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From his perch on the back porch, Washington has a clear view of the party as it sprawls across the green expanse of lawn. Right now he’s pretending to be engrossed in his phone, specifically an email alert about the price of JPL stock. He’ll mingle in a second. There’s plenty here to whom he owes a hello, a handshake. Red-nosed expats are well represented, happy to be getting soused at three in the afternoon. The usual mix of dignitaries and wonks are in attendance, with a sprinkling of philanthropy and industry types thrown in for good measure.
It’s been over two full weeks since they’ve fucked, and Washington is feeling every minute of it as he watches Hamilton charm his way through the line-up. There’s been lot of smiling, easy intimacy with people well above his rank, much further ahead in the great game they’re all playing. Currently he’s talking to Senator Schuyler’s eldest and has actually gone so far as to kiss her hand like a BBC miniseries. He’s come back from his trip with a tan, Washington can see that much, and he looks well-rested. His suit’s rumpled -- like he’d ironed it himself on top of his mattress. What was he, a GS-12 by now? Still living in an English basement, biking to work, and avoiding dry cleaners out of principle, that was Alexander Hamilton. Misguided through and through.
Washington turns up his nose at the passed canapés and refocuses on his object of study, his phone forgotten in his hand. Where had he been again? An offshore audit? Family visit to the territories? Details were purposefully vague, one more incident in the long line of things they’ve avoided discussing thus far in their definitely-not-a-relationship. Whatever this kid is to him (fuck buddy, his mind supplies, piece of ass, dirty little secret, booty call), well, protocol says there was Intent to Date paperwork they should have filled out eight months ago. Even if they’d done that - not dating, why would they? - clearance says they can’t talk shop.
So they don’t talk much at all.
Washington keeps Hamilton’s mouth warm, Hamilton keeps Washington's bed warm, and that’s enough.
He’s a busy guy: a desk piled high with RFPs and contracts, bids, subcontracts. Meetings, briefs, debriefs. Jesus, the debriefs. Working lunches, red eye flights on Emirates, pre-dawn runs. He’s too old for hookup culture, and besides, he lives far away from the action. Headquarters are in Fairfax. Good tax breaks, schools if you need them. Less so in the way of bars, and though he’s in possession of a burner phone, Washington is way too cagey to use it.
His tongue scrapes over the dry roof of his mouth. He needs another drink. Luckily there’s a waiter already hovering by his elbow - the Brits do service well, he’ll grant them that. Washington refuses the champagne that’s offered on a silver tray.
“Jefferson’s,” he tells the penguin suit. “The single origin, a double. One ice cube.”
“Very good, Sir,” the man practically scuttles back to do his bidding.
A woman’s voice pipes up, audible over the string quartet and the familiar drone of nonstop networking. “And some seltzer, while you’re at it.”
She lays a hand on his shoulder. “Oh,” says Washington, as he turns, and finds himself looking up at Martha Dandridge, deputy legal counsel for Energy and one of the few women in the DMV who rivals him for height. Today, in her four inch heels and dove-gray pillbox hat, she towers over him.
“George.” Martha helps herself to a glass of swill from a passing waiter.
“That,” he says with a slight step to the side, and pocketing his phone, “is one hell of a hat.”
Martha laughs and touches the brim, festooned with a tiny black veil and a small feathery spray of ivory plumes. “Isn't it a hoot? Maybe I’ll wear it next time I see Burr in court.”
“You would,” he says with a slight grimace at the mention, his eyes already skimming back over to catch what he’s missing. Hamilton has moved over a few steps and now stands in intimate proximity to George Frederick, son of a career diplomat. Fancy name and a long-ass pedigree, with the kind of easy entitlement that comes from never having to think about money -- where it comes from, how it’s earned, or how a man might go about procuring more of it.
He leans over, touches the crease of Hamilton’s arm with undue familiarity. Washington is greeted with the sight of the back of his blond head as he turns to speak directly into Hamilton’s ear. Whatever he said gets a laugh, and a very genuine smile in return. God, forget charm, Hamilton couldn't be insincere if he tried.
Would that he had learned to read lips as part of his training, Washington glowers. Well, it couldn’t be that hard to learn, he could call in a favor--
“Your drinks, madam,” the waiter says, and Washington holds out his hand reflexively for his. Martha hands it to him, and he grips it tightly as George the ambassador’s son smiles at whatever Hamilton is saying to him in response. He takes a sip without so much as an appreciative sniff of its contents. It turns out to be soda water. He grimaces, glares. She hands over the real one.
“I hear things,” she says, and taps one perfect fingernail against her own champagne flute. The noise tinkles, irritates. He swallows another mouthful, lets the fumes fill his nostrils. He’s overcome with with a sudden desire to be drunk. The waiter would be unlikely to spring for bottle service. They'll have a protocol. Maybe he should have ordered higher proof.
“Hmm,” he responds, without so much as a glance in her direction. With the realization that he’s being rude, and his mother raised him to do right by a woman, Washington covers with a joke. “About hats?”
“About everything. Be careful with that one. The word around town is that he’s a bit of a live wire,” she says, with a nod in Hamilton’s direction, and before he can utter a word in protest -- Martha, I swear, there’s nothing going on, he’s twenty years my junior and I don’t even know the guy -- she downs the rest of her drink, pulls a face, and says, “Enough. You've barely mingled. Oh, by the way, James and Dolley aren’t staying the night after all.”
Hamilton stands in profile. He rakes a hand through his chin-length hair, an affectation he insists on keeping, just like his dreadful suits. Almost as if he can tell that Washington is watching from the other side of the party, Hamilton’s head swivels and he looks up from the crowd. He raises his glass in a halfhearted salute. His companion follows the direction of Hamilton’s attention and stares - pointedly, so fucking rude- at him.
“I’ll come down,” he says, now engrossed in trying to stare down the ambassador’s son. “Where are they?”
Martha laughs with a shake of her head. “With Thomas. Of course he’s holding court. Come on, we can hear all about the whiskey that’s been docked in thirty world ports and how the sloshing improves the flavor.”
***
You’d think he be drunk by now, what with the impromptu tasting Thomas decided to oversee down by the bar. Martha kept plying him with water, though. Vile stuff, water. Dilutes the buzz. He makes his excuses and goes to relieve himself.
He takes the long way back to the house and finds Hamilton slouched against a tent pole. His tie is askew. The temptation to say hello is too great to resist. He’s here to mingle, right?
“Mr. Washington,” Hamilton says, as he looks up at him from under heavy-lidded eyes. “I didn’t know you would be here, sir.”
They shake hands. It’s curiously bloodless yet his heart thumps in his chest. Before he has a chance to respond with a question of his own how long have you been back? Did you take the bus from Dulles? I would have picked you up, if you’d called that damned kid walks back into view, carrying a plate of cocktail shrimp. His smile is wide in his pink-scrubbed face, but his eyes are curiously devoid of emotion.
“Hello,” he says, transferring the plate to his non-dominant hand before they shake. His palm is cool and his grip firm. Washington holds on a beat too long, as if by that extra squeeze he can warn him off. When he speaks it is the sound of public school, though with a slight flair of something extra. Almost indiscernible traces of the former colonies, a voice inflected with the breeze of the trade winds. “George Frederick, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Do you work with Alex?”
“George Washington. Defense,” he says, before Hamilton can blab who he is or what he does. He enjoys withholding any more than those three words. Deniability matters in the District. It’s always made socializing strange; the dance between revealing what you do and who you do it for, and the secrecy necessary if you're actually a person of significance. Washington knows this, knows too that the Hill types who long to see their names in print aren't the ones who matter.
“DoD?” asks George, looking up at Washington with newfound respect. He lets the boy’s hand go. If he disliked him from afar, he detests him even more at this close distance. He’s wearing a bow tie and the effect is obnoxiously rakish, rather than annoying as it should be.
“Something like that,” Washington answers pleasantly.
George looks around for a place to set his shrimp. Washington seizes the moment and grabs hold of Hamilton’s shoulder, thin as a bird’s under the lumpy padding. “Hamilton,” he says, “There’s something I have that needs your attention. Five minutes. Meet me inside.” It’s tremendous fun to leave without waiting for an answer or, for that matter, saying goodbye. Yeah, you figure it out.
He ducks into the restroom and relieves himself of Martha’s incessant water. Further inside, the upstairs has been cordoned off, a rope at the bottom of the marble staircase separating the residence proper from the public areas, but he walks that way, anyways, hands in his pockets, attitude completely nonchalant. With the exception of a military bunker or the Oval Office, Washington knows you can stride right into any room, anywhere, so long as you do it with complete authority. Acting like you thought you were supposed to be there wouldn’t cut it. You had to believe it. Believe in yourself.
He steps over the cordon and hustles up the stairs. A few door handles are wiggled but he finds them locked. However, the fourth door on the left opens to a personal room, a small library. It’s got an Archer paperback cracked open over the arm of a leather wingback, a few teacups strewn about. It doesn’t matter. The room is important because he’s in it, and when he vacates this space, it will no longer be of any significance.
While he waits he triple checks the blinds, scans for cameras. It’s shockingly lax on security, especially considering that wide open access point from the cross street, but he finds he doesn’t mind so much. Plenty of things he wants to say, which roil and churn in his gut, along with all that bourbon. Whiskey dick is a hell of a thing, but Washington foresees no problems in that arena. All he wants is to remind Hamilton who he answers to; otherwise it’s impossible to bring him to heel. They’ll be missed so he wants to make this quick. Luckily they have had numerous occasions to practice.
“Close the door,” he says, when Hamilton enters. The hinges creak loud in the silence that hangs between them.
With no preamble besides the shutting of the door, Hamilton speaks up. “I thought we weren't doing this anymore. Or at least for a while. Did you decide to drop the paranoia?”
Washington pivots on his heel to take him in. His bargain-bin suit may have fit once, but now it’s too loose, held up around his narrow waist with a worn black belt. His eyes have glazed over in the heat, possibly from the alcohol. It’s inaudible but undeniable, the small growl that forms in the back of his throat. Deny it he might, but Washington’s inclination is to devour him whole.
Hamilton shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He’s waiting for a response. He’ll be waiting a while.
“Did you miss me, then?” he asks, gliding a couple of steps closer. Washington stands his ground, allows the fact of his presence to pull Hamilton into his orbit.
“You tell me,” he says at last, as if to say he already knows the answer. Hamilton steps a little closer. The bridge of his nose is pink from the sun. His mouth as slack as ever, begging for someone to stand up to it properly. “Seems like you’ve been pretty busy.”
“Haven’t you heard? This is politics,” Hamilton laughs. “Everyone’s busy - if you’re not, you’re almost definitely doing something wrong.”
Trust Hamilton to evade the accusation laid at his feet. Fine, he’ll come straight out with it then. “What business do you have with the ambassador’s son?” he asks. A simple question, as a friend might put to another friend.
Hamilton rakes a hand through his hair with a gesture of irritation. “George,” he reminds him, “His name is George.”
Washington shakes his head dismissively, like that naked mole rat of a kid is worth sharing a name with. “Sure, okay. George.”
“Besides, business sounds incredibly official, and I’m pretty sure this is meant to be a party. You don’t always have to work, you know.”
Washington laughs in a sharp bitter burst, taken aback by his own cynicism. “This isn’t a party, Hamilton, it’s a political meat market. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out by now, or were you too busy sharing intel with your little friend to notice?”
“Is that what this is about?” Hamilton talks back like a teenager, voice flat. Washington’s palms itch. This boy is asking to be sent to his room without supper and a smack on the ass. God, he should have thought to bring up another drink. Well, they’ll be out of here soon enough. Seven minutes is all he needs; Washington is a master of efficiency.
Hamilton rolls his eyes when Washington shrugs, his register pitched higher when he says, “Jesus, can’t a guy talk to -- another guy without it being a capital offense?”
Washington snorts. As if he were only that. A guy. Twenty-seven, holy terror of the GAO, tireless penner of white papers, working on the train, breakfast-skipping, prodigious reader, talking head for hire. Underfed, overworked, and, his mind supplies shamefully, tight as a virgin. Just some guy.
Regardless of the - admittedly, spectacular - specifics of Hamilton’s ass, Washington wants answers. He doubles down. “You didn’t answer my question, son.”
One dark eyebrow rises at the pet name, but Hamilton lets it pass. Washington has a hundred names for him, but only when he’s naked, vulnerable on his knees or atop pristine white sheets. The moment stretches out between them. Their eyes meet. It’s a relief when one of them finally speaks. Hamilton breaks first.
“Look, we overlapped at Columbia.“ He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of New York; northwards, he guesses, but not really since they’re facing east. “We’re friends, kind of. It's been a long time. A friend. Last time I checked I was allowed to have those? Or are there more rules that you’ve neglected to say anything about?”
Washington sits down in the leather chair. Bides his time, scans the reviews on the back side of the paperback.
“Depends,” he says, without looking up. He allows his knees to spread. He’s dressed to the right today, for a change of pace. Washington lets that leg fall open a little more, draws attention with a hand rested firmly on his quad. “I’m your friend. You suck all your friends’ dicks the way you do mine?”
For a second, Hamilton’s eyes widen and Washington thinks he’s overplayed his hand.
“I thought we weren't doing this,” he repeats, same as when he first came in. The rebuff is weak. Hamilton lacks any instinct of self-preservation. It’s what Washington likes most about him.
“We’re not,” Washington says, Hamilton’s protest is shot of pure adrenaline - a live jump into a combat zone, the immediacy of enemy fire - causing his dick to stir in his trouser leg. “We’re not doing this. You are, young man.”
"God, shut up,” Hamilton says, testily, as he confirms that the door is locked from the inside. He strides over to Washington, fists balled at his sides and says, “And look, don’t call me that, okay, I’m not a kid.”
Washington leans forward and unbuttons his jacket with casual haste. “Course you’re not,” he reassures, as he sits back and lets the lapels fall away from the sides of his waist. “You’re a grown-up, right? You’re free to make your own decisions.”
Even if he were to storm out in a huff right this second, the aggrieved look on Hamilton’s face would almost have been worth the hassle. It contorts in a mix of emotions that cascade across his features: anger, always a small hot core of anger - at any perceived condescension, flickering into frustration, damaged pride, and want, pure want and liquid heat.
“I thought we needed to be more careful,” he says at last. He flings his arms up to indicate their surroundings, as if with a gesture he can call attention to what an intrinsically bad idea this is.
Washington can’t bring himself to care about the circumstances of this partnership. He’s private sector. Scandal won’t touch upwards of thirty billion in annual profits. So, fuck it. It’s all just politics. In a small motion, he rubs his palm against his thigh and then notes with satisfaction the way he’s being watched as his pant leg grows tighter. Of course they could be more careful. They could be in a hotel, for a start, rather than sneaking off like a couple of drunken teenagers. But Hamilton’s near complete lack of impulse control brings out the worst in Washington.
“All in due time,” Washington answers, once he knows he has Hamilton’s full attention. “Meanwhile I think you’ll agree that we need to set your priorities straight.”
“You’re a bastard,” Hamilton says, but he’s looking, he’s definitely looking. “You’re such a fucking bastard.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” he answers pleasantly, with a significant nod in the direction of his hand. Anger flares on Hamilton’s face as he shrugs off his jacket and sets it on the ground. One at a time, he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. His forearms are brown from the sun of whatever island he just arrived from. Washington has the vile thought that he probably didn't go there alone. But that's a personal question, and it's well established that that's terra incognita.
When he has settled down at his feet, Washington resists the urge to play with Hamilton’s hair. “Hey.”
Hamilton’s response is spoken to his crotch. “Hey,” he says, and bites his bottom lip. Washington wishes he could bring himself to kiss him.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, and when Hamilton cocks an eyebrow at him he lets out a fond laugh. “Or, rather, any specific parts of me?” He draws Hamilton’s hand into his own and places it right at the seam of his trouser leg.
“Goddamn it,” Hamilton mutters, as their hands move together over the summer-weight wool. Washington has always been the kind of man who gets to the point as soon as he can.
Washington directs Hamilton’s gaze up with his three longest fingers. Underneath his touch, his pulse flutters, speeds up when Washington says, “Keep it clean, won't you, son? Time is of the essence, understood?”
Even on his knees the boy manages to be as defiant as ever. Slowly he reaches his hand out to touch. Washington humors him, angles his body forward and flexes for good measure, gives the kid something to dig his hands into.
One big hand slides around the back of Hamilton’s neck. From beneath lowered lashes, Hamilton sucks in a breath through his nose. He scooches up the line of Washington’s leg, rucking up the wool as he goes. The hairs of his leg prickle as Hamilton grabs onto his calf beneath the fabric. There is a desperation to the grip, as if in letting go he might drown. Oh, what the hell; he flexes that muscle too, and fights to keep his smirk contained as Hamilton’s mouth falls open. He looks like he’s right where he belongs, and Washington tells him so.
The boy lets the compliment wash over him without a response, but he tilts his head, then. On his knees, he shuffles closer, makes space for himself between Washington’s thighs, and breathes in and out, loudly, right against his balls. “Jesus,” he draws his head back in mock-surprise, and asks, in faux-innocent tones, “Did you jerk off while I was gone?”
Washington means to lie, but finds it impossible to do so. “No,” he says, “sure didn’t. I thought about you, though.”
“That’s hot,” Hamilton says, licking his lips as he cups Washington’s balls through the fabric. He presses open mouthed kisses along the hardening ridge of his cock as it grows full in his trousers.
The black wool turns humid and sticky and he mutters, “Damn,” when Hamilton opens his lips a little more and fits them to the outline of his nutsack. Washington’s dick tightens up at that, a painful presence in his pant leg. Satisfied with the effect he is having, Hamilton closes his lips and sucks, a lewd, spit-soaked sound that has Washington’s fist flying into his mouth to muffle the noise he needs to make.
“Here’s a question,” he says to the top of Hamilton’s head, when he has gained the use of his tongue. The flat blade of his hand rests on the knob at the top of his spine, thumb pointed at the ceiling. It keeps the hair neat, certainly important when you’re aiming for discretion, but it still serves to remind Hamilton of his place, and who the hell he’s on his knees for.
“Mmm,” Hamilton nuzzles lazily against Washington’s bulge and when he goes for the zipper, just as he thinks he’s going to get some relief, he reaches beneath his body, slips a hand in through his fly and untucks his balls - no more. Hamilton’s tongue rests in the corner of his mouth as he arranges them to his liking, draped down over the inseam.
“You ever do this to him?” he chokes on the question, because, fuck, he thinks wildly, Hamilton has gone way past the desultory blowjob he’d expected, and instead acts like he’d be perfectly happy to rest on his heels and lap at his balls until the butler found them.
Hamilton shoots him a wicked look, lifts and separates him with his hands. Almost delicately, he slips his fingers into Washington’s fly and draws him out through the open zipper. It looks absolutely obscene, especially considering that neither of them has removed so much as their shoes.
“Well,” Hamilton’s eyes slide closed as he rubs his open lips all over the shaft. “I’ve done this,” he flicks his tongue beneath the head, “and this,” he pops the tip into his mouth, lips sucking at the sensitive and leaking slit. He pulls off, jacks Washington a couple of times with his hand, hardly tight enough for any relief.
“What else?” he says, like it’s a normal way to have a conversation. He's stayed cooler in hostile zones, boardrooms, than with Hamilton crouched in between his legs, working him over like putty.
“Let me think,” Hamilton says, and rests his open mouth against the shaft. His eyelashes quiver with pleasure. Washington exhales so forcibly that it hollows his stomach out.
“Goddamn it,” Washington swears. “Let me in.”
Hamilton giggles, kisses his cock again.
“So pushy,” he whispers, as if sharing a secret with a third party. Or, Washington realizes, talking not to him, but what's between his legs. Trust Hamilton to know where a man's power really lies.
“You tease him like this?”
“No,” he answers simply. "You're a lot more fun." He sucks in a breath through his nose and slowly, so slowly that Washington's middle-aged yet healthy heart might actually fail him, stretches his mouth wide and eases his lips down over Washington's cock. It is filthy, a sight made even more so by the droplets of saliva which drip from Hamilton’s mouth onto the fabric of his opened fly. It’s practically grotesque, and it is the very opposite of quick, clean, or discreet.
And then Hamilton does two things in quick succession. First, he moans, and Washington can feel the vibration of his pleasure reverberate in his own gut. The noise makes his cock twitch, sends it forward and up against the top of Hamilton's throat. The boy is a quick fucking study, though, and he catches it in his hand, easing back with blinking eyes. A string of spittle connects that juicy bottom lip and the head of his cock, dark and naked below Hamilton’s chin.
And then, with Washington’s dick in hand, all of his power given over to this slight boy, whip-smart and still a stranger, Hamilton says, brightly, “This though,” and he fits Washington back in his throat, with his hands pushing his testicles up as well into the wet heat of his mouth, a sensation so all-encompassing, so overwhelming, that for a moment Washington thinks he has not only died but also managed to ascend to heaven, despite everything ruthless he’s done in his time on earth.
“Fuck,” he swears, as Hamilton rears back, envelops him again, again. He pulls off with a choke and a cough. That coy smile again.
“That I couldn’t manage to do yet.”
Washington grabs a handful of lank hair with his right hand as Hamilton bears back down on him.
Lord Archer falls to the floor with a papery sound. “Fuck," he repeats, words gone insensate.
Both hands go into Hamilton’s hair and he flexes his hips. And, look, he's had better looking guys, some real nasty hot pieces of fuck, but Hamilton is on another level entirely.
"I have never," he manages to say to the top of Hamilton's head, "in my life seen a boy work a dick the way you do. Jesus Christ."
Hamilton lets him slide out from his mouth with one smooth careless motion. And then, because he's got something to prove, pops the head of his cock in and out of his mouth a couple of times until Washington is ready to scream with frustration. If he entered this room as the man in charge, he certainly won't be leaving it the same way.
They're alone, it's all right, he's allowed to ask for it. “Do it again,” he begs, as Hamilton releases his balls, his thumbs pressed up beneath them to keep them tightly nestled against the base of his cock.
The placket of his suit trousers is a wet wreck. At least they’re black, he thinks, shutting his eyes against the sight of his cock and balls standing proudly from the slit of his fly, flushed pink with blood, dripping with fluid and spit. Hamilton blessedly obeys. Each time he sucks him down, crams his balls into his mouth and swallows around him desperately, Washington curses a blue streak. So much for restraint.
“Get up,” Hamilton says, as this exquisite torture at last comes to an end. Washington’s eyes slit open. He’s sitting up taller on his heels, and with a few tugs, positions Washington as he wants him, standing with knees bent and legs spread wide. It's a powerful stance: why should he feel so vulnerable?
“Fuck my mouth,” he instructs Washington, like he's the one in charge, “and come down my throat. We can’t leave a mess, isn’t that what you said?”
“Fuck you,” he growls, hands flying back to Hamilton’s hair, the soft loose curtain of it obscuring the view. And what a view.
This part, at least, is efficient. With the power of his thrusts behind him, he finishes quickly. His glutes clench as he shoots off. Hamilton, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut and throat held open, whines like a spoiled child when he finally pushes him away, spent, sore, and unable to take more.
“Fine,” Hamilton pouts, with an affectionate little tap to Washington’s cockhead, “you can do that later.”
He is hard in his pants when he stands up. Washington looks down at him, hand weighty on Hamilton's shoulder. In tandem they both breathe heavily. Whatever this is, whatever has happened, will remain unsaid. Underdetermined, mutually convenient.
Hamilton repeatedly brushes away any attempts to reciprocate the favor. Instead he tucks Washington away, reverently, as if he is saying farewell to a friend. The damp fabric is already beginning to dry, though the smell of sex clings to the fibers.
“I’ll follow in a minute,” he says quietly, replacing the paperback over the arm of the chair.
Washington nods. Hamilton nods along with him. “Okay,” he says, and then tacks on awkwardly, “Thank you?”
Hamilton unrolls his shirtsleeves and tugs his jacket back into place. Washington restrains himself from telling him that he should adjust his tie, fix his hair. Look a little less conspicuous when he walks back downstairs, like he hadn’t just sucked Washington’s brains out through his dick.
“You’re welcome,” he answers with a crooked smile, which grows into a broad beam as Washington reaches over and smooths his lapels.
“I have work to do,” Washington tells him, “but if you need a ride home…”
“Is there room for my bike?” he asks, grinning at Washington’s obvious discomfort at the thought of grease staining the pristine cream interior of his trunk.
“Sure,” says Washington as he makes for the door. “Sure, why not?”