#then Hercules Mulligan is obviously foolish | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

swan-archive · 7 years

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you: so, swan, wanna explain to the class why you haven’t filled 90% of those prompts your kind and delightful followers sent you?

me: :)

you: oh no

me:

Trust Burr, Herc thinks sourly, nursing his beer, to ghost on you right when you thought he was about to commit to something for once in his life.

He’s not really sure what he expected, honestly; it’d taken weeks to get him to agree to a meeting, just to talk about the idea of having him try and make connections with some of the British higher-ups, not even to agree on a course of action. Herc would’ve liked to scrap the whole idea ages ago, but names have power and unfortunately, even the British have some folks on their side who know better than to run their mouths around the good-natured, unthreatening help. Would’ve been worth trying that reserve against Burr’s upper-class mannerisms and modish style, but—well, no point in fussing about that now. A more hopeful man might say to himself, give it another quarter of an hour, perhaps he’s been delayed, perhaps he’s just being cautious, perhaps he doesn’t know if he can trust you yet, you know how that is.

Herc is a pragmatist. It’s been two hours since they said they’d meet. Caution has a place in these dangerous times, but at a certain point it tips over into pure foolishness, and Herc’s already got his fair share of fools knocking around.

He knocks back the rest of his drink and pushes his chair back just as some sort of disturbance erupts at the corner of the bar. He winces. Yeah, he’s getting too old for this shit. He can remember a time when he’d’ve thrown in on one side or the other, completely at random, just for the hell of it, but he can leave those kinds of shenanigans to Laurens or one of his fellow hotheads now.

Beth would laugh at him for that. Would say you’re not even old, Hercules, quit being such a grouch, and boy, that’s how he really knows he’s a grown-up, because the thought of going home and crawling into bed with her sounds like the best thing in the world right now, fuck Burr, fuck the Sons of Liberty, fuck a bar fight. God, he loves his wife.

He’s fighting his way over to the door when he catches a flash of oxblood red in the thick of it, over by the bar. Familiar shade. Burr with a new coat, adjusting his cuffs and making polite non-statements as Herc had tried to pin down a time to meet with him privately. So he bothered to show up after all, then.

Herc groans a little bit internally. Really all he wants right now is to go home, but Burr’s right there and it’d be a waste of an evening and god only knows if the man would be coerced into another meeting if Herc failed to make this one. Damn it. Herc turns around and starts pushing his way toward the oxblood coat. If it turns out that Burr has been here the whole time, Herc is gonna pummel him, vital espionage or not. Best not to make that obvious, though, so he hitches up his ruffian’s grin as he draws closer.

“About time, Burr, thought you weaseled out on me!” he says loudly, throwing out a hand to catch him by the arm—

The young man he’s grabbed spins around, stares at Herc from behind an untidy fall of black hair. Very obviously not Burr. Oops. Herc drops him, and he jerks back against the bar, baring his teeth like an angry dog.

“What do you want?” he snaps, rather shrilly.

Herc’s about to tell him to step off, kid, I just thought you were someone else, no need to get all excited, but the bartender’s noticed them talking. “Friend of yours, Mulligan?” he says. “You wanna tell him not to waste my time if he can’t pay for his drinks?”

“I can pay, I have money, it’s just—it was just here,” the young man retorts, fumbling at his pockets like a man who knows his pocketbook is long gone and is hoping to be subject to an act of God in the immediate future. Ouch. Tough break. None of Herc's business, though, and his family’s waiting for him at home, so all he can do is mentally wish the young man good luck and that his money’s in his other pocket.

The young man locks eyes with Herc for just a moment in his flurry of motion. Desperation stamped all over his face. He’s very young, just a kid, really, for all the sharpness in his voice. The bartender is giving every sign of being ready to chase him out of the tavern. Herc feels a little pang.

He just yelled at you for no good reason, says the reasonable part of Herc, and that may be true, but—Herc’s not made of stone. He has a heart. He’s always quite liked doing folk a good turn. It feels nice. And you can always cash in on it, later, if you need to, with the right sort of person. It never hurts to have an extra favor in the bank.

Herc makes up his mind.

“Relax, Mo,” says Herc, “I’ve got his. And while you’re at it, another for me.” The bartender glares, but when Herc digs in his pockets and slaps the money on the counter he more or less obligingly draws two beers for them. Herc pushes one of them at the kid and steers him over to the first free table.

“You’ll have to excuse poor Moses,” Herc says, “he’s dealt with too many people trying to skip out on a tab in his day to remember what it’s like to have a little patience. Sorry about your wallet, pal. At least take a load off.” He pulls out a chair gallantly before settling back down himself.

The kid’s chin bobs in what might be a jerky nod and what might just be a twitch, and he crumples into the chair. Up close, he looks even younger, with big dark puppy eyes and an outsize nose and not even the slightest hint of peach fuzz on his chin. He clutches his beer and stares at Herc as though he suspects him of poisoning it. Doesn’t take a sip. Tense, Jesus. Herc takes a swig of his own drink and makes himself comfortable.

“Hercules Mulligan,” he says with a flourish, by way of introduction. Gives the kid a second to enjoy the name; he knows it’s an impressive one. “You got a name, friend?”

The kid looks, if possible, even more rattled. “Yes,” he says, his knuckles going white on the mug. There’s a long, awkward pause. Herc sits with it. Let him come to it in his own time. “Oh,” the kid says, finally, and then, “Alex. Alexander. Alexander Hamilton.” Can’t quite hide the pleased little smile that curls his lips as he says it. Pride. Which is funny, thinks Herc, given that he himself wouldn’t know a Hamilton from a hole in the ground.

No point in being antagonistic, though. “Well, Alex Alexander Alexander Hamilton, let me be the first to welcome you to our fair city. I am the first, right? Let me guess, you got off the boat, what, maybe four o’clock this afternoon?”

Hamilton scowls in a way that suggests Herc has hit pretty close to the mark. “How would you know that?”

“Call it intuition. I can tell a New Yorker when I see one, and you’re not quite there yet.” In truth, it’s that the tavern they’re in is close to the waterfront, a bit off the beaten trail, and someone wearing clothes as fine as Hamilton’s probably wouldn’t have bothered giving the place a second glance if he hadn’t just stumbled off a ship. Simple deduction.

Although he wouldn’t have blamed himself for guessing wrongly, given the kid's general state of dishevelment, the hair falling into his eyes, his half-buttoned waistcoat and sloppily tied cravat, like someone who’s been drinking for several hours already. But that’s impossible; no one could be that sloshed and still be as jittery as Hamilton is. So—newcomer.

“And what brings you to New York, Mr. Hamilton? You here for work, or pleasure, or—” he gestures grandly with his mug of beer, “—just to seek your fortune?”

To his great amusement, Hamilton perks up at that. “Last one. Definitely the last one,” he says. Herc can’t help but smile back.

“A romantic, huh? Cute. No, no, don’t be mad,” he says, when Hamilton bristles at his tone, “I think it’s nice. We could always use a few more dreamers in this world.” He waits for Hamilton to calm down again before continuing, “So you must have big plans for this city, huh? Gonna knock out a couple of life goals while you’re here?”

“I, um.” Hamilton stares down into his mug. “I sort of—I’m new here, like you said. I just wanna learn. Wanna see what there is for me to do.”

“You’re trying to do some learning, this isn’t a bad place for it. Not bad at all. Some great colleges around here. If you’re a scholarly sort, good with your words, you can get a solid start there.”

“College. Yeah.” Hamilton’s eyes brighten. “Yeah, I’m—I was—I’m pretty good with words. Numbers too. I used to think, maybe I could still—college. I like that. How do you do college?”

Herc snorts, but otherwise lets that slide. “Can’t just walk in off the street, for the first thing. You’d have to apply, there’s an exam to prepare for and everything. Might need to do some schooling before you apply, even, depending on how prepared you are. There’s places you can go for that nearby, though. It’ll be work, but if you buckle down—”

“I can figure it out.”

“What, just like that?”

“I’m smart. I remember a lot, I—” Hamilton frowns a bit, like he’s let too much slip, but goes on. “Anyway. I’m good at that kind of stuff. Reading. Studying. I’ll be able to do it.”

“You got your Greek, your Latin? Gonna need those if you’re interested in going down this path.”

“I’m sure I could pick ‘em up,” says Hamilton with absurd confidence, and Herc rolls his eyes. Yeah, okay. Just pick up some dead languages like it’s no big deal. Kid must already have some schooling under his belt, to be talking like that. Cheeky. But Herc kind of likes that swagger coming out.

“Well, once you do, give me a shout. I know a guy at Princeton, I could introduce you.”

“I, sure, yeah. Thank you. Princeton. That’s, is that in New York?”

“No…it’s in Princeton.”

“Right.” No comprehension on that face.

“Princeton, like, across the river and inland a ways. Jersey, you know. Or maybe you don’t, where are you here from…?”

“Oh. Inland. Okay.” Some of that nervousness filtering back in. “I was sort of trying to stay around these parts. If I could.”

“Yeah, well, slow down a little, you haven’t even applied yet, you don’t have to make any decisions right this minute. Although between you and me, might be safer for you to get out of the city, if you can. You’ve chosen a risky time to come here. We’ve got more than our fair share of unrest right now.”

“Do you?” Hamilton leans forward, raises his eyebrows with interest. “What is it, what’s going on?”

Herc sips his beer. Glances at Hamilton, without looking like he is. Could be a Redcoat, could be a spy, mutters a cautious voice in his head, you know they’ll use anyone. But Herc trusts his gut, and his gut is telling him that the Brits would be idiots to send a spy dumb enough to get in a noisy public argument, lose his wallet, and not know where Princeton is after him. Amateur hour. They’re better than that.

Hamilton is looking at him with what must be genuine curiosity, dark eyes like blank slates, and he had said he was a dreamer, hadn’t he? Give him some dreams to work on. No such thing as a bad time to recruit for the cause. Carefully, though, always carefully.

“Lotta stir, what with that rebel army up north,” Herc says in his most casual tones. “Gets people saying all sorts of things. Scandalous things. Downright seditious, even. They say folks are organizing, right here, in the city. Our King’s not too pleased with us right about now. Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about it,” Herc continues, lightly, “hardworking, law-abiding citizen like me. I just listen. Just hear things.”

Hamilton has caught on, though, and fixes Herc with a stare that puts Herc in mind of some hunting animal, cat, hawk. No, not a hawk, something colder, something sharper. Hamilton wets his lips, opens his mouth, and…

“What king?”

“…You serious? Where did you say you were from, again?”

“The—the Caribbean?” says Hamilton, sounding rather uncertain. He shakes his head and tries again. “The Caribbean. St. Croix. Nevis, and then St. Croix.”

“Right. You know you have the same king down there as we do, right?”

“Do we?” A little concerned line appears between Hamilton’s brows. “I mean, yes. We do. Obviously. Yeah, I know. The king, that king over in, in, uh…”

“England.”

“England,” Hamilton says, a little too hard on Herc’s heels.

“Really, though, how old are you, that you don’t know who the king is?”

“I’m nineteen! And I know, all right, I do, it’s just, I just…” He trails off, drops his eyes. “I’ve had. There’s been. Other stuff to think about. King didn’t really seem important.” He looks back up, beseeching. “Should he have been?”

Herc studies that expression for a moment. Shame mingled with desperation to be right, to understand. “Nah, you’re okay. We all miss things,” he replies, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

A few more pieces click together in Herc’s head. Came to New York to seek my fortune, right; translate that into came to New York for a fresh start, came to New York running from whatever—whoever—was dogging me so hard that I couldn’t even be bothered to look at whose face was on the money. Explains the jumpiness, and the badly-concealed lies—Herc’ll be damned if Hamilton is nineteen, not with that girlish complexion, and the way he stumbled over Nevis and St. Croix was more than a little suspect.

A runaway, then, huh. Poor kid. Which, Herc supposes, is all the more reason to give him a solid mooring, ideological if nothing else. And if people tend to stay loyal to their first benefactors, well, so much the better.

“Anyway, you wanna learn something about what’s really going on in this city, come to Fraunces Tavern two nights from now. Some friends of mine are having a meeting, we can show you the ropes. Where are you staying? I can tell you how to get there from your place.”

Hamilton smiles unconvincingly. “Oh, uh, I was just planning to, you know, find somewhere around…”

“Got it. You have nowhere to stay. ‘I was just planning to find somewhere.’ Jesus, you really are new to this city, aren’t you.” Herc pushes his hat back on his head, sighs, and then rises from the table. “Nothing for it, then. Finish your beer, and then you’re coming home with me.”

“What? No, it’s fine, I don’t need, you don’t have to do that!”

“I do, unless you like the idea of sleeping in the gutter. No arguments, my man, I’ve got a spare bed and you don’t wanna spend your first full day in New York in the lockup for vagrancy.”

Those huge eyes of Hamilton’s get even bigger, and he stammers out a few words of argument before falling quiet. Herc can almost see his brain working at this additional unexpected generosity, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

In the end, he just says, more quietly than he’s said anything all evening, “Thanks. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, you gonna finish your beer or what?”

Alex looks dubiously down at his full mug of beer. Lifts it to his mouth.

“Whoa, hey, I didn’t say inhale it—shit, Hamilton, are you crazy, cut that out!”

Hamilton makes a noise like huuurghlgh and spews half the contents of the mug across the table before doubling over, choking. He looks very green, and for a second Herc is afraid he’s going to vomit, but he recovers his color, sits up and paws at his mouth in abject disgust.

“Fucking—what the fuck—what is—vile fucking shit—”

“All right, all right, take it easy,” says Herc, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping at the beer splattered all over Hamilton’s coat. He’s contrived to spray it backwards, somehow, so it’s dribbled into his hair and down the sides of his collar. “Look, forget what I said, I’m cutting you off. You got your stuff?”

Hamilton coughs several times, makes a face at Herc. “My…my stuff?”

Herc rather belatedly realizes he hadn’t seen Hamilton carrying a bag at any point in the evening. Good God. Lost in New York without a wallet, without connections, without anything but the clothes on his back. He’s lucky Herc found him, or he would’ve ended up dead in a gutter before the end of the week.

“Never mind. C’mon, up. We’re going.”

With a last vicious glare at the mug of beer, Hamilton gets up and follows Herc to the door and out of the tavern, and they set off for the house. It’s slow going; Hamilton’s unsteady on his feet, and keeps stumbling until Herc throws a steadying arm around his narrow shoulders. And what’s that about? He can’t possibly be drunk, not on a mouthful of beer he didn’t even swallow. Herc leans over and sniffs discreetly, willing to walk back on his earlier judgment of this kid is not an uncontrollable lush, but can’t detect a whiff of anything harder under the smell of the beer.

“It’s not far, your place, is it?” Hamilton says with a bit of an edge to his voice. He glances back over his shoulder towards the waterfront.

“Like ten, fifteen minutes’ walk. Not bad at all. Hey, don’t worry,” he says, clapping Hamilton on the shoulder and almost causing his knees to give out, “you stick around until after my shift’s done tomorrow, I’ll show you around town a little, help you get your bearings. You’ll be a New Yorker before you know it.”

“Yeah,” says Hamilton. He shivers. Looks back at the harbor. Catches Herc noticing, and points his face back homeward. “It’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s the spirit. Watch the cobblestones there.”

Hamilton yelps and hits the ground. Herc hauls him back to his feet. It’s gonna be a long walk home.

(part the second)

#swan talks #hamilton for ts #murderfish au #will herc ever figure out what alex's fucking deal is? will alex ever learn how drinking works? how do you do college???#find out in the next thrilling installment coming to a dashboard near you whenever i can fUCKING FINISH IT #(spoilers: yes; not really; and do your homework learn to time your crying jags so they happen in front of sympathetic teachers #and hope for the best)#(that last one isn't REALLY relevant to murderfish au but it worked for me so maybe it would work for others)

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