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

LXVI: Twelve Days at Home

❝Keeping your private life as private as possible is the smartest thing.❞
—Kate Mara

Needless to say, shit did exactly what I said they would.

That little joke about Alexander and me being robots who can telepathically communicate turned into conspiracies that Alexander and I are Russian-made robots made with delicate hands to simulate a real person for the sole purpose of spying on the Americans with all the efficiency of a computer.

And it's getting serious. Very serious.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Alexander barks, gazing down at his phone.

"What is it now?" I ask, leaning over to him.

We're in the backseat of a car, Reagan and Calvin driving us to Reynolds's place in Albany. It's about an hour's drive from our house, and we're almost there. In the meantime, Alexander and I have been keeping a close inspection on this morning's news; mass media has caught onto these conspiracies, and you bet your balls they're spreading that shit like it's legitimate news.

"Look at this article," Alexander says, tilting his phone in my direction. "This fucking article: The Hamilton Pair Directly Connected to President Ivanovich."

"That's utter bullshit!" I cry out. "Where the hell are they pulling this shit from?!"

"Who fucking knows," Alexander growls. "Listen to this: 'Despite priding themselves on being vehemently anti-Communism, as they have demonstrated on several occasions, it could all have been a ruse to cover the fact that the Hamiltons may be working with President Ivanovich.'"

"The hell?!"

"'Many conspiracists believe that they intentionally start controversy to encourage larger and more frequent AmeriCom riots in the country, thus pushing the Communist agenda.'"

"Goddammit, we need to fix this," I grumble. I lean towards the driver's seat. "Reagan, how much longer."

"Five minutes max," Reagan responds in a soft voice.

"Three max," Calvin corrects.

"Make it two," Alexander demands. 

September 23, 2059.

"Do you think Reynolds will know what to do?" I ask Alexander, tugging at the end of my sweater sleeve.

Alexander stares down skeptically, but when he gazes back up at me, he offers me a more confident expression. "He's dealt with this before. Reynolds has assisted problematic clients out of unfavorable situations several times. He can do the same for us."

"But this is really bad," I murmur. I drop my tone lower and switch into Russian. "If people get legit about this, they can put us on trial for treason."

"They can't do that without evidence," Alexander mutters, copying my language change.

"And what if they find evidence?" I whisper. "We may not be working with Ivanovich, but we're doing other things, Alex. A lot of other things that, if discovered, will ruin everything we've been planning."

"We're not going to let them find out," Alexander assures me, glaring into my eyes. He finds my hand with his, offering it a squeeze. "That's why we're trying to fix it."

"How can we fix this?"

"We'll find a way. We've got to."

The second we pulled up to Reynolds' place in Albany, we got spotted. No one knew we were going to be here, but a swarm emerges from around a corner as if from thin air, rushing to us like lions that spot hunks of meat in the middle of a desert, screeching our names like banshees; goddamn fangirls.