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"Mister Secretary."
"Senator Burr, sir."
Burr sets his cutlery down and politely smiles up at Hamilton. "What brings you here? As pleasant a surprise as this is, you can see I am in the middle of having lunch with my colleagues."
Burr gestures to Jefferson and Madison across the diner table. They receive a stiff nod of acknowledgement.
"Mister Secretary, Mister Madison. I would hate to get in the way of bonding between colleagues - all I require is your signature on this document we discussed earlier and I'll be on my way,” Hamilton says.
Burr smiles pleasantly up at him, seemingly oblivious to the not-so-subtle bite behind the words. "Why of course, I am happy to be of assistance."
Jefferson observes the way Hamilton's eyes narrow due to the lack of acknowledgement his snark is receiving. He promptly produces a document from a leather shoulder bag.
And then comes the interesting part; he leans over Burr's shoulder, closer than necessary by any practical means, tosses the paper onto the table like a gauntlet, licks at the tip of the quill he pulls out of his breast pocket and places it into Burr's hand.
"If you please."
If Burr is bothered by the sudden invasion of his personal space as Hamilton keeps leaning onto the table over his shoulder, he doesn't show it. He smiles and signs the document with a few measured stokes.
"Working hard I see, Alexander," he says and hands the papers back.
Hamilton narrows his eyes again as he stares into Burr's. The obscene curve of his spine combined with the tight nip of his new (hideous) emerald coat would make most people look sleazy, but Hamilton is clearly a natural at pulling this sort of thing off. "You know me," he replies after a pause. "Sir."
The Secretary of Treasury straightens and nods into the Southerner's general direction again.
"Gentlemen."
And off he goes.
"Well," Jefferson breaks his uncharacteristic silence and twirls a spoon between his fingers, "I'm glad to see you and Secretary Hamilton are still, ah, close, despite of your career changes."
Burr picks up his cutlery and smiles again. "Oh, that's not exactly how I would characterize it."
Madison raises an eyebrow. "How would you, then?" The tick of Madison's wit is nearly audible from his side of the table. If Jefferson has noticed it, so has the other Virginian no doubt - the tangible shift in the dynamic between those two men. The way Hamilton has gone from sputtering outrage to surly gazes and suggestive undertones. The way he says sir.
"That's just Alexander being... Alexander," says Burr mostly to his plate. There is almost a certain fondness to his understated smile now. Jefferson leans in and back out again, stretches into a more comfortable position in his chair.
"Do elaborate," he says dryly.
"Alexander lacks the birth station and the physical stature to... gain control over situations, so when he feels threatened he compensates by flirting," Burr explains matter-of-factly as he dissects his venison steak. His eyes meet Jefferson's across the table, dark and opaque as ever. "You'll see what I mean."
Just then Jefferson is reminded of a different meeting altogether. That one occurred a while back, in a more discreet venue, and it had been Hamilton sitting across from him with his entire career, everything he had amounted to, on the table. He'd had the immigrant in a corner, and yet it had been the spiteful version of Hamilton with white hot rage simmering right under the veneer of forced civility sitting across the table, not the tomcat that emerges when Burr isn't taking his bait.
Jefferson has heard the rumors of course, of the reckless abandon with which Hamilton fell into bed with half of the revolutionary army back in the days of his youth. That mouth of his was infamous well before Hamilton gave that six hour long nightmare of a speech at the constitutional convention. Evidently marriage and family and the lack of a war as an excuse for sexual deviancy has domesticated his wild tomcat nature - except when Burr, of all people, brings it out again.
Madison, of course, is on the same page without exchanging as much as a sideways glance with Thomas. "And that is how you make him feel? Threatened?" he asks casually.
"Well," Burr says carefully, "I don't suppose Alexander exactly minds planting the seed of doubt between me and the other members of my party, either." The statement is nearly provocative in its nature but Burr delivers it while smiling at his plate almost fondly, like he and the Secretary of Treasury are sharing in on an old inside joke.
The sight evokes a peculiar shift inside Jefferson. He soon identifies it as irritation.
That is how it all begins.
~
Jefferson does, indeed, see what Burr means soon enough.
It happens right after a cabinet meeting. Jefferson and Hamilton are both still reeling, the latter one doing a lot worse job at hiding it, as usual. An up and coming, if not a little bit daft member of the Federalist Party, Councilman Greene, approaches Hamilton to criticize him for his approach to an argument, right there in front of their opponents. If this is the young blood the Federalist Party has to offer, Jefferson thinks to himself and smirks, we hardly have anything to worry about.
The two men exchange some words and then Greene takes a step forward, warning-like. Hamilton raises his eyes from the papers he's sorting out and his gaze runs up and down Greene's domineering form. He raises an eyebrow.
Jefferson finds himself watching intently as Hamilton drops the stack of papers casually onto a table to his right, and takes a step forward.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Jefferson can just so hear him say from across the Congress floor.
"What?" Greene falters but holds his ground. Hamilton advances another step, the space between their chests getting narrow now.
"I couldn't hear you from so far away," Hamilton says and blinks up at Greene innocently.
"What are you doing?" Greene asks, eyes narrowed.
"You were putting me into my place just now," Hamilton nearly purrs. "Telling me how to do my job."
Greene is no match for the challenge he has just been issued, of course he's not. Jefferson holds in the laugh threatening to bubble up in his chest. Greene snorts, spins on his heels and starts towards the exit.
"Just watch yourself, Hamilton."
"Love the new cologne, Charles," Hamilton calls after the retreating man, a small smirk gracing his features now. He picks up his papers and turns around as well, starts towards Washington's office. He doesn't look Jefferson's way.
Madison has covertly been watching the exchange as well. He turns his scrutinizing gaze to Jefferson's face.
"Thomas," he says. There’s caution in his voice.
Jefferson smiles at him brightly. "Let's go trump that stupid bill."
~
It is, of course, entirely coincidental that Jefferson happens upon Hamilton’s path as he steps out of the newly appointed President John Adams’ office with his career in shambles at his feet.
“Mister Vice President,” Hamilton grits out as he closes the door to the presidential office using twice the amount of force the action requires. His hands are shaking and his gaze is stubbornly fixed onto the wall behind Jefferson’s head.
“Why, Mister Secre- oh wait. My bad.”
Jefferson is rewarded with furious eye contact. He feels his lips spread into a grin, which he knows will ruffle Hamilton’s feathers even further.
“That what you came here for? To gloat?”
“Who, me?” Jefferson places a hand over his heart in mock outrage. “Never.”
Alexander squeezes his hands into fists and starts to stomp towards the door. “Don’t let me delay you, then.”
He could let Hamilton go. He should let Hamilton go. Bide his time, lie in wait until all of the pieces have fallen into position.
At the end of the day, Jefferson is not and never will be Burr. He takes a side step and blocks Hamilton’s path, forcing the man to falter clumsily to prevent himself from crashing into Jefferson’s chest.
“Careful there,” he says and steadies Hamilton with one hand on his shoulder. Up close he gets a good look at the red blotches of outrage on the tips of Hamilton’s cheeks. Hamilton looks up. Lacking in stature, indeed.
“Just as I thought, reduced to nothing without Washington holding the ropes,” Jefferson says mostly to himself.
Hamilton grabs his wrist and makes a futile attempt at moving his hand. “Jefferson, I swear to God if you don’t back the hell off right this-"
“Hamilton, if there ever was anything you could do to me would you not have done it already, back when you wielded any semblance of power?” Jefferson sneers. It’s rash, provoking Hamilton like this.
It pays off. Hamilton freezes with his pointer finger and thumb still wrapped around Jefferson’s wrist. He looks up at him, really looks at Jefferson as though he’s seeing him for the first time, his gaze trailing down to his lips. Jefferson can practically hear the gears turning. So close. Hamilton swallows.
“Funnily enough,” Hamilton says, his voice lowered, “that seems to go both ways.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “There’s nothing you can do to me now that I’m out of office.” He leans in just a tad, conspiring-like. “Nor is there anything you can do for me, as it were.”
In that, like in most things, Hamilton is wrong. But just then Jefferson understands with perfect clarity that if he wants Hamilton’s undivided attention he needs to save his ammunition for just a while longer.
And he does want it, feels the near compulsive need to put Hamilton into his place and defeat him in his own game wash over him as he observes the self-congratulatory look on Hamilton’s face. It would be easy to take things a notch further just then, to lean in, but Jefferson has observed Hamilton enough to know that the way to reel him in is to stand his ground.
Hamilton uses the moment of epiphany Jefferson is having to his advantage and ducks gingerly out of his grasp and towards the door.
“Tell President Adams he’ll be hearing from me,” he calls over his shoulder.
“I have no doubt,” Jefferson says, watching him go
~
It is the hate-fueled, insolent, pen-wielding version of Hamilton that utterly destroys President John Adams, rather than the tomcat. Jefferson is begrudgingly grateful of this - it is bad enough watching him bat his eyelashes at Burr, seeing that borderline wicked smirk be directed towards Adams would quite possibly drive Jefferson mad.
He tries not to dwell on that notion for too long.
They’re in his new, spacious office (the perks of Vice Presidency), Burr and Madison seated at the desk while Jefferson stands by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes idly tracing the edges of his silhouette reflected on the glass.
“Hamilton’s out of control,” Burr says, holding a copy of the widely distributed ‘open letter’ gingerly in his grasp as though it might bite. Jefferson suppresses a snort - as if Hamilton has ever come anywhere close to being in control. He can’t even control his schedule enough to fit basic human functions into it, prances around Congress malnourished and sleep deprived (or did when he still had a job), ruled by his compulsive need to rise above his station. Always desperately climbing, nipping at those who try to hold him back. And Washington had the audacity to accuse Jefferson of being blinded by his ideals.
The thought of the previous President brings Jefferson to the notion that if Hamilton has ever been under someone’s control, it certainly wasn’t his own. The hold of Jefferson’s right hand around his left wrist tightens inexplicably.
“This is great,” Madison says, uncharacteristically optimistic. “He’s out of power, he holds no office, and he just destroyed the only significant member of his party.”
The more Jefferson thinks about it (and he does think about it more than is probably justified for political purposes), the more it makes sense that Hamilton would go crashing off the rails now that daddy is no longer there to watch over him. For him to slip up, to give Jefferson an opening…
“Hamilton’s a host onto himself,” is what he says out loud, “as long as he can hold a pen he’s a threat.”
He has been granted a round two, another corner to drive Hamilton into. And this time around he understands with perfect clarity what he has under his thumb. This time around he will make the most of it.
“Let’s let him know what we know.”
~
Ironically enough, it’s Hamilton’s apparent inability to stop himself from sleeping around that puts a damper on the plan.
It all starts out well enough; they pay a visit to Hamilton’s chaotic home office and lay out their threats with practiced co-ordination. Hamilton looks even smaller than usual, sitting at his desk with the three of them towering over him.
Hamilton’s eyes gleam almost feverishly as he slams his hands onto the table and springs up, proudly proclaiming that he has engaged in adultery, rather than speculation. The turn of events is so absurd it leaves them all speechless for a moment.
“Are my answers to your satisfaction?”
Alexander’s hands are still on the table and he’s panting slightly. His hair is left open, falling onto his shoulders in a disheveled manner. Just then Jefferson realizes how terrified he really is under his cocky demeanor.
“My God,” he breathes.
“Gentlemen, let’s go,” Madison says, ever in control.
“Well?” Hamilton calls after them, his voice unsteady. Jefferson holds his gaze as they assure him the people won’t know what they know. And Hamilton still has the nerve to act as though Burr’s the one he should be worried about. That won’t do.
Jefferson makes a haphazard excuse to hang back as Burr and Madison head home, the latter one shooting him a look filled with apprehension. By now his colleague and friend knows him well enough to know when he’s made up his mind.
Hamilton’s dejected look turns into shock and then defensiveness as Jefferson re-enters his office.
“I thought we were done here,” he grits through his teeth.
Jefferson closes the door behind him and he could swear the sound of it makes Hamilton’s shoulders jump.
“You know, for the longest of time I couldn’t for the life of me figure out the pattern behind your slut act,” he says, only taking a few steps into the office.
Hamilton’s mouth opens and closes a few times silently. “How dare-"
“But then I realized,” Jefferson cuts him off, “what I was witnessing was Alexander Hamilton picking his battles. Of course such an occurrence would seem incomprehensible initially.”
Hamilton seems to recover from the shock for being spoken to so bluntly, plants his palms onto the table and stands up slowly.
“What exactly are you implying?” he asks, clearly fighting to keep his voice steady.
Jefferson smirks. “Some green councilman, no pun intended.” Hamilton isn’t amused. “Burr, who is about as likely to retaliate as a brick wall,” he continues his list. “You only bat your eyelashes at people who would never actually meet you on your level, Alexander.”
Hamilton walks around the desk and stops a few steps away from Jefferson. His pupils appear larger than usual as he peers up defiantly. Jefferson wills his hands to remain clasped behind his back.
“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying,” Hamilton mutters, his eyes zeroing in on Jefferson’s lips, “then I must have somehow underestimated the size of your ego, sir.”
The corners of Jefferson’s lips curl up as the ‘sir’ falls from Hamilton’s lips like a plea despite of the defiance in his words.
Hamilton advances another step, daring Jefferson to cave in and meet him halfway, or to back down. His warm breath presses languidly against Jefferson’s jawline.
Jefferson smiles. “Does this make you feel in control, Hamilton?” he asks and narrows his eyes. “Do you reckon that if you’re sweet enough you’ll persuade me into not destroying you the first chance I get?”
Hamilton draws in a deep breath and it escapes through his nose in a shuddering crescendo, flutters against Jefferson’s lips like a moth trapped in a jar. The bridge of Hamilton’s nose brushes against his jawline, drags against the stubble there lightly. Jefferson’s fingernails are digging into the skin of his wrist behind his back but he remains unmoving still.
Hamilton’s mouth finds the pulse point at the junction of the neck and the jaw and Jefferson senses, rather than feels in a physical sense, the way they part as if to contemplate whether to make way for the teeth or the tongue.
“No,” Hamilton breathes into the soft, perfumed skin.
Jefferson smiles. “Thought so.”
He makes a point of waiting for a heartbeat before he steps back and finds the door handle behind his back without looking. If he’d had any doubts about his victory they evaporate as Hamilton instinctively leans into the vacuum of space suddenly created between their bodies, chases after Jefferson’s pull.
Jefferson doesn’t look his way as he exits the office.
~
Hamilton bursts into his office a few weeks later, uninhibited. Whatever Jefferson’s secretary is doing at the time is unknown, and something he wouldn’t bother to find out after the incident anyways.
Nevertheless there Hamilton is, face flushed and hair loose yet again. Perhaps he has given up on trying to keep it contained altogether. He marches up to Jefferson’s desk and slams a heavy stack of paper onto it as though it’s a winning hand in a game of poker.
Jefferson slowly drags his gaze from the tight scribble of Hamilton’s handwriting to the man himself, tapping his sole onto the floor in an impatient, somewhat manic rhythm.
“Did you-”
“You have nothing on me now,” Hamilton cuts him off and clearly derives a great amount of pleasure in it. He circles the desk separating them in a few purposeful strides, as long as his height will allow. Uncrossing his legs is as much as Jefferson has the time to do before Hamilton is upon him, grabbing his cravat with white knuckles and yanking so that when they collide Jefferson is halfway out of the chair and Hamilton is halfway on his lap.
Perhaps this mildly terrifying and exhilarating hybrid of the calculatingly smooth tomcat and the hurricane that is an enraged Alexander Hamilton is a side of the man that Jefferson is exclusively privy to. He’d like to think so, at least, can’t imagine Hamilton kissing his wife or even a lover like this. The enraged fervor with which Hamilton licks into his mouth puts Jefferson into the mind of how he debates on the congress floor. Makes him think of the way Hamilton probably fought in the war once Washington finally unleashed him onto the battlefield.
One of Hamilton’s hands remains tightly fisted into Jefferson’s cravat while the other one finds purchase in his hair. He staggers forward and sets one of his knees onto the chair. Jefferson inhales, pleased, as their bodies press tighter against each other and his own hands glide over the backs of Hamilton’s thighs, over the curve of his behind, which the other man seems to find rather agreeable based on the grunt that it elicited from the base of his throat. Jefferson’s hands wander up still, find the bits where Hamilton’s hip bones push against the skin. He rubs his thumbs over them, a firm pressure to keep Hamilton aware of the strength in his hands even as he humors the man by letting him tower over him for once.
Hamilton snarls against his lips and Jefferson nips at his lower one, pushes his tongue in as though the burning ferocity in Hamilton doesn’t make him slightly afraid he might bite it off. But this doesn’t happen, Hamilton only makes a soft sound and slots their mouths ever tighter together as if he wants to leave his imprints onto his face like a stamp mark for everyone to see.
But then Hamilton pulls back, leans onto the hand rests of the chair with quivering arms. They’re both panting, sharing the air of the small vacuum of space between them. But this time neither leans in, they just stare at each other in silent defiance.
“I win,” Hamilton says with a raspy voice, clearly dead set on the statement being the truth.
And off he goes, like a typhoon that sweeps in and out in a breeze and only leaves destruction and chaos in its wake as proof of its presence.
Jefferson remains frozen to his seat longer than he would care to admit. Eventually his hands find the stack of paper Hamilton left him with, his supposed winning hand in this game of theirs.
“Observations on Certain Documents Contained in No. V & VI of “The History of the United States for the Year 1796,” In Which the Charge of Speculation Against Alexander Hamilton, Late Secretary of the Treasury, is Fully Refuted,” says the title. Jefferson’s eyebrows shoot up. He skims the pamphlet briefly since properly reading the full 98 pages (Christ, Hamilton) would take too long. Besides, Jefferson has the gist of it.
A bark-like, breathless laugh bursts out of his chest. He spins around in his chair and tosses the papers into the air, watches as the remnants of Hamilton’s chances at presidency cascade onto the carpet of his office. This is simply glorious, the most exquisite form of self-destruction since Icarus himself. And to think Jefferson contributed to it by making the late Secretary think the little power play between them warrants such action.
Jefferson crosses his ankles on top of his desk and raises his arms behind his head. His scalp still feels a little sore at the places where Hamilton tugged at his hair. He licks at his lower lip, where he can still feel the slight imprints of his political rival’s teeth.
Action, meet equal opposite reaction.