viperofsand asked: BUT HOW DOES HAMILTON REACT AT THE 'I AM YOUR FATHER' REVEAL? (Because I am sure he got into Star Wars knowing nothing like Jon Snow)
I’m going to combine this with @calltomuster‘s request for hamifeels
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The first time he watches television they stare at him, rapt, as though the expect him to reel back and cry witchcraft! or else swoon like a maiden in the high heat of June. He is astonished, yes, but he does not permit himself to gawp like a savage; he says, instead, “How does it work?” It is something to do with tubes and light and satellites, apparently. Quite, quite remarkable.
The films come next. Popular culture, they call it, and once again Hamilton is struck that although man has progressed in technology the stories he tells are always the same: of love and women and blood and glory. Of course, there are some small alterations: he is first scandalised, then gratified, at the quantity of nudity onscreen – likewise with the depiction of same-sex intercourse. Tony Stark seems shocked when he watches Queer as Folk and does not immediately go to the confessional. Didn’t you study history at all, he hears Sam gloat, didn’t you read his letters.
“My children burned the good ones,” says Hamilton, smirking (and saddened, of course he is saddened; Laurens is long-gone; how he wishes he could read his sweet words again –)
Anyway. The films. “This is a classic,” says Steve Rogers. Hamilton was offered a floor in Stark Tower; he refused for several reasons, most prominent among them the fact that he despises Tony Stark and cannot bear to be anywhere near the yammering arrogant man who believes that his way is the only correct way of conducting business (what do you mean? This is not ironic, not in the slightest. Hamilton is nothing like Stark: he is certain of his own rightness, perhaps, but that is because he actually is right.)
Instead, he has rented a room in Brooklyn, sharing an apartment with Steve Rogers and his paramour Bucky Barnes. Not that they use the word paramour. Not that they even acknowledge that they live together. A strange pair, so devoted to each other that they never need speak devotion aloud: it is communicated entirely in their longing glances and lingering touches. That, and the obnoxiously loud coupling every night. On the third night of interrupted work, Hamilton recorded the racket and threatened to release it to the press if they did not keep it down.
They obliged, though Steve had the temerity to say, “Shouldn’t you be asleep at three am?” and Hamilton said nothing, only fixed him with the shadowed angry glower of a man who has just discovered the wonders of modern-day coffee.
“What is it?”
“Star Wars,” says Bucky, grinning. He smiles a lot now – and every time Steve looks at him like the expression is a rare and treasured thing. Perhaps it is. Hamilton thinks of Eliza, Laurens, Philip and aches. All he loves is dead and gone – but he has his work, his legacy, time. He can endures. If there’s a reason I’m still alive, when all who love me have died – then I’ll get the job done. Something like that. He struggles to remember the lyrics.
(This is a lie. He’s seen it eleven times. He knows every word off by heart. He has written Miranda lengthy essays on the points he got wrong.)
‘Star Wars’ may be set in the far reaches of space but it is, at its heart, a fairy story. Lost princes and princesses, tales of liberty and tyranny. Hamilton loves it.
“I am your father,” says the mechanised Vader to young Luke Skywalker (nineteen and dreaming of glory) and Hamilton’s eyes grow wide. Afterwards, he says:
“He didn’t deserve redemption.”
“What – Vader? Well –” and Steve looks like he’s about to launch into a spiel about love and doing terrible things for it, but Bucky taps his elbow. By an unspoken accord, he lapses into silence.
“He failed his son – he let him make the same mistakes he did, fall into a life of violence and blood and war. He abandoned him,” and Steve thinks how Hamilton’s father left him and his mother on some scrap of land in the Caribbean and maybe it is that –
– but then he thinks: there was once a boy who died in a duel to defend his father’s honour. And there was once a father who outlived all his children. A man who died, leaving a widow to raise eight babes alone. A man who returned when the battles had been fought and won.
He places a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. He does not speak. What could he possibly say?
why would you do that to my heart it did NOTHING to you
cthulhu-with-a-fez asked: like at least when people in the 1800s went to settle things with firearms it was a mutually agreed-upon challenge with actual rules and a doctor on site to handle injuries.
………………..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.”
Anonymous asked: hi, i love your hamdevil au series! no pressure or obligation, but if you want to take this prompt and run with it that'd be cool: alex is a literal genius and sometimes people forget that. matt and foggy pay the price.
takes place in between the first story and s2! this got away from me a bit.
title: i wrote my own deliverance
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The thing about Alexander Hamilton, Karen finds out, is that he’s like a goddamn sponge–ask him about a topic he doesn’t know about, and the next day not only does he know it inside out, he has Opinions about it that he’s absolutely willing to defend with both words and fists.
More the former than the latter, these days, but sometimes–well, Karen really wishes she wasn’t the only member of the Nelson & Murdock PR department.
Anyway.
“What the fuck is this?” she asks him one day, very carefully putting her phone down on her table. It’s displaying the latest viral video featuring Alexander Hamilton, and he’s standing on a table talking right over someone from Fox News about the Constitution and freedom of speech and getting in personal digs at the man, finishing off with a solid right hook when the guy says something about Alexander’s mother.
Dear Lord, please listen to this. This is clearly during the Tonys rehearsal. Even just sitting in the theatre’s seats, not on stage, no acting… Just the HARMONIES…. It’s SO gorgeous.
Anonymous asked: Raaaadiiiii, your MCU/Hamilton thing is killing me with how awesome it is, I am so sold on everything about this, my life is so much better with this in it. Do you have any more to say on the matter?
OF COURSE I DO. btw i am taking tremendous liberties with mcu canon because i don’t read the comics. i don’t know how infinity stones work.
Alright, alright: not the last ever showing of Hamilton but the actors are going their separate ways and it won’t be the same after this night, and oh how bright the lights are and Lin Manuel Miranda’s eyes wet with tears and history has its eyes on you and eleven Tony awards and history made, history in the making, an audience singing along in their hearts and minds, hands tight in laps as if in prayer, thoughts tangled along the same lines: if only there was time –
Here’s the thing: there is an infinity stone in New York. Left behind by the Chitauri invasion: waiting, waiting, waiting. It pulses red and violet and gold, all the colours from the heart of the universe, shaped from the very stuff of creation, carried in the claws of one of Thanos’s finest warriors, cast aside in panic as the Hulk attacked. And there it has waited – I am not biding my time; I am lying in wait – for something, for an awakening, for the sort of mad passion and love and song that created it in the first place –
have I done enough? have I told your story?
Infinity stones are alive – for a given definition of alive. Think insectoid levels of sentience. They don’t understand morality but they understand this: what they need to survive. And beneath New York, buried first under rubble and then under construction, the stone senses the hungry pulse of humanity. It stirs. It vanishes, leaving a nebula of colours that defy human description. And it reappears beneath a Broadway stage. And as the music fades away and the emotion infuses it with heat and life it dissolves into a reaching, grasping thing and – if you only had time –
Alexander Hamilton dies. This is written; it cannot be unwritten. But the belief, the tremendous desperate cry from an audience in 2016, coupled with the energy of a dying infinity stone, coupled with a patch of reality thinned by invasion from an other world –
He wakes up in a dumpster, somehow twenty again. If I only had time –
Are you telling me, says Lin Manuel Miranda, wet-eyed and disbelieving, that I resurrected Hamilton through the power of song – and Stark starts saying something about transdimensional reach and wormholes and Thor laughs mightily, claps a hard hand on his shoulder and says yes great one, that is what you have done.
