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“You told Washington I wasn't fit to come to the next Cabinet meeting?! It was only a minor cold, for God’s sake!”
Well, that had been quite the start to Thomas' morning. He glanced over his papers while Hamilton, who currently stood in front of his desk, practically vibrated with rage.
Thomas wasn't in the mood to deal with this in the slightest. He set down his papers and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“No. I suggested it.” he said rather brusquely, hoping Hamilton would get the hint that now was not a good time. Thomas had been on edge all day, stressed by the speech he'd have to give later in the afternoon. A little-known fact about him was that he had a disdain for public speaking, especially in front of individuals he didn't know as well as, say, Hamilton. It was humiliating that Hamilton was the first person that came to mind when he thought of familiarity, but it was true. At least with Hamilton, he was blinded with the burning desire to put him in his place and couldn't care less who witnessed him tear into the man.
In fact, the Secretary of Treasury’s presence was beginning to cause Thomas a headache. He massaged his temples, only partially paying attention to Hamilton’s frustrated grumbles about his “suggestion.”
“The last thing I need is you meddling in my personal affairs! You had no right to overrule me by speaking with Washington, and I frankly find your audacity appalling!”
The headache steadily worsened with each word that Hamilton spoke. Thomas leaned forward in his chair, his hands now putting more pressure against his temples. It didn't do much to ease his pain and Thomas recognized this might be the onset of one of his infamous migraines.
He tried to force himself to think. He had to say the right thing to get Hamilton out of his office, but his mind wasn’t providing him with any useful ammunition. He had nothing intelligent to say; this wasn't the brilliant side of Thomas that had written the Declaration of Independence surfacing, but the side of him that was all too done with putting up with Hamilton’s bullshit.
With that in mind, Thomas looked Hamilton in the eye. He must have looked as exasperated as he felt, for the man visibly began to rethink pissing him off.
Good.
“I didn't ‘overrule’ you. I gave Washington my professional opinion, and your defensiveness indicates it has some merit. Now, either leave my office or at least turn the damn lights down.”
With that, Thomas closed his eyes. He was finding difficulty focusing on anything besides the throbbing at the back of his head and the base of his skull, but his ears were able to pick up the scuffling of feet. Thomas dared to hope it was the sound of Hamilton stepping out of his office.
He was, of course, wrong. And disappointed.
The curtains Hamilton had so angrily thrown open when he first stepped into his office closed. Temporarily, the pain lessened, though it soon returned with a vengeance. Thomas pressed his forehead against the cool wooden surface of his desk with a small groan.
Hamilton’s voice broke through his thoughts, the pitch now much more grating than it was before. “Not much better, hm?”
“Don’t… talk.”
The sound of rustling fabric alerted Thomas to Hamilton drawing closer. He slowly leaned down, invading his personal space.
“I can whisper, if it makes you feel better.” The infuriating man whispered, the smirk audible in his tone. Thomas’s eye twitched.
“It doesn't make me feel better!” he snapped, wishing Hamilton would just leave him to his own misery.
Hamilton suddenly leaned away and before Thomas could question what he was doing, Hamilton's hands shot out and grasped onto his shoulders, his thumbs pressing down. A jolt of something indescribable jolted Thomas, who immediately sat up straight. “What about this?” Hamilton asked, smugly.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Thomas hissed, clenching his teeth as Hamilton’s thumbs pressed in again. He briefly opened his eyes and looked back to be met with the sight of the infuriating man shaking his head before adding his other fingers to the mix. Thomas would dare to say they were massaging him.
Hamilton clicked his tongue. “Relax. Damn, you’re tense. It's no wonder you suffer from headaches.”
Thomas made a short huffing sound, relenting. He was too exhausted plus a multitude of other things he couldn't put a name to to care about what Hamilton was doing or where his hands went, and it wasn't like Hamilton was hurting him. Quite the contrary, the massage was beginning to feel a tad pleasant, possibly even—
“Damn it!” Thomas hissed, sharply inhaling through his nose as Hamilton found a knot at the base of his neck. Hamilton said nothing about the outburst and instead redoubled his efforts, making that tingly sensation return. With it, Thomas realized the sound of Hamilton’s breathing wasn't nearly as frustrating as it was when he first entered his office. Reluctantly, he had to admit that his lessening desire to strangle the man was an improvement compared to before. Thomas willed his body to get over its fight or flight response, once again going pliant in the Secretary of Treasury’s grasp.
Thomas hadn't even contemplated how much of a miracle it was that Hamilton had been keeping his mouth shut, and how useful he could be when he wasn't blabbing about his useless politics. Those hands on his shoulders were the closest to heaven he'd ever been, and he felt much like a log floating along a slow-moving stream, carried along by the gentle current…
“Are you… purring?” A quiet, amazed voice broke into his subconscious.
Oh God, I'll murder him.
“Do I look like a cat to you?” Thomas snapped, already missing the momentary calm.
Hamilton considered it. “Well, you do have a tendency to brood like—”
“For a man of your caliber, that was a cheap—”
“Do you want me to continue or not?”
Thomas made an irritated sound and flourished his hand dismissively. Hamilton quietly chuckled, the sound sending tingles through Thomas's body. Soon, those hands were kneading him again, and all was right with the world.
I'll kill him later, Thomas promised himself, though he was fighting a losing battle.
Later, later…
Thomas’s head drooped, and he was lost. Above him, Alexander made an amused sound.
The Secretary of Treasury would live to see another day.