"You are both mine," Burr whispers. "I would keep you both, and fight all of New York to do so." Little comforting purrs, nuzzling at him, scenting him, waiting for a little contentment to sweep his frame, a little less fear, before disentangling himself to find more blankets, and arrange them in some way around the bed. They have rope, and he ties one end to the far side of the canopy, the other end to the other, and drapes the blankets through, so that they hang low over the bed, and the inside is dark and warm and cave-like.

Little, breathless feelings, that Hamilton wishes to do this here, now. A think he has so often refused to. He feels safe. Must feel safe, with Burr. He wants Burr to keep the child. Doesn't want Burr to go away.

If Hamilton lets him Burr slides under the blankets, slithers down to Hamilton's feet, warms them on his stomach and begins to rub, massaging. The soles, and up his ankles and calves. Pressing small kisses as he works upward, and all the while purring.