(It's long overdue, I know. But, here it is.)

To be honest, Alexander really didn't know whether he felt very excited or very nervous as he waited outside the delivery room one night.

An hour later, his wife stopped screaming.

Alexander stopped pacing and chose to barge into the ward, only to hesitate when his hand brushed the wooden door frame.

He collected himself, took a few breaths, pushed down his immediate excitement (he was absolutely sure he was excited now), and walked in carefully, quietly, almost corpse-like.

He saw his son in the arms of a nurse, his wife drowsy and exhausted from the delivery.

Something tightened and stretched to the breaking point inside the entirety of Alexander's rib cage, and he flew to his wife's side. He took her hand gingerly. "Oh, Betsey...!"

"Alexander... can I see him, please?" Eliza murmured, opening her eyes, her head lolling from her husband to the midwife almost rhythmically.

Alexander leaned over to look at his firstborn son, unconsciously placing his tired, ink-stained hand on his wife's hip. His eyes widened.

The very first thing that caught both the Hamiltons' attention were the eyes.

They were the color of a grandfather clock.

A beautiful blend of rust and hickory mingled with little flecks of dark red in all the right places, the whole eye rippled like a flag in a gentle breeze. Through them, Alexander could see a cold, white sunrise from the window behind him.

Even as a baby, his son could make the room warm and happy with just his presence.

"Wh-what should we name him?" Alexander had to force the words out, realizing that the eyes alone could do a number on him.

In his case, it rendered him speechless.

Although... I suppose this kind of speechless feels... really quite nice.

He blinked back at his son.

Eliza was transfixed by the baby, too, whose face was scrunched up, a sure sign that he was going to cry.

"Philip," she said calmly, dreamily. "His name will be Philip."

She smiled at Alexander for affirmation, just as little Philip erupted into loud wails and wriggled in his mother's arms. Alexander quickly nodded, and Eliza carefully held the baby out to Alexander.

It took him a little longer than expected to adjust to how he was supposed to hold the now screaming baby. Thankfully, Eliza was there to help him.

He accidentally got a smudge of ink on Philip's cheek as he caressed him, but when Alexander's thin, long fingers trembled near the tiny nostrils, Philip soon stopped crying and went to sleep.

Alexander, after a long, shocked stare at the unmoving bundle in his arms, tore his gaze away to face his wife, a smile quivering on his face. "He's..."

"A blessing?"

"Tiny. So, so tiny. But he outshines the morning sun all the same."

Doesn't he just? Eliza thought, dazed with joy. On the outside, she laughed at her husband's remark, smiling at a point on his chest.

He didn't know if she was smiling at him or the baby, but he held out Philip for Eliza to hold again.

He supposed it was only natural for someone to feel a certain tightness in their throat or a certain uncomfortable warmth in them at the sight of his wife and firstborn child, overcome with peace and looking like there wasn't a care in the world except for the suddenly imaginary, seemingly negative burden of having a new addition to the family.

And that was exactly how Alexander felt. Warm tears pricked at his eyelids, clouding his vision from the baby.

Their baby? His baby?

My son is here because I survived, Alexander mused inwardly.

Is this my reward?

Am I satis―

"Elizabeth Schuyler, best of wives and best of women..." The words caught in his throat for the third time. It was a strange, terrifying feeling for him, but it wasn't foreign.

The first time had been when he was 17, right after the hurricane.

The second time was a few minutes ago, when trying to decide what to name the baby.

The third was right now.

If he outweighed the times his voice caught in his throat with raw emotion, he supposed there were more positive experiences in his life than negative ones.

He found the strength to speak, but he crumpled to his knees involuntarily. He used that to his advantage and rested his head on his folded arms.

"We... you... have produced a miracle, an unmixed blessing, a godsend... he's a victory to the both of us. And-and I am satisfied with all good fortune that will come for us."

He paused. "Elizabeth Schuyler, best of wives and best of women, my love for you will never waver as long as I live."

Alexander Hamilton had felt pride a while ago, during the war, but this was a completely different emotion, and it was so strong he supposed he hadn't felt it since his mother died 13 years ago. He felt as if his very being was exposed to this feeling, but he craved it, he longed for it, and he knew he couldn't get it forever.

And in the warmth of everything—of Eliza's smile, of Philip's peacefulness, and of the sheer realization of having a complete family for the first time as far as he could remember—he broke down sobbing.

***

Seven months later.

To be honest, Eliza really didn't know whether she felt very nervous or very sad as she stood outside Alexander's study one sunny afternoon.

She clutched a letter in her hand and hesitated, her fingers brushing up against the door frame.

She collected herself, took a few deep breaths, pushed down her nerves (she was absolutely sure she was nervous now), and walked in carefully, quietly.

Like a corpse.

Eliza stared fixedly at her husband's hunched frame, blocking her view from the ever-familiar hand writing incessantly on parchment.

The writing stopped and Alexander looked up.

The very first thing that attracted Eliza's attention was his eyes. (She could see their reflection through the window.)

They were a dull brown, but they filled up with hope and happiness when he saw—

He stood up and turned. "Eliza." He sat back down, looking more relaxed than she had seen him in the past month.

"Alexander, there's a letter for you."

"It's from John Laurens—I'll read it later," he replied in a cheerful voice that made Eliza's nerves twist tighter than wringing out a wet washcloth.

Alexander returned back to his writing.

"No, it's from his father."

"His father?" Alexander said, puzzled.

Then, quieter:

"Will you read it?"

The weather mocked the fear in Alexander's voice.

But Eliza read the letter.

On Tuesday, August 27, my son was killed in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina. The war was already over.

Alexander didn't move a muscle. The quill was tense and unmoving in his hand.

Eliza pushed forth, though she felt like something had burned up inside her.

As you know, John dreamed of emancipating and recruiting 3000 men for the first all-black military regiment.

His dream of freedom for these men dies with him.

Alexander still wasn't moving. His eyes were wide and desperate, staring blankly at his wife for a long while after she read the letter.

Something buzzed in his mind. He could faintly hear Eliza's voice asking him if he was alright, but the buzzing tuned it out.

Killed in a gunfight.

Gunfight.

Killed.

John.

Killed.

Blankly, in a hollow voice devoid of any earlier happiness, he said:

"I have so much work to do."

Alexander faintly heard her footsteps recede.

Everything suddenly seemed so loud.

The quill was shaking so hard, he knocked over his ink bottle.

But he didn't care.

He supposed it was only natural for someone to feel a certain tightness in their throat or a certain uncomfortable warmth in them at the thought of their best friend—

Really?

Lover? He thought wildly, spiraling out of control.

—dead. He wouldn't come back. Ever.

And that was exactly how Alexander felt.

And he hated it. He hated it so much that he wanted to pick up his quill and write about it for as long as he lived.

He was still alive.

He, Alexander, was still alive!

I can't seem to die.

And in the warmth of it all—of John's death, of his unfinished dream, and of the sheer realization of losing someone so dear to him—he broke down sobbing.

(Voting's closed for the chapter 10 survey. Hope you liked this chapter! Vote, comment... it helps me. I'll update more frequently now that school's getting over in a little while.
And... I'm sorry for everything up above there.)