Chapter Text
Autumn was colder than the winter, Pierce believed.
Pierce tended to suffer from bouts of seasonal depression, on top of his regular depression that had come back to haunt him alongside that dreaded whiskey bottle he so dearly clung to. Autumn was the beginning of the end, the world changing and the people with it, settling in for the austere winter. He had tried, he really did, to fix things. He wanted to do better for himself, for those around him to not be so horribly outcast for the mere association with him. But 1869 was a cruel year for Franklin Pierce.
Despite his efforts to set himself straight, regain his dignity if not his reputation, he fell back into old habits again. The bottom of a whiskey bottle was his only companion, and soon he found himself battling a failing liver. But Pierce didn't want to battle, not anymore. He hired a nurse and caretaker, and let his hubris catch up to him.
Pierce’s failing body made each heave of breath agony. He hardly even had the energy to greet his caretaker and those around his bedside. Who were they? He couldn't tell anymore. His head throbbed and his sides ached and pulled at his muscles. The unfamiliar faces picked up some liquid by the side of his bed and poured a glass for him. He thought, he hoped, it was whiskey.
He barely moved his body from his bed to thank them. It was often bad at night, and only getting worse as the nearing winter squeezed more and more hours of daylight from him. A shaking hand brought the glass to his lips, whiskey, to bring down his pounding headache. His eyes scrunched up as the burning liquid lit a fire down his throat, the aftertaste lingering bitterly on his tongue. His grip tightened, willing with all his might that the pain would cease rattling in his skull. The cool Concord air may have lessened the hot tension across his head, but it wrapped its chilly fingers all throughout his body in return. Pierce sighed, letting his body hang limp in his bed, palming the bed sheets till the ringing in his ears went away. Daring to open his eyes, he looked over at the photos adorning the wall, blurry, but just able enough for Pierce to recognise them. In the middle was his beloved Jennie and little Bennie, smiles adorning their faces such as he hadn't seen in years. They weren’t looking at him, God no, his existence was enough to make the Mona Lisa frown, they were looking at each other, grasping hands and keeping each other in such splendid company. Pierce could only pray he would be allowed to keep them company in return when he inevitably lost grip of his mortality. That is, if his pathetic existence was kind enough to let him go soon.
Alone and cold, this was no way for a man to live. He knew his time was not long, he hoped his time would not be long. He didn't expect his last days to be this miserable, but God loves playing his silliest tricks on his most foolish jesters, and so Pierce lay there, frozen and in pain and begging for a reunion he wasn't sure was going to happen. The sheets were thin, nuzzling as far as he could into whatever warmth they would feel generous enough to give him, he shut his eyes and prayed for sleep to shirk himself of his pain if only for a moment. This last week had been full of fretful sleeping, waking up in cold sweats and gut churning nausea, Pierce could hardly take another night of it. But it seemed he wasn't going to go painlessly in his sleep, oh no, that was too easy. He was to be present for his death.
Pierce caught the smallest glimpse of his face in the dark mirror, only the pale moonlight illuminating his face. It was sallow, bile yellow, his eyes contoured with thick purple bags hanging low on his cheeks. His curls had gone greasy, he hadn't found it in himself to bathe recently, with cracked cold sores across his lips. Everything about him was breaking down slowly, surely. Perhaps tonight he would all unravel before these perfect strangers. They whispered amongst themselves, low and defeated as they looked on at the particularly sad sight before them. Pierce moaned in pain as the whiskey clearly wasn't doing its job. His muscles convulsed, body working overtime to try and sedate the inevitable failure that was to come.
He hadn't even realised how long he had his eyes closed until he opened them one final time. He looked across at the unfamiliar faces once more, slowly seeming slightly more familiar. The clock was ticking, 4:30. In the morning? In the afternoon? No… no it was still dark… but the days were getting shorter. The darkness was to overtake all of their lives soon. Perhaps he could shine a bit of light into his life before he left. Maybe he would call on Henry, or the Aikens tomorrow. See how they are. He had been cooped up much too long here in Concord, the winter was fast approaching, and Autumn was liberal in its reminders of that fact. He dared an indulgent look at his photos again, and smiled. Franklin Pierce will stay for those he loves yet.
…
Dead.
Franklin Pierce.
October 8th 1869.
Cause of Death: Liver Cirrhosis.
…
The later months of 1869 were quiet for the ghosts of the White House. The war was over, reconstruction had begun, and the first flakes of winter were beginning to make themselves known on the front lawn. During these months, activities for the President were mostly done huddled up to a roaring fire, paperwork done quietly and days ending early with the sparing sunlight. For Washington, there was little to worry about. The most recent arrival, Mr Buchanan, had settled in amongst the others surprisingly well. Buchanan was not happy at the prospect of spending his afterlife here, few were, and it took a few awkward and slanted conversations with old allies and enemies to get back to speed with things. Buchanan found his friends eventually (surprisingly getting along with Mr Madison of all people) and so left the General with no projects to deal with. Washington would accompany Buchanan to the shores of the Potomac occasionally; he went down to see if he could spot any frogs by its banks. Washington didn't understand his infatuation with frogs in the beginning, and looked on for other wildlife too, but Buchanan was insistent. Eventually, Washington found the appeal, and came to enjoy joining Mr Buchanan for his trips to the Potomac for frog-watching.
It was another dull October morning for the General. It was very early in the morning, for some reason he couldn't find it in himself to sleep, so he was wandering through the White House grounds with aimless steps. He was offered to join in a game of cards with some others, but he refused. He didn't wish to wake the President after all, and those games could get very rowdy when Jefferson decided to cheat a hand out of Monroe. Again.
The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, dawn not yet ready to peek out from the horizon and lay out its weak rays across the Potomac. Washington’s boots made no footprints yet the weight permeated his thoughts. He had been thinking quite a lot, being dead gave way to such measures, about the country. About its place. It was a new era, that was undeniable, as the country settled from its civil war, its destruction was still keenly felt. But the vile Andrew Johnson was out of power, a beloved general had taken his place, and now, now Washington believed, wounds could truly begin to heal. No more fighting over the thirteenth amendment, no more talk of impeachment and traitors and hangings, no more shouts from here to Congress about all manner of issues. The dead bodies had been accounted for, the clean up had truly begun, and hopefully President Grant could be the man to wrap up the wounds right. But now? Now it was in-between, the middling period. They settled in for winter, hunkering until Spring came to give way to whatever needed to be done. It was needed, a breath of cold fresh air. Of silence.
Well, it was silent except for the frogs.
Washington has found his wandering mind pulled back to reality as he heard Buchanan sit by the edge of the riverbank, amongst the reeds. He was usually here, although his visits had become less frequent as he settled better into the afterlife over the last year. Every now and again though, he liked to indulge in his nostalgia, and Washington quite enjoyed joining him in that endeavour. He could hear Buchanan mutter under his breath, probably rambling to the frogs of all the goings-on in the White House, which is to say, not a lot. If there was one thing Buchanan loved more than frogs however, it was gossip.
“Mr Buchanan”
Washington announced himself, and Buchanan’s head whipped around, wispy white hair standing spiked on his head, as he let go of a bright smile to Washington.
“Ah, General, forgive me, I thought I was alone”
Buchanan motioned to Washington to bend down to his level, a translucent finger pointing towards a faint croaking sound in the brush. Washington joined him in his observations, squinting his eyes in order to spot the creature in the darkness of early morning.
“Do you see them, sir? I was just discussing with them the President’s ideas on the fifteenth amendment, I believe he will be attempting more to pass it through Congress sometime next year. Let me tell you, our amphibious friends here are far better listeners than any man in Congress…”
Buchanan chuckled to himself, and Washington couldn't help but join in. He began to see the flecks of green in the marsh, hopping about the waters and not listening to a single word of Buchanan’s gossip, but all the same, he continued. Washington simply sat and listened, letting the slow pace of these late months wash over him.
However, that familiar feeling that came over him was not one of contentment.
He shivered as a hot flush came across his body, and he realised his peaceful autumn morning was to be taken to a halt by a new ghost. He got up suddenly, startling Buchanan from his yapping and announced his departure to both Buchanan and his frogs.
“Sorry sir, but I believe we have a new guest… I will have to take my leave.”
Buchanan's eyes widened. He had heard that quite a large portion of the times that new ghosts arrived Washington tended to be in the company of older ghosts, so Buchanan couldn't help but try his luck and ask:
“...may I come with you, General?”
Washington furrowed his brows, not fully convinced.
“Ah… I'm not sure who it is joining us… it could be someone you don't wish to meet, are you sure?”
“Sure as anything sir”
Buchanan heaved himself from his sitting position, a spark of curiosity (or thirst for the inside scoop, more likely) in his eye. Washington sighed.
“Ok, but do not tell the others I agreed to take you along. They would complain of favouritism if they knew.”
Buchanan mimicked locking his lips sealed.
“Good man. Now come along, I'll have to tell you the procedure as we walk.”
Washington sped ahead, with Buchanan behind, waddling to catch up with the determined ghost.
“Stay behind me as we approach the door”
Washington explained as they reached the White House proper, dodging and weaving through empty hallways.
“I take on the burden because the people trust me. I fear a reaction unknown if they were greeted by someone else”
Buchanan hummed in agreement, keeping a safe distance from Washington before almost slamming into the man as he stopped suddenly before a door. Buchanan remembered it well, the same door he fell headfirst into last year. The memories weren't pleasant, but this wasn't about him. He stood back as Washington brushed himself down, adjusting his hat and queue to its usual military preciseness, and knocked on the door. An undeniable squeak of fear was made on the other side, and so, Washington opened it up. Washington wasn't sure who was to greet him on the other side, he assumed maybe Fillmore, he was getting on in age now, or maybe Johnson, he wasn't doing so well after the death of his son after all. The face who greeted Washington, however, was not so unsurprising. His hubris had finally caught up with him, sitting in a heap on the floor, just as lovingly dressed up in misery the day of his inauguration. Franklin Pierce had reached the end of the bottle at last.
“Welcome back to the White House, Mr President”
Washington extended an arm out to help the man from his pathetic position, Buchanan still just out of sight, curiosity growing like a hunger as he tried to guess who was their new roommate.
What neither Washington nor Buchanan could have guessed was what Pierce was to do next.
He burst into tears.
“Why… why…”
Pierce moaned through cracked breaths, tears streaming down his softened features as the clock set back the wrinkles adorning his face. He shoved his shaking hands into his dark curls, gripping at them forcibly as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, hardly believing this was where he had to be in his afterlife. His whole body was convulsing, ignoring the offer of help extended to him by Washington. He hardly even processed the fact he was greeted by Washington. The only thing he heard was ‘welcome to the white house’ and that was enough to spill his guts all over the carpet.
“I can’t… I can't be… haven't I been punished enough?”
Pierce muttered under his breath, sending out silent prayers to an unlistening God. Washington looked over at Buchanan, eyes brimming with worry. Buchanan was not so sure as to what to do in the situation. He knew that this job wasn't easy, bringing a living man to the realm of the dead never was, but such a violent burst of sadness was strange. He was frozen in place as Pierce continued to lament.
“Oh God… please, I just want to see my Bennie again… I want to see Jennie and Frank and little Franklin too… I want to see Benjamin and father and mother… I want… I need to… I need to make things right with them, wherever they may be… I need… Oh God…”
He blubbered on and on, the sentence growing less comprehensible with each whine. His weak body dropped to the floor as if it were melting, hands never leaving his face, far too ashamed to face the afterlife laid out before him. Washington told Buchanan to stay where he was, and knelt down to the new arrival, a kind hand to his shoulder.
“Mr Pierce… I understand this may all seem so unfamiliar and upsetting…”
Pierce ignored him, too swallowed up in his own grief to acknowledge the help being offered. Washington sat down beside him, not pressuring him up, but certainly trying to get a better look at his hidden gaze, hiding from Washington, as he hid from the world.
“Won’t you indulge an old man? Join me for a walk?”
Pierce didn't respond. He thought maybe if he squeezed his eyes shut tight he would return to his cold bedside in Concord, in the writhing pain he felt before. It was preferable to being here. Anything was.
“My… Jennie… oh, oh how sorry I am… even in death I disappoint you, I cannot leave this place you warned me against all those times…”
Washington stroked his back carefully as Pierce curled himself into a ball, burying his body from view. He didn't wish to face himself, he didn't wish to face Washington or the White House or whatever other cruel tricks that had been laid out for him. He simply wished to live out his sentence in the dark, and once God saw him righteously punished, he may consider letting him see his loved ones again. Buchanan simply watched on in nauseating pity. He knew Pierce back during his Presidency, and just like everyone else, he knew it was a shit show because of Pierce's own faults. But that didn't make the scene before him any less heart breaking, or pathetic, as some could describe it. Buchanan never felt as if Pierce liked him all too much despite his famed agreeability, but as another Polk and Jackson lapdog, that wasn't surprising. Buchanan couldn't say he had much empathy for the man when he swooped in and stole the nomination from him anyway. But in a strange way, when all was stripped away, the intrigue and parties and the like, Buchanan was simply an old man, sitting by as another younger man wept in the corner over his wife and children. And between them, an even older, wiser head on tough shoulders was doing everything he could to soothe the pain of separation without reunion. What kind of man was Buchanan if he did not even attempt at help? There was nothing to fight for anymore, nothing going on in these dreary days, the least he could do was offer a small corner of his comfort to the man.
“Mr Pierce…”
Buchanan began. Washington looked over at him, a little annoyed that Buchanan ignored his instructions to stay out of the way for the time being, but wasn't willing to begin an argument in front of the already fragile man. Pierce made no visible effort to show he was listening.
“...would you care to go frog watching with me?”
The almost absurdity of the request made Pierce’s sobs stop for a moment. His eyes ran red and tears streamed down his puffy red cheeks, but at least he was showing his face. He squeaked out a confused,
“Pardon?”
Washington almost told him to knock it off, to leave Pierce to his own devices, whatever he needed to get it out of his system. But Buchanan saw this man for who he was. Someone who spent far too much time in that damn prison of a head of his, and needed some relief out of it for once. Sitting in an enclosed space weeping wasn't going to help, and so he asked again, with firmer confidence.
“Would you wish to join me frog watching, Mr Pierce?”
Pierce lifted his head from his body, not quite looking either man in the eye, but confused curiosity was beginning to tug at his interest. He didn’t quite know how to reply.
“There are… frogs? In the White House?”
Pierce questioned dumbly. Of all the people to ask him to… rebuild bridges? Is this who it was? It was Buchanan? The man he forced off to Britain to keep out of his hair? The man who took the nomination and the party’s confidence from him? That despised old fool who only grew more hated with each passing year since his Presidency? Him?
It seemed they had more in common than Pierce previously thought.
“Yes sir, by the river. The General and I were just looking at them before you joined us. If you’re quick, we may see them yet before the sun rises high enough”
The silence after the fact was heavy. Not even Washington dared break it, letting Pierce decide for himself how he wished to accept his new world. The new ghost loosened his muscles, clamped around himself ever so slightly, raising a hand hesitantly, before grasping the end of a tableside and pulling himself upwards. The twittering of birds could be heard outside, the sunrise wouldn’t be long now. Perhaps the sun’s rays were warmer here than in frozen old Concord. Only one way to find out, Pierce supposed.
Buchanan came to Pierce’s side, a hand firmly grasped at his waist to help the other man up, and pulled him close to his own centre of gravity. Pierce flailed a little in response, his delicate hands grasping Buchanan’s lapels for stability, knuckles turning white in the process. It would have damaged Pierce’s pride if he wasn’t already red eyed and snotty from wailing. Buchanan made no judgement (very unlike him) and took Pierce from the little closet he found himself in. Buchanan looked back briefly at Washington, as if asking for approval to continue. Washington nodded once, and that's all Buchanan needed. He saw the General get up and leave the introductions to Buchanan. Perhaps he could let the other ghosts do this duty for him again in the future. Hah! Fat chance.
The silence grew that bit more comfortable as Pierce learned to use his legs again, propped up by Buchanan, one foot in front of the other. His vision was still blurry with tears, and his throat dry from hiccups, but despite losing the battle with his liver, Pierce had yet to lose the war. He would get his legs working again, replan, rethink. But that was quite a lot of things to do, and the winter months weren’t suited to busy behaviour. So instead, for the time being, he would go watch the frogs.
“What’s happening to me James?”
Pierce finally had the courage to ask Buchanan, his footfalls steady but not strong. He rested his head on the other man’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as the waves of emotion that crashed down on him began to settle. Buchanan tightened his grip on Pierce’s waist in response, letting him go weak against his hardly more stable frame. But that didn’t matter, not yet, anyway.
“Well, uhm, damn, the General explains this better than I do but… we… live here, as apparitions. We cannot leave, but our grounds are rather liberal, everything within this house’s address.”
Pierce let the realisation turn over in his mind, pursing his lips to stop fresh tears coming out as his fears were realised. Luckily enough, it would be caught in the fabric of Buchanan’s poorly tied cravat anyway. Pierce still felt a little bad about Buchanan’s clothes being used as his tissue, but it seemed the other man didn’t mind. Or at least, he didn’t complain. Instead, he continued on, as they left the confines of the house and out to the open air of the gardens, Pierce felt his soul lift ever so slightly. The sun’s rising rays were warmer here after all.
“No one can see us, except the First family, but we cannot speak to them. The old General has a whole lecture on the threat it could pose to our country if the President knew of us, yada yada…”
Buchanan attempted to lighten the mood, chip off a bit of the melancholy mould festering all around Pierce. Pierce responded, voice weak, but still with a smallest grain of humour.
“That shall be no problem for me sir. I hardly think the President likes me too much anyways.”
He wheezed what Buchanan assumed to be a chuckle as they walked under the tree, wind whistling the red bush above their heads, crunchy leaves decorated the grass with all manner of warm hues. Buchanan laughed too, trying to keep Pierce’s mind from wandering too far. He loosened his hold on the man, testing to see if he could stand on his own a bit more, but still not feeling secure enough himself to let him wander alone. It seemed Pierce didn’t wish to wander just yet anyway.
They arrived at the shore of the Potomac (thank the heavens old man Quincy Adams hadn’t showed up for his morning nude swim just yet, poor Pierce had been through enough without having to see that too) and Buchanan stood just before the grass merged into the mud, sweet croaking still just heard beside the soft lapping of water from the gentle stream’s flow. The sun’s light began to peek through the water reeds, the slick backs of the frogs glimmering in the sunrise.
“There, you see them? Marvelous creatures, aren’t they?”
Buchanan guided Pierce’s line of sight to the frogs, hopping in and out of the water with a splash. Their gentle ribbits echoed like the ripples they cause throughout the still river, bounding up from ground to water as if they belonged to each world perfectly. Pierce wished he belonged to each of his world so seamlessly, perhaps his political career would have turned out better. Pierce tentatively let go of Buchanan’s hold, using him as a kind of post to get on his knees and get a better look at the bounding life by his cold feet. He hesitated before reaching out, realising he wasn’t able to spook them, and let his translucent fingers pass through the nearest one, adorned with a shiny emerald coat and deep black eyes.
“Yes… Yes they are”
Buchanan joined in next to Pierce, still protectively grasping his side as he wobbled, and began to ramble, just as he was before. He spoke to the frogs and to Pierce of all the slow gossip that had been going through the ghosts and the staff at the time. Rumours of a disagreement between Mr Adams and Mr Jefferson, the bombastic family life of the old maid who tended to the First Lady, discussions of the décor the First Lady had in mind for the entrance parlour, the time the President’s voice cracked when yelling at a cruel Congressman, the continuing saga of Mr Jackson, Mr Harrison and Mr Taylor trying to one up one another with each’s war stories that were becoming less and less believable. Not once did Buchanan mention politics, he didn’t discuss the fifteenth amendment, any of the bills due to be discussed or the ones that had already passed through. Not a word. Pierce needed to come back into the world, but there was no sense throwing him into the deep end. For now it was just him, Buchanan and the frogs.
“And… hah… oh dear, Mr Tyler knocked the hat from Mr Van Buren’s hand, Lord I didn’t realise he felt so strongly on the subject, and said that ‘should you walk into a gentlemen’s club in the South wearing such preposterous headgear, it would be grounds enough for treason!’ and Mr Van Buren replied, ‘you should know plenty about treason, eh John?’”
The pair of them burst into laughter as Buchanan concluded his story, brilliant pinks and oranges painted the sky and the sun rose to greet the morning, a new day had begun. Pierce no longer needed held up by Buchanan’s arm, but he didn’t let it go just yet, he leant still onto his chest, the comforting rumble of his chuckles the best physical contact he’s had in years. He exhaled, closing his eyes as the deep grief that enveloped his soul loosened its grip ever so slightly. He turned to face Buchanan, eyes still glassy, the world still wretched, but now the sun was up? It was a little warmer. The madness is a little quieter. The world may not have stopped, but it certainly slowed down.
“Oh Goodness James… the sun’s nearly high in the sky…”
Pierce hesitated, unsure if this was exactly what he wanted.
It might not have been what he wanted, but it's certainly what he needed.
“Shall we greet the others? I’m unsure if the General has mentioned my coming yet… he seems to trust you, doesn’t he? To let you handle my painful arrival”
Buchanan laughed, grasping Pierce’s hand as they got up together, dusting off the nonexistent dirt from his shoulders.
“I’m not so sure about that…”
Buchanan smiled, and Pierce tried to replicate it. It seemed that, even if his mind wasn’t fully off his dread, he still was able to stuff a portion off it with his fluffy gossip and frogs. That at least gave him something else to think about than his own doom.
“But I’m sure the others will be glad to see you. Is there anyone in particular you’re excited to meet?”
They walked side by side up the hill once more to unite with the rest of the ghosts, leaving the family of frogs behind to their own devices.
“I must admit my excitement to see General Jackson, I met him once before as a young man you see..”
Pierce let himself be distracted as their voices became faint, Buchanan letting him ramble about his interest and sharing a few well placed embarrassing stories of his time as a ghost to even things out. The worst thing was Jackson with a big head he thought.
As the pair disappeared into the dark halls of the White House, the gentle frogs left alone and the winter coming in to settle, the dreaded autumn began to shed itself of its burden for Mr Pierce. A few days later, the President issued a day of mourning over Pierce's death. His words for him were few, but kind. That's all Pierce needed really, as he settled next to the roaring fire of the library next to Buchanan, his head resting on his shoulder letting the warmth uplift his dead soul. It was colder than he expected, he needed all the warmth he could get.
Autumn was colder than Winter after all.