They persist in this manner for hours--Burr occasionally rocked by a painful squeezing, squeezing at Hamilton's hand, pushing down against him, then drifting off to the sound of Hamilton's purrs. It is early morning, the next day, when the labor begins in earnest. Burr wakes them all with a wretched cry as he writhes, wakes covered in sweat, gasping for breath.

He doesn't feel he can get enough air, and there is more shifting, too much pressure, more than he feels he can accommodate--he whimpers, rolling in the bedding, his nest, as the omegas force his legs open.

"It's time now," Mrs. Smith says, "he's got to kneel down here, against the bed will be easiest."

But Burr does not want to leave the nest, begins again growling when they try to move him, and instead positions himself on his knees, clinging to Hamilton, legs open. His body is shaking, and he is crying, when the next contraction comes, and Hamilton's shoulder is in a propitious position, for Burr angles his head down and bites him as he cries, muffling the sounds against flesh.

"It hurts," he says, "It burns. It is supposed to burn so much? Something feels wrong--" but what the hell does he know, its not as if he has birthed many babies before this. And then he nearly tumbles over, because his thighs are cramping, and he needs to lay down again, but after only a minute and a half the next contraction comes, and he is biting down on Hamilton once more, which really won't be something he can continue the whole of this, if he doesn't want to leave Hamilton bruised and bloody.

"Should I push? I feel like--" he feels like he should, but Mrs. Linden is between his legs again, and he yelps when she pushed inside him, feeling.

"On this next one," she says.