I Remember That Night, I Just Might (Rewind)

A Hamilton piece.

Summary: In 1782, history has written John Laurens died in combat at the Combahee River in South Carolina. But is everything written in stone? This story pursues the idea that John Laurens and Philip Hamilton are spiritually connected; and not only does John survive the fatal shot that killed him, but he goes on to change the entirety of the American history we learned in school.

Warning: Character death, pairing, angst, violence and language.

Chapter One: It All Began Here, 1782

1782, a year marked by streamers and empty party rooms after the last song was played. A time of celebration in '81 simply led into the intoxicating hangover of '82. Not everyone had the luxury of cheering victory at Yorktown, or even knew there was reason to pop the confetti and bust out the alcohol.

The year of 1782 was a haze, a drunken haze for Alexander Hamilton after surviving the bliss of the British defeat.

And it became nothing more than that until a celebratory and private toast in the safety of his study was interrupted by a letter.

A letter not from John Laurens. From Henry. The father, the father that really had no love for his abolitionist son (A/N)—Eliza's face was a pale reflection of Alex's; there was shaking, shuddering as the glass lay abandoned, hands grasping and wringing the letter like it would wring out the sadness and produce new meaning.

Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, killed in action, not knowing America had already been freed.

Alexander wished more than anything that he was intoxicated, that he was so disoriented that he could not comprehend the ceaseless mummers and caresses from his wife, so swept away by alcohol that 1782 could just—

Rewind.

Rewind.

Alexander folded the letter and returned it to Eliza, who slipped it back in its envelope. With a flutter, her powdered blue dress flew from the room like Wendy to Neverland, and the lost boy reached for his glass again, the celebration of Yorktown still on his mind. The haze settled again, thick and muggy, and it left him with a faint taste of a hangover when Eliza returned to his office once again.

"Alexander, a letter has arrived," she spoke softly.

Her husband's eyes were fixated on the dark amber of his victory toast, a smile twisting his face.

"It's from John Laurens, I'll read it later," he said in one breath, consumed for a moment by the name but managed to stagnate back to earth before Eliza noticed.

The moment was that simple. It was as if a balloon was released to the sky, and when Alexander jumped up to catch it, his fingers successfully snagged the cord.

"It's not from John…"

Alexander twisted his head, searching his wife's eyes for an answer she would not give unless it be her words. He swallowed softly and eyed the letter, folded and creased from someone's pocket. He often had seen similar letters in the war, carried by couriers to the families waiting for news of death.

"Will you read it for me… please…?"

He could have been shot 12 times in a British volley before Eliza managed to get the letter open. She began plainly from the top, her petticoat rustling as she walked up behind his chair.

The brown liquid of his toast reflected them both, a woman with love for her circumstance and a man with love for all those not near him.

"Excuse me for writing to you, Mr. Hamilton, but I have received your name from my eldest brother. At a recent engagement at the Combahee River in South Carolina, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was shot critically."

There it was, the dreadful, sinking feeling that bleached the blissful hangover from Alexander's mind. He started fiddling with his sleeves, tapping his foot, anything to keep his mind defensive against the blow that was sure to come.

"A few retreating soldiers and I returning home managed to take the Lieutenant Colonel back to Virginia with us to avoid more confrontation. He did receive the best treatment in the South at my parent's planation." Eliza's voice quivered like sheers against the string holding her husband's heart together.

I'm doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived.

Rewind.

"He's expected to pull through the injury. I await further orders. Your friendly Virginian, Francis Madison."

A letter. A letter not from John Laurens. From Francis Madison, the brother of James. Eliza studied Alex's face as he snatched the letter, folding it and unfolding it in disbelief as his toast laid abandoned. His wife quietly folded her hands over her stomach to quell the sickness she felt imaging the loss of a dear friend as Alex shot from his seat, frisking the envelope for an address.

"I must head to Virginia and bring Laurens back."

It's uncertain who Alex was convincing, himself or Eliza as he bounded around the room, cramming papers and quills and ink wells into a bag.

"I must bring him back here so he doesn't have to suffer in the South alone—"

"Alex."

Only then did he stop at the sound of her lovely voice, wondering if he's too obvious, if he went too far, if she saw it all with her eyes—

She smiled softly, sweetly. She took one hand in her own. "Bring John home."

1782 was the—the year—a— maneuver by Nathaniel Green would end end end bring an end to John Laurens' life—dead

Rewind.

1782 was the year Alexander Hamilton traveled to Virginia to bring John Laurens, the war veteran home.

Un deux trois…

Rewind.

(A/N): Though this statement is not entirely true, I do believe there was serious tension in the Laurens family in regard to John's non-conforming beliefs.

This entire story has been prewritten. Therefore, chapters will vary in length because I will post them in sections with natural breaks. The plan is to post an update every day, or every other day until completion.

The next few chapters will be in a more active, participatory voice. I hope you stick around and enjoy this alternate history I have written for you.

-Soul Spirit-