Private Storyline 4!

[slowtoanger]

What had begun as an idyllic spring romance is quickly curtailed by General Cornwallis' pursuit of Washington's army for much of that summer. They are constantly on the move, and though the roads are passable in the high heat, they will not always be, once the heat fades and the wet comes.

Since learning of his pregnancy, Washington has not requested Burr leave, too in need of competent aides, but has made it clear he will not be moved from desk duty, and must be attended at intervals by Washington's surgeon, given extra rations. How terrible it would look, were something to happen to the unborn child of General Montgomery--the kind of media sensation an America at war is drooling for, stories of patriotic hope. But also worse, to separate Hamilton and Burr, when their public betrothal and scandalous trial has similarly created a stir.

If ever the army needed hope, it is now. It will be a long war, Burr knows, as any war fought in one's home is. They spend long hours on the road, retreating, wounded slung wherever they will fit. For those early months Burr rides along with them, as men march alongside, but he swells rapidly, and the heat begins to affect him. He faints once, on a long march through endless miles of burned field, sick with heat and too delirious to realize, until he collapses over his saddle and is saved only by Lafayette throwing himself bodily at Burr.

After that he must pass these marches in one of the precious few wagons, shaded beneath whatever is on hand, more often than not spooning small amounts of water into the afflicted men's mouths.

These marches are terrible for other reasons; he is often not with Alexander, at the head of the column, and sometimes it happens that the two do not see each other for more than a few minutes each day, until they are pitching tents and laying bedrolls. It is not proper for them to share a tent, but concessions are made.

He is seven months pregnant when September comes, the heat still rising off the countryside to rub the horizon to a blur. He is Eight months pregnant when they move north, towards Long Island, to prepare for an offensive, and once again he does not see Alexander until they are retreating, chased north by Cornwallis. More days of travel, Burr reclined beside the dying in the back of a wagon, clutching a blanket against the chill that sets in on these last August days.

The army is blood-shod, missing supplies, hardly able to move. Less horses than they need, less wagons, less tents and blankets and rations. Burr doesn't know where they are going, but he knows the winter will be hard, and that they will likely not stop running.

Comments

[non_stop]

If the army travels ten miles, Hamilton has probably gone thirty. He rides constantly, cutting from the head of the column to the main body of troops, then darting ahead to find scouts returning from their mission. Back to Washington, and forward again. He is always in motion, and half the command decisions of the army seem to terminate in him instead of being passed on to Washington.

Which is how Washington wants it. He has dozens of letters every day, and depends more and more heavily on Hamilton to sift through the chaff of them to find the gold. He writes until his hand cramps, writes more. Pores over heavy tomes of history and law by firelight, books that he drags with him as the army moves.

And he frequently secretes his food in among Burr's. He is hungry all the time, now, but unwilling to stop. Burr is eating for two, and needs all his strength to survive the birth. After long days of wagon travel, he tucks himself in next to his lover and rubs sore hands and feet, lavishes attention on Burr's always-pained back. This is the only time the stress doesn't seem to wear on him, and yet he begins to have a lean and hungry look about him, more so than usual.

His desire for Burr does not diminish. In fact, it seems to grow with Burr's belly. Hamilton worships when they are in bed together, makes a craft of going down on him as often as he can find the excuse.

They get paid, finally, months and months of backpay owed. Hamilton uses nearly the full sum on the ring, after agonizing over the choice for months. He can afford gold, as there are many impoverished selling off family goods in the army's path. Finds a goldsmith to work and engrave it. Keeps it by his heart, waiting for the time.

[slowtoanger]

Burr spends hours feeling generally useless, each time they are once more on the move. There is not much he can do, from the back of a wagon, which jostles him enough that he wakes in the mornings covered in bruises. Shamefully, he spends much of these journeys napping, sharing body heat with whoever happens to be nearby, wrapped in a cloak Hamilton has secured him from god knows where.

If the days are hard for Burr, the nights are some kind of salvation. The pains in Burr's body are smoothed away by hands that massage hard and deep, and what's more, as mobility becomes an increasing issue, Hamilton takes it upon himself to see to Burr's more intimate affairs. The pressure from the pregnancy against Burr's insides has made him horny, to put it lightly. On those nights, when Burr cannot keep his hands off him, Hamilton takes pleasure in holding Burr down and using his mouth to bring Burr off again and again, lapping at the center of him. Burr fantasizes distantly, during long wagon rides and meetings, of pushing Hamilton down and grinding against his face, but isn't sure he could take the strain on his knees.

In the mornings Hamilton wakes early to help Burr dress, does up buttons Burr cannot reach, packs up their belongings and loads them into wagons while Burr rests against nearby trees, then helps lift Burr himself into the wagons, usually the last time Burr will see him till that night. Really, Burr is causing more work than his presence is relieving anyone, even as he spends those hours when he can answering correspondence and writing letters.

Hamilton is too good to him, and Burr is worried. He doesn't see Hamilton nearly enough, sometimes at meals, but mostly at night and in the morning, and he always looks drawn, worn, tired, thin. Burr tries to press food back on him, but the awful crushed look in Hamilton's face (as though Hamilton thinks this some kind of failure to provide) each time he offers causes Burr to stop. He is ashamed to say this is partly due to his own hunger, and cravings for sweet and fat which can never be satisfied by salted meat and brittle bread that makes him occasionally ill enough to vomit off the side of the rocking wagon.

He wants currant pie. He would kill for currant pie, or a large bunch of sparkling grapes. Neither of which can be procured by an army on the run, especially not in winter. Other things they can't easily procure: cream to soothe his stretched skin, his cracked nipples. He is given a jar to pee in, for when he is on the wagon, joy of joys, and a rag to stuff in his smallclothes to soak up what really is an unreasonable amount of discharge.

They are not always on the move. Sometimes they find an inn, with space enough to accommodate those higher ranking in the general's army, and so Hamilton and Burr are ensured a room, even if it is shared with the other aides, but when possible they are given a private space, their own bed. Burr does not mention what sleeping on the ground has done to his joints, but on these occasions falling into a matress, even a straw one, is transcendent.

Despite this, the further along he gets, he begins to have trouble sleeping. Always he feels short of breath, like there is not enough space inside himself for both his lungs and the child. When he lays on his back he feels as if he is being crushed, and when he lays on his side his hips ache horribly, excruciating, if he is to be dramatic. He is carrying the baby too high, he thinks, and at intervals he is gripped by the awful feeling that he will suffocate, strangled by this parasitic growth. All feelings that pass, when he forces himself to breathe slower. Nothing to worry Hamilton over, who already is stretched so thin.

Oh, but there is a benefit to staying up half the night. They are in an inn, wonderfully warm and comfortable, in a room their own. He thinks it likely they will stay here for a number of days, and the further along Burr is, the more reluctant Washington seems to assign him duties early in the day or late, so that Burr is allowed the luxury of sleeping extra hours when he can (he is not sure if that is due to Hamilton's interference or Washington's lingering discomfort surrounding the entire situation). Hamilton is sleeping beside him, and Burr is studying his face in the firelight, the way his freckles have lightened with winter, the thick eyelashes that earlier had caught the first snow of the year.

He is beautiful, and Burr is not sure how they were ever as hostile as they were. But he looks tired, even unconcious, his face drawn up tight. Hamilton needs his sleep more than anything, but Burr feels then something like a bubbling, then a painful, foreign shift against his insides, gasps.

"Hamilton," Burr whispers, and he is afraid to move, afraid that even the barest shift will stop those small, wonderful flutterings. "Hamilton," and he reaches out one hand, elbows him in the ribs. "I think--I think they're moving."

[non_stop]

Washington's discomfort has mutated and changed over the course of the last few months. Part of this, Hamilton thinks, is that Washington believes Burr has managed to stabilize some of Hamilton's recklessness -- he believes that alphas thrive when married or at least engaged. He isn't wrong. Burr soothes Hamilton without even trying, maybe without even knowing what he's doing. When Hamilton frets and worries about Burr's aches and pains, the health of the baby, the food they haven't gotten, it is almost a pleasurable worrying, a therapeutically nervous compulsion. He dwells on Burr, terrified of stray bullets, yellow fever, smallpox, dysentery, starvation, heat, cold; he hadn't remembered what it was like to have something to lose.

And he has learned that Washington adores ladies, omega and otherwise, and has a soft spot for children. A little tactical self-restraint, and Hamilton managed to arrange it that Washington caught them not in any scandalous embrace, but by the fire in a little empty cabin, with Hamilton reading out loud the history he's making his way through, to a dozing Burr with head tipped against Hamilton's shoulder, the picture of chaste affection and care. During dinners in the houses of helpful sympathizers along the road, Hamilton has also taken particular pains to draw out Burr on his most passionately held beliefs, the ones Hamilton had no idea existed before this year. Washington listens with interest as Burr posits on the education of women, and Lafayette is astonished that he never knew this about Burr.

Hamilton also suggests shifting a great deal of disciplinary responsibility over to Burr, because, well, if he does have to be sitting all the time, he can certainly hear cases of desertion, looting, disorderly conduct, etcetera. Washington seems to initially think the pregnancy will make Burr erratic at decision-making, but Hamilton is pleased to find that the opposite is true. Burr provides steady, thoughtful, and consistent outcomes to the soldiers, frequently acting with mercy and commuting sentences for youth and simple mistakes, but willing to apply the lash for looters. He even has two offenders brought to the home they looted and lashed there, in front of the civilians who had been outraged. Washington approves of it, though he doesn't show it overtly. He and Burr both are so damned reserved.

Lafayette has become an idiot over the whole thing, complete with dreamy sighs and occasional recitations of French poetry. Laurens, placing surprising trust in Hamilton's judgment, embraces Burr's presence in a way he never did before. He keeps an eye out for particular sweets, occasionally scoring a bit of preserves from a colonist or cajoling foragers into turning over honeycomb from a beehive nestled in the nook of a tree branch. His grin can charm even the most grizzled of the enlisted men. Laurens also puts out body heat at an almost absurd level when sleeping, and on rougher and colder nights, Hamilton insists on Burr sleeping between the two of them, bracketed on either side by the alphas. Hamilton trusts Laurens on an implicit and instinctual level, and there is no one he would rather have by Burr's side.

He rouses one night, in an inn, from deep sleep. I think they're moving. "The British?" he asks, sleepily, half-dreaming, and then blinks. Sits up, twisting around so he can reach out to Burr's growing belly. Slides his hand flat, and -- there!

An incredulous grin breaks over his face. He nestles in close, and strokes down the curve of Burr's abdomen, stopping to feel the little flutters of the quickened fetus.

And then he's kissing Burr, little, quick, thrilled kisses. How can it be, that two such precious lives are nested within each other, like this, one sustaining the other? Hamilton isn't enough to contain all the emotion he feels.

[slowtoanger]

If anyone were to ask Burr, he would say he does not giggle. Of course, the small shocked, surprised, and pleased noises that bubble out of him when Hamilton kisses him are not giggles. He is riding on a high of something, having just felt those flutters and now being beset upon by a most pleasing pair of lips.

Burr lets his mouth fall open, his hands coming up to frame Hamilton's face. He would like to roll them, so that Burr is on top and can take full advantage of Hamilton's playfulness, but such a maneuver has been impossible for a good many weeks, so instead he must settle for returning his own kisses down Hamilton's jaw, licking and biting against skin he knows to be too sensitive. Unfortunately, maintaining such an elevated position for long is also no longer possible.

He allows his legs to fall open, letting out a frustrated sigh as he falls back against the pillows, back aching. Lately, Hamilton seems to have been competing against Burr for most insatiable, and here now they have a room to themselves for the first time in a number of days, and it is not yet dawn, so as long as they are silent they will have a good deal of time to themselves.

"Alexander," he says, "my nipples hurt."

[non_stop]

"Suppose I'll have to distract you." Burr's chest is another source of fascination for Hamilton. It swells by each day, softening, the nipples lengthening and growing. The changes are merciless, and how Burr suffers -- but when Hamilton touches and soothes him, he melts. He isn't rough with Burr's delicate nipples, not anymore, instead nuzzling the soft flesh and applying the gentlest suction. That's all he has to do. It drives his lover wild.

"Can I knot you?" Hamilton bursts out. He wants to be in Burr, deep as he can, until he knows nothing but the perfect, sweet grip of his cunt. It's been some time since they've had the chance, and though Hamilton had thought he was too exhausted, earlier, now he's aglow with fascination and breathless lust, elated. "Is it too late along? Are you still deep enough?" They can't easily, of course; the last time, Hamilton had to take him from behind, but now Hamilton thinks even that would be a strain with the extra weight.

He can never have enough of knotting Burr. Binding Burr to him, feeling from within every flicker of pleasure -- the way Hamilton fucks has changed completely over the last months, his unwavering focus now on using himself as an instrument of Burr's pleasure. God, and it's so much better than selfish rutting. Every time Burr climaxes, it's different: sometimes a sudden release of tension, sometimes cascades of little clenches, sometimes hard, rough spasms. But it's always delicious, always makes Hamilton's own that much better. He's ravenous to get Burr off as many times, as many ways, as possible, sweet rewards for the terrible, beautiful strain his body is under.

"Here," and he helps Burr settle onto his left side, a blanket tucked under his belly for a little additional support. Draws up the nightshirt, baring Burr's slim thighs and hips that seem too small for the weight on them. The heave of Burr's chest, the incredible swell of life that he carries.

"God," and Hamilton can't but stare, even though it's so dark in here, just the ember-glow to illuminate. "You're more beautiful all the time. You're a miracle." He pets Burr's waist, slides his hand down to curl around his length, which now actually presses up against his belly when it's erect. Hamilton coaxes it there, now, strokes that firm Burr up, make his cunt slick up. "Mm, I like you like this. You have to wait for what I give you." Fingertips trail in the slick between Burr's legs, a little bit of a tease, but really just making sure that Burr is wet enough that Hamilton fuck him, without hurting him. He is so much more careful than he used to be, no matter how Burr begs him for rough, hard fucking, because it does no one good to leave him so sore and used. Lovely as it is.

He lifts Burr's right leg, a bit, baring the wet entrance to his body. This way, he is above Burr, sort of coming at him from the side. No weight on Burr's abdomen, and Burr doesn't have to hold himself upright, and Hamilton can fuck him deep, deep. Too impatient, too needy to make Burr come once or twice, warm him up penetration, no -- he needs to be inside Burr now, needs to tie him and pleasure him and leave him marked and filthy with seed.

He rubs the head of his cock against Burr, smearing wet, and then sinks, sinks inside, that little flicker as Burr's body surrenders to the penetration. Slow, deep strokes, less about fucking than it is about stroking Burr from the inside. He is so deep this way, swallowed to the base of his cock, and inside Burr is liquid and heat. And tight, always tight, so it seems Hamilton's cock is always stretching him just bit more.

He does speed up, once Burr starts pleading, breathlessly. Thorough, deep strokes, and his hand all the while toying with Burr's cock, smearing the head of it on Burr's own belly.

It doesn't take long. Hamilton wants him so badly -- and this time, unlike their first, Hamilton presses deep, stroking Burr's thighs, and lets himself swell. The knot seems to stretch him, makes him feel like he's hitching forward impossibly further, and then the tip of his cock kisses just up against something deep within his lover. Burr flinches, a jerk of overstimulation, and Hamilton realizes he's touching the entrance to Burr's womb. Maybe Hamilton is just deeper than he's ever been; maybe the weight is resting heavy, just here. Burr is sensitive, and Hamilton is greedy.

The throb at the base of his cock swells and swells, and Hamilton knows it's bigger than usual, the intensity of his ardor expressing itself in the most primal, physical way possible.

"Do you feel it?" breathes Hamilton. "I'm as deep as I can be, Aaron. Fuck. Your cunt is so good, you feel so good on me. I want to fuck you all the time, I want to have you -- Aaron --"

He comes hard, with another twitch of his hips forward, like he could find a way to force himself further still. But Burr will feel: Hamilton's fingers gather up the slick between his legs and penetrate him, one, two fingers into Burr's ass. The other holds Burr's hips steady as he reaches within, stroking, stroking the walls of Burr's body in between his fingers and his knot.

"I can feel myself inside of you." Hamilton makes a soft, broken noise. "I can feel my knot. Aaron."

[slowtoanger]

oh, god, Hamilton is so deep, has never been so deep before, has never knotted so large. Burr can hardly move, but still he finds himself thrusting back weakly, tugging against his knot, mewling. Painfully hard, and he can feel the jerk of Hamilton's cock as he comes, the stillness as his release pumps inside.

"Fuck me, fuck me, more, harder, Alexander, please, oh," and then he is letting out a surprised gasp, quickly trembling away into a breathless moan as Hamilton slips his fingers into Burr.

He is overwhelmed. Hamilton's cock knotted deep in him, pushing against some wonderful, tender spot, which sends jolts straight to his leaking cock--his cock, which is being worked over, stroked and massaged, and now a second finger pushing its way inside him. he whimpers, pushes his ass back, weakly gyrating his hips. God, he wishes he could move, could push Hamilton down onto the bed and ride his fingers and his cock, but instead he has only to lay there and take whatever Hamilton will give him.

"More, why won't you give me more, please more, fuck me--" babbling punctuated by a jagged moan as Hamilton twists those fingers, slaps their hips together though he can feel a wet stickiness that means Hamilton has already come.

He closes his eyes, imagines he is somewhere else, trapped between not only Hamilton's body but maybe also Laurens, or Lafayette, or Washington or-- that there are not fingers, but a second cock, pushing inside, a second knot bumping against his entrance, pushing against the first knot through the thin wall of skin between them. Hamilton is stoking there now, feeling his cock through Burr's body, breathing harshly in his ear. Maybe he will come again, pump Burr even more full, and the thought makes him whine, hips snapping forward against nothing while Hamilton shushes him.

"Alexander, Alexander, there, please, there," pushing hard against some spot inside him while Burr clenches down, feeling every inch of that double intrusion, the beautiful stretch as Hamilton works in a third finger, and Burr is too gone to anything but let out nonsense words, jerking, worked over and ruined and filled.

Two cocks, spearing him, bumping against each other from the inside, squeezing against the knot and--Burr bites down hard on his hand as he comes, clenches down on fingers and cock and shoots across his own stomach, rocking his hips back and moaning and moaning and calling Hamilton's name--jolts of pleasure that linger as he grinds back against Hamilton's pelvis, body shaking, spent.

He is breathing hard, limp against the pillows, body shining with a sheen of sweat. He can't see Hamilton, but he wants to. "Speak french to me," he whispers, "please."

[non_stop]

"The way you beg," Hamilton breathes. Burr comes; the seed smears along his belly, and Hamilton trails fingers through it, makes it messier. Ruins Burr.

He settles carefully -- the knot has to twist a little inside Burr, for him to shift to a comfortable position, and he can feel the dizzying way Burr squeezes and milks him. Eases Burr's leg down, and he tucks himself in behind his lover, nose against the back of Burr's neck, fingers spreading to waist, ribs. The position isn't perfect -- it pulls at his knot just a hint. But it should be as comfortable as Burr gets, these days.

This is his favorite time. Hamilton aches to be close, closer, closer still. Not just the long slow roll of pleasure as their bodies trail down from the lengthy climax, but that now Hamilton can grasp and hold Burr, have him so close, just be fully in this moment without fear of loss or jealousy or loneliness.

He complies. How could he do otherwise, a request as soft as that?

What he says isn't like the first French Burr drew out of him. Not dirty talk. He says: I imagine you as a pine so green it's blue -- as a sapling, straight and tall and supple and so, so alive, stretching its roots so far, thick with green. I imagine you stretching to the sky. I imagine you growing your roots around the pieces of me, and binding them into something new. You don't know your power yet, but you will --

It is murmured, as Hamilton drifts. Half poetry, half nonsense, cradling Burr against him.

The knotting is a long one. He can tell Burr is tired by the time it releases, slick mess running between Burr's legs. But of course he ducks down and licks up the fluid on his thighs, chases it to the source where he presses long, slow licks along Burr's soft and swollen cunt. Oh, it's filthy; he gathers some of his own seed on his fingers and scoops it up and presses it back inside, crooking his fingers to drag slow against the walls as he pulls them back out again. He cleans Burr up -- eventually. Doesn't go down on him like a race to the finish, but relishes it, the inherent eroticism of worshipping this place of Burr's body, lavishing such attentions on what he has just stretched and abused.

Of course, he makes sure Burr finishes, regardless.

[slowtoanger]

Burr whimpers, when Hamilton licks at him, sore and tender and sensitive. He is still limp, laying on the bed, and Hamilton maneuvers his legs open gently, positions his head to lap from him the mess of come and slick. Gentle licks--everything gentle, and slow.

Burr is too-wrung out to do much of anything, but ride the wave of that pleasure. So exhausted as he is now, by such small tasks. Speak french to me he wants to ask again, yet Hamilton's mouth is quite occupied, so he must settle for allowing the remembrance of those sweet, delirious words to echo in his head.

"Oh!" Burr gasps, as Hamilton pushes his tongue inside, slow, torturous licks, that pull Burr's pleasure out from someplace deep inside him, and when Burr grinds down against his face Hamilton does not move away, but allows himself to be pushed against, sucking at a place that makes Burr jerk once more--a slower orgasm, one that does not crash but builds slowly, making him pant and circle his legs around Hamilton's head. A rush of liquid from his cunt, and Hamilton laps that up too, licks Burr's semen from his stomach, before propping himself back up behind Burr.

This is one of the best parts, too--the way his hands trail up Burr's thighs, rub over Burr's hips, easing loose and aching ligaments, before settling over the broad swell of his belly. Whispering sweet things to him, easing him into sleep.

---

They stay at the inn another day, as they plot the next leg of their journey, and wait for scout reports. It is snowing, not the first of the year, but the first hard snow--a powdery once which blows thick but promises wet ice later. Cold, frigid air blowing through gaps in the log walls of the inn they have selected as headquarters.

Burr sits at the window, watching men toil in tents, shaking snow from coats and boots. He is hungry, but he has already eaten more than his share, and he cannot complain when he is in here and they are out there. But his cravings have not been satisfied, have not been able to be satisfied for much of his pregnancy, and his eyes are drawn at once to the river which runs behind the inn, idyllic even for the snow which obscures everything.

Fish. He would bet there are fish in that River. Would bet his life there are fish in that river. He bets they are fat fish too, with lots of oil and tender meat. Not hunks of awful salted leather. He had spent that morning, after breakfast, heaving weakly into a basin near his desk. An uncommon occurrence now, but not completely foreign.

Had intended to work through the sickness, until Washington walked into the room and said something about Hamilton killing both of them if he found out Burr was working while ill, and ordered him back to his room to rest. Ah, but his earlier sickness does nothing to assuage his hunger now.

So it is that he bundles himself beneath his coat and cloak and walks out to the river, kicking up small tufts of snow. The men in the camp wave at him as he passes--he is something of a morale boost, Lafayette had said, not that Burr believes him--and Burr does his best to return their friendly greetings for his singular focus on the water.

"Captain Burr, Sir, is there something I can help you with?" a kindly man, a lieutenant, asks. Bur knows the implication here; Burr, a veteran of the Quebec campaign, should not be out of site of an alpha caretaker.

"Do you think there are fish in this river?" Burr asks.

"Well, there are fish in any river, aren't there? Why do you ask?"

"But do you think there are large fish? Fat ones?"

"I--I'm not sure? Sir? Maybe I should go fetch Captain Hamilton, sir."

"Oh no, but you could fetch me a fishing pole, or a spear. Which do you think would work better, in waters such as these?"

"Sir, I--"

"Or perhaps you know of someone here who is an expert in such matters. I know fishing is often a hobby among young men, and I daresay there is no shortage of men here."

[non_stop]

In the morning, Hamilton rises early to find a very important letter has arrived for him and for Burr. He reads it twice over, suddenly giddy with happiness, and departs, rides to find if there is a local preacher, of an appropriate denomination for the grandson of Jonathan Edwards.

When he returns, Burr is speaking with a very uncertain lieutenant, and Hamilton drops off the horse, approaching with exhilaration. "You heard him," he tells the lieutenant. "Extra ale rations for anyone who brings the Captain some good, fat fish." Several men are listening and this order causes an immediate reaction -- ale is a common reward for soldiers, and they seem quite enthusiastic at the prospect. One man literally sprints off towards his tent. Hamilton has to swallow his laughter.

Looking to Burr, to soften this, make it seem like he's not overriding Burr's orders or undercutting him: "I'm afraid the General requires his presence for an urgent duty."

Once he has plucked Burr away, he pulls out the letter from that morning. From William Livingston, the newly elected governor of New Jersey, representative to the Continental Congress, and a personal friend of Hamilton's, from when he first arrived to New York. "We'll need extra food for a celebration, regardless." Flashes Burr a grin. "I received this, this morning." It is a marriage license, issued by Livingston personally, for Burr and Hamilton. "A preacher can be here by midday, and I..." He fumbles a bit, and brings out the little box with the ring inside. Opens it, to show Burr the interlocked puzzle ring, gold, one of them engraved with Alexander and the other with Aaron. When the rings are locked together, the two names press snug together.

He looks up, anxious for Burr's approval.

[slowtoanger]

Burr is still looking back at the river, when Hamilton pulls him away. That is until Hamilton produces the slip of paper and the ring box.

"Oh!" Burr says, looking at the rings in surprise. He takes it in his hand, fingers shaking, and turns it over, studies the interlocking parts, and when his eyes come to the engravings on the inside he has to turn his eyes away, blinking against some sudden surge of something.

"I thought you'd forgotten," he says, "or that perhaps--well, I don't have good history with engagements." He means it as a joke, but his smile falters, as he clutches as Hamilton's hand.

Married. They're going to be married. Today. And he'll wear this ring on his finger, and Hamilton and him will be bonded, legally and in the eyes of everyone. They'll start a life together, after the war. Build a home. What Burr had thought once he would have with Montgomery.

Oh, but Hamilton is looking unsure, so Burr leans in and kisses him--slow and deep and lovely, soothes a hand over his scalp, snuggles into his chest.

"You're lovely, and perfect, and wonderful. The Ring--It's lovely," he says. Then, "but if we get married today, will I have to share my fish?"

[non_stop]

He sees Burr’s own anxiety, and his heart overflows for the man he’s promised himself to protect. He gathers Burr close.

“I had no doubts,” he assures, “and giving you the consideration and ceremony you deserve was never far from my mind. The flight from New York had it difficult to obtain the proper license, but Mr. Livingston obliged, kindly. He also wrote a letter of congratulations.”

He is smiling again; it breaks through his attempt at a dignified countenance. “You’ll have as much as you want, even if I catch it myself.”

[slowtoanger]

"Well, this is wonderful, I think," Burr says, caught up in Hamiton's smile, his playfulness. "If Mr. Edwards were here he would have a fit, as I have been receiving angry letters from him begging for my return since this whole affair was publicized, and now what better treat than to tell him I was married in an inn in the wilderness with only a few army men as witness? Of course, a fish could have served just fine in place of a ring--I would have been sure to tell him that, as well," and Burr leans forward and kisses him on the nose.

They would have to be married in their uniforms, no doubt, Burr as swollen as he was, and there would be no great ceremony or reception. No announcements in the paper for weeks preceding, all requirements that did not hold in war time, though Hamilton or Burr would have to write to have the announcement published afterwards. Would they really be married in the inn, or did Hamilton intend to take them to town?

"You have no qualms with a rushed affair? No one you would have wished to attend? And you have communicated your sudden plans to the general?" Hamilton has been so obliging the whole of their journey, happy for every one of their sufferings, seeming content so long as he is with Burr. But still--Burr doesn't think Hamilton would communicate with him, should he be upset by something, not for want of deception, but perhaps through not even recognizing it himself. His own needs.

[non_stop]

“The General was the one who arranged for a messenger to deliver my entreaty to Governor-elect Livingston,” Hamilton tells him. His smile turns sad, with a little bit of a wince. “As for me: my father returned my letter these weeks past. He offered a sentence or two of congratulations, and devoted a page to the ferocity of his creditors. My brother does not write, or the letter did not find him. Aaron, the family I have is already here. Laurens. The Marquis.”

Perhaps this explains a bit of why Hamilton always reaches so, for family, for connection.

“His Excellency is willing to stay another day, to give the men a cause for a celebration. If it cannot be provided by military, then this must do. And I believe he intends to ask Mr. Paine to employ his notorious pen to commemorate the occasion in his next pamphlet.” Back to a grin: “I suppose Mr. Edwards will be mortified, but the men will not. They adore you. You are their little Captain.”

[slowtoanger]

Burr blushes hard--he had been aware of that particular nickname, unable to shake it since before even Princeton. Little Burr, little Captain.

"I don't feel so little right now," Burr says. "Let us go inside, before my ankles give out." Grabs Hamilton's hand and squeezes. He has never been good at comforting others, given always to reservation, but he must say something to Hamilton, however inadequate it might be.

"My own family will perhaps be as little to your liking as they are to mine, but whatever other connections I have cultivated shall be yours as well. Of course, I hope that some measure of my own..." he looks away, embarrassed, the words halting, "affection, as violent and eternal as it is, might in some way bridge that gap, and if anything were to happen to you--" God, he doesn't know what to say. He had always been charming, when it came to those he wished to bed, but with Hamilton he is tongue-tied.

[non_stop]

It would be a lie to say Hamilton never has doubts about Burr's affection. Sometimes he feels as though he trapped the man into saying yes, with that proposal -- that he must earn it, every bit of it. And he truly must, the proposal notwithstanding. Burr's bloodline is impeccable. Hamilton's, in the last generation, is troubled, and he brings little to this besides his ability and determination. He will be worthwhile in the future, he is certain of it, should he survive the war -- but there is no guarantee that he will survive the war. If he dies gloriously, that will go some way towards redeeming his name. It does nothing for Burr and the child.

He has doubts, yes; however, he sees how Burr reaches for him, when there is difficulty or pain. He knows the tight sigh that Burr makes when he wants to pretend he is not aching. Hamilton might be the one to place himself close, and make it easy for Burr to turn to him, but Burr does turn to him. Does melt, at a ring just carved with simple names.

Did, when it came down to it, reveal himself to save Hamilton's commission.

He touches a kiss to Burr's lips. "I would but gladly wait, as patient and still as a stone, just to hear every word you find for your violent and eternal affection. But I trust in it without speech. Aaron, you speak freely about what you care little for, and hold close what's dear to you. In this, I fear your silence has an eloquence that, with all my words, I cannot match."

[slowtoanger]

"You are perfect to me, Alexander. As good as I had ever imagined I would find, in a match. Or better. I had always thought--" well, he neednt to trouble Hamilton with those artifacts of childhood. Had thought until he met Montgomery that he would be lucky to find a mate that treated him as more than some afterthought, a house omega, tho recieved shallow affections but no real attention. Hamilton though, Hamilton turns to Burr as if he is the sun, and in every moment he might melt away some hurt to reveal new growth. Has no difficulty, voicing his love and devotion, does not even begrudge Burr his own difficulty, when it comes to affection.

"This is important to me," he bursts, grabbing Hamilton's hand with renewed vigor, stopping him just before the doors to the inn. "I want to express to you, in the way you do to me. It's not enough for you to assume to know, even for all my difficulties. I would have resigned, I think, or transfered to some isolated post and born the shame and scorn silently, if you hadn't shown me such tenderness."

Oh, but that's not right either, because that makes it sound as if his affections are only selfish, about what Hamilton can do for Burr, about practicality and desperation. It is desperation, but not of the kind anyone might think. He loves Hamilton desperately, as if at any moment his heart might crack apart the bones in his ribs in some sick swell.

"I love you," he says, "and I don't see there ever being a world where I could not love you, even if you had not saved me when you did. I am--delerious. At the prospect of marrying you. With joy and happiness. And I want to make you happy as well, would put myself in great peril to make you happy, though I know now I am most disposed towards that goal when I am resting, and looking after my own body."

[non_stop]

From you are perfect to me, Hamilton slows. As Burr continues, he goes carefully still, strained-still; as a glass rings with a singer's voice, so his heart rings with the sentiments expressed, a sympathetic vibration, a harmony.

What a waste it would have been, if Burr had simply vanished. Ah, Hamilton would not have thought that an omega could be such a good commander, even a male omega; he had been as ignorant as the rest. But Burr's clear bravery in the face of danger, the consistency and the justice that he shows the men, his keen mind... Hamilton is man enough to learn anew what he had assumed improperly before.

He takes Burr's hand in both of his, head dipping. Their interlaced fingers, one of which, from here on, will hold the ring he found.

Hamilton can see the world where their love didn't have a chance. After all, they had that world, once, before Montgomery, before Quebec -- their brief acquaintance beforehand, in New York, that brimmed with a wild, strange energy, suspicious and wary. Perhaps he had recognized a kindred spirit, and instead of opening himself to trust, Hamilton had snarled like a territorial wolf, overcome with suspicion.

Burr's vulnerability changed that. Hamilton cannot help but want to heal what is hurting, though he disdained a career in medicine: people who are helpless arouse fierce instincts in him that he cannot always control. Still, vulnerability alone would not have prompted all of this. Hamilton was initially attracted because of Burr's weakness, but he grew to love him because of his strength. Because of how he stood up and faced every day, terrified, bound up in his own secrets, but still proud. It's why he thought of pine trees, supple and strong, prickly and sharp, endlessly beautiful.

He does not mind that vulnerability, though. It gives him endless chances to prove himself worthy, over and over.

Hamilton never pictured himself this way. He never thought he would thrill at the idea of raising a child begotten by another. But the child, too, has opened his eyes. It is carried and nourished by that which has grown precious to him. It is of Burr's flesh, and -- well, Hamilton has always adored the idea of children. He wants a family so badly.

He never pictured a partner on such equal terms, either. He pictured someone simple and virtuous, who would create a home, a refuge for him. But it seems it is entirely to his taste to have a soldier on equal footing, a companion in peril and struggle. How lovely it is not to return to someone else's refuge, but to weave and build and place that refuge every night, together.

He realizes his head is bowed, that his eyes are closed, that tears are escaping freely. He lifts Burr's hand and kisses it, the only real response he can make, as he overflows.

[slowtoanger]

"oh no," Burr whispers, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry."

A kind of flashback of pain--nigtmares he has had, of Hamilton's broken body, on those occasions he had been called to action. Nightmares of his own stillness, body broken by the strain of birth, Hamilton left alone with a child not his own or worse. Anxieties that grip him with an increased vigor every day that goes by.

Alexander would take care of Burr's child, but who would there be to take care of Alexander?

"Alexander, I'm sorry, love." He is shorter than Hamilton, but it is no matter to pull him close, to guide his head down to his own chest, lay it on his shoulder. An awkward maneuver, with that broadness pressed between them.

"I'd thought, I endeavor, always, to make you happy," he whispers into his hair, kissing at his crown. "Even if it doesn't seem so. Even if I am remote. I'm sorry. I love you, I do. I'll tell you more now, I promise."

[non_stop]

"Oh, Aaron," he breathes. And he smiles, a little laugh into Aaron's shoulders as the tears spill. "If you hurt me, it is the pain of a set bone, and not the break -- it is the paltry pinpricks of stitching to a raw wound." He pulls back, to look at Aaron with clear eyes. "If I had such precious gifts as your words every day, then I hope I would still feel them so dear."

He takes a long breath, and interlaces his fingers with Burr's, places them on the swell of his belly.

"What would ease my heart," he says, "what would make me happy, is for you to be strong, and healthy, and make sure that both of us are here to raise this child." Tomorrow's sentiments no doubt will come easier when today's hardships have passed. "I want a long future with you."

[slowtoanger]

The wedding is a simple, rushed affair, attended only by the officers, themselves, and the preacher from the nearby town. They marry in the inn--too conscious of Burr's nearly full-term pregnancy and the storm slowly worsening outside.

Burr is nervous, before--spends long minutes pacing his room, worrying at the way his uniform settles on his swell. The pants that Hercules had stitched him had finally given out two weeks ago, and the alterations Laurens had made in a nearby town are ugly craftsmanship--not for want of skill, but for practicality. The seamstress had sewn in enough extra material and buttons to accommodate a growing stomach.

His coat is much too large for him, once again, to accommodate his swell. One of Washington's, with the extra effects befitting his position removed. Long enough that instead of ending at his knees it threatens to brush the floor. Better for keeping warm, at least, and covered, when he is about, by his cloak. His boots had been a sad causality of swollen feet, and his new ones are a pair of Laurens, over-large and stuffed with spare fabric. He looks ridiculous. He isn't sure how Washington can stand to see Burr, for how particular the man had always been about proper dress. Ah, but there is nothing to be done, with the state of supplies this winter, with how often they must move.

There isn't much to set up. Everyone will surely be ready once Burr is, but still. It is not that he is not anxious to marry Hamilton, but rather at the formality of the whole affair, the eyes of everyone on him, a celebration for them. Burr had always preferred privacy, in his personal matters, though he supposes this will be a smaller and more intimate affair than he had ever imagined his own wedding would be. And if what Hamilton had said was true, there would be a good deal of good food to consume after, and he is eternally hungry. And Hamilton might actually eat his fill. He hopes Hamilton eats his fill.

"Burr?" Washington says, poking his head around the door. Of course. They are waiting for him. But Washington, on seeing him dressed, does not hurry him outside. Rather, he steps into the room and closes the door behind him.

"Sir?" Burr asks, but Washington stands, looks him up and down while Burr figits. A critical gaze, always, with Washington. This is strange for him, stilted and awkward, for him to even be present at all, on such a day. There has never been love lost between then, but Washington has doubtless warmed in some way, since the engagement. Not because of Burr, though, but because of Hamilton.

"Hamilton mentions that I might speak to you," Washington says, stepping around Burr to the window, "before the ceremonies. Ah, but that is not how I meant to start this." Washington turns, a kind of self-deprecating smile Burr has only seen directed at those he is close to. Never Burr.

"I am not here simply on the bidding of Hamilton. I have meant to speak to you, but have no great gift with words, as your soon to be husband does. Perhaps that is why he has become so dear to me, during this blasted war. But he cannot be my tongue in all my affairs, especially my personal ones, and I am afraid this conversation is long overdue--Montgomery was a dear friend of mine," Washington says. From his place by the mirror, Burr watches his own face, the sweep of impassivity at the mention of his dead lover, stone.

Washington continues; "The last of a breed of gentlemen, who always had the best interests of the country and his fellow men at heart. I was devastated, to learn he had died, and shocked, to learn that you had been engaged, and expecting his child. I should have reached out then, as a friend of his, but I did not. I was shocked, I suppose, when following this revelation you were immediately engaged to my aide. I did not have generous thoughts. I was clouded by prejudiced opinion--a wrong one, which I have known to be wrong for a good deal of time now, almost as soon as I saw you and Hamilton together."

"There are things I should have said to you. From what I knew of Montgomery, about his honorable nature, his kindness, his ferocity and loyalty. I do not think he would begrudge you this happiness, and if he did, he would not have been worthy of you to start. Regardless, I do not doubt this would bring him peace, to see you so happily paired, with one so noble. Proud, to see you flourishing. I think he would be proud."

"I find myself surrounded by remarkable young men," Washington says. "For you must be, to capture the hearts of two of the best soldiers I have ever known. But even if not for that, I have seen you perform your duty admirably, and at pain to yourself, despite your condition. It is not propaganda, that the papers are printing about you, Aaron. You will always be a welcome guest in my home, and at my table, regardless of the outcomes of this war. With or without Hamilton."

Burr doesn't know what to say, in the wake of Washington's speech. He has never known the man to be long-winded, affectionate with anyone but Lafayette. Burr doesn't know what to do with affection from figures such as himself, hardly knows what to do with it from lovers. Ah, but Monty had been something of both--a confusing mix of paternal and lover, that at every instance of tenderness rendered Burr on the verge of tears.

He has no tears now. Rather, he is stickied in impassivity, shocked to silence. He should thank Washington, as a lesser thanks a superior, but such words seem inadequate, and time is passing. He swallows, forces himself to move, crosses the room.

"Sir," he says, bows his head, in deference and honor, but Washington grabs him and pulls him into a hug. When he exits the room to face the ceremonies, Hamilton, he does so feeling steady--affirmed.

[non_stop]

Later, from Thomas Paine's pen, the following:

...rather, the American soldier is driven not to despair but to determination by the privations and trials wearing his boots to scraps and his feet to bone.

It was with the greatest of pleasure that the truest Americans greeted the news of late printed innocuous at the bottom of the newspaper-notices: CAP. Mr.a. ALEXANDER HAMILTON has lately wed CAP. Mr.o. AARON BURR, aides-de-camp to the Supreme Commander of the Colonial Forces. Any in New York City would remember the false accusations pressed against Cap. HAMILTON of just a few months ago, and the noble Cap. BURR's rescue of his commission. Both lovers were willing to protect the other's reputation and honor to the pain of censure and outcry; but, in this land blessed by Providence with a healthy and robust people given to reason and reflection, the truth was readily apparent: that Cap. BURR was the bereft fiance of the beloved Gen. MONTGOMERY, of late fallen in battle, and that Cap. HAMILTON, far from ravishing or seducing Cap. BURR, offered gallant support to the expecting mother and his child, which could not possibly have been of Cap. HAMILTON's get. Subsequent information has only confirmed the accounts, both of the noble and brave Gen. MONTGOMERY and his devoted Little Captain.

In this years' second snows, in an Inn along the Army's winding road, the promises exchanged between the two young lovers were made formal before God and country. The wedding was an entirely American affair, joyous and merry. Between the nearby river and the generous heart of the Innkeeper, a veritable miracle of the loaves and fishes was wrought for the weary soldiers. BURR made a comely figure, flush with health and round with fecundity, the very symbol of our nation struggling to carry within it the helpless babe of liberty. HAMILTON, a tongue-tied groom of dashing handsomeness, placed the gold of his love's labors on his bride's finger, where also rested the token of his heroic General. The affection could not be doubted, as each doted upon the other with the tenderest of care, their eyes hardly straying from the other the whole of the feast.

What, then, if this celebration were had in Europe? A trick question, citizens, as Europe would never have countenanced an omega determined to do his duty and bear his part no matter his infirmity; Cap. BURR, even having proven his intrepid gifts in the matters of war, would have been quietly hidden away in shame. In the same way, Cap. HAMILTON, though gifted with a sharp wit and sharper pen, and already led a brave gunnery squadron against the British, would have been denied service entire, from circumstance of birth alone. The indolent and greedy nobility of a corrupt and hollow country would have turned aside the bright and blossoming love that so insulted their eyes and left unstirred their rotten hearts.

-- Of course, this does not mention how Hamilton forgot where he had put the ring, and had to be nudged pointedly and presented with it by Laurens, its bearer, who stood at his side.

Nor does it mention the night that followed, and the amorous intrigues thus contained.