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Chapter Text

They brought him in cuffed.

Not because he needed to be—he’d already drained his last handler and gone limp before the suppression team even got a good hit in—but because it looked better on paper. “Defiant subject restrained.” It sounded responsible. Tactical. Controlled. As if they’d earned it. As if any of them had been the reason he stopped.

The manacles were cold against his wrists, loose enough to bruise but not cut. They didn’t sedate him this time. They didn’t have to. He walked where they shoved him, silent and half-smiling, just enough tension in his frame to keep the guards nervous.

The hall to intake was a long, sterile corridor—steel plating and reinforced glass, humming faintly with the electric buzz of a dozen suppressants buried in the walls. It smelled like antiseptic and blood. He hated it. He didn’t flinch.

They pushed open the debrief door and threw him in like a package gone sour.

He hit the chair with his full weight and stayed there, sprawled. One leg kicked out, arms loose across the table, back resting too comfortably against a chair designed to intimidate. His collar still steamed faintly from where the last handler had tried—pathetically—to override him mid-feed. The burn was raw, tender, a smear of red on his throat. It stung when he swallowed. He didn’t touch it.

The room was small, white, painfully bright. Observation mirror on one side. Data pad terminal on the other.

He waited.

His heartbeat was steady. His fingers twitched once—restless, not anxious. He had no intention of behaving. Or surviving. Or bending.

But he did want to know who’d been stupid enough to try again.

The door hissed open. Not loud. No drama. Just the quiet whisper of sealed metal parting and the unmistakable sound of boots on tile—measured, calm, unhurried.

Not a guard.

Not a medic.

A handler.

Hamilton turned his head.

And saw him.

Aaron Burr.

Black uniform. Neatly pressed. Gloves already off. Eyes down on the subject file glowing blue in the screen light.

He walked in like he belonged there.

Like he didn’t see the vampire sitting coiled in the chair, all muscle and violence and venom just waiting for an excuse.

“Alexander Hamilton,” Burr said, reading from the file.

No tremor in his voice. No hesitation.

Hamilton tilted his head, grinned like a wolf.

“Handler Burr,” he said, letting the name curl out of his mouth like smoke. “Didn’t think I’d get someone that pretty this time.”

Burr didn’t even glance up. Just pressed a few lines on the pad.

“I see your sarcasm survived sedation.”

Hamilton smirked. “Yeah, but your sense of humor might not.”

Now Burr looked at him.

Just for a second.

Expression flat. Not cold. Not dismissive. Just… silent.

Like he was listening to a piece of music he didn’t like, but refused to stop playing.

“You’ve had seven handlers,” Burr said evenly.

Hamilton shrugged one shoulder. “They didn’t like me.”

“You drained two.”

“Mutual incompatibility.”

Burr blinked once. Logged something. No reaction.

“Have you ever responded to a command?”

“I respond to being treated well.”

“That’s not how conditioning works.”

“Conditioning’s a scam.”

“Are you afraid of being decommissioned?”

Hamilton bared his teeth, the grin sharp and too white. “Try me.”

But even as he said it, something tightened deep in his gut.

Because the moment Burr had said his name— Alexander —something in him had pulled. Just slightly. Like a thread behind his ribs. A twitch in the base of his skull. A change in air pressure no one else seemed to notice.

He ignored it.

He had to.

He refused to register how his pulse had adjusted, how his posture had shifted just half an inch closer to neutral. How his body had… listened.

No. Not again.

Not like this.

Not him.

Not him.

He leaned back, exaggerating a stretch. Flexed his wrists in the cuffs like they didn’t bother him.

“You gonna test me,” he drawled, “or just stare?”

“This is the test,” Burr said.

Hamilton blinked. “Wow. Real exciting.”

“You’re still seated.”

“Because I’m lazy, not loyal.”

“You’re not fighting.”

That stopped him. Just a breath.

Then— “Guess I’m bored of dramatics.”

But he wasn’t. Not really.

He wasn’t fighting because he’d forgotten to. His hands hadn’t moved since Burr entered. His tongue hadn’t sharpened quite fast enough. His entire body had gone… still. Watching. Waiting.

Like he was listening for the next command.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

“I don’t respond to authority,” he said, more bitter now.

“You will,” Burr replied, as if it were a fact.

“I won’t.”

“You already are.”

That landed like a slap.

Hamilton surged to his feet, chair screeching behind him. The chain on his cuffs jerked. His eyes burned.

“Fuck you.”

Burr didn’t blink. “Interesting.”

“You think this is funny?” he snapped. “You think you won ? You have no idea who you’re talking to, you little—”

“Alexander.”

One word.

Calm.

Precise.

Command tone.

Everything in him froze.

His heart stuttered. Lungs locked. Spine snapped upright with military perfection. Not because he chose to—but because he couldn’t choose not to.

The bond had answered before he could.

Not fear. Not instinct.

Just the echo of obedience —cut straight into his bones.

No. No, no, no—

He’s my handler.
He’s the one.
He’s the one I can’t disobey.

Burr, expression unchanged, tapped the screen.

“You’ll report to training tomorrow. 0600. Don’t be late.”

Then he left.

Just like that.

No flair. No punishment. No approval.

The door hissed closed.

And Hamilton stood there, trembling with fury he couldn’t aim.

He wanted to break something. Bleed something. Rip the command chip out of his skull and spit it in Burr’s face.

Instead, he whispered to the empty room—

“I’ll kill you before I obey.”

But the bond had already answered.

And the bond never lies.

The subject was deliberately late.

Not by much—three minutes, forty seconds—but enough that Burr had already marked it down before the door hissed open and Hamilton strolled in with the kind of casual insolence that had ended most of his previous assignments in blood.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” the vampire said, voice light, lips twisted into a half-smirk. “I know paperwork’s very time-consuming for handlers who’d rather be obeyed than questioned.”

Burr didn’t look up.

He finished the report line he was reviewing—Hamilton’s sparring scores had been unremarkable, but his cognitive testing ranked unusually high for a Defiant—and only then gestured toward the other chair.

Hamilton didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall instead, arms crossed, posture loose.

Calculated.

Burr could see it in every movement—the flippant casualness, the overperformed arrogance. It was all strategy. Provocation masquerading as personality.

Classic Defiant-class posturing.

“I wasn’t aware this was a seated interview,” Hamilton said airily.

“It’s not,” Burr replied. “It’s a behavioral log.”

“Oh, excellent. Do I get a sticker for being difficult?”

“You get a blood freeze if you keep wasting my time.”

That got a reaction.

Hamilton’s grin widened just slightly. “Mm. Starting with threats. How very textbook of you.”

“No threat,” Burr said. He tapped the data pad. “Just protocol.”

For a second—just a flicker—Hamilton’s pupils dilated. Not enough to be alarm. Not enough to even qualify as fear. Just enough to register. His body heard that.

Still, his voice stayed smooth. "You’re efficient. I bet you’re also the kind of guy who irons his socks."

“I don’t waste resources on things that don’t serve a purpose.”

“Mm. Shame. You’re missing out on a lot of pointless fun.”

Burr finally looked at him.

Hamilton’s expression was studied—open and insolent and infuriatingly pretty , in that blood-wild, sharp-angled way most bonded vampires were. All mouth and hunger and control, coiled into something venomous that insisted on daring him to flinch.

Burr didn’t flinch.

“You’re deliberately testing my limits,” Burr said, evenly.

“Of course,” Hamilton said brightly. “I like to know who’s pretending.”

“To be what?”

“In charge.”

Burr tapped the terminal. Then leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve read your file. I’m not interested in dominance theater.”

“That’s what every doomed handler says right before someone gets a chunk taken out of their jugular.”

“ You don’t want to kill me.”

That quieted him.

Just a breath.

Then Hamilton tilted his head and bared his teeth again, smile too wide. “That a threat or a proposal?”

Burr ignored the jab.

He kept his voice even. Professional. “I’m issuing a command.”

“Oh?”

“Alexander Hamilton. Initiate freeze protocol. Three-day duration. Full blood chill. No override.”

Hamilton didn’t move.

For a moment, nothing shifted—no gasp, no twitch, no crack in the mask.

But Burr had seen enough vampires to know what to look for.

The stillness was too perfect. The pupils contracted a little too fast. The temperature drop in his skin— barely visible, a faint frosting at the corners of his fingers—had started already.

Still, Hamilton smirked.

“God, that’s sexy,” he said. “You always get this hot when you’re trying to look cold?”

Burr marked the protocol in the file.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t comment on the tremor Hamilton tried to mask with bravado.

Didn’t see the way Hamilton’s knuckles had tightened to white.

He only said, “Dismissed,” and left the room.

The cot was metal. Thin. Standard-issue for containment: hard enough to bruise, not sharp enough to cut. He lay on it like it might forgive him.

The blood freeze had started behind his sternum. He could feel it now—thick and cold and still spreading —threading through his chest like liquid static, heavy in the joints. Every pulse was slower. Every breath felt like drawing ice through his teeth.

But he didn’t curl up.

Not yet.

He kept his body flat. Stretched out like he was bored, one arm over his face. Legs crossed at the ankle. Like it meant nothing.

Like it hadn’t fucking ruined him to hear his name in Burr’s voice.

He’d known from the second the man walked in—too calm, too direct, no scent of fear or performance. Not a fake. Not weak. Not like the others.

And then the command landed.

“Alexander Hamilton. Initiate freeze protocol. Three-day duration. Full blood chill. No override.”

And his body obeyed.

No delay. No resistance. Just compliance , fast and perfect, like his nervous system had been waiting for it.

Because it had.

Because Burr wasn’t just a handler. He was the handler.

The match.

The bond.

The one Hamilton couldn’t say no to, even if it killed him.

He shifted on the cot.

The movement sent pain lancing up his spine—muscle aching like it had been overworked, then frozen. His fingers had gone numb sometime after lights-out. His tongue was dry. Fangs still out. He’d told himself he’d retract them by now, but his body was in a holding pattern.

Low fuel. No override.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to focus on the warmest memory he had.

Couldn’t find one.

There were only flashes: a bleeding medic, a handler’s voice raised in panic, the metallic taste of blood that wasn’t given, wasn’t allowed —

He groaned and rolled onto his side.

Then regretted it instantly.

His stomach churned. His gums throbbed. The freeze wasn’t just slowing him—it was stopping things. Circulation. Neural recovery. Hunger suppression. His body was conserving fuel by cutting corners , and he felt every one of them.

He pressed his face into the crook of his elbow. His breath came shallow. Sharp.

Three days.

He couldn’t survive three.

Most vampires—especially Defiant-class—could throw the freeze by hour twelve. Force an override. Burn through the chip until the tether snapped.

But Hamilton couldn’t.

Not if the command came from Burr.

His bond wouldn’t let him.

That was the cruelest part.

He hadn’t disobeyed. He couldn’t . And Burr didn’t even know that. He’d said it casually, like an old routine. Like Hamilton was just another file. Another mouthy subject who needed a leash.

Which meant it wasn’t personal.

Which meant Burr could discard him at any time.

And Hamilton—

God, he hoped he would.

Because the alternative was worse.

The alternative was this —lying on a metal cot, shaking from cold, hiding how his vision was already greying at the edges, knowing he’d still stand up tomorrow morning with a smirk and say something clever and let him believe it hadn’t landed.

Because the second Burr figured it out—

The second he realized that Hamilton was his —

It was over.

No more control. No more bluffing. No more sharp edges and fake smiles.

Just a leash.

Just a voice.

Just Hamilton, on his knees, not because he wanted to be—but because he wouldn’t be able to stand.

He swallowed.

It hurt.

He closed his eyes again and whispered, to no one:

“Tell me to fight you, and I will. Tell me to die, and I’ll do that too.”

Then louder, shaking:

“Please—don’t figure it out.”

And then silence.

Just the hum of the vent.

And the creeping freeze.

Chapter Text

Hamilton showed up to morning drills with the same swagger.

At first glance, nothing had changed—same lazy gait, same cocky tilt of the head, same unbearable voice firing off sarcasm like it was a compulsion. He looked like the poster child for calculated disobedience, the kind of subject who knew exactly how far he could bend a rule before it snapped.

But Burr noticed two things.

One: Hamilton didn’t comment on the cold when they stepped into the training bay. He always did—always had some tired quip about Burr's blood running colder than the walls or how this place was built to chill bones, not bodies. But today? Nothing.
Two: He didn’t take off the jacket.

The facility was temperature-controlled, precisely calibrated to prevent vampire overdrive or metabolic escalation. Most vamps ran warm post-feed—skin flushed, pulse fast, borderline feverish. Hamilton, for all his dramatics, had always peeled his layers off like a bored cat showing its belly. Every handler’s notes said the same thing: he ran hot, and he knew it.

Not today.

Today, the collar of his jacket was upturned, the cuffs pushed down to cover trembling fingers, his smile just a little too tight around the edges.

“Your file says your primary specialty’s knife work,” Burr said, tossing him a weighted blade.

Hamilton caught it one-handed, flipped it lazily—almost convincingly—and grinned. “I like the intimacy,” he drawled. “Tells you a lot about a man. How he bleeds. How loud he screams.”

Burr didn’t blink. “This is sparring, not a field mission.”

“Give it ten minutes.”

They moved to the mat. Burr initiated the safety perimeter and stepped into stance. Hamilton followed, knees loose, posture slack in a way that looked casual—until you looked twice.

The first few passes were smooth. Predictable. Burr threw a slow punch; Hamilton blocked. Burr tested his footwork; Hamilton danced back, feinting a grin. But it unraveled quickly.

Third round, Hamilton’s timing stuttered. Burr moved in for a fake elbow, and Hamilton’s hand was late to rise. Fourth round, his stance shifted unevenly and he barely caught himself before overbalancing.

His breath snagged halfway through an exhale—like it had to claw its way up his throat.

“You’re slower today,” Burr said.

“Maybe you’re just faster,” Hamilton quipped, but the joke lacked bite.

“Are you injured?”

“No, sir.” Too quick. Too tight. His fingers flexed on the knife hilt like they couldn’t decide whether to hold it or drop it.

“You’re pale.”

“Maybe you’re racist.”

Burr stared, unmoved. “Do you require medbay clearance?”

“Do you require a sense of humor?”

Then Hamilton attempted a flashy knife spin, like he was on stage again, and fumbled just enough to make Burr tense. The blade clattered to the mat. Hamilton scooped it up with a theatrical wince and muttered something inaudible—something that sounded, absurdly, like sorry .

Burr stepped back. “Spar’s over.”

“What, no punishment?” Hamilton called after him. “Aren’t you the efficient type? I was barely disrespectful. You’re slipping.”

“You’re not worth the time.”

“Oh,” Hamilton replied, smile widening, too bright, too sharp. “Now that’s the threat.”

Handler’s Log — 16:35 hours:
Subject presented for drills underweight, low stamina, and uneven motor control.
Possible manipulation.
Defiant-class subjects often simulate weakness to provoke reassessment.
No override attempt logged.
Freeze protocol appears intact.

By nightfall, Burr hadn’t lifted the command.

It hadn’t even occurred to him. There was no red flag—no override pings, no medical alerts. No blood loss. Just Hamilton, being Hamilton.

Difficult. Mouthy. A file full of behavioral inconsistencies and disciplinary flags.

He told himself he was following protocol. That it was smart, measured, professional. Seventy-two hours was standard. Most Defiant-class vamps broke long before the third day. Some got mouthier. Some got violent. But the smart ones—the truly dangerous ones—they played it soft.

He’d seen it before. A lull. A stagger. A sudden pass-out or fake seizure to invoke sympathy, force a reset, get reassigned to a softer handler.

Burr didn’t fall for it.

He never had.

So he didn’t lift the freeze yet.

Didn’t wonder why Hamilton hadn’t tried to override. Didn’t wonder why he hadn’t demanded blood or even asked about it

He’d been planning to knock.

That was the stupid part.

All day—through drills, through sweat and spinning walls and the ache in his teeth where his fangs wouldn’t retract—he’d told himself he’d go to Burr’s room and make a scene. Say something clever. Call him heartless. Maybe fake a faint just to make the man flinch.

It would’ve been funny.

It would’ve been controlled.

Instead, he stood outside the door.

Silent.

The corridor was cold. He hadn’t noticed the chill earlier, but now it was everywhere. Inside his skin. Behind his ribs. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or freezing or both. His knees felt hollow. His fingers kept curling toward his palms like they were trying to hide.

Burr’s door was gray. Steel. Unmarked.

He stared at it.

Waited for some voice in his head to say this is pathetic.

None came.

His body swayed once. He corrected. Straightened. Focused on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Be defiant , he told himself.

Be infuriating. Be inconvenient. Just don’t be weak.

His stomach cramped again. It felt like being scooped out with a burning spoon. He didn’t remember the last time he fed. He didn’t remember what blood tasted like. The water he’d downed earlier had made him vomit. He was pretty sure he’d hidden it well. He always did.

He leaned back against the wall. Not slouching. Strategic posture reduction , he told himself.

Seventeen minutes passed.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

He was trained to resist, sure. He was Class: Defiant. Handlers hated that category—assumed it meant stubborn, combative, impossible to program. But it wasn’t stubbornness that made him dangerous. It was intent. Hamilton obeyed the rules he believed in. Which meant he broke the ones that didn’t matter.

But this—this was different.

This wasn’t programming.

This was her voice in his head. Burr's voice. Burr's command.

Freeze protocol. No override.

And his body… obeyed.

No matter how many sarcastic lines he threw, no matter how much he smirked and provoked, his nervous system listened when Burr gave a command. Something buried in his spine said: this one matters.

A handler match.

Fated.

Biological lock-in.

And Hamilton would rather be decommissioned than admit it.

Still, his body had its own rules. When the command locked in— no override —he couldn’t lift it. He couldn’t feed. Couldn’t drink the emergency plasma pack hidden under his cot. Couldn’t even want to.

But there were loopholes.

He was allowed to beg.

Not in words. But instinct was hardwired. Submissive positioning. Deference. Proximity.

Like an animal scratching at the den door, hoping its alpha remembered to let it back in.

Hamilton hated himself for it.

He slid down the wall—just an inch. Just enough to take pressure off his knees. His bones felt like cold glass. His gums ached. His throat was a scraped pipe, dry and useless.

Still, he didn’t knock.

Didn’t dare speak.

He stared at the door and prayed Burr would open it, take one look at him, and lift the freeze. That he’d see through the mask. That he’d—

The hallway light flickered. He flinched.

No door opened.

Eventually, instinct gave up where pride wouldn’t. He stood. Too fast. Everything spun. He caught the wall, mouth open for air, and stumbled his way back to his quarters.

No one saw him.

That was the best part.

No one ever saw him when he was like this.

Internal Security Footage, 02:41 hours
Subject 17-A observed in corridor outside Handler quarters. Still. Upright. Arms folded. Shoulders hunched by minute ten. Slouched by minute fifteen. No verbal output. No command received. Duration: 00:17:24.
Subject exited frame. No further action logged.

He woke up on the floor.

Or maybe he hadn’t slept at all.

His mouth tasted like rust. His limbs were lead. His spine ached like it had forgotten how to hold him upright. When he moved, it felt like peeling himself out of something half-frozen—like the blood in his veins had thickened overnight and was now dragging behind the rest of his body.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been down there.

The cot was only two feet away. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t made it.

Get up.

He forced it. First the elbows. Then the knees. By the time he was vertical, his vision had tunnelled so hard he couldn’t tell where the floor ended and the wall began. The room lurched sideways.

He laughed.

Out loud.

Because if he didn’t, he was going to vomit, and if he vomited, Burr would think it was performance art.

And god forbid that man ever believe he was genuinely suffering.

Hamilton found his boots. Didn’t remember tying them. Walked out of the room on instinct.

Burr woke to a security ping just past 0500. A motion alert. He dismissed it.

When he opened the door at 0700, Hamilton was already there.

Standing at attention.

No announcement. No knock.

Just standing.

His cheeks were sunken, jaw rigid. Sweat had dried at his temples and crusted pale at the edges of his hairline. His hands were visibly shaking. The skin under his eyes looked bruised.

He smiled.

“Morning, sunshine,” he rasped.

Burr blinked at him. “Are you trying to look worse?”

“Is it working?”

“You look like shit.”

“Then I’m nailing it.”

He didn’t move unless commanded.

Burr almost told him to wipe that look off his face.

Instead, he told himself again that this was all just a tactic.

That it wasn’t real.

That it was just another Defiant trying to bait sympathy.

He turned his back.

Hamilton followed him into the hallway. Quiet. Smiling.

And already fading.

The hall was too bright. His fangs still hadn’t retracted. Everything itched.

Burr didn’t look at him when he entered the training bay. Just tapped the sparring mat twice with his boot, then stepped into position.

Hamilton smiled.

That’s what he was good at.

“Round three,” Burr said flatly. “No knives today. Defense only.”

“You’re the one who’s gonna need defending,” Hamilton croaked. His voice cracked halfway through the line. He swallowed. It didn’t help. “Sorry. That was a six out of ten. I’ll punch it up.”

Burr didn’t respond.

Hamilton stepped onto the mat.

The first movement went well. Sort of.

He dodged a jab, blocked the follow-up. Then his foot landed wrong, and suddenly his balance was gone. The mat lurched under him. Or the air did. Or his spine. He didn’t fall—but only because Burr grabbed his arm.

“I’m fine,” Hamilton said immediately.

“You’re pale,” Burr said.

“I’m always pale.”

“You’re sweating.”

“Like you’re not?”

Burr’s hand tightened slightly, as if expecting him to fall again. Hamilton jerked his arm back—not forcefully. Not dramatically. Just enough to reclaim space. And maybe to prove that, no matter how bad he felt, he still had edges.

“Keep going,” he said. “I’m good for another round.”

“You can barely stand.”

Hamilton laughed. “You’re just mad I’m prettier when I’m half-dead.”

Burr didn’t blink.

Hamilton hated that.

The next pass was a disaster.

Burr moved in quick—nothing violent, just a clean low sweep—and Hamilton’s body didn’t respond. No reflex. No recovery. He hit the mat with a dull thud and felt something twist in his shoulder. He gritted his teeth.

Don’t whimper. Don’t twitch. Don’t flinch .

“Enough,” Burr said.

“No,” Hamilton said, already pushing himself upright. “That was nothing. I slipped. You’re gonna start calling me fragile now?”

“You’ve been fragile all week.”

“Only in your dreams.”

He was panting. He wasn’t hiding it well.

Burr stared at him. “Do you want me to log this as refusal to spar?”

Hamilton wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Sweat soaked through. “No,” he said. “Log it as a seduction attempt gone wrong.”

Burr didn’t laugh.

That was fine.

Hamilton could carry both sides of the conversation anyway.

By the time drills ended, Hamilton could barely keep his eyes focused. The lights above him stung. The noise of boots and shouted orders made his skin crawl. The blood freeze was still in effect. Still draining every corner of his system. Still locked in place by that voice.

He drank water in the locker bay.

It burned going down.

He sat with his back against the wall, arm slung over one bent knee like it was casual—like he wasn’t holding himself up with bone-deep exhaustion and pure, ugly pride.

Someone offered him a plasma pack.

He smiled.

“I’m allergic to basic,” he said.

They rolled their eyes and walked away.

Good.

He didn’t need pity.

He just needed to make it through one more day without breaking.

He could do that.

He had to.

Because if he let the cracks show, Burr might think the command worked.

And if Burr knew the command worked…

He’d know Hamilton was bonded.

And then it’d all be over.

Chapter Text

Burr lifted the ban that night. 

Quietly. Formally. No fanfare.

Just a clipped memo in the comms log: Temporary feeding restriction lifted as of 2000 hours. No explanation. No apology. He didn’t owe one. Hamilton had disobeyed a direct command in the field. The ban was protocol. Temporary. Controlled. Nothing personal.

He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t log a justification. He barely thought about it.

It had been nearly three full days, and protocol capped the freeze at seventy-two hours for a reason. Any longer risked systemic shut-down—circulatory collapse, neural misfires, internal crystallization if the subject’s blood thinned too far. Not lethal, necessarily, but messy. Undignified.

And unnecessary.

Hamilton had shown no signs of escalation. No dramatic appeals. No sobbing or screaming or blood-drunk threats. No pleas.

He had played the long game, Burr thought. Let the command run its course. Chosen silence over spectacle.

Calculated.

So Burr deactivated it.

Manually. Cleanly. No fanfare.

He didn’t bother informing the subject. If Hamilton wanted to crawl to the supply station and rip open a blood pack like an alley-starved mongrel, he was welcome to it.

Besides—Burr reasoned, carefully shelving the sudden knot in his chest—if the vampire had truly needed blood, he’d have asked.

They always ask.

Hamilton hadn’t even flinched.

So Burr didn’t, either.

He found him at 06:22 the next morning. 

Slumped in a narrow coil on the ground outside Burr’s quarters, knees tucked to his chest, forehead pressed to the seam between metal and concrete. Not moving. Not speaking.

For a moment, Burr froze. His mind stalled, trying to assign logic to the shape of it.

Then: No, he decided. No, not this again.

It was a stunt. It had to be. Another performance, like always—part desperation, part manipulation, all noise. Hamilton was infamous for this kind of ploy. Crying wolf in the most theatrical way possible. Throwing himself at doors and command terminals like a prisoner in a stage play.

Burr stood there for twenty seconds, maybe more. Silent. Watching. Waiting for the punchline.

Just curled there, twitching faintly every few seconds—like something fraying at the edges. Shivering, maybe. Or seizing. Burr couldn’t quite tell. The jacket was wrong—too thin for the corridor’s climate setting, sleeves pushed up unevenly. He had no gloves.

Burr’s stomach twisted, just slightly. His voice, when it came, was even.

“Get up.”

No response.

His tone didn’t rise. Didn’t waver.

He nudged the boot of his shoe against Hamilton’s shin.

“Up. Now. This isn’t the kind of facility that rewards dramatics.”

Still nothing. Just a low, stuttering breath—too shallow. Too slow.

Burr folded his arms.

He could see the frost crusted in Hamilton’s hairline, near the ear. He could see the way his hands—curled tight beneath his jacket sleeves—were trembling like bare wires in snowmelt.

He didn’t want to think about what that meant.

“You’re not going to worm your way into softer quarters like this,” he said, louder. “This isn’t a storybook, and I’m not your savior, Go back to your cell. ”

Still nothing. Not even a twitch.

Until—

Hamilton shifted. Slowly. Painfully. He raised his head.

And Burr froze.

His eyes were glassy. Unfocused. Too wide in the dark. And for the first time since his transfer, there was no fire in them. No cunning. No hatred. Just—nothing.

He smiled.

Not the sharp, flinty smirk he wore like a blade.

This was small. Quiet. Fractured.

“Didn’t know where else to go,” Hamilton said, and his voice sounded broken. Frayed like winter thread. “You lifted it, right? Thought you’d want to see me pull myself up.”

His breath caught on the last word.

He looked like he might fall again without moving.

Burr stared.

The hallway was dead silent, the hour too early for other eyes, other ears. Just him. Just Hamilton. Just the sound of quiet, humiliating truth in a voice trained to mock.

It had always been a game. Hadn’t it?

That’s what he told himself.

That’s what the reports said.

Defiant-class vampires don’t submit unless they mean to.

They don’t beg unless they want to be seen.

They don’t break unless it’s planned.

They don’t curl up like animals unless it’s for effect.

But Burr’s training didn’t mention the ones who didn’t know how to beg. The ones who weren’t faking it. The corridor was  quiet—too early for anyone else to be awake. No witnesses. No one to observe how the great Alexander Hamilton, subject of four major infractions and nine behavioral flags, had folded himself like a dying bird outside his handler’s door.
“Go back to your cell. Final order.” 

Was it sincere? Was it manipulation? Burr didn’t care.

He turned. Walked away.

And Hamilton obeyed.

Of course he did.

Burr didn’t see it—but the second his footsteps faded down the hall, Hamilton shifted again. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough to twist his arm beneath himself and push, trembling, to his knees.

The movement made him gag.

Blood, fresh and not, wet his teeth. The metallic smear on his mouth had dried into something blackened and brittle, but the new layer was still slick—newly coughed, freshly bubbled, thinner in texture and already cooling on his tongue. Not feeding blood. Not sated. It tasted wrong. Internal. Sour and metallic with pain.

He wiped it away absently, not thinking, dragging his sleeve across his chin. Staggered upright.

One step. Then another.

He didn’t make it far.

He hit the wall on the first corner, shoulder-first. Braced, gasping. Then took two more steps before his knee buckled and he dropped again—caught himself on a railing and hung there, panting, swaying faintly like a drunk too proud to crawl.

Down the west corridor, the lights were on.

An early handler—a tall one in a black vest—rounded the corner with a datapad in one hand and a thermos in the other, halfway through a yawn. Froze.

“Hey—”

Hamilton didn’t look up. Just shook his head faintly, breath rasping through his teeth.

The handler blinked. Alarmed.

“Hey. You—are you—?”

“No.” Hamilton’s voice cracked. “Fine. ’m fine. Just—cell. M’just—go—”

“You don’t look fine,” the handler said, already halfway toward him, steps quickening. “Are you bleeding—?”

“Don’t.” Hamilton’s voice sharpened for half a second—more sound than threat, but it stopped the man cold. “Burr said… I can’t. No med. Just cell.”

There was a pause. Tense. Awkward.

Another handler—young, female, alert-eyed and slower to speak—emerged from the opposite stairwell and took one look at the scene before stepping forward too, quieter than the first.

“That doesn’t look like feeding blood,” she said under her breath. “He’s got it on his shirt.”

“Yeah, well, they play all sorts of games,” the man muttered. “Maybe it’s his. Maybe it’s not. He said Burr sent him?”

Hamilton said nothing. He was listing sideways again, clutching the doorframe now of his own cell, barely upright.

“Should we call med—?”

“No,” Hamilton rasped. “Please don’t. Please don’t. He lifted it. I just—need to ride it out. I can make it. I can make it. I can—”

The second he stepped across the threshold of his room, his legs gave out.

He didn’t hit the floor, quite. Not loud enough to call it a fall. More like a fold. A slow, slumped collapse, as if his bones had finally remembered they were hollow.

He landed half-curled at the table, cheek pressed to the cold edge, jacket askew, mouth parted in shallow panting.

The blood hadn’t stopped. It had just slowed.

One hand twitched, reaching instinctively for the corner of the table like it might anchor him. The movement smeared a faint red print along the surface, ragged with old scabbing and new leak.

Outside, the two handlers lingered.

“…I don’t like it,” the woman murmured. “He doesn’t look like he’s faking.”

“They never do,” the man replied. But he was staring. Watching. Frowning. “Still. We should log it. If it gets worse, it’s on Burr’s head.”

Inside the cell, Hamilton didn’t move.

Just shivered once.

Then lay still.

At 08:00, Burr logged him for patrol.

He didn’t offer an explanation.

If the vampire wanted to grovel in frostbite and pantomime starvation, fine. Let him sweat it out on the northern ridge with thirty pounds of gear and a full pack. Let him act until it stopped being worth the stage.

The feeding ban had been lifted. Formally. Quietly. Without drama. If the vampire had chosen not to feed since, then that was on him. His choice. His pride.

So Burr was in no mood for theatrics.

He found him slumped in his cell.

Not asleep. Not collapsed.

Upright—barely. Back to the wall. Head tipped back like gravity had forgotten him. Eyes half-open. Bloodless lips parted, catching breath in the laziest possible rhythm. Staring at the ceiling like it might hold the verdict to something deeply stupid and personal.

“You’re up,” Burr said coolly.

He let the rucksack drop. A deliberate thud on the concrete.

“Get dressed.”

Hamilton didn’t startle.

He blinked. Slow. Tacky. His eyes tracked the bag like it was in another dimension.

“Now.”

This time, he flinched.

Not startled. Not guilty. Just a faint wince—like the command moved too fast for his nervous system.

But he moved. Eventually.

Not fast enough.

Burr watched the vampire try to peel himself off the wall like his bones were waterlogged. One motion at a time. No momentum. No center of gravity. He reached for the gear with fingers that didn’t seem attached to his brain.

The thermal sleeves bunched wrong at his wrists. He didn’t fix them.

The collar sat askew. He didn’t fix that, either.

Every strap he buckled looked like a battle. The muscles in his hands were shaking—barely. But enough. Enough for Burr to watch him struggle through the mechanics of dressing like a man trying to load a gun underwater.

Too slow.

Far too slow for someone who’d fed.

And then Burr saw it.

A glint. Just there. At the corner of Hamilton’s mouth. Rust-dark. Wet.

Fresh.

Still wet.

Blood.

Not enough for a full feeding. Not nearly. But enough to catch the light. A smear low on his bottom lip, just at the edge where it had dried unevenly.

Burr’s stomach coiled.

So that was it.

He’d fed. Illegally. Off-record. Probably off-base. Probably before dawn. Probably just enough to get by. Just enough to stage this little martyrdom now—to play it thin, half-starved, trembling, tragic.

Drama.

Classic.

He knew the type. Burr had seen it before. Fresh blood, faint tremors, moody posture. Play pathetic just long enough to be seen as noble. Self-denying. Wronged.

It didn’t impress him.

It insulted him.

“Next time you want to stage a scene,” Burr said sharply, voice like cold steel, “at least wipe your mouth.”

Hamilton stilled.

His hand lifted. Slowly. Like it weighed too much.

Fingers grazed his lip. Came away red.

He stared at them.

And said nothing.

Didn’t look caught.

Didn’t look guilty.

Didn’t look at Burr at all.

Just that same blankness. That same heavy silence—like nothing about the moment even surprised him. Like he’d already resigned himself to being seen wrong.

No protest. No explanation.

Not even a goddamn smirk.

Just the smallest, strangest flicker of something—an expression Burr couldn’t place. Not shame. Not quite. Something older. More exhausted.

And then it was gone.

Hamilton lowered his hand.

No words.

No lies.

Just the shuffle of movement as he shouldered the pack like it hurt. Like the weight dragged more than his spine.

Burr didn’t flinch.

He turned, coldly.

“Ten minutes to suit up,” he said, already moving toward the exit. “We leave at 08:15. If you can’t keep up, I’ll drag you.”

He didn’t say again.

He didn’t say you look like you’re already dying .

He didn’t say you should’ve fed if you wanted sympathy .

Hamilton didn’t argue.

Didn’t speak.

Just moved after him like something half-pulled from the earth. His boots scuffed once on the floor—barely catching the momentum to stand upright. His spine locked tight against the rucksack. His breath shallow. His body slow.

Still, he followed.

Wordless.

And behind Burr’s calm, cold logic—beneath the certainty that Hamilton had done this to himself, had chosen this weakness—something bitter stirred behind his ribs.

He refused to name it.

He refused to look back.

They headed north in silence.
Hamilton kept pace.
Barely.

The terrain wasn’t difficult—just frostbitten scrub and patchy melt, the kind of soggy, uneven footing that made for annoying, not punishing, travel. It wasn’t steep. It wasn’t hostile. But the vampire moved like it was trying to kill him. Like every step jarred something loose inside him.

He didn’t complain.
That, more than anything, unsettled Burr.

No muttering. No sarcastic one-liners. No passive-aggressive commentary about the route or the weight of his gear. He didn’t even make the usual show of silent endurance—the little performative flourishes Burr had learned to recognize: the jaw set too tight, the exaggerated exhales, the pointed glances skyward like God was his hostage.

None of that today.
Hamilton just walked.

Like a wind-up thing wound one notch too far.
Like the boots on his feet didn’t fit anymore. Like the terrain pitched wrong beneath him. Like he wasn’t entirely inside his body.

Burr kept glancing back. He told himself it was for practical reasons—terrain, timing, distance—but his eyes landed on Hamilton’s face more often than they needed to. And every time, the same tight frown curled in his gut.

Not fatigue. Not pain.
Slack.

Not with peace. Not even the boneless slackness of exhaustion.
This was something emptier. Something almost puppet-like.

As though Hamilton’s limbs had remembered the mechanics of motion, but the rest of him—the hungry part, the prideful part, the infuriatingly defiant part—had stayed behind.

Burr’s jaw ticked.
Manipulative little shit.

He must’ve fed. That was the only explanation. The only reasonable one.
He had to have fed. The blood scent was fresh this morning, sharp and metallic in the airlock when Burr passed him his kit. Maybe he’d helped himself the second the comms log updated. Maybe he’d scheduled something behind Burr’s back. He looked fed.

He didn’t look starved—just overdone. Drawn, maybe, from the effort of faking it.

Fine.
Let him limp. Let him sweat it out. Let him perform his fragile little penance until the act soured in his mouth.

But an hour in, the vampire started to stumble.

Not a trip. Not a lazy toe-catch on a buried root. His boot skidded on slush, and he pitched forward like someone yanked the floor out from under him—straight down to one knee, pack and all.

Burr turned on instinct.
“On your feet.”

Hamilton didn’t move.

His gloved hand flexed against the dirt. Fingers dug in. Not for traction—he wasn’t trying to push up yet. Just... curled. Bracing. Shaking slightly. His breathing was wrong too—quick, shallow bursts, the kind meant to hide something. Like he was trying not to make sound.

“Now.”

Another beat passed. Then the vampire moved.

No protest. No insult. No performance.
He just planted both hands to the dirt, dragged one knee up, and hauled himself upright with the sort of stiff, grinding effort that made Burr’s own spine hurt to watch. He didn’t even wince.

He just stood.
Re-shouldered the pack.
Kept walking.

Burr let him.
He told himself it was discipline.

They didn’t stop. Not when the sky clouded over again. Not when the wind picked up, clawing at the back of their necks and dragging icy grit into their sleeves. Not even when the pace slowed to a crawl—Hamilton dragging behind, his steps jerking at odd angles like his hips couldn’t quite rotate right anymore.

Still, he walked.
Step after dragging step.

He didn’t look deprived.
That was the thing. Burr kept watching. Kept waiting for the signs.

Skin flushed, not pale. Cheeks windburned, not bloodless. Eyes sharp, not glassy or overblown. There was strain, yes, and sloppiness, and a kind of tense quiet that felt too calculated—but none of it tracked with starvation.

Burr clenched his jaw again.
Maybe the feed was badly timed. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Or maybe it was enough and Hamilton was doing this deliberately—wanting to be seen faltering, suffering, weathering the weight in stoic silence.

Because that was the game, wasn’t it?

To appear disciplined.
To appear devout.
To manufacture penance from discomfort while ensuring someone—Burr, always Burr—was around to witness it.

So Burr let him falter. Let him sweat. Let him pretend it mattered.

They reached the outer gate two hours later.

Hamilton said nothing when the checkpoint came into view. He didn’t sigh. Didn’t pick up his pace like he was grateful for the end. He didn’t even look up. Just kept his head down, shoulders stooped, legs working like cogs in a grinding machine.

Burr slowed only slightly. Logged them through the north access. Unlocked the gate.

The vampire followed.

Ten steps into base, Hamilton faltered again—boots scuffing on the concrete, body tipping slightly—and Burr didn’t look back at first.

Then:
A sharp gasp.

Something hit his shoulder.

Reflex took over. Burr wrenched around, hand already moving for his sidearm, body braced—

And caught Hamilton as he fell.

Dead weight. Sagging. Cold.

Not a strike. Not an ambush.
A collapse.

Burr’s fingers fisted instinctively in the front of Hamilton’s jacket. For half a second, he held him like a threat—one arm rigid at his spine, one hand gripping fabric—and then the full weight hit.

Slumped against him.

Breathing fast. Unfocused. Limp.

Burr nearly flinched away. Something spiked in his chest, sharp and stupid and wrong, like he’d been tricked into tenderness.

But the vampire didn’t stir.
Didn’t lift his head.
Didn’t blink.

Just breathed.

Fast and shallow and erratic, like someone fighting to stay conscious.

Burr exhaled.
Tight. Controlled.

And thumbed the comms for medbay.