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More than anything, Hamilton wants to ask about the fantasy he witnessed rescuing Washington from the wounded recesses of the general's mind. But by the time the surreal adventure is truly behind them, he's had time enough to think better of it.
Another day passes before Washington regains consciousness, and even then Peggy refuses to release him from sickbay.
Hamilton has never heard her sound so adamant as when she announces, "All due respect, sir? But I'm not letting you out of my sight without being entirely damn sure we won't lose you into a coma again." There's no arguing with a Schuyler once she takes that tone, Peggy least of all.
It's three solid days before Washington is released from medical observation—a delay that is clearly not appreciated—and Hamilton spends every intervening moment replaying intimate details in his head. He didn't see much. A dark room. Figures moving in shadow. Starlight through a narrow viewport that he recognized from Washington's quarters. Unmistakable intimacy.
Alexander. Barely a whisper in the breathless silence. He has never heard his general sound like that; he would trade damn near anything to hear it again.
But he's also painfully aware he should not have been there at all. For all the necessity of his mission, he was an interloper. An intruder in Washington's unprotected subconscious. Any knowledge he gleaned from Washington's mind is stolen—secrets he has no right to possess.
He has yet to decide what to say. He could apologize. Promise not to tell a soul.
But any promise he makes will only emphasize the fact that he saw things he shouldn't have. There's no point pretending he didn't glean information he has no right to possess; neither he nor Washington has any particular skill for denial. There's just as little point in reminding his general that Hamilton was there. It's a painful conundrum, all the worse because Hamilton aches for things he is not allowed to want. How can he set aside the knowledge that his infatuation might be returned?
Is returned—he's certain of it. He traversed immeasurable miles within Washington's mind, and there was a well-worn edge to the scene that's been consuming his memory since. That was no fleeting image. It was something cherished and revisited. Washington wants him; Washington has spent a great deal of time wanting him, and imagining what it could be like between them.
Hamilton has done the same. Why shouldn't they do something about it?
His mind has wandered again—predictably—and he startles at the hiss of the turbolift doors opening well before his level. Washington strides into the lift, too quickly to hesitate or retreat when he catches sight of Hamilton. The doors slide shut again. They're alone, and together, and staring at each other in agonizing silence.
"Colonel." Washington nods at him in stiff greeting. He doesn't turn to face the front of the lift.
"Sir." Hamilton gives an answering nod. His heart is beating too fast. The lift isn't moving. Why isn't the lift moving?
It takes him an embarrassingly long stretch of seconds to realize it's because Washington hasn't given the computer a destination. The silence is overwhelming as they stare at each other. Hamilton's face is warm, his chest tight, his posture at instinctive attention. He finds himself thinking, guiltily, of his captain's mouth. That goddamn kiss they stubbornly do not talk about. Is this the same? This unintended confession, one more truth that will never be acknowledged between them?
Hamilton's mouth is dry. He doesn't speak; for once he can't find the words.
"I owe you an apology," Washington blurts in a low, clumsy rush.
"You what?" Hamilton's eyes widen. Now the words come, spurred on by startled disbelief. "That's absurd. You haven't done anything wrong."
"What you saw—"
"—was private," Hamilton interrupts with all the sternness he can muster. Washington looks so flustered and guilty, so raw, and no matter how desperately Hamilton may want to acknowledge what he saw, he can't do it when Washington is looking at him like this. "It was just a fantasy. I'm not going to slap you with real-world consequences for a fantasy." Even if all Hamilton wants are consequences; even if he is desperate for Washington to touch him.
"I'm your commanding officer. I have no business coveting a subordinate."
Hamilton shivers. Warmth courses beneath his skin at the blunt words. The direct admission that his general wants him. There is an unsteady ache in his chest. A tangled mess of hope and resignation, because he knows full well he still cannot have what he wants.
"Even if that subordinate covets you right back?"
It's the wrong thing for Hamilton to say. What little candor has snuck into Washington's expression vanishes, disappearing behind a guarded wall. Hamilton has seen his general use this poker face during close calls and confrontations. It's unpleasant to find himself on the receiving end of such a look.
"Sir…" He stares up into Washington's face, wishing like hell he could take the words back. Rewind and put them back on level ground.
I kissed you, he wants to shout. I was delirious, and I kissed you, and I meant it.
Instead he bites his tongue and stands perfectly still.
"We cannot have this conversation, Colonel. The matter is closed." There is unyielding finality in the pronouncement, and Hamilton's heart sinks. He swallows thickly and drops his gaze toward the floor.
"Yes, sir," he says.
It's a feeble surrender. He feels like a coward, even though there's no other answer he can give.