Shattered Realities- Historical Hamilton

Chapter Ten: 07.15.1789

*6804 words. 4000 of which I wrote in two days (I have exams please don't kill me). Also, please don't ask why there are so many comments on the last paragraph, because I don't know.

During Hamilton's service as the Secretary of Treasury, he and his family lived in a rented house in Philadelphia.

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Cassandra actually wants to die.

Well, not really- she still has shit to do and many more people to bother. When she comes home she's gonna cause so much damage to the FBI, and that's really all that's keeping her going. 

But death is probably better than this literal agony.

She can't move one of her arms without her nerves exploding to smithereens. Everything hurts like an absolute bitch- literally moving has never been as difficult as it is now. Even breathing hurts, even as she's absolutely drugged up on paracetamol.

And she slept on the forest floor. For the second time in a row. After this, she's never stepping into a forest again in her life, for it'll always be a reminder of how shitty little insects like to crawl over her skin with their shitty little legs and their shitty little wings that only decide to work when she tries to whack them off, only causing herself to get hit again. 

But, the morning comes way too early, thanks to drama queen Jefferson, only when she just managed to close her eyes. Just as Solomon predicted, it rained through half the night, as well-because clearly, she hasn't suffered enough.

Someone quietly covered her with a coat during that rain- she didn't have the energy to shrug it off. She didn't want anything of Jefferson's near her.

Solomon's the first to get up. He sits up, stretches in a way that should have torn every single of his thin muscles, looks at Jefferson, looks away. He rubs off bits of moss stuck to his cheek. His boots squish when he stands up, and he takes them off, holds them upside down. Water drips out of it.

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Then it's the other shoe. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Your shoes are the same as well, I assume," he said, seemingly to no one. A moment of silence, and he clearly quirks a brow at her.

"I- you- God, your fucking eyes, they're weird," Cassandra says. Solomon chuckles, maybe looking away from her, putting his boots back on.

"Have you ever said anything polite in your life?"

She chuckles in a way that rattles her ribs. "Nope, crawled out the womb being a bitch. First thing I did was make fun of how the doctor spoke and ripped out all the nurse's hair."

"Well, that seems about correct to your character."

"Now you're being rude, you gentleman."

He playfully bows. "Ah yes, my apologies, for I'm sure you give a fuck about anyone's opinion but your own."

Her chuckle's more genuine this time. "You can swear?"

"No, I cannot, my delicate sensitivities of the 18th century had prevented me from doing so until you opened your mouth and taught me the- of course I can, Cassandra, I was born in your day." He scoffs, and walks towards her. "Additionally, the lowest class of men are not much better than you. Do need help to get up?"

"Yeah, and- did you just call me poor?"

"No, I called you a stumbling drunkard." He helps her up, and doesn't touch her bad shoulder. "In that... musical, I thought that I'm portrayed that I curse. Why're you surprised by such?"