“I have such a desire to knock heads together.“

It wasn’t even that anything particularly out of the ordinary was happening - camp was camp, soldiers were soldiers, the army was the army. But for some reason (he was overworked, underappreciated, and unable to find the courage or self-preservation to leave), Caleb was right at the edge, with shaky hands and an instinct to fight. It wasn’t even that he didn’t tolerate soldier nonsense - on the contrary, he was a large perpetrator of soldier nonsense - but that he was exhausted, and annoyed, and largely alone.

Ben Tallmadge, for all his faults, did his best. And perhaps that, in itself, often came across as a fault - in everything he did, he aimed to do it absolutely perfectly, and refused to accept anything less than his standard of success. 

Perhaps that was why, sitting across from Mr. Adams at some fancy dinner or other, flexing his shoulders uncomfortably in his regimental and mentally listing off all of the more productive things he could have been doing in camp, he felt the need to spout off his list of complaints about how unproductive the officer corps could be. 

“Still,“ Caleb drawled, gesturing wildly with his tankard as ale sloshed over the edge and onto his arm. “To England, I say, goodnight forever!“ He was absolutely smashed, and he was definitely shouting, and he was incredibly likely to have the headache from Hell in the morning, but he’d already decided that none of that was going to stop him from having a good time.

Caleb had never felt more ridiculous than he did while masquerading as a lobster, and that was saying something, considering how unbelievably ridiculous the scenarios he got himself into tended to be. But there he was, slouched in a seat in an opera house in Philadelphia, beardless and wearing uncomfortably tight and uncomfortably white gaitered trousers, drenched in sweat under his wool regimental, waiting for a chance to excuse himself. 

In retrospect, with a responsible amount of hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have had quite so much to drink, and he probably shouldn’t have forgone water in the heat, and he probably should have prepared himself better for the Philadelphia humidity, and he probably should have had something substantial to eat, but he didn’t. 

So when the intermission came, he tried to stand, and very quickly realized (as the theater began to spin) that he was probably best off remaining seated. But he stood anyway, and stumbled until he found an isolated place to sit, somewhere closer to backstage than audience members were likely meant to be, and slumped down against the wall, pulling off his hat and wig and resting his head between his knees.

Oh, he knew she had opinions - and he knew that hers were probably significantly more logical and less reckless than his own. She probably had thoughts that were rational, and thought-out, and productive, and based in some sort of reasonable course of action. And, if he were a smart man, he should probably have listened to them, adopted them as his own, and acted accordingly.

But Caleb Brewster had never claimed to be a smart man.

“If by ‘follow your heart’, you mean ‘follow Benny Tallmadge to Hell and back while only stopping at a minimal amount of taverns and brothels on the way,’ then you’re damn right, m’dear.“ 

Everybody thought they could ruin Ben’s life, as if he wasn’t an officer in a losing army, as if he hadn’t lost most of his family, as if he didn’t wake up every day knowing he was putting his friends in danger, as if he wasn’t extremely aware of every drop of blood on his hands. It was trite, tired - it was laughable. 

Truly - nobody could wreak any more hell on his life than he already did.

So he leaned in, baring his teeth in a sneer befitting a wet and feral kitten, and stared down Rogers with sharp blue eyes.

"Insane and unshaven - that’s what Woody calls me, ain’t it? Practically a nickname at this point, Annie!” 

Caleb laughed, loud and unafraid, and leaned back against a bale of hay. Perhaps he should have been quieter, hiding out in Anna’s barn as he was, surrounded by Redcoats and Rangers and Loyalists and whatever else lurked around Setauket those days, but the joy of seeing anybody that wasn’t in the army far overshadowed the fear of Lobsters. 

At present, levity was one of the things keeping Thomas’ spirits from drifting into the dark. One of the others was—

–the brush of fingers through his hair, actually; the feeling of which tugged at his heartstrings more than usual, here in his sorry state. It was the sort of sensation that made him feel lightened like a giddy schoolboy. Thomas briefly closed his eyes, slightly leaned against the soft touch he’d give his other damned leg to have for the rest of his bloody life.

And then the touch was gone, and the ache for more of it distracted him from the tender soreness of his bloodied stump.

Thomas opened his eyes, silently pursed his lips and tightly rubbed the hem of his jumper between his thumb and forefinger. That seemed to be a habit of his with his uninjured hand now, something to help distract from the pain, like a little tether to keeping what little bit of rationality he had left.

Speaking of which, he had to figuratively bite his tongue to keep it from spilling all the witty remarks it now withheld– like how he had half a mind to tell Alexander to climb into such a bed with him; that he felt right knackered and inclined to tell everyone else to fuck off. Both of those things, he knew, would be marvelously unhelpful.

Instead, he flashed a little (weary) grin. “Exhausted. But–restless, all at once. Not for fear of that damned Creature. It’s more like I’ve the need to be on both feet, making sure everything gets back to normal. Or what ever passes for ‘normal’ now, on this ship,” he added dryly. “As for the rest of me? Exhausted, like I said. Bit lightheaded, but nothin’ terrible. I’ve little to worry about while I’m in your hands, Doctor.”

He was fucking tired. But not so tired that he couldn’t be cheeky.

If Alexander’s smile faltered a bit at the need to be on both feet bit, he tried not to make it too obvious, for Thomas’s sake. The poor man didn’t need his sad pity, on top of everything else that was going on. 

Truly, he had half a mind to send everybody else out of his medbay and climb into bed with his friend and hold him until everything was better. He couldn’t, and he didn’t, but the reasons not to were becoming less clear by the moment. Honestly - who would fault him for it? The man needed comfort - they all did, they all needed comfort - and what was a medical man’s duty but to help his men?

“How’s the pain, my dear? I can find you some laudanum, if you’d like.“ They were dangerously low on pain medicine, but this was an extreme case - he could surely spare some for Thomas Blanky, immediately post-surgery.  “My hands are good, but even I can’t compare with proper opium.“

His smile was soft and his eyes were bright as he quirked an eyebrow and brought his hand back to Thomas’s hair. 

And, of course, he gave in, glancing up at the others in the room and shooing them out, insisting Mr. Blanky needed his rest, before turning his attention back to his patient. 

Ben watched as the card fluttered awkwardly to his feet, then dragged his gaze to Caleb sprawled out like a hairy, sweaty starfish. At the mention of summer quarters, he at last caved and tugged at his cravat and neckstock, undoing them with a rapidly rising sense of urgency until his collar lay open and he felt he could actually breathe for the first time in hours. 

He then plucked the card up from the ground, tried to toss it at the hat. As if encumbered by the heat, it sadly dropped halfway, inciting Ben to laugh.

“Alright, so, what if– a man who has been really stabbed with a bayonet, as you said– is that man not on his way to death? If we are mostly dead, then wouldn’t that mean our death by heat is certain?” A pause. “And– please, don’t say ‘sweaty mutiny’ again.”

“No, no, y’see - “ He paused. No, Ben made a good point. It took him a moment to think of an argument. “No! Because that man, the poor fucker who’s been really stabbed - he might not die. Folks get bayonetted all the time and hop back up - that’s what the army’s got surgeons for.“

Caleb laughed and tilted his head back to look up at his friend, eyes bright and grin loose. At least Ben had finally started stripping down; the heat was beyond unbearable, to the point that Caleb had been genuinely concerned about Ben’s health, all buttoned up in his officer’s uniform.