Chapter Text
Thomas was awoken by an incessant beeping coming from his phone. Internally cursing the person who had the gall to text him at—he threw a quick look at the clock—seventeen past four in the morning, he fumbled for his phone blindly. He groaned when he saw the sender, because it just figured that only Hamilton would be spamming him with texts at the crack of stupid. The man clearly had no sense of time. Thomas genuinely believed that Hamilton wasn’t a hundred percent human—he seemed to be above some fairly basic human necessities such as sleep and food. James swore up and down that he had once witnessed Hamilton working for five days without a break, driven by nothing but coffee and sheer willpower.
With another curse into the empty air, just because he could, Thomas turned on his side, finally picking up his phone. He had been meaning to buy a longer phone charger that actually allowed him to use his phone while lying on his back, but he never seemed to get around to it. He winced as his back protested the uncomfortable position he was in, shifting into something that wouldn’t haunt his back for the next week.
Thomas blinked as the light from the screen was glaring into his eyes. He reduced the screen’s brightness, before thumbing open the conversation with Hamilton, and scrolling down to the most recent messages. His eyebrows rose as he skimmed through them. They were either angry ravings of a desperate lunatic, or—
Actually, Thomas didn’t know what else they could be.
From: caffeine fiend
Jefferson, you need to get here asap
Answer your goddamn phone dammit
Your going to regret it if you don’t
*you’re
I’m not being an asshole just get to the White House asap
Get here before the press does
Thomas groaned. What hare-brained scheme has Hamilton cooked up this time?
‘Sorry if that doesn’t convince me.’ Thomas replied, because unlike some people, Thomas knew the meaning of the word ‘concise’. He sent the message, hoping that it would be the end of it. His stomach turned as his brain began to conjure scenarios of what on Earth Hamilton could have done to warrant this. He already dreaded coming into work later.
Thomas sighed, collapsing back onto his back, his phone still clutched in his outstretched arm. How he would have loved to just be able to fire Hamilton. Unfortunately, he didn’t have that kind of power. Besides, even though he hated everything that Hamilton stood for, he had to admit that the man himself was insanely intelligent and had single-handedly revived the American economy from the utter clusterfuck that had been the Jackson Administration.
Though Thomas loathed to admit it, Hamilton’s arrogance wasn’t unfounded. He wasn’t called Washington’s right-hand man for nothing.
Deciding that he wasn’t going to get more sleep either way, Thomas sat up to check his missed calls. Twelve from Hamilton—Jesus Christ on a stick, the man had no self-restraint, and it showed—and two from the president.
Shit.
Thomas clicked on Washington’s contact. His finger hovered over the call button. Did he really want to know what had happened? Knowing Hamilton, it was probably yet another story from the Washington Herald about how Thomas was ‘a man with no scruples’ (as opposed to Burr, whom Hamilton had called ‘unprincipled, bankrupt, and despicable’, something which, oddly, seemed to have ruffled Burr’s supposedly unruffable feathers, or John Adams, whose entire life, according to Hamilton, has been ‘one continued insult to good manners and to decency’, in response to which Adams had accused Hamilton of a ‘superabundance of secretions which he could not find whores enough to draw off’; it didn’t quite have the effect on the immigrant that Adams had hoped for—Thomas knew for a fact that Hamilton had hung the article on the wall behind his desk like some sort of prize).
If Hamilton was messaging him at four in the morning just to tell him that he had publicly insulted him again—well, Thomas wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. He could already imagine the headlines: ‘BREAKING NEWS: STATE SECRETARY THROTTLES TREASURY SECRETARY AND THROWS BODY INTO POTOMAC!’. Oh, well. A good Secretary of the Treasury was hard to come by, but Thomas was confident that Washington would be able to find a replacement.
Gathering his courage, Thomas clicked on Washington’s phone number. He unplugged his phone from the charger—his back certainly wouldn’t thank him if he had tried to bend down to be within the reach of the charger—and lifted the phone to his ear.
The call rang twice before Washington answered. “Sir,” Thomas began politely, “I sincerely hope that there’s an emergency, otherwise you will find yourself one Secretary of the Treasury short.” Washington didn’t react to Thomas’ joke, which in itself set off warning bells in Thomas’ head. “Sir?” Thomas tried again, his voice uncertain.
Washington cleared his throat. “You would do well to come in, Secretary Jefferson,” he said formally. “Now would be a good time.”
“Sir—“ Thomas started.
“That is not a request, Secretary Jefferson,” Washington said sharply.
Thomas swallowed involuntarily. It wasn’t that he was intimidated by Washington—although the man was somewhat unnerving, Thomas had ceased to be cowed by his presence a long time ago—but something in his voice gave Thomas pause.
“Understood, sir,” he said, trying not to feel like he was capitulating.
Washington paused awkwardly. Thomas waited to see whether he would explain what the hell was happening that apparently required Thomas’ presence in the middle of the goddamn night, but all Washington said was, “Good. Good,” before disconnecting the call.
Thomas stared at the screen long after it had gone dark. He exhaled loudly before standing up and heading for the shower.
What have you done this time, Hamilton?
༺ ༻
Despite his best efforts, Thomas didn’t make it to the White House before the first horde of reporters (or ‘blood-thirsty vultures’, as James liked to call them in private). No less than two security guards gave him pitying looks as he stepped through the metal detector. Thomas smothered the feeling that threatened to rise in his throat. He considered asking them what the hell they thought they knew, but upon glancing at the clock, he realized that he was already running late. He didn’t have the time to play cat-and-mouse with a pair of security guards.
Thomas steeled himself as he stepped into the empty elevator. The ride was quiet. He busied himself with dusting off the imaginary specks of dust from his suit. When the door pinged, indicating that he had arrived, he had almost been able to calm his nerves. Whatever had happened, it wouldn’t affect him. If Hamilton had tried to attack him publicly, the only one who would look like a fool would be Hamilton himself. Thomas was fine.
The door opened. For a brief moment, Thomas saw nothing save the flashes of a camera going off and off and off. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light, even as he felt his legs take an involuntary step backwards. His grip on his laptop bag softened, and it clattered to the floor with a soft rattle.
Meanwhile, the voices were assaulting him with one question after another, merging together into one continuous stream of words until Thomas couldn’t tell where one question ended and another began.
“Secretary Jefferson, are the rumours true?”
“Sir, is it true that you’re gay?“
“Mr Jefferson, care to comment on—“
“What’s your stance on the GOP’s LGBT policy, given the recent revelations?”
The voices kept hammering on, demanding an answer that Thomas couldn’t give them if he wanted to.
How had they even found out? Nobody had known. Thomas had been careful—he had never dated a man, never gone out with anyone, never gotten so smashed that the alcohol would impair his self-control. He had never once made a misstep. He did everything just right.
And yet.
He gritted his teeth. How come Hamilton, a man who had made every mistake imaginable and then some that had seemed impossible until he made them, was fine, was impervious, while Thomas just collapsed into this useless mess every time something even remotely personal came up? It wasn’t even that it wasn’t fair, though that was certainly part of it—it just didn’t make sense. Statistically, it was impossible for Hamilton to skate his way through life on nothing but unadulterated luck and determination, and yet there he was, youngest Secretary of the Treasury in history.
Suddenly, he felt someone wrap their hand around his wrist. He couldn’t hold back the relieved sigh that escaped him.
“Come on,” hissed an all-too-familiar voice. Thomas’ stomach did a somersault. On one hand, he hated that Hamilton had seen him in such a vulnerable state, but on the other, he would give anything to get away from the reporters and their questions and their flashing cameras and oh shit.
“Move back!” he heard Hamilton shout at the reporters. “Can’t you tell that he’s having a panic attack? Give him space, I said!”
Way to go, Hamilton, Thomas thought bitterly. Announce to the world at large that Thomas Jefferson can't even get out of an elevator without completely losing it. Then again, that had always been what he wanted, wasn’t it?
The only reason Thomas wasn't suspecting Hamilton of being behind this was because the man was already in a position of more power than Thomas. Again, it didn’t make any sense. What would he hope to gain from it? Thomas was hardly the only Republican opposing his dumb bill—if anything, James was its main critic, at least in the public’s eye—and removing him wouldn’t swing things in the Democrats’ favour.
However he looked at the situation, Thomas could not see what Hamilton would have to gain from getting Thomas fired—because fired was what he would be, of that Thomas had no doubt. The administration couldn’t afford this kind of scandal, not right now. At least Washington was polite enough to do it face-to-face, instead of over the phone. Jackson wouldn’t have extended him the same courtesy. It was yet another reason why Thomas had accepted a job offer from a Democratic president, despite being as against federal government as they came. Washington was a genuinely good person, if a little misguided and who had—Thomas chanced opening his left eye to get a glimpse of Hamilton—regrettable taste in advisors.
The crowd of reporters parted before Hamilton like the Red Sea before Moses. There was an apprehensive mood in the air as Hamilton led Thomas through the room, Thomas’ eyes still closed. Some of the reporters— the smart, experienced ones—flinched back. They feared Hamilton, Thomas realized, try as they might to hide it, and Hamilton knew it. His acerbic pen and biting words had on more than occasion, given five minutes and a computer, torn down a lifetime’s worth of journalism.
Hamilton didn’t stop until they were several corridors away from the public areas. “You can open your eyes now, Jefferson,” he deadpanned. “They’re gone.”
Thomas opened his eyes, coming face to face with dark-brown eyes that belied a cleverness Thomas had come to respect, if not like. He looked away, swallowing again. He felt rather than saw Hamilton’s sharp eyes follow his Adam’s apple with something akin to calculation.
“Here.” Hamilton pressed something into Thomas’ hands.
Looking down, Thomas recognized the briefcase that he had dropped in the elevator. His throat swelled up with an emotion he dared not name, constricting his intake of breath. “Thank you,” he finally managed.
Hamilton nodded curtly, as if dismissing Thomas’ words. “It was nothing. Don’t worry about it. Now, Washington wants to see you,” he continued, for once the picture of conciseness. It just figured, didn’t it, that the one time Thomas wished for him to elaborate, Hamilton would choose to keep silent.
Thomas bit his lip, fighting the urge to curl up into a corner and cry. This day had gone to shit already, and it wasn’t even seven in the morning. Thomas didn’t want to stick around to see how it would develop. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like he had any choice in the matter. He nodded. “Lead the way.”
Hamilton snorted. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he retorted. Thomas stifled a biting response. Hamilton sighed as he took up the lead again. “I told you to get in early,” he began. “You could have avoided it altogether.”
“Avoided what? The reporters?” Thomas laughed hollowly. “If you think they can be avoided, you clearly don’t understand our beloved capital,” he said dryly.
“May I remind you, Mr Ambassador To France, that I’ve been here for longer than you have?” Hamilton replied, oddly calm, his words lacking their usual heat—like he was going through the movements without really meaning them.
Thomas closed his eyes. “You can let go of me now,” he said quietly. One part of him wished that Hamilton would let him go—he wasn’t a child, and the last thing he needed was for his political nemesis to get even more blackmail on him than he already had—but another part needed the physical contact that Hamilton’s hand provided to ground him.
Thomas briefly wished that he had James by his side. James would have known what to do, how to turn this whole thing around. Then again, Thomas realized with an abruptness that cut into him like a knife, James might not feel inclined to help him this time—might not want to talk to him anymore. It felt like someone had poured cold water all over him.
Hamilton glanced down at where he was still holding Thomas’ hand in surprise, like he had forgotten that he was even doing it. He tightened his grip. “No,” he said resolutely.
Thomas quirked an eyebrow. “No?” he echoed. “Hamilton, let go of my hand.”
“No,” Hamilton repeated loudly. “I remember you breaking down in the elevator. Don’t tell me that was anything but an anxiety attack, Jefferson. I know one when I see one.”
Thomas scoffed. “I don’t need your pity,” he snarled.
In response, Hamilton dug his fingernails into Thomas’ skin, the nails sharp enough to leave marks.
Thomas hissed. “Stop it, you idiot!”
The pain stopped.
“Well?” Hamilton finally asked, voice curiously empty of emotions. No, Thomas corrected himself, it wasn’t empty; it contained too many emotions for Thomas to be able to distinguish any particular one.
“’Well’ what?” Thomas snapped.
“Do you still want me to let go of your hand?” Hamilton asked pointedly.
‘Yes, you psychopath,’ Thomas was on the verge of saying, but didn’t, because Hamilton had a point—he needed someone to help him right now, and, as much as he hated it, there was no one available but Hamilton. He sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Social anxiety,” he finally admitted in lieu of an answer. “Thank you for grounding me.”
Hamilton shrugged. He didn’t deign Thomas’ words with a reply.
They walked in a comfortable silence for a moment—probably for the first time in their acquaintance, actually. Thomas’ mind was echoing with unformulated questions, questions he didn’t know how to ask, questions he wanted to blurt out but couldn’t, questions he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to.
He finally settled on, “You don’t hate me for it?”
Hamilton snorted. “For what? Your sexual orientation? That would be like throwing bricks in glasshouses, Jefferson, and I’m not that much of a hypocrite,”—Thomas was on the verge of telling him that yes, he has in fact reached that level of hypocrisy—“and besides, why should I hate you for being gay when I can instead hate you for your stupid political opinions?” Hamilton went on.
Thomas blinked. A slow smile made its way onto his face. “Fair enough,” he admitted. He glanced around the room, taking notice of the way everyone would avert their eyes, their voices suddenly going quiet as they passed by. His fingers clenched into fists almost compulsively. “You’re the only one, it seems,” he remarked quietly.
Hamilton snorted. “Are you really surprised though?” he shot back cynically. “You’re the most prominent Republican in the White House, the rumour mill has it that you’re being considered for the Republican presidential nominee in the next election, and now this?” he gestured at Thomas, who kept himself from fidgeting. “I’d be gossiping too, if I didn’t have better things to do with my time.”
Thomas huffed. “Like what? Destroying our country’s economy? I’ve seen your most recent proposal, and let me tell you”—he stopped in his tracks, pointing his index finger at Hamilton—“that thing is never going to pass.”
Rather than reply, Hamilton did the thing Thomas had least expected him to: he licked Thomas’ finger experimentally. Thomas withdrew his hand quickly, a look of utter disgust on his face as he wiped the finger on his suit trousers. “What are you, five?” he demanded.
Hamilton grinned up at him, his face oddly lascivious. “I figured that you were into that sort of thing now,” he replied with a shameless shrug.
Thomas couldn’t stop his face from flushing. “What the—why—“ he spluttered. “Hamilton! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
Hamilton cackled. “I figured that now that you’re out, I’m going to need to treasure moments like these. I mean, I can’t just let them… slide." He made another lewd gesture that had Thomas grimacing. What was the man thinking? Oh, right: he wasn’t. “Imagine the possibilities,” Hamilton giggled, making Thomas wonder what the hell he had been smoking.
“I'm going to politely ask you to back off before you lose your damn hand, Hamilton,” Thomas said lowly.
Hamilton snickered. “I didn’t peg you for that kind of person,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Thomas scrunched up his nose in distaste. “What in the everloving—“
Hamilton shrugged. “You can’t fault me for making gay jokes at your expense, Jefferson,” he said defensively, “not when you’ve made a thousand jabs at me being an immigrant. It’s only fair play, after all.”
Thomas gaped. “It’s only—The hell it’s not!” he yelled. “I was just outed in the worst way poss—“
“Yeah, about that,” Hamilton cut him off brusquely. “Do you have any idea who could have leaked it to the press? Any jealous boyfriends? Careless one-night stands?”
“I swear to God, Hamilton, if you waggle your eyebrows at me one more time, I’m personally going to burn them off,” Thomas threatened, eyes flashing angrily.
Hamilton smirked. “You haven’t answered my question,” he observed lazily.
Thomas dragged a hand through his hair. “No. There hasn’t been anyone in—a very long time.”
Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “That someone sounds like a pretty likely suspect to me,” he said.
“Just stop it, okay?” Thomas hissed. “I dated once, and it was in senior year in high school. We were together for all of three weeks. That’s not a ‘pretty likely suspect’,” he parroted Hamilton, pitching his voice high, mocking the immigrant.
Hamilton scrunched up his nose. “I do not sound like that.”
“And I am not an idiot,” Thomas retorted. “I know the attitude the Republican base has towards anyone who’s not straight. Me being black was problematic enough—no point in throwing in yet another factor to make them hate me.”
Hamilton tilted his head. “If you knew that they’d hate you if they found out you were gay, why didn’t you just register as a Democrat?” he asked curiously.
Thomas threw up the hand that wasn’t still in Hamilton’s grip in the air. “Is it really so hard to believe that I genuinely believe that the federal government is a shitty idea, and that we would be far better off with a smaller one? One that would actually listen to its constituents, instead of these”—he gesticulated at the rooms around them—”power grabs that D.C. has going for itself. That’s not helping anyone, except maybe the politicians.”
“And all this time, I thought you were a Republican so you could hang out with your fellow assholes,” Hamilton replied easily.
Thomas tugged his hand away from Hamilton’s grasp. Hamilton’s hold on his wrist tightened. “Says you,” Thomas snarled. “You’ve single-handedly managed to widen the left-right divide through a ten-page letter to the editor of the New York Post!”
“I founded the New York Post,” Hamilton reminded him none too gently.
“Exactly!” Thomas slashed a hand through the air to emphasize his point. “To smear your political opponents, almost all of whom happen to be Republicans!”
Hamilton huffed. “You’re just mad because everyone’s attention has been on Monroe lately.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?” Thomas demanded.
“I try not to. It interferes with being nuts,” Hamilton quipped.
Thomas sighed. “I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall. Everything just”—he snapped his fingers—”bounces right back.”
“Oh, look,” Hamilton said easily, pointing into the distance. In front of them, Thomas could see the door to the Oval Office looming like an ominous omen.
Thomas swallowed. He tugged away his hand. This time, Hamilton let him. The shorter man looked up into Thomas’ eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”
Unable to speak, his throat suddenly choked up, Thomas nodded.
Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want me to accompany you?” he asked carefully.
Thomas bit his lip, turning Hamilton’s offer over in his head. On one hand, it would be less mortifying to be let off in private, with no witnesses to witness his last humiliation; on the other hand, Hamilton no doubt already knew better than Thomas what would be said. He had already seen him lose his composure in the worst way possible. Thomas couldn’t imagine how Hamilton’s image of him could be in any way worsened by whatever would happen in that room.
Feeling oddly like he was signing off on his own death warrant, Thomas nodded. He stifled a hysterical laughter as he imagined how he would have reacted not twenty-four hours ago if someone had told him that he would have voluntarily chosen to keep Alexander Hamilton, of all people, at his side.
Hamilton stepped up to Washington’s assistant—Tench Tilghman, a man with a strict face and a sweet tooth the size of the Grand Canyon—who was seated behind an oversized desk with papers covering the whole surface, and, smiling charmingly, asked whether Washington was available. Tilghman nodded sharply. “He is expecting Secretary Jefferson,” he said, his eyes never leaving Thomas.
Thomas suppressed a shudder. He felt as though he was being studied under a microscope—and has been found lacking.
Hamilton glanced at Thomas. “Are you sure—”
Yes,” Thomas cut him off brusquely. He took a quick breath. “Yes,” he repeated more calmly. “I want you.” Hamilton sniggered. Thomas glared. “To be there, I mean. Can you be more immature?”
Hamilton shrugged. “I haven't tried, but in all probability yes.”
Thomas sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just—let's go.”
He nodded at Tilghman, who had been observing their interaction with visible amusement. Hamilton made a show of gesturing at the closed door. “Lead the way, princess.”
Thomas took a deep breath, then pressed down the handle, trying (and failing) not to feel like he was walking into his own execution. He hesitated. Did he really want to do this? He didn’t need to; he could just throw his things and run.
Thomas started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking down, he met Hamilton’s eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” Hamilton assured him. “Washington won’t fire you or anything.” He huffed. “Not for being gay, at least. Now, as for your political opinions…” he trailed off pointedly.
Thomas felt disinclined to believe Hamilton’s words. Just because he hadn’t sent him away yet didn’t mean that he trusted Hamilton. Thomas wouldn’t put it past him to pretend to comfort him, just to stab him in the back not five minutes later. The man knew nothing of loyalty.
He hadn’t realized that he said it out loud until Hamilton crossed his arms in a huff. “Give me some credit,” he drawled. “At least I’m not Burr.”
Thomas conceded that Hamilton had a point—a weak point, but a point nonetheless.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Inside the office, Thomas’ eyes were immediately fixed on the desk, where the president was hunched over a stack of documents. Thomas glanced around the room, wondering whether he would ever get to step inside of it again.
Hamilton closed the door behind them, making Thomas jumps slightly. Washington look up at the noise. His eyes snapped to Thomas, who stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure as to what to do with himself, clutching his briefcase limply.
Washington put away the pen he had absentmindedly been using as a drumstick—a habit that annoyed Thomas to no end, especially at formal dinners where the utensils took the place of the pen. The president stood up, gesturing at the couch. “I would say that it's a good morning,” he began, “but I believe that it's clear exactly how untrue that statement is,” he said self-deprecatingly. “Please, sit.”
Thomas sat down opposite the president. As promised, Hamilton sat down next to Thomas, his presence unexpectedly comforting to Thomas.
Washington cleared his throat. “Alexander, thank you for rescuing Secretary Jefferson from the reporters, but this does not concern you. You are dismissed.”
On any other day Thomas would count that as personal victory. As it was, all he felt was a hollow pang in his chest.
Hamilton looked at Jefferson, a clear question in his eyes. It was Jefferson's turn to clear his throat. “With all due respect, sir, Hamilton is here at my request.”
If Washington was surprised, he didn't let it show. “Very well.” He nodded, locking eyes with Thomas. He sighed. “This is a mess,” he summarized.
Thomas forced himself to smile. “Indeed, sir,” he agreed.
“It puts me in quite a bind,” Washington went on, “and it could not have come at worse time.”
Thomas’ stomach twisted into a knot. He knew where this was going, and he didn't like it.
Beside him, Hamilton reached for Thomas’ hand, squeezing it lightly. Washington’s eyes followed the movement, a sharp glint in them. “Gentlemen…?” he trailed off pointedly.
Thomas withdrew his hands hastily. Even if he couldn't salvage his job, he would not destroy his reputation—especially not by association with Hamilton. Even if Hamilton himself seemed impervious to the fluctuations of the public opinion, Thomas didn't have the same immunity.
Thomas shook his head. “It's nothing that you need to concern yourself with, sir. Please continue.” He motioned for Washington to keep talking.
Washington glanced between them for another moment before looking down. “As I was saying,” he took up, “the timing is quite problematic, especially when taking into account the ongoing diplomatic negotiations with India.”
Thomas leaned forward. “Sir, you don’t need to mince your words. I am aware of the fact that my presence would be an active hindrance to any attempts at a treaty renewal.”
Washington leaned back, his eyes widening in shock. ”My God, good man, what are you saying?”
Thomas swallowed heavily. He had been dreading—maybe not exactly this moment, but certainly a moment like this—since he had accepted the position. Here went nothing. “You will have my resignation on your desk this afternoon, sir.”
“No!” Washington exclaimed with surprising fervour. “The last thing I want is for you to resign.”
Thomas paused. His eyes snapped to Washington in bewilderment. “You… don’t?” He hated how uncertain, how vulnerable, he sounded, but surely he had misheard. Surely Washington wasn't so insane as to allow him, the center of a huge scandal that could potentially bring down his entire administration, to keep his job?
Washington shook his head. “No. You are one of the most intelligent people I’ve had the pleasure to know. Your efficiency is remarkable, your insights startling, and your attitude refreshing. I would not be able to find a more competent Secretary of State if I tried.” Hamilton coughed pointedly. Washington rolled his eyes. “Alexander, we both know where your talents lie, and subtlety and careful diplomacy are far from it.”
"I—Sir—" Thomas began haltingly.
“You did not think that I would fire you, did you?” Washington asked in surprise.
Hamilton didn’t bother stifling a grin. “That was exactly what Jefferson expected.”
”Sir, what do you propose then?” Thomas asked, trying to stomp down the glimmer of hope that flared up within him.
Next to him, Hamilton leaned forward, clearly as curious as to Washington's plan as Thomas was.
This time when he glanced between them, Washington's eyes held an amused twinkle. ”My initial plan had been for you to make a statement—tell the public that your sexuality is your private business”—and really, Thomas could not believe that he was sitting in the Oval Office of opposite the President of the United States, discussing his sexuality like it was some sort of an international crisis—”but this works so much better!” Washington clapped his hands in a parody of an enthusiastic Santa Claus about to hand out gifts to children, all the while glancing between their hands with a calculating look.
Hamilton blinked in confusion as Thomas' stomach flipped again. Washington could not be suggesting what Thomas thought he was suggesting.
”Sir,” Thomas started forward, ”pardon me for saying this, but it's a monumentally stupid idea.”
Washington smiled. ”On the contrary, Thomas, I think that—”
“What are we talking about?!” Hamilton burst out.
Thomas sniffed. “The president is, in his infinite wisdom,” he snapped, “suggesting that we date. Aren’t you supposed to be a genius? Do keep up.”
“Pretend to date,” Washington corrected.
Thomas threw up his hands in the air. “Oh, that makes it so much better!” he drawled sarcastically, infusing his words with enough venom to fell an elephant. “Sir, I’m sure it hasn’t escaped you that Hamilton and I can’t stand each other.”
Washington smile grew. “One of the benefits of this arrangement would, of course, be fostering cooperation between your respective departments—which, since the two of you took office, has been at an all-time low.” Washington’s voice bordered on admonishing.
Thomas gritted his teeth, squashing an instinctive wave of guilt. He refused to be reprimanded for it. It wasn’t his damn fault that Hamilton was an uncooperative asshole of unprecedented standards who was so self-absorbed that he couldn’t even see beyond the end of his nose.
“Of course, you could choose to decline,” Washington barreled on, his tone implying that Thomas would do no such thing. “You could have that press conference, but that would send the message that you thought that you had something to hide.”
“And Hamilton and me suddenly coming out with our ‘relationship’”—Thomas made air quotes—”wouldn’t?” He snorted derisively. Was Washington delusional? Has the presidency finally gotten to him?
Washington shook his head. “Not if we play the ‘you are coworkers who didn’t want their personal relationship to interfere in their professional one’ card.”
Thomas stared. While he had immense respect for the president and his outstanding service to this country, he couldn’t help but wonder—
“Are you even real, sir?” he demanded.
Washington’s face shifted into what Thomas recognized as his politician face. “I assure you, Secretary Jefferson, that I am very much real—as will be the fallout from these revelations, so I suggest that you make up your mind as to what course of action you want to take before this becomes a scandal.”
“Hey!” came an indignant shout from Alexander. “Is nobody going to ask me whether I want to do this?”
Thomas very pointedly did not start at Hamilton’s voice. He had almost forgotten that there was an additional person in the room. He turned to look at Hamilton speculatively. Here was Thomas’ ally at last. Although Hamilton and he had never seen eye-to-eye on one single matter, this, they could unite behind. There was no way Hamilton would agree to Washington’s plan. “Since the president, for some godforsaken reason, possibly as a result of his inevitable loss of sanity, actually listens to you, tell him how uniquely ill-advised his plan is!” Thomas barked.
Hamilton glanced between Thomas and Washington, and Thomas could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes. When he finally spoke, his words were carefully measured, so very uncharacteristic of him that Thomas’ mouth fell open. “Actually, I happen to agree with the president,” Hamilton said confidently.
Thomas had a sudden urge to clean his ears, because had he just heard—? “You can’t be serious,” he drawled.
Hamilton scoffed. “Jefferson, I may not think before I speak”—Thomas did not bother stifling a snort, because that was the understatement of the year, if not the century—”but have you ever known me to be anything but brutally forthright?”
Thomas conceded that the immigrant had a point. Still. “If you’re saying this just to rile me up…” he let his sentence hang in the air unfinished.
Hamilton rolled his eyes. “Despite what you might think, the world does not actually revolve around you. I sincerely believe this to be the course of action with the highest chance of salvaging the reputation of this administration—which you”—Hamilton paused to glare at Thomas—”unfortunately happen to be a part of.” A beat. “The fact that it seems to bother you is merely a lucky side-effect.”
Thomas barely refrained from wiping that smug smirk from Hamilton’s face. Turning to Washington. he gestured between himself and Hamilton. “See, sir? Do you honestly believe that this would work?”
The question had been rhetorical, but Washington answered regardless. “I think it just might.”
Thomas let himself slam gracelessly against the backrest with a groan, before opening his eyes to glare at Hamilton. “You’re sleeping on the couch,” he warned.
Hamilton’s smirk widened. “Who says that we’re going to live in your house?”
“Because I sure as hell am not putting my foot inside the dump you like to call a house,” Thomas retorted.
Hamilton’s nose wrinkled. “What’s wrong with my apartment?” he asked indignantly.
“It’s just that—an apartment!” Thomas threw up his hands, as if Hamilton was missing something crucial. “It’s tiny, it’s cramped, and Augeas’ stables have been known to be cleaner.”
“My apartment suits me just fine.”
“Yeah,” Thomas agreed. “It’s as shitty as your personality.”
Hamilton’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And how do you know what it even looks like?”
Thomas waved dismissively. “Lafayette has sent me pictures. I’ve never been so traumatized in my life.”
Washington cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I think that we have gotten slightly off-track,” he said pointedly. “You can hammer out the finer details later. For now, I need to know whether you are amenable to this arrangement.”
Thomas exchanged looks with Hamilton, who nodded decisively. Shaking his head, Thomas waved a hand. “Yeah, fine. Sure,” he said, sincerely hoping that it wouldn’t blow up in any of their faces—or, when it inevitably did, that Hamilton would bear the brunt of it, though that was about as likely to happen as Burr was to express an actual opinion. Honestly, Thomas had no idea how the man had gotten elected senator.
“Good. I will have Angelica call for an impromptu press conference.”
Washington’s smile was wider than it had any right to be. Thomas had a sneaking suspicion that the president was enjoying this. He was oddly invested in Thomas’ love life.
How was this his life?
༺ ༻
Hamilton was practically bouncing up and down as they walked down the corridor, unable to contain his energy.
Thomas rolled his eyes at the shorter man’s antics. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “One would think you’re enjoying this,” he said mockingly.
Hamilton’s face flushed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “I’m just really looking forward to Madison’s face when he hears about this.”
Thomas stopped short, his eyes widening in horror. Of course. James. Even if he didn’t want to talk to Thomas anymore, he deserved to find out what was going on from Thomas himself.
He hadn’t realized that he had pulled out his phone until a hand wrapped itself around his wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?” Hamilton hissed, suddenly close to Thomas. Too close for comfort.
“Let go of me, you psycho,” Thomas retorted. “I’m going to call James, and I’m going to explain this mess to him.”
The grip on his wrist tightened. “You can’t do that,” Hamilton insisted. “Don’t you see? The more people who know the truth, the higher the chance that someone’s going to leak it to the press, and then we’re in deeper shit than we already are—and I would like to keep my job, thank you very much.”
“James wouldn’t do that,” Thomas spluttered.
One of Hamilton’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Oh, really?” he drawled. “You’re telling me that the Speaker of the House wouldn’t use damaging information about one of his party’s potential presidential candidates—and don’t lie to me, you and Madison practically are the party leadership; I know you’ve been asked—to assure that a candidate he no longer approves of will not get elected into the highest office in the land? I thought you were smart.” Hamilton unknowingly threw Thomas’ earlier words back at him.
Thomas’ hold on the phone loosened, which was all Hamilton. In the space of a blink of an eye, Thomas’ phone was in Hamilton’s hands, sliding into the immigrant’s pocket.
“There,” Thomas sneered. “You have my phone. Can you let go of me now?”
Hamilton glanced down with a start, only now seeming to notice the proximity between them. The tips of his ears reddened, and he let go of Thomas’ wrist as though burned. He stalked off towards the Press Briefing Room, his posture stiff. Thomas had no problem with keeping up with Hamilton’s short steps.
Hamilton’s cheeks were still flushed slightly when they walked into the room adjacent to the Brady Room.
“Do you want to rehearse?” Hamilton asked abruptly, swirling on the spot and fixing Thomas with an oddly intense look.
Thomas’ throat constricted. “No,” he managed. He wouldn’t do any better, and it would give him a chance to overthink it and come up with a multitude of excuses. He couldn’t do that.
Hamilton sniffed. “Just follow my lead, and try not to screw up too much, and whatever you do, do not contradict me.”
At that, Thomas rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid,” he said curtly.
“Could have fooled me,” Hamilton retorted. One hand on the handle to the Press Briefing Room, he quirked an eyebrow. “Well? Are you coming?” he said before opening the door and strolling into the room confidently. Thomas took a deep breath, steeling himself, before following.
As he glanced around the room, filled to the brim with whatever reporter had been milling around the White House, hoping for a bite of Thomas, Thomas stomach was filled with dread. Hamilton stepped up onto the podium, practically oozing confidence. Thomas wished that he could have had even a portion of that—he himself was practically a shaking mess, managing to hide it only through years of practice.
Still, Thomas wasn’t sure whether it had been a good idea to leave Hamilton in charge of the impromptu press conference. Thomas could still recall their most recent prank war. Hamilton was the sort of person who thought that it was acceptable to swipe Thomas’ $2000 fountain pens for a cheap ballpoint pen, or to bribe his secretary to exchange Thomas’ usual coffee for decaf, or to stick Thomas’ laptop to his desk with superglue, or to pretend to burn Thomas’ first editions of Bacon and Locke, or to smear butter on the door handle to Thomas’ office, or to throw crumpled papers across the room at Thomas’ head and hope that one of the sticks in his hair.
Mentally, Hamilton was the equivalent of a five-year-old. Thomas didn’t trust him further than he could throw him, and he certainly did not trust him with his career. Clearing his throat, he stepped up to Hamilton’s side on the podium. Hamilton’s eyes snapped up to him, shock giving way to amusement. Thomas barely had any time to prepare himself before Hamilton reached out and grabbed his hand in full view of the press, squeezing it in reassurance amidst the sudden whispers.
Before Thomas had any time to process what was happening, Hamilton was talking. Thomas only hoped that he wouldn't let good mouth run rampant, or both of their careers would go down the flames in what was sure to be a spectacular scandal.
“There have been rumours concerning Jeff—Secretary Jefferson’s sexuality. We are here to put these rumours to rest.” Hamilton said. He lifted up the hand that was still holding Thomas’ up for everyone to see. The reporters in the back, who had previously not noticed their joined hands, gasped. “Secretary Jefferson is gay, and he and I have been dating for the past nine months,” Hamilton went on, seamlessly spewing bullshit right and left. So much for ‘brutally forthright’, Thomas thought derisively.
The reporters wrote frantically, accepting Hamilton’s word without question like it was gospel coming straight from the mouth of Jesus himself. It was amusing, in a way, and had Thomas not been so nervous about the whole thing, he would have almost looked forward to seeing what they would be able to piece together from Hamilton’s ramblings that would have been worthy of the front page.
“This information was kept from the general public as to dissuade rumours of nepotism,” Hamilton went on, the indifference in his voice gradually giving way to an impassioned zeal. “Both Secretary Jefferson and I have risen to our respective positions solely on merit, and our personal relationship had sprung about as a result of frequent association at work, not the other way around, and to imply otherwise is an affront to everything the both of us have achieved.
“Now, Thomas and I have been forced into an awkward position by this morning’s Politico story. In the end, we chose to go public with our relationship because we believe that a confirmation was worlds better than rumours spiraling out of proportion. We didn't want this administration's reputation unnecessarily tarred—especially when this isn't even a scandal.” Hamilton absentmindedly massaged Thomas’ palm. Thomas should have minded the touch, but any distraction from what was happening was a good distraction. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “We believe in full transparency—though this is one matter which really shouldn’t concern the American public. We’ve performed our jobs to the best of our abilities, and will continue to do so.
“Essentially, as far as our daily duties are concerned, nothing has changed.”
Thomas thought it best to stop Hamilton before he began spewing something so ludicrous that not even the press, which Hamilton had all but eating from his palm by now, could swallow. He cleared his throat, quietly enough that only Hamilton would have been able to hear.
Hamilton glanced at him quizzically, before turning to the press. “But I’ve talked for a while now—I’m sure that you’re getting bored with me.” He flashed the press another winning smile, which some of the reporters almost unconsciously returned. “Let Thomas talk.” It was the first time since Hamilton had introduced himself to Thomas that he actually used Thomas’ first name within Thomas’ earshot. It sounded odd coming from Hamilton’s lips—not necessarily good or bad, just… odd.
Thomas stepped closer to the microphone. He cleared his throat, flashing Hamilton a smile which he hoped looked fond. “Thank you, Alexander,” he said, cursing himself at how formal he sounded. “This wasn’t how I had planned to come out.” His laugh was a little strained. The reporters were silent, watching him, judging him. “I hadn’t actually given any thought to coming out. Up until Alexander, my love life—well, let's just say that it hasn't been a priority for me."
Thomas paused. He glanced down at the podium, wishing that he had some papers to shuffle, just so that he could keep his hands occupied somehow.
Hamilton glanced at Thomas pointedly when the pause was getting too long and the silence uncomfortable.
Thomas grimaced. He cleared his throat again. “As Alexander said, we are by no means ashamed of our relationship; we simply didn’t want everyone to dissect what should essentially remain private business”—the irony of the situation didn’t escape Thomas: he, the primary conservative representative in the executive branch and the foremost candidate for the Republican presidential nomination for 2020, was sounding like the poster boy for the liberal agenda—”between the two of us.”
A sea of hands shot up as soon as Thomas stopped to take a breath. “Secretary Jefferson—” several of the reporters shouted.
“I wasn’t done,” Thomas interrupted the reporters, eyes hard. “My sexuality has probably been the hardest thing to come to terms with. It’s not easy to realize that you’re different than the rest, that you don’t fit into the society’s definition of ‘normal’. When I was a teenager, I ignored it. I didn’t even want to think about it, didn’t want to talk about it. Even now, I hear the comments people make, and, though they aren’t aimed at me, I feel physically ill, because that could just as well be me.”
Thomas took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself. He lifted up the hand holding Hamilton’s for everyone to see. “Alexander has made me realize that my sexuality isn’t anything to be that should be hidden away like a shameful secret. Being gay has never been a Republican or Democratic issue, and it should never be.”
He stopped, glancing hesitantly down at the podium like it held the answers to all of his problems, even though he knew that it didn’t because it was just a fucking piece of wood. Yeah, this is how low he has sunk.
Noticing Thomas’ hesitation, Hamilton turned to Thomas, giving him an encouraging smile, and yes, Thomas could see why people would think that they were in love, because it was as though a switch had been flipped: Hamilton’s entire body practically screamed infatuation. Hamilton was a good actor, Thomas had to give it to him.
“Thomas, love, do you want to take a few questions?” Hamilton asked him, tenderly running his thumb over Thomas’ knuckles, glancing up at Thomas with what could only be described as ‘puppy eyes’.
Thomas swallowed, forcing a smile onto his face. He wished that he was better at this—not for the first time, he envied Hamilton his ease with people. “Sure,” he said quietly. “Let’s do a few questions.”
It was as though a virtual dam had been opened.
“Sir, how will this affect your negotiations with India?” one of the reporters shouted.
Another reporter shouted, “How can you profess to espouse individuality when everything you say and do in fact advocates conformity to society’s norms?”
Hamilton snapped his fingers. “One question at a time,” he ordered. Thomas had a sudden vision of Hamilton trying to control a roomful of pre-schoolers, chasing them frantically whenever one stole his pen, making chaotic hand gestures and glaring at them. He was hard-pressed to stifle the hysterical giggle that threatened to overwhelm him.
Once the reporters quieted down, Thomas pointed at a woman in the second row. “Yes?” he asked expectantly.
The woman straightened her back, pen poised to take notes. “How do you expect the federal government to stay out of people’s lives when you yourself have advocated for banning abortion as a medical procedure, and have openly criticized the retired Republican senator Barry Goldwater’s comment that ‘You don't have to be straight to shoot straight’ concerning the ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ policy?” Thomas hadn’t thought it possible that anyone but Hamilton could say so much in one breath, but there she was. “How can you honestly say that you don’t want a government that interferes in people’s lives when your very ideology is to do just that?”
Hamilton shifted. Thomas saw him glancing at Thomas uncertainly, as though Thomas was going to break like glass. He gritted his teeth. He wasn’t fragile.
“That's your opinion on the matter,” Thomas told the reporter, measuring his words carefully. “I don't see it the same way you do. I don't think that my behaviour contradicts my beliefs. In fact, I fail to see why any of my beliefs would be, as you seem to imply, hypocritical.” The reporter shrugged slightly, as if to say ‘You said it, not me’. “If anything,” Thomas went on, “I would argue that they are strengthened by me being who I am. Besides, you can't equate promoting the murder of living beings, which the liberals seem intent on doing”—Thomas glanced over at Hamilton, whose pleasant smile was giving way to a glower—”and criticizing a careless and, frankly, distasteful comment on the matters of our national military policy made by someone who has no knowledge on said matters.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” the reporter interceded, her time implying that she meant anything but, “how do you not consider banning abortion an infliction on someone's individual freedom?”
Thomas force himself to sign, as if bored with the reporter’s stupidity. “I already told you: I will not advocate the murder of any of our citizens.”
“They aren't American citizens yet!” the reporter objected.
“But they will be.” Thomas was proud of how steady his voice was. It barely shook, even as Thomas felt like he was on the edge of another panic attack. “And what gives you the right to end their life before it has even begun? If you can't find it in yourself to be disgusted by the idea that you're killing a human being, think of all the potential you're robbing them off—all the things they'll never do, sights they'll never see, accomplishments that will never be. In what world does it seem fair to take that away from someone? What if your parents had considered aborting you. Would you have liked to never do the things you've done?”
“I wouldn't have had an opinion, sir,” the reporter retorted angrily, “because I would never have been born in the first place to be able to have an opinion.”
“Exactly,” Thomas smirked in satisfaction, as if she was proving his point for him. “You never would have existed. That's one human life, extinguished just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Now, what kind of a public servant would I be if I didn't care for every American life, be it born or not? Just because they haven't left their mothers’ bodies doesn't make them any less human, any less worthy of living a life.”
“Sir—” the reporter tried again.
“The Republican party's ideology is built on the Bill of Rights,” Thomas went on. “Every American citizen has them, be they born or unborn. I can't deny basic human rights to anyone, even if they aren't born yet—especially if they aren't born yet. I have to defend the unborn children's rights, because it's becoming increasingly clear that the Democrats will not do so. They seem to forget that everyone was created equal, which means that nobody has a right to decide who lives and who dies.”
The reporter cleared her throat. “The exact quote is that ‘all men are created equal’,” she corrected haughtily, “and to me, it’s alarmingly obvious that your misogyny and sexism blinds you from the truth.” By the end of her statement, she was glaring.
Thomas waved her away dismissively. “As much as I would love to debate this with you further,” he said dryly, “we are on a tight schedule. Next question?”
The wave of hands appeared even faster than the first time around.
Thomas felt the urge to slam his head against the desk. It was going to be a long day. Judging by the not-quite-stifled groan coming from his side, Hamilton concurred with the sentiment.
༺ ༻
“You were laying it on a bit thick in there,” Thomas told Hamilton as soon as they were out of the room.
Hamilton shrugged. “They bought it, didn’t they? That’s all that counts. It doesn’t matter if they think we’re so infatuated with each other that we can’t keep our hands off each other, as long as they know that we get things done.”
Thomas was on the verge of saying that no, that wasn’t all that mattered—he wanted to actually have a career after this—but paused. Realistically, his political career was, in all probability, over. It would be a wonder if the Republicans accepted a gay party leader, let alone a gay presidential candidate. The fact that they accepted Ken Mehlman as Chairman of the Republican National Committee was nothing short of a miracle—and it hadn’t been without reluctance, either. Thomas didn’t want to become another Roberto Arango, shunned by his political party just for being who he was.
He wasn’t about to switch parties, either—there was this thing called loyalty that Burr wasn’t familiar with, and Thomas didn’t think he could stomach spewing liberal propaganda—everything he has always abhorred—just to get elected. What kind of a person would that make him?
A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. He glanced down, meeting chocolate-brown eyes.
“You spaced out,” Hamilton said matter-of-factly. He sounded like he was just stating a fact, but there was a curious look in his eyes.
Thomas shook his head in response to the silent question. He shrugged off Hamilton's hand, tensing up when it merely moved to settle snugly in Thomas’ palm. Thomas tried to tug away his hand, but Hamilton's hold only tightened.
“People are going to be watching us,” Hamilton explained, his acerbic tone belying the fake smile curling his lips. “At least try to look like you're not actively fantasizing about my imminent death.”
Thomas forced his face into a neutral expression. Hamilton studied him critically. “Better,” he finally declared.
Thomas huffed. “I'm glad that I have your approval.” His voice was practically dripping with sarcasm. “How long do we have to do this again?” Thomas realized that they hadn't talked about it. Shit. It should have been the first thing on his mind.
Hamilton shrugged. “For as long as it takes for this craze to die down,” he said casually, as though it was obvious.
Dread pooled in Thomas’ stomach. “And then what?” he demanded.
Hamilton blinked owlishly. “Then we break up,” he drawled, the 'duh’ in his voice all but audible.
Thomas soon his head. “That's the worst idea you've been ever proposed. That'll cause another uproar. It's be worse than if we hadn't ‘come out’”—he made air quotes—”in the first place.”
He waited for the realization to sink in, watching in morbid fascination as Hamilton's face morphed into one of horror.
“Shit,” Hamilton intoned.
For once, Thomas was inclined to agree with Hamilton.