#while meanwhile ben's like LOL BINCH PLZ

[honorhearted]

Ripley shrugged, peering up at him with wide, nauseatingly forlorn eyes. "Sir, what else was I supposed to do? If I'd made myself known, I was likely to be mistaken for King's Army and shot from the guard towers."

"We are not animals," Benjamin coolly replied. "If a defector appears seeking sanctuary, or offering a flag of truce, then we do not fire -- we let them in for discussion." His smile grew threadbare. "You could've been afforded the same courtesy, had you been truthful. Alas, now we have to do the extra go-around."

Ripley curled inward, bowing his head akin to one of Benjamin's chastened students. "This is what I get for trying to help..."

Benjamin barely suppressed a snort. "If you're claiming aid, you've certainly taken your sweet old time in alerting me to such a fact. If help or information was truly your intention, why didn't you lead in with this offer?"

Ripley seemed about ready to grovel. "Be reasonable, sir. Please," he begged. There was a slight quiver in his voice. "It's not what you think."

This time, Benjamin did scoff. "'Be reasonable?'" he echoed, outraged. "I think I've been damnably reasonable, all things considered! I could've had you shot upon sight -- I could've had you tortured or maimed, but instead, I've been giving you far more patience and lenience than you deserve! Defectors are cowards." Curling his upper lip, Benjamin continued, "Opportunists grow fat upon the fruits of the victorious. And if that's your intention here, then I regret to inform you that here in this army, we expect cooperation and results -- neither of which you have given me."

The whimpering whelp barely seemed to hear him. Appearing more hangdog than ever, Ripley sniveled, "May I have my spectacles back, sir? Please, I can't see."

Jaw tight, Benjamin moved toward the adjacent wall and snatched up a small satchel. Digging around inside, he retrieved the spectacles, safe and intact, before placing them upon Ripley's face with gruff impatience.

"There," Benjamin tightly replied. "Now that you can see, perhaps you can finally visualize the danger you're in. Here in this army, we don't take kindly to liars -- we hang them, in fact, so I'd suggest you finally become forthright with your intentions."

Blackwood was right about the man's temperament.

Eyes flickering briefly to the figure positioned at one corner of the room, Tom wondered if this display of bravado was for the other man's sake more than his own. It'd make more sense if that was true; it'd make more sense for this man, this Major Tallmadge, to exert his title and what little power he held in this camp through intimidating speeches.

Still, that didn't make it any less difficult for Tom to quell his urge to laugh; it was funny, all of this; his being ushered into camp and now Tallmadge acting predictably. While he was no fanatic of Major Blackwood's, Tom respected the man's observations; if anything, at least he'd been sent across enemy lines with correct information; he could work with that.

His eyes remained fixed on the blurred form of the Major, though he wasn't listening much to the drivel spat at him; no, he was contemplating what the camp might present him for dinner; he'd heard the rebels fed their prisoners better.

Tom almost liked not wearing his glasses now; it made the Major's display that much more ridiculous; prancing around in blue, acting as if he was about to run a prisoner through with his saber, there was comedy in the act; it reminded him of one of those performances he'd snuck into back in the city, watching as a faux stagehand; the ones where the officers took on the roles, even the feminine ones. For never meeting the man, Tom wondered if Tallmadge might be the same as his parallel, Major Andre; the King's own head of intelligence seemed just as keen when it came to performances. 

“You were caught skulking through our grounds without any recognizable means of identification,”

"Sir, what else was I supposed to do? If I'd made myself known, I was likely to be mistaken for King's Army and shot from the guard towers."

Tom's palms were sweating and the perspiration on his back caused his shirt to stick to his skin. It was uncomfortably warm in the room, wherever this was in camp; it was indoors, somewhere substantial enough for there to be a hearth; why the hearth was blazing in the middle of the afternoon, he didn't know, but the heat of the sun beating down on the covered windows certainly wasn't helping. How could the man stand it? He was in full uniform.

“Of course you would claim you’re taking a risk, because you bloody well are. I don’t know, you, sir – no one here knows you – so the likelihood of this being a redcoat defection or, worse yet, an infiltration is likely.”

Sinking back into his chair, Tom mimicked a flower wilting, his brow furrowed, disappointment etched along his features. Muttering under his breath, he cast his gaze away, looking down at his stockinged feed - they'd taken his boots too; it was too bad; he liked those shoes, he hoped he'd get them back - "This is what I get for trying to help..."

His head still turned from the Major, he glanced toward the curtained window, the sun lightening the colored fabric; it was patterned, but he couldn't tell if it was a floral pattern or something entirely else; stolen curtains, most likely; commandeered. As for how tiresome this war was, that was the part that amused him the most.

"Be reasonable, sir. Please." His voice wavered. "It's not what you think."

Could he manage at tears? No, he supposed not; besides, tears weren't always needed to display frustration.

Looking back at the man, "I… I'm sorry. This was a bad idea and I never should've come."

Shifting his eyes from side to side, he added as an afterthought, his voice sounding smaller than before, "May I have my spectacles back, sir? Please, I can't see."