Title: Supernatural

Author: Jessie or Gelise if you please

Rating: PG-13 bordering on R (for sexuality and violence)

Summary: Thomas Jefferson shouldn't have gone out walking alone…

Written for 1776 Challenge!



Thomas Jefferson wished for a lot of things. He wished to go back home to Virginia. He wished he could fill his half-empty library at Monticello. He wished for independence. But most of all, especially at that moment in time, he wished he hadn't decided to walk home that night. It had been late when Congress let out due to a fierce debate between opposing delegates and Tom, knowing that he lived by himself on the outskirts of Philadelphia, had found the thought of walking home alone comforting after an intensely loud day. With a certain light spring in his step he began his journal home, practically dancing in the streets once the congressional hall was no longer in his view.

As his walk continued on he noticeably began to see less and less people. Not that this was a worry to him, after all he lived on the edge of town by the countryside. There were bound to be fewer people as he went along. A cool wind blew by and lifted the ruff collar that hung by his neck so that it flew up over his shoulder, Tom retrieving the rogue collar with a slight huff of frustration. The wind continued to blow and Tom continued to attempt to straighten himself out without avail. It was if a sudden gale had picked up the wind was bludgeoning Thomas in the face so, and in his obsession with his lace cravat he failed to notice that the people he had been seeing on the streets had stopped passing him all together.

Once again he got his ruff until control, only this time as he looked upon the cheery streets of Philadelphia city he had to pause in spite of himself. No one was there. Not a single soul. It wasn't too late, he thought to himself, there should still be people about. Yet, as far as Thomas Jefferson could see, there wasn't a single person out roaming the streets of Philadelphia. With a slight shutter he realized that the oil lamps had not been lit as well. He quickly looked to the windows of the nearby homes and gasped when he saw that not a single candle had been lit yet. But it was sun down! Surely the lamps should have been alight by now! he remarked to himself with an inward cry.

He was alone, he told himself, alone in the dark streets.

Tom didn't want to stray any longer and began to walk towards the direction of his house once again. Along the way he tried to ignore the looming dark passageways that he passed and the cold chill that started to set into his body. The wind had stopped but had been replaced by an unshakable iciness that struck Thomas as unusual for a warm spring night, and no matter how fast he rubbed his hands he couldn't stop the numbing feeling from spreading up his fingers and throughout his hands.

The more he walked the more the darkness before him was beginning to play tricks on his eyes. Up ahead he thought he saw a shadow of a tall man and was about to hail him when the figure suddenly disappeared. He stopped in his tracks once again and looked about with a puzzled expression on his face. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him? He told himself that, yes, that was what had happened and that the shadow that he supposedly had seen had been an optical illusion. Tom began to move quicker through the narrow, cobblestone streets, wishing again that he hadn't decided to walk home alone that night.

Again he saw the tall figure, only this time he spotted it while passing an alley and began to practically trot along the street. He heard a noise behind him and stopped running only quickly enough to check the area behind him. Again, nothing and no one. "If there is somebody there, show yourself!" He cried, widening his eyes in the dark and waiting with straining ears for a response. He waited a few more moments before turning around once again and heading down the street.

Another noise resonated behind him. "Sir or Madame!" Cried he over his shoulder, "Please stop following me! For God's sake, let me walk home in peace!" He asked desperately as footsteps began to echo. They were heavy, strong footsteps that resounded in all directions around his head like the wind and bounced off the brick walls as if he was in a Paris opera house. Thomas knew that if he should turn around he found find no one and this thought terrified him. He looked quickly and thought in horror that he had been correct in assuming he wouldn't see anyone lurking behind him.

He picked up his pace and heard the footsteps that trailed him also quickening their speed. Without much thought Thomas Jefferson abandoned dignity and started to run towards his townhouse in a panic. He rounded a tight corner and then cut through a small alley in hope that he would lose his pursuer, however just as he was about to slow down in order to catch his breath he heard the dreaded footsteps behind him once again. He swallowed the urge to scream and commenced his running once again, blinding spiriting through the streets of Philadelphia without thinking of rhyme or reason. Past wooden structures he winded and rushed through brick alleyways, nearly tripping over his own feet in a hast to lose the one who chased him.

All at once, the footsteps stopped. Thomas rested limply against the wall of a print shop, his chest heaving up and down and his hair tousled from the chase. Had he lost his hunter? A flood of relief washed through him after listening for almost ten minutes without any further noise. Tom decided that it was safe for him to continue on to his home, and with a quick straightening out of his appearance, he began to stroll for home once more.

He had only gone a few steps before his world suddenly went very dark.


Jefferson woke up the next day with the worst headache of all headaches. He opened one eye very slowly, then the other, and then waited until his vision adjusted to the dark of his room. Tom looked down at his appearance and groaned - last night he hadn't even removed his shoes. He grumbled and attempted to sit up, failing miserably as he was once again knocked backwards on to his bed by the swirling in his head. He sighed, shut his eyes once more, and wondered what the hell had happened to him the previous night.

He reached blindly for a bedpost and when one was found gripped it tight and hoisted himself up carefully. Tom sighed and rested his head on the cold, wooden post and prayed that his body would just stop aching. His whole body hurt, he felt as though he had been hit by a carriage. And his neck, oh how his neck ached!

Tom began to stretch out his body while he racked his brain for some sort of logical explanation. He recalled walking home, the lack of lamp light, and the strange chase, but could remember no more. Upon finding that he lacked memory of how he arrived home he rose and walked shakily towards his mirror and basin, dousing his entire head in the lukewarm water with extra fervor. A shaky hand reached for his towel and as he patted his face dry he stared into his mirror to inspect the person that was looking back out at him.

He gasped and dropped the towel into the basin, not caring if the fine cotton was ruined or if he might have knocked over his hairbrush as he gripped the table in front of him until his fingers went white.

"Oh…oh….OH. MY. GOD." He cried, reaching up quickly to touch the two marks that had mysteriously appeared on his neck. What had happened last night? He asked himself in a near state of hysteria.

The marks on his neck were deep and ugly, and the area surrounding the puncture wounds looked pale as if drained. He swallowed and resisted the urge to call for a doctor. He gingerly attempted to touch the spots again but every time his fingers went near the marks he hissed and had to draw them away. He wanted to call for his servant to bring him up some type of bandage or ointment or a strong brandy perhaps. Instead Tom slowly backed away from the hideous image in the mirror and went to sit back down on the edge of his bed with eyes slowly scanning the room for more evidence of the previous night.

After a couple of minutes of looking he finally found what he had been searching for. Thomas practically dove for the item in question and held it up to the thin crack of light that had managed to sneak into his otherwise darkened room. It was his cravat from the last night, and on the area where it would have wound around his neck were two small spots of blood. He shuttered and dropped the clothing item on the floor, staring at it absolutely dumbstruck and positively petrified.

That day, and the next, and the day after that, Thomas skipped the congressional meetings.


As per usual, John Adams arrived just on time for Congress. He scanned the gossiping delegates as he walked to his table and then promptly shut off the part of his brain that wanted to listen to their conversations, fully immersing himself in a letter to Benjamin Rush as soon as he was able to find a sharpened quill.

Slowly but surely he was finding that his patience was waning with the men he had spent more time with than his own family this past year. Dickinson was so well respected that it was difficult for him to get a word in edge wise. Rutledge was a pompous, dandified youth. Franklin did nothing to help, he spent most of Congress sleeping in the corner. Even Hancock, a Boston man like himself, annoyed Adams with his constant mood swings. In fact the only person in Congress at the moment who didn't grate on his nerves was Jefferson, but then again the only reason Adams wasn't angry at him was because he hardly talked anyway.

He allowed himself a moment to gaze in the general direction of the Virginian delegation and saw that Jefferson had indeed shown up for the meeting that day. Adams, while it was never his duty to fuss over anybody else, was slightly concerned when the young delegate from Virginia hadn't been present in Congress for almost half a week. From what Richard Henry Lee had reported Jefferson had been extremely ill and was unable to even come out of his room to speak with him. Naturally Adams had felt sorry for the red-head and told Lee to, when he next saw him, tell him that John Adams says to get well. Now that Jefferson was back on his feet so to speak and well enough to attend Congress, Adams' curiosity over his mysterious illness was peaking.

Jefferson, while amongst the others of the Virginian delegation, was noticeably isolated and alone. He sat with his chair directly against the wall of the hall and from what Adams could make out, was trying to hide his tall frame by crouching down low in his seat. His appearance was one of someone who had definitely just come out of an ill spell. His skin was sallow, his hair wiry and nearly undone, and the large, dark circles under his eyes made them look sunken into his head. Adams continued to watch Jefferson in spite of himself and noticed that every once in a while he would hesitantly reach up to feel his neck (or adjust his cravat Adams told himself) and then quickly remove is hand as if someone had slapped it.

President Hancock finally made his appearance and the congressional meeting convened, the meeting hardly as exciting (or productive for that matter) as one a few days before. Adams slowly sunk into his own hair and listened to the delegates from New Hampshire speak their peace on chewing tobacco. As the day went on Congress became notably duller, especially when Dr. Josiah Bartlett began to argue with Samuel Chase that he was tired of stepping in puddles of discarded tobacco and wanted…but Adams hadn't bothered to pay attention to the rest . Instead his mind once again wandered around the room until he finally gave thought to Jefferson again and picked up his head in order to spy the man once more.

Jefferson appeared, if at all possible, even more distracted than he. His eyes were slightly glazed over and his arms were hung by his sides passively. Adams found that he was unable to take his eyes off of the young Virginian delegate and continued to watch him throughout the whole of Congress. He was utterly fascinated by the copper-headed man as Jefferson seemed off in his own universe and only acknowledged the outside world twice, once when Thomson belted out his name for some committee and the second time when someone accidentally stepped on his foot.

The second time, after he yelped in pain that is, Jefferson finally caught eyes with John Adams. The smaller, dark-haired man nodded a silent hello and raised his eyebrows with clear concern. Jefferson felt himself grow red; he hadn't realized that his lack of focus had been that obvious. He nodded to Adams and saw the man smile softly in return before once again turning his gaze to the arguing delegates. Jefferson sucked in his breath and attempted to sink lower into his seat.

Later when Congress finally let out sometime during the dusk hours Jefferson decided to wait until all of the other delegates left to go home. He knew that if he had to walk home with the others someone would try to question him about his illness or ask him if he wanted a ride in their carriage, Tom silently cursing under his breath about what an inappropriate time it was for his own carriage to be broken. He waited for almost an hour in the eerily quiet room and when he heard the last conversation die down outside the hall he packed up his things and headed towards the outside.

Upon opening the doors he heard a rumbling from above him but paid very little attention to it until someone ran right smack into him, knocking him to the ground and sending all of his books and papers into the air. As he stared at the black, scuffed shoes and the pieces of paper that floated slowly to the ground from his spot on the floor he wondered what he had done to anger God. A strong hand reached down and was offered in front of his face, Jefferson needing to blink a few times before finally placing his own hand into the stranger's.

It was Adams who hoisted him off and dusted him off, apologizing profusely for running into him and knocking him down. The shorter man quickly went about picking up the stray paperwork and books, Jefferson still staring dumbly ahead as if frozen in time. "Mr. Adams," He finally said, whirling around and finding John Adams still hurriedly gathering papers on the floor, "Why haven't you gone home yet?"

"I often go to the bell tower in order to think." Adams admitted to his colleague while carefully placing the rumpled bundle of papers in his hands. "I dare say I should ask you the same thing." He said with a curious stare.

"Uh…yes. I was also thinking." Jefferson lied quickly. He looked at Adams' face and knew immediately that the older man doubted him. "Again, thank you Mr. Adams." He muttered quickly and with that said turned on his heels and left for the outside, leaving a very puzzled John Adams staring after him in the growing darkness of the hallway.


That night Jefferson's stomach upset him and the only thing he could consume without becoming nauseous was red wine. The next day he overslept and was startled to find that his servants had completely deserted him. That afternoon his eyes burned when he walked out into the sun and he was forced to hide his face underneath a broad hat while heading to Congress. During Congress he felt his stomach rolling about in his torso but yet felt no real desire for food, and found that he needed to sit away from the windows for fear that his eyes would pain him once again.

Again he slunk into his seat and attempted to pay attention to the meeting but was once again distracted to the point of annoyance. That morning his neck hadn't bothered him but he was disturbed to find that the two puncture marks hadn't healed a bit. He kept these constantly covered with his lace cravat and hoped his fellow delegates wouldn't notice that his hand kept wandering to this spot particular on his neck. Unfortunately, as he reached up to feel his neck once again during the middle of a particularly boring speech, he mistakenly looked over towards the Massachusetts table and saw John Adams watching him with unabashed concern. He jerked his hand down quickly and stared ahead at President Hancock, feigning interest in the topic while hoping Adams had also decided to turn his to interest something else.

Whether Adams did Jefferson did not find out. As soon as Congress adjourned Jefferson fled the building and ran for home. Once again he was startled to find that his house was completely devoid of servants but was too transfixed on one thought to dwell on this for too long. He proceeded to knock over boxes and open every single cabinet in his large pantry frantically before finding a bottle of red wine and opening it up with a certain animalistic glee. He drank straight from the bottle on an overturned box and stumbled into his room with it in hand when he had finished nearly half.

Thomas spotted his mirror, an object which he had begun to dread as every time he peered into the glass it reveled something new and despicable to him, and attempted to ignore the urge to stare at his reflection. Finally he could no longer help himself and carefully looked into the mirror with the bottle still in hand. He was aghast by what he saw, especially when he noted the horrible yet uncharacteristic state he had been keeping himself and his living quarters.

With shaky hands he sipped from his bottle of red wine once more before settling in his favorite sitting chair and murmuring to himself quietly, "What's happening to me?"


Richard Henry Lee caught ill and was unable to attend the congressional meeting the next day, much to Tom's surprise since it was a rarity to see the spirited man cough let alone become sick. George Wythe, also a fellow Virginian delegate, had caught a case of the 'whooping cough' and was bedridden until further notice, or so Benjamin Harrison had reported in a note to Secretary Thompson but as he was of poor health as well he had decided to stay at home as well. Even Carter Braxton, a young Virginian with plenty of youth and vigor to spare, had been absent that day in Congress. In fact the only delegate not at home in bed with some illness was Thomas Jefferson, and even then Jefferson knew he was worse off than those at home that day.

Alone Jefferson sat in his dark seat by the wall, his face pale, his eyes dark, and his body slumped. Instead of getting better it seemed to the other members of Congress that Thomas was only getting worse and none fretted about it more than John Adams. During the delegates' lunch break the congressional hall was emptied, save for Jefferson, still in his dark corner, and Adams who had been busily finishing a letter. Adams half expected Jefferson to get up and leave and was surprised when he didn't. "How goes it Mr. Jefferson?" Adams asked from across the hall, eyes never lifting from his parchment.

Jefferson looked startled momentarily before gathering his bearings and sitting up straight in his seat. "Well." He told Adams.

"You lie." Adams replied, the scratching of his quill pen on his letter beginning to bother Jefferson.

"Lie? Sir!" Jefferson cried, offended that anyone, let alone a man he respected, would call him a liar.

"Why not speak the truth?" Adams offered, blowing the wet ink on his paper before folding it up carefully and depositing it in his pocket. "Tell me that you are unwell, and then I'll believe you." He said before standing up and pushing in his seat.

"I am not unwell." Jefferson said bitterly with crossed arms.

"Again sir, you are lying. Come now Mr. Jefferson, I worry about your health. You do not look well yet you deny it so adamantly. Sir, what ever is the matter?" Adams inquired, carefully stepped closer and closer to where Jefferson sat.

Jefferson sighed and ran his fingers through his copper hair. He could no longer deny it, especially since Adams knew he was correct in his assumptions and would probably not let the matter rest until Jefferson talked to him. As obnoxious as John Adams was, Jefferson told himself, he had to admit that the man really did care for his friends and colleagues. "I am ill Mr. Adams." He finally confessed, "Quite ill." Lately his eyes had burned him when he went in the sun and his mouth was sore, almost as if someone had punched him in the jaw.

"Is this a Virginian epidemic?" Adams wondered with a slight teasing smile as he sat on the edge of Jefferson's table.

Jefferson shook his head and returned the smile with a shrug. "Who knows? I'm as surprised as everyone else was today when the rest of my delegation neglected to show up." He told him. "Odd though. Very odd." He added quickly, a statement directed more towards himself than Mr. Adams.

"Agreed heartily." Adams replied. "Tell me Mr. Jefferson, have you had any hard cider in the past few days that you have been ill?"

"Hard cider sir?" Jefferson asked, puzzled by the strange New England man.

"Hard cider sir." Adams repeated, twiddling the walking stick in his firm hands. "I use to have a mug every morning when I was back in Massachusetts. It clears the head and the sinuses. I wondered if you might have a mug with me, my treat, since you are feeling so unwell and I was reminded of those times when I was ill myself back in Braintree."

Jefferson was flattered by the honest proposal and felt only sincerity and good nature in John Adams' voice, however he simply had no taste for hard cider. "I would like to Mr. Adams," Jefferson began and saw Adams' face fall in disappointment slightly, "But I'm afraid I cannot stomach much at the present time."

"Oh, well then, what can you stomach?" John asked.

"Wine." Jefferson replied. "Red wine to be exact, although it's hardly the proper time for such a thing."

This time it was Adams' turn to shrug. "It's not a law you know Mr. Jefferson." He told him and Thomas Jefferson grinned in spite of himself. "I will have hard cider, and you will drink your red wine, and I will pay, and you will feel much better." He said, sliding off the table smoothly and clasping a sturdy hand on Jefferson's shoulder.

"Yes, I believe that will do just fine then." Jefferson said with the first sincere smile of the past few nightmarish days. He rose and the two men walked to what Jefferson assumed was Adams' favorite tavern and shared a few drinks together before heading back to Congress, Jefferson feeling much better than he had earlier. Whether it was from the alcohol or the delightful conversation he and Adams shared he could not say.


Over the course of the next few days Thomas Jefferson spent most of his time with John Adams. He learned that John greatly admired his political writing and he admitted that he enjoyed reading John's thoughts on current events and government. He showed Adams his inventions which John greatly enjoyed while he was treated to stories of interest and tremendous humor, a thing which Jefferson hadn't realized existed in New England. He shared his collection of books with the literature-hungry Adams while, in turn, John entertained Thomas with tales of wit and wisdom he had collected throughout his short life.

During these days Jefferson only consumed red wine and wondered to himself why he was not dead yet, it had been days since he last ate anything solid. Also the delegate rarely remembered what happened during the night, let alone the time in which he went to bed and even sleeping altogether. These things scared Jefferson endlessly but he knew that no doctor could cure him of his condition. Adams continuously fussed over Jefferson's state of health but, if he had expressed any concern over Jefferson's eating or sleeping patterns, he kept this to himself.

A few more delegates sent in sick notes to Secretary Thomson who had declared with a frustrated cry that an outbreak was spreading amongst Congress. Of course when Jefferson went to scan the crowd of concerned congressmen his eyes focused on Adams who, to his surprise, was not looking at Jefferson as he so usually had but had his own eyes on Thomson. With a flush of some unfamiliar emotion Jefferson turned away from John Adams and coughed briefly into his lace handkerchief, wondering why his friend had not turned his way. Jefferson continued to feel a surge of something strange in the pit of his stomach and desperately wished that Adams would turn and gaze his way, although why Thomas did not exactly know.

That night when John appeared at his doorstep Jefferson's heart nearly skipped a beat; for some reason he had convinced himself that Adams had purposely ignored him during Congress. Instead of stopping to chat with him after Congress ended as usual, Adams had simply nodded to him and ducked out of the hall without a word. Jefferson had felt a sting of rejection and had sadly walked home, nevertheless preparing a spot for John in front of his fireplace just in case he did stop by. He felt foolish for doing so but could not shake his secret hope that Adams might visit him after all, a hope gleefully that floated in his chest when his eyes met John's blue stare in his doorway.

"Hello Thomas." Adams said with a smile as Jefferson let him in with a slight bow. They were on first name basis now; the New England ring of Jefferson's birth name on Adams' tongue had become an endearing familiarity to the Virginian man.

"Evening John." Jefferson replied. The duo made their way to Thomas' parlor where he had already prepared a mug of hard cider for John and a glass of red wine for himself. Lately the wine had become dull tasting and unfulfilling but Jefferson drank it anyway, unsure as to what he was seeking to end his craving. He handed John his mug and the two sat down in front of Jefferson's fireplace, silently enjoying each other's company as they drank their spirits.

Finally after almost ten minutes of quiet John set his mug down. This was Thomas' sign that he wished to speak his mind. "Thomas," John began warily, "There have been…disappearances." He said softly.

"Disappearances? John, what are you talking about?" Thomas asked, switching the wine glass between hands. Suddenly he was extremely uncomfortable in his seat.

"Disappearances in Congress Thomas." John clarified to him. "Hancock asked me to visit him today after Congress recessed. He told me that he had called on the Virginian delegation last night, and that all the men were missing from their homes."

"What? How can that be!" Thomas asked, finally setting down his own drink in shock.

"The entire delegation is lost and Mr. Hancock suspects those who have also written in sick are missing as well." John told him carefully, noting as his friend's face grew a pale shade of white. "Those notes that were sent in were forged. By whom, Hancock doesn't know." He explained. Thomas rose from his chair and walked by the fireplace in order to rest his hand on the mantel.

"This is not happening." He whispered to himself, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "But I just talked to Richard the other day! He can't be missing John!" Thomas suddenly cried.

"He is Thomas, as well as eight other people from the Second Continental Congress." Adams told him slowly, patiently dealing with Thomas' doubt and shock as best he could. "They're not in their residences Thomas. I've been checking all day. Right after Congress ended I went to call on Mr. Lee myself but when I entered his home I found his bedroom empty and his things in disarray. It was as if he had put up some type of struggle which he obviously lost."

Thomas noticeably shuttered but still had his back turned away from John. "So all eight men are gone? And you checked out their homes as well John? Did they have…signs of a struggle as well?" Thomas said with much difficulty.

"They did Thomas. I've alerted the constable." John said.

"I don't understand!" Thomas suddenly shouted, spinning around to face his friend on his heels. "I spoke with Richard the other day! There was a note that said he was sick! Why would anyone want to do this to him and the other seven delegates? What is there to gain?" He cried, John calmly waiting with the same patient countenance until Thomas was finished shouting.

"I don't know Thomas." John told him honestly. "If this should keep happening, Congress may not convene for a while…not that this would be necessarily a bad thing." He added with a lopsided grin that couldn't help but rub off on Thomas.

Tom found it difficult to reply so he merely shrugged. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but what he intended to say he had lost already. "Mr. Adams," He finally said, accidentally reverted back to his friend's formal name, "John." He corrected shakily and then took a deep breath, "What are we to do?"

"I don't know that either Thomas. I suppose we wait." John suggested in a poor attempt to consol him. He stood and began to stretch out his limbs in front of the fireplace, the heat of the fire and the warmth of the hard cider flushing his cheeks noticeably. Jefferson sunk into his arm chair and picked up his glass of red wine. He brought the wine to his lips and attempted to concentrate on drinking it but was disturbingly distracted by Adams.

The older man had placed a hand to the back of his neck and was massaging out the stiffness that had settled in, his hand working in little circles along the width of his neck. Jefferson stared at this strong hand with completely fascination, admiration, and…was it longing? The rough, calloused skin that covered Adams' New England hands was so different than his own; his were silky and smooth with small, dark ink spots, but in its own way John's were very beautiful. John switched hands and Thomas sipped his wine but was still unable to take his eyes off his friend's hands. Underneath the skin he saw hints of the powerful veins that were hidden and suddenly wanted very much to touch the hands and its rough skin, to feel the pulse of the blood rushing through those veins, to perhaps touch the hand to his lips and to kiss and perhaps bite-

The sound of shattering glass brought Adams out of his day dream. He whirled around and was met with the sight of a startled and pale Jefferson, the broken glass scattered about his shaking legs as the red liquor seeping across the floor like molasses. "Thomas! Thomas, are you all right?" He cried, running to his friend's side.

Jefferson nodded shakily. "John, I-I…I think I need to retire now." He muttered, still staring into the fire. He was unable to look Adams in the eyes.

John was concerned about Thomas but was unable to get any information out of his friend. He wished to know what was bothering Jefferson and if he could do anything to help, but Thomas declined and only wished for John to leave him for the night. Clear and blatant concern shone in John's eyes for his companion but he respected his wishes and left leaving Thomas to his thoughts in his parlor.


Thomas Jefferson suddenly knew why he wanted so badly to bring John Adams' hands to his lips. He knew why all he wanted to consume was red wine. He knew why he couldn't remember sleeping, and why the sun hurt his eyes, and why the two little wounds on his neck would not go away…and with a dry sob he knew why those eight Congressional delegates were missing. He understood that if he looked into his mirror he wouldn't be able to see himself any longer but still gripped the edges of the dresser that his mirror sat upon and removed his cravat.

The holes were healed, but not gone. No, they would never go away completely he thought to himself. He remembered the stories he had heard from the slaves on his father's plantation about the living dead and with a shaking hand finally brought his fingers to the wounds. It no longer hurt when he touched them.

He opened his mouth and felt the pointed edges of his incisor teeth and understood where the hurt in his jaw had been coming from. The teeth were perfectly sharp, perfectly pointed, and perfect for piercing skin, he added with a shudder. Thomas Jefferson had been bite by a vampyre that night, a creature of pure legend or so he had thought anyway. He had been bitten by one and so now he was forced to walk amongst the living as one of them. There was nothing more he could do.

"Oh Gods!" He moaned to himself when he thought back to John Adams. How he had wanted to pierce that man's strong hands with his teeth and draw the beautiful red liquid to the surface! He hadn't really wanted red wine all this time, it had been a poor substitute for what he really craved. He wanted blood and had attempted to block this horrific urge by drinking the wine, but he knew that he had given into the temptation many times at night and then forgotten it.

His servants hadn't left him in the middle of the night, no, in truth he had been the one who made them leave. They knew before he even knew it himself what their master had become and had fled during the night fall. It had been he who had killed those eight delegates and then written the notes to Secretary Thomson. It explained the blotched of black ink on his hands, and why the men of Virginia had been the first to go missing. Sitting by the fireplace with John Adams he had suddenly remembered everything; their screams, doing away with the bodies, wiping their blood away from his mouth…

His stomach turned and Thomas knew he was still hungry. He was hungry, but not just for any human he could stumble across in the street. No, he thought to himself with a slight pang of guilt, he wanted John Adams' blood. He wanted to feel the man's hands underneath his tongue and his lips being crushed by his own. He wanted to undo the New Englander's cravat and lightly suck and nip at his neck until the both of them couldn't take it any more and he had to plunge his teeth into his beautiful veins. He wanted John Adams more than he could bear, and that night, he was going to get him.


It was the middle of the night when John answered the door. He appeared flushed and disheveled to Thomas, who realized that he had probably woken him up. It mattered little, Adams was even more appealing in this tousled state. He invited Thomas in and asked him what the matter was to which Thomas replied that nothing was the matter, he just needed to see him.

"You just needed to see me?" John asked as he attempted to straighten himself out. Thomas grinned inwardly and mused to himself that Adams' effort to make himself presentable was in vain.

"Oh yes. I needed to apologize to you John for my strange behavior earlier tonight." He practically purred, stepping ever closer and closer to his prey.

John shrugged. "No apology needed sir." He told him. "You were not feeling yourself."

"Oh, but I must apologize. I was rude and didn't show you out. And you are right, I was not feeling myself at the time. But I am now." Thomas replied silkily, evoking an eyebrow raise and a frown from his friend. "In fact, I feel better than I've ever felt in my whole life." He added truthfully.

"Well that's good I suppose." John replied slowly and then suddenly remembered his good manners. "Oh, do forgive me. Can I get you something? Are you thirsty, hungry?"

"Only for you." Replied Thomas, and before John could even react Jefferson had pinned the smaller man up against the wall and had forced his mouth on to his. Although Thomas knew that he had caught Adams' by surprise, he hadn't expected him to be so receiving to the attempt at sodomy. Adams was a New Englander which was almost fully Puritan by definition, yet when Thomas had forced him against the wall and had begun to ravage his mouth with his own John hardly even put up a struggle. Instead he moaned into his mouth and pressed his hips up against Thomas, his hands still held tightly in place above his head by Jefferson.

Thomas was practically giddy with delight. Kissing Adams was almost everything he had imagined over the past few days of day dreaming with one small exception - Adams wasn't putting up a fight. As Thomas nipped his lips and attempted to devour the smaller man, plundering his mouth with his tongue and sucking on to the skin to draw the blood close to the surface, John had pressed his body close to Thomas in an attempted to draw them together. Thomas was overjoyed by his partner's eagerness and rammed his body against John's, feeling the smaller man hit the wall forcefully in front of him. John hissed softly but showed no real signs of discomfort when Thomas began to slowly push himself against Adams over and over, their lips still tightly locked together as they wantonly pressed into each other during each well-timed thrust.

Slowly Thomas' focus left John's lips and turned to his jaw line, his ear, that small spot behind the ear, and continued traveling until he was closer and closer to the neck. He sucked and licked his way across the surprisingly smooth skin, drawing gasps and moans from Adams which he enjoyed hearing very much. Still the man's arms were pinned but Thomas, having been fully certain that John was enjoying this as much as he was, slowly lowered the grip on his wrists so that John's arms were bent and his delicious hands were level with his panting face.

He could feel the blood pumping fiercely through John Adams, pumping faster and faster until Thomas was sure that soon he would be able to hear his heart beating against his body. Thomas spied the beautiful hands and pressed still his body firmly against Adams so that he could feel every inch of the smaller man, began to kiss the life lines that traveled across John's right palm. John shuttered and Thomas took this as a sign to continue on. Slowly he picked up his pace and flicked his tongue in between John's fingers. "Oh good God…" John muttered breathlessly. Thomas then bit down on the exposed wrist carefully and watched with glee as the strong vein underneath throbbed with blood. He knew that it was time to expose John's exquisite neck.

Still pressed tightly against Adams he traveled back to John's lips and pressed himself against them once more, only this time slower, with less need to feel the skin next to his and more focus on sensuality. He sighed absentmindedly as the two slowly kissed each other, it was such a pleasant feeling that he almost forgot the beautiful vein that awaited him in John's neck. They parted once or twice and Thomas placed a chaste kiss on Adams' lower lip each time before diving back into a more heated exchange.

Finally Thomas let go of one of Adams' hands - his right one - and felt it immediately wrap around his waist in order to keep him pressed up against the smaller body. Thomas snaked his own free hand up to Adams' cravat and slowly loosened it while moving his lips towards the exposed part of the neck. "Jefferson…" Adams whispered as Thomas slowly trailed his lips and teeth closer and closer to that vein in his neck. "Thomas…." He said again, only this time a little bit more forcefully.

Thomas ignored his lover and continued to focus on the beautiful neck with shut eyes. "Thomas." Adams suddenly with a slight plea, but still Jefferson continued. Finally he found that spot he had been looking for, that slight bulge in the neck where Thomas knew he would find the blood he had been craving. He opened his mouth and licked the spot before slowly positioning his incisor teeth where he wanted them. "Thomas, don't!" Cried John Adams, and with wide-eyed shock Jefferson finally stared down at the neck he had wanted to feed from.

He gasped and fell back, looking up at his lover from the floor. "John?" He whispered with horror in his voice. Before him stood John Adams, his hair tussled, his lips slightly swollen and red, and his cravat undone and exposing his neck. But Thomas Jefferson could not look at John Adams for his eyes could not part from the two puncture holes in the smooth skin of his neck. "This whole time?" Jefferson managed to ask, his gaze never once breaking from the wounds that mirrored his own.

He saw John nod.

"You?" He asked again.

Another nod.

"It were I," He said slowly, bending down to offer him his strong hand as he had done before, "that followed you in the street that one night." He said and Jefferson placed his own hand into the beautiful extremity and was raised to stand once again. Jefferson continued to hold on to his hand, refusing to part with it even though he was properly on his feet. He met the blue stare of John Adams and felt the same concern he had been bestowed with as before. Their gaze, and their hands, were continued to be held in that small New Englander's room.

"It were I that bit you Mr. Jefferson."