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When Thomas wakes up that morning, strutting through his McMansion‘s secret passageways to the oversized kitchen, the weatherman is already in a frenzy. Hanging in his breakfast nook, the television is covered in deep purples and reds, indicative of hurricanes that have been brewing down south for a day or so. The weatherman is bambling and rambling, and Thomas orders the nearest butler to turn off the television. That individual happens to be the woman who he pays to feed his cats, but money is money. She does what he tells her, albeit with confusion and thinly veiled annoyance.
He makes no further note of the weather except to send a haughty text to Burr, imperiously reminding him to bring his umbrella.
Aaron Burr: That might be tricky. It‘s hard to chauffeur about an umbrella after it has been displaced.
Jefferson is better-son: you can‘t be serious
Aaron Burr: As the dead.
Thomas sighs deeply and painfully. The struggles he goes through on the daily are absurd in both quantity and depth. He orders Burr a dark purple umbrella from some European brand on his way to work, anyway.
***
He spins into the office at 9:02 on the dot, frilling around like a pompous peacock. He thinks he looks very professional and manly. James Madison disagrees.
“Nice tie.” He says from his cubicle. Thomas sits down behind him in his own.
“Thank you.” Thomas adjusts it with flair. It doesn’t need to be straightened, he’s made sure of that, but he thinks it gives his words a certain je ne sais quoi. “I just had it dry cleaned.”
Madison doesn’t say anything. Jefferson smiles. He thinks Madison does too, into the rim of his coffee cup. It must be at least a few years old, stained with the decaf he drinks excessively. He’s always on the other two’s asses about the same thing, but Thomas is building a case against him.
“Did you hear about the weather?”
“Uh huh.” James has always been curt. And that's the last they speak of it.
At lunch, James is microwaving risotto from last night. The pair of them have taken to later lunches, making the end of the workday feel far shorter, and avoiding the majority of their office population. Burr joins them often, when not forcibly taken to lunch with Hamilton and his crowd. Today, he sits at the rickety table with Thomas as he shakes a salad with uncharacteristic aggressiveness. Thomas delicately sets his pink thermos on the table.
“Are you serious,” Burr says, no inflection in his tone.
“As the dead,” Thomas mocks.
James comes back over, holding his steaming risotto by the tips of his fingers. He says “ah ah ah” repeatedly over the two feet it takes to get from the microwave to their table, indicative of the temperature. He sits both himself and the canister down efficiently, not waiting for it to cool before pulling out a collapsible fork and digging in.
“You’re both freaks.” Burr decides.
James mumbles something snarky through his rice, while Thomas maturely ignores him and screws the lid off his thermos.
They eat in companionable silence, before it is inevitably ruined by a lone accountant.
Alexander Hamilton rolls into the lounge with a halfway eaten leftover sub and a stack of papers, just as James is finishing demolishing his food. Thomas has already swiftly made work of his pasta, made fresh that morning, thank you very much, but Burr is not even a quarter way done with his salad. Though Thomas hates to admit it, he might have to leave him behind in his daring escape.
“Oh sorry, I didn't realize I was intruding on our 2 least productive worker’s daily meeting.” Hamilton shoots his words out before Thomas has the chance. Madison is too busy chewing, so Thomas has to resort to forbidden tactics.
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t speak of our coworkers like that.” A desperate move. James furrows his eyebrows and makes an open hand gesture at him, like holding a plate, as if to say Really? while Burr rolls his eyes in a way he thinks is discreet, but isn’t fooling anyone.
“For your information, fucktoid, I was referring to you and Madison.”
“Evidently, Alexander.” Burr tells him. “Are you two going to fight now or can I finish my salad?”
“I doubt he could reach me in a real fight.” Jefferson drawls.
“Watch it.” James warns. Height-related insults always seem to bother him.
“I would destroy you, old man.”
“And I would ruin your life, youthful fool.”
Burr sighs, stabbing his caesar with his fork a bit harder than normal.
***
At 5:45 pm, most everyone has gone home. The few who remain are the overachievers, destined for a pat on the back from corporate, and perhaps a pizza party. Thomas, James, Washington, Hamilton, and Angelica Schuyler are all among them. Burr is just leaving, and James is making plans with him for the weekend. Burr used to be part of the night owls, but since it became just him and little Theo, he’s turned over a new leaf.
They’re saying something about daughters and the movies. Thomas should butt in, offer up his own kid, but frankly, he doesn’t care.
“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Aaron is saying.
Thomas walks over to the lounge’s coffee pot. After a tussle with the cold-brew function, resulting in his fingers turning red from constant pressing, he walks out of the room with a perfectly chilled beverage.
Much to his surprise, he runs directly into Aaron Burr.
“I thought you left.” Thomas says dumbly. A quick up and down tells him Burr is soaked to the bone. More money than he’d like to admit spent on umbrellas, countless amounts of time used to covertly sneak them into his cubicle, and it’s all down the drain.
“Raining.” He can practically see Burr clamp down on the obviously . “The station near here is closed because of the hurricane, and there’s no way I’m getting to the other one in this weather. If you’ll excuse me, I need to call my daughter.” He heads into the lounge.
James is still at his desk, trudging through reports.
“Weather’s bad, Burr can’t get home.”
“Is his kid okay?”
“You’re such a dad.” Thomas says. After a moment: “He’s calling her now.”
James nods, clicking endlessly. Thomas decides he should probably get some work done too, and sits at his desk, coffee next to him. He doesn’t get much farther than that; the fluorescent lights flicker, and suddenly the power is out. His computer screen jumps to black a few times, before completely shutting down. Thomas is left staring at his own reflection.
Burr comes out of the lounge, looking calmer, but no more dry.
“She’s at our neighbors. They have a storm cellar.”
“Convenient.” Thomas mumbles, distracted. He’s too busy texting Patsy a series of comebacks. That will be the last time she insults his hair, he knows that. At least she’s okay.
Something crackles, and the PA system Thomas hasn’t heard used in the two decades he’s worked here goes off.
“Please report to the designated safety rooms. A large weather disturbance has been reported.” The warning sounds off two more times.
“We have a safe room?”
“It’s the basement boiler room. They mention it on your first day. ” Burr offers.
“Let’s get a move on.” James says.
The elevator is shut down, and Thomas complains the entire way down the stairs.
Burr is a few steps ahead of them at all times, an air of urgency about him. He seems anxious again. At least Thomas thinks. It’s impossible to read him.
They make it downstairs. Angelica and Washington are there, standing and talking quietly. They occasionally glance at Alexander Hamilton, who is sitting on the floor, picking at the carpet. Thomas nods at Angelica.
Burr walks over to Hamilton immediately.
“You good?” He says, sinking to a squat across from him, back against the opposite wall. Burr’s eyes are trained on Hamilton, and if Thomas didn’t know any better, filled with worry.
“Yeah. Stay here though.”
Aaron nods. He plants down on the floor, knees to his chest. Hamilton is counting quietly, in what Thomas knows to be French. Every once in a while, a boom of thunder will cause him to restart, more shaky than before.
James is nudging Thomas out of the doorway, forcing him back against another wall. He sits with James and pretends not to watch the interaction.
A loud crack of lightning rings out, and Hamilton’s counting rises in volume, as if to drown it out. Unlikely to work, Thomas thinks obviously.
“Brother.” Burr says suddenly. Stray looks from around the room barely reach him before Hamilton responds.
“Sister.”
Word association. Burr certainly knows how to shut a man up.
“Sibling.”
“Father.”
“Mother.”
“Dead.”
The room becomes silent immediately. Thunder pounds outside, and Hamilton picks more obviously at the carpet.
Burr sighs deeply as he lays out a leg. Upon reflection, this action has three layers of meaning- that Thomas can identify. For one, the sigh accompanying the splaying of the leg implies some sort of physical exhaustion, rather than anything related to Hamilton. It’s a nice cover-up, meant to assuage any perceptions that he’s taking shots at Hamilton’s pride.
(The sigh itself conveying a concern for Hamilton, something Thomas is deathly opposed to, will be chalked up to general empathy. That he can deal with. The idea Burr may care for Hamilton beyond that is a horrific concept, one that would entirely destroy Thomas’ slightly above-average perception of him.)
For two, Hamilton thinks it appropriate to grab Burr’s foot like a vise once it reaches him, the soles still wet from his trip outside. Burr not shoving his hand off in disgust is a testament to his own kindness.
The third ‘layer’, however, leaves Thomas deeply perplexed.
The one thing he can not wrap his head around is the speed at which Hamilton reaches for him. It implies a sense of routine. Thomas knows they met in college, but how often has Hamilton been left so rattled by a storm? And more importantly, how often has Burr been there to comfort him?
“Orphan.” Burr decides on.
“That’s bullshit.” Hamilton says, looking up suddenly. “They don’t correlate very well at all.”
“Yours was much more topical then mine, don’t be silly. Take your turn.”
Hamilton huffs. James looks at Thomas, displaying his general confusion at the ludicrousy of the situation nicely.
“Child.” Hamilton says finally.
“School.”
“College.”
“Party.”
Hamilton falters for a single second, and Angelica barges in.
“Alcohol.” She says with a smirk. She turns to Washington.
“Uh, ‘drunk’?” He asks more than answers.
“No good. Has to be a noun.” Hamilton says. Thomas sees Burr hide a smile by coughing.
“Rum?”
Hamilton nods.
“Cocktail.” James chirps. Thomas feels betrayed when he, along with the rest of the group, looks at him.
Normally, he’d use the opportunity to insult Hamilton- Really, what grown man is scared of thunderstorms?- but something gives him the impression that’s off the table.
“White suburban woman.” He says. Washington and Angelica laugh quietly, and James rolls his eyes while Burr looks more grateful than he has any right to be. Hamilton simply says nothing.
They spend no more than another hour in the room, Hamilton slowly but surely begins talking again, and before long he and Thomas are arguing about last year’s Christmas party. Burr doesn’t smile, but Thomas thinks he wants to. And that is new.
***
Thomas catches sight of them on their way out the door. Against his better judgment, he loiters around the reception counter to see what they’re saying.
“Thanks, for back there.”
“Always, you know that.” Burr smiles, for real this time.
“Yeah, um. Would you, uh-“
Thomas can see Hamilton’s struggle from here.
“You alright?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Do you need a ride?” Hamilton abandons whatever he’s about to say.
Coward . Thomas thinks.
“I’d like that, thanks. Between you and me, I forgot my umbrella.”
The pair walk out the building, Hamilton’s obnoxious laughter ringing throughout the lobby.
Messes, the both of them. Thomas muses. They deserve each other.