Chapter 8

"The doctor said you shouldn't walk for a week or two, remember?" James sighed from the couch, looking at Thomas, who was dragging himself around the house, leaning heavily on his walking stick at every step.

"Yeah, I don't actually care," Thomas panted lightly while walking towards the kitchen stove, adding a couple of logs to stoke the fire. "I don't have the slightest intention of being bed ridden for the next two weeks. I'm simply going to ignore the pain in my leg as well as I can."

James shook his head lightly, following Thomas in the kitchen, and sat at the dining table, waiting for his friend to cook some of the bizarre dishes he discovered in France or Italy.

"What's on the menu today?" he teased.

"Macaroni and cheese, do you want to join me for lunch?" Thomas asked while searching for his precious reserve of olive oil.

"Err, no, thank you," James said quickly, already heading to the exit. "I think I have a visit just after lunch anyway –

Thomas nodded, too focused on his task to notice James's evasiveness. He tended to ignore – partly for his own choice, partly because people didn't want to tell him – that he was probably the only person in NYC who liked macaroni and cheese. He didn't just like it, he was sort of obsessed, and refused to believe that others may not have the same enthusiasm. His cookbook was full of foreign recipes, which he loved to cook by himself and taste together with his best wines.

He was about to enjoy one of this perfect moments of culinary bliss, when he heard a lot of noise coming from the entrance. He immediately tried to stand up on his good leg, and then –

"JEFFERSON!" Hamilton voice preceded him in the kitchen. The little man marched inside the room with a straight face, the maid panting her apologies right after him – apparently he hadn't given her the time to introduce him, and had quickly slipped into the house when she had opened the door.

"Mr Hamilton," Thomas greeted him, falling down on his chair again.

"How's – how's your leg?" Hamilton hesitated before letting Thomas notice his worried look, that instantly scanned the bandages wrapped around his thigh, as if to evaluate the seriousness of the wound through the gauze.

"Oh." Thomas was genuinely surprised by Hamilton's manners – yeah, he had irrupted into his house without being invited, but was preoccupied with his health. "Well, the doctor says it's nothing too serious, it's a clean wound and it won't get infected."

"Oh, good," he said happily, sitting at the kitchen table without waiting for any invitation.

Thomas rolled his eyes and waved the maid to leave them alone. Just some days before, Hamilton had entered his library with his worst attitude, while now he seemed friendly – almost...nice. Was it a trick?

"Do you want to join me?" he pointed at his lunch. "There's more in the pot on the stove, the one over there –

Hamilton was already by the stove, serving himself with macaroni and cheese. He looked suspiciously at the food, then at Thomas, then at the food again.

"Did you cook it?" he asked.

"Indeed. It's an Italian dish, una prelibatezza! Une gourmandise!" Thomas bragged.

Eventually, Hamilton sat again, much slower than before, and ate a forkful of them. He chewed cautiously and then looked at Thomas with a funny face.

"Well, this sucks!" He declared, smiling widely at Thomas's offended countenance.

"I should have expected such lack of taste from you"

"What are you insinuating? I've excellent tastes and they are clearly better than yours, especially in politics!"

"Whaaat?!" Thomas looked astounded at the man, who was now eating voraciously, despite his comment.

Once more, he'd come into his house just to drive him mad – dear god, will he ever learn? – Thomas chuckled. Next time, he would offer him dog food or something like that... supposing that there would be a next time. When had he started to like the presence of Hamilton in his house?

"Hamilton," he called again, while Alex was helping himself to a second bowl of mac and cheese, "were you spying on me last night?"

Alexander chocked on his food and needed a couple of minutes to be able to speak again without coughing. He hadn't expected Thomas to be so straightforward about last night. He had actually tried to stop himself from coming there, but he needed to make sure that Thomas was OK – and to investigate a bit about what he'd actually seen in the dark alley.

For a moment Alex considered lying to him, but it would only confirm Thomas's suspicions... right?

"My coat had just got caught on a spike, I was literally stuck there!"

"Really? Do you really expect me to believe this shit?"

"OK, no need to get angry, jeez!" – well, at least he'd tried – "I was going to the pub when I heard Burr's voice, and then yours... and I got sort of paranoid, you know, I thought you two were meeting or something, and so I tried to hear the conversation."

Thomas raised his eyebrows so high they almost disappeared under his fluffy hair. Then he suddenly burst into laughs – Hamilton's confused look only succeeded in amusing him more.

"Well, thank you for your honesty," he finally managed to say, sweeping away a tear, "but I can guarantee you that it was absolutely no such thing! And you Federalists can keep Burr," he giggled again, "please".

Hamilton growled – good, now even the Democratic-Republicans knew that Burr was a double-faced leech. He stood up abruptly and squinted at Thomas, who was absolutely fascinated by Alexander's continuous mood swings.

"Fine, since we've cleared up the matter, I'd better head home," Alex announced stiffly.

He was utterly relieved that Jefferson hadn't accused him of spying, but he didn't want Thomas to know it – all things considered, Alex still didn't know what to think about that meaningful, heart-shaking gaze that Thomas had given him that night.

"Feel free to scare my maid to death anytime you feel like it," Thomas's irony followed Alex on the main hall.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow at dinner," Alex yelled. "I beg you not to serve us that revolting stuff again or I'll bring a sandwich," he added, before slamming the door.

***

The following night Alexander explored another room of Jefferson's mansion. The dining room, where he and Madison were escorted, was a long room whose walls were decorated with expensive pictures and portraits. In the middle of the longer side, on the left, there was a big fireplace that hosted a crackling fire; around the room there were different oil-lamps, and a magnificent chandelier hung from the ceiling. A very long table and several solid chairs, all made of dark wood, occupied most of the space in the room – it could have hosted more than twenty people, but tonight it was only Jefferson, Madison and him. The room was well-lit and cosy, but in that very moment Hamilton felt as if the space itself held a great deal of solemnity – it was the room where, only for that night, everything could happen.

They ate – fortunately for Alex and Madison, this time the food was ordinarily delicious – and then started discussing their proposals. Thomas noticed that Alexander wasn't surprised by their first request, he was probably expecting them to ask for less tax obligations for Virginia; however, he wasn't happy about the capital. He knew that theirs was not only a political move in order to gain more power for the South, but also a strategy against him – if he surrendered the capital, he would be strongly criticized by part of the same population that he was trying to help.

Nevertheless, after four hours and several glasses of wine, they all agreed on it and eventually raised a glass to their bargain. Alexander was fully aware of the minor pieces he had sacrificed in their game of chess, but he had reached what he wanted – checkmate, Jefferson!

"Gentlemen, as I think I've already made clear, it's never nice to see you, but this one time it has been a pleasure talking with you –

"You mean, yelling at us," Jefferson scoffed at him, pouring an old-looking whiskey into three elegant glasses for another toast.

"Yeah, right – however, that was nice," Alexander snickered, raising his glass and gracelessly drinking all the liquor in one shot. Jefferson looked at him with a disbelieving glance – god, this guy was unbelievable in his lack of good manners!

"You, brute." He commented, and then elegantly sipped from his own glass.

"What? What did I do?" Alexander was starting to feel dizzy from all the alcohol and the tiredness of the last weeks – he had finally succeeded and now he was relaxing a bit too much.

"You can't just go and waste an excellent glass of whiskey like that, you have to taste it sip by sip!"

"No problem, I was already planning to steal Madison's, he's not gonna drink it anyway," Alexander sneered, pointing at Madison, who was fast asleep in his armchair.

"No way!" Jefferson unsuccessfully tried not to laugh at the image before his eyes. He'd been scolding Hamilton for his lack of manners and now he needed to have a guest room prepared for Madison, who was already snoring. When had he transformed from a successful political figure into a mum?

Half an hour later, Madison was comfortably sleeping in his usual guestroom – his health had never been that good and since he and Thomas frequently worked together till night, it wasn't rare for him to spend the night in there; moreover, the house had five guest rooms, it would have been a shame not to use them from time to time. When Thomas returned to the dining room, Alexander was admiring the paintings, his second glass of whiskey already empty. He was right in front of Thomas's portrait, examining it closely, as if to memorize every tiny detail.

"Are you enjoying the view?" Jefferson asked, "I definitely am."

Alexander turned briskly, grabbing the back of a chair not to fall – damn, he was feeling a bit unstable. "Thomas!" He wasn't expecting to be caught and – wait, what had Jefferson just said?

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Alexander felt his face burning – was he blushing? – and suddenly hoped for a natural disaster to take him away in that very moment.

"I, er – I have to go, it's past midnight," he decided at last, slurring his words in a very inelegant fashion.

"Of course," Thomas said slowly, already regretting his rushed words and hoping that Alexander was too drunk to remember them. He then turned and started to walk to the hallway, gripping his walking stick so tight that his knuckles got white.

Alexander followed him to the main door, trying not to wobble too much, and gladly let Thomas help him put his coat on ("Jeez, Jefferson, I'm a grown up man"). In that very moment, Alex turned towards Jefferson to bid him goodnight, just in time to see the man's face stiffening. A flash of understanding passed through Thomas eyes, and he quickly distanced himself from Hamilton.

"Mr Secretary," he uttered – in less than a second, the arrogant, stone-cold mask that Jefferson always wore in public was put on again, "have a good night," and he left him alone.

Alexander was shocked. What the hell had happened to Jefferson to change his attitude so abruptly? He grumbled to himself while walking homeward, filling up his lungs with the cool air of the night – and then they say that he is the one whose mood changes fast!