Private storyline 5!

[slowtoanger]

They stay at the inn for two days after the wedding, celebrating their union and waiting for the snow to pass. For once, Burr and Hamilton both eat their fill--of fat fish and fresh bread. Gifts trickle in, from the nearby town, overwhelmed with patriotic sentiment even if they are not overwhelmed with joy at being paid in continental currency when the time comes to refresh their rations. They receive gifts for the baby--clothing and blankets and other odds and ends, a few bottles of cheap liquor. For Hamilton and Burr's part, they spend much of their time in bed.

It is October, when they leave. Burr is nine months pregnant, likely should not be moving, but there is nothing for it. They continue to be pursued by Cornwallis, and soon they are urging wagons through thick snow, over shallow, fast-moving rivers. Burr once more is relegated to the wagon, laying down amid crates and bags of supplies, rocked with each bump and dip of the road. Hamilton is somewhere ahead, riding through the snow, though he could even have been sent to meet with nearby scouts, towns, and Burr would not know. Days of travel, with no information or update, until they stop moving and he can make his way to the head of the column.

It is snowing once more--no longer light and fluffy but thick and wet. The wind is blowing--a wretched howl, that cuts through clothing to freeze men's bones. Like the wind on a mountain pass, working its way towards Quebec. Burr is bundled beneath every spare blanket they own--Hamilton's and Lauren's and even Washington's, but still he shivers as they rock along, damp creeping through layers that will not be dry before the next day. A miserable, wretched journey.

They do not stop for anything--at noon, men eat their rations as they march, and jovial banter has given way to eerie silence, a kind Burr knows too well, a feral focus on putting one foot in front of the other. One wagon loses a wheel, but the army does not stop, taking only enough time to shuffle what supplies can be salvaged to other wagons before abandoning the damaged wagon to the snow. Cannot burn it, to keep it from falling into British hands, for the wind.

Burr manages to doze, for some time of this, but wakes again rocked with pain, a sharp stabbing in his abdomen. Each time the wagon rocks it grows worse, till he is rising to heave his paltry lunch over the side. Burning cramps, so much worse then, as he collapses back into the wagon. He can feel something--liquid, thick and warm. Not melt, he thinks, though he is numb enough to not be sure. Too cold to remove his cover, he reaches a hand into his breeches blind. He cannot be going into labor--not here, not now. The baby will freeze, and if they stop they could be captured by the British.

He feels sticky on numb fingers, pulls his hand out. Blood. They cannot stop the wagon. He can handle pain, until they reach some safe haven. Telling someone will change nothing, will only make their march that much worse. Another jolt, and he gasps, clutching at the swell, falling back against the blankets.

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[slowtoanger]

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.

[non_stop]

My Dearest Little Captain,

I omit date and name in case of capture, but I left you behind in the care of my dearest friend just today. Now, I stop to allow the horse a rest and my feverish mind must pour through an equally feverish pen.

I hope you do not think the less of me for taking this mission. To be near you but apart would torment me, and, besides, I am wholly suited to the task before me. If my tongue of silver and gold could tempt you into my bed, it can have the Pennsylvanians dancing.

Mrs. Linden, one of the ladies attending upon you at this terrible time, told me that you are in a cage. I told her I struggle to lift it and you both, and she said -- would I rather be the fluttering bird, lifting and lifting, or the one helpless and locked away? I envy you none of the keen wires that lock you away, dearest, and you have my service as long as I have the strength to fly. I may forget to ask your wants, and prattle on as I do, but you have only to express them. I seek now to solve our army's plight, and by doing so, to solve yours. I hope this is enough of an explanation.

It is foolish to write when I know the letter will be borne back on my own hands, but a fey part of my mind fears to encounter the British on the way. If it finds its way to you without me, I entrust three precious words to your hands.

You were right.

And now three more, deign you to accept them:

I love you.

--

I write now from Philadelphia, where I take an hour or two of sleep before I return. I dare not commit to paper what has passed, though I bear it back starting before first light on the morrow.

I dream of you. I pray for you, too, though my prayers long past have been too faint to reach the Almighty's ears. Be well, love. Be well, and be safe, when I return. Each passing hour without you will presses wrinkles on my brow and drains my hair to white; I will seem the wisest of sages ere I return to your arms.

I wonder, oft, what would have happened if I had not reached out to you, the first night after your return from Quebec. You turned from me and ordered me out, then, too. I thank all Providence's gifts that I ignored it at that time. Strange how these months have changed everything. Now, you do not tremble in fear of me; now, I (reluctantly, perhaps) allow your judgment to dominate my own. Never has another's growth so spurred my own.

I sleep now.

--

A close miss with a small group of Redcoats. They shot at me but did not come close.

The greater peril: The horse has a limp. I have decided to rest it in a cold stream; the mud is thick, and hopefully it is only a rock or some other irritant stuck under the shoe. I cannot tarry.

--

The rock free -- the horse, steady -- I have found no wounds. I go.

--

The horse has slowed again, and I must stop to rest him. It has been more than two days, longer than I'd hoped, and I fear and hope for what I find.

It seems this letter will reach you in my hands after all. I hope it is naught but an artifact of a time of toil and pain. Let it be a monument to how we overcame.

I sit and wait as the horse feeds and drinks. My impatience is considerable.

--

He is steady again. He has looked me in the eye to tell me, it is time to be home.

[slowtoanger]

Laurens and Burr continue to hear musket fire, crouched in that hole. After a while Laurens pulls Burr against him, and in doing do his knee presses into the liquid, the wet that has spread in the dirt.

A shakey, sudden inhale. "Are you bleeding?" Laurens whispers. Burr doesn't know, so Laurens dips his hand into the damp, brings it up to his nose.

"It smells sweet," Laurens says, "it could be your water," and Burr says nothing but digs his fingers in, tight to the flesh of Laurens arms.

"What happened?" he asks again, more insistent this time.

"I don't know. We were running drills when we heard musket fire, and a runner said some patrol had stumbled into camp, British or natives, but I am not sure I trust the accuracy of his report. We couldn't make out where the fire was coming from, and it seemed as if the attackers were everywhere at once. I ran to get you to safety. Only Lafayette knows of this place--he would come and get us, if it were safe. If he doesn't--"

Laurens doesn't finish, and they lapse into silence. It is not so loud outside. It can not have been more than an hour, two, but Burr can feel something, unwinding inside him, some pain different than before.

He wishes Hamilton had never left. That Hamilton were here, holding him in the dark.

[non_stop]

Hamilton hears musket fire before he gets there. He drops off the horse and loops the reins around a tree branch. He goes through the quick motions of loading the musket, and then starts to run.

A duck behind a tree, when he sees a flash of red; they seem to be retreating, his way. He raises his musket to his shoulder and shoots. One spins and falls, but Hamilton's pretty sure it wasn't a solid hit. His hands are shaking. He goes still, and fire crackles as one, two of them try to shoot back, but he sees both hit a nearby tree. They don't even know where exactly he is.

They're shouting about a retreat. A shot from behind them -- Washington's men are in pursuit.

Hamilton takes a gamble: considering he is ahead, and the other men behind... "Surrender!" he shouts. "We have you surrounded!"

Their hands start to go up. It is Lafayette that charges in, kicking them to the ground, waving at his men to come and take the prisoners. Hamilton hesitates, and then calls: "Gilbert!"

Lafayette's gaze snaps up.

"C'est moi -- Hamilton." Hamilton waves a hand, then steps out from beyond the tree.

"Ah, mon amis--"

"Ou est-il?" Hamilton is practically vibrating with anxiety.

"La cabine principale, avec Laurens -- a root cellar, in the back," Lafayette tells him.

"My horse is back that way -- please get him," and Hamilton is running.

So when the door comes open, the voice that they hear is Hamilton's. "Laurens? Aaron?"

[slowtoanger]

Laurens springs to his feet immediately, throwing off the boards and yelling, "here, in here!" climbing out and reaching back for Aaron. A second rush of liquid, as he stands from the hole, and it is plain to see even with dirt staining him that his water has broken.

"Alexander," Burr calls, rushing across the floor to stumble into him, pressing his face into Hamilton's neck and breathing in, scenting himself.

His pelvis aches, a low dull pressure, and his legs tremble, but there are things he wants to tell Hamilton, to hear.

"I love you," he says, because he had not said it when Hamilton had gone, and "I missed you. I didn't mean to be--" and he doesn't know what to say, because he had meant what he said but didn't mean to hurt Alexander, to force him away even as he needed space, to define in some way the only thing he could.

"My water--"

[non_stop]

His husband is in his eager and fervent embrace, and if all is not right, certainly all is righter than it was.

"You meant only to be yourself," Hamilton tells him, "and not some pale shadow." His grip is trembling, though, and his smell has a strong overtone of anxiety, as he tries to reassure. And he clasps Laurens' hand, a look of the most profound gratitude -- guarding Burr personally, and during an attack, no less.

"It's time, then?" he asks. "I would," and he gives Burr a shy look, a tentative smile, "very much like to meet your daughter."

He assists in guiding Burr out of the house and across to the other.

[slowtoanger]

If Burr was difficult before, he is much more difficult when the labor begins. The contractions are far apart, and for all the omegas say they are growing closer together, it doesn't seem so. They prod at him, so that after a few hours he is nearly back to hissing.

His back hurts, a low, dull ache, and he turns onto his side and entreats Hamilton to rub it, makes demands of him that are rude and unfair.

"My feet hurt," he grouses, "I'm thirsty," then "I don't want anymore," and "I want a bath," which really is not something that can be accommodated easily. He wants to take another walk, has some strange urge to pace, as much as he begins to pick at his bedding with steadily increasing distress. He needs more blankets, or the ones he has are not soft enough. He starts crying, when he finds a small hole, then starts crying harder, when someone tries to take the blanket to mend it.

"I want strawberries," he cries. "Why is it winter. It's not fair. It should be warm out. Help me walk. I want to see Laurens, and Lafayette, and Washington."

[non_stop]

Hamilton has absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. If he ever thought of it, he thought to take for granted that he would be removed from the room at a time like this. But they keep not removing him, and he keeps not removing himself, and it seems to work for everyone.

But once the demands start coming, he falls into the habit of looking at that omega, the one who spoke about birdcages, and she gives him little signals: nods, shakes of her head. Back rub: yes. Water: yes. Bath: no. Strawberries: no.

"You men get so practiced ignoring your pain," Mrs. Smith sniffs. "Shouldn't be finding out how to listen to your own body at a time like this. Now, stand up, sit down, lie down, as you need. Any bit that hurts less." She ruffles Burr's hair and gives him a bit of Hamilton's maple candy.

A walk outside: no, according to Mrs. Linden.

"I'll help you walk in here," Hamilton suggests, desperately. "You'll see them soon."

[slowtoanger]

Burr spits his piece of candy at Hamilton, when he denies him the chance to go outside, but then he nearly starts crying again for having lost his candy and cannot be consoled till Hamilton gives him another.

He walks for a long while, wearing circles in the dirt on the floor, but after a while he grows distracted by Hamilton, begins rubbing his head in Hamilton's scent gland, his own gland on Hamilton's skin. They need to smell of one another when the baby comes, he is sure of it, and then he grows agitated once more by the size of the small bed and commences to pulling the coverings onto the floor, closer to the fire, agitatedly arranging them in circle that he can borrow down into.

The cramps are growing worse, during this, to the point of actual pain as opposed to discomfort, though they are still not close together. He stops and grasps at Hamilton, grinding his head down into his chest, gasping.

"That one hurt," he says, shifting from foot to foot but unable to relieve the pressure. "I want to lay down," and he doesn't wait for permission, but drags Hamilton down with him, curling against him.

[non_stop]

The nuzzling draws out possessive and proprietary instincts in Hamilton, and he finds himself purring, a sort of determined purring that isn't because of his own contentment but is out of a desire to soothe his husband.

Burr's hand squeezes tight on his -- this is a rough one, and Hamilton hopes that this means the suffering is close to done. His ignorance about this topic, now that it comes down to it, is shocking, and he will need to remedy this for --

For next time.

The purring is the right call, and he's sure of it when Burr nestles against his chest, ear pushed right where he can hear and feel the purr at the same time. He would have been beyond embarrassed to display this kind of behavior in front of anyone, a few days ago, but right now it seems natural and good. Burr holds one of his hands, and the other wraps around Burr's back, rubbing in between his shoulderblades.

[slowtoanger]

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.

[non_stop]

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.

[slowtoanger]

Burr screams, an awful, animal sound, when he pushes. He feels like he has been pushing for hours, his whole body trembling, shaking with it. He has never felt a pain so intense--the tearing from inside him, as he bears down, and it hurts, lord, god, it hurts.

He cries, when the next contraction comes, begs. He feels pitted, light headed. He is sure he will split in two, when they tell him to push once more and he can feel it, the baby, tearing through his insides. He is blubbering something to Hamilton, sobbing, and Hamilton is trying his best to be encouraging but is really only saying words, as if that could help, and Burr screams again as something gives way, a rush of blood. "I hate you," he sobs, as he waits for the next contraction, though Hamilton had not gotten him with child he doesn't care, blames him, as the burning increases.

"You have to push again," the women tells him, but he sobs.

"I can't--" he says, and he is so exhausted, so tired, and he really doesn't, but the spasms of his body seem worse for it, and he resumes his crying in earnest, falling against Hamilton and begging, "please, please," he says, "please help me," as if there were anything Hamilton could do.

The contractions come, and his body seems to bear down without him. The omegas are saying something, about crowning, and tearing, but Burr isn't listening. He is lightheaded, and dizzy, as he had been that night on the horse. He is no longer holding any of his weight, allowing Hamilton to bear it all as he gasps for air.

Another contraction, a drop, and he pushes one last time. Everything goes white-hot, spots bursting behind his eyelids, and Burr goes silent, unable to breathe, to make any sound. He is clawing, must be, but he cannot feel it, or see it, and then he does feel something; something being pulled from him, slipping free, but there are no sounds, and his sight is blurry, unfocused. He is being eased down, but he cannot hear, and after a moment he realizes he is screaming again, and writhing on the bed.

The baby is out of him, but he hears no crying. Maybe he passes out, but the pain doesn't stop.

[non_stop]

Cradling Burr's fragile body, trying to tuck him back into the nest, but there is so much blood and Burr is crying, crying with agony. There is naught Hamilton can do to help. He seems so small and so wounded, and there is so much blood.

The surgeon seems to appear from nowhere, having left most of this endeavor to the women of this little village. He is doing something between Burr's legs, and then pressing down on his stomach, pushing hard. Hamilton is pulled back, away, and the first thing that tears his eyes away from Burr is a higher, piercing wail.

"There she is," he hears Mrs. Smith say, and he turns to see a tiny, bloodied, wrinkled, impossible thing, little eyes screwed closed and little hands making little fists.

Hamilton's heart breaks, instantly. In a single breath, he has become someone else. He has transformed.

"A girl," he whispers, and then she is settled into his arms, so small that he has to wrap himself carefully around her.

"Go on, she needs to give suck," and Mrs. Smith steers him back towards Burr. "It'll help him with the afterbirth."

Hamilton has literally no idea what that is, but he follows her instructions, trying to wake Burr, get his attention even through the continued pain. Trying to position the baby so she can seek out his swollen breasts.

[slowtoanger]

Burr is drifting, whimpering through waves of pain when he feels that warm weight against him, someone moving his shirt aside, latching on. His arms come up on their own, and when he opens his eyes he sees her, and he feels something inside him splinter.

She is so tiny, and fragile, and small. Anything could crush her, and Burr cradles her so gently, his eyes blurring once more.

"Hamilton," he rasps, but he is too tired to even prop his head up, and soon he is falling back down into his nest, trembling and shaking and sweating.

"She's--" but he doesn't know what to say, as he starts to choke on his emotions, but broken cooing noises bubble up in him, something instinctual, as he bends low and licks her, scents her.

"Theodosia," he says. She looks like him. "Theodosia Montgomery."

[non_stop]

"Theodosia," Hamilton echoes, softly. Theodosia opens those little screwed-shut eyes, a soft and pale grey, unfocused. She has found his breast, and there is a comical look of happy shock as she tastes for the first time. "Aaron, look at her, look what you've done. You have a daughter," so incredulous and proud and weeping with it. Presses his face against Burr's hair, his body curled over them as though to shield them both from the world, from everything.

He glances up, and he sees a terrible flood of more blood and tissue from between Burr's legs, along with the rest of the umbilicus. His heart stops. The surgeon examines the mass, and Hamilton turns back to Burr, begins to purr again, tucking Burr's head under his chin.

[slowtoanger]

Hamilton puring at him, his daughter suckling, those contractions slowly easing as his body works to knit itself back together.

"Our daughter," Burr slurs, as he sinks more against Hamilton, Theo cradled between them. He's tired, but he doesn't want to crush her. But his eyes are closing, and he grasps at Hamilton's hand, desperate.

"Watch her," he says, "don't let her out of your sight," and then he is loosening, into Hamilton's scent, her scent, which is nothing more but damp and Burr himself. And sweetness, something sweet.

"Theodosia," he says, closes his eyes.

[non_stop]

"Our daughter," Hamilton affirms, softly, feeling a little squeeze in his heart. "Not a chance. I'm not going anywhere."

Burr falls into utter exhaustion, and Hamilton is a little surprised to find the activity of the birth isn't over. Theodosia needs to be cleaned off, which is done with a damp cloth, though she frets while it's going. Then, Mrs. Smith demonstrates how to swaddle her, and also how to pin the little wool clout in place.

The surgeon winds cotton bandage and presses it inside Burr to help with the bleeding that still doesn't seem to be done. Helps them wipe Burr down, cleaning up the worst of it, where his body has soiled itself in the strain. Dabs off a trail where his nipple has leaked white.

Hamilton lifts Burr to put him on the bed, while the linens that were on the ground are taken to clean. The women are uncomplaining, though this is an incredible amount of work. When Hamilton tries to help, he is firmly redirected towards the bed with the baby and his mate.

"Could you ask Laurens," he says, to Mrs. Smith, "to bring a spare shirt?" Hamilton had one, in the saddlebags. His current one is filthy, and so is he. The bruise where Burr bit him is going to be pretty spectacular, looks like.

Laurens is at the door, then, and Hamilton meets him. "A girl," Hamilton says, weakly. "Theodosia. She's healthy; Burr is resting." Burr is not so healthy.

Laurens breaks into a broad grin and hugs Hamilton tight. "You're a father," he whispers, so as not to disturb Burr.

"And you, a god-father," says Hamilton, "if -- I mean -- if you wish it." And if Burr doesn't get mad at him for that when he wakes up. He thinks Burr would approve, though.

"Oh, Alex," and Laurens is embracing him, again. "I would like nothing more."

He returns to the bed, holds the little wrapped-up Theo in his arms. Tucks himself in next to Burr. Burr seems fretful, almost-conscious when Hamilton comes back, but once they're together again, Burr steadies out and falls into a deeper slumber.

Eventually, with the distant sounds of cheering and a bit of revelry among the men -- Washington must have told them, and let them celebrate -- Hamilton falls asleep too.

[slowtoanger]

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.

[non_stop]

Hamilton spends most of the time near Burr, only reluctantly allowing his duties to pull him away. Washington needs him; the state of their correspondence has fallen into shambles, though Laurens, the most able of the remaining aides, has done his utmost.

The congratulations some of the men give him make him flush, especially since he did so little to bring this child into the world.

A cradle is borrowed from the Lindens. Hamilton learns to rock it with a foot while writing at the desk. Any real fussiness and he returns to Burr, with whom the baby is most content. Burr doesn't get fully conscious, it seems, but he does stir enough every few hours to let the babe suckle, or at least he seems to relent to Hamilton's nudges in order to do so. Hamilton doesn't like doing it this way, because it seems to him that Theodosia continues to drain some vital essence that Aaron himself needs to recover. Mrs. Linden does assist once, when Burr will not stir even slightly and Theodosia continues to cry and cry. She has her latest that she is weaning, and willingly assists.

Hamilton leaves the letter he wrote for Burr nearby, so he doesn't forget to give it. He thinks Burr would savor at least the you were right.

Now, Theodosia begins to fuss. Laurens takes Hamilton's pen, and Hamilton scoops her up. There is no smell of her soiling herself, so it's likely feeding she wants. He wraps her up and makes his way back across the now-muddied yard.

[slowtoanger]

Burr turns on the bed, when the pain fades, and his hand brushes a sheet of parchment. damn Hamilton, leaving the stuff everywhere, even in Burr's sickbed after creating human life.

Ah, but the letter is addressed to him, and as he fold it open and begins to read he feels something unfurl, a small, breathless feeling, different from before, but no more foreign; the feeling when Hamilton had slipped that rings on his finger, had shown him the ring near that river, when he asked for Burr's hand in the courtroom, when he stopped Burr in the hallway that first night, even when the feeling had been buried beneath fear and resentment.

Small sentiments, no less precious for their size; 'My Dearest Little Captain,' 'You were right,' 'I dream of you,' 'Be well, love.'

Burr is crying again, because he's been crying enough these past few days, what's a little more? Hamilton is so sweet to him, so good, as much as he is annoying and overbearing and has no sense of scale or temperance. Burr is right, and for all he thought Hamilton might never understand, that this might the an unfortunate, insurmountable hurdle in their relationship that Burr would have to learn to deal with, he has displayed a capacity Burr did not know he had.

He feels the rings on his finger, a nervous habit he has never gotten over, twirls the metal and watches how it settles against his flesh. His body is ruined, but it will heal, eventually. And Hamilton makes him feel more whole than anything.

[non_stop]

Theodosia's cry heralds his approach more effectively than a dozen trumpet-wielding courtiers. She has a healthy voice, as everyone in camp has unfortunately found out. Perhaps, if Burr's dreams about women's education are fulfilled, they can find a future where she is a lawyer or orator -- if not that, surely she could sing the opera.

Hamilton shoulders the door open, not looking forward to another session of trying to wake Burr. But, to his incredulous pleasure -- which shows plainly on his face -- Burr is awake, and sitting a little up, though it seems the tin cup beside the bed has suffered for it.

"Aaron," and he kneels by the bed, sweeping Burr's hand into his and kissing it. "You're awake."

Theodosia complains, and Hamilton immediately lifts her, passing her to the wellspring of her craved material. Her little arms flail, fingers spreading out wide. It's like she doesn't understand how limbs work, and Hamilton finds it unutterably precious.

If Aaron takes Theo, then Hamilton will of course get a refill for that tin cup, right away. There is a pitcher nearby.

[slowtoanger]

"Is this what she looks like?" Burr whispers. He holds out his pinkie and she sucks on it, searching for milk, wiggling unhappily when she does not find it.

He opens his shirt, guides her to his breast, and she latches on easily, sucking while he winces. More than worth it, to see her face bleed into contentment, pressed against him.

"She likes it," he says. Then, wanting to glance at Hamilton yet unable to tear his eyes away, "She looks like Montgomery."

A strange, queer feeling then, to have this thing out of him that was so long inside. A person, with thoughts and emotions and one day a self, identity. A responsibility, whose father was dead before she was so much as a speck. How easy it had been for Monty to die, a strong and virile man, who seemed often to eclipse life itself, who was more than that, for Burr. And here she was, so small and delicate, breakable, looking so like him.

He finds suddenly that he cannot look at her, panic welling within him, and though she is nursing he pulls her away, thrusts her out towards Hamilton as she begins to wail.

"Do you want to--you should hold her, take her," he says. He will break her, or she will break, and Burr will break along with her.

[non_stop]

"She looks like you," Hamilton gently says -- not a correction, just an addition. That little dusting of dark hair, the eyes that Hamilton feels sure have Aaron's deepness to them already.

Theodosia does not like this interruption. For a moment or two she's just stunned, her little mouth open in surprise, and then she wails.

Hamilton is concerned by the abrupt reversal, but he takes Theodosia, who buries her face in his shirt and screams, trading her for the full cup of water. He perches down next to Aaron.

As hard as it is to retain any personal dignity with an extremely affronted baby in his arm, he asks, "Does it hurt? Can I help?"

[slowtoanger]

"No, I just--I don't know," Burr says, and he doesn't. He feels exposed, and stupid, and vulnerable. He doesn't want to look at Theo, or see her, or think about her. His eyes are watering, as he takes the cup and drains it, anything to buy him more time.

He knows he has to nurse her. That she is his child, that no one else can do it, but he does not want to.

"I'm sorry," he says, through tears. "You can give her back to me," though he does not hold his arms out, turns his body away from them both. Hamilton is good with her, she does well with Hamilton. He likes her, even as she is wailing and screaming, and here he is, having done nothing in bed for days while everyone else rushed to take care of him and he cannot even look at her.