"Let me," cries Hamilton, "let me--" And Ned shuts the door on him, no matter how Hamilton bleeds out the scent of mate, distress, need, because Burr's reaction is dramatically out of character from what Ned knows of him: there are always rumors of Burr wandering from the marriage bed, but never of rejecting the bond between Hamilton and himself.
And so Ned presses cool cloths to Burr's fevered forehead, has him drink water and fortifying wine, sends for gruel. And Hamilton is left curled outside, at the door, exhausted from the strain and panic from the brief and frenzied search. He has to stop himself from whining like a dog.
"Well," comes a soft voice, "this is a bit pathetic, even for you."
Hamilton turns his enervated gaze on Madison. His eyes flood with tears; he hurts, hurts from the pit of his chest, like a bullet took him straight to the spine. He accepts the proffered handkerchief, and curls so his back is against the wall, instead of his side. His leg is numb. He is, perhaps, too old for this shit.
"He made his way to Thomas's residence," Madison tells him. "He was seriously ill when I found him. Thomas sent him back here."
"Why." It is a whisper, but it is anguished. Why would Burr go. Why would Burr go there. Why didn't Burr let Hamilton comfort him, care for him? He wants to be a good mate. A good husband.
"I don't know. It is an unexpected betrayal, if he was more than heatstruck. Thomas can be very persuasive. Very... seductive. It isn't his style to employ ill treatment, which I think must be a reason Burr found his way there."
The tears come again. Hamilton weeps quietly, in heartbreak.
"Will this leave you a broken man?"
It is a question and a challenge, both. An appeal to his pride, though he feels as though it has all been stolen away. Yes, it might have left him a broken man -- at least, before the question was asked.
He breathes in, shakily.
"The Union is in your hands, and mine," says Madison. "Call upon me when you want to save it. Take up your pistol again if you would see it destroyed."
After this, Madison goes, and Hamilton waits, in the hall, for a long time.
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And so Ned presses cool cloths to Burr's fevered forehead, has him drink water and fortifying wine, sends for gruel. And Hamilton is left curled outside, at the door, exhausted from the strain and panic from the brief and frenzied search. He has to stop himself from whining like a dog.
"Well," comes a soft voice, "this is a bit pathetic, even for you."
Hamilton turns his enervated gaze on Madison. His eyes flood with tears; he hurts, hurts from the pit of his chest, like a bullet took him straight to the spine. He accepts the proffered handkerchief, and curls so his back is against the wall, instead of his side. His leg is numb. He is, perhaps, too old for this shit.
"He made his way to Thomas's residence," Madison tells him. "He was seriously ill when I found him. Thomas sent him back here."
"Why." It is a whisper, but it is anguished. Why would Burr go. Why would Burr go there. Why didn't Burr let Hamilton comfort him, care for him? He wants to be a good mate. A good husband.
"I don't know. It is an unexpected betrayal, if he was more than heatstruck. Thomas can be very persuasive. Very... seductive. It isn't his style to employ ill treatment, which I think must be a reason Burr found his way there."
The tears come again. Hamilton weeps quietly, in heartbreak.
"Will this leave you a broken man?"
It is a question and a challenge, both. An appeal to his pride, though he feels as though it has all been stolen away. Yes, it might have left him a broken man -- at least, before the question was asked.
He breathes in, shakily.
"The Union is in your hands, and mine," says Madison. "Call upon me when you want to save it. Take up your pistol again if you would see it destroyed."
After this, Madison goes, and Hamilton waits, in the hall, for a long time.