Chapter Text
Ronan has to be honest; he doesn't think he's been in a building as grand as this in all his life. Sure, he's visited churches and cathedrals with towering spires and huge stained-glass windows, but the parliament of America is something else entirely. Every room is carpeted, with thick curtains framing large windows that look out onto the street below. The few people wandering the halls pay little attention to the detailed paintings and ornate fireplaces that decorate the walls, but he takes the time to stop and stare openly. Eventually it takes Lazare's hand on his elbow, dragging him away from an oil-brushed scene of a rural farmhouse, to get him moving towards their destination.
Maybe La Fayette left more instruction than what Ronan had seen in his letter, or maybe being part of the nobility just gives Lazare a natural sense for where to go in places like these, but they soon find a young woman coordinating a group of servants. Lazare asks her something in English and she happily leads them further into the building. There's a murmur that's been a distant sound on the edge of Ronan's hearing since they've arrived, but now it grows to a din of voices and he realises that this is congress.
Men in suits and formalwear fill the corridor ahead, all speaking in the same sort of tone that implies whatever the topic is, it's important. None of it is in French, so Ronan can't understand a word, but he knows what politics sounds like from his time in Marat's workshop. Hushed, rushed speech, forceful tones, and a strange undercurrent of both panic and excitement.
One of the men closest to them notices their entrance and says something, but Ronan just shakes his head in incomprehension. Lazare is walking ahead of him, his back ramrod straight. The calmer, more at ease version of him that Ronan had started to see emerge on the Marie - the Lazare that drank Sicilian rum and danced reels after sunset, who spent hours engrossed in charts and ship's logs - is gone now, replaced by the Comte de Peyrol, who nods formally at politicians like he has every right to be in a foreign congress. The woman leading them weaves through the crowd and stops before a tall man in a simple shirt and trousers. His commanding posture mirrors that of Lazare, who starts to introduce himself with what almost looks like a salute before he catches it and turns it into a handshake.
All at once, as he watches Lazare converse in a language he doesn't understand, Ronan is hit by a sense of vertigo. He's in a foreign country - a foreign parliament no less - surrounded by strangers and a man who, if he's being honest with himself, he still doesn't trust. The stranger laughs at something Lazare has said, and Ronan is an outsider to the joke. He hears Solène's voice in the back of his head. Oh, brother, you've really gone and done it now.
"It's a bit overwhelming at first, huh?" A voice cuts through the clamor. Ronan turns to see an older man in a brown coat, his grey hair loose despite its length and a wry smile on his face. His French accent is tinged with a hint of an American drawl, but it mostly sounds upper-class, like that of someone who perfected the language in Versailles. "I'd say I felt the same when I first saw it, but if we're being honest, I helped build this place." The wry smile turns to a chuckle, and he sticks out his hand. "Benjamin Franklin."
"Ronan Mazurier." He takes the hand offered.
"Charmed!" Franklin declares. "You're with Monsieur de Peyrol, I'm assuming?" It doesn't miss Ronan's attention that he's tutoiing them both, but that somehow doesn't feel like an insult. He nods, and Franklin continues, "but you're not a politician, I can see that much. So, what? A revolutionary? I’ve always said you Europeans should send the common folk to represent you."
Ronan doesn't really know how to answer that last part, so he addresses the former. "I printed pamphlets for Marat during the revolution," he says. "The Comte asked me to join him when he came over here, and I figured a new start would be good."
"The Comte asked you to join him? I'd assumed it was a demand from your new assembly." Franklin raises an eyebrow. "Well, Ronan Mazurier, representative of the people of France, what do you know about politics?"
As it turns out, 'the bourgeoisie are the enemy of the people' doesn't count as much of a political stance around here. Ronan cringes when Franklin laughs out loud at his muttered repetitions of the slogans he's heard in Marat’s workshop. "You're passionate, I'll give you that. But politics isn't about passion, it's about compromise. You need to figure out what you're willing to give to get what you need. And I don't mean that martyr shit about giving your life for the revolution - what, morally, will you put up with? If Louis XVI walked up to you today, head in his hand, and said he'd keep every person in France fed this year if you let him bring back the monarchy, would you agree?"
"I-" Ronan finds himself pausing to think. "I guess-" he cuts himself off again. Would he agree to something like that? To end the people's suffering by reinstating the system that created it? He imagined the king coming up to him, blood still leaking from the join in his neck, and asking him for the Royal Palace back.
"It's okay not to have an answer." Franklin claps him on the back, breaking Ronan out of his stupor. "You just need to know that if the time came, you'd be willing to make tough decisions for the greater good."
Franklin gives him a rundown of the active groups - the federalists, the democratic republicans, the abolitionists… after a while the names start to blur together. He takes stock of people though.
George Washington is the president of the United States of America. He's the tall man Lazare was speaking to, now disappearing into a room off to the side - “always a hundred times busier than he looks,” Franklin says. He used to be a military general before he entered politics - Ronan was right, now that he can see it there's no way that shared stiffness in their shoulders is anything but soldiers' training.
James Madison is the sickly-looking man coughing into a handkerchief and leaning on the marble mantle of a fireplace. Next to him is Thomas Jefferson, and this is where things take a turn.
"He what?" Ronan finds himself asking for the third time.
"He keeps slaves." Franklin seems almost baffled that this is even a question. "On his estate, maybe twenty or so. Fairly distasteful, I agree, but not that uncommon-"
"What the hell is wrong with you people?" The half-yelled question is out before he can take the time to measure it and Ronan sees Lazare turn back towards him in the corner of his eye. A few others do the same, including Thomas Jefferson, but many more seem unable to understand his French and settle for ignoring him instead. He powers on regardless. "I thought this was supposed to be the land of the free, but you're letting slavers into Congress?" Here he gestures at Jefferson, who's looking at him with a perplexed smile.
"And who are you?" The American asks in accented French, an easy smile on his face. "Fresh off the boat, I see." He nods to the salt stains on Ronan's clothes with a disparaging look.
Suddenly Ronan’s surging forward and it’s only Lazare’s hand on the sleeve of his coat that stops him from marching straight up to Jefferson. The warning tug at his wrist isn’t enough to deter Ronan from answering his question.
“Ronan Mazurier. I represent the people of France.” He’s playing it up a bit, but in front of someone like this he doesn’t care. “Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"A congressional senator for the state of Virginia.” There isn’t an ounce of embarrassment on Thomas Jefferson’s face. He looks Ronan up and down. "I suppose, Ronan Mazurier, that you're here with the Compte de Peyrol. I’ve heard something of you from Verailles. His little, uh… pet revolutionary, it would seem?"
That’s the last straw, and even Lazare seems to know it, because he lets go of Ronan’s coat at the same instant he rushes forward, winds back, and prepares to sock this overconfident con in the face. The whole room seems to hold its breath on his approach.
Before he can get there, however, someone beats him to the punch - literally. A flash of green appears from the side of the room and rushes into Jefferson’s personal space, glaring up at him with a fierceness that almost matches Ronan’s.
He’s small and thin, but dressed in the same clothes as most of the other men here - a politician, then. Both of his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and Ronan can see muscles bunching in his jaw as he grinds his teeth. “Jefferson.” He bites out in what Ronan is surprised to hear is a perfect French accent. “Cabinet’s about to start, and while I’d love to see our guests beat you to a pulp, Washington wants you in there.”
Jefferson obviously takes a couple of seconds to parse this, and then grins and says something in English that Lazare translates under his breath. “So he’s considering my budget proposal,” he whispers to Ronan.
The shorter man replies. “Dont get ahead of yourself,” Laz echoes. “It’s dead in the water.”
Jefferson shrugs and opens the door to the room beyond. He says something to the shorter man that has Franklin biting back a laugh and the shorter man hunching his shoulders. Then the man bows and replies in a mocking tone, and Thomas Jefferson frowns, spins, and strides into the cabinet. Before the door closes, Hamilton catches it and looks back at the pair of them. “Nice to meet someone who’s as against that prick as I am,” he says in French. “I’m pretty sure someone should be by to show you to- there we go.” He nods towards a harried-looking woman who’s just emerged from a doorway. “Emily,” he nods, and she smiles formally before he ducks into the courtroom and out of sight. Emily turns to Ronan and Laz.
“Mister Jefferson has invited you to stay with him at his home here in New York,” she says in careful French.
“Stay with him? I’d rather-” an elbow in his side stops Ronan from finishing that sentence as Lazare steps forward and offers a small bow.
“We’d be honoured to accept his invitation.”
“He’s an ass,” Ronan says later as he paces the sitting room of Thomas Jefferson’s New York home. He’s already dismissed three maids with orders to ‘eat whatever they most want in the pantry’. Lazare is sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands.
“He’s also one of the only American politicians lobbying to help us.” Lazare groans. “I can’t believe you almost punched him in the face.”
“He had it coming!” Ronan protests, throwing an arm out. “‘All men are created free and equal’ - what a load of horse shit. This place is as bad as the ancien régime.”
Laz raises an eyebrow at that. “I’d advise you to keep opinions like that to yourself,” he bites out in a warning tone.
They’ve already met with two other ambassadors before leaving Parliament, both of whom were already aware of the incident on their arrival. Gossip travels faster here than on the streets back home, and Ronan is already sick of the guarded, disparaging looks he’s started receiving from anyone and everyone Jefferson has connections to. He feels stifled and judged, and it bridles.
“Why should I? Why should I give a horse’s ass what any of these stupid aristocrats think? They can all eat shit for all I care. They don’t own me.”
“No, but they control this entire country!” Laz explodes. “They control where their troops go. They control who they trade with. They control which countries they decide to make or break alliances with! I am trying to keep France’s relationship with America stable so we don’t fall straight into another war and I will not have you screwing it up with your pathetic attempts at moral superiority, you idiot peasant!”
Ronan glares. This isn’t just the glare he reserves for when he’s angry over morals or politics, it’s cold fury. “Well, glad to know we’re on the same page,” he hisses through clenched teeth, and Lazare instantly knows he’s said the wrong thing.
“Ronan, wait-” he says as the other man gets up to leave, grabbing onto the elbow of his coat.
“Don’t call me that.”
Ronan is probably the stupidest man alive. Too bad he took so damn long to realise it. He fumes as he marches up the stairs in Thomas Jefferson's house, following his memory of the directions one of the maids had given him to 'the guest wing'. A wing for guests. An entire wing in this dumb, stupid house that apparently isn't even Jefferson's real home, set aside just in case someone came to visit him in New York. Ronan thinks of the stone bench he slept under for two weeks in Paris. What the hell would these people understand of what France needs?
Opening the door to his room he's surprised to see a pile of clothes on the bed. Folded neatly on top of the duvet is a pair of trousers, a loose shirt, and a jacket. It's the jacket that catches his attention the most - it's yellow, almost exactly the same shade as his old one, but he can see without even needing to unfold it that the fabric is far higher quality, and that it's tailored to fit much better. There's no way Thomas Jefferson would think to buy him this, so it has to have been- "Peyrol," he mutters, examining the stitching of the hem. He must have placed an order ahead of their arrival.
He's not going to wear these clothes. He knows his current jacket is full of salt and grime and sticks to his skin like mud, and he has no other replacement for it in the chilled New York air, but he can't bring himself to wear this. Exploring a door near the wardrobe he finds a bathroom, complete with an already-drawn bath, and he's not quite sure if he should feel insulted or grateful that the servants thought he needed it. He strips and throws his clothes in the water before getting in himself, scowling at the needlessly expensive soaps before choosing one that smells like lavender and setting to work cleaning a month's sea voyage off of himself. The soap works well on the clothes as well, and eventually he manages to get his jacket back to a somewhat presentable state.
Ronan doesn't emerge from his room until nightfall, when Jefferson sends a maid to fetch him for dinner. Lazare listens to the disgruntled thump-thump, thump-thump of his footsteps on the stairs and wishes, praying to any God that will listen, that he would act like the twenty-three-year-old he is and not a toddler who's just been denied sweets.
His wish is emphatically denied, but at least there's no more yelling. Ronan slumps down in his chair, ignoring Jefferson's awkward attempt at striking up a conversation, and instead smiles warmly at the girl who brings out a plate of soup for him. Jefferson leans over to Lazare and whispers. "We didn't exactly get off to a good start, did we?" He asks in English. Lazare shakes his head. Ronan, ever a picture of class, starts to slurp his soup as loudly as possible.
"I'm sorry, are my idiot peasant manners bothering you?" He asks when Lazare turns to look. Lazare makes a point of not answering. Somewhere near the door, out of sight, a servant giggles.
In five minutes Ronan's soup is finished and he rises to leave. Jefferson looks put out. "You won't stay for supper?" He asks in his halting French. Ronan looks confused.
"We've had supper." He gestures to his empty plate. Lazare's heart tugs a bit at that. Of course Ronan would never have encountered a three-course meal before.
"We've had entrées." Jefferson laughs. "There is more. If you want it."
Ronan warily looks to the side, where a maid is holding a tray of lamb. She grins at him and nods. Uncertainly, he sits back down.
They finish the meal in silence.
"He really is a peasant, isn't he?" Jefferson says to Lazare as they sit afterwards in one of his many sitting rooms. "Not just a common politician. A peasant."
"And who better to represent them?" Laz's reply is stiff, even he can hear the accidental bias.
"Can he even read?"
"Of course he can."
"He doesn't speak English."
"I can translate."
"For Pity's sake, I don't understand it. Why is he here?"
Lazare pauses for a moment. "Because this is where he needs to be."
He leaves who exactly needs it up to interpretation.