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murdockparker · 2 months

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Our Cottage

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: A first anniversary is nearly as important and memorable as the wedding day—if only she had remembered it. Or, at the very least, hoped her husband also forgot. Knowing her husband? Unlikely.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: fluffy fluff!! cheesy as cheese gets I'm afraid, mentions and illusions of sex but no smut (sorry babes maybe next time)

A/N: Another self indulgent fic for me myself and I. You're welcome to read it if you want I guess—I have nothing else to say about it

The room was too fragrant.

Maybe it was her sensitive sense of smell that had awoken her, but something about the near ten bouquets that adorned her bedchambers led her to believe that both could be true.

“What in the world?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, knocking unceremoniously on the door. “I do hate to intrude on your beauty sleep, but I was instructed to beat the drapes and I’m afraid this is the last room I have left to do.”

“No, no,” (Y/N) groaned, sitting up in bed, “I bet it’s time for me to rise anyway. Can’t sleep the day away.”

“You’re much more forgiving than Mr. Bridgerton,” Mrs. Crabtree smiled, entering further into the bedchambers. “As much as I miss the young master’s presence here at the estate, if he found out that I awoke you early,” she laughed quietly, “I reckon the mister and I would be packing our bags before nightfall.”

“Oh please,” (Y/N) peeled the covers off of her body, stretching her legs, “Benedict loves you both dearly—”

“But he loves you more,” the woman points, making good work of taking the drapes off the wall. “Why, do you think Mr. Bridgerton would purchase the same amount of flowers for me?”

She looks closer at the bouquets—all full of a different variety of blooms. Most filled with her favorites, but a handful were a collection of his favorites as well. “Why did Benedict purchase all of these flowers, anyway? It seems excessive…”

Mrs. Crabtree’s smile seemed secretive at first, fading in realization after looking Mrs. Bridgerton in the eyes. “Oh, my dear, you’re serious.”

“Benedict is usually known for romantic gestures,” (Y/N) said indifferently, “I do not recall a time he did something quite like this, though.”

“Well, I can recall a time Mr. Crabtree and I had to clean up a shocking amount of paint and a few precarious handprints across his study…”

She wished she was still in bed, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers over her bright red face. It was one of the many nights of their honeymoon—Benedict had the bright idea to try and paint with their bodies instead of brushes. She thought he had the decency to clean it all up in the morning. She thought, anyhow.

“I-I’m sorry you had to clean up such a mess,” (Y/N) said, praying the apology could transcend lifetimes. “I will be sure to let Benedict know he needs to be more careful with his oils.”

“Oh, your love keeps me young, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “But as I was saying—do you really not realize why your husband had purchased so many flowers?”

“Not a clue.”

“Perhaps it isn’t my place,” Mrs. Crabtree said slowly. “But you and the master have been married for a year now.”

“Yes, yes,” (Y/N) waved. “Nearly year of marital bliss—”

“A year ago, today.”

“Today is… surely not…”

Noticing a perfectly placed card in the bouquet on her nightstand, she grabbed it and quickly sped over the looping font.

Dearest,

I hope these blooms find you well, I instructed the Crabtrees to be extra careful in their delivery this morn. As exquisite as the flowers may be, and I insisted on their exquisiteness, they could never hold a candle to you. Light of my life and song of my heart, how pleasantly perfect the last year has been.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Yours forever,

Their anniversary. Their first anniversary, and she had completely forgotten about it.

“Mr. Bridgerton is still visiting Kent until this evening,” Mrs. Crabtree explained, as if the young missus didn’t know. “I’m sure that provides ample time to prepare something for his arrival, at the very least twelve hours give or take.”

“How could I have forgotten?” (Y/N) was beside herself, forgetting her anniversary? Her first anniversary? Surely it wasn’t an omen of some kind. She was holding onto his note rather tightly. “What kind of a wife am I?”

“Not a terrible one,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “Why, I recall forgetting quite a few of my anniversaries as well.”

“Not your first one though, correct?”

“Well, no—”

“We need to go to town,” (Y/N) said determinedly, flinging her closet open, eyes scanning over every sensible dress she owned. “I need to figure out a way to top whatever spectacle my husband has planned for this evening.”

“I’ll call for a carriage,” Mrs. Crabtree sighed, knowing full well that the drapes will not get finished this afternoon.

“If we were in London, why, I’d have hundreds of choices on what to get Benedict,” (Y/N) said, skimming through the few booths at the market. Life out in the country was agreeable, favorable even, but it was moments like these that she truly missed the convenience of living in such a populated place. “I just do not see how I am to make a gift with anything here.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree said, carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and veg—taking every opportunity of the market while they’re out, “perhaps you should try gifting something from the heart?”

“What to wives usually get their husbands for the first anniversary?” (Y/N) asked absentmindedly, fingers running over a healthy pile of apples.

“I find that most women in your place have the pleasure of gifting news of an heir right around or before the year mark,” Mrs. Crabtree said, a hint of a smile dancing on her lips. “I don’t suppose you can surprise Mr. Bridgerton with such news?”

Her face went red. “No. Decidedly not.”

“Shame,” Mrs. Crabtree clicked, “I was rather hoping to be doting on a babe sometime soon…”

“What did you give Mr. Crabtree for your anniversary?” (Y/N) tried to change the subject, ignoring the perfect thought of a little baby with Benedict’s eyes. Perhaps they would have her nose? Her smile?

“Well,” the older woman’s face lit up, “our Henry was the best kind of gift—for me or Mr. Crabtree. I wish I could be more help in that regard, dear.”

Defeated, (Y/N) threw a handful of apples into her basket. The apples weren’t even all that good this time of year. Perhaps she could convince Mrs. Crabtree to bake a pie. Either way, a snack for the horses and their hard work this morning.

“Please forgive me for speaking out of turn, ma’am,” Mrs. Crabtree spoke quietly, “but your husband loves you dearly, I am quite sure he would be most content with any gift you give him.”

“Oh I am sure he would be well suited to accept anything I made or purchased,” (Y/N) agreed. “I rather think I could sneeze on a piece of parchment and he’d write to the National Gallery to induct it into their collection.”

“He would,” Mrs. Crabtree agreed, holding back a laugh.

“Why did I marry such a thoughtful man?” (Y/N) groaned, fist clenching tighter on her basket. “I am destined to be in this predicament every year until the day I perish, aren’t I?”

“To be in a happy marriage, ma’am?”

“To have to deal with my inadequacy for gifts,” she corrected. “We are but a competitive match, after all. Chess is a blood sport with us,” (Y/N) laughed, recalling the last time they had played the game. They both were of the same mind, irritating as it were, it was as if they were playing themselves. It usually ended well regardless, with one under the other in the bedroom. “He probably has been planning something since we were wed, I’m sure. How do I ever top such a thing?”

“Might I suggest the baby narrative again?”

“Mrs. Crabtree, I know you mean it in jest, but it really sounds like my only option at this point.”

“I cannot help my need to see perfect little Bridgerton babies around the estate,” Mrs. Crabtree said cleverly. “But I also know when that day comes and you and Mr. Bridgerton do end up having children, it will be the most welcome of presents. Just, not this year, hm?”

“No,” she sighed, “not this year.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Crabtree nodded. “Perhaps we should head back to the estate?”

“I suppose,” (Y/N) sighed again, kicking a stray rock off of the path. “No use in sulking at the market when I can sulk in the comfort of my own home and await my perfect husband’s arrival with his perfect present.”

“Chin up, dear,” Mrs. Crabtree laughed, putting the baskets away in the carriage. “It’s endearing that you care so deeply about Mr. Bridgerton's gift. I’m sure whatever you land on will be just perfect.” A tease of sarcasm, a tease at her young missus.

“You’ve made your point,” (Y/N) grumbled, hopping into the cab. “Perhaps I should just accept defeat.”

“Oh, well now that won’t do,” Mrs. Crabtree admonished playfully, closing the door behind her. The carriage begun moving home. “You yourself said you were a competitive match, and I for one would like to see Mr. Bridgerton bested. All men need to be reminded that the wife is the true head of the house from time to time.”

(Y/N) snorted. How she cared so deeply for the staff here in the country, the Crabtrees were always a breath of fresh air. “He’s well aware.”

“Remind him anyway,” Mrs. Crabtree said absentmindedly.

As if struck by lightning, Mrs. Bridgerton knew exactly what she could gift her husband.

Benedict was exhausted. His family’s bad timing is never lost on him, needing his immediate attention at Aubrey Hall for one reason or another. His mother’s correspondence begged him to come urgently, a matter only meant to be discussed in person rather through letters. With a heavy heart he left his wife behind, knowing he’d only be gone for a handful of days anyway, even if he would be missing the majority of their anniversary day.

Benedict grinned wickedly. They still had plenty of the night, however.

When he originally had purchased My Cottage, he never expected to share the less-than-humble estate with anyone else, but like it was meant to be—and he had a very good reason to believe it was—(Y/N) made it her own and took to the country as well as he thought. She had even made fast friends with the Crabtrees, who, by all regards, Benedict thought of as family.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Mr. Crabtree greeted, nodding to the young master exiting the carriage. Anthony had sent for him with a family transport—knowing Benedict would not want to leave (Y/N) without—all the more reason for his brother to agree to come to Aubrey Hall. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Crabtree,” Benedict nodded back, jumping down to the dirt path.

“How was your family, sir?”

“Dreadful,” Benedict groaned. “Made even more taxing by the two entire days of travel there and back. Do they not realize how far Wiltshire is to Kent?”

“I am sure the viscount is well aware,” Mr. Crabtree said, treading lightly. “I am also sure that they would not have called upon you for a small matter, either.”

“No,” Benedict sighed, rolling his shoulders. The trip had been a long one, his muscles ached. “It was a good reason for my visit, but it still pained me to be from my wife for so very long, especially today.”

“Ah, well, your missus has not been herself since you left,” Mr. Crabtree said. “I am quite sure that seeing you will be a happy reunion indeed.”

“Please ensure that you and your missus find your lodgings in the cabin, this eve,” Benedict said, as if the thought just occurred to him. Asking his staff to stay at the cabin by the pond became a regular occurance, especially after his marriage. “It is my anniversary, after all.”

Mr. Crabtree smiled. “Already done, sir.”

“Excellent,” Benedict said, trying his best not to grin from ear to ear. “Have a good night.”

“You as well, sir.”

Benedict knew that dinner would be waiting for him inside, Mrs. Crabtree probably having already made his favorites. After his day of travel, he was ravenous—more for food in this very moment than anything else, but he would settle for his wife, too.

“Darling,” Benedict called out, removing his boots by the front entryway. “Your fantastic husband has returned!”

Silence.

“Darling?” He called again, only to be met with the ticking of the grand clock in the foyer. “Playing hard to get, it seems…”

A shimmering of light caught his eye. Candlelight was emitting from his study, his studio, flickering from the crack under the door.

Odd.

“(Y/N)…?”

He opened the door cautiously, only to find his wife hunched over an easel. She had a streak of blue paint on her right cheek, a smidge of green right across the bridge of her nose. Benedict couldn’t recall the last time he saw something so endearing.

“Oh! Benedict!” (Y/N) said, nearly jumping five feet into the air. “You’re home!”

“I am,” he laughed, shutting the door to the study. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Cooking,” she deadpanned, posing with a hand on her hip, painters pallet in the other. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“After all my begging to get you to pick up a brush, you decide to do it whilst I’m away?” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I cannot decide if I am touched or hurt.”

“It was meant to be a surprise!” (Y/N) laughed, setting the pallet down. “A gift for you.”

“A gift?” Benedict mused, walking closer to his wife. “And what did I do to deserve such a gift?”

“You married me,” she said simply, wiping her hands of any wet paint. They were still covered in a kaleidoscope of colors, but all dried down and hardly worth the effort to clean at the present moment. “A year ago today, I gather.”

“Oh yes,” Benedict said knowingly. “That is today, isn’t it?” His wife grinned up at him, looking more beautiful than the day he met her, a day he could have sworn was burned into his mind forever.

“So I’ve been told,” (Y/N) said. “I hate to admit, but I started on this later that I would have liked, only working on it for the last eight hours—”

“You didn’t happen to forget our anniversary, did you?” Benedict crossed his arms, his voice teasing.

“Of course not!” She lied, keeping her voice even. “You are just an impossible person to make a gift for, that is all.”

“Ah,” Benedict clicked. He did not believe her, but forgave her all in the same breath. “I see.”

“So it is not yet finished—”

“May I see it?”

“No, not yet,” (Y/N) said, turning the easel away quickly. He couldn’t have possibly seen what it was from where he was standing, anyway.

“What if…” Benedict crossed the room, carefully opening the closet in the wall. “We showed them together?” He pulled a similar sized canvas from the contents of the closet, covered in a plain white sheet. Of course he painted her something, it seemed only right. She married an artist, after all.

“Yours is going to be much better than mine,” (Y/N) said, nearly melting into the floor. “I will feel inadequate comparing our work.”

“Nonsense,” Benedict scoffed, walking back towards his wife. “They were both made with the same amount of love, I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps…”

“Come on,” he said, nudging her arm with the corner of his canvas lovingly. “On the count of three?”

She nodded. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

She spun the easel around just as Benedict removed the cover from the canvas in his hand.

Laughter filled the room.

“Oh my darling, I could kiss you,” Benedict said, voice full of love, his eyes not straying from her canvas for a moment. “Granted, I have wanted nothing more than to kiss you since I arrived—”

“Out of everything we could have painted,” (Y/N) giggled, brushing hair out of her face. “We picked the same subject?”

On both canvases laid a landscape rendition of My Cottage, one obviously more well-done than the other. Benedict’s gave a sense of perfect imperfection, something worth hanging in a gallery or museum. (Y/N)’s, while being done by the hand of a novice in only a handful of hours, gave it the sense of home, the shared feeling the couple had every day at their estate.

“We share the same mind,” Benedict surmised, setting his work on a neighboring easel, putting both side-by-side. “What a stunning collaboration on our end.”

“You jest,” (Y/N) pushed Benedict playfully. “Yours is far superior to mine. A toddler could have done better work.”

“Nonsense!” Benedict said, pulling his wife into his side, kissing her temple. “You obviously put such care into it, no matter how lopsided the left side of our home may be—”

“Benedict—”

“It’s brilliant, my love,” Benedict sang, turning (Y/N) to look directly at him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

“Truly?”

“Well, I fear I am still waiting on my welcome kiss…” Benedict sighed.

“Needy, needy man,” (Y/N) bubbled, rocking on her toes to reach her husband’s face, all but happy to oblige.

After a total of four days apart, the kiss was one that was worth waiting for. Saccharine sweet and slow, it was welcoming, it was home. Much like their first kiss, Benedict idly wondered if (Y/N)’s lips were always meant to be captured in his own—as if they were quite literally made for each other.

“Oh dear,” (Y/N) giggled, pulling away from her husband’s embrace, thumb rubbing soothing circles on his jaw. He needed to shave.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Paint,” she said, swiping her thumb across his cheek. “Entirely my fault. I’m not even sure how I got it on my face to begin with…”

“Hardly the first time,” Benedict quipped, leaning back in to kiss her once more.

“Do you really like it?” (Y/N) asked, resting her head on his shoulder—their attention somehow turned back to the canvases. “Or are you lying to me?”

“I would never lie to you,” Benedict said. She believed him. “But, I do suppose a few more hours would boast well to the quality…”

Another playful slap to his arm.

“Where are we to hang yours?” Her hand grazed his masterpiece. He must have finished it ages ago, hiding it away for just the right moment. “The entryway gets too much sun—”

“What about our bedchambers?” He offered.

“No, I want our guests to admire your work of Our Cottage,” she hummed, focusing her attention to the beautiful wreath he lovingly added to the front door. She loved adorning their door with fresh flowers, a detail he surely could have overlooked, but still included anyway. “Perhaps in the drawing room?”

“Our Cottage…” Benedict mumbled happily. “I think it’s high time we changed the name to that, don’t you agree? Seeing as it is no longer ‘my’ anything, not with you here.”

“Considering it still is not a cottage in the slightest, I have a few disagreements on that alone,” she teased. Their estate was nearly the furthest thing from a cottage, nearly a small mansion. “But yes… Our Cottage seems fitting.”

“And where will we hang your masterpiece?” Benedict pulled her tighter into his side. “Shall we hang them side-by-side? Allow our guests to see just how talented the Bridgertons can be?”

“Oh I am quite alright with stowing this away until forever,” (Y/N) laughed. “No guest needs to see this poor attempt when the true artistry falls onto you.”

“Poppycock!” Benedict dismissed. “My wife worked very hard on this, I refuse to just ‘stow it away’.”

“Well, then where do you suggest we hang it?” She said, trying not to smile, his praise flooding her senses from her head to her toes.

“I may have a few ideas…”

The wondrous scent of flowers filled their home once more, something that happened more and more frequently in the summer months, when flowers of all sorts were in season. Benedict made sure he outdid himself from last year, adorning each room in their home with at least two bouquets each, rather than just a load in their bedchambers. His reasoning? They only get the once to celebrate their second anniversary, might as well make it special.

“Should we move this one?” (Y/N) asked, holding a rather large assortment in her hand. “I would hate for her to be overwhelmed by the scent…”

“Darling, she’s fine,” Benedict said, grabbing the bouquet from his wife. “But, if you insist, I shall make an exception on this room.”

“She’s a baby,” (Y/N) giggled, watching her husband clumsily run across the hall to place the bouquet in their bedchambers. “I do not think she has the capacity to admire such a thing yet.”

“We want our daughter to be well versed, do we not?” Benedict said, returning to the nursery. “Best we start her on the language of flowers as soon as we can. An educated lady is a respected lady.”

“You’re impossible,” (Y/N) grinned.

“So I’ve been told.”

“God, she’s so perfect,” she said, looking over the crib with a look one could only describe as lovestruck. “How did we manage to make such a beautiful thing?”

“You did most of the work,” Benedict said, suddenly beside her. “I only showed up the once, if I recall.”

“Oh hush,” (Y/N) leaned up against him, feeling the warmth of his body touching her own. “A perfect anniversary present.”

“She’s been quite the gift the last few months, I’ll give you that,” Benedict hummed, his fingers lazily rubbing shapes on the top of her arm. “But I’m afraid that title still falls to the gift from last year.”

Framed perfectly atop the crib of their precious baby girl was the rendition of their home, the one (Y/N) had worked so hard on a year prior. While it had looked a bit more polished after Benedict offered his wife some very well needed advice, it was still lopsided and patchy, but very much full of love. He had hung it two weeks later, after it had completely dried and framed, causing his wife to sob tears of joy on the placement.

Their daughter was born only nine months after.

“Our Cottage,” she sighed happily.

“Our Cottage,” Benedict kissed her temple, looking down at his daughter and back at his beautiful wife. “Happy anniversary, my love.”

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines #hi i love b.b and no one can stop me #if anyone wants some wine with a side of this CHEESE come and see me

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dudefrommywesterns · 6 months

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Title: A Boy Named Bill

Ship: Mike x Bill Baker (hi. don't perceive me. actually do. but also don't. do you understand?)

Words: 3.2k (I'm so sorry to anyone who reads this.)

Description: Mike meets Bill, who they'd only heard gossip about.

Bill Baker was a name that Mike heard quite a lot from fellow students at Ridgeville over the past few months. Freshman. Adored football player. Number 32. Being a junior, and being an English major, Mike had never met the man who’d garnered so much praise. They heard he was really good at football. Mike never cared for sports, especially not school sports. Bill Baker had a uh, a friend, Junior Jackson. Horrific football player. Overbearing father. Mike didn’t know much, but as they understood it, that’s how Bill Baker got into Ridgeville. Mike got a scholarship themselves. He was beautiful. That, Mike could make no judgment on. If the chittering of all the freshman girls was to be believed, Bill Baker was material for a national monument. Ah. Well, Mike didn’t care. Last they heard by the by, he had a girlfriend. Terry! That was it, Terry. She had a side hustle, a clothes selling business. Everyone knew Terry, and Terry knew everyone’s clothes size. Mike heard, too, that earlier that semester Bill got hammered before a big game and was expelled. Clearly, that decision was overturned somehow. Anyway, Mike didn’t know Bill. And Bill didn’t know Mike. And who cared about some over-popular jock anyway?

Finals week was coming up and Mike went to the library for some last-minute study time. They had never studied so hard in their life. So, when they were done, they were as tired as they’d ever been in their life. On their way back to their dorm, they spotted a man with curly hair looking dejected and trying not to shed a tear. He was sitting on the steps next to the “Jackson Dormitory for Men” sign. Mike walked slowly closer.

“Are you alright?” They asked him.

“It's nothing.”

Mike took a seat next to him. “Hey, it’s okay to talk about it. Talking is good.”

He ran a hand through his curls, “My girl and I broke it off.”

��Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.”

He sighed. “I loved Terry but she was no good for me.”

Mike’s eyes widened. “Bill Baker? You’re the freshman football hero? All-American Dreamboat Bill Baker?”

The man looked surprised, “Yeah, that's me.”

Mike looked him over. He had broad shoulders and a decent build. He was tall, a bit tan, and had the largest hands they’d ever seen. Their eyes flitted past his. They were brown. Warm. He was beautiful.

“I’d never have taken you for a freshman.”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“You're not built like any freshman I’ve ever seen.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Mm hmm.”

Mike cleared their throat. “Anyway, if there's anything I can do to help, let me know.”

“Thank you.”

The pair sat in silence for a moment until Bill broke it.

“Hey, you know my name,” Bill said. “Why haven’t I seen you before?”

Mike shrugged. “I’m a junior.”

“A junior?”

Mike nodded. “I’m doing upper division coursework. I tutor a bit on the side.”

“You only tutor English?” he asked.

Mike nodded. “I do. Do you need help with an essay? Are you taking English 101 this semester?”

Bill shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Well,” Mike said, standing up. “If you ever need an essay written or a listening ear, I’m around. Dormitory for Women, room 12. Or, I’m at the library.”

“You ever go to a football game?”

Mike shook their head. “I don’t do sports. Or school spirit. I’m in the volunteering club too.”

“I don’t have much time for volunteering.”

Mike nodded slowly. “Uh, well, see you around.”

“See you around.”

Mike walked off into the dark, toward their dorm room.

Once Mike met Bill, they found him in more places. He was in the cafeteria. He was in the library. They walked past each other on the way to class. Mike saw him practicing on the football field as they took their morning walks. Him, and his roommate, Junior Jackson. Junior was a gawky sort of fellow. It amazed Mike that he was on the football team at all. He wore circular glasses and a sweater, cardigan, and bow tie. All the makings for a nerd. Still, as Mike understood it, he made a passable kicker, and Bill had become a dear friend.

Bill and Junior were talking leaning against a fence near the football field as Mike passed on their way to the library, for a tutoring session.

“Hey, Mike!” Bill said as they walked passed.

Mike stopped, entirely confused.

“I want you to meet my pal, Junior Jackson.”

Now, why would he want that?

They readjusted their book bag and glanced at Junior, who gave them a polite wave.

“Hi, Junior,” Mike said. “I’m Mike.”

“Just Mike?” he asked.

Mike shrugged. “My last name’s not important. We’re not all sons of alumni.”

They cringed immediately.

“I didn’t mean to come off like I’m bitter about that. I’m sure you’re a great guy.”

“I’m not upset,” Junior replied, in a lighthearted tone.

“Well, good. Um, I have a tutoring appointment to get to, so if you’ll excuse me?”

“Tutoring?” he asked. “You’re a tutor?”

Mike nodded. “I am. If you need an English tutor, I’m the guy.”

“Oh, no thank you.”

Bill chimed in, “Junior’s pretty smart.”

“Ah, well, maybe he can be a tutor once he’s done more classes. You never can have enough tutors. Bye, guys.”

Bill and Junior waved goodbye, and Mike headed to the library for their tutoring session.

The next time Mike saw Bill, it was just after their last English final. He was next to the English building, for reasons unknown, talking to a man Mike knew nothing about. Perhaps he was on the football team. Maybe he was a classmate of Bill’s. Just as Mike walked past, the other man left, leaving Bill alone.

“Hi, Mike,” he said as they passed him. “How’d finals go?”

Mike stopped, and walked over by the steps, where he was standing, “Alright. It was a lot of essay exams.”

“That must’ve been awful.”

They shrugged, “I like essays.”

Bill’s eyes widened like Mike had said something incredibly outlandish. “You like essays?”

“I’m an English major, Bill. What do you think we do?”

“A lot of reading?”

“Well, yeah, but with the reading comes the writing. We write about the reading and read about the writing.”

“That sounds like it gets tiresome.”

“Not really. There’s always something interesting to read. Anyway, how were your finals?”

Bill shrugged. “They went okay.”

“How was football season? What do you do next semester, now that there’s no football?”

“Football season had its up and downs,” he replied. “I bet you know I was expelled, huh?”

Mike nodded. “I heard, yeah.”

“Mr. Jackson had to pull some strings to get me back in.”

“What are you doing over winter break?”

He shrugged. “Goin’ home. I might work at Mr. Jackson’s plant for a couple weeks.”

Bill’s eyes lit up.

“What?” Mike asked.

“A friend of mine on the team is throwing an end-of-finals party, are you coming?”

Mike laughed. “You think I was invited to that? Or even told about it?”

He looked puzzled. “I thought he invited everybody.”

“On the team, I imagine. The team’s girls. The girls he thinks are pretty. The girls’ plus ones. People who get invited to parties. Not nerdy English majors he’s never met.”

“You’re not nerdy.”

Mike pushed up their glasses. “I’m an English major with a 3.8 GPA who wears glasses and works as a tutor. What’s nerdier than that?”

Bill smiled. “Bow ties?”

Mike chuckled. “Well, maybe I’m not Junior, but I’m not Miss Popular.”

“Come as my plus one.”

Mike gave him a sideways glance. What was his angle?

“Why?” they asked.

“I don’t have a date.”

Mike scoffed. “And I was your first option?”

“I was gonna go with Terry.”

They frowned. “Oh.”

“You got something better to do?”

No. They were likely going to pack to go home. Or read a book alone in their room.

“What’s this party going to be like?” they asked. “I don’t want to go and have you get drunk on me.”

“Like any college party. Lots of dancing. Music. Some snacks. People kissing in the corners.”

“I’m up for dancing and snacking but don’t expect any kissing.”

He chuckled. “Okay.”

“What should I wear?”

“Whatever you want. It’s not fancy.”

“When is it?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Mike asked, surprised.

“Well, yeah, it’s the end of finals. Everybody’s going home tomorrow.”

Mike nodded. “Well, see you tonight. Meet me at my dorm? Room 12, remember?”

“‘Dormitory for Women, room 12.’” Bill repeated, “I remember.”

Later that evening, Mike was in a panic. They shuffled through their drawer of sweaters while their roommate looked on, amused.

Ellen looked up from her book. “Mike, what on Earth are you so stressed about?”

“I don’t know what to wear!” Mike said, still shuffling. “What do you wear?”

She set her book down. “Wear to what?”

“Bill’s taking me to some end-of-finals party.”

“Bill? Surely not Bill Baker.”

Mike turned around. “That’s the one.”

She looked puzzled. “Since when does Bill Baker invite you anywhere?”

Mike shrugged. “Since today.”

She furrowed her brow, almost closing her hazel eyes. “Hm. I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. My nerdy roommate has a date. With Bill Baker, no less.”

“Hey, now.”

“Well, it’s true!”

Mike held up a red sweater and a green sweater. “Red or green? They have matching skirts.”

“Go with the green. It’ll look nice with your shade of red lipstick.”

Mike stared at their green sweater for a long minute. “That’s true. How should I wear my hair?”

Ellen laughed. “You like him, don’t you?”

Mike stopped short. “Like him? I’m not keen on him, if that’s what you mean.” “That is what I mean! What girl goes through all this trouble for a boy she doesn’t like?”

Mike winced.

“Right. Sorry. I know you don’t like being called a girl. I’m still right, though.”

“That’s alright. I’m not crushing. I’m not. This is my first party, that’s all.”

“Mm hm. Well, I say wear your hair like you always do. It’s pretty. Maybe lose the glasses?”

Mike looked at themselves in the mirror. “Well, I could. My vision isn’t that bad. If I’m not reading, I’ll be okay.”

They took off their glasses and folded them on the table. They pulled on their green sweater and matching patterned skirt. As quickly as they could, they applied their powder, blush, lipstick, and mascara. The eyeliner still needed work, but they were trying.

There was a knock at the door as Mike was slipping on their shoes.

“Get that, would you, Ellen?”

Ellen set her book down again, and opened the door.

Mike heard Bill ask, “Oh, who are you?”

“I’m Mike’s roommate, Ellen,” she replied. “Mike’s putting on shoes, It’ll just be a moment.”

Mike slipped their last shoe on, and stood up. Ellen moved out of the way.

“Hi, Bill,” Mike greeted.

“Hi. You look nice.”

Mike scanned Bill head to toe. He was in a dark brown blazer, magenta sweater, and brown slacks, of a lighter shade. He wore a white shirt underneath. No tie.

Mike swallowed. “So do you. Nice sweater.”

“Thank you. Ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

Bill linked arms with Mike as they walked out of the girls’ dormitory. Mike’s heartbeat quickened, out of sheer nervousness.

“Where is this party anyway?”

“My friend’s place. He lives just a little ways from campus.”

Stranger’s house. Lovely.

As it turned out, Bill’s football friend had a pretty large house and his folks were out. He must be one of the rich kids of Ridgeville, Mike thought. The party wasn’t very loud. There was some jazz on the radio, and everyone was dancing with a partner to it, or sitting out. As expected, there were snacks, and a few couples kissing in the corners. Mike looked away.

“Do you want a soda?” Bill asked them.

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll get me a soda. Want some chips?”

“Sure.”

Mike stood off to the side as Bill went to get snacks. They watched everyone dance. It reminded them of school dances they’d been to, where they’d been a lonely wallflower all night. Anyway, they had a date tonight. A fact they still couldn’t wrap their mind around.

They didn’t recognize anyone at the party. Not even Junior was there. Maybe this wasn’t Junior’s scene either. It sure wasn’t Mike’s.

Bill came back, a glass soda bottle in one hand, and chips in a bowl in another. He handed them the chips.

“Here.”

Mike took them. “Hey, Bill, where’s Junior?”

“He’ll be here in a minute. I don’t think he’s got a date, but he said he was coming.”

Mike frowned. “He’s not going to be a third wheel is he?”

“No, I’ll find him someone to dance with.”

“Good. I’d hate to see him tagging along behind us, all alone. I know how that feels.”

“He won’t be.”

Mike munched on their chips while Bill sipped his soda, gently swaying to the song.

“You have to know, Bill, I’m not a good dancer.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

Just as they finished their snacks, and were about to dance, Junior came in.

“Bill, hey, Bill!” he called.

“Over here, Junior!”

Junior was in his usual bow tie and sweater but he put a blazer over it. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, hi, Mike,” Junior greeted. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m Bill’s plus one.”

“Oh! I didn’t know. I don’t have a date.”

Bill laid a hand on Junior’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, pal, we’ll find you a dame.”

Mike laughed. “You call women dames?”

“Oh, yeah,” Junior said. “He does. Lots of times.”

“Broads too? Chicks? Or just dames?”

Bill shrugged. “I mostly call ‘em dames. I’m used to it.”

“Well, I suppose there are worse names.”

“Who d’ya think will dance with me, Bill?” Junior asked him.

“Any girl worth dancing with.”

Bill scanned the room for women without dancing partners. He spotted a short brunette in a swing dress. “Hey, how about her?”

“I don’t know, Bill, she’s very pretty.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Mike interjected, “He’s worried about her not wanting him. I understand that feeling.”

Junior nodded. “I have a hard time with girls, especially the pretty ones.”

Bill pulled Junior toward the short brunette, leaving Mike on the other side of the room. Mike watched Bill point to Junior, apparently making his best sales pitch. The girl shrugged, and took Junior’s hand. The pair walked to the middle of the room to dance.

When Bill returned, Mike said, “You weren’t kidding. There he goes.”

“She didn’t have a date. She figured Junior was as good as any guy.”

Mike frowned. “Hm. That’s sad.”

“Wanna dance?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Sure.”

Mike took Bill’s hand, and walked to the center of the room. He put a hand around their waist, and held their hand with the other. The song they caught was a slow one. Someone had changed the station. Bill pulled them close and they danced gently to the music.

“Bill?” Mike asked.

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you invite me?”

“I needed a date.”

“I know that. But why me? You hardly know me.”

“I figure that’s why. I hardly know you. I wanted to get to know you.”

Mike looked up into his brown eyes. “Why? Don’t guys like you get lots of girls? You had your pick, surely?”

He twirled them, and then rested his hand back on their waist.

“Hm. Well, you’re nice. Who else would’ve seen me almost crying and talked to me?”

“Lots of nice people.”

“You were the only one.”

“Well, you know, I don’t like seeing people down.”

“Sometimes a guy wants a nice girl.”

Mike winced, but said nothing about it.

“And you’re pretty too,” he said. “Especially now that I can look into your pretty blue eyes.”

Mike’s brain short circuited. Pretty? Their eyes? Their grey-blue small eyes? Their first response was to retort.

“Well, uh, thank you,” they said instead.

“We’re the same height with those heels of yours,” he said casually.

Mike furrowed their eyebrows. “So?”

“Makes it easy to look at you without craning my neck.”

Mike doubted Bill’s reasoning but they didn’t say anything. The song ended and the pair walked back toward the wall. Mike’s eyes caught another couple kissing.

“Um, well, what now?” they asked. “How long is this thing?”

Bill shrugged. “Until folks leave, I guess.”

“So…more dancing? Another soda? Do you have something you want to talk about?”

“What are you doing over winter break?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Sleeping. Reading. Returning home to my television set.”

“Where do you live?”

“Where do I live?” Mike asked, in a mixture of shock and amusement.

“I might wanna come by.”

“I’m a couple of towns away.”

“I’ll catch a bus.”

“You mean-?” Mike asked, genuinely surprised. “You mean you actually want to see me again?”

“Well, yes?” Bill replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “We could catch a movie. What do you wanna see?”

“Whatever’s playing I guess. Why do you want to see me again?”

“I like you.”

“Like me?” Mike asked. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “It means I like you. I wanna be around you. I might wanna catch a movie with you.”

“Does that make us friends?”

“Friends?” Bill asked, bewildered. “I was thinking of going together.”

“Going…together? As in? Out? As in? Dating? As in?”

Bill laughed. “You’ve never been asked out, have you?”

Mike stuttered, “Well, uh, no. Especially not, well, by a, well, you.”

“By a me?” he asked, amused.

“By…a popular sports guy. By a guy all the freshman girls go crazy for.”

“Not all the freshman girls.”

“Enough of them.”

“Is that a yes or no?”

Mike nodded. “Okay. We’ll catch a movie. I’ll give you my parents’ telephone number after the party. When you wanna go, just call? Okay?”

Bill smiled. “Okay.”

Bill took their hand and led them out to the dance floor. Soon, everyone began to file out. Mike was still swaying with him, with their head on his shoulder.

Eventually, Junior tapped Bill on the shoulder.

“I think the party’s over, Bill. Everyone’s gone.”

He looked around. “Shoot, I guess they are. We better go. It’s a long day of packing tomorrow.”

Bill walked Mike back to the Women’s dormitory. It was after hours.

“Hey, Bill, wait here would you?” Mike asked. “I’ll write down my parents’ telephone number and be right down.”

“Sure.”

Mike ran up to their room, as quietly as they could. They tore a piece of paper out of one of their notebooks. They scribbled their parents’ number on it, then hurried down to meet Bill. He was still standing by the steps, with his hands in his pockets.

“Here,” they said, handing him the paper. “When you call, ask for me. You don’t have to say anything else.”

“Your folks won’t want to know who I am?”

“Mm. They might. But that’s for me to tell them…or not.”

Bill chuckled. “Well, I’ll call you.”

Mike smiled at him. “I’ll be by the phone.”

Bill left with one last smile at them.

Mike walked back to their room to crash.

#i could not think of another title #just borrowing that from the stooge lol #ellen's an oc. i needed someone to be my roommate lol #typewriter dings #self ship #self shipping community #b.b.

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