Chapter Text
When he was 2, Lafayette’s father called his son “spirited”. He was too young to care. When he was 8, his grandmother called him “turbulent”. He didn’t care. When he was 17 and left to his own devices, Monsieur de Noailles, trying to get him to like his daughter and get his own hands on his inheritance before understanding that Adrienne lacked the equipment the Lafayette boy would like, he called him a “petulant brat”. He didn’t care. When he graduated from the Ecole Nationale d’Administration, his teachers called him “a brilliant menace to our country’s foreign relationships”. He didn’t care. When Lafayette had to leave the French Embassy in Mali and be sent somewhere else, the Foreign Affairs Minister called him “our new Ambassador to the US”. And really, that was all he cared about.
Summer in DC was hot. Like, really hot. Lafayette didn’t like hot weather. No, wait : he loved hot weather. By a pool. With a glass of chilled white wine - maybe some Pinot? No, he decided. Sauvignon was the way to go. With a bathing suit on. Or nothing at all. In any case, not tying a black bow around his white shirt collar.
Today was actually his first cultural even in Washington. Some genius French kid with magical hands had discovered black and white keys on a piano could make music when she was two, and lo and behold, here she was giving a recital in the US capital at the grand old age of eight. He had organized the whole thing, a tour of the city with her parents and her, bullshitting his way through it because he’d only been there for a month, pictures, et cetera; but Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette was a charmer, and of course he pulled it off.
He looked at himself in the mirror, moving his hips slightly so his slacks felt more natural against his legs, and shot a smile at his reflection, dark chocolate eyes crinkling. He looked great. When did he not. He considered keeping his hair down, decided against it, pulling the curls up into a high ponytail. The TV was chatting in the background, a TV show or another; he didn’t really care. The flat was huge, not very personal; that was one of the downsides of being a young (the youngest ever. Not that he bragged about it. No, he flaunted it.) ambassador and moving from place to place. First Azerbaïjan but there was that regrettable incident with the Georgian Ambassador who was, well, not as conservative as he looked but definitely authoritative enough to remind Laf that literally fucking with the Soviet Union was no laughing matter and that the closet in the French Embassy was not soundproof. Then Mali and the war and the hospital and the Legion d’Honneur. But the goal had always been the USA. The Minister had been clear though : this assignment is not as easy as the previous ones had been. He was a professional.
He popped a lollipop in his mouth as he grabbed his jacket and ran down the stairs to get in the waiting car, waving at the doorman, Andrew, as he went.
The black sedan stopped in front of the National Opera. Lafayette thanked the driver, not waiting for the security guard to get out of the car to escort him. At least, inside the building, security was scattered enough that - hopefully - he wouldn’t have to deal much with them. Lafayette hated feeling like he couldn’t come and go at his convenience, learning from a young age how to sneak past his grandma’s room at night, how to climb out of his boarding school’s windows when in high school to go to bars and find someone who wouldn’t mind paying a beer to a 17 year old who would talk his ear off about his ideals of freedom and rightful civil disobedience before disappearing into the night to get some sleep in time for his 8am history class.
But apparently, security was something you had to deal with when the President of the United States was attending a recital. Go figure. It was actually the first time Lafayette would meet President George Washington. He was not anxious, just a bit nervous. The man was the leader of the Free World, as they said. He also happened to be absolutely gorgeous and Lafayette had to shake those ideas from his head - it was one thing to be a pain in the ass, it was another thing to want said pain in the ass to be caused by the man he would be working with for hopefully a few years. Nevermind that the tall, dark, serious President was just the kind of man Lafayette would love to see lose control under his fingers.
He made his way to the bar, where Ségur, his assistant, was waiting, handing him a glass of chilled Sauvignon as he arrived.
“Thank god you are there, Ségur,” thanked Lafayette as he took a sip. “Is everything ready?”
Ségur nodded. “ Oui . The family is already in the front row. The child is getting ready. I swear, she is easier to work with than freaking Marion Cotillard.”
“More talented as well, probably.” Lafayette smirked at his assistant. “Has the President arrived? And the press?”
“The President is already sitting in his box with his staff. The press are stationed by the side of the stage. You are expected to meet him after with little Charlotte and get a few pictures taken. The official statement has already been sent to the media.”
“ Fantastique. Let’s get this show on the road.” He downed his glass in one go and walked a corridor in long strides until he got backstage, where the kid was getting her hair done in cute pigtails. He sat on the dressing table, much to the protest of the hairdresser lady, who he just winked at, making her blush and shake her head with a giggle.
“So, kid, are you ready to go and make your country proud?”
Charlotte blushed. “My mom said the President would be there.”
“Well, yeah. It is not too much of a big deal though. Are you nervous?”
“A bit.” She fiddled with the hem of her cute dress. “What if I make a mess and mom and dad are disappointed?”
Lafayette felt his chest tighten. “Do you like Disneyland?” The little girl nodded eagerly. “Well, I want you to breathe with me, Charlotte, okay? Count to three in your head, then, count to three when you let it out, okay?” She did as she was told. “Your mom and dad are very proud of you. You have done this a lot of times before, right? This is no different. You know what? If you smile and play to the end, I will get the three of you tickets to Disneyland.” She shot him the largest smile he’d ever seen. She was missing her two front teeth. He chuckled. “See? You are halfway there. If you are worried, I will be up in the balcony, right in the center, okay? Maybe we can go for ice cream, after the show, too.”
An assistant came to get Charlotte to the side of the stage where the director of the Opera was introducing her already. “Go get them, Mozart,” he told her as she left.
“I am playing Schumann tonight. I thought you had read the program,” she corrected him.
“I can’t believe I just got out-sassed by an eight-year-old,” Lafayette told the hairdresser as he jumped off the table and made his way to the stairs that led to the balcony.
She grabbed his sleeve. “What are you doing after the show?”
He patted her hand before kissing her cheek. “Oh, honey. Your chromosomes are way too identical for my taste.”
Lafayette made his way in the semi-dark until he found his seat, at Ségur’s right and State Secretary Greene’s left. The kid had already started playing, so he just sat and nodded politely at Greene, who mouthed “after the recital”, as if Lafayette was stupid enough to start making small talk to the President while the artist was playing and the press was probably taking pictures of them all already anyway. He thought he saw, from the corner of his eye, Washington’s head turn slightly. He focused on the Allegro .
George Washington had always loved classical music. It took his mind off the political matters he had to deal with on a daily basis. Not that he didn’t like his job : he’d fought for it. But being President was rightully taking all his energy, and the cultural events he could attend were a welcome moment of peace where he could sit a little less straight, be a little less controlling of everything that was happening around him. So when Greene had told him a little French prodigy was performing at the opera, a few days after he was back at the White House from his vacation at Mount Vernon, he’d just approved politely, but had fully embraced the moment of reprieve in his head. It was also the occasion of meeting the new Ambassador - the previous one, Estaing, had been great but so very uptight. The new one was, from what Greene had told him, young. Pretty young. And a bit of a wild puppy. But enthusiastic was good, Washington thought. There was not enough enthusiasm in politics anymore.
The man was late, though. The french usually were, he thought. His assistant - Ségur? - had said he’d gone to talk to the kid, which, if true, was pretty cute. George had no skills with children. Martha and him didn’t have any, unfortunately. He would have wanted to, he guessed. But now that he was alone, well. It was easier to devote his life to the nation.
He heard shuffling on the side but kept his head straight, looking forwards, to the small blonde kid making wonders out of the piano. He liked Schumann. Martha had liked the Romantics, introduced him to Beethoven, Berlioz, and his own favorite, Tchaïkovski. He didn’t miss her. But he missed the company. Classical music was perfect for this kind of longing.
He couldn’t help, though, turn his head just a bit as he saw in his peripheral vision Greene mouth something at the man who had just sat. He felt his heart jump, just the slightest bit, nothing he couldn’t ignore. The man was tall, relaxed, with a head full of hair he’d tried to tame in a ponytail and a winning smile like he knew the world was already his to take, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, an arm casually thrown around the back of Ségur’s chair. Nothing like Estaing, then. Nothing he had expected, actually.
The little girl - Charlotte if he remembered correctly - started a slower melody. It was vaguely familiar. He saw, from the corner of his eye, Lafayette sit, his elbows on his knees, attentive and illuminated by the soft light that came from the stage; Washington could see his features better, his light stubble, looking just this side of handsomely un-groomed, and the man must have felt observed because he turned his face and smiled at Washington who turned his head blushing as if caught with his hand in the candy jar, and now he remembered that Martha used to listen to this piece, the Ghost Variations, except that in his mind, Martha’s eyes had turned chocolate brown, and not their original blue.
The lights came back on, Charlotte took a bow, gracefully accepted the flowers she was handed, and trotted to the side of the stage where her mom and dad were waiting to hug her. There had not been a single false note. They were not disappointed, although her mother did correct her on her posture. Lafayette rolled his eyes as he approached them; he had sneaked away from the presidential box a few minutes before the end of the recital and boy was he glad because seeing the president up close, in relative intimity, had been both a blessing and a curse and he’d had to curl in on himself by the middle of the show, making it look like he was incredibly invested in the show (which he was, but not over the moon either), to hide a very inappropriate semi boner.
“Congratulations, Charlotte,” he said, kissing both her cheeks and accepting the hand she was holding to him, keeping it in his. “Monsieur Mussot, Madame, your daughter is a gift to the musical world. I have no doubt the President would like to congratulate her as well, if you’ll follow me?”
He led them to the reception hall, Charlotte’s hand still in his, where various politicians, artists, and upperclass people were honoring the timeless tradition of pretending to appear cultured while drinking heavily at the expense of the Embassy. They went to the bar and damn if the kid hadn’t deserved her apple juice. She asked why it didn’t come in a box. This was a diva in the making. Lafayette already liked her. He spotted Greene talking to Washington and made his way there, the family in tow.
“Ah ! Monsieur de Lafayette !” called Greene as he saw them approach. “And little Mademoiselle Mussot ! You were great out there !” Lafayette quickly translated to the little girl. The parents spoke English, though. They all shook Greene’s hand, and Lafayette finally looked up to the President. He wish he’d done it sooner.
The President was looking down - holy crap the man was tall - at him and Lafayette was not sure he could find his way out of his eyes if he wanted to. But, more importantly, Washington was swallowing slowly like he was nervous, and Lafayette saw his Adam’s apple bob, and he knew. He knew. He was in trouble. And that trouble was extending his hand to him, and, God, the hand was large, and Lafayette - okay, it’d been a dry spell lately and he had a things for hands, okay? - took the only way out his brain supplied : he got slightly up on his tiptoes and kissed the man on both cheeks, à la française , like they were long-time friends meeting for drinks, and Greene stared at them, coughing, “This… This is the Marquis de Lafayette, our new French ambassador.”
“Please call me Gilbert,” said Lafayette with the brightest smile he could manage, turning on the charm. He’d never told anyone to call him Gilbert before. “I am deeply honored to meet you, mister President, sir.”
“Likewise, son,” garbled Washington, taken aback. He was happy he was a public man and knew how to keep his composure. “Miss Charlotte, your recital was a delight. I feel very privileged to have been able to witness it.” He shook the little hand, to the kid’s confusion. “Monsieur de Lafayette, Gilbert, I am looking forward to working with you. Welcome to the United States.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s a dream come true. I already feel at home.”
Charlotte tugged on Lafayette’s hand. “Can we go get ice cream, now?” He nodded. “If you’ll excuse me. Mr President, Mr Greene. There is a chocolate cone with my name on it begging to get licked. Monsieur Mussot, Madame Mussot. Please tell my assistant when you go back to the hotel so I can bring Charlotte back here or there. Good evening.”
He made his way out, holding the child by the hand, and Washington could hear him say “See, kid, that was not scary. He is tall, but he needs a hug like we all do.”
“What was that?” he asked Greene, a bit stunned.
“That was the new Ambassador. I am sorry for his familiarity, sir.” said Greene, shaking his head.
George Washington was not sorry, actually. But it was not something he had expected, which, in his life, was a huge change. He shouldn’t even have asked the Secretary what that was, because he knew. That was trouble for him.