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non_stop“Where is he?” Hamilton asks Theodosia, once he gets there. “Have you seen him?”
She shakes her head, her face pinched with worry. “I found things in his room.”
“What things?”
She shows him: bottles. Laudanum, which is the least of it; the others seem newer, not dusty. Burr was hiding this. Burr was drinking poison.
“He could have killed himself.” Hamilton’s terror —
“What if he did?” Theodosia asks, just a whisper, wide eyes.
Hamilton shakes his head. No; it can’t be too late. “I’m going to find him.” He hopes he knows, anyway. “In the meantime, search for anything like this, and destroy it.” He turns back, just out the door, and returns to his daughter, and kisses her on the cheek. “I’m bringing him home, love. Someone’s hurt him, but I’m going to bring him home.”
It takes him too long to hire a closed carriage, make his way to Jefferson’s home. The witching hour, the streets only populated by drunks and lowlifes.
He bangs on the door. Again. No sound of stirring within, but Hamilton will break his knuckles on this thing if he needs to. Kicks it, rattling it on its hinges, and finally it opens, to a butler.
“Go away,” says the man, dressed in a house-coat, hastily. “Mr. Jefferson is not available.”
“I’m here for my husband.”
“There isn’t—“
“Jefferson!” Hamilton yells. “Jefferson, get out here and face me.” Focuses on the butler. “Do you know what he was doing? Are you a part of this?”
The butler looks uncomfortable, which is all Hamilton needs. He shoves past the man, and comes face to face with Jefferson.
“Where is he.” Hamilton doesn’t even recognize this tone in his voice. He is an inch from violence, his anger is hot and cold at once.
“Are you sure you want him?” A smirk, on that effete, aristocratic face. And a lazy gesture, to the left.
Hamilton follows the gesture. The room is lit by candles; Monroe is here. Monroe? And there, Burr, curled up on a chaise lounge. With horror, Hamilton takes in the bruises at wrist and ankle, the red on his inner thighs, the criss-crossing welts innumerable on his back. Marks on his throat.
“He has consented to all of it,” says Jefferson, lazily, from behind him. “Begged for it, even.”
Hamilton’s very being is shredding within him. His soul in pieces, bruised and welted and marked.
He rallies, and turns to Jefferson. A wolf, he thinks, to Jefferson’s feline self-possession. “And so?” he challenges. “If he needs, he will have — from me. He belongs with me.” He sheds his coat, and goes to kneel by his husband, to wrap him up in it. “Aaron. We’re going home.”
She shakes her head, her face pinched with worry. “I found things in his room.”
“What things?”
She shows him: bottles. Laudanum, which is the least of it; the others seem newer, not dusty. Burr was hiding this. Burr was drinking poison.
“He could have killed himself.” Hamilton’s terror —
“What if he did?” Theodosia asks, just a whisper, wide eyes.
Hamilton shakes his head. No; it can’t be too late. “I’m going to find him.” He hopes he knows, anyway. “In the meantime, search for anything like this, and destroy it.” He turns back, just out the door, and returns to his daughter, and kisses her on the cheek. “I’m bringing him home, love. Someone’s hurt him, but I’m going to bring him home.”
It takes him too long to hire a closed carriage, make his way to Jefferson’s home. The witching hour, the streets only populated by drunks and lowlifes.
He bangs on the door. Again. No sound of stirring within, but Hamilton will break his knuckles on this thing if he needs to. Kicks it, rattling it on its hinges, and finally it opens, to a butler.
“Go away,” says the man, dressed in a house-coat, hastily. “Mr. Jefferson is not available.”
“I’m here for my husband.”
“There isn’t—“
“Jefferson!” Hamilton yells. “Jefferson, get out here and face me.” Focuses on the butler. “Do you know what he was doing? Are you a part of this?”
The butler looks uncomfortable, which is all Hamilton needs. He shoves past the man, and comes face to face with Jefferson.
“Where is he.” Hamilton doesn’t even recognize this tone in his voice. He is an inch from violence, his anger is hot and cold at once.
“Are you sure you want him?” A smirk, on that effete, aristocratic face. And a lazy gesture, to the left.
Hamilton follows the gesture. The room is lit by candles; Monroe is here. Monroe? And there, Burr, curled up on a chaise lounge. With horror, Hamilton takes in the bruises at wrist and ankle, the red on his inner thighs, the criss-crossing welts innumerable on his back. Marks on his throat.
“He has consented to all of it,” says Jefferson, lazily, from behind him. “Begged for it, even.”
Hamilton’s very being is shredding within him. His soul in pieces, bruised and welted and marked.
He rallies, and turns to Jefferson. A wolf, he thinks, to Jefferson’s feline self-possession. “And so?” he challenges. “If he needs, he will have — from me. He belongs with me.” He sheds his coat, and goes to kneel by his husband, to wrap him up in it. “Aaron. We’re going home.”
