Falling Through Time: Basking in Firelight: Book 2

Wardrobe Choices

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Warnings: None. Thought y'all deserved a break.

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Did you know that helping start a rebellion, dying, coming back to life in the flashiest way possible at a rebel rally, restarting the rebellion, fighting in the rebellion, leading the rebellion, being the main reason to have won the rebellion, being the overall public face of the rebellion, helping make the new nation, and framing freedom for the people would get you placed on the presidential ballot without anyone even asking you? Because Jefferson didn't. Well... he actually kinda did, but he didn't give it much thought. Not that he had to worry. George Washington and John Adams would be president, but that still left the places for four vice presidents open. Jefferson did worry about that. He'd either be thrown into vice presidency or onto another cabinet, both of which he didn't ever want to be a part of again. Jefferson hated politics.

But he was just so God damn good at it.

He had the charm, the popularity, the background, the hair. He had it all.

If it was up to him, he'd be in Monticello, piddling away til his heart's content. But the people never let him have his way and he'd always put the nation first. The nation was always first and foremost.

Rain was pounding against the window panes as Jefferson plucked at his violin's strings, staring ahead absentmindedly, his vision unfocused and blurry. The flames of the fireplace lit the otherwise dark house. They were comforting, soothing even, it felt like there were countless good memories in their warmth. Then it was a different rain that was thundering against the ground and a different fire that crackled nearby. The room became a cave and instead of a violin being on Jefferson's lap, it was Hamilton's head as he was sleeping soundly, Jefferson stroking his hair.

The memory quickly faded away as Jefferson jolted, springing up from the couch and twisting around the room, looking for any remnant of the memory clinging to his living room. There was none. But it was still fresh in his mind like he just lived it. He could still feel Hamilton's warmth. Jefferson's mind suddenly jumped to one of the other few memories he possessed of Hamilton. One where Jefferson had him pinned against the wall of Monticello, their hot bodies pressed together, how Jefferson had ached for him, how their mouths clashed together in fiery passion. The need that had burned through every inch of Jefferson's body. The pain he felt when he pulled away, taking every bit of his self-control to do so. How that sensation felt as if he was living it at that very moment when Hamilton stood before him in his office the day he remembered.

He shook both memories from his head and fished out his phone from his back pocket, sending a text to Hamilton for him to elaborate on the fuzzy memory he just remembered. As always, Hamilton's response was immediate, giving the details that his original recounting of the story lacked. Jefferson could feel the fuzziness of the dream sharpen slightly at each word but couldn't remember anything else.

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Hamilton and the crew sat at the local pub where they always met up at on Saturdays. They had to go through extraordinary lengths to keep the paparazzi from finding them out and the owner of the place was kind enough to lend them a back room so the locals wouldn't bother them. With the help of Jefferson's coin of course. Nothing in the world was free after all. People were still untrustful, it was survival of the fittest, a mind frame that the oppressiveness of King George III and his associates rule imposed on most of the Eastern States of America. One that Jefferson hoped to reverse with the new governmental system they created. He missed the days where anyone was willing to take in a stranger, feed them a warm meal and a soft bed for the night without having to worry about waking up to find they'd been robbed or never wake up at all.