Work Header

He's Doing What (To My Country)?!

Chapter Text

Van Buren never remembered the Vice President actually doing this much work.

Well, change is change in the Jackson Administration.

After taking reminders and requests from Congress, the Senate, and the Supreme Court--oh, who was he kidding?

All of Washington had something to say to Jackson at that very moment, and Van Buren saw to it that he at least get the communication done faster.

It was within Washington after all.

He kept these things near him.

As he settled down into his office chair, signing documents needing his name, the temperature lowered incredibly.

If Philedelphia was hot as hell, Washington was apparently something else.

It got increasingly cold to the point where Van Buren kept dropping his pen.

Watching it roll off the desk, dropping onto the floor, he sighed, getting up to--

"Wait a minute," The windows were shut tight, locked and all.

Van Buren went to the window, tried to observe it and placed a hand on the glass.

It was sunny outside actually.

"Well, that can't be right," He said to himself aloud, pulling a wrapped twinkie from his pockets.

Twinkies, Van Buren's favorite.

Pulling away the wrapper, "...interesting!"

Just as he was about to dispose the wrapper, the twinkie was gone from his hand.

Van Buren's eyes widened at the sight behind him.

And there the twinkie was, pinned to the wall.

By a pen.

"What the-?" He looked back to where his pen was--no longer there.

Before he could register what was happening, the pen zoomed by so fast the sound made his ears ring.

The pen stabbed itself into a portrait of John Adams, hung in the office.

And the painting lit on fire, and Van Buren panicked, the cold and the fire simultaneously getting worse.

The documents he signed flew up, the cold inside blowing them directed towards the fire.

"Oh no!" Under the influence of adrenaline, he quickly went for the papers.

Speedy he was, managing to catch them all.

The winds roughened much more as he tried to bundle the documents.

"Andrew needs these now!" He thought out loud, somehow triggering the winds.

He swore that a tornado was being formed inside the VP's office.

He banged against the door with his shoulder--in 8 hits, he got the door open.

Van Buren thought getting out was hard; trying not to get sucked back in was harder.

He cursed loudly, getting out of the perimeter of the room's sucking powers; said room locked itself as Van Buren reached the end of the hall.

He leaned against the wall with his back, panting from the unwanted thrill.

"I can't believe we just did that,"


Van Buren was near the staircase. He glanced down, attentive at the voices of:

"Shut the fuck up, Clay--what if someone hears us?"


"I got it, I got it,"

Van Buren watched two men walk up the stairs: John Calhoun and Henry Clay.

Currently, Jackson's biggest haters in Washington.

"Guys," He called their attention, "I  think there's a fire in my office."


Calhoun was buttoning up his coat. "I don' smell any smoke."


"Why the hell do ya think I'mma smoke in the Vice President's office?" Calhoun spat back.

Suddenly the lights went out, making the three of them scream in fear simultaneously.

It instantly went back on.

"We'll be righ' back," Calhoun said, pulling Clay with him away into the hallway.

"Hey wait, what's going on?!" Van Buren stopped them, making the two face him.

"W-we WILL INVESTIGATE!" Clay stuttered out.

"An' inform the other offices." Calhoun added calmly, facing back with Clay to walk ahead.

"But-" Van Buren cut himself off, seeing the two walk by his office unscathed.

He rubbed his eyelinered eyes and decided to head downstairs to find Jackson.



Jackson reviewed the current documents in his hands.

Plans to take down the National Bank.

Huge chunks of it were in his handwriting, smudges of blood on certain pages from his wrists.

Another obstacle meant another reason to bleed himself.

And another cut and bleed meant the reserfacing of Rachel in his head.

He made his choice; if he can't love Rachel right, he'll love America right.

The People come by his office from time to time--Andrew always sought their approval.

The Band was apart of the People, at the same time some random force and entity that just remains there, in the corner of The Room.

Like the deceased Storyteller (of Jackson's story, whom Jackson killed out of sheer will), the band transcended space and time--they took her place, the Storyteller's, and with their song carried Jackson's tale along.

The People weren't in the office. The Room was silent--the band merely watching.

Jackson flipped through the pages, thinking.

"Well," He said out loud. "Gotta make sure no one's in my way."

"So," He asks us, somehow. "You guys think the rest of Washington's gonna be up my ass again?"

He turned to the Band resting at that hidden corner. "What about you guys?"

They shrugged, with I dunno, what do you think, and other uncertain answers.

"Well, if they are, I'm gonna make sure they suck it first."

Suddenly a ruckus came from the band, getting Jackson's attention.

"The fuck's happening over there?" He turned to see the Drummer buried in his drumset, as if the instrument fell on him with the intent to kill him with weight.

Don't worry, he's fine.

As he got up, all his documents went flying in the air.

"Shit!" He exclaimed, seeing them rise higher.

A gush of cold wind surged in,  making the Room freezing cold to whoever's in it.

"Who the fuck turned up the air conditioning?!" Andrew was getting pissed. "VAN BUREN?!"

The doors and windows locked themselves.

"That's it," He said with rough anger, getting up onto his apparently empty desk, dodging every paper headed his way.

He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the multitude of cut marks, half by him and the other by Rachel.

"Whatever force of nature you're supposed to be, if you dare keep me from running my country," He put a hand to the pistol on him. "Why don't YOU BRING IT!"

"Your country?"

The winds stilled immediately, lights going off then on to reveal--

Andrew gasped, then put on his angry face.

Revealed to him was George Washington at the left, Thomas Jefferson at the right, and in the center--Alexander Hamilton, with the paper containing the main jist of Jackson's motives in his ghost-hands.

"It says here," Hamilton went, his voice yappery but lacking the vigor it used to have, "that you are going to cease the operations of the National Bank."

"Holy shit-" Jackson almost fell back from the sight of the apparitions.

Crumpling the paper, "Tell us by what authority are you doing these things, Andrew Jackson."

Jackson laughed in disgust. "W-what? What is this?"

He points, "His Majesty George Washington, America's Most Famous Pussy, and," he stops at Hamilton.

"You're like--what are you? An Elitist Federalist Who Happens to Be A Glorified Secratary?"

The three were disgusted at the response.

"Excuse me?" Washington said.

"Clearly the three of us have come face to face with a dumbass tyrant in an office he doesn't deserve to have." Jefferson spat bitterly.

"Sure, I'm the 'dumbass tyrant'," Look, we've got a badass over here,"Washington's nothing but corrupt!"

POTUS #1 raised a brow.

"And by that I mean this place--but to be fair you're no different,"

"If I were unfit to be President, we wouldn't have sustained these United States!" Washington replied in a harsh tone.

"Oh, with these corrupt policies you people established left untouched, we'll be headed there alright." Jackson huffed.

"How the fuck is MY bank corrupt?" Hamilton spat, zooming til he was inches from the President.

The apparition had the bullet mark on him--had Jackson gotten the chance, he would've loaded Hamilton with more bullets.

Jackson looked back into Hamilton's eyes. "The American People are struggling with your established system!"

Hamilton tsked. "They just can't understand the benefits of the taxes they're paying!"

The Band plays subtly the One Last Ride motif everyone knows about.

"Explain that stupid Whiskey Rebellion!" Jackson leaned forward.


Jefferson mumbled to himself, "...guy's got a point on that one."

"Ahp-" Jackson kept Hamilton from speaking, "let me inform you that the taxation on whiskey was greater than the taxation on the tea back when America didn't exist!"

He laughed incredulously, facing us, "I mean, God damn it, right?!"

"Who are you talking to?" Washington asked.

Jackson stifled his laughter, "Corrupt and unaware of the readers--priceless." He then jumped off the table.

"Hold up," Jefferson exclaimed, "where do ya think you're goin'?"

"Getting my job done," And immediately, Jackson rushed for the door out.

"Get him!" Hamilton exclaimed, making the room act upon his command alongside Washington and Jefferson.

The Band kickstarts suspenseful music, unaffected apparently by the plight of the ghosts.