Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was nightfall by the time Alex came into town. His face was red from cold, his thin scarf poorly keeping the winter chill out. Dismounting, he took in his surroundings. It was practically a ghost town; just a small settlement straddling continental and red coat activity. Windows had been boarded up, homes left unkempt; most likely left in a hurry when the fighting got too close to home. Only a few establishments remained open. A tavern, adorned with a few choice vagrants, and an shabby little inn.

Alex moved to search his pack, his horse standing between him and the inn across the road, when he heard a voice.

“You there! How would you like to make some coin?”

The voice was familiar, and Alex peeked over his horse to its source. Down by the tavern was a man; tall, adorned in traveling clothes that had been muddied. He stood at a crooked angle over one of the drunken stragglers half passed out by the tavern. A gait Alex would recognize anywhere. Arnold.

The straggler hiccuped, and fumbled through a sentence before Arnold took a few coins from his pocket. The man went inside the tavern, only briefly, before coming out with an ale in hand. Alex watched closely as the drunk man stumbled about the street, singing incoherently as he tried to balance the cup of ale atop his head. All in all it was a rather frightful scene, and Alex was tempted to go get the man a warm bed to sleep off his stupor.

But Arnold was close, and Alex glimpsed him leave the drunkard’s side to slip into the gritty inn across the way. A clerk ran out a moment later, confronting the drunk in the street, scolding him before shooing him away. Alex took a step back to study the inn; it seemed that Arnold had checked in. There was a candle on in the window on the second floor. He watched it flicker until he saw Arnold step by the window, at which point he ducked down behind his horse.

A feeling of dread settled in his stomach. He must be lodging here for the night. Alex’s fears were true, which meant that Arnold would know where to find Benjamin. He contemplated riding out to the woods, skipping town completely to scour the land. If Arnold planned to stay here, they must be close, or just arriving.

Instead, he reached for his pistol, loading it with powder. He pressed his back against the horse, hoping he was short enough not to be seen from the window.

“I hope this will be enough for your nephew”

“It will be. Thank you for your help”

Alex cursed to himself. Other guests were here. If he were to confront Arnold, he would have to ensure he didn't make a scene. Alex risked another glance at the lit window, hoping to see another candle flicker on in the adjacent room.

If he could see where the guests were he could plan accordingly; sneak in once the lights went out and gag him before he could scream.

But another candle did not light. Instead there was movement in Arnold’s room, as another tired face appeared in the window.

“ George?”

George, muddied and tired, moving to draw the curtains shut. That wasn't Arnold’s room, it was George’s .

“No!” Alex caught himself before he called out anything else. His hands shook, rattling the pistol like a flimsy toy. Should he charge in? Too risky. He could alert Arnold before reaching George. Any attention could lead to his capture. Oh but how he wanted to rush in there. Take Arnold by his collar and throttle him. His finger itched to pull the trigger.

Time was of the essence. Alex left his horse, sneaking into the stables adjacent to the inn. He was correct; the mare Gilbert had acquired for George stood in the stable. Working quickly, Alex saddled her up and brought her out next to his horse. If George was truly in there with Arnold, they'd need a quick escape.

Arnold entered the inn, striding up to the young man behind a small desk. “Sorry to bother you, but there's a man outside acting strangely. I believe he's drunk, or mad.” He said, gesturing towards the door.

The man looked past him, catching sight of the drunk balancing the ale atop his head. “What madness is this? I’ll send him off, Sir, thank you.” He said before bolting out the door. Arnold could hear him scolding the drunk, ignoring the slurred claim that he was paid to act like such a fool.

Leaning over the counter Arnold spied the log book, observing only one name checked in for the night. Samuel Lawrence. Arnold scoffed; this had to be it. He had followed the trail, catching his own horse up to speed as he met the main road. Ben was in horrid shape, and this little hovel was as good as any to hole up for the night. He had hoped Washington was smarter than to use the names of fallen brothers, but then again, Washington had left camp to track Benjamin.

Mr.Samuel Lawrence was occupying room 4 with a guest, and Arnold took it upon himself to pocket the keeper’s spare key before the young man returned from the street.

“Sorry about that. Things here have taken a bit of a turn since the fighting started. Only drunks and travelers now. May I help you with anything else, sir?”

“A room, if you will.”

The clerk escorted him to room 6, where Arnold stood idly until the sound of footsteps had retreated. Then, silent as a shadow, he crept to the next room. The key clicked in the lock, and Arnold eased the door open gently. Washington may be in the room, and he preferred to silently enter before the man noticed him.

However, a much different scene was set. Benjamin, alone, laid atop the covers like a deadman. Washington was nowhere to be seen, and a quick glance out the window proved that the streets were relatively empty.

Ben looked broken. His wounds were so much worse up close, purpled and swollen. His breathing was ragged, and Arnold had no doubt that his exposure to the cold had wrecked his lungs. Sitting on the edge of the bed Arnold gazed wistfully at the tourniquet on his leg.

“It seems you and I have twin wounds, don't we, Benjamin?”

Ben’s eyes moved beneath his lids, twitching to focus. “Don't struggle. I understand. This damned war has made fools of us both. What a bright young lad you are, too. You saw me in an instant. Unlike Washington , who barreled in there like a madman. And he dismissed me for being reckless.” Arnold scoffed in disbelief.

He paused, taking a moment to watch Ben as he struggled to move. One hand flinched, fingers brushing against his hand on the mattress. “We’re not so different…” Arnold sighed. This was pitiful. The boy was a wreck. Ravaged by war, by Rogers, by every dishonorable task Washington put him through. “I know now why you couldn't write back. And perhaps there were better ways to...deal with this. I've worked on my temper.”

Ben’s hand remained pressed against his, his skin soft and warming by the second. “We could leave. Go to York City and catch a boat to London. A place where a fine man as yourself can flourish. You can't have the opportunity I didn't, and live with some semblance of dignity.”

Ben hummed softly, fighting the heavy pull of sleep. “I meant it when I said you could be a great man,Benjamin. Just not here. It's only when I lost what glory I’d scrounged up my whole life that I realized that. And I'm determined to set you right. Save your family line. Your reputation... you ...mean the world to me.”

Ben’s mouth moved, tongue darting to pass over his split lip.And maybe that's why he did it; succumbed to some urge he had suppressed while caring for the boy, leaning down to press their lips together. The kiss was soft, and Arnold held back for fear of crushing against his wound. But Ben kissed back. Long and slow, sighing into it in such a way that Arnold felt bold enough to slip his tongue past Ben’s lips and chase the tangy metallic taste of blood. He was warm, with a beckoning sweetness that reminded Arnold of honey drizzled in tea. It soothed him, filling his chest with an inviting heat that spread to his cold ravaged hands and feet.

When they parted, Arnold felt the heat rise to his face. He wanted to pick Ben up and leave. Run for his horse. But Washington was close, and fleeing without dealing with him would only prolong this torment. He would come for Benjamin.He couldn't let that happen.

Arnold rose from the bed, one hand tracing the curve of Ben’s cheek. His fingers pulled gently on the bruises adorning his sweet face.

“I’ll return, Benjamin.”

With that, Arnold moved to the door, where a large empty armoire sat beside the frame. He opened it, moving the hangers aside before stepping in and closing the wood behind him.

Washington would return. And this time Arnold would finish him.