Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Forty-Two: The Election of 1800

The Election of 1800

Madison's POV

Slapping the newspaper down on the table, Thomas puts on his best manly-man voice and asks of no one in particular, "Can we get back to politics?"

Quickly, I brush away what was most definitely not a tear, making my own voice gruff. "Please?" I ask, but my voice cracks halfway through the word, making me want to die. It's a good thing Thomas is to afraid of me to give me a hard time about it.

Well, not afraid, per se. More like intimidated. Perhaps respect would be the correct term, but I'm not sure the word is in his vocabulary.

Even as it is, Thomas still shoots me a look, which I combat with one that says I know all your secrets, so if you fuck with me I will chop you into small cubes and feed you to the grieving Hamilton family. He shudders, my message received, before launching into his own pep talk.

"Yo. Every action's got its equal, opposite reaction. John Adams shat the bed." We have a moment of silence for our fallen comrade. No man deserves to go out that way. "I love the guy, but he's in traction." No shit, Einstein. "Poor Alexandra Hamilton? She is missing in action." Hence the newspaper. "So now I'm facing Aaron Burr with his own faction."

Despite my nonchalant air, I'm actually quite worried about this election, and I decide to voice them. I'm concerned Thomas isn't taking this matter as seriously as he should. Our former SOUTHERN MOTHERFUCKING DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICAN isn't easily dissuaded. "He's very attractive in the North. New Yorkers like his chances," I warn him, but he brushes it off, laughing.

"He's not very forthcoming on any particular stances."

That's true. I admit, "Ask him a question: it glances off, he obfuscates, he dances." But still, Thomas, you're running for President! Let's try not to screw this up!

"And they say I'm a Francophile:" he says, throwing his hands up in the air, scandalized. Thomas, that's because you are one. Embrace it. "at least they know I know where France is!"

Ha. John Adams tried to sail to France once, for relations with the Europeans. Guess where he ended up.

Spain.

This is why he got dragged by Hamilton.

"Thomas, that's the problem, see, they see Burr as a less extreme you," I say calmly, using logic to point out the facts so he can see them and start to make smart political moves. It's not that he can't do it on his own, it's just that he won't. So it's times like this that I'm here for.

Grunt. How intellectual, Thomas. Your IQ is showing.

"You need to change course, a key endorsement might redeem you."

"Who did you have in mind?" Thomas asks.

Moment of truth. This plan of mine is genius, but it will only work if he is receptive to the idea. He probably won't be. Giving one last warning, I say to him, "Don't laugh."

Sniggering, he asks, "Who is it?"

I take a deep breath, ignoring the looks I get from Thomas. I can't imagine what he's thinking right now. It's not flattering, I can feel it. "You used to work on the same staff," I say hesitantly, eyes slipping down to the floor even though I have nothing to be ashamed of.

"Whaaaat?" Everything about his posture screams of incredulity.  His arms folded across his chest, his eyebrow raised, and that goddamn smirk closes him off to me, and therefore closes his mind to new ideas. 

"I'm just saying," I huff, now crossing my own arms, "it might be nice," I say, then am hit with a flashback,"it might be nice, to get Hamilton on your side."