He expected that he wouldn't want to be touched, that Burr's hands on him would make him want to hiss and snap. It's how it's always been, with him. Doesn't want to be kept. But he has the strangest feeling, when Burr's palm rests on his belly's curve -- like he is a bird held in cupped hands, wings draped over, unobstructed. Burr obviously is possessive, or wants to be, judging by how he was when Hamilton was taking clients, before this. Is it just natural restraint, holding him back?

Doesn't feel that way. The first time he fell asleep on Burr, knotted, in heat and vulnerable, he remembers thinking: Burr's first reaction was to try and leave. His second was to touch with admiring hands.

Sometimes Hamilton wants to shake him. Who are you? How is he so different from the man Hamilton knew as a scheming bastard, ambitious, unconstrained by politics and philosophy? Is this what Jefferson's relentless pursuit made of him? Did he change because of the duel? Was Hamilton always wrong?

He swallows, again. His throat is dry. "I saw the license," he says. His nerves are fluttering, in his belly, and he subconsciously moves a hand to rest there.

Has he been snooping in Burr's papers? Yes, but -- mostly it was to see if there was any work that could be done. Hamilton is not one easily made a prisoner in the home. He wants to be a lawyer again. And he has begun to refresh his knowledge, to reach out and find ways he can contribute.

"I didn't know..." A hint of a smile. "Men say a lot of things when they're between a whore's legs. Mostly, they don't do the paperwork, aft--" And he stops, abruptly, because he can feel those fluttering nerves under his palm, and they aren't nerves at all. His eyes go wide. He isn't even half-way! "Aaron." He reaches out and seizes Aaron's hand, presses it where his own just rested.

So he can feel the child moving.