He gives a little bite to Burr’s gland, just a moment of teeth’s grip without bruising, without hurting. It seems to give him some confidence. He flushes, at Burr’s words, fusses with some imagined wrinkle in Burr’s cravat.

“It wasn’t recorded,” he says, in a rush, “my birth — my mother told me after but I don’t know if she remembered right. It’s my best guess. It’s the closest I have to truth, to give you.” He meets Burr’s eyes, firmly. “I don’t want pity. I thought to myself, if I did not know for sure, then it wasn’t really a lie, but that itself is a lie. I have already demanded from you that which I wasn’t willing to give,” and he means the affection that Burr showed him, and his aloof, withdrawn response. His fear. “I’m willing, now. I will try to be willing.” This is determined. Alexander demands a great deal of himself when he is at his best, and he has languished without employing his willpower for, it feels, a long time. Or at least his willpower was only employed in his survival, without ambition for more.

His hand rests on his belly. “I never go in half-measures,” he says, ruefully. “I said I’d give you a son — I suppose I omitted I’d try for a daughter, too.” Jesting, because of course he had no choice in it, except inasmuch as he felt his body open itself to Burr, to the lovely attentions in that lovely heat.