One Shots-Hamilton-Mixed Ships

Closed Doors: Part Two: Hamburr

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As per request

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Warnings: Suggestive content and swearing

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Hamilton's key wasn't fucking opening the goddamn fucking door. Had to be today, didn't it? The day Hamilton finally got Burr off his phone and back to his place. The man was standing there, hands folded behind his back and patiently waiting for Hamilton to open his door. Hamilton was about ready to take a step back and kick it in but that was only evident by he angrily jiggled his key in the lock, internally swearing.

Keep calm. Don't want him to think you're insane.

A quiet cough and Burr reached around Hamilton, an arm grazing his side as Burr turned the handle and gently pushed the door open. It was already unlocked. Hamilton stared at it dumbly for a full ten seconds. "Son of a bitch!"

Burr laughed softly, smiling. Hamilton cleared his throat nervously, "Right. Um, come in," he said, leading Burr inside and flipping on the lights. The only thing that told him that Burr followed was the quiet click of the door. Unless the guy just ditched. Hamilton wasn't entirely sure he wanted to check. "Make yourself at home," he said, gesturing to the nearby couch as he headed for the kitchen. "I'll put the hamburgers on to cook."

Burr settled onto the couch. Feeling awkward and with nothing else to do, his phone made a reappearance. Fingers flew across the screen, tapping diligently. Hamilton glanced over spatula in hand. He'd been hoping some form of conversation. Socialization. Something. Not more of this nonsense.

Burr looked up and met Hamilton's gaze when his phone disappeared suddenly from his hands. "I've been trying to have a conversation with you for the last ten minutes," Hamilton scowled.

Burr looked him over and Hamilton flushed. His hair was loose and probably a bit of a mess. He'd undone a few of his buttons of his work shirt for comfort which went beautifully with his loosened tie. Not to mention he was wielding a spatula like a weapon. "I apologize," Burr said. "I had not realized."

"Because you always have your nose stuck in your phone." Hamilton handed it back. "Put it away." Burr dutifully slid the phone back into his pocket. Unlike himself, Burr looked pristine. Every bit about himself in its proper place, just screamed importance, confidence, and a sense of importance. This time, the man followed Hamilton to the kitchen and leaned against the counter as meat cooked. Silence fell. Burr wasn't much of a conversationalist, was he?

"So tell me then, Mr. Burr, where are you from?"

"It's Aaron, please," he smiled. "I'm from New Jersey."

"What brought you to New York?"

"Law," he answered. "Seemed like a good idea."

"Can't say I disagree," Hamilton hummed, flipping patties.

"What about you?" Burr inquired.

It was in that moment Hamilton realized he really didn't want any part of his life known by this man. He'd probably run. "Not important."

The lack of an answer failed to move conversation forward and silence fell over the kitchen once again. It didn't take long before finger tapping the keyboard of a phone returned. Hamilton swiveled around and plucked the phone Burr's grasp and shoved it into his own back pocket.

Burr's gaze followed it and then traveled back up to Hamilton's face. "I said no phone," he reminded. "This is called human interaction. It requires both parties to reciprocate."