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.