#georgewashingdad

Eight in the morning. Edmund had barely gotten out of bed so he wasn’t at his sharpest, but he could already smell a fresh pot of coffee on, and he had woken up alone. This could only mean one thing: George was planning on backing him into some sort of corner as soon as he came downstairs. He did everything in his power to stave it off, from washing his face twice to changing his clothing three times. None of it mattered. Eventually, his growling stomach forced him into the dining room. 

A headache lingered in the back of his skull and he sighed, eyes glued to the floor as he thought back to the previous night. He vaguely remembered drinking, though the fact that his head didn’t feel like an axe had gone through it was a good indicator of the fact that he hadn’t had a lot to drink. In fact, he reassured himself, it was probably just enough to get himself to sleep. Except, that was pathetic in its own right. 

When he was downstairs, Edmund walked into the kitchen, feet quietly padding on the tile flooring. It took him a couple minutes to sweeten and lighten it to his liking, and to collect a blueberry muffin from the box that George had (presumably) gotten earlier that day, or maybe last night. Once he was out of time to stall he sat down at the table, one hand twisted in his robe as he looked up at his husband with his best smile.

“George!”

The call from the bedroom was loud and wavering, though it held every bit of pride which Edmund could muster for his present state and bounced off the walls like the sound of a scream in a loud alleyway. Hopefully, he thought, George might hear from the garden and help him, though he was certain that he would be laughed at for even being in such a silly position. One of his feet had fallen through the floorboards after he took a wrong step and he was on the ground, only clad in his stockings and a shirt. 

With an experimental pull, Randolph winced and hot tears sprung up in his eyes, but he clenched his jaw with resolution and tried to pull again. It was only when George came in that he stopped, eyes floating up to the man with a few tears still gathered in his eyes. 

I must look like an idiot.

One hand offered out to George so he could pull him back, biting his bottom lip with a whimper, “I was just walking a-and the floor fell out from under me.. Please help?”

Lord... Adams. Jefferson. Hamilton. Hamilton. Hamilton. Knox. Jefferson. 

Uttering of small curses escaped the man’s mouth as he sifted through the papers on his desk. Each one was lifted and put under intense scrutiny before being filed away to their proper place. Some were reports, others treatises to be given to somebody else (’Jefferson, I’m not the Postmaster General’), and the final of the bunch were all recommendations on how he should defend the only major case which he currently had. Predictably,-- Naturally, these were courtesy of Secretary Hamilton, who he had yet to decide if he liked or not.

Slender, clever fingers worked over the papers one at a time as he read them, and when he reached the bottom of the stack, he found himself left with very little to work with. After all, everything had been for the gain of the cabinet and their personal standing. Why, he silently wondered, do they want me to like them? He hardly liked any of them. Well...

There was one exception. Washington. He had known the man for years, though, and the idea of not liking him was silly. Everybody likes George Washington. He had even won the likes of Samuel Adams and Charles Lee over! A smile crossed over his face as he thought of the man, only to be brought out of his thoughts by pronounced footsteps making their way down the hall. Would he knock? Well.. There was only one way to find out. Listen.