Archive of Our Own

“....So do we clock out or…?” Alexander mutters to himself, standing a fair distance away from the automatic sliding doors. If he gets too close, they’ll open and the swirling sky of snow will flood inside, adding one more problem to Alexander’s growing list of current problems.

“Hm?” Hums Problem Number One from behind the counter. Alexander winces, glancing over his shoulder to the figure lounging against the checkout counter. Thomas Jefferson, a cigarette already in his mouth, meets Alexander’s look with wide, curious eyes.

“Should we clock out?” Alexander repeats. Jefferson rolls the unlit cigarette between his lips.

“If we’re going to be stuck here because they refused to let us go home when it started getting bad, they should pay us for it. Hell…” Jefferson grabs the manager key-card from the counter and slides it in the register. He presses a few buttons, slides his own mag-card and a smirk breaks out across his face.

“What did you do?” Alexander asks, warily. Jefferson glances up, then motions for Alexander to join him. Alexander leans over the counter and peers at the register screen.

“Overtime,” Jefferson sings, pointing to the little red text now by his name. “Give me your card.” Jefferson sticks his hand out. Alexander hesitates, and Jefferson rolls his eyes.

“Dontcha wanna make time and a half?” The taller man asks.

“They could fire us for this,” Alexander points out. Jefferson shrugs.

“And? They have endangered our lives Hamilton!” Jefferson waggles his head, his voice rising dramatically. “This place doesn’t have heat, what if we get hypothermia and die?!”

“If we’re dead, it doesn’t matter if you gave us overtime or not,” Alexander points out. Jefferson sighs, lips buzzing.

“I think ‘risk of death’ is enough to get them to shut up over a few extra dollars. Come on.” Jefferson wiggles his fingers. Alexander frowns.

“I’d rather not lose my job, thanks.” Alexander pulls his card from his back pocket. “Just clock me out.”

Jefferson’s eyes bug out. “You’re telling me,” he says, “not only would you rather not make extra money, but you don’t want any money at all?”

“I would rather not lose my job, thank you.” Alexander drops his card into Jefferson’s outstretched hand. Jefferson looks at Alexander like he’s grown a third head, shakes his head and slides Alexander’s card. He mutters something under his breath as he hits a few buttons on the screen. Alexander glances out the shop windows. The sky is almost completely white from swirling snow, and Alexander can feel the creeping chill from the glass.

“Who even cares this much about a job at 7-Eleven?” Jefferson grumbles, dropping Alexander’s card on the counter with a clatter. Alexander just rolls his eyes. Why do you even work here, Mr. Fancy-pants rich kid? Alexander wonders bitterly, and not for the first time either.

Alexander eyes the sliding doors, thinking. He can hear Jefferson shuffling around behind him, but Alexander pays him no mind. “...Maybe if I come at it from the side…” he mutters, thinking aloud. He scans the stacks of two liter sodas. They were probably tall enough, and they could hold his weight.

“Alright,” Jefferson sighs, breaking Alexander’s train of thought. “What stupid thing are you thinking up now?”

“You assume it’s stupid?” Alexander asks. Jefferson scoffs.

“Every idea you have is stupid Hamilton, but you’ve got that look on your face that says what you’re thinking is particularly stupid.”

Alexander crosses his arms in a huff. “I’m trying to figure out how to lock the doors, thank you very much-” He glances over his shoulder and stops in his tracks. Jefferson has a Zippo lighter held to the end of his cigarette, waiting for the end to catch. “Are you seriously smoking right now?”

Jefferson cocks an eyebrow. “That’s what cigarettes are for, yes,” he says just as he manages to light the damn thing.

“Could you maybe not?” Alexander snaps. Jefferson takes a deep drag.

“Not what?” Grey smoke rises from Jefferson’s lips as he speaks. Alexander watches it disperse into the air.

“Smoke.” Alexander reaches up to grab the cigarette from Jefferson’s hand, but Jefferson just pulls his hand up too high for Alexander to reach.

“Do you have a problem with it?” Jefferson asks.

“Yes,” Alexander hisses. “If I’m going to be stuck here with you for the night, I’d rather not spend the time breathing in your damn cancer smog.”

“You won’t get cancer from one night,” Jefferson counters.

“There’s nowhere for it all to go, you’ll turn this place into a grey haze.” Alexander watches with mounting annoyance as Jefferson takes another puff. “And it smells godawful.” Jefferson just shrugs, blowing out a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Would you stop that?!”

“What’s the magic word?” Jefferson teases, waving the cigarette in the air. Alexander scowls.

“Now, motherfucker,” he growls. Jefferson purses his lips.

“No, not quite…” he takes another drag, holding his breath this time. He waits, looking expectantly at Alexander.

“Fuck off” Alexander mutters. Jefferson smiles, smoke leaking out of the gaps between his teeth.

“Still not right,” he says, before taking yet another pull of his cigarette.

“I asked you to stop,” Alexander says, turning back to the sliding doors. Jefferson hops over the counter to stand beside him.

“And I asked you for the magic word,” Jefferson replies, blowing his mouthful of smoke in Alexander’s face. Alexander coughs, face screwing up in disgust. He waves his hand in the air, trying to disperse the nicotine cloud a bit faster. “So what’s your dumb plan for these doors?”

“Well, I was thinking I could approach from the side, climb up a stack of the soda cases and hit the button before they open.”

Jefferson hums. “So I was right. You did come up with a stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid!” Alexander protests. “It would work!”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “The soda’s too far away, you’d have to jump for it.”

“I’d scoot the stack closer, obviously.”

“You’d trigger the sensor.”

“Not if I’m pressed up against the window.”

Jefferson looks down at Alexander, disbelief in plastered across his face, then back at the doors. “You’re cleaning up the snow when it doesn’t work,” he says, leaning against the counter top. He sticks his cigarette between his lips and puffs a little smoke cloud.

“And when it does, you’re going to put that damn thing out and stop smoking for the night,” Alexander counters. Jefferson holds his cigarette between two fingers, considering the small, white stick.

“Alright, bet.” Jefferson sticks his free hand out, and Alexander shakes on it. With newfound determination, Alexander turns back to the sliding doors. He formulates his plan, counting how many cases of soda he needs to reach the proper height.

The number in mind, Alexander makes his way past the shelves of junk food to press himself as close to the outer wall as possible. He creeps closer to the door, one eye on the sensor. Crouching, he slowly pushes the two liter crates as close to the door as possible. He hears Jefferson chuckle at him, but the sound just makes him more determined.

When he thinks he’s as close to the door as he can be, Alexander stacks the crates and scrambles up the side. He hears the liquid inside slosh, but it all stays upright. Alexander perches himself on the top like a bird of prey, now eye-height with the automatic lock button on top of the door.

Alexander finds Jefferson was at least slightly right, as his arms aren’t quite long enough to reach the button on their own. He gathers himself, aims, and leaps from the stack, hands outstretched. His fingers scrabble along the edge of the door as he falls, and for a second Alexander thinks he’s missed it. But then the side of his left hand catches on the button and he feels it depress.

His sense of victory follows Alexander all the way down to the floor that he hits sideways and rolls onto his back. He quickly checks to see if any snow has managed to find it’s way in, and when he sees the doormat clear, he throws his fists up in victory.

“Suck on that!” Alexander cheers, grinning at the ceiling.

“Color me impressed Hamilton,” Jefferson drawls. Alexander turns his head to smirk, and watches Jefferson take one last drag before snuffing the cigarette out in the ashtray. He holds his last mouthful of smoke in for a second, then lets it go. Then he leans backwards, head falling towards the counter

“Now what?” Jefferson wonders. Alexander freezes in his celebration, letting his hands come down to rest on the floor beside him.

“Homework?” Alexander offers. Jefferson scoffs.

“Do you really think I drag my books and laptop to a seedy convenience store for work?”

Alexander has to bite down on a sharp retort. It’s a fair point, Alexander doesn’t like bringing his valuables into this side of town himself. Which means he’s out of luck on the ‘homework’ front as well. The entire store is clean too, the two employees having gone through the closing routine before resigning themselves to being snowed in. Shelves are stocked, drawers counted down. There’s nothing to do.

He looks over at Jefferson, who’s pulled out his phone and is thumbing through something. Alex goes to follow suit, only to realize that he’s on two percent. Shit. He looks back up at Jefferson. The other man is completely engrossed in whatever he’s doing, his thumbs flying as he types.

“Yo,” Alexander starts, swallowing his pride. “You got a charger?” One of Jefferson’s eyebrows crawls up his face.

“If I did, I wouldn’t let you borrow it.”

Alexander sits up. “So you don’t have one.”

“Nope.” Jefferson pops the ‘p’, looking back down at the screen in his hands. Alexander groans, looking down just in time to watch his phone drop to one percent. He lets out a heavy sigh, throwing his phone across the floor in exasperation. Instantly, Alexander shoots after it, sighing in relief when he sees it’s miraculously uncracked.

It does die on him, however.

Alexander shoves his phone back into his pocket with a groan, looking around the empty store. What the hell am I supposed to do until it’s safe to leave? The cold tile seeps through his jeans, and he scans the aisles, hoping something will jump out at him.

“You should probably get off the floor and away from the walls,” Jefferson comments, putting his own phone away.

“Oh, not going to ignore me are you?” Alexander mocks. Jefferson rolls his eyes.

“Eighty-three percent might be a lot, but it won’t last until morning.”

“Until morning?!” Alexander exclaims, eyes widening. Jefferson nods.

“Weather forecast says it’s going to snow on and off all night,” he explains. “And, if your phone’s dead, I want to have one working in case of emergency. But seriously, get off the tile.”

“I can be on the floor if I want,” Alexander pouts, thinking about a whole night trapped with Thomas motherfucking Jefferson.

“Sure, but it’ll make you colder.” Jefferson looks down at him. “The tile will sap your body heat.”

“So?”

“So,” Jefferson stresses. “I don’t want you dying on me. I might have been joking about hypothermia earlier, but the heat’s broken in this damn place. We’re going to freeze if we’re not careful.”

Alexander blinks, realizing for the first time just how frigid the air really is. “Shit,” he mutters, rising from the floor. “What do we do?” He asks. Jefferson frowns, thinking.

“There might be blankets in the office?” Jefferson glances at the office door. Alexander nods.

“I’ll check,” he says, striding behind the counter and throwing open the office door. He lets it shut behind him as he starts to search the lockers and cabinets. It’s even colder in here, the mini fridge in the corner doing the room no favors. Alexander swears he can see his breath in this little icebox of an office, and he tries to speed up the search.

He does manage to find a single, ratty, torn, knitted blanket stuffed under the manager’s desk, and he pulls it out gingerly. The computer almost falls when the corner of it catches on a few of the wires, but Alexander manages to steady it without damage being done. He tears through the other drawers quickly, but there’s nothing else. Alexander grabs his and Thomas’ coats from the hanger on the wall, and walks back out into the store proper.

“This is all we got,” he says, tossing Jefferson his coat over the counter. Jefferson catches it, goes to slide one arm through and then stops, looking at Alexander curiously.

“You do know that’s the jerk off blanket right?”

Alexander blinks, looking down at the dingy blue fabric in his hands. “The… what?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never walked in on Lee doing… things.” Jefferson’s lip curls in disgust. Alexander’s eyes widen and he instantly drops the blanket on the floor.

“Oh god,” Alexander mutters, holding out his hand as far away from his body as he can. Jefferson snickers, pulling on his jacket the rest of the way. “I’m going to wash my hands now,” Alexander announces, throwing his coat on the countertop. He carefully picks his way around the mound of fabric so as to not step on it, and heads for the bathroom.

“You want hot chocolate?” Jefferson asks. Alexander- trying desperately to not think about the things Lee does with that blanket- looks over his shoulder at the other man. “The machine’s still up,” Jefferson explains, motioning to the hot drink machine in the corner.

“Sure, I guess.” Alexander pushes open the bathroom door with his clean hand. “I know how much rat poison we have, don’t try anything!” He warns. Jefferson barks a laugh, but any retort is lost when the bathroom door shuts behind Alexander.

It’s not as cold as the office, but it’s freezing in here too. Alexander turns on the hot water tap, praying he’s not going to just get ice water. When he feels the water start to heat up, he sends a prayer of thanks to whatever god there is. At least there’s one good thing that’s happened tonight, he thinks as rubs his hands under the heated water.

He looks up at himself in the mirror. A whole night trapped with Thomas Jefferson, he thinks. This is going to suck. He thinks about how much of a kick his friends would get out of this whole damn situation. Alexander was just starting to get over his little issue with Jefferson, too. This is either going to break me of it, or push me right back down the hole.

When Alexander reemerges, Jefferson is already standing there with two steaming to-go cups in his hands. “Here you go, fucker,” he says, holding one of them out towards Alexander. “One rat poison hot chocolate.” Alexander cocks one eyebrow, but takes it anyway. The heat sears into his palms, but it feels good against the cold air.

“Yours,” Jefferson says, reaching behind himself to grab Alexander’s jacket. Alexander grumbles a ‘thank you’ and puts his cup down long enough to slide it on. When he’s done, he catches a glimpse of Jefferson’s expression. His lips are pursed, looking down at Alexander like one might look at a injured bumblebee.

“That’s all you brought?” He asks. “You knew it was going to snow and all you brought was a hoodie?” Alexander frowns, fiddling with the frayed edge of his sleeve.

“I didn’t know there was going to be a blizzard,” Alexander protests, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

“But you still thought a hoodie was good enough for snow,” Jefferson presses. Alexander looks up at him in his goddamned down magenta parka and scowls.

“Sorry I don’t dress like I’m going to the arctic,” he snaps. Jefferson's eyes widen ever so slightly and his eyebrows shoot up.

“That’s all you’ve got, isn’t it?” Jefferson asks. Alexander, hackles rising, glares up at the taller man.

“And if it is?” Alexander spits. Something in Jefferson’s eyes flicker, and for a second Alexander thinks Jefferson is about to break out into laughter. But he doesn’t, and instead does something a thousand times worse.

“Trade you,” Jefferson offers, reaching up to tug at the zipper at his throat. Alexander’s jaw drops as Jefferson starts to slip off his coat.

“What?” Alexander takes a step back. “No!”

“I’m bigger than you, you need it-”

“Fuck off,” Alexander growls. “Keep your damn coat.” Jefferson blinks, but holds out the coat to Alexander.

“Hamil-”

“Fuck you and your fucking coat I don’t want it.” Alexander crosses his arms with a huff. “I don’t need your damn charity. Fuck you.”

“I’m trying to hel-”

“You’re mocking me and you can take that coat and stick it right up your ass.” Alexander snatches his hot chocolate from the counter and marches down the aisle. He doesn’t get very far before Jefferson calls after him.

“Fine, freeze to death. See if I care.”

Alexander hears Jefferson fumble with his coat as he stalks away. Alexander turns a corner, only to find that there’s nowhere else to go. It’s not a very large store, just the one room and some shelves. Alexander glowers over some beef jerky, sipping his still burning drink, before breaking and looking back over to where Jefferson is.

The other man is still by the hot chocolate machine, but he’s leaning up against it, palms spread across the front and forehead pressed against the display. Alexander frowns. He can do what he wants, not my business, he thinks, but he’s still curious. Then it hits him, the machine is probably giving off heat.

Alexander feels the chill seep through the threadbare fabric of his hoodie and he waffles over his pride versus getting some more warmth. He goes to take another sip, but finds his cup empty and that makes the decision for him. Quietly, so as not to alert Jefferson to what he’s doing, Alexander creeps back up to the counter the machine is on.

Jefferson doesn’t move, just cracks open one eye to watch Alexander push aside a container of sugar and hop up on the countertop. Without a word, Alexander leans up against the side of the machine and melts into the warm, black plastic. He presses his cheek against the side and tries to put as much of his body on it as he can.

The heat radiating from the machine is nice, like a small campfire. His back is still cold, but it’s not his whole body suffering anymore. He hums contentedly as he manages to wrap his arms around it and push some of his chest onto it. He opens one eye to find Jefferson looking at him, a small smile on the other man’s face.

The moment Jefferson sees that Alexander is looking, however, the smile falls and the man looks away, eyes focused on the colorful display on the front of the machine. Alexander frowns, but Jefferson doesn’t look back at him again. Whatever, Alexander thinks, probably just laughing at me again. Alexander shuts his eyes and focuses on the warmth radiating into his skin. He still can’t tell if his problem is getting resolved or worsening.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s cold. The machine he’s laying against has gone dormant, and the freezing air around him sends a shiver down his body. Alexander sits up, hearing his spine and neck crack as he moves. A weight on his back shifts, and something hits the counter behind him. Alexander turns to look, but can’t see. The entire store has gone dark, with just the tiniest bit of light from the street lamps outside leaking in through the windows.

He blinks and looks around. Peering through the darkness, Alexander can just pick out Jefferson sitting at the checkout counter. He’s hunched over, writing something on a long roll of parchment that trails down the front of the counter and pools on the floor. There’s a couple of lit Zippo lighters on either side of him, casting a dim light across his face. He’s also got a collection of pocket flashlights, all duct taped to the stands of energy drinks and lottery tickets.

If Alexander is honest, it’s a fairly impressive set up considering what Jefferson had to work with. He watches the other man absentmindedly dig into a bag of gummy candy and pop one into his mouth. Jefferson is so adamantly focused on whatever he’s working on, an expression of determination etched into his features that Alexander has only ever seen once or twice before. It’s not the easy focus of their debates or even what he normally looks like writing. It’s the expression on his face when he’s struggling through a difficult biology exam. Whatever Jefferson is scratching into his page, it’s making him work. There’s sweat gleaming on his forehead in the dim light.

Alexander rolls his head, working out the rest of the kinks, and hops off the counter. Jefferson looks up when he lands, the pen in his hands stalling.

“Well, good morning sleeping beauty,” Jefferson drawls. Alexander frowns.

“I liked it better when you were silent,” he says, then yawns. “What time is it?” Jefferson rolls his eyes but fishes his phone out of his pocket.

“Just about 3 in the morning,” he says. “You slept for three whole hours, I’m impressed.” Jefferson pulls the blanket around his shoulders in tighter, looking down at the paper on the desk. “Power went out about forty minutes ago.”

Alexander walks over to the counter, glancing outside. “It’s not snowing anymore,” he observes.

“Been on and off. I wouldn’t risk leaving,” Thomas remarks, putting his pen back down on the paper. He’s using a scroll of receipt paper; Alexander watches him scoot the already used section up the desk before launching into a new sentence. He frowns, watching the way the ratty blue blanket shifts and tries to fall off Jefferson’s bare arms-

“What happened to your coat?” Alexander asks. Jefferson drums his fingers on the counter.

“I assume you left it over by the machine,” he says, eyes still glued on the paper. Alexander blinks, snapping his head around. Thanks to the light of one of the flashlights- it’s pointed at where Alexander had been sleeping- he can see the bright pink fabric in a heap next to where Alexander had woken up.

“You… you gave me your jacket?” He asks, turning back to look at Jefferson.

“Mhm,” Jefferson says, unscrolling the paper even further. Alexander’s brows furrow.

“I told you I didn’t want it.”

“And you feel asleep, so your body temperature dropped.” Jefferson looks up at Alexander, twiddling the pen between his fingers. “Then the power went off and I wasn’t about to try and stack lighters around you.” He motions at the four lighters surrounding him. They’ve been taped down so as to make sure they stay on, but one of them is flickering lowly. Jefferson frowns at it. “Probably about time to replace you,” he mutters, picking up the dying flame.

“You could have given me the Lee’s blanket instead,” Alexander points out. Jefferson huffs, his breath a faint white cloud in the air.

“Not warm enough, I should know,” he says. He tears off the tape on the lighter and reaches for a new one out of the display case on the edge of the counter. “Besides, I had the advantage of being awake and able to move around.” Jefferson fiddles with the new lighter until the flame sparks. With practiced ease, he keeps it lit with one hand while tearing a strip of duct tape from a roll on the counter with his teeth.

Alexander stares, dumbfounded, at the other man. “You should have kept it.”

“You could have gotten too cold,” Jefferson counters, affixing the tape to the lighter and putting it down on the counter where the old one was.

“You could have too!” Alexander spins and marches back to the cold machine and grabs Jefferson’s coat. “Take it back, you fuck. That disgusting blanket’s not good enough.” Alexander marches back to the counter and shoves the balled up coat at him, careful to avoid the open flames. Jefferson puts his pen down, expression hard.

“You could at least be gracious,” he grumbles. Alexander just shakes the coat at him, and Jefferson snatches it away. “You ungrateful asshole.”

“I didn’t want it in the first place,” Alexander reminds him. Jefferson just glares at him, sliding his coat back on, but he doesn’t zip it up. He pulls the blanket out from under him and offers it to Alexander. Alexander’s lip curls up in disgust and Jefferson’s expression turns even angrier.

“I know it’s gross but Jesus Christ, it’s like you want to freeze to death.”

“Well maybe I fucking want to,” Alexander snarks. “Better than being alive and having to deal with you in this frozen hell-store.” Jefferson’s eye twitches, and Alexander thinks he’s about to deliver some scathing retort, but the other man just grumbles something under his breath and goes back to writing. The blanket falls from Jefferson’s hand and snakes to the floor, but Alexander doesn’t want to pick it up.

Alexander glances around the store, hoping something will catch his eye and he’ll have something to distract himself with, but the only thing on his mind is how cold it is. His skin tingles with the chill, and when Alexander rubs his arms, he can feel the raised goosebumps even under his hoodie.

A tapping sound starts up, and Alexander notices that it’s Jefferson. The hand not currently writing is furiously drumming against the counter top. Jefferson doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s doing. The quick drumming grates against Alexander’s ears in the otherwise silent store.

“Do you mind stopping that?” Alexander asks.

“I’m working on it, shut up.” Jefferson grits his teeth and presses the pen down harder. But his tapping hand doesn’t stop, simply falters and slows. Alexander’s brow furrows, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out and grabs Jefferson’s free hand. He pulls it away from the desk, just meaning to stop the sound but then he realizes what’s happening.

Jefferson is literally shaking. Alexander can feel the little convulsions in his hand and fingers. Jefferson’s hand is cold and clammy. Wide-eyed, he looks up and notices that the hand currently still writing is also trembling. Before Alexander can process what this means, Jefferson snatches his hand away and shoves it under his leg.

“Don’t touch me,” Jefferson snarls, eyes still glued to the paper. He has to pull the roll out one-handed now, but he manages it.

“You’re shivering,” Alexander says.

“I’m not. Now shut the hell up, I’m busy.”

“See, this is why you should have kept your coat!” Alexander insists. “You’re so cold you’re shivering-”

“It’s not shivers it’s withdrawal,” Jefferson interrupts. Alexander starts, watching the way Jefferson’s hand jitters as it scrawls messy, looping handwriting across the paper.

“Withdrawal?” He’s on drugs? Alexander can’t honestly say he’s surprised, but he’s still taken aback at the idea of Thomas Jefferson as an addict-

“I haven’t had a full cigarette in nine hours,” Jefferson explains, and relief floods Alexander. Nicotine’s bad, but it’s better than what had been going through his head a second ago.

“Nine hours and you’re already shaking like a leaf?” Alexander asks. Jefferson scowls at the paper in front of him.

“I don’t happen to be enjoying this, so if you could shut up and let me concentrate, that would be wonderful.”

And that’s when Alexander puts it together. Jefferson, sitting in the cold, sweating and shaking like he’s just run two miles from someone trying to hurt him, and putting everything he’s got into focusing on writing. He’s miserable, Alexander realizes. He watches Jefferson push into the paper with enough force to almost rip the long scroll pooling at Alexander’s feet. Guilt coils in Alexander’s chest.

“...If you need a cigarette, you can have one,” Alexander offers. Jefferson’s hand stills briefly, before Jefferson chuckles lowly and goes back to scratching letters into the paper.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” He says. Alexander blinks.

“If it’s fucking with you this much-”

“I’m okay,” Jefferson interrupts. “I just need to get through tonight and tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow?” Alexander repeats. Jefferson nods.

“I figure, you know, if I’m going until morning without, why not just stop all together?” Jefferson scrolls another few inches, the spool in his lap is getting low. “I’ve been meaning to, and here’s my excuse to finally quit.”

“You’re actually quitting?” Alexander asks, not ashamed of the little curl of pride that underlies his words.

“That’s the new plan. But let me tell you, this fucking sucks,” Jefferson says through gritted teeth. Alexander smiles.

“Once you’re off, you won’t regret quitting,” he says. Jefferson snorts.

“That’s the hope.” Jefferson rolls his knuckles against the desk as he considers the last few words he wrote.

“Why’d you even start smoking?” Alexander asks.

“Nunya,” Jefferson replies, putting the pen back down on the page.

“It’s just a question,” Alexander presses.

“One you’re not getting the answer to.”

Silence falls, the only noise being the scratching of pen on paper and Jefferson sliding the used paper across the desk. Alexander watches it collect on the floor, the flames of the lighters reflecting orange light on the tile. Something about the way the light catches on the floor gives Alexander an idea.

He gasps, and runs for the bathrooms. He dashes inside the women’s restroom, feeling his muscles complain from use in the cold, and grabs the little metal bucket that’s supposed to be the trash can. The metal is freezing under his fingers, but Alexander gives himself hoodie paws and it’s bearable to hold. Alexander runs back to the counter, drops the bucket on the floor, and grabs sheaves of printer and receipt paper. Jefferson watches him with raised eyebrows.

“What are you…” the other main trails. Alexander is already out from under the counter, scanning the aisles for anything else he can use. He does manage to find newspapers, magazines and even a collection of leaflets. He collects what he can in an armful, and goes back for the rest. Jefferson watches him collect everything with mounting confusion. Jefferson figures it out when Alexander reaches for one of Jefferson’s pre-lit lighters.

“You’re not...” Jefferson watches as Alexander holds a single piece of paper over the flame and lets it catch. The shorter man waits until the paper is fully burning before dropping it into the metal bucket and throwing a few more pieces of paper on it. “....Goddamn it.”

“Fire!” Alexander announces. “How did we not think of it?!”

“I did,” Jefferson drawls. “What do you think the lighters were on for?”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “That’s not fire, that’s a damn spark. This-” Alexander points to the bucket at his feet. “-is fire.” Alexander goes about feeding more printer paper to the flames, building the heat as quickly as possible.

“Wasn’t it you who didn’t want me to smoke because it would fill the store with smoke?” Jefferson asks. “A fire’s going to do the same thing.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m getting heat out of this.” Satisfied with the way it’s burning, Alexander starts to tear the laminated covers from the magazines. “Come on, help me here.”

“It’s going to eat up the oxygen,” Jefferson warns. Alexander rolls his eyes.

“This place isn’t airtight, we’ll be fine.” Alexander looks up, sees the smoke detector in the corner of the room. “Do me a favor and tear the batteries out of that. If the sprinklers go off, it’s going to be hell.” Jefferson eyes the detector, sighs and gets up from his chair.

“I can’t believe you’re making some homeless fire in the middle of the damn store,” Jefferson grumbles. Alexander stops, a half-torn magazine in his hands.

“Excuse me?” He asks, feeling a little spark of anger flare in his chest. Jefferson pulls the batteries from the detector and pockets them.

“You’re making a fucking garbage fire out of our receipt paper,” Jefferson drawls. “What kinda hood-rat shit is that?”

Alexander’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry, this ‘hood-rat shit’ is the best source of heat we got now.”

“I’m just calling it as I see it. That’s hood-rat stuff.” Jefferson points to the flickering bucket.

“Okay asshole-” Alexander rips the magazine cover off roughly and throws the pages into the bucket. “-How else are we supposed to keep warm?!”

“I was doing just fine, thanks,” Jefferson retorts haughtily, but he stops by Alexander’s fire and crouches, holding his shaking hands out. Alexander’s jaw drops.

“Alright then. Guess you don’t need this then.” Alexander uses his foot to push the fire bucket away from the counter and towards the door.

“Hey!” Jefferson protests. Alexander shrugs.

“If you don’t need this ‘hood-rat stuff,’ you don’t get to have it.” Alexander plants himself between the fire and the other man. “Go back to the counter. Shoo!” He makes little waving motions with his hands.

“If you’ve already made it-”

“Nope!” Alexander plants his hands on Jefferson’s chest and shoves. His shirt is slightly damp from sweat, but his body is still warm underneath it. Which gives Alexander the leeway to push hard enough the Jefferson stumbles back a step. “Fuck off, this is my fire.”

Alexander spins on one heel and stomps back to his bucket. He sits, cross legged next to the stack of newspapers, back to Jefferson. After a moment, he hears Jefferson mutter something to himself and walk back to the other side of the counter. Alexander hums to himself, drawing closer to the tiny fire. He knows little tendrils of warmth will make their way over to Jefferson, but if he keeps the fire relatively low, most of it will stay right around Alexander.

Alexander watches the flames dance, cursing Jefferson in his head and feeding sheets of paper to the fire when needed. He hears Jefferson go back to writing, the gentle scritch-scratching of pen on paper just audible over the sizzling flames. He has no idea how long he sits there, mesmerized by the swirling colors, before someone coughs over his shoulder. Alexander turns his head, noticing for the first time the writing sounds have stopped, and now Jefferson is hovering just behind him.

“I, um, I’m out of paper.” Jefferson holds the scrunched up bundle of paper in his hands, just barely keeping the giant mass under control. “I was wondering if you’d trade me?”

Alexander looks over at the rolls of receipt paper and stacks of clean printer paper. The magazines are gone, and he figures the newspapers are going to run out soon. “Sure,” he says. Carefully, like he’s afraid Alexander is going to jump him, Jefferson walks over to where the rolls are. He puts the scrunched up pile on the floor and picks up a clean roll. For a second, Jefferson hesitates, looking down at the flames in the bucket. There’s a nice layer of ash at the bottom now, and some of the metal has blackened.

Alexander can see where Jefferson’s sweat has soaked through his shirt and suddenly he realizes that, even if the other man can’t feel it through the heat of withdrawal, he’s probably losing body heat to the damp. Alexander looks up, and feels a jolt of alarm when he sees the blueish tint to Jefferson’s lips and the grey pallor in his skin.

“Hey,” Alexander breaks the silence. “You can sit and warm up a bit.” Jefferson looks down at Alexander with barely-concealed surprise.

“I thought you said the fire was yours?”

Alexander sighs, lips pressed together. “Yeah, but you look like an icicle and I’d rather not have you die.” Jefferson’s eyes narrow, but the call of the fire wins and he sits on the other side of the bucket. Slowly, he reaches his hands out and holds them over the flames. Alexander can see that he’s still shaking, but not as hard anymore.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Jefferson remarks. Alexander breathes a laugh.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replies. Jefferson smiles, a sad little thing. The firelight reflects in his eyes as he watches the fire dance. They’re silent for a moment, the tiny truce leaving Alexander with nothing to say. Instead, he just watches the colors swirl in Jefferson’s eyes and damn it I’m sliding backwards.

“What did you write?” He asks. Jefferson blinks, looking down at the collected paper beside him.

“Nothing really,” he admits. “It was more about getting my mind off the cravings than actually writing anything.”

“Well, you sure wrote a whole lot of nothing,” Alexander remarks.

“Yeah, that’s more your thing.” Jefferson chuckles as Alexander frowns. He opens his mouth to protest- he doesn’t write nothing, he writes fully thought out, intelligent papers thank you very mu- “I’m teasing you, can’t you take a joke?”

Alexander hums non-committedly, drawing his hood up around his head. Jefferson rolls his eyes. “I just wrote stream-of-thought. Anything that popped in my head. A lot of it sounds like a poor writer’s bad attempt at portraying addiction.”

“Well, you are a poor writer, so…” Alexander says. Jefferson actually laughs.

“I walked into that one,” he admits, chuckling to himself. Alexander smiles, Jefferson’s laugh is actually pretty nice when it’s not directed at Alexander. “See, Hamilton, I’m laughing at myself. Not that hard to do,” Jefferson teases, one eyebrow cocked.

“Didn’t think you capable of it,” Alexander teases back. Jefferson rolls his eyes again, but this time it’s more good-natured than anything.

“It’s you that can’t stop taking himself so seriously.”

“Says the pompous asshole,” Alexander retorts. Jefferson’s smile slips for a second, then re-affixes itself in a shallow mockery of the real one.

“My life’s a bad joke, why not laugh at it?” Jefferson says. He says it with the same easy charm that one might use to make a small joke at an office water machine. A throwaway joke that, coming from any one of Alexander’s usual friends, might be dismissed as simple, dark, self-deprecating humor. But Jefferson doesn’t make those jokes, not around Alexander at least. Something about the bitter, empty smile and the light lilt in Jefferson’s voice strikes a chord in the shorter man.

“Yours is a bad joke?” Alexander asks. Jefferson’s smile fades further. “This kind of ‘hood-rat’ fire is all-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jefferson interrupts. Alexander starts, a half-formed word stumbling over his lips before he finds his footing.

“You don’t want to… what the hell kind of asshole-”

“Look-” Jefferson’s habit of interruption is starting to tug at Alexander’s nerves “-I don’t want to hear your two-piece ‘woe is me’ backstory. It’ll just make everything worse.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Alexander says, feeling the anger start to pool in him again. Jefferson grits his jaw.

“I know that wherever you came from isn’t great, and that sucks. You only have a hoodie in a blizzard and you’re so desperate to keep this shitty job you don’t want overtime. I’m not an idiot, I can put the pieces together. But you’re still here, you function up here-” Thomas taps his fingers against his temple “-Better than I do and I rode into life on a goddamned silver spoon. So whatever the details of your personal tragedy are, I don’t want to know. They’ll just haunt me the next time I have to drown myself in nicotine to get through the night.”

Alexander stares, wide-eyed over the dying flames at the other man. Thomas pulls his knees into his chest and looks down at the floor. “You should probably feed it before it dies,” Thomas mutters, tapping the side of the bucket with his foot. Alexander numbly grabs the last newspaper and lowers it into the flames, hearing the paper slide against the metal side.

“Who says I don’t have shit ‘up here.’” Alexander mimics Thomas’ motion, tapping his own temple twice with one finger. Thomas shoulders scrunch in farther.

“If you do, you’ve got a right to it. I’m just pathetic.”

Alexander stares at Thomas over the top of the flames, his coily hair lit up like molten chocolate in the flickering light. “We’ve all got problems dude-”

“Mine are all just made up,” Thomas grumbles. Alexander’s fists clench by his side.

“If you convince yourself they are, they will be,” he snaps. “Look, my shit’s got a cause. I can point to the hurricane and go ‘that’s why I don’t like storms,’ or to my mom and say ‘that’s why I never want to get sick.’ But just because you can’t do that doesn’t mean your brain isn’t just as fucked as mine. Sometimes we just get born a little messed up. For whatever reason, your brain just doesn’t make the right chemicals. That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel sad or scared or need help when it gets bad.”

Alexander grabs the roll of Thomas’ writing, seeing the blue, loopy, shaky handwriting that trails the entire length. He thinks he sees his name written there, and Alexander tears through the paper so that his name is broken in half.

“It’s not the damn Olympics,” Alexander grumbles, crumbling up the paper and and throwing it into the bucket with enough force to make it ricochet off the inside and ricochet back and forth around the inside before finally landing in the fire. He tears off another segment and scrunches it up too before making it join it’s predecessor in the flames.

Thomas looks at him over the bucket with wide eyes, jaw slacked enough so his lips are parted in surprise. Alexander, halfway through making a third ball, looks up and sighs. “John’s like you. I mean, he’s got his dad, but he always talks about how everyone else has got it worse.” Instantly, Alexander regrets his words, that’s not his to tell Thomas, but it’s out there now. “Shit, forget I told you that.”

Alexander tosses the third wadded up ball into the bucket and watches the edge of it turn black. Then he notices the receipt paper isn’t really burning, not like normal paper burns. It’s turning black and bending, looking more like it’s melting than anything. Then he notices the smell, and instantly realizes his mistake. Thomas is opening his mouth to speak, but Alexander shoots to his feet.

“Get the damn doors open,” he commands. Thomas blinks, head snapping in the direction of the locked sliding doors.

“Why?” Thomas asks. Alexander glances around, looking for something to put the fire out with.

“Just do it!” Alexander gabs the first two-liter he sees- some knock-off Mountain Dew- and cracks open the top. Thomas scrambles to his feet and manually pulls one of the doors open as Alexander empties the contents of the bottle into the bucket. Freezing air and loose snow rush inside the store and Alexander goes to pick the bucket up, only to recoil at the burning metal. He takes the next-best option, winding up and kicking it as hard as he can.

Alexander isn’t the most physical of people, but he manages to get his aim right when it counts, and the bucket goes soaring into the night. Thomas doesn’t have to be told to shut the door, and afterwards he collapses against the cold glass. They stare at eachother for a moment, Alexander breathing heavy with the remainder of his panic.

“Why did we do that?” Thomas breathes. Alexander swallows.

“Receipt paper is thermal,” Alexander explains. “It’s coated in chemicals.”

“Fumes,” Thomas says, following Alexander’s train of thought. Alexander nods, finally feeling his heartbeat return to normal. He looks out the window, the bucket is far out of sight even though the sky is clear of snow. It’s just too dark.

“There goes that,” Alexander mutters. Thomas lets out a breathy laugh.

“At least we’ll just die of cold, not toxic fumes,” he says. Alexander rolls his eyes, but Thomas is right. They’re back to their original problem.

“What time is it?” He asks. Thomas pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Fifteen ‘till five. Just over two hours until day shift gets here.” Thomas looks out the window. “If they get here.” Alexander groans.

“How do we keep warm now?” He asks. Thomas lowers his phone, looking oddly at Alexander. He opens his mouth to speak but shuts it a second later, teeth gritted in an awkward grimace. “What?” Alexander prompts. Thomas just shakes his head.

“Nevermind. Stupid idea,” he mutters. Alexander’s eyes narrow.

“Spit it out,” he says. “I’ll tell you if it’s stupid.” Thomas bites his lip, his eyes slip away from Alexander’s face, like he’s talking to someone just to Alexander’s left.

“Well, you know how when you get stranded with hypothermia, the best thing to do is share body heat with someone…?” Thomas trails, risking a quick glance at Alexander, then away again. Alexander can follow Thomas’ thought process with ease, and he’s ashamed that the part of his brain that he’s been suppressing for months now reawakens with force.

“Oh.” Alexander feels heat rise to his face as the hidden fantasies start to emerge. “That’s a pretty smart idea actually,” he says, mouth working faster than the other part of his brain trying to shove everything back down where it belongs: in the darkest corner of Alexander’s mind, forgotten and untouched. Thomas starts, his eyes snapping to Alexander’s in shock. For a second, Alexander thinks he messed up, that Thomas is weirded out and repulsed and-

“It… it is.” Thomas tries to visibly relax, but Alexander can still see the tightness in his shoulders and his jaw. “Of course it is, I thought it up.” Alexander barks a laugh.

“Don’t get too full of yourself there,” he says, glancing around. “So, how do we…?”

Thomas falls silent, both men awkwardly trying to figure out how this is going to work. “Chair behind the counter?” Thomas offers. “I pulled it from the office.”

Alexander looks over his shoulder at it. “Can we both fit?” He asks. It’s a desk chair made for one person.

“We can try?” Thomas says, hesitant, thoughtful. “Better than the floor.” Alexander nods, Thomas has a point after all.

“You first, you’re bigger,” Alexander says. This feels oddly clinical, objective. Like they’re two architects trying to piece together a building or professors trying to solve some math problem, not two freezing men trying to fit together for warmth.

Thomas nods, making his way back behind the counter to the chair in question. He settles back into it, trying to press his body as far to one side as possible. But there’s not much room, definitely not enough for Alexander to sit beside him comfortably. Thomas looks up at him.

“Alright, come here,” he says. Alexander blinks. He figured Thomas would have nixed the idea once he saw how little space there is. Alexander shuffles over, eyeing the few inches of empty seat cautiously.

“I can’t fit there,” he says. Thomas looks down at the chair, and frowns at it like it just spilled tea on Thomas’ shirt. Then Thomas sighs, scoots into the center of the chair and looks back up at Alexander.

“Come on,” he says, holding his arms out. Alexander’s eyes widen.

“You want me to…” he trails, fighting down both his disbelief and his nauseating thrill at what Thomas is suggesting. Thomas nods.

“It’s this or we get on the floor.”

Heat rises to Alexander’s face at the thought of getting down on the floor- nope, stop that. Bad brain. Stop. He nods jerkily, forcing his feet to cross the last distance between them. He pauses for a moment, thinking about how best to do this, before Thomas rolls his eyes and grabs Alexander by the arms.

“I didn’t peg you for the ‘no homo’ type.” Thomas turns Alexander around and pulls him backwards down into his lap. Alexander stiffens as Thomas pulls the shorter man’s back into his chest. Don’t think about where you’re sitting, don’t think about it-

Then Thomas pulls his arms out of his coat sleeves, wraps them around Alexander’s stomach, and grabs on to the opposite edges of the coat. It’s not quite big enough to fit around the both of them completely, and Thomas’ arms are still crisscrossed around Alexander’s waist, but Alexander doesn’t mind.

He can still feel small tremors in Thomas’ arms, and now that his legs are knocking up against the other man’s, he can feel the shaking in them too. But Thomas is also comfortingly warm, and Alexander wants to melt into him, wants to lean back and rest his head on the man’s shoulder.

They sit in silence, Thomas gently turning the swivel chair back and forth. Alexander doesn’t want to break the heavy silence, he wants to pretend that this is for something more than just warmth and survival. If he opens his mouth, Thomas will say something disparaging and when did Alexander start thinking of Jefferson as Thomas?

He’s definitely falling back into his little crush, but now Alexander welcomes it. At least he got to be held by Thomas motherfucking Jefferson once.

Then Thomas leans forward, his chin coming to rest on Alexander’s shoulder and Alexander swears his heart stops. Thomas hums gently, his breath tickling Alexander’s ear and making a few strands of Alexander’s hair flutter.

“You can relax, you know,” Thomas says, voice just above a mutter. “I’m not going to bite.” Actually, please do, says part of Alexander’s brain and he shudders. He hopes Thomas just mistakes it for chill. “It’ll be warmer the more contact we have.”

Can’t argue with that logic, Alexander thinks. He lets out an exasperated sigh for show and settles back into Thomas’ embrace. He lets his head rest on Thomas’ chest, just like he had wanted, and a part of Alexander’s soul leaves his body and moves on to the afterlife, happy in its partial death. He can feel Thomas’ heartbeat, a quick and fluttering thumping that doesn’t sound healthy, until Alexander remembers how cold it is and that Thomas is going through withdrawal.

“How are you feeling?” Alexander asks, the words spilling out.

“Hm?” Thomas turns his head to look down at Alexander. There’s an odd, peaceful look on his face that Alexander doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

“How’s the withdrawal?” Alexander winces at how bad his wording is. Thomas’ face falls, his lips forming to one thin line.

“Better. Not great. Can’t get my mind off the cravings.” Thomas’ eyes flick over to the wall of cigarettes behind a locked Plexiglas case. Alexander frowns, thinking. He has to find something to do to make Thomas stop thinking about smoking. But nothing that would make them move out into the cold. Unless…

Alexander shakes the idea away. Thomas would never go for it. Logically, it’s not bad idea. It would certainly work and keep them warm. But this, Thomas holding Alexander on the chair is as far as it could go. Voicing his idea would certainly end this little joy. But he says it anyway, because it won’t stop nagging on him until he gets an definitive ‘no.’

“I know what we could do to distract you and stay warm.” Alexander looks up at Thomas, whose eye drift away from the display and back down to Alexander.

“What?” He asks. Alexander takes a breath and commits.

“We could fuck.”

Thomas’ eyebrows fly up with such speed and force Alexander thinks they’re going to fly right off his face and into the darkness of the store. “I’m sorry, run that by me again,” Thomas says, voice oddly strained. Alexander tries to act as nonchalant as he repeats:

“I said we could fuck.” Alexander stops himself from biting his lip, from letting Thomas know how his stomach swirls at the thought of going farther. Thomas’ face goes on a little journey through a rapid series of emotions before settling on incredulity.

“You wanna fuck.” Thomas says it as more of a statement than a question. Alexander shrugs, trying to ignore the growing internal scream.

“Yeah, why not?”

Thomas looks around the dimly lit store. “We are in a goddamned Seven-Eleven and you want to fuck. There are security cameras, Alexander.” The way Alexander’s name sounds on Thomas’ tongue is something Alexander wants to remember forever.

“The power’s out,” Alexander counters. “They’re not working.”

“They could be. Maybe that’s the only thing hooked up to a generator,” Thomas points out. Alexander lets out a sigh.

“The bathroom doesn’t have cameras,” he suggests. Thomas’ jaw drops.

“I am not fucking you in a convenience store bathroom,” Thomas drawls. “That thing is dirty and full of unspeakable things.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Fine. Right here then.” He doesn’t know why he’s pushing so hard, outside of the thought that this might be his only chance.

“But the-”

“Look, you said Lee does bad things in the office.” Alexander glances at the balled up blanket on the floor. “I’m sure two employees going at it while they’re snowed-in is no big deal. But you don’t wanna, we won't.”

Thomas bites his bottom lip, which does things to the feeling in Alexander’s gut. Jesus, don’t be so desperate dick, he thinks. Thomas’ eyes are scanning his face, and Alexander tries to stay as impassive as possible. He can’t let Thomas know just how much he wants this. Thomas opens his mouth, and Alexander braces himself for a rebuff-

“Okay.”

Alexander blinks, sitting up from Thomas’ chest and twisting to face him head on. “Wait, really?” Thomas nods.

“Yeah, really.” One of Thomas’ hands moves to tap Alexander on the thigh, and Alexander takes this has his cue to straddle the other man on the chair. Alexander puts his hands on Thomas’ chest, holding himself up as he tries to process what’s happening.

“Are you sure?” Alexander asks, wondering if this is all a dream or if Thomas is just messing with him-

“Yes,” Thomas says, the word coming out like a hiss. “Let’s go.” His voice drops, the sudden aggression in it makes Alexander shudder. Without much further thought- worried that if he waits, Thomas will change his mind- Alex leans down and kisses Thomas.

It starts out soft, both men trying to figure out how they fit together. Thomas’ hands stay planted firmly on Alexander’s hips as Alexander runs his own hands up Thomas’ chest and neck to thread his fingers through the other man’s hair. Alexander currently has the advantage of height, and he presses his body down into Thomas’.

Alexander rolls his hips down into Thomas’ and Thomas gasps. Alexander takes the opportunity to push his tongue into the other man’s mouth. He’s expecting Thomas to fight him, to push back, but Thomas lets him explore his mouth with ease. Thomas’ grip tightens on Alexander’s body as Alexander nips his lower lip and starts to trail kisses down Thomas’ jawline.

Alexander starts making his way down Thomas’ neck, and Thomas pushes back up into him. “Alex,” the other man moans and the sound goes right to Alexander’s dick. Thomas is pliable under Alexander’s hands and mouth, and Alexander almost can’t believe it. Every fantasy of having Thomas submit beneath him seems to be coming true. He’s torn between taking his time to explore every inch of Thomas’ body and just going wild before the opportunity is taken away from him.

Whichever Thomas prefers, then, he thinks, finally letting go of Thomas’ head to reach for the bottom hem of the taller man’s shirt. Alexander reconnects their lips at the same time that he slides his hands up and across what he knows by touch to be hard abs and toned muscle. He’s better than I dre-

And then Thomas has his hands on Alexander’s chest and he’s pushing him away. Alexander goes, letting himself be held back at arm’s length. His hands dangle by his sides as he looks at Thomas in shock. The other man’s head is bowed, eyes screwed shut and mouth turned down in a grimace.

“Stop,” Thomas says. “I… I don’t want this.” The words penetrate the silence like daggers, cutting into Alexander’s skin.

“Did I do something wrong?” Alexander asks, voice quiet. Thomas’ hands curl against Alexander’s chest.

“No.”

“Then what-”

“I don’t want this,” Thomas repeats. “Not here, not like this.”

Alexander blinks, sitting farther back on his haunches. “What do you mean?”

Thomas winces, his hands coming down to rest on the top of his legs. “I don’t want to fuck you-”

“Then you should have said something sooner,” Alexander interrupts but Thomas just sighs.

“Let me finish,” Thomas says. “I don’t want to fuck you in a dirty ass Seven-Eleven because you’re cold and bored. If we do this, I want it to-” Thomas cuts himself off. “Nevermind.”

“You want it to…?” Alexander prompts, his heart starting to rise in his throat.

“I said nevermind.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

Thomas glances up at Alexander and then away again. “I want it to mean something.”

Alexander stills, his heart singing in his ears because holy shit. If that means what Alexander thinks it means, then…

Alexander realizes he’s gone silent and still as a statue in Thomas’ lap, staring at the man with wide eyes. Thomas squirms, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“There, happy?” The Virginian spits. “Get off of me.”

“But-”

“I said get off. I don’t need your platitudes or some shit.” Thomas actually tries to stand up underneath Alexander, causing the shorter man to scramble to keep from hitting the floor.

“Wait, Thomas-”

“I lied to you,” Thomas says. Alexander blinks. “The weather’s been clear for hours. It’s not supposed to snow again. You can leave, I’ll wait for shift change.”

“What?” Alexander watches Thomas walk away, sees him cross the floor to where the piles of paper and ash still are.

“I said I lied and you can get out of here,” Thomas repeats, crouching down to pick up the remains of Alexander’s fire. Alexander looks out the glass doors. There’s no sign of snowfall, and the couple of inches on the ground have shrunk somewhat.

“I don’t understand…” Alexander trails. Thomas stiffens, Alexander can hear the sharp inhale he makes from across the room.

“I said leave, Hamilton,” Thomas growls. “I’ll clock you out. Go.”

“Why the hell would you-” Alexander stops, processing the rest of Thomas’ words. “I’m already clocked out,” he says. Thomas’ hand grips a roll of receipt paper hard enough to turn his knuckles pale.

“I lied to you about that too. I put you on overtime,” Thomas admits. Alexander starts, feeling the blood drain from his face.

“I told you not to do that,” Alexander says, his voice oddly measured and neutral.

“Yeah well, I didn’t listen.” Thomas scoops the rest of the paper into his arms, putting it on top of a shelf before turning back to the remnants of ash on the ground.

“What the hell, Thomas!” The blood comes rushing back to his face and Alexander can feel himself start to heat up. “What the fuck would you do that for?!”

“I wanted to do something nice for you,” Thomas spits. “Figured you wouldn’t notice until payday and by then you wouldn’t care. You obviously need the money-”

“I don’t want to lose my job. This is the only way I pay for food!” Alexander glares at Thomas, spit flying as his voice rises.

“Excuse me for trying to help you out.”

“You didn’t help me out, you put my job in danger!” Alexander grabs his mag card from where it’s been sitting on the counter and logs into the register. Right there, in little red lettering, is the ‘overtime’ signal. Alexander punches himself out, red filling his vision. “Fuck you, Thomas Jefferson,” he hisses. He shoves his hands in his pockets, checking that he has everything, and then storms to the front door. With one last glare at Thomas, Alexander heaves open the door as far as needed, and stomps out into the cold night.

He hears Thomas slide the door shut behind him as Alexander marches through the three-inch layer of snow on the ground. The chill air is worse now that the wind can get at him, but Alexander is too steaming angry to care. He trudges through the snow, already composing his apology to his manager. Just blame it on Thomas, tell the truth, Alexander thinks.

He passes a whole in the snow and finds the fire bucket, turned over on it’s side. Ashes and half-burnt paper spill out of the top. Alexander can’t help but be a little impressed with himself, he managed to kick it pretty far. There’s water around it, snow the heated metal must have melted. Alexander eyes it for a moment, then takes a step past it.

“I’m just pathetic,” Thomas’ admission, spoken over the flames comes back to Alexander. Yeah, yeah you are, Alexander thinks. ‘If we fuck, I want it to mean something,’ goddamn.

You’d prefer it that way too, Alexander’s mind supplies. Alexander frowns.

I was going to do it anyway, he thinks. Even if it would be just once.

Alexander breathes in white clouds, he watches them dissipate into the cold early morning. He looks up, and there’s not even a snow cloud in the sky. Thomas really had lied about the weather, but for what reason? For kicks? To torture Alexander?

“I want it to mean something.”

No, Thomas wouldn’t have said that if he kept Alexander at work for no reason. And he wouldn’t have lied about overtime, or gave Alexander his coat when Alexander fell asleep, or held Alexander-

The answer hits him like a truck and Alexander stumbles over his own feet.

Thomas kept him there because Thomas wanted Alexander there.

“Oh motherfucker!” Alexander shouts at the still dark sky. He spins on one heel, looking back at the darkened store. He can’t see inside, but the door is still shut and there’s no sign that Thomas has left yet. Before he can think about it, Alexander takes off, back across the parking lot. Snow flies around his feet, some of it hitting his hoodie and soaking into it, but Alexander doesn’t care.

Alexander reaches the doors and pushes one open, knowing it’s not locked yet. He stumbles back inside the cold store and looks around. It takes his eyes a second to adjust to the sudden darkness, and he slides the door shut behind him in the meantime. When he turns back around, he can see Thomas.

The other man is hunched over counter, back to Alexander, head bowed. Alexander, breathing hard, doesn’t move, having nothing planned to say. There’s a soft sound, Thomas’ breath coming in a little hitching pattern.

“Forget something?” Thomas asks, voice hard. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even look at Alexander. Alexander swallows, chest heaving from exertion.

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “There’s something I forgot to tell you.”

“What? How much of a piece of shit I am? I already know, you can-”

“No,” Alexander interrupts. “I want it to mean something too.”

The words hang in the silence for a moment. Thomas’ hands curl against the counter. “You don’t actually mean that.”

“I do-”

“Don’t give me pity, Hamilton. I don’t want it. I’m pathetic and worthless but I don’t want your damn pity.” Thomas still won’t turn around. “Not for this.”

“It’s not pity,” Alexander insists. Thomas laughs, a wet, bitter sound.

“Do you think I need this job? Do you honestly think I need to come spend my evenings at a half-broken convenience store making minimum wage? I could quit, pay back my wages double and still have a lifetime of money left over. I’m here because I’m so fucking desperate and pathetic I wanted to find a way to spend more time around you. I tailored my work hours around yours. So don’t give this to me out of pity.”

“It’s not pity! Tho-”

“Just leave me-”

“Would you fucking listen to me for once?” Alexander runs over Thomas’ interruption. “It’s not pity because I get excited whenever I see that we’re on the same shift.” Alexander takes a step forward. “I don’t care that you lied to keep me here, I would have stayed anyway.” Another step, another. “You need to get your head out of your ass and see what I’m trying to tell you.” He’s right behind Thomas now. Alexander reaches out and grabs Thomas by the arm. Thomas turns with it, and Alexander can see the redness in his eyes.

“This isn’t pity, and it most certainly means something.” Alexander pops up on his toes, just managing to plant his lips on Thomas’ for the third time tonight. He can feel tears start to prick at the corner of his eyes, and he presses himself into Thomas as hard as he can. Thomas doesn’t move underneath him, his hands don’t even come off the countertop to hold Alexander.

Alexander pulls back, watching Thomas’ face, hoping. Thomas looks down at him, lips parted slightly. They stare at each other for a moment, then Thomas starts to laugh. It’s a deep laugh, one that makes him throw his head back and cackle. Alexander breaks out into a smile, relief flooding through him. He’s just surprised, Alexander thinks, reaching back up for Thomas again-

“I can’t believe you fell for it.”

Alexander stops, hands hung in the air, halfway to Thomas’ face. Thomas looks down at him with mirthful disdain in his eyes. Alexander feels his smile start to slip as Thomas opens his mouth again.

“God, you’re such a fucking idiot,” Thomas snickers. “I want it to mean something, holy hell. You’re easier to manipulate than I thought.” Thomas slips out from under Alexander, leaving the shorter man cold. “Well, that was a fun way to pass the night, wasn’t it?”

Alexander stares, wide-eyed at the other man. He traces the lines of Thomas’ smirk, heart falling through his feet and into the floor. Slowly, his arms fall, and Alexander expects the anger to appear. It doesn’t, but instead there’s just an empty hollowness that curls in the pit of his gut.

Then he looks a little closer and sees the way the smirk doesn’t quite reach Thomas’ eyes, sees the guarded hurt buried deep in his expression and body. Then the anger surfaces.

“You lying son of a bitch,” Alexander growls. He lunges forward again, hands outstretched. There’s a flicker of fear in Thomas’ face as the taller man backpedals to avoid Alexander’s attack. But he doesn’t move fast enough, and Alexander is determined so the shorter man throws himself around Thomas’ middle.

They crash to the floor, Thomas hitting the ground with his back. For a second, they scrabble together before Alexander plants his hands on Thomas’ chest and uses that to push himself into a sitting position. Alexander finds himself straddling Thomas’ hips again, pinning Thomas to the floor.

“Stop it,” Alexander hisses. Thomas, already braced for Alexander to start raining blows, cracks open his eyes in shock. He looks up at Alexander, jaw slack. Alexander takes the opportunity, leaning down and smashing their faces together. “Just fucking stop,” Alexander says into Thomas’ mouth.

Alexander puts everything he has into yet another kiss, and this time Thomas responds, kissing Alexander back with the same intensity. Alexander grinds down, and when Thomas bucks up into him, he finally pulls back.

“No more bullshit Thomas,” Alexander says, “Do you want me, yes or no?”

“I…” Thomas trails. Alexander grits his teeth.

“Yes or no?” Thomas snaps his mouth shut, turns his head to the side and refuses to look back up.

“Get off,” Thomas mutters. Alexander growls deep in his throat.

“Goddamn it Thomas, stop running from me and shutting down.”

“Why do you even care?” Thomas spits, snapping his head to glare at Alexander.

“Because I need to know, right now, if I actually have a shot with you, or if I’ve been playing this dumb game with you for no fucking reason. So I can either back off and move on, or….” he takes a breath, looking down at the man pinned under him. “So do you want me? Yes. Or. No.”

Thomas looks back, chest rising and falling with his breath. Then, his eyes flick down and away. He nods, ever so slightly and slowly, but he nods. All of the air in Alexander’s lungs rushes out as he breaks out into a grin.

“Oh, oh shit really?” Alexander asks. “Fuck yeah!” Thomas eyes instantly snap back up to Alexander’s.

“That’s your witty response?” Thomas teases, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile.

Alexander inhales sharply. “Look, I didn’t actually expect a yes-” Thomas reaches one hand up and puts his fingers on Alexander’s lips, effectively shutting the other man up.

“It was cute,” Thomas says. Alexander fights the blush that rises and pushes Thomas’ hand away from his mouth.

“Shut up asshole,” Alexander grumbles. Thomas’ eyes gleam even in the dark.

“Make me.”

----------------

Burr comes out of the office, his stomach churning. “Hamilton, Jefferson?” He calls. The two evening shift employees- the ones unintentionally stuck here all night- poke their heads out of the bathroom. They were supposed to be cleaning them for open, but Burr can see the evidence of their real activities on their faces, their pupils blown wide and lips kiss-swollen.

“Yeah Burr?” Hamilton calls back.

“You two do realize that our security cameras do have backup power in case of outages, right?”

The responding silence is all the answer Burr needs.

“Mop the floors and scrub the counter down,” he says.

“Yes sir,” comes Hamilton’s quiet response.

“I am going to buy a rug and a tablecloth for the counter, as well as a new desk chair. The costs are coming out of your paychecks. In return,” Burr sighs, “I’ll wipe the footage and we will never speak of this again.”

There’s a pause, then Jefferson speaks up. “You should probably toss the blanket too.”

“That’s your job,” Burr responds.

“Fair enough,” Jefferson calls back.

“We didn’t even use the blanket,” Hamilton grumbles.

“Do you really want it hanging around?” Jefferson asks.

“Not really,” Hamilton says instantly.

Burr doesn’t hear anything else they say, choosing instead to turn around and head back into the office. He very carefully avoids the desk chair now pushed into the corner, and goes about scrubbing the footage from the night before from the hard drives.

If only he could scrub the memory from his mind too.