A/N: so I mean you can probably tell what's coming... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make her awesome then do this to her, but that's just how it goes! :s little Theo comes across pretty helpless here, but don't worry, she'll have her time to shine later, I promise!

Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton in any way! But I wish I did!

Chapter 4 - Winter 1794

Theo had sworn to write to Philip, and it was something she loved to do - she had quickly grown to value her friendship with the Hamilton boy far more than any others, and he was one of her most trusted confidants, her best friend, the boy who could always raise a smile with his words or chase away her fears with a song. But as she discovered, it is difficult to find the motivation even to open your eyes of a morning and lift yourself from your bed in spite of your father's limitless coaxing and comforting, much less pick up a pen and write an amiable letter to your friend when your mother has just died.

It was to be expected, of course. As soon as Theo heard the cry of pain, just after Philip bid her goodbye following his secret visit, she'd ran to her mother to see her clutching her stomach and shaking uncontrollably. She'd managed to guide her back to her bed, supporting most of her weight - not that it amounted to much - on her young shoulders.

Her father returned an hour later, but there was nothing he nor any doctor could do to alter her miserable fate. Three days of aggressive fever, shaking and sweating later, Theodosia had faded away, her breath too-soon expiring her body like a flame sputtering out, a final gasp of her daughter's name punctuating her exit from the earth before she fell into perpetual silence.

Since the moment he met his bride, Aaron Burr knew she was already a target of the affliction which eventually tore her from him, but over a decade of warning could not prepare him for the heart shattering agony her loss would inflict upon him. But almost as awful as the torture of seeing his beloved Theodosia simply cease to exist before his eyes was the way the deep slash in his spirit was constantly ripped open every time he laid eyes on their one child. The idea of leaving her bedroom was not one she wanted to entertain, and hiding from all the happiness in the outside world so as to mourn privately was a far more appealing option. Only her father was brave enough to disturb her anguished solitude, and when he did so, she tried as best she could to do as she'd seen both parents demonstrate with ease, to paint on a smile and conceal her emotions behind a mask of calm, a barrier from the ocean of sorrow plaguing her mind. It wasn't that she wanted to lock him out of her internal suffering, instead she didn't want to worsen his struggles by adding the choking weight of her own. But looking into her eyes had the power to crush him, because they betrayed the deepest of shadows, the haunting, blank look of one who has lost everything and can no longer see for the lack of light in their life.

Just like her father's eyes.

He did all he could to comfort her, holding her for hours while he sobbed for their loss, meanwhile she stayed stiff in his arms, afraid to fall apart in front of him for fear it would destroy what little shred of hope he had left. But she didn't realize that determination to hide, to shut him out from the sorrow so blatantly abundant in her eyes, only made the pain worse, a twist of the knife already lodged firmly in his gut:

It was a bleak reminder to him that he alone had to raise this little girl, the young lady with her mother's intelligence and fire who had once had such a wonderful figure to guide her along the way.

And he didn't know how to cope.

The silence left Philip worried, naturally. But he didn't think too much of it until he saw the newspaper.

The boy with his father's adoration of reading always took at least an hour poring over a newspaper every day, examining all the political motions Hamilton and his colleagues were involved in, always eager to peruse any text relating to the career he one day hoped to take part in. He always read it front to back, reading every single word on every single page. But his reading was brought to a sharp halt before he could finish when he read the obituary. Often, he scanned over it, only vaguely curious if he recognized any of the names of distant friends of his mother or enemies of his father. Never had any of the names meant much to him before he saw one which made his heart plummet, punching a hole in his stomach as it fell:

Theodosia Burr.

He didn't notice he was crying until a tear splashed onto the page, immediately soaking into the paper and obscuring whatever insignificant letters it fell upon, reducing them to an illegible blur of ink. Frustrated, he wiped his eyes fiercely, annoyed that he should cry when he had lost - what? His mother's friend? His friend's mother? What did that compare to the inconceivable loss of a parent? His mind flew to Theo, wondering immediately how she could bear to even breathe through the pain. It would explain her silence, he realized, which triggered even more concerns for her: is she too distraught to do anything at all? If so, how long will it be before she can hear the name they shared without bursting into tears? Will she ever be alright?

More than anything, he longed to see her, to be there for her to do anything he could, even if it consisted of a grand total of nothing at all, to alleviate her suffering. But who was he to interrupt her privacy? If she wanted my company, surely she would have written, he decided, resigning himself to await some invitation.

But he knew when, or if, it came, he would seize the chance to be at her side at once, regardless of any obstacle. He practically ached to see her, to hug her and cry with her and try to make her laugh. But he couldn't - at least, not yet.

He knocked softly on her door before he entered, giving the child the customary few seconds it took to mop her tears and pretend she hadn't been sobbing uncontrollably. When Burr opened the door, Theo was sitting in bed, eyes bloodshot and obviously only recently dried, but they were dry nonetheless.

"Daddy," she greeted, unable to find any words but his name to say as he came to sit on the end of her bed. Still she managed a smile, hoping it would do something to falsely convince her father that she was managing.

Much as he hated her presenting him with a facade, he did exactly the same - just like Theodosia had tried to ensure the girl didn't see her death coming, he wanted to hide his personal struggle from her now his wife was gone to offer her the same reassurance she attempted to provide him with. When he was about to ask something so trying of her, letting her witness his personal torment was not likely to persuade her.

"Theodosia... I hoped you would come into town with me," he invited, carefully avoiding specifying exactly why. The words he still needed to say stung as soon as his mind even considered them, and he was in no rush to release them to have a similar effect on his daughter unless she demanded to know them.

Of course, she did. "I don't much feel like going. Why did you want me to?" Her voice was defeated in spite of her quickly wilting smile, but it was stronger than Burr would have expected. She's brave, she'll be alright again, he decided, his smile becoming genuine in spite of his continued sorrow as for the first time since Theodosia's passing he thought of the future - he realized they actually had a future.

His own courage replenished, he restrained himself from flinching as he explained, "I thought you would like to have some say in the funeral arrangements."

Her eyes widened, and glazed with tears which she frantically blinked away as soon as she realized they existed. But for once, Aaron was not content to let her try to stay stoic when they were both feeling such anguish; it was his place to be her rock in the centre of this storm, not hers.

He reached for her and held her shoulders, gazing into her eyes, the identical copies of his own, as he pleaded, "Please, Theo... It's okay to cry."

That was all the prompting she needed to let the tears fall, for the first time allowing her father to see her pain. The thoughts of burying her mother had finally driven her to need him there to support her, and she fell against his chest, her sharp sobs causing her entire body to shudder. But Aaron held her securely, his silent tears falling but maintaining his sturdy stance even so: His little girl was letting him in. From that point onwards, he would not let her down. Everything he did would be for her, including shoving the true extent of his own crippling sorrow aside in order to quite literally be her shoulder to cry on.

They stayed like that for some time, not that either was keeping track. But when Theodosia disentangled herself from Burr's embrace, her tears had stopped naturally for the first time, instead of being harshly swiped from her face, unwanted marks of sorrow damaging her attempt to appear calm. Now there was no pretence at normality, but there was relief. Her father had given comfort she could not have predicted, and she managed a timid but heartfelt smile as she nodded. "I'd like to come, please."

Burr grinned, tears still glimmering in his eyes but thankful beyond description that he'd gotten through to his daughter. "I'll leave you to get dressed."

He stood, pausing before he left to press a kiss to the girl's forehead. As he left the room, his shoulders felt lighter, as if a huge burden had been lifted. Perhaps we'll manage without you, my love. Not as well as if you were here, of course not, but we'll cope. I'll make sure of it.

Later in town, people would struggle to recognize the father and daughter as they walked through the bustling city, looking straight ahead as though they didn't even see the crowds of people milling about and cheerfully seeing to their business. The constantly cool politician and his cheerful daughter, a pair which so often graced the streets, were replaced with two tired figures tightly clinging to each other's hands as they drifted among the living, for all the world looking like they would fit better among the dead. But the boy who had ventured into town to arrange for some condolence flowers to be sent to their home would have recognized them anywhere.

Without even thinking about it, he called out, "Theo!"

The Burrs both halted immediately, before turning around to see the young boy bounding towards them. "Philip," the name caught in her throat, sounding more like a cough than an actual greeting.

"Theo, I heard, I..." He noticed her eyes immediately flood with a new wave of tears, and murmured, far softer, "I'm so sorry."

She didn't try to compose herself, because he was her friend - he was allowed to see her at her weakest. She closed her eyes, and he stepped closer to hug her, squeezing her as though by holding her close enough he might somehow pass some of his strength into her. She wrapped her arms around him too, releasing Burr's hand as she did so, relieved to be seeing him again. She didn't regret not writing to him, but she was immensely glad that it hadn't taken long enough for her to want to write for her to be in contact with him once more.

When they stepped apart, Theodosia managed a small, sweet smile as she replied, "Thank you."

For reasons he couldn't identify, that infuriated Burr. Oblivious to the fact that his daughter had only tried to conceal her pain from him to protect him from seeing even more suffering, all he saw was Alexander Hamilton's boy achieving within thirty seconds what had taken him days. He had always been a dutiful father, supporting his child in any way she required. But in his sensitive state and overwhelming need to care for her through the bleakest of times, he felt excessively envious of the boy she seemingly trusted more than her own father.

"Philip, we're rather busy. We must be going," he excused them sharply from his presence, taking Theo's hand once more and starting to lead her away.

"But sir, it seems so long since we last spoke!" He protested, determined that she should not be taken from him so soon, before he could even exchange more than a single sentence with her.

Of course, Burr was unaware of the recent unsolicited visit, but despite his belief that they had not laid eyes on one another for months, his will was immovable. "There's a good reason for that which you are clearly aware of," Burr replied sternly. "And there's a good reason we are leaving." With that, he turned on his heels, his daughter unwilling to argue and cause a scene when she already felt as though a million eyes were upon her. So she followed, only casting an apologetic glance over her shoulder as she disappeared into the crowd.

It was then that Philip decided he would deliver the flowers he had set out to purchase in person.

He was doubtful that a man who refused to entertain his attempt to talk to Theodosia for more than a moment would be any more accepting of him visiting the house. And since he doubted Burr would leave for a meeting as he had done the last time Philip visited, the young man decided the only possible way he would be successful in his attempt to visit his friend was to use some way in other than the front door. At least, that's what he preferred to refer to it as, opposed to actually admitting that he was intending to sneak in under the cover of near-darkness. On the other hand, carrying a large bunch of flowers made him feel a lot more justified than had he come empty handed.

The only way he knew was through the library window, as on his last visit, and fortunately for him the old window frame allowed his small fingers to just manage to grasp the edges of the opening panel and hook around it. He tugged it firmly, sending it swinging open without too much trouble, and dropped onto the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

It was only once he had entered the house that he realized he was clueless as to where Theodosia might be, and potentially even more perilously, he had no idea where Burr might be lurking. But he recalled he had never seen the man enter the piano room, while every visit to the place had led him there. He resolved to make his way to the one place he knew Theodosia to frequent.

He peered furtively into the corridor before hurrying along it, scanning for any sign of servant or master approaching. Finding it empty, he rushed into the room with which he was most familiar, forgetting to consider the possibility of the room itself being occupied.

Theo turned around from where she sat at the piano stool slowly, expecting her father to be the one waiting at the door. But she drew a sharp breath as she recognized the short, youthful figure of her friend instead, caught completely unaware. After a moment of shock, she composed herself enough to ask, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to give you these, to let you know I'm thinking of you and your family." He held out the flowers at arms length, suddenly acutely aware of the way he was intruding after physically barging his way into the place. Unwilling to make any other movement without an invitation, as much as he wanted to re-assume their earlier embrace, he didn't dare come any closer in case she rejected his visit completely.

After a brief hesitation, she stepped forward and took them from his hands. "Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you," Theo murmured.

Though he'd argued against their conversation being cut short previously in town, it seemed that now they had the time he'd so longed for, words failed him. Silence ensued. Finally, Philip broke it, asking, "How are you?" He didn't exactly expect a positive answer, but at least by asking he was expressing an interest in knowing.

Predictably, Theodosia took a few seconds to compose her careful words. She struggled to meet his eyes as she explained, "I wanted to do something for her. I thought I could play piano to honour her memory, only I can't think of a single song which seems fitting."

Her face appeared so dejected that Philip felt a sharp pain in his gut, which compelled him to make a suggestion to ease her sorrow: "Might I try?"

She glanced up swiftly, at first confused by the offer - why should he care so much? But then she smiled a tearful grin as she realized it made perfect sense: had he not already braved the scolding of his life to play for Theodosia in her final days? He had demonstrated unprecedented kindness and compassion then, it made sense that he should continue to do so now. She nodded, too emotional to talk, and he advanced further into the room, coming to sit on the stool Theo had just vacated. He pondered for a heartbeat where to begin, then decided:

He brought his hands to the keys and played, allowing his fingers to flow independently across the ivories, unrestrained by anything as tedious as thought or logic, crafting their mournful tune of their own accord. It seemed an appropriate tribute to a woman who had encouraged his individuality, and it was all the more soulful from the occasional stumbling of hands playing an unplanned song.

By the time he quieted, Theodosia had slipped onto the stool beside him and leaned on his shoulder, tired by her venture into town and drained from the beautifully heartbreaking melody her friend had given to her.

Philip knew without her stating that it was so that her gratitude in that moment was beyond words, even if she had been capable of forming a sentence through her tears. He simply placed an arm around her, holding her to his chest and allowing his own grief to manifest in the tears which rolled down his cheeks.

The soothing thud of his pulse was strangely therapeutic to Theo, and she managed to quell the floods which streamed down her face after a few minutes of peace listening only to the heartbeat. She sniffed and wiped the salty streaks away, prompting Philip to do the same as she sat up straight again. She swallowed the remaining thick feeling of sorrow which seemed to grasp her neck in a constricting grip, and managed to speak. "Philip, you don't know how much I appreciate all you've done."

"You don't have to thank me -"

"But," she continued as though he hadn't even spoken during her brief pause, "I think I would like to have a while to myself, to grieve with my father." She couldn't quite explain the powerful need to hold on to the little family she had left in the wake of Theodosia's death, but she trusted him to respect her choice without needing to defend herself.

He nodded without hesitation, steadfastly keeping to the promise he made to himself to do anything she asked of him. He was certain it was nothing personal against him, else he would've been chased from the house as soon as she saw him. It was plainly one of the sad side effects of losing one to whom your heart is so tightly tied. "Of course."

"Thank you," she replied, making herself smile to compensate for the lack of words.

"I can leave," Philip offered, when she made no verbal request.

Theo nodded, and walked back to the window she'd instantly assumed he'd used to enter. She opened it, and he clambered out, stopping before leaving the grounds to assure her of his lasting friendship. "I won't come to you, and I won't write. Take all the time you need, and know that I'll be waiting and thinking of you just as fondly as I always have."

With that, he turned away, jogging away into the night, keen to be far from the house before anyone else noticed his presence, or the lack of it at home. Watching him leave, Theo felt a curious peace settle on her; she didn't know when she'd feel like being young again, able to play and tease with the considerate young man. But at least she knew she had all the time she needed to come to terms with her mother's passing, free from any pressure to rush through her grief. Time is such a blessing, she reflected. And God knows it will take a long time to mourn someone like her.