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The last thing Hamilton needed was to get sick in the midst of trying to get his plan through Congress.
His headache was slowing him down, making it harder to focus on what he was actually writing. "Figure it out, Alexander. That's an order
from your commander. The president’s words rang in his head every time he ran into a dead end. “I have to get my plan through Congress.” the man would say to himself, half dazed. “I can’t stop ‘til I get this plan through Congress.” then he’d push through the pain and fatigue.
Days had passed where Hamilton was simply in his office all day, no food and barely any water, running mostly on coffee with an hour of sleep if even that. At some point, he started feeling nausea more frequently despite not having much to eat. Sometimes he would get forced into grabbing lunch with one of his colleagues which was the only point when he would eat and get some fresh air.
However, recently, he had given up even on that. The only meals he had were whatever he could get from the vending machine. He had started vomiting that day. At first, it was only a little and he managed to get into the bathroom on time. After that, he kept a bin next to his desk to save the trip of having to run when his stomach churned, though he still had to empty it every time.
Unbeknownst to him, Washington had caught him in the act of running out of his office and into the bathroom at great speed, clutching his hand over his mouth. He had been carefully observing him ever since the man had started locking himself in his office to write away. The president had admittedly become a bit worried when it seemed like Hamilton had started to ignore his basic needs.
He’d also noticed when the younger had nonchalantly taken a bin from the hall, swaying slightly in the process. The man wasn’t sure why he waited so long, but when he saw that today, just like the past couple of days, he wasn’t heading out to go back home, he had decided to take the matter into his own hands. He sure as hell wasn’t about to let Hamilton die of sickness after surviving the war, that’s for sure.
***
Hamilton jolted awake, ink splattering on his desk in the process. “Ah, shit.” he didn’t bother with cleaning it, unable to even focus on writing. He attempted to massage his temples when he heard a soft knock at his door. For a moment he just stared, wondering why someone would be knocking at this hour. “Just a minute!” The young man called out, quickly organizing some things on his desk. “Ahem, come in!”
Washington tentatively set one foot in before appearing in the room fully and closed the door behind him. “Sir!” Hamilton abruptly stood up, clearly surprised, which made some of his papers fall down. ‘Crap...’ he thinks - he must look like a complete mess. “I-I wasn’t expecting you at such a late hour...” he hastily bends down to pick up the scattered papers. “Just as well as I wasn’t expecting you to be here...”
“Please, take a seat.” Washington motions with his hand to drop the pleasantries, standing in place in front of his desk. The only lighting in the room was the lamp on Hamilton’s desk which cast more shadows than brightness. “How are you with your plan?” the president asks with a soft undertone that the younger frankly doesn’t even notice. “I’m... working on it...” he replies with an unusual lack of confidence.
“And how are you?”
“Sir, I’m doing everything that I ca-”
“No, Alex... I’m asking how are you.”
Washington’s expression shifts to worry, so much so that even Hamilton can see it clearly on his face. He opens his mouth to tell a lie, but the nausea quickly takes over him and in a matter of seconds, he’s grasping for the bin and puking into it. The president rushes to his side, arm gently on his back rubbing comforting circles. The younger dry heaves for another few minutes.
“Go home, Alexander. That’s an order from your commander.”
It was that same tone he used every time when he was serious and wouldn’t let Hamilton argue with him, though it didn’t stop him from trying.
“Sir-”
“Go home.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up.”
“...I have to get my plan through Congress.” the young man sounded like a broken record even to himself. “I-I have to- to-” Washington had suddenly picked him, propping his arm around his shoulders and his own around his waist. “If you won’t go, then I’ll take you there myself.” he firmly states and Hamilton is too weak to protest any further so he simply sighs, closing his eyes and letting the president drag him away.
***
When Hamilton opens his eyes again, he doesn’t recognize his surroundings.
‘Am I dreaming?’ he wonders. ‘I though the general was bringing me home...?’ the young man blinks a couple times until suddenly, a door opens to his side. Speak of the man, Washington walks in. “You’re awake.” he sits next to him on the bed, placing a glass on the table. “I brought you some water to wash out your mouth from the bile.” the older quietly explains.
“Where am I?” Hamilton finds himself asking before giving thanks.
“The spare guest room. I’ve arranged for my wife to set it up for you before we arrived.”
The younger’s heart sinks.
“I-I should leave...” he goes to get up, but Washington places a firm yet gentle hand against his chest.
“You are to stay here until you recover.”
Hamilton scoffs. “I’ve already told you I’m fine.”
“Son, don’t argue with me.” the president persists.
“I’m notcha son.” the younger glares, but his face morphs into regret once the older removes his hand.
“I know.”
An awkward silence sets in, but is soon broken when Hamilton’s nausea kicks in again. Washington swiftly picks up a bucket from underneath the bed and slides it into his hands just as he begins to vomit again. The man cringes, his hand back on the younger’s back. When he’s done, the president excuses himself on the pretense of having to clean it out. At the same time, the young man takes a sip of the water.
Later, Hamilton is lying asleep in the bed while Washington is looking over him. He notes how long he must’ve gone without sleep and doesn’t dare wake him up, having no reason to either. The older had brought him more water and simply remained sitting by his side, keeping a watchful eye on him. He would scold him about taking care of himself when he felt better.
It was easy to forget just how young his secretary really was underneath it all. Despite being married and having children of his own, he still saw him as that same kid from before the war seeking to fight and prove his own worth. He saw so much of himself in Hamilton, that it was almost too painful to admit it. Perhaps that was the reason why he was so much more careful around him.
The reason why he hesitated for so long before handing the command over to him. The reason why he sent him off, not only home to his wife, but also away from the battlefield. The reason why he had not so much as a second thought before calling him son on multiple occasions, knowing well enough how much it irked the younger and that he hadn’t called anyone else that way.
“Father?” Washington jumped at the sudden quite voice in front of him.
“Alexander!” the said man was staring at him, eyes half open.“I-I didn’t know you were-”
“Father, I feel ill.”
The president froze in place upon the words registering in his head.
“I-I’m not...” but he can’t bare to even repeat the words.
Sometimes he wishes it was the truth. Maybe then, Hamilton’s life would’ve been better. The young man didn’t talk about it much, but Washington knew enough to know it wasn’t pleasant.
“It hurts.” the younger muttered, closing his eyes again.
The man gently places his hand on his head, running his hands through his hair. “I know, son. Rest. It’ll be better soon.”
Honestly, he’s not sure if Hamilton had even heard the reply, but he’s glad when he seems to comfortably fall back to sleep.
And if Washington keeps combing his hair, that’s nobody’s business.