"Because he was wrong." He averts his face, and the scent that comes from him is shame, a tangled mess of recrimination and regret. "Because he called me son."

The gentle tug leads him along, and Hamilton lets it -- every brush of Burr's hands seeming to drain some unbearable itch from under his skin.

"I'm so tired," whispers Hamilton. "It's so dark, in the winters here." So dark, and. yet he seems to never sleep. He slithers his hand around Burr's shoulders, under the cloak, and draws him close. He's trembling, just a little, the heat of anger withdrawing and leaving even less in its wake than there was before.