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Benjamin Tallmadge had learned to hide his anger. He had spent months trying to compose himself and become the officer he was supposed to be. Spurred by Major Andre's commanding coolness during his captivity and Washington's growing irritation with in-camp rabble rousing, he steeled his resolve and kept his outward emotions in check.
So when news came, in the form of a vaguely familiar bald vagabond in tattered farmer's clothing, that Lieutenant Brewster had been captured by Arnold, Ben kept his composure. He logicked out a solution with General Washington and the Woodhulls and created a formulaic plan. It may not have been particularly gentlemanly, but the newly appointed Spyhunter General didn't need to know that. Hell, he even risked his life going into a risky 'prisoner' exchange surrounded by the enemy and exchanged fire several times just to get him back to friendly territory. It was what any head of intelligence would do for any indispensable courier. Normal, military proceedings, at least for Washington's Continentals.
It wasn't until they were safely back in camp, the turmoil of York City and Benedict Arnold behind them, that Ben even registered a bruised and bloodied Caleb in a clean shirt that so obviously wasn't his .
Under the outward pretense of control, Ben quickly slipped from his tent, through the criminally sunny afternoon, and into Caleb's tent. Caleb sat at the edge of his bed. His head was in his hands, his fingernails just scratching at his forehead. Ben gently knelt in front of Caleb, not wanting to disturb whatever unseen demons were eating at him as he minutely rocked back and forth. "Caleb." His lowered voice sounded much too loud over Caleb's barely audible mumbling in the vacuum of his tent. He brushed Caleb's taut arm. "Caleb, please." Caleb flinched away and looked at Ben, with whom he had grown up far too quickly, like he might reach out to strike him. "I would never hurt you Caleb, it's - it's all right."
"I'm sorry, Benny." Caleb's eyes were wet as he lowered his hands to the bedding beneath him.
“You shouldn’t be the one apologizing.”
“You ain’t the one who tortured me. An’ I’m betting you didn’t turn me in.” The whaler’s moist eyes turned kind as they looked down at Ben, already forgiving him for whatever possible sin Ben was going to confess.
“No, but I might as well have. I could have - I should have - come for you quicker. I should have marched into New York myself and broken you out.” Somewhere between entering the tent and begging forgiveness, Ben had started crying. And it had turned violent at seeing the emotion in Caleb’s eyes. Caleb gathered Ben, resting Ben’s forehead against his chin. It was ridiculous: Caleb had been tortured for hours on end, only to be swept up in a haphazard, rushed escape, yet he was the one comforting Ben. Ben pulled back with a sniffle. His fingers wandered to the swollen bruise at Caleb’s temple. “How can you still be so kind?”
“I’m just happy I wasn’t forced to eat their shite food.” Caleb’s forced grin crinkled the skin under Ben’s touch. “And it’s you, Tallboy. How else would I be?”
Ben let out a laugh that soon devolved into more tears, his face contorted by the crying. When he could finally breathe and see again, he wiped his eyes.
“Can I see what they did?” Caleb gave a grave nod, directing Ben’s hands to where the top of his shirt was loosely tied closed.
Making eye contact, so as to be sure not to lose him again, Ben slowly undid the knot and peeled back the soft blue material. Caleb urged him with another nod, his broken, blistered lips in a terse line. When Ben did look down, he fought to keep himself upright and his breakfast in his stomach. Caleb’s chest was barely held together and crossed with deep gashes, still bleeding from activity and lack of treatment. They were a harsh, fresh red against Caleb’s pale skin that Ben could have sworn he saw reflected in Caleb’s eyes when he glanced up at them in horror. “More on my back.” Ben sat back on his heels. “But hey, you should see the other guy.” Ben silenced him with a stare.
He ran his hands through his queue. “Who did this to you?” Caleb averted his eyes. “Caleb?”
“Simcoe.”
With a rush of hot, pulsing, ferocious fury, Ben stood and gripped the post at the front of Caleb’s tent so hard it shook. “I’ll kill the bastard with my own hands.” Countless crimes against his ring, his country, his hometown, but this. This! This crossed a line. This crossed a line that demanded Simcoe’s head on a plate. He was all but on his way to York City when a quiet, still voice sounded behind him.
“Ben.” He froze. Seething. The brief glimpses of the camp he caught through the fluttering flaps of the tent anchored his mind to the present and the plausible and the painfully logical. “Please stay with me. For a while, at least.” Ben felt his shoulders fall from where he had tensed them near his ears.
“Of course.”
Caleb smiled at that, straining the gash in his lip. Almost reluctantly, Caleb gingerly laid down. He settled too hard on his back, visibly wincing and turning onto his side towards Ben. Ben noted it was his worse side.
“Caleb, I won’t hurt you. You don’t have to face me.”
When Caleb answered, it was with the voice of the child that he had grown out of a decade earlier. “It feels better having something - solid? I don’t know, just something behind me. An’ I don’t want ya getting bored watchin’ my back all afternoon.”
“There’s no need to entertain me. That’s not why I’m here.”
Even if he didn’t say anything, Caleb’s eyes and heavy sigh were enough to reveal his relief. Ben attempted to help Caleb turn himself over, his hand lingering on Caleb’s elbow. “Can you -” Caleb stopped short. Ben squeezed his arm. “Can you sit behind me?” Caleb opened his mouth to explain, but Ben was on the bed before he could get any words out. “Thank you.”
Soon enough, Ben heard labored snoring beside him. He stretched himself out on his back, forcing himself to concentrate on the steady body heat beside him. Not the violet spots in the blue where Caleb’s shirt was sticking to his wounds. Not the minute catches in Caleb’s breath that gave away his nightmares. And definitely not the shaking that persisted.
Ben was crying again, his tears so hot and thick that he had to press a fist to his teeth to keep it in. The bed was rocking more than it was built to withstand, what with Ben’s sobbing and Caleb’s state. It was that single, logical, unemotional thought that brought Ben’s crying to a gasping halt.
Ben sprung forward into a sitting position and looked down at the trembling man next to him.
A knock sounded at the front of Caleb’s tent. With one last glance behind him, he ducked into the sun. “Anna?”
“I came looking for you, but I heard crying and wanted to see if he was alright.” Ben nodded, his head feeling miles away from his body. “You alright?”
Finally making eye contact, he said “Yes, of course. What do you need?”
“Abe’s gotten himself captured.” She rolled her eyes. “Again.” Ben wasn’t listening. Any halfway decent head of intelligence would be mortified at yet another dilemma concerning his main informant, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Are you listening?”
“The bastard’s gotten out of worse, I’m sure.”
Anna glanced around camp, looking thoroughly bored and frustrated with Ben and the entire situation. “How’s Caleb?”
Ben nodded, not trusting his words just yet. He leaned back to look into the tent, making sure Caleb was still there. Still alive. “You remember his uncle, Lucas? His condition?”
Anna’s face fell, recalling the older man’s shaky disposition and how it would have killed him, had it not been for Simcoe. “Is he alright?”
Ben’s lip trembled. “He’s too young.” And he ducked back into the tent.
***
Ben laid for several sleepless hours next to Caleb. He watched him rattle through his listless cycle of sleeping and jolting awake.
And he remembered.
He remembered the warm sound of Caleb’s nonsensical singing. Caleb’s solid arms around him when they found out Sam might have been alive. Waking up to Caleb mumbling about the cold and Ben’s virginity on the banks of the Delaware. Caleb chastising him in his usual arsehole way about being easier on himself. Caleb smuggling high quality ale into their tent. Caleb attempting to teach him how to throw a tomahawk. Caleb waking him in the middle of a freezing, hopeless night to wish him Merry Christmas. Caleb helping him reach Washington. Caleb making sure he ate. Caleb getting him to sleep. Caleb. Caleb. Caleb. Caleb.
He remembered all the times Caleb was strong for him. Not the quaking boy under these threadbare covers.
Ben finally drifted off with his hand on Caleb’s arm and his nose in Caleb’s hair.
He woke with a trembling hand on his hip.