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holybatgirlz · 2 months

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but only far from home | Accidents, 1836 (Part I)

read here on ao3

Words: 6.3

Note: it should be noted this is a part of my benophie babies one-shot collection fic I have on Ao3. This took forever to complete, and I kept going back and forth about putting this idea with this fic collection or putting it as a new work.

----

“Charles, it’s going to be alright.”

“Miles, if you say that one more time I will strike you,” Charles grounded out at his cousin while the carriage they sat in jostled and jerked about on the uneven country road.

But Miles took no offense. He only sighed. “I’m just trying to help.”

The knot of guilt in Charles’ stomach only tightened.

“I know,” he replied, wincing at how his tone was harsher than he wanted. He tried to take a deep breath, to calm his nerves. Relax.

How could he relax? When the worst that could happen was about to befall him and his family. Could already have while he was traveling.

Gritting his teeth. “I just–”

I have to get home. Before it’s too late.

The words stuttered in his throat, clawing at his vocal cords in an effort to silence him. His breathing hitched, choking him. His throat was swelling up. His heart started racing as he began to panic over all that had been left unsaid. Every little mistake he’d made before leaving for Cambridge. It was all too much.

“Just breathe, alright?” Miles told him gently. “We’ll be there soon.”

Charles took another deep breath. They would. Thank God.

My Cottage. They were on route back to Wiltshire, as quickly as they could. Charles returned from morning classes to find Mr. Crabtree, the closest person he had to a grandfather, standing outside his lodgings. The older man had a concerned and serious look, which was not normal for the usually jovial groundskeeper, that had put Charles immediately on edge. Something was wrong. Something had happened.

There was an accident. Your father. They don’t know how bad it is–

He’d come to take him home, it was faster than sending another letter, like the ones sent to London and Scotland. To his Uncle Anthony, who could get Alexander and William from school, and to his grandmother who was visiting his aunt up north. But it would still take them a day or two before they arrived, his grandmother longer. Being at Cambridge, Charles had been the closest to home and Miles, who was in his second to last year at the university, had come with him when he’d found him panicking outside the dorms, Mr. Crabtree desperately trying to keep him from driving the carriage home himself.

His knee bounced up and down as the carriage continued its path into Wiltshire. A nervous habit he’d picked up from his father that he did whenever he was stressed. The ‘what ifs’ had taken over, controlling every thought he had. What if they were too late? What if he never got to apologize? What if he hadn’t been so stupid before he left? What if he’d just apologized? He couldn’t focus on anything except the guilt chewing on his insides.

You’re an arrogant ass who thinks he knows what's best for me. I hate you.

What the hell was wrong with him? The last conversation they’d had was an argument. The last thing he’d said to his father was to bugger off out of his life. That he was a grown man now and he didn’t need his father coming to his rescue. Didn’t need his father making decisions for him.

That he wished he would just die.

And over a girl. He had a vitriol fight with his father over a stupid girl the old man hadn’t approved of. A girl who Charles now knew didn’t even love him. Had never loved him. Had only been using him for her own selfish purposes. Something his father had warned him about, had been trying to warn him about when their fight had started.

Why had he been so stupid?

Passing by a field of apple trees, Charles recognized where they were. Realizing that they were close to home only increased his desperation to get there quicker.

He practically flew out of the carriage when it pulled up in front of the door. Miles hadn’t even had the chance to move from his seat. Mr. Crabtree was still climbing down from the driver’s box as Charles barreled into the foyer of his family home, running over the pebbled path and to the front door as fast as he could.

And straight into chaos.

He found the home filled with family members, the Cranes and Woodsons had already arrived due to proximity. His Uncle Hugh and Uncle Philip were down the hall in front of him, whispering to another man Charles recognized as the local physician, Dr. Wilkes. What they were saying, he couldn’t hear over the chatter going on around him. Too many voices were speaking at once.

Mrs. Crabtree was who he spotted next. He caught her moving around upstairs with one of the maids, carrying white sheet Charles saw had red stains on them as she ordered the servants about.

He quickly swallowed the bile he felt coming up his throat. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

Glancing around the doorways of the rooms, he finally spotted someone from his immediate family.

Violet, his baby sister, was sitting quietly on the settee in the front parlor, clutching her old, stuffed, rabbit teddy on her lap and sniffling, eyes rimmed red and dried up streaks of tears on her cheeks. Their older cousin Amanda had an arm wrapped around her, rubbing her shoulder and whispering to her, while his fourteen-year-old cousin Sophia clutched her small wrist, trying to assist in comforting his sister even though he could see she was shaking. Georgiana and little Penelope were sitting on the opposite settee, watching in quiet discomfort what was transpiring in front of them, his usually chatty cousins suddenly at a loss for words. And Georgette and John were sitting on the floor, keeping the toddlers Fredrick and Minty distracted. His younger cousins seemed unaware of the chaos going on around them as they quietly played.

“Charles?” he looked over and saw his Aunt Eloise come towards him.

“Auntie El,” he replied, quickly being embraced by his aunt in a hug.

His aunt gave him a tight desperate squeeze. “How are you?”

“I-I’m alright,” Charles answered hastily. “I-Where’s father? What happened?”

“There was an accident,” Eloise explained, shakily, beginning to tell him more than what Mr. Crabtree had although she seemed to look conflicted. “Your father was tending to one of the oak trees out back when one of the branches collapsed. He must have hit his head on the way down. The physician says his leg was crushed. Violet was with him and–”

“Violet saw it? I…What the hell was he even doing up there?” Charles asked in disbelief.

His question only set something off in Violet, who immediately burst into tears behind him, leaning forward and covering her face with her hands as she began wailing again. Amanda gently shushed her, pulling her closer and rubbing her hand up and down Violet’s arm, whispering to her that she was alright. That everything was alright. And Sophia began rubbing her back, whispering similar words as she tried to help Amanda calm his sister down.

Eloise put her hand on his arm, gently leading him out of the room.

“One of the kittens got up there,” she whispered. “Lettie said it had gotten stuck and your father went up to rescue it.”

Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, understanding immediately what had happened. Why it had happened.

Their barn cat, that lived out in the stables and had been nicknamed Beezelbub or Bee by Charles and his brothers (due to the cat's petulance for violence) had gotten pregnant by a local stray and given birth to five little kittens before he’d left for Cambridge. Kittens his sister had immediately fallen in love with and had decided to assist Bee in raising, much to the cat’s begrudging acceptance. Charles knew his sister would have been distressed if something had happened to one of them.

But his father shouldn’t have gone up to handle it, and not without help. If he was right about the tree his aunt was speaking about, the old twisted oak that barely got any leaves during the spring, his father should have never even dared go near it.

“That tree was old. Uncle Philip said the damn thing was rotted inside,” Charles told her, his nails digging into his palms. “He was supposed to have it cut down-”

“I know. I know,” Eloise gently cut him off. “But there is nothing we can do about it now.”

“Where’s mother?” he asked, realizing he had yet to spot her in the crowd of relatives. He had to find her. Had to find out if she was alright.

“She’s upstairs with your father,” his aunt answered.

With that knowledge, Charles immediately moved towards the stairs but Eloise grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, stopping him.

“Before you go up there, Charles. I want you to know, your father told me what happened between you two. Before you left.”

He swallowed, tensing, preparing for the judgment. He knew his father and aunt had always had a close relationship, and he expected her to side with her brother, to scold him for arguing with him, disobeying him, for saying what he said.

“It’s not your fault. None of this is,” his aunt said instead, giving his arm a squeeze. “We all say stupid things when we’re upset. No matter how this ends – and I pray this does not end horribly – don’t let yourself be haunted by it, alright?”

Charles dug his nails deeper into his palms, with enough force he was certain he’d break skin, but it was the only thing stopping him from breakdown right then and there. The words got lost in his throat again. All he could do was nod shakily to his Aunt Eloise, before fleeing upstairs to find his mother.

But he slowed down the closer he got to his parents room. The door was opened, light shining out into the hallway as Charles crept closer and closer towards it. He needed to check on his mother, but part of him did not want to go into that room. His father was in there as well and Charles couldn’t deny the fear that came over him, of seeing his father, in whatever state he was in.

His mother was the first one he saw, as he stopped in the doorway. Her back was turned to him, and she was sitting next to the bed in a chair leaning forward, her hand clutching one of her father’s and a handkerchief held tightly in the other. She was rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

And his father was a sight. Paler than he remembered his mother being after she had Violet, when he snuck into his parents’ room one night to check on her while everyone slept. She’d looked like she was disappearing, fading away from sight. Her skin had taken a gray hue, beads of sweat rolling down as she’d fought off a fever that had almost taken her, while her honey golden curls were dull and flat. Her breaths coming out in short, pained puffs as if her lungs refused to take air. It had terrified Charles as a child, seeing his mother like that. Watching her groan in pain, with death itself hovering over her form.

But his father somehow looked worse.

The blankets weren’t covering one of his legs. He saw the exposed leg was wrapped tightly in bandages and pieces of cloth; wooden sticks placed around to keep the limb straight so it could heal properly. More bandages covered his head, a thick folded square of cloth against the area he assumed was where his father struck his head.

He looked halfway into a grave. Unmoving and eyes closed, he might as well have been laying in a coffin. Looking like his mother had all those years ago. The image of her had haunted him at times when he’d been growing and now he could only add this sight to it.

Charles suddenly felt like he was seven again. A terrified little boy who wanted his mother.

“Mama?” he asked quietly as he gripped the wood doorframe, trying to keep himself standing.

He didn’t think she’d hear him, his voice had barely been over a whisper, but his mother whipped around almost immediately, spotting him standing in the doorway. She blinked in surprise.

“Charles, hi,” she said softly, voice tired and horse. She got up quickly, moving slowly towards him.

He stepped towards her, seeking to give comfort but to also receive it, wrapping his arms around her as she did the same to him, smelling the lavender and vanilla soap his mother always used. The smell of home and comfort, of safety, as his mother clutched him tightly.

She was almost a foot shorter than him now, Charles had shot up like a beanstalk right before he finished at Westminster, as tall as his father now, and now he could rest his chin on her head, keeping her tucked against him protectively.

“Are you alright, darling?” she asked as she pulled away, giving him a once over.

“I’m fine,” he quickly assured her. “How’s father?”

His mother turned to look at their father, still laying on the bed, unconscious. “The doctor says we won’t know how bad it is until he wakes,” she told him with a disheartened sigh.

“How are you?” he asked next, noticing the blonde strands that had come loose from her pinned bun and the redness around her eyes.

“Oh, I’m alright,” she lied, forcing a smile as she patted his arm. “No need to worry about me.”

She stepped away from him, drifting slowly back to his father’s side and took her seat again, taking his father’s limp hand in hers once more, clutching it tightly. But his father remained undisturbed. His chest continued rising and falling. The only sign Charles had that the man was still alive.

“Alexander and William should be here soon,” he told her, not knowing what else to say. His mother hummed in understanding back to him, but her eyes never left his father. “Amanda and Sophia are keeping an eye on Lettie right now.”

She sighed. “Oh, Lettie,” she practically whispered as she moved to stand again. “I need to go speak with your sister. I need to check on her.”

Charles blocked her quickly, gently grasping her arms as he moved her back into the chair. “I’ll take care of that. Do you need anything? Food? Water? I can have Mrs. Crabtree prepare some tea? Do you want me to grab your shawl? You're knitting?”

His mother moved a hand to grasp his arms, giving it a squeeze. “You’re far too good to me,” she teased lovingly.

“Because you deserve only the best,” he told her.

She gave him another sad smile. Her eyes were shining with tears.

Then she sighed. “Charles, darling, we need to–”

Charles stepped away from her, before he could even tell himself not to. She looked like she wanted to have that conversation with him. The conversation he’d never thought he’d have, but he knew his mother well enough that even in her state she needed to talk about what would come next now. Needed to prepare him – prepare herself – for what might come.

For what she thought was coming.

But Charles didn’t want to have that conversation. He couldn’t.

“I’ll be right back,” he told her quickly.

“Charles, wait. We need to–” she started.

“Won’t be a minute,” he lied, before fleeing the room. His heart beating a panicked rhythm into his sternum.

He’d walked out of this house months ago, days after his blow up with his father, thinking he was a man. Believing himself ready for the world and all it had to offer, that he didn’t need to rely on his parents anymore. Didn’t need their guidance and aid. That he could take care of himself. But his father was right. He was still too green. Too arrogant. Cambridge had already told him that but now–

You think you can run a house? Take care of a family and manage income? You’re a boy. You’re not a man. Never had any hardship thrown at you the way your mother and I have. We both made sure you never would!

Benedict, please. Stop. Both of you, just stop!

What the fuck would you even know anyway!? You weren’t the heir father, just the second born with nothing to prove and nothing to do. Dropping out of the Royal Academy must have been so easy when you’ve got no expectations hanging over your head! No need to make a name for yourself when your family already did it for you.

Charles!

You think my life wasn’t impacted when my father died? You think things didn’t change for me because I wasn’t first in line like your uncle? That I didn’t have to grow up and cast aside my own dreams and desires for the sake of my family? You have no idea what that was like for me. No idea!

Gripping the banister, Charles took a deep breath, trying to shake the memory.

You’re an arrogant ass who thinks he knows what’s best for me. I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate–

“Charles? Is everything alright?” his Aunt Posy called up, snapping him out of his spiral. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him from where he was at the banister. Her hazel eyes wide with sympathy and concern.

No. No, he was not alright.

But he couldn’t break. Not now. Not ever.

It took him a moment to respond, swallowing down his fears before he could shakily answer back. “I’m fine, Aunt Posy. I…I’ll be down in a moment.”

—

It still took him a few minutes to compose himself before Charles forced himself back downstairs, taking each step one at a time. And the moment he was at the bottom, he was ushered into the kitchen by Mrs. Crabtree, forced to sit at the table and eat some of the stew she’d prepared. The old housekeeper fussed over him, talking about how he needed to keep his strength up and not be running around on an empty stomach. Wouldn’t do anyone any good if he got himself ill.

But Charles’ stomach was nothing but a tight knot of guilt. His appetite nonexistent as he sat at the table, pushing a spoon around the bowl. He’d been able to swallow a few spoonful’s before the nausea became too much for him to continue eating.

“Where’s Lettie?” he asked, as he rose from the table.

“She went outside to get some air,” his Aunt Posy told him gently as she helped Mrs. Crabtree with cleaning the dishes.

Without another word, Charles stepped out of the room and headed out towards the back door. It was open and he could see Violet a short distance away, sitting on one of the two swings their father had tied to the large oak trees close to the house. A matching set to the aged pair at the family home in London, of which one of the ropes had finally snapped and his uncle had yet to replace, leaving just the one hanging there now (much to his father’s and aunt’s annoyance).

Violet sat quietly, with the tips of her shoes pressing into the grass as she pushed herself sadly back and forth, head hanging forward as clutched the ropes and she stared quietly at the ground in front of her.

“Hey, cabbage,” he said gently as he stepped closer to the swing. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” Violet whispered, not looking up at him.

The rotted tree was ahead of them, right at the edge of the property, where it had always been, leading away from the small lake behind their house and to the wooded area that fenced the property. The tree had practically splintered apart from the collapse, as if it had been struck by lightning. The trunk brutally ripped open and exposed. The large branch his father must have been on when it collapsed was still ominously laying where it had landed on the ground. Mocking him.

And all he wanted to go was over and kick the damn thing until it was nothing but splinters, but he knew his sister was more important.

Even though he didn’t know what to say to her.

He slowly sat on the available swing. “Alexander and William should hopefully be here in the morning,” he said, absently. “I doubt Uncle Anthony and Aunt Kate will make any stops. They’ll probably try to come here straight away.”

Violet only hummed back her response, continuing her slow swings back and forth.

“Are you alright, Lettie?” he asked, hesitantly. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to but–”

“Why did you tell Papa you hated him?” Violet snapped at him suddenly.

Charles froze in surprise. “What?”

The arrow between his sister’s brows deepened as she glowered at him. She was furious at him, but her eyes were red rimmed and beginning to build with water once more.

“You said you hated him,” she repeated, voice cracking as she spoke. “Before you left. You said you hated him and wanted him dead. Why would you say that to him?”

You’re a fucking bastard of a father. I wish you would just die.

Charles was taken aback by his sister’s sudden anger, the furious accusatory tone she shot towards him. He’d thought it had only been him and his parents in the house that day. Violet had been an hour away at Romney Hall with William, since his parents had wanted to approach the subject with him privately.

But Alexander had been home that day, outside sketching where he’d stayed as the argument escalated. And given the row Charles had had with his father had turned into a shouting match, his brother had most likely heard all of it. Meaning his siblings had found in the aftermath, either directly from Alexander or from something as simple as overhearing their parents.

“I-I-” Charles stuttered, unsure what to say.

She was on him suddenly. Having left from the swing at his hesitation, Violet jumped up and gave him a harsh shove. She might have been half his size and only twelve, barely moving him, just enough for him to swing a few centimeters, but the force of the shove told him she was furious.

“Why would you say that?” she shouted in frustration, pushing at him again. Then again.

“Violet–” he started, reaching to stop her.

This time she whacked him, smacking her open palm against his shoulder. Charles was taken aback by her action, as was Violet, who had never gotten violent towards him before. She seemed surprised momentarily by what she’d done but had also realized it made her feel better.

So, she whacked him on the shoulder again.

“Why?” she was crying now. “Why would you be so cruel?”

He grabbed her wrists, and she grew even angrier, fighting against his grip as she yelled at him. But Charles held on, knowing he had to help his sister regardless of how painful her words were. Like little daggers into his already bleeding heart, but she was in just as much pain as he was, and he wouldn’t allow that to stop him from comforting her.

“Come here,” he told her, dragging her closer.

“No!” Violet shouted back, still struggling.

But Charles had no difficulty pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her small frame and holding her close. Violet struggled against him, wriggling aggressively in his grasp, but slowly, very slowly, she began to relax and stop fighting him.

Keeping her tightly held in his grip, hugging her, Charles let her cry into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Lettie.”

“Why would you?” she cried, voice muffled and weak. “I don’t want him to die. I don’t want Papa to die.”

“I know, shh,” he told her, rubbing her back. “I’m sorry, Lettie. I'm sorry.”

She wasn’t fighting him anymore. Instead, clutching his jacket as she stood between his legs, leaning against while he held her tightly. Every cry, every weak, shaky breath, only sent a ripple of agony through him, that he only continued to suppress.

This was a nightmare. A nightmare he was praying he could just wake from.

—

There had been the briefest moment of hope that evening, after they’d all gone to sleep, that the nightmare would end. Without tragedy.

He’d woken, Charles’ father, for the briefest of moments. His uncle Phillip had been tending to him while the others slept, remaining by his vigil, when his father had suddenly jolted back to consciousness, confused and delirious, mumbling and moaning as he tried to move from the bed. He had no idea where he was or what had happened and while Phillip had tried to assist him, trying to get him to calm down so he could get Charles’ mother, his father had slipped back into unconsciousness in a matter of seconds.

There was nothing by the next morning. His father was still laying silently in the bed, eyes closed, body unmoving. They’d tried to rouse him but with no success.

And Dr. Wilkes had made it clear if he did not wake soon, to eat and drink, there would not be much any of them could do.

A dark cloud lingered over My Cottage, the mood somber and cold. No one knew what to say or do. No one spoke. And a literal dark cloud passed over outside too, as it had rained most of the day. Charles had spent most of the morning looking out over the fields behind their home as the rain pelted the windows. He confined himself to the library or his room, trying to stay away from his mother. Trying to avoid having that conversation.

And Lettie no longer seemed to be blaming him. She had yet to apologize for it though. Instead, she’d remained by his side, as if stuck to his hip. Her arms wrapped around him like she’d been glued to him, but Charles didn't mind. They kept each other company, even if they barely said anything.

His uncle Anthony and aunt Kate arrived with his younger cousins and brothers after lunch. And upon his arrival, his uncle immediately entered his mother’s study, with Philip, without saying a word of greeting to the rest of them. A severe expression on his face as he disappeared into the office. Both began pouring over the ledgers, rental agreements, and accounts, checking over the copy of the will kept in the house.

Preparing for the worst.

That evening, Anthony had taken him into the office. His mother was still upstairs, Eloise and Posy had been taking turns checking on her. With Kate now here helping as well, the three rotated from being by his mother’s side to watching the children and back again to his mother. But Hugh was taking his cousins back home, planning to return the next morning, and Amanda had taken her siblings back to Romney Hall, with Phillip planning to follow later that night.

“I know your mother has been keeping you up to date on all these matters,” Anthony told him as they sat in the office. Alexander was present as well, sitting in a chair next to Charles as their uncle stood before them in front of the desk, tense and terrified as he continued. “Frankly, she’s done a better job with handling all of these accounts than I ever had with my own.”

Charles couldn't help the slight smile that formed over the pride he felt towards his mother, but it dropped away quickly with what his uncle said next.

“There is nothing I can say that will make this easier, but if — and I say if — the worst befalls us in the next few days, I do not believe your mother will be in a position to handle these accounts for some time,” Anthony told him directly, swallowing down his own anxieties and fears as he spoke. “Your father and mother both stipulate in the will that if anything was to happen to them, I would handle My Cottage’s finances for the next few years. Something I’ve discussed with them before. And if something happens to your father I will handle these matters for the time being, with your mother, until you finish at Cambridge.”

Charles nodded.

Then, his uncle sighed. “Alexander, do you mind stepping out? I need to speak with your brother about something. Privately.”

Alexander nodded, looking rather unsure of it though, but saying nothing as he rose from his chair and left the room. Their uncle waited for him to close the door, taking a few additional seconds before he spoke.

“I’ve heard you and your father fought recently?” he finally remarked, a stern edge in his tone. His dark eyes bearing down on him.

Charles sighed. “Yes. We did.”

His uncle hummed. “About a woman?”

“Grace Beauchamp. She’s Baron Beauchamp’s daughter. She and I…” Charles took a deep breath. “We had a short courtship before I left. I…I planned to ask her to marry me, but my parents talked me out of it.”

“Alexander informed me your father did not approve of her,” Anthony commented, and Charles nodded. “He also said some curt words were exchanged between you two before you left.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened as Charles clenched his teeth together.

You don’t know a damn thing about the world, you immature, little git.

And you’re a fucking bastard of a father. I wish you would just die.

“Yes,” he replied, through gritted teeth.

“And this Miss Beauchamp? I take it she has since moved on? Quite quickly from what I’ve heard,” Anthony returned.

Married to a lord’s son. From what Lettie had told him in the letter she’d sent a month after he’d left for Cambridge. It was when Charles finally realized he’d been played. That she’d been stringing him along as a backup if her courtship with Gordon Hammershine didn’t work out. Not just as a backup, but to make Hammershine jealous too.

After he’d asked her to wait it out while he'd figure something out. While he got his parents to accept the match. He hadn’t even been gone long before the engagement was announced. The banns had been read and Grace was long gone now. Off on her honeymoon in Bath apparently before she and her new husband moved to London.

He should have known it would fail. If he’d asked her to marry him the last time he saw her, she would have said no.

And the signs had been there. The entire time.

Lettie had been the first to make her concerns known, telling him she thought Grace was cruel and insincere, that she did not like her. Her reasoning for her dislike being that she'd once seen Grace whack one of Farmer Joseph’s dogs after it had excitedly run into her path, but Charles dismissed it as his sister over exaggerating what she’d seen and heard.

While unsure at first about Charles’ relationship with Grace, Alexander hadn’t kept his feelings to himself after a local picnic they’d attended at the start of the summer, before Grace had left for the social season in London. He wouldn’t tell Charles what had been said, but he’d been upset about remarks Grace had apparently made about their mother to some of her friends. If he hadn’t been so lovestruck, Charles probably would have ended it there and then, but his brother could be a mummy’s boy at times. Fiercely protective of their mother, especially after both he and Charles had been made aware of the truth regarding their maternal grandparents, their true identities. Alexander disliked anyone who did not treat their mother with the respect he believed she deserved, and he could make assumptions too quickly about others because of it.

But when Charles looked back on it, Grace had made remarks about his mother to him as well. Pointed ones. Ones that had always irked him a way, made him feel like he was constantly defending his mother, no matter how many times Grace said she was only joking or that he’d taken her words out of turn.

She was once a maid? Well, she must have been incredibly lucky your father noticed her then.

Charles, I know your mother and father are happy. Your mother’s looks and charm play quite a role in that, I’m sure.

She’s quite the parvenu. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I meant it as a compliment. It’s quite impressive her jump up in society. Don’t you think?

Even William hadn’t liked her. And if the fourteen-year-old, laid back, devil-may-care William Bridgerton did not like someone, that was a sign something was wrong.

And Charles was certain Alexander had been the reason his father had gone against the match in the end. But his father had not liked the Beauchamps to begin with.

With four out of five of his relatives being against the match, his mother had done quite a good job at staying neutral for the majority of his courtship with Grace, trying to be supportive and telling him she would stand by him regardless of the decision he made. But after the fight with his father, she’d finally made her true opinion. The night before he left.

I know you love her, darling, but I do not believe she loves you the way you do her. Nor do I think you are your true self when you’re with her. A relationship built with love also needs honesty and trust, and while change always occurs with time, you should be changing for the better. Not because you have to appease someone.

She’d been the ones to sow the seeds of doubt in him. And Lettie’s letter had been the final nail in the coffin. Not that Grace had done anything to convince him to stay. She never wrote to him and had told him not to write to her lest they be caught. Said she’d wait for him as long as she could (which had been a week from what Lettie’s letter implied).

Charles had been heartbroken, but also ashamed. He felt like a fool and the realization that he had been wrong, that his father had been right, was tough to swallow.

“Yes. She did,” Charles admitted, tensely.

His uncle said nothing, only watched him with his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the desk. While his face remained neutral and impassive, Charles knew his uncle was disappointed.

In him.

“There is no benefit in kicking a man when he’s already down,” his uncle told him. “I will assume you have since realized your errors.”

Charles nodded; jaw clenched tightly.

“I have,” he replied, keeping his eyes trained down.

Anthony looked as though he wanted to say something else, but no words came out. There was a sadness in his eyes now as he put his hand on Charles’ shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze before telling them he had to go help Phillip with another matter, leaving Charles alone in the room.

It wasn’t for long though. Alexander slipped into the room after his uncle departed, taking a seat next to him.

“What do we do?” he hesitantly asked after a few moments. Charles looked towards him. “What are we supposed to do if father dies?”

“He’s not going to die,” Charles told him.

“It’s been two days now, Charlie,” Alexander retorted, his face serious but his eyes revealing his panic. “You just started at Cambridge. I still have two years left at Westminster and William’s got six more. Mother and Lettie shouldn’t be out here on their own if-”

“He’s not. Going. To die,” Charles repeated, harsher this time.

Alexander watched him, quietly, but Charles couldn’t look him in the eye right now, not without seeing their father’s eyes staring back at him.

“You don’t know that,” his brother whispered.

Charles stared up at the wedding portrait hanging behind the desk. The one his father’s friends had done for his parents after they married. Unknown to most, his mother had been pregnant with him at the time, his parents having convinced him quite quickly after their marriage, but the painter had hidden the growing bump. She sat with her hands on her lap in the portrait, wearing a pale sage green gown with daisies pinned in her hair, as their father stood directly behind her, his left hand rested on her shoulder, proudly showing off the wedding band on his ring finger. Both were smiling. Almost twenty years younger than they were now. Happy and content with no idea where their life would go after the painting was done.

No idea it might end this week.

God, she was so happy. His mother. After everything she’d endured in her life, she was finally happy. His father too.

And now she might become a widow.

And his father might lose his life.

And the rest of them, fatherless.

Why the fuck had he said all those things to his father?

He sighed, leaning back in his chair forlornly as he continued staring at the portrait. Defeated by this point.

“No,” he admitted softly with despair. “No, I don’t.”

#benophie #benophie babies #my fics.#bridgerton #taking the little benophie babies and hitting em with the angst fly swatter #benophie babies fic #Charles bridgerton #my fic.

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foxgloveinspace · 7 months

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Since It's getting colder I'm gonna plug my own fic, fuck it:

I Don't Think I've Changed: is a lukercy au, where Percy says fuck it all and runs away, unknowingly ending up in the same small college town that Hades dropped Luke into right after the Titan war.

There's angst and hurt comfort, and slow burn falling in love, and Punk Percy, and Soft Boi Luke, and lots of plants, and Percy getting addicted to coffee too keep up with college and so much fluff guys. I poured my heart and soul into this fic tbh, my love child. My most kudosed fic too, lol.

Edit: the reason I’m talking about it in relation to it being cold is that it takes place during the late fall/winter🤣

(as a small note there is a bit of Annabeth bashing in this fic. I just don't like how in canon she hits him and its just A Thing, that the fandom just glosses over.)

#very much so #lukercy #my fic.

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aprettyspy · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday

Started work on my 'James Bond in Sex Therapy' plot bunny, although it has changed a lot since it's original conception. Current Working Title is Warm Body

"Opposite her, in a soft, blue armchair, her patient sits bolt upright. The chair is so squishy, she can only attribute this to the man’s exceptional core strength. She makes a note on the pad in front of her. Repeating her question would only imply he wasn’t listening, or worse, that he didn’t understand it. So she must wait it out. Bond sits motionless, apart from the occasional blink, staring with unfocused gaze out of her office window. She makes another quick note - the level of command this man has over his reactions, his emotions is evident in every line of his body. The cost to him of maintaining this level of control is what she intends to find out.

Bond flicks his gaze towards her, scanning her from head to toe, a charming little quirk of the mouth sent in her direction. She watches as he remembers why his usual resort to flirting isn’t going to help in this particular situation. She makes another note and waits to see where he will take them next."

@mi6-cafe

#fanfiction #my fic.#wip wednesday #007 #00q #james bond

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trishacollins · 4 months

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A follow up to 'Trapped'

#miraculous ladybug #my fic.

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arcanemoody · 3 months

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Chapters: 6/9 Fandom: Gotham (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma Characters: Oswald Cobblepot, Edward Nygma, Jim Gordon, Victor Zsasz, Arthur Penn Additional Tags: POV Third Person Limited, POV Oswald Cobblepot, S5 Oswald/S1 Edward, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Strangers to Lovers, No Man's Land, Bathing/Washing, Boot Worship, Major Character Injury, Hard of Hearing Edward Nygma, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Character, Mention of ASL, mild body horror, Dissociative Identity Disorder Summary:

Oswald Cobblepot watched Haven burn and vowed to find the monster that did the deed. But, as the cataclysmic events of the last three months have taught him, a lot can change in the space of a few hours.

CHAPTER 6 is up! Now with 30 percent more Jim Gordon.

#my fic.#my writing #gotham #nygmobblepot

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loveoaths · 1 year

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More “Din and Grogu accidentally time travel back to the prequels and fuck everything up beyond belief” freewrite below. Force-negative!Din meets Anakin and Obi-wan.

“Anakin, that’s enough.” The shorter bearded man, who Din has uncreatively dubbed The Beard, shoots the younger man, whose blazing glare and smarting blow to Din’s chin earlier earn him the title The Burn, a warning glance before turning back. “Where you are, stranger, is precisely the problem. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Tell me where here is and I’ll be on my way,” Din clips. The satchel rustles quietly against his hip — no doubt the child turning over in his sleep — yet both men’s heads snap toward it like a gun shot.

“Master,” The Burn’s scowl unwinds into a frown. “You can feel that too, can’t you?”

“I can, Anakin, as easily as I cannot feel our new friend in the Force, here.” The Beard’s voice is soft and easy, but Din can read the sharp musculature lines bunching beneath those flowing robes, preparing to strike.

These are no average monks.

Just his luck, really.

The Beard pauses, eyes narrowing faintly. Din clocks the hand at his side lifting into another peculiar waving gesture. “Tell me, my hard-headed friend. What do you have in there?”

“Hands at your sides,” Din orders. Over their shoulders, the cave ceiling drops and narrows about ten yards away — that must be the exit. One exit, two obstacles. Din has come out ahead against far worse odds, but the confidence in both monk’s military posture and his own gut intuition tell him there is more to these two than meets the eye. Much more.

It’s times like these that almost make him miss his life before the child’s arrival. It was a simple life. Empty, lonely, and thankless, maybe, but simple.

The Beard makes a show of slowly stepping forward, pale palms face-up as a flag of surrender. Din mirrors him in reverse, keeping the wall to his back and the two men at a distance.

On his periphery, the Burn steps forward as well, eyes trained on the satchel. “You’re not asking the right question, Master,” he intones, “It’s not a what, it’s a who.”

Something in Din bristles. He shifts, angling the child’s satchel behind his back and out of sight. The click of an unlocked safety pin cracks the air like a warning shot. There won’t be another.

“Nothing you need to worry about. I have no quarrel with you,” Din says measuredly, index finger gently pressed against the trigger. He’s a quick shot. Whether or not the monks are quicker, only time would tell. And time is rarely on my side, these days. “But if you start one with me, I will finish it.”

“Very reassuring. Shall you tell me where to find your tailor while we’re at it? Since we’re sharing secrets and all,” The Beard muses. “Or, since I hear Mandalorians like keeping their beskar close to their chest-plates, perhaps we can start with what’s in the bag.”

“And why we can’t sense you,” the Burn adds. Whatever that means.

The Burn raises his hand and mimics the Beard’s hand gesture, this time fixing Din with a soul-piercing gaze as his easy voice drops into something smooth and low, a river cutting quietly through black stone. “You will tell us who you are and what you’re transporting.”

Hot static creeps across Din’s skin, a sudden skittering up the base of his neck and across his cheeks, not unlike the hot flush of alcohol, or the spider-crawl of a sweat rash. Perhaps he hadn’t cleaned his helmet as thoroughly as he thought. He ignores its fading heat and stares back at them. The message is clear. He has nothing to say to them.

The Burn appears to falter momentarily, sharing a sharp look with the Beard, who steps in once more. “That is to say, it is in everyone’s best interest if you cooperate. We, too, would like to avoid a fight with a Mandalorian.” The Beard smiles ruefully and plucks at his robes. “After all, I’ve only just bought these after my last pair were damaged in a completely avoidable crash landing. If this set winds up full of blaster holes, I’m afraid you’ll be left with the bill. Why don’t you holster those cold companions of yours and tell us what you’re looking for, and we’ll tell you where you are?”

It’s a bad deal, one that leaves him reliant on them acting in good faith. It would be easier to shoot them now, and take the key-cube needed to activate the elevator off their bodies—

As if sensing his thoughts, the Burn pulls the key-cube from his inner robes and spins it on his finger. At his touch, a warm blue glow throbs in its core, briefly smoothing his dagger-sharp features into something surprisingly effeminate. “You won’t be able to use this without us, anyway. Cooperate and we all leave the Archive. Resist, and I’m sure the Archivist will find somewhere nice to display your fancy armor.”

Din weighs his options.

He might be able to take them both, but in such small quarters with the child at his side, there is no way he and the kid escape unharmed. A bruise, a broken bone, a bloodied lip — those meant nothing to him, as they were the calling cards of his entire life to date. But the idea of the child bleeding and broken, hurting and afraid because of him? That he cannot live with.

Din stares them down for a long moment before his damaged vocoder crackles to life. “I will say this once. Harm him,” He gestures to the satchel, “And the things I will do to you will make a Sarlacc attack look like a love bite.”

“Look at that, Master,” the Burn drawls flatly, “The tin can has a sense of humor after all.”

“Ignore my young protege,” the Beard says, rolling his eyes. “He fancies himself a comedian these days, though his timing needs much work. Now, why are you here?”

Din holsters his blasters, keeping his hands on the pommels as he appraises them. “I am on a mission. I am looking for the Jedi. I have a… delivery.”

“A delivery, you say? Well, why didn’t you say! Look no further,” the Beard man returns, a disarmingly mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Both men push back the lips of their robes, revealing thin tubes tucked into their belts.

They look at him expectantly.

Behind his helmet, Din blinks.

“…Are those supposed to mean something to me?” He says dumbly, after an uncomfortably long pause.

The two men share a surprised glance. The Burn raises an eyebrow, every inch of him screaming You’re an idiot.

“You’re looking for Jedi, but you don’t know what a lightsaber looks like?”

“Uh,” Din supplies, helpfully, like an idiot.

“What Anakin here means to say is,” the Beard cuts in, “You’ve found us.” He flicks his wrist, and the weapons —the lightsabers— float elegantly into their hands. With two deft flicks, the sabers alight, painting the cave in electric blue.

“I am Obi-wan. I do hope my order of Lothalian figs weren’t harmed in your earlier scuffle with my companion here,” the Beard smirks. “I would hate to bill you for those, too.”

“No figs,” Din grips the leather strap of the satchel and slowly pulls the bag forward against his stomach, every muscle in his body screaming no, stop, don’t do this, not yet, don’t let go. His tongue pools heavy in his mouth behind the locked bars of his jaw. Stiff fingers undo a button, two, three, each coming apart more slowly than the last, like he wants nothing more than to prolong the inevitable arrival to the one place he’s come so far to reach.

The last button pulls free. Din reaches into the satchel, and pulls out something warm and soft and oh so delicate -- his heart.

Din holds the sleeping child to his chest. The child squirms and whimpers in his sleep. Din softly brushes the pad of his thumb between the child’s eyes, an attempt at comforting them both.

“This is the child. He is a Jedi.”

What comes next sticks in his throat like needles and burs, but he swallows and pushes the words out anyway, ignoring their metallic taste on his tongue.

“He was mine… to care for. Now... now, he is yours.”

#din djarin #the mandalorian fic #force negative!din #at this point i really should just compile the freewrites into the first chapter and stop posting snippets here but. alas.not yet.#anadin fic.#star wars #walkie talkie.#the amount i've written of this fic in the last two days is frankly embarrassing #anyway i couldn't resist din being a little stupid #long post #my fic.#anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #fic tag.#force negative

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starliit · 1 day

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*drops this here and runs*

#my fic.#nsft #rook writing smut???#wild #finished this early this morning

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honeyscapes · 2 years

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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💖

i only have 6 fics so this is a tough one 💀 here we goooo

Tender We Fall - sweet sweet sweet domestic bliss, light angst with a happy ending, fluff and love and casual touching and kissing, everything thiam deserves basically, I think this is my best written one-shot

Carve My Name Into Your History - based on this immaculate post by @lucilucialu basically a Thiam senior scribe au and romanticizing initials and all that good stuff

A Fool for You - collab I did with @ksbbb I wrote the fluffy smutty parts in this and it’s the only thiam smut fic I've done so far 👀 an ode to bottom liam in my verse thiam heart 🌚 good shit good shit

Madly Acquainted - tracy and hayden in the Inglorious verse, basically some hot girls doing hot stuff at a party, I want to do an actual angsty/darker canon verse fic of them but this one is a cute girl, she’s cute

Inglorious Roommates - no surprise this is my favorite fic of mine, it has everything, crack, fluff, angst, slow burn, an actual PLOT, some smut and eventually more, the first few chapters are a little rough on the writing because I was out of my mind at the time 💀 but I’d like to think it gets better as it goes on and the more recent chapters are definitely some of my best/favorite writing of mine

#i'm working on a one-shot right now that's gonna be one of my favs for sure hehe #thiam fic rec #thiam #my fic.

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bisayawa · 11 months

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hand. cramp.

𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ pairing: bruce wayne (pattinson) × afab!fem!eader

𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ warnings: smut. fluff. female masturbation.

𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ a/n: smut drabble; sometimes sex can be awkward. she/her pronouns used. w. count: 592. not proofread. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune. art by bernini.

"give me a show, honey. please?"

that's what bruce had asked you thirty minutes ago, bright blue eyes twinkling, brows downturned in askance. he said those words into the hollow of your throat, nipping & pecking & kneading your thighs all the while.

he whispered & begged & pleaded, pressing kisses as you made your way to the bed, eager to watch how you do it, how you touch yourself with your own hands.

his eyes were wide at attention, ears piquing at the soft sounds breathing out from your lips. he watches, hungry, aching, pawing at the bedspread & biting his lip at the shine of your slick. from the tips of your fingers down to the knuckle, disappearing into the wet heat of you. you cant your hips, back & forth, blinking your eyes closed at the crest of each pass.

"faster," he said, staring. "could you do it faster for me, honey? please?"

he brings a kiss to your cheek, then another, and two more, grasping across your torso to hold you close, biting at your skin as if to coax you.

you obliged, of course, sweet words flowing into you like molasses. pure sugar lit afire in your chest as you feel the start of the tingle at the base of your spine, feel the warmth in your blood from your chest start to crawl down to the tips of your toes. your eyes go cross before you pinch them closed.

he's right beside you, biting & groping & sucking bruises into your neck as you pace faster...

― breaths heaving & flush brightening from your forehead down to your chest ―

and faster...

― small noises & airy sighs curling out from parted lips ―

and... stop.

you're stock still, panting as your legs are tense. your hand is unmoving, taut like a bowstring at rest. the climbing heat ebbs away. your toes twitch & jerk.

"honey?" he says, kissing your cheek. "you okay? what's wrong?"

he rubs your side soothingly, waiting.

your eyes open & you give a sleepy smile, huffing a laugh as you stare up into his eyes. your hand retreats. more breaths run out from your mouth.

"hand cramp, bruce..." you clear your throat. "sorry."

he softens at the sighed out apology, couldn't be more endeared. he moves to sit up beside you, kneeling almost.

"don't be." he reaches for your wrist & massages at your knuckles, kissing the back of your hand.

"bruce... ah-"

he takes your fingers to mouth, a haphazard clean up. drool from his tongue winds down in rivulets, from fingertip to palm. he eyes you as if to challenge. all he sees is your mouth parting in a small whimper.

he sets it down when it's clean of you, humming as the digits leaves his mouth. he savors it, of course, drawing it out slowly from where they're flush to his mouth. first your knuckles, then the middle, then out comes your fingertips, shining with his spit. he licks his lips, leaning down to give you a kiss sweeter & softer than spun sugar.

"my little love," he murmurs against your mouth. "got a cramp, did she? tsk, tsk..."

he breaks from the kiss then, grinning down as he kneels, moves over & sets a hand on your inner thigh. his fingers drum against the skin, impatient, crawling closer & closer to where you want him. the bed dips to receive the weight of him on his knees.

"i think i know what can make her feel better."

#my fic.#battinson x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne x y/n #batman smut #battinson smut #bruce wayne x you #pattinson!batman #bruce wayne fluff #battinson #trying to get back into writing stuff #carnal urges (aroace-spec)

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holybatgirlz · 2 months

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but only far from home | Accidents, 1836 (Part 2)

read on ao3 (part one here)

Words: 6k+

Notes: you think a fractured radial head in my dominant arm would stop me???

---

Charles woke to yelling.

Loud explosive yelling, like a cannon was being shot off inside the house. There was suddenly a multitude of voices speaking all at once out in the hallway, muffled by his bedroom door being shut. Add to it the grogginess he felt as he came back to consciousness. Ripped from the sleep he’d finally been able to achieve, Charles couldn’t make out any of the words being spoken.

And startled out of his sleep, he instinctively rolled. Not realizing how close to the edge of his bed he was, Charles rolled straight off and slammed onto the hardwood floors below, sending a shock wave of pain through his body.

“Christ,” he grunted out a curse against the wood pressed up against his face before sluggishly pushing himself up. The yelling outside had intensified.

It took half a second for Charles’ brain to catch up, and his stomach drop as panic laced through his veins.

Had something happened?

Something terrible?

Quickly throwing on a pair of pants and a loose dress shirt from the day before, as he couldn’t find anything fresh and clean, Charles was still buttoning up the shirt as he hastily exited his room, elbowing the door open as he stepped into the upstairs hallway.

The house was a buzz. Bodies were running through the hall around him, up and down the stairs, all in the direction of his parents’ room. Charles spotted both of his brothers exiting their rooms, Alexander, ever the night owl, was rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, while William had a worried expression on his usually jovial face. Violet appeared moments later from the short hallway that led to where her room was, still wearing her nightgown. The golden curls she’d inherited from their mother pulled back into a loose, messy braid.

“He’s awake,” it was Aunt Eloise yelling. She came rushing out of his parents’ room practically in tears. “Christ, I don’t know how but he’s awake!”

His father.

His father was awake.

Charles was moving, already heading towards his parents’ room, leading the pack as his siblings all trailing behind him. He passed by his excited family members, his aunt Posy was brushing tears from her eyes as his uncle Hugh comforted her and his uncle Phillip had already gathered Eloise into his arms, pulling her aside as she started to cry with relief. Mrs. Crabtree was slipping out of the room as he got closer, announcing she was going to go get the kettle on and make some sweet tarts to celebrate.

Upon arriving at the doorway to his parents’ bedroom, Charles found his father lying wide awake in bed. The color had returned to his cheeks, and he was focusing on Charles’ mother, who was in the process of smothering him with affection.

His face was cupped in her hands as she desperately pepper him with kisses. On the eyes, cheeks, lips, and forehead. Every available space she could find. There were wet streaks on her cheeks, tears of relief, shining silver in the light.

“Soph-Sophie!” his father laughed as she continued kissing him. “Sophie, you're smothering me.”

“I. Don’t. Care,” his mother replied between kisses as she pulled away quickly to give him a serious look. “Benedict Bridgerton. Do not ever do that to me again.”

His father only nodded as he reached up, brushing a hand over her hair, and smiled, one of joy and adoration. Like he hadn’t seen her for months. “I love you.”

He looked a little out of it. He was groggy and a little loopy, looking as though he had too much to drink, cheeks flushed with a lopsided grin on his face as he regarded them all. He was in a good mood though and it was quickly concluded that the hit to his head had not done much damage, besides a pounding headache their father told them he had.

But it became evident soon he was in some pain, though he tried to hide it. The doctor had said he’d broken the tibia in his right leg, which Charles had no doubt was causing his father some discomfort now that he was awake. Mr. Crabtree had gone to fetch Dr. Wilkes from town while Charles’ mother fed his father a small spoonful of laudanum for the time being.

Having picked up on her husband’s discomfort, Charles’ mother shooed them all out of the room, so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. But Eloise had remained behind, clutching her brother’s free wrist like it was a lifeline, and moments after Charles had moved away from the doorway, his uncle Anthony appeared from downstairs. His aunt Kate had gone to look for him, finding him in the office, where he’d fallen asleep at the desk while reviewing documents. His uncle still dressed in what he’d arrived the day earlier in.

His uncle gave him a quick reassuring pat on the back as he walked past him and into the room. But, while the others had gone downstairs to get something quick to eat and to give his father some space in the meantime, Charles remained where he was outside his parents room, unable to move. Like the time his father had put glue in his shoes, Charles found he couldn’t make his feet move from where they were.

So, he lingered by the doorway, watching his uncle and aunt converse with his father. His mother had taken her seat next to him on the bed, Charles could see his father had wrapped an arm around her waist protectively while she brushed his sweaty locks back.

“I’ll kill you the next time you act this foolish,” Charles had heard his Uncle Anthony mutter, his hand resting on his father’s shoulder, squeezing tightly.

“You’ll have to get in line behind Eloise,” his father had mockingly returned. “I’m certain she’s already called dibs.”

From where she’d been standing next to Anthony, his aunt had only scoffed before quietly remarking. “I might just kill you now. I still haven’t decided.”

But his father only chuckled in response.

Once his aunt and uncle were confident enough his father wouldn’t drop dead, they excused themselves and headed downstairs to help the others. Once they’d left, Charles and his siblings finally took their collective turn to check on their father.

While they’d all been silent as they surrounded the bed, nervous and unsure what to say, their father only smiled at them as if everything was fine. As though nothing horrible had happened these past few days.

And Lettie had taken one look at their father, seeing him alert and awake, and jumped on the bed without hesitating, much to their mother’s alarmed panic and immediate discouragement. Lettie could have cared less about their mother ordering her off the bed. She crawled on top of the sheets, careful not to jostle their father’s broken leg, before enveloping him in a hug, beginning to cry against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she wailed, voice muffled by her pressing her face against him.

“Shh, Lettie, shh,” his father rubbed her back as she cried her apologies and regrets to him. “It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”

His mother moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to place her hand on Violet’s back as well. With some gentle prodding, she was able to get her off their father and sitting next to her on the bed instead, an arm wrapped around her comfortingly.

William had soon burst into tears as well, unable to keep them in any longer, and their mother was left tending to two crying children. From where he lay, their father told them how brave they had both been while their mother cupped their cheeks and kissed the tears away.

And while he didn’t cry, Alexander’s eyes were still red and wet, his voice cracking as he told their father he was glad that he’d recovered.

But Charles had lost the ability to speak. The words got stuck in his throat every time he opened his mouth, choking him into silence. So, he stayed quiet. He allowed his siblings to lead the reunion, while he lingered behind the rest of them too, off to the side. The furthest he could from the bed without it becoming apparent to the others that he did not want to be in the room.

Their mother soon ushered them out upon word that Dr. Wilkes had arrived. And while she left with his siblings to greet Dr. Wilkes downstairs, Charles was still standing in the room. Something his father quickly noticed.

A weight had been taken off his shoulders, the pressure he’d felt weighing down on him the past few days, past few months, was finally gone. But the pit in his stomach had remained. The tight knot of guilt and embarrassment having become an almost normal sensation for him.

His father was okay. His father was going to be okay. But Charles was still reminded that the last conversation he’d had with him had ended in a screaming match. And so he stood there, silently, unsure what to say.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

“Son,” his father said calmly.

I wish you would just fucking die.

“Father,” Charles repeated back, stiffly, instinctually straightening his back.

The awkward silence returned, as his father merely regarded him patiently, studying him the way he did one of his paintings whenever it was giving him trouble. He was waiting for him to speak first, to hear what he had to say.

Charles cleared his throat. “I should um…I should go help mother.”

His father only nodded. “Of course.”

We’ll speak later.

Even without saying the words, Charles could tell from the look in his father’s pale eyes they would eventually. Whether he liked it or not.

But for now, his father was leaving that up to him to start that conversation.

Heading downstairs, passing by his mother and Dr. Wilkes, Charles walked into the parlor and was greeted with a celebration. The dark cloud that had lingered over the home these past few days had disappeared. Replaced now with jubilation and joy, as if there had been a collective sigh of relief from all present.

In an effort to distract himself, and to also keep himself busy, Charles focused on helping his mother manage the house that day, as well as assisting his uncle with writing letters to his other uncles and aunts, who’d all been waiting for an update, that his father had recovered and would be alright.

And for the most part, he was successful in keeping busy enough that he didn’t need to go upstairs and see his father, tending to his siblings and mother, assisting where he could.

As the day came to an end, Charles still had not returned upstairs to speak with his father. He instead helped Hugh and Posy pack up their carriage so they could return home. His mother had had to pinky promise his aunt she’d be the first to be called if something happened, assuring her stepsister they would be alright, before Posy was comfortable leaving her side.

While the feeling in My Cottage had been one of joy, the anger, truly distressed anger, had been from his grandmother after she arrived. Later than the rest.

She’d arrived the next morning, having traveled all the way down from Scotland, where she’d been visiting Francesca when she’d gotten the news. The carriage pulled up at the door early that morning, and while she’d been the picture of strength and resilience as she’d greeted them all, it hadn’t lasted long.

His father had suddenly looked very small and very young when he saw his mother enter the room. A look of shame resting on his face as he looked at his mother guilty. While he’d been joking with his siblings and teasing them when they expressed their anger with him, it wasn’t something he could do now.

Especially not with dowager viscountess Violet Bridgerton.

The first thing Charles’ grandmother had done upon entering the room and seeing her second born son alive and well in bed, the opposite of what she had most likely been told in the letter sent to her, was to calmly move to his side, wait a few silent seconds as she tried to find her ability to speak again, and then whack his arm as hard as she could with her small purse, before almost collapsing into tears.

“My heart cannot take this, Benedict. I cannot and will not go through that again,” his grandmother had said, voice laced with agony.

“I know, mother, I know. I’m sorry,” his father had informed her softly, holding her hand as she sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

Charles’ grandmother had then decided to remain in Wiltshire for the rest of the month, seeing it best Sophie had an extra pair of hands around the home with Charles’ father being bedridden for the next few weeks while his leg healed.

Anthony and Kate planned to escort Alexander and William back to London in the coming days, while Uncle Phillip and Crane cousins departed for Romney Hall but Eloise stayed behind, wanting to — needing to — stay at the home for one more night before she felt comfortable enough to leave.

Charles had decided to stick around for a few more days, deciding he needed to speak with his father before he returned to Cambridge.

But as the days passed, Charles still had yet to approach his father, focusing instead on following his mother around the home. Making sure she was alright and checking if she needed help with anything.

“You know I’m quite capable at managing my own home, not that I don’t mind you finally doing some chores,” his mother teased, as he helped her in the kitchen.

He was currently sweeping up the dirt around the kitchen and out the backdoor, while his mother busied herself with dinner preparations, cutting up some carrots for the stew Mrs. Crabtree was going to make that night.

Charles smiled. “I think you’re confusing me with William, mother. I’ve always done my chores.”

“You sweep. That’s all you do because it's all I’ve ever been able to get you to do,” his mother replied swiftly. “Heaven forbid you actually make your own bed or clean up the dishes when I ask.”

“Do you want my help or not?” Charles returned and got a curt look from his mother back.

“If you’re done sweeping you can help me by peeling the potatoes,” she told him, pointing the knife she was holding at the pile of potatoes laying on the table near her.

Placing the broom back in its spot against the wall near the door, Charles came to stand next to his mother. Picking up one of the potatoes and the peeler, he began to slice off the layer of brown potato skin.

It was nice to just spend time with his mother, even as they both quietly worked on preparing dinner. It reminded Charles of when he was little, and his mother would have him help her make her ginger biscuits. She’d stand him on a stool next to her because he’d still not gotten big enough to see over the table, and hand him the ingredients to put in the bowl, gently instructing and encouraging him. His siblings had on occasion taken part as well, his mother would sometimes have all four of them help her, but as they’d gotten older, it had tended to always be Charles who helped her with baking or cooking. It had become their little mother-son activity.

“Has your sister finally forgiven you?” his mother gently inquired.

“Well, I only got the cut direct from her today, but at least she’s looking at me again,” Charles told her.

While no longer upset with him for his argument with their father, Lettie was now annoyed with him for his decision to adopt Muskrat, the kitten his father had climbed up the tree to rescue. His baby sister had yet to forgive the kitten for almost costing their father his life, but after the chat his mother and grandmother had had with her, Charles was pretty sure she’d be over it by the time he returned from school.

And he’d already left a box of chocolates on her bed that morning, as a bribe to get back in her good favor, knowing it would help sway her.

His mother let out a small huff of a laugh. “She’ll be over it by the time you leave for Cambridge. She missed you dearly while you were away, you and your brothers.”

“Even William?” he jokingly asked.

His mother sighed and shook her head at him, but a smile tugged at her lips.

“Even William,” she said fondly.

She continued chopping away, but as she continued, Charles noticed how her shoulders slowly slumped as if she was deflating. Even though his father was awake and talking, his mother still looked exhausted. Relieved but exhausted.

“You alright, mother?” he asked, gently.

She sighed, giving a small nod. “I’m fine. I just…” she took another deep breath. “It’s been a long week.”

Charles placed a hand on his mother’s back, comfortingly.

“I don’t think I’ve been this scared since you were sick,” she said offhandedly.

Charles could only hum back quietly. He couldn’t recall the time he was sick when he was seven, he spent most of it asleep, as the fever ravaged his little body. What had felt like a weekend had been about two weeks. Two weeks of time he’d lost, all of which had been spent sweating and coughing in his bed. Until his uncle had provided his parents with a special tea that had reduced the fever. Or at least that was what his parents told him.

He did remember being held in his mother’s arms while he wheezed and coughed one night, choking on every breath so much he’d been brought to tears while as his mother gently tried to soothe him back to sleep.

And while he might not have remembered the illness that nearly took his life, it was months before his baby sister was born.

Don’t think I’ve been this scared since you had, Lettie.

His mother’s head snapped up to look at him in surprise. Which was when Charles realized he’d unknowingly spoken the words aloud.

“Oh! Oh no, I’m fine, mother, really–” he started.

But she took one look at him and knew what was wrong immediately. She always knew.

Her head tilted slightly as she gave him a small, sympathetic smile. She placed the knife down on the table before spreading her arms out towards him.

“Come here,” she said softly, motioning for him to come closer. So that she could hug him.

Charles sighed, before pitifully shuffling closer to his mother, head lowered, allowing her to wrap her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, clutching the back of her mossy green dress, as she rubbed her hand soothing up and down his back. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Charles did his best to not collapse into tears.

“Oh, my sweet,” his mother cooed.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled into his shoulder.

“Oh, you most certainly are not,” his mother returned, gently pushing him away so she could cup his face.

“Mama,” he whined, not wanting her to fuss over him, but she only shushed him.

She rubbed her thumbs over his cheeks. “Is this about your fight with your father?” She asked. “Because I can’t tell you right now, he regrets terribly how he left things with you.”

Weakly, Charles nodded. His eyes beginning to water.

“I didn’t mean it,” he told her. “I swear. I didn’t—”

But his mother was already wrapping her arms around him again, pulling him into a tight hug.

“He knows that, sweetheart. He knows,” she told him, rubbing his back. “Why didn’t you say something?” she then asked, and Charles felt his heart tug at the sadness in his mother’s tone.

“I didn’t want to worry you. You were dealing with enough,” he replied softly into her shoulder.

“Charles, I’m your mother. It’s my job to take care of you,” she told him. When he said nothing in response, she sighed, letting go of him and allowing him to move back so she could look him in the eye. “You always act far too old for your age. It worries me.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he assured her.

His mother gave a small smile. “I do worry,” she said. “And I always will worry. You may be a man now, Charles, but you're still my little baby.”

“Mama,” he whined again, and her smile grew.

“You are,” she said sweetly, moving her fingers in soothing a half moon shape around his ear, repeating the motion a few more times as she brushed the short strands back. She was probably going to tell him he needed to get it cut now that his hair was to ears. “I remember when I first held you in my arms. Oh, you were wailing like a banshee, face red as a beetroot, and the moment they placed you in my arms, you went silent. Then you let out this little sigh and snuggled into me.” She sighed lovingly. “I never wanted to let you go. Took your father quite a little begging and a lot of reassurance that you’d be alright with him, before I let him take you from me.”

Charles gave his mother a small smile. As embarrassing as it could feel whenever his mother, or parents in general, talked about his childhood, there was a warmth building in his chest from his mother’s comfort.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” he admitted weakly.

“Just be honest,” his mother replied with ease, brushing a hand over his head.

Charles only nodded, even though he still felt as lost as he had when he’d first entered the room. And while he knew his mother was right, his gut only twisted more and more.

“You need to get a haircut,” she then informed him softly.

He sighed. “Yes, mother.”

That got a small chuckle.

“Go,” she said, smiling still as she nodded towards the door. “Go speak with your father, Charles.”

So, he did.

—

Charles gently but firmly rapped his knuckles against the door leading into his parents’ room.

“Come in,” his father’s muffled voice responded from inside.

Taking a deep breath (and a few more seconds), Charles opened the door and entered the room. His father glanced up from the book he’d been reading as he stepped into the room. His dark circular spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose.

Seeing his eldest son, his father smiled at him, closing the book he’d been reading and placing it down next to him.

“Charles,” he said. “How are you?”

“Do you have a moment?” he asked.

His father motioned towards his leg with a soft, amused smile. “Well, I’m not going anywhere for the moment as you can see.”

And the ball was back in Charles’ court.

Awkwardly, he shuffled closer to the bed until he was standing right at the end of it. It took him a few moments to gather the courage, to swallow his pride and finally speak, while he gripped the wooden poles sticking out of the footboard.

“You were right,” he finally admitted. “About Grace.”

His father nodded, solemnly. “I saw the marriage announcement. I’m sorry, Charles.”

“It’s fine,” Charles lied, looking away. He gently kicked one of the wooden legs of the bed, stuffing his other hand into his pocket so his father wouldn’t see how it was currently balled up into tight fists. “Honestly, I realized now she wasn’t really as nice as I thought. I should have noticed it sooner.”

“Love makes us blind,” his father told him simply. “I certainly was with your mother. Probably still am when it comes to her.”

He gave him a knowing smile, evident his father was opening himself up to being mocked or teased, to help Charles relax. But, Charles couldn’t find any humor in the situation he’d put himself into.

He let out a huff of disagreement, shaking his head. “I don’t think I was in love with her. I thought I was but…I mean, how could I possibly have felt affection for her? She was horrible and cruel and I…I just didn’t see it.”

“You saw what you wanted to see,” his father replied. He took a deep breath. “I know it's probably not the same, but I had a similar experience when I met your mother. You know how we met?”

Charles nodded. His parents’ love story was the stuff of fairytales. Famous in their family for being the rare case of love at first sight.

“At a ball,” he said. “Mother snuck in with no invite and you took one look at her in that silver gown she wore and fell helplessly in love. Asked her for a dance and she said she didn’t know how so you snuck her out onto one of the back patios at Number 5 to teach her. Where you spent the evening together.”

His father smiled fondly as he recalled that night. “I knew your mother all of a few hours before she disappeared, and while I knew I was in love with her, I thought I knew everything about her after one night.” He then chuckled. “I didn’t even have her name, just this feeling I got in my chest whenever I thought about her that told me I’d never be happier with anyone else. But after two years of searching, I’d created this image of who I thought she was in my head, based on nothing but assumptions. I’d created this picture of who I thought she was, what I thought she was like, and frankly, what I wanted her to be. All I did was blind myself to the truth. So badly I didn’t even realize it was her when she was standing right in front of me.”

“Hence the glasses,” Charles commented lightly, trying to make a joke.

His father chuckled lightly again, the fond smile on his face having grown wider. “Hence the glasses,” he repeated back. “Your mother is no Grace Beauchamp that’s for certain, but she wasn’t some highborn lady that I’d assumed her to be either. She was far lovelier than that.”

“I guess I dodged a bullet then,” Charles admitted, sullenly. “With Grace.”

“Maybe,” his father replied. “Maybe it was just never meant to be. That doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there for you.”

Charles couldn’t help but scoff. He wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, finally forcing the words out of his throat, watching how his father’s brows popped up in surprise. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. And I never should have said I wanted you dead. It wasn’t true. Isn’t true. I…I don’t want you dead, father.”

His father nodded along as he spoke, taking in what he was saying, before taking a deep breath himself. Letting out a deep breath.

“I also wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” he returned. “I made mistakes that day too. I shouldn’t have called you an immature git. It was wrong of me to say that. To treat you like you were a boy when we both know you aren’t. Your mother was kind enough to point this out to me after you left.”

Charles’ shouldn’t have been surprised. His mother had been equally upset with both of them. It was one of the few times his parents argued. After he’d stormed off to his room he’d heard muffled shouting coming from the library that had lasted until his father had stormed out of the house, declaring he was taking a walk to clear his head before slamming the front door on his way out.

“I could have handled it a lot better,” his father continued.

“I could have kept a level head and an open mind,” Charles retorted with a shrug.

“Unfortunately, you’ve inherited the Bridgerton stubbornness,” his father joked lightly. “Once we’ve made up our mind, it’s pretty hard for us to be swayed another way. Your uncles and aunts all learned this the hard way. Myself included.”

“Still… “ Charles said, looking back down at the floor.

“It’s done, son,” his father interrupted. Stern, but not serious or punishing, just enough tone to let him know to not start an argument. “No point wallowing in the past, in what ifs. All you’ll do is make yourself ill.”

But it was evident he didn’t believe him, which made his father motion him closer.

“Come here,” he ordered gently, before patting the space on the mattress next to him.

Slowly, Charles came over and sat down next to him, having to turn towards his father so he could look at him. His father took his hand.

“Your uncles told me how you handled yourself these past few days. Caring for your siblings, for your mother. Managing this house and making sure everything was in order. I’m not happy that you went through this, but you’ve proven yourself,” he told him. “I’m proud of you, son. I’ll always be proud of you.”

Charles swallowed, trying to keep his emotions from bubbling up and overwhelming him. And while he found himself struggling to respond, his father didn’t seem to mind, only giving his hand a supportive squeeze, letting him know he was there for him.

"Alright?" his father asked and Charles quickly nodded his head. "Good, then you can go fetch me my sketch book. Your mother refuses to let me have it, but I know I can trust you to get it."

Charles nodded, rising to his feet.

"And son?"

Charles turned.

"I love you. Don't ever forget that."

For the first time in month, Charles felt like everything was right again.

—

Waking that night, fighting off lingering horrors and nightmares, him since he’d arrived back home, Charles struggled to find sleep.

Knowing there was only one solution to this, he quietly crept downstairs to the kitchen to warm up a glass of milk. His mother had made sure he and his brother had learned how to turn the stove on, and Charles had no difficulty heating up a small pot of milk that he then poured into a glass.

He added a spoonful of honey and a pinch of nutmeg, making it the way his mother always would whenever he was little (although he always struggled to get it just right) and had come running to her because he thought a monster was under his bed, before taking the glass back with him as he made his way up to his room.

As he got to the top of the stairs, Charles heard voices coming from his parents room. Hushed voices speaking quietly, quietly enough to draw him closer until he was standing next to it. The door cracked just enough for him to hear his parents speaking.

“You promise me, Benedict,” he heard his mother whisper. “You promise me right now that you won’t-”

Her voice cracked on the last word and his father gently shushed her. “Shh, shh, I’m still here. I’m still here, Sophie, I promise,” he said gently, before chuckling. “I suppose we are even now.”

A thump sound was heard, from what Charles assumed to be his mother hitting his father’s chest, which only made the old man chuckle more.

“I mean it,” his mother said. “The children need you. I still need you.”

“And I have no intentions of going anywhere,” he replied gently. “I have no interest in leaving your side. Not ever.”

“Good,” was his mother’s reply. “Because if you do something like that again, I might just let Eloise kill you.”

“Mrs. Bridgerton,” his father gasped dramatically. “Tsk tsk. How you’ve gotten violent in your old age.”

There was another thump after that as his father just laughed, but there were soft chuckles from his mother as well.

“I’m forty-two, you arse,” his mother said.

“And still looking as beautiful as you were the day we met,” his father replied.

The soft chuckles continued, before slowly the sounds changed to that of kissing. Which was when Charles realized he was intruding on a very private moment between his parents and slipped silently down the hallway and back to his room.

He loved his parents, but he did not need to listen to that.

—

“Write to me as soon as you get there?” his mother asked as she kissed his cheek in goodbye.

“I will,” he told her. “I promise.”

They were outside My Cottage, by the carriage Mr. Crabtree was going to transport Charles back to university with. His mother, grandmother, sister and Mrs. Crabtree all present to see him off. His brothers had already departed the day before with his aunt and uncle the day before, while Eloise had returned back to Romney Hall that morning, and it was his turn to return back to his studies.

He’d already said goodbye to his father, who was still stuck in bed for at least another week, per the doctor’s orders, but Charles found himself feeling at ease once again. No longer worrying that his relationship with his father had been tarnished.

“And you,” Sophie pointed down at the basket Charles was currently holding. “You better not get my son in any trouble, you understand me?”

Charles could only chuckle, glancing down at the additional passenger coming with him back to Cambridge.

Muskrat, the kitten his father had climbed up a rotted tree to rescue, lay sprawled out in the basket his mother had given him to transport her in, her tail lazily whipped from side to side. The small gray kitten had the soul of an old widow, barely regarding his mother as she lounged in her seat. Looking uninterested in abiding by his mother’s demands.

Charles’ smile only grew. He’d grown fond of the little rascal after his sister had introduced them and had decided to keep her, much to his sister’s annoyance.

And Lettie’s lips were pressed tightly together as she glowered down at the little kitten, having yet to forgive her for nearly killing their father, but she still hugged him goodbye and told him she’d miss him. Charles gave her a kiss on the head and reminded her to write to him while he was gone, before moving on to his grandmothers.

“Take care Charles,” Mrs. Crabtree told him. “And remember to eat. You’re getting too skinny for my liking.”

“I will,” Charles told her as he then moved onto his other grandmother.

“Be careful,” Violet said as she hugged him. “Don’t do anything reckless. Understood?”

He nodded. “I promise.”

“You remind me far too much of your father and uncles. You and your brothers,” she told him, and Charles’ mother chuckled softly next to her, smiling fondly at him. “And say hello to your cousin Miles for me when you see him. Alright?”

Charles assured her he would, before saying his final goodbyes and entering the carriage. It took a quick rap on the ceiling of the carriage to let Mr. Crabtree know he was ready, and they were off.

His time home, and everything that had happened, had taught Charles one thing.

Marriage.

Marriage, he decided, was just not for him. It was just too much trouble whenever he thought about it. The idea he could cause someone the pain he’d seen both his mother and father endure when the other was ill, regardless of intention, was something he had no interest in inflicting on another.

He’d leave the heirs of My Cottage to his brothers. Alexander was a romantic so he had no doubt his younger brother would marry soon and have children. Once one of his brothers had a son, he’d have no other reason to worry.

And as he left Wiltshire, on route back to Cambridge, he didn’t believe that opinion would change. That anyone who would convince him it was worth it.

It would take a few years, but Charles would once again find himself proven wrong.

A debutante Charles would meet during his sister’s first season would show him just how wrong he was.

#bridgerton #benophie babies #benophie #my fic.#my fics.

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