(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

Anonymous asked
n, greenhouses alex

hamilton was despairing. the adventure had been a disaster.

first, he had realized much too belatedly that no birthday was celebrated for the head of mount vernon. this, obviously, was unacceptable. furthermore, none of the servants seemed to know, or wanted to tell him, what day it was to be celebrated. he had been forced to ask phillip schuyler for his husband’s birthday, which he had been given.

and then there was the matter of a gift. what did you get a man, that could have anything? that liked nothing better than tending to his plants and reading? he had plenty of plants. he would not like a statue or a bust. it would mean nothing, to write something - he could write something for washington at any time. what could there be, that was meaningful? to express his affections, as they were?

he went to town and stared into the shop windows. he could get washington a new sabre, or jacket, or re-shoe nelson, or a saddle, or - it all seemed so ridiculous. washington did not deny himself things when he needed them. and his maps were vastly superior to the ones sold here. he kicked at the dirt and stalked into a tavern. even the ale in town was bad. he understood why washington preferred his solitude, even if hamilton liked the bustle of town.

he was moping down the street and considering how washington would ever know his affections, when he noticed the paintshop. in the window was a flicker of green cast to the side, peculiar even in this limited view. he walked inside. the shopkeeper looked at him, in his fine clothes, and smiled.

“good evening, sir,” she said, cheerily. “what brings you here today?”

“i’m looking for a gift for my husband,” he said. their thistle was sometimes, but not usually, mistaken for a typical thistle. the woman studied his jacket and nodded. “i was hoping i might see that one in the corner?”

she looked away. “likely there are others more likely to impress a gentleman–”

“no,” hamilton said, “that is the one i would like to see.”

“of course, sir,” she said, and hurried to reveal it.

it was peculiar and abstract, and various greens, and of nothing, in some way. it looked like there had one been an idea and the artist had been distracted and started something new, and this process had resumed six times. it had a charming, unfinished air to it. it was nothing like a real painting.

hamilton liked it immensely.

“I would like to buy it,” he announced. “might i have it shipped to my estate, wrapped? i will undertake the additional cost.”

the woman looked like she was at first going to argue, and thought better. “certainly, sir. let me arrange the receipts.”