American Revolution Musebox

What had begun as an idyllic spring romance is quickly curtailed by General Cornwallis' pursuit of Washington's army for much of that summer. They are constantly on the move, and though the roads are passable in the high heat, they will not always be, once the heat fades and the wet comes.

Since learning of his pregnancy, Washington has not requested Burr leave, too in need of competent aides, but has made it clear he will not be moved from desk duty, and must be attended at intervals by Washington's surgeon, given extra rations. How terrible it would look, were something to happen to the unborn child of General Montgomery--the kind of media sensation an America at war is drooling for, stories of patriotic hope. But also worse, to separate Hamilton and Burr, when their public betrothal and scandalous trial has similarly created a stir.

If ever the army needed hope, it is now. It will be a long war, Burr knows, as any war fought in one's home is. They spend long hours on the road, retreating, wounded slung wherever they will fit. For those early months Burr rides along with them, as men march alongside, but he swells rapidly, and the heat begins to affect him. He faints once, on a long march through endless miles of burned field, sick with heat and too delirious to realize, until he collapses over his saddle and is saved only by Lafayette throwing himself bodily at Burr.

After that he must pass these marches in one of the precious few wagons, shaded beneath whatever is on hand, more often than not spooning small amounts of water into the afflicted men's mouths.

These marches are terrible for other reasons; he is often not with Alexander, at the head of the column, and sometimes it happens that the two do not see each other for more than a few minutes each day, until they are pitching tents and laying bedrolls. It is not proper for them to share a tent, but concessions are made.

He is seven months pregnant when September comes, the heat still rising off the countryside to rub the horizon to a blur. He is Eight months pregnant when they move north, towards Long Island, to prepare for an offensive, and once again he does not see Alexander until they are retreating, chased north by Cornwallis. More days of travel, Burr reclined beside the dying in the back of a wagon, clutching a blanket against the chill that sets in on these last August days.

The army is blood-shod, missing supplies, hardly able to move. Less horses than they need, less wagons, less tents and blankets and rations. Burr doesn't know where they are going, but he knows the winter will be hard, and that they will likely not stop running.

Things seem to stall for a month, or rather slip into a routine, a delicate balance that teters on the edge of a tension difficult to dissect.

Hamilton won't stop feeding Burr, stealing him bits of food, watching at mealtimes to ensure Burr eats some incomprehensible measure from the table.

Burr had tried to take advantage of the public nature of that tradition, to eat bare scraps while Hamilton glared, beneath Washington's gaze, but when they had been once again alone Hamilton had refused to leave until Burr embibed enough food to make his stomach ache.

His sickness eases, but does not vanish. Mornings bent low over a basin and heaving while Hamilton attempts to cover for him to an increasingly agitated Washington. Underperforming--that is what Washington says. Disgraceful. He thinks these morning spells of illness the results of intemperance with ale, no doubt.

But the nights--those are the worst. Because he cannot stop aching for them. For the moments when he can curl against Hamilton's skin, close his eyes and pretend it is another body, if only the scent were not so different.

Even if he is not Monty, Burr aches for those scraps of affection, clinging to him the way one might cling to a rock in a storming ocean. Grows terrified that Hamilton might leave as much as he tries to convince himself he does not need him. But the emotions, once allowed to be felt, cannot be easily stopped up again. It is too easy to find himself drifting towards Hamilton during the day. Wanting to touch him, be touched. Held. Perhaps even groomed, though the thought makes him blush with shame and embarrassment.

His bedroom becomes too comfortable, allows them to slip too close to intimacy. Burr had nearly cried, when Hamilton presented him that blanket. Not enough for a real nest, but enough to fuss with on the bed for long minutes, make something resembling a nest. Burr had lost everything, in the retreat from quebec--but at least now he had a blanket.

He can't look at Hamilton's face, each night he fusses with the bedding, every stereotype he every rallied against. Any inadequacy of that nest quickly erased by the warmth of Hamilton's body.

Too close to hide the swelling, the changes. Close as a lover. Burr doesn't think of what they are--can't. Takes these liberties as they are--stolen and shameful.

With all the food, the extra smuggled bits, Burr is starting to show. And his hunger isn't leaving, never sated, but he is growing ravenous, and each day the question of what to do is more and more urgent. Soon Hamilton won't let Burr put it off anymore, and what then?

For all of it, his worrying about propriety, he balks in the face of some lie. Burr's reputation matters, is vitally important, but at the same time, he cares not for manufactured conventions. Would have no problem being seen as a loose omega, if only he were established enough for such things to not ruin him.

Even so, he is nearly unable to fasten his breeches, and the skin around his stomach, stretched, begins to grow sores, from the too tight waistband, the chaffing. Built for soldiers losing weight, not gaining, and Burr has always been slight. He takes to binding his stomach, tight beneath bandages, but then he is wracked with cramps, which grow worse each day.

It doesn't occur to him that this might hurt the child, this last bit of Monty, which has grown so dear to him. Finds himself clutching his stomach unconsciously in stolen moments, on the verge of tears. Watches the rise and fall for long moments, in the morning and at night, as if at any moment the slight bump might disappear entirely.

Now he is dressing again, binding his stomach once more, to force himself into his breeches, another day of Washington's disappointment. Burr snorts--at least in this there is some bitter mercy--Washington probably thinks Burr is growing fat from drink, if he's noticed at all.