Burr buries himself in Hamilton, if there is a word for what he does. He is terrified, untethered, overwhelmed. He had marched into the streets of Quebec, dragged his lover's body through streets lined with bloody snow and body parts and scorches and not shed a tear; numb. But this is different. The baby is quiet, not moving, but he is sure he can feel something wrong, that causes this bleed outside him.

That he has done something wrong. Never was a very good omega, if you asked Timothy. Too headstrong, set to radical ideas. Timothy would have been proud, to have an alpha son in the army, but Aaron? It was penance, he would say, Aaron's body failing him. God taking his due. Burr never much cared for god. Feels closer to him in Hamilton's body, than any disconnected ideal, waiting to toss him into a pit, hellfire and damnation.

Hamilton works his fingers into Burr's mouth, and Burr nearly snaps, now is not the time but he tastes sweetness there, around Hamilton's fingers, and though he is not hungry, it is not so difficult to suck around Hamilton's appendage, lapping honey from his fingers. A kind of unconscious compulsion, perhaps leftover from when he was a child himself. Where in the hell had Hamilton gotten honey? Burr loves honey.

And Hamilton is saying such sweet things to him. He wants to sleep, but he knows Hamilton will be mad with worry, can feel that tension in his frame, even as he tries to force only reassurance through his scent, and Burr grabs his hand tight, suqeezes, licks the other clean.

"I love you," he breathes. "No matter what happens, I love you."

The blood slows, when he drifts off into sleep, but it doesn't stop. Slows enough for him to live, perhaps, yet keep him bedbound and weak.