Jefferson flinches from the smells. He is aware, uneasily, that he bears some fault for this utter distress, this heat-sickness. He devoted himself to toppling Mr. Burr-Hamilton from his pedestal, and now he looks wary upon the man brought low.
"Your husband is responsible for you," says Jefferson, shortly. "It has nothing to do with what I want." Though there isn't much to want, right now. Burr's graceful charm is nowhere in this tortured form. Was it truly such a crime to want to capture some of that charm? Hold it, even if just for a moment or two?
He should not waste his time arguing. Burr is insensible of the fine distinctions.
"Your mate is Alexander Hamilton," he emphasizes, though his voice is weak, his breath short, from the intensifying pain. "Not me." He has no mate. His mate is gone.
He has to try and catch his breath, from the strain. "He cannot be seen this way," he manages, to Jupiter. "Provide him an escort back to Mr. Hamilton."
no subject
"Your husband is responsible for you," says Jefferson, shortly. "It has nothing to do with what I want." Though there isn't much to want, right now. Burr's graceful charm is nowhere in this tortured form. Was it truly such a crime to want to capture some of that charm? Hold it, even if just for a moment or two?
He should not waste his time arguing. Burr is insensible of the fine distinctions.
"Your mate is Alexander Hamilton," he emphasizes, though his voice is weak, his breath short, from the intensifying pain. "Not me." He has no mate. His mate is gone.
He has to try and catch his breath, from the strain. "He cannot be seen this way," he manages, to Jupiter. "Provide him an escort back to Mr. Hamilton."