Chapter Text
James coughs wetly into his handkerchief, and regrets every decision he's ever made.
A few people at the surrounding tables look over; some with concern, most with disgust. James pays them absolutely no mind, and obnoxiously takes another drink of his coffee. If he stayed indoors every time he got sick, he'd never leave the house. Besides, most people have far better immune systems than he does. They'll be fine.
He burrows a little further into the soft fabric of his scarf. Well, 'his' in the sense that he stole it from Thomas. It's not like he'll notice; Thomas has more clothes than he knows what to do with. Besides, for some strange reason, everything Thomas buys is far more comfortable and luxurious than what James does, even if they're shopping at the same store. James is a little embarrassed that he can smell moisturiser on the scarf, and even more embarrassed that he can identify it. It's almost as bad as being able to smell Thomas' freaking shampoo in the beanie he also stole, and more than enough to convince James they spend too much time together.
For weeks, James has been almost entirely isolated from the world with a particularly nasty strain of the flu. He'd managed to stay somewhat on top of his work during his moments of lucidity, at first emailing Washington updated drafts and legislature he wanted to get approved. When Washington only emailed back telling him to get some rest (and James could feel his exasperation through the text), he switched tactics and started emailing Thomas instead.
What a disaster that was.
It wasn't that James wanted to work through his illness - he may be dedicated to his job, but he was no Hamilton - it was more that he knew exactly how things were working whilst he was away. Usually, Thomas was fairly level headed. Not practical, he was far too idealistic to ever be practical, but rational. Judicious. Sensible.
All of that flies out the window the second Hamilton opens his mouth.
Instead, Thomas becomes some sort of maniacal, competitive beast, hell bent on destroying Hamilton and little else. Even worse, Hamilton - fairly unstable on a normal day - seems caught in the same pattern. James may not agree with Hamilton's beliefs, but he used to be mollified by the fact that, at the very least, Hamilton would always do what he believed was best for the country. He was wrong, but the intent was there. The second Thomas swaggers in, all fake confidence and disparaging smirks, Hamilton loses his last grip on sanity, taking all his fanaticism and devotion and turning it against the Democratic-Republicans. Or, more specifically, against Thomas.
It would be fascinating to watch if it wasn't up to James to keep the country running as a result. Regardless of how much Washington trusts in Hamilton's ideas and Thomas' intelligence, he still needs someone actually doing work, as opposed to reviving the centuries gone tradition of having an arch-nemesis.
Emailing Thomas was his attempt to deescalate whatever situation was brewing in his absence. For his efforts, he received a barely comprehensible mess dedicated entirely to complaining about Hamilton. When James sent more emails - all of which avoided mentioning Hamilton by name - and received nothing but more complaints, he gave up.
Thomas kept emailing him, because of course he did.
There was barely any mention of what was happening at the White House, which was worrying. With James out of the office and his working ability reduced to a few hours of lucid thought, he shuddered to think of the mess that would be awaiting him.
(A very small part of him revels and rejoices in the quiet. Not having to babysit two grown men is so relaxing).
The small ding of the bell above the cafe's door doesn't disturb his thoughts, but the crash of the door and an inarticulate scream sure do. James glances over and suppresses an inarticulate scream of his own.
Hamilton. Of course. No one else could enter an almost silent room and so easily fill it with noise.
He seems frazzled, hair flying in every which way and fury etched in every feature. To James' disbelief, Hamilton lights up upon catching sight of him, despite his efforts in minimising his presence in order to avoid a conversation that will no doubt result in both of them getting thrown out.
Hamilton sits down opposite him, grinning like the maniac he is. James sighs internally; he really liked this cafe.
"Herc, thank god I ran into you!"
Huh?
Already, Hamilton is talking a mile a minute, paying no mind to James' impression of a dazed and confused goldfish. "Listen, I need you to talk me out of something really, really stupid, because Laf will just encourage me and Laurens will never let me live it down and even I can recognise this as a bad idea."
"Wait-" James interrupts, because Hamilton has clearly mistaken him for someone else and whilst he isn't above a little manipulation and deception in politics, this is far more personal a discussion.
True to form, Hamilton doesn't let him finish. "No, hang on, you gotta hear the whole story. I told you how Madison has been out sick, yeah? And that Jefferson is somehow even more infuriating without his little lapdog to stroke his ego-"
And oh god, this is a discussion about him and Thomas, just brilliant. Later, James will have time to reflect and laugh about how Hamilton has completely misinterpreted how he and Thomas work, perhaps over a glass of wine with the man himself. In this moment, James mostly wants Hamilton gone. "Listen-" He tries again.
Hamilton waves an impatient hand, and just keeps on talking. "-so now we aren't even getting any work done because Jefferson is incapable of not being a pretentious ass and he's somehow worse with Madison gone. I honestly didn't think he could get any worse, Herc!" Hamilton looks to him with wide eyes, and James debates whether he should try and interrupt again or if he's already in too deep. "How could he get worse? It shouldn't be possible, there should be a limit on douchebaggery."
He jabs a finger on the desk, and James almost feels as if he's in a cabinet meeting, watching Hamilton debate for his life. Or, perhaps more accurately, it feels like he's gone back in time ten years and he's watching Hamilton tout the various brilliancies of the Constitution. Except at the time, he would watch with a fond smile and marvel at how Hamilton's brain moves too fast for his mouth to keep up. Now, he mostly feels awkward and voyeuristic.
"This morning, right, we had this meeting. Just me, Jefferson and Washington thank god because it was a complete disaster. It started when Jefferson insisted that the banks will strangle the South, which is total bullshit-" And off he goes again, barely pausing for breath. At this point, James figures he should treat it like a hurricane; wait it out and hope he survives. "-next thing I know, I'm standing on the table, the shredded remains of my financial plan litter the floor and I'm fairly certain Washington was having some sort of coronary attack. And well, you know me," Hamilton rolls his eyes, evidently sharing in some sort of in-joke that James is most definitely not part of. He manages a weak smile anyway. "I'm not exactly the best at holding my tongue. So I may have said something that provoked Jefferson, but seriously he was way over the line."
Hamilton sounds like a child trying to justify why they hit their sibling, his excuses weak and pitiful. James raises a single eyebrow. It's only after the eyebrow is halfway raised that he realises how distinctive it is, how Hamilton is going to see it and think of nothing but Madison.
It doesn't even phase him. If anything, he takes it as encouragement. "Okay, what I said was pretty bad, looking back. I brought up his wife. It was messy." At the very least, Hamilton looks a tad ashamed. It registers somewhere in the small corner of his brain that isn't busy resisting every attempt to do something rash. Like immediately race to check on Thomas. Or punch Hamilton in the face.
"Stop looking at me like that, I know I fucked up." God, he's still talking. "But it doesn't excuse what he said to me! He got super quiet, I think Washington was about to intervene, but then he looked me straight in the eye and said 'well, you'd know all about wives, considering how you were whoring yourself out behind the back of yours'. Which, y'know, that was probably called for. I deserved that."
Honestly, James was a little surprised. That wasn't much worse than what Thomas usually through at Hamilton; to know that he gets so bent out of shape over the slightest of (true) insults was interesting.
"Then he gets all up in my face, and says 'must be in the blood, how long till you start charging like your mother?'" Hamilton sits back, a peculiar look on his face, and it's as if the fire leaves his body all at once. James remembers once thinking that there was nothing inside Hamilton but anger. His passion was angry, his sadness was angry, his happiness was angry. Looking at him now, James wonders if he ever really did know him. He seems almost defeated, drained. Exhaustion is a usual look for him, as well worn as the man's single suit, but beaten is something completely new.
Hamilton puts his head in his hands, and they sit in silence for a moment. James kind of wants to reach out, to say something. He'd always assumed that he'd revel in watching Hamilton be conquered, that he'd enjoy seeing someone so full of themselves be brought back down to the realm of mere mortals. This is different though; there's no victory to be had in this.
It's a bit of an unspoken rule, between Thomas and Hamilton, that there are certain areas off limits. Don't bring up Martha. Don't talk about Hamilton's mom. Technically, Hamilton crossed the line first, but Thomas definitely ended the argument. He had a tendency to shut down when Martha came up, and Thomas with no emotional restraint was cold, cruel and heartless. He'd strike where it hurt and worry about the consequences later, when he could move past the smell of antiseptic, nights spent sitting in uncomfortable hospital furniture, the sound of her flat lining.
"Anyway," Hamilton sits up, and the cocky, arrogant persona is back, "that brings me to my problem. I know this isn't exactly your area of expertise, but John will actually murder me and Laf's friends with Jefferson, he'd probably tell him and think he's helping, French bastard."
No. No no no. James should've stopped this ages ago, should have put his foot down and forced Hamilton to listen. It's too late, already he's leaning in, voice dropping to a whisper, and James can't help but watch. A car crash in slow motion.
"I think I have... feelings. For Jefferson." He spits the sentence out, immediately looking disgusted at himself. "Ugh, even saying it feels wrong."
James chokes on his own tongue.
Whilst he's coughing a lung up (he'd always known Hamilton to be unobservant but the very fact that he has yet to figure out James' unintentional deception is mind boggling), Hamilton runs a hand through his hair and continues speaking. "I know, I know, it's nauseating. It used to be meaningless hate sex fantasies - everything he says may be trash, but it's not my fault he won the genetics lottery - and then suddenly I'm daydreaming of holding his hand in a park, like a fucking teenager."
At any other time, the look of pure repulsion on Hamilton's face would be entertainment for weeks. As it stands, James manages to cough out a mangled, "how?"
Fortunately, Hamilton seems far too concerned with his own crisis to hear how Southern James sounds. "I don't know, I didn't even realise until he was insulting my mother to my face, and all I could think about was how I wanted to wake up to him every morning. And punch him in his smug, Southern nose, but in a caring way."
"I don't-" James makes the slightest of effort into sounding gruff, but at this point, he's starting to think Hamilton is blind as well as fanatical.
"-understand? Neither do I." Hamilton sits back again, wry smile crinkling his face. "We've been... talking? I guess? We're usually the last ones to leave the office, and at first it was a great time to fight with no one around to stop us. It was like a stress relief; we never ran out of things to argue about.
"And then," Hamilton smiles, they're talking about Thomas and Hamilton is smiling, "they became more like debates, and then just conversations, and there's only so long you can talk to someone before you aren't enemies anymore."
There are a lot of questions James wants to ask right now. The most pressing being, since when are Thomas and Hamilton hanging out after work, and why was James not told? How long has this been going on?
"Don't get me wrong, we still fight like crazy. Every idea he has is wrong and I'm not going to put the country at risk just because I want to suck his dick," and that was far more than James ever needed to hear, "but it's different. Now, when we finish fighting, I want to eat terrible takeout with him and watch shitty movies."
With a noise akin to a beached whale, Hamilton let his head drop onto the table with an audible 'thunk'. "What's wrong with me, Herc." It wasn't a question. James was glad for it; he wasn't in a position where he could answer.
The ensuing silence was broken by the sound of a mobile ringing. Without lifting his head, Hamilton reached into his pocket and answered it. The voice on the other end sounded like Washington. There was something terse about the conversation; James hazards a guess that Washington is pretty done with the bullshit fountain that erupts whenever Thomas and Hamilton share a space.
"Alright Herc," Hamilton ends the phone call, standing up, "I gotta go. Washington needs me. Thanks for the pep talk, by the way. I feel... better." He gives a quick smile, bright and kind.
Then he's gone.
James sits back in his chair.
What the fuck just happened?