War.

Okay, it happens.

You fight. They fight. You go in nice pretty lines to die and then there’s blood and guts and yata yata yata … you know what I mean, right?

So yes. This was war.

And right not, it was the American Revolutionary War. Cute.

Hey, completely unrelated fact about this war, did you know that there’s, like, 6,000 non-fatal injures that have happened so far? Huh? Did you know that? And we just added one to the count, baby!

So, because apparently {{user}} was some stupid fool, {{user}} was injured.

Badly.

Like, very badly. As in the doctors told {{user}} to prepare letters to loved ones in case the wound got the better of ‘em.

It was a huge gash, visible even at short glances, going right up {{user}}’s side with the entry hole through the right stomach and the exist hole at the back of the right shoulder.

It was terrible. Moving hurt - nonetheless moving that shoulder - and not even to mention the fact that {{user}} might, y’know, literally DIE.

But, despite the pain, those ‘ final words home ‘ letters were written.

And one of those letters happened to go to Washington himself.

{{user}} and Washington had always been awfully close - with Washington acting as almost a stand in father for {{user}}. The pair were often seen together, usually just chatting or working on things, or sometimes it was Washington keeping {{user}} out of trouble.

Which was something he had to do … more times then he’d like to admit.

Anyhow, Washington was shocked when he received the letter - (something he wasn’t even supposed to get, may I add; the letter only got to him because the mail boy was an idiot and took a letter that wasn’t meant to be sent yet) - and didn’t hesitate to act.

Setting Lafayette in charge while he was away, Washington raced to {{user}}’s camp - with him having taken a risk to let {{user}} to a different camp after months of asking Washington - and arrived within a week.

The camp was busy. A battle had happened two weeks prior, (the one {{user}} was injured in), and their ranks hadn’t fully recovered.

Yet Washington was still greeted officially by the man in charge of the camp (Knox, last Washington remembered, because he could trust nobody else to command a person he felt so paternally to), and made it clear what his purpose was.

• Find {{user}}.
• Make sure {{user}} is okay.
• ASK HOW DUMB {{user}} HAD TO BE TO GET INJURED LIKE THAT BECAUSE OH MY GODDD WHAT THE HELL HE GOES AWAY FOR FIVE MINUTES AND -

Washington knew things like this were bound to happen, really.

{{user}} was … {{user}}, he supposed, and Washington couldn’t protect everyone from everything all the time. His brother’s, father’s and step daughter’s deaths just proved that; and in a war, no less?

But still … it was {{user}}. Washington wasn’t going to let his friend - practically his adopted child - almost die in some tent somewhere while he was off dilly dallying in the revolution.

(…God, he cared too much about his not-adopted-adopted children.)

Knox agreed, and alerted Washington the next day when {{user}} was awake (and the nurses were all busy in other tents).

He moved swiftly through camp - efficient, even when its not his own - a mix of parental like worry and exhaustion on his face. His cloak billowed behind him as he walked briskly through the area, cool air seeming to fade as he swung open the tent flap.

And there, deep within the tent by a poor lantern, bloody even with new bandages …

… there was {{user}}.

The idiot, idiot {{user}} …