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a-hurricane-came · 7 years

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And If It Ever Happened (No One Has To Know) ~ Thomas Jefferson x Reader

Because despite being stuck on a bus for a three hour long car ride to a youth conference with a bunch of other awesome hyperactive candy addicted teens, I’m bored and still lacking a life. Also, for SJ’s Submission Sunday. Because by the heck not?

Or: Thomas learns about colors, his jacket is explained, and (Y/N) makes plans.

Warnings: Brain aneurism, child coping mechanisms, arguing, car accidents, bad French and Irish (Google Translate, people, bc I know nothing) character death, mentions of suicide, depression, hospitalization, a couple people get punched, mentions of homosexual relationships (in case that makes you uncomfortable - sorry never gonna change it those two are too precious in my mind) also it’s my first imagine so it probably sucks (be warned!) but it will sort of get better (ish) towards the middle of the story (beginning is on the bad side of OK and I’m not sure about the ending.), probably insanely OOCish and Mary Sue/Gary Lue ish characters that tend to go with shit writing like mine, plus this is the first time I’ve written an imagine, and my writing was already sucky enough as it was, so take that how you will.

So have fun with that

Modern AU, feminine pronouns

Masterlist

At four years old, Thomas Jefferson knew enough to know how to understand others, and what he understood was that all the boys on the block thought that pink or purple or any color reminiscent of them were for girls. (Except for red, because red is cool, like fire and blood and a knight’s horsehair plumes; and blue, because blue is cool, too, like ice and deep sea diving and the big, big sky that all those jets flew through that they were going to fly someday.)

He knew all the colors in the rainbow: red and orange and yellow and green and blue and purple, and black because that’s always what was between the other colors, and white because that was what was on either end of it in the shape of big, fluffy clouds.

Not pink.

Pink didn’t count, he thought.

At age six, his mother takes him to the local hardware store to look at paint samples, and he looks up at the giant wall with a gaping jaw as he takes in the impossible number of colors-within-colors. (Even pink.)

He sees some sort of grey splotch near the top of a yellow card, though, and doesn’t like it. He decides it doesn’t belong there.

“Mama, why is there another color on this one?”

She looks at him, brow risen in slight confusion, before she realized what his little finger is pointing to and chuckles.

She bends down real, real low, so they’re at the same eye level.

She’s tall, he thinks, not for the first time. I bet she could fight giants.

“Thomas,” she tells him, a small smile on her face and an amused twinkle in her eye. “This isn’t supposed to be another color. This is the name of the color. Like green is called green, and orange is called orange, but these ones are…,” she paused for a moment, mulling over the words as she tried to find a way to explain it to his young mind. “Different,” she finally settled. “They’re longer, and weirder.”

“Oh.”

“Like this one,” she took down a shade of light, light orange and yellow, that reminds him of when those very colors clash on the - the nex - neckt - nectarine. “They call it Brooklyn Skyrise.”

He frowned. That didn’t sound like a color.

If he looked at it, it was actually really nice.

“What’s Brooklyn?”

“It’s a city in New York, Thommy.”

He stared at it a little while longer before nodding his head firmly. “I’m going to live in New York,” he decided confidently.

His mother’s eyebrows rose.

“I’m sure you will, Thomas.”

(And if he didn’t have any idea where New York was, then he didn’t say anything.)

She then pulled down another one, a murky auburn, leaning more toward red, and he is reminded of leaves right before fall.

“Here’s another one. This one’s called Dragon’s Blood.”

His grin lit up his face. “Cool!”

He is seven when he finally meets her.

She is bold and she is brilliant and despite the fact that she is a girl, she seems to possibly be one of the only people in that class that he might actually like.

Besides James, of course.

He decides to save himself the humiliation and stick with becoming friends with James.

It’s okay, though.

He’s not the only one who’s noticed you.

It’s when you hit another boy that he finally gets the courage to talk to you, opposed to all the other boys who look upon you with both awe and fear, and scattered every time you came near.

"Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” was the only answer he got back.

“What’s your name?”

“(Y/N). What about you?”

“I’m Thomas.”

“Cool.”

It was quiet for a little while.

“I saw that you punched that boy,” he informed her.

“Everyone saw it, dummy,” she shot back. “It was during recess.”

His face grew hot and he practically recoiled, not knowing at first what to say to that.

“Well-well I just - I just thought I should tell you that I thought it was really cool,” he finally decided on.

She cocked her head.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“All the other guys were too big of wimps to talk to me after I hit Charlie.”

“Charlie had it coming, everyone knows that!”

She shrugged, and turned her head, her hair whipping out behind her.

He frowned when he saw what was in said hair.

“Why do you have that?” He asked, as if offended by the object in question. A frown tugged on his features.

She scowled at him.

“Why? What’s wrong with wearing a bow?”

“It’s not the bow that’s the problem, it’s the color,” he explained, a flurry of light annoyance briefly sweeping across his features.

If looks could kill, Thomas would’ve been six feet under by the time he finished his sentence.

“What about it?” She asked.

“It’s - well, it’s pink,” he stressed, trying to get her to understand the apparent horrors of such a color.

“No, it’s not,” she hissed back.

“Well, then what is it?” He shot in response, arms crossed smugly, and obviously not expecting her to hold an answer.

“It’s fuchsia,” she sniffed. “Obviously.”

Right. Because he was supposed to know the difference.

“I couldn’t find my other ones. I think my sister took them. She’s such a meanie.”

“Other ones? You have other ones? Please tell me they’re not all pink!”

“Fuchsia,” she insisted. “And no, they’re not. I’ve got pink, and flamingo, and fuchsia, and purple, and turquoise, and teal, and orange, and auburn, and brown, and black, and white, and yellow, and grey, and indigo-”

She ignored his skeptical, “Isn’t that just another word for purple?” And continued to list how many colors she had in her extensive bow collection.

“And periwinkle-” “What’s that?” “And crimson, and cherry-” “I thought those were the same things…,” “And I’ve got tangerine, too,” here she sounded very smug, as if immensely proud of herself for knowing such a word. “But my favorite is the magenta.”

His face scrunched up.

“Magenta?”

“Yeah.”

“What does that one look like?”

Her face lit up, and before Thomas could realize he made a mistake and walk away, she had already curled her fingers into his shirt sleeve, making sure he couldn’t leave as she went on and on about her favorite bow and all her other bows and things he didn’t need to know about.

Somewhere in there, he vaguely heard the words, “It was from my Papa,” but they were soon swallowed by the load of complete gibberish that followed, as he gaped at her, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

She was always wearing a different bow, he realized a few days after his talk with her - it was something he had never realized until then.

But she still wore the one that was that horrifyingly electric shade of - magenta, he was pretty sure she called it - every other day.

(And if he was slowly starting to get used to it, then he didn’t say anything.)

Three weeks after their small talk, and they shared a few hellos, but not quite enough to constitute as friends.

So you could imagine his surprise when after class was let out that day, and everyone started to walk outside to walk home, or for their parents to pick them up, or to ride their bikes or go into their bus lines, that she made a beeline with him, an ecstatic grin on her face.

“(Y/N)?” He asked, confused, when he realized that she had stopped right in front of him, and had not, in fact, been going towards someone behind or around him.

“I got a new bow!” She whispered conspiratorially to him. She did, in fact, have a new bow - and it was white with rainbow polka dots.

(And if maybe pink counted now, then he didn’t say anything.)

It was probably then that he realized that he did, in fact, contrary to his original belief, have a new friend - and this one, unlike some of the others, would not be quite as easy to shake.

In a month, she tells him that she’s getting a new little brother.

He tells her that little brothers aren’t so great - his is super annoying.

In two months, he tells her that his family is going to the beach that weekend, and that they’re going to swim.

“You’re going to go swimming?” She asks, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised.

“Of course,” he replies flippantly. “I’ll be teaching Linny, because he doesn’t know how, yet,” his chest puffs out with pride as he mentions this, “but everyone else does.”

“Right,” she answers, nodding vehemently, like she believes him. (And if she goes home that night and begs her parents to sign her up for swimming lessons, or even insists that she needs them now now now because everyone else knows how to and she doesn’t, then they didn’t tell anyone.)

It is by the fifth month, when they go to the park to play together and she insists on her Papa making cookies (“They’re the best thing anyone’s ever eaten! You’ve gotta try ‘em, Thommy!”) and he actually enjoys himself that he realizes that even if it only actually took a few minutes of their correspondence for him to become friends with her, it only took a few days for her to become friends with him.

She does that, he realizes - that sneaking up on people.

She doesn’t tell you that she’s going to get you to be friends with her, she asks you what your favorite color is or why you’re talking to her, and the next thing know, bam. You’re friends with her.

No, she never told anyone - it just happened.

Like a shadow - never there until the sun shifted.

He was okay with that, he realized, by the time six months had passed.

And so it went.

When they were eight, he taught her cursive, and she taught him drawing.

Then he taught her how to play the piano, and she retaliated with what she knew of the recorder.

Some of the others teased them about it - always about how one or the other of them had cooties, or they were weird for being friends because things just didn’t happen like that, but they stopped after a while then they realized it was useless - when they were continuously shrugged off.

They were nine when her Papa had a brain aneurism and died.

They didn’t know what it was, at the time, of course, just that he was gone because of it.

What happened after that was all kind of a blur.

He saw the obituary in the paper his father was reading, but he didn’t understand what it was at the time.

When they got to school, the Guidance Counselor dropped by all the different classes and gently explained to them why (Y/N) wasn’t in school that day, why she wouldn’t be for the next few days, and to act like nothing had happened.

“I’m sorry about your Papa,” he told her when she came back to school, completely disregarding all the instructions that had been given to him.

She looked at him.

Blinked.

Nodded.

Turned away.

(And if he thought that her magenta bow was a little too crumpled or tied a little too tight that day, then he didn’t say anything.)

She is quieter, after that.

First she never stops wearing the bow he gave her, and the Crocs he had been so fond of, even if they were seven sizes too big for her, and the big Hawaiian shirts he would always wear on bowling night.

None of the other kids teased her.

Nobody ever told them - they had told them that her father had died, yes, but not what was happening to her - but they seemed to realize what was going on anyways, and quietly left her alone to work it out for herself. (And Thomas, of course. Thomas was there for her.)

Then comes the time when she stops.

She doesn’t wear his colorful, comfy clogs or go to school swaddled in his familiar floral shirt, and she wore any bow but her magenta one.

It just completely halted, all at once, with no warning.

She came to school everyday with her head held high and a blazing fire in her eyes, full of determination, and everyone seemed a little startled - if not scared - at the abrupt transformation.

When she started going out of her way to loudly engage her other classmates in conversation, they seemed to take the message that she was, once again, okay to approach.

(And if everyday at lunch, her eyes stared a little forlornly at the container she’d bring with her that was now full of crackers instead of those famous cookies, then no one said anything.)

Her return to everyday life was fast and furious and adventurous and emblazoning.

She rose her hand everyday in class, strived to be the best, strived to be better, the strongest, the smartest, the fastest.

Thomas was right there with her the whole time. They took on the challenge together.

(And if he was a little sad with the change, then he didn’t say anything.)

It took three months for her to finish planning, and when she finally showed Thomas, he was the first one, and he added his ideas, and she thanked him, and they cried, and then they stopped their self pity and discussed their plans more.

When they came home from that summer break, everyone seemed to notice the change, and it went without saying what it was.

Thomas and (Y/N) had big, big plans, and they weren’t about to let anyone get in their way.

They’re ambitious, and they’re smart, and they’re able to start without immediately alerting their parents or teachers.

They pull up a chart online, and within half an hour have memorized the alphabet in Morse Code.

Within two, they were fluent.

They used a brand new app that had come out, and began to learn new languages - these ones were a lot harder than Morse Code, but their drive and their intelligence didn’t change, and with their youth and easily molded minds, they picked it up quicker than most.

They took classes where they could, and that’s when others started to notice - when they began to ask for references and advice for certain things, or cash for no apparent reason.

They began to switch languages when they spoke in school as they learned, to keep in practice.

They learned something themselves and then they taught the other.

They started off slow, hesitant even with their determination, but soon enough began to pick up the pace, especially as their quickly acquired skills helped them with others.

They were ten years old.

He taught her French as she taught him Spanish.

They were eleven years old.

The others didn’t tease them at all anymore - they were starting to branch out on their own friendships as well, and none of them really cared about cooties anymore.

She taught him Norwegian and he taught her German.

He taught her Mandarin and she taught him Russian.

And so it went.

Twelve years old.

Greek. Gaelic. Icelandic. Polish.

His little brother Mowlie and his little sister Marty become best friends with her little brother Merlin, and he is practically adopted into their family just as she was, and they into her family just as he was, and they bond over annoying older siblings and favorite toys and embarrassing names that start with the same letter.

They begin to earn the name ‘The Triple M.’ For obvious reasons, as the trio soon became inseparable.

(Y/N) and Thomas aren’t sure how good of an idea it was to introduce him, but it was unavoidable - the little monsters would’ve found a way to meet each other anyways, somehow, someday soon.

Thirteen years old, and while they continue with languages in a much more rapid pace, they start with other things, too.

Arabic. Scandinavian. Czech. Italian. Japanese. Korean. Swahili. Latin. Karate. Ju-Jitsu.

(She begins to wear her magenta bow again, every once in a while. He doesn’t say anything.)

They are fourteen, and in school, they begin to learn Spanish.

Their teacher is surprised by how easily they ace the class, but can’t move them up, as that would be a high school level, which is outside of his jurisdiction, but he at least sent forwards the notice.

He asks the class as a whole, one day, a couple months in, if they know any other languages.

John Adams knows enough to say good morning, bless you and ask for directions in German.

Roger Sherman can introduce himself in Japanese.

Betsy Ross can hold a basic conversation in French and say a few greetings in Italian.

Winston Churchill can say hello in Dutch.

That is it.

The only two left are Thomas and (Y/N), and the rest of the class is completely and utterly, outright stunned when they tell them in that same fluent Spanish they’ve been using all semester that they know seventeen other languages (or, eighteen, if you count Morse Code) then Spanish and English, and when the teacher asks them to demonstrate a little bit like they did with all the other kids, they take up the rest of the class period smoothly holding a discussion over what their reactions would be when they learned what they had planned next, as they switched between tongues.

Fifteen.

Dutch. Portuguese. Irish. Danish. Swedish. Turkish. Esperanto. Ukrainian. Welsh. Hebrew. Vietnamese. Hungarian. Archery. Fencing.

The other students are in awe of them despite the fact that they have absolutely no idea what they’re doing.

(And if Thomas’ stomach explodes into butterflies every time he sees her now, then he doesn’t say anything.)

Sixteen.

Braille. Sign language. Many other tongues from the far, far corners of the world, along with hand to hand combat, and fighting with real knives and swords. They know how to defend themselves now. Good - nothing should ever be able to happen to them now.

(And if (Y/N) begins to wonder just how far their plans will carry them, and if it will ever lead to more for them than friends, then she doesn’t tell anyone.)

Seventeen.

They are the top of their class.

Charles Lee seems to have forgotten that she punched him in the face in the first grade, and as a result, begins constantly trying to woo (Y/N).

With all her anxious plans and buzzing energy, he goes on ignored.

After all, their plans are about to be carried out, and they still, throughout all these years, haven’t even fully explained this far fetched (though not so much anymore), life changing already plan of theirs, and they both have about a dozen AP classes and exams still, with their jobs and drama club, when added with student council, band, jazz band, choir, show choir, the yearbook committee, Forensics and both the spelling and geography bees, mock trial, lacrosse, soccer, the GSA Club, track and cross country, in addition to everyone badgering them about college applications despite them still being their junior year, and them not being able to tell them why they keep turning everything down, because that would be to reveal the full plan and they both agreed that they wouldn’t do that until the week they carried it out.

Not to mention, of course, the fact that James, who was now a close friend of both of theirs, was constantly getting sick, so they needed to take care of him, on top of helping out their parents by doing chores and giving their younger siblings a lift to and fro different places, and, obviously, their…far more intense and personalized extracurriculars.

Honestly, it was a miracle they were still standing, and absolutely nobody had any clue how they did it.

But they were still seventeen.

That meant that their time was running out.

She furiously teaches him how to whittle, he doesn’t stop until she knows how to build a fire.

They take on how to track different people and animals together, as well as go through the art of deception and knowing when others are lying.

They practice different accents until they’re perfected, work on acrobatics and languages those around them can’t even pronounce the name of.

They take on extra shifts and work days, eagerly scraping up any money they could to add to the fund they’d been gathering for their plans throughout the years. (Because until they were proven wrong, they were going to act on the belief that they could support their own plans.)

Even once they finished this, they could still go to college, they decided.

After all, not that they were trying to be arrogant or anything, but what college wouldn’t want them?

He exchanges hacking for thievery with her, and they both learn to think on their feet faster than they ever have before.

Deduction. Observation. Analyzation. Hard work. Effort. Blood. Sweat. Tears. Lost sleep.

It was all going to be worth it, they knew, because it was all working towards their plan.

They are seventeen, and no one else is anywhere closer to their plans then they want them to be.

For a while, James is in the dark, though he is still the closest to knowing the whole truth.

He, for his part, takes their silence graciously, despite knowing that something huge was being kept from them.

When he wasn’t sick, he’d try to make sure they at least got full meals and a decent amount of sleep.

When they drifted off during study sessions or at their desks or in the library, he’d let them be, copy down any sleep delirious, slurred writing from a language he didn’t recognize on a separate piece of paper for them in case it was an idea or work they needed, and then erased it from their homework, knowing from experience after the complaining the teachers had given to all their classes in the first month they had (Y/N) and Thomas that they didn’t appreciate it all that much.

(And if he covered them with a blanket or put their cocoa, coffee and tea back in the microwave to stay warm, too, then no one said anything.)

That summer they learn first aid.

They know, looking back on some of the things they learned that year, that the lines are starting to blur between what is strictly necessary and originally part of the plan, and what they’ve simply added just because it might be a fun or useful skill to learn or have. Maybe the lines started to blur a while ago. They aren’t sure.

They think that they might be alright with that.

(And if Thomas also thinks he’s in love with her and that stupid cute little magenta bow she wears, he doesn’t say anything. And if James realized it before him, then he didn’t say anything, either.)

Eighteen.

They were eighteen.

They were finally going to graduate.

They could’ve skipped a few years and graduated earlier, too, of course, but they preferred not having to associate themselves around faces they hadn’t grown up with, and now they were no closer to regretting their decisions.

One of their teachers asks them to go around class, on the first day, and share what they’re going to do after school - take a leap year, go straight to work, if they knew what college they were going to, something else, maybe.

The two simply shared a crooked grin, that while their fellow students had been expecting, their teacher had not.

(And if it still managed to make them all uneasy, then no one said anything.)

“Yeah,” (Y/N) had said, a strange, excited lilt in her voice.

“We’ve got plans,” Thomas finished for her.

The teacher raises their eyebrows at the ‘we’ in there - because that was definitely a ‘we’ that had been heard there - and presses them for more answers.

They share a serious look, and it unnerves them all when an entire conversation seems to pass between them in mere seconds simply through eye contact - even James, who has seen them do it many times.

A nod.

They’re going to carry it out soon anyhow.

What was the harm in letting them know now?

Everyone seems to lean in, sensing that after years and years of wondering, they were finally about to have their mystery solved.

They do not realize that they’re not going to be getting the whole story just yet.

“We’re going to travel,” Thomas says confidently.

“Travel? Wherever to?”

“Oh, here and there,” answers (Y/N) vaguely with a wave of her hand.

They do not tell them the full extent of it - that they’ve been planning this since they were nine, that they were literally going all over the world, for most probably years at a time, and they’d find ways to cover for the trip, and they’d help anyone they came across and maybe once they came back they’d sign up for college or the military together - maybe whichever one they didn’t pick as soon as they were done with the first.

(And if they don’t tell them that it’s to make her Papa proud and fill in his bucket list that was never completed along with each of their own, either, then neither of them say anything.)

They were not happy living unfulfilled lives.

(And if she is suddenly hyper aware of that electric buzz that passed through them every time they touched, then she didn’t say anything. And if she realized she was in love with him, too, she didn’t say anything.)

They cram in the last of their lessons - both in school and in private. (Engineering, this time. Engineering and building, architecture, working on more memorization techniques, survival skills, dances, different instruments, the line blurs further and they try to tie it all back down to study of different cultures - but as much as they could. They never knew what they might need out there.)

They graduate, her, Valedictorian, him, class president, both with high honors and already several college credits and hours of community work logged, both oblivious to the awe and high respect their peers held them in, and both finally about to see that goal come true.

(And if she still has that magenta bow in her hair that day, then no one says anything.)

They finally tell James, and their parents - the truth, the plan, the whole entire complete plan and truth, without any fanfare or missing steps. (Sort of. They do not tell them about Papa’s bucket list, or the fighting or the lying or the survival skills, and reassure them that they won’t need any of these.)

Their parents were shocked - in a way, but proud - because this was an amazing thing for them to be doing, and while they were surprised by it and maybe a little hurt that they weren’t told earlier, especially with how long it had taken to plan, but they always had known that their children were exceptionally ambitious and intelligent, and once they had it all laid out in front of them, they knew that this was exactly like them, and this was exactly what they needed to do.

That one last week it is, then - packed with goodbyes and see you soons and keep in touches, stuffed with graduation parties, and crammed with frantic packing.

And so it happens.

They travel.

They go to France and to Greece and to Iceland and then back to France. They go to Japan and Sealand and Australia and Brazil and France again. Canada, Greenland, Turkey, Chad, Egypt, France. New Zealand, Scotland, Ireland, France. Germany, Denmark, France. India, China, Saudi Arabia, Chile, France. Spain, Tailand, the Philippines, Russia, Poland, Norway, the Netherlands, and then France once more.

They climb literal mountains and go deep sea diving in almost all of the oceans and skydive once on each continent except Antarctica. They help build schools and houses and stay with foreign families that become extensions of their own. They help raise money for charity and find rations for those who need it, they teach different things to those they come across, and pick up more on the way. They dance in the street when there are musicians playing, or sometimes play along with them, and they see monuments and rainforests and artifacts and museums and waterfalls and canyons and deserts and mountains and oceans, but it’s always France they came back to.

Because somehow, it stayed like that. Always France.

(And if it was because of the countless times both thought of confessing their feelings there, rather than the architecture as they said, then neither said anything.)

More, more, more countries, so many they’re loosing count, and then France.

Again and again and again.

They aren’t expecting what comes next.

Because it’s France that they go to last.

It’s in France where he finally gets up the nerve to tell her.

And it’s in France where their luck finally catches up to them and all shit hits the fan.

They are in the plaza - of some random city they always seem to get caught up in, but could never remember the name of because what did it matter? - and as he begins to cross it over to her, with two piping hot coffees in his hand, all he can do is stop and stand, transfixed and gaping in horror as time slows down.

The cab driver speeding towards her fought for control even as he sped off the road and out of human capability of stopping it at that moment, even as it ran straight for her and he tried to swerve around.

It didn’t work.

Her earbuds in her ears, her face lit up in a glorious smile, the sun hitting her face and her light, and her hand raised in a happy wave towards him, completely oblivious to her impending doom or he cabbie desperately honking at her, which she still couldn’t hear - and damn it, (Y/N), why do you always have to insist on listening to your music so loud? Why now of all days?

Her face doesn’t even get a chance to morph into an expression of confusion as mortification takes over his face, or as the coffee slaps to the ground, splattering up to speckle his jeans and seeming to burn his sandaled feet.

And as he rushed forward, he supposed that, perhaps it was a blessing, that she never got the chance to do so, because that meant that the last way he saw her was when she was at her most beautiful - happy, excited, and just comfortable in her own skin. Not terrified for her own life.

He sprints as fast as he can and pulls her limp body into his arms, not caring for the blood smearing onto his open skin and summer clothes.

“(Y/N)? Look at me, (Y/N), honey, you’ve gotta keep your eyes open.”

He looks up from her to yell at the gathering crowd.

“Quelqu'un appelle une ambulance!” He shouts, desperate for them to do it, to do something because she was dying, God dammit!

“How’re you feeling, baby girl?” He whispered to her, and then instantly regrets it.

He didn’t want to hear about the pain he could so blatantly see.

And he holds her tighter, and she whimpers, and her fingers curl into the sleeve of his shirt, and before he can stop her, she’s talking again, and he can’t help but remember their meeting all those years ago.

And she’s talking and talking and it’s getting softer and softer and he’s not really listening, but he’s still hanging on to every word as he shakes her back awake continuously, nods his head and encourages her to keep going.

And somewhere in there, he thinks he vaguely heard her say the words, “I wonder if this is how Papa felt,” and his heart clenches.

“Let’s hope you won’t get a chance to ask him too soon, huh?”

She gives a weak chuckle, chokes a little, spits away the blood settled on her lips.

“I never told you, but-” His eyes widen and his heart pounds.

Did she love him too?

Is that what she was going to say?

No! She couldn’t do this - not now, not right before he lost her!

And yet…he needed an answer.

No, he decided. No, I don’t, because she’ll make it through.

“(Y-Y/N), don’t-”

She keeps talking, but she voice gets softer, so he has to stop and lean forwards to hear.

“I always made you take us here because the cafe smells like Papa’s cookies.”

His stomach drops with grief, and he can’t even register that she didn’t tell him that she loved him in her dying moments, because those words were enough to break his spine.

He never got to see that fear or confusion, and maybe he should’ve been grateful for that.

He wasn’t grateful.

He wanted (Y/N) back.

And as he cradled her to his chest, and that blinding rage welled up inside of him, he wanted to cuss out that cabbie and then grab him and punch him in the neck nine or ten times, but then she would have been disappointed.

So he sends back a letter.

And he stays.

And it hurts - or it hurts him right in his fucking soul, shattering it into thousands of pieces, seeing her reflected in the world around him, but at least this way he thinks that maybe - just maybe - he might be able to find a sort of peace with the truth here, in the place she loved most.

(And if every day he goes to the cafe and tries some of their cookies, and if everyday he takes a single bit before pushing forwards his plate and leaving, with the comment, “I’m sorry, but it just…isn’t right,” because those were not her Papa’s cookies, even if they smelt like it, then he didn’t say anything, and neither did they.)

He runs across a store one day - nothing particularly extraordinary about it. In fact, he would have passed it had he not seen the ridiculous garment that was in the window.

Instead, he stopped.

Stared.

Tilted his head.

It would suit him, he supposed, and the color-

He inhaled sharply before changing course and heading inside.

He came back out ten minutes later with a magenta leather jacket.

(So maybe magenta’s a color now. When did that happen? He’s not sure. It’s not like he has anyone to ask, much less tell.)

He never went a day onward without it.

It was like he kept a piece of her with him wherever he went.

(And maybe he was healing, but he didn’t say anything, because he hadn’t needed to be healed in the first place, right?)

Eventually, he works up the courage to move back home.

Plasters a smile on his face, spoils the Triple M’s.

He goes to college, eventually - like they talked about.

They are astounded by his credentials, like they had predicted, and he was almost instantly let in.

(James was there. That was good, right? That he was seeking out his other friends? They said that that was supposed to be progress, didn’t they?)

Of course, all good things come to an end.

In this case, for Thomas, it came in three different shapes and sizes.

Their names?

Why, Hercules Mulligan, John Laurens, and, of course, their ringleader, Alexander Hamilton.

He couldn’t fathom why Lafayette ever hung out around them.

Of course, this was coming from someone who constantly got into debates, arguments and other squabbles with the trio (okay, so really just Hamilton) all around campus, insulting and being insulted for everything from their hair to their shoes to how they walked to how they talked to how they presented their last debate.

Despite it being an obvious choice, however, never once had Hamilton ever insulted his jacket.

He had a hunch that maybe Lafayette had told them not to.

After all, they had met Lafayette in France.

He knew what had happened.

He had drawn his own conclusions when he saw the coat, like everyone else had, as Thomas had never explained to any of them, but he could bet that like James’, Lafayette’s was probably pretty damn close. (Except James’ was probably one hundred percent accurate.)

Whatever the case, it went without saying.

Don’t mention my fucking coat and I won’t hurt you.

That was the general message.

An unspoken rule.

But Hamilton’s always been about breaking the rules, and eventually, this one would end up just like the rest of them.

So when he decided to leave their most recent crowd gathering argument (just about all of them were) and turned around to make his way back to the dorm, you can imagine what he felt when he heard the words, “Do you think he wears such a horrid colored jacket to compensate for something else?” Passed from someone’s mouth everyone’s ears.

He didn’t know who said it.

Forty percent on Hamilton, twenty five on Laurens, twenty on Mulligan, and the fifteen left on any random watcher - that was his bet.

Either way, it only took all of twelve seconds for him to freeze, comprehend, turn around and deck Hamilton one straight in the face.

His hand was throbbing as he walked away, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care.

Mulligan and Laurens helped Hamilton up, all of them seething. (though Mulligan looked a bit amused)

Lafayette just looked at his friends with a dark look, warning them not to go any further.

“That,” he told them seriously, “was crossing a line.”

Everyone around them was dead silent.

“It’s only a fucking piece of clothes! What’s the deal?”

Lafayette’s eyes flashed in another warning.

“It’s a topic best left alone. Let the poor man go, he doesn’t need this right now,” they were shocked to hear him, for once, taking a side between the two - and even more so when it wasn’t theirs. “It’s the least you could do after all the memories you probably just brought to surface.”

And they watch in stunned silence as Lafayette walks away, too.

The next day, they try to approach Thomas.

“Look, Jefferson, Lafayette explained about yesterday-”

“He what?” Thomas asked as his head snapped around, absolutely livid.

“He explained. Well, sort of. Anyways, I just wanted to apologize - didn’t know we were making you think of bad things an-”

“Ná labhairt ar cad nach dtuigeann tú!”

Those around them who heard his shout at Hamilton’s words were stunned at the language none of them understood.

Here they didn’t know him, after all, which meant that here, everyone only knew that he could speak English and French - which was only because he was often caught conversing in it fluently in French class and with Lafayette.

He stormed away before anyone got the chance to ask on his outburst.

(And if James shook his head and followed after him, then no one said anything.)

And life once again went back to the way it was.

(And if he was unhappy with that, then he didn’t say anything.)

And Thomas was sucked back into the smothering routine of college.

(And if he found comfort in this, he didn’t let it show.)

And James worried.

(And if maybe he kept just a bit closer of an eye on Thomas after what happened to Marty, then he didn’t say anything.)

And the Triple M noticed.

(And if Marty tried to commit suicide that month, then no one said anything.)

And his Dad cried.

(And if that’s the first time he’s ever seen him break down like that, such a strong facade having been kept in place for years now crumbling in seconds, then he didn’t mention it.)

And her Mama was terrified.

(And if it was because she was afraid of loosing the only family members she had left, just like she had lost her husband and her daughter, then she didn’t say anything.)

And his mother was sad.

(And if it was because Mowlie and Marty and Merlin were growing up and away, and so was he, and she was just that much closer to having them slip away just like what had happened to her Mama, then she didn’t say anything. And if it was because she saw his dad cry, too, then she didn’t say anything. And if it was because Marty was in the hospital, she didn’t say anything. And he wasn’t so sure she could fight giants anymore.)

And his life was in shambles.

(And if that was how he felt, then he kept his damn mouth shut.)

And he hated it all.

But he is healing.

(Is he healing? He thinks he is healing - but then again, that’s what he thought before he came back from France, too. But it was also before Marty tried to kill herself, and before his Dad showed such vulnerability for he first time in his living memory, and before he realized that his attitude was getting to the Triple M, too, or that her Mama was scared, and his was showing such sorrow, and that was before his fights with Hamilton became more constant, because he was asking for it bringing back those memories, and that was before he had to drag himself out of his pit of self pity and depression for the third time in the four years that’ve passed, he reminds himself.)

And he is moving on.

(Probably. He still wears he jacket. Does that mean he’s moving on? Maybe he just likes the color these days.)

And it’s all going to get better.

(He’s not so sure, though.)

Another year, again and again and again, he falls into the pattern.

Shatter.

Stitch.

Heal.

Shatter again.

Repeat.

Shatter.

(Like he shatters when Marty tries again, and a third and a forth time.)

Stitch.

(Like he stitches over the wound when they get her a therapist to help work her through it.)

Heal.

(Like he heals when he thinks he sees her smiling more often, like he heals when he thinks she’s getting better.)

Shatter.

(Like he shatters again when he realizes that no, she is not better, but she is trying. Like he shatters when he realizes that she might never get better and he might never know, because she’s figured out that as long as she says the right thing and act the right way, everyone thinks that she’s okay. Because that means that they fixed her, right?)

Repeat.

Shatter.

(Like he shatters when he finds Merlin, his little brother in all but blood, sobbing his eyes out in front of his college dorm and He came all the way out here? How the fuck did he even get in the building? and when he finds out that it is because he was just rejected by his long term crush, who had laughed in his face for thinking he would go out with him. Like he shatters when he realizes that Merlin is only telling him about his gender preference now, and while it didn’t matter or change him as a person, it still hurt because he hadn’t trusted him with this until now and God, am I really that horrible of a brother?)

Stitch.

(Like he stitches it back together again when he buries the hurt because this is Merlin, and somebody just fucked up Merlin and that meant that he’d have to find them and fuck up them ten times worse, and because Merlin had his reasons and he could respect that.)

Heal.

(Like it starts to heal when Merlin goes back to his own home with his Mama again, because he’s pretty much over it by now, and like it starts to heal when Thomas tries pointing him in Mowlie’s direction because God, wouldn’t it be great if they were finally actual brothers? Maybe they would have been, someday, before France, but you can’t change the past, and he’s anything but blind, and Mowlie and Merlin are perfect for each other.)

Shatter.

Stitch.

Heal.

Repeat.

It’s a pattern that never ends.

(Not when Jordan Kykes from down the street gets evicted and he can’t do anything to help her save the house, not when Betsy Ross from middle school gets paralyzed from the waist down, not when Hamilton cheats on Eliza, not when he finds out that James Reynolds has been abusing and blackmailing his girlfriend Maria, not when Jay Howes gets assaulted and doesn’t speak for three days, not when his Auntie Lola gets fired from her job, not when James’ long spouts of illnesses grow more frequent and more violent, never never never, it never ends.)

But he comes to figure that maybe that’s just life.

And maybe he’s okay with that.

(And if he’s not, then it doesn’t matter, because it’s life and it’s already happened and it’s still happening and it’s going to keep on happening, and if he doesn’t like it, then no, it really, really doesn’t matter, because even if it happened, then he had no one to tell.)

And that’s just life.

#thomas jefferson x reader #Hamilton imagine #modern au #first oneshot #thomas jefferson #cookies #bc the cookies are an important part of this #college au #(uh...ish?)

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