"It will be less a hindrance to your senses to have it," Burr says, "than to suffer through without." He knows the kinds of arguments that work on Hamilton. Should, after twenty years.

He wonders if part of this difficulty is not for wounded pride. From Jefferson, of course, but from Washington too. That old tension between them, a spot of rust on something polished. If Hamilton won't resent him that, as well. Once he knows who summoned him. Stopped him from ruining himself.

He thanks God, when Ned says Jefferson will live.

He is far away again, when Hamilton growls, and when he smooths his thumbs over cheekbones it is again like something done outside himself. Watching from further back. Eyes crossed.

He should comfort his husband. He should, but he rankles at the tug, a cat arching it's spine. He feels--he doesn't want to, and he can't say why.

"Hamilton," he says, softly, a little gentle censure. We have company, implied. We are intruding on someone else's kindness.

He stands, away from the bed. Space between them. Ignores heavy eyes from Ned, if there are any. Pulls up a chair and settles there, offers his hand again, little book of poetry balanced on one leg.