It took a good minute for Alexander to feel the breath come back into his lungs. The stranger—John Laurens—seemed just as surprised to see him and stared dumbly into Alexander's eyes, but, as Alexander never could meet the green depths for very long without feeling lightheaded, he transfixed his gaze onto the distracting little curl which had escaped out of John's ponytail and now rested on his forehead.
It was then that Alexander, who could not believe that the figure before him was truly John Laurens, came to but one conclusion: the person standing in front of him was a ghost.
Alexander had never believed in ghosts until now, as he realized that his years of longing to touch and hold and as of late, sock John in the mouth, had finally paid off in the form of the ghost of said abolitionist appearing before him. Just as he thought this, John paled and his very much corporeal fingers began to curiously poke and prod Alexander as if he were the ghost, and not the other way around.
When both John and Alexander himself realized that the person standing in front of him was not a phantom, but a living being composed of flesh and bone, each jumped a step back, nearly flying off their respective staircases in the process.
"No—no, you're supposed to be dead," was all Alexander could get the breath to say, while John blanched further and stuttered, "Y—y—you're n—not supposed to live here."
Alexander, whose thundering heart had drowned out every word the other man had said, could not, for the life of him, discern what now he was supposed to do during this sudden encounter with a friend to whom he had said his excruciating goodbyes years ago.
John, it seemed, had a better presence of mind and grinned sheepishly at his friend, and, forgetting all shock at their rendezvous, he hugged him so warmly that it caused Alexander physical pain when, in an instant, he shoved the embrace away.
Flushing at what would have been the feeling of John's arms around him—a feeling that fifteen years of absence would have failed to make less affectionate and right, Alexander readjusted his position on the railing and stared at the love of his life—third only to Eliza and America—as he remembered the shame and misfortune John had brought upon Philip's head, as well as the agony he himself had suffered when said lover had been declared dead.
Alexander's mind was fixed on this notion for a moment before he measuredly reached into his coat pocket and produced a pistol. He had never carried arms on his civilian person before, but after his sudden notoriety, he had figured it was best to always carry an implement with which to defend himself in case the rabble in the streets became too rowdy.
Alexander fiddled with the trigger—ignoring John's raised eyebrow—and aimed it at his former friend.