Chapter Text
Alexander Hamilton gets shot on July 11th, 1804. He shortly dies the day after, a 47 year old man. So why the hell is he standing here in the bustling streets of New York City, feeling as young as he was when he first stepped foot into America? He glances at a newspaper abandoned on the street, the numbers 1776 bolded at the top. This cannot be happening. The last thing he saw was Burr's bullet flying towards him, before everything turned white; he's definitely dead.
Is this what they call life flashing before your eyes? If that's so, Burr, well, past Burr should be walking around the corner in 3, 2... "Hey kid, what're you doing?" His thoughts screech to a halt as he almost runs into the looming figure in front of him. Hamilton raises his eyes slowly. A young Aaron Burr stares at him, "I asked what you're doing."
Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
He vividly remembers how this interaction went the first time. That is, him annoying Burr and then the latter reluctantly offering to buy him a drink which he gladly accepted. He had thought this was movie-like, where he was just watching his life over again, not reliving it. Maybe if he didn't say anything, his past self would come and save the day. A brief moment passes, he can tell Burr is getting impatient, more so suspicious. Unsurprisingly, no past-Hamilton comes, and he's left with the man who killed him (well, in the future, does that count?), narrowing his eyes at Alexander. He tries to remember what he said that day. He settles with "Are you Aaron Burr, sir?" Not very formal, but it works nonetheless. Burr softens his gaze, turning confused rather than angry. "That depends, who's asking?" Jesus, this conversation felt worse than the original one. Perhaps it has to do with the fact he knows every line that is going to be exchanged. It feels like they're actors trapped in a play, and Hamilton has gotten his hands on the script. He sighs, he just has to get through this, and everything will hopefully end. "I'm Alexander Hamilton, I have been looking for you, sir."
Somehow, Alexander makes it through by improvising, and by the end, Burr is more or less comfortable with him. As comfortable as one can be the first time, that is. He downs the drink, the whiskey burning the back of his throat. All is well until he realizes he doesn't have money. In fact, he has nothing. In the midst of the sudden panic, three men barge into the bar. Very loudly, mind you. The quiet with Burr was expected, he was always a man of few words. Until the very end. He thinks back to when he first got challenged to the duel. He wishes he didn't accept. Part of him still wanted to see his mother, Washington, Laurens... but he had a pang of regret that could only come from leaving his work unfinished. It's ironic, really, all that's left to leave behind and he thinks of his writings. Eliza, Eliza. She was in love with him; he knew that. How could he not? The stares of adoration from when they first met, the constant nagging for him to go to sleep at an ungodly hour in the morning. She cared for him deeply, and Alexander wished he did too. He thinks he does, just not as much romantic love as platonic. Angelica, her sister. He had thought he was in love with her, he still is, a little bit of his heart always beats for her. Just not in the way he used to. Jefferson. There is definitely regret there. Not love. Yet, he longs for another argument, just something idiotic so he can take his mind off of whatever the hell's happening here. He finds himself missing all of them, even the worst people. Seeing Burr has really thrown him off, huh.