Warnings: Nothing that I can recall at the moment.
((My apologies for this craptastic little piece...but my muse hasn't been in working order in quite some time and, despite this, I felt that I owed something to the community, being a watcher, as I have been, for near to a year now.))
It was his sixth visit to Jefferson's impermanent abode in Philadelphia, and he found that the disappointment this time was to be as complete as it had been during his previous visit.
"Nothing?...Nothing at all? Good god man! What have you been doing all this time?"
Adams was incredulous. How much time had they wasted waiting for Jefferson to pen some bit of brilliance to set them ahead of their game, to push the idea of independence once and for all? Too long, clearly. His eyes narrowed as he advanced upon a repentant Jefferson, who sat in his chair before several crumpled pieces of paper, each one more degraded than the last, not even so much as a single drop of ink to be found on the vast majority of them, with his fingers steepled before him in a thoughtful manner and his head bowed low as though he were asking for forgiveness.
He wasn't. What had he to be forgiven for? For not writing a document that was keeping him from his beloved wife? For remaining frustrated in matters of the pen when there were such distractions visited upon him to check on his progress (or lack thereof) time and time again?
"Nothing at all Mister Adams," he replied with a heavy sigh, looking up to meet the Bostonian's sharp gaze and all of the disappointment to be found there within. How many times would this very scene be forced to replay itself before one or both of them gave in?
It was common knowledge that Adams would have thrashed him something good with that trusty cane of his had his talents not been necessary for the furthering of the cause for independence. Instead he checked himself, resigned himself to glares and cries filled with shock and indignation upon every visit (with visits being conducted nearly every hour on the hour at first, and at considerably lesser intervals after Franklin had thankfully intervened on behalf of Jefferson's creative spirit - not to mention his privacy).
How long would this tentative peace last before he was forced to take matters into his own hands? To frighten the little man from his workspace?
"Why don't you aid me, John?"
Jefferson's expression had turned thoughtful as he continued to watch the little man pace back and forth across the room his movements belying his considerable frustration with the Virginian.
"Or send Doctor Franklin in."
Adams ceased his pacing and stared openly at Jefferson, at a loss for words. "Franklin?" He forced the question out after several moments hesitation, as though he were afraid to hear the answer, to once again find that Independence would be placed on the shoulders of one Benjamin Franklin and all of those who so chose to invite him into their lives in a greater capacity. It was Adam's fervent belief that, should Franklin's pen ever touch the Declaration, he would receive all credit for the document's writing, planning, ditto, ditto, etc, etc.
"Incredible!" the little man exploded, eyes wild and full of the fire and passion that propelled him through Congress, enabling him to push forward when all would have otherwise seemed )or perhaps even been) lost. "I can see it now! Franklin, Jefferson, and Franklin's horse single handedly deliver American independency and all rejoice," he spat.
Turning on his heel, the small man stalked toward the door, finding his way barred by a surprisingly resolute Jefferson.
He wasn't going to let their meeting end on this note, even if would undoubtedly grant him a much deserved reprieve from the Bostonian's incessant nagging and near unbearable scorn.
"John." This time, when the Virginian spoke, his tone was soft, apologetic, and what bits of the case at hand were missed in his tone, his eyes pleaded for him. One hand reached out to settle upon the older man's shoulder, unsure, but unwilling to let him go and find out what it would do to their relationship, and though it was Adams whose ego had been dashed in, it was Jefferson whose expression displayed the resulting agony.
Adams brushed Jefferson's hand away, fixing him with a look of disdain, and turned to leave once more.
"Stay." A single imploring word halted Massachusetts delegate in his tracks. How could anyone mistake that tone, the sorrow in it? The agony?
Slowly Adams turned to face Jefferson, his expression surprised as everything finally clicked into place. "Incredible," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper as Jefferson moved stand beside him, trailing a hand over his shoulders before applying a gentle pressure against the small of his back, guiding him back into the small flat.