Chapter Text
Hamilton landed, hard, in a chair. He blinked in confusion; he seemed to be in a comfortable room, furnished with several rich-looking couches and paintings lining the walls. His brow crinkled as he recognized them: Washington, Jefferson…Aaron Burr? And the largest one, in the back, right over the fireplace…he swallowed. It was him. His own face, smirking down at him from the back wall.
The opposite wall was completely blank, no wallpaper or paintings, just six words: There is no cause for alarm.
Something about it alarmed him.
He reached out a tentative hand to touch it…
A shout caused him to jerk his hand away. He turned in time to see Jefferson fall off a sofa. The Virginian staggered to his feet, looking around in confusion.
“Ah, Mr. Jefferson!” Hamilton greeted him with mock politeness, as though welcoming a fully expected guest to an expensive dinner party. “Graceful as always, I see.”
Jefferson’s face paled at the sight of the former Secretary of the Treasury. He stumbled back, his eyes never leaving Hamilton. “But you…you’re dead!”
Hamilton frowned. “I am?” he cast his mind back, trying to remember exactly what he had been doing before this…
Hamilton’s hand trembled on the handle as he slowly, deliberately pointed his gun towards the sky. He wasn’t going to shoot this man, a man with a daughter, a man who had been his friend. A man who had bought him a drink all those years ago. The gun pointed to the clouds, and he wondered if this was how Philip had felt, defending his name but unwilling to take a life for it. He turned slowly to face his opponent and friend, sand grinding beneath his boots and the world standing still, waiting. Burr’s face was set, his hand squeezing the trigger as he spun round.
There was a shot.
There was a shout.
There was silence.
Hamilton felt eyes on him, though whose they were he couldn’t tell. Pain pulsed through his body as he knew Burr’s bullet had been true. The silence settled like a fog into the clearing. It was too silent to be entirely natural, with all those eerie faces around him, hands pulling him, the impossible sound of nothing ringing in his ears. As his gun slipped from his hand he caught sight of the man across from him. He knew that man. Burr, he remembered.
Burr’s face was expressionless as he stared down at the gun in his trembling hands. He didn’t seem to notice Hamilton fall to the ground, didn’t notice the result of his handiwork. And then he looked up, and Hamilton saw the regret in his eyes. The slack face, devoid of emotion conveyed more emotion than anything else in the world
The image blurred as Hamilton watched, merging with the trees around it. He wished, as he slipped away, that he had held a quill instead of a gun; he was running out of time. His mother was there, on the other side, and she smiled, that sweet, sad smile that felt so familiar he nearly laughed. Was this his legacy? Shot down by a friend, never living enough, too young to die, too old to be scared, and too weak to give in? He had always expected his death to be on the field of battle, fighting for the nation he had bled for, and cried for, and loved for, and…died for?
As he landed in the dirt, the world began to grey, withering with age and time he never had. The sky, once blue and full of clouds, now became a gaping abyss, swallowing him as he struggled for his life. He heard a voice, a voice so sad and familiar…
Let me tell you what I wish I’d known
When I was young and dreamed of glory
You have no control:
Who lives
Who dies
Who tells your story.
The chords of a forgotten song echoed in his head, singing him to sleep. His eyes closed.
Hamilton’s heart quickened traitorously as his mouth went dry. He was dead. Then where…? He noticed Jefferson was still staring, and composed himself. “Well, yes, I suppose I am. It is rather inconsiderate of you to bring that up so soon.” He searched his mind for an explanation. This didn’t seem like Heaven, but then, it didn’t seem like Hell either.
“But…how are you here?” his old opponent didn’t seem to be able to comprehend who was standing in front of him, and Hamilton couldn’t blame him.
“To be honest, Jefferson, I have no idea.” He inspected his hands, bending and testing each finger in turn.
“Are you a spirit?”
Hamilton sat in one of the chairs, crossing his legs and looking up at the Virginian with a single raised eyebrow. “Really? That’s the best reason you could come up with?” Jefferson opened his mouth to reply, but another person collapsed on the sofa. Hamilton leapt up. Washington groaned as he slowly sat up. “Sir?” asked Hamilton quietly.
Washington’s eyes widened. “Hamilton?” his voice was cautious, calmly incredulous. “But-”
He was interrupted by yet another entrance. Hamilton froze, and silence descended on the room as Aaron Burr dragged himself to his feet. His face blanched as he looked up, and he stumbled back in shock. “Alexander?”
Hamilton seemed to come back to himself. A small smile curled his lips as he looked down at his killer. “Aaron Burr, sir.”
“But… you can’t have… I mean… I shot you…” Burr’s voice trailed off, and he stared openly at his former friend, guilt tinting his gaze.
“Yes,” said Hamilton agreeably. “You did. I was just going over this with Jefferson.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, son…” Washington reached out a hand hesitantly and gripped Hamilton’s shoulder, as if reassuring himself the man was really there. “But you’re dead.”
Hamilton tilted his head slightly, brown eyes glinting in amusement. “Yes.”
The Virginians exchanged looks. “Are you going to explain how you’re here?” Washington finally asked.
“Or where ‘here’ is?” added Jefferson, motioning around the room.
Hamilton sighed. “I already told you, I don’t know.” Burr was still frozen in shock, though his eyes, Hamilton noticed, were not on the former treasury secretary’s face, but on his stomach. “Burr?” He looked down, and noticed for the first time, the bullet hole just between his ribs. His stomach lurched at the sight of the wound, perfectly round and bloodless. He sat down heavily, bringing a hand to the hole. He expected pain, but there was none as he touched it. He glanced up to see the three living men watching him nervously.
“Hamilton-” Jefferson began, but was interrupted by a voice.
“Welcome, gentlemen!” the voice echoed around the room, seemingly coming from the blank wall where the words had disappeared.
“Who are you?” Burr demanded.
“Irrelevant. You have been gathered here for a special treat!”
“Treat?” repeated Washington warily.
“Indeed! Over two hundred years after Hamilton died, (my condolences, by the way) your nation, The United States of America, is a global power. You are remembered and revered by many. In the year 2015, a new musical was created; this musical is called ‘Hamilton’.”
Hamilton’s eyes widened as everyone turned to him. He swallowed. He could hardly believe that in two hundred years they were still talking about him, much less creating musicals. “…What?” he finally managed to say weakly.
“And that is why you are here! I now present to you…Hamilton.”
The back wall lit up, and an image appeared before them. It was of a stage. The men glanced at each other, before turning to the screen. The room went dark. Someone began to sing.