#jefflaur

“Aaron Burr.”

There’s no malice in the being’s speech, just curiosity and a little bit of… nervousness?

Aaron turns, faces the being. “Who are you?” It’s strange, to hear his voice develop the same barely-there Southern lilt Thomas has, raising in pitch. More nasal. He never expected to turn into Thomas, besides maybe if he ever met Madison - and there’s someone he’s become many, many times before.

“John Laurens,” the being says. “Angel.” His face twists a bit, before he adds, “fallen.”

“Well,” Aaron says. “You were clearly looking for me. What can I do for you?” He tries for the shark-grin Thomas gives sometimes, when he knows he has a deal in the bag, but knows he fails by the smirk Laurens barely stifles.

“You spend a lot of time around Thomas,” Laurens notes. “I used to know him. We were -” he hesitates. “I was curious. Who do you become, around him?”

Aaron wants to snort. God. Who does he become around Thomas? It’s clear what answer Laurens wants, since Aaron turned into Thomas for him, and the way he paused - we were - what, lovers? Friends?

Unrequited love is always painful. It’s worse when Aaron has to be the one to tell them.

“James Madison,” he says quickly, ripping off a bandaid, and watches as Laurens’ hopeful expression crumples in what seems like slow motion. “I’m sorry,” he says, as if it can fix the hole he likely just punched in Laurens’ heart. It’s fascinating, then, to see the range of emotions that crosses Laurens’ face. Shock, anger, grief, acceptance - and then all of it is gone. Sealed behind the emotionless mask as locks slam closed and doors slam shut.

“James Madison,” Laurens repeats, blinks hard. “The human.”

“Yes.”

There’s silence, before Aaron ventures, “I have to go.”

“Of course.”

He almost makes it to the door.

“How often are you James Madison?”

Aaron pauses, hand on the knob. “Sorry?”

“How often?” Laurens repeats. “His magic. It’s - it’s all over you.”

Aaron glances down at himself. He doesn’t see any magic - though granted, Laurens’ magic-seeing sight is probably better than his own. “Too often,” he says, heavy, and leaves the car.

Laurens doesn’t stop him.

The next time they see each other Aaron’s still carrying vestiges of James Madison, and Laurens is carrying a bent and broken feather. A promise, Laurens tells him, frowning at it. Looks like he didn’t want it.

Aaron limps when he walks, and Laurens touches his shoulder. “Don’t heal me,” Aaron says. “He’ll only get angry.”

Laurens stops, conflicted. “Okay,” he says eventually, and backs down. There’s a look in his eyes. Knowing. Aaron wants to run from him, from Laurens and what Laurens knows about Thomas Jefferson. He doesn’t, though. Stays. He watches Laurens watch him longingly and wonders.

“I thought you banned non-human pets,” Laurens says casually to Thomas, later, brushes by Aaron - who had just come in and is just starting to look like a strange mixture of Thomas and Madison - on his way to the door.

“I did,” Thomas responds. “You know why.”

Laurens turns, locks eyes with Aaron. They stand there at an impasse, both feeling time flow around them as they both try to communicate something. “Yeah,” Laurens says. He still stares at Aaron, but his words are for Thomas. He echoes, “I know why.”

Laurens isn’t there when Thomas redacts the law outlawing non-human pets.