Chapter Text
George set down the pail, the innkeeper following suit with another, and a handful of rags. “Don't worry about the sheets, sir. Just do what you can for him.” He said. George nodded solemnly, thanking the man for his generosity before clicking the door shut.
Ben was in terrible condition. Under the light of the candles his bruises were dark purple, deep painful things that made Ben wince as George started to undress him. He took his time, shearing off the tattered disguise Rogers dressed him in to reveal more cuts, more bruises. The worst of which was the gash in Ben’s thigh; the place he was bled out. The incision was healing, thankfully, but without proper stitching the scab could split. Rogers had been wise enough to apply pressure, and yet cruel enough to see this situation. If George were to place Ben in the tub, the wound would reopen, and Ben would bleed to death.
Patching him up was painstaking, but George had come prepared. He fetched a needle from his pack, as well as a flask of whiskey. He would have to make due with this until a doctor at camp could fix him properly. The needle was sanitized as best as could be, and then threaded through the washed down out gash. Ben squirmed through most of it, unable to voice is discomfort with more than throaty whines. George cursed his clumsy hands. Had Martha been here, she’d have sewn the boy so seamlessly you’d think it was fresh skin. But he was not Martha, and Ben would bear the jagged stitching of his poor handiwork.
The rest of his wounds were easily treatable. A damp rag, some salve, and patience cleared away the dried blood and dirt. George was content to let Ben sleep, stroking the washcloth over his skin soothingly. His lashes fluttered, struggling to stay open a fraction of a second as George redressed him in the change of clothes Gilbert had packed.
“Of course…” George huffed, working the right breeches over Ben’s knees. “He’d pack the most impossible pair…” Ben hummed absentmindedly, the humor of their situation reaching him. He was coming to, slowly. George made idle small talk as he buttoned up Ben into a warm shirt and waist coat. He even managed to get a few words out.
“I'm sorry…”
George put down the rag, his heart in pieces. “No, dear Benjamin. I'm sorry. There was more I could have don--”
“I hid something from you.” Ben moved to sit up, his eyes filled with worry. “Letters...several of them.” His voice was barely a whisper, and shaking. “I thought burning them would protect us.”
George quieted. He didn't need to hear more. The long nights he spent awake, Ben urging him to sleep. He was excellent at keeping secrets, his Benjamin, and George wished he wasn't so tired so he could spot it sooner. In some way Ben might think he deserved this punishment.
“Benjamin, please. You acted on your instincts. We've both made grievous errors, but it's nothing we can't fix.” George sighed, on hand rubbing Ben’s knee through the fabric of his breeches. “I am so lucky...so very grateful you're alive.”
His gaze was downcast, eyes studying the bandages around his leg. It was a pitiful look, one full of regret and shame. “I'm grateful you came.” George frowned, this statement an obvious jab at how foolish he was to track Ben alone.
“Would you have been more grateful if I had sent Alexander?”
Ben laughed, caught in his jab. “No, I think not. Alex would have most certainly barreled in headfirst and shot something.” He paused, smile slipping from his face. “But, really...you shouldn't have come alone. Not for me.”
George reached down, his hand cupping Ben’s cheek lightly. He thumbed under the eye feather light, afraid of pressing on the dark purple bruises set there. “I'm afraid I had to. Good conscience wouldn't let me sit and wait for you to return.” Two weak hands grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt, pulling him in for a slow, languid kiss.
“Your lip, we best not to…”
Ben pressed in once more, kissing deeper. His hands wound up into George’s hair, reclaiming each lock beneath his fingers. He moaned softly, shifting so George could move onto the bed. “Where was all that enthusiasm from earlier?” he murmured, lips pressed hot and close to his. George crawled into bed, legs straddling Ben beneath him. He was careful not to press any weight on the boy, just hovering enough to box him in within his frame. A hand on the front of his pants confirmed he was doing exactly what Ben wanted. A little moment of excitement, tapping into their adrenaline filled reunion, to bring him back to his normal self.
George sucked gently on Ben’s lip, skirting the edge of the place where it turned purple and yellow. As he entered tender territory, the hand on his pants tightened, giving him a little precautionary squeeze. “I've missed you.” George breathed, making his way down the elegant line of Ben’s neck, “I've missed you so much.”
“ George”
George rolled his hips, grazing against Ben lightly. He shuddered, the hand working George through his breeches picking up the pace. They slotted together so nicely. Tired, battered, broken, they fit hand in glove. George moaned, kissing Ben deeper as he reached to aid Ben in his work, undoing the front of his breeches so that Ben could slip his hand inside. He did so almost immediately, breathing heavily as George’s eyes drifted close. It was just them. The heavy breathing, light sucking kisses, the steady creak of the bed.
And then something cold pressed against the back of his skull.
Ben went rigid beneath him, and George opened his eyes to see his attention focused on something over his shoulder. Someone was here.
“Hello, George.”
George moved to rise off of Ben, but a jab to the back of his head stopped him. A pistol. Ben had blanched, the flush of desire drained from his face as he studied the intruder.
“Arnold…”
Here? How? The man had a bad leg. He couldn't have crept up on them easily. Not unless he was here the whole time. Why send Rogers if he just planned to do the deed himself?
“Off the bed. On your knees.” He barked, tapping the pistol against George impatiently. “Get off him this instant.”
George did as he was told, hands out where Arnold could see them. This was bad, very bad, and he knew it. The most important thing was to be calm, to get Ben out safely.
Ben had no intention of being calm.
“What are you doing here?” He whispered, eyes wide. He shook visibly, hands curled towards his chest in a feeble attempt to pull the front of his shirt close. Arnold turned to him, gaze softening.
“Making good on my word, Benjamin. I told you I'd get you out. There's nothing to worry about now. You don't need to have this filth rub up against you anymore.”
George eyed Arnold warily. “Let him go--” he started.
Arnold scoffed. “That's the whole point, George. He is being let go. Let go from you. I know who you are-- what you are. A lecherous vile man, with no respect. No honor. You take bright young men and you break their will. Now, young Benjamin here is a talented man, you and I both know that. But only a coward would make him choose between your bed chambers and the front lines. He's only a boy.”
George grit his teeth. “So I am the coward, yes? Not you, who sold our army’s secrets to the British for what? Money? Glory? Material things that feed some idea of yourself?”
“I had no honor here. You took that from me when you placed me behind a desk. When my health and personal fortune were sacrificed for this war while you sat prettily in Mount Vernon, with your hands down another officer’s breeches--”
“ Honor is not something that can be taken. It's sacrificed by the one who holds it. You shattered what little honor you had when you put our nation at risk. All those young men, dying, were no more precious than a few pounds lost from your personal estate.”
Arnold sneered. “And what of Benjamin? He was a promising soldier and you made him a spy. If anyone were to catch him they'd hang him. I'm doing the merciful thing and removing him from this entirely. He can leave this war. Come with me to England and continue his studies like a proper young man should.”
George shifted on his knees, the pain becoming a dull throb. “You're obsessed.” George said. “And it suits you.”
“Says the man on his knees with his cock half out. Tell me, how many others were there? Or was it just Benjamin that you put your hands to?”
“Do not speak of him that way.” George hissed. “Like he's some vagrant youth you’d find by the docks. He is an officer . One who holds higher respect than you, a disgraced General. Benjamin is---”
“Is what?” Arnold teased. “Your lover?”
Silence fell upon George as he shut his mouth. He had never had to say what they were. They knew what they were. Loyal, compatible. Partners on the battlefield, and in hearth and home. He could not state it so plainly here, not at the end of a pistol.
“It may come as a surprise to you, but he's not. In fact, Benjamin was quite relieved to be found. Kissed me with gratitude at the opportunity to leave this place, and you.”
Now the air felt thick, and George could see Ben pacing through his thoughts.
Where was all that enthusiasm from earlier?
The realization crept slowly across his face, mouth slack in disgust.
“You…”
“Yes, Benjamin.”
“ YOU---”
George tilted back as Ben sprung off the bed, teeth bared. The gun went off, firing into the wood below George’s shoulder. “Benjamin, stop this!” George cried, afraid of his stitches rupturing. But it seemed Arnold had more to fear, as Benjamin pinned him to the floor, fists landing hard against his face and neck.
“Benjamin!”
“HE TOUCHED ME!”
It was all Ben said before devolving into madness, unhinged and furious. He beat against Arnold mercilessly, his own bruised knuckles splitting and bleeding as he did so. George ran to pull Ben off, receiving a blow to the jaw.
“People will have heard the shot. We need to flee.” He pleaded, tugging at Ben. The boy thrashed in his arms wildly.
“DIE, YOU SON OF A BITCH I HOPE YOU BURN” he cried, tears streaming down his face. Arnold was stunned, scrambling to his feet as George grabbed Ben and slung him over his shoulder.
“Unhand him!”
But George was already out the door, with Ben kicking and screaming atop his shoulders. He tore down the stairs, aware of how close Arnold was behind them. Only a flight behind. Any stumble and he could lose Ben.
“YOU SON OF A BITCH---I’LL KILL YOU!” Ben sobbed, his fingers twisted in George’s shirt. The innkeeper rushed from his desk, eyes wide.
“Sir! Your nephew!”
George tried to lie, to say his nephew was experiencing severe shock, but Arnold’s voice cut him off.
“Fetch the regulars! That’s General Washington!”
George watched in on horror as the man fled into the street, calling for help. He bolted out the door, Arnold only a few steps behind him. He wouldn't make it. His mare was in the stables. Arnold would catch him before he could get in his saddle. He’d killed them both.
He stumbled onto the street, legs burning as Ben continued his thrashing and screaming. Lights started appearing in windows. Whistles could be heard down the road towards the tavern. Panicked, George looked across the road.
His horse?
George felt the sensation of fingers on his braid, tugging his head back. Then a large crack, and a whooshing sound before his braid was released. He glanced back as he ran, seeing Arnold clutching his arm. Blood. He'd been shot.
“Sir!”
“Alexander?” George cried in disbelief. “You shouldn't be here.” Alexander ran to take Ben from his shoulders, hoisting him up in the saddle.
“I've never heard a thank you like that before. Quickly. The innkeeper has woken the whole town.” He said, clambering up to his own horse. Alex wrapped an arm around Ben, who was shaking and crying. “Ride fast, as fast as you can. I'll take Ben.”
“Wait--”
“ Trust me. They want your head. I suggest you go now! ” Alex shouted, wheeling his horse around and taking off down the road. George followed suite, racing until his horse overtook Alex’s and bolted off into the night. The sound of shouting and gunshots got weaker as he rode, until there was only the sound of hoofbeats, and the steady sound of sobbing from Benjamin.