(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

Washington had to push open the apartment door so that it would move against the dirty clothes that had been left carelessly behind it. He studied Hamilton’s apartment with evident distaste. In many ways, it perfectly reminded him of his spitfire assistant. The apartment had been nice when it was rented - an affluent two-bed, two-bath. Kitchen with new appliances. Living room with nice windows. Only Hamilton had decorated by throwing his crap in every direction. Dirty dishes sat in the sink, despite a dishwasher. Three garbage bags, not yet having made it to the trash, sat next to the garbage can. At least they were knotted shut. He had no doubt that if he were to open the refrigerator, he would find a host of empty egg cartons and beer.

Washington thought, idly, how interesting it was that Hamilton was capable of what he was professionally, and this was his living space.

In the living room was an impressive stack of takeout containers, more clothes. The television was on CNN. Hamilton’s computer set-up, complex enough to justify the tangled mass of wires. One monitor on some porn site, the other two with work. His assistant was nowhere to be found.

He had never seen a bigger disaster than Hamilton’s bedroom, in which the floor could not be seen from the unorganized piles of shit which collected in one sea of mess. No lump in the bed, no dark hair.

He opened the bathroom door, and winced at the smell. That seemed to be a good sign.

Ah, here he was, naked except for his boxers, looking bruised and sick.

Hamilton was laying on the bathroom floor mat, breathing shallowly, his eyes closed. He was pale and sallow, his skin slick with sweat, his hair tangled around his face.

He nudged Alex’s stomach with the toe of his shoe. The man groaned, and his eyes fluttered open. For a second, his gaze was far-away, confused and distant. Then his eyes sharpened as thought came back into them.

“You’re supposed to be at work today,” Washington said.

“Urgh,” Hamilton said, unhelpfully. Slowly, he dragged himself into a sitting position and ran his hands through his hair to pull it from his face. “Someone gave me something really bad last night.”

Washington cocked an eyebrow. Hamilton looked up at him.

“Fuck,” Hamilton continued, and he looked at his arms and his chest and legs, as if to assure himself he still had his whole body. “You’re here. That’s bad. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did. Eight times, in fact, all through yesterday and this morning.”

“Yesterday?” Hamilton stood, slowly, groaning. He walked over and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, and made a look of a disgust at what he saw. Then he turned and put the shower on and kicked off his boxers. “That’s really bad. It’s not Monday?”

“It’s Wednesday afternoon.”

“Drugs are bad, folks,” Hamilton said, and stepped into the shower.