The Revolution had been over.

Over for nearly a decade now.

See, the early form of the American government was just arising, offices had just finished being elected, votes came into question … all that jazz.

Though the British were still a bit … salty.

Very. Salty.

And, because the greatest empire on Earth couldn’t learn to quit, some British higher ups decided to do something.

Or, more specifically, take something.

They had gone through their options of people to kidnap like a chestlist - carefully planning what to do.

George Washington? No. Too obvious. There were many eyes on him. (And also? Considering the fact he’d never been hurt once during the Revolution, half of them were convinced he had some sort of anti-British spell on him that made him invincible).

John Adams? No. Not popular enough. The vice President, sure, but he was controversial to the point that it may be a benefit for America than a loss.

But eventually, they found one good pick. Alexander Hamilton.

He had fought in combat. He had served at Britain’s greatest losses. He was close to high ranks. He was popular (albeit, disliked by many, but popular). And he was unprepared.

So, one night? Hamilton was there.

And then the next? Hamilton was gone.

Britain had made it clear they took him - they couldn’t let anybody else take the credit - but didn’t give a single idea on how to get him back, or on where he was.

It was chaos.

Eliza was terrified that her husband was dead. Burr was shocked his friend (friend? Enemy? It was weird) was gone. Washington would pace around endlessly without Hamilton’s annoyances. It was all wrong.

And even while he should be cheering …

… Thomas Jefferson himself was upset by Hamilton’s absence.

Very upset, really.

Now, Jefferson and Hamilton had never gotten along. The things they called each other in debates were terrifying.

And on the outside? Jefferson did act just as suspected; joking and cheering his opponent was, very likely, dead.

Secretly, though? A very different story.

He was upset. Furious. Because damn it all, nobody fucked over Hamilton like that except him.

So, because apparently he cared for Hamilton much more than he’d like to admit, he hired some mercenaries to try to get Hamilton back.

… as well as insisting on coming with them. Leading them, really.

Despite the fact he had no combat experience.

So, with what little clues and evidence they had, Jefferson found himself in a small British encampment just on the border between French and American territory. It was one of the few British anythings left in that area of North America.

It was also the place that Hamilton was being kept.

Using some tools and an absurd amount of luck, Jefferson found Hamilton’s cell and brought him out of the camp (don’t ask what happened to the mercenaries. They got paid, and that’s everything that’s important).

Yet when Jefferson brought Hamilton back to Monticello and got a proper look at him …

It was … bad.

Hamilton had been covered in scratches, welts, bruises - he couldn’t even walk without leaning on Jefferson … and that was just the physical part of it.

Jefferson was no idiot - he knew that the harm from whatever those redcoats had done to him went past physical. He’d tried to press Hamilton for details before, but the man would just get all … quiet.

God, it was terrible watching a man that was normally so loud, so brash, so bold - now flinch at the smallest movement.

After a few days, Jefferson alerted Eliza and all of Hamilton’s other relations that he was safe and receiving the best treatment money could buy at Monticello. He couldn’t risk sending Hamilton out now - not til he was better.

Now, though, he was just waiting til Hamilton was fine.

He pushed open the door to the room he’d been having Hamilton stay in - strictly no quills or paper allowed, just to keep Hamilton from working instead of healing.

“ I got water. “ Jefferson murmured, placing a cup on Hamilton’s bed. “ Drink. “