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Chapter Text

Alexander lifted his sword high, its cold steel catching the faint light as he prepared to defend himself. The British blade, sharp and swift, came hurtling toward him, its deadly arc aimed directly at him. His muscles tensed, his breath shallow, as he frantically searched the chaos around him. His comrades were locked in their own ferocious battles, each fighting with everything they had, the clash of steel ringing in the air. He caught glimpses of their faces—straining, determined—his closest friends caught in the same desperate struggle.
Suddenly, as the sword swung closer, a blinding white light erupted from nowhere, illuminating the entire battlefield. The brilliance was overwhelming, searing his eyes, forcing him to look away and raise his arm to shield himself. In that instant, everything went silent—the war cries, the clashing of swords, the booms of the cannons, even the thundering of hooves—all faded into an eerie stillness.
He felt himself fall, his grip slackening. His thoughts scattered in the confusion, and he could no longer feel the earth beneath his feet. The next moment, a profound darkness enveloped him, and he slipped away.
When he regained consciousness, he was surrounded by an unsettling void. There was no sound, no light, only the weight of silence pressing in on him. His first instinct was panic, his heart racing in his chest. Had he died? Was this the afterlife?
The thought came quickly—had he fallen in battle? Was it the last strike of the enemy that had taken him? And yet, amidst the overwhelming darkness, there was a small, comforting thought that followed: I hope they won. He had always dreamed of fighting with honor, of securing a legacy for his comrades to carry on. If he had fallen in glory, he hoped that his sacrifice would ensure they achieved victory. A warrior who went down, not in defeat, but with purpose—a legacy that would live on in the hearts of those who remembered his name. In the oppressive silence of the unknown, his thoughts were consumed by one fear: Eliza. He could not bear the thought of her being left alone, not after all they had promised each other. He had fought for his country, but his true battle now was to keep that vow—to ensure she would never face the world without him. His brothers-in-arms, Laurens, Lafayette, and Washington, had made the same promise, to protect each other's families if one should fall. The uncertainty of their fate gnawed at him, but his resolve was unwavering—he would survive, for her, and fulfill the promise he made to both her and his comrades.

Washington stood tall at the heart of the battle, the chaos swirling around him. The ground beneath his boots shook with the ferocity of the fighting, the air thick with the acrid smell of sweat and blood. His heart raced, his every movement measured and precise as he cut through the ranks of the British soldiers. With a mighty roar, he swung his sword in a sweeping arc, cleaving through two redcoats in a single, powerful strike. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, and for a moment, he stood there, gasping for breath, his chest heaving, muscles aching with exhaustion. His gaze flickered across the battlefield, taking in the sight of his soldiers—brave men locked in their own desperate struggles, their faces streaked with dirt and blood, yet filled with unwavering resolve.

Despite the chaos around him, Washington remained focused. The clashing of swords, the shouts of men, the thunder of cannons—it was all a blur, an overwhelming symphony of violence. But then, in the midst of it all, his eyes locked onto a figure in the distance—Alexander. The young soldier was struggling, his back to a wall of enemies, a British sword primed to strike. For a moment, everything seemed to slow. Washington's heart skipped a beat. *No... not Alexander,* he thought, his thoughts racing.

Before he could move, before he could shout a command, the battlefield was momentarily drowned in an overwhelming, blinding white light. It flashed across the field with such intensity that it momentarily blinded him, and the world seemed to vanish. He staggered back, momentarily disoriented, his mind scrambling to make sense of what was happening. The sounds of battle faded away, replaced by an eerie stillness that sent a shiver down his spine. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, instinctively preparing for what came next.

And then... darkness.

When he opened his eyes, there was no sound. No sight. Nothing but the crushing weight of silence and an all-encompassing darkness. Panic gripped his chest as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was alone—trapped in a void of emptiness. The weight of his failure hit him like a physical blow. *Was it over? Had the revolution ended?* His thoughts were clouded by a profound sadness that seemed to seep into every part of him. *Would he never see the future he had fought for, the liberty they had dreamed of?*

The dream of a free America—of a new nation—had always burned brightly in his heart, and now, that dream seemed to flicker and fade before him. The sacrifice, the struggle, the lives lost—it had all been for this moment. But now that he was gone, lost in this black void, would anyone remember? Would anyone continue the fight? Or had it all been for nothing?

The weight of that uncertainty crushed him, and for the first time, Washington felt truly lost.
Lafayette’s voice rang out over the battlefield, sharp and commanding. "Hold your position!" he cried, the words cutting through the chaos of clashing steel and cries of pain. His men responded with grim determination, holding the line against the advancing British forces. The strategic trap was beginning to take shape—if they could hold this ground, they might just have a chance to turn the tide. The Continental Army would survive. They had to survive.
The battlefield was a blur of movement, men locked in a deadly dance of life and death. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, the sharp tang of sweat and blood, and the distant thundering of cannons that rattled the earth beneath their feet. Yet, despite the brutal noise of war, Lafayette’s eyes remained sharp, scanning the horizon for any sign of weakness in the enemy’s advance. His thoughts were focused, clear, but then his gaze fell on something that caused his heart to lurch in his chest.
There, amidst the chaos, was Alexander—his mon petit lion, as he often called him, the young officer who had proven himself time and time again in battle. But now, Lafayette watched in horror as Alexander staggered, nearly overwhelmed by a British soldier. The gleaming edge of a redcoat’s blade flashed in the sunlight, cutting through the air with terrifying precision. It was aimed directly at Alexander’s unprotected side, the strike so swift and certain that Lafayette’s blood ran cold.
“No!” Lafayette shouted, a burst of panic surging through him. Time seemed to stretch in those agonizing seconds, his heart hammering as he watched Alexander struggle to regain his balance, the sword's deadly arc aimed directly for him. His mind screamed at him to move, to do something—anything—but he was too far, too far away to intervene. His feet were planted on the battlefield, and in that instant, he was frozen, paralyzed by the sight of his friend, his comrade, his lion—teetering on the brink of death.
But just as Lafayette thought he might witness the worst, something else happened. The battle around him seemed to swell, a sudden force pulling his attention back to the present. A harsh, unexpected blow landed on his back, sharp and jarring, a searing pain erupting across his shoulders. His breath caught in his throat as he staggered forward, losing his balance for a moment.
Before he could react, before he could fully process what had just happened, a blinding white light exploded around him. The light was overwhelming—pure, radiant, and so intense that it stole his breath away. It engulfed him entirely, and in that instant, every sound, every sensation, everything familiar about the battlefield vanished. He could no longer hear the battle cries, the clash of swords, or the stomping of boots. There was only the light, brilliant and disorienting, a wave of white that swallowed him whole.
Lafayette’s mind raced, unable to make sense of what was happening. He reached out instinctively, his arms flailing against the sudden, all-encompassing brightness. His heart pounded with a new kind of fear, one that didn’t come from the battlefield but from the unknown force that now surrounded him. What was happening? Where were they? The world he knew, the men he fought alongside, seemed to dissolve in the blinding glow.
And then—nothing.

In the heart of South Carolina, the air was thick with tension, the weight of battle hanging heavy in the humid afternoon. John Laurens sat astride his horse, his posture tall and unwavering, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The ground beneath him was a patchwork of fields, the dry grass rustling in the wind, a stark contrast to the violence unfolding around him. He could hear the shouts of his men, the clash of weapons, the pounding of hooves on the earth as they drove the redcoats further back, pushing them toward the riverbanks. The task was clear—force the British out of South Carolina, no retreat, no surrender.
His horse’s reins were firm in his hands, his grip steady as he barked orders to his men, his voice a sharp command cutting through the din of battle. “Ensure no redcoats escape!” he shouted, his words carried on the wind to the soldiers behind him. They had the advantage now, the redcoats were cornered, and there was no way out for them, not if Laurens had anything to say about it. The riverbank ahead would become their prison unless they were driven back, unless the Continental forces secured their victory here. His men surged forward, charging through the fields, the horses' hooves kicking up dust, the sound of the pursuit relentless.
The battle raged in the distance, but Laurens remained focused. His eyes narrowed as he observed his soldiers’ movements, ensuring their lines were tight, their resolve unbroken. But then, just as the rhythm of the battlefield settled into a tense sort of order, something jolted through him—a strange sensation that caused his horse to suddenly come to an abrupt halt. The animal snorted, its muscles tensing, sensing the change in the air before Laurens could even fully comprehend what was happening. His gaze flicked downward, then to the horizon, trying to identify what had caused the disturbance, but there was nothing immediately visible. No new threat, no shift in the enemy's position that he could see.
Before he could process it further, a sudden flash of light erupted before him, so brilliant and blinding that it felt as though the very sky had been torn open. The light was pure and overwhelming, so intense that it swallowed everything in its path, blurring his vision, clouding his thoughts. The world around him seemed to shudder, the sounds of the battle muffled as if they were miles away, and in the blink of an eye, his body went rigid, unable to move.
A sharp, searing pain coursed through him, a force so powerful it felt as though his very being was being torn from him. The light was all-encompassing, searing through his senses like a sudden storm. And then, as quickly as it had come, the light was gone, replaced by an all-consuming darkness. His thoughts scrambled to make sense of it, but the confusion was overwhelming. His body felt weightless, as if the very earth had vanished beneath him. He tried to focus, to understand what had just happened, but it was as if the world had been erased, leaving nothing but a profound silence in its wake.
The battle, his men, his mission—all of it seemed to dissolve into the void, and Laurens was left drifting in a darkness that had no end.

The small tailor shop in New York City, tucked away on a narrow, bustling street, was a quiet refuge from the outside world. The air was thick with the scent of linen and wool, mingled with the faintest hint of dust that clung to the beams above. Sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, casting long, angled shadows across the workbenches stacked high with bolts of fabric. A soft hum of the city’s distant noise—horses’ hooves clattering, merchants calling their wares, the murmur of pedestrians—drifted in through the crack in the door, but inside the shop, it was calm, almost serene.
Hercules moved with practiced efficiency, his hands quick and steady as they gathered swatches of fabric from the shelves. He had been doing this for years—measuring, cutting, stitching—but today, as his fingers brushed the smooth fibers, there was an edge to his movements, a quiet tension in the air. He could hear the voice of the customer behind him—one he had hoped to avoid. A British soldier, wearing a grimy uniform that bore the stains of too many days in the field, was explaining the details of an order he wanted placed with a sneer in his voice.
“I need something to mark our victory, tailor,” the soldier barked, his tone dripping with the arrogance of one who had never known defeat. “Something that screams triumph. A reminder of how we crushed those traitors to the Crown, those vermin who dared defy us.”
Hercules clenched his jaw at the words, his mind momentarily flashing to images of his comrades—men and women who had fought for their freedom, who had bled for this cause. "Traitors to the Crown."
The words twisted in his stomach like a sharp knife. His own loyalty, his own struggles, his own ties to the Revolution were known only to himself. To speak out, to argue with this soldier, would be to expose his deepest convictions—and to risk everything.
He bit his tongue so hard that he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. The words he longed to shout remained locked inside, though every fiber of his being screamed to defend his brothers and sisters in arms, to declare that they were no traitors but patriots who fought for the very freedom that this soldier so casually dismissed. But Hercules knew better. He had worked too long, too carefully, to reveal his true allegiance. His shop, his cover—it was all he had.
He forced himself to stay calm, to focus on the task at hand. As the soldier rambled on, describing the “fitting” outfit—a fine coat to celebrate the British victory—Hercules nodded quietly, carefully setting down the bolt of fabric he had been holding. He turned to face the soldier, his voice cool and professional. “I have two fabrics that might suit your design, sir,” he said, keeping his tone even. “Both are fine materials—well-suited for the kind of coat you’re describing. One is a deep navy blue with a subtle sheen, and the other is a rich burgundy, the color of victory, perhaps.” He motioned for the soldier to follow him to the table where the fabrics were displayed.
As Hercules spread the cloth out before the soldier, he could almost feel the tension in the room growing, as though the very air around him was thickening with each insult this man hurled at the men and women who had fought for liberty. How could he speak like that? Hercules thought, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he displayed the fabric. But he forced himself to maintain composure, knowing that the smallest slip would expose him, and he couldn’t afford that—not with so much at stake.
The soldier didn’t seem to notice the tension in the air, or perhaps he simply didn’t care. He ran his fingers along the fabric with a dismissive smirk, as if nothing about this order held any significance beyond his own smug satisfaction. “The navy blue will do,” the soldier said without hesitation, his voice dripping with arrogance. “A fitting color for a man of my stature. Now, make sure it’s cut to perfection. I want every detail to reflect the greatness of the British Empire.”
Hercules barely contained a wince at the soldier’s pompous words, but he simply nodded and motioned for him to follow. As he gathered his measuring tools, a strange sensation washed over him—a prickling sense of something off in the air, something that didn’t belong. He froze for a moment, his heart skipping a beat. The noise from the street outside seemed to fade, and the oppressive silence of the shop seemed to intensify, wrapping around him like a tightening knot.
Before he could even register what was happening, the world around him erupted in a blinding, searing white light. It was so sudden, so bright, that it stole the breath from his lungs and struck him to the core. He instinctively shielded his eyes, but the light was relentless, as if it were not of this world. The fabric, the soldier, the shop—everything blurred into nothingness as the brightness overwhelmed him. The room spun wildly, and he lost his footing, stumbling backward.
A strange force seemed to pull him, yanking him off balance until he could no longer hold himself upright. The air around him seemed to hum with energy, vibrating with a pulse that he couldn’t comprehend. His legs buckled beneath him, and the floor slipped away.
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the light vanished. It wasn’t just the light—it was everything. The familiar walls of the shop, the soldier’s sneering face, the fabric, all of it disappeared into a suffocating darkness. There was no sound, no light, just an all-encompassing void that seemed to pull him deeper, as though the very fabric of reality itself had unraveled. Hercules’ heart pounded in his chest, the silence pressing in on him like a weight.
For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he had fallen unconscious or if something far more inexplicable had occurred. But one thing was certain—he was no longer in the tailor shop, and nothing felt familiar. The world he knew had vanished in the blink of an eye.

Phillip's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as he stood facing George Eacker in the early morning light. The heavy air was thick with tension, the sounds of the distant crowd—murmuring, restless—fading into a dull background hum. The world seemed to narrow, and all he could see was the man before him, the boy who had dared to disparage his father’s legacy, who had mocked his family’s honor in public, questioning their name and their worth. The weight of it all was crushing, a bitter fire of anger and hurt burning in his chest.
His hands trembled, the cold steel of the pistol clenched tight in his grip. He must remain strong, he reminded himself. His eyes flickered to the crowd, to his friends and family standing at a distance, silently watching. His mother’s face, pale and anxious, flashed through his mind. Make them proud, he thought desperately. Make Father proud.
He knew deep down that this was a foolish thing, a reckless thing—his father would never have wanted this. A duel was a dangerous, senseless way to resolve a grievance, especially over words. It was childish. But in this moment, nothing else seemed to matter. He had been backed into a corner, cornered by pride and the relentless need to defend his family’s honor. To back down now, to turn away, would feel like surrendering not just to George Eacker but to the very idea of being a man of his word.
Phillip faced his opponent with a steely resolve, his back straight, his shoulders squared, and his head held high despite the nerves that twisted within him. George Eacker, the man who had publicly dishonored his father’s memory, stood just a few paces away. His expression was cold, indifferent, as though this whole situation were nothing more than a game to him. His hand rested on the butt of his own pistol, his stance casual, as though he had nothing to lose. Phillip felt a flicker of disdain rise in his chest, but he kept it locked away. There was no room for emotion here.
George had refused all peace talks, had dismissed every attempt at reconciliation. This was the only way to settle the matter, they had both decided. The seconds dragged by, stretching into what felt like an eternity, the air thick and charged with unspoken tension.
The seconds ticked by, and then the signal came. The two men turned sharply and began to walk the prescribed ten paces. Phillip counted each one in his mind, the rhythm steady, deliberate, almost mechanical. One... two... three... His body was rigid, his eyes fixed ahead. He could feel the heat of the sun on his back, the rough texture of his clothes against his skin. Seven... eight... nine... ten.
He halted and spun around, the world suddenly narrowing again to just George Eacker. His breath quickened, the grip on his pistol tightening as the moment of truth arrived. His gaze locked with Eacker’s, and he could see the faint flicker of uncertainty in the other man’s eyes, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. They were two men, set on the same path, each determined to make the other bleed for the perceived wrongs.
The countdown in his mind began, slow and deliberate: One... two... three... four... five... six... His finger hovered near the trigger. He could hear the rustling of the crowd behind him, their collective breath held in anxious anticipation. The weight of the moment settled heavily on his chest, each second stretching longer than the last. Seven…
A sharp, deafening crack pierced the air.
Phillip's heart skipped a beat as the sound echoed across the field, the shot ringing out like the tolling of a bell. His mind scrambled to process the sound, to react, but everything seemed to blur together in that single moment. He felt no pain—yet. But his body was frozen, a tense anticipation gripping him. Had he been hit? Was it over?
Before he could even feel the sting of the bullet, before he could brace for the sensation of warm blood spilling from a wound, a brilliant flash of white light erupted in front of him. It was so blinding, so pure, that it seemed to consume him completely. The world around him seemed to dissolve into that light, the edges of reality flickering away like a forgotten dream. His body felt weightless, as though the very ground beneath him had disappeared.
In the next instant, everything went still—unnaturally still. There was no sound, no light, no sense of direction. Just an overwhelming, infinite darkness that swallowed him whole. The sensations of the world—the heat of the sun, the feel of the pistol in his hand, the very presence of the other man—faded into nothing. Phillip tried to move, to speak, to cry out, but the darkness was all-encompassing, a thick void that pressed in on him from all sides.
What had just happened? His mind struggled to make sense of it, to grasp onto something familiar in the overwhelming emptiness. But there was nothing. Only the silence and the consuming dark.

Aaron Burr leaned back against the worn wooden chair, his sharp eyes tracing the movements of the young man he had just met—Alexander Hamilton—across the dimly lit tavern. The clamor of voices and the steady clinking of mugs seemed to blend into a murmur in the background as Hamilton passionately spoke, his words laced with fire and fervor, urging those around him to rise up and seek war, to demand revolution. The other young men, brimming with idealism and restless energy, had already labeled themselves the “revolutionary set,” a term that seemed both pretentious and overzealous to Burr. He watched as they leaned in, captivated by Hamilton’s conviction, their eager faces reflecting the zeal of a cause that had not yet been tested by the reality of what it might cost.
Burr, however, remained seated at the back of the room, the warm glow from the hearth flickering across his features as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. He wasn’t a fool; he knew that talk of revolution was far more glamorous in the taverns and backrooms of cities than it was on the battlefields. War had a way of ripping apart the lofty ideals of the young and the impetuous, leaving behind nothing but the scars of reality. He had seen it before.
With a quiet sigh, he raised the glass to his lips, the bitter taste of whiskey a stark contrast to the fire of youthful ambition around him. He wasn’t here to get swept up in their fervor, not yet. He could afford to observe, to watch from the sidelines and gauge the risks before deciding whether to join in the madness. Despite his desire to remain distant, however, something about Hamilton intrigued him. The young immigrant had an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Burr had first met him earlier that evening, and though the meeting had been brief, Hamilton’s raw energy and conviction had left a mark on him. The young man’s drive was almost infectious. It was clear Hamilton wasn’t one to wait for things to happen—he was someone who would make things happen, one way or another.
But Burr? Burr was more cautious, more calculated. He knew how to wait for the right moment, how to pick his battles. The stakes of this revolution, whatever it might become, were high—and Burr wasn’t about to risk his neck on a whim, no matter how grand the rhetoric might sound.
He took another sip of his whiskey, letting the warmth of the drink settle in his chest. His gaze lingered for a moment on Hamilton, his mind wandering. What drives this man? What will he do when he realizes how dangerous this path really is?
Then, in the middle of his contemplation, something strange happened. The room, the noise, the chatter—all of it seemed to fade away in an instant. A brilliant, blinding light engulfed the tavern, drowning out the dim glow of the candles and the steady flicker of the fire. Burr’s eyes widened in surprise as the warmth of the room disappeared, replaced by an odd sense of weightlessness. The world he knew—this smoky tavern, the warmth of the fire, the revolutionaries he had just observed—began to fade into nothingness.
He blinked, trying to make sense of the sudden shift, but the light only grew brighter, more intense. His head swam with confusion, his heart racing. There was no sound, no warning—just the strange, overwhelming force of the light pulling him away from everything he had known. The scent of whiskey and old wood, the clatter of mugs, the intensity of Hamilton’s words—all of it vanished.
Burr tried to move, to steady himself, but it felt as though the ground beneath him had been ripped away, leaving him adrift in a space he couldn’t comprehend. For a moment, he thought he might be dreaming, or worse, losing his mind. The chaos of the tavern, the loud, passionate voices of the revolutionary set—it was all gone, replaced by an eerie silence that pressed against his senses.
And then, just as quickly as it had started, the light began to fade, and Burr felt himself being gently drawn forward, as though caught in the current of some invisible force. His body shuddered involuntarily, his thoughts still racing to catch up with what was happening. He could feel himself leaving behind the familiar world he knew, a world of taverns and tavern talks, and the hopeful fervor of revolutionaries, only to be thrust into something… different. Something unknown.
The sound of Hamilton’s passionate voice faded into the background as Burr’s reality shifted, the last remnants of the tavern and the revolutionaries slipping into the distance. What in God’s name was going on? Burr’s mind raced, but there were no answers, only the sensation of being pulled deeper into the unknown.
As the light fully receded, and the world around him began to shift, Burr couldn’t help but wonder just how far this strange journey would take him. He was surrounded in darkness and had no idea where he was.

Eliza sat at her writing desk in the cozy corner of their Albany home, the flickering candlelight casting a soft glow on the parchment in front of her. The quill in her hand danced gracefully across the page, as she carefully crafted a response to one of Alexander’s many impassioned love letters. Every word he wrote seemed to linger in her mind, and she reveled in the warmth of his affection, feeling as though his love surrounded her like a comforting embrace. It was a quiet moment, one of the few she had to herself between her bustling family and the flurry of correspondence that came with being in the public eye.
She paused for a moment, reflecting on Alexander’s tender words, when the light laughter of her sisters broke through her thoughts. Angelica and Peggy were sitting on the couch nearby, both of them teasing Eliza mercilessly about her “infatuation” with the man who had captured her heart.
Angelica, always the more clever and mischievous of the two, grinned wickedly and arched a brow. “You know, Eliza, with all of these letters from Hamilton, I’m starting to think you might need a whole harem to keep up with him,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
Peggy snickered, her voice full of mischief as she added, “A harem! Maybe we’ll all get a piece of him.” She gave Eliza a wink that made her roll her eyes in exasperation, but Eliza couldn't suppress a small, knowing smile.
Eliza shot Angelica a glare, but it was a playful one—though if anyone dared make light of her affection for Alexander, it was her older sister who could expect a sharp rebuke. Angelica’s teasing had a way of digging under her skin, and Eliza was determined not to show how much it affected her. Still, she could feel the possessiveness stirring within her, the fierce protectiveness she had for Alexander. She wouldn’t share him with anyone, not even with her sisters’ playful jabs.
“Ha,” Eliza responded flatly, her lips curling into a wry smile. She returned her attention to the page, resuming her writing with a deep breath, determined not to be distracted. She could hear her sisters’ laughter in the background, but she focused on the elegant curve of her handwriting as she signed her name at the bottom of the letter. Eliza Hamilton—it felt so official now, as if her name, now tied to Alexander, was somehow more complete, more meaningful.
But just as she dipped the quill to add the final flourish, everything around her changed in an instant.
A sudden flash of blinding white light erupted in the room. It was so bright, so overwhelming, that Eliza had no time to even blink before her vision was stolen away. It was as though the very air itself had split open, flooding the room with an intensity that left her breathless.
She could hear her sisters’ startled exclamations, their voices caught somewhere between confusion and fear. Angelica’s usually composed voice trembled, and Peggy’s lighthearted laugh vanished in a sharp gasp. But before Eliza could make sense of what was happening, the light engulfed them completely. The warmth of their home, the quiet of the evening, all of it vanished in a heartbeat.
The ground beneath them seemed to shift. It felt as though their bodies were no longer anchored to the floor, as though they were weightless, suspended in a vast, unfeeling void. The air turned cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Albany. The oppressive silence pressed in around them, the absence of any familiar sounds or sensations unnerving in its stillness.
Eliza’s heart raced in her chest, panic rising in her throat. Where were they? What had just happened? One moment, she was sitting in her family’s warm, familiar home, and the next, she was surrounded by an endless, suffocating darkness. The flash of light had been so sudden, so all-encompassing, that she couldn’t even remember what it had felt like to be in their home. It was as though the world had been ripped away in an instant, and they were now floating in a space she could not comprehend.
She reached out blindly, her fingers trembling as she tried to find some solid ground, but there was nothing. Nothing but the void. Her breath quickened as she called out to her sisters. “Angelica? Peggy?” Her voice sounded strange in the emptiness, echoing in a way that didn’t feel right. Her stomach twisted with dread.
“I’m here,” Angelica’s voice answered, strained but steady. “I don’t know what’s going on, but stay calm.”
Peggy’s voice followed, faint with confusion. “This... this isn’t real. It can’t be real.”
Eliza closed her eyes for a moment, the panic rising like a wave. She clutched at the cold air around her, desperately wishing for any sign that they weren’t lost in this unfathomable place forever. Her thoughts raced, wondering if Alexander was somewhere out there, if he knew she was missing, if anyone could hear them. This can’t be happening, she thought, willing herself to remain composed. We will get through this, we must.
But there was no answer, only the vast and endless darkness, swallowing them whole.

Alexander’s eyes scanned the darkness, his breath coming in short bursts as he caught fleeting glimpses of shifting figures. The shadows around him weren’t just moving; they were alive, writhing in ways that made his skin crawl. He stepped back, heart racing, his pulse drumming in his ears like the roar of cannons. The familiar, oppressive silence of uncertainty weighed heavily on him as the shadows seemed to close in. Then, in a split second, he couldn’t hold it any longer.
"Hello?" His voice cracked, strained from the tightness in his chest. "Who goes there?"
His heart pounded in his chest, thumping as loudly as it had on the blood-soaked battlefield. The air felt thick, pressing in around him, and he waited, muscles tense, bracing for whatever would come next.
Suddenly, a voice broke through the tension, soft but filled with unmistakable warmth, a deep contrast to the oppressive dark surrounding them. “Alexander?! Is that you, mon petit lion?”
It was Lafayette’s voice, unmistakable and familiar, but laced with something... different. The tension in Alexander's chest eased, but the unease remained. The shadowed figure stepped closer, revealing the face of his old friend.
"Alexander? Gil? Where are you?!" came the call of Laurens, his voice frantic and disoriented as he stumbled through the dark, struggling to find his bearings.
Before anyone could respond, a sudden burst of warmth flooded the space, a light so bright it seemed to push back the shadows, chasing away the creeping uncertainty. Alexander blinked against the sudden brightness, squinting until his vision adjusted.
As the light spread, it illuminated the figures around him, bringing them into sharp focus. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the faces of those he thought he’d lost forever—his comrades from the battlefield, standing before him as if no time had passed at all. And standing among them, his new wife, her sisters close by, all of them appearing just as bewildered as he felt. But the most shocking sight was the young man standing quietly at the edge of the group—a figure who looked eerily like him, almost as if he were staring into a reflection of his younger self.
The air was thick with questions, voices rising in a chaotic cacophony as everyone tried to make sense of their surroundings, to understand how they had gotten here, and why they were here. It was a flurry of disjointed queries, all overlapping and tumbling out at once.
“Where are we?” “What happened?” “What is this place?”
But amidst the chaos, a commanding voice cut through the noise like a sword through silence.
“QUIET, PLEASE, EVERYONE!” General Washington's voice was loud, firm, and unmistakable, carrying the weight of authority. His presence silenced the room in an instant, and all eyes turned to him.
Washington stood tall, his posture as unwavering as ever, but his face was not the expression of the resolute leader they knew. Instead, it was drawn tight with grim understanding. He nodded toward the wall behind them. The grim smile on his face sent a chill down Alexander's spine.
“I believe whatever this is has a role in our current situation,” Washington said, his tone measured, but heavy with a sense of foreboding.
The wall Washington pointed to was unlike the others around them. While the rest of the room was decorated with rich red and gold coverings, this section was starkly different. It was dominated by a large black rectangle, an object that stood out like an anomaly against the grandeur of the room. The texture of the rectangle was unlike anything Alexander had ever seen—smooth, sleek, almost unnatural in its perfection.
Murmurs rippled through the group as they tried to process the sight.
"What is that?" Laurens muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on the rectangle, his mind racing to make sense of it.
The room buzzed with confusion, the questions growing louder and more frantic as everyone attempted to grasp the situation at hand. The air was thick with voices clamoring for answers, but amid the chaos, Washington stood unmoving, his gaze fixed with unwavering intensity on the mysterious black rectangle on the wall. His mind raced, but he gave no indication of his internal turmoil. He knew, deep down, that this was no random occurrence. Whatever this strange device was, it was undeniably tied to their current predicament. It was the key. He felt it, the weight of the unknown pressing in on him, but he also knew that understanding it would mean the difference between chaos and clarity.
Before any further questions could be asked, a voice echoed down from above, its source impossible to pinpoint. The sound was clear, almost mechanical, yet strangely comforting in its tone. It carried a kind of authority, but also a strange kind of apology, as if the speaker regretted the confusion they were causing.
“Hello, everyone. I am sorry to cause you distress, but it was essential to bring you all here.”
The voice reverberated around them, and for a brief moment, a collective breath was held. No one moved, and the tension in the air became palpable. Finally, it was Washington who broke the silence, his deep voice cutting through the murmur of uncertainty with his usual poise, but this time, there was a hint of something else—perhaps suspicion, perhaps a quiet readiness to confront whatever mystery was unfolding.
“And where would here be, exactly?” His tone was calm, authoritative, and unyielding, a perfect reflection of the man who had led armies and forged a nation.
The voice seemed to pause for a moment, as if considering how best to respond. Then, with an almost lighthearted air, it answered, “Ah, yes, President Washington, sir. Your group has been transported nearly 250 years into the future—to 2025—to watch a show about one of your lives. It will include essential information that could shape your future and, in turn, influence our current history.”
The words hit like a thunderclap, and Alexander felt his heart skip a beat. He wasn’t sure if the shock was from the sheer absurdity of it or the disorienting possibility that they were not only outside of their time, but in some future that seemed entirely foreign to them.
“250 years into the future?! How is that possible?” Lafayette exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief. His eyes darted around, trying to make sense of what was happening, but it was as though the world itself had shifted beneath their feet.
The voice responded with a calm, almost academic tone, explaining as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “I have been given the power to bring a person or group of people to our current location to show them their future and allow them to change it. The best method of doing this—after much consideration—was through a musical. Now, before I hear your questions—yes, a musical. It’s a play, but with music. And after weighing your options, I decided to focus on you, President Washington, and your companions. I could have chosen Henry VIII and his six wives, or perhaps the French revolutionaries, but I believe you and your story are most fitting.”
“French revolutionaries?” The Marquis de Lafayette asked, his voice dripping with both curiosity and a hint of confusion. “Why them?”
“Yes, Marquis, I can explain more later,” the voice replied smoothly, unfazed by the question. “But now is not the time for further explanations. I believe it’s best to introduce the others before we begin. Please, take your seats.”
At the sound of this, the group’s attention was drawn to a set of seats that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, arranged in a semicircle facing the black rectangle on the wall. It was clear that the time for questions had passed for now. As they each moved to find their places, the surreal nature of their surroundings seemed to intensify. The room—a mix of old-world grandeur and futuristic technology—felt like a strange dream. They were being thrust into a world that should have been impossibly distant from their own, yet here it was, somehow interwoven with their very existence.
The air hummed with tension as each of them sat, still processing the magnitude of the situation. The idea that they were being thrust 250 years into the future was unfathomable, yet the voice above them spoke with such certainty, it made it seem like it was a truth they would have to accept—whether they believed it or not.
As everyone settled into their seats, Alexander found himself staring at the black rectangle, his mind a whirlwind of questions. What kind of “show” could they be about to watch? And what was the purpose of this strange display? Why them? And most haunting of all—what would they learn about the future, and how would it change their present?
The lights dimmed, and the voices of his companions fell silent. The strange sense of inevitability filled the room, and for the first time since their arrival, the eerie weight of the unknown seemed to press in from all sides. The show was about to begin.
Lafayette’s voice cut through the tension, his gaze locked on General Washington as he leaned forward in his seat, clearly unable to contain his curiosity any longer. "May I ask who this musical is about?" His tone was cautious but laced with intrigue, as if the very idea of a musical centered around their lives was so strange that it demanded an answer, even though the whole situation was still beyond comprehension.
Washington, however, remained composed, his expression unreadable as he glanced around at the faces of those gathered. There was something comforting in his unshakable presence, even amidst the surreal confusion. His voice was steady and reassuring, despite the bizarre nature of their circumstances.
"You shall see soon enough, Marquis," Washington responded with a quiet confidence, his eyes flicking briefly to the group before returning to the glowing black rectangle that loomed before them. "But rest assured, it will become clearer in time."
Lafayette’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing more, sensing that pressing for more answers might only deepen the mystery. His thoughts were scattered, the whirlwind of questions in his mind threatening to overwhelm him. A musical? Their lives, reduced to songs and dance? The absurdity of it all was hard to ignore. But then, another thought entered his mind: What did this mean for their futures, their real futures? What was the purpose of all of this? Why now?
As if anticipating these very thoughts, the voice from above spoke again, cutting through the tension that had settled in the room. It was warm but had an underlying firmness to it, as though the speaker was used to commanding attention.
"I may also add," the voice continued, drawing the group’s attention once more, "that other people important to the storyline will join you here at individual points." The voice paused, as if allowing the weight of the words to settle on them. "For your assurances, your current timelines are paused, and anything which has already happened will not be affected for you. Anything which is changed upon your return will begin a new line of events."
A murmur rippled through the group at this new information. Alexander’s heart skipped a beat, and his mind raced with the implications. A new line of events? They had been brought here for a reason, and whatever that reason was, it seemed to involve more than just watching a show about their past.
"What does that mean for us?" Laurens asked quietly, glancing around at the others, his voice laced with both concern and curiosity. "Are we not at risk of altering our lives if we change something?"
The voice responded almost immediately, reassuring and calm. "No. You will be witnessing events that have already occurred, but you will not interfere with your past selves. You will be observers only. Any change that may occur will take place only upon your return to your timeline."
Washington leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes scanning the room. "A new line of events?" he murmured to himself, pondering the implications. "This sounds more like a warning than an assurance."
"It is," the voice responded, not unkindly, but with an air of finality. "The future is in flux, and what you see may change you, but it will not undo the path you've walked so far. What you choose to do when you return, however, is what will shape the course of the events to come."
Lafayette's mind buzzed as he processed this new information. "So, we will see the future of our world, and then... choose how to change it?" His voice was tentative, the weight of responsibility sinking in. "What happens if we choose wrong? What if the future is beyond our control?"
"That is not for me to say," the voice replied cryptically, the warmth still present, but now tinged with something less reassuring. "The future, as you will soon see, is not set in stone. But the choices you make after witnessing it will ripple through time, creating consequences you cannot yet fully comprehend."
The silence that followed was thick with contemplation. The room felt heavier, as if the very air had become laden with the weight of destiny. They weren’t just passive participants in some story anymore. No, now they were actively engaged in shaping the future—one they had yet to fully understand.
As the group exchanged uncertain glances, the enormity of their situation began to sink in. They were not just being shown their past; they were being given a glimpse into a future that could—and perhaps would—change everything. The stakes were higher now, and the uncertainty they felt was palpable.
Washington sat back, his jaw set as he absorbed the weight of the situation. "We will watch. We will listen," he said firmly, his voice returning to its usual strength, "and we will learn. But know this: No matter what we see, we will not act in haste. We must be careful, for the consequences of our actions—whatever they may be—will echo for generations."
The others nodded in agreement, a quiet determination settling over the group. The path ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: they were about to embark on a journey through time, and they would have to be ready for whatever they were about to witness.
The voice above them seemed to sense their resolve, and with a final, gentle note, it added, "Very well. Please remain in your seats. The show will begin shortly."

Chapter Text

Before anything changed, a loud bang echoed from the back of the room. The group turned, eyes widening as two figures emerged from the shadows. One man was coughing into a silk handkerchief, while the other, tall and confident, surveyed the room with an air of superiority. He glanced over everyone as if they were insignificant, until his eyes locked onto the General.

"President Washington, what a surprise to see you here—" The man’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he approached, extending a hand. "And Hamilton, still at Daddy’s side," he sneered.

Washington and Hamilton responded almost simultaneously. "Why does everyone call me President?" Washington asked, confused. "He's not my dad!" Hamilton shot back, defensive.

Lafayette, ever the diplomat, raised an eyebrow. "And who are you two?"

The man smiled smugly. "Thomas Jefferson, of course. And this is my friend James Madison." He gestured to the coughing man. "Now, explain why we've been pulled from our celebrations and brought here."

Before anyone could respond, a disembodied voice filled the room. "Welcome, James and Thomas. I'm sorry to interrupt your festivities, but the moment in time you're taken from is crucial. A musical, inspired by the life of one of you, will show you a glimpse of what the future holds. Your presence here offers a chance to alter your fate—for the better."

Jefferson frowned. "Well, it's either me or Washington, right? And why is he here?" He pointed toward Hamilton.

"If you take your seats," the voice replied, "the show will begin, and Alexander is as essential as the rest of you."

Reluctantly, Jefferson and Madison sat on a double sofa beside George Washington, Lafayette, and Hamilton, who were positioned behind the Schuyler sisters and a young boy who seemed out of place. Jefferson squinted at him.

"And who are you?" he asked.

The boy stood proudly, chest puffed. "Phillip Hamilton."

At the mention of the name, Alexander shot up, his face a mix of surprise and disbelief. "Hamilton?" he repeated.

"Yes, I’m your son, Pops," Phillip replied softly, a mix of pride and longing in his voice.

The room fell silent as Alexander and Eliza exchanged a look. Her hand instinctively rested on her stomach. "I was writing you a message to tell you when I was brought here," she whispered.

Overcome, Alexander rushed to Eliza, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her gently. His hands covered hers, which rested protectively on her stomach.

They turned to Phillip, still sitting beside Angelica and Peggy. Alexander knelt before him, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m so happy to know I have a son."

Phillip’s face lit up, though a deep ache remained in his eyes. He reached out to embrace his father, savoring the warmth of the moment, knowing it might be their last.

The room fell still, the weight of the moment suspended in time. But then, the voice interrupted. "I’m sorry to interrupt, but could you please take your seats? The show is about to begin."

Reluctantly, Alexander and Eliza pulled apart, lingering for a moment before taking their seats. Lafayette nodded gravely as he sat beside the Schuyler sisters. Jefferson and Madison rose from their seats. Jefferson scowled at the strange voice, but sat next to Madison without a word.

As everyone settled, the room held its breath. This musical, this glimpse into the future, could change their lives. The voice spoke once more. "The show is starting. Focus, and remember—what you witness here may alter the course of history."

The lights dimmed, and the voice added, "Before we begin, I must explain something. What you’re about to see will appear on a screen—a flat surface displaying images and moving pictures, like a window into another world."

There was a brief pause before the screen flickered to life. The words Hamilton: An American Musical appeared in shimmering gold, glowing like stardust. The title faded as the music swelled, stirring excitement in the group.

"Me? The musical’s about me?!" Alexander gasped. "How could this be? I was an orphan, an immigrant—how could I be the subject of a musical?" His disbelief was palpable, the irony heavy on him.

Washington, proud and paternal, watched Alexander with quiet pride, the emotion deepening for Alexander. This was his mentor, his guiding light, proud of him.

But Jefferson’s reaction was far from warm. He scowled, arms crossed. "How does he get something named after him and not me? What makes him so special?" he sneered.

Before anyone could respond, the voice, calm and soothing, interrupted. "I’ll explain more in the intermission. For now, let's continue with the show."

The music swelled again, and the story of Alexander Hamilton began to unfold on the screen, pulling everyone in, despite their discomfort. The voice had promised answers later, but for now, they could do nothing but watch.

Just before the show began, the voice added, “You can find programs for the musical beside your seats to answer any questions about casting. I’m happy to answer more afterward.”

[AARON BURR]

How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore

"Wonderful way to introduce me, Burr— a bunch of insults I’ve heard all my life…" Alexander's voice dripped with sarcasm as he interrupted the song, his words sharp and biting. But those closest to him could hear the faint tremor of hurt that lingered beneath his defiant tone. His jaw tightened, eyes briefly flickering with frustration before he masked it with a smirk. John Laurens, sensing the underlying pain, reached over and took Alexander's hand in his own, squeezing it gently, offering a silent but powerful reassurance. The gesture was small but deeply comforting, grounding Alexander in the moment, offering him solace amidst the sting of Burr's words.

"It’s not me, Hamilton," Burr replied, his voice steady but with a hint of sincerity. He glanced at Alexander, his expression softening as he continued. "I may disagree with your way of life, but I would never stoop to that level. You’ve earned my respect, no matter your heritage." Burr’s eyes lingered on the younger man for a moment longer, noticing the way Alexander’s grip tightened around Laurens’ hand, a subtle but telling sign of the bond they shared. His brows furrowed slightly in quiet observation, though he held his tongue, unwilling to comment further on the unspoken connection between them.

and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten

spot in the Caribbean by Providence impoverished in squalor

grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

"Neverending recklessness?" John Laurens laughed, his voice full of amusement. He leaned back, a playful glint in his eyes, clearly enjoying the banter. Alexander, caught off guard, blushed slightly, his face flushing a deep shade of red. He instinctively shifted away, trying to downplay the attention, his shoulders hunched a bit as if to hide the slight embarrassment that bubbled up from within. It wasn’t the first time his impulsive decisions had been called reckless, but hearing it from John always made him feel exposed, as though his bravado couldn’t quite mask the vulnerability that he sometimes struggled to keep hidden.

"Unbounded determination?" George Washington added, his voice rich with admiration and pride. He placed a hand on Alexander's shoulder, the gesture warm and firm. Washington's smile was wide, his eyes glinting with a quiet pride that spoke volumes. "That’s what I see in you, son," he said, the words carrying the weight of years of mentorship and trust. Alexander’s posture softened under Washington’s approval, a mix of gratitude and humility washing over him. He straightened up slightly, his chest puffing just a little, as though Washington's words had momentarily filled him with a sense of purpose and confidence.

"Hero? My ass." Thomas Jefferson muttered under his breath, his voice low and dripping with disdain. His words were sharp, laced with bitterness, but his usual eloquence was gone, replaced by frustration that he didn’t even bother to conceal. His eyes narrowed as he glared at Alexander, as if daring anyone to challenge his opinion. But before Jefferson could continue his grumbling, a quick jab in the ribs from James Madison made him yelp in surprise, the sharp pain forcing him to stifle a more vocal protest.

"Don’t, Thomas," James whispered, his voice stern yet calm. He shot Jefferson a warning glance, the quiet authority in his eyes urging him to let it go. Jefferson winced, but after a beat, he relented, casting a sharp glance toward Madison.

[JOHN LAURENS]

The show continued, the room once again falling into a heavy silence as the stage came to life. A second man appeared, stepping into the spotlight, his presence commanding attention. Alexander’s eyes widened as he leaned forward. “Hey, that’s me!” John Laurens exclaimed, excitement and disbelief in his voice. He glanced at the program in his hand, as if confirming what his eyes were seeing, a grin spreading across his face. There was a brief flicker of recognition in the way he looked at the actor portraying him—someone who shared his youthful energy, his passion, though perhaps not his exact features.

But before the moment could settle, Thomas Jefferson’s voice broke the silence, cutting through the air like a knife. "Are there any white actors here?!" he demanded, his tone dripping with disgust. His face twisted in a mix of confusion and distaste, as though the very idea of someone of a different race portraying historical figures like himself was a personal affront. The room grew tense, the weight of his words hanging uncomfortably in the air.

Before the situation could escalate, the disembodied voice that had been guiding them throughout the experience interrupted. "Thomas," it said, its tone calm but firm, "we are in 2025. This show was released in 2020, and our current society views all races as equal. It would be suggested that you keep your opinions to yourself." The voice seemed to pause, almost as if considering the weight of Jefferson's response before continuing. "The creator of this show, Lin-Manuel Miranda, is of Puerto Rican descent. And because of people with views like yours, Thomas, he decided that historical figures like you would be portrayed by actors from different ethnic backgrounds. It was a deliberate choice, meant to challenge perceptions and to demonstrate that history belongs to everyone, regardless of race."

John, who had been preparing to add his own thoughts to the conversation, hesitated. The sudden change in tone made him think twice, and before he could say a word, the music swelled again, drawing their attention back to the stage. The song began anew, vibrant and energetic, filling the room with a pulse that demanded focus. The lively choreography and harmonies washed over them, compelling the group to turn their attention to the unfolding story once again, leaving the brief but charged conversation in the air to settle for the moment.

The Ten dollar, founding father without a father

"Why ten dollar? Is that not money?" Hercules Mulligan asked, his voice thick with confusion, breaking the silence with a question that echoed through the room. His brow furrowed as he looked around, clearly puzzled by the concept of currency in a world so far removed from his own time. The others exchanged glances, some shrugging in uncertainty, others furrowing their brows as they tried to comprehend the unfamiliar idea of a "ten dollar note." To them, the very concept of money in this form felt foreign, almost incomprehensible. It wasn’t just the specific denominations that baffled them—it was the idea of paper money itself, a far cry from the coins and bartering systems they had once known.

But Washington, ever observant, seemed to catch something else in the lyrics—the subtle reference to a fatherless Alexander. Washington’s eyes shifted toward Alexander, his mind working through the implications of what had just been said. Without a father? The phrase had struck a chord deep within him. He had always been the father figure in Alexander’s life since the young man joined the continental army, offering guidance, support, and mentorship. Yet, Alexander had never spoken of lacking a paternal presence before. Washington’s thoughts raced as he opened his mouth to speak, to address the implications of the rest of the lyrics that the others had seemed to have ignored—but before he could, the disembodied voice intervened.

"You are correct, Mr. Mulligan," the voice replied, its tone calm and educational. "The ten dollar note is one of the accepted forms of currency in today's economy. Alexander’s face is printed on that note as a tribute, a remembrance of his legacy. As is General Washington’s on the one dollar note."

The explanation hung in the air for a moment, giving the group a moment to digest. The voice's words were clear and direct, offering a hint of understanding in a world so different from their own. Alexander’s face, now immortalized on paper money, was a testament to his influence and significance in this strange future, alongside Washington’s, whose own image symbolized the foundation of this new world.

For a brief moment, Washington's gaze lingered on Alexander, his mind momentarily lost in the weight of what the voice had said. His protective instincts flared up, but he swallowed them back, choosing instead to focus on the here and now. The complexities of their time, their shared history, had carried them both here, into this new reality. The future was a strange and wondrous thing—but it was also full of questions that didn’t yet have answers.

Before the voice had fully finished it’s explanation Jefferson shout out another hit at Alexander’s importance, “Am I on any of your currency since this immigrant managed to?”

The voice responded with an edge of sarcasm, its tone dripping with quiet disdain. "Ah, Thomas, how quickly we forget," it began, a slight pause for emphasis. "You were on currency—two dollar bills, in fact. But as the years have passed, your image has become increasingly irrelevant to the modern economy. The two dollar bill is, shall we say, rarely used in this day and age, perhaps because of the same stubbornness and out-of-touch attitudes you’ve long been known for."

The voice’s tone sharpened, carrying a note of biting irony. "As for Alexander Hamilton, despite your disdain for his immigrant roots, his legacy has proven to be far more enduring in the eyes of history. It seems that while your ideals may have shaped the country in its infancy, the world has moved on, and the people have chosen to honor those whose influence remains central to the nation’s identity—whether or not you agree with it."

The words hung in the air like a blow delivered with precision, leaving Jefferson’s grumbling discontent to settle, his place in history no longer quite as secure as he might have liked to believe.

The voice continued, its tone steady but carrying a subtle, almost mocking undercurrent. "You are, of course, remembered as the third U.S. president and one of the Founding Fathers of the United States. Your role in shaping the early nation is significant—there’s no denying that. However, in terms of your direct influence on the currency of the modern world, well, it’s minimal when compared to others." The voice let the words linger in the air, as if the quiet sting of the comparison was meant to sit with Jefferson for a moment.

Jefferson’s eyes narrowed, and his expression shifted, his lips pressing into a thin line as the full weight of the voice's comment sank in. There was no question about it—he was offended. His chest puffed with indignation, and his hands tightened at his sides as though he were preparing to launch a retort, but the voice’s observation had struck him more deeply than he cared to admit. The pride he had always taken in his legacy, in his pivotal role in shaping the country’s ideals, now felt somewhat diminished in the face of this harsh comparison. A man who had fought so fiercely for his vision of America now found himself dismissed in favor of others—his name no longer as prominent as he had imagined it would be.

Before he could muster a response, Alexander, ever curious and quick to connect the dots, broke the tension with a question that carried the weight of a deeper confusion. "Wait, the third U.S. president?" he asked, his voice edged with disbelief. "Does that mean... we won? We— we actually succeeded in creating a nation?" His eyes darted around the room, as though searching for some sign that the victory he had only dreamed of in his own time had truly come to fruition. There was a sense of awe in his voice, mixed with a deep, almost desperate yearning for confirmation.

The voice responded, its tone shifting to one of gentle reassurance. "If you continue watching, everything will be explained, Alexander." The words hung in the air, not just as a promise, but as a gentle nudge forward. It was clear that the path ahead was one of revelation—a journey through time, where history would be illuminated, and where the pieces of their futures would finally start to fall into place.

got a lot farther by working a lot harder

by being a lot smarter by being a self-starter

by fourteen, they placed him in charge of a trading charter

Alexander tensed as the song continued to echo through the room, the familiar rhythm stirring something deep within him. He knew exactly where it would take them—back to a place he had worked so hard to bury, a chapter of his past filled with pain, loneliness, and desperation. His jaw clenched as he braced himself for what was to come. The weight of those memories pressed on his chest, a heavy reminder of how far he had come, yet how much he had lost along the way. The music, though beautiful, seemed to pulse with the reminder of who he once was—a young, desperate immigrant with no other choice but to fight for his place in the world.

Eliza, who had been sitting beside him, felt the shift in his mood. She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze finding Alexander instantly. Her eyes softened with concern, and she instinctively reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand, a quiet gesture of support. As she took in the pained look on his face, she couldn't help but worry.

“Fourteen?” Eliza’s voice was filled with disbelief, her brow furrowing. “Alex, please tell me this is artistic license… you were still a child,” she said, her tone pleading, as if hoping that somehow the version of his past unfolding before them was exaggerated—something that could be easily dismissed.

Alexander’s head lowered in response, the weight of her words landing heavily on his heart. He didn’t need to say anything aloud; his silence answered her question in ways words never could. Eliza’s breath caught in her throat as she realized the truth. The boy who had been thrust into the harsh realities of life at such a young age wasn’t just the ambitious, brilliant man she had come to know—he was a survivor, forced to make decisions that no one should have to face at that age.

“It was the only way I could survive,” Alexander said softly, his voice thick with sorrow. He stared ahead, but his gaze seemed distant, as if looking at a place far beyond the room. His mind was far away, back in the humid streets of Nevis, where desperation and uncertainty had been his only companions. “If I had not accepted the offer, I would have been dead on the streets of Nevis,” he added, the words heavy with regret, though they carried the unmistakable truth of a life shaped by circumstances beyond his control.

His voice faltered for a moment, betraying the vulnerability he so often tried to hide beneath his bravado. The young boy who had once struggled to survive in a world that had no place for him still lived within him, echoing in the sorrow of his words. Eliza, her heart aching, squeezed his hand, silently offering the comfort he so often refused to accept from anyone but her. She knew that the pain of his past would never fully leave him, but she also knew how far he had come—and how much he had done to ensure that others didn’t have to suffer as he had.

[THOMAS JEFFERSON]

As the scene unfolded before them, the group could sense an undercurrent of tension building, especially from Thomas Jefferson. When a Black actor appeared on stage, stepping into the role of Jefferson with an air of authority and confidence, everyone in the room felt the shift. The grumbling that came from Jefferson was unmistakable—low, guttural muttering, a sound that was impossible to ignore. His lips pressed into a tight line, his brows furrowed in discomfort, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the figure on stage, unable to hide the look of disdain creeping over his features.

It wasn’t the first time the group had seen Jefferson react this way—his discomfort with the changing dynamics of race and representation in this new time had been evident from the beginning. But this time, there was something different about him. His body language stiffened, and he seemed to realize that whatever he said next would not go unnoticed. The voice, ever watchful, would call him out again if he let his frustration slip too far into the open. His eyes flicked nervously toward the shadows, where he knew the voice resided, almost as if anticipating the judgment that would follow any vocal protest. For once, Jefferson seemed to bite back his words, his mouth settling into a grim line, choosing to keep his discomfort locked inside rather than risk drawing the voice’s wrath again.

The others in the room, aware of Jefferson’s discomfort, exchanged glances. Some tried to hide the quiet smirks tugging at their lips, while others, like Alexander, looked on with a mix of curiosity and cautious understanding. But despite the tension hanging thick in the air, no one spoke. They knew better than to push Jefferson further—not when the presence of the disembodied voice loomed so large. The weight of the moment was palpable, and Jefferson seemed to understand the consequences of his outbursts all too well this time. He had been given a glimpse into the uncomfortable realities of history, and in that moment, he chose silence over defiance, perhaps aware that the truth was far more complicated than he had ever been willing to admit.

And every day while slaves were being slaughtered and carted away

Laurens winced visibly as the word "slaves" rang out from the song. The term, though steeped in the painful reality of the past, cut through him like a blade—its presence a stark reminder of the cruelty he had been fighting against in his own time. His face tightened with discomfort, and he shifted in his seat, a sense of unease washing over him. His thoughts were consumed by the countless lives of those still enslaved in South Carolina, lives he could not save before his untimely disappearance. The questions that had plagued him ever since he had been torn away from the battlefield were too much to contain any longer.

With a sudden determination, Laurens raised his hand, his voice cutting through the music as he interrupted the song. “Uh, voice, may I ask,” he began, his words carefully measured but filled with a raw urgency, “in your future, are there still slaves? Or has slavery been abolished?” His tone was steady, but those closest to him could hear the subtle tremor beneath his words—the ache of unresolved questions, the weight of a fight unfinished. It was a question that had haunted him, gnawing at him since the day he was torn away from his post. His heart ached for the men and women still suffering under the brutal system he had hoped to change. Could he, could any of them, have done more? Had his sacrifice been in vain?

There was a moment of stillness as the voice considered Laurens' question, and for a brief, almost unbearable instant, Laurens wondered if he had overstepped. But then, the familiar calm tone of the voice responded, filling the room with a sense of quiet relief.

“Of course, Mr. Laurens,” the voice said, its tone gentle but firm. “Slavery was abolished in the United States in 1865, following the conclusion of the Civil War.” The voice paused, as if allowing the gravity of the words to settle, and Laurens’ shoulders, which had been tense with worry, slowly relaxed. “Although equality has still not been fully achieved in all aspects, it is now widely accepted that everyone—of all genders and races—is viewed equally by the majority of the population.”

As the voice’s words echoed in the room, Laurens allowed himself a slow breath, the tension in his chest loosening for the first time since his question had left his lips. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor the thought—slavery was gone. The fight he had given so much for had, in some way, been won.

John Laurens leaned back against the couch with a deep exhale, his body sinking into the cushions with a sense of quiet satisfaction. There was a faint smile on his face, though it was tinged with bittersweetness. He had fought for equality, for freedom—he had been willing to lay down his life for it. And now, to hear that his efforts had borne fruit, that the world he had once fought for was beginning to take shape in ways he could only dream of, brought him a quiet sense of peace.

But it wasn’t a perfect peace. The voice had spoken of equality still being a distant ideal, and John knew the road ahead was long and fraught with challenges. Still, the seeds of progress had been planted, and that was a victory, one that gave him a fleeting sense of purpose in the face of all he had sacrificed. There was still work to be done, but hearing the weight of history shift in their favor, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet, resolute pride. His battle had not been in vain.

across the waves he struggled and kept his guard up

Inside he was longing for something to be a part of

                         the brother was ready to beg steal borrow or barter

“Pretty confident that is indeed illegal,” Jefferson spoke haughtily, his voice dripping with superiority. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly pleased with himself as if his words were an irrefutable judgment. His eyes narrowed slightly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, savoring the moment.

Alexander’s eyes flashed with immediate fury. Without a second’s hesitation, he shot up from his seat, his body taut with raw energy. He faced Jefferson head-on, his chest heaving with the intensity of his emotion. “Listen, Jeffershit,” he barked, his voice tight with the kind of anger that only years of struggle could build, “when you have to fight to survive and don’t have hundreds of servants and slaves doing everything for you, then you can pass comment.”

His words rang out, harsh and full of frustration. Every syllable carried the weight of a lifetime spent clawing his way through the world, a world that had never cared for him. He took a step closer, his eyes burning with a mixture of defiance and a fierce, underlying pain. The room seemed to hold its breath as his outburst reverberated, and for a moment, Alexander wasn’t the sharp, ambitious figure everyone knew. He was just a man who had fought for his place in a world that had tried to break him.

“I’d have died no one cared for an orphan bastard so shut your mouth”Alexander’s eyes blazed with fierce intensity, a fire that could scorch the air around him. But beneath that fire, there was something else—a vulnerability so raw and unguarded that it seemed to tremble just below the surface, like a wound that had never fully healed. For a moment, his outburst wasn’t just a defense; it was a crack in the armor he’d worn for so long. No one in the room had ever seen him like this—fierce, yes, but also vulnerable, a boy who had fought for every breath, for every inch of respect.

His words hung in the air like smoke, and for the first time, Jefferson, ever so quick with his sharp tongue, found himself silenced. He stood motionless, caught off guard by the sheer weight of Alexander’s anger, and for once, his usual bravado faltered, leaving him speechless.

In that tense silence, Washington rose to his feet, his presence as steady and unshakable as ever. He moved toward Alexander with a quiet assurance, placing a calming hand on the young man's shoulder. The gesture was simple but powerful—a silent anchor amidst the storm of Alexander's emotions. Gently but firmly, Washington guided him back to his seat, offering a silent strength that steadied the younger man in ways words never could.

The room remained still, the tension lingering, but with Washington’s presence, it felt like the storm had passed. Even Jefferson, who had been so quick to challenge, remained silent, as if finally recognizing the depth of Alexander’s words and the man behind them.

[JAMES MADISON]

Then a hurricane came and devastation rained

“No...” Alex whimpered, his voice small and fragile as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the memories that clawed at the edges of his mind. The pain of it all—so fresh, so raw—threatened to drown him. He didn’t want to relive it. The trauma that still haunted him was too much to bear, and the very thought of it was enough to make his chest tighten, the air thick and suffocating.

A sharp, involuntary jolt ran through him, his body recoiling, as a warm, comforting presence enveloped him. A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close, and a hand gently took his own, steady and sure. Alex opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the sting of unshed tears, and found Eliza knelt before him. Her eyes were filled with concern, but there was something calming in her gaze—something that anchored him to the present, reminding him that he was no longer trapped in that storm. Her hands were gentle but firm as she wrapped them around his, grounding him.

Beside her, John stood close, his arm around Alex, offering his strength without hesitation. "Breathe, Alex," he murmured softly, his voice soothing, like a balm to the rawness of the moment. “You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

Alex’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath coming in shallow gasps, each one more erratic than the last. It took him a moment to realize it, but his breathing had spiraled out of control, the panic threatening to take over. With Eliza’s presence, her hands around his, he felt the tension in his body slowly begin to ebb. Her gentle words, like a lifeline, helped him focus, to pull his mind back from the chaos. Slowly, bit by bit, his breath evened out, though his heart still raced in his chest.

Washington, Lafayette, and Mulligan stood off to the side, having quietly observed the scene. Their expressions were filled with a mixture of concern and realization, particularly Washington’s, as he watched the unfolding moment. They had never known the full extent of Alex’s past—never understood why he seemed so uneasy, so distant, during storms. Now, the pieces began to fall into place. The hurricane, the devastation, the terror—Alex’s reaction made perfect sense.

Lafayette exchanged a quiet glance with Mulligan, both men silently acknowledging that they had unknowingly failed to see the deeper scars Alex carried. It explained so much—the way he would bury himself in work, the way he would never let himself slow down when the weather turned. They had never considered that the storms could be more than just a source of discomfort for him. Now, as they watched Eliza and John supporting him with such quiet strength, they understood: the storms weren’t just bad weather to Alex; they were something far more dangerous, something that threatened to break him open every time they arrived.

As Alex’s breathing finally steadied, he allowed himself to lean into the support they offered, his heart still racing but not as violently. The room was silent and the show began again.

our man saw his future drip-dripping down the drain

put a pencil to his temple connected it to his brain

and he wrote his first refrain a testament to his pain

[BURR]

Well the word got around they said this kid is insane man

took up a collection just to send him to the mainland

Get your education don't forget from whence you came. And the world is gonna know your name.

What's ya name, man?

[ALEXANDER HAMILTON]

Alexander Hamilton.

My name is Alexander Hamilton.

And there's a million things I haven't done.

“You’re still so young, Alexander,” Washington murmured, his voice soft but steady, carrying the weight of wisdom and years of experience. "You can wait."

Alex’s heart thudded in his chest, a deep, frantic pulse that seemed to echo the whirlwind inside his mind. He looked at Washington, but his thoughts scrambled, too fast and too tangled to form into words. His gaze flickered, searching Washington’s face for something to hold onto, but nothing could silence the noise in his head.

He wanted to say something—anything—but all he could hear was the incessant pounding of his own doubts, his own desperation. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, the emotions surged up, pressing against his throat. A thousand things raced through his mind, all the reasons why waiting had never been an option for him.

His lips parted, but only a broken sigh escaped.

“I—" Alex started, his voice unsteady. He shook his head, the weight of his thoughts making him feel like he was drowning. "I don’t know how to wait, sir.”

The words were quiet, almost a whisper, as if admitting this felt like a weakness he couldn’t afford. He felt the heat of vulnerability rise in his chest, but it didn’t stop him. “I’ve never had the chance to wait. Not once.” His eyes dropped to the floor for a moment, the rawness of his confession hanging in the air. “I’ve been trying to survive since I was a kid, scraping by, making things happen—because if I didn’t, no one would. There’s never been a moment where I could just... wait. Every second counts, every choice is life or death, and if I didn’t move, I’d be left behind.”

Alex’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he tried to steady himself, his breath coming a little quicker. "I don’t know what it’s like to wait. It’s not something I’ve ever been allowed. I always had to keep moving, keep fighting, or I’d be forgotten, left to fade into the background." He swallowed hard, the ache in his throat making it feel like his words were coming too quickly, too painfully.

He finally met Washington’s gaze again, the vulnerability in his eyes raw and exposed. "You talk about waiting like it’s something I can choose, but I don’t even know what that feels like. I don’t know how to stop—how to slow down. If I stop moving, if I wait... I’m afraid everything will crumble, that I’ll just disappear.”

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of papers on the table and the gentle breath that escaped from Alex as he let the weight of his words sink in. He felt the tension in his shoulders, the years of forced resilience that had made him into who he was. It had shaped him into a man who could never afford to wait, never allow himself the luxury of time.

Washington stood there for a moment, his eyes softening as he regarded Alex. He saw the truth in the young man’s words, the fear and the exhaustion that came from a life spent constantly fighting to prove himself. It was a truth that cut deeper than any military strategy or political negotiation. Washington understood, perhaps more than Alex knew, what it was like to feel that you could never rest, never pause, always afraid that the world would leave you behind if you did.

“You don’t have to keep running, Alexander,” Washington said quietly, his tone full of something unspoken, something deeper. "Not with us. You’re not alone anymore."

Alex bit down on his lip, trying to steady the tremble that had begun to rise within him. He couldn’t understand what Washington was offering, not yet. But the kindness, the patience in his words—they were foreign to him. The thought that he could actually take a moment to breathe, to wait without consequence—it was almost too much to comprehend.

“I’ve never had that before,” Alex murmured, the vulnerability in his voice uncharacteristic but undeniable. His eyes fell to his hands, his fingers flexing, trying to release the tension that had built up in his chest. “I don’t know how to not keep moving forward, to not keep pushing. I’ve always had to fight for everything.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, the air thick with the weight of Alex’s words and Washington’s steady presence. In that silence, something shifted. Alex’s heart began to slow, just a little, the edges of his thoughts softening. He didn’t know how to wait, how to give himself the grace to pause. But, for the first time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could learn. 

But just you wait, just you, wait.

The room fell silent after Alexander’s revelation, the weight of his words settling like a heavy fog. As the next lyric filled the air, it hit harder than anyone expected—each note sharp with the truth of his pain. Eyes flickered to Alexander, and the pity was impossible to hide. They saw him differently now, as though his past had peeled back a layer of his strength, exposing vulnerability they hadn't known existed.

But Alexander didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze steady, refusing to acknowledge the pity in their eyes. He didn't want their sympathy, didn’t need it. The last thing he wanted was for them to see him as broken, and so he held himself still, the mask of indifference firmly back in place. Trying to radiate the confidence they all were used too from him.

[ELIZA HAMILTON]

When he was 10, his father split

Full of it, debt-ridden

Two years later, see Alex and his mother, bed-ridden

Half-dead, sittin' in their own sick, the scent thick

[COMPANY]

And Alex got better but his mother went quick

Alexander’s head dropped once more, his chest tight as a tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. He wiped at it quickly, but the effort was futile—his emotions were slipping through, no matter how hard he tried to hide them. His hands shook as they gripped his legs, the tremors too evident to ignore. Despite his best attempts to mask it, everyone saw the cracks in his armor, the rawness he could no longer conceal. Facing the things he had forced down inside of him.

[GEORGE WASHINGTON and COMPANY]

Moved in with a cousin, the cousin committed suicide

The girls let out a collective gasp, their eyes widening as the realization of Alexander’s past hit them with full force. They had never truly understood the depth of the heartache he had endured before arriving in America—the pain of growing up with nothing, of being abandoned and alone. The weight of it, all suffered so young, settled heavily in the room. The stories they’d heard never quite conveyed the rawness of his experience, and now, seeing him in this moment, it was clear how deeply the scars ran.

The revolutionary set exchanged quiet glances, a silent understanding passing between them. They could now see why Alexander had always been so hesitant, so guarded when it came to forming close relationships. His fear of vulnerability made sense now—how could he trust, when trust had been taken from him so many times before? They looked at Eliza with newfound gratitude, realizing just how much she had become a pillar for him, a light in his life that had begun to heal some of those old wounds.

The General watched Alexander from the corner of his eye, his gaze softening as he took in the young man’s struggle. It stirred something in him—something protective. He thought to himself, once they returned from this campaign, once the dust settled and the future revealed itself, he would be there for Alexander. A steady presence, someone who could be counted on. He didn’t need to adopt him legally; that didn’t matter. What mattered was showing Alexander that family wasn’t always bound by blood, and that no matter what, he would always have a place with him. The thought settled in his chest like a quiet promise. He would be there, as a mentor, as a father figure, if Alexander would allow him, to help him navigate a world that had once turned its back on him.

Left him with nothin' but ruined pride

Somethin' new inside

A voice saying Alex, you gotta fend for yourself

He started retreatin' and readin' every treatise on the shelf

Alexander looked up, his eyes steely with the same unyielding determination that had always defined him. The weight of his past, the vulnerability of the moment, didn’t waver his resolve. "Of course," he said, his voice steady, almost clipped. "It was something I knew I could control." The words held the quiet force of a man who had learned to shape his world, even if it meant holding onto control at all costs.

[BURR & COMPANY]

There would've been nothin' left to do

For someone less astute

He would've been dead and destitute

Without a cent of restitution

Started workin', clerkin' for his late mother's landlord

Tradin' sugar cane and rum and other things he can't afford

Scammin' for every book he can get his hands on

"Pretty sure that’s also illegal," Jefferson spoke up from his seat at the back, his voice smooth but laced with that familiar hint of sarcasm. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes glinting with a knowing smirk. His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the uneasy faces of the group, before settling on the one who had made the questionable suggestion. There was a slight pause, and then, as if to underline his point, he shrugged nonchalantly, clearly unfazed by any tension his words might have caused.

Maddison, sitting beside him, shot him a warning glare and elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Shut up, Jefferson," she hissed under her breath, clearly irritated. But Jefferson just raised an eyebrow and gave her an exaggerated shrug as if to say, I’m just telling the truth .

The air in the room was thickening, and everyone could feel the pressure mounting, but it was John who finally snapped. With a swift motion, he jumped up from his seat, the sharp scrape of his chair against the floor ringing out like a gunshot in the quiet room. His usually calm demeanor was fraying at the edges, his patience finally reaching its limit after hearing enough back-and-forth. His voice, when it came, was sharp and unmistakably irritated. “Enough!” John snapped, his fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight with barely-contained frustration. He glared at Jefferson for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to the others, his posture bristling with barely controlled anger.

The room fell utterly still. Jefferson leaned back in his chair, the smirk slipping off his face for the first time, while Maddison shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The atmosphere had shifted from casual bickering to something far more serious, and it was clear that John was done playing nice.

John’s eyes locked onto Jefferson, and a heavy silence fell over the room as his frustration bubbled over. He stepped forward, his shoulders stiff with anger, his usually calm demeanor cracking under the pressure. He pointed a finger at Jefferson, his voice low but firm. “You think this is a game, Jefferson? You think Alexander had the luxury of picking and choosing his actions? He didn’t get to sit back and judge from the sidelines. He had to do whatever he could to survive. Whatever he could.”

Jefferson leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, the usual smirk on his face faltering as John’s words cut through the room. He wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction. John’s voice was sharper now, each word carrying a weight that seemed to land on everyone in the room.

“He didn’t have time to worry about whether something was legal or not,” John continued, his frustration lacing his words. “He didn’t have the time or the privilege to sit around and analyze every decision. He was trying to survive, to make it out alive. You think he wasn’t smart enough to know the risks? But he did what he had to do, no matter the cost.”

John’s fists clenched at his sides, the tension visible in his jaw. “And yet here you are, acting like you’ve got it all figured out, sitting in the back, making sarcastic comments as if you could do better. You think this is some kind of moral high ground, but you don’t get it, Jefferson. Not everything is as simple as right or wrong. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with truth, and the room was still for a long moment. Jefferson didn’t immediately respond, his eyes narrowing just slightly, and for the first time, there was something more than the usual arrogance in his expression. John’s gaze didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking for approval; he was just telling it how it was.

“Survival’s a lot messier than you think, Jefferson,” John finished, his voice quieter now but still carrying the weight of his frustration. “You can’t just sit back and throw stones from your ivory tower. Not when you’re not the one out there fighting for your life.”

John turned, his heart still pounding with the adrenaline of the moment. His words had hung in the air, sharp and raw, but there was a finality to the way he moved now, like the confrontation had settled deep in his chest. He walked back toward his seat, feeling the weight of Jefferson’s silence press against him, leaving the man at the back of the room stunned, unable to gather his thoughts. John didn’t look back, but he could feel Jefferson's eyes boring into him, that mix of frustration and reluctant understanding.

When John reached his seat, he sank down beside Alexander, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Without thinking, Alexander reached for his hand, taking it in his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. The simple act was grounding—comforting in a way that words couldn’t quite express. John looked at him, the storm still churning in his chest, but the warmth of Alexander’s hand calmed him in a way nothing else could.

"Thank you," Alexander murmured, his voice soft and full of gratitude. His thumb traced small, soothing circles over John's palm, a silent reassurance that John’s words hadn’t gone unnoticed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

John’s gaze softened, his expression shifting from the hard edge of the confrontation to something much more tender. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as he spoke with a tenderness that only Alexander could bring out of him. “I did,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over the back of Alexander’s hand in return. “You didn’t deserve to be put in that position. And I... I wasn’t going to let him keep talking to you like that.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of his words to sink in. John’s fingers tightened around Alexander’s hand, not out of urgency, but out of an unspoken promise. “I’ll always have your back,” he added, his voice full of quiet conviction. “You don’t have to ask.”

Alexander’s eyes softened, his gaze holding John’s with a depth that was both comforting and vulnerable. He didn’t need to say anything more. The warmth in their shared silence was enough to fill the space between them, a silent understanding that needed no further explanation. For a moment, the world outside the two of them felt distant, the noise of the others fading away as they simply existed in that shared moment of connection.

John could feel the tension ebbing away as Alexander gave his hand another gentle squeeze. There was a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, a silent acknowledgment that meant more than any words could express. The storm may have passed for now, but in that quiet, peaceful moment between them, John knew that no matter what came next, they would face it together.

Plannin' for the future, see him now as he stands on (oh)

The bow of a ship headed for a new land

In New York you can be a new man

"Yes. You can, especially when you have wonderful friends who help you," Alexander spoke, his voice soft but full of gratitude, his eyes falling on the group of people surrounding him. He had always been a man of words, but in this moment, the sincerity in his gaze spoke louder than anything he could say. His eyes lingered on each of them—his friends, his family, the people who had stood by him through thick and thin. They weren’t just allies; they were his support, his anchors in a world that often felt chaotic and uncertain.

Eliza was the first to catch his gaze. She gave him a soft, understanding smile, her eyes filled with warmth and quiet strength. She leaned forward just slightly, her hand resting gently on his arm. “We’ll always be here, Alexander,” she said, her voice a calming presence that wrapped around him like a blanket. “No matter what happens, we’re with you.”

Angelica, standing just behind Eliza, arched an eyebrow with a playful smirk. “She’s right, of course,” she added with her characteristic sharpness, though there was a softness to her words that only Alexander could bring out in her. “But don’t forget, we’re here to keep you grounded too. You have a tendency to get a bit... ahead of yourself sometimes.” Her voice was teasing, but there was an underlying affection in it that made Alexander chuckle softly.

Peggy, who had been quiet until now, stood a little off to the side, her eyes full of a quiet strength that often went unnoticed. She stepped forward then, her smile bright and reassuring, and placed a hand on Alexander’s other arm. “And you have us, Alex,” she said, her voice steady and sincere. “You’ve always had us, and we’re not going anywhere. We’re stronger together.”

Alexander felt a swell of emotion rise in his chest at their words, and for a moment, he found it hard to speak. His gaze shifted between them—Eliza, with her unwavering loyalty and grace; Angelica, whose wit and sharpness could cut through any challenge; and Peggy, whose quiet strength was the glue that held so many things together. They weren’t just his friends. They were the people who had helped shape him, who had kept him going even when he felt like he couldn’t keep moving forward.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he squeezed both of their hands in return. “I don’t say it enough, but I’m so grateful for all of you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't know where I'd be without you."

Eliza smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she gave him a gentle squeeze. "You don't have to say it, Alex," she said with a softness that was all Eliza. "We know."

Angelica, ever the one to make light of things, gave a playful roll of her eyes. “Honestly, it’s a little too much sweetness in one room for me. But,” she added with a wink, “I guess I’ll make an exception... for you, Hamilton.”

Peggy laughed quietly, shaking her head at her sisters’ antics. “I think we all know that no matter what happens, we’ve got each other’s backs," she said, her voice light but strong with conviction. “And that’s all that really matters.”

The room felt lighter, the weight of the earlier tension dissipating like smoke in the air. Alexander looked at each of them again, feeling a deep sense of gratitude wash over him. It wasn’t just that they had helped him through the storm, it was that they always did. They were more than just friends; they were his family, his home in a world that often felt too big and too overwhelming.

"You're right," Alexander finally said, his voice softer now, but full of warmth. "I don’t think I could do this without you."

Eliza gave him a bright smile, her eyes twinkling with a light that seemed to reflect back at him. “Then don’t,” she said, her tone light but grounded. “You don’t have to do anything alone anymore, Alexander.”

And in that moment, with his friends surrounding him, Alexander knew that no matter what came next, he would never truly be alone again.

[COMPANY & HAMILTON]

In New York, you can be a new man (Just you wait)

In New York, you can be a new man (Just you wait)

In New York, you can be a new man

[WOMEN & MEN]

In New York (New York)

[ALEXANDER HAMILTON]

Just you wait

[COMPANY]

Alexander Hamilton (Alexander Hamilton)

We are waiting in the wings for you (Waiting in the wings for you)

You could never back down

You never learned to take your time

Washington's voice was steady, but there was an undeniable warmth beneath the firmness as he addressed Alexander. His gaze was unyielding, yet there was something softer in his eyes—a quiet recognition of all the weight Alexander carried on his shoulders. "We know," he began, the words deliberate and measured, "You are a constant force. You never stop."

Alexander, who had been shifting in his seat, adjusting to the quiet tension of the room, paused at those words. He straightened slightly, his brow furrowing, as if the statement was both a compliment and a challenge he hadn’t expected. Washington’s eyes never wavered from him, and there was an unspoken understanding in that gaze, a knowing that Alexander, for all his brilliance, never seemed to slow down. It was a pattern, something that had shaped him over the years—the relentless drive to move forward, to fix things, to make everything work, without ever allowing himself the space to simply breathe .

“You never learned to take your time, Hamilton,” Washington continued, his voice quieter now, but still filled with that hard-earned wisdom nodding towards the now paused screen. “You’re always moving, always pushing forward, and while that’s admirable—it’s also dangerous. You burn yourself out, and sometimes, you forget to see the bigger picture.”

Alexander swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling over him. He could feel the truth of them like a knot in his chest, tight and unforgiving. He had always been a man of action—ever since he could remember, he had lived with an urgency to prove himself, to be more than just another orphaned immigrant. His ambition had always been a driving force, but in the rush to achieve, he had often left behind pieces of himself, pieces that mattered just as much as the work he’d done.

He shifted his gaze to Washington, seeing the older man not just as a mentor, but as a father figure, it scared him. Washington had seen it all—his own share of burdens, the weight of leading others through war and peace, and the toll it had taken. Alexander had always admired that steadiness, that ability to maintain a sense of calm in the face of chaos, but there was a quiet sadness in Washington’s eyes now, a reflection of the cost of carrying so much without rest.

“I know I can be... relentless,” Alexander finally said, his voice tight, though he wasn’t entirely sure how to explain himself. “I just... feel like there’s so much to do. And so little time to do it.”

Washington nodded slowly, his expression softening just slightly. “I understand that, son. I do. But you’re not invincible. And the world won’t stop for you if you burn yourself out trying to keep up with it.”

The room grew quieter, the others taking in Washington’s words. Eliza, who had been watching quietly, moved a little closer, her presence a comforting anchor. She placed a hand gently on Alexander’s arm, offering him the kind of reassurance that only she could.

“You don’t have to do it all at once, Alex,” she said softly, her voice a balm to the rawness of the moment. “We’re all here to help you. You don’t have to carry everything on your shoulders alone.”

But Alexander, ever the stubborn soul, shook his head slightly, his jaw tightening. “It’s hard to know when to stop,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I’ve been pushing my whole life... I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Washington sighed, the weight of years in his voice as he leaned back slightly. “You don’t have to stop, Hamilton. You just need to learn when to pause. When to take a step back. You’ve already done so much, but you can’t keep going without giving yourself a chance to breathe. Even the strongest engines need oil to run.”

There was a long pause, the gravity of Washington’s words sinking in, but Alexander couldn’t help the flicker of something inside him. Something that had always been there—a drive, a hunger to keep going, to keep fighting for something better. It wasn’t just ambition—it was the fear that if he stopped, even for a moment, everything he had worked for would slip through his fingers.

“I’m afraid if I slow down, I’ll fall behind,” Alexander murmured, his voice almost lost to the weight of the room.

Washington's expression softened, and he placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. “You’re not falling behind, son. You’re just human. You don’t have to do it all at once. You’ve already done more than enough.”

For a moment, the room seemed to breathe with them—an exhale of shared understanding. Alexander felt the smallest shift within himself, the heavy burden on his chest lightening just a little. Maybe, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his own. Maybe, just maybe, there was room to take his time.

Oh, Alexander Hamilton (Alexander Hamilton)

America Sings for you

Do they know what you overcame?

Do they know you rewrote the game?

The world will never be the same, oh

A smile slowly appeared on Alexander’s face, one that started at the corners of his lips and spread across his features like the first rays of sunlight after a storm. His violet-blue eyes began to sparkle, a glint of excitement dancing in them as he looked up, unable to fully hide the surge of pride rising within him. “Did I really have that much impact?” he asked, his voice softer, filled with a quiet wonder.

There was a long pause, the room almost holding its breath as if waiting for the right words to come. Then, the voice spoke again—gentle, steady, and sure, as if carrying the weight of an unspoken truth. “You did.”

“I’m sure you did many great things son” 

“Notcha son” Alex responded instantly to the familial phrase.

[BURR & COMPANY]

The ship is in the harbor now

See if you can spot him (Just you wait)

Another immigrant comin' up from the bottom (Just you wait)

His enemies destroyed his rep, America forgot him

“Enemies?” Alexander questioned, his voice laced with both confusion and a hint of skepticism as he scanned the room, his eyes searching for a clue to the mystery. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation as his gaze flicked over each face, wondering if they held the answers. “All will be explained,” the voice reassured, calm and steady, yet carrying an undertone of finality, as if it were certain the pieces would fall into place soon enough.

Before Alexander could respond, Jefferson spoke up, his voice cutting through the growing tension. It was the first time anyone had heard from him since John had lost his patience earlier. “I do not believe, considering we are watching a musical about his life, he was forgotten,” Jefferson remarked with a dry wit, his tone pointed, but for once, his words held a measure of agreement from the group.

The room seemed to pause, most of them nodding in silent agreement. Even Alexander couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. For the first time, Jefferson’s sharp edge seemed more like a knife sharpening the truth, and the room, usually divided, seemed united in this one sentiment.

The voice returned, its tone matter-of-fact and yet somehow comforting. “Unfortunately, due to events which will be shown later in the show, Alexander’s legacy began to fade. However, Lin-Manuel Miranda read a biography written about his life and created this musical. The show was a worldwide success and reinstated Alexander and his lifetime legacy in its rightful glory.”

The explanation lingered in the air, and for a moment, Alexander felt a rush of emotions he wasn’t sure how to process. His mind raced with thoughts of a world where his name had nearly disappeared into the ether, only to be resurrected by a song, by a performance. It was surreal, almost unbelievable, the truth seemed both simple and overwhelming. The weight of his legacy, and how it had slipped away, left him feeling both small and strangely honored by the way it had been reclaimed.

As the voice faded out, Alexander glanced around, seeing that the others—those who had been part of his journey—were as stunned as he was. He could only imagine what they were thinking, but one thing was certain: the impact of his life, though nearly forgotten, was being celebrated in a way he could never have anticipated. The thought both humbled and excited him in equal measure.

[MULLIGAN/MADISON & LAFAYETTE/JEFFERSON]

We, fought with him

“Oh, that is very interesting,” Lafayette remarked, his eyes bright with curiosity as he pointed to the program in his hands. He focused on the actor who played both Jefferson and himself, the quirk of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Look, it says that the same actor plays both Jefferson and I. I would guess, mon petit lion, that there is a double meaning in those words—” His voice trailed off with a knowing glance at Jefferson, clearly amused by the choice of a single actor to portray both the French and American figures.

Alexander, listening intently, nodded thoughtfully as the pieces seemed to fall into place. “James and you, Laf, fought beside me... And guessing from the atmosphere with Madison and Jefferson, I’d guess they fought with me as well,” he mused, piecing together the relationships and tensions he knew so well. The dynamics of the revolution and the political battles felt alive in the air as they spoke.

Jefferson, who had been unusually quiet up until now, finally nodded with a slight, almost imperceptible smirk. “Yes, you are a really insufferable person,” he said, his words laced with his usual sharpness, but there was a flicker of amusement behind them, as if he couldn’t help but acknowledge the truth in Alexander’s observation.

John, who had been bristling with frustration ever since the earlier exchange with Jefferson, stood up, his posture rigid as he seemed ready to take the conversation into his own hands once again. However, before he could get any further, Washington’s calm yet commanding presence filled the room.

Washington, who had been silently observing the tension between the group, stepped forward with a quiet authority that had always carried weight. His eyes, firm but not unkind, fell on Jefferson first, and then on John, who paused mid-motion, recognizing that the general’s words would hold more power than any of his own.

“Hold on, John,” Washington said, his voice steady and deep, the kind that demanded attention without raising in volume. He looked at Jefferson, his brow furrowing slightly but with the understanding of years spent in battle and in leadership. “Thomas,” Washington began, his tone careful but pointed, “Alexander, may be insufferable at times, but that doesn't mean the rest of us haven’t had to endure the same things from you..”

Jefferson’s eyes flicked to Washington, and for a moment, the usual defiance in his gaze softened, just a little. There was an unspoken acknowledgment that Washington’s words carried weight—more than any of them could argue with. Even John, who had been moments away from standing, seemed to pause and reconsider, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

Alexander watched, his mind whirling with the dynamics in play. Washington had a way of silencing the room without even raising his voice, and it was clear that, despite their differences, everyone respected him. Jefferson, for all his sharp wit and pride, found himself momentarily subdued by the power of Washington’s experience.

Lafayette, still leaning forward with a playful grin, looked at Alexander, his eyes sparkling with the energy of someone who loved a good debate but understood when it was time to step back. “Ah, mon ami,” Lafayette said, his smile widening as he leaned in to whisper to Alexander, “It seems you are not the only one who can be insufferable, no?”

Alexander couldn’t help but smile back, the tension in the room easing just a little as the exchange between Washington, Jefferson, and John settled into a quieter, more reflective space. Even Jefferson, despite his usual quick retorts, stayed quiet for a moment, as if thinking over Washington’s words.

[LAURENS/PHILIP]

Me, I died for him

Alexander’s eyes widened in panic as he watched the actor switch seamlessly between John and Phillip on stage. His heart raced, the recognition of the same actor playing both roles hitting him like a sudden shock. “No!” The word tore from his throat, a desperate, pleading sound. His eyes flickered back and forth between the two, the raw fear in his gaze unmistakable. “No, please, you can’t die!” His voice cracked, a sob escaping before he could choke it back. Tears began to fall freely, his body trembling violently with each sob. The emotional storm inside him mirrored Eliza, who sat beside him, her face pale with distress. One hand instinctively covered her stomach protectively, while the other clutched Phillip’s hand tightly, her grip fierce and unwavering. Phillip, too, had been watching the show in silence, but now his own eyes were filled with emotion as he stared at the scene unfolding before them.

John, seeing Alexander’s growing panic, didn’t hesitate. He sprang into action, his hands reaching out to gently but firmly cup Alexander’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Alex,” he said, his voice steady and low, trying to cut through the chaos of Alexander’s racing thoughts. “Breathe. Phillip and I are both still alive. We’re watching this show to change our future, so we can stop our deaths, Alexander. Breathe for me, darling—” The word slipped out, soft and soothing, as John’s panic began to mirror Alexander’s. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was holding him, his hands trembling with a fear that hadn’t surfaced until he saw how erratic Alexander’s breathing had become. The sharp, uneven rise and fall of Alexander’s chest made his heart race, but John held him closer, anchoring him with his warmth.

It wasn’t until Alexander’s breath began to settle, the ragged gasps gradually giving way to deeper, more even inhales, that John noticed how closely they were pressed together. The frantic tremors in Alexander’s body started to ease, and the moment their breathing synchronized, John felt a slight shift in the tension that had gripped them both. Alexander, still clinging to John’s steady presence, slowly pulled away, his hands trembling as he lifted them to his face to wipe away the remaining tears.

Looking up, Alexander’s gaze fell on Eliza, who had found comfort in her sisters’ arms. The three Schuyler women were wrapped around each other, holding onto each other as if their shared love was the only thing keeping the world from falling apart. Phillip, too, was held close, his presence a grounding force in the storm of emotions swirling around them. The sight of them, together and alive, filled Alexander with a quiet sense of relief, a gentle reminder that they could still rewrite the future, that the pain he was witnessing was not inevitable.

He stood, his legs shaky but determined, moving toward them with urgency. Without a word, he joined the embrace, enveloping them all in a tight, desperate hug, as if clinging to the simple truth that they were still here. They were still alive, still together. Alexander pulled John into the circle too, his arms tightening around them all as if to reassure himself, needing the confirmation that their bond was unbreakable, that this wasn’t how it was meant to end. His heart still raced, but now it was filled with something more—something between hope and determination. They would change the future. They would change it.

“I believe it important to add before we continue that sodomy is no longer a crime and is indeed now referred to as homosexuality where two people of the same sex have a romantic and/or sexual relationship. It must also be known that any person who may use information gained from today to harm others in the room will have all potentially dangerous information wiped from their memories”

Alex and John exchanged a quiet, intense look, something unspoken passing between them—a shared understanding of the raw emotions they were both experiencing. It was in the way their gazes held each other, lingering just a little too long, as if trying to anchor themselves in a world that felt suddenly too uncertain. Eliza, ever perceptive, noticed the silent exchange. With a soft, knowing smile, she sat down next to Alex, wrapping an arm around him, drawing him in closer to her warmth. Leaning in toward his ear, her voice was playful but gentle. “If it makes you feel better,” she whispered, her breath soft against his skin, “I find John rather beautiful myself.”

Alex blinked in surprise, his cheeks flushing slightly, a laugh bubbling up in his chest despite the heavy emotions still swirling within him. Eliza’s teasing lightened the moment, offering a glimpse of levity in the midst of everything, and Alex couldn’t help but smile at her effortlessly disarming charm.

[WASHINGTON]

Me, I trusted him

“And I always will, son,” Washington spoke, his voice low and steady, filled with the weight of years spent as both a mentor and a father figure to Alexander. The words hung in the air, filled with the kind of unconditional care that only Washington could offer.

Alexander’s chest tightened, his heart aching at the familiar word. “Please, General, do not call me son,” he replied, his voice trembling slightly, a tinge of sadness and pleading lacing his words. There was a vulnerability in his plea, a deep longing for something he had lost long ago, something that still haunted him. He glanced at Washington, eyes brimming with unspoken emotions, caught between the comfort of the bond and the ache of knowing what that type of bond had cost him his entire life.

[ELIZA, ANGELICA & PEGGY/MARIA]

Me, I loved him

“Why are there three of us?” Eliza asked, her voice filled with confusion as she glanced between Angelica, Peggy, and the unfolding drama on stage. Her brow furrowed slightly, and her gaze flicked back to the program in her hands.

“I’ve always loved Alexander as a brother,” both Angelica and Peggy spoke in unison, their words carrying a deep sense of familial affection. Eliza’s eyes darted from the two of them to the program once again, her fingers tracing the lines printed on the page. “It says that the actress who plays Peggy also plays Miss Maria Reynolds? Who is she?” she asked, her tone laced with curiosity, but there was something else—something heavier—in her voice.

Eliza’s eyes met Alexander’s, sadness clouding her expression, but he met her gaze with an unwavering resolve, his brow set with determination. “Eliza, I would never. I promise,” he said firmly, his voice gentle but strong, a quiet conviction in the words.

Eliza seemed to hesitate, her eyes searching his face for any sign of doubt, but after a long moment, she nodded slowly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. There was no question in his eyes, and though her heart ached with the weight of their past, she knew he would never betray her.

[BURR]

And me, I'm the damn fool that shot him

“What?!” Everyone shouted in unison, the shock reverberating through the room like an electric pulse. Eliza’s breath caught, her face crumpling as tears began to spill down her cheeks. Her sisters, seeing her distress, immediately moved to surround her, their arms offering her comfort as they shot Burr dangerous, venomous glares. The room buzzed with tension, an undercurrent of fury that seemed to crackle in the air.

Alexander’s face had gone pale, his body frozen in disbelief. His eyes were wide, searching Burr for any sign of hatred, any shred of malice that could explain the accusation. He couldn’t quite comprehend what had just been said, the weight of the words pressing down on him like a heavy stone. Was it truly possible? Could Burr, someone he had once called a colleague, really be behind such a vile act?

The group of revolutionaries, including John, who had pulled himself from Alexander’s embrace in a flurry of motion, surged to their feet in unison, anger and protective instinct flaring up. They were ready to pounce, fists clenched, eyes flashing with rage, but Jefferson and Madison remained where they were, stunned into silence. The look on their faces was one of disbelief, as if they were unable to fully process what had just been revealed. Moments before Lafayette, John, and Hercules could make contact with Burr, Washington stood, his commanding presence filling the space, his voice ringing out with authority. "Men," he called, his tone filled with restrained fury, "I am sure you are very angry right now, but physically harming Lieutenant Burr will only make things worse. Trust me, I am just as angry as you are."

Burr, for the first time, looked genuinely aghast. His mouth opened and closed in shock, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had been said either. “I—I would never do that, Alexander!” he stammered, his eyes wide with desperation. “I may not like you, but—” He paused, swallowing hard as he seemed to grasp for some shred of dignity. “To shoot you? I could never.”

His words, though meant to calm the rising storm, hung in the air uncertainly. A palpable tension remained, like a stormcloud that had yet to dissipate, as everyone in the room struggled to reconcile the man they thought they knew with the betrayal that had just been unveiled.

[COMPANY]

There's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait

[BURR]

Whats ya name man?

[COMPANY]

ALEXANDER HAMILTON

“Wow, that was…” Eliza paused, her voice trembling slightly as she searched for a word that could possibly encapsulate the whirlwind of emotions they had just experienced. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the stunned faces, the quiet breaths, the weight of everything they had just learned settling on each of them. “Intense?” she suggested finally, though it didn’t quite seem to do it justice.

“Powerful?” Angelica chimed in, her tone steady but laced with an emotion that hadn’t been there before.

“Saddening?” Lafayette added his voice trailing off as he processed the depth of what they’d witnessed.

Everyone nodded in agreement, each word adding to the weight of the atmosphere. The room was still humming with the remnants of the song, the truths it had revealed, and the shock that lingered in the air. It felt as though they were all collectively trying to catch their breath, trying to come to terms with everything that had just been thrown at them.

“That was surprising,” Peggy finally spoke up again, her voice small but clear. Everyone around her nodded again, as if the one word that encapsulated their shared confusion and disbelief was surprising . Even in the aftermath, it was clear that no one had seen what had just unfolded coming. The revelations were enough to shake them to their core.

The room fell silent for a moment, each person processing in their own way. And then, as if on cue, the voice returned—its familiar, soothing cadence filling the space.

“I hope you enjoyed the first song,” it said, offering a brief respite from the emotional intensity. “There are some refreshments at the back of the room if you’d like them, and restrooms to your left. You can access these whenever you wish, but I recommend waiting for the interval so as not to miss anything.”

The voice lingered, and the hum of conversation began to die down as the group turned toward the back of the room, grateful for a moment to collect themselves. The weight of the show still hung in the air, but now there was the faintest flicker of anticipation for what would come next. The promise of more to come, after the brief pause, was enough to stir a quiet restlessness in the room. They were ready for the next chapter, even if they weren’t quite sure what it would hold.

Chapter Text

[COMPANY]

1776. New York City

“Is that not when mon petit lion arrived in America and we met him?” Lafayette asked, his voice light but filled with curiosity as he turned to Alexander, a playful glint in his eye. He gestured vaguely, as if trying to piece together the timeline in his mind, remembering the days when they had first crossed paths.

Alexander nodded slowly, his expression growing thoughtful. “Yes, it seems like so long ago,” he said softly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. His eyes wandered as if trying to recall the very first moment he had stepped onto this new land, full of ambition and hope, not knowing how much his life would change. “So much has happened since I met you all,” he added, his words heavy with the weight of history. He thought of the countless battles fought, the friendships forged, the losses endured.

His gaze shifted then, moving toward Eliza, his heart swelling with affection. A loving smile spread across his face, soft and sincere, as if all the tumult of the past had somehow led him to this one moment with her. Eliza, meeting his eyes, responded with a smile of her own—quick and genuine, her eyes reflecting the deep love she had for him, a bond that had only grown stronger with time. It was a look shared between two people who had seen the worst of the world and yet found peace in each other.

For a brief moment, the room seemed to fade around them, the quiet exchange between Alexander and Eliza becoming a silent reaffirmation of everything they had been through together. It was as though all the chaos of the world couldn’t touch them, their love a steady, unwavering anchor in the midst of the storm. A promise that upon returning back to their time he would return a victor.

[HAMILTON]

Pardon me. Are you Aaron Burr, sir?

Alexander let out a small groan, pressing his hands to his forehead as the weight of the past hit him all at once. The realization of what would happen next seemed to wash over him, the memories crashing in a wave of regret. “Oh, I was like a small child upon meeting you, Burr,” he muttered, a half-hearted chuckle escaping him as he shook his head at his younger, naive self.

Burr, his expression unreadable, responded with a curt nod, the edges of his lips tight. “And I believed you to be some stalker who was planning on harming me in some way,” he said, his words flat but laced with an underlying tension. It was a quiet admission, revealing how differently their first meeting had been perceived by each of them—two men, on opposite sides of a growing conflict, both seeing the other through a lens of fear and suspicion.

[BURR]

That depends. Who’s asking?

"Would your answer have changed depending on Hamilton’s response, Burr?" Jefferson asked, his voice carrying an air of both curiosity and challenge. He studied the other man intently, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the sincerity of the response that might follow. The question hung in the air, heavy with the implications of their bitter rivalry and the larger political landscape at play.

Burr hesitated for a moment, his expression unreadable, then gave a small shrug, a gesture that seemed to convey more than mere indifference. "I—I don’t know," he replied, his voice softer than Jefferson might have expected, yet tinged with an undercurrent of frustration. His words were neither dismissive nor fully revealing; it was as though he himself was uncertain, caught between the political gamesmanship they both played and the personal feelings that had become tangled within their ongoing conflict.

Jefferson, who had known Burr for years, couldn’t help but feel the weight of the silence that followed. Was Burr truly unsure, or was this his way of avoiding the question, sidestepping a conversation that might expose too much? Jefferson’s mind raced, contemplating whether this was a moment of honesty or simply another layer of Burr’s carefully crafted political persona. The question wasn’t just about Hamilton—it was about Burr himself, and perhaps, for once, the mask had slipped just enough for Jefferson to glimpse the real man beneath.

[HAMILTON]

Oh, well, sure, sir

I’m Alexander Hamilton, I’m at your service, sir

I have been looking for you

"Alexander, that sounds like you’ve been stalking the poor man," Washington said, his voice carrying a light scolding tone, though there was a hint of amusement behind it. His gaze rested on Hamilton, a mixture of concern and mild disapproval in his eyes. It was a rare thing for Washington to show much beyond stoic authority, but the edge of humor in his reprimand betrayed his fondness for his young protege.

Hamilton, however, wasn’t one to back down easily. He met Washington’s eyes with a steady, unwavering gaze, a challenge simmering just beneath the surface. “I was not stalking him, General," he replied sharply, his words carrying a tone of frustration, but also a defense of his actions. "I was simply looking for some simple guidance from him." His jaw tightened slightly as he spoke, as if defending his pursuit of Burr wasn’t just about seeking advice—it was about something deeper, something he hadn’t yet shared with anyone, least of all Washington.

The atmosphere between them shifted slightly, but before it could deepen into something more serious, John, who had been quietly observing the exchange, reached over and gripped Alexander’s hand. He tucked it subtly between them, a gesture of quiet support in a room that buzzed with the kind of tense, political energy only those entrenched in the power struggle of the time could fully appreciate.

Leaning in close, just enough so that only Alexander could hear, John whispered with a soft, conspiratorial smile, “And I am so glad you did…” His words were low, his breath warm against Hamilton’s ear. 

Alexander’s response was a subtle shift in his posture, a small exhale of relief. For a moment, the weight of the world around them seemed to lighten, and he allowed himself the briefest glimpse of satisfaction.

[BURR]

I’m getting nervous

“I would be too,” Peggy chimed in, her voice cutting through the tension with an edge of dry humor. She crossed her arms and leaned slightly forward, her gaze fixed on Burr, not with the warmth she often reserved for her friends, but with a measured coolness that left little room for ambiguity. The events of the past were still fresh in the minds of those gathered, and her tone made it clear that her opinion of Burr hadn’t softened in the slightest since the revelations about his actions. The air between them seemed to thicken with her words, the reminder of his past transgressions hanging heavily in the room.

Angelica, who had been quiet up until that point, shifted her stance slightly, the fire in her eyes reigniting at the mere mention of Burr’s name. Her expression hardened, and there was no mistaking the depth of her animosity toward him. The revelation of Burr's involvement in the duel that had left Alexander Hamilton dead was a wound that had not healed, and it seemed unlikely that it ever would. Angelica's sharp, intelligent mind had already judged him, and there was no mercy in her gaze.

“If you were not,” Angelica added, her voice cutting through the silence with a biting, almost sarcastic tone, “I would be questioning your sanity, Burr.” She leaned in slightly, her posture a subtle challenge, daring him to defend himself or offer an excuse for his past actions. Her words were not just a critique—they were a condemnation. The venom behind them was the culmination of years of strained relationships, political scheming, and the devastating loss of someone who had once been family, someone Angelica had loved and admired.

Burr, for all his usual composure, seemed to shrink under the weight of their words. His gaze flickered briefly between Peggy and Angelica, the latter’s sharp eyes cutting deeper than any blade could. He had faced countless political enemies in his life, but this was something different—this was personal. And while he was known for his carefully controlled demeanor, the sting of their judgment seemed to pierce him more than he cared to admit.

The silence that followed Angelica’s words was thick with unspoken histories, with the ghosts of past mistakes that none of them were willing to let go of just yet. Burr didn’t respond immediately, his lips pressed into a tight line, as though weighing the consequences of saying anything at all. And though he stood there, facing them both with a stiff posture, there was a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes—a fleeting recognition of just how far he had fallen in their regard for something he promised himself he would change. 

[HAMILTON]

Sir…

I heard your name at Princeton. I was seeking an accelerated course of study when I got sort of out of sorts with a buddy of yours. I may have punched him. It’s a blur, sir. He handles the financials?

“Alexander Hamilton! I hope this too is another case of artistic license!” Eliza exclaimed, her voice rising in a mix of disbelief and concern. Her eyes widened, her hand instinctively reaching for the edges of her skirts as though to steady herself. The shock was evident in her face, her brows furrowed in a way that made her look more concerned than angry, though there was no mistaking her disapproval. “You cannot have punched the bursar of Princeton College,” she continued, her tone a blend of exasperation and genuine worry. She wasn’t sure which was worse—the fact that Alexander might actually have done such a thing, or that he would be so cavalier about admitting it.

Washington, standing just a few paces away, let out a long, drawn-out sigh, one that only those who knew him well would recognize as a sign of resignation. It wasn’t so much that he was surprised; it was more that, deep down, he knew Hamilton’s tendency to act rashly when he felt slighted. The air of regret that surrounded Alexander in that moment was unmistakable to the General—he had seen it before in the younger man. There was a certain vulnerability to Hamilton when he was caught in his own misjudgments, but also an undercurrent of pride, the kind of pride that could drive a man to do things he’d later regret—things he wasn’t always willing to admit.

Washington, the elder statesman who had spent years trying to temper Alexander’s impulsive nature, knew all too well how the man reacted when people underestimated him. Hamilton had a fire that could be ignited by the smallest of insults, and once that spark was lit, it often led to actions he’d later wish he could undo. But the damage, once done, was impossible to take back.

Alexander, for his part, stood frozen for a moment, his hands twitching at his sides as if to physically restrain himself from defending his actions. His lips parted, but no immediate response came. His eyes darted from Eliza’s wide, expectant gaze to Washington’s knowing stare. He could already hear the disappointment in both their unspoken judgments, and it was a feeling he was all too familiar with. The idea that he had lost the respect of those closest to him, even over something as petty as a moment of rashness, unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

“I—I do not know what to say to you, Eliza…” His voice trailed off, low and almost apologetic, though it lacked the conviction that would have come with a true apology. It was more of an admission of his own internal conflict than anything else—a realization that, while he was often driven by his passions and convictions, those same qualities could sometimes lead him down paths he wasn’t proud of.

Eliza’s expression softened slightly, her shock giving way to a mixture of concern and the quiet frustration that came from loving someone who was constantly fighting against his own nature. She was used to Alexander’s fervor, his brilliance, and his unrelenting ambition—but it was moments like these, when his stubbornness led him to clash with those around him, that wore her down. Her voice, when it came, was gentler, though still tinged with the kind of quiet reproach that only she could deliver.

“Alexander, you cannot go around… punching people. You’re better than that. You’ve always been better than that,” she said, her words weighted with a love that sought not to shame him, but to remind him of the man he could be.

Washington watched the exchange, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He knew that Alexander would not easily let go of the pride that had driven him to make rash decisions. But there was hope in his heart that, in time, Hamilton would come to understand that true strength lay not in confronting every slight with a fist, but in knowing when to stand down.”

For now, though, the room was filled with the kind of silence that spoke volumes—an unspoken understanding that while Hamilton’s actions were often driven by a desire to prove himself, it was his ability to listen and learn from those who cared about him that would shape his future.

[BURR]

You punched the bursar

“Oh, Alex…” Washington murmured softly, the words carrying an unspoken weight. His voice, though calm, held the hint of weariness, the kind that came from years of watching Hamilton’s brilliant, but often reckless, determination lead him down difficult paths. Washington’s gaze softened as he looked at the younger man, not with anger, but with a deep, almost fatherly concern. It was a look that spoke of experience, of battles fought and lessons learned the hard way, and of a long history of trying to guide someone who, despite his brilliance, often allowed his temper and pride to cloud his better judgment.

Alexander, caught under the weight of Washington's gaze, shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders tight and his jaw clenched. He had grown accustomed to the General’s scrutinizing stare over the years, but today, it was different. There was something more in Washington’s eyes—a mixture of disappointment and something else, something gentler, almost sorrowful. It was clear that the latest reveal of Hamilton’s outburst, his rashness with the bursar, had struck a chord with Washington, not just as his commander, but as a mentor, someone who had taken the young man under his wing, believing in him even when the world seemed set against him.

For a long moment, Hamilton didn’t speak. He simply met Washington’s gaze, the words of defense caught in his throat. A flicker of regret crossed his features, barely perceptible but undeniable. It was an expression that seemed foreign to him—Alexander Hamilton, never one to show weakness, never one to admit fault. But there it was, written clearly on his face: a brief but genuine recognition that perhaps he had taken things too far, that his pride had once again gotten the best of him.

The silence between them was thick, filled with the weight of everything unsaid. Washington, ever the patient leader, gave Hamilton time to gather himself, knowing all too well how hard it was for the younger man to acknowledge his own missteps. The General had seen this before—the impulsive decisions, the quick temper—and yet, he still held out hope that Alexander would one day come to understand the delicate balance between ambition and restraint.

Hamilton’s fingers twitched at his sides as if battling an internal struggle, the constant tug-of-war between his fierce drive and his growing sense of remorse. Finally, his voice, when it came, was quiet, almost hesitant. “I didn’t mean for it to escalate like that, sir. I…I lost control.” The words hung between them, not a full apology but an admission of his own inability to temper his emotions in the heat of the moment.

Washington’s expression softened even further, his shoulders lowering as he regarded the younger man with a mixture of empathy and understanding. “I know you didn’t, Alex,” he said gently, his tone a balm to Hamilton’s raw nerves. “But sometimes… you must learn to choose your battles, and not all slights require a fight.” There was a quiet wisdom in the General’s voice, born of years of war, leadership, and the careful art of diplomacy. Washington had learned the hard way that not every conflict needed to be met with force; some required patience, others, restraint.

Hamilton nodded slowly, the weight of the General’s words settling over him like a quiet storm. He had always been driven by a need to prove himself, to show the world that he was not to be underestimated, but it was moments like these, when Washington’s steady influence nudged him toward humility, that reminded him of the finer qualities of leadership that he still struggled to fully grasp.

The silence that followed was more comfortable now, the tension in the air dissipating just a little. Though Hamilton’s pride had taken a hit, the unspoken bond between him and Washington was something he cherished, even if it was not always easy to accept the guidance that came with it. He looked at Washington one last time, this time with something a little different in his eyes—a mix of gratitude and humility. For all his ambition, Alexander Hamilton knew that the General’s wisdom was a rare gift, one that not even his formidable intellect could replace.

[HAMILTON]

Yes!

I wanted to do what you did. Graduate in two, then join the revolution. He looked at me like I was stupid, I’m not stupid

Behind the group, Jefferson snorted dismissively, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched Hamilton stand there, his head slightly lowered in quiet contemplation. “Are you sure about that one?” Jefferson called out with a mocking tone, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It doesn’t seem that way, given the previous conversation. I could have easily been fooled.” His words were sharp and calculated, aimed squarely at Alexander, as though trying to draw blood with his wit. Jefferson’s tendency to needle Hamilton was well known, and in this moment, it was no different. The historical rivalries between them were layered with a deep, personal contempt, and Jefferson seemed all too eager to remind Hamilton of his previous transgressions.

As Jefferson spoke, Alexander's head dipped slightly, a gesture that betrayed his discomfort. It wasn’t just that Jefferson’s comment stung—it was the fact that he had been caught in a moment of weakness, something that Hamilton rarely allowed others to witness. The weight of the situation—the lingering regret and the knowledge that Jefferson was watching, waiting for him to falter—was enough to make Alexander feel the burn of humiliation creeping up his neck.

But before Hamilton could fully retreat into the silence of his own internal struggle, a voice cut through the tension, sharp and defiant.

“Enough, Thomas,” came a voice from beside Hamilton—John Laurens stepped forward with a confident stride, his posture straight and his eyes blazing with an intensity that could match Jefferson’s own sharpness. “You’ve made your point. But your words are nothing more than cheap shots at a man who’s already been through more than you’ll ever understand.”

Laurens' words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken history between the two men. He had seen Alexander throw himself into doing whatever he could to defend their nation against the redcoats. Laurens knew Hamilton better than almost anyone, and he wasn’t about to let Jefferson’s biting remarks go unchallenged, especially when they were aimed at a man who had fought so fiercely to carve out his place in the world.

Jefferson turned slightly, arching an eyebrow as if surprised by the sudden intervention. He was accustomed to being the one who had the last word, the one whose verbal jabs could bring even the most steadfast men to their knees. But Laurens was different—his loyalty to Hamilton was unwavering, and his sharp tongue could be just as dangerous as Jefferson’s.

“I’m not here for your theatrics, Laurens,” Jefferson sneered, but there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes. He knew that John Laurens, with all his fiery passion and youthful energy, wasn’t someone to take lightly. Jefferson’s words faltered for a moment, as if he were calculating how far to push before Laurens would turn the tables on him.

Laurens didn’t hesitate. “You think you know him, Thomas, but you don’t,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “Hamilton’s made mistakes, yes. But who among us hasn’t? He’s not the perfect man you’ve crafted in your mind, but neither are you. He doesn’t deserve your mockery, not now, not ever.” His gaze was unwavering as he turned to Alexander, offering him a look of silent reassurance, the kind of bond that only true friends could share.

Alexander, who had been silently absorbing the sharp barbs from Jefferson, lifted his head slightly, meeting Laurens' gaze. There was a flicker of appreciation in his eyes, a subtle, almost imperceptible nod of gratitude. Laurens’ defense, though not entirely unexpected, had given Hamilton a small measure of relief. It was rare for anyone to speak so boldly in his defense, especially when Jefferson was so ready to pounce.

Jefferson, who had been ready to deliver another cutting remark, hesitated for a moment, as though weighing his next move. The exchange had shifted, and though he didn’t retreat, the sharpness of his earlier words seemed to lose some of their edge.

Washington, watching the interaction unfold, let out a quiet sigh, both weary and resigned. He had watch the interaction previously between the two men and knew the relationship he would be destined to contain in the future. He was at least grateful that Hamilton’s friends, Laurens especially, were no longer willing to let Jefferson’s criticisms go unchallenged. The room was filled with a quiet tension, but there was also a sense of solidarity—an understanding that despite their differences, the people closest to Alexander would not let him fall without a fight.

Alexander stood a little taller now, the heat of his embarrassment dissipating, replaced by something else: a quiet strength, bolstered by the unwavering loyalty of the people who believed in him. Even as Jefferson’s criticisms lingered in the air, Hamilton knew that this moment of support—this small victory against Jefferson’s verbal daggers—was worth more than any scorn he had received.

And for once, just for this fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel that warmth, that sense of belonging, before his mind once again turned to the future—to the battles yet to come.

So how’d you do it? How’d you graduate so fast?

[BURR]

It was my parents’ dying wish before they passed

Alexander looked at Burr, his eyes wide and sorrowful, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His gaze drifted to Burr, and in that brief second, the years seemed to unravel between them, revealing the fragile history they shared. He thought back to their conversation—so long ago, before the war had torn their lives apart, before the political world had built walls between them. In that moment, they had been two young men, full of ambition and hopes for a future, unburdened by the harsh realities that would soon follow. Alexander remembered the soft, quiet way Burr had spoken of his family back then, the way the loss of his parents had haunted him, even in his youthful silence. It was a grief Alexander had never fully understood—not until now, when he saw the raw edges of it in Burr's eyes, carefully concealed behind layers of deflection.

But Burr didn’t return the sorrow in Alexander’s eyes. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the screen before him, his eyes unblinking, as though he were consciously choosing to shut out everything else in the room. He ignored the glances from the others—those subtle, questioning stares that lingered in the air like unwelcome intruders. No one spoke, the silence growing thicker with each passing second. The weight of their collective attention hung between them, but Burr didn’t acknowledge it. He couldn’t, not without unraveling the fragile control he held over himself.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Burr’s voice broke through the silence. It was quiet, almost flat, but the undercurrent of something much deeper—something much more painful—was unmistakable.

“I do not need your pity,” Burr said, his words slow and deliberate, as if he had rehearsed them for years, waiting for the moment when they would finally leave his mouth. His voice was steady, but there was a hint of something that flickered beneath the surface—a raw edge that betrayed the years of suppressing his emotions, of keeping his grief locked away where no one could see. “They died during my second year on this earth. I do not remember them, or the grief that followed.”

His eyes remained fixed on the screen, his posture rigid, as though he were trying to armor himself from the weight of the words he had just spoken. The room around him seemed to fall away, the tension in the air palpable. It was clear that Burr had never fully allowed anyone into that part of his life—the part where the memory of his parents, the very people who should have shaped him, had long since faded. For him, the grief was a distant, vague presence, something he had never truly confronted, something that had been buried in the years since their deaths. It was almost as if, in distancing himself from that loss, Burr had created an invisible barrier between him and the rest of the world—a way of protecting himself from a past he could neither change nor fully grasp.

Alexander, still holding onto that faint sorrow in his eyes, opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. He understood the need for distance, for keeping those memories at arm's length. But he also understood the deep ache of loss, the kind that never fully goes away, the kind that shapes a person in ways they often don’t realize. His own grief over his father, his mother, even his early struggles as an orphan, had been formative, something he could never shake, no matter how much he tried to move past it.

But Burr’s loss—his inability to even recall his parents, to truly feel the weight of their absence—was something else entirely. It was a kind of emotional numbness, one that could have been both a shield and a prison.

The silence that followed Burr’s words seemed to stretch on endlessly, each person in the room lost in their own thoughts. The others—Jefferson, Laurens, and the others—seemed unsure how to respond, the rawness of Burr’s admission too personal, too profound for them to easily navigate.

Alexander's expression softened, but the conflict inside him was clear. He wanted to offer some kind of comfort, some reassurance, but the words eluded him. How could he offer sympathy to someone who had so carefully closed himself off from it? How could he bridge the chasm that Burr had built around himself, a chasm so deep that no amount of pity or understanding could reach?

Instead, Alexander simply met Burr’s gaze for a moment, his eyes a mixture of regret and something else—an understanding that was fragile, yet unspoken. Perhaps, in some way, Burr had already built his defenses so high that nothing could penetrate them—not even the kindness or sorrow of those around him.

But the silence between them, as heavy as it was, spoke volumes. The two men, both scarred by their pasts, stood on opposite sides of an invisible divide—one built from shared history, but also from personal choices. The walls Burr had built were high, and no one—not even Alexander—could tear them down.

[HAMILTON]

You’re an orphan. Of course! I’m an orphan

John looked at Alexander imploringly, his brow furrowing with concern. “Alexander, is that really the first thing you thought to say?” His voice was soft, as though trying to pull Hamilton back from a thoughtless admission. Before Alexander could respond, Angelica cut in, her tone sharp yet tinged with worry. “Why do you sound so happy about that?” Her gaze lingered on him, eyes searching for some trace of regret or understanding in his words, the tone he used unsettling her.

Alexander shrugged slightly, as if dismissing the weight of the question. “He was an orphan and had succeeded in his goals. I wanted to do the same thing,” he said matter-of-factly, his voice distant, almost detached.

God, I wish there was a war!

Everyone in the room turned toward Alexander, the shock clear on their faces, their expressions a mix of disbelief and concern. It was as though his words had struck a chord none of them had expected. Eliza’s eyes widened, her voice trembling with both frustration and worry. “Why on earth would you wish for a war?” she asked, the words heavy with the weight of her disbelief. “Did you not think of all the people who loved and cared for you? All the lives that would be destroyed?”

Alexander’s gaze dropped to the floor, his expression clouded with something distant, something haunted. When he finally met her eyes, there was a sharp edge of pain beneath his words. “I had no one, Eliza. Not then,” he replied, his voice low, each word carrying the weight of the isolation he had felt in those early days. “Burr was the first person I met upon entering America. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain…”

His words hung in the air, the room filled with the reverberation of his harsh truth. To those who knew him best, the rawness of his emotion was something they rarely saw, yet it was unmistakable now—this was a side of Alexander Hamilton few had glimpsed. He had been driven by ambition and a need to prove himself, but to hear him say he had been devoid of human connection, of love, was a painful revelation.

There was a sense of urgency in Washington’s voice as he stepped closer, his eyes searching his face, pleading with him to understand. “Still, Alexander, you should never wish there was a war, son—”

But before he could finish, Alexander’s voice snapped with a sudden sharpness that startled everyone in the room. “Do not call me son!” he exclaimed, his tone filled with an icy defiance. His eyes were locked on Washington now, his posture tense. “I am not your son, General,” he added, the words bitter in his mouth. It was a rare outburst, one that left the room chilled with the force of his emotion. His pride, so often a driving force in his life, was now a shield he raised high against the affectionate paternalism Washington had always tried to extend toward him.

Washington’s face tightened at the words, a flicker of hurt passing through his usually stoic features. He had always seen Hamilton as a son of sorts, but in that moment, the line between mentor and young soldier had been violently erased. The tension in the room thickened, and the unspoken divide between the two men seemed to stretch further apart, leaving a fragile silence in its wake.

Eliza stood frozen, her heart aching for both of them—her husband caught in the depths of his own pain and pride, and General Washington who had only ever wanted to guide Alexander toward a better path. The room was filled with nothing but the weight of Alexander’s words, the air thick with regret and unspoken understanding.

Then we could prove that we’re worth more

Than anyone bargained for…

“"Oh, Alex…" Eliza’s voice trembled, a soft plea that carried more emotion than she had intended. She took a step closer to him, her gaze filled with a tenderness that was unmistakable. "You are worth so much more than you think." Her words, though gentle, were a quiet plea, an attempt to reach him beyond the walls he had built around himself. The sincerity in her tone was unmistakable, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for Alexander to let his guard down, even just a little.

There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause before the others in the room—John Laurens, Lafayette, even Jefferson—nodded in reluctant agreement, their collective silence speaking volumes. Jefferson, though his pride often made him hold his tongue, could not deny the truth of Eliza's words. The idea that Alexander Hamilton, the ambitious, brilliant young man who had thrown himself into the war with a relentless drive, had ever felt as though he was less than his worth was a painful realization. Despite the sharpness between him and Jefferson, even the seasoned politician couldn't deny the impact Hamilton had had on the revolution. It wasn’t just his intellect or his fierce determination—it was his heart, his unyielding belief that they were all fighting for something greater than themselves.

Washington, standing a little apart from the group, had watched the exchange silently. His own affection for Alexander, his understanding of the boy’s relentless ambition, had always been tinged with a paternal sense of responsibility. He had seen Alexander at his most impetuous, his most brilliant, and his most broken, but in that moment, as he looked at the young man who had stood by him through so much, Washington's voice rang clear and steady, full of the weight of a lifetime of leadership.

“Alexander, you are worth more than anyone to us during this war,” Washington said, his words filled with a quiet intensity that resonated in the silence that followed. It was not just a statement; it was a recognition of all Hamilton had sacrificed—his youth, his health, his very spirit—in the pursuit of a cause larger than himself. The sincerity in Washington’s voice made the room feel even smaller, as though his words were a balm meant to heal the wounds Hamilton had so often tried to hide.

For a moment, Alexander stood frozen, the weight of their words pressing down on him in a way he hadn’t expected. His sharp, ambitious mind had always been driven by the need to prove himself, but in that moment, he felt something else—a softness, a quiet acknowledgment that perhaps, just perhaps, he had been wrong all this time. He had always believed that his worth came from his achievements, from his successes. But hearing those words, spoken not just by Eliza but by all of them—even Jefferson, who never spoke such truths lightly—began to chip away at the walls he had built around himself.

There was no quick response. Instead, Hamilton’s gaze softened, and though he did not speak, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, the ache in his chest slowly beginning to lessen. In that fragile moment, surrounded by those who had stood by him, he allowed himself to believe, if only for a heartbeat, that he might just be worthy of their love and respect.

[BURR]

Can I buy you a drink?

[HAMILTON]

That would be nice

[BURR]

While we’re talking, let me offer you some free advice

Talk less

“Good luck getting Hamilton to listen to that, Burr,” Jefferson snarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He couldn’t help but add a sharp edge to his words, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He turned to his friends, raising an eyebrow as if to say, Of course Hamilton would ignore such sound advice . His eyes flickered briefly to Burr, who had been standing there, trying to make sense of the tension in the room. Burr, however, didn’t respond immediately, his face unreadable, eyes fixed elsewhere, lost in his thoughts.

“Mon petit lion,” Lafayette interjected, his French accent heavy with affection and exasperation. He shook his head, his hands lifted as though surrendering to the inevitable. “It is truly something you should consider.” His words were more gentle than Jefferson’s jabs, though just as pointed. Lafayette had a way of offering advice that wasn’t laced with bitterness, yet the message was clear: Hamilton’s relentless drive was wearing him down, and even the most fervent idealists needed rest. He gave a small, rueful smile, glancing at Hamilton. “You talk day and night, mon ami. You should take a break.”

Lafayette’s words had a warmth that made Hamilton pause for just a moment. It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned his unyielding nature—his tendency to dive into everything headfirst, often leaving little room for himself. But hearing it from Lafayette, who had seen the toll the war had taken on them all, struck a chord. Lafayette had always been the one to encourage them to fight hard but also to remember what they were fighting for, to not lose themselves in the pursuit of victory. The Frenchman’s reminder, though gentle, seemed to linger in the air longer than it would have coming from anyone else.

Hamilton shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as if he had only just realized the truth of their words. He had always prided himself on his work ethic, his relentless drive to make a difference, but at what cost? When was enough truly enough?

“I don’t need rest,” Hamilton muttered, more to himself than anyone else, though the words rang out a bit too loudly, as if he were trying to convince them—and himself—that he was fine. The tension in his jaw was still there, the familiar weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders, but for a split second, it seemed as though he was grappling with something deeper. His mind, always racing, couldn’t allow him to slow down.

Lafayette, ever the diplomat, only smiled faintly. “We all need rest, Alex,” he said softly, his voice laced with both concern and affection. "Even the greatest of us must stop at times, or we risk burning out." He didn’t push, though; he knew better than to try to force Hamilton to accept what he wasn’t ready to hear. But the words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of what Hamilton often refused to acknowledge: that even he had limits.

Burr, still sitting off to the side, watched the exchange with a quiet intensity, his expression unreadable. He was the only one in the room who hadn’t spoken much, his gaze flickering back and forth between the others, but his silence was loud in its own way. There was something about Hamilton’s relentless drive that both intrigued and frustrated him, something he both admired and resented in equal measure. Burr had always known how to bide his time, to play the long game, but Hamilton’s fire—his constant need to push forward, to do everything —was a force he couldn’t quite understand.

Jefferson, sensing the shift, couldn’t help but add, his voice dripping with mockery, “But you’ll never listen, will you, Hamilton? Rest is for the weak, is it?” The jibe was less harsh now, more of a lingering tease than a biting insult, but it still hit its mark.. Yet, he wasn’t sure whether he truly wanted Hamilton to slow down or if he was just enjoying the momentary feeling of watching him struggle with the idea.

Hamilton’s eyes flickered for a moment—he had heard the challenge in Jefferson’s voice, and something inside him bristled, but Lafayette’s earlier words still echoed in his mind. He didn’t respond to Jefferson’s taunt, instead remaining silent, as though caught in the internal battle between his own relentless nature and the slowly growing recognition that maybe, just maybe, he was pushing himself too far.

For once, he didn’t snap back. He didn’t have an answer. And perhaps, for just a moment, he was considering the possibility that they were all right.

[HAMILTON]

What?

[BURR]

Smile more

[HAMILTON]

Ha

[BURR]

Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for

[HAMILTON]

You can’t be serious

"Surely, Burr, you need to have opinions on these things," Alexander said, his voice insistent, as though he couldn’t fathom how someone could remain so silent, so passive in moments that demanded action. His gaze was firm, challenging, as if daring Burr to step out of the shadows of hesitation and speak his mind. Alexander’s impatience was palpable, the sharpness in his voice a direct contrast to the calm demeanor Burr maintained.

Burr’s response was slow, measured, as if he had anticipated the question—or perhaps knew this moment would come. His eyes remained steady, fixed ahead, betraying nothing. "When have I ever spoken something I do not believe to be true, Alexander?" Burr replied, his voice devoid of any inkling of emotion or belief in what he said. The words came with a cold precision, as if he were merely stating a fact, not offering a conviction. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed, but there was a weight to his presence—one that suggested that his thoughts were always several steps ahead, even if his words didn’t reveal them.

He paused for a moment, allowing the silence to settle between them like a heavy fog before continuing. “There are situations where sometimes you must stay and lie in wait for your opportunity,” Burr said, his voice smooth and even, offering no hint of passion, no spark of belief—just a quiet assertion, as though this was the only way he had ever known to approach life. His words held a certain finality to them, as if the subject were closed, and nothing more needed to be said.

Hamilton stared for a moment, his brow furrowed as he processed Burr’s words. It was a philosophy he had never fully embraced—his own nature was one of action, of forward momentum. To wait, to be patient in the face of opportunity, seemed foreign to him. He had always believed in taking immediate action, seizing the moment before it slipped away. Burr’s response felt like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. The contrast between them—Hamilton’s fiery, impulsive drive versus Burr’s cold, calculated restraint—had never been more apparent.

Yet, despite the chill in Burr's tone, Alexander could sense something deeper beneath the surface—something unreadable, something he couldn’t quite grasp. Burr was a man of subtlety, of watching and waiting, and in that moment, Alexander recognised just how different their paths may become.

[BURR]

You wanna get ahead?

[HAMILTON]

Yes

[BURR]

Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead

Alexander’s gaze remained fixed on the stage, his eyes darting between Burr and his onstage counterpart with an intensity that seemed almost unsettling. His mind raced, a flurry of thoughts tumbling over each other in rapid succession. Was this a foreshadowing to my own potential death? The thought clawed at him, the weight of it sinking deep into his chest. His stomach churned as he watched Burr’s every movement, the cold, controlled demeanor on display, and a bitter realization began to form. What must I have done to him for Burr to resort to shooting me? The question echoed in his mind, a painful reflection of the rivalry, the tension, the choices that had led them to this moment. Each flicker of the stage light seemed to reflect back his own impending fate, leaving him both captivated and horrified.

[LAURENS]

Yo yo yo yo yo!

What time is it?

[LAURENS/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN]

Show time!

[BURR]

…like I said…

“Foreshadowing much, Burr…” Angelica remarked, her voice laced with a biting humor, but there was a shadow of something deeper beneath her words. Her eyes flickered from Burr to Alexander, catching the subtle tension building in the air. Alexander’s breath caught in his throat, his heart racing as his mind was dragged unwillingly back to the painful memory of what had been revealed in the previous song—the words, the moments, the inevitable truth that lingered, dark and heavy.

“No… not yet, please,” Alexander whimpered, the plea escaping his lips almost involuntarily, as if he could somehow stop the unfolding events by wishing them away. The past was closing in on him, the looming specter of his own mortality casting a shadow over the present. His chest tightened, the weight of the revelation threatening to suffocate him.

Before he could spiral any further into the overwhelming flood of emotions, John’s hand found his, firm and steady, grounding him in the moment. “This is the past, Alex,” John whispered, his voice a soothing balm to the chaos in Alexander’s mind. “I am still here.” His grip tightened around Alexander’s hand, offering an unspoken promise that, despite the darkness of the moment, John wasn’t going anywhere. He was here, present and unwavering.

But Alexander, trembling with fear and grief, could hardly contain the wave of emotion that crashed over him. “I— I can’t lose you, John, not now, not ever—” His voice broke on the words, choked by the sobs that wracked his body. He collapsed against John’s chest, seeking refuge in the warmth and comfort he found there. The vulnerability he tried so hard to hide from the world spilled out now, raw and unfiltered, as he clung to John like a lifeline. The pain of the past, the haunting inevitability of what was to come, mingled with the desperate need to hold onto the one person who had always been there for him, the one person who had never let him down.

John held him close, his arms wrapping around Alexander with an ease that spoke of years of friendship, of shared struggles and victories. In that moment, John was a shield, a quiet strength against the overwhelming tide of emotion that threatened to drown Alexander. And as Alexander’s sobs quieted into the steady rhythm of his breathing, the two of them stood together in the fragile space between the past and the future, uncertain of what would come but bound together by the simple, undeniable truth that no matter what their hearts told them they could never be together.

[LAURENS]

Show time! Show time! Yo!

I’m John Laurens in the place to be!

Two pints o’ Sam Adams, but I’m workin’ on three, uh!

Those redcoats don’t want it with me!

Cuz I will pop chick-a pop these cops till I’m free!

[LAFAYETTE]

Oui oui, mon ami, je m’appelle Lafayette!

The Lancelot of the revolutionary set!

I came from afar just to say “Bonsoir!”

Tell the King “Casse toi!” Who’s the best?

C’est moi!

All of those in the room who could speak French laughed heartily at Lafayette’s verses, their laughter echoing off the walls in a burst of joy and camaraderie. The man in question, Lafayette, wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, his usual composed demeanor giving way to an uncharacteristic moment of light-heartedness. His infectious laughter filled the room, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he leaned back, clearly enjoying the moment more than he had expected.

“Oh my, that is incroyable,” Lafayette exclaimed, still chuckling, as he shook his head in disbelief. His French accent was heavy, but the words were filled with genuine admiration. He gestured expansively as though the absurdity of his own verses had caught even him off guard. His infectious grin spread across his face, making it impossible for anyone in the room not to join in the amusement.

There was something disarming about seeing the usually so composed Lafayette so carefree—his laughter lightening the atmosphere and drawing everyone closer. It was a rare moment of shared joy amidst the weight of their often serious lives, and in that instant, the burdens of war, politics, and rivalry seemed a distant memory, replaced by the easy warmth of friendship. Even the most stoic among them couldn’t help but smile, the sound of Lafayette’s laughter serving as a reminder of the simple pleasures that could still be found in the chaos of their lives.

[MULLIGAN]

Brrrah brraaah! I am Hercules Mulligan

Up in it, lovin’ it, yes I heard ya mother said “Come again?”

The three Schuyler sisters exchanged a look, eyebrows raised in perfect unison as they turned their attention to Hercules. Angelica, always the sharpest of the three, was the first to speak, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Really, Hercules?” she asked, her voice carrying an amused edge. The question hung in the air, a playful challenge, as if daring him to defend his ridiculousness.

Eliza, standing beside her sister, gave Hercules a small, knowing smile. Her eyes softened slightly as if trying to understand how he could have said such a thing, though it was clear that even she found it hard to suppress her amusement.

Peggy, the youngest of the sisters, was still trying to process whatever had just happened, her mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. She looked between her sisters and Hercules, clearly unsure whether to laugh or be genuinely baffled. The three of them, united in their disbelief, waited for Hercules to explain himself—though they all knew that, no matter his response, it would be hard to take him seriously now.

Hercules, caught off guard by the synchronized look of exasperation from the sisters, cleared his throat, realizing he might have gone too far this time. But even as he began to stammer out a response, the laughter bubbling up from the sisters, especially Angelica, was inevitable. “I can give you my word ladies that those words were never uttered”

[LAFAYETTE & LAURENS]

Ayyyyy

[MULLIGAN]

Lock up ya daughters and horses, of course

It’s hard to have intercourse over four sets of corsets…

Hercules didn’t even entertain the thought of looking over to the three women again, fully aware of the barrage of skeptical, judgmental looks that would be coming his way—especially from the elder two sisters. He could practically feel Angelica’s piercing gaze and Eliza’s disappointed yet amused expression burning into him, even without turning around. He straightened up slightly, trying to regain his composure, and put on the most convincing face he could muster. “Ladies, I promise I never said that…” he began, though the uncertainty in his voice only made it clear that he wasn't entirely sure they would believe him.

Just as he was about to continue his defense, Lafayette, unable to resist, let out a loud, boisterous laugh that rang through the room, echoing with the lightness of the moment. With a broad grin, he slapped a friendly hand down on Mulligan’s shoulder, the motion both affectionate and teasing. “Sure, mon ami, you never said that, did you?” Lafayette’s voice dripped with playful mockery, and the twinkle in his eye made it impossible to mistake his tone. He leaned in slightly, as if to emphasize his disbelief, his accent thick and his smile wide.

The others in the room couldn’t help but chuckle at the scene. Lafayette’s laughter was contagious, and even the three Schuyler sisters had to stifle their smiles at his reaction. Hercules shifted uncomfortably, realizing he was surrounded by a group that knew him too well. There was no way to wiggle out of this one, not with Lafayette’s playful challenge echoing in the air. It was clear that no matter how many times he denied it, the group had already decided that his words—whatever they were—would be turned into a running joke.

But despite the teasing, there was a warmth in the moment, an easy camaraderie that came from the shared understanding that they all enjoyed the banter, the playful challenges, and the sense of being truly seen by one another. Even Hercules couldn’t suppress the half-smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, despite the embarrassment. It wasn’t just about the words or the teasing—it was the laughter, the shared experience that made them feel like a family in that fleeting moment.

[LAFAYETTE]

Wow

[LAURENS]

No more sex, pour me another brew, son!

Alexander leaned in towards John, his voice a soft murmur meant only for his ears. “Aww, that’s disappointing,” he said, his words low, almost playful, but there was an undeniable hint of something deeper—something unspoken—lingering in his tone. He couldn’t help the slight ache in his chest, a quiet frustration at the situation that seemed to stretch out before them, making him feel a bit helpless. He wanted more, wanted to take the risk, but he knew John would never agree to it.

John’s eyes widened at Alexander’s words, the shock evident on his face as he quickly glanced back at Alexander. His expression shifted to one of concern, and he leaned in closer, his voice low but urgent. “Please, Alex. Don’t. It’s far too dangerous for us to risk anything, no matter what we both feel…” There was a catch in John’s voice, the weight of his emotions pulling him taut. The tension between their desires and the looming danger was thick in the air, and John felt the overwhelming need to pull back, to protect them both from the consequences of any hasty decisions.

Alexander’s disappointment was palpable as he slowly withdrew, his grip loosening on John’s hand. He let out a quiet breath, his gaze turning downward as his thoughts clouded with frustration and a quiet sadness. “The voice said anyone who could use the information to harm us would not remember…” he murmured, the words heavy with uncertainty. His voice trailed off, the implication hanging in the air—he was torn between the risk and the opportunity that had been presented. “And Eliza was not opposed earlier,” he added almost wistfully, as though trying to convince himself of the possibility, despite the hesitation in his heart.

John sighed deeply, his thumb gently brushing over the back of Alexander’s hand in a gesture of reassurance, as though grounding him in the present moment. He knew how much Alexander wanted to push forward, how much he yearned for the chance to act. But John couldn’t shake the fear that lingered—he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Alexander to a decision made in haste, to a gamble they weren’t prepared to take. “Let us leave this for now, Alex,” John said softly, his voice full of tenderness and quiet insistence. “We can discuss more in the intermission. I could not bear to lose you due to my own impatience.”

There was a vulnerability in John’s words, a raw honesty that struck Alexander deeply. He knew John’s love for him was steadfast and unyielding, that this was not just about the immediate risk, but about the long-term consequences of their actions. Alexander let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as he gave in to John’s plea. The weight of the conversation, of the choices they were facing, still hung in the air, but for now, the urgency of it softened. He allowed himself to lean into John’s presence, letting the warmth of his touch steady his racing thoughts, grateful for the grounding force that John had always been.

Let’s raise a couple more…

[LAURENS/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN]

To the revolution!

“To the revolution!” The phrase rang out, loud and clear, as the room erupted in a unified chorus, everyone lifting their glasses in a shared moment of camaraderie and purpose. Even those who usually stood in opposition seemed momentarily united by the weight of the words, caught up in the gravity of the cause they had all fought for in different ways.

To Hamilton’s surprise, among the voices repeating the toast were both Jefferson and Madison. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, unable to mask the flicker of surprise that crossed his face. Jefferson, whose rivalry with Hamilton had often felt as sharp as a blade, raised his glass with a slow, deliberate motion. The customary tension between them was still there, but in this moment, the acknowledgment seemed to transcend the usual animosity.

Madison, ever the quiet observer, met Hamilton’s gaze across the room. For a brief, fleeting moment, their eyes locked, and Hamilton could almost feel the weight of their shared history—the battles fought, the compromises made, and the loyalty to a cause that none of them could escape. Madison’s expression was composed, but his eyes softened ever so slightly, a subtle nod of recognition that spoke volumes.

Without a word, Madison lifted his glass, mirroring the gesture as though offering a quiet salute. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but to Hamilton, it felt like the culmination of everything they had struggled for—the years of effort, the disagreements, the moments of doubt, all distilled into this single, powerful action.

In that brief exchange, Hamilton couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pride and something else too—a complex mixture of respect and understanding for his former adversaries. Perhaps they were all different in their methods, their ideologies, but in this moment, they stood together in their shared commitment to the revolution. He felt that no matter what happened in the future, the events they were about to watch unfold would change if not for differing decisions but for a new found respect between each other founded in this very moment.

[LAURENS]

Well, if it ain’t the prodigy of Princeton college!

[MULLIGAN]

Aaron Burr!

[LAURENS]

Give us a verse, drop some knowledge!

[BURR]

Good luck with that: you’re takin’ a stand

You spit. I’m ‘a sit. We’ll see where we land

[LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN]

Boooo!

[LAURENS]

Burr, the revolution’s imminent. What do you stall for?

[HAMILTON]

If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?

Alexander’s piercing eyes locked onto Burr once again, a challenge etched clearly in the intensity of his gaze. It was as if Alexander was daring Burr to face him directly, to confront the unspoken tension that simmered between them. The room seemed to quiet, as if the very air itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next move in this silent battle. Though many thought Alexander younger, his stare carried the weight of his convictions, and he stood, resolute, unwavering, waiting for Burr to respond.

Burr met his gaze with an unreadable expression, his calm demeanor an almost deliberate contrast to the fire in Alexander’s eyes. The older man’s voice broke the stillness, smooth yet firm. “I stand for what I believe in, Alexander,” Burr began, his words carrying a steady, measured tone. “Would I not be sitting on the sidelines if I believed differently? Instead of risking my life fighting for this country.” He raised an eyebrow as he finished, his challenge subtly layered in his words, daring Alexander to question his commitment.

But Alexander wasn’t one to back down. His response came swiftly, his words sharp as a blade. “You have no known loyalties, Burr,” he shot back, his voice carrying the weight of years of frustration. “You fight, but you do not argue your case. You remain silent, lurking in the shadows, never committing fully to anything—always waiting.” The accusation hung in the air, harsh and biting. Alexander’s gaze never wavered, as if daring Burr to deny the truth in his words.

The tension between them crackled, thickening in the space between their words. Burr’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t flinch—he rarely did. He was, after all, a man of calculated restraint, of patience, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But Alexander’s words were no less a challenge, a challenge to the very foundation of who Burr was—the man who always seemed to walk the fine line between ally and adversary, never fully stepping into either role.

The two men stood there, locked in a verbal standoff, each one stubborn in their beliefs, unwilling to compromise. Burr’s silence in response was as telling as any answer, leaving Alexander’s words to hang in the air like a challenge unmet. Both of them knew that this moment was more than just a simple exchange—it was another battle in the long and tangled war between their ideologies, their futures, and the course of the country itself. “Enough both of you stand down” Washington commanded breaking the tension between them.

[LAURENS]

Ooh

Who are you? [MULLIGAN]

Ooh

Who are you? [LAFAYETTE]

Ooh

Who are you?

“Laf sounds so suspicious of me!” Alexander laughed, glancing toward the Frenchman, a playful glint in his eyes. Lafayette shrugged nonchalantly, meeting Alexander’s gaze. “You were a wild young man who had just stood up to one of the most respected men in New York,” he replied, his voice warm. “Why would I not be suspicious of you?”

His words were said with affection, a reflection of genuine surprise at Alexander’s boldness. Lafayette chuckled heartily, his laughter infectious, lightening the room. Alexander grinned, shaking his head in mock disbelief, appreciating the teasing.

There was no malice between them—only the shared bond of experiences that made the moment feel familiar and easy. Lafayette’s playful teasing wasn’t an accusation, but a reminder of how far they had come together. It was a rare, cherished moment of levity amidst their often heavy lives.

[MULLIGAN/LAFAYETTE/LAURENS]

Ooh, who is this kid? What’s he gonna do?

Chapter Text

The group was left in a heavy silence after the final note of the song faded, each person lost in their own thoughts about what Alexander’s future might hold. Their wishes varied, each person imagining a different path for him, but all were laced with the same sense of uncertainty about the future.

Alexander himself, though, held a quiet hope that he would create a legacy—something to be remembered by, a mark on history that would resonate far into the future. He dreamed of making a difference, of leaving a lasting impact, but there was an underlying fear that his ambition might consume him before he could see it fulfilled.

Across the room, Eliza’s thoughts were very different. She glanced over at the young Phillip, who was seated at the other end of the sofa, looking so much like his father that it almost hurt to look at him. Eliza’s heart swelled with a protective love, her mind heavy with worries for Alexander’s safety in the war. She longed for him to return home to her and their son, to be a family again—free from the weight of the world, free from the constant battle.

She caught Phillip’s gaze, his eyes a perfect reflection of Alexander’s—bright and full of life. “Phillip?” she asked softly, her voice trembling ever so slightly, “Did Alexander spend much time with us?” There was a hint of fear in her voice, a fear that Alexander’s work might have kept him from being the father she hoped he would be.

Phillip, sensing his mother’s worry, smiled gently, offering a small, reassuring nod. “He did, Mama,” he replied with warmth, his voice carrying the familiar comfort of his father’s kindness. “He was often busy with his work, but he nearly always found time to spend with us as a family before retiring to his study to work.” He paused for a moment, the light in his eyes dimming slightly as he added, “I don’t know if he ever made it to your shared chambers most nights, as I had always been sent to my own time before.”

Eliza’s heart lightened at his words. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips as she nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. She knew Alexander worked too hard, but hearing that he had still made time for their family, even in his busiest moments, soothed her worries. It was a reminder that, despite everything, they had shared something precious—a love that transcended even the pressures of his ambition.

[HAMILTON]

I am not throwing away my shot!

I am not throwing away my shot!

Hey yo, I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

“That is a fair description of you, mon petit lion,” Lafayette said, his voice light with teasing affection. He gave Alexander a knowing smile, a playful gleam in his eyes. “You were quite young, were you not?”

Alexander, momentarily caught off guard by the Frenchman’s comment, instinctively began to respond. In his usual candid manner, he forgot that most of those present knew the year of his birth. “I was in my nineteenth year when I arrived in America and enlisted for the Continental Army…” His voice trailed off, filled with an emotion that was difficult to mask—a mix of pride, resolve, and the weight of everything he had carried since those early days of revolution.

The room grew quiet for a moment, until Washington’s voice broke the silence, tinged with disbelief. “Nineteen? You were not that young when born in 1755?” The General’s eyebrow arched, his tone a mix of surprise and the sharpness that came from years of military discipline. His mind briefly flickered back to Alexander’s enlistment form, where the numbers had seemed to add up—until now.

In that instant, Alexander realized his mistake. His face flushed a deep crimson as his gaze dropped to the floor, desperately hoping to shrink into the shadows. He hadn’t meant to reveal anything other than what was written in the official records, but the intensity of Washington’s stare pulled him back to the reality of the moment.

“General Washington, I—” Alexander stuttered, his throat tightening. He hesitated, feeling the weight of the truth settle on his shoulders. John, who was seated beside him, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, the gesture grounding him in the midst of the scrutiny. “I may have written a small change on my enlistment forms…” Alexander confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, the words leaving him with a sense of vulnerability he hadn’t anticipated.

Washington’s expression softened for a moment, but only just. He let out a long, exasperated sigh, running a hand along his face, as if trying to gather his thoughts before responding. “And why did you do that, Alexander? What should have truly been on those forms?” His voice held a trace of curiosity mixed with frustration—frustration not at the action itself, but at the secrecy that always seemed to surround Alexander’s decisions.

Alexander winced, his face burning with embarrassment as he forced himself to look up. He could feel the weight of Washington’s gaze like a pressure on his chest, but he knew he couldn’t avoid the truth any longer. “I was born in 1757…” he murmured, the words heavy on his tongue. The admission felt like an unburdening, but also like an admission of a small deception, one he had carried with him for far too long.

Washington’s expression softened, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. “So, instead of barely twenty-one, as required, you were nineteen?” he double-checked, his tone matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of understanding beneath the surface. He let the question hang in the air for a moment before locking eyes with Alexander. “I should dismiss you for this, but you are far too valuable for that. And you are now...?”

“In my twenty-fourth year, sir,” Alexander answered, his voice steady despite the tension that still lingered in the air.

Washington nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. He leaned back in his chair, the matter settled for now. “I see,” he said, his tone softer than before. “Your age may be different than what was written, but your dedication is undeniable.”

The room seemed to exhale collectively, the tension lifting slightly as Alexander’s small secret had been revealed. Yet despite the mild reprimand, there was no true judgment in Washington’s eyes. Instead, there was a quiet acknowledgment of Alexander’s ambition, his drive—qualities that, for better or worse, had always defined him.

And I’m not throwing away my shot!

I’m ‘a get a scholarship to King’s College

I prob’ly shouldn’t brag,

“When you acknowledge the need to not, then why am I not surprised to guess that you indeed did as you said otherwise?” Jefferson sniped, his voice laced with sarcasm, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the moment of throwing a subtle jab. His tone was cutting, and his eyes glinted with a mixture of disbelief and frustration, as if he had expected nothing less from Alexander.

Alexander’s posture stiffened at the jab, the words landing as sharply as any physical blow. It was moments like these that he found himself both frustrated by Jefferson’s constant criticism and yet strangely resigned to it. Though the others in the room had taken their cues from Washington’s tempered response, Jefferson’s sharp tongue was always ready to strike, testing the limits of Alexander’s patience.

 but dag, I amaze and astonish

"How unsurprising of you, Hamilton," Madison spoke, his voice laced with a quiet disdain. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Alexander, his tone deliberate.

The air in the room seemed to tighten at Madison’s words, the tension thickening as the two men locked eyes. While Alexander had been used to Jefferson’s biting remarks, Madison’s were always more subtle, calculated. It stung in a different way, because Madison wasn’t just questioning his integrity—he was questioning his judgment.

The problem is I got a lot of brains but no polish

I gotta holler just to be heard

With every word, I drop knowledge!

Jefferson snorted, his lips curling into a smirk as he caught the eye of Washington, almost daring him to respond. Washington’s expression, however, shifted immediately—his gaze hardening with the commanding authority he was known for. It was a look that made the air in the room thicken, as if the very walls responded to the presence of the Commander in Chief.

“You hold yourself in very high regard for someone of your heritage—” Jefferson began, his voice dripping with condescension, his words clearly aimed to cut at Alexander. His comment, meant to wound, targeted the very core of Alexander’s identity—his status as an orphan, the son of an immigrant, the self-made man who had risen through sheer will.

But before Jefferson could continue, Washington was already on his feet, his powerful frame towering over the room. His voice, when it came, was like thunder—a force that demanded silence, and it filled the space with the kind of authority only the General could command. “Jefferson, quiet down,” Washington barked, his words sharp and final. “Alexander is more than knowledgeable to be doing exactly as the song has said, and unlike you, he has helped us during this war more than anything you could attempt to claim responsibility for. I would suggest that you stay in your place and keep your opinion on things you do not know about to yourself!”

The words were like a protective barrier around Alexander, a shield that separated him from the venom of Jefferson’s comments. But Alexander, still reeling from the sting of Jefferson’s insult, felt as though the weight of it pressed down on his chest, constricting his breath. He had fought his whole life to rise above his beginnings, to prove that his worth wasn’t determined by the circumstances of his birth. Yet here, in this room, Jefferson’s words threatened to unravel all that hard-fought progress.

As Washington’s authoritative voice echoed in the room, John and Eliza immediately moved to Alexander’s side. Their presence was a balm to his wounded pride, and without a word, they wrapped him in a comforting embrace, shielding him from the sharp edges of the world around him.

But even in their arms, Alexander couldn’t shake the feeling of humiliation that lingered in his chest. Jefferson’s comment had cut deep, more than he cared to admit, and the coldness in his voice had left a mark on him. The fact that Jefferson, of all people, had chosen to attack him in this way, was like a personal challenge—a reminder of the barriers Alexander was always up against, no matter how much he achieved.

His body had begun to shut down, the protective walls he had carefully built for himself crumbling with every word that was spoken, each one a reminder that no matter how high he climbed, there were always those who would try to tear him back down. His shoulders sagged slightly, and his eyes flickered with a mix of anger and sadness. The sting of being spoken to like he was nothing more than street trash, unworthy of the space he held, felt like an open wound that refused to heal.

John’s arms tightened around him, his comforting presence grounding Alexander in the face of his emotional turmoil. Eliza’s soft, steady voice murmured close to his ear, a constant reassurance in the midst of the storm inside him. The warmth of their support was the only thing that kept him from completely retreating into himself. Still, the battle raged within him—the weight of Jefferson’s words pressing down, but the shield of his lovers holding firm, keeping him from crumbling completely.

I’m a diamond in the rough, a shiny piece of coal

Tryin’ to reach my goal. My power of speech: unimpeachable

Only nineteen but my mind is older

These New York City streets get colder, I shoulder

Ev’ry burden, ev’ry disadvantage

“Alex, if you had only told us…” Lafayette’s voice was soft, but filled with a deep, genuine sorrow. His eyes, usually filled with humor and mischief, were clouded with concern as he looked at Alexander. The idea of his friend—his brother in arms—facing the cold, unforgiving streets of New York alone, without anyone to offer comfort, seemed to wrench something inside him. "You could have stayed with me at my lodgings, Alexander," he implored, his voice full of earnestness, the unspoken pain of not having known about his friend’s suffering evident in every word.

Lafayette had always been a fiercely loyal companion, someone who had fought by Alexander’s side in more ways than one. The thought of him being unaware of such a hardship, of his friend enduring such loneliness, gnawed at him. He was the first to extend an offer of refuge, his words sincere, even though they couldn’t undo the past. “I would have gladly shared my space with you, mon ami. You didn’t need to bear that weight alone.”

Mulligan, who had been silently listening, couldn’t help but add his own voice to the conversation, his tone thick with disappointment. “If you had even mentioned being cold, I’d have sewn you a new coat,” he said, his words carrying a quiet regret that he hadn’t been able to see the signs of his friend’s distress. His hands, so used to creating and fixing, felt useless in this moment. He had always prided himself on being there for those he cared about, using his skills to protect and care for his friends. To have been unaware of Alexander’s struggles left him feeling like he had failed in a way he couldn’t mend with just a gesture.

John, too, was quiet, his face drawn with an unreadable expression as he gently traced the outline of Alexander’s shoulder with his fingertips. His touch was tender, a subtle comfort in the midst of their heavy words. He knew Alexander, well enough, to understand the pride and stubbornness that often kept him from asking for help. John’s own heart ached for him, for all the times Alexander had carried burdens alone. But John also knew, deep down, that even if Alexander had reached out, his father would have never allowed it. The tension between duty and family expectations had always been a heavy weight in John’s life as well. His fingertips slowly moved over Alexander’s shoulder in a silent reminder that he was there now—here, present, ready to support him in whatever way he could.

The room was quiet for a moment, filled with the soft weight of regret and unspoken understanding. Each of the revolutionary set  felt the loss of opportunities to help, to offer comfort, but it was the shared knowledge of their bond, the knowledge that they would stand by him now, that gave them all a sense of quiet resolve. Alexander’s heart was full, the love and care of his friends washing over him like a balm, yet a shadow of guilt lingered in the back of his mind. He hadn’t wanted to be a burden, hadn’t wanted to show weakness, but now, surrounded by those who cared for him, he realized just how much they were willing to give, had always been willing to give, if only he had let them.

I have learned to manage, I don’t have a gun to brandish

I walk these streets famished

John frowned, his expression shifting to one of genuine concern as he stared at Alexander. "Famished? Alexander, please tell me you did not spend time with us while going without any solid sustenance?" His voice carried a pleading edge, a desperate hope that somehow the younger man had exaggerated, that the words were just a product of the artistic license he had grown so accustomed to using. The last thing John wanted to hear was that his friend, his brother, had endured such a hardship in silence.

But the silence that followed spoke volumes. Without uttering a single word, the look in Alexander’s eyes—full of pain, shame, and unspoken regret—told them everything they needed to know. It was a silent confession, more powerful than any explanation could have been. The weight of it settled in the room, heavy and uncomfortable, as everyone’s gaze turned towards Alexander, who seemed to shrink under the weight of their collective concern. His usual defiance was absent, replaced by a vulnerability that made their hearts ache.

John’s heart sank as the reality of the situation began to settle in. He stepped closer, his voice softening as he reached for Alexander’s arm, trying to offer comfort despite the storm of emotions he felt. "Alex…" he murmured, his voice a mix of disbelief and sorrow. "You don’t have to go through things like this alone. We’re here for you."

Alexander, still avoiding their eyes, let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of his own pride had finally been too much to bear. "I was not in as bad a state as I would have been had I stayed on Nevis," he admitted, the words leaving his lips reluctantly. His voice was low, almost as if he were trying to justify the decision, to make it seem less like neglect and more like a calculated choice. "At least here, with the revolution… with all of you, I had purpose. I had something to fight for." His words faltered, his gaze shifting uncomfortably toward the floor.

The room was silent again, but this time, the silence wasn’t filled with judgment or anger. It was a quiet understanding—an acknowledgment of how deeply Alexander had always carried his burdens alone, how he had hidden his struggles behind the drive to succeed and prove himself. The sacrifice of his own well-being was something he had quietly accepted, even if it meant suffering in the shadows.

Eliza, who had been quietly watching the exchange, her heart heavy with sympathy, finally spoke up. "But, Alexander," she said softly, her voice filled with warmth and concern, "you don’t have to sacrifice everything. We want to help. We need you here, whole and healthy." She reached out, her hand gently touching his arm in a gesture of comfort.

Alexander’s eyes flickered towards her, a mix of gratitude and guilt crossing his features. He had always fought to keep his personal pain buried beneath layers of determination and ambition, but now, surrounded by those who truly cared for him, the walls that he had built up were beginning to crack.

John, still holding his gaze, nodded firmly. "We’re all in this together, Alex. Always have been, always will be. You don’t have to suffer in silence, not with us by your side."

For a brief moment, Alexander allowed himself to believe their words—to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could stop carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders alone. But the shame still lingered in his chest, the remnants of his self-imposed isolation weighing him down. He had always believed that needing others was a form of weakness, but now, with his friends offering their support so freely, he began to question that belief.

The plan is to fan this spark into a flame

But damn, it’s getting dark, so let me spell out the name

I am the—

[HAMILTON/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN/LAURENS]

A-L-E-X-A-N-D

E-R—we are—meant to be…

[HAMILTON]

A colony that runs independently

Meanwhile, Britain keeps shittin’ on us endlessly

Essentially, they tax us relentlessly

Then King George turns around, runs a spending spree

He ain’t ever gonna set his descendants free

So there will be a revolution in this century

Enter me!

Washington observed from the corner of his eye as Laurens leaned in close to Alexander, his voice low, a playful whisper just for the younger man. Alexander’s eyes widened for a moment before his cheeks flushed a bright red. He immediately pushed John’s shoulder away in mock annoyance, his laughter a soft sound that filled the room with an air of lightheartedness. For a fleeting second, the carefree camaraderie between them seemed to erase the weight of the world, the constant tension of war and duty. Washington couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia as he watched the two men. He remembered those moments from his own younger years—before the war had claimed so much of his innocence, before the constant strain of leadership had worn him down to his core. There was a time when he, too, had known such lightness, before the brutal realities of conflict had taken not only his peace but also the reason he fought, except for one—Martha.

Washington’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his face remained impassive as he observed the exchange. He could feel a protective instinct rising within him, one that had only grown stronger over the years. He had seen the cost of youthful idealism—seen it in men like Laurens and Alexander who were driven by their passion and their desire to change the world. Their optimism, while admirable, also made them vulnerable. He had lost too many men, too many friends, to the chaos of war. He wouldn’t allow these two to fall prey to their own naivety.

As the laughter between Alexander and Laurens began to settle, Washington's gaze shifted between them, calculating. He had already made the decision in his mind. The bond they shared—so full of youthful vigor and promise—could not be allowed to cloud their judgment. They had their own futures to secure, and Washington would do whatever it took to protect them from any harm, whether it came from their enemies on the battlefield or from the consequences of their own impulsive actions.

He took a deep breath, the weight of his responsibility settling heavier on his shoulders, and resolved that he would speak to them both privately. It was crucial that he guide them through this, help them navigate the complex dynamics of duty, loyalty, and the realities of war. Alexander and Laurens, for all their cleverness and bravery, were still young men—idealistic and, at times, reckless. Washington’s heart clenched at the thought of losing either of them, and he knew he couldn’t afford to let them make the same mistakes that had cost so many others their lives. He would be the voice of caution they needed, even if it meant becoming a stern figure in their lives for a time.

With a final, lingering glance at them, Washington silently resolved to act. He would protect them, even from themselves, if necessary. The war might take more than it had already, but he would not let it steal their future. Not while he still had the strength to protect them.

[LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN/LAURENS]

(He says in parentheses)

[HAMILTON]

Don’t be shocked when your hist’ry book mentions me

I will lay down my life if it sets us free

"Alexander! Do not speak as though your life is expendable, it is not!" Eliza's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and filled with an undercurrent of upset. Her eyes flashed with concern, the intensity of her feelings making her words tremble with an emotion she could no longer hide. She had always known that Alexander’s ambition was boundless, but this? This reckless disregard for his own well-being shook her to the core. The idea that he might view his life as something that could be cast aside for the sake of glory, of proving himself, was something she could not and would not allow.

At the exact moment Eliza’s voice rose, John’s hand tightened on Alexander’s bicep, his fingers pressing into the muscle in a protective gesture. It wasn’t a grip of anger or frustration, but one of reassurance—a silent plea for Alexander to reconsider. John’s own chest was tight, his emotions a tangled knot. He understood the drive to prove oneself, but he also understood the cost of such pride. His eyes, usually filled with unwavering support for his friend, now held a deep, quiet worry.

Washington, who had been silently observing the exchange, rose from his seat with the quiet authority that had earned him the respect of soldiers and civilians alike. His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of someone who had lived through battles, witnessed loss, and understood the fragile value of life in times of war. "Your life is the most important to our army, Alexander," he said, his gaze locking with the younger man’s. "You will be protected at all costs."

The words were direct, unwavering. They were meant to settle the storm of ambition in Alexander's heart, to remind him that his worth was not measured by the risks he took on the battlefield but by the vital role he played in the army’s success. Washington’s tone was firm, but there was also an underlying layer of care—an unspoken promise to look after him, to shield him from the worst that war had to offer.

But Alexander, ever the firebrand, was not so easily swayed. His chest heaved with a mix of frustration and determination, and he shook his head, his jaw clenched. "But, sir!" he protested, his voice rising with the intensity of his plea. "How am I supposed to prove myself and raise above my status without fighting and earning a command?" There was a rawness in his voice, an ache that resonated through every word. He wasn’t simply arguing for the thrill of battle or the need for glory—this was about his identity, his drive to rise above the limitations others had set for him.

The room fell silent for a moment, and even John’s grip on his arm loosened slightly, a quiet understanding settling between them. Eliza’s eyes softened, though the concern remained in the furrow of her brow.

Washington, seeing the fire in Alexander’s eyes, did not falter. He stepped closer, his presence steady and reassuring. "You do not need to risk your life for that, Alexander," he said, his voice gentler now, but still resolute. "Your position as my right hand and head aide-de-camp will provide more than enough reputation to grow your station. You are already indispensable to this army. Your contributions will earn you respect—not the loss of your life."

Alexander opened his mouth, as if to argue again, but Washington held up a hand, silencing him. "You have already proven your worth, Alexander," he said, his voice low but insistent. "Your intellect, your vision—those are the things that will elevate you. Not reckless decisions on the battlefield."

The words lingered in the air, and for the first time, Alexander’s expression faltered. The fire in his eyes dimmed just a fraction, replaced by the uncomfortable weight of his own self-doubt. His shoulders slumped slightly, though his pride kept him from looking completely defeated.

Eliza stepped forward, her tone softer now, but still carrying the weight of her earlier urgency. "We need you here, Alexander," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "The revolution needs you. But we need you whole, not broken and battered."

Alexander swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between the people he held most dear—Eliza, John, Washington. Their concern was palpable, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel the truth of their words. The drive to prove himself, the desire to rise above his humble origins, had clouded his judgment. He had been so consumed with the idea of earning his place that he had forgotten what truly mattered.

“I…” His voice caught in his throat as he finally spoke, a mixture of humility and frustration in his words. "I’m sorry. I just… I just want to do more." The weight of the battle he had been fighting inside himself was now clear in his voice, the exhaustion of constantly pushing for more taking its toll.

Washington placed a firm hand on his shoulder, steady and reassuring. “And you will, Alexander. But not at the cost of your life. There are many ways to serve this cause, and you will find your place—one that doesn’t require you to sacrifice your future.”

For a long moment, Alexander simply stood there, the weight of their words settling over him. Finally, he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “I understand,” he said quietly, though the internal battle was far from over, “I do not agree with you but I can understand. For now.” The ambition that burned within him would never fully dim. But for the first time in a long while, he felt the faintest glimmer of relief—not from the promise of glory, but from the unwavering support of those who had always believed in him.

Eventually, you’ll see my ascendancy

[HAMILTON]

And I am not throwing away

My shot

I am not throwing away

My shot

Hey yo, I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

And I’m not throwing away my shot

[LAURENS]

My shot!

My shot!

And I’m not throwing away my shot.

[HAMILTON/MULLIGAN/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE]

I am not throwing away my shot

I am not throwing away my shot

Hey yo, I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

And I’m not throwing away my shot

It’s time to take a shot!

"I feel that this will soon become a motto of this musical," Angelica said, her voice thoughtful as she looked at the stage, her eyes reflecting the weight of the words just spoken by Alexander. "It seems to be crucial, not just to the story of Alexander, but to his entire future legacy." She leaned back slightly, folding her arms as she reflected on the significance of the moment.

Her words carried a sense of insight, as if she could already see the path that lay ahead for Alexander—a path marked by his unyielding ambition, his drive for greatness, and the cost that would inevitably accompany it. Angelica had always been the one who could cut through the layers of idealism, seeing things clearly for what they were, even when Alexander, for all his brilliance, couldn't see the consequences of his relentless pursuit.

Her gaze flicked towards him, an understanding but somewhat resigned expression on her face. "You know," she continued, her voice now tinged with a softness that few ever saw, "sometimes I wonder if Alexander realizes just how much of a burden his legacy will be. He's so fixated on what he wants to achieve that he forgets how it will shape everything that comes after."

She glanced at the others in the room, taking note of how they all seemed to reflect on her words in different ways. Lafayette, with his usual enthusiasm tempered by a growing sense of caution, and even Eliza, who seemed to hold her breath whenever Alexander spoke, as if fearing what he might give up next in his quest for recognition. It was as though Angelica could see beyond the narrative of a revolution, to the weight of history itself, already taking shape before their very eyes.

"His drive will be remembered, no doubt," she said, her voice dropping to a more contemplative tone, "but whether it will be remembered fondly or as the thing that consumed him... well, that’s another question entirely." She shook her head slightly, her words weighing heavy in the air as the others fell into quiet reflection, knowing that whatever Alexander’s future held, his legacy would be built on the choices he made in the present.

[LAFAYETTE]

I dream of life without a monarchy

The unrest in France will lead to ‘onarchy?

‘Onarchy? How you say, how you say, ‘anarchy?’

When I fight, I make the other side panicky

With my—

"My English was horrible when I first arrived on this continent," Lafayette complained, wincing slightly as he recalled his early struggles. He gestured to his companions, a look of playful exasperation on his face as he mimicked some of his earlier attempts at speaking. His accent was still thick, and the words often jumbled in a way that made him sound more like he was inventing a new language rather than trying to communicate. His voice, tinged with a mixture of humor and self-deprecation, echoed the frustration he'd felt in those early days. "I sound like a fool, yes?"

Mulligan, ever the optimist, chuckled warmly at the memory of Lafayette's broken English, which, despite its initial clumsiness, had always carried an undeniable charm. "No need to worry, Laf," he said with a grin, clapping him on the back. "It’s improved tremendously in just a short time. In fact, I’d say your English is practically better than some of the locals I’ve heard!" Mulligan’s voice was lighthearted, his tone meant to reassure, and the laughter that followed lifted the mood in the room.

Lafayette smiled sheepishly, but there was a spark of pride in his eyes. He knew the compliment was genuine, and he appreciated it. His journey, both personal and linguistic, had not been an easy one. The language barrier had often left him feeling isolated, struggling to express himself fully in a world so different from his own. But now, hearing the praise from his friend, Lafayette couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. He had come a long way from the young, unsure officer who had first stepped off the ship onto American soil. His words might not have been perfect, but they were understood—and that, in itself, was a victory.

[HAMILTON/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN]

Shot!

[MULLIGAN]

Yo, I’m a tailor’s apprentice

And I got y’all knuckleheads in loco parentis

Washington looked towards Hercules, who met his gaze and answered his unspoken question with a solemn nod. The unspoken weight between them was understood – the well-being of the men under their charge had always been a constant concern. Washington's expression softened ever so slightly as he turned back to Mulligan.

“Thank you, Mulligan,” Washington began, his voice steady and filled with gratitude, “for protecting these young men before they arrived under my care.”

Mulligan gave a short nod in acknowledgment, his eyes briefly flicking over to the pair in question – Alexander and John, barely acknowledging the conversation that surrounded them.

“It was and will always be an honor, General,” Mulligan replied earnestly, his gaze lingering on Alexander and John for a moment before continuing. “I was only too relieved to see that your care had been given to them prior to my departure for New York.” He stopped, his thoughts momentarily drawn to those two young men. "I knew Laf could look after himself, but those two..." He trailed off for a moment, a touch of exasperation creeping into his voice.

“They are driven to a fault, particularly Alexander,” Mulligan continued, shaking his head as if recalling the countless incidents. “The number of times I have had to physically pull him away from his desk to drag him to his tent... It’s like he thinks his mind will keep running even after his body has long since collapsed. And John isn’t much better. They both seem to think that working until they burn themselves out is some form of sacrifice to the cause.”

Washington’s lips tightened slightly as he thought of the toll such relentless work could take, especially on such young shoulders. "I’ve seen it, too,” he muttered, his gaze now fixing on the two young men in question. “They both push themselves until they collapse, believing there is no room for anything but their duties. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before one of them breaks.”

Mulligan gave another nod, his expression darkening. "I've had to step in more than once, even before you took them in, General. They don’t know when to stop. There were times I’d have to take papers from Alexander’s hands, force him to sleep, knowing full well he wouldn’t rest otherwise. And with John, it was just as bad. He would try to run himself ragged, thinking that by being constantly at work, he was somehow helping the cause more than anyone else could.”

Washington sighed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of responsibility. “And now they have me looking out for them,” he murmured, his tone both resolute and weary. “It is my job to make sure they don’t destroy themselves with their own ambition.”

Mulligan offered a soft, knowing smile. "It’s a good thing, General. You’ve always had a steady hand in times of chaos. They’ll come to understand that, even if they don’t now."

Washington’s eyes softened as he turned back toward Alexander and John, both still deeply immersed in their work. "I hope they do,” he replied quietly, “but I fear that they may have to learn the hard way."

The two men stood in silence for a moment, watching over the young men they cared for, both understanding the dangers of ambition unchecked and the sacrifices they had all made to see this cause through.

I’m joining the rebellion cuz I know it’s my chance

To socially advance, instead of sewin’ some pants!

I’m gonna take a—

[HAMILTON/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN]

Shot!

The girls exchanged amused but exasperated glances, shaking their heads in unison as they watched the group of men huddled around Alexander and John.

“I hope these aren’t all alcohol,” Angelica spoke, her voice sharp but with a hint of fondness, as she arched an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the group of men nodding towards the screen.. Alexander’s friends—Laurens, Lafayette, Mulligan—were ever the ones to indulge in some revelry, their presence only making their spirited young leader’s own exuberance more evident.

Alexander, sensing the playful accusation in Angelica’s voice, wore a small, almost mischievous smirk as he looked up innocently at his wife’s elder sister. His eyes twinkled with that familiar glint of mischief that always seemed to find its way into his demeanor when he was surrounded by his closest friends.

“Of course not, Angelica,” Alexander said, his voice smooth and playful, his grin widening ever so slightly. “We are responsible men, are we not?” He gave a little shrug for emphasis, as though to further convey his air of casual indifference.

The men around him all shared knowing looks, each one trying to suppress a grin. Despite their easygoing banter, none of them could deny that Hamilton’s idea of "responsibility" was often entwined with reckless enthusiasm, especially when it came to matters of drink and revelry. But for all their antics, there was an undeniable charm in the camaraderie they shared.

Angelica gave Alexander a pointed look, her gaze shifting from his innocent smile to the half-empty bottles scattered across the table. “I think ‘responsible’ is a stretch when you’ve got more wine bottles than words of wisdom between you,” she said, her tone a blend of teasing and concern. She turned her attention to the men sitting nearby, who were clearly trying not to laugh too loudly at the exchange. “Do you all think it’s wise to indulge so freely with war on the horizon? There are far more important matters to discuss than whatever nonsense you are all engaging in.”

At that, Alexander raised a hand in mock surrender, still grinning. "Ah, but we’ve been through so much together, Angelica. Surely, a bit of indulgence won't hurt. The work we do, the sacrifices we've made, sometimes it’s just a relief to have moments like these with friends.” His tone softened slightly as he spoke, and his glance flickered toward John and then to the others, a mixture of gratitude and camaraderie in his gaze before moving back to Angelica, “And beside’s this is in the past-” he gestured to the screen where the pictures had paused, “We are in the throwes of battle in our present time, we shall soon see the outcome”

[LAURENS]

But we’ll never be truly free

Until those in bondage have the same rights as you and me

Both Alexander and John cheered, their excitement mirroring each other as they raised their fists in victory. The sight of them—positioned in perfect unison—caught everyone’s attention, especially as Laurens casually draped an arm around Alexander’s shoulders, pulling him in close with a gesture of deep, unspoken camaraderie. It was natural, unforced, a sign of the bond they shared, one that had grown over time from friendship into something more—something neither of them could quite define, but both felt undeniably. What had once been playful banter and shared ambition now carried a subtle undercurrent of affection, a closeness that went beyond the battlefield.

Jefferson sat in silence, his expression one of clear disdain, his lips pressed into a tight line as he watched the scene unfold. His gaze was sharp, disapproving of the carefree display before him, but it was the meaning behind the lyric they were celebrating—their idealism, their youth—that seemed to disquiet him most. He couldn’t reconcile their laughter with the seriousness of the cause. Meanwhile, Washington remained quiet, his gaze less overt but heavy with unspoken reproach. He observed the scene with a furrowed brow, a quiet disappointment in his eyes, though his silence spoke volumes about his inner conflict.

As he watched Laurens’ arm around Alexander, something stirred in Washington’s chest. A flicker of discomfort washed over him—guilt, thick and unyielding. It wasn’t just the celebration that troubled him, nor the exuberance of youth that seemed to contrast so sharply with the gravity of their shared mission. It was the reminder, sudden and sharp, of how far removed he had lived from the very humanity he had sworn to defend.

He thought of the slaves he had owned, the men and women whose labor had built his wealth, his estate—his very position. The guilt weighed on him now, heavier than it ever had before. He had justified it for years, buried the moral questions beneath the guise of necessity, of tradition. But in the presence of these young men, full of passion and idealism, his complicity in the very system they were fighting to change felt unbearable.

His mind flashed back to the plantation, the faces of those he had called "property," their lives governed by his commands. He had been a participant in the trade, had grown his fortune on the backs of those who had no freedom, no voice. And now, watching Laurens’ easy affection for Alexander, he felt a pang of regret. The closeness they shared was something he had denied to so many people, both through the legacy of slavery and the walls he had built around himself in his quest for power.

At first, the bond between Alexander and Laurens had been one of friendship, a connection forged on shared ideals, late-night discussions, and the camaraderie of revolutionaries. But over time, Washington had noticed the subtle shifts—the lingering glances, the way Laurens' touch seemed to linger just a moment longer than necessary, the quiet exchanges that spoke volumes without words. It was a quiet transformation, almost imperceptible at first, but now, it was clear that what had begun as mutual respect and loyalty had evolved into something deeper, something more intimate. Alexander, ever the driven idealist, had grown more and more drawn to Laurens' warmth, his understanding of the burdens Alexander carried. And Laurens, with his quick wit and passionate heart, had found himself offering not only support but affection, in a way that seemed to transcend mere friendship.

Washington’s hand clenched involuntarily, and he swallowed, as if trying to force down the bitter taste of his own actions. He had always carried the mantle of leadership, but now, in the midst of the revelry, it felt like a chain. He couldn’t shake the feeling that, in his pursuit of freedom for the nation, he had forgotten the instances where his actions would oppose the very things they had been fighting for.

You and I. Do or die. Wait till I sally in

On a stallion with the first black battalion

Have another—

[HAMILTON/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN]

Shot!

[BURR]

Geniuses, lower your voices

You keep out of trouble and you double your choices

Alexander rolled his eyes, a sharp exhale escaping his lips as he let out a noise of clear discontent. His gaze fixed on Burr, who sat across from him, calm and seemingly indifferent. Alexander's frustration bubbled over, his voice rising with the heat of his conviction. "You must stand for what you believe, Burr," he said, his tone tinged with both exasperation and a sense of betrayal. "Surely you cannot just sit back and do nothing!"

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of impatience flashing in them. The room felt smaller, the weight of their heated conversation pressing in on him. He couldn't understand how Burr, someone so intelligent, so capable, could be content to stay in the shadows, to hold back when the future of their nation was at stake. The urgency of the revolution, the demands of leadership—it all surged through Alexander, and yet Burr seemed to remain impervious to the fire that burned within him.

As Alexander spoke, his hand rose, gesturing for emphasis. His posture was tense, his frustration palpable as he leaned forward slightly, as if urging Burr to hear the weight of his words. "This is not the time for neutrality, for waiting around to see what others will do. You have to choose, Burr. You have to make a stand!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, the rawness of his passion cutting through the air like a knife.

Burr, however, remained calm, his expression unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed loosely, his face giving nothing away. The contrast between their reactions was striking—Alexander, fiery and relentless in his pursuit of what he believed was right, and Burr, distant and measured, as though he were watching the storm pass by from a safe distance. The silence between them was heavy, charged with the tension of unspoken words and unshared ideals.

Alexander’s brow furrowed deeper, frustration twisting his features as he stared at Burr. “How can you stand by and let the world pass you by?” he demanded, the words more of a challenge than a question. His voice softened, but only slightly, the weight of his belief in action and change clear in every syllable. "We are in the midst of history, Burr. You can’t afford to sit on the sidelines."

For a moment, Burr’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, though it was the kind of smile that did not reach his eyes. His gaze met Alexander’s with a coolness that only deepened the divide between them. The air crackled with the tension of two men who couldn’t be more different—one who moved with the force of a storm, and the other who seemed to wait for the storm to pass before making his move.

Alexander’s heart raced, his pulse quickening as he waited for Burr’s response, his patience worn thin. What did it take to make Burr see? Couldn’t he understand that the stakes were too high for hesitation?

"I am not on the sideline, Alexander," Burr's voice was cool, sharp—almost too controlled. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto Alexander's with a cold intensity. "I am more in the thick of the action, of history, than you are or ever will be."

The words landed with a jarring impact, cutting through the air with a weight that made the room feel smaller. For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze. Alexander blinked, caught off guard, his expression faltering for just a moment as Burr's words hit their mark.

The infliction of pain was immediate, a subtle twist in Alexander’s gut. It wasn’t the first time he had felt the sting of Burr’s barbed remarks, but this one—this one was different. This was a reminder of everything Alexander feared, everything he had always felt but rarely voiced. Burr's words were not just a challenge to his ideals or his ambition; they were a direct hit to the core of his own insecurities, the tender wound that had never fully healed since Washington’s constant refusal to give him command of his own troops.

Washington had always kept him close, guiding him, mentoring him, but never fully trusting him with the reins of leadership. Alexander had fought for it, yearned for it—longed to prove himself on his own terms. But the General, ever cautious and protective, had never relinquished control. The lack of a command, the lack of a group of men to lead—those were the silent chains that weighed on Alexander’s soul, the silent acknowledgments of his perceived inadequacy, a subtle but constant reminder that Washington didn’t believe he was ready.

Burr knew this. He knew the doubts that festered in Alexander’s mind, the frustration that simmered beneath his bravado. And now, Burr had turned it into a weapon, using Alexander’s deepest vulnerabilities against him.

I’m with you, but the situation is fraught

You’ve got to be carefully taught:

If you talk, you’re gonna get shot!

“Really, Burr? More foreshadowing?!" Angelica’s voice cracked through the tension like thunder, sharp and unforgiving. Her eyes blazed with anger, her words laced with a kind of disbelief that seemed to echo through the room. "You are unforgivable!” The fury in her tone was unmistakable, each syllable steeped in years of frustration with the man before her.

Burr’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his expression guarded, as if prepared for this onslaught. He knew Angelica—knew how deeply her words could wound, how much weight her accusations carried. But even still, the sting of her condemnation seemed to land harder than he expected.

Angelica stepped forward, her posture fierce, her hands trembling slightly in the fury of the moment. She was done with the games, done with the quiet manipulation, the constant veiled threats. She had always been the one who saw through Burr’s carefully crafted masks, the one who could cut through his layers of self-preservation to reveal the truth he tried so hard to hide. And today, in this room, she wasn’t willing to let him get away with it any longer.

Behind her, Peggy and Phillip were doing their best to comfort Eliza, who had gone pale at the idea of her husband being ripped away from her and her family. Eliza’s hand trembled as she covered her stomach protectively the other gripping onto Phillip who’s eyes were sad knowing his own fate unless he changed it.. She wanted to speak up, to stop the confrontation, but the words caught in her throat. She could see the pain in Alexander’s eyes, the guilt and the burden he always carried with him. Eliza hated seeing him so caught in these emotional crossfires.

Angelica, however, seemed unshaken, her attention was fixed solely on Burr, her eyes flashing with the intensity of her emotions. “You think you can just sit back and manipulate everyone around you, Burr?” she continued, her voice rising with each word. “You think you can play this game with no consequences? No!” She shook her head vehemently, the anger almost too much for her to contain. “Alexander has given so much for this cause. You want to come in and tear it apart for what? For your own gain?”

Her words seemed to hang in the air like a challenge, daring Burr to respond, to justify his actions. The room grew even more charged, the intensity of Angelica’s wrath turning the space into something heavy, suffocating. For a moment, there was only silence—no one dared to speak, as though they all knew that Angelica’s fury had taken on a life of its own.

Burr, for all his calculated distance, seemed to shrink under her fire. But rather than fight back, he merely stood there, his lips pressed into a thin line. There was no defense, no excuse that could quell the storm Angelica had unleashed.

[HAMILTON]

Burr, check what we got

Mister Lafayette, hard rock like Lancelot

Lafayette smiled at Alexander, “Thank you mon petit lion” the younger smiled back.

I think your pants look hot

Laurens, I like you a lot

Everyone chuckled as they looked at the pair, their laughter echoing in the room. Alexander, ever the fierce and determined figure, had somehow managed to retreat into Laurens' shoulder, his face flushed a deep red. His usual confidence seemed to melt away in that moment, leaving behind a mix of vulnerability and embarrassment. The sight was striking—Alexander, usually so composed and intense, now buried against Laurens in a moment of uncharacteristic softness.

Lafayette, his eyes sparkling with mirth, broke the silence first. "We know that, mon ami!" he laughed, the warmth in his voice a comforting reminder of the bond they all shared. His words carried an affectionate teasing, but there was no malice in them—just the easy camaraderie of men who had fought side by side and grown close in ways that only shared hardship and victory could forge.

Laurens, however, gave the Frenchman a playful glare, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze that wasn’t lost on Lafayette. It was a brief glance, just enough for Lafayette to catch the shift in Laurens’ expression, the hint of doubt or discomfort that didn’t belong. Laurens' usual confidence in moments like this seemed shaken, and for a brief instant, it felt as if the weight of their connection—so open and obvious to those around them—was something Laurens was still learning to navigate.

Lafayette’s smile faltered, and he softened his gaze, sensing the unspoken tension. "I," he began, his tone shifting slightly, "and I am sure those in this room who matter, do not care who your heart belongs to, mon ami." His voice was steady, reassuring, as he glanced around at the others. It was a reminder that, in their circle, there was no judgment, no condemnation for the bond between Alexander and Laurens. They had fought together, struggled together, and it was those shared experiences that had built something unshakeable between them.

The room had fallen into a brief, comfortable silence as Lafayette’s words settled. He wasn’t just speaking to Laurens, but to everyone present, reaffirming the unspoken understanding that, in this moment, they were all united in their acceptance.

Laurens' shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension easing as Lafayette's reassurance washed over him. There was a quiet gratitude in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment that Lafayette had seen what no one else had, the fleeting insecurity that had passed through him. Laurens glanced at Alexander, his smile returning, though there was still a trace of hesitation beneath it.

Alexander, who had been trying to hide behind Laurens’ shoulder, now peeked out, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face. He raised an eyebrow at Lafayette, a playful defiance entering his tone. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough of my heart already,” he muttered, trying to regain some of his usual bravado, though it was clear that he too appreciated Lafayette’s words. The flush on his face had yet to fully fade, but there was something about the ease of the moment, the warmth of his friends, that allowed him to relax a little more.

Lafayette let out a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling with affection. “Oh, I have seen plenty, my friend,” he said with a grin, “and I am happy to see it. It is your strength, your heart, that we all fight for.”

There was a brief pause, and then Laurens spoke, his voice quieter but sincere. “Thank you, Lafayette.” It was a simple phrase, but the weight of it was clear. Laurens needed this affirmation, needed to hear that their bond, this connection, wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but rather something to be celebrated.

The group shared a collective smile, the atmosphere lightening as the warmth of their camaraderie filled the room. For all the struggles and doubts, for all the pressures of the revolution, this moment reminded them of what truly mattered—their friendship, their loyalty, and the unspoken understanding that, no matter what, they were all in this together.

Let’s hatch a plot blacker than the kettle callin’ the pot...

What are the odds the gods would put us all in one spotPoppin’ a squat on conventional wisdom, like it or not

A bunch of revolutionary manumission abolitionists?

Give me a position, show me where the ammunition is!

Oh, am I talkin’ too loud?

"Yes," Jefferson and Madison spoke in near unison, their voices carrying a shared weariness as they both leaned back, their minds momentarily drifting to the recent events that had unfolded in their own timeline. They exchanged a brief glance, one that spoke volumes—two men caught between their ideals and the shifting tides of history, burdened with the knowledge of what was to come. Their faces were more drawn than usual, the weight of their responsibilities seeming to sit heavier on their shoulders in that moment.

"You make some good points at certain times," Jefferson continued, his tone measured, though there was a flicker of frustration in his voice, “but you are far too loud.”

The words felt deliberate, as though they had been building for some time, a simmering irritation that had finally found its way to the surface. Jefferson’s usually calm demeanor was tinged with a rare sharpness, a result of the recent events that had shaken both men. It wasn’t just the cacophony of Alexander’s words that had become overwhelming—it was the passion that Alexander poured into every statement, every speech, as if trying to outshout the very revolution they were living through. Sometimes, Jefferson and Madison could appreciate the fire of his conviction, but there were times when it felt like the volume of his voice drowned out the necessary calm that was required to truly listen, to truly make decisions that would shape the future.

Madison, ever the quieter one, nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful but tired. He, too, had seen the unraveling of their timeline, the twists and turns that Alexander had so often set into motion, often with little regard for the consequences. His thin lips barely parted as he spoke, his words softer, yet no less pointed. "It’s not just the noise," Madison added quietly, “it’s the way you carry it with you, like a storm that doesn’t calm. Sometimes... we need more silence to think, to deliberate.”

Jefferson shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked towards Alexander, whose enthusiasm had often seemed boundless, his presence almost too big for any room they occupied. For all the brilliance that Jefferson could see in Alexander, there were moments when the relentless push of his ideas felt suffocating. His every argument came with an urgency, as if the world could not wait, and perhaps it couldn’t. But for Jefferson, who had spent much of his life cultivating a quieter, more methodical approach to leadership, the constant volume of Alexander’s rhetoric felt like an overwhelming wave that drowned out the steadier voices of reason.

Madison, on the other hand, had often found himself retreating into his thoughts, preferring to deliberate quietly, allowing time to weigh decisions, carefully considering the consequences. Where Alexander sought the limelight and fought with words that cut through the air, Madison found his strength in careful negotiation, in subtlety, in listening more than speaking. Jefferson’s criticism echoed his own frustrations, but there was always a sense of duty that made them hold their tongues, to temper the criticism with a dose of pragmatism.

Alexander, who had been listening intently, stood up from his seat, his posture stiffening as he absorbed their words. His hand rested briefly on the table, his fingers curling into a fist. He took a deep breath, the fire in his eyes reflecting a momentary flash of indignation, but then, as if realizing the truth in their words, he let out a long, controlled exhale, his shoulders sagging just slightly. His brow furrowed, but there was a quiet resignation that followed as he met both men’s gazes.

“You both make valid points,” Alexander said, his voice lower than usual, less charged with the same relentless energy. There was a moment of pause before he added, almost reluctantly, “Perhaps I... speak too often, too loudly.”

It wasn’t an apology, exactly, but there was an acknowledgment in his voice that felt almost vulnerable. For a man so used to leading through the force of his words, this admission, however small, was a rare moment of self-awareness. Jefferson and Madison exchanged a quick glance, both of them recognizing the shift. It wasn’t easy for Alexander to admit such a thing; his idealism and his passion were part of what made him who he was—but in that moment, there was a subtle change, a softness in the air.

Madison’s expression softened, and he nodded slightly, his voice quieter now, tinged with the compassion he always reserved for his closest friends. “We are not saying that your points are invalid, Alexander,” he reassured him. “It’s just that, sometimes, the right words are lost when they’re drowned out by noise.”

Jefferson, too, looked over at Alexander with a more understanding gaze, his usual sharpness replaced with a quiet thoughtfulness. “We all have our ways of fighting for what we believe in,” he said, his voice gentler now. “But sometimes, a whisper is far more powerful than a shout.”

The room was still, the tension slowly ebbing as the three men shared a quiet understanding. It wasn’t about silencing Alexander—no one could ever truly silence him, nor would they want to. It was about balance, about knowing when to raise their voices and when to pause, when to listen, and when to act. And for the first time in what felt like a long while, they all seemed to come to the unspoken agreement that, despite their differences, they were bound by the same desire to see their country thrive.

Alexander stood in the center of the room, his gaze shifting between Jefferson and Madison as he absorbed their words. There was a moment of silence, one that stretched long enough for the weight of their advice to sink in. His expression softened, his sharp features briefly clouded by thoughtfulness, as if reconsidering everything he had been so sure of moments before. The ever-persistent fire in his eyes dimmed just slightly, replaced by something more reflective—a rare vulnerability that he seldom allowed others to witness.

He let out a slow breath, his posture easing, and then, with a slight nod of his head, he spoke. "When I return to my own timeline, I will try and follow your advice. All of it..." His voice was steadier now, tinged with a new understanding, a newfound humility that was almost foreign to the man who had so often led with sheer force of will. It was a promise, but one that carried the weight of acknowledgment—perhaps the first step in bridging the divide between his intensity and the patience that Jefferson and Madison had long mastered.

Alexander’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces of his companions—his friends. He looked to Laurens, to Eliza, to the others who had stood by him through countless battles and moments of doubt. Their presence, their unwavering loyalty, seemed to anchor him in that moment, grounding his usually frenetic energy. “Maybe,” he continued, his tone shifting slightly, a flicker of hope threading through his words, “whatever is revealed further into this musical can be changed or prevented.”

There was a slight hesitation in his voice as he said the word musical , almost as if trying to come to terms with the oddity of their situation. In his mind, the concept of being a character in a larger narrative—one that wasn’t of his own making—felt foreign and disorienting. But the reality of it was there, undeniable, and with it, the realization that his actions, his choices, and the path he walked were part of something larger than he had ever expected.

He cast a glance around at the others, his gaze flickering over the faces of those who had seen the worst of their time together, who had lived through the same battles, the same revolution. The weight of those experiences bound them, making them, in his eyes, the only ones truly capable of understanding. “Perhaps,” he repeated, a bit more quietly, “we can change what comes next, if we choose wisely. If we can shape our futures rather than just follow the path laid before us.”

It was a tentative hope, a fragile optimism in the face of all that had come before them. Alexander’s words weren’t just a promise to his companions—they were a silent vow to himself. To do better, to think more, to listen more. He wasn’t sure how much of what was ahead could be altered, but there was something about the solidarity of this group, the shared purpose between them, that gave him a sense of agency he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before.

The room, once tense with the weight of their differences, now seemed to shift into a quieter space, one filled with the possibility of change. The atmosphere wasn’t light, not by any means, but there was a certain quiet understanding that settled over them. Alexander knew he wasn’t alone in this struggle, and for once, that realization was enough to make him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could steer the ship of his fate in a new direction.

The others nodded, their expressions varying from cautious hope to reserved acceptance. There was a sense that, perhaps, they could still carve out a different future—one where their choices mattered, where the things they had yet to discover could be prevented, or at least changed.

Sometimes I get over excited, shoot off at the mouth

I never had a group of friends before

I promise that I’ll make y’all proud

“You most definitely have,” Laurens said, his voice steady, yet filled with warmth and conviction. He stood a bit taller, a sense of pride radiating from him as he met Alexander's gaze. His expression softened, a subtle smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he gave a slight nod of approval. Laurens had always been the first to stand by Alexander, his loyalty unwavering through the many struggles they had faced together. And in this moment, with the weight of the world hanging over them, Laurens' words carried the weight of a brother's love, a bond that had only grown stronger through the trials of war.

Beside Laurens, Lafayette couldn’t help but chime in, his French accent thick with affection and respect. “You have been a true force, mon ami,” he added, his voice warm but filled with genuine admiration. “We have all fought, but it is your vision, your drive that has pushed us forward.” Lafayette’s words were sincere, yet there was an unmistakable pride in them, as though he, too, felt a deep personal investment in Alexander's success. His eyes shone with the kind of gratitude that only came from being in the trenches alongside someone, having witnessed firsthand the sacrifices made and the immense strength that had come from it.

Mulligan, never one to shy away from speaking his mind, leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face. “You’ve been more than a soldier, Alex. You’ve been a leader,” he said, his voice hearty, with a familiar warmth that always seemed to bring a sense of ease to the room. Mulligan had always been a bit of a wild card, but his respect for Alexander was as deep as anyone's. The way he spoke now, with both admiration and affection, felt like a reflection of the bond the two had forged over the years. “If there’s anyone who deserves to be in the spotlight, it’s you.”

Alexander felt a warmth swell in his chest at their words, a feeling that was at once humbling and overwhelming. He had spent so much of his life pushing forward, consumed by ambition and a drive that often seemed endless, but hearing his friends speak of him in this way, with such open pride and recognition, was something he had never fully allowed himself to hope for. A smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, the weight of everything they had been through seemed to lighten, just enough for him to breathe a little easier.

Then, from across the room, Washington, ever the steady presence, nodded in quiet approval. His gaze was softer than usual, the sharpness of his command replaced by a sense of fatherly pride that Alexander rarely saw in him. “You have made everyone proud, Alexander,” Washington said, his voice deep and steady, carrying the weight of years of leadership and responsibility. The words hung in the air with quiet reverence. “If we win this war, it is thanks to you.”

The acknowledgment from Washington hit harder than any battle victory, more resonant than any moment of triumph. For Alexander, who had idolized the man for so long, who had yearned for his approval even as he fought beside him, hearing such words felt like the culmination of everything he had worked for. Washington’s approval was the final piece of validation he had never realized he needed until now.

Alexander’s heart swelled with a deep, almost overwhelming emotion, a mixture of gratitude, pride, and relief. His gaze flicked to the faces of his companions—Laurens, Lafayette, Mulligan—and then back to Washington, who stood there, unwavering and strong. In that moment, he could feel the weight of their belief in him, the trust they had placed in him. It was a trust that was born of years of shared struggle, of battles fought side by side, of long nights spent planning and dreaming of a better future. They had all come so far, and now, standing together, it was clear that they had made a difference, that their sacrifices had not been in vain.

The room felt a little smaller, a little warmer as the words of his friends washed over him. Alexander smiled more freely now, his heart lighter than it had in forever. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to fully absorb the reality of what they had achieved together. There were still challenges ahead, still obstacles to overcome, but in this moment, with his closest friends by his side and the recognition of his contributions in the air, Alexander felt a sense of peace settle over him. They were all in this together, and no matter what came next, that was something no one could take away.

[LAURENS]

Let’s get this guy in front of a crowd

[HAMILTON/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN/ENSEMBLE]

I am not throwing away my shot

I am not throwing away my shot

Hey yo, I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

And I’m not throwing away my shot

I am not throwing away my shot

I am not throwing away my shot

Hey yo, I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

And I’m not throwing away my shot

[LAURENS]

Ev’rybody sing:

Whoa, whoa, whoa

Hey!

Whoa!

Wooh!!

Whoa!

Ay, let ‘em hear ya!

Let’s go!

I said shout it to the rooftops!

Said, to the rooftops!

Come on!

Come on, let’s go! [HAMILTON/LAFAYETTE/

MULLIGAN]

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!

Whoa!

Whoa!

Yea!

[COMPANY]

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!

Whoa!

Whoa!

Yea!

[LAURENS]

Rise up!

When you’re living on your knees, you rise up

Tell your brother that he’s gotta rise up

Tell your sister that she's gotta rise up

As the room settled into a quiet, reflective moment, the attention turned towards Laurens, who had spoken with such heartfelt pride about Alexander. Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy exchanged a brief but meaningful glance, their expressions softening. The warmth in their gazes was undeniable, an unspoken bond of gratitude and understanding between the three sisters. It was rare, in a time dominated by men, for their voices to be so openly acknowledged, and Laurens’ words had not only recognized Alexander’s strength but had also given them a space in the conversation—a gesture that resonated deeply with the three women.

Eliza, always the gentle soul, was the first to speak, her voice soft but clear, carrying a quiet sincerity that made her words all the more powerful. “Thank you, John,” she said, her gaze lingering on him with appreciation. The gratitude in her eyes was genuine, filled with a quiet reverence for Laurens' thoughtfulness. She continued, her voice steady but tinged with emotion, “Thank you for including women too.”

Her words hung in the air, not just a simple thank you, but a recognition of Laurens' effort to include them in the same breath as the men, to acknowledge their contributions and their worth in a way that was all too often overlooked. It was a rare act of inclusion, one that felt like a balm to the women who had often been relegated to the sidelines of their own story. To hear their value acknowledged, not as mere bystanders or secondary characters, but as active participants in the shaping of history, was something that filled Eliza with a deep sense of belonging.

Laurens, ever the humble soul, nodded in acceptance of the thanks, his expression softening. His gaze met Eliza’s with a quiet understanding, a simple acknowledgment of her gratitude. It wasn’t that he expected praise—he was driven by the desire to do what was right, to make sure everyone’s contribution was seen and valued. But the appreciation in Eliza’s eyes, the unspoken recognition, made his heart swell in a way that words could not capture.

“I only spoke what is true,” Laurens replied with a smile, his voice sincere. “Every one of you has played a role in this. You’ve all stood by us, and without you, none of this would be possible.” His words, though simple, carried a weight that reson with the women. It wasn’t just acknowledgment—it was validation, a recognition of the unique strength and courage they brought to the table.

Angelica, ever the sharp wit and natural leader, tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a smile. Her expression, while composed, conveyed a sense of quiet appreciation. “We are not often remembered in the history books,” she said, her tone laced with a hint of irony, “but today, John, I think you’ve written us into this one.”

Her comment brought a soft chuckle from the room, and the tension that had lingered in the air seemed to ease, replaced by a shared sense of camaraderie. Even Peggy, whose quiet nature often left her on the fringes, seemed to radiate a quiet joy at the acknowledgment. She offered Laurens a small but genuine smile, her eyes shining with gratitude.

[LAURENS AND ENSEMBLE]

When are these colonies gonna rise up?

“They are,” Washington spoke, his voice firm yet filled with quiet determination. “They are, and we are going to make sure that we win.” His words were a promise, a vow not just to those gathered in the room but to the country they were fighting to free. The gravity of the war and its uncertain outcome still loomed, but in that moment, there was a shared resolve that was nearly tangible.

The men, dressed in their worn soldier’s clothing, exchanged looks of understanding, nodding in agreement. A sense of unity and purpose filled the air as they stood together, their shoulders squared, their eyes bright with a fire that had been kindled long ago. Excited smiles tugged at the corners of their lips, and even the weariness that had settled in their bones seemed to lift, replaced by a surge of collective energy.

For all the dangers that still lay ahead, for all the obstacles they had yet to face, there was little apprehension among them. Their trust in each other, in the cause they had pledged their lives to, was enough to push the fear aside. In this moment, they were not just soldiers—they were brothers, bound by a cause greater than themselves, and they believed, with everything they had, that they could overcome whatever the future held.

When are these colonies gonna rise up?

When are these colonies gonna rise up?

When are these colonies gonna rise up?

Rise up!

[COMPANY]

Whoa! Whoa!

Whoa!

Whoa!

Whoa!

Rise up!

[HAMILTON]

I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

The atmosphere in the room shifted almost immediately, the lightness that had once filled the air now replaced with a heavy silence. It was as though the very air had thickened, as everyone’s attention snapped to Alexander, their expressions shifting from quiet camaraderie to concern. Even Jefferson and Madison, men who often held their emotions in check, couldn’t mask the worry that clouded their features. They exchanged a glance, their brows furrowed in unease, their usual confidence shaken by the unexpected vulnerability that Alexander had revealed.

“Alexander!” Eliza’s voice broke through the silence, trembling slightly as she spoke his name. Her gaze was full of tenderness, laced with worry as she stood quickly, her steps hesitant but urgent. Without a second thought, she moved towards him, her arms instinctively reaching out as she squeezed between his body and the edge of the sofa where he sat. Her movements were a mixture of care and concern, the love she held for him evident in the way she placed herself so close. Her face softened with a quiet apology as she shot a look at General Washington, who, understanding the moment, shifted slightly to give them both more space. His own gaze remained somber, his eyes flickering with unspoken understanding, but he didn’t intrude on their private moment.

Alexander, still processing his own emotions, shook his head, a fragile smile tugging at the corner of his lips in a gesture that was meant to reassure, though it fell short. His shoulders sagged, and there was a quiet sorrow in his eyes. “Betsey, it is all OK,” he murmured, his voice strained but gentle. “I’m OK now… this was…” His words faltered as he tried to find the right way to explain the depth of what he had experienced, what had shaped him into the man he had become. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lowering, as if seeking the right words in the heavy silence. “This was before I had much to live for.” The words felt like a weight in the air, each syllable carrying the burden of years he had spent struggling to survive.

His eyes were distant, as if he had drifted back to another time, another place. The memories of Nevis, the hardship, the constant threat of death, seemed to flood back in that instant. He swallowed hard, struggling to push the painful memories to the surface. “The amount of death that surrounded me on Nevis was…” His voice faltered, and he paused again, shaking his head as if he could not quite grasp how to convey the magnitude of it. “It was unimaginable that I was able to escape it and make my way here…” His words trailed off, as though the enormity of what he was trying to express was simply too much to put into words.

As he spoke, Eliza and John both moved instinctively to his side, their hands reaching out to him. Without a second thought, Eliza grasped one of his hands tightly, her fingers curling around his as if to ground him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone in this. John mirrored her actions on the other side, his grip firm and unyielding, offering a silent strength. Both their faces were filled with an intensity of emotion—concern, worry, but also a quiet determination to support him, to remind him that they were there for him no matter how heavy the past weighed on him.

Alexander’s eyes flickered from one hand to the other, their steady grips pulling him back from the dark corners of his memories. The comfort of their touch, the strength of their presence, anchored him in the present moment. He gave a small, shaky breath, his heart swelling with both grief and gratitude. They were here. He was no longer the boy alone in the face of death, surrounded by loss. They were with him now, and that, in itself, was a kind of salvation.

The room, still heavy with the weight of his confession, seemed to hold its breath, the silence now filled with the unspoken promise of support, of love. The collective concern for Alexander was tangible, but so was the resolve to help him heal. He wasn’t alone anymore, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, that realization seemed to bring him some measure of peace.

When’s it gonna get me?

In my sleep? Seven feet ahead of me?

If I see it comin’, do I run or do I let it be?

“You run! You run as far and as fast as is possible you silly man!” Angelica spoke backed by vocal objections from the others in the room. “But why? Why run when it is inevitable is it any better that you keep running for an eternity? Why would you not let it be where you can go down in glory?” Alexander answered.

The room was thick with emotion as Alexander’s words lingered in the air, his question hanging there like an unanswered plea. His eyes flickered from person to person, seeking something—an answer, an understanding, perhaps just a reminder that he wasn’t alone in this war within himself. The weight of what he had said seemed to settle over everyone like a thick fog. There was a tension in the air, not just from the words themselves, but from the way they reflected the internal battle Alexander had been facing for so long.

Eliza’s heart clenched as she saw the torment in his eyes, her own tears threatening to well up as she squeezed his hand tighter, her voice soft but filled with fierce determination. “Alexander, you’ve already won a kind of glory,” she whispered, her words like a balm to the wounds he had been carrying. “It’s not about dying in glory—it’s about living. You’ve fought for freedom, for something bigger than yourself, and you’ve created a life, a future. That’s your glory. It’s not the end that matters; it’s the life you’ve built, the people you’ve touched.”

John, ever loyal, stood tall beside him, his expression a mixture of sadness and resolve. “You’ve already given everything, Alex. We all have,” he said, his grip on Alexander’s hand tightening. “But running from your past... from the people who care about you—it won’t solve anything. We’re here. You’re not alone. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you? You’re stronger than that. Don’t let the pain of your past take you from us.”

Washington’s voice was calm, but there was a gravity in it that resonated with everyone in the room. “Glory comes in many forms,” he said, his gaze meeting Alexander’s with a knowing look. “It’s not just about the battles we win or the legacies we leave. It’s about the courage to continue when the road ahead is uncertain, to stay in the fight when it’s easier to give up. You’ve proven that courage already. What you do now—what you fight for—is what will truly define you.”

Angelica’s face softened as she watched the weight of her words take root. She had spoken in haste, wanting to shield him from the pain she could see in his eyes, but she realized now that her approach had been wrong. “I just want you to be free,” she said, her voice quieter, her anger replaced with a tenderness that reflected her care for him. “I don’t want you to suffer anymore. But you don’t have to run to escape it. You have people who love you, people who will fight with you, every step of the way.”

Alexander’s expression remained conflicted, torn between the desire to end the torment and the realization that he had more to fight for now than he ever had before. His gaze moved from Eliza to John, then to Washington, and finally to Angelica. Each one of them was offering something he needed—hope, support, the kind of love that could heal old wounds. The past, with its unrelenting grip, still loomed large in his mind, but in their eyes, he saw the possibility of something more. Something worth fighting for.

He swallowed hard, trying to process everything they had said, the overwhelming emotion building within him. “I don’t know how to leave it behind,” he admitted softly, his voice thick with the weight of his vulnerability. “The past feels like it’s always following me, always threatening to pull me back. How do I move forward when everything I’ve done, everything I’ve survived, feels like it’s still haunting me?”

Eliza leaned forward, her hand gently cupping his cheek. “You don’t have to forget it, Alex,” she said softly. “But you can choose not to let it define you anymore. You can make the choice to live, to fight for the future we’re building together.”

John stepped closer, his voice steady and full of conviction. “We all have our demons, Alex. But you don’t have to face them alone. We’ve got you. We always will.”

Washington, ever the leader, nodded solemnly. “The future is ours to shape, Alexander. You’ve already done more than most could ever dream of. Now, it’s time to live for what you’ve built. For the people who depend on you. For the family you’ve found.”

For the first time, Alexander felt a flicker of something deep within him—a glimmer of hope, fragile but real. His past, though still present, no longer felt as suffocating. The people who stood before him, offering not just words but unconditional love and support, reminded him that he didn’t have to run. He could move forward. He could find peace, not by escaping the past, but by embracing the future they were all fighting for.

As the tension in the room slowly dissipated, the heaviness that had settled over them lifted, replaced by a quiet understanding. Alexander, still deep in thought, nodded slowly, his heart swelling with the realization that he wasn’t alone. Not now, not ever. And in that moment, surrounded by those who had always been there for him, he understood that the battle he was facing wasn’t just about winning the war—it was about choosing to live, to grow, and to fight for the future they had all worked so hard to create.

Is it like a beat without a melody?

See, I never thought I’d live past twenty

Where I come from some get half as many

Eliza’s breath caught in her throat as she watched her husband’s expression shift, the walls he had built around his past seemingly crumbling for just a moment. She couldn’t help herself, the question slipping out before she could stop it, her voice fragile and full of dread. “Did—” She paused, her throat tightening, “Did they really die at ten?”

The room fell into an almost unbearable silence. The only sound was the steady rhythm of their breaths, the weight of the question hanging in the air. No one moved, no one spoke. The answer was clear in the way Alexander’s face fell, in the haunted look that flickered across his eyes.

Alexander didn’t need to say anything; the silence spoke volumes. The grief of his childhood, the loss of his mother, the unbearable weight of growing up with such tragic circumstances—it all came rushing back in a wave of painful recollections. His lips pressed into a thin line as he looked away, unable to meet Eliza’s gaze.

Eliza’s heart sank. She had known the man before her had suffered, but to hear the pain in his voice and see the weight of it in his eyes now felt like a revelation. She understood, in that moment, why Alexander had always carried that burning need to prove himself. It wasn’t just ambition—it was a desperate attempt to make something of himself, to rise above the tragic circumstances that had almost claimed his life before he had even begun to live. It was a yearning to be seen, to be remembered, to somehow make up for all the things that were stolen from him before he even had a chance to grow up.

She swallowed, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. Her hand, which had instinctively reached for his, now rested gently on his arm, a quiet attempt to offer him something tangible, something to hold onto as she processed the depth of his pain. The weight of his history was heavier now than ever before, and she wished, for a fleeting moment, that she could take it away, make it lighter for him.

But she couldn’t. All she could do was be there, offering the only thing she had—her love, her understanding. She wanted him to know that, even in his darkest moments, he didn’t have to prove anything to her. He was enough.

John, who had been sitting silently beside them, felt his heart twist at the tension in the room. He, too, had seen glimpses of Alexander’s pain over the years—seen the way his friend pushed himself relentlessly, the way he sought validation and recognition. But to hear it spoken aloud, to hear the weight of that loss so plainly, brought the reality of it all crashing down. He leant forward, his voice quieter than usual. “We carry those things with us, Alex. But they don’t define us. You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. Not to me. Not to Washington. Not even to Eliza.”

Alexander’s eyes flickered to John, the sincerity in his gaze evident but the vulnerability still too raw to fully embrace.

Washington, who had been standing quietly at the edge of the conversation, stepped closer, his eyes softening as he regarded Alexander. “You’ve already proven more than most men ever will,” he said quietly. “You’ve fought for this country, for your future, for the family you’ve built. You don’t need to carry the past on your shoulders anymore.”

The words didn’t erase the pain, but they provided something important—an understanding, a recognition of the sacrifices Alexander had made and the burdens he had carried. Eliza, her heart full of compassion, tightened her grip on his arm, silently offering him the strength she had always carried for them both.

The silence that followed was not one of discomfort, but one of shared grief, understanding, and the unspoken vow to help him carry it—no longer alone.

Ask anybody why we livin’ fast and we laugh, reach for a flask

We have to make this moment last, that’s plenty

Scratch that

This is not a moment, it’s the movement

Where all the hungriest brothers with

Something to prove went?

Foes oppose us, we take an honest stand

We roll like Moses, claimin’ our promised land

And? If we win our independence?

Is that a guarantee of freedom for our descendants?

Or will the blood we shed begin an endless

Cycle of vengeance and death with no defendants?

The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of Alexander's words hanging heavily in the air. General Washington’s sharp gaze bore into him, his expression unreadable as he stood with arms crossed, taking in the young man's response. The fire in Alexander's eyes was unmistakable—a mixture of determination, resolve, and a deep sense of responsibility that seemed far beyond his years. The older man, hardened by years of war and leadership, searched Alexander's face, his own mind momentarily drifting to the future he too had fought for, a future that was now being shaped by men like this young aide.

“You have really thought about the consequences, have you not, Alexander?” Washington’s voice was steady, though there was a subtle edge to it—perhaps a hint of concern beneath his composed exterior. He needed to know if Alexander understood the gravity of his decisions, if he truly comprehended the immense responsibility that came with his ideals and ambitions.

Alexander met his gaze without flinching. His posture, though still bearing the weight of his youth, stood firm—a man made in the image of his beliefs. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice unwavering, "If I survive this war, I do not want future generations to have to fight further to protect the freedoms our men have died for."

His words were resolute, echoing the deep convictions he had carried with him through every battle, every hardship. The quiet intensity in his eyes told a story of sleepless nights spent drafting pamphlets, writing letters, tirelessly advocating for a future that would be worthy of the sacrifices made. He wasn’t just fighting for freedom in the present—he was fighting for a vision of a better future, a legacy that would protect the generations to come from the very struggles they now faced.

Washington watched him closely, his mind drifting back to his own youth, to the idealism he had once held, the dreams of a nation unburdened by tyranny. But experience had a way of tempering ideals. He had seen too much—too many lives lost, too many promises broken. His gaze softened slightly, the hardened edges of his leadership momentarily giving way to something more paternal. “It’s a noble dream,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet weight, “but be mindful, Alexander, that those who come after us will build their own path. It’s our duty to lay the groundwork, but how they choose to continue will be theirs to decide.” His eyes lingered on Alexander a moment longer, as if weighing the young man’s conviction against the reality that would follow the war.

Alexander nodded again, a flicker of understanding passing over his face. He knew that Washington spoke from experience, from the harsh realities of war and leadership that he had seen up close. But that didn’t dampen his drive—it only fueled it. “I understand, sir,” he said quietly, though there was a fire in his voice that remained unwavering. “But I also believe that we must do everything in our power to ensure that future generations never forget the price of liberty, that they never have to pay it again.”

There was a long pause before Washington spoke again, his voice quieter this time, tinged with something like admiration. “I do not doubt your passion, Alexander. I never have. Just remember that the path ahead will be long, and not all battles are fought on the battlefield.”

Alexander stood straighter at those words, as if some invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had always known that freedom wasn’t something easily won—it was something that had to be continually protected. But hearing Washington’s acknowledgment of his vision made it feel more real, more attainable. He wasn’t just fighting for a cause; he was fighting for a future, one that would endure long after the last gunshot was fired.

The other men in the room, who had been quietly listening to the exchange, shared looks among themselves—some nodding in quiet approval, others with expressions of quiet contemplation. It was clear to all that Alexander had already become more than just a soldier; he was a man with a vision, one that would shape the future of the nation they were all struggling to build.

Washington gave a slow nod, his lips pressing together in thought. “Then we have much work ahead of us. But if anyone can make that vision a reality, Alexander, it’s you.”

And though Washington did not voice it aloud, a part of him believed that Alexander’s words might just be the spark needed to light the way for the new nation. The torch had been passed, not from one general to another, but from one dreamer to the next.

I know the action in the street is excitin’

But Jesus, between all the bleedin’ ‘n fightin’

I’ve been readin’ ‘n writin’

We need to handle our financial situation

The music faltered as Jefferson's voice broke through, interrupting the flow of the performance. His tone was sharp, incredulous, as he directed his question toward Hamilton, the words tumbling out before he could stop himself. "Hamilton, you were already thinking of the financial situation before the war was done?" His eyebrows arched in disbelief, as if the very notion of planning for the financial future of the nation before the battle had even been won seemed not only premature but reckless.

The room fell into a brief, stunned silence, the tension palpable. All eyes shifted to Hamilton, who was seated across from Jefferson, his expression calm yet resolute. Without missing a beat, Hamilton met Jefferson’s gaze, unfazed by the interruption, and his voice was firm as he answered. "Of course, if we are not financially strong, the nation we are creating will fall at our first hurdle," he replied, his words punctuated with quiet confidence.

There was an edge to Hamilton's tone, an unwavering belief that the future of the nation couldn’t rest solely on military victories or political ideals—it had to be backed by a solid financial foundation. His eyes never left Jefferson’s, and the weight of his words hung in the air, challenging not just Jefferson but anyone who might question his foresight. The importance of economic stability had always been at the forefront of Hamilton’s mind, even in the heat of battle. He knew better than anyone that an unstable economy would mean an unstable nation, and that was a fate he refused to let them fall into.

Jefferson's lips curled into a tight, almost amused smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And you think this is the time for such plans? Before we’ve even secured peace? Your obsession with financials seems to overlook the very essence of what we’re fighting for. We fight for liberty, for independence, not for a ledger of debts and balances!”

Hamilton's jaw tightened, but he held his ground, unshaken by Jefferson's sarcasm. "And liberty, my friend, requires a functioning government, a stable economy, and a means to fund that government. Without that, all the ideals we fight for will amount to nothing. A government unable to pay its debts will not be able to protect its citizens or uphold the freedoms we've fought so hard to win. And we are in our timeline are under no certainty that we shall win although your presence gives me some hope."

The room seemed to hum with the weight of their argument, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. While the others observed in silence, there was a palpable sense of division—each man in the room knew that this ideological clash between Hamilton and Jefferson was more than just about finance or policy; it was about their visions for the future of the nation, and the principles that would shape its foundation.

Eliza, seated nearby, exchanged a glance with Angelica, who raised an eyebrow in amusement at the familiar back-and-forth between the two men. Though they were often allies in the struggle for freedom, Hamilton and Jefferson’s differing worldviews had become a constant source of tension. Angelica leaned closer to her sister, her voice low but tinged with the faintest bit of teasing. "Here we go again," she murmured, the corner of her lips curling into a knowing smirk.

Eliza sighed softly, her fingers absently brushing over the fabric of her dress as she watched the two men spar. “They’ll never agree, will they?” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

Meanwhile, Washington, ever the figure of authority in moments like this, watched the exchange quietly. His face remained unreadable, but the slight narrowing of his eyes hinted at his own internal thoughts on the matter. He had always respected Hamilton’s vision and his drive, but he knew that such focus on financial matters could sometimes cloud the broader mission. Still, he was no stranger to the reality that a fledgling nation needed more than just ideals—it needed practicality.

At that moment, Lafayette, who had been watching the back-and-forth with a bemused expression, chuckled softly under his breath. “You two… you’re like old married men,” he muttered in French, drawing a brief laugh from Mulligan, who nodded in agreement. Even amidst the tension, their camaraderie remained a constant, a thread that kept the room from descending into outright discord.

Hamilton, sensing the shift in the room’s mood, turned his attention back to Jefferson, his tone more measured now, though still unwavering. "If we are to build something that lasts, we cannot afford to be short-sighted. The revolution may have if successful given us our independence, but it is the strength of our financial systems that will ensure that independence endures. If we do not lay the proper groundwork now, all our victories, all our sacrifices, will be for nothing."

Jefferson, though still visibly skeptical, seemed to consider Hamilton’s words more carefully now. The room settled back into a tense quiet, each man digesting the reality that their struggles were not only for freedom and independence but for the future they would leave behind—a future that would require more than just strength on the battlefield. Hamilton’s unwavering belief in the importance of a solid financial foundation had just made it clear that, in his mind, the revolution was far from over—it was merely entering a new phase, one that would demand as much skill in governance as it had in war.

Are we a nation of states? What’s the state of our nation?

I’m past patiently waitin’. I’m passionately

Smashin’ every expectation

Every action’s an act of creation!

I’m laughin’ in the face of casualties and sorrow

For the first time, I’m thinkin’ past tomorrow

Eliza and John both turned to look at Alexander, their eyes meeting his with an unspoken understanding. For a brief moment, the weight of the tension in the room seemed to lift, replaced by a soft, collective exhale. There was something in the lyrics, in the sentiment expressed, that seemed to soothe the fear and uncertainty that had been gnawing at their hearts.

Eliza’s expression softened, the tightness in her chest finally easing as she looked at her husband, her hand instinctively finding his. The words had reached her, had spoken to the parts of her heart that had been afraid of losing him—afraid of the sacrifices that would cost him more than he could bear. In that moment, it was as if the promise of something more, something beyond the chaos of war and sacrifice, had found its way into the music. The lyric spoke of perseverance, of hope for the future, and of a vision that transcended their immediate struggles.

John, mirrored Eliza's expression, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He had always known the depth of Alexander's heart, but sometimes it took moments like this to remind him of the resilience that lay beneath the surface—resilience not just for the cause, but for the people he loved. The weight of Alexander’s responsibility, of the burdens he carried, had never been lost on John, but in this instant, he saw a glimpse of something lighter. A reminder that despite the darkness surrounding them, there was still room for hope and connection.

Alexander, feeling the warmth of their gazes, turned his own eyes to meet theirs, a faint trace of vulnerability flickering behind his usual composure. For a moment, the resolute, driven man that he had always been seemed to soften, and in his eyes, Eliza and John saw the echo of the same fear they had carried with them—fear of loss, of failure, of not being enough. But the relief in their expressions, the understanding between them, reassured him that he was not alone in this.

The lyric had done what words so often failed to do—it had given them a shared sense of peace, of trust in the future, even when that future was uncertain. In that brief, fleeting moment, they allowed themselves to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, they could weather this storm together.

Eliza gave a small, relieved smile, squeezing Alexander’s hand gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand in a silent promise. John, standing at her side, nodded in agreement, offering his quiet support as well. The music had not just soothed their fears for the moment—it had reassured them that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together, bound by love, loyalty, and the unshakable bond they shared

[HAMILTON AND COMPANY]

And I am not throwing away my shot

I am not throwing away my shot

Hey yo, I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

And I’m not throwing away my shot

[HAMILTON/LAURENS/

LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN]

We’re gonna rise up! Time to take a shot!

We’re gonna rise up! Time to take a shot!

We’re gonna

[HAMILTON]

Time to take a shot!

[HAMILTON/LAFAYETTE/

LAURENS/MULLIGAN]

Time to take a shot!

Time to take a shot!

Take a shot!

Shot!

Shot!

A-yo it’s

Time to take a shot!

Time to take a shot!

And I am—

[ENSEMBLE]

Not throwing away my shot

Not throwing away my shot

We’re gonna

Rise up!

Rise up!

Rise up!

Rise up!

Rise up!

Rise up!

Ri— ri— ri—

Time to take a shot!

Time to take a shot!

And I am—

[HAMILTON/LAFAYETTE/MULLIGAN/LAURENS]

Not throwin’ away my—

[COMPANY]

Not throwin’ away my shot!

Chapter Text

The group seemed to settle into a quieter rhythm as the pace of the music slowed. The notes, softer and more introspective, echoed through the room, creating a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of the songs that had played before. Washington, who had been standing, now retook his seat beside Alex and John, his expression reflective as he listened. “This song seems much calmer than the previous,” he remarked, his voice low but clear.

The others around the room, who had been moving restlessly moments before, now sat in hushed silence, each of them feeling the weight of the change. They all nodded in agreement, as the tension in the air seemed to ease, if only for a moment. The melody carried an almost mournful quality, a sense of anticipation, as if hinting at what was to come.

Angelica, who had been deep in thought, broke the quiet with a voice that carried a heaviness born of knowing too much. “The calm before the storm of war…” she said, her words slicing through the peace, making the others sit up straighter. Her tone was thick with the gravity of the situation, her eyes distant as if she could already hear the thunder of conflict on the horizon. Her observation struck a chord with the group; it wasn’t just the music that felt like a prelude, but everything around them—moments of peace now laced with the undeniable knowledge that it wouldn’t last.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the soft music now a backdrop to the undercurrent of looming uncertainty that none of them could shake. Everyone knew that whatever was coming, it was going to change everything. 

[HAMILTON]

I may not live to see our glory

Washington’s gaze settled on Alexander, his expression a mixture of fatherly concern and unwavering resolve. “You will, Alexander, we all will,” he said, his voice firm but carrying an undertone of deep determination. He had seen so much, endured so much, but one thing had remained constant in his heart: his desire to protect those he had come to view as his own. Alexander, with all his ambition and brilliance, had become like a son to him over time. Washington had been through battles, through loss, but this war—this battle for their future—was different. He would not let it consume the younger man. Not if he could help it.

Alexander, however, wasn’t so certain. His brows furrowed as he shook his head slightly, his voice low but carrying a sharp edge of doubt. “You cannot promise that, sir,” he said, his words tinged with uncertainty. "We do not know what our future holds." The weight of the unknown hung heavily on his shoulders. He paused, his thoughts drifting back to the music they had just heard—the haunting melody that had carried a sense of foreboding with it. The lyrics of the first song still echoed in his mind, the warnings of death and loss ringing loud and clear. Alexander felt as though they were standing on the edge of an abyss, the darkness below ready to swallow them whole.

His voice trailed off as the song's ominous tone lingered in the air. The lyrics had been a stark reminder of the fragility of their lives, and Alexander couldn’t shake the fear that they were hurtling toward something they couldn't control or escape. The group, who had been listening intently, now felt the weight of his words. The atmosphere shifted, the tension returning as the reality of their situation began to settle back in.

Lafayette, who had been quietly reflecting, spoke next, his voice carrying the same sense of unease. “John…” He hesitated, as though speaking the name aloud was bringing back painful memories of a loss they all feared might soon be repeated. His eyes darted to the others, silently asking if they shared the same unspoken fear—the idea that the casualties of this war would not just be numbers in a report, but people they held dear.

But before anyone could respond, Eliza’s voice cut through the air, cracking with emotion. “Phillip!” she cried, her hands gripping at the boys hands as though trying to steady herself against the rising tide of grief. The rememberance of what had been revealed hitting her hard once more.

The music, once soft and soothing, now felt like a cruel reflection of the harsh reality they all faced. It was as though it had shifted from a moment of peace into a warning, a reminder of what could be lost in the days to come. The group sat in silence, the words unspoken but understood between them all: they were standing on the edge of something bigger than any of them had ever imagined, and the price of victory might be more than they were willing to pay.

[LAURENS, MULLIGAN, & LAFAYETTE]

I may not live to see our glory

[HAMILTON]

But I will gladly join the fight

[LAURENS, MULLIGAN, & LAFAYETTE]

But I will gladly join the fight

Washington shook his head, a deep sadness in his eyes as he listened to the eager declarations of the young men around him. He could not bear the thought of them—still so full of life, so full of promise—laying down their lives in the name of war. They were barely beginning to live, and yet they were so willing to throw it all away. A pang of protectiveness surged within him, and he made a quiet vow to himself. I will do whatever I can —he swore in the depths of his heart— to ensure they do not have to lose the lives they’ve barely begun to live. He would not allow them to suffer the same fate as so many young men he had seen before, their potential snuffed out before their time.

[HAMILTON]

And when our children tell our story

Phillip turned his head slowly, his eyes locking with the gaze of the man who’s eyes he shared. There was a weight to his expression, something both solemn and resolute. “I did, Pops,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with an undertone of something deeper, something unspoken. “We all did. We all will, and we’ll continue to do. I promise to uphold your legacy…” He paused, his throat constricting for a moment as he swallowed hard, as if the weight of the promise he was making was too much to bear all at once. “…No matter the cost.”

The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, and for a moment, the room was silent, the gravity of the promise settling over everyone. Alexander, who had been watching the young man, felt a knot form in his chest. He couldn’t help but feel both proud and horrified by the weight of Phillip’s words. “What do you mean, Phillip?” he asked, his tone quiet, almost unsure, as if afraid to fully comprehend the depth of what was being said.

For a long moment, there was no response, only the thick silence of the room. Then, suddenly, the thought hit Alexander with terrifying clarity. “No!” he blurted out, his voice rising with a frantic urgency. His heart began to race, and he took a step forward, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Phillip, please… do not say you lost your life defending me!” The thought was too unbearable, the idea of someone so young, so full of potential, giving it all up for him—for his mistakes, his choices.

Phillip’s gaze never wavered, even as he spoke with quiet conviction. “He disparaged your legacy. I could not let that stand,” he said, his voice steady, yet filled with the same fierce loyalty that had driven him to this moment. He had already made the choice—he had given his word, and he would see it through, no matter what.

But Alexander’s heart clenched at the words, the weight of them almost suffocating. “No, Phillip,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, trembling with a depth of feeling he could no longer contain. “Do not lose your own life protecting me from mistakes I will undoubtedly have made!” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he fought to keep his composure, but the rawness in his voice betrayed him. "This is my fight, my burden. You shouldn't have to carry it for me."

There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of their breathing, the air thick with the pain of what was being said. The thought of Phillip sacrificing his life for him, of this young man—still so much a part of his own future—putting everything on the line, shattered Alexander's heart in ways he couldn’t put into words. The promise, the loyalty, the love in Phillip’s eyes—he couldn’t bear it. Not like this.

Phillip's expression softened, but the resolve in his eyes never wavered. He understood the weight of Alexander’s words, but in his heart, he knew this was the choice he had made. And he would not turn back. 

Inhalign deeply he looked to his parents, “I will avoid the bullet, I promise you that. I cannot back down but I will not die”

[LAURENS, MULLIGAN, & LAFAYETTE]

And when our children tell our story

[HAMILTON]

They’ll tell the story of tonight

[MULLIGAN]

Let’s have another round tonight

[LAFAYETTE]

Let’s have another round tonight

[HAMILTON]

Let’s have another round tonight

Burr’s sharp gaze swept over the group, his eyes narrowing as he observed their jovial demeanor. He had never quite understood their carefree spirit, the easy way they laughed and joked despite the gravity of the situation looming over them. The weight of impending war seemed to be handled with a kind of casualness that unsettled him, as if they were unaware of the true costs that lay ahead. He crossed his arms, an eyebrow cocked in skepticism. “How many rounds have you had so far?” he asked, his voice laced with an edge of criticism. “It seems to have been more than enough.”

Lafayette, who had been leaning back in his chair with a relaxed air, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, met Burr’s gaze with a smirk that was more playful than dismissive. He tilted his head slightly, his thick French accent carrying a note of amusement. “Burr,” he drawled, his tone dripping with a mixture of teasing and defiance, “we were having some fun before the war.” He leaned in a little, his eyes twinkling with a knowing light. “Unlike you, we were ready to die for the cause.”

There was a slight edge to Lafayette’s words, a challenge that hung in the air between them. The Frenchman’s manner was lighthearted, but there was a deeper truth beneath his words. He had fought alongside many, bled with them, and he carried the scars of a revolution already fought. To him, the promise of freedom was something worth laying down his life for—and if that meant finding joy in moments like this, before the storm of war broke, then so be it.

Burr’s lips pressed into a thin line, and though he didn’t respond immediately, the tension between them was palpable. He didn’t share Lafayette’s optimism, nor his readiness to embrace the chaotic blend of camaraderie and rebellion that the young men so easily indulged in. For Burr, every glass of liquor he watched their on stage counterparts take seemed to blur the line between survival and reckless abandon. 

[LAURENS]

Raise a glass to freedom

Something they can never take away

No matter what they tell you

Raise a glass to the four of us

“C’est très beau!” Lafayette exclaimed, his voice bright as he looked around at his friends, the warmth of their contentness in the room washing over him. The soft flicker of light danced across the walls, casting long shadows that seemed to soften the weight of the war that loomed over them. There was a rare, fleeting moment of peace in the air—a tranquility that Lafayette, despite his many battles and hardships, couldn't help but savor. The faces of his friends were illuminated with the kind of light that only moments like this could bring, the kind that made the impending storm of revolution feel distant and uncertain. He drank in the scene both on the screen and in the room—the camaraderie, the connection, the unity—and for a second, everything seemed very beautiful.

“Oui, je suis d’accord…” Alexander murmured in response, his voice soft, almost lost in the hum of conversation around them. It was a rare, fleeting moment where his words seemed to carry more weight than the simple agreement they seemed to express. His tone, laced with memories of a time long past, echoed through the quiet space, unnoticed by most but not by Lafayette.

Lafayette, ever keen, looked sharply at his friend, his eyes widening with surprise. “Alexander! You never mentioned you could speak French, mon ami!” His voice carried a note of both curiosity and mild amusement, as though he had just uncovered a hidden layer of the man before him. It was rare for Lafayette to find something about Alexander that was a mystery to him, and the discovery felt oddly like a small victory.

Alexander, feeling the gaze upon him, simply shrugged slightly, his shoulders lifting in a casual gesture that betrayed a hint of discomfort. “I—it never came up, Laf,” he muttered, his words trailing off. There was a quiet self-consciousness in his response, as if the thought of sharing this piece of himself had never seemed relevant until now.

The Frenchman’s expression shifted, his usual boldness giving way to something softer, almost dejected. “But mon ami, how did you learn?” he asked, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. Lafayette was used to being the one who introduced new ideas and experiences to his friends, but this felt different. This was a part of Alexander’s history, something personal and untold, and it tugged at Lafayette’s heart to know he hadn’t known this about the man he considered a brother.

Alexander’s lips curled into a small, bittersweet smile, one that seemed to carry the weight of years gone by. His eyes grew distant for a moment, as if he was far away, back in a time when things were simpler, even though his life had always been complicated. “My mother, on Nevis,” he said quietly, his voice thick with memory. “French and English were the most widely spoken there... I learned from her.” His words hung in the air, heavy with the implications of a childhood he rarely spoke of—of a mother, a place, a time before the revolution, before the pain of loss had hardened his heart. Lafayette’s eyes softened with understanding, realizing that this was more than just a language Alexander had learned—it was a link to the only positive of a past that shaped the man before him.

[LAURENS, MULLIGAN]

Tomorrow there’ll be more of us

The men all smiled, the memory of those early days of the revolution flooding their minds. It was a time of raw energy, when the air itself seemed to crackle with anticipation. As the cause began to take shape and the call to action grew louder, it wasn’t just the seasoned soldiers or the established leaders who stepped forward. No, it was a wave of new faces—everyday men, young and old, who suddenly found themselves swept up in the fervor of revolution.

There had been a moment when everything changed, when the world shifted and the fight for freedom became something they could no longer sit on the sidelines and watch. It wasn’t just about grand speeches or battles in the distance; it was about the men they had known their whole lives—neighbors, cousins, brothers—who, without hesitation, had put aside their lives and enlisted. There had been something contagious about the passion of those first moments. The people they saw around them, ordinary men with no formal military training, but with hearts burning with the desire for change, had made the decision to stand up, to fight for the freedom they believed was theirs by right.

As the memory swept over them, the men couldn’t help but laugh softly, remembering the camaraderie that had sprung up so quickly. There had been no time for formalities, no time for hesitation. The revolution had needed every hand it could get, and so many had answered the call—many of them without knowing exactly what they were walking into. Yet, they came with a fire in their hearts, driven by something more powerful than fear. A sense of urgency, of history unfolding before their eyes. They were part of something bigger than themselves, something they could not ignore.

[LAURENS, MULLIGAN, & LAFAYETTE]

Telling the story of tonight

[HAMILTON]

They’ll tell the story of tonight

[MULLIGAN, LAURENS, & LAFAYETTE]

Raise a glass to freedom

Something they can never take away

[HAMILTON]

No matter what they tell you

[MULLIGAN & LAFAYETTE]

Let’s have another round tonight

[LAURENS]

Raise a glass to the four of us

[MULLIGAN, LAURENS, & LAFAYETTE]

Tomorrow there’ll be more of us

[HAMILTON & LAURENS]

Telling the story of tonight

[MULLIGAN & LAFAYETTE]

Let’s have another round tonight

[HAMILTON, LAURENS, ENSEMBLE]

They’ll tell the story of tonight

[LAFAYETTE, MULLIGAN, ENSEMBLE]

Raise a glass to freedom

[HAMILTON, LAURENS, ENSEMBLE]

They’ll tell the story of tonight

[LAFAYETTE, MULLIGAN, ENSEMBLE]

Raise a glass to freedom

[HAMILTON, LAURENS, ENSEMBLE]

They’ll tell the story of tonight

[LAFAYETTE, MULLIGAN, ENSEMBLE]

They’ll tell the story of

[COMPANY]

Tonight

The room fell into a hushed stillness as the final notes of the song echoed, leaving a lingering sense of reverence in the air. The music had settled into the very bones of those present, the somber beauty of it all hanging over them like a veil. "That was sweet," Eliza remarked softly, her voice almost a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the delicate atmosphere. Her eyes were still reflecting the last traces of the song's emotion, and there was a warmth in her gaze that made the moment feel even more intimate. "And rather inspirational," she added, her smile directed toward the group of men whose onstage counterparts had just performed, their voices having carried something profoundly stirring.

Peggy, always with a lightness in her tone, nodded in agreement, her smile wide. “I agree, it really was something,” she added, her voice filled with admiration. She couldn’t help but smile at the whole spectacle—how something so simple, a song performed by a group of passionate individuals, could bring them all together in a moment of shared understanding.

But it was Angelica, ever the keen observer, who broke the silence next, her laugh a soft, knowing sound. “Alexander, I do not think your bond with John was seen as particularly discreet or non-forthcoming in the future,” she remarked, her voice light but laced with a teasing edge. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and insight, and for a moment, it was as if she were seeing far more than just the physical connection between her brother in law and his companion on stage. She understood the emotions in the room—those that were not spoken, yet felt all the more deeply.

Alexander, who had been sitting with his head resting against John's shoulder, jumped slightly at her words. His face flushed with a sudden heat as he straightened up, clearing his throat in a flurry of unease. “Angelica! I do not know what you mean?!” His voice was a little too high-pitched, and the embarrassment in his eyes was unmistakable. The blush on his cheeks deepened, and for a moment, he couldn’t quite meet anyone’s gaze. It was clear that the casual intimacy they had shared in their moment of repose was now painfully obvious to all, and Alexander felt himself scrambling for a way to smooth over the awkwardness.

Angelica simply raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “It is rather obvious of what I speak, no?” She leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes glinting with amusement as she watched her brother in law squirm. "I am certain those in this room will not use it against either of you to cause any harm, and for those of which I am not certain, the voice has already assured will have their memories wiped of all mention.” Her words carried a sense of assurance, an almost playful confidence that only made Alexander's discomfort worse. She knew better than anyone that her sharp observations were often spot on, and she was now letting him know it, unmercifully.

Alexander’s eyes darted around the room, and his gaze lingered longest on Washington, who sat across from him. His heart skipped a beat as he silently searched his face for any sign of judgment. Washington had always been a steady and unwavering presence in his life, a mentor and father figure. But now, as the weight of Angelica’s words hung in the air, Alexander’s concern was palpable. “I would never hold your heart against you. Along with your brain, it is your biggest strength,” Washington assured him, his tone calm and warm, a promise that there would be no condemnation here. The room seemed to exhale collectively, the tension in Alexander’s chest easing with Washington's reassuring words.

It was Eliza, ever perceptive and in tune with the dynamics around her, who broke the moment’s tension with her own remark. “Did you not see the way the actors were looking at each other?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with a knowing spark. There was something in her gaze, an understanding that John couldn't quite place but that made his pulse quicken. It was the way she looked at the two men, her gaze flitting between them, filled with a mixture of fondness and an insight that left John feeling slightly out of place, yet strangely drawn to the idea of what she could see.

Alexander’s face immediately flushed again, the warmth spreading across his features as he avoided looking directly at either Eliza or Angelica. He nodded quickly in response to Eliza’s question, keeping silent otherwise, his mind swirling with thoughts of the unspoken connection that had been so plainly displayed in front of everyone. The song, the closeness—those who had seen it understood more than he had expected. Yet, despite the embarrassment that clung to him now, there was a quiet part of him that felt… understood.

The silence that had settled over the group was thick, almost tangible, as the weight of the conversation hung in the air. The room seemed suspended in a moment of quiet reflection, each of them lost in their own thoughts or the unspoken connections they had just witnessed. It was a delicate peace, one that felt like a brief respite before something else—something unspoken—would stir once more.

But just as the stillness began to settle into a comfortable quiet, the sound of the voice reverberated suddenly from above, breaking through the calm like a sudden gust of wind. Its deep, omnipresent tone seemed to fill the entire space, drawing everyone’s attention instantly. The voice had an uncanny ability to disrupt the moment, though it wasn’t necessarily unwelcome. It was as if the room itself recognized the need for the next step, the next shift.

“I believe it may be a beneficial opportunity, Alexander,” the voice began, its cadence slow and deliberate, “for you to join John and Eliza in the room to your right. There, you may have a private discussion.” The words felt heavy, purposeful, and though the voice was neutral, there was a sense of inevitability in its direction. It wasn't just a suggestion—it was a directive, one that hinted at a conversation that needed to be had away from prying ears, one that would require a space of solitude and openness.

The voice continued, almost casually, as if the next steps had already been decided. “The others may ask any questions they have, visit the restroom, or have any refreshments they please,” it said, offering permission for the group to disperse, to enjoy what little freedom they had before the true conversation began. There was a strange sense of relief in its tone, a subtle acknowledgment of the choices laid out before them. It was almost as if the voice was providing a chance for everyone to catch their breath before the next round of revelations or decisions would come into play.

Alexander blinked, his gaze flickering to John and Eliza before returning to the space above him, where the voice had once again retreated, its presence lingering even after the words had faded. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. The lightheartedness of the earlier conversation had dissipated, replaced by a quiet understanding that something significant was about to unfold. The invitation was clear—he had a role to play in this next step, and it was one that would involve both his closest confidants and perhaps his most private thoughts.

As the others processed the voice’s words, they began to stir, each person shifting in their seats, some standing to stretch or make their way toward the refreshments that had been offered. But no one spoke immediately, the tension still thick in the air, and it was clear that while the room was free to scatter, the weight of the conversation ahead was not something anyone could easily shake off.

John’s gaze met Alexander’s, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Eliza, ever perceptive, gave a small, reassuring smile. She wasn’t sure what lay ahead in that room to the right, but she knew that whatever it was, it would be important for them both. There was a sense of finality in the air now, a quiet acknowledgment that the time for subtlety and indirect conversations had passed. It was time for something more real, more intimate. And as Alexander stood slowly, the air around him felt heavier, the steps toward the other room seeming to draw him deeper into something much more profound than he had anticipated.

The others were left to their own devices for the moment, the hum of conversation starting to drift back into the room as they milled about. But for Alexander, the pull of what was next was undeniable. He glanced once more at his friends, a small but resolute nod acknowledging their presence, and then, with a final breath, walked toward the door leading into the room to his right.

The room was abuzz with conversation as the three—Alexander, John, and Eliza—left, their departure leaving a gap in the atmosphere that seemed to heighten the curiosity of everyone remaining. The group exchanged glances, some leaning in to quietly discuss their thoughts, others simply watching the door through which the trio had exited. The air was thick with unasked questions, each person in the room holding onto their own thoughts about what had just transpired. The tension from the private conversation that had just begun lingered, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside had stopped moving entirely, all focus drawn to the unfolding moment.

The quiet hum of whispered conversations gradually died down as they settled back into their seats. It was as if some unspoken signal had passed between them, a recognition that the air was about to change once more. The silence that followed was almost expectant, and it wasn’t long before the voice reverberated from above again, its familiar tone breaking through the stillness with authority. “Are there any questions you would like an answer for?” The voice seemed to hang in the air, as if daring them to ask, to seek clarification on whatever lingering doubts or concerns they might have.

Angelica, ever sharp and inquisitive, was the first to speak up, her voice tinged with both curiosity and caution. “What exactly is happening to them in that room? Why were they chosen for this... private discussion?” Her question was direct, and though there was a slight teasing quality to her words, it was clear that she, too, was trying to understand the purpose behind this moment of separation. She had her suspicions, but she knew better than to jump to conclusions. There was always more beneath the surface, and she wanted to know the full truth.

Before the voice could respond, Washington leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table before him, his voice steady but filled with concern. “I understand the need for privacy, but I must ask—what is the nature of the decisions that lie ahead for Alexander? What will he face once this conversation concludes?” His tone was serious, the weight of his question heavy with the responsibility he carried not only for Alexander, but for all those involved in the cause. Washington’s role had always been to guide, to protect, but even he wasn’t certain what kind of path this would set them on.

Lafayette, sitting next to Washington, looked over at him briefly before turning his gaze toward the space above them, his own question filled with both hope and concern. “And what of our own roles in this? What is expected of us in the coming days? Will we have a part to play, or is this something that we must allow them to carry on alone?” His question was more about their place in the larger story unfolding, his loyalty to the cause making him seek clarity. Lafayette had always been ready to march forward, to fight alongside his friends and comrades, but now he wondered if the time for action had shifted, if the next chapter of their journey would involve a different kind of commitment.

Madison, who had been quiet until now, his brow furrowed in thought, looked up from his hands and addressed the voice in a way that seemed both respectful and wary. “Is this decision set in stone? Are there no alternatives? What choices are left to us, if any?” Madison’s voice carried a sense of measured intellect. He was the one who often saw things from a logical perspective, calculating the options available. But even he understood that in this revolution, decisions could be as fluid as the wind—and that sometimes, no matter how much one tried to sway it, the course was already set.

The room fell quiet after each of them had spoken, all eyes trained on the space above them, waiting for the voice to provide its answers. The tension was thick in the air, a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. They had asked the questions that had been plaguing their minds, the ones that seemed too complex or dangerous to voice aloud before. And now, they would have to wait for whatever truth the voice would provide in return.

The voice lingered for a moment, as though carefully considering each question, and then it spoke again, its tone as measured and composed as ever, yet carrying an undertone of something deeper—something they had yet to fully grasp.

“Angelica,” the voice began, acknowledging her first, “The room you speak of is designed to offer a space of clarity for those involved. It is a moment of reflection, where decisions that will shape the future are discussed. It is not a matter of secrecy, but of necessity. The three in question have reached a crossroads, and it is for them alone to face what lies ahead. What is shared in that room will shape the course of their paths.”

The voice then turned to Washington’s question. “As for Alexander’s future,” it continued, its tone shifting ever so slightly, “he is not alone in this. Every decision made affects each of you, but there are times when one must walk a path with little guidance from others. The nature of his journey is his to navigate. What he will face is unknown even to him, but it is a trial that will define him. And you, Washington, will continue to be his anchor. Your guidance will never falter.” There was an unspoken assurance in the voice, an understanding that Washington’s leadership would be vital, even if the course ahead was uncertain.

Lafayette’s question was answered next. “Your roles are not yet complete. But as with any revolution, there will be moments where action is required—and moments where restraint is just as important. Your place is not one of passive waiting. You must remain vigilant, ever ready to act when the time comes. But understand that not all battles are fought with swords and muskets.” The voice’s words carried a sense of calm resolve, hinting that their purpose would be revealed in time, and it was not something that could be rushed.

Finally, Madison’s question was addressed. “The decisions before you are not set in stone, no. But understand that time is a commodity none of you have in abundance. Choices remain, but they are narrowing. The road ahead is less about altering course and more about making peace with the path you have chosen.” The voice paused for a moment, as if letting the gravity of those words settle in. “There are always alternatives, but at times, the only real option is to walk forward with courage, knowing that what you leave behind will shape your future.”

With that, the room was once again filled with silence, the weight of the answers settling in the minds of each individual. The questions had been asked, and while some of the answers were comforting, others were laced with an unsettling truth—their futures, their choices, were still hanging in the balance. What came next would depend on them all, but most of all, on the three who had left the room to the right. The next chapter of their shared story was being written, one decision at a time.

The silence that followed the voice’s initial response was thick, but the questions didn’t stop. There was still so much left unsaid, so much uncertainty clouding their minds. They knew this moment was pivotal, one that could alter the course of their lives, and perhaps even the revolution itself.

Angelica was the first to break the silence again, her brow furrowed as she spoke with the sharpness of someone who had lived through difficult choices before. “What role does fate play in all of this? How much of what’s happening is destined, and how much is in our hands to shape?” Her question was more philosophical, probing the balance between free will and the inevitable forces that seemed to shape their world. She had always wondered if they were steering their own ships or if they were simply drifting, caught in a tide beyond their control.

The voice answered without hesitation, its tone calm yet introspective. “Fate, in this instance, is not an unmovable force. It is an undercurrent, but one that is shaped by the choices you make. Destiny is malleable—your hands are not bound. But be warned, the decisions you make now ripple through time, and once set in motion, they cannot always be undone. The future is a thread woven from both intention and consequence.”

Washington’s deep voice followed, his questions always measured, but heavy with the weight of responsibility. “If the future is shaped by our choices, what should we prioritize now? What is the most important thing for us to focus on?” His eyes were intense as he spoke, the ever-present leader asking what he believed was the most pressing question. He knew how much rested on their shoulders, how each step they took would affect not just them, but the lives of thousands, perhaps millions.

The voice responded with quiet clarity, as though it had anticipated this query. “Focus on unity, General. The strength of your bond with those around you will be the cornerstone of what follows. The cause itself is vital, but it is the people who drive it forward. Protect them, guide them, and never lose sight of the heart of the cause—freedom for all. It is the ties you build now, the trust you place in each other, that will give you the strength to face what is to come.”

Lafayette, ever the idealist, leaned forward, his hands clasped together as he spoke, voice filled with a mixture of hope and resolve. “And when the war comes to an end, what will be left for us? What do we fight for, if not only the freedom of this land, but for the generations that will follow?” Lafayette had always believed in a better future, one where their sacrifices would create something far more enduring than their struggle. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about what they would leave behind.

The voice’s answer came slowly, measured, but filled with promise. “When the war ends, it will not be the end of your struggle, but the beginning of a new chapter. What you fight for now will echo in the lives of those who come after you, in the very ideals upon which this nation will be built. You fight for freedom, for opportunity, for the chance to create something lasting. What you build with your actions, your words, will become the foundation upon which future generations stand. They will carry forward the lessons of your sacrifices, and they will know the price of liberty.”

Madison, always the pragmatist, spoke next, his voice calm yet tinged with the weariness of someone who had seen the complexities of revolution. “What happens when we are no longer able to hold this together? When the strength we have now falters?” His question was one of fear and reality—what happened when the revolution, which had been driven by hope, began to crack under the pressure of the weight they bore?

The voice responded, its tone unchanging, but perhaps offering a slight comfort. “You will falter, yes. All movements do. But the strength you have now is not yours alone. It is the strength of the people you fight alongside, the will of those who believe in what you are creating. When you falter, they will carry you. And when they falter, you will carry them. This revolution is not the work of a few—it is the work of many, and it will endure because it is built upon the collective effort of all. When individual strength fades, the power of the cause remains.”

Lafayette glanced at Washington before asking his next question, a quiet but deeply felt inquiry. “What happens when the people we’ve trusted, the ones who have fought beside us, no longer share our vision? What happens when our comrades choose different paths?” Lafayette’s words were not meant to accuse, but to understand the possibility of division—a fear that had lingered with him ever since the revolution’s early days.

The voice’s response was heavy, carrying a certain sadness with it. “Division is inevitable, especially when the cost of the cause is so high. People change, circumstances change, and sometimes, even the strongest bonds can be tested. But understand this—those who stray from the vision, those who lose sight of the purpose, will find their own path. Their journey will not be yours, but their choices are part of the larger tapestry. The vision you hold will remain with you, and the strength to fight for it must come from within. Do not mourn the choices of others, but stay true to your own.”

Angelica’s voice cut through the tension again, soft but filled with intent. “And what of those who oppose us? What of the ones who wish to see us fail? How do we deal with them without losing our own integrity?” Her question was one that had haunted many of them. How could they stand tall, remain righteous, in the face of enemies who would do anything to destroy them? Could they stay true to their morals when the stakes were so high?

The voice answered with quiet certainty. “The enemy will always try to sow division, to erode your integrity. But it is your choices that will define you. To fight for freedom is to choose a path of righteousness, even when it is difficult. In dealing with those who oppose you, do not lose sight of the principles that drive you. Do not stoop to their level. Your integrity is your greatest weapon. In the end, it will be the force that carries you through, when everything else seems to falter.”

The voice fell silent once again, leaving the room to process the answers, the weight of each response sinking in. Every question asked had opened up more layers of understanding, more threads of possibility. There were no easy answers, no clear-cut paths ahead—but in the face of uncertainty, they had been given something to hold onto: unity, integrity, and the collective strength of those who shared this journey with them.

As the last echoes of the voice faded into silence, the air in the room seemed to settle once again. There was an unspoken understanding that there would be time for more questions later, but for now, the answers given had left the group to ponder and reflect. The hum of conversation had quieted, but the weight of what had been said still lingered like a soft cloud hanging overhead. The tension that had gripped the room was replaced by a sense of waiting, of anticipation, as if they all knew that the moment they were in was only one part of a much larger journey still unfolding.

The door to the room to the right opened slowly, and the three emerged—Alexander, John, and Eliza. It was immediately clear that something had shifted, something unspoken yet tangible between them. There was a new connection, an invisible thread that seemed to bind them together in a way that hadn’t been present before.

Eliza walked just to Alexander’s left, her hand gently clasped in his. The touch was subtle but strong, a silent promise between them, as though it spoke of trust and support without needing any words. Alexander, who had been through so much in his life, now seemed to lean into that connection as though it was a lifeline. His shoulders, once tense with uncertainty, were a bit more relaxed, grounded by the warmth of Eliza’s hand in his.

On his right, John stood with his arm comfortably around Alexander’s shoulders, a gesture of camaraderie and care that seemed natural, as though they had always shared this quiet but profound bond. John’s presence, so steady and unwavering, had always been a source of strength for Alexander, and now more than ever, it was clear that their connection ran deeper than mere friendship. The closeness between the three was palpable, and though the specifics of what had occurred in the room were still unknown to the rest, the bond they shared now was something that spoke volumes.

As they made their way back into the room, Washington shifted in his seat, his attention momentarily diverted from the conversation at hand. He made his way over to Peggy and Angelica, his movements deliberate and composed, a quiet acknowledgment of the women who had been part of this momentous gathering. With a subtle nod to both of them, Washington conveyed a sense of solidarity, as if saying, We are in this together, every step of the way. His face softened as he glanced toward Phillip, who was sitting a little ways off, his youthful face illuminated by a mixture of curiosity and quiet pride. Washington offered a warm smile to the young man, the kind of smile that only a father figure could give, full of unspoken affection and hope for the future.

The rest of the room, too, seemed to shift subtly in response to the three’s return. Some exchanged knowing looks, others simply took in the new dynamic, the subtle changes in the way Alexander, John, and Eliza moved together. It was a shift in energy, a quiet acknowledgment that something important had transpired in that room—something personal and transformative that would ripple through their relationships and the choices they would make going forward. The world outside still loomed large with its battles and uncertainties, but for this moment, the room was filled with something quieter: understanding. And perhaps, for the first time, a sense of peace in knowing they weren’t facing it alone.

Chapter Text

As Alexander, John, and Eliza returned to the room, the subtle shift in the air was unmistakable. The three moved in unison, their connection palpable, though they didn’t need to speak for it to be felt. The others watched with quiet curiosity, noticing the change that had transpired between them. The bond that had formed in the private room was now visible, unfolding between them like a quiet, invisible thread tying them together. There was something unspoken yet intimate in the way they walked, how Eliza gently placed her hand on Alexander’s arm as they made their way to their seats.

Eliza, always graceful and perceptive, made her way to the spot where Washington had been sitting just moments before. She took her seat with the ease of someone who had found their place, her posture relaxed but purposeful as she settled in next to Alexander. In doing so, she naturally created the space for Alexander to sit between her and John. He glanced at her briefly, offering a grateful smile, before sitting down with a quiet sigh. The tension that had been in his shoulders seemed to ease a little more now, as though the warmth of their presence anchored him in a way that words could not.

John, on the other side of Alexander, gave him a supportive squeeze on the shoulder as he settled into his own seat. His arm, which had once been draped comfortably around Alexander’s shoulders, now rested beside him, close enough to maintain that sense of solidarity but with a respect for Alexander’s space. The three of them seemed to have found an unspoken rhythm, their bond now a more visible part of their dynamic. The room seemed to shift, if only subtly, as they took their places—like the calm after a storm.

The others in the room were not blind to the changes. A quiet murmur rippled through the group as they exchanged looks, some intrigued, others deeply thoughtful. There was no overt judgment, just a subtle curiosity about what had unfolded in that room and how it might affect their interactions moving forward. Some of them, like Washington, observed with a fatherly kind of wisdom, his gaze focused more on the three young people and the unspoken connection between them. Others—Angelica, Peggy, and Lafayette—exchanged knowing glances, as though acknowledging the subtle, powerful shift between their friends.

Before any of them could give voice to their thoughts, the atmosphere in the room changed once again. The lights flickered briefly, signaling the return of the musical. The screen before them came to life once more, the opening chords of a familiar song filling the air. As the first notes echoed through the space, the attention of the room shifted, drawn back to the performance that had begun earlier. The music began to swell, and everyone’s focus shifted once again to the screen in front of them, though their minds were still partially occupied with the unspoken changes that had just unfolded in the room.

For Alexander, John, and Eliza, the sound of the music seemed to fill the spaces between them, providing both an emotional backdrop and a kind of shared experience. It was as if the song had become a thread that tied their individual stories together, and as the musical played on, it was clear that they were now navigating this moment side by side. The weight of what had just passed—the private conversations, the shifting dynamics—hung lightly in the air, but for the moment, they allowed the music to carry them forward.

The others watched, though their attention was divided between the unfolding performance on the screen and the subtle changes in the trio's interactions. There was no need to voice questions or concerns now. The moment was still unfolding, and they all understood that the connections formed in the room earlier would become more evident in time. For now, though, the room was united by the music—their eyes once again fixed on the screen as the next chapter of the musical began to unfold before them.

There's nothing rich folks love more

Than going downtown and slummin' it with the poor

They pull up in their characters and gawk

at the students in their common just to watch them talk

Take Phillip Schuyler the man is loaded

The three women, Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy, looked between each other, their eyes narrowing in unison as they turned their attention toward Burr. A subtle shift had taken place in the room as the mention of their father had stirred something within them—something protective, something familial. It was clear from the looks exchanged between the sisters that they had heard enough. Their glares cut through the air like a sharp wind, each sister’s expression a reflection of the same sentiment: a mixture of annoyance and a desire to defend their family’s honor.

Angelica, ever the sharp-tongued leader of the trio, was the first to speak, her voice cutting through the moment like a blade. “We do not gawk at the students!” Her words were pointed and firm, her eyes locking onto Burr with a kind of intensity that left little room for misunderstanding. She had always been quick to stand up for her family, and in that moment, her protective nature flared to the surface. She wasn’t just defending her father’s name; she was defending the dignity of those who were close to her, including her sisters.

Peggy, who had been quieter in the exchange but no less fierce in her loyalty, jumped in quickly, eager to offer her own defense. “We simply enjoy some different surroundings,” she said, her voice a mix of frustration and defensiveness. Her words, while softer than Angelica’s, still held a firmness that made it clear she wouldn’t let her family be insulted so easily. Peggy was often seen as the light-hearted one, the one who smiled and laughed easily, but when it came to her family, her affection and protectiveness ran deep.

The three women looked to each other, their expressions not just those of sisters but of a united front. They had each learned, in their own way, to stand up for one another, to shield each other from the harshness of the world outside. In a room filled with strong personalities, their bond was something unspoken, yet powerful, and in that moment, it felt as though no one could touch them—not even Burr, who had been the subject of their ire.

The rest of the room seemed to tense, sensing the undercurrent of tension between the sisters and Burr. Washington, ever the peacemaker, glanced around the room, his expression calm but alert, aware that this moment could easily escalate. Eliza, who often preferred to avoid conflict, shot a glance at Angelica, her eyes conveying a silent plea for restraint, though her posture remained protective.

Burr, for his part, seemed momentarily caught off guard by the sudden heat of the sisters' response. His usual calm and collected demeanor faltered just for a second as he met their gaze, his brow furrowing slightly. He opened his mouth as if to respond but thought better of it, sensing that now wasn’t the time to argue further. The tension in the room hung thick for a moment longer before he slowly turned his attention back to the front, a subtle retreat into the silence that had enveloped him.

The mood in the room shifted slightly, the balance between tension and calm once again restored as the sisters’ eyes, now softened but still watchful, remained fixed on Burr. Their message was clear: they would not allow their family to be belittled, not by him or anyone else. And while they may have sat in the same room as the others, their loyalty to each other and to their father was a force that none of them could easily dismiss.

Washington, sensing the opportunity for things to settle, leaned back slightly in his chair, nodding to the women in acknowledgment. His approval wasn’t loud or overt but was clear enough in the way he regarded them. In this room, despite the occasional clash of personalities, the bonds of respect and family were something that could not be easily broken.

uh oh but little does he know that his daughters

Peggy Angelica Eliza sneak into the city just to watch all the guys

The sisters exchanged a brief, knowing look before turning their focus back to Burr. Eliza, her expression tight but controlled, spoke with a firmness that suggested her patience was wearing thin. “We do not do that,” she said, her tone carrying a subtle edge that clearly conveyed her disapproval. It wasn’t just a statement; it was a warning.

Angelica, standing beside her, offered Burr a look that could have withered plants. Her sharp gaze made it clear that any further misstep would not be tolerated. Burr could feel the weight of their combined presence, a powerful force that made him rethink his words carefully.

Eliza’s tone softened ever so slightly, as if she was trying to defuse the tension, but Burr knew better than to take that as an invitation for leniency. He had seen firsthand how quick Angelica could be with her words, each one calculated to cut to the heart of anyone who dared to cause harm to her or her family. He silently thanked whatever force kept him from feeling the sting of her sharp retorts again.

Burr cleared his throat, his mind racing for a way to gracefully navigate this moment. He had no intention of provoking either of the Schuyler sisters further—one was enough of a challenge. The last thing he needed was to see Angelica's intellect unleashed again, sharp as a blade, cutting through him like a knife.

Burr’s voice took on a defensive edge as he quickly interjected, hoping to clarify the misunderstanding. “It is the actor portraying me who has spoken these words,” he said, his tone slightly raised as he tried to ease the tension. His eyes flicked from Eliza to Angelica, gauging their reactions, as if searching for a hint of understanding in their expressions.

He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts before continuing, his hands gesturing slightly as he spoke. “I may have said some of this,” he admitted, “but not all of it.” His words hung in the air, carrying an air of both regret and frustration. Burr could sense the sisters' suspicion lingering, their glares still sharp, but he had to make himself understood.

(Work! Work!)

Angelica,

Angelica’s gaze lingered on the actress portraying her, a smirk curling at the corners of her lips as she observed the performance. The actress moved with a confidence that seemed to echo Angelica’s own sharp-witted poise, her every gesture calculated and impactful. “She seems to have a very powerful presence,” Washington remarked.. His eyes followed the actress with an appraising look, nodding slightly in approval as he watched her command the stage.

Angelica’s smile grew, though there was a hint of something more underneath it—a quiet satisfaction, as if she were quietly judging the accuracy of the portrayal. She glanced briefly at Washington, then back at the actress. “She does, doesn’t she?” Angelica replied, her voice smooth laced witha certain pride. 

 Eliza, 

Eliza's lips curved into a soft smile as her gaze lingered on the actress portraying her, her eyes taking in the woman’s graceful movements and striking features. “That actress is rather beautiful,” she murmured, her voice gentle, almost contemplative as she studied the woman on stage. There was a certain admiration in her tone, a quiet acknowledgment of the actress’s undeniable presence. Eliza, who often carried herself with a modest, understated elegance, couldn't help but appreciate the beauty in others, especially when it was so gracefully displayed.

Alexander, sitting beside her, felt a surge of warmth in his chest at the sight of Eliza's content smile. Without a second thought, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, a tender gesture that seemed to say more than words could. As he did so, he gently took her hand in his, his fingers wrapping around hers with the familiarity of what felt like years spent together. “Not as beautiful as you,” he spoke softly, his voice low and intimate, just for her.

Eliza’s smile deepened at the sincerity in his words, a flicker of warmth lighting her eyes. She looked up at him, her heart swelling at the quiet affection that passed between them. There was something about the way he always knew just how to make her feel seen, how to remind her of her own beauty without even trying. It was one of the reasons she loved him so much—his ability to make the world around them disappear, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of soft, unspoken connection.

She looked back to the screen, but her mind lingered on his words, the simple but powerful affirmation of her beauty. It was a contrast to the flashing lights of the stage, to the characters and the drama, and in that moment, Eliza felt something calm and steady rise within her. It wasn’t about the grand gestures or the performances onstage—it was about the quiet, genuine love she shared with Alexander.

and Peggy!

The younger sister smiled softly, her eyes following the music with a quiet, contented expression. She nodded along to the rhythm, her fingers tapping gently on her knee. There was a peaceful ease to her, lost in the beauty of the performance without needing to say a word. Her simple joy added a lightness to the moment.

The Schuyler sisters

Angelica, Peggy, Eliza!

Work!

“This song is all about the Schuyler sisters?” Jefferson asked aloud, hi# His eyes flicked over to the stage, watching intently as the three sisters stood in perfect harmony, their voices intertwining with the music. The vibrant energy they brought to the stage was undeniable.

The voice responded, smooth and somewhat amused, but with an underlying note of caution. “Yes, this song highlights and introduces the Schuyler sisters. Enjoy it—this is one of the last happy songs in the musical...” The tone carried a quiet warning, as if trying to prepare everyone for the darker turns the story was about to take. The mention of it being one of the last happy songs seemed to hang in the air, casting a slight unease over the group. The atmosphere shifted subtly, as if the impending tension could already be felt in the air.

A flicker of frustration crossed Jefferson’s face as he crossed his arms, his voice rising with bitterness. “The women have had a song! When will I have a song?” He threw the question out almost as a challenge, his tone thick with resentment. His eyes swept over the stage, then back to the others, his usual composure unraveling for a moment. Jefferson wasn’t one to be left out of the spotlight, and it was clear that he felt slighted by the musical’s focus on others.

A soft, almost dismissive chuckle came from the voice, but it was followed by a pointed response. “You are not present in the first act, Thomas. Neither is James. You’ll have your glory after the intermission.” There was a calm finality to the words, an unspoken promise that Jefferson’s time would come—but only after the first act was done and the stage was ready for the darker, more complex layers of the story to unfold. The tension remained palpable, however, with the others in the room shifting uncomfortably, sensing the undercurrent of dissatisfaction that simmered just beneath the surface.

Jefferson scowled, but he knew he couldn’t rush his moment. For now, the Schuyler sisters had their time in the spotlight, but soon enough, the stage would be his. Still, the frustration lingered, a reminder that even in a world of grand performances, no one was immune to the sting of being overshadowed.

Daddy said to be home by sundown

Daddy doesn't need to know

Daddy said not to go downtown

“I do not behave as Father tells me to!” Peggy exclaimed, her voice sharp with irritation. She folded her arms across her chest, a clear sign of defiance as she glared at the thought of being labeled as someone who blindly followed authority. The mere suggestion that she would conform to every command her father issued felt like an insult to her independence. Her expression twisted into one of annoyance, her brow furrowed, as she shook her head, dismissing the very idea. "Just because he’s my father doesn’t mean I’m going to follow every word he says without question," she added, her tone growing more assertive. Peggy’s prideful stance was one of rebellion, a clear indication that she valued her autonomy far more than any sense of obedience expected from her.

Like, I said you're free to go,

Eliza gasped, her eyes widening in mock shock, “That suggests I was the lead troublemaker!” She placed a hand over her chest, feigning outrage, but the playful glint in her eyes gave her away. She couldn’t help but be amused by the accusation. Angelica, sat straight her arms crossed and an unimpressed smirk on her face, raised an eyebrow and shot her a look that was both amused and knowing. “You were,” she replied dryly, her tone laced with a hint of nostalgia, “I simply got us out of the messes you helped create.”

Eliza’s playful offense deepened as she tilted her head and put on a dramatic pout, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “I did not know you were a troublemaker, Eliza!” Alexander said, trying to sound scandalized but failing to suppress the giggle that escaped. His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, and she shot a teasing look at her husband. “We really were meant to meet, weren’t we?”

The lighthearted banter between them was interrupted only by Peggy, who chuckled from her seatt next to Angelica a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You really did have a knack for getting into trouble, didn’t you?”

 but look around, look around the revolution's happening in New York

“Yes, it is!” the young men shouted in unison, their voices ringing with refound excitement and fervor. The words carried a weight of hope, echoing the deep-seated frustration that had been bubbling for years. Their eyes sparkled with conviction, their chests puffed out with a sense of shared purpose. Each of them, emboldened by the promise of change, could feel the stirring call of something greater than themselves—an idea that had the power to free them from the chains of British rule that had held their homeland in a stranglehold for so long.

(Angelica, Work!)

It's bad enough that he wants to go to war

People were shouting in the square

Lafayette, Hercules, and John met each other’s gaze, a shared glint of mischief passing between them as they exchanged subtle smirks. It was a moment of quiet understanding—a silent acknowledgment of the events that had unfolded earlier that day in the square. The memory was fresh in their minds, each of them remembering the same thing: the way Alexander had stood at the center of the commotion, calm and composed, as if he was unaffected by the chaos that had surrounded him.

They turned their attention to Alexander, who, despite the weight of their knowing gazes, seemed to pretend he hadn't noticed. His posture remained unbothered, his expression carefully neutral as he focused on something distant, as if he were intentionally avoiding the conversation that lingered in the air. But the tension between the men was palpable, the unspoken question hanging over them like a cloud. What now? What did this mean for their future?

Despite the unspoken curiosity, Lafayette, Hercules, and John exchanged a few more glances, silently agreeing to let the moment pass. There would be time to discuss it later, they all knew that, but for now, they kept their silence. They were used to these unspoken agreements—each man understanding the value of picking the right moment for these conversations. The square had been full of tension, their actions that day stirring up more trouble than any of them had anticipated.

It's bad enough there'll be violence on our shore

New ideas in the air

Look around, look around,

Angelica remind me what we're looking for?

(She's looking for me!)

The girls scoffed in unison, their expressions twisted with a mix of disbelief and disgust. Angelica’s face was the picture of derision, her lips curling into a smirk as she raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the assumption. “Yes, because ladies like us can only be in the city if we’re looking for men,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The words were sharp and pointed, a sharp contrast to the underlying venom of her tone. “As if we couldn’t possibly have our own reasons for being here. No, of course not,” she continued, mocking the very suggestion. “We’re just helpless, naive creatures wandering about in search of suitors, unable to have any purpose beyond that.”

Her eyes flickered toward her companions, who shared the same incredulous look. They knew all too well the kind of assumptions society liked to make about women—especially women like them, who dared to step out of the narrow confines of what was deemed acceptable for a lady. To be in the city, to be out in public without the direct supervision of a man, was enough to raise eyebrows, and the idea that their presence could only be explained by some desperate hunt for marriageable men was infuriating.

Angelica’s mocking tone softened for a brief moment, as she shook her head in disbelief. “They would not even be suitors,” she added, as if the idea itself was laughable. The thought of being reduced to nothing more than a pawn in some game of social expectations disgusted her, and she made no effort to hide it. “Do they honestly believe that we have nothing more to offer the world than our potential to marry?” Her words cut through the air, the weight of her frustration clear in the way she spat them out.

Eliza, I'm looking a mind at work

I'm looking for a mind at work

I'm looking for a mind at work

Woah woah woah woah work!

Woo! There's nothing like summer in the city

Everyone smiled, their faces lit with a warm, shared appreciation for the beauty around them. Lafayette, ever the romantic, gazed around with a fondness in his eyes, his voice carrying the soft inflection of nostalgia. “Oui, it is truly very beautiful in the summer,” he said, his tone lingering as if savoring the thought. “Although nothing will compare to ma patrie .” His words, though gentle, held a weight of longing—an unmistakable yearning for the land he had left behind. He could see in his mind’s eye the lush fields of France, the rolling hills, and the vibrant streets of Paris, all bathed in the same golden light that touched the world around them now. But despite the beauty of this new place, he couldn’t shake the pull of his homeland, where his heart truly lay.

Eliza, who had been listening intently, sighed softly in agreement, her thoughts drifting toward the gentle warmth of summer days. “The city is lovely,” she mused, her voice dreamier now, as if she were caught in a reverie. “The parks and the lakes are wonderful to walk in, the warm sun kissing your skin, the breeze dancing through the trees.” She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over her. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she recalled the sensation of sunlight on her face, the gentle warmth spreading through her, making everything seem peaceful, as though the world had slowed down just for her.

Someone in a rush next to someone looking pretty

Excuse me miss, I know it's not funny, but your perfume smells like your daddy's got money

Once again, Burr found himself on the receiving end of deadly glares from the three Schuyler sisters, each look more piercing than the last. The tension between them was thick, practically crackling in the air. Their eyes, filled with disdain and anger, locked onto him with an intensity that made him feel as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering dangerously close to falling. He could practically feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on him, and despite his usual calm demeanor, his nerves began to tighten. He knew this moment would come—the fallout from the earlier revelation. The truth had come to light in a way he had never intended, and the consequences were far more than he had anticipated.

but you're slummin' in the city with your fancy heels 

you're searching for an urchin that will feed you ideals

Burr, you disgust me...

Ah, so you've discussed me?

I'm a trust fund baby, you can trust me

"Burr, that is utterly ridiculous!" Alexander’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a sharp knife. His tone was a mix of disbelief and amusement, as though he couldn’t quite decide whether to be outraged or simply baffled by the situation unfolding before him. He was leaning against John, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, but there was a certain glint of mischief in his eyes that indicated he was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of the moment. He knew the volatile mix of emotions swirling between Burr and the Schuyler sisters was about to boil over, and he had no intention of letting it simmer in silence.

"Even if you didn’t say those words," Alexander continued, his voice rising slightly in mock exasperation, "that is the worst form of flirting I have ever seen!" His words were sharp, his sarcasm deliberate, aimed directly at Burr, who had clearly done little to endear himself to anyone present in the room. Alexander’s comment wasn’t just a critique of Burr’s earlier defense; it was a lighthearted but pointed jab, feeding into the already charged atmosphere.

The sisters, who had been glaring at Burr with growing disdain, seemed to snap at Alexander's words. Eliza and Peggy exchanged looks, both of them struggling to contain a laugh at Alexander's teasing, even though the underlying tension still hung in the air. For a brief moment, they both seemed to forget the seriousness of the situation, caught between the weight of their anger and the absurdity of the moment. They almost couldn’t help but appreciate how Alexander’s wit had shifted the energy, if only for a moment.

But Burr, clearly not enjoying the spectacle, stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He had never been one to take jokes at his expense lightly, especially when the stakes were so high. The barb struck a nerve, and for a second, he considered responding with his usual cold, calculated rebuttal, but the silence in the room pressed in on him. It was almost as if every word he said would be twisted, every move calculated, and the ever-present shadow of his future actions hung over him like an unshakable burden.

Instead of firing back, Burr forced a strained smile and tried to maintain his composure. "I assure you, Alexander," he said coolly, though there was an edge to his voice, "flirting is not my intention, nor is it any of your concern." The words were chosen carefully, but the tension in his voice betrayed his discomfort. It was clear that the situation was spiraling out of control, and Burr’s usual confidence was beginning to falter under the weight of the combined glares from the sisters and Alexander’s biting remarks.

The sisters, still standing united in their silent judgment, didn’t flinch, their eyes fixed on him like hawks. But Alexander, sensing the perfect moment for more fuel to the fire, grinned widely. "Oh, I think you’re lying to yourself, Burr," he teased. "You couldn’t have picked a worse way to ingratiate yourself with them if you tried." He gestured toward the Schuyler sisters, his grin widening. "Trust me, they’ll be talking about this for a while."

The sisters’ expressions remained steely, but the edge of Alexander’s humor was undeniable, and for a fleeting moment, even they couldn’t suppress a tiny spark of amusement at the absurdity of the situation.

I've been reading Common Sense by Thomas Paine

Some may say that I'm intense or I'm insane

You want a revolution? I want a revelation!

So, listen to my declaration:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal"

And when I meet Thomas Jefferson

The man in question jumped slightly in his seat, his eyes widening ever so briefly at the mention of his name. It was a subtle reaction, but the surprise on his face was unmistakable, as though he hadn't expected to be called out so suddenly. His posture stiffened for a moment, and his hand shifted uneasily on the armrest, as if trying to regain his composure. 

Maddison, sitting beside him, was barely able to suppress a laugh at the sight of his shock. Recovering quickly, the man let out a scoff, his lips curling into a smug, almost mocking smile as he leaned forward just slightly. "Well, I’m here now," he said, his voice dripping with an exaggerated nonchalance, as though he were trying to mask the brief moment of shock with an air of indifference. His tone was almost mocking as he turned toward the woman who had called him out. His gaze flicked over her with an unmistakable air of condescension, his words laced with an underlying challenge. “So, what is it you want?” he asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. There was a deliberate edge to his voice, as if daring her to make a move or say something that could further fuel his amused indifference.

I'm a' compel him to include women in the sequel, work!

Angelica met Jefferson’s gaze with an icy intensity, her eyes narrowing into a cold, unwavering challenge. A sharp, almost imperceptible smile flickered on her lips, but it was anything but friendly—more a challenge than an invitation. She raised her hand and pointed deliberately toward the screen, the motion both simple and pointed. “That,” she spoke with a firm, measured tone, her voice carrying the weight of her unspoken demand. Her gaze never wavered, as if daring him to argue or deflect her words.

Jefferson, ever the confident and quick-witted adversary, scoffed in response, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Now, why would I allow that?" he retorted with a derisive laugh, his tone dripping with sarcasm. The question, laced with disdain, seemed to dismiss Angelica’s statement before it could even gain traction. He was clearly not impressed, the look on his face suggesting that he didn’t take kindly to her challenging him. His eyes glinted with defiance, waiting for her to respond—or perhaps to retreat in the face of his unshakable confidence.

But before any of the Schuyler sisters could react or speak, John Laurens, who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the group, stood up with sudden purpose. His figure, usually more reserved, now seemed energized, his posture straight and firm, as if he had been waiting for this very moment. His voice rang out, steady and impassioned, cutting through the tension like a sharp blade.

"Because they were just as important to the war effort as the men," Laurens declared, his words filled with conviction. The room fell into a stillness as all eyes turned toward him, his tone powerful and unwavering. "They may not have been on the battlefields or in the strategy tents, but they kept our households and our country running while we were away. They deserve to be recognized for that." His words hung in the air, carrying the weight of truth and respect for the women who had contributed so much without ever being acknowledged in the same breath as their male counterparts. The quiet intensity in his voice was not just a call for justice, but a plea for respect—for a recognition long overdue.

The room was silent for a long beat after Laurens finished speaking. His words had done what they were meant to: silencing Jefferson, who found himself momentarily caught off guard by the raw emotion and undeniable logic in Laurens' speech. For a moment, even Jefferson seemed to hesitate, his mouth opening slightly as if searching for something to say, but nothing came. The proud, sarcastic edge had left him, and he was momentarily rendered speechless.

At that moment, Laurens sat back down, his gaze meeting Eliza’s, and she, with a quiet smile of gratitude, reached over and took his hand. Her fingers wrapped around his, giving it a gentle squeeze, as if to say thank you for speaking the words that needed to be spoken. Peggy and Angelica, though still outwardly composed, shared a quiet nod with Laurens—an acknowledgment of his strength and clarity in that moment. They didn’t need to say anything aloud; the exchange was enough. Laurens had given voice to what they had all been feeling, and in doing so, he had struck a blow for the unsung contributions of women everywhere.

Jefferson, still silent, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the impact of Laurens' words sinking in. His usual sharp retorts seemed less effective now, as if he had been disarmed by something far stronger than his usual rhetoric: truth, spoken with passion and conviction. The room had shifted, and Jefferson had lost this round.

Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now

Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now

History is happening in Manhattan and we just happen to be in the greatest city in world!

In the greatest city in the world!

I've been reading Common Sense by Thomas Paine

Some may say that I'm intense or I'm insane

You want a revolution? I want a revelation!

So, listen to my declaration:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal"

[simultaneously]

Look around, look around

the revolution is happening in new york!

Look around look around the revolutions happening in new york!

look around look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now!

Look around look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now!

History is happening in Manhattan and we just happen to be in the greatest city in the world!

The greatest city in the world!

(Work! Work!)

Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy!

The Schuyler sisters!

We're looking for a mind and work!

Hey, hey

The greatest city in the, greatest city in the world!

(The greatest city in the world!)

The upbeat tune echoed throughout the room, filling the space with a vibrant energy that seemed to make the air itself hum. The lively rhythm reverberated off the walls, its infectious beat causing everyone to move, even if only subtly. By the time the song reached its final notes, most were at least tapping their feet in time, while a few, more carefree souls, sang along quietly to the lyrics, their voices weaving through the last bars. It was a moment of camaraderie, a fleeting escape from the weight of their worries.

The three Schuyler sisters, always in sync, exchanged warm, contented smiles as they glanced at each other. Their faces glowed with the joy that only music could bring, the brief lull allowing them to savor the aftertaste of the song. Peggy, the youngest, was the first to break the silence, her voice bright and full of youthful enthusiasm. “That was a fun song!” she exclaimed, her words like a fresh breeze sweeping away any lingering tension in the air.

Alexander, however, was lost in thought, his attention not fully on the moment. His gaze shifted toward John, who was seated beside him, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation. There was a palpable heaviness in Alexander’s heart, a weight that seemed to anchor him to the spot. It wasn’t just the music, nor the brief respite from their troubles, but the underlying reality of their situation—the knowledge that soon, in this timeline, he would have to watch John, the man who had become his closest ally and dearest friend, fall. The thought of it gnawed at him, a painful reminder of the ticking clock.

For a moment, the music felt like a cruel reminder of what was to come. Alexander had promised himself that he would do whatever it took when they returned to their own timeline to make sure John didn’t meet his end on the stage of history. The thought of the loss—of the unspoken bond they had shared—haunted him. In the midst of the lively atmosphere, Alexander swore that somehow, someway, he would fight to rewrite the future. For now, though, all he could do was hold on to this fleeting moment of peace, however brief it might be.

Chapter Text

[SEABURY]

Hear ye, hear ye! My name is Samuel Seabury

The revolutionary set let out a collective groan as they watched none other than Seabury, the loyalist clergyman, make his way onto the stage. “Why is he there?” Alexander asked his voice dripping with revulsion. The group all collectively started calling the loyalist a number of names as they watched the screen continue to move. A sharp, indignant “Hey!” rang out from behind them. Everyone jumped looking behind them seeing Seabury stood there in the shadow of King George III. The King’s features were set in a stern mask, his posture regal but unyielding, as if he believed his very existence commanded respect.

Behind him, Seabury looked even more out of place, visibly trembling as he stood in the shadow of the King. His knees nearly buckled under the weight of the moment, and he looked like a man who wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. The contrast between the staunch, proud King and the quivering, anxious Seabury could not have been more stark. It was as though two worlds were colliding—one of absolute power and the other of desperation.

Alexander looked to Washington waiting to see the General’s reaction to the King’s presence but he was met with nothing the Generals face giving nothing away. 

The room erupted into noise but just as the noise reached a fever pitch, a voice from above boomed out, cutting through the chaos. “Please calm down and retake your seats. King George you are on the chair next to Angelica, Peggy and Washington. Seabury you are on the final seat beside Jefferson and Maddison”

The voice was sharp, commanding. King George, looking thoroughly affronted by being so casually ordered around, gave a small but dismissive huff. His pride seemed momentarily pricked, but after a beat, he did as instructed. With a slow, deliberate motion, he made his way to the left side of the main settee, the singular chair set apart from the others. He took a seat with an air of finality, his posture unyielding and stiff, as though he were the sovereign of not just a kingdom, but the entire room. His gaze never wavered, and he continued to look over the rest of the group with clear disdain and pompous superiority.

Seabury, meanwhile, shuffled awkwardly over to the third seat beside Jefferson and James Madison, the two men who had been sitting before the unexpected interruption. Seabury's hands were clasped tightly in his lap, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to make eye contact with anyone. He sat a little too rigidly, as though he was bracing himself for whatever might happen next. His presence beside Jefferson—who leaned back in his chair with a knowing smirk—and James, whose eyes were narrowed in quiet judgment, only seemed to emphasize how out of place he truly was in this room..

The room had returned to an uneasy silence, but the air was thick with tension. Everyone in the room felt it—this strange collision of forces, as if the past had reached out to challenge the very foundation of their ideals. No one knew where this would lead, but for the moment, they were all bound together by the bizarre convergence of history and theater. Everyone’s attention returned to the screen as the show continued on.

And I present “Free Thoughts on the

Proceedings of the Continental Congress!”

Alexander rolled his eyes, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. He opened his mouth, about to speak out against the absurdity of the comment, when his gaze happened to meet Washington’s. It was a fleeting moment, but the weight of it hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Washington’s eyes were steady, unyielding. The look he gave Alexander was a quiet but firm command—a silent order that cut through the chaos like a sharp blade. His brow furrowed slightly, and there was no mistaking the message in his gaze: stand down .

For a brief moment, Alexander’s chest tightened. He felt his words catch in his throat. Washington's presence was one of unquestionable authority, and in that instant, it was clear that no matter how ridiculous or infuriating the situation was, the room was not the place for a confrontation. He could feel the weight of the general’s leadership settling around him, commanding not just his respect, but his restraint.

Alexander’s jaw tightened for a brief second, a flicker of rebellion crossing his features, but then he let out a sharp breath, resigning himself to the silence. He shifted in his seat, though his posture remained tense, and the fire in his eyes dimmed. He was no stranger to defiance, but for now, he knew better than to challenge Washington’s unspoken authority, especially in front of this motley assembly.

Instead, Alexander clenched his fist on his lap and turned his attention back to the stage, his mind racing, but his mouth sealed. He couldn’t shake the sense that everything was spiraling out of control, and yet, he had to abide by the rules of the game—rules that Washington, calm and steady, seemed to still master with ease.

Meanwhile, Washington's gaze lingered just a moment longer, a silent reassurance that he had made the right call. His presence alone was enough to quell any further stirrings of dissent. He didn't need to say anything; the command was clear, and Alexander, despite the urge to voice his frustration, understood it implicitly.

Heed not the rabble who scream revolution

They have not your interests at heart

[MULLIGAN]

Oh my God. Tear this dude apart

Hercules couldn’t hold back his frustration any longer. He let out a deep, exasperated laugh that filled the room, the sound sharp and almost mocking as he turned his gaze toward Seabury’s counterpart on stage. His voice was thick with disdain, dripping with sarcasm as he shot a pointed glance at the loyalist clergyman, Seabury’s trembling figure barely visible next to the imposing King George.

“ Yes, please do! ” Hercules’s voice rang out, louder than he had intended, causing a few heads to turn in his direction. His eyes were locked on the stage, where Seabury, along with the King, seemed to occupy the space as though they were actors in some twisted parody of reality. “This guy is unbearable!”

[SEABURY]

Chaos and bloodshed are not a solution

Don’t let them lead you astray

This Congress does not speak for me

The older three men of the revolutionary watched on as they saw Alexander begin to get more and more worked up listening to Seabury’s words. Their eyes glinted with mischief . They couldn't help but find a certain amusement in the scene unfolding before them.

Onstage, Lafayette's counterpart pushed the onstage Alexander towards Seabury, the man openly campaigning in support of the monarchy. With a slight nudge, the Frenchman’s grin seemed to widen as he played his part, clearly enjoying the dynamic unfolding between the two men.

“Alexander,” Washington spoke, his voice steady but tinged with a warning that only someone who knew Hamilton well would recognize. The general’s posture was rigid, arms crossed with a level of authority that no one could mistake. "I hope you did not get into a debate with this man on the street." His words carried an edge of concern, but also the faintest hint of reprimand.

Hamilton, caught off guard and momentarily flustered, looked up at his former commander. His expression shifted to something more sheepish, almost childlike. His gaze shifted to the ground, and he shrugged slightly, clearly aware of the tension in the air. "Well," he began, his voice betraying a subtle defensiveness, “it wasn’t entirely a debate.”

The older men exchanged knowing looks, as if they’d seen this exact scene play out countless times before. Alexander Hamilton had never been one to back down from an argument even before the General was there to stop him. Washington shook his head letting out a sigh knowing that whatever was going to happen was inevitable and there was nothing he could do to change it now.

[BURR]

Let him be

“Wow, Burr, such a bore!” Johns’ voice rang out with an exaggerated flair, his words dripping with playful sarcasm. He leaned back with a dramatic sigh, eyes rolling as if he had been subjected to the most tiresome of performances. His sharp tongue had always been a tool of both humor and sharp critique, and today was no different.

Alexander, ever the lively spirit, couldn’t help but giggle at the jab. He hid a slight grin behind his hand, his posture shifting as he subtly leaned into John’s side, almost like a boy caught in the midst of a mischievous moment. The warmth of their bond was undeniable. The brief, shared moment of laughter seemed to lessen the weight of the surrounding tension, even as Washington observed quietly from the sidelines.

But Washington’s expression was anything but amused when he turned his gaze to Aaron Burr, who was sat in a lone chair to Washington's right. He was calm, collected—always calculating. Burr was not easily swayed by the banter that had flown across the room like arrows between friends. Instead, he simply nodded his head once, a soft, appreciative smile appearing on his lips.

“Thank you, Aaron,” Washington said, his deep voice cutting through the playful chaos. “You seem to be the only person who actually thought about the situation.” There was a touch of approval in his words, a recognition of Burr’s level-headedness in contrast to the rest of them.

Burr’s lips curved into a subtle but genuine smile. He acknowledged the compliment with a brief, polite nod of his head, his dark eyes glinting with quiet confidence. He was used to being the calm in the storm, the observer, and on this occasion, that very trait had not gone unnoticed by the general.

Meanwhile, Alexander, ever the passionate and quick-tempered soul, looked affronted by the exchange. His brows furrowed, a sharp edge to his posture as he crossed his arms in defiance. “I thought about the situation, too,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with that characteristic edge that always seemed to accompany his need to be heard. His gaze shot a brief, challenging look in Burr’s direction, as if silently daring him to respond to the unspoken challenge.

[SEABURY]

They’re playing a dangerous game

I pray the king shows you his mercy

For shame, for shame…

Everyone in the room was glued to the screen, their eyes wide with anticipation as the scene unfolded before them. Onstage, Alexander Hamilton's figure appeared, his expression intense as he made a swift, almost reckless move toward Seabury. Without hesitation, Hamilton barged into the man’s speech, cutting him off with a fiery outburst. His words, sharp and incisive, were like arrows aimed directly at Seabury’s reputation. The audience on the screen, too, could feel the tension, as if the very air was charged with the energy of the moment.

“Destroy him, Alex!” Johns voice rang out with a passionate cheer, his words full of the same boldness he had always displayed. He practically pulled Alexander into his side, the force of his enthusiasm unmistakable. John's arm draped over Hamilton’s shoulders, but it didn’t stop there. In an instinctive gesture of unity and affection, John’s hand found Eliza’s, their fingers intertwining as they both watched the drama unfold. Eliza, ever the calm and supportive figure, offered a soft smile, though her eyes glinted with a shared understanding of the political firestorm they were witnessing.

Meanwhile, Lafayette and Mulligan both leaned forward, their faces inches from the screen, not wanting to miss a single second of the spectacle. Their eyes were locked onto the action with the intensity of soldiers on a battlefield, both eager to see Alexander fight—if not with sword and shield, then with words that cut through the air like a blade. The mischievous glint in their eyes was unmistakable, a spark of youthful energy that had not dimmed in the years since that fateful day in the square. In fact, it seemed as though the scene playing out on the screen had transported them back to that very moment, the thrill of the rebellion, the fiery spirit of their youth, all rushing back as if no time had passed.

But amid the excitement, Washington was watching the group with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. His eyes, steady and wise, flicked from one face to another. As his gaze landed on the eager expressions of the men around him, a faint sigh escaped his lips, though he quickly masked it. How could he keep control of these excitable, determined young men? Washington wondered to himself, though his thoughts were laced with both affection and a deep, unspoken sense of responsibility. These were the men he would fight beside, the ones who will help birth a new nation—but they were also the ones who could never quite sit still, never quite temper their fire. Their spirits were unrelenting, their ambitions untamed, and as much as he admired them, he sometimes found himself at a loss for how to channel their energy into something that could guide them toward a steady future.

[HAMILTON]

Yo!

He’d have you all unravel at the [Heed not the rabble]

Sound of screams but the [Who scream]

Revolution is comin’[Revolution, they]

The have-nots are gonna [Have not your]

Win this [Interests]

It’s hard to listen to you with a straight face [at heart]

Alexander laughed at his counterpart's words, the sound echoing within the walls of the room. “The revolution is here!” he spoke joyfully, his voice filled with a mix of determination and excitement. A grin spread across his face, broad and unrestrained Around him, the others who had been there joined in with the laughter.

Seabury, with his arms crossed and brow furrowed, grumbled under his breath, his voice low but unmistakable. “I was not that cowardly!” he muttered, clearly irritated by the insinuation.

Chaos and bloodshed already haunt us,[Chaos and bloodshed are not a]

 honestly you shouldn’t even talk.[Solution.]

 And what about Boston? [Don’t Let them]

Look at the cost, n’ all that we’ve lost n’ you talk [ lead you Astray]

About Congress?! [This Congress does not speak for me]

My dog speaks more eloquently than thee!

[ They’re playing a dangerous game]

                                        But strangely, your mange is the same

[ I pray the king shows you his mercy]

Is he in Jersey?

“"Alexander!" Eliza called out, her voice tinged with both exasperation and affection as she sat beside him. She reached over and gave him a light tap on the shoulder, a gentle but pointed reminder that he had perhaps stepped a little too far. Despite the subtle rebuke, Alexander couldn’t help but flash a mischievous smile, his eyes twinkling with that unmistakable cheekiness that only seemed to surface when he was in her company.

Washington, sitting across from them, hid a chuckle behind his hand, unable to suppress the amusement that spread across his face. He tried, but failed, to completely mask his approval.

[ For shame]

For the revolution

[For shame,]

[COMPANY]

For the revolution!

"For the revolution!" The cry echoed through the air, a resounding declaration of defiance as the soldiers, their faces filled with fervor, raised their voices in unison. At the forefront of the cheers stood Alexander, his chest swelling with pride, a fire burning in his eyes. Beside him, John was equally as animated, his grip bruising but firm around Alexander's shoulder, a silent sign of solidarity.

The King looked on in ever growing anger he grumbled to himself wishing that he or his subordinates had squashed the call for revolution before it grew into an all out war which after his latest update seemed to be in its dying stages before he was eventually forced to surrender. 

[SEABURY]

Heed—

[HAMILTON]

If you repeat yourself again I’m gonna—

[SEABURY/HAMILTON]

Scream—

[HAMILTON]

Honestly, look at me, please don’t read! [Not your interests]

[HAMILTON]

Don’t modulate the key then not debate with me!

Why should a tiny island across the sea regulate the price of tea?

[BURR]

Alexander, please!

[HAMILTON]

Burr, I’d rather be divisive than indecisive, drop the niceties

Alex locked eyes with Burr once more. There was no mistaking the challenge in the way he held his gaze, a silent dare to the other man. His voice was sharp, filled with conviction, "Yes, Burr, you simply cannot be a good man to every person you meet! If you try to please everyone, nothing will change. We will remain forever under the tyrannical British rule!" His words hung in the air, bold and defiant, as if daring Burr to deny the truth of them.

Burr, never one to back down from a verbal sparring match, met Hamilton's challenge with a cool, almost practiced indifference. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he responded in his usual measured tone, “Yes, but there was no need for you to attack this man with your overpowering words." His words were calm, but there was an underlying edge to them, the kind of quiet disdain that suggested he was more than a little irritated with Hamilton’s relentless zeal.

Without hesitation, Alexander sprang from his seat, the tension in his body coiling like a spring ready to snap. He was prepared to defend his honor, to argue his point further, to show Burr that his principles would not be shaken by anything less than the truth. Burr mirrored his movements, stepping forward as if willing to match him in every way, ready for the confrontation to escalate.

The room held its breath, the two men standing face-to-face in the midst of a brewing storm. But before either could make another move, Washington's commanding presence intervened. With a firm, experienced hand, he placed a hand on Alexander's shoulder, a silent but powerful reminder of the bigger picture. The pressure of his grip was enough to halt Alexander in his tracks, and with a single, steady pull, Washington tugged him back, away from the heated standoff.

"That's enough, both of you," Washington's voice was low but firm, the kind of voice that

brooked no argument. His hand remained on Alexander's shoulder, a grounding force that slowly but surely began to calm the storm in Hamilton’s chest. The tension in the room was palpable, but it was clear that the situation had been diffused—at least for the moment. Burr, for his part, stood unmoving, his gaze still fixed on Hamilton, but the brief confrontation had left the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved animosity.

[ENSEMBLE]

Silence! A message from the King!

A message from the King!

Chapter Text

The majority of the room erupted into laughter as the King’s exaggerated portrayal appeared on the screen. His over-the-top mannerisms, flamboyant gestures, and comical facial expressions were a stark contrast to the dramatic weight of the moment. Jefferson, leaning back with a smirk, couldn't resist chiming in. “Why is he even here?” he scoffed loudly, addressing no one in particular. “I thought this was supposed to be a musical about Hamilton, not some clown show.”

The King’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “Shut it man,” the King growled, his voice low and menacing. “Keep it up, and I’ll have my men lock you up.”

“I t’s my time to shine! ” he declared, throwing his arms out wide, as if he were the true star of the show. 

You say the price of my love is price you're not willing to pay

You cry in the tea which you hurled in the sea as you see me go by

Why so sad?

“Oh, not for much,” Alexander’s voice dripped with sarcasm, the words practically seething with anger. “Maybe just the constant, unjust taxes and the cruel treatment you force upon us! The taxes we have no choice but to pay, which you use to fund your endless wars—wars that we never asked for! And the way you order your men to lord over us, killing anyone who dares step out of line, as if our lives mean nothing to you!”

His voice grew louder with each word, the intensity of his anger filling the room. Each word he uttered was a weapon, carefully chosen to strike at the heart of the British monarchy’s tyranny. His tone was commanding, his rhetoric sharp—always a master of words, Alexander’s fiery spirit was evident in every syllable.

John watched Alexander with a mixture of admiration and concern. With a sigh, he reached out and placed a hand gently on Alexander’s shoulder, his touch a subtle attempt to calm the storm brewing within him. Eliza, ever the grounding force, rested a firm hand on his knee, her fingers pressing lightly but with meaning, urging him to remain seated. She knew how deeply Alexander felt, how easily he could be swept away by his own convictions.

For a moment, the world outside seemed to vanish. It was just Alexander, the King, and the simmering animosity between them. The silence that followed was deafening. But as the King’s eyes narrowed, a thin smile playing at the corners of his lips, it was clear: this was not a man to be provoked lightly. Alexander met his gaze, his own expression defiant, but it was John and Eliza who held him in place, their hands anchors in a storm.

Slowly, Alexander took a deep breath, his body tense but unwilling to rise further, as the King’s dangerous gaze remained fixed on him.

Washington glanced over at Alexander from where he sat, a subtle nod of approval in his direction. He could see the tension in Alexander’s posture, the way his fists clenched at his sides, as if the anger bubbling inside him was barely contained. Washington knew all too well the fire that burned within the young man, the fierce determination that often threatened to spill over.

Though John and Eliza had certainly helped to calm him, Washington couldn't help but acknowledge the strength it took for Alexander to remain seated, his restraint a quiet testament to his discipline. It was a rare moment of control, one that didn’t go unnoticed by the seasoned leader, who had seen many men struggle to master their emotions in the face of such provocation. Alexander may have been furious, but he had learned the art of holding back—at least for now.

Remember we made an arrangement when you went away

Now you're making me mad.

Remember despite our estrangement, I'm your man

A low murmur of disgust rippled through the room, the tension in the air shifting with the collective unease. The King’s pompous words, more absurd than offensive, had clearly struck a nerve with everyone present. Angelica’s voice rose above the noise, sharp and dripping with disdain as she addressed the images on the screen. “We don’t want you. Please, leave us be,” she declared, her words like daggers, cutting through the King’s ridiculous posturing.

Her expression was one of utter repulsion, her eyes narrowing as she glared at the King’s counterpart. 

Alexander, still on the edge of his seat, couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine chuckle, free from the bitterness that had consumed him moments earlier. His gaze shifted from the screen to the others in the room, his laughter growing as he watched their reactions. Every scoff, every rolled eye, every sarcastic remark made in response to the King’s performance seemed to pull the anger from Alexander’s chest, dissipating it in the wake of the shared amusement.

The tension that had been so tightly wound inside him loosened, if only for a moment, as he found a strange sense of camaraderie in the laughter that filled the room. The ridiculousness of the King’s performance, so out of place in the context of their struggle, made the situation seem almost absurd. And in that absurdity, Alexander found solace, momentarily shedding the weight of his anger.

You'll be back

Soon you'll see

You'll remember you belong to me

This time, it was Washington who broke the silence, his voice rising with an intensity that caught everyone off guard, especially Alexander and John. The two younger men exchanged startled glances, the surprise evident on their faces. They had grown accustomed to the General's stoic restraint, to his quiet strength, and his preference for action over words. Washington was a man of careful calculation, always thinking ahead, planning their next move. His words, when spoken, were deliberate—usually reserved for private moments in his tent, when speaking to one or both of his most trusted aides.

But now, as the screen continued to mock them with the King’s absurdity, Washington’s restraint cracked. His voice rumbled from deep within his chest, low and ominous, almost like the growl of a beast ready to defend its territory. “America and everyone in it has never, and will never, belong to you or your empire,” he declared, his words unwavering and firm. The room seemed to grow still, as if the weight of his statement carried a gravity that hung in the air. “I personally will make sure of that.” His gaze, once steady and composed, now hardened, piercing through the image of the King as if the very force of his will could shatter the mockery on the screen.

Alexander and John stared at him, their mouths slightly agape, shock registering on their faces. They weren’t accustomed to hearing Washington speak with such raw defiance, and certainly not with the same fire that burned within them. The two of them quickly exchanged a glance, eyes wide, before flicking towards Lafayette and Hercules who sat behind them. The shock was evident there too, though the two men were a bit more reserved, their expressions a mix of admiration and surprise.

Washington’s words had ignited something, something that was shared among them all, a quiet but growing flame that made them feel more united than ever. In that moment, it was clear that the General was not just a leader by title; he was a protector, a defender of the ideals they held dear. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of decades of sacrifice and struggle.

Before anyone could respond, Jefferson’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and venomous. “We are our own people, not some commodities you get to control,” he spat, his words dripping with contempt.

The room seemed to crackle with energy, every word spoken from Washington to Jefferson adding fuel to the fire. The King on the screen may have mocked them, but here, in this moment, it was clear who held the real power and the real King sat alone on his own chair looked pale as he watched the men in the room burn passionately with anger and determination, he swallowed knowing exactly why a underarmed, undermanned army had just beaten his own superior forces in his own timeline and there was nothing he could do to change it.

You'll be back

Time will tell

You'll remember that I served you well

Oceans rise, empire fall

We have seen each other through it all

And when push comes to shove

I will send a fully armed battalion to remind you of my love

Lafayette couldn’t help but smirk as he spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Ah, yes, of course. Because launching an all-out assault with your full force is truly the most heartfelt display of love." The others around him chuckled, their amusement clear as they exchanged glances, all while pointedly avoiding the increasingly angry gaze of the King. As the music played on, the King’s expression grew darker, his face twisting into a scowl, his frustration bubbling over.

Da da da da da Da da da da di ya da da da da di ya da

Da da da da da Da da da da di ya da da da da da di ya

“This is an act of treason!” the King bellowed, his face contorted with rage as he shot up from his seat. His finger trembled with fury, pointing accusatorily at the screen before him. "I want these men— and the creator of this—" His voice cracked with disgust as he spat out the next word, " show —hung!" The force of his command echoed through the room, the King's wrath burning in his eyes.

For a long moment, the room fell silent, the tension thick as everyone waited for a response. It came, though, unexpectedly—a voice, calm and unyielding, cutting through the charged atmosphere.

"You are unable to order that, Your Majesty," the voice said, steady and unperturbed. "You are in the future now, no longer the reigning monarch, nor in command of the country where this place resides. The authority you once held has long since vanished." The words struck the King like a blow, his anger momentarily forgotten as he struggled to absorb the reality of what was being said.

The voice continued, matter-of-factly, as though addressing a child in need of a lesson. "And beyond that, ordering death sentences for treason is outlawed. It is no longer within anyone’s power to do so."

The King stood there, his mouth slightly agape, as the full weight of the words sank in. His mind whirled with disbelief, unable to reconcile the future he had just stumbled into with the absolute power he once wielded. He had no response, only stunned silence, as the room held its breath, watching the monarch grapple with the revelation that his power was no longer absolute.

You say my love is draining and you can't go on

You'll be the one who's complaining when I am gone

“Despite the insidious nature of this piece of music,” Jefferson remarked thoughtfully, his fingers tapping the armrest as he listened intently, “I must admit, the notes are undeniably beautiful. It is, without question, one great piece of music.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Though they all shared a deep and deserved hatred for the King and the tyranny he had imposed on their country, there was no denying the brilliance of the composition that filled the room. The haunting melody seemed to resonate with an elegance that transcended its origins, and even the most staunch critics of the monarch found themselves momentarily entranced by the music’s undeniable beauty.

The discord between their feelings for the King and the composition's exquisite notes was almost surreal. For a fleeting moment, it was as if they were transported beyond the political strife and personal enmity, appreciating the art for what it was—separate from its focus.

No, don't change the subject!

'Cause you're my favorite subject

My sweet submissive subject

"That is a very uncomfortable image," Peggy said, her voice tinged with disgust as she crinkled her nose. "And why was he spitting so much?" Her eyes widened in a mix of revulsion and confusion, her face a mirror of her sister's, who wore a similar look of distaste.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. No one could provide an answer to the younger Schuyler’s pointed question. They all sat, frozen in shared discomfort, eyes shifting uncomfortably as the scene on the screen lingered in their minds. The final line—the one that had left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth—was one thing, but the sheer volume of spittle that had been flung during the King's outburst was another matter entirely.

Some of them, like Peggy, winced at the vivid, almost grotesque image of the monarch’s spittle scattering in all directions, his rage so uncontrollable that it became part of the scene. It was as if the sheer force of his anger was too much for him to contain, spilling out in a disgusting display of both emotion and bodily fluid. The others in the room, equally repulsed, grimaced at the thought. Some couldn’t get past the revolting sight of the King's sputtering, his face contorting as he spewed words—and saliva—in equal measure.

Their discomfort was palpable, each person processing the scene differently. Some were more disturbed by the vulgarity of the final words, the bitter hatred and unrestrained violence in his tone. Others were fixated on the disturbing, almost comical amount of spittle that had erupted from his mouth. The sheer physicality of it was impossible to ignore, as though his very rage had manifested itself in the most unsightly of ways.

My loyal, royal subject

For ever

And ever

And ever and ever and ever

“Most certainly not,” Washington responded firmly, his voice steady but filled with conviction. He stood tall, his posture unwavering, as his eyes scanned the room, making eye contact with each of the revolutionaries gathered before him. “We will fight with everything we have got to ensure that does not come to pass. We cannot, and will not, allow it.”

The weight of his words settled in the room, a charge of determination sparking in the hearts of those present. His tone was resolute, carrying the authority of a leader who had faced countless battles and knew the stakes like few others. His resolve was contagious, spreading like wildfire among the group, igniting a fierce, collective energy.

One by one, the other revolutionaries nodded in agreement, their expressions hardening into masks of resolve. Some of them clenched their fists, while others gritted their teeth, their eyes alight with the shared fire of defiance. They stood united, each of them silently promising to do whatever was necessary to see their cause through to the end, no matter the cost.

As the General’s words echoed in the room, the weight of their collective purpose settled over them like a cloak. The path ahead would be fraught with danger, but there was no turning back now. They would fight—against tyranny, against oppression, against the very forces that sought to crush their dreams of liberty and freedom.

Washington’s gaze lingered on each of them, his commanding presence unspoken but felt deeply in the room. He knew the challenges they would face, the sacrifices they would have to make, but he also knew that together, they had a chance to shape history.

“We will not fail,” Washington concluded, his voice like a rallying cry, the finality of his statement ringing with an unspoken promise. The revolutionaries, bound by their shared vision, responded as one, their voices rising in unity, echoing with the unshakable certainty that they would fight to the very end.

You'll be back

Like before

I'll fight the fight and win the war

The King suddenly spoke up, his voice grumbled yet loud enough to draw everyone's attention. "I wish that were true!" His words sent a ripple of shock through the room, catching the man off guard. The King’s gaze swept over the assembly as he continued, "You do not need to make Yorktown more painful than it already was." Alexander’s eyes darted back and forth between Washington and the King, the shock evident on his face.

The King rolled his eyes in exaggerated annoyance. "Oh, there’s no need to look so surprised!"

The General swallowed hard, steadying himself before locking eyes with the King. “Your Majesty, may I ask what time you left before arriving here?”

The King eyed him warily, his skepticism clear. "19th October 1781," he answered sharply. “But General, surely you know what day it is! Somehow, you and your army—” he spat, his disdain evident, “—have defeated my forces and forced them into retreat.”

The soldiers fell into stunned silence, the weight of the King’s revelation hanging in the air. It was Hercules Mulligan who broke the silence first. "It is January 1781," he said urgently, "we must win by the end of the year!"

Before anyone could respond, the voice echoed once more throughout the room, cutting through the tension. "Yes, the timelines you’ve left behind show the Continental Army, led by General Washington, defeating the British at the Battle of Yorktown. You'll witness more in the musical, where each of you will play your role in ensuring success."

For your love

For your grace

And I'll love you til my dying days

When you're gone, I'll go mad

So don't throw away this thing we had

Cause when push comes to shove

I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love

"Yes, because as discussed, that is a wonderful way to show a country that you love them!" Lafayette snarked sarcastically, his tone sharp and laced with disdain. He crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed with the King’s arrogance.

"We do not want your love either!" Angelica chimed in, her voice cutting through the tension with a clear, unwavering defiance. She glared at the King, her eyes blazing with contempt. She didn’t flinch under his furious stare, holding her ground as she spoke, her words like a challenge.

The King, clearly enraged, glowered at them, his fists clenched in barely contained fury. His face turned an angry shade of red, and for a moment, it seemed like he might explode. 

Da da da da da da da di ya da Da da da da di ya da

Da da da da da da da da da di ya da da da da da diya

Everybody

Da da da da da da da di ya da Da da da da di ya da

Da da da da da da da da da di ya da da da da da diya

The song came to a dramatic end, leaving a heavy silence that hung in the air. The room was left slightly speechless, not only from the King’s over-the-top portrayal, but also from the startling revelations that had unfolded in the midst of the performance. Everyone seemed to pause for a moment, still processing the weight of it all. The portrayal of the King had been wildly erratic—his comically exaggerated gestures and pompous demeanor had brought a sense of absurdity to the room, yet the underlying tension, especially with the revelations of what was to come.

The soldiers, who had just witnessed this strange display, remained largely silent, their minds preoccupied with the real, grim challenges ahead. They exchanged glances, their thoughts consumed by the harsh reality they were facing. The thought of surviving until the end of the year seemed increasingly impossible, especially given how thin their supplies were. Morale was already low, and the idea of holding out against the British seemed almost out of reach.

Jefferson and Madison stood somewhat apart from the others, their expressions guarded. Both men knew the outcome of the war—they had seen it, they understood the course of history—but neither offered any words of comfort. Their silence, though not unkind, was almost more unsettling than reassuring. They could have spoken to ease the soldiers’ minds, to offer a semblance of hope, but instead, they remained mute, perhaps burdened by the knowledge of the trials still to come. Their quiet exchange, full of unspoken understanding, only added to the uncertainty of the moment.

Meanwhile, the girls—Angelica, Eliza, and the others—couldn't help but stifle their giggles. The portrayal of the King had been so erratic, so overblown, that it was almost absurd. The King’s theatrical rants, his wild facial expressions, and his exaggerated movements seemed to amuse them, the tension lightened briefly by the absurdity of it all. They whispered among themselves, the occasional burst of laughter breaking the silence as they shared a private moment of amusement at the ridiculousness of the performance.

But even as the girls giggled and the soldiers remained lost in thought, there was a lingering sense of discomfort in the room. The bizarre performance had laid bare the stark contrast between the absurd and the serious—between a King who saw himself as untouchable and a country that was on the verge of winning the revolution.

Chapter Text

The images on the screen deepened the sense of unease, their somber tones casting a heavy shadow over the room. A stark contrast to the lively joy just moments ago, the laughter from the previous scene now seemed distant, fading in the air like a forgotten memory. The atmosphere thickened with tension as the screen flashed with unsettling images—gritty, chaotic, and unsettling. The jubilant energy that had filled the room was now evaporating, leaving a cold silence in its wake.

Then, the voice from above reappeared, cutting through the stillness like an unseen presence. It echoed in the room, calm and almost mechanical, but it was clear to everyone that something was amiss.

“Soldiers, just a precursor warning, there are loud shots of gunfire and cannon blasts in this song. I have provided earplugs under your chairs if you would like them.”

A shiver ran down the spine of everyone who was fighting for their freedom. The mention of gunfire and cannon shots, followed by the offer of earplugs, only served to heighten their anticipation of what was about to unfold. The soldiers exchanged wary glances, their minds already racing, piecing together the grim puzzle. They knew this was not going to be just another song—it was a signal. A sign that this next piece would take them somewhere darker, more violent.

[COMPANY]

British Admiral Howe’s got troops on the water

Thirty-two thousand troops in New York harbor

In that moment, the room seemed to freeze, as if an unseen force pressed down on everyone, intensifying the tension in the air. The soldiers, seasoned and sharp-eyed, instinctively braced themselves, their bodies tightening with the primal sense that something momentous and dangerous was about to unfold. General Washington’s gaze swiftly swept over the men under his command. Years of battle, leadership, and unwavering discipline had taught him how to keep his emotions in check, how to maintain composure amid chaos. A warning like this, unsettling though it was, was something he could handle. But the young men around him? That was another matter.

Washington’s attention zeroed in on Alexander, his most trusted aide. The young man was already rigid with anticipation, every muscle taut, his face a mask of resolve. But there was a flicker in his eyes—a fleeting moment of unease that Washington couldn’t ignore. Alexander Hamilton, eager as ever to prove himself, had an intensity that mirrored Washington’s own, but in this moment, the air felt different. This wasn’t a time for boldness, Washington thought, his mind racing. This was a time to hold steady, to keep the younger men grounded, to keep them from being swept away by the storm.

Across the room, Angelica’s soft voice broke through the tension like a crack in the stillness. “No…” she whispered, her voice trembling, her chest tightening with a deep sense of dread. The weight of her words seemed to suffocate the air, thickening it with fear as if the very fabric of the present was unraveling. She didn’t need to see what was on the screen—she could feel it, the undeniable shift toward war, the dark, irreversible turn that had now begun. "The war... it has begun..."

Her words hung in the air, reverberating in the heavy silence. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had stopped. Angelica’s hand instinctively sought Peggy’s, her fingers grasping hers with quiet desperation, as though clinging to her would somehow shield them from the coming storm. The fear in Angelica’s eyes was reflected in the tension of her body, a deep, consuming worry not just for the battle ahead but for the uncertain futures of the people she loved most.

Her gaze flickered to Eliza, who sat beside John and Alexander. John’s face, ever the image of calm and strength, bore the lines of a man who had already steeled himself for what was coming. His expression was firm, resolute, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed the toll of the moment. Next to him, Alexander sat rigid, his earlier eagerness and excitement at odds with the palpable tension and anxiety that now gripped him. Eliza, ever the comforting presence, rested her hand gently on John’s shoulder, offering him the silent strength to stand firm. But it wasn’t just for him. That same touch seemed to reassure Alexander, grounding him in a way that words never could. Yet, despite her calm demeanor, Angelica could see the unease in her sister’s eyes. Eliza was the glue holding them all together, but even she struggled under the weight of what was unfolding before them.

The air felt suffocating now, heavy with the realization that what they were witnessing wasn’t just a performance, a song, or a passing scene. It was something far more significant, the beginning of something none of them could predict, something they had no idea how it would end.

[ENSEMBLE 1]

Thirty-two thousand troops in New York harbor

When they surround our troops!

They surround our troops!

When they surround our troops!

The King let out a sharp, agitated exhale, his breath escaping in a frustrated puff as his eyes remained locked on the screen. The images flickered before him, showing the ferocity of the battle, a brutal reminder of the overwhelming odds the Continental Army had faced. His gaze hardened as he watched the raw power of the scene unfold—the ragtag group of colonists, under-equipped and undertrained, standing toe-to-toe against the full force of his own well-organized, heavily supplied, and battle-hardened troops. And yet, in the end, it was those very colonists, armed with little more than sheer grit and determination, who had somehow managed to overpower his forces.

It was a sight that gnawed at him, a deep, unsettling feeling curling in his chest. How had it come to this? He had always believed his army to be invincible, carefully constructed, a symbol of power and control. But here it was—his finest troops, faltering in the face of an enemy they should have easily crushed. The thought of it unsettled him to his core. If they could defeat me, he thought, his mind racing, then what would stop others from following in their footsteps?

The images on the screen blurred as his mind wandered, veering into unsettling territory. He imagined India, far across the ocean, stirring with discontent. Australia, too, simmering with a desire for independence. The possibility that others, inspired by this unforeseen victory, might rise up against him plagued his thoughts like a shadow he couldn’t escape. What if this is the spark of something larger? What if I lose my hold on everything?

The weight of these thoughts pressed down on him, the gnawing fear tightening his chest with each passing moment. His fingers, which had previously rested confidently on the armrest, now clenched into a fist, his knuckles white as the frustration bubbled within him. The notion of his empire crumbling, of his absolute rule being questioned, was something he could not—would not—allow. Yet, all he could do was sit there, helpless, as the unfolding events played out before him.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He, a monarch with every resource at his disposal, a leader of vast lands and a mighty army, was now powerless to change the course of what had already transpired. The battle, the war—it was over for him, and though it may have no direct impact on his immediate plights or his kingdom, the lingering threat of rebellion and revolution hovered ominously on the horizon.

[ENSEMBLE 2]

Thirty-two thousand troops in New York harbor

They surround our troops!

They surround our troops!

[HAMILTON]

As a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war

Washington spoke up, his voice steady but firm. “Alexander, you should never wish for a war. Son, a war is the worst creation of humankind. It brings nothing but destruction, pain, and loss.” Alexander’s body stiffened, and his jaw tightened as he looked away from Washington. His voice, barely above a whisper, was sharp with frustration. “I’m not your son…” he muttered, eyes unable to meet the older man’s gaze. The words hung in the air, a clear rejection of Washington’s paternal tone, a reminder of the distance between them despite their shared vision of leadership.

His voice grew stronger as the heat of the conversation surged through him. “And war… war was the only way I could see to improve my status. A status no one here has had to worry about, particularly when they were ten!” There was an edge to his words, a bitterness that those closest to him could sense—a frustration not just with Washington’s words, but with his own unmet desires and the weight of the situation that had faced him. It wasn’t about power; it was about being seen, being acknowledged for his worth in a world that seemed so much older and more established than he felt inside. His dreams of grandeur, of legacy, had clashed with the reality of his youth and the burdens of his position.

In that moment, only Eliza and John seemed to truly understand the complexity of the emotions boiling within Alexander. The sharpness of his words, the tension in his posture—these were the signs of something deeper, a hunger for recognition and respect that neither battle nor time had yet satisfied. Without a word, Eliza reached out and gently took one of Alexander’s hands in hers, while John did the same with his other hand, offering him silent support. Their touch was a small comfort amid the storm of emotions that swirled around him. It was a gesture of care, a reminder that, despite the war within him, they were there.

I knew that I was poor

I knew it was the only way to—

[HAMILTON/BURR/MULLIGAN/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE]

Rise up!

Gesturing towards the screen, Alexander's voice grew more intense, his frustration swelling. “Don’t you see! I had to hope for a war! It’s the only time that every man is seen as equal, no matter their birthplace, the legitimacy of their birth, or their financial situation—all of which were stacked against me, making it impossible to find my place in this world!” His voice rose with each word, fueled by a mix of desperation and anger. The weight of his words seemed to fill the room, his eyes burning with the fire of a man who had fought tooth and nail for any scrap of recognition.

Washington, sat silently for a moment, watching the younger man closely, sensing the turmoil that Alexander was struggling to articulate. He slowly got to his feet and approached where Alexander sat.

He paused, taking another step closer to Alexander, his tone softening, but still carrying the weight of years of wisdom and experience. “But war, son, is never the answer to our struggles. I understand why you might think it is, why you might feel that it's the only way to rise above the limitations you’ve been given. But in seeking war, in seeking to prove yourself through bloodshed, you risk losing everything that truly matters. You risk losing your humanity, your soul, your very sense of self. And that is something I would never wish upon you.”

Washington’s gaze held steady, his words taking on a paternal quality, more out of a deep care than anything else. “You are capable of greatness, Alexander. But greatness born of conflict can only lead to destruction. You must find your place not in the midst of chaos and violence, but in the peace you can build, the legacy you can create. That is the true test of a man’s worth."

For a moment, the room fell silent, save for the faint sound of breathing. Alexander stood still, his fists clenched at his sides, caught between his hunger for recognition and the undeniable truth in Washington’s words. It was a tension between youthful ambition and the wisdom of experience—a struggle that would take time to unravel. But as Washington continued to speak, his words wrapping around Alexander like a warm cloak, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something softer than before.

The General placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder, his voice gentle but resolute. “You may not see it now, but there are other ways to be seen. Other ways to earn the respect you crave. You don’t have to sacrifice your integrity, your soul, to make your mark in this world. You are more than your birthright, more than the circumstances that shaped you. Do not let the fire inside you consume what you could be. Let it guide you to something greater.”

The weight of the words seemed to hang in the air, and though Alexander still seethed with frustration, something in his posture softened ever so slightly, a crack in his armor that was only visible to those closest to him. Eliza and John watched quietly, sensing the shift, the bond between the two men growing stronger, though unspoken.

Alexander finally spoke, his voice lower now, tinged with vulnerability. “I didn’t know any other way, General.”

Washington gave him a small, understanding nod. “And that’s why I’m here, son. To help you and these other hungry young men find their way. As soon as we defeat the British, and we will.”

Washington watched as Alexander quietly settled back beside Eliza and John, his eyes lingering on the young man for a moment longer, sensing the quiet turbulence still within him. With a single nod of silent understanding, he returned to his seat, allowing the screen to once again fill the room with its image. The moment was marked by an unspoken acknowledgment, a shift in the air that signaled a deeper connection between them, even without words.

[HAMILTON]

If they tell my story

I am either gonna die on the battlefield in glory or—

“No! Please, Alexander, please don’t,” Eliza pleaded, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and desperation. The weight of her husband's words hit her like a sudden storm, tearing at the foundation of her heart. She had always known the risks, but hearing him speak so plainly of sacrificing himself, of willingly walking into the fire for the sake of something as abstract as legacy, was unbearable. The thought of losing him, of the man she loved being swallowed up by the very cause that had brought them together, left her breathless.

Alexander stayed quiet, his gaze unwavering, unwilling to offer her the comfort she so desperately sought. There were no reassurances that could soothe her, no words that would make the reality of the situation less stark. Deep inside, he knew what he had to do. His heart, driven by ambition and a fierce desire to shape history, told him that he would go to any lengths—whatever it took—to help build the American nation, to carve his name into the annals of time. He could feel the pull of destiny in his chest, a calling that drowned out the worry in his wife's voice.

Washington’s voice broke the tense silence, and it was no longer the calm, fatherly tone he had once used. Now, his voice carried the weight of authority, the tone of a Commander in Chief, a man who had seen the horrors of war and understood the cost of every decision. It was a voice that many Continental Army soldiers feared, and in that moment, it was laced with iron resolve. “I will not allow you to die, Alexander,” Washington declared, his eyes locking onto the younger man with unyielding determination. “Eliza, you need not worry. Your husband will be the most protected soldier in the army. He is far too important to our cause to risk losing.”

Eliza, though reassured by Washington’s words, couldn’t silence the fear that gnawed at her. Her gaze flickered to Alexander, still silent, still locked in his internal struggle. Alexander’s breath hitched, and a wince crossed his face as Washington’s words settled into the space between them. The very thought of being kept away from the battlefield—of being held back when his soul burned with the need to fight—tore at him.

“But how am I to create a lasting legacy if I am not on the field?” Alexander’s voice was strained, his passion raw, the words spilling out before he could stop them. The plea was buried beneath the weight of his ambition, the burning desire to prove himself in the crucible of battle. “General, I signed up to join this army knowing the risks. I do not wish to be hidden away, kept out of the action.”

His eyes met Washington’s, filled with frustration, the desperate need to make his mark on the world flickering in the depths of his gaze. He couldn’t comprehend a life where he wasn’t in the thick of things, shaping the future, leading men, and leaving behind a legacy that would echo through history. His whole being was centered on action, on movement, on the battlefield where decisions were made, and history was forged in the heat of conflict.

Washington’s expression softened for a moment, but his voice remained steady, resolute. “Alexander, your legacy will not be defined by the number of battles you fight, but by the impact you leave behind, the decisions you make, and the example you set for others. You are already shaping history. But to be taken too early from this world, from this cause... that would be a loss we cannot afford.”

Eliza, still holding Alexander’s hand tightly, felt the storm inside her settle just slightly at Washington’s words, though the knot in her stomach remained. She knew her husband’s heart, his drive, but she also knew that Washington was right. There was more at stake than just personal glory—there was the future of a nation, and it needed him in ways that extended beyond the battlefield.

Alexander’s gaze flickered, doubt creeping into the edges of his confidence. He wasn’t sure if he could accept a future where he wasn’t the one leading his men into battle, where his legacy was built on something other than valor and action.

[HAMILTON/BURR/MULLIGAN/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE]

Rise up!

[HAMILTON]

I will fight for this land

But there’s only one man

Who can give us a command so we can—

[HAMILTON/BURR/MULLIGAN/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE]

Rise up!

As the show continued, the room fell into a charged silence, the drama unfolding on the screen taking its hold. Lafayette, ever the playful soul, broke the tension with a smirk that seemed to dance across his features. His eyes, glinting with a flicker of mischief, turned toward the General. “I believe I know where this song is leading us…” he said, his voice light, laced with amusement.

His gaze was locked on Washington, whose posture had been stiff with tension ever since the intense exchange with Hamilton. There had been an unspoken weight in the air during their conversation, the kind that came from complex decisions and the burden of leadership. But now, as Lafayette spoke, Washington’s expression subtly shifted. The tension that had been so present in his demeanor earlier seemed to dissipate, replaced by something more akin to second-hand embarrassment. He watched the screen with a furrowed brow, his lips pressed in a tight line. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to what was unfolding before them—it wasn’t the military strategy, nor the solemn deliberations he was used to. It was... something else entirely.

The General, who had stood tall and commanding in countless situations, now seemed momentarily out of his element. The unexpected playfulness of the moment made him shift uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze flicking from Lafayette back to the show. He shifted his weight, leaning slightly forward, as if trying to brace himself for what was coming next. The music had taken a turn, and with it, so had the mood in the room. Washington’s stoic nature, so accustomed to handling matters of war and statecraft, was ill-prepared for the oncoming flood of emotions and events that the show was clearly about to present.

Lafayette, sensing the shift in the General’s discomfort, couldn’t help but let his smirk widen. His usual charm was evident, a gleam of delight in his eyes as he observed the more vulnerable side of his leader. Lafayette had seen Washington in countless high-stakes situations—battlefields, political maneuverings, tense meetings. But now, to see him squirm just a little in this unexpected context was a rare, almost amusing sight.

Eliza, noticing the subtle shift in Washington’s demeanor, exchanged a knowing glance with John, who looked equally entertained by the scene unfolding. Even Alexander, though still clearly on edge, seemed to be more aware of the tension turning into something lighter—something far less urgent and filled with more human levity.

[HAMILTON]

Understand? It’s the only way to—

[HAMILTON/BURR/MULLIGAN/LAURENS/LAFAYETTE]

Rise up! Rise up!

[HAMILTON]

Here he comes!

[ENSEMBLE]

Here comes the General!

Washington let out a groan of embarrassment, his face turning a shade of crimson as he buried his hands in his palms. “Is this really necessary?” he grumbled, his voice thick with reluctant frustration. It wasn’t often that the General found himself on the receiving end of such playful attention, and the shift in the atmosphere had caught him entirely off guard. He had spent his life shaping the future of a fledgling nation with determination and grit, but now, in the face of the playful teasing from his comrades, he felt oddly out of place.

The men forming the revolutionary set, sensing his discomfort, leaned into the moment with their own teasing words, their voices light but filled with admiration for their leader. Mulligan, ever the optimist, flashed a bright, almost mischievous smile as he spoke, his tone playful yet sincere. “General Washington, of course, this is necessary! You will become our country’s founder, the very backbone of this new nation!” His eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm, as if the idea of Washington being immortalized in history was a given, something they all knew deep down would happen.

Lafayette, leaning forward in his seat, couldn’t resist adding his own touch of flattery, his voice laced with an accent as rich and vibrant as his personality. “Oui, monsieur! You are to be celebrated as the most successful General America has seen!” He spoke with a grin that stretched across his face, his eyes gleaming with respect and admiration for Washington. “Mon ami, you will be the most important piece to freeing this country from the tyranny of the British!” Lafayette’s words, though exaggerated, carried a weight of genuine belief, and he leaned back with a chuckle, clearly enjoying the chance to tease his friend and commander.

Alexander, always passionate and driven, leaned forward from his seat, his voice filled with fiery conviction. “Sir!” he said, his tone sharp and unwavering. “When we win this war, you will be remembered as the General who led this makeshift army to victory! The man who turned ragtag rebels into a fighting force capable of defeating the greatest empire in the world!” His eyes burned with a mix of admiration and enthusiasm, his respect for Washington undeniable. “It is entirely necessary, as is every soldier’s role—which is determined by you. You are the one who will shape our legacy, General.”

John, always at Alexander’s side in both thought and spirit, nodded in agreement, his expression firm yet understanding. “Alexander’s right,” he added, his voice steady. “You’ve led us this far, General”

The room seemed to hum with the shared sentiment, each man voicing their thoughts in a mixture of humor and reverence. It was clear that Washington had earned their respect, not just as a commander, but as the foundation upon which their hopes for the new nation rested. Still, the weight of their words seemed to settle uneasily upon him, and he squirmed in his seat, feeling the dual pressure of their admiration and his own discomfort.

Washington slowly removed his hands from his face, letting out a deep sigh, his expression a mix of resignation and reluctant gratitude. “I appreciate your words, but...” he trailed off, his gaze turning to the screen where his future was being portrayed, “this is all a bit much for me.” His voice softened, the weight of his leadership always pressing against him, making moments like this feel both surreal and overwhelming.

The others fell silent for a moment, watching their General with a mixture of affection and empathy, understanding that the man who had carried the weight of their revolution was, in this moment, still just a man—one who could feel the sting of too much attention, the discomfort of being celebrated in such a public way.

Lafayette leaned back in his seat, his smirk turning into a more genuine smile, while Mulligan slapped Washington’s shoulder lightly. “General,” he said, his tone light but full of admiration, “perhaps a little humility, but even you can’t deny your importance to our success”

Washington gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching as if trying to form a smile, though the expression was fleeting. He wasn’t sure how to reconcile the image of the man on the screen with the man. As the show continued, he remained still, watching, and for the first time in a long while, Washington allowed himself to feel something other than the weight of responsibility. He allowed himself to simply be part of something greater—his legacy unfolding in ways he could never have predicted. And though it made him squirm, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of pride. 

[BURR]

Ladies and gentlemen!

[ENSEMBLE]

Here comes the General!

[BURR]

The moment you’ve been waiting for!

[ENSEMBLE]

Here comes the General!

[BURR]

The pride of Mount Vernon!

[ENSEMBLE]

Here comes the General!

[BURR]

George Washington!

The room erupted in cheers as Washington’s counterpart appeared on the screen, their arrival met with a mix of excitement and anticipation. Mulligan let out a triumphant whoop, Lafayette clapped enthusiastically, and even Alexander’s eyes brightened with a knowing grin.

[WASHINGTON]

We are outgunned

Outmanned

Outnumbered

Outplanned

“Is it…” Eliza’s voice trailed off, her words seemingly lost in the heaviness of the moment as she searched for the right way to phrase her concern. She glanced back and forth between Alexander and John, the unease in her eyes growing as she struggled to find the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on her heart. "Is the situation really that bad?" Her gaze flicked nervously between them, hoping for some reassurance, but the two men exchanged a look—quiet, heavy, full of meaning—that Eliza couldn’t decipher. It was a look that seemed to speak volumes, a silent conversation unfolding before her eyes, yet it only left her more uncertain.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Eliza’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Alexander’s face harden ever so slightly, his mind clearly working through the gravity of the situation. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of unspoken tension, Alexander turned to her, his expression softening. “It is, my love,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of truth that made her heart ache. "The situation is... not great."

He paused, taking a moment to steady himself before continuing. Eliza’s eyes remained locked on him, the fear in her chest growing as she braced for whatever came next. "But we are doing everything we can. Lafayette has requested aid from France." He spoke the words with determination, but there was an underlying fatigue to his tone—an exhaustion that she had begun to recognize over the past few months, though he always tried to shield her from the worst of it.

John finally spoke up, his voice steady yet full of quiet concern. "We’re not alone in this fight," he added, offering Eliza a reassuring smile. "But there’s no denying how dire things have become."

Eliza nodded slowly, trying to absorb the weight of their words, the realization that they were on the brink of something far more dangerous than she had ever imagined. Her heart clenched at the thought of the men she loved risking everything for this cause, and yet, in the depths of her worry, there was also a quiet respect for their unwavering commitment.

We gotta make an all out stand

Ayo, I’m gonna need a right-hand man.

Alexander shifted his gaze toward the General, and in that moment, their eyes met—two men bound by the weight of history. Washington’s intense, calculating stare softened just slightly as he regarded the younger officer. Alexander’s chest tightened with the quiet understanding that had always lingered between them, an unspoken bond formed through their shared devotion to the cause. There was no need for further words from Washington, for Alexander could already feel the gravity of what was being implied.

"Me," Alexander said at last, his voice firm, infused with a quiet yet undeniable confidence. His words carried a weight far beyond their simplicity, as if he were stepping into the role that had long awaited him. His smile, though brief, spread across his face, lighting up his violet-blue eyes with a sparkle of determination. It was the kind of smile that hinted at the fire that burned inside him, the same fire that had driven him forward through every battle, every decision, every sacrifice. He was ready. He always had been. But this moment—this acknowledgment from Washington—made it all the more real.

Washington, still watching him with a gaze that seemed to carry both pride and caution, gave a slow, deliberate nod. His expression was a mix of both admiration and responsibility, the weight of leadership never far from his mind. "Yes," he replied, his voice steady and filled with the quiet authority that only someone of his stature could command. "You. Hence why I need you alive."

His words, though simple, resonated deeply within Alexander. They weren't just a statement about the war, about strategy—they were about purpose, about legacy. Washington's reminder was clear: Alexander was not merely another soldier, but an integral part of something much larger, a man whose survival meant the continuation of their fight and the possibility of a new future. Washington's concern for his well-being was not just paternal; it was deeply rooted in the understanding that the future of the nation they were fighting for hinged on their ability to keep the most important pieces alive.

Alexander, sat taller now, absorbed the gravity of Washington’s words. There was no arrogance in his posture, only the quiet acknowledgment of the importance of what he was being asked to do. "I won’t fail," he replied, his voice unwavering. In that moment, there was no doubt in his mind. Washington had placed a heavy trust in him, and he would not let it slip.

[ENSEMBLE]

What?

What?

Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck!

Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck!

“What does that mean?” Phillip asked, his voice laced with confusion as he furrowed his brow, trying to understand the words that had just been spoken. His face mirrored the perplexity in his tone, his young eyes flicking between his father and the unfamiliar scene unfolding before him. Though the man standing before him was a much younger version of the father he admired, there was a familiarity in the way he looked up at him—like he was seeking guidance, even in this strange new world.

“Pops?” he asked softly, as if the question itself felt almost too heavy to ask. Alexander’s gaze shifted toward his son, the weight of his own thoughts apparent in the fleeting moment of silence. He was still adjusting to this strange reality, still trying to grasp the depth of what it meant to be here, in the past, with his son not yet born. His hand instinctively migrated to Eliza’s stomach, feeling the quiet life that was growing within her—his son, the same child who was now standing before him, just a different version of him, one not yet born in the timeline he had left behind. It was a bittersweet sensation, a moment that tugged at his heart with both joy and sorrow.

“I do not know, Pip,” Alexander finally answered, his voice soft but tinged with the uncertainty he still felt. “I would assume it’s some sort of slang from the future.” His words were more for himself than for Phillip, a way to make sense of what they were hearing, but still, there was no real clarity.

Just as the confusion seemed to settle heavily in the air between them, a voice—a calm, almost knowing voice—cut through the uncertainty. “You are correct, Alexander,” it replied, its tone both reassuring and informative. “It is a form of future writing known as Onomatopoeia, where sounds are described using words. In this case, gunshots.”

[WASHINGTON]

Check it—

Can I be real a second?

For just a millisecond?

Let down my guard and tell the people how I feel a second?

The General shook his head slowly, his expression hardening as he spoke, his voice carrying an unshakable resolve. “No, I cannot show the soldiers I lead—or any of our enemies—a weakness.” His words were deliberate, each one sharp, as if to fortify the conviction that had long been a cornerstone of his leadership. The weight of responsibility hung heavily on his shoulders, and in that moment, his stance was as rigid as his resolve. “I must stay strong, no matter the situation.”

His voice was firm, unwavering, yet there was an underlying tension that no one could ignore. The General’s gaze remained fixed on the ground, refusing to meet anyone else's in the room. It was a subtle gesture, but one that betrayed the burden of his words. His eyes, though focused, were distant, haunted by thoughts that no one would speak aloud—thoughts of the countless lives that hung in the balance under his command, and the pressure of always having to be the rock, the unshakable force others could lean on. In his silence, the weight of leadership was palpable, a weight that few could truly understand.

Now I’m the model of a modern major general

The venerated Virginian veteran whose men are all

Lining up, to put me up on a pedestal

Writin’ letters to relatives

Embellishin’ my elegance and eloquence

But the elephant is in the room

The truth is in ya face when ya hear the British cannons go…

[ENSEMBLE]

Boom!

Everyone in the room who had fought in the war jolted at the sudden, sharp noise, their bodies tensing instinctively, their expressions flashing with a mix of shock and remembered fear. The sound seemed to dredge up painful memories, and in that split second, they were all transported back to the battlefield, where every sound could be the difference between life and death. The others, those who hadn’t experienced the horrors of war, looked at them with confusion and concern, unsure of what had just happened but instinctively aware that something deep had been triggered.

Eliza, ever the protector, moved quickly, her movements smooth and practiced. She wrapped one arm tightly around Alexander’s broad shoulders, pulling him close to her, steadying him as his body still trembled from the impact of the noise. His eyes were wide, lost for a moment in the memories of combat, but her steady presence grounded him. With her other hand, she reached for John’s, her fingers wrapping around his with a quiet strength, the pressure a silent reassurance. His grip tightened slightly, and though he didn’t speak, the touch alone seemed to say everything—he wasn’t alone in this, not now, not ever.

[WASHINGTON]

Any hope of success is fleeting

How can I keep leading when the people I’m

Leading keep retreating?

Washington shook his head slowly, his expression clouded with exhaustion, the shock of the cannon’s blast still lingering in his chest. The reverberation of the sound had left him slightly shaken, his hands tightening around his coat as he sat, his mind racing through the fleeting memories of the battlefield. The enormity of it all—the bloodshed, the sacrifice—felt heavier than ever. "These men," he said quietly, his voice rough but steady, “I will be forever thankful they signed up to offer their lives for our country, but it does not make it easier when just as many decide it is too much... and leave.” His words hung in the air like a weight, a quiet sorrow settling over him. There was a sense of disappointment in his tone, but also an odd acceptance, as though he had long since come to terms with the harsh realities of war. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen soldiers fall away, but it never got easier. Even the most resolute were only human.

The silence that followed felt thick, but Lafayette, ever the optimist, broke it with a calm confidence that contrasted Washington’s somber mood. “These men are brave, but not as brave as you, General,” Lafayette said, his voice carrying the weight of admiration. He took a leant forward, his eyes meeting Washington’s, conveying a deep respect. “I believe it is for the better that those who have left, and those who will leave, do so when we are not engaged in a battle that will decide the war.” His words were matter-of-fact, the young Frenchman’s tone unshaken, a stark contrast to the weariness that hung in Washington’s voice. Lafayette had never been one to doubt the outcome of their cause, and his belief in victory was unwavering.

The General glanced at him, his sharp eyes softening for a moment. There was truth in Lafayette’s words. Washington had seen it time and time again—those who weren’t prepared for the long haul, the men who faltered when faced with the true cost of war. But there was a greater strength in those who stayed, who stood shoulder to shoulder through every hardship. Lafayette’s belief in the reinforcements from his home country, the promise of fresh troops and supplies, was a glimmer of hope in the face of mounting pressure. The French aid, the hope of victory, was something to hold on to.

“We will win this war,” Lafayette said firmly, as though his words were a pact, a promise that couldn’t be broken. The certainty in his voice was contagious, and for the first time in a while, Washington allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope.

We put a stop to the bleeding as the British take Brooklyn

Knight takes rook, but look

[WASHINGTON]

We are outgunned

Outmanned

Outnumbered

Outplanned

We gotta make an all out stand

Ayo, I’m gonna need a right-hand man

Incoming!

[ENSEMBLE]

What?

What?

Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck!

Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck!

[HAMILTON]

They’re battering down the Battery check the damages

[MULLIGAN]

Rah!

[HAMILTON]

We gotta stop ‘em and rob ‘em of their advantages

[MULLIGAN]

Rah!

[HAMILTON]

Let’s take a stand with the stamina God has granted us

Hamilton won’t abandon ship

Yo, let’s steal their cannons—

A disbelieving gasp rippled through the room, the sound echoing off the walls, emanating from those who had no prior knowledge of the event. A mix of astonishment and skepticism painted every face as the weight of what they had just heard sank in. It was as though the air itself had thickened with disbelief, and for a moment, time itself seemed to freeze. Eliza, who had been steadying Alexander only moments before, looked at him with wide, searching eyes, her face a portrait of concern.

“Alexander,” she said, her voice sharp and filled with a blend of disbelief and worry, “did you really steal British cannons?!” Her words cut through the room, drawing even more attention to him. There was a clear edge to her tone, one that seemed to be fighting with the urge to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all while still grappling with her genuine concern. She had always known Alexander to be daring, but this… this was something else entirely.

Jefferson and Madison both turned toward him as well, their eyes narrowing in curiosity, the weight of the question hanging over them. They hadn’t been privy to this part of Alexander’s past, and it was clear their minds were working to make sense of it. Alexander, for his part, seemed to shrink slightly under their gazes, his usual bravado faltering as if he were suddenly aware of how ludicrous the story might sound to others.

It was Phillip who broke the tension, his voice light and filled with admiration despite the surprise. “Pops,” he said, the word filled with affection, “did you really do something that brave?” His words were full of pride, as if hearing such a story only made him admire his father more.

Alexander nodded, just slightly, the faintest hint of a sheepish grin crossing his face. “Yes,” he said with a breathless chuckle, “I may have done something like that…” His admission, though quiet, was filled with a strange kind of acceptance, as though he’d long since come to terms with the reckless bravery that had defined much of his life.

Before anyone could process the weight of his words, Hercules, who had been sitting nearby, erupted into a hearty laugh. His booming voice filled the room, drawing attention to him as he leaned forward, clearly amused by the memory. “I remember you rushing in to make sure we got all them cannons, Alexander!” Hercules said, his laughter only growing as he spoke. “The other men thought you were suicidal for that mission!” His voice rang with a mixture of awe and humor, and the way he told it made it sound more like a wild adventure than a moment of danger.

Alexander's face flushed slightly, but he couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips as he looked at the others, grateful for Hercules’ perspective. They had always made light of their most dangerous exploits, but deep down, Alexander knew that the mission had been nothing short of madness. It had been a gamble—a desperate, reckless decision—but one that had paid off, nonetheless.

[MULLIGAN]

Shh-boom! [COMPANY]

Boom!

[WASHINGTON]

Goes the cannon, watch the blood and the shit spray and…

[COMPANY]

Boom!

[WASHINGTON]

Goes the cannon, we’re abandonin’ Kips Bay and…

[COMPANY]

Boom!

[WASHINGTON]

There’s another ship and…

[COMPANY]

Boom!

[WASHINGTON]

We just lost the southern tip and…

[COMPANY]

Boom!

Each deafening roar of the cannons seemed to tighten the air around them, sending ripples of tension through the room. The soldiers, once steadfast, grew more uneasy with every echo of the thunderous sound, their bodies instinctively reacting to the fear that had been hardwired into them through months of battle. Washington’s eyes flicked rapidly from one corner of the room to the next, his gaze never lingering for long, as if he were searching for any threat—any hidden danger that might be waiting in the shadows. His posture was rigid, though there was a sharp alertness about him, as if every sound could be the precursor to something far worse.

Burr, sitting nearby, was just as on edge. His face was taut, a sharp line of concentration etched into his features, his body jerking imperceptibly with each loud blast. He was ever watchful, the tension of command and his own unspoken anxieties blending into a quiet storm beneath his stoic expression.

John, was visibly affected. His face drained of color, his normally composed demeanor shattered as his knee jerked up and down uncontrollably, betraying the anxious energy that rushed through him like an electric current. His breaths came fast, shallow, a telltale sign of the panic rising within him. Alexander, on the other hand, was still as a statue. He sat rigidly, his back straight, his posture betraying no hint of weakness, but his eyes—wide and unfocused—seemed to stare at nothing. It was as though his mind had been swept away in the tide of past horrors, a flood of memories and experiences that had shaped him far too quickly for a man of his years. His thoughts seemed lost, his body present, but his mind adrift in the sea of events that had defined him since the very beginning of the war.

Eliza's gaze darted from one man to the other, panic rising in her chest as she noticed their rapid breathing. Her instincts to comfort them flared, and she instinctively moved to place a hand on Alexander’s shoulder, but before she could, a soft yet firm voice interrupted her.

“No, Mrs. Hamilton.” Washington’s words cut through the tension, his tone still clipped but laced with understanding. “I know you wish to comfort Alexander, but I would not recommend it.”

His eyes flicked over the room once more, a calculated wariness still present in them, but there was a hint of clarity now, as if he could see the struggle within his two young aides with some semblance of understanding.

“I—call me Eliza,” she said quickly, her voice filled with quiet desperation. “Please, General, what can I do for them?” Her concern was palpable, heavy in the air as she pleaded for any way to help.

Washington gave her a small, sad smile, his demeanor softening just for a moment. “Of course, Eliza,” he said, his voice kinder now. “But I insist you drop the ‘General’ and call me George in return.” His eyes met hers briefly before he looked over at the others, ensuring everyone understood the gravity of what was happening. “I can try to get them to a place where your comfort will be of use, but you must not interrupt me,” he continued, his voice taking on a command that brooked no argument. He paused, meeting her eyes once more, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. “Any of you,” he added, turning to the others in the room.

There was a solemn nod of understanding from everyone present. Lafayette, though clearly shaken by the scene unfolding, appeared less affected than John or Alexander. He stood tall, his usual calm demeanor still intact, though there was an edge of unease in his gaze.

Washington took a slow, steadying breath, his chest rising and falling as he centered himself. Then, with a deliberate shift in posture, he stepped fully into his role as Commander in Chief. The softness that had previously colored his words evaporated, replaced by the authoritative tone of a leader who had weathered countless storms. “Men, at attention!” His command rang out with military precision, and without hesitation, every soldier snapped upright, their spines straight, their faces set in the practiced rigidity of soldiers at command.

But Washington’s eyes remained fixed on the two younger men. His gaze lingered on them as they wobbled slightly, struggling to maintain their composure. Their breaths were too fast, too shallow—an unmistakable sign of their inner turmoil. Their bodies were taut with anxiety, their minds lost in the memories of battles past.

“Alexander, John, look at me,” Washington commanded, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the chaos of their racing thoughts. Slowly, both men lifted their eyes from the floor, meeting the General’s gaze. The intensity of Washington's stare seemed to anchor them, and for a brief moment, they looked to him as though he were their only tether to the present.

“Breathe, men,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding. “You are safe. There are no redcoats. You are safe. We are all safe.” The General’s words were like a balm to their frayed nerves. Slowly, as they focused on his commanding presence, their breathing began to slow, their bodies relaxing just enough to regain some semblance of control.

John, who had been struggling to stay upright, seemed to ease out of his rigid stance, his legs finally steadying beneath him. He exhaled deeply, the tension easing from his shoulders as he was quietly released. Washington nodded at him, signaling for him to take a seat. Eliza was there in an instant, her arms offering him comfort, the familiar touch of someone who cared.

But Alexander remained unmoved. Though his breathing had steadied, his face was still a canvas of haunted memories, eyes wide and distant. The horrors he had witnessed—the battles, the losses, the cost of war—were still etched into him, and for a moment, he seemed untouchable, unreachable. His body may have been present, but his soul was still somewhere far away.

Washington’s gaze softened as he watched the young man, he did not know all of Alexander's history but he did know it was far more than any man should have to bear. Alexander had carried a heavy burden for someone so young, and Washington knew that the scars were not always visible to the eye. But for now, he could only do so much. As long as the young aide was alive and breathing, there was still hope for him to heal—just as there was still hope for all of them.

The General gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to Eliza, a silent signal that she could now act. Understanding, she gently guided Alexander back toward the chair, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her touch grounding him in the moment. She carefully helped him lower himself to sit between John and herself, her movements steady, as though providing an anchor in the storm of his mind.

As Alexander settled, his body still rigid, his eyes slowly starting to focus on the present, Eliza’s presence beside him seemed to offer him the comfort he desperately needed. John, though shaken, turned to him with a soft, reassuring smile, his hand subtly finding Alexander’s. It was a quiet gesture, but the connection between the two men was palpable—unspoken, yet understood. The soothing comfort of their companionship seemed to slowly work its magic, and Alexander’s breath, though still uneven, began to steady further.

Eliza, ever watchful, kept her hand on his shoulder, her gaze filled with a quiet concern, but also a strength that he could draw from. Her calm, steady presence was a balm to the storm that still raged within him. As the minutes passed, Alexander's wide-eyed, haunted stare began to soften, his mind slowly coming back to the room, to the people around him who cared. Despite the turmoil he still carried with him, the comforting touch of those he trusted began to pull him back from the edge, if only just for a moment.

[WASHINGTON]

We gotta run to Harlem quick, we can’t afford another slip

Guns and horses giddyup

I decide to divvy up

My forces, they’re skittish as the British cut the city up

This close to giving up, facing mad scrutiny

I scream in the face of this mass mutiny:

Are these the men with which I am to defend America?

We ride at midnight, Manhattan in the distance

I cannot be everywhere at once, people

I’m in dire need of assistance…

[BURR]

Your excellency, sir!

Burr let out a low groan of annoyance, his eyes squeezing shut as the inevitable realization dawned on him. His hand rose to his forehead in a gesture of exasperation, as if bracing himself against a wave of frustration that was already crashing over him. He could feel the tension building in the room, the weight of what was about to be revealed pressing down on him. His mind flashed back to the events in question—events that he would much rather leave buried in the past, forgotten in the haze of war and strategy. But, of course, there was no escaping it now.

“Oh, please, do not do this,” Burr muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a mixture of resignation and genuine annoyance. He knew all too well what was coming—what always came when certain details were bound to surface. The sigh that escaped him was heavy with the kind of exhale reserved for someone who had long since accepted their fate, though it was clear he wasn’t happy about it. His face, usually so composed and calculating, now bore the unmistakable marks of someone who had already anticipated this very moment and had no patience left to fight it.

But there was nothing to be done now. He had always known it would come to this. Burr only hoped, as he opened his eyes once more, that this time would be different—that, perhaps, he would find a way to endure it with a bit more grace.

[WASHINGTON]

Who are you?

“General Washington, you appear to be rather annoyed at Burr?” Angelica's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, her tone sharp and inquisitive, though there was an underlying hint of amusement. She had a way of turning a moment of tension into a pointed observation, and today was no different. Her eyes briefly flicked toward Burr, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. The earlier revelation of the incident had clearly not been forgotten by her, and Angelica’s sharp wit was never far behind when it came to matters of pride and reputation—especially when it involved her brother-in-law.

Washington, caught off guard by the directness of Angelica’s remark, briefly looked toward Burr. His brow furrowed slightly, but the sharpness in his gaze softened as he took a slow, deliberate breath. He realized, in that instant, that his  response to Burr had been more a product of his own strain than any real grievance. His lips parted, but it was clear he was already processing what had happened.

“I was under stress,” Washington said, his voice softer than before, his words carrying a touch of humility. His eyes met Burr's, and though his tone remained authoritative, there was a quiet sincerity in his apology. “I apologize, Burr. You did not deserve to be spoken to in that manner.”

There was a brief pause, the weight of Washington’s admission hanging in the air. For a moment, Burr’s usual guarded demeanor slipped just slightly, and he nodded, acknowledging the General’s apology without fanfare. His face remained composed, as it always did, but his eyes held a flicker of understanding, and perhaps even a hint of relief. They both knew that the pressure of command could cloud judgment, but this moment of recognition—this quiet exchange—seemed to clear the air between them, if only for a brief moment.

Burr's nod was subtle, his response measured and controlled as always, but the unspoken acknowledgment of Washington's words was clear. "Thank you, General," he said simply, the two men locking eyes for a brief moment before both returned their focus to the room, the awkward tension now fading into the background.

[BURR]

Aaron Burr, Sir?

Permission to state my case?

[WASHINGTON]

As you were

[BURR]

Sir

I was a captain under General Montgomery

Until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec

And well, in summary

I think that I could be of some assistance

I admire how you keep firing on the British

From a distance

[WASHINGTON]

Huh

Burr frowned, his gaze fixed on the screen, though he could hardly focus on the words before him. The earlier exchange with Washington still weighed heavily on him, leaving a bitter sense of wrongness in his chest. He had gone there with a genuine admiration for the General's military strategies, hoping it would earn him at least a moment's attention—perhaps even a chance to be heard. Instead, his words seemed to vanish into thin air, met with clear disinterest, as though his presence was little more than an inconvenience. The sting of dismissal lingered, despite Washington’s efforts to fix his wrong.

[BURR]

I have some questions, a couple of suggestions on how to fight instead of fleeing west

[WASHINGTON]

Yes?

[BURR]

Well—

[HAMILTON]

Your excellency, you wanted to see me?

[WASHINGTON]

Hamilton, come in, have you met Burr?

[HAMILTON]

Yes, sir

[HAMILTON AND BURR]

We keep meeting

Jefferson let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh, the sound grating against the silence that had settled in the room. “You do not seem happy about Hamilton’s untimely appearance, Burr,” he remarked, his tone dripping with amusement as he watched Burr’s expression shift.

Burr turned his gaze to the screen, the flickering images before him doing little to distract him from the frustration that had been building since the moment Hamilton had arrived. With a slight, almost imperceptible sigh, he finally met Jefferson’s eyes. “I was not,” Burr replied, his voice tinged with the weight of years of rivalry. “He always appeared just as I was in a position to improve my station—or at least my reputation. As if he had a knack for timing his interference to derail any chance I had.” He didn’t bother to hide the bitterness that laced his words, the years of being overshadowed by Hamilton still fresh in his mind.

Alexander Hamilton, who had been quiet until now, furrowed his brow. For once, he chose not to respond with a sharp retort. He remained silent, allowing the words to linger in the room without offering any defense. It was a rare moment for him, a moment where he held his tongue, as if he were at a loss for the usual quick-witted comeback.

In the midst of this rare silence, a soft, unexpected sensation broke through the tension. Alexander flinched slightly, startled by the feeling of a kiss pressed to the side of his head—gentle, fleeting, but enough to shake him from his thoughts. His body stilled for a brief moment, and he glanced at John who just met his gaze with a soft smile on his face.

[BURR]

As I was saying, sir, I look forward to seeing your strategy play out

[WASHINGTON]

Burr?

[BURR]

Sir?

[WASHINGTON]

Close the door on your way out

[HAMILTON]

Have I done something wrong, sir?

The men in the room, those who Alexander called his closest friends and comrades, couldn’t help but burst into laughter. The tension that had hung in the air a moment before seemed to evaporate, replaced by the easy camaraderie that came with years of shared experiences—both on the battlefield and off. They had all grown to understand one another in ways few others could. Their friendship, built on moments of hardship and triumph alike, allowed for this kind of lighthearted teasing without fear of offense.

“I would not be surprised, Alexander!” Lafayette’s voice rang out, rich with the unmistakable twang of his French accent, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he shot a playful glance at the younger man. “Your tommish ways do cause many a problem, oui?” The way Lafayette said it, with a slight smirk, carried the weight of inside jokes and stories of Alexander’s sometimes reckless behavior. The laughter that followed was infectious, the men all leaning in, adding their own brand of humor to the banter.

Mulligan, ever loyal and always ready for a playful jab, quickly joined in, his deep voice adding to the chorus of teasing. “Yes! I dare say, it’s a good thing you have us around to keep you out of more trouble!” he added, giving Alexander an exaggerated look of mock concern. The playful ribbing made it clear they had all seen Alexander’s impulsive tendencies before, and it was a part of him they had come to expect and even admire, despite the chaos it often brought.

John, who had been quietly observing, finally broke in with a smile that softened the sharpness of his words. He nudged Alexander’s ribs gently with his elbow, a familiar gesture of camaraderie, and said, “The fact that you instantly assume you have done something to invoke the General’s attention tells you all you need to know, Alex.” His voice held an edge of fond exasperation, as if he were both teasing and gently reminding Alexander of his constant self-inflicted turmoil. John’s words were delivered with a smile, but the affection they held was unmistakable. Alexander’s tendency to throw himself headlong into situations, to always assume he was the center of attention, was something his friends had come to recognize as both endearing and a bit exasperating.

For a brief moment, Alexander’s expression faltered, his lips curving downward in a slight frown. But it didn’t take long before his eyes sparked with mirth, a flash of humor dancing behind them as he realized, once again, that his friends knew him too well. Their teasing, though pointed, was a comfort—a sign that, despite the high stakes of their world, there was still room for levity and affection among the chaos. The frown faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a grin that lit up his face, his usual sharp edges softened by the warmth of his friends' familiarity.

"Alright, alright," he said, shaking his head in mock exasperation, though his grin only widened. "I suppose I do have a habit of making things... complicated." His tone was light, self-aware, and just a touch sheepish, though the laughter that followed showed he didn’t mind the jabs one bit.

The room, filled with the laughter of the men who had become his brothers in arms, seemed to shift in tone—moving from the gravity of military strategy and the looming threat of war to something more human, more real. These moments, fleeting as they were, were what Alexander cherished most: the ease of being surrounded by people who, despite their teasing, would always have his back when it truly mattered.

[WASHINGTON]

On the contrary

I called you here because our odds are beyond scary

Your reputation precedes you, but I have to laugh

[HAMILTON]

Sir?

[WASHINGTON]

Hamilton, how come no one can get you on their staff?

[HAMILTON]

Sir!

“Sir!” Alexander burst out, his voice sharp and full of indignation, mirroring the outrage of his onstage counterpart as he listened to Washington's words. The unexpected tone of the General’s praise felt almost mocking to him, like an acknowledgment given only to remind him of his place, and Alexander couldn’t contain the rising tide of frustration in his chest. He had worked tirelessly, climbed the ranks with every ounce of ambition he possessed, only to find himself confined to the staff—never out there in the midst of the battle, where glory was earned and reputations made.

Lafayette, ever the perceptive friend, raised an eyebrow and leaned toward him with a playful smirk, his accent thick and endearing. “Alexander, the General is complimenting you, mon petit lion. Why do you sound so offended at his words?” His tone was light, but the genuine curiosity beneath it only deepened Alexander’s irritation.

Alexander grumbled in response, his eyes narrowing as he tried to suppress the frustration that had been building inside him. He let out a huff, his gaze still fixed ahead but his words cutting through the tension. “Because being on a General’s staff means you’re not in the field!” His voice grew quieter, tinged with a bitterness that betrayed his longing to be out there, leading troops, facing danger, making a name for himself—not stuck behind the desk, making strategic decisions that others would execute.

He couldn’t help but feel the sting of being sidelined, the ache of wanting more, to be seen as more than just an assistant. The battlefield was where men were made, where legends were written. But here he was, destined to serve the Generals, to advise, to support—but never to stand in the thick of it. His ambition burned fiercely within him, but the walls of bureaucracy and rank kept him tethered, always watching but never fully in control of his own fate.

[WASHINGTON]

Don’t get me wrong, you’re a young man, of great renown

I know you stole British cannons when we were still downtown

“General! How did you know about that?!” Alexander asked, his voice betraying a hint of fear that lingered beneath his usual confident tone. He tried to mask it, but the unease he felt was unmistakable. The General, standing tall with his usual stoic demeanor, turned to face him with knowing eyes. “I hear everything that happens in these fights, Alexander,” he replied, his voice calm and assured. “Did you really believe I would not hear word of the brave actions you led that day?”

Alexander, momentarily stunned by the recognition, felt his cheeks warm as a light blush dusted his face. His usual self-assuredness faltered in the face of such unexpected praise. He hadn’t anticipated that his efforts would reach the General’s ears, let alone be acknowledged with such gravitas. The words were complimentary, but they carried weight, and it was not just the praise itself that left him flustered—it was the respect behind it, the understanding that his actions had not gone unnoticed. Alexander shifted uncomfortably but managed to hold the General’s gaze, unsure of how to respond. The moment felt like one of those rare instances where the balance of power between them seemed less clear, and Alexander wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate it. 

“It was at that point I decided I needed to meet with you," the General began, his voice thoughtful as he glanced at Alexander. "I had originally planned on giving you a command of an artillery unit, but…” The General trailed off, his mind briefly drifting as he searched for the right way to explain himself. He wasn’t used to sharing the intricacies of his decisions, particularly not with someone as young as Alexander, yet there was an undeniable gravity to this conversation. Finally, after a moment of deep reflection, the General spoke again, his voice slower, more deliberate. "But I had to reconsider."

Before he could elaborate further, Alexander’s impatience got the better of him. He interrupted with a tone that was equal parts frustration and confusion, “If you wanted to give me a command, why do you continuously refuse me one?!” His words cut through the air, as raw and direct as the question that had been eating at him for months. He could feel the heat of the question building in his chest—why had the General, a man he respected above all others, continuously overlooked him for a leadership role?

The General’s eyes, sharp as ever, met his with a piercing gaze. There was no anger in the stare, only a quiet intensity. He responded slowly, carefully. “Because I knew when I first met you that you were destined for far more than a military command." He paused, as if weighing the weight of his next words. "Your mind, Alexander, your writings—they are far more valuable to me and to the army than any command I could give you. A military leader can only lead through force, but a mind like yours… it can shape the future."

Alexander’s heart skipped a beat. The weight of those words hung in the air, heavy and profound. His instincts told him to argue, to push for the role he thought he deserved, but something in the General’s tone stopped him. Instead, he fell silent, his gaze dropping to the screen in front of him, eyes unfocused as his thoughts reeled. The recognition of his intellect, his potential beyond the battlefield, was both a burden and a blessing. He had long dreamed of rising through the ranks, of commanding men, of leading armies into battle. But here, before him, the General was telling him that his true value lay elsewhere.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the steady hum of the room around them. Alexander’s mind churned, grappling with the implications of the General’s words. His pride still stung, but beneath it was a growing sense of something else—an understanding that perhaps the General saw something in him that he had never fully acknowledged in himself. 

Nathaniel Green and Henry Knox wanted to hire you…

[HAMILTON]

To be their Secretary? I don’t think so

[WASHINGTON]

Why’re you upset?

[HAMILTON]

I’m not—

“Why are you lying to yourself, Alex?” Angelica’s voice was soft, gentle, but her words cut through the air with an honesty that was impossible to ignore. She could see it as clearly as day: the tightness in his shoulders, the flicker of frustration in his clenched jaw. “You’re clearly upset,” she continued, her tone warm with understanding, “Why try and hide it?”

Alexander’s gaze remained fixed on the screen in front of him, as though the image in front of him held the key to escaping this conversation. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at her. His eyes danced nervously from one part of the display to another, refusing to meet her searching gaze. Inside, his heart beat uncomfortably fast, the tension in his chest tightening like a knot that refused to unravel. The words she had spoken were true, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge them—not now, not with everything that had been said before, especially not after the General’s declaration. His mind raced, spiraling to the raw sting of the General’s words—words that had left him torn between pride and confusion. It felt as though his very identity had been questioned, as though his entire purpose in this war had been discovered to be something he wasn’t sure he recognized. How could he voice that? How could he explain to her the crushing weight of the truth that sat like a boulder on his chest?

His silence was the only response she received, and Angelica’s eyes softened in sympathy, understanding all too well the inner conflict he was battling. She had seen this side of him before—the stubborn refusal to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, to let anyone see the cracks in his armor.

Sensing his struggle, John stepped in, his presence steady and grounded. He placed a hand on the back of Alexander’s neck, squeezing it with a comforting pressure, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil that lingered just beneath the surface. “Like I said, I wanted a command,” Alexander muttered, his voice strained, carrying the weight of his internal battle. “I didn’t want to be a secretary. I wanted to be out there, fighting for our country’s freedom... creating a lasting legacy.” The words felt bitter as they left his mouth, a reflection of everything he had wanted—and everything he feared he would never have. There was a fire in him, a desire to do something heroic, something that would etch his name into history, something that would prove his worth. He longed to be at the front lines, to lead men in battle, to see the fruits of his actions in the world, rather than behind a desk, where everything felt too distant, too removed.

John’s hand remained on his neck, a grounding presence as the words hung in the air. It wasn’t just frustration that he was fighting; it was the deep, gnawing fear that perhaps he would never get the chance he so desperately desired. What was he if he couldn’t lead, if he couldn’t fight? And what did it mean if the General—the one person whose opinion truly mattered—didn’t see his worth in the way he had hoped?

Angelica watched him quietly, her gaze soft but unyielding. She knew the fire inside him, the same fire that burned in her own heart. But she also knew this moment—this crossroads he was standing at—was one he couldn’t avoid forever. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the truth was already out there, waiting for him to confront it.

[WASHINGTON]

It’s alright, you want to fight, you’ve got a hunger

I was just like you when I was younger

Head full of fantasies of dyin’ like a martyr?

[HAMILTON]

Yes

"No," Washington's voice rang out, firm and unyielding, cutting through the tense air. His piercing gaze shifted toward Alexander, intense and unwavering. "As I said, Alexander, you are not putting your life on the line any more than is absolutely necessary. You are far too valuable." He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as the weight of his words settled in. "You must understand, your sacrifice would not serve the cause—it would only harm it."

But before Washington could continue, Alexander, his brow furrowed with frustration, interrupted. "But why?! I am only a soldier! I can easily be replaced!" His voice shook with a mix of youthful zeal and desperation. "The only person in this army who cannot be replaced—the only one who truly needs to be protected—is you!" He clenched his fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his deep concern for Washington clouding his judgment.

Washington sat motionless for a long beat, his eyes never leaving Alexander’s. The silence between them grew, and the air thickened, heavy with unspoken emotions. The men around them shifted uneasily, their boots scraping against the carpeted floor as they felt the intensity of the moment. Then, Washington exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable, but his gaze still locked onto Alexander’s.

"When did you stop trusting my judgment, Alexander?" Washington's voice, though measured, held an unmistakable sharpness. The words sliced through the air, laced with a calm but dangerous authority. Alexander flinched, his heart skipping a beat at the sudden shift in Washington's tone. His breath hitched in his throat, and his mind raced, realizing the weight of his words had struck harder than he intended.

The young Caribbean officer’s eyes widened with panic as the room seemed to freeze. His hand involuntarily clenched , the tension palpable. The other soldiers, ever watchful, instinctively tensed as well.

"I… Sir, I—" Alexander stammered, his voice faltering for a moment as the sharpness of Washington’s words hit him harder than he had expected. The truth in them made his chest tighten. But before he could formulate a response, a gentle but firm hand settled on his knee. It was Eliza’s touch—a grounding presence. Her fingers squeezed softly, silently urging him to calm, to think before speaking again.

John sat beside them, visibly tensed, his fingers twitching as if ready to step in. But Eliza’s calm was enough to quell the impulse, and Alexander swallowed his pride, trying to gather himself. "I have always trusted your judgment, General!" His voice was still strong, but now, there was an edge of indignation—a defensive instinct stirring within him. He was determined to defend his loyalty, to ensure Washington knew it was not his judgment that Alexander doubted, but his own worth in the face of the general's.

Washington's voice cut through the air, heavy with frustration, but beneath the sharpness lay a deep sense of care. His eyes, unwavering, locked onto Alexander’s as though trying to pierce the young man’s stubborn defiance. "Then why, Alexander, do you not understand—or accept—that you are  important to this cause?" Washington’s tone softened for a moment, but the weight of his next words hit hard. "You are far too essential to allow you the command you so desperately want."

The pause that followed seemed to stretch on forever. Alexander was silent for a moment, his gaze unwavering yet clearly confused. His youthful passion, which had driven him to fight, to lead, and to prove himself, had only grown stronger with time. But in Washington’s eyes, Alexander could see something else—a concern that cut deeper than his desire for glory or recognition. 

Washington had seen many soldiers come and go, but none like Alexander. From the first time they had met, the young man’s fire had been apparent—his ambition, his courage, his drive to become more than just another officer in the Continental Army. But what Washington also saw in Alexander was a burning need to prove himself, one that often led him to take risks, to thrust himself into danger without fully considering the broader consequences. And it was that very recklessness that troubled him.

"Alexander," Washington’s voice softened, like a father trying to explain something he knew would be difficult to accept. "When I first saw you, I saw a young man with fire in his heart and the strength to carry this cause to victory. You had something I knew we needed, and I took you in as my aide because of it. But as this war drags on, I’ve seen something else in you. I’ve seen the recklessness, the urgency to prove yourself, to lead in ways that the war cannot afford."

His eyes darkened with a mixture of pride and concern. "You want to lead as though this is still just a war of soldiers. But this isn’t Alex, it is a war of strategy, Alexander, it’s about the long game. It's about the future we are fighting for, and I need you here, not in the front lines, where the cause is already well in motion. You are the one who will shape what comes next—once the war is won."

For a moment, Alexander felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. His desire to fight, to prove his worth, had always been an instinctual part of him. But now, in Washington’s gaze, he saw not just a commanding officer, but someone who saw him in a way that made his own heart ache—a father figure who believed in him not only as a soldier, but as something greater than that and it scared him.

Washington, sensing the shift, placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man of such towering authority. It was an unexpected gesture, but one that carried a profound weight. "Do you understand me now, Alex? I am not trying to keep you from what you want. I’m trying to keep you safe—from the danger you don’t fully see. You are the future. And that future will be lost if you throw yourself away in some reckless attempt to prove you’re a hero. The cause needs you alive, not as a martyr."

Alexander, usually so resolute, found himself momentarily at a loss for words. Washington’s words echoed in his mind, but something in them—the understanding, the quiet authority—spoke to him in a way that no reprimand ever had. He had always believed that his purpose was to fight to do everything he could in the name of this country he wanted to help create.”

The truth hit harder than Alexander had expected. Washington had seen him, not as just another officer, but as the future of the army, the future of the country they were fighting for. And for that future to happen, Alexander needed to be more than just a brave soldier. He needed to be a leader who understood the cost of that bravery, the value of staying alive for what would come after the war.

Washington’s eyes softened, the usual hardness in his expression giving way to something warmer, almost paternal. "I know you want to be in the thick of it. I know you want to fight with all your heart. And I know how hard it is to stand back and wait. But I also know this—if anything happens to you, it will hurt more than just your life. It will hurt this entire army, this entire cause. You are far too important."

Alexander felt his throat tighten. He had never heard Washington speak to him like this before—never in such a personal, vulnerable way. There was a depth of care in his voice, one that made Alexander feel not just like an officer, but like someone who had a responsibility far greater than he had ever realized.

"I’m not ready to lose you," Washington said softly, the weight of his words carrying far more than the context of battle ever could. He looked at Alexander not just as a soldier, but as someone he had come to care for deeply, almost as a son. "And the revolution will not succeed if we lose its most important officers before their time. You are the future, Alexander. And you must live to see that future unfold."

Alexander looked down at the ground, his heart heavy, but the tightness in his chest was no longer from anger or frustration—it was from understanding. For the first time, he could see the truth in Washington’s words. His role was not to fight blindly, but to lead with wisdom, to stay alive to shape the future they all dreamed of.

When he finally looked up again, his voice was quieter, but there was a new understanding there. "I—I understand, sir. I won't be reckless. I’ll fight for the cause, but... I’ll fight smarter."

Washington’s face softened just slightly, a rare glimpse of fatherly pride in his gaze. "That’s all I ask, Alexander. The future is worth far more than any battle won today.

[WASHINGTON]

Dying is easy, young man. Living is harder

[HAMILTON]

Why are you telling me this?

[WASHINGTON]

I’m being honest

I’m working with a third of what our Congress has promised

We are a powder keg about to explode

I need someone like you to lighten the load. So?

[COMPANY (EXCEPT HAMILTON)]

I am not throwin’ away my shot!

I am not throwin’ away my shot!

Ayo, I’m just like my country, I’m young

Scrappy and hungry!

[HAMILTON]

I am not throwing away my shot!

[WASHINGTON]

Son

Despite the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions racing through Alexander’s mind after Washington’s revelations, despite the gravity of the general’s words sinking in with the weight of deep understanding, there was one thing—one small but insistent thing—that Alexander could not seem to shake.

It was the term of endearment.

Washington had always referred to him in that way—soft, familiar, as if there were an intimacy in the relationship that Alexander wasn’t sure he could fully embrace. “Son.” The way Washington said it, with an easy warmth, was something that had always made Alexander uneasy. There had been times when he had swallowed the discomfort, had allowed the general’s affection to pass by without comment, but today, with the full force of Washington’s concern hanging in the air, that word felt like more than just an affectionate nickname. It felt like an intrusion into a space Alexander was still struggling to define for himself.

He wasn’t a child anymore. He wasn’t the eager young officer who had once looked up to Washington with reverence, the idealistic soldier full of fire and passion. Alexander Hamilton was no longer the fresh-faced recruit. He had earned his place by fighting through blood and sweat, by standing beside Washington, not as a follower, but as a leader. And yet, here was Washington—his commander, his mentor—still using that same, unshakable affection, as though he were nothing more than the boy who had walked into Washington’s camp years ago, wide-eyed and hungry for recognition.

As Washington spoke to him again, his voice laced with concern and care, Alexander felt the sharp sting of the term Son once more. The general’s gaze softened, but Alexander’s chest tightened. The thought crashed through his mind like an iron hammer: I am not your son.

The words exploded out of him before he had the chance to stop them. “I am not your son!” he managed to grind out, his voice strained, almost raw with frustration.

There was a sharp intake of breath as Washington’s face seemed to flash with a moment of pain, like a brief flicker of vulnerability that betrayed the careful control he always maintained. The look, so quick, so fleeting, almost escaped Alexander’s notice, but in the quiet of the moment, it hit him with a force that made his heart tighten.

For just a second, Washington's face betrayed something deeper than the fatherly affection Alexander had struggled with—the hurt of being misunderstood, perhaps, or the sting of his own emotions seeping through the walls he had so carefully built over the years. The general’s usual calmness faltered, and for that brief second, he looked older, more human, more vulnerable. As quickly as it appeared, though, the expression was gone, replaced by a hardening of his features, a return to his unyielding composure.

But Alexander had seen it. He had felt it. That brief flicker of pain, the subtle crumpling of the steady façade Washington always wore, had cut deeper than anything Alexander could have anticipated. It was a stark reminder that even Washington, the stalwart commander who had borne the weight of the revolution on his shoulders, was human—a man who cared, perhaps too deeply, for those he considered family. It was a side of the general Alexander hadn’t often seen, a glimpse into a vulnerability that made him pause.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air thick with unspoken words. Washington seemed to compose himself, straightening, though the brief flash of pain lingered between them like an unspoken understanding. Alexander’s frustration remained, but the words he had uttered hung in the air, heavier now. He had never meant to wound Washington. He had never meant to push him away, but in that moment, the term had become a reminder of everything he had worked to leave behind—the boy who was seen as just a lowly poor, bastard orphan from the islands.

Washington’s voice broke the silence, softer now, the hardness in his expression replaced by a tenderness that wasn’t quite fatherly, but almost paternal. “I never meant to make you feel less, Alexander,” he said quietly, his words carrying a weight that reached beyond just this moment. “I see you— all of you. Not just the soldier, not just the officer. But the man who has become something more. But you are still young, Alex... still figuring out who you are in this war, and in this world. And I care about you. That’s all.”

For a moment, Alexander sat frozen, the words settling over him like a heavy blanket. He wanted to respond—wanted to push back against the tenderness, against the discomfort of Washington’s affection—but instead, something within him softened. He had fought so long to prove himself, to be seen as his own man, to step out from the shadow of everyone who had ever tried to define him. And yet, despite his defiance, he realized that there was something in Washington’s care that he couldn’t dismiss so easily. It wasn’t about being a son, but about being seen—truly seen—for everything he had become.

The silence stretched on, long and heavy, before Alexander managed to speak again, though this time his voice was quieter, less sharp. “I understand, sir,” he said, the words feeling strange in his mouth. He didn’t fully understand everything about the general’s feelings, nor did he fully accept the way Washington viewed him, but there was something about the vulnerability he had glimpsed in Washington’s eyes that made him reconsider his anger.

[WASHINGON AND COMPANY]

We are outgunned, outmanned!

[HAMILTON]

You need all the help you can get

I have some friends. Laurens, Mulligan

Marquis de Lafayette, okay, what else?

Jefferson snorted, ignoring the glares that were sent towards him from James, “Wow Hamilton three friends! That is definitely going to change the course of the war!” Jefferson sneered, Alexander didn’t respond curling in on himself as to protect from the barbs Jefferson kept throwing at him.

Jefferson snorted, his lips curling into a smug smile as he shot a glance toward James, who was glaring at him from across the room. Ignoring the searing looks, Jefferson’s voice was laced with mockery. “Wow, Hamilton, three friends! That is definitely going to change the course of the war!” His words dripped with sarcasm, every syllable designed to cut deep. He reveled in the discomfort he saw in Alexander’s eyes, watching the man tense and curl in on himself, as though trying to shield himself from the verbal daggers Jefferson was throwing. Jefferson’s sneer only deepened, relishing the power he held in the moment.

Alexander didn’t answer, his jaw clenched, eyes avoiding Jefferson’s piercing gaze. The weight of the insults landed heavily, but Hamilton knew better than to engage with Jefferson when he was like this. He hunched his shoulders, a protective instinct kicking in, as if by closing himself off, he could shield his heart from the sting of the relentless words.

Just as Jefferson was about to launch into another round of barbs, a sharp voice cut through the tension. “At least Alexander did something for the cause!” Lafayette’s voice rang with conviction, his French accent thickening, the emotion and anger in his tone unmistakable. He was usually the calm one, the peacemaker, but today, the fire in his eyes matched the rage rolling beneath his words. “Even something as little as you think it is was more help than you provided!” Lafayette’s gaze hardened as it locked on Jefferson, as if trying to force the truth into his mind. “You never even left France!”

The room fell silent for a beat, the weight of Lafayette's words hanging in the air. It wasn’t just the words themselves but the underlying accusation that stung—Jefferson had been in France, far from the fight, while Hamilton, despite all his faults, had poured his energy and heart into the cause of the revolution. Lafayette’s voice, usually the soft hum of a supportive friend, now crackled with righteous indignation, and the silence that followed was thick with the understanding that this argument had touched a deeper nerve than any of them anticipated

[WASHINGTON AND COMPANY]

Outnumbered, outplanned!

[HAMILTON]

We’ll need some spies on the inside

Some King’s men who might let some things slide

[HAMILTON]

I’ll write to Congress and tell ‘em we need supplies, you rally the guys, master the element of surprise

I’ll rise above my station, organize your information, ‘til we rise to the occasion of our new nation. Sir!

[ENSEMBLE]

Here comes the General!

[HAMILTON]

Rise up!

[HAMILTON]

Rise up!

[ENSEMBLE]

Here comes the General!

[HAMILTON]

Rise up!

 [COMPANY]

Boom!

Chicka-boom!

[ENSEMBLE]

Here comes the General!

[SCHUYLER SISTERS]

Rise up!

[SCHUYLER SISTERS AND WOMEN]

Rise up! [ELIZA/ANGELICA/PEGGY]

Whoa, whoa, whoa...

Whoa, whoa, whoa...

[ELIZA/ANGELICA/PEGGY AND WOMEN]

Whoa, whoa, whoa…

[LAURENS/

LAFAYETTE/

MULLIGAN]

What?

[LAURENS/

LAFAYETTE/

MULLIGAN]

What?

[LAURENS/

LAFAYETTE/

MULLIGAN]

What?

[FULL COMPANY]

Here comes the General!

[HAMILTON]

What?

[WASHINGTON]

And his right hand man!

Washington looked over to Alexander, their eyes meeting despite the tension that had grown between them—tension borne of hard conversations, frustrations, and the inevitable clash of two strong-willed minds—Washington still saw that same unwavering admiration and fire in Alexander’s eyes. It was the same fire that had first drawn him to the young man and the kind of respect that felt almost reverent, though Washington could never fully understand why he deserved it.

His heart ached with the weight of it, knowing the deep-seated insecurities that plagued Alexander. He could see them in the young man’s eyes, the self-doubt that crept into his voice when he thought no one was listening. Washington had learned, over time, that Alexander wore his vulnerabilities like armor—sharp and brittle. Despite the bravado, there were moments when the layers of confidence peeled back, revealing a young man burdened by the weight of creating a name for himself and the ever present fear of failure.

Washington had always been a man of duty, driven by the needs of the nation and the demands of leadership. But in that moment, looking at Alexander, something stirred within him. He had promised himself that he would do whatever he could to help him—not just as a leader or a fellow soldier, but as a protector. He would be the steady hand Alexander needed, a father figure in a world that had offered him no such comfort.

They were in the midst of a war, a war that had torn through the very fabric of their lives, yet in the midst of this chaos, Washington found himself realizing something he hadn’t expected. Through the bloodshed and sacrifice, through the loss and heartbreak, he seemed to have gained something he never thought possible— a son. Alexander, in his relentless drive, in his moments of doubt, had become more than just a colleague or a soldier; he had become the son Washington had never known he could have.

The thought filled him with a quiet, protective tenderness—a sentiment Washington had not allowed himself to entertain in years. But in Alexander’s presence, that feeling was undeniable. He would stand beside him through the darkest of times, offering what support he could, knowing that no matter how hard it might get, this young man—this son—deserved every ounce of faith and loyalty he could give.

[FULL COMPANY]

Boom!

The soldiers jumped at the sudden, jarring noise that shattered the brief, fragile silence following the final notes of the song. Their reactions were immediate—wide eyes, tense muscles, and hands instinctively reaching for weapons, unsure of what was to come next. The sharp crack of sound was not anticipated, not after the haunting beauty of the music had filled the room. For a moment, the tension hung thick in the air, as if the very walls themselves had shuddered with the abruptness of it.

Alexander’s eyes, wide with surprise, flickered toward the source of the disturbance. His breath caught, and for the briefest of seconds, he appeared almost frozen, as though the noise had struck at something deeper, something beyond the surface. But before he could react further, both Eliza and John, ever the calm and steady figures at his side, placed gentle hands on his arms. Eliza's touch was soft, warm, a quiet reminder of the safety she provided, while John's presence beside him offered the steady strength of a true friend. Slowly, their comforting touches seemed to ground him, pulling him back from the edge of uncertainty. His breath slowed, and his tense posture softened as he absorbed the familiarity of their presence. The calm that radiated from them was like a balm to his frayed nerves.

The room was still for a few moments, a hushed silence settling over the group as everyone, soldiers and civilians alike, processed the unexpected shift in atmosphere. The images that had been projected onto the screen hung in the air like ghosts, vivid and unsettling, demanding their attention. Faces, places, and memories flickered before their eyes, leaving an impression that lingered far longer than anyone expected. A collective weight settled on the shoulders of those present, as they each absorbed what they had seen—whatever it was, whatever it meant, no one could quite tell, but it was there, in the unspoken tension that filled the room.

After a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, the voice came again, breaking the silence with an oddly calm and measured tone. “I am sorry for not giving prior warning,” it said, the words almost distant, as though spoken from somewhere far beyond the confines of the room. Despite the initial unease, there was no panic, no fear in the voice—just a strange, disembodied politeness. “If everyone is comfortable, we shall continue.”

The voice, still untraceable, hung in the air like a whisper, though no one seemed to be disturbed by its eerie nature. It was as if the presence itself had become somewhat expected, or at least accepted in this strange moment. There was no visible source, no identifiable speaker to be found, but the soldiers, perhaps too familiar with the unknown, took it in stride. The discomfort of the moment seemed to dissipate almost as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only the lingering uncertainty of what would come next.

Chapter Text

How does the bastard, orphan, son of a whore

Alexander let out a heavy sigh, his gaze flickering for a moment toward where Burr sat across the room, his posture more relaxed after the last song. But just as quickly, Alexander’s eyes fell back to his lap, his fingers nervously drumming against the fabric of his trousers. A sense of unease gnawed at him, a cold knot tightening in his chest. Did Burr—his first true friend, the man he had confided in when he first arrived in America—really think so little of him? The thought stung, a sharp pang of betrayal that echoed in his mind, growing louder with each passing second. He had tried so hard, fought so fiercely, to break free from the shadows of his past, to forge a new path, one that wasn’t weighed down by the mistakes and choices that had haunted him for so long. Yet now, it seemed as though all of that effort had been in vain. Despite everything he had done, despite the sleepless nights and countless decisions aimed at redemption, had it all been for nothing? Would he always be known as that bastard, the orphan from the islands? The weight of the label pressed down on him, as if the past he had tried so desperately to escape would forever define him, no matter how hard he fought against it. The thought swirled in his mind, threatening to pull him deeper into a spiral of doubt and self-loathing. He could feel the familiar sting of old wounds reopening, the echoes of past rejection and scorn creeping back into his thoughts.

He felt a gentle touch. Laurens’ hand found his,warm and steady, the grip firm but reassuring, as though silently telling him that he wasn’t alone in this. Then, Eliza’s hand wrapped around his, her touch delicate and soft, yet unwavering. She gave him a comforting squeeze, grounding him, pulling him back from the brink of his spiraling thoughts. The warmth of their hands was a lifeline, a reminder that, despite the shadows of his past, there were people in his life who saw him for who he truly was now—not the orphan, not the bastard, but the man he had become. The thought offered him a sliver of peace, a flicker of hope amidst the storm of his own self-doubt.

.

Go on and on

Grow into more of a phenomenon?

His head shot up in surprise, his eyes widening as the words hit him. “A phenomenon?” The phrase seemed to hang in the air, lingering like a whisper that didn’t quite belong. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to process what had just been said. For a moment, he found himself frozen, caught between disbelief and confusion. Was this a joke? Was Burr mocking him in some subtle way he couldn’t yet decipher? The words felt foreign, like something out of place, especially coming from Burr, of all people.

Watch this obnoxious, arrogant, loudmouth bother

Jefferson’s voice rang out from his seat at the back of the room, sharp and bitter, “First truth I have heard today!” His words were laced with venom, the kind of scornful certainty that hurt deeply. His gaze, cold and disdainful, locked onto Alexander with a mixture of contempt and superiority.

Alexander’s eyes narrowed immediately, his anger flaring at the audacity of Jefferson’s words. His gaze darted, as if searching for something — or someone — to lash out at in return. But before he could act on the impulse to challenge Jefferson’s cruel remark, a firm yet gentle hand squeezed his own. It was Laurens, sitting beside him, his touch an unspoken reminder to stay calm. "He’s not worth it," Laurens whispered under his breath, his voice soft but resolute. Laurens had always been the one to steady Alexander when the heat of his temper threatened to take over.

Alexander exhaled sharply, his chest rising with the effort to swallow his fury. He rolled his eyes, the frustration evident in the way his shoulders stiffened, but he held his tongue. "Back to the insults," he muttered under his breath, the bitterness clear in his words, as he glanced briefly at Burr, who was watching the exchange with his typical, quiet smugness. For once, Alexander chose not to engage in the petty power struggle, the back-and-forth of slights and barbs. He knew the cycle wouldn’t lead anywhere productive.

Laurens, ever the grounding presence, leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Alexander’s forehead. It was a simple gesture, yet the warmth and affection behind it were enough to make Alexander feel as if the weight of the insults in the room were slightly easier to bear. The kiss was a reminder that, despite the tension and the animosity swirling around them, he wasn’t alone in this fight — and that, in Laurens’ eyes, he was always worth more than the petty games others played.

Alexander allowed himself a small, rare smile at the gesture. For all the chaos and discord in the room, there was one person who always knew how to calm the storm within him.

Be seated at the right hand of the father

Washington hires Hamilton right on sight

But Hamilton still wants to fight, not write

Alexander puffed out an annoyed breath, his frustration evident in the way his chest rose and fell with each exhale. “Of course!” he snapped, his voice sharp, the words hanging in the air with a force that matched his emotions. “I signed up to fight. To lay down my life if it was required!” The declaration came out with a sense of finality, his eyes remaining fixed on the screen in front of him, a grim determination set on his face.

As the words left his lips, he could feel the tension in the room shift. Eliza's shoulders stiffened, and John, ever the quiet one, shifted his gaze to the floor, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. The atmosphere grew heavier, the silence pressing in on him. But Alexander’s focus never wavered. The burning stares he felt from all around him, like invisible daggers cutting through the air, didn’t register. To him, the decision had been made long ago. There was no turning back.

Now Hamilton’s skill with a quill is undeniable

But what do we have in common? 

We’re

 Reliable with the

[ALL MEN]

Ladies!

The young soldiers in the room seemed to cower at the intense glares they received from the three Schyler sisters, their eyes sharp and unwavering. A few hesitant laughs echoed awkwardly through the room, as if trying to break the palpable discomfort, but it was clear the soldiers weren’t sure how to react to the formidable glares of the sisters.

[BURR]

There are so many to deflower!

“And what is that supposed to infer, Burr?” Angelica asked, her voice sharp, slicing through the room like a blade. Her eyes locked onto him, daring him to answer, a challenge hidden beneath her poised exterior. It was clear she wasn’t merely asking for an explanation—she was daring him to try and humor her, to offer a defense that could satisfy her sharp intellect.

The man in question, Burr, looked utterly flustered, his composure crumbling in the face of her scrutiny. His expression twisted into one of confusion, as if he hadn’t expected the fierce response, and he resembled a deer caught in the headlights—frozen, wide-eyed, and scrambling for the right words. His mouth opened, then closed again, stumbling over his thoughts like a man caught off guard by an unexpected storm.

He attempted to regain his bearings, but his voice wavered as he tried to craft a defense, his words tangled in uncertainty. 

[ALL MEN]

Ladies!

[BURR]

Looks! Proximity to power

Eliza’s body tensed, her back straightening as she instinctively leant away from both Alexander and John, creating a visible distance between them. Her hands fidgeted slightly in her lap, betraying the internal turmoil she was trying so desperately to control. Her voice came out tight, each word carefully measured as if to keep the flood of emotion threatening to break free under tight restraint. “A lady’s proximity to power should not be a factor in who you pursue for courtship!” Her tone was sharp, the words cutting through the charged atmosphere with a biting clarity. There was a rawness in her voice—an echo of frustration, disappointment, and perhaps even a touch of betrayal. Her eyes flickered between the two men, but there was a certain coldness in them now, a protective armor she’d erected against the vulnerability she feared to show.

Alexander’s face tightened in response to her emotional distress. The lines around his eyes deepened, and for a moment, he looked as though the weight of her words had struck him like a physical blow. He knew he had hurt her, and the guilt gnawed at him. Without thinking, he stepped forward, his hands reaching for hers, his touch warm but tentative, as if unsure how she might react. “Betsy…” His voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of urgency, as though he was desperate to make her understand. He took her hands in his, his fingers curling around them in a silent plea for her to listen. “I promise you. Power was not the reason I wished to court you. I was entranced by you the moment my eyes laid upon you, long before I knew who you were, long before I understood the weight of your family’s influence.”

His words were heartfelt, his voice thick with sincerity as he looked deeply into her eyes. His gaze was pleading now, his expression a mixture of vulnerability and regret, as though he were laying his very soul bare for her to see. The tension in his shoulders eased, though only slightly, as he tried to convey the truth of his feelings without the crutch of power or status.

Eliza’s gaze softened for a moment, but the uncertainty in her eyes remained, her inner conflict still bubbling beneath the surface. She wanted to believe him—she did —but the reality of their world, where alliances and courtships were so often built on political gain, made it difficult for her to fully trust that power had played no part in Alexander’s attraction to her.

Just as the silence hung heavy between them, Angelica, who had been quietly watching the exchange with a careful, observant eye, finally spoke. Her voice, while calm, was tinged with a quiet resignation—an acceptance of the truth that she had long since come to terms with, even if her sister hadn’t. “You may be right, Eliza,” Angelica said, her words measured but carrying an undeniable weight. “But unfortunately, power is a factor when searching for a suitable match.” Her gaze shifted from Alexander to Eliza, as if offering her a quiet acknowledgment of the very predicament they both found themselves in. “Every man, whether they admit it or not, is looking to secure or improve their social status. Alexander was looking to you far before he were introduced to our standing. He had no idea we were Schylers until introducing himself and I to him… He certainly did not originally approach due to the power associated with us” Angelica’s voice softened at the end, There was an unmistakable air of weariness in her words, a deep understanding of the delicate balance they had to walk as women of high society, where emotions and ideals were often overshadowed by the practicalities of status and security.

For a long moment, the room was still, the tension between the three of them palpable. Eliza’s gaze shifted from Angelica back to Alexander, she smiled softly at him leaning in for a soft kiss and letting him guide her back to her seat between himself and John.

[ALL MEN]

Ladies!

[BURR]

They delighted and distracted him

Martha Washington named her feral tomcat after him!

“That's not true!” Alexander protested, his voice sharp as he leaped away from the pinch Eliza had playfully given him. His eyes widened in exaggerated indignation, though a slight blush betrayed his efforts to remain composed. The others, however, were far less concerned with his denial and more focused on their amusement. His friends just looked at him, their laughter filling the room, each one more than happy to tease him about his past.

Lafayette, ever the troublemaker, chuckled loudly, his thick French accent making his words sound even more playful. “You were definitely a tomcat, mon ami,” he teased, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. “Those nights in the taverns will never be forgotten!” He was leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest as he grinned at Alexander, clearly enjoying the moment of playful embarrassment. Lafayette’s voice was full of humor, yet there was a hint of nostalgia in it, as if he, too, remembered those wild days with a sense of fondness.

Alexander shot the Frenchman a glare, his hands on his hips, but even he couldn’t keep the smirk from creeping onto his face. He knew they were right, but he wasn't about to let them have the satisfaction of seeing him fully admit it. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably, trying to redirect the conversation, but his friends were relentless.

"Your reputation is still strong in King’s, Pops…" Phillip chimed in, his tone teasing but also warm, as he leaned forward from where he had seemed to hide away in the corner of the sofa. His shy smirk revealed a knowing look, one that Alexander recognized all too well—Phillip had heard the stories, and had been more than eager to join in on the fun. Despite his usually more reserved nature, Phillip seemed to not be above getting a good laugh at his father’s expense, and today was no different.

Alexander groaned playfully, his face scrunching up in mock exasperation as he leaned back into the armchair, rubbing his temples as if he could will the conversation to change. But as the laughter of his friends continued to ring in his ears, something Phillip had said caught his attention. He paused, his eyes widening in surprise. “You got into King’s as well?” he asked, his voice betraying both curiosity and a hint of pride. Alexander couldn’t help but see the resemblance between himself and the boy who would one day call him father, the same fiery spirit, the same glint in his eyes. The future son who was, in this very moment, still a dream—a heartbeat within Eliza’s womb.

Without thinking, Alexander's hand instinctively moved to rest gently against her stomach, the warmth of her skin and the life growing inside her grounding him. He smiled down at it, the weight of fatherhood and all its responsibilities, joys, and fears, suddenly making everything feel so real. The truth of it—the promise of it—was no longer a far-off thought.

“Yes, Pops,” Phillip answered, his voice light but his smile laced with a cheeky confidence. There was a twinkle in his eyes, a knowing challenge, as if he were in on a secret.

Alexander looked at him for a moment, his chest swelling with an unfamiliar pride. This boy—his boy—had more courage than he'd known at that age. He met his gaze with something akin to awe, a pride he could scarcely put into words, before his expression shifted into something more determined. A quiet, resolute strength filled him. He wasn’t just fighting for a future that hadn’t happened yet, but for the legacy that he was shaping—for the son who would one day make his own mark in the world.

The room seemed to quiet for just a beat, the weight of that realization settling between them. Alexander's smile softened, an unspoken promise lingering in the air. He was more determined than ever to win this war, not just for his country, but for the family he was fighting to protect.

[HAMILTON]

That’s true

“It is, son,” Washington spoke softly, his tone a gentle, fatherly reassurance. His words were simple, yet there was an undeniable warmth behind them, as if he could see through Alexander's surface discomfort and into the deeper, more vulnerable places he rarely let anyone see.

Alexander groaned under his breath bristling slightly at the endearment, a soft, amused blush quickly creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. His gaze flitted away for a moment, as if trying to escape the teasing but inevitable nature of the conversation. But the weight of Washington's voice, calm and steady, held him in place. The general, who had been a mentor and a guiding figure in his life, was not one to relent, and Alexander could feel the affection behind his words.

When Alexander looked up again, he was surprised to find Washington's eyes meeting his directly—eyes filled with an almost quiet amusement. He was not often one to speak in such a relaxed manner, but there was a glimmer of humor in the way he spoke now, and Alexander knew immediately that something was about to be revealed.

Washington paused, giving Alexander just enough time to feel the weight of the silence, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion as he waited for the general to continue. The older man leaned back in his chair, his hands resting loosely on his knees, as if preparing to divulge a story that had been simmering for years.

“There was this ginger kitten,” Washington began, his voice taking on a more nostalgic tone, as if the memory itself was a fond one. “It started visiting Mount Vernon. Martha wrote about it in a few of her letters, remarking on the animal’s persistent visits to the house. I thought little of it at the time—just another stray, as far as I knew.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, though the blush still lingered on his face. He wasn’t sure what kind of story this was going to turn into, but his general seemed in no rush to get to the point his previous reluctance at being called son retreating quickly.

Washington’s smile twitched at the corners of his lips as he continued, “But upon my return during the winter, I found that the kitten had... matured. And when I saw it again, it was no longer the small, innocent creature that had come and gone. It had become a full-grown tomcat. A rather... rambunctious one, if I may add.”

Washington’s expression softened, almost knowingly, and Alexander’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the next words.

“She, having heard of you from my own correspondence, gave him your name.”

For a moment, there was silence. Alexander’s mouth parted in disbelief as he locked eyes with Washington, his shock evident. His thoughts raced, and he couldn’t quite fathom what he was hearing. The idea of a cat—one that had somehow taken on his name—was absurd, and yet... deeply fitting.

A moment passed before he could bring himself to speak, his voice uncertain and tinged with both embarrassment and disbelief. “Wait—what? You named a cat after me?”

Washington chuckled softly, a sound that carried both amusement and a fondness that Alexander hadn’t expected. “It was Martha's decision. She thought the cat’s independence and persistent nature were very much like someone she’d heard so much about,and some your… shall we say free time adventures” he said, giving a small, knowing smile that seemed to suggest more than just a simple comparison between Alexander and the feline. "She thought it only fitting to name him after you.”

Alexander’s cheeks flushed even deeper now, his pride and humility warring within him. He couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions—surprised by the fact that Mrs Washington, of all people, had named a cat after him, yet oddly touched by the thought that she had seen something in him, something perhaps wild and untamed, that reflected in that cat’s spirit.

“Of course,” Washington added with a gentle smile, “I did not tell you about this earlier, but now, I think the cat’s namesake is more than fitting. It was always there in the background—our own little reminder of your presence, even when you weren’t physically here.”

Alexander shook his head in disbelief, a slight chuckle escaping him despite his surprise. “A cat named after me... Seems like my reputation precedes me.”

Washington’s eyes softened as he leaned forward slightly, placing a hand on Alexander’s shoulder, his voice lowering just enough to show that this moment was one of reflection. “Sometimes, son, it’s the little things, the unexpected moments, that show us more about our character than all the grand gestures ever could. The cat was, in its own way, a reminder of your strength, your tenacity... and perhaps, your more stubborn side.”

Alexander couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. “I suppose it is fitting,” he said, the last traces of his embarrassment fading as he looked back at Washington with gratitude. The blush on his cheeks remained, but it was no longer from shame—now it was from a warm sense of connection, a realization that, in some ways, he was more than just a soldier or a name. He was a part of the lives around him, even in ways he hadn’t anticipated, and yet a dark shadow still passed through him at the word son, “Please General stop referring to be as son”

[FULL COMPANY]

1780

[BURR]

A winter’s ball

And the Schuyler sisters are the envy of all

Yo, if you can marry a sister, you’re rich, son

[HAMILTON]

Is it a question of if, Burr, or which one?

[HAMILTON/BURR/LAURENS]

Hey

Hey

Hey hey

Chapter Text

[HAMILTON/BURR/LAURENS/ALL WOMEN (EXCEPT ELIZA)]

Hey hey hey hey

[ELIZA]

Ohh, I do I do I do I

Dooo! Hey!

Ohh, I do I do I do I

Dooo! Boy you got me

Peggy grinned and let out a small chuckle, “I believe I know the events this song will be following!” her eyes watched Eliza and Alexander closely a teasing glint in her eyes barely glancing to Angelica who had seemed to tense slightly coming to the same conclusion as the younger Schyler sister.

 [ALL WOMEN]

Hey hey hey hey

Hey hey hey hey

Hey hey hey hey

Hey hey hey

[ELIZA AND WOMEN]

Helpless!

Look into your eyes, and the sky’s the limit I’m helpless!

Down for the count, and I’m drownin’ in ‘em

Alexander blushed, his eyes darting everywhere except at the screen in front of him. His fingers fidgeted nervously at his sides as he tried to avoid making eye contact. “What’s wrong with my eyes?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion, unable to understand why John and Eliza were both softly gazing at him.

John smiled, his thumb brushing over the back of Alexander’s hand in a tender gesture. “Your eyes are beautiful, Alex,” he said, his voice warm and sincere. The words made Alexander’s heart skip a beat, and his face flushed an even deeper shade of crimson. He quickly turned his head, hiding his face in the crook of John’s shoulder, the heat of his blush radiating through his skin.

John chuckled lightly, a soft, affectionate sound that made Alexander feel safe and loved. He gently wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer as if to reassure him. “It’s okay, I mean it. You have the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen,” John whispered, his voice full of admiration. The gentle pressure of John’s embrace made Alexander feel both shy and cherished, though he could still feel the warmth of his blush seeping through, despite trying to hide it with Eliza’s touch soothing his worry.

[ELIZA]

I have never been the type to try and grab the spotlight

Angelica let out a soft noise, a mixture of amusement, as her gaze shifted over to her sister, who was comfortably nestled between Alex and John on the couch. The sight was a familiar one—her sister, always the one to blend into the background, where she could observe everything with quiet detachment. “That’s right,” Angelica added, her voice carrying a hint of teasing as she leaned back, crossing her arms with a knowing smile. “You’ve always been content to sit on the side, letting the world swirl around you without ever getting pulled into it.” Her words were an affectionate acknowledgment of the role her sister often played—a quiet observer, content in her own space, never needing to take center stage to be at peace.

We were at a revel with some rebels on a hot night

Laughin’ at my sister as she’s dazzling the room

“And which of your sisters were you referring to?” Peggy asked, her voice teasing as she glanced at Eliza, her eyes dancing with mischief. She leaned in slightly, her expression playful, as she waited for Eliza’s reaction. Eliza’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, a clear sign that Peggy had hit a nerve. Eliza looked away, her hand nervously adjusting her dress, trying to hide her blush as Peggy’s teasing continued. The warmth in her face was evident, a mix of embarrassment and fondness, making Peggy laugh softly at her sister’s obvious discomfort.

Angelica, ever the observer, couldn’t resist joining in. With a wry smile, she chimed in, “You too were dazzling the room, look who is beside you.” Her voice was light, playful, but there was an almost imperceptible shift in her tone, a subtle undertone of something more. It wasn’t just a simple compliment; Angelica’s words carried a deeper meaning, and though her expression remained cheerful, there was something in the way her eyes flickered away, a fleeting hesitation that John, caught only too clearly.

John glanced at Angelica, confused by the sudden shift in her demeanor. He couldn’t quite place it—perhaps it was the brief pause before she spoke, or the soft edge to her voice that carried a hint of something else. Regret, maybe? But before he could dwell on it, Eliza had responded to the teasing, “Both of you of course!” It was as if Angelica had slipped into a brief moment of vulnerability, only to mask it again with her usual sharp wit.

Still, the fleeting sense of regret lingered in John’s mind, and for a moment, he felt a strange sense of something he felt no one other than the woman it concerned could name.

Then you walked in and my heart went “Boom!”

Eliza’s blush deepened further, turning a shade of crimson that spread all the way to her ears. She instinctively tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere to hide. Her only refuge was Alexander and she leaned into him in a futile attempt to escape the teasing spotlight. But Alexander, ever the mischievous soul, didn’t let her off the hook so easily.

With a playful glint in his eyes, he poked her gently in the side, the gesture so familiar and affectionate that it was impossible for her to stay upset. Despite the teasing, there was a tenderness in the way his fingers brushed against her that spoke volumes of his affection. “Boom?” he questioned, his voice light and teasing, his smirk growing wider as he glanced over her at John, who was watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. The sly smirk Alexander wore was one of pure mischief, and John rolled his eyes in response, as if this was an old, well-worn routine.

Eliza, her face still burning with the heat of embarrassment, shot a half-hearted glare at Alexander, trying to gather some dignity in front of their friends. "You’re insufferable," she muttered, though the affection in her voice betrayed her annoyance.

Alexander grinned even more broadly, enjoying every second of her flustered reaction. "Yes, you were the most handsome man I ever laid eyes upon..." she spoke. 

Angelica and Peggy laughed, the sound of their amusement ringing out across the room, both of them clearly enjoying the teasing exchange. Their eyes sparkled with shared humor, each glance carrying an unspoken bond between them. They were used to moments like these, moments where laughter filled the gaps and softened the edges of everything else.

Washington subtly diverted his gaze, choosing to look back at the now still screen instead. He wasn’t one for public displays of affection or the easy camaraderie of teasing that seemed to come so naturally to the younger men he managed. There was something about the playful intimacy between Alexander and Eliza, that felt out of place for him. It was a sharp reminder of the weight of responsibility he carried, to lead these men in their fight for freedom whilst they had family and lovers alike waiting upon their return much like his beloved wife waiting for him back at Mount Vernon

As Washington turned his attention away, Phillip, couldn’t help but let out an exaggerated noise of disgust. “Eugh, sickly sweet,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically, his face contorted into a playful grimace, as though he was truly revolted by the affection on display.

Without missing a beat, George Washington’s deep, steady voice cut through the moment, his response dripping with the same sarcasm Phillip had used, but with a dry wit that only Washington could muster. “That’s why you’re alive, Phillip,” he replied, his tone even, the words tinged with humor but still carrying the weight of his presence. It was the kind of remark that had a sharp edge to it, a well-timed jab that reminded everyone of Washington’s ability to dish out sarcasm when needed. There was a slight smile on his face as he spoke, the humor not lost on anyone, but it was tempered by the seriousness that always seemed to linger around him, even in moments of levity.

Phillip blinked at him, slightly taken aback by Washington’s quick-witted retort, then shook his head with a grin. “Touché, sir,” he muttered, giving a mock salute as though he were conceding the point, yet grimacing to himself not wanting to think of the less casual intimacy that was performed for him to be sat where he was.

Tryin’ to catch your eye from the side of the ballroom

Everybody’s dancin’ and the band’s top volume

[ELIZA AND WOMEN]

Grind to the rhythm as we wine and dine

[ELIZA]

Grab my sister, and

Whisper, “Yo, this one’s mine

Alexander’s eyes softened as he looked down at Eliza, who was still tucked comfortably into his side, the closeness between them something he had sorely missed whilst in the midst of war. She seemed content, though a soft flush still lingered on her cheeks from the earlier teasing. Now, with John  bracketing her between the two men, Alexander felt a strange sense of pride. He couldn’t help but admire how naturally she fit into the warmth of their shared feelings. The bond between them all was undeniable, and as his gaze lingered on her, a fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Did you really?" Alexander’s voice was low, but his words were directed at Eliza, his tone carrying both curiosity and affection. He had always loved hearing her laugh, hearing her thoughts, but there was a lightheartedness to his question that felt almost playful.

Before Eliza could respond, Angelica, always quick on the uptake, beat her to it. “She did,” Angelica said, her voice playful but filled with the hint of sincerity that made it impossible to mistake. Her gaze was unwavering as she met Alexander’s eyes, an almost teasing glint dancing in her own.

Lafayette, John, and Hercules all burst into laughter at the exchange, the sound of their amusement ringing out like a chorus of shared joy. Alexander, not one to let an opportunity for playful teasing pass by, gave Eliza a quick, affectionate squeeze, his arm pulling her in a little closer to him, as though the teasing were all part of their private joke. “You really did say it, didn’t you?” he murmured, his voice warm and teasing, though there was still a deep fondness in his gaze.

Eliza’s cheeks flushed deeper, and she let out a small exasperated sigh, her voice rising just enough to show her irritation—but it was the kind of frustration that only made her all the more endearing. "Angelica! Why on earth?" she exclaimed, her pout now fully visible as she turned her gaze toward her older sister. Angelica’s grin only widened at the sight, the older sister’s expression one of mischief and amusement. She didn’t seem the least bit fazed by Eliza’s indignation.

“Well, it was true, wasn’t it?” Angelica said, her voice light and casual as she met Eliza’s flushed expression with a grin. “Or am I simply imagining that conversation where you pulled me away from my conversation with Monsieur Lafayette?” Angelica raised an eyebrow, the playful challenge in her gaze clear. It was as if she knew exactly how to poke at Eliza’s more serious nature, drawing out her little moments of embarrassment.

Eliza’s mouth opened in mock horror as she realized what Angelica was referring to, the memory of the moment coming back in a rush. “Oh no…” she muttered under her breath, face now completely red as she pulled away slightly from Alexander, suddenly feeling exposed under her sister’s teasing gaze.

Lafayette, raised his hands in mock surrender as he caught onto the direction of the conversation. “Oh, that is why you left so suddenly!” he said, his French accent thick and playful as he added an exaggerated shrug for emphasis. “I thought you simply did not want my company!” His words were lighthearted, but there was a warmth in his tone that made it clear he wasn’t offended by Eliza’s rushed appearance and Angelica’s sudden exit. In fact, he seemed more amused by the entire situation than anything else.

Eliza’s eyes widened at Lafayette’s teasing, her face now a deeper shade of red than it had been before. “Lafayette!” she exclaimed, her voice half-exasperated, half-laughing. “You’re not helping!”

The group continued to laugh, the playful teasing flowing like an easy rhythm. Eliza, despite her earlier embarrassment, couldn’t help but smile, even if it was a little ruefully. Alexander, his arm still around her, leaned down and whispered, “Don’t worry, you got what you desired no?” his teasing smile softening into something more tender. The playful energy around them didn’t diminish, but it shifted, and in that moment, Eliza realized that, despite all the teasing and laughter, she had nothing to fear. These people—the ones who laughed with her, teased her, and loved her—would always have her back. And, in turn, she would always have theirs.

My sister made her way across the room to you

And I got nervous, thinking “What’s she gonna do?”

She grabbed you by the arm, I’m thinkin’ “I’m through”

Angelica’s voice broke the quiet once more, the words slipping out with a quiet but firm resolve, “I would never.” Her gaze, intense and unwavering, was locked onto Eliza’s, as though trying to convey something more—something unspoken. Her heart hammered in her chest, and a quiet prayer passed through her thoughts, one she didn’t dare vocalize. She prayed that Eliza would understand, would believe her, and that her younger sister would not delve too deeply into the shadows of Angelica's soul, where secrets lay hidden. Angelica was terrified that if Eliza saw too much, she would discover the thoughts she had so carefully hidden, the wishes she had so carefully hidden.

Eliza’s eyes softened as she met Angelica’s gaze. There was no judgment, no suspicion in them, just love and understanding. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “I know, Angie,” she said, her voice a calm and steady comfort. “I love you and trust you.”

Angelica's heart caught in her throat. The simplicity of Eliza’s words, the certainty and warmth in her voice, sent a sharp pang of emotion through her. For a brief, fleeting moment, she felt a weight lift off her chest. But it was quickly replaced with a familiar ache, a flash of pain that crossed her face before she could mask it. The smile she returned was forced, her lips curving up slightly, but her eyes remained distant, haunted by the truth she could not bear to reveal. Angelica quickly diverted her gaze back to the screen, trying to hide the pain, her breath shallow as she silently prayed that Eliza wouldn’t see through the mask she wore so carefully.

Then you look back at me and suddenly I’m

Helpless!

Oh, look at those eyes

Alexander let out a frustrated noise, his irritation evident as he ran a hand through his hair, his voice rising in exasperation, “What is it with my eyes?! They are simply normal, and yet they've been mentioned twice already?!” His words hung in the air, a mix of confusion and annoyance, as if he couldn’t fathom why something so trivial was drawing so much attention. He glared at his friends, his gaze bouncing from one face to the next, hoping for a logical explanation.

To his surprise, it was someone he least expected—the one person who never hesitated to set him straight—that spoke up. George Washington, sat tall with a calm but firm presence, looked at Alexander with an almost paternal expression. “Your eyes are not simply normal, son,” he said, his voice steady and resolute.

Alex’s eyebrows shot up at the words. “I am not your son,” Hamilton growled in response, his lips twisting into a faint, almost amused snarl. There was a flicker of challenge in his eyes, a defiance born from a lifetime of stubbornness and pain.

Washington let out a sigh, as if the matter were an old argument they had revisited too many times. "It does not change that your eyes are not simply normal,” he continued, his tone softening but remaining resolute. “Everyone who has spoken with you knows it. They are intricately unique—almost violet, a color I have never before seen.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, as if the color of Alexander’s eyes held more significance than the young man could yet comprehend.

Oh!

Yeah, I’m

Helpless, I know

I’m so into you

I am so into you

I know I’m down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in ‘em

[ALL WOMEN]

Oooh

Oooh

Oooh

Oooh

Helpless!

Look into your eyes

And the sky’s the limit

I’mpres

Helpless!

Down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in ‘em

I’m helpless!

Look into your eyes

And the sky’s the limit I’m helpless!

Down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in ‘em.

[HAMILTON]

Where are you taking me?

The man smiled warmly at the screen, his eyes sparkling with genuine affection. "To the best thing that has happened to me on this earth," he said, his voice filled with adoration, as if the words were both a promise and a confession. His gaze shifted to Eliza, who sat beside him, her presence grounding him in the moment.

With a tender yet deliberate motion, he lifted her hand, gently bringing it to his lips. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles, his lips brushing against her skin with the kind of reverence reserved for the most precious of moments. The gesture was quiet, intimate, but spoke volumes about the depth of his love.

Eliza, though used to the affection by now, couldn't help but feel a soft warmth spread across her cheeks, a faint blush blooming  the way her heart still fluttered with the same joy as it did when they first met. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in a bubble of shared memories and love that had only grown stronger over time and with the very recent addition of John who copied Alex pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck.

[ANGELICA]

I’m about to change your life

"Thank you, Angelica, truly," Alex said, a warm smile spreading across his face as he looked at the woman who had played a significant part in this moment of his life. 

Angelica, however, simply shook her head, her expression one of quiet contentment. Her eyes glimmered with a soft affection as she regarded the two of them. "It was an honor to introduce you both," she murmured, her voice gentle but full of meaning. "Watching you fall in love was a beautiful sight, one I won’t forget. There's something so special about seeing two people who are meant for each other find their way together." Her words were sincere, the kind of statement that reflected both understanding and a deep appreciation for the love that had blossomed between them.

Alex felt a lump in his throat at the tenderness of her words. Angelica had always been a friend and since the moment they had married she had become a sister.

[HAMILTON]

Then by all means, lead the way

[ELIZA]

Elizabeth Schuyler. It’s a pleasure to meet you

[HAMILTON]

Schuyler?

[ANGELICA]

My sister

[ELIZA]

Thank you for all your service

[HAMILTON]

If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it

Both Lafayette and Mulligan let out exaggerated, fake noises of disgust, their faces contorting in mock horror. "Eugh, Alexander is being a sap again!" Lafayette groaned dramatically, throwing a hand up in the air as if he could hardly bear the sight. Mulligan followed suit, smirking as he added, "I thought we were past the mushy stuff!" The two of them exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the teasing.

Alexander shot a sharp glare at his friends, his eyes narrowing in mock indignation, though the slight blush that crept across his cheeks betrayed him. "I am not a sap!" he declared, his voice rising in pitch, practically whining as the words left his mouth. His hands were raised, ready to launch into a tirade, an eloquent and fervent defense of his not-so-sappy ways. He was about to list all the reasons—logical, pragmatic, and undeniably true—why he was certainly not the type to indulge in romantic sentimentality.

But before he could get another word out, a soft voice interrupted him, one that immediately brought a calm warmth to his chest. Eliza, leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, the action so tender and loving it made his heart flutter.

Her arms wrapped around his waist in a comfortable, affectionate embrace, pulling him closer in a way that had become second nature to them both. "You most definitely are a sap," she teased, her voice a melody of amusement, "but I love it, and that is all that matters, my love."

Alexander’s cheeks deepened in color, his irritation fading in the warmth of her touch and her words. His tirade, which had been building in his chest, was suddenly deflated as the corners of his lips turned up into a small, resigned smile. There was no denying it—not when Eliza, with her kind, unflinching love, had the power to silence him with just a few words. His friends, now all wearing smirks of their own, watched the exchange with knowing eyes, their earlier teasing all but forgotten in the tender moment between the couple.

His eyes met Eliza's, her expression a perfect mixture of affection and playful challenge. He wanted to protest again, to argue that he wasn’t quite the romantic she claimed, but the sincerity in her gaze made him think better of it. Instead, he shrugged in defeat, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Fine," he muttered, trying not to let too much of the warmth she sparked in him show, "maybe I am a sap... but only for you."

Eliza’s eyes softened, her smile widening as she gave him another quick kiss on the cheek. "That's all I need to hear, my love," she whispered, her voice tender as ever.

As the laughter from the group began to fade, Alexander, still with a faint blush on his cheeks, looked towards John. His gaze softened, a quiet intensity in his eyes as he reached out to take the other man’s hand. His fingers curled around John’s, warm and firm, a silent acknowledgment of their bond that spoke louder than words ever could. For a moment, it felt like the world around them slowed, the chaos of their friends’ teasing receding into the background as the two men shared a quiet, unspoken understanding.

Alexander’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he looked between John and Eliza, the corner of his lips lifting slightly in a tender smile. "I guess that means I’m a sap for you too," he said, his tone soft, almost shy. The words hung in the air, simple but filled with so much emotion—something that neither man could fully express in any other way but this.

John’s laugh was light and warm, a sound that seemed to come from deep within him, full of affection and amusement. He squeezed Alexander's hand in return,. "Yes, I guess it does," he replied with a grin, his eyes sparkling with the same quiet affection that Alexander had just shown.

For a fleeting moment, Alexander felt vulnerable, the kind of vulnerability that only those closest to you could bring out. But as John laughed and squeezed his hand again, any lingering doubts melted away, replaced by a sense of warmth that he wasn’t used to acknowledging, but never wanted to let go of. John’s presence, his support, and the shared history they had—whether through battle or words—were more meaningful than Alexander cared to admit, and in this moment, he was reminded just how deeply he had come to rely on that connection.

Meanwhile, Eliza, sat between them, watched the exchange with a soft smile of her own. She knew this was just as much a part of their bond as any of the playful teasing that had come before. It wasn’t just about their affection for each other, but about the warmth and loyalty that connected them all. She gave Alexander’s hand a gentle squeeze, her eyes meeting his with a quiet, understanding gaze. She knew that his heart was big enough to hold both the love he had for her and for John—and that made her love him even more.

Alexander, still holding John’s hand, took a deep breath and leaned in to kiss Eliza once more, this time with the surety of knowing that he was surrounded by both of his loves, As his lips met hers, soft and full of unspoken affection, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the warm, steady presence of the people who mattered most.

He didn’t leave John without first gently pulling away from Eliza, his eyes soft with the weight of the moment. Then he turned to John and kissed him—slowly, tenderly—a kiss that spoke of years lost and love rediscovered. John responded with the same quiet reverence, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It wasn’t a beginning, nor an ending—it was a homecoming.

Eliza stood between them, her hand still resting against Alexander’s chest, her heart full. She watched the two men with a warmth that bloomed deep inside her—not jealousy, not sorrow, but joy. She had always known Alexander’s heart held many rooms, and in each one, love lived fully. He loved her. And he loved John. And in this strange, beautiful moment, she loved them both for loving each other too.

The three of them smiled, wrapped in a quiet understanding. Eliza leaned her head against Alexander’s shoulder, John’s hand brushing hers. It wasn’t conventional—but it was theirs. And it was enough.

[ANGELICA]

I’ll leave you to it

[ELIZA AND WOMEN]

One week later

[ELIZA]

I’m writin’ a letter nightly

Now my life gets better, every letter that you write me

Alexander squeezed Eliza’s hand lovingly, his fingers intertwining with hers in a gesture so soft and intimate, it seemed to speak louder than words ever could. His eyes held hers with a tenderness that went beyond simple affection, as if every glance was a quiet promise. Slowly, he bent his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair, his lips brushing the strands as he breathed in the familiar scent of her. His voice was barely above a whisper, quiet enough for only Eliza and John to hear, "Those letters... they made life worth living. Each word, each line was a lifeline, a thread that pulled me back to you. They gave me something to hold onto, something to fight for. They gave me a reason to return after each battle, to endure what I never thought I could survive."

His gaze shifted to John then, meeting his eyes with a deep, unspoken understanding. Alexander’s expression softened, his heart full of emotion as he continued, "I never thought I’d be able to have this... to have you both, to have this life—this peace, this love, this home. After everything… I never thought I’d be able to have anything worth living fir" He paused, his voice catching for a brief moment as the weight of his words settled in the air. The quiet that followed felt reverent, as if the world itself had paused to acknowledge the truth of what had been shared. In that moment, it wasn’t just about the love between Alexander, John and Eliza; it was about the bond forged in battle, the survival, the healing, and the unexpected grace of finding a family—one that had endured together, despite everything. Alexander’s heart swelled with gratitude for what they had, knowing full well that the life he never thought possible was finally here, in front of him, with those who mattered most.

Laughin’ at my sister, cuz she wants to form a harem

[ANGELICA]

I’m just sayin’, if you really loved me, you would share him

[ELIZA]

Ha!

Angelica looked genuinely shocked, her usually sharp, composed expression giving way to something far more vulnerable and unexpected. Her dark eyes widened slightly, eyebrows lifting in disbelief as a delicate blush crept up her cheeks, blooming like a rose against her otherwise cool and polished demeanor. For someone so skilled at keeping her emotions tucked neatly beneath the surface, the pink tinge of embarrassment stood out like a secret exposed.

Across the room, Alexander’s laughter rang out, rich and warm with amusement, overlapping perfectly with the light, melodic chuckle of his wife’s alternate counterpart. The two of them shared a quick, knowing glance—an almost conspiratorial moment of joy—as if reveling in some private joke at Angelica’s expense. Turning back toward her, Alexander shot the elder Schuyler sister a cheeky, lopsided smile, the kind that had always danced just on the edge of flirtation.

“Never knew you’d be one for the peculiar, Angelica,” he teased, his tone light but laced with just enough insinuation to make the words linger in the air longer than they should have.

Angelica’s spine straightened instinctively, the practiced grace of high society settling back over her like a silk shawl. But even as she composed herself, her tight-lipped smile betrayed her discomfort. It was precise, controlled—almost brittle. Her eyes, however, refused to meet his. They shifted downward, then to the side, as if focusing on anything but the man who had, with just a few words and a mischievous grin, managed to rattle the very foundation of her self-control.

She gave a soft, dismissive hum of acknowledgment, the kind that could be mistaken for agreement if one wasn’t listening too closely. Yet, beneath the surface, the tension was unmistakable—an undercurrent of something old and unspoken. Her fingers brushed the hem of her sleeve in a slow, deliberate motion, the only sign of the quiet storm gathering behind her calm exterior.

Two weeks later

In the living room stressin’

Phillip, from where he’d tucked himself away in an effort not to intrude, made a small sound of confusion. His brow furrowed, voice tentative. “Three weeks?” he repeated, his tone questioning. His eyes flicked between his parents, both familiar and strange younger versions of them now standing in the same room. He’d heard tales, fragments, soft recollections of moonlit walks and stolen glances under the trees at the Schuyler estate, but never anything with substance. Their courtship had always been shrouded in misty nostalgia, filtered through the lens of rose-colored memory, yet this... this was raw and new.

His parents had never spoken in detail about how quickly it all happened.

Alexander turned toward him, startled at first by the sound of his son’s voice. His expression softened as he met Phillip’s gaze, though a flicker of wariness crept into his eyes. The man standing before Phillip was unmistakably his father, but stripped of the weariness and wisdom of age—this was a younger Alexander, unpolished by time and tragedy, still burning with the urgency of youth and survival.

“We were in the middle of a war,” Alexander said, voice firm at first, but gradually softening as if trying to ease his son into understanding. “We didn’t know if we would survive to see the next day. Every moment felt stolen. I wanted to marry Eliza before I may have died… before the war could take away what little peace I had found.”

There was a pause. A hush fell over the space as the weight of that confession settled. Phillip studied his father, processing the reality of a man who once lived with death always brushing his shoulder. Then, his eyes drifted to his mother—her hand resting protectively over her stomach, as if she were already guarding the idea of him.

Eliza’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Do we… not talk about our relationship?” she asked, her gaze piercing, this version of her with bright eyes and soft strength, the one who hadn’t yet lived through heartbreak or the burden of public scandal.

Eliza turned toward the boy who would one day be her son, her expression shifting with warmth and something else—gentle sorrow, perhaps.. “It brings back bad memories for Pops,” he said quietly. “He asks that we don’t pry too much about that time… or about his life before America.”

At that, Alexander stiffened almost imperceptibly. The shadows in his expression deepened. The mention of Nevis—a name he rarely allowed spoken aloud—tightened something in his chest. His eyes darkened as memories surfaced: the hunger, the pain, the silence, the shame. Images of a past too heavy for words flickered across his mind.

He turned away slightly, unable to meet his son’s questioning gaze for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low and ragged. “I think… that is a good idea.”

And then Phillip understood—at least a little. His father, so often a man of words, stood now as a man silenced by memory. The man of letters had entire years he could not write about.

My father’s stone-faced, he thought, watching Alexander in that fragile moment—so different from the man he knew, and yet heartbreakingly the same.

While you’re asking for his blessin’

I’m dying inside, as

You wine

And dine

And I’m tryin’ not to cry

‘cause there’s nothing that your mind can’t do

My father makes his way across the room

To you

I panic for a second, thinking

“we’re through”

But then he shakes your hand and says

“Be true”

Alexander smiled softly, the expression gentle and full of quiet reverence, as though the very weight of his words grounded him. “Always,” he said, the single word carrying years of love, loss, and unwavering devotion. His eyes flicked between Eliza and John, warmth pooling in their depths. “I promised myself to you,” he murmured to Eliza, his voice thick with emotion, “and now… to you, John.” His gaze lingered on the other man, open and unguarded. There was no hesitation, no conflict—only truth, spoken plainly in a moment where nothing else mattered.

Eliza’s lips curved into a soft smile, radiant and tender, her eyes shining with affection. She reached out, brushing her fingertips along the back of Alexander’s hand in silent affirmation, her love steady and rooted. Beside her, John smiled too, something softer, sadder—like someone who had waited years to hear those words and now clung to the quiet miracle of them.

Without a word, John lifted his hand and ran his fingers gently through Alexander’s hair, combing them slowly through the dark strands. It was a touch as natural as breathing, reverent in its simplicity, like he was memorizing the feel of him all over again. Alexander exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders loosening as he leaned into the touch. His body relaxed, almost melting into the contact, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he allowed himself the safety of it—the warmth of being known and still loved.

In that small, suspended moment, the air felt still, sacred. The past and present blurred. No war, no tragedy, just the three of them, connected by something unshakable. A vow not just spoken, but lived.

And you turn back to me, smiling, and I’m

Helpless!

It was now Alexander’s turn to blush, color creeping up his neck and into his cheeks as he watched the younger version of himself spin joyfully across the stage. His onstage counterpart—wide-eyed, exuberant, and practically glowing with youthful optimism—danced with infectious energy, throwing his arms up in victory as General Schuyler gave his blessing for Alexander to marry Eliza. The theatrical flourish of it all, combined with the sheer emotion on the younger version’s face, was both endearing and deeply embarrassing.

He shifted slightly in his seat, attempting to mask his flustered expression with a faint smile, but the warmth radiating from his face betrayed him. His eyes flicked nervously toward the others, catching a few amused smirks and hushed chuckles.

And then, from across the room, came Jefferson’s unmistakable drawl, laced with mockery. “And that is supposed to be someone responsible enough for the cabinet?!” he scoffed, gesturing toward the stage with a dramatic wave of his hand, as if the very idea were laughable.

Several heads turned, including Alexander’s, but before he could open his mouth to retort, James Madison shot Jefferson a sharp look. His usually calm expression tightened with disapproval, the kind of warning glare that could cut through even Jefferson’s most flippant bravado.

“ He was celebrating, my friend, ” James said pointedly, his voice low but firm, full of quiet dignity. “And a fair few years younger than in our time. Leave it.”

Jefferson blinked at him, a touch taken aback, but said nothing more. He gave a theatrical sigh, sinking a little deeper into his seat as if to show he was withdrawing from the moment—not because he’d been reprimanded, but because he was choosing to be merciful. The corners of his mouth twitched, though, betraying the fact that he still found it all highly amusing.

Helpless!

Hoo!

That boy is mine

That boy is mine!

The blush lingered on Alexander’s face, the warmth of it softening the sharp lines time and war had carved into his features. He turned away from the stage, from the embarrassing display of youthful exuberance still dancing behind his eyes, and let his gaze settle on the two people who anchored him more than anything else in the world—Eliza and John.

His eyes held a quiet intensity now, no longer flustered but filled with something deeper, steadier. That blush, once born of embarrassment, had settled into a rosy hue of emotion that reached all the way to his heart. A soft look overtook his face, the corners of his mouth curving into the faintest of smiles—one meant for them and them alone. Vulnerability shimmered in his expression, but so did a fierce kind of certainty.

“I am yours,” he said, voice low and sure, “and only yours. Forever.”

The words were not dramatic or showy; they didn’t need to be. It was the kind of vow that settled into the very bones of a person—quiet, but unshakable. There was love in it, of course, a deep and consuming love. But there was also truth, plain and irrevocable. A truth forged in the fire of everything they had endured and everything they still held together.

Eliza’s eyes glistened, her fingers tightening gently around his hand. John exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing with the relief of hearing aloud what they had always known in the silences between words. For a moment, the world faded away. The war, the politics, the stage—all of it disappeared, leaving only the warmth of three hearts bound by history, pain, and a love that refused to falter.

But not everyone could bask in that glow.

From his place near the edge of the gathering, Phillip’s expression faltered. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, and he turned his gaze downward, his jaw tightening. The sincerity in his father’s voice—the raw, open declaration of love—cut into him like a blade forged from the past he could never fully forget. His past. His version of Alexander. A version who had stumbled, who had strayed, who had broken hearts not through malice, but through fear, pride, and shame.

He winced, the movement subtle but telling, as if the sound of those words had touched a bruise long since faded but never fully healed. He wanted to believe them, wanted to let this moment overwrite the pain of what he knew. But memory clung tightly.

He glanced toward Eliza, whose serene expression had no trace of betrayal in it, and then to John, whose hand still rested gently on Alexander’s shoulder. They don't know what I know, Phillip thought, guilt tugging at his chest.

The thought was both comforting and devastating.

And still, his father stood there—eyes aglow with sincerity, face open, unguarded, beautiful in its honesty. 

Phillip swallowed hard and looked away, unsure if he wanted to cry or smile.

Helpless! Helpless!

Down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in em

[ALL WOMEN]

Stressin’

Blessin’

Oooh

Oooh

Oooh

Oooh

Helpless!

Look into your eyes

And the sky’s the

Limit I’m

Helpless!

Down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in

‘em I’m

Helpless!

Look into your eyes

And the sky’s the

Limit I’m

Helpless!

Down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in em

[HAMILTON]

Eliza, I don’t have a dollar to my name

An acre of land, a troop to command, a dollop of fame

All I have’s my honor, a tolerance for pain

A couple of college credits and my top-notch brain

“I’d have a troop to command if someone stopped trying to protect me during a war!” Alexander muttered sharply under his breath, his voice edged with frustration and wounded pride. The words weren’t meant for the entire room—just a quiet complaint to himself, Eliza, and John—but the bitterness laced through them was unmistakable.

Eliza’s hand tightened around his, grounding him in a heartbeat. Her touch was gentle but firm, fingers weaving through his with silent reassurance. She didn’t speak—she didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough to say, I’m here. Breathe.

John, however, stiffened beside them. His body went rigid, a flash of alarm crossing his face as he immediately glanced toward the other side of the room. His eyes locked on General George Washington—stoic, commanding, and ever-watchful. John's heart sank.

The General’s jaw was tight. His eyes, usually calm pools of disciplined authority, now burned with restrained frustration. The kind that came not just from insubordination, but from disappointment.

John’s stomach turned. He heard it.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”
The command cracked through the room like a whip.

Every soldier, every aide—even the civilians—seemed to straighten at once, the air charged with the weight of Washington’s voice. Though no one stood, they sat taller, as if the sheer force of his authority demanded it.

Alexander froze, the color draining from his face. His spine went rigid, and he turned toward the General like a child caught with his hand in the sugar jar. “Sir, I—”

But Washington raised a hand—calm, deliberate, final.

Alexander flinched. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A twitch of the shoulders, a flicker of his eyes, a tightening around his mouth. And George saw it.

The General’s hand lowered, but not his gaze. A flicker of emotion—was it hurt?—passed across his face before it hardened once more into the firm resolve of command.

“I will not allow you to continue,” he said, voice stern but no longer shouting. It was worse than shouting—measured, disappointed, heavy with the weight of unspoken trust. “Think for one moment, Alexander. Just one.” He took a step forward. “Why might I be refusing you the command you so desperately want?”

Silence gripped the room. Even the crackling hearth seemed to hush.

Alexander stared at him, eyes wide, mouth parted—but no words came. Whatever argument he had been ready to launch was stripped from him under the weight of that question.

George’s eyes held his. Not with anger, but something far more piercing: expectation. As if he were asking not just for an answer—but for growth.

And Alexander had none. Not yet.

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, the fire in his chest cooled by the sharp sting of realization. Around him, Eliza’s grip tightened. John stayed silent, watching with something like sorrow in his gaze.

Washington waited, still and unwavering. Not for an apology—but for understanding.

Alexander paused, shoulders drawn tight as Washington’s words echoed in the tense silence. The room felt smaller somehow, the eyes of every soul within it resting on him, waiting. For a man known for his relentless defiance, for sharp words and even sharper ambition, the quiet that followed his hesitation was jarring.

“I… I do not know, General Washington, sir,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was no defiance in it, no sharpness or edge. Just confusion. Submission. Vulnerability. Words spoken not from pride but from truth, raw and unguarded. The room seemed to still even more, as if no one quite believed what they had just heard from the famously fiery Lieutenant Colonel. Alexander’s eyes were fixed downward, shoulders slightly hunched, shrinking into himself in a way that looked wholly unnatural for a man used to taking up space.

Washington exhaled—long and low. The sound wasn’t angry, but heavy with the weariness of someone carrying the burden of both leadership and fatherly disappointment. The sigh made Alexander flinch, just slightly, as though even the breath of it was a blow.

“Your mind is your greatest asset, Alexander,” Washington began, his voice no longer cutting but measured—patient, if strained. “But it’s also what gets you into unnecessary situations where you place yourself at risk. And not just yourself,” he added, his gaze narrowing, “but the integrity and efficiency of this entire army.”

Alexander didn’t lift his head, but his fingers twitched, clenched, then slowly relaxed again in his lap.

“This army,” Washington continued, his voice firming as the full weight of his words settled over the room, “cannot afford that risk. Not now. Not when Congress refuses to give us even the simplest supplies. Not when we’re fighting both the enemy and our own government’s neglect.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly battling his own frustration—not with Alexander, exactly, but with the impossible situation they were all trapped in. When he looked back at his aide, his eyes searched Alexander’s face and seemed to see, for a moment, the young man behind the uniform. The orphan boy who clawed his way into significance, who fought every day to be seen as worthy.

And then, turning slightly, Washington addressed another in the room. “Who’s correspondences to Congress get the most successful response, Laurens?”

John jerked upright, startled to hear his name. His spine snapped straight as a ramrod. “Uh—Hamilton’s, sir,” he answered quickly, blinking in surprise.

Washington nodded, just once, as if that single word confirmed everything he already knew.

“Exactly,” he said, his gaze sweeping back to Alexander, who looked up slowly now, uncertain but attentive. “Alexander, if you were not as essential to this army as you are… I would have given you your command the first time you asked. Without hesitation. You have already proven you can lead. That’s not what I doubt.”

He stepped forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough that it felt more personal.

“But your greatest strength isn’t on a battlefield—it’s in your words. In your mind. Your fire. You think you’re being denied out of some misguided overprotectiveness, but you fail to see the larger picture.”

Alexander’s lips parted slightly, the edges of confusion slowly shifting toward comprehension.

“You worry about your place,” Washington continued, softer now, “about your name, your legacy, your standing after this war. You see command as a symbol of value. But what you forget, Alexander, is that you are essentially my second. My voice, my strategist, my anchor in the chaos.”

He let that truth settle.

“That is far more powerful than having command of a battalion. You have influence that few in this entire army possess.”

Alexander’s throat bobbed, and this time, when he looked up at the General, the usual spark of rebellion was gone. In its place was something quieter. Something like understanding. Maybe even respect. Maybe even… pride. A different kind—the kind that didn't have to scream to be heard. Alexander nodded staying quiet for once, Washington stared at the young man before retaking his own seat.

Insane, your family brings out a different side of me

Peggy confides in me, Angelica tried to take a bite of me

Alexander smiled warmly at Peggy, the smallest curve of his lips carrying a tenderness reserved for few. She met his gaze with a knowing smile of her own, her eyes glinting with mischief and quiet understanding. She gave a small nod toward the screen, the gesture subtle but full of agreement—as though affirming aloud the sentiment that had just been spoken. There was an unspoken connection between them in that moment, both aware of how deep the words reached and what they meant beyond their surface.

But beside her, Angelica’s expression was a stark contrast. Her eyes were wide, almost comically so, and her lips parted just enough to reveal the breath she had forgotten to exhale. The implication of the words hanging in the air seemed to strike her with more force than intended. She stared at the stage as if it had betrayed her secrets—ones she had fought to bury beneath layers of composure and well-practiced restraint.

A soft blush crept up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks, delicate but unmistakable. Angelica quickly averted her gaze, blinking hard, her jaw tightening ever so slightly as if to push back a rush of emotions she wasn’t prepared to face. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, the only sign of how deeply the moment had unsettled her.

She had always been careful— too careful. Always the one to carry herself with dignity, with poise, with an iron sense of duty. Her desires were never meant to see the light of day. She had tucked them away behind witty remarks and carefully chosen words, behind the smile of a sister and the role of a loyal confidante. But the scene unfolding onstage now felt like it had reached into the quiet corners of her heart and thrown light where none was meant to shine.

Still, no one seemed to notice. Or so she prayed.

Angelica forced a graceful, tight-lipped smile, as though attempting to wave off the heat rising in her face. Her eyes flicked briefly toward her sisters—Peggy still nodding, Eliza blissfully unaware—and then to Alexander, whose attention had thankfully returned to the screen. Her breath shuddered ever so slightly in her chest.

Thank God, she thought, pressing her fingers more firmly together, no one saw.

And yet, the way she avoided Alexander’s gaze said everything she was trying so desperately to hide.

No stress, my love for you is never in doubt

We’ll get a little place in Harlem and we’ll figure it out

I’ve been livin’ without a family since I was a child

My father left, my mother died, I grew up buckwild

Washington’s brow furrowed deeply as he watched the screen, the images and dialogue unfolding before him stirring something unexpected—something more personal than he cared to admit. He had always known Alexander hailed from the West Indies, that he had grown up on a small island battered by storms and circumstance. He knew, too, that the young man had been orphaned, pulled from the wreckage of a childhood marked by hardship and isolation.

But Alexander had never spoken of the details.

Not really.

Not beyond vague mentions of Nevis, of struggle, of how far he had come. Never of what he had endured.

Now, as snippets of Alexander’s past—his pain, his hunger, the relentless drive etched into every decision he made—began to reveal themselves through the narrative on screen, Washington felt the pieces slot into place. Slowly. Uneasily.

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward in his seat. His gaze wasn’t on the actors, not really—it was on the young man sitting not too far from him. Alexander, who at that very moment looked particularly small in the shadow of his own past, even if he’d never admit it. The set of his shoulders was stiff, defensive. There was something almost childlike in the way he folded into himself, like he was bracing for judgment that hadn’t come yet but always expected.

And suddenly, Washington understood something deeper.

Perhaps Alexander wasn’t just fighting for a nation, for glory, for recognition. Perhaps it wasn’t just ambition that burned so fiercely behind those sharp eyes. Maybe—just maybe—it was something more primal. A need to prove he deserved to exist at all. That he was worthy of life, of respect, of being seen .

It hit Washington like a blow to the chest.

He sat back slowly, the weight of realization heavy on his shoulders. He had always admired Alexander’s intellect, been frustrated by his impetuousness, relied on his brilliance like a crutch in the most trying moments of war. But now… he saw the boy behind the soldier. The orphan behind the strategist. The child who had lost everything and built himself from the ashes, terrified of losing it again.

No wonder he fought so hard. He wasn't just chasing victory—he was outrunning ghosts.

Washington’s expression softened, lines of concern deepening across his face. There was a tightness in his chest he couldn’t quite name—regret, maybe, that he hadn’t seen it sooner. That he hadn’t asked. That he hadn’t been there in the way he now realized Alexander might have needed all along.

He needs guidance, Washington thought, his hand curling into a fist on the armrest. He needs someone who can give it without asking for anything in return. Someone who sees him not just for what he can do, but for who he is.

With quiet resolve, he made a promise to himself.

I will speak with him. Soon. And not as his general—but as something closer to a father.

A flicker of warmth returned to his gaze, subtle but steady. Whatever else the future held, George Washington knew one thing for certain: if Alexander Hamilton needed a paternal hand to steady him, he would be ready. And more than willing to offer it.

But I’ll never forget my mother’s face, that was real

And long as I’m alive, Eliza, swear to God

You’ll never feel so…

[HAMILTON]

Eliza…

I’ve never felt so-

My life is gon’ be fine cuz Eliza’s in it.

[ELIZA]

I do I do I do I do!

I do I do I do I do!

Hey, yeah, yeah!

I’m down for the count

I’m—

I look into your eyes, and the sky’s the limit

I’m

…drownin’ in ‘em.

 [ALL WOMEN]

Helpless!

Helpless!

Helpless!

Down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in ‘em

Helpless!

Helpless!

Helpless!

Down for the count

And I’m drownin’ in ‘em.

Wedding march plays

[ALL WOMEN]

In New York, you can be a new man…

In New York, you can be a new man…

In New York, you can be a new man…

[ELIZA]

Helpless

As the final notes of the song faded into silence, a gentle hush settled over the room—a kind of reverent quiet that followed something unexpectedly tender. For a fleeting moment, the constant weight of the war, of loss and uncertainty, lifted. In its place bloomed warmth, like sunlight breaking through a storm.

Everyone remained still for a beat, smiles beginning to pull at tired faces. Even the most battle-hardened among them seemed softened by the moment, touched by the joy that radiated from the stage and echoed faintly within their own hearts.

“That was beautiful,” Eliza whispered, her voice light and full of wonder. There was a subtle breathiness to her tone, as if she couldn’t quite believe something so lovely had come from their own story—one so often marked by hardship.

She turned toward Alexander, her eyes bright with affection, and pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek. He turned toward her, already smiling, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let himself bask in her affection. Eliza tucked herself close against his side, resting her head on his shoulder as though they were the only two in the world. Her other hand reached instinctively for John’s, finding it with a natural, practiced grace. She threaded their fingers together, a bridge of love and unity that wrapped all three of them in an embrace without words.

John gave a quiet sigh, a peaceful one, letting his thumb gently brush over Eliza’s knuckles. He leaned into Alexander’s other side, their warmth shared, their lives intertwined. The three sat as a single unit—weathered but whole—sharing a rare moment of peace.

Around the room, a soft chorus of hums and murmurs followed Eliza’s comment, quiet agreements and fond smiles exchanged between those present. Even the more reserved individuals couldn’t help but feel the shift in the air—like hope had been momentarily restored.

James Madison offered a small nod, arms still crossed, but his expression was calm, contemplative. Peggy grinned openly, her eyes flitting between the trio with unfiltered happiness. Mulligan gave a quiet chuckle, and Lafayette clapped once—soft, appreciative.

And then, inevitably, from the corner of the room came the unmistakable mutter:

“Oh, it’s sickeningly sweet,” Jefferson groaned dramatically, slumping further in his seat with an exaggerated scowl. “I think I just got a cavity.”

James sent him a pointed side-eye, but said nothing—clearly used to this brand of commentary by now. The others collectively chose to ignore him, letting the warmth of the moment linger unspoiled.

Alexander didn’t even look his way—he was too focused on Eliza curled at his side, John’s hand still holding his own, the faint memory of music still stirring something in his chest. For a moment, the war felt far away. For a moment, he was just a man loved—utterly and entirely.

And for a man like Alexander Hamilton, that was the rarest victory of all.

Chapter Text

Alexander, John, and Eliza sat nestled together on their sofa, the world beyond them fading away as they settled into the comfort of each other’s presence. The air around them was warm and still, filled with the lingering peace the previous song had gifted them. Their bodies curled naturally against one another, as if this closeness had been written into their very bones.

Alexander sat in the middle, his arm draped lazily but protectively around Eliza’s shoulders while John’s head rested lightly against his other side, his hand still loosely entwined with Alexander’s. Eliza, tucked snugly against Alexander’s chest, had her legs curled up beneath her, her other hand resting gently atop John’s knee. They moved with a kind of wordless harmony, each tiny shift or sigh met instinctively with soft touches or murmured reassurances. It was the kind of comfort that only came from shared battles—ones fought both outside and within.

The glow from the screen bathed their features in a shifting tapestry of soft golds and blues as the scenes transitioned, the mood in the room subtly changing with it. Onscreen, the focus shifted, the familiar figure of Angelica’s onstage counterpart stepping closer to center stage. The lighting around her dimmed into a focused spotlight, casting long, dramatic shadows that immediately drew the audience's attention.

Eliza’s gaze sharpened as she sat up a little straighter, her hand tightening unconsciously on Alexander’s chest as she recognized her sister’s stage persona preparing to take on a more prominent role. Alexander, feeling the movement, turned his head slightly to kiss the top of her hair, silently grounding her back to the sofa, back to him.

John’s fingers brushed soothingly along Alexander’s wrist where their hands met, anchoring him as well. He could feel the slight tension radiating from Alexander, who, despite his outward calm, had always been deeply attuned to the shifts in those he loved.

Together they sat, breathing in quiet unison, as the narrative on the screen pulled them forward once again. Their bodies remained pressed close, an unspoken promise of support—no matter what emotions the coming scenes might stir. The sofa creaked softly under their collective weight, but none of them minded. In a world that often demanded distance, here, for now, they allowed themselves to simply exist—together.

[LAURENS]

Alright, alright. That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

The Revolutionary Set burst into laughter as screen showed John stumbling in his steps as he took the lead of the speech, holding two glasses of drink up high making him look slightly more than tipsy.

“You were so drunk that night, mon ami! ” Lafayette managed between wheezes, nearly doubled over with laughter.

John flushed a deep red, but he didn’t move—Alexander was already nestled comfortably against his side, head resting on John’s shoulder, their legs brushing where they sat on the couch. Alex was shaking with silent laughter, his fingers curled lightly around the hem of John’s sleeve.

John shot a half-hearted glare around the room, then down at Alexander, who hadn’t even tried to hide his amusement. With a mock scowl, John gave his waist a gentle pinch, just enough to make Alex yelp and squirm while still staying tucked against him.

“I was not that drunk,” John insisted, though his grumble was softened by the warmth of the moment. “I remember every moment of that day, thank you very much!”

“Oh yeah?” Hercules grinned. “Then I guess you chose to challenge that tree in the Schyler’s garden to a duel since it ‘disrespected your honour’”

John groaned, hiding his face in his free hand. “Okay, maybe I was a little tipsy...”

The room erupted again, their laughter bright and familiar. Alexander stayed curled close to John, his smile pressed against his shoulder, Eliza tucked close to Alexander’s other side.

Now everyone give it up for the maid of honor

Angelica Schuyler!

Eliza beamed as she looked over to where her sisters sat, side by side on the plush velvet sofa, their postures relaxed and close, framed by the soft golden glow of lamplight. Between them sat Phillip, his expression bright and attentive, as if soaking in every moment. The sight filled her chest with a kind of joy that was almost too big to hold.

She caught Angelica’s gaze across the room, and something unspoken passed between them—sister to sister, heart to heart. Eliza’s eyes shimmered, reflecting both the light and the depth of emotion behind them. “And I am truly so thankful for you being there,” she said softly, voice thick with love and memory.

Alexander, seated beside her, lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her fingers. His eyes shone with quiet adoration as he gave her hand one last squeeze before nodding encouragingly toward her sisters. “Go on,” he murmured with a small smile. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Eliza rose with a graceful ease, her skirts whispering softly against the floor as she crossed the room. She slipped onto the couch between Angelica and Peggy, her presence folding into theirs like she had never left. With arms outstretched, she pulled them both into a warm, heartfelt embrace, pressing soft, lingering kisses to each of their cheeks. The three Schuyler sisters melted into one another, laughter and love tangled between them like threads in a family tapestry.

Then, Eliza’s gaze turned to Phillip. The young man’s eyes met hers with a look that took her breath away—so familiar and impossibly tender. He was the boy she had yet to meet in her own timeline, the child she still carried beneath her heart. And yet, here he was—whole, grown, and wonderfully alive. Her heart squeezed with overwhelming emotion as she reached out and clasped his hand in hers, gently, reverently, as though it were the most precious thing she’d ever held.

Phillip’s fingers curled around hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. His voice was quiet but sure, filled with a sincerity that made her throat tighten.

“Love you, Ma,” he said, the words soft but weighty with meaning.

Eliza blinked, her vision blurring for just a moment, and then she smiled—radiant, tearful, and utterly full of love.

[ANGELICA, + MEN & WOMEN]

A toast to the groom!

Lafayette, Hercules, and General Washington all raised their glasses with a unified cheer, voices rich with warmth and mischief. “ To the groom! ” they chorused, the words echoing those on the screen.

General Washington’s voice was steady and commanding, yet softened by the kind smile he cast in Alexander’s direction. There was pride in his eyes—quiet, fatherly pride—as he regarded the young man.

“To the groom, who somehow convinced the fairest Schuyler sister to marry him!” Lafayette laughed, his accent thickening with amusement as he gave Alexander a light shake.

“Miracles do happen, apparently,” Hercules added with a wink, clinking his glass against Lafayette’s. He grinned at Alexander playfully “Though I still say she’s the one who deserves all the applause for putting up with you .”

Alexander laughed along with them, cheeks slightly flushed, but there was no mistaking the joy in his expression. He looked around at the faces of the men who had become his brothers and, in Washington’s case, something closer to a father. The teasing was familiar, affectionate—it was love wrapped in laughter.

As the toast settled into the hum of celebration, Alexander lifted his own glass and nodded toward Eliza across the room, his gaze lingering on her with open adoration.

While the room buzzed with laughter and cheerful toasts, Alexander and John had their thighs pressed together in that familiar way that spoke more of habit than thought. The din of celebration carried around them, but Alexander's focus was elsewhere—his gaze flicking sideways, catching the subtle stiffness in John's frame, the way his fingers were curled too tightly against his knee, his smile just a bit too forced.

Others were too wrapped in the scene in front of them to notice, but Alexander saw it all.

He shifted slightly, turning toward him, the couch creaking softly beneath the adjustment. He didn’t speak immediately—just let his hand rest gently atop John’s, grounding and warm. When he did speak, his voice was low, intended for John alone.

“Eliza and I may be married,” Alexander murmured, his words slow, deliberate, “but you are just as important to me as she is.”

For a moment, John didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed ahead, but his grip slowly relaxed beneath Alexander’s touch. Then he turned, looking at Alexander not with surprise, but with something deeper—like he had been waiting for those words all evening without realizing it.

His smile returned, this time softer, more real. The knot in his shoulders unspooled, and he leaned in close, his body brushing against Alexander’s with quiet intention. With reverent slowness, John pressed a series of tender kisses to Alexander’s shoulder, his lips brushing against the finely woven blue fabric of his coat. It was a gesture full of things unspoken—love, reassurance, the need to feel close even when the world was shifting around them.

Alexander didn’t pull away. Instead, he let his head rest lightly against John’s, their closeness drawing a kind of calm around them. His fingers curled more tightly around John’s hand, anchoring them both in the moment.

To the groom! (x3)

To the bride! (x4)

“To the bride!” Angelica and Peggy chimed in unison, their voices rising above the hum of conversation, light with joy and love. Both women turned toward their sister, smiles wide and radiant, their eyes shining with the kind of affection that only came from years of shared memories and unwavering sisterhood.

Eliza, nestled between them on the couch, let out a soft laugh, the sound like the gentle ring of a bell. She had only just left Alexander and John behind on the other side of the room, giving them space, sensing they needed a quiet moment of their own. Now, with one arm draped around Angelica’s shoulder and the other resting over Peggy’s, she felt wholly surrounded—by warmth, by family, by the life she had helped build.

Her gaze flickered between her sisters, and she smiled with a serenity that radiated from deep within her chest. Her heart felt impossibly full, brimming with the kind of happiness that had no sharp edges—just a steady, peaceful warmth that spread through her limbs like sunlight on a winter morning.

[ANGELICA, ELIZA , MEN, & WOMEN]

From your sister

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice almost lost beneath the celebration around them, but her sisters heard it all the same. Angelica gave her hand a light squeeze, and Peggy leaned in to rest her head briefly against Eliza’s shoulder, a small, affectionate nudge.

Angelica!

Angelica!

Angelica!

Who is always by your side

Angelica reached across the cushions, her fingers curling tightly around both Eliza’s and Peggy’s hands, her grip firm with intention, as though she could anchor them all together with touch alone. Her expression had softened, though there was a glimmer of intensity in her eyes—one that always surfaced when she spoke from the deepest parts of herself.

“Always,” she said, her voice steady, but thick with emotion.

She turned first to Peggy, holding her gaze with fierce affection. Then her eyes shifted to Eliza, meeting hers with the same fierce protectiveness she had carried since they were children. “I will always be there for both of you,” she continued, and the quiet power in her words wrapped around them like a promise carved in stone.

Eliza’s throat tightened, her free hand coming up instinctively to rest over Angelica’s. Peggy blinked rapidly, her lips trembling into a smile that was equal parts joy and reverence.

The moment stretched out, timeless and sacred—just the three of them, Schuyler sisters bound not only by blood, but by shared history, loyalty, and love that had weathered every storm. They didn’t need to speak to remember the nights spent whispering under blankets, the letters exchanged across distance, the tears they had wiped from each other’s cheeks. It all lived in the space between them now, silent but present, glowing like embers in the dark.

A warm, almost tangible energy radiated through their joined hands, their bodies flush with the comfort of belonging and the glow of memories that made them laugh and ache all at once. They smiled, wide and real, eyes shining with unshed tears and quiet joy.

There was no need for ceremony or grand declarations. In that shared look—those warm, lingering smiles—they had already said everything.

By your side!

By your side!

To your union

To the union! To the revolution!

“To the Revolution!” Lafayette cried, voice brimming with youthful defiance and joy, and the room erupted.

Cheers thundered through the warm, candlelit space. The younger men rose to their feet, clapping one another on the back, laughing, eyes alight with uncontainable fire. Their excitement surged through the room like a spark leaping from powder, raucous and exhilarating, a whirlwind of pure belief in a cause still being written.

Aaron Burr, ever more restrained, joined in with a quiet smile, his posture still composed, though even he couldn’t help the flicker of fondness that crossed his features. The infectious energy of his peers pulled even him in, and for a moment, he looked like one of them—just another young man clinging to the dream of a better future.

Jefferson and Madison sat further away, leant against the couch where they sat and the firelight didn’t quite reach. Jefferson’s expression was somewhere between amusement and approval, arms crossed, his head tilted slightly as he observed the others with the bemused look of someone watching a storm from safety. Madison, quieter still, had a faint smile at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes were thoughtful, calculating. They didn’t shout, but they didn’t sneer. There was admiration in the way they watched—perhaps even a trace of deepening understanding.

And then there was Washington.

He stood apart, not in distance but in weight. His figure, broad-shouldered and immovable, was carved out of stillness. His expression remained unreadable as the chorus rose again, but his silence was not born of disdain. Instead, it was the silence of someone who had seen too many battlefields to cheer easily.

His eyes swept the room slowly. He knew each man here—not just their names, but their tempers, their talents, the invisible burdens they carried. And more than that, he knew what it meant to fight a war. Not the glory of it, not the songs or the stories—but the terrible cost. The sleepless nights, the frozen hands, the brothers buried in shallow graves far from home.

His gaze settled on Alexander and John, sitting close on the couch, their shoulders brushing, heads nearly leaning together as they laughed. So young. So full of purpose and blind, beautiful hope. He admired them, deeply. But beneath that admiration sat a quiet ache.

They have no idea, he thought. No idea what this fire will ask of them.

He watched as Hamilton’s laughter lit his face with brilliance, as Laurens leaned into him, their bond obvious and unguarded. They reminded Washington of himself, long ago—before the titles, before the blood. When idealism had felt like armor instead of a weight.

He felt the burden settle heavier on his shoulders, like the old cloak of command he had long grown used to.

That was when he heard it—the soft click of footsteps approaching, light but purposeful. He turned slightly, and his eyes softened as he saw her.

“Martha,” he said, his voice low and warm in the way it only ever was with her.

She approached with quiet confidence, her presence gentle and grounding, as though the noise of the room bent respectfully around her. She didn’t need attention to command space—like her husband, she simply carried gravity. There was comfort in the way she came to him, familiar as sunrise.

“I thought you might want a moment, I have been informed of everything here” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. Her touch was soft but anchoring, and he leaned into it just enough to let her know he was glad she’d come.

He looked back toward the young men. “They’re too eager,” he said quietly. “Too willing to give everything without understanding what that truly means.”

Martha followed his gaze, her expression unreadable for a moment as she took in the room—the laughter, the joy, the sharp edge of unspoken dread beneath it all. Then she looked up at him, her voice quiet but sure.

“That’s the way of youth,” she said. “To believe they are invincible. That they must give everything. And perhaps... that they should.”

He gave a soft, bitter huff of breath. “They haven’t seen the things I have.”

“No,” she agreed. “But they will. And when they do, they’ll need someone who understands the cost to help them survive it.”

His gaze lingered on Hamilton again. “He’s brilliant. Reckless. He believes he can write the world into being.”

“He’s also still a boy, and one with no one to guide him” Martha said gently. “But so were you, once except you had someone to guide you.That’s what he needs.” She spoke gently

He looked down at her then, really looked. She had always known how to speak to the man behind the uniform. She saw not just the general, but the quiet, resolute soul beneath the steel—a man who bore not just the command of an army, but the weight of every life entrusted to him.

“They deserve more than war,” he said softly. “They deserve time. Peace. The chance to live the future they’re trying to build.”

“And if you have your way,” Martha said, “they might.”

For a moment, his expression cracked, and he let himself hope—just a little. Hope that they would survive, that there would be a tomorrow bright enough to hold all of them. That these boys, laughing so freely now, would someday grow into men who no longer needed to shout for liberty because they would be living in it.

He looked around again, at the laughter, the firelight, the youth caught in the moment.

Then he bowed his head slightly toward her. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Her fingers curled tighter around his arm. “Always.”

And for just a breath, surrounded by fire and fervor, the general let go of the weight—just enough to remember what they were all fighting for.

And the hope that you provide

You provide!

You provide!

[ANGELICA, HAMILTON AND MEN, ELIZA AND WOMEN]

May you always... (Always)

Be satisfied (Rewind)

[Recorded Samples]

Rewind, Rewind

“Qu’est-ce que c’est ? ” Lafayette asked, his voice slicing through the room with a tone of light confusion that masked an undercurrent of growing tension. He leaned forward slightly from his seat, eyes narrowed at the glowing screen before them, his brows furrowed as the scene shifted with strange familiarity—but something felt off . The sentiment in his question echoed through the room like a dropped pin in a hushed hall.

The screen flickered once. Then again.

A few gasps rippled from the group as the actors on the screen moved as if time was being reversed. 

Alexander blinked. “ Rewind? ” he repeated aloud, almost incredulous. “Why are they... rewinding?” His voice carried a sharp edge of confusion, head tilting slightly as if trying to decode something beyond his grasp. He turned to the others around him, but their expressions mirrored his own—puzzled, wary. Even the General, always the first to make light of any situation, sat still now, brow drawn tight as the seconds ticked backwards on the screen.

“Is this part of the same scene?” John asked, a low murmur, his hand subconsciously gripping Alexander’s hand.

No one answered.

The room, which had been alight with laughter and warmth just moments before, seemed to hold its breath. The fire in the hearth continued to crackle, but its warmth now felt distant—as if pushed aside by the weight of unspoken dread.

Then, from where she sat nestled between her sisters, a whisper broke the stillness.

“No,” Angelica breathed.

Heads turned toward her. Her complexion had gone pale, eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at the screen with the look of someone watching a ghost step into the room. Her posture had stiffened, and the usual composed assurance she carried like a mantle had fractured into something raw and disbelieving.

“No, surely... it cannot be. They can’t know this…” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the growing hum of the screen.

Peggy turned to her immediately, concern flashing in her eyes. “Angelica? What is it?”

Angelica didn’t respond. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the screen, watching, waiting— dreading .

Alexander noticed now, his confusion folding into alarm. He shifted slightly,. “Angelica?” he pressed, his tone sharper. “What do you mean ‘they can’t know this’? Know what ?”

But Angelica still didn’t answer. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths, her fingers tightening on the folds of her gown as a sickening feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

She knew what was coming.

And for the first time since this strange visitation from the future had begun, she wished they hadn’t seen any of it at all.

Helpless, sky's, sky's

Drownin' in em

Drownin', rewind

I remember that night, I just might (rewind)

I remember that night, I just might (rewind)

I remember that night, I remember that—

[ANGELICA]

I remember that night, I just might

Regret that night for the rest of my days

Angelica sat frozen, her back rigid against the cushions, hands clasped tightly in her lap as though bracing herself against a storm only she could see coming. Her usually warm complexion had gone nearly ashen, the color draining from her face as her eyes stayed fixed, unblinking, on the flickering screen ahead. The air around her seemed to thicken, suffocating and close. Each second that passed seemed to weigh heavier against her chest.

Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

The screen played on, the dialogue distant to her now—nothing but a muffled roar beneath the rising flood of her thoughts.

No... not this. Not this moment...

Across from her, Eliza turned with concern knitting her brows. She reached out instinctively, placing a gentle hand on Angelica’s arm, her voice soft but urgent.

“Angelica?” she asked, eyes searching her sister’s face. “What is it saying? What is it you regret?”

The question struck the air like a chord, reverberating into the sudden silence that had fallen among the others. Peggy, seated just on Eliza’s other side, shifted nervously, glancing between her sisters. Even Philip, sitting near the edge of the group, sensed the change and looked over with quiet curiosity, his earlier joy dimming.

Eliza frowned, her gaze flicking to Peggy, as though hoping she might have some unspoken understanding—but Peggy simply looked just as lost, her face drawn with worry.

Angelica’s throat tightened. The sound of Eliza’s voice—so gentle, so trusting—only deepened the dread curling in her stomach. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the screen, which continued on mercilessly, each second pulling her closer to the words she had tried so hard to bury.

The regret.

The truth .

She drew in a sharp breath through her nose, trying to steel herself, but her posture betrayed her. Her shoulders trembled ever so slightly under the weight of what was coming, and for the first time, Angelica Schuyler—ever composed, ever controlled—seemed deeply, utterly vulnerable.

And still, she didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Because the screen was speaking for her now.

I remember those soldier boys

Tripping over themselves to win our praise

“This is about the ball.”

Peggy’s voice rang out softly, yet carried a clarity that seemed to cut through the thickening tension like a blade. Her brows drew together as realization slowly dawned across her features, her gaze flitting between her sisters—Eliza’s confusion and concern, and Angelica’s haunting stillness.

She turned fully now, eyes wide, focusing on Angelica as though trying to read something hidden behind her silence. “Isn’t it?” Peggy pressed gently. “The Winter’s Ball… that’s what this is showing us. Again”

The room, still tense from the earlier shift in energy, seemed to freeze anew. Even the firelight flickered slower, its shadows creeping longer across the floor. The joyous celebration that had filled the room mere moments ago now felt far away—like the memory of warmth after stepping into a sudden cold.

Eliza looked between her sisters, a frown etching deeper into her brow. She grasped Angelica’s arm more firmly now. “Angelica, what happened at the ball? What is it you’re not saying?”

Still, Angelica did not answer. Her eyes remained fixed to the screen as though the answer itself would emerge there, raw and undeniable. Her jaw tightened ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing behind her gaze—fear, guilt, sorrow. Maybe all three.

From the opposite side of the room, a noise of irritation broke the silence.

“We were not tripping over ourselves,” John muttered, his voice carrying the wounded pride of a soldier whose honor had just been questioned. He sat up straighter, arms crossed loosely, casting a sideways glance at Lafayette and Hercules as if daring them to defend their dignity as well.

Hercules chuckled under his breath, but it was a half-hearted sound—tempered by the strange energy in the room.

John opened his mouth again, prepared to launch into a defensive tirade that might have included the words decorum , grace , and perfectly stable footing despite rum punch —but he never got the chance.

Because then came the look.

A single, quiet look from General Washington. It wasn’t harsh, nor was it overtly disapproving. But it carried the weight of a man who had seen far more than his share of chaos, and could recognize when the moment called for silence over pride.

John’s mouth closed mid-sentence.

The air between them shifted. He leaned back into the couch with a sigh and lowered his eyes, acquiescing without protest.

Silence returned—uneasy, lingering.

Peggy still watched Angelica, her own voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “What did you regret?” she asked. “What does this have to do with you ?”

The question hung in the air like smoke, curling between them.

And still, Angelica remained silent, her lips parted just slightly, her chest rising in a steady rhythm that betrayed the storm swirling behind her eyes.

I remember that dreamlike candlelight

Like a dream that you can’t quite place

But Alexander, I’ll never forget the first

Time I saw your face

A soft hum of confusion broke the stillness, coming from where Alexander sat nestled beside John on the couch. His brows drew together, lips parting slightly as he leaned forward ever so slightly, eyes locked onto the screen as if the answer might reveal itself if he just looked hard enough.

“What does that mean?” he asked aloud, voice quiet but edged with urgency. Though his tone held its usual quicksilver curiosity, there was something else threaded within it—an undercurrent of nervous energy, of not quite knowing whether he wanted the answer.

His gaze was wide, bright with a hunger to understand, but his fingers had subtly curled against the fabric of his breeches, betraying the slight tremble of tension he tried to suppress. The room offered no reply. Only the music—soft and slow now—seemed to respond, weaving its haunting melody through the air like a question with no clear answer.

No one moved to speak. Not yet.

John, ever attuned to the shifts in Alexander’s voice and posture, turned slightly toward him. Without a word, he reached out and gave Alexander’s shoulder a gentle, grounding squeeze. His thumb brushed lightly against the wool of Alexander’s coat, an unspoken reassurance passed from one heartbeat to another.

Alexander leaned ever so slightly into the touch, his jaw tightening as he glanced at John, grateful for the comfort but still caught in the strange ache of not knowing. The warmth of John’s hand helped keep the rising anxiety from tipping into something more visible.

The screen carried on. The song continued, its lyrics threading through the silence like a whisper meant for only a few to hear—laden with implication, emotion, and memory.

The question Alexander had asked still hung in the air, unanswered.

I have never been the same

Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame

The girls never noticed. Their attention was wholly captured by the screen—eyes wide, expressions tense as the flickering images continued to unfold truths that none of them had expected. The quiet between them had become heavy, filled with anticipation and an almost breathless silence, as though any sound might cause the truth to shatter.

So they didn’t see the subtle shift in Alexander.

Where he sat, half-curled against the edge of the couch, a small change came over him—barely visible at first, but no less real. He drew his arms around himself slowly, almost instinctively, as if trying to make himself smaller. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but his focus had started to blur, turning inward.

The realization had crept up on him—how much smaller he looked beside the others. The fabric of his coat, though tailored, still hung slightly off his narrow shoulders. His waistcoat didn’t hug his frame with the same filled-out strength as Lafayette’s or Hercules’. Even his breeches, though neatly fastened, gave away just how little there was of him in comparison. And seated among broad shoulders and long limbs, the contrast made him feel… young. Fragile.

Out of place.

His throat tightened, and his arms wrapped just a bit more snugly around his chest, like a quiet barrier against the vulnerability blooming in his chest. He tried to push the feeling away—tried to focus on the screen again—but his thoughts had started to spiral in the silence of his own head.

Then came a quiet sound—barely more than a hum, but warm and grounding.

John.

Seated beside him, John had noticed immediately. The slight inward curl of Alexander’s shoulders, the faint tremor of discomfort in his breath—it was all John needed to see. He let out a soothing noise, low and gentle, meant only for Alexander. Then, without ceremony, he reached over and wrapped a strong arm around Alexander’s waist, pulling him in close.

The embrace was quiet, natural—no performance, no expectation. Just warmth and safety offered freely.

Alexander leaned into it with the smallest exhale, letting his arms loosen as John’s presence steadied him. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, allowing the weight of John’s arm to remind him that he was not alone. Not here. Not ever.

The girls, still locked in the tension of the moment on screen, didn’t see. And perhaps it was better that way.

Because this moment, small as it was, belonged only to the two of them.

And when you said “Hi,” I forgot my dang name

Set my heart aflame, ev’ry part aflame

[FULL COMPANY]

This is not a game…

“Oh…”

The sound left someone’s lips—a breath, a whisper of realisation—and then it was joined by others. Murmurs rippled softly through the room like the first drops of rain on still water, voices carrying fragments of dawning understanding.

Quiet gasps.

A few exchanged glances.

Even those who hadn't fully grasped the meaning could feel the weight of it settling in the air like dust after an explosion. Something delicate, and painful, had been unearthed. The screen had told its truth—without malice, without discretion. And now, there was no going back.

Angelica sat motionless, her hand still clasped tightly in Eliza’s. She blinked once, slowly, and then again, her dark lashes trembling as a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. It trailed silently down her cheek, catching in the soft glow of the firelight, leaving a glistening path across her skin.

Her lips parted, voice barely above a breath. “I’m so sorry…”

The words cracked as they left her. Not from volume, but from the weight behind them. A trembling apology pulled from the deepest part of her—raw, exposed, and stitched with regret.

Eliza turned to look at her fully then. For a moment, there was something unreadable in her expression—hesitation, maybe even hurt—but it was fleeting. Her fingers tightened gently around Angelica’s, grounding them both. Then, with a small, steady movement, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her sister’s damp cheek, right where the tear had fallen.

Eliza’s voice came out quiet, but filled with unshakable warmth.

“We’re OK,” she whispered. “I love you, Angie.”

Angelica looked at her then—truly looked—and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Eliza’s steady, kind eyes. Eyes that held not judgment, but compassion. Forgiveness. Love.

“You’re my sister, after all.”

That simple phrase seemed to wrap around them like a balm, silencing whatever tension still lingered between them. The fire crackled gently behind them, casting the three sisters in soft gold and amber, their silhouettes drawn close together in a moment of shared pain and healing.

Peggy leaned in, resting her head gently against Angelica’s shoulder, adding her own quiet presence to the embrace. She didn’t need to say anything—her closeness said it all. The bond they shared had been shaken, yes. But never broken.

[HAMILTON]

You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied

[ANGELICA]

I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. You forget yourself

Alexander let out an undignified squeak, the sudden sound slicing through the quiet like a startled bird taking flight. His entire body jolted in place as he twisted sharply toward John, eyes wide with both offense and confusion.

“What?!” he blurted, eyebrows knitting together in indignation as he swatted lightly at John's hand, which had just delivered a mischievous pinch to his waist.

John was entirely unbothered, a lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, eyes sparkling with playful mischief. He didn’t say a word—just tilted his head toward the screen in a smug little gesture, pointing with one finger like a cat proudly revealing the bird it had caught.

Alexander followed his gaze—and the moment his eyes landed on the image now playing across the screen, his expression changed completely.

His mouth parted in a soft gasp, and a wave of colour bloomed high on his cheeks, painting them a vivid pink that quickly deepened to red. He blinked once, slowly, then hid his face briefly behind one hand with an almost embarrassed groan.

“Oh,” he said, drawing out the word like a slow realization and a quiet horror all at once. “Oh no.”

The room had quieted again, attention momentarily drifting to him in a haze of curiosity and amusement. His earlier mortification at the display on screen had returned tenfold as the footage showed a younger Alexander—bold, animated, and entirely unaware of how forward he was being as he spoke with Angelica, far too close and far too familiar.

Alexander cleared his throat, sitting a little straighter and smoothing his hands down the front of his coat in an attempt to compose himself. Despite that, the blush clung to him stubbornly, creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I am truly sorry about that, Angelica,” he said at last, voice quieter, contrite but tinged with lingering embarrassment. “It was… entirely impolite of me. Far too forward. I… I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Angelica turned her gaze to him, her expression softening. The moment was heavy, but not unkind. She looked at the man before her—older now, a touch wiser perhaps, but still carrying that irrepressible energy that had drawn her in. 

She gave him a gentle nod, a faint but genuine smile playing on her lips.

“It’s alright, Alexander,” she said, her voice like the brushing of silk.

There was warmth in her words, and something else, too—acceptance, perhaps. Or forgiveness.

Alexander nodded once, grateful, then turned his attention quickly back to the screen, eyes still wide and ears still tinged pink. John chuckled softly beside him, leaning in just enough to rest his chin on Alexander’s shoulder, clearly enjoying every second of his flustered reaction.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” John murmured with a smirk.

Alexander let out a small huff, but didn’t deny it.

[HAMILTON]

You’re like me. I’m never satisfied

[ANGELICA]

Is that right?

[HAMILTON]

I have never been satisfied

[ANGELICA]

My name is Angelica Schuyler

[HAMILTON]

Alexander Hamilton

[ANGELICA]

Where’s your fam’ly from?

[HAMILTON]

Unimportant.

James Madison let out a short, dry scoff from where he sat beside Jefferson, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His brow was arched, and though his tone was calm, it carried that familiar air of intellectual superiority.

“I believe that to be very important information,” he said pointedly, gesturing subtly toward the screen as if its contents were a matter of objective truth rather than personal embarrassment.

The room stilled slightly at the jab, a few gazes shifting cautiously toward Alexander, who had stiffened ever so slightly at the remark.

He didn’t reply at once. Instead, Alexander turned his head slowly to look at Madison, his expression unreadable for a beat. But it was in his eyes—dark, flickering with emotion he didn’t yet voice—that the depth of his reaction surfaced. There was something raw in his gaze, something tightly bound between old wounds and the forced armor of sarcasm.

When he did speak, his voice was sharp, laced with a biting sarcasm that cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Yes,” Alexander drawled, his lips curling into a cold, humourless smile. “I’m sure that telling this lovely woman—who I’ve just met and am desperately trying to impress—that I’m a bastard orphan from the middle of the damned Caribbean will absolutely charm her.”

His words rang out, not loud, but striking—clear and deliberate, the edges honed with years of defensiveness, humiliation, and pain.

A hush fell over the room.

Even Jefferson, who had seconds earlier been reclining in his chair with a smug look, now seemed momentarily disarmed. His brows furrowed slightly as he glanced between Madison and Alexander, perhaps expecting a retort that never came.

Madison’s lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever rebuttal he might have had faltered beneath the weight of Alexander’s words and the shadow behind them. There was no pretense in the way Alexander spoke—it was the voice of someone who had learned long ago how to use wit as a shield, and pride as a weapon. But beneath it all, there was still that ache—the bitter truth of a young man who had spent his life hiding the most defining parts of himself behind cleverness and ambition.

The fire crackled in the background, the only sound to fill the silence that followed.

Alexander’s shoulders were tense, and yet he did not shrink. He sat tall, his jaw set, his hands resting tightly together in his lap. He had lived that truth, again and again—and now, in this strange moment between past and present, it stood naked for all to see.

Across the room, John’s fingers gently brushed against Alexander’s knee in quiet reassurance, but he said nothing, allowing Alexander the dignity of his own voice.

 There’s a million things I haven’t done but

Just you wait, just you wait…

A subtle shiver ran through Burr as the scene on the screen shifted—familiar notes in the music returning, echoes of lines and gestures that stirred something deep in his memory. He sat forward slightly, hands clasped loosely in his lap, his expression thoughtful yet unsettled.

“That’s the same… from earlier in the show,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a question, but a quiet recognition—an eerie déjà vu that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Those around him nodded in near unison. No one spoke.

Burr’s gaze remained fixed on the screen, but his mind wandered—to the parallels, the way history seemed to echo within itself. He could feel it building again. That tension. That inevitability.

The repetition wasn’t accidental. He knew that much.

[ANGELICA]

So so so—

So this is what it feels like to match wits

With someone at your level! What the hell is the catch? It’s

The feeling of freedom, of seein’ the light

It’s Ben Franklin with a key and a kite! You see it, right?

The conversation lasted two minutes, maybe three minutes

Alexander let out a low chuckle,a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—eyes bright with ambition, posture straight and energized as he moved to sit up straighter. The soft golden light of the screen illuminated his face, casting a faint gleam over the amused expression he wore.

Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy sat close their dresses soft in hue, catching the light like petals. Angelica sat with her spine straight, ever composed, though her hands were clasped a touch too tightly in her lap. Eliza, on the other hand, was the picture of grace, her eyes already turned toward her husband with a fond smile. Peggy sat to Angelica’s other side, quiet but observant, eyes flickering between the screen and her sisters.

Alexander offered a half-smile, his voice low and almost sheepish as he addressed them, “It was a short interaction,” he murmured, as if reminiscing of what he knew to be coming.

Eliza’s expression didn’t falter. She smiled over at him, warm and patient, as if to say I already know —and perhaps she did. Her love was resilient, forged through more than just pretty words.

Angelica, however, didn’t match their ease. Her smile came a moment later and with more restraint, not quite reaching her eyes. Her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly before she turned to meet Alexander’s gaze across the room. Her voice, when it came, was measured—but it carried the sharp glint of something deeper beneath the surface.

“It was short,” she said, her tone clipped just slightly. “But it was memorable.”

The words hovered in the air longer than they should have.

Angelica quickly dropped her gaze back to the screen, the smile on her lips remaining, but her jaw tightened just enough to betray the emotion she held back.

Alexander’s smile faded into something more neutral. His fingers brushed against John’s in his lap, a silent motion, and John responded by letting their hands link more fully, steadying him.

Ev’rything we said in total agreement, it’s

A dream and it’s a bit of a dance

A bit of a posture, it’s a bit of a stance. He’s a

Bit of a flirt, but I’m ‘a give it a chance

I asked about his fam’ly, did you see his answer?

His hands started fidgeting, he looked askance?

He’s penniless, he’s flying by the seat of his pants

Alexander winced as the scene on the screen faded, the silence that followed thick and stifling. His hand, still entwined with John’s, tensed as his shoulders sank inward, his voice breaking softly into the quiet air.

“Was it truly that obvious?” he asked, the words barely audible, as if he were ashamed to speak them aloud. There was something fragile in his tone — a crack in his composure, revealing not the confident firebrand everyone knew, but the boy beneath. A boy still haunted by the memory of hunger, by the whisper of abandonment, by the endless, echoing question of am I enough?

Angelica’s response was soft, kind — chosen with care, like smoothing a frayed thread. “Not obviously so,” she said, her voice gentle, thoughtful. “It was in the little things. Mannerisms. The way you observed before you acted. The way you spoke with intention, as though every word mattered.”

She met his eyes, her expression open and sincere. “Had I not spoken with you, I would never have known. You carried yourself with intellect, with purpose. You could have passed for any son of the gentry.”

But the comfort in her words didn’t seem to reach him. Alexander gave a small, brittle nod, but his gaze dropped to the floor. The praise rang hollow against the deep, private ache in his chest. Her words, though kind, still confirmed that the mask he wore — the posture, the polish — had always been just that. A mask. A defense. A carefully constructed illusion of belonging.

Handsome, boy, does he know it!

Peach fuzz, and he can’t even grow it!

Alexander grumbled under his breath, eyes fixed on the screen with a faint scowl tugging at his lips. “I am not a child,” he muttered, arms folding across his chest in defiance as his brows furrowed with indignation. His tone wasn’t entirely serious, more a mixture of embarrassment and frustration, tinted with the kind of petulance born from being affectionately teased.

Beside him, John couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and fond. The couch shifted slightly as he leaned closer, eyes crinkling with amusement as he glanced sideways at Alexander’s sulking expression.

“Oh, Alex,” John chuckled, reaching over to squeeze Alexander’s knee with playful affection. “You say that like you didn’t just pout like one.”

Alexander shot him a glare, but the heat behind it never reached his eyes. There was a subtle blush creeping into his cheeks, betrayed by the way his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. 

Despite his grumbling, Alexander didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned just slightly more into John’s side.

I wanna take him far away from this place

Then I turn and see my sister’s face and she is…

[ELIZA]

Helpless…

“Oh, Angelica…” Eliza’s voice broke softly into the stillness, her words trembling as emotion caught in her throat. She stared at her sister, eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears, her breath hitching as she tried to gather her thoughts. The screen’s revelation still hung in the air between them, raw and heavy, exposing a truth that neither had ever spoken aloud.

“You had no need…” she tried again, her voice shaking, barely above a whisper.

Her gaze dropped, lashes casting delicate shadows over her cheeks as her head bowed under the weight of it — the shame, the guilt, the love. Eliza’s hands trembled in her lap, fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her dress as she searched for the right words, though none seemed enough.

The realization pressed into her chest with sharp edges: that her joy had come at the silent expense of the woman she had always admired, always leaned on, always loved without question. Angelica had sacrificed and she had never said a word. Eliza hadn’t known. She hadn’t asked.

And now the truth sat between them like a ghost.

“I never… I never would have wanted to take what you loved,” she murmured, barely audible. “Had I known, Angelica, had I even suspected …”

Her voice faltered again, thick with sorrow. She reached out, tentative, her hand brushing her sister’s gently.

Her heart ached, torn between gratitude for her life with Alexander and the sharp grief of knowing it had come at a cost to the sister who had always placed others first.

Angelica didn’t speak immediately, her own face unreadable, but her fingers curled slowly around Eliza’s.

And for a moment, the silence between them was fuller than words.

[ANGELICA]

And I know she is…

[ELIZA]

Helpless…

“Do not apologize, Eliza,” Angelica said softly, her voice threaded with emotion yet held together by the sheer strength of her composure. “I brought him to you, did I not?” Her eyes, still glistening with tears, found her sister’s. “I had already accepted what must be done.”

The words were quiet, but they carried weight — the weight of sacrifice, of knowing, of love buried beneath duty. Her voice cracked slightly at the end, the strain of keeping it together evident despite the small, wavering smile she offered Eliza. It wasn’t a smile of regret, but one shaped by time and the ache of loving too much in silence.

Eliza stared at her sister for a heartbeat longer, heart aching with the immensity of Angelica’s unspoken pain. Then, slowly, she leaned forward, arms opening as if to gather her into a warmth long overdue.

Angelica let out a wet, breathy chuckle that barely disguised the tear slipping down her cheek. She leaned into the embrace without hesitation, folding herself into Eliza’s arms, holding her tightly as though trying to anchor them both.

“I love you,” Eliza whispered into her hair, voice trembling with feeling.

Peggy, who had been silently watching with misty eyes, didn’t wait another second. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around them both, creating a tangle of limbs and hearts.

[ANGELICA]

And her eyes are just…

[ELIZA]

Helpless…

Eliza slowly began to untangle herself from her sisters, her arms loosening their gentle hold. The warmth of their shared embrace still lingered, but the weight of unspoken words called her back to the moment. She pulled back just enough to meet Angelica’s eyes, her hands resting gently on her sister’s arms as if reluctant to let go entirely.

Her gaze was soft, shimmering with gratitude and affection, her lips parting on a breath that trembled ever so slightly. “Thank you,” Eliza whispered, the words carrying far more than their simplicity suggested. “For everything.”

There was reverence in her voice for all the sacrifices made, for the strength Angelica had carried in silence, for the unwavering support that had never faltered even in heartbreak.

Angelica’s lips curled into a small, bittersweet smile, though her eyes still shone with unfallen tears. She shook her head lightly, as if brushing off the need for thanks, though her expression betrayed the emotion beneath.

She followed Eliza’s gaze, her eyes drifting across the room to where Alexander sat, leaning slightly into John on the couch, their hands loosely entwined in a quiet exchange of comfort. The warmth in her expression softened further, a flicker of fondness crossing her features.

“Go join them,” she murmured, her voice gentle, low, meant only for Eliza. “He needs you.”

Eliza paused, then nodded silently, her hand giving Angelica’s a final squeeze before letting go. With a soft rustle of skirts, she stood, the space between them stretching but not breaking. Angelica watched her go with quiet eyes, Peggy slipping an arm around her as the elder Schuyler sister exhaled, slow and deep, into the stillness that followed.

[ANGELICA]

And I realize

[ANGELICA AND COMPANY]

Three fundamental truths at the exact same time…

Angelica took in a steadying breath, slow and deliberate, her chest rising as if she could inhale enough air to hold herself together. Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her gown, knuckles tightening as she fought to keep her composure. The tears were threatening again  they prickled at the corners of her eyes, heavy and burning but she blinked them back, unwilling to let them fall now.

She had to stay composed. She would stay composed.

Because she knew what was coming.

The melody playing from the screen was achingly familiar, and the words  the ones that hadn’t yet come but lingered just ahead echoed in her memory like a ghost. Angelica could feel it building, that moment, the one where the music would cut deeper than before. A truth laid bare in lyric and harmony, a confession wrapped in metaphor.

She had lived it once, long ago.

Now she would live it again, with nowhere to hide.

With a final slow exhale, Angelica drew herself upright, poised and still, the perfect portrait of grace.

[HAMILTON]

Where are you taking me?

[ANGELICA]

I’m about to change your life

[HAMILTON]

Then by all means, lead the way

“So easily swayed, Hamilton. Not great for a politician, is it?” Jefferson bit out, his tone sharp with disdain and a smug curl to his lip as he leaned back slightly in his seat beside Madison. His eyes glittered, watching Alexander with a pointed gaze, clearly intent on cutting deep.

Alexander tensed immediately, the words hitting like a slap. His jaw clenched, and his fingers, which had been loosely folded in his lap, tightened into trembling fists. A flicker of something passed through his eyes,shame, frustration, anger before he turned his gaze, almost instinctively, toward General Washington.

Washington’s expression was unreadable, calm but alert, the kind of steady presence Alexander had come to lean on more than he realized. Their eyes met for only a second, but that second grounded him. No words passed between them, yet it was enough. A silent reminder that he was not alone. That he had someone in his corner.

Drawing in a slow breath, Alexander straightened his spine, forcing the tension from his shoulders. His hands were still shaking slightly the tremors betraying his nerves but he lifted his chin with practiced defiance. His voice, when it came, was quiet but firm, layered with youthful fire and raw honesty.

“I’m not a politician,” he said, meeting Jefferson’s gaze head-on, the weight of it far heavier than his years suggested. “Not yet, at the very least.”

Alexander didn’t look away, even as his heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. There was something unyielding in his eyes something that spoke of battles already fought, of the endless need to prove himself, of the scars left by being underestimated.

Jefferson opened his mouth as if to respond but faltered, caught off guard by the steadiness of Alexander’s reply and the fire behind his calm.

And still, Alexander’s hands trembled  but his voice had not. 

[COMPANY (EXCEPT ANGELICA)]

Number one!

[ANGELICA]

I’m a girl in a world in which

My only job is to marry rich

The three girls,Eliza, Angelica, and Peggy let out a shared sigh, the kind that carried years of expectation, resignation, and the quiet ache of sacrifice. Though each of them nodded slowly, it was not in agreement so much as recognition a tired acknowledgment of the truths they had been raised with. Their expressions were tinged with a wistful sadness, their eyes reflecting the weight of a world that had told them their worth was tied to their name, their dowry, their usefulness to men of status.

Peggy’s fingers twisted slightly in her skirts, Angelica’s jaw tightened just barely, and Eliza’s gaze drifted upward, her expression contemplative.

After a moment, Eliza spoke, her voice soft but steady, carrying the polite tone of someone addressing a force beyond comprehension. “Uh, voice… if it is alright, may I ask whether this is still true during the present?” Her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling above them, its intricate design casting soft shadows under the warm candlelight, like some distant dome of judgment or revelation.

There was a brief pause, the kind that stretched long enough to make one wonder if the question had been heard at all. Then, as if pulled from the very air around them, the voice responded in that familiar calm, omnipresent tone:

“It is not true as of our current time. Women and men are free to marry who they wish, irrelevant of their social and financial status.”

For a moment, the room held its breath and then, a wave of warmth passed among the women. Relief, joy, and something akin to quiet triumph filled their expressions.

Angelica’s lips parted in an exhale, her eyes blinking quickly as if she couldn’t quite believe it. Peggy grinned softly and Eliza… Eliza smiled, not brightly, but deeply. It was the kind of smile that came from knowing that while their own paths had been carved within rigid walls, their daughters; and their daughters’ daughters, might walk freely through open doors.

My father has no sons so I’m the one

Who has to social climb for one

So I’m the oldest and the wittiest and the gossip in

New York City is insidious

And Alexander is penniless

Ha! That doesn’t mean I want him any less

Angelica bowed her head in solemn acknowledgement, the soft curls at her temple shifting as her shoulders sagged ever so slightly. There was no longer anything left to conceal — no careful phrasing, no dignified silence to uphold. The truth hung in the air between them now, undeniable and raw, and she met it with quiet grace.

Eliza let out a pained whimper, her breath hitching as her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt. “Oh, Angie…” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion sorrow, confusion, love, all braided together in that single breath.

Angelica’s eyes rose slowly to meet her sister’s, and her lips trembled just faintly, but her voice remained steady. “No, Eliza,” she said, gently but firmly, “do not be upset.”

Alexander, already seated close beside Eliza, wrapped an arm protectively around her shoulders, pulling her gently into the comfort of his chest. She didn’t resist. Her head found his shoulder, and her hand clutched at his coat with silent desperation. John, sitting at Alexander’s other side, reached out with careful tenderness, brushing away a tear that trailed down Eliza’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, his gaze soft with compassion.

Eliza turned toward Angelica again, her eyes glassy and full, shimmering with guilt and confusion. She looked at her sister as if seeing her through new eyes not just as a sister, but as someone who had made a sacrifice too deep for words.

“I made a decision that night,” Angelica continued, her voice still calm, yet thick with emotion. “A decision that ensured your happiness… and one that I do not regret for a second.”

Her words, though softly spoken, rang with conviction. The warmth and strength in her voice were undeniable, a balm over the ache in the room. There was no trace of bitterness in her expression only the wistfulness of a love relinquished and the quiet pride of a choice made with intention and grace.

Angelica sat tall, blinking back the welling tears that threatened to fall. The firelight played across her face, casting a soft glow over her composed exterior and the flickering shadows of the grief beneath. Despite it all, she smiled faint, wistful, and filled with something greater than regret: acceptance.

And Eliza, still nestled between her husband and their lover looked at her sister not with pity or remorse  but with love, overwhelming and unconditional.

[ELIZA]

Elizabeth Schuyler. It’s a pleasure to meet you

[HAMILTON]

Schuyler?

[ANGELICA]

My sister

[COMPANY]

Number two!

[ANGELICA]

He’s after me cuz I’m a Schuyler sister

“No.”

Alexander’s voice cut through the air with startling force, sharp and unwavering like tempered steel. The room fell still around him as all eyes turned toward where he sat. His jaw was clenched, knuckles white where his hands rested on his knees, tension radiating from his frame. Though seated beside Eliza, supported by the warmth of both her presence and John’s quiet steadiness beside him, his emotions simmered dangerously close to the surface.

“I may have previously known General Schuyler before our meeting, thanks to General Washington,” he continued, his voice rising in intensity, raw with barely contained emotion, “but I did not pursue Eliza because she was a Schuyler!”

The declaration struck the air like a blade. His eyes, dark, burning, earnest, swept across the room, daring anyone to challenge him, to reduce his love to ambition. But no one spoke. His voice caught slightly as he reached the end of his sentence, the emotional weight of the moment crashing down. “I pursued her because she is Eliza. Because she is kind, and brave, and brilliant, and because she saw me. ”

The last word cracked faintly in his throat.

Eliza shifted gently beside him, her heart squeezing at the turmoil in his voice. She looked up at him from where she nestled against his chest, her features soft and radiant in the golden light. “Alexander,” she whispered, reaching up with careful tenderness.

A single lock of red hair had escaped the neat tie of his queue, fallen forward across his furrowed brow. With a delicate motion, she brushed it back, her fingers lingering briefly against his temple. The touch was grounding,affectionate and steadying and it brought a flicker of peace to his taut expression.

“I know, Alexander,” she said gently, her smile soft but sure, every word weighted with trust and certainty. Her eyes shimmered with love and quiet strength. “I’ve always known.”

His eyes softened, the fire in them dimming just enough to let something vulnerable peek through  gratitude, and relief, and love that had endured every storm. Slowly, his hand came to rest over hers, holding it against his heart.

That elevates his status, I’d

Have to be naïve to set that aside

Maybe that is why I introduce him to Eliza

Now that’s his bride

Nice going, Angelica, he was right

You will never be satisfied

Eliza’s gaze drifted across the room, finding Angelica where she sat, her expression composed but her eyes still carrying the remnants of earlier sorrow. Eliza’s chest tightened with emotion guilt gnawed at the edges of her heart, even though Angelica had never confessed her feelings until this very moment. She hadn't known. She couldn’t have known. And yet, the ache of knowing it now — that her sister had silently borne that love, had let it go for her, weighed heavily.

She tried to mask the sadness in her expression, to bury the guilt behind a soft smile, but her eyes betrayed her. The connection between them was still strong, threaded with shared memories and sisterly love, and Angelica would know. Eliza's fingers tightened instinctively where they rested against Alexander’s chest, her other hand brushing gently against John's sleeve in a subconscious show of needing their presence.

Feeling her shift, Alexander glanced down at her, catching the shadow flicker across her face. He mistook her expression at first, thinking she meant to move, to rise and join her sisters once more on the other couch. With a gentle nudge of encouragement, he shifted his posture slightly, giving her room to go if she wished. But to his quiet surprise, she didn’t move away.

Instead, Eliza pulled herself closer, her arms looping tighter around both him and John, her head pressing gently against Alexander’s shoulder. Her free hand slipped into John's, giving it a firm, grateful squeeze. Both men stilled for a moment, exchanging a glance over her head.

Alexander softened, resting his cheek briefly against the crown of her head, while John adjusted slightly, curling his arm more securely around her waist in comfort. Whatever storm still lingered in her heart, they were her harbor.

“I am satisfied. Now, ” Angelica’s voice broke the quiet, calm but laced with a quiet finality. Her eyes found both Eliza and Peggy. “I was telling you before we were brought here… about that gentleman from the dinner the other night - John Church.”

Both Eliza and Peggy exchanged a look, something hesitant settling between them. They knew of Mr. Church. They remembered the polite, well-dressed man who had seemed captivated by Angelica’s wit and charm. A wealthy man, respected, with a sharp mind and a more conventional life than the one Alexander Hamilton led. He was a good match. Of that, there was no doubt.

And yet…

Compared to Alexander with his fire, his relentless ambition, his passion that filled a room; there was something missing. Not in quality, but in intensity. John Church could offer security, wealth, admiration… but Alexander had ignited something else entirely. They both felt the void in that unspoken comparison.

Still, neither sister spoke the thought aloud. Instead, Eliza offered a small, brave smile, and Peggy reached across to gently take Angelica’s hand.

“You deserve someone who sees your worth,” Peggy murmured quietly. “And he seems to.”

Angelica gave the faintest nod, her smile faint but growing, and this time, her eyes held a quiet peace, not born of resignation, but of choice.

[ELIZA]

Thank you for all your service

[HAMILTON]

If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it

“ Such a charmer, Alexander!” Lafayette’s voice rang out with theatrical flair, his grin stretching from ear to ear as he leaned forward in his seat. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he waggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly toward his friend.

“Truly irresistible,” Mulligan added with a dramatic sigh, clutching at his chest as though overcome by Alexander’s charm. His booming laugh echoed through the room, and a few others chuckled along at the scene unfolding.

Alexander rolled his eyes with a huff, but a smile was already tugging at the corners of his lips. He shifted slightly where he sat, nestled comfortably between Eliza and John, and gave a slow, exaggerated shake of his head. “A beautiful woman was giving me a rare chance at a conversation actually worth my time,” he countered smoothly, voice laced with sarcasm and charm in equal measure.

Eliza let out a soft, delighted giggle beside him, her cheeks tinged a warm pink as she tilted her head toward him, brushing her shoulder against his playfully.

“Oh yes,” Peggy chimed in from across the room, arms crossed and an impish smile playing on her lips. Her gaze was trained on Eliza now, seizing the opportunity with sisterly glee. “Little Eliza seemed to have quite the thing for you soldier boys,” she said with mock seriousness, lifting a brow as though sharing a scandalous secret.

Eliza gasped in faux outrage, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement. “ Peggy! ” she half-laughed, half-whined, leaning away slightly in embarrassment. But her smile remained, and she couldn’t suppress the small laugh that escaped her lips.

John laughed too, his arm still comfortably draped across Alexander’s back. “Well, you can hardly blame her,” he said with a smirk, throwing a wink in Alexander’s direction. “We were an impressive lot.”

“Oh, so modest,” Peggy retorted, tossing a cushion toward him, which John caught with ease and a smug grin.

As the laughter continued to ripple around the room, there was an ease among them, warmth threaded into every playful jab and loving tease. For a moment, the heavier truths and the emotional strain of what they’d seen on the screen were forgotten, tucked away behind the comfort of shared memories and genuine affection.

[ANGELICA]

I’ll leave you to it

[COMPANY]

Number three!

[ANGELICA]

I know my sister like I know my own mind

You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind

If I tell her that I love him she’d be silently resigned

He’d be mine

She would say, “I’m fine”

[ANGELICA AND COMPANY]

She’d be lying

[ANGELICA]

But when I fantasize at night

It’s Alexander’s eyes

As I romanticize what might

Have been if I hadn’t sized him

Up so quickly

At least my dear Eliza’s his wife;

At least I keep his eyes in my life…

Letting out another undignified squawk of protest, Alexander threw his hands up in the air, his face flushed with exasperation as he pouted dramatically. “What is it with my eyes?!” he almost whined, the corners of his mouth tugged downward in a visible sulk. His voice cracked slightly in its pitch, making his reaction all the more amusing to the others gathered.

Laughter broke out across the room at his outburst — warm, genuine, and unrestrained. Lafayette nearly doubled over in mirth, while Hercules clapped a hand against his thigh, grinning wide. Even Burr let out a rare chuckle under his breath.

John and Eliza, sitting on either side of him, exchanged a look of fond amusement. John leaned in first, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he reached over and lightly tugged one of Alexander’s curls. “Because they are your eyes, Alex,” he teased. “And apparently they’re very expressive. Who knew?”

Alexander huffed but didn’t pull away, his pout deepening though a smile threatened to sneak through. Eliza, unable to resist, cupped his cheek gently, her thumb brushing the skin just below one of those oft-mentioned eyes.

“Your eyes are beautiful, my love,” she said softly, her voice sincere and touched with warmth. Her gaze held his for a long moment, filled with affection and reassurance.

John nodded in agreement, his tone a little more playful but just as earnest. “They really are,” he added, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Alexander’s temple, his hand resting comfortably on Alexander’s knee.

Caught between their affections, Alexander finally let out a defeated sigh, his expression softening into a flustered smile. His cheeks remained flushed, but he leaned into Eliza’s touch and allowed himself to be held in that moment, surrounded by the people who knew and loved him deeply  even if they did find amusement in the way his eyes gave away everything he felt.

[ANGELICA]

He will never be satisfied

I will never be satisfied

[ANGELICA, ALL MEN (EXCEPT HAMILTON), ALL WOMEN (EXCEPT ELIZA)]

To the groom! (x4)

To the bride! (x4)

[ANGELICA, ALL MEN, ELIZA AND WOMEN]

From your sister

Angelica! (x3)

Who is always by your side

By your side!

By your side!

To your union

To the union! To the revolution!

And the hope that you provide

You provide!

You provide!

[ANGELICA, HAMILTON AND MEN, ELIZA AND WOMEN]

May you always... (Always)

Be satisfied (x4)

[ANGELICA, MEN, WOMEN]

And I know

Be satisfied (x3)

She'll be happy as his bride

Be satisfied (x4)

And I know

Be satisfied (x4)

He will never be satisfied

I will never be satisfied

The room had fallen into a deep, almost reverent silence as the final haunting notes of the song faded away. The weight of the melody  the sorrow and longing woven through each lyric lingered like fog in the air. No one moved. No one dared speak. Even the softest breath felt like it might shatter the fragile stillness that had settled over them.

And it was right somehow right   that the one to finally pierce the silence was Angelica.

Her voice was quiet at first, but steady, as she sat upright and folded her hands carefully in her lap. “I cannot deny this—” she began, the words deliberate, each one chosen with care. “When I first saw Alexander that night, I wanted nothing more than for him to be mine.”

Angelica took a deep breath, her eyes shimmering with tears she would not allow to fall. She turned her head, locking gazes first with Alexander, then with Eliza. Her expression was open, vulnerable, but still graceful, composed.

“But I knew…” she continued, her voice softer now, and laced with bittersweet truth, “I knew that society forbade it. I was the eldest. The one who had to marry well, secure our family’s position. I had always known that love, for me, might not come freely.”

She swallowed, the pain of the memory tugging at her features. “But I saw you, Eliza,” she said gently. “That night, across the room. You had never looked at a man the way you looked at him. So full of awe, of hope, of heart. I knew then, in that moment, that if God allowed it, he was to be yours.”

A pause, her voice trembling now but her back still straight. “And despite what I thought, despite what I might have wanted… I accepted it. Truly.”

Alexander blinked, his expression unreadable but full of emotion. Eliza’s hand found his, gripping it tightly.

Angelica drew in another steady breath, her voice gaining strength again. “That is the one thing this song gets wrong,” she said with conviction, shaking her head slightly. “I will be satisfied. I am satisfied.”

She smiled now, a smile born from something more profound than joy, from peace. “Because I know that you both found the love you desired and deserved. And that… that is enough for me.”

Her final words echoed gently through the room, a balm to the ache the song had left behind. And though tears slipped silently down cheeks and hearts ached in quiet understanding.

Chapter Text

Before the soft swell of music could rise again and pull them into the next chapter of the story, the now-familiar voice echoed calmly through the chamber. 

“Before questions are asked,” the voice began, even and composed, “this song is a reprise of a previous number. There are, however, differences.”

A pause followed, the room, still holding the weight of Angelica’s heartfelt confession, murmured with quiet acknowledgment. Heads nodded, the tension easing just slightly.

“Thank you,” Eliza spoke softly, her voice one of the few that rose clearly in the gentle hush, her hand still clutching Alexander’s. Others echoed her sentiment  quiet thanks, murmured acknowledgments of appreciation to the strange but strangely considerate presence that had accompanied them throughout this surreal experience.

From one corner, Lafayette gave a small, exaggerated bow to the ceiling. “Merci, mysterious voice,” he said with a touch of humor, trying to break the solemn air just enough to ease the knot in everyone’s chest. A few soft chuckles followed  not quite laughter, but something.

Alexander exhaled slowly, his eyes on the screen ahead though his mind still lingered in the moment past. He appreciated the warning, the kindness in offering a moment’s clarity before emotions could tangle again.

John leaned gently into his side, a reassuring presence.

Even General Washington gave a quiet nod of gratitude, his expression solemn but appreciative. 

All eyes turned toward the screen once more, the moment reset. The silence before the next storm had been granted — and with it, a brief breath of stillness.

[LAURENS]

I may not live to see our glory!

John’s gaze flickered toward Alexander the moment he felt the subtle tension ripple through him a barely perceptible tightening of his fingers, the way his posture shifted just slightly, as if bracing for a blow that hadn’t yet come. The screen ahead stirred memories, words from earlier in the show echoing too loudly in Alexander’s mind. Ones laced with loss. 

Without a word, John gently reached for Alexander’s interlacing their fingers with a quiet, deliberate care. His grip was firm, grounding. Alexander’s hand was cold the chill of remembered fear and pain clinging to his skin despite the warmth of the room around them.

Leaning in just slightly so no one else could hear, John whispered in a voice barely louder than a breath, “I’m here, Alex. I’m alive and sat right beside you.”

His words were soft, but their weight was immeasurable.

Alexander blinked, his eyes glassy with unspoken emotion. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t speak the lump in his throat catching any sound before it could form. But he turned toward John slightly, just enough for their foreheads to briefly touch, a small nod all he could manage as a wave of emotion surged through him.

[MULLIGAN/LAFAYETTE]

I may not live to see our glory!

[LAURENS]

But I’ve seen wonders great and small

“Oh, do explain, mon ami! ” Lafayette grinned, the mischief dancing in his eyes as he leaned slightly forward in his seat, his tone laced with anticipation.

The four men of the Revolutionary set, Lafayette, Mulligan, Laurens, and Hamilton, shared a single glance. It was all it took. Whatever memory had just flashed across the screen had ignited something between them, a shared recollection held tight in the bonds of brotherhood. Their expressions twitched with suppressed laughter until the dam broke, and they all burst out chuckling in near-perfect harmony.

Alexander tried to hide a smirk behind his hand, John nudging him with a knowing look while Hercules slapped a palm against his knee, laughing loudly. Lafayette let out a melodic chuckle, shaking his head in amusement, clearly enjoying the ripple of mischief between them.

The rest of the room, however, was left entirely in the dark.

“What on earth is so funny?” Peggy whispered toward Angelica, who could only shrug in bemused confusion.

On the other side of the room, seated with an air of composed grace, Martha Washington tilted her head curiously. Her soft curls were pinned perfectly in place, and a light smile played on her lips as she leaned toward her husband, a twinkle of amusement in her gaze. “I thought you had knowledge of all the workings in camp,” she teased, her voice sweet and silken, though clearly poking gentle fun.

George Washington let out a low sigh through his nose, his weathered features shifting with a faint, wry smile. His posture remained stately, hands folded on his lap, yet his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, watching the shadows of past events unfold.

“Apparently not,” he murmured, voice quiet and contemplative. “Although… I believe this may have occurred on Alexander’s wedding night. Likely after I had already retired for the evening.”

Martha raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “So the night you passed along a young man, one that you feel rather fatherly towards, into the care of matrimony, caused just enough chaos to still be the talk of the camp, even now?”

“Mm,” Washington hummed, not denying it. A rare flicker of something between fondness and resignation ghosted across his face, the kind only a man long familiar with Alexander’s ways could do.

The room remained abuzz with hushed giggles and questions, most of the group still wondering what the Revolutionary men had found so amusing. But for the four comrades, it was a memory best kept close, the kind of recollection wrapped in nostalgia, mischief, and the bittersweet echo of simpler days.

[MULLIGAN/LAFAYETTE]

I’ve seen wonders great and small

[LAURENS]

‘Cause if the tomcat can get married

Alexander rolled his eyes dramatically, though there was no true irritation behind the gesture. A playful glare was thrown upward toward John, who chuckled softly from where he sat on the couch. Alexander was comfortably curled against his chest, John’s arm resting securely around his waist. On the other side, Eliza was similarly nestled against Alexander, her head resting gently on his shoulder, their closeness painting a picture of quiet intimacy and safety.

“I am not a tomcat!” Alexander huffed, his voice lifting in a pitch that bordered on a whine, his face flushed with playful indignation.

Before he could continue protesting, a deep and familiar voice cut through the moment with a surprising calm authority.
“Yes, you are, son.”

Alexander’s eyes widened slightly in alarm as he turned to find General Washington watching him with a rare but unmistakable twinkle in his eye. The older man’s usual solemn demeanor was tempered by the dry amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth, his hands steepled lightly as he leaned forward.

Martha, seated gracefully beside her husband, smiled knowingly. She added her voice to the teasing chorus, “I didn’t give the cat your name for no reason, Alexander.”

The comment hit him like a thunderbolt of remembered embarrassment. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly before he groaned and let his head fall back against John’s shoulder, face now blooming with deep crimson.
“That wasn’t meant to come back and haunt me,” he muttered under his breath, clearly referencing the earlier conversation he’d had with the General about the cat named "Hamilton."

John laughed aloud, clearly enjoying the sight of his usually quick-witted partner momentarily outmaneuvered. Eliza giggled as well, brushing her fingers affectionately along Alexander’s arm, her eyes sparkling.

“I think it suits you,” she teased gently, voice warm with affection. “Charming, curious, always slipping through windows you probably shouldn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” Alexander grumbled, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed just how little he meant it. His gaze flicked toward Washington and Martha, both of whom now wore matching expressions of warm amusement and genuine affection. 

[MULLIGAN/LAFAYETTE]

If Alexander can get married—

[LAURENS]

There’s hope for our ass, after all!

[LAFAYETTE]

Raise a glass to freedom

[LAURENS/MULLIGAN]

Hey!

Something you will never see again!

Eliza pulled away from Alexander slightly, sitting up a little straighter. Her eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with playful indignation. Reaching out, she gave John a deliberate, pointed swat on the arm.

“John Laurens,” she said, her tone syrupy sweet with just enough sharpness beneath, “what exactly did you mean by that little comment?”

John blinked, glancing at her as though hoping he might have misheard. “What comment?”

“That now Alexander is married, he’ll never see freedom again,” Angelica supplied, folding her arms as her expression shifted into one of mock offense. Her raised brow and narrowed eyes sparkled with amusement, but also a quiet promise that she was not above dragging him further if he dodged the question.

“Oh yes,” Peggy added, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “Are you saying that love and freedom are mutually exclusive , Mr. Laurens? Because I think I speak for the three of us when I say that’s an interesting theory.”

John lifted his hands quickly in protest, an unmistakable blush beginning to spread across his cheeks. “It was a joke! Just a joke, we used to say it back in camp, just a bit of harmless teasing!”

“Harmless,” Eliza repeated, eyes wide and faux-innocent, “so, freedom ends with a ring, does it?”

“Freedom ends with wives, apparently,” Angelica added dryly.

“Or maybe the real problem is we terrifying women who dare to ask questions,” Peggy said, voice dripping in mock offense as she tapped her chin thoughtfully.

John looked increasingly desperate, his gaze flicking to Alexander as if hoping for backup. “Alex-”

But Alexander just leaned back with a lazy smirk. “I told you, you were on your own with that one.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” John pleaded, laughing nervously. “Truly,I meant it like a camp thing. Just soldier talk. Not serious. Not,not actually about you lovely ladies, I swear-”

“Laurens.”

The single word, spoken in the low, commanding voice of General Washington, silenced the room. The elder man, seated comfortably beside Martha, gave John a knowing look beneath furrowed brows. “It’s better to accept the defeat now. You won’t win this battle.”

Martha gave a delicate little nod beside him. “Smart man,” she said sweetly. Then her gaze shifted across the room landing on the younger men with a pointed, piercing sharpness that cut through the teasing atmosphere like a blade. “Some men have to learn the hard way. I recommend none of you try.”

The room chuckled nervously, and even Hercules subtly shifted a little straighter in his seat glad to not be the focus of the ladies attention when it was both he and Laurens speaking on screen.

John groaned, slumping slightly in defeat, his blush deepening. “I surrender. Fully. No terms. Just mercy.”

“You’re lucky we’re gracious,” Eliza said smoothly.

“Gracious and terrifying,” Alexander whispered under his breath with a grin.

John slanted him a glare, though there was no heat in it. “You’re not helping.”

Alexander gave him an unapologetic shrug. “Welcome to married life, mon chou.”

“God help me,” John mumbled, causing another round of laughter to ripple through the room.

[MULLIGAN]

No matter what she tells you

[LAFAYETTE]

Let’s have another round tonight!

“Should you boys really be having another drink?” Martha’s voice cut through the lighthearted laughter with a tone of maternal firmness that made several of the men flinch as if caught red-handed. Her expression was calm, but her eyes—sharp as ever—surveyed them all like a schoolmistress spotting mischief in her classroom.

Her folded arms and the lift of one perfectly arched brow gave her an air of commanding authority, the kind that made even seasoned soldiers sit up straighter.

“You all sound like you’ve already had more than a few,” Angelica added, her voice dry with bemusement as she glanced around the room. Her eyes landed first on Laurens, still red-faced from the last round of teasing, then on Hercules who was trying unsuccessfully to stifle a hiccup, and finally on Alexander, who, rather than looking sheepish, wore an infuriatingly smug grin.

Alexander raised his hands in mock surrender, the smirk playing on his lips growing into a crooked, boyish smile. “It was my wedding night,” he said, voice full of mischief, “there was never a time that there were too many drinks.”

“You said that like it’s a noble cause,” Eliza murmured, nudging him gently with her elbow, though her fond smile betrayed her amusement.

“Besides,” Alexander continued, glancing toward the other men for support, “I think everyone was just trying to toast the happy couple as much as possible. It would have been rude not to drink.”

“A sacrifice ,” Hercules added dramatically, clutching an imaginary glass to his chest. “Truly, we were drinking for you , Alexander.”

John snorted. “You drank enough for three weddings .”

“And then some,” Burr chimed in, dry as ever, his lips twitching at the corners.

Martha’s gaze swept over them all once again. “I swear, it’s like watching boys in uniform playing at adulthood,” she muttered under her breath, though her eyes sparkled with faint affection.

General Washington coughed softly into his hand, fighting a smile of his own. “You must forgive them, dear,” he said, glancing at his wife with an almost sheepish glance. “They are still boys in some ways. War makes them older, but not always wiser.”

“You’re not exempt from that comment,” Martha said, shooting him a glance.

Angelica leaned toward her sisters, whispering with a smirk, “It’s like a room full of sons. Loud, proud, and utterly without shame.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Peggy whispered back, grinning, “it’s rather endearing.”

Eliza just laughed quietly, resting her chin on Alexander’s shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her waist. “As long as they don’t try for another drink,” she said, “I think we’ll survive it.”

Alexander opened his mouth like he might have been about to suggest just that—but the look from Martha Washington shut him down instantly.

He sat back, arms lifted again in surrender. “Noted. No more drinks. At least not without your blessing, ma’am.”

Martha gave a regal nod. “See that you remember it.”

[LAURENS]

Raise a glass to the four of us!

[LAFAYETTE/HAMILTON]

Ho!

[MULLIGAN]

To the newly not poor of us!

Alexander let out a small, almost silent sigh—quiet enough that most wouldn’t hear it, but not Eliza.

She felt it more than she heard it. A subtle shift in the rhythm of his breathing, the way his shoulders curved inward ever so slightly. It was the kind of sigh born not from physical exhaustion, but from something heavier—something older and far more familiar.

Her gaze flicked toward him, soft and steady. Though he kept his eyes on the screen, she could tell—he wasn’t really seeing it. His mind had wandered, pulled back into a memory.

And she knew .

He was remembering that night. Their wedding night. Not just the joy, the warmth, the celebration… but the quiet, fragile truths that lay underneath. She shifted slightly, the movement subtle, curling herself more securely into his side, her hand gently finding his where it rested, clenched too tightly on his thigh.

“You’re not a burden, Alex,” she whispered softly, her voice low enough to keep the moment entirely between them. “You never have been.”

His breath caught, his eyes darting toward hers in surprise. He hadn’t said a word. Not out loud. But somehow, she knew .

Eliza reached up and brushed a few stray strands of hair behind his ear, her fingers lingering at his cheek. “You don’t have to feel guilty for being relieved,” she murmured, her eyes shining with quiet intensity. “You’ve fought so long just to survive. Let yourself rest now. Let yourself have this.”

Alexander blinked rapidly, and his lower lip trembled for the briefest moment. The weight of those words, the permission in them, hit deeper than any praise or admiration ever could. He turned his hand and gripped hers tightly.

On his other side, John had noticed the exchange. He leaned in slightly, his hand coming to rest gently on Alexander’s back in a soothing, grounding touch. His voice, just as soft, joined Eliza’s.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology for surviving, Alex,” John said quietly. “Not me. Not Eliza. Not even yourself.”

Alexander let out a quiet, shuddering breath, eyes closing for a heartbeat. And when he opened them again, there was something lighter in them, just a touch. 

He nodded, the motion small but resolute. And without a word more, both Eliza and John leaned in, each placing a kiss,one to his temple, the other to his shoulder.

Between the noise and movement of the room around them, this moment was theirs alone.

[LAURENS/LAFAYETTE/HAMILTON]

Woo!

[LAFAYETTE]

We’ll tell the story of tonight

[LAURENS]

Let’s have another round—

[HAMILTON]

Well, if it isn’t Aaron Burr

[BURR]

Sir!

Alexander and Burr met each other’s gaze across the room, both turning at the exact same moment as if pulled by some unspoken signal. Their eyes locked, a familiar spark igniting between them—neither hostile nor entirely friendly, but something uniquely theirs. It was the tension of shared ambition, unspoken challenges, and mutual recognition.

A flicker of a smirk twitched at the corners of Alexander’s lips, his posture straightening slightly as though preparing for a duel of words rather than weapons. Burr raised a brow in response, his expression calm and unreadable, but his eyes glinting with amusement. There was a silent message passed between them, sharp and charged with history: Not yet, but soon.

Around them, several of the other soldiers,Laurens, Lafayette, even Mulligan chuckled knowingly. They’d seen this before. The subtle dance of competition and camaraderie between the two men had become almost routine, like a familiar tune that always hinted at the same notes.

“Five seconds,” Laurens whispered to Lafayette with a grin, “before they start trying to out-eloquence each other.”

“I give it three,” Lafayette replied with a soft laugh, taking a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving the pair.

Even General Washington, from where he sat beside Martha, seemed to glance their way with the air of someone both fond and mildly exasperated. He knew the spark between Hamilton and Burr could be a powerful force,for good or for chaos.

Still, in that moment, Alexander and Burr didn’t say a word. Just a steady, almost respectful nod exchanged between two men walking the same road but at very different paces.

[HAMILTON]

I didn’t think that you would make it

[BURR]

To be sure

[MULLIGAN/LAFAYETTE]

Burr!

[BURR]

I came to say congratulations

Eliza offered Burr a gentle smile from where she sat, her voice soft but sincere. “Thank you, Mr. Burr.”

Aaron looked at her and gave a small nod in return, his expression unreadable.

Inside, however, something twisted.

She was kind, warm—grateful. And he would be the one to bring her pain. The one who would make her a widow.

Burr turned his gaze back to the screen, swallowing the weight in his chest. There was no malice in her eyes. Only grace. And yet, he believed his path was already written—a path that ended with him taking away the man she loved.

A quiet sorrow settled over him. He didn’t know when or how, only that it would come if he decided to not change it.

[MULLIGAN]

Spit a verse, Burr!

[BURR]

I see the whole gang is here

[LAFAYETTE]

You are the worst, Burr!

Aaron tensed in his seat, the jestful remark from the clearly very, very drunk Frenchman echoing louder in his ears than it likely had in the room. Laughter still danced around them, light and harmless to most but to Burr, the words carried weight.

Across from him, Lafayette winced the moment the sharpness of his own voice caught up with him. The mood had been light, jovial, Burr’s quiet refusal to join in hadn’t warranted such a barbed comment, not really. He’d meant no harm.

“I am sorry, Aaron,” Lafayette said quickly, “I did not mean for that to come across as rude.”

Burr gave a short, polite nod, his jaw tight as he accepted the apology. To the casual observer, it might have seemed the end of it. But those who knew Burr well,those who watched closely,could see the tension hadn’t left him. His lips pressed into a thin line, his posture upright and stiff as if bracing against some unseen tide.

He wasn’t upset about the comment itself. Not truly. It was the laughter that followed, the easy camaraderie he couldn’t quite step into, the closeness that felt just out of reach. 

[HAMILTON]

Ignore them. 

The screen froze mid-motion, catching the moment Lafayette let out a dramatic, playful scoff,his grin wide and infectious. Mulligan barked a laugh while John leaned in to jab his elbow lightly into Alex’s side, making the smaller man jolt slightly.

“Wow, thanks Alex!” Mulligan exclaimed with exaggerated offense, his hand placed over his heart in mock hurt as he rolled his eyes dramatically.

Alexander’s expression was a mix of amusement and frustration, his face pinched with mock indignation, brows furrowing as he leaned forward in protest. “You know what I meant!” he exclaimed, voice half-laughing, half-whining, though the pink creeping up his cheeks suggested a hint of embarrassment.

The room chuckled, the energy light and teasing, the moment frozen in good-natured fun. Even Washington, who usually kept himself slightly removed from the younger men’s antics, let a quiet smile tug at the corner of his mouth. The warmth between them was palpable,brotherhood forged in battle, strengthened by laughter, even in the middle of a surreal and emotionally heavy night.

John’s fingers lingered briefly on Alexander’s arm, a silent reassurance in the touch. “You really do make it too easy sometimes,” he murmured quietly, his voice fond.

Alexander huffed, folding his arms but unable to suppress the smile tugging at his lips. “I’m surrounded by traitors,” he grumbled, earning another round of laughter from the gathered friends.

Congrats to you, Lieutenant Colonel

I wish I had your command instead of manning George’s journal

Alexander winced at the bluntness of his onscreen counterpart, his body curling inward as the words echoed a little too closely to the truth. Though dramatized, the sentiment wasn’t far from the actual conversation he and Burr had shared on his wedding night.

Almost unconsciously, he tucked himself closer between John and Eliza. John’s steady presence and Eliza’s gentle embrace forming a quiet shield against the scrutiny he now felt. The warmth of John’s arm draped protectively around his shoulder and the press of Eliza’s hand against his knee grounded him, but it didn’t stop the dread pooling low in his stomach as he felt that unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Lifting his gaze hesitantly, he found himself caught in the sharp, piercing stare of General Washington. The older man’s eyes were heavy with disappointment,not anger, but something deeper, quieter, and far more painful to endure.

“Is that what you truly think?” Washington asked, his voice calm but firm, laced with a fatherly sternness. One thick brow arched, waiting for the younger man to answer.

Alexander’s heart skipped a beat and he shook his head quickly, almost too quickly. “No, sir. I promise,” he said, the words tumbling out as his throat tightened. He straightened slightly, trying to appear more composed than he felt.

Washington’s eyes remained on him a moment longer, assessing, weighing the truth in his words. Finally, he let out a low hum, neither displeased nor entirely convinced, and slowly nodded.

“Good,” he said at last, his tone softening. “You are very important to this cause, Lieutenant. I hope you never forget that.”

The statement struck Alexander deeper than he expected. He swallowed thickly, nodding back, voice lost to emotion. Washington turned his attention back to the screen, but the moment lingered,heavy and strangely comforting.

[BURR]

No, you don’t

[HAMILTON]

Yes, I do

[BURR]

Now, be sensible

From what I hear, you’ve made yourself indispensable

Washington spoke up again, his voice calm but firm, the kind of voice that demanded attention without raising in volume. “You truly are, Alexander,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of sincerity and unwavering respect. “We could not continue fighting this war if it were not for your rather successful correspondences with Congress.”

The words seemed to echo in the room, heavy with unexpected praise. Alexander’s breath hitched quietly, and he lowered his gaze, refusing to meet Washington’s eyes. A flush rose up his neck, creeping across his cheeks and ears. The praise particularly from someone like Washington was almost too much to bear. The back of his neck burned, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to suppress the small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

Lafayette stepped in, clearly unwilling to let the moment pass without reinforcing the truth. “It is true, mon ami,” he said warmly, a hand gesturing broadly as he spoke. “Yes, I, John, Tilghman, the other aides we all write to Congress and to various benefactors, requesting their aid, reporting on matters... but not one of us,” he said with a soft chuckle, “not one of us can replicate your success.”

Alexander’s face turned even redder, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, still not quite able to look up. Eliza smiled fondly from beside him, reaching out to place her hand over his. Her touch was reassuring,silent permission to accept the praise without shame.

John, sitting just on his other side, bumped their shoulders together lightly. “Don’t act so surprised, Alex. You’ve always had a way with words, and we’ve all benefited from it.”

Even Mulligan, leaning back in his seat with a grin, called out, “If it wasn’t for your letters, we’d be fighting this war barefoot and starving!”

Laughter rippled lightly around the room, but the admiration was genuine. Alexander looked up through his lashes, finally glancing toward Washington, whose expression had softened with quiet pride.

“You are more than just a soldier, Lieutenant,” the General said, his eyes steady. “You are a voice this revolution depends on.”

[LAURENS]

Well, well, I heard

You’ve got a special someone on the side, Burr

[HAMILTON]

Is that so?

The room echoed with laughter as Alexander perfectly mimicked the words of his on-screen counterpart, his timing so precise it earned amused glances and light teasing. Eliza smiled fondly, and John nudged him with a grin, but across the room, Aaron sat still, the amusement not touching him.

His mind raced.

They couldn’t know. Could they?

He looked around the room, heart thudding louder with each beat. Everyone was so at ease, focused on the screen, unaware— or were they?

His gaze drifted upward to the ceiling, where the voice had echoed again and again. It wasn’t guessing. It knew.

This is the future. They could know everything.

His mouth went dry. The weight of what was still to come settled on his chest like a stone. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just sat there, back stiff, breath steadying as he prepared himself.

[LAURENS]

What are you tryin’ to hide, Burr?

[BURR]

I should go

“Yes, get out of there while you can,” Jefferson grumbled, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared half-heartedly at the screen. His tone was laced with bitterness, the words sharp even if said under his breath. 

His jaw tensed as he thought of his own timeline, of the political entanglements, the heated debates, the endless back-and-forth with Hamilton . If he could go back, he might’ve taken a different path,maybe one that didn’t involve getting so deeply wrapped up in the whirlwind that was Alexander Hamilton.

Beside him, Madison glanced over, taking in his friend’s expression. “Come on now, Thomas,” James said, his voice calm, tempered with something that resembled quiet exasperation.

Jefferson shot him a pointed look in return. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t consider it too,” he muttered.

Madison didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he gave a small, knowing smile,the kind that acknowledged shared experience without agreement. Then, with a light sigh, he looked back at the screen, leaving Jefferson to his brooding thoughts.

[HAMILTON]

No, these guys should go

[LAFAYETTE]

What?

[LAURENS]

No!

[HAMILTON]

Leave us alone

“Hey! Really, Alexander! Sending us away as if we were nothing!” Hercules exclaimed, dramatically throwing his hands in the air, a mock glare directed at the man in question. His voice echoed in the quiet space, drawing attention and causing a few snickers from those who caught the lighthearted tone.

Alexander flinched at the words, his shoulders tightening instinctively as if bracing for a scolding or genuine anger. His fingers twitched slightly against his knees, his mind racing with old instincts. Had he done something wrong? Had he hurt them?

The silence that followed felt deafening in his ears, heart pounding in his chest as he looked up only to freeze when he caught the familiar spark of mischief in Hercules’ eyes.

A breath of relief escaped him in the form of a choked laugh, his tension melting just slightly. “You guys know I would never!” he said quickly, trying to match Hercules’ teasing tone.

The words came out light, but not without tremor. There was a quivering edge to his voice, a subtle shake that didn’t go unnoticed by those closest to him.

John, who had leaned slightly forward as if to intervene, relaxed again, offering Alexander a soft smile.

Lafayette chuckled, nudging Hercules with an elbow. “You scared him, mon ami.”

Hercules gave a sheepish grin, waving his hands. “What, me? I was being nice!”

“Your nice needs work,” John grinned, but there was warmth in his eyes as he clapped a hand on Alexander’s shoulder, grounding him.

Alexander nodded, a bit sheepishly, brushing the hair from his face as he let the playful atmosphere wash over him. He was still learning, learning what it meant to be teased, to be cared for, to be safe.

[MULLIGAN]

Man…

[HAMILTON]

It’s alright, Burr. I wish you’d brought this girl with you tonight, Burr

[BURR]

You’re very kind, but I’m afraid it’s unlawful, sir

Burr tensed, his entire frame going rigid in his seat as the air in the room seemed to shift. His eyes widened, locked on the screen with the kind of intensity that bordered on dread.

He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even blinked as the scene unfolded before them but now, as the truth began to reveal itself on the screen, the one secret he’d buried deeper than any other, he felt as if the breath had been knocked from his lungs.

Around him, the atmosphere shifted with a quiet but palpable curiosity. The others, some seated near and others across the room, began to glance his way, their expressions filled with curiosity.

Burr's throat bobbed with a silent swallow. His jaw tightened, and for a brief second, it looked as though he might stand and leave. But he didn’t, couldn’t. All he could do was sit and watch as his private burden, the truth he had worked so hard to keep hidden, was laid bare before those he called allies… and rivals.

The weight of their unspoken reactions began to press in, but he didn’t meet any of their gazes. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, his face composed with a sharp, practiced control,only his clenched fists and too-still posture betraying the storm that brewed inside.

[HAMILTON]

What do you mean?

[BURR]

She’s married

[HAMILTON]

I see

[BURR]

She’s married to a British officer

Remarks of surprise echoed through the room like a ripple across still water. Gasps, muttered exclamations, and a few stunned silences passed from person to person as the revelation sank in.

All eyes turned to Aaron Burr.

He had gone pale, his face stiff and unreadable, but the sharp intake of breath gave away the tension wracking through him. His shoulders were rigid, posture too still—as though bracing for an impact he had long anticipated and still feared.

Panic flickered in his eyes as he looked around the room, every part of him on edge.

To his left, James Madison and Thomas Jefferson exchanged a glance. Being from further in the timeline than most others in the room, they already knew parts of Burr’s path. Even so, seeing it revealed here and now brought a different weight. Jefferson looked stunned, for once without a snide remark, while Madison’s features remained tight with unease.

Jefferson coughed, choking slightly on the whiskey he had been sipping. “Really, Burr?! I would never have thought that of you.”

“Thomas,” James muttered sharply, sending him a glare. “Not the time.”

Jefferson grumbled something under his breath, dabbing at the mess from his coughing fit as he continued to sip from his glass.

The rest of the room remained quiet, every gaze focused on Burr, some surprised, some searching, and others unreadable.

Across the way, the women exchanged looks, but none spoke. Whatever thoughts flickered behind their eyes, they kept them hidden, their expressions unreadable, their silence adding more weight than words could have.

[HAMILTON]

Oh shit…

[BURR]

Congrats again, Alexander. Smile more

Alexander looked down at his lap, where his fingers were gently entwined with Eliza’s in one hand and John’s in the other. The warmth of their touch was a grounding force, tethering him to the present despite the surreal experience they were all sharing. This strange, ethereal situation watching their lives most of which they had not experienced themselves unfold on a stage, being pulled from their timeline had offered something he never thought possible.

Here, in this strange pause between timelines, he had been given the space to simply exist with both of them. To love openly. To hold Eliza without hesitation, and to sit pressed against John without fear. No secrecy, no stolen glances. Just love, in its full, complicated, and unapologetic form.

His gaze shifted across the room, landing quietly on Burr. The man sat unnaturally still, pale, and visibly rattled. His secret had been unveiled without warning, laid bare for all to see, and though the room was filled with murmurs and confusion, Burr said nothing.

Alexander’s chest tightened.

Because even when they return, nothing would have changed for Burr. He wouldn’t have the love he craved, the one he kept buried behind veils of propriety and ambition. He would still stand alone.

I’ll see you on the other side of the war

[HAMILTON]

I will never understand you

If you love this woman, go get her! What are you waiting for?

Angelica’s voice cracked like a whip through the room, her words laced with sharp frustration, sorrow, and a deep, echoing fury that had clearly been simmering for far too long.

“The woman is married, Alexander,” she snapped, her posture rigid, her eyes blazing. “Even if she wanted to marry Aaron, she could not. And Aaron—” she turned her gaze toward Burr, who flinched slightly under the intensity of it “—he gets no say in the matter either. Unless, of course, in this forsaken world, her husband conveniently disappears.”

A silence followed, tense and thick. Angelica’s fingers twisted tightly together in her lap, white-knuckled. The anger wasn’t directed at any one person,no, this fury was older, deeper. It was for the rules that bound them, the customs that chained them, the expectations that dictated their lives without pause or mercy.

Across the room, Martha shifted slightly, her calm and steady voice echoing with wisdom only earnt through time

“You are not wrong, Angelica,” she said, her tone soft but firm, like the steel wrapped in silk she was known to be. “We women have been forced to accept the path laid before us for generations. Even when that path was paved with silence, and sacrifice, and pain.”

Angelica’s jaw clenched, but her eyes flickered to Martha, something in her expression easing, if only a little.

“But,” Martha continued, her gaze sweeping the room slowly, lingering briefly on each young face, “we are here, watching a world that no longer seems to live by those same chains. We are seeing a future. That means change can come, perhaps already has… and that alone is reason to hope. Even if it was not in our time.”

Burr’s eyes dropped to the floor, his shoulders tense, the weight of both past and future pressing against him. Angelica inhaled deeply through her nose, still rigid, still burning, but less alone in it now.

[BURR]

I’ll see you on the other side of the war

[HAMILTON]

I’ll see you on the other side of the war

The room was steeped in a heavy silence as the last notes of the song faded into nothing. The final lyrics,so stark, so unflinchingly real,echoed in the minds of the soldiers, conjuring images: blood-soaked fields, friends lost in the blink of an eye, the weight of orders that never left their conscience. No one moved, the room holding its breath under the sheer gravity of what had just been sung.

Phillip’s voice, tentative but earnest, broke through the stillness.

“That seems like a very dark outlook on the war, Pa.”

All eyes turned to him. The young man sat with his brows furrowed, lips slightly parted in confusion. He looked at Alexander not just as a father, but as a puzzle, this version of his father, so much younger than the man he had left in his own timeline, and yet carrying a weariness and steel that mirrored the elder version all the same.

Alexander let out a slow, tired breath, one that aged him in an instant. His smile was faint and tinged with sadness, the corners of his mouth barely twitching upward.

“It is the common way,,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “When you live in times like these, surrounded by death and uncertainty, you don’t dare plan for a future that might not exist.”

He paused, his eyes drifting toward the flickering screen that had shown them too much already.

“We do not know what will happen,” he continued, now looking back at Phillip. “There is no guarantee. We shall either see each other at the gallows… or in a free country. Either way, we meet again. On the other side of the war.”

Phillip's mouth opened slightly as though to respond, but no words came. His gaze softened, realization dawning slowly across his face. This was not cynicism he heard in his father's words, it was survival. A promise spoken from the trenches of uncertainty

Around the room, the others remained quiet. 

Eliza rested her head on Alexander’s shoulder reaching across him to John, gripping his hand in hers. Her presence a comforting presence for both men. No words were spoken, but the gesture was enough

Chapter Text

The revelations from the previous songs still lingered in the air like smoke from a battle not yet fully extinguished. The room had grown quiet not with fear, but with a contemplative weight. It wasn’t the kind of tension that threatened to snap, but one that held people still in thought. Eyes flicked to one another only occasionally, each person mulling over what they’d seen, and what it said about the world they came from, the world they hoped to change. The dream of freedom felt more tangible with each scene played out, more within reach, yet also more daunting. The stakes had never felt clearer.

The screen in front of them continued its vivid retelling of Alexander’s life, and it was impossible not to be drawn in. Even Aaron Burr, who had earlier been visibly shaken by his darkest secret having been laid bare, seemed to have pulled his composure back around him like a cloak. But as the next scene began and the lighting on the stage shifted, Burr’s face paled once more. His jaw tensed, shoulders pulling taut as though bracing for a blow he couldn’t name.

Phillip, seated near Alexander, having moved away from his aunts wanting to be nearer his ma and pa, leaned forward slightly. His brow furrowed, eyes tracking the movements on screen. “Why is everyone leaving the stage?” he asked, his voice soft, uncertain. His gaze moved from the actors to his father, then quickly flicked toward General Washington.

“Not everyone,” Washington responded, his voice steady with the quiet wisdom that always seemed to accompany it. He turned his head from the screen and looked first at Phillip, then slowly, intentionally toward Burr. The weight of his gaze was impossible to ignore.

“Burr’s actor is still there.”

He paused, folding his hands in front of him as his eyes flicked back to the screen, his expression thoughtful but grave. “It seems,” he added, voice lowering slightly, “we are about to learn what was going on inside Aaron’s mind.”

All eyes turned toward Burr once more, who stared at the screen with wide eyes, his mouth slightly agape. The color had drained from his face, and though he remained outwardly calm, his fingers gripped the arms of his chair with white-knuckled intensity.

He said nothing but in the flicker of the screen’s light across his face, it was clear that whatever was coming, Burr already knew it would reveal more than he was ready to face.

[BURR]