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R1-03365-013A by Nicole Glenn

Day 3 - Role Reversal

@jamiltonweek So, the Alex is a tall, sauve douche in a magenta suit and Jefferson is smol, angry and wet.

It began as a whispering of wind in the air. The day had been beautiful and the sky was like a dome of plasma-blue. The clouds had looked like airy anvils, drifting under the gleaming disc of sun. Hamilton had been sitting in his office, only occasionally bothered by Washington simply to consult with him on a joint-custody project. But then the clouds began to gather in the sky. Up to now, everything had been post-card perfect but the sky turned a tar-black and the tapping on the window started the pitter-patter of rain. Puddles began to gather on the ground, outside Hamilton’s window, floors below him. As the rainfall became heavier, the cars danced with spray as the song of engines mixed with the melody of the rain.

Then the serene picture came to an end when Thomas Jefferson stormed into the office. He passed by Maria Reynolds, the receptionist, ignoring her bid of a good day. He was soaked from head to toe, all five feet and three inches on him. The man’s curls were hanging low around his shoulders and in his face, rather than sticking up as if they were on alert, per usual. The little man, shrugged off the jacket that had accumulated so much water it might have been able to help a drought somewhere. Hamilton couldn’t pass up a chance to mess with his tiny enemy. He stood and walked into the hall just as Jefferson rounded the corner.


 

“Move Hamilton.” Jefferson said, grabbing a handful of Hamilton’s magenta suit and trying to shove him but there was no luck moving the six foot - three inch man out the way. Jefferson eventually gave up and huffed. He shivered,  his teeth chattering together. “Here, come to my office. I have a jacket you can wear, cupcake. We can’t have you catching your death because you’re freezing to death.” Hamilton smirked, leading Jefferson into his office. “I’m a strong man, I’ll be fine.” Jefferson, the pip-squeak responded. Hamilton chuckled huskily. “You’re funny.” He said, filing through his bag before pulling out a pink jacket that matched his suit. He handed it to Jefferson who looked horrified. “It’s a bit flashy, don’t you think?” He asked as he slid it on. The sleeves hung past his fingertips and it went far past his waist. Hamilton eyed the man with satisfaction. “If anyone told you pink wasn’t your color they lied…” he muttered as he moved into zip the hoodie for Jefferson. Bending over, he tugged the zipper up until he was face to face with Jefferson. Hamilton kissed the tip of Jefferson’s nose. “Well, there you go sweetheart.” Hamilton hummed. Jefferson stumbled back, hiding a smile behind his sleeve clad hand. “Don’t call me sweetheart, asshole.” He said and turned, marching out the room. Hamilton shook his head, grinning. He went and sat back at his desk when a head of dripping curls popped up in the doorway. “Um, thank you.” Jefferson said, before scrambling off. The only residual evidence that he had been there were the wet shoe-prints on Hamilton’s carpet and his bright, smug, smile.