to the backdoor, “You hear that, Annie? You’re a fucking whore, and I hope you and that bastard brat of yours starve in the str-”
The rest of his words got lost in the crunch of his nose under George’s knuckles.
He had meant to regulate his strength, he really had, but the whitehot fury coursing through his veins had taken over at the last second, and he had pulled a full right hook that snapped Hamilton’s head back and sent him crashing into a thankfully empty table.
The bar was dead silent.
George shook out his faintly aching hand and counted backwards from ten as he worked to let the burning anger simmer down and disappear, waiting for Hamilton to jump to his feet, probably rush at him-
“Welp. He’s out for the night,” an older gentleman with a greying beard said from a small table in the far corner. “Finally, we can drink in peace.”
That drew a few hesitant chuckles from most of the clientele, and bit by bit, conversation started back up.
George was left standing in the middle of the room, his knuckles bloody, a man he had knocked unconscious sprawled across a table only a few feet from him, and no one paying either of them any mind.
Huh. Must have been somewhat of a common occurrence to see the bastard get decked.
“That was a very impressive punch.”
George turned just in time to see a young woman step out from behind the bar and cross the insignificant distance between them.
Dark brown curls cascaded over her narrow shoulders and down her back, unrestrained except for a few pins at the side of her head that kept the worst of it out of her face.
Her dress was a luxurious wine-red that suited her complexion and was at severe odds with the white apron covering the front of her skirts; she worked here as well, but she dressed and held herself like a lady of high standing.
It was her posture, the way she kept her shoulders straight, the purposeful grace of her movement, the sharp and intelligent glint in her deep blue eyes, that made her presence seem so much more commanding than her slight frame would suggest.
George found himself instantly intrigued.
“Well, thank you, but I do think it necessary to apologise after causing such a scene, Miss…” he trailed off, and the faint smile tugging on her pink lips grew into a proper grin.
“Rachel Faucette, no Miss required. And you, Sir, had no hand in causing this scene, you just put an end to it, for which I owe you my thanks. I was just another rotten syllable out of my beloved’s mouth away from hitting him over the head with a drink-tray, but that would have done little more than further aggravate him, I’m afraid,” she said, and her expression of mirth gained a note of bitterness until the pinch of her mouth had fully overtaken the smile.
George raised his brows as he considered inquiring about the my beloved part, but Rachel heaved a sigh and went on before he could.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to check if my useless husband is still breathing.”
Ah. Useless husband, indeed–he couldn’t help but wonder what a woman like Rachel could want with an idiot like Hamilton.
“Husband?” he repeated, cracking his already bruising knuckles, absentminded. Rachel placed her hand under the man’s nostrils, presumably to determine if there was a steady flow of air, and drew it back again a few moments later, nodding to herself, satisfied. “I don’t mean to overstep, but: Why? You could do so much better.”
Rachel huffed a laugh, low and pleasant, and returned to his side. “Oh, I know,” she said, grinning up at him. “Now, Sir, you have left me at a disadvantage–to whom exactly do I owe the pleasure of seeing my husband’s lights knocked out?”
George couldn’t help himself; he grinned back. She was contagious, that woman, and she had an air about her he just couldn’t resist, the pull of quick wit combined with honest charm.
“George Washington, and it’s my pleasure,” he said.
Her eyes sparked, her lips curling with mischief. “If you insist, Mister Washington.”
He snorted a short laugh. “Please, I’m no more Mister than you are Miss. Call me George–and, if you so feel inclined, let me buy you a drink. After the events of the evening thus far, I think you might need one.”
“How very right you are, George,” she replied, clapping her hands once, and she shot him a blinding smile before she turned and made her way back to the bar with quick strides. “I do always feel like the middle of my shift is the perfect time for a drink. Makes it easier to resist the urge to throttle someone by the end of it.”
He followed after her, glancing back over his shoulder at Hamilton’s prone form, and wondered if no one at all would bother to move him. It really didn’t seem like anyone cared enough.
George shrugged his shoulders. He could respect that.
“Of course, you’ve taken care of the man I consider throttling most nights, and let me thank you for that once again. The goddamn arse needs a good punch to the face on occasion.”
It had never once been so endearing to him to hear a woman curse.
“Well, I’m very glad to have been of service,” he said, settling into his abandoned seat. He threw the rest of his whiskey back and slid the glass over the smooth countertop to Rachel, who refilled it with practised ease and poured another for herself.
“What are we drinking to, then?” he said as he picked the glass back up and gently swirled the liquid inside it.
Rachel hummed, her smile almost wicked as she thought it over–or pretended to think it over, in any case.
“To the protector of whores?” she suggested wryly, and George raised his brows.
“You scandalise me, Madam,” he said, an amused curl to his lips.
“I jest, good Sir,” she shot back and raised her glass, waited for him to clink his own against it, and continued, in spite of what she had said only two seconds earlier, “To protecting whores and punching assholes!”
He sighed and watched her take a sip before he resigned himself to his fate and declared in a deadpan monotone, “To protecting whores and punching assholes.”
Rachel’s laugh rang out clear and melodic over the low thrum of voices in the background, and George hid his smile behind his glass, utterly captivated after just five minutes of acquaintance.