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When Oliver Baker had joined his majesty’s noble ranks, he had been well warned of the many trials and horrors involved in the life of a soldier. Death… mutilation… disease….
…though being assigned lackey to an overworked housewife was never on that list.
After the Woodhull residence had been burnt down by the fleeing rebels, Oliver, singed and rattled but alive, along with the distraught family had been sent to reside at Whitehall with the magistrate and major. Major Hewlett had been mercifully understanding of Oliver’s injuries and had assigned him much lighter duties than what would normally be expected. This meant much of his time during the day was spent as a sentry at Whitehall, and the rest of it doing favors for Mrs Woodhull, which usually involved grabbing things off of high shelves and clotheslines and running into town for miscellaneous supplies, (though he was honestly happy to do it. For as kind as the poor woman was to him in spite of all the extra hassle he must make for her it was the least he could do really.)
It was on one of these trips into town that the Queen’s Rangers rode into Setauket. Oliver didn’t necessarily know too terribly much about the rangers, aside from snippets of camp gossip and passing mentions here and there. He knew the stealthy green-clad rangers were ruthless warriors, called in for the most gruesome and secretive missions. To have them here in such a generally insignificant little town seemed something of a bad omen.
He felt himself inwardly wishing Simcoe was here, wrongdoings aside. He was always so quick to piece together whatever was going on in town, both on a civilian and military level, and Oliver had started to take comfort in listening to his hushed explanations during patrols and late night watches. It made him feel a little bit safer having a better idea what was going on at any given time, (even if some of the captain’s explanations and predictions seemed downright insane).
Oliver watched the incoming rangers with trepidation, staying well out of the way of the commotion. He absentmindedly found a bit of humor in the situation as he noticed how their leader appeared to dwarf the horse he was riding in on with how tall he was. Something seemed oddly familiar about him, though he couldn’t quite place it. Suddenly it stuck Baker like lightning.
There he was.
Simcoe was leading the rangers into Setauket and oh dear god did he look striking doing it. His hair had grown out and where there was once a wig, there was now a head full of auburn curls that made his eyes appear all the bluer. The red coat had been traded out for a dark forest green that was frankly much more flattering, (Oliver had never particularly thought the red uniform coat had done him any favors). He rode forth with a satisfied look on his face as though he was riding off to be knighted rather than simply returning to his previous post. He looked wonderful and formidable all at once and it nearly drove him to swooning.
Simcoe slowed his horse and the rest of his men to a halt. If he were just a little braver—or stupider…or… possibly a woman…maybe all three—Oliver would have rushed forward, threw his arms around him and kissed him soundly right there in the middle of the thrice damned town. Instead, he just watched with giddy, lovesick eyes as the captain dismounted and marched smartly through the town like a man on a mission, his back turned to Baker. Oliver watched entranced as Simcoe stopped and inclined his head slightly to come face to face-
…face to face with Mrs. Strong….oh.
His giddiness suddenly melted into something closer to dread. It’s not so much that Oliver believed Simcoe would drop his obsession with Mrs. Strong entirely on his behalf, but it still made something twist in his chest to watch him openly try to pursue her. As much as Oliver tried to stifle it, he could still feel bitter jealousy creep up upon him, (though he knew it was rather pointless to be jealous of Anna’s position for as much as she hated the captain’s attention). He was beginning to find he rather hated feeling so acutely like a second pick.
Though he was too far away from the pair to hear, the look of trepidation on Anna’s face was indication enough that Simcoe had attempted to start a conversation with her. After a moment, however, a mixture of confusion and surprise crept across her face subtly as she replied to whatever comment or inquiry the captain had made.
Distantly, he noticed Major Hewlett approaching the incoming rangers, though he paid him little mind. Hewlett looked as though he was attempting to hide his irritation, and Oliver was fairly sure he could hazard a guess as to why. While his dislike for Simcoe wasn’t necessarily publicly announced, it was well known that he held no great love for the captain, and to have him show up in Setauket once more after his disgraceful removal, well, Oliver doubted that would be well received. He himself might’ve been equally as unimpressed, were he not as woefully smitten as he was.
The Major came to stand behind Simcoe with a look just shy of scathing. Baker could almost hear the formal, acidic tone in the Major’s voice from where he stood as Simcoe turned to face him. Hewlett was a good man and a fair leader, but it was clear he had no patience for whatever games Simcoe might play, though Simcoe still seemed cordial enough. They were locked in a rather tense looking conversation for a short while, before Anna walked around Simcoe to stand beside Hewlett with careful, measured steps. With a few more terse words, Anna strode away, arm in arm with the Major.
Baker braced himself for the captain’s contemptuously jealous glare to bore through the Major, which would certainly do nothing but throw salt into his own festering wounds, but none came. Oddly enough, Simcoe still seemed fairly unbothered by the situation, if mildly put out. Instead, he leaned in to murmur something to another ranger, his second if Oliver had to guess.
Simcoe’s gaze drifted up over the ranger’s shoulder, casually taking note of the rest of the town. His eyes swept unassumingly past Baker, then suddenly snapped back sharply. Oliver stiffened when he realized he’d been noticed and hesitantly offered Simcoe a smile, not really expecting any acknowledgment.
To his shock, the captain’s gaze softened marginally and his lips twitched upwards slightly in way of greeting. Oliver felt his own smile widen and he dazedly gave a small wave. Simcoe held his gaze just a moment longer before his attention was drawn back to the ranger at his side, but Oliver could have sworn he saw amusement flicker quietly across his face.
So, emboldened by the passing ghost of a smile, Oliver formed a plan. He set off to finish his remaining errands before scurrying off into the woods with a knife and an empty satchel.
***
About an hour later, Oliver climbed up the stairs of the Strong tavern in the midday sun with a satchel full to the brim with red clover and a nagging suspicion that this was the most brazen thing he’d ever done, and likely ever would do. What would Simcoe say? All of their previous meetings of any variety had been during some type of watch or patrol, or at the very least, late in the evening. And now here he is in the middle of the day, marching up to his room even, to give him flowers like a flustered suitor pursuing an actress after a performance. Part of him was almost afraid that the captain would take one look at the cobbled together bouquet and laugh him right out of the room. Another part was more worried he wouldn’t say anything at all, that he would just stand and give Baker a cold, affronted glare until he left on his own, which was debatably worse.
Quite suddenly, Oliver had a great deal of sympathy for every protagonist in any romance he’d ever read.
He stood on the stairs for just a moment, trying to calm nerves and make sure he was perfectly presentable, (although there’s only so many times that a hat or a waistcoat can be adjusted before it’s just flat out stalling). He also tried to think of an alibi, just in case Simcoe didn’t want to see him at all, with or without the blasted flowers. After all, his little white lie would only get him a few moments alone, if that.
Well… hopefully he just wouldn’t go asking Hewlett why a simple greeting and request for a report would require confidentiality and a courier. With one last check to make sure his satchel was sealed, he finished climbing the stairs, steeled himself once more outside Simcoe’s door, and knocked.
“Enter.”
Baker opened the door, and immediately froze. Inside, along with the captain standing behind a desk, were two other rangers standing at attention. All three were now staring at him with equally unreadable expressions. Oliver had had a feeling that Simcoe would be briefing someone when he got to him, but it still didn’t help his nerves any to have multiple pairs of eyes so intensely focused on him. He hazarded a glance at Simcoe, but he was met with the same blank, if mildly more interested, expression as his subordinates. He cleared his throat.
“I- I have a pressingly urgent and confidential message from Major Hewlett to relay to one Captain Simcoe of his majesty’s Queen’s Rangers.” He could have sworn he saw amusement flicker through Simcoe’s eyes again, but it was gone before he could place it.
“Very well,” He dismissed the two rangers, who shot eachother questioning looks, but put up no resistance. Baker turned slightly to watch them leave with relief and mounting anxiety. He faintly heard a dull thump over the sound of his pounding heart the moment the door clicked shut, but he couldn’t bring himself to think anything of it. Steeling himself a final time, he turned to face Simcoe at last.
Before he could even turn around fully, however, he was met with a nearly flying armful of Queens Ranger, who crushed his lips against Oliver’s with such force he would likely be afraid for his nose and front teeth if he had any mind for it. He stumbled backwards and his hat fell to the floor as Simcoe threw an almost painful grip around his neck and shoulders, but Oliver really couldn’t bring himself to care much about that either, he just wrapped his arms around the captain with (hopefully) equal force and tried to keep up with the torrent of kisses.
Well, at least there was no mistaking that Simcoe wanted to see him.
To Oliver’s pleasant surprise, however, Simcoe was the first to break away, instead placing a lingering kiss near his ear before pressing his face into the place where his neck met his shoulder. Oliver hesitated a moment, then placed his own head gingerly over the captain’s. He decided he liked the way the auburn curls tickled his face better than anything the wig ever had to offer.
“You… your hair looks nice.” The hummed in acknowledgment.
“Certainly glad you think so.”
Oliver hummed contentedly and pulled him closer. It was really quite lovely to hold and be held like this. Simcoe lifted his face to kiss him once more, and he could almost forget all of the nagging fears and worries that plagued him. Rangers, commands, tavern keeps, clovers… Clovers?…. Clovers!
“Wait!” Oliver jerked his arm up, aiming for a shoulder but instead slapping a hand across Simcoe’s face. Simcoe stared at him -at least with the eye that hadn’t just been poked by a stray fingertip- in mildly affronted confusion. “Er- Here! I have somethi- Somethings for you,” Oliver pushed Simcoe away and scrambled for his satchel. He whipped out the bouquet, tied carefully together with a scrap of ribbon from his own hair.
It sprang free with a shower of loose leaves and buds that fell lamely to the floor. Oliver cursed himself inwardly for the horrendously anticlimactic execution as an awkward silence descended upon them. He scrambled to break the silence.
“I-I thought it might be nice to give you something, you know, t-to celebrate your return- and your new station!” Thankfully, the captain neither laughed nor glared, he just kept staring blankly at the bouquet like he’d never seen flowers before. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds that he stared, but to Oliver it felt like hours. Simcoe seemed to compose himself somewhat as he took the flowers carefully out of Oliver’s outstretched hand. He stroked the blossoms idly and scoffed as a cryptic smirk crept onto his face.
“An odd gift for a man of war, don’t you think?” Baker paled and tried to think of a way to salvage the situation.
“W-well I mean it’s certainly not all that much- I wasn’t really sure what you would want- need- I mean… flowers seemed a good gift to give a returning sweetheart after a-“ Simcoe’s head snapped up and his hand stilled. Oliver realized his mistake and felt as though he might sink through the floor.
Sweetheart.
Oliver had called John Graves Simcoe,—Captain of his Majesty’s Queen’s Rangers—a sweetheart. His sweetheart.
Baker stared intently at the red clovers in the captain’s hand. He didn’t dare look to see Simcoe’s reaction. The man was silent as the grave. He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to breathe. Oliver was fairly sure that if looks could kill, he’d be dead three times over by now. His heart felt like it wanted to crawl up his throat as the silence dragged on. After what had to have been a solid minute of dead silence, he hazarded a glance at his face and nearly gawked at what he saw.
Simcoe was staring owlishly with the strangest expression he’d ever seen on… well, anyone really. His eyes flicked downwards, fanning fine lashes over cheekbones a more vibrant shade than the flowers in his hands and his lips were parted and twitching at the corners. It would be somewhat comical, if there was anything remotely funny to be found about this situation. He hadn’t even been this lost for words when he’d had to ask Baker what his given name was, and now here he was, completely dumbstruck by a handful of weeds and and a single word.
When he noticed Baker looking, he seemed to remember how to breathe again. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but couldn’t find the words, opting for a shaky sigh instead. After a pause, another failed attempt, and an odd strangled squeaking noise, he cleared his throat.
“Is that what you see me as? Truly?… I thought ‘sweetheart’ was a title more fit for lovesick teenagers and old married women.” Scraping up whatever courage he had left to muster, Oliver took a careful step forward and brushed the stray hair away from his face. He could feel the burning heat of Simcoe’s flushed cheek against his fingers.
“Well… it doesn’t have to be if you don’t want it to. I thought it sounded rather… pleasant I suppose.” Simcoe nodded absently, blue eyes glazed and unfocused as though he were lost in thought. Suddenly, he jerked his head to stare intently at him. His face flashed into a toothy grin so wide it crinkled his nose before settling on a more subdued smile, and oh what a gorgeous little trick that was! (Though Oliver had to admit, it made him somewhat nervous that Simcoe was going to lunge in and bite a chunk of his face off.)
“Give me your boot.”
“Ehh…”, Oliver blinked, somewhat dazed by the nose crinkle thing. “What?” Simcoe huffed and held his free hand out impatiently.
“Your boot. Give it here, quickly!”
“Does- does it matter which one?”
“No I don’t think so, just pick one already!” Baker hesitated just a moment before he scrambled at his left boot, distantly wondering if it was possible to get whiplash from a verbal conversation. He shoved it into Simcoe’s outstretched hand. To his bewilderment, Simcoe set the boot down on the desk, plucked a large clover from his bouquet, and dropped it in his boot, then turned around again and gave him back his boot with a wide satisfied grin. Oliver stared blankly.
“… thank… thank you?” Baker tried, feeling rather lost. Simcoe’s face fell somewhat.
“You…don’t know what I meant to do, do you?”
“…no.…Should I?” Simcoe sighed.
“No, probably not. In all fairness I don’t understand it too well either.” Oliver was even more confused. “See, when I was in Wales, there was an old soldier in our barracks that always had a ragged old clover in his boot. Someone else asked about it once and he told us that his wife had put it there before he had left home. He then prattled on about it forever, but the important part was how it was a tradition for someone to put a red clover in their lover’s shoe to…” he hesitated for a moment, “…to bring them home safely. I hadn’t listened all that closely—I hadn’t needed to then—though now I rather wish I had.” Simcoe’s lip twitched up into a hesitant smile for a moment, then it slowly melted into a grimace as he stared at the boot. “… though now that I think about it… he also said something about it protecting from infidelity as well.” His gaze flickered up to Oliver then quickly away before settling on the floor. The emotion slowly began to bleed away from his face again. “This was more of an insult then…wasn’t it?”
Something twisted in Oliver’s chest. Yes, it was weird. And jarring. And bordering on an insult. But it was touching nonetheless. No matter how jaded and worldly he believed himself to be, it was apparently that Simcoe was still woefully out of his depth when it came to the kind little gestures Baker had known to be involved in courtship, (for that’s what this was, wasn’t it?). Oliver couldn’t just idly watch such a thoughtful, albeit clumsy, reciprocation cave in on itself without at least some effort on his part.
“Well- well hand me your boot then!” Simcoe stared at him suspiciously for an uncomfortably long time. Then, almost painfully slowly, he reached down to remove his own left boot. Oliver set his own boot on the floor, scooped up a stray blossom, and dropped it into Simcoe’s. “There, now no matter what it’s supposed to do, it’s done to both of us.” Oliver smiled warmly, even as his newfound courage began to fizzle out again.
What was the point of that? If it was an insult, all he did was throw it back in Simcoe’s face. Even if it wasn’t it didn’t really help anything, it was just redundant somewhat cheap to repeat the gesture. He felt his anxiety thaw a bit as it became clear Simcoe wasn’t even remotely unhappy with him.
He looked Oliver over with incredulous eyes, wide and crystal blue as the sea. Perhaps it was Oliver seeing him through rose tinted lenses, but he really was beautiful at times like this, flushed and still slightly wolfish looking, but pleasantly content. The smile that crept upon his face morphed into a more mischievous grin.
“Well good! Now we’re both safe from either misfortune or whores… or both if you really get down to it I suppose, though perhaps it’s best not to find out.” Oliver sucked in an uneasy breath.
“Forgive me if I was too forward in assuming-“ he nearly jumped out of his skin when Simcoe suddenly choked out a laugh which dissolved into a hysterical fit that had him staggering away to lean against the desk. Oliver looked on for some sort of explanation, but Simcoe just shook his head and continued to howl, all tousled red hair and flashing white teeth. Finally he was able to pull himself together enough to muster a response.
“I- oh god hold on- you’re worried—forwardness? With— with me-?” he trailed off with a high pitched squealing sort of sound before his words were completely lost in his cackling. A grin tugged at Baker’s lips and giddy laughter started to bubble up his own throat. He supposed it was a bit of a stupid thing to worry about. Worrying about being too forward with Simcoe was a bit like fretting over table manners in the company of a wild dog, (though he was still rather worried for him, such an outburst of borderline manic laughter seemed uncharacteristic. But, if anyone would go into some sort of emotional shock from feeling too many things at once, it would be Simcoe). Besides, it really was funny to see him like this, doubled over wheezing and nearly weeping over a petty concern.
Feeling bold once more, Oliver dove forward, pulled him up from where he sat half keeled over, and peppered his face with kisses. Simcoe threw his arms around his shoulders and neck, still heaving with gasps and breathless laughter. He tugged at the ribbon holding Simcoe’s hair in place, letting it fall around his face in soft, shaggy curls. Oliver running his hands through it made the captain’s nose crinkle up in that fetching, semi frightening, way again, and something fluttered in Oliver’s chest. A tear did end up rolling down his cheek, but Oliver kissed it quickly away.
Simcoe leaned in and made an attempt at taking control of the situation, but really just ended up laughing breathlessly against his mouth, which made them both break into snorts and snickers again. They were both giddy and lightheaded, pawing awkwardly at each other and making poor attempts at kisses— when a door slammed somewhere in the hall outside.
In an instant, they both whirled to face the door completely sober once more. The room was completely silent for several long moments, save for heavy breathing as Simcoe recovered. Finally, he closed his eyes and sighed.
“Shouldn’t… shouldn’t you be somewhere?” He asked quietly. Oliver, who was still staring at the door, heart pounding in his chest, replied distractedly.
“I think I’m alright at the moment, Hewlett’s decided to go a little easier on me since I got caught up in the fire at the Woodhull home.”
“. . . the what.” Oh right, that’s what he forgot to tell him.
Oops.
“Er… I’m sorry. I- the Woodhull house burned down—was burnt down—one night not long after the battle. The Woodhulls had been arguing that night so I just turned in early and-….well I woke up to smoke. They said a band of stray rebels took it out. Th- we all live at Whitehall now…I-I’m alright I just got a few burns up my arm-“ Before he could even get the words out, Simcoe snatched the arm Baker had gestured to and shoved his sleeve up to his elbow, making Oliver hiss in discomfort. The burns had mostly healed by now, just a few tender red patches remained on his forearm trailing up towards his shoulder, but Simcoe looked stricken nonetheless.
“You- you were in a house fire—you could have died— and you’re just now telling me? Why didn’t you write?” He hissed, a few inches away from his face. Baker was taken aback by his sudden urgency.
“Y-you were- Hewlett sent you off—I figured you had enough to deal- I didn’t want to worry yo-“
“You didn’t want me to worry? You would rather I come back to a corpse? And why didn’t you tell me as soon as you got here?” Simcoe looked genuinely frightening now, teeth bared and eyes wide, speaking in an affronted, icy whisper almost against his own lips now.
Oliver was beginning to notice a pattern in Simcoe, he either remained completely cold and unflinching no matter the circumstances or bordered on hysteria, with very little in between… or transition for that matter. Oliver reached cautiously up, placed his free hand on Simcoe’s cheek and stroked the hair from his face again. Simcoe twitched and shot a glance at the hand before his eyes darted back to his face.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to keep it from you. But… I’m still here and the burns are nearly gone, and now you’re here too. I… I’m sure it’ll be alright from here at least.” Oliver inwardly winced at his rather clumsy attempt at offering comfort. Simcoe just gave him a hard stare for a long moment more before his expression softened somewhat into something more like exasperation.
“You know, Oliver, if you’re going to call me your sweetheart, the least you can do is keep me up to date on your near death experiences.” Oliver flushed and hazarded a smile.
“So… does this mean you’re going to let me then? You’re not insulted by it are you?” Simcoe hummed thoughtfully and cast his gaze to the hand that was still absently petting across his cheek and through his hair. He quirked an eyebrow and smiled.
“There are certainly worse fates I suppose…now if only I could keep you off of death’s doorstep, since you seem so keen on visiting.” Simcoe closed his eyes and pressed his hand against Baker’s. He scoffed a dry laugh. “I almost wish I could just-“ he paused for a moment. Suddenly, Simcoe’s eyes snapped open. Emotion flickered across them like sunlight across a wave as he pushed Oliver and held him an arms length away.
Oliver began to shift uneasily under the scrutinizing look Simcoe fixed him with. He could practically see the gears turning in Simcoes head, the pieces seemed to be falling nicely into place… whatever they were, if the grin creeping across his face was any indication.
“Oliver, how well do you fare with horses?” Oliver scrambled for a moment, unsure what exactly it was Simcoe was looking for.
“Er… I can ride well enough—I think—if that’s what you’re asking.” Whatever the question was, he apparently got it right, as Simcoe flashed him another jagged grin before his face settled on an expression just slightly too giddy to be devious.
“You may want to get your shoe on, dear. As much as I love your company, there’s an errand or two that have just recently popped up that needs seen to immediately.” Simcoe crouched down to tend to his own boot. Oliver blinked for a moment then did the same, curious about the scrutiny and the sudden ‘errands’ that suddenly needed tending to, but was honestly too afraid to ask. He grabbed his hat off the floor and stood to press a kiss high on Simcoe’s cheek. Before he could pull away, Simcoe grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him in and crushed their lips together in a bruising kiss. He then trailed up to Oliver’s ear.
“Travel safe.” He kissed the shell of his ear and pulled away again. Oliver stood flustered for a moment before nodding and turning for the door.
“Oh and, Oliver?” Baker turned, hand on the doorknob. “Do be careful how many times you kiss my face like that, I fear I’ll be stuck with freckles all through the winter too, at this rate”. Baker grinned wide and inclined his head slightly.
“There could certainly be worse fates my sweet.” Oliver noticed the way Simcoe flushed at the endearment with no small amount of pride as he turned and walked out the door.
Simcoe stared at the door for a few more lingering moments before turning back to the -slightly worse for wear- flowers still clamped in his fist. He hummed thoughtfully and went to fish out an old tin cup to hold them for the time being.
Finding a uniform wouldn’t be difficult, and any objections from the existing rangers could be squandered easily enough. Even a horse could be acquired with very little trouble.
The only issue would be convincing Hewlett to let him go, but Simcoe had a feeling that a few good words from Oliver should put the matter to rest, (and he knew he had Anna as an ally in this as well, she seemed quite keen on getting him to pursue Oliver in the first place).
Besides, Simcoe was certain that Oliver was going to look quite dashing in green, though just the thought of it made him stupidly giddy. With a satisfied sigh, he turned to find something to help remove the thorns embedded in his hand.
He hadn’t quite had the heart acknowledge the stray thistle sprigs in front of Oliver.