(Details of this AU and character design under the cut)
So basically Hamilton survives the duel with Burr and becomes something like Washington but in the War of 1812, with his son as his aide-de-camp…. and learns the other side's point of view xd
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
October 1804
The intricate French clock on the mantle chimed the hour, drawing Alex’s attention away from the heavy legal tome he’d been studying. Rubbing his hands over his eyes, he pushed back from the card table. Afternoon was bleeding slowly into evening, and Mama had yet to leave the sickroom to take rest or nourishment for herself.
His perfunctory knock on the door shattered the quiet in a way that made him wince. There’s a new reverence to the small back bedroom that reminds Alex of a church. It made sense, he supposed. A miracle had preserved his father’s life that summer, and again not a week ago. The sickroom had become a sacred space, such that even little Phil didn’t dare pitch a tantrum too near.
No answer came, not that he’d been expecting one. He eased open the door to find his mother and father curled into each other on the bed. The last of the days’ autumn sunshine danced across the floorboards, chasing the shadows the cozy fire in the grate couldn’t reach.
It’s a familiar scene. Mama and Papa had a way of fitting together that made them look like two puzzle pieces God had designed to be slotted into place. Papa’s chin rested atop Mama’s head, their arms tangled over each other, Mama’s leg hooked behind Papa’s knee. The impression of a perfect fit stretched back as far as Alex could remember, unchanged no matter how their bodies had transformed over the years: not when Mama has heavy with child, and not now, when Papa looked so thin and frail he might fade away into nothing.
Papa coughed, a deep, wet, painful cough. His breath rattled ominously even after the fit had passed, a wheeze accompanying each hard fought inhale. Mama’s arms tightened around him, anchoring him into place.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” Mama coached gently, her voice a soft coo in Papa’s ear. “That’s it. Just breathe.”
“Mama?”
Her head shifted slightly against Papa’s chest so she could see him. “What is it, dear heart?”
“You should go get something to eat,” Alex said. Mama frowned. “You need to eat, Mama, to keep up your strength. You haven’t had a thing since breakfast. I’ll stay here and watch over Papa.”
Mama’s head shifted again, nestling back into Papa. Her fists closed into the fabric of his nightshirt, her knuckles white from her grip. He wondered for a moment if she had simply chosen to ignore him in favor of sinking back into her husband.
Never once had he doubted that his parents adored him, adored all of them. Love and warmth emanated from around them whenever they were together, enveloping their children easily as extensions of their love for each other. But a whole world existed between them that had a tendency to make even their children feel like outsiders on occasion. As he grew older, Alex often wondered if he’d ever find someone he could fall into that deeply.
“You’re right, darling,” Mama said at last, the words muffled by Papa’s shirt. “I do need to eat something.”
She whispered something more to Papa, her lips close to his ear, then pressed a kiss to his forehead before easing away from him. Papa barely stirred as she rose from the bed, his hand falling limply to the mattress. Was he asleep, Alex wondered, or simply too weak to move?
“I’ll be right back. You’ll keep an eye on him?” Mama confirmed.
“I won’t leave his side.”
She smiled weakly and patted his arm as she walked by.
Another harsh, barking cough came from Papa as Alex settled into the chair by the bed. Tentatively, he reached out to touch his father’s back. A sharp shoulder blade jerked beneath his hand. The confidence with which he’d just sent his mother away disappeared in an instant, leaving him with a childish desire to call an adult for help.
“Papa?”
Papa was wheezing again, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Alex stood, and, gently as he could, eased Papa over onto his back the way he’d watched Mama and Doctor Hosack do several times. The repositioning seemed to help some.
“Do you need another pillow?” Alex asked. Mama often added one when Papa’s breathing became particularly labored. Sitting up seemed to help him.
Papa swallowed weakly, gave another unproductive cough, then sank into the pillows, energy spent. Alex took his stillness as a no, and seated himself into the chair again. Not sure what else to do, he placed his hand over his father’s, and squeezed lightly.
Alex hadn’t been home that awful night. He’d only just sent the letter to Mr. Higginson, turning down the mercantile position at the Boston firm in favor of apprenticing himself to Mr. Harison, his father’s law partner, here in New York. He knew Mama hadn’t liked the idea of him being so far away, and he’d wanted to be close, to help as much as he could while his father recovered. But even working right in town had proved too far away, still.
James had shaken him awake that night, frantic. “Alex! Alex, wake up! It’s Papa. I’ve just been to summon Doctor Hosack. Something’s wrong with Papa.”
“Papa? What’s wrong? What happened?” Alex had asked, bleary eyed as he pushed himself up in bed. Panic had gripped him so strongly, abject terror that Papa had died and he hadn’t even been there to say goodbye.
“I don’t know. He…he couldn’t breathe. Mama was so scared, and he….” Alex and Jamie had fought like cats and dogs for most of their lives, but seeing his younger brother so frightened had elicited a burst of protectiveness in him. He’d gathered Jamie up in his arms and hugged him tight. A choked little sob had forced its way out of Jamie as he’d repeated, “He couldn’t breathe, Alex.”
An inflammation of the lungs, Doctor Hosack had diagnosed by the time he and Jamie had arrived back at the house. “A common secondary affliction, unfortunately, prone to prey on those weakened and bedridden.”
“Is it fatal?” Alex had asked.
“Sometimes.” The fear in the doctor’s eyes had been the better answer. “Time and rest, and plenty of prayer. I’m afraid that’s all we can do for him now.”
He’d been alarmed at the advice to pray, certain it meant his father wasn’t long for this world after all; that the miracle that had preserved him had been little more than a cruel taunt by God. The way Papa continued to struggle to breath, Alex remained half convinced that’s all it had been still.
Papa’s eyes opened into slits, and his head rolled on the pillows to face him.
“It’s me,” Alex said. “Alex.”
Papa blinked, his eyes struggling to open further.
“Mama’s downstairs, getting something to eat,” he continued, though he wasn’t sure if his father understood. “She’ll be right back. I’m looking after you.”
“Alex?” His name sounded like it had been sliced by broken glass before escaping Papa’s throat. Still, the recognition loosened something in his chest, and a laugh that could have been a sob bubbled up.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
Papa’s hand twisted to squeeze his palm. “My dear…little lamb.”
A lump formed in the back of his throat at the endearment. How many times had Papa called him that over the years? How many times had he taken it for granted that Papa would say it again?
“I’ve started studying for the bar, Papa,” he said. “I don’t know if Mama told you. Judge Pendleton’s offered to help me, and Mr. Harison says I can study in your office. Mama suggested I go up to Albany to use Grandpa’s library, the way you did when you were learning the law, but I don’t want to go much farther than town while you’re unwell. Mr. Harison has me reading Blackstone. I’ve been struggling a little with torts. Maybe you can help me? When you’re better? I can’t quite figure out, what was that term, um…res ipsa….”
He was rambling, and he knew it. So much had happened in the months his father had been absent, starting with the graduation ceremony he had skipped, because celebrating when his father’s life dangled by the thinnest of threads had felt unbearably wrong. He’d felt untethered, confused, ever since. Papa was supposed to help him make plans once he finished with school. Being propelled so suddenly into adulthood had been a shock. Everything seemed to be pouring out now, prompted by the mere fact that Papa had been able to say his name. He felt like William as he babbled, desperate for attention, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“Res ipsa loquitur,” Papa said around another wheezed breath.
Alex smiled. Sick and feverish as he was, of course Papa would still know that. “That’s it.” But Papa’s eyes had drifted shut again, before he could explain anything further about the confusing Latin term. Alex fought off a sense of disappointment.
Time, he told himself. That’s all. Papa needed time and rest, just like the doctor said. Please God, he prayed, please give him more time.
“I love you, Papa,” he said.
Papa’s hand twitched against Alex’s. He hummed, half asleep, and muttered, “Love you.”
Relationships: Aaron Burr & Alexander Hamilton; Alexander Hamilton/ Elizabeth “Eliza” Schuyler
Summary: The treason trial of former Vice President Aaron Burr commands the attention of the whole United States. Even so, the arrival of an old friend takes Burr by surprise. Hamilton never could resist a good fight with Jefferson, even if that means taking Burr on as a client
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A historical AU where Hamilton (just) survived his injuries in the duel
Richmond, Virginia
July 1807
Sticky, chocolate covered fingers hover over the white knight on the chess board. Young Aaron’s piercing eyes peeked up at Burr from under his shaggy dark fringe. His grandson sought a hint for the wisdom of the move he was contemplating, Burr understood.
“Think it through, Gampillo,” Burr encouraged without giving anything away as he rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief. Theodosia has already scolded him for spoiling the boy with too many sweets. His grandson’s hand retracted slightly from the knight as his eyes scanned the board once more. Burr reached out to wipe the evidence of the chocolate square from the boy’s fingers and face.
Aaron squirmed backwards in his chair.
“Here you are, then,” Burr granted, handing the handkerchief over.
“Papa?” Burr glanced up guiltily at his daughter as she entered from the foyer. Her gaze swept briefly over her son’s chocolate stained fingers, prompting a fond shake of her head. She then returned her attention to her father, her expression turning inscrutable. “You have a visitor.”
He frowned. Who would be interested in paying him a social call at a time like this? Theo wouldn’t allow just anyone entrance to gawk at the so-called traitor, surely. His mouth parted to ask the identity of this unexpected guest, but a commotion in the hallway interrupted the thought. One of the decorative tables in the foyer had been upset, by the sound of it, the thud of ceramic on wood carrying in along with the squeaky whine of a wheel in need of oiling.
“Careful, Robert.” The soft voice had a slight rasp to it, but Burr recognized it immediately regardless.
Hamilton.
Burr felt his heartbeat quicken. He rose from his seat, then stood, feeling awkward and wrong footed at the abrupt appearance of a man he thought never to see again. What could Hamilton possibly want?
The front of the chair appeared first, blanketed feet resting motionless on the footrest as the bulky chair struggled through the narrow door. Theo moved to hold the door open as wide as possible. When at last the chair bumped over the divider on the floor, he looked upon Hamilton for the first time since that cursed morning at Weehawken.
Hamilton had been both absent and omnipresent to Burr for the length of his long convalescence. His hair had gone wholly gray in the intervening years, and wrinkles were prominent in his thin, haggard face. A hint of mischief still twinkled in his eyes, however, matching the quirk of his lips as he examined Burr in turn. Hamilton was enjoying this, Burr realized.
Burr remained frozen in place, his lips still slightly parted, searching for something to say. Should he be apologetic? Irreverent? Friendly? Hostile?
It was who Hamilton broke the silence, and his first words weren’t directed to Burr at all. Attention on Theo, still holding the door, Hamilton said, “Thank you for your assistance, my dear.”
“I’m glad to see you so well, Mr. Hamilton.” Hamilton’s charming smile was mirrored on Theo’s face. She stooped down to the chair and placed a friendly kiss to Hamilton’s cheek, then waved a hand towards her son. “We’ll leave you to your business.”
“Traitor,” Burr mouthed when Theo caught his eye. She looked not at all amused at the little jest. The potential death sentence seemed to have robbed her of her sense of humor.
As she swept from the room, Aaron in tow, Hamilton turned that charming smile on him. “I heard you were in need of a good lawyer, Mr. Burr.”
A disbelieving chuckle forced its way out of Burr’s chest. The gall of him, to refuse all communication, then appear when the trial of the century presented itself. “Did you, now? Your intelligence was mistaken. I have plenty of lawyers, in fact. Six in all, including myself.”
“I’m certain I’m better than any of them. Especially you.” Burr laughed again, more genuinely this time. “Are you really in any position to refuse help?”
He can’t deny the truth of the statement, but he needn’t admit to it out loud. Instead, he asked with some incredulity, “Did you really travel all the way here on an assumption that I’d require your assistance? And does Mrs. Hamilton know you’re here? She must be beside herself.”
“Such concern for my wife, suddenly,” Hamilton charged, his brow raised. Burr shrank back slightly, a niggle of guilt beginning in his chest at the thought of the pain he’d caused poor innocent Eliza. “She came with me, for the record. I was on business nearby, anyway.”
“In Richmond?”
“Philadelphia. Richmond isn’t much farther to travel.” That was a patent falsehood, and they both knew it. “So?”
“Why would you want to help me?”
“Because I dislike Jefferson more than you,” Hamilton answered simply.
A rueful smile began on Burr’s face. “If only you’d come to that realization a few years ago, so much unpleasantness between us could have been avoided.”
“Oh, I still don’t think you should hold power.” Burr frowned heavily as Hamilton gave him a dismissive little wave. “But I’d hate to give Jefferson the satisfaction of putting you to death. He’s sounding more and more the vengeful tyrant every day.”
“Shouldn’t I be put to death? Fomenting rebellion in the West is treason, is it not?”
“Are you guilty?”
It’s a good thing Hamilton rarely handled criminal matters, Burr considered, as he sank back into his seat and invited Hamilton closer. Hamilton’s servant obliged, wheeling the chair nearer. “You should know better than to ask a criminal defendant such a thing, Hamilton.”
“I never ask clients questions I don’t already know the answer to,” Hamilton retorted.
“Oh?”
“That you had designs on Florida and Mexico, I believe readily enough. I had thoughts of taking Florida for the United States myself once upon a time.” Burr smiled at the admission. “But Jefferson’s theory that you meant to use that plot as a cover for inciting rebellion in the Western states, that you might ride into the federal city and usurp the rightful government, smacks more of a deranged fever dream than an actual charge.”
Burr inclined his head. “I quite agree. As could the grand jury. Martin thinks they might decline to indict me, which would save us the whole business of a trial. You may have wasted a trip.”
Hamilton scoffed. “Of course they’re going to indict you. It’s a grand jury—they’d indict a loaf of bread if the prosecutor laid it before them.”
“Three grand juries before them declined,” Burr pointed out. “Two in Kentucky and one in Tennessee.”
“You’re being judged by Virginia gentlemen now, not the toothless, riotous simpletons of the back country.”
“You know, it’s a wonder they don’t like you out there,” Burr remarked dryly.
Hamilton hummed, unconcerned. “Marshall is sensible, though. He’ll want to find in your favor. You need to give him reason to do so. The only real evidence for the prosecution is Jefferson’s imperial declaration that you are guilty beyond a doubt. That’s nothing in a court of law. The Constitution requires an overt act of war levied against the United States, observed by two separate individuals. As I understand it, you weren’t even there during the whole business on Blennerhassett Island. Does Wilkinson have any other circumstance to use against you?”
“My counsel is well aware of all this,” Burr pointed out, ducking the question. “Why should I let you have the glory of arguing the case?”
Hamilton smirked as he gestured to his motionless lower half. “You’re right. For what could you possibly owe me a favor?”
“So it’s a favor, now? I thought this was for my benefit?”
Hamilton shrugged carelessly. “However you’d like to see it.”
“And you presume that I feel inclined to make amends.”
“I presume nothing.” Hamilton’s expression softened perceptibly. “I know you wish to make amends. I saw the regret on your face the moment I fell. You tried to run to my side; you would have, had Van Ness not caught you by the arm and forced you away.”
The scene overwhelmed Burr’s vision for a moment, the sun-dappled ridge, the smell of gun powder, Hamilton rising up on his toes before sinking downwards, a red stain spreading across his belly. He hadn’t meant to hit him, not really. He’d wanted vindication, an apology for the awful things Hamilton had said, not Hamilton’s death.
The hours, days of waiting, praying, that followed had been harrowing. Even when it was announced that Hamilton would not die, Burr hadn’t been safe in New York. A warrant went out for his arrest on the charge of dueling, though none had been issued against Hamilton. He’d fled Southward to safer ground, and hadn’t yet returned home.
“I would have paid you a call,” Burr began, the apology that had lived in his chest beginning to bubble out. “The timing didn’t seem appropriate. And then I had to leave—”
Hamilton sliced a hand through the air to cut off the explanation. “I wasn’t in any condition to receive you then anyway.”
They shared a long, quiet moment.
“You need me,” Hamilton insisted, jumping back to the topic at hand. “Your counsel is more than competent. I’m sure they will be able to convince Marshall and jury that the prosecution lacks evidence to convict on such a serious charge. But a not guilty verdict won’t mean much if it appears to have been won on a technicality. You’ll win in the court of justice, but not in the court of public opinion. Then what? Flee back to the West, or to Europe?”
“And you’ll win over the public?” Burr can’t help the skeptical tone in his voice. Hamilton’s never exactly been popular with the people, outside of the passage of the Constitution and the first few months after his catastrophic injury.
“Jefferson’s people are lost to you, whatever you do,” Hamilton replied. “But my support can win forgiveness from the Federalists. You could come home to New York.”
Burr hated just how good that proposal sounded.
“If they indict me,” Burr decided, emphasizing the first word, “We’ll talk.”
**
Burr fumbled in his pocket for the card with Hamilton’s current address scrawled across the back in his familiar, sloping hand. Two guards trailed behind him, allowing him one last stop before taking him to Luther Martin’s where he was to remain under house arrest. He was keenly aware of his conspicuousness as people peeked around curtains to watch his progress down the street.
“I’m surprised you’re not staying with Marshall,” Burr had remarked when Hamilton had jotted down the address for him.
“He offered,” Hamilton had replied as he finished penning the Broad Street address with a flourish. “But it seemed rather a conflict of interest given what I was in town to do.”
Matching the number on the card to that of house before him, Burr took a steadying breath and tapped his cane against door twice. Theo had been the one who insisted he call on Hamilton. Now that the grand jury had handed down an indictment, the threat of death loomed large over them all, except for his dear little Gampy, who remained happily oblivious.
A servant admitted him to a small parlor to wait. He paced anxiously for several minutes, painfully aware of his armed escorts waiting just outside, until he heard voices in the next room. Peeking his head out the door, he saw Hamilton and Eliza in the larger parlor across the way. Hamilton was bent forward in the chair, his arms braced against his knees, as Eliza tugged up his shirt to reveal his back and scooped something out of a small jar with her fingers.
“You’re in pain,” Eliza was saying, her expression severe. “Doctor Hosack said to apply the analgesic cream when you first feel a twinge, so it won’t get worse. And frankly, I don’t much mind keeping that man waiting.” The reference to Burr dripped with a loathing of which he hadn’t imagine the normally sweet, friendly woman capable.
Hamilton grimaced as his wife smoothed the contents of the jar gently over his spine. Her hand seemed to linger longer than necessary, savoring the touch. At last, she readjusted the shirt into place and moved to assist her husband back into his usual position.
“I can do it,” he snapped with an edge of frustration. She stood back patiently while he struggled to adjust himself up in the chair. The effort seemed to leave him mildly breathless.
“Hey,” she urged softly when he was settled, prompting him to look up at her. Leaning down, she fussed with his blanket, and then pressed her lips to his in a slow, loving kiss. When she pulled back, her hands cupped his face in a gesture of cherishing adoration. “I love you.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I love you, too.”
His gaze shifted towards Burr a moment later, and the smile disappeared. Eliza turned towards him as well, her eyes narrowing at the sight of him. Burr retreated back into the small parlor, uncomfortable at having witnessed the private moment.
The progress of the wheelchair towards the smaller parlor was audible. Burr remained standing, leaning on the mantle, while Eliza guided the chair into place opposite an arm chair. Hamilton tilted his head back to look at her.
“Could you give us a few minutes?”
“No,” she said, firmly.
“Betsey,” Hamilton sighed, a note of amusement entering his tone, “I hardly think I’m in any danger. What do you think he’s going to do to me in the middle of the parlor at three in the afternoon?”
“I never expected Mr. Burr would do anything to harm you.” Accusation and betrayal laced her words. Her hands rested protectively on the back of her husband’s chair as she spoke. Burr’s eyes went to the floor like a chastened child. “I have no interest in giving him the opportunity to prove me wrong again.”
“It’s fine,” Burr assured them both. “I'll only be a minute. I just came to say, well, to ask.…” He pushed out a breath. “The grand jury handed down an indictment. I'm to be held under house arrest at Martin's during the trial.”
Hamilton nodded, unsurprised.
“I need your help.” Burr couldn’t look at Eliza as he said it. He waited, half expecting Hamilton to grin or to gloat.
Instead, Hamilton gave him a reassuring smile. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Burr.”
The relief that fluttered in his chest surprised him. He didn’t need Hamilton to assure victory in court, he knew. But his help promised something more than dodging a death sentence. The promise of forgiveness, of home, resided in Hamilton’s open expression. Unable to articulate the soaring feeling inside him, Burr managed only a whispered, “Thank you.”
