Burr isn't sure how long he drifts, somewhere between consciousness and sleep. He knows sometimes he drifts deeper, and other times they press things upon him, water and bits of bread and meat, but he never opens his eyes during this. He still feels wrung-out, shakey, weak. How much blood has he lost, and has it stopped, since the birth?

He knows Hamilton is there, a warm weight against his body, a comforting smell, as well as something new, which makes his heart flutter in his chest. Warm, resting over his heartbeat. Maybe he hears high-pitched cries, but he does not stir enough to know.

Burr passes in and out of sleep for three days, before he finally regains himself enough to open his eyes. When he does, his vision dances with black spots, and the room tilts. His body aches, terrible throbbing, from tears and ripping, and his breasts feel over-full, stretched, his mouth dry, unable to swallow. The bed is empty and cold, and he is alone. A small burst of panic, yet he has a hazy, indistinct memory--Hamilton promising to not let Theodosia out of his sight.

He reaches for a mug on the table beside his bed, yet his limb moves slowly, uncoordinated, and the mug clatters to the floor. He goes to move after it--to swing his legs over the side of the bed, yet he shortly collapses with a bitten-off scream, at the pain that bursts between his legs. Lays in the mess of blankets that still smell faintly of birth, less faintly of Hamilton. He is invalid again. And Hamilton no doubt is off enjoying the fruit of Burr's ruin. Wonderful.