Alexander doesn't respond. His eyes are closed, and he is starting to drift. Still burrowed on top of Burr, in the cozy warmth of the nest, the cave. A skinny little bastard islander and an old man, a whore and a has-been. The comfort is unspeakable, in a literal sense: Alexander could never say it out loud, because then it would be shattered.

He turns his face in towards Burr's throat.

His body is probably the most relaxed that Burr has ever felt it. There is no pure, unadulterated, pleasured-omega contentment here. Alexander's smell is complicated, as his emotions are complicated.

And yet, despite all that churns and rages in his heart, he is quiet.

He is quiet, and he is still.

And -- soft, just barely audible, just barely palpable -- he is purring, again, as he falls asleep on Burr's chest.