Author's Note: Um so, some basis in fact here. Dr. Hosack was a real person; ironically, he tended to both Hamiltons after their respective duels. Also, the part about Hamilton at his son's funeral is also supposedly true-he was so overcome that people had to physically hold him up (My source is Wikipedia; haven't gotten that far in Chernow's book yet). I don't normally write stuff like this, so I don't know if it needs a trigger warning or anything, but I mean, if you've been lucky enough to see the musical or you've listened to the soundtrack, nothing in here should come as any great surprise.


His feet pounded on the cobblestones, and he ignored passersby as he ran with single-minded focus. He turned the corner, his destination ahead, bursting between two women that could only stare in shock at the fleeing figure sprinting away from them.

One recovered enough to ask, "Was that…Alexander Hamilton?"

Indeed, the man thundering up the street was Alexander, but he never heard the question, never stopped to apologize. He had a more pressing situation.

His son was dying.

Alexander barged through the door of Dr. Hosack, out of breath. He looked a mess; hair falling out of its' normally perfect coif, cheeks red, chest heaving. It was obvious he had been crying as he ran-his eyes were red and wet.

"Where is my son?" he burst out, his voice intruding on the silence of the house.

The doctor poked his head from the top of the stairs. "Mr. Hamilton," he greeted him, brusque and professional. "Come in. Philip was brought in a half hour ago-"

Philip Hamilton's father was in no state to hear the diagnosis. "Is he alive?" Alexander demanded, grabbing the doctor by the coat.

The doctor seemed taken aback at his intensity. "Y-yes, but you have to understand- the bullet entered just above his right hip and lodged in his right arm-"

Hamilton interrupted him once more. "Can I see him, please?" His voice cracked as he pleaded with the doctor. Dr. Hosack gently removed Alexander's fists from his coat, holding them firmly as he looked into the man's eyes.

"I'm doing everything I can…but the wound was already infected when he arrived-Mr. Hamilton!" Hosack burst out as Alexander wrenched his hands from his and disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time, stumbling slightly when he hit the landing. He turned a corner into the first open door.

No. Philip.

19-year old Philip Hamilton lay in the bed. His face was ashen, eyes clenched tight in pain. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, and every now and again, he would grimace in pain and his body would spasm, muscles taut, and then he'd semi-relax.

I came to ask you for advice. They don't exactly cover dueling in boarding school.

Alexander swallowed, and took a step into the room. His breath came in short hitches as he slowly made his way to his son's bedside. "Philip?" he whispered, standing over his son. His hands were shaking; he could barely stay upright.

His son opened one eye. "Pa," Philip breathed, then winced as a wave of pain came over him.

Alexander reached down, took Philip's hand, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

"I-I did exactly as you said, Pa," Philip choked out. "I h-held my head up h-high."

Stand there like a man until Eacker is in front of you.

This is my doing…"I know," Alexander assured him, squeezing his hand.

"Even b-before we got to ten," Philip continued, as if it was important his father heard the whole story. "I-I was aiming for the sky-"

When the time comes, fire your weapon in the air.

As if his father needed more evidence that this was his fault.

"I know," Alexander whispered, heart pounding in his chest. He wondered if Philip could hear it. "You did everything just right." He smoothed back Philip's hair from his forehead. His son's skin was clammy and soaked with perspiration. "Save your strength," he told his son. "Stay alive-"

"Philip!"

Alexander jumped, looked up sharply. His wife stood in the doorway. The first time he'd seen her in months. Ever since…ever since that night, he'd been sleeping at the office. He'd come around to see his children on occasion, but for the most part, work consumed his waking moments.

I should have been around…I swore that I'd be around

"Is he breathing?" Eliza demanded of him. "Is he going to survive this?"

"Eliza-"

She reached around him, not really wanting or waiting for an answer, her hands flying to her son's face, caressing his cheek, running her hands through his hair. As if her touch would somehow tether him to this lifetime.

"Who did this?" she asked slowly, deliberately.

George Eacker. George Eacker insulted my honor and Philip rushed to defend it. He couldn't bring himself to say it. Philip was dying, and it was all Alexander's fault. He'd told his son how to duel, given him his own guns.

"Alexander…" Eliza wouldn't look at him, her eyes never leaving the pained look on Philip's face. "Alexander, did you know about this?"

He couldn't answer. Wouldn't answer. But his silence spoke volumes.

"Mama," Philip whispered, his eyes finally locking onto his mother's. "I'm so sorry-"

"Shhh," she whispered, shaking her head. "You have nothing to be sorry for, my son." Alexander heard the unspoken words in her assurance. "Do you remember…" Eliza began, bravely putting a smile on her face as Philip's face scrunched in pain and settled again. "Do you remember playing piano with me?" she asked him, her voice fond with the memory.

Their oldest child coughed, managed a pained smile. "Y-you put your hands on mine and I…I w-would always change the melody."

Alexander vaguely recalled the sounds of the piano that would strain up to his office at the house, Eliza's practiced hands floating up and down the scales. And nine-year-old Philip's unsteady fingers plunking up the keys, always a half-step behind or a key or two higher. His wife, counting in exasperated French to try to keep Philip on beat.

"I know," Eliza smiled through her tears. "I know," she repeated. Her fingers drifted to grab his hand. Alexander slowly let go, allowing her to enveloped Philip's hand. He dropped his own awkwardly to his side.

"Stay with me," Eliza whispered to Philip. "Un, deux, trios, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit neuf." Her fingers gently tapped the quarter note beats on the back of her son's hand.

Philip, always a half beat behind, counted up the scale after her. She brushed his hair back with her other hand, gazing into his eyes. Eyes like his father. "Good," she praised him, her voice soft.

She began the scale again as Alexander watched with his heart in his throat. Philip whispered it along with her, each note a pained undertaking. Eliza counted slower. "Sept, huit-"

Philip's hand went limp in hers.

"No." The word was a plead and a prayer, an act of desperation by a mother. "Sept, huit-"

Her voice was the only one counting.

Her scream of anguish echoed in Alexander's ears as she broke down at the bedside. Instinctively, he moved to guide her to the floor through his own sobbing. She didn't push him away this time.

Philip, your mother can't take another heartbreak.

He wasn't sure she knew he was even there.


Rain fell on the ground of Trinity Church, soaking the brown brick building, the grass, and the funeral attendees. Alexander Hamilton, dressed simply in black, stood next to his wife. They didn't hold hands, just stood in close proximity. Their other children stood gathered around them. A peal of thunder rattled through the streets, echoing off the cobblestones and buildings like a gunshot.

Through a fog, Alexander saw the pastor motion to him to come forward. He didn't even know for what-he hadn't been listening.

When the time comes, fire your weapon in the air. He'll follow suit if he's truly a man of honor. This will put an end to the whole affair.

To take someone's life, that is something you can't shake.

Take my guns; make me proud, Son.

His legs gave way, and his cries of grief echoed louder than the thunder.