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It's none of his business, so Washington doesn't bring it up, but he's not one for lying to himself. It bothers him that Alexander is keeping intimate company with someone else.
He wouldn't even know if not for needless gossip.
But gossip is the sole unstoppable force in the universe, and it's all the worse aboard a crowded starship. Washington didn't even bother reprimanding the two crewmen he overheard; he wouldn't interfere on anyone else's account, and he couldn't justify doing so simply because they happened to be discussing Alexander Hamilton.
The fact that Hamilton departed the festivities with Mulligan is by no means proof that anything happened. Washington almost wishes he were a little less informed, a little better at self-delusion. Maybe then he could convince himself that, never mind the late hour and the way the two men were apparently touching, they simply left to talk. Friends talk, especially when one of them is newly returned from a secret and dangerous assignment.
But Washington is an observant commander, and he has always watched Hamilton too closely. Worse, Hamilton is blunt and honest and generally sees no point guarding his personal life from scrutiny. Which means Washington has all the information he requires to conclude that they were not just talking. Not when they've been so unapologetically intimate in the past—not given their mutual history of late nights, of mornings in each other's quarters, of arriving barely on time for duty shifts sporting matching bruises just above the collars of their uniforms.
The fact that Hamilton is sporting no such bruises today doesn't negate the rest of Washington's certainty. There is no room for doubt, and he will have to make peace with what he knows. He's not angry. He has no right to be angry—no standing for possessiveness—and he sure as hell doesn't get a say in whose bed Hamilton shares.
But he hurts. Somewhere deep and private and shameful, he aches to make a different decision than the one his responsibilities require.
Washington allows no hint of this hurt to reach the surface. He has a starship to run. If he turns down more chess invitations than usual, at least he can conjure plenty of valid reasons. He is busy. Perhaps not so busy he couldn't make time for his boy, but his pretexts are irrefutable. He makes sure of it.
He is also careful not to find himself alone in Hamilton's company. Avoids him off duty, collects excuses not to step into empty turbolifts with him, keeps a buffer of both people and duties between them at all times. It's not because he fears his own actions, but because he knows his boy. Hamilton must be aware that Washington is off balance, and if they're alone he will inevitably try to explain.
Washington requires no explanations. He does not want them. But ordering Hamilton not to talk is a fruitless prospect and he knows better than to try. The only solution is to avoid giving him the opportunity to begin.
Several days pass. A week. Two weeks. Washington's center of gravity returns by grudging degrees, and he grows increasingly confident Hamilton won't try to ambush him. He stops dodging his boy's chess invites. Allows his previous routine to settle back in around him, broken only by the occasional excitement of rescue missions and scientific discovery.
Perhaps he should know better than to lower his guard. He's never met anyone as stubborn or as meticulous as Alexander Hamilton.
Five weeks and four days after Mulligan's return, Washington recruits Hamilton for an away mission. It is supposed to be simple, and fast, and it is neither of those things. The danger, at least, is minimal. When a section of subterranean lab collapses and traps them, neither of them is hurt. The infrastructure is well designed, and the rest of the compound remains structurally sound.
Washington and Hamilton are separated from the local scientists and the rest of the away team, but even this is pure inconvenience. They have functional comm lines, plenty of air, and a known position. It's only a matter of time before rescue efforts dig them out or the Nelson finds some way to compensate for the depth and composition of the caves in order to safely beam them to the ship.
But they're alone with an uninterrupted span of hours spreading out before them. Washington realizes even before Alexander speaks that he dropped his defenses too soon.
"I didn't sleep with him."
Washington's neck twinges with the effort of keeping still and not turning his head. He's sitting on the floor—so is Hamilton—both of them positioned with their backs to the wall and their knees bent. Matching poses, different walls, not quite close enough to touch. But since Washington sat first and Hamilton followed suit, it's a very near thing.
The words strike Washington with a shiver of simultaneous guilt and relief. Guilt because he should not feel ecstatic at Hamilton's assertion. Relief because it's impossible not to believe the ferocious candor in Hamilton's voice, and Washington is ecstatic. He is giddy and lightheaded and glad as hell, even though he has no right to any of those feelings.
"You have no obligation to account your personal life to me, Colonel." He keeps his voice steady with difficulty.
"Yeah?" Hamilton answers, tone mutinous. "You know, that statement would sound a lot more sincere if you looked me in the eye while you said it."
A valid point. Washington forces himself to raise his head, to turn and look at his boy. He maintains a veneer of calm with the movement, quirking a single eyebrow as though in challenge.
He honestly expects to find open rebellion on Hamilton's face. Something sharp and angry, something to convey the frustration Washington knows damn well his boy feels about their unacknowledged stalemate.
Instead he finds a more somber look. Sympathetic, perhaps even a shade guilty. As though Hamilton has anything to feel guilty about.
"I know it's been bothering you," Hamilton confesses without looking away. "Even though you would never say a damn thing about it. You're not as subtle as you think you are."
Washington swallows. To hell with this. Perhaps bluntness is required after all.
"It's none of my business who you sleep with."
"Isn't it?" Hamilton answers softly, and the sincerity in his eyes makes it impossible to look away.
"Alexander…" There is no point resorting to rank. This conversation has already taken an irreversible nose dive into more personal realms, and trying to impose propriety now will only rile Hamilton's temper.
"Pretend all you want. We both know you aren't indifferent. You've been crawling out of your skin since Hercules got back, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why."
Washington doesn't answer. He does not dare.
Hamilton waits, obviously expecting some sort of reply. When none is forthcoming, he heaves a low sigh.
"I'm not trying to corner you, sir. I just thought you should know. Whatever you think happened… it didn't. And it's not going to."
"I have no intention of interfering in your love life," Washington protests helplessly.
Hamilton barks an incredulous laugh. "What love life? Are you fucking kidding me right now?" A beat of silence is all it takes for Hamilton to sober once more. "I happen to give a damn when you're hurting. And even if I didn't… I can't. I can't just blunder forward like everything's normal. I don't know what the hell this is, but I can't pretend it's not there."
This is dangerous territory, and Washington looks away. He can't keep meeting Alexander's earnest and expressive eyes.
"I'm not asking you for anything," Hamilton says, heavy, like he's voicing the conclusion of a difficult thesis. "I just needed you to know."
They spend the rest of their wait in silence. When the rescue party at last unearths them, his boy smiles at him. Warm and honest and complicated.
They return to the ship, and Washington does not know what to do.