This story is historically inaccurate

A/N: I got this idea when listening to Burn, specifically when Eliza says 'You sleep in your office instead'. About halfway in, I nearly changed Washington to Jefferson instead, because I am such a hardcore Jamiton shipper it's almost sad. I don't think I'll be continuing this, but we'll see what happens.

I walked down the hallway, about to leave. I saw a light on in one of the offices. I looked at the nameplate on the door, wondering who was in so late. Hamillton. Of course it was. That man never stopped working. Glancing up at the large office clock at the end of the hallway, I realised just how late it was. Having heard no reply, I knocked again before pushing the unlocked door slightly open.

"Hamilton?"

The man was sitting at his desk, furiously writing away on a piece of paper. He didn't seem to have heard me. Around him were stacks of papers, some for reference, but the majority of them were covered in what looked like Hamilton's handwriting. God, did he really do all of this is the past few days? One of the stacks seemed as high as the man himself, hunched over the paper he was writing, seemingly having been unable to reach the top and had begun a new stack.

"Hamilton!"

His head shot up, eyes unfocused. He looked at me confused.

"Sir? Why are you here? It's already," He glanced at where the small clock on his desk was, now covered in papers, "Uhm, very late,"

"It's 1.45 AM, Hamilton, I want to know why you're here as well. I know you haven't gone home for the past four days, so I must insist, go home Alexander!"

He looked away from me and stared down at his paper. He picked up his pen and dipped it in ink before placing the pen on paper and writing again.

"I trust you've seen the Reynolds Pamphlet, sir?" His voice was void of emotion.

I was dubious. I had a vague idea of where this conversation was going, and I didn't like it.

"Yes, I have,"

"Then you should know why I can't go home. Good night, Mr President."

Hamilton finished the conversation, allowing himself to be fully absorbed in his writing again. But I was not about to let this slide.

"When was the last time you ate, Hamilton?"

"You're still here?" He muttered under his breath. "Oh, uh, about three? I think? I can't remember."

"Alexander, you're going home,"

"I CAN'T, WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" He exploded on me. He had gripped his pan so hard it seemed like it was going to snap.

"Calm down. You're going home. With me,"

"What?" His previous rage flowed out of him. He lifted his head slowly and stared at me, dumbfounded.

"Put your poor pen down. It looks like it's going to snap. Get your coat. You're coming home with me,"

He stood up, his brain seemingly having been unable to comprehend what was happening.

"Martha will have a nice warm meal ready for you. Come on, let's go,"

I lead the tired man out of the office, shutting the office door behind us.