Hamilton looks--Hamilton looks well. That is not quite right. He looks delicious, and beautiful, and Burr feels his heart stuttering in his chest at the thought that this alpha is his. He smells so good too, his scent washing over Burr in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat, in a way that enters his nostrils to settle tingling at the base of his skull.

He doesn't think he can stand it, if Hamilton touches him, and oh--Hamilton does anyway, and Burr finds his eyes fluttering closed, and he makes a little coo, a little whine, a little begging noise, so slightly, in the back of his throat. He gives a little shake, at cool flesh to his hot, sweaty brow.

He doesn't feel well. He feels ill. He wants to nest, to have Hamilton carry him away, but--

"Alexander," he says, "I don't--" I don't feel good, stuck in his throat. He wants to keep working, though. Is confident he can get through at least a little more. Besides, even if Burr is to return to bed, Hamilton won't be able to join him till he delivers Washington's morning orders. They might as well wait till then.

He reaches up, and wraps his hand over Hamilton's wrist, brings the hand down to his lips. Has to fight himself, to keep from sliding digits inward, from lapping over them, filthy. "You should to you work," he says, "at the very least. I don't feel so ill," he might feel better by then, he means. After taking tea.