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

I: Two Alienated Russians

❝You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you.❞
—Leon Trotsky

Is this the beginning?

"Hey, Russkies!"

Simultaneously, Alexander and I paused, our mouths clamping shut and spines stiffening. My spoon had still been in my mouth when I heard the slur thrown at us, the water from my cereal slowly dripping down my chin. I pulled my spoon out, swallowed, and wipe my chin clean with my sleeve.

"We can't stay in the mess hall for five minutes without getting hollered at, can we?" Alexander whispered to me discreetly, leaning closer to me. I brush my hair behind my ear and nod, setting my spoon back in my disposable bowl.

It is still early morning. Frankly, it's too early for this bullshit. Alexander and I went to the mess hall with the rest of our comrades to eat breakfast like normal fucking human beings. At first, it seemed okay. We sat at our usual table, sitting across from each other and away from our American counterparts. We ate our A-ration meal of cereal, a muffin, and crackers in peace, making small talk about the war.

It was somewhat therapeutic! Alas, leave it to some random asshole to ruin it by forcing themselves into our space.

"Think we should respond?" I whisper to Alexander. He shakes his head as a response before taking a bite of a cracker. I nodded back and spooned up more cereal, shoveling it into my mouth in a very unladylike-manner. It's sad enough that I don't have milk. Such things like milk is a rare luxury for soldiers like us, so it was either eating dry cereal or pouring some water in it. Of course, I went with the latter. I somewhat regret my food combination.

Just as I'm about to eat another spoon-full of my breakfast, I see someone sit directly to my right out of the corner of my eye. I snap my eyes up to Alexander, asking for guidance and assistance in dealing with this unwelcome visitor. In return, he gives me a stern stare, essentially telling me to pretend I didn't notice our new tablemate. Alas, my curiosity gets the best of me. I slowly glance over and come face to face with our invader. Ah, it's the all-too-familiar Rory Miller.

The blond-haired, blue-eyed boy is only a year or two older than me, but he is easily way taller and more muscular than me. He's quite skilled with a .338 ShadowTrax8, which almost no one can master handling. The fire-power of the machine gun is simply too powerful for a normal person. He's quite liked in this unit, but Alexander and I can't stand him. He's cocky, rude, and never passes down the chance to taunt us.

"What's wrong, Russkies?" Rory asks, a fake pout upon his pale lips. "Don't speaka da English?"

Alexander easily ignores Rory's jeers and focuses on wolfing down his breakfast before the lieutenant colonel comes marching in to give us our duties for the day. I wish I had Alexander's resolve, and while I'm usually good at remaining solemn like him, I'm simply not in the mood today.

"We 'speaka da English' perfectly well, Rory," I drone, looking away and sipping from my canteen of water.

"Well, I'll be damned," Rory scoffs. He suddenly stands up and motions to me with his hands like an advertiser pointing out his product. "Hey, everyone! The Russkies know English!"

Rory's call is followed by enthusiastic and amused hoots and howls. I'm not surprised that the rest of these Americans find Rory funny. Inwardly, I curse Rory to hell. Outwardly, I take a page from Alexander's book and pretend it didn't bother me.

"Well, of course, I knew you spoke English. I'm just messing with you," Rory says, sitting down once more. He continues to tease me. "I'm just trying to make a point! You've been in our unit for a couple of months now and you are more like a shadow than anything! Come on, we're supposed to be a team! Wouldn't kill you to give us unworthy, free-marketer Yankees some attention, yeah? You rarely speak to anyone other than your brother, little miss (Y/N) Hamilton."