Sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, Washington was once again reminded of how different the future was. Of course major things, like Presidents and buildings and technology and such were different, but that was expected. No, it was the little things that got Washington. Just like traveling to another country, Washington thought.
"Hey Franklin, you've been to France, right?” Washington asked.
Franklin, seated across the table, looked up from his newspaper and nodded.
"They have corn flakes there?"
Franklin shook his head.
Washington dipped his spoon into the bowl again. The entire concept of cereal astonished him. Washington did not, of course, have corn flakes, as Will Kellogg wouldn't begin mass producing them until 1906. But hot cereal, such as the steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him, was plentiful. Washington brought another spoonful to his mouth. The taste was strangely satisfying.
Just then Jefferson entered the room. Jefferson had taken his breakfast hours earlier with the sun's dawning, and since that time had been out on errands.
"You'd get much more done, Washington, if you'd just get up earlier,” he remarked on his way to the icebox.
Indoor refridgeration, Washington thought in mid-chew, that was another thing that was different. He didn't even have to go outside to get a cold glass of milk. The future is an appealing place, Washington admitted to himself.
"Are you listening to me, George?"
Washington snapped his head up. Right, Jefferson, of course. Washington swallowed, then acknowledged his comrade. “Of course I'm listening. Get up earlier, whatever, right?"
Jefferson scowled, then poured himself a glass of orange juice. He stood straight and sipped at it slowly, as if to feel out the water before diving in head-first. Franklin continued to read his paper.
"All I'm saying George,” Jefferson continued, “is that you don't exactly go out of your way to get much done around here."
Washington shrugged. “What's to get done? We're in what to us is the equivalent of a foreign country, a very comfortable one where the people speak our language, and you want to talk about work? Why don't you relax, Tom?"
"It's Thomas,” Jefferson said coldly.
"Right. Tom, Thomas, whatever, right?"
"I prefer to be called Thomas."
There was an awkward pause. Franklin put his paper down and faked a shiver, “Brrrr, It's gotten colder in here than that icebox."
Jefferson and Washington looked down, demurely acknowledging Franklin's chiding.
And so the week went, Washington and Jefferson trying to avoid stumbling over each other, and Franklin moderating when they did. Franklin managed to put in some much needed work on the time-carraige, Jefferson read through the research they had gathered, and Washington spent some time sight-seeing. The sequence went on until the last night before the inauguration, when the three finally met in the kitchen to discuss the plan for the next day. With a cordial good luck wish between them, the three went up to bed to rest up for the big day.
Washington sat in the 3rd seat, 10 rows back, craning his neck to see above the rather tall person in front of him. History didn't exactly remember Washington's height the same way it remembered Napolean's, but it seemed rather important to Washington at that moment. It didn't really matter, though, Washington thought. The day was bright, if a little chilly, and the audience was well organized into seated and standing sections. They should've staggered the rows, though, Washington thought, worried about the plan. At least there was plenty of room to the side to exit when necessary. Washington took a good look at his surrounding, rubbernecking exactly the way Jefferson told him not to. Washington could see the dignitaries at the front, of course, waiting for the event to begin. And at the rear was a clear path to the street for Lincoln to arrive via. Washington glanced quickly at the places where he knew Jefferson and Franklin were watching from, though he didn't see them personally. Then he scanned the audience briefly and-
Wait a minute. Washington had a flash of recognition with one of the faces. He looked back at the spot he thought he saw it at, but lost the face in the crowd. It couldn't have been true, anyway. It was almost 100 years after Washington's time. So Washington took a calm, deep breath, reached down for the reassuring feel of his firearm, and faced forward again. Everything was normal... except for the hand the now rested on his shoulder.
"Excuse me, Mr. Washington,” a familiar voice said from behind him, “Can I ask you to come with me?"
Washington whipped around. It wasn't Franklin or Jefferson or even Weishaupt (heaven forbid), but rather the unusually bright face of his protege Alexander Hamilton. Washington stood up in mock-disbelief. Of course, after everything he had been through, he acknowledged the possibility that something went wrong, that Franklin went back and grabbed a friend to help out, someone Washington would easily recognize and trust. Yes, that was it, he thought, as he turned his face back into a position of friendly recognition. Washington stepped aside from his seat and out into the crowd, accompanied by his friend.
"What's happened? Where's Franklin?” Washington asked.
"Close,” Hamilton assured him, “They want to see you. Right over there.” Hamilton made a gesture to get Washington's attention. When Washington turned back at him all he saw was the sucker punch coming way too fast at his face.
Well that was unexpected, Washington thought as he drifted into unconsciousness.