Title: Untitled
Author: pocketwitch
Fandom: 1776
Pairing: Adams/Jefferson
Rating: PG

The Congress was dark but for one waning candle, quiet but for one small Bostonian pacing rhythmically amongst the tables.

"Mr. Adams."

Said Bostonian started, having not heard the approaching footsteps. Unsurprising. It wouldn't be the first time, and somehow Jefferson managed to have an even softer step than Dr. Hall. There was no need to squint in an attempt to determine the origin of the words on this night, however; this voice he knew by heart.

"Jefferson ... what are you doing here?"

He looked terrible. In the days since the signing of the declaration, Adams had seemed to grow more agitated rather than less, though this seemed to be a more worrisome breed: gone were the outbursts, the protests, the arguments ... instead he seemed almost haunted, his actions and movements quiet but near frantic.

"I need to speak with you."

"At this time of night?"

"You've made yourself rather difficult to locate at any other time, and this is hardly a conversation I wished to have in front of the Congress."

Adams turned his eyes toward the candle. It was true, of course; he had busied himself, not unnecessarily, as there was much to be done, but he had also made himself inaccessible, pursuing solitary tasks, purposely avoiding his usual haunts. Until tonight. He should have known better. It was this conversation that he was desperate to postpone. His sigh heaved nearly to his toes.

"What is it, Jefferson?"

A few near silent steps from the doorway brought the Virginian that much closer.

"You've been torturing yourself."

"I've no idea what you mean. This is hardly the time for a holiday, Jefferson."

"You've been torturing yourself and I know why."

The voice was barely audible that time, and for a moment Adams was unable to react. It felt as though dread was branching out from his stomach and holding him to his place, stopping his words in his throat. Long seconds went by before, at last, he let out a breath, seeming, with it, to deflate.

"Jefferson, I know I've been ... obvious, and for that I beg your forgiveness. Having never experienced this particular ... inclination ... before, I am afraid that I am poorly practiced at stifling it."

"Mr. Adams."

He continued, a hand held up to bid silence. "I know exactly what you are going to say - "

"No, Mr. Adams, I don't imagine that you do."

" - and I must ask you to let me finish. I have absolutely no intentions of presenting my prurience to you, or of in any way forcing myself - "

"Mr. Adams."

" - upon you. This isn't your concern, Jefferson, and I would not expect - "

"JOHN."

With that Adams finally quieted, his face snapping up to look directly at Jefferson for the first time since the conversation began. When he did not immediately speak, Jefferson moved, taking several long, swift steps to close the gap between them.

The fingers on Adams' chin were gentle, but their upward tilt of his face was a command rather than a request. The lips against Adams' mouth were tender, but not questioning. Telling. For several moments kissing a statue until, finally, Adams softened, dared raise a hand to rest on Jefferson's hip.

When they separated, Jefferson stayed near, despite the awkward angle caused by the near stoop required. Adams stared at him, eyes struggling to guard themselves, their decline into vulnerability tearing fistfuls of Jefferson's heart. His voice was one Jefferson had never heard; barely there, the single word, the enormous question, little more than a waver.

"Really?"

"Without question."

Another powerful exhalation; this time not of fear and defeat, but relief. A moment's silence, and then, at last, the tiniest quirk of a grin, the barest toss of his head.

"Good god."

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