For the song prompt "Miss Missing You" by Fall Out Boy, which is where the lyrics in the summary stem from!
"I wish I had your command," Alexander muses.
"No you don't," Aaron retorts.
Alexander's bright eyes stiffen. He probably thinks that he wants the dangers of battle: the headaches literal and figurative, the horses leaving their blood and droppings on the ground, the hot wounds and cold nights. There's glory to be won there, an orphan making a name for himself.
But Washington knows better, knows that Alexander is irreplaceable. There will be dozens of colonels that rise and fall in the struggle for independence; there will only be one man who can translate Washington's brilliance from map to paper, from orders to declarations, from battlefields to a burgeoning nation. Washington keeps Alexander close under his wing, and sends mere mortals like Aaron off to die on the battlefield.
The worst part is, Aaron can't blame him. He does not understand the strategies of battle like his superiors, and even the prodigies who are coming to outstrip him, do. But it doesn't take a genius to recognize that Alexander is different, that he has no right to be jealous of the immigrant's secure position.
He also has no desire to be jealous of Alexander's other position, at the side of Elizabeth Hamilton, recently Elizabeth Schuyler. She is beautiful and kind and forgiving, a patriot and a patriot's daughter, and Alexander is fortunate to be united with her. But she would not be a good fit for Aaron, nor Aaron for her. His letters to and from Theodosia are enough for the time being, and if, when, the war ends, maybe there will be something else.
But part of him, a small part he cannot name nor face, is jealous of Elizabeth. Does she know what a mind she is taking into her heart, what eyes are fixed on hers? Can she appreciate all that Alexander is, all that he might become if they gain their freedom? Who is she, to be the ink to Alexander's quill, the hearth to his fire?
Aaron had served as an officer for years. Hamilton, for months.
Yet here they stand, facing each other, and Aaron knows he is outmastered. Whatever plot of Hamilton's has brought them to this point, Aaron cannot hope to overcome it by agility alone.
He could delope, and-what? Let Hamilton dishonor him? Try to achieve a near miss? But he had never been accurate enough even when the life of a nation depended on it. Some folly it would be, to kill Hamilton by mistake.
He would have died in the other man's place during the war, an expendable soldier on the front lines while Hamilton took in the vast scale of the battle. Maybe he should have. It would have been better, easier, than winding up here.
But that had been before Theodosia, before Maria Reynolds and Jefferson and all the affairs of honor. Aaron steels himself, tries not to meet Alexander's bright eyes, and strikes true-
The last time the world had overturned itself, there had been drinking songs echoing in the streets from victors and vanquished alike. Now, with every sip of his drink, he knows the world cannot turn back, and yet he is met with only silence.