Work Text:
"You're doing it wrong," Aaron said without looking up from his ledger.
Hamilton's quill paused mid-sentence, leaving a blot of ink bleeding into the parchment. He blinked at Burr, then at his own work, then back at Burr. "Excuse me?"
Burr tapped the edge of his desk with two fingers, still not lifting his gaze. "Your fiscal proposal assumes the states will cooperate. They won’t."
Hamilton scoffed, tossing his quill down hard enough to send another splatter across the page. "Because you’ve taken it upon yourself to predict the future? Marvelous. Perhaps you should write almanacs instead."
Burr finally looked up, his expression as unreadable as ever, though the corner of his mouth twitched—almost imperceptibly. "I predict common sense, Hamilton. You'd do well to acquire some."
Hamilton opened his mouth, ready to volley back, but the words never came. Instead, his vision swam—the edges blurring like ink in water. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. The room tilted sideways.
Burr didn’t even realize Hamilton had slumped forward until the sound of parchment crumpling beneath his weight snapped his attention up. For a heartbeat, he stared—Hamilton’s face was pressed against the desk, his breath shallow, one hand still curled loosely around the ruined proposal.
"Christ," Burr muttered, shoving his chair back so hard it clattered to the floor. He rounded the desk in two strides, catching Hamilton by the shoulders before he could slide any further. Hamilton’s head lolled back, revealing dark circles under his eyes, his skin pale enough to see the veins at his temples. Burr pressed two fingers to his throat, relieved to find a pulse, however thready.
Burr exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course. Of *course* Hamilton had worked himself into oblivion again. The man had the self-preservation instincts of a moth flying into a lantern.
He hesitated for only a second before sliding an arm under Hamilton’s knees and hauling him up with a grunt. The man was lighter than he expected—all sharp angles and restless energy burned down to nothing. Hamilton’s head tipped against Burr’s shoulder with a muffled thud, his breath warm against Burr’s cravat.
Burr adjusted his grip, Hamilton’s limp weight pressing uncomfortably against his chest as he kicked open the office door. The hallway was deserted—just as well. The last thing he needed was rumors spreading about him carrying an unconscious Hamilton through the Treasury building like some sort of deranged bridegroom.
The night air hit them like a slap, sharp with the scent of rain-soaked cobblestones. Hamilton stirred slightly, his fingers twitching against Burr’s coat, but his eyes remained shut. Burr muttered something uncharitable under his breath and shifted him higher, his arms already protesting the strain.
Burr’s townhouse was closer than Hamilton’s lodgings—a fact he cursed as much as he was grateful for, given the weight in his arms and the way Hamilton’s occasional murmurs sent his breath skittering against Burr’s neck. The front door groaned open under his shoulder, and he nearly tripped over the threshold, catching himself just in time to keep Hamilton from tumbling onto the floorboards.
"Christ, Hamilton," Burr muttered, kicking the door shut behind them. The house was dark save for a single candle guttering in the hall sconce, left burning by his ever-attentive housekeeper. He didn’t bother calling for her—the last thing he needed was witnesses to this absurdity.
Burr navigated the dim hallway with the practiced ease of a man who could walk his own home blindfolded, though Hamilton’s dead weight made the journey slower than he’d like. The man’s head lolled against his shoulder, his breath uneven but steady—enough to assure Burr he wasn’t about to expire in his arms. Small mercies.
The guest room was mercifully prepared—his housekeeper’s doing, no doubt—and Burr nearly collapsed onto the bed with Hamilton still clutched to his chest. He managed to deposit him onto the mattress with only minimal gracelessness, though Hamilton’s boot caught the edge of the coverlet, dragging it halfway to the floor. Burr sighed and righted it with a sharp tug before turning his attention back to the unconscious man.
Hamilton’s fingers twitched against the sheets as Burr wrestled off his boots, tossing them to the floor with more force than necessary. The left one hit the wall with a dull thud. Burr paused, half-expecting Hamilton to jolt awake at the noise—the man slept like a fox in hunting season—but he remained still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, exhausted breaths.
Burr straightened with a quiet groan, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. He should leave him. He *should*. The guest room was comfortable enough, and Hamilton would wake with nothing worse than a stiff neck and bruised pride come morning. But the way his coat sleeves had ridden up revealed wrists too thin, the sharp jut of his collarbones visible even through layers of linen and wool.
Burr exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching for the buttons of Hamilton’s waistcoat. The man would choke himself to death if left like this—and wouldn’t *that* be a fine epitaph. *Here lies Alexander Hamilton, suffocated by his own cravat in Aaron Burr’s guest room.*
The waistcoat came off easier than expected, though the cravat proved more stubborn. Burr’s fingers fumbled with the knot—when was the last time he’d undone someone else’s neckcloth?—before finally loosening it enough to slide free. Hamilton’s breath deepened immediately, his throat working as if tasting fresh air for the first time in days. Burr tossed the cravat onto a nearby chair with a quiet scoff. “You’re impossible even unconscious.”
Burr hovered at the bedside for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of Hamilton’s chest. The man looked younger like this, the relentless energy that usually animated his features finally stilled. His hair was a mess—half unraveled from its tie, strands sticking to his forehead—and Burr found himself reaching out before he could stop himself, brushing them back with an exasperated sigh.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Burr crossed the room to stir the embers, adding another log before turning back to the bed. Hamilton had shifted slightly, his head tilting toward the warmth, one hand curling into the pillow beneath him. Burr’s mouth quirked despite himself. Even half-dead from exhaustion, the man couldn’t help but chase the heat like a stray cat.
Burr dragged a chair closer to the bed, the legs scraping against the floorboards with a noise that made Hamilton’s brow twitch. He sat down heavily, rubbing his temples. He should go to bed. He *should*. But the idea of leaving Hamilton alone in this state—unguarded, vulnerable—sat uneasily in his gut. The man would wake disoriented, likely furious, and Burr wasn’t in the mood to explain to his housekeeper why there were boot prints on the ceiling come morning.
Hamilton murmured something unintelligible, his fingers tightening briefly in the sheets before relaxing again. Burr leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and studied the man’s face. Without the usual sharpness in his eyes, the constant tension in his jaw, Hamilton looked... different. Softer. Human. Burr snorted quietly. If Hamilton ever heard him describe him like that, he’d probably combust on principle.
The fire crackled softly, its warmth filling the room as Burr studied Hamilton's slack features. A strand of hair had fallen back over his forehead, and Burr resisted the absurd urge to brush it aside again. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out with a quiet groan. His shoulders ached from carrying Hamilton halfway across the city, and his cravat felt too tight suddenly—though he'd loosened it the moment they'd stepped inside.
Hamilton stirred, his brow furrowing briefly before smoothing out again. His lips parted slightly, a faint exhale escaping. Burr watched, half-expecting some muttered argument about fiscal policy or state sovereignty to tumble out even in sleep. But Hamilton remained silent, save for the quiet rhythm of his breath.
The first thing Hamilton noticed was the ache—deep in his bones, behind his eyes, settling into the hollow of his throat like a swallowed stone. The second thing was the warmth—not the feverish, suffocating kind he was used to after nights spent hunched over his desk, but something softer. A hearth’s glow still lingering in the air.
His eyelids fluttered open to the pale wash of dawn filtering through unfamiliar curtains, painting the room in muted gold. He blinked, once, twice, before his gaze landed on Burr slumped in a chair beside the bed, his head tipped back at an angle that would leave his neck screaming later. A half-written letter dangled from ink-stained fingers, the quill still clutched loosely between them like a forgotten sword.
Hamilton frowned. He knew that handwriting—knew the precise slant of Burr’s *e*s, the way his *r*s curled like a challenge. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement sent a dull throb through his temples. The rustle of sheets was enough to make Burr stir, his fingers tightening reflexively around the parchment before his eyes snapped open.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other—Hamilton propped on one elbow, Burr with ink smudged along his knuckles and the ghost of a crease from the chair’s upholstery pressed into his cheek.