Chapter Text
Ben’s eyes fluttered open as the first signs of dawn filtered through the slat in the tent. All was quiet and still, save for the even breathing next to him; George. Ben admired the man. Hair down (a rarity) framing his face in soft auburn waves, expression slackened into blissful repose, the rise and fall of his bared chest. Ben pressed his nose up into the juncture of George’s neck, eliciting a small hum.
“I’ve got rounds. I’ll be back before you know I'm gone.”
George let out a grunt, displeased with Ben’s leaving, but too heavy with sleep to put up a proper protest. A quick kiss on the cheek returned a smile to his face, and it was back to dreamland.
Ben sighed at the sight. Since Benedict’s turning, George hardly slept a full night in weeks. It took a great deal of coaxing to get him to relax, fully and completely, until he was rendered into a quivering pile of mush--unable to fight off the heavy pull of sleep. ‘Sleep long and deep’ Ben wished, shivering as he dressed.
The cold light of dawn creeped over the trees, sending long shadows over the days old snowfall around the camp. It's picturesque winterscape was trampled by boots and carts, gouging trenches into the hardening snow banks. Ben’s boots crunched as he made his way from the tent. This was the twilight hour, where only few officers around camp roused-- leaving him free to come and go from Washington’s tent as he pleased.
The urge to rejoin George in the bed drove him to complete his tasks quickly. He collected his overnight reports, deposited them in his work tent, made sure the outpost was in well guarded. He then swung back around to the cook’s tent. The ladies there knew him as an early riser, and always set out a few items for him.
“Major Tallmadge, good morning.” One buxom woman said, handing him a small satchel. “It's not much, we’re down to apples and bread.” Ben smiled, taking the bag from her.
“That's plenty, thank you. I’ll put in a word to General Washington about new rations.”
“Bless you, Major. Lord knows it's stone soup until spring.”
Ben laughed. “I’ll donate my apple cores for the broth, then.”
The trot back broke a sweat under his woolen uniform, having to high step over mound after mound of iced over snow. Though light was coming fast, Washington’s side of the camp was still masked in hazy darkness. He was within sight of the tent when his boot fell through the cracked surface of the ice---into warm slush.
“Wha--”
Blood. A deep red stain of it, not 100 feet from where George slept. It bloomed through the snow, trailing off like petals fallen from a bouquet. Ben put a hand on his hilt, following the gruesome path to find its source. It circled around the back of Washington’s tent, and stopped beneath a mound of pink and grey slush. Someone was hurt under there.
Ben rushed forward, ignoring the biting cold as he cleared the slurry off the man. His hands stopped as he tore past a chunk of ice, and his fingers hit the open throat of a young soldier. Ben’s breath caught in his chest. ‘The guard---’ He went to rise off his knees to sound an alarm, but something cold and steely against his neck stopped him.
“I wouldn't be runnin’ my mouth if I were you, boy.”
Ben froze. It couldn't be. It had been so long…but here he was. Robert Rogers.
“Would ye lookit that? Speechless as a maiden on her weddin’ night.” Rogers placed a meaty hand on Ben’s shoulder, digging his thick fingers in. “You've made lots o’ enemies, pup. Bitten more than the kennel master can excuse. They sent me to put you down.”
Ben clenched his jaw, the temptation to cry out overwhelming. It was too risky. He’d be dead before the words left his throat. Besides, if Rogers wanted him dead, he’d already be under the slush.
He kept his eyes trained on the back of Washington’s tent. Let Rogers take him, but far--- away from George.
Rogers laughed, the stench of his breath wafting over Ben’s shoulder. “Easy boy, we’ve got a few errands to run before the real fun begins. Let’s go visit daddy, eh?”
Rogers pinched Ben’s jaw open, stuffing a putrid rag into his mouth. He gagged as the man forced him to his feet. “No noise, boy. Quiet as a mouse.”
Pushing forward, Rogers quickly circled him to the front of the tent, sunlight still far from the swaying flaps. Ben was shoved inside, a grip like a vice pinning his hands behind him. Rogers took a good look around the tent, grinning. “So this is where the magic happens, hm?” He whispered. The hair on the back of Ben’s neck pricked up as Rogers turned his attention to George.
“The big man himself.”
George was still sound asleep, bed linens tangled at the waist. It was a sight that normally made Ben weak in the knees. Now it terrified him; he was so vulnerable. ‘Don't hurt him, please don't hurt him’.
Rogers produced a pistol, releasing his grip on Ben. He placed one finger to his lips, and tapped the side of Ben’s face with the barrel. “Don't do anything rash. I have a jumpy trigger finger.”
His boots were near silent as he crossed the room, pistol pointed at Ben’s head. Ben’s heart quickened at the sight of a long hunting blade in Rogers’ other hand. Instinctively, Ben lurched forward. The click of the hammer stopped him.
Ben returned to attention, trembling.
Rogers smiled, pleased with Ben’s decision. He took the hunting knife and laid it low, just above George’s throat. Ben shook his head, tears pricking his eyes.
“No?” Rogers mouthed silently.
Ben shook his head, shoulders heaving.
“No, ‘yes’ ?”
The knife moved short and quick across George’s throat, and Ben let out a strangled cry into the gag. Rogers shook with silent laughter, brandishing the lock of hair he cut off of George. No blood. He was alive. Ben fell to his knees, sobs wracking his body. He hardly noticed Rogers slip something beneath George’s pillow before being ripped off his knees.
Rogers pressed close to him, growling in his ear. “I wasn't paid for him,boy, quit your whimpering. We best be off. You're expected in York City”
‘Arnold’. He was to be put at the mercy of Arnold. Part of him wished he had cried out sooner, and taken the blade to the neck-- it would be merciful compared to anything that turncoat had in store for him. At least they'd still recognize him with his throat slit.
The grip returned to Ben’s arm, and he struggled to get one last look at George as he was wrangled from the tent. George, who was sleeping soundly in their bed. George, who would hold him and promise to never leave his side. George, who would wake up to find him bloodied in some unmarked grave. Hot tears clung to his lashes.
This would be the last time he would see George--but he thanked God he was alive.
He tried to keep the image of George sleeping blissfully in his head as Rogers forced him towards the tree line.
----------------------------------------------
George awoke gradually, his senses turning on one by one. First came the sound of birds, of carts rattling and boots crunching. Then the smell of stewed apples, and lingering cologne. By the time George’s eyes began to crack open, he had the taste of apples on his tongue, and a rumble in his stomach.
It was peculiar that Ben had not returned from rounds. A quick look at his pocket watch heightened his suspicion. Seven in the morning. Ben would have been up for two hours now, plenty of time to finish his duties and return. He sat up, and a faint tickling sensation ran down his chest.
‘This is...hair?’
He bolted off the bed, rushing to the mirror. A chunk had been sheared off the end near his throat. The remnants were scattered over him, his sheets, his pillow. George spied a clump sticking out from under the down pillow. He cautiously stuck a hand beneath, feeling smooth paper. A letter. He ripped it open hastily.
General Washington,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, as we both work towards ending this war. I have been patient, tolerating your disinterest in my plight with Congress, and turning a blind eye to your garish predilections. I cannot, however, tolerate the way you slander my name throughout the colonies; raking it through the mud in an attempt to conceal your own failures. Therefore, I have taken the initiative to end this damnable war. Let those most loyal to you pay the price for worshipping a false idol. They will know what you are soon enough.
~Benedict Arnold
The color drained from George’s face. Someone was here, in his own tent. Close enough to slip this beneath him. Close enough to draw a razor across him. Where was Ben? His eyes searched the page, trying to determine Arnold’s game. Would he expose him? Murder Ben?
“General Washington!”
Billy Lee came bounding into the tent, wide with terror. He stopped short at the sight of George. “My apologies, General, I did not mean to barge in on you undressed---it's just---”
George put the letter down on the table, not caring for his own nakedness, but reached for his breeches. He pulled them on quickly. “Where is Major Tallmadge? Has he returned from rounds?”
Billy Lee shook his head frantically. “Blood, sir. Outside your tent. I ran in because I wasn't sure if it was you”
George ran out of the tent, his bare feet stinging in the snow. There was a great bloom of blood seeping in the softened snow. ‘Benjamin, oh dear God’. He followed the trail, not caring if he attracted attention from passing soldiers. He needed to make sure.
The mound behind his tent almost sent him to his knees. He scrambled to the pink mass, eyes laying sight on the visceral open throat. “No!” He cried, frantic hands wiping away the slurry from the corpse’s face.
“It's not him…”
The words were soft, and George felt deep sorrow for the poor guard lying beneath the snow. The dread set in, setting every nerve on fire. Billy Lee rushed to his side.
“Your Excellency! We have to get you inside, it's not safe--you're not dressed-"
“Find Tallmadge.”
“Sir?”
George’s jaw clenched as tears stung his eyes. His bare hands and feet were numb, trembling against his will. He would not let this happen. He would not let anyone touch Ben---harm him. Whoever took him would have to face George. And God help him.
“Find Tallmadge, dammit!”