The way Burr latches on to him is heartbreaking. He just murmurs soft and tries not to show any of his own distress, does his level best to project soothing smells. He does not succeed particularly well. But he manages to, by spreading it out, get Burr to have more than half the little jar before his eyes start to close more often than not. A little trick for ensuring those who are ill eat more than they think.
The sleep terrifies him. He worries it will be Burr’s last, the life slipping away from him. But it seems like sleep, not just a faint. Burr is breathing more steadily.
“Just don’t leave me alone,” he whispers.
Mrs. Jones touched him on the shoulder. “That baby isn’t ready to come,” she says. “But he’ll stay on bleeding until it does.”
She, thinks Hamilton. Until she does.
“Thank you.” He takes her hand, grips it. “For your hospitality, your shelter…”
She waves him off. “Drive off the Redcoats, and it’ll be thanks enough.”
He dons his uniform again, the linen dried by the fire. The wool is damp but warm. Jones holds out a scarf, tells him “Rub,” and indicates the throat. He obeys, rubbing it roughly on his scent glands, and she takes it back, tucking it in near Burr’s nose.
Outside, he is directed to Washington, taken up in the largest cabin, four whole rooms. He stands in front of his commanding officer, at attention, exhausted and scared as he is. “Sir, for my behavior, I—“
“Alexander.” Washington stands, and steps around behind him. Hamilton brims over with tension, and then Washington’s cool, impersonal grip settles on the back of his neck. He ducks his head, submitting. "I can't have officers who succumb to the grips of their instincts," Washington tells him, sternly. The grip is tight; shame washes over Hamilton, and a little edge of panic. "However, if I were to punish my officers for acting in a more... primal way, when confronted with their bleeding mate, I would have no officers left. You recovered yourself quickly, and with that, Alexander, you have shown your strength,” Washington reassures him. "You are forgiven." Scruffing someone like a misbehaving kitten is discipline appropriate for a pack, a family, more than a military subordinate, but the alternative paradigm here would require whipping, even if Hamilton recovered himself immediately.
He tells them the news: that the bleeding will continue likely until the child comes, and that they can only hope the child comes quickly. There has been some terrible internal injury, according to the surgeon, and either it repairs itself or it doesn't.
Washington looks troubled; when Hamilton sags down to sit next to Laurens, he doesn't realize how dejected his body language is, not until Laurens shifts to sit flush against him and starts to rub his back, a sibling or packmate's comfort.
Hamilton sleeps on the floor next to Burr's bed that night, after tucking his coat, Burr's coat, every blanket that survived the wagon disaster, and anything else he can find in his saddlebags all around Burr's body, a makeshift nest.
Parties are sent out to forage, beg, and barter, and occasionally confiscate, supplies from the nearby woods and towns. After a day and a half, Hamilton is the only one who hasn't led a party, and he must, though it tears at him to leave Burr behind, even though the bleeding has continued only at its reduced pace. He catches the surgeon, when he returns, getting out his leeches, and Hamilton nearly goes feral. "Has he not been deprived of enough blood?" His question is a shout, underlaid with threatening Alpha-growl. "His humors will balance when it is restored!" It is only Washington's words about instinctive responses that has Hamilton holding back from physical violence.
no subject
The sleep terrifies him. He worries it will be Burr’s last, the life slipping away from him. But it seems like sleep, not just a faint. Burr is breathing more steadily.
“Just don’t leave me alone,” he whispers.
Mrs. Jones touched him on the shoulder. “That baby isn’t ready to come,” she says. “But he’ll stay on bleeding until it does.”
She, thinks Hamilton. Until she does.
“Thank you.” He takes her hand, grips it. “For your hospitality, your shelter…”
She waves him off. “Drive off the Redcoats, and it’ll be thanks enough.”
He dons his uniform again, the linen dried by the fire. The wool is damp but warm. Jones holds out a scarf, tells him “Rub,” and indicates the throat. He obeys, rubbing it roughly on his scent glands, and she takes it back, tucking it in near Burr’s nose.
Outside, he is directed to Washington, taken up in the largest cabin, four whole rooms. He stands in front of his commanding officer, at attention, exhausted and scared as he is. “Sir, for my behavior, I—“
“Alexander.” Washington stands, and steps around behind him. Hamilton brims over with tension, and then Washington’s cool, impersonal grip settles on the back of his neck. He ducks his head, submitting. "I can't have officers who succumb to the grips of their instincts," Washington tells him, sternly. The grip is tight; shame washes over Hamilton, and a little edge of panic. "However, if I were to punish my officers for acting in a more... primal way, when confronted with their bleeding mate, I would have no officers left. You recovered yourself quickly, and with that, Alexander, you have shown your strength,” Washington reassures him. "You are forgiven." Scruffing someone like a misbehaving kitten is discipline appropriate for a pack, a family, more than a military subordinate, but the alternative paradigm here would require whipping, even if Hamilton recovered himself immediately.
He tells them the news: that the bleeding will continue likely until the child comes, and that they can only hope the child comes quickly. There has been some terrible internal injury, according to the surgeon, and either it repairs itself or it doesn't.
Washington looks troubled; when Hamilton sags down to sit next to Laurens, he doesn't realize how dejected his body language is, not until Laurens shifts to sit flush against him and starts to rub his back, a sibling or packmate's comfort.
Hamilton sleeps on the floor next to Burr's bed that night, after tucking his coat, Burr's coat, every blanket that survived the wagon disaster, and anything else he can find in his saddlebags all around Burr's body, a makeshift nest.
Parties are sent out to forage, beg, and barter, and occasionally confiscate, supplies from the nearby woods and towns. After a day and a half, Hamilton is the only one who hasn't led a party, and he must, though it tears at him to leave Burr behind, even though the bleeding has continued only at its reduced pace. He catches the surgeon, when he returns, getting out his leeches, and Hamilton nearly goes feral. "Has he not been deprived of enough blood?" His question is a shout, underlaid with threatening Alpha-growl. "His humors will balance when it is restored!" It is only Washington's words about instinctive responses that has Hamilton holding back from physical violence.