Ned has made a discreet exit. Hamilton can smell the two of them, Ned, the traces of the slaves and servants who keep the room for the President -- and, beyond all of that, the alpha-alpha of Washington. It is a sort of safety, he finds.

Burr is feverishly hot, damp and sticky where his skin touches Hamilton's. Hamilton croons, soft, shifts a little to tuck the blankets closer. If this were a more primitive time, perhaps his desire would be to hide his mate away, in darkness and safety and comfort, warmly cocooned, and pace at the entrance, growl at anyone who passed. How does a gentleman behave, now? Likely, a gentleman does not shoot his political rival.

"I have you," he promises. "I'll keep you warm."