Five Times Alexander Hamilton Was Tied Up Because He Was an Idiot

Chapter Three

In this one, our dear Hamilton has no idea how to take care of himself and is therefore sleep-deprived. Washingdad comes to the rescue. Enjoy!

Alexander's head dropped onto his desk, barely making contact before he shot up again, muttering a slur of French and English before going back to scribbling with his quill. This happened several times within five minutes, and George Washington sighed from the doorway. No one had seen Hamilton for several days, nearly a week. He'd been slaving away in his office, going on and on about his debt plan. George had been secretly hoping he'd been leaving late, having the sense to sleep at least a little, but apparently not.

Alex hit the desk again, and George decided to intervene. Knocking on the doorframe, it was slightly amusing to watch the young secretary shoot up again, a page stuck to his forehead and others scattered about. "Jesus Christ! Ne me blâme pas, Jefferson started it!"

George raised an eyebrow. "Jefferson started what, son?" Alex rubbed his eyes, removing the paper from his forehead, leaving a large ink stain. When he looked up, his eyes widened and he promptly fell out of his chair.

"Oh! Sir! Sorry, I-I didn't realize it was you!" He bounced back to his feet, brushing himself off, and almost immediately his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed back into his chair. George, alarmed, raced forward.

"Hamilton! Hamilton, are you alright?!" The Virginian had just reached Alex's side when the man started, suddenly awake again.

"Gah! Debt! Work! I have to...have to..." He rubbed his eyes, glancing to his side and jumping again. "Washington, sir! When did you get here?"

George was growing increasingly worried. His brow furrowed as he studied Alex's face. It was pale and gaunt, dark, bruise-like bags hanging under his eyes. "Hamilton...son, when was the last time you slept? Or eaten?"

Alex's own brow furrowed, thinking. "Uh...Tuesday."

The president's eyes narrowed. "Today's Tuesday."

"I know."

George sighed, then lifted Hamilton up out of his chair, slinging one of his arms around his own shoulders, holding the man up. He was worryingly thin, light. "That's it, Alex. I'm taking you home."

Alexander made a small noise of protest, leaning back toward his desk even as George began to haul him out of his office. "But sir! I have so much work to do, I don't need sleep, I'm fine!"

"Alexander, you're killing yourself. I'm taking you home, whether you like it or not, and you're going to sleep. Then eat. Then staying home until I deem you fit enough to return back to work." Alex whined in protest, but he couldn't muster the strength to struggle against the former general's grip. George led him to his personal coach, giving the directions to Hamilton's home, then propping the boy up inside before climbing in himself. At some point, Alex had fallen asleep. George couldn't help but chuckle at the fact that, even asleep, he was never quiet. He kept muttering, the elder man able to pick out a few words here and there, mainly 'Jefferson', 'debt', and 'work'. A surprising amount of it was in French.

Within no time, they'd arrived at the Hamilton residence. Scooping the young secretary up in his arms, George worry over his weight increased. He was so light. He felt he could accidentally crush him if he squeezed too hard. Sighing, he made his way to the front door, frowning when he realized the door was locked. Reluctant to do so, but having no other choice, George slowly shook Hamilton awake. "Alex. Alexander. Where's the key to your home?" He slurred something in French, before opening his eyes halfway and pointing vaguely to the right.