And they're just words. Just a few careless words, but--whatever there was left of Burr after all of it--whatever tissue-paper thick composure he had pulled over himself since, it rips away to nothing in an instant. Hamilton pushes his away, and Burr isn't--he's not doing enough, then Burr doesn't love him enough, and Burr isn't enough. Maybe it shows on his face. More likely it doesn't. That's how it's always been, when he feared for the life of his children, or even lesser occasions, when insult was offered him; his face shutters, and his sits back, cold. But it isn't complete. There is damp there, when he stands, mechanically, and goes to the door.

He can't handle--he can't. And he hurts. He aches still, fevered and bleeding and--but this is worse. And he feels wronged. More wronged even than--

He doesn't know what to do. There's something happening inside him. A cascade of sick and hormones and need. He needs someone to care for him. He needs his mate. His mate? And he's suddenly confused, disoriented and--he just needs someone. To tell him he's good. And no one will do that. No one will do that. And he's alone. And he's not where he needs to be. And that's why no one will take care of him. He's not being good. He needs to be good. He needs his--his mate?

So Burr goes. Quietly and quickly. Winds down dark streets. He needs to find his mate. He needs to find Jefferson.