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Alexander has known for a while now that there is something wrong with him.
It takes him time to realize it. He, like so many others, tracks the countdown of his timer with a curious mixture of anticipation and dread, waiting for the day when he will meet the person he is to spend the rest of his life with. And then the numbers hit zero and he looks up and there is John, glorious and resplendent and beautiful, and he knows that he will love him with all of his heart and soul.
And he thinks, If this is what I have worked so hard to find, then my efforts have certainly not been in vain. For the first time since the hurricane, he cannot find it in himself to regret at all the fact that he lived when everything around him was destroyed.
Then, his timer resets.
It is John who notices it first, John who snatches at his wrist and stares at it with increasing confusion, John who looks up at him with something like heartbreak in his eyes. He tries his best to soothe his Laurens’ fears, tells him that he loves him and proves it to him in every way that he can imagine, and he thinks that John believes him, at least mostly. He vows that whoever the timer is counting for, he will pay them no heed, because John is the only man for him. The timer, he concludes, must be broken.
And then the numbers hit zero and he looks up and Angelica Schuyler is introducing him to her sister Eliza, and he is smitten.
He marries her. He loves her.
But he loves John too, loves him just as much, loves them both equally, and this is how he figures out that the timer is not broken after all. Because the timer is right , is right both times, so this can only mean that the fault lies in him.
Yet he has always been a selfish man, and so he tries to make plans to keep everything he has found. Eliza and John, he is sure, would get along so well if they met, so maybe, just maybe, everything will end up alright in the end.
John dies.
He has so much work to do.
And he does it, does it with ease and with pride, works and writes and practices law with Burr by his side and Washington chooses him to be the Secretary of the Treasury and everything he has ever wanted is falling at his feet and truly, there is nowhere to go but up and up and up. He is building a legacy, and it is beautiful.
And if somewhere along the way, his timer begins to count once again, he hides it, ignores it. He has no time for this, and Eliza is the only soulmate he needs anyway.
Regardless of his wishes, though, the numbers hit zero and he looks up and there is Thomas Jefferson , dressed in various hideous hues of magenta as if that is in any way a valid fashion choice-- has his time spent in France made him color blind ? Good God -- and smirking and grinning and quoting himself while he debates and overall being completely, utterly, irrevocably infuriating.
His timer must be broken after all, he decides. There is no way that he could ever fall in love with a man like Thomas Jefferson. No chance in hell.
(He meets Martha right when his timer hits zero, right on schedule. If it’s not love at first sight, it is very close, and when he marries her, he is the happiest man alive.
But she gets sick, and she doesn’t get better.
When she asks him, on her deathbed, never to marry again, he is quick to make the promise. After all, who would he marry? Who could he possibly love once his love is gone?
So when his timer resets and begins, once again, to count the days and hours, he ignores it. He made a vow, a vow that he fully intends to keep, so there must be something wrong with the timer. He will not allow himself to fall in love again.
In his mind, this resolution is only proven to be justified when, upon the clock reaching zero, he meets Alexander Hamilton.
It is mutual loathing at first sight. It seems that keeping his promise will be even easier than he anticipated.)
“Figure it out, Alexander,” Washington tells him. “That’s an order from your commander.” Alexander can see the frustration that he feels echoes in his President’s eyes, because he wants this just as much as he does. How can Congress not see the good this will do for the country? How can Jefferson not see? Of all the things the man is, he has never thought him to be an idiot, but now he wonders, his irritation coming to a boiling point.
He makes his way home halfway to enraged, but that all but melts when Eliza greets him with a smile and a kiss. There are times when he wishes he did not have the drive that he does; after all, of he did not constantly feel the urge to push forward, to do more , he would have more time to spend with her, and perhaps that would be worth it.
But he was not made that way, was not born to stop when there is more to be accomplished, and to think on that is worthless, a waste of time.
“What troubles you so?” she asks him, running her hands across his shoulders, gently trying to massage his stress away, as useless an endeavor as that may be.
Despite himself, he smiles. “Congress is being incorrigible,” he tells her, and takes her hand and kisses it. “But I will make them listen, have no fear.” He does not elaborate, but that seems to be enough for her, for she turns to look at him, a smile sparkling in her eyes and in the slightly upturned corner of her mouth.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” she says, and kisses him softly, her hand lightly cupping his cheek, and he remembers one of the reasons why he loves her so. She always believes in him, even when no one else does, and belief, perhaps, is more valuable than anything else in the world.
Jefferson could never hold a candle to her, he thinks, somewhat vindictively, and holds her close.
Even still, when he is alone, safely ensconced in his study, he begins to pen a letter to Angelica. As much as Eliza is always there to listen, she holds no real interest in the politics of his work, whereas Angelica will easily grasp the intricacies of what he is trying to do. And besides, she has met Jefferson before, has even, for reasons beyond his understanding, struck up a passing friendship with the man. Perhaps she will have advice on how to deal with the irritating peacock.
And if he asks for more information than might strictly be necessary? Well. it’s politics, after all, and there is no such thing as too much information.
(Hamilton is incorrigible, and what’s worse than that, he’s unavoidable. He prances in and out of Congress, day in and day out, shooting off at the mouth and spouting off terrible ideas and not leaving even when his presence is entirely unwelcome.
And to make matters worse, the man is smart. Very smart. He is the best competition he has come up against in years, and if he’s not careful, he’s going to find himself enjoying their debates. Sometimes, he wonders if he doesn’t already, and he thinks on the countdown of his timer and wonders, what if?
A moment later, he dismisses the notion as ridiculous, but the fact that he entertained the thought at all is bad enough.
He resorts to writing to Angelica eventually, because she is the man’s sister-in-law, so surely she must have some idea of how to deal with him. Her response, when it comes, is several pages long and unfailingly polite, but he is well-able to read between the lines for the true message, which amounts to ‘deal with it yourself, you idiot’ -- entirely unhelpful. Somehow, he gets the feeling that she’s laughing at him.)
Someway, somehow, he finds himself in a bar, complaining to Aaron Burr. Which is surprising enough in its own right; the relationship between them has seemed increasingly strained lately, though for the life of him Alexander cannot figure out why.
“He doesn’t listen to a word I say,” he rages. He has had more than a few already, but with all the work he has to do coupled with the knowledge that it is not Eliza waiting for him at home, he thinks he can be excused. “He doesn’t even have any ideas of his own, he just takes a perverse pleasure in destroying all of mine!”
“In his defense,” Burr says dryly, “you tend to be… somewhat abrasive.”
He jams a finger in Burr’s face, because the man isn’t getting it. “I realize that!” he exclaims. “But this isn’t funny! I could lose my job if I don’t get my plan through!”
Burr regards him evenly. “Would that be so terrible?” he asks. “It’s not as if you don’t have other skills to fall back on. You made quite the successful lawyer, if I recall correctly.”
“That’s not the point!” He is thoroughly exasperated by now. “Just because you’re satisfied with where you are doesn’t mean I have to be!”
A shadow passes across Burr’s face, so quickly that Alexander is left certain that he only imagined it. “That’s hardly the point,” he says, and sips at his drink. “Alexander, have you tried actually talking to the man? Instead of whatever it is you’ve been doing? Shouting at him, I imagine.”
Alexander sends him a mulish look, fiddling with his glass, not particularly wanting to admit that, yes, shouting is a fairly apt description of what he’s been doing, though “lively debating” is the term he generally prefers. “Talking?” he asks, reluctantly.
“Yes, talking. It’s what normal people do when they want to solve a problem.”
He glares, even though he knows that Burr is right. If he’s going to get his plan through Congress, he’s going to need Jefferson’s support, and that means he needs to talk the man around. But the thought of going to him for anything absolutely burns. Because Jefferson won’t give him anything for free; he’s going to have to beg and grovel and God only knows what else, and Jefferson will never stop holding that over his head.
And he’s supposed to fall in love with this man? Ha.
“I know,” he mutters, and stares into his cup, which has become disappointingly empty sometime over the past five minutes. He’ll do what he has to, this much he knows. Anything to stay on top of the game. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.
“Hamilton?”
He looks up. Burr is watching him with something like concern and something like hunger.
“Be careful,” he advises. “That man is dangerous, and James Madison even more so. Watch your back.”
Entirely against his will, his fingers drift to his timer, hidden by his sleeve but no less present for that. The numbers feel like a brand. “Yes,” he agrees, though to what part, he doesn’t know.
(“What,” he demands of no one, fingers curling tightly around his drink, “does he think he’s trying to accomplish?”
He is more than a little bit inebriated already; but given the circumstances, he thinks it’s more than warranted. James regards him with no small measure of amusement.
“Hamilton is a smart man, for all his faults. He is well aware of the position he’s in, so he’s looking for a compromise,” he responds. “I’m not surprised. When push comes to shove, the man doesn’t let anything get in the way of his ambitions, not even his own pride.”
He hums noncommittally, staring into the depths of his glass. “So, are we doing this, then?” he asks, and tries to pretend as if he doesn’t care either way, even though he knows that he does, and he knows that James knows it too, though he won’t comment.
“You forget, I did work with him once, despite out currently opposing viewpoints. The Federalist Papers were a great accomplishment, and I know the man is capable of reason,” James points out. “With how desperately he needs his plan to pass, it should be relatively easy for us to get what we want. The Capitol, for instance.”
“Hmm.” The idea has merit, and to be able to work closer to home would be a blessing. But he would be lying if he claimed that as his only reason for looking forward to any meeting they have arranged. To be able to debate with Hamilton without all of Congress looking in, to pit themselves against each other one on one is an attractive prospect. When he speaks, Hamilton comes impassioned in a way he has never seen from another man; it is like watching a force of nature at work, and it is definitely a sight to behold.
You can’t let yourself fall for him, he reminds himself, but he begins to finger the sleeve under which his timer rests, and he wonders.
He hopes that James believes that his glower is directed towards the poor quality of the wine.)
The dinner goes surprisingly well. Alexander was expecting more opposition, but Jefferson and Madison seem almost as eager to reach an agreement as he is, despite Burr’s warnings, and while there are debates and arguments a plenty, none devolve to the point of name-calling as they do sometimes on the Congress floor. All too well does he recognize the light in Jefferson’s eyes as they spar, and he realizes that the man is enjoying this.
So is he, he has to admit, though he’s not sure he wants to examine the implications of that too closely.
All of the real surprises of the night come after Madison has begged his leave, claiming illness, leaving he and Jefferson alone in the same room for the first time in their acquaintanceship. They iron out the details as best they can, and Alexander wants to laugh in the Southerner’s face, for he doesn’t seem to realize just how much he has given him. New York will have the same amount of power as ever, the banks will make sure of that, and he will have unprecedented power with which to shape the nation’s new financial system.
All in all, a sound victory.
The night grows late, and they decide to end their meeting. Eliza, he is sure, will be expecting him, no matter that he told her he may not be home tonight, if at all.
But before he can leave, Jefferson grabs a hold of his sleeve, and his heart begins to hammer, leaping into his throat, which has suddenly gone very, very dry. He’s not even sure why; perhaps it is the look in Jefferson’s eyes, or perhaps it is the way that seconds have passed already but the man has not yet released his grasp.
“Hamilton,” Jefferson says, his voice missing just a bit of its characteristic cockiness, “before we adjourn for the night, I have one last question.”
He should pull away, he thinks, should refuse to listen, should talk over him until he leaves him be. But somehow, he has been frozen in place, and all he can do is wait.
“Did it stop?” Jefferson asks, and Alexander finds his voice.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps, and yanks his arm from the man’s grip.
Jefferson rolls his eyes. “Don’t play games with me, Hamilton,” he says. His eyes flicker to where the soulmate timer is hidden on his wrist, and Alexander goes very, very still. “You and I both know what I’m talking about,” he insists. His voice has gone low and rough, and, well. Alexander is far from blind; objectively, he has been well aware that the man was attractive, but never before has he inspired this reaction in him..
He’s not sure who initiates it, but in the end, he’s sure it doesn’t matter. It’s hardly the stuff legends are made of, all clumsy lips mashed together and pressing, demanding tongue and noses that bump together because they can’t seem to agree on a position. Alexander has definitely had better kisses, and somewhere in a distant corner of his mind he acknowledges that this-- whatever this is-- is definitely a bad idea.
But when they jerk back from each other, he sees his own hunger, his own want reflected in Jefferson’s eyes, and he can’t bring himself to care.
(Hamilton is a surprisingly attentive lover.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at all, but he expected him to be rougher, especially considering their relationship. But Hamilton seems to excel at tuning in to what his partner wants, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that he seems to have far more experience with men than he does himself.
“I don’t love you,” Hamilton tells him the next morning.
“I know,” he replies, for there is not much else he can say to that, and he continues to trace words onto Hamilton’s back. It’s not much, but it’s a start.)
They continue this… thing of theirs, though for the life of him, Alexander can’t quite figure out why. They certainly don’t love each other, don’t even like each other most of the time, and he refuses to believe that the timers have this much influence over their actions.
Regardless of the reason, though, they keep on seeing each other, no matter how unwise their dalliances may be.
Then, there is the Reynolds Pamphlet.
Which… in retrospect, he will admit that seeing Maria at all was unbelievably poor judgement. He will give the usual excuses to anyone who asks: he was lonely, exhausted, and she was beautiful and eager. But he knows the real reason why he did it. His timer did not count down for her, but he slept with her anyway, out of some misguided attempt to prove that the timer held no real power over his actions, that he was not beholden to a set of numbers.
Looking back, that was stupid. And not something he can explain to his wife, even if she were inclined to listen.
The Pamphlet itself, though, he cannot quite bring himself to regret. Objectively, he would rather be known as a cheater and a scoundrel than as a traitor to the country.
Eliza doesn’t agree. And even as he wishes he could bring her around to his side of things, he knows he would not be successful. And perhaps she is right.
Jefferson raises an eyebrow at him when he brings it up over a glass of wine. “You slept with another woman and published the intimate details in the newspaper,” he states, “and you expected her not to be angry with you. I have to say, that is incredibly poor judgement, even coming from you. I have to ask, do you do this with all your affairs?
He glares. “Do not,” he grates out, “sit there and pretend as if you are blameless. If you hadn’t threatened me with--”
“Well, if you hadn’t had the affair in the first place--”
“Oh, as if you can talk about that!” He pauses to gather himself. “I’ll admit, it was not a good decision. My timer has counted down for three people in my life. Maria was not one of them.”
There is silence for a moment, but Alexander can see the curiosity burning in Jefferson’s eyes. “Me,” he says at length, “and your wife, presumably. Who is the third?”
Alexander smiles without humor. “Perhaps the one man who could have convinced me not to take such a foolish course of action,” he says. He shoots Jefferson a dry look. “Don’t worry, you have no competition. He’s been long in the ground.” He won’t say the name. Even now, his loss is a gaping wound on his heart, only bearable when he tries to forget about him completely.
Jefferson snorts. “As if I care about that.” A beat. “I’m sorry,” he offers, surprisingly sincere.
He takes a sip of his wine. “It was a long time ago,” he says, because really, there is nothing else to say to that. He has no interest in dredging up the past, especially not for this man, though ironically enough, at this point Jefferson might be the closest thing he has to a confidante. He cannot go to Angelica, not anymore, and Eliza, for reasons entirely of his own making, is out of the question; if it were even a degree easier for women to get divorced, he is certain she would have already made moves to do so.
Jefferson sighs and reaches across the table, taking Alexander’s chin in his hand. He gives him a questioning look before moving closer, as if waiting for him to pull away.
Alexander has no intentions of doing so. This is what he came for, after all.
Jefferson’s kiss is surprisingly gentle. If he didn’t know better, Alexander would say that there was real caring behind it, real emotion, and that scares him more than anything else he has encountered thus far.
When they are forced to break for air, it takes a disproportionate amount of effort to gasp out, “I don’t love you.” It has become habit for him to say this at least once whenever they are together, though he no longer knows just who he is reminding, himself or Jefferson. Does it matter?
Jefferson looks at him and sighs again, though whether in exasperation or defeat, Alexander cannot tell. “I know,” he replies, his customary response, and then there are no more words at all. They do not need them, not for matters such as this.
Not for matters of the heart, Alexander most pointedly does not think, because there is no heart in this. Because they do not love each other. They cannot.
He wishes that doesn’t sound like such a lie.
(After the publication of the Reynolds Pamphlet, Hamilton starts coming around more and more. This is, of course, completely understandable, as the man is now on terrible terms with his wife and the rest of her family, and because he is a selfish man, he is more than happy to reap the rewards offered by the situation.
He does not miss, however, the fact that most days, Hamilton looks rather like a drowned puppy. One that has also been kicked repeatedly. Because of the nature of their relationship, he does not comfort him, but rather partakes in their usual verbal sparring matches, which seem to be the only thing these days that is capable of getting Hamilton out of his perpetual mood. That, plus the sex.
Though, honestly, what did he expect? He cheated on his wife. Did he not think there would be consequences if she ever found out?
He would sympathize with her, truly, he would, but he frankly doesn’t think he has the right. Not with what he and her husband have done. Are still, despite his better judgement, doing.
Every time Hamilton says it, says, “I don’t love you,” some part of him withers up and dies. Because he is beginning to understand that he is far more emotionally invested in this… whatever it is they have than he originally wanted to be, and if he has any good sense, he’ll cut this off now, while there’s still time to run.
His better judgement is really not being listened to very much these days.
Then, Philip Hamilton dies, and Hamilton stops coming around at all. Evidently, there is nothing like the death of a child to bring a family back together. He tries very hard not to be jealous of Eliza, because the circumstances are terrible and he would not wish the experience on his worst enemy, but he has never claimed to be a particularly good man, and the fact is that she has her husband while he… doesn’t.
He misses him, and wishes he was surprised at this realization. But he isn’t. Not at all.
Oh well.
He doesn’t see Hamilton again for nearly a year, and when he does, it’s a shock to his system, like being doused with cold water, because he didn’t expect to see him here at all. Hamilton has been staying out of politics since the death of his son; not completely, of course, because this is Hamilton, after all, but he is conspicuously uninvolved with issues which he would normally have been all over.
So, when it is down to the wire and either he or Aaron Burr is about to become President of the United States, when Alexander Hamilton bursts into Congress looking for all the world like he owns the place, like he’s in his natural element, the impact hits like a bolt of lightning. Because this is Hamilton like he hasn’t seen in years, swaggering and cocksure and eyes on fire, and for a moment, it’s like the old days, the Secretary of the Treasury versus the Secretary of State, the country hanging in the balance between them.
Hamilton makes a speech; the man knows exactly how much weight his words carry, and he is milking every last one. James is nervous, he can tell, but oddly enough, he isn’t. He should be, he knows; in the political arena, at least, Hamilton has always been his enemy, and there is no evidence thus far that would support any idea to the contrary.
But then:
“Jefferson has my vote,” he says,
and just like that, Thomas Jefferson is the President.
Well, not just like that. Probably. There’s a process, he’s fairly certain, but after that point, he’s not exactly paying attention.
“I didn’t do it for you,” Hamilton tells him that night, still slightly flushed, still panting just a bit. “You were merely the lesser of the two evils. I may not like your politics, but at least you actually accomplish what you set out to do.”
He smiles, leans in for a kiss. “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he purrs, and Hamilton must not like his tone, because he pulls back and glares.
“I don’t,” he grits out, “love you.”
“I know,” he replies. “Believe me, I know.”
These days, though, it is easier and easier to pretend otherwise. These days, he can see a future, and it is so, so very bright. He doesn’t need Hamilton to love him, not for that. Doesn’t even want Hamilton to love him, or so he tells himself.
He wishes he believed it.)
Time goes on, and so do they, and Alexander supposes that that’s how he finds himself here.
Could this have been avoided? he wonders. Or was this all inevitable? How long have we been circling around each other like this?
He pushes the questions out of his mind; he already knows the answer. Even now, there is probably still time, time to apologize, to recant, to forgive and to forget and live to see another day.
But he knows he won’t. One thing he will never do is apologize for speaking the truth. And if after all this time, Burr doesn’t know that, then the man never truly knew him at all. The thought saddens him more than he cares to admit. Everything between them has gone sour, but there was a time, not so long ago, when he counted Burr among his dearest friends.
We could have been so much more, together, he thinks, mournfully.
He has just sent Eliza back to bed, hopefully without raising any suspicions. If he is going to do this, he does not want to have her know beforehand. Because some part of him, deep inside, knows that he is not going to come back home from this. Not this time.
Time’s up. Rise up.
He is writing letters, now, letters to be delivered when-- if-- when the duel goes south. He wrote Eliza’s first, and took the most care with it, because if there is one thing he knows now that he didn’t before, when he was younger and not nearly as clever as he liked to think, it is that he doesn’t deserve her. Has never deserved her, and especially not now, not now that he is leaving her with so much to handle on her own.
But she won’t be on her own, that much he knows. She’ll have Angelica by her side, and together, they are an unstoppable force. The Schuyler sisters.
She will mourn and grieve. His entire family will. But they are strong, and they will be able to find it within themselves to move on.
His letters to them are done. What else is there to say?
He sighs, because he knows there is one more to write. One more confession to make, and why not make it?
There have been times in the past when he has written as if he has nothing to lose. Now that he truly does not, he finds himself oddly reluctant to pen the words.
Thomas, he begins, but that’s not quite right. He has never called him Thomas, refuses to make this the first and last time he does. Jefferson, he writes instead, and that feels better, because he knows that the use of his last name won’t erase the care he puts into scribing every letter.
The words come easier from there, as if he only needed a jump start, a gentle push. His hand flies across the page, though, in the end, that is all that is filled. A single page. Short, for him, but he has said all that needs to be said. All that will, now, ever be said.
Who could ever have thought that it would end this way?
Alexander imagines him, a hundred or more miles from here, probably sleeping by now, or on his way there, at least. He’ll have no chance to see him again before tomorrow, and the pang of regret that thought causes him is no less intense for all that he was expecting it.
“I don’t love you,” he whispers to the empty air, and almost smiles at the way the lie falls from his lips. For it is a lie now, though it wasn’t at the start. He loves him differently, he thinks, from the way he has loved Eliza, or even… even John. But the love is there, even if he has never really allowed himself to acknowledge it as such.
He glances at his wrist, the zeros glaring up at him, undeniable proof, even though he spent years trying to do just that.
It’s too late now, of course. Too late to go back and see what could have been. It is not too late to change his mind, though, not too late to go into this duel with the intention of coming out the other side intact.
He won’t, though. He’s decided, and he has always been a very selfish man. His decisions are his own, and one man will not change them.
The letter will just have to be enough.
(They say he aimed his pistol at the sky.
He doesn’t doubt it. Hamilton has always had… did always have a flair for the dramatic.
That’s death, he supposes. The space between the present tense and the past tense, and the journey you take to get there.
James gives him the letter himself, two weeks after Hamilton dies. He sets it on his desk gently and gives him a look that is entirely too knowing, entirely too sympathetic.
“Do you want Burr arrested?” he asks, his voice soft.
He waves a hand dismissively. “I’m sure that’ll take care of itself, won’t it?” he says, and it is sickeningly easy to affect a tone of nonchalance. Don’t make me handle that, he doesn’t say, though he suspects James hears it all the same.
“I’m sorry,” James says, “for what it’s worth.”
He swallows. “Don’t be,” he manages. “I hated the man, remember?”
James gives him a look, long and scrutinizing, before nodding. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll leave you to your paperwork, then.”
It is five minutes before he can work up the nerve to even pick the letter up.
It is sealed, and the envelope is thin, but his name is written on it in Hamilton’s looping scrawl, and the sight of it sends nostalgia and sorrow shooting through him all at once. How many times has he seen this somewhere, on a bill, on a proposal, on paperwork?
He opens it carefully; it is a single piece of paper, crammed all with words. And he cannot begin reading it, not yet, because his eyes have already caught on words halfway down the page.
I think I may have loved you, Hamilton has written, and he has to put the letter down and breathe for a moment, because it is so, so very like the man to say something like that and then go and die , just to irritate him.
He sighs, and rests his head on his hands. It takes a moment, but his lips curl up in something approximating a smile, halfway between bitter grief and wry amusement.
“Bastard,” he addresses the world at large. “Me too.”
He tucks the letter away. He will read it later. But for now, the sun comes up and the world still spins, and he is the President of a nation that he is determined will become one of the greatest in the world. He has work to do, and it will not wait on the whims of a single man, and most certainly does not halt for the death of one.
The zeros on his wrist stay, still and damning, and with a shake of his head, Thomas continues to write.)