Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Forty-Three: Your Obedient Servant

Burr's POV

No.

No.

No.

NO!

This isn't happening. I stand, shell-shocked, watching the world pass by in one blur of colour, feeling the cold hands of December wrap around my heart. This is what death feels like, I think numbly, unaware of where my feet are taking me as they fall slowly, one after another

It was going so well, I could smell victory. To me, it smelled like the comfort mac&cheese Jefferson would cook to make himself feel better after he lost. It smelled like the air after rain, like the smell of expensive soaps.

How could this happen?

Alexandra.

Alexandra fucking Hamilton.

Just because she could.

I hear a door slam, only half aware that I am now standing in my foyer, wet snow sliding off my shoulders and splattering onto the floor. Dimly, I realize that my hands are clenched so tightly that my nails are drawing blood, and slowly release the death grip. Admiring the slim crescents, rage boils in my stomach, and my hands start to shake, sending drops of red slipping across my palms.

How does Hamilton, an arrogant immigrant, orphan, bastard, whore-spawn, somehow endorse Thomas Jefferson, her enemy? A man she's despised since the beginning, just to keep me from winning!

I want to be in the room where it happens, the room where it happens, the room where it happens. You've kept me from the room where it happens for the last time...

My bloodied digits scramble across a surface I wasn't aware of until my fingers brushed against, landing on a quill, which I ink distractedly, undoubtedly spilling the black liquid every which way. It's bound to stain.

I slide into the chair at what I've now identified as my desk, and it's kind of trippy, because what seemed like just a moment ago, I was barely inside the door, and now I'm all the way to the back of the house, with no recollection of how I got here.

Weird.

Tearing through my drawers, I finally locate a semi-decent piece of parchment, perfect for my task. Smoothing it quickly, I lower the point of the quill and write, as neat as possible,

Dear Alexandra:

I am slow to anger, but I toe the line when I reckon with the effects of your life on mine. I look back on where I failed, and in every place I checked, the only common thread has been your disrespect.

Now, you call me "amoral," a "dangerous disgrace." If you've got something to say, name a time and place, face to face.

I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

A. Burr

I look over my work, then nod. Aside from the incredibly dark writing towards the end, as the quill nearly got embedded in the wood, it is a fabulous piece of artwork.

I can't wait to mail it.

--

Mr. Vice President:

Okay, first of all.... WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!??!?!?!?

I am not the reason no one trusts you. No one knows what you believe. I will not equivocate on my opinion, I have always worn it on my sleeve. Even if I said what you think I said, you would need to cite a more specific grievance. Here's an itemized list of thirty years of disagreements.

Well, that would explain all the crates sitting on my porch. Do I have to sort through all of them? Bitch! "Sweet Jesus," I sigh, creating a false atmosphere of calm. Inside of me there is a rage that in unfathomable. I will make her pay. She thinks she can push me around? She thinks this is a joke, that it's all going to blow over? HA! I was almost the President! I had everything I could ever want, right there in front of me. So yeah, this is personal. This is the very definition of personal!

But wait. There's more.

Hey, I am just one voice, trying to do what's best for our republic. I don't want to fight, but I won't apologize for doing what's right!

DOING WHAT'S RIGHT?!? DON'T WANT TO FIGHT?!?! EXCUSE ME?

Who even are you? What do you want from me, devil woman? You already took everything, how greedy can you be?

I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

A. Ham

Cute. Real cute. Well, two can play at that!

I assemble my writing supplies, ignoring the scrapes and scratches in my desk from the first letter, and compose my fiery response, feeling the heat from my anger fuel the words. Skipping the entire greeting portion, I jump right into the meat-and-potatoes.

Careful how you proceed, good ma'am. Intemperate indeed, good ma'am. Answer for the accusations I lay at your feet or prepare to bleed, good ma'am.

There. If that doesn't make myself clear, I don't know what will.

--

Burr, your grievance is legitimate.

Of course it is. THIS WAS NEVER A QUESTION.

I stand by what I said, every bit of it.

Again, no surprises. 

You stand only for yourself, it's what you do! 

There once was a time I might've stood for her, but no longer. She can fight her own battles, and if she loses, well, all the better for me. 

I can't apologize because it's true!

Why. Why are you like this? All I asked was for an apology for ruining my life, but nooooooo. She would rather die than abandon her goddamn pride for a single minute and admit she was out of line. 

Well, that can be arranged.

Then stand, Alexandra. Weehawken, dawn. Guns, drawn.

--

When I receive the response, a mere two words, I smile. Not out of joy, or humour, or pride. It's pure bloodlust.

You're on.

I spin in my chair, contemplating the events of the recent past and near future, remembering wise words from a wise man. The world will never be the same...

And how true is that. Soon a sun will rise, and one of us will not. 

Can you hear the rush of blood, the pounding of my heart, the song of my soul? 

I can't wait.

I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

A. Ham

A. Burr