-Chapter 1-
Aaron Burr, Sir
Notes: In real history, Burr's parents died when he was 2, for the sake of the story, they're dying when he's in law school. Yes, I'm sending them to Harvard, yes, I realize that that's inaccurate. Mainly, it's due to the fact that I actually have some firsthand knowledge of Boston/the Boston metropolitan area and will thus be able to write it less shittily than another city. Basically this whole operation is deeply AU and that's how it's going to have to be. SIDE NOTE: If You want a really good (but not boring) overview of the mortgage crisis, go watch/read The Big Short. It's informative, but also Really Fucking Good. It will make you learn things about why our economy went to shit in '07 and also make you pretty pissed off at some investment bankers.
September 2007- The brink of the subprime mortgage crisis.
Aaron Burr's new townhome is gorgeous, palatial, and utterly ridiculous for a person who lives alone and isn't even old enough to drink, but, as his brother-in-in law said, it's in a very good part of Boston, and one can't pay enough for safety. As the nineteen-year-old clutches the key and watches his parents' grey BMW speed into the distance, their goodbyes echo in his head.
"We're so proud of you, Aaron." His mother's smile could light up the East coast.
His father, more reserved, but happier than he's ever seen him, "Call us when you're done with your first classes."
"- No, call us before!"
"We love you, Aaron."
We lovelovelovelove love. You.
The teenager wrinkles his nose as his parents pull him into a tight embrace, and if their goal is to suffocate him with cashmere and Scottish wool, they're doing a fantastic job of it.
"Mom," he protests, "I'm not five."
"No," his father interjects, and Aaron can hear the smile in his voice, "but you'll always be our baby."
When they leave, the smell of Chanel No. 5 lingers in the air.
"Call us!"
"I will."
'You'll always be our baby.' The statement is simultaneously reassuring and panic-inducing, because Aaron Burr Jr. doesn't want to be his parents' baby; he doesn't want to be 'Little Burr,' the atrocious nickname he'd been stuck with at Princeton due in equal parts to his height and the reality that he was, in fact, very young in comparison to the rest of the undergraduate population. Aaron wants, no, needs to prove that he's worthy of all the praise that's been heaped on him since he was a child.
The Burr heir runs his thumb over the rough edge of the fresh-cut key. He's the one thing in his life he can control. As he stares up at the stately brick building that will be his home for the next three years, he can practically see the pieces of his life fall into place; he'll get his law degree, then become a senator. He'll make his parents proud, talk less, smile more; let his actions prove what words can't- that maybe Aaron is worthy of everything he's been given. The thought is exhilarating, and the nineteen-year-old doesn't have to see his reflection in the massive bay window to know that he's grinning like an idiot.
He's about to head up the steps, when he collides head-first with a very small, very disheveled person, sending them sprawling in a heap of tangled limbs and wavy brown hair, and books that probably weigh as much as some small children. Aaron's about to offer an apology when he's cut off.
"Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, Sir?" The kid- he must be a kid, because he's shorter than Aaron, and skinny as an orphan in a Dickens novel, spits the words out in a hopeful, excited blur, "areyouAaronBurSir," morphing into one, impossibly tangled, manic breath.
Six syllables- that's all it takes for Aaron's elation to flicker and die, his wild grin flattening into something smaller, still cordial, but closed off. He takes a step back, sticks his hands in his pockets, wary.
"That depends, who's asking?" He's no longer Aaron, but Aaron Burr, Sir- with all the privileges and expectations that that entails. The nineteen-year-old takes a steadying breath, checks his smile in the mirror; polite, calm, competent, he can do this; he can be Aaron Burr, Sir- even if he can't he has to.
"Oh- sure!" The kid is still grinning, ridiculously happy for someone who's just been knocked on his ass. He gets up, brushes the dirt from his ripped jeans, and Aaron should really help him. His parents taught him better than this, always be friendly to everyone, Aaron. Not everybody is as lucky as you; that doesn't mean that they can't be an invaluable friend and ally. Aaron should be better than this, but he's frozen. Face burning, he shakes himself out of his stupor. He's about to apologize for his deplorable conduct when he's interrupted by the same mile-a-minute voice.
"Alexander Hamilton, at your service!" He extends one hand with a flourish, shoving back that insane curtain of hair with the other. "But you can call me Alex. Mostly everyone does."
"Alex," Aaron repeats, committing the name to memory. People like it when you remember their names. It lets them know that they matter to you. He glances at the scattered books, noticing for the first time, the titles- Constitutional Law in the Twenty-First Century, A Complete Guide to Federal Business Regulation, An Introduction to Litigation. "You're a law student, then?" He'd had Alex pegged as an undergrad- a freshman or sophomore maybe, but his choice of literature looks like part of the reading list for an L1.
"Oh, no." The short brunet frowns for the first time, scrambling to collect his fallen belongings. "Nothing like that."
Aaron smiles, picks a book off the sidewalk. "Well good for you. Our country could use more high-schoolers with your ambition." He feels for this kid, Aaron had been a shy, precocious, oddly serious child, alternately treated as a curiosity, or an annoyance. He'd learned quickly that adults weren't often fond of teens who were smarter than they were. He runs a finger along the spine of An Introduction to Litigation, brushing off the dirt. "Let me offer you some free advice. Talk less-"
"What?" Alex drops the book he's holding; glares like he wants to set the world ablaze.
"-smile more," Aaron finishes; shrugs. It's true. If there's one thing he's learned at Princeton, it was when to stay silent. It was so much easier to get ahead when he wasn't making enemies.
"I'm twenty," the other man interjects, his voice straddling the thin line between a snarl and a whine. "Twenty." He snatches the book that Aaron was holding rubbing at the cover with the hem of his tee shirt, as if he can erase any trace of the law student's touch.
"I'm sorry," Aaron mutters, bends down and picks another book off the ground, hissing in frustration as his driver's license slips from his pocket and clatters on the pavement.
"I'm not short." Alex glares at Aaron from above, daring the other man to challenge him.
"Of course not," Aaron can't help the smirk that slides across his face, can't help it at all.
"I'm not," Alex mumbles through clenched teeth as he uses them to pry a hair tie from his wrist, deftly twisting his hair into an impressively messy bun. He cocks his head to the side, scuffs his holey converse against the granite curb, and Aaron begins to wonder if this kid ever stops moving. "Hey, is that your id?"
"Oh, yeah." Aaron stares helplessly as the small brunet picks the card off the pavement, turns it over in his hand. Aaron couldn't move if he wanted to; his arms are full of textbook.
"Trade?" Alex dangles the id in Aaron's face, eyes fixed on the stack of books.
"Please."
Aaron feels better when his id is back inside his pocket, his famous last name safe from prying eyes, feels better when he can pretend that he's a person and not the Burr heir, pretend that he's in a life where he could be sure that all the praise he's received is based on his own merits and not the generous donations his family has made to every organization he's ever participated in.
"You are him." Alex's eyes are the size of planets, his lips curve into a small, pleased smile.
Aaron shoves his hands in his pockets, stares at the ground, the elaborate brickwork that circles his building's entry, the verdant canopy that shades the quiet street, anywhere but the other young man. When he speaks, it is a small, choked thing. "Yeah, I guess I am."
"Knew it." Hamilton shrugs like meeting the progeny of billionaires is an everyday occurrence for him, his thin arms wrapped around what might be a stack of books, if books could be stacked by a hurricane.
Aaron lets out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "I am truly sorry…" he begins, but he's not sure what he's apologizing for; lying, mistaking Alex for a teenager, barreling over the other young man like he didn't even exist? These things are all small, easy to brush off. He knows what his friends (can he call them friends) at Princeton would say. What's the big deal, Burr? Kid can't take a joke? You'll probably never see him again anyway. People like Patterson didn't care about how they treated people like Alex, because to them people like him didn't matter. Aaron's life would probably be easier if he didn't care so much, but he doesn't know how to stop. He should have taken his own advice- talk less.
Aaron should walk away, should leave now while he still has some semblance of dignity. Instead he smiles, turns to the other young man. "Can I buy you a drink?" It's his olive branch, his chance to make amends, to prove he's not some trust-fund brat who treats people like dirt because he can. He isn't like Patterson and his cronies at Princeton, he won't let himself be.
The short brunet's eyes are wide, full of something Aaron can't quite decipher. "That would be nice."
