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It’s been a long day, and Ben is glad of the chance to take a seat on a wooden crate outside his tent and stretch out his legs, bowl of stew in hand. He’s even gladder when he feels a solid hand give his shoulder a brief squeeze before Caleb comes around and sits beside him with his own dinner.
Caleb’s beard still hasn’t had time to fully grow back after whatever had led to him shaving it off on his would-be prison break mission to New York City—a trip about which he refused to give Ben a detailed report, despite Ben’s ongoing curiosity. When he’d first returned with only about a week’s stubble on his face Ben had been rather surprised; Caleb had grown a beard almost as soon as he’d first been able to, and never been clean-shaven since. He’d become so used to the look and feel of the beard that the lack of it had made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, almost like he was being unfaithful, though he didn’t say anything of the sort to Caleb. He’ll just be happy when it’s grown back, is all.
Right now, Caleb is sitting next to him, their calves pressed lightly against each other the only contact they can allow themselves without risking arousing the suspicions of the other soldiers going about their business on this warm fall evening.
Ben uses a somewhat stale piece of bread to mop up the last of his stew, then places his bowl on the ground and leans back on his hands with a sigh. He’s just rolling his neck to get out the stiffness of yet another day bent over fruitless reports when he feels a slight touch on his chest.
He sits up straight and looks down to see Caleb poking at a loose button on his waistcoat. “You really should fix this before it comes flying off in the middle of one of your fancy meetings with the General.”
“Are you saying I’m so fat I’m liable to pop it open?” Ben replies with a faint chuckle.
“Not likely, on these rations.” Caleb looks pointedly at the remains of his dinner. “Just can’t have you looking less than perfectly polished—gotta set an example for the troops and all.”
It’s a bit hypocritical coming from Caleb, who has somehow avoided even once having to wear a uniform since joining the army and whose appearance is basically the polar opposite of ‘polished’. But he’s right—that button has been slowly pulling away from the fabric for weeks and it really should be fixed
If he wanted to, Ben could probably find one of the camp followers or a woman in a nearby town to do it for him, but since his mother died when he was a boy he’d had to learn to manage these minor chores himself, and it wasn’t a big or difficult enough job to be worth sending out.
Fiddling absentmindedly with the silver button, he turns to Caleb. “You borrowed my needle and thread to sew up that hole in your shirt a while back, didn’t you?” he questions. He doesn’t recall it having been given back.
“Yeah, I did. It’s probably still in with my things.” Ben feels a brief flare of irritation at the thought of having to search through Caleb’s poorly organized belongings for something that should have been replaced in its designated spot in Ben’s chest, but heaves himself to his feet and heads into the tent. Caleb stays where he is, scraping the last food from his bowl with his spoon.
Ben kneels next to Caleb’s overflowing trunk and starts lifting things out. There’s no obvious organization, but at least the small wooden box in which Ben’s sewing supplies are kept should be easily identified by touch if it's buried among the rumpled fabric of Caleb’s clothing. He tries not to mess things up more than they already are, but it’s probably a lost cause when his arms are buried elbow deep in the pile. That’s when he feels something out of place—not the smooth wooden surface he’s expecting but the slightly scratchy texture of woolen fabric. Caleb’s wardrobe is fairly eclectic but Ben doesn't remember it containing any garments made of thick wool—while Ben’s “polished” look is topped off with his blue woolen uniform coat, Caleb relies on his ancient leather duster to keep the elements at bay.
He tugs on the fabric in his hands, hauling it out from under the rest of Caleb’s clothing. It comes free and he sees that it’s the bright red coat of a British soldier. And not just any soldier, by the rank insignia on the shoulders it’s an officer’s coat. There are a few patches of dried mud on the fabric but it’s otherwise in good condition.
It suddenly becomes clear that Ben’s assumption about Caleb’s activities in New York (namely, that he’d kept a low profile and somehow snuck in and out quietly as they’d planned) were entirely incorrect, and that actually Caleb’s obvious excitement to be going on the rescue mission had been at least in part based upon the chance to play at spy-craft himself rather than just couriering.
Ben is still readjusting his mental image of the mission when he hears Caleb’s voice from behind him. “Oi, Tallboy, what’s taking so long?” Caleb says as he pushes the tent flap out of his way and enters. He hesitates, seeing what’s in Ben’s hands, and sighs sheepishly.
Ben looks up from his position on the floor and squints at Caleb, glancing between him and the coat he’s still holding, trying to reconcile the two.
“I can see that those details you left out of your report would have made quite the tale.”
“It was hardly important. I saw Abe, he didn’t want to be rescued, I managed to gather a bit of information on the way back so the trip wasn’t a complete waste. Doesn’t really matter how I got around, does it?”
“I suppose not, but that’s not what I’m stuck on.”
“What’s the problem?”
Ben isn’t quite sure how to put his skepticism into words. “It’s just that you’re so... you. I can’t see this fooling anyone who gives you more than the briefest glance,” he says, shaking the coat slightly to illustrate his point.
“I guess I just have hidden talents,” Caleb smirks, moving closer to where Ben is still kneeling. He reaches over Ben’s shoulder and rummages in his trunk for a second, pulling out the lost sewing kit and raising it up high out of Ben’s reach. “This what you need?”
“You know it is,” Ben replies, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.
“Well, come get it.”
Ben hoists himself to his feet, humoring Caleb by pressing close to him when reaching up for the box despite it not being strictly necessary with his longer reach. As he grasps it Caleb rises up on his toes and presses a kiss to Ben’s lips.
Ben smiles, resigning himself to the fact that his button won’t be getting repaired this evening.
Fall has given way to winter, and they’ve both been busy with their respective duties. Ben hasn’t seen Caleb in several days, since he had headed off alone to follow up on some intelligence they’d received.
They had arranged to meet up here, in a small abandoned cabin about three miles north of the main army encampment. Caleb had expected he’d be back by the end of the third day, so Ben is there and tying up his horse to a nearby tree by the time the sun begins to go down. He can’t see Caleb’s horse, so he assumes he’s the first to arrive.
The door creaks as he pushes it open, slipping inside before letting it fall halfway shut behind him. He quickly and efficiently lights a fire in the fireplace, pausing for a moment to warm his hands in front of it.
Ben hears the door snick closed and glances over his shoulder, expecting to see Caleb. Instead, as soon as he catches a glimpse of red he spins into a crouch and drops his hand to his pistol.
Upon seeing the Redcoat standing there, hand pressing the door shut, his instinct is to shoot first and figure out what’s going on later. But something doesn’t feel right; after all, if the Redcoat wanted him dead he could have simply shot him without letting the noise of the door alert him.
He looks closer and now that the pounding of his heart is slowing he can see beyond the red wool, just as he’d said anyone with eyes in their head would.
“Caleb?” he asks, perplexed. He’s shaved again, and has his hair neatly combed back, though thankfully no wig. “Why—"
“Hush, rebel spy.” Caleb’s usual rough speech and broad accent are tightly controlled; instead he speaks in a near-flawless imitation of the speech of a British officer. “It seems that I’ve captured you snooping in the woods. Whatever shall I do now?” He stalks towards Ben, his recently polished boots clicking on the wooden floor. Ben makes to stand up, but is prevented by Caleb’s hand landing with some force on his shoulder.
“Tut-tut”, he softly shakes his head. “I see you’re going to be a troublesome prisoner. Do I need to tie you up?” He breaks character for a moment, raising his eyebrows questioningly. Ben sees where this is going, and answers by pushing back against Caleb’s hand, trying once again to stand.
“As you wish, then,” says Caleb, once again the implacable British officer, briefly retreating to pick up a length of rope that had been hidden behind the door before circling close behind Ben, the unfamiliar coat brushing against him as he passes. Ben can’t see what he’s doing but he feels Caleb loop the rope several times around his forearms, pressing them against each other at the small of his back.
When Caleb steps back to admire his handiwork Ben squirms a little under his gaze. The thick sleeves of Ben’s blue coat protect his arms from the rasp of the rope but he focuses on the sensation of confinement, tugging at his bonds to feel the limitations of his movement. Being so obviously under Caleb’s control helps him to give himself over to the scene that they’re acting out.
He glares up at his captor. “You can’t expect you’ll get away with this. I’m an officer in the Continental army. You have to treat me—”
“I can treat you however I see fit. Does anyone even know to look for you all the way out here? Though I suppose if someone were to pass by and hear you babbling on there might be trouble. I suppose I shall have to keep your mouth occupied to prevent just that.”
He unbuttons his breeches, revealing his half-hard cock. Ben’s mouth starts to water a little but showing his eagerness would be breaking character so he clamps down on it, sitting back on his heels, making a show of reluctance.
Caleb steps close to Ben, legs slightly spread. He runs a hand through Ben’s hair before gripping it and pulling Ben upwards, using his other hand on Ben’s chin to force him to meet his eyes. “You never know—if you do this well enough I might be persuaded to forget I saw you here,” he says, rubbing his thumb over Ben’s lower lip. Ben’s mouth falls slightly open on an involuntary sigh at the same time that Caleb drags him forward so that his cock brushes against his lips.
Ben opens his mouth wider and takes in the tip. He sucks gently, running his tongue over the head until he’s fully hard. He feels Caleb remove his hands from his head with a final pat on his cheek, saying, “Yes, seems the rumors about the predilections of you rebel soldiers is true—you certainly seem to have done this before.”
Without the hands holding him in place Ben is free to lean forward and take more of the shaft into his mouth. His instinct is to bring up a hand, both to cover the part he can’t quite manage and to help with his balance, but with his arms still tied he has to rely on the strength of his thighs to keep himself from toppling over.
He builds up a rhythm, bobbing up and down as far as he can. He can feel the edges of the red coat brushing against his cheeks on each down-stroke, reminding him of the role he’s playing and the supposed stakes, encouraging him to redouble his efforts.
Ben can tell that Caleb’s getting close when his assumed accent begins to crack under the strain—no longer taunting and threatening him but instead calling out “Oh fuck, Ben,” as he jerks forward, spilling hot into his mouth.
Ben holds his release in his mouth as Caleb pants, eyes closed. When he opens them, Ben makes eye contact and deliberately leans forward and spits onto the front of the coat.
Caleb’s breath stutters at the sight of his release dripping white down the red fabric and then he’s yanking the soiled coat off and throwing it to the floor at the same time as he hauls Ben to his feet, spinning him around so Caleb’s pressed against his back. He fumbles at the front of Ben’s breeches, getting a hand on his cock as fast as he can and stroking him relentlessly. All Ben can do is surrender, relying on Caleb’s other arm wrapped around his waist to keep him on his feet.
It doesn’t take long before Ben’s gasping and rolling his hips forward. “Come on, Tallboy,” Caleb growls in his ear. “Let’s dirty up that coat some more, yeah?” He twists his thumb over the head of Ben’s cock and that’s enough to have him shuddering and spilling in long spurts all over the fabric that's laid at their feet.
By the time he comes back to himself he’s been untied and led to sit on the edge of the bed. The ruined coat is still lying in the middle of the floor.
“That was… unexpected”. He glances sideways at Caleb, who’s still wearing the rest of the British uniform. It fits him remarkably well.
“Had to prove I could pull off the disguise, didn’t I?” he says. “I’ll be glad to get out of the rest of this though.”
“I just wish you hadn’t been quite so dedicated to the illusion,” Ben replies, stroking Caleb’s soft bare cheek. “Please don’t be next time—I like you looking like you”
“Fair enough. I’ll leave the uniforms to you from now on, Major”.