Burr has an immediate visceral reaction, to Hamilton's suggestion. Not a fair one, in retrospect, but he has one, nonetheless.
He doesn't want to leave the army. Doesn't want to bend in this way, give this small concession. It feels like losing, to surrender for the winter months, months that should have been stationary, that he had given so much to fight through. And they had come so far, to be here, now, in this isolated settlement. Unless they left with the army they would be stranded, until someone could come to receive them, and then they would have to travel alone, exposed, to the nearest city.
Burr doesn't want to. He doesn't want to sacrifice some part of himself, an opportunity, for this child. Doesn't feel like he should have to. It isn't fair--that one sex should be forced to carry a child and the other not, be forced out of the army, be as indisposed as he has been for months, while Hamilton went and performed heroic deeds. Nine months, nine months of Burr's life, carrying a child he never asked for yet looked after regardless.
Why can he not have both?
"No," Burr says, pulls away from Hamilton. "No, I don't--" What to say, how even to crystallize these thoughts in some way that does not have him seeming monsterous, selfish, after everything Hamilton has done? He wants the baby out, but the knowledge that then he will have to care for it, to nurse it, to keep it safe and recover from something his body would never be the same after, while Hamilton could continue to preform his duty admirably. A stab of jealousy, of resentment, at Hamilton, at Montgomery, for getting him pregnant and leaving him with no good explanation, at the army, for poor management to put them in such a position.
They should be stationed somewhere. They should be launching a counterattack. This was all the fault of Washington's poor leadership, once again--if he had just stationed men--
God, he is angry enough to want to punch something, balls his hands in his lap, breathing heavy. He can't even move. He can't even rise from the damn bed. They won't let him rise from the damn bed. It's his body, his life, he should get to decide, he would know.
"Get your damn hands off me!" Burr yells, when Hamilton reaches out for him, swings his legs around to the floor, trying to rise. "Why do I not get to make any decisions? Why does no one ever ask me, what I want, what I would like to happen? I didn't ask to get pregnant, or to get embroiled in a court affair, to reveal myself to everyone, to get dragged out here to the middle of nowhere with this god forsaken army! None of this should have happened, none of it! If not for Washington's poor leadership, if not for the damnedable state of supplies, if someone with half a brain had taken a moment to look at a map, to send scouts out in some pattern that was not useless, we could route ourselves back on Cornwallis, or slip around him, or prepare for an offense! We could be back in New Jersey, preparing for an offensive, in winter quarters as well should be, not scrounging for scraps and sending desperate hunting parties! You should not be run ragged, and I should not be bleeding, and if anyone had asked me I should not have been pregnant in the first place, but these things keep happening and there is nothing for it but to take each blow as it comes, to shoulder a little more, but nobody damn asked me!"
He has pushed himself to his feet, during this, and when Hamilton goes to follow him Burr swings wildly, pushing him away, stumbles across the cabin to lean against one of the walls, near a window, covered in animal skins. Yanks it away. He can see the camp outside, the tents, sunk in mud. They should have moved already, but had not, and why? Burr didn't know. No one told him anything.
"And what am I doing, while all this goes on? Stuck in a wagon, or in bed, or seeing to damn discipline reports that make no difference to anything that matters! Is my mind not great enough, did I not prove myself back in Quebec? Or perhaps it is because I am omega, because I spread my legs and allowed myself to get into such a position, my mind must be damaged, and I cannot be given a modicum of power then. No, no, I must leave the army, we must leave, so I can look after a damn child--"
He swallows heavily, breathes through his nose. He is getting too worked up, his stomach cramping. He has said things he didn't mean, or that he did mean but not to such an extent. He is just so damn angry.
"Apologies," he says quickly, trying to swallow that emotion back down, failing, leaning more against the wall. He doesn't feel so bad on his feet. He told them he could walk, but what do they listen?
"You made plans before," Burr says. "You fought for things. And yet this army--it is not just a matter of us, Hamilton. The army cannot continue like this. Something must be done."
no subject
He doesn't want to leave the army. Doesn't want to bend in this way, give this small concession. It feels like losing, to surrender for the winter months, months that should have been stationary, that he had given so much to fight through. And they had come so far, to be here, now, in this isolated settlement. Unless they left with the army they would be stranded, until someone could come to receive them, and then they would have to travel alone, exposed, to the nearest city.
Burr doesn't want to. He doesn't want to sacrifice some part of himself, an opportunity, for this child. Doesn't feel like he should have to. It isn't fair--that one sex should be forced to carry a child and the other not, be forced out of the army, be as indisposed as he has been for months, while Hamilton went and performed heroic deeds. Nine months, nine months of Burr's life, carrying a child he never asked for yet looked after regardless.
Why can he not have both?
"No," Burr says, pulls away from Hamilton. "No, I don't--" What to say, how even to crystallize these thoughts in some way that does not have him seeming monsterous, selfish, after everything Hamilton has done? He wants the baby out, but the knowledge that then he will have to care for it, to nurse it, to keep it safe and recover from something his body would never be the same after, while Hamilton could continue to preform his duty admirably. A stab of jealousy, of resentment, at Hamilton, at Montgomery, for getting him pregnant and leaving him with no good explanation, at the army, for poor management to put them in such a position.
They should be stationed somewhere. They should be launching a counterattack. This was all the fault of Washington's poor leadership, once again--if he had just stationed men--
God, he is angry enough to want to punch something, balls his hands in his lap, breathing heavy. He can't even move. He can't even rise from the damn bed. They won't let him rise from the damn bed. It's his body, his life, he should get to decide, he would know.
"Get your damn hands off me!" Burr yells, when Hamilton reaches out for him, swings his legs around to the floor, trying to rise. "Why do I not get to make any decisions? Why does no one ever ask me, what I want, what I would like to happen? I didn't ask to get pregnant, or to get embroiled in a court affair, to reveal myself to everyone, to get dragged out here to the middle of nowhere with this god forsaken army! None of this should have happened, none of it! If not for Washington's poor leadership, if not for the damnedable state of supplies, if someone with half a brain had taken a moment to look at a map, to send scouts out in some pattern that was not useless, we could route ourselves back on Cornwallis, or slip around him, or prepare for an offense! We could be back in New Jersey, preparing for an offensive, in winter quarters as well should be, not scrounging for scraps and sending desperate hunting parties! You should not be run ragged, and I should not be bleeding, and if anyone had asked me I should not have been pregnant in the first place, but these things keep happening and there is nothing for it but to take each blow as it comes, to shoulder a little more, but nobody damn asked me!"
He has pushed himself to his feet, during this, and when Hamilton goes to follow him Burr swings wildly, pushing him away, stumbles across the cabin to lean against one of the walls, near a window, covered in animal skins. Yanks it away. He can see the camp outside, the tents, sunk in mud. They should have moved already, but had not, and why? Burr didn't know. No one told him anything.
"And what am I doing, while all this goes on? Stuck in a wagon, or in bed, or seeing to damn discipline reports that make no difference to anything that matters! Is my mind not great enough, did I not prove myself back in Quebec? Or perhaps it is because I am omega, because I spread my legs and allowed myself to get into such a position, my mind must be damaged, and I cannot be given a modicum of power then. No, no, I must leave the army, we must leave, so I can look after a damn child--"
He swallows heavily, breathes through his nose. He is getting too worked up, his stomach cramping. He has said things he didn't mean, or that he did mean but not to such an extent. He is just so damn angry.
"Apologies," he says quickly, trying to swallow that emotion back down, failing, leaning more against the wall. He doesn't feel so bad on his feet. He told them he could walk, but what do they listen?
"You made plans before," Burr says. "You fought for things. And yet this army--it is not just a matter of us, Hamilton. The army cannot continue like this. Something must be done."