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It’s the in-between moments, that Washington starts to crave. Watching that slow return of awareness, discovering the knots undone and full mobility once more; blinking heavily into the muted light and registering the absence of the blindfold.No longer fully under but not yet quite back to himself. A liminal state of utter relaxation, reliably far too short, in which Hamilton occupies a place of genuine affection – of need – before he rouses enough to hasten the process along, dressing with an air of professional efficiency so brisk one might have thought his presence an imposition on Washington.Needless to say, it’s not. Not when he’s flexing his sharp wit, winding his captain up in those minutes before he surrenders to him fully. Not when Washington’s got him laid out before him – trussed up or not, blindfolded or not – practically vibrating in the effort to be still and quiet. Not when he’s losing himself to the relentless ministration of fingers, of a slick tongue and a warm mouth, of hands that alternate cruelty and care.Not when he’s panting and wild-eyed beneath Washington’s broad form; when he’s begging and delirious with desire and urging his infuriatingly, infinitely patient captain harder, or faster, or like this, or like that.More.And certainly not in those drifting moments, when he’s been driven to the edge and shattered apart, when he submits and lets go and just feels.But it’s what comes next that Washington starts to crave. Flexing fingers and toes. Heavy eyelids that blink blearily up at him as he smooths the sweaty hair from Hamilton’s forehead; as he rubs lotion onto rope-chafed wrists. A sweet, needy thing that clings to his arms and tugs him close, and simply breathes, before the press of work and duty, and the delicate arrangement between them drives Hamilton up and away once more.“Your skills are wasted on the bridge,” Hamilton tells him one night as he’s tugging his clothes back on.“I think I’m at once flattered and insulted.”They’re several months into this thing, whatever it is. Inconsistent, subject to their fluctuating schedules, away missions, unplanned emergencies ranging from the dire to the absurd.“To be fair,” Hamilton glances up as he finishes fastening his tunic, “it’s fundamentally the same skill set. Strategy. Tactics.” He comes back to the side of the bed where Washington is still sitting, just watching him, and leans down for a, frankly, filthy kiss. “Dominating your opponent.”Washington considers that. “Are you my opponent, then?”Hamilton turns for the door; pauses when he gets there to look back, offers a sly grin and a quirked brow, and ducks out the door.It occurs to Washington that he’s never really stopped playing that damned game of chess.