amrev_intrigues | This is Fine Alternative Denouement

I always want to see you, words that should sooth him, but instead flow over him like nothing. Well. Perhaps a distant warmth, far away. He's not sure Hamilton really knows. Has processed yet. This is temporary. It will change.

"You can't give him a small amount more, to ease him down?" Because Burr is familiar with that--taking laudanum each morning following birth, and then having to ease himself off.

And then Hamilton says he wants Jefferson dead. Well. Burr doesn't know if he has the power to address that, right now. It's such a--what had happened, really? And Hamilton--

He sits down on the edge of the bed, strokes cool palms back over Hamilton's brow, the wrinkles there.

"Jefferson--he will live?" He asks, because there are small mercies, aren't there? Hamilton can't go away. They could be ruined but happy, so long as Hamilton was not away.

"I could--" Ned starts.

"No," says Hamilton, unequivocally. "I don't want any more." He hadn't wanted it in the first place. His eyes are closed, as he sighs, yields to Burr's touch.

"Unless the wound turns putrid," Ned tells him. "It's frankly astonishing that he hit Mr. Jefferson at all -- he was being pinned to the ground by George Washington at the time, and he hadn't time to aim. As it is, it caught Mr. Jefferson in the upper arm. Any shallower and it would only have been a graze."

Hamilton becomes aware of a low growl, rising in his own throat. He swallows, silences it. At long last, Ned hands him a glass of watered wine, and he drinks, to moisten his palate.

He pushes the glass away, then, and pulls at Burr. He wants Burr to be on top of him, weighty and warm. He wants to hold Burr close.

"It will be less a hindrance to your senses to have it," Burr says, "than to suffer through without." He knows the kinds of arguments that work on Hamilton. Should, after twenty years.

He wonders if part of this difficulty is not for wounded pride. From Jefferson, of course, but from Washington too. That old tension between them, a spot of rust on something polished. If Hamilton won't resent him that, as well. Once he knows who summoned him. Stopped him from ruining himself.

He thanks God, when Ned says Jefferson will live.

He is far away again, when Hamilton growls, and when he smooths his thumbs over cheekbones it is again like something done outside himself. Watching from further back. Eyes crossed.

He should comfort his husband. He should, but he rankles at the tug, a cat arching it's spine. He feels--he doesn't want to, and he can't say why.

"Hamilton," he says, softly, a little gentle censure. We have company, implied. We are intruding on someone else's kindness.

He stands, away from the bed. Space between them. Ignores heavy eyes from Ned, if there are any. Pulls up a chair and settles there, offers his hand again, little book of poetry balanced on one leg.

Hamilton is bereft, and wishes he did not know why. How can he proceed but to accept the punishment of a mate, wronged twice? Once, unspeakably, by a filthy traitor; again, by his husband taking revenge.

"Perhaps I deserve the suffering, the hindrance," he says, "for did I not go, without your leave? This should not be hidden; you have no cause for shame. He has every cause for shame. If I should forbear from challenging him, it is only because he is a renowned coward already." The words pour out of him, pain suffusing his voice. "How could I have left you to his brutality? How could I not have been there? Darling -- my love."

(Hamilton doesn't notice, but Ned, awkwardly, turns his back, as though this will provide the two with the privacy they so clearly lack.)

"Hamilton," Burr says, a harsher bite than then first. He drops Hamilton's hand and stands. "I will not speak of this," and his face is red, and really he would not flee if Ned were not there, but he is, and Burr doesn't want to--he hates this. This feeling that they're playing at a game. That Hamilton should feel--but is is Hamilton's pain, isn't it? To defraud something his own property.

Still flushed, when he turns and makes for the door. "I will not stay to agitate you. Recover yourself and I shall return," to take the sting out. He closes the door behind h, but the hallway is its own awkward, heavy silence. A long dark hall, with carved wood panels. Stuffy air. He makes his way to one of the smaller bedrooms. Hardly made up for guests, but--good enough to be alone. To read, maybe. He doesn't want to think, either. So he finds a nearby housekeeper, requests a bit of brandy, then returns to the room and closes the door.

Hamilton feels as though his heart is being crushed -- and, as his heart is no longer his, as it beats in Aaron Burr-Hamilton's chest, perhaps it is. He cannot draw breath. When Burr chooses not to take his comfort, it is painful; when Burr leaves entirely, it is agony. He is rejected. He has fought so hard for his family, for their integrity, their honor. Perhaps (a nasty part of him thinks) Burr preferred Jefferson, perhaps he wishes he never married --

No, it is just that his heart is breaking. He feels as though his family is wounded, suddenly, and that it may not be healed, maybe not ever. And Hamilton, Hamilton is simply so, so tired. He keens, softly and sadly, to himself more than to anyone else, turning over to press his face into the pillow, to muffle it.

What gave Jefferson the right to do this to them?

Why is this happening?

He finds that he is weeping. Ned's hand rests on his back.

This time, when Ned offers the laudanum, Hamilton does not refuse.

When Hamilton is unconscious, Ned goes to find Burr. Knocks, before he steps inside.

"Are you injured?" he asks. "Perhaps my foster-brother isn't in a state for it, but I worry about your health, as well. Even if you weren't wrestled to the ground by George Washington himself."

Burr had taken laudanum himself, before he left. Just a few drops on his tongue after bathing, because he never before had been in the habit of denying himself. It is that, in combination with the total overabundance of emotional stress, that triggers that disconnect, shutters the bridge between feeling and understanding.

So he doesn't really register until he is sitting in the room alone, watching the book clasped between his hands, and then between his knees, tremble. One empty room, windowless, stuffy with dust, and shaking hands clasped on a worthless. Book. He feels like he is eight or nine, sweating through a sweating summer reciting prayers he doesn't even understand.

It hurts, to sit. A horrible deep ache. He is bleeding, maybe. From when there had been no preparation, and--he is too relive himself in either way. Rings and a rod and--

Then there is the assortment of odd aches. The dull throb where he caught a foot in the rib. The heat that doesn't flee from a swollen cheek. The ache of his jaw, and the awful twisting of his stomach, threatening again at nausea. A pounding headache. Exhausted.

But none of this is--it doesn't compare to that awful numbness. Hollowed. Playing over Hamilton's face, again and again and again. Burr is--any other mate would have done something. Known what to do. Burr's never been a good mate.

"I thank you, I am well," Burr says, when Ned enters. "I beg your pardon. I will return to him once he is settled. I thought it best not to agitate him more, given his state." Which means--I am fine, please leave.

"You thought you could not bear your own agitation, you mean," Ned corrects. "You are in pain -- physical pain, as well as nervous pain."

He takes a seat across from Burr.

"You are bruised," he says. Gestures, at his own cheek. "Are you sure there is no internal injury?"

"It is still truth, is it not? If my agitation is to be his agitation." Part of their vows. Your pain, my pain. And so what if Burr is? Agitated and in pain. The only cure for that is solitude. Perhaps if he goes away long enough--no one will remember it happened.

"Nothing worse than I have welcomed gladly in the past," Burr says. Before Hamilton. Because that is a Burrian needle--playing at things too much for polite company. A dare to wiggle his way free. And because he wants to hurt, now. Not in any obvious way. Wants to embarrass. To--to make Ned feel foolish, for asking.

"You would do well to attend to yourself than me," he says. "Or perhaps one who does not welcome or take pleasure in the pain wrought by treatment or defilement." Yes, a doctor wouldn't be squeamish about the bodily. But perhaps he would be, about that, given his relation to Hamilton. Do not touch Burr, he might like it. And what would Hamilton say?

Edited 2022-11-10 06:31 (UTC)

Ned's expression changes, goes colder and more somber.

"Had you welcomed these attentions," he says, "I would have to believe that a man who's my brother in law -- or as good as -- would willingly tear into my foster-brother's heart, leave it bleeding out, and rend his family apart, cast his children aside, for a moment's pleasure. I know you, Aaron. You are clever, gallant, and charming among far more than just your husband -- but you love him. I've seen you reach for his hand when you think no one is watching, just to hold it. I've seen how you look at him when he enters a room. I've seen how he looks at you. And, by God, if you are, by some touch of the Devil, not the man I know, I pray you lie to me, for I want no part in souring Alexander's devotion to you. Now, for all that is holy, tell me if you are injured."

And it is Ned's little trick: to pile one thing on top of the other so that one denial or acceptance is a reflection on all others. Direct, always, in his addresses, yet that is only to the detriment of those who do not know him. There's more there, beneath that facade, workings nearly as deep as Alexander himself, if not lessened by good humors and stability. A great deal of reason and belief in logic and science.

I did welcome it, Burr wants to say and does, nearly. But Ned doesn't want to know, and in an instant Burr is nearly hysteric, heart hammering and struggling to swallow for all his outward demeanor remains placid.

"Oh, I may lie to you," Burr says, "if that is what makes it easier. But we know ourselves, already. How easily and neatly he has worked it out. Think you not his reaction would have been so, if some part of him didn't know?" That Burr liked it, that he's thinking about it still--the way Jefferson had commanded Burr's body effortlessly, drawn out those things Burr has long ago repressed, taught himself not to want. To not dare.

Burr is stretched somewhere in there: torn and threadbare and used. The place where desire meets disgust and helplessness in the brittle wasteland of a destruction that is not just his own. And he is daring Ned. Twisting some knife, deeper and harder and--he wants to hurt. He wants to hurt.

"You think you know me so well, then? Did you know the first time I saw you, you ignited fantasies? You look like him, but the desire was that you were not him, and that we might do some harm with our bodies, together, unable to resist. But I knew you would deny me, and I did not press the matter. But I am not--I am not who you think I am, Ned. I am sexed despite myself, and I want constantly. Those things they write about me--they are not untrue. And now--Jefferson has found it. And it is out, and it will never be tucked back inside me again."

The fervor fades, subtly and almost imperceptibly, into heartbreak. It isn't what he wanted, but he is--he is broken. And there is no going back. He can't even hold his husband's hand without--and. And Ned. He will leave now, won't he? And Burr can be alone. He just needs to be alone. And if he doesn't leave--Burr is on the precipice of shattering.

Edited 2022-11-12 05:32 (UTC)

"We all have sinful thoughts," he says. "You did not act on any desire for me, and isn't that more important?"

He steps closer, projects calm in his body and his smell. "And you know as well as I do that if Alexander had any apprehension that you would leave your family for Jefferson, his rage would be towards you, and not towards his political enemy. Your betrayal would have been what mattered to him. Instead, he reacts as though you are one -- as though both of you have been wounded. So I can only think that there was a truth he glimpsed the moment you came home that shunted him into a frenzy, not towards you, but about you."

It doesn't work. Ned doesn't leave. And Burr isn't--Ned steps closer, a warm hand on Burr's shoulder, and Burr is--he can't. He can't.

He grabs Ned by the cravat and drags him down into a kiss. Sloppy and off center and knocking teeth, and before they've even connected for more than a moment Burr is shaking, pulling back, swallowing back panic, tears.

He can't. Not to Alexander. No apology. He closes his eyes, hands gripping the sides of the chair, forcing himself to be iron. His chest is heaving, and--

"I'm bleeding," he says. "I think I can feel it. I'm not--there isn't--"

Edited 2022-11-12 22:00 (UTC)

Ned freezes for several seconds, his mind heaving and heaving like a horse trying to drag a wagon out of the mud. But, then, a beta's natural instinct to comfort and help a vulnerable omega wins out, because of Burr's reaction. It seems almost as though he were trying to convince himself he was the type to commit adultery -- as though it were some unavoidable inclination within him.

He crouches, before Burr, and covers Burr's hand with his own. "Where?" he asks.

Edited 2022-11-13 02:05 (UTC)

Ned doesn't do anything. He simply--he simply want to help Burr. Take care of him. And if Burr is to--if there is any providence, the slightest fools chance that Burr and Hamilton and even Ned might be able to go on like nothing has happened--that Burr need only attend this one thing and then put it a behind him, one last humiliation, he will take it gladly.

He clutches Ned's hand, too hard for anyone whose work relies on that appendage, clutches on like he is Alexander. Swallows hard, shudders back to himself. He has lived through worse. It is what it is.

"Not the passage a polite Alpha might take," Burr says, which is itself a confused double meaning. Had Jefferson been polite he should have confined such abuses to that second place. Yet a polite alpha would have no need for such discrimination. For a place so...what has Edwards said? A place so unproductive. "The other."

Edited 2022-11-13 03:20 (UTC)

Should he assure Burr that the anal passage is used fairly commonly by those who want to ejaculate without risk of pregnancy? -- No, perhaps now is not the time. He betrays no sign of shock, this time, except for what is left over from the kiss.

"What quantity of blood?" asks Ned. "Equivalent to menses, more, or less?"

He reaches for his spectacles, ensuring they're present in case he must perform a physical examination.

"Less, I think," Burr says. He hadn't spent much time examining himself, but he thinks it likely that he did more damage to himself than Jefferson had, in the tub. Scrubbing hard with finger that went a little too deep. There'd been a bit when he'd dried himself. Not just spotting, but also not enough to run. "Not dark colored, either."

Hopes Ned won't have to examine him, even as he reaches for spectacles.

"Then it should be all right on its own. But, you must keep to a soft diet, of gruels," Ned admonishes, "so that the movements of the bowel do not aggravate any existing injuries. Is there anything else?"

His voice is gentler, then: "You must be confused -- if that's even the word for it. Your biology would naturally incline you towards attachment to any alpha who has you in heat, but the longer you are away from him, the more your natural bond will reassert itself. That, I can promise."

"I have no bond with him," Burr is quick to say, an obvious lie. He can't look Ned in the eye, and what he'd said earlier--about enjoying it. It obviously isn't true.

But it doesn't feel like a lie now, far away from him. But. Imagining him. His elegance, the lithe gracefulness of his form, pushing Burr away with a foot. Reaching inside him with fingers. The things he'd said--Burr wouldn't stop him, if he found Burr now in a deserted hallway and bent to kiss him. Burr wouldn't be able to. Fear and arousal--he'd given up on either being intertwined. But now he's not so sure.

And he doesn't want to think about it.

"I'm tired," he says, "I need to rest," begging off Ned's company. He doesn't know how long they'll be here. But he'll have to take more, soon. Of the potion, to ensure nothing takes. And Ned needs rest too, if he is to see to Hamilton once he wakes. And Jefferson, too, if the man's own doctor has not yet been secured.

"Truly," says Ned, "the quickest way for your bond to grow strong again is by scent and touch. He had an instinct to reach for you, though I know why you refused him. He is thoughtless. But he does love you." He goes silent, thinks hard about saying the next, and decides not to, eventually: that he is worried Alexander will go back into a frenzy without his omega mate there to stabilize him.

He doesn't know anything. Why do they all thing Burr rejects the company for insult? He is not mad at Alexander, not punishing him, but--

It rankles. That Burr must go back, that he needs to. He wants to be alone. He needs to be alone. He is too vulnerable now. Stripped down. There hasn't been a moment to himself. Not since before--unless Theo sleeping outside the study door counted as alone.

"I will return before he wakes," Burr says. "I just need rest, first. Truly." Thinks he will panic without it, if he is pushed anymore. He'll just sleep a few hours, then steal back to that chair at Hamilton's bedside. Though he doesn't want to. He wants to book a carriage and go.

"You might take something--here," unwinding his cravat and shoving it clumsily into Ned's hands. The smell won't be right--not after Jefferson and the potions. It will have to do.

Edited 2022-11-14 10:44 (UTC)

Ned holds Burr's hand, for a moment, grasping him as he presses the cravat into Ned's hands.

"Remember: it is not only that he will take comfort in you, but that you take comfort in him. He has a responsibility to care for you that he takes very seriously."

He squeezes Burr's hand, and releases him.

"I'll ask the servants," slaves, "not to disturb you."

Later, Hamilton awakens still in a partial daze, smelling his husband, though the smell is wrong, and faint -- and he starts weeping, over Burr's absence, over the distance he can imagine creeping into their bond, over his simple exhaustion and pain. Ned rubs his back, and Hamilton presses his face into the cravat, like it will close some unutterably agonizing gap within him.

On the other side of the wall, Burr weeps too. Silent tears, unmoving, staring at the grain of the wood in the wall. And unlike Hamilton--he doesn't know why he weeps. He is numb. Distant. And though he promised Ned, he does not go to Hamilton. He needs to be alone. For how long, he doesn't know.

He thinks he is fevered, when he finally sleeps. His body aching and his stomach roiling. And somewhere there in the half space of dream and wakefulness he is sure, if there is a way to be sure, that beyond all hope he is pregnant. Something latching on inextricably, draining life and leaving behind petrification.

"Now, why is Mr. Burr-Hamilton in one of my sitting rooms, on his own, weeping so piteously?"

The voice is low, not just in volume but in pitch: a rumble felt in the pit of the chest. It is Washington who laboriously steps inside. He is still feeling some of the injuries that Hamilton inflicted on him, in his frenzy, and it makes him move with deliberation.

Or maybe it's his latest hemorrhoids.

"I think," says Washington, "that, perhaps, he is being foolish. But I decided to ask him, before I pass judgment." He takes a seat across from the chaise where Burr has slept, and offers a handkerchief, ever the gentleman.

Any tears Burr has now are a result only of his nightmares and disturbed dreams. He is only half sleeping, when Washington enters, and he shifts to a kind of half-sitting up against the wall, when Washington sits, then slides to sit up fully, when his brain catches up. President and general.

He has his own handkerchief, refuses Washington's, dabs off sweat and damp.

"Sir, I apologize for not asking. I needed only some rest from the excitement of last night--" Hamilton's excitement, not Burr's "--I will return to Alexander if I but have a moment to gather myself."

This is easier, pulling himself together to be Colonel Burr, whom has not been ravished, and who is not heat sick. Who is not fighting nausea, and who does not need to take more abortifacient.

He doesn't want to return to Alexander. He feels sick at the thought of seeing him. But he also can't bear the guilt at being away. Everyone has to do what they don't wish to, when the occasion comes. He has a duty. Even as his eyes burn and his head pounds.

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