Bits of sleep, patches of sleep. He has not had much the last few days, which he does not mention, probably wisely. He does naught but hold Burr, murmur nonsense encouragement, nuzzle his smell. Despite the blood, which still smells strong and metallic against Burr's sweat and tears, he doesn't smell illness, death: something in him genuinely believes that this will be fine, and this genuine belief starts to show in the waves of reassurance that he emits. Hamilton smells like faith.

He moves to his knees too and steadies Burr against him. Holds up his weight, determined to be as tireless and patient as it takes. Burr suffers, sinks in his teeth from the magnitude of his suffering, and Hamilton, honestly, hardly even feels it. His poor body, wracked with agony, Hamilton so totally focused on him.

Mrs. Linden gives him a twisted bundle of rags and he stares at it, unsure, until she tells him, "Shove it between his teeth next time," and the throb in his shoulder makes itself known.

"Oh," he says, and turns his attention back to Burr. He's pushing, now, and Hamilton shifts up and supports his weight. "Go on, Aaron, you're amazing, so wonderful, you're doing so good," wiping rebellious strands of hair from his face. "You are perfect. You're perfect and strong." At Mrs. Smith's nod, and as Burr's hand goes tight again, "Now, push, love, push," and he almost forgets to get that rag in the way when Burr goes for him again.