Work Text:
They had told him that someone was moving into the office next to his. A prodigy, they said. Absolutely brilliant. Almost as good as you. You’ll work well together.
So, yes, he had fair warning. When he hears someone moving boxes next door, shuffling about with loud footsteps and muttered exclamations, he figures that this must be the new guy. He stands from his chair, stretching, glad for an excuse to take a break. The case he is working on is a difficult one, not enough proof for either a completely solid prosecution or a solid defense, so he must rely on his charisma and charm to get his client out of the hot water he’s in.
The door to the adjacent office has been flung wide open, a change from usual. He has been working at this firm for two years now, and the office has been empty for at least that long. He looks forward to meeting the new lawyer, maybe getting to know him, maybe making a friend. If he’s being put in an adjacent office, they’ll likely have to work together at the very least. He steps through the door, glancing around. The place appears almost lived-in already, boxes and papers and files stacked chest-high. It takes him a moment to locate the other person in the room, who is rummaging through a pile, murmuring to himself.
And Aaron freezes.
The man is short, shorter than him by half a head at least. His suit is rumpled, his hair pulled up into a messy bun. His hands shake, a tell-tale sign of too much caffeine. He is talking too softly for Aaron to make out any words, but-- that voice. He knows that voice. That voice features in his dreams, his nightmares, his memories.
Aaron’s heart begins to pound. It does not stop pounding for hours, long after he has backed out of the room and retreated to the safety of his own office. He could say that he is not trembling, but that would be a lie, because he is, too many thoughts and emotions running through his head to identify.
Pardon me! Are you Aaron Burr, sir?
He places his head in his hands.
He remembered his past life when he was twelve, earlier than most. He never did tell his parents, not wanting to trouble them, and he had no sister to confide in, not this time. The knowledge of who he was, of what he had done, ate him up inside, but it also pushed him, drove him to do better, to do more, to be the best. He was accepted into college early once again, and if he was taking full advantage of what he already knew? Well, no one had to know. He never made any close friends, and while the professors doted on him for his intelligence, that was all they liked him for.
Once again, he was considered cold. Aloof. Unapproachable. He held himself apart from everyone else, and no one made any efforts to change that, least of all himself. He never found making friends, or at least friendly acquaintances, to be this difficult in the past, but now, he felt disconnected from the people around him. Part of him was waiting, waiting for the day he would hear that familiar voice, feel that familiar hand on his elbow, see that familiar grin. He looked to that moment with both anticipation and dread, longing and horrible guilt.
But that moment never came, and he had to remind himself not to be surprised. It is a wide world, after all , he reminded himself, and even if he was anywhere near here, there is no reason that he would want to come and talk to you. Punch you, maybe. Rail at you, for sure. But he wouldn’t want to talk.
He never stopped looking, though, for Hamilton or for anyone else. A flash of green on the subway could mean Alexander’s coat. A kind, mischievous smile seen in passing could mean Theo was there. A smug, southern drawl, or a man constantly sneezing, those could mean shadows of the past he didn’t want to deal with.
But no one ever came. Aaron Barrett, formerly Aaron Burr, resigned himself to being alone.
It doesn’t take long for people at the office to figure out that he is avoiding his new neighbor. No one comments on it; he is not a particularly social man, and he gets the impression that people don’t like to risk overstepping their boundaries when it comes to him. Boundaries that he sets up around himself almost unconsciously, a force of habit. He almost regrets doing so. But nevertheless, he gets a lot of pointed looks during the day, during the times when he dares come out of his office.
It doesn’t take long for him to realize that avoiding Hamilton is going to be a lot harder than it seems.
For one thing, the man is exactly how he remembers-- that is to say, non-stop. He is one of the first ones here in the morning, and he is always the last one to leave. Sometimes, he doesn’t even do that, typing away into the early hours of the morning. At least, that’s what his coworkers say; Aaron rarely stays past six, so he wouldn’t know. But it doesn’t surprise him, though it seems to make his coworkers worry. It’s almost enough to make him laugh. That’s just the way he is , he wants to tell them. He’ll work himself to death one of these days, if nobody takes care of him.
And he doesn’t have anyone to take care of him this time, that much is becoming readily apparent. No Eliza, it seems. No Angelica. Not even one of his merry band of revolutionaries either, Laurens or Lafayette or Mulligan. Aaron almost takes satisfaction in that. Hamilton hasn’t been able to find anyone either.
But he is not that cruel.
He takes to spending most of his time in his office, only venturing out when he is sure Hamilton is either gone or absorbed in his work. When he is in, he locks the door whenever he can get away with it.
He is fairly certain Hamilton comes to knock at least four times. But he says nothing, and so Aaron doesn’t either. Eventually, the sound of his footsteps retreats down the hall and into his own office, and Aaron feels like he can breathe again.
Several times, he considers initiating contact himself. He knows that he cannot avoid the man forever, and surely it would be better to have the inevitable confrontation on his own terms. But whenever he contemplates taking action, he finds him paralyzed, paralyzed by anger and anxiety and an overwhelming sense of guilt, because he shot him. He killed him. Aaron Burr shot and killed Alexander Hamilton, and that is something that he cannot allow himself to forget. Not now, not ever.
And so, Aaron waits.
“Mr. Barrett? I have some files for you?”
The voice is accompanied by a timid knock on the door, and Aaron looks up. The voice belongs one of the secretaries. Penny, he thinks, or maybe her name is Mary.
“Come in, then,” he calls, straightening some papers on his desk and trying not to look like the complete mess that he has been for the past few days.
“Sir, the door is locked,” is the reply, and Aaron sighs.
“Give me a moment,” he says, and stands, making his way around his desk to the door. He pulls it open, arranging a pleasant expression on his face. The woman stands in front of the door, her fist raised to knock again. There are no files in her hand, and behind her, Aaron realizes distantly, stands the reason why.
Hamilton regards him with a raised eyebrow. “Thanks, Darcy,” he says, and the woman nods, turning to walk down the corridor. She stops to give them a curious glance over her shoulder, and Aaron wonders how this must look to an outside perspective.
He tries to remember how to breathe.
“So, Mr. Barrett,” Hamilton says, “have I done something to offend you?”
He can’t formulate a reply, because what?
“I’m sorry if I have,” Hamilton continues. “I’m told I can be abrasive. I mean, it’s not like I try to be, but I can’t help it. I’ve got a lot of things to say. But then again, I honestly don’t see what I could have done, since you’ve been avoiding me ever since I got here.” He says all of it in one breath, and it is so, so like the Hamilton he knows that Aaron almost smiles despite his confusion. “But then again, I also figure that you probably wouldn’t be avoiding me unless I had done something to offend you, so it’s all just a vicious cycle, really. And that brings me back to my question: have I done something to offend you?”
Have I done something to offend you?
Aaron turns the words over and over in his head, searching for the catch. Surely, it cannot be possible that Hamilton does not remember. But if he does remember, then he would remember it all, from the toxic words they exchanged to the helpless fury towards one another to the flash of the pistols in the predawn light. The gunshots that ended two lives, even though only one was lost.
You have done everything to offend me, Hamilton. Everything. But you were far from the only one to be in the wrong. My crime was a worse one, my transgression one that cannot be forgiven.
“Mr. Barrett?”
Ah. He has been silent for too long. For a moment, he considers slamming the door in Hamilton’s face, but if he did that, the man would find another way to talk to him. He would enlist the help of another secretary or coworker, or maybe he would simply stake out the hallway until Aaron had to go home. He wouldn’t put it past him.
And so, he chokes out a laugh. “I find it hard to believe you need an answer to that question,” he says, wincing at the way his voice rasps.
Hamilton tilts his head, a considering look passing over his face. “So it really is you,” he says, an odd tone in his voice. “I thought so, but I wanted to be sure.” He pulls his arm back, and Aaron only has a second to realize what is about to happen before it does. He goes reeling backward under the force of Hamilton’s fist and staggers against his desk, using it as a prop to help him remain upright.
“Huh,” he hears Hamilton say. “That wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. You okay there?”
Am I-? What? He straightens, blinking. Blood, warm and sticky, begins to drip down from his nose.
“Ah, shit. Hang on.” Hamilton steps fully into his office and closes the door behind him. “Shit, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to punch you that hard. Hang on.” He looks around the office, pulling a tissue from the box on Aaron’s desk. “Here. Sorry. Shit.”
Aaron puts the tissue to his nose, still trying to process what is going on. This feels--- surreal. To recap, he thinks, on the edge of hysteria, Hamilton remembers, has punched me in the face, and is now apologizing to me. For reasons I can’t fathom. My nose hurts. Ow.
“No need to apologize,” he hears himself say, faintly. “I deserved that.”
Hamilton shoots him a grin. “Yup,” he agrees. “You’re an asshole. Sit down, you look like you’re gonna faint.”
He allows Hamilton to push him down into his desk chair and doesn’t protest when the man himself hops on top of the desk, even though he knows that is a very important document he is sitting on. He feels lightheaded. Maybe he will faint. Would that be a bad thing? Probably.
“So,” Hamilton says, “I think we should probably talk.” His voice is completely sincere.
Aaron starts to laugh. He can’t help it. He laughs and wheezes and chokes on his own breathe, because of course that’s what Hamilton would suggest. The man never does anything else. The man never did anything else, not until--
“Hey, hey, Burr? Burr, breathe, alright? Jesus Christ.” Hands enclose around his shoulders and pull him forward, arms encircle him, pressing him close. “It’s okay.”
This is a hug, he registers. He’s hugging me. Why is he doing that? His laughs peter out, turning into something closer to sobs. He buries his face into Hamilton’s shoulder, throwing caution and dignity to the wind. Hamilton, for his part, rubs soothing circles into his back, and eventually, his weeping quiets. He remains pressed against Hamilton even after his crying has dissipated, loathe to move away from the only source of physical comfort he has had in a long time.
“You good?” Hamilton asks softly. For a moment, Aaron fears that he is going to push him away, but he makes no move to do so.
“I shot you,” he replies, voice thick and muffled by the fabric of Hamilton’s suit.
Hamilton laughs, and Aaron can feel it reverberate through his entire body. “Yeah, you did,” he agrees. “It was a dick move, but that’s why I punched you, so we’re even. And also, I was being kind of a dick too, so. And I mean, I’ve had a while to get over it. Uh. I mean, I was saying what I thought at the time, so I honestly can’t say I’m sorry, but I probably wouldn’t do it again. Or, at least, I wouldn’t let it go so far. And… maybe the ‘dangerous disgrace’ comment was a little uncalled for. But I-”
“Hamilton,” Aaron says, “shut up for a damned moment, would you?”
Hamilton, miracle of miracles, shuts up. They remain this way for another few moments, Aaron’s face buried in Hamilton’s shoulder, Hamilton’s arms encircling him. He hopes that none of their coworkers walk in on them, because this would be hard to explain.
At length, Aaron pulls himself together and withdraws, regaining the presence of mind to be embarrassed by his display. Hamilton makes no effort to stop him. “You haven’t found anyone else either, then,” he says quietly, not meeting the other man’s eyes. A shadow passes over Hamilton’s face.
“You haven’t?” he asks, though it is obvious he already knows the answer.
“You’re the first,” Aaron admits. “There’s really been no sign?”
Hamilton shrugs. “Believe me, I’ve been looking. I’ve met a few people from around the same time period, but… nobody either of us knew. As far as I know, anyway, I mean, at the end there your social life was pretty much entirely separate from mine, so I can’t be sure that I haven’t met anyone you knew, but-”
Aaron holds up a hand. “You’re even worse this time around,” he states, receiving a grin for the question. “How are you a functioning adult? Nevermind, don’t answer that.”
Something darkens in Hamilton’s gaze, and for a moment, Aaron can see it: guilt, loneliness, longing. For Eliza, no doubt, for his family and friends. The years have been hard enough on Aaron, who has never been a social butterfly, but how difficult has it been for Hamilton, Hamilton who thrives on human contact, on an audience to talk to, on someone to love.
The moment passes, but Aaron will remember it.
“Coffee,” Hamilton says. “Lots of coffee. I want to kiss whoever came up with the concept of instant coffee, because it is a blessing. Tastes terrible, but worth it. And it’s Milton, now, actually,” he tacks on. “Just Milton, without the Ham.”
Aaron sends him a quizzical look. “Would you actually rather I call you Milton?” he asks. He’s not sure he can do that.
“Well, actually, I’d prefer for you to call me by my first name, but, y’know. For frame of reference. Alex Milton, at your service, sir.” Hamilton sticks out his hand, and Aaron sees the gesture for what it is: the offering of a new start, another chance. They can try again if they are so inclined, bury the hatchet and begin another chapter.
“Aaron Barrett,” he replies, and he takes the proffered hand, because right now things are far from alright between them, but with luck and with time, maybe they’ll get there.
And Aaron isn’t throwing away this shot.