(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

When Alexander sees the white flag he thinks his eyes must deceive him. This time around he’s fed and sensible and decently clothed, and while his toes may be cold in his boots, a fire warms them perfectly well. This time around Angelica laughs at his jokes and agrees his strategies are decent and when she doesn’t, he yells at her until she agrees. (Sometimes she yells at him, until he agrees.) This time around John’s right there at his elbow and sometimes they take each other in hand even though his thoughts and his passion are so, so, so far away. A man has needs, sure, and maybe John can do enough to satisfy his, the way cracked bread quenches hunger or tepid water quenches thirst. He hasn’t had a real dinner in months. He knows the object of his desire would sooner fast than settle for mealy flour, like him. But they have agreements. They know him. He’s a scavenger in a general’s coat.

So this time he’s bloody and he sees the flag, like last time. He pushes forward because he’s always thought clothing and rank is something to make other people suffer. Men around him - men who suffered like he did - stare at him in shock. He doesn’t see them, really. He sees the flag and the man coming out to meet him, wearing a jacket like his.

“General Hamilton,” says the man, and Alexander can see him two thread-pulls away from losing it.

He takes the man’s sabre. The man’s sabre is well-worn but it’s elaborate and well-made. He assigns men to discuss, and then he finds Peacock and goes. He remembers the races him and Washington would have across Mount Vernon as he pushes Peacock as hard as the horse’ll go. He glances over his shoulder, as ridiculous as it is. George should be there, ready to overtake him, in his moment of weakness, exhaustion. He usually is. Not quite smiling. Sweat dripping down the strength of his back. His general.

He rides through the night and through the day and urges Peacock faster, more. Peacock understands the double-weight at his hip. Peacock knows where they go.

He staggers off the horse at mid-evening, legs numb, seat sore, every muscle screaming. He almost hits the ground, once his feet are out of the stirrups. He staggers through the camp to the confused glances of every soldier. He slams through the camp, his weapons jangling at his side.

He knows the right office, knows the right door. Sees his husband curled around his table with all the other generals. They see him, but he doesn’t see them; he has eyes only for one man, who stares at him with familiar, wonderful confusion. He alone can see the thoughts write across his face: what has happened? has something terrible occured? i am so grateful to see you, but –


He pushes past the other men and grabs his husband’s jacket and kisses him. He is undiplomatic, as he’s always told. He is impulsive and rash and driven by base desires. He overwhelms his husband for a few moments, who cannot always restrain himself. Washington kisses him back before he remembers, and then he pulls himself away.

“Your Excellency,” he says, panting with the effort of his ride, and the kiss, and desire that swells in his chest. The rest of the generals look at him in all different ways. expectant. “Your Excellency, allow me.”

He reaches to his hip, unclasps the enemy’s weapon from his chest. Kneels, willingly. Offers the weapon above his head.

A huge silence swells. Alexander knows Washington’s soft gasp, what it means.

“Is this…….?” Washington murmurs, coming to stand in front of him. He takes the sabre. Alexander stands again and looks at him, eyes bright.

“It is, Your Excellency,” Alexander says.

“So then…”

“You are expected, for terms.”

Washington slides the weapon out of the scabbard, for a second. Then, after a moment, he clips it to his belt. Washington stares at him in the most incredible bafflement.

“Well?!” says Sampson, from somewhere off to the side, “What are you waiting for, General? Kiss him!”

Washington obeys. Alexander feasts.