One time friends, would be lovers, Theodosia and Philip, meet again in the after life. Canon compliant, they get to meet up some time later, and they have a talk, maybe two.
“There you are.”
A beach. She was sitting on a beach when he found her. Ironic, she threw a stray piece of bark into the ocean, “Yes, here I am,” she kicked the sand and stared in the distance.
He changed the direction of his gaze and sighed. They looked ahead together, and were caught in the silence this part of the world offered. It was peaceful, quiet, even soothing.
“Was I called?” She looked at him, and was annoyed that he didn’t imitate the action, “Were you called?”
“No, I just-,” he shifted on his feet, and she chuckled. It was strange to watch him as he was. In life he had been lively, and in death, or as they were, spectral projections of their previous selves, he was sober-thoughtful even.
It wasn’t that he lacked thought. No, never that. This thoughtfulness was more deliberate, patient, and he worded himself slowly, unlike the sharp quickness of his youth.
“We knew each other.”
She dug her toes through the sand, and was amazed with the smooth feeling, the small beads tickling her feet, “Has the great Philip Hamilton lost his touch?”
“Never!” His blushed, and she laughed harshly, letting her chortles string the lazy air along, “Oh, wretched woman!”
“Wretched!” She spread and crossed, kicking and sighing. The sand's texture was undeniably smooth, like feathers instead of beads, “We really are relics, aren’t we? Absolute relics.”
His indignant frown split in two. On his back, he laughed, and his fingers brushed innocently against hers. The sensation had faded in time when she would have risen in alarm, acutely aware of their close proximity-the heat of his touch, but only cool warm seemed capable of touching her now.
Young love's awkwardness slipped through the passages and mingled among the living, "You were Theodosia Burr last time I saw you,” he breathed, sand smearing the right side of his face, “you’ve traded Burr for Alston. How long it’s been? Ten years?”
“More like two hundred, Philip.” On her side, she rested her head on a curled hand, “The nation is entering the-, what’s it called, the Social Networking Age? You should really pay attention sometime.”
"I do, sometimes. It isn't that much fun." His smile fell in small cracks, "It isn’t like people know me anyway.”
Theodosia's nails picked through the grains, searching for that buried piece underneath the snow brushed sand, "Lost at sea, age twenty-nine, you think you're the only one history's forgotten?"
An uncomfortable silence enveloped them, and they sat near each other, listening to the steady waves. It wasn't until Philip turned to her suddenly, eyes wide and burning; his grin oozed enlightenment.
“We can call in!” Without thinking he took her hands into his, “We can go back, down there.”
She blinked, “Wait, you’re serious?”
“It’s possible. It happens, and your son, my parents, even Aaron Burr has returned. Is joining them the worst thing we can do?"
"We can get blown away again," she answered.
"We might not," he argued.
She didn't know which memory-if it were real, but this feeling she had felt some time ago. Before Joseph, before Death began its hunt, this excitement scrawled on her skin, and the simplicity of his plan, the absurdity of his nonsense brought her to her feet, “I don’t-I’m not sure how this process works, but we can always find out, right?”
"We can, and the best part," with a wide grin he took her hand into his, and his thumb drew circles on her skin, "is that we don't have to do it alone. Not this time. We'll find each other.
"We can't be sure," she said, and the sly grin that crossed her lips said all that needed saying.
Childhood promises matured, she pulled him towards her. It was a shot in the dark, they knew, reckless and impulsive. They couldn't ensure the timing, the location, but this absent feeling filled her, submerged in an existence she was waiting to live.
As their forms meshed, fizzled, dissipated in a compassionate, white light, the world they left behind grew restless. The waters turned angry, then calm, content, and the skies cleared, darkened, and finally found a temperate climate to mull over. Except for the slim, easily missed ripple where they had stood there were no signs of activity, no signs that anyone other than she and him had ever existed.
Gunshots were accompanied by watery screams in whimpering skies, but those intangible features were fleeting, abandoned to the passages of Time and Himself.
