Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Thirty-Two: One Last Time

Washington's POV

As I stare out the window at the luscious fields, I hear the scraping of the door as it slides across the hardwood floor, and the hesitant click of heels. They suddenly stop in a swish of skirts, and I immediately recognize who they belong to even before the visitor announces herself.

"Mr. President," I hear Alexandra's voice ask gently, though it's not a question, "you asked to see me?"

Sighing, I run my hand over my head, feeling a quill and various legal documents dig into my rear. I should get off my desk, but I just can't find it within myself to move. The grass outside sways in the wind as I say dejectedly, "I know you're busy."

Two more steps forward from the pair of heels. Then: "What do you need, sir?" She sounds worried. I wonder why. Maybe she's having family troubles. Then I laugh mentally. The bastard, orphan, immigrant having family issues? Never.

"Sir?" she asks again, another half step forward. I snap out of it.

Finally I turn to her, hauling myself off the desk to face her. In all seriousness, I say, "I want to give you a word of warning."

That gets a reaction. Since she's apparently not close enough to me already, she leans forward, waving her hands, widening her eyes, and defending with a classic, "I don't know what you heard, but whatever it is, Jefferson started it!"

Good God, I'm leaving this country in the hands of children. May he have mercy on us all.

I honestly doubt that, and I voice my skepticism. "Thomas Jefferson resigned this morning," I tell her, praying that she'll take this news like a mature adult.

"You're kidding!" she gasps, dropping her giant stack of papers, throwing a hand over her mouth in shock. Slowly she brings it down, exposing an honest-to-God shark's smile, rows of gleaming teeth bared and eyes shining with bloodlust.

Children. Mutant shark children running my country. This is what we've come to.

She then bends down to collect her writings, her hair flowing around her shoulders in a fluidity that can only be described as chaotic, chuckling quietly to herself, no doubt about her arch-nemesis.

I bring her back to reality with four syllables. "I need a favour."

Jumping to her feet, she salutes and practically screams, "Whatever you say, sir, Jefferson will pay for this behaviour!" It's all about Jefferson now. It's really starting to worry me, if I'm being frank. Obsession never was fulfillment.

She opens her mouth to continue ranting, but I hush her. "Shh. Talk less," I say softly, gently reminding her of days long gone, a simpler time for some, a crueler world for others. For me it was a little of both: constantly under pressure, run ragged by the burden of war, but always knowing my place, my purpose never unclear. I'm wiser now, but less sure.

"I'll use the press. I'll write under a pseudonym, you'll see what I can do to him!" exclaims Alexandra, missing the point as per usual. For such a bright young woman, she doesn't understand the simplest concepts, the most prominent on my list being self-preservation. What's with all this "dying a martyr" business? Can't she see that doesn't help anyone fix anything?

Sighing again, I say loudly and forcefully, "I need you to draft an address." Which means stop talking, you're making things worse.

She totally blows it out of proportion, her eyes agleam when she says triumphantly, "Yes! He resigned, you can finally speak your mind!"

Translation: She can finally speak her mind and destroy Jefferson once and for all. I just can't wait.

"No," I say, making steady eye contact with her and talking so very slowly, like a parent to an extremely intellectually challenged child. "He's stepping down so he can run for President."