Burr isn't sure, when the housekeeper brings him upstairs, that Hamilton will want to see him. Or moreover, that Hamilton will be unable to see him, for fear of further frenzy.

So he stalls in the door, unsure in a way he hasn't been but a handful of times in their twenty years together. Ned has only just shaken awake from a doze besides him, and Hamilton looks--

He looks sick. Stretched thin and limp, from being overdrawn. Skin sallow, hair and clothing wild. Vaguely muddied from street filth. No time for such superficiality from his caretakers, evidently. Burr's stomach tugs--a deep, far back thing, that sends little vibrations through him.

Burr did this to him. And now--they'll be lucky if Hamilton escapes hanging. They're ruined regardless. If not from unprovoked violence then from--well. There weren't many things that could cause an alpha to go feral like that. And people talk.

But Hamilton turns his eyes on him, and Burr is across the room without himself. Holding out his hand, cupping Hamilton's cheek with the other.

"I didn't know you would live," Burr says. "Or if you would want to see me." And maybe--maybe he doesn't remember. Or--Burr should like to pretend they don't.

"You owe a good deal to Ned, it would seem," a little acknowledgement, for one who has done so much for them.