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May. 13th, 2022 11:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Winter's cold; he hasn't been warm in days, not properly, even under blankets with Burr and Laurens both.
Oh, Laurens, Laurens; what would they have done without him? When Alexander is too exhausted from his duties to help with nursing the child, Laurens sometimes takes a turn helping soothe Burr back to sleep -- he's awakened to find Burr's hips swaying, his head twisted back against Laurens, mouth fallen open, whimpering in that particular, perfect way he does when he's being fingered in just the right way, rolled over and palmed at Burr's cock, sleepily, tucking his face against his mate's throat and feeling down to where Laurens' hand is between Burr's legs. (Once, memorably, he even ducked under the blanket, parted his lips, and took Burr into his mouth, loosened his jaw, closed his eyes, and let Burr takes his pleasure from his throat, while he was still only half-awake.)
Alexander is constantly exhausted, in the cold. He still hasn't grown fully accustomed to the cold American winters, and they drain him, make him feel pallid and frozen and small. So he has not been as attentive a mate and father as he was before, and he feels his failure in it keenly. He should be able to force himself through this. Burr is, as always, suffering worse and working harder, though thank goodness Theodosia doesn't need feeding every few hours anymore. So why can't Alexander help him? Why can't he be good enough?
His nightmares have become feverish and incoherent. A handful of times, they've even been so severe that they manifest, making him toss and turn, awaken with terrifying and mournful whines on his tongue, a sense of overwhelming loss all he can remember from the illusion.
They aren't starving, but food is thin.
He's doing well enough, he thinks, at hiding how terrible and stretched thin he feels, until Washington responds to his, "It's impossible," with a snarled, "then make it possible."
Alexander rounds on Washington, a growl rising in response, and snarls back: "Everyone else here can say it's impossible, and then I get it done. When I say it, it means no."
The alpha pheromones slam into the room like cannon-fire, and in under five seconds, both of the beta members of Washington's staff have vacated the room. Laurens watches in outright horror -- because Washington doesn't back down, and Alexander doesn't back down. "Alex," says Laurens, and Alexander just turns the growl on him, alpha-hostility.
Then, to everyone's shock, including Alexander's, Washington extends a sort of olive branch: "Go talk a walk, son."
"I'm not your son," Alexander spits, and there, right there, could have been the moment that Washington killed him. No one has any doubt -- a full head taller, broader, stronger, older.
"Talk a walk."
Alexander turns on his heel and goes.
Oh, Laurens, Laurens; what would they have done without him? When Alexander is too exhausted from his duties to help with nursing the child, Laurens sometimes takes a turn helping soothe Burr back to sleep -- he's awakened to find Burr's hips swaying, his head twisted back against Laurens, mouth fallen open, whimpering in that particular, perfect way he does when he's being fingered in just the right way, rolled over and palmed at Burr's cock, sleepily, tucking his face against his mate's throat and feeling down to where Laurens' hand is between Burr's legs. (Once, memorably, he even ducked under the blanket, parted his lips, and took Burr into his mouth, loosened his jaw, closed his eyes, and let Burr takes his pleasure from his throat, while he was still only half-awake.)
Alexander is constantly exhausted, in the cold. He still hasn't grown fully accustomed to the cold American winters, and they drain him, make him feel pallid and frozen and small. So he has not been as attentive a mate and father as he was before, and he feels his failure in it keenly. He should be able to force himself through this. Burr is, as always, suffering worse and working harder, though thank goodness Theodosia doesn't need feeding every few hours anymore. So why can't Alexander help him? Why can't he be good enough?
His nightmares have become feverish and incoherent. A handful of times, they've even been so severe that they manifest, making him toss and turn, awaken with terrifying and mournful whines on his tongue, a sense of overwhelming loss all he can remember from the illusion.
They aren't starving, but food is thin.
He's doing well enough, he thinks, at hiding how terrible and stretched thin he feels, until Washington responds to his, "It's impossible," with a snarled, "then make it possible."
Alexander rounds on Washington, a growl rising in response, and snarls back: "Everyone else here can say it's impossible, and then I get it done. When I say it, it means no."
The alpha pheromones slam into the room like cannon-fire, and in under five seconds, both of the beta members of Washington's staff have vacated the room. Laurens watches in outright horror -- because Washington doesn't back down, and Alexander doesn't back down. "Alex," says Laurens, and Alexander just turns the growl on him, alpha-hostility.
Then, to everyone's shock, including Alexander's, Washington extends a sort of olive branch: "Go talk a walk, son."
"I'm not your son," Alexander spits, and there, right there, could have been the moment that Washington killed him. No one has any doubt -- a full head taller, broader, stronger, older.
"Talk a walk."
Alexander turns on his heel and goes.