Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

NELSON:
quick q
if you had a choice would you pick Gryffindor or Slytherin?

A. HAM:
the fuck are those

NELSON:
IF YOU HAD TO CHOOSE IF YOU HAD TO CHOOSE

A. HAM:
how am i going to choose if i have no idea what youre talking about
stop quoting the musical at me

--

There are moments where the words don't reach, a grief too terrible for him to name. He doesn't think about it a lot of the time, he pushes it away--there are cases to worry about, little stuff like tenement disputes and traffic violations, bigger things like murders and police brutality and why the fuck does Matt come in with bruises all the damn time, for a blind man.

Most of the time.

He takes himself to church on Sundays, spends hours in the graveyard alone. He kneels down at Eliza's grave, lays a flower on the stone and says: "Eliza, you would like it uptown. It's quiet uptown."

He kneels, says to the chilly autumn wind and to cold stone, "Hey."

--

A. HAM:
look all im saying is
trump can SHOVE his million dollars and his anti-immigration stance up his crusty ass
if it wasnt for me he wouldnt even HAVE those million dollars

KAREN:
oh my god, did you fight him???
ALEXANDER.

A. HAM:
it made it onto buzzfeed
thought you should know

KAREN:
please tell me you didn't use the N&M account to do it.

A. HAM:
of course not i made my own
how do you get verified i need these people to know whos arguing with them

--

He's out by himself at night when someone claps a hand over his mouth, presses a knife to his throat as they drag him into an alleyway, and snarls, "You at Nelson & Murdock, bro?"

He gives a very small nod.

"You tell 'em, bro," the guy says, "drop Garcia case, or you dead, bro. We know your place."

The man lets him go, and Alexander spins around on his heel and says, "Excuse you?!"

The guy--some big, tough asshole in something called a tracksuit, which is tacky as all hell, he's been dead for two centuries and even he knows that--makes a noise that sounds like, "The hell, bro? Yes or no, bro! Preferably yes."

"First of all, I am not your errand boy or your bro," Alexander says, hands curling into fists, "second, fuck you and fuck your violation of my rights, though I guess basic respect for other people's rights is something dipshits like you can barely comprehend--"

The man draws his gun, clicks the safety off. "I hear no," he says, and Alexander finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun for the second time in his life (lives?). "Must suck to be you, bro."

That's when a stick comes flying out of nowhere, and Alexander's shocked out of the frozen state he'd gone into as Daredevil--and it's definitely Daredevil, no mistaking those horns or the suit--leaps down and hits the ground.

"You're a long way from Bed-Stuy," says Daredevil, calmly, in a low growl.

The guy whimpers, eyes wide in fear, holding his broken wrist. Alexander glances down, sees the gun lying at his feet, then very discreetly kicks the gun away under a dumpster.

--

A. HAM:
so i might have run into dd last night
he may have saved my life

MURDOCK:
Was this the Garcia case?
Also, are you all right?

A. HAM:
fine just
wtf
no one told me working for you two would be this dangerous what the hell
i expected to be kidnapped and threatened with death during the war not while working for a broke law firm

MURDOCK:
In our defense, neither of us thought it would be this dangerous either.
You know you can quit, right? Neither of us will hold it against you.

A. HAM:
and possibly get hired just so ppl can say "we have a founding father working for us" and not do any actual work at all???
dont think so buddy
not here to boost anybodys pr
matt???

MURDOCK:
sorry tripped and lost my phone for a moment

--

Matt comes in the next day, a bruise on his cheek (coincidentally in the same place where Daredevil was punched last night, and Alexander narrows his eyes at him from his desk), and says, "I tripped while texting Alexander."

Alexander thinks, Bullshit.

--

A. HAM:
what are gryffindor and slytherin
inquiring minds need to know

KAREN:
oh my god, is this Foggy's fault again?
did you ever hear about Harry Potter? it's a series, there's a boy wizard and a castle and a dark lord and there are movies.
I have the first movie.

--

A. HAM:
one: why the hell would you classify ELEVEN-YEAR-OLDS based on personality traits and values that havent been fully formed yet
what the FUCK
two: the ministry of magic is laughably incompetent i am embarrassed for the wizards of britain if this is their government
no wonder it got taken over by whereshisnose
bet you adams and jefferson wouldve been so at home tho

NELSON:
good morning to you, too
Karen tell you all about HP yet?

A. HAM:
i saw the last movie last night
i havent slept
blame karen

NELSON:
TAKE A BREAK
RUN AWAY WITH US FOR THE SUMMER LET'S GO UPSTATE

A. HAM:
wtf franklin

--

It takes him an hour or so to get to Graham Windham from Hell's Kitchen--it should've been twenty minutes, he'd checked, but there had been a small delay on one of the trains, so when he finally sets foot onto Irving Place, his stomach is rumbling and the smell of street food is too much for him to resist.

He's taking a break, technically. He's pretty sure this counts, no matter what anyone might say about "the Great Grief Tour of 2015", as Foggy so eloquently puts it. It's not like he's doing any pressing work at the moment, writing essays and arguments, wondering what the hell kind of shit does Matt get up to that he comes to work bruised and battered and lies his ass off about it.

Besides, he has to--he needs to see. He needs to see the legacy Eliza left behind.

He walks until he sees the orphanage. Or--it isn't an orphanage anymore, per se, but he can see two kids leaving the premises, bright-eyed and laughing, clinging on to two young women holding hands.

For a moment--just for the briefest of moments, just for a heartbeat--one of the kids glances back at him, with dark eyes that make him think of Eliza. Then they turn the corner, and Alexander's standing on the pavement by himself, breathless, helpless.

--

MURDOCK:
Hey, can you come in? Foggy's out--something about his cousin ditching a wedding thing at the last minute and having to replace him.
Also, did you make it onto BuzzFeed again?

A. HAM:
y sure ill take the train back i was done walking anyway
ok youre gonna need to cite a more specific instance ive been getting on buzzfeed a lot

MURDOCK:
Karen says you picked a fight with a Jeffersonian (or a troll, she thinks it was a troll) over the Internet and called Jefferson "a mutton-headed hypocrite who wore tackier than I ever did, fuck him and his 'poor farmers', we all know he was talking about wealthy landowners anyway, kick him and Jackson off the money".
Which is fair, but also: why.
How do you keep ending up on BuzzFeed for fighting people?

A. HAM:
the guy was attacking MY rep first
i may have done some shit in my life but i never spent a single cent that wasn't mine, that was the whole POINT to telling people about reynolds
i responded bc what the fuck else was i supposed to do let him talk shit
and what do you mean troll i thought those were the little dolls with weird hair foggy kept in his desk
idk about that and honestly as long as people know how much of an asshole jefferson was im happy

MURDOCK:
Remind me to call Foggy so he can explain to you what an Internet troll is.
And I'm telling him you said that.

Chapter Text

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@adotham @BuzzFeed luvs you bit.ly/3Wrq3

A. Hamilton @adotham
#madeit
RT: @adotham @BuzzFeed luvs you bit.ly/3Wrq3

k dot page @karen_p
@adotham @fnelson_nm "20 reasons why A.Ham's Twitter is a national treasure" #wow

k dot page @karen_p
also we're at WORK why am I on Buzzfeed with popcorn laughing at the lists about @adotham

--

MATT:
whats all this about the new ham4ham foggy what did you do

FOGGY:
so you know how I've been trying to get tickets for months and you and Karen stopped coming because, and I quote
"you're never getting in, Foggy, you'll need a really lucky charm or something"

MATT:
yeah and you said "im not throwing away my shot"

FOGGY:
guess who I brought to be my new lucky charm?

MATT:
no
NO
you did not

FOGGY:
I did
there was so much high-pitched screaming my ears are still ringing but SO WORTH IT

MATT:
did you get the tickets

FOGGY:
well we didn't win anything but
apparently since Alex came back they've reserved a ticket just for him and they said something about featuring him in another ham4ham idk what else was said
I was in catatonic shock
we've been invited back I'm gonna cry this is great

MATT:
congratulations

--

He takes a few days off and heads down to--well, it's not a plantation anymore. It's Mepkin Abbey now, he's told, and Alexander takes a moment to snicker at the fact that John's old family home is now an abbey. John's father must be turning in his grave almost as much as Jefferson probably is.

He sticks one hand into his pocket, fingers running over the letter he stayed up all night to write. The other holds the handle of the picnic basket he'd brought with him tight, the very top of a bottle of wine peeking out from under the lid. The graveyard is still and silent, especially early in the morning, and there aren't many people around who'll see him and wonder what on Earth is he doing here, in South Carolina, in a graveyard.

It occurs to him that he's visited a lot of graveyards, lately. The lyric comes to his head unbidden: if there's a reason I'm still alive when everyone who loves me has died--

--but he isn't Burr, and he's about as willing to wait for it as he's willing to walk barefoot over hot coals. Which is: not at all.

Leaves crunch under his shoes and the chill bites at his exposed skin, a sign of autumn turning slowly, inexorably, into winter. He lets out a breath as he stops near John's grave, and it comes out white in the cold air. He kneels down, sets the basket aside, traces his fingers over the Latin carved into the grave.

"Hey," he says. "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori--you know you're an asshole, right, John? We already won, you didn't--" He stops, wipes away the tears that have sprung from his eyes. He's had a long, long time to deal with this grief, and maybe before he woke up in a changed world it wouldn't be so painful, except.

Except it is. Except everyone he loves has died long ago, and he is alone, and that brings the old grief back, made sharper by everything else he's lost.

It is sweet and right to die for your country.

"You didn't need to die," he says, and imagines John's sad smile. A long enough time has gone past that the finer features of John's face have blurred, but Alexander still remembers the curve of his lips, the sound of his voice. At least, he hopes so.

He lays the letter at the foot of the grave, takes out the bottle of wine and two glasses. His fingers are shaking, bad enough that he spills a little wine and lets out a curse, but eventually he has two full glasses and a mostly empty bottle. He sets a glass down by the letter.

"Raise a glass to freedom," he says, raising the other glass up, the words coming back to him after all this time.

--

#SuperWatch @super_watch
Daredevil caught on camera! Watch here: bit.ly/64fsM

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@karen_p that is the most gratuitous backflip I've ever seen #parkour
RT: Daredevil caught on camera! Watch here: bit.ly/64fsM

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
also one of the hardest punches I've ever seen holy shit

A. Hamilton @adotham
all I'm saying is, if the police force is so incompetent that third parties in masks feel the need to step in (1/?)
RT: Daredevil caught on camera! Watch here: bit.ly/64fsM

--

FOGGY:
how does it feel to be disappointing a FOUNDING FATHER, Matthew???
HUH

MATT:
considering that said founding father once tried to fight a police officer in the precinct because the officer said something insensitive in his vicinity
and that he just went on a twitter rant
not that bad

FOGGY:
how are the knuckles btw?

MATT:
bit bruised
ill pass it off as a boxing thing tomorrow
technically its not lying i did do some boxing just
not with a punching bag

FOGGY:
you have got to learn to dodge better

MATT:
i dodge great

FOGGY:
not with those bruises you don't

--

"You box?" Alexander asks, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

Matt shrugs. His knuckles look a little bruised up--suspiciously like they punched something very, very hard. "Sometimes," he says. "My father was a boxer. I got it from him, he didn't want me to go defenseless, but at the same time he didn't want to see me end up like him."

"You tripped and fell while taking out the trash last week," Alexander says. If he did trip and fall, which Alexander suspects is a load of bullshit, but considering the lengths Matt is going to just to keep his secrets, he doubts he can get anything out of the guy if he just straight-up calls him out on that, much as he'd love to.

"Yeah," Matt says, with a little self-deprecating chuckle. "Sometimes the bag hits back if you hit it too hard, who knew." He rubs the tip of his cane with a thumb, and with his eyes hidden behind those red shades, it's a little hard to tell what, exactly, is he thinking. "How was your trip?"

"Fine, it was enlightening, now please tell me McKnight's stopped being an obstinate shit-licking asshole so I can talk to him about the Cho case without wanting to murder him," says Alexander.

"I could," Matt begins, thoughtfully, "but that'd be a lie."

Alexander lets his head fall into his hands and lets out a strangled groan.

Chapter Text

A. Hamilton @adotham
oh my god it's like nothing's changed #GOPdebate #whatyearisit

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@adotham ikr WOW #GOPdebate #southernmotherfuckindemocraticrepublicans

A. Hamilton @adotham
@fnelson_nm shot for every time somebody says something TJeffs would approve of #GOPdebate

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@adotham shot for every time someone says something re: founding fathers' (dis)approval #GOPdebate

A. Hamilton @adotham
@fnelson_nm shot for every time somebody says something even TJeffs would disapprove of #GOPdebate

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@adotham shot for every time someone shows an amazing lack of knowledge on what they're talking about #GOPdebate

A. Hamilton @adotham
@fnelson_nm shot if they try to bs their way through anyway and fail spectacularly #GOPdebate

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
shot if @adotham is mentioned and somebody recoils #republicansHATEhim #whatshissecret #GOPdebate

A. Hamilton @adotham
@fnelson_nm #bitchplease #imadeyourbank #GOPdebate

k dot page @karen_p
@adotham @fnelson_nm jsyk I'm reading these out to Matt and his face is saying pls don't instagram.com/3yGH71flHj

--

BRETT:
you know, i used to have so much respect for our founding fathers.
so. much.

FOGGY:
i see you've met A-dot-Ham
congrats, welcome to the club, byob to Josie's next Friday and we can bitch about Alexander Hamilton and his Twitter fights
among other things

BRETT:
this from the guy who sent him down here with cigars.
you know he picked a fight with O'Brien?
actual quote: "and another thing Mister 'Let's Make America Great Again', don't you fucking lecture me about war, you haven't fought any except in your imagination!"

FOGGY:
oh my god, tell me you have the whole thing recorded
knew this was a great idea, i have the best ideas, go me!

BRETT:
yeah, got you covered, have never seen O'Brien go so purple before.

FOGGY:
this is a thing of beauty i'm hanging up every frame in our office
putting descriptive audio on this
selling merchandise on the side and making a quick buck

--

KAREN:
hey, I know it's your day off but
want to go out with me for dinner?
since Matt and Foggy are gonna be pretty busy with something.

A. HAM:
sure
just been visiting a lot of graveyards lately i could use a dinner

KAREN:
and
there's something I really, really need to talk about with you.
can we do it over dinner?

A. HAM:
funny
been wanting to talk with you about something too
where to

KAREN:
ever tried pad thai?

A. HAM:
im working for a law firm that can barely afford to pay me minimum wage
i am intimately familiar with the taste of leftover pad thai by now

KAREN:
fresh pad thai then?

A. HAM:
please

--

It takes him the better part of two hours to head back down to Hell's Kitchen from Sleepy Hollow, fingers feeling out the shape of the pebble from his daughter's grave in his pocket. The last time he'd seen little Elizabeth, she'd just been a little girl, and now--

--he pushes that thought away, takes his hands out of his pockets and rubs them together to get some warmth back into them. It's cold out, the bitter chill of winter nipping at his nose, and Alexander's pretty sure it'll start snowing soon. And there's the apartment to worry about, with its broken window from yesterday's very unsubtle death threat. So far he's just put some tarp over it, but that's a temporary measure.

And always, always he still has work to do. So there's that, at least.

And the dinner with Karen to look forward to. He has to admit, he's getting a bit sick of reheating his leftovers every other day or so.

He shoulders the door to the restaurant open, trades a few pleasantries with the lady greeting them and manages, with some effort, to get her name right, then makes a beeline for a familiar blonde head near a window, idly poking at her food.

"Is my lady satisfied with her pad thai?" he asks, affecting a posh British accent.

Karen snorts out a laugh, shakes her head. "If you're going to try out for King George, it's never going to happen," she tells him. "Your British accent is just. It's bad."

"Good thing I'd rather die than play King George anywhere," Alexander shoots back, taking her seat. "Did you order anything for me?"

"Pad thai," says Karen.

Alexander makes a face, glances out the window. For a moment he almost expects the city he knew outside, with horse-drawn carriages and buildings of brick and wood and someone shoveling the horseshit, and instead sees cars and people hurrying past talking on their phones and a neon signage advertising a strip club across the street.

He shakes his head--it's 2015, not 1804. It's been two hundred years and more than a decade since the duel. He turns back to Karen, and says, "Sorry--my head was somewhere else for a second. What did you want to talk about?"

Karen lets out a breath. "You know how Matt keeps coming in all bruised up and just--brushes it all off?" she asks.

"Yeah," says Alexander, remembering the bruised knuckles, the black eye. "Said last time he went boxing."

"You sound like you don't buy it," says Karen.

"Sandbags don't hit back," says Alexander. "And I can't believe any man can be that clumsy, even if they're blind."

"Exactly," says Karen, dropping her fork, her food forgotten. "That's what's getting at me--he's never that clumsy in the office. But outside it he trips over his own feet, bangs his head on doorknobs, hits lampposts. How do you go from being able to navigate your way around your office to hitting everything at home and on the way home? And with your face, half the time."

"Maybe he's joined a secret fight club for blind people," says Alexander, half-joking.

"Really," says Karen.

Alexander snorts out a laugh, looks down at his pad thai. "Honestly, that's the only theory I've got," he says. "It'd explain why he gets hit a lot."

"I don't know," says Karen, running her teeth over her lower lip. Alexander's been hanging around her long enough to know what it means when her brow furrows like that, and sure enough, she says, "I mean--Matt. Might not be in a good relationship, right now. A lot of what he says sounds like he's shifting the blame onto himself."

"Do you believe that?" Alexander asks, because Matt doesn't seem to have anyone he's willing to let into his life that much, besides Foggy. And Foggy is about as violent as a pink fuzzy teddy bear.

Karen breathes out. "It's the only possible theory I have," she says.

"The impossible one?" he asks, but he thinks he already knows what Karen's going to say, knew since Matt came in with a bruise underneath his eye and a half-baked lie.

Karen glances out the window, then around them. She leans forward and says, her voice so low Alexander has to lean forward as well, "Matt might be Daredevil."

--

Steve Rogers @RealCaptainA
Ran into @adotham this morning on a Starbucks run! #goodmorningamerica instagram.com/tg44Esh86O

A. Hamilton @adotham
#yourewelcomeamerica
RT: Ran into @adotham this morning on a Starbucks run! #goodmorningamerica instagram.com/tg44Esh86O

--

Alexander's met plenty of people in his time. He's met idealists and cynics, movers and shakers, dreamers and believers, people who saw the chance that they had and either took it or let it pass them by in hopes of a better one. He's loved some of them in his lifetime (in the first chance he had, gone with a pull of the trigger), and lost some more.

Yet, he fancies, he's never met someone as energetic in the morning as Steve Rogers.

It's really a coincidence that they meet up again in Starbucks, while Alexander's picking up his order from the freckled barista manning the counter. Steve walks inside at that very same moment, wearing a layer less than Alexander, and spots him across the room, jogs over to his side and--wow, okay. The last time Alexander had met the guy, he'd been a little preoccupied with being recently brought back from the dead under shocking circumstances.

Now that he's not as preoccupied, though--holy shit, the man is built.

"Mr. Hamilton, hey," says Steve, with a bright and sunny grin that Alexander has only ever seen in Instagram posts, only a little more genuine and excited, and Alexander resolutely keeps his eyes on the man's face and does not let them wander down to his very tight shirt and the way it stretches across his chest and stop thinking about that Alexander, Jesus Christ. "What are you doing at Starbucks?"

"Splurging on expensive coffee with my new paycheck," Alexander says. They're attracting some attention already, some college students staring at them like they've just seen a pig fly in front of them, another barista gaping at them a little before she shakes her head and goes back to work. "You?" he asks, resolutely ignoring the attention and holding his thankfully not-weak coffee as tight as he can, eyes focused on Steve's face.

"Bucky sent me down here," Steve says, the sunny grin melting into a small, soft smile. Alexander recognizes that smile. It's one he once saw Eliza wear, when he overheard a passing conversation between her and Martha Washington. "Clint got him addicted to the seasonal lattes, and since Clint's currently out of the country--"

"--you got saddled with it," Alexander says. "Yeah, I know. You know I work for a law firm these days? Pretty small, they've got a great secretary who just so happens to suck at coffee, so now, by dint of being the new guy, I have to get them not-terrible coffee."

"Ah, yeah, the usual," says Steve, with a little huff of laughter. "The USO girls used to get me to do that when I was still hawking war bonds. Sometimes while I was in costume."

Alexander snickers, says, "Well, now you gotta tell me all about that."

"Sure," says Steve, "but first--did you ever run into Martha Washington's tomcat again after that first time?"

Alexander takes him by the arm (the very sturdy arm, oh wow, oh god) and steers him towards an empty table, and says, "Yeah, funny story about that--there was this one time John Laurens and I were--ah, reviewing one of the essays he'd written against slavery during the night, and we didn't notice that something had crept into our tent..."

Chapter Text

MULLIGAN:
Laurens
John Laurens get your ass over here right now
HISTORY IS BEING MADE

LAURENS:
give me a sec i was talking with jacques
he used to serve in the howling commandos he and lafayette are getting along suspiciously well

MULLIGAN:
yeah speaking of the Howling Commandos
Alex just met Captain America again

LAURENS:
i'll be right over
gonna take a bit longer than i thought btw save some popcorn for me

--

"Took you long enough," says Mulligan, perching on top of one of the Starbucks tables with a bowl of popcorn clutched close to his chest. At the counter, Alex is very visibly trying not to ogle Captain America's chest. "Why did you take so long, anyway?"

"I wanted to come with him," says Eliza, behind Laurens.

"And I picked up a milkshake on the way," Laurens adds, perching on top of another table. "And, yes, Eliza wanted to come with."

"Why?" Mulligan asks. "Didn't think you'd want to see it."

"It's Alexander," says Eliza, far too serious considering that they're in Starbucks for the sole purpose of laughing at Alexander's inept attempts to not look at Steve Rogers' very tight shirt (and Rogers' attempts to not look like an excited puppy meeting somebody for the very first time), "and I miss him."

And for a moment silence falls over the three of them--resurrection has become much more common these days, along with people displaying extraordinary gifts far beyond what Laurens would've once dreamed of, and they should've seen it coming, that someone or something would disrupt the little chunk of paradise they've managed to carve out for themselves. Laurens just hadn't expected Alexander to get caught in it, of all people.

He visits Eliza's grave all the time these days. It's the closest thing Eliza has to really speaking with him, yet Laurens hadn't fully understood that pain until Alexander was kneeling at his grave, pouring wine for the both of them with shaky fingers.

Raise a glass to freedom.

Then Alexander takes Rogers by the arm, the sight of it snapping Laurens out of his reverie, and leads him to a table, clearly looking more than a little delighted at getting to hold his arm, and Mulligan yells, "Go get him, you tomcat!"

"Mulligan," Eliza chides, as Laurens stifles a laugh. "That's my husband. And this is a restaurant."

"No one's gonna see or hear us anyway," Mulligan chuckles, munching on popcorn.

--

Philip ends up keeping tabs on his dad a lot. He sort of has to, this is his dad, and Mom's got his siblings to corral--he's pretty sure Will's picked a fight with someone else who'd died during the Gold Rush, and Will hasn't exactly deigned to listen to him ever on account of Philip having died in a duel, so.

And then Dad starts working for Nelson & Murdock. Which is--well, it's fine, Philip supposes, they're a tiny law firm, it's not like his father's going to get in trouble there. For fuck's sake, one of the lawyers is a blind man, how much trouble can they all possibly get in?

He finds himself regretting that thought when he pops down for a second--just to check, Hell's Kitchen is a goddamn mess and he doesn't know why his pops would decide to live and work there--and sees Matt Murdock on a rooftop.

In a red devil costume.

His dad is going to have a conniption.

--

PHILIP (THE FIRST):
mom
mom dad is working for a vigilante

ELIZA:
Oh, you mean Jack Murdock's boy?

PHILIP (THE FIRST):
who

ELIZA:
That sweet man who dropped by last night to brag about his son?
He did mention that he'd been keeping tabs on him and was hoping he didn't end up coming here any time soon because of his nighttime activities.

PHILIP (THE FIRST):
i wasnt there i was with dad trying to get him to sleep
howd you do it

ELIZA:
Not always very well.
And he could hear me then.
He'll be fine, I think, he's surprisingly resilient. Come back here and keep your brother from fighting one of the Jeffersons for me, all right?

PHILIP (THE FIRST):
k mom

--

PHILIP:
so i think my dad may have unknowingly started working for a vigilante

THEO:
dearest Philip,
one: what the hell
two: you've been popping down all this time and you only just found out
three: why are you telling me this right now you KNOW I'm talking to Mary Shelley
sincerely, Theodosia

PHILIP:
well i dont think he KNOWS
shit hes gonna have kittens if he finds out
youre great at advice
help me

THEO:
man I hate to admit this but
your dad's a smart guy he'll find out
I say wait

PHILIP:
thats crappy advice

THEO:
and how did you end up here again?

PHILIP:
VERY FUNNY THEO

Chapter Text

KAREN:
you met Captain America in Starbucks???
and I had to find out from TWITTER.

A. HAM:
technically we met before but like
i was in shock at the time with the whole resurrection thing you know how it is
did not know he was in the habit of wearing tight shirts

KAREN:
I should hit up Starbucks more often, then.
okay, nothing but the truth now:
how tight?

A. HAM:
VERY

--

NELSON:
look i'm just saying
we gotta catch you up on GOT
at least so you know why K and i hate it so much

A. HAM:
why the fuck would you rec it to me if you hate it so much then

NELSON:
believe it or not
it used to be good
i'd rec you the books first but they're pretty long

A. HAM:
ill see if i cant squeeze it in
got a busy schedule

NELSON:
we literally have two clients

A. HAM:
very busy schedule

--

The snow's falling around him when he finally makes his way back home from Trinity Church. The morning stillness that had greeted him on his way to the churchyard is gone now, replaced by the frantic rush hour crowds, and he decides that trying to brave the crowd in the subway is just not worth it today--he's still a little too raw, the way he always is whenever he visits a graveyard, whenever he finds himself at Eliza's grave.

He should--He should probably eat something, he realizes, he'd slept in a little more than he should've and hadn't been able to eat much more than a cracker and a hot dog off a guy who sold them particularly early. He can hear Foggy's voice calling out to him--

--wait.

That's actually Foggy's voice from across the street, yelling, "Alex!"

Alexander turns on his heel, as Foggy crosses the intersection, bundled up in a thick jacket and a red and blue scarf with a white star stitched on one end. He's grinning ear to ear, snowflakes melting in his blonde hair as he catches up to Alexander.

"Hey," says Alexander, "the hell are you doing out here? It's cold."

"Yeah," says Foggy, "but--hey, you remember Mrs. Linard?"

"The one with the kick-ass custard, yeah," says Alexander, remembering: one of his first cases with Nelson & Murdock, when he'd been trying to find his footing in a whole new world that hadn't needed him in a while. Someone had brought complaints against Mrs. Linard's restaurant for failing to meet health standards, but she'd sworn up and down that she complied with every requirement, that someone had been trying to frame her. Lo and behold, someone had, and she and her family restaurant got to stay. He's been visiting every so often ever since, but not so much this week, so he says, "Why, you planning on dropping by?"

"Yep," says Foggy. "You know she makes the best spaghetti? Technically it's called macora--macano--something else, but it looks like spaghetti, so."

"The hell's that?" Alexander asks, and manages to keep a straight face for all of fifteen seconds before breaking into a fit of laughter at Foggy's horrified look. "Kidding, I know what it is," he tells him.

Foggy breathes a sigh of relief, and says, "Oh, thank god."

--

CNN Breaking News @cnnbrk
Hell's Kitchen restaurant held hostage by gang calling themselves Wrecking Crew, cnn.it/1nhU3K6

k dot page @karen_p
wait, wait, wtf is going on here, I just turned on the news #troubleinhellskitchen

Gwen Stacy @gwenstacy
ok @karen_p the story so far: four guys with "unspecified weapons" entered a restaurant (1)
RT: wait, wait, wtf is going on here, I just turned on the news #troubleinhellskitchen

Gwen Stacy @gwenstacy
btw at least one of those "unspecified weapons" are superpowers, one of them punched a hole in the wall (2)

Lord Vader @starwarsrules_1990
@ scene can confirm superpowers, no other explanation for freakishly huge fists #troubleinhellskitchen
RT: btw at least one of those "unspecified weapons" are superpowers, one of them punched a hole in the wall (2)

Gwen Stacy @gwenstacy
at least one's armed with a gun tho, and they threatened to start shooting if their demands aren't complied with (3/3)

k dot page @karen_p
@gwenstacy thanks, shit, I think I know that restaurant #troubleinhellskitchen

Casey W. @foreversherlocked
shit, I'm nearby, gonna get to safety. praying for everyone caught up in this mess #troubleinhellskitchen

--

"Four million dollars, split four ways, and a guarantee no one's gonna come after us!" the guy's yelling into his phone. There's a gun in his hand, small and grey, the safety clicked off, and Alexander doesn't doubt his willingness to use it. There are three others, circling the line of hostages--including Alexander himself and Foggy, who's holding on to Mrs. Linard and promising it'll be okay, it'll be fine, they'll get out of this alive, trust him. "Jesus motherfucking Christ, is it that hard to do?"

"Dirk, for fuck's sake," says one of the other guys--what had they called the one with the actual honest-to-god mace, Doc? "Use your head. It'll take time to wire four million dollars to four different accounts, you can't just demand that it be pulled off in ten minutes?"

"Seemed easy enough on TV," says another, the one with oversized fists. The one who punched the hole in the wall, Alexander remembers.

"Listen to mace-guy, he's a smart one," says Alexander. "Don't know about fist-guy, though."

Dirk slides his thumb across the phone's screen, stuffs it into his pocket, points his gun at Alexander and snaps, "Shut the fuck up, asshole."

"Or what, you gonna shoot me?" Alexander asks. This is the second time he's staring down--or up--the barrel of a gun pointed at him, and frankly he's kind of sick of it. "Me? Really? I've been shot before, it sort of loses its novelty when you've died from it once."

"Fools who run their mouths off wind up dead," another guy--this one with a shotgun in hand, what was his name, yes, Henry--says, his tone mockingly sing-song, and the sound of it sends chills down Alexander's spine.

"Or get others dead," says Dirk, smiling slowly, his eyes on Alexander. His hand moves, the barrel of the gun now pointing at Foggy, who shifts closer to Mrs. Linard as though to keep her from getting hurt too. Alexander's heart, the damnable thing, jumps into his throat. "Best way to shut a guy up, ain't that right?" Dirk continues, stepping closer--

--and suddenly something white comes out of nowhere, sticks to the gun and yanks it away, just as a very familiar stick knocks out Henry with the shotgun. "Get down!" Alexander yells, grabbing on to Foggy and all but dragging him and Mrs. Linard to safety as chaos erupts around them, and hostages start scrambling to hide under something, anything. In their case, safety is an overturned table.

"Skata," Mrs. Linard says, and Alexander has no clue what the hell that means, though he's pretty sure he can figure out the meaning from the context alone. "That kopanos--"

"I don't know what that means, but whatever it is I totally agree," says Foggy. "Alex, what the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Alexander says, snapping off a table leg and peeking up over the table--well, there's Daredevil, the spinning kick was enough of a dead giveaway even without the red suit, but he doesn't recognize the other guy, in the blue and red costume, shooting what he's pretty sure are webs at their opponents as he ushers out hostages. Alexander glances at Mrs. Linard, who looks absolutely horrified, and says, contrite, "Sorry. I'll replace it."

"You kick them in the papari, Mr. Hamilton," says Mrs. Linard, practically trembling with rage.

"Dude, they've got guns, you sure?" Foggy asks.

"That shithead threatened you to get to me," says Alexander. "Besides, I've been in a war before, these two clearly have not or else they wouldn't be walking around like walking targets. I'll be fine."

--

CNN Breaking News @cnnbrk
Hell's Kitchen hostage crisis escalates with entrance of vigilantes, cnn.it/1Tr63mt

--

GWEN:
peter
PETER
YOU DID NOT

--

#SuperWatch @super_watch
Daredevil and Spider-Man team-up in the midst of #troubleinhellskitchen vine.co/v/rtHuLSW32gS

Lord Vader @starwarsrules_1990
@ the scene, can confirm spiderman getting hostages out #troubleinhellskitchen

Casey W. @foreversherlocked
JUST HEARD GUNSHOTS WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING #troubleinhellskitchen

--

There are ten things you need to know.

Number one: even with Henry out (and Alexander makes sure he stays out, knocking him another one on the head with the table leg when he moans), there are still three guys, one with oversized fists and the last two--Dirk and the guy with the mace, yeah, Doc--fighting Daredevil with a ferocity Alexander's only ever seen in the truly desperate.

Number two: Alexander sees the guy with oversized fists go after Spider-Man, while the guy's trying to get a kid out to safety. He doesn't think twice, just digs into his pocket for something to throw and throws a felt-tip pen at his head. It bounces off, but it does its job--now the guy with the fists whips around and snarls, "You little fucker."

Number three: Alexander says, "Real original. You take all day to come up with that?"

Number four: the guy pulls his fist back as though to punch Alexander into the wall (yeah, in retrospect, not his best idea), then there's a THWIP noise, and the guy is yanked back by a few slim threads of apparently very sturdy webbing.

Number five: Spider-Man leaps onto a table, says, with the tone of someone who's just met someone they have only ever before studied in history books, "Holy shit--Mr. Hamilton? What are you doing here? I mean--stick with me, we'll get you out of here!"

His voice cracks. Good god, Alexander realizes, you're only a boy.

Number six: Alexander says, "I was hoping to have lunch, help me get my friend and Mrs. Linard out from there," at the same time Daredevil ducks a blow from a mace and knees Doc in the stomach. Doc howls, letting go of the mace, but manages to recover enough to direct a punch to Daredevil's face and get him to stagger back, momentarily distracted.

Number seven: While all this is happening, Dirk dives under a table and reaches for his gun. Spider-Man's right there, defenseless. Now's his chance.

Number eight: "Mrs. Linard?" Spider-Man asks.

"The owner," Alexander clarifies, leading him over to the table.

"Did you kick them in the papari?" Mrs. Linard asks.

"I hit one in the head," says Alexander.

"Your aim is terrible," Mrs. Linard fondly tells him, her lips quickly smacking against his cheek.

"Really terrible," says Foggy, mouth quirking upwards in a tired smile, "apparently, papari means--"

Number nine: Dirk aims his gun at Spider-Man, eyes wild with fury, and pulls the trigger. Alexander sees him pull the trigger, sees Daredevil's too far away to get there in time, and makes a decision.

Number ten: "Alex!"

Chapter Text

KAREN:
I heard there were gunshots
Foggy, what happened?

FOGGY:
we're fine
but um
Alex is in the hospital

KAREN:
wait, what?

FOGGY:
long story
very very long story
but we're okay Karen i swear
we're okay

KAREN:
I'm coming over
where's Matt?
never mind I found him
where are you two?

FOGGY:
emergency room
we're okay
i swear

--

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@adotham and I are fine! he's got a hole in his shoulder and he's loopy from the drugs but we're okay #troubleinhellskitchen

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@jjones_alias you're hilarious
RT: @fnelson_nm guess this turned out better than the last time he got shot

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
so he just called me Mulligan, wtf am I supposed to do #helpme

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@karen_p came by, he called her Angelica, he is now trying to introduce me to MY OWN secretary

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
he thinks Matt is Aaron Burr, oh my god #HELP

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
"you're a terrible shot, Burr, what are you, blind" - @adotham #funnyyoushouldsaythat

--

Consciousness returns slowly to him--first, coherent thought, then he opens his eyes and squints at the harsh light above him. For a second everything is alien to him, from the light to the beeping noises beside him to the bed he's on. And--oh, yeah, his shoulder hurts.

Then someone says, "Great, you're awake. Thank fuck," and everything comes crashing back down on Alexander.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes. He's--He's breathing, okay, good, that means he isn't dead, but also, shit. Karen's going to kill him. Matt is--Matt's too Catholic to kill him, he decides, but Matt will probably turn a very sad face on him and honestly, Alexander's not sure he can handle that. And Foggy, oh god, Foggy--

--Foggy is sitting right beside him with a magazine and a tired look.

"What day is it," Alexander says, fuzzily. Drugs, he realizes. That's probably why his shoulder isn't hurting like all kinds of hell right now.

"Saturday," says Foggy, and Alexander realizes, with a jolt, that he's passed most of yesterday in bed. "You were loopy for all of yesterday when you weren't asleep. And don't even think about getting out, Cla--the nurse said I was allowed to sit on you if you tried."

"But I can't stay here--" he starts, trying to sit up despite the dull throb of pain from his shoulder. They're wearing off at last, he thinks.

"Yeah, you can and you should," Foggy says, grabbing him by his good shoulder and pushing him down. "Take a break."

"But I've got so much on my plate--" Alexander starts.

"Lie down and take a rest, doctor's orders," says Foggy, firmly. "And in your state--"

"I'm fine, I'm okay," Alexander protests.

"Says the guy who got shot and scared literally everyone half to death," Foggy shoots back. "Seriously, what the hell were you thinking ?"

"Spider-Man sounded way too much like my kid," Alexander says, almost immediately, and Foggy draws his hand back, eyes wide. Wait, shit, maybe the drugs haven't worn off completely after all. "I say that out loud?"

"Yeah," says Foggy. "I--yeah. You did."

--

They strike a compromise, eventually--Alexander stays in the hospital until the doctor says he can leave, but Foggy has to bring over at least some of his work (and his phone) so he doesn't end up going stir-crazy from being confined to the hospital for the next few days or so.

It's the second day of his stay, and he's reviewing the Jackson case for lack of anything else to do when someone knocks on the door. "Come in, Nelson," he says, not looking up.

"Um," says a young man's voice, and Alexander's gaze snaps up from the file and to the two figures in his doorway: a young man in a hoodie, can't be any older than twenty at most, and a girl with blonde hair and a black headband, also wearing a hoodie. At the oldest, he'd say they're college students. "Hi, Mr. Hamilton. We're, um."

"I'm Gwen Stacy," says the girl, "and this is Peter Parker. We're--friends of Spider-Man, you could say."

"Friends," says Alexander, putting the file down and pushing himself up to a more respectable position, fuck what his shoulder has to say about it. "He couldn't come talk to me himself?"

Peter, very visibly, starts, and Alexander sees a flash of guilt across his face. "He wanted to," he says, "but uh--something else came up at the last minute. Namely all the police." He gives a small smile, says, "You know how it goes when you're a vigilante."

He sounded like a kid, Alexander doesn't say. He sounded exactly like you. Instead he says, "I guess that's a pretty big deterrent."

"But he wanted to say thanks," says Peter. "And that it was--and is--definitely an honor to meet you, he saw the musical like one time and it's. It is such an honor."

"He also follows your Twitter account," says Gwen.

"Him and about two million people so far," says Alexander, and he can't help but preen a little. Or try to, anyway, it's a bit hard to do much preening in a hospital bed with a hole in your shoulder.

"He's also sorry for what happened," Peter blurts out. "About--About getting you shot."

"Getting me what," Alexander says, and Gwen smiles, strained, as she tries to discreetly jab her elbow into Peter's side. Peter lets out a hissed noise that sounds almost like her name. It's almost comical, really, and it tips Alexander right off to the fact that they know a lot more about Spider-Man than they're letting on. "Look--I heard his voice, and he sounded just like a kid." Just like Philip, dear god.

"Huh, really?" says Gwen. "He always sounded very manly to me."

"It's even in the name," says Peter, with a slightly sardonic smile. "Spider-Man."

"He should get a name change, then," Alexander dryly says, "or quit entirely. He's got his entire life ahead of him."

"He'd probably go nuts," says Peter, and that's a burst of honesty Alexander hadn't quite expected out of him. "He sort of--he used to not care, when he got his powers. But someone died on his watch, and. And he could've saved them. He could've. He had the power to." Alexander sees his mouth twist, his eyes water up, his hands start fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie, and he thinks, oh. "I don't know," Peter says, with a falsely casual shrug, "I'm just friends with the guy, he lets me take pictures sometimes so I can pay the bills, but--he can't really quit. With great power comes great responsibility, and all that."

"For someone who's just friends with him, you have a good grasp on how his mind must work," says Alexander.

Peter gulps.

Gwen says, "He's a lot closer to Peter than he is to me. But--look, he really is sorry about the part where you got shot."

"He shouldn't be," says Alexander. "He's not the one I'm pressing charges against." He lets out a breath, then takes a risk and says, quiet, "How's Mrs. Linard?"

"She's fine, Daredevil got her to safety," Peter absently says. Then he pauses, eyes widening, and says, too late to recover, "Wait, who?"

His voice cracks when he's panicked, Alexander realizes quickly. He's heard that crack before, heard it behind a mask while he was bleeding from his shoulder from an open gunshot wound, wondering if he was to lose his life again because of a bullet.

"The owner of the restaurant, you wouldn't know her, she wasn't mentioned at all to protect her privacy, and no one outside of the restaurant knew Daredevil grabbed her," says Alexander, fixing him with a look. "The only way you would've known was if you'd been there. And I didn't see you there."

Peter gulps again. "Are you--"

"I could," says Alexander. "But I won't. Because you're, what, nineteen? You're no older than--than I was when I first got to this country."

He doesn't say you're no older than Philip was when he died, but it's true enough: Peter is awkward and lanky, his eyes made somewhat bigger by his glasses, his hoodie a size too big for him. He fiddles with his sleeve like Philip once did while nervous (he'd fiddled with his sleeve just before the duel, Alexander remembers the anxious look in his eyes), and Alexander realizes with a jolt--if he's stuck here for the foreseeable future, he can't go to Trinity Church for the day Philip died. He can't visit his son's grave.

The thought of it seizes his heart with a new grief, and he looks away from Peter and lets out a breath. "I honestly doubt you'll take any advice about stopping--"

"He's got your number there, Pete," says Gwen.

"--but consider slowing down a little," Alexander continues. "Yeah, yeah, I know how that sounds coming from me, don't give me that look. But--lemme tell you what I wish I'd known, when I was a kid in the Carribean that dreamed of glory: live, okay? Look around at how lucky you are to be alive right now, and appreciate the shit out of it. Out of the people in your lives, hell, trust me, kiddo--when you lose them, you'll miss them so much it's like you're missing a goddamn limb."

"Don't I know that," Peter murmurs, looking down at his hands.

"Not done," says Alexander, a little peeved.

"They said you were long-winded, I should've believed them," says Gwen, in disbelief.

"I am trying to be a wise old man over here, shut up and indulge me, I saved your damn life," says Alexander, and both Gwen and Peter snort out a laugh but pull up chairs to sit in. Peter leans his head against Gwen's shoulder, and she plays with his short hair, absently.

"Where was I?" Alexander asks. "Okay: all the vigilante activity's not gonna end well for you. I'm not stupid, I know what I was like when I was nineteen, I know I have about as much chance of dissuading you as I've got of convincing the nurse to let me walk out of here early, but think about it this way--if you die, who're you going to leave behind? How do you think they're gonna deal?"

"And, what, you've got a lot of experience in that? Leaving people behind?" Gwen asks.

"I've been on both sides," says Alexander. "Leaving or being left, it doesn't matter--either way, it still hurts like nothing else." He winces, a hand drifting up to his bad shoulder, and says, "Almost like nothing else."

--

A. HAM:
cannot wait to be out of here my god
the food tastes worse than it did during the war i didnt know that was possible

KAREN:
can't wait for you to get out of there so you can help me make sense of your 30-page trial briefs.
you know they're called briefs for a reason, right?

A. HAM:
your point being

KAREN:
have mercy on the secretary who has to file all this shit is the point I'm trying to make here.
also: Matt just came in, he looks beat.

A. HAM:
shit he okay

KAREN:
he says he "tripped and fell down a flight of stairs".
unless his stairs somehow grew hands and punched him in the face, I don't think that's all that happened.

A. HAM:
im starting to really hope the secret blind people fight club is a thing
i saw dd in action how can matt do all that if hes fucking blind

KAREN:
I have no idea.

--

A. Hamilton @adotham
on the bright side @fnelson_nm left seasons 1-4 of #GameofThrones today, gonna see what all the fuss is about

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
#sweetsummerchild
RT: on the bright side @fnelson_nm left seasons 1-4 of #GameofThrones today, gonna see what all the fuss is about

--

A. HAM:
WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED

NELSON:
yay you got to Baelor

A. HAM:
he literally
he just
he CONFESSED TO TREASON
(if you can call it confession to treason i mean come on its got to be clear that this joffrey guy is in no fit shape to rule even barring the part where hes the product of incest and ned stark was coerced into confession bc THEY HAD HIS KID)

NELSON:
you got attached to the Starks didn't you

A. HAM:
i may have overly identified with ned stark
apparently right down to the early death
and the cheating
YOU COULDA SAID SOMETHING

NELSON:
and spoil you???
god no
btw there are books i have them i'll lend you the first one so you can scream at hbo about everything they're doing completely wrong with me
well more than you're already yelling at it

A. HAM:
cannot believe someone thought a series about john adams was a good idea
JOHN ADAMS
its going to be terrible i just know it

--

A. HAM:
hey
need a favor

KAREN:
okay, what do you need?

A. HAM:
you know where the florist is right
could you get some flowers for me

KAREN:
ooh, is this for a girl?
finally going on a date?

A. HAM:
sort of
but its not a date
i was hoping to visit eliza and philip and angelica tomorrow
especially philip
cant do much visiting if youre stuck in a hospital though

KAREN:
oh.
shit, I'm sorry.

A. HAM:
its fine
im fine
its fine
im probably not convincing you arent i

KAREN:
no.
but we'll visit them for you.
it's the least I can do.

A. HAM:
you said we
should i be worried

KAREN:
Matt and Foggy say hi and yes they're coming with.
who better than lawyers to explain why you can't come visit?
but I think they'll get why anyway.
take a break, we'll take care of things from here.

A. HAM:
best secretary ever
thanks

--

The snow falls steadily around them, blanketing the cemetery in white. It's early morning, the same time Alex usually drops by from what Karen can tell, so there aren't that many people around just yet. It's just her, Matt and Foggy, and for a second Karen's almost sure they're intruding on a silent, still, pure world.

She shivers, draws her coat tighter around herself. It's cold here, the kind of cold that seeps into her bones and makes its home there. She's not sure how Alex can stand to come here every week, especially at this time of day, but then Alex is a man of many surprises.

"Here," she says, walking up to a snow-covered grave, with bouquets of flowers half-covered in white by its side. She brushes the snow off the name carved into the stone, and reads it out loud: Philip Hamilton.

The date reads November 24, 1800, and something in Karen's chest tightens.

"Hey," says Foggy, kneeling beside her. "Uh. Sorry your dad couldn't make it, he got shot. Long story. He's fine, just on bed rest. At least he should be."

"Knowing him, he's probably livetweeting his John Adams hatewatch right now," says Karen. "I still blame you for introducing him to HBO, by the way."

"He would've found out about it sooner or later, the man picked up on the Internet surprisingly fast," says Matt, tapping his way over. His cane hits Philip's gravestone, and he kneels down, brushes his fingers over the name, the dates, a furrow appearing between his brows.

There are moments where words have no place, where all you can do is let the cold and the silence make its home within your bones. The silence falls over them, like the snow falling steadily, peacefully around them. Karen bows her head, places a flower at the grave's side.

"It's quiet downtown," she says.

Chapter Text

The second Laurens catches word of Alex getting himself shot (again, Jesus fucking Christ), he abandons his conversation with Gabe Jones and rushes down to Metro General. The trip is made a little harder by the fact that he ends up missing his mark and landing in the subway instead.

But he finds his way over to the hospital soon enough, racing through the door and looking around. He's glad people can't see him, he must look a sight--curls escaping from the ponytail he usually keeps it in, coat unbuttoned, dressed for an older time than everyone else rushing around him.

"Alexander!" The cry bubbles out of him before he can stop it, before he remembers that Alex can't hear him anymore. "Shit," he mutters, racing down a random corridor. "Shit, shit, shit--"

"John!" Eliza's voice shocks Laurens out of his spiraling worry, and he whips around to see her and Philip, all three running to catch up with him. "John, have you seen him yet, is he all right?"

"Please tell me Pops is okay," Philip all but pleads. "Please."

"I don't know," says Laurens. "I don't--"

And that's when a blind man rushes past. Red glasses, dark hair, white cane topped with red--Matt Murdock, Laurens realizes. Battlin' Jack Murdock's boy, one of the two guys who own Alex's broke-ass firm. And behind him--

"Angelica!" Eliza cries.

"Eliza!" Angelica yells, and Eliza all but launches herself at her sister. "Ow, ow--Eliza, I got here as soon as I heard, ended up near Matt of all people--"

"What happened anyway?" Philip asks, beating Laurens before he can say it. "All I kept hearing was something about a hostage situation, then Pops getting shot."

"That's about all I got, too," says Angelica. "The one time we all take a day off and this shit happens. Have any of you seen Peggy?"

"Matt!" someone shouts, and Laurens is treated to the deeply unpleasant feeling of being passed through by something living as a dark-haired, dark-skinned nurse hurries through him. "Matt, wrong way, the emergency room's on the right--"

Peggy follows behind, her brow furrowed with concern. "Is everyone all right?" she asks. "Besides being obviously dead."

"Alexander, how is he--" Eliza starts.

"Not dead, from what I heard he got shot in the shoulder," says Peggy. Someone else races past them then, a woman with blue eyes and blonde hair--Karen Page, Laurens remembers, the woman Alex is working with, the one he'd confessed, at Eliza's grave, to caring deeply for. The worry is written clear across her face, worry for someone who's become much more than a coworker to her.

The care's mutual, he thinks.

"I should scold him," says Laurens, his voice coming out strange, nothing of the casual manner he wants it to have. He'll blame that on somebody passing through him. "I'm the one who gets shot in the shoulder, not him."

"If you're going to scold him," says Eliza, her voice the sort of calm that only happens when one is on the verge of panic, "scold him for being shot at all."

"Good luck getting him to hear you," says Peggy. "At least it wasn't in a duel this time, huh?"

Philip lets out a breath. Laurens glances at him then, and sees how young he is, how scared he is, how young he must've been when he dueled Eacker. "He'll be okay, right?" he asks. "I mean, with all the--the new stuff around, he's gonna be fine. Right?"

"God," says Laurens, "I hope so, because if he's not, I have a few things to say to him." Starting, he thinks, with stop getting shot.

--

They hold a vigil through most of the day. Alexander's--he's okay, Eliza's glad for that (even if it squeezes her heart just a bit too tight, the thought that she still can't talk to him), but whenever he isn't asleep he's loopy on whatever the doctors had given him, and manages to mistake Murdock for Aaron Burr.

(That's one of his funnier mistakes. Less so is when he sees Miss Page and asks her what she's doing here, where her husband is, because Eliza can see the flash of hurt across Karen Page's face when it sinks in who he's mistaken her for.)

She keeps a vigil by his side as long as she can, switching with John or her son only when Alexander wakes up and asks where she is (my wife, where is she--tell her I'm sorry, I was hoping to come home). His friends keep him company, too--Matthew, Franklin, Karen--and it eases her heart a little to see one of them seated beside him, awake or asleep.

Franklin's the one seated next to her Alexander when he wakes up, and Eliza hears him say, "Oh, fuck."

It's, weirdly enough, the sweetest sound she's heard in a while.

--

Philip keeps his dad company on the day Foggy Nelson leaves four boxes on the side, along with a laptop. His dad looks them over with some surprise, then picks up something marked Game of Thrones: Season 1 on the side.

"Huh," Pops says out loud. "What's this about?"

"Dunno," says Philip. "But, I mean, it's gotta be better than Glee, right?" He's seen more episodes of it sitting in this hospital room with his bored and frustrated dad than he's ever wanted to.

Pops doesn't answer, doesn't hear him. But he does snort out a laugh, and say to himself, "At this point, anything's better than fucking Glee." Then he reaches for the laptop, sits up and settles it on his lap to turn it on. Philip climbs onto the bed, to watch along with him.

Lafayette pops in a few hours later and says, "Mon dieu, Philip, is that Game of Thrones?"

"You know about it?" Philip asks, poking his head up. There's a look on his dad's face that says he's not very pleased by the turn of events--who would be, thinks Philip, they've just arrested Ned Stark.

"Unfortunately," Lafayette sighs. "I've known quite a few who are very, how do you say, well-acquainted with the show. Apparently it's suffered a decline in recent years--though your father's going to be a little angrier about something else in. Hm." He chances a glance at the clock, and says, "What episode are you on now?"

"Um." Philip racks his brains a second, then says, "Nine?"

As if on cue, Pops' eyes widen at the screen, and he says, "You little fucker."

Philip scrambles back onto the bed, just in time to see--

"Wait," he says, "are they executing him?"

They are. Philip sees the sword descend, sees Arya hide her tear-stained face against someone's shirt, sees Sansa screaming, and says, "Oh my god."

"This used to be Foggy's favorite show?" his dad says, utterly disbelieving. Philip can see why, Foggy seems the least likely to enjoy something as dark as this at all. "Jesus Christ."

--

The snow falls steadily around them, blanketing the cemetery in white. Philip won't lie, he misses his dad coming here already--he's become so used to his father's weekly presence that now that it's gone he's a little off-center, expecting to hear his father's voice and hearing, instead, Karen Page's light voice.

He settles on top of his gravestone, like he always does. It's nice of Karen--and Matt and Foggy--to do this for his Pops, and it's nice to know his dad's got somebody looking out for him even here. Even today.

"Sorry your dad couldn't make it," says Foggy.

"It's fine," says Philip, though he knows none of them can hear his voice, not even Matt. "I miss him, but--it's fine."

Speaking of Matt, he's walking over right now, tapping his cane along and looking faintly annoyed by all the snow. His cane hits Philip's grave--does not actually smack into his thigh, but the sensation's still a little unpleasant, so Philip scoots up a little.

His dad should be here.

God, he misses him so much, misses being able to talk to him and bounce poems off him. He'd give a lot just to talk to him again, just to feel like he isn't utterly alone when he's in the same room as his dad. He'd give anything to break the silence that stretches between them, to say hi and have it said back to him.

"It's quiet downtown," says Karen, setting a flower down by the side of his grave. It's a white lily, he realizes, a flower for funerals. For grief.

It's a weird feeling, to be dead and grieving for someone living, and Philip's not his dad in this, at least--grief is something he's never felt quite this strongly before, and not for this long. It's--It's like he's drowning, like no matter how hard he tries he can't keep his head above the water.

It feels easier, then, to just swim down.

"I used to like the quiet before," he says.

Chapter Text

A. Hamilton @adotham
first day back: found an avocado on my desk. not sure what "officially no longer a baby avocado" means.

--

MURDOCK:
It's a college in-joke.
Long story short: Foggy is terrible at Spanish and said a fruit instead of lawyers.

A. HAM:
somehow i can believe that
so what now that ive been shot im officially an adult avocado
the fuck does that even mean

MURDOCK:
We had plans in place already to celebrate, you've been with us for about four months now. The part where you got shot pushed those plans back.
Also, funny you should ask me if I was blind.

A. HAM:
that was a WEEK ago and i was FRESH FROM SURGERY cut me some slack

--

Matt heads to court for a deposition at around 2. Foggy comes along with him, saying something about meeting up with Marci on the way, and Alexander waits until he's sure the both of them are out of earshot before he turns to Karen and says, "When was the last time Daredevil went out?"

"Day before yesterday," Karen answers, pulling out a small file from her desk. They've been assembling their case for Matt being Daredevil, as crazy as it sounds, and the evidence keeps piling up. He wonders if Matt's even trying to hide it--the man's doing a terrible job at it, if he is. "He probably broke up a drug ring--the reports match Daredevil's usual methods."

"How'd you get the reports?" Alexander asks.

"I bribed a cop with Starbucks and said it was for a case," says Karen. "It wasn't wrong."

Alexander huffs out a breath. "You bribed a cop with Starbucks," he says.

"I had no salary to bribe him with," says Karen, deadpan. "Anyway, that aside--the witness statements, the police reports, they match the bruises Matt had when he came in yesterday. And Foggy looked like he hadn't slept a second, so."

"I miss the days when I thought he was in a secret fight club for blind people," Alexander says, flipping through what's been added to the file. "You think Foggy knows?"

"They're partners, there's no way Matt wouldn't have told him about it," says Karen. "Maybe not at first, though--they got into a fight a while back after Matt got really hurt, and Foggy said it was an accident. But--what if he found out then?"

Alexander puts the file back down on the desk. "If Matt is Daredevil, and if Foggy knows about it," he says, "then he's actively aiding and abetting." Not that Alexander isn't keeping somebody's secrets either, he hasn't told a soul about Peter. "And if he's complicit, who's to say we're not?"

Karen bites her lip, releases it with her next breath as she brushes her hair back from her face. "Who's to say we wouldn't be if we knew?" she asks.

Alexander opens his mouth--

--and that's when they hear a tinny version of the opening notes from Hamilton blasting from Foggy's office.

"I guess Foggy left his phone," says Alexander, trying valiantly to keep a straight face and failing miserably, as the notes launch into the first song.

--

"Nelson & Murdock, Karen Page speaking."

"Page?"

"Brett, hi! Foggy left his phone, something about Matt and a deposition. Is it important?"

"Well, I was going to mention an interesting case that just popped up, but since neither Nelson nor Murdock are in--"

"Alex is in."

"...tell him to try not to pick a fight with another officer again while I'm nearby. Anyway: murder case, found a suspect who was lying about having gone to the crime scene. She's being grilled by O'Brien right now, better get down here before shit gets real."

"Okay, we will. What's her name?"

"Jessica. Jessica Jones."

--

"Moved on to outright lying to our clients now, have we?" is the first thing out of Alexander's mouth when he opens the door to the interrogation room. O'Brien, who's standing up and on a tirade about something, sputters to a stop, eyes widening.

"The fuck are you doing here, Hamilton?" O'Brien spits. "And with that pretty little thing too?"

"Wow, just when I thought you couldn't get any grosser," says the woman--Jessica Jones, Alexander remembers her now, the private investigator they'd run into working a case a while back. "Wait--"

"She's one of our clients," says Karen, cutting in and giving O'Brien a falsely polite smile. "And as Matt and Foggy were otherwise occupied--"

"--we came here in their stead," Alexander finishes. "Why's she cuffed?"

"She's a murder suspect," says O'Brien.

"She can hear you just fine," says Jones. "And she thinks it's bullshit, because why would I murder a client? That's pretty terrible for business."

"Maybe not you--" O'Brien starts.

"Are you seriously implying, for the third time in an hour, that I have, what, a split personality?" Jones snaps, slamming her fists down on the table with enough force that Alexander's surprised it hasn't broken in two. "Are you that desperate to go back home and jerk off, asshole?"

O'Brien recoils like he's just been slapped, and Alexander takes this opportunity to step closer to him and snarl, "Are you charging my client with a crime?"

"She's a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation--"

"Don't you bullshit me," Alexander spits, leaning up onto his toes, "just answer the fucking question. It's a simple yes or no, no need for any equivocation. Are you charging my client with a crime, or can we go?"

There's a silence. Then O'Brien narrows his eyes at them, but turns to Jones and unlocks the cuffs. He storms out, shoving Alexander aside, his footsteps falling hard and fast.

"Jesus Christ," says Jones. "What a piece of work."

"He's a shithead, I know," says Karen, pulling up a seat. "Hi. We interrupting anything?"

"I was going to tell him where he could shove his 'multiple personality' theory, but other than that, nothing important," says Jones. "Mr. Hamilton. Sir. How's the shoulder?"

Alexander winces at the sir, in Jones' abrasive tone, but says, "Fine. Twinges sometimes, but fine. But other than that, Ms. Jones--"

"How'd you know I was here?" Jones asks, cutting off his question. "Why'd you say I was your client? I've already got a lawyer."

"Why not call them?" Karen asks.

"We're kind of on the outs," says Jones.

"I thought we did the asking here," Alexander grumbles. "But, fine--it was the easiest way to get him off your back, and. Uh."

"Foggy bribed the desk sergeant with cigars for his mom," says Karen. "At least that's what Brett says." She slips the notebook out of her purse, slides the pen out of the notebook's spine, passes both on to Alexander.

"Satisfied?" Alexander asks.

"I will never be satisfied," Jones says, deadpan.

Karen breaks into laughter beside him, and it takes Alexander a moment to realize--it's the musical again. "But can you rap it?" she asks, as Alexander buries his face in his hands.

"Nah, I get tripped up," says Jones, grinning, "but I have a friend who could."

"If I may steer this back onto a more pertinent topic," Alexander interrupts, because he honestly does not need Karen and Foggy gaining another ally in their ongoing campaign to embarrass the fuck out of him, "why, exactly, were you suspected?"

"'Cause I was dumb enough to lie to them about having been at the crime scene," says Jones, the smile fading. "In my defense, I didn't know they'd been anonymously tipped off to that. I got pretty panicked, lied about being there, and then got dragged in here." She shrugs, smiling again--more sardonic, this time. "According to the asshole who was grilling me earlier, I was the last one to see her alive."

"Contrary to what TV says, that's not immediately damning evidence," says Alexander. "Okay, what was the case, exactly?"

"She wanted me to find her sister for her," says Jones. "I found her. I called my client. They had a heartwarming reunion, her sister promised to call her more, my client paid me enough for a month's supply of booze. I call her up an hour later, get nothing, check her address, and the next thing I know I'm standing outside a crime scene while an ambulance wheels my client's body away."

"Did you try to talk to the sister?" Karen asks. "She might know something."

"I did," says Jones. "She skipped town. Seemed pretty suspicious to me, but the dickhead I was talking to was just too eager to get home and jerk off, apparently."

"Yeah, he's an asshole," says Alexander. "Hey, you starving? Let's get out of here, we can do lunch and talk about this in a cheerier setting."

Jones winces a moment, but shrugs and says, "What, so I can walk out of here? Just like that?"

"They didn't detain or arrest you, they don't have probable cause," says Karen, standing up and hoisting her bag onto her shoulder. "Plus, their coffee is really shitty."

"This coming from you," Alexander says, with a laugh.

--

JESS:
so
i met hamilton

TRISH:
ur kidding

JESS:
you never said anything about him being this talkative
jesus christ its like talking to a human word machine
he wont shut up

TRISH:
he actually is that talkative irl???
oh my god
how

JESS:
we were talking about the case and then compared what we did for a living
i mentioned the reynolds pamphlet
apparently he still has feelings about it two hundred years later
page is trying not to laugh

TRISH:
howd u even meet him anyway

JESS:
he pretended to be my lawyer

TRISH:
alexander hamilton pretended to be ur lawyer
i literally just typed that out
what a world we live in huh

--

k dot page @karen_p
what @adotham does with better wifi connection: marathon as many founding fathers series as possible

A. Hamilton @adotham
whose bright idea was a goddamn John Adams series anyway wtf @HBO #fuckadams

A. Hamilton @adotham
is that asshole supposed to be me, @HBO we need to talk #fuckadams

A. Hamilton @adotham
I hear one more word from Ichabod Crane about how great TJeffs was I am going to explode #SleepyHollow

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
"Jefferson wasn't even THERE during the revolution he was off getting high with the French" - @adotham #SleepyHollow

A. Hamilton @adotham
well it's TRUE #didntevengetstarbucks
RT: "Jefferson wasn't even THERE during the revolution he was off getting high with the French" - @adotham #SleepyHollow

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
me: working, hears a thud
Alex: "FUCK'S SAKE SIT THE FUCK DOWN JOHN YOU FAT MOTHER--"
guess who saw 1776?

k dot page @karen_p
you know, I used to have so much respect for the founding fathers before Alex started working here #imissthosedays

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
wait @adotham hold on I'm gonna send you the anti-John Adams rap you'll love it

A. Hamilton @adotham
there's an anti-John Adams rap and nobody thought to tell me till now? #sodisappointed

--

Alexander doesn't often get opportunities to really, truly talk with Matt alone--he considers the man a friend, sure, but Matt's so standoffish Alexander wonders if the feeling is mutual. And there's also the Daredevil thing. If Matt Murdock is Daredevil, which, while likely, also has the small problem of Matt being fucking blind.

But they do end up winning a case together once--a murder case, fairly similar to Levi Weeks' case save for the involvement of a goddamn mob family, and that had been a slightly terrifying three days. Slightly.

To celebrate, Matt takes him to an ice cream parlor. "Best ice cream in Hell's Kitchen," he promises, with a playful grin, and Alexander shrugs his coat on and follows after him. When they step out onto the street, he feels Matt's hand slip into the crook of his arm.

The ice cream parlor, it turns out, is just two blocks away, and when they come inside, the clerk brightens and says, "Mr. Murdock! I haven't seen you here in weeks, you've been busy." She blinks, as though just now registering Alexander's presence, then says, worried, "Where's Mr. Nelson?"

"Out of town for his cousin's wedding," says Matt. "Kay, this is--"

"Alexander Hamilton," Alexander cuts in, holding his hand out for the clerk to shake. "A pleasure, ma'am."

Kay's eyes widen, and she makes a noise in the back of her throat that sounds rather like holy fucking shit. "It's--oh my god, sir, it is such an honor--shit--oh, sorry--" She sucks in a breath, then grabs his hand and shakes it just a little too eagerly.

"He's said worse," says Matt. "Did I ever tell you--"

"Not one word out of you, Murdock," says Alexander.

--

"You know Washington used to serve this?" says Alexander, after a spoonful of chocolate ice cream. "And Jefferson too, I guess, but forget about him."

"No, never knew that," says Matt, with a chuckle. In contrast to Alexander, who's sprung for as many toppings as he damn well wants because he deserves it, all Matt has is a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate sprinkles--his usual, according to Kay. "So what was Washington's favorite ice cream flavor?"

"I have no clue," says Alexander. "They weren't exactly a staple at cabinet meetings." He digs into the ice cream, manages to dig out a sizable chunk with--"hey, there's a chocolate bar in here," he says.

"Bit overkill, don't you think?" Matt teases. "Chocolate in chocolate?"

"We fought and bled and killed for the right to eat as much chocolate bars in chocolate ice cream as we can, Murdock," says Alexander, loftily. "If it wasn't for all the brave men who died in the war, we'd all have terrible British accents and no chocolate ice cream."

"Bullshit," says Matt, and Alexander snorts out a laugh.

"So maybe that part about the ice cream was an exaggeration," he says. "I'm entitled to those. I'm an old man, my memory's going."

"You don't look that old," says Matt, airily.

"Thanks," says Alexander, "I--wait a sec." He narrows his eyes at Matt, who just smiles innocently at him and goes back to eating his vanilla ice cream. "You asshole," he says.

"Well, it is true, you don't look old to me," says Matt.

"Because you can't see me at all, you jackass," says Alexander, pointing his spoon at him. "You pull that shit on Foggy too?"

"He falls for it way too easily," says Matt, the innocent smile widening, turning devilish. It's a familiar smile, it wouldn't look out of place under a red mask with horns, but Alexander doesn't say that. By now he knows that if he were to point that out, Matt would also point out that he's fucking blind.

He very resolutely does not entertain the notion of Matt not actually being blind. Matt wouldn't go that far to keep a secret, he's sure.

Then the smile falls, and Matt says, "Is your shoulder all right?"

Alexander shrugs, winces slightly. "Don't ask me to go lifting desks any time soon," he says, "but otherwise, I'm fine. Really."

"You sure?" Matt asks. "Foggy said it didn't look good."

"Does anybody ever look good when they've been shot?" Alexander asks. "Wait, don't answer that, you're going to make a terrible joke about not knowing. My point is, I am completely fine, and my shoulder only very occasionally twinges. Save your worry for your deposition on Tuesday."

"You got shot," Matt points out. "Remember the last time that happened?"

Alexander looks down at his ice cream. The bullet had gone right between his ribs, into his spine, and from what little he remembers of that first day back it had been a miracle that he's not paralyzed. Or magic, whichever. More importantly, though, what he remembers of his death is the shocked expression on Burr's face, when Alexander raised his pistol towards the sky, the shout of wait like he could somehow call the bullet back.

(Eliza and Angelica by his side, the confused expression on his youngest's face, his oldest son on the other side, with his mother on the other side--)

"Too well," he says. "But I didn't die."

"You could've," says Matt, and there's a flash of guilt there.

"But I didn't," says Alexander, after a moment. "And now we're sitting here eating some really good ice cream. I mean, hey, it's not like you could've done anything." True, from a certain perspective. Daredevil had been occupied, after all.

Matt's brows furrow, his lips pressing together like he's upset, but with those dark shades on Alexander can't quite always tell what he's feeling. Upset's a good guess, though. Maybe even guilty.

Alexander says, "Hey, lo--I mean, just. You and Foggy, how'd you become partners?"

"We met in law school," says Matt, visibly relaxing. "You know King's College?"

"Yeah, Columbia," says Alexander, the new name still a little sour on his tongue. "Terrible name for a country, still not sure on a school. But go on."

"We met there," says Matt. "Roomed together and all." He gives a small chuckle and says, "But for the first six months I knew Franklin P. Nelson, I could barely stand him. He snored. And he loved parties, would always try to drag me out for one even when there was an exam coming up. He was hell-bent on being my friend, and I was hell-bent on not letting him get there."

"Since he's your partner I can't imagine it succeeded," Alexander says, deadpan.

"Yeah, well," says Matt, "we had a professor. York, his name was..."

--

A. HAM:
how the fuck did you land someone worse than snape
how

NELSON:
oh my god did Matt tell you the York thing???
tell me he didn't leave out the best part
with the cactus

A. HAM:
what
what does a cactus have to do with it

NELSON:
he DID leave it out, okay
so we needed an impartial judge for the mock trial, and everyone we knew was scared shitless of York
and we couldn't ask anyone from my family because York would say some bullshit about them being biased
then, in a stroke of brilliance, i said
"who says the judge has to be sentient?"

A. HAM:
are you telling me
right here and right now
that you used a cactus for a judge

NELSON:
it was originally a bobblehead but Matt knocked that out the window
but the cactus did the job well enough
plus it was less prickly than most other judges
also since it's clearly story time, did i ever tell you my mom wanted me to be a butcher?

A. HAM:
oh my god
i thought he was kidding
you really do have a butcher story holy shit

NELSON:
it's a tradition, okay
also give me a sec i need to talk to Matt

--

FOGGY:
YOU BETRAYED ME

MATT:
i have no clue what youre talking about foggy

FOGGY:
you are
such
a shitty liar
you told Alex about the butcher story!

MATT:
oh that one
yeah that mustve slipped by accident

FOGGY:
accident my sweet ass
when i come back from the wedding i'm telling him all about that time you were on a rooftop with the French ambassador's son

MATT:
you wouldnt dare

FOGGY:
I WOULD

Chapter Text

KAREN:
please stop feeding the trolls, Alex.

A. HAM:
what am i supposed to do if they attack my rep then
just sit there and take it
FUCK NO

KAREN:
this is the eighth time in one week.

A. HAM:
your point being

KAREN:
it's WEDNESDAY.
if you really have to fight them, could you dial back the caps lock and quit flooding my feed?
it's 140 characters for a reason.

A. HAM:
this is too important to confine to 140 characters karen come on

--

It's three in the morning when Alexander shoulders his way into a grocery store, the hood of his cozy grey hoodie tugged up to keep people from recognizing him immediately and the winter chill from getting to him all the more. His phone's at home still charging, an open letter to the NYPD police chief half-finished on his desk, and the sooner he buys more coffee, the sooner he can get back to the letter.

"In reviewing the incidents that have occurred under your administration, such as the horrific incompetence you have consistently displayed and the seemingly perpetual sickness in Hell's Kitchen--and in New York--going by the name of corruption and brutality," he mutters to himself, dumping bags of coffee into the grocery basket, "it has come to my attention that you have proved wholly incapable of making a timely decision that would benefit the citizens that have elected you to serve them--wait, fuck, I hate blanking, are police chiefs elected, I gotta check--"

"Jesus Christ," someone complains, snapping Alexander out of his thoughts, "could you move?"

He turns, sees Jessica Jones with her own basket. Unlike his, though, hers is full of alcohol--whiskey, vodka, beer, some canned foods, and orange juice. "Ms. Jones," he greets her. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I come here all the time," says Jones. "I should be saying that to you. The hell are you doing up this late?"

"I ran out of coffee," says Alexander. "You?"

"Booze run," says Jones.

"That's not healthy," says Alexander.

"It's the breakfast of champions," says Jones, dry as a desert. "And I came straight here from a job."

"This something you do after every case?" Alexander asks, moving aside to let her dump coffee into her basket with little grace. "It's understandable, but also--how is your liver still functioning, woman?"

"Pilates," says Jones. "Anyway, you're one to talk, you look like you haven't slept in days. Nelson & Murdock working you too hard?"

"Nope," says Alexander, popping the p. "Been writing a few letters, though, here and there."

"They don't happen to be open letters in newspapers under some flimsy-ass alias, do they?" Jones asks, and Alexander adds a carton of milk into his basket. "Something like, A Concerned Citizen?"

"First of all, that was only one letter," says Alexander, pointing another carton of milk at her, "and second, how do you know that?"

"Private investigator," says Jones.

"You stalking me?"

"Nah, I read your previous shit and did some comparison," says Jones, "and you were muttering to yourself about reviewing incidents." She cocks her head to the side and says, "You're not exactly subtle, you know?"

"I'm not going for subtlety, Ms. Jones," says Alexander.

"Of course not," says Jones, a corner of her mouth twitching upwards, in a sardonic ghost of a smile. "But you should really--"

"Do not--"

"--take a break," Jones finishes.

Alexander narrows his eyes at her, then dumps a bag of sugar into his basket. "You and Foggy are absolutely hilarious," he says. "You should consider careers in stand-up."

"Nah, I'm not that funny," Jones says. "Besides, day-drinking's probably not a good skill to have if you're doing stand-up," she adds, holding up her basket.

Alexander decides not to ask--he's known people who did and saw some terrible things during the war resort, afterwards, to drinking to drown the demons. Instead he says, "Did you find her?"

"Hm?"

"Your client's sister," he clarifies. "The one who skipped town."

"Yeah," says Jones. "In New Jersey, if you can believe it. If I were her and I was an accomplice in my sister's murder, I'd have hopped on a plane out of the damn country first chance I got." She deposits a bag of sugar into her basket, says, "She's a witness now, went for the deal the second it was offered."

"Did she frame you?" Alexander asks.

"Yeah," says Jones. "You're a lawyer, what kinds of charges could I press against her for the shit she pulled on me? Slander?"

"Not slander, no, that's a different matter entirely," says Alexander, "but you could charge her with fraud, obstruction of justice, accessory to murder. Maybe defamation of character, though that's a little iffy, considering she didn't publish it. It depends--you said all you did was visit a crime scene, which, while no doubt annoying to the officers on site, is not a crime in itself, nor is it an admission of guilt." He waves his free hand in the air, nearly missing knocking over a jar of peanut butter from how excitedly he's waving it.

"Hey, dude, you break it, you bought it!" the cashier yells.

"How about we continue outside?" says Jones. "After we've bought our shit."

--

"--but do you really, honestly think," says Alexander, turning on his heel to face Jones as they walk down the street, "that we should allow the Avengers to, what, run around unchecked and unsupervised every time something bad happens? That they should not answer to a higher power of some kind? You can't just entrust, how many of them are there, twelve people--most of whom are unqualified, by the way, and one of which has literally admitted to being born like ten months ago--with the power to step in whenever and wherever they want, that's sanctioned vigilantism--"

"Don't know, don't care," says Jones.

"You said that already!" Alexander huffs.

"It's true," says Jones. "Look, I really don't give a shit what the Avengers do, couldn't give less of a shit if I tried. Unless somebody hires me to follow them around."

"But you can't not care, surely you have opinions--"

"Yeah, I don't care is a valid one," says Jones. "I'm just trying to make a living. The Avengers don't enter anywhere into that."

"Bullshit," says Alexander. "I don't--I don't get you. How can you say that you don't care?"

"I do care, but not about the shit you care about," says Jones. "You think big. 'Change the system' big. That's good for you, but I don't. I just want my people safe and enough booze to get me through the month."

"So, what, you're just gonna stand to the side, just like that?" Alexander asks, as Jones strides past him. "Jones. Jones."

Jones turns to look at him, and the light of the streetlamp above her glints off the whiskey bottles poking up from the plastic bag. Something in the calculating look she has in her eyes makes Alexander think, suddenly, of Burr, of the first time they had met so many years ago. "What do you want now?" she asks.

"Just answer me," says Alexander, stepping forward. "If you stand for nothing, Jones, what'll you fall for?"

For a moment he wonders if Jones and Burr are more similar than he thought, if Jones will turn on her heel and walk away instead of answering or if she'll answer by dancing around the point. Instead she lets out a breath, and says, "I never said I stood for nothing, Mr. Hamilton. It's just--not the things you want me to stand for."

She turns then, and walks away, leaving Alexander under a streetlamp like a spotlight.

--

A. HAM:
hows the wedding so far

NELSON:
it's going a lot better than i expected it to
just waiting on my uncle to make Rupert Murdoch look liberal

A. HAM:
is that even possible
i thought that was a sign of the apocalypse or something
like is there anyone whos more of a complete asshole than rupert murdoch who ISNT currently running for prez

NELSON:
dude
are you still bitter over the Post
it's been MONTHS
oh my god are you still READING the Post???

A. HAM:
"CLOAK AND SHAG HER: DETAILS ON CIA DIRECTOR'S SEX SCANDAL INSIDE"
who the fuck cares
why the fuck should we care
did not die for this

NELSON:
you died in a DUEL and also
you founded the Post just to talk shit about everyone you worked with

A. HAM:
exactly
did not found the post for it to go from talking shit to talking bullshit

NELSON:
it talked shit about Burr recently

A. HAM:
wait really
links
now

--

Alexander doesn't really know what it is that draws him back to New Jersey, after months of stubbornly, steadfastly avoiding going there. Maybe it's just being shot that's put him in a morbid enough mood to make the trip, maybe he wants to see what happened to the dueling grounds in the two centuries that have gone by.

Either way, once he's edited his open letter for the last time, he digs out the ugly green scarf Foggy had foisted off on him and his favorite hoodie, tugs the hood up over his head, and sets off for the heights of Weehawken.

When he gets there, after the better part of an hour or so, he's greeted with "WELCOME TO HAMILTON PARK". He stands there for a moment, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth--there's a park named after him. All right, it's near the same place he (and Philip, he realizes, his smile fading) died, but--it's a park. Named after him.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking. Snow is falling all around him, blanketing the world in white, and so far it hasn't been too bad--but he doesn't doubt that getting snowed in is a possibility that's becoming more and more real with each passing day. He should get a shovel, he thinks.

He stops near the dueling grounds. There's a fence now, keeping people away from the grounds itself, and Alexander looks out between the bars. If he squints, he can almost see the spot where Philip--

He shuts his eyes, sucks in a shaky breath. This was a colossally bad idea, and he should leave, head back to Hell's Kitchen.

He opens his eyes, starts moving again. But it's not out of the park--it's closer to the grounds, as close as he can get without climbing the fence and breaking a law or drawing the attention of the small crowd gathered near the exact spot he and Burr had their interview.

This is a bad idea.

This is a horribly, terribly, colossally bad idea, and Alexander's had plenty of experience in bad ideas.

He draws closer, finds himself staring down at the exact place where he'd fallen--he'd been struck right between the ribs, and he remembers Burr walking towards him, hand outstretched as though stunned, before his second ushered him away. If he closes his eyes he can still see the sudden flash of realization just a moment too late, the outstretched hand--

--wait--

--Laurens leads a soldiers' chorus on the other side, his son and his mother are on the other side--

--and Alexander stumbles back as though he's been struck. No one notices--there's the advantage in hoodies, he's found, and that's the fact that no one can really tell who you are, at least not from the back or from the side. And this, some distant part of him notes, would just be embarrassing.

The rest of him is too focused on trying to keep his composure from slipping, on trying to grasp that memory just out of his reach. He steps backward--

"Ow!"

Alexander whips around, sees a young girl with brown skin and darker hair of about sixteen, a red scarf wound around her neck. "My god, ma'am, I am so sorry--" he starts.

"No, dude, it's fine," says the girl, holding her hands up. "Didn't see you there, though. Hey, you look kinda...familiar."

He can see the exact moment the realization dawns in her eyes, the way it flickers back and forth between the bust and his face, as though comparing and contrasting in her head.

"Oh my god," she breathes.

Alexander shakes his head, says, "Don't. I just--I gotta get out of here."

The amazement fades quickly, replaced very quickly by determination. "Hold on to me," she says, holding out her hand, "I'll take you somewhere else in New Jersey." Her eyes glitter with something like pride for her city, and she says, "We got better tourist spots than a place where someone died, anyway."

--

KAMALA:
I JUST MET ALEXANDER HAMILTON

BRUNO:
ur kidding

KAMALA:
nope not kidding
i can prove it
[attached: hamselfie.jpg]

BRUNO:
holy crap
how

KAMALA:
he was wandering around hamilton park while i was patrolling
in civvies don't worry!
bumped into me and looked kind of terrible so i offered to get him out of there
he is so amazing he talks kind of a lot but he's great
i asked him where he lived and he said hell's kitchen
also he's never seen dog cops THIS IS AN ERROR THAT NEEDS TO BE RECTIFIED

BRUNO:
pls tell me
ur not going 2 give him
all three boxsets so far

KAMALA:
nah i lent them out to nakia
but i totally recced it to him and showed him the theme song
he loves it

BRUNO:
hes there w you
right now
KAMALA

KAMALA:
he's looking at my phone right now
he says hi btw
i told him some things about you and he was like "your friend is awesome tell him to brush up on his latin. do they still use latin in schools??"
wait oh my god
HE MADE A JOKE
WAIT TILL TUMBLR HEARS

BRUNO:
right ok
im just gonna
im gonna lie here this is a lot to take in
holy crap

KAMALA:
I KNOW

Chapter Text

"Alex! Open up! Come on, come on, come out with us!"

Alexander blinks, and realizes three truths at the exact same time.

Number one: he'd fallen asleep at his desk in the midst of writing a trial brief, and the paper is stuck to his forehead. He peels it off, gropes for his phone, then pulls up the camera and makes a face at the traces of ink stamped onto his forehead.

Number two: Foggy and Karen are pounding on his door, shouting about bluefins and fish markets. Alexander's pretty sure he can hear Matt as well, laughing and trying to admonish them about waking up the neighbors.

Number three: Alexander is in no shape to head out. He's in an undershirt and Batman boxers, he has an image of respectability to maintain (never mind that it's a little tattered, he will cling to those tatters like his life depends on it), he can't just go out because two of his friends are trying to goad him into it.

(Number four: They're his friends. The thought of it makes something warm bubble up in his chest.)

"Alexander Hamilton!" Foggy yells, and it takes a moment for Alexander to realize that he's sung it.

"Did--Did Washin'ton know 'bout the dinner, was there preshi--prezzi--shit, Foggy, you do it!" Karen's voice now rings out, slurring her words, and Alexander lets out a breath and runs his hand over his face.

"Alex," says Matt, and there's the distinctive sound of his cane tapping against Alexander's door, "please don't open the door. These two drank the eel, they're trying to attempt a kidnapping. I tried to discourage them, I really did."

"Like you didn't!" Foggy shouts. "I don't--how the hell can you still enunciate words like a motherfucker when you're drunk, are you even real--"

"If you don't like the fish market," Karen says, "we can--we can totally go visit. Um. What's the name of the restaurant with the cheap but delicious ramen?"

"Fish market," Foggy says, his tone like that of a man about to start pontificating on the importance of 24-hour fish markets and angry old men to the economy of New York, and while Alexander would ordinarily love to hear it, it's also two in the morning. His neighbors will kill him, and so he gets to his feet and opens the door.

Foggy and Karen spill out from the corridor, Foggy landing right on top of him. Karen lands on top on Foggy and gives a happy giggle.

Alexander makes a noise that was supposed to be watch the shoulder, but instead comes out as, "Ow, motherfucker, get off me--"

Matt pokes his head inside, prods at Foggy and Karen with his cane. "Come on, up," he says, amused, "wouldn't want a repeat of the Hamilton thing."

"The what," says Alexander, as Karen rolls off still giggling.

"Foggy passed out under a statue of you once," says Matt, blandly.

"Did not!" Foggy shouts, lifting himself up off Alexander's chest. "Lies and slander! I was--I was resting my eyes for like a second!"

"You were snoring like a freight train," says Matt, with very little shame. "I tried to wake you up, like good best friends do when they find their best friends passed out beneath statues, and I got pigeon shit on my hand for it."

"You hear that, Karen?" says Foggy. "You hear that? All flagrant and blatant lies, oh my god, Matt, I fucking trusted you--"

Alexander wriggles out from beneath Foggy, helps Karen up to her feet. "What did you all want?" he asks. "It's two in the morning. My neighbors are asleep."

"You said my neighbors," says Karen, leaning heavily on his shoulder. "Are you pulling another all-nighter? You're not s'posed to. To overwork yourself. 'Cause you got shot and ev'rythin'." She reaches up a hand, and plants it on his face.

"Dude," says Foggy. "Dude. Come out with us. Take a break, run away with us for the summer--"

"I am so sorry," says Matt. "I tried to discourage them. I really did."

"You didn't discourage them strongly enough," Alexander huffs.

"--let's go upstate," Karen completes, sacrificing tune for volume.

"I've got to work on this brief," Alexander says. "And I have letters that need writing, a contract I've got to look over, things to record--"

Foggy exchanges a wicked look with Karen, then, as one--sort of--they start to sing (if he can call that dissonant, cacophonous noise singing), "I knoooow you are a man of honor--"

Alexander shoots Matt a beseeching look for a second before he remembers--Matt's blind. He settles for saying, "Matt. Help."

"I'm so sorry to bother you at hooome--"

Matt shrugs, says, as innocently as possible, "Don't you know how to say no to this?"

"You three are menaces," Alexander says, then he lets out a sigh and tries to half-drag Karen over to the couch. Goddammit, he can't get any work done if Karen and Foggy keep the noise up, and he's not looking forward to getting a tongue-lashing from the old woman down the hall. He can see the only course of action he can take here. "Sit on the couch, I can't go out in the cold like this."

--

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
dude
what r u doing still up???

A. HAM:
who the fuck is this
how the hell did you get this number

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
its Peter
sorry
just happened to be swinging by when I saw u and the rest of N&M
ur not very subtle when ur dressing up u know
ur like
a neon green peacock

A. HAM:
that explains the flash of too bright red and blue i saw while keeping matt away from arguing with the organic apple lady
also its a school day what the fuck are you doing swinging around
why the fuck are you still swinging around
youre like SIXTEEN

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
oh my god
okay no I'm twenty
also all I have tom r afternoon classes I can wake up WHENEVER I WANT
also also DD asked very nicely and promised free donuts
u were a college student man
u know how it is when ur promised free things

A. HAM:
GO HOME

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
look I love and respect you but also
I'm notcha son

A. HAM:
very funny
how long have you been saving that

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
5EVER
longer than forever

A. HAM:
why

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
also how's the shoulder

A. HAM:
its fine
twinges a little before snow days though
on the bright side my shoulder is now more accurate than the weather guy
now GO HOME

UNKNOWN NUMBER:
NOTCHA SON

--

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
I regret so many things. #somany #turnoffthesun

A. Hamilton @adotham
@fnelson_nm @karen_p remember kids: do NOT drink the eel or you'll end up hating yourself tomorrow

k dot page @karen_p
@adotham @fnelson_nm we are literally 5 feet away from each other one of you do something about the window

--

The next time Alexander runs into Daredevil, it's just after the man's stopped a mugging--at least, Alexander infers it's a mugging, judging from the woman who runs past him before he can ask her just what, exactly, is going on here. And from the hoodlum that's gotten dropped into a dumpster when he gets to the alleyway.

"What the hell?" Alexander asks.

"Mr. Hamilton," says Daredevil, his voice a low growl. "You shouldn't be out so late."

That's rich, Alexander thinks. Out loud he says, "That's none of your business. Also, what the hell?"

"This man was trying to assault someone," says Daredevil, and Alexander looks down at the man in the dumpster. "I stopped him."

"By beating his face in, yeah, you stopped him, all right," Alexander huffs. "You know that's illegal, right?"

"What do you think the mask's for?" Daredevil shoots back. "You should get home. If you want, I can walk you there."

"Yeah, no," says Alexander. "I fought in a war. I can hit pretty well." He pauses, then says, "Any chance you know a guy named Matt Murdock? Blind, like two inches taller than me, glasses?"

"I've met him," says Daredevil, a little hurried. Considering he's wearing a mask and that it's dark here, it's hard to tell what he feels about the question Alexander just sprung on him, but the hurried way Daredevil says it makes him wonder. "We worked together on the same case once."

"He comes into work with a lot of bruises for a blind guy," says Alexander, as carefully as possible.

Daredevil shrugs, says, "Does he? I'll talk to him."

"You tell him to stop getting into fights so much," says Alexander. "Karen gets worried."

"I'll let him know," says Daredevil, an amused note to his tone. "Though, that's rather rich, coming from the man who kept challenging people to duels."

"You're hilarious," Alexander tells him. "You should be doing stand-up."

"I doubt I'd do very well, people tend to run screaming from the guy in the devil suit," says Daredevil. "Stay safe, Mr. Hamilton."

Alexander lets out a breath, then turns, pulling out his phone and dialing 911. There's a sound above him, like someone landing onto a fire escape, and he looks up to see Daredevil clambering up the building and disappearing into the night.

"911," says a crisp, professional voice over the phone, "what's your emergency?"

I think one of my best friends is secretly a costumed vigilante, he doesn't say. "Yeah, uh, I found a guy in a dumpster," he says instead, watching the poor unconscious man with a wary eye. He's seen him before, he thinks, on a wanted poster in the precinct while trying to get Brett to give him answers. "Can you send someone over here, quick?"

--

A. Hamilton @adotham
so glad people are starting to get why Jefferson sucks #toldyouso bit.ly/h6Gr2IK

Rick Thompson @richard_thompson
Thomas Jefferson was the most brilliant mind of his generation, @adotham is trying to smear his name. #StandWithJefferson

A. Hamilton @adotham
@richard_thompson TJeffs' been dead for 200+ years you can get off his skeletal dick now

Rick Thompson @richard_thompson
@adotham It astonishes me that even 200+ years from his death you're still on a smear campaign. #tryharder

A. Hamilton @adotham
@richard_thompson oh my GOD, okay, TJeffs was a SLAVEOWNER. talked a good game re: freedom but had SLAVES (1/?)

--

MURDOCK:
Foggy just read your tweets out loud.
Seriously?

A. HAM:
a SMEAR CAMPAIGN
can you believe this guy
man says im trying to smear tjeffs "good name"
i dont have to he pulled enough bullshit that his name smells like shit all by itself

MURDOCK:
It's twenty tweets long.
Twenty-two.
How do you write like you're running out of time?

A. HAM:
ill tell you the answer if you tell me this
did you really pretend to be your own twin brother for a whole day

MURDOCK:
I'm not going to dignify that with an answer.

--

MATT:
really foggy
really

FOGGY:
really what???
gotta be more specific there, Matt

MATT:
the mike debacle foggy

FOGGY:
you know i'm literally just seven feet away to your right
and also: OH, that one
forgot i told Alex and Karen that one

MATT:
didnt we agree never to bring it up again

FOGGY:
you said "can we never talk about this again"
i never said "yes"
nor did you ever mention not telling it to like someone not you

MATT:
okay you know what

--

MURDOCK:
So you know Marci, right? Smells like expensive perfume? Foggy's ex?

A. HAM:
some
foggys mentioned her but i was out last time
why

MURDOCK:
When he tried to ask her out, he tripped over a curb and broke his nose.
They spent their first date in the clinic with tissues stuffed up Foggy's nose.
He also had flowers but from what I'm told they were very badly squished in the fall.

A. HAM:
oh my GOD
im screencapping this and sending this to karen
saving it for a rainy day

--

k dot page @karen_p
#thatmomentwhen your bosses are in some kind of embarrassing story war and you're right in the middle

k dot page @karen_p
I now have YEARS of blackmail material on them #livingthelife

A. Hamilton @adotham
apparently Columbia U life has gotten even wilder in two centuries this is great #nelsonvsmurdock

k dot page @karen_p
@adotham ikr wish I'd gone there I'd give my right arm to see that mock trial with the cactus #nelsonvsmurdock

A. Hamilton @adotham
@karen_p do you know about the time Foggy moved things in their room and started a prank war #nelsonvsmurdock

k dot page @karen_p
@adotham the one that pulled in their entire building?? YES #serialescalation #nelsonvsmurdock

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@adotham @karen_p YOU TWO ARE MENACES TO SOCIETY I SWEAR

Chapter Text

THOM-ASSHOLE:
literally wtf is ur bf wearing

LAURENS:
uh
clothes
you know those things people wear so they don't die of pneumonia in NY winters
it's not a modern invention shockingly

THOM-ASSHOLE:
U KNOW WHAT I MEAN

LAURENS:
nope
afraid not

THOM-ASSHOLE:
get down here
ull see what i mean

--

"Ah, Thomas Jefferson," John icily says, fixing Thomas Jefferson and his bright-ass purple coat with a dark look. "I see you know what clothes are after all."

"And I see you brought your new friend along with you," says Jefferson, just as icy, glaring at Gabe Jones and the tub of popcorn he's carrying like the man's very presence is a personal offense to him. Gabe, for his part, just smiles calmly at Jefferson, but John's been hanging around with him and the other Howling Commandos (the ones that aren't still alive, anyway) long enough to know what he's considering doing to Jefferson.

"Didn't feel like missing out on the fun, and I was with John anyway," says Gabe, nodding to Alex--who's currently trying to keep Matt from charging forward to start a fight with a lady selling organic apples. (Organic apples, what the hell.)

"You're not missing out on much," says Jefferson, his tone dripping with disdain.

John smiles. "You still mad about the musical?" he asks, and keeps sunnily smiling even as Jefferson glares at him. "Shame. It's a great musical."

"Plus, the guy playing you's not too shabby," Gabe adds, with the same sunny smile as he pops a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, and Jefferson looks just about ready to explode when--

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Matt," Alex shouts, drawing their attention to him. He makes for a comical sight, dragging his blind vigilante friend back by the shirt collar and grumbling about blind, fight-happy assholes. "Is this how Laurens felt after the second bar fight? Jesus, I owe him so many apologies."

"He says like I didn't help," John says, with a snort of laughter. He rests his elbow on Gabe's shoulder, sees Alex's eyes grow wide in realization.

"Oh, shit," Alex breathes, "is this how Burr felt?"

There's a sudden snort of laughter behind them, and John won't lie, he nearly jumps at the sound. Apparently Aaron Burr can still be as sneaky as ever, and he leans against a lamppost with his arms crossed, watching Alex trying to corral his three drunk best friends with a degree of amusement.

"That's an ironic sight," he says, mildly.

"Well," says John, his smile growing a little more forced, "if it ain't the prodigy of Princeton College!" And the guy who shot Alex, he doesn't say. It's been two centuries, after all, and he can let go of a grudge.

Most of the time.

Some of the time.

So maybe he's still a bit leery of Burr. Who can blame him?

Gabe squints at Burr a moment, then says, at last, "You Aaron Burr?"

"Who's asking?" Burr shoots back, and yeah, there's the Burr John knows--unwilling to commit to anything, even his own name.

"Gabe Jones," says Gabe. "Of the Howling Commandos."

"That unit back in World War II made up of--" Jefferson starts, his tone full of contempt.

"I have a lot of popcorn on me and I would hate to see your suit ruined, Mister Jefferson," says Gabe. "Finish that sentence, though, and you're going to need another bright-ass eyesore."

For a moment John's a little terrified their little trip's going to end prematurely, but then Karen starts singing something that sounds like--

"May you aaaaaaaal-waaaaays--"

"Karen," Alex says, his voice just barely heard over Foggy and Karen joining voices to try and rap their way through "Satisfied" at top volume, his face like that of a man bearing a great number of regrets, "for fuck's sake, don't make me the sole person responsible for keeping you all from jail here."

"See how it feels?" Burr asks no one in particular--after all, it's not as though Alex can hear them.

John can't help it--he breaks into a little fit of laughter, and he and Gabe have to lean against each other just to stay upright. Some of Gabe's popcorn spills from the tub, vanishing on its way down like it never was.

God, the irony of it all.

Chapter Text

Christmas is drawing near--Alexander can tell, because Santas are showing up everywhere and competing with each other for the best spots to ho-ho-ho from. They're showing up earlier and earlier too, because he sees a guy dressed in red with a fake beard hanging loosely from his chin and a not-so-fake stomach snoozing on a bench on his way to Trinity Church. Beside him is a sign that reads "Help Dogs with Cancer!"

There's a picture of a pug pasted on it. It looks kind of like it's looking soulfully up into the camera, begging whoever's looking at it to please, take some pity on it and toss some coins into the threadbare top hat beside it.

Alexander digs into his pocket and tosses a few coins into the hat. He turns away and starts walking down the street, before the guy can fully stir awake and call out to him.

He knows the route by now, could walk it in his sleep. He steps into Trinity Church, sits on one of the benches, and clasps his hands together, closes his eyes.

Someone says, "You look pretty bad."

Alexander opens his eyes, sees an old priest making his way over and sitting down next to him. There's something fatherly in his features, something kind despite the things he must've seen. "I got a lot of things on my mind," he says. "Father."

"As do most people," the priest says. "You know something, though? I've found lattes tend to soothe those worries fairly quickly, though maybe that's just the quality of the coffeemaker my church has."

"So why are you at this church?" Alexander asks.

"Filling in for a friend," says the priest, as serene as the eye of a hurricane. "Want a latte?"

"Think I'll pass for now, I have--I have some graves to visit," says Alexander. "Thanks," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "I might take you up on it after."

"All right," says the priest, standing up. "And if you don't--try visiting the Church of St. Agnes, sometime. There's a better coffeemaker there."

"I'll keep that in mind, Father," says Alexander.

--

By now, the snow has fallen for long enough that Alexander has to brush a layer of snow off Eliza's grave, and the flowers surrounding it are laden with snow, their heads drooping sadly, their petals dropping off. Alexander sits down, pulls out a wreath from his bag--it's clumsily-made, but cheery in its plastic greenness, the only spot of color in the white graveyard.

"Hi," he says. "Merry Christmas, Betsey. Or, Merry nearly-Christmas."

There's no answer but for the sound of the wind. He's long since grown used to that.

"You know," says Alexander, "someone threw another rock through my window a few days ago? Knocked a vase off the table, I had to glue it back together again." He huffs out a laugh, his breath escaping in white puffs in the cold air. "I'm starting a collection. God knows I get enough rocks through my window for a sizable one. I could say they're a collection of paperweights, maybe even bring one to the office for Karen, she could use one. What do you think?"

He closes his eyes, imagines Eliza shaking her head, smiling softly at him. Alexander, she'd say, her tone gently chiding, you really should be a little warier about rocks getting thrown through your window. What if one manages to hit you?

All right, so maybe that's the best reaction he can imagine from her. At worst she'd be deeply unhappy that he's so callous about people threatening his life, but he's gotten enough death threats over his months working for Nelson & Murdock that he's desensitized. He can just imagine Eliza's worried face now.

"They didn't hit me, by the way," he adds, resorting to the old habit of soothing her worries. "The only casualty was a vase. And obviously the window." He traces the edges of the cold stone, the way he once would've threaded his fingers through her hair. "You would have hated that vase anyway, it was cheap and it looked, frankly, terrible. The window won't be cheap, I'll have to cover it up with some tarpaulin for a while."

He pauses, then says, "Oh, hey--you know Graham Windham? Your orphanage. I went there a few days ago, and I saw this kid riding on top of this guy's shoulders, looking like she was on top of the world. This guy saw me, and you know what he said?"

He shivers a little--it's cold here, he thinks. Maybe it's just the winter chill, and he draws his coat tighter around himself.

"He said, 'when you see your wife again, could you thank her for me and my baby girl?' I told him I could." He sniffs, his vision beginning to blur. "I didn't get his name, but--you did a lot, you did so much with the time you had and--you should've seen it. You should've seen them." He sucks in a shaky breath, wipes away the tears threatening to fall. "Your garden looks amazing, Betsey. I just wish you could've seen it now."

--

NELSON:
guess who's the prosecutor for your case

A. HAM:
are we talking about burgos or elkins
because last i checked i had to go up against king in the burgos case

NELSON:
Elkins
and it's Marci
you know
my ex

A. HAM:
oh so now your ex is working for the das office
its a step up from morally corrupt law firm
though anything would be
and i should be concerned about this why

NELSON:
dude just a heads-up
she didn't nearly beat me and Matt in debate for nothing
and not to toot our own horns but we are AMAZING lawyers okay
it was actually kind of hot

A. HAM:
i know but also consider
i have literally been practicing law longer than any of you have lived
ive practically perfected it

NELSON:
i swear your pride will be the death of us all
beware! it goeth before the fall

A. HAM:
very funny
remember what i said about stand up

NELSON:
there's money in being a defense attorney!

A. HAM:
tell that to my broken window
and your bank account

--

"Mr. Hamilton!"

Alexander turns around at the mention of his name accompanied with the impatient click-click of high heels, a steaming hot paper cup full of Starbucks coffee in hand. "Ms. Stahl," he says.

"Oh, good, Foggy-bear's told you about me," says Stahl, smiling at him with a little too much teeth, and suddenly Alexander can see why most people prefer to call lawyers sharks these days. He can sympathize.

"Foggy-what," says Alexander, failing to disguise his glee. Foggy's never going to live this down, he'll make sure of it. "I mean--yes, he has. He did think to warn me first, which I should, in retrospect, have taken more seriously." He sips at his coffee and says, "Your attention to detail is astounding, Ms. Stahl."

"It's had to be," says Stahl, flippantly. "But you, Mr. Hamilton--that was an impressive speech back there. I'm almost sorry I had to dismantle it."

"Not sorry enough not to, evidently," Alexander says. "No worries, I'm almost sorry I'll have to blow all your arguments out of the water when we're done."

"Not sorry enough not to," Stahl shoots back. "I take it you're not up for a deal?"

"What kind of deal?"

"Reduced sentence, in exchange for a guilty plea and his cooperation in looking for his co-conspirators in both the murder and the previous robbery," says Stahl.

"That'd be a bit hard," says Alexander, "considering that not only is Elkins not guilty of either murder or robbery, he also knows fuck-all about whatever conspiracy you're talking about, because I sure as hell don't." He sips at his coffee again, and says, "Tell your boss we're not taking the deal, and that he can--"

"--contact us at a later date," Matt interrupts, the taps of his cane signaling his arrival, and Alexander does not nearly jump because, what the hell. What the hell. "We're not going to take his deal, but should he have information regarding this conspiracy that we, as Mr. Elkins' defense attorneys, should be privy to, he should get in touch with us and we'll work something out. Preferably something that won't prove damaging to our client."

"I'll be sure to tell him that," says Stahl, with that shark's smile again, "and thanks, by the way--King owes me thirty bucks now, she figured it was hopeless enough that you'd accept." She turns on her heel and walks away, and Alexander waits for her to disappear around the corner before he turns to Matt.

"Were you there the whole time?" he asks.

"No, but I heard you while coming down the hall," says Matt. "Where's the coffee?"

"Your right, step closer," says Alexander. "A conspiracy. Jesus."

"The DA might have a point," says Matt.

"What, about Elkins?" Alexander asks. "Do you seriously believe that shit? And the buttons are further down, the latte's second button from the top."

"No, Elkins isn't lying on that," says Matt, hand drifting down to the buttons, and Alexander's long since learned not to ask him where he gets that surety about being lied to or not. "He's not involved in any of it. But he's the fall guy."

"Which means we need to find another suspect," says Alexander, thoughtfully. "I could do the Croucher trick again. I'd just need some candles. Or, you know what, I'll just turn on the flashlight on my phone and hold it under the next witness's face."

Matt huffs out a laugh, says, "No, I think we'd be held in contempt of court if you tried that nowadays."

"What has the justice system come to," Alexander laments, "that you could be held in contempt for resorting to something that worked like a charm before?" He pauses, then says, "I don't even need the flashlight, you know, I could just--"

"Please don't badger the witness about his appearance and get us thrown in jail, Alex," says Matt. "No matter how evil you think he looks."

"Well, does he?"

Matt shrugs, and too late, Alexander remembers--he's fucking blind and very willing to pounce on somebody's mistake for a laugh, and sure enough: "I don't know, he looked kind of like you to me."

"Haha, very fucking funny, Murdock," Alexander grumbles. "How long have you been waiting to use that?"

"It's true," says Matt, and Alexander nudges his side with a sharp elbow.

It's a mistake, he realizes, because he sees a flash of pain across Matt's face, hears that sudden pained breath, and suddenly he's trying to steady the man.

Matt responds by thwacking at his leg with his cane, saying, "It's fine, it's fine, I just--got beaten up a few nights ago." He winces, a hand going to his side, and says, "I don't--I don't know who it was. They weren't kind enough to give their names."

"You said you fell," says Alexander. "You fucker, the hell do you think you're doing--"

"I didn't want anyone to worry," says Matt. "Like I said, I'm fine."

"Like fuck you are," says Alexander, grabbing hold of him and steering him to the bathroom. "Did I open a stitch? Jesus fuck, Murdock, what kind of shit do you get up to at night, some kinda blind people fight club?" Daredevil, he thinks, and if Matt is Daredevil, then--well, he isn't lying about getting himself beaten up, at least.

"If I was a part of a secret fight club for blind people," Matt dryly says, "would I tell you?"

"Point," Alexander admits.

--

#SuperWatch @super_watch
Daredevil spotted roughing up thugs in Hell's Kitchen bit.ly/r9mGH

--

The Daily Bugle @DailyBugle_Official
Surprise Twist: Elkins Goes Free! True Culprit Shocks With Startling Confession! bit.ly/lOf28

--

The day after the Elkins case, Alexander meets up with Karen outside the building and says, "You know what I told Matt while the case was still against us?"

"What?" she asks.

"I told him we needed to find another suspect," says Alexander. "Daredevil beats up thugs that night, and the next day someone wanders into a station wanting to confess because they're terrified the Devil of Hell's Kitchen will come after them." He lets out a breath, takes a sip of his coffee.

"You think he scared a confession out of someone," says Karen.

"I think," says Alexander, "that if you're getting beat up on by someone who looks like the actual devil, you'd say or do anything to get them to stop. And how will they know if you're lying just to try and get out of getting beaten?"

Karen's quiet, then she huffs out a breath. "At the very least," she says, "there's a link between Matt and Daredevil. That cannot be disputed--Daredevil's practically our unofficial mascot, he pops up around us so often. At most--" She doesn't finish, but Alexander figures he knows what she's thinking. At most, Matt is Daredevil, and the theory--because so far it's only a theory--fits all the evidence they have.

Save for the blindness, and Alexander--Alexander's not going to think about how a blind man could pull off all those stunts.

"We'll need a pretty strong case," says Alexander, shoving the door open to let Karen inside and earning a raised eyebrow before she shoulders her way past him. "Something airtight. This is Matt we're talking about, I haven't had someone rip into an argument I gave them so thoroughly before."

"Jefferson," Karen says.

"Jefferson doesn't count," Alexander flatly says, following her up the stairs.

"Keep telling yourself that," Karen says, amused, and pushes the door open.

Alexander blinks at the sight and says, "Matt? Foggy? What the hell?"

--

k dot page @karen_p
#thatmomentwhen you walk into the office and see your boss on the desk with blood coming from his nose 1/2

k dot page @karen_p
2/2 while your other boss keeps apologizing over and over while administering first-aid

k dot page @karen_p
Nelson & Murdock: never a dull moment!

KHAAAAAAN @KhanKamala1999
@adotham @karen_p @fnelson_nm omg what happened??? #insuspense

A. Hamilton @adotham
@KhanKamala1999 @karen_p @fnelson_nm Foggy accidentally hit Matt in the face with a baseball #fail

A. Hamilton @adotham
lesson learned: never bounce a baseball off your door, kids! your blind partner might get hit in the face

k dot page @karen_p
@fnelson_nm #nevergonnaplayinthebigleaguesnow

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@karen_p that doesn't even fit

A. Hamilton @adotham
@karen_p @fnelson_nm that's one less thing to worry about

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@karen_p @adotham you're both sooooo funny

Chapter Text

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
first Captain America, then a founding father, now the freedom bird hates Trump. THIS IS A SIGN.

A. Hamilton @adotham
@fnelson_nm THE BEST DAY #blessthisday

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@adotham #theeaglehasspoken #nevergonbepresidentnow

--

PETER:
so like
if I were to ask u for help re: this paper
would u help

A. HAM:
ahhh
hell week??

PETER:
I have a history class and I'm doing the amrev bc my prof LOATHES me
it's worth 25% of my grade
and ur like
the best eyewitness

A. HAM:
depends
im a little busy

PETER:
oh my god r u writing ANOTHER letter to the Post???
let it go let it gooooo

A. HAM:
NEVER

PETER:
u r def writing another one
take a break
help a broke student earn an A
can't promise shit but you'll feel pretty great!

A. HAM:
letters to write
arguments to draft
research to do

PETER:
my aunt makes the best apple pies in NY
like u can literally feel ur soul leaving ur body
wait shit that was terrible
but I could totally bring one over just for u
buuuut since ur busy

A. HAM:
okay you know what
i need to know that for sure
swing your spandex clad ass over here ill help you with your homework
bring the pie

--

Prof. E. Hopkins @evelinehopkins35
#shitmystudentsdo turn in a final presentation just five minutes before midnight with @adotham for an interviewee

for pete's sake @PParker
guess who got an A in his history class AND his prof's begrudging respect?? THIS GUY, thnx @adotham

Gwen Stacy @gwenstacy
@PParker suddenly beginning to rethink this Oxford thing, also congratulations! #winner

A. Hamilton @adotham
@PParker tell your aunt thanks for the pie it was a REVELATION

--

Alexander throws one end of his green scarf over his shoulder and says, "Look, I'm just saying, it's still tantamount to highway robbery. Coffee is a needed substance, good coffee even more so."

"Mm-hmm," says Foggy.

"And to offer it at ever escalating prices is spitting in the face of all that we fought for in the war," says Alexander.

"Mm-hmm."

"And these Christmas carols are terrible," says Alexander. "Santa pally? What in the fuck."

"And yet," says Foggy, his voice muffled by the red, white and blue striped scarf around his neck, one hand reaching up to pull his Kermit hat forward, "here we are standing in line for a grande peppermint mocha each."

"Anyone asks, I'm blaming it on your sweet tooth," says Alexander. There's a woman in front ordering something with an incredibly convoluted list of ingredients, and the barista looks about ready to leap over the counter and strangle her. Alexander himself is entertaining the idea, he's got a long day ahead of him and he really, really needs that coffee. "Jesus fuck, how long before we can move?"

"At this rate?" Foggy says, eyeing the woman in front with no small amount of frustration, before he huffs out a breath and pulls out his phone to check the time. "I'd say we'd probably get back to the office by lunchtime."

"Yeah, if we're not frozen by then," Alexander says. Above them, someone is trying to bleat his way through an acoustic version of "Jingle Bell Rock", which is--he's pretty sure that's just defeating the point of it. "When did Christmas get this--this--"

"Commercialized?"

"This much of a big deal," says Alexander. "We put up a few wreaths, sure, heard Mass and spent time with our loved ones, but it wasn't this big. All the caroling, the huge-ass Christmas trees, the gift shopping? We didn't have that, Congress didn't even take the day off." He looks around at the festively-decorated store and huffs out a breath. "It wasn't this big. Now--Christ, I can barely turn a corner without seeing three carolers on the same street."

"Welcome to the 21st century, buddy," says Foggy, sympathetic. "Coffee is expensive and Christmas is huge."

"Excuse me!" someone says, and Alexander glances to the side, to see a young girl with brown skin and wild hair nearly tripping over herself to get to him, a pad of paper clutched close to her chest. "Excuse me, pardon me, are you Alexander Hamilton, sir?"

"Yeah," says Alexander, a little on guard now. Beside him, Foggy shifts imperceptibly closer. "Something up?"

"I just--" she starts, gripping her pad tight. "I, um. I'm Bethany, I'm in the same class as Peter Parker--the kid who interviewed you for his paper? He told me I could talk to you, and--if it won't take up too much of your time, could I ask you for an interview as well? It's just that I'm writing something concerning Thomas Jefferson--"

"I'm not quite sure you really know who you're talking to," Alexander begins, because this girl seems really nice but also, she's writing about Jefferson. That never ends well.

"--it's about Jefferson and his slaves, sir," says Bethany. "And, ah, his hypocrisy. And I wanted to hear your opinions, since you fought with him on a number of issues. Sir."

"Okay," says Alexander, almost instantly changing his tune. "Yeah, sure, if it's all about tearing down Jefferson's inane bullshit and exposing what he actually was--which was a hypocrite of the highest order--then I am so your man--"

"Oh, boy," says Foggy, under his breath, before he gives Bethany a polite smile and grabs Alexander's elbow to pull him away. "We will--We will think on that, ma'am, because right now there are two grande peppermint mochas calling our names, Alex, come on, I can hear them. They are calling us."

"I can wait!" says Bethany, earnestly, and god, something about her and her bright-eyed earnestness reminds Alexander of himself, somehow, when he was younger, when he had just set foot in New York. "And--I'll make it up to you. I don't have much, but I can bake cookies. Unless you're allergic to like. Eggs."

"Nah, I am--I would definitely enjoy cookies," says Alexander, "just let me chop a limb off for my peppermint mocha--"

"Alex," Foggy says, tugging him along, "the line's finally moving, come on."

--

theamrevbirdie:
met Hamilton today at Starbucks! he and his friend - the lawyer guy with the weird name, Foggy Nelson - were standing in line for peppermint mocha, I didn't even know they were going to be there. I got Hamilton to talk about fighting with Thomas Jefferson for like two hours, it's so great, I have so much material for my paper now.

(side note: he really WAS kidding re: the Julius Caesar thing, which makes it even funnier that generations of historians have fallen for it along with Jefferson. he still thinks it was worth it, btw.)

also, oh my god he's so bitchy about Starbucks prices. like, you know Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow? he's even bitchier than Crane, I foresee an anonymous angry letter about coffee in the Post or the Times in the near future.
#alexander hamilton #birdie's brushes with history #THE PEOPLE YOU FIND IN A STARBUCKS HUH #also his friend was so nice #the musical was NOT EXAGGERATING tho oh my god he talked a lot #so much tjeffs dissing i'm so pleased #he also at one point compared tjeffs and trump it was so funny #best day
23 notes

--

A. HAM:
what the fuck is drunk history

KAREN:
who told you about Drunk History???
was it Foggy?

A. HAM:
no there was this girl who got me to talk about jefferson for her paper
said something about how funny it would be if i got on drunk history
wtf is that

KAREN:
right, well
hold on, I'll send you the link to the one about the election of 1800. they did one about you, it was funny but it's about the duel, so.
lmk if you liked it.

A. HAM:
this is
uncomfortably accurate
HEY THERES ONE ABOUT VON STEUBEN
they left out the pantsless party tho

KAREN:
what???

A. HAM:
pantsless party
he held one
it was fun
i barely remember it but i THINK there were flaming shots

KAREN:
no.
no way.
you're kidding.

A. HAM:
nope it was gloriously real

KAREN:
oh my GOD.

Chapter Text

The first few days after the news of Alexander Hamilton's return are, in Teresa "Terrie" Frisby's memory, something of a blur. She vaguely remembers walking around in a daze and thinking So this is what ol' Zhang felt years ago most days, though maybe part of the daze was also because of the lack of sleep and the stress.

Still--she's not going to deny that a good chunk of it was because, well. Alexander Hamilton. There are gaps in between what historians in general know of the Revolutionary War and the period afterwards, and a living eyewitness from that period suddenly walking around is something akin to, say, stumbling right over a half-buried fossil in a field somewhere. Or stumbling into a cave full of previously undiscovered cave paintings.

So Terrie spends the first few days in a haze of pure, giddy joy, only broken after she first hears about the incident (not to be confused with the Incident, capital I and all) in detail--from an Avengers press conference, of all things. She snaps out of it then, because--well, fuck, that has to be hard for anyone, much less someone like Alexander Hamilton.

Not for the first time, she wonders if this was how Zhang felt, too. After all, it's not every historian whose favorite historical figure suddenly comes back to life.

--

A month or two pass by, relatively uneventfully. Someone makes mention of some weird shit going on in Hell's Kitchen, but Terrie doesn't really think much of it. These days, there's always some kind of weird shit going on there, like all these reports of this Daredevil guy.

Then one day she's scrolling through her Twitter feed and taking a break between teaching classes to eat lunch when she sees a retweet. It's a Trump tweet that's been retweeted, and ordinarily she'd make a face and scroll down, but then she reads the response.

More to the point, she sees the username and the name attached to the response.

"Holy fucking shit," she whispers. "Oh my fucking god--Andrews! Andrews!"

"Jesus, Terrie, what?" Andrews grumbles, shuffling over to her table. He looks like death warmed over, his dark hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail.

"Look at this," says Terrie, excitedly, thrusting the phone in his face. "Look! Look at it. Bask in its glory."

Andrews' jaw drops, as she knew it would. "Sweet virgin mother Mary," he whispers. "Is that Alexander Hamilton."

--

#1 History Prof. @JosephAndrews742
@adotham pleased to see you here, sir! how's the 21st century so far?

A. Hamilton @adotham
@JosephAndrews742 other than the horrendously high price of coffee nowadays and some of the bullshit I keep seeing around here? fine, I thin

A. Hamilton @adotham
@JosephAndrews742 I keep forgetting there's a character limit on this shit

--

Here's what Terrie knows about Alexander Hamilton right now, a few months after he's come back:

1. He is a seriously active Twitter user. He lands on Buzzfeed at least three times a week for something he tweets, which is, apparently, a badge of honor. At least he considers it one.
2. He's working at the law firm that very recently helped take down a crime lord in Hell's Kitchen.
3. All the topics her students have chosen for their first paper are an even split between Captain America--she can hear Zhang gloating right now--and Alexander Hamilton. She suspects this is because they both have active Twitter accounts.
4. That Captain America selfie is most likely the reason for one of her students spilling coffee on her laptop and losing much of her paper.
5. He's the terror of the history department.

--

About that last item.

See, Terrie's always known, somewhat abstractly, that Alexander Hamilton's a verbose person. You have to be, to speak for six hours at the Constitutional Convention on your very own government plan.

But then Andrews decides to call him up--he's not the first one to do so, not by a long shot, but he's certainly the first that Terrie personally knows, and she's treated to the sight of Andrews' slightly glazed over look, the one he wears when a student's been talking too long on one topic in their orals.

It starts to catch, is the thing. Scholars working on the American Revolution--professors with research grants and degrees and books--call Hamilton up, and end up missing their classes because Alexander Hamilton does not. Stop. Talking.

"Man," Andrews weakly jokes, after his first call, "the man is non-stop."

"I know, Andrews," says Terrie.

"Oh, no, Terrie," says Andrews, patting her on the back. "I really don't think you know."

And somehow, illogically, Terrie finds herself dreading the day she'll have to talk to Hamilton herself. And she will have to.

There's a paper that she's been working on, see. It's something near and dear to her heart, something she's always wanted to do since she was a kid staying up late reading about Felicity's adventures. It's something she's wanted to do since coming out--talking about other historical figures who, today, would be counted as part of the LGBT community.

She opens up her draft, then lets out a breath.

She'll have to ask, one day.

--

She gets the chance some weeks down the line, practices saying the words until she's sure she won't offend the man. After all, he's from the early 19th century, even if he's shown some admirably progressive views on Twitter.

She dials the number.

"Nelson & Murdock!" comes a cheerful greeting--Karen Page, Terrie realizes quickly. "This is Karen Page speaking. Is this a legal matter?"

"Um," says Terrie. "No? Is--Is Alexander Hamilton there? I'd like to talk to him. I'm Terrie Frisby, I'm from Columbia? I teach history there, I'm writing a paper." Swell. Splendid. She's off to a great start, really, with all this backtracking and tripping over her words.

"Oh, another historian," says Page, with some resignation. "Yes, he's here."

"Tell them he's being an asshole!" someone yells some distance away--it sounds distinctly muffled enough.

"I'm just saying, that is a necessary part of this entire letter, to cut that would be to cripple the letter itself--"

There's a noise on the other end of the line, like Page's put her hand over the speaker, and Terrie sits and waits for the static to end, anxiety and dread building in her stomach. Just as she's about to put the phone down, though, someone says, "Alexander Hamilton here. You free for the next few hours?"

Terrie looks at her schedule, pasted up on her wall. She'd cleared it just for today in anticipation. "Yes," she says.

"Shoot," says Hamilton. "Figuratively."

"Bad joke!" someone huffs--it's too indistinct to make out the source of the voice, but Terrie figures it must be Page.

"It's about John Laurens," says Terrie. "I, uh. Did you two ever--were you two ever--did you ever at least entertain the idea of. Um."

"Taking John Laurens to bed," says Hamilton, his tone flat.

"Um. Sort of."

There's a long, long silence. For a second Terrie wonders if this is what usually happens, if Hamilton usually takes a moment to collect his thoughts before unleashing a torrent of words, but then Hamilton says, sounding uncharacteristically terse, "Yes. We were."

Then the line goes dead, and Terrie stares at her phone in shock.

"Well," she says out loud, "fuck."

--

A few days later, someone calls her phone, and Terrie says, "Hello, Terrie Frisby speaking."

"So," says Hamilton, and Terrie nearly fumbles with her phone again and tries to get her breathing to even out, "it's occurred to me--all right, Karen might've yelled at me for nearly breaking the phone--but I. Did not treat you in a manner that befits someone of your education, with your intentions."

"Oh, no, it's fine, sir," says Terrie, straightening up a little in her seat and mouthing he called me back to Andrews. "I understand, I just--I'm writing a paper on historical figures and their possible sexualities and why it's been closed over so often, and I was hoping I could. Talk to you about it? Since you outed yourself as bi on Twitter and all."

"Yeah, that was a spectacular day," Hamilton says, with a little chuckle. "You could, but not over the phone. Do you visit Starbucks often?"

"Yeah, I do, in fact!" Terrie says, pulling out her wallet and frantically counting the bills inside. "I'll meet you there?"

"Yep," says Hamilton. "Hell's Kitchen."

--

The History Blogger

How I Met Hamilton
As everyone who reads this blog knows, I've had a lifelong fascination with Alexander Hamilton. I've also been working on a paper concerning possibly LGBT historical figures, and--in what was perhaps the biggest blunder-turned-wonder of my career--I called Alexander Hamilton to ask confirmation re: The Laurens Thing.

He said yes, all right, but he also slammed the phone down on me, so I wasn't sure if I was ever going to get anything else out of that end. But then he called me up a few days later, apologized, and asked me out to Starbucks. Alexander Hamilton asked me out on a history date. Which isn't really a date but. Still.

Alexander Hamilton, in person today, is a short and scrawny guy, but his eyes are arresting, intelligent, even calculating. His sense of humor tends very occasionally to the surprisingly morbid, and in contrast to the professional statesman I had read about, he seems a little more casual--a trait, perhaps, produced by the 21st century. Most of the time he's seen wearing bright colors and stylish suits, but today he was more casual, wearing something perhaps very familiar to fans of the musical: a #YayHamlet shirt.

"Yeah, damn right I liked the musical," he said, during the interview, snippets of which you'll be able to see in the paper itself, and a full version of it to be uploaded very soon. "I've got a friend who dragged me there once to serve as his lucky charm. I suppose it worked, he got the tickets he wanted." It's obvious enough, however, that he is incredibly happy about the musical's success--he'd even slipped in some of the lyrics during the interview, waiting to see if I could catch them.

"It's a habit," he explained. "Foggy and Karen--even Matt--have this thing where they quote the musical at me. It's their idea of a joke."

"How funny is that joke?" I asked.

"Depends on the day," he said. "Depends on what they're singing. Karen sampled John's part in 'Aaron Burr, Sir'--like, 'two pints o'Sam Adams but I'm workin' on three'--and I just. I don't know, it was a little off-putting."

"Speaking of John Laurens," I started, "and I really hope this isn't prying, but. How did it start?"

"Well," he starts, "we were both aides de camp to Washington, so close quarters was kind of a thing from the outset..."
Keep reading

Chapter Text

"What the fuck," says Alexander, when he opens up the window to let in Spider-Man and someone else, a young woman in a lightning-bolt dress and a domino mask leaning against Spider-Man and blinking dazedly at Alexander. "Can't you knock? On the actual door?"

"I could, but then you'd have to explain to your neighbors what Spider-Man was doing in your apartment," says Peter, pulling the mask up off his head as Alexander shuts the window, then draws the curtains closed. "Please tell me you have a first-aid kit."

"Yeah, sadly," says Alexander. "Had to start keeping one after--I have no idea how many times I've gotten mugged or threatened living here, actually. I lost count."

"Don't need a first-aid kit," the girl mumbles, "just need gyros."

Alexander looks her over. There's something familiar about her, but Alexander can't quite put his finger on it. "I don't have gyros," he says. "I have some leftovers in the fridge, though--I think there's a bacon sandwich."

The girl makes a strangled noise, and says, "I can't. It's not--I'm Muslim, pork is not allowed, no matter how delicious-smelling."

"Oh," says Alexander, pieces falling into place in his head. "Okay, I've got some kosher food. That's still good for you, right?"

"For the most part, yeah, kosher's still good," says the girl. "Sorry if we're bothering you, it's just--um."

"We were tracking some guys calling themselves the Sons of the Serpent," says Peter. "They figured out we were there, there was a fight, we won but also ow."

"So much ow," the girl agrees. "I'm fine though. I've got a healing factor. Don't know about Spider-Man." She pauses, then squints at Peter and says, "You took your mask off."

"Nah, I heal pretty quick too," says Peter. "And. Well. You saved my life."

"You took your mask off," she repeats, clearly stunned by the gesture.

"There something I'm missing here?" Alexander impatiently asks.

"You took me to a safe place and you took your mask off," says the girl. "You--that much?"

"Well, if it wasn't for you, I would totally have been a very squished spider," says Peter. "So yeah, I trust you. You saved my life."

"Do either of you actually need first-aid," Alexander interrupts, crossing his arms and looking in between Peter and the girl, "or should I just reheat some food?"

"I'm good to go, I just need fuel," says the girl. "Like. Lots of it."

"Please," says Peter. "I might start eating flies like an actual spider, and I don't think I want to be that dedicated to the name."

"You're not all that dedicated to the name," says Alexander, opening his fridge and digging around for the container helpfully labeled KOSHER, then grabbing a bacon sandwich. "You're like, twelve."

"I'm twenty!" Peter calls.

"Ten," says Alexander, taking the container out and shutting the fridge door. "What did I tell you about swinging around at night? I told you not to do it, and yet here you are and there is--how old are you, kid?"

"Sixteen," says the girl, "and it's Ms. Marvel, jeez."

"You should both be asleep," says Alexander, depositing the container's contents into a bowl and shoving it into the microwave. "It's the winter break. Leave the superheroing to the actual superheroes, assuming they don't end up causing large amounts of property damage. Which, by the way, I honestly doubt they can keep themselves from causing."

"They won't bother," says Peter. "I mean, I love the Avengers, but they're like--big problems, big leagues. And a lot of--there were loads of people who got hurt during the Incident. Loads of looters trying to take advantage of all the shit going on. The Avengers can't solve that."

"But you could?" Alexander asks.

Ms. Marvel says, "Yeah, we could. We have. The Avengers look at the big things. We deal with the littler stuff, but that's no less important."

I never said I stood for nothing, Jones had said, some time ago, and Alexander hadn't quite understood at the time. He's starting to, but the understanding he's arriving at is not something he likes.

"You're kids," he says. "The only reason you should be up late is because you're doing homework, not--not beating up criminals in back alleys. The responsibility's not yours."

"It is," says Peter, simply. "I have this power. What am I supposed to do with it, if not help?"

"The police aren't always the most helpful guys around, you know that, you live here," says Ms. Marvel. "Sometimes they're even the ones you have to watch out for. If they're doing the exact opposite of protecting and serving, then who'll protect and serve for them?"

"Not you two," says Alexander, pulling the container out of the microwave and letting out a little hiss. "Shit, that's hot. You think you're responsible for, what, an entire city? An entire borough? You're both kids, you have so much ahead of you, and this vigilante thing won't end well for either of you."

"Here," says Ms. Marvel, "let me," and her hand stretches far beyond human proportions to take the container from him, snapping back quickly. "The way I see it," she says, "we have to do something. Things are terrible. You know that, you've seen that. And--people keep harping on about how we're a lazy generation, but you can't just write off a whole generation because of the mistakes the previous ones made. We have a responsibility to fix things, to clean up the mess left behind."

"We're just a bit more equipped than others to do it," Peter adds, wryly.

Alexander stares at Ms. Marvel a moment, then looks between the two of them again. "And if either of you die while you're trying to clean up the mess?" he asks.

"We're not going to," says Ms. Marvel. "I know you're worried, but--you're not actually my dad, Mr. Hamilton. You can't exactly stop me. Or Spider-Man."

"She's right, y'know," says Peter.

"I'm notcha dad, no, and I can't stop you," says Alexander, shoving the bacon sandwich inside the microwave, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to be happy that you're putting yourselves at risk every other night. You're both younger than--than I was when I became an artillery captain." Than Philip was, he doesn't say, but he looks away from them for a moment.

Peter says, quiet, "We'll be careful. We are careful."

"Sometimes that's not enough," says Alexander.

--

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
bad news: heater's broken. good news: UGLY SWEATER PARTY t.co/75drFI3bKH

J. Jones @jjones_alias
@fnelson_nm my eyes are scarred forever, I'm sending you the therapy bills

Tony Fucking Stark @IAmIronMan
@fnelson_nm nice to know @adotham has good taste in ugly sweaters #winteriscoming

hawkeye. @clintbarton_real
@fnelson_nm I have that exact same light-up sweater, at least Matt doesn't know just how terrible it is

J.B. Barnes @ImBuckyBarnes
@fnelson_nm @karen_p christmas cap sweaters are still a thing this is the best day @RealCaptainA

KHAAAAAAN @KhanKamala1999
@fnelson_nm @adotham @karen_p #ONEOFUS

--

"Tony Stark just said you have good taste in ugly sweaters," Foggy whispers, sounding pleased with himself as he scrolls through his Twitter feed. Alexander's eyes, unwillingly, trail back down to the glaringly red sweater and to the two white reindeer--no he is not going to look at that again if he wants to sleep at all tonight, so he snaps his gaze back up to Foggy's delighted face.

"He better be grateful, all the Starks do is cause me pain," Alexander says.

"I know," Karen says, huddled up close to Foggy. "God, I know."

"We should really get back to work," says Matt, but he makes no move to move away from where he's leaning on Alexander. He looks a little less like a man and a little more like a ball of sweaters and a scarf with red shades, from the amount of layers he's wearing. Alexander wonders if he can move at all. "I'm sure Tony Stark appreciates the support for his house and all, but we still have cases."

"Like one case," says Foggy, "and it's one we're guaranteed to win, so come on, Murdock, relax. Even Alex is relaxing!"

"I'm working," says Alexander, opening a new tab on his phone and searching "ny traffic code". "And I'd do more work if someone would get off of me."

"Don't listen to him, Matt," Karen says, "he'll work himself to exhaustion, and none of us want that happening."

"She's right, take a damn break for once," says Foggy. "You're a broke-ass lawyer, you don't have any deadlines to meet."

"I have a letter," Alexander starts.

"What's it under this time?" Matt asks. "Cicero? Catullus? Socrates? Cato? A Concerned Citizen? You really need to find better aliases."

"Cassandra," says Alexander, flatly.

"No one is going to get that," says Karen. "I don't get that."

"Prophetess in the Iliad who was cursed to never be believed," says Alexander. "You know--Troy? I know there were movies about the Trojan War."

"Movies that I never watched," Karen says. "Go with something else. Everyone's seen Game of Thrones. I could totally see you as Tyrion Lannister, except you're slightly taller. And you're a lot nicer about your family than he is."

"Davos Seaworth," says Foggy. "Just, you know, without a Stannis. Or, ooh, you could be Stannis--"

"I don't clench my teeth that often!" Alexander huffs, looking up from his phone to glare at Karen and Foggy.

Matt raises an eyebrow, and says, "I can hear you grind your teeth whenever Trump tweets."

"I don't know how anyone can pack in so much stupidity into just under a hundred and forty characters, okay," says Alexander. "I just don't understand how that's a thing a human person can do."

"Welcome to the 21st century," says Foggy, "the Internet is a goddamn cesspool sometimes, that's not even scratching the surface. Has anyone told you yet about--"

"Foggy," says Karen, warningly, "do not--"

Matt reaches out a hand--well, that answers Alexander's question about how he can even move in that--and smacks Foggy in the face. "Oh, sorry," he says, sounding distinctly not sorry, "I was wondering how ugly your sweater was and needed to know for sure."

"Sure, you did," says Foggy, with a huff. "Sure."

Chapter Text

The Daily Bugle @DailyBugle_Official
Shopkeeper Killed in Robbery Gone Awry, Gang Member Arrested bit.ly/2nHYDw

--

A. HAM:
you know how sometimes you just really
REALLY
want to strangle j jonah jameson

NELSON:
dude
same
though honestly i think you'll end up fucking your wrists up
even more than they already are anyway

A. HAM:
my wrists are fine
gutierrez wont be unless we find someone who can corroborate his story

NELSON:
well, good news
we might have a lead on his brother
the bad news is he's in a coma in metro general

A. HAM:
shit
how bad

NELSON:
he looks like someone took a baseball bat to all of him
which i honestly don't doubt actually happened
but there's that in the wind

A. HAM:
not yet
anybody else connected to this
like that lawrence kid mentioned in the article

NELSON:
we're still looking
Matt says be careful btw

A. HAM:
im always careful

NELSON:
do i need to bring up that time you got shot
or that time you tried to challenge like the entire Republican party to a duel after a really bad day
which, same, but also no

A. HAM:
i get the point you asshole
you challenge the republicans to a duel ONE TIME and no one ever lets you live it down

--

It's a cold December night, and Alexander can still see a few carolers out on the streets, calling out for a charity. Most people with sense and a house, however, have decided to retreat inside, where it will no doubt be slightly warmer than the New York streets, now blanketed in snow. Not to mention a great deal safer.

Alexander turns his collar up, tosses a coin or two into the hat of a young girl sweetly singing "Deck the Halls". He walks on, his own voice serving as background noise to the churning of his thoughts, and as focused as he is on them, he doesn't notice that someone's snuck up behind him until a hand claps over his mouth and half-drags him into an alley, pressing a knife to his throat.

And the worst part of all this is: it's not even his first time.

"Drop the Gutierrez case," comes the snarl, and at least this time his assailant isn't offending his ears by tacking bro on to every other sentence.

"Fuck you," Alexander doesn't say, because there's a hand over his mouth.

"Drop it," the guy hisses, removing his hand from Alexander's mouth before he can bite. "Tell your bosses at Nelson & Murdock to drop it, and let him rot."

"And if I say no?" Alexander says.

"Then you're just fucked, buddy," the guy says, and Alexander lets out a hiss when the knife presses deeper, drawing blood. "Don't worry, I hear the bottom of the Hudson River's nice this time of year."

"I hear jail's nice and warm this time of year too," someone says, and suddenly Alexander's assailant is yanked off him, the knife clattering to the ground. Alexander stumbles, gripping the edge of a dumpster and pressing his gloved fingers to his neck. They come away stained with dark red, and a cold chill runs down his spine.

He whips around.

"Jones?" he whispers, staring in shock.

That's--That's Jessica Jones, all right. But she's holding Alexander's assailant up by his collar as though he weighs nothing--and he must weigh so much more than that, because now Alexander can see that the man's stockier than her scrawny frame under her no doubt expensive leather jacket, and yet.

"Y-You're--" the man whimpers.

"A private investigator," says Jones. "You Jeffrey Stewart?"

"You're one of them," the man manages to choke out.

"One of what," says Alexander. "Be more specific, Jesus--wait, Stewart? Alonzo mentioned you while we were talking, he said you were the one who had the great idea of robbing somebody."

"Gifted people, is the term," says Jones. "Just means I can throw this guy through a wall and I wouldn't even break a nail doing it."

"You wouldn't," the man whispers.

"You really wanna test that?" Jones asks, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Because guess what? I'd be happy to provide evidence."

Stewart's eyes widen, and he gives a very audible gulp before he nods, terror written all over his features.

"Vincent Lawrence," says Jones. "You know where he is."

Stewart nods again. "Ol' Vince," he says, licking his lips. "Yeah--Yeah, I know where he ain't."

"Funnily enough, so do we," says Alexander, digging into his coat and pulling out his phone, searching for the recorder app. "Answer the nice lady's questions, Mr. Stewart."

"If I don't?" Stewart asks, summoning up some small defiance from somewhere. Alexander's almost impressed. He supposes he'd be more impressed if Stewart hadn't tried to threaten his life just a few minutes ago, though.

"The nice lady is strong enough to lift your sorry ass up off the ground by your collar," says Jones. "Guess how far I can throw you when I'm pissed off enough."

Stewart gulps.

--

A. HAM:
so bad news
if i come in tomorrow wearing an uglier scarf than usual its because somebody put a knife to my throat
again

MURDOCK:
I know Foggy told you to be careful.
That is the exact opposite of careful.

A. HAM:
im not dead
jones came by
shes working the same case i told her to meet up with us at the office
also i was VERY careful

MURDOCK:
How badly were you hurt?
Do you need any stitches? I have a good friend who's a nurse.
Are you pressing charges against him?

A. HAM:
i made a deal with the guy
no charges if he told us everything he knew
especially on lawrence
jones was holding him up in the air by his shirt at the time so that was also a factor
ive got the whole thing recorded on my phone

MURDOCK:
Well, that takes care of the hearsay problem.
But you didn't answer my first question.
Are you all right?

A. HAM:
other than the fact that this scarf looks terrible im fine
really

MURDOCK:
Yeah.
Right.

A. HAM:
anyway moving away
where are we on who paid our clients brother a little visit

MURDOCK:
Funny you should talk about nighttime encounters.
I ran into Daredevil.

A. HAM:
really now

MURDOCK:
I know you don't agree with his methods, but he was very helpful.
He even agreed to meet up with us at the office, seeing as I hadn't brought along something that could record whatever information he had.
We could say he's an anonymous source.

A. HAM:
his methods are "beat people until they talk" yeah i dont agree with him
you gonna be there

MURDOCK:
I suppose you'll see.

A. HAM:
do you just LOVE signing off with sight jokes you asshole

--

DOUBLE D:
i need you to do me a favor

PETER:
y sure
shoot

DOUBLE D:
could you pretend to be daredevil
for a day
i may have told alex we could use daredevil as a source
and he and karen are starting to get very suspicious
i say starting more like theyve been suspicious for a while

PETER:
let me get this straight
u want me
to put on ur suit and pretend to be daredevil
aka u
and tell u info u already know
so ur employees dont find out ur actually daredevil

DOUBLE D:
when you put it that way it sounds pretty bad

PETER:
u know it'd be easier to just
tell them
right?

DOUBLE D:
have you told your aunt yet

PETER:
touché
ok I'll do it
but I'm reserving all "I told u so" rights when they figure it out

DOUBLE D:
foggy is reading all this right now and he says hed like to differ
he has exclusive i told you so rights

PETER:
I'll share w him
I'm generous like that

--

Of all the things Alexander expects to find when walking into the office the next day (with Jones trailing behind him), Matt casually chatting with a clearly uncomfortable Daredevil is--definitely not one of them, to say the least.

"The hell," says Alexander.

"Alex!" says Matt, head turning in Alexander's general direction. Since he's blind, that means he's actually staring at Jones rather than Alexander as he speaks. "I believe you and Daredevil have met already?"

"Uh, yeah, we did," says Alexander, gaze still fixed on Daredevil--and it's Daredevil he recognizes the costume. It's jarring to see him here perched on a desk in broad daylight, when before Alexander's only ever met him in dark alleyways. "I assume you've met Ms. Jones."

"Our paths crossed during a case once before, yes," says Matt, getting to his feet. Alexander steps aside, then glances at Daredevil again. There's something off about him, right now, that Alexander can't quite put his finger on, and that's what he's puzzling out when Karen and Foggy come inside.

"Matt," says Foggy, his tone long-suffering, "please tell me that's not Daredevil on top of Karen's desk."

"Is it?" Matt asks, as innocent as possible.

Karen's eyes widen in shock, and she shoots Alexander a look that says volumes: what the hell do we do?

And isn't that the question of the day.

"--know about Lawrence, yeah," Jones is saying to Matt, snapping Alexander out of his thoughts. "He's currently holed up and under guard in a shitty apartment somewhere on 50th. Didn't say where it was exactly, but it's a start."

"So we look for the building with the most thugs loitering around as casually as possible," says Daredevil, hopping off the desk, all nervous energy that is most definitely at odds with the man Alexander's run into before, and Alexander looks at Karen, who shakes her head and mouths, Not the same guy.

--

FOGGY:
has anyone told you you're a terrible actor?
like
how did you keep a secret identity
you're TERRIBLE

PETER:
they didn't buy it did they

FOGGY:
judging from the looks they kept shooting each other
absolutely not
[attached: youtried.jpg]

--

KAREN:
that was definitely not Daredevil.
I don't know who it was, but he wasn't Daredevil.

A. HAM:
ive got a theory or two
but ive got something to do

KAREN:
where?

A. HAM:
graveyard
i just
eliza and i got married today
and i was planning on going there for a bit before visiting the hospital again

KAREN:
oh.
you want company?

A. HAM:
that
that would be nice

KAREN:
I'll get my coat.

Chapter Text

Years ago--years and years and years ago--Alexander walked down the aisle and took Eliza's hand in his, looked into her dark eyes and felt a giddy sort of warmth bubble up within his chest--yours, yours, I'm yours, he vaguely remembers thinking.

He walks down another path, now, this one covered with snow instead of strewn with petals, the warmth he felt on his wedding day now replaced with the silent cold of the graveyard. He's walked this path so many times he could do it in his sleep if he had to, but it never gets any easier.

Karen, her boots crunching the snow behind him, says, quiet, "What was she like?"

"She is--was," Alexander starts, but for once the words don't come, refusing to emerge from his throat. Was--it's so final a word, and it hits him all over again: Eliza's gone, and everything else he's ever known with her. He stops for a moment, sucks in a shaky breath.

Karen's hand slips into the crook of his elbow, warm and comforting.

"She was," Alexander starts again, this time barely tripping over the word, "the best of wives, the best of women."

"Should I be offended?" Karen says, but she's smiling, light and teasing. "Because it's fairly obvious you're kind of biased."

"Don't you worry, you're the best of secretaries," says Alexander. "Absolutely indispensable to the firm, can't get rid of you. Also, your filing system is byzantine, you're literally the only person who can figure it out."

"You sure know how to flatter a girl," says Karen, before the teasing smile drops away. "You're going to be okay, right?"

He wants to say that he will be, that he's made this trip a hundred times already. But he can't--it never gets any easier, no matter how many times he goes in a week. Maybe one day it might.

And maybe pigs will start flying.

(Then again...)

"I'll be all right," he says.

"I'll be right behind you," Karen says.

--

He's learned to live with the unimaginable, is the thing. He's had to, else he knows he might not have made it a month living in this new century. For the most part, he likes to think he's adjusted surprisingly well--he has a job (that barely pays), friends (a grand total of three), and something almost like a place in this new world he's woken up in.

But there are times when the unimaginable hits him all at once, when he's in so deep that it feels easier to just swim down, let the grief flood into his lungs and choke him.

It crashes back down on him again, when he sees Eliza's grave. There are fresh flowers surrounding her grave--left, no doubt, by fans of the musical, and it makes her grave look like a small and slightly snow-covered garden--and he steps closer, kneels down and sets another bouquet at her grave.

"Hey, Eliza," he says. It's quiet here, almost peaceful. Eliza would've liked it, he's sure, she's always liked the quiet before. "I brought a friend along. Her name's Karen Page--you know, the one I told you about?" He looks back at Karen and nods.

"Hi," says Karen, stepping forward and setting down a bouquet of her own. "Your husband's a good man. A bit of an asshole, but he's a good man."

"Karen," Alexander huffs, but there's no real bite to it.

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," she says, teasing again, but then her gaze drops back to the grave. "He talks about you a lot."

"Because she deserves to be talked about a lot," Alexander says. "She just--She did so much, I just wish I could've been there to see." He reaches out a hand, absently brushes snow off the stone of the grave. "I just wish she could see."

"I think she'd be proud," says Karen. "And--you're seeing it right now. You're telling her about it. That's the next best thing."

"I guess," says Alexander, his voice raw. "I just--I miss her, Karen."

Karen nods, her gaze dropping back onto the stone.

"You know," says Alexander, "she would've liked meeting you." He looks back up at Karen, and adds, "Her and Angelica. You'd have gotten along with them."

"The way you talk about them," says Karen, "I kind of wish I could've."

Alexander nods, then looks back at Eliza's grave, traces his fingers over the letters of her name engraved into the cold stone. He closes his eyes, and for a moment imagines her dark eyes and dark hair, her kind smile, the way she'd looked resplendent on their wedding day.

When he opens his eyes his vision is blurry with tears, and he feels a warm weight drop onto his back--Karen's hand, he realizes quickly. He sniffs, and manages a small smile for Karen before he looks back at Eliza's grave.

"Have I told you yet, Betsey," he begins, "about what happened at the office a few days ago?"

--

A. HAM:
good news
he woke up
bad news
he freaked out when he saw us

NELSON:
look at it this way
at least he's awake
that counts for something

A. HAM:
not for long hes swimming in and out of consciousness
and you cant exactly rely on somebody if theyre barely lucid half the time
but at least we got some good news to give gutierrez next time we see him
we probably wont be coming back karen says she wants to visit somebody

NELSON:
no, i get it
we couldn't visit Doris last week anyway
we'll wrap up here and head straight home
you probably should and save all the big info for tomorrow

A. HAM:
stay safe nelson

NELSON:
unlike you i'm ALWAYS careful
and you too Alex

--

Alexander doesn't come inside Doris Urich's room with Karen. After visiting Eliza's grave, after having to deal with Alonzo Gutierrez's freshly-awake brother under a fuckload of painkillers, he needs a moment's peace. Besides, he doesn't think Urich will recognize him, her husband's story was far before--before, and he doesn't visit quite as often as Karen does anyway.

Instead, what he does is find himself some coffee.

He's starting in on a cup as black as night and, coincidentally, Jefferson's soul when someone says, "You get anything out of your client's dear brother?"

He recognizes that acerbic tone. "Ms. Jones," he says, turning around to see Jessica Jones. "I thought you were at the office."

"I was," says Jones. "I left. Hit the streets, did some asking around. And before you ask, I asked very nicely."

"You mean you lifted them in the air and threatened them," Alexander says.

"Only some," says Jones. "Give me some credit here."

"Yeah," says Alexander, "about that--we didn't get to talk about it. Much. The part where you lifted somebody way heavier than you like he was nothing, and the part where he said you were--"

"Gifted," says Jones. "Yeah, that's me. Real gifted, all right." There's a bitter note to her emphasis that says something about how she feels towards the term, and Alexander can, perhaps, understand--"gifted" these days seems to evoke a general unease, a sudden shift in topic when dropped into conversation.

"How?" Alexander asks.

Jones shrugs, starts dropping coins into the vending machine. "Accident," she says, simply. "Shit happened. Now I can jump really high and throw a football player through a wall."

"If I ask you what really happened and how you got them, would I be right in assuming you wouldn't tell me?" says Alexander.

"Yep," says Jones, pressing the button for Americano.

"For someone who's trying to lie low," says Alexander, changing tack, "you're surprisingly open about, you know, being able to throw people through walls." Which sounds useful, in his opinion, he can imagine how much easier so many cabinet meetings could've gone had he had Jones' strength. He imagines, for a second, lifting Jefferson's smug ass in the air with one hand, and just barely keeps himself from smiling at the image.

"I'm not hiding," she says, with a shrug. "I'm not advertising it, but I'm not hiding it either." And there's a ghost of a sardonic smile upon her lips for a moment, before it disappears and her mouth turns back down into its usual scowl. "Besides, you'd be surprised at how hard most people want to hang on to normal."

Alexander can't help a chuckle, at that. "Normal", these days, doesn't exactly apply anymore--four days ago he looked up and saw Iron Man cut through the air on some kind of test trip, a world where men can fly in suits of armor and women only two inches taller than he is can lift fully-grown men up off the ground and Daredevil stalks the streets of Hell's Kitchen (and is possibly a blind man, possibly) is not at all a normal world.

And, he thinks wryly, there's Alexander himself--two centuries dead, and suddenly alive again.

"Pretty hard to hang on to that, seems to me," he says.

"People get tetchy when you point that out," she says, bending down to retrieve her cup of coffee.

His phone dings, and Alexander sighs and digs it out, reads Karen's text (I'm done, where are you?) and fires off his response (coffee machine downstairs with jones rn). By now he's mastered the trick of operating it one-handed, and he looks up to find Jones raising a brow, impressed. She's also discreetly pouring alcohol into her coffee from a flask.

"That's not healthy," he says.

"Well," she says, "it could be worse. I could be smoking." She caps the flask, takes a swig of her alcoholic coffee, and says, "I got info, though. Did your guy say anything?"

"Other than some shit about drugs being moved and this one time he thought I was his brother, not much," says Alexander. "Why?"

"Vincent's sister hired me," says Jones. "She mentioned that she thought her brother might be entangled in some shady shit. I followed up on it, and turns out this isn't his first rodeo--he's a small-time guy, usually, but after your firm took down the big guy--" She shrugs. "Lot of people trying to get to the top."

"The big--oh, you mean Fisk," says Alexander. "He's been mentioned." And usually with a damn preceding his name. Still, from what he knows, the streets were more dangerous and the police more corrupt while this Fisk was in power, which is saying something--this is, after all, Hell's Kitchen.

"Fuck him," Jones agrees. "Anyway--I was going to hit up 50th, where he was last seen, but Daredevil said he and a friend would, and I quote, take care of it. So I went asking around." She smiles, and there's something about it that has the same sharpness as that of a bayonet. "Gutierrez tell you Vincent Lawrence was gifted?"

--

#SuperWatch @super_watch
Daredevil and Spider-Man seen breaking and entering on 50th t.co/8HYAsdq5gT

Lord Vader @starwarsrules_1990
@super_watch living on 50th, gunshots were fired, just saw someone get thrown out a window, everyone STAY INSIDE

Gwen Stacy @gwenstacy
@starwarsrules_1990 shit, you stay safe too

--

"Matt! Matt, open up. It's us."

No one answers. Alexander wonders if Matt's just sleeping in, they did have a fairly busy day today, and he imagines Matt won't be too amused by his coworkers and a private detective banging on his door at--he checks his phone and makes a face.

"It's not even that late," he says, "it's just eleven."

"You have very weird definitions of late, Alex," says Karen, nudging him aside to knock on the door again. "Matt! Open up, we found out a few things about Lawrence."

"Let me," says Jones, stepping forward. She sets her hand on the doorknob and twists.

Alexander winces, says, "That's not a good sound."

"But it's getting us in," says Jones, brusquely, brushing aside the protests both Karen and Alexander raise as she steps inside. "Nobody's home," she says.

"Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, Jones, you're a great private investigator," Alexander snipes, sliding his thumb across his phone's screen and scrolling through his contacts with one hand and running the other through his hair.

"I call them like I see them," Jones shoots back.

--

A. HAM:
matt where the fuck are you
we may have broken your door were very sorry but also
blame jones and her weirdass superstrength
ill replace it i have a neighbor who owes me a favor whos really good at fixing shit
WHERE ARE YOU
hey murdock answer me
hello???
hello from the other siiiiiiiiiide
ive texted you a million tiiiiimes
to ask you WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU
matt seriously where are you karens getting worried
im getting worried
matt come on answer the damn phone no way youre not getting these
answer me. please.
matt?

--

FOGGY:
help
Matt just climbed in through my window he looks TERRIBLE
like "thrown out of a window and stabbed in places and freaking the fuck out" terrible
please help
he needs stitches you know i can't do stitches

CLAIRE:
I'm coming over
he need anything else?

FOGGY:
Peter's woozy and wants a bacon sandwich but i can take care of that
it's Matt who needs help

CLAIRE:
all right
find a clean cloth to staunch the bleeding and don't move or startle him too much
I'll be there as soon as I can
in the meantime keep Peter from eating you out of house and home

--

Alexander scrolls through Twitter and says, "Okay, what kind of abilities does our Mr. Lawrence have? Did anybody tell you?"

"He can use the Force," Jones says, deadpan. She's striding down the street towards Foggy's apartment building, because if Matt's not at his then it's highly likely he's at Foggy's, the two of them just seem inseparable, and it's an effort to keep up with her and with Karen's hurried pace. He refuses to admit this is because he's getting old--he isn't that old, he's forty-nine.

"Yeah, yeah, Jedi shit," says Alexander, not looking up from his screen--someone getting thrown out of a window in Hell's Kitchen is honestly kind of routine by now, he's not too worried about them. "That's incredibly general, Jones. Can he move things with his mind? Can he choke somebody over a great distance? Can he make people think what he wants them to think? Does he have, what, a connection to some living force that flows between everyone and everything? You gotta be specific."

"Force what now?" Karen innocently asks, as though Alexander hasn't texted her yelling about Luke Skywalker's true parentage and how unsuitable Darth Vader is at ruling shit at two in the morning last week after mistaking her number for Foggy's.

Liar, Alexander mouths in her direction, glancing up from his phone screen for a moment to do so before he looks back down and opens his contacts to try and call Foggy.

Jones sighs, says, "As far as I can tell, he can move shit with his mind." She waves a hand, says, "Everyone I've been talking to about it says it's a recent thing, though. Probably--a few weeks after Fisk went down. And word is he's gotten it off somebody else, who won't be too pleased about the same guys who took down the last kingpin taking Gutierrez's case."

"You don't make it to the top without making enemies looking to tear you down," says Karen. "Or take advantage of you getting torn down to climb up there." She huffs out a breath, says, "Ben told me that. Ben Urich."

"The reporter, yeah, I heard about him," says Jones. "You knew him?"

"Not me," says Alexander, "he was from before I even came back."

"Yeah, I did," says Karen. "We were working the same story--exposing Fisk. He--He was a good man." There's more to the story there, Alexander thinks, but he can't dwell on that now, they're pushing their way into the lobby to Foggy's apartment building. "Can you call Foggy, right now? Let him know we're coming up."

"Trying," says Alexander. "He's not picking up."

--

"Your phone's ringing," says Peter from the kitchen, helpfully.

"Leave it, I'm charging it!" Foggy yells at him from the living room. Matt's armor lies in pieces on Foggy's coffee table, and god, this couch was so expensive, god, Matt looks so terrible. "Goddammit, Matt," he mutters.

"It's Mr. Hamilton," says Peter.

"Oh, fuck," says Foggy, thinking of the many times Alexander's called him up to rant about something. "Let it go, Peter, Alex can go without someone to rant to for a night."

--

There are ten things you need to know.

Number one: The idea of Matt being Daredevil, despite having a lot of evidence, has so far just been an idea, a theory that could at any point be disproven. The man, after all, is blind--smart, yes, and sometimes Alexander feels like Matt could still see into his fucking soul anyway, but he's still blind. Foggy once nailed him in the nose with a baseball.

Number two: He and Karen, on previous visits, have foregone knocking on Foggy's door. He's given them each a key, after all, they just need to find it.

Number three: Matt hears the jingling of keys, just as he's heard Alexander's texts coming in, and says, "Did you invite anybody over tonight?"

Foggy blanches and says, "No. Except Claire. And I gave Claire keys."

Matt says, "That doesn't sound like Claire."

Number four: Alexander cocks his head to the side. "You guys hear something?" he asks.

Number five: That something is the commotion that ensues, Matt trying to sit back up to hide or backflip over the couch and out the window and Foggy trying to get him to lie back down.

Number six: "Shit, shit, shit--where are we gonna hide the suit?"

"We could shove it under your couch," Peter suggests, tugging off his mask and wiggling out of his spandex costume. Underneath, he's wearing a shirt and boxers.

"It's not gonna fit," says Foggy, at the same time Matt says, "I am not shoving my suit under Foggy's couch, it smells like week-old pizza down there."

Number seven: There's a box of week-old pizza underneath Foggy's couch, from the last time he invited Karen and Alexander over to marathon The Hobbit on a weekend.

Number eight: Jones says, "I could just--"

"You're not breaking the door again," says Alexander, flatly, as Karen fiddles with the keys on her key ring.

Number nine: The door opens just as Peter manages to yank the box from under the couch in order to stuff his suit underneath, just as Matt's trying to sit up again.

Number ten: "Matt?"

Chapter Text

PETER:
hey
doing okay

A. HAM:
well
other than the fact where karen and i havent spoken to matt or foggy in a day or so were completely totally fine
totally

PETER:
right, sure
do u need me to talk to them for u

A. HAM:
i already said what i wanted to say
balls in their court as you kids say
just
probably dont swing by karens shes likely to mistake you for dd

PETER:
we don't look that similar man

A. HAM:
exactly
you made a terrible dd
but do you think thats gonna matter to her right now shes pissed

PETER:
point taken
u gonna be ok???

A. HAM:
me??
im fine

--

Rewind--

Claire is the last to arrive to the scene, carrying a heavy bag full of medical supplies smuggled from the hospital and a bottle of wine smuggled from her apartment. She's expecting a routine operation, just stitch Matt up, tell him off for throwing himself out a window for some godforsaken reason, and then go back home to enjoy the remnants of her night off.

Then she sees Jessica Jones, drinking straight out of a bottle of beer while perched atop the counter, and Peter, who's munching on a bacon sandwich out of the way of the argument going on.

She blinks at Karen, seated on an armchair and glaring stonily at Matt and Foggy, and Alexander, pacing back and forth, wearing a groove into the floor and saying, "--and another thing--what were you thinking? Do you really, honestly think no one--no one--is going to look at us, at me and Karen, and think that we had nothing to do with this? Do you know how damaging--"

"Mr. Hamilton," says Claire.

Alexander stops for a moment, then whips right around and says, with barely controlled frustration coloring his tone, "You're the nurse from the hospital."

"I remember you," says Karen. "During the explosions--you were the one who took Mrs. Cardenas to the emergency room." She looks up then, and says, "Did you know, then? Foggy, did you? Because I honestly have no idea how long either of you kept this from me."

"Karen--" Matt starts, then stops.

"You lied," says Karen. "To me, to Alex--you got a kid to dress up as Daredevil to throw us off--"

"I'm twenty," says Peter.

"You're not that old, you're like ten," Alexander shoots back. "Also, you knew who he was all along and you didn't tell me?"

"Wasn't my secret to tell," says Peter.

"Karen, you gotta believe me," says Foggy, "I didn't know at that time either, and I wanted to tell you, I really did--"

"But you didn't," Karen snaps, and Claire steps closer and drops her kit onto the coffee table and beside the suit, the loud thud drawing all attention to her and stopping all movement, all arguments, in their tracks. Save for Jessica's drinking, anyway.

"Anyone here who went to med school and knows more than basic first-aid, raise your hands," she says, coolly. No one raises their hands, although Jessica takes a swig of beer, casual as anything, as though she isn't viewing a disaster. She can afford to be, Claire supposes, Jessica's not exactly attached to anyone here in any special way, this is probably an interesting turn to the night for her. "Everyone out. Right now. I need to stitch Matt up and I can't do that if you're holding a trial."

Alexander chokes, says, "We're not holding a trial."

"The way you talk," Jessica says, "it sounds like you are."

"Then shut up and get out of here," says Claire, the words leaving her mouth before it catches up to her--she just told Alexander Hamilton to shut up. That's got to be a personal achievement, even if he's gone silent out of the shock of the revelation.

"No wonder you like her," Foggy whispers to Matt, who's still prone on the couch but manages to give a small chuckle.

"She's something," says Matt, rueful and amazed all at once, and that makes Claire's traitorous heart beat a little faster. But she's a professional, she's here to do work, so she tamps down the feelings and gets to work, kneeling down next to the couch to start as everyone else inside starts to file out of the room.

--

It hasn't been the best night, so far. Then again, Alexander's pretty sure the night went down the toilet the moment the door swung open.

They're all seated outside Foggy's apartment door, with Claire and Matt (Daredevil, Matt, Daredevil) still inside. Or, well, most of them are seated, Alexander's pacing back and forth and grappling with--with everything, really, but more to the point, with: "Since I've known the both of you, since the very first word either of you said to me, you were lying to me?"

Foggy winces. "Alex, I promise, I would've said--"

"--if Matt had been all right with it, yeah, I get it," Alexander snaps. "You know Matt--was he ever gonna say it? Was he ever gonna drop this on me and Karen? Because this is kinda something you're obligated to tell your employees, you know, this whole lawyer-slash-vigilante thing!"

"With how loud you are," says Jones, coolly, opening the bottle of wine she'd snatched up off the coffee table, "I'm starting to see why they kept it a secret."

"Haha, very funny," Alexander spits. He's pretty sure he looks a sight, hair escaping the careful ponytail he's tied it into, eyes wild with fury and hurt, but right now he doesn't care. "Did either of you think of what would happen if this was going to break? How long--fuck, how long have you known?"

"A little before Fisk went down," says Foggy, laying it open, and Karen starts, eyes wide as some sort of realization sinks in.

"You mean it wasn't an accident like you said it was?" she asks, sounding utterly wounded. "What--What happened to Matt?"

"He got stabbed," says Foggy, each word dragged out from his mouth as though it hurts to speak them still, "like. A lot. In a really bad fight--he was bleeding on his floor, Karen, I thought he was going to die at first. And I was so mad because he was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, and he's my best friend and he lied."

"You lied too," says Karen, devastated. She looks at Alexander, then at Peter, and says to the youngest of them all, "You're--You're a vigilante too, aren't you. Matt seems to trust you." More than he trusts me, she doesn't say, but Alexander knows it's hanging in the air, all the same. After all, he's thinking the same thing.

"Guilty as charged," says Peter. "I'm--I'm Spider-Man. Have been for a while." He nods to Alexander, and says, "Mr. Hamilton knew about me, at least."

Karen glances at Alexander and says, "Does everyone here know someone's secret identity except for me?"

"Up until today," says Jones, "I didn't know either."

"You're a PI, aren't you?" Peter asks. "You have--I bet you got at least one case asking after a vigilante's secret identity."

"Never took them," says Jones, "since I work with a lot of you. And you tend to make enemies every other day or so, at least." She shrugs. "I like going to work without getting mugged because I know someone's secret identity. I get into enough trouble as it is."

"You're different," says Alexander, to Peter, "I don't work with you, and I knew from the start of our acquaintance. This is--" He stops, waves a hand towards the door. Some part of him, irrationally angry at this betrayal, hopes the stitches hurt.

"You had a clue, though," says Foggy. "I mean, neither of you were particularly subtle about it."

"Oh, and you were?" Karen huffs. "I can't believe I didn't see it sooner, neither of you are any good at lying."

"We were hoping for plausible deniability--" Foggy starts.

"You don't believe that!" Alexander shrieks, and gets a hissed talk less from Jones for his efforts. He lets out a breath, and says, at a much lower volume, "No one is going to care if we didn't know, if this gets out. We're working under you, they'll assume we did know. And what do you think that'll do to me and Karen?"

"What's stopping you from releasing a pamphlet, then?" Jones asks. "The Murdock Pamphlet." She smiles, and there's an edge to it, sharp as a knife. Jessica Jones, Alexander has found, is a woman of sharp, jagged edges like broken glass, ready to cut.

"The Reynolds Pamphlet was a desperate act," says Alexander, "and I'm not that desperate yet. I'm pissed, but so far nobody else seems to even suspect." After all, why would they? Daredevil is obviously not blind, just as obviously as Matt is.

(If he is blind, is the thought that creeps into Alexander's head, just then.)

"He learned," says Jones to Karen, approvingly. She takes a swig from her bottle, and adds, "Option's still on the table, though?"

"It's a last resort," says Alexander. "A very, very last resort."

"They'd make a catchy song out of it, I bet," says Karen, her smile a hollow caricature of a true smile.

"Never gonna be president now," murmurs Foggy.

"Wasn't exactly planning on it," Alexander says.

"That's one less thing to worry about," says Peter, optimistic, before he visibly deflates. "Which is kind of--really, really small, honestly."

Karen looks at Foggy, says, "Were you ever going to tell us? And don't say if it was up to Matt--did you ever even plan on saying?"

Foggy lets out a breath. "I would've said if I could've," he says, as sincere as anything.

Karen shakes her head, says, "I'm not asking for if, Foggy. I'm asking for a yes or no. Would you have told us?"

Foggy's quiet for a long moment, before he looks down and says, honestly, the most honest Alexander has ever heard him, "I don't know."

--

Forward--

"You look like shit," is Jones' incredibly eloquent greeting, when Alexander meets up with her. Even with the rift going on, there's still a case to be won, and Alexander's not going to leave their client hanging because he's pissed at his coworkers for keeping such a huge secret from him and Karen. "Like, haven't slept in three days kind of shit."

"I had three hours last night," says Alexander, a little peeved as he moves into Jones' office. "And before you ask, I'm fine."

"Wasn't going to," says Jones, which is a small comfort. "You and Page still not getting back together with the wonder boys?"

Alexander lets out a breath. "That's not any of your business," he says.

"Twitter's getting worried," Jones points out, which is an unnecessary observation in Alexander's opinion--he damn well knows that Twitter's getting worried, people have been DM-ing him to ask why he and Foggy haven't spoken to each other for days now. He's given them all the same answer: we had an argument and that's all you need to know.

Which is true. They don't need to know about the finer details.

"I told them there was a fight," he says. "Beyond that, nobody needs to know." He perches on top of Jones' desk and says, "So, Jones, what've you got for me?"

--

Rewind:

The first thing Alexander says, after Matt falls silent, is, "A world on fire." He lets out a long, slow breath, and says, "That's--That just sounds ridiculous." On any other occasion, it would've been a light jab--Matt tends to dramatics, after all, Alexander's seen him in the courtroom. But here, Alexander can't help an internal wince at the harshness of his own voice, snapping out like a whip.

"Yeah, you wouldn't be the first one," says Matt, nodding in the general direction of the kitchen where Foggy's excused himself, at least for the time being, to break out his alcohol.

"So it's like you can see," says Alexander. "All this time--what, were we your cover?"

"At the precinct," says Karen, suddenly, from her chair, "when--when we first met. You believed me." She looks up and says, "You--You could hear my heartbeat. And that's how you knew I was lying, when I snuck out. Hell--you followed me." She lifts her chin up, glaring at Matt. "I don't have any secrets with you," she says, "do I?"

Matt shakes his head, and says, "It's not--It isn't like that, Karen. I know when you're keeping secrets and when you're lying, but I can't always guess what--"

"So you knew I was lying, that time," says Karen, interrupting, her hands shaking. "There's--Matt, there's such a thing called privacy laws."

"It's not a tap, I can't turn it off just like that," Matt points out, sounding a little peeved, which, ha, rich coming from him.

"But you gotta admit," says Alexander, "it's kinda creepy--"

"It is!" Foggy shouts from the kitchen. "Incredibly creepy and invasive, Matt, we have talked about this--"

"--but it explains a lot," says Alexander.

"Except the part where you knocked out, like, an alley full of police officers," says Karen.

Alexander says, very calmly, "He what?" He's almost afraid to look down now, because if he does, he's pretty sure he'll see that somebody's very rudely yanked the floor out from under him, and Foggy's apartment is a long way up from the ground. "Why? Also, how?"

Matt lets out a long breath, and says, "This is going to sound--bad. Really, really bad."

"You already sound bad, Murdock," Foggy points out, coming back into the living room with a half-emptied bottle of beer. "Might as well go the whole hog, tell them how much of your life is a kung fu movie."

"A what now?" Alexander asks, thrown off.

"Never mind," says Foggy, hurriedly.

"Why would your life have the plot of a kung fu movie?" Karen demands. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Matt sighs, says, "Everything," and tells them.

--

"An old man named Stick taught you how to fight because he wanted to conscript you into his war," says Alexander, flatly. "At the tender age of ten. And then he left." He's going to have some words with this Stick person, he's sure, regarding abandoning a child that he had trained for some vague war--

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you ripped all that off the plot of some really old kung fu movie," says Karen, her tone brittle and bitter.

"For a bit back there I thought he did," confesses Foggy, and Matt, on the couch, makes a strangled noise. "Well, you weren't exactly helping!"

"I know how it sounds like, Foggy, but it's all true," says Matt.

"You couldn't have told us all this earlier?" Alexander asks. "Like, before we walked in on your half-dead ass on the couch? This is exactly the sort of thing your employees should know about!"

"So you've pointed out," says Matt.

"You heard--of course you heard." Alexander runs his hand through his hair again--he's long since given up on his ponytail. "And the point still stands! Do you know the damage this'll do to me? To Karen? The cases we were on, you think those aren't gonna be reviewed if this ever comes out? Did you really think nobody would suspect we knew too?"

"Did you even trust us?" Karen asks, and Matt flinches back. "You asked Spider-man to pretend to be Daredevil to throw us off. You've been hiding things from me since the very first day we met--"

"I'm not the only one," says Matt. "What about the USB?"

"And you found out about that because of your--your heartbeat thing! Do I even have any secrets around you?" Karen snaps, and Alexander has never seen her this angry, this furious. "No, actually, you know what--did you ever trust me? And Alex? Did you ever trust either of us? What else have you and Foggy been lying about?!"

"Foggy didn't want to keep it," says Matt. "Be mad at me, fine, but I asked Foggy to keep it when he didn't want to--"

"No, she's right, we did lie," says Foggy. "Both of us. That I didn't want to keep it doesn't change it." He pauses, then adds, "But neither of you are subtle. You know that, right?"

"I thought we were being very discreet," says Alexander, acidly, "compared to you two."

"You were sneaking around with each other, it was either you guys were dating or you'd figured it out," says Foggy. "You think I didn't notice that?"

"If we asked," says Karen, "would either of you have told the truth? Would you have come out with it, even if we had just a hunch and some circumstantial evidence?" She folds her arms and says, her words sharp like a knife, "Would you have trusted us?"

Matt opens his mouth.

"Yes or no," says Alexander. "No need for any equivocation."

Matt lets out a long breath, but doesn't answer. The silence, in itself, is damning enough, though, and Alexander's gaze cuts over to Karen, whose hands are shaking in rage.

"I'll take that as a no," Alexander curtly says, tapping Karen on the shoulder. "We were going to tell you that Lawrence had--gifts, let's call it, but apparently we shouldn't have wasted our time coming here."

"Guys--" Foggy starts, stepping forward, reaching out as if to try and pull them back.

Karen picks her purse up off the table, stands up and brushes her skirt off. "Come on, Alex," she says, her tone and her blue eyes as cold as ice, as the anger Alexander is feeling, sharp as a knife twisting in his gut. "We said what we came here to say."

--

The door slams behind them when they leave, loud as a gunshot.

Chapter Text

Karen shows up at Alexander's doorstep a few hours after he gets back from Jones' office. There's an exhausted look to her face, as if she hasn't slept all that well, and a bag in her hand with a bottle of very good alcohol peeking out over the top.

Alexander lets her in without a word.

"You okay?" Karen asks. "No, wait--don't answer that. I can guess."

"I'm fine," says Alexander.

"No you're not," Karen says. "Alex, please, just--after the whole Daredevil thing, I'm not in the mood for an argument. So just talk to me." She smiles, brittle and tired. "Should be easy enough, you talk non-stop."

Alexander considers, for a moment. He still doesn't want to talk about it, but he's run out of things to work on--he's finished and edited his latest letter to the Post three times over, he's done all the briefs he was planning on doing, he's looked over someone's will five times over and someone else's contract three times, he's even polished off an essay he'll have to send to a very eager historian in about three weeks and finished a letter about top-down economic reform on top of it. There's nothing for him to do that can take his mind off the whole Daredevil thing, at least for tonight.

"Right now I'd rather drink," he says, gesturing to the bottles in Karen's bag. "You get those out, I'll get the glasses?"

"Or we could do that," concedes Karen, as she sits down on his couch and clears away the papers on it to put two bottles of very strong liquor on top. "Good. Great plan. Let's get drunk and cry over Dog Cops instead. Did you see the one where the captain--"

"No spoilers," says Alexander, putting a finger to his lips before he walks away to the kitchen. "I'm still working through it."

--

Karen's leaning on his shoulder, a little more drunk than usual, when she says, quiet, "You know what the worst part of all this is?"

Alexander pauses the episode--the corgi detective's in the middle of confessing his feelings for his chihuahua partner, just before his undercover mission, and Alexander's been looking forward to this all season. But he can put it off for a little while longer. "Yeah?"

"I think I was kind of in love with him," she says. "Matt. Because--he helped me out, and he let me in, but apparently not. Apparently he didn't trust me enough to tell me straight out that he was Daredevil." She sniffs, buries her face in his shoulder.

"He's an asshole, yeah," says Alexander. "As an asshole myself, don't date those. You'll get hurt very, very badly."

"Thanks for the heads-up," says Karen. "I promise, from here on out, I'm just going to date non-assholes."

"Good," says Alexander, "great," then he presses a soft kiss to her forehead, the way he used to do for his family before coming to the 21st century and all its myriad interpretations of affection. "You deserve non-asshole dates," he tells her.

"Thanks," says Karen, snuggling even closer. Then, moments later, in a resigned tone: "We still have to go to work this week."

Alexander pulls a face. Yeah, he isn't looking forward to that. "I was kinda hoping to check out a lead Jones gave us," he says. "At least verify it first before walking in to tell them about it."

"Matt said something way back when we were still working the Fisk case," Karen says. "I mean, now that I know he's Daredevil I know he was being a complete hypocrite when he said it, but it still makes sense."

"What'd he say?"

"Know your enemy," she says. "It means don't go running into places without all the information you can get, and be careful with it."

Alexander considers her words a moment. "Sensible advice, but it's rich coming from him," he says. "It's not gonna be that dangerous. I've got Spider-man's number in my contacts, in case shit does go down, but from what Jones told me, that's not likely--it'll involve a spot of breaking and entering, but other than that there's very little risk involved."

"We live in New York," says Karen.

Alexander pauses, thinks of all the superheroes and supervillains and superpowers that keep popping up out of the woodwork in Manhattan alone, then says, "Okay, true."

--

Karen passes out on him two episodes into the second season of Dog Cops, and Alexander turns the laptop off and lifts her head just enough so he can move away, gently laying it back down. She lets out a soft snore, then turns over, mumbling something about Foggy.

Alexander drapes a blanket over her sleeping form, then lets out a long breath.

He should probably sleep as well, he supposes.

Then someone knocks at his door, and Alexander huffs out a curse, glancing back at Karen to check if she's waking up. Instead, all she does is turn over and cuddle closer to a pillow, smiling happily.

"Yeah, yeah, coming," he says, marching over to the door to pull it open.

One of his newer neighbors--Nick, Alexander remembers, the mechanic who he's been paying every so often to repair some of his appliances--stands in the hallway, hands tucked into his pockets. "I fixed your toaster, by the way," he says with no preamble, then he tilts his head to the side, noting the young woman sleeping on Alexander's couch. "Who's she?"

"That's my colleague," says Alexander. "And thanks, but did you really have to come by at--uh, what time is it?"

"Half past two in the morning," says Nick. "From what I've been told you stay up way later than that, though, most of the time." He runs a hand through his long hair and says, "Not healthy, by the way."

"Says the guy who dropped by my door just to tell me he fixed my toaster," says Alexander. "Got nothing else to do?"

"Not really, sir," says Nick, "it's not like you're the only person in this building who needs his shit repaired." He glances at Karen again and says, "Why've you got your coworker on the couch, anyway?"

"Right now she's the only friend I have that I'm not currently mad at," Alexander says.

Nick says, "Oh. Is that why you and Nelson stopped tweeting at each other?"

"Something like that, yeah," says Alexander.

--

hamdickton:
is it just me or has ham not tweeted abt the wild adventures of n&m for a while
#im v worried #ARE THE AVOCADOS OK I NEED TO KNOW

theamrevbirdie replied to your post: "is it just me or has ham not tweeted..."
it's not just you! apparently they had an argument and A. Ham isn't willing to give more details than that. I DMd him and he was really unhappy about it.
holy shit that mustve been a HORRIBLE row if alex "blast all the receipts idgaf lets fuckin do it got ninety pages just lying around" hamilton isnt talking about it

hope it gets better soon
#replies #theamrevbirdie #oh noooooo

--

Casey W @foreversherlocked
@adotham @fnelson_nm are you guys okay??? you haven't talked in a while.

A. Hamilton @adotham
@foreversherlocked no. I'd rather not talk about it. also DMs exist.

Foggy Nelson @fnelson_nm
@foreversherlocked there was an argument. other than that I'm not talking about it over the Internet.

--

"Remind me again why I'm coming with you two," says Jessica Jones, a day after.

"Because we're paying you straight up in booze?" says Alexander.

"Doesn't explain tiny here," says Jones, jerking a thumb at Ms. Marvel, bouncing on her heels behind them. "I thought after Daredevil you'd be swearing off superheroes."

"I was in the area," says Ms. Marvel. "And I'm doing my own investigations--have any of you ever heard of the Inventor?"

"Can't say it's a familiar name," says Alexander, fiddling with his hood. It's a damn cold night in Hell's Kitchen, and here he is in a hoodie, hanging around with Jessica Jones and Ms. Marvel while the one best friend he's not currently angry at is picking the lock of an abandoned storage unit instead of doing about a hundred other less reckless things he can think about. "You sure we got the right locker?" he asks.

"I'm sure," says Jones. "Lawrence's supplies are right here. Including a fuckload of drugs, if my informant remembered it right."

"If he didn't?"

Jones shrugs. "He remembered it right," she says, simply. "I have ways to get people to remember things better." She turns to Ms. Marvel and says, "What does this Inventor guy have to do with anything?"

"Word on the street in Jersey's he wanted to expand out here," says Ms. Marvel. "Lawrence offered, and they've got supplies here." She looks at Karen, who's very gingerly teasing the lock, and says, "Watch out, by the way, there might be evil robots in there."

"He's getting help from Jersey?" Alexander says, derisive. "I'm not surprised, everything's legal there. He must be incredibly desperate to get to the top if he's getting help from Jersey."

Ms. Marvel steps closer, jabs her index finger into his chest, and says, "Hey, no disrespect." She pauses, then adds a respectful, "Sir," and steps back.

"Evil robots," says Karen, looking back at Ms. Marvel and shaking her head. "Seriously?" She glances at Jones and says, "Why can't you just yank the lock off and save me some time?"

"You're the one with the rubber gloves here, not me," says Jones, holding up her leather-gloved hands. "We can't risk leaving a trace."

"So why do I get the feeling you're just bullshitting me?" Karen dryly says, before turning back to the lock.

Ms. Marvel lets out a breath, rocks back and forth on her heels. "So, um," she says. "You found out about Daredevil."

"You knew?" Alexander asks, rage creeping into his tone despite his best efforts to keep it back, because Ms. Marvel's not at fault here. "Of course you knew. You're a vigilante. What the hell did I expect?"

"Not really," says Ms. Marvel. "You actually just confirmed it for me. I kinda suspected when you and Foggy stopped tweeting at each other." She shoves her hands into her pockets and says, "And Daredevil was pretty down when I talked to him the day before yesterday. So I figured he was one of two people, and since Foggy doesn't look like he'd fit in the armor..."

"Your kid's a smart kid," says Jones, approvingly.

"She's not my kid," says Alexander, with a huff.

"Thanks, Ms. Jones," Ms. Marvel cheerily says.

"Fuck," says Jones, shaking her head, "I can't be that old."

"Got it!" Karen calls, the lock falling open with a click. She slides it off the chain and sets it aside. "Gonna need some help here."

"Allow me," says Jones, striding forward.

"You really were just spinning bullshit, weren't you," says Alexander, following behind, hands tucked into his pockets.

"Yyyyeah," Jones admits, then yanks the chain off in one fluid motion. Alexander's kind of impressed at how practiced it is, as if Jones has been waiting for the chance to show off. He's starting to think she was.

Then he hears it--a muffled whirring noise, followed by a series of mechanical beeps. "The hell's that?" he asks, just as Jones' brow furrows.

"Hey, Marvel," she says, "if I yanked this door open, what am I gonna find in terms of evil robots?" She pauses, winces, says, "I cannot believe I said that."

"Spider-bots about the size of a clown shoe," says Ms. Marvel. "They're not very powerful on their own, but in large numbers they can be incredibly dangerous."

"I told you so," says Karen, nudging Alexander's side. "Should've brought a baseball bat."

Jones slides the door open, and says, faintly, staring up at the decidedly not small eight-legged robot staring down at them through a glowing red eye, "You two are paying my bar tab for the next month for this, just so you know."

Karen says, "If we get out of this alive."

"Oh," says Alexander, snapping his eyes downward to see an army of smaller spider-bots waving cattle prods around menacingly, "come on," then Ms. Marvel grabs him by the arm and all four of them scatter.

Chapter Text

There are a number of ways Alexander imagined his night of breaking and entering would go.

Running from a giant eight-legged robot and its army of tinier, similarly eight-legged fellow robots is definitely not one of them, yet here he is--no weapon, no plan, and a sinking feeling that he's gotten in way over his head. Oh, and a giant robot's after him, he can't forget that.

At least he's got Ms. Marvel, he supposes.

"I think I can get in there," says Ms. Marvel, as they're crouched behind a dumpster. The spider-bot is searching for them, Alexander can hear the crunching sound it makes with every step growing closer and closer, and with it, the skittering of its numerous tinier friends. "In the big robot, I mean."

"There's not a big enough gap for you," says Alexander.

"Stretchy powers work both ways," says Ms. Marvel. "I can embiggen and try to smash the crap out of it, but that'd attract too much attention, and I really don't think you want this to end up on BuzzFeed."

"Definitely not," says Alexander, wincing at the headline he imagines. For once, right now, attention is the last thing he wants, especially attention on this little escapade. He can just imagine what Matt might say, though he tries not to. "So, what, you'll shrink?" he asks.

"Pretty much," Ms. Marvel confirms. "Can you throw me?"

"What," says Alexander.

"Like a baseball," says Ms. Marvel, miming a throw.

"I know how to throw things," says Alexander, "but how the fuck am I gonna throw you without throwing my back out too?"

"Like I said, I can shrink," says Ms. Marvel, breezily. "You just have to aim and throw."

"You are way too confident about your chances of getting in there," says Alexander. "What if I miss and you hit a wall? Or get crushed? What am I gonna say to your family, oh, I'm sorry, I got your kid killed?"

"You're not gonna miss," says Ms. Marvel with conviction, her body starting to glow from the inside-out. She closes her eyes and breathes out, and slowly, starts to grow smaller and smaller and smaller. "Down here!" she calls, when she's just the slightest bit bigger than his fingernail.

"Jesus shit," Alexander mutters, crouching down to let her climb up onto his hand. She barely weighs anything, at this size. He could crush her, she's so small, and he's so terrified he might break her in some way, so terrified this life of hers will break her in another. It is, unfortunately, not an unfamiliar feeling. "You're sure this'll work?"

"Yeah," says Ms. Marvel, jumping up and down in the palm of his hand, grinning excitedly. "Come on, do a fastball special!"

"A what."

"--oh, yeah, baseball wasn't a thing during the Revolution."

--

"You know," says Jessica, reflectively, "I didn't get jumped by giant evil spider-robots before I ever ran into you guys."

"We didn't get jumped by giant evil spider-robots either before we ran into you," says Karen, with a huff. "And Ms. Marvel," she adds, after a moment's thought, before she shakes up her can of mace. Smart girl. Jessica likes her already. "You punch them, I'll spray them?"

"Wish we had a better plan than that," says Jessica, "but fine. You spray, I smash."

"It's a great plan," says Karen, wounded. "Evil spider-bots. What is this world coming to?"

"You're the one who's best friends with a founding father, I have no fucking clue," says Jessica, before she leaps out from their hiding place to slam her fist down on a particularly fuzzy-looking spider-bot.

She'd feel guiltier about it if its dumb hat wasn't purple, she supposes.

--

For a second, Alexander's scared that his aim was horribly, terribly off. The robot's still advancing on him, and he can't exactly talk it or its jittery friends down from trying to kill him. And he's gone and thrown Ms. Marvel at it, and he can only imagine what he's going to say to her family, if she even has any, and guilt starts to churn in his stomach--

--and then the huge robot suddenly freezes up.

"Okay, Marvel," says Alexander, hope blooming in his chest as he backs up just a little, "time to get out now."

The robot starts to move again, and hope dies like a candle's light in the blowing wind.

Then it starts to crush all the other tinier robots that came along with it, and Alexander could cry with relief. He settles for a short, half-hysterical laugh.

They'll make it through this. They're going to make it through this night, they're going to be okay--

"The hell," an unfamiliar and slightly nasal voice says, from the mouth of the alleyway, "are you doin' with my fucking toys?"

Alexander turns.

"You must be Lawrence," he says. "You're a real popular guy these days, you know."

"Popular with all the wrong people," Vincent Lawrence sniffs, tugging his shirt down and exposing winding dragon tattoos around his neck. "Get away from those, you old fucker. I need them."

"What, these wrecks?" Alexander kicks at the remains of one to prove his point. "What you need is a long jail stint. You know, like the one you tried to set Gutierrez up for."

"What're you gonna do, talk me to death?" Lawrence asks, stepping closer, footfalls echoing around the alley, a hand disappearing into the pocket of his baggy pants. The giant robot moves closer to Alexander. "Challenge me to a duel? Pistols at dawn at Weehawken?"

"I'm pretty sure even New Jersey's caught up to duels being illegal by now," says Alexander.

--

Kamala glances upwards at what little she can see through the crack she's wedged herself into and lets out a long, exasperated sigh. "New Yorkers," she says to herself, shaking her head. How she keeps finding herself hanging around them, she doesn't think she'll ever know.

Then the robot starts to shake. Violently.

She grabs on to a wire, mutters, "oh god oh god oh god," as she holds on tight. After this, she thinks, she's going to reward herself with lots of gyros. Maybe even try the fakon Nakia's mentioned as tasting not horrible.

That is, if she makes it out of here alive.

She slips, slides down the circuit board, and only just manages to grab hold of another wire to try and climb back up. She can't just tug on or yank out random wires to control the robot anymore, the Inventor's gone and gotten smart about it. She has to get back up there.

Alexander Hamilton's counting on her.

--

A. HAM:
ROBOT
HELP

PETER:
I have literally no clue what u just said
what does a robot have to do with anything

A. HAM:
i am running for my life from a giant robot and a guy who can force choke me probably
HELP

PETER:
wait
if ur running for ur life
how r u typing???

A. HAM:
i lied about the running part
im hiding in a dumpster
dont hurt the robot too badly ms marvel is still in it

PETER:
what????
where r u

A. HAM:
warehouse
50th
some club nearby called the widows kiss
if you see karen and jones get them out first thanks bye

--

Alexander's been in enclosed spaces before. His own grave, for one thing, though he'd been too dead to be scared of it until--but he's not going to think about that now. Tents, in the war, especially medical tents.

The point is, he has never been in an enclosed space that smelled quite this bad before, and he's been in medical tents, and also, a coffin, and those smell pretty bad after about a few centuries, give or take. He inhales shallowly and nearly gags, a hand covering his mouth and nose to try and lessen the effect of the smell. It only marginally helps.

"Next time," he mutters to himself, "next time--bring a bat along." Bile rises in his throat, and it's a wonder he doesn't just throw up and give away his position right then and there.

Ms. Marvel, oh god, he doesn't know if she's okay, he's not sure if she's even still alive, but he hopes so--

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Lawrence calls.

Alexander's pretty sure that Burr is being smug right now. He can picture the man's enigmatic smirk, can hear him say didn't I always say talk less even here. He is so glad Burr's still dead.

For once in his life, he keeps his mouth shut, a hand clamped over his mouth and nose. He can hear footsteps getting closer, coupled with erratic whirring and sparking. Ms. Marvel, he thinks, trying to wrest control of the robot from inside it.

"Stop fucking around with that!" Lawrence shouts, a note of agitation in his voice. Alexander doesn't risk peeking out of the dumpster, but he does imagine the robot jerking around, as if possessed. "Who the fuck is--"

A thud, like something smacking onto someone's head.

"Jesus fucking--Who's there?!"

Alexander holds his breath. Mostly because of the dumpster he's in, but also because of the hope that blooms in his chest, the hope of salvation. He's going to help Peter with his homework forever for this, he thinks.

Then he hears it--the sound of someone landing on their feet, the sounds of a fight accompanied by a sparking noise that must've come from the robot. He peeks out of the dumpster, just as Daredevil slams into it, the force enough to rattle the dumpster.

"M--Daredevil?" Alexander asks, as Daredevil gives a soft groan, as if disoriented by the hit. "What the hell?"

"There you are!" says Lawrence, stepping closer. Behind him is the robot that had been chasing Alexander earlier, now eerily still. He holds his hand out and makes a motion that Alexander recognizes, and suddenly it's as if there's something wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air--

The robot moves, suddenly, and one leg flies out, smacking Lawrence to the side.

Alexander breathes again, just as Daredevil gets to his feet. "Ms. Marvel's in there," he says, then adds, remembering, "in the giant robot, your two o'clock--"

"I can hear her heartbeat, she's going to be fine," says Daredevil, quiet. "Also, we are going to talk about this later." It's hard to tell what sort of face he's making, under that helmet and in such a dim light, but Alexander doesn't have to see Daredevil's face to know he's frowning mightily at him. "Seriously?"

"You distract the guy, I'll get Ms. Marvel out," says Alexander. It's the longest conversation he's had with Matt, he realizes, since That Night.

"Good plan," says Daredevil. "You smell like a dumpster."

"I'm in a dumpster," snaps Alexander, "thanks for noticing."

--

Lord Vader @starwarsrules_1990
neighbors are being loud assholes again #its3am #shutthefuckup

Casey W. @foreversherlocked
@starwarsrules_1990 ikr neighbors SUUUUUCK

Lord Vader @starwarsrules_1990
@foreversherlocked SO UH I stand corrected that weird noise was not my neighbors #wtfnyc

--

"Run, run, run--"

"I am running as fast as I can!" yells Karen. Overhead, a tiny robot goes flying, trailing strands of webbing after it. "This way--"

Jessica grabs hold of her arm and tugs her to the side. Above them, Spider-man swings past, firing off strands of webbing at a rate comparable to how many quips he's also firing off at the giant robot. God save them all, Jessica thinks, from smartass teenaged superheroes.

"Wonder how Hamilton's getting along," she mutters.

--

Ms. Marvel falls, semi-conscious, into Alexander's waiting hand after he manages to pry a panel loose. He holds her close just as she starts growing, until she's half-leaning into his chest.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Mmf," Ms. Marvel answers.

"She's got a fractured rib," says Daredevil, having tied Lawrence up with some rope. He cocks his head to the side, as if listening, and says, "And, uh, she kind of. Smells a bit."

"I think I know what Luke Skywalker feels like now," says Ms. Marvel, before she proceeds to pass out. Alexander slumps down to the ground with her, her heart beating fast. For a moment he's almost terrified this will end badly.

He looks down on her, and blinks.

Half her mask has been torn off, enough that Alexander's staring down at a young girl he remembers from--from Jersey. Oh, he thinks, something sinking deeper in the pit of his stomach. Oh, shit, she's so young.

She's younger, he realizes, than Philip had been.

Chapter Text

Claire says, "Why are there so many of you?"

Claire says, "Okay, come on in. One at a time, please. Jesus Christ, when did I start running a clinic for vigilantes?"

Claire says, "Why are two of you younger than I am, what the hell."

Claire says, "Do not even think about trying to backflip out that window, Matt, I just patched you up."

Claire says, "Mr. Hamilton, while I greatly respect you and what you did for this country, I swear to God I will literally throw you out on your ass if you're going to tell me how to do my job."

Alexander likes her already.

--

There's a lot of things Claire figured she'd be doing tonight. Patching up vigilantes is--one of them, actually, she's gotten used to vigilantes dropping into her fire escape for a quick patch-up. Must be something she can chalk up to Daredevil, she supposes.

Patching up a self-healing vigilante with Alexander Hamilton wearing a groove into her carpet is. It's something else entirely.

"Quit pacing," she hears Jessica say, behind her. "Your kid'll be fine."

"She's not my kid," Alexander mutters, quietly.

That's the biggest pile of bullshit I've ever heard, thinks Claire, and judging from the scattered snorts of laughter, the same thought's occurred to Jones and Karen and Spider-man. "Sure she's not," she says out loud. "She'll be fine, so quit pacing so loudly. You'll wake up my neighbors downstairs."

"The ones you can hear through the floor?" Matt says, dryly, perched on the counter. He smiles, but there's something drawn and tight about it, and occasionally his eyes flick to Alexander--or, well, to somewhere in Alexander's general vicinity, anyway, which means more often than not he's glaring at Claire's lamp again.

For the second time, Claire realizes, her impromptu emergency room has become something of a battleground of wills. She can feel a headache coming on--it hasn't been that long since the last time, surely? And yet here they are again.

Ms. Marvel stirs underneath her hands, the wounds closing up and electrical burns already smoothing over. "Mm-fl," she says. Or. Mumbles, anyway.

"Kamala!" Alexander cries, and Claire has to push him away, so fast is he to rush to Ms. Marvel's side. Kamala's side, apparently. Not my kid, my ass. "Are you all right?"

"You okay, man?" says Spider-man, descending from the ceiling like a spider. Or like a goddamn creep, whichever. With his mask off, though, he looks more like a terrified kid.

"I told you she'd be fine," says Jessica, snapping off the cap of a beer bottle. She can afford to drink, thinks Claire. Out of everyone here, Jessica's the only one who doesn't have much of a personal interest, which begs the question: why is she still here? "We're tougher than we look."

"Gyros," Kamala manages. Then she pauses, and one hand drifts up to her face--half of her domino mask has been torn off, somehow, and Claire doesn't know how the other half has stayed on. Maybe sheer stubborn force of will.

She sees the moment that the name Alexander called her sinks in.

"Oh," says Kamala, faintly, "crap."

"We're not going to publicize it, if that's what you're about to ask," says Matt, his own mask off. He's--not really staring in Claire's couch's direction, just the closest approximation, and Claire wonders how it must look like, in his world on fire. "Right, Mr. Hamilton?"

"She's a minor, of course I'm not publicizing it," Alexander snaps back, temper flaring. "And while we're on the topic of secrets--"

"Talk less," Claire says, her voice hard. Both of them startle, and Alexander looks drawn, for a moment, scared and sad. The song comes unbidden to her head, where's my son?

"I'm fine," says Kamala. "I can heal, remember? Also, crap, my mask, I can't go home without it--"

"If you want you can borrow mine," Spider-man volunteers. "I, uh. I sort of told my roommate I was gonna be at Aunt May's anyway, I can sleep here."

"That'd be funny," Jessica says.

"You can sleep at my place if you don't want to risk heading over to Jersey at this time of night," says Karen, for the first time since they all piled into Claire's apartment. "It's nearer and there's less--neighbors." She steps closer to the couch, says, "You okay?"

"I gotta admit," says Kamala, contemplatively, "this is definitely not how I planned to reveal my identity to anyone."

"If it helps," says Spider-man, "I don't actually know who you are." He pauses and says, "I think maybe only Mr. Hamilton knows."

Claire lets out a long breath. "Everyone without a medical degree or a gaping wound, out," she says, voice as hard as steel, years of dealing with obstinate patients and even more obstinate loved ones behind it. "Now."

--

Alexander flees to the fire escape this time, instead of the lobby like most normal people. Then again, most normal people wouldn't have invaded a nurse's apartment carrying a superpowered teenaged vigilante after a run-in with evil robots.

God, he needs a drink.

God, he needs like fifty drinks.

Maybe even a hundred.

"I am way too old for this," he mutters, fingers curling around the railing. Below him is a dumpster, and above is the New York night sky, still dark even in the earliest hours of the morning, and the snow is falling around him. He closes his eyes and breathes in the cold, listens to the quiet.

He hears the sound of footsteps, heavy and purposeful, stepping out onto the fire escape.

"So," says Matt, having apparently had the same thought as Alexander. (Daredevil, Matt, whichever.) "Breaking and entering, huh?"

"You don't get to judge, you break bones every day," says Alexander, not turning to look at him, not daring to wonder if he'll see Matt or Daredevil. "We were expecting evidence, not--robots."

"Did you really have to bring Ms. Marvel into it?" says Matt, voice hard.

"I didn't contact her," says Alexander. "The only person Karen and I hired was Jones. Ms. Marvel--Kamala came along because her investigation happened to coincide with ours." He turns now, sees Matt not-staring at him, head cocked slightly as if listening, helmet in his hand. "And if you're going to say that we should know better, might I remind you that you're currently dressed as the actual devil in order to beat up criminals without giving away your identity."

"I have training," Matt points out. "And also, experience."

Alexander steps closer, jabs a finger into Matt's chest. "You are an asshole," he says. "I was in the Revolution, we were all criminals in Britain's eyes! And Karen can take care of herself! You can't tell me you've got more experience than me--"

"Yeah, I think I can," snaps Matt. "The Revolution and the underworld of Hell's Kitchen--hell, of New York are two very different things, you can't just go and involve yourself in one because you have experience in the other!"

"You already involved me!" Alexander snarls, voice like a whip crack that Matt almost seems to recoil from. "Or did you give any of us a choice in the matter when you put on a mask and took the law into your own hands?"

"And you didn't, breaking and entering like that?" Matt snaps back. "You don't know what else could've been there besides giant robots, you could've painted a giant target on your back--"

"Like I haven't got one already, working with you?"

"A bigger one, then!"

--

ridin' solo @idk_flycasual
hey neighbors!! FUCKIN CHILL YAH some of us are trying to sleep here

ridin' solo @idk_flycasual
s2g not everyone wants to hear you having a domestic spat out on the fire escape jesus fuck

--

"--can't fucking tell me or Karen that you were only looking out for us when you actively lied to us, you selfish piece of shit! Are you even fucking blind?"

"You're seriously asking me that?"

Jessica glances up from her phone. She and Karen are in the corridor, just outside of Claire's apartment, but she can hear a good chunk of Daredevil and Hamilton's argument on the fire escape even from here. "They're really having it out, huh," she says.

"He's an asshole," says Karen, slumped against the wall and texting someone.

"Which one?" says Jessica. "Because from what I know about Hamilton, he's an asshole too."

"Alex didn't lie to me from the very first day we met," says Karen, "so that's a point in his favor." She lets her head fall back against the wall and says, "You'd think after being their secretary for a while I'd have earned a little trust, right?"

"Let me tell you what I wish I'd known," says Jessica, sitting down next to her, "when I was young and dreamed of--a lot of things: people like me and Murdock can be that kind of asshole."

"Which kind?"

"The kind that keeps secrets from people they love," Jessica says. "So they don't get hurt. So they're not targets." She huffs out a breath, looks up at the ceiling. "At least, that's what we tell ourselves."

"You're not--" Karen starts.

"--an asshole?" says Jessica, unscrewing the cap on her beer bottle. "I am. Just ask one of the three or four friends I have." She takes a long pull from the bottle, tipping her head back and letting the alcohol burn her throat. "But I'm learning to be honest about that much, at least."

Karen lets out a long breath. "Sorry," she says. "About accidentally dragging you into a fight with evil spider robots. We probably didn't even get what we came for."

"We did," says Jessica, pulling out a bag of translucent green liquid from her pocket.

Karen stares at the bag, then up at her. "I'm paying your tab at Josie's for two months," she says, and Jessica snorts out a laugh.

"That's nice, but I'll settle for one and a half," she says. "Seeing as you're broke and all."

"How did you even get this?" asks Karen, incredulous.

"Trade secret," says Jessica, dryly.

--

Rewind--

The thing about being a private investigator is that you need to be very, very observant, and to take into account every detail around you. Just in case. It's a quality Jessica's learned to hone in her time as a PI.

Comes in real handy, in the aftermath of punching a bunch of spider-robots to death. She winces a little when she shakes her hand out, glances around her surroundings while Karen and Spider-man talk about Alexander Hamilton.

Something catches her eye--a dark liquid, spilled out over the pavement and turning the concrete underneath a darker shade of grey. She steps closer and kneels down, brushing bits of robot aside.

There isn't much left--the remains of a plastic baggie and its contents, really, along with a broken syringe. Carriers, she thinks. Or probably just fancy-ass containers.

Robots as fancy-ass containers. Jesus Christ, what is this city coming to?

"You coming?" calls Karen, snapping Jessica out of her thoughts. Jessica stands, looks around the scene of the carnage. Most of the spider robots have been wrecked beyond repair, and some of those are lying in dark puddles from whatever they were keeping, but she can see there's some that didn't quite get as badly wrecked--Spider-man's work, she thinks.

"Go on ahead and find your bastard orphan," Jessica calls back. "I'll catch up, I just need to check something out."

"'Kay, Ms. Jones," says Spider-man, swinging away. Karen strides away, but throws a look back over her shoulder before she does.

Jessica watches her go, then looks around, walks up to a robot that's been strung up with webbing and hung from a nearby ledge. It still struggles faintly in its bonds, as if it's running out of juice, and she yanks it out with ease, sets it on its back and rips its underside open as it flails about.

There. An empty syringe, a plastic baggie full of green liquid, and a bad feeling churning in her stomach.

Chapter Text

Forward--

"--because you go and pull shit like this! Breaking and entering, dammit, how do you think that's going to hold up in court when how you got this evidence comes out?"

"Oh, so now you're worried about me and Karen--"

"I'm always worried--"

"They're really going at it, huh," says Kamala, finishing off her gyro.

"They haven't talked to each other in days," says Spider-man--just call me Peter, you've saved my ass enough times, he'd said, and sorry about Mr. Hamilton accidentally outing you, which is definitely something she'll take up with Hamilton later. Under the circumstances, though, it's mostly understandable. Unfair to her, but understandable. "I guess they're finally letting it all out."

"Props to Hamilton," says Claire, who's poured herself a cup of coffee, "I honestly did not know he could keep an argument going for that long. I thought the part about talking for six hours was an exaggeration."

"They left out the part where it was really hot and everyone just wanted to eat," says Peter. "It's a lot more impressive when you think about it that way. Like, wow."

"Looks like Matt's finally found someone more stubborn than he is," says Claire, glancing at the fire escape. Kamala can still hear the argument from outside, and Alexander's yelling something about you do not get to lecture me about the law when you're breaking it, you do not get to talk to me about trust when you're breaking that too. "You kids okay?"

"I'm twenty," says Peter, mortally offended.

"And how long has Spider-man been operating?"

Outside, Daredevil is snapping back as well, you're the one who brought Ms. Marvel into this and texted Spider-man. It's exhausting just listening to them fight.

"Three years," Kamala answers, after a moment's pause. "Give or take a few months when he wasn't."

Peter blinks at her, says, "Do you follow the fan page on Facebook, or something?"

"I used to, among other things," says Kamala, thinking of all her now archive-locked superhero RPF. "It, uh. It gets kind of weird when you start seeing yourself on the pictures." And downright disheartening when the fans start to compare and contrast and comment.

Peter's brows furrow, and his nose scrunches up. It's kind of adorable, honestly. "Man, I'm sorry about the fans," he says. "Some of them can be really terrible."

"Fuck you, you asshole!" Alexander's voice drifts in from the fire escape. "I didn't ask her there, I told you already, you can check your weird freaky heartbeat thing yourself and tell me if I'm lying!"

Kamala rubs the heel of her palm over an eyelid, says, "This sucks."

"So when do you think they'll be done?" says Claire. "Since you're the expert."

"I'd say three hours," says Peter. "Optimistically."

"If they stay out there another hour," says Claire, "I'm going to drag them both back in myself." She leans on the kitchen table and shouts, "You hear that, Matt? Alex? I will drag you both back in here, I'm not lying."

--

ridin' solo @idk_flycasual
holy shit they're finally winding down, only took them like half an hour G O D

ridin' solo @idk_flycasual
BE MORE CONSIDERATE OF OTHER PEOPLE YOU DUMBSHITS

--

"You know what hurts?" says Alexander, a minute after Claire's shout shames him and Matt into silence. Funny, how it took Claire Temple to stop them from going around in circles, screaming until they were hoarse. "You didn't trust us. You don't trust us. And while I can understand it for myself--I don't like it, but I understand it--I can't see why you would choose to keep such a thing from Karen. She's proven herself, hasn't she?" He slumps against the railing. "Hell, I've proven myself."

"I trust you," says Matt. "You're an asshole. But I trust you."

"Trust means you don't keep secrets like this," snaps Alexander. "Trust means you don't leave us in ignorant bliss to protect your own ego under the guise of protecting us. Karen can handle herself, and I can damn well look after myself." He runs a hand through his hair, breathes out, exhausted.

"You went and broke into a warehouse that had robots in it," says Matt, slumping down against the railing as well. His eyes stare, unfocused and unseeing, at Alexander. A world on fire, he'd described his pseudo-sight as. Alexander wonders how he looks like, aflame against the darkness. "You're reckless. How did you survive to be shot by Burr?"

"I'm very good at talking," says Alexander.

"You tried to duel the whole Republican party."

"In my defense, I was having a bad day, and it wouldn't have been a great loss, and you have all got to let me live that down," says Alexander. "Also I still think they're begging to be dueled, all of them. I bet none of them can shoot worth a shit."

"Burr couldn't shoot worth a shit, and he got you anyway," says Matt, acidly, before he sighs and rubs at his temples. "And I am blind. I can't get anything off the menu at Starbucks because their menu is laminated, and I've stopped trusting Foggy with my Starbucks order three years ago."

"But you can hear a heartbeat from across the room," says Alexander, leaning his head back against the cool metal of the fire escape's railing. This is Matt's apology, he realizes--offering up answers and less earth-shattering secrets as an olive branch, a peace offering. "And I threw my shot away, that doesn't count."

"I can hear pretty much everything in this building if I really stretch it," says Matt. "But that gives me a headache, and it's easier to just focus on one room." He blinks once, twice, tilts his head to the side. "Why'd you do that? Foggy said you had an appointment later that day."

"He was my friend first before he was my enemy," says Alexander, looking upwards and closing his eyes, remembering the shock on Burr's face, how he reached his hand out to him. If I throw away my shot, is this how you'll remember me? "I wanted to spare him. I thought he'd do the same, but--"

He shrugs. Then he says, "I shrugged, by the way."

"Yeah, I heard your hair," says Matt.

"You heard my hair," says Alexander.

"Brushing against the fabric," says Matt.

"You're a goddamn show-off," says Alexander. "So why didn't you say? And don't say protection."

"Plausible deniability," says Matt. "The less you and Karen knew, the better." He exhales, his breath coming out of his mouth as a white puff of air. "For--both of us, I guess."

"Yeah, well, now we do know," says Alexander.

"Because you're both amazingly persistent," says Matt, dryly, before he swallows and says, "I--I wasn't planning on telling anyone about it, not until I figured out how to explain it. Foggy found out by accident, in much the same way you and Karen did."

"So have you figured out an explanation?" says Alexander. "Or the best time to explain it?"

"Not really," says Matt. "Seems like the only time I ever get to explain it is at the worst possible time."

"Which is your own fault," says Alexander. "There's never gonna be a best time for something like this. A hell of a lot of worst times, though."

"So I keep finding out," says Matt. "You should stop setting bad examples for Ms. Marvel and Spider-man, by the way. They're impressionable young people who look up to you."

"Ms. Marvel and Spider-man were in the news long before we ever met, an incident of breaking and entering on my part is not going to make a difference in their actions," says Alexander, with a huff. "Also, coming from you, that's rich. You were the one who conscripted Peter into dressing up as you to throw me and Karen off."

"In retrospect, maybe not the best idea I've ever had," Matt acknowledges, and hey, that's progress, Alexander supposes, coming from someone as stubborn as Matthew Murdock, lawyer and vigilante. "It didn't fool you any. Did it?"

"Until Peter opened his mouth, it almost did," Alexander admits. "You know, your voice is a lot lower when you're Daredevil? Peter's voice is almost exactly the same, and it's a little too high."

"How do you feel about wearing the suit next time I need someone to play Daredevil for me?" says Matt, smiling tentatively.

"You are too short," says Alexander.

Matt cocks his head to the side. Says, confidently, "Liar, you're five-seven, if anything you're too short," and ducks Alexander's hand before he can flick him on the nose for his utter slander of Alexander's character. "I'm just saying, even if I didn't already know that off a Google search, I'd have a general idea of your height and weight from your footsteps."

"God, you're a dick," says Alexander.

"So I've been told," says Matt. "I'm working on it."

"As a dick myself, and speaking for Foggy and Karen," says Alexander, "let us help."

Matt swallows. Looks at him, then, with those unseeing eyes of his. Alexander wonders how much he does see, now, in that world on fire of his. "Are you--"

"I'm still angry, and I can't speak for Karen right now," says Alexander. "But. You can't say I don't learn from my mistakes." He lets out a breath, brushes his hair behind his ear. "Burr was my friend first, before the duel. We were too stubborn to at least figure out a compromise--I don't think we even saw any way to compromise."

Matt says, "My god, are you actually admitting you were wrong?"

"No and fuck you, Matthew," says Alexander. "What I'm doing is admitting that mistakes were made by both parties, then and now, even if I think--well, I've told you what I think at high volume, I'm sure." He swallows again, thinks of Burr reaching out as their seconds ushered him away. "But I. I value our friendship, Matt, as much as I once valued Burr's. I don't want it to end in much the same way."

"I don't either," says Matt. "For one thing, I'm a terrible shot. For another, you and Karen and Foggy--you're good people, and good friends. I might be a terrible friend, but I want to keep you."

"On one condition," says Alexander.

"Yeah?"

"Be less terrible," says Alexander. "Which--I can actually help with. I am a famously bad friend."

"I noticed," says Matt, wryly. "So, uh--"

"Are you guys done?" says Karen, poking her head out onto the fire escape. "Alex, Jessica got something for us." She pauses, looks askance at Matt.

"She's looking at you like you kicked her puppy in front of her," Alexander helpfully says.

"I am not," says Karen, who definitely was.

"Oh, yeah, that," says Matt. "Hey, Karen. Um. I. Was definitely an asshole."

"Oh my god," says Karen. "You got him to use his words. It's a miracle."

"We were both assholes to each other, so it was only fair," says Alexander.

"I'm trying to be the bigger man, own my mistakes and apologize here," says Matt, in a calm, mild tone. "So if the both of you could be fair and shut up for a second, that would be great. Thanks."