Drunk On Love - Part 1 (Thomas Jefferson x Reader)
I’m supposed to be studying for a kind of really important test I have to take tomorrow…instead I got one of the founding fathers drunk. Procrastination at its finest.
I am so overwhelmed by the amount of likes on my first fic, you guys. Like, you actually noticed. Wow. Thank you all so much. I hope you all enjoy this one as well. I have expectations to live up to now, don’t I?
Warnings: Language and drunkenness I guess? I don’t know!
“So, Y/N.” Angelica leaned forward, looking at you expectantly, and you groaned, knowing exactly what she was about to say. Having a girls’ night in with the Schuyler sisters was always fun, but it wouldn’t be complete without one or more of them hounding you about getting a boyfriend at least once.
“Don’t even start, Angelica!” You shook your head. “I’ve told you guys, I’m focusing on my career right now. I don’t exactly have a ton of time to go meet random guys.”
“We never said you had to meet someone new,” Peggy observed with a glint in her eye. “There’s no reason why you couldn’t date someone you already know.”
“Oh yeah? Like who?” you challenged, fully expecting her to crash and burn.
“Well…what about Lafayette?”
You impulsively whacked the youngest sister with a pillow. “He is like my very annoying, very French older brother. Hell no.”
Eliza stayed silent, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“John Laurens just broke up with his girlfriend.” Peggy tried.
“Oh, my god, Peggy, no!” You shook your head, laughing at the thought, and pushed some stray h/c hairs behind your ear. “We’re just friends. And no, don’t you even mention Mulligan. None of the guys, okay?”
“James Madison.” Angelica threw out carelessly, tilting her head at you as though contemplating whether the match would work.
You gave a theatrical groan. “Give it up guys, honestly. I’m not interested in any of these idiots.”
Eliza rearranged herself on the floor where you all were sitting in Angelica’s apartment, lying on her stomach and propping herself up on her elbows while regarding you with an expression you weren’t quite happy with.
“Eliza, what is that face for?” you asked, a warning in your tone.
“Here’s a thought,” the middle sister said suddenly. “Describe your perfect guy, Y/N. And then we’ll figure out who he is.”
“My perfect guy?” You wrinkled your nose doubtfully.
“Yes!” Angelica clapped her hands. “And then we promise we’ll leave you alone and watch a movie, okay?”
Well. If it meant they’d stop. “Fiiine.” you whined out.
Eliza looked at you expectantly. “Personality traits?”
You paused, considering. I may as well put some effort into this, you reasoned. Then they’ll be satisfied. “Um… I don’t know…Confident. A good sense of humor. Someone… someone with intelligence and ambition.” As you spoke, the image of a faceless stranger began to take shape in your mind, and the qualities rolled easier off your tongue. “Charming, but not fake. Bold enough to flirt but not a player. Someone who knows what he wants. Someone I can match wits with. Opinionated. Caring. Loving.” you trailed off, thinking, unaware of Eliza’s eyes slowly growing rounder.
“Tall and dark haired is always nice,” you joked with a laugh. “Other than that, I don’t know. Can I be done now?” You reached for the bottle of water you’d been given after choking memorably on popcorn earlier in the night, and took a few sips.
“We can finish for you.” Eliza pronounced with a smirk. “Let me see… a politician. Dark dreamy eyes, great hair, a bizarre flair for magenta–”
You spat out your water, your nose and eyes burning and a hacking cough escaping you. “Damn you all, this is the second time I’ve nearly choked to death tonight!”
Angelica reached over to smack your back between the shoulderblades a few times, laughing. “Well if that reaction didn’t confirm our suspicions…what d’you think, ladies?”
Eliza shrugged. “Y/N and Thomas Jefferson? I mean, Alex hates him, but he’s not the one dating him. You guys would be really cute together.”
Time to do damage control before these three give us a fucking shotgun wedding, knowing them. “I don’t even know him all that well, Eliza. Seriously. No freakin’ way.” I mean, he’s hot, but don’t tell them that.
Peggy snorted. “Let’s see. You two met at that party Eliza threw last summer, when Alex punched him and he tripped into you. Not ideal, but it’d make a great story to tell your kids.”
You made a face. “Okay. Hold the fuck up, Margarita Schuyler!”
“It’s Peggy!” she protested with a glare.
“How did we go from ‘hey you should maybe date this guy’ to ‘we’re picking your children’s names’? I object to this!”
“He then proceeded to apologise to you so many times he forgot to be mad at Alex,” Eliza jumped in. “Which, might I remind you, leaves you as the only person on the planet who has ever distracted those two from each other.”
“He was trying to be decent, is all.” you mumbled, feeling a blush creeping into your cheeks.
“Decent? Hah!” Angelica laughed loudly. “Thomas Jefferson went to William and Mary, graduated two years before you, and doesn’t have any interest in classical music. What reason could he possibly have had for going to Princeton’s band concert when you were a senior? Oh, wait, you were the first chair flute, in the front row, in a pretty dress.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“Maybe he had a…cousin…or something…playing?” you suggested feebly, your palms turned skyward.
“Oh, right. Definitely. That’s obviously it.” Eliza nodded along, rolling her eyes. “Give it up, Y/N. Just admit it, he likes you.”
“And you just described basically him for your perfect guy.” Peggy elbowed you, and you winced at the sharp bone prodding your ribcage.
Maybe if you concentrated hard enough, you could force yourself not to blush. You didn’t like Thomas. You just saw him around sometimes, that meant nothing. Right?
Your phone startled all four of you just then, blaring out your unexpected ringtone–the theme from the Broadway musical In The Heights–and you breathed a silent sigh of relief. At this point, you didn’t care if it was a telemarketer. You’d answer gladly, if only to save you from this conversation.
Eliza rolled over and grabbed your cell phone from where it was lying on the carpet a few feet away, looking at the caller before tossing it to you. “Told you,” she singsonged.
You looked down at your screen in alarm. Fuck. What the hell was Thomas Jefferson doing calling you now, of all times? Yes, you two talked sometimes, but you were hardly as close to him as you were to the group Alex had drunkenly christened the ‘Hamilsquad’. Besides, he’d told you a few weeks ago that he was going to be in France. It was nearly four in the morning there, and making a call back to the U.S. had to be pretty expensive.
You rolled your eyes, mostly for the benefit of the girls watching you, and held the phone to your ear. “Hello?”
“Heyyy, Y/N,” Thomas’s voice was hard to distinguish with all of the background noise where he was, but, even so, he was unmistakably drunk.
You sighed. “Thomas, what the hell? You’re drunk.”
“‘M not,” he protested, sounding insulted at the very thought.
“Right. So it’s pure coincidence that I can hear people yelling in a French bar somewhere, and you’re just talking like that for fun, and you had a legitimate reason for calling me in the middle of the night.” It was the middle of the night for him, anyway. “Admit it, you drunk dialled me.”
“You’ve got such a pretty voice, Y/N.”
“Fucking hell.” you cursed aloud. “Thomas Jefferson, you’re drunk as a skunk. Go back to your hotel before you get into trouble.”
In front of you, Angelica was laughing heartily at your end of the conversation, and you stuck your tongue out at her, making a childish face.
“But Y/N!” he whined.
A sigh of annoyance escaped your lips. “What do you want, Thomas?”
“I missed you.” His response was uncharacteristically despondent. Oh god, was that a sniffle?
You made a face at your friends. Covering your phone with your hand, you whispered, “He’s drunk and possibly crying, help!”
Peggy snorted. “Nice.”
“I do not envy your hangover tomorrow. Just go home and go to bed, Thomas.”
“I forgot to tell you,” he slurred stubbornly, “how much I love you.”
You froze, shock rendering you speechless while an unbidden blush rose in your cheeks. “T-that’s…uh-um… that’s…” you trailed off, forcing yourself to ignore the way your heart was racing. You don’t like him, damn it! He’s drunk anyway!
“Don’t you love me, Y/N?” He sniffled again. Apparently Thomas Jefferson was a very emotional drunk.
“Yes, I–no, wait—ugh! Thomas what-the-fuck-is-your-middle-name, you are fucking drunk. Go home before you get arrested, ‘cause I’m not bailing your ass out of French prison.”
“‘M not that drunk.” he insisted.
You rolled your eyes at that lie, playing nervously with the edge of the pillow lying next to you. “You just confessed your undying love for me, Thomas, you’re drunk.”
Eliza squealed, Peggy waved her hands excitedly, and Angelica shushed them loudly, a grin on her face. “See?” she mouthed at you.
“But it’s true!” Thomas was saying on the other end of the phone. “You’ve got gorgeous e/c eyes and you’re inc…int…intelligent!” he exclaimed triumphantly, having conquered his drunken tongue temporarily. “And…and you play pretty music.”
You slammed your head into your palm, shaking your head at his antics. “My god, Thomas, go home and stop embarrassing yourself.”
“You’re enchanting.” he slurred.
“If I don’t stop this now you’re going to hate me in the morning.” you said flatly.
“I would never hate you, Y/N. Why don’t you love me?”
“Christ.” you muttered. “Thomas, I like you fine. Please go home to bed now.”
At this point, to your great chagrin, your best friends were all in stitches at the conversation, managing to give you shaky thumbs up while wiping their eyes.
“You’d be a wonderful mother, Y/N.” Thomas informed you unsteadily. At the words, your blood ran cold. Oh god, no. Make it stop.
“‘M gonna marry you.” he was mumbling.
“I’m going to hang up now.” Your voice was a little higher-pitched than you would have liked, and you did just that before the conversation could go any further. You let out a frustrated scream and flung your phone away before falling forward onto a pillow and groaning. “Oh, god, why?” You asked, voice muffled by the fabric.
“What’d he say?” Peggy clapped her hands excitedly.
“Some incredibly drunken shit about being in love with me.” you deadpanned. “He was completely smashed.”
“See, here’s the thing.” Eliza looked at you. “Alex gets ‘completely smashed’ every time the guys get together. But you don’t find him telling every woman in the bar that he’s in love with her. Lafayette says he still talks about me.”
“People don’t do a lot of lying drunk. Sometimes, they drunk dial the wrong number, but whatever they’re saying is usually true.”
“In this case, though?” You raised an eyebrow. “I highly doubt it.” You crossed your arms stubbornly. “Come on, guys, let’s watch a movie or something.”
You were done with this conversation. It was going to end now, before the expert interrogators you called friends tricked you into confessing. Thomas was your friend. Just your friend. You were supposed to laugh off these kinds of things, not have your heart racing in terrified hope that he might have meant it. You didn’t have feelings for Thomas Jefferson. You didn’t.
And maybe if you repeated that enough times, you could make yourself believe it.
When your movie marathon finished hours later, you paused long enough to send a quick text to Thomas, simply because it was the friendly thing to do.
Hey. When you get this it’ll be morning, and you’ll be hungover as fuck. Have a glass of water, take a shower, and try not to look too dead at your meeting. PS-Advil does wonders for a headache if you packed some.
That was going to be the end of the situation, you told yourself firmly. One simple text, and then you were going to bed on Angelica’s couch and this was never going to be mentioned again.
You tried not to be excited when you woke up to see a reply from him the following morning. Your rational head, though, was being thoroughly overruled by your heart in that moment.
Angelica was making breakfast, banging pots in her kitchen. “Hey, Y/N! You hungry?”
You opened your messages and scanned his, feeling the breath leave you all at once.
How did you know that?
Oh wait. My phone says I called you.
So sorry. I didn’t do anything stupid, did I?
You swallowed the disappointed lump in your throat. He didn’t remember. But then, what did you expect? You wanted to forget about this, remember? Here’s your chance, you thought to yourself mockingly.
No, just a stupid drunk dial.
Nothing happened. You were kind of funny, though.
“Y/N! Hurry up!” Angelica’s voice reached you again, more impatient this time.
“Coming,” you said lowly, dragging yourself off the couch. The lie you’d texted him weighed on your shoulders, and the bitter taste of disappointment lingered. But Thomas Jefferson was Thomas Jefferson, and you weren’t in love with him. Things were better this way. Right?