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Thomas Jefferson hates Alexander Hamilton.
The grass is green, the sky is blue, and Jefferson hates Hamilton.
Throughout his entire career, that was the steady stone he could always lean back on, an unchanging fact that came as easily as breathing. A feeling so harsh that he was almost glad it was mutual.
It's not that Jefferson had a problem getting along with people who had opposite views from him, though. He loved being challenged almost as much as Alexander did.
Perhaps it was how similar they were that made their contrasts stand out so much.
However, both were much too petty to ever admit that, so the rivalry only burned deeper. Madison, bless his soul, might have been the only person who had the displeasure of listening to Jefferson rant about the other man without any filters on.
Of course, Lafayette, and anyone who would listen, really, would easily see the disdain he held for Hamilton, but his views weren’t the only thing he disliked.
He hated Hamilton’s voice. Hated the way he structured his arguments, hated how he managed to find obscure facts and quotes that could dismantle anything he said in seconds, hated that smug smirk he’d get after rambling on and on until Jefferson lost the point he was originally wanting to make. Hated how good Hamilton looked when he concentrated and how much he enjoyed listening to Hamilton hurling insult after insult at him.
He hated Hamilton with his whole heart.
So, why now, after the duel with Burr had long passed and Hamilton was gone, did he miss him?
It was but a thought lingering in the back of his mind. A small, “Sounds like something Hamilton would say,” whenever someone was a little too stubborn for his liking. Constantly stressing over little holes Hamilton could poke in his speeches and policies, only to remember he wasn’t there to do it.
Even Madison, probably fed up with his friend’s nonsense, once said, “You talk about Hamilton so much, if I didn’t know you, I’d think you were his newly widowed wife.”
Needless to say, he didn’t speak to him for two days after that one.
Which, in turn, only made Madison double down on that metaphor more often.
The first time Jefferson noticed something strange in his home was just under three weeks after Hamilton’s death. Not that he was counting.
The White House, still brand new and being constructed while he lived there, was split into the first floor, used for government-related work, and the upper floor as living quarters for him.
Because of this, he was rarely ever there alone, and unfortunately, workers would often enter the upper floor, whether intentionally or not.
However, cases like these usually ended with him dismissing a lost employee or entering a conversation, not someone touching his belongings or snooping through his things.
Which was why he was particularly surprised when he saw one of his books left on the desk when he knew for sure he hadn’t placed it there.
”The hell?” He muttered as he reached for it, fingers carding through the pages of the book.
He frowned when his hand brushed against a piece of paper tucked between two pages. Blank paper, a substitute bookmark.
He was quite sure this wasn’t his doing, even if it’d be a lie to say he never misplaced things. But he had an array of beautiful, custom-made bookmarks, and would never use a piece of paper over one of them.
Well, maybe Madison decided to read something without his permission, or Burr’s replacement got a little too cocky about boundaries. Which was… uncharacteristic, but was a possibility.
He removed the bookmark, tossing the piece of paper into a trash bin, before placing the book back into its proper place on his bookshelf. He turned around, deciding to think nothing of it.
Surely, this won’t happen again.
Jefferson was absolutely certain this time that he hadn’t placed the book on his table again, and fairly sure that it wasn’t any of his workers, either.
As far as he was aware, no one other than him had been in his room that day, and it irritated him to find that it wasn’t the case.
He marched up to the book, grabbing it with more force than necessary, already shuffling through the pages to find the bookmark.
This time it was a different, larger piece of paper, and something was scribbled on it with quipped handwriting.
’Let me read, asshole.’
Jefferson stared at it.
”What the fuck?”
Not only was someone sneaking into his room and going through his stuff without permission, but now they were also calling him an asshole? That was Alexander Hamilton level of pettiness. Screw that, that was Thomas Jefferson level of pettiness.
Unsure what he was even doing, he reached for a pen on the table, likely the same ink that had been used already, and wrote his reply under the sentence.
’Who the fuck are you?’
He shoved the book back onto the bookshelf, debating if this was worth getting security briefed over.
But, there was still the chance that this was someone he knew, and he figured it was worth checking first. He sighed heavily. How fun.
The book didn’t move from the shelf for the next few days, making Jefferson suspicious. Maybe whoever it was realized how bad of an idea it was to do this to the president and decided to back off. Or maybe they got scared off by his comment.
But, still, just out of curiosity, he found the bookshelf again and located the familiar cover, one of his favourites about the history of the British-French conflict, and pulled it out before searching for the bookmark.
It was definitely much farther than it was placed last time, close to a hundred pages forward, already at the halfway mark of the book.
The makeshift bookmark was replaced by a different piece of paper, an empty one.
Jefferson felt his blood boil.
So this bastard didn’t learn their lesson, just decided to do it more subtly.
He was going to kill them.
Madison paused in his step, sharply turning around to face Jefferson, whom he was previously walking alongside down the halls of the White House. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jefferson frowned. “I’ll take that as a no, then?”
The most obvious solution to this mystery, he figured, was asking Madison. The man had his fair share of sass and was the only one other than him to have keys to the upper-level rooms, so he figured it’d be best to clear up the misunderstanding before it got any further.
But maybe something in the way he phrased the question was off, as Madison was giving him that look again. The look he gave him whenever he contradicted himself, or made a joke at his expense, or talked about Hamilton, or a million other things.
That look that said, ‘you’re hopeless’.
”Thomas, what in your right mind makes you think I would go into your room unannounced and go through your things? Is that the kind of person you think I am?”
Jefferson rolled his eyes. Of course that was the issue he found with this situation.
”No, no, that’s not what I said. I just figured it would be you, since no one else is supposed to go into my room. No need to take it so personally.” That earned him a glare he promptly ignored, “You do know you can just ask, right? I’ll gladly let you borrow any book that-“ “Thomas. I didn’t do it.”
”Fine, fine, relax.”
The usual silence after Madison scolded him found place between them again, stretching until they resumed their walk towards Jefferson’s room before the president spoke again.
”Do you have any idea who it might be?”
”No. But I doubt someone is breaking into the White House just to read your books.”
Jefferson opened the door for them to enter, still looking at Madison over his shoulder as he answered, tone humorous. “What, think it was a ghost or something?”
Surprisingly, Madison only answered with a shrug, “Perhaps.”
”I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“I’m not. That’s hardly a superstition nowadays, with how common a belief it is. Or, maybe too much time in France made you forget about American customs.”
Madison spoke with a half smirk, something that didn’t indicate whether he was joking or not. What it was for certain, however, was an awfully good impression of someone who made Jefferson sigh in exasperation.
”You sound like Hamilton.”
Madison only rolled his eyes as he turned around to walk out of the room, “I wonder why.”
Jefferson was left alone inside to see the book back on the desk, opened at a page with the small paper bookmark resting next to it, like he’d interrupted someone in the middle of reading. He resisted the urge to shout after Madison, instead grabbing a pen and angrily scribbling on the paper before placing it on the page and closing the book.
’Careful leaving the book open, wind might flip the pages.’
When Jefferson wrote that yesterday, it was meant to be passive-aggressive, even if he now realizes that it’s hard to gauge a person’s tone when in writing.
So he was surprised to see the reply at first.
’Gracias.’
Oh, so this ghost person was Spanish? Not that he actually believed it was a ghost, it would make more sense if he were imagining things rather than experiencing supernatural events.
Though, he had to admit, haunting a president did sound like a pretty good ghostly activity.
Haunting his books? Not so much.
The next few days, he tried to ignore the book sitting on his desk, he really did, but he found himself checking the bookmark’s placement every time he entered.
Sometimes it would move, usually a large amount of pages at a time, and sometimes it would stay unmoved for a full day.
Were they too busy for him or something?
He wasn’t sure why the thought annoyed him nearly as much as it did.
He knew it was crazy, but he found himself urging to learn more about whoever it was that was so interested in French history books. He’d tried to ask them who they were again, but once more, the paper was discarded and replaced by a new one.
So he had to try a new tactic.
When he’d seen the bookmark near the end of the book, only about twenty pages from the last, he left a small comment on it again, this time placing another book on the desk next to it.
’When you’re finished, try this one. It talks more about the French war tactics. You’ll like it.’
The reply came the following day on a brand new bookmark, this time in the new book.
‘Of course someone wrote an entire book about these shitty strategies.’
This made Jefferson scowl. Now this bastard was complaining about things he didn’t even have permission to read?
Or, well, he supposed there was permission this time, since he offered it. Never mind. He didn’t even know who this person was, let alone why they were being such an ass to him.
’Don’t knock it till you try it.’
He wrote back a simple response before sighing deeply. He needed a drink.
The very same day that Alexander Hamilton was pronounced dead, Jefferson wrote a letter to one of their mutual friends who was living back in France.
Lafayette has spent years by his side, and different ones fighting alongside Hamilton. Still, he didn’t expect nearly how saddened Lafayette would be by this, having actually traveled over to America for the funeral.
He said he’d leave shortly, but nostalgia must have caught up to him, and he delayed his leave by a month.
And, thankfully for Jefferson, this meant that he got to speak with his friend face to face. Which, knowing Lafayette, perhaps wasn’t the best idea, since most of their interactions went one of four ways.
The details don’t matter, only that all of them end with drinks in their hands.
This time, being in Jefferson’s home, he and Lafayette sat on the couch in his room, laughing over glasses of expensive red wine.
Their conversation, as most did, flowed in French, the language feeling awfully like home.
”I hope Madison doesn’t go too crazy when I return to France,” Lafayette chuckled, tone relaxed yet humorous.
”He’ll be fine,” Jefferson dismissed easily, “You should be the one worried about getting driven crazy, don’t think I won’t write to you.”
”I’ll be expecting detailed updates, then.”
Jefferson huffed a little laugh at that, dimming it with a long sip of wine.
”If you’re that starved for stories,” He started, not failing to grin at the way Lafayette perked up at his words, “I have an… interesting one you might want in on.”
”I’m listening,” He hummed in response.
”You see, about a week ago, I saw that one of my books was out of place. I was confused, so I checked it, and it had a bookmark in it. I was absolutely sure it wasn’t mine, so I just took out the bookmark and put it back in place.” He paused to make sure Lafayette was still listening. “Then, the next day, it was right back on my desk! And there was a new bookmark that said ‘let me read, you asshole’. Can you imagine?”
Lafayette snorted into his wine, causing Jefferson to laugh at the sight.
”Who would dare to do that?” He snickered.
Jefferson considered it for a moment, a slightly sheepish expression on his face. “Well, em, I’m not too sure.”
”…Huh?”
”I don’t know who it is yet. Just that they’re really rude, and are very critical of the French military.”
”Well, that doesn’t narrow it down a lot,” Lafayette smirked, earning a fond roll of Jefferson’s eyes.
”Yeah, well, I offered them another book, so we’ll see how that goes.”
”I very much expect you to update me on this, too.”
Jefferson grinned. “I absolutely will, right after I kick whoever’s ass called me an asshole like they’ve done it their whole lives.”
The next dedicated comment Jefferson found wasn’t on the bookmark now buried inside heavy pages, but instead as a neatly folded note on the top of his desk.
Anyone who’d see this would probably think he was talking to himself. Lucky him that he had no wife to experience it, then.
’It’s rude of you to speak in a language no one else understands’
Jefferson raised an eyebrow, still amused by the audacity.
He grabbed another page, ripping a block off it and placing his response next to the previous note.
’I can’t speak my language in my own home?’
The answer he found later that day, another note attached to their chain.
’French is not your language. You’re in America, speak English.’
Jefferson wasn’t sure if he should be more annoyed or amused at that.
Instead of continuing the banter, however, he decided to try a different tactic. He went back to his bookshelf, fishing for the one that his ‘guest’ had previously read. It took him only a few seconds to find the bookmark, now resting on the last page, the word ‘gracias’ still written on it with now dried ink.
He took it out, circled it with a pen, and added something under it before placing it on the desk.
’You’re in America, speak English.’
The answer arrived the following morning, one word written under Jefferson’s comment.
‘Touché.’
The next note Jefferson found, about five days later, was inside one of the book’s pages again. This time, it was a full piece of paper, folded only once, looking like an essay of words.
Which, in fact, it was, criticizing everything from the writing style to the morally questionable strategies portrayed in the book.
He was completely astonished by how he could fit all of these words on a single piece of paper. It looked hurried, rushed, even, but the handwriting was small and both sides of the page were filled completely.
Despite himself, he found himself reading it over breakfast, something about the document feeling awfully familiar.
In a way that brought both anger and warmth to his mind all the same.
At first, he considered writing a rebuttal to the arguments. Some of them made sense, he supposed, not that he agreed with them, but a few he found utterly wrong or missing context. Of course this idiot would rush to conclusions before finishing the entire book.
But, instead, he decided to keep it cool. He took the note out and replaced it with a smaller one, writing one sentence that brought a smirk to his lips.
’I’ll make sure to forward that to the author.’
The response, which he found mere hours later, contained far more words than he was willing to pay attention to.
’Are you seriously this ignorant? It clearly says the author died years ago on the last page, and this book’s publication was a tribute to his passing. I cannot believe someone like you would overlook details that are so in-your-face. Though, knowing you, I should have expected it.’
The next six lines were a mix of insults and complaints. This maniac sure knew how to rant alright.
He drew a little frowning face next to the text before writing under it.
’I was being sarcastic.’
He didn’t get a response, which didn’t make him feel nearly as triumphant as he had expected it to.
It took until he caught Madison up on the story, who was still half convinced that Jefferson was either falling for a prank or was on the verge of death and seeing ghosts, when a question that reminded him how absurd this situation was was posed.
”How did he know when Lafayette was over?”
He asked exactly that, writing it on a note and leaving the paper on his desk, which he supposed was now their communication device.
He was disappointed to find the question still unanswered three days later.
Frustrated, he crossed it out, writing something else instead.
’How did you know I was speaking French with my friend?’
’You can’t just ignore my questions.’
Much to his disappointment, almost an entire day went by before the reply came.
’Watch me.’
Fucking bastard.
The next time he was left a long review of a book, this time after the person thankfully finished reading it, Jefferson could barely register the sheer length of it.
Seven pages. Seven entire pages of messy, angry writing, filled with profanities and critiques that were just as devastating as they were true.
He was sure damn lucky not to get on the other side of that sharp tongue, or he’d be a dead man by now.
This time, instead of skimming through it, he actually sat down and read.
He wasn’t sure why he found it so interesting, heck, even entertaining, but those details screamed ‘I’m a law student.’
More than that, they screamed, ‘I didn’t understand a single word in that book’, and he made sure to highlight every part that was wrong in his reply. Which was just over a page long, resisting the urge to throw the insults right back.
He did, however, finish it with a personal note.
’Unfortunately, even if your opinions are terribly wrong, I have to admit that you’re very skilled with words. If the author of that book were to read this, he’d never show his face in public again.’
When the reply came, the last section was circled twice, and under it was a message.
’That’s the first time you’ve complimented my writing.’
Jefferson wished that were the only thing they’d written, having left criticism and harsh comments about every second sentence if his life depended on it.
He couldn’t help but smile at how angry the person who wrote this sounded.
So under it, he added his own little note.
’I’ve only ever read one other thing you’ve written, and it was just as bad.’
The next reply came barely an hour later and filled the rest of the space left on the page.
‘Don’t lie, you’ve read plenty of it. I know you did, there’s no way you could rebuttal against me like you used to if you haven’t. I bet you even have a copy of one of my essays somewhere, your insults mean nothing to me. Leave me some paper and an actually well-inked pen, and I’ll show you a good fucking written piece, alright.’
Jefferson was left entirely confused and with twice as many questions as before.
So he supposedly read this person’s works before? More than that, he’d debated them? There’s no way anyone like that would have access to the White House, though. Would they?
Curiosity got the better of him, and he ended up getting some higher-quality paper, as well as a variety of new pens, and set them up at his table that night.
He left an additional note on the top of one of the papers.
’I’ll give you all day tomorrow, I’ll be staying at a friend’s house.’
When Jefferson woke up that morning, an essay that would have taken someone at least five hours to read sat neatly on his desk, finished and signed.
It took him reading exactly three words before the realisation dawned on him that whoever had written this had done it while he slept.
In his room.
While he was right there, in that bed, completely defenceless.
Someone broke into the president’s house while he slept, left him unharmed, and wrote a fucking essay critiquing France’s military strategies over the years.
He was absolutely sure he was going crazy.
This game, if he could call it that, has been going on for too long. He found it funny, maybe even enjoyed it a bit, but this had to stop. This was getting ridiculous.
He grabbed the papers, eyes skimming over the detailed analysis, fingers tightening with every sentence that was written mere hours ago, so close to him.
How did his security not catch this? Not that he told them, of course, but if someone was actually doing this, they’d have been arrested long ago.
He shoved the papers into his trash can and exited the room without another thought.
He needed a break.
He spent the next few days at Madison’s place, using any possible excuse to delay returning. Madison didn’t question it, he never did, but clearly knew something was up.
When his inevitable return happened, he found a quiet, but obviously lived-in room.
Books were moved on his shelves, notes attached to random pages. His bed was undone, although he might have been the one to leave it that way.
And the heavy papers were back on his desk, along with a crumpled-up note next to them.
Every sentence but one was crossed out, like someone trying to decide what they should say.
’Rude of you to throw these out, I worked hard on them.’
’Did you even read it yet? Seriously?’
’I didn’t write this for myself, you know.’
Then, finally.
’Where are you???’
He considered trying to ignore it, throw everything out, maybe invite over a priest or two to figure out what the hell was going on with the White House.
But the possibility of getting answers was too strong of an urge to resist.
’Had a business meeting.’
He paused for a moment, considering the fact that his lie could be easily dismantled, so he added one more thing.
’-T.J’
Jefferson had to admit, he didn’t really expect it to work.
But when the response arrived, he was perplexed by the answer.
’For two entire days? Your lies are as believable as they sounded when you were vice president.
-A.H’
He stared at the page for a long moment.
”Are you fucking kidding me?”
His head rose up, glancing around the room. This has to be a joke.
Though it could be anyone, really. A and H weren’t uncommon initials, there were plenty of names that could be.
But the only one his mind cared to consider was Alexander Hamilton.
The man who’d died over a month ago.
He called out his name a few times, trying to find something in his room. He knew it had to be there. He spent twenty minutes digging through their past notes, trying to find a way that this made sense.
Was Hamilton alive? Was he hiding in the fucking White House? Or was someone messing with him? Was he actually going insane over this man’s death and hallucinating these things?
In the end, he decided that this has gone on too far. He pushed the conversation off his desk, sighing as he took out a blank piece of paper.
”You’re gonna be the death of me,”
He took out a pen and started writing. Every conversation, every note left, every clue. He signed at the end, folding the paper before writing ‘to: Lafayette’ on top of it.
Without another word, he got up, leaving the room. He needed fresh air.
When he returned to his room later that night, seeing the letter left on his table, now adorned with comments and scribbles all over it by who he could only guess was his mysterious guest, he decided enough was enough.
He looked around the room, still perched over his desk, voice loud and hostile.
”I know you’re there.” He paused, adding, “Stop hiding, I know you can hear me.”
Sure, Jefferson had talked to himself before, but expecting a response made him feel silly. But he wasn’t giving up.
He was going to get whoever, whatever this was, to show themselves, no matter what.
”Fucking coward,” He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
”If that’s how you want to do it, fine. I won’t come out of my room until you show up.”
No response was earned.
And for some reason, that only made him more determined
A knock on Jefferson’s door the next morning stirred him awake, almost forgetting about why he’d turned off his alarm clock the night before.
A flicker of hope showed in his tone as he granted, “Come in,” almost thinking he was finally going to meet the person who’d been terrorising him for the past weeks.
But of course, it was only Madison, looking pissed.
”Thomas,” He spoke, voice impatient as he stepped into the room, “You have responsibilities. Meetings. You can’t choose to bail on it all randomly. I don’t care what excuse you wrote on that idiotic letter you left me, you can’t drop everything just like that.”
”I’m not avoiding anything,” Jefferson scoffed, “We can have the meetings here.”
”That is highly inappropriate.”
He rolled his eyes, “Then you handle them.”
Madison sucked in his breath, clearly not happy about this one bit. “Thomas, I cannot just stand in for the president. Do you understand how wild this is? Is this about that ‘ghost in your room’ again?”
”Then figure it damn out, James! And no, I have my reasons. I swear they’re good ones. Listen, I just-“ He cut himself off, sighing. His tone was a note gentler as he looked at Madison again.
”James, please. Just do this for me, and I swear I’ll never be difficult again.”
Madison’s mouth was pressed in an agitated, thin line, that was soon broken by a deep sigh.
”You better keep your word,” He muttered, turning around before stepping out of the room.
Jefferson had to admit, doing nothing wasn’t nearly as fun as he thought it would be.
Two days in, now being the morning of the third, and little to no work has been done.
He’d written to Lafayette again, reluctantly taking the maybe-Hamilton’s advice and rewriting his letter, ignoring every comment about how he shouldn’t involve other people.
Madison had visited him a few more times, some of his family members stopped by to visit, and of course, workers sent him food and whatever luxuries he chose to pass his time with.
Still, it felt strange to have time off. Not to be constantly drowning in deadlines and papers.
Of course, it was nice to finally have time for himself. But there was always something small that made him uneasy during long moments of silence. An uneasy feeling of inevitably returning to a possibly crumbling America, all because he was being too selfish to stand tall and help the country.
Not that he avoided all his duties, not even most of them. He still held a meeting in the quiet spaces of his room, drafted orders and agreements that were passed off to workers, and even scheduled an interview.
And, yet, not a single word from his ghost friend.
Not until the morning of the third day, that is, when he found a scurried note on his bed.
’You can’t be serious about this.’
”Oh, but I am,” He spoke, answering vocally instead of on paper.
What’s the difference if they could hear him all the same?
They could hear him.
They hear him.
”I’m not going to back down, you know. I’ll die on this hill if I have to. Not my fault you say things and run while I stay.”
The following morning, the message he’d gotten was two pages long, a hurl of insults and terms so derogatory that Jefferson couldn’t help but laugh at while he read.
That must have pissed them off more, though, as the next morning, the letter was different.
’Why are you doing this? What do you want?’
”I could ask you the exact same thing,” Jefferson hummed, but decided to humour the question.
”I want to know who is writing this, and how the fuck you’re doing this. That is, if I’m not hallucinating all of this. Probably some trauma response to all the years of rivalling against fucking Hamilton.”
The next reply appeared when he returned to his bedroom after a long shower, choosing to focus on the… intriguing words, if he could even call them that, rather than the fact that this was written while he was in the same room.
’I wish I could tell you but I don’t know either.’
”What the fuck does that mean?”
Fortunately, or not so fortunately, depending on who you asked, the answer came to him that same night.
It started out as a nudge.
Jefferson’s eyes half opened, squinting in the dark as he tried to make sense of the figure in front of him.
”James…?”
The guess was answered with a head shake, making him frown. What in the world?
There was no sound coming from the other person, lips moving but nothing coming out. Jefferson briefly considered that he was waking up in a hospital after some accident that affected his hearing, but a quick glance around the room proved to him that he was home.
He groaned, trying to sit up, hand moving to rub at his forehead.
”Where am I…? Can you turn on the lights?”
A few moments passed before his request was granted, and Jefferson was absolutely certain he had gone completely insane when he saw Alexander Hamilton standing at the foot of his bed, mouthing silent words he couldn’t decipher.
”What? I- Hamilton?” He muttered, eyes blinking open as he took in the sight. “What… Holy fuck, am I dead? Is this it?”
Hamilton made a face, trying again to say something, but he couldn’t hear anything.
Jefferson turned around, clutching at his head. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. Sure, maybe he deserved to die young after a few things he’d done, but not this young. And not this way.
He still had so much to live for. His first presidency wasn’t even completed, how could he die now?
His inner turmoil must have been obvious, as Hamilton left his side for a few moments before returning, a piece of paper and pen in his hand. He quickly scribbled something down before pushing it up in Jefferson’s face.
’You’re not dead. I am.’
Jefferson stared at him. “What?”
Hamilton groaned noiselessly, adding a longer sentence to the page before showing Jefferson again.
’I died, in case you fucking forgot. And I’m here for some reason.’
He had no idea where to even begin, none of this making any kind of sense in his mind. So he tried to clear it up from the bottom up.
”Wait, I… okay, okay,” He took a breath. “So you’re dead. And I’m not. Are you a ghost? Like, actually? Then why can I see you? And why can you touch things?”
Hamilton wrote down his reply once more.
’I don’t know, if I’m being quite honest. All I remember is a very sharp pain and excruciating hours dying in my house, and then I closed my eyes and opened them here. Well, I didn’t really open them, because I didn’t have any. I was kind of just… there, but also not.’
Just as Jefferson finished reading, Hamilton had already prepared more text on another paper. He rolled his eyes at the excess effort before snatching it from him.
’At first, I just kind of existed in the background, then one time I tried to touch a book from your bookshelf, and suddenly I was real again. Well, kind of. I still couldn’t breathe or anything like that, but I could touch things and see myself in the mirror. But I can’t talk, or, really, make any kind of noise. Trust me, I tried. And I can kind of phase in and out of this, if that makes sense.’
”It really doesn’t,” Jefferson muttered, slowly starting to piece it together in his head.
This was… strange. Extremely strange. But it didn’t sound like Hamilton had any of the answers, either. He was a ghost that could touch and see and be seen.
Which made him curious enough to lean forward, watching Hamilton’s expression turn from confusion to amusement as he grabbed his arm.
It was as cold as a plastic cup but definitely skin.
”That’s…” He trailed off, unsure what to say.
He was way too tired for this. He didn’t bother questioning why Hamilton hadn’t told him earlier, why he was haunting his house, if he could call it haunting, or most importantly, if he was absolutely sure that Jefferson wasn’t imagining all of this.
But if this were a dream, honestly, he wouldn’t complain.
He didn’t loosen his grip on Hamilton’s arm, still applying a gentle pull towards himself. Their gazes caught soon after, tired eyes meeting worried ones.
”I’ll deal with this… whatever this is, tomorrow,” He tugged at his arm, “Sleep for now.”
Hamilton stared at him, unblinking, before gesturing to himself in confusion.
Jefferson rolled his eyes. “Yes, you too.”
Neither of them were sure exactly what Jefferson meant by this, but it was definitely not for them to end up cuddled up in his bed like two lovers reuniting after a war at sea.
He just prayed to god that Madison wouldn’t walk in on this and ruin this fantasy.