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He dug his own grave

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Thomas should have known it, should have seen it coming. That, without Washington on position, Hamilton was left to run amok and spew as many words as he pleased. The man truly never knew how to shut up. Or when. He spoke his mind loud and clear, caring not for whatever rude way they might be received as. He didn't even care in which place his object of venom stood.


Jefferson knew as soon as he got word of how Adams addressed Hamilton. Creole bastard. Beyond any other though, and before any other logic kicked in, he knew Adam had signed up to having his ass round kicked to the past millennia with such accusatory words. Words had left his mouth, and words had been the ones to tarnish whatever reputation and good grace he had.


That's how Hamilton worked. Words were always on his side, coming up to him on a simple flick of his wrist, on the simply act of holding a pen and having somewhere to place his never-ending ideas and phrases.


He knew because he had danced the same carefully laid out dance every time he spoke to Hamilton. It was harsh, it was ruthless, and it was a constant, never ending harassment from both parties. Oh, But Thomas knew how to carefully spin words to the point even the great Hamilton lost his footing. He knew where to attack, how to defend himself. Their careful dance stuttered, and feet got stepped over as either of them made the other lose their temper.


Now, Thomas prided himself in knowing just where to strike. He knew how to lash out when he had been poked for far more than he could stand. Which is why he knew first hand Hamilton's short temper. Why he knew there would be poisonous words trying to crawl in his head, or fists meant to hurt.


He wasn't above losing his temper. He was no saint and there was only so much patience a man could hold— and he had much of this, he'd like to add. But Hamilton. Oh, Hamilton turned even the sharpest sword to a dull scrap. He'd erode away with his words the well-placed composure one had, and, clever as he was, he'd make you look likethe bad person, posing himself with suchrash and aggravating words as the one who held the candle in a dark world.


But Thomas knew how to stand against the constant blowing of winds Hamilton's small frame packed. Always the destructive person. Jefferson knew how to not buckle under petty things, and he knew how to hold his head above the crashing waves of words Hamilton spew ruthlessly. He wouldn't drown under all those words. Now, John Adams, on the other hand. Thomas knew there was only so much he could take. He was friends with John Adams, after all. Had spoken with the man, had threw a few ideas to him and some had bounced in pleasing ways, others, not so much.


So, if you asked Thomas Jefferson to tell you his opinion on the matter, all he could tell you was that it was going downhill really fast. A shit-show that was hitting the fan. And honestly? He could not be expected to just stand by and watch Hamilton tear at anyone who provoked him in the slightest. It was obvious Alexander Hamilton’s sanity was slipping, considering his blatant disregard of what impact his venomous words could have on his political career, or on his persona as a matter.


The thing with Alexander Hamilton was that his words were double-edged. As much damage as he did to others, he inflicted it upon himself. If after this that wasn’t clear enough, Thomas would not wait for Hamilton to find his way to tarnish and taint anyone else’s reputation. Sure, Hamilton would be falling off grace in the public eye after such way of ravaging someone’s name. But Hamilton was an expert with words. And even if he fell off grace completely, falling down into a dark pit of burning flames, Thomas feared the impact of the words he could still spill from his lips and fingers. Even the devil can make itself be listened by anyone with an ear to lend.


The best way to keep Hamilton from bringing down all they had worked hard for was to silence him for good— and that was good, because Thomas had been working on his spare time, digging anything to put a muzzle on the rabid dog. It was time Alexander learnt his place. It just so happened to be their luck rumors had already begun.


Alexander Hamilton was embezzling money that wasn’t his. And Thomas had enough proof to bring it against Hamilton. Finally, he could settle this long-time rivalry of sorts he had been holding with the guy. Finally, he’d make him close his mouth, shut up for once. And there was no sweeter emotion than that of expecting to carry out your plans, aware they’d succeed. There was no denying the proofs, and Hamilton was bound to obey their desires, least he be cataloged as a traitor, be looked with wary eyes, be left to his own, bereft of any money that wasn’t his, or money that was his. Finally, Thomas could decide how short Hamilton’s leash would be.



Thomas could never have imagined his fool-proof plan was, well, something that had backfired on him, but in turn had set a new plan in motion, one being played behind the shadows. He’d admit to feeling bad on behalf of Hamilton’s family: his wife, his daughters and sons. But that was short lived, clouded by the immense joy of seeing Alexander Hamilton fall from grace. He had dug his own grave and had, quite surprisingly, lowered himself to it. Thomas always knew sooner or later all of Hamilton’s carefully crafted words would lead him to his end. But he had never expected it to come down to this. This utter mess the man had done for himself— a pitiful and laughable attempt at clearing his name.


The Reynolds Pamphlet had been more than anything Jefferson could ever hope to do. Sure, he could find a way to push Hamilton off his high horse. But this? Oh, this was something entirely different. It was, in a sense, artistic. Being destroyed by his own hands, his own words and ideas, something Alexander Hamilton prided himself for. And all Jefferson had to do was present the once-going rumors of embezzlement. How this man’s pride had been his downfall.


He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to walk towards Hamilton and mock him as much as he could. He almost felt like thanking him, making his job easier. Now there was no way he’d ever see the man running for president. Thomas wanted to laugh. For all the pain Hamilton had been worth, he had made up with his latest stunt.