Burr has always been a fan of putting things off. It was the smart thing to do, really. One never knew what information could be revealed the next day, and in the interim one might come to some new understanding that would make said decision clear or easy.
He doesn't want to think about midwifes. When Hamilton suggests he get married he is angry enough to lock his bedroom door at night and not allow Hamilton access until the next day. It's none of Hamilton business who he pairs himself with. It's none of anyone's business.
Burr isn't property, or cattle. His uncle had taught him those things, the old things, about Omegas, but Burr always thought-- well. But look at him now. Pregnant and abandoned. Not abandoned--a stab of guilt. Burr's fault. If he had been a better aide, Monty should never have been the first through that wall, around the corner of that street.
Either of them would have died, that day. Already he can feel that panic mounting, at the thought of attaching himself to anyone one. He had never thought to attach himself to anyone, before Monty.
What had happened to Burr and Sally, when they had been children? A series of homes that didn't want them, an uncle that didn't want them. How they had paid for that, in tears and blood.
Fiercely protective, that is what he is. Sometimes when he is simply going about his duties he must grapple with the sudden urge to bare his teeth at a passing alpha, to hide himself away far back in the safety of his room.
What would happen to him if-- what would happen to Monty's child, if Burr should--
God, he can't think about these things. Much easier to tuck them away somewhere. And each day that list of thing Burr should not think about seems to grow; that night when Hamilton, half asleep had purred at Burr, the way Burr had shuddered, felt himself grow half hard as he pressed himself against that body. Never one to deny himself, he had been known to visit other alphas, but now he is thick with tension, and not since Monty--god, but not with Hamilton.
Still though, he had been tense, that week Hamilton was gone. Told himself time and time again it was no matter, yet found himself pacing, mind filled with images of a snow bound city and broken bodies. Unable to sleep, jumping at every noise, flinching when another alpha addressed him too aggressively. A mess. What would happen to Hamilton, if something went wrong? What would happen to Burr? He burns at the lack of independence, at the need that has formed despite himself, the easy sleep he has, when Hamilton is at his side, how easy it is to rise from bed, to dress, to eat.
And when Hamilton had returned--Burr had wanted to do awful things to him. Had wanted to bite at his scent gland, lap at it, to rub himself over Hamilton skin, listen to the sounds he made, until there wasn't any way to distinguish one scent from a other.
Awful thoughts, that leave him guilt ridden and depressed.
He is finishing the bindings when the door opens, no knock, typical.
Hamilton bursts out his protest, eye widening, face still reddened and lovely from his drills, grabs Burr's hands. He does not understand, of course, that the pain of the bindings is much preferable to the scour of his skin against his breeches.
"stop it," Burr says, attempting to shake Hamilton hands off, rolling his eyes, "let go, yes I know it's bad for me but I need to--really just let go of the damn bandages, Hamilton!"
But Burr doesn't have the energy to fight back against every single one of Hamilton's incessantly annoying worries. If he's going to remove the bandages, let him. Let him get the whole damn thing out of his system. Nothing will stop Burr from reapplying them once Hamilton leaves. And he really is rather good at drifting off while Hamilton whines.
Re: cw: passive suicidal ideation
He doesn't want to think about midwifes. When Hamilton suggests he get married he is angry enough to lock his bedroom door at night and not allow Hamilton access until the next day. It's none of Hamilton business who he pairs himself with. It's none of anyone's business.
Burr isn't property, or cattle. His uncle had taught him those things, the old things, about Omegas, but Burr always thought-- well. But look at him now. Pregnant and abandoned. Not abandoned--a stab of guilt. Burr's fault. If he had been a better aide, Monty should never have been the first through that wall, around the corner of that street.
Either of them would have died, that day. Already he can feel that panic mounting, at the thought of attaching himself to anyone one. He had never thought to attach himself to anyone, before Monty.
What had happened to Burr and Sally, when they had been children? A series of homes that didn't want them, an uncle that didn't want them. How they had paid for that, in tears and blood.
Fiercely protective, that is what he is. Sometimes when he is simply going about his duties he must grapple with the sudden urge to bare his teeth at a passing alpha, to hide himself away far back in the safety of his room.
What would happen to him if-- what would happen to Monty's child, if Burr should--
God, he can't think about these things. Much easier to tuck them away somewhere. And each day that list of thing Burr should not think about seems to grow; that night when Hamilton, half asleep had purred at Burr, the way Burr had shuddered, felt himself grow half hard as he pressed himself against that body. Never one to deny himself, he had been known to visit other alphas, but now he is thick with tension, and not since Monty--god, but not with Hamilton.
Still though, he had been tense, that week Hamilton was gone. Told himself time and time again it was no matter, yet found himself pacing, mind filled with images of a snow bound city and broken bodies. Unable to sleep, jumping at every noise, flinching when another alpha addressed him too aggressively. A mess. What would happen to Hamilton, if something went wrong? What would happen to Burr? He burns at the lack of independence, at the need that has formed despite himself, the easy sleep he has, when Hamilton is at his side, how easy it is to rise from bed, to dress, to eat.
And when Hamilton had returned--Burr had wanted to do awful things to him. Had wanted to bite at his scent gland, lap at it, to rub himself over Hamilton skin, listen to the sounds he made, until there wasn't any way to distinguish one scent from a other.
Awful thoughts, that leave him guilt ridden and depressed.
He is finishing the bindings when the door opens, no knock, typical.
Hamilton bursts out his protest, eye widening, face still reddened and lovely from his drills, grabs Burr's hands. He does not understand, of course, that the pain of the bindings is much preferable to the scour of his skin against his breeches.
"stop it," Burr says, attempting to shake Hamilton hands off, rolling his eyes, "let go, yes I know it's bad for me but I need to--really just let go of the damn bandages, Hamilton!"
But Burr doesn't have the energy to fight back against every single one of Hamilton's incessantly annoying worries. If he's going to remove the bandages, let him. Let him get the whole damn thing out of his system. Nothing will stop Burr from reapplying them once Hamilton leaves. And he really is rather good at drifting off while Hamilton whines.