Dueling.
It was a risky thing.
And, unfortunately, Philip Hamilton had taken that risk in November 24th, 1801, against George Eacker. And, too unfortunately, he had paid for it.
Philip had survived the shot, but that didn’t mean it didn’t affect him majorly.
The sassy, witty nineteen year old Philip that was now was resorted to needing to rest almost all day, every day. When he was awake, he was feverish and weak, and could only be up for so long. All his charm and joy was gone.
He couldn’t talk much, either. It was a use of strength he didn’t have. His head throbbed often as well, like a constant hurricane in mind that wouldn’t quite to away.
Though one of the most obvious changes was with his parents.
As distraught as they were, they couldn’t help but notice the former mama’s boy now only ever wanted to be around his father. Philip loved his mother still, but he would almost always ask for Alexander rather than Eliza to attend to his bedside.
Hell, his new childlike nature made him only ever wanted to be away from Alexander for a few hours before he kept asking for him back.
And Hamilton, as busy as he was, always did try his best to make time for his son.
Even when he himself was sick. Even when he knew he had other things to work on. Maybe it was the fact he felt bad for his son, or perhaps just because Hamilton was still, at the end of the day, Philip’s father.
But even that fatherly care wasn’t enough to keep Hamilton’s mouth shut.
Hamilton had boldly advocated for Jefferson over Burr in the latest election, claiming that ‘ Jefferson has beliefs, Burr has none. ‘ in his anti-Burr speech.
Burr, in all his pent of fury with Hamilton - the man who Burr had felt was taking over his life, inch by inch - instantly challenged him to a duel in Weehawken upon his loss.
Hamilton had nearly died.
Eliza had been prepared to mourn. Angelica was fully ready to stomp up to heaven and beat him senseless herself for daring to die. It felt like, for a moment, New York held its breath.
But, miraculously, Hamilton had managed to survive the night. Though, just like his son, he did not escape death unphased.
Hamilton, once the spunky, agile young man, now suffered just trying to walk, experiencing constant pain from where the bullet had lodged itself just under his ribs.
It was torture.
But at least now, Hamilton had a much better idea of what his own son had been feeling all this time.
Speaking of his own so, Philip had also been terrified by the news of the duel.
His father. His father. Nearly dying to some Burr bullet because, once again, he was just so incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Philip was worrying himself sick over his father’s own idiocy. Almost literally.
Philip began asking for him more often. And Hamilton reluctantly obliged, though now with much more … physical strain, even if it was just Hamilton walking to and from the casual room or his study to Philip’s room.
Hamilton worked to feed both himself and his son, working to keep them both warm, or just to bring him comfort, often by just cuddling with him for a few hours at a time.
It had been another one of those days, where Philip asked for his father to visit him in bed, a part of himself worrying over his father’s despite being proven that Hamilton could handle himself. Mostly.
Hamilton pushed open the door to Philip’s room, a cane and the doorknob keeping him up as he stood.
Philip’s eyes blinked open slowly, pushing himself up just slightly from the bed to get a better look at his father.
Fine. Alive. But still … off.