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Alexander Hampton @AdotHam I got James Monroe. You sure know how to insult a person. Shame on you, @BuzzFeed

Philippa Soo @actual_cinnamon_roll
@AdotHam This is the donut quiz all over again. You can't quizshame BuzzFeed each time you get an answer you dislike. That's not how it works.

Alexander Hampton @AdotHam
@actual_cinnamon_roll Best of wives and best of women, three words: freedom of speech.

Hamilton paused in his pacing. He hummed as he cautiously poked at a square-shaped object on one of the shelves. “What do you suppose is the function of this object?” he asked Burr idly.

Burr sighed. “I do not know, a fact which you are aware of,” he reminded him stoically.

Hamilton grinned. “Ah, but part of this game is to take a guess. It needs not be correct.”

“I do not know,” Burr repeated. His lips twitched. “I would not suggest touching it, however,” he recommended.

Hamilton pouted. “Burr, you need to derive more enjoyment from life. For once in your life, take a risk.”

Burr looked away. He did not respond.

Warning bells went off in Hamilton's mind. “Burr?” he asked slowly, approaching Burr. He tried to catch his eye, but Burr resolutely avoided his look. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Burr replied drily.

Hamilton shook his head. “Come on, Burr, do me the courtesy of not feeding me untruths; I know you too well to be deceived by such transparent falsehoods. I can see that something is bothering you. I ask again: what is it?”

Burr did not speak for a long moment. Hamilton had almost given up his hopes of receiving an answer when Burr spoke, his voice quiet. “I did take a risk once. It did not end well for anyone involved.”

“Really?” Hamilton perked up. “When?”

“When I shot you,” Burr said simply.

For the first time in a very long time, Hamilton found himself at a loss for words.

“Do you regret it?” Hamilton said eventually.

Burr's gaze snapped back to Hamilton with an intensity so forceful that Hamilton recoiled. “Of course I do!” Burr growled. “Imagine what you would feel, had you killed a person – more than that, if you had killed the only person whom you considered a friend and who considered you a friend in return?!”

“Burr–“ Hamilton began, but was interrupted by Burr.

“That is maybe a fraction of what I am experiencing on a daily basis,” Burr said harshly. “Before this, I had almost learned to– if not deal with what amounted to the greatest mistake of my life, then at least I was able to rise from my bed in the morning without being absolutely crippled by grief– I began to process the reality that you were gone– were it not for this time traveling mishap, and now I can see you and you are alive – alive – and yet I know that when I will return to my own time, you will still be dead, and it will still be my fault,” his voice broke at the last words. He looked away, unable to bear looking at Hamilton anymore, incapable of dealing with his sympathy, with his pity, when he should be condemning Burr for his actions rather than comforting Burr.

“Burr–“ Hamilton tried again, only to be cut off once again.

“So no, I don't need your pity, or your forgiveness–“ Didn't he, though? “–or whatever else it is that you are offering me in yet another misguided attempt to reconcile our differences, because it is not your fault that I am in need of comforting. I did the deed; I must also suffer the penance,” Burr's words were final.

Hamilton, however, was still frowning. “Is it not when we are at our lowest and our most vulnerable,” he murmured, his voice echoing in the silent room, “that we need help the most?”

Burr did not reply.

A cough interrupted the resulting silence. Both men turned towards the direction of the sound. Drawwood was leaning against the doorway, an emotion on her fact that Hamilton struggled to identify.

“How long have you been standing there?” Burr asked.

“Long enough,” Drawwood answered succinctly. She pushed herself off from the doorway and stepped into the room. “To answer your first question: that thing,” she gestured at the rectangular object next to Hamilton, “is an iPod. It contains recordings of various pieces of music, such as piano, the violin, and other instruments, as well as recordings of people singing. And,” she hesitated, “I think there is one particular piece that the two of you, if anyone, need to hear.”

She grabbed the rectangular object – an iPod, was it? – and pressed its surface a few times, seemingly looking for something. Satisfied, she nodded and pressed the object one last time.

Instantly, the sound of drums resounded from all around the room, causing Hamilton and Burr to jump up, startled. Drawwood giggled as she touched the object once more. The music stopped abruptly. “Sorry,” she said, sounding not sorry at all, “it's just that the first song is… pretty loud,” she admitted.

“You don't say,” Hamilton drawled sarcastically, having recovered from his previous surprise. “What are these?” he pointed at several boxes situated where the walls intersected with the ceiling.

Drawwood smiled. “These are loudspeakers. They– well, without going into the technical specifics, let's just say that they amplify the sounds coming from the iPod,” she elaborated. “This way, we're able to better hear the music. The wonder of technology,” she smiled. “I could theoretically run our nation's economy from this couch, in my pajamas, if I had my laptop. You'd be surprised at how often that happens, actually,” she added, then, registering Hamilton and Burr's blank faces, sighed. “Anyway, I'm going to leave you with this,” she gestured at the iPod, then pulled out a paper box from one of the drawers. “You will probably be needing this before you're finished. These are essentially one-use handkerchiefs,” she clarified, holding up a Kleenex. “With that said, I will leave you alone for now,” she clicked the iPod once more, then left, Leslie Odom Jr.'s voice echoing behind her.

It might just have been her imagination, but she thought that she heard Hamilton let out a indignant screech at the lyrics.

To: Bossman
I left alternate you and alternate Bartow in the music room.
With 'Hamilton'.

From: Bossman
Please tell me someone's supervising them
I want the music room intact

To: Bossman
Yes, because where else could you listen to Mendelssohn at full volume?
It's not like modern technology has invented anything that allows you to listen to the music of your choice without disturbing anyone else.

From: Bossman
For reasons unknown, foreign diplomats tend to be pissed when I wear headphones to meetings

To: Bossman
You know what? I don't want to know when you gathered enough empirical evidence to support this conclusion.

From: Bossman
Jemmy could give you a rant or two if you asked him nicely

To: Bossman
I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even have to ask NICELY, just ASK.
And maybe not even that.

From: Bossman
Why are you my TreaSec again

To: Bossman
Because apparently, punctuation is beyond you, Mr 51 Federalist Papers.
And because you aren't legally allowed to be POTUS and Treasury Secretary at the same time.

From: Bossman
And how would you know that

To: Bossman
I did actually read the Constitution. At least the first two articles.
(That, and Bartow confirmed it. He's nice like that.)

From: Bossman
I dare you to call Aaron 'nice' to his face.

To: Bossman
I'm not taking any challenges from you. I DID read up on Gouverneur Morris.
Update: alt!Bartow is now crying.

From: Bossman
Give him Kleenex

To: Bossman
Way ahead of you.
BTW, I'm going to be working from the WW today.

From: Bossman
S as well as T?

To: Bossman
Yes, Motier is still in the UK. I'll make sure State doesn't fall into complete disarray.

From: Bossman
See, this level of inter-department cooperation is creepy

To: Bossman
Just because you and Jefferson weren't able to share your toys doesn't mean that Motier and I can't.
And I believe that you have an appointment with the EPA in ten minutes.

From: Bossman
Yes, gtg
Keep me updated

Two hours later, Drawwood carefully peered into the music room, only to see Hamilton and Burr curled up together on the couch. She retreated silently. When she saw them next, she tactfully didn't mention their reactions.

A knock on the door startled James. He looked up, and locked eyes with a pair of cloudy-blue eyes. “How may I help you?” he asked courteously.

Madison did not speak at first. He looked around James' office, taking in the sparse furniture that was James' preferred style – the simple yet surprisingly comfy armchair facing an equally spartan couch; the windows with the patternless blue curtains; the bookshelves, containing the exact amount of books they were designed for; and the floor, smooth hardwood. He had originally planned to install floor heating, considering how much time he spent in his office, but had eventually opted out after realizing that it would only attract Alexander to his office more often, which was something he endeavoured to avoid.

The desk was the only piece of furniture that James indulged himself, economically speaking.

“Yes,” Madison said just as James was formulating how to politely inform Madison that he had, in fact, work that needed doing. “may I come in?”

“By all means,” James said, indicating the chair opposite him. “Close the door.”

“Thank you,” Madison replied. He sat down in the chair James had offered, but did not continue.

James sighed internally. He knew his old self, and was aware that Madison took his sweet time gathering his thoughts. While this was a wise habit, politically speaking, since one avoided such disasters as often befell Hamilton, James did not have an entire morning he could waste watching Madison watch him. “Was there something you needed?” he asked, twirling a pen in his hand.

Madison started. “I was merely curious on a number of subjects,” he spoke.

“If this is about the colour of my skin–“ James began, his mind already formulating a speech he could give that would strike the best balance between polite and admonishing.

Madison raised a hand, and James obliged him. “No, 'tis not that at all,” he assured James. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not Thomas; I do understand that slaves are sentient beings, too.” Which did beg the question: was Madison, a self-conscious but unrepentant slave owner, a better or a worse person than Jefferson, who didn't believe that his slaves could be equal to him? “Then again, you would know that already, would you not?” he asked shrewdly, his eyes piercing James' mind. Frankly, it was uncanny. James now understood why both Hamilton and Jefferson used to complain about his eyes while they were working on whatever collaboration had caught their interest.

“I do,” James confirmed. “I also have more paperwork that needs doing than should be humanly possible. If you could–?” he prompted.

“I had noticed that Thomas – or this version of him, at any rate – as well as Mrs Church and Hamilton all seem to have peculiar inclinations regarding physical relationships,” Madison said slowly, tasting every word as though trying out a foreign dish. “Should I also include you among them?”

James blinked. This wasn't a conversation he had ever expected to have with himself, even accounting for the fact that it was a physical possibility. He leaned back in his chair, pushing away the document he had been in the process of reading. “Not quite,” he replied, “although you aren't very far off, either. It depends on how you look at it. I'm not like Alexander, Thomas, or Angelica in that I am not sexually attracted to my own gender. I am like most of them in that I am not attracted to the opposite gender. I'm simply–“ he searched for a phrase that would make sense to a person living in a pre-industrial society, and, not for the first time, appreciated the fact that modern gender science had developed an entire dictionary for such conversations; even if people didn't like labels, finding them too confining, James had to admit that labels unmistakably facilitated communication, “–not attracted to anybody. Neither in a physical, nor in a romantic way.”

Madison furrowed his brows as he processed this information. James could almost see the cogwheels turning inside Madison's mind. “How can you not be?” he replied finally. “The purpose of humankind is to procreate; in order to do that, we need to feel physical arousal,” Madison's confusion was palpable.

If someone had told James years ago that he would become vice president, but instead of doing his job would try to explain the difference between human physiology and sexuality to a past version of himself, James would have scheduled a psychological exam. As it was, this had somehow become his life.

“Sexuality and biological needs aren't always the same. Humans can be attracted to certain people but still feel aroused by other experiences, just as one doesn't need to feel a physical connection to a specific person in order to engage in… certain activities with them,” he finished awkwardly, hoping against hope that Madison somehow understood what James had been, in the vaguest way possible, trying to convey. Arousal didn't necessarily entail sexual attraction. “I commend you for your sensitivity on this subject. Even most people from our time aren't as respectful about it as you are,” he commended.

Madison flushed, looking away. He studied the wood paneling, trying to find the right words. “Do you mean that one doesn't have to–“

“Have sex with every woman possible?” James filled in when Madison's words stuttered to a halt mid-sentence. He contemplated the man before him. “As far as Alexander has explained it, sexual attraction is a genuine want to have physical intimacy on every level – which, yes, does include sexual intercourse, and is probably what people focus the most on. Alexander's boyfriend has once described it as your sense of smell – it's always there, but usually goes unnoticed. Occasionally, however, something that motivates you to action, or makes you frustrated if there's something delicious that you can't have. Like smell, though, even if you can't have the delectable thing, that's still a pleasant sensation, despite the frustration. As far as I have understood it, it is a mental need,” James paused for breath. A wistful expression crossed his face. “I'm sorry I could not be of any more help,” he added, “but you are asking the wrong person for descriptions of something I cannot feel, being asexual.”

“'Asexual'?” Madison echoed.

Someone who doesn't feel sexual attraction. “A person who does not feel a psychological need to sleep with anyone.”

James looked down to the pen he had been fiddling with. Gently, he placed it on the desk. When he looked up again, he caught Madison staring at him with wide eyes, appearing even younger than he usually did. “Do you mean,” he spoke, his voice painstakingly quiet, “that there is a word for this?”

And James– James' heart broke, just a little, at Madison's words. He managed a smile. “Yes, there is,” he confirmed. He reached out for Madison's hand, hoping desperately that the older man did not reject his gesture.

To his surprise, Madison welcomed it, squeezing his fingers. He seemed to take comfort in their contact, as though James was his anchor in the here and now as his worldview turned upside down. As far as Madison was concerned, James figured, it probably felt like logic had taken an extended vacation in Alaska, leaving no forwarding address.

James made a spontaneous decision. He wasn't prone to bouts of hypocrisy, but he concluded that this would be relatively harmless, and entirely worth it. Releasing Madison's hand, he retrieved his laptop from underneath a mountain of paperwork. He booted it up, fingers already soaring across the keyboard as he typed in a website he seldom used yet was intimately familiar with, ever since he had become one of its foremost icons. “There is something you should see.”

After their hosts had left them to their own devices shortly after breakfast – or, in Hampton's case, four mugs of coffee – Laurens set out to explore his new surroundings. He hadn't gotten to do it the evening before. He would have preferred to do it together with Hamilton, but the other man had disappeared shortly after Burr had left.

Laurens' blood boiled every time he had thought about Burr. This was the man who had killed Hamilton, his closest friend, his only confidante, his lover – and Laurens honestly did not care how much guilt Burr kept bottled up inside, because this was not an action Laurens was capable of forgiving. It couldn't have been much; Burr had never been an emotional person, so why should this have been any different? – Laurens could not find it in himself to forgive the older man. He would have preferred it, had Burr never stepped within five feet of Hamilton again, but Hamilton, despite numerous appearances to the contrary, was an adult, and could probably be trusted to keep himself alive, as long as there were no firearms in his vicinity.

In any case, Hamilton's insistence that he figure out what was eating at Burr left Laurens alone. He would have dragged Lafayette and Mulligan with him, except for how the two men had disappeared almost simultaneously with Hamilton and Burr.

Laurens had noticed Eliza glancing in his direction every so often, but he was in no mood to discuss anything with her, as entertaining as her company usually proves to be. She had a queer glint in her eyes, which, Laurens had learned from experience, never boded well for anyone at whom it was directed. With that in mind, Laurens had made the smart choice and elected to escape from the dining area, leaving the two Schuyler sisters with the general as well as with the two men Hamilton had referred to as Jefferson and Madison.

Laurens absentmindedly touched a painting of a broad, brown-eyed middle-aged man, admiring his posture. His thoughts eventually circled back to Hamilton's previous interaction with Washington. While by no means chilly, it was far from the somewhat warm relationship Laurens had observed right after Cornwallis had capitulated. It lacked a certain degree of comfort with each other, a certain element of familiarity.

Now, Laurens wasn't oblivious. Yes, he was not even in the same league as Hamilton, whose thoughts probably galloped through his mind faster than he could register, but he wasn't stupid. He had noticed (how could he not?) that Hamilton and Washington, the Hamilton and Washington of 1792, seemed to keep a certain distance from one another. Laurens was admittedly curious, in a morbid way, as to what could possibly have occurred between the father and the son to have alienated them this much. Not even when Washington had finally snapped and sent Hamilton home, had their relationship been this distant.

It was almost as though the winter of '77 had never happened.

Laurens turned around when he heard a commotion, just in time to see Burr – the other Burr – curse as he tripped over something. He stumbled and braced himself to keep from falling, his papers scattering haphazardly. He looked down at his feet, only then spotting a cat sprawled out on the floor some ten feet away. Burr's irritation melted away into reluctant concern. He bent down to pick up the cat. “Hamilton,” Burr murmured softly, “what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be outside the West Wing, you know. What am I saying? Of course you don't; you're a cat,” he smiled, and by God, Laurens had never imagined that Burr might have a beautiful smile, but he did. It was nowhere near Hamilton's smile, the truly genuine smile he reserved for a select few – Laurens, Eliza, his father and stepmother, and, most recently, his son – but it was stunning nonetheless. In all probability, Laurens was so strongly affected because he had never imagined that Burr might know how to smile, let alone do it.

For the second time that day, he elected to make a strategic retreat before he could be noticed. He backed out of the hallway, taking care not to walk into anything and alert Burr to his presence.

He eventually came upon a room with an open door, which he took as a silent invitation to enter. He stepped into a library; although small, compared to the other rooms in the building, it was filled to the brim with books of various size and shape. Laurens carefully approached a bookshelf. He didn't know why he exhibited such caution – it wasn't as if the books were going to attack him. Then again, two days prior, he would never have supposed that time travel was possible, either.

His hand stopped on a thick book, the golden title on its spine contrasting with the black cover. Laurens' fingers traced the letters. 'Abolition: A History of Slavery and Antislavery', they read.

“Seymour Drescher is a good choice,” a voice said from behind Laurens, startling him. He withdrew his hand faster than a snake poised to strike, then turned around, his posture stiff.

“Pardon me?” he asked, praying that his voice sounded casual.

Angelica Smith smiled lopsidedly. “Drescher,” she indicated the book. “A good reading choice, in terms of books on the abolishment of slavery,” she went on, quite nonchalantly, which was more than could be said for Laurens.

Laurens was torn between keeping his eyes on her, and reaching out for the book again. Smith snickered. “Just take it,” she urged him. “You look like you're going to burst if you don't read it. Your face literally lights up like a Christmas tree.”

Laurens blinked at the reference of self-destruction, then again at the Christmas reference, but filed them both away as another two future trends that he failed to understand. “I merely–“ he stuttered, his words getting stuck on his tongue. He had never been comfortable around women, and Angelica in particular, no matter her incarnation, somehow always managed to bring out his most awkward side. “I have always advocated equal rights for all men,” Smith frowned at that, as if displeased with his words, but let him continue, “regardless of race, and I want to see proof that it has finally happened, even if not during my lifetime. I would appreciate to be able to read about the struggle for such a noble goal, and I would like to honour the sacrifices of the people who have perished while defending every man's constitutional right to freedom,” he finished, looking away from Smith's piercing stare. He shivered uncomfortably.

“I see,” Smith replied. “Well,” she said briskly, “I think you will find what you're looking for on page three-hundred and ninety-four,” she smiled at something. “I'll leave you to it, John Laurens,” she swirled on her heels, heading out of the library.

Laurens nodded, his deft fingers already pulling out the book, ready to find a comfortable couch to sit down in.

“Oh, and Colonel?” Smith's head poked around the corner. “I believe that Mrs Hamilton is looking for you, and sooner or later, she is going to inspect the library.”

Laurens scrunched up his eyebrows. “Thank you, Miss Smith. But why–“

Smith was already gone.

From: smarter than me
J.L. is in the library, and I am off from babysitting abolitionists and moving on to babysitting the press.
You haven't done anything stupid in the past 10h that I haven't heard of, right?

To: smarter than me
Oh ye of little faith

From: smarter than me
Is that a 'yes'?

To: smarter than me
YES, mother dearest
Also, don't quote the musical
Lin's ego is too big as it is

From: smarter than me
I wonder where he gets it from.

To: smarter than me
Petition to replace my Press Sec

From: smarter than me
I AM the replacement.

In the end, Mrs Hamilton was not the person to find Laurens; her husband was. Eyes red, as though from having recently cried, Hamilton walked into the library, clearly not expecting anyone else in the room – which raised an interesting question: when did Hamilton have the time to explore this building, to have already been so familiar with its various rooms? – then stopped, registering Laurens' presence.

For a moment, they simply stared at one another. Hamilton then closed the door behind him, while Laurens put down his book, using an ornate pen as a bookmark. He stood up as Hamilton closed the distance between them. He stopped a feet before Laurens, reaching out a trembling hand, as though not quite able to believe that Laurens was real. Laurens clasped Hamilton's hand in his, interlocking their fingers, before he pulled in Hamilton for a kiss. It was gentle, just a peck on the lips, yet Hamilton shuddered as though it was much more. Perhaps it was, for Hamilton. Laurens had died, after all.

His eyes rested on Hamilton, a clear question in his gaze.

You were dead,” Hamilton murmured quietly, but his voice still carried around the room. “You died, Laurens.”

Laurens could not imagine the pain Hamilton must have endured. He knew that, were the roles reversed, he would not have handled life without Hamilton very well – or at all, if he was truthful with himself.

He pulled away from the kiss. “Hamilton?” he whispered.

Hamilton leaned their foreheads together, seeming to take comfort in Laurens' mere presence. “You have died,” he repeated his earlier words. “More importantly, you have died needlessly. Your death was so… pointless. It could easily have been avoided,” he choked on the last word.

Laurens threw his arms around Hamilton's waist, pulling the other man closer. Hamilton practically melted against Laurens' body. “I promise that I will be careful.”

“You had gone down to South Carolina, in one last attempt to realize your dreams of a battalion made up entirely of free black men– there were British troops who had not yet received word from Yorktown that the war was over,” Hamilton rambled on frantically, almost sounding as though he was quoting something – or someone.

“I will be more careful,” Lauren repeated, “and I give you my word that I will not engage any enemies upon my return.”

At that, Hamilton's lips quirked up into a small smile, Laurens' following suit. They both remembered Laurens' duel with Lee – the very opposite of what Laurens was now promising, rationality instead of bravery, cowardice instead of recklessness.

Laurens sobered up quickly once he remembered that his promise alone would not guarantee his safe return. He needed Hamilton to understand that. “Remember that, should the worst happen–“ Laurens began, but he cut off by Hamilton's lips pressing urgently against his, the words falling short.

“Do not speculate,” Hamilton pleaded. “Not about this. You must survive.”

“Should the worst happen,” Laurens went on inflexibly, “at least you will have Eliza by your side, as well as General Washington.”

Hamilton drew back, his eyebrows creased in confusion. “General Washington?” he repeated. “Why would I be comforted by his presence?”

“Because–“ Laurens frowned, “because he is your father.”

Hamilton scoffed lightly. “I remember the rumours around camp, Laurens, but believe me when I say that there is no truth to them. They simply continue to exist because the general will not stop referring to me as his son, but there is no thing further from the truth. You know this well, my friend,” he admonished.

“Do you mean that– General Washington–“ Laurens struggled with his words.

“Is not my father,” Hamilton finished. “That is a fool's delusion, and an unseemly one at that.”

Realization struck Laurens not unlike lightning. He took a long and careful look to confirm his suspicions, because if what he suspected was true–

This was all wrong. This wasn't his Hamilton.

He forced a smile onto his face. “Pay no heed to my words, Hamilton,” he advised.

Unseen by the two men, Alexander frowned as seemingly random pieces of a puzzle began coming together to form a picture. He didn't like what he had extrapolated.

Chat: people who have slept with alexander hamilton
lafayette shared a file: tj_punches_tj.avi
lafayette: so
lafayette: this happened
lafayette: video courtesy of alexander
maria: I love technology
john: how am I the last person to find out abt these things
john: he's literally my partner
lafayette: I honestly have no response to that
eliza: thomas DOES pack a nice punch
maria: that nose looks broken
eliza: gOOD
john: whoever claimed you were a cinnamon roll has clearly never met you
john: I mean, you're nice
john: but you're also VICIOUS
eliza: . . . . I'm choosing to take that as a compliment
lafayette: do please keep in mind that jefferson used to be my friend
maria: a sexist, racist, rapist friend
maria: truly, sir, your taste in acquaintances is splendid
lafayette: it is isn't it
lafayette: just look at you bunch
lafayette: and burr
maria: sorry, laf, but I can't forgive jefferson for what he had done to sally
eliza: sally as in your partner sally?
maria: yes, aka sally hemings
eliza: . . . . I see
john: I should talk to thomas about this video
eliza: wait a sec
maria: what's she doing
john: tbh I don't actually want to know

From: nicer hamilton
I heard that congratulations are in order

To: nicer hamilton
whatever it is, I didn't do it

From: nicer hamilton
a little bird whispered in my ear that you punched yourself
jk, there's a video

To: nicer hamilton
I will fucking kill hamilton

From: nicer hamilton
which one? I hear that there's a slight doppelgänger problem at the white house

To: nicer hamilton
*all three
every aham in existence

From: nicer hamilton
in all fairness, the video was very flattering
you should be proud
also, did you actually break his nose?
we heard a crack, but we are not actually sure it was broken

To: nicer hamilton
wait, 'we'?
who's 'we'?

From: nicer hamilton
john, laf, maria, and I

To: nicer hamilton
maria who?

From: nicer hamilton
maria reynolds
complicated story
ask john

To: nicer hamilton

From: nicer hamilton
anyway, nice talking to you but lin's waving enthusiastically which means break's over
off to play myself

To: Tommy <3 <3
File attached: tj_punches_tj.avi
when I said you should get back at your past, I didn't mean it quite so literally
but whatever works for you
also, eliza says that you pack a good punch

From: Tommy <3 <3
yeah, she asked whether I had broken his nose

To: Tommy <3 <3

From: Tommy <3 <3
hell yes

To: Tommy <3 <3
I should be encouraging violence
but also
go you <3 <3 <3
did it help?

From: Tommy <3 <3
surprisingly, yes

To: Tommy <3 <3
you should talk to sally
if nothing else, she'll love the video
wait, nvm

From: Tommy <3 <3

To: Tommy <3 <3
I forget that my she's my sister's bff
apparently they work together at the ny post

From: Tommy <3 <3
when did THAT happen
also, is your maria the same maria as in maria reynolds?

To: Tommy <3 <3
that sentence contains at least one maria too many

From: Tommy <3 <3
you are hilarious

To: Tommy <3 <3
but yes, same maria

From: Tommy <3 <3
you never mentioned that you had a sibling

To: Tommy <3 <3
because she ran away when she was sixteen, didn't leave a phone nr or anything
I hadn't expected to meet her again
but enough of my family drama
once more with feeling: talk to your client

From: Tommy <3 <3
maybe later

To: Tommy <3 <3
putting it off until later only delays the problem, baby

From: Tommy <3 <3
I know
love you

To: Tommy <3 <3
love you too

Frowning at his conversation with his partner, John thought back to the discussion he'd had with Thomas after Sarah Harrison had left.

Thomas avoided his eyes, focusing on the panelling of the floor instead. John stifled a sigh because he knew it would be counterproductive. Why was it his fate to fall in love with such stubborn men who couldn't talk about their feelings if their lives depended in it? First Alexander, and now Thomas. Clearly, he had a type.

(Granted, Aaron Burr also fit that type, but Hell itself would freeze over before John would be anything beyond reluctantly cordial towards Burr. The bastard deserved it, for firing off a bullet that should never have been fired, towards a man who has never done anything to merit such a harsh punishment.)

Thomas,” he said softly, so as not to startle Thomas, “what's wrong?”

Nothing,” Thomas said mechanically, wincing when he processed his words. “Well, it is something,” he amended, “but it's nothing you can help me with.”

Judging by her words, Mrs Harrison would disagree with you,” John continued in the same mild tone.

Thomas seemed to curl in on himself. John reached out to Thomas, cautiously placing a hand on his biceps, and felt a jolt of hope when Thomas didn't flinch. He sat down next to Thomas. “Thomas, talk to me,” he begged. “ Please.

Thomas didn't answer, but, very slowly, he sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I can't.”

Thomas–“ John's voice broke. “I want to help you, but I can't do that if I don't know what's wrong.”

Thomas opened his mouth, and began to speak. He explained, in excruciating details, his life up until meeting John – more specifically, the parts he had omitted the last time John had asked. He told John about his controlling boyfriend back in high school, how Theresa had been young and gullible and so naïve and willing to stay with him because he loved her, didn't he? And if he sometimes took a little more than Theresa had wanted to give him– well. That was his right, as her boyfriend. It even felt good at times.

(Only later did Thomas realize that their relationship hadn't been normal, or even healthy, by any standards.)

When he finished his story, Thomas went back through time, now speaking at length about an extraordinary woman named Sally Hemings; about a man who wasn't as terrific as he had deluded himself; and about their relationship – if it could be called that. About the things he had, as Jefferson, done to her. A stale pierced his heart with every other word he spoke, but he persevered, because if he ceased talking now, he would never be able to start again, and Sally was right, John did deserve to hear the full story, did deserve to know what kind of a man he had devoted his life to.

During this, Thomas discovered two things. One, that people who claimed that saying one's secret out loud was helping, were wrong. It wasn't. In a way, saying it out loud hurt more than living through it did. But, two, Thomas did have to admit that it was sort of… freeing. Certainly, it was still his burden to bear, and it would be for as long as he lived, but he didn't have to hide it anymore, didn't have to pretend that things were alright when they weren't.

When he was done, he looked down, unable to meet John's eyes. He couldn't bear to see the disappointment in John's eyes.

Jesus, Thomas,” John swore. “Have you kept it all bottled up all these years?”

This was wrong . John wasn't supposed to be concerned about Thomas; he was supposed to– to want to leave, or to be disgusted with Thomas' double morals and his hypocrisy, if nothing else. Maybe appreciate the irony of Thomas Jefferson , of all people, being a rape victim.

He wasn't supposed to care.

Thomas, please answer me this,” John's voice came from somewhere above Thomas' head, and when had Thomas laid down? “Thomas, look at me,” John pleaded in a quiet voice.

It took more energy than it rightfully should, but Thomas did as John had asked. John's eyes held nothing but compassion. “I need you to be honest with me,” John said earnestly, “have I ever taken advantage of you? Have I ever forced myself on you in any way that you did not wish?” there were tears in John's eyes. What had Thomas ever done to deserve this amazing man?

Never,” Thomas whispered. “You have been nothing short of the most compassionate, brilliant, wonderful person I have ever met. I–“ his words were stuck in his throat. He closed his mouth, feeling as useless as the day Conrad had broken up with him– her– him. “I have learned how to say no. You don't need to worry.”

John smiled briefly at that, but his smile fell as he looked down at Thomas again. “You should try to get back at your past,” he suggested softly. “Prove that you are superior to it, that it doesn't control your actions.”

But it does,” Thomas replied plaintively. “I know that, you know that, the world knows that, so why bother trying?”

Because trying is the only way in which we improve ourselves,” John said.

“'Do or do not, there is no try',” Thomas quoted.

If you don't try, how do you expect to succeed?” John corrected him gently.

Thomas did not reply. John didn't need him to; they both knew that John was right.

Alexander Hampton @AdotHam
Theoretically, how would one go about reconciling a cat and a parrot? I need my office back. Theoretically, of course.

Peggy Scott @margarita32
@AdotHam What did you do.

Alexander Hampton @AdotHam
@margarita32 I didn't do anything. Hamilton and Adams seem to be fighting. I cannot have that.

Peggy Scott @margarita32
@AdotHam Why not? It makes sense, in a way.

Alexander Hampton @AdotHam
@margarita32 Yes, I love the irony, but Hamilton has taken to occupying the couch in the Oval Office, while Adams sits on the desk. (1/2)

Alexander Hampton @AdotHam
As a result, I can't work. THAT'S the problem. (2/2)

Peggy Scott @margarita32
@AdotHam Call the BirdBusters. Alternatively, you could just let nature take its course. See who's the fittest.

To: agent margarita
you are a horrible human being, you know that?

From: agent margarita
you love me for it

Alexander cleared his throat, looking up at the roomful of reporters and journalists, all ready to latch on to his every word. He looked down again, rearranging his papers. No matter how many times he had done this, it never failed to make him just a little nervous. “The Constitution of the United States,” he began, and the few people whose eyes weren't already focused on him snapped. “It is the foundation of our laws, of our government, of our country – indeed, of our entire culture. It's an amazing document, made even more amazing for the power to change itself, if needed to.

“That's what I'm going be addressing today,” he took another breath. “What oftentimes astonishes me is that a lot of people will do whatever it takes to ensure that their actions are a hundred percent compliant with the Constitution. The Constitution, a document written over two-hundred and forty years ago. Not to be such a bore,” he smiled, “but it has just a bit outdated since its publication.

“Now, I'm not saying that we should abandon it completely, but I do think that it is important to remember, and to take into consideration, the fact that it is a very old document, and did not, as such, take into consideration all the different scenarios which we are facing today. Yes, we had a dream for this country, but that dream was created two-hundred years ago!

“Times change, and we need to change with them, or risk being left behind. We need to adapt our interpretation of the Constitution, if not the entire document, to the modern era. We cannot reverse time and mold it around an ancient piece of paper. I think it's about time that people realized that. There is a reason,” he chuckled, “that there is a clause that allows flexibility in the Constitution. It's not just there to look pretty, you know. It's there to be used, so that our Constitution can be adapted to different scenarios instead of being taken literally, as some of you seem to have a tendency to do. That is why I am proposing a bill to review the Constitution from a critical point of view in order to see what could be changed for the benefit of our society. That's all for today,” he stepped off the podium, leaving the room amidst over two dozen reporters standing up and shouting questions.

To: smarter than me
I may need to rescind my previous answer
The current answer to your question is 'no'

From: smarter than me
Alexander, what did you do.

To: smarter than me
Nothing much ;-)
Just proposed that we revamp the Constitution

From: smarter than me
Hold off on the Second Amendment because I need a gun.
I have a president to hunt down.

To: doppelgänger
The Ultimate Doppelgänger photo, as promised
[Picture attached]

From: doppelgänger
You are the actual BEST

To: doppelgänger
You aren't bad yourself, Miranda ;-)

From: doppelgänger
You just love me because of the musical, don't you

To: doppelgänger
I mean, you are a literal anthropomorphic personification of kindness and caring
I'm pretty sure you would have made a wonderful president

From: doppelgänger
I would have made a TERRIBLE president

To: doppelgänger
You're probably right
You would have cared TOO much

From: doppelgänger
Thank God I'm not the president then

To: doppelgänger
That could always be arranged tho

From: doppelgänger

Alexander was working late. This, in itself, was by no means an unusual occurrence – he honestly did not remember the last time he had gone to sleep before eleven. This had bled into a habit, until Alexander found that he was physically not able to sleep before a certain time, almost as though his body had created its own clock.

It's called an internal clock, actually,” James had once informed him, along with giving him a look that indicated that James' opinion of Alexander's intelligence was sinking very rapidly.

This meant that, even on the rare evenings that Alexander did not have an enormous amount of paperwork waiting for him (and really, he had expected paperwork when he took office, but not quite this much. Did nobody think of the environment? At least half of the documents that found their way onto his desk could have been sent as encrypted files, not being important enough to keep in physical form in order to prevent hackers from gaining access; for all Alexander cared, every hacker in the world was welcome to read The Annual Report On Agricultural Growth: The Midwest, a veritable page-turner the length of the unabridged version of Monte Cristo), he was filled with just a little too much restless energy to be able to fall asleep. The only known solution to this was to wait out the time until his body deemed it late enough to go to bed. Grabbing the book Martha had recommended to him a few weeks ago that he hadn't even gotten around to opening, he settled on the couch, preparing himself for a quiet evening.

He should have known that 'quiet' was not an adjective that was applicable to his life. He had barely read ten pages when he heard a sizzling sound from the other side of the door to the West Wing. Curious, he put down his book and opened the door, instantly finding himself faced with a black-haired stranger in a– cape? Behind the stranger, an impenetrable pink circle roughly the size of a door hovered a feet above air. “What,” he gawked.

“May I come in?” the stranger gestured at the doorway.

“How did you get here?” Alexander asked dumbly, although he knew that there was only one explanation that accounted for both the man and his fuchsia ring of doom. “Should I call security? I feel like I should call security.”

“Magic portal,” the stranger indicated the ring of all things pink, “and please don't. Where am I, by the way?”

Alexander retained enough cool to raise an eyebrow. “The White House,” he said slowly.

The stranger winced. “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr President,” he apologized sheepishly, then took a closer look at Alexander. “You are the president, aren't you?”

“I'm frankly impressed by how this fact has escaped your mind,” Alexander said sarcastically. “Do you make it a habit of forgetting the names of world leaders with nuclear codes?”

“Different dimensions,” the stranger waved his hand, “different people. In our universe, the president's a woman. In yet another, it's an orange ball of uncontrollable rage. It's funny how little these facts matter, in the grand scheme of things,” he shrugged, pushing past Alexander and into the living room. Alexander closed the door, then followed him.

Alexander's brained paused several times during his unexpected visitor's explanation, because seriously? Who gave unspeakable power of destruction to a person with anger management issues? In the end, Alexander focused on the part of the sentence most essential to his current predicament. “Different dimensions?” he squinted.

“Yes,” the stranger sighed, collapsing on the couch. “I've been scouring dimensions more or less non-stop for the past three days, searching for any anomalies.”

Alexander sat down in an armchair, eyeing the stranger. “Funny that you should mention anomalies,” he began conversationally, “because I happen to have ten of them in my guest bedrooms. All from like two-hundred years ago.”

The stranger sat up abruptly, then leaned back as he felt a wave of dizziness from his exhaustion coupled with unexpected movement. He spoke once it had passed. “You have no idea how long I've been looking for them.”

“Actually,” Alexander pointed out, “you've just told me.”

The stranger smirked. “Touché. I am Doctor Stephen Strange, by the way,” he offered Alexander a hand.

Alexander shook it. “Alexander Hampton, President of the United States. Pleasure to meet you.”

It was Strange's turn to squint. “You wouldn't happen to have a connection with Alexander Hamilton, would you?”

“I am his reincarnation,” Alexander confirmed.

Strange groaned audibly. When Alexander asked him whether there was a problem, he waved off his concerns. “Well, then,” he rubbed his hands together, “let's bring everyone home,” Strange made as if to stand up, but Alexander's hand pushed him back down onto the couch. Strange frowned at him.

“You don't look much better than a corpse,” Alexander told him frankly, “and everybody's asleep anyway. This is probably the most hypocritical thing I'll ever say, but how about you get some rest before you try your interdimensional portal voodoo again? Everybody will stay right here until you wake up. Pinky swear,” he grinned, wiggling his pinky for emphasis.

It took some convincing, but Alexander was nothing if not stubborn, and Strange had eventually caved in to his suggestions, collapsing on the couch not a minute later.

Strange joined them for breakfast the next day. The dark circles under his eyes were almost gone, and he was considerably more agreeable than he was the day before. He ate a surprising amount of food for such a slim man, which left Alexander wondering when he had last eaten a full meal. Alexander knew Strange's type — working until the job was completed, at the risk of working oneself into the ground.

Hamilton, to the surprise of exactly no one, was the last person to awaken. He entered the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffee pot, but paused when he spotted Strange blocking his goal. He stared at the man. "Who are you?" he asked sharply.

Strange scowled. "As charming as always, I see. Doctor Strange, at your service," he offered his hand.

Hamilton shook it. "Alexander Hamilton, at yours. Could you please pass the coffee?"

Strange obliged, then, as Hamilton was filling up his mug, spoke again. "I will be bringing you back to your time," he waited patiently for the shouts of surprise, suspicion, and even outrage, to die down. "I have made a grave mistake while experimenting with temporal magic, and I will endeavour to rectify it. Your presence in this century is the result of an accident; you don't belong here. You have destinies awaiting you back at home. You are an essentially part of history," at this, he sighed. "Besides, I'm already dealing with enough space-time-related consequences as it is," he finished on a cryptic note. He stood up, dusting off non-existent dust from his pants, and clasped his hands. "Since you're all here, let's begin. After all, there's no time like the present."

Strange returned to the White House the same evening, this time sans any time travelers. Alexander didn't look up from the book he was reading, while James merely raised an eyebrow. “Make yourself at home,” he waved in the general direction of a chair, then returned to a report he was reading.

Strange declined the offer. “I haven't caused you any inconveniences, have I?” he asked carefully.

Alexander shrugged. “Not really,” he scrunched up his nose. “It has been fun.”

“Let's just hope that this doesn't affect history.”

James snorted. “I wouldn't hold out too much hope,” he said.

Strange sighed. “No, neither would I.”


Laurens opened his eyes, and was greeted with the sight of Hamilton and Lafayette leaning over him, Hamilton's eyes glistening with concern while Lafayette looked ready to retrieve a physician if Laurens showed the slightest hints of distress.

“Laurens?” Hamilton asked softly. “How are you faring?”

Laurens winced as he attempted to regain a more vertical position. “I believe that I am unhurt, Alexander,” he used Hamilton's first name in an attempt to alleviate his anxiety. Whoever claimed that Hamilton and Washington's tempers differed has clearly never compared them when they were distraught. They both tended to become insanely protective of the people they perceived as 'theirs', while at the same time withdrawing inwards.

“Good,” Hamilton breathed a sigh of relief. “The general and I have been beside ourselves with worry, as has our young marquis.”

Laurens quirked an eyebrow. “Like father, like son?”

Hamilton's eyes widened in panic. “Not here, Laurens!” he hissed loudly. “We both know the consequences that would occur, should anyone find out.”

Despite Hamilton's frantic worry, Laurens could not help but smile. At last, he was home – and the fair bit of foreknowledge he was now equipped with didn't hurt, either.