Burr positions him carefully--laying on his side , so that Hamilton is between Burr and the door, but so that the other side, the one closest to Ned and his instruments, is left clear.

Burr still doesn't--he still wants to be alone. To hide his shame, heal behind closed doors. But that is not something he can have. Not something Hamilton could stand, and now, the friction between them has made it something Burr cannot stand. He needs Alexander, as much as whatever Burr has become, now, after Jefferson, curls back.

But there's a comforting familiarity to this. The times Hamilton has held Burr through illness, and the times Burr has held Hamilton. Heat stroke and gunshots and spring fevers and child pains. Burr is still wrapped in blankets, but he nudges his way forward, lays his face a hairsbreadth from touching Hamilton's throat, does touch there, with the tip of his nose. Close enough to feel warmth, to smell. Works one hand free to lay Hamilton's arm carefully over him, then works his arm back inside, closes his eyes to sweat out his fever.