Chapter Text
Alexander Hamilton never believed in fate, but he was starting to think the universe had it out for him.
It had happened so quickly—one moment he was striding across the marble steps of the Capitol, arms full of papers and mind racing with numbers, the next he was sprawled on the ground, pain shooting up his right arm. The world spun, voices blurred, and someone—Jefferson, of all people—was suddenly there, kneeling beside him, concern flickering in those infuriatingly soft brown eyes.
“Oh shut up, you're the last person I want to see right now.” Alexander muttered through gritted teeth.
Thomas ignored the jab at him, his hands surprisingly gentle as he checked the angle of Alex’s arm. “And yet, here I am. Try not to pass out on me, Hamilton.” They’d gotten him patched up, but the break was clean and cruel. The doctor’s instructions were clear: rest, no writing, no work.
Hamilton, of course, had other plans, said plans involving using his right arm instead.
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The next morning, Thomas found him at his desk, left hand scribbling furiously, papers scattered like fallen soldiers. The morning sunlight spilled across the desk, illuminating the chaos of ink-stained papers and half-drunk cups of coffee. Dust motes danced in the air, settling on the edge of Alexander’s sleeve as he hunched over his work, determined to ignore the pain shooting up his right arm—his dominant arm, the one he trusted for every signature, every argument, every desperate letter. Even if he could write with his left, it didn't make the pain in his right any better.
“Unbelievable,” Thomas drawled, arms crossed. “You’re going to undo everything the doctor did, you know.” Alex scoffed at that, “If you paid attention to which arm I was using, you would see I'm writing with my left arm. Because, if you haven't noticed, I'm ambidextrous.” He said without looking up from the new sheet of paper he had just taken from the pile. “You’re impossible,” Thomas sighed, moving closer, a hint of something softer beneath his exasperation. “And you’re going to need help, whether you like it or not.”
“You think I want to be here, Hamilton?” Thomas’s voice was softer than Alex expected. “I could be anywhere else. But I’m not.”
“You could leave,” Alex shot back, the words sharper than intended. “No one’s stopping you.”
Thomas didn’t move. “Maybe I don’t want to.”
“It's-its— nevermind.” Alex finally glanced at him, defiance flickering in his tired eyes. “I don’t need your pity.” Thomas leaned in, lowering his voice. “It’s not pity, Hamilton. Just… let me help. For once, let someone help you.” Alex’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, the only sound was the scratch of his pen. “I don’t need help. I never have. Don't…don't try and tell me anyone can— they can't.” He hated how easily his mask slipped in front of Jefferson. He hated even more that it was Jefferson who saw through it.
Thomas’s gaze softened, the usual sharpness in his eyes replaced by something gentler. “Are you willing to let me try? You have to stop pushing yourself, you know. ”
Alex’s hand stilled, fingers trembling just slightly. “If I stop, everything that I built—everything that I worked so hard for falls apart. I can’t risk that.”
Thomas knelt beside the desk, his voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t fall apart if you rest. The world won’t end if you let someone else share the weight, even if just for a moment, Alexander.”
Alex looked away, blinking hard. “I'm- I —I don’t know how.”
“Just… let me try, Lex. Please.”
Alexander’s mind raced as he clutched the pen, knuckles white. The ache in his arm was nothing compared to the gnawing dread in his chest. He’d built his life on self-sufficiency, on never letting anyone see him falter. To need Thomas Jefferson—his rival, of all people—felt like a defeat—a resignation he couldn’t put into words.
Thomas reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly before settling on Alex’s uninjured arm. “Then let me show you. Just… let me be here. For you.”
He remembered childhood nights spent alone by candlelight, scribbling essays with frozen fingers, the world indifferent to his struggle. Needing help had always meant disappointment.
For a long moment, Alex didn’t move. Then, with a shaky breath, he let the pen fall from his fingers. “Fine,” he whispered, voice raw. “Just for a minute.”
Thomas smiled, relief and something deeper flickering across his face. “That’s all I ask.”
Thomas’s fingers brushed against his as he gathered the scattered sheets, lingering just long enough for Alex to notice. The contact sent a jolt through him, unfamiliar and unsettling.
He pulled a chair closer, settling in beside Alex, close enough that their shoulders brushed. For the first time in days, the tension in Alex’s frame eased—just a little—as his shoulders, hunched and rigid for days, finally sagged. He exhaled, the breath shaky, as if he’d been holding it for years. Thomas quietly began sorting the scattered papers, his steady presence a silent promise that Alex didn’t have to do this alone.
“Don't do anything stupid when I'm gone, I'm going to get you something to drink. Alright?”
“As if I'm capable of doing anything else,” he teased. Thomas let out a small chuckle before disappearing into the kitchen, returning with a mug of tea. He set it beside Alex, the steam curling between them. “Drink,” he said simply. Alex hesitated, then begrudgingly accepted the drink when Thomas wouldn't stop glaring at him otherwise. The tea smelled faintly of citrus and honey, its warmth seeping into Alex’s chilled fingers.
The atmosphere in the room was comforting, if not a bit unsettling—it was them after all. They left it alone for a few quiet moments before Thomas eventually cut the silence when Hamilton tried to reach for the quill again.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid to let go,” Thomas admitted, voice low. “But sometimes, you have to trust that someone will catch you.”
For the first time in days, Alexander allowed himself to lean back, to let the warmth of Thomas’s presence fill the silence. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, he didn’t have to do it all alone.