Alexander woke, even though he had an odd sense he shouldn't have.
He wasn't surprised that he didn't open his eyes to his wife's face, but the face that greeted him instead ripped away the ground beneath his feet and sent him reeling.
Wisps of honey-blond hair fell into light eyes, beautiful and endless like the clear blue sky–and alight with cold fury–and a scowl twisted the perfectly arched lips he had yearned to taste one last time, and- and God, how he had wanted to see him again, how often he had begged the heavens-
"You are lucky you're already dead, Hamilton," he said, voice flat, and somehow that thinly veiled threat managed to sound like the sweetest music to Alexander's ears.
"Jack," he said, and some of the ice in his gaze melted away at the nickname that still rolled so effortlessly off his tongue, even after more than two decades of not having uttered it.
"My Jack," he repeated, his throat tight, vision swimming with tears.
"For Christ's sake, Alexander," John said in a much softer tone, one that reminded him of long nights, cold winters, and secret, forbidden touches; Alexander blinked, and the first tears fell. "You goddamn idiot. Shot dead by Aaron Burr, of all people, I really cannot comprehend you sometimes-"
Alexander ripped his hands up from where they had rested unused at his sides, grabbed John by the collar of his shirt, and used that leverage to pull himself up and yank him down at the same time.
They met in the middle, slotted together perfectly into a desperate, bruising kiss, so familiar it ached, and yet Alexander thought he could taste something new on his lips.
John recovered quickly from his surprise, and one of his hands came up to cradle his jaw, tilt his head the slightest bit, caress the side of his neck, bury just the tips of his fingers in his hairline. The other arm settled around his waist, and fuck, he had forgotten just how safe he felt wrapped up in John's embrace, how a gentle touch to the small of his back could made him feel so loved, so protected.
John leaned back and pulled him along, got both of them situated into a more comfortable position.
The only thing Alexander could focus on was John's touch, warm, firm hands on his skin–not calloused, though, just as his lips were no longer chapped, but he supposed that made sense if they really were dead.
His tears wouldn't stop, and they separated–well, John pulled away and tightened his grip on his jaw to prevent him from chasing his lips.
"Alexander," he whispered, his cheeks wet with both their tears. "Alex, my Alex, my darling-"
"I missed you so much," Alexander said, biting back a sob. "God, Jack, it was horrible, I was horrible, I- I just wanted you back, I didn't know what to do without you."
"Shh," he mumbled, swept his thumb back and forth over his cheek, and Alexander covered that hand with his own and turned his face into it, pressed a kiss to his palm. "I know, dear. I know, I- I saw it, I'm so sorry, I couldn't- I just couldn't do anything, I wanted so badly to reach out, but-"
"You saw?" he cut in, his brows knotted in a confused frown.
John took a moment, his throat bobbing as if he swallowed, and as he watched that motion, it hit Alexander that he couldn't actually swallow. Nor breathe.
Well. Dead, he reminded himself.
"I watched you. A lot, in the beginning. We can see the living from here, and I- I couldn't help myself."
Alexander blinked and wiped at his tears, took note of the way one corner of John's mouth twisted off to the side and that he couldn't quite meet his eye–he would be blushing if he could, he was certain, and he felt utterly charmed in spite of that rather unusual confession.
"I felt like you were there, sometimes," he admitted quietly. "I thought I was going crazy."
"You've always been crazy, darling," he muttered back and gently raised his chin so their gazes met once more.
He huffed a laugh and shifted closer, brought their faces together until their noses brushed.
"Thank you, dear."
John hummed, pressed another too short kiss to his lips, and leaned his forehead to his. Alexander found himself lost in those eyes after twenty years of having missed them–twenty years of praying to see them glint with wit just one more time, to see them crinkle at the corners in a rare smile, to see them spark with adrenaline and manic energy in the midst of battle.
"I am still absolutely furious with you, just so you know," he murmured into the tiny space their breaths did not mingle in.
Alexander sighed–it was an odd, empty motion without the flow of air through his lungs.
"There's only so much a man can take, Jack," he said and closed his eyes, his throat growing tight with the weight of his guilt.
He knew what he had done was selfish. Taking the easy way out, leaving behind his precious children and his Eliza, but- it would be for the best, in the end.
He had only ever made his long-suffering, saintly wife miserable. Now- now, she was free of him. She would finally have the space to bloom, without him there to block out the light.
"Oh, I understand that. I'm still furious," he responded, but his voice held no anger, not even a hint of it. His words were spoken softly, not in a tone to reprimand him, and a second later, those perfect lips covered his again.
Alexander leaned into it readily, burrowed himself more securely into the safe embrace he had so missed, and responded to the kiss with eager tenderness.
"Oh," someone said somewhere to their right, flat and notably unsurprised, and Alexander jerked away on instinct and whipped his head around, and-
"Goddamnit, Pip, I thought I told you to wait," John said, and he made not a single move to surrender his hold on Alexander, but neither did he himself–he couldn't, even if he had wanted to.
He was frozen. Frozen in place, eyes wide, fixed on the other ghost that had haunted his dreams and nightmares for three long years, the three longest fucking years of his life.
His boy. His son, his sweet, wonderful boy who had died in Alexander's arms-
Philip huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, the same haughty half-scowl on his face he had perfected as a nine year old, when he had first started getting himself into trouble and had to be set straight at least twice a week, dear Lord, his boy-
"Well, if you had told me the reason you wanted me to wait was because you wanted to kiss my father in peace, maybe I would have made more of an effort to stay away," he said, one eyebrow arched; an expression entirely Eliza, and it stabbed straight into the soft spots of his heart.
"Hm," John said and loosened the circle of his arm around Alexander's waist, slid his hands away from his torso to grasp his hands instead, and Alexander, transfixed as he was by his beautiful boy (whose last moments on this earth had been agony, who had been crying and coughing up blood as he lay dying in Alexander's arms, just because he had been a horrible father to him, because he hadn't been good enough, because he should have known Philip wouldn't drop the issue, he was a Hamilton, after all) let himself be gently pulled up and to his feet. "You know what, you win this round."
Alexander stood there, his John's warm hands solid in his own, and didn't quite know where to start.
The playful air that had enveloped Philip as he bantered with John (it had been so natural, so close, as though they talked to each other like that all the time, and John had called him Pip, even) faded away as they locked gazes.
His expression fell and fell, until the pinched corners of his mouth were fully downturned, his brow furrowed in the way it did when he had a bad headache, his eyes red-rimmed and teary.
And all of a sudden Alexander realised his starting-point.
He squeezed John's hands, let go, and stepped away. John let him.
"I'm so sorry," he said, too quiet, quieter than he had meant to, but his voice was already softened with his own tears.
He had yelled those words, screamed them, whispered them in the dead of night, said them aloud to his empty study, called them out into the garden–and he'd known, he'd always known that sorry didn't fix anything, that standing over broken ceramic and repeating sorry to it wouldn't put it back together into a cup, but-
He'd needed to say it. He'd hoped Philip would hear it.
It seemed he had.
Philip's lower lip wobbled, as it always had when he was just a blink away from the first sob, and Alexander ached in a way he was certain should not be possible without a beating heart.
"I'm so mad at you," he said, voice breaking, and Alexander could barely restrain himself from flinching.
His boy blinked, and two fat tears spilled over his lashes. "And I missed you so much, dad. You- you threw it all away just like I did, you left mom and the kids all on their own, and, and I'm mad, I'm fuming, I- I-"
He stuttered out into silence, sniffled, and Alexander knew all that.
But he had hurt his family the last time. No more.
No more.
Philip sobbed, heart-wrenching and horrible in a way that made Alexander think of Angie, of his little girl and how he had failed her as well.
From the corner of his eye, he saw John twitch as if he fought the impulse to reach out, but he stayed where he was.
Alexander stepped forward, his own tears falling without a sound, until he wasn't even a full arm's reach away from his son.
"You look different," Philip choked out, tried to smile, failed. "I- Dad, I missed you, so, so much, I heard everything you said to me, I couldn't say anything back, I'm sorry-"
He raised one hand, careful, even though he couldn't say why. Maybe a part of him was still convinced he was in a dream, and the wrong move would jolt him awake and force him back into a reality in which he no longer fit.
The first touch of his fingertips to Philip's cheek, the first gentle brush of his thumb over damp skin, shattered him.
"Pip," he said, just because he knew he would hear it.
"Dad," he responded, wrecked, and Alexander just couldn't take it any longer.
He reached his other arm out and yanked his son close by his shoulder, buried his hand in the wild curls at the back of his head he used to have to brush for him, just because Philip hadn't wanted to and they couldn't let their son run around with a bird's nest on his head, and Philip curled into him in turn, slipped into his embrace as though they had never been apart.
They stood and clung to each other for a long time, and all the while John couldn't help but grin like an absolute fool.
The rage and grief that had put his stomach into knots as they watched that ridiculous man throw away his life had faded into the background; not gone, not by any means, but John had known the second he got to look into those unreal eyes again that he wouldn't be able to do anything but kiss him silly.
He could scold him more thoroughly later.
They had an eternity, after all.
H̶e̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶,̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶,̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶h̶e̶'̶d̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶,̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶,̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶l̶e̶f̶t̶ ̶s̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶c̶h̶i̶l̶d̶r̶e̶n̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶w̶i̶f̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶o̶ ̶d̶e̶s̶e̶r̶v̶e̶d̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶.̶ ̶ ̶A̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶e̶t̶,̶ ̶w̶a̶r̶m̶t̶h̶ ̶c̶u̶r̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶'̶s̶ ̶c̶h̶e̶s̶t̶,̶ ̶p̶u̶r̶e̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶b̶l̶i̶n̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶d̶e̶l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶l̶i̶p̶s̶ ̶s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶t̶i̶n̶g̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶'̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶b̶a̶d̶.̶
John was snapped from his thoughts (thankfully) when Philip pulled away–not entirely, just enough so he could see his father's face again. The boy studied him in silence, and Alexander let him, just brushed his son's tears away and remained still.
It had to be odd for Philip.
Alexander hadn't looked as young as he did now for years; but that was how this place worked. No one here looked a day over thirty.
"John," Philip said then, small and a bit stuffy, and unhooked one arm from Alexander's back to stretch a hand out to him. John blinked at the boy and the offered hand, his chest tight, but Philip just watched him from red eyes and shook his arm in a slight, impatient motion.
Alexander had half-turned to look from him to his son, eyebrows raised, but whatever he tried to convey with the expression was lost to the tears drying on his cheeks.
Philip's eyes narrowed more and more the longer John just stood there, staring dumbly, so he forced himself into motion and clasped the outstretched hand in his own.
The boy tugged with solid strength John tended to forget he possessed, and John found himself pressed up to Alexander's side, one arm around his shoulder to steady himself, his other hand trapped between Philip and himself.
"Hello again," he said. It made Alexander chuckle and curl an arm around his waist in turn, and John had an odd feeling in his ribcage, as though his heart had managed to make just a singular beat after twenty years of silence.
He hadn't realised how much he'd missed his laugh–there hadn't been much of that these past few years.
"Hey," he responded and bumped him gently with his hip, and Philip watched them with a sweet smile and not an ounce of judgement, and god damn him, John wouldn't cry again, he had done enough of that today-
"So, how long have you known that I'm head over heels for your father?" he said, just to distract himself, and that earned him a raw, almost explosive laugh from the boy.
"What, like that's hard to figure out? John. At one point I assumed you wanted me to know. Every time we talked about him, you would let at least two 'my Alexander's slip, you are so obvious-"
Forget pain-resistance, the best part about being dead was the inability to blush.
Alexander's frame shook with his low laughter, even though he very obviously tried to stifle it, and he looked up at him from eyes like liquid sapphire, his gaze so heavy with fondness and sheer love, John could feel it on him like a physical touch.
Had he been alive, his face would have been on fire.
Good thing he wasn't.
"Your Alexander," he mumbled to him, making Philip snicker even as it loosened the tight ball of embarrassment in John's stomach.
"Mine," he agreed and bent down to kiss him.
H̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶d̶e̶s̶e̶r̶v̶e̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶s̶e̶l̶f̶i̶s̶h̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶r̶s̶t̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶r̶r̶i̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶k̶n̶e̶w̶ ̶k̶n̶e̶w̶ ̶k̶n̶e̶w̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶E̶l̶i̶z̶a̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶u̶s̶b̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶w̶a̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶p̶e̶r̶s̶o̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶a̶r̶e̶d̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶
Philip perhaps should have been more angry to see his father kiss someone not his mother, but he couldn't really bring himself to care.
It was just John. He had spent enough time with John to know how deeply he cared for his father, how fiercely he loved him, and he had long since come to the conclusion that his father must have loved him back just as fiercely, considering how drastically he seemed to have changed after his death.
They deserved this. He wouldn't sour this reunion for them.
Still. That didn't keep him from asking the question that lay burning on his mind since he had realised how deep the affection shared between his father and John went.
"What about mom? I mean, you- you love her, right? But you love John, too?" he said, careful, not sure how his father would take the question.
He needn't have worried, because he just chuckled and reached out to card a hand through his hair, eyes fond.
"Of course I love your mother, Pip. And I love John as well. And I love you and all your siblings. I can love more than just one person at a time, my sweet."
And that had been almost exactly what Philip had wanted to hear, so he dropped the issue with a smile.
John sat on the ground, his legs folded underneath him, and summoned a Mirror.
Frances hadn't changed much since the last time he had tried to see her–but the boy had grown a bit. It had been a while.
(This time, he wouldn't chicken out, he could be a man and confront this, the girl he had put into the world and turned his back to, the girl who'd had to figure it all out on her own because of his neglect.)
A warm weight draped over his back and two arms came down over his shoulders, wrapped around his chest, and John couldn't help the small smile that curled his lips as he leaned back into Alexander's embrace.
"Who's that?" he asked and nuzzled into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
John heaved an inaudible sigh. "My daughter." Then, remembering, he added, "And her son."
"Oh, you're a grandpa now? What an old man you have become," he said, teasing, and John found himself once again not able to suppress a smile, even as he shook his head.
"As if you can talk," he said back, but Alexander stayed silent for a beat.
When he next spoke, it was quieter, more serious, "I'm sorry you never got to meet her."
"I'm not," he said, watched as Frances hoisted a laundry-basket up onto her hip, the boy trailing behind and picking up articles of clothing that fell out.
Admitting to it out loud was… good. Freeing. He knew Alexander wouldn't judge him.
"And I feel horrible for it. I never even really checked in on her. I saw more of Pip's childhood than I saw of hers. I'm not a good person, Alex."
The arms around his chest tightened and slackened in an affectionate squeeze, and Alexander moved to nudge his nose into the space behind his ear instead.
"Even good men have their faults, Jack."
"Not like this," he said and tilted his head to the side to give him better access, knowing full well he didn't deserve love and affection like this a̶n̶d̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶c̶a̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶i̶t̶.̶ "What kind of man fathers a child only to abandon it, to never even think two consecutive thoughts about it?"
"A good one with faults," he answered, and John snorted. "Can I stay? I want to get to know her, too."
"Of course, darling," he said, almost in a whisper, his eyes pricking with tears even though he wouldn't be able to tell him why if he were to ask.
And so they sat together and watched Frances and her little boy hang their laundry to dry, (and John felt some of the guilt lift from his shoulders with Alexander f̶i̶n̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ there to share the burden.)