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Hamilton’s smirk threatens to set Washington ablaze, to tip his insufficiently contained rage into an uncontrollable wildfire— but, as he has practiced and perfected longer than the span of Hamilton’s life, he gathers the tattered remnants of his discipline, his dignity, and suppresses the fire until it cools into little more than embers. Slowly, he relinquishes his grip on Hamilton’s wrists. He gives Hamilton time enough to hiss in pain before he threads his fingers through Hamilton’s dark hair and tugs sharply. Hamilton’s head falls back, his mouth open and slack, and Washington slides his cock inside.
He does not allow himself to remember the past, when Hamilton’s talented tongue coaxed groans and pleading from his own lips, the fleeting minutes of teasing and pursuit and affection. He does not allow himself to imagine the future, when he will look upon Hamilton and see only his own failure as a man, as a commander, as a friend, as a lover—
As a father.
He allows himself only these moments: holding Hamilton’s head firmly in place as his hips snap forward in quick, rough thrusts, the wet heat, his cock dragging against the back of Hamilton’s throat, tight yet yielding. His eyes shut when he silently releases and he feels Hamilton swallow, opens his eyes to see some of his seed trickling out of the corner of Hamilton’s mouth.
“Never let it be said that I dishonor my agreements,” he says mildly, pulling Hamilton’s face away. While Hamilton coughs and wipes his chin, his hand slides down Hamilton’s neck, fingers flexing as he wraps one hand around Hamilton’s throat. Hamilton’s eyes widen and he clutches at Washington’s arm, mouth forming soundless words. With the other hand, Washington encircles Hamilton’s hard, leaking cock. He maintains the pressure on Hamilton’s throat; Hamilton’s pulse throbs hot under his skin. “However, if you ever abuse your position as my aide again, I will see to your punishment myself,” he promises, towering over Hamilton’s slender form. “You will beg for death before the end.”
Hamilton nods once, still gasping.
Washington strokes Hamilton’s cock quickly, efficiently. “Be done with it,” he commands, and gives another powerful stroke that sends Hamilton over the edge. He comes over his stomach and over Washington’s hand, body shaking and back arched. When Hamilton goes limp, his body relaxing, Washington releases his hands, steps away, and turns his back to Hamilton’s keen stare. He retrieves their uniforms, previously folded and waiting on a chair. He wipes his hand on the tails of Hamilton’s shirt, first, then puts on his own shirt and breeches with smooth, methodical movements. When he turns back around, Hamilton is watching him.
"Get out," he says, tossing Hamilton's uniform at his feet.
Hamilton dresses hastily, his hands trembling, fumbling over buttons and knots. He stumbles slightly when he gets to his feet. Though his lips are swollen, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed, he meets Washington's gaze steadily when he whispers hoarsely, "Thank you, sir."
Then he leaves.
Washington stands, still and solemn, until Hamilton's footsteps fade, until he hears no sound or movement in the hallway. Then, knowing that night is waning, that in a matter of hours he faces his aides and officers and fellow generals, Lafayette and Knox and Lee and Laurens and Tilghman—
And Hamilton—
He tears the shroud from the flickering embers in his heart and allows himself to feel.
It takes only a glance at his hands, reminding him of Hamilton’s throat under his palm, for the flame to rise to devastating heights. He paces the room, tighter and tighter circuits until the pressure building in his limbs can no longer be borne, and he sweeps his hands across the desk. Parchment, inkpots, quills, sealing wax—all are upended into the air, fluttering to and shattering on the ground. The destruction assuages nothing because he needs to move, to escape the mute terror and fury and anguish clawing through his gut, his chest, his throat.
What has he done?
What have we done?
What have I done?