Chapter Text
Burr felt it from the beginning.
Not yet, not quite literally, but a stranger shot himself down next to him at a bar with fire in his eyes. Not literally, again, not yet, but already fueled by a spark of… something.
“Hey, sir! You’re Aaron Burr, right? Like the Burrs with Schuyler?”
He’d heard this question before, but rarely with this excitement. He was used to his name spit out as something bitter, distasteful, but necessary. But the other was wide-eyed and enthusiastic, maybe around his age, a little younger, both hands wrapped too tightly around his glass. And not the fake, feigned look either, no.
His eyes matched his mouth, grinning. He was covered in soot and ash, from his face to his boots, one side of him in gray and black dust and some in his hair. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hair was pulled back, though by now it was threatening to fall out. Clothes with stitches, callouses in his hands, and a cheaper choice of drink. Laborer, Burr thought. Not that that was bad, he’d never agree with that, but it was very obvious. The man had looked like he had just gotten blown up a few minutes ago.
But he seemed… fine. Happy even. Like he wasn’t even trying to scorn him. What would he want then?
“That depends, who’s asking?”
”Oh, well, sure, sir!”
Now. He offered out his hand and that’s when Burr felt it. He had just thought he had warm hands. After all, who wouldn’t? That the man ran hot, looked like he just lit something up, faced its consequences, and would try it again. How dull of him it was to not then notice the autumn chill, the cool breeze in the air, when the other man felt of dry summer.
He hesitated, but shook the stranger’s hand.
”I’m Alexander Hamilton, I’m at your service, sir. I’ve been looking for you for the past… hour or so? Anyway, uh, I hear you—” he gestured to Burr and leaned in beside him, propping his head up with his arm on the bar. “—can get me a job.” He smiled. Patted his shoulder. Burr felt the temperature rise a bit. But that was normal body heat.
Burr set down his drink and gently pushed this Hamilton kid off of him.
”I… don’t know what you’re talking about, sorry.”
He didn’t.
”Give me a minute. You work with George Washington, right? George Washington and Adams’ kerosene company?” he asked, backing off but sitting up straight, his fingernails tapping his glass, almost nervously.
He did.
Again, Burr hesitated. What did he need? A job? He worked for the city. He wasn’t an employer of any kind.
“Yes, I work with Mr. Washington. I don’t work for him, but we often cross paths. What did you need?” he asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“A job, sir,” Hamilton answered.
“A job? There’s a thousand companies looking for labor here. Why would you need me to help you?”
He’d call that a valid point. This was the second Industrial Revolution, or as so many called it. Sure, conditions for anyone of non-upper class were tough, but he was worried about employment? Here? In New York?
”Well, I know that,” the other started, his smile a bit more nervous. “I’ve been through a lot of them, but uh, they kinda want me dead and would make sure my life is Hell if I ever set foot in them again,” he admitted, sheepish. “BUT I understand fire and combustion better than anyone else, so if you could just put in a word with the big man for me—”
”Uh huh.” Burr said, sarcastic. He looked him up and down.
Hamilton brushed some ash off his shoulder.
”That wasn’t me. That was some asshole that didn’t understand fire OR steel, blew up a boiler, got me fired, but they did blame me for it. I would never. But I know oil and kerosene, I promise you.”
Burr took a sip of his drink. “Schuyler’s partnered with Washington now, rig and refineries are out in Pennsylvania.”
“But tons and tons of shipments come here, to New York. There’s a building of theirs too.”
“You’d never make it there, or at least, not for a long time. If so, barely. If you don’t die in the refinery.”
“That’s why I need you!” Hamilton exclaimed, nudging his shoulder with his own again. “You’re Aaron Burr’s son, his junior, you’re with the city, right?”
“City inspector, yes,” Burr confirmed.
“Still more than me. Caribbean scum,” Hamilton said about himself, hand on his heart, almost proud(??). “Also orphaned. That means you should help me.”
Burr sighed, finished his drink, paid the bartender, and stood up. Hamilton shot up and went with him.
“Hey, where are we going? I have a tragic backstory and am probably younger than you!” He walked right alongside Burr.
“Tell that to Morgan, or King, or Rockefeller. See if they can help you with that.” Burr tried to pretend he didn’t see him.
“Sir, I just need a chance—”
Still walking with him. No sign of leaving. Burr wasn’t leaving to where Hamilton didn’t know, so he stayed.
“Fine,” Burr said eventually. “You’re lucky I have to go drop off a few things anyway.”
Burr and this random Hamilton kid (who, upon further question, really wasn’t that much younger than him) would end up at said building not long after. He had dropped off the files and, as the other had requested, brought him to Washington.
Burr stayed by the door of the office and mainly focused on Hamilton. Washington never liked to see him, and he didn’t necessarily blame him. If he was there, something was wrong or out of order and needed to be fixed or changed, and this was one of his most frequent stops. But he was still just doing his job.
Instead, Hamilton. Something felt off about him. Watching him rant to and dazzling Washington with a surprising amount of knowledge on combustion and carbon cycles, and also fire. Especially fire. There was no way he would be able to afford a college education, maybe scholarship?
Then again, board and room and books and other such fees existed. Most working class men could barely afford their tenements, this one looked no different. Where could he be getting this from? Maybe full-ride?
He decided he would ask him when it was just them. Hamilton was happy, Washington had offered him a job, and everything seemed fine. Nothing spectacular, not yet, for now he was just another common laborer, but a job nonetheless.
Yet, that still didn’t answer all of his questions. For one, this kid was skinny and probably malnourished. How would he be able to survive the gruelling work of the rigs or refineries? How was he so enthusiastic about it? Sure, Washington provided much more merciful hours and pay than other current robber barons, but labor was still labor.
Whatever. He could question that later, he was supposed to look at a few things at said refineries somewhat soon. Maybe he would even run into him there.
“That was amazing,” he told him once they walked out together. Truly, it was. “Where did you get all of that? College? Research?”
“Oh, uhm, thanks.” Hamilton smiled. “No, uh, I couldn’t afford college, unfortunately.
Just a lot of experience and reading, I guess.”
“Experience?” Burr questioned. What the hell did he mean by experience? “You’ve worked with fire before?”
“Somewhat, yes, back home a lot, but not much here yet.” Hamilton wouldn’t directly face him now.
“And you know the hazards, right? Vapors, chemical exposure, fires and explosions, the list goes on.”
“Of course,” he said. He smiled again. This time it didn’t quite meet his eyes. Something seemed off. “I know how to handle it.”
Burr hoped he hadn’t scared him, weirdly enough also hoping he didn’t just shut down his wide-eyed enthusiasm. Okay, maybe back to that education part. That was interesting.
“Anyway,” he changed the topic back, “tell me more about this ‘experience’.” There was a rare sort of amusement in his voice.
Hamilton paused. Hesitated. He stopped walking, and Burr would too. Thought before he spoke. His eyes dropped to the floor and his face went to something more serious. (This was weird, Burr hadn’t seen him hesitate ever in the short time he’d known him. He didn’t know asking that would strike a chord.)
“Hello?” Burr asked, confused and a little bit concerned. “You okay?”
After a moment and Hamilton taking a deep breath, they started walking again. “I’m fine. Just, some of the same stuff.” He looked back up. “I know what I’m talking about, you saw me in there. I’ll be fine, it’s just labor, right?”
“Yeah, labor,” Burr said. That’s fine. What did the rest matter anyway?
By the time they had walked out of the building and Hamilton went his separate way, his enthusiasm had returned and he had thanked Burr for his help. Burr, of course, had replied with “you’re welcome” and let him go, hopefully leaving the other under the impression that everything was fine and he didn’t find anything suspicious at all.
But, it wasn’t. Something was wrong. Burr was an educated man and had worked for other oil and kerosene companies and liked to know about things. To be fair, there could be others, but he had never heard of other rigs and refineries in the Caribbean. He knew the first wasn’t necessarily in the U.S., but it wasn’t in the Caribbean either.
Okay, maybe he just hadn’t heard of it. There were libraries and archives and maybe he could find something about what Hamilton talked about there. Besides, like he had said, he probably wouldn’t even get anywhere. Worker unions were becoming more popular, and some men actually had a chance there, but if he was hoping for a chance on the corporate ladder? Yeah, good luck to him.
It didn’t matter. He’d be fine. What would it matter?