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The day Hercules Mulligan returns to the Nelson is a celebration the likes of which a fleet vessel rarely sees. It's been nearly six months since he departed on an assignment shrouded in quiet mystery. Even Hamilton hadn't known where he was going—or what he would be doing there—knew just enough to be nervous for his friend's safety.
Not many people are in the official loop about Herc's true position and rank. On paper he is a recently promoted lieutenant and security officer. But secrets keep poorly aboard a starship, even one as tightly run as the Nelson, and an open secret is no secret at all.
Little surprise when the largest mess hall aboard ship explodes into an impromptu welcome-home party. There are no decorations, no coordination, no planning. Just a steady influx of crew arriving with long-hoarded stashes of real alcohol. Not strictly against regulations, but not usually such a public spectacle. Hamilton doesn’t contribute from his own tiny supply—it would barely be a drop in the bucket compared to what his crew mates are turning out—but he stays to mingle, more or less.
He keeps mostly to the periphery, for all that he's usually among the most boisterous of partygoers. He doesn't feel like drinking, and the crush of people doesn't leave space for quieter entertainments. Herc is one of his first and closest friends, and Hamilton is just glad he's here.
So after making enough of an entrance for the occasion—after hugging his newly returned friend and causing a minor ruckus with Peggy and John and Eliza—Hamilton contents himself with sitting in a calmer corner. Absorbing his noisy surroundings without engaging.
There's a viewport beside him, and when Hamilton looks at the nebula outside the ship, he catches a simultaneous glimpse of his own reflection. He's surprised at how tired exhausted looks, shadowed circles more pronounced than ever beneath his eyes.
It's not that he's been sleeping poorly. It's just that lately he hasn't really been trying. Restless energy keeps him upright, working extra duty shifts, burying himself in less official studies and research when he finds himself alone in his quarters. No rational explanation beyond the simple fact that he’s desperate to keep himself busy.
Distracted.
But he knows damn well why.
He is tired now, though he doesn't consider excusing himself to his quarters. For one thing, fatigue is a familiar companion and he’s in no danger of nodding off in public. For another, even in the privacy of his quarters he wouldn't actually rest.
Perhaps he should try to take better care of himself—a point that posits itself in his mind when the chair across from him abruptly has his general in it, and Hamilton realizes he didn't notice Washington's approach. He offers a sheepish smile. Washington arches a single precise eyebrow and sets two steaming mugs on the little table, pushing one pointedly toward Hamilton.
"Coffee?" Hamilton asks hopefully.
"Decaf," Washington clarifies. "You look dead on your feet, Colonel. I’m not going to enable your insomnia."
Hamilton rolls his eyes but takes the mug anyway. Even decaf will wake him up some—his body has a downright pavlovian response to coffee—and it will give him something to do with his hands. The mug is warm against his palms, pleasant heat. He feels Washington's gaze follow a little too closely as he raises the coffee to his lips and drinks.
"Thank you." Hamilton lowers the mug again, sparing a glance toward his general but quickly averting his gaze. Better to look rude and distracted than to make moon-eyes at his commanding officer in a crowded mess hall.
Of course, not looking doesn't lessen his awareness of Washington's presence. It doesn't help restrain his desire to reach across the table and touch, though of course he knows better than to do anything so brazen and foolish.
They've reached a hard-won stasis. An acceptable closeness—one that apparently does not strain Washington's code of honor—but that also doesn’t require them to pretend away the complicated knots tangled between them. They don't ever speak of the chaos beneath the surface, but neither do they deny its existence.
It isn't enough. This isn't enough. Hamilton's entire soul aches for more—for honest words and an intimate touch. He hates the wall that lingers between them. The trappings of propriety seem irreparably hypocritical, when he knows just how fiercely his general wants him.
But he also can't make these decisions for both of them. He has tried and failed to convince Washington they could be more, and he doesn’t dare push harder. He’s still fearful that such an effort might result in reassignment. Their understanding, nebulous and unspoken as it is, already puts Washington in an untenable position. If Hamilton tries to force his hand, there is every chance Washington will bow belatedly to protocol and send him away, regardless of the hell it would be for both of them.
It’s not a chance Hamilton will ever willingly take.
Washington stays in the mess hall for over an hour, fielding greetings from his crew, congratulating Hercules on a successful mission and safe return when the man himself gravitates briefly to their corner.
"It's good to have you back, Lieutenant," Washington says with obvious sincerity, and Hercules grins in answer.
When Washington departs a little later—amid festivities still going strong—he gives Hamilton's shoulder a squeeze before making his retreat. Hamilton looks up into his general's eyes and resists the urge to cover that heavy hand with his own.
"Goodnight, sir," he says softly, and then watches Washington navigate through the crowd and vanish into the corridor outside the mess hall.
The party is still going strong three hours later, when Hercules appears again beside Hamilton's table and asks, "Want to get out of here?"
Hamilton breathes a burst of surprised laughter. "This is your welcome-home party."
"Yup. And that means I get to do what I want."
"You might hurt some feelings, ditching out while everyone's still having a good time."
"Please." Hercules rolls his eyes dramatically. "Everyone who's still here is so drunk they won't notice. Come on. Let's go somewhere we can actually talk. I can't even hear myself think in here."
"Okay.” Hamilton didn't really want to stay anyway. It's Herc's company he wants—his friend safe and whole and here—and the rest of this crowd is already grating on his over-tired senses.
When Hercules offers a hand and tugs him up from his chair, Hamilton overbalances and falls against his broad chest. Herc feels good, feels even better when he chuckles warmly and helps correct Hamilton's center of gravity.
"I swear I'm not drunk," Hamilton mutters as he directs their path out of the mess hall.
"I know." Hercules is smiling. "I saw you drinking coffee, you heretic."
Once in the corridor, Hamilton slows his pace and defers to his friend. They end up in Herc's quarters—larger than Hamilton's despite the fact that Hamilton technically outranks him—both men sprawled on the couch with glasses of water within easy reach, sedate classical jazz harmonies playing into the quiet.
"You gonna tell me anything about your assignment?" Hamilton asks. He's desperate for details. He doesn't even know what planet Hercules has been on, let alone what he's been up to. There are plenty of possibilities—plenty of ostensible allies the Federation and Starfleet do not trust—but no one with whom relations are especially strained. Nowhere Hamilton would consider a no-brainer for covert operations.
"Can't tell you where I've been." Hercules sounds downright apologetic, and his shoulder nudges Hamilton's arm where they've slouched into each other's space. "Can't tell you why. But I can tell you what I was doing."
"Yeah?" Hamilton brightens and leans in conspiratorially. God he's missed this. Closeness easier than with any of his other friends, even John. Sure footing and open communications and uncomplicated heat along his side.
Hercules leans even nearer to whisper in his ear. "I was a tailor."
"No." Hamilton gawps. He tries and utterly fails to picture his friend holding a needle and thread.
"Yup." There's laughter in Herc's voice. "I was damn good at it too. Made sure to get out clean in case I need to revisit my cover."
Hamilton laughs, soft and fond. "You are a man of endless surprises."
"And you are a sight for sore eyes. Get the fuck over here."
Hamilton gives a squawk of surprise as he's grabbed and manhandled into Herc's waiting lap. He lands astride strong thighs and stares down into Herc's handsome face, unable to mask his incredulity. Hell, incredulity isn't quite the word. This is something else. Something wrapped up in Hamilton's own inner confusion and uncertainty. It has nothing to do with Hercules, and everything to do with Hamilton's own perpetually unfinished business.
Herc's eyes narrow. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah." Hamilton resists the urge to squirm beneath that piercing stare. "I just… Thought we weren't doing this anymore. When you left—"
"When I left I was angry about being reassigned. I didn't mean to chase you off." A pause, a guilty look. "I'm sorry if it seemed that way."
"Oh." It's all Hamilton can think to say. Hell, it's not like he was especially heartbroken when Hercules turned him down that last night aboard the Nelson. The thing about a functional friends-with-benefits arrangement is, you've got to be friends first. The sex is a whole different thing, and it's not what matters. Just letting off steam. Just having a good time. Just easy and casual and pleasant, no strings attached, which means no hard feelings when things don't go to plan.
"Hey," Hercules says. "It's cool if you don't want to."
Hamilton laughs, a sheepish sort of sound, and frames Herc's face between his hands. He leans in for a kiss, messy and deep and pushy as hell. Of course Hercules answers in kind. There's a moment where Hamilton would swear his friend is smiling into the kiss, and then there's a thrust of tongue past Alexander's parted lips, and humor gives way to shared heat.
And the thing is, it should be simple. Things between them always have been—simple and straightforward—no complications. Not like it would be with Eliza or John, who are both halfway in love with him for all that Hamilton pretends not to notice. With Hercules, Hamilton's never had to worry about misunderstandings, or hurting feelings his friend doesn't have for him. It never mattered that Alexander's been carrying a giant goddamn torch for someone else almost as long as he's known Hercules; his heart's never been a hurdle before.
But.
Well. Fuck. It's possible he miscalculated this time.
Because Hercules is touching him. Kissing him. Rubbing against him in all the best ways. Hercules has managed to maneuver Hamilton onto his back along the couch, and the pinning weight feels damn good… But all Alexander can think of is Washington. When he closes his eyes, he is imagining Washington's hands on him, Washington's voice in that goddamn fantasy Hamilton had no right to witness in the first place. The images his mind conjures are so vivid he startles when Herc murmurs something teasingly affectionate in his ear.
"Alex?" Of course Hercules notices the sudden tension, the momentary stillness that freezes Hamilton beneath him. He braces up on one arm so he can look Hamilton directly in the face. "You okay?"
Alexander does not even consider lying. That's the other key to their arrangement after all: honesty.
"Real question," Hamilton broaches cautiously, a blush of embarrassment burning his cheeks. "How much of an asshole am I, if I say I can't do this tonight?" He slides one hand up Herc's chest to soften the rejection, curls his fingers at the nape of his neck, threads his touch through the short fuzz of soft hair along his scalp.
"Not an asshole," Hercules assures him without pulling away. "What's wrong?" Like a switch flipping, despite their proximity, any suggestion of a hookup disappears beneath the aspect of a worried friend.
"Nothing's wrong," Hamilton protests.
"Bullshit." Herc's tone is light, but there's something unyielding in his eyes.
Alexander draws a steadying breath. He can't really avert his gaze at this range, which means every glimmer of feeling is visible. He's never been any good at poker. And god, the urge to just tell Hercules the entire truth is nearly overwhelming. Even John still doesn't know everything.
"Hey." Hercules raises a hand to tuck messy hair behind Hamilton's ear, offering a cheeky smile that's all teeth. "Come on, man, you can trust me. I'm good at keeping secrets."
Hamilton laughs, a startled burst, because that is certainly true. Who better to keep his secrets than a literal spy? But he still hesitates. Lets his hands fall aside to rest on either side of his head. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and worries at it, deciding just how much to admit.
Herc's expression turns serious. "Talk to me, Alex."
"You don't have to look at me like that," Hamilton protests, trying not to sound defensive. "I'm fine, I just… Don't want to feel like I'm using you. And that's what it'll be tonight, I can tell, and that's not fair to either one of us."
Hercules pushes himself onto his knees, and Alex sits up, eases back so they're not crowding each other's space. They're still touching, but it's a glancing sort of contact. Herc's knee against his thigh. The back of his wrist against Alexander's shoulder when Hercules lays one arm across the back of the couch.
"You got something else on your mind?" Hercules presses when Alexander doesn't continue.
Fire ignites beneath Hamilton's skin, and he turns away, stares at the floor as he forces himself to admit, "Things have gotten complicated. With General Washington."
Silence greets this statement. But when he turns his head again, ready to brave any number of dramatic reactions, he finds Hercules watching him patiently. As though waiting for the other shoe to drop. As though what Hamilton has said isn't momentous enough and there must be more revelation to come.
"Would you fucking say something?" Hamilton demands finally, frustrated and self-conscious.
"Is that all?" Hercules blinks at him. "Alex, you've always been an idiot for Washington. What's the big deal all of a sudden?"
Indignation flares in Hamilton's chest at how carelessly Hercules says those words. Or perhaps what he really hates is the fact of being seen through so easily. Spy or not, surely the clues weren't that obvious. Surely Hamilton isn't completely transparent. After all, no one but John has ever called him out, and Alexander has plenty of friends meddlesome enough to do so.
He sets the indignation aside and forces himself to answer. "The big deal is, turns out the general's just as much of an idiot for me."
This time Herc's eyes flash comically wide. His jaw drops, some protest on the verge of speech that doesn't quite reach the open air. He gawps, silent and disbelieving, as several seconds stretch toward eternity. Hamilton feels strangely vindicated at having managed to surprise his friend. It feels almost as good as the simple fact of having said the words out loud for the first time. He has not admitted this to anyone before; he's not likely to do so again.
"You clearly aren't fucking him," Hercules says at last, an eon later. "There's no way you're fucking him. If you were, you wouldn't be in my quarters right now."
"I'd still be in your quarters," Hamilton protests. "Just not letting you pin me to the couch."
"Jesus, Alex."
"So you're saying Washington has a better poker face than me?" Hamilton tries to inject levity into the question, but the attempt only gets him an exasperated look. "What? It's a fair question. You figured me out from a mile away, but you had no idea about him."
Hercules heaves a put-upon sigh and rolls his shoulders, a tired gesture and—probably not a coincidence—one that buys him several seconds before speaking.
"I almost wondered, when I saw him in the mess hall tonight. The way he came in, got the coffee, and went straight for your corner?" Hercules gives a shrug. "And then he stayed there. He didn't even come greet me, I had to go to him. I just… assumed he was being reticent. The general's not big on parties."
"That's true," Hamilton agrees.
"So why haven't you fucked him?"
Hamilton's not even drinking a beverage and he still nearly chokes at the blunt question. But he also recognizes the sincerity behind the words, and feels compelled to answer truthfully.
"Because he's my commanding officer and he refuses to touch me." God, it hurts to put Washington's rejection into words. To lay it out, so stark and honest. To admit, even indirectly, how desperately he wants Washington to touch him, and how frustrating to be thwarted at every turn.
It’s torture knowing his general desires him and yet intends to do nothing about it.
"Yeah," Hercules says after an agonizing stretch of silence. "I guess that does sound like Washington. So what're you going to do about it?"
Hamilton's shoulders slump and he shakes his head. "I'm not going to do anything at all."