amrev_intrigues | (no subject)

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.

Threaded | Flat

Burr can work, now. A much-needed outlet, to let siphon his agitation, his energy. Theodosia bound in a sling around his chest, and sometimes Hamilton's, though more and more often Burr is forced to work in a room of his own--a storeroom with a hastily added table--when Theodosia is sleeping and the officers are talking or arguing, or when she is crying and cannot be soothed for anything.

He is in this little room, soothing the sleeping child, when he hears the argument, moreover smells the argument. Hamilton has been different lately--for all that he has spent the war running and fighting on endless energy, he seems now drained out, thinned. Tired. Laurens has taken what burdens he can, and Burr himself does not require so much careful care, yet still, there is something haunted about him, hunted.

Burr comes through to the main room just as the door slams shut. He has to force his legs to not shake, to not cow and show his sensitive neck, walking in a room spilling over with so much alpha, so much hostility and challenge. He perhaps whimpers, which causes Washington to whirl around, anger and consternation fading quickly when he sees Burr and the child. A particular soft spot, through this whole war.

"Captain," Washington says, gives a little bow, sets back down behind his desk with a weary sigh. Laurens is crossing the room, holding his hands out for the child, but Washington stops him.

"I should like to hold little baby Theo for a time, while I work. If it seems so that everyone is taking their turn but me. And you might go after your husband, Aaron. Nothing can sooth so well as the touch of an Omega."

Something Burr should bristle at (does, secretly) yet has grown too accustomed to, these past weeks. What it is, to be folded into Washington's family. Small indignities, traded for care.

Laurens forces Burr into a heavy cloak before the door, and when Burr steps out it is into drifted snow, a camp of huddled forms and too little equipment. Hamilton, perhaps, pacing nearby. Burr calls out to him.