………………..do you know how this would go. I THINK YOU KNOW HOW THIS WOULD GO. Our boy gets twitter because no one takes to the modern world of EVERYONE HAS AN OPINION AT ALL TIMES ON EVERYTHING like Alexander Hamilton, gobshite without compare. His handle, for those who want to fight him, is adotham because AlexanderHamilton was taken and JeffersonIsACocklesswonder is both too long and inappropriate (another aspect of modern life Alexander loves: the insults. He swears in the baroque, joyful, incomprehensible fashion of Malcolm Tucker because he is Alexander Hamilton. Bitch.)
(Bitch is not punctuation, Nick Fury will say to him later. Alexander Hamilton begs to differ. Bitch.)
Anyway. Anyway. You know how it happens: some troll tweets him. @adotham come fight me you immigrant cunt and Hamilton tweets back: name a time and place and no one ever replies.
“They wish to duel me, do they not?” he says, Macbook on his knees, head on one side: quizzical, black-eyed, gorgeous. Captain America blinks.
“Not…precisely,” he says. How does one explain the etiquette of twitter trolling? Steve doesn’t understand it himself. Hamilton, tiny and quivering with pent up energy, ready to fight the world: be it with quill, blog or gun. He’s got the most magnificent eyes and the most aristocratic nose and –
– Steve has always been confident in his sexuality. He is bi as fuck and happily involved with Bucky, Winter Soldier, World’s Most Deadly Assassin and current ambassador to Wahanda.
But my God, my God, Hamilton makes people forget that they are committed –
– almost. Almost. Anyway: he says, “I don’t think they actually want to fight you,” he says.
“But they challenged my honour,” says Hamilton, hotly.
He responds to every threat of violence thus: a demand for a time and a place. He gets increasingly frustrated. Not once does a troll respond. Eventually, they stop entirely – mainly because Hamilton learns a little of Tony’s computer prowess, tracks one down, and shows up outside his house with a pair of pistols. “Guns drawn at dawn,” he pronounces, and the chubby forty year old blinks and stutters and stammers and Hamilton grins, sharp and feral, and says, “Stop writing cheques you can’t fucking cash.”