Archive of Our Own

Thomas Jefferson hates Alexander Hamilton.

The entire office has taken that as a fact.

Thomas Jefferson hates how Alexander Hamilton always dresses like he's about to attend his own coronation. He hates how he always wears the most absurdly self-important outfits, like he's coaxing everyone to just stare at him. He hates how Hamilton always fixes his collar before presentations, even though there's nothing to be fixed—just to keep up appearances. He hates how Hamilton always makes sure his shoes are polished to the brim, and his waistcoats fit him just perfectly.

Thomas Jefferson hates how Alexander Hamilton always speaks like he's the most important person in the room. He hates how he always words everything like it's a widely accepted fact rather than an opinion. He hates how loud Hamilton can get when making a sarcastic remark. He hates how Hamilton always gestures wildly whenever he goes on his rants, stomping around and flailing his hands like an angry penguin. He hates how Hamilton's eyes light up whenever he has the opportunity to talk about something he has an abnormal amount of knowledge in.

Thomas Jefferson hates Alexander Hamilton's friends. He hates how they're always fucking there at the exact same time Jefferson is. He hates how he can always spot them in a crowd, laughing about something unbeknownst to Thomas. He hates how Hamilton always looks so soft and comfortable with them, unlike how he is in the office. He hates how Laurens always makes a point to be condescending whenever mentioning Jefferson, even though they've barely even had a solid conversation.

And most of all, Thomas Jefferson hates Alexander Hamilton's hair.

He hates how it cascades down on his shoulders like a dark waterfall. He hates how it looks just ever-so-slightly golden when it catches the light. He hates how Hamilton always adjusts it whenever he's absorbed in his work or stuck in his thoughts. He hates how Hamilton always lets one strand or a few fall on his forehead even if he has it slicked back or tied up in a low ponytail. He hates how soft and silky it looks, even though he knows Hamilton probably barely uses any products.

He hates that damned orange streak in Hamilton's hair.

He hates how it's always the first thing that catches Thomas' eye whenever he absentmindedly looks at Hamilton. He hates how it pops out so much. He hates how it's so interesting to him. He hates how his mind keeps wandering, whether it's dyed or genetic or something else entirely that he hasn't ruled out. He hates how he keeps wanting to ask Hamilton about it, even though he knows they're not near close enough to be talking about fucking hair.

...

"Really, you use this thing?" Jefferson scoffed, leaning against the scratched wallpaper. His eyes fell on the office coffee machine, reeking of cheap energy.

Hamilton looks up with one eyebrow quirked up before his expression immediately falls. A silent "Oh, it's you."

"What am I supposed to use? I don't see any better coffee machines here." He grits out, juggling papers and a travel mug in his hands.

"I don't know, maybe go buy some good coffee. Like a normal person?"

"Well, jeez. Funny how you think everyone has the time to do that," Hamilton huffs. "Talk about privileged."

After a moment of silence, Hamilton adds on before Jefferson gets a chance to reply, "This machine is fine. It's cost-effective."

"Cost-effective?" Jefferson nearly chuckles. "Hamilton, how can you drink this sludge and expect it to keep you going for the entire nine to five?"

Hamilton blinks. "And what, pray tell, do you recommend? Imported beans hand-picked by blind monks in the Andes?"

The other man laughs, but it's more out of exasperation than amusement. "At least it wouldn't taste like charcoal in a cup."

And that's it—Hamilton smiles that irritating, too-bright smile that immediately makes Jefferson tense up. He hadn't expected Hamilton to actually enjoy this interaction. Maybe glare at him at best, then talk shit about him to Laurens.

That curl of his hair over his forehead, the absolutely precise way that Hamilton's coat drapes over his shoulders, the tiny streak of orange catching the light—... And just like that, Jefferson is spiraling again.

Jefferson stops leaning against the wall, ready to launch into another pointed remark about the travesty that was Hamilton's coffee choice, only to blink and realize Hamilton is gone. He squints toward the hallway, the echo of footsteps fading, and feels that small spike of irritation—half at Hamilton for leaving so quickly, half at himself for even caring at all.

He mutters under his breath, "And there he goes."

A part of him wants to find Hamilton and continue the argument, maybe confront him about how he keeps making Jefferson have mixed feelings—but the other part of him knows that he'd just make a fool of himself all over again. So he lingers by the coffee machine, arms crossing again, mentally replaying Hamilton's voice.

And even as he scowled, even as he told himself he hated him, Jefferson's mind refused to stop circling Hamilton.

Well, shit.

...

"Does anyone have any questions?" asks Jefferson, finally done presenting his proposal after 3 hours straight of logistics, statistics, requirements, pros, and cons—just the gist.

"Yeah, I do," a voice butts in without even raising their hand. Rude.

With a sigh, Jefferson speaks, "Yes, Hamilton?"

"I want to ask you, what in the goddamn world makes you think it would be a good idea to give a twenty-percent budget increase for this bullshit?"

Jefferson pinches the bridge of his nose, the polite part of him warring with the very real desire to strangle Hamilton on the spot.

"Because, Mr. Hamilton," he says carefully, keeping the calm tone that three hours of presentations had trained into him, "the numbers—and logic—support it. I've accounted for all contingencies. But I'm sure you've got some alternative miracle solution in your head, yes?"

Hamilton leans back slightly, eyes sharp, voice calm but firm. "I do have a proposal. A twenty-percent increase is excessive for something this minor. You can justify it all you want, but it doesn't make it reasonable. Money doesn't grow on trees, Jefferson."

Jefferson exhales slowly, trying not to let the heat rise in his chest. "Reasonable? The projections—"

"Yes, I've seen them. Yes, they're thorough. No, them being thorough doesn't make them wise. I can't believe I had to sit here for 3 hours just for that!" Hamilton cuts in.

Jefferson's jaw tightened. He knew Hamilton was right to challenge him; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that Hamilton always looked like he was making perfect sense, even when he was tearing apart Jefferson's argument. Even when Jefferson knew he had the better case.

"It's better in the long run. If you'd have taken the time to—"

"No. I don't care. I'm not supplying a million dollars for this bullcrap! I might as well just use that money and supply it to Adams' department."

Jefferson freezes for half a second.

He opens his mouth to respond, to list the statistics, the contingencies, the carefully reasoned logic he had spent three hours presenting and even more nights preparing—but Hamilton isn't waiting. He gathers his papers with precise movements, adjusts his coat sleeves just so, and walks toward the door.

The man has the audacity to leave. To call it quits mid-presentation while the boss is there. He'd decided that Jefferson's proposal was so faulty, so useless, that he wouldn't even bother to hear it out.

And still, Jefferson notices it. That streak of orange in Hamilton's hair, catching the fluorescent office light for a moment before Hamilton disappears down the hall. His pulse ticks faster than he wants to admit. He turns back to the conference table, muttering under his breath, "I hate that man. I hate that man so much."

"...I am sorry for that interruption. Thank you for that presentation, Mr. Jefferson," speaks Washington after a deafeningly long silence.

Jefferson nods stiffly, trying to smooth his composure.

"I'll review the numbers and speak with Hamilton before we finalize anything. I think we could work with a five to ten-percent increase for now; I'll consult with Hamilton and adjust if needed."

Thomas maneuvers to his seat, gathering his laptop. "Thank you, sir," he murmurs, though his mind keeps wandering elsewhere.

To Hamilton, of course. It's always fucking Hamilton. Unsatiable, terrible, annoying Hamilton. The Hamilton that always finds a way to chew up every proposal he has. He swears, if Jefferson said that grass were green, Hamilton would still find a way to argue otherwise.

That Hamilton that refuses to let a single thing go unchallenged, like it's a personal mission to pick apart every word Jefferson says until there's nothing left but frustration.

Insufferable Hamilton, whose name keeps flooding Jefferson's mind.

...

"Hey, Jemmy?"

"What is it, Thomas?" murmurs Madison back, irritatedly picking at his lunch—its aroma filling the air. Probably made by Dolley.

"Is he always like this?" Jefferson mutters, not bothering to lower his voice much, though his eyes stay fixed stubbornly on his laptop screen.

"I am not eating lunch with you just to hear you rant about our co-worker again."

Jefferson clicks his tongue softly, unimpressed. "I'm not even ranting; I just asked a question."

Madison doesn't look up. "It's almost never just a question when it's about Hamilton."

"I never mentioned him."

"It's obvious, Thomas."

Jefferson stills for a moment, fingers hovering uselessly over his keyboard. "... It's not obvious."

"You looked at him three times before asking that; of course it's obvious."

"Yeah? Where's your proof?"

"Not only am I your best friend, but I'm observant—something you can't seem to be."

Jefferson exhales sharply through his nose, snapping his laptop shut with a soft but decisive click. "Even if I did, that proves nothing."

"It proves quite a bit, actually."

Jefferson opens his mouth—

Pauses.

Because across the room, there's movement. A voice—Hamilton's—cutting through the conversation, not loud but distinct enough to be heard if one were, say, already paying attention.

Jefferson's eyes flick up before he can stop himself.

Hamilton is mid-sentence, one hand braced against the edge of the table, the other gesturing lightly as he speaks. He's talking to Gilbert, who seems to be  half-listening. There's a crease between his brows, like he's thinking through something even now, even while eating. His sleeves are rolled just enough to expose his wrists, and—

That streak again, catching the light.

Thomas tears his gaze away so fast it almost seems violent.

"You did it again," James notes mildly, already packing his lunch back up.

"I hate him," Thomas mutters, like that explained anything at all.

Madison sighs, visibly suffering. "Yes, I'm aware."

"No, you are not," Jefferson snaps, a bit sharper than he'd intended. "You don't have to deal with him the way that I do."

"We work in the same building, Thomas."

"That's not the same."

"My office is quite literally closer to his than yours is. But you know what, enlighten me."

Jefferson falters, because of course he does.

Because he can't say, "I notice everything. I notice how he argues like it's personal. I notice how his posture straightens up when he's about to say something completely outlandish. I notice how his eyebrows furrow and he bites his pen whenever he's nervous."

So instead, he settles on, "He's just... insufferable."

Madison considers him for a moment, then finishes packing up his lunch. "Stop looking at him then."

Thomas scoffs, "I'm not—"

He pauses because somehow, somewhere he's already staring again.

And somehow, somewhere, Hamilton's eyes meet his. And just like that, Jefferson forgets to breathe. It's brief, just a flicker of eye contact in the break room. Nothing worth noting, nothing more than a coincidence.

And yet, Hamilton's blueish-brownish eyes don't look away immediately. There's neither challenge nor fire in it; it's just direct. It's unreadable, like he's giving Jefferson his attention—but for what purpose?

Jefferson's stomach falls.

He snaps his gaze down to his laptop as fast as possible, completely ignoring the fact that it was still shut, almost like he was just caught doing something wrong. Which is ridiculous, by the way. He was just—looking. Anyone can look. It's not illegal to—

"Thomas."

"I wasn't looking," Jefferson whisper-yells back.

"I didn't say you were."

Jefferson presses his lips together, refusing to look up again.

Across the room, there's movement. Chairs are shifting, and the low murmur of conversation is starting to thin out.

He shouldn't look. He doesn't need to look.

He looks anyway.

Hamilton is still there, but now he's not talking or laughing. Gilbert isn't there anymore either, but Laurens is probably making his way there. He's just gathering his things, slower than before, like he's thinking about something. His brow is faintly furrowed, his fingers tapping once against the table before he picks up his cup—probably filled with that slush of office machine coffee again.

And then—without warning—he glances up.

Right at Jefferson again, and this time it doesn't seem accidental.

Jefferson's chest tightens.

There's a pregnant pause. A strange, suspended second where the rest of the room feels like it's faded into background noise—just voices and movement and static and nothing that actually matters.

Hamilton's expression doesn't change much. If anything, it softens, just slightly.

Jefferson glances away first, again.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated breath, dragging a hand through his (misbehaving) curls. "Unbelievable," he mutters, though whether he means Hamilton or himself is unclear.

Madison, already halfway out of his seat, shakes his head. "You're doing this to yourself, you know."

Jefferson doesn't respond for a moment, because he can still feel Hamilton looking, for a reason he can't quite decipher.

After a moment, Madison shakes him lightly. "Get back to your office unless you want Washington to fire you; if so, then be my guest. Start worrying about your rival crush later."

Thomas stiffens.

"My— what?"

James doesn't even blink. "Rival. Crush." He dusts off his hands like he's just stated something painfully obvious. "In that order. Though, frankly, I think the latter is winning."

"That is—" Jefferson stands abruptly, chair scraping just a little too loudly against the floor. "That is completely unfounded, baseless, and frankly insulting."

"Mmmhm."

"I do not have a—" he lowers his voice, glancing around instinctively, "—a crush on him. What am I, a schoolgirl?"

Madison raises a brow. "What else would you call it?"

"That's—irrelevant," he mutters, grabbing his laptop a bit too quickly. "I have work to do."

"Really surprising, considering earlier you weren't even considering the idea to actually get up and go to work like I told you to."

"Oh, you're so smug—"

Madison waves him off, exiting without another word.

With a grumble, Thomas finds himself following James. Though, he does look back for a split second.

...

Now, Hamilton doesn't move at first, though he was planning to. He just watches Jefferson go.

Hamilton frowns.

"What?"

John's voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

Alexander blinks once, then tears his gaze away, finally gathering his things again. "Nothing, just going back to my office. You?"

John doesn't look convinced. "Alex, you've been staring in that direction for 5 minutes. Did you hear anything else I've said?"

"... Not really," Alexander confesses. "I've been thinking about the proposal. You know, I still have to go talk to Washington in a few."

"Yeah, the proposal that just grew two legs and walked out the door?"

Hamilton ignores him.

Hamilton adjusts the stack of papers in his hands, trying to focus on something—anything—that isn't Jefferson's expression lingering in the corner of his mind.

Laurens decides to take a seat again. "So. What is it now? He piss you off again, like how he pisses everyone off?"

Hamilton shoots him a flat look. "No. Not like that."

John raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Uh-huh. Sure. That's not the 'I'm about to pull my hair out' look I've seen a million times before?"

"I said not like that," Alexander repeats, sharper this time, tugging his papers closer to him.

"Not like that how?" Laurens leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, obviously never having heard of the phrase "curiosity killed the cat." "Come on, Alex, spill it. You're staring at him like he owes you money."

"Honestly, he might as well be at this point, with how much he's been begging for a budget increase."

John looks like he knew that wasn't the actual reason why Alex was staring, but he decides not to push anyway. "Really? How much'd he request this time?"

"A twenty percent increase. For fucking what, two analysts and some software? I'm not blowing a million dollars on that."

Laurens leans back, smirking like he's enjoying every second of this. "Ohhh, so that's what got you staring like a madman earlier."

"Precisely."

John nudges Alexander, pushing himself up. "I see. It's like you've got a new Jefferson problem every other day, man. Don't let him get to your head like that."

Alexander snorts, tugging his papers closer like a shield. "It's not a problem; it's just..." He pauses, searching for words that don't exist, and settles on, "It's irritating, is all."

John raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's what you always say. Whatever, just don't stretch yourself too thin. I'm gonna go join back with Herc, alright? You go talk to the boss."

"... Right, see you later."

...

Alexander walks briskly to Washington's office, papers clutched tightly in his hands. The hallway is quiet.

He knocks lightly, then enters. "Sir, you wanted to see me about Jefferson's proposal?"

Washington looks up from a stack of documents, expression calm. "Ah, Hamilton. Come in; have a seat."

Alexander lowers himself into the chair, smoothing his papers on the desk.

Hamilton wastes no time to discuss, "He's requesting a twenty percent increase to cover two additional analysts and new workflow software for the project. From a logistical standpoint, the hires make sense. The software could improve efficiency. But—" He pauses, glancing at Washington for confirmation. "The increase itself seems... excessive. A million dollars is a lot for this scope."

Washington leans back, steepling his fingers. "I've looked over the proposal. I see where Jefferson is coming from. The project has tight deadlines and high stakes. Mistakes could be costly. But you're concerned about the budget versus return?"

Alexander nods. "Exactly. It's justified in theory, but the scale of the increase... I don't know if it's worth it. Especially since the funds could most definitely be reallocated to different departments. There may be alternatives—less expensive ways to meet the same goals without overspending."

The other man frowns slightly, thoughtful. "Have you run the numbers on those alternatives?"

Alexander nods again, spreading out the spreadsheets. "Yes. We could reallocate some existing resources, maybe delay certain non-critical tasks. It wouldn't be perfect, but it would avoid a massive budget jump."

Washington taps his pen against the desk. "Hm. Jefferson is persuasive, as always. But your caution is valid. I trust your judgment, Alexander. Draft a counter-proposal outlining your suggestions, and we'll present both options at the next meeting, which'll be next Wednesday. Make it thorough."

Alexander straightens, suppressing a sigh of relief. "Yes, sir. I'll have it ready by tomorrow."

...

The conference room hums with quiet chatter as Hamilton sets up his laptop. Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting stripes across Jefferson's neatly stacked papers. All of the department heads are present, with Washington at the head, of course.

Washington clears his throat. "All right. Today, we'll review Jefferson's proposal alongside Hamilton's counter-proposal. I expect thorough discussion from each department head. Let's begin with Jefferson."

Jefferson stands confidently. "Thank you, sir. As you know, my proposal requests a twenty percent increase in the budget for analysts and the new software. My reasoning remains the same: additional manpower and upgraded systems will prevent mistakes, increase efficiency, and allow long-term scalability."

He clicks through the charts, showing expected outcomes, timelines, and risk mitigation. "Without this, we risk overworking staff, missing deadlines, and—ultimately—higher costs down the line."

Jefferson continues to lay down the fundamentals of his proposal, thoroughly reviewing it just as he did the meeting before. After a moment, Hamilton stands up to counter.

Hamilton clears his throat. "Sir, if I may. As requested, I've drafted a counter-proposal to Jefferson's plan for additional analysts and software." He clicks the presentation, charts spreading across the screen. "I've run the numbers. We could reallocate existing personnel and delay non-critical tasks to meet the project deadlines without increasing the budget by the full twenty percent."

Jefferson leans back, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. "Reallocate personnel? Delay tasks? That doesn't address efficiency in the long term. You're just patching holes."

Hamilton keeps his tone calm and precise. "Patch or not, it avoids overspending a million dollars unnecessarily. The software can be implemented in phases instead of all at once."

The department heads begin to discuss within themselves.

"I see Hamilton's point. Phasing the software could be less disruptive. But Jefferson's plan gives analysts more bandwidth to prevent mistakes."

"Both have merit. But we also need to consider internal communication. Phasing could reduce clarity between teams. That might fall under logistics, Jefferson."

"Exactly. Communication breakdowns will cost more than a phased approach saves," Jefferson hums.

"From a media standpoint, the full proposal looks stronger externally. If we're presenting progress to stakeholders, having a fully staffed team sends a confident message."

Laurens snorts. "You can't tell me that message is worth a million dollars."

Jefferson rubs his temple.

"From IT, phasing is cleaner. Implementation in stages allows us to troubleshoot issues without disrupting the entire system."

Adams shuffles papers in front of him. "Well, the records will be easier to track if it's phased. But honestly, either way, it won't affect my department much."

Hamilton glares at Adams with eyes that scream, "Then nobody asked you to talk."

Washington taps the table lightly. "Very well. All perspectives are heard. Jefferson, Hamilton, I want each of you to summarize your proposals' critical points, and then I will make the final decision."

Jefferson and Hamilton each present again briefly, tension crackling between them, neither willing to back down as they debate a bit, as usual.

As they finish, Washington leans back. "After considering all input, I authorize a ten-percent budget increase and a phased implementation plan. Jefferson, your analysts are approved, but Hamilton's phased software rollout will be used. Everyone clear?"

A mix of relief and frustration spreads across the table. Jefferson huffs but nods, Hamilton lets out a quiet sigh, and the rest of the department heads exchange knowing glances.

...

"Congratudolences on your recent presentation," Madison hums, taking a seat next to Jefferson, who is sulking in his chair.

Jefferson barely glances at him. "Thank you, I suppose." His fingers drum against the edge of the table, sharp and impatient.

"What's with the sulking? It's not like Washington outright rejected your proposal. You do realize Hamilton didn't actually win anything today?"

Jefferson huffs, exhaling slowly. "I know, but he always has to make it about him. Every meeting, every argument, every damned proposal. I present a fully reasoned plan, and somehow it always comes down to 'Hamilton's way or chaos'—just 'cause he happens to be Washington's golden boy."

"Don't be too mad about it; you both made good points, and I would've made the same decision if I were in his shoes."

"You're just trying to make me feel better, Jemmy."

"Is it working?"

"Kind of."

...

"You ever notice that ginger streak in Hamilton's hair?"

Madison freezes, but a smirk grows on his face. "What now?"

Jefferson leans back on the squeaky break room couch, crossing his arms, eyes narrowing. "You know, that one singular streak of orange he has in his hair? It's off-putting."

James snorts, shaking his head. "Off-putting how? Like it actually gets in the way of your work?"

"No, you idiot." Jefferson's face scrunches up. "It's just weird. Like, why does he just have that random streak? Is it genetic or something? Did he dye it?"

Madison raises an eyebrow, leaning forward with a smirk. "And this is a problem... because?"

"I'm not saying it's a problem; I'm just pointing it out. I've been wondering for a bit."

"You really need to get a new hobby."

"I have plenty of hobbies; god forbid a man speak up about his observations."

James leans back, folding his arms. "Observations, huh? Sounds like you're just noticing it more than anyone else. I forgot about it within the first week I started working here."

Jefferson shrugs, trying to sound casual. "Maybe. So what? People notice things. It's harmless."

"Seriously, why do you care so much? It's just a colored strand of hair."

"No, but I didn't think he'd be the type of person to... dye his hair, especially something like ginger. Is that even allowed in the workplace?"

James raises an eyebrow, amused. "You're honestly this invested in someone's hair? Thomas, it's hair. People do weird things with it all the time. Some of them don't even think about it. Peggy came to work with a comically large bow and a rainbow braid in her hair once; I don't think they care about things like that."

Thomas waves a hand dismissively. "I know, I know. It's not that deep. I just... didn't expect it. He always looks so meticulous. And then there's that one streak. Makes no sense."

"Maybe he was just born with it?"

"That's the thing; I'm not sure if it's genetic."

"Why don't you ask him then? I'm tired of all of our conversations during lunch break just circling back to Hamilton all the time."

Jefferson leans back, a little deflated, running a hand through his own hair. "No, no—it's not that important. But, like, it sticks out. And for some reason, it's really fucking distracting."

Madison smirks knowingly. "Ah. There it is. Not work-related at all, huh?"

Thomas opens his mouth to argue but stops, muttering, "It's just... curiosity."

"That's one way to put it."

...

Jefferson pushes open the door to Hamilton's office, expecting it to be empty. He freezes at the threshold when he hears a pen click and the silhouette of a man illuminated by a small desk lamp.

Hamilton is hunched over his desk, looking over a stack of papers. He has a half-filled cup of office sludge to his right and a pen with barely any ink inside to his left.

"You still here?" Jefferson finally asks, keeping his voice low to avoid startling the other man.

Hamilton looks up, blinking, as if surprised to see anyone at all. He looked tired. "Yeah, just finishing up a few reports. Didn't expect anyone else to be here this late." Though if it were to be anybody, it would be you.

Jefferson steps in, placing his documents on a nearby counter. "I was... just gonna grab some papers I left here earlier."

Hamilton shrugs. "Go ahead."

For a beat, neither speaks.

Finally, Jefferson leans against Hamilton's desk. "You work too much, you know?"

Hamilton shrugs, rubbing his eyes. "Mm? Same could be said for you. You just cover it up better."

Jefferson lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "I try. But somehow, no matter what I do, I end up here at the same time as you anyway."

Hamilton smirks faintly. "You sure it's just a coincidence, or bad luck?"

"Probably a mix of both."

Alexander sighs, finally leaning back in his chair. "I guess we're both too stubborn to call it a day, huh?"

Thomas hums in return, taking a seat on the couch in the corner of Alexander's office. They sit in silence for a second. Funny how exhaustion has such a strange way of lowering defenses.

Alexander lets out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know... I don't actually hate you."

"You... what? Excuse me?"

"I mean it," Alexander says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "I know we're always at each other's throats in meetings. But honestly, it's not hate—not exactly. You do rile me up, and you are very, very infuriating—"

"Mhm, thank you. You flatter me."

"—But I admire your work. You're not that much of an asshole."

Thomas blinks, caught off guard. "Not that much?"

Alexander grins, a little crooked, visibly tired. "Not that much. You've got more principles than Burr, at the very least. You actually care about your work. Even when you're yelling about budget increases or some ridiculous, horribly ambitious proposal, you actually think things through. You don't just present some half-hearted, 'I had to do this to keep my job' presentation; you actually mean it. I respect that."

Thomas shifts on the couch, trying to look unimpressed, but his chest feels lighter than it has all day. "I appreciate that. I guess. Coming from you—resident workaholic—it's something."

Alexander leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over the backrest. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it. You still drive me insane."

You drive me insane in all the wrong ways. Thomas thinks, though he (for obvious reasons) doesn't voice it.

"I don't say this often, you know, but you're actually a lot easier to work with than most of the other fucks in this office. You match my pace, and you're not afraid to make suggestions or state complaints. I enjoy working with you more than I'd like to admit."

Thomas meets his gaze, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah... same here. Also, could you say that again? I didn't get it on video."

"You shut up."

...

After a moment, Thomas finally stands, stretching his legs. "Well... I guess we should call it a night before Washington kicks us out."

Alexander chuckles, pushing in his chair. "Yeah, you're right."

They grab their jackets, Jefferson holding the stack of documents he came for. Their steps fall into an easy rhythm as they walk toward the elevator. The silence between them isn't awkward as usual, it's just comfortable.

...

The two stand near the exit, but before they leave and go their separate ways, Jefferson speaks up.

"What's that ginger streak in your hair?"

Hamilton freezes for a fraction of a second, then lets out a soft, almost amused sigh. He runs a hand through the strand, twirling it just slightly. "This ol' thing? Why do you care?"

"Eugh, don't play this game with me."

Hamilton raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk forming. "I'm not playing anything. I just... didn't think it was anyone else's business."

Jefferson shifts, trying to sound casual, though his hands fidget slightly. "Well, it is now. You leave me no choice but to ask."

Hamilton leans back a little, letting the silence stretch. "Fine," he says finally, his voice quieter, almost thoughtful. "It's natural. It runs in my family. My dad had it too. That's it. Nothing dramatic."

Jefferson exhales, letting out a small laugh, partly relieved, partly disappointed that there isn't some elaborate story behind it. "Genetic, huh? Makes sense."

"Guess you were expecting some over-the-top origin story, eh?"

"No, I wasn't."

"You look disappointed."

Thomas shifts again, clearing his throat, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly. "Well—maybe a little. I mean, it's just... I don't know, it looks... good."

"Good, huh?" Alexander scoffs.

"Yeah. I mean—uh—could I...?" Thomas gestures vaguely toward Hamilton's hair, feeling like an idiot, but he can't go back. "Touch it?"

"It... Thomas, it doesn't feel different than any normal hair."

Thomas' hands hover awkwardly in mid-air. "I know. I—I just wanted to see for myself, I guess."

Hamilton studies him, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Alright, fine." He leans slightly forward, letting Jefferson reach out.

Carefully, Thomas brushes his fingers over the ginger streak. It's softer than he expected, silkier than he imagined. And for a moment, he forgets the world around them. Alexander doesn't pull away; if anything, he leans into the touch just a fraction, curious about Thomas' reaction.

And, fuck, why does this feel so domestic? Like he's in someone's apartment instead of in front of the exit doors at his workplace. He swallows hard, trying to steady himself, but the warmth in his chest only spreads. And, god, the way Alexander was looking at him—like the world had slowed down not only for Thomas but for him too.

And he isn't pulling away; he's leaning into the touch. Like it's perfectly normal for co-workers—hell, rivals—to touch each other's hair like this. And why is the moonlight casting such a beautiful glow on Alexander's face? And when the fuck did Thomas start calling Hamilton, Alexander?

Thomas' fingers linger on the streak for a heartbeat too long, and then—somehow, impossibly—Alexander leans forward just enough that their foreheads almost touch. The air between them shivers, taut and electric, and Thomas's heart stutters, a jolt he can't quite name. Though, if he would, he might even call it love.

Alexander's eyes, for a fraction of a second, drop to Thomas' lips before returning to Thomas' gaze. And he knows they shouldn't be doing this here, right at the exit, still on office grounds, when anyone could see them.

But before he knows it, Alexander Hamilton's lips are on his, and he can't find it in himself to pull away. Alexander's lips are soft, yet somewhat cracked. The kiss is tentative, like they're both still figuring out what to feel, but it's true. He can feel the faint scent of the coffee Alexander had prior.

Thomas exhales sharply, letting his hands fall to rest lightly on Alexander's waist, and suddenly the tentative touch becomes something more urgent and impossibly intimate for a fluorescent-lit office exit. Alexander's hands find their way on Thomas' shoulders too; his hands were cold and somewhat calloused.

The kiss lingers just long enough to set every nerve on fire, but not so long that reality crashes back in. When they finally pull apart, it's only slightly, just enough to look at each other, the distance still barely even there.

They keep that position for about a minute before finally pulling away.

Thomas couldn't suppress a sheepish grin. "I—I'll see you tomorrow?"

Alexander's smile was just as wide, the pink flush more visible on his skin. "Mhm. Goodnight, Thomas."

"Goodnight, Alexander."