Chapter Text
He woke to an incessant ringing. “Martha turn if off.” The ringing continued. Major General George Washington couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. Right – Martha was out of town. He fumbled blindly for the nightstand, only reaching his phone as the ringing stopped. George squinted down at the screen. 03:57 stared back at him. In the moment it took him to collect his thoughts enough to wonder who in the world was calling him just before four in the morning, his phone started ringing again.
“’Lo,” he answered sleepily. He hadn’t made it to bed until nearly one, and his ability to wake command-ready seemed to have abandoned him in the relative safety of his bedroom.
As soon as he heard the voice on the other end of the phone, however, he shot upright, the fog of sleep clearing instantly from his mind. “General Washington, I’m so sorry to bother you so early.” He pulled the phone from his ear and looked down to confirm. It was Hercules Mulligan – a friend of Martha’s and, more importantly, the DCFS social worker they had worked with while fostering children before George’s last deployment.
“No its fine, what can I do for you Mr. Mulligan?”
George could almost hear Mulligan hesitate through the phone. “Look, I know it’s been a while but I’ve got a twelve year old in the backseat of my car and if you can’t take him as an emergency placement then I’m going to have to drop him in Juvie. No one will have him.”
George closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. It had been nearly two years since any foster children had stayed with the Washingtons, and Mulligan had said no one would take him. George was fine with babies or self-sufficient teens – but a school-aged child no one would take meant a likely damaged kid, and Martha was really the one who was better at this sort of thing. On the other hand, Martha’s disappointment with him if he let a child be lost to Juvenile Detention when he could have been safe in their home would be topped only by his own. Then again it couldn’t hurt to just hear what Mulligan had to say and let Martha decide when she got home. Two days in Juvie probably wouldn’t hurt the boy. “What’s his story?”
“He’s, well we aren’t really sure what he is actually. He’s not exactly normal, mentally. As far as we know he’s from the Caribbean. Mom died, father never even knew he had a kid. He lived with a cousin until the cousin shot himself. He has bounced around from home to home for about a year. His last foster mom called me a few hours ago asking me to pick him up from the hospital. The other boys in the home beat the shit out of him.” Washington was silent. Mulligan went on. “Look General, I’m not going to lie, he’s not the easiest child in the world. He seems intelligent enough but he doesn’t speak much and sometimes its hard to tell how much he really tracks. He seems to antagonize people everywhere he goes and putting him in a home with other kids right now is not going to be safe for anyone. I'm trying to find a more permanent solution but that could be a while and I really don’t think Juvie would be good for him.”
Well shit. There really was only one option. “Yeah, okay, how far away are you?”
George pulled himself out of bed, got dressed and brushed his teeth. He went down the hall to the guest bedroom. He opened the door and sighed – this wasn’t going to work. A coat of dust covered everything, and the room was faintly musty from being closed off for so long. George couldn't help but think the condition of the room mirrored his condition as a parent. He took a steadying breath and reminded himself that the boy would be safer with him than in lockup. It was only four in the morning and the boy had spent the night at the ER. He would probably need to sleep. He could buy a couple hours to mentally prepare while he was sleeping, but for now the guest room needed far more cleaning and airing out then George could commit to on two and a half hours of sleep himself. Mulligan would be here any minute. With another sigh, he decided to strip his own bed and put on a fresh set of sheets. He finished just as the doorbell rang.
George opened the door and shook Mulligan’s hand. Behind him was a boy, short and slight of build, with his left arm in a brace. His head was down, and he seemed to be muttering at the ground. George could see the beginnings of bruises on his face and shoulder, where his too-large shirt slipped down. George waved them in. Mulligan handed him two grocery bags of clothes and a bag from a pharmacy. He motioned the boy inside. “This is Alexander Hamilton. Alexander, this is George Washington."
To the surprise of both adults, Alexander looked up briefly at his name before his gaze returned to the ground. His right hand twitched several times in an odd looping motion. “Here are his things and medications. There are instructions in the bag. Look General, thank you for taking him on such short notice. I’ve got to get home to my own boys. I’ll call later and we can talk more then.” Mulligan then turned to the boy. “The Washingtons are going to take good care of you Alexander. I will speak to you soon.”
Mulligan patted the boy on the shoulder and left. George was relieved to see that the boy did not flinch away – that was at least one thing he would not have to worry about. Alexander did not move at all from his spot as the front door closed. A long minute stretched by, the only sound the light murmuring coming from the boy that George could not make out and the distant whir of the furnace. “Alexander?” No response. George kneeled down, eye level with the boy. He hesitated and, not for the first time, wished his wife were home. “Son, do you want to be called Alexander or Alex? Or maybe something else?”
The boy finally looked up. George noted with a small amount of alarm that, instead of meeting his eyes, the boy was very firmly looking at his left ear. Alexander held up one finger and quickly put it back down. “You want to be called Alexander?” The boy nodded, still staring at George’s ear. His skin was very pale, and he was trembling slightly all over. George could feel the alarm swelling up inside him. He had no problem staring down an enemy combatant but this tiny trembling pre-teen – this terrified him. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.” Hopefully the boy would sleep long enough for him to freak out in private.
Alexander followed George, who carried the boy’s belongings. “We need to clean and air out the room that will be yours. This room belongs to me and my wife, but I’ve put clean sheets on the bed so you can sleep here for now, okay?” There was no sign that the boy at the door had even heard him, and George could feel the panic rising higher. He swallowed it back down. “Come lay down Alexander.”
He did as instructed, walking to the bed and lying down fully clothed. George reached down to remove his shoe. Alexander jerked his leg up and out of George’s grip, eyes wild. George froze. Alexander’s right hand was waving through the air in that strange looping motion again. “Okay, you’re okay, I’m sorry son.” George brought both his hands into Alexander’s field of vision then he slowly lowered one back towards Alexander’s feet. “I just want to take off your shoes so you can be more comfortable, okay?”
For a moment George thought he would have to abandon the attempt, but to his surprise Alexander slowly nodded, his eyes fixed on the hand George still held in the air. Without moving the hand Alexander was fixated on, George used his other hand to slowly pull off the boy’s shoes. When he was done the boy relaxed back down into the pillow. “I’m going to pull the blanket up now.” George told him. Alexander nodded again. After a few minutes the boy’s hand stilled and then his eyes drifted closed. George got back to his feet and backed slowly from the room. When he reached the hall, he pulled the door almost shut and retreated one door down to his office. He took a few deep breaths until he could feel his heart slow back to normal, then he stretched out as much as possible under a blanket on the small couch and closed his eyes. There was nothing going on that couldn’t wait until the afternoon.
George woke far earlier than he intended to. The sun was just coming up over the horizon, and it took him a moment to figure out what had woken him – a whimpering noise from his bedroom next door. As soon as it registered, he jumped up and reached the bedroom door in only a few bounding steps. “Alexander!?” The boy was half sitting, half lying on the bed with his eyes squeezed closed and his hand waving in the air again. A series of pathetic noises were escaping his mouth and each one seemed to distress him more. “Alexander what’s wrong?” The boy did not react. George watched him for a moment, then with a start he realized something – Alexander was not waving his hand in the air. He was trying to write something. George ran back to his office and grabbed the first pen and notebook – a journal in which he had only used the first few pages – that he found.
Returning to the bedroom, he slipped the pen in the boy’s right hand and placed the journal on his lap. The boy’s eyes flew open. Where am I? What happened? Where am I? Words appeared on the paper in an elegant cursive at breathtaking speed. The two phrases repeated half a dozen times each before George touched a finger to Alexander’s hand, stopping him. “You’re at my home. Mr. Mulligan dropped you off early this morning. Do you remember me?”
No. I’m sorry.
“No, it’s fine, son. Nothing to be sorry for. My name is George Washington. You were very tired and we only spent a few minutes together before you went to sleep.”
Just like last time, when the boy heard the name he brought his eyes up to George’s ear. His eyes flicked to the picture of George in his dress uniform on the wall behind him, then back to his ear. General?
George did not deny it. Your Excellency.
George snorted lightly. “Yes, that is what some people called me during the war.” To his amazement, Alexander smiled at him. Or really at his ear, but George figured that was probably as good as he could hope for. “Are you thirsty?” Alexander nodded. “What would you like?”
Water? Or milk?
George smiled at him. “Sure thing, bud. Hang tight here for a minute okay?” On his way to the kitchen George considered the exchange. Mulligan had told him that they weren’t sure how much Alexander tracked what was happening around him. It didn’t seem right to George. Alexander certainly was aware enough of his surroundings and of world events to piece together that he was in the home of a war hero just from his name and a picture. And his written replies were appropriate to the conversation George was having. He just didn’t seem to want to speak. George poured a glass of milk – the calories would surely do the tiny boy some good – and considered Mulligan’s words from the night before – he’s not exactly normal, he doesn’t really speak. No wonder no one wanted the boy. Neurodiverse children could be difficult at the best of times, but this one had also been repeatedly subjected to trauma. And if no one else had realized the boy was trying to write, he had also been unable to communicate.
George returned to the room and handed him the glass. Alexander handed him the journal in return. I had a bracelet at the last home. Did Mr. Mulligan bring it? Was written on the bottom of the page.
George tried to keep the surprise off his face – in the pages between their last conversation and this question, Alexander had scribbled out many details of his military career and, George noticed, had written and circled Probably safe here in the middle of one of the pages. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t see anything like that?” Alexander’s face fell slightly. “I’ll ask him though. It’s possible no one realized it was yours when they packed up your things from the house.”
Alexander nodded slowly. “Would you like to watch TV while I make something for breakfast?” Another nod. They went out to the living room. George set Alexander up on the couch with the remote and opened Netflix for him. When he returned with two plates of eggs and toast, he found Alexander fifteen minutes into the last thing George had been had been watching himself – Ken Burn’s Civil War documentary – and he wondered if the boy was genuinely interested or just trying to pick something he thought would please George. He handed Alexander a plate and got a small smile in return.
They passed a half hour in a comfortable silence, the voices of the narrators washing over them. A soft clattering brought George back to the present. Alexander’s eyes were closed. The fork had fallen from his fingers to the floor. George decided he would be more comfortable in the bed. After carrying the boy upstairs and situating him under the blankets he took a quick picture and sent it to his wife, then settled himself into an armchair so he could be close in case Alexander woke in a panic again.
Meet Alexander Hamilton. I like this one. He closed his eyes and was asleep before Martha could reply.