amrev_intrigues | This is Fine Alternative Denouement

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.

"Excitement... that is one word for it, I suppose."

Washington's eyes are sympathetic.

"You don't need to stand on formality. I consider you and Alexander to be like sons -- and Theo to be like a granddaughter. You both are welcome here."

He seems unfathomably old, suddenly. Pained. He looks away. (He is thinking that he is glad Jefferson's doctor has set up his sickbed elsewhere -- though he is conscious it will still have the appearance of playing favorites. He is thinking that he hopes the Union survives this disaster. He is thinking that he needs James Madison on his side.)

"At least take a bed-chamber," he suggests. "If an old man can offer some comfort to one who has been so wounded, perhaps it can be that."

"I am not so wounded," Burr is quick to say. "I'll be recovered in a day or two. I worry more for Alexander." What Alexander thinks, will think, and how he'll cope. Burr's been wounded worse before, during the war. They'd thought him lost, after the battle of Monmouth, and he'd still never really recovered. Sensitive to the temperature in a way not dissimilar to how Alexander was sensitive to the seasons. "He can't challenge Jefferson like that again, but I fear he will be beyond reason." He doesn't see a way they can go on in their current positions, he means. Even this most recent convulsion had the potential to dissolve the union beyond repair. Anything else would be--

"I thank you, I shall ask a room to be prepared," Burr says. "You should to your own rest as well," Burr says. "I can see already how Hamilton's struggles have injured you," and Washington already was not in the best health, before. He doesn't know to what extent Hamilton has been restrained. But he feels that guilt keenly--to be the center of such an upset, and to have called on Washington to resolve it, aware even of Washington's recent fragility.

Maybe the guilt shows. But it is better that than shame.

Edited 2022-11-18 10:06 (UTC)

"Mrs. Washington is already at work," he says. "You know she is so fond of you. I would have attended to it earlier, but I had assumed..." That he would want to be with his husband.

A hint of a smile.

"You are very strong," he says, "but I cannot forget a young omega, mere days after childbirth, insisting he could ride a horse. That he must ride a horse, to go and find his mate." There is something like fondness, in this memory. "Whenever you are under threat, Alexander does something foolish... Ah, but it had to be me. He is a headstrong man." He sighs. A headstrong man -- that's an understatement. Alexander does not submit to authority. "Yours are narrow shoulders for our Atlas -- but I fear the weight of the union will rest upon you, in the days to come."

"I should think it more likely to fall onto Mr. Madison's shoulders," Burr says. Slighter even than himself, but no less broad. Stockier is perhaps the word for it. But Madison was, despite his height, the more able of them. As cool as he was dignified, in any setting Burr had seen him, if not prime to fits of extreme agitation in his personal affairs. When he had been younger.

Washington is right, though. Burr, who would at risk of his own death, ride to attempt to rescue Hamilton. And Hamilton, who would at risk of his own death and Burr's, ride out to avenge his own dignity.

He doesn't think there will be a way to mend the gap between them. But Hamilton needs him now, and Washington is tired. So Burr excuses himself, and knocks tentatively at the door to that sick room, light enough to be nearly unheard.

If he is granted entry--he will hit a wall of scents. Bad, desperate ones, that wrap around him like led. His face will pale, and he will be shaking, when he takes that seat again at Hamilton's side and offers his hand. And is Hamilton is feverish it will burn to the exclusion of Burr's own. One heat lost in another. And Burr won't have anything to say. But offer himself, in this little capacity he can. Because Burr's body is not his own. Because Hamilton has been so defrauded.

Edited 2022-11-19 20:04 (UTC)

"In matters of public outcry, I am rarely wrong," is all Washington says to that. He parts from Burr with a squeeze of his shoulder, a murmured word of support.

Hamilton is asleep when Burr enters. He is curled up, on his side, hands cupped in front of him and nose buried in the cravat. He seems small, this powerful man, this leader of the Federalists. He is small.

The touch of Burr's hand rouses Hamilton enough to nose against Burr's wrist, to brush his lips at Burr's palm. He looks up bleary, confused from the drugs. "Oh," he says, like he's recognized something strange in Burr's face. "I love you," like a revelation, like a surprise. A tear runs down his cheekbone, touches the corner of his mouth. He doesn't seem to notice. He just breathes the smell of Burr's skin.

Maybe this is the pain--the wanting and needing and loving something despite one's self. Maybe that is why Hamilton weeps, why he breaks so completely, comes apart so piteously on seeing Burr. He does not want to love Burr anymore. Maybe he can't stop himself anyway.

Burr doesn't do anything he didn't do before--sits there and brushes his hands over Hamilton's face scents him with what lingers on his wrists, let's Hamilton take from that small portion of his body, as Burr watches him, blank.

He doesn't know how to make Hamilton better. To undo what he's done, or fix any of this. To make himself feel more--more. It's been only part half a day, since Burr came home, and already they are broken.

"I'm sorry," Burr says, hardly more than a whisper. He's watching Hamilton still, petting. Slow, soothing strokes, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his thighs, knees brushing the bed. He won't join him. He can't. And he doesn't think Hamilton would be able to stop himself--from marking and covering and needing. Like when Burr came home, and Hamilton had sunk teeth into throat and then left Burr there, let him collapse into the floor. Left.

"You need to rest," Burr says, soothes. He needs to rest, so that Burr can rest too. So that the endless parade of people needing things from Burr can finally stop. So that Hamilton can feel better. Be himself. Burr needs--he needs Hamilton to be himself.

Edited 2022-11-20 07:23 (UTC)

"Come here," Hamilton says, "why won't you come here," because he wants to groom Burr and scent him and Burr is so far away. Burr is far away on purpose, and he won't come closer. He is rejecting Hamilton. Slow, petting strokes just feel like another way to create distance. Hamilton is not comforted.

His mind whirls: not a frenzy, but something like it, digging up the nasty, painful things in the chasms in his heart, the places where he buried everything before New York.

He pushes Burr's hands away. He never wanted you, it was always a sham, it was desperation, it was the pregnancy. "You don't want me," he accuses. That's why he went to Jefferson, because you're not good enough. "Don't touch me -- don't touch me that way. Am I so repulsive?" You are disgusting, and he knows it. "If you want to go, then go."

And they're just words. Just a few careless words, but--whatever there was left of Burr after all of it--whatever tissue-paper thick composure he had pulled over himself since, it rips away to nothing in an instant. Hamilton pushes his away, and Burr isn't--he's not doing enough, then Burr doesn't love him enough, and Burr isn't enough. Maybe it shows on his face. More likely it doesn't. That's how it's always been, when he feared for the life of his children, or even lesser occasions, when insult was offered him; his face shutters, and his sits back, cold. But it isn't complete. There is damp there, when he stands, mechanically, and goes to the door.

He can't handle--he can't. And he hurts. He aches still, fevered and bleeding and--but this is worse. And he feels wronged. More wronged even than--

He doesn't know what to do. There's something happening inside him. A cascade of sick and hormones and need. He needs someone to care for him. He needs his mate. His mate? And he's suddenly confused, disoriented and--he just needs someone. To tell him he's good. And no one will do that. No one will do that. And he's alone. And he's not where he needs to be. And that's why no one will take care of him. He's not being good. He needs to be good. He needs his--his mate?

So Burr goes. Quietly and quickly. Winds down dark streets. He needs to find his mate. He needs to find Jefferson.

Thomas Jefferson is not in the most pain of his life. No, the multiple attempts to set his wrist bones in Paris were probably more painful. He has had worse fevers -- certainly as a child. If his wound does not go putrid, he will, in fact, be perfectly fine.

But, at the moment, he is certainly suffering.

He should not have opened the door.

"Is he mad?" he remembers asking, wide-eyed, at the slave who announced that Hamilton was demanding his presence outside. Withdrawing and pretending at stone-faced indifference when every plea from outdoors set his heart racing. He thought to explain himself, once Washington had Hamilton suitably restrained, the diminutive loudmouth for once silenced. Washington's prodigious strength has declined so much in recent years -- but he smells as much of alpha as ever, and Jefferson had believed that, only that, was why Hamilton let Washington take him. He opened the door, and at first thought he had stumbled, or that someone had seized him by the shoulder -- unacceptable, even for one as trusted as Jupiter -- and then he... then he felt the blood. He felt the blood trickle, before even the pain.

He should not have opened the door.

Burr should not have tempted him, that way; Jefferson did not start the evening planning to ravish the husband of another alpha. Burr should have been more careful. And Burr welcomed it, anyway. The punishment is far outsized for the crime.

He shifts restlessly on his bed, hurting, hurting, hurting, with every heartbeat.

He is awakened by one of the Hemmingses, telling him he has a visitor. "I'm seeing no one," Jefferson orders. "Turn him away."

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