private storyline...... 3!!!

[non_stop]

Hamilton tells Washington, that day, that Burr's uniform had been ripped by the laundress, and that he had to go into town to repair it. Washington, who favors thrift and also a polished appearance by his subordinates, accepts this well enough. It is certainly a better excuse than some others Hamilton has invented, whole cloth, for his friend.

And Hamilton, quietly, that day, first takes pen to paper.

New York City, 23 Apr. 1775

Forgive the lack of salutation; I do not seek to compromise you or your privacy.

My tongue, I find, is inadequate to the task before it. How can it convey the profuse and overflowing sentiments of my heart, when it is struck dumb at the sight of you? I know you are not so sentimental, and your patience for such things is thin. I beg your indulgence.

As air lends a vivifying element to the blood by means of the lungs, as water does the same by gill, so you have lent me that which previously I knew not. In the nights that I have such blessing as sharing a bed with you, it seems to me that you breathe but that I am the one animated. My blood stirs. New organs of thought and feeling have awakened within me. I was asleep; I was insensible. I thought I knew what there was to know of this world because Death has walked my path, stalking a step behind me, cutting down the few that dared to give freely of themselves to me.

I was foolish. Forgive me. I did not know that the future could bring with it

At this point, Hamilton is interrupted, sent on an errand. He folds the paper and slips it among those in his personal correspondence, carried in a satchel.

He does not finish the letter that day. He is sent overnight to courier orders to a nearby group; though merely a captain, he has the knack already of wheedling superior officers into doing what Washington wants.

The day after, he returns after Burr has already left his room. He tucks the unfinished letter onto the desk, intending to come back to it later.

A quick tour by the cook has her weighing him down with an entire basket of food, as she apparently has come into contact with one of the widows he's been supplying. "Bless you," she tells him, "little Patty has croup, and I've sent mulled wine for her and the rest of the Westerings. And a letter for my sister. Be off, now!"

"Madam," Hamilton says, "how could you say such a thing to me? You banish me from the presence of an angel. What is my crime, to be so cast down?"

The cook, who is dumpy and short, with a broad, friendly, ruddy face, and also a good forty years on him, gives him a merry laugh. "You rogue! Out of my kitchen."

"Any way I may be of service," Hamilton vows, with an answering grin, and slips the letter in a pocket. He does take the wine by the Westerings, and then the letter next door. Two more visits, and the basket is emptied, and he's on his way back to the camp.

He doesn't notice the man until he steps out in front of Hamilton, shaky and pale and lips thin. "You!" the man calls. "You! Captain Alexander Hamilton!"

"Aye, I am he," Hamilton admits, suddenly wary.

"I charge you!" And Hamilton realizes this man isn't any older than he is. Younger, in fact, scrawny, though maddeningly taller. "You have ravished my sister and got her with child, and you will answer!"

"You have mistaken me," says Hamilton, coldly. "I have done no such thing."

"You cannot hide your crimes," insists the youth. "She swells daily, and you prance about the city as though you are above the law!"

"I have gotten no one with child!" Hamilton snaps.

"You visit her--"

"I visit many." Then, on realizing how that sounds: "To bring bread to those in the city who cannot obtain it themselves!"

"Sir, you will answer. I challenge you." The youth is pale. "I challenge you."

An hour later, Hamilton stands before Washington's desk. Burr, Laurens, and Lafayette are all present, maddeningly.

"I swear to you, sir, I was not responsible for her state," Hamilton vows.

"Hamilton." Washington sets his spectacles down hard on the desk. "I know you have spent many weeks bringing food into the city. I have turned a blind eye."

"I had no improper motives--"

"Shut up. I can't turn a blind eye to this." He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Accept the man's challenge or a court martial."

Hamilton pauses.

"What is your choice?" asks Washington, impatiently.

"Both," says Hamilton.

Laurens drops a sheaf of papers.

"Son." Washington sounds weary.

"I want the chance to prove myself innocent, and I cannot back down from a challenge of honor. Sir." A beat. "If court finds me not guilty, then perhaps he will withdraw his challenge."

A gamble. Hamilton is not one to back away from such gambles. Nor from challenges.

"I'll sign the orders," Washington says, finally.

Comments

[slowtoanger]

"Are you quite mad?" Burr asks, the instant they are alone. They are in Burr's room, the first break Burr has had from duty since the talk of court marital. Burr had been perfectly blank during that scene in Washington's office, though now he is agitated, pacing. "Both, both, I mean truly! I would not think you above such carnal pleasure, or hold them against you, but to get a woman with child, and to leave her in such a position, when it is you who have been lecturing me about the importance of legitimization!"

Burr cannot help but think of his own position, the gripping anxiety of a discovery, a confession that is more imminent each day, but more acute is a sting like betryal. He doesn't know why, but he feels gutted, a horrible gripping that causes him to lay a hand over that swell, to turn from Hamilton and walk towards the far corner of the room more like a closet.

He is alone, isn't he? Hamilton will have to do the right thing and marry that girl, and Burr here will be alone, and nothing had changed but he feels ill. And if Hamilton does not do what is right, he will be court-martialed, or killed, and Burr will be left here.

"You can't duel," Burr says desperately. "And you can't be court-martialed. You have to come to terms with the brother, make an offer for his sister."

[non_stop]

The words hit Hamilton like a physical blow. He sits down hard, on the stool.

"You don't believe me." Hamilton chokes a laugh. He shakes his head, dropping his forehead into his hands. "I never laid with any of them, Burr. It was only to make sure I could distract any watchers from you."

His voice is tight, and hurt. How would he have had the time to be a lover, with all he's been doing, for anyone but Burr?

"I cannot make an offer."

[slowtoanger]

The hurt in Hamilton's voice brings Burr up short. He had thought it was all an act, to weasel out of punishment, but looking at Hamilton now, bent over in that chair, he feels something worse than the earlier thought betrayal twist in his chest.

"You didn't lay with any of them?" Burr asks, and he doesn't understand. "Why not?"

[non_stop]

Why dawdle there, thinks Hamilton, when you are here?

Oh, but he can't say that. It is a pathetic and lovelorn thing to say, as much as it might be true, at least, that Burr's company has started to put him at ease.

"Perhaps it is as you say," he snaps, moving to his feet, "and I wouldn't father a bastard child. Or maybe I'm just busy. I have a gunnery command and I manage three men worth of correspondence for his Excellency, all while he sends me to the far reaches of the island to rally troops that refuse to be rallied. Or perhaps it's that I see my mother's face in each of theirs -- which is true. I see her all the time, though I can't remember her face. The only place I don't see her, now, is you."

[slowtoanger]

"So you play mind games now!" Burr snaps. "You said it wasn't your child, and now it is! And then you do not have time to lay with them, at the same time you find hours to spend each month delivering them food, by your own account!"

He doesn't even know where to begin with Hamilton's mother, though it can only be some snide attack against Burr's virtue. He is angry enough to resume his pacing, to face towards that small desk, to spy the letter sitting on the top. He cannot help but scan it quickly while Hamilton flings arguments at his back, always so good at tuning out indulgent whining.

"Unbelievable," he says, as his eyes run over honied words, and that pain returns two-fold, beneath the hot rush of anger. "Unbelievable! Now you're writing them love letters! Why, I'm sure I'm more the fool than them, for you've been here in my bed every night but fucking them!"

He takes the letter and flings it, but it merely catches the air and floats gently, no match for his uncontrollable anger.

[non_stop]

There is such strange synthesis taking place within Hamilton. On the one hand, he is caught breathless; to see Burr angry like this, I'm more the fool than them, though --

"I made you no promises." And yet, Burr is acting as though he did. That Burr depended on those promises, casting himself in a role more wronged than even a woman he claims to believe Hamilton impregnated.

Hamilton has become steel. He is the boy who seized every chance, the urchin who snarled and fought for every new day, hungry for every win. Just you wait. "But I will." His voice rings. He is a different kind of desperate now, and it is flame. "I'll prove myself, and if I cannot return to you with honor and commission both, I won't return at all."

[slowtoanger]

"You'll get yourself killed and disgraced, is what you'll do!" Burr rages, "and I'll have no part in it!"

He begins to move about the room, gathering up Hamilton's meager possessions--a few uniforms, the blanket, a good deal of writing supplies, and shoves them at him. He won't cry, hormones be damned. He's too angry to cry.

"I don't want to talk to you," Burr says. "I don't want to see you, except for what we must. And when you end up dead don't expect me to attend the ceremonies!"

[non_stop]

He shoves the blanket back at Burr, and lets it fall to the ground if Burr doesn't take it. "The quartermaster has that under your name," Hamilton shoots back. "It's not mine."

This, as a comeback, leaves something to be desired, but it's really all he's got.

A good thing he has the writing materials, though, because once he is back downstairs, he begins to write his defense.

--

The court martial starts after a week. Hamilton is in a fever of preparation during most of this time, arranging witnesses and testimony. As expected, the woman in question absolutely and categorically denies that Hamilton is the father; as expected, this makes little difference.

On the day of -- the trial would ordinarily be half an hour, an hour at the most, but Hamilton's reputation has ensured that the court knows to set aside the full day -- the case is commenced with the young man as a witness. He accuses Hamilton of visiting his sister, names him as the father. The gallery is tightly packed, as the omega woman is the widow of a British officer, and the conflict between Loyalist and Rebel has tensions high.

The widow:

"He is not the father." Her chin high. "My husband, killed this last October, left me with child on his death."

The court dismisses this. "A woman who has fallen cannot be expected to tell the truth," the military judge decides, "and therefore her testimony cannot be believed."

Hamilton seethes: the judge does not decide what happens if the woman is honorable.

A doctor:

"Were she pregnant since October, she should show in a greater way than she does."

A neighbor:

"I never saw him there before the new year."

The other families he's helped:

"Always brought bread, rain, snow, shine."

"Nursed little Patty, I couldn't get no rest, all her coughin'."

But the court isn't listening, Hamilton thinks. That one of them is visibly pregnant does not help matters. It's not working. Why isn't it working?

Hamilton is called to testify.

"I have behaved only in comportment with my position as a Continental Officer."

"You are accustomed to the presence of low women, are you not?"

Hamilton's eyes flare. "Excuse me?"

The prosecutor turns back to him. "Your mother. She was a low woman, was she not?"

"She was unable to divorce--"

"Nonresponsive, Your Honor."

"Agreed. Answer the question."

"She attempted to divorce--"

"Your Honor."

"Mr. Hamilton, the question."

"Perhaps I should rephrase. You yourself were both out of wedlock, were you not?"

Hamilton closes his eyes. "Yes."

And later:

"Now, what interest would a male alpha have in so many unmarried women?"

"I wanted to help them."

"To earn their gratitude?"

"No."

"They weren't grateful?"

"No, that wasn't the reason."

"Then what was the reason?"

"I have seen the reality of women left behind by cruel husbands, discarded by false men, and widowed by Providence. I saw my mother in them."

"You mean you considered them fallen."

"No! That's not what I meant."

"Did that make them easy prey, Mr. Hamilton?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never considered a widow or a child something that I would hunt, sir."

And then, when the case falls apart:

Laurens is called to the front of the gallery. He drops his eyes in shame, and Hamilton feels himself grow cold and afraid.

"Now, Mr. Laurens, what were Mr. Hamilton's sleeping arrangements during the last of '74?"

"With the aides, all of us in the same room."

"Did that change?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"Was it January?"

"I don't think so."

"February?"

"It might have been late February."

Laurens is looking anywhere but Hamilton.

"How did it change?"

"He almost never stayed with us."

"And did he start reporting late?"

"He did."

"What is Mr. Hamilton's designation?"

"He's an alpha."

"Have you ever smelled something on him that wasn't alpha?"

Laurens hesitates.

No, no, thinks Hamilton.

"Yes," says Laurens, finally.

"What did you smell?"

"Omega."

The prosecutor presents a scarf to Laurens. "Is this the omega you smelled on Mr. Hamilton?"

No, please say no --

Laurens inhales, but hesitates. "I don't know," he says, finally.

The prosecutor calls Hamilton back after that.

"What was the identity of that omega?"

"That omega has not been a witness before this court."

"What was her name?"

Hamilton considers it; shamefully, he does consider it. But he shakes his head. "I will not answer that question."

"If you do not, you may be held in contempt. Will you answer, Mr. Hamilton?"

"No."

[slowtoanger]

Burr's bed is cold, without Hamilton there. The blankets smell like him, though a stale, empty version, and he finds himself tossing with pains that before would have been soothed by Hamilton's touch. There are no extra rations, now that Burr will not speak to him, so often he finds himself wracked with hunger, and in the morning, when he is nauseous and sick, there is no one to vouch for him. No one to help him on with his stockings, his boots.

He leaves the letter alone, until just before the trial. Unable to look at it, for twistings of sick jealousy that he is so unaccustomed to. But the night before, when he is ill with worry, he takes it from the back of the drawer he has stuffed it in, unfolds it, and holds it in his hands. It takes a good moment, to force himself to focus on the words, but when he finally does, he feels even more sick.

In the nights that I have such blessing as sharing a bed with you, it seems to me that you breathe but that I am the one animated. Sharing a bed with him. God, Burr is an idiot. Hamilton has been in Burr's bed every night, and no one else's.

He wants to speak to him. Wants to rush to him and beg forgiveness, but Burr is not taken to dramatic displays, and even if he was, it is too late to contact Hamilton, with the trial in a few short hours. A sleepless night.

--

From his position with the other officers, he comes to a series of revelations. That Hamilton's mother is a fallen woman, who earlier Hamilton had said he never associated Burr with. The next, that Hamilton's assistance to the ever-needy Burr has damned him. And that Burr may very well be hopelessly in love with him.

What can Burr do then but step forward, though every part of his body screams at him to stay in position, to resist such a public display.

goddamn it all Hamilton, answer the man Burr thinks, but he knows Hamilton will not. Will force this out of Burr, because who is capable of saving them both but Burr?

"I have testimony!" Burr cries from the gallery, over the general clamor that has claimed the courtroom. "I know the identity of that omega that Hamilton has spent his nights with, and has so often smelled of, and it is not this woman whose brother would damn an innocent man."

[non_stop]

Hamilton looks on in open shock.

This isn't how it's supposed to go. He's supposed to save himself, and then come back and save Burr too. He's supposed to be strong enough now, since he's not a boy anymore. He's supposed to -- how can he be good enough for Burr if he needs to be rescued? How can he be good enough for anyone?

Not even strong enough to save yourself. The words suffuse into the omnipresent frenetic drumbeat at the back of Hamilton's mind. He wants to be the brightest, the best, the worthiest. The terror that freezes him right now is that, if he lets this happen, he never will be.

But he can't think of how to stop it. And can't think of how to survive, ambitions intact, without letting it happen. Specters of callous greed, on every side, and nowhere a clear and honorable path.

He draws closer to the gallery, a hundred pairs of eyes on him, the wooden rail like a jail's iron bars in between him and the man he wants desperately as a lover.

"You don't have to." Hamilton yearns and yearns. He imagines himself on the verge of shattering, and thinks of dark and glittering eyes, of how a tree's supple roots can twine through ruined brick-rubble and ash, to drink of the rich ground beneath. Burr is reaching for him. Will Hamilton refuse to relent, just for the pride of it?

He can't say all of what he means, not here. You don't have to will need to suffice. If Burr decides to reveal himself, Hamilton will stand by him.

"Come forward," says the judge. "What is your name, and what testimony do you have for the court?"

[slowtoanger]

"Captain Aaron Burr, aide-de-camp to General Washington, sir." A beat of silence, as he turns over what to say. There can be nothing but the truth, of course, but he had wished to be more tactful. Washington is there, and Lafayette, and Lauren's, of course. Well, they would have learned soon enough. He is nearly 18 weeks along. He won't be able to hide it any longer.

He looks at Hamilton, locks his gaze.

"I'm the Omega," Burr says. "Hamilton has been with me every night he is not called away on duty."

"Why has he been with you?"

Ah yes, they want to make Hamilton seem like a libertine, deflowering another omega, this time from under Washington's nose.

"I am with child," Burr says, and there is more to say, but disorder and fervor has claimed the courtroom since the start, and it is only further flung into disorder by Burr's revelation.

"Hamilton's child?"

"General Montgomery's child, sir."

An uproar, from the gallery, from the courtroom in general. Montgomery was a war hero and he died in Burrs arms. Burr was a war hero. It will be in the papers, no doubt, just as Burr's tale of catching Montgomery's body had been. How will they paint him? Patriot or whore?

"Montgomery is dead."

"The child was conceived on the Quebec campaign, on the Eve of the assault."

"You can prove this?"

"We were engaged," Burr says, forces himself to remain steady, though inside his heart is pounding. "I have a ring." He pulls the chain out from around his neck, the chain he has kept hidden in the back of his dresser since Hamilton began sharing his nights.

Montgomery's family ring, his seal.

"Yes, that's him," Laurens says, "that's the Omega."

[non_stop]

Hamilton finds, quite quickly, as Burr speaks, that his own shame and anguish diminishes, until he is energized, bright-eyed. Not helpless.

One palpable hit on the audience: Burr is the omega.

Two: He is with child.

Three: The father is dead, a general, a hero.

And Hamilton rounds on the judge. His turn. "Must this continue?" he cries, righteous, his voice slicing through the tumult of the crowd. "Must you persist in this? Can his grief not be suffered without the prying eyes of half New York?"

He steps out into the center of the room.

"Here, a man, determined to keep the faith of his country and do his duty," with a wide, smooth gesture to Burr, "determined to shoulder his own burden while sheltering the light of a new soul, a gift from a love too short for this world -- Captain Burr is a greater man than any here."

It would sound hyperbolic, coming from nearly anyone else. Hamilton thunders it into the silence.

"And in the face of that, what could I do?" Softer, dropping his volume so that they are quiet, listening. "I could only try to show myself worthy of trust. And, in doing so, I found a way I could help make this, our country, a beacon for the world. Not just of freedom, of reason, of republic, but -- of mercy. Of charity. Of kindness. Far from bringing shame on our army -- what we have seen today shows what Americans can become when we rise. We do not cloak ourselves in ignorance, but reach to our neighbors. We do not turn our backs on the helpless, but lend our labor and our arms to the common defense. We make this country a place safe for every widow and every child."

Three paces in a broad arc, claiming the space and, symbolically, driving the prosecution to the edges. "Have we not all tasted the wretched flavor of a European world? England would have it that all poor wretches are poor wretches forever, ignorant, squalid, starving."

A turn to the other side, ensuring that he addresses each part of this gallery.

"I was a poor wretch. I confess it. Born out of wedlock, to a mother chained by the irons of corrupt and artful laws, to a man who wanted her to suffer. And now I am here, in a city where I can be so much more. Where, if I see myself in an urchin, I need not stand by. Where any man, by virtue of mind and ability, can rise. Where a love crossed by tragedy need not end in tragedy."

The way he paces, he has positioned himself to cross the open floor by where Burr is, at the edge of the gallery. So when he stops, now, and turns as though drawn magnetically towards Burr, it can seem like an accident, or a destined thing, Providence's hand. Like wherever Hamilton goes, he will always find himself here.

"I have nothing to offer you," he says, to Burr. "I have no land, nor title. I have little rank, nor money. Forgive my impudence in offering, Captain, as you have forgiven so much from me: I have only myself, but I give myself freely to you. I would marry you tomorrow if you would but have me."

[slowtoanger]

Burr recognizes what Hamilton is doing, as he paces the room with his nonsense impassioned speech about the rights of fallen women and American and freedom. The people seems quite swept by it, a few tearful, which is quite ridiculous.

Of course, all that attention zeros back in on Burr, the second Hamilton approaches the gallery and asks for his hand.

It is a truly awful proposal. Indulgent and grand and more about Hamilton being a savior than anything else. He wants to save Burr's reputation, and Burr bristles in response. This whole thing was meant to show that Burr did not need saving, that he wasn't ashamed about himself, and what had happened.

Oh, but another part of him thinks it would be quite good fun to further grind traditions into the mud, for a disgraced omega to promise himself to a compromised alpha after only just revealing a previous engagement, in a court of law no less. Yes, the papers would have a field day.

"Hamilton," Burr whispers, reaches across the railing to grab his hand, though he swears he can feel every eye on them. "If you would forgive my earlier doubt, I would be pleased to have you." Pleased, god, he sounds like a moron.

[non_stop]

He bows low over Burr's hand and brushes a kiss over his knuckles through what are, by all accounts, unfairly lush eyelashes. The gesture would not be scandalous. The look he gives Burr, however, is a bit scandalous, and apparently this tips a lady in the upper gallery over into pretending to faint. (Hamilton doubts it's sincere.)

He will need to reassure Burr privately after this, of what was performance and what true. But that can wait.

For now, the courtroom is pandemonium, George Washington looks vaguely pained, the judge dismisses the charges, and the young lady at the heart of this case marches her brother to Hamilton afterwards and glares at him until he mutters something about withdrawing the challenge.

Hamilton is so happy, he cannot but respond with grace.

"Sir," he says, with a bow, "would that all sisters had such ardent defenders as you. I begrudge you neither your mistake, nor your request for satisfaction."

Afterwards, Hamilton tucks himself in a corner and scribbles down a document, referencing from one of the law books he'd only begun to study. His draftsmanship leaves a bit to be desired, but the formalities are recognized, and he surveys it with satisfaction before appending his signature, and going to look for Burr.

[slowtoanger]

The difficulty with great crowds and sensational trials is one is often caught up in the, regardless of what one wishes or does not wish to happen. As it is, the fastest way to extricate himself is through leaving the legal house, though in doing so he is pulled with a general throng, until he finds himself waylaid by a handful of reporters.

"Mr. Burr, is what you said about General Montgomery true?"

"What would the general think of you getting married not even five months after his death?"

"Captain, what are your plans now with the general's child?"

"Burr, would you say Montgomery rescued you from the hands of wildmen?"

Burr, who has always been very good at maintaining composure in situations such as these, charms them all with a brilliant (calculated pained) smile, and spins them all stories dripping with patriotism and honor. He thinks Montgomery would be fairly amused, were he still alive.

Burr's real goal, in extricating himself, is to find Washington. While Burr would like to find Hamilton, push him against the nearest wall, and truly show him how sorry he is (and, if possible, receive an assurance that what was said was not all for show,) the state of his future military career is not quite assured.

He spots Washington waiting for Hamilton near the entrance, with Lafayette and Laurens. Not quite the crowd he was hoping, to have a discussion such as this.

"General Washington, sir," Burr says, fighting down redness as he bows. It is impossible to miss the way his eyes shoot to Burr's midsection, the swell only just visible even beneath his buttoned coat. Burr has been lying to him for months.

"I understand I am to congratulate you, on your engagement," Washington says stiffly as Laurens coughs into his hand. "And your...pregnancy..."

[non_stop]

Washington might not even be the most agonizing part of this; Laurens seems thrilled both that Hamilton was innocent and that Hamilton is apparently getting married, and Lafayette, behind Washington's back, keeps making absurd eyebrow-waggling movements and mouthing I knew it, which he absolutely did not.

Hamilton joins them quickly, and takes Burr's hand, taking him aside for just a moment. He offers him the freshly drafted document.

"It has no contractual consideration, from you," Hamilton admits, with a bit of a flush, "and so, it may not be enforceable, but it should at least give you an action for promissory estoppel." He steps away, with a squeeze of Burr's hand, immediately throwing himself on the dagger of Washington's attention. "Your Excellency, perhaps we should speak about my continuing to provide supplies to the town. I had a thought that you may find meets with your approval."

He pulls Washington's attention away, as they begin to walk, leaving Burr time enough to read and consider.

The document is a formally written promise. It states that the heirs of Aaron Burr's body will be treated as the heirs of Alexander Hamilton's body, into perpetuity, with equal rights to support, maintenance, and inheritance as Hamilton's own future progeny. Hamilton is right that the document would be difficult to enforce in court, because, on the face of it, Burr is not giving anything in exchange for this grant of rights; however, this does mean that if they married, and Burr predeceased Hamilton for whatever reason, causing all of Burr's estate to go to his husband, Burr's child would be entitled to equal inheritance with the rest of Hamilton's children. It also would allow Burr to at least try to bring a claim of support against Hamilton should he find himself in need, even if they don't marry. Promissory estoppel would give him a chance to succeed.

It's the most sincere private declaration Hamilton can currently think to make. This is not for the court, not for the press. It is for Burr and the child, alone.

[slowtoanger]

It is quite an overwhelming thing to read, and on the tail-end of a public proposal, revelation of pregnancy, and court-martial. Burr has to sit down when he finishes, take a few deep breathes, leaning against the wood of the building, and read it again.

Burr's children will be Hamilton's children. Children. Plural. He can feel his breathing getting faster, and he has to cover his eyes, force himself to calm down. Not a panic attack, but some kind of swell of emotions.

He huries to his feet, an action that will only become more difficult, in the coming weeks, down the paths in front of the court house and after Hamilton. They are deep in discussion in some matter Burr does not care about, but at the moment propriety is the last thing on his mind.

"I'm sorry General Washington, might I borrow Hamilton for a moment?"

And Lafayette, bless him, chooses that moment to pretend to twist an ankle, going headlong into the dirt. Washington is too distracted to notice Burr pulling Hamilton away, through a series of large hedges to a private space between the overgrowth.

He shoves Hamilton hard, to that he goes toppling on the grass, but he does not give the shock and hurt enough time to settle in Hamilton's eyes before he is on him, pushing him back into the dirt and kissing him, hard, biting at his lips and pressing the whole of his body against his, swell pushing against Hamilton's stomach. All of him.

Hamilton is wonderful. Hamilton is beautiful, eyes sparkling here in the outdoors, and they can kiss and touch as much as they please (well, maybe not as much), because they are engaged and maybe in love, and he will be Burr's, and Burr will be his.

[non_stop]

When Hamilton was very young, he once heard one woman on a walk with another woman tell a story of a boy who'd tumbled a girl in the hay. Hamilton, being in the single-digits, agewise, hadn't had a clue what it really meant, but he visualized something like this: not the first moment, when he'd thought that Burr read the promise as disrespect, some kind of accusation of being unable to support a child himself, but the moment after that, when Burr falls on him and they're kissing. When he can feel Burr smiling into the kiss, and then they're both laughing, noses brushing, absurd and giddy and definitely unbefitting the dignity of a gentleman and/or officer.

He supports Burr at the waist, feels the breath in him. You breathe, but I am animated.

"You are sentimental," he needles, teasing. "I knew it." And he kisses away Burr's response before any can be had. He indulges in being close, in the abrupt relief of the tension and almost-heartbreak that the looming court-martial and duel had caused. He is glad to be alive. He is glad.

[slowtoanger]

Burr nuzzles his head against Hamilton's chest, against his scent gland. He wants to smell like Hamilton--wants everyone to know that he is Hamilton's omega, and this child will be theirs. Brings his lips up and kisses there, to that spot where the scent is strongest, nibbles, sucks. Enough to fluster Hamilton--tease him.

He lets out a content sigh and stills, sliding down to hear Hamilton's heartbeat. The stress of the past few days dripping out of him.

"When are we going to be married?" Burr asks. "And rings, we'll need rings." His hand fiddles with the chain he wears around his neck. "I'll want to wear Monty's, too," he says, quietly, afraid Hamilton will begrudge him this. "And maybe Washington will allow us to share quarters, officially. Maybe he won't send me away."

[non_stop]

So many nights, carefully laying himself out under Burr so his scent is there, but that it won't rub against him, won't transfer in any way palpable around their uniforms... The freedom of this is a rush. The way Burr lavishes attention on the scent gland makes Hamilton breathe in sharp, has his mind fuzzing out. Loses track of what they're talking about, for a moment, and has to bring himself back to the present.

He reaches up, and closes Burr's hand around the ring. "Of course you will," he says. "Aaron, I'm not -- okay, I am jealous," he admits. "But." It's hard for him to explain, because it's hard for him to understand, really. A small part of it is: a dead man can't be a part of Burr's life, going forward, and it's hard to begrudge him a past that Hamilton wasn't there for. But maybe it's more that he knew he would have to open his heart to more than one person -- the baby has been inextricable from how he thinks about Burr, since he came back from Quebec.

He places his hand, gently, on Burr's abdomen. He swears he can feel the pulse of lovely, vital energy.

"But I'm also not jealous," he concludes, hoping Burr can understand even a fraction of what's going through his mind.

Oh. Rings. "You may have to settle for homemade," Hamilton says, "at least, until we get rich after the war." Strange combination if humility and cockiness, there.

[slowtoanger]

He likes it when Hamilton touches his stomach. Likes it when Hamilton lavishes attention on it, the little looks he seems to shoot Burr, when they are going about their duties, the small attentions. Care, though he had begrudged Hamilton those things in the past, when he had still viewed each interaction as a struggle, one of the desiring to come out on top.

"Hamil--Alexander." Burr says, allows his voice to dip low, silky, watching Hamilton's face, the small shudder. Smiles. He likes this power he has, this effect. Would like to break a few decency laws, if they had not only just returned from another legal matter. Dips down again to suck on a patch of skin beneath Hamilton's ear, threads his fingers through Hamilton's hair. He has always loved Hamilton's hair, and how he can touch it whenever he pleases.

He has no doubt the two of them will be unstoppable after the war. If he had thought at any time his lust for Hamilton might lessen that lust for power, he is wrong. If anything it only wets it, the idea of the bodies entwined both in private and in government, doing awful things to each other where there should be only dignity. But his excitement is also tempered, by the need to reassure. His knowledge of Hamiton's upbringing, the poverty, the fight for affection and attention he would never receive. He would invite homemade rings from Hamilton, even if in married life they had to live in poverty.

"I love Montgomery," Burr says, pulling away, to rub his thumbs beneath Hamilton's eyes. It is hard to say this, but it is true, and they are to be married regardless, so his hesitance is absurd. "But I love you too."

[non_stop]

He does so cherish even the smallest crumbs of affection -- and Burr offers him a feast. His eyes flutter closed, at the touch; they spring open at the words.

"Oh," just a small sound, escaping. He doesn't even think of what he should say in return, at first, so preoccupied with absorbing those words, sheltering them in his mind, layering them over and over with the feeling of this moment, until they fossilize in perfect impression, exquisite detail.

[slowtoanger]

It would be easy to be offended, when Hamilton fails to return Burr's words, but it's easy to see how overwhelmed he is. His pupils are blown, from Burr's earlier treatment, but he seems breathless, speechless.

Burr grins wickedly. He knows how to extract what he wants from one less than willing. And bending down to latch his lips back onto Hamilton's scent gland is a pleasure in of itself. Not nearly as pleasurable though, as the way Hamilton gasps and digs his fingers into Burr's shoulders, angeling his head back.

He revels in the sound of Hamilton's moans as he works him over, his other hand smoothing down Hamilton's side to grip tight over the growing bulge in his pants, squeezing once, twice, while Hamilton writhes. Ah, but he is making such sweet sounds, and for as much as Burr loves them, he cannot allow them to be discovered, in this little alcove between the tall bushes.

The hand not working over Hamilton's pants he brings to Hamilton's mouth, working fingers inside past lips, pressing down hard on his tongue, and then he slides down Hamilton's body, until his mouth is level with Hamilton's crotch.

"We'll have to be quick," Burr says, "and quiet," but he doesn't allow Hamilton any preparation beyond that, loosening the ties and allowing his erection to spring free, quickly bringing his lips to the head and licking over the liquid beading there, running lips over the slit, the gland, darting his tongue to lick them free of salt.

Hamilton is making desperate, muffled sounds, his hands fisted in the grass, hips trembling with the effort to remain still. Oh, Burr thinks, such restraint won't do. He should be gripping at Burr, held down by Burr.

Burr latches his mouth around the head of Hamilton's cock and suckles, fully intending to drive Hamilton mad, for as quick as they must be, for the threat of discovery. His other hand works over Hamilton's balls, rubbing and massaging. After a moment he switches hands--pulls the one wet with saliva down to grip over the part not in Burr's mouth and gags him with the other. He pays special attention to the knot, not yet fully swollen, pulls his head away to lap at it, before he decides he wants it in his mouth, needs it in his mouth right now.

Sliding his head down that warm, hot length is easier than he thought. Slipping the knot in is not. While he hollows his cheeks and bobs his head up and down, tasting the cock on the back of his tongue, the knot bumps continually against his lips. What would happen, if Burr slipped it in and left it there, until it had swollen to its full size? Would Burr be knotted that way, in much the same way as an omega is knotted to an alpha in the proper way? The thought sends a new rush of heat to his own neglected cock, and despite himself he begins humping Hamilton's leg, looking for some kind of relief, friction.

Hamilton is making all kinds of wild sounds now, writhing fully on the grass, fisting his hand roughly into Burr's hair, forcing him down. The knot bumps against his lips, seeming impossibly large, but Hamilton is pushing, and Burr is relaxing his jaw, and then it is in, and Burr gags once before moaning around the intrusion, the ache in his jaw, the fullness.

There was a plan here, at some point. A plan that involved making Hamilton beg for Burr's mouth, and return those declarations of love. But it seems Burr has gotten himself into a situation, at it were.

[non_stop]

Evidently, Hamilton's much-vaunted intellect is failing him, right now, because we must be quick and quiet doesn't process until Burr's fingers are already loosening the ties, then: "Oh, f--" and Hamilton bites back the curse, as Burr's hand wraps around him. In an instant, his blood is pounding in his ears, thickening in the length that grows at Burr's effortless command.

He muffles desperate sounds in between Burr's fingers, sucks hard on them, his lips quickly messy with saliva. At first, it's all in his head to ensure that he doesn't hurt Burr in the way he did the last time (he could see those aftereffects, and was determined to control himself when it came down to it) and then -- the incredible, wicked tongue, lips working their way down him. Oh, he's trying, he's trying, even as Burr tongues and toys with the sensitive base.

And Burr seems just as hungry for it. Hamilton's resolve weakens, and his fingers have tangled in Burr's hair without him even realizing -- and Burr is -- he's letting Hamilton draw him down, taking it, all of it, his lips stretched, and he --

Hamilton whites out a little as Burr seals his mouth over the swell of the knot, shocked at the impossibility, how filthy it is to have Burr trapped like this, to use him in such a way. Hamilton curls up a bit, releasing Burr's hair, only to touch that straining cheek, stretched tight over his knot, and when he presses, he can feel the touch from inside Burr's struggling mouth, his thick weight pressing down the hot trapped muscle of Burr's tongue.

A tremulous breath, one that might carry further than just the two of them. Better judgment driven from his mind. His hips twitch up and he comes down Burr's throat, fierce pulses of seed that Burr has no choice but to take. It is so tight on him -- the ring of Burr's lips, his nose pressed into wiry hairs. He feels as though he owns Burr, and that he is in return claimed.

It takes him long breathless moments to recover any of his faculties -- oh, gods, why had Burr borne down on him like that, opened up to the knot, and Hamilton squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will it down.

"You are filthy," he gasps, "you -- oh you're perfect, Burr, you're incredible, you vixen, you siren," keeping his voice hushed. When he takes himself in hand, strokes himself to orgasm, he rarely knots at all, and when he does, it isn't for long -- something about Burr just brings this out in him, makes his body want to stake fierce claim and pleasure the omega in the process. He can't tear his eyes away, fingers tracing the stretched mouth, the swollen cheek, this was a quick climax, it can't take very long.

French spills from him, something about the little death and casting himself willingly to the waves, if Burr is the siren tempting him, some nonsense about the heat of his tongue and his devastating beauty, and English again as he promises: "I'll have you coming on my tongue tonight, as many times as you can take, until you're soaked for me, I want you tonight. I want you every night. I love you, I love you."

He fiercely pictures someone finding them, discovery by the least erotic people possible, and finally the knot starts to go down.

[slowtoanger]

Oh god, Hamilton is whispering sweet, filthy things to him, spilling down Burr's throat and Burr can only swallow it down greedily, working himself against Hamilton's leg, rutting like an animal.

God, he's stuck here, Hamilton knotted in his mouth, and when Hamilton reaches down to stroke that swell through Burr's cheek, Burr's hips jerk a final time as he comes hard in his pants, closing his eyes and muffling his moans against Hamilton's cock, feeling it twitch and dribble something more down his throat.

The cock is still stuck, knotted in his mouth, and Burr closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. When Hamilton says I love you, Burr is helpless, can do nothing but moan against that length, lost in the rush of endorphins, in Hamilton's promises to do filthy, filthy things to him. God, he wants that.

The knot finally goes down enough to slip out of his mouth, and Burr falls back into the grass, panting. There is no semen smeared down his face--the knot had seen to that, but there is a good deal of saliva, and when Hamilton leans over to see that he is okay he tugs him down roughly, connects their mouths, open mouthed and lazy and messy, smearing against each other.

A filthy thought, reaching into his pants to scoop up some of that semen and slick, bringing it up to Hamilton's mouth. Hamilton, whose pupils are still blown, opening for him, lapping at Burr's fingers and sucking them clean, until their mouths are connected once more and Burr can taste himself in Hamilton.

He feels his cock twitch, struggling to grow hard once more. Someone will have to put a stop to this, be the adult.

"We should find Washington," Burr tries to say, but his voice is hoarse, the way someone sounds when they have just been fucked in the throat. Perhaps it is best to allow Hamilton to make the plans.

[non_stop]

"Are you all right?" -- Stroking Burr's cheek with his thumb (was just stretched over his knot, and his softening cock throbs at the memory), kissing at Burr's mouth, the corner of his lips.

Oh. Oh. "You--" You came. Hamilton hadn't even known, he'd been so swept away by what Burr was doing to him. He noses at Burr's hand, licks up the spend, tongue dipping between Burr's fingers. This, the palpable feel of his enjoyment, has Hamilton clutching at Burr as they kiss again.

"Lafayette isn't an idiot, he's got Washington out of here," dismisses Hamilton. This is possibly wishful thinking, but it seems like the sort of thing Lafayette would do. He tips his forehead against Burr's. "You are devastating. I've never wanted anyone like this. How could I have ever thought I would be satisfied just holding you?"

He'll put himself away, he'll straighten up his clothes, in just a moment, a moment. Just wants to linger for a moment first.