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amrev_intrigues2022-12-10 03:35 pm
slowtoanger) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-12-10 03:35 pm
Christmas Thread
They're due to leave tomorrow for a long carriage ride to the Washington's. Two carriages between them, with a nanny in the second and most, if not all of the children. It is snowing lightly, and Hamilton has not stopped nagging the footman to keep the hearths well stocked. A chill wind buttressing stone and creeping in under window panes.
Burr should be helping them pack, getting the children ready, but he is still in bed, though it is well into the afternoon, beneath a pile of quilts. He can hear the pattering of the children overhead, shouting as they quibble over toys or clothes, and certainly though they are doing their best to pack, Burr or the nanny will have to see to refolding all the luggage for the journey. Hamilton must be in his study, at the torturous task of deciding which writings to take and which books he can afford to leave behind. No doubt there is a mountain of papers scattered about, him in the middle of a hurricane.
And Burr should be helping, but he is wracked at length by odd pains, difficulty drawing breath. He is larger than he should be for how far along he is, though that is not to say he is not a good deal along.
"I should think to prevent you from traveling," Ned says, as he sits back from his examination. "The strain on your body is great, and you would be too far along to go, I should think, were this a normal pregnancy."
"What do you mean?" Burr asks, a little annoyed. Ned knows Burr does not care for him to mince words. And Burr has been in this situation far too often, that he receives the words with less attention than he should. He is thinking of his own letter and correspondence he must see to, before they leave tomorrow morning. But Burr also knows his own body. He knows this current pregnancy has been one particularly grieved by pains and difficulties, ones his small body cannot contain. He should not be due for a month yet at the very least (which is not so much as guess, given Hamilton's travels had him away for a long while. The pregnancy simply could not be farther along) despite whatever size he may be.
"I think it unlikely that you are carrying only one child," Ned says, simply, "both from what I can feel and from what you have told me."
Burr should be helping them pack, getting the children ready, but he is still in bed, though it is well into the afternoon, beneath a pile of quilts. He can hear the pattering of the children overhead, shouting as they quibble over toys or clothes, and certainly though they are doing their best to pack, Burr or the nanny will have to see to refolding all the luggage for the journey. Hamilton must be in his study, at the torturous task of deciding which writings to take and which books he can afford to leave behind. No doubt there is a mountain of papers scattered about, him in the middle of a hurricane.
And Burr should be helping, but he is wracked at length by odd pains, difficulty drawing breath. He is larger than he should be for how far along he is, though that is not to say he is not a good deal along.
"I should think to prevent you from traveling," Ned says, as he sits back from his examination. "The strain on your body is great, and you would be too far along to go, I should think, were this a normal pregnancy."
"What do you mean?" Burr asks, a little annoyed. Ned knows Burr does not care for him to mince words. And Burr has been in this situation far too often, that he receives the words with less attention than he should. He is thinking of his own letter and correspondence he must see to, before they leave tomorrow morning. But Burr also knows his own body. He knows this current pregnancy has been one particularly grieved by pains and difficulties, ones his small body cannot contain. He should not be due for a month yet at the very least (which is not so much as guess, given Hamilton's travels had him away for a long while. The pregnancy simply could not be farther along) despite whatever size he may be.
"I think it unlikely that you are carrying only one child," Ned says, simply, "both from what I can feel and from what you have told me."
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He is so well fucked, so truly mated. He couldn't move even were he untied. He whines, when Hamilton nuzzles at him, lays perfectly still. The carriage--why is he talking about a carriage...?
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He never thought, all those years ago, that he could be so happy in such a way. Bearing the children of another, confined to a household where he could not range as far as he should like. But there is nobody more devoted in service than Alexander, no husband more accommodating and gentle.
Burr closes his eyes, feels the purrs against his back, and the smell, like protection and warmth and safety. Who could stay awake, in such a position? Certainly not Burr. He falls asleep, even as his lips ache with his heartbeat, his abused entrances that will can promise only the extent of the discomfort that will come later.
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The knotting isn't too long. As much as he longs to stay, longs to keep Burr here -- he sometimes has to fight down the part of him that wishes to keep his mate his, at home, though admittedly it's not a difficult fight, because Burr is profoundly gifted in the courtroom and his political career promises a meteoric rise, Hamilton would be an idiot not to see it -- he has tired himself out too, and feels the familiar tingling of the swelling going down.
"Darling?" he tests, softly, but Burr is certainly asleep.
He removes both the other cravats, and goes to the basin for morning washing. It is cold, but he warms the cloth a bit between his hands before attending to his husband, gently nudging his legs apart and teasing the slick out of the dark wiry hair. Wiping the seed leaking from his holes. He is sore and red, and Hamilton winces. He truly hadn't meant to initiate anything like that before traveling this morning.
He wrings out the cloth and returns, making sure to go between Burr's nether lips, just slightly into his cunt, wiping him clean. Burr is fastidious this way. Hamilton is confident he'll appreciate the gesture. He covers Burr with the knit blanket, tucking it around him and settling the nightgown over him too.
Finally he attends to himself, wiping down his own cock and dressing himself. The shirt and waistcoat are wrinkled, but passable still -- and he goes to check on the carriage, admonishing the children to be quiet -- "Aaron is overtired, and has taken a rest."
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He groans a little, in his sleep. Dreams his husband is on his knees before him, in the senate chamber. That Alexander reaches out and parts Burr's legs, that he follows insistent fingers with the wet swipe of his tounge. He moves towards it, into it, before the dream dissipates again, and he is drifting once more.
Perhaps his dreams turn troubled, when Alex leaves. But Burr wakes at length, to the smell of his husband, and the heavy ache between his legs. He whimpers as he shifts, lifts a hand to cup his belly, and--his wrists ache. His legs, strained. But most of all between--
"What time is it?" He asks, blinking bleary, disoriented. Alexander's face is unfocused and fuzzy, but Burr smiles when he sees him. The way he always smiles when he wakes up and his husband is there.
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Once the carriage is packed, he returns, gently rubs Burr's back. "Wake up. How are you?"
Burr blinks at him, and Burr smiles.
"Time for the carriage to go. Everything's packed." He cups Burr's cheek, can't help but return that smile, like a mirror. He cannot but melt -- the transformation in Burr's face is proof of love. Hamilton's pen would have to labor a thousand pages for what Burr can express in a breath, a smile.
He kneels by the bed, on one knee, bringing him level with Burr. "Not yet noon. We won't travel far for our first stop. I can help you dress." Or he can just kneel here and absorb how peaceful and lovely his husband looks.
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He didn't mean to sleep through all the preparations, though it is likely that is what would have happened regardless of Alexander's amorous intentions. Likely he would have been shooed back to bed, had he risen to do much of anything. Even now, Alexander dotes on him--helps him back against the pillows as he dresses Burr, carefully. More carefully than is warranted.
The shirt is loose enough, but the other layers are more restrictive. Breeches and vest and jacket. Old maternity clothes, suited for pregnancies smaller than this one. He's never liked ill-fitting clothes. And these won't be acceptable in a few more weeks. They'll have to prevail on the Washington's tailor.
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And then, because his pride is a little wounded and because there is no greater pleasure than teasing Hamilton: "you didn't seem to care overmuch about my comfort when you stuck your cock in me, then or a few hours ago." This is somewhat halting, as he tugs down a sleeve, tries to straighten everything and siddle to the edge of the bed.
He's wobbly, when he stands, and he plops back down onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.
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He offers his hands. "Come, now: you can lean on me. I can carry you some of the way. If only I was nineteen again, pulling cannons through New York every week's end."
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He does lean on Hamilton, a very slow, jolting precession. He must clutch onto the railing with one hand, the other around Hamilton's shoulder, and step down sideways, one stair at a time.
The whole way he needles Hamilton--did you remember this, that? Panting, by the time he reaches the bottom.
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He clearly is quite used and sore, so Hamilton dips and sweeps him up, behind the knees and under the shoulders. It's much more difficult than it used to be, and Burr has a significant weight on top of his usual slight frame, but the carriage isn't far, and Hamilton manages, with his solid and determined little frame.
The carriage is strewn with pillows. Hamilton has thoroughly raided the house for those and blankets both, and has had some hand and foot warmers prepared, of course. He fusses about, setting a cap on Burr's head, tucking blankets around him, and then going to see to the children too, making sure everyone is accounted for and warm enough, before coming back. "Are you comfortable? Are you warm enough?"
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"Alexander!" Burr says, a hand over his stomach like it's something that could simply roll off him were it unbalanced. That would be nice.
There's an indignity to it, that he often doesn't show in front of the children. But it's only a few steps out the door before Hamilton is tucking him inside the overfull carriage--stuffed with pillows and blankets. It's easy to settle, and he only gripes a little when Hamilton fits the cap over his head.
It's cold, in the carriage, but it warms quickly. He burrows, lays out where the wood sheet has been laid to make a bed between the benches. Won't realize he's falling asleep until wakes up, later.
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He settles himself next to Burr and begins to review some of the correspondence he hadn't time to check before leaving, letters from relatives of clients, those who came without introductions, people asking for money. Without the services of his secretary (who had gone ahead to arrange their occupancy in an inn well known to them) he did not bother to actually decide on any responses, merely sort them into polite refusals and those who may bear further investigation.
The countryside peels along next to them. The road us well-cleared, surprisingly so, and it is cold enough that there is no mud to trouble the way. The conditions of travel would therefore not be too difficult, provided they could all remain warm. From the mismatched singing he can hear from the carriage ahead, he believes the children are not finding that to be such a problem.
He begins to read a new treatise soon after finishing categorizing the letters.
Eventually, he shifts so he could be tucked next to Burr, sharing body heat beneath the blankets. It does necessitate jostling Burr, though he shushes him and encourages him to sleep again afterward. If Burr isn't tired enough to sleep, he offers to read the treatise out loud, though it is quite dry.
They travel until dusk is starting to fall. Hamilton has long since exchanged his glasses for his endless stream of consciousness on a case of his, mostly on the lack of merits on either side, when they come to the inn.
"I will check the arrangements," Hamilton tells him.
Inside, a letter has been left from Hamilton's secretary, detailing the reservation of a few rooms for the children and adults, as well as prepared dinner. The innkeeper's wife is solicitous and immediately goes out to fuss over Burr, bringing him in so he's in front of a hot fire with some hot chocolate. "You poor thing, your husband dragging you all out in a cold winter's night," she says, giving Hamilton a spiteful look. "Is stewed lamb like for you or would a chicken pot pie do better?"
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He sleeps, dozes only half awake once the carriage starts moving. Tries to force himself under fully, to avoid the pains of travel, but cannot. Hamilton melds against his back, and Burr nearly snaps at him, but turns into his scent instead, pulled.
With the slats laid between the seats, the interior of the carriage is one level platform. Their pillows are piled against the opposite door and windows, sealed tight for just such journeys. If they were both of them not so short, they would be unable to lay out fully. As it is they have no trouble lying down, and Burr takes advantage to stretch, a little pleasurable shake not unlike a cat, as his muscles pull.
The worst thing about carriage rides is that there is not much to do, and that the jostling can make one sick. Burr is lucky to have a husband who is not so susceptible to illnesses of motion, who can read to him at length, even if the text is dry.
But his nose does get cold, and he does need to pee. Needs to pee quite often, really. He must be helped out of the carriage, when they reach the inn. Not so long a journey, to be already tired. But Hamilton had done his part in exhausting Burr, and naps were never so restorative as they should be.
At least the innkeepers wife is youthful and attractive, and Burr smiles at her, dazzling, when she grants him attentions.
"Madame, you are exceedingly kind," Burr says, taking her hand, a small squeeze. "Whatever you think best I shall take, and gladly, though I should think the best already before me."
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She does recognize the name, and blinks in surprise.
He tucks a warm blanket over Burr next to the fire -- "Do tell me if you get too warm, dear? I'm going to see if the children need anything. Should I let them around you or keep them away?"
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"You may allow them here, if they wish it," Burr says, because he has hardly seen them all day and desperately wishes too. "You made sure James Alexander had his doll, and that Sally remembered to change her stockings?"
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Unlike Burr, the children all were brought straight up to their rooms, with basins to wash hands and faces to ready themselves for supper. Hamilton comes in and immediately scoops up little Rachel, swinging her around wildly before hugging her close as she giggles and clings. She is all a mess, hair ribbons wild and little dress all rumpled. He kisses Theo on the cheek -- "You're perfectly right, the book is dull as dishwater, it nearly sent poor Aaron to sleep."
"Have you read to the third chapter yet?" she asks, wrangling Rachel still so the hair can be managed.
"Oh yes, all the way to the fifth."
"So you've encountered his ridiculous idea--"
So at least the conversation was quite good. James Alexander wanted to show him a bird skull he found by the side of the road during one of the bathroom breaks, which Hamilton couldn't identify if he were paid to, and he complimented it accordingly. He had, at least, managed to keep himself mostly in order.
Sally's stockings are duly changed. And soon they are all down to dinner, little Rachel clutching on to Hamilton's hand. She does run over to hug Burr's legs as soon as she sees him, though.
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"Now, how did my little gentlewoman manage such a trip all on her own?"
She laughs at him as he prods at her, tickling fingers, before he tugs her close, against his side, pressed only a bit against his stomach. She doesn't quite understand well, what it is, and how to be gentle with it. She often pokes too hard, though she doesn't mean to. She likes to rest her head on it too, as though it were a pillow, which is much more welcome and frankly adorable.
Hamilton comes to sit beside him, and Burr takes his hand, tangles their fingers together. James Alexander is too busy bothering Theo about something--something about war horses--to pay his parents much mind.
The innkeeper's wife returns, lays out steaming bowls of stew, and a loaf of bread to pass. So Burr must release Hamilton's hand, and Hamilton for his part must reach over and lift Rachel over to sit between them, so Hamilton can help her with her meal.
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He is so possessive of his family now. The happiness he grasps so tightly feels as though it does not belong to him, that he is undeserving or simply wrong, ill-fitting, rejected.
He tries to dismiss the feeling, which exists in his breast just the same as the sweet love for all of them, the endless patience for Rachel and her little clumsy hands. She wants to do it all herself, her face compressed in concentration, just like when she was small and all she could do was mash little bits of meal and potato all over her face. And chest, and arms, and chair, and gown. Sally was more passive, big-eyed and willing to let herself be fussed over. Unfortunately, that means now she's sometimes overlooked in the rush.
Rachel still manages to make a mess. Hamilton dabs at her face, the nanny offers to take her. Hamilton declines, which he doesn't do very often, feeling unexpectedly tolerant and patient. It feels like a lovely and precious moment, to help her this way. "How is the chocolate?" he asks Aaron.
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He's about to answer about the chocolate, when--
"I found a rock!" Sally says, smiling with all her missing teeth.
"You did?" Burr says, and his excitement doesn't sound so put-on, with his children. "Perhaps one day you'll be an archeologist," he says, reaches across the table to dab at her face.
"It's for you!" She says, slides it across the table. It's just a stone--a little grey pebble, but Burr's heart squeezes, and suddenly his vision is blurry.
"You're a good girl," he says, voice wobbly. He takes the stone in his hand, turns it over.
"Is it pretty?" She asks.
"It's the prettiest thing I've ever seen, behind you and your siblings, yet perhaps before your father." He stands up and braces on the table, leans over to kiss her on the head, though it is a difficult maneuver.
He tucks the stone back in his pocket, when he sits back down. There's no point in keeping it--it is simply a rock, and he has enough offerings from his children to last a lifetime. But. He'll hold on to this one, just for a little while.
He's ravenous, when he sets in on his dinner. Eats the whole bowl and his helping of bread, slower going than it should be, as he watches Hamilton unabashedly. Savors.
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Soon it's time to take the younger children up to bed, though of course Theo is old enough to stay up reading by candlelight, so long as she doesn't strain her eyesight. He helps the nanny put all of them to bed -- she'll sleep in the same room, in case of any distress during the night, with the coachmen having another.
A servant at the inn put a pan of coals between the sheets to warm them before the two get in bed, and they're close by a chimney, even if the room doesn't have its own fireplace.
"Backrub, darling?" asks Hamilton, with a yawn.
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If Hamilton rubs his back, he'll sigh and stretch. Tired, though he hasn't done much of anything the whole day. Hamilton has been handling everything, as usual. Burr worries, sometimes, that he will overwork himself as he had during the war, until he is too sick to rise from bed.
"I love you," he sighs, thick with sleep. When Hamilton is done Burr will curl against him, head on his chest. He's warm.
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"My hero," he murmurs, against Burr's shoulder, kissing him. "My hero of Quebec."
He settles onto his back, and lets Burr reposition himself. Kisses Burr on the forehead. "And I love you," he affirms, his own eyes closing, half-gone already. He is beyond exhausted, suddenly, all of his energy gone the instant there is no need to spend it.
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His chest hitches, when Hamilton mentions Quebec. An old wound that could scab but never heal, agitated by hormones and the stress of travel. He pushes wet eyelashes against Hamilton's neck, breathes in his scent, bathes in it.
Perhaps it is instinctual--get the child used to it now so that he knows, when he comes out. A sick little flutter, a small pain, a shift. He exhales, holds his stomach, settles.
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