Benjamin Tallmadge: “Sort this shit out”
Caleb Brewster: “Has the shit”
Abraham Woodhull: “Start this shit”
Anna Strong: “Handle this shit”
Major Hewlett: “Knows his shit”
John Graves Simcoe: “Is the shit
Robert Townsend:”Done with your shit”
Abigail: “Has shit to do”
John André: “This is some good shit”
Benedict Arnold: “Literally is shit”
George Washington: “Get your shit together”
Robert Rogers: “Better watch your shit”
Mary Woodhull: “OH SHIT”
minor angst, in which Robert is wounded and the reader could not find him.
His hand finds yours, calloused palm sliding evenly against your soft skin, and though more of a subconscious tactic, it squeezes yours tightly, as if terrified to see you go. A breathless sigh fumbles from your lips, unsure of what to say, but you know he's staring expectingly down at you, waiting for your lecture or words of discountenance. Yet, you can hardly bring yourself to meet his eyes, let alone dip into a tangent of how much he just scared you.
"I wasn't planning on leaving," A chill runs the length of your spine as you settle next to him on the bed, eyes trained on the floor. "At least not yet."
Startling you slightly, he stands, his own hand tugging free from yours as he crosses the wooden floor to the window. Though candles bathe the room in a soft orange glow, the look on his face remains hidden as he leans against the window pane, arms crossed.
"If you want me to scream and yell at you, I won't," It’s here you begin, and ultimately Robert guffaws, but it has an undertone of desperation and miserableness.
"I didn't think you would, just by the look you gave me when you entered," He says.
It's the first sentence he's really spoken, at least since you arrived, words exchanged first by worried once-overs and a gentle hug that he all but enveloped you into.
"I was worried-" Your tongue darts between your teeth, harshly biting down to keep the onslaught of tears at bay. If Robert had noticed your moment to gather yourself, he spoke nothing of it.
"Worried that something had happened when I could not find you, it’s unlike you to not show up for work. Or not be where you’re supposed to.”
You watch his eyebrows raise in the reflection of the window, nonetheless softened by your fretting. “At least, during the daytime,”
"Clearly, I was unqualified to show up in such a state." He uses the arm not holding himself up against the wall to gesture the length of his body. Your gaze bounces around to the many wounds that litter his pale skin, many easier to see now that he has shed his coat and remained in his trousers and white cotton blouse.
"I wouldn't have expected you to go to work like that." Your throat clears. "But I would have expected you to realize I would wonder where you were," You hesitantly shake your head, registering that what you've said was nothing but a mess of words.
However, the brunette turns, clearly piecing together what you mumbled, with ease.
"You're right," Robert muses. "Sorry. Part of me didn't want you to see me like this."
"All beaten to hell and looking like a kicked dog?" You tread dangerous waters, but are delighted to find that satisfied smirk of his brimming on a busted lip.
"Oh, y/n, how you wound me while I am already on the ground," Pushing off the wall, he makes his way back over to his bed, hand now resting on the wooden footboard.
"It's deserved, Robbie. I can say that with upmost confidence.” Sniffling, your palms splay flat against the blanket, leaning most of your weight onto the bed as you tilt back to look up at him.
“And who dressed those wounds?”
“Myself. I haven’t left my room today, in case you haven’t noticed, y/n.” The usual snark slips into his tone, a small bout of agitation in his brow, yet, his eyes remain soft and content.
“May I ask who—“ Any hope at all is instantly ripped from your chest, his reply firm and curt.
“No, you may not.”
You toss your head back and forth twice, mulling over the choice you had. You could either press onwards, or disregard the notion altogether and help him re-bandage his injuries.
“Is it because—“ It’s unable to be helped, so it seems.
“y/n, what did I just say?”
Robert sighs, joining you once more on his bed, one leg tucked beneath him so he faced you.
“It’s just in my nature to worry. I’m worried.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about. I made a mistake, and it won’t happen again.” He argues, right hand coming to the blanket, just shy of yours.
“You said that the last time.”
“That was different.” You blink. “How so?”
“You really are disregarding my wishes to not speak about this,” He stalls, and you relax, shoulders sinking in relief, not realizing how stiff you were.
“I’m not interrogating you about the how, I’m asking how it’s different than all the other times,” Robert shrugs, fingers sliding closer to yours against the blanket.
“It’s different because it was my fault. All the other times it was not.”
There it is. You smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to swallow the smirk that fights its way to the surface.
“You are not laughing.” When you don’t reply, turning your head away from him, he suddenly becomes exasperated.
“Are you?” Your own voice betrays you, a slight warble in your words.
“N-no…”
“It’s not funny, I don’t understand how it being my fault is so hilarious,” He sounds tired, finally fed up with your nonsense for the evening.
“Because you’re so adamant that the other times it was not possible for it to be your fault. It’s not funny, you’re right. I’m sorry for laughing,”
“I am not saying I am always right,” He insists, fingertips brushing your knuckles.
“But usually, I am.” He adds, and your nose wrinkles, mildly indifferent to his gaze.
“Come here.” Robert slides closer to you, taking your hand in his as he does so, finding the empty spot next to your side easily.
“I’ll re-dress at least this one, I can’t stand the way you’ve done it so haphazardly.” His eyebrow raises.
“You cannot stand it? I’m the one who had to do it one-handed,”
You reach over to his beside table, grabbing the gauze he’d left there. Still at his side, you pull your hand from his hold and begin unwinding the knot he had tied.
“Such a child, stop moping.” He rolls his eyes.
There’s a welcomed silence that enters his room, his eyes trained on your fingers as they expertly peel away the now marred gauze, and wipe away any dirt or dried blood that had gathered there.
“I am sorry.” It comes quietly, nearly a whisper, and you have to move your eyes up to even see that his lips moved.
“I know you are. It’s alright.” You say, carefully wrapping his forearm, then tying the end in a small knot. “You know me, Robbie. I worry, and especially when you are doing things you shouldn’t be.”
“y/n.” You realize that your eyes are still on his arm, and you blink, eyes moving back to his, pulling away gently.
“Yes?” It’s meek, but it’s said.
“Stop worrying. I will always find my way back to you, no matter what.” His words are effortlessly sincere, and you sigh, hand settling in the crook of his uninjured arm.
“I know, I know. Can’t blame me, can you? I’ve been running around all day, looking for you, and you were in the first place I should have checked.”
“Well, that’s on you,” Robert snuffs, to which you gasp. “Rivington said—“
“I don’t care what he said, you should have known the only place I hide is here.” The candles flicker, almost loudly, enough to encourage him to try and get some rest soon.
“When you smile with a busted lip like that—“
“Enough, y/n, seriously. I’ve had it up to here with you.” He gestures above his head, but as irritated as he may sound, he only pulls closer to your side.
“Yeah, like I’ve heard that before.” You pause, before pressing onwards. “Get some rest, Robert. I’ll have to be on my way, so for the sake of my poor heart, please, just sleep.”
He nods twice before squeezing your hand, silently letting you know all was well.
“Come by tomorrow? I’m off of work as well. I’ll return Thursday,” It’s hushed, and there’s a twinkle in his eye.
“Of course. I’ll be over in the morning with something to better treat that arm.” You stand off his bed, feet dragging across the floor as he’s hot on your heels, reaching just past you to open the door.
“Can I at least walk you—“
“No. Thank you, but I’ll be just fine. Rivington will see me out.” You offer one last look before heading out the door, minding the narrow stairs.
Robert sighs, closing the door once you’re out of his sight and moving towards the window, hopeful to at least make sure you make it to the end of the street.
The candles are all extinguished, except for one, the same that sits squarely on his desk as rough hands run along parchment and folded letters.
For what it’s worth, it seems to have been an advantageous endeavor.
As if his words didn’t contain enough venom, for good measure he sends a look over his shoulder, one that would normally have you shoving him away, yet, it seems the finality of his words was up to interpretation.
“Must you? I am only trying to help.”
Your hands clasp at your front, increasing your speed just a bit to keep pace with his long stride. It takes a moment, yet you join next to him on the sidewalk, arms brushing as he realizes how fast he’s walking. He looks your way, and slows his step.
“For the umpteenth time, y/n—“
Robert takes a sharp intake of air, but quickly deflates.
“It is not up for debate, nor is it about how much you’d like to help. It is in reference to you, and your safety.”
“I never knew you to be a—“
It’s not snarky, the word is at the tip of your tongue,
“Don’t you dare say such a thing in public without being prepared to see me killed.”
Ah. He thinks you were going to call him a spy.
Your initial shock dissipates as you simply shrug your shoulders in defiance.
“Mhm. I was going to say such an worrier, but never mind. Seems your attitude has gotten the best of you.”
Robert falters on the sidewalk as you see your chance, continuing onwards without him with a quicker gait.
“y/n, you know I—“
Once he’s caught up to you, it appears that he hasn’t quite thought of what else he wanted to say. You wait, much to his annoyance, staring straight ahead, yet at least acknowledge his presence.
“y/n, you know how much I…care for you, you must understand how this is out of love, and not because I wish to exclude you from this.”
He sighs, hand finding your arm as he pulls you close to his side, nearly sending you toppling with his unwavering hold.
“I was told by Culper to keep everyone out. Since my Father, I cannot have you messing around with things you shouldn’t.”
That’s right. He’s right. Your eyes fall to the stone, watching the way they mismatch along the old road.
“I am a worrier.”
Robert announces to no one but you.
“And it’s something I’m not going to apologize for. So, this is the end of this conversation, y/n.”
Most of him expects you to fight back, so he can watch that ferocity brim then explode in your eyes, full of anger that he had shut you out once more.
But to his surprise, you relent, holding his arm a bit tighter as you hang your head, bobbing it once before agreeing.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Robert.”
He hadn’t meant to upset you, but he had to know that his sternness was met with some sort of equal understanding.
“I don’t need an apology,”
His right hand comes to brush a few wisps of your hair back behind your ears.
“I just want you to be safe.”
You mumble, finally looking up into his stare.
“Though you would be the best back up I’ve got,”
Robbie muses, a smile dancing on his lips.
“I’ve got some friends around. Not quite as good as you, but they’ll have to manage.”
He can feel the worry drown from his shoulders, catching the beginning of a smile on your lips.
You know what hits hard for no reason? During Abe’s trial he admits to starting the Liberty Pole Riots that caused his brother’s death and he hoped that to meet his brother’s soul through his son. Abraham stated that he was living a lie out of guilt and wished to explain everything to his son when Thomas got older.
When Abe met Robert for the first time at the inn and Abe asked what the Quaker thought of him, Robert hit the nail on the head.
“A boy playing a man, playing a spy. Each one a liar”.
I don’t know how to psychoanalyze this but that’s very perceptive of you Robert.
I sincerely love how the most anxious spy is also the most stoic one.
I’m still recovering from when Benedict Arnold interviewed Robert Townsend in front of Simcoe. All that pressure made Robbie as precious as a diamond to me.
