Burr's breath shakes out of him, when Hamilton's fingers touch his elbow. A small flinch, an abortive pulling away. Ah, he smells those pheromones now, through the former haze of his panic. Wants to laugh, long and biter. An omega. Of course he would come back a damn omega. If there is a god, he must take supreme pleasure in this slow kind of torture, waiting for Burr to die, alone and penniless and infirm and ugly.

"An omega, then?" Burr asks, turns to lock eyes with him, and yes, that electric is still there, though somehow different now. Less fight in him, than there had been. Displaced from the time he was meant for, from greatness and struggle. "Do not ask this of me, Hamilton. Do not ask this of me, and then expect there can be anything between us besides that calamity. You experienced it before. Enough to ruin us, and everyone around us."

But he cannot leave Hamilton here, with no means, now that he knows. Has made a career of it, helping the desperate. Doesn't even need to fuck them first, as Hamilton had once been wont to do.