He's been dropping things lately. Just the night before he had been filling the little jug on his desk with ink, and then quite suddenly the thing had fallen to the floor, the pitch black ink soaking into the wooden planks. He vowed not to tell his landlady until he was ready to return home. There was a woeful shortage of lodging in Philadelphia these days and it would not do to be thrown out. Of course then he could always stay with Wilson, but he would rather not impose upon James. Mostly because John had no intention of ever returning such a favor. He does not particularly like to owe anyone anything.

It would be very easy –and also very wise- to pretend that he didn't know why he suddenly lost all his grace and composure, but what sense would it make for John Dickinson to lie to himself? He knew exactly what was wrong, and whose doing it was

Likewise, he cannot decide whether he hates John Adams, or loves him.

Perhaps it is just that. Perhaps John was of that mentality that people bully the ones they love. Of course that would explain everything, why he and Adams are such adversaries in Congress. Dickinson cannot help but contradict everything Adams has to say whether he truly believes what he is arguing or not. He is not that opposed to the idea of independence, but John does not like the urgency of the situation. If they ever actually resolved something, then who would he have to argue with? That is another vow he had made, not to let the matter of independence pass without a long, hard fight.

-

"Blood has been spilt, gentlemen! The blood of Massachusetts men. Are we going to allow them to have died in vain? Good God, here we are piddling over the matter of independence when patriots are out there dying. The answer is clear." Adams flitted around the hot room, jabbing his finger and swearing at the other delegates. Dickinson watched his every move.

"Is it really so clear, Mr. Adams?" he asked, rising to his feet. "It seems that this matter is only clear to the men of Massachusetts. We are not currently under siege in Pennsylvania, are we James?"

"Well…"

"Exactly." John had a habit of answering for Wilson, but only because he felt that he knew what the other man was going to say. "You see, only Massachusetts appears to be under the impression that the circumstances are so dire that we need to declare ourselves independent from England. This is petty bickering that has unfortunately has turned violent. The king shall reconcile with us soon enough."

Adams was livid, John could tell that before he even approached his rival. He had his hands curled into fists, and Dickinson knew that while they were both gentlemen, Adams would not hesitate to hit him. It must have had something to do with being so small of stature. Though really, he was not insulting Adams' height, only his ideas.

"When will you stop seeing only colonies when we are all one? An attack against one colony is an attack against them all!" Adams' eyes were seething, and despite the sneer on his face, Dickinson's heart beat against his chest. He was entirely too close to Adams to be either comfortable or at ease, and his fingers 

were beginning to lose their grip. He could only be thankful that he was not holding anything. Dickinson felt the familiar daze, and knew that it was time to back away or else let Adams take advantage of his weakness.

"Regardless. This is of your own doing, Mr. Adams. Kindly leave the rest of us out of it."

He returned to his seat beside Wilson feeling dizzy and unsettled. It took the rest of the afternoon for his hands to regain their grasp of anything, and as much as he'd like to hide it, nothing went unnoticed.

-

"Are you alright John?" Wilson asked later on that evening, hovering over the back of his chair. All he wanted was to be left alone, but James liked his company. "You did not look well today."

"I'm quite fine, James. This heat is simply unbearable." He clenched his hand around his quill, feeling the feather begin to splinter. It's a shame really; James is the most eager to please him of all the delegates, but James Wilson is not the same as John Adams. Far from it.

"Would you like me to get you anything?" Wilson had such a hopeful look that John just stared down at the parchment before him and sighed.

"No, but perhaps I should lie down. I'll see you tomorrow."

It was a curt good bye, but Wilson was intelligent enough to understand. He simply nodded and gathered his things, closing the door softly behind him. It never seemed to matter how brusque he was with him, Wilson would always come back with a helpful remark or sympathy.

-

Once he left, Dickinson set about repairing the quill he had splintered, but even that was not as simple as it seemed. He allowed his mind to wander, and only the pain of a sliced finger brought him back. A fat bead of blood welled on his fingertip, and instinctively he sucked the blood away. It seemed almost easier to just find another quill than to keep on sharpening the point of the other with a penknife.

Someone knocked at the door, and he rose to answer, still sucking on his hurt finger. It was John Adams, though normally if he wanted to try and convince Dickinson of something, he just sent Dr. Franklin.

John removed his finger from his mouth just long enough to snap a greeting, and then resumed, for the blood had not quite clotted yet.

"What do you want?"

Perhaps Adams expected a friendlier greeting outside of the statehouse, or perhaps he was simply shocked at the sight of the normally cool John Dickinson sucking on a bleeding finger and looking very unsettled. Whatever the reason was, Adams seemed to soften, though he had likely come with some harsh words.



"Should I call on you at another time, Mr. Dickinson?"

He turned and waved Adams inside, brushing his coat off the rumpled bed. As it were, his lodgings served as a bedroom, dining room, and sitting room all at once. Suites were a precious commodity.

"Like I said, what do you want, Mr. Adams?" Movement cleared his head a little and allowed him the hostility he was so well known for.

"I'll admit that I originally came to ask you to explain your away of seeing things, though now I really do think that I should call sometime when you are more…disposed," Adams explained, eyeing the ink stain on the floor and the shredded quill.

John took a seat on the bed next to Adams, but made no motion to either correct his assumption that he was not well or explain his thoughts. Just being so near to Adams dissolved all coherent thought. They did not speak for a good ten minutes, and then Adams reached for his hand to examine the cut. "You really should not hold the quill in your hand when you go to sharpen it. Things like this happen."

Then quite suddenly, he took the injured finger into his mouth and laved at the tender cut. It had only recently stopped bleeding. Dickinson tensed, and then melted. He did not even seem to notice when a hand began to sneak under his shirt and up his back, caressing the knots along his spine from sitting in the same hard, wooden chair every day. Nor did he notice being shoved backwards, though the weight atop him was quite welcomed.

Adams released his finger, and deftly untied his cravat, discarding the clammy cloth. Even the heavy air in the room felt better than the tightly wound material. Of course the hot, wet mouth that replaced his cravat felt the best.

"Your delegation is worried about you, Mr. Dickinson. They think you've come down with some catching ill," Adams explained, his lips pressed against his throat. "They sent me to find out for sure, but I know the best remedy already."

It was an entirely new side of Adams, and John shivered when the hand that had been stroking his back slipped around to the front and dipped lower, curling around him. He turned his head and stared at the ink stain on the floor, watching the seemingly random pattern take a shape.

"We really can't have you dropping things anymore either," Adams murmured, taking him into his mouth. His back arched, and he vowed to drop things twice as frequently.