like a son

by Adverb Slut

When Hamilton reveals all the details of his affair in "The Reynolds Pamphlet," Eliza divulges unto him her own secret: Philip Hamilton isn't his son, but rather the son of John Laurens. This secret, along with Hamilton's own infidelity, shakes the family to its core, and even worse, the presumed dead John Laurens returns, very much alive and with no clue that Philip is his son.

12. no

Author's Note

Thank you for all your reviews! :) And also, to Shiranai Atsune, I can't promise that no one will die (eventually), but Philip and John do end up meeting, although it'll be in chapter 16 or 17!

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He aimed his pistol at the sky.

Alexander didn't know exactly what he expected to happen once the firing command was given, but there was one thing that he knew for sure: John would not throw away his shot. Not throwing away one's shot was a personal law that both Alexander and he abided by, and it was what had guided them in their successful duel against General Lee.

So, it felt, rather, as if he had been shot, when fourteen seconds after "Fire!" Alexander found himself pinned against a tree in the least decorous of all bear hugs by one John Laurens.

"Alex, I knew you wouldn't shoot. My God, give me a second; let me get a good look at you," breathed John, his voice muffled against Alexander's shoulder.

This time, his embrace was not pushed away, but Alexander was still too much in a state of things to return it. His body was a corpse as he asked in a stilted tone, "Where have you been?"

"Ah, yes," John pulled back, looking sheepish, "that." He paused to return his borrowed pistol to its owner, before motioning his friend along. "Come, we'll talk over drinks."

Well, that was all too much from a man who'd left him in the lurch for so long.

Alexander dug his heels into the ground. "No." When John looked back at him with curious eyes, he ground his teeth, feeling his previous ire boil up. His voice trembled as he repeated, "No. You don't get to disappear for fifteen years—after sleeping with my wife, and siring a son, no less—and expect me to wait to hear why you've come back." He took a step forward. Something like tears filled his eyes, and his fists were balled up so tight that his fingernails drew enough blood to warrant one of the onlookers to call for a medic. "You don't get to leave me mourning you every minute for five-thousand-four-hundred-and-seventy-eight days, leave me willing to dig my own grave just so I could be where you are, leave me feeling like the days are just a shadow and devoid of color just because you aren't here." He shook his head so hard his teeth chattered. "No, you don't get to do that."