He is warm, and comfortable, and sated. Hamilton dozing against his chest, purring at intervals, Laurens reclined beside him. Hamilton in a similar position to the one Burr had been in, many nights that fall and winter, when their rooms or tent had been too cold and they could not spare the body heat.

Running his hand down Hamilton's back his palm collides with Laurens' hand, but instead of pulling back he grasps Laurens' wrist, gazes at him over the swell of Hamilton.

"Thank you," he says, "for tonight, and for..." for giving Hamilton up? Allowing Burr to have him? The implication is not one Burr likes, because it was not a matter of Hamilton being Laurens', of Burr now being Hamilton's husband only because Laurens did not want him. Burr is not a consolation prize, in this sense, the same way Hamilton is not. They love each other, truly. In a way that terrifies him.

Burr has waited too long to speak, but Laurens has worked his arm free and is grasping Burr's own back in his palm, squeezing.

"You are perfect for him," Laurens says. "You love him. He loves you."

--

They cannot rest long, despite their wishes. Burr wants only to stay in bed with Hamilton all day, to lavish him with the same care and affection that Hamilton has so often bestowed upon him, but he begins to ache with the seperation--from Theodosia.

So he stirs Hamilton from his doze with a flurry of kisses, pressed over his mouth and nose and chin and face and cheeks, whispers little sweet words in his ear, scents him.

"Alexander, darling, as much as I wish to stay here with you, if I go another minitue without seeing Theodosia I might fling myself from this bed."