#redcoats

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~since you all asked (nobody asked…), have no fear, because i wrote one hundred and fifty things to imagine about gentle-loving benjamin tallmadge from the sensational turn: washington’s spies series. i figured a handsome fellow like ben needed his own essential time in the lighted spotlight.

seriously, how could i forget the favored, golden boy? it’s no secret that he is the truest cinnamony cinnamon roll, made with extra love—the kind of autumn treat every grandma makes on special occasions that everybody—and their mother—looks forward to eating every fall.

BEFORE THIS BEGINS, PLEASE READ PART ONE OF THE CAPTAIN SIMCOE FANFIC FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE AND YOUR COMPLETE UNDERSTANDING!

now have a blastful time reading this as much as i did writing it!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~don’t we all love a rousing and thrilling love triangle? it must be so glamorous to be the prettily downspirited, adorned young lady of the colonies who can’t seem to keep these factually important, dashing officers off of you!

imbecilic, sociopathic, yet farcical: your captain simcoe, whose heart is in the right place, and the kind-hearted, gallantly dignified major benjamin tallmadge?

so our divinely lovely God really does pick favorites now, huh? shocking!

what would this drastically opposing man to the frenzied redcoat do for the dearest sweetheart in the american colonies?

(and don’t worry! i’d do the same thing! how could i not fall for my childhood friend, especially if he is a handsome, loving-hearted boy who grew up to be a prodigious, upstanding soldier?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~here is part one of what the noble ben does for his sweetest intrigue:

1. he offers her his coat even when he’s shivering—because what kind of man would he be otherwise?

2. he for sure lets her scold him for risking himself too often, then secretly loves that she cares.

3. he vows that when the war ends, he’ll plant her a wine-red rose garden that will flourish long after the hostile conflict and will never leave again.

4. he writes poetry for her while on duty. it always plays out a little something like this:

ben is bent over near his desk, candle flickering in the moonlight, ink spilling slightly because he’s shaking with excitement (or from nervousness—who knows!) it always reads as something cliché, like:

“my heart, a rebel caught in a silent siege,

adores only your name, my sweetest intrigue.

the stars themselves cannot outdo your shining eyes,

nor the valiant sun that climbs the morning skies.

i am a soldier, and you my command,

i’d follow your voice to the edge of the land.

and if the world demand i brawl or fall,

just know, my love, i’d yearn for you above all.”

and by now, we know washington slips into the tent nearly silently, but the weight of his presence makes the candle tremble like it’s afraid to burn too brightly.

hands clasped behind his back, hovering over ben as he swiftly reads the lovey-dovey letter. he clears his throat softly, but just enough for heart-on-fire, lovestruck ben to jump out of his seat.

“tallmadge…”

it’s not a shout, not yet—but the kind of stern taking a father gives his son after realizing the boy’s heart has gotten the better of his head again, finding him red-handed in a way that’s both exasperating and not possible to punish fully. truly a moment where patience has thinned, but affection still lingers just beneath the surface.

ben comes to a stoppage mid-word, his ink-stained fingers reflexively clutching the quill like a lifeline, smudging the page in an overwrought dread. for a heartbeat, he’s certain washington can see every thought racing through his mind.

“i trust that you’re writing intelligence, i hope.”

ben’s cheeks flush aflame as he stands up and fumbles to shove the notebook behind his back, a pitiful sight for one to see.

“i mean—i mean, it’s for morale, sir! yes! morale!”

washington pauses, letting ben’s embarrassment hang in the still air, eyes softening fractionally, though his posture remains impeccable. he debates whether to indulge the boy’s foolish, heartfelt folly or reign it in before it gets him into trouble.

“major tallmadge, your enthusiasm is exceedingly noteworthy. let us desire your heart does not interfere with the duties of your station, particularly those requiring a clear head and sound intelligence.”

ben’s words trip over themselves like justly apprehensive soldiers in retreat, disorderly and relatively anarchic in their scramble to avoid the general’s unsmiling gaze—just as ben himself dares not meet it.

“y-yes, sir! absolutely, sir! soundly intelligence…”

oh, how we all adore a hopelessly head-over-heels-in-love man reduced to a smitten schoolboy, maladroit and starry-eyed for his first ever fairly pretty crush.

5. he leaves little pocket-sized notes with tiny droplets of candle wax and a faint scent of him in her coat, telling her exactly how much he misses her before heading out on a mission.

6. during brief furloughs, he reads aloud from her favorite novels, sometimes mispronouncing words and attempting unfamiliar, far-off accents, leaving her giggling powerlessly.

7. he remembers exactly how she loves her drinking chocolate: so sweet it could kill an elderly person, never quite at the normal measure of sugar, just enough fluffy whipped cream that looks like a burrowed, fleecy bunny rabbit, and the occasional even dozen of miniature and medicinal marshmallows that melt at the touch of the heat of this sickly-sweet treat.

when he leaves it by her bedside table, he leaves a hand-written note made with love that reads: “for my sweetest intrigue, a dessert nearly as sweet as you, to warm you while i’m gone.”

8. he catches her when she stumbles—physically or emotionally—and never lets go until she steadies herself.

9. he wakes up a moment too soon just to catch the first light and watch her sleep for a few quiet moments with the posture of a solemn Church angel assigned to watch over sleepy maidens, memorizing the rise of her chest and the gentle curve of her smile when she notices him.

10. he warms her hands with his own whenever she’s cold, lingering just long enough to make it intimate but never awkward.

perhaps simcoe should take some gentlemanly notes?

11. he mutely slips through the darkness of the woods just to see her, standing outside her window with a gleaming lantern, so she knows he braved danger just to be near her.

12. he leaves her ballads about her lucent, coruscating beauty, each one more passional than the last, signed: “forever your soldier.”

13. he gives her freedom and choice in every act of love and action he does, never wanting her to feel “lesser” than him.

14. he never minded, and never minds, carrying her across streams, muddy paths, or rough terrain. he hardly ever says a word, but you know he feels like God gave redemption when he feels needed by a fetching-looking lady.

15. he romantically guides her to a moonlit riverbank with a straw basket he offers her, filled with airy, honeyed pastries and sultry-red roses that got even redder than scarlet tunics after the smoke of battle cleared from the charge of cavalry—hand-picked by him, bleeding from the remorseless thorns.

16. he is apathetic and disinterested in the derisions he receives from other drunkard, unmindful men, whose redundant, noisy laughter can be heard all the way from buckingham palace—all for doing domestic tasks to make her life more untroubled.

one of the first male feminists, am i right? and, of course, we love him for it!

17. he treasures the act of tying the ribbon in her hair, unknowingly getting a little teasing taste of womanhood—the one unrevealed mystery he, and many men, can never quite fathom.

18. he is intrepid enough to joke, tease, and flirt to make her laugh, even in fretful and menacing moments.

19. he takes pride in teaching her the skills and secrets of his trade, always respecting her intellect and agency.

20. on solitary late evenings, he opens the small journal where he records the things she does that make him happy, and the late-afternoon golden light of the room only deepens the ache of missing her.

21. he does not at all let her walk alone in the dark, keeping pace a few steps behind so she feels freedom, but never fear.

22. he leaves breadcrumbs of compliments in her notebooks or in the margins of her books.

23. we all know by now that simcoe’s fanatical infatuation with his so-called lady is already crazed; we hardly need it to become any more maniacal. and by the truest “serendipity” itself, the two men happened upon each other while calling on the most admired lady among the officers on that fatefully pleasurable night.

ben doesn’t have a second thought before he steps between her and—at least in his mind—the threat.

“you’ll forgive me, sir,” he says once, voice lull and aversive to yield, eyes never leaving simcoe’s, “but she does not require your ministrations.”

and pray that john graves simcoe took a breather after hearing such a rehearsed thought, because we all know what that man is capable of.

24. he blushes when she calls him “ben” instead of “major tallmadge,” and then pretends it doesn’t unravel him entirely. he crummily hides the unraveling with a cough and a stiff posture.

25. he listens more than he speaks, and when she’s agitated, he lets her get huffy until she burns the clamor out of herself, then offers a soundless understanding instead of the rational answers most men would give.

26. he says her name once in conversation with washington all by mistake, and goes red to the roots of his hair.

27. he refuses to let the men speak coarsely of women in his presence—especially of her—and, though they scorn him for it, none ever dare challenge the steel behind his comity.

28. he genially offers to take her horseback riding, not only to have time alone with her, but so his hands might trace around her shapely waist.

29. he thanks God for her every night, but never aloud—some things are too blest for words.

30. he told her one line, simple and unadorned: “if ever you need me, you need only ask.”

31. he adjusts his gait to hers whenever they walk, even if it means slowing his soldier’s stride to a measured rhythm just to keep beside her.

32. he sharpens his quills before writing to her, because the words deserve to look neat for her eyes alone.

33. he never swears in her presence, even by habit, as if the air around her is too clean for such words.

34. he once gave her his family’s heirloom signet ring to hold “just for safekeeping,” though he knew he would never ask for it back. but we all know it’s actually the closest he can get to proposing without combusting.

35. when she laughs, he forgets the war for a moment. when she cries, he would trade his commission to take the dolorous from her hands.

36. he stays outside her door longer than necessary after a succinct conversation with her, leaning on the door just to continue the cursory connection.

37. he writes her name in the snow when no one is looking, a private declaration.

38. he listens to the rain with her, letting her words fill the spaces between the drops, understanding without interruption.

39. he remembers which way the wind blows through her bedroom window, so he can leave his jottings where the breeze will carry them inside, harmlessly settling on her quilted blanket as she sleeps soundly.

40. he recalls every detail of conversations with her, storing them as riches in his mind to revisit when apart from her.

41. he keeps a pressed flower from her hair ribbon tucked inside his journal, right beside coded intelligence notes.

42. when she’s angry, he listens with that slight, guilty smile that says, “i’d let you scold me forever if it means i get to hear your bonny voice.”

43. he tells caleb brewster about her once—and regrets it (not!) when caleb never stops bantering him.

44. he hears the sobriquet “darling ben” spoken by another woman and flinches, because it sounds wrong when not said by her.

45. he feels like he was sent to Heaven when she tends to him like an angelic lady-nurse and calls him “my brave boy” after a gruesome skirmish.

46. he signs every paper-gift “yours, faithfully, b.” although, in his drafts, before folding them away, he writes the full “benjamin tallmadge, ever and only yours.”

47. he fortuitously sends a love-note meant for her to washington (who, of course, reads it with mild vexation!)

48. he drilled mock sword-fighting (fencing) just to dazzle her, falling and failing spectacularly in the process.

49. he dreams about watching over the sunrise with her, but never wants to compel her to rise from her slumber-like dormancy.

50. he, in any case, stands between her and the bleak, soughing, brumal wind, the tips of his hair turning into icicles themselves.

he isn’t fazed and fearful by frostbite; frostbite is fearful of him.

51. after admonishing a nearby soldier—and, as luck would have it, lambasting her too (how could he misdirect his anger?)—he forthwith apologizes to her once for raising his voice, mortified by his own lapse in gentility.

52. he says, “you’ve my word,” with such conviction that she nearly believes it more than any Proverb sworn on the Bible.

53. if she ever doubts herself, he says, “you are the only certainty i’ve found in uncertain times.”

54. he refuses to let her dress be filth-ridden when stepping down from a carriage, always offering his hand with that courtly little bow.

55. when she’s faintly sick, he insists on reading aloud until she falls asleep—badly, of course—because he keeps stopping to ask, “are you warm enough?”

56. he cannot look at illustrations of cherry blossoms without thinking they look like her cheeks in the spring light.

57. he keeps a habit of knocking twice on her window before leaving on missions, when he comes across her snow-caved-roofed house—so that even if she’s asleep, some part of her will hear him say goodbye.

58. when he hears a strain that reminds him of her, he hums it absentmindedly while cleaning his weaponry—until caleb throws something at him to make him stop.

59. he tells her, half-joking, “i’d rather face simcoe again than see you in incurable wretchedness.”

60. he once nursed a bird at death’s door and kept it alive for days—all because he remembered what she would do if in that sad situation.

61. he scrupulously repaired a vanquished ballerina-pink music box she held dear, spending hours attentively aligning the gears so it would play impeccably again.

62. he carries a small vial of her signature perfume in his coat, just so he can breathe it in when the world feels too grating. he says, in a brawling love tone, “i will not let this war take all of me. it cannot have the part that belongs to her.”

63. he leaves her little confectioneries, never allowing himself to have a bite before her.

64. he, around the clock, tries to sketch her from memory, but the drawing looks so repugnant he burns it away at once, feeling blamable for “destroying her likeness.”

65. when she asked for an “act of service that much needed male attention,” the “common” guess is to see him devoting hours untangling her hair ribbons—cursing like a pirate and mumbling his contrition as he continuously knots them more.

66. he tries to refine her best-loved songs on a small flute, and we all know it’s so off-key, on top of being gut-wrenching and ear-bleeding to listen to.

67. when he’s home with her, or when she’s with him, he sneaks into the nearest kitchen untimely to prepare her breakfast, just so the first thing she smells is something nostalgic and homely.

and always eager to learn something new, ben, after profusely reading ancient greek literature, with a few caramel-like dates, adds way too much honey into her glass of raw milk, and yet only two stardust-colored figs (probably almost out of season) on top of yogurt that was pudding-like in consistency, with mixed dried berries that had flakes of the nuts and seeds it came with, in the tin container he carried and sneakily snacked on the tidbits inside throughout marches.

68. he folds tiny paper boats and origami swans and sails them down streams near her home, intending and visualizing that she feels the love coming in her direction.

69. he sketches out constellations, charting them to memories they’ve shared. he at last figures out that the stars hold the truth in the universe.

maybe he should use this perk of knowledge for the cause…

70. he chisels little floral wood necklaces and warm-hearted animals, giving the necklaces to her and leaving the sculpted animals around her estate for her to find.

71. learning how to sew from watching his older female friends routinely being schooled on how to be “poised ladies in polite society” as a young boy, he felt little unrest in performing this deed for the young lady he fancies.

he took her riven lace glove, hemmed it back together with his charm of love, and embroidered a lopsided heart in one corner, without needing a word of acclaim.

72. he leaves glacé afters at her sill with an epistle nearby, the bounteous words written as, “sweetness for my sweetest, to keep the night from tasting resentful.”

73. on that same delightful day, when she first asked her captain—with the delineation in her mind of “the foxiest fox to ever have foxed”—she asked her major for “a break from this lousy, yet strangely bewitching world you and i, calamity, live in.”

it’s safe to say that they had arresting enjoyment chasing each other through the cornfields and tall grass that dauntingly challenges every flawed man’s self-importance (do we all notice how ben isn’t frangible or unconfident in his masculinity?), something the vacuous some in the bunch could beneficially work on.

during this, he accepted the worsting and thought that ladies don’t often receive the feeling of “triumph,” and so he allowed conquest by her.

would diamonds and rubies make her happier than this, to escape her godforsaken reality?

74. he verbally execrates his culpable quill, which in some way splinters and spills when writing to her (possibly reminding him to be writing papers for washington instead), and grumbles about “improper inkflow.”

do we think this is a sign from the sainted universe?

75. on an ordinarily habitual morning for ben, but not so much for her, she adroitly crafted a luscious flower crown, careful not to pick any red-colored flowers, yet creating a piece so beauteous it could attract and house a colony of bees and enthrone him king of the american forests.

although, that would contravene everything he stands for and the oath he took. for now, he should only be conceded the title of king of her heart—or is there an opposer rivaling him that’s counteracting such?

76. lo and behold, john simcoe can’t seem to take “no” for an answer, and ben, in any event, comes to her “rescue” from that lost cause of a man. it’s quite inescapable to be such an honorable, restrained man, but once a sinful antagonizer comes into view near his sweetest intrigue, it’s discernible that his idealisms clash when he is virtually close to losing his composure.

77. he refuses to let her carry anything heavier than an intellectually stimulating book and a flame-colored rose, and even then, insists on holding it halfway through the walk with her.

78. he volunteers for the most tedious errands if it means crossing her path.

79. he creates short plays of them both, starring her as the heroine who saved him from the forever wartime affliction he underwent for most of his young life.

at this point, he is basically a romantic novel in human form, and we love him and want him to stay that way forever and ever, hoping he doesn’t get hardened by loathsome wars.

80. he walks her home in the rain, insisting he isn’t wet at all, while he drips like a soaked stray cat begging for a bowl of room-temperature milk—milk in a bowl that would look exactly like a full moon when served to the heart-rending-to-look-at, yet endearingly loyal feline.

81. he keeps a small tin of sugar cubes for when she visits, because he knows she steals one every time for her introverted teatime party by herself, to collect herself in her ceaselessly tormenting melancholy.

82. he asks caleb to teach him a few sailor’s songs so he can sing them to her, horrendously off-key, but with an enthusiasm that almost recovers it.

83. he is hugely inadequate at dancing, but learns the steps anyway—just in case she ever asks him for one, or vice versa.

84. he prays before every engagement, not for preeminence for the continental army, but for the chance to maybe see her again.

85. when he returns from missions, he without fail brings her something small—a button, a lavender-purple lily, a dropped feather from a flighting bird, a polished rock—saying, “it reminded me of you.”

sometimes he and simcoe are more similar than we imagine…

86. he tells her stories of his boyhood—not monumental, audacious ones, but the ones about chasing runaway livestock in muddy shoes, swimming in lakes, and fooling around in the forest with trees that had sunlight dappling through the canopy of leaves with his brothers, and skipping stones—because he wants her to know he wasn’t always a serious soldier.

87. oh, yep! he is toast! as expected, he again was caught writing poetry all while on allegiance for high-minded general washington.

washington, displeased and duly so, accosted him with an irritant tone, as one in his position should, saying:

“mr. tallmadge, this is war, not stylish dalliance. it’s said and done that poetry is a luxury for peacefulness. the lady of yours must wait; this bloodshed we give to america cannot.”

and woefully to look at, plaintive-sounding ben just lets out a hush, “…yes, sir…” the flush in his face deepening, reddening to match the red cherry on the last slice of chocolate cake—eyes averted like a little boy caught stealing that very chocolatey cake, saved for father, meant for him as medicine, made by the all the more exhausted mother to distract him and replace the comfort of sleeping with her, to take his mind off the overlong, disgustful day at work.

but whatever he was writing to her, i’m sure she would’ve inestimably cherished it like she predominantly does for every other gift she obtains.

88. he gets bothered and horror-struck when he learns she goes on journeys alone for the cause. and like a gentleman would, he invariably proposes to go with her day and night, no matter the state of affairs.

89. before horseback riding with her, and having learned to braid by watching his girl classmates do it to themselves every morning when he was a boy, he braids her hair ahead of time so it doesn’t become tangled from the soaring wind made by breathtaking, softhearted angels—thoughtfully trying to remind her that they’re always with her.

90. he collects pastel-colored florets and trinkets, telling her, “when rainbows go at rest, let these wonders sing in its stead.”

91. he calls her “my solace” when no one is around or listening.

92. he accumulates wild, satiny petals and herbs while on his travels, sweetening them with adhesive, viscous, amber-like molasses that carries flimsy caramel notes.

adding these together like an exiled pagan witch in the cavernous outland forests—as an offering for her—where native american indians say not to wander too far, the witch mixes potions in abundance, forging a connection with the universe and nature the “refined society” has long forgotten.

that same society continues to greedily endeavor in taking it all away, until there is nothing left but destruction caused by inordinate “logic.”

but instead of dwelling on this sorrowful, heavy-hearted notion, can we all imagine simcoe becoming downright beggarly for a love potion—just to coax his lady into drinking it because of his masculine insecurities?

93. he prays for her every forgiving night, placidly, by name and all.

94. he ardors in looking at her wispy, feminine hands—whether she’s just baking glazed raspberry biscuits, lacing her corset, cutting sunny-yellow lemons for a flaming summery day, or simply brushing her hair—because he has long combatted in a world replete with coarse hands and hateful butchery.

95. when asked if she is worth machiavellian simcoe’s petty pounces and prudently orchestrated schemes, he didn’t delay a forthright response at all. he concisely said, “every man needs a purpose to live. she is indisputably mine.”

96. he builds a small-scale birdhouse near her window, filled with a profuse amount of nuts and seeds, watching with fulfillment as birds come to nest and keep her company.

97. he keeps his uniform crisp because she told him charmingly that he looks “impressive” in blue.

98. his preferred spot to kiss her is the back of her supple hand. hardly ever does he kiss her lips, saying it’s for “good luck,” but really because if he kissed her the fitting way—and somehow it ended up unthinkably sloppy and careless—he might not come back from that warful warfare affray willfully…

99. he incessantly carries a well-worn, pocket-sized mirror to check if his hair looks okay before knocking on her door to meet with her once again.

100. one night, he stayed awake until the morning american red robins tunefully tweeted “cheep-cheeps,” and the sunup, annoying rooster made its diurnal “cock-a-doodle-doo,” because he was documenting all the things he found fondness for about her.

101. he never minds—unlike most men, who feel discomfit at feminine gestures—when she secures raspberry-red and pink ribbons, like cupcake frosting dyed with seasonal cherries, around his haversack.

and if that wasn’t the first surprise—her leaving traces of herself like fairy dust—she stealthily tucks away fruit tarts glossed with honey, adding extra drops of sweetener, knowing he hasn’t tasted sugar in months and is used to munching on stale biscuit hardtacks and somberly tasting hominy.

i can plainly see why all the men in the colonies (and maybe some overseas, if they ever had the gift of hearing about a darling like her) revere her so very much.

102. during heated moments, he brushes the stray hairs from her face with a gentleness that mollifies the tornado of uproar—the aggregated, gloomy energies that sparked this asinine fight between the two of them in the first place.

103. when she baked something silly, like pumpkin pie with an oat crust inside of a literal pumpkin, saying it was “resourceful and festive,” or when she made mismatched muffins—some with poppyseeds, some with shredded carrots coated in cream cheese, and one with an absurd amount of spicy cinnamon—he ate every given bite without a word of remonstrance, only adulation.

104. he learns to play a dull theme on the fiddle to serenade her, wincing at his own mistakes but smiling, because it’s for her.

105. he intentionally writes her cheeky letters in invisible ink with lemon juice or some other odd substance, fully aware that she is one of the few who can decipher it.

106. he has bothersome, intruding thoughts about how, as a man, he is “too leniently gentle for war.” but in truth, isn’t that what this world we call home needs the most—and more of—especially and chiefly during crisis?

has the male population been lied to about their calling being destruction and violence?

notwithstanding, i know his angel girl always reminds him to recall such an esoteric thought.

107. he repudiates letting her walk on the side of the road closest to passing horses and wagons—laden with heavy crates and boxes somehow heavier than monarchy greed—as if a stray wheel had a human mind and comprehended the universal concept of free will, choosing to go after her.

108. he gets wrathful when abraham makes some nutsy “entreaty request” (in abe’s mind, of course) to disband and mystify the british, obligating ben to tell him off crossly.

109. he continuously prays that the war will come to an end soon, so he can finally hold her without fear of tomorrow.

110. when she is piqued with him for God knows what, he wears a crestfallen golden-retriever look—like a once-cheery puppy trying skillful tricks it couldn’t do before, only to realize it won’t get a puppy snack from its very greedy owner.

111. when she is overwhelmed by the tidings of the war, he hums lullabies his mother taught him (he’s always very observant of the women in his life), trilling each vibration from his vocal cords with soothing ease to pacify her—so she doesn’t cry herself tired, and possibly to subdue himself, too.

112. he trails her garden path daily, quietly planting new greenery and blossoms to contentedly surprise her in due time.

113. he awkwardly but well-meaningly sways by the campfire, not caring that the rocky ground and his stiff boots aren’t quite helpful in this situation—all to coax her to giggle in girlish delight.

114. he keeps a pinky-sized wooden whistle he chipped away all by himself, whistling the harmony they created together when alone and in need of his own company.

115. he thinks she is a lushful doyenne when she affixes her lacy scarf to a post or places certain colored flowers outside the ledge of her kitchen window to signal him—if there is peril near their usual meeting spot (the orchard at midnight), compromised plans that abort the mission, or if a message has been unassailably delivered.

116. he lovingly spends his monthly pay on girly, feminal things for her—to help her at least somewhat understand her own similar yet different world—considering they are the same species, since he is constantly surrounded by gruff men.

117. if she talks out loud of remote places, he delineates envisioned landscapes—exhilarated by her stories—and assures her that he will take her to the dreamlands she imagines.

118. he fondly brushes her ring finger with his scabrous hands, aspiring to make her his wife one meaningful day.

119. he values silence with her—the cozy kind where no words are needed, and their connection speaks for itself.

120. he never misses opening doors for her—not just out of pure politeness, but because his father taught him to be a man of honor and chivalry.

121. when writing letters to allies or future congressmen, he sometimes slips in a line or two inspired by her vocabulary—though it’s never overt.

122. he gathers smooth, featureless, lustrous stones from the riverbank and paints tiny symbols of protection on them with natural dyes, hiding them for her to find—bringing fortunate luck.

it’s fair to say that, as luck would have it, the first amendment was completed in the near future, so he wouldn’t be called a “heathen” or “sorcerer,” and conceivably avoid something dreadful happening to him, since symbolic stones were problematically pagan to the eccentric public of the time.

123. he educates her on how to read the stars for navigation, telling her to always follow the north star if she’s ever lost and far from home.

124. when she’s depressingly thinking back on emotive memories, he reminds her of his own, unwittingly telling her she’s not alone in this beautifully bizarre, remorseless, idyllic world.

125. he has a stockpile of candied plums, gingerbread cookies, marzipan, and other delectables he looks forward to sharing with her beneath the impassioned, breezy willow tree.

126. he self-educates himself to read lips during a trice of wordless conversation as they sit across from each other in a hallowed Altar or a somewhat aristocratic place, just so neither of them gets rudely declaimed again.

a saccharine second indeed.

127. during a rare night off, he sneaks into a tavern disguised, listening to officers whisper like ensuing victorian ladies at a scandalous tea party—just to gather racy, piquant canards for her; in some measure for reconnaissance, but generally just to hear a ravishing, diverting giggling sound from her personally.

128. he is “disinclined” to consenting to her testing her creams, rouge powders, and lip color on him, because she needs a manly critic before she puts it on her “eggshell, porcelain-doll-like skin.”

129. he reads up on and hearkens to identify every bird call near her home, so when he whistles, she can recognize his presence without seeing him—for espionage… or just for the burning desire’s sake of feeling loved.

130. he once finds a portable, manmade lyre, caroling lyrical poetry he made for her—until either caleb or abraham throws a firm shoe at him.

131. he soberly mended a chipped, broken teacup with meticulously painted, pink-shaded, and velvet-lined vermillion red roses (her fav) that she fractured by tripping over her gauche and impolite, flocculent-looking kitty, who was chasing her even more brash fox.

in the end, he added extra loveliness by painting small hearts around the roses and also writing a note: “fixed with care, please be as gentle as you are with my heart.”

132. if clandestinely staying the night with her for nocturnal embraces and peppermint-tasting kisses, he clears the dirty, cocoa-colored snow with his even dirtier coffee-colored boots from every footpath he’s ever walked—especially the one leading to her door—before she leaves after him.

male incompetence? where?

133. he distinctly remembers what kinds of weather she prefers and adjusts plans so she’s repeatedly unworried and happily content.

134. he, with all his heart and soul, finds amiable sentiment in her mind and in the book he carries around—to read and think of her during onerous times.

135. he duplicates her handwriting peculiarities, so when he writes to her, the letters almost feel like her own words returned to her, never deriding her in a mean-spirited way, only warmly.

136. on winter days, nights, or evenings, he makes an effort to tuck the cashmere-wool scarf around her neck into a big, christmas-like bow but, expectedly, fails morosely. yet we all love to sympathetically watch his endeavors.

137. he esteems her and awaits every time she makes a sweet dessert, or, in this case, a sugary sweet drink that is still more or less a dessert, and indulges in it as she serves it to him while sitting on his lap, thanking her by saying, “my sweetest intrigue is already sweet enough; i see that, perhaps, to balance yourself, you might gift me some much obliged sugar right from your hand.”

138. he asked a native american tribe member—more specifically, the chief!—to teach him a thing or two about their culture, whether it be a song, a dance, a word—literally anything—to show off to her later.

139. after every visitation with her, he writes caricatures of recollections of their time spent, planning to read them for the years to come—either to himself or to her—waiting for the minute of recalling unforgettable, blissful evocations.

does he do this with other people or friends? possibly, but maybe not as passionately…

140. he reaches unadulterated serenity when helping her cook and bake, stealing kisses and tea cakes so much so that she gives him a synthetic, serious look and waves her finger—both giggling like youthful schoolgirls passing not-so-chaste notes about their reasonably handsome crushes.

141. during summery springs and springy summers, he accompanies her to go strawberry and raspberry picking, each of them holding a straw basket that once held newly born baby chicks, and he gives her the reddest of the red accessory fruits and fruitlets—redder than any opponent he ever fought—as the two of them are left to be sentient in their own alluring world, taking in the delicious red aroma, and together they each bite into a berry, letting nature leave its cardinal beauty mark on both of their lips.

142. after berry hunting (as previously mentioned), she impishly sneaks the berries into the pocket of his beige breeches, pretending he doesn’t notice until they stain through, then artificially feigns a look of scandal, like she committed the crime of cupid.

oh, my heart (quite literally!)

143. he tucks stray flowers into her hair, and if feeling audaciously liberal, he ornaments her hair by braiding blossoms into it, introduces and weaves in pearls that sailed in all the salty seven seas, and ties it all together by contributing violet-blue lavender into the picture.

144. he traces lover notes and hearts on her bare, bony back—something that could never be misinterpreted by any mere human, but instead a worthwhile benefaction for just the two of them to keep to themselves.

145. when she makes citrusy, sugary lemonade, he can’t help but brag to the fellowship he leads—an unconventional moment of brotherhood, but nonetheless a precious moment, even if they fiercely and persistently torment him with their undying laughter.

146. if they ever fall fast asleep together, when the early morning sun rises above the highest point of the mountain and the curtains are as open as a spacious field, best believe that if he wakes before her, he quietly closes them so she isn’t disturbed—so she can remain a sleeping beauty.

147. he quotes her shakespeare and milton, knowing her lustrous mind will recognize the brilliant reference.

148. when rowing in a wooden rowboat, with her feeding the ducks stale cornbread crumbs, he behaves with noiseless forbearance, watching her captivated by the feathery beauties—because it is sincerely the simple things in life.

149. if they are served any sort of sweetmeat with a glossy cherry on top, he—without a doubt in his soul and heart—presses it to her lips, then bestows a swift kiss as a recompense for the treat lost to himself.

150. and through it all, he loves her endlessly, never tiring of the arousing intensity of love—the most powerful force in the universe, the very thing every breathing human longs to experience, yet not everyone is granted such a gift, shaped as it is by soul paths and karma.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~who would you guys like to see next? major andré? major hewlett? perhaps general washington, if i feel a bit rebellious in writing such a thing? just say the word, and i’ll write it! 💙~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~author’s note: i literally fell for ben harder than ever before while writing this! just remember that hearts and reblogs fuel my tumblr-loving soul! tysm for reading!