Chapter Text
“I SAID ENOUGH”
The sound of Washington screaming, raw and brutal, was enough to send him to the ground. There, just beyond the brush, his former General on horseback and Robert Rogers, locked in tense confrontation. He was locked in place, unable to do more than watch as the scene unfolded.
My god, what has he done to you, Ben?
The boy was a mess; lip split, hair muddy and matted, wearing faded old rags with a tourniquet on the thigh, the blue binding dark with blood. Mottled with bruises, wrists raw against the ropes, Ben looked like a walking corpse.
His heart leapt into his throat, the glimmer of Rogers’ knife coming down across Ben’s palms, drawing new blood just as Washington’s horse intercepted. It felt agonizingly slow and too quick to see simultaneously; bits and pieces of the fight so fresh in his mind he could still smell the leather of the saddle even in the biting cold. And Ben, he could see Ben. Just a brief moment where their eyes locked. Where Ben looked at him with terror in his eyes before being hoisted up on that horse.
“ Arnold ”
His name. His name, spoken with such a raw and panicked voice Arnold almost leapt from the bushes to his aid. But Washington on his horse was too big an obstacle. He wouldn't be able to take him like this, on foot and with only a pistol. Not without risking Ben. But the boy said his name. Seated in the saddle, passed out from his torment, Ben was slumped against Washington’s chest, though his mouth moved only slightly. He's trying to call for me.
And then they were gone; off in a flurry of hoofbeats that kicked up the snow like a blizzard. The sounds ceased as Washington dipped behind the rise, speeding back towards any town that might lie beyond the treeline.
Cautiously, he stepped out and approached Rogers. The man had been struck across the face by Washington’s boot, and Arnold only needed to glance once at the spittle on the ground to know he's lost a tooth--maybe even a few. His head bled, twigs and pebbles sticking to the red glistening side of his face. It's raw from cold, and starting to bruise around the edge. Arnold felt more secure with his decision to lay in wait; he would never want to be trapped beneath Washington’s heel.
Rogers grunted, consciousness coming to him slowly as Arnold drew near. Though still dazed, his eyes locked on the approaching pair of boots, blinking at each crunch in the snow.
“Well isn't this a pretty sight” Rogers laughed, hand dabbing at his wound. “Split like a melon, and seein’ red.” Arnold huffed, fists clenched at his sides.
“This is unacceptable, Rogers.” He spat, watching as Rogers grunted around on the forest floor. “You’ve lost Tallmadge.”
“Aye, that I have.” Rogers replied, wiping his scraped palms on the front of his soiled jacket. “And you've left your cozy nook. Now why might that be?”
He had an inkling; Arnold knew. The trickle of a thought that the money had run out, that he was here on other business. Still, Arnold would not concede. “You drove a high price, and word still got back to me in York City that Tallmadge had been snatched. I came to retrieve the boy before troops were deployed.”
Rogers grit his teeth. “That's a bold faced lie. I know you must have been skulkin’ around to see the big man himself ride through here. He's keeping it hush. He came to retrieve his Molly himself. Ain't no word reached York City these past two days.”
Arnold froze, his fists locked in place as Rogers rose to his feet. “So then why would you grace lil’ ol’ me with your presence?” He mocked playfully. “Unless...you don't have the money.”
“The outright gall---”
“ You don't have my money, Arnold.”
There was a pause, a sobering silence as Arnold stared down the man in front of him. “That hardly matters now. You've lost him. Not to mention you've beaten him half to death. Tell me, Rogers, would he have lasted five minutes on his own two feet after this?”
Rogers laughed. “You didn't seem so concerned the last time we chatted. Cripple him if you must , your words, yes?” He produced his knife, the blade coated in congealing blood...Benjamin’s. “I make good on my promises. He'd arrive, just a few pounds lighter and a little more... pale.”
Arnold could feel his stomach flip, the blade glinting menacingly in the sunlight contrasting with the memory of Ben’s dark stained tourniquet. “You bled him dry.” He said, his mouth dry as sand.
Rogers eyed him carefully, his knife moving absent mindedly with the motions of his hand, twitching and twirling as if tracing some unseen map. Arnold let his hand drop to the pistol on his hip, hidden beneath his cloak. A moment later a look of realization settled on Rogers’ face, his grizzly beard and bloody cheek slack.
“Christ, man. You too? What force must Tallmadge’s backside have to make all your compasses point due north?”
“You quiet---”
“I gotta tell ya’, he may look like an apple cheeked young lad, but he's not much more than skin and bones when you strip away the uniform.”
“You did what--”
“Come now, none o’ the bits your interested in fell off. He's just a bit chilly.”
Bile rose to the back of Arnold’s throat, bitter and searing as he fumbled for his pistol. Rogers lunged, knife in hand. Arnold batted the offending hand away, but lost his grip on the gun, which flew into a nearby snowbank; lost.
They hit the ground hard, and Arnold let out a cry as he landed on his bad leg. The pain was a blinding white hot flash that blotted out the forest. He came to in time to see Roger’s fist come down across his face. The snow beside him turned pink with bloody spittle. Rogers’ fist sped by again, this time narrowly missing his face and striking the ground. He cried out, knuckles scraped and bloody from the frost hardened forest floor. In an instant Arnold shoved the man, driving the meat of his palm into the bloody side of Rogers’ fact. He dug in hard, feeling the Rogers’ face contort with pain as he did so.
Scrambling to his feet was a challenge, but Arnold managed to gain his footing in time. He drove a kick into Rogers’ ribs, sending him back to the floor. And once more to the side, taking his breath from him. The knife was still within reach, and Arnold made a grab for it.
Then he ran. His leg hindered him, forcing him to gallop in a pathetic hobbling manner as he took of towards where he had last seen Washington go. The sound of heavy panting rose behind him. Hurt, but not yet done, Rogers pursued him, his bulking frame hurtling toward Arnold. It was becoming too close. One trip up and Arnold could fall, be overtaken, or land on the knife he still brandished in hand.
In a last ditch effort, Arnold pivoted sharply, leading Rogers towards the river. The sound of it's current flooded his ears, and the hope of losing him in the icy torrent was appealing.
“Fuckin’ traitor bastard---”
The river came into view, banks slicked with ice. No foot bridge, not here. The bargemen must be down river, though Arnold wouldn't have wanted to draw attention to himself. Instead he bolted towards the icy rocks, eyes cast downward to scale them.
“Arnold!”
A hand grabbed the back of Arnold’s coat, pulling him backwards off the rocks. He toppled off, one hand striking Rogers as he fell. Rogers staggered forward, seizing Arnold’s arm and twisting it roughly.
“You're goin’ to give me my goddamn pay, you filthy rat.” Rogers spat, pinning the arm behind his back. Arnold writhed, legs kicking wildly as he tried to free himself. He could taste blood, the inside of his cheek rubbing against his teeth, tearing.
“Can't get up, can you? Neither could Tallmadge---”
Arnold saw red, leg shooting out and connecting with Rogers’ shin. His arm was released, and Arnold scrambled back to his feet. “Don't.” His fist connected with Rogers face. “You dare.” Another strike to the stomach, doubling him over. “Say another WORD!”
He shoved him.
Arnold didn't register what happened until he heard the splash; Rogers disappeared beneath the surface of the icy river. The world went quiet, no sound existing beyond the rush of water and blood in his ears. Rogers didn't surface. Arnold let his eyes gaze downriver, toward the bend where the rocks were jagged. He thought, just briefly, that the shape of a man broke the surface of the water. Just as it was whisked around the bend.
He thought…
Arnold turned on his heel, wiping the blood from his mouth. He needed to find Washington. Find Ben.
He headed for the rise.
The inn was small and shabby, just dingy enough for its patrons to keep their heads down. They arrived at dusk, Ben slung over the saddle limply. His head swam, barely feeling George’s hands lift him off the saddle. Each step was light, as if his body weighed no more than a feather. Ben feared if George let go he would float away, helpless to some gentle breeze.
“May I help you, sir?”
George tempered his voice, his smooth dark tone replaced with something lighter and more demure. “My nephew and I need a room. He was ambushed on the road.” Ben panted heavily against George’s cloak, unable to do more than play the part of a battered child.
“Damned rebels. It's getting harder and harder for an honest man to work. Do you require a doctor, sir? There's a skilled medic with the regulars who does house calls--”
“That won't be necessary. I'm a doctor. Just a room, and some fresh water.”
“Right away, sir. You won't be disturbed...not many visitors since rebel activity spiked. You're my only guests this evening.”
Climbing the stairs was an ordeal, his breath catching in his chest, escaping in harsh wheezes. George picked him up as a parent would a sick child, cradling him against his chest until they heard the click of a lock.
“The fresh water?”
“Get settled, sir. Come to the desk and we’ll fetch it.”
Ben melted into the bed, its mattress impossibly soft against his bruised skin. The room spun, voices muffling as he struggled to breath. He felt the bed sag as George sat next to him, speaking softly. It was low and gentle, though most of the words drifted past his ears.
“Benjamin?”
Ben nodded, hand twitching to brush his fingers against George. Warm. So warm it hurts. How long had it been since he felt this enveloped. Two pitiful days. But oh how good it felt to be within the radiating glow of George. Hot flesh and blood that he could curl up against and rest. Finally rest.
“...you mean the world to me.”
Ben moved his lips, tongue darting out to try and wet them. The metallic tang of his split lip still lingered, bruised and swollen. It was met with a soft kiss, gentle and light against his battered lips. Ben moaned and leaned into it, feeling George’s tongue slip past his lips. He saw home. He saw nights in his tent, Alex and Gilbert on his cot passing a flask. Long nights with George wrapped up in a quilt beside the fire, his voice a low rumble against his ear. He was going home. Home . Nothing could shatter this peace.
“I’ll return, Benjamin.”
He heard George leave, slow and steady footsteps leading out the door. He'd be back with the water. They'd clean up and go home.
This would be over.
This was almost over.