So, I ended up in the Hamilton Fandom, whoops. Whelp, while I'm here, I'll say that I don't own the franchise and that this is based on the musical and not history itself.

Other than that, please enjoy.

The sun could not have been up for more than an hour when someone burst into Jefferson's room. As a politician he'd learnt to wake quickly for a crisis, but it still annoyed him. Especially when the sky was still dashed with purple and pink.

Still, this was the life of the President of the United States of America.

"Former Secretary Hamilton's been shot."

He dropped the shirt he'd been holding.

Hamilton's been shot?

Hamilton?

Someone had shot Hamilton?

"Sir? Are you ok? Sir?"

"Shot?"

"Yessir. He's been brought to Greenwich Village Boarding House to be treated, but the doctor fears the worst. There was a duel, in New Jersey, before dawn."

Hamilton's been shot.

The words kept looping through his mind. Shot. Someone had shot Hamilton. Someone had actually shot him. He'd had his differences with Hamilton, they argued about everything, but it had become somewhat friendly over the years since they had been Secretaries. He'd even found himself visiting Hamilton for a debate when he was struggling over something. Having someone who could argue the opposite made finding flaws easier, and made crafting arguments a smoother process as well.

He'd ended up visiting at least once a month in the 4 years since his election, excluding the period wherein Hamilton's son had died. He was often considered cruel, and in many ways, it was probably true, but he knew the line. He wasn't going to show up and argue with a man whose son had been shot.

Someone had shot Hamilton!

"Who?"

"Sir?"

"Who shot him?"

The messenger wouldn't meet his eyes. Wouldn't look at him.

He wasn't going to like this answer.

"Vice-President Burr, Sir."

He sank onto his bed and pressed his eyes shut, breathing out slowly.

Burr.

Burr shot Hamilton.

It didn't sound real.

Most people would probably call having your second in command shooting your rival a success, but...

Burr shot Hamilton.

This was supposed to be a functional democracy, this was supposed to be a modern country without the assassinations or physical fighting. They made duelling illegal in as many places as they could for a reason.

Of course, Burr and Hamilton had gone to New Jersey for their duel.

Burr had shot Hamilton.

He had to get ready. He had to manage this.

"Have they arrested Burr?"

"Not yet sir. But they are looking."

"Find him. Bring him into custody and make sure he is kept there."

It made some semblance of sense, he supposed. Burr and Hamilton had a rivalry, and lots of differences and animosity, something that had grown massively since he had chosen Jefferson over Burr for President. And Burr and Hamilton had been friends once, so it made sense that Hamilton would accept his duel where he denied all others.

Burr had been Hamilton's first friend on coming to America, he'd learned one night, when he and Hamilton had been drunker than they should have, both needing a break from the stresses of their lives. Burr had been the one to introduce him to Laurens and Mulligan and Lafayette, the group he had since called his closest friends. They'd fought together in the war. They'd practiced law and gone into politics together as well. Everyone had known they were old and fast friends for 28 years; someone they could always go too for help or advice when they needed it.

Burr had frequently advised Hamilton to 'talk less'.

It seemed Burr had finally found a way to shut Hamilton up.

And how had Burr come out of this duel unscathed, he wondered as he left his rooms, dressed and ready to manage the rest of this crisis as it unfolded, when Hamilton was the better shot?

He'd heard it 1000 times, as jokes, in arguments. He remembered Washinton joking about Hamilton being a brilliant shot but unable to get his balls of scrapped paper in his bin. And he'd heard many people mention that Burr was an awful shot over the years as well.

He'd seen it too, once. They'd all had to go to Washington's home in Mt. Vernon at Washington's 'request' during his first term and the soldiers had decided to have a competition with varying levels of enthusiasm. Lafayette had been there, as had several other members of Washington's group from the war. He'd hated to admit that Hamilton was the best shot of them all, but it had been true. He'd felt oddly left out, realising how many of them had actually been fighting while he'd been in France.

How had Burr managed to kill Hamilton? He wasn't dead yet, no, but they said he wasn't going to make it. He was a dead man talking.

Maybe they'd be wrong, he wondered as he got into his coach to be taken to Hamilton's home. Maybe it wasn't as bad as they thought, or maybe he'd pull through regardless.

Once, after a harrowing meeting on one of the days where all the soldiers had been too haunted by what they'd seen in the war to really focus on the topic and tensions running high, they'd all ended up drunk and reminiscing. Lots of somewhat funny war stories he didn't know and wouldn't every really be able to relate with, but many that he'd been happy to learn none the less.

Madison had complained jokingly about how Hamilton was dramatic.

Tallmadge had cackled and stood, swaying drunkenly, telling them about the time Hamilton had been shot and presumed dead only to turn up three days later at his own funeral toast, injured but completely alive. It wasn't the first or last time, apparently, that he'd escaped death in such a way, with several other members of their company chipping in with stories of his dramatic escapes over the course of the war.

Including Lafayette and Washington who recited their storied fondly.

So, maybe this time he'd be fine too. Surprise the doctors once again and pull through with a quick recovery. Back to annoying them all in no time.

The atmosphere around Hamilton's home crushed those hopes.

Seeing Hamilton destroyed them completely.

At first, he didn't look too bad, sat up in bed, writing something out. But a closer look ruined everything. Pale, pained, shivery.

Accepting.

But Hamilton smiled as he approached, a warmer welcome than usual, a weak and quiet voice in place of the usual loud boisterous one. Still mocking in tone.

"Hello Mr President, sir, how is your day so far?"

"Downright awful, you?"

"I've had worse."

"I highly doubt that."

This could be Hamiltons last day and they were bickering.

"I have."

"What... are you doing?"

"Writing letters, goodbyes. When John died the letter came from his father. He never liked his father, it felt wrong. I'm writing these ones myself, to say goodbye properly. I've been given the time to do so and I'm using it. I've written Laf's and Herc's, I still want to write one for Martha Washington and one for Madison. I've done letters for Eliza and Angelica and my children too. Yours is actually on the side."

"And when you recover?"

"They won't send them til after I pass, but I won't recover, Jefferson. This bullet was my end, and on that I have no doubts."

"No?"

"It shattered my hip and several of my ribs as well as a few or my internal organs. It's just a matter of time now."

"I... I am so sorry."

"As am I."

"Burr will pay for this."

"How... did you know it was Burr?"

"The messenger mentioned it. There's crying in the streets. Take your pick. I just can't believe he'd do such a thing. It seems so... un-Burr."

Hamilton seemed unshocked though. Upset, but somehow not shocked.

"No... and yet... he was aiming to kill. He went there planning to shoot."

"You didn't."

"No, I always planned to aim for the sky."

Hamilton was a brilliant shot but he wasn't a murderer. He'd never been the primary in a duel before, even if he was a second several times. He wasn't going to kill his oldest friend, even if his friend's intention was to kill him. He hated to admit Hamilton was a good man, but he really was.

"Burr will spend the rest of his life in jail. Vice President or not, he will rot for what he's done."

"Since when did you care," the words had no bite, and Hamilton looked to be on the verge of laughing, "besides it won't work. He shot me in New Jersey, but I'll die in New York. It'll be hard to prosecute. There will be to many technicalities."

"Says the defence attorney."

"Yes, says the defence attorney. So, what sort of debate are we going to have."

"We're not having a debate as you lie on your deathbed."

"Why not? We've been doing this for 15 years, why break tradition now?"

Hamilton chuckled, but it was cut short as he winced in pain.

They did debate a little, talked over a few personal things they wanted to clear up, but Hamilton didn't have the energy for much, so he decided to excuse himself early, realising Hamilton looked like he was about to fall asleep. Eliza looked painfully mournful as she stepped in with the doctor to check on her husband.

As he left, he realised he didn't want to leave. He wanted to be there until the end. But he had other affairs he couldn't miss as the President, and would Hamilton even want him there. He'd have his wife and sister in law. He'd have his kids. He didn't need his old enemy with him as well.

He needed people like Lafayette and Mulligan, but both were too far away. They'd never make it before he passed. They'd only find out by letter. It wasn't fair or right. Hamilton, like most of the soldiers or families of soldiers that he'd known, had mentioned many times the pain of getting the letter saying their friend or loved one had passed, often during the war. He knew Hamilton kept the letter of Lauren's passing on his person at all times. With the delays and travel times, with the distances between them, it was the worst way to find out someone you cared for had died.

He patted the letter in his own pocket and paused in the doorway.

"Goodbye, my friend."

.

.

.

There were screams in the streets when Hamilton passed, and Jefferson locked himself in his office to cry.

He remembered meeting the young scrawny Hamilton in 1789. He'd been an annoying upstart, but good for a debate. It had actually been fun, not that he'd ever told anyone but James for the longest time. He hadn't understood how the small, loud man who looked like he'd never had enough to eat was the praised soldier, lawyer and politician he'd heard so much about. Not then.

Washington had been so fond of the scrawny immigrant boy and truthfully, if Thomas had let himself get over his prejudices sooner, he would have realised what Washington had seen. Sure, he was never going to agree with him on most if not all of his policies, but he'd eventually realised Hamilton was not stupid, realised he knew exactly what he was talking about.

Washington had seen Hamilton like a son, even if Hamilton hadn't wanted it, or at least been willing to admit it. They had clearly had a very complex relationship, hampered by personal issues. Hamilton had greatly admired Washington and had seen him as a father figure in some capacity. But Washington had never been subtle in how he felt about Hamilton, so much so that many people had worried he was being trained as a successor.

Part of him was eternally grateful Washington had already passed. The man had loved him like a son, and would have lost him as one.

It was 1804 and Hamilton was dead.

Hamilton was gone.

Burr was still missing. Someone had warned him to hide, it would seem, but he would be found and brought to justice.

Washington would have found Burr already, a small part of him said. Washington would have found Hamilton's murderer. Washington would have done better by him.

Alexander Hamilton was a bastard, but he was Thomas' friend, he was the Former Secretary of the Treasury, he was a Colonel of the Continental Army.

He was a war hero and a dedicated politician and he had deserved to die old and happy.

Not at the hand of a former friend.

Not like this.

There was so much more he'd had to give the world.

So much the world would never see now.

He stood and straightened his clothes, rubbed at his face and tried to look presentable. He was sure his colleagues would understand the impact this had on him and he'd be glad to scream it at them if they hadn't.

He got ready for his meetings.

Hamilton was gone.

The world moved on.

.

.

.

Lafayette turned up at his door one day, barely a week after the duel.

Apparently, he'd been on his way back to America, and had arrived to find black banners and bright American flags hanging from every building, candles in so many of the windows, and it hadn't taken him long to find out who had passed or how. His letter hadn't even been sent; he'd received it in person from Eliza.

Thomas wished he'd known his friend was coming back to America, wished he'd been able to get there first to warn him or comfort him. But he hadn't known until he opened his door to Lafayette's tearstained face.

"Tell me they have caught him, mon ami, tell me he will hang for this. Dieu s'il te plait dis qu'il le fera."

"Not yet, not yet, but we will get him and he will hang."

"There was always something off about Burr, but mon dieu, I never thought he would go this far. He killed Alex; how could he kill Alex?"

Lafayette broke off with a sob and fell into his friend's arms. Jefferson knew they'd been close for a long time, but he'd never seen Laf like this. He'd known Lafayette and Hamilton were close as brothers, but God it was clear here.

"We'll get him for this. We'll make him pay."

"Mon petit lion est mort, mon dieu. Burr was never one to rush into anything. He planned this. Merde! How long has he planned this?"

The though had been plaguing Jefferson all week. Burr kept everything close to the chest. The only reason he'd even won the election of 1800 was because Hamilton had pointed out that he stood for things while Burr stalled and dithered.

Burr had always stalled and dithered and taken his time.

He planned this, for months, years.

God, had he been planning it since the election, since he lost his chance at President, perhaps for ever.

Had they had four years to stop this?

Four years to stop Burr putting their friend into the ground.

They were already working out a memorial, a large and most likely impractical one. Part of him wanted it to be gaudy enough that it would truly preserve his legacy. Maybe a monolith, maybe a statue of him shooting into the sky, maybe something else.

But mostly, he wanted it to last.

He wanted Hamilton's memory to last.

He was going to build a small memorial here and at his home in Monticello. Somewhere he and his friends could mourn him. Smaller than the public one, more private.

Burr would get no memorial, if he had his say.

They'd leave him hanging in the wind, if he had any say at all.

.

.

.

Burr was caught, and dragged before the Courts beaten and bruised by the men who had caught him.

Jefferson didn't know how the Courts failed to convict the man, not when they had evidence from Hamilton that he never meant to shoot, and from Burr that he did. But it was something about the duel in New Jersey, death in New York, both chose to go there, both shot their pistols.

Technicalities, just like Hamilton had said.

It was ludicrous, but Burr walked free.

Limped free.

Laf had crushed his and Mulligans' hands through the whole process. Both of them had looked rocked at the trial and the outcome. Not only his freedom, which had inspired a slightly terrifying anger, but in learning of Burr's intent. The terror and horror on their faces as it was read aloud.

There was a vast difference between knowing from Burr's personality that it must have been planned and hearing the diary entries and letters detailing the plans of murder including but not limited to the duel.

Burr kept his life, but he did not keep his job.

He was not letting a murderer stay on as his Vice President. He'd rather have Adams.

Fortunately, the murder of a man of Hamiltons stature had spurred their Congress into action, and he was no longer forced to have the runner up as VP, nor were any of his successors. Even if many of them weren't opposed to having Hamilton dead, murdered was a stretch too far. He had been the leader of the Federalist Party, after all, so what was to stop someone killing them?

It had brought up a whole array of topics he would have loved to visited Hamilton to debate, but Hamilton wasn't around to debate any more.

They'd never debate again.

He'd never hear Hamilton's voice again.

He stumbled at the realisation, luckily there was no-one around to see.

He had no idea how to resolve the Burr situation. No idea how to make the man pay for what he'd done. All he'd lost was his job, Hamilton had lost everything.

He wasn't allowed to be outwardly happy when Burr's very dead body washed up on the banks of the Potomac.

He was.

He was very happy.

Maybe too happy.

He was a little sad it hadn't been him. He didn't know who had done it, officially no-one did, but if Laf and Mulligan and the Schylers looked better for it, he wasn't going to press the investigation too hard. He'd hate for anyone he knew to end up in Court for revenge and he was sure Hamilton wouldn't want anyone else to end up dead. He was a good man like that.

It was the first time he'd seen a smile on Laf's face since he'd arrived, eyes closed in a silent thank you to God. It probably wasn't God he needed to thank, Jefferson reasoned, but he wasn't going to say it aloud.

No-one seemed to mourn the murderer.

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.

.

Thomas Jefferson,

I debated how to address you in this, Mr Secretary, Mr President, Mr Asshole. But, as I write you this in my final hours, I find myself considering you my friend.

It is curious that this is true, for so many believe we are nothing more than rivals. Once, this was true, but no, we are friends now, at least as far as I am concerned.

Truthfully, I have no idea what I am supposed to write in here. How do I sum up 15 years in a single letter? How do I say goodbye? How can I write this as I'm running out of time?

I hated you when we met. That may be one of the oddest thing's I've written in any of these letters, but I did. You were the worst. Pompous, arrogant and so so self-assured. I let myself believe that this was you, for far too long. It wasn't until after 3 years of knowing you that I let myself see past it. You are flawed, we all are, but you have many good aspects I was unwilling to see before then. I am glad I did so. I am glad we let our rivalry become a friendship.

It has been an honour to be your friend. You have made me re-evaluate many of my views, as I am sure I have done for you. While we both have many beliefs that we will never shift on, and will never admit if our ideas had been changed, it is powerful to know we have managed it.

I'd like to think we made an impact in this world. That we have made something that will outlast us both. We worked together to create this great country, even if we opposed each other at every turn. It was our opposition that created results. Look after our country after I am gone, (don't mess it up too much), and don't let our work go to waste.

I know you wondered why I worked so much. Burr asked why I wrote like I was running out of time; Eliza has asked the same. The truth is, I couldn't waste any time. I've never told anyone this, besides Washington, but I've too often felt like I was living on borrowed time. When the hurricane came, I ended up trapped, I went under the water. I should have died. I should have drowned. But I didn't. Just as I was fading, the tree pinning me shifted, and I resurfaced. I survived. My town was washed off the map, my brother was washed into the sea, but I, at the point where I should have died, came up for air. And I don't know why.

I never knew why.

I still don't.

I never know why I survived, but I was given extra time, and I needed to use it. I couldn't waste any of the extra time I'd been given, because why else was it given to me unless I was supposed to do something with it, so I joined the revolution, I practiced law, I built governments and financial systems and I refused to waste even one day I'd been given. I knew one day it would catch up with me, one day God or Fate or whatever had given me my second chance would realise I was alive because surely it was an accident. Surely, the Reaper had just missed me by accident and one day the Reaper would come for me, and I couldn't waste a day before that happened.

When I went to duel with Burr, I made my choice. I threw away my shot, because I knew I could never shoot another man again, and definitely not a friend. Death was always coming after me, always on my heals. I knew from the moment Burr challenged me, that this was it. I can't write forever. I can't run forever.

As we faced off, I caught a glimpse of the other side. It's not the first time. I saw it when I was 12 and sick. I saw it when I was 17 and drowning. I saw it in the war, but it was not my time then. When I faced off against Burr, I saw it so clearly. I saw their faces, I heard their voices, my mother, my son, Laurens, Washington.

It is my time.

I have many regrets, as all men do, but I die hoping the good I have done will counter it. I will go quietly, calmly, and hope that the other side will be kinder to me than, perhaps, this world was, and that I can be a better man there.

So, Thomas, I will say to you what I have said to my dearest Eliza, and to Angelica and Lafayette and Hercules. Do not rush to join me on the other side. Take your time. Use it well. I will see you on the other side, but not, I hope, for a long time yet.

Thank you, for everything.

Live well.

Your friend, Alexander Hamilton.

Mon ami= my friend.

Dieu s'il te plait dis qu'il le fera. = please god say he will.

Mon dieu= my god

Mon petit lion est mort, mon dieu = my little lion is dead oh god.

Merde = shit.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed, Please R+R.