Chapter Text
1764, Massachusetts
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Ethan exhaled as he ran his lanky fingers through his hair, feeling the stiff coat he wore scratching irritably against his skin. He sat on a crate, reloading his musket as the colonists around him clamored, discussing the new tax the... the new governor in England had placed. Well, no. He wasn't a governor by any means. He was a Prime Minister. British Prime Minister George Grenville. What was up with everyone being named George?
He exhaled deeply through his nose, towering over the hunched over colonists, bodies ridden with trauma from being bent over and working in the fields. Sure, they had some slaves. But those were mainly reserved for the lower colonies, like South Carolina or... Florida. They had won Florida after the French and Indian War. That was a dozy to fight in.
Regardless, this was a New England Colony. Many of the Redcoats had to reside here to keep an eye on the people. Since the Navigation Acts hadn't worked all those years back, the King felt the need to tax the people, the name of the British army.
But Ethan knew that wasn't the reason.
Every night, he had to eat a piece of stale bread. Well, not him exactly. Because he couldn't. He ended up eating carrots every day.
The King had to do something about the debt the country was in. God, dammit. England was poor. All the successive wars, King William's war, Queen Anne's War, King George's War, and then, of course, the French and Indian War. It was hard to keep your country rich while you were exporting supplies and material left and right. And then, of course, you had your own people to worry about. The bloody British baggers. What about your joint-stock companies? The other colonies?
It was so expensive. So, what did the Prime Minister do to remedy this? Tax the people. Lie to them, tell them it's to support the colonies! They wouldn't be able to avade the taxes now, not with the redcoats roaming around.
To be honest, Ethan didn't enjoy shoving the people around. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn't. But... he didn't like doing it in front of... him.
Him especially.
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James was one of the few slaves in Massachusetts? Why'd he have to be born here? The only place with hereditary slavery?
He thought to himself while plowing through fields of wheat. His back was scarred with inscriptions of violence; heavy lashing of leather whips and a burnt impression on his skin.
"Shove a stick up my ass and call me a popsicle, is that James?" Jame's looked up, his pupils dilating as his eyes met Trevors.
"Trevor?" His voice had grown hoarse from the lack of water the prolonged days he had gone without talking. He couldn't talk, no. It would be like rubbing salt into his own wounds. He whispered, "You shouldn't be here. My master, he will..." His eyes grew wide, hands shaking as he frantically looked back at the home. "He will whip me."
"Aw, buddy. Don't worry. C'mere..." Trevor wrapped his arms around James, nuzzling his head into James' shoulder.
"What are you doing?" James dropped his plow into the dry soil, arms tired and heavy as they came around Trevor.
"You're so warm..." Trevor hummed. The vibration travel through James, somatically easing him. He began to practically melt into Trevor's arms, sighing contentedly. "Anyways..." Trevor pulled away, brushing his flannel off. "Did you hear the news?"
"What news?"
"I'm pregnant!"
"..." James swayed a bit on his feet, eyes locked with Trevor's warm emerald-colored ones. A gale of warm air blew past them, ballooning though James' clothes. His eyelids grew heavy, heavy from exhaustion and and overwhelming sense of his impending doom.
"J-James?"
"..." He stumbled backwards, tripping over his plow. "... I. What?! TREVOR!"
"What? What happened?!" He sauntered closer, helping James up. His wide eyes pricked with tears, watching James' bewildered expression. "W-What? I thought... I thought you wanted a kid, James-"
"I do, I do. I really do. But-" He looked down at Trevors stomach, placing a rough hand on it. "We..." His voice fell to a whisper. "We can't. No, not now..." Tears tracked down his sun-kissed cheeks, shoulders flinching and hunching forward and we began to cry. "Y-You should... Get rid of it."
"JT, are you crazy?" Trevor placed a hand on Jam's taut neck, tracing up with reverence, feeling the burned in impression mark and its roughness against his skin. "No. I'm not getting rid of our kid."
"B-Bogo-" He sniffled. "Ya... ya gotta. Please. It'll be born like... like me."
"Like a... beautiful black man?"
James smiled at that, edges of his lips curving in lightly. "No, you idiot. A... A slave. I don't want that to happen to our child. And... they'd kill ya, Trevor. If they saw you bear a mixed kid."
"..." Trevor sighed, tears pooling in his eyes. He nodded, glossy curls bouncing. "Okay. Okay, JT."
"I know... some people. They can get rid of it."
"Don't... I..." Trevor's lower lip quivered, hands tightening on James' face possessively. "I need some time." He croaked out. "Especially with the sugar tax."
"Sugar- They're taxing our goddamn sugar now?"
"Yep... wine and coffee too. Supposedly it's for our own protection but..."
"They're taxing us without any representation. Trevor-"
"They lowered the tax on molasses, but-" He sniffled. "I only use molasses to bake gingerbread."
"Really? Whats the recipe?"
"Preheat the oven to 350°F (177°C) and grease an 8×4-inch or 9×5-inch loaf pan. Line with parchment paper for easy removal. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, salt, and black pepper. Set aside. In a separate bowl, combine the molasses and hot water. In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter and brown sugar on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Scrape down the sides as needed. Add the egg and vanilla extract, beating until fully incorporated. On low speed, alternate adding the dry ingredients and the molasses mixture to the wet ingredients in three additions, mixing just until combined. Avoid overmixing; a few small lumps are fine. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top. Bake for 50–60 minutes (or 55–65 minutes for a smaller pan). Test doneness with a toothpick; it should come out with a few moist crumbs. Cool the loaf in the pan for 1 hour, then transfer to a cooling rack."
"Oh. Okay. Thanks."
"Anytime, JT..." Trevor swallowed, rubbing James' cheek with his thumb softly. "I... Okay. Okay. We can get rid of it."
"JAMES!" A rough, husky voice called out from behind.
"It's your master. Go." Trevor's voice was a small whisper as he rubbed against James' shoulder.
"... I know. I. Know."
"Go, James. You need to-" Trevor's words were swallowed by a deep kiss, James' chapped lips pressing against Trevor's smooth lips. He tasted like cherries. And. whatever trevor eats. and then james was getting beat up
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1765
Jesus hummed as he flipped hotcakes over the hearth, bacon grease sizzing in the other pan as he placed the meat in.
"Papa Jesus!" Baby Goodwin wiggled out from his chair, hopping up and down as he skipped over to Jesus. "Make sure you put sprinkles in the hotcakes! And extra sugar in mine!"
"Oh, dios mío, mi amor. We're out of sugar."
"WHAT"
"Yes. You see..." Jesus rubbed his chin, flipping the bacon. "Subsistence farming can get you wheat and corn..." He picked Goodwin up, carrying the boy on his shoulders. "But it can't get you sugar."
"Why don't you work extra hard and buy more sugar? I get that it's pricey but-"
"Mi amor." He gave Goodwin a noogie. "Who will spend time with you then? Your father? He is-" Jesus' voice dropped to a whisper. "He is away. Doing the work of the people. Ever since the Stamp Act was put into place, he's been going loco!"
"Loco." Goodwin tugged on Jesus' hair. "Will it ever- Will he ever come home? When will it end, papa?"
"I... I cannot say. I-"
"I want sugar in my hotcakes, padre! I want to read the paper without you having to work extra for it!"
"..." Jesus sighed, placing Goodwin on the counter. "Maybe one day you will, mi amor. But for now-" He handed Goodwin a bag made of his own flannel. "You will help me earn some extra sugar."
"... But-"
The fragile, wooden door thundered with an echoing knock. A slithery voice sounded from behind, booming as it spoke.
"HELLO? VARAGAS FAMILY? Open in the name of the King! I am Lieutenant Aiden of His Majesty’s 14th Regiment of Foot. By order of the local magistrate and under the authority of the Quartering Act, I hold a warrant requiring you to provide billeting and provisions for twenty of His Majesty's soldiers. Open the door and receive your orders."
"..." Jesus looked to Goodwin. "Hide behind the counter." Goodwin nodded, stumbling off and trotting away.
Jesus approached the door, swinging it open. "What do you want?"
"Did you not just hear-" Aiden's eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. "Okay. I'll repeat it." Aiden cleared his throat. "I am Lieutenant Aiden of His Majesty’s 14th Regiment of Foot. By order of the local magistrate and under the authority of the Quartering Act, I hold a warrant requiring you to provide billeting and provisions for twenty of His Majesty's soldiers."
"... No."
"You can't say no it's the law."
"I- I barely have enough to feed my wife and children, let alone a soldier!"
"Well. It's the law, sir. Or ma'am."
"HMPH! I'm not letting you in!" Aiden pushed past Jesus, musket held tightly in his hand as he looked around.
"... You do know you are required to provide me with a bed, yes?" His bright eyes turned to Jesus'.
"What?- I- I only have one bed! I share it with my family! You cannot-"
"You know what this means, Sir Vargas." Aiden took his coat off, fanning himself. He sniffed as he padded through the dingy home, eyes squinting. "Is that bacon I smell? And hotcakes? Oh, Christ. I am starving. Make sure there's extra sugar in mine."
"B-But- I-"
"..." Aiden's glare turned back to meet Jesus' soft expression. "In the name of the King."
Jesus stared in absolute horror as Lieutenant Aiden unbuckled his sword belt and made himself entirely at home, treating their tiny cabin like his own home."I said," Aiden muttered, leaning over the hearth and taking a deep sniff of the sizzling meat, "make sure there's extra sugar on mine. Chop chop, Sir Vargas. The King's army doesn't wait on slow cooks."
"We do not have sugar!" Jesus snapped, his hands gripping the spatula so hard his knuckles turned white. "And even if we did, I would not waste a single grain on a redcoat who barges into my home and steals the bed from my children!"
Aiden didn't even look up. "I don't care about your family's sleeping arrangements. Flip the hotcakes before they burn, Amigo."
From behind the wooden counter, Baby Goodwin peered out, his wide eyes tracking the glint of Aiden's polished brass buttons. He let out a tiny, frightened whimper. Jesus quickly stepped in front of the counter, shielding the boy from the soldier's view. Suddenly, the cabin door flew open again. A tall man burst through the threshold, his breathing ragged and his hair wild. He was covered in ink stains, and his arms were loaded with heavy bundles of local wool and scratchy, un-dyed cloth. And he had a nice ass. It was Goodwin’s father, returning from the town square.
"Jesus! Goodwin! Look what I found!" he yelled, oblivious to the British soldier sitting at his hearth. "The printers in town are refusing to buy the royal stamps! We are officially boycotting! I brought homespun fabric so we can make our own clothes, and—"He stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes traveled from Jesus, down to Baby Goodwin, and finally landed on Lieutenant Aiden, who was currently chewing on a piece of bacon."Who is this?" he demanded, his face turning crimson. He dropped the wool in disbelief.
Aiden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Lieutenant Aiden, 14th Regiment. What’s in the bags, sir? I hope it's not unstamped legal documents. That would be a shame."
The father slammed the heavy bundles of wool onto the table, right next to Aiden's hat. "This is homespun cloth, redcoat! Passed down by the Daughters of Liberty! From this day forward, my family wears nothing imported from Britain. We drink no British tea. And we pay no Stamp Act taxes to a Parliament that doesn't represent us!"
"Ooh, a rebel," Aiden smirked, standing up and towering over the table. "How terrifying. I'm sure your scratchy wool blankets will really hurt King George's feelings." He stood up, towering over the two as he walked down the hall. "I'll be taking this room."
Jesus stepped in front of him, his voice low. "If you are staying under my roof, Lieutenant, you will respect my family. Or 'In the name of the King' won't save you from my frying pan NWORD"
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