Chapter Text
The gunfire behind him had faded, the path ahead nothing but the sound of his horse’s hooves against the dirt. He dared not look back. Not one second, one tempting moment that might cause him to stop his horse and put his men at risk. Not just his men...his family.
It felt like minutes. It felt like hours. A ride with the moon at his back, cold wind whipping at his face. The thought of Benjamin slung across Alexander’s horse, broken. Would the rage have subsided? Would Benjamin even survive? He had seen this fury in men before; in soldiers who tapped some deep reservoir of strength in their final struggle. It was raw and unhinged, the stress of it bringing about the man’s final moments as he clawed the eyes off his opponent. The thought that Ben would be taken by this mortified him. He could not bear to wait in the cold, only to see Alex’s horse arrive with the limp, lifeless corpse of his beloved boy draped in the saddle. That after all of this, George could not be there in his final moments, holding his hand as the strain on his heart became too great.
Tears whipped from his eyes, wicked away by the wind as George sped towards camp. He would be forced to come around the back. To alert Lafayette of his arrival with their agreed upon signal. As he turned from the main road, spying the flickering windows of the manor in the distance, he let out a sigh of relief. Patriot territory.
The horse slowed to a trot, George gracefully guiding it through the overgrown path behind the manor. It was an easy way in, and mostly forgotten by staff and family. It was his way out but a few days ago, but the pressure to remain hidden mounted. He must alert only Lafayette. No one must know that he was not laid up in bed these past three days.
As the candlelight in the windows grew brighter, George dismounted and led his horse through the last of the underbrush, tying her off to a post before creeping towards a large boulder. It had been agreed upon that George would signal from the treeline, in a way that Gilbert alone would hear. The night was still and quiet, save for the rustling of the trees. George’s boots cracked and snapped twigs loudly, despite his stealth, as he retrieved a little satchel that Gilbert had hidden.
Inside were a few items. A small, silver bell. A candle. A tiny box of matches. Pulling them out, George crept to the edge of the treeline, using a large tree trunk to hide himself from view of the ground floor windows of the manor. He peeked around, turning his gaze upwards at his quarters, lit, with the curtains rustling in the breeze.
He grasped the little bell, holding it out from the tree and giving it three good rings. The chime was small and tinkling, and to unsuspecting ears would sound like a wind chime caught in a gust. But this was no wind chime, and George waited for a silhouette to come forth to the window.
Just as agreed upon, Gilbert’s figure did approach the window. His face was grim and serious, eyes combing the darkness of the woods beyond the three candles lit on his window sill. Carefully, he leaned down and blew the center one out, and waited.
George struck the match, lighting his small candle and holding it out from the tree, where its tiny flame quivered in the night air. Gilbert leaned down again, blowing out the left candle. Stables. George would meet him at the stables. George promptly blew his candle out, stuffing it and the bell back into the bag before making his way to the old stables around back.
Gilbert emerged a few minutes later, clutching his cloak tightly around him to keep out the chill. He walked quickly, eyes moving past George and into the woods behind him. “My dearest General, are you alone?” He asked, voice cracking. His face betrayed his thoughts; gratitude for George’s return. Mourning for the absence of his two companions.
“I am...for now.” George whispered, turning to face the woods. “Alexander took Ben and fled.” Relief flooded Gilbert, and he released his cloak in order to wrap George into a hug. His shoulders shook as George placed his palms to them.
“I was so frightened.” Gilbert whispered. “To lose you...to lose this family.” George broke their embrace. They weren't out of trouble just yet. Alex had not arrived. Gilbert quickly caught on, his face pale. “How far?” He asked. George merely shook his head. He did not know.
“Miles, perhaps. We were exposed in enemy territory. I fled up the main road. Alexander turned down another. That was the last I'd seen of him.” A gust of wind pierced their bubble, sending Gilbert shivering.
“Come, let us go inside. It is too col--”
“No. No I can't.”
“ Please. I beg you. Do not catch your death for real. We will relight the candles. Alexander will ring.”
Inside his quarters George could see the extent of their little plot. His bed was rumpled, made to look as if a man lay sleeping beneath the thick quilt. Gilbert assured him it was only half as ridiculous as it looked. He feared an empty bed would raise questions as he briefly opened the door to take meals. There were a few trays left on the desk, one with cleared plates, and the other with a meal half picked at.
“I have told them His Excellency needs broth, and still they bring meat and cheese.” Gilbert sighed. “They're convinced you will waste away on broth alone.” George felt his stomach rumble at the sight of it. Not a solid meal in three days, and if Gilbert hadn't spoken up he might have wolfed down the cold meat right then and there.
“His Excellency’s appetite is returning. Please, send up a fresh plate. The warmth will do him good.” Gilbert instructed, his head peeking behind the door and into the hallway. A small ‘yessir’ was heard, and then quiet. George settled for a stale crust of bread.
“You must undress. Three days with not a glimpse of you, our hosts have grown suspicious. Get into bed, make like a man on the upswing.” George did just that, discarding his muddy cloak and travel clothes, donning instead a long fresh shirt before slipping below the covers. He settled back into the pillows, hoping his weary mood would sell his sickness. A few passes of a wet rag from Gilbert cleared the dirt from his cheeks, leaving only wet flushed skin. The perfect cover.
As expected, the host did come up to check on George. Mr.Evans entered his quarters alongside the maid, hands wringing nervously. “Is all well, General?” He asked. “I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if you were to suffer in my home.”
George smiled weakly, propping himself up for his meal. “I have my appetite.” He said, taking the tray into his lap. “I’ll take that as a good sign.” Gilbert nodded, washing his hands in the small basin by the door.
“His Excellency has made quite the recovery.” He beamed. “The color has returned to him, and he eats like a man starved. No doubt your hospitality has saved him. We thank you--”
A small bell chimed, cutting through their conversation. George stiffened, unsure of how to divert their attention. Mr.Evans quilted his head, tilting his ear like a dog. “Did you hear that?” He asked, eyes darting towards the window. Gilbert dropped a rag into the basin with a wet splat, striding over towards the window. George watched him angle his body to keep the candles from view.
“There's a stiff breeze tonight. I've told His Excellency that this open window will do no good. Must have caught the wind chimes on the porch.” He muttered, quickly blowing out the center candle as his hands fumbled with the latches. Mr. Evans moved to help him, but was stopped by the slam of the window. Gilbert stepped away, the center and right candle snuffed out. The stairwell. “Silly thing took out our candles.” He huffed.
Mr.Evans chuckled, distracted by Gilbert’s ruffled state. “You've been playing doctor too long, Marquis. It's got you frazzled. Shall I send up some sherry?” He inquired. Gilbert waved his hand, refusing the gesture.
“I shall not indulge until my General is well again. If death takes him, it takes us both.”
“Gilbert--”
“It is true. Now, unless two of us shall suffer under your roof I suggest we give His Excellency privacy and peace for his meal.” He huffed, ushering out their host. George called out after the man.
“Your generosity will be repaid tenfold, sir. Forgive the Marquis.” Once the door clicked shut George sprung from bed, hastily pulling on his breeches.
“The stairwell. Will they be concealed?”
“Yes, if we are quick.”
They crept from the room, sneaking into an empty servants quarters at the end of the hall. Inside was a small closet, one with a well hidden stairwell. Gilbert lit a candle and proceeded down the stairs, where he knocked against the wood of the door. Two taps. A pause. Three taps returned. Eagerly, he swung open the door.
In the cold winter air that rushed in George could see Alex, his hair powdered with snow. The ground had begun to dust with it, falling in thick clumps in the silence. His arms held two legs at his hips, and as George’s eyes adjusted he could see Ben held piggyback underneath Alex’s cloak. His face was worn and gray, fingers trembling.
“He's awake, but just barely.” Alex whispered, shifting Ben’s weight. George stepped forward, unclasping the cloak and scooping Ben up. He felt frail, curling instinctively into his warmth as he guided him inside.
The walk back to his quarters was silent. George wished it was to remain concealed. To keep their little plot quiet. But that wasn't the case. It was just numbing. The adrenaline had faded the moment George laid eyes on Alex at the door, and the wave of weariness that hit him was nauseating. They were home after a long journey, ready to shed their boots and roll into bed; but George knew sleep wouldn't come easily.
It was painful. The numbness he felt ascending the stairs gave way to a dull throbbing ache as Ben was laid out on the bed. Watching Alex and Gilbert’s faces contort in horror as they undressed him, seeing all the wounds inflicted upon him. George smoothed the hair from Ben’s brow, pretending not to hear Alex wretch into the rubbish pail. He returned, handkerchief dabbing at the spittle on his lips.
“Will he live?” He croaked. George sighed, but nodded.
“He will. Our Benjamin always survives.” He cooed, stroking Ben’s cheek lovingly. Beneath his purpled lids, Ben’s eyes twitched. Caught in a dream. George recounted his journey. He told his companions about the fight with Rogers. Ben stuffed in a tree. The bloody campsite and discarded uniform. How Arnold had trapped them in their room. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he ended his tale.
“Arnold did something to Ben. Touched him. Unwillingly.” He said, casting his gaze towards Ben. “And I suggest that we let Benjamin speak of it in his own time.” Alex clenched his fist against his leg.
“The fucking bastard.” He spat. “I should have aimed higher.” George smiled, just barely.
“Any higher and I’d have lost an ear. Or worse.” He jabbed. Alex flushed, but shrugged in agreement. A soft sigh from the bed pricked their ears, and George turned in time to see Ben rouse. One flutter, then two, and his eyes opened. He searched the room. His eyes took their time on each face, studying their eyes and dropping to their lips as he brought himself together.
“Can it be?” He whispered, lips dry and cracking. “That I've woken from a dream, and this pain I feel is nothing more than a phantom fever?”
Gilbert choked out a sob, throwing his arms around Ben. “Dear brother, fever would cause me much less heartache.” He cried, kissing Ben’s bruised cheeks tenderly. Ben winced, but smiled all the same.
Alex placed a hand on Ben’s chest, tapping it lightly. “Sorry for the bumpy ride. You made quite the exit. Had to roll with the punches.” Ben laughed.
“I had just finished telling George you'd probably run in and shoot something too.” He said, tears welling in his eyes. “You did shoot him. I saw it.” Alex nodded. Ben turned his eyes to George, eyes dancing over him as fat tears rolled down his cheeks.
“All in one piece. You're home, too.” Ben said. His voice cracked, lips trembling. George leaned down and kissed Ben’s forehead.
“Home.”
He felt the tickle of his cut lock against his cheek, the lingering reminder that he escaped with merely a scratch. But each bruise and scrape on Benjamin seared into his soul like a brand, a deep throbbing ache he would never be able to shake. It burned as he sat with Ben, feeding him slowly. It throbbed as he and Gilbert washed him down, minding his gash. It twisted in him like a knife as he watched Ben struggle to lay comfortably in bed.
Without hesitation, George disrobed, climbing into bed. He propped himself up against the headboard, nestling Ben between his legs, back resting against his chest. “Better?” He asked. Ben’s head lolled to the side, breathing becoming more even.
“Much.”
Alex and Gilbert undressed as well, flanking him on either side of the wide bed. They whispered to Ben, something soft and giggly George couldn't hear, but he felt it. Laughter. Sweet and simple laughter bubbling from Ben. They threw a blanket over themselves, hiding as if in a tent, gossiping like school children. George listened in, only catching the ends of jokes, or the beginnings of a rant. It went on for hours. Hours after George believed he was asleep, eyes closed and body heavy against the headboard. It stopped just as dawn has begun its rosy glow, ending with a string of hums that left Ben out cold against his stomach. Alex peeled back the covers, bags under his eyes.
“The first night is hardest.” He said, knowing George was pretending to sleep. “The silence let's you dwell on things.”
“And now it is morning. You've talked the night away.”
“And now he sleeps. As should you.”
George smiled. “And you, Alexander.”
Traitor Benedict Arnold Flees to England
The headline comes as no surprise to George as he reads it over breakfast. Outside his tent the news has spread through camp, raising tempers high at the sight of his name. He can hear soldiers mocking Arnold, songs being sung, the men caught in the upswing of patriotism in the wake of failed treachery.
He placed the paper aside, cutting into his meal as the uneven sound of footsteps approached his tent. A little past nine, and morning rounds are more than over. Ben trudged into the tent, snow clinging to his boots and heavy cloak.
“Last snow storm, I hope.” He sighed, discarding his wet garments. George let's his eyes drift over his lover, admiring the way his cheeks turned red in the cold.
Ben walked to the desk, a slight limp marring his step. The wound had healed, just not as well as George would have liked. The doctors say he will always have a slight limp. George isn't eager to believe them. In all the time he’s known Ben, he's known life. A man who has met death like an old friend, mingling and dancing until it was time for him to return to life, and making plans to meet again. Even now, Ben radiated health as he joins George at the desk, trading his small apple for a fatty piece of meat sitting on his plate.
“I was enjoying that.” George clipped, frowning at the tiny, frozen apple. Ben smirked, adding a piece of stolen bread to his meal.
“And now you're enjoying that. I've had enough apples to last me a lifetime.” He sighed, biting into the meat. George smiled, placing his fork aside.
“Have you seen the papers?” He asked. George studied Ben as he finished his bite, searching for discomfort. Ben only swallowed.
“I have.”
“And?”
Ben reached a hand across the table, grasping George’s tightly. “And…” he started, eyes sparkling. “I am ready for sleep. A long, good night’s sleep, safe with the man I love.”
George smiled, pulling Ben up out of his chair to embrace him. “Allow me to accompany you.” A long night's sleep. That's what they needed. A quilt, a good fire, and a dreamless sleep. One where the memory of blood in the snow drifts away on the breeze like little red threads.