Chapter Text
Spencer Reid | Alexander Hamilton
Even without an eidetic memory, the headlines and images from the morning paper over the last week would have been seared into Alexander’s brain. One week. Today marked one week since Hurricane Katrina had made landfall, and all the images in the papers and all the news were way too similar to what he remembered from his first life.
The roaring of the sea and wind — fiery meteors flying about in the air — the prodigious glare of almost perpetual lightning — the crash of the falling houses — and the ear-piercing shrieks of the distressed, were sufficient to strike astonishment into Angels. A great part of the buildings throughout the island are levelled to the ground — almost all the rest very much shattered — several persons killed and numbers utterly ruined...
Two hundred and something years later, and what was on the news? Buildings leveled to the ground. Several (thousands of) persons killed. Nothing changed.
Yes, it was all too familiar to Alexander. If everyone but Garcia hadn’t already submitted their guesses before the 29th, then Alexander’s reaction to the images would have surely been another clue to his identity.
Where now, oh! vile worm, is all thy boasted fortitude and resolution?
The only new part about the images, Alexander mused, was the ability to get an aerial view of the destruction and rapidly transmit it across the world.
He tried to tune the news from the TV out as he focused on the case file in front of him, but it was hard. One thing to be proud of, he mused, was the efforts of the Coast Guard. When he had started it as the Revenue Cutter Service, he hadn’t imagined it would evolve into an organization that could help with disaster response and relief. Not that he would claim the efforts of the current Coast Guard to help in New Orleans as his own efforts. But he had started the Coast Guard, so in one small way he felt he was helping, other than what he had already donated to the relief efforts.
He remembered all too well what it was like to have everything you knew destroyed by a hurricane.
He forced himself to look at the case file, absorbing himself in work for a while before he felt someone’s eyes on him.
“I have a question,” Gideon told him.
Alexander had confirmed his identity not three days earlier, and it seemed the weekend had not completely tempered the wonder his teammates had at working with someone out of the history textbooks. Oh, they were treating him the same as before, but from the looks they had been sending him all morning he could tell it took a bit of effort on their part.
“So do I,” admitted Hotch.
“Same here,” Elle said, to agreement from the rest of the team.
“Ask away,” Alexander said, wondering what they would be about. The Revolutionary War? His work as Treasury Secretary? The Constitutional Convention? The Federalist Papers? The duel? “Gideon first, since he asked first,” Alexander added.
Gideon’s question turned out to be related to none of the options Alexander had predicted. “You might be aware I am fond of birdwatching,” Gideon began. “And after reading about the passenger pigeon, I was very disappointed to have been born too late to see giant flocks darken the sky. You, however, would have lived in their natural range when they weren’t yet extinct. My question is: did you ever see those flocks? And what were they like?”
Alexander had been astonished upon learning of their extinction. They had seemed so numerous as to be practically infinite. It beggared belief that such a plentiful bird could ever be wiped out. But apparently the combination of telegraphs, to tell hunters of where the flocks were, and rails, to transport said hunters to the birds before they left, had sounded the death knell for the once-abundant bird.
“I saw them several times,” Alexander replied. “The first time was several months after I had arrived in New York. You are correct - they were able to darken the sky. There were so many birds that the sky became shadowed, as if dusk had arrived several hours early. But even before the flock arrived, the sheer noise - it sounded as if there had been a crash - they made could be heard from several miles away. I asked my friend Hercules, with whom I was lodging at the time, what the cacophony was, and he took me out with a rifle so we could have pigeon meat for supper. We, along with dozens of others, had the same idea - the flocks were so thick that obtaining meat was like shooting geese in a barrel. The devastation the flock left in its wake, when it departed, was immense. The only other natural phenomenon I witnessed that surpassed the destruction wrought by the passenger pigeon was the hurricane. Branches upon branches had snapped from the weight of the birds. A few trees had even toppled. There were so many birds that the only thing I could think to compare them to were the quails sent by God to the Israelites in Exodus - meat enough to eat “until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it.” And, of course, as anyone familiar with pigeons today could tell you, the birds also left large amounts of excrement in their wake,” Alexander added slightly ruefully. “I saw them again several times during the war, as well as after. There is nothing quite like those flocks today.”
“What do you want us to call you?” Hotch asked.
“Alexander, Alex, Spencer, Spence, Reid, Hamilton, Hammy - I’ll answer to all of those,” Alexander said. “I think of myself as Alexander, but I answer to Spencer as well. Until I go public, though, perhaps only call me variations of Spencer Reid when we are in the presence of anyone not on the team.”
“Why aren’t you public? Both Franklin and Madison are,” Garcia asked.
“I don’t want anyone to say that any of my accomplishments are only because I used to be a Founding Father. You know the resentment and prejudice against Reincarnates - that those of use who were well-known get special treatment, that we have advantages from remembering previous lives, that those of us who are deemed important will get careers and positions handed to them on the basis of their previous life. I cannot do anything about any advantages I have from remembering my first life, but I know that I would be classified as one of the people who were important and well-known. And yes - I wanted it that way and am proud of my accomplishments. But any accomplishments in this life before I go public will not be able to be attributed to special treatment from being a Founding Father, if nobody knew about that fact. They would only be able to be attributed to my own - not inconsiderable - talents. Eventually I’m going to go into politics,” he added. “I’m going to go to New York and run for Senator - of course after I quit my job here, due to the Hatch Act. Once I get elected, on my own merits, then I’ll go public. Unless, of course, somebody figures out who I was beforehand. Aside from going by Spencer instead of Alexander, I’m not making all that many efforts to hide who I was. I’ve been to the graves of my family and friends in mourning clothes. I have a political blog under the name of Publius - even if I do not mention my identity as Spencer Reid on there - again, Hatch Act - as you proved a comparison of writing styles could at least get someone to realize that Alexander Hamilton has been reincarnated. I’m not going to deny it if asked who I used to be, I’m just not going to shout it from the rooftops until I succeed on my own merits.”
“Why the FBI?” Gideon asked.
“Well, I wasn’t allowed to join the military,” Alexander laughed, only slightly bitterly, to his credit. “Ever since the Military Reincarnation Act, us Founding Fathers are too important to risk being killed.”
“So you chose a job chasing serial killers,” Morgan said flatly.
“There’s no Federal Bureau of Investigation Reincarnation Act, so I’m allowed,” Alexander said. “And I want to get my name out there and make a name for myself. This seemed to work for David Rossi.” He sobered slightly. “I also have a respect for the rule of law, I always have. Well, a just rule of law,” he added, seeing several of them open their mouths, no doubt intending to bring up the time he rebelled against the British government. “It has not always made me popular. As a lawyer I defended the right of Loyalists to keep their property in New York, after the war. That hardly made me popular among my former compatriots, the Patriots. And considering I had been an aide to Washington himself, I was not overly popular among the Tories, despite defending their rights. I could have been a lawyer again - I nearly was - but, well… I did want some action. Solving cases is intellectually stimulating, and I get to fly around the country I helped to found. See what it is today. I’m not going to be doing this forever, but for now - I’m making a name for myself, helping other people, upholding the law, being intellectually challenged, and getting some action. And, of course, I am covering politics and economics on my blog in the meantime.”
He spent the next hour answering several questions from the rest of the team, and likely would have, and could have, spent longer doing so, but JJ interrupted them, saying they had a case.
“A member of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals got sent a threatening note. Since he’s a federal employee it was booted up the chain to us,” JJ explained, then looked directly at Alexander. “His name’s John Jay.”
Alexander’s stomach suddenly felt as if it was auditioning for the Cirque du Soleil. (Alexander would know; despite the fact that Diana Reid hated him for helping to establish the government, he still tried to see her as often as he could, and in early 1993 he’d seen one of the shows that was newly established in Las Vegas.) Was it really possible Jay was back as well?
People left him. Whether he was Alexander Hamilton, or Spencer Reid, the one constant in his life was that most of the people he loved would end up leaving him, whether it was through death or just packing up and never coming back. So when he had met Hercules again, and the Baron, he had thought they were the exception that proved the rule. This John Jay may have been a judge, but even without Alexander’s luck, there was one major reason why this John Jay couldn’t be his John Jay:
“He’s not registered,” Alexander said, hating how uncertain his voice sounded. Sure, Alexander wasn’t registered either, but if Jay had gone to the trouble of changing his whole name then surely he would have registered. John wasn’t an uncommon name, even if it was rarer than it had been in the eighteenth century. And Jay wasn’t an unheard of last name, either. So it stood to reason that the shared name was merely a coincidence.
On the first day of every month, Alexander memorized the full list of all registered Reincarnates. Every Monday morning, Alexander searched the online database for those he had been close to before, and as of five hours ago, there had been four John Jays registered, none of which went by their full old name. None of which had been Alexander’s John Jay.
So no matter how painful it would be to Alexander, to meet with a judge - possibly even from New York - named John Jay, this was nothing more than a coincidence rubbing in the fact that sooner or later, everybody left Alexander.
“He was born John Curtis, but he and his mother changed their names to her maiden name when he was still a kid,” Garcia reported after a quick google search.
Despite all logic pointing to the contrary, Alexander still had not been able to prevent a swell of hope from rising in him, and that had now been deflated like a popped balloon. See, Alexander, he told himself harshly, the name was just a coincidence. Stop being hopeful, you’ll only hurt yourself.
“He found it in his mail early this morning,” JJ continued. “And apparently he’s also watched one too many crime shows, because he spotted several red flags on the envelope and opened it with actual latex gloves. He called the police once he got to the courthouse for work, and the police just called us in.”
“Latex gloves? Really?” demanded Morgan with a slight laugh.
“He was reminded of the anthrax scare after 9/11, apparently,” JJ said, and they all sobered. The image may have been amusing, but the reasoning wasn’t. “The writer of the note blamed him for being in jail and said that he - or she, I suppose - would make Jay pay.”
“Reid - Hamilton - no, I’ll stick with calling you Reid - Reid, you’ll be working on linguistic analysis of the note as well as going through all of Jay’s previous cases to see who might blame him for their being in jail. Garcia, you’ll run searches on anyone who Reid flags to see if they recently were released from prison. Morgan, you’ll be taking Jay’s statement, Elle and Gideon will be asking around Jay’s apartment complex to see if anyone saw anyone suspicious who might have left the note, and I’ll be talking with the rest of the people at the courthouse. JJ, you try to make sure the media doesn’t catch wind of this and work with the police locally. Wheels up in ten,” Hotch said.
***
Once they got into the courthouse, Alexander and Morgan split off to meet up with Jay, while Hotch left to talk to the others at the courthouse. Morgan knocked on the door of the office that had JOHN JAY written on the nameplate next to the door. “We’re the agents with the FBI,” Morgan called.
The door opened. “I’m Agent Morgan, and this is Agent Reid,” Morgan said, and Jay nodded politely, shook Morgan’s hand, then stopped dead in his tracks when he turned to Alexander. He stared up and down Alexander’s green waistcoat, cravat, and breeches before sighing heavily, even as he fought a smile. Now that Jay had turned to him, Alexander could see that the man, in fact, was a Reincarnate, and one who both recognized him, or at least his clothing, judging by the heavy sigh that Alexander was wont to elicit in people. And his eyes - the outer part of this new John Jay’s irises matched the eye color of Alexander’s John Jay.
Alexander grinned widely, opening his arms wide. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite sluggard!” It wasn’t an insult so much as a nickname derived from Jay’s bad luck that had prevented him from writing as much as Alexander or Madison on the Federalist Papers. They both knew it wasn’t meant to hurt. Jay had told Alexander that if he was a slug, then Alexander was a bee. Madison, they then decided, was an ant. Also hardworking, but tiny. Madison had glowered at them when they presented him with their conclusions, then (obviously lying) claimed that if ants were good enough to lend their name to the Myrmidons, then he didn’t mind being called an ant.
Jay raised an eyebrow. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite busy bee,” he returned as he moved into Alexander’s open arms.
Most people left Alexander. That was just a fact.
Somehow, though, John Jay had come back. It contradicted everything Alexander knew about his lives. Because if Hercules and the Baron weren’t outliers, if more people would be returned to Alexander, then Alexander would start to hope.
And hope was both dangerous and powerful.