Work Text:
Despair.
Hamilton felt only despair as he glanced down at his plate. Well, maybe not only despair. There was also sorrow, and sadness, and fury, and rage, and madness, and insanity, and a million other adjectives he was too lazy to list down in his head.
Why? Because what was staring back at him from the plate was scrambled eggs, with rice and ketchup. That, in and of itself, wouldn't have been a problem usually for him. He pokes and prods at the disgusting blob with his fork, reluctantly sticking it into the vibrant red liquid and plopping it into his mouth. He visibly grimaces.
It was crumbly and soggy at the same time. It had no salt nor seasoning. The (alleged) food was completely tasteless—the only thing carefully blanketing it with flavor was the months-old cold packet of ketchup he had thrown into the fridge, forsaking the poor thing (now wishing he hadn't.)
Hamilton set down his fork with the solemnity of a man laying down his own heart. There was nothing left to do here. Nothing.
But still, he had to keep eating. If this was the only sustenance he had to get through the night, so be it.
Hamilton grabs a spoonful of rice, shoving it in his mouth like a man on a mission. It's overcooked, the seams charred and the (usually) delicious white pellets were now crunchy and unpleasant.
Not long ago, he had replaced the original rice for the meal due to it spoiling—the smell alone was enough to make him gag.
It was pitiful.
Hamilton had no choice but to keep going, because despite everything—anything is better than nothing. His mama had not raised an ungrateful boy. Spoonful by spoonful, he made work on the tasteless, cold, disgusting, absolutely sinful and horrendous thing he hesitates to even call dinner.
And yet... it was not enough.
His stomach—his poor stomach—growled. A low, mournful, accusing grumble it was. He forced his mouth to keep chewing. It felt as though a bag of flour would have been more appetizing than this.
Even the ketchup, months old and forlorn, could not save him. It was a betrayal, this meal, a mockery of sustenance.
Hamilton slammed his fork down with the force of a gavel. Enough. He could endure no more. There was only one solution left in this cruel, cruel world.
He had to get food. Edible food. Good food. Food that won't force him to suffer any longer.
He rallied the options inside his head. I should order from a restaurant! He thought, an imaginary lightbulb appearing above his head.
Alexander sprinted to his bedroom, pulling at drawers till he finds his treasured wallet—but no matter where he looked, there was nothing there? It was odd. Where could he had left the darn thing?
Hamilton crashed out—drawers were flung open, papers were tossed, everything was caught in a whirlwind of panic. Nothing. As though it had vanished.
"Where could I have—?" He muttered once more, pacing in circles; his hair was tousled. His eyebags were getting deeper by the second, and his stomach kept growling—taunting him.
The cold, soggy eggs and crunchy rice mocked him. He could not, would not, endure another bite. He needed food. Proper food. Eggs.
Hamilton ran to the refrigerator. There was nothing except stale bread (why had he frozen that?) and cold water.
He slammed the fridge door closed, getting on his knees and banging on the walls—tears pricked at his eyes, but none came. There was no other choice. None.
The Schuyler sisters were all out of town. He must ask someone—ANYONE—for eggs.
Aaron Burr?
No. He would not face Aaron Burr even if he cooked the best omelet there could be (which he doubts anyways.) Besides, Burr would most likely be asleep at this hour with his wife, Theodosia, and his daughter, also Theodosia.
James Madison?
The man would prepare some bland, flavorless, precise, perfectly symmetrical tasteless "balanced" meal (if he even agrees to cooking for Hamilton.) which is not what Hamilton needs right now. Alexander needs flavor, seasoning, spices, anything.
John Adams?
Absolutely not.
George Washington?
Back in Mount Vernon with his wife.
Thomas Jefferson?
Now, Alexander Hamilton took a moment to think about it. He really thought about it. He considered Jefferson's flair—he could most likely cook a mean omelet, having the riches to provide seasoning. Hell, he didn't doubt the man had a private chef or something of the sorts.
Thomas Jefferson could make eggs, and turn them into a spectacle of arts, a masterpiece, a phenomenon.
The problem was with the man himself. Thomas Jefferson was the most arrogant, self-absorbed, self-righteous, dramatic, insufferable, horrible, terrible man that Alexander has had the misfortune of meeting.
Thomas Jefferson was infuriating, maddening, and probably the most reliable man Hamilton could think of right now when it comes to food.
Now, Hamilton faced the question: How could he get Thomas Jefferson to cook him good eggs?
He considered his options. Begging? Too humiliating. Threats? Too complicated. Bribery? Legal action would be taken. There was only one option left. Persuasion.
Persuasion is a word with many meanings, and Hamilton was not afraid of using all of them.
There are words—flattery, reasonable arguments. There are actions—carefully timed sighs, favors. And of course, there are other ways of persuasion.
Hamilton straightened his coat, adjusted his cuffs, and let his smirk settle into just the right angle. He fixes his hair, and nudges his glasses into place. He unbuttons his collar once, just to make it seem more tempting.
Tonight, Jefferson would cook him eggs. Not out of pity, not because he asked politely, not because it was the rational thing to do—no. Jefferson would cook him eggs because he would be made to want to.
With the determination of a man both desperate and cunning. Alexander stepped into the night, prepare to charm—and perhaps seduce, if needed—his way to a mighty fine dinner.
As he walked through the road, cold air battering his skin—he imagined himself as a hero, rather than a desperate man looking for a plate of eggs. Except, he had no idea which way to go. South? North? East? West? All Hamilton knew that the perfect eggs were out there, somewhere.
Thomas Jefferson waited with the perfect, golden, seasoned eggs.
After what felt like an eternity of pacing, consulting street signs, and muttering to himself, Alexander realized the problem: he didn’t actually know where Jefferson lived.
Of course, he frantically pulls out his phone and texts Angelica.
adotham : Do you know where Jefferson lives?
angelicaschuyl : ??? Why do you want to know?
angelicaschuyl : Isn't it 11 in the night for you right now?
adotham : Don't ask questions, I need it A.S.A.P
angelicaschuyl : I'm not sending it to you, Alexander.
adotham : I won't send a bomb to his house or something, just send it quickly.
adotham : Please?
angelicaschuyl : Fine. It's 34 Chestnut Avenue, Richmond Heights—near the big fountain.
adotham : Of course he lives in that disgustingly rich neighborhood.
adotham : Thanks Angie, see you later.
The walk over there wasn't ordeal. He gained weird looks from many rich people taking moonlit walks with their 30 Pomeranians. Every street corner seemed longer than the next.
His stomach growled with the ferocity that could frighten a small nation.
Finally, he arrived. 34 Chestnut Avenue. Richmond Heights. Near the big fountain. The address alone reeked of wealth, and Hamilton’s fists clenched in frustration and awe. Jefferson lived like this? With fountains and perfectly paved sidewalks? The nerve.
(Funny he talks about providing for our farmers when he lives more lavishly than Hamilton himself.)
He approached the door, dusting off his coat, running his hands through his hair, and adjusting himself one last time. Hamilton knocked once on the mahogany door. Twice. Three times.
Pressing his ear against the velvety wood, he heard a faint shuffling, and then footsteps.
Alexander Hamilton took a deep breath.
The door creaked open.
"Alexander Hamilton?" Thomas exclaimed, his hair was tousled from sleep and his robe fell off his shoulder, unmistakable irritation flaming in his eyes.
"What the fuck? My beauty sleep, Hamilton! What could possibly be so important that you had to wake me up at this ungodly hour?"
Hamilton blinked, still processing, "Jefferson—"
"Was Washington set on fire? Did France declare war? Did a hurricane destroy the US capital?!" Jefferson's overexaggerated gestures amplified each word, his voice raising.
Hamilton's smile faltered for just a second, but he picked up off where he left.
"Mr. Jefferson," He kept his tone light and casual, almost sounding sorry for the midnight disturbance. "I do hate to bother you at such an obscene hour."
He continues, "I'm sure you were asleep enjoying—well, the quiet, the luxury of it all."
Thomas' eyebrows furrowed, "And yet you're here, ruining my night."
Alexander coughed, letting a faint sigh escape, "Yes, and I suppose I should feel guilty for disturbing you. But I had nowhere else to turn. I tried everyone I could think of... and no one seemed... available. I would hate to think I’m inconveniencing you, but..." His voice trailed just enough to sound genuine.
Jefferson was taken aback. "You do realize how this looks, right?"
Hamilton tilted his head, trying to appear as small as possible, "I know, I know. I wouldn't have gone to you if it wasn't absolutely necessary..."
Thomas rubbed his temple, already annoyed, "Necessary for what, exactly?"
"Well..." Hamilton's eyes flicked to the doorframe. Fuck, he hasn't though this far.
"Necessary for... conversation. I value your advice, your insight." Alexander bit his lip, absolutely regretting every decision that brought him to this moment.
Hamilton lets a stray strand of hair fall on his face.
"Are you seriously guilt-tripping me right now?"
"Please, Jefferson, I need this! My situation is kinda desperate."
A second of awkward silence passes.
"Fine, get in. Don't make me regret my decisions."
Hamilton stepped inside, letting the door click softly behind him. He dusted off his coat, ran a hand through his hair, and took a slow, appraising look around Jefferson’s home—without being obvious.
"You know," Hamilton began, voice light and casual, "even at this hour, your home has... a certain elegance. The way the light falls on these walls... it really shows your taste. Refined."
Jefferson's eye twitched, "What?"
Hamilton tilted his head, letting a faint, easy smile play on his lips.
"I can't lie, Jefferson... you have a way about you. Even like this—disheveled from sleep, robe half-falling off—there’s... something about you. Striking. Hard to ignore.”
"Hamilton, you do realize how insufferable you sound?"
"Insufferable? I'm just telling the truth."
Hamilton sits on the couch closest to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Jefferson’s chest stiffened. His irritation was still there, but the faintest trace of pride—or at least self-awareness—crept in.
Alexander shifted on the couch—subtle, calculated, absolutely not subtle.
He let one knee hang looser than the other, the kind of action that looked relaxed but was obviously staged. He let his legs drift apart. His collar was already unbuttoned, but now he pushed his sleeves up to his forearms. He looks comfortable—way too comfortable.
Jefferson noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes flicked down, then jolt back up like he had just seen a ghost.
Hamilton pretended not to see it.
"Mr. Jefferson," he said, lowering his voice just a bit—not sultry, but inviting. "You know... I’m really grateful you let me in. You didn’t have to."
Jefferson crossed his arms over his chest, "And yet you make yourself at home. What did you come here for anyway?"
Hamilton stretched—not fully, just enough that the muscles in his forearms tightened and the neckline of his shirt shifted.
"My apologies. It’s just... exhausting being out in the cold. With no one else willing to help."
Thomas scoffed, "And I'm the one person you thought to choose?"
"Exactly!" Hamilton leaned closer to Jefferson's direction, batting his eyes aggressively (and not even knowing if he was doing it right.)
"You're competent, reliable, and can I say? Easy on the eyes." Alexander drawled out, scanning Jefferson's frame from top to bottom.
Thomas' breath caught—audibly.
"Stop that."
"Stop what?" Hamilton spoke innocently, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, "Complimenting you? Appreciating you? Being honest?"
Jefferson pointed at him accusingly, "You're seducing me. I know this game. What do you want?"
Hamilton exhaled softly, looking down like he was embarrassed to admit it.
"I didn't want to impose, though... Everything I said was from the kindness and honesty of my own heart." (Jefferson rolled his eyes.)
"That's not an answer."
Hamilton turned up, eyes soft, almost pleading.
"I haven't had dinner yet, and I thought..." Alexander gazed away like a wife watching her husband sail off to go to war,
"Perhaps a man as generous, kind, and handsome as yourself might help a poor secretary out? I mean, we do work on the same staff."
"Are you..." Jefferson looked confuzzled, "trying to get me to cook for you?"
"Only if you're willing to... I promise, I'll make it worth your time."
Jefferson’s ears went pink. "Hamilton, I swear—"
"No persuasion, no tricks," Alexander twirls a strand of hair with his finger, "Just me, hungry, and trusting you."
"Fine! Fuck, I'll cook for you. Just stop doing," Jefferson gestured at him, "Whatever that is."
Hamilton leaned back, victorious but pretending to be gracious.
"Thank you, Jefferson. It means more than you know."
Thomas stomped off toward the kitchen, muttering curses—but he absolutely checked Alexander out at least twice on the way there.
He yanked open a cabinet, pulled out a pan, and muttered under his breath, "Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable," but his movements were oddly precise—because if Thomas Jefferson was going to be manipulated into making food at now twelve-something in the morning, it was at least going to be a perfect omelet.
Hamilton watched from the couch, chin propped on his hand, eyes half-lidded like he was observing a very interesting experiment. (Thomas looks hot when he's cooking.)
Jefferson cracked two eggs with quick, practiced taps on the counter. A clean break—no shells.
"Wow, and you cook too? Handsome and multi-talented." Alexander whistled.
Thomas nearly dropped the bowl, "What, you think I don't cook? It's a basic life skill."
"...Well, I thought you just had a private chef." Hamilton murmured from under his breath.
He whisked the eggs a little too aggressively, shoulders tense. The robe he’d thrown on shifted just enough to reveal a glimpse more collarbone, which Hamilton definitely noticed.
Jefferson heated the pan, adding a pat of butter. The moment it sizzled, he swirled it with a controlled flick of his wrist, elegant despite his irritation.
"You do that well," Hamilton muttered.
Thomas refused to turn around, "I've cooked for diplomats, I can cook for a nuisance."
Jefferson sprinkled in salt, pepper, and—Hamilton’s eyes widened a little—something from a small glass jar he’d definitely blended himself.
Paprika. Herbs. Maybe even nutmeg. Whatever it was, it smelled expensive.
That is when Alexander learned he has a taste for expensive.
"You season your eggs?" Hamilton asked, leaning back on the couch and letting his knees fall a little farther apart, every movement so obviously deliberate.
Jefferson scoffed, but it came out quite breathless. "I'm not an animal."
He reached for another bowl—already filled with neatly prepped ingredients. Chopped green onions, parsley, tiny diced red bell peppers, and a small mound of Gruyère that caught the light like it was proud of itself.
Hamilton blinked, "You prepare your vegetables ahead of time?"
"Some of us have standards."
He folded the vegetables into the egg mixture with smooth motions. Then he poured it into the pan; the sizzle filled the whole kitchen. The butter browned just slightly at the edges, spreading a warm, nutty scent that made Alexander's stomach twist painfully.
Jefferson tilted the pan, letting the eggs settle perfectly. He pushed the edge with a wooden spatula—of course Jefferson owned a wooden spatula, probably imported—letting the curds form soft and custardy.
Hamilton lowered his voice, letting it drop into something dangerously admiring. "You’re... surprisingly good at that."
"Of course I’m good at this," Thomas snapped, though the red creeping across his cheeks betrayed him. "What, do you think I just—exist? I have skills."
Hamilton stretched, purposefully letting out a soft mewl. "Mhm, I can see that."
Jefferson swallowed, eyes flicking briefly—about a millisecond—to Hamilton’s posture before jerking back to the pan like it had personally offended him.
Thomas folded the omelet with a single clean movement, the kind that only someone secretly vain about their technique would ever practice.
He set the omelet on the plate carefully. Hamilton waited for it to be handed to him, but he appears more puzzled as the man went back to the counter.
From a small basket, Thomas retrieved a baguette, slicing it delicately. He buttered it just enough to give it a gentle sheen, then popped it into the oven for a light toast.
Next came the tiniest salad Hamilton had ever seen—a handful of greens tossed with care in a small bowl. Jefferson arranged it beside the omelet as though it were part of a still-life painting.
Finally, he filled a tall glass with sparkling water, letting the bubbles rise before setting a small lime slice on the rim.
Hamilton’s eyes followed every motion, heart thudding a little faster. The way Jefferson handled each detail was infuriatingly attractive.
"Here," Jefferson said at last, sliding the completed plate and drink across the counter. "Everything’s ready. Bon appetit."
Hamilton picked up the golden fork, and speared a bite of the omelet. The first taste was like a revelation. It was perfectly seasoned, flavorful, and the texture was fluffy. The temperature was perfect—not too hot, but perfectly warm in the way that felt like home.
He cut another bite, this time letting his fork slide through the golden folds of the eggs with as much precision as possible, like it was sacred.
The baguette followed, crisp yet buttery—contrasting perfectly with the tender omelet.
Hamilton stole a glance at Jefferson, leaning back slightly, fork paused mid-air, letting his eyes linger a fraction too long on the man who had created this masterpiece. He took a sip of the sparkling water, and let out a low, satisfied sigh.
Hamilton was enjoying the food, yes—but he had also enjoyed the performance, the way Jefferson moved around the kitchen, the way the man had so clearly been aware of Hamilton’s gaze the entire time.
"Your cooking is so good, you may have to invite me over here everyday."
"What, now that you've tasted something good, you've suddenly lost all the ability to be independent?"
"It's not like I said I wanted to move into your house, I said I want food everyday, tu idiota."
Hamilton took another bite of omelet, humming softly, and Jefferson busied himself clearing the counter, occasionally shooting the other man a glance that was half irritation, half something else entirely.
Perhaps the disgusting, terrible, horrible, horrendous, vile, foul, soggy, scrambled eggs Hamilton had had was the red string of fate in disguise—a very repulsive disguise, but still a disguise nonetheless.