Musical Appearance

1920s AU

Fluff, and other stuff I think

Lams

Alexander was really fucking done with Thomas Jefferson. Recently, the Virginian had been trying to take credit for his arrests. And despite Washington being the Sargent at their precinct, King was the Captain, and he appreciated Jefferson's "desire to be the best." As a result, Alex's arrest numbers tanked. He was the best in the precinct, beyond a doubt. And yet, here he stood, getting reprimanded for being a failure by the Captain.

"If your numbers don't go up in the next month, Hamilton, we're going to have a serious chat. We'll be making cuts in the coming weeks, and if your numbers aren't peaked by then, I would suggest looking for a new job," he smiled evilly. Alex nodded once before leaving the room, making sure to close the door more aggressively than needed.

Jefferson was waiting outside King's office with a sneer. "Daddy can't always save you, huh, Hamilton."

"Fuck off," he muttered, packing up his stuff for the night. Normally, he'd stay late, nearly to the early morning, trying to prove that he belonged here – he was short, not really strong – but he was smart and brave and more hard working than any of the other shits in the precinct. He snatched a random piece of paper off the desk and shoved it into his briefcase, grabbing his gun and belt, and stalking outside.

And of course, it was pouring.

Alex sprinted through the rain, feet pounding into puddles, the spray coating the back of his pants. "Damnit," he muttered. Thanks to his cruel past, Alex's heart was starting to pound painfully in his chest. The rain did nothing but terrify him. He looked around wildly, every street empty, every store and restaurant closed.

As he ran however, an ally light caught his eye. He really doubted it was anything of significance, but he would rather check to see if it was something. Especially since he was still far from home. Alex slipped down the ally and knocked on the door with no window. God this was so stupid. For all he knew, the mafia could hide behind this door. But if it was the mafia...

A small main window slid open revealing a pair of beady black eyes. "Password." Are you fucking serious? So it wasn't the mafia, but it was a saloon. A very illegal saloon.

"C'mon, man," Alex hissed, trying to make himself seem less intimidating. If these people figured out he was a police officer, he was screwed. Thunder boomed and Alex bit back a whimper. However, the man behind the door noticed the pathetic sound that left Alex's throat, and he opened the door.

Inside it was warm and Alex could practically feel the steam lift off his jacket. Once the door of the saloon had closed behind him, the sound of pounding rain and booming thunder was gone. The saloon was shockingly ornate for an alleyway room. The wood floors had recently been polished and the mirrors were in pristine condition. On the wall hung beautiful paintings, each one with the same signature style, but still all different and entrancing. The bar was a deep rosewood color and the back wall was stocked with liquor. Illegal liquor. Finally, in the back was a wooden stage with candles and low lights decorating it. On the stage were three performers: a cellist, and violinist, and a trumpetist.

Alex meandered in, making his way through the surprisingly crowded, yet quiet bar. Alex found a seat at the end of the bar and sighed, resting his sopping head in his chin, letting his head get carried away by the beautiful music. It sounded like Mozart's Symphony No. 40.

Someone placed a drink down in front of him. When Alex looked up, he saw the bartender, a man about his age with curly brown hair and the most stunning eyes. Looking at him closer, Alex noticed a flattering array of freckles over his nose and cheeks. He smiled at Alex softly.

"You looked like you needed something strong." Holy shit his voice was like coffee. Smooth and warm, but rough around the edges.

"You would be correct," Alex mumbled, trying to tear his eyes away from the bartender. He threw back the shot, shuddering at the burning liquid. He cleared his throat once before saying, "I'm Alexander, or you can call me Alex." Alex offered a hand over the counter.

"Hello, Lexi. I'm John. You can call my Laurens," he pushed Alex's hand away. Alex's cheeks flushed at the nickname. "So, uh, what's a cop like you doin' in a place like this?" John ran a hand over Alex's cheek before standing and refilling Alex's glass. Alex had forgotten he was still in his police garb.

"Well, uh, you know. Just looking to get out of the rain. I don't like storms," Alex admitted. His face was still bright red from Laurens' advances.

"Ah," John leaned back, showing off his ripped pectoral muscles. "I love the rain. It's inspiring." Alex could picture the bartender standing in the middle of the street, his blue and white striped shirt stuck to his tanned skin due to the rain. His suspenders straining against muscles. Laurens would stand with his head tipped backward, water dripping down his chiseled face, eyes closed. It was a beautiful sight.

"Alexander?" John called, snapping the police out of his fantasy. Alex blushed as he looked at Laurens, still unable to get the picture out of his mind.

"Oh, yeah?"

John laughed. "I was just about to introduce you to my friends. I figured you might as well know who you'll be arresting in the next few days." Standing beside the bar were the three instrumentalists that had been performing.

"I am Lafayette," said the cellist. His accent was distinctly French. Unfortunately, Alex's greeting smile was met with an uncomfortable grimace.

"Hercules. Mulligan," the trumpetist said, shaking Alex's hand with a grip that was too tight.

"Aaron," said the violinist. He said nothing more, and didn't go to shake Alex's hand, or even look at him.

"I'm Alexander Hamilton," he smiled, desperately trying to come off as harmless. But when Alex saw Lafayette's nervous glance at his gun, he frowned. "I-I won't do anything, I promise." He watched as Hercules pulled Lafayette closer to his side, the French man curling slightly into his side.

"Why don't I get you some drinks before you keep playing. Aaron, water? Laf and Herc, Sam Adams?" The musicians nodded, Lafayette and Hercules walking to the end of the bar, the farthest seats from Alexander. Aaron, however, took the seat right beside Alex.

"You're taking a big risk being in here. Probably get in a lot of trouble, yeah?" Aaron said, thanking John for the water before returning to Alex. "Let me give you some advice. Take less risks. Talk less, smile more. You're a police officer in a saloon."

Alex flushed. "Playing it safe isn't really my style. But I am only in here because I needed to get out of the rain."

"I wouldn't suggest coming back," Aaron said, before downing his water and joining his colleagues. Alex sighed, watching them go back and beginning to play a swing piece. People started dancing on the floor, partners twirling each other around in circles. A large number of those people were homosexual, Alex realized. And others were dressed as the opposite gender. Illegal. God this place was a gold mine. And yet, when John came back to sit on the bar and leaned back to leer at Alex, the police officer knew there would be no arrests made in the saloon. At least, not by him.

"They'll get to like you," John promised. He ran a finger over Alex's glass, still full of whiskey.

"Do you like me?" Alex asked, leaning forward on a whim. John smirked. He put a finger on Alex's lower lip, pulling it out slightly. Fuck. What was this stranger doing to him?

"That depends? You gonna go to your cop friends and spill. You know the saying, snitches get stitches." Even when he was genuinely serious, Alex was enamored.

"Nah. I won't say a thing." John laughed.

"Then I guess I like you well enough. Why don't I give the keys to Lafayette over there, and you and I walk out into the rain and really make it pour?" Alex wasn't positive of what exactly John meant but he really wanted to go. Letting out a low whistle, John signaled to Lafayette that he was going to leave. He slid the keys behind a painting of the Eifel Tower. "Let's go, Honeybee."

They slipped out the door and into the rain, John basking in the pouring rain, and Alex shuddering beside him. "How far are we going?"

"Oh, right. You don't like the rain," John seemed genuinely worried.

"Yeah. But, it-it's alright. Let's just hurry," Alex whispered. John nodded, but his eyes still shone brilliantly.

Finally, they slipped into John's apartment. Alex shivering, John reveling.

Alex took in the apartment before he recognized the painting style on the wall. "Wait, you painted the stuff in the bar?" John blushed.

"Well, I'd prefer it not be called "stuff" but yeah, I did. But that's not why I brought you here. Despite your unfortunate job position, I would really love to paint you," John whispered. He brought his fingers over Alex's face, before capturing the police officer's lips with his own. They were salty and smooth and damn near perfect.

Needless to say, their escapades did not end with Alex up against the wall, but with John on top of the officer, various colors of paint across both their features.

When John finally collapsed beside him, running blue fingers through Alex's paint flecked hair, Alex was almost positive he would be losing his job.

WC: 1656