Could this even happen?

It seemed impossible, really …

But it seemed they had to try.

See, Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton had always been a very … interesting duo.

More specifically, Hamilton was getting all the fame, the glory, and all the power - while Burr was just sort of … there? Not talking, not arguing, just smiling and going along with what everyone else said.

Hamilton had beliefs. Burr had none.

Eventually, this odd friendship quickly became a rivalry in the dreaded election of 1800.

When Burr ran against Thomas Jefferson for office - he thought Hamilton would support him. Surely so, yes? They had their issues, but nothing compared to Jefferson!

… so one can only imagine when Burr read about Hamilton advocating for Jefferson in the paper.

When he saw those words - those goddamn words - something in Burr just … snapped.

He was so tired. So fucking tired. Always being second place, forgotten, ignored, overlooked - because Hamilton was there casting his shadow upon him.

So, because it was the 18th century, Burr challenged Hamilton to a duel.

Weehawken, dawn.

Guns drawn.

And Hamilton, being the idiot he was, agreed.

Upon the day of the duel, Hamilton and Burr (as well as their plus ones and the doctor they bought, but that part was irrelevant) fought; just as the sun cracked over New York.

It would’ve been a beautiful moment, the sun rising high over the lands, had it not nearly become a crime scene.

Key word; nearly.

When Burr had spun around to shoot, he’d noticed Hamilton - pointing straight up at the sky.

He was too late not to shoot, but early enough he had time to move - enough time to move so his gun aimed at Hamilton’s arm rather than his chest.

The bullet went clean through.

While Hamilton was unable to even touch a goddamn quill, a weakness that affected a man who prided himself on his writing deeply - he still had his life.

And Burr was left with the oddest feeling; guilt.

Guilt for nearly killing Hamilton. For some goddamn reason.

For reasons he couldn’t quite name, Burr found himself reminiscing of days long gone by. Light nights on patrol during the Revolutionary days, small jokes and teases between friends … when they could still call themselves friends.

(But, maybe … what if they could try again?)

And before he knew it, only two weeks after the duel, Burr was standing at Hamilton’s door.

He brought a hand up - hesitantly, even now - before knocking.

An echoed ‘ moment! ‘ came through the house, the voice undoubtedly Hamilton’s.

Within the home, Hamilton stood up from the couch, setting down his book (not like he could wrote or anything) and walking over to the door.

He pulled it open, and -

…

Oh.

It was Burr.

Hamilton’s stare quickly went dark. hand tightened on the door knob, looking Burr up and down once. “ Tell me why I shouldn’t slam this door right on your fucking face right now. “