The tavern in which Hamilton habitually frequented was located conveniently between his office and his apartments. His commute between work and home was often halted by the warm atmosphere and the almost desperately animalistic yearning for spiced ale. The establishment was a popular one, and served more than alcohol; during the day, it was a common rendez-vous for business and pleasure. Little omegas and their children were comfortable in the large space tavern within the daytime hours. The barkeep's omega wife baked confectionaries and breads and offered warm meals to hungry travelers.
While preferring the tavern at night, it was relaxing to Hamilton to rest himself amongst the gentler folk of New York City when his daily circumvention got a little more stress inducing. Often times, he needed a reminder of what he had fought for in the war against Great Britain, and the softer tones of daylight usually relighted the urge to protect. Watching families and elderly and sweethearts and rebel rousers go about their lives - well, it calmed Hamilton. Normally, anyway.
Today, however, Hamilton wasn't just being drug down by the drudgery of his job. He'd removed himself from the office to search for inspiration but was not finding it. He sat in the corner in the light of an open window, drinking and hovering over a mess of papers. The tavern itself wasn't crowded, which was unusual at this time of day - the lunch rush had a tendency to almost mimic the destructive drunks that came around after dusk - but for some reason, Hamilton couldn't focus.
Of course, this wasn't a new development. He'd been working and revising and contemplating for weeks, but work on what Hamilton'd humbly dubbed 'The Great Equality Bill' was going so slowly. And yet, the omega felt as if nothing had actually been accomplished. While his frustration was axiomatically bolstered by his acknowledgement of his usual tendencies; he was a force to be reckoned with when it came to writing, so the absence of the passionate tempest that drove him was disconcerting.
He took a sip from his tankard, mulling the tasted of the warm ale around in his mouth. He wrote like birds flew - nothing short of discorporation would rip that integral part of his character from him. Even now, words swam around in his head; too elusive to be concrete, they existed as concepts that flitted away when Hamilton tried to wrangle them together and put them into writing. He'd tried - of course he'd tried - everything short of demonic counsel. And he was just about desperate enough to offer up his soul to the right bidder and seriously contemplate whether or not the religious ramifications were real enough to consider eternal damnation.
Much to his chagrin, however, the financial plan was proceeding smoothly despite Jefferson's literal aggregate offense every step of the way. His documents were returned with pages of notes proffering edits Hamilton found egregious and unnecessary. The scrawled, twisted penmanship in the margins of his own work seemed to change the chemical makeup of Hamilton's blood - heated his veins like iron in the fire of his rage. His pen was the sword it forged. His writing, the result.
But when he worked on the equality bill, the forge ran cold. Hamilton slaved to pull himself from the pit, to ignite the fire in his belly, but his pen wasn't strong enough to hold him up. His sentences, the words held points and conjectures and ideas and overall oeuvre of his multiplicity, snapped under the weight of his agenda.
Ink stained fingers rewrapped around his tankard's wooden handle, pulling a long sip, letting the drought settle on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it. The ale bit into his tongue and warmed his throat down to his stomach. The ale wasn't any good, probably a batch that had gone bad but sold anyway to get it out of their stores.
Annoyance vibrated through him, mounting the edge Hamilton was already teetering on. Nothing - not even ale, it seemed - was filling the void his inspiration had fled to. He shifted, replacing the tankard on the table, the amber liquid within catching on the rays of sun that tumbled through the open, glass windows.
"I just don't get it Madison."
And through the light din of the tavern, Hamilton honed in on the lilt of Jefferson's voice. Dark and sultry, Hamilton felt himself relax at the introduction of his mate's timbre. And then Hamilton jerked himself free, finally falling over the edge into a deep seated anger. He gripped the handle of his drink as Jefferson and Madison congregated on the other side of the tavern, right inside Hamilton's peripheral.
He glared as the alphas took their order from the barkeep's simpering omega daughter. She tilted her neck in just that way, showing off her lack of marriage status and her eagerness at leaving her maidenhood behind, that made Hamilton want to tear his teeth into her flesh and present her to to his alpha...
Hamilton stood up abruptly, thighs hitting his table, knocking it over and spilling the drink onto the floor. The tankard clanged to the ground, profering the attentions of several of the customers within the establishment. Hamilton glared as he saw Jefferson look up, the irritation doubling beneath his skin. Molten eyes of brown met his - dammit if it wasn't one of the most attractive things Hamilton's ever seen.
Suddenly, Hamilton found himself stalking across the room, breeching and closing the gap between he and his alpha.
"Hamilton," Jefferson intoned as soon as Hamilton was near. It wasn't a greeting - more like reluctant acceptance of the social custom of acknowledging one's theoretical equal in public. But behind the acrid tone, Hamilton enjoyed the way Jefferson's voice rolled his name. "Quite the scene."
Tell him he's beautiful.
Hamilton forced himself to roll his eyes and cross his arms. He could the feel the embarrassment well up underneath the seemingly liquid courage that boiled in his stomach. Now that he was standing, he was certainly feeling the last hour of ale he'd imbibed. "I want to schedule a meeting with you."
Because you're mine and I don't want some other broad to get you.
Hamilton knew he was being unreasonable and aggressive and emotional and everything he didn't want to be - that he expressly refused to be. But that voice in the back of his head, the carnal possession of a man he wasn't supposed to want was much more persuasive that Hamilton had the strength to refuse.
Jefferson and Madison exchanged a glance and a shrug. A silent conversation that belayed an intimacy that crawled along Hamilton's spine. Jefferson grimaced in the wake of Madison's shrug, sighing as he brought his tankard up to his lips and taking a slow sip. "I'm free tomorrow. Midday?"
Hamilton imagined, for a moment, watching Jefferson taking a sip of his draught of ale, that this whole encounter was more than just chance. His heart dropped into his stomach and his toes curled - the oppressed omegan side of himself taking in a full lung full of the alpha's scent before coming back to himself. "Tomorrow works."
