Chapter Text
“Alejandro Hernandes?”
Alex ignores them.
“Alejandro,” the man repeats, and puts a hand on his shoulder. Alex does not punch him in the face, for which he definitely should get an award. He turns, backing away, letting his posture and expression be as feral and threatening as it wants to be. The asshole social worker doesn’t look nearly grateful enough for the reprieve, scowling right back at Alex.
“What?” Alex snaps. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes. We’re all delighted to have you.” Primary Asshole Worker gives him an incredibly insincere grin. “Won’t you have a seat?”
“No,” Alex says. He crosses his arms, hunching further into his ratty old hoodie. He may have to be standing here in this office, may be forced by circumstances to be talking to these people, but he doesn’t have to be polite about it. What are they going to do to him, anyway?
“Fine,” the Secondary Asshole Worker puts in placatingly. “Let us introduce ourselves, at least. I’m Charlie, and that’s Jim. We’re both with the State Department of Reincarnate Affairs, and we’ll be handling your case temporarily.”
“Until you find the next hellhole to shuttle me off to?” Alex asks. He smiles, sharp and dangerous.
“Until we can find a suitable resource family that’s equipped to deal with your particular needs,” Asshole Jim snaps back. “Which, judging from your record, may take a while.”
“Yeah,” Alex says, lets the word draw out long and slow. “Good luck with that. Might want to line up the next two or three after that, too, just to save yourself a bit of time.”
In the back of his head, the memory of Alexander Hamilton is laughing at him.
Alex gives Hamilton the mental equivalent of the middle finger and tunes him out.
“You want to give us any leads on what kind of environment might suit you best?” Asshole Charlie asks. One of his eyes is already twitching. Alex adds that to his running total of points he has awarded himself. “Are we talking pre-Columbian? Twentieth Century? Should we be looking for an infectious disease deaths home?”
“Murder victim?” Asshole Jim asks, as if that’s far more likely. “Criminal insanity?”
“Like I’m about to tell you shit about who I was,” Alex says, letting contempt wash through every syllable.
“We don’t care who you were,” Asshole Charlie says, with weary false patience. “We’re just trying to help you find the most suitable and helpful placement.”
“Yeah, right,” Alex says. They’d care if they knew. He’s not stupid enough to leave any crumbs that would lead them back to Hamilton. “How about something low security where they don’t have any intention of telling me what to do?”
Asshole Jim picks up his file and looks through it, and Alex knows, he just knows what the man is going to say before he opens his mouth, and hates him for it already. “Well, there’s always the Second Chances Facility…”
Hamilton would want him to -
Alex does not give a shit what Hamilton would want. Not one single solitary shit.
“I am never, ever going back there,” he says, keeping his voice steady by sheer force of will. “You would literally have to kill me first. Again.”
It’s been four years since the Facility; he’s gotten almost twenty years of Alexander Hamilton’s memories back since then, and he is not hesitant to use them if these people make him.
“Then help us out, Alejandro,” Asshole Charlie pleads. “Help us help you.”
Alex looks at the floor, furious. He is not giving in; he is not giving up anything that could be used against him. But he is really, really not going back to the Facility.
“Revolutionary War,” he spits at last. “Gunshot. Happy now?”
The social workers look at one another, contemplating. “Hanover?” Jim asks. “I think he’s got room.”
Charlie shakes his head, looking almost maliciously pleased. “No - Wallerton.” He gives Alex a little grin. “Got this feeling that maybe they deserve each other.”
“I’ll call Wallerton, then,” Jim says, and leaves the room. Alex doesn’t watch him go. He sits down, finally, but on the floor with his back securely to the wall, watching the doors and windows.
~~~~~
So apparently they’ve talked this Wallerton into taking him in, judging by the conversation the next time Alex bothers to listen to it. He spares a few minutes to hate this new person and whatever awful motives they have for getting involved in the whole corrupt system, and then catches the exceptionally shitty bit.
“I have to stay here for three days?”
“That’s the earliest we can get you transported all the way up to Virginia, kid,” Asshole Jim says. “Not like we can just put you on a bus or a plane, given your history. We’ll keep you company and make sure you’re safe and cared for until that time.”
“That’s child abuse,” Alex says. It won’t work - it never works - but sometimes it makes them blink. Charlie’s eye twitches again.
“It’s not a picnic for us, either,” he says pointedly. “Next time, pick a better staffed office to turn yourself in. Charleston’s been shorthanded far too long.”
“I didn’t turn myself in,” Alex mutters. He rummages in his tattered backpack, pulls out the notebook and pen that he’s managed to keep hold of for almost two years now. “You’re at least going to feed me, right?” He keeps the question light, nonchalant, even though it’s hunger that drove him back into the system. He needs to eat, and he needs a place to sleep. If he can get that much out of Charlie and Jim, maybe a bit out of this Wallerton, he’ll be good to go again. And if they’ll take him as far as Virginia, Alex doesn’t mind at all the thought of putting more space between himself and South Carolina. He’s not going back to New York, but there’s a lot of country still out there for him to try.
They feed him and outfit him with some new clothes, and Alex keeps both eyes open and only grabs catnaps when he’s really, really sure that everything is copacetic. To keep things lively, keep the agents on their toes, he sneaks out a few times - not really trying to go anywhere, but it’s good to know that he can get away if he needs to. They can use the practice, anyway. Still, he’s bored out of his skull by the third night, and strangely ready to get moving towards a new placement.
“Got another one coming in,” Jim says that evening. He looks almost as worn-down as Alex does, which is a little victory in and of itself. “They’re sending another to the Wallertons with Alejandro.”
He doesn’t correct them on his name. They’re too irrelevant to need that information. His ears prick up at this new piece of information, though.
“Two at once?” Charlie asks. “Better them than us. They’re the transport team, then?”
“Thank god,” Jim says. “Sam says they’ll be here in five.”
They all go outside, Charlie and Jim both staying carefully within grabbing distance in case Alex takes off again, but he’s too curious about this new addition to the plan to go anywhere. The SUV that pulls up is the same kind of gas-guzzling monstrosity that Jim and Charlie have been using, but the agents who get out look a good deal less stressed than his team.
That’s OK. Alex has plenty of reserves left for these new opponents.
A kid gets out, too. His team doesn’t seem concerned about a flight risk, and Alex can see why. This kid’s got no fight to him at all. He doesn’t even quite look like he’s on the same planet, eyes impossibly wide and lost.
“You’re taking over now, right?” Charlie says. His eye is still twitching. “We’ve had him for three days now, looking for a placement, and he’s slippery.” His offhanded gesture at Alex is borderline offensive, but he’s got new concerns now. The new team are a bit kinder looking, and he’s not sorry to see the back of Charlie and Jim. Alex decides not to run. He wants to get to Virginia - but he doesn’t have to let these people know it.
Margy and Sam are their names, and Charlie and Jim leave without a backward glance. Alex won’t miss them. He leads them all into the office, makes it clear which areas he’s already claimed, and watches the newcomers sharply. The intake team are basically the same as most that he’s dealt with in the past, and he doesn’t waste too much time figuring them out. They’re a limited-time contact, anyway.
The other kid, though. If he’s going to the Wallertons with Alex, he’s going to be in his space for a while, and Alex needs to know what he’s about. He watches the kid for a while, taking his measure. He’s clearly one of those spoiled rich suburbanite kids who gets everything they want handed to them. His clothes are name brands, his backpack looks brand new, and he’s not touching the food they brought him. He looks well put together. He looks like he doesn’t have the first clue what’s coming.
Alex wanders over after a while, once he’s confident that the kid is so stuck in his own head that he’s not any sort of threat. He puts his hand out, and notes with interest the way the kid startles so fast his curly hair does a little dance in place. “I’m Alex,” he says. None of this Alejandro shit, not if they’re potentially going to be stuck together for a bit. “I have no intention of sticking around for long, but it’s nice to meet you.”
The kid looks up at him with wide green eyes, so lost that Alex almost feels guilty, and it takes him a long moment to take Alex’s hand. “Jack Laurence,” he says, so quietly it’s hard to hear even in the silence of the nearly-empty office. He’s got a southern drawl to his words, and Alex guesses they’re probably fairly close in age. He’s got an inch or two on Alex, though you wouldn’t know it by how small he makes himself, curled and hunched in on himself to an uncomfortable-looking degree. “You’re going to run?”
“I’m always running.” Alex shouldn’t be giving out advice - but, then, there’s always things he shouldn’t be doing, and that rarely stops him. “You will too, once you figure these places out.”
The eyes go wider at that, somehow; he’s scared the kid already. Must be coming from a real cushy life, to be so easily frightened. “Have you been in foster care long?”
The fact that the kid calls it foster care is a good sign that he’s brand new to their world. Alex reminds himself not to flinch at the personal question, and flops onto the uncomfortable cot he’s claimed as his own for the past few days. “Since I was twelve. I’ve been in and out,” he admits, and doesn’t look at the new kid. “You?”
“First time.”
Yeah, the kid is scared. Alex does some quick thinking, and it’s not hard to put it all together. He’s fifteen, maybe, and just entering the system. Means he died young, before. Means he’s only getting started on the process of piecing it all together, only beginning to dig into the horrors in front of him - and likely behind him, as well. “Awfully old to be getting started, aren’t you?” he asks. The kid mutters agreement, and Alex has the weirdest pang of something like sympathy, for just a moment. “It’s gonna suck,” he says quietly. It’s the closest thing he can give to a summary, a warning of what’s to come. “It always does.”
Jack Laurence doesn’t respond, and Alex stomps ruthlessly on the root of sympathy, reminding himself that he doesn’t have time or resources to help keep this kid afloat. He’s got troubles enough of his own, and they’re only likely to get worse the next day. They always do.
Look out for yourself. If there’s one thing he’s taking from Hamilton, from the absolute fucking unfairness of having been stuck with Alexander Hamilton’s memories and ego and trauma and general dickishness, it’s that lesson. He can’t count on anyone to help him, and he’s not about to stick his neck out for anyone else.
Laurence is not going to be his problem.
~~~~~
Second Timers are the absolute worst. Alex can say this with certainty, since he’s one of their benighted company himself. It’s bad enough, the ones who have it all together, who can talk with ease and certainty about times they haven’t been alive long enough to remember; they’re infuriating. The ones who have absolutely lost their minds are no better. Alex has seen enough of them for at least two lifetimes.
Newbies, though, put them all to shame. Laurence wakes him up at least three times in the night, struggling with dreams that wake him with screams, or leave him sitting bolt upright, breathing frantically for far too long. He’s not sure the kid is aware of any of it, though; probably for the best if he isn’t. Alex does him the kindness of not pitying him. They’ve all lived through it. Laurence will, too, and the sooner he comes to grip with all of it, the better.
Besides, he’s annoyed with Laurence on his own account, and doesn’t need to drag traumatic past life shit into the mix. He’s well aware that it’s not a shining mark of his own temperament, just how quickly he’s ready to be rid of a spoiled, pampered rich kid like Laurence. He’s heading for his first placement, and Alex has seen it enough times to know how it’ll go. His spoiled, pampered rich parents will be clamoring to get him back, just as soon as their precious little son can come home, and he’ll be in and out of Alex’s life in no time. Meanwhile, Alex will go on as he always does, on his own, with nothing but his wits to rely on. (OK, and maybe some of Hamilton’s, if he’s forced to borrow them.)
Laurence looks like he’s dying by the time they get on the road. It’s almost an eight hour drive, and Alex resigns himself to spending the entire time with a useless corpse. Some wild speculating tells him that the kid is probably suffering with a bad case of memory-induced illness. Whatever godforsaken plague had carried him off in his last life, unfortunately young as it seems that death had come, is back to wreak havoc with his system, just to make the transition into Second-Timer life as unpleasant as possible. It all fits with the theory he subscribes to in his most morose moments: they’re all here as punishment for all the shit they messed up in their first life. Why should any of it not be awful? He knows Alexander Hamilton’s flaws well enough to place the blame for most of what goes wrong in life in his shitty past-self’s lap. Laurence? He hasn’t got a clue, and he doesn’t care to. Maybe he was an axe murderer before, or worse.
Could have been a Royalist, he thinks in an older tone, and then has to spend a few minutes mentally cursing out Hamilton for being a pain in the ass even though he’s dead. Really quite dead; Alex has seen the tomb, and remembers the last painful gasps for air.
Laurence asks a few questions on the ride - nothing Alex hasn’t heard before, nothing that reincarnates don’t discuss with mind-numbing regularity amongst themselves - before apparently giving up on consciousness altogether. Alex envies him, for a while. The ability to just - just sleep, around strangers, as if it were safe, as if nothing was going to happen. It’s another sign of just how naive and sheltered Laurence has been. The kid is curled up against the window, taking up so much less space than it seems he should. Alex does some thinking. Can’t keep from it, really. That’s the downside of being the reincarnation of a genius with a mental instability that leads to mania.
He stops Sam outside the car at a rest stop, while they’re getting gas. Laurence is still asleep. (Not dead. Alex did check that.)
“You say the Wallertons are the real deal,” he says abruptly. “Not like some.” Sam nods, waiting. “How do you know?”
“I’ve had some friends who worked with them,” Sam says, with calm certainty. “They fostered my best friend, from before. When we found each other and got caught up, she had nothing but wonderful things to say about them.”
“That’s just one person’s experience with them, though,” Alex counters. “It’s not a guarantee.”
“Nothing ever is,” Sam points out. “I can tell you that they’ve never had a kid come through their home who asked to be removed, and never had any run.”
“Not yet, they haven’t,” Alex says. He doesn’t bother to keep his voice down. Might as well be up front about things. Sam looks tired.
“I’ll give you my contact information,” he says. “If you ever have a moment of concern or discomfort with anything they do, you let me know. I’ll come and get you out myself, no matter what.” He fumbles in his pocket and gives Alex his business card, which he takes with great suspicion. “And I make this promise absolutely willingly because I am certain that there will be no problems. The Wallertons are good people.”
“I don’t think those exist,” Alex tells him. He pockets the card anyway.
~~~~~
Laurence wakes up gasping for breath, clutching his chest and looking around as though searching for immediate danger. Alex doesn’t bother to tell him not to worry. Better for him to worry, as long as it’s about the right things.
The kid really looks unwell by the time they’re climbing an insanely long private driveway, and Alex can’t keep himself from offering a little unsolicited advice.
“Make the best impression you can,” he tells Laurence quietly. “They tend to make up their minds about us pretty fast.” He thinks about saying more, clarifying his meaning; don’t let them see you’re uncertain, don’t let them see you as weak. Don’t look like a victim. Laurence looks terrified enough at his words, though, and Alex just lets it go.
The house is absolutely insane - one of those mansions that make Alex question all of the foundations of the American economy and how some people can live like this while kids are going hungry in the streets. He’s not intimidated, though. It’s not money or buildings that are a threat. Sam’s card is still safely tucked in his pocket.
The Wallertons appear, man and woman and another boy about his own age, and Alex does his best to read them all at once, to figure them out. He needs to know which way to jump. Mr. Wallerton is the only one who seems an immediately threatening figure, but he looms over both Alex and Laurence. He could take both of them, easily. Alex scoots just a little closer to Laurence, who almost feels like an ally already. They’re endlessly pleasant, welcoming and gracious, full of good humor.
Alex has seen this dance before, and he’s buying absolutely none of it. These people always know how to present themselves, until it’s time to throw off the pretense. He’s not letting down his guard.
But things get weird, really really fast. He’s got his defenses up, not willing to play along with the polite bullshit that’s obligatory at this sort of thing, and he snaps at Wallerton when the man gets too familiar, right off the bat. Instead of looking angry, though, or taking offense, Wallerton looks like Alex has hit him in the face with a pie. He takes his wife’s hand, as though looking for strength, and the look he turns on Alex is so bizarre it unsettles him entirely. He looks - wistful, maybe? Hopeful, as though he’s caught a glimpse of something he very badly wants.
It’s not a good sign. Alex can’t make it into anything but worrisome, no matter how he thinks about it. Sam and Margy are about to drive away, and Laurence is shrinking in on himself, looking exactly like someone easy to take advantage of, and Wallerton keeps staring at Alex with that strange, mournful, expectant look. Something here feels very wrong.
Alex isn’t sure he’s going to stick around long enough to find out what it is.