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amrev_intrigues2022-05-04 11:43 am
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Private Storyline 7
The small clearing with the circle of cabins that has been their home the past week and a half is starting to thaw--the end of an unseasonable blizzard--dripping pine needles and mud and chill, crisp air.
Burr sits in a rocking chair, Theo bundled in a sash against his chest while the wagons are loaded, waiting for Hamilton to bear him into the wagon. Still sore, torn, unable to walk for more than a few paces, lest the surgeon or Hamilton or Washington begin gripping at him. Beside him, three overstuffed sacks--necessities from Mrs. Smith and Linden, who can never be repaid for their kindness, as well as his own possessions.
Washington inspects the wagons nearby, accounting for supplies, though Hamilton or Laurens has likely already been over the process three or four times. Tents broken down, flour counted. He spots Burr and his face softens, crows feet smoothing, a sight Burr thought he would never see, in the stoic general. Because he sees Theo, no doubt--a soft spot for children.
"How is little Theo bearing this cold?" He asks, as Burr rocks her, asleep, blessedly, before she will doubtless cry for the rocking wagon.
"Not awfully," Burr says. "Hamilton has wrapped her in our wool with enough care I thought we should never be ready, and I have here our extra blanket, should we need it. Laurens has tracked down some oiled tarpaulin, in case it rains, and I am sure he will have no reservations over ordering someone to pitch it over the wagon, should there be the first threat of rain."
Across the clearing Hamilton is tugging at his saddle straps, his back to Burr, a fine sight amid mud and pines, in a continental coat and freshly laundered trousers. Washington follows his gaze, shakes his head, though he is smiling.
"Come," he says, "I will help you into the wagon now before he spirits you away, lest I never have the chance to see little Theo."
Burr sits in a rocking chair, Theo bundled in a sash against his chest while the wagons are loaded, waiting for Hamilton to bear him into the wagon. Still sore, torn, unable to walk for more than a few paces, lest the surgeon or Hamilton or Washington begin gripping at him. Beside him, three overstuffed sacks--necessities from Mrs. Smith and Linden, who can never be repaid for their kindness, as well as his own possessions.
Washington inspects the wagons nearby, accounting for supplies, though Hamilton or Laurens has likely already been over the process three or four times. Tents broken down, flour counted. He spots Burr and his face softens, crows feet smoothing, a sight Burr thought he would never see, in the stoic general. Because he sees Theo, no doubt--a soft spot for children.
"How is little Theo bearing this cold?" He asks, as Burr rocks her, asleep, blessedly, before she will doubtless cry for the rocking wagon.
"Not awfully," Burr says. "Hamilton has wrapped her in our wool with enough care I thought we should never be ready, and I have here our extra blanket, should we need it. Laurens has tracked down some oiled tarpaulin, in case it rains, and I am sure he will have no reservations over ordering someone to pitch it over the wagon, should there be the first threat of rain."
Across the clearing Hamilton is tugging at his saddle straps, his back to Burr, a fine sight amid mud and pines, in a continental coat and freshly laundered trousers. Washington follows his gaze, shakes his head, though he is smiling.
"Come," he says, "I will help you into the wagon now before he spirits you away, lest I never have the chance to see little Theo."
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The men marching beside the wagon take great joy in her cries, cracking jokes and making faces to try to calm her. Many have children of their own, left behind for war, and others have lost children. Some offer to carry Theo, yet Burr is reluctant to part with her, even for her wailing. She will cry herself out, eventually, Burr knows, but until then he has nothing to do but cradle her to him, and hope her cries are no more than the result of the rocking.
Of course, when the time does come to eat, she cannot keep her milk down well--needs stability for a few minutes after each feeding, which the wagon cannot afford. They cannot stall the entire continental army for one child, so Burr must do his best to ease the rocking, passes her to Laurens when he can, even Washington, once, walking beside the wagon to ease her stomach while Burr drifts.
Strange, to see Laurens cradling that child, when only days ago he had his knot buried in Hamilton. Hamilton, who now is god knows where, running messages across the country, who must wait on Laurens to pitch their tent that night, who he must curl against for warmth, and trust with both himself and Theo.
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After Hamilton has been gone two days, he ventures, as they settle down for the night:
"Alex hasn't mentioned any more about it, so I wasn't sure -- I thought perhaps you didn't approve. But I want you to know: I would be honored to be her godfather."
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Well, if anyone had the right it would be the man fucking the father, and maybe the mother, as well. How strange, these blurred lines were, Laurens creeping ever more into their life. He did love Alex, and Theo. The only one he didn't love was Burr.
A stricken look on Laurens' face, an awkward position to be putting him in, between two uncommunicative spouses. Ah, but there were ways to get back at Hamilton, necessities of the road.
"Come, do not look so. I am fine with it, if only I preferred to know who my child's godfather was before all this." And he supposed he could always name another, if he wished--no one would stop him, least of all Hamilton. "I fear I am feeling a tad sore, and Hamilton is not here to draw off the excess, you see--" bareing his breast. "Perhaps you might be a substitute, in this as well."
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"I think," he says, "that it is best I don't, unless you both invite me." His voice has a fond tone. "He'd be jealous. I think he'd rather we both love him more than we love each other." Interesting, how he views this fondly; Alex always wants everything, insatiable and unceasing. Alex was never first in anyone's world. Laurens, always the center of his mother and father's world, the only son, the heir to a plantation of repulsively-enslaved laborers, just doesn't have the same need.
A breath: "Though you are beautiful, and tempting, in ways..." He shakes his head. "I always thought omegas wouldn't be... man enough, to gain my interest." But you have gained it and held it, he does not say. "You caught mine from the beginning, though, before I even knew."
He glances up to Burr. "Do you need anything?" he asks, giving Burr the chance to stop the conversation there. "Does she?"
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"And I am sore," and Laurens is very beautiful, soft hair and skin wet with sweat, from pitching their tent and making their bed, though it is chill outside. But this isn't about sexual relief, or attraction, though that exists there, still. But more intimate comfort--sore, pains, loneliness. Things Hamilton has charged Laurens with before.
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Laurens lowers himself to the ground, sitting with his back to the tent wall, and when Burr comes closer, he lifts Burr into his lap, so Burr straddles him. His hand steadies Burr at the waist, so Burr is on his knees, so those terribly sore nipples are at just the right height.
With his other hand, he touches the taut and stretched skin, flesh heavy beneath. "Yes, I see the problem," says Laurens, mischievously. He lifts it, relieving some of the weight on Burr, directing it to his waiting mouth.
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A sharp inhale, a shakey exhale, small, hitching noises of pleasure, leaning forward a bit more, pushing his breast against Laurens' mouth. Too long, and too many days of irregular feeding, a fussy Theo, to not feel this pain.
"That feels good," Burr breathes, low, silky. He wraps his hands around the back of Laurens' neck, lets his eyes fall closed. "You're much more gentle than Theo is,"--Theo, who is sleeping, laying wrapped in blankets in the small woven basket the women had been able to share.
Here, in Laurens' lap, he can feel the evidence of any arousal, and though he does not mean to sink down fully, his lingering soreness means it is easier than propping himself on his knees. He can feel the stirring, as much as Laurens' must try to urge it away, the steady thickening, and Burr doesn't say anything, allows him this small dignity, as Laurens sucks and works at his breast.
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He does his best to banish those thoughts.
"There," and his hand massages the first breast, now softer. "A little better?" He lets that hand fall to Burr's waist, slide around to hold him steady at the small of his back. He sees goosebumps follow his touch, the path of his breath, and he lifts the second to his lips.
Holding Burr this way, he can feel the way the man sighs, the way he lets Laurens take more of his weight. His manhood awakens at the proximity of Burr's slight but appealing form, and at least Burr doesn't seem shocked by it -- nor does he devote any attentions to it, which is good.
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"Oh," Burr breathes, "apologies." But neither of them stop, once Burr's wiggling ceases, and Laurens continues his attentions until Burr sighs comfortably, nipple falling from Laurens' mouth, flushed and pink, as Burr lays his head on his shoulder, nose inches from his scent gland.
"I miss Alexander," he says. "I thought he would be back by now."
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"He could have been back by now," says Laurens. "If his errand was simple, and there was no trouble."
What a terribly erotic thing it is to have the taste of Burr's milk on his tongue, to know the little pebbled shape of his nipple, to stroke the swell of his breast.
Oh, Lord.
He breathes in. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I've just thought of an errand I must run. Right now. For about a quarter-hour." He gently but firmly shifts Burr off of him and onto the bedrolls. "I won't return before then."
That should be enough time to find a bit of private space, at least.
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How calm he is now, after having his breasts attended to, massaged by the hot suck of Laurens' mouth. Easy to fall asleep, before Laurens' returns.
--
Hamilton is still not back, at the end of the next day. A miserable, dreary day, of drizzling rain, Theo unable to stop screaming for more that a few minutes at a time, until she is hoarse and miserable and Burr is tired and exhausted and irritable.
There is something happening, some communication between Washington and a runner, during one of their stops, but when Burr tries to flag Washington down, limping through mud, the general pretends not to see him, which is frankly ridiculous given that Theo will not stop crying.
It is not until they are setting camp up for the night that Burr is able to slip Laurens, too preoccupied with fussing Theo, and corner Washington. The man is in his tent, and Burr catches him near the door, falls on him clutching his coat so that he cannot walk away, pushing him back inside, (though really Burr is so small Washington must be letting him).
"Where is my husband?" Burr asks, "why hasn't he returned?" And Washington cannot meet his eyes. They don't know. They must not know. Lost, or captured, or dead. And Burr is not prone to dramatics but he feels the world narrow down, far away and hazy. He sways. Washington quickly maneuvers him into a chair, tries to speak to him, but Burr is silent. He has no words.
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A few of them have very important news.
Laurens bursts into Washington's tent. "Some of these men saw him yesterday," he says, not clarifying who 'him' is. "He rallied them, set fire to a few British supply wagons -- or tried to -- and then led the pursuit away from the main body."
"And that area is swamp," says Washington, "so he couldn't move fast."
"So he could still be on his way."
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Lafayette sits beside Burr, at his small desk, and at intervals he takes a thussing Theo from Burr and makes faces at her, walks her in circles.
Burr is still sitting there when Laurens bursts in, fresh from his rounds of interrogation.
"You have to send someone after him," Burr says, stands--his first words that evening, and a eyes are on him. Washington looks pained, glancing continually at that map on his desk, and Laurens comes and pulls Burr into a hug.
"I'm sorry," he says. "He could still be fine. I'm confident he is. He's crafty, and has come through worse before," but Burr is not listening, does not want comfort, shrugs Laurens off and takes Theo from Lafayette, rounds on Washington.
"Sir--" he says, the voice of a captain. Washington still does not look up, and when he speaks his voice is low, measured. Burr will not like what he says, he is sure.
"We cannot," Washington says. "Sending a patrol now will only draw the British towards us. We do not know where he is, besides a general idea, and it is possible he has established some cover, which we will only disturb with our intervention."
A stricken noise, unable to be forced down. Betrayal, this is a betrayal, and Burr never had liked Washington. Stupid, indecisive, disastrous. Lafayette lays a hand on his shoulder but Burr pushes it away, violently, hisses.
"You're abandoning him!"
"I have full confidence in his abilities. We do not yet know that he cannot return to us. I will give him another day. And if he has not returned then, I will send a patrol."
Pointless promises. Burr doesn't wait to be dismissed.
--
"what are you doing?" Laurens asks in horror, as Burr piles his meager belongs into saddle bags.
"I'm going after him."
"You're--you can even ride a horse!"
"Watch me," Burr says, as he pushes the tent flap open,
"You can't, Burr this is ridiculous, you--" he grabs Burr, roughly, spins him around hard enough that Burr stumbles, still only half healed. "you have a child!" He hisses, and Burr's eyes narrow. Theo is wrapped against his chest, making unhappy sounds, jostled and sleepy.
"I do," he says, "and she will be coming with me. Either you come too or get out of my way."
"Washington will court martial us," Laurens says, but Burr knows he will not refuse. Not in this matter, for both of them.
"If he does he'll have no good aides left."
"You cannot even ride!" Laurens says, as Burr struggles onto his horse, wincing and biting back pained noises.
"If I could deliver a small watermelon I think I can handle a bit of riding," though truthfully he is not sure. He cannot very well lift himself from the saddle, for the ache in his joints, but resting fully down puts terrible pressure on things which are still knitting back together. Resigned, then, to a bit of bleeding. But it will be nothing like it was the day he fell from his horse, he is sure.
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First of all, he made it easily to the New Jersey militia, only to find that the spy who had the allegedly thorough drawing of Trenton and Princetown's camps has been delayed and perhaps captured. He ruminates for several hours, considering the possible consequences of going after him versus returning empty-handed, and, in the end, chooses to try to obtain the information. It was his own idea, after all, to do this attack, and its failure could reflect on him and his family.
So, second, he pursues the rumor of this spy's passage eastward. He spends the night under a white oak, penning a letter to Burr that unfortunately leaves him missing his husband rather more, and finds that the British have been seeking a young man, several years younger than Hamilton, who was a servant at a Loyalist house where a British general stayed.
It's around this time that he runs into a surprise confrontation between part of the militia and a small detachment of the British, who have just finished "requisitioning" from a nearby town. The militia is in an ignominious retreat when Hamilton rides into their midst and shouts for them to follow him -- and, to his surprise, many of them do, enough to get to the supply wagons and set them aflame before fleeing. A few of them ride with him eastward, into the pine barrens of the New Jersey cape. It's his good fortune that they do, because between the handful of them, they are able to get some rest and keep watch for the British overnight.
One more night that he's away from Burr. They must expect him back by now -- at least by the following evening. It can't be avoided, though.
After, once it's clear they've lost their pursuit, he sends the soldiers back towards Washington and continues on, towards the village that was apparently the young spy's destination.
Hamilton works very hard to find the spy before the British do. Fortunately, the village is sympathetic to the patriots, and he finds a friend of Hercules Mulligan, a man peripheral to the Sons of Liberty, who helped hide the youth. This man agrees to hide the horse and some of the more distinctive parts of the uniform, and lends Hamilton a rougher coat that makes him look more like a local farmer. It's a risk -- he could be hanged as a spy, but with the uniform, he could also get summarily shot. And while a past Hamilton, before his marriage, might have kept with the uniform, he now wants to take his greatest shot at survival.
He has to spend another night there, and sets off in the morning.
Another day of searching, and he finally finds the young man, Elias Rolfe, terrified, taking shelter in a rough lean-to. The fact that Hamilton is obviously not British helps, and once he explains who he is, the youth lights up and says, "From the news?"
They agree that Hamilton is a farmer -- Alexander Faucette, taking his mother's maiden name -- and the youth is a foster child -- Elias suggests the name of a friend of his, Jack Taylor -- he is taking in as a servant, and in the morning they start back to the village.
Unfortunately, this is where they run into the British.
There is no running from them -- they're on horseback, and Hamilton and Elias are on foot. Hamilton makes no secret of his tension.
The commander, a Captain, begins to interrogate them. Asks about Elias's name, and Hamilton's. He doesn't like their answers, and presses them. The captain doesn't like Elias's fear, or Elias's resemblance to the description of the servant.
After several minutes of this, Hamilton starts to get a sinking feeling that they might not get out of this alive.
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They arrive at a small village the day after setting out, having ridden through the night. Burr's bones feel heavy and achy, and when he dismounts his horse his legs collapse out from under him, and he has to catch himself in the dirt lest he crush poor Theo.
Laurens swears, tugs him upward, muttering things about being right, about how Burr shouldn't be here. Burr ignores him, and after sitting on a nearby crate the feeling returns to his legs, and he can walk, albeit slowly.
They have a cover, and a plan--they are Aaron Edwards and John Ramsay, a young recently married couple. They sit for a meal at an inn, but the village clearly harbours sympathizers, so that Laurens need only ask about the frankly well known aide of Washington to be pointed in the right direction.
They should rest, after a night of riding, but the next village is not too far, and the prospect of finding Hamilton is too great to delay. Laurens helps Burr back onto his horse with a dubious look, and before sunset they have arrived at the next village, exhausted and road-worn.
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He's already come up with and discarded several plans by the time they get there, and it's with an increasing sense of helplessness that he sees the village approach.
Until he sees Burr and Laurens.
Not in uniform.
Sheer surprise has him stopping completely, and one of the British officers shoves him to make him move again. Did Washington send them? Absolutely no way. Not a chance. -- Maybe the smallest chance?
"Aaron!" he calls. "It's my husband," he explains, to the officer, "and his cousin. Aaron, are you riding? So soon after birth -- why, you should have known I was on my way back," and he doesn't have to fake the worry in his voice, nor the indignant look that he shoots the British soldiers who stop him from going to his husband.
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"When you didn't come back, I could stay in bed another minute! I was so worried, what would have happened to me or the baby had you not returned?" And be bursts into tears here, though they are not genuine.
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"I had no notion that I left you in such distress," cries Hamilton -- "But, now, see, these men know I have nothing to do with the army, and I have brought back with me an orphan, as promised, to assist while you recover. I was always coming back."
Theodosia wails, at the abrupt changes in movement, the jarring impacts, and Hamilton scoops her out of the sling, hushing her and cradling her close to his scent gland. Gratifyingly, she soothes right away, sniffing through her little nose and subsiding.
The captain comes between them, ruthlessly shouldering Burr back a step or two. He also takes Burr's left hand in both of his. "If he is your husband," says the captain, "then describe his ring, in its entirety."
Hamilton puffs up in indignation. "A puzzle ring," he says, "embossed with our names both -- Alexander, and Aaron. And if it turns missing or damaged in any way, I will be complaining to your commander."
Burr pulls off the ring and surrenders it, reluctantly, to the commander, and Hamilton, in the meantime, digs out the letter he penned under the oak. "And, my dear, my mind never left you -- you can see, I wrote you here."
The officer snatches the letter, passing it to a subordinate. "Read it out loud," he orders, his eyes examining Hamilton. He passes the ring back to Burr, with an angry twist to his mouth that Hamilton dislikes greatly.
"It is not appropriate --" protests Hamilton, for show, as he knows the letter will help acquit him.
"I'll decide that. Read it."
The subordinate opens it, and begins to read. "My Dearest Little Captain--"
"Captain?" snaps the officer.
"Yes, of course," says Hamilton. "For he is the captain of my ship of domestic happiness -- and would he not be darling in a little sea-coat and hat?"
The officer makes a hmm noise, and gestures for the subordinate to continue.
"This night I make my bed in the tender embrace of a white oak, which forms a sheltering overhang in the side of a hill where the ground has eroded. There is scarce anything to recommend this as shelter, except that it is not open to the rain," the subordinate reads. "Alas, it is cold, and the roots make poor bedfellows. Instead of imitating your grasping arms, they seem more to imitate a particular--" And he stops, eyes widening.
"Go on!" the officer orders.
The subordinate gulps, looks from Burr, to Hamilton, to the officer. "--to imitate a particular appendage of mine, which likewise misses you dearly, and has solidified and stiffened in its loneliness. These roots must be suffused with longing; they are sadly exposed, though wherever they can, they plunge into the eager and waiting ground below, seeking within those wet, secret passages--"
The officer's expression has shifted to mortification. He snatches the letter away, with a muttered "give me that," and scans the rest. His face has gone flaming red by the time he is done, and he flings the letter back at Hamilton.
"Now that you are done uncovering the secrets of the dreadful colonials," says Hamilton, dryly, "may I care for my husband?"
"Of -- of course." He turns around to the rest of his men, who are mostly trying not to laugh. "Move out!"
Hamilton gathers Burr in his arms, and he does not release him until well after the British have left their view.
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Burr isn't crying, really. The tears before were just for show, and he is having difficulty stopping them, though Hamilton's face is also wet, and he is blinking rapidly.
"Are you alright?" Burr asks, and his voice shakes. "Did they hurt you? Are you well?" His hand tightens, likely painful on Hamilton's own, but he cannot stop anxiously checking him over, difficult to meet his eyes for his embarrassment over said fussing. When had he become like and old maid? Pregnancy had damaged his brain, most likely.
"And you didn't tell me Laurens was made godfather, which I think is the worst infraction of this whole thing," a tearful laugh. Trying to make light of the whole terrible situation, the days he had spent sure Hamilton was dead--likely would have been dead, if Burr had not disobeyed Washington and his doctor to ride out when he had.
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"I am well," he breathes, finally, letting out the air it feels like he's held since he saw the soldiers hours ago. "I am very well, now." The tears are of relief, no more.
First thing's first: "It is imperative that this young man make it to General Washington," says Hamilton. "Laurens, I hate to send you back on your way when you are so tired, but the urgency of the task..."
"What about you?" asks Laurens. "Both of you."
"If he takes Aaron's horse, then Aaron and I can go and get mine -- and proceed slower." He takes Aaron's hand. "What do you think?"
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"If we are to be lashed, I would not send Laurens to face such punishment without me--though, you know the commander better than I."
Though it is likely too that Laurens' return will be softened by the delivery of the young man who is apparently tied to Hamilton's task, and the good news that all three of them are well, delivered from the hands of the British. Burr has always thought that one ought to entertain the worst possibilities, to prepare oneself, but if Hamilton believes there to be no imminent danger, that their own return can be safely delayed, he will trust him.
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"Really? Both of you?" he asks. "For me?" A bit of a smile, then, and he kisses Burr again, soft and brief. "You shouldn't have."
Hamilton considers, though -- "He has knowledge of the Hessian camps, and sketches." To Laurens: "Return quietly, I would say, so that you can ensure that Washington needs to weigh no considerations of broader morale or discipline. That is his first concern. And I'll write him a note -- containing neither trees nor roots -- to beg for his forbearance, at least until you and I should return.
"Does that satisfy?" He asks both Laurens and Burr. "I think he would be inclined to wait, and not take hasty action." It is Washington's character, after all.
"I would gladly risk it," says Laurens, "even without such assurances."
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They must move on then, so Hamilton may find a place to write, because even now he has a quill and ink with him. Burr takes the opportunity, once they have found an inn and a table, to collapse into the nearest chair, Laurens following suite.
"Are we to stay here, or follow immediately? I am afraid while little Theo can catch sleep wherever we may be I cannot, and I daresay you look twice as exhausted as I do," Burr says, reaching across to brush the hair from Hamilton's face. How much sleep had he gotten, if any? The letter about the oak could very well be a fictitious excuse to write poorly concealed pornography, but even so a night under an oak cannot be really restful, especially away from one's family. What he does not say is that his hips ache awfully, because he does not wish to put himself once more in the position of damsal. If anyone thought women or omegas the weaken sex, they have been horribly wrong--if they complain more it is only because they have more cause to, which perhaps alphas like Hamilton are coming to understand in time.
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"We can wait," says Hamilton. "It would be stranger for a mated pair and a newborn baby to travel so hard, anyway." He kisses Burr's hand, held in his own left hand, as his eyes are focused on the letter he is writing with his right. "And I would be a terribly cruel alpha if I insisted on it."
He writes the letter in a way that conceals its purpose -- does not address the General as Your Excellency, but as Respected Sir, and writes in it that he sends his brother (Laurens, obviously) with a friend from up North to help with the new business. He also begs pardon for his brother's hastiness in departing without any word, and pleads that he wait for Hamilton and his husband to return before deciding what to do about it.
Satisfied that it is clear but that it contains nothing incriminating, Hamilton passes the letter to Burr and Laurens, to see if they have any suggestions or edits.
"Excuse me, sir," says an older man, who had been resting by the fire. "Are ye writing letters?"
"Yes, sir," returns Hamilton, a bit coldly, as it is an impudent way to begin a conversation.
"Your hand is very good indeed," the old man says. "Are ye a secretary?"
"A clerk, sir," says Hamilton.
"A clerk, a clerk. Sorry for the bother," says the old man, ducking his head, "but I can't read, nor write. Could I trouble ye to write a letter to my son? He's gone off to war, with General Putnam -- I'd very much like to send him a letter. I'll pay ye -- for the trouble and the ink and paper."
Hamilton's countenance has softened. "It is no trouble," he assures, "and little ink and paper. Wait only until I've had a bit to eat, and I'll oblige."
The man's face brightens up, wrinkled and sun-baked, into a genuine smile, though one missing a few teeth. "Aye, I'll wait -- gladly."
True to his word, after he's had a bit less than his fill (pushing the rest to Burr and to Elias), Hamilton approaches the older man and faithfully records his words, by firelight, his pen drawing careful loops on the paper. He is very patient with it, and addresses the envelope as well.
As he's finished, the innkeeper's wife approaches him. "Looks like you and that omega need a room for the night," she says, and she names a price.
Hamilton raises an eyebrow. "I would never insult a lady's housekeeping, madam," he says, "but that figure seems more appropriate for a flea-ridden shed, than a well-kept room."
A hint of a smile on the matron's face. "Ah well, you did a kindness," she says, with a nod at the old man. "Go on and take one, too."
He bows to her, and gathers his little desk, and his papers, and returns to the table, to Burr.
"Rested enough?" Laurens asks Elias.
"This's more than restored me," Elias boasts. "I could ride all the way to General Washington's camp tonight on a stew like that."
"Then we're off." Laurens focuses on Hamilton. "Be careful, both of you." Focuses on Burr, too. "I can't lose my family."
Hamilton's heart gives a little jump, at that word.
After they go, he turns to Burr. "I am sorry, for asking him to be the godfather, without asking you first -- she was only just born, and I'm afraid sentiment quite ran away with me. And then I couldn't think of the right time to ask you, and instead I let myself be distracted. I hope you approve of him."
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But there is more Burr wants to address, that he does not feel comfortable bringing up in this room, regardless of how quietly he may do so. He begs tiredness, wary of the pains in his joints, nudges Hamilton towards their room. Hamilton, accommodating in this as well, is not difficult to lead in this matter, seems eager, as always, to help Burr up in the stairs, Theo in arm and Burr leaning on the other.
Once they are alone, and the door closed;
"In truth, I thought we might discuss Laurens a bit more, and his role in out relationship. I know we both do not wish to leave the army, and it occurs now that you will not always be around, if I were to fall into heat--though I have only experienced one before--" blushing now, shifting uncomfortably, "I will not bring this up again, if you find it detestable, but, well--" how to put what he wants to ask, and how to make the matter fair to Laurens? Torture for some, to involve him more regularly in their life, their family, but leave him always second in their hearts. Hamilton knows him--the struggles or problems it might bring.
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