Hamilton leaves that night, Burr is told by Laurens, who finds himself with the unfortunate duty of being Burr's intermediary between the pregnant omega and life outside his small cabin. Burr is agitated, angry, as he had been during that argument, yet now finds that bad mood propelled to new heights by worry and guilt on top of vindication.
That Hamilton left the whole damn camp when Burr asked him only to leave the cabin is absurd. Surely Hamilton throwing Burr's independence back in his face, alone now with omegas who seem not to care about Burr's ill mood or what he wants. He takes to snarling at them in the manner of an Alpha, when they approach him with food, burrowing down into his nest and hissing. They can't make him do what he does not want to do. He wants to be left alone, to stew and be miserable.
Laurens isn't dissuaded by Burr's vitriol. He sits beside Burr's bed with a book, blessedly silent, sleeps there at night.
"Alexander really would give anything for you, you know."
"Yes," Burr scoffs, "and would make damn sure I knew it too."
"He doesn't mean to be manipulative," Laurens said. "He's changed a lot for you, his opinion on omegas, everything. He doesn't know how to be an alpha, besides what he's been told when he was a child, and you can't expect him to just change overnight."
But Burr doesn't want to be reasonable. He doesn't want to think about it. He feels abandoned. He is in pain. He is bored and useless and swollen and no one will listen to him when he says no, god damn it. He sleeps holding Hamilton's letters, the love poetry and pornographic writings Burr has pilfered on his person the whole of this war, the little notes Hamilton has left on Burr's pillow, on mornings when Hamilton was called away. He is so angry at him, yet still he aches for him to return, for his physical comforts, for his sweet words. To be in the same room as him, and his brilliant mind.
Burr's bleeding does not stop--and despite the improvement he had felt in his condition he continues to weaken. Soon he will not be able to rise at all, despite his protest, forced into bed. Soon he will be too weak to deliver the child, when the time comes. Two evenings into Hamilton's absence, when Burr throws the second mug of water pressed upon him at the wall, Laurens decides to finally yield and take him on a walk.
They go to headquarters, and though Washington sends them a queer look he wisely chooses to remain silent, as Laurens settles him in a corner chair with a pile of blankets. The small excursion improves Burr's spirits enough that it is repeated again the next day, Burr dosing while the men go about their duties.
Burr is sitting in headquarters, reading in Laurens' room while Washington and the officers inspect the ranks, when he hears musket fire. A commotion--yelling, running feet, screams. He is frozen, for a moment, listening, before lurching to his feet, stumbling to the door.
Outside, men run by, blind panic, blood in the snow.
"What's happening?" Burr demands, why will no one tell him anything? Another gun shot, and Burr swears, ducks back inside, slams the door. There are no weapons here that he knows of, maybe an old bayonet or a sidearm, no good places to hide. He is trying to turn over a table when the door bursts in.
Burr steps back, momentary shock and lack of recognition, at Laurens crossing the floor with his musket, but more shocking is the way Laurens grabs him, yanks him from the door and into the cabin with none of his earlier gentlenesses, none of the gentlenesses they have insisted on, until now.
"Laurens--"
"Quiet," Laurens whispers, clamping a hand over his mouth. Pulls him through the cabin roughly and quicky while Burr stumbles, nearly topples, doorways Burr has never gone through, to a small dusty place stacked with barrels and crates. Outside there is yelling, musket fire. Someone screams, a terrible death scream.
Laurens sets his musket aside and begins pulling at the floorboard, which pop free much easier than they should to reveal a small, dank hole, no more than a few feet tall.
"Here," Laurens says, holds out his hand and when Burr hesitates, he reaches out and yanks him forward, urges him beneath the floor.
"Stay down there, and don't come out until I get you, or--"
"You--you must come down too," Burr says, tries to protest, but Laurens is already forcing the slats back down, plunging Burr into darkness.
He doesn't hear Laurens leave--imagines him crouched above, gun pointed at the doorway. It is cold, beneath the floor, pressed to frozen earth, and after only minutes he is shivering.
Burr doesn't know how much time passes, but after what might be minutes, might be hours, Laurens openes the slates again, drops down beside him.
"What is happening?" Burr asks, but Laurens doesn't know. There is a rush then, of liquid. Blood or breaking water. Burr doesn't know.
no subject
That Hamilton left the whole damn camp when Burr asked him only to leave the cabin is absurd. Surely Hamilton throwing Burr's independence back in his face, alone now with omegas who seem not to care about Burr's ill mood or what he wants. He takes to snarling at them in the manner of an Alpha, when they approach him with food, burrowing down into his nest and hissing. They can't make him do what he does not want to do. He wants to be left alone, to stew and be miserable.
Laurens isn't dissuaded by Burr's vitriol. He sits beside Burr's bed with a book, blessedly silent, sleeps there at night.
"Alexander really would give anything for you, you know."
"Yes," Burr scoffs, "and would make damn sure I knew it too."
"He doesn't mean to be manipulative," Laurens said. "He's changed a lot for you, his opinion on omegas, everything. He doesn't know how to be an alpha, besides what he's been told when he was a child, and you can't expect him to just change overnight."
But Burr doesn't want to be reasonable. He doesn't want to think about it. He feels abandoned. He is in pain. He is bored and useless and swollen and no one will listen to him when he says no, god damn it. He sleeps holding Hamilton's letters, the love poetry and pornographic writings Burr has pilfered on his person the whole of this war, the little notes Hamilton has left on Burr's pillow, on mornings when Hamilton was called away. He is so angry at him, yet still he aches for him to return, for his physical comforts, for his sweet words. To be in the same room as him, and his brilliant mind.
Burr's bleeding does not stop--and despite the improvement he had felt in his condition he continues to weaken. Soon he will not be able to rise at all, despite his protest, forced into bed. Soon he will be too weak to deliver the child, when the time comes. Two evenings into Hamilton's absence, when Burr throws the second mug of water pressed upon him at the wall, Laurens decides to finally yield and take him on a walk.
They go to headquarters, and though Washington sends them a queer look he wisely chooses to remain silent, as Laurens settles him in a corner chair with a pile of blankets. The small excursion improves Burr's spirits enough that it is repeated again the next day, Burr dosing while the men go about their duties.
Burr is sitting in headquarters, reading in Laurens' room while Washington and the officers inspect the ranks, when he hears musket fire. A commotion--yelling, running feet, screams. He is frozen, for a moment, listening, before lurching to his feet, stumbling to the door.
Outside, men run by, blind panic, blood in the snow.
"What's happening?" Burr demands, why will no one tell him anything? Another gun shot, and Burr swears, ducks back inside, slams the door. There are no weapons here that he knows of, maybe an old bayonet or a sidearm, no good places to hide. He is trying to turn over a table when the door bursts in.
Burr steps back, momentary shock and lack of recognition, at Laurens crossing the floor with his musket, but more shocking is the way Laurens grabs him, yanks him from the door and into the cabin with none of his earlier gentlenesses, none of the gentlenesses they have insisted on, until now.
"Laurens--"
"Quiet," Laurens whispers, clamping a hand over his mouth. Pulls him through the cabin roughly and quicky while Burr stumbles, nearly topples, doorways Burr has never gone through, to a small dusty place stacked with barrels and crates. Outside there is yelling, musket fire. Someone screams, a terrible death scream.
Laurens sets his musket aside and begins pulling at the floorboard, which pop free much easier than they should to reveal a small, dank hole, no more than a few feet tall.
"Here," Laurens says, holds out his hand and when Burr hesitates, he reaches out and yanks him forward, urges him beneath the floor.
"Stay down there, and don't come out until I get you, or--"
"You--you must come down too," Burr says, tries to protest, but Laurens is already forcing the slats back down, plunging Burr into darkness.
He doesn't hear Laurens leave--imagines him crouched above, gun pointed at the doorway. It is cold, beneath the floor, pressed to frozen earth, and after only minutes he is shivering.
Burr doesn't know how much time passes, but after what might be minutes, might be hours, Laurens openes the slates again, drops down beside him.
"What is happening?" Burr asks, but Laurens doesn't know. There is a rush then, of liquid. Blood or breaking water. Burr doesn't know.