Work Text:
It's been over a month since Alexander's invitation to play chess, and Washington has not once regretted agreeing.
The ritual—for that's what it quickly becomes—is indeed good for morale. It's a chance to see the crew at ease. To engage with them and watch them interact away from their posts. No danger, no complications, no hurry. Just a gathering of people, coming and going and challenging each other to a game.
A splendid distraction, Lafayette has said more than once, somehow managing to sound both teasing and sincere. There’s a smugness to the proclamation, since he’s not only the Nelson’s top pilot, but also the second best chess player on the ship.
Only Angelica is better, and Washington is not especially surprised.
The tradition has grown more widespread since that first challenge. There are matches nearly every night, in half a dozen locations throughout the ship. Other games besides chess spring up. A swathe of ensigns organizes a tournament for something called Kal-toh, though from what Washington’s heard there is rarely a winner.
No matter how many such engagements arise, Washington only ever plays chess, and only where Hamilton is in attendance.
This was never truly about morale.
He's on the bridge—sitting in the command chair—when a hand grabs his shoulder. Washington gives no outward sign of surprise, and realizes almost instantly that the hand belongs to Lafayette. For one thing, no one else would brazenly flaunt decorum in the middle of the bridge. For another, there is no mistaking the large hands and long fingers for belonging to any other member of the crew.
Washington cocks his head just enough to look up into his helmsman’s unapologetic face, raising one eyebrow in question.
"It is eighteen-hundred hours, General."
Oh. Washington hadn’t even noticed the end of his duty shift approaching. He stands from his chair and cedes the central post to Angelica, who is arriving for gamma shift.
"Thank you, Gil." Washington follows him to the starboard turbolift.
"Are you dining in the mess hall?" Lafayette asks as the lift doors open and both of them stride through.
"Not tonight." He touches the control panel, selecting his deck. "I think I’d prefer a quieter evening." Hamilton is on an away mission, overseeing the Nelson's best scientists as they cull information from ancient and improbable data banks on a nearby planet. Washington would be there too, but it's not a mission that justifies multiple senior officers. A time-consuming assignment, but in no way dangerous.
Ridiculous to be restless simply because Hamilton is absent. But Washington has grown accustomed to their new balance, to their games of chess, to seeing his boy every day.
Lafayette is smiling at him, the expression eloquent and far too knowing. It makes Washington wonder just how much he’s inadvertently given away.
"Can I entice you to dinner, then?" Lafayette presses onward. "My quarters? I possess one bottle of a truly incomparable Centauri ale, and I’ve programmed the perfect feast to pair with it. I want only for company worthy of the repast."
"I’d be delighted, Gil." The prospect sounds honestly perfect. It is exactly the distraction Washington needs to take his mind off Alexander's absence.
"Excellent," Lafayette says, just as the lift halts and the doors slide open. He quickly reaches for the control panel and inputs his own deck, and the doors close once more. "I’ve been meaning to invite you for some time, but of late you always take dinner among the crew. I would never wish to interfere with plans already made."
Washington is not certain, but he feels as though there is something pointed to Lafayette's tone. An observation encompassing more than Washington intends to be seen.
"You can always ask." He prays his smile looks natural. "I will always make time for a friend."
The ale is every bit as excellent as promised, and the dinner Lafayette replicates for them is exquisite. Washington lingers, enjoying his friend's company as they slowly drain the entire bottle. It's not an especially potent ale, but he feels warm and lethargic by the time the last two glasses are poured. He has missed Lafayette. The man is his best friend, and it’s not fair that Washington has kept him so stubbornly at arm's length.
He has reason enough. If anyone aboard the Nelson is capable of seeing straight through him, to the chaos of feelings that has tangled between himself and Hamilton, it is Lafayette.
Washington takes a slow sip of his drink and then realizes he is being closely watched.
"What's wrong?" he asks. He's not sure what to make of the considering look in Lafayette's eyes, the way his attention sparks sharply despite the lazy slouch and the chin propped in the palm of one hand.
"Nothing is wrong."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?" A poor strategy perhaps, calling direct attention to whatever Lafayette is deliberately not saying. But Washington is curious, and a little bit drunk, and he truly wants to know.
"Because you are my friend. And I would like very much to know that you are happy."
Washington doesn’t know what to make of such a cryptic answer, and so he lets the matter drop.
He waits another hour before bidding Lafayette goodnight. Long enough to transition from tipsy to entirely sober, because he will not risk being compromised in public aboard ship. They fill the time with lighter talk and occasional silences. The pointless, comfortable ramblings of two men who know each other very well and have nothing to prove.
Finally Washington stands. It’s late, and his bed is calling him.
"George?" Lafayette says before he reaches the door.
Washington turns and finds Lafayette still sitting at the table, with its demolished dinner and empty bottle of ale. There is uncharacteristic seriousness to Lafayette's countenance and a faint furrow between his brows.
Silence seems the only appropriate answer, so Washington bites his tongue and waits.
At last Lafayette sits a little straighter and—still looking him directly in the eye—says, "If you ever wanted to talk. About anything. I would keep your secrets."
The offer should not stun Washington like it does. Lafayette has always been a loyal friend. And he’s known Washington for years, despite the pilot's youth. Of course he knows something is amiss, even if he has no comprehension what. Washington’s refusal to unburden himself must be all the proof necessary that his troubles could jeopardize his position and command.
Washington is quiet for a very long time before at last he answers, "Thank you, Gil. I’ll bear that in mind."
Then he leaves, wondering with every step exactly how much Lafayette knows.