Warnings – talk of depression and suicide

Jefferson looked disdainfully at the papers in his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was run into the other man, but it was so late that there was no chance he would be in his office – a small consolation. Jefferson wiped his brow and scowled as a hot breeze drifted in the open window. He was used to the weather in France, and coupled with the unseasonably warm weather they have been experiencing left him sweating uncomfortably.

With a sigh Jefferson placed the stack of papers down for a moment and removed his jacket, leaving him in just a loose, white under shirt. He pulled his hair back with a tie and made a disdainful face at his reflection in the mirror. He hated appearing so disheveled around his colleagues, but he figured there wouldn't be anyone to see him at this late hour.

He snagged the papers and set off towards Hamilton's office. He had only been there once or twice before, but everyone knew where it was. No other room in the building had so much traffic in and out of the oak door, nor had as much yelling muffled behind it. As he approached the door, he noted the almost deafening silence of the hallway and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He didn't bother knocking on Hamilton's door, opening it and barging right in. He made a beeline for the desk, which was up against the closest wall and began to leave. A small sound from behind him caused Jefferson to hesitate.

Hamilton's office was almost identical to the others in the building, a heavy wooden desk, a small day bed and different shelves for papers. In his hesitation Jefferson noticed a sharp smell in the air – whiskey and something else equally as bitter. He turned and glanced at the day bed from over his shoulder and felt his face drain of color. The one person Jefferson wanted to avoid the most was sitting on the bed, head in his hands. At the sound of Jefferson in his room, Hamilton lifted his head.

The shorter man looked a wreck. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, and he looked pale enough to worry even Jefferson. Hamilton's unfocused eyes lifted to meet with Jefferson's and time seemed to hiccup for a moment. Hamilton's eyes widened and he sprung from the bed, stumbling over to a shocked Jefferson, who couldn't bring himself to move.

"Lafayette, my friend…" Hamilton murmured in French as he threw his arms around the taller man's neck. Jefferson tried to pull away, but even drunk Hamilton had a curiously strong grip. He had been told that he had a slight resemblance to the Frenchman, but he personally never saw it – though it went to say Hamilton did. It dawned on Thomas that Alexander was fluent in French – a skill no one seemed to be aware of. "My friend, you didn't tell me you were coming to visit."

Jefferson didn't know what to do. Part of him knew Hamilton was weak, and could easily take advantage of him. Another part of him had never seen the immigrant look so genuinely broken. He thought for a split second before making a decision.

"Alexander, I wanted to surprise you." He said back in the same language. He felt a twinge of guilt at pretending to be a man they both considered a friend, but it felt right.

"Laurens…" Hamilton whispered, tears overflowing onto Jefferson's white shirt.

"What about him?" Jefferson whispered back, knowing what the other man was going to say.

"John… he's dead. He died… it's all my fault…" Hamilton buried his face as best as he could into Jefferson's chest and sobbed, the smell of alcohol strong on his breath. Thomas felt his stomach drop. He was glad that anyone passing by would have a hard time listening in on their conversation.

"It is not your fault Alexander-" He tried to reason but the shorter man wasn't listening. He ripped away from Jefferson and stormed over to his desk, covered completely by papers and empty bottles. How had Jefferson not noticed that when he first came in? Hamilton swiped the bottles and papers off, the glass shattering violently on the ground. Jefferson flinched as the glass broke, but Hamilton didn't seem to even notice. He slammed his fists on the bare desk and sobbed again.

"It's my fault!" His French slurred, his English-American accent bleeding into his words. "If I had just gone with him… If I managed to pull myself together and go to him. If I had managed to convince him to stay! But no… he went to fight alone and now he's gone…"

"Alexander, listen to me," Jefferson walked over and placed a hand on Hamilton's back. For a moment, he thought the other man was going to toss his hand away, but Hamilton surprised him by turning and leaning into the touch. Jefferson prayed he knew Laurens well enough to pull this off. "John wasn't the kind of person to listen to anyone. He was always so strong willed. You are not to blame. He would have gone regardless, and he died for something he believed in with his whole heart."

"John… he really did care, didn't he?" Hamilton looked up to him, eyes glistening. "It's getting so hard, my friend. I know I promised you, but it's getting so hard."

"What do you mean?" Thomas asked, this time more as Jefferson than Lafayette. Hamilton sniffled and turned away.

"It's getting bad. All these thoughts… all these regrets… all this responsibility. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be this way. I wish I could have had a normal life, one where I didn't have any of this over my head… I'm not strong enough for this position."

"Alexander, you are more than strong enough. No one can undo your plans. They're flawless. Sure you can be a little bullheaded sometimes but you are more than qualified for this position. If John were still here he would tell you the same thing." Jefferson tried to think of what Hamilton needed to hear, and that seemed to have been it. The shorter man burst into heavy sobs, throwing himself at the other man, who just barely managed to catch him in time.

Jefferson half carried, half dragged Alexander to the day bed and helped him sit. Hamilton was sobbing and hiccupping and babbling apologies and other things in such slurred French that Jefferson couldn't understand him, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. Jefferson sighed and began to undo Hamilton's shoes – he had gotten used to helping drunkards into bed after a long night during his stay in France. Hamilton's sobs began to subside as he complacently allowed Jefferson to move him, almost like a doll. Thomas had to stifle a gasp as he removed Alexander's shirt. He faintly remembered Alexander talking about fighting in the war, but he never imagined it would have left so many marks.

Alexander's torso was littered with scars. There were at least three bullet wounds, bulging and taunt with signs of a sealing burn. His side was torn apart and sewn back together, evidence of shrapnel lodging itself into his flesh. There were burns and a menagerie of other scars covering his lightly tanned skin.

He helped the other man lay back, placing a glass of water on the floor near his head. Alexander seemed to fall asleep almost instantly. Jefferson sighed and stood upright, completely overwhelmed by what had just happened. He never knew the loud mouth, arrogant man now sleeping in front of him had so many demons hidden behind his haughty exterior. Now that Thomas thought about it, he really didn't know much about Hamilton's personal life other than he was an orphan and that he was a massive pain in the neck. He realized as he began to leave the room that Alexander's personality seemed more and more like a mask or a coping mechanism than his real self. Just as he was about to leave, Alexander called out to him.

"Lafayette, please. I need you to do something for me." His French was mixed with English, but it was enough for Thomas to understand.

"What is it?" he asked, moving back towards the center of the room. Hamilton gestured vaguely towards his desk.

"Top drawer," He mumbled, his words slurring more and more. "Take it. I don't trust myself anymore. I came close once today, but seeing you again filled me with strength again my friend. Thank you for giving me hope again." He smiled and buried his head into the pillow, finally falling into a deep sleep.

Jefferson slowly moved over to the desk, almost afraid of what he was going to find. He opened the drawer and felt his face drain. Siting by itself in the drawer was Hamilton's dueling pistol. With a shaking hand, Jefferson lifted the pistol and saw rusty brown fingerprints on the handle. He was smart enough to understand what the other man had meant before he fell asleep.

Thomas tucked the pistol in the waistband of his trousers and left the room, blowing out the candle behind him.

"I don't understand why anyone would break into my office, destroy my paperwork and steal my dueling pistol!" Hamilton fumed, ranting to an acquaintance during a recess of the most recent debate. Jefferson had been walking by just as the other man spoke and found himself frozen.

"And the pistol was the only thing taken?" The friend asked. Alexander nodded and frowned.

"I feel like I'm forgetting something, but I can't imagine what… though I feel like I should write to a dear friend of mine. I had a dream about him the other night."

Jefferson could feel his heartbeat in his ears as he quickly walked away. Hamilton thought the other night was just a dream. He didn't remember Thomas coming into his office and him breaking down. Didn't remember admitting to almost killing himself and giving Thomas his pistol. Before he could do anything, the conference started again, cutting off any thought he might have had.

After the conference, Jefferson found himself in his own office, fiddling with the pistol Hamilton had given him a few nights prior. The pistol was in almost pristine condition, sans some scratches on the ivory handle. He was thinking about what Hamilton had said, pondering what he was going to do about the whole situation. He was so deep in thought, he didn't hear the knock at his door.

"Jefferson, I need those papers for Washington. You were supposed to finish them two days ago- is that my pistol?"

"Excuse me?" Jefferson snapped out of his daze and came face to face with an outraged Hamilton.

"My dueling pistol! Why in the world would you steal my pistol?" Hamilton was trying to size up the other man, who was easily two heads taller. Jefferson decided to throw caution to the wind and tell Hamilton the truth.

"You gave it to me." He said simply. Hamilton geared himself up for a biting retort, but Thomas could visibly see him deflate with confusion.

"I… what?"

"You gave it to me, two nights ago."

"Two nights ago… that's when…"

"It wasn't Lafayette that came to your office Alexander," Jefferson felt tired already. He could see the heartbreaking realization setting into Hamilton's eyes as he continued to speak. "I came to your office to drop off some paperwork and you were on the verge of alcohol poisoning. You mistook me for Lafayette because I had my hair pulled back and I didn't know what to say… You said a lot that night Alexander."

"You said my name twice…" Hamilton murmured more to himself that to Jefferson. "What did I tell you?"

"You told me to take your pistol because you didn't trust yourself." Thomas said matter-of-factly. Hamilton's face drained of all color and Thomas was worried for a moment that the other man was going to faint.

"I don't know what you mean," he snapped, reaching for his pistol. "Just give me back my pistol and forget anything I might have said. I wasn't in my right mind."

"I still don't think you are," Jefferson held the pistol above his head, out of the shorter man's reach. "Look, I know you hate me. I know I can never replace Laurens or Lafayette, but Damnit do you know how scared I was? Seeing you like that?"

"I don't know what you mean…" Alexander denied it again, which only frustrated Jefferson more.

"Yes you do," He snapped. "Alexander, you can't keep hiding your pain behind this arrogant mask. You're making more enemies than friends, and that's the last thing you need right now. What would Eliza do if you hadn't stopped yourself? What about Phillip?"

"I didn't think you knew their names…" Hamilton said quietly, looking down at the floor.

"How could I not? You talk about them with such love in your voice."

"Why?"

"Why?" Jefferson had not been expecting such a question from the normally loud man.

"Why did you help me?" Alexander was uncharacteristically quiet, which worried the other man more. This was more than what he has seen the other night.

"Because I know how it feels, Alexander. I know how hopeless you feel. How weak you feel. But you're not either of those things. You aren't what you think about yourself. You are not the cause of Laurens' death, no matter how you try to convince yourself otherwise."

"How could you possibly understand?" Alexander spat.

"Because I've been in the same position. Sometimes death does seem easier than living." Jefferson knew Hamilton was smart enough to know what he meant. The other man grew silent, neither of them speaking for several minutes.

"Keep it." Hamilton said at last.

"What?"

"Keep the pistol. I don't really trust you, but I trust myself even less." Hamilton turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Alexander wait," Thomas said, still not sure why he stopped the other man. He took a breath and tried to sound as sincere as possible. "I know you don't trust me, and that we tend to fight a lot, but we aren't enemies. We may not be the closest of friends but we aren't on opposite sides. If you ever feel like you did the other night… come to me? It's always better to drink with another."

Hamilton didn't answer at first, his back still towards Jefferson. Finally, right when Jefferson was going to speak again, Hamilton broke the silence.

"If you want to come by tonight, I have some whiskey in the office." Alexander never looked at Jefferson, but the faint vulnerability was back in his usually obnoxious voice.

"Of course," Jefferson let his hand drop off the other's shoulder. "I'll finish up the paper work for Washington and see if I can bring some food." Hamilton nodded and started to walk away, pausing once again the in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder, finally looking at Jefferson.

"Thomas?" He asked, hesitantly. "Thank you."

Jefferson just nodded, both men knowing the sincerity behind the action.