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Chapter Text

Central Park offered a soothing respite from the bustling heat of the city. Beneath the trees' cooling shade, the clamor of New York City faded into a distant hum. John relished this moment of tranquility, particularly when he was at the playground with his daughter. Her infectious laughter was a tonic for his weary soul, granting him a moment's respite from the challenges of single parenthood and his demanding role as an EMT.

Returning to the city had been a conscious decision for John. The vibrancy of the urban environment breathed life into him, a stark contrast to the quiet English countryside he had shared with Martha. Even amidst the exhaustion, the city's energy fueled him.

As John unlocked his apartment, his neighbor Angelica Schuyler emerged from across the hall, a gesture he knew was far from coincidental. Her face softened with a tender smile as she glanced at his sleeping daughter, Frances. Their eyes met, and her audacious demeanor returned.

Before she could say much, John's weary voice preempted her, "Not today."

"John, you have to consider yourself too. Give me Frances for a night. Step out, meet someone. Even you deserve a break," Angelica countered, genuine concern in her eyes. "It's been three years, John. Moving forward is allowed."

He contemplated her words. Angelica Schuyler's tenacity rivaled his own stubbornness, and he mused that perhaps a night to himself wouldn't be so unwelcome.

"Alright," he acquiesced, his voice soft.

A spark of delight ignited in Angelica's eyes. "Tomorrow night. Six o'clock?"

John nodded, confirming his agreement. Alone in his apartment once more, he sank into the couch, intending only to rest his eyes briefly. An hour slipped away unnoticed until the sound of a fallen stroller roused him. Rushing to Frances, he scooped her into his arms, showering her with comforting embraces and apologies.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Let's make some macaroni for dinner, alright?" he offered, feeling remorse for his unintended nap.

Frances nodded, her tired eyes rubbing against her small fists. John settled her in front of the TV before preparing dinner. As he savored his simple meal of macaroni and cheese, peas, and chicken nuggets, he realized it had been ages since he'd enjoyed a proper adult dinner, or even a beer. Angelica might have a point, after all.

After tucking Frances into bed, John retreated to his own, where dreams of days gone by wove themselves through his slumber.

At 5:59, John carried Frances to Angelica's door. She might be outgrowing this tradition, but admitting so felt like confronting the passage of time itself. Angelica was already at her doorway, her gaze a blend of fondness and exasperation as she observed a young man frantically waving his arms amidst a sea of papers and a messenger bag.

Angelica rested her hands on the man's shoulders, her eyes meeting John's. "I'd like you to meet someone."

The stranger turned, and John found himself holding his daughter a little closer. The man's expressions flickered from curiosity to astonishment, a cascade of emotions tumbling across his features as his pile of papers scattered to the ground in disarray.

"John?" he uttered, almost in disbelief.

Angelica observed the scene, then spoke deliberately, "John, this is my dear friend —"

"Alexander Hamilton," he interjected, finishing her sentence. John's gaze locked onto the man before him — familiar yet changed. Time had broadened Hamilton, granting him longer hair and a hint of maturity, yet his eyes remained as brilliant as ever.

"Hello, Alex," John spoke, his first words to Alexander in five long years. He gestured to the scattered papers. "Need a hand?"

Alex's daze was broken, his gaze shifting from reverie to the chaos at his feet. "Damn it," he muttered.

Frances piped up, scolding with a youthful innocence, "Hey! You said a bad word. You owe the swear jar a quarter."

Alex's eyes lifted from the floor, his head tilting curiously. "Who's this?"

Frances beamed, standing beside John. "I'm Frances, John's daughter."

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry, what?" Alexander asks, clearly thinking he has misheard his long-lost best friend.

"This is Frances, my daughter," John repeats slowly, a hint of curiosity in his voice. He's never seen Alex this unsure in his life.

"Oh," Hamilton mutters, redirecting his attention to the little girl. He offers his hand in greeting, his voice gentle, "Hi."

"Hi," Frances responds timidly, executing the briefest handshake imaginable—a mere brush of hands—before nuzzling her face into her father's neck. John fights back a chuckle at the awkwardness of a toddler's handshake, deciding it's best to keep that amusement to himself. Has Hamilton ever interacted with a child before?

An awkward silence envelops them, and Laurens swears the corridor has inexplicably shrunk, the air turned dense as if sucked away by a vacuum. Angelica rescues them from the silence, addressing Alex, "When was the last time you ate?"

His lips part, poised with a witty retort, but under Angelica's unyielding gaze, Alexander falters. "I honestly don't know."

John's heart beats wildly against his ribcage. This is his chance to mend what's been broken. "Want to join me? I was about to grab a bite down the road."

Alex hesitates, avoiding John's gaze, "I have some work on this case, and—"

Angelica takes Frances from John's arms, and an unexpected pang of separation anxiety strikes him—his, not hers. "No excuses, Alexander. Go eat with the man. You both need a break. Now, give me my favorite little girl."

John gives his daughter a tender kiss, asking if she'll be alright, even though he's certain of her answer. If she so much as hints at wanting him to stay, he won't hesitate to cancel his plans.

"Of course, Daddy!" Frances chimes in, adding with a hushed tone, "Aunt Angelica always sneaks in extra cookies."

Laurens puts on the obligatory disapproving parent face, but Angelica's laughter resonates through the corridor. Another kiss for Frances. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

Alexander and John descend the stairs together, Hamilton reserved, Laurens deep in thought. Words evade John, and he feels like he's stumbling through the situation. He's angry at himself. This is his moment, a chance to rebuild a friendship he longs for, and he's allowing it to slip through his fingers. He shoves his hands in his pockets, struggling to find the right words.

He's so lost in thought that when Alex finally speaks, it startles him. "You're a dad."

"Yeah, it seems that way," John replies with an exhausted smile. Toddlers are no small challenge.

For once, Alex appears disoriented. Alexander Hamilton, the epitome of control, is momentarily unhinged. John wonders what it means, what could prompt this reaction from him. "How did you become a father?"

John raises an eyebrow, his smirk a mix of amusement and fatigue. "Well, you see, when a man and a woman love each other very much—"

Hamilton's expression drops, his voice carrying an undertone of pain. "So, that's why you left?"

"It wasn't love, but I thought Martha and I could be friends, for her sake. I believed that would be enough."

Martha and he had reached a kind of understanding by the time Frances arrived. While love wasn't the cornerstone of their relationship, they managed a cordial companionship. She seemed content that their connection wasn't more profound—unpleasant as that might sound. The love they shared was reserved for their daughter. John suspects that Martha recognized his heart was claimed by another—a passionate young American with an infectious zeal that makes you believe in the limitless possibilities of life.

"And now?" Alexander asks, his words cautiously chosen.

"Now, it's just me," John replies, his tone holding a quiet resignation.

Chapter Text

If someone had informed Alexander merely an hour earlier that he would be spending his Saturday night in a lackluster Italian restaurant with the person he thought he had lost forever, he would have likely scoffed and walked away. How could he have imagined that his evening would be devoted to reconnecting with the one that got away?

Yet, in this awkward space, Alexander grapples with the plethora of questions he's choking back—his fervent desire to learn the truths that have accumulated between then and now. He's renowned for his curiosity, yet he stifles it now, battling the urge to unearth every secret. After all, they say curiosity killed the cat, and he's one of the most inquisitive cats around.

What irks Alexander most is John's elusiveness, his sidestepping of Hamilton's pointed inquiries. It was a fair question, he argues within himself. How does someone as openly gay as John Laurens come to father a child through conventional means? Alexander understands the aesthetic attraction of a woman's body, yet if anyone among their circle of friends were likely to become a parent before even finishing college, he'd put money on himself.

Is it selfish to believe he's entitled to answers? Discovering that his roommate slash best friend had abandoned their shared space, left no explanation, and sent a substantial rent check felt like a slap in the face. A check that, incidentally, he never deposited and had no intention of doing so.

Oddly enough, he's contemplating a savings account for Frances now. Why in the world is he worrying about a child's future? He's not her father. But a whisper in his mind counters that she's adorable and, given her parentage, it's no stretch to imagine she's already a significant presence in his thoughts.

Maybe this was an error. He has two options: sever ties with John completely or wade through the messy tangle of whatever remains of their friendship. The former has a certain allure, but given that John is Angelica's neighbor, odds are they'll cross paths again sooner or later.

Alex reaches for another breadstick, only to find the basket empty. John offers a knowing smile. "You polished them all off."

Hamilton isn't surprised, nor is John. It's entirely possible that Alexander has gone days without a proper meal. Since John's departure, there hasn't been anyone around to remind him to eat and hydrate regularly. Hamilton clears his throat, seeking neutral territory.

"I like your haircut," he offers. Well done, Alex. You haven't seen him in five years, and that's your opening line.

"Thanks. Angelica did it for me," Laurens replies, taking a leisurely sip of wine.

"So, what have you been up to since, you know, then?" Alex inquires, immediately regretting how close his words sail to the elephant in the room.

"I'm an EMT. I never completed my degree, and my schedule became so hectic that there wasn't room for much else. And yourself?" John responds.

Hamilton lets out a small sigh of relief. As self-centered as he might be, discussing his own life is a comfortable fallback, "I went to law school. Spent a year in corporate law before realizing it was eating away at my soul. Transitioned to civil rights law. The pay's not as grand, but at least my soul's intact."

Alex starts fidgeting with his napkin, struggling to contain the swarm of words itching to escape him. He could really use that second glass of wine from the waiter right about now.

"You're turning quite red, Alexander. Spit it out," John says, interlacing his fingers on the table.

Silence and half-truths are probably the safer bet.

"You're undeniably gay, John, and I get that sexuality isn't fixed, but after all the women I've been with—and, subsequently, vividly described to you—you swore off any heterosexual encounters. Which brings me to my point: Why did you have sex with a woman? Where is she, and is she coming back? Or perhaps Frances isn't actually your biological child? Did you adopt some random baby while you were in England? And speaking of England, why didn't you tell me you were leaving? I would've understood. We could've faced this together. When did you move back? Did you intend to tell me you were back in New York?"

Alexander's momentum gathers, his voice growing louder and louder, until he notices that others in the restaurant are glancing their way. He continues with even greater volume, "And let's not forget the way you left that damn check. That was a low blow, John. Did our friendship mean so little to you?!"

Alex's breathing accelerates, heavy and unsteady, while John looks taken aback. Their waiter, taking full advantage of the awkward moment, steps in.

"Uh, would you like more breadsticks, sir?" the young waiter inquires, ducking slightly to avoid the empty basket Hamilton has been brandishing throughout his tirade. John answers on Alex's behalf, whose labored breathing only intensifies.

John speaks for both of them, "That would be great, thank you."

Observing the slight grimace on John's face as he rests his hands on the tabletop, it's evident he's mentally bracing himself for what he's about to say next.

Chapter Text

It occurs to John a little too late that maybe they should have picked a more private spot for their reunion. He could've invited Alex over to his apartment, ordered some greasy Chinese takeout, and cracked open an entire bottle of wine by himself. Although, truth be told, he doubts any amount of alcohol could make this situation less awkward—public setting or not.

At first, it's almost amusing to watch Alexander silently ravage the breadsticks, though the concerned parent in John nudges him to consider discussing his health habits. Hamilton was always clueless when it came to self-care. Not that John wasn't worried during his absence, but Alex is like a cat with nine lives; he always somehow pulls through.

But as the silence stretches on, it becomes unbearable. John can almost hear the gears grinding in Alexander's head. So, he does what feels right and asks Alex what's on his mind. What follows is an onslaught of questions that leaves John a little breathless. His fault, really—he opened the floodgates. Sure, keeping to tense silence and parting ways would've been simpler, but John knows it's not what he truly wants. If there's one thing he's learned from being a parent, it's that time flies. Sometimes he wonders if Alexander taught him that lesson first.

"Whoa," John interjects, surprised at how rapidly Hamilton can speak when he's on a roll. He braces his hands on the table, ready for the storm.

"Martha was. Martha was a mistake," Alex blurts out, unable to meet John's gaze, because saying the truth—that she reminded him so damn much of Alex that night—would be a disaster. He's almost angry that Alex would suggest Frances isn't really his. "As for Frances, she's mine. You can see she's got my mother's eyes, my eyes. And dammit, Alexander, you have no idea what it was like. A 21-year-old gay kid, and my one-night stand led to a shotgun wedding."

John reins himself in, attempting to make his words sound as heartfelt as possible, "I've been back for three years. I didn't know if you'd even want to see me. I don't think I could've handled being rejected."

Alexander lowers the breadstick basket with more gentleness than John anticipated. Though clearly exasperated, he speaks, frustration lacing his tone, "Right now, I could strangle you. Of course I wanted to see you. It's one of the few things I've wanted since you left."

Their gazes lock, and it's significant—a moment refined by time, like aging wine.

Their moment, however, is rudely interrupted by the arrival of their food, and John lets out a sigh, resigned. He feels like he missed something crucial. Over the course of their meal, they trade college stories and memories. As they prepare to go their separate ways for the night, John proposes, "Want to grab coffee on Wednesday afternoon? Frances has ballet class, and there's a nice café next door."

A smile lights up Alexander's face. "I never turn down coffee."

~

Wednesday arrives, and Hamilton is sprawled out on Laurens's couch, napping as per John's insistence. That guy never gets enough sleep. A knock sounds at the door, and Frances abandons her coloring book to answer it.

"No, no, sweetie, don't open the door without a grown-up," John chides, quickly getting up as he spots his daughter clambering onto a stool to reach the lock.

When John lays eyes on the visitor, his eyes widen. He completely forgot to mention that he could take Frances to her class himself.

"Uncle Laugh-yet!" Frances squeals.

Lafayette chuckles and scoops up Frances. "Close enough. Bisous, mon petit chou," Lafayette and Frances exchange cheek kisses à la français. "You look amazing, my little ballerina. I've got a little gift for you."

"A present?"

"Yep, a present."

Frances eagerly digs into the bag and pulls out the gift. "Madeline. But I already have this book."

Lafayette grins at her. "Not in French, though. Non?"

Frances smiles back and wraps Lafayette in a hug. "Thanks a lot, I love you so much!"

Whenever Lafayette's around, John's reminded that he really should take a French class, if only to understand his daughter sometimes. At least now Hamilton can also understand her. John worries his bottom lip and fidgets.

Lafayette notices. "What's up, Laurens? Why are you looking at me like that? I'm here like I am every Wednesday to pick up my goddaughter. What's wrong?"

Hamilton joins them in the small hallway, rubbing his eyes. He asks, "Every Wednesday? How long have you known?"

Lafayette smirks.

Chapter Text

Interlude: New York City, 2012

The city, bustling with so many lives, still feels oddly empty to John. It's a curious duality—the coldness offering a semblance of privacy, while the constant hum can sometimes be overwhelming, making him feel alone even in a crowded room. And what's most frustrating is that he's actually pretty adept at making friends. The issue lies in his demanding job as an EMT and caring for his infant daughter—both leaving him with precious little time to nurture friendships.

Truth be told, John is lonely, though he wouldn't admit it. His relationship with his family is strained, Martha is long gone, and since his return to the city, all his spare moments have been dedicated to Frances. Angelica, his neighbor, is friendly, but her companionship doesn't quite match the intimacy he shared with Hamilton, Mulligan, and Lafayette.

Reaching out to Hamilton is out of the question; their bridges are scorched and painful memories lie beneath. Last he knew, Mulligan had moved out west.

And that leaves Lafayette. As he puts Frances down for her nap, John pulls out his phone and hovers over Lafayette's contact name. He might as well call him, right? Before he can change his mind, his thumb accidentally brushes the call button.

A playful French-accented voice answers, "Hello?"

John hesitates for a moment before answering, "Lafayette?"

"Oui, who is this?"

"John Laurens," he says with a hint of uncertainty.

A dramatic gasp from the other end, followed by, "Je n'en crois pas mes oreilles. I cannot believe it. How are you, mon cher?"

John's lips curl into a soft smile. "I'm doing alright. I was wondering if you're free today. I'm back in town for a bit, and I thought maybe you'd want to come over for a beer."

"Sure! I've always got time for you, mon ami. À bientôt."

As Lafayette hangs up, John scans his apartment quickly. "Okay," he mutters to himself, "I've got 30 minutes to clean up." When he sees the mess, he curses under his breath.

Thirty minutes later...

"Salut!" Lafayette greets with a grin, kissing each of John's cheeks.

Maybe it's Lafayette's infectious smile or the comfort of seeing a familiar face, but John can't help but return the grin. "Hey, come on in. It's not much, but—"

"—but it's home. It's quite nice. Oh, tu m'as manqué!" he exclaims, pulling John into a hug. "I missed you, dear Laurens."

John returns the hug with gratitude. "And I missed you, Lafayette. Beer?"

Lafayette accepts the bottle with grace and casually asks, "So, when do I get to meet your little one?"

John nearly chokes on his beer. "What? How did you—"

"Mon cher, I'm not blind. There's a baby monitor right behind you," Lafayette says, nodding toward the device.

John closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Why does he always feel so exhausted? "She's asleep, but she'll probably be up soon."

Right on cue, the baby monitor fills with the sound of Frances' whimpers, indicating that she's awake. John rushes to her side before she starts crying. As he returns to the living room, he proudly presents his daughter to Lafayette. "This is Frances," he says with a hint of reverence, gazing at her button nose and kissing her forehead. Whenever he feels overwhelmed, he looks at her, and somehow, things feel a bit more manageable.

He passes Frances to Lafayette, who deftly cradles her. Frances reaches up with her small hand to grab Lafayette's nose. He playfully scrunches it up, and when he looks back at John, a mischievous smirk tugs at his lips. "Too bad, she looks just like you." Their laughter fills the room before Lafayette continues, "When do babies start talking? I must teach her French. And, of course, spoil her with gifts."

That last part makes John slightly nervous. Lafayette's wealth has always been a bit intimidating, and that's saying something coming from someone who also grew up affluent.

Lafayette surveys the apartment and raises a skeptical eyebrow. "So, how long are you planning to stay in New York City?"

John has to admit, the apartment is beginning to look rather permanent. "Uh... the foreseeable future?"

Lafayette claps a hand on John's shoulder, his eyes sparkling. "That's fantastic! Perhaps you, me, and Hamilton can—"

"No!" John interrupts, his tone urgent. "No, Hamilton can't know I'm back."

Lafayette's brow furrows in confusion. "But why? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see you. And wouldn't he want to meet Frances too?"

John's pulse quickens. He sounds a bit desperate as he pleads, "I can't, please don't tell him."

Lafayette shakes his head. "Tsk. I don't like this, but when it comes to matters of the heart and children, I won't interfere."

"Thank you," John replies sincerely.

Lafayette nods. "Now, does she have a godfather yet, or not?"

Chapter Text

Hamilton flushes, and John feels caught between wanting to understand the French Lafayette and being grateful he doesn't have to. As Lafayette takes Frances and leaves with an au revoir, the two men are left alone in the suddenly quiet house, without the usual chatter of children.

The door closes, and the atmosphere shifts. John takes a deep breath, preparing to speak. "Look, Alex, I --"

Hamilton raises a hand, silencing him. "John, I say this as your best friend, but shut the hell up."

The apartment seems to hold its breath as John waits for what comes next.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Alex declares, his voice low and intent. He cradles John’s jaw between his hands, his touch gentle yet decisive. It's an unexpected contrast from Hamilton's usual assertiveness. John's eyes flutter closed as he surrenders to the sensation, his heart racing. He feels the moistness of Alex's lips against his own, the way they glide and move, softened by a mixture of saliva and chapstick. The taste of bitter coffee and the subtle mint of Hamilton's gum intermingle as their tongues meet, creating a tantalizing mixture. He inhales the scent of Alexander’s cologne, the familiarity of the shampoo he's been using for years. And above all, he's captivated by the soft, pleased sounds that escape Alexander's throat with each movement.

He's lost, whether it's due to the passage of time or the intoxicating allure of Hamilton himself. When Alex's fingernails scratch at his back through the fabric of his shirt, it sends sparks of sensation all over his skin. John eventually pulls away, needing to catch his breath. The warmth of Alexander's breath against his lips makes him shiver.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a moment to steady himself and regain his composure. When he feels like he can think again, he raises a questioning eyebrow. "What was that?"

"That would be a kiss, John," Hamilton retorts with a hint of sass in his tone.

John's curiosity doesn't waver. "But why did you kiss me?"

Alexander looks uncharacteristically uncertain for a moment, his fingers fidgeting as he struggles to put his feelings into words. "I thought that, well, we've lost so much time already and maybe—"

"It's not just about me anymore. I have to think about Frances too."

Hamilton throws his hands up in exasperation. "Jesus Christ, John. What do I have to do to convince you that I fucking love you?"

"Oh."

The air seems to deflate a bit, the tension dissipating. "You have to meet me halfway, man. Call me when you're ready," Alex says as he reaches for his coat, intending to leave.

John's grip on Alex's sleeve tightens, a silent plea for him to stay. "No, don't leave. It's just... I've been running for so long. I don't know how to be a dad. What if I turn out like Henry? I don't know how to protect her. How do you shield her from the world? I can't... she's just so small, you know?"

Hamilton steps closer, wrapping his arms around John in a comforting hug, his voice gentle. "I know, I know. It's okay, John. We'll figure it out together. And honestly, you could never be like Henry."

John closes his eyes, breathing in and out slowly as he lets the anxiety slowly drain from his body. He takes in the warmth and solidity of Alexander's presence until his tension begins to ease. With his heart rate returning to a more normal rhythm, he runs one arm from Alex's shoulder down to his hand, entwining their fingers together. He pulls him gently, guiding them toward the couch. As they sit down, John tugs Hamilton into his lap, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Hamilton seems pleased, looking as if he's won a prize. John's hands explore the texture of Alexander's jeans, tracing the rough fabric down to his knees and then back up to his hips. He entwines his fingers in the belt loops and draws him closer, their bodies pressed together. John's smile widens, and he whispers, "We've got 40 minutes until they get back. Let's make the most of it, huh?"

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Life's current sweeps them forward, subtly interweaving Hamilton into their daily existence. Fragments of his presence find their place among the patterns of their routine – a toothbrush, a pair of shoes, a lingering scent – until he becomes a fixture as familiar as the furniture in their home. His laughter paints the walls with warmth during sleepovers, and his absence leaves an echo of his laughter behind. In this fluid dance, everything appears to be progressing smoothly, a tranquil façade that obscures the unpredictable currents below the surface.

Yet, life has a way of surprising, of veering sharply from the path you thought you knew. John should have recognized the deceptive tranquility, the prelude to the storm that was about to strike.

The letter arrives one afternoon, an innocuous envelope that carries within it a tempest of consequences. As John retrieves it from the mailbox, its implications radiate like heatwaves, burning his fingers and making his heart race. The weight of the situation crashes down on him, and the expletive that escapes his lips is as cathartic as it is instinctual.

"Daddy…" Frances reproaches gently, her voice an echo of innocence and reprimand.

"Yeah, I know, baby," John mumbles, aware that he's not exactly setting the best example. "But remember, I'm an adult, so I get to use these words."

His gaze remains fixed on the ominous envelope, his fingers tentatively opening it. The words on the page dance before his eyes, but the meaning they convey clamps around his heart like a vice. Panic surges, a beast roaring within him, urging him to act. He dials Hamilton's number in haste, urgency lacing his voice. "Hey, Alex. Can I call you back later?"

Hamilton's voice, initially preoccupied, sharpens with concern. "Hey, John. Something came up. Can I call you back?"

John's anger simmers just beneath the surface, fueled by a cocktail of emotions. Silence stretches between them, a void that mirrors the turmoil in his chest. Then, finally, Alexander's focus intensifies, registering the gravity of the situation. "John?"

With effort, John shakes himself from his stupor. "I need you to come over."

"Is everything okay?" The worry in Hamilton's voice is palpable, bridging the distance between them.

"No."

The pause that follows is charged with uncertainty, fear escalating in Alex's tone. "Are you hurt? Is it Frances? Is she okay? What happened? What do you need me to do?"

"We're okay," John reassures him, though his voice carries a hint of desperation. "I just need someone to look after Frances for a little while. Please."

"Yeah, okay, John," Hamilton's voice softens, concern prevailing. "I'll be there in 45 minutes. Is that okay?"

"Thank you," John says, gratitude lacing his words.

The meeting with his father, Henry Laurens, is a tense affair, fraught with the weight of unspoken grievances and unresolved emotions. John's anger simmers beneath the surface as his father produces the legal document that threatens to upend his life.

In Henry's office, opulent as one might expect of a wealthy man, the air is thick with a mixture of nostalgia and discomfort. Stately bookshelves line the walls, laden with leather-bound tomes that speak to both his father's wealth and his intellectual prowess. The room is a showcase of privilege, each piece of furniture carefully selected to convey status and success.

"Why the hell are you suing me?" John's voice is a mix of incredulity and fury as he tosses the letter onto the ornate desk before his father.

Henry's expression remains aloof, the embodiment of indifference. "That would be the legally binding contract you signed, John."

Fury claws at John's insides. "Seriously? You're willing to take this to court?"

A predatory glint surfaces in Henry's eyes. "You breached the terms. I paid for your education, on the condition you pursued law school."

"You have no idea what I've been through these past five years," John's voice cracks, the strain of his emotions evident.

Henry's response remains cold. "Clearly not, considering you've chosen not to communicate with us."

John's anger simmers, ready to erupt. "I've been working myself to the bone, struggling to provide for others. I don't have the time, money, or energy for this lawsuit. Tell me how to void this."

Henry's lips curl into a wry smile. "Start by explaining why you dropped out of school."

Memories of a long-past ultimatum regarding his sexuality resurface, intensifying his anger. "You disowned me when I came out as gay. You said I couldn't be part of this family if I didn't conform. I left, and I didn't realize this contract was still active. I don't need your family; I've built my own."

The words slip out, unfiltered, and Henry's grin widens. "Your own family, you say? Well, if you've chosen a suitable woman to bear your children, we can renegotiate. So, who's the lucky lady?"

John's expression remains unyielding, a mask to shield his vulnerability. "Alexander Hamilton. My lawyer will contact yours. And just so you know, I'm still pretty gay."

As John strides out of his father's office, the echoes of their conversation reverberate in his mind, a reminder that he's not alone in this tumultuous journey. Waiting for him at home are the two people

Chapter Text

In the heart of their home, John revels in the simple comfort of relaxation. Clad in his favored sweatpants, he sinks into the couch, content to let time flow leisurely by. His daughter, Frances, is engrossed in coloring on the floor, while the embrace of a good book holds his attention. Beside him sits Hamilton, a steadfast presence that fills the space with warmth and familiarity. But as always, the demands of the world encroach, pulling Hamilton away to an important meeting.

Hours elapse, marked by the rhythm of life's obligations. After seeing to Frances's needs – feeding her, giving her a bath, and tucking her into bed – John finds himself seeking the solace of his own bed. It's in this quiet space that he hears the sound of Hamilton's return, the jingle of a key announcing his presence. Fatigue etches lines onto Alexander's face, yet a smile emerges, a testament to his resilience.

John greets him at the doorway, the soft press of their lips a greeting laden with affection. His hands instinctively reach to take Hamilton's briefcase, accompanied by gentle insistence to join him in rest. But Hamilton's behavior is uncharacteristically unyielding, his determination perplexing in John's weary state.

"Wait. I've got something for you," Hamilton's voice carries a hint of anticipation as he places the briefcase on the table, his fingers poised over its clasps.

The weariness in John's bones makes patience a scarce commodity, his curiosity taking the reins. "Well, what is it?"

The opening of the briefcase reveals a stack of documents, carefully presented to John. His eyes fixate on the title, his mind grappling to comprehend its significance.

"You want to adopt her?"

Hamilton's fingers fidget, a subtle sign of his nervousness – a revelation known only to John. Despite this, Hamilton's voice remains steadfast as he explains, "Yes. There are practical benefits to adoption, and I've had the paperwork for a while. But recently, with all this domestic bliss, I've found myself reflecting on my own past – my mother's death and my time in foster care. And I thought, just in case the unthinkable happens, Frances should have someone who loves her to turn to. You know?"

Emotions surge within John, rendering him almost speechless. He's unsure if tears are forming, his senses temporarily overwhelmed by the weight of this revelation.

"Uhm, I mean, I understand if you're not comfortable. It's a big decision, and there are legal complexities," Alexander's words spill forth as he tries to gauge John's reaction.

John clings to the documents as if they're a lifeline, his heart throbbing with a mixture of emotions. "No, I want to. It's just... a lot. Are you absolutely sure? And it's just that... you haven't officially moved in yet," he notes, realization dawning.

Hamilton's response comes with a sheepish expression. "About that... you know how I've been here practically every day for the past three weeks?"

Laurens, caught off guard, can't help but deliver a playful punch to Alexander's arm. "Planning on telling me you moved in? How did I miss this? And where's all your stuff?"

"Stored away in my office and some storage units," Hamilton confesses.

"Wow."

"Too much too soon?" Hamilton's uncertainty surfaces.

John squeezes his hand, a gesture of assurance. "No, not at all. It's just that you, Alexander Hamilton, seem to have mastered the art of throwing yourself fully into things."

Hamilton offers a wry smile, allowing himself to be guided by John towards their bedroom. "So, is that a yes or a no on the idea of slowing down?"

John's response comes with a mixture of tenderness and humor. "It's a 'no, but I'm too sleepy, and my boyfriend is too exhausted to deal with this right now.' We can revisit the conversation tomorrow."

Chapter Text

For once, Hamilton arrives home from his workday at a reasonable hour. He slumps into a chair at the modest dining room table, his tie loosened, a stark contrast to the usual hurried and harried demeanor he displays after long days. John, playing the role of a doting partner, places a plate of food before him with practiced care, the atmosphere almost domestic.

As they exchange pleasantries and recount the events of their respective days, a casual question slips from Hamilton's lips, woven into the conversation like an unassuming thread. "Hey Frances, is it okay if I live here?"

Frances's young brow furrows in confusion, a gesture that remarkably mirrors her father's expressions. The sight earns a soft laugh from Hamilton, who can't help but be charmed by the familial resemblance. "You mean you don't already live here? Does that mean I get to share your chores?"

His mock-offended tone falters under the genuine smile that graces his lips, creating a heartwarming ambiance. Frances, however, isn't one to be easily fooled. "I don't want to feed the turtle," she states, pointing to the new glass case housing their shelled companion in the corner of the room.

Alexander's laughter erupts, so hearty that it brings tears to his eyes. Turning his gaze towards John, he teases, "Did you buy the turtle for her, or is it more of a self-indulgence?"

In response, a subtle blush colors John's cheeks, a reaction he'd prefer to leave behind in his teenage years. With a sense of faux nonchalance, he pokes at his mashed potatoes. "The apartment isn't exactly pet-friendly, so I thought maybe having a turtle would give Frances some responsibility, you know. And," he adds hastily, "it's something she can enjoy too."

Hamilton's amusement refuses to be contained, his laughter bubbling up again. Yet, he maintains an air of composure, a smug grin taking up residence on his face.

John's slight pout isn't lost on either of them. "Fine, I may have bought the turtle for myself initially, but Frances seems to think it's cool."

Frances, not one to mince words, makes her stance clear. "No, I don't."

The response elicits an almost-childlike sulking from John, a subtle shift in the familial dynamics that Hamilton finds endearing. "Alright," John concedes, his voice carrying a note of mock disappointment, "I'll settle for 'a little cool.'"

Frances, in a moment of rare concession, offers a soft mumble. "Okay, fine, it's a little cool."

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Hamilton's fingers swiftly work to undo his tie as he enters their home, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. His tired smile is directed at John as he triumphantly announces, "He's dropping the lawsuit."

John's genuine surprise twinges a hint of offense in Hamilton. After all, he's an exceptional lawyer, and his skill should never be underestimated. "How did that happen?" John inquires, his curiosity piqued.

Hamilton sheds his tie carelessly, tossing it onto the floor – a move that earns him a reproving look from John. However, Frances seems delighted by the unexpected accessory and promptly dons it as a headband. Grinning at her antics, Alexander continues recounting the day's events. "Did you know that Henry is planning to run for governor?"

John's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "No, I didn't."

Hamilton smirks, a sly playfulness in his expression. "Well, it appears that Henry Laurens is aiming to secure the position of governor. And so, during my meeting with him, as I rehearsed my speech, the one with terms like 'duress' and 'emotional manipulation,' I decided to take a different approach."

Earlier that day...

Alexander hastens down the corridor toward the conference room within Henry Laurens' office building. His palm presses against the door handle, trembling slightly, a residual effect of that last, unnecessary espresso shot. A steadying breath helps quell the quivers, and he enters the room, greeted by the presence of the men gathered within.

"Good day, Mr. Laurens," Hamilton offers with a polite smile before his gaze lands on Burr. His voice shifts to one of genuine delight, his grin spreading. "And Mr. Burr, sir!"

Burr extends his hand for a handshake as Hamilton settles into a chair at the table.

"Alexander, it's good to see you," Burr replies sincerely, though his voice carries a weariness. His intentions are clear, though – he intends to address the matter at hand promptly. "I'll be straightforward. I'm afraid, John's options may be limited to settling. The legal grounds of this document are quite robust."

Hamilton takes a moment to study Henry Laurens before turning his attention back to him. "Sir, is it accurate that you're considering a gubernatorial run?"

The surprise that crosses Henry Laurens' face, though fleeting, speaks volumes. Hamilton's smile takes on a charming quality – a trait often employed to win people over. The motive behind this particular grin isn't to charm Mr. Laurens; instead, it serves to keep the atmosphere levelheaded. "I'm aware of your commitment to family values, and considering that, I'd hate for the media to uncover – anonymously, of course – the fact that you're suing your own gay son, a dedicated healthcare provider, thereby taking resources away from your own grandchild. It's doubtful that such information would resonate well with potential voters."

A shift of rage contorts Henry Laurens' features, his finger jabbing toward Hamilton in a gesture of aggression. Alexander despises when people resort to such tactics. However, this time he won't be silenced; he won't be deterred. "Now listen here --" Mr. Laurens begins.

But Hamilton isn't about to yield – not physically, not ideologically. His voice takes on an unyielding resolve, fortified with conviction. "No. You will terminate this preposterous lawsuit. Perhaps, if you can manage to extricate your head from the depths of your pride –"

"Alexander!" Burr's appalled admonition mirrors the reprimands Hamilton has heard before.

Despite the cautionary note, Alexander presses on, infusing every word with unwavering strength. "You could salvage an actual relationship with your son and granddaughter."

Henry's attempt to assert dominance is met with an elevated eyebrow from Hamilton. It's apparent that something in his expression gives Mr. Laurens pause, leading to a nod in Burr's direction. "Mr. Burr, I expect the necessary documents on my desk by week's end. And Mr. Hamilton?"

"Yes, sir?"

Henry retrieves an envelope from an inner pocket, extending it toward Alexander. "Kindly deliver this to my son."

Hamilton accepts the envelope, his hesitation momentary before he nods his acknowledgment.

Burr, the voice of moderation, ensures he walks Hamilton to the door. "Alexander, must you always be so provocative?"

Narrowing his eyes, Hamilton responds with firm resolve. "When it comes to defending my family, yes."

As Hamilton recounts the tale, a pleased sigh escapes his lips. "So, this entire ordeal should be settled by next week. By the way, how much money was in your trust fund?" he queries John.

John's response nearly makes Alexander splutter in disbelief. "What on earth?!"

"Papa!" Frances admonishes. The endearing term immediately lifts John's spirits, a new development that brings a smile to his face.

"Right, right, my apologies. I'll make sure to contribute to the jar tomorrow; I forgot to swing by the bank on my way home," John replies, a realization suddenly dawning upon him. However, his focus takes an abrupt turn as Frances utters a single word that resonates deeply.

"Papa."

Hamilton glances at John, a mixture of bewilderment and warmth in his gaze. In a moment, it becomes clear – legally and logically, he's Frances' guardian by adoption. However, it's this simple word, 'Papa,' uttered without hesitation, that crystallizes the significance of their relationship. The weight of the term isn't lost on him. What does he know about family? He's lived the life of a foster child, moving from place to place.

An inner turmoil brews as he's confronted with this newfound reality, a reality he yearned for. He treads down a mental path, but he's quick to halt the journey. No need to delve into old wounds now. He observes John's furrowed brow, choosing to keep those thoughts to himself. Instead, he gathers Frances into a tight embrace, seeking solace in her innocence, letting her presence quell his uncertainties.

He can manage this. He's been managing it for a while now. The thought accompanies him through dinner and until bedtime, where he finds rest and reassurance enveloped in John's embrace.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet realization dawns – an envelope, forgotten in his briefcase.

Chapter Text

Hamilton had assured John hours ago that he'd retire to bed soon, but now, he's unsure of the time, the words on the page beginning to blur together. He recognizes this point of the night – when his exhaustion pushes him to call it quits. Yet, as he's nearly finished tidying up, a small, wet cough slices through the air. He freezes, his heart seizing upon realization.

Once he processes that the sound belongs to Frances and that she's unwell, urgency propels him from his chair. The thud of his heartbeat resounds in his throat as he traverses the short distance to her room. Sitting by her bedside, he strokes her hair, attempting to soothe her distress.

"Hello, sweetness. What's wrong?" he inquires with a pained expression.

"Papa, it hurts," Frances sobs, her cheeks streaked with tears.

Emotion wells within him – an emotion he's not entirely prepared to confront. He's experienced too much sickness in his life, and it's never gotten easier. In this moment, he's thankful he wasn't coherent when his mother passed away. He's unsure how to handle this situation. Frances looks to him for answers he doesn't have.

"I know, I know. I'll be right back, okay, baby?" he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her head dampened by cold sweat. He scurries to the master bedroom, not bothering to switch on the lights as he shakes John awake.

"John, John, John," he exhales in a litany.

Drowsy and rubbing his eyes, John mumbles, "What's going on?"

"I don't know what to do!" Hamilton's voice wavers, and he's likely been on the brink of a panic attack since Frances started coughing.

John's hands cradle Hamilton's face, his touch calming. "Hey, hey, calm down. What's happening?"

"Frances," Alexander's words tumble out in a panicked flurry, his breaths coming in rapid succession. Why can't he articulate what's wrong? His skill with words usually never deserts him.

Expectantly, John gazes at him, awaiting an explanation that isn't forthcoming. Without hesitation, John rushes to his daughter's room.

A wave of relief washes over John as he enters Frances' room. He turns his attention back to Alexander. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Alex! What's the matter?"

"She's sick," he replies softly, gesturing helplessly. Recognition dawns on John's face, and he gives Alexander a kiss before directing his attention to his daughter.

John's smile radiates comfort as he whispers to Frances, "Hey, sweetie, how are you feeling?"

Frances pouts. "It hurts."

Gently, he wipes her tear-streaked face as he inquires, "Where does it hurt, darling?"

Frances points to her throat and chest. He rubs her chest gently, and she coughs. Though he doesn't like the sound, he knows they can wait until morning to see her pediatrician.

"I'll get you some baby Tylenol, alright?"

"Yeah, okay Daddy, but Papa stays here," Frances insists, clutching her stuffed animal.

"Of course, babydoll," John acquiesces, placing a reassuring hand on Alexander's shoulder before leaving the room. With a playful smirk, he adds, "Is that alright with you, Papa?"

Alexander musters a small smile, and Frances softly murmurs, "Papa, I want cuddles."

"Alright," he agrees simply, enveloping her in a gentle hug.

He holds her until sleep claims her. In the master bedroom, John's voice is gentle as he asks, "Are you okay, Alex?"

Hamilton shakes his head in response.

Concern etches itself onto John's features as he pats the edge of the bed, inviting Hamilton to join him. As Alexander settles in, John offers reassurance, wrapping his arms around him. In the hush of the night, just as sleep begins to beckon, Alexander's voice drifts in a whisper.

"The summer before college, I stayed with a couple – Annie and Elias Boudinot. They were as close to a family as I had at the time. Almost like adoptive parents."

John's hand rests on Hamilton's shoulder, a gesture of support. Alexander sighs, his voice tinged with the weight of memory. "The Boudinots had a toddler named Anna Maria. One day, they took her to the hospital. The doctors said there was nothing more they could do. I sat by her bedside, until --" His words trail off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

He clears his throat, as if to clear the lingering emotions. "Regardless, I wrote an elegy for her. And I was so afraid I'd have to do the same for Frances. How could anyone bear that?"

Pressed for an explanation, Hamilton wouldn't readily disclose the true motivations behind his elegy. He's uncertain if he could even articulate them. At the time, writing it seemed right. He didn't seek praise, though it came aplenty. He ponders the scenario of it being Frances instead of Anna Maria. He understands he'd be left staring at a blank page – some things can't be captured in words, unimaginable in their depth.

As sleep gradually claims him, Alexander doesn't notice the heartache etched on John's face.

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