Hey! This is my first fan fiction on this account, I wrote a few others last year under a different name but none of them were Hamilton ones. I'm much better with grammar, spelling and just not being very cringe. If you take the time to read this, thanks, just don't leave hate below because I will remove it. I'll add any trigger warnings at the top of each chapter and if I think it's necessary I'll add brief in text warnings too.

This is one of those foster care AU's too, so you probably know the plot this is going to have, hahahah.

Trigger warning for mentions of child abuse and I guess mild panic attacks.

Alex still hadn't gotten used to it. The constant moving, the feeling of never belonging anywhere. Each house blurring into the next, he never knew when to expect a hit or harsh words, a meal or an empty stomach.

He didn't think he had ever lived in a foster home for longer than six or seven months; most parents didn't want some broken and battered immigrant who couldn't keep their mouth shut.

He didn't mean to be so impetuous. He knew the consequences of talking back, of hitting back. That didn't stop him, but he always ended up with more bruises than reasons it was worth it.

Alex rested his cheek against the cool glass of the car window and watched fields and rivers pass him by in the mist-veiled, Virginian night time.

His social worker sat in the front seat attempting to make conversation, not having much success.

"Let's hope this home works out better than the last few, hey kiddo?'

Alex rolled his eyes and bit back a sharp retort. He didn't know if this man was the kind of guy to hit kids who mouthed off or not.

Not deterred by Alex's silence, the man continued.

"You just need to learn to control your temper a bit more. You're a good kid, but you lash out too much."

Alex sighed. He wanted to say that he only hit second, never first, that he would much rather use words than fists, or that when you're lying beaten and bloodied on the floor you can't take another kick in the ribs.

But he didn't. He just closed his eyes and shut out the rest of the man's lecture.

As they started to enter a more suburban looking neighbourhood Alex's breathing quickened and he squeezed his eye shut.

Too many times had his first night in a new home be full of awkward stares and probing questions, followed all to soon by a harsh word and hits.

The houses in this neighbourhood were ridiculously large, he was pretty sure they were around the size of his last three homes put together.

Great, I'm just going to be another punching bag for some rich, white family to take their anger out on.

Alex gnawed hard on his knuckle reopening an old cut there from last night when he had bit down so hard he'd drawn blood.

He winced and chewed at the fraying string on his hoodie instead, trying to control his breathing.

Looking down at himself be was suddenly very aware of his appearance. Too big jeans ripped in the wrong places for it to be purposeful. A tattered leavers hoodie from his middle school, still too big on his hunger-pang frame.

Bruises decorated his wrists from two days ago, still purple and angry looking from-

No, don't think about that Alex, don't think about that.

Cold tile pressed against his cheek.

Watching a crack in the plaster of the wall.

Waiting to black out as he felt a rib crack.

Alex winced and drew a deep breath, his heart fluttering madly and a pain blooming in his chest.

Suddenly the car stopped. He hadn't even noticed it slowing down.

Alex looked up and the car door opened onto another unnecessarily wealthy street. The house in front of him was built in a typical American fashion with a white picket fence.

Of course there's a fucking white picket fence

A sprinkler spat jets of water over carefully manicured flower beds and warm orange light lit up the windows of the bottom floor.

Alex gulped as his social worker led him to the front door, hating the feeling of having a figure behind him and flinching when he put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

They stood in silence on the porch as the man rung the bell twice. The night was heavy and the tension was tangible. He could feel the cool air pressing down against his body, flooding his lungs and choking him.

Alex's breathing quickened as waves of nausea rolled over him.

He couldn't breathe, he had to breathe, his throat was closing-

Suddenly the white washed front door opened and orange light spilt on to him and his social worker beside him.

Two figures stood before them in the half light and Alex's stomach dropped when he took them in.

The woman was smiling warmly, her eyes crinkled kindly and she wore a neat, expensive looking suit. Her skin was dark, like her eyes and she was probably in her late thirties or early forties, as no white hairs yet decorated her up do.

She wasn't who Alex had a problem with. It was the man next to her that his gaze was most drawn to.

He was enormous, for lack of a better word.

He was easily six foot three, possibly even taller, with a broad chest and large, powerful hands. Alex winced when he imagined one of those hands around his throat, easily choking him, holding him against the wall, the other adding more bruises to his already battered body.

He couldn't breath, black spots danced across his vision, his legs were about to buckle. The man spoke.

"Good evening. It's a pleasure to meet you!" He directed his next sentence at Alex.

"My name is George Washington, and this is my wife Martha. We're very pleased to have you staying with us."

Alex drew in a sharp breath and Mr. Washington looked at him with an expression Alex couldn't read, though his years in the system he had learned interpret most stares as less than friendly.

He swallowed and reached out to shake the man's hand silently.

Unaccustomed to being treated like anything more than dirt by most adults, his grip was slack and nervous, though he did subconsciously tightened it to mirror that of his new foster father's.

As they shook hands, the sleeve of Alexander's hoodie slipped back at least a few inches and for a few seconds the awful bruises circling his wrist were visible.

Mr. Washington stared at them for a long moment before fixing Alex with a searching look and dropping his hand.

Then, Alexander's social worker spoke.

"Well, it seems you are well prepared for Alex, Mr. and Mrs. Washington, but unfortunately I have work in New York tomorrow morning, so it's best I continue on my way."

Mrs. Washington smiled and shook the man's hand,

"Of course, well, we hope you have a safe journey and thank you for bringing Alex to us."

His social worker smiled politely and gave Alex a sharp look, evidently reminding him of the talk he had given him in the car, then he turned on his heel and walked back down the driveway.

He got back into his car with a final wave and drove away down the road, through the cool Virginian dark.

Alex turned around to face his two foster parents, suddenly feeling very cold. He was alone in a house with two strangers at night, one of whom could probably bench press twice his weight.

Mrs. Washington seemed to notice his discomfort and smiled warmly at him again, beckoning him inside.

"Well, it seems to me you're quite tired, do you want me to show you to your new bedroom? If your hungry I could heat something up for you."

Alex didn't reply but gave a small shake of his head and glanced towards the stairs.

Martha took this as agreement to her former suggestion and smiled, looking pointedly at Mr. Washington, who inclined his head and walked towards a door one the left of them. It opened on to room that looked like a large lounge

"Good night Alexander, introductions have been a little rushed tonight, I'm afraid. "

Mr. Washington smiled, Alex jumped and stared at him, searching for any trace of malice in his face but finding none, he opened his mouth and stuttered a quiet goodnight in response before the lounge door shut gently and he and Mrs. Washington were left alone in the hall.

His breathing calmed somewhat as they climbed the stares and moved onto a wide landing, but his hands had not yet ceased trembling and he was still picking nervously at a cut on his knuckle.

Martha looked at his hands for a moment, taking in the slight shaking and harsh bruising before sighing gently and opening a door on his right.

Alex bit back a gasp as he took in his new room. He was tempted to ask whether some mistake had been made, or if this was merely temporary and a smaller room of accommodation would become available in the future. Yet, she was watching him expectantly with a small smile on her face. This room was... this room was his.

So he merely looked at Mrs. Washington for a moment and let her show him his bed, desk, wardrobe, bookshelves and even an en suite bathroom. Alex momentarily felt a pang of gratitude towards their kindness but quickly shut this compartment of his emotions down.

No, they just want something out of you. Once they've given you all these gifts and shit they'll use it against you. It's a trap, who would give anything to you anyway?

Alex smiled nervously at Mrs. Washington and dropped his bag by the foot of his bed. Mrs. Washington turned the desk lamp on and suddenly, without even a moments notice, swept him into a hug.

Alex flinched and went rigid against her, his arms dangling limply at his sides. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed.

It's just a hug, it's just a hug, it's just a hug.

Mrs Washington quickly regained herself and stepped back, her eyes widening slightly when she noticed the panic in Alexander's face.

"Alex, I'm so sorry.. I- I didn't realise."

She seemed so genuinely apologetic Alex smiled faintly and shook his head.

"It's nothing," he murmured, "Thanks for the room."

She smiled gratefully and nodded before walking to the door, opening it, she spoke to him for the last time that night.

"Good night, Alex."

A pause.

"Good night Mrs. Washington."

The door shut and Alex collapsed onto his bed, his shoulders still shaking and his eyes closed.

He collected himself and opened his backpack, taking off his hoodie and stuffing it in. He kicked off his shoes and lined them neatly up against the bed, making sure he closed his bag too.

Alex tentatively opened his bathroom door and switched on the light. He spotted some tooth paste and a tooth brush on the sink but didn't dare touch them.

He didn't know what kinds of things got him hit in this house.

Sighing, he rinsed his face with warm water and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes were dark brown and flinched at the slightest noise, many people had told them that his eyes were quite large, but be knew that was because he was always alert, perpetually looking out for danger.

His hair was dark, more so than his eyes, conker brown and darker at the roots than the ends. In winter it could be mistaken easily for black. Frankly it was far too long for his liking and was coming down from the bun he has fixed it in that norning.

His face was a different matter altogether. His lower lip was marginally swollen from his most recent beating, the last one he had endured from the Pace, and around his left eye was bruised lightly.

Finger marks were still drawn into the skin around his throat (he wanted to hide those ones from the Washingtons) and his usually tanned skin was pale and sickly looking, he could attribute this to many things, including the less than sunny weather of New York in the winter and the lack of food he had grown used to in his last family.

His arms were slightly browned and too skinny for a boy of fifteen. The bruises on his wrists were visible now, without his hoodie on and yet more purple and yellow bruising decorated his upper arms.

He could see the faint outline of his ribs through his dark blue shirt and his fingers were bony and ink-stained.

Alex sighed, not wanting to look at his reflection any longer. He turned out the bathroom light and got into bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

In his head he made a checklist of all the escape routes in his room.

The bedroom door: go out onto the landing, turn right, down the stairs, out the front door.

The bedroom window: open window, climb onto ledge, drop and hope the ground won't be too hard.

Bathroom window: squeeze out onto the roof of the kitchen. From there jump onto the front lawn, hope the neighbours don't see.

Satisfied for the time being, Alex then started to list the things he was scared about here, and got to about fifty before sleep finally won and his eyes fluttered shut. The last thought he had in his head was;

No. 50, Mr Washington.

As you can see, I'm not an amazing writer and my dialogue could be better, but here's chapter one, I hope you enjoyed! Review and follow if you'd like, it would make my day!