"To borrow a phrase from your esteemed profession," says Hosack, dryly, "I believe I've already assumed the risk of that."
At least he can ensure there will be no pistols this time, no dawn-meeting with death. And he knows truly that Alexander's life is entirely safe in Burr's hands. He thinks that Alexander knows it too.
"I would recommend both," he says, "bathing, particularly, and a bit of the stew left on the stove."
--
At first, Alexander thinks: he only didn't cry at the news because he was out of tears. Because surely the fact that there are twins, two little fused creatures made of him and Burr growing within him, is enough reason to cry -- from the risk and pain, or from happiness, either way. Instead, he finds himself curling up in a small guest bedroom on a small guest bed, hugging his middle with a soft and secret joy. Not one that brings him to tears but one that suffuses and calms. His hopes are dashed and his plans are in ruins and he is grieving, grieving, and all he can do is whisper I love you, my darlings, my darlings.
The next morning, to his gratitude, Hosack's wife has procured for him a sort of half-corset, not for binding tight but for supporting the growing weight at his chest, while leaving room for his belly to grow. It immediately helps with the persistent and illogical pain at his lower back, though doesn't eliminate it entirely. He has uncomfortable visions of his organs being pressed and shifted to accommodate his new burden.
Hosack has already left on an errand, and Alexander sets to writing down some of his earliest memories. He doesn't want to relive them, but he can't deny that he owes them for their help, and the idea that his mind might be important to the world again is a heady one.
He looks up, as always, when the door opens: he imagines, as always, that it will be Burr with his dark and glittering eyes, that he will come and sweep Alexander into his arms like some absurd and romantic novel. He doesn't expect Burr to come after him. He wants it, though. Hosack and his wife have already implied, strongly, that Alexander's duty was to return -- to his children, to Burr. It's not an omega's place to do what he wants to do, and he sees Hosack struggling between Alexander-as-Alexander and Alexander-as-omega. -- Ah, but, are they wrong? Alexander has been selfish. He has taken and taken from Burr, and what has he given, in return? Just his body, and he has been demanding even in that.
So vivid is his fantasy that it takes him one blink, too, to see that Burr is truly there, at the guest room's door. Alexander is on his feet as he realizes. He is stunned silent, that Burr is here, and he is afraid, too, instantly, that Burr is here for some other, meaner reason.
no subject
At least he can ensure there will be no pistols this time, no dawn-meeting with death. And he knows truly that Alexander's life is entirely safe in Burr's hands. He thinks that Alexander knows it too.
"I would recommend both," he says, "bathing, particularly, and a bit of the stew left on the stove."
--
At first, Alexander thinks: he only didn't cry at the news because he was out of tears. Because surely the fact that there are twins, two little fused creatures made of him and Burr growing within him, is enough reason to cry -- from the risk and pain, or from happiness, either way. Instead, he finds himself curling up in a small guest bedroom on a small guest bed, hugging his middle with a soft and secret joy. Not one that brings him to tears but one that suffuses and calms. His hopes are dashed and his plans are in ruins and he is grieving, grieving, and all he can do is whisper I love you, my darlings, my darlings.
The next morning, to his gratitude, Hosack's wife has procured for him a sort of half-corset, not for binding tight but for supporting the growing weight at his chest, while leaving room for his belly to grow. It immediately helps with the persistent and illogical pain at his lower back, though doesn't eliminate it entirely. He has uncomfortable visions of his organs being pressed and shifted to accommodate his new burden.
Hosack has already left on an errand, and Alexander sets to writing down some of his earliest memories. He doesn't want to relive them, but he can't deny that he owes them for their help, and the idea that his mind might be important to the world again is a heady one.
He looks up, as always, when the door opens: he imagines, as always, that it will be Burr with his dark and glittering eyes, that he will come and sweep Alexander into his arms like some absurd and romantic novel. He doesn't expect Burr to come after him. He wants it, though. Hosack and his wife have already implied, strongly, that Alexander's duty was to return -- to his children, to Burr. It's not an omega's place to do what he wants to do, and he sees Hosack struggling between Alexander-as-Alexander and Alexander-as-omega. -- Ah, but, are they wrong? Alexander has been selfish. He has taken and taken from Burr, and what has he given, in return? Just his body, and he has been demanding even in that.
So vivid is his fantasy that it takes him one blink, too, to see that Burr is truly there, at the guest room's door. Alexander is on his feet as he realizes. He is stunned silent, that Burr is here, and he is afraid, too, instantly, that Burr is here for some other, meaner reason.