Work Text:
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
--Oscar Wilde, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol.”
Day One
General Washington did not come to greet him when he arrived. Almost a slight, for a gentleman of Aaron Burr’s consequence, but he graciously decided not to mind. This was a good step, and Burr was conscious of the honor being done him, especially after he’d botched their first meeting--or more accurately, after Hamilton had botched it for him.
Instead, His Excellency sent Hamilton.
“Oh, good, you're here,” said Hamilton, like this was a meeting and Aaron had walked in late. Which he had not. “I'm so glad you could finally come, Burr.” As though Aaron had had a choice. Hamilton would know very well he did not, having had none himself...Aaron had gotten drunk with him enough times to know the man had never dreamed of being a staff aide. This was not a post you asked for, or turned down.
“I KNEW the general would see sense,” Hamilton continued. “It was hard to make him change his mind, after he was against hiring you, but since all my other recommendations worked out--you know the guys, of course, Laurens and Mulligan and Lafayette, they're all here, isn’t that great--he eventually admitted he had been too hasty. Which, I don't mind telling you, is a first.”
Great. He owed this job not to his own merit or skill, nor even to his own connections or name, but to Alexander Hamilton’s pity.
Aaron summoned his smile a second too late. Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “Burr, don't look at me like that,” he said. “My job...our job, now...is to think for His Excellency. To make the calls he would if he were ten men instead of one. I was doing my job.”
Aaron privately thought Washington must be in dire straits indeed, to let Hamilton’s judgment substitute for his own. But if it brought Burr advantage, he would not question it. Perhaps the general would appreciate a different perspective.
Aaron had been an orphan most of his life. He knew when a performance of gratitude was called for. “Thank you, Hamilton,” he said. “I greatly appreciate all you have done.”
Hamilton laughed. “No, you don't. Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Burr.” But he grinned, and Aaron knew they understood each other.
Aaron grinned back. “Look at you, a professional bullshitter now. It suits you.” Hamilton certainly cut a professional figure in his officer’s blues. His uniform was starched and pressed, his buttons polished so much they shone in the light, and his normally unruly hair was pulled back into a smart queue. Only his slight frown betrayed his unease. His frown, and his stiffness of posture--militarily correct, of course, Aaron would expect no less from Hamilton--but so far from the man Aaron had come to know, who moved like a graceful whirlwind, constantly and with force.
Hamilton’s lips thinned like a shrewish housewife whose staff had presented her with an inferior vintage of wine. “Does it?”
Interesting. Aaron didn't want to do this. He didn't want to fight with Hamilton when all he had been trying to do was give the guy a compliment, and a benign one at that. “I assume you are here to show me what His Excellency requires of me.”
Hamilton’s face fell. “That reminds me...shit, I have to get these dispatches done before the afternoon rider leaves. You can find your way around, can't you, Burr?”
“I could perhaps assist you?” It came out a question, and Hamilton took it as one.
“Nah, that would take too long, trust me, it would be easier for everyone if I just did it myself. See you later, yeah?” And he was off. Burr spent a few moments too long watching him go. Blinked.
Right. So this was a sink-or-swim sort of place, then. Okay. He could work with that.
Day Two
It didn't take Aaron long to come to a rather stunning realization: Hamilton was in charge here.
Not officially, of course. Officially, Robert Hanson Harrison was General Washington’s principal secretary, and the aides made much of his seniority over them, calling him the ancient secretary and generally treating him like a respected if put-upon elder brother. He did his job with competence; everyone here did. They had to--there was no time to do anything over if there was a mistake. Aaron had not yet been on the job a full day, but he felt a year older.
Officially, General Washington had only four aides-de-camp, of which Hamilton was the least senior. The marquis technically outranked them all, for he bore the courtesy title of Major-General. Burr and Laurens, along with others, were volunteers, and no one seemed to be precisely sure what Mulligan did.
But the official truth was not the truth that held, the truth that governed the camp. And the truth was that Washington’s men deferred to their little lion. It was Hamilton who drove the day’s agenda, Hamilton who knew their general’s mind. They all worked hard, but Hamilton worked harder...the general summoned him to his side more than any of the others. In the afternoon, Washington addressed his staff, giving orders for all hands to concentrate on a report to Congress. Aaron set aside the dispatch he’d been working on, but as soon as Washington left, Hamilton snatched the paper from his hand without so much as a by-your-leave.
“What are you doing, Burr?”
Burr didn’t have time for this. “What our commanding officer ordered. What are you doing?” It was perhaps more snide than he should be to an esteemed and senior colleague, but Aaron could not bring himself to care.
Hamilton laughed. “Oh, he doesn’t really want that. He wants us to continue with our normal work while looking like we give a shit about Congress. Which, in case you need it spelled out for you, we don’t. Keep doing what you’re doing, John and I will give Congress the attention it deserves later.”
Burr had almost forgotten that John Laurens was the son of Henry Laurens, president of Congress. Whose support Washington would need if he were to keep his already embattled command. What Hamilton was proposing was so insubordinate as to be breathtaking. He fully expected Hamilton to be reprimanded. By rights, he should be.
Instead, they all listened to him. Without comment, without protest. Somebody muttered “Fuck Congress.” The voice sounded suspiciously like John Laurens.
“Are you insane?” Burr asked, not sure if he addressed Hamilton or the room.
“What? No,” said Hamilton, sounding distracted. “His Excellency and I have an understanding, that's all.”
Aaron Burr, the prodigy of Princeton College, had become acquainted with many sycophants and suck-ups over the course of his lifetime. Hamilton’s words were the words of a teacher's pet, but they had none of the accompanying smugness Burr would expect. Instead, the twist of Hamilton’s mouth seemed almost...sad.
Frightened, Aaron could not stop himself from thinking. But that was insubordinate in itself.
Washington came back a few hours later and asked Hamilton for his report. Hamilton admitted to what he had done in evenly professional tones that neither implied nor acknowledged wrongdoing.
“Hmm. Good work today, son,” the general said. He clapped Hamilton on the shoulder. Aaron only noticed the flinch because he was looking for it.
Washington acknowledged no one else at all.
Day Three
Aaron Burr did not have his first meeting with his superior officer until the third day in his employ.
Which was not to say he hadn’t seen Washington. He could hardly avoid him even had he wished to; the general and his staff worked in too close quarters for that. But Washington had not acknowledged Burr except as part of a group. Burr told himself this suited him fine. He worked best when he was unobtrusive.
Still, a sign that Washington knew of Burr’s existence would have been welcome.
On the third day, Burr learned to be careful what he wished for. Washington was aware of his presence, all right. He proved it when he excoriated Burr for his failings in front of everyone.
Burr had known from the beginning that he would have to adapt to the pace of headquarters. Ever since his student days, he had preferred to be slow and careful in his work, his language precise and free of errors. He'd been mocked for that, but it was he who always came out first when the class standings were revealed, so the taunts failed to sting.
Here he was not first in class by any measure. He was not first in the General’s affections...that was Lafayette. He was not fastest...that was guess who? But he thought with time he might become the best writer, and that was what mattered here, was it not?
He was completely and utterly unprepared for the sheer volume of work. The number of missives that went through their camp daily, each requiring the general’s knowledge and approval, left him breathless. The first day, he had felt vague disapproval at how much initiative Hamilton and his fellow aides took, how independently they acted, often barely informing their commander of what he was signing his name to. Now he was starting to recognize the necessity of the measure--no single man could do Washington’s job, so no single man did.
But even with all their collaboration, the amount of work for which each staff member was personally responsible made Burr feel like he was drowning.
Burr hesitated over a missive to be sent to the general staff. He’d had no trouble with the earlier set of dispatches, although he recognized them as busywork set him by Harrison to avoid the possibility of him screwing up anything actually important. But this was a more pressing matter. The phrasing had to be diplomatic, so as not to insult the talents and capabilities of any staff member, but making the general’s preferred option clear.
“Burr.” Burr didn’t know how a man as large and imposing as General Washington could be so light on his feet. Burr hadn’t noticed his approach. “What is this?”
No greeting, no pleasantries. The general’s voice was mild, irritatingly flat.
Burr saluted. “Your orders to the general staff, sir.”
Washington picked up the paper. Scanned it; set it down gingerly, like a morsel of food that he wished to remove from his mouth. His thick brow furrowed. “Those,” he said, “were to be done this morning.”
Burr swallowed. Managed to suppress the instinct to argue--he hadn’t been given a time limit, Harrison had just said as soon as possible, and he’d been careful, he had to be….
But his life hadn’t been fair since the day his parents died. He took refuge, as always, in an acquiescent smile. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “I will finish it at once.”
Washington grunted. “Colonel Hamilton, fix this immediately, and while you’re at it, make sure it actually says something. Anything at all. Colonel Burr, it is unbecoming to smirk at one’s commanding officer. Congress may believe our work a joke, but I do not.”
“Your Excellency,” said Hamilton, “I can assure you Colonel Burr intended no disrespect…”
But Washington was already gone.
Aaron could not--quite--conceal his sharp intake of breath. Hamilton picked up Burr’s discarded draft, made a face, and took out a fresh sheet of paper.
“I’m going to get some air,” announced Aaron. No one reacted at all.
The air outside was frigid, the smoke from the cooking fires offering no warmth. Aaron gathered his uniform jacket close around himself. Took a deep breath through his nostrils, let it out.
How dare Hamilton do that? Jump in like Burr needed defending, like Burr couldn't take correction. Who did he think he was, anyway? Who did he think Burr was, to be so weak? As if Burr hadn't already been humiliated.
Soon--way too soon, Jesus Christ, it was bloody unfair how Hamilton never stopped, how Burr’s day’s work was a slapdash few minutes for him--Hamilton followed him outside.
“So you see,” Hamilton said, as if he was picking up the thread of a conversation they had dropped, “I wasn’t doing you a favor, when I brought you here.”
When I brought you here. That told Burr more about Hamilton’s power, about his importance to General Washington, than anything else had so far. And he didn’t think Hamilton even realized what he'd said.
Burr considered his answer. “What were you doing, then?” That was the thing people missed about Hamilton--they thought he was all energy and ideas and friendly helpfulness, and didn’t realize he was actually a devious son of a bitch. He could have been playing five different games, all of which required Aaron’s presence in the general’s camp.
Hamilton passed Burr his flask. Burr drank; cheap stuff, that he would never be caught dead with on his own, but war necessitated sacrifices. The whiskey warmed him quickly, but he was well aware of its transient falseness, and did not take the warmth for granted.
“You're good at the shit he likes,” Hamilton said. “That whole deliberate, saying one thing when you mean five bit you have going. He’s like that too, even though he’ll never admit it. I can't do that. I'm fast but I'm not like him that way, I can't be. I thought maybe you could understand him.”
“Clearly your stratagem failed,” said Aaron.
Hamilton smiled. “Oh, get over it, Burr, he does that shit to everyone. Pretty sure McHenry cried when he first got here. Besides, who else is there who can be his right hand? Lafayette can't write like we do, John is too much like me and his dad’s a millstone around his neck whatever he says about it, and Herc hasn't the connections.”
General Washington had chosen his right hand, and Hamilton had to know that. So something else had to be going on here.
Then it dawned on him, and he let his normal smile relax into a shit-eating grin. “Hamilton, are you saying you need my help?”
“Fuck you,” Hamilton said.
“Are you saying you can't do this without me? Did you miss me, Alexander?”
Hamilton blushed, an extremely obvious and welcome tell. Then Hamilton punched him in the shoulder, a little too hard for a comrade. Which was also a tell.
“I have work to do,” he grumbled, taking his flask back. “So do you, if you can manage to stop whining about how His Excellency hurt your feelings. Time’s short, Burr.”
Burr followed Hamilton back inside. Somehow he did not mind having to work to keep up.
Day Four
John Laurens was a problem.
Aaron knew he should not be so mistrustful, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Laurens might not be a problem. Laurens might be an asset. Certainly that had been Washington’s reason for hiring him--he was smart and capable and brave and honorable, and he had political connections none of the rest of them could touch. Laurens would be a natural ally for Burr, here.
Or would have been, if Burr didn’t constantly want to punch him in his smug, all-too-handsome face.
John Laurens took nothing and everything seriously. He was always starting fights about the most ridiculous, puerile matters. He worshipped Washington with a blind devotion that belied his clear intelligence.
He finished Alexander Hamilton’s sentences.
Being around them--their constant closeness, their exuberant joy in each other's company--was irritating in the extreme. It was not Laurens himself Burr disliked, for all that Laurens made protestations to the contrary. As someone who had to work to cultivate charm and ease, he could not help respecting someone who had it so easily, who had the knack of being admired by all who knew him. He also couldn’t help respecting Laurens’s clear convictions, and how he made them seem like obvious truth to anyone who would listen to him and a good many who wouldn’t.
But he didn’t understand Hamilton the way Burr did: or rather, he didn’t understand the position Hamilton was in. How could he? He would never know what it was to be alone in the world, dependent on the goodwill and patronage of superiors. Thus, he would never understand that what he was doing--getting Hamilton to play at being an abolitionist, and worse, using Hamilton’s considerable powers of persuasion to lobby His Excellency to take that position himself--was dangerous for Hamilton in a way it never could be for him.
“What do you think, Burr?” Laurens asked, at night when they'd already been writing for hours, and would write for hours more. “About the argument we’ve prepared for our latest essay.”
Burr’s main thought was that they were crazy to write extra essays when their job already required them to write from dusk to dawn, to write until their hands cramped. But to say so would come off as whining, and Burr did not whine. Even though his own hand seemed to be twisting into a claw, so much time had he spent with a pen in it. The words he'd written swam before his eyes.
If anyone but Laurens had initiated this discussion, Burr would have been pleased to be asked. He well remembered being in college, listening to the older boys talk until the wee hours of the morning--about love, about philosophy and morals, about their studies and their families and their girls and anything else that stuck their fancy. He hung back awkwardly, deemed too young to contribute anything of interest, to belong. He wanted to be worthy of such fellowship. He wanted to be a man whose words were given weight.
But because it was Laurens, it was tricky. In his heart of hearts, Burr agreed with them. He always had, but it simply wasn’t practical to work toward manumission in the middle of a war. And even if it were, George Washington and Henry Laurens would never bend. They could not do so and keep what power and consequence they had.
Besides, for all that Laurens was constantly asking for his opinion, Burr had no illusions that he actually cared to hear it. Instead, he used Burr’s silence and tendency to equivocate to score points with everyone else, especially Hamilton. See how much better I am than Burr? he seemed to be asking. How much more noble and pure of heart? See how I’m a virtuous patriot, and he’s an empty uniform?
So. John Laurens was a problem. A problem that could be dangerous to himself, and to Hamilton.
Hamilton is his own lookout, he told himself. If he wants to throw away his future over foolish idealism, he has the right.
But Burr didn't think it fair, that a man whose own legacy was assured could ask this of them. And...it pained him, to think of Hamilton destroying himself to no purpose. Someone had to look out for the man, if he wouldn't do it himself.
“I think it contains noble sentiments, elegantly expressed,” Burr said.
It was meant as an honest compliment. But an honest compliment wasn't good enough for John Laurens. He scowled. “But what do you think, Burr? Are we right, or are we right?”
“John,” said Hamilton, putting his hand on Laurens’s wrist in warning, or reassurance. Either way, Aaron had to turn his eyes away.
“What I think doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Oh, come on, man,” said Laurens. “What a cop-out.”
He would have left it there. He should have left it there, except that Hamilton frowned at him, and the genuine disappointment he saw in those brown eyes made something in Aaron’s stomach curdle.
“What I think doesn’t matter, Laurens,” he said, too sharply. “And what you think doesn’t matter either. Washington is happy to stoke your fervor for the cause, but don’t imagine he’ll use it for anything but his own ends.”
Burr truly did not mean to wound--he was only stating the facts as he saw them, based on his observations of Washington’s character. But Laurens reacted like an animal stung by an adder, and lunged forward, aiming for Burr’s face. Burr tried to dodge, but the strength of Laurens’s blow knocked the breath from his lungs, and it struck him in the side of the jaw. Only a glancing blow, but white-hot pain still lanced through his face, and he tasted warm blood.
That was going to bruise. “The fuck,” he spat out, at the same time as Hamilton pulled Laurens away from him.
“Fucking hell, John, calm down--”
“Take that back,” Laurens said, his eyes crazed. “Take back your insult to our commanding officer.”
There was a limit to what anyone could take, how many offenses a man could expect to let pass him by smiling, and Aaron Burr had reached his. “I will not, sir.”
And then someone’s arms were around him, half-hug, half-restraint, and Aaron had to claw back his panic as Mulligan shepherded him away. “Easy, man,” he said. “Easy.”
He hadn’t seen Mulligan anywhere near and didn’t notice him walk in, but he somehow took charge of Burr as though he’d been waiting for the right moment. He gave Burr a drink, cleaned his wound, let him regain his sense.
“About Laurens,” Mulligan said. “Be careful, yeah? The shit with his dad--it’s not mine to tell, but it’s tense, and we’d all appreciate it if you tread carefully.”
There were about a thousand things Burr could say to that. “I always tread carefully.”
Mulligan snorted. “Just be careful, kid. With him and Hamilton. You get me?”
Aaron was always careful with Alexander. He thought he was the only one who bothered, who saw the necessity of it. “I get you.”
When he got back, Laurens was gone. But Hamilton was there, with a soft and apologetic smile.
It hurt to smile back.
“I’m sorry, man,” Alexander said. “He gets…”
Aaron cut him off. “It doesn’t matter, Hamilton.” And it really didn’t. It was nothing to him what John Laurens got or why.
“Still, I’m sorry.” Hamilton lifted his hand, brushed it gently against Burr’s swollen cheek.
Aaron sucked in a breath. Hamilton withdrew his hand immediately, and Burr cursed his obvious concern.
“He was right,” Burr found himself saying. “You both were, I mean. In your essay. But so was I.”
Hamilton nodded. “I know.”
“Then why do you do it?” He wasn’t sure if he meant: why do you serve a man you can’t respect? or, why do you let your principles endanger your position, when you know it will make no difference?
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Hamilton said. “And because someone must.”
Day Five
On the fifth day, Burr nearly set the house on fire when he knocked over a candle.
The less said about that, the better.
Day Six
“I mean no disrespect, Your Excellency,” Hamilton said, which was Hamilton for let me list all the ways you’re wrong, “but either of us could undertake this mission on our own. We’re under strength at headquarters already with Tilghman away.”
Burr was inclined to agree with Hamilton’s assessment. The general wished Burr and Hamilton to carry out his orders regarding the reassignment of troops to Washington’s camp from one of the other generals. Hamilton had gone on similar missions before, and it was certainly within Burr’s capabilities. How hard could it be to play courier?
“Very hard,” Alexander had said over breakfast. “I've done this before, with General Gates. He was being...intransigent. It requires delicacy and finesse, to speak for the general while dealing with superiors.”
“So he sent...you,” Burr had said. Hamilton had mimed stabbing him with his fork.
“Boys,” Washington had said. It pleased him sometimes to play benevolent paterfamilias , but Burr could never forget it was only playing. Otherwise it was too shocking to adjust to times like this one, when there was no benevolence in his voice or face, only the calculation of a commander. Burr wished he would pick one and stick with it.
“I am sending you both,” Washington said. “You’ll leave at once. This is a delicate matter and I believe your talents together have better chance of success than if either of you went alone. And it’s good for you to see more of the world than a desk, when you can.”
Burr appreciated that bit of thoughtfulness; perhaps Washington really did care about advancing the careers of his military family. But there was a rebellious glint in Hamilton’s eye that bordered on sulking.
“Do not fail me, Hamilton,” said the general. Which told Burr that for all they were supposed equals, Hamilton was in charge of this mission, and thus in charge of Burr. Which was fine. He could deal with that, everyone else here seemed to.
Hamilton’s face...softened. Into true affection; Burr could recognize how it looked on Hamilton’s face, having seen him display it for Laurens, for Mulligan, and, he hoped, for himself. “We won’t, sir.”
There was a corresponding softness in the general’s face, which astonished Burr, having never seen it before. “I know you won’t, son. Your service humbles me.”
After that, they were dismissed, and Burr set himself to getting their provisions ready and saddling and watering the horses, Hamilton having been called away to complete an urgent last-minute bit of correspondence that could be done by no one else. They did not speak until they were well clear of camp.
“Infuriating,” Hamilton said. “I don’t understand why he won’t use his resources more efficiently. This is a waste of time for both of us.”
“This is a test for both of us,” corrected Burr. “Only I can’t figure out what it is he’s testing you on.”
“I…” Hamilton said, and for the first time since Burr had known him, stopped talking prematurely. Clearly he had some idea of what his test was, and just as clearly, he didn’t want to share it with Burr.
Burr would have to try another tack. “What is it between you and him?”
Hamilton’s eye-roll was clearly visible even as they both rode astride their horses. “He’s my commanding officer, for whom I have the utmost respect.”
“He cares for you,” Burr said.
“He likes to think he does. I wish he’d leave me alone and let me do my job. I don’t need to be saved, or cultivated. You know how it is.”
Burr did, or thought he did. He’d been cultivated much of his life, his potential and promise encouraged, groomed and trained to halter like a prize stallion. He wondered sometimes what it would be like to run free, with no one to answer to but himself. That was his goal, the apex of his quest for power. But looking at Hamilton, he thought he might give it all up to be...well-regarded and held in esteem.
Loved, he realized. Hamilton is loved.
“You care for him,” Burr said, thinking it less dangerous ground.
Evidently that was a miscalculation. Hamilton snorted. “As I said, I possess the utmost respect for General Washington. But you’ve seen how hard he can be to work with. He is not a man who inspires...attachment...in subordinates. Except Lafayette, but Lafayette might as well be a barnacle, he could attach to anything.”
“And yet, here you are,” Burr said. “Attached.”
“Why do you care about this anyway,” Hamilton grumbled, which was as good as admitting Burr was right.
Burr waited.
“He carries many heavy burdens,” Hamilton said. “Some he must, and some he takes upon himself because he’s stubborn. I can help. I can make things easier, for a while. So I do. That’s not really anything.”
Burr thought it might just be everything. “It’s not nothing,” he said.
“Guess not. I seem to have a weakness for cagey, quiet assholes who like to pretend they don’t have tempers or feelings of any kind, so as to make things difficult for everyone around them. Imagine that.”
Burr’s mouth went dry. “Imagine.”
Day Seven
“I think we should try a conciliatory approach,” Burr said.
“What a surprise,” said Hamilton. “I’m shocked and amazed.”
In order to reach the other camp by midday, they had to start at first light. Burr was up with the sun, but only because he had not slept at all.
I have a weakness, Hamilton had said, and he had touched Aaron’s cheek, and brought him to Washington’s staff not because he was doing him any favours but because he wanted Aaron Burr there, by his side. Because he missed him, and blushed scarlet in his denial when Burr called him out on it.
Burr was used to being desired, and he knew what it looked like when another man desired him. And Hamilton desired him; Burr felt the surety of that deep in his bones.
Burr wanted him back. He couldn’t not. It was impossible to look at Alexander Hamilton and not want him. All that remained was to act, if he decided that was his wish.
It would not be prudent. It would not be wise. It might ruin them both. But Burr had carried on liaisons like this before and managed to be discreet. They shared close quarters as part of their jobs, so much so that no one would remark upon their spending time together, especially if this mission went well and Washington decided they made a good team. Which Burr thought they would, they complemented each other well for all their bickering, so he had to ensure the success of this mission. Nothing could compromise it, especially not Hamilton’s rashness.
“Burr,” said Hamilton. “What do you think? I thought I’d let you start out like that, all polite-like, and then when that inevitably fails to work, I’ll move in for the kill. How does that sound?”
His mouth hung open slightly, as it often did. It was delicate, rosebud, like a woman’s, except no woman of breeding could make a tired expression look as obscene as Hamilton managed. It was unfair. It was gross injustice.
“Burr,” said Hamilton. His eyes flashed with irritation. Keep up, that glare said. I won’t wait for you.
It was going to be a long day. They had all been long days.
Day Eight
The mission was startlingly easy.
Burr found himself revising his judgment of Washington for sending them both here. He or Hamilton could have done it themselves, that much was true. But the officers were flattered to have two aides-de-camp attending on them, and Burr and Hamilton both knew how to be charming in a way older men found precocious and not insolent, the orphan’s first and most crucial survival skill. It was natural to direct the flow of conversation between them; Hamilton drawing out thoughts from Burr, and Burr reining in Hamilton’s excesses so they did not offend.
And when the charm was not enough--when they felt themselves being handled as boys instead of respected as soldiers--Hamilton assumed the mantle of authority like a cloak. It was remarkable, for though Hamilton bore no physical resemblance to the general, Burr could see where rumors of a closer connection came from, for Hamilton aped the cadences of his voice, even his posture.
Burr found it...inspiring.
“Well,” said Hamilton when they had gotten what they came for and began to ride away, a day early no less, “That was fun. Thanks for coming along, Burr,” Hamilton said as though they'd planned it that way. “Thanks for...having my back. That’s...different, for me.”
“It was a pleasure,” Burr said, meaning it. “Want to do it again sometime?”
“You would?” said Hamilton. “I mean. I didn’t think you were...happy. In the job. I did not wish to presume.”
I didn’t think you were happy in the job either. “It took some adjustment,” he said. “But l think I'm getting my feet under me. Let’s wait and see.” That would not be enough to satisfy Hamilton, he knew as much. “We have to stick together, don’t we, we orphans?”
“Yeah,” said Hamilton, smiling, but something about it felt a little flat.
By mutual, unspoken agreement they stopped to rest and water the horses before they had to. It was nice not to rush, and Burr felt he had left things unsaid. There was something Hamilton was waiting for.
Then he knew what he had to say. “I was glad to have your back.”
“Oh,” said Hamilton, and then, “Oh.”
It was like being set on by a summer storm, a hurricane, the way Hamilton pinned him down and covered Aaron’s mouth with his, hot and wanting, unmindful of his fading bruises.
“We shouldn’t,” Aaron gasped as Hamilton let him up for air, but Hamilton knew how to silence him with just his eyes.
“Aaron,” said Alexander. “Mr. Burr, sir. How lonely are you? How lonely have you been, your whole life, I can make it better, I can help, please let me, sir…”
“Oh, God,” said Aaron. He thought he could come from this, just this, just Alexander calling him sir while he begged to be of use.
“I will do whatever you want,” Hamilton said.
“Fuck me, then,” Burr told him. “And quickly.” Before he spent himself like a boy in his earliest schooldays.
Hamilton didn’t hesitate. Burr found himself on hands and knees scrabbling against the cold grass for purchase as Hamilton undid his breeches and yanked Aaron’s down. He heard Hamilton slicking himself with something--how like him to be prepared, didn’t Aaron know he was a devious son of a bitch? And then Hamilton’s finger was at his entrance, tentative, almost gentle.
“I won’t break, Hamilton,” he said. “Just take me, I know you can take…”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Hamilton. “You’re gonna take it this time. Just the way you like it, just as you want. I promise, sir, but you must wait.”
“Stop fucking talking or I’ll stop your fucking mouth with your own fucking cravat,” Burr said as Hamilton stretched him open.
“Oh, sir,” said Alexander, and Aaron could hear his grin, “is that a promise?”
And then he drove himself in.
It was everything Aaron had thought it would be and more. Hamilton was powerful, Hamilton was insatiable, but Hamilton was also gentle, and touched Burr with something like reverence. Like he was awed to be able to make love to Burr, honored that Burr would grant him the privilege. He was slow, slower than Burr had imagined he could be, until Burr realized he was waiting, holding back his climax until Burr had his. The thought alone sent him over the edge, and he came, Hamilton following mere seconds behind, when both of them collapsed in the grass.
Day Nine
Alexander woke him with a kiss. “Good morning, sir. I’m glad you were able to persuade me to take time to...rest.”
Aaron was amazed that gambit had worked, but they were not expected back until late, and he had wanted to take time to learn every inch of Hamilton’s body, the way he looked when overcome, the way he looked when he was sated.
Evidently he had not managed to figure out that last one just yet. “You must be well-rested, Alexander, for the sake of the Revolution. And for me. Come here.”
Hamilton did, sweetly, shockingly obedient, and began kissing Burr’s face, his eyelids, his cheeks. Aaron cupped his face with his hand. There was poetry in every line of it, he thought. It was not quite real, more the face of a statue than a man. He could use every piece of paper and spill every drop of ink allotted to General Washington's staff, and still not be able to capture it in words. Aaron wanted to look at it forever.
He wanted to look at it forever, and with that thought came a startled cry, for Aaron Burr knew then that he loved Alexander Hamilton, and had since the first day Hamilton had accosted him on the street, and with that knowledge came pain.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Hamilton asked. “Did I hurt you?”
Aaron wanted to laugh. How fragile did Hamilton think he was, anyway? Sweetheart: a term for a lover, for someone who was beloved. “No, you didn’t. Continue.”
They had time, a few hours that Aaron had stolen for them. He could have these few hours, he could glut himself on Hamilton’s fingers, Hamilton’s mouth, Hamilton’s eyes and hair and arms and thighs and calves and cock. He would not think of after.
He could have been partners with Alexander, and later snuck into his bed and not troubled himself about the matter. He could not love Alexander Hamilton as he did and expect to come out of it intact.
I love him, he thought, and he could kill me, but he could not be sure which of them would be the killer and which would be killed. They wanted legacies, they wanted to survive, and if this came out--if he let himself try for too much, if he let himself think of Hamilton waking him, at times, like this, only with silver at his temples and lines on his face, wearing his glasses because his eyesight faded with age, but his gaze still soft, adoring...it would ruin them both.
“No, wait,” Aaron said. “Let me look at you, Alexander.”
He tried to paint a portrait in his mind, of Hamilton just as he looked now. He tried to memorize all the colors of him, the strength, the brightness, the force.
But as he closed his eyes and let Alexander kiss him again, it was already fading.
Day Ten
He made himself sleep on it. It would not do to make a rash decision here, not about something so important, something that would alter the entire course of his future. He thought perhaps when he woke up there would be clarity of mind and purpose that would somehow allow him to find a way to stay here.
For his own sake he might have risked it. He had no family, but his parents had bequeathed to him a name, a name so well-respected it might shield him from the charge of sodomy. He might lose his reputation or be drummed out, but Aaron doubted he would hang.
Hamilton had no such protection. Burr knew what would be said of him: that he was the son of a whore who had whored himself into the bed of a gentleman; that his Creole blood had led him to dissipation and wickedness, that it was a shame but not a surprise. Washington might shelter him, but that would raise questions of what exactly it was that the general wanted from his boy secretary...Aaron had heard the rumors; people already thought Hamilton was Washington’s son or his bedwarmer or both.
Alexander would die for this. And knowing that, he would do it anyway, and Aaron would be his destruction and ruin.
Aaron had loved men and women before, and would again. He had never loved like this; not the way you loved a person but the way you love a great work of art, some ancient marble statue you wanted to touch so badly but might crumble to dust under your hand if you did.
The world was more beautiful with Alexander Hamilton in it. Aaron had inherited none of the piety that should have been his birthright, but destroying him would amount to sacrilege.
So he had to go. It was inevitable. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t see Hamilton, for if he saw Hamilton there was a chance he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
He asked for an audience with the general at first light. It was granted immediately, which made Burr think Washington would not be surprised by his resignation.
If he was right he could not tell.
“We shall be sorry to see you go,” said the general, but with no more emotion than if Burr was leaving a dinner party early, having discovered a more pressing engagement.
“My talents could be better used in the line,” he said. It was an argument Hamilton himself had used to no avail.
But Washington nodded. “A wise man knows his own strengths and failings,” he said, distant and faintly avuncular. “If this is not the post for you, it is best we part.”
Burr waited to be dismissed. Waited for an acknowledgement of his service. Waited for Washington to say, did Hamilton offend you? Or Laurens? Is there anything I could do to make you reconsider?
Washington offered him none of those things. “Our army has need of officers like you. I hope we will not lose you altogether, Colonel Burr.” But it was clearly pro forma, the bare minimum standard of politeness. Washington already looked bored.
Aaron found himself saying, “Hamilton…”
“Step lightly, boy.” Aaron was surprised by the ferocity of the response, but then remembered that he’d known this man loved Hamilton, not in the way Aaron did but no less well, and he felt a strange kinship with the general.
It made him want to offer what honesty he could. “He has been my friend. And he’s hard--hard to understand, sometimes, but...take care of him, please. Sir.”
Washington gave him a humorless not-quite-smile. “He said almost the same thing about you, not quite a fortnight ago.”
“Sir.”
“Alexander Hamilton,” said the general, “is a promising young officer and an invaluable member of my staff. More, he is a gentleman of principle and virtue, which is rarer and more precious in this day and age. It is my hope to see him live long enough to acquire wisdom.” The words were mild, conversational. But Washington looked Burr dead in the eye as he said them, and his gaze was cold, and Aaron knew that he had just been threatened.
He will never let Hamilton go, Burr realized. Oh, Alexander might yet escape the general staff someday, but the eyes of history looked down on Washington, and Washington had chosen Hamilton. When they talked of this war, centuries from now, it would be those two names that were remembered, Washington and Hamilton, Hamilton at Washington’s right hand.
The general had given him a gift, Burr realized. Unknowingly, but a gift all the same. He had made Burr the master of his own fate at last, by letting him go so easily, by caring only for Hamilton. Burr’s life would not be circumscribed by that of any other man. He would not fall under Washington’s shadow. He would not be Hamilton’s other half, his mirror.
He loved Hamilton still. But in severing their ties, he would allow both of them to become greater than they ever could have if he had carried on with this doomed infatuation. Hamilton deserved better than to be bookended by Washington and Burr, just as Burr deserved better than to be stifled by either Washington or Hamilton.
Hamilton would understand that. They had always understood each other.
“Thank you, sir, for the opportunity,” he said. “I learned a great deal in a short time.” He saluted and bowed himself out.
I am inimitable, he thought. I am an original.
He did not look back.