Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing about lying to your parents for five years is that, eventually, they try to visit.

And not just a casual, “Let’s swing by when we’re in the city!” kind of visit — no. Eliza Schuyler was dealing with a two-nights, brought-a-cake, probably-wants-grandkids level visit. The kind of visit that could tear empires down.

It had been fine. It had been so fine. For five whole years.

Her parents believed she lived alone in a two-bedroom East Village house and worked for a modest little insurance firm. American Risk Consolidated. Totally legitimate. Had a logo and everything. She may have Photoshopped herself into a company retreat slideshow using stock photos of women laughing at salad.

In reality, Eliza had spent the last half-decade as a CIA field operative embedded in multinational counterintel work, specializing in asset extraction and destabilization logistics. She’d burned safehouses in five countries, fought off two assassination attempts, and married a loudmouth orphan-slash-lawyer she met during a botched mission in Prague.

His name was Alexander Hamilton.

Her parents had never heard of him.

Because Eliza Schuyler had simply… forgotten to mention him.

And now she was throwing him in the basement.

“No,” Alexander said, arms crossed, wearing pajama pants and absolutely no shirt like he was protesting democracy itself. “I’m not doing it again.”

“You’ve never done it before,” Eliza snapped, thrusting a pillow at his chest. “This is literally the first time you’ve been in the basement.”

“Exactly. I have no coping mechanisms for basement exile. I’m going to die in there. Do you want my will notarized first?”

“You’re a lawyer. Write your own damn will.”

“I tried last week, but you said I was being dramatic.”

“You titled it My Final Testament: A Story of Betrayal and Mold. ”

“I stand by that.”

She glared at him. “Two days. That’s all I need.”

“I’m not a raccoon, Eliza.”

“You eat like one. I’ve seen the trail of granola bar wrappers you leave when you’re stressed.”

“I’m a very intense person under pressure!”

“You argued with the toaster last week.”

“It burned my bagel! And then gaslit me with the second slice!”

Eliza took a deep breath. Counted to three. Thought about how much paperwork it would take to explain a murder-suicide between spouses who technically didn’t exist on paper.

“They’re your parents, not the KGB.”

“They’re worse,” she hissed. “They have expectations. ”

He gave her a look that should’ve come with a cease and desist order. “You’ve literally stormed an arms dealer’s compound barefoot, but you’re afraid of telling your mom you married a lawyer?”

“She thinks I’m an adjuster for life insurance, Alex.”

“She also thinks you’re single.”

“That too.”

He blinked. “Wait. They don’t know I exist at all?”

Eliza winced.

Alexander stared at her, the way someone might stare at a surprise tax audit. “We’ve been married for five years!”

“I was going to tell them! And then things kept happening. Like… international crises. And my dad had that kidney scare. And your email to the Malaysian ambassador triggered that NSA audit—”

“Oh come on. That was solid legal rhetoric!”

“You threatened to depose him over seafood.”

“ Shrimp fraud is a crime, Eliza! ”

Eliza dragged a hand down her face. “Look. They’re staying here. For forty-eight hours. We can survive that.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You said I could survive that. In the basement. Like I’m a cryptid.”

“You’re a slightly dangerous man with poor impulse control. I’m putting you where the knives aren’t.”

“What if I need a snack?”

“There’s a box of Kind bars, a blanket, and a six-pack of Gatorade in the laundry bin. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m a husband, not a raccoon.”

“You bite like one.”

He muttered something about spousal betrayal and constitutional rights, but—mercifully, and slightly too dramatically—he sighed, grabbed the pillow, and trudged toward the basement door.

“If I get rabies,” he called over his shoulder, “I’m suing.”

“You are a lawyer!”

“Exactly. I’ll make it fun. ”

And then he disappeared into the shadows, muttering about Geneva conventions and carpet lint.

Eliza turned back to the living room just as the buzzer went off.

She smoothed her hair. Put on her Best Daughter Smile™. Practiced a mental checklist of plausible deniability.

And went to open the door for Philip and Catharina Schuyler.

She opened the door like someone defusing a bomb. Which, to be fair, she basically was.

“Hi, sweetheart!” Catharina beamed, already pulling Eliza into a hug like she hadn’t seen her daughter since Reagan left office. “You look thin. Are you eating?”

“I— Yes,” Eliza lied. Convincingly. Like she’d trained for this.

Philip stepped inside like he was inspecting enemy terrain. He wore his perpetual expression of mild distrust, paired with a jacket that had more pockets than the Pentagon. He scanned the apartment like he was noting weak points for a future siege.

“This building have central air?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, Dad,” Eliza said. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

He grunted. “Feels humid.”

She resisted the urge to say that’s because of the fugitive I’m married to hiding in the crawlspace, and instead ushered them toward the kitchen with a smile that barely cracked at the edges.

Things unraveled quickly.

Catharina had already entered Midwestern Mom Tour Mode™: inspecting fruit bowls, opening drawers, adjusting curtain rods that hadn’t been crooked until she touched them.

“It’s so tidy in here!” she said cheerfully. “Did you get a cleaning service?”

“I clean,” Eliza said. Which was not a lie. She had vacuumed the basement that morning specifically so her husband wouldn’t whine about spider webs in his exile cave.
Don’t say basement, she chanted in her head. Don’t say man. Don’t say anything that’ll make me sweat and summon Hamilton like a chaos demon.
“Where’s your rice cooker?”

Eliza blinked. “...My what?”

“I brought rice!”

Of course she did.

Before she could intercept, Catharina was already opening cupboards like she was on a home renovation show. The kind that got cancelled after one episode because the host kept uncovering crimes.

Somewhere beneath the floorboards, Eliza swore she heard a thud.

Please, please don’t let him be pacing.

She edged toward the hallway. Subtly. Casually. Just to stand between her parents and the basement door , which suddenly felt very obvious. Like it was glowing red and labeled THIS WAY TO MARRIAGE AND TREASON.

“So!” she said too brightly. “Dinner out tonight? I made a reservation!”

Philip squinted at the bookshelf. “You’ve got Civil Liberties in Wartime next to The Art of Counter-Interrogation. ”

“Decorative,” Eliza said instantly.

“You’ve annotated them.”

“They came that way.”

Then—

Catharina gasped. “Did you get a dog?! ”

Eliza’s soul left her body. “No,” she said quickly.

“There’s a chew toy behind the couch!”

She dove for it like it was a live grenade. It was definitely Hamilton’s. It still had a sticky note on it that said “ opposing counsel. ”

She shoved it in a drawer.

“Actually,” she said, “I did have a dog. But he… joined a commune. In Vermont.”

Catharina frowned. “Is that a euphemism for death?”

Eliza opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “Yes.”

Philip grunted again, this time with deep suspicion. “You’re jumpy.”

“I’m not jumpy.”

“You flinched when the fridge turned on.”

“That’s because—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.”

And then—

The buzzer rang again.

A single buzz.

Then three.

Then a frantic, impatient buzzbuzzbuzz .

Eliza closed her eyes.

No. No, no, no.

Only one person would buzz like that.

“Are you expecting someone?” Catharina asked cheerfully.

Eliza was not.

She was already backing toward the intercom.

Buzz.
Buzz-buzz.
Buzzbuzzbuzz—

Eliza pressed the speaker button with dread pooling in her gut.

“Who is it?” she asked.

From the crackly speaker came a familiar voice, sharp and amused:

“Open the door. I brought wine and questions.”

Eliza froze.

Catharina clapped her hands. “Angelica!”

Eliza turned slowly. “Angelica’s here?”

“I invited her!” her mother chirped. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

And Eliza—Eliza, who had faced down armed insurgents, leapt from moving trains, and once survived forty-eight hours in Belarus with nothing but a paperclip and a fake ID—felt a cold, existential dread grip her soul.

Because Hamilton was in the basement.

And Angelica Schuyler was the one person alive who would find him within the hour.

Chapter Text

Eliza forced a smile so hard her molars ached. “Of course. Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

The door buzzed. Footsteps. A gust of summer air.

And then Angelica swept inside like a guided missile in heels.

“Hello, darling sisters!” she sang, dropping a designer tote and kissing their mother on both cheeks. “Mother. Eliza.” Her eyes raked the apartment, calculating, filing away details. Like a bloodhound crossed with a human polygraph machine. “What a cute place you have, Liza. So domestic. So… humble.”

Eliza’s throat closed. She tried to speak. Failed.

Angelica glided deeper into the apartment, sharp eyes scanning everything like she was performing a security sweep. The scent of perfume and danger clung to her like smoke.

“So tidy,” she murmured. “So unlike you, Liza. When did you become such a domestic goddess?”

Eliza swallowed. “I’ve always been tidy.”

Angelica smiled—slow, predatory. “You used to keep takeout containers stacked so high they could qualify for historic preservation.”

“I’ve matured.”

Angelica circled the room like a suspicious cat, tapping one picture frame with her perfectly manicured nail. “No pictures of you with friends. Or coworkers. Or anyone. Odd, isn’t it?”

“I… value privacy,” Eliza said, too fast.

“Privacy. Right.” Angelica leaned down, sniffing near the couch cushions. “Smells like men’s body wash. And gym socks. You getting frisky with the super, Liza?”

Eliza barked a laugh that could’ve cracked glass. “What? No. Ew. Hector’s sixty and wheezes like a haunted accordion.”

“Hmm.” Angelica’s gaze drifted toward the hallway.

Eliza lunged into her path. “Wine! Let’s have wine first before dinner. You brought wine, right? Let’s open it! Let’s drink in the living room. Right here. Where we are. Far from any and all doors.”

Angelica gave her a slow, knowing smile. “Why are you guarding the hallway like it’s the last bridge at Helm’s Deep?”

“Just… excited for dinner.”

Angelica sniffed the air again, thoughtful. “Liza, do you know what men smell like?”

Eliza froze. “No,” she said, instantly and very badly.

“Because your apartment smells like you’ve been hiding one.” Her eyes glittered. “A sweaty one.”

Eliza felt sweat prickle at the base of her neck.

Angelica’s gaze snapped to the bookshelf. Her finger trailed over the spines. “Civil Liberties in Wartime. The Art of Counter-Interrogation. Treason in the Digital Age. Light reading, sister?”

Eliza's voice cracked. “Decorative.”

“You annotated them.”

“Very convincing printing technique these days.”

Angelica plucked a sticky note from one page, squinting. “‘Remember to shred Malaysian shrimp import files—possible fraud case pending?’” She arched a perfect eyebrow. “New insurance claim jargon?”

Eliza snatched it from her hands. “Experimental haiku.”

Angelica hummed. Prowled toward the vent. Crouched.

Eliza lunged. “Broken! Vent’s broken. Full of asbestos. Super dangerous. You could die.”

Angelica sniffed gently.

Eliza’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Mint gum,” Angelica murmured. “Men’s deodorant. And…”

A faint creak beneath the floorboards.

Eliza held her breath.

Angelica’s eyes flashed.

“…Granola?”

Eliza snapped her heel sideways, smashing into the vent cover hard enough to make a hollow clank . From below came a muffled, alarmed scuffle—and then silence. Like a raccoon frozen in fear.

Good boy, Hamilton. Stay. Stay.

Angelica stood slowly. Smiled. A quiet, terrifying smile.

“Who is he?”

“Nobody!” Eliza squeaked.

Angelica tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Someone you’re hiding. Someone inconvenient. Is he handsome? Dangerous? Does he sweat protein powder and Kind bars ?”

“No men! None! I’m pure as snow!” Eliza laughed shrilly. “Dinner! Reservations! Time-sensitive! Must leave now or we lose the table and starve to death.”

Angelica stared. “You booked Persephone’s . Midtown. Impossible to get into.”

Eliza bared her teeth. “Not when you have secrets.”

Their father snorted from the doorway. “Secrets and bribes are the same thing.”

“Dad,” Eliza begged, “let’s go—traffic’s terrible. We’ll never make it. I’ll die. You’ll die. Mother will die.”

“Die of what?” Catharina asked, holding a jar of jam she’d somehow unearthed from the back of the pantry. “You want to bring this to dinner? In case they don’t have good butter?”

“NO JAM,” Eliza gasped. “Only reservations. Fancy restaurant food. Let’s leave. Immediately. All of us. Every living person in this apartment.”

Angelica moved toward the hallway again.

Eliza cut her off, hands planted flat on the door like a human barricade. “Broken! Unsafe! Smells like rats! You’ll get the plague!”

Angelica’s gaze dropped, slow and suspicious, to Eliza’s trembling hands. “You are hiding something.”

“NOTHING!”

“Your pulse is racing.”

“That’s called excitement!”

Angelica leaned in, a breath away. “If I open that door…”

Eliza’s brain screamed.

“Baklava,” she gasped. “Best baklava in the city. Persephone’s. You love baklava.”

Angelica tilted her head.

“Eliza,” she murmured, dangerous and sweet, “you are sweating like the walls are about to confess to me first.”

“Let’s go to dinner,” Eliza whispered. “Please. I beg you. I promise you a full, rich, suspiciously overexplained dinner after.”

A long, tense moment.

Angelica smiled. “Fine. But I will be back to dig for your secrets.”

“Of course you will,” Eliza sighed.

As they herded the parents and Angelica to the door, she heard it—a soft, pitiful, whispering rasp from the vent behind her ankle.

“Permission to open another Kind bar, Commander?”

Eliza pressed her fingers to the wall, feeling the faint warmth of Hamilton’s palm on the other side.

“Approved, raccoon,” she murmured under her breath. “Stay. Stay.”

The basement fell silent again.

And so—with her sister’s eyes burning into her back—Eliza Schuyler smiled brightly, dragged her family toward the elevator, and wondered just how long she could keep a husband, a marriage, and a double life buried under her living room floor.

At least until dessert.

Maybe until breakfast.

Maybe forever.

Day One.

Of exile.

Of betrayal.

Alexander Hamilton sat hunched on an old beanbag chair—Eliza’s college beanbag, purple and offensive—clutching a half-eaten Kind bar like a rationed war supply, eyes wild in the half-dark of the basement. His kingdom. His prison.

This was not the life of a great man.

This was not the life of a revolutionary mind.

This was the life of a feral basement cryptid whose own wife had cast him into the void with Gatorade and chewy granola bars with flaxseed and told him, "Sit. Stay. Be a good raccoon."

A raccoon .

Alexander "Built-The-Treasury" Hamilton reduced to vermin status.

“My God,” he whispered, staring at the linty ceiling. “So this is how the mighty fall.”

He sprawled back onto the beanbag, arms spread like a martyred saint in a renaissance painting, empty Kind bar wrapper flapping weakly in his hand.

"Et tu, Eliza?" he muttered at the rafters. "I gave you my heart. My soul. My burner phone collection. And now you cast me into darkness... like Moses, cast adrift into the reeds... like Prometheus chained to the rock..."

Thunk.

His head hit the washing machine.

“Ow.”

No mercy. Not even from the appliances.

He sat up sharply, pausing mid-melodramatic sigh, because something moved overhead.

A presence.

Sharp. Suspicious. Female.

Angelica.

His whole spine straightened. His nose twitched.

She was sniffing him out.

Like some kind of predator hunting for lies in her sister’s two-bedroom cover story.

He could hear her stilettos—click-click-click—slow and deadly across the floorboards.

“Granola?” she murmured. So soft. So dangerous.

He clutched the new Kind bar to his chest like a grenade.

Stay strong, Alex. She can't smell your fear.

…Or can she?

No. No weakness. The raccoon obeys. The raccoon survives.

“Permission to open another Kind bar, Commander?” he whispered into the vent—his sole contact with the upper world.

A breath.

A touch on the wall.

Eliza’s touch.

“Approved, raccoon,” came the whisper from above.

Bless her. Bless her CIA-lying, assassin-dodging, chaos-wrangling soul.

He tore the wrapper like a man set free and stuffed half the bar into his mouth, chewing furiously, vibrating with suppressed courtroom energy.

He could hear them arguing. Dinner plans. Baklava. Distracting Angelica. Trying to herd the Schuylers like wild cattle away from the trap door of his shame.

Above him: chaos.

Below him: the world's saddest, angriest gremlin.

He gnawed the granola bar like vengeance itself.

“…I could burst from this basement,” he muttered to the Kind bar. “I could emerge like a legend. Like a folk tale. Like—like the Phantom of the Apartment —and confront her. I could argue her into dust. She’d never recover. She’d weep. She’d apologize —”

Thud .

Something creaked above. Angelica. Suspicious.

He shrank into the beanbag like a terrified Victorian child.

“…No. Not yet. Too soon. Not my moment,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wait. Wait for the cue. Wait for the drama. The reveal.”

The washing machine groaned behind him.

"Silence, steel beast," he muttered. "You betray me as well."

He clutched the Gatorade. Sipped. Dramatically. Like the last man at sea.

"Forty-eight hours," he murmured into the void. "Two days in the underworld. Odysseus wandered for ten years. I can survive this. I am strong. I am—"

Skitter skitter.

A spider scurried past.

He screamed. Just a little. Like a man.

"Mother of God—"

The spider ignored him. Went on its miserable way.

“ Even the spiders mock me… ”

Above: the sound of chairs scraping. Mother laughing. Angelica sharp as knives.

His wife holding the crumbling line.

And him.

Alone.

Forgotten.

Noble.

Heroic.

Possibly rabid.

“I'm not a raccoon,” he whispered fiercely. “I'm a man . A man with rights. With legal power. With needs. I deserve—”

A dust bunny blew into his face.

He coughed violently for a full minute.

“…This is fine. This is dignified. I am fine. No one dies of betrayal-induced pneumonia in the basement. Probably.”

Thunk.

His head hit the washing machine again.

He curled back onto the beanbag, arm flung over his eyes.

“Angelica Schuyler…” he whispered, voice low and haunted. “I feel you near. Hunting. Waiting. You’ll find me, someday. But not yet. Not today. For today—I obey.”

He bit into the Kind bar again.

Silence.

Darkness.

Gatorade.

He would survive.

For now.

The cheese burned merrily between them, spitting little sparks like devil confetti.

Eliza sipped her second glass of wine. Maybe third. She’d lost count somewhere between the first “so... who’s hiding under your floorboards?” and the flaming dairy spectacle.

Angelica hadn’t touched her food. She just smiled.

“Eliza. Liza, darling.” Angelica tapped her fork gently on the side of the plate. Tink. Tink. Tink. Like the countdown of a bomb. “Tell me about your week.”

“Oh, you know,” Eliza croaked, pouring more wine with trembling hands. “Work. Files. So many files. Emails. Paperwork. Very boring.”

“Paperwork that smells like sweat and men’s shampoo?” Angelica tilted her head, catlike. “You know, the Old Spice kind?”

Catharina gasped. “Is this true? Eliza! ”

“Mother, no!” Eliza squeaked. “That’s probably... leftover... super! The building manager! He fixed the heater last week!”

“Funny,” Angelica murmured. “You said the vent was broken. Full of asbestos, remember? Your story’s cracking, Liza.”

Like my soul, Eliza thought.

Her phone buzzed in her lap. She peeked.

Ham:

Permission to snack on another granola bar? Siren sounds outside. Should I deploy decoy sock to simulate rat presence?

Eliza sucked in a panicked breath. Texted quickly under the table:

Eliza:

1. Stay down. Eat silently. Pretend you’re DEAD.

Angelica’s eyes flashed. “Texting someone? A... boyfriend , perhaps?”

“No!” Eliza yelped. “Just—uh—work. Insurance crisis.”

Philip looked up from stabbing his dolma. “Do people have crises about insurance on Friday nights?”

“You’d be surprised,” Eliza wheezed.

Another buzz.

Ham:

Clarify: pretend dead raccoon or pretend dead attorney? Should I faint dramatically for authenticity?

Eliza stabbed tzatziki so hard the bowl skidded.

Stay DOWN, you feral beast.

Angelica forked a kalamata olive. “We could visit your apartment after dinner, you know. Nightcap. Catch up. Peek in closets. Sniff under furniture.”

Eliza smiled, glassy-eyed. “Haha. Burn in hell.”

“What was that, Liza?”

“I said, love you so much, sister dearest! ” She kicked her mother’s foot. “Right, Mom? Family time is best time?”

Catharina clutched her wine. “I just want to know if you’re pregnant.”

Eliza choked so violently the waiter ran over with a paper napkin.

“I AM NOT PREGNANT!”

“Pity,” Philip muttered. “You’re almost thirty. Egg quality declines sharply after—”

“OH LOOK, MORE CHEESE!” Eliza shouted as the waiter returned with a second flaming tray.

“ OPA! ” roared the staff.

Flames licked dangerously close to Eliza’s hair. She did not flinch. She wished they’d consume her whole .

Angelica watched. Smiling. Still. Unmoving. Like a jungle cat that knew exactly when to pounce.

Her phone buzzed again.

Ham:

Emergency. Dropped granola bar. Rolling toward vent opening. Possible exposure risk. Permission to retrieve?

Eliza paled.

Texted furiously.

Eliza:

1. DIE HUNGRY. DO NOT MOVE.

Angelica leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Liza... you’re sweating again.”

“I LIKE GREEK HEAT.”

“We should definitely go back to yours after this. I need to see that mysterious ‘broken vent.’”

“I’m... getting rid of the vent. Ripping it out. No vents allowed. Vents are over. Modern design. Minimalism.”

Angelica smiled, terrifying. “I’ll help you renovate.”

“ Eliza, ” Catharina said sharply. “Stop acting like you smuggled a man into the walls. You’re being weird.”

“I am not hiding a man in my house, ” Eliza lied, voice cracking like bad drywall.

The waiter returned. “Dessert menu?”

“Yes,” Angelica said sweetly. “And the check. We’re going to my sister’s place after.”

“No,” Eliza whimpered.

“YES,” Angelica purred.

“YES,” Philip and Catharina chorused.

Eliza shriveled.

Buzz.

Ham:

Escape plan B: Possible to tunnel under laundry chute and emerge in neighboring apartment? Request excavation clearance.

Eliza clutched her face, shaking.

“Headache?” Angelica asked gently.

“I’ll kill you,” Eliza whispered to her menu.

Angelica’s hand landed on hers.

“Oh, Liza. I will find out. You’re so bad at lying. ”

Eliza gripped the table so hard her knuckles turned white. “Angelica.”

“Hm?”

“Eat your tzatziki and shut up.”

Angelica’s grin was slow, sharp, dangerous.

“Sure, sister,” she said. “For now. But after dinner—oh, I am going back to your place I feel like exploring. Deeply.”

Eliza’s soul left her body.

She smiled at the flaming cheese.

And quietly, behind her eyes, began planning a fake gas leak evacuation order, a fire alarm, or possibly murder.

At least Hamilton was obedient.

For now.

Stay in your hole, raccoon. Stay.

Eliza raised her wine glass and chugged the entire thing.

OPA.

Chapter Text

Eliza could feel it in her teeth before she heard it.

The click of the door unlocking.

A shadow slipping into the living room like silk over a blade.

She sat up straight on the couch, where she’d fake-read herself into insomnia. Every CIA nerve in her body fired.

Angelica.
Of course it was Angelica.

“Couldn’t sleep,” her sister said, voice low and casual as a drawn gun. “Thought I’d grab my earrings. The ones I left in your bathroom.”

“Angelica,” Eliza croaked, swinging her feet down. “They’re in the bag you took home from the restaurant.”

A beat of silence.

“Oh. Are they?” Angelica drifted across the apartment like a hunting cat. “Silly me. Must’ve imagined that. I guess I’ll check the bathroom anyway.”

Eliza lunged. “You will do no such thing.”

Angelica smiled, teeth bright. “Why not, Liza? Nervous I’ll find your secret husband locked in the towel cabinet?”

“No husband. No man. No crime scene,” Eliza hissed, heart racing so loud she couldn’t think.

“Then why are you shaking like the walls are about to confess before you do?”

“I’m tired!” Eliza snapped, nearly blocking her with her whole body. “So tired. And you know what’s fun when you’re tired? Sleep. In your guest bed. With Mom and Dad in the next room—”

“Snoring,” Angelica said with relish. “Like rocks. Like they’ll never hear a thing. Like they wouldn’t hear me opening this suspicious basement door—”

Eliza choked. “No!”

Angelica froze. Turned.

“Basement door?” she purred.

Eliza realized her mistake an instant too late.

“Oh,” Angelica breathed, eyes lighting up like a hunter spotting fresh tracks. “The basement, Eliza? Your weird ‘no storage allowed’ basement? With the triple-locked door and vent that smells like Kind bars and male deodorant?”

“Laundry room!” Eliza yelped. “Totally normal laundry—”

Angelica was already moving.

“Angelica—please—” Eliza chased her, panicked.

Her sister crouched at the vent like a DEA agent on a drug bust.

“Eliza. There’s breathing in there.”

“It’s rats!” Eliza grabbed her arm. “I told you—”

A soft shuffle.

A pathetic cough.

Then, from the vent, like a whisper from hell:

“Requesting...granola bar resupply...Commander…”

Angelica’s head snapped around so fast her ponytail whipped.

“Eliza,” she whispered. “You absolute liar.”

“No—”

“Open the damn door.”

“Angelica—”

But Angelica was already unfastening the vent cover like it was a cursed sarcophagus.

And there he was.

Alexander Hamilton. CIA liability. T-shirt wrinkled, curls stuck to his forehead, eyes wide and doomed. Kind bar wrappers lay around him like war debris.

“…Hi,” he croaked.

Angelica stared. Eliza wanted to melt through the floor. Hamilton gave a tiny wave. Eliza considered whether smashing a flower vase over her own head would buy her plausible deniability.

“Oh my God,” Angelica whispered, ecstatic. “You basemented your husband.”

Hamilton lifted one finger. “Voluntary exile. Snacks and hydration provided. Geneva Convention compliant.”

Angelica rounded on Eliza. “LIZA.”

“I panicked!” she wailed. “You were all staying here! I couldn’t risk Dad seeing him in his underwear!”

“He lives here?! You’ve had a secret basement husband this whole time?!”

Hamilton coughed politely. “Technically, I live upstairs. Basement is for special occasions. Like your parents visiting.”

Eliza moaned into her hands.

Angelica turned, fury glittering in her smile. “I knew it smelled like man in here. I knew there were Kind bar wrappers that weren’t yours. I knew—”

Hamilton raised a sad Kind bar like a white flag. “...I prefer the peanut butter ones.”

Angelica crouched beside the vent. “You’ve been feeding him like some sad little cryptid?! Does he know tricks?”

“I know law,” Hamilton offered. “Want to hear about shrimp import fraud again?”

“That counts, right?” he added, with the hopeful pride of a dog presenting a stick.

Angelica threw her hands up. “Eliza. You married him. Five years. You married him. And you stuck him in the crawlspace when your parents visited like he’s a goddamn sock gremlin.”

“I had to!” Eliza shrieked. “I didn’t plan this! He was supposed to go to Jersey! Or Boston! But he refused! Said the legal risk—”

Hamilton grinned weakly. “Boston’s extradition laws are sloppy.”

“—so he stayed here like an idiot mole rat!”

“I like the Gatorade you left,” Hamilton said, poking his head out just a little farther. “But I finished the Kind bars. May require extraction soon.”

Angelica stared at him. Then at Eliza.

Then cackled.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “This is better than I thought. This is so much worse than anything I imagined.”

“Eliza Schuyler,” she whispered, “you have a basement husband.”

Eliza groaned into the wall. “Kill me.”

“Oh no,” Angelica crooned. “Not yet. First you’re explaining everything. Then you’re letting him out. Then you’re bribing me to keep this from Mom and Dad. Then—maybe—you’ll survive until breakfast.”

Hamilton raised his hand weakly from the vent. “I would also like breakfast. Please.”

Angelica snorted. “Shut up, raccoon boy.”
She looked at him again—dusty, wide-eyed, halfway to feral—and something in her expression turned oddly fond. Like she’d just discovered a tragic stray and decided to name it.

“I’m breaking him out,” Angelica whispered in the dark, grinning like this was her birthday. “We’re doing pancakes. Upstairs. Kitchen. Like civilized humans. You deserve dignity, raccoon man.”

From the basement crawlspace, Hamilton blinked blearily. Hair mashed sideways. Shirtless. Absolutely feral.

“I have rights?” he whispered, hope fragile as a soap bubble.

“No,” Eliza snapped, dragging her sister away. “No rights. No extraction. He stays.”

Angelica only grinned wider. "Please. Like I’m letting your legally wedded man-goblin rot in a dusty vent when I could feed him stolen pancakes? Live a little, Liza."

Hamilton perked in the vent. "Pancakes?"

“No,” Eliza hissed. “Angelica—no. My parents are sleeping six feet away. You’ll wake them. You’ll kill us all.”

Angelica scoffed. “Please. Dad’s hearing aid is still in the guest room drawer. Mom took an Ambien. They’re basically corpses ‘til noon.”

“Eliza,” Hamilton rasped, clutching the vent bars like a Victorian orphan. “Please. Pancakes. Freedom. Vitamin D.”

Eliza pressed both hands to her skull. “This is how we die. All of us. In disgrace. CIA cover blown because you wanted brunch at 3 AM.”

Angelica waggled a spatula she’d stolen from the counter. “Or... this is how we make history.”

Pause.

Hamilton’s eyes glowed.

“…Will there be syrup?” he whispered.

Angelica patted the vent. “I have real maple. Canadian. Smuggled through customs.”

Eliza groaned into the counter.

“I hate you both.”

3:16 AM — Kitchen

Hamilton perched on a stool, delirious with joy, holding a stack of golden pancakes like they were the Ten Commandments. Shirtless. Dusty. Barefoot.

Angelica flipped another with evil glee. “Look at him. Look how happy. Like a rescue raccoon learning snacks exist.”

“Angelica,” Eliza whispered, glancing down the hall every five seconds, “you’ve killed us. I hope you know that.”

“Worth it.”

Hamilton moaned softly into his pancake. “Maple syrup. Real food. Fresh air. Civilization. God is real.”

The cabinet creaked.

Eliza flinched. Angelica spun, spatula raised like a weapon.

But it was just Hamilton trying to find coffee.

He tugged open the pantry. A box of Cornflakes fell. So did a mug.

“Oops,” he said softly.

Eliza’s soul left her body.

“Stop touching things. You have the survival instincts of a newborn deer.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Free deer. With pancakes.”

“Shut. Up.”

But it was too late.

Footsteps. Soft. From the guest bedroom.

“Eliza?” Catharina’s voice, faint but growing. “Why is the light on?”

Angelica gasped. Shoved Hamilton bodily under the kitchen table like smuggling contraband. She whipped a dish towel over him like that would make the man-shaped law goblin disappear.

Eliza hissed, “You broke him out for pancakes and now we die.”

“Shh!” Angelica whispered. “Act casual. Normal. Innocent. Like we weren’t harboring secret husbands.”

The guest room door creaked.

Catharina shuffled in. Robe. Slippers. Suspicion.

“Liza?” she blinked. “What are you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Eliza chirped, eyes dead. “Midnight snack.”

“Pancakes?” Catharina squinted. “At this hour?”

“Comfort food,” Angelica said smoothly. “For old times. Like college. Remember?”

Catharina frowned.

Beneath the table, Hamilton breathed. Loudly.

Eliza kicked him.

“Ow,” he whispered.

Catharina cocked her head. “What was that noise?”

“Fridge!” Eliza blurted. “The new ice machine. Rattles. Like that. All night.”

Catharina squinted suspiciously. Walked toward the counter. Closer. Too close.

Beneath the table, Hamilton froze. Pancake halfway stuffed in his mouth. Wide terrified raccoon eyes.

Eliza sweated. Angelica sweat-laughed.

And then—salvation.

“Oh well,” Catharina sighed. “Bring me a pancake to bed, will you, sweetheart? Extra syrup. I’ll go lie down.”

She shuffled away.

Angelica grinned. Eliza collapsed on the counter.

Hamilton whispered reverently: “Bless that woman.”

Eliza turned slowly.

“Back to the basement. Now.”

Hamilton mournfully stuffed the rest of his pancake in his mouth. “Never forget me,” he whispered dramatically. “I lived free. For twenty minutes. Like a man. Like a raccoon man.”

Angelica cackled.

Eliza sighed.

Tomorrow was going to be hell.