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Chapter Text

The congress was half-full when Roger Sherman arrived. There was Jefferson perched on the windowsill as to be expected; Dickinson at his desk whispering something indiscernible  to Wilson, and Rutledge in the corner practicing his so-called “Southern charm” on Hall, it seemed. Sherman took his seat at Connecticut’s desk, weary of the inevitable arguing that was to proceed. His mind shifted, however, as someone took a few steps into the room. It was part of the new delegation from New Jersey, a… what was his name? Witherspoon, that’s it. The reverend glanced around the room, seemingly assessing the lack of people despite the time. He quietly took his seat near the center of the room, fumbling with his inkwell and papers. Sherman found himself staring at him. He had a peculiarly long face with a defined nose, and deep-set blue eyes. Silvery hair, blue frock coat, starched cravat, tight breeches—he looked almost princely in the morning rays. 

Sherman suddenly paled when he realized Witherspoon had met his eyes. He muttered out an apology and Witherspoon assured him it was quite alright. Sherman felt ridiculously embarrassed for such a small mishap, but he couldn’t help the blush on his cheeks rising. 

Soon enough, congress convened and most of the delegation members were present, for better or worse. Hancock wearily began the meeting, and Thompson took roll. It went on for what felt like eternity, before the conversation on George Washington’s army began. If the roll call was an eternity, Sherman thought, this was something new entirely. Adams was surprisingly quiet that day, focusing on scribbling down notes. Sherman wondered if he was taking down an itemized list of everything that frustrated him. 

At least it’s constructive. 

The day dragged on in the Philadelphia heat of summer, and most of the congress no doubt felt as though they were melting. Eventually, conversation died down and nobody wanted to take up the business of speaking again. Hancock then figured that it was in everyone’s best interest to adjourn for the rest of the day, seeing as how no progress was going to be made at that point. The members silently gave gratitude and began to file out of the hall. Sherman exited the room whilst staring at his papers to take home, dreading the next day, when he suddenly bumped into a familiar figure—

“Oh, goodness, I’m sorry—”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” Sherman replied. He looked up at Rev. Witherspoon and nearly fell right over. Silently scolding himself for being so clumsy, Sherman held out his hand, which Witherspoon took nervously.

“I don’t believe we’ve been, um, properly introduced; my name is Roger Sherman from the Connecticut delegation.” The reverend smiled crookedly and glanced down. 

“I’m the Reverend John Witherspoon of New Jersey; it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Sherman felt something in his chest stir at the interaction, but he pushed it aside to maintain appearances. He muttered a ‘good day’ and carried on for home, anxious to get rid of the feelings he had found. 

Roger Sherman’s evening was uneventful, save for the small cat he found lounging on the complex’s porch when he arrived home to his small flat. It was a tabby, and the little fellow was very friendly towards Sherman, which pleased him greatly. He decided to take the cat inside and feed it some milk and scraps of dinner, and it was quite nice to have a companion with him for once. The thought sprung across Sherman’s mind of Witherspoon and what kind of companion he would be. He surely would be gentle and kind, and Sherman figured he read a lot in his spare time. Perhaps Witherspoon was a better cook and could make meals while Sherman cleaned the apartment. Perhaps—

What am I going on about?

Sherman shook his head, confused at why this man had begun to invade his everyday thoughts. Hell, he hardly knew the man. But something about him was so utterly intriguing, so… endearing. His crooked smile, the way he fidgeted with his sleeves, his ramblings… Sherman wanted to know his mannerisms intimately. But of course that was ridiculous, nothing more than loneliness pervading the mind. It had been so long since he’d been able to even think about the possibility of romantic or… other ventures. It must be getting in the way of his sensibilities.

Chapter Text

When Sherman awoke, it was 9 A.M. already. He was probably going to be late.

Damn it.

He turned into the kitchen as he was adjusting his cravat to grab an apple from the counter for breakfast. The old-fashioned kitchen wasn’t much, but it was nice for a place so close to the congress. The cupboards were mostly bare, Sherman rarely cooking anything of substance. A tea kettle sat out on the stove, waiting to be used. Sherman caught a glance of the cat he had taken in the night before and smiled to himself. She stretched and strolled across the floor to say good morning, and Sherman decided he would name her Shiloh. Sherman threw on his frock coat and stepped outside into the Philadelphia sun. 

The city was bright, but time felt slowed down as though trapped in a jar of molasses. Sherman had walked about a block before he heard a voice call his name from the street.

“Mr. Sherman?”

A carriage came to a stop next to him, and he turned to see none other than the Rev. Witherspoon within harboring a look of concern.

“Good morning, Reverend. What’s the problem?” Witherspoon glanced down and pulled at the cuffs of his coat sleeves. 

“There’s not a problem, really… I just wanted to ask if perhaps you would like a ride to the congress?”

Sherman blushed, “I’d like that, thank you.” He stepped into the small carriage and immediately felt like a young schoolgirl. 

What had gotten into him?

The reverend slid over a bit to make room, and Sherman sat down beside him. 

“Where are your companions?” Sherman asked, curious about their whereabouts.

“Oh, they’re currently on their way to New Brunswick for a different convention.”

“Ah,” Sherman replied. A moment passed.

“It’s just so hot outside, you know, I’d hate to see you walk in that heat,” Witherspoon laughed softly. 

“No kidding. You could cook on the streets right about now with that pavement.”

Witherspoon giggled and covered his mouth shyly with his hand. Sherman noticed the couple simple rings he wore, which he hadn’t noticed before. 

“You wear rings,” he stated dumbly. Witherspoon’s eyes widened.

“Oh, ah, yes, I—I do. I’ve been told that they, um, make a person’s hands more elegant.”

“They certainly do in your case. May I…?”

Witherspoon blushed and nodded with a moment of hesitation. 

Sherman took the reverend’s hand in his own, admiring the silver around his deft hands. His hands were rather chilled, Sherman noticed. And so soft. And so delicate; his knuckles were visible from how skinny he was. Sherman’s fingers lingered on Witherspoon’s, something compelling them to keep the touch. Their eyes suddenly met, and Sherman realized how stunningly blue the reverend’s eyes were. He had never been so close to him—

Sherman snapped out of his daze and cleared his throat, moving his hand back to his lap.

“They are really lovely. The—the rings are; they’re… very lovely.”

“Thank you,” Witherspoon quite nearly whispered, face flushed.

The rest of the ride was quiet, but Sherman’s mind was so loud with the images of Witherspoon right in front of him, close enough to—

The carriage stopped, and Witherspoon quickly stepped out to assist Sherman down. Sherman thanked him quietly, and Witherspoon nodded in return. They walked side-by-side into the congress and were greeted by a busy McNair, no doubt off to prepare the rum. The pair shared a smile as they took their respective seats, ready for a long day ahead. 

Chapter Text

The congress continued as expected, Hancock somehow being able to put up with McKean’s yelling over Read before the proceedings even began. Sherman certainly couldn’t stand it and sat his head down on his desk, waiting patiently for the migraine soon-to-come. He glanced over to his left, where Adams was hounding Chase to join the cause. Something—no, some one —caught his eye behind the desks. There, curled up on three chairs pushed together, was the reverend. Sherman couldn’t recall even having noticed him moving. Witherspoon appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. His closed eyes fluttered the slightest bit, and his lashes were dark and full. His frock coat was missing, his silhouette now more easily discernible. How absolutely angelic he looked like that. Sherman couldn’t help but be drawn to his lips, pretty and pink. He wanted to drag his finger across them and—

“Sweet Jesus!” McNair shouted from across the room, startling Sherman, who was now afraid that his thoughts were not entirely private. But of course they were; besides, what did he have to worry about? Surely there was nothing strange about his thoughts in his condition. It must be only normal to fantasize about other men when you’re so… deprived of certain luxuries. But Sherman couldn’t help the nagging feeling that his thoughts were not only getting in the way of his work but were generally… perverted. To be thinking of anything, romantic or otherwise, with a reverend, certainly had to be somewhat sinful, no doubt. 

But the thoughts continued to plague him as he wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him, tangled in sheets together. He could kiss him awake and Witherspoon would softly stir, smiling that lovely grin of his. They could help each other dress for the day, gentle touches and brushing hands. 

Sherman noticed Witherspoon beginning to wake as Thomson read another dispatch from Washington, and quickly looked down at his desk. Still, he continued to sneak glances at him. The reverend’s hair was tousled and his face was flushed. Sherman had to push away indecent thoughts about other circumstances in which he might look the same. God, how pretty he was. He’d never before seen such an utterly pretty man. That was all he could think. Pretty. 

Suddenly, the reverend stood to address Thomson or perhaps the congress: “There… there must be some mistake. I have an aunt who lives in New Brunswick.” 

Dickinson smirked and replied from the corner of the room, “You must tell her to keep up the good work.”

This sufficiently embarrassed Witherspoon, and he quickly paced out of the room. The sensible part of Sherman’s brain told him to just stay put, but something within his chest compelled him to follow the man. The latter instinct won out, and Sherman quietly excused himself. He decided that he would bring Witherspoon his coat, as he had left it on the chairs when he left. That made sense. Certainly not because he wanted to be close to him. 

When Sherman turned out the doors, he couldn’t seem to find Witherspoon, so he decided to check outside. The sun was beating down, but there was fortunately a light breeze now and birds were softly tweeting. Sherman was delighted to find a squirrel prancing in the underbrush. After a bit of searching in the garden, he spotted the reverend near the water pump, apparently splashing his face with it. 

“Reverend.”

Witherspoon nearly jumped.

“Oh, oh, Mr. Sherman, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m rather… um, excitable.” 

Sherman blushed and chose to ignore the possible double entendre. 

“I believe you forgot your coat, Reverend.”

“Oh, I suppose I did… thank you, Mr. Sherman.”

“Roger.” 

Witherspoon cocked his head ever-so slightly.

“You can… you can call me Roger.”

“Alright, Roger”, he replied softly, as if uttering a prayer under his breath. The sound of his name in Witherspoon’s mouth nearly made him faint in the heat. 

“In that case, you may call me John.”

Sherman raised his eyebrows to make sure he was certain that he would be comfortable with that. Witherspoon nodded in response, and Sherman held his hand out.

“Nice to meet you, John.” 

Witherspoon flushed and grinned crookedly, taking his hand. The touch of the reverend’s hand was heavenly, and Sherman felt his pulse quicken. He pulled away awkwardly and cleared his throat, trying to push away the screaming feelings in his head that told him to kiss the man right then and there. 

“I must confess, I was rather worried about you; are you alright?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine. I just… fluster easily, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about; I think it’s quite charming,” Sherman reassured him.

“You—you do?” Witherspoon stuttered, and Sherman instantly regretted it. That had certainly been too forward.

“Well, yes, it’s, um… something I find quite compelling about you.”

Stop talking, Roger. 

Witherspoon blushed and his gaze fluttered to Sherman’s lips.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Of course,” Sherman replied plainly, trying his best to keep up a façade of coolness. A moment of silence passed, and Witherspoon fidgeted with his sleeves. 

“Roger, I wanted to ask for your advice on something… it’s—it’s rather odd, but it’s been weighing rather heavily on me.”

Sherman swallowed dryly.

“Of course, what is it, Reverend?”

Witherspoon glanced around nervously.

“Could we perhaps discuss this somewhere more, um, private?” 

Sherman felt his heart skip a beat.

“Of—of course.”

Witherspoon carefully led the way to a back entrance to the building, turning into a small conference room and closing the door behind them. They were alone, together, in a room with the door closed. Sherman thought he might die. Witherspoon offered a seat to Sherman, and he accepted nervously, still trying to remain calm despite the flood of emotions he was feeling. Witherspoon took the seat next to him, and they were as close as they had been in the carriage.

“You see, I… I’m struggling to stay focused on the task at hand. Are you…” he swallowed, “also experiencing a lot of distracting thoughts?” 

Sherman panicked. He certainly didn’t want to lie to him, but if he should ask for more detail…

He settled on, “I think a lot of us are. I wouldn’t say it’s anything abnormal.”

Witherspoon looked down and bit his lip.

“I see.”

He played with his rings.

“But what if the distraction,” he continued, “is within, um, the congress?”

Sherman’s eyes widened, and Witherspoon immediately pulled back, realizing what Sherman had assumed was the nature of his predicament. 

“That is to say… I know most of the men are dealing with certain issues at the moment, but that isn’t, um, what I’m struggling with. As expected of one in my position, I have no wife.”

“But you still…” Sherman trailed off.

Witherspoon’s eyes became wide and he blushed.

“No, no, I… I can’t… I can’t indulge myself in anything of… that sort. It’s unsavory of one in my position.”

He paused.

“But of course, I am only human, and I still experience… thoughts of that nature…” he continued nervously, adjusting his cravat.

“And these thoughts revolve around someone in… the congress, John?”

Witherspoon swallowed quickly and cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he stated plainly. Sherman felt his heart drop, and he silently scolded himself for thinking that such a man would return his feelings. John had feelings for someone else.

“I’m quite ashamed, to be sure, but I don’t know what to do,” Witherspoon muttered.

“Well, I…” Sherman hesitated. “May I know who you’re speaking of?”

The reverend pulled back instinctively and panic arose on his face.

“I—I don’t think you’d… care to know.” 

“It might help us resolve the issue,” Sherman coaxed.

Witherspoon paused, looking into Sherman’s eyes with an unreadable expression. God, how utterly beautiful he was.

“It’s…well… oh, I can’t say!” Witherspoon jumped up from his seat and paced to the opposite side of the room. 

“I shouldn’t have brought it up, just—just forget I mentioned it, please.”

Sherman felt a wave of pity, afraid that he had said or done something to elicit the response. He stood and walked over to where the reverend had curled into himself, hand at his lips.

“John, it’s… it’s quite alright. I won’t view you any differently.”

“You don’t know that,” Witherspoon whispered. “I’ve already said too much; I shouldn’t have involved you in my own debauched thoughts. They’re detestable.”

“I promise, it’s quite normal to feel the way you do, John. You’re a wonderful man.”

Witherspoon choked back a sob and turned away. Sherman put his arms around the man’s shoulders, leaning in close to him.

“It’s okay, Reverend.” 

Sherman felt the heat of Witherspoon’s neck on his cheek, and realized how red the man had become. His breathing was almost erratic, and his head cocked slightly, as if expecting a welcome touch on his neck. 

“John.”

Witherspoon’s eyes closed tightly.

“Please, don’t…” he whispered.

“‘Don’t’ what?”

Witherspoon turned to face him, a strange mix of pain and pleasure written on his face.

“Don’t hold me so closely… I—you don’t understand,” he murmured.

“Reverend, are you… are you distracted by me?”

Witherspoon swallowed. He nodded.

Sherman could no longer restrain himself and pressed his lips to Witherspoon’s, who quite nearly moaned into it. His hands roamed the reverend’s body, one landing on the small of his back to pull him in closer. His heart was pounding, and he could feel the lightheadedness of blood rushing somewhere else. By the time he finally pulled away, both men were gasping for air. Witherspoon looked positively debauched, half-lidded eyes with pupils blown and lips red. Sherman had to hold himself back from continuing on to mark up the man’s neck. 

“Roger, goodness, I…”

“God, you’re gorgeous like this,” Sherman muttered, running his fingers along Witherspoon’s jaw. Witherspoon softly gasped and looked down. They silently stood holding each other for a moment.

“I’ve… I’ve never done that before,” Witherspoon murmured.

Sherman started.

“Wait, you mean… that was your first kiss?”

Witherspoon nodded shyly. Sherman felt a twinge of guilt at taking it from the man, but something possessive in his chest was quite pleased. He let his hand linger on Witherspoon’s face, admiring his beauty.

Suddenly, the creak of a door.

“Oh, hello, gentlemen. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Franklin said smiling, turning around and shutting the door again.

Witherspoon and Sherman shared a look.