Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

XCIII: Four Hours Locked Away

❝In this part of the story, I am the one who dies.❞
—Pablo Neruda

Alexander titled this poem Lepetat. I read it to myself. I love it.

You know, my love, of my
exquisite eloquence and silver tongue—
You have explored, my love, the
palatial palaces and celestial cathedrals
I compose with the ink of a pen.

But tell me, my love, why I become
helplessly flustered and pathetically silent—
When it comes to you, my love, when you
are the only woman I ever longed
to swoon with my words?

I have written letters, my love, for you
to explore the depth of my devotion—
Yet, I could never find the right words for you
so I withdrew every time
Those letters addressed to the flame of a candle.

I don't know what John was thinking. Frankly, I don't think he was thinking.

I don't think he was thinking when he took my revolver and knife. I don't think he was thinking when he threw me in an empty closet and barricaded it. I don't think he was thinking when he ran off to continue in the fighting. I don't think he was thinking at all.

It's been hours since then. I haven't even tried escaping the closet because... because before John left, he said, in a stern tone, not to move. And I have to obey.

So I sit in the flickering luminance of a swaying, bare lightbulb above me, my fingers skimming along the pages of Alexander's journal, my leg bouncing and finger tapping. The sounds beyond the building ended a while ago, although there is no doubt in my mind that this battle is far from over.

Yet, while my main interest should be of Washington or Nikolai, my thoughts only wander to John... Where is he?

As if on cue, just beyond the door that keeps me confined, there is a rumbling of something heavy being pushed along the porcelain floor. I stand, returning the journal to its respective pocket in my backpack and taking a step back, my hand clutched over my racing chest.

I remove my mask.

The sound stops, then the door slowly swings open. The space beyond my closet is dark, but with the light reaching just far enough, I can make out the vague outline of John.

I sigh and smile. "John. You came back like you said you would-"

In a half a second, John darts to me, and I squeal when I'm suddenly shoved against the wall, my chest and cheek pressed firmly to the cold surface. I can't mutter a word of protest before he forces my backpack off my shoulders, and it's only when he starts tying my hands together with a tough cloth that I regain my senses and resist.

"J-John! What are you doing?"

"Shut up!"

I shudder at the ferocity of his tone. I don't think he's ever spoken to me like that. The tranquility I felt not that long ago has vacated, leaving me panicked.

"John, please! I don't know-"

A startled yelp escapes my lips when John suddenly juts me harder against the wall.

"Shut up and stop resistin'!"

The sternness of his voice is so foreign that it reverts me back to when he was just my general and I was just a new graduate in the AC. I swallow back my anxiety, only allowing one more protest to slip my tongue.

"John, you're hurting me..."

His hands stop moving. There is a pause between us. Then I'm suddenly flipped to face him. I stare at him, then he begins to tie my hands together in front of my body. That only does little to deter the discomfort that the restraints do, but I don't make another comment.