A Million Things I Haven't Done [Jamilton]

Chapter 5 - Murder

Alex woke up to sunlight streaming through the cracks of the curtains. He looked over to his bedside clock - of course, Jefferson had a bedside clock - and realized that it was barely 7 A.M. and he had to finish his report. 

He hoisted his laptop from the nightstand to his lap and started typing, finishing 15 more clauses, and sending it off to Washington after proofreading it. It was 8:30 by then, and Alex received a very threatening yet sweet reply -

From - Washingdad (washington.upstate.com)
Son, go to sleep, or I will block your access to the company's intranet pool. 

Alex sighed. There was no way he would go to sleep right now, so he decided to text Washington instead. 

George!

What is it, Hamilton?

I'm bored. 

It's 8:30. 

And you're awake. 

I'm not on vacation. 

I'm bored nevertheless. 

You know that you're not supposed to have private texts on the intranet, right?

You monitor the private texts, George. 

I hope Jefferson and you haven't killed each other yet?

That's why I texted, actually - I need a place to hide the body. Can I use Martha's dishwasher?

Very funny, son.

Don't call me son -
And no, we haven't killed each other. Did you know that Jefferson cooks well?

He brings a large casserole every company potluck. You refuse to eat it, and call it 'devil's food' and claim he will poison your portion specifically. 

Yes. 

Maybe you might actually get along after this. 

I can make one promise - I'll be stealing Jefferson's lunch everyday and eat that instead of coffee. 

That might help you put on some weight

Shut up, George

Gladly. Good day. 

George.
George!
GEORGE!

Alex huffed and closed the intranet browser. Washington might have been a father figure (not that he would ever admit it) but he cared about Alex too much. 

With nothing to do, he decided to go to the kitchen and frost the cake. The next few items for today were to eat something he had made (other than coffee), play Dance Dance Revolution, buy something online, and finally, text Hercules with a picture of him being drunk. 
He shuddered at the yelling Hercules would do, but he was, after all, Hercules Momigan, first of his name. 

He walked into the kitchen and turned on the Miranda: an American Musical  soundtrack. He was secretly a theatre kid, but would never admit it to someone outside of his closest friend group. 
He sang along as he got on the stepladder, retrieved the sugar and butter, and started creaming them together. It was a weird word, he mused, as his cracked voice sung along to Helpless. He wasn't the best singer, but he was in the rap group of his school in Nevis before -