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Ben had slowly picked his way through unfamiliar no-man’s land for hours. He had watched the moon peak and begin its slow descent. He was covered in filth. Covered in a thin film of blood, sweat, dirt, and the lingering presence of a woman. Once he reached the edge of the Continental camp, tears sprung from the corners of his eyes. God only knew how long he had been gone and how long it would be again before he was forced to leave again.
No fires were lit, no drunken lullabies filled the air, no light seeped beneath the tents. The only movement came from the sentries, all nodding off from their posts. Thankfully, a young one nearby noticed Ben and barked at him, alerting the other men to his presence. “Oi! You there, this is the Continental Army and unless you have a damn good reason -” The sentry gasped. “Major Tallmadge, sir!” He snapped from his half-asleep stupor to the rigid stance Ben had only seen used on General Washington himself. Ben gave him a halfhearted nod and hand wave to relax: it was all he had to offer. “Major, His Excellency has been expecting you, should I go wake him?”
Ben shook his head. “No, Private. Let him sleep.” He was so tired.
The Private ran back to the other sentries to let them know why this strange man was stumbling into camp in the middle of the night, returning them to their respective posts.
Caleb’s tent was much closer than Ben’s, he realized, readjusting to the rows upon rows of beige structures surrounding him, dizzying him. He eventually pushed through the sloppily tied flaps of the tent, letting himself into the darkness. Somehow shuffling around and lighting a candle, Ben saw his best friend crashed on his stomach on the bed, his hair a wreck, his stubble beginning to show, and a few drops of blood on his temple. Ben sighed at the endearing image. He lightly brushed the hair off of Caleb’s face and wet the pad of his thumb to wash the blood off. Caleb stirred beneath his touch, but didn’t wake. He always was a heavy sleeper. Ben shrugged the brown jacket off of his shoulders, careful not to disturb the bandages around his stomach or the man sleeping. He toed off his boots and blew out the candle. His eyes still readjusting to the darkness, Ben saw the flash of eyes from the bed as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Tallboy?”
The tears he had been carrying for days spilled silently down Ben’s cheeks in a sort of surrender to his circumstances. “Caleb,” he barely breathed out, his chest rattling in an unsuccessful attempt to steady his breathing.
The bed shifted, Caleb moving over and inviting the Major in without a word. Ben gingerly removed his waistcoat and slipped in between the sheets, his knees accidentally knocking Caleb’s. He whispered out an apology. Ben turned away from Caleb, gazing out into the small tent as the hot tears rolled through the grime of his face. He wished they would wash away more than the dirt on his exterior. He wished they would wash away his sin and turn him back into the man, no, boy, he had been before running away from a perfectly solid job to die for a cause. This glorious cause that had seen him shot twice, shot at more times than he could count, a murderer by several counts, and a traitor to the only constant he’d ever known. So constant that he barely registered its voice behind him as his own breathing drew sharper from his lungs. It was only his name, repeated over and over and over. Not annoyingly, or tiredly, or exasperatedly, but tenderly. Caleb’s hand settled on Ben’s side, rubbing up and down to the beat of his voice: “Ben, Ben, Ben.” Right over the fraying edges of the cloth wrapped around his middle.
His subconscious told him to move, so he turned to face Caleb, glistening lines of tears still carving down his now flushed cheeks. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, Ben could feel Caleb’s eyes roving over his face and neck, comparing the man before him with the man he knew before. Mere days before.
Despite years together. Despite decades of memorizing, protecting, astounding, knowing each other, Caleb had never seen Ben cry like this. Caleb had cried plenty of times, many into Ben’s shoulder, but Ben had never sobbed like this. He turned his face into the pillow, absorbing the smell of Caleb and trying to hide from him all the same. Ben opened his mouth into a deep inhale that he choked around as he let it filter out of him, salty tears running over his chapped lips. He felt the hottest sense of peace within. Like he was simultaneously on fire and floating on his back in the waters off of Long Island.
He felt rough fingers on his chin, rubbing against his shadow of facial hair, though it held nothing to Caleb’s. They gently moved Ben’s head up out of the pillow to face Caleb directly. He suspiciously eased his hand away, making sure that Ben wouldn’t move too harshly. Through his soaked eyelashes, Ben saw Caleb frowning worriedly up at him and gasped out a pseudo-laugh at the absurdity of it all. Caleb appeared even more concerned after that, touching one hand to Ben’s wrist under the sheets and the other to his face, cradling his jaw. His calloused thumb wiped away the tears and dust over his cheeks, just touching the corner of Ben’s mouth and swiping up under his eye before moving to the other side. With every ounce of sensitivity the whaler could muster, he brushed his palm across Ben’s neck and tilted his head forward to touch their foreheads together.
“Benny boy, what’s gotcha?” The hushed tones of his voice echoed in Ben’s ears and brought him down to only a slight leaking of tears and evened out breathing.
“I’m so sorry,” was all he managed to choke out before bending in on himself, sending stabbing pains through his stomach wound.
“Ben, what happened? A saint like you could never have done anything worth apologizing for.” That kind of praise, seldom from Caleb’s lips, made Ben grind his own together at his shame. The guilt seemed to be eating its way out of the hole in Ben’s abdomen.
“I-” He didn’t know where to start. With the killing or with the lying or with the self-hatred. He took as deep a breath as he could manage as Caleb wiped fresh tears from his eyes before starting in again. “I took care of the Reverend. In unclaimed land where his drop was.” He clung to the points of contact with Caleb, fixating on his big brown eyes to carry him through. “Lieutenant Gamble saw me and shot me.” He didn’t want to bring up the unceremonious, forced surrender or the abduction and fleeing on an unsteady horse, the movement churning his stomach considerably. “A woman- a woman found and cared for me. Treating my wound.”
“Wound- Ben?”
Painstakingly slowly, Ben untucked his shirt from his breeches and lifted it to his chest, leaning back slightly to reveal the spots of deep red seeping through the bandaging. Caleb’s steady grip on his wrist faltered. As he returned his arm under his head, Ben noticed the freezing absence of Caleb’s hand on his neck as Caleb moved his hand to softly hold Ben’s side, just to the side of the wound. The slightly applied pressure brought Ben’s skull more harshly into Caleb’s, though not at a way painful for either of them.
“Benjamin, you did what you had to, and you’re back now.” Caleb emphasized with more pressure to Ben’s stomach, but only to the threshold Caleb knew he could withstand when seriously injured. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Ben’s eyes rolled towards their feet, focusing on Caleb’s short nails, the pattern of his shirt, the space between their legs: anything but Caleb’s adoring gaze. “Ben, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Caleb, I kissed her.” He willed himself not to cry again. Not to scream into the vast nothingness of the night. Not to tear himself apart until only the boy from Setauket remained. “I let her kiss me, and hold me, and- and touch me, Caleb. I did it of my own accord. I wanted her to. She saved my life and I repaid her with glances, and touches, and kisses. It was so wrong of me, Caleb. I held her and, and looked at her, and I shouldn’t have, and I know that, I’ve always known that it would never be... that I would never…” Ben sputtered out of energy and words, finally dragging his eyes back to Caleb’s. Caleb wasn’t looking at him. He was watching his fingers trace patterns over Ben’s bandages. He was concentrating on ghosting his fingers away from Ben’s wrist.
“Why are you apologizing, Benny? I think it’s high time your Yalie arse finally got some action.” He tried to sound normal, but he choked in the middle of a forced laugh, killing his facade. Ben let the awkwardness saturate the air around them for several minutes. He forced himself to hold his gaze on Caleb’s face.
“I’ve always known that it shouldn’t be with some blonde beauty who wants a hero. Caleb, we both know that’s never been me. That may be enough for Arnold, or other men, but it’s not enough for me just to find a nice girl. I hate that I did it. I really do. I hate myself for it because it’s not what I should have done. It- it,” He trailed off, again hating himself for losing his momentum at the most important part. “It should have been you, Caleb. I should have waited for you.”
Tears were spilling again, forming a thin film over his face that beautifully ached as his face contorted with shame and desperation for any reaction out of his best friend.
Surely, this wasn’t something that needed much mulling over. They’d known each other forever. Caleb had kept roping him into full-body hugs long after it was usually acceptable, had absentmindedly let his hand rest on Ben more times than either could count, had always been an anchor for Ben after battle, after sleepless nights, after whatever shite Ben could throw at him. Surely, Ben’s mind was dragging the seconds into hours.
Caleb briefly pressed his palm against the skin exposed under the bandages, before removing his hand to curl over Ben’s cheek. He pulled his face down at an unusual angle, not willing to compromise their forehead contact, and pressed his lips to Ben’s. At the taste of blood and tears, Caleb slid his hand back down to Ben’s stomach and went after Ben’s mouth again, gently reassuring him and relieving him of tension over their shared feelings. Ben released a sound into his mouth, more sigh than moan, and Caleb felt his heart breaking. Their noses fought as Caleb sought to drown Ben’s pain and remorse, the still-dampness of Ben’s skin giving Caleb his way. Gently, oh ever so gently, shifting closer, Caleb reached around Ben’s side to rub his nails up and down his back, lightly scratching over the bandages. Ben’s long fingers tremulously reached up to Caleb’s cheek with one hand and twisted to lace together their hands under the sheets with the other.
It was tender.
It was heaven.
It was a whisper of forgiveness.
Caleb forgave him for waiting. Caleb forgave him for nearly getting himself killed. Caleb forgave him for the mysterious woman. Caleb forgave him for thinking he had done anything worth forgiving. Ben forgave Caleb for making him wait.
Ben lost track of how long they sat there, delicately kissing in the dark, but he found his heart rate had slowed and his eyes had dried by the time they stopped. He fell asleep, straight as a board against Caleb’s side, his eyelashes fluttering against Caleb’s neck and their hands joined between them.
Washington and the war could wait. Major Benjamin Tallmadge had discovered his saving grace.