#tiny fic

"You should teach me," declared Iris, with the full confidence of six years old.  She was in first grade!  She was learning all sorts of things!  And if Gladio could do it, surely it was a thing that kids could learn!

Gladio, already well into another growth spurt and not expected to slow down anytime soon, looked between the sword in his hands and his sister. While it was very, very tempting to just hand the blade to her and let her learn for herself how heavy it was, that seemed like the sort of thing that he'd get in trouble for.  If she got hurt, he was the one who knew better.

"You're not strong enough," he said, the full authority of fifteen slightly reduced by his voice breaking.

It was the wrong answer.

Iris pouted.  "I am so!  Stronger than you!"

Now that was just funny.  Gladio planted the point of the blade, standing it aside in a way that their dad would yell about if he saw it.  He crossed his arms and tilted his chin.  "Uh huh?  You gonna prove that?"

"Yeah!"  She didn't attempt to wrestle him this time, instead standing upright and bringing her feet together at the heels.  "Do this!"

This made no sense to Gladio, but he was curious now.  He stood with his heels together, which wasn't right, as Iris then corrected him.  Not just heels together, but feet in a line, which left him off balance and struggling because legs weren't supposed to bend like that.

He was about to say that it was stupid, but Iris was already beaming that she'd won, and if he gave up now she was going to say that she'd won, even if she didn't.

"You're still not stronger than me."  He argued, though his calves were starting to hurt.

"Then do this!" She added, holding her arms out to her sides like she was expecting a hug.  When he did nothing, she huffed.  "If I last longer than you, you have to teach me to fight and... and..." Clearly she was struggling for more consequences that he would want to avoid.  "And you'll have to wear a tutu!"

He was going to ask what would happen if he won, but first he tried to match what she was doing with her arms and it was too much for him to balance when his feet were in a line and his thighs were cramping.  He caught himself and pushed himself back into position.  She was six, surely he could manage at least until she got tired, right?

His legs were killing him and his shoulders were starting to complain.  It was just standing, so why--

"Your arms are dropping!" Iris called out, bright, teasing, and sounding suspiciously like she'd heard the same thing many times before.

Ooooh....

I love this, thank you so much Anon!

prompt list

"Don't you dare!"

“But you’re not trying to kill me. I would call that a kind of progress, wouldn’t you?”

The little cabin swayed disorientingly. Wind howled through the ropes and masts above, though the sails would have been tucked away for the storm. Lafayette’s stomach pitched unpleasantly. No one was around to see him hide his face in his arm. Amazing how such a small thing as seasickness could make an already unbearable situation that much worse.

At least he wasn’t in a crowded hold. His own stench offended his senses but how much worse would it be if he had to deal with the effluvia of a dozen other inmates?

It was lonely though. Perhaps for his own safety he’d been imprisoned alone. Too valuable a prisoner to risk to fever and death.

Where was the glory in rotting away in the hold of a prison ship? Ice cold rain leaked through the single porthole above him and soaked his clothes. He would almost rather be on some frozen tundra in the north, chained to a line of prisoners and forced to break rocks all day long. At least he would have fresh air then. The ship swayed and heaved and Lafayette closed his eyes, shivering. He suspected a fever had set in, his thoughts were certainly muddled enough.

He curled in on himself and thought of better times and better places. He imagined himself in a room full of his fellow officers, eating and drinking and laughing with his friends. He imagined himself in an overstuffed armchair, sitting next to a roaring fire, across from his dear general. They would talk all night, and the general would smile his rare smile at Lafayette, and before he left, Lafayette would be permitted to press a kiss to Washington’s cheek.

The walls of the cabin creaked and pitched. Sailor shouted up on the deck. Lafayette dreamed of being rescued. A beautiful French frigate, perhaps. She would appear on the horizon bathed in light and bring with her calm waters. She would fire a single cannonball wide across the bow of this ship and the British would strike their colors immediately. George would be waiting on the deck for him, astride the magnificent Nelson. It was nonsensical but Lafayette wanted it very badly.

Some might have called the affair sad, compared to events Lafayette has attended in the past. Back in France, he’d spent evenings at dances and balls hosted by royalty, where everyone in attendance was there to show off their wealth and status.

Here, the ballroom was small. The men were gallant but not brilliant in their uniforms, the ladies in skirts that lacked the heaps of frothy fabric he might have seen at home.

The band was small but they played a sprightly air. And the real advantage this night had, of course, was the company.

Lafayette bowed as the young lady he’d been chatting with was claimed by her husband for the next dance. He looked across the room and brightened when he saw an opportunity had opened for him. In a flash he was across the room and he sketched a quick bow for Lady Washington before taking the seat next to her.

“Good evening, madame,” he said. “I hope you are enjoying the fete?”

“Good evening, my dear marquis,” she said. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Lafayette flushed to hear her use the general’s endearment for him. He leaned on the edge of his seat. “Very. Can I bring you any refreshments?”

She touched his arm. “I’m fine, dear, thank you.”

He relaxed back again. The chorus of chattering rose higher around them as the dance ended and the couples on the floor prepared themselves for the next dance.

“I would have expected a young man like yourself to be dancing the night away,” Martha remarked. “You don’t care for dancing?”

Lafayette winced. “Dancing does not care for me, let us say. I leave it to the more graceful gentlemen, like your husband.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you would like to dance? I would be delighted–”

“No, thank you. I do enjoy a dance or two, but I find it taxing after awhile. Not like George. He will happily dance the night away, he always has.” Her fondness for her husband was clear in her voice. “I enjoy watching him.”

“I do, too,” Lafayette admitted.

They both watched now. George, tall, elegant, handsome beyond measure, led the lovely Angelica Schyuler through a series of intricate, energetic steps, both of them laughing together.

“Is that how he first caught you eye?” Lafayette asked. “With his dancing?” He could only imagine what it must have been like.

Hamilton fished one of the bait minnows out of the bucket with a grimace. He speared it through the gut with a hook and quickly cast the whole mess over the side of the dock. It landed with a sad plop and Hamilton watched it sink.

A snort came from his left and Hamilton sighed.

“This sort of thing isn’t really your speed, is it?” How Jefferson could fit so much condescension into a single sentence was something to marvel at.

Hamilton wiped fish slime off onto the gaiters Washington had given him to wear this morning. “As a matter of fact, it’s not,” he said. “Quite frankly I don’t see the point of us being out here. Do you?” Surely that was something he and Jefferson could agree on.

“Ah, of course. Since you can’t make money off of it, I can see why spending the day out on this beautiful river, testing our wits against nature, wouldn’t hold any appeal to you.” Jefferson twitched his rod once, twice, and then jumped up, pulling a wriggling fish big enough for an entire meal out of the river. “Grab the bucket.”

He didn’t say please, so Hamilton leaned his other hand against the dock and watched Jefferson struggle.

The fish flopped and flailed, twisting the fishing line around Jefferson’s legs. Jefferson swore, loudly and very ungentlemanly. Finally he managed to get the poor creature into the bucket of water waiting on the dock. The fish thrashed, trapped. Jefferson reached down and yanked the hook from its mouth.

“Quite a catch,” Hamilton observed. “I’m sure the general will be impressed.”

Jefferson narrowed his eyes. “As long as I live I will never understand what Washington sees in such an arrogant–” His voice rose in volume until he cut himself off, turning his back on Hamilton.

Hamilton jumped to his feet. “No, go on sir, say what you mean to say.” The temperature was hot, the air was sweltering and Hamilton itched with bites from a dozen crawling and flying insects. He was spoiling for a fight.

But Jefferson strode several feet off, still refusing to look at Hamilton. Refusing to engage, as always.

There was nowhere for Jefferson to flee, now. Hamilton hurried to put himself in front of Jefferson, right in his space. “You won’t say it to my face but you’ll have your minions print it in those tabloid rags. How I’m driving the country to ruin. How I have the entire government, except for you of course, in my pocket. I’m cunning and devious and lead Washington around like a horse on a halter. Isn’t that what you say? When I’m not around to defend myself?”

Jefferson sneered at him. “What you are is a martyr. Nobody is attacking you. But if your ideas can’t stand up to reasoned debate–”

Hamilton spoke over him. “Nobody is attacking me?” He poked Jefferson in the chest, taking a step towards him. Jefferson took a step back. “Tell me then why my every proposal turns into a battle–” Jefferson took another step back, and knocked his leg into the bucket of fish. His arms windmilled as he fought for balance. He grabbed at Hamilton and the weight pulled Hamilton off-balance as well. Hamilton tried to shove him off. He should have thought that through more carefully because the force of that shove tipped him further off balance and the only place for Hamilton to go was right over the edge of the dock.

He hit the water with a splash. The shock of it took his breath away. He brought himself up to the surface, treading water.

“Hamilton!” Jefferson’s head popped over the edge of the deck. He seemed to relax when he saw Hamilton was in one piece. He laid himself down on the edge of the dock and reached a hand down.

Hamilton spat out a mouthful of river water and contemplated the hand. Reduced to needing his enemy’s help. Perhaps he would rather drown.

“Jefferson?” Washington’s voice boomed in the distance. “What are you doing? Where is Hamilton?”

“He fell in.”

Rapid footsteps down the wood of the dock, and Washington’s head popped over the edge of the deck too. “He fell in?” Washington reached a hand down too. “Come on son, let’s get you out of there.”

Hamilton clasped their hands and together Washington and Jefferson pulled him out of the water. Hamilton sat on the edge of the dock, feeling like a drowned cat. His only consolation was that Jefferson was busy scraping fish scales off his boots. Washington stood with his hands on his hips. “Would you gentleman like to explain what happened here?”

“No.”

“No, we would not.”