Hello, fanfiction friends! Sorry for my long absence. I have not dropped off the face of the earth. On the contrary, I've been busy in the real world, finishing college and doing shows, and I haven't had much time to write. I thought I was done with fanfiction for a while. But then I discovered Hamilton, and…well, this happened.

I have actually done some research for this, although since this is based on the musical, I'm taking some artistic liberties. The Reynolds Pamphlet was published at the end of August in 1797. In early September, Philip Hamilton fell seriously ill. He was 14 at the time. One website said that his father recorded caring for him during this illness, although some letters I was reading from Alexander to Eliza seem to indicate that he was away from home at the time. But, like I said, artistic liberties.

Constructive criticism is appreciated. Now that this is done, I'll try and finish up at least one of my ongoing stories. In the meantime, enjoy this one! And thanks, as always, for your patience and support.

"Philip? Wake up, son."

The only response is a groan muffled by a pillow. Alexander shakes his son's shoulder gently. "Come on, I need you a little more awake than that."

He strokes the tangled curls back from Philip's hot forehead. Philip blinks, finally focusing on his father's face. "I don't feel good, Pops."

"I know, son. It's time for your medicine; that should help."

Philip glowers at the dark brown bottle. But raises himself into a sitting position, and grasps the spoon his father hands him, though his hand shakes ever so slightly. He grimaces as he swallows.

"Attaboy," Alexander encourages him. "Two more." He can't help smiling a little at Philip's expression, annoyed and pleading all at once. "Yeah, I know," he says, "but you've gotta take the full dose for it to do any good."

Alexander has to hand it to Philip. He's putting up a brave face, trying to take it like a man. But Alexander suspects his boy is sicker than he's letting on. If it was bad enough for the school to send him home, it's bad enough. They wouldn't let him go, otherwise. The reports his teachers send home are glowing with praise.

"I told you he'd take after you," Eliza had said, when Alexander read aloud a composition Philip had written, that his teacher had deemed especially remarkable. "I just hope he won't work himself into exhaustion."

"Are you kidding?" said Alexander. "This kid's gonna blow us all away."

Now he wonders if he's pushed his son too hard. He tucks the blankets around Philip, and notices he's shivering. "You cold?" he asks. Philip nods. "I'll get you another blanket," says Alexander. "I'll be right back."

…

It was cold. Too cold for April. Alexander shivered. He had to finish this report before morning––or before dawn, anyway. His hand was shaking so badly he could hardly hold his pen. He put it down, rubbed his hands together, and held them near the candle that flickered on the corner of his desk. The headache he'd been trying to ignore for the last hour or so came on full force the moment he stopped writing. He shut his eyes and leaned his head on his hands. He had to get back to finishing that report…and he would…in a minute…

"Alexander?"

He hadn't realized he was drifting off until Eliza's voice suddenly woke him. She was standing in the doorway in her nightgown, shielding a candle with her hand. "What are you doing up?" she asked.

"I have to get this finished."

"Can't it wait till morning?"

"I'm almost done."

"That's what you said when I went to bed."

"Well, it's taking a little longer than I thought."

Alexander took up his pen and tried to pick up where he'd left off. Eliza came softly up behind him and wrapped her shawl around his shoulders. He tilted his head back and smiled up at her. "Oh, hi," he said. Eliza bent down and kissed his forehead. She drew back suddenly, her smile fading into a look of concern. "What?" asked Alexander.

"You're burning up."

"Wha–no, I'm fine."

Eliza's hand touched his forehead, then his cheek. "You're not," she said, "You're feverish."

"I'm okay, I just need to get this done––"

He tried to dip his pen in the inkwell, and succeeding only in knocking it over. Eliza caught it and righted it before the ink spilled onto the freshly written pages. She took the pen from his hand, and laid it down on the desk. "'Liza, please," Alexander protested, "I need to get this––"

"No, dear, the only thing you need to do right now is go to bed."

Alexander stood up shakily. As much as he hated to admit it, he really did feel awful. And on those rare occasions when Eliza put her foot down, it was no good trying to fight her. "Okay," he sighed.

…

"It's all right, Phil, just let it out." Alexander sits on the side of the bed, rubbing his son's back, while Philip retches into a chamber pot for what feels like the hundredth time. For the past few days, he hasn't been able to keep anything down––not even the medicine that's supposed to be curing him.

Alexander wipes his face clean with a damp washrag. "Feel better now?" he asks. Philip rubs the sleeve of his nightshirt over his eyes, but the tears he's hastily brushed away don't escape his father's notice.

"Phil, what's the matter?"

"Nothing. I–I'm okay. I'm sorry…"

Alexander puts his arm around Philip's shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. "You don't have to apologize for being sick," he said, "It happens to everybody."

"Yeah, I know, but you've got your work to do."

"Which do you think I care more about: my work, or my son?"

Philip doesn't answer. Alexander hugs him closer. He kisses the top of his son's head. "I love you, Philip. You know that, right?"

Philip still doesn't answer.

…

Alexander had to get up. For the past fifteen minutes he'd been staring at the canopy above the bed, contemplating the work he hadn't finished last night. Those financial reports weren't going to write themselves. The room seemed to tilt sharply as he sat up, and for a moment he was tempted to flop back down on the pillow. But instead he pushed back the covers, and gripped the bedpost for support.

"What are you doing?"

"Eliza…"

"You're supposed to be resting."

"Honey, I've got so much work to––"

"Doctor's orders, Alexander."

"But Washington needs me––"

"––He needs you to get well, which you won't if you don't get some rest. Come now. Back into bed."

"Okay, Mom," Alexander grumbled.

Eliza tucked the covers back over his lap. She climbed onto the bed beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. He leaned his head on her shoulder, sighing contentedly as she ran her fingers through his hair.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Truthfully? Awful."

Eliza pressed her cheek against the top of his head. "I love you," she said. "You know that, right?"

"Of course, babe. I love you, too."

"When you don't take care of yourself––it hurts me. I know your job's important. I know you've got a lot of people depending on you. But you can't keep this up––working non-stop, and not sleeping or eating for days on end. It's already wearing you down, and I'm worried––"

She broke off, and Alexander thought he heard her sniff. He reached for her hand. She clasped his hand so tightly it would have hurt, had her hand not been so small. After a long moment's silence, she said, "Please, take care of yourself, Alexander. And if you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me. And Philip. He needs his father, and I––I need you."

"I know, Eliza. I'm sorry I put you through this."

Eliza hugged him. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry," she said. "I shouldn't be scolding you now."

"It's okay. I think I needed it."

"Can I get you anything? Some tea, maybe?"

"No, thanks, but could you, um…"

"What, dear?"

"Could you sit with me, just for a little while?"

"Of course."

Eliza eased his head onto her lap. Her cool hands caressed his forehead. She began humming softly, a tune she often sang to little Philip when she was rocking him to sleep. Alexander closed his eyes, wondering, as he drifted off, what he had ever done to deserve someone like her.

…

Usually, Alexander keeps the door to his study closed when he's working. But now he keeps it open, ready at the slightest sound from the room down the hall to drop his pen and rush to his son's bedside. "Philip, it's okay," he whispers. "It's okay. I'm here."

He dabs Philip's forehead and temples with a damp cloth, trying to bring his temperature down. Philip seems to relax a little. He murmurs something that sounds to Alexander like, "Mom?"

There are a million words that could sound like "Mom" when mumbled inarticulately. Like…well, for example, "gone." Or maybe it wasn't even a word at all.

The more Alexander tries to rationalize this, the stupider his argument sounds. Of course Philip wants his mother. For all his bravado, he is still just a child. When Alexander was twelve, and so ill no one thought he would survive, his mother was with him every moment. She was all he had to cling to during those dark days. No matter how sick she was herself, she had stayed beside him, holding him close. And when they took her away––when she was gone––he cried out for her––even when they told him she wasn't coming back.

If Eliza were here, she would be right by Philip's side––just like she always had been. The first time Alexander saw her holding their newborn son, he prayed that none of their children would have to grow up without a mother. He never thought her absence would be his own fault.

"Mom and Angie are visiting Grandpa," he had tried to explain. "Aunt Angelica's visiting, and she wanted to see Grandpa before she goes back to London. And your mom wanted to spend time with her while she's here, and Angie wanted to see her namesake. So they've all gone upstate for a fortnight."

No need to mention why Aunt Angelica had come all the way from London. No need to say Eliza had gone up to stay with her father because she couldn't stand to stay in the same house as her husband, or that she'd taken Angie with her because she didn't want her children in the house with him. He was the reason she had gone, and he was alone when the letter came from Philip's school: "Dear Mr. Hamilton…your son is very ill…must go home at once…"

He'd written to Eliza about Philip's illness. He prayed the letter wouldn't go unread when she saw who had sent it.

…

The icy wind howled across the field, whipping snow into the soldiers' faces. Alexander shielded his eyes with his hand. He could hear the roar of cannons in the distance, the loud crack of gunfire coming nearer every second.

"Follow me!" A tall, uniformed figure up ahead beckoned. Alexander couldn't see the general's face, but he knew instinctively it was George Washington. He stumbled after him, trying his best to keep up.

John Laurens was jogging along beside him. "You all right?" he asked.

"Fine," Alexander replied instinctively. He felt ready to collapse, although he couldn't think why. Suddenly, Laurens grabbed his arm and pulled him to the ground. A deafening explosion burst over them.

"Alexander!"

Through the haze of smoke and the swirling snow, a figure in a pale blue gown was walking toward him. "Eliza!" he cried out. What was she doing on the battlefield? He tried to get up and run to her, to protect her, somehow. But he couldn't move, as though something invisible were holding him down.

"Alexander!"

"What're you doing? You're gonna get––"

A gunshot split the air. Eliza crumpled to the ground.

"NO!"

"Alexander, wake up!"

Eliza's voice cut through the haze of his dream like a shaft of sunlight piercing through clouds. The room was pitch dark, but he could feel her warm breath on his cheek, the palm of her hand rubbing circles on his back. "It's all right, dearest, I'm here," she whispered.

Alexander reached out in the dark, until his hand met her face. He threw his arms around her, tears streaming down his face. "Shh, it's all right," Eliza whispered. "I'm here. You're safe. It was just a dream." She kissed his forehead. "Dear, you're burning up. Let me get––"

"No!" Alexander clung to her. If she moved beyond his reach, he was certain she'd be lost in the darkness, and he'd never find her again.

"I'm not going far," Eliza said patiently. "I just need to get up for a moment. I'm not even going to leave the room. Can you let go of me for just one minute?"

She slipped out of his arms. A moment later, the room was filled with the faint glow of a candle. "There," said Eliza, "See? Everything's all right." The warm light bounced off the familiar walls, outlining the furniture in dancing shadows. Eliza dipped a cloth into the pitcher on the washstand. She wrung out the excess water, and returned to the bed. She bent over Alexander, gently dabbing the sweat from his forehead. "Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I'm here. Everything's going to be fine."

…

All afternoon, Philip's been tossing and turning in a fitful sleep; but now, as dusk settles in, he lies still. Alexander tries to convince himself this a good thing; that maybe this is the healing sleep his son needs. He's not giving up. He's falling back, gathering strength, waiting for the right moment to fight back. This is one battle Alexander wishes he could fight for him.

He kneels beside the bed and tries to pray. Lord, let him live. I've never asked for much from You. I know I've done wrong, and I'm more sorry for it than I can say. Punish me however You see fit, Lord, but not my son. He hasn't done anything to deserve this. Don't do this to him. Don't do this to Eliza. She's been hurt enough. For her sake, please, have mercy.

The only sound in the room is Philip's shallow breathing. Alexander stands up, slowly, so as not to wake him. He pokes the embers in the fireplace, trying to coax one last flame out of them. A straight-backed chair with a low seat stands by the hearth. He sits, with his back to the bed, staring into the fire.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. The fire's gone out, but there's a light coming from somewhere behind him. As he sits up, a piece of fabric slips off his shoulders and falls onto his lap: Eliza's shawl.

A single candle burns on the little table beside the bed. Eliza is sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling Philip's head in her lap as she sponges his face with cool water. Her bonnet veils her face in shadow––she hasn't taken it off, in her hurry to see her son. Alexander can only stand and stare. Part of him wants to throw his arms around her and kiss her. Another part of him thinks he ought to disappear.

Eliza looks up at him. "You let the fire go out," she says, not reproachfully.

"Yes. Yes, so I have. I'll, um––"

It takes a while to build up the fire again. He's glad of something to do, because for once, he can't think of anything to say. He sweeps out the ashes, piles logs and kindling into the grate. He lights a pine twig from the candle by the bed, and tosses it into the fireplace. He still doesn't know what to say.

Philip stirs; he opens his eyes. "Mom?"

"Shh, I'm here, baby."
"'M not a baby," Philip mumbles.

"You'll always be my baby," says Eliza, bending down and kissing his forehead. She smiles down at him, though her brow is wrinkled in concern.

Alexander ventures to put a hand on her shoulder. "I can hang up your bonnet, if you want," he offers.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you. I forgot I had it on." Eliza unties the strings under her chin and puts the bonnet in his outstretched hand.

"Can I make you some tea?"

"That would be nice."

"Eliza…thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming home."

"I'm not here for you."

"I know."

As Alexander turns to leave, he hears Eliza singing softly. "Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all through the night. Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night…" Alexander smiles, and closes the door quietly behind him. Who knows what will happen tomorrow, but tonight, for just a moment, he can believe everything will be all right.