They stayed frozen and watched the time pass, as usual.
Winter became spring in the world of the living, just as it always had, and with the first warm day of the year, something else began to thaw.
Alexander and Eliza seemed to have reconciled–they spent a lot more time together than they used to, and they actually talked now.
Philip had been so excited to tell him his mother smiled at Alexander again that John hadn't been able to bring himself to voice his suspicion that development had most likely been forced into motion by Eliza's steadily swelling stomach.
He couldn't be sure about the exact time-line, of course, but he would have bet anything that she had been with child since before Philip died and had just not mentioned it to Alexander until she couldn't hide it any longer–thus, the sudden change of heart in both of them.
It didn't matter. What mattered was that there were less and less tears shed in that house, more smiles, careful talk about the future.
Philip watched them sweep up the broken pieces with a blinding smile, even though John could tell it wasn't all sunshine for him. It was good to see the people one loved get back up and make the first tentative steps to move on; but it was also devastating.
He could recall it well enough. How his dead heart had leapt as he'd watched Alexander wander out of his office in the middle of the night to pick up and hold a baby Philip for the first time in weeks. How he had smiled hard enough his cheeks would have hurt had he been alive when Alexander had taken Eliza's hands and promised her no more, when he had held her as she broke down and cried into his chest, when he had taken the stack of parchment that lay at the ready on the corner of his desk and had locked it away (John had never gotten a good look at it, but he had seen enough to recognise it as his own handwriting, and he knew what they were).
Alexander's life had gone on. He'd worked on all the projects that had been on his mind, half-conceptualised and blurry, during the war. He'd fathered children, and he had been so involved in their upbringing, and he had been the happiest John had ever seen him with a house full of kids and Eliza at his side.
(And John had been so glad. If anyone deserved to be happy and live a good life, it was Alexander. A̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶e̶n̶e̶d̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶a̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶s̶o̶n̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶r̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶a̶l̶r̶e̶a̶d̶y̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶d̶e̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶g̶i̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶t̶r̶a̶p̶p̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶e̶r̶a̶b̶l̶e̶,̶ ̶s̶e̶c̶r̶e̶t̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶l̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶h̶i̶p̶ ̶u̶n̶t̶i̶l̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶d̶e̶s̶p̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶i̶t̶.̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶o̶f̶f̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶d̶.̶)
Philip still got a little teary-eyed sometimes when he watched them. He was sad that he wouldn't meet his new sibling, and even though he tried to hide it from John, he could tell he was a little nettled from time to time when they did things as a family and his absence was tastefully overlooked–only to feel like 'the most horrible person in all of history' when one of his parents broke down again, because he 'had been angry they hadn't been sad enough'.
When that happened, John just let him cling to him and stroked his hair. He had long since given up any attempts to explain to the boy that feeling like that was normal, and no, it didn't make him a bad person, it just made him human–but it appeared he had not only inherited Alexander's stubbornness, but also his horrible habit to self-depreciate.
"John," he said sometime, wiped a hand over his eyes. He had just watched his mother tell her youngest son some story about where babies came from, something about a stork; she was heavily pregnant by now. It wouldn't be long. "Did you ever feel like- like it was… unfair? I mean, we are gone, but everything still goes on. It's like we didn't even matter."
John couldn't help but chuckle at that, and he knelt down behind Philip, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him back against his chest. Philip grasped one of his hands in his own, and the empty space where his heart should be gave a painful squeeze.
He couldn't believe just how much he had come to care for that boy a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶e̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶c̶a̶r̶e̶d̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶i̶r̶l̶ ̶h̶e̶'̶d̶ ̶f̶a̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶d̶.̶
"Of course I did. I still do, sometimes. But Philip, we are not really gone. And we did matter, even if it's hard to see it sometimes, I promise. We mattered, and we left our mark," he said.
Philip sniffled and nodded weakly, settled more of his weight back against John, and John's thoughts wandered to all the marks he had left, more or less on purpose.
A small smile conquered his features as he thought about how his Alexander still tied his cravat with a knot he had shown him all those years ago, how he drank peppermint-tea some days, even though he hated peppermint (but John had enjoyed it, had made it a habit to chew peppermint-leaves during the war, and he liked to think Alexander went to the trouble of fixing himself tea he wasn't even all that fond of because he missed the way John had tasted).
Or how his sister still told her children some iteration of the stories the two of them used to make up for their younger siblings, or how his brother still joked about white clothes being the easiest to keep clean because he had always said that.
They were small things, but they were things that were only there now because he had been, once.
The new baby was a boy, and they named him Philip. It was very sweet and all, but it triggered an occasion that made John glad he could no longer experience headaches, because the instant his Philip heard his name in that new context, he broke down into bittersweet tears and sobbed into John's neck, inconsolable for what John was fairly certain had to have been a whole week at least in the land of the living.
(John finally checked up on Frances. He saw a little boy running up to her, calling her Mama, and he couldn't bear to watch more.)
Alexander was acting very suspicious, and it worried John.
Even Philip had expressed he thought something was wrong, and Philip, as much as John loved him, had the tendency to be quite oblivious.
He had taken to watching Alexander more frequently than he used to, just to figure out what was going on with him–and he didn't have to wait too long to see results.
Aaron Burr. He was feuding with Aaron Burr.
Over politics.
John loved that man to pieces, but sometimes he really did question his soundness of mind.
Things had been tense, but they finally seemed to have come to a head; Alexander had retrieved his pistols from a box in the closet.
But he wouldn't really. He wouldn't.
Right?
B̶u̶t̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶k̶n̶e̶w̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶.̶
"What's he doing?" Philip asked, anxious, worry splitting his brow.
John stood next to him, his arms crossed in front of himself, just as uneasy but better at hiding it.
"This… does look suspiciously like the set-up for a duel," he said, careful.
"He wouldn't," the boy said, but he didn't sound convinced himself. "Right? That's too dangerous. He wouldn't risk leaving Mom and the children. Right?" he asked again, with more urgency, and turned to John.
He found he couldn't dispel his worries.
Because Alexander would. The way he had thrown himself into danger back during the war, knowing he would leave a pregnant wife (and John)–Alexander hadn't cared if he lived or died, and it seemed he still didn't.
Sure enough, just before sunrise, Alexander ended up opposite Burr with their respective seconds and a doctor on site.
Burr's eyes were narrowed as he watched Alexander, and John could see the burning determination in them, the sure set of his shoulders, how his hands didn't shake around the grip of the pistol–that was a man prepared to shoot someone he'd once called a friend.
Alexander, on the other hand–he stood, fiddling with the trigger, glasses sliding down his nose. Distracted. Like his mind was nowhere near his current predicament, as if the whole situation was nothing more than an afterthought to him.
"That's Weehawken," Philip whispered, hoarse and wide-eyed. "That's where I-"
Oh.
Yes, that made sense.
John uncrossed his arms and offered his hand to the boy, and he took it without hesitation, squeezing hard enough John was once again thankful the dead could not feel pain.
"He won't do it," Philip said with a small shake of his head. "They can still negotiate a peace, it's not too late-"
But it was.
The two of them watched as Alexander and Burr got into position, watched the countdown begin, watched Burr's determined strides and Alexander's slow, deliberate steps–and in that instant, John realised exactly what was going to happen. Why Alexander had come there.
And he wanted to scream at him.
John screwed his eyes shut, wondering how he could feel the distinct rise of panic without a too fast heartbeat and seizing lungs.
"Philip, let go of the Mirror," he said and forced his eyes back open.
The boy looked at him, almost affronted. "What? No! Don't you care about what's going to happen?"
"I know what's going to happen. Let it go," he ordered again, but Philip just shook his head, gripped his hand tighter–odd, John thought, how he could get all thorny with him and seek out the comfort he offered at the same time.
"It's going to be fine," he said, but his voice cracked, and his eyes filled with tears. "Dad will deal with this and go home, go back to Mom. He's a good shot, right? It'll be fine."
The count was almost done. Alexander stood, unmoving, his back to his opponent, eyes on the ground.
He looked blank. Like he wasn't aware of or just didn't care about everything he was throwing away, and John could have slapped him, that idiot, that moron, that selfish fucking prick; if that bullet didn't bring him to John, John would find a fucking way to bring himself to Alexander and finish what Burr had started.
Dawn broke, sudden and beautiful.
Alexander snapped his eyes up then, a small smile cracked his nondescript expression, his mouth moved as if he whispered something to himself–he raised his arm, pistol pointed straight up at the clouds, painted a molten gold by sunrise-
"Philip, let it go," he implored, just as the first tear fell from the boy's eye.
"What's he doing? Please, dad, you can't-"
The count was up.
A shot rang out, and John yanked Philip close by their joined hands, grabbed a hold of the back of his head, shoved his face into his chest, and whirled around and away from the Mirror with the boy in his arms, preventing them both from seeing what happened.
Not that they needed to.
The dull thud of something hitting the ground was eardrum-shattering.
Another shot fired, and John shut his eyes so tight colours burst behind his closed lids. He twisted his fingers into Philip's dark hair and pretended the strands weren't damp with his own tears, just held the boy and did what he could to soothe him through the harsh sobs that shook his frame and died against John's chest.
The last thing he saw before he would close his eyes forever were his wife's tear-streaked cheeks. He hated to see her cry. He had made her cry too often. He didn't have the time to apologise now.
The last thing he felt was his Eliza's grip tightening around his fingers as his own grew steadily weaker, his strength draining away into the cracks of mortality until he had nothing left.
The last thing he heard was her choked I love you. He wanted to say it back, but he found he couldn't. He had run out of words, just like he had run out of time.
The last thing he did before he faded was smile, and he hoped that would be enough.