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.

"Hmm...Eliza...lantern..." Within seconds he'd dropped back off, snoring lightly.

Chuckling softly, George shifted Hamilton in his arms, lifted the lantern and snatched the key, unlocking the door and letting himself into their home. He'd never been here before, but it wasn't much of a surprise to see the mess everywhere. If Hamilton's desk was anything to go by, he wasn't exactly a neat person, and it looked like his children had inherited that trait. George smiled to himself. Still, it was a nice home. There was a portrait of Alexander and Eliza hanging on the wall, of them on their wedding night. Alex was grinning broadly, looking down at his wife as she gazed back up at him, a soft smile tugging at her lips. Papers covered every inch of every flat surface, crumpled up and scattered across the floor, likely the product of Alex's crowded mind. He really did write like he needed it to survive.

George's gaze swept the house one more time, his eyes narrowing to slits when he noticed the fine layer of dust coating every surface. Alex said he hadn't slept in a week, but the elder man had a sneaking suspicion that he hadn't even been home in much longer. Suddenly bone-weary, he carried the young secretary upstairs to his bedroom, obvious by the cluttered desk in the corner and the dresses in the closet. Gently, he set Alexander down on the bed, removing his green coat and pulling the blankets over him. He immediately burrowed into the blankets, letting out a happy sigh. George smiled, remaining for a moment longer as he debated whether to stay sure and make sure Alexander stayed asleep or go downstairs and trust his right-hand. After a brief internal conflict, he turned towards the door, sparing a glancing back over his shoulder at the content man, then returned to the ground floor to clean up a little and wait for Alex to wake.

As George sifted through the scattered remnants of Alexander's thoughts, he couldn't help but feel a glow of a pride. The papers were crumpled, the ink was smudged, most of it was barely legible, but what he could read...Alex was, for lack of a better word, a genius. They described different ways to get their country out of debt, scrapped essays for the Federalist Papers, eloquent letters for his wife and Angelica who were currently upstate, something he called the Coast Guard, it was overwhelming. There were essays against slavery, depicting some of the brutality he witnessed growing up in the Caribbean, all so beautifully written it nearly brought George to tears. He organized them all into piles, smoothing them out, and left them neatly on the dining table. He'd just finished that when Hamilton wandered down the stairs.

"Hamilton, what are you doing?"

Alex jumped. "O-oh! You're...you're still here. Why?"

"Because you need sleep, and I'm going to make sure you get it. There is no way you slept soundly."

He looked indignant. "Of course I did!"

"It's only been twenty minutes, Alexander."

"Oh..."

Alex stumbled against a wall, smiling sheepishly up at the former general. George sighed. "Come on. Let's get you back to bed, son."

"M'not your son."

"I know." Alex grumbled as George ruffled his hair a bit. They reached the bedroom, and he leaned against the door frame as Alex climbed back under the covers. "Please, get some sleep."

"But, sir, I really don't have time! I have to get my plan through Congress, or I-I'll lose my job! I really should get back to work!"

George crossed his arms. "I swear to God, Alexander, if you don't stay in this bed I will tie you to it. What you should get is some decent sleep. You'll kill yourself otherwise. I'll be up to check on you soon. Good night."

"'Night, sir." Alex's eyelids were visibly drooping, and he was snoring by the time George turned his back. He shook his head at the young man's stubbornness. In some cases it was needed, like with this debt plan. In others...it could get him killed. Like with his debt plan.

Alexander Hamilton would be the death of him. He could feel himself growing older.

He sat at the table, staring into the cup of coffee he'd made. He loved Alex like a son, despite his protests, and he knew Alex looked up to him, too. He never talked about his past before New York much, but from little he'd gleaned from him over the years, he knew his father had split when Alex was just a child, the death of his mother following shortly after. Alex's past was a tragic, and he tried to forget it. George felt the need to take care of him, having no biological children of his own.

Sighing for what felt like the fortieth time, George stood, moving to head up the stairs and check on his right-hand. When he got there, he couldn't help his anger level rising. "Hamilton."

He saw Alex flinch, bowing further over his desk, his quill moving faster. "Sir."

"What do you think you're doing."

"Working, sir."

Of course. George stepped forward, effortlessly lifting him out of the chair. Alex made a surprised and shocked noise, struggling as much as he could with his exhausted muscles in George's iron grip. "H-hey! Put me down! Washington, sir!" He threw him onto the bed, pinning him there as Alex writhed beneath him.

"I wasn't kidding when I threatened to tie to this bed, Alexander. You need to sleep. Take care of yourself, Goddammit. Forget about work for a while." He watched as Alex's eyes widened as George revealed the small coil of rope he'd found in the kitchen, just in case he really did decide to be as stupid and stubborn as he usually was. He quickly and efficiently bound Alexander's wrists to the headboard, ignoring his protests and fighting. He backed off quickly, avoiding Alex's flailing limbs and tuning out his colorful swearing. He hoped his struggling would tire him out enough he'd fall asleep sooner. As it was, he was still shouting profanities in a rapid mix of French and English as George walked out the door. He settled in the only room him found with no evidence of belonging to one of the many Hamilton children and went for a quick nap himself.

When Hamilton woke up nearly fourteen hours later screeching and screaming colorfully in his two languages, George couldn't help but grin at a job well done.