Hamilton One Shots (& Cast)

Jamilton - The Storm

If Alexander could take one thing away from his life, which was honestly pretty nice already? His ptsd. Most political war politicians like himself would want the memories of war out of their minds. But his ptsd came all the way from when he was just a kid.

Being all alone at 15, clerking for what little cash you had and not usually knowing where your next bed was was honestly draining. But when that hurricane...

that damn hurricane.

Alexander couldn't really remember much if he ever did think about that fateful day. Bits and pieces of screams and death gone in a blink. Luckily he didn't really think about it much, and neither did anybody he really told.

He of course made sure to keep his past very well hidden to climb to the tops of Burr, Washington or even Jefferson. In new America, your reputation is really all you have.

Alexander was writing, a dim light of a handheld lantern sitting on his desk as his quill spoke the words that never could leave his mouth. Time seemed to move quicker as he wrote, and in dulling the sounds of his work, he found himself alone.

The first strike of thunder made the quill accidentally press too hard into the paper, causing a deep splotch of black. He bit back as curse as he rubbed his eyes, before carefully fixing his error. Hair drafted across his face he began to hear a soft patter of rain on his windows.

-

"Of course Maria didn't-" Thomas let out a tired sigh as he stood from his desk, wiping away the small amount of drool on his desk with embarrassment. It had been a long fucking week. Dealing with many incompetent running republicans and papers seemingly stacked as far as Mount Vernon he was quick to shake out of his nap.

Thomas locked his office, hearing another clap of thunder as the sound of rain became harder against the outside walls. "I'm gonna get fucking soaked." He muttered to himself, already feeling the shivers across his body as he most likely tried to call for a coach.

He let out a soft yawn, eyeing the large clock in the hallway, reading it was about 1 in the morning. Shit, he had a cabinet meeting at 7. Walking to the door he found his eyes on the infamous door only a few feet away.

The bold letters that were neatly written on the plaque next to the door didn't seem to fit Hamilton's personality, in Jefferson's view. He would think of sloppy cursive as a nice choice. Intelligent, eloquent, yet all the while a dice, always something new and different.

Jefferson also faced the predicament that he was starting to actually agree with Hamilton on many occasions, shocking most of not all there coworkers. Sworn enemies that just so happened to work on the same floor. Jefferson wondered if they could ever actually agree to be acquaintances?

He eyed the small crack of the door and scoffed. Hamilton always in a rush and never locked his doors at night. He really should, with how many important and valuable things were in most of these offices.

Jefferson moved to the door, grasping the handle and jumping slightly as the thunder matched his hand. He brushed it off swiftly until he saw a light was in the room, and a breathy cry found his ears.

Was someone crying?

Jefferson held the door quietly, looking inside as he found a mess of a desk. Quill on the edge of the large desk, the container was split as it fell against many papers, some of the liquid dripping to the floor as Jefferson grimaced. The stain would be prominent tomorrow.

And then he saw something he'd never thought he see before.

Alexander Hamilton, the man with so much pride, was crying. And it wasn't small tears, no, these were deep and oddly heartbreaking sobs that made Jefferson have a ugly feeling in his stomach. He shouldn't see this, in fact, he's pretty sure Hamilton would flip if he caught him.