more theo/alston
Continued from this entry. Theodosia Burr and Joseph Alston take a walk, get their feet dirty, and discuss Theodosia's ambitions (that is, that she will probably not be president, but would be a better one than John Adams. Poor Adams. He's obnoxious and disliked).
This might be less-than-productive, but it's not actually fanfic! :P
“So,” said Alston as they walked aimlessly through the fields behind the Burr house, “say you were to become president.”
“Do you doubt my ability to do so?” said Theodosia a bit more sharply than was necessary. Her defensive mood softened as she glanced at his flowered waistcoat. She had been quietly amused by said waistcoat all afternoon, and it took all her willpower not to comment on how it would serve very well as camouflage if he were to fight Indians in a field full of daisies, et cetera.
Alston paused, biting his upper lip, an odd habit of his. Theodosia was constantly reminding herself of how this should not be attractive at all. His tricorn hat was precariously tilted, and large segments of brown hair hung carelessly about his face. “Not... your ability,” he said at last. “You are more than qualified for the job. You would probably be an improvement over John Adams, even.”
“Yay verily,” said Theodosia emphatically.
“That’s an old-fashioned phrase,” Alston observed.
“I like it,” said Theodosia. They were approaching the edge of a small grove of maple trees; it had rained the night before and the hems of her skirts were soaking wet. She could have concentrated on any of the positive sensory details all around her, such as the unusual warmth of the sun for November and the smell of wet grass, but she was preoccupied with the sting of the implication that her lifelong goal was impossible. Sometimes she thought so herself - she didn’t need other people backing up her doubts, especially not Alston. “So I am Adams’s superior. And still...?”
He gave her a sideways look and, even through his usual partly-somewhere-else expression, registered that she was wounded. His response was odd. “Here, sit down,” he said, dropping to the ground and leaning back, his head disappearing behind raised knees.
“It’s wet,” Theodosia protested, but she sat anyway, refusing to lay back on the ground as her companion was doing.
“I doubt you can feel it, through the petticoats and all,” said Alston, which made Theodosia wonder if he had been thinking at any great length about the number of her petticoats and what was underneath. He then kicked off his boots and rested one ankle on his knee. “Take yours off, too; I won’t look.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a cure for all ills,” said Alston simply. From the angle of his elbows, Theodosia can tell he was covering his eyes. “Go on. I highly recommend it. I won’t be observing your ankles or any such deviance, I assure you, on my -” He paused, and Theodosia could sense his grin. “Southern honor,” he finished, drawing out the words to their greatest possible length.
So Theodosia pulled off her boots, which were uncomfortably tight anyway, and pulled her skirt down over her feet. “Your Southern honor,” she said dryly, “can be contented; my ankles and other such deviance are invisible.” She did feel freer, she thought as she sank her toes into the mud.
Alston sat up abruptly, tricorn falling over his face before he caught it and pulled it back upright. “Good. Now. What were we... oh, yes, Mr. Adams. You are his superior, yet... the American public...” He was watching her face carefully. “Is not apt to elect a female to the office of President at any point in the near future - judging by my previous observation of this ‘public’, of course, which may or may not be correct - by God, Miss Theodosia, I mean no harm by it.” His eyebrows knitted together and he again bit his upper lip, more earnestly, if such an adjective could be used to describe the biting of a lip, this time.
“Of course not,” was all Theodosia said. “You are correct.”
Alston stood and extended a hand, and Theodosia took it and stood as well, thin-lipped in her fight against reality. “If you were to run, though,” he says as they begin to walk again. “I would, in all probability, commit fraud in order to vote for you a thousand times over. I would most likely go to the polling place every five minutes wearing a different disguise.”
Theodosia burst out laughing. “You would lack for disguises after a few hours. What would you do, procure a false mustache for yourself and twist it into different shapes?”
Alston nodded agreeably. “Yes, definitely. A most intelligent plan.”
“The many mustaches of the gentlemen of South Carolina would become legendary,” said Theodosia, having forgotten her dismay entirely.
“Before God, you would take the said Carolina decisively. It would be a slaughter for the Feds. And if this failed, I would go to the Electoral College and... knock a few of them out with their canes, and pose as the unfortunate fellows for the voting.”
Theodosia was sent into stifled fits of giggles at this image. Then she had an idea. “And what if you ran for president, Mr. Alston?”
Alston looked taken aback. “Me? I’ve no interest in it, to be truthful, Miss Burr. I have no desire whatever to lead anyone, at any point, or to be looked at as an example, as a statesman must be. It’s too great a burden. I had rather remain quite anonymous,” he continued, glancing downwards, “and be free to visit Albany and muddy my feet with the Vice President’s daughter as often as I wish.”
“The Vice President would take exception to that, I think,” said Theodosia, with a quick, meaningful glance at Alston. Actually, she was thinking less of Aaron Burr’s disapproval of Alston in general than of how he had raised her to want political power and, saving that, political influence, as badly as food or breathing. She had never met anyone before who would brush the thought of it aside so lightly.
“I have noticed,” said Alston, “that he seems to have acquired a certain distaste for me of late. Perhaps I have overstayed my welcome.”
“No, no, of course not! Let him have his distaste. I for one would have you stay.” She thought better of it after she said it and swallowed awkwardly. “But come. I will show you some of the fascinatingly nonexistant flora and fauna on our property.” Impulsively, she took off running, kicking up mud and grass behind her.
___________________________________________________________
I need to include Lewis and Clark in this somehow. Or maybe they'll get their own fic! :D
Side note: Joseph Alston is becoming weirdly similar to Quentin H. Radmore III, only Southern, heterosexual, and slightly less crazy.
Other side note: Isn't Theo unconventionally pretty? Picture, other picture, other other picture, and my icon. <3
This might be less-than-productive, but it's not actually fanfic! :P
“So,” said Alston as they walked aimlessly through the fields behind the Burr house, “say you were to become president.”
“Do you doubt my ability to do so?” said Theodosia a bit more sharply than was necessary. Her defensive mood softened as she glanced at his flowered waistcoat. She had been quietly amused by said waistcoat all afternoon, and it took all her willpower not to comment on how it would serve very well as camouflage if he were to fight Indians in a field full of daisies, et cetera.
Alston paused, biting his upper lip, an odd habit of his. Theodosia was constantly reminding herself of how this should not be attractive at all. His tricorn hat was precariously tilted, and large segments of brown hair hung carelessly about his face. “Not... your ability,” he said at last. “You are more than qualified for the job. You would probably be an improvement over John Adams, even.”
“Yay verily,” said Theodosia emphatically.
“That’s an old-fashioned phrase,” Alston observed.
“I like it,” said Theodosia. They were approaching the edge of a small grove of maple trees; it had rained the night before and the hems of her skirts were soaking wet. She could have concentrated on any of the positive sensory details all around her, such as the unusual warmth of the sun for November and the smell of wet grass, but she was preoccupied with the sting of the implication that her lifelong goal was impossible. Sometimes she thought so herself - she didn’t need other people backing up her doubts, especially not Alston. “So I am Adams’s superior. And still...?”
He gave her a sideways look and, even through his usual partly-somewhere-else expression, registered that she was wounded. His response was odd. “Here, sit down,” he said, dropping to the ground and leaning back, his head disappearing behind raised knees.
“It’s wet,” Theodosia protested, but she sat anyway, refusing to lay back on the ground as her companion was doing.
“I doubt you can feel it, through the petticoats and all,” said Alston, which made Theodosia wonder if he had been thinking at any great length about the number of her petticoats and what was underneath. He then kicked off his boots and rested one ankle on his knee. “Take yours off, too; I won’t look.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a cure for all ills,” said Alston simply. From the angle of his elbows, Theodosia can tell he was covering his eyes. “Go on. I highly recommend it. I won’t be observing your ankles or any such deviance, I assure you, on my -” He paused, and Theodosia could sense his grin. “Southern honor,” he finished, drawing out the words to their greatest possible length.
So Theodosia pulled off her boots, which were uncomfortably tight anyway, and pulled her skirt down over her feet. “Your Southern honor,” she said dryly, “can be contented; my ankles and other such deviance are invisible.” She did feel freer, she thought as she sank her toes into the mud.
Alston sat up abruptly, tricorn falling over his face before he caught it and pulled it back upright. “Good. Now. What were we... oh, yes, Mr. Adams. You are his superior, yet... the American public...” He was watching her face carefully. “Is not apt to elect a female to the office of President at any point in the near future - judging by my previous observation of this ‘public’, of course, which may or may not be correct - by God, Miss Theodosia, I mean no harm by it.” His eyebrows knitted together and he again bit his upper lip, more earnestly, if such an adjective could be used to describe the biting of a lip, this time.
“Of course not,” was all Theodosia said. “You are correct.”
Alston stood and extended a hand, and Theodosia took it and stood as well, thin-lipped in her fight against reality. “If you were to run, though,” he says as they begin to walk again. “I would, in all probability, commit fraud in order to vote for you a thousand times over. I would most likely go to the polling place every five minutes wearing a different disguise.”
Theodosia burst out laughing. “You would lack for disguises after a few hours. What would you do, procure a false mustache for yourself and twist it into different shapes?”
Alston nodded agreeably. “Yes, definitely. A most intelligent plan.”
“The many mustaches of the gentlemen of South Carolina would become legendary,” said Theodosia, having forgotten her dismay entirely.
“Before God, you would take the said Carolina decisively. It would be a slaughter for the Feds. And if this failed, I would go to the Electoral College and... knock a few of them out with their canes, and pose as the unfortunate fellows for the voting.”
Theodosia was sent into stifled fits of giggles at this image. Then she had an idea. “And what if you ran for president, Mr. Alston?”
Alston looked taken aback. “Me? I’ve no interest in it, to be truthful, Miss Burr. I have no desire whatever to lead anyone, at any point, or to be looked at as an example, as a statesman must be. It’s too great a burden. I had rather remain quite anonymous,” he continued, glancing downwards, “and be free to visit Albany and muddy my feet with the Vice President’s daughter as often as I wish.”
“The Vice President would take exception to that, I think,” said Theodosia, with a quick, meaningful glance at Alston. Actually, she was thinking less of Aaron Burr’s disapproval of Alston in general than of how he had raised her to want political power and, saving that, political influence, as badly as food or breathing. She had never met anyone before who would brush the thought of it aside so lightly.
“I have noticed,” said Alston, “that he seems to have acquired a certain distaste for me of late. Perhaps I have overstayed my welcome.”
“No, no, of course not! Let him have his distaste. I for one would have you stay.” She thought better of it after she said it and swallowed awkwardly. “But come. I will show you some of the fascinatingly nonexistant flora and fauna on our property.” Impulsively, she took off running, kicking up mud and grass behind her.
___________________________________________________________
I need to include Lewis and Clark in this somehow. Or maybe they'll get their own fic! :D
Side note: Joseph Alston is becoming weirdly similar to Quentin H. Radmore III, only Southern, heterosexual, and slightly less crazy.
Other side note: Isn't Theo unconventionally pretty? Picture, other picture, other other picture, and my icon. <3
