#robert rodgers

Favorite AU

Robert Rodgers on the Colonists' Side

I loved Rodger's character. That whole arc with him harassing Abe who made up 50 different lies to cover for him STRESSED ME OUT but honestly I expected him to turn fully and start actively helping the cause instead of only caring about revenge on André.

Nobody would trust him, of course, so I imagine him just creeping around the woods waging a one man guerilla fight against the redcoats wherever he saw an opportunity.

He gave Abe gardening advice what a nerd

Merry Christmas @youmustthinkmemad  This one is for you. :-)

Robert Rodgers could not remember the last happy Christmas he had enjoyed.  It had certainly been when he was a boy and the world had not yet stung him.  But even then, Christmas had been clouded with the fighting of his parents and crushing poverty.  And yet here he was, a man middle-aged, sitting in a larder in Philadelphia quietly hoping for a happy Christmas.  

Andre could barely be bothered with him.  A haphazard invitation to Christmas at his home in Philadelphia.  Rodgers had been there for three hours, been greeted briefly and left to his own devices.  “Happy Christmas indeed,” he said softly, taking s swig of whiskey out of the flask on his hip.  The door to the larder banged open with a clatter and a dark-skinned woman bustled in.

“Oh!” she said with some surprise upon seeing him.  She brushed an angry hand across her face and he could see the trace of tears.  “I apologize, sir.  I didn’t know anyone would be in here.”  She turned to leave.  “It’s Abigail, yes?” he said softly, his voice rasping.  She stopped.  “Yes, sir.  Abigail.”  “Would you like a drink, Abigail?”  She hesitated.  “It’s not poisoned if you’re worried.  Well, not this one.”  He joked lightly.

Another hesitation, her hand on the doorknob.  “Please,” he said quietly, “it’s Christmas.”  She turned and fixed him with a searching look.  “Yes, it is,” she replied.  She took a seat on apple box next to him and he passed her the flask.  She took a small swig.  “So, why were you crying?”  “You’re a rude one,” she said.  “Well, there’s no sense avoiding it,” he said roughly.  She paused and stared ruefully at a bag of potatoes.  “My son, Cicero.  It’ll be our first Christmas apart.”  “Ah,” he said awkwardly.  They lapsed into silence, passing the flask back and forth.