And Burr doesn't stop crying. There is something, this loosening, that means once he starts he cannot stop. And he clings to Hamilton, clutches at him, and lets out those awful sobs which make him gasp for air.

"I'm sorry," Burr says, bites his neck, "I'm sorry," and he's not warm but he is warming, not calm and not calming but--better, maybe. Less like--not that they will be okay. But that they could be. That it is a possibility now. And that Hamilton is here with him and will not go to Jefferson again, and neither will Burr, and--and he gags a little. An unproductive clenching of muscles, horribly sore, but he does not throw up. No, this is something working out of him, because they will be okay now, won't they? Hamilton is here.

And so Burr wiggles his body, back and forth, grinding down into the bed, into Hamilton, in that pointless primitive omega way, settling into a nest. He is okay, and Hamilton is here, and they are okay.