Chapter Five
Whim and Instinct

Hushed voices. Muffled footsteps. A soft rapping noise.

Somewhere, in the murky reaches of his mind, he absorbed the noises, but he was asleep, so he didn't bother trying to comprehend them. He was asleep, and, for once in his life, he didn't want to wake up. So, instead, he dozed, brushing off the noises as unimportant and allowing them to be lost in the thick haze of exhaustion that covered his mind.

More whispers. A pause. Doorknobs jiggling. The faint creak of usually unused hinges. Another pause. More footsteps, less muffled this time, but even quieter. He didn't care. He was asleep, and he didn't want to wake up. He was asleep, and he was warm and comfortable and so tired―

"Alexandre?"

As always, Alex snapped straight from sleep to complete awareness, sitting bolt upright in bed and scanning the room for danger.

A hissed "Merde!" Footsteps, then a soft thump.

He was, naturally, still in bed. Other than the strange looseness of his slack muscles and the characteristic vomit taste in his mouth, nothing was out of the ordinary, and Alex relaxed. Blinking his eyes all the way open and stretching both arms over his head, he turned in the direction of the noises he'd heard―only to see Lafayette sprawled out on the floor, one hand clutching his heaving chest and the other propping him off the ground. His eyes were wide and startled.

At the sight of Alex, now fully awake, Lafayette's eyes fluttered shut and he let out a slow, shaky breath, sagging into the carpet. "Merde, Alexandre. You startled me," he gasped. "Mon dieu. You sat straight up." After a moment, he opened his eyes, purely for the purpose of narrowing them thoughtfully. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Alex just blinked down at him. For multiple reasons, he had no idea how to respond to that. First of all, Lafayette worrying after him was still… novel, to say the least. More importantly, though, the answer was that no, he hadn't. For the first time in a long time, Alex hadn't had a nightmare―he'd been too bone-tired to dream. Usually, Lafayette's assumption would be right on the money, but, this time, it had honestly just been instinct that made him jump.

"I always wake up suddenly," he answered honestly after a moment. Then, abruptly realizing that his violent awakening had startled Lafayette and Lafayette was still on the ground, he winced, throwing the covers aside and hastily scrambling off the bed. "Crap, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Lafayette gratefully accepted the hand Alex proffered and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet (with some difficulty, as he was significantly taller than Alex, whose late-night worship at the porcelain altar had once again reignited his old leg pains, further complicating the process). "I am quite alright, mon ami," he said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Are you okay?" Again, he gave Alex a searching look.

Clearly, Alex's excuses weren't going to fool him. Ironically, though, Alex wasn't trying to fool him, and his answer wasn't really an excuse. "Lafayette, I'm fine," he reassured, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. Catching the skeptical look sent his way, he rolled his eyes with a smile. "Seriously. Lafayette. I'm. Fine. I always wake up like this. It's habitual, not reactive."

That seemed to be what it took to convince the French teen, because he let the topic drop with one last dubious glance. "We must ready ourselves for the day," he declared instead, clapping his hands once as a bit of his usual exuberance returned. "I have school to attend today, and you and George must come along to complete all the paperwork necessary for your transfer. That is why we must leave earlier than usual."

Alex cringed guiltily (Lafayette hated waking up early, and this was the second time in a row that Alex had forced him out of bed prematurely), but Lafayette just continued on as if he couldn't see anything wrong with that. "Martha is still asleep, however, so try not to shout. Breakfast is waiting for you after you are finished getting…"

Lafayette trailed off, his eyes scanning up and down Alex's frame. His gaze came to a rest on the frayed drawstrings of Alex's hoodie, and he frowned. "Alexandre," he began with a confused tilt of his head, "did you sleep in your clothes?"

Alex blinked uncomprehendingly, then looked down at himself. "Oh." Obviously, since he had never changed out of them in the first place, he was wearing the same hoodie, t-shirt, and jeans as yesterday. "Uh… yes?" What else would he have slept in?

Luckily, Lafayette seemed to find that answer acceptable, because his frown gave way to a fond smile. "Ah, you are very forgetful, petit Alex," he teased, hand darting forward to give Alex's hair a quick ruffle. Ignoring the subsequent affronted squawk, he rolled his shoulders (casually, not threateningly). "We shall both prepare for the day and meet in the kitchen, yes?"

Alex tucked his displaced hair back into the front of his hoodie, careful to fully conceal the fingerprints on his neck, as he pondered Lafayette's response. Forgetful? What was he forgetting? Nonetheless, he nodded his assent, and, once Lafayette had left with one last parting grin, he peeled off his clothes and hopped into the shower. Once again, he opted not to use the shampoo and body wash he'd been provided, not wanting to leave the Washingtons with an almost-full bottle they couldn't return to the store.

Backpacks were made to hold books, not clothes, and most of his belongings consisted of notebooks and pencils. As such, Alex had only one spare t-shirt and an extra pair of jeans to his name. He changed into both and covered the shirt up with his only hoodie, which was necessary for its long sleeves and high collar that hid his bruises and ligature marks (both of which were considerably harder to explain than his knuckles). The end result was completely indistinguishable from his previous outfit; to the casual observer, he looked exactly the same. He could only hope that the Washingtons wouldn't take his lack of clothes as laziness or sloppiness.

Lafayette wasn't there yet when he made his way down to the kitchen, but George was sitting at the table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. The scene was so casual that Alex did a double-take, although he supposed he should have been used to it by now; this household was just like that. Still, the mundane pajamas on George's intimidating frame―the kind smile on his face―the soft "Good morning, Alex. Help yourself to some breakfast; we have fruit and yogurt too, if you prefer." ―was almost unsettling in its unfamiliarity.

(Again, he was allowed to eat immediately. He couldn't help but feel crushingly grateful; his freshly-emptied stomach was more than ready for some more sustenance. He also couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly suspicious, but he didn't bother asking what George wanted in return, knowing that he wouldn't get a straight answer. It was best to just wait for the price to make itself known.)

By the time Lafayette joined them, Alex had already finished his cup of yogurt and was halfway through the small apple-cinnamon pastry he'd hesitantly grabbed from the large plastic container in the middle of the table. They were store-bought and had some French name that Alex had heard once as a child and then promptly forgotten.

Alex wasn't a huge fan of the whatever-they-were pastries, although George informed him that Martha's homemade strawberry variants were heaven on earth. He'd also been told he could have as many as he wanted, which instantly made them taste about twenty times better.

As Lafayette sat himself at the table and scarfed down his food, George stood, setting his empty mug in the sink and vanishing upstairs, probably to get dressed. Alex took the opportunity to grab another yogurt―another thing he'd been told he could have as many as he wanted of, but eating another in front of George just didn't seem right.

Minutes later, Lafayette ran off, too, shouting something about packing his bag and finding his coat. Alex waved distractedly at his retreating back, wondering if he would get in trouble for eating another of the pastries―yes, he could have "as many he wanted", but he'd already had two yogurts; did that make the offer void? And, yes, he wasn't exactly hungry anymore, and he'd learned his lesson about eating too much yesterday, but surely one more pastry wouldn't send him over the edge.

It took him entirely too long to realize that he was now the only one sitting at the table. With Martha still asleep, George off to get dressed, and Lafayette doing who-knew-what, the room was otherwise empty. He'd been left alone.

In the kitchen.

With food.

Instinct took over. Before he even knew what he was doing, he'd rocketed to his feet, his chair screeching backwards. Grabbing a napkin, he draped it over his open palm and, without even thinking about it, snatched one of the cookie-sized pastries and deposited it unceremoniously in the hollow of his hand.

Another quickly followed; then another. They were light and almost insubstantial in his hand as he stacked two―three―four onto the napkin in quick succession, hand flashing between the container and his growing pile. As the fourth pastry landed with a dull thunk that was almost a click, he reached forward for yet another, fingers shooting out and closing around it―

He froze.

Rather suddenly, he realized what he was doing, and the awareness hit him like a truck. For a moment, he stood stock-still; then, with a second burst of panicked realization, he dropped the pastry in his hand and jerked his arm back in disgust. With an easy twist of his wrist, he dumped all four pastries back into their box and fought the urge to stumble back, horrified with himself.

What the hell was he doing? The Washingtons gave him plenty of food; he didn't need to take any more from them. He didn't even like these. He wasn't even hungry.

But it wasn't as if there was a shortage of them. The box wasn't overflowing, but it was a family pack; there were a good forty or fifty pastries left. George had smiled at him; had said "Take as many as you want, Alex."

But what did that mean? "Take as many as you want" meant "There'll be a price to pay for these and I'm looking for a reason to make the price high" in the language of the LeBlancs. How was he supposed to know that George didn't mean the same thing?

But the Washingtons weren't the LeBlancs. George was not Mr. LeBlanc. Martha was not Charlotte. This was not LeBlanc's house; these were not LeBlanc's rules. He doubted that he could literally "take as many as he wanted", but George wasn't the kind of man who would say something like that if he didn't mean it at least partially.

But that didn't mean he could just take advantage of their kindness. And he was pretty sure that, whatever George had meant, it hadn't been "Wrap some up in a napkin and take them with you for later, Alex." And, again, even if George didn't mind―which was a pretty damn big "if"―that didn't mean Alex was allowed to exploit the poor man. God, how selfish was he?

But―but―

But―

But he wasn't even thinking about the LeBlancs.

All he could remember were the first few weeks at the Buchanans'.

The way they had fed him more than enough; had piled his plate high and stocked his wardrobe with more clothes than he'd ever owned; had provided everything he could have possibly asked for with kind smiles and caring eyes.

The way those comforts had been gradually, yet so quickly, taken away, leaving him scrambling for footing―trying to adapt once again to his old way of life; torturously reacquainting himself with the empty burn of hunger.

The way he'd had to sneak into the kitchen at night for food, heart pounding wildly in his chest, paranoid eyes darting side to side, breaths coming quick and heavy, before he finally grabbed the first edible thing he came across and scampered back into his room, barely managing to keep his steps quiet as adrenaline throbbed in his throat.

The night he'd finally broken and eaten the first of the granola bars Ms. Muller had given him, hunched over and hiding in the closet, muscles so tense they were already aching―his stomach so sunken that he could lay on his back and press his fingers into the undersides of his ribs.

("Save these," Ms. Muller had said, and he'd tried, but he was hungry hungry starving needed food couldn't think of anything else, and he had to eat it now, and he'd always harbored a nagging suspicion that she was still upset at him for that. He was too weak; too easy to break. Too pathetic. Of course she'd be mad.)

("They do good things, but for all the wrong reasons," Ms. Muller had said, and he'd tried to keep that in mind, he'd really tried, but it was all too easy to disregard that; to let their kindness lull him into happy complacency and end up being too selfish; taking too much; being too much. And the worst part was that he knew that he was too much. No one could be expected to put up with him for long.)

("Try not to ask them for much," Ms. Muller had said, and he'd tried; he'd tried so hard to restrain himself; to not ask for much―to only ask for one meal a day―but he couldn't seem to stop himself from being selfish, because they were still upset; he still watched them slowly get fed up with his neediness. He couldn't stop it; he couldn't stop it; there was nothing he could do. He hadn't asked for anything but he was still taking everything; he just took and he took and he took.)

("Eat at night, when they're both asleep, if you can," Ms. Muller had said, and he'd tried tried tried tried tried, but it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough, trying wasn't enough, and he always failed in the end, anyway. And maybe that was his problem. Maybe he just couldn't do anything right, and that was why he was so pathetic, and that was why he was too much for everyone, and that was why he just took and took and took and took.)

Alex remembered the gnawing pain of week-old hunger that never quite went away, and his hands trembled.

'Just in case.'

Against his will, he closed his eyes, nausea curling in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt his arm twitch, then begin to drift forward, his fingers stretching out―

His fingers brushed the crust of a pastry, and his stomach seized rebelliously. Swallowing bile, he withdrew his hand for a moment―then steeled himself, his resolve besting his repulsion. Gingerly, he scooped the pastry up and carefully lay it down on top of the napkin.

It physically hurt, and his movements were jerky and unsure, but he repeated the process, placing another pastry on top of the first; then another. Two―three―his hands were shaking fiercely as he grabbed another―

His eyes fluttered open. Once again, there were four pastries in his palm, sitting neatly atop the open napkin. They weren't very thick or rounded, so the stack wasn't so unstable that it would wobble precariously like a stack of cookies might. It was ideal for wrapping up and keeping in his pocket. 'Small blessings,' he thought, 'are wasted on something like this.'

Still, he stared. The pile swayed unassumingly.

'Just in case.'

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Alex once again screwed his eyelids firmly shut, unwilling―unable―to watch his own actions. As his fingers wrapped around another pastry, a phantom bruise shaped perfectly like Mr. Buchanan's foot blossomed across his abdomen. Faltering, he momentarily froze in place―then jerked his hand back and dropped the fifth pastry into the pile, eyes opening again, if only to confirm that Mr. Buchanan wasn't actually here.

(He wasn't.)

For a moment, he just stared down at his loot. His pulse was vibrating in his throat. Now, he was supposed to wrap them up and carefully stick them in his pocket, but he couldn't seem to convince his body to move. Or rather, his body seemed to want to move in a different direction entirely. His fingers twitched.

'Just in case.'

Sucking in a single deep breath, Alex snatched one more pastry before he could stop himself, shoving it hastily into the pile and then folding the corners of the napkin over them almost desperately. Paper crinkled as he rolled the stack over in his hands before shoving it into his pocket so vehemently that he was almost afraid they would crumble.

His hand lingered on the parcel for a moment more before, with a shaky exhale, he withdrew his hand, leaving the pile in his hoodie pocket.

Just in case.

When George and Lafayette came back downstairs, ready to head out the door, he managed to smile at them with some sincerity, but his stomach squirmed guiltily every time they smiled back.

The car ride was relatively uneventful. Luckily, Alex was spared the awkwardness of trying to make conversation with George with the regret of his recent theft fresh in his mind, as Lafayette demanded that Alex ride with him, and George had no objections. Alex couldn't for the life of him fathom why Lafayette had been so insistent, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. True to form, Lafayette kept up steady chatter for the entire ride while still managing to pay complete attention to the road, which proved to be a wonderful distraction from his reprehensible actions of the previous hour.

In comparison, the actual process of getting enrolled was so uneventful that its uneventfulness made it remarkable. Remarkably boring, at least, as George quickly vanished to talk with Mr. Adams, leaving Alex alone in the office with a hefty stack of empty forms to fill in and only the clattering of the receptionist's fingers on keys as background noise.

Alex had always liked filling out personal forms; he usually used his laptop only to write, and sparingly even then, but he was no stranger to fun little personality quizzes. School forms were an entirely different matter, though. Alex scowled when he saw only two options under "gender"―despite being binary himself, it was incredibly upsetting―and tried not to care that there were only five options listed under "race". As if an "unspecified/other" category could cover all the people who weren't "White", "African American", "Asian", or "Latino".

But the real kicker was when he reached the last few pages to find a slew of prying personal questions, all of which were marked with red asterisks that declared them as "required questions". For a moment, he just gaped, astonished; almost unwilling to believe that even a high school would be that blatantly nosy.

Once the initial shock had worn off, it didn't take very long at all for him to reach a decision. With very little hesitation, he went over the questions with painstaking care, assuring that his answers were as useless and passive-aggressive as possible.

At first, they were relatively mundane. The first question was "What are some of your hobbies?"; under the final of the five options listed, he scribbled, "This seems like a poor question to make multiple choice. I'm not interested in any of the above, and I doubt I'm the only one." After that, there was "About how many texts do you send in a day?", to which he responded "I don't have a phone; I'm sure you considered this, but you forgot to include the 'zero' option," followed by a patronizing smiley face.

He then scratched out the question "Who was your last text sent to?" and replaced it with "To whom was your last text sent?", which he answered with "One possessing better grammatical skills than yours." After a moment of deliberation, he grudgingly scratched that out, too, and replaced it with "See above explanation of my lack of a phone," unwilling to take that big of a risk when these answers could easily be shown to the Washingtons―it didn't escape his notice that the form never mentioned confidentiality. Yet another inexcusable breach, but whatever.

After a few more asinine questions, which he countered with several equally asinine answers, Alex huffed irritably and flipped the paper over. Spread monotonously across the final page were the last two questions, the dull 12-point Times New Roman almost blurring together in his vision. Thank God; it was finally over. This had been tedious as all hell―not to mention incredibly invasive. He was more than happy to get it over with.

Slumping over the paper and twirling his pencil idly, he scanned the first of the two questions.

What is your sexuality?

Alex froze in place, fingers stiffening mid-twirl. The pencil slid out from between them and fell to the floor with a soft thump. The receptionist glanced over at him, then looked away again.

("Don't touch me, sodomite!") ("I won't have that shit in this household, you hear me?") ("Aw, is the little faggot gonna cry?") ("Don't worry, Alexander; your secret is safe with me.") (stupid dirty prudish greedy fag slut―)

Almost automatically, his eyes darted down to the listed options. He could barely see them through the sudden dimness of his vision, but, somewhere, they registered in his mind. His eyes flickered shut, breath catching.

_ Heterosexual _ Homosexual _ Questioning/Other

Alex's mouth was dry. Vaguely, through a sudden thick fog, he heard the phone ring and the receptionist answer it with a very bored "Hello?" In the distance, a school bell rung. Or maybe it was closer than it sounded. He didn't know; he couldn't bring himself to examine the thought further. He couldn't bring himself to think at all. He―he couldn't―he couldn't think―

Lafayette had rap-battled a homophobe. John Laurens wanted to attend protests. George was a liberal Senator. But―even within the LGBT+ community itself―

("What are you, a robot? Sex and romance are what make us human; there's no way you don't feel it… oh, you do feel it, but only for certain people? What, like literally everyone else? Am I just not good enough for you? Are you supposed to be bi or not? You give a bad name to the community. Fucking elitist asshole―")

("What are you, a whore? Just like to have as many fellow whores as possible to fill up your empty heart, huh? I can't believe you actively want to cheat on your partner; what the hell is wrong with you? One person not good enough for you? You're the reason people think we're all sluts. Fucking greedy prick―")

Heterosexual. Homosexual. Questioning. Other. That was the most pathetic list of possible sexualities he'd ever seen in his life, and, were it not for the fact that the entire rest of his life hinged on him making it at the Washingtons, it would be the perfect candidate for another of his passive-aggressive mocking answers. Numbly, he pictured what his response would look like if he was brutally honest.

"First of all, I am, in fact, bisexual, and it's borderline biphobic that you didn't deem it necessary to include that option within your expansive list of two sexualities and an "other" category. However, despite my bisexuality, I also happen to be an icy-cold prude who's more attracted to personality and friendship than immediate impressions. Additionally, I'm incredibly interested in the concept of a relationship involving more than two people, all of whom are romantically intertwined with each other. Yes, man-whore style. Of course, your decision to not include any options besides the default "straight or gay" was likely a calculated, informed choice, and I wouldn't dare question your logic, seeing as how I am just a silly little "other". If nothing else, I know the difference between people who have just made an honest mistake and people who are bigoted beyond belief! :) :) :)"

Dear God. He'd be in juvie before the end of the day.

Of course, there was a smart thing to do in this situation. The logical course of action would be to mark down "heterosexual", no matter how incorrect it was, to minimize the risk of being outed to the Washingtons. But the idea of lying to save his own skin; of hiding who he was, as if he was ashamed of it―

He couldn't. He couldn't. He had to, but he couldn't.

Swallowing thickly, he passed that question and looked down at the last one, free hand clenching into a fist.

Have you participated in sexual intercourse before?

The oxygen left his lungs so quickly that his head spun. This time, his other hand was the one that slackened, and the clipboard with the forms on it slid off his lap and hit the carpet with a louder fwump.

Have you had sex?

(Heavy blankets; silken sheets; lilac curtains swaying)

_ Yes _ No

("Now, was that so bad?")

(dirty broken used slut whore dirty dirty dirty―)

The door to the Principal's office clicked open and Alex jumped, head snapping up. His wide eyes met George's as the man stepped through, Mr. Adams hot on his heels and a cellphone pressed tight to his ear.

"…Yes, I can make it… Oh, no, not at all… But of course. I understand… Right. Thank you, Senator King. No, no, the pleasure's all mine." Not once did he break eye contact, so Alex was witness to each of his pained expressions, but his voice, at least, sounded convincingly apathetic, if not quite pleasant. "Yes, of course. I'll see you there. Drive safely."

With a soft beep, he ended the call and tucked the phone away, but he still didn't look away, keeping Alex trapped with his signature Washington/Muller death gaze. Normally, that might have been terrifying, but there was a guilty look on his face that made it more disconcerting than scary.

"Alex," he began after a moment, crossing the room in a few long strides―Alex's pulse sped up, his brain still reeling from the flashback moments prior, but he didn't visibly recoil―"I'm so sorry, son, but we have to leave. Senator King―" A poorly-masked look of loathing spread across his face― "just called to schedule a last-minute meeting of sorts, and it's very important that I discuss―"

Cutting himself off, he glanced down at the papers and pencil on the ground and raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, did I startle you?" he guessed, crouching down and picking them up. Depositing the pencil in Alex's waiting hand, he added, "How close are you to being done?" and flipped the clipboard over, scanning the last page of the form.

Wincing, Alex hastily averted his eyes. He hadn't filled out the sexuality question yet, but it still might serve to raise a few questions, which he really couldn't afford.

As his eyes skimmed down the paper, George's brow furrowed, several creases marring his otherwise smooth forehead. Frowning, he turned towards Mr. Adams, still holding the clipboard in one hand.

"These questions seem very… personal," he said slowly, although his pause was more accusing than hesitant. His suspicion was aimed unambiguously at Adams, and Alex could have cried. Of course. Whether or not he would accept a (prude, whore, robot, slut) anomaly like Alex, Washington was a reasonable man. Of course he wouldn't stand for such a blatant invasion of privacy. 'God, I'm lucky.'

Suspiciously enough, Adams clearly knew what questions George was referring to without having to be told, because he paled immediately. "Uh―y-yes, well," he stammered like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, "those questions are all optional, you know―"

"They were marked as required questions," Alex pointed out before he could stop himself, heartened by George's support. Adams' wide eyes darted over to him, and he suppressed a smirk. "Y'know, with the little red asterisk."

Paling even further, Principal Adams tossed a forced smile onto his face. "Oh, are they?" His voice was shrill. "I… the person who made the test must've made a mistake," he declared, managing to put himself back together and tell his blatant lie with an admirable poker face. "We'll be sure to fix that. Feel free to just… tear that last page right off, if you want."

Washington's mouth gave a displeased sort of twitch, but he didn't call Adams out on his obvious lie. "Alright, then," he said instead, and―Alex nearly sighed aloud in relief―he actually did carefully remove the last page, handing the clipboard back to Alex. After a moment, he flipped the paper over and glanced at the questions that were actually filled out, curiosity smoothing out his wrinkled brow.

For a brief moment, cold terror gripped Alex again―there was still the matter of his obviously mocking joke answers; anyone would be mad about those; hell, even he knew that they weren't quite wise, although he couldn't honestly say he regretted them. Or, at least, he hadn't regretted them until now, because now he could see the confusion on George's face as he took in the unfilled bubbles, and he could pinpoint the exact moment when the man glanced down and read the hastily-scribbled retorts underneath.

George's eyes widened, and Alex flinched, bracing himself for an earnest scolding that he probably deserved (what had he been thinking, downright antagonizing the school?!), but there was no yelling.

Instead, George slammed a hand over his mouth to muffle a snort, his shoulders jolting forward, and Alex glimpsed a shimmer of mirth, not anger, in his eyes.

Mr. Adams startled, turning to shoot George a baffled look. "Senator Washington?" he asked tentatively after a moment, watching George's broad shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. "What's… so funny?"

Trying and failing to wipe the grin off of his face, George quickly stuffed the paper into his pocket without a hint of his usual meticulous orderliness. "Nothing," he reassured, too quickly. "Well, we have to go; sorry again for the inconvenience―you have everything you need, don't you?―lovely; glad to hear it―" Striding forward purposefully, he placed a hand on Alex's shoulder and effortlessly lifted him to his feet, urging him towards the door. "―we'll be sure to get everything sorted out; call us if there are any problems; thank you very much; have a good day, John―and you, too, of course, Katherine―please give Abigail my regards!"

With that, he bailed on the conversation, dragging Alex along with him. Forced to accelerate to a heavy jog just to keep up with George's powerwalk, Alex shot the man a bewildered look, but didn't complain as he was led out the door and through the parking lot until they came to a halt at the Washingtons' car.

Finally, George released him, stepping into the driver's seat, and Alex quickly hopped into the backseat, unsure whether he was allowed to ride shotgun and unwilling to waste any time asking when they were clearly in a hurry.

Once they were both buckled, George put the car in reverse and gripped the wheel firmly with both hands. A second passed. Then, slowly reaching over to put the car back in park, the man leaned over and rested his forehead against the steering wheel, his back hunched and his shoulders trembling. Worry spiking through him, Alex leaned forward to ask if he was okay, but, before he could get a word in, George…

Laughed.

George laughed. Breathless and restrained, but genuine.

George was laughing.

"My God," he gasped, running a hand over the top of his head. "You―you crossed out―" He cut himself off with a sharp bark of laughter before heaving in a breath. "Son―" Again, he stopped short, momentarily dissolving into chuckles. "I can't believe you actually―"

As Alex stared, wide-eyed, he finally composed himself and sat back up, shakily replacing his hands on the steering wheel. "W-we'll come back to this," he vowed after a moment, and Alex caught his grinning eyes in the rearview mirror before he tilted it back to show the road instead. "But we need to go―we actually are in a hurry."

Heeding his wordless command, his shoulders steadied and his laughs abated, although he still seemed oddly cheerful as he put the car in reverse again and pulled out, explaining, "King has been doggedly evading this meeting for weeks, always claiming last-minute schedule conflicts and dancing away from the subject whenever it comes up." As the car stopped to let someone else pull out in front, he twisted in his seat and shot Alex a dry look over his shoulder, one eyebrow quirked. "Someone must have told him that I was busy today, because suddenly he has a two-hour gap in his schedule that he could have sworn wasn't there before, so now would really be a perfect time to meet―if I'm not busy, of course.

Exaggerating his inflections and adopting a mock British accent, he sounded exactly like George King during his exclusive interviews in the news―the ones where he condemned immigrants or waxed poetic about a growing child's intrinsic need for heterosexual parents―and Alex barked out an incredulous laugh, a baffled grin crossing his face.

George didn't quite grin, but he definitely smiled as he directed his attention back towards the road, easing off the breaks and twisting through the parking lot. "He was strangely smug about throwing in the towel, too, and he didn't have his secretary call, which is very out-of-character. He usually deems menial tasks beneath him. I'm fairly certain he expected me to be forced to decline." Another chuckle; he sounded almost hilariously pleased with himself. "He was definitely a bit less smug when I agreed."

Here, the residual laughter faded from his voice; when he spoke again, he sounded almost guilty. "I'm sorry about this, Alex," he said softly, much more subdued. "Everything's finished out on my end, but chances are we'll have to go back in again tomorrow anyway to finish getting things sorted out." Stopping at a corner and quickly checking his watch, he huffed out a sigh. "And I don't know if I'll have time to run home and drop you off without missing the meeting entirely."

F0r a long moment, Alex didn't respond, and they circled the parking lot in silence. George had no real reason to apologize; it wasn't some huge inconvenience or anything, and it wasn't his fault, anyway; it was Senator King who purposefully called when they were busy. But it occurred to him that George shouldn't have to come back tomorrow when, as a Senator, he was clearly busy, especially not for the sake of some stupid foster kid who got dumped on him last minute.

Back straightening and chin lifting, Alex began with newfound resolve, "Then leave me here and come back when you're done."

George stilled, his hand hovering over the shift.

Taking this as consideration, Alex quickly plowed on, "If you have everything done that you needed to do, then it's just me and the school who need to finish up, right? Drop me off here and I'll run back to the office and get everything done that I can. It's not guaranteed, but maybe then you won't have to come back in tomorrow, which I'm sure must be a huge pain since you're a Senator and all, and the quicker we get me enrolled, the quicker I'm out of your hair, right? So―"

"Alex," George cut in, and he shut up immediately, falling still. After a tense few moments, the car pulled up to the sidewalk and came to a halt. Another moment passed before George put it into park.

The pregnant silence persisted, and, after a few seconds, Alex wondered if he was supposed to just get out and leave. But then George glanced over his shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face, and he stiffened. Was he… upset? Obviously, he wasn't angry―George was more reasonable than that, and son, speaking is not punishable in this house―but he could be irritated.

"I mean, if that'd be convenient," Alex amended; "I wasn't trying to, like, demand it or anything―"

"If you want to," George interrupted before he could work himself into a frenzy, "you're more than welcome to. But I don't mind coming back tomorrow, and there's absolutely no rush to get you, as you put it, 'out of my hair', okay Alex?" He smiled, but it was a bit weak. "I'm happy to spend however much time it takes to get my kid enrolled in school, okay?"

My kid.

Oh.

Alex swallowed, averting his eyes. "I'd rather get it sorted out today," he choked out, hoping that George couldn't hear the sudden emotion in his voice. "Uh, th-thank you, though." Still avoiding George's gaze, he undid his seatbelt and slid across the seat, opening the door and quickly stepping out onto the sidewalk.

As the door swung shut, he swore he heard George say, "You're welcome, Alex," his voice fond and soft.

He practically sprinted back into the school.

Okay, so this chapter took Too Long to get out, but also IT USED TO BE 17,000 WORDS LONG. AND THE ONLY REASON IT'S ANY SHORTER NOW IS BECAUSE I SPLIT IT INTO TWO CHAPTERS. So I have an excuse.

Also, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! Well, it was a few days ago. My friendo got me a present and I cried tears of joy before I even opened it. Then I opened it and cried even more tears of joy.

Fun fact of the day: the Buchanans have gone through so many changes. There were even points in time where I intended for them to be a good family that had to give up Alex when Mrs. Bucahan got sick. But, as you can see from this chapter, that went out the window rather quickly.

Next time on What You Did in the Dark! Alex gets to spend more time with George, makes three new friends, and I find the most convoluted way possible to shoehorn in my favorite side character.