"-10!" Pendleton yelled hoarsely. Burr spun around, arm extended, staring at Alexander with an intense glare as if, for once in his life, he had conviction in his actions. There was a click, there was a boom, and there were the beginnings of a yell forming on Burr's mouth.

"WAI-"

And there was an ocean breeze. Waves lapping on a shore. He's laying on a bed, surrounded by open windows, yet sweating through the sheets. Someone's singing sweetly and stroking his wet bangs out of his feverish face.

"Mon petit lion."

And Laurens is singing a rowdy drinking song from where he sits atop Alexander's desk, trying to cheer him up as he's laying, confined in bed at Valley Forge with some terrible fever he can't seem to shake. The remnants of a childhood in Nevis.

And he's marching on a field. Shots ring, deafening him, someone screams- the smoke's too thick, who was it? Lafayette, Laurens? A bullet whizzes past him, skimming his neck.

And Burr's smiling a practiced smile to the young eager immigrant, offering a drink. (To shut you up, Burr later admits. That's why I took you out)

And Burr's still smiling, but Alexander can see the strain of barely concealed rage in his eyes, the rigidity of his expression, when Alexander announces his support for Jefferson.

He glances down at the gun hanging heavily from his fingers. Philip used these guns at his duel. Here. Where he died. Leaving nothing to his legacy but "Gone too soon. Could have really made a name for himself, but alas.."

Legacy?

Alexander's 19 years old, staring at the skyline stretching against waters from where he stands at the bow of the ship. Ever since he was young, he could hear the ticking clock of mortality that was his heart beating urgent reminders. He won't live long. No one did, one his island. Why would he be any different? What does he do with his life? With this opportunity?

Alexander's 34 years old, sitting at his brand new desk in a brand new office. Ideas are bouncing off his skull faster than he can furiously scratch them down. Ink is staining his hands and his cuffs. Eliza will scold him later.

"Creole Bastard" rings in his ears. Alexander sees only red. He does not see."Office of the Presidency", he sees "John Adams: fat, prejudiced, and decidedly not fit for the honors of the office." He picks up a quill: An Open Letter to the fat, arrogant..

Someone lays a hand on his shoulder. He looks up and meets Laurens' amber eyes surrounded by freckles. He grins at Alexander with unabashed joy at having been reunited. His crisp uniform shows no signs of injury. Laurens shouts something over his shoulder, and a dozen soldiers begin a loud rendition of a song Laurens once sang when Alexander was close to death.

Philip waves energetically. His arm is no longer broken, hanging uselessly at his side. Someone is standing behind him, smiling demurely. Bright blue eyes and pale skin. Her mouth forms the words: "Petit Lion." His mother.

And Someone stands tall, apart but no less happy. Washington. He nods stately at Alexander, but his eyes betray a twinkle of affection.

He'd seen that once before, on the battle. He had clapped Alexander on the shoulder, mouthing: "Greatness lies within you" over the ring of cannons.

Boom.

Everything shakes with the sound. Darkness is closing in, crumbling before his eyes, he can't see, can't breathe, he doesn't have much longer, everything's fading-

Eliza reaches out to him, dark hair whipping around her face.

"My love." He whispers. He grasps her hand.

"Take your time. I'll see you on the other side."

His last thought is of a small, seedy tavern in New York, where he had gotten drunk too many times surrounded by friends, justifying the copious amounts of alcohol consumed with rowdy toasts: "Raise a glass to freedom!"

Slowly, surely, Alexander raises his pistol straight towards the sky.

Click.

Boom.

"WAIT!"