First, there is the sight of him -- Hamilton sees his husband, clothes hanging off his body, wrinkled, unkempt in an impossible way, a way that Burr would ordinarily find utterly unacceptable -- and then, as Hamilton approaches, going immediately cold with concern and fear, the wave of smell hits him.

It is a cliche, of course, but it can only be a wave. It can only be explained as that, a wall of water, a swell to sweep him under. He physically sways, reaches his hand out to the wall, and absorbs it in utter shock.

Jefferson? Jefferson? And the rage is soon after: rage that would be at Burr, too, if not for his tearstained eyes, if not for the way he hunches in on himself as though Hamilton would ever raise a hand against him. No; with Burr like this, the smell of heat, and the smell of Jefferson, Hamilton knows just what happened, and his rage has only one target.

He steps forward swiftly, seizing Burr and pinning him hard against the wall. Pressing him flat. Growling, though Burr isn't the one he's growling at -- it's just a possessive instinct, an incessant drumbeat like a call to battle. He goes immediately for Burr's throat, the seat of his sweet omega smell, and bites.

Mine.