Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

28 of September of 2023

A day the Washintongs are always gonna remember.

The day their lives changed upside down.

There was Lafayette.

Alone.

Inside his house.

Trying to solve his fucking chemestry assigment.

And by that I mean he was scrolling on his tik tok hitting his vape, the cigars left his clothes and room smelling like shit.

And then it happened.

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

How still use the conventional phone nowadays?

Groning, he directed himself to the upper living room.

-Hello?-

-Yes, Is this the Wshintong’s?-

Laff could hear police sirens and chatting.

-Depending on who's asking.-

They weren't allowed to tell why they live, you know…politics.

-This is social services.-

What the hell?

I mean.

What.the.hell.

He is adopted.

Lafayette's parents died in an attempt back in France back in 2005 when he was 2.

The Washintongs adopted him after fostering him for 2 years.

So there is no way social services are calling because of him.

-Yes, this George Washintong, what is the reason for your call, may I ask?-

He said trying to hide his french accent.

-Yes, ummm you adopted a kid back in 2009 right?-

-That's correct-

-Yeah so, we saw you never retired your request of fostering or adopting another kid and we kinda need you help Senator Washintong.-

-Why didn't you call my assistant. Wait, how did you get my number?-

-We think this far more important, so we had to talk persona-

-I'm going to repeat my question again, social service dude. How did you get my number?-

He knows that his dad would never interrupt someone while he's talking, even more, he would never say dude or be rude, but Laf had many reasons to be.

He was tired.
Why are social services calling him if he is already legally adopted?
He needs to finish that fucking chemestry thing before midnight or he is going to get a 0. And George and Marth were gonna to be pissed.

-My chief gave it to me, we think you and your family are the best option for this.-

-For what?-

-Our case of Alexander Hamil-

-What?-

-We need an emergency placement for a immigrant kid called Alexander Hamilton.-

-Emergency placement?-

-Yes Senator, the thing is that his last umm 7 placements have not worked do to…issues…-

What is this dude talking about?

-What kind of issues?-

-Umm…abuse-

Well shit.

-Mr Washintong we really need your help with this kid, just temporary. You don't have to adopt him or anything, please or we will have to send him back to the Caribbean and he will end up probably in the streets. Just until we find a permanent placement, please.-

-Umm, nono, yeah I mean sure, umm sorry could you repeat this kids name?-

-Alexander Hamilton.-

Now this is fucked up.

Why did he even pick up the phone?

Now he has to decide if he has to save some kid.

-How old is he?-

-12, sir.-

Two years younger.

Now Laffayette, think.

The house is pretty sad when Goeroge and Marth are out and your friends can't come over since they are on vacation.

And you can have a friend when you are punished and don't get bored all day.

Also you can save a life?...

That would look good in a college essay.

I mean, what could go wrong?

-Yeah, sure we will gladly foster him, come to my direction XXX/XXX/XXX-

-Thanks Sir Mr Senator Washinotng sir!-

-His agent Chars Lee will be there with him and his information as soon as possible!-

Before he could close the phone he heard a “Ugh, finally-”

The fuck?

…

Okay it's okay.

Everything is okay

…

What the fuck he just did?

…

Did it actually happen?

…

HOW THE FUCK IS HE GOING TO EXPLAI IT TO GEORGE AND MARTH?! MERDE.

…

-Hey Laff, we're home. Where are you honey?-

They're back.

…

Shit.

Chapter Text

Alexander Hamilton doesn't like many things.

Alexander has never liked men, they are too rude, too big, too unpredictable, and too mean, but his brother…oh James… he is the only man in this world that he is ever going to love with his heart and soul. He didn’t like women either. They were dangerous, too loud, too mean, too hurtful, too scary, but his mother…oh his sweet mom. She's the only woman he's ever going to love with his heart and soul.

Or at least that’s what he thought.

Alexander also doesn’t like other things, like loud noises because they mean trouble or disorganization. After all, that meant trouble. He doesn’t like when people chew with their mouths open, and he doesn’t like any type of rain.

But Alexander Hamilton doesn’t hate only outside things. He also hated himself.

He hated how his mouth once never silenced had become completely mute. Or how fat people at his last homes called him. He hated how intelligent he was because he knew all of this was wrong and still thought it was because of him...he doesn’t hate all of his body tho. Only his hair, forehead, and cheeks that are far too skinny, and his teeth, um. His arms were far too bruised, and his rib cage was like a mosaic of colors. His nails were far too damaged because of his anxiety, and his legs...couldn’t bear his legs. They were like these wood sticks that looked like any moment would break. He didn’t like his accent because it reminded him that he was a dirty immigrant.

He was proud of his perfect understanding of Spanish and French. But that meant he was bragging about himself.

He didn’t deserve that.

He hated how every hurtful word spit at him was the pure truth. And it scared him. But he didn’t fight. He lost it a long time ago.

And now he fucked up again. He couldn’t even do his job correctly. Mr Renolds and his wife and children were having a lovely dinner that he had cooked while he was outside wearing a t-shirt and fixing the garden some teenagers had destroyed at the massive party Mr. Renolds' older son had two days ago.

That was the moment he decided he didn’t like teenagers, at all.

But he must have done something wrong because everything turned black.

And just like that, he woke up by many men and women dressed in hospital scrubs touching his body.

They were touching him.

He knew that he would be punished by not staying put and quiet.

He was scared because there were a lot of loud noises and many people.

Like the hurricane...

His body reacted faster than his mind.

Alexander was sobbing, screaming, crying, and trying to get away.

He could hear the voices, but he couldn’t get the words.

He was panicking.

And just like that, he felt a little pinch in his arm and was out.

-.-..-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-

-Chief, this kid won the lottery with the people that will be fostering him, right kiddo?- Mr Charls Lee asked him.

He just stared with frightful eyes at him inside the car. He was hugging his body. He didn't have anything. Not a bag. Not cloths. No faith.
All of that was taken as evidence for the police.

They were in the parking lot at the Hospital, Alexander sitting in the back seat, far away in the corner. He didn’t like being in a small space with any men. When Mr Charls Lee opened and closed the door, it made Alex's heart hit his throat.

His chest was closed.

His eyes watered.

His heart was pounding in his ears.

And the only thought his stupid brain could think was:

“No…not again….please”

He can’t do this again.

He's going to die this time.

Mr Charles was staring at him. His eyes were hateful and harsh. But our Alexander was used to it by now.

However, it didn’t make him any less scared.

He was alone.

Inside a box that moved.

With a man.

Tears began to form in his eyes, but Charles Lee didn’t bother to look back. He wanted to get rid of him.

Everyone did.

.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-.-..-.-.-..-.-.-.-

-Here we are Alexander! Senator Washintong's place-
Charles Lee said while the gates were opening.

Oh no.

It has been 3 hours by car from The Hospital to this person's house. Well, it was a one-and-a-half-hour drive, you know, New York Traffic.

-Get your ass out of the car. Make me proud Alexander.- Said the older man glaring at him. Which only made Alexander want to die.

The house was big.

Alexander is going to do a lot of cleaning.

Alexander has no clothes. All of them were in his last foster parent's house because they were searching for evidence. These were some old government clothes that the hospital had given him. A total charity case.

He didn’t have time to react when Mr Charles grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the front door, where he rang the doorbell.

-Now Alexander, you have my number. If something happens JUST FUCKING CALL ME. I have so much paperwork work to do because you can't open your fucking mouth. Geez Alexander. YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE ME LOSE MY JOB. These are good people, Alexander, so don’t blow it away!-

This made Alexander freeze.

He didn’t like screaming.

He didn’t like being touched.

And he certainly didn’t like the image of the family that opened the door just when Mr Charles stopped talking.

Chapter Text

Sooo... funny story.
I accidentally took a little nap... and then somehow woke up 2 YEARS LATER.

Honestly, I just closed my eyes for a second and the next thing I know — boom — time skipped like I was in a Disney movie or a bad sci-fi plot.

BUT GUESS WHO'S BACK?!
Yes, it’s me, your long lost author/friend/random internet person who literally vanished.

First of all:
I AM SO SORRY for disappearing
I really had intentions on finishing this fic.
Life happened. Procrastination happened. And before I knew it, here we are.

BUT NOW
I’m awake. I’m caffeinated.
And ready to finally bring this story back to life

If you're still here reading this:
I love you.
You're a real one.
Get ready — Chapter 3 AND 4 are coming TODAY!

Currently wrestling with my brain while editing Chapter 3!
Since I’ve left this fic sitting for... way too long (I’m so sorry), I’ve decided to make it up to you all by starting with weekly updates for now!
As a little “I’m back” present, I’m dropping 2 chapters today!
If weekly starts getting overwhelming, I’ll let you know and might switch to bi-weekly — but for now, we’re back on track!
Thank you so much for sticking around.

Stay tuned. We’re picking up right where we left off.

Chapter Text

The living room smelled faintly of old books and cold coffee, an oddly comforting scent amid the tension that now filled the space. I sat rigid in my favorite armchair, arms crossed tightly, trying to keep my thoughts collected even as frustration simmered beneath the surface. Martha leaned against the doorframe, her posture weary but steady, eyes flicking between Lafayette and me with quiet concern. Lafayette himself flopped dramatically onto the couch, his phone abandoned beside him as if it had no place in this moment.

“So wait,” I finally broke the silence, voice low but edged with disbelief, “you just agreed? Without even consulting us first?”

Lafayette rolled his eyes, the motion heavy with teenage exasperation as he drummed his fingers against the worn fabric of the couch. “Yeah. Because who else was supposed to say yes? Social services called me out of the blue—there’s a kid, twelve years old, tossed around like some damn tennis ball, and they needed someone to take him. I didn’t have time for a family council.”

Martha pushed off the doorframe, folding her arms with the air of someone who had heard far too much before breakfast. “But don’t you realize what this entails? You’re fifteen yourself, Laff. That’s barely being a child.”

“Exactly,” he shot back, voice rising a notch, “so don’t expect me to suddenly become some saint or miracle worker. I didn’t ask for this. I’m just trying to stop the kid from ending up on the street because you two are too scared to say yes.”

I rubbed my temples, willing myself to remain calm. “It’s not fear, it’s responsibility. What do you actually know about him? How can we be sure he’ll be safe here? What if he runs away, or worse?”

He scoffed, voice dripping with impatience. “You think he hasn’t already run away? Or worse? From what I’ve heard, the kid’s life is already a mess. So yeah, maybe you’re afraid of the chaos coming into our quiet house, but what about him? You know how silent it gets when you’re both gone. He could use some company, even if it’s temporary.”

Martha’s eyes softened briefly, but her tone remained firm. “Lafayette, where exactly is he supposed to sleep?”

Lafayette waved a dismissive hand. “Guest room. It’s empty. The only option. I don’t even know what ‘temporary’ means—could be a week, a month, maybe longer. But it’s better than nothing.”

I exhaled slowly, tension easing just a fraction. “Very well. The guest room it is. But we do this properly. No surprises.”

Lafayette smirked, the faintest edge of mockery in his voice. “Surprises? You’re acting like this is the end of the world.”

Martha smiled slightly, a hint of patience returning. “None of this is easy, Laff. We’re just trying to figure out how to make it work.”

He threw his hands up in exaggerated surrender. “Well, figure it out fast. I’m just tired of people getting screwed over.”

I stood, stretching muscles stiff from the weight of the conversation. “Then let’s begin with the guest room. It’s been collecting dust for months.”

Lafayette groaned but rolled off the couch. “Finally, some action. I’ll get the vacuum.”

As we set to work, the atmosphere began to shift. Lafayette tossed pillows and sheets, while I wiped down furniture that hadn’t been touched in too long.

Martha’s voice broke the quiet, soft and careful. “Do you think he’ll like it here?”

Lafayette shrugged, a shadow crossing his features. “I don’t know. But it’s better than the hospital or wherever he’s been stuck before.”

I nodded slowly, considering. “We won’t fix everything, but perhaps we can offer him a place to start. A foundation, however fragile.”

Lafayette glanced around the room, the reality of the situation settling over him like a weight. “Yeah. One messy step at a time.”

Martha smiled gently, folding a blanket with quiet resolve. “That’s all anyone can do.”

I chuckled softly, the sound unfamiliar in the heavy room. “Welcome to the family, kid. Hopefully, this time, it sticks.”

Lafayette shot us both a sarcastic grin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get all mushy on me now.”

Despite the humor, a small flicker of hope warmed the space—a fragile beginning amidst the uncertainty.

Chapter Text

The door had barely opened before the shouting began.

“Now Alexander, you have my number. If something happens, JUST CALL ME, for God’s sake. You’re going to make me lose my job! Don’t screw this up. These are good people, Alexander. DON’T BLOW IT!”

The man’s voice echoed through the doorway like a slap against the walls. And in front of him, the boy—small, thin, far too small for twelve—stood frozen.

George's breath caught immediately. The boy wasn’t just standing still; he was trembling. Tiny, almost imperceptible shakes at first, but quickly escalating into full-body tremors. His shoulders rose and fell far too rapidly, the sharp sound of his shallow breathing filling the tense silence that followed the man’s outburst.

Panic.

Pure panic.

His wide brown eyes darted between them, as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

Martha stepped forward instinctively, her voice low and steady. “Sir, perhaps we should all come inside.”

George nodded stiffly, stepping aside as the social worker practically shoved the boy forward through the doorway. Lafayette stood behind George, unusually silent now, his typical sarcasm replaced by something closer to unease as he watched Alexander crumble in front of them.

Inside, the living room felt suddenly much too large and much too quiet. The boy hovered by the edge of the couch, eyes locked on the floor. He didn’t sit.

“Have a seat, young man,” George offered gently.

But Alexander didn’t move. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him, nails digging into the fabric of his borrowed sweatshirt. It was as though even the idea of sitting without permission was too dangerous.

The man—Charles Lee, according to the paperwork—plopped himself down without invitation, releasing a tired sigh like this was all a massive inconvenience for him.

“Look, Senator Washington,” Lee began, already waving his hands as though dismissing Alexander’s very presence. “I’ll be honest with you, this kid’s a handful. Seven failed placements. Difficult behavior. Emotional instability. Poor social adaptation. Medical history is a mess, but you’ll see that all in the file. Not much else I can do here except wish you luck.”

George stiffened at the man’s tone. He spoke about Alexander like he wasn’t even in the room, like he was some broken object being passed off, not a child standing two feet away, silently struggling to breathe.

Lee continued without pause, clearly eager to leave. “Frankly, you’re doing the department a huge favor. We didn’t have many options left, and between your political background and prior fostering record, you were our best shot.”

George felt Martha’s gaze sharpen beside him, her patience thinning with every word the man uttered.

“You know how these cases go,” Lee said with an exaggerated sigh. “No family. No assets. No real future if we’re being honest. We’re just hoping he doesn’t cause too much trouble while you’ve got him.”

That was it. Martha straightened abruptly, voice cold but firm. “Mr. Lee, that’s quite enough.”

Lee blinked, slightly taken aback. “I’m just trying to be realistic, ma’am.”

“No,” she cut in sharply, her eyes narrowing. “You’re being cruel. This child has been standing here listening to every word you say like he isn’t even present. You will not speak about him like that in this house.”

Lee opened his mouth again, but Martha didn’t give him the chance. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

George saw it then—Alexander’s fingers twitching anxiously, his breathing still uneven. The boy hadn't moved an inch.

Lee stood, adjusting his jacket with a grunt. “Fine. Good luck. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

George stepped forward then, holding the door open with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. “Good evening, Mr. Lee.”

The man left without another word, and the house finally fell into a heavy silence.

Martha turned back toward the boy, her voice softening. “Alexander, dear, would you like to sit down now?”

The boy’s head moved slightly, barely a nod, before he perched cautiously on the very edge of the couch, his body tense as though expecting punishment for even that small action.

George exhaled slowly. There was far more going on here than any file could possibly convey.

Lafayette finally spoke from behind him, voice softer than usual. “Well… that guy was an ass.”

Martha shot him a warning glance, but George let it slide this time. “Yes, son. He certainly was.”

As Alexander sat there—small, shaking, silent—George felt the first heavy weight of what they had agreed to.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

But as he exchanged a brief look with Martha, he knew they were thinking the same thing.

The boy wasn’t the problem.

The problem was everything that had already been done to him.

-.-..-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-

Alexander couldn’t stop the shaking.

It started the moment the yelling began. The sharpness of the caseworker’s voice cut through him like a whip. He knew that tone. He knew what came after that tone.

They’re angry. I’ve messed up. I always mess up.

His muscles locked so tight that his legs felt like stone pillars under him. His stomach flipped and twisted, cold and heavy. The room felt too big, too open, too loud, even as the house fell into an uncomfortable silence.

There were too many people. Too many eyes. Too many unknowns.
They’re going to send me away. Or worse.

When Lafayette gestured toward the hallway, speaking softly about showing him to the guest room, Alexander's body refused. His feet didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard it hurt.

His chest burned. The air didn’t want to stay in his lungs. It went in fast, too fast, then out again in shallow gasps that only made him dizzier.

The tears came quietly, slipping from his eyes without his permission.

Stop crying. Stop crying. You’re making it worse.
Weak. Pathetic. Useless.
They’re going to hit you. They’re going to throw you out.

Martha’s voice reached him like distant noise underwater. Soft. Careful. Trying not to scare him. But it didn’t matter. Nothing could stop the terror building in his chest. It swallowed everything.

His brain was screaming.

Run. You have to run. Run before they hurt you.

And he did.

His body lunged without thinking, crashing into the small hallway table. The sharp crack of porcelain breaking filled the air as the vase hit the floor and shattered into jagged white shards.

Stupid.
Stupid stupid stupid.
You broke it. You always ruin everything.
They’re going to hate you. They’re going to beat you. You’re going to sleep outside again.

Everything after that blurred.

He couldn’t remember exactly where he ended up, only that he was crouched somewhere, trembling.

Someone was speaking, softly, but the words didn’t make sense. He couldn’t hold onto them. They slipped through his mind like smoke.

They’re planning what to do with me.
They’re going to call someone. They’re going to drag me out.
Maybe they’ll lock me up this time.

Hands touched his. Warm. Gentle. But still, his skin flinched, waiting for pain.

He sucked in air like he was drowning. His chest pulled tight and wouldn’t release. His lungs refused to work the right way.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
They’re going to kill me.
They’re going to throw me out. I deserve it.
I ruin everything. I always do.
They won’t keep me. No one ever keeps me.

The hands didn’t tighten. They didn’t yank him or slap him. They just… stayed.

The voice came again. Low. Calm. Steady.

“You’re safe.”

Liar.
You’re lying.
You’re all lying.

“Breathe with me. In and out. That’s it.”

He tried. He really tried. But his lungs didn’t want to listen. His fingers curled into tight fists as his whole body braced for the inevitable hit.

It’s coming. It always comes.
Pain is coming.
It always comes after the quiet.

The hands remained still. The voice kept speaking. Soft waves of meaningless calm.

“I’m not angry. It was an accident. You’re safe.”

They’re going to punish me later instead. They always wait. They always make me hope first. That’s how they break you better.
I’m broken anyway.
I deserve it.
I’m nothing. I shouldn’t be here.
They’re probably deciding who to call to take me back.

His vision blurred and spun as his breathing stayed ragged. But… nothing happened. No hands grabbing him. No slap across the face. No screaming.

What’s wrong with them? Why aren’t they hurting me yet?

When his eyes opened again, he saw something that made no sense.

The man—George—was kneeling. On the floor. Below him. His hands open, empty. He wasn’t towering over him like they always did.

This isn’t how it works.
Why isn’t he hurting me?
Is this a trick?
Am I dreaming?
Please let me wake up.

More silence. More waiting.

Eventually, George spoke again, softer than before. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Alexander almost laughed. But it wasn’t funny. It was too terrifying to be funny.

You don’t understand how this works. You don’t know how broken I am.
You’re lying. You’re all lying.
They always lie first.
I deserve to be punished.

His tears came harder, his breath shuddering with the weight of shame.

I ruined everything already.
They won’t want me after this.
They’re going to throw me out. Maybe tonight.

George didn’t move. Didn’t grab him. Didn’t shout.

The waiting was worse than the pain would’ve been.

He stayed there, hunched, crying into his knees as the panic slowly twisted itself into numbness.

I deserve whatever happens.
If they leave me outside, I’ll figure it out. I’ve done it before.
I don’t need anyone. Not really.
It was stupid to hope.

But still… no punishment came.

Only warm hands.

Only quiet.

Only safety that didn’t feel real.

-.-..-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-

George barely noticed the others as it happened.

Alexander’s small frame trembled harder with every second. His breathing came out in fast, panicked bursts, shoulders heaving like he was fighting some invisible force. George stayed still, hands open, voice low and steady, trying to ground the boy through the storm inside his head.

But he could feel it slipping. The boy was spiraling.

His skin had gone pale, slick with sweat. His wide eyes flicked from him to Martha to Lafayette, like a trapped animal looking for any way out that didn’t exist.

And then, like a switch flipping, his body gave out.

The boy’s knees buckled, his eyes fluttered back, and before his small body hit the floor, George lunged forward and caught him. His weight was nearly nothing, terrifyingly light, like something hollowed out and fragile.

George cradled him carefully, holding him against his chest as the boy’s head lolled against his shoulder. He could feel Alexander’s heartbeat—still racing like it was fighting to keep him upright even as his body surrendered to exhaustion.

Behind him, he heard Martha’s breath hitch sharply, and he didn’t have to turn to know she was crying. Lafayette’s quiet gasp followed, the sound thick in his throat.

“Come on,” George whispered—though not to anyone in particular. Mostly to himself. Mostly to the boy who couldn’t hear him.

He stood slowly, careful not to jostle the boy’s limp body too much, and turned toward the hallway.

Martha and Lafayette followed, silent shadows moving with him.

The house was too quiet now. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the creak of old floorboards under their feet filled the space. George stepped carefully into the guest room and gently lowered Alexander onto the freshly made bed. His head sank into the pillow, curls falling across his face, his breathing still shallow but steady.

Martha stood by the doorway, hands covering her mouth. Tears streamed freely down her face now, silent but constant. Her shoulders trembled.

Without a word, Lafayette moved to her side. Though still visibly shaken himself, he wrapped his long arms around his mother, pulling her into his chest. Martha leaned into him, letting her tears fall freely into the fabric of his shirt.

Lafayette blinked rapidly, his own tears streaking down his cheeks as he held her tightly. George caught the brief flicker of fear and helplessness in his son’s eyes — a mirror of the emotions weighing heavy in his own chest.

George stood there for a long moment, watching them. His hand hovered uselessly for a second before running through his own hair. He could feel the burn behind his eyes, the heat of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

None of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.

The boy lay asleep, finally still.

And the three of them stood in the doorway, their little family wordlessly reeling, unsure what to do next — but knowing they’d have to figure it out together.

Chapter Text

He woke slowly, the air around him too quiet, too still.

His brain felt like it had been dipped in something thick and buzzing—like cotton stuffed behind his eyes and in his chest. The kind of heavy fog that only came after sedatives. He recognized it. He hated that he recognized it.

There was pressure behind his eyes. His head ached, his limbs were stiff, and everything inside him screamed wrong.

He didn’t move at first. Moving was dangerous.

Don’t rush. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t make a sound.

Still lying flat, Alexander slowly flexed his fingers. He expected to feel cold tile, the scratchy edge of a couch, or maybe worse—concrete. But instead, his fingers brushed over something soft.

Fabric.

Sheets.

His breath hitched. He was in a bed.

No. No no no. Beds were for them. Not for him. Not unless someone told him to. Not unless he was—

His stomach turned. His hands twisted in the sheets like they might turn into rope.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. You’re awake now. That means you still have a chance.

The light in the room was dim, but not artificial. Sunlight was slipping through what looked like a curtain. Morning? Maybe.

Very slowly, Alexander opened his eyes fully, forcing them to adjust.

The room around him was warm—not in temperature, but in color. Pale blue walls. A bookshelf. A dresser. The scent of laundry detergent and wood polish. Too clean. Too quiet. Too much.

He swallowed. His mouth was dry. His throat sore.

He tried to sit up. His body rebelled—aching joints, tight muscles—but he pushed anyway, heart thudding like a drum in his ears. He looked down. He was still wearing the scratchy hospital clothes. No restraints. No wires. No IVs.

No blood.

He blinked hard.

Where am I? What did I do? What did they do?

The last thing he remembered—

Charles. The yelling. The door opening. A man. A woman. Another teenager. Too many voices. Eyes. Hands.

He flinched.

They’re going to hurt you. You messed up. You broke something. You ran. You always run. That’s why they send you back.

His chest tightened.

He scanned the room quickly for exits, for escape routes, for threats. The door was slightly open. There was a chair tucked into the corner, a folded blanket draped over it. Nothing sharp in sight.

But that didn’t mean anything.

He didn’t trust nice rooms.

He didn’t trust anything.

And then he heard it. Footsteps.

Coming closer.

Someone was in the hall.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door.

Alexander held his breath.

Then—a knock.

Three soft taps, not too loud. Not aggressive. But still enough to make him flinch.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t know if he was allowed to.

The door creaked open a few inches.

“Alexander?”

It was a woman’s voice. Kind. Smooth like honey in tea.

He didn’t speak.

The door opened a little more, slowly, carefully. She stepped in, hands in front of her like she was showing she had no weapons. It was the woman from the night before. The one with kind eyes.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said gently, pausing by the doorway. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to check in.”

Alexander froze. His whole body locked up.

Martha didn’t step closer. She kept her distance, voice calm and warm. “I’m Martha. I’m—well, I guess you’d say I’m your host for now. Or maybe your very lucky temporary guardian.” She smiled, soft and a little awkward. “Lafayette—that’s our son—he told us you’d be coming. You passed out last night, sweetie. My husband carried you upstairs.”

His stomach twisted at the word husband. Another man. Another adult.

She noticed the shift in his eyes, and her smile softened into something a little sad. “You’re safe here,” she said. “I promise. You were really overwhelmed last night, and honestly… we all were. It’s a lot, I know.”

He didn’t believe her.

They always said you’re safe now.
Right before they proved the opposite.

But he stayed quiet. If he said something wrong, he’d get in trouble.

Martha glanced toward the open curtain. “It’s morning now. Just past eight. I made some breakfast downstairs—nothing fancy, just eggs and toast, and I think we still have those frosted cereals if that’s more your thing.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you want to come down, you’re absolutely welcome. No pressure. But I wanted to invite you, just in case you were hungry.”

Alexander blinked.

Invite.

But the words twisted in his head.

Come downstairs.
You’re expected.
If you don’t, you’ll get in trouble.

He didn’t nod. He didn’t speak.

Martha waited a moment longer. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll let you be. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. We’re just downstairs.”

She gave one last gentle smile and stepped out, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.

The second she was gone, Alexander’s heart jumped into overdrive.

She wanted him downstairs.
She said she didn’t—but that was a test, right?
That was always the test.

If he didn’t go… they’d be mad.
If he stayed in the bed…
If he didn’t eat…
If he was ungrateful…

She was being nice now. But people don’t stay nice.

He slid off the bed, panic flaring in his chest. His legs were shaky. His head still felt foggy. But his hands moved quickly, smoothing out the bedsheets, adjusting the pillow, trying to make it look like he’d never been there at all.

That’s what you do.
Leave no trace.
Don’t take up space.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the doorknob.

Don’t think. Just move.
Just go.

The hallway stretched out ahead of him like it might never end.

Alexander clutched his sleeves, fingers curled tight in the fabric. The wooden floors creaked under his bare feet, even though he tried to step as lightly as possible.

To his left, a long wall of photos.

He didn't dare stop to look, but his eyes flicked over them anyway.

A smiling boy—Lafayette, younger. At a science fair. In a Halloween costume. Holding a trophy.
A woman with warm eyes and a messy bun—Martha, younger too.
And George—smiling in some, serious in others, almost always standing in the middle.

He didn’t belong here.

Their faces looked like they belonged to a family that had long since learned to be okay. People with neat lives and warm lighting and kitchen counters full of normal things like fruit bowls and coffee mugs. Not… people like him.

The hallway led straight to the kitchen. He could hear the voices now. Low at first. Then clearer.

He stopped.

Stayed frozen just around the corner, heart pounding like it was trying to knock out of his chest.

“…I told him he was welcome to come down. If he wants to.” That was Martha.

A pause. Then George’s voice, quieter. “Do you think he will?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “He looked terrified, George. Like… yesterday. All over again.”

Alexander’s chest squeezed.

He didn’t want to be terrifying.
He wasn’t trying to be.

“It’s probably too much for him,” George said. “New house, new people, God knows what he’s been through. We can’t expect him to act like—like a guest.”

“We’re strangers,” Martha murmured. “He doesn’t know we won’t hurt him.”

Lafayette scoffed quietly. “He doesn’t know that because people have hurt him. That’s the difference.” A pause. “He thinks he’s a burden.”

Alexander flinched.

Lafayette's voice wasn’t cruel—but it was matter-of-fact, like he was stating something obvious. And it was true. He was a burden. They were all trying so hard to deal with him, to talk about him, to figure out how to keep him from falling apart.

They were kind. They were good.
And he was the problem.

He took one step back. Maybe he should go upstairs again. Or outside. Or—

“—oh.”

The voice came from inside the kitchen. Not angry. Just surprised.

Lafayette.

Alexander’s heart stopped for half a second.

He looked up. Lafayette had stepped into the doorway. He wasn’t scowling or smiling—he just looked… tired. And surprised.

Alexander opened his mouth, but no words came out. His shoulders curved forward automatically, ready to be scolded. Ready for anything.

But instead, Lafayette just tilted his head.

“You want breakfast?” he asked, like it was the most normal question in the world.

Alexander blinked.

Lafayette stepped back into the kitchen and raised his voice a little. “He’s here.”

There was a quiet shuffle. A chair scooting. Someone standing. But no one rushed at him. No one raised their voice.

“Come on in,” Lafayette said over his shoulder. “It’s just eggs. I’m not about to offer you some five-star meal, so you might as well take your chances.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. Not a smile. Not really. But not unkind either.

Alexander hovered in the doorway, unable to make his feet move.

He was still waiting for the catch. The change in tone. The moment where kindness turned to coldness. It always did.

But Martha’s voice came next. “You don’t have to eat if you’re not ready, sweetheart. You can sit, if you want. We just want you to feel comfortable.”

Her voice was as soft as it had been upstairs.

And George? He didn’t say much. Just a quiet, “Morning, Alexander.”

And the sound of another chair being pulled out.

No pressure.
No yelling.

Still, Alexander’s knees felt like water.

He stepped forward slowly—hesitantly—toward the family he didn’t know how to believe in. Yet.

.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-.-..-.-.-..-.-.-.-

Alexander stepped into the kitchen like it might bite him.

The Washingtons sat at a round table bathed in soft morning light, mismatched mugs and bowls already set out. The smell of scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh coffee lingered in the air. It should’ve been comforting. Warm. Normal.

But nothing about this was normal for him.

He paused in the doorway, shoulders drawn so tightly inward he looked like he might fold in half. Every instinct screamed to run. Hide. Apologize for breathing.

But instead, he nodded—just barely—and shuffled toward the nearest chair. He sat on the edge of it like he expected to be told to stand at any second.

Martha gave him a gentle smile, trying not to look too directly at him, like she knew a spotlight might make him bolt. George was quiet, his expression unreadable, but his hands were relaxed around his coffee mug—open, not clenched.

Lafayette, meanwhile, was staring at him in a way only a teenager could: equal parts curiosity and “what the hell do I even say to this kid?”

“So,” Laff said casually, leaning back in his chair and popping a piece of toast into his mouth, “you like music? Or do you just vibe in total silence all day?”

Alexander blinked.

The question caught him so off guard that for a second, he didn’t even know how to react. Was that… a joke?

His eyes lifted, just slightly, studying Lafayette’s face. He searched his expression the way someone might scan a foreign language, hoping to catch the shape of something familiar. Were those words real? Or was he mocking him?

Sarcasm was hard. Especially now.

People always said things they didn’t mean. Jokes that weren't jokes. Smiles that came before shouting. Promises that cracked open into threats.

In Alexander’s world, there were no gray areas. Not when you had to stay alert to survive. Things were good. Or they were bad. And most of the time, they were bad.

Lafayette’s smirk lingered for a second too long—just enough for Alexander to panic, unsure if he was being made fun of or not.

He glanced up again, locking eyes with him, searching for some kind of answer in the tilt of his mouth or the way his eyes moved. But Lafayette’s gaze wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t mocking. Just… relaxed. Loose around the edges.

Still, sarcasm was a slippery thing.

Alexander had never been able to hold it properly—not without cutting himself on it. People said things they didn’t mean all the time. They laughed while being cruel. They joked and then got mad when you didn’t laugh with them.

So he learned not to react.

It was safer that way.

Because in his world, things weren’t funny unless someone else was hurting. Words had always been weapons. Or lies. Sometimes both.

He couldn’t tell if Lafayette was teasing him or testing him. If liking music was the right answer or the wrong one. If silence was bad, talking was worse.

Everything in his body wanted to disappear into the chair.

But Lafayette just kept talking, unfazed by the silence.

“Okay, no answer. That’s fine. I’ll just assume you’re secretly a jazz snob with terrible opinions about saxophones.”

There was the smirk again.

Alexander didn’t move. But under the table, his fingers twitched, curling tighter into his sleeves.

Martha gave Lafayette a look—gentle, but cautionary—and shook her head like she was telling him to dial it back. He rolled his eyes but stayed quiet after that, popping another bite of toast into his mouth like he hadn’t just confused a deeply traumatized kid with his entire personality.

George cleared his throat. “There’s more if you want some,” he said, motioning to the eggs and toast. “You don’t have to be shy.”

Alexander gave a mechanical nod and pushed a piece of toast around on his plate, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze.

No one pushed. No one rushed him.

But the silence that followed felt stretched—like everyone was pretending it wasn’t there.

Until, mercifully, Lafayette broke it again.

“So,” he said, brushing crumbs off his fingers, “who’s ready to talk about how I absolutely crushed that math quiz yesterday? I mean, I basically rewrote the textbook. I should be knighted or something.”

Martha raised an eyebrow over her coffee. “Is this the same quiz you said you ‘definitely failed’ two days ago?”

“I was managing expectations,” he replied, deadpan. “It’s called strategy.”

George huffed a quiet laugh. “Managing expectations by crying on the kitchen floor is a bold strategy.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Martha let out a light, amused breath. “Barely.”

And for a moment, it was like the air returned to the room.

The conversation carried on—soft and easy, full of warm, harmless jabs. The kind that didn’t aim to wound.

And Alexander, quiet as ever, just sat and watched.

And somewhere in his chest—underneath the fear and the fog and the thousand alarms still blaring in his brain—a tiny thread of something else started to stir.

Not trust. Not yet.

But something like… curiosity.

Like maybe he could keep watching.

Like maybe, if he stayed quiet and careful, the table wouldn’t turn against him.

Like maybe this time… might be different.

He stared down at his lap.

Obedient, mechanical he reached for the bowl of scrambled eggs. His hand trembled slightly as he spooned the smallest portion possible onto his plate. A few bites. Just enough not to seem ungrateful.

He didn’t touch the toast.

He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t felt true hunger in so long that his stomach forgot how to ask for food. And even if he had—he didn’t deserve it. He had been told for years what eating too much made him.

Ugly.

Selfish.

Disgusting.

So he sat, perfectly still, fork barely touching the plate.

Across the table, Lafayette watched him out of the corner of his eye. The smirk had faded.

Martha reached for the butter, pretending not to notice the boy’s untouched food. But her hands moved slower, more careful, like any sudden motion might shatter the boy across from her.

George took a sip of coffee, his expression unreadable. There was something tightening in his chest, watching this child—this thin, haunted thing—pretending to be invisible in his own kitchen.

Alexander was still perched on the edge of the chair like he was afraid to leave marks on it. His eyes were locked on his plate, not moving. Not blinking.

It was quiet again. Too quiet.

So Lafayette, with his usual lack of grace, leaned forward and said, “Okay, serious question. Do you know what a Pop-Tart is, or am I dealing with a complete cultural emergency here?”

Alexander blinked again. This time, a flicker of confusion passed over his face. A Pop-Tart?

“Because,” Lafayette continued, taking this tiny opening like a victory, “I am willing to risk my life to educate you. This is what I do. Community service.”

George raised an eyebrow but didn’t intervene.

Martha gave a small laugh under her breath. Not loud. Just enough to let the room know it was okay to breathe.

Alexander didn’t laugh. But his fingers loosened just slightly.

Just slightly.

Lafayette leaned forward dramatically, eyes wide like he was about to announce something of grave national importance. “Pop-Tarts,” he said, drawing out the words like a sacred chant, “are the cornerstone of the modern American teenager’s diet. I’m not saying they’re healthy. I’m saying they’re essential.”

Martha raised an eyebrow from across the table, clearly unimpressed. “You haven’t eaten a Pop-Tart in two years, Lafayette.”

“That’s irrelevant.” He waved her off with a dramatic flair. “I still honor their legacy.”

George chuckled into his coffee. “You honor it so much you left three boxes in the pantry and forgot about them for six months.”

“Vintage!” Lafayette argued. “They aged like fine wine.”

Martha gave him a look. “They were strawberry.”

“Exactly. Fruit. Basically salad.”

Alexander didn’t laugh, but he blinked and stared at Lafayette with something softer than fear. Something almost like… interest.

The way the family talked to each other—teasing, warm, familiar—it didn’t feel threatening. There were raised voices, sure. But not angry ones. Not the kind that made your whole body shrink into itself.

No one was being insulted. No one looked scared.

Just a mom, a dad, and their ridiculous teenage son talking about breakfast pastries like they were world politics.

Lafayette caught Alexander watching him and raised his brows. “I know, I know,” he said, tossing his hands in the air, “you’re judging me. You’re thinking, ‘wow, this dude is clearly unhinged.’ And you’re not wrong, but at least I’m honest about it.”

Alexander’s eyes widened slightly—he hadn’t realized he’d been staring and he was not judging, he was in no position to...—but Lafayette just kept talking like it didn’t matter.

“And anyway, once you’ve seen me sprint across the kitchen barefoot at 2 a.m. just to rescue a toaster pastry from the abyss, then you can really judge.”

George shook his head with a small, exasperated smile. “The ‘abyss’ was a floorboard, Laff.”

“It tried to eat it, Dad.”

Alexander’s fork was still motionless on his plate, but his grip wasn’t as tense anymore. His shoulders had dropped half an inch. He still didn’t say a word—not yet. But he didn’t feel like he was taking up too much space anymore.

They weren’t waiting on him to speak. They weren’t staring. They weren’t mad.

They were just being… themselves. And somehow, for a moment, that made him feel like maybe he hadn’t ruined everything.

He wasn’t used to sarcasm that didn’t cut. Or teasing that didn’t end in pain. He’d always thought humor came with strings attached. But here it was, being passed around like toast and jam.

And somehow, Lafayette’s voice—brash, blunt, borderline chaotic—wasn’t scary. Not now. It just… was.

Alexander didn’t smile. But he watched. Closely. Carefully.

And for the first time since he’d walked through that front door, he didn’t feel like he was about to be kicked out again.

Until it happend.

“Why didn’t you eat anything, Alexander?”

The question landed harder than George had meant. His tone—sharper, heavier—cut through the kitchen like a sudden drop in air pressure.

Alexander froze.

Everything inside him shrank, panic igniting in his chest like a match to gasoline. His breath hitched. He hadn’t realized he was being watched that closely.

I messed up. I’m going to disappoint them. I’m going to get kicked out.

Without thinking, he grabbed the nearest piece of toast and shoved it into his mouth.

The toast was dry. It scratched his throat going down, but Alexander chewed fast, desperate to make the mistake disappear. His jaw hurt from how tightly he was clenching it. He hadn’t even realized his hands were shaking until he reached for the water glass and nearly knocked it over.

No one said anything.

The table had gone still, like the house itself was holding its breath.

George’s face had gone pale. His coffee mug sat untouched. His mouth opened—like he was going to say something—but then closed again.

A moment later, he stood.

No one stopped him. His footsteps echoed down the hall.

The silence he left behind pressed down heavy and strange. Alexander didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t. He just sat there, hunched, hands gripping the edge of the table like it might disappear from under him.

He’d ruined everything.

Again.

Martha stood, gathering dishes with slow, practiced hands. Her expression didn’t shift, but Alexander saw how carefully she moved—how she avoided glancing at him too long, like she was afraid even looking might make him bolt.

He couldn’t take it.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood. His chest buzzed with urgency. He didn’t know what to say—but that was fine. He didn’t need to say anything. He could show them. He could help.

He reached for the plates, trying to mirror Martha’s movements.

“Honey, it’s okay,” she said softly, already holding two bowls.

Alexander shook his head once.

Then again. And again.

More.

More.

No, please. Let me.

He snatched up a fork and a napkin like they were lifelines, then took a plate out of her hands before she could stop him. His breaths came fast and shallow, like he was trying to keep himself from vanishing entirely.

Martha blinked, surprised, but didn’t stop him.

Lafayette stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. Then, without a word, he fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled to a playlist. A second later, the raw electric intro of AC/DC’s High Voltage filled the kitchen.

Alexander flinched at first.

Then he stilled.

It was loud, yes. But not angry.

Lafayette shrugged like this was just another Saturday and tossed a crumpled napkin into the trash. “I gotta go. My friends are threatening to commit crimes without me.”

He grabbed the phone, muttering a lazy “see ya” before disappearing down the hall, the music trailing behind him like a frayed ribbon.

The kitchen felt dimmer without it.

Martha returned to stacking dishes. Alexander followed her lead, hands trembling only slightly now. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But he kept helping—rinsing, stacking, placing carefully on the drying rack like his life depended on the precision.

Maybe it did.

Martha didn’t say much either. Just a few gentle comments, stories that didn't require answers—something about Lafayette winning a science fair in third grade, George’s obsession with over-seasoning eggs, her mother’s old chipped mug that she still refused to throw away.

Alexander nodded a few times. Maybe even let his shoulder relax. A little.

When the last plate was clean, she handed him a towel. He dried in silence, focused, almost too careful.

“You’ve done more than enough, sweetheart,” Martha said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Why don’t you go lie down for a bit?”

He paused.

Then nodded once, eyes flicking to the hallway like a dog waiting for permission.

“You’re alright,” she added gently. “Really.”

That word again. Alright.

He wasn’t sure if he believed it. But he turned and walked quietly back toward the stairs.