Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 You've been gone for a long long time
You've been in the wind, you've been on my mind
You are the purest soul I've ever known in my life
Take your time, let the rivers guide you in
You know where you can find me again
I'll be waiting here 'till the stars fall out of the sky

There was once a boy who promised to come home. He lied.

-

He hisses as he slowly eases himself into the tub. Not because the water’s too hot - it’s tepid at best, although he knows even that is a luxury few get to enjoy - but because his half healed wounds sting as they come into contact with the bathwater. They’re superficial, the thin lines that criss-cross his chest, and he knows he’s lucky for that too. Most men ambushed in the woods don’t walk away to tell the tale, and he’s fortunate to have been spared. Why exactly they spared him, he’s not sure. 

It’s not as if he remembers the attack. It’s not as if he remembers anything much.

If you were to ask Captain James Willbrough how old he is, he would shake his head with a soft smile and say “I don’t know.” He would think four months.

Oh sure, the evidence of his own body and of the face (no longer obscured by a thick wad of bandages) that looks back at him in the mirror say otherwise. By any physical measure, he’s somewhere in his mid-twenties. But in the privacy of his own head, he’s sure he must have been born only months ago, out of fear and confusion and pain, God, so much pain…

James sinks beneath the water’s surface as if hiding from the ghost of those first few days. His own memories are a commodity now, and he should be clutching each one he still has to his chest, but James would rather those days sink into oblivion like so much else. 

He had drifted in and out of consciousness for God only knows how long. Each waking had only brought new faces shouting new questions he can’t begin to answer. New bursts of pain. He’s still not entirely sure what those nameless men (they must have been the rebel bandits who attacked him) had wanted. He’s not sure it matters. He couldn’t tell them anything, not even his own damned name.

(There’s a swarm of them drifting around his head, without rhyme or reason or a single memory to match. Samuel. Anna. Nathan. Ben. Caleb.)

None of them are him. At least that’s what James has been told. He’s inclined to believe it, for lack of any better choice, if nothing else. John André says his name is James Willbrough, and he wants with all his heart to think it’s true. There’s no magical spark of recognition when he says it aloud, tasting the shape of his name with a detached curiosity, but then there’s no spark for anything. He can do this, being James Willbrough. He can be thankful to have a name at all, and happily trust the smile that gave it to him. He can start this new (old?) life again.

Except.

Except for that voice, that quiet whisper he can neither place nor shake. It’s a woman, accent rough and teasing, and she only ever says one word from the back of his mind.

Lie, she says, when André salutes and says “Captain Willbrough, how good it is to see you in one piece.”

Lie, she says, when André tells him he was struck in the head by rebel bandits.

Lie, she says, when he’s told how lucky the King’s Royal army is to have such a loyal officer back with them.

James doesn’t believe the voice. He doesn’t believe André. He doesn’t even believe the face that stares out from the mirror, lined with the evidence of a life he can’t remember. 

He’s run out of air and his empty lungs ache with the strain, but James stays where he is a moment more. From under the water, the world is dark and shifting. Candlelight ripples somewhere above his head, distorting shapes and shadows alike. This is what it feels like, sometimes, trying to remember anything from before the attack. It’s like grasping for memories in the dark, except the moment he grasps one it dissolves into light. The whole thing’s maddening, and it’s enough to drive him to tears even on the good days. And on the bad days… well, it’s no great surprise he cannot leave this room. 

He has to surface for air eventually, and he does so spluttering. His hair sticks to his face in a dripping curtain, and James notices belatedly that he’s shivering.

The water has gone cold.

He dries off and pulls a nightshirt over his head, one eye on the door. He hasn’t been told to stay, but he’s sure that even if he had somewhere to go, the guard on other side of the door wouldn’t let him leave. André claims it’s for his own protection, but James doesn’t believe that for a moment. He’s a royal officer in the middle of York City. The only real danger here is from himself. No, the guard’s job is to stop him from running. And to collect his pages, of course.

André gave him the book a month ago. It had taken until then for James to recover enough to stand without the world spinning and immediately collapsing. It’s a beautiful thing, leather bound and ornate, and André had pushed it into his hands with a gentle smile.

“I’m truly sorry to ask this of you while you’re still recovering, but I’m afraid it cannot wait. I need your help.”

(Muscle memory, at least, it seems James has retained. Give him a pistol, and he’s found he can load it without having to be taught how. Give him a ribbon, and his hands will automatically twist his hair into a neat plat. Say “I need your help,” and he’ll listen.)

“Before your attack,” André says, “You were a key member of our intelligence operation. We have reason to believe you were onto something big, something that could put down this bloody rebellion for good. If you can remember anything at all…”

There’s no whisper of lie (not that he trusts the voice, don’t be ridiculous) so he supposes he must have been (must be?) some sort of spy. And ending the war that’s hurting so many people must be a good thing, right? So he tries.

God how he tries. For himself as much as for André, no matter how nobel his cause may be. Every day, at around nightfall, the guard on the door knocks, and James hands over his pitifully short list. It’s useless. A lot of what he can gleam doesn’t even make sense, not in a way that can be put into words and definitely not in a way that will be of any help to André. The chief of intelligence surely wants enemy troop numbers, movements, some great conspiracy. James can only give him nonsense. He glances down at todays page, the few measly lines scrawled in black ink.

• apple pie with a sweet crunch (sugar?) on the top
• blood dripping into my eye as I bayonet a body in the mud
• brown coat (stolen? borrowed? not mine) is too small

(He has no idea why or when he was wearing a coat too small for him, nor why it matters what colour it was, but the thought had flashed through his mind last night and he’d near knocked a candle over in his haste to write it down.)

He’s dreading the knock on the door and the guard’s expression as he takes the page. He hates this, being this broken, pitiful thing, locked away in a room with only the sounds of a city he doesn’t know leaking in through the window for company. He’s had no visitors save André, no friends, no fellow soldiers, no family. Perhaps he has no family, perhaps he buried his parents long ago and can’t even remember doing so, or maybe they’re out there somewhere with no idea where he is.

Maybe James Willbrough is no one at all. 

He doesn’t (can’t) believe that, though. James clenches his fists so hard that his finger nails leave little half-moons indented in his palms. He’s sure that there are enough pieces of himself, floating around in the inky blackness to put himself back together. Because there are also things he doesn’t write down, brief flashes of memory that he collects and hoards for himself. They’d be of no use to André, but that’s not what stays James’ hand.

A booming laugh. Calloused fingertips against the dimples of his back. A voice (is it his? he doesn’t know) saying come home.

These things, James holds close to his heart.

-

There’s a cut on her finger, and it’s the bane of Anna’s life. Pathetic, really, when the men around her are being shot at every damn day, that this tiny cut from scrubbing clothes in freezing water has provoked such ire. But it’s easy to curse it, this small thing that she has some control over than face up to the far bigger fact that her whole world is slowly spinning out of control.

I chose this, she can think, I chose to come to this freezing camp and clean blue coats for ungrateful continental officers and get this stupid fucking cut for my troubles.

It’s a small comfort. With Ben gone, it doesn’t feel like she has much control over anything anymore. 

She’d only been here a week when it happened. A week spent in petty anger, pissed off at Ben and Caleb and General Washington himself over her wounded pride and the fact they wouldn’t let her help read reports. It seems so stupid, but she lashed out. Anna’s done things she’s not proud of, a lot of them very recently, but she knows that her last words to Ben will haunt her until the day she dies.

“Go to hell, Ben. Just go to hell.”

Hurt had welled behind his blue eyes and Anna had turned away rather than see it. She’d been angry enough to swallow down any apology and storm out into the night. And the next morning, Ben had donned a civilian coat and left on what would prove to be his last mission. 

Maybe it would have been easier if there was a body. Some kind of closure, maybe. A hand to clutch and whisper useless apologies, and a grave to place flowers by every week. Anything other than this… nothing. She hadn’t been worried the first night Ben hadn’t come back, and neither had Caleb. She hadn’t known what the mission was exactly, but it’s not uncommon for men to be gone for longer than a day. 

The second night, Anna had told herself he would be fine. That Ben was a soldier, brave and smart and more competent than any of them out on his own. Ben’s always fine, and he would be back soon. 

The third night, she’d stopped lying to herself.

She’s not sure that Caleb has stopped, even now.

They’re sitting in his tent, going over old reports for the thousandth time. At least that’s what they’re supposed to be doing. Right now, Caleb’s telling some utterly ridiculous story from his time in Greenland.

“I’m telling you, they’ve got magical powers.”

“You don’t believe in magic,” Anna challenges.

“Fairies and witches and all that stuff? Of course I don’t. But the magic of a humpback whale’s giant c-“

“You are so full of shite, Brewster.” 

Because yes, Anna Strong can swear like a sailor, and often does simply to shock the smile from people’s faces. But that doesn’t mean she wants to hear all their bawdy stories.

(That’s a lie. Right now she’ll gladly listen to any nonsense that Caleb wants to sprout, anything at all that sounds like the man she once new. It’s rare enough to get a smile out of his thesis days, let alone a ridiculous tale told with a twinkle in his eye.)

For a moment at least, it’s as if everything is normal.

The moment passes. Caleb turns to his other side, as if searching for an ally to back him up, and the smile slides from his face. He stares at the empty chair, and the air inside the tent with only the two of them suddenly feels much colder. He clears his throat after a long moment and looks back at the reports, but the damage is done.

Ben isn’t here, they’ll probably never know what happened to him, and the two of them are left to pick up the pieces as best they can.

Anna’s known Ben forever, since they were three years old and pulling each other’s hair, but she never knew him the way Caleb did. For as long as she can remember, he two of them have had their own secret language, one born of half smiles and raised eyebrows that no one else could ever hope to understand. And now there’s no-one left to understand. It’s no wonder that Caleb’s taking some time to come to terms with it.

But time isn’t something they have. Anna would love nothing more than be able to collapse in a heap and sob for her friend until she has no tears left to spill, but there’s still a war raging around them. Men are dying every day, and they’re only going to keep dying unless something changes. And even worse than loosing Ben would be loosing all he has worked so hard to build. He died (God, he’s dead) for the cause and for their ring, and its all she can do to try and make it mean something. 

So she plays the camp follower by day, watching and listening and cutting her fingers scrubbing bloody coats. And at night, when the only fires left burning are those of the lonely sentries, she creeps into Caleb’s tent. And they get to work.

They’re not part of the official army intelligence anymore. Ben’s post has been inherited by some colonel  who’s never heard the name Samuel Culper, and they’ve decided to keep it that way. The Ring only works because it’s members have known and trusted each other for years, and they’re going to keep going for as long as they can. The only people who know what they’re doing are the two of them, the Culpers, and General Washington himself. 

It’s been a slow week for intelligence. No changes to scout reports, no advert in the paper. No signal from Abe, even, although she has no idea how he’d do that now she’s left Setauket . The image of a single black petticoat still hanging on a line flashes before her, and Anna pushes it out with a shake of her head. She’s not thinking about Abe, just as she’s not thinking about Edmund. There’s no point anymore.

But with no new intelligence, there’s nothing more for them to do than to go over everything they already know in search of something they’ve missed. Anna doesn’t believe that answers will suddenly spring from the pages anymore than Anna does, but it’s a damned sight better than doing nothing.

She spent far too long doing nothing, and Ben gave her a way to make a difference. She owes him this much, at least. 

-

“You’re a damned fool, Nate! This is going to get you killed!”

“Would you weep if it did?”

“Stop joking. I’m serious.”

“So am I. And I promise I’ll come home.”

-

James jerks awake with a scream in his throat and hands clenched tightly around his bedsheets. He doesn’t know what he dreamed of, only that his cheeks are wet with tears and he can’t seem to stop them falling. 

“Get yourself together,” he tells himself, although the words come out as a choked sob. He has to get out of this room. 

“If I could visit my old regiment,” James says, the next time André comes to pick up his pages himself. He does this a couple of times a week, and James is always grateful for it; the Major is a lot better at hiding his pity than the rest of them. “Talking to my men could help trigger something, or they might know something that could help me remember?”

André purses his lips. “Unfortunately your regiment has already been shipped south to Virginia. There’s no one left in New York who you’d know.”

“Just a walk around the city, then?” He’s far too desperate to care that he sound’s like a child, begging for permission to go out. “To stretch my legs, see if anything’s familiar?”

A pause, and James is suddenly sure that André’s looking for an excuse to say no. Eventually, he smiles. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll send one of my best men along to make sure you don’t get lost.”

Which is how James finds himself walking along the cobbled streets of New York harbour with one Lieutenant Gamble, and thin faced man who’s hand never strays from the pistol on his hip. He hardly says a word, which would be fine by James if he wasn’t instead watching him with an expression he can’t quite decipher, but definitely puts him on edge. It’s all James can do instead to enjoy the sea breeze and the chance to see somewhere other than his own room. 

There’s a ship on the horizon, the white of her sails catching on the sunlight and he can’t help but smile as he watches her steer into the harbour. It seems insane that something so simple can possibly be so beautiful, but James had been starting to wonder if the outside world even existed. There’s something glorious about walking amongst it, looking for the world like any other man. He almost doesn’t mind that the city remains a stranger to him.

He walks in silence for hours, feet tracing unfamiliar routes and eyes drinking in the wealth of life bustling around. It’s only when the light starts to fall and his red officer’s coat can no longer keep the chill of the evening at bay that he sighs. He turns around, ignores the exasperated look from Gamble, and begins the walk back to Rivington’s Corner.

-

Two small facts about Robert Townsend:

1. He has a good memory for faces
2. He’s far more interested in the affairs of his customers than he lets on. Especially when their bill is being paid by Major John André

-

He’s drunk. Too drunk than is sensible, he’s distantly aware, but Caleb can’t bring himself to care. He’s never paid too much attention to what’s sensible and there’s no reason to start now. If Ben were here, he’d no doubt be lecturing him about drinking on the job or setting a better example to the men or some such bollocks, but Ben isn’t here right now. He isn’t here, and if Caleb wants to drink until he can’t see straight he’ll do just that, and it’ll serve the lying bastard right. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there, under the great branches of an oak tree at the edge of camp, but the sky has turned to a deep indigo by the time a familiar silhouette appears between the tents and strides towards him.

“Annie!” he cries, arms thrown wide in greeting. “There she is! A friend who can keep a promise! Come sit, have a-“

She slaps him.

It’s the sound that shocks him into silence, rather than the sharp sting that follows a couple of seconds later. He clutches his cheek and looks up at Anna, who stands with her arms crossed and an expression like thunder. “What was that for?”

“What the hell are you playing at?”

Oh no, that’s usually how a lecture starts. She can’t be boring and sensible as well, he can’t only have boring friends. Maybe he should go and find Abe, but no, he’s left behind in Setauket and it’s only the two of them here, there should be more…

Anna’s expression softens, and Caleb distantly wonders how much of that he said out loud. She reaches towards him again, but this time it’s to haul him to his feet. 

“Come on, to bed with you.”

“It’s all his bloody fault,” he informs her as they stagger back through camp. “That lying whore-son promised.” 

Anna doesn’t ask what he means. She doesn’t have to. They make it back to his tent and she dumps him unceremoniously on the bed. “This has to stop. You’re better than this.”

“No I’m not. I’m exactly this.”

“Then be better.” Anna sits on the bed and starts to unlace his shoes, completely ignoring all of Caleb’s half-formed protests. “You’re running a bloody spy ring now.”

“We both know I’m not.” Because it’s true. Washington may have handed Culper and all their operations to him, but Anna’s the one keeping the ring alive through sheer force of will. If it was possible, he’d give her official control right now and disappear into the night.

(He might do that anyway.)

“Do you know why Washington didn’t hand the Culper Ring over to Hamilton with everything else?” Anna asks. “It’s because he knows he needs you. No college-educated aide can make this work.”

“Neither can I, Annie. Everything’s gone to shite, and Ben isn’t here, and it’s all my fucking fault. I pushed him into this, I persuaded him that the ring was a good idea, and now…”

“Do you remember that game we used to play, back when we were kids?” Anna sits down on the bed next to him. “Where one of us would say something, and we’d have to work out if it was the truth or a lie?”

“And Woody couldn’t lie for shite,” he remembers, wondering what this has to do with anything.

“He was awful. But Ben… Ben was the best out of all of us. He always knew when we were lying, and he always saw right through everyone.”

“What’s your point?” 

“My point, Brewster, is that he was always going to end up in a job like this. You didn’t make him do anything he wasn’t going to do anyway. He knew the risks, and he made his own choices.”

And he told his own lies. 

Caleb smiles. It probably comes out as some horrible grimace. “I hate him.”

(Caleb is a liar too.)

-

There was once a boy who promised to come home. He promised with his words, and his heart, and a thousand peppered kisses. He still lied.

-

Nathanial Hale, by all accounts, acquits himself well in the face of death. He smiles as he climbs onto the deck of the gallows and his dying words, as reported by William Hull, are the stuff of legend. The inspire the entire continental army, and go a long way to turn his cause from a mindless rebellion to an ennobled struggle, even in the eyes of the enemy. 

They are also a lie.

Very few people hear what Nathan Hale actually says as the executioner slips the noose around his neck. “Please, Lord,” he whispers, twenty one years old and learning far too late that bravery only gets you so far. “Please, Lord, save me.”

Only two people in the whole continental army know this. One is General Washington himself, the keeper of a thousand secrets who barely gives it a second thought. He has far more important worries, after all.

The other is Major Benjamin Tallmadge.

-

Robert’s good with faces. He always has been, and when he owns the boarding house it’s useful in remembering which customers haven’t paid their bill, and who’s more trouble than it’s worth letting back in.

Now, of course, he makes a point of recognising each British officer that walks through the door for an entirely different reason. 

He drys plates with one eye on the room of soldiers and both ears on their conversations. It’s only half full tonight as it has been every night this week, and he’s staring to wonder if the lack of useful intelligence on offer is intelligence in itself. Not only has the number of British soldiers suddenly dropped (not just here, but in the whole city), but so has the number of high-ranking officers. He has no idea where they’ve all suddenly gone, but it’s not New York.

The door opens, the sounds of the street leaking in through it, and Robert’s hands still for a moment. Not all the major players have left the city, so it would seem. 

“Your usual table, Major?” 

“Please.” John André’s smile is tight. “And a jug of claret for the table.”

It’s not the usual crowd of overstuffed generals that join the head of intelligence today. Robert knows most of them by name, and knows their sort just as well. Loyalists not through any love for their king, but rather the love of their own reputations and purses. Men like those will do very well out of this conflict if it continues to swing to their advantage, and it’s a pertinent reminder of just why he’s risking so much. Filling their glasses, listening to them congratulate each other on profits rather than victories… well, it makes it that little bit easier each time he asks to buy an advertisement. 

André’s current company, though, are two men of an entirely different nature. The first is a man he doesn’t recognise, thin-faced, and with sallow eyes that shift restlessly. His coat marks him as a mere lieutenant, and Robert can’t help but wonder what he must have done to keep company with a major. And the second man… he’s someone that Robert is very interested in indeed. He’s been occupying one of their rooms for almost four months now (at André’s expense, no less) and never once has Robert seen him sharing a drink or even a conversation with his fellow officers.

He keeps his head down, and follows Andrés exact route across the room as if unsure what else to do. There’s no confidence to him, let alone the blatant arrogance Robert takes for granted among the redcoats. They sit, and he slumps down into his seat. He looks for all the world like a small child trying to avoid being called on by his schoolmaster, no matter the captain’s epaulets he wears.

He’s seen similar men before. They come in, sometimes, those soldiers who have been changed by the war. They sit in the corners, jump at sudden noises, and carry a strange look in their eyes that promises they’ve seen horrors beyond description. It’s one of the many reasons Robert’s thankful he cannot take up arms, and why he prays for those who do, no matter which side they chose in this bloody war. He’s been quietly sure that the young captain is one of them, but after watching him, Robert isn’t so sure. There’s something off about him, but it’s not shock from the continental cannons or rifle-fire. This is something entirely different.

He doesn’t flinch when Robert not-so-accidentally elbows an empty jug onto the floor, nor do his eyes dart about the room in search of an exit. He simply looks lost.

The mere presence of the head of British intelligence is enough to make Robert take interest in their conversation, but he almost drops the tray as he approaches the table and realises what they’re talking about.

“At this rate, Washington soon won’t have any spies left,” André smiles. “I’m always amazed every time we catch one, how many more rats there are still to drive from the ship.”

“Did he die well, at least?” the lieutenant asks, and Robert’s blood freezes in his veins. If they’ve discovered Abraham, or anyone else connected to him, then staying in York City is as good as suicide.

“I regret to say he didn’t.” André examines his fingernails with distaste. “Ewing begged for mercy and pled innocence up until the end, or so I’m told. Shame really. It may be a shadowy game we play, but I don’t see the reason why it cannot have it’s own branch of honour.”

Robert tries not to let his relief show. He’s sure that Ewing is neither an alias nor the true name of anyone who know’s his own identity as Culper Junior. His faintly impressed with the steadiness of his own hands as he refills their drinks.

“They’re not all like that, though,” the Lieutenant argues. “What was his name, the Yale one? He was hung back in ’76.”

“Hanged,” André corrects. “Nathan Hale, I believe. And a fine gentleman he was too. I shall never forget his final words. I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

“That’s not true.”

The captain’s voice is barely a whisper, and his companions look at him in surprise, although he seems more bewildered than anyone to have spoken. His face pales, and his knuckles whiten around the glass.

“What was that, Willbrough?” 

The Captain has André’s full attention.

“Nate never… Nathan Hale, that is… He never said those things. He was scared in the end, and…” he trails off, as if shocked into silence by the words coming out of his own mouth. “I don’t know how… I never… Will you excuse me?”

Willbrough stands, knocking a jug to the floor in his haste, and all but runs for his room. Robert watches him go, more curious about the captain than ever. At least the spilt jug gives him an excuse to stay near the table in the pretence of clearing it up.

“I told you.” The lieutenant leans back in his chair as Robert crouches and busies himself with a rag. “We’re waisting our time here. He’s completely cracked. Useless.”

André shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure. We’ve just learnt that one of the greatest rebel rallying stories is a lie. Not hugely useful from a tactical stance at present, I grant, but if he knows that, imagine what else he can tell us.”

“But how long’s that going to take? It’s been months. If you let me question him again-“

“It will yield exactly the same results as the first time you tried. We’re lucky he doesn’t recognise you, Gamble. He believes rebels were responsible for his injury and torture, and he still trusts us. He’s only going to give us any information if he trusts us.”

“And if you’re wrong? Or he remembers too much?”

A sigh. “If I’m right about this, His Majesty’s army has gained a loyal and competent officer, as well as a real blow to the heart of Washington’s camp. And if I’m wrong…” Robert straightens in time to see André smile, the way he imagines a shark might before it descends on his pray. “Then I stand by by my promise. You get the pleasure of killing our dear confused Major Tallmadge after all.”

-

Two small facts about Abraham Woodhull:

1. He knows what it is to break someone’s heart.
2. This has not in any way diminished his capacity to love. He does so fiercely, and with little thought of the consequences. Love for his family. His ideals. His brothers in arms.

-

James dreams, once he has spent all his tears and screams and wordless pleas. He dreams of a boy with freckles who never learnt to tie his hair up properly and who always had more courage than sense. The boy says “Don’t I always?” and the dream ripples. 

“Don’t I always?” James says it himself this time, and is answered by a booming laugh. Then there’s a pair of hands at his hips and the scratch of a beard against his neck, and then there’s nothing at all.

-

There was once a boy who promised to come home. There was once a boy who waited for him. He waited and waited, right up until the day the first boy hanged.

-

Robert writes furiously, his hands racing across the page. His writing would probably be illegible even if it didn’t disappear instantly, leaving nothing but an unmarked Bible page behind. If he had time for self reflection, he might conclude that this is the single most important message he will ever write, but there’s no time for anything at all right now. He’s already placed his advertisement, and he’ll ride out at first light to meet his father on the road. This can’t wait.

721 alive and in New York, currently under the care of Mj. André and under the name Cpt. Willbrough. Cannot conclude defection - would guess an illness of the mind. In imminent danger.

His candle splutters, and Robert cannot help but wonder if the man in the room along the corridor from his own is still awake. What must he dream, he a man as lost as he?

-

“This is horse-shite,” Caleb complain’s, kicking the tree stump he’s using to chop wood as if it were personally responsible for all of his problems. It’s not, and he only get’s a crunching pain in his foot for his trouble.

Anna looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m not some diplomat or some fancy aide. I don’t see why they’re sending me.”

The order had come in this morning, and Caleb’s still wondering whether the General has quietly gone insane. A prisoner exchange just north of Bloomfield, and he’s being sent along to oversee it. 

“Well maybe they want you to be.”

He pauses, axe in mid air, and stares at her. “Come again?”

“The General’s given you control of his most successful intelligence operation. He clearly trusts you. Maybe he wants you to take on more responsibility.”

“You’re crazy, Annie. I’m just a smuggler.”

“Who’s just been handed a captain’s job, at least. I’m sure you know what a field promotion is, if this all goes well.” She smiles softly. “Who’d have thought it? Caleb Brewster, all done up in blue and gold.”

“I ain’t wearing the uniform!” he shouts after her, but Anna’s already gone.

-

“I don’t know.” James twists his hands together in his lap. “Couldn’t someone else…?”

“It’s a low risk operation,” André insists. “Just the thing to get you back on your feet and serving your King again. And you said yourself that you wanted to spend time with your fellow soldiers.”

James doesn’t simply want to meet any redcoats, he wants to meet his own brothers in arms. If anyone is going to be able to tell him about himself or even unearth his memories, it stands to reason it would be his friends. But they’re not here. And maybe André’s right. A week has passed since his outburst about Nathan Hale, a week spent pointlessly trying to grasp where it had come from.

He has nothing.

And he’s tired. 

Maybe it’s time to accept the fact that the James Willbrough that was is gone for good. And to get on with the rest of his life.

This seems like as good a place as any to start. He can handle one small prisoner exchange. 

-

Words swim onto the page in a scrawled hand, and Abe feels his mouth fall open in shock. He leans back in his chair, and in the privacy of the cellar under the burnt out shell of the farmhouse, he allows a single tear to fall onto the desk. All these months, and he’s been in York City.

If Townsend’s right about this he’ll kiss the man. But God, if the words he’s written are true… 

“I’m so sorry, Ben,” he whispers to the dark.

He can’t just leave this for Caleb to find (Oh crucified Christ, what’s this going to do to Caleb?) stuffed in the hollow of a tree. He needs to be at the drop himself.

-

Caleb rides for Bloomfield at dawn, wearing his own damned coat, thank you very much, and whistling a melody he can’t quite remember. It’s a crisp autumn morning and their road is coated in fallen leaves. They crunch beneath his horse’s hooves and he smiles, resisting the temptation to dismount and kick them himself. Oh, he’ll play the fancy continental officer if that’s what’s asked of him, but don’t think for a second he’s one of them. It’s a day’s ride to the exchange point, meaning he has two whole days away from camp, and Caleb is determined to make the most of them.

He doesn’t think of Ben.

He does think of lunch, though, and he’s considering breaking into his biscuits when they pass a man with a saddlebag coming the other way. He tips his hat cheerfully as they pass.

(Caleb doesn’t know that he carries a copy of the paper from New York. He doesn’t know that printed neatly in the top corner is an advertisement for French Raspberry Brandy. It will arrive in camp half a day after the smuggler that it’s intended for has left. He doesn’t know that the unofficial member, and unofficial head of their spy ring will take it upon herself to row across they bay in his absence.)

They camp in a barn somewhere north of Bloomfield, half a mile or so north of the mill that has been designated for the exchange. It’s a lot warmer than his tent, and as he makes himself comfortable amongst the straw, Caleb wonders for the thousandth time if it’s worth going back at all. He could leave, go back to privateering or find a ship to take him far away from this cursed coast. There must still be whales out there, war or no, and crews mad enough to chase them. It’s where he belongs, at the stern of a boat amongst the wind and the spray of an unforgiving ocean. He could go right now.

Or he could step up and take responsibility for something bigger than himself. You’re running a bloody spy ring now, Anna scolds. Caleb Brewster, all done up in blue and gold.

He doesn't leave, although if you asked him why, Caleb wouldn't have a good answer. The whole world’s gone insane, he decides as sleep takes him.

(Caleb doesn’t know the half of it.)

-

“You’re a damned fool, Nate! This is going to get you killed!”

“Would you weep if it did?”

“Stop joking. I’m serious.”

“So am I. And I promise I’ll come home.”

“You promise? Truly?”

Freckled cheeks crease into a smile. “Don’t I always?”

-

Seeing Abe is like a knife to the gut, and Anna reaches for a tree to steady herself. She was a coward, she knows, leaving him a letter instead of saying goodbye in person. But even now, even after all these months she’s not sure if she can forgive him.

It doesn’t matter. You’re part of something bigger than yourself now.

Abe for his part looks half a ghost. Any colour has drained from his face, and in the moonlight the affect is entirely spectral. For a moment, Anna hates herself all over again, before pushing such thoughts away. It’s a skill she’s practiced to perfection, Not Thinking About That.

“Anna.” Abe chokes. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same. What happened to the dead drop?”

“This couldn't wait.” He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and holds it aloft as if the Declaration of Independence itself. “Where’s Caleb? He needs to know this, now.”

“On another assignment for Washington. What’s wrong? Do they know about you? Or Townsend? Is he…?” God, they can’t loose anyone else. Not now.

“It’s not Townsend.”

He hands over the page. Anna reads the message, blinks, and reads it three times over. The words still refuse to arrange themselves into an order that makes any kind of sense. 

“This is impossible.” 

Abe smiles, and it hits her suddenly how much she once loved this boy. He’s let her down one too many times, changed beyond all recognition, but just for a moment she thinks she sees it. His eyes are all hope, shining out in a world with precious little hope left. “But what if it isn’t?”

-

Two small facts about Edmund Hewlett:

1. He’s a man of science, and therefore believes in order and logic and reason, and most certainly not in anything as arbitrary as love.
2. Edmund is a liar as well, and better than most. The only difference is that he lies to himself.

-

“You could at least look a little more cheerful,” James attempts as they ride north. Gamble, of course, only scowls. He’s made every effort he can with the Lieutenant (for want of better company, since André all but surgically attached him to his side), but he suspects Gamble doesn’t like him.

The feeling is entirely mutual.

Where André and the hoards of Royal officers who fill the seats of Rivington’s put him on edge, there’s something about Gamble that makes James want to run for the hills. He ignores it as best he can. This is his life now. Captain James Willbrough. His Majesty’s loyal servant. And if he has to endure the occasional bastard to live it, that’s the way it is.

Their small company trots gently through the fields of New York. Farmers stop to stare as they pass. The most fervent Tories amongst them sweep off their hats and wave, but most simply watch in sullen silence. It’s little wonder why. Even this close to York City, James can see the damage done by this bitter conflict, and he knows the burdens their own people must be struggling under. 

The sooner this rebellion ends, the better it will be for everyone.

The Continentals are waiting for them at the mill. A white flag hangs lazily from the hand of a young officer, although the symbol of truce does little to soothe James’ frayed nerves. It’s his first contact with their enemy since… well, since a band of them left him for dead and stole his entire life. Yes, James decides he’s entitled to a little anxiety.

They dismount twenty yards or so from the other party, and James checks that their own flag is clearly displayed before taking their hostage’s arm and stepping forward.

“Wait, you’re doing the exchange yourself?” Gamble hisses. “You’re here to oversea a peaceful handover, not get close enough to kiss these bastards.”

James doesn’t so much as look at him as they walk past. “I’m here to do my job, Lieutenant. I suggest you let me do it.”

An eerie stillness settles across the field. No-one moves aside from Ben, his prisoner, and their counterparts. Men on either side watch on, empty gestures of ceasefire doing nothing to prevent them keeping one hand on their weapons. It feels like a lighted powder-keg, the whole situation, one that's ready to blow up his face at the slightest provocation. This perfect calm is little more than an illusion.

And like all illusions, it shatters.

James is expecting musket shots and the flash of bayonets in the morning sun. None of these things happen. Instead, a single shout cuts across silence.

“Ben?”

-

There was once a boy who promised to come home. There was once a boy who waited for him. And even then, even after he had waited and waited, he didn’t truly understand what he was waiting for. Not until he lost it.

-

“Ben?” Caleb says, choking on the air even as it leaves his lungs. He’s half a field away, but even half the damned world away he’d recognise Ben’s gait and stance and that stupid plat in an instant. It’s wrong, it’s impossible and it’s so bloody wrong, but Caleb knows what he sees.

Benjamin Tallmadge. Alive. Here. Wearing a shinny red coat.

He’s moving without realising it, walking, then running towards the four figures in the centre of the field. He ignores the arm that tries to hold him back, the row of British guns suddenly pointing at his head. All this, Caleb barely even registers. Blood pounds in his ears and his vision tunnels, the world narrowing down to a face he’s tried so hard to forget.

A face looking back at him with the funniest expression.

He stops a yard or two short of where they stand, heart racing. It’s all Caleb wants to do to throw his arms around him, burry his face into Ben’s shoulder and never let go, but something holds him back. Maybe it’s Ben’s expression, unreadable in the morning light. Or maybe it’s the voice, hissing in his ear. A Traitor? A Turncoat? You fucking promised.

“Ben?” he whispers.

He blinks. “Ben? Who’s Ben?”

And the world falls out from under Caleb’s feet.

He’s not entirely sure what happens after that. There’s shouting from both sides, one captive making a run for it, a blue-clad arm that hauls him backwards. Caleb lets it all wash over him. All he cares about is Ben, looking at him with confusion and not one drop of recognition. Ben, who’s pulled onto a horse by a British officer and doesn’t offer any resistance. Caleb’s all but thrown onto his own mount, and there’s a private screaming in his ear that they have to get the fuck out of here, that’s right now Brewster! All this, he recalls afterwards. 

Caleb only knows that, for one moment, he meets Ben’s eyes over the sea of confusion. “I’m coming back for you, Talboy!” 

He doubts that Ben even hears him. 

-

Edmund Hewlett arrives in York City to utter chaos. That’s not unexpected in itself; it’s a city at war, after all, and one being run from the other side of an ocean. What Edmund doesn’t expect, though, is the manner of the chaos.

“Rivington’s Corner,” says a private who looks bored out of his mind, and utterly unimpressed at Edmund’s summons to see the army intelligence chief. “That’s where you’ll find him. André’s all but turned the place into his own personal headquarters.”

He nods his thanks and steps out into the bustling street. He’s soon hopelessly lost in the stream of people and carts, so much movement and sound that he’s not accustomed to. Briefly, Edmund longs for a quiet hilltop and open sky somewhere, before shaking himself. He needs to focus on the fact he’s horribly late to meet possibly the most important man in the royal army. And besides, that sort of thinking invariably leads him back to the memory of nights at his telescope, which leads him to the memory of who joined him, which leads him to the ballroom of Whitehall and Abraham Woodhul stepping forward, and… It’s better by far not to think of any of that at all. It’s behind him, that small town and any notion that he’s destined for a life of companionship.

As it turns out, his tardiness doesn’t matter in the slightest. It’s probably not even noticed.

“You need to calm down, Captain”

“Calm down? What I need is for you to tell me what the hell happened back there!”

“What happened was that you jeopardised the whole exchange.”

“That’s not true! Who was he?”

Two officers are standing nose to nose in the centre of the coffeeshop, seemingly oblivious to the eyes of every patron in the establishment fixed on them. Edmund pushes his way through the small crowd that’s gathered in the doorway, and almost drops his bag in surprise. He’s expecting a pair of drunken officers perhaps, young boys playing at war who will no doubt receive misdenemours for making such a scene. So naturally, the sight of two men he recognises is something of a shock. The first in André himself, face in as composed a mould as ever but eyes blazing with something that’s not quite rage. And they other…

Good God, Edmund must have missed a lot while he was in England. He hasn't seen that face since the day Lucas Brewster died.

“A madman, no doubt. Or simply one trying to unsettle you all over again. You know just what these rebels did to you the first time. They have no common decency.”

Benjamin Tallmadge shakes his head, the movement jerking, and Edmund can’t help but draw a contrast with the defiant man he met in Setalket. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “That’s not what happened. When he looked at me… his face… he wasn’t faking that. And he called me-“

“You’re an officer of the Royal army, Willbrough,” (Willbrough?), “You are better than these base rebel tricks. Perhaps it was simply too soon to demand continued service from you.”

“I…” Tallmadge (Willbrough?) pauses. Swallows thickly. “Yes, Sir. Perhaps,” he says flatly. He glances around, steps backwards slightly as if only just noticing the gathered crowd, and disappears up the stairs with a half-hearted salute. 

André watches him go for a long moment, before balking “Clear the room!”

The effect is instantaneous, red-coated figures parting like the Red Sea and slinking away. Edmund supposes none of them have ever heard him shout before. The effect’s startling, he has to admit. For his part, Edmund simply takes a seat in the corner and gestures for a drink. Whatever is going on here, he’s sure he’ll need one.

“Major Hewlett, I presume. A pleasure.”

It’s André. The man approaches his table as if he has no care in the world, and Edmund inclines his head. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“I trust your voyage left you no worse for wear? Apologies, by the way, for that little display. The poor Captain is rather off colour.”

“That he is indeed. His coat for one thing seems to have come out red in the wash.” There are few things that can invoke true satisfaction, but Edmund thinks that witnessing the off-guard flash of panic across André’s face might be one of them.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It used to be blue, did it not? Tell me,” he drains his glass “How it is that Benjamin Tallmadge comes to be wearing such a fine uniform?”

There’s a clatter behind him. The barman has dropped his tray.

-

“Caleb, thank God, I need to talk to you,”

“It can wait.”

Whatever Anna has to say, it’s nothing to the news that Caleb’s about to drop into her lap. It’s been thick in the back of his throat the whole ride back to camp, congealing into a painful lump. Every half mile, he’d had to physically restrain himself from turning tail and riding straight into the heart of New York to get Ben.

(Get Ben. Present tense.)

But this matters, possibly more than anything he’s ever done. Caleb needs to be clever about this, and he needs to get it right. Running headlong into the entire British army is only going to get him killed, and there’s no point in that anymore. Not now he has something to fight for again. 

Anna, though is unperturbed. She grabs his arm as he walks past, spinning him around in the middle of camp. “It really can’t. You’re gonna want to hear this, it’s-“

“Well you’re gonna want to hear this first-“

“Dammit, Brewster, would you listen to me for once in your life-“

“This is serious, Annie-“

They speak as one, and two sets of glaring eyes widen in surprise.

“Ben’s alive.”

-

James can’t breathe. He sits on his bed, gulping air into lungs that refuse to co-operate in the hope it will stop the room spinning around some unseen axis, if only for a moment. He doesn’t know what to think, and certainly not what to trust. All he can hold onto is the image of the man in the field. 

James Willbrough. That’s who he is. He’d decided that before they set out, and it would be so easy to cling to. These patriots lie, he knows that first hand, and he knows what they did to him. There’s no reason at all to throw away the foundations for a life he’s so painstaking started to carve because of a stray word from a stranger.

Except.

Except that the man in the field had looked at his with such raw desperation, surely impossible for any man to fake. Except that the name Ben tugs at something just beyond his grasp.

(Is that…? No.)

The fleeting spark of recognition is gone as soon as it appears, dissolving as if a dream and he curses aloud. 

If James believes André, he’s just thrown away any trust placed in him and any chance of getting back on assignment soon.

If he believes the eyes of the stranger, whatever’s going on here could be so much worse. 

A knock at the door drags James back to the room. It’s the man from behind the bar who serves drinks with a tight smile.

“Sorry to bother you, Sir,” he says. “The Major requested I bring you some water.”

James looks at the jug clutched in his hands and sighs. André clearly considers him infirm once again. “Set it on the side. Thank you, Culper.”

The man stares at him, face paling. It takes a moment of James wondering what he said wrong before realising that his name is something entirely different. Townsbridge? No, Townsend. That's it. James knows his name, of course he does. Then why-?

Townsend pushes him backwards into the room, shutting the door behind them.

-

Anna stands in the General’s tent and no-one says a word. Not her, not Washington, and not Caleb who looks as if he’s forgotten how to speak all together. The three of them stand in silence and stare at the letter on the desk, at the page torn from a bible and covered in a hasty scrawl. 

The message that doesn’t begin to make anything right, but perhaps makes the world a little less awful. Or a little worse, when you consider where Ben is right now.

“I don’t believe it,” Washington says finally, and Lord, does he sound old. If it were anybody else they were talking about, there’s no way the General would let his guard down like this. But it’s Ben, and nothing else seems to matter any more. “All this time, and he’s been in York city.”

“The bastards,” Anna mutters, not caring in the slightest about her present company. “We can’t just leave him there with André.”

“We can’t exactly go in and get him,” Washington counters. “You know better than anyone the lengths it takes to smuggle a single page from the city, let alone a man at the heart of the British command.”

“There has to be a way.” There has to be.

“Benjamin is being held in the lion’s den, whether he realises it or not.” Washington shakes his head. “I don’t see how a rescue mission could be possible. It would take a madman to even attempt such a task…”

-

Ladies and gentlemen, may we present Caleb Brewster. Certified madman.

Chapter Text

They hang Nathan Hale on a brisk September morning, under one of those skies that seems alive with possibility. His breath fogs visibly in front of his face as he stands on the scaffold and he does his best not to shiver from the cold. God forbid anyone mistake his shaking for fear, not when all that’s left to him is to die well.

He is afraid, though. More afraid than he’s ever been in his bitterly short life. The noose stares at him accusingly as his sentence is read to the gathered crowd, and Nate does his best to look anywhere else. The leaves are just starting to turn, hints of rusted reds and browns seeping into the trees. He thinks desperately of the rows of trees that had surrounded his dorms in Connecticut, and how they had always looked like this around the time term started. It was in those first few weeks before the cold set in that they used to lie out on the college lawns and stare at the stars, safe in the knowledge that they were invincible at nineteen and nothing bad could ever happen. He’s never going to see Yale again. Oh God, he’s never going to see anything again, nothing but this crowd and these trees and the black, and-

He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down as the crisp air rushes into his lungs. It’s not fair, and it’s not okay, but it’s too late for any of that now. Nate has made his choices and he’s make them all over again given the chance. He’s dying for something bigger than himself and that has to be enough.

He only wishes it didn’t have to happen quite so soon.

The rope is corse as they secure it around his neck and he swallows with some difficulty. “Please Lord,” he whispers softly. There’s no one in the world to hear him. “Please Lord, let me live.”

His last thought is that there’s no one in heaven to hear him, either. At least no one who still gives a damn.

His second last thought is of a promise he made with a freckled smile, and how he’s broken it.

--

“Tell me again,”

Townsend closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, no doubt in pure frustration. He’s a man happy to bide his time rather than jump into action, that much is clear, although certainly not a coward, if what he claims can be believed. No man who spies on an empire from the heart of their military strength could be called a coward. But James (James?) supposes he must be being particularly stupid to drive such a cautious man to such exasperation . He can’t bring himself to feel bad about it, though. He’s being living in his own maddening state of frustration for months, and the world that slowly slips into focus around him is no less jarring.

“I’m not sure I can make this any simpler.” Townsend says, although it’s a testament to the man that he’s willing to go through his explanation for what must be the fifth time now. “Your name is-“

“Benjamin Tallmadge.” 

The name has a funny taste to it, a half remembered tang that he can’t quite grip onto. It’s like trying to recall the exact taste of a meal you ate as a child, certain only that you once knew what it was. It doesn’t feel right, and the world hasn't fallen into sudden clarity. But it does’t feel wrong, either.

He’s kept quiet while Townsend repeats his story over and over, and it sounds more outlandish with each telling. A Continental officer kidnapped by the British command and made to think he was one of their own in the hope he’d reveal enemy secrets? Insane, surely, if not for the fact that the tale makes a horrible sort of sense. There’s no reason for André to invest so much time in a lovely injured captain for one thing, not when he has an entire intelligence operation to run. Not unless he hoped to gain something. 

And for another, Townsend doesn’t strike Benjamin (does he go by Benjamin? The man in the field had called him Ben. Ben feels marginally more comfortable than Benjamin) as a liar nor a madman. Because you’d have to be mad to reveal your status as a spy to an officer, not unless you had no choice. If the mere mention of the name Culper had been enough for Townsend to put his very life on the line…

Nothing makes sense any more, and a part of Ben just wants to get into bed and hide until everything goes back to normal. But he has a feeling that normal doesn't exist, at least not any normal that he’s not going to have to fight for.

He sighs and sits down at the desk. Townsend is still watching him with anxious eyes that keep flitting to the door. “Okay,” Ben says eventually. “Say I believe you. I’m who you say I am, and my life in New York is just one big ugly lie. What do we do about it?”

If any relief passes across Townsend’s face, it’s replaced immediately by an even deeper frown. “You can’t stay here, that’s for sure. That Major down there, the one who just arrived, he knows your face.”

“How?” 

“I’ve no idea. But if he can’t keep his mouth shut, or André believes he can’t, this whole thing is finished. And André doesn’t strike me as the type to leave loose ends, if you follow.”

Ben thinks of the way Gamble’s been following around at André’s request, and how Lieutenant’s hand is never far from his weapon, and shivers. He follows just fine. “Agreed. But leaving New York will be difficult. Trying to smuggle the two of us undetected-“

“One of us,” Townsend corrects. His smile is tight. “You have to leave, but I’ve still got a job to do.”

“And if they suspect you had something to do with me suddenly disappearing? If they connect the dots and work out you're a spy?”

He shrugs, and Ben almost believes the absence of fear in his voice. “They haven’t so far.”

--

Caleb leaves camp at first light, wearing civilian clothes and a blazing sense of purpose. It’s not lost on him that this is the last way he saw Ben, squinting in the morning sun as he disappeared into the trees, and the thought only squares his shoulders further. Whatever happens today, he’s going to see Ben again. He’s going to bring the bastard home if it kills him, and the weight that’s been hanging around his neck for the last four months will be lifted. He doesn't think about the words an illness of the mind or imminent danger, scribbled in a rushed hand. He definitely doesn't think about the way Ben had looked at him at the prisoner exchange, and the utter lack of recognition behind his eyes. 

Caleb only thinks about what he has to do next.

He’s not expecting anyone to come and see him off. Anna had given him a fierce hug the night before, and whispered “Bring him home,” into his shoulder. Neither of them mentioned the way her eyes had shone. There’s no one who would be here, no one else who knows he’s going. It’s not an official mission and there’s no time to stand on ceremony, not when something so precious hangs in the balance. But as he secures the last buckle on his mount’s bridal, Caleb spots a figure at the tent line. He’s looking into the sun so can’t make out the details of his observer, but Caleb doesn’t need to. There’s only one man in the entire camp with such a stature. 

Caleb swings himself onto his horse and gives a hurried salute before turning her around and kicking sharply. The camp falls away until all is forrest, and he keeps on riding. It’s two day’s ride to York City. For all Caleb knows, Ben doesn't have that kind of time. 

Washington watches him long after he’s swallowed by the trees.

--

There was once a boy who promised to come home. There was once a boy who swore to move the heavens, if only to hold him to it.

--

“Are you sure about this?”

Ben fumbles with his gun, almost dropping it on the hard wood floor. He’s been carrying the pistol on his hip since he started wearing the red uniform of a British Officer, and it never occurred to him to ask why he’d been given no ammunition. If he had thought about it, he’d have probably concluded that André still saw him as a liability, not someone to be trusted with a firearm given his fragile state. Now, it ’s simply another piece of evidence to the lie that’s his life, one more thing staring him in the face this whole time that he’d just been too blind to see. 

Townsend has provided him with bullets, along with a set of civilian clothes. It feels strange to pack them in his bag after months in crimson, and there’s something starkly final about it. He pulls on his coat and promises himself it’s for the last time. He’ll never dress in red again. For better or for worse, he’s made his choice to leave tonight, and there can be no going back.

So when Townsend asks if he’s sure about going through with it as he makes his final preparations, Ben does his best not to let it shake him.

“No,” he admits, “But I don’t see that we have a choice, not with Hewlett lurking around. What’s the alternative? I go downstairs and tell André you’re a spy, and live out my days as a happy British soldier?”

A muscle in Townsend’s jaw twitches. “Preferably not. I rather like keeping myself in one piece, if it’s all the same. I just want to be sure that you’re not going to get cold feet on me.”

He rather likes the barkeeper and his dry mannerisms, Ben decides. Not that there’s a lot of competition in his life right now; everyone else he knows in the whole world has been lying to him for months and are one wrong word away from shooting him. All the same, he has a feeling that had they met under different circumstances, the two could have been friends. 

There’s no time for that though, not tonight. If, by some miracle this all goes to plan, he’ll never see Townsend again, at least not until the war’s over. Ben still think’s he’s mad for wanting to stay in the city when his escape might so easily be connected to him, but it’s a decision that must take no small measure of courage. 

Could I do that? he wonders. Did I do that? 

He’s an intelligence major in the middle of the war and was captured behind enemy lines, if what Townsend says is true, so Ben supposes he must have been brave. That’s the thing, though. James Willbrough may have been a fiction, but Benjamin Tallmadge feels no more real. He’s a hero with a name Ben now has to live up to, and he hasn’t the faintest idea what that means.

It might not matter at all, of course. There’s a very high chance they’re going to be caught, and then Benjamin Tallmadge won’t be anything at all. 

It says something about the state of his life that that’s actually quite a comforting thought, but Ben tries not to dwell on it. There’ll be plenty of time to go quietly insane if they make it to tomorrow. 

“You told Rivington?” he asks, and Townsend nods.

“He wasn't happy about it, not with so many officers suddenly back in the city, but there wasn't a lot he could say once I told him my father was ill. He shouldn’t suspect anything’s amiss.”

“Not until André’s pet project disappears from the building at the same time you do, that is.”

“Everyone thinks I left this morning. Let’s hope that’s enough.”

It's going to have to be. The plan’s a simple one, which could be either it’s genius or it’s ruin. They simply leave the city through the main gates, counting on Townsend’s pass as an excuse and Ben’s uniform as a shield from any unwanted questions. If all goes to plan, they’ll be half way across British territory before anyone notices Ben’s missing, and far enough ahead of any messengers that could raise the alarm. From there, Townsend is confident he can be smuggled back across to rebel lines. 

It’s not exactly foolproof, but its all they have.

Ben glances around the small room that has been his home these last few months, and his eyes fall upon the leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk. It seems mad that he’d placed so much hope in it, that he’d believed his old life would suddenly spring from its pages. A part of him wants to throw the damn thing in the fire in a final rejection of everything James Willbrough had tried to be. Instead, he wraps it carefully in the shirt that Townsend provided and slips it in his bag.

And when the signal appears, a single candle burning in the window of the stables, Ben eases open his window and slips out into the bite of the night air.

He doesn't look back.

--

Lafayette corners him after a meeting and demands to know what’s distracting him. Washington finds he can’t answer. He can’t tell these men, brave soldiers who have already morned their brother once, that there’s a chance Benjamin could return to them when the hope is such a fragile one. And even if he’d wanted to, there’s no way Washington can explain where their information in New York came from. Culper is a secret he keeps even from those he trust more than anyone, and his burden alone to carry. 

He spares a glance at the sky. The stars somehow seem more distant than they used to be. Washington might as well be up there with them for all he can do to help Benjamin right now.

This isn’t his first fight, and Benjamin was not the first man he’s lost along the way. He won’t be the last either, and Washington understands this all too well. They’re at war. People die, and they die badly. It’s something he made his peace with a long time ago. But all the same…

Just this once, he thinks at the uncaring sky. Let them be safe.

--

Two small facts about George Washington

1. He has no children of his own.
2. There is not an army of heaven nor hell that could stand between him and his sons.

--

There are several ways Edmund can think of that he’d rather enjoy being woken up. Jerking awake to the sounds of frantic shouts and boots pounding past his door is not one of them.

It’s a skill any soldier worth his salt has perfected, the art of rapidly getting dressed. It takes less than two minutes for him to pull his breaches, shirt and coat on, fix his epaulets, and position his wig into an acceptable imitation of decency. For one frantic second, he wonders if the rebels have somehow managed to attack the city, but it’s a ridiculous notion. Waking to an enemy ambush is to be expected in camps, but not in York City. So then what this commotion is about, he has no idea.

The boots turn out to be half a damned battalion of infantry, rushing around the boarding house and pounding on every single door. Edmund’s very glad to be fully dressed as he opens his.

“What in God’s name is going on?” he demands.

“D’you see a man leave this building last night?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“Captain Willbrough, Sir. Been staying here for a while now. Word is he’s a traitor, disappeared with a bag full of information to sell to the rebels.”

Edmund does his best to keep his face neutral. “I can’t say I did. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do assist in his capture.”

The door swings shut and madly, Edmund finds himself biting back a smile. It’s ridiculous, of course. This situation is a lot more serious than one runaway captain. Tallmadge must be party to all kinds of information that could make their lives exceedingly difficult, were it to make its way to Washington. But all the same…

His internal compass used to have a true north of order and decency. They were principles to take comfort in, his guide through turbulent times. This blasted colony has robbed him of that. Edmund may not know what he believes in any more, but he knows wrong when he sees it. And holding a man, forcing him to live a lie and suffer alone… 

If the boots were the soldiers, it’s no great surprise that he shouting belongs to John André. He’s witnessed the Major loose his famous cool twice in two days, and Edmund supposes that at least he returned to York City at an exciting time.

“Misplaced something, Major?” he asks pleasantly. André, who’s directing men in every direction, scowls. 

“Hewlett. If I find reason to suspect you had something to do with this…” André lets the threat tail off, but the rage in his voice says plenty.

“I can assure you it didn’t.”

“Well someone must have helped him! A man in that condition doesn’t just disappear!”

Oh, Edmund realises. André isn’t angry. No, he’s terrified. If Tallmadge makes it back to Washington’s camp and tells the rebels what happened, then he’s about to become the biggest target in the thirteen colonies.

“Perhaps he had help,” Edmund allows. “Or maybe he was just biding his time. Has it crossed your mind that Willbrough has been playing you for a fool?”

André’s face flashes a deep crimson. “We’re going to find him,” he promises, pointing his finger in Edmund’s face as if he were personally responsible for this chaos. “We’re going to find him.”

Edmund half hopes that they don’t.

--

Ben should have known their luck wouldn’t hold. 

It’s his own fault for getting his hopes up, for actually believing that this fools plan to escape the most heavily fortified city in the country without anyone noticing would work. But the thing is, it does at first. The guard at the ferry barely gives the two of them a second glance once he’s seen Townsend’s pass and Ben’s uniform. He gives wagon a customary check and waves them on, although Ben doesn’t remember how to breathe until long after they reach the far sure. It’s a miracle no one noticed the way Townsend’s knuckles gripped white around the reigns, nor could hear the hammering of his own heart. It’s beating out a march in double time, and he does his best not to picture it frantically trying to fit a lifetime of beats in before his time runs out.

No one challenges them as ferry unloads, nor as they take the road north. Ben leaps out at the first chance he gets and changes, swapping the blasted red for a farmer’s beaten coat. It’s soft and against his skin the the way the sharp lines of uniform could never be, and he allows a small smile as buries his old clothes in a fall of crisp leaves. 

That’s his mistake, he’ll reflect later. Thinking they’d made it, and that James Willbrough could be buried as easily as as a discarded coat.

They’re riding through a wood when their luck runs out. The canopy above is a sky of burning oranges and reds, and Ben has given up pretending not to stare at them in child-like wonder. There hadn’t been this much colour in the whole of York City. It’s not the first time he’s seen a forrest in autumn, he knows (although the faint image that sticks in his mind is one of a neat row of auburn trees), but it feels that way. He’s so lost in unashamed wonder that Ben doesn’t notice Townsend stiffen beside him. He notices when the cart stops abruptly, however.

“What?”

“Do you hear that?”

There’s nothing to hear, not at first at least. They’re surrounded by the quiet of the wood, and Ben’s just about to say so when his ears pick it up. He jumps down onto the road and flattens is ear to the ground, the action born or muscle memory. There’s no missing it now. The faint rumble of hooves beating against the forrest floor, and growing stronger by the second.

“We should carry on going,” Townsend says, although there’s no missing the fear across his face. “It might not be anything to do with you.”

“You’re willing to bet your life on that?” Ben asks. His mind is already flying, desperately trying to come up with a solution to the fact that what sounds like a whole battalion of British officers will be on them at any moment. They’ll never outpace them, and if they’re looking for him there’s no way the two of them can hide-

He has it.

“Go on without me,” he says.

“What? No, out of the question.”

“We’re still on the road to Oyster Bay. You have every reason to be here. I can disappear into the woods, find my own way back into neutral territory on foot.”

“In your condition? Do you even know where neutral territory is?”

Ben ignores the question. “We don’t have time to argue! From what you’ve told me, Washington needs you in York far more than he needs me in his camp right now. And you can’t do that if you get yourself killed chaperoning me across two states! You’ve done enough, Townsend. You got me out the city.” You tried to give me my life back. I still don’t know who Benjamin Tallmadge is, but you’ve shown me where to look. “Please, just go.”

Townsend’s face is unreadable. Eventually he nods. 

The rumbling is louder now, half a damn army just to chase him down. Ben runs.

--

“Keep up!”

He’s eight years old, and the rolling fields are their kingdom, an entire world just for them to rule. The summer seems to stretch on forever, endless blue skies and hazy afternoons, and although he’s abstractly aware that autumn will have to come at some point, he doesn’t believe it will ever really come.

He forces his legs to move that little bit faster, cursing the facts that he’s the youngest and the smallest. It’s not fair, his legs aren't as long as theirs, and he always ends up getting left behind.

“Wait! Hey, wait!”

They don’t, of course, and he ends up tripping over his own feet in an attempt to catch up. The grass isn’t as soft as it looks, and its the shock of hitting the ground more than anything else that drags the tears from his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he sits there sniffling before a concerned face appears above him.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just a scratch, see? I’ll make it all better, I promise. Don’t you worry, Benny-Boy.”

--

Caleb doesn’t know how he’s going to make it into the city. He doesn’t have Sackett’s incredible underwater machine this time around, and no pass to ease his way. It doesn’t matter. He’ll come up with something. Ben’s counting on him, even if he doesn’t know it, and Caleb refuses to leave him behind again. He has a promise to keep, even if Ben broke his.

I’m coming back for you.

It’s easier to put all thoughts from his mind and just ride, worrying about nothing but the position of the sun in the sky. He’ll find a way. He has to.

Night is well on its way to falling when he climbs down to water his horse. The brook he’s found trickles through a dense woodland, and what little dusk light filters down through the leaves casts dancing shadows all around. He knows he should stay where he is, that there’s no chance of reaching the city by nightfall, but it feels like a betrayal to even consider it. Not with Ben so close and entirely alone. That though alone is enough for Caleb to reign himself to a night of riding.

One day soon, he promises, we’re going to have a very serious conversation about the things you do to me. Destroying what little common sense I ever had, for starters.

He has one foot in a stirrup, ready to swing back onto his horse and continue when a crack cuts across the evening. It’s answered a moment later by a volley of sound that can only belong to pistols. Caleb’s been fighting a war for far too long to mistake it for anything else. 

By any logical means, he should get out of here. Ride off into the night and stay well clear of whatever’s going on out there. But Caleb’s never been one for logic, not in comparison to the pure gut instinct by which he lives his life. Logic won’t save you on a whaler, after all, nor in the smoke and shouts of battle. He’s learnt to rely on muscle memory, and that quiet but sure voice that says tighten the rope or to your left or shoot, for fucks sake! 

It’s madness, but that quiet little voice is screaming, and Caleb knows with a certainty he’ll never be able to identify exactly who’s the source of the noise.

Dammit, Tallboy. Should have known you weren’t gonna sit around and wait for me to come and get you.

--

Ben knows he’s a liar. He told Townsend he’d be able to reach neutral territory on foot, knowing full well he’d never make it. It doesn’t stop him running as fast as he can, stumbling through endless trees until his lungs burn from the strain, but he knows it will never be enough. It’s possible he’d stand a chance if he made it to nightfall, but that will never happen. Not one man trying to outrun the king’s own cavalry. 

And the thing that hurts the most? He almost makes it.

It’s dusk when he glimpses the first crimson coat flying through the trees to his left. Ben holds onto some misplaced hope that they haven't seen him and turns in the other direction, but its no good. A trunk in front of him shatters to the sound of a gunshot, and he knows he’s done for. He hurls himself though a dense thicket, over the bow of a small hill and onto the ground between the roots of an oak, but it will do him no good. They have him now, and its only a matter of time before the game is up.

Belatedly, Ben remembers his pistol. He fumbles at his belt and is relieved to find it still there. It’s weight is a small comfort against his hip. He’s utterly fucked, but maybe he can take a couple of soldiers with him. That’s what Benjamin Tallmadge would try and do. Ben will never learn how to be that man now, but maybe he can pretend that’s who he is in his last minutes.

Another volley of gunfire explodes somewhere over his head and he loads his own weapons with steady hands. It’s amazing how easy it is not to be scared after four months of living in fear of his own memories. What’s a little thing like dying when you’re already living on borrowed time?

There’s movement on his right flank, a red flash between the trees and Ben lets his body take over. The gun is an extension of his hand, and it doesn't matter that the light’s awful and he can’t remember ever having been in a firefight. He doesn’t miss. 

“Benjamin Tallmadge,” he whispers, although none of these men who stole his life can hear him. “My name is Benjamin Tallmadge.” It’s the one thing he has left, and and he won’t let them take it away again.

Ben hits another man as they exchange fire. He has no idea if he’s killed him or not, and can’t bring himself to care. He leans around his tree to pick of a third, and pain explodes through his shoulder. He falls back to the ground, and for a moment he’s confused. The whole right side of his body is aflame and the world’s starting to blur around the edges, and-

Oh. He’s only absently surprised as he notices the dark stain seeping through his shirt. He’d known this was how it was going to play out, only it hurts, God, it hurts and it takes all his energy not to cry out in pain. He tries to grip his pistol, to make one last stand but the damn thing’s fallen from his grip.

Ben blinks sluggishly. The world’s slowing, falling away as if he’s been submerged in water, and it’s only distantly that he hears gunfire once more. Except… no that’s not right. Someone’s shooting from behind him, if they’ve gone behind him he should be dead… or maybe he just can’t tell what direction anything is any more. If only he had a star to set course by, but he doesn’t remember how, and-.

“The North Star’s the one you want, Ben. I’m starting to think you never listened to me explain these things.”

He turns his head with some difficulty. There’s a man sitting by his side, crisply in focus as the rest of the world spins in and out of existence. He’s so familiar it aches, everything from the silver-blond hair falling from it’s plat to the freckles that splatter his cheeks. A sad sort of smile plays around his lips, and it’s all Ben wants to do to reach for him, but he can’t muster the strength.

“I miss you,” the man says.

“You’re not real.” He’s not sure where the certainty comes from. “You’re dead.”

“One of those things is true. How about you? How real does Benjamin Tallmadge feel?”

The gunfire’s closer now, almost upon him. “I’m sorry, but you don’t get to leave this all behind so easily. You’ve got a promise to keep, and you’re not allowed to leave me again.”

“You’re the one who left me.” Ben frowns. Even the man’s fading now, becoming as blurred as the rest of the forrest. “Nate?”

He blinks, and Nate ripples. The silver hairs darkens, freckles spreading until they form a bushy beard, the sad smile sliding into panic. “Ben?” he says. “Benny? Just hold on, okay, you’re not allowed to leave again. Not now.”

Ben’s last though before he allows the darkness to swamp him, is that he’s definitely seen the stranger somewhere before.

--

There was once a boy who promised to come home. He tried.

--

In the days that follow, Caleb won’t remember much about their journey to Setauket. The images in his mind form snapshots rather than any coherent narrative, like paintings on a wall each separated by their frames. 

Doing his best to bandage Ben’s wounds and the terror that it won’t be enough, not when the blood seeps through the fabric almost as soon as he’s wrapped each layer.

Waiting for nightfall in a ditch, sure that he’ll come face to face with a British musket at any moment.

Abe’s face when the two of them collapse into his cellar.

The faint pulse in Ben’s neck thumping out a rhythm of alive, alive, alive.

“What the hell happened?” Abe asks shakily, once they’ve finished treating Ben’s wounds properly this time, at least as best they can in his cellar. The damned bullet’s out his shoulder, at least. He’ll have a scar, though, almost an exact twin of the twisted skin on his other side. And the bullet wound isn't the only one. Caleb stares at the silver lines criss-crossing his chest in a pattern that’s horrifyingly pre-meditated, and spares a moment to wonder just why the universe marked someone so fundamentally good down for so much pain.

“He got himself out the city.” Caleb can’t believe it even as he speaks, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a mistake he does his best not to make, underestimating Benjamin Tallmadge. “Was facing off with a whole Royal unit by the time I found him.”

“So he remembers? Because Townsend said-“

“I don’t know, Woody.” Caleb watches Ben’s sleeping face. He’s frowning slightly, and the expression is achingly familiar. Ben was always too serious by half, and Caleb remembers watching the moonlight splay across a face that didn't even relax in dreaming. “I don’t know.”

He hates the idea of Anna rowing across the sound to meet them on her own, but they don’t have a choice. Ben needs a doctor, a real doctor, and there’s no-one else they can trust right now. Besides, she’s already done it once before, to receive the oh-so important letter from Townsend while Caleb was off playing at a soldier. He’s done with that, he decides fiercely, with all the gold buttons and protocol. He got into this fight to protect the people he loves, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do until the war’s over.

Right now, Ben needs him more than the continental army ever could. 

Ben shifts, a soft moan escaping his lips, and Caleb leans forward eagerly incase he’s about to wake up. He’d be amazed, given the amount of blood he’s lost, and sure enough Ben’s eyes stay resolutely shut. He looks to be in pain, though. Caleb has no idea if he can feel the bullet wound trickling down through the layers of sleep or if it’s simply his dreams that are haunted, but he’s helpless to ease it either way. It’s a strain not to pull Ben into his arms and whisper sweet nonsense into his hair until all the hurt goes away, but he stays where he is. It’s not just because Abe’s here, either.

Ben’s hurting, and from more than just the British guns and sadists’ knives. He hadn't a clue who Caleb was in that field, and he may not have a clue who he is either. 

And that thought’s more terrifying than he can begin to comprehend. 

Anna arrives late that night. He’s not sure what time exactly, with no way to see the stars from where they hide like dogs, and his mind racing far too fast to keep track. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees Ben, and doesn't she doesn’t protest when Caleb wraps an arm around her. It’s not surprising; He may have returned from the dead, but Ben looks like he’s half way to being back there. He’s painfully pale and a sheen of sweat matts hair too his forehead, despite the chill of the night. And there’s no missing the the wound in his shoulder, of course.

--

“Nate?” Ben mumbles, half way across the bay, and Caleb’s heart shatters.

“He’s gone, Benny.”

--

The world is a curious grey colour. Not the lifeless kind of grey that had permeated the streets of York City, but a bright obtrusive one that forces Ben’s eyes shut again the moment he opens them. He groans softly and tries again a little more cautiously, blinking as light floods his vision. For a moment, all he can see is the grey colour and he wonders if maybe he’s dead after all, but no, that’s not right at all. He wouldn't be hurting this much if he were dead. He blinks again, and realises he’s looking at the wall of a tent, with daylight streaming through the fabric. 

Which of course begs the important question of where in God’s name he is, exactly. 

Ben tries to sit up, and immediately regrets it. Pain shoots through his shoulder and he settles back against the pillows, cursing. He doesn’t even notice the man sitting at his bedside until he says “Benny?”

Perhaps sitting is too generous a word. He’s slumped in the hard wooden chair as if he’s been there for hours, but he’s alert in an instant, leaning forward to examine him in concern.

“How you feeling?”

“Like I got shot.” 

It earns him a surprised bark of laughter, although Ben hadn't been joking. The ache is punctuated by every tiny movement, and he honestly wants nothing more than to sink back into oblivion.

“Yeah, well, facing down a whole battalion of redcoats will do that for you.”

Ben winces at the memory, blurred and dream-like though it may be. Add that to the list of things he’d rather forget. Although…

“We’re you there?” he asks, frowning at the bearded face. It’s all so jumbled in his head. “In the woods, I mean. You… did you get me out of there?”

“And back here in one piece. Well, near as.” He smiles sheepishly, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ben, do you know who I am? Do you remember me, I mean?”

“Sure. You’re the one from the prisoner exchange at Bloomfield.”

His face crumples. There’s no other word for it, the way his hopeful half-smile comes crashing down, and Ben feels the bizarre urge to apologise although he’s no idea what for. “Did we know each other?”

“Yeah. Yeah we did.” The smile’s back, but its even less convincing than before. “We’ve done a fair bit of fighting together.”

“Okay. Ben doesn’t know what else to say, although it seems pitifully little. It makes sense, he supposes. He used to be a soldier. They’re probably in some sort of military camp. This man’s probably part of his regiment, or at least he was. Ben’s hardly fit for duty. He’s hardly fit for anything at all. 

The man looks as if he wants to say something, but he’s interrupted by the flaps of the tent being pushed aside. Ben frantically scrambles for a weapon he doesn't have, earning himself another jolt of pain as he does so, but it’s a woman who walks inside, carrying a small parcel.

“You missed super, I thought you’d want-“ she tails off upon seeing Ben, mouth forming a perfect oh of surprise. 

“You’re awake! Thank God. You were supposed to come get me the moment he woke up, dammit Caleb!” The last sentence is punctuated with a finger jabbed in the man’s (Caleb, presumably) direction. He probably says something in response, but Ben can’t hear it over the sudden roar in his head as a barrage of images fills his vision. 

A woman leaping from a boat, and his shout that comes a second too late to stop her.

The same woman throwing her arms around him and telling him to write, damn you while he’s away at school.

A little girl with wild dark hair and a wicked grin as she says “Lie.”

She notices him staring (for Ben’s unable to tear his gaze away), and offers a soft smile. “How’s the shoulder? I’ll call the doctor in a minute and he can have a proper look at you. I don’t know how much Caleb’s said, but I’m-“

“Anna. Anna Strong. You’re… Christ, you’re Anna Strong,”

There’s nothing he can do to stop the tears that well in his eyes of their own accord. She takes him into her arms and he weeps, not caring that it’s childish, not that he’s getting her shoulder wet. The onslaught of memories is too much, a name and a life he thought he’d lost. It doesn’t matter Anna’s the only person he can remember, nor that the memories are patchy and disjointed.

They’re proof that he’s someone after all.

Neither he nor Anna notices the look on Caleb’s face. 

Neither notice as he slips out the tent without a word.

--

Woodhull rides into Oyster Bay on the third day since Robert arrives. He’s spent them expelling his nervous energy any way he can, scouring any source of news that might contain word of a run-away captain and flinching any time he hears a horse pass. There’s no way Tallmadge would have made it, no way in hell, and it’s all Robert’s fault. If he’d just thought a bit quicker and not let him run off in a fit of panic, they might have made it. Of course, he might be dead as well right now, but that does nothing to assuage the guilt slowing eating away at him. 

Never mind that this whole business is far beyond what he signed up for. A good man’s probably dead or worse right now, and it’s because Robert couldn't save him.

He’s in his father’s field, trying to distract himself with monotonous labour when the cabbage cart rolls over the hill, a familiar figure at the reigns. He doesn’t call out in greeting, only watches as Woodhull approaches and tries not to dread what he’s about to say.

Maybe he’s bringing news of Tallmadge’s recapture and summary execution.

Maybe he’s here to tell Robert that he’s out of the ring, that no amount of information can make up for letting one of their own die. 

Woodhull’s face is unreadable. “Afternoon, Townsend.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Taking some of my crop to trade at Stony Point. Not a lot of market for cabbage at home right now, though I’d try my luck a bit further south.”

“I wish you luck with that.” Robert’s mouth feels coated in sawdust.

“Couldn’t pass without thanking you for my package, though.”

“Sorry?”

“My package. From York City. Important delivery, that one. I really appreciate you lending a hand.”

Something unfolds in Robert’s chest, too tentative just yet to be called hope. “It… it arrived in one piece, then?”

A grimace. “Not quite. There was a bit of trouble on the road. But nothing we can’t fix up, I’m sure.”

Woodhull smiles then, a gleeful relief bursting free from wherever he’d been restraining it. Robert’s helpless to do anything but respond in kind.

“That’s good to know.”

“I mean it. Thank you.” Woodhull holds out a hand and Robert shakes it, puzzled but strangely touched by the formality of the gesture. This is all the celebration they’ll get, at least until the war’s over. There’s no triumphant hoisting of the flag for what they do, no songs and no cheers. Only fleeting smiles shared in secret, and the knowledge that there’s been a victory, no matter how much still needs to be put back together again. In this, at least, they’ve won.

“Any time.”

--

The hatchet embeds itself into the tree with a sharp crack, and Caleb curses. He’s still two inches off his target. He crosses the field, pulls the axe-head out of the wood, and returns to his mark. Throws it again. Swears. Retrieves it.

He sinks gratefully into the monotony of the routine. at the utter lack of brain-power required to repeat the same action over and over. He’d rather not think about anything at all right now. The night sneaks up on him as he practices, the sky stealthy fading to inky blackness without him noticing. Any heat of the day has fled along with the sun, but Caleb keeps going, ignoring the stiffness of his fingers around the handle and the way his breath clouds in front of his face.

“What are you doing?” 

Anna’s standing behind him, confusion etched across her face. She’s alone, which is something of a novelty, but he pointedly doesn't comment on it. 

“Target practice.”

“Can you even see the target?” 

She has a point. The mark he’s been aiming for has long since been swallowed by the gloom, and at this point he’s not even sure which tree it's on. He only smiles, and wonders if it looks half as false as it feels. “That’s half the fun.”

Anna physically rolls her eyes at that, something Caleb hasn't seen her do since they were children. “Men,” she mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ben was asking after you again today,” she says instead, and Christ, he should have known this was coming.

“Did he now? That’s lovely, that is.”

He makes to walk past her, and Anna grabs his wrist. Her palms are wrapped in bandages, hiding the blisters from rowing across the bay. She hadn't stopped, not even when her skin split open and lead all over the oars, and maybe that's why he doesn't wrench out of her grip and storm into the night. “So you’re not going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding him?” she asks.

“I haven’t-“

“Don’t,” Anna says, eyes ablaze, “Don’t lie to me. You’ve all but disappeared since he’s been out of bed.”

Caleb watches her face and wonders if he’s going to get away with denying his behaviour in the last week or so. There’s not a chance in hell.

“I’m giving him space, Annie. He must be scared and confused as hell, and I’m not exactly a calming influence, am I? Thought it was best to let him get his bearings before I go barreling in there, foot in mouth.”

“He is scared. And that’s why he needs you not to just disappear to wherever it is you go.”

Caleb snorts. Ben doesn't need him. Ben doesn't even know him. “He’s got you, hasn't he?”

“I’m not sure how much I can do. I mean, okay, some things are starting to come back, but…”

She trails off, chewing her lip, but Caleb knows what she means. If they’d hoped that remembering Anna was going to open some kind of floodgate and Ben would be back to them within a week, that hasn't come close to happening. He hobbles around camp as best he can (not that Caleb’s been watching him), trying to talk to as many people as possible in the hope that something clicks. So far he can remember Anna, the name of his horse, Billy Lee, and the Marquis of Lafayette (although not Hamilton, to the latter’s great frustration) as well as a handful of other men around camp. It’s not much, not in comparison to a whole life, but Caleb’s seen the way he smiles at the few he knows, so full of gratitude as if they’re a lifeline, and he can’t deny that something ugly twists in his stomach at the sight.

All these people who mean nothing, and yet Ben doesn’t know who he is. 

It’s only now hitting Caleb that Ben might never be the same again. It burns in a way that even his death hadn’t, facing up to the fact that they’ve lost a whole lifetime of easy smiles and unconditional trust, and they might never get it back again. So much so that Caleb can’t even bear to be in Ben’s company right now. He can’t talk to the strange, overly polite stranger that wears his best friend’s face. Not when the memory of promises and adolescent punch-ups and lips bruising his collar bone hang between them like a gulf.

Maybe it makes Caleb an awful person. He’s never claimed to be anything else.

“Caleb?”

He never replied, Caleb realises with a start. Anna’s looking at him, her frustration rapidly giving way to sympathy he doesn’t deserve.

“Yeah?”

“Just, try? Please? Walk with him tomorrow, talk about when we were kids. You know Ben better than anyone.”

“Anna, I-“

“Doesn’t he even matter to you? We got him back!”

Did we? Caleb wants to ask. He's not so sure that Ben isn't still at the camp boundary, eternally disappearing into the trees in a borrowed coat and hat. He only nods.

“Okay.”

--

There was once a boy who promised to come home. There was once a boy who watched him try, and wondered if the universe knew the extent of it’s own cruelty.

Chapter Text

“You ready to go then?”

Ben shoulders his bag and stands. “Whenever you are.” It comes out half a question and he hates himself for it.

They’re going to inspect troop drilling on the far side of camp. It should be a simple task, something that could reveal another piece of his patchwork life, but it’s all he can do to temper his swirling nerves.

For one thing, he’s still painfully out of place with the continentals, not matter how many people smile and say how good it is to have him back. These people have a shared history, a common cause they’re willing to fight and die for. Something like that creates a special kind of unity, and its one that Ben’s painfully apart from. Not that he doesn’t believe in their ideals, of course. He’s spent much of the last weeks reading letters and pamphlets from the early years of the war, and he can understand why he turned his back on his whole life to fight with the rebels. It still feels like someone else’s sacrifice, though. 

Even his uniform marks him out as apart from the rest of the camp. They’d offered him his previous rank, but Ben’s found he can’t wear the epaulets and fancy dressings of a Major right now. Not only would it be a title in name only, seeing as he’s in no fit state to be leading anyone, but he’s done nothing to deserve such a position. At least nothing he can remember. The thought of endless ‘yes sirs’ from men he could so easily have betrayed to André is bitter at the back of his throat. Not that he’d been able to explain any of that in so many words, of course, but he’s been allowed to wear a plain blue coat without rank for the time being.

He feels a little safer in the blue and gold, especially in comparison to the red jacket abandoned somewhere by the side of a road, but it’s another thing marking him apart from the rest of the men.

“Ben?”

He looks up with a start to see a pair of brown eyes frowning at him, and he realises he’s been asked a question.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I asked how your shoulder was,” Caleb says stiffly.

“A little better, thank you,”

They lapse into an awkward silence. The ground is frozen solid beneath their feet, a sure sign that the autumn’s rapidly falling to a sharp winter, and Ben desperately thinks of something to say as the grass crunches beneath his boots. It’s another reason for his agitation; Ben has no clue how to act around the man who saved his life and yet seems so adamant in avoiding him.

(He stayed by your bedside when you were dying.)

(He must hate you, he can’t even look you in the eyes.)

(He lied.)

It’s the last contradiction that puzzles Ben more than anything. Caleb had told him they fought together, sure, but made no mention of the fact that they grew up together.

“He’s your best friend,” Anna had said with a confused frown. “You’ve all but lived in each-others’ back pockets since you could walk. Caleb knows you better than anyone. He didn’t tell you this?”

“Not a word.”

Caleb Brewster, Ben has decided, is a walking contradiction.  He’s a puzzle wrapped up in a bawdy laugh, and it’s one he’d be determined to solve even if he didn’t suspect that it’s where the missing pieces of his life might be found. 

“Why don’t you wear uniform?” Ben asks eventually. It’s a simple enough question, he reasons, not too invasive but not more of their agonisingly over-polite small-talk either. 

“What?”

“You’re a lieutenant, but I’ve never seen you in anything other than that old coat.”

“Watch it, I happen to like this old coat,” Caleb shoots back, and his words seem a little too rehearsed. Ben suddenly wonders if they’ve had this conversation before. “I spend a lot of time away from camp,” he says eventually. “Smuggling, trading on the black market, stuff like that. It’s good cover for when I’m on Culper duty, but I can’t exactly do it in uniform.”

“But you’re at camp now.” Ben presses, unsure where the sudden curiosity springs from. He’s sure any other lieutenant with unpolished boots or buttons out of place would be reprimanded, but Caleb doesn't even seem to own a uniform. 

He shrugs. “Got special dispensation from the captain I first served under, and he hasn't seen fit to revoke it yet. Pretty sure he thought I was just trying to drive him insane, but all the fancy blue and gold? It ain’t for me. When all this is over, all you officer types will go on to be great lawmen or what have you. I’ll go back to my whaleboat. Why pretend I’m something I’m not, you know? If I’m gonna get myself killed for this bloody fight, I’ll do it wearing my own coat.” 

They’ve reached what passes for the camp training grounds, and Ben watches the troops for a minute, grateful for the excuse not to have to reply immediately while he tries to fit together all the pieces of Caleb Brewster into an order that makes any kind of sense. He’s beginning to think he’ll be harder to find than Benjamin Tallmadge.

“I won’t, you know,” Ben says softly.

“Won’t what?”

“Be a lawman. I don’t know what our laws are, or remember any of my degree. All I know is this camp.”

“Sure you can. You’re remembering more all the time, Anna said.”

“Irrelevant things. The name of a man I met one time in passing, or that the bread we get has always been so tough. Nothing important.”

“You’ll get there.” Caleb’s voice is surprisingly soft. “And even if you don’t, you have a whole life to live when we get home.”

“And no idea how I’m supposed to fill it,” he says gloomily. “What did I want to do, before? Did I want to be a lawyer, or…?”

“Well, I can’t answer that, Benny. But before you joined up you made one fine school-teacher.”

“I was a teacher?”

“Oh yeah. The best on Long Island. And all the kids loved you, and never once spoke of of turn or forgot their work or missed lessons. They sang your name from the rooftops-”

“You’re teasing me.”

“Guilty. You were a good teacher, though. That much is true. Smartest man to ever come out of that stupid town.”

Caleb smiles at him, a wide goofy grin, and it’s only when Ben smiles back that he seems to realise his mistake. It falters on his face, and there’s something lingering just behind his eyes that Ben can’t identify. He throws his hands deep into his non-regulation pockets and strides off across the field, leaving Ben to stare after him for a long moment before remembering he should probably follow. 

It’s a start, of sorts.

“You’re not his friend,” a voice whispers in his ear, one Ben knows all too well and is doing his best not to think about. The other reason he’s struggling to keep his nerves under control. He tries to ignore it. It doesn’t help.

“You know you’re not his friend. Don’t even try.”

Ben knows it’s just in his head, that his subconscious is just responding to his frayed nerves, and that the voice isn't real. But all the same, he can’t help but turn around, sure he’ll see the smirking face of Nathan Hale standing just behind him. 

The field’s empty. 

--

Anna awakes with a start to an insistent tapping on her window. She slips out of bed, gathers all the courage she can muster and tiptoes to the blinds. And scowls.

“Ben?” she hisses. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Can I come in? Please?”

She hesitates, chewing on her lip. She’s old enough at fifteen to understand the connotations of letting a boy into your room, especially one who appears in the middle of the night. But she’s never really cared much for such stupid rules, and Ben is her friend. Besides, there’s something uncharacteristically desperate in his eyes that Anna finds herself pushing the window open and stepping aside to let him clime in without a word.

“What happened?”

“Caleb.”

“Oh God, what did the idiot do now?” she sighs, collapsing back down on her bed. “Whatever it was, you know he didn't mean it, he’ll come around in the morning with a stupid apology and-“

“He left, Anna.” 

“What?”

“He left. Went and signed onto a fucking whaleboat to Greenland. Didn't even say goodbye…”

Ben’s the preacher’s son, and for all the mischief they’ve gotten into over the years Anna has never once heard him swear. But then she’s never seen him so shaken either. She pats the bed and he sits down next to her, staring resolutely at the floor. “Why would he do that?” Ben whispers, and she realises she doesn’t know.

“That bastard,” Anna says. Caleb’s always been prone to split-second decisions, but he could have found two minutes to tell them he planned to leave. “When he gets back here, I’m gonna-“

“What if he doesn’t? Men die out there! Or if he decides he likes Greenland better than here, or if he meets a girl at some port and gets married and never comes back, or…”

Ben trails off miserably, and there’s nothing Anna can do but wrap her arms around him. She knows how this would look if anyone were to come in, and finds she couldn’t care less. Because all she can think is oh. 

Ben and Caleb are closer than anyone. Always have been. And Ben has never looked twice at any girl in the whole town.

“That bastard,” she repeats. 

--

He asks a private to enquire into Caleb’s service history that evening, curious about what kind of Captain would ever allow a man to serve under him in civilian clothing. The answer comes back a little before midnight.

Captain Benjamin Tallmadge. 

“Who are you?” he whispers. He’s not sure which name on the paper in front of him he’s addressing.

--

There was once a boy who promised to come home. Except he wasn’t so sure where home was any more.

--

It’s not difficult to pretend, if Caleb lets himself. The two of them are sitting in Ben’s tent and passing a bottle between them and it’s so painfully like the million times they’ve been here before. It would be so easy to put his feet up on Ben’s desk just to see him scowls, or to tell him everything he’s afraid of and let Ben rationalise it all away. It would be so easy to lean forward and steel a kiss in the semi-darkness. Ben would protest and tell him that they need to be more careful, but he wouldn’t protest when Caleb cupped his cheek and Ben would slide their bodies closer together and-

Except he wouldn’t. Ben hardly knows him and has no idea about all the secrets that live in the space between them. Caleb doesn't even want to be here, not with this almost-Ben, but he’d asked, and it seems he’s helpless to say no to even this version of his best friend. 

He followed this man into a war he’s still not sure he believes in. He’s long stopped pretending that that there’s anything Ben couldn't ask of him.

And when he’s asking Caleb to give him back the pieces of himself? Well, Caleb isn't sure he can do that, but he’ll damn well try. 

“Tell me about my schoolhouse,” Ben will say, and Caleb does his best to describe the rows of desks and how Ben would always know which children were passing notes because it’s all their group of friends had done for years.

“Tell me about our ring,” Ben will say, and he talks about books of code and invisible ink and all the times they’ve had to haul Abe out of some trouble of his own making.

“Tell me about Caleb Brewster,” Ben says, and Caleb almost drops the bottle.

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, we’re friends, right? Anna said so, and you know all this stuff about me when I was a kid. And all I know about you is that you’re one hell of a shot, and I once thought it was a good idea to let you not wear uniform.”

Caleb laughs despite himself, even as the memory of nagging Ben until he wore down twists painfully in his gut. “Worked that out, did you? There’s not much to tell. Professional n’ere do well, part time smuggler. Worked on a whaleboat for a bit and then I joined up.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean then?”

“Tell me… I don’t know, what’s your favourite food? What’s something you’ve always wanted to do? When was the last time you kissed someone? Something real.”

“Favourite food?” Caleb asks with a raised eyebrow, because no way is he even acknowledging Ben’s last question. “What does that matter? Bread and cheese is all we’re like to get this winter.”

“Caleb-“

“Trust me, there’s nothing worth telling.”

“I wish you’d stop lying to me,” Ben says, his voice suddenly small, and Caleb blinks in surprise. Where the hell had that come from?

“What?”

“You rode out into British territory to save me, and now you don’t even want to look at me! You say that we’re friends, and you won’t let me know a single thing about you! You’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not-“

“There you go, lying to me again.” He half expects Ben to shout. That would be better than this horrible softness. “I was clearly important to you, once, and I’m assuming I held you in the same regard, so please do me the curtesy of explaining what’s so difficult about being in the same bloody tent as me-“

Caleb snaps. “You want to talk about lying?” he hisses, standing sharply to tower over Ben. “How about one utter bastard of a major who promised to come back and then went and left me on my own? Who let me think he’d died because he never learnt to take care of himself?”

“Caleb-“ Ben tries, but he isn't nearly done. Blood pounds in his head, laced with alcohol and four months worth of simmering fury. 

“You want to know what’s so difficult? All the shite we’ve been through side by side, and you can’t remember who the hell I am! You know Anna, you know the boy who brings you breakfast, so why the hell don’t you know me? Do I mean so little to you?” He knows, deep down, that nothing about this is Ben’s fault, but that doesn't seem to matter right now. Rage and fear is bursting from his seams, the damn he’s held in check for so long finally letting tearing itself apart. “Because you mean everything to me, Bennyboy. Everything.”

The last word escapes as a whisper. He’s standing over Ben, heart thumping, and Caleb realises too late that he’s going to kiss him. 

He cradles Ben’s face, one thumb ghosting over his cheekbones. His lips are soft beneath Caleb’s and part in surprise more than anything else when he moves to cover them with his own. It’s reckless and stupid; the tent isn't exactly secured and someone could walk in at any second, but Caleb can’t bring himself to care. Not when Ben is so solid, so real beneath his hands. He has no more words, none that could come close to explaining who Benjamin Tallmadge is to him. If Ben’s searching for himself in Caleb, this is all he has left to give. 

Caleb’s fingertips brush the skin just beneath the collar of his shirt, the skin decorated with a spider-web of scars and Ben jerks suddenly, as if burnt by the touch. He pushes Caleb away with a ragged breath and looks up at him. His face is unreadable, or maybe it’s that he can read him all too well. Confusion and horror and understanding all vie for position and he has no idea what Ben’s thinking.

“Ben?” Caleb asks, a funny kind of hope clawing dangerously at his throat.

“God, I remember,” Ben says, the blend of emotions giving way to joy and the effect is like that of the sun coming out from behind the clouds. The grin spreads across his face and he’s so undeniably Ben that Caleb is helpless to do anything other than smile back. “I remember you, Caleb Brewster. You’re my best friend, you’re my… God, I love you and I never told you, and I promise I’ll never leave you alone again.”

“I love you too,” Caleb gasps, and surges forward to kiss Ben again. Ben laughs into his mouth, and one of them is crying (although Caleb couldn’t say who) and he pushes Ben down onto the bed, and-

And-

And that’s not how it happens. For one fragile moment, he believes he’s about to get Ben back. But like all things fragile and beautiful, it shatters. 

“Ben?” Caleb asks, a funny kind of hope clawing dangerously at his throat.

“Get out.”

“But-“

“Please. Just- Shut up!” 

The last two words come as a pained shout, and Caleb frowns in confusion. “I didn’t say-“

“Get out! Both of you!”

Caleb wants to go to Ben, hold him until his panicked confusion and obvious pain melts away. Instead, he flees.

--

Two small facts about James Willbrough:

1. He doesn't technically exist
2. That doesn’t make him any less real

--

“Replacing me, are you?” Nate asks with a snarl. “Think you can get your life back just like that? I couldn’t, so why the hell should you?”

“You’re not real,” Ben whispers, hands clamped over his ears. His heart is pounding and his mind is aflame. All he can see is Caleb’s soft smile, except it keeps blurring in to a freckled grin.

“They don’t want you,” Nate smirks. “Especially not Caleb. He want the real Benjamin Tallmadge back, his Benjamin Tallmadge. You’re just the cheep imitation.

“Shut up.”

“He’s going to hate you for it.”

“Shut up!”

“Captured spies don’t come back, Ben. You know what happens to us.” 

“That was you,” Ben hisses. “That wasn’t me.”

“Are you sure? Nate sits down next to him. “Let me tell you a story. There was once a boy, who promised to come home…”

--

Anna’s always been good with secrets, just as she’s always been good at pretending that everything’s okay. She doesn’t tell anyone that it was Abe who broke the church windows when they were ten, and when he breaks off their engagement she doesn’t tell anyone how much it hurts. Things are rarely ever okay, she’s long since realised, but people don’t need to know that. It’s better by far to smile and act as if there’s nothing wrong and save her action for where it really counts. 

Her pretence has saved the ring more than once, Anna’s sure. It’s also broken her heart over the years, piece by piece. Some of the cuts are recent. 

(She very carefully doesn’t think about Edmund, how the hope had drained from his face when he realised how she’d lied to him. She doesn’t think about him whenever word comes of some skirmish with the British, and she doesn’t think about him each night as the sky comes alive with stars.)

Some cuts have been bleeding for far longer.

(She sees him, sometimes. Ben will watch Caleb when his back is turned, its all too easy to see the sixteen year old boy who had climbed through her window and cried into her shoulder. There are things in this world that aren’t fair, and this is one of them.)

And afterwards, when Ben is gone and boy with him, Anna watches Caleb and wonders if there ever could have been a chance for the two of them. She doubts it. Things are rarely ever okay, after all. But that doesn’t mean Anna won’t hold on to those she loves with everything she has left.

--

There was once a boy who promised to come home. But he didn’t… doesn’t… It’s him 

(Is it him?) 

No, that boy hanged. He hanged, and he broke his promise, and on the last night his freckles creased as he said “Don’t I always?’ and Caleb laughed and they-

No. Caleb wasn’t there. Was he? Was that him?

(Oh God)

He promised to come home. He has to get home.

No, the boy’s name was BenNateJames471 and he lied, he hanged, he-

There’s a length of rope in his hands. He doesn’t know how it got there. It doesn’t really matter, though. Not in the end.

--

It’s no great surprise when Caleb realise that his feet are carrying him toward’s Anna’s tent. She’s his only friend here, at least the only friend he hasn't pushed away. Possibly forever. Oh Lord.

Anna takes one look at Caleb’s face and lets him in without a word, motioning for him to sit on the steps of her waggon. How long has it been since he stopped thinking of it as Sackett's waggon? Caleb wonders absently. How long has it been since he thought about the old man at all?

“What happened?” Anna asks, coming to sit beside him.

“It’s Ben.”

“What about Ben? Is he okay?”

“I…” Caleb shakes his head. “I kissed him, Anna. We were fighting and I wasn't thinking and I kissed him, and now he probably hates me. I fucked it all, I fucked it so bad.”

He waits for Anna to push him away. At best to shout at him hurting Ben, but more likely to tell him how disgusting and sinful and wrong he acted. To curse him for the monster he is. Instead, she only sighs softly and laces her fingers through his own. 

“Oh, Caleb. I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“You love him, don’t you?”

He nods.

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe forever. Guess it doesn't matter either way.”

She gives him a long, searching look. “Ben told you the circumstances of me leaving Setauket, I suppose?”

“He did.” Caleb has no idea where she’s going with this. “You were going to marry Hewlett to stop Abe doing something stupid enough to get himself caught.”

“Not just to stop Abe doing something stupid. Edmund, Major Hewlett that is… he’s a good man. Kind, and loyal-“

“Loyal to the crown.”

“Is that his fault?” Anna’s voice wavers. “He never even wanted to be a soldier, you know. He’s as much a victim of time and circumstance as anyone. And yet if you were to meet him on the field tomorrow, the two of you would do your best to see the other dead.”

“What are you getting at, Annie?” 

“If anyone in this camp found out that I was engaged to marry an British Major not four months ago, they’d string me up as a traitor. What I’m getting at, is that I know a thing or two about love that this world doesn't understand. It’s too late for me and Edmund. I made my choices and burnt my bridges, and there can never be anything between us. That doesn't have to be the same for you.”

Caleb laughs. He can’t help himself. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even if by some miracle Ben doesn't despise me, he’ll never take those kinds of risks for me. Not now. You know what they do to men-“

“I know Ben Tallmadge.” Anna’s eyes meet his. “And maybe he’s a little lost right now, but I can tell you this much. There isn't a single version of that boy who wouldn’t risk the earth to be by your side.”

“Lieutenant Brewster! Are you in there?” The call comes from outside the tent, and Caleb stands up sharply. 

“Come in.”

It’s a private barely old enough to be considered a man, and Caleb vaguely recognises him as one of the soldier’s under Ben’s command.

“What is it?”

His eyes dart between Caleb and Anna, and Caleb realises with a start that he’s afraid. His first though is of an attack, but there’s no shouting or flurry of footsteps from the rest of the camp. No, this is something much worse. Cold dread pools in his stomach, and Caleb realises he knows what the boy is going to say before he so much as opens his mouth.

“You’d better come quick, Sir. It’s Major Tallmadge.”

--

Two small facts about Anna Strong

1. When she’s eight years old, she finds her Aunt hanging from the rafters in their barn. 
2. She still prays, but only when no-one’s watching

--

Ben (Ben?) dreams. He dreams of terrible student lodgings where the wind whistles through too thin walls, and sharing a bed through the winter months is hardly a cause for raised eyebrows. He dreams of sitting in church and trying not to laugh at the boy pulling faces when no-one else is watching. He dreams of smoke and cannon-fire.

There are voices, somewhere above him. They ripple in and our of existence, and even when they’re so close they must be whispering in his ears, the words refuse to make any kind of sense.

“-wouldn’t do that, I’m telling you!”

“-knotted into a makeshift noose, Lieutenant. If the captain hadn't happened to come in-“

“-kind of fit, perhaps. Won’t know until-“

“-there, Benny? Can you even here me?”

Waking doesn’t happen at once. Ben’s absently aware of struggling upwards through layers of sleep, but it’s a monumental effort. More often than not the darkness takes him and he knows nothing but ghost, but slowly he’s clawing his way upwards. There’s no way of telling how much time has passed when he’s finally able to recognise two of the voices. 

“No improvement, I see?” It’s a tone that can only belong to Washington.

“Afraid not, Sir, but the doctor says that we’re like to see none until he wakes up.” 

Caleb? Caleb, is that you? Ben struggles to open his eyes, but they’re so heavy.

“I though as much. You should know, I’m making arrangements to move him to Philadelphia when the next supply train departs. 

“What?” Caleb’s voice is sharp. “You can’t do that, Sir! He belong’s here.”

“He belongs where he may best recover, and that is not the middle of a war. It’s for Benjamin’s own good.”

“And you’re not giving him any say in this?”

“If he doesn't wake, that won’t be an issue. If he does…” Washington sighs. “Last I checked, I was still the commander of this army. He will go where I send him, whether he likes it or not.”

“With all the respect,” Caleb begins, in a tone that implies exactly the opposite. “But if you send him to Philadelphia against his wishes, how are you any better than André, sir?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You want to cart Ben off to some city he doesn't know, surrounded by strangers and forbidden from fighting for the one thing he might still believe in.”

“I’m only thinking of his best interests.”

“Ben won’t see it that way.”

Don’t send me away, Ben wants to scream. The thought of his lonely room in New York stings painfully. He doesn't want to be sent back to that. He doesn't want to become no-one again. “Please,” he whispers. It’s a monumental effort even to move his lips, and neither man hears him.

“And you need him here, running your spy ring.” Caleb continues.

“You’ve been running it admirably in his absence. There’s no reason why you cannot continue.”

“Oh, sure there is. If you send him to Philadelphia, I sure as hell ain’t staying here.”

“You will stay where you are ordered.”

“Nah, don’t think I will. And you can’t order me anywhere if I resign my commission. I’m not loosing him again, see, and if I have to let the whole ring collapse to make sure that doesn't happen, then so be it.”

Ben struggles to crack his eyelids open. The image is blurred and on its side, but he can make out the two men standing nose to nose at the end of his bed. 

“You would threaten this entire operation-“

“I would, sir.”

There’s a long pause, in which neither moves. Then Washington shakes his head. “I want a full report on his condition. And inform me the moment he wakes.” He turns and leaves with a flurry of his cloak, and Caleb seems to deflate as soon as the tent flaps close behind him.

Ben lets his eyelids flutter shut again, the energy of keeping them open too great, so he doesn't see Caleb move towards him again. He does notice when Caleb takes his hand though.

“T’nk… you,” Ben manages drowsily. 

He isn’t awake long enough to hear Caleb’s reply.

--

There was once a boy who promised to come home. He tired, God how he tried, even when home was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t so sure what home was any more, but maybe it didn't have to be a place. Maybe home could be something entirely more real.

--

It happens in degrees. 

There’s never a magic moment when the world slots into place and Ben suddenly remembers everything. Caleb never gives up hope for that happening, but he’s long since stopped expecting it to. Instead, he focuses on the Ben he has in front of him. The Ben who’s not so much broken as he is fractured, and fractures can be made whole again in time. 

Ben throws a snowball at him on Christmas eve. Caleb carefully doesn't ask if it’s because he remembers the way they used to wage snow wars on the hill below Setauket church, or if it’s an olive branch of friendship. What he does do is throw one back.

Three days later Ben starts drilling, if not commanding his own troops again. 

On the Eleventh of January, he wishes Hamilton a happy birthday without having to be told. 

Washington never talks about moving Ben to Philadelphia again, at least not to Caleb’s knowledge. And there’s no reason why he should. The information Ben had managed to remember from his time in New York is more than enough to make up for the loss of one Major’s active service, especially through a winter with little fighting to be done. He’s determined to be back in the war by the time battles start to rage in earnest again, though. Caleb desperately wants to tell him never to take up his arms again but it’s not his place. Ben is as much a soldier as he is anything else and something in his blood will always rage for this fight. Instead, he offers to help him with target practice. Every day they go to the tree at the edge of camp and take turns to shoot at the little notch. And every day, Ben’s hands shake a little less and he hits his mark a little more.

He starts to wear full uniform again.

He stops flinching when Caleb lays an hand on his shoulder or claps him on the back. There’s nothing more between them than these brief touches and Caleb would be lying if he said that was okay, but it’s what it is. And it’s a whole lot better than nothing.

There are still the bad days, of course. Ben will get frustrated with himself, usually over some irrelevant detail he can’t recall and end up punching something. More than once, he cries out in his sleep, calling for his father or for Nathan Hale. Caleb hates those nights most of all, when the gap between the beds feels like a great gulf he cannot cross. 

But slowly, they’re getting fewer.

Ben takes his arm one day, and tells Caleb how sorry he is about his uncle.

He starts sitting in on meetings in the command tent and drafting short missives for Washington.

Little by little, Ben comes back to himself. 

He see’s John André at a negotiation over some flour mills at the end of February. Ben doesn't say a word to him or so much as look in his direction, but that night he hovers at the end of Caleb’s bed until he shifts aside to let him in. Neither man speaks for a long time. Ben’s lying so that his face is pressed into Caleb’s chest, and it’s only when his shoulders start to shake that Caleb realises he’s crying silent tears. They fall asleep like that, taking silent comfort in each other’s heartbeat, and if Caleb presses a single kiss into Ben’s hair before he closes his eyes, they don’t mention it.

Fractures heal, given enough time. That doesn't mean they don’t leave scars.

He catches sight of Ben’s chest occasionally, of his back and sides and shoulders. He’s a patchwork of silvery scars and and twisted skin that will never go back to the way it was. Caleb doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful. Every mark is a horror that Ben’s survived, and Caleb wants to hold him down and kiss every one of them until Ben realises how perfect he is, but he won’t. Not until Ben tells him it’s okay. Not until Ben’s ready to face up to what the two of them once were. And if that never happens, or if Ben decides he doesn't want that any more? Well, Caleb will just have to learn how to live with that.

It happens by degrees.

They’re sitting around the campfire in the early spring, and Caleb’s in the middle of an elaborate story about out-rowing seven Royal patrols in his little whale-boat when he notices Ben’s face. He’s doing his best to play the responsible, disapproving major, but Caleb doesn't miss his smile.

“Five,” Ben says later, once they’ve retreated to their tent.

“What was that?”

“You know full well there were only five British boats.”

“Ah well,” Caleb shrugs, doing his best to hide his joy at another memory resurfacing. “What’s any story without a bit of embellishing.”

“I was so angry when you returned to camp,” Ben says slowly, as if testing the reliability of every word. “I told you that you were risking our whole operation by being so reckless a smuggler.”

“You shouted it.”

A small smile. “I was more worried that you were risking your own life, you know. When you were back late, I wasn’t thinking about the ring. I didn’t care about that. I cared about you, and whether or not you were lying dead somewhere.” Ben stares determinedly at the floor as he speaks. “Was it like that when I didn’t come back?”

There are times when it’s better to lie for the sake of someone you love. This isn't one of them. “Every day, Tallboy. Every damn day.”

Ben finally looks at him, blue eyes shining in the dim light. He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologise.” Caleb is at his side in an instant. “None of what happened was your fault.”

“But if I’d-“

“None of it, understand?”

Caleb takes his hand without thinking about it, and Ben doesn’t pull away. 

“Hey, Caleb?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me?”

He’s long stopped pretending that that there’s anything Ben couldn't ask of him.

--

Two small facts about Benjamin Tallmadge:

1. He fights not for glory nor ruin, but for what he believes in.
2. There are days when he doesn’t believe in himself. There always have been, and there always will be. But that’s okay. He has others to believe for him.

--

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come?”

Ben smiles softly. “We’ve been over this. You have to be here in case Abe signals.”

“Ah, screw him. We can always send Anna in my place. She’s getting quite good at this whole smuggling business, you know.”

“Caleb, look at me. I’m going to be fine. It’s a couple days at most, and I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone.”

It’s not the first time Ben’s left the camp since returning, but it’s the first time he’s riding out alone, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little nervous. The fact that it should be perfectly safe doesn’t do much to calm him; he’s being sent to rendezvous with a battalion to the north and help coordinate their movements. He won’t even need to leave their own territory, but Ben can’t help the way his gut twists uncomfortably as he tightens his saddle.

If he were to march up to the big house and tell Washington he can’t do it, no one would blame him. But Ben’s resolute that he won’t do that. For one thing, he needs to prove to himself that he can did these little things without disaster. For another, he needs to prove the same to Caleb.

“I always notice,” Caleb replies, hands deep in his pockets. “I notice every damn second you’re away.”

It’s all Ben wants to do to press a soft kiss to Caleb’s lips, to try and convince him not to worry in a way that words cannot convey, but he dare not. Never mind that they’re at the edge of camp, and there’s not a soul around in the early morning light. Ben’s willing to risk almost anything in this war, but he’s not willing to risk Caleb. Not now that he’s found his way home.

He settles for placing a hand on his arm instead. “Me too. But I still have to go.”

“I ain’t asking you to stay. Just promise you’ll come back.”

A memory tugs at the base of Ben’s skull, a smirk and the words don’t I always? They’re few and far between now, the flashes of recollection, and Ben wouldn't be surprised if soon they stop altogether. He doesn't have his whole life back, not even by half, but that’s alright. He has a whole life head of him for the making. He doesn’t need to keep looking behind to find Benjamin Tallmadge. He squeezes Caleb’s arm a little tighter. “I promise.”

It takes all the effort in the world to let go. He does it anyway. And when he disappears into the tree-line, Ben doesn't look back

--

There was once a boy who promised to come home. 

He did.

Fare you well, my dear, I must be gone,

And leave you for a while;

If I roam away I’ll come back again,

Though I roam ten thousand miles, my dear,

Though I roam ten thousand miles.

So fair thou art, my bonny lass,

So deep in love am I;

But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love,

‘Till the stars fall from the sky, my dear,

‘Till the stars fall from the sky.