weepingfromacedartree - Tumblr blog

weepingfromacedartree · 4 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Epilogue

Hi friends! The epilogue is live!!!

Still can't quite believe this is the end... But thank you to everyone who has been following along on this story. Appreciate you all 💛💛💛

Epilogue

One Year Later: April 26th, 2024

Relationship Status: Engaged

꙳

Yesterday

In the end, neither Colin nor Penelope felt the need to rush down to the court house immediately after becoming engaged. For both of them, the promise of forever was enough.

(For a year, at least.)

Tonight was the wedding rehearsal — which, knowing their respective families, was just as chaotic as one could expect from such an affair. Both Colin and Penelope vastly prefer the more intimate (albeit similarly chaotic) afterparty currently being held in their honour.

In a secluded library at the family home on Grosvenor Street, all Bridgerton siblings and spouses are gathered.

By the door, Kate is offering Gregory advice on law school (far more helpful than Anthony’s advice, by Gregory’s account). By the window, Benedict, Sophie, and Eloise are discussing plans for tomorrow’s afterparty. On the settee, Daphne and Simon are flirting — like they always do on nights like this (seven years into their marriage). In the corner, Francesca and Anthony are discussing a certain bet in extremely hushed tones. On the couch in the center of the room, Hyacinth is interrogating the bride and groom on the details of their union. She asks one particular question that appears to cut through all other mini conversations in the room.

“Penelope — how did my brother trick you into marrying him, anyway?”

Her question had been asked in jest, but in response, Penelope cannot help but admit…

“There actually was some trickery involved in his proposal.”

With one arm wrapped around his fiancée’s shoulders, Colin blushes.

“‘Trickery’ is a strong wo—”

“Ooh,” Sophie cuts in, already taking a seat next to Hyacinth. “Do tell.”

Colin and Penelope do tell. They tell the others all about the little game they played to determine their future together.

“And you were successful?” Hyacinth asks in disbelief. “You did everything a couple should do while just friends?”

“Best friends,” Colin clarifies, much to Eloise’s chagrin. “But yes.”

“And what requirements were on that list of yours?” asks Anthony. “Living together?”

“Yes, actually.”

Anthony squints at his younger brother from across the room.

“You two lived together before you started dating?”

“Yes. Penelope lived with me for a month during lockdown.”

“That doesn’t cou—”

“Shh, Ant,” Colin interrupts. “I nearly have her down the aisle. Don’t mess this up for me now.”

As Penelope starts to giggle, Daphne smiles and clears her throat from over on the settee.

“What about discussing your dreams for the future? That would certainly be on my list.”

“Yes,” answers Penelope. “That was one of the first we crossed off.”

“Hmmm,” Benedict hums dramatically. “Almost like you two should have married a long, long time ago.”

As the others chuckle, Colin simply smiles and asks, “And what would be on your list, Ben?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Benedict’s eyes dart around the room before eventually settling on: “Surviving a trip to Ikea. That one’s vital, actually.”

Sophie nods emphatically at this. “Was Ikea on your list?” she asks the engaged pair.

“No,” Colin answers with a shrug. He then turns to Daphne and (defensively) continues, “But Daph — you’re happily married and have never stepped foot in an Ikea in your life. Right?”

“I’ve been to Ikea,” Daphne claims, just as defensive as her brother. “Of course I’ve been to Ikea!”

“Babe. I’ve never been to I—”

“Shh,” Daphne interrupts, laughing as she leans into her husband’s shoulder. “What’s on your list, babe?”

Simon considers the question momentarily, then smirks.

“Befriending the family.”

“Jesus Christ,” Anthony mutters inaudibly from the other side of the room. Louder, Hyacinth adds…

“Well, that’s easy. I’ve always preferred Penelope to Colin.”

“Hey!” Colin shoots out while Penelope continues to giggle incessantly. It takes her a minute to catch her breath and ask the others what milestones are on their hypothetical lists.

On Francesca’s: “Having the ‘kids’ conversation.” (Check.)

On Sophie’s: “Finding ways to make each other laugh.” (Check.)

On Kate’s: “Making your relationship a priority.” (Check.)

On Eloise’s: “With our family? Surviving a week at Aubrey Hall with your sanity intact.” (Check.)

On Gregory’s: “Adopting a pet.” (Check.) (Technically.)

On Hyacinth’s: “I don’t know. A hall pass?” (Unchecked.) (Thank god.)

That last response is met with such a loud chorus of boos that Violet — who had been searching for the group for the last hour — is finally able to locate them on the third floor. She bursts into the library just as Hyacinth exclaims, “What?! That’s what engaged people do before they get married, right? You know — to get it out of their systems?”

“What is going on here?” Violet asks from the doorway.

“Nothing mum,” several of her children claim all at once. When she appears unconvinced, Gregory explains, “We’re just making sure Penelope and Colin are ready to get married tomorrow.”

At this, Violet chuckles.

“I’ve been waiting twenty years for this wedding. What could there possibly be left to discuss?”

The group explains the game one final time. When asked what milestone would be on her list, Violet smiles and answers, “Falling in love. Everything after that is just… extra.”

Still standing in the doorway, Violet glances around the library. Her smile deepens as she looks to each of the wonderful, happy faces looking back at her. To Kate and Anthony. To Francesca and Eloise. To Simon and Daphne. To Gregory and Hyacinth. To Benedict and Sophie. To Colin and Penelope.

“Well,” she sighs contentedly. “It’s quite late. If any of you wish to be prepared for tomorrow, I suggest breaking up this party and getting some sleep.”

“Mum has a point,” Benedict admits, looking down at his watch. It’s 11:53. “We should separate the bride and groom before midnight strikes. Bad luck and all.”

Most of the room agrees and, thus, begin saying their goodbyes for the night. They stand from their spots, gather their belongings, and empty into the halls in separate directions. Not Colin, though. He feels too sure of everything tonight to bother worrying about “luck” for a single moment.

Gregory is last to leave. He gives Penelope a sidelong hug in the doorway before disappearing down the hall, which is when Colin finally stands from his spot on the couch. As he treads forward, he hears Eloise call out “You coming Pen?” somewhere out of sight; he reaches past Penelope and shuts the door before she can answer.

“Is everything okay?”

“No,” he says, leaning down and laying a kiss on his fiancée’s lips. “Everything is perfect.”

When she breaks away from him, there’s a smile plastered on her face.

“You heard your brother,” she murmurs through taught lips. “It’s bad luck for us to see each other after midnight.”

Colin spares a single second to glance down at his watch. It’s 11:58.

“Time is a construct. And I’m still jet lagged from our last trip, so if you think about it —”

“That was a month ago,” Penelope giggles. “And last time I checked, Berlin is an hour ahead of London.”

“Exactly. Why bother running off now, if we’ve already tempted fate by an hour?”

Colin leans in for another kiss, but Penelope just barely manages to push past her temptations and pull her head back an inch.

“Let’s continue this in the morning.”

Rising onto the balls of her feet (and pulling him down a few inches for good measure), Penelope places a single chaste kiss upon her fiancé’s lips. Colin doesn’t think he’s ever tasted anything sweeter.

“Goodnight, Colin.”

“Night, Pen.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Today

They married at St. Bride’s Church this morning. It was sunny and warm and perfect. They recited their vows in a magnificent cathedral. They took portraits in front of a spire that resembles a wedding cake. They travelled in a little white car from Fleet Street to Mayfair, where hundreds of people are currently celebrating their union in an opulent white wedding hall.

It’s not so sunny anymore, Colin realises while gazing out the nearest window. It’s the first time in hours that he’s taken note of the weather outside. (It also happens to be the first time in hours that Penelope is out of his view — gone to the loo with Francesca in tow.)

The night is nearly done. Family portraits have been taken. Toasts have been toasted. The first dance has been witnessed. But even noting the time, the skies outside are quite dark. From where he stands by the window, Colin can practically hear the phantom sounds of thunder at a distance.

“Question, mate,” says a distinctly Scottish voice behind him. After blinking several times, Colin turns to find Michael Stirling staring back at him.

“Hmm?”

“Is that your sister —” He discreetly points one finger towards Eloise on the dance floor. “— who has been dancing with Phillip Crane all night?”

Colin is suddenly overcome by such a distinct wave of hubris that he barely registers the strange way in which Michael emphasised the word “Crane.” He does manage to ask how Michael knows Phillip, though; Colin only met him last year while self-sequestered in Kent.

Michael mumbles something about playing football against his brother during uni, then inquires about Phillip and Eloise’s apparent connection again.

“That was my doing, actually,” Colin gloats.

“That so?”

“Yeah. While Pen and I were putting together the seating charts, I had a bit of an epiphany and sorted him next to El. Now look at them.”

He nods towards the couple on the edge of the dance floor. Colin has never seen his sister look so pleased while partaking in “a voluntary act of public humiliation.” (Her words.)

“I’m practically cupid.”

Not a second passes before Colin is hit by a sudden realisation. Just as Michael opens his mouth to voice aloud whatever sarcastic quip is currently on his tongue, he continues…

“I saw you dancing with Francesca quite a few times this evening.”

When Michael keeps his mouth notably shut in response to this, Colin suppresses a smirk and asks, “You two came here together, right?”

“As friends,” Michael clarifies, only after several additional seconds of silence. The indignation in his tone is not lost on (or foreign to) Colin.

“You know… Penelope and I went to Benedict’s wedding together. As ‘friends.’”

Again, the other man waits before responding. Just when Colin is tempted to open his own mouth and drop some unsubtle metaphor about sitting in traffic, Michael chuckles before continuing…

“Sorry. I just realised something quite funny. Hilarious, even.” When Colin raises an eyebrow, he explains, “If your attempts at matchmaking Eloise and Crane are successful, you will also be successful in making your ex-girlfriend an official part of the family.”

Colin’s smirk drops, suddenly smacked by confusion.

“You know,” Michael continues, patting him on the shoulder in one dismissive blow. “You should really be more careful about who you invite to be an in-law.”

When Michael begins to step away, Colin turns to follow. He’s about to ask what the hell he was talking about, but that question gets lodged in the back of his throat when he spots something out of the corner of his eye.

His wife.

Penelope has been his wife for several hours. Colin has been ready for her to be his wife for several months. (Years, even.) But the weight of that word — wife — hits him squarely in the chest, even now.

He watches as she steps down the staircase with her skirt in her hands. As she continues chatting with Francesca. As she weaves through the crowd. As she meets his eye and a smile lights up her already bright face.

Colin watches his wife with a tender fire in his chest. He starts to lean down, led by an undying desire to have her close to him. But before he can wrap his arms around her, Penelope reaches out, seizes his hand, and pulls him in a new direction. Towards the nearest exit, specifically.

“Sorry,” she laughs as they step onto the terrace. It’s empty — likely due to the brisk night air and imminent rain. “It was getting a bit crowded in there, I think.”

“I think so, too,” Colin murmurs, finally leaning down to place a kiss against her lips. “How long until we can kick them all out?” He kisses her again. “Or simply save ourselves and flee.”

Penelope laughs again as she tilts her chin down and to the side. She presses her body against his and he wraps an arm around hers. He pulls her in as close as he can get her.

“Not yet,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “But soon.”

Without having to ask, Colin and Penelope fall into a sort of dance — a routine that has solidified and evolved over all these years. Their bodies sway to the music as it drifts in from the ballroom. Their fingers intertwine like they were made to fit together. Their chests are so close that he can feel her heart beating through the flimsy fabric of his shirt.

It’s perfect. All of it.

“Was today everything you hoped it would be?” Colin asks, his voice quiet enough that it’s nearly drowned out by the rain in the distance. Nearly.

“Today was perfect.” She extracts her head from his shoulder to look up at him. She’s smiling. “But I think I’m ready for it to be over. I’m ready for what comes next.”

Colin almost says something in response to that, but after some consideration, he doesn’t feel the need. Penelope summed it all up too perfectly.

Instead of talking, he momentarily pulls his wife away from him and spins her around. She laughs. So does he. They keep time to the rain, for the music has grown too faint for them to rely on. They dance a little while longer, even as the downpour quickens and raindrops start pelting into them sideways.

Colin is more aware than ever before that he has his heart in his hands and against his chest. He knows he isn’t letting go.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tomorrow

The sun is just beginning to rise over London. The sky is maroon, but it will be blue again soon enough. With her head resting on Colin’s shoulder, Penelope keeps her eyes trained on the massive window ahead of her. She watches as twilight bleeds into daybreak. As red turns to pink. Pink to orange. Orange to yellow.

When the first sliver of blue appears in the sky, she lifts her head and looks into her husband’s eyes. He looks tired (for obvious reasons), but also happy.

“I forgot to tell you something yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?” Colin smirks. “Something you forgot to mention in your vows?”

“No. Something Gregory let slip.”

“Dear god.” He runs a hand across his brow before tentatively asking, “What?”

“Apparently your siblings had a betting pool on the date of our wedding. They started it back at Kate and Anthony’s wedding.”

Over the course of about ten seconds, Penelope watches as several emotions cross Colin’s face. Intrigue turns to disbelief. Disbelief to indignation. Indignation to resigned acceptance.

“Of course they did,” he mutters. “Who won?”

“Anthony. He beat Benedict by a few weeks.”

Colin lets out a single strained laugh, then rubs another hand across his eyes.

“I knew we should have eloped last spring.”

Penelope laughs, too. The air is light against her lips.

“You and I have very different recollections of our wedding planning process.”

Again, Colin laughs. He looks like he’s about to protest, but before he can, a voice blares through the intercom above.

“Good morning, passengers. Flight 185 from London to Vienna is about to begin the boarding process. Please make your way to the gate.”

With a light huff, Colin stands from his chair, grabs both of their carry-ons, then extends a hand towards his wife. As they make their way towards the gate together, he squeezes her palm once.

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” he says, smirking down at her. “But I’m actually quite an experienced traveller.”

“Oh.” She laughs. “Is that so?”

“Yes. An occupational hazard, really. I travel for work.”

“How exciting.”

“It can be. Really depends on the company.” He squeezes her hand one more time before continuing, “You know… If you ever want to abandon real life for a couple of days and tag along, the door is always open.”

As they arrive at the gate and stand beside their fellow passengers, Penelope looks up at a face she knows so well. He still has those tired, happy eyes from daybreak. He still has that smile that made her stomach flutter as a child. He’s still Colin — but he’s her husband now, too.

She almost makes another sarcastic comment. She thinks about calling him a dork. She considers abandoning words altogether and pulling him down for another kiss. But in the end, Penelope smiles up at her husband and says the truest words she holds in her heart.

“I know.”

#did I plan to post this on my birthday??#no #but now im 25 and have a completed 100K+ word fic #👍😬👍#polin #fanfiction #bridgerton #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #penelope x colin

21 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 5 months

Text

Ten Milestones: The Big Argument

Hi friends! Apologies for the delay, but chapter 14 is now live! ✨✨

Please note: this chapter is rated E for sexual content

“Number Ten: The Big Argument. While likely unpleasant, this milestone may be the most important of all. Entering a marriage with unspoken grievances and frustrations between you and your partner is never a good idea. Before walking down the aisle, you two need to get into an argument. A big one. The catch: you need to come out the other side stronger than where you started.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

One Week Earlier: April 22nd, 2023

Relationship Status: Complicated

꙳

Logically, Penelope should not be alarmed by receiving an “SOS” text from Colin Bridgerton. Over the last three and a half years, he has used this system about a dozen times for all sorts of reasons — none of which have met the standard definition of an “emergency.”

(The last text came about eight months ago. The emergency? He had run out of leftovers and desperately needed someone to accompany him en route to the nearest chip shop.)

When Penelope received “SOS” from him 23 minutes ago, logically, she should not have been alarmed. But after receiving this text after 6 months of radio silence…

She takes the stairs up to his flat, anyway.

When she unlocks his door, her alarm bells are not quelled by what she sees inside.

Complete. Utter. Darkness.

After blindly grabbing for the nearest lightswitch, she only finds more nothing. She hastes from room to room, but still…

Kitchen. Nothing.

Sitting room. Nothing.

Bathroom. Nothing.

Bedroom. Nothing.

The last place she checks is Benedict’s old room. The one she stayed in for a month during the end of the world. When she swings the door open, she gets exactly what she was expecting. More nothing.

Colin isn’t here. That much is clear — and only one step up from the worst-case scenario. (Having found him unconscious on the floor somewhere.)

She retrieves her phone from her back pocket. She types “Where are you??” and hovers her index above the little blue button. She can’t bring herself to push down. Instead, she pushes the power button and puts the damn thing out of her view.

Absent of any other distraction, Penelope’s tired eyes take stock of the room before her. It looks different than it had three years ago.

The room was evidently transformed into a home office after Benedict moved out. The bed is still here, but does not appear fit to sleep in; the white comforter is barely visible beneath a mountain of cardboard boxes and miscellaneous junk. There's a desk in the corner, cluttered with even more junk. There’s junk packed into every corner of the room. Postcards. Coffee mugs. Unfolded clothes. Half-written journals. Half-dead plants.

Little pieces of Colin, everywhere.

He used to tell Penelope that she is “always” welcome in this flat. Now, she’s standing in the doorway of a room she hardly recognises. Now, she feels like an intruder — which is certainly not an unfamiliar feeling. Not after the last six months.

The two of them have not been in a room together since the night of Benedict’s wedding. Some of that was by coincidence — like the “Great Bridgerton COVID Christmas” that cancelled all plans between Colin’s birthday and New Years. Some of it was purposeful — like the work trip Penelope took to New York at the beginning of the month, which rendered any plans (or possible reunions) for her own birthday obsolete.

Penelope was far from an innocent party in all that silence; it takes two to carry out a silent treatment of that magnitude. But through it all, she could not help but see herself as the less guilty party. She could not help but sense the force with which Colin was driving a wedge between them. Penelope could recognise the pressure because she was on the other side of it once — when she was at Cheltenham and he was at Cambridge and she decided they could no longer be friends.

The only communication they’ve had since that night in October was through a handful of voicemails and texts — none of which discussed anything of note. Certainly nothing about Anthony’s speech or the gaping hole it ripped into their friendship. No jokes or clarifications or confessions of —

Nope.

She can’t think about that right now, so she takes note of her surroundings again. She looks ahead, to those cardboard boxes. She looks down, in the general direction of the phone hidden away in her pocket. She looks over her shoulder, to the front door she accidentally left ajar while barging in here.

She should press send on that text message to Colin. She should write a new one — one telling him to find someone else to deal with any future made up emergencies. She should leave his flat. She should lock the door behind her.

She really doesn’t want to do any of those things, though; she doesn’t know if she has the strength to. So instead, she falls into a familiar tactic. One she uses whenever her head gets too busy and she needs to focus on anything other than that mess.

(Snooping.)

Stepping fully into the room, Penelope’s eyes settle on those boxes on the bed. They’re just out of place enough to stand out from the rest of the junk. Most of them are taped shut, but one has been mercifully cut open. As she approaches it, she realises that the gap is too narrow for her to tell what’s inside. But with one little nudge of her finger…

A book.

About two dozen books, to be exact — each one stacked neatly over the other. There’s a picture of a beach on the cover, one that looks more and more familiar the closer she leans in to inspect it. The bottom reads —

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

She reads the words over and over and over again, not quite believing what she’s seeing.

Notes on Paradise

Colin Bridgerton

She flips open the dust jacket, as if the name plastered across the front wasn’t enough to confirm its authenticity. Sure enough, there he is, looking all too serious in that little rectangular image.

Colin Bridgerton is a writer, copy editor, and voracious traveller hailing from London, England. He is best known for his work independently documenting

Penelope stops reading the blurb, suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that this book is real and ready to be published and currently gripped between her fingers.

A decade ago, he told her writing a book was his dream. Five years ago, he told her he was finally ready to start writing it. He’s mentioned it plenty of times in the last few years, but always as a work in progress. Never as something this real or tangible. She always thought she was the one person he could —

Nope.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he finished it and signed with a publishing house and took a stupid, too serious author’s portrait and never told Penelope about any of it.

With shaky fingers, she opens to a random page in the middle. Whether they were intended for her eyes or not, she reads the words before her.

are gentle. They rise to the shore with a soft rush of foam, slipping and sliding along your toes until another wave arrives to clean up the mess.

As an outsider, it is difficult to miss how Cyprus’ landscape appears to be painted with a different palette than the rest of the world. During my adolescence, I saw a few thousand “blue” skies over London — all of which fade to grey in my mind when viewing the cobalt hue that hangs over the Troodos Mountains. During my travels, I have seen waters a hundred shades of blue — none of which match the exact turquoise that gleams beneath Cyprus’ sun.

The scenery here is so uniquely beautiful — it’s like the land itself begs to be memorialised. While walking along its beaches, I cannot help but recall the brilliant artists who captured Cyprus’ beauty long ago. Those who wrote it into sonnets and built it into mythologies and etched it into murals. Like me, I am certain these individuals knew they were walking through paradise during their time here. This place is perfection, and yet…

And yet, with every turquoise wave and cloudless, cobalt sky I am reminded that this is not my home. That I was born to live elsewhere.

In no way does this revelation quell my incessant need to see as much of the world as I can get. But it does offer a comfort, of sorts. An appreciation for the place I left and will always return to. A longing for horns blaring at daybreak and rainy afternoons in the middle of August.

The people here — do they know the joy that is a sunny day after a week of rain? They couldn’t possibly. Their days are always perfect.

Can one appreciate perfection when it is a constant in one’s life?

August 7th, 2016

Penelope is transfixed by these words. By the time she finishes scanning the second page, the shock and betrayal that loomed inside her just a moment ago is all but forgotten. She pinches the corner between her pointer and thumb, ready and eager to turn the next. But before she can, something new claims her attention.

Footsteps. Then, maybe five seconds later, a voice. One that sounds about two octaves higher than it usually does.

“Whoever’s there — I have a knife!”

As calmly as she can manage, Penelope places the book back where she found it. With heavy footsteps, she walks back into the hallway.

Colin is standing between the front door and the kitchen. As warned, he has a knife gripped in his left hand. From where Penelope stands, it appears more suited to cut butter than defend oneself from an intruder.

“Pen?”

Her name falls from his lips like water. Like nothing. Barely a breath upon his lips.

For a moment, it’s silent between them. Then they ask two questions at once.

“What are you doing here?”

“Why are you wet?”

It had taken her a very long moment to realise it, but Colin is absolutely drenched. His hair is hastily slicked-back and dripping. His jacket and trousers are sticking to his skin. Penelope can practically see the puddles in the soles of his shoes.

Before sense can return to her body and remind her of the ridiculous reason why she is here, Colin informs her, “I was walking back from Mayfair. The sky opened up just as I turned the last corner.”

As if on cue, a clap of thunder rings through his flat so loudly that Penelope jumps a few inches into the air. In fairness, she has been on edge since the moment she got that SOS —

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, sounding even more annoyed than he had just a moment ago. Given the current circumstances, Penelope cannot even begin to imagine what could warrant such a reaction from him.

“What do you mean, ‘What am I doing here?’” she asks, trying and failing to keep her voice from betraying her emotions. She can feel about a thousand of those bubbling up to the surface right now. “I came because you asked me to.”

Any annoyance left on Colin’s face drops immediately. He simply looks confused.

“What are you talking about?”

Penelope glances at the phone hidden away in her pocket.

“SOS?” she reminds him, her voice hitching up at the end. In the back of her mind, she wonders if the last six months drove her to a point of insanity that allowed her to conjure up phantom messages from the ghost of a friend. Her fears are not quelled by the growing confusion on Colin’s face.

“I didn’t…” he starts, pulling out his phone. Whatever he sees there stuns him back into silence. It takes him several seconds to tear his eyes away from the screen and back to his questionable intruder.

He looks at her like he’s waiting for an explanation. But even if she wanted to offer him an ounce of context (she doesn’t), she wouldn’t know where to begin.

“Fucking hell,” he eventually mumbles. He places his phone and the butter knife on the nearest flat surface, then runs an anxious hand through his dripping hair. “I — I thought I misplaced my phone at dinner. Then Greg said I left it in the loo and… “ He sighs. “That little bugger must have stolen it and sent you that text.”

“Gregory sent it?” Penelope’s words are slow, but exceedingly impatient. “Why? Why would he do that?”

“You really expect me to explain why Greg does what he does? I don’t have the time or the psych degree to unpack all —”

“No, Colin. I meant why — how does he even know about the whole ‘SOS’’ thing? I —”

“Daphne knows about it,” Colin cuts in, not sounding very sure of himself. “Doesn’t she? You told her on that night we babysat Auggie, right?”

“I think so, but —”

“You know my family. They’re always conspiring about something.”

“About what?!” she cries, louder and messier than she had intended to. “Why the hell are Daphne and Gregory conspiring to get us in a room together?”

Still shiny with rainwater, Colin’s face blanches.

“I…”

When he offers no further information, Penelope cannot stop herself from asking, “Is it for the same reason you’ve been avoiding me these last six months? If so, perhaps you could enlighten me on the matter.”

For several seconds, he doesn’t say anything. His lips part, but only the softest, shortest breaths of air flow in and out of his mouth. Then, just when Penelope grows uneasy enough to open her own mouth to backtrack, Colin lies.

“I haven’t.” He looks down. “I — I haven’t been avoiding you.”

And just like that, Penelope’s instinct to backtrack is vanished.

“Bullshit.”

Panic flashes in his eyes as he breathes out, “Pen —”

“We spoke more often when you were running from country to country eleven months of the year. Now, I don’t even know where you’ve been since October, because we haven’t spoken about anything since then! Since —”

Her voice stops short. She doesn’t know how to continue without unravelling everything else.

In her silence, Colin asks, “Did you prefer it then?” His tone is harsh.

“Did I —”

“Did you prefer it when I was gone eleven months of the year?”

His words come at her quickly. She can barely make sense of them, but she knows they sting.

“What are you talking about?”

“I said…” He takes a step towards her, and Penelope has to will herself to keep her feet rooted where she stands. “Did you prefer it when our friendship existed across oceans? When our primary means of communication were through our fucking phones?”

Something furious is welling up inside Penelope. Her breath feels hot against her lips as she responds to his ridiculous question.

“No, Colin. I didn’t ‘prefer’ it when you were gone all the time.” She sighs. Her words taste bitter in her mouth, but she pushes through, nonetheless. “Of course I didn’t. But at least back then, I could leave you a voicemail without wondering if you could be bothered to return my call.”

“Bothered?” he spits back, his voice turning venomous. He takes two more steps towards her. She could reach out and touch him if she wanted to.

“Yes, Col—”

“You know,” he interrupts, “this is all a bit rich, coming from you.”

That last word is so pointed that Penelope finally takes that step backwards.

“What is that supposed to m—”

“I think you’re being a hypocrite.”

“Excu—”

“I’m sorry, Pen. Really,” he says, though his words come out more resentful than they do sorrowful. “I’m sorry that I needed a — a break. But —”

And just like that, something inside Penelope dies.

“A break?” she repeats. Colin doesn’t seem to hear her above the sound of his own voice.

“— if I recall correctly, the last time you needed a break from me, it lasted more than two years.”

This time, she can barely hear herself as she asks, “What?”

“During those first two years I was at Cambridge,” he starts, his voice settling back into a cooler, more controlled sort of anger. “Back when we didn’t call or text or fucking speak to each other unless strictly necessary. At the time, I thought it was just because we were growing up. That we were both too busy with school and life and — whatever — to make time for one another. And that was fucking awful, but at least it was understandable. But after Catalonia, I don’t —”

His voice stops short. Whether that’s due to him running out of air or deeming the memory too cruel to dredge up now doesn’t matter. Not from where Penelope’s standing.

“You’re right,” she confirms. She’s five years late, but perhaps it’s never too late for one to stop lying. Even a bullshitter as proficient as Penelope.

“I was young and stupid and hurt, and I decided it was easier to step away from our friendship than to live with such a constant reminder of that night. But I was wrong. And I’m sorry — really. But I also struggle to see why you needed a break from our friendship following your brother’s wedding.” After sucking in a deep, desperate breath of air, she continues, “Is this about —”

“You know,” he interrupts, “I don’t believe you ever gave me a clear answer as to why you were hurt enough to temporarily end our friendship.”

Though that wasn’t technically phrased as a question, yet again, Colin is looking at her in wait for an explanation. When Penelope offers none, too busy biting at her lip and willing her eyes to keep dry, he asks the question she’s been dreading for five years.

“Why were you so hurt by what I said at Fife’s party?”

Penelope has never known Colin to be cruel. He may have hurt her in the past, but never this intentionally. This…

There’s no excuse for this. Just like there’s no point in asking a question that only has one possible answer. (Other than to make a point out of that answer.)

Colin is staring down at her, sopping wet, one footstep away, practically begging her to admit the truth to him. That when she was sixteen, his words killed her because she thought herself so in love that she could not imagine her heart beating without him. But it can. And she knows that now. She didn’t know it when she entered this flat tonight, but she does now.

She can see it all so clearly. How sad — how utterly pathetic — this little game she plays with herself is. This test of her character. This push to see how badly she can bruise her ego before it ceases to exist entirely. She could have stopped playing years ago. At sixteen. At eighteen. At twenty-three. At any of the countless moments in her life when she was hit by a proverbial truth — that she loves Colin Bridgerton, and he will never love her the same.

At twenty-eight, Penelope is experiencing a nauseating sense of deja vu. She’s in another one of those countless moments, and she thinks this one needs to be the last.

“Can I only name one reason? If so, I would have to say the reason I was ‘so hurt’ by your words was because they alerted me to the fact that I didn’t know you at all.”

“Penelope, I —”

“No,” she says forcefully. “You be quiet. It’s my turn to speak.”

Colin’s mouth falls open. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to use it to interrupt again.

“When we were teenagers, I thought you could do no wrong. I certainly didn’t think you would make a joke of me the second I disappeared from your view. But honestly — in hindsight, I should be glad I received that wake up call when I did. That I didn’t have to spend another decade blinded by the view of you. But god —”

Her voice cracks on that last word. Still, she pushes through.

“Now I fear I never learned my lesson. That I never learned who the real Colin Bridgerton is.”

“Penelope.”

When he offers her nothing more than the sad sound of her own name, Penelope pushes forward.

“I don’t know how I can take you at your word when you so often contradict it. You tell me I’m your favourite person, then cringe at the idea of us being together. You tell me I can rely on you, then disappear from my life for six months. You tell me we can talk about anything, then go silent over a simple, stupid miscommunication.”

“What?” he barely manages to ask. Penelope doesn’t hear him above the sound of her own voice.

“It’s always ‘always’ with you. And perhaps it's my own fault for believing such an impossible promise for so long — but I won’t any longer.”

“Penelope,” he says, louder this time. Still, he does not get through to her.

Turning on her heel, she continues, “And that’s fine. Because I am a hypocrite. And we’ve always been friends. And I never expected you to plan your life around me. But honestly —”

After reaching her intended destination, Penelope turns towards Colin again. She’s momentarily stunned by how close he had followed behind her. She has to crane her neck to meet his eye.

“Honestly, I thought you would bother telling me about this.”

She presses the hardcover against his stomach, and Colin doesn’t move a muscle. He keeps his arms at his sides and his eyes trained on hers. Then, after subjecting Penelope to several seconds of torturous silence, he speaks.

“Open it.”

“I already —”

“To the dedication.”

After a moment of hesitation, Penelope does as she’s told. With shaky fingers, she peels the book from his shirt, flips to the front, and —

To Pen, my best friend — thank you for your silly little words. None of this would exist without them.

After reading the script three times, the whole world seems to go quiet. Penelope looks from the page to Colin and back several times before any sense returns to her body. When it does, she uses what little control she has over her limbs to place the book on the comforter and lower herself gently to the ground.

“I don’t know what to make of that,” she admits once Colin follows her down to the floor. She sits with her knees against her chest. He sits with his shins brushing against her trainers.

“I’m sorry for the last six months,” he says, the fury from the hall a distant memory. His voice is soft, if a bit unsteady. “It’s no excuse, but I — I was just so caught up in my own head. I’ve been caught up in everything and I — I just —”

His gaze briefly leaves Penelope to look up at the ceiling. She can tell that he’s looking for the right words to describe the mess that has clearly been cluttering his mind these last six months. And despite the awful words she flung at him not a minute prior, Penelope now feels an unmistakable, inexorable urge to help him.

“If this all came about because of your brother’s speech… We can just pretend it never happened.”

Colin’s eyes sharpen at that. But again, Penelope pushes on.

“I know your siblings like to —” She chuckles. Sort of. “— conspire about that sort of thing. But I never thought what Anthony said about your parents had anything to do with us. And I’m sorry for not clearing that up months ago. Truly.”

After she gets out that last little fib, Penelope waits for Colin to say something. To smile. To sigh with relief. But for what feels like an eternity, he just sits there and stares at her.

“Col—”

“Anthony was right.”

“What?” she asks, the word falling from her lips before she can stop it. On Colin’s lips falls the faintest hint of a smile.

“I may not have understood the full gravity of those words when I first started wielding them. But even as a kid, there must have been a small part of me that knew. I mean — there had to have been a reason why I took something my dad said to my mum and reserved it for you and you alone.”

He can’t be saying what Penelope thinks he’s saying. He couldn’t possibly.

“I don’t understand,” she admits, reaching out for any semblance of logical explanation. In response, Colin reaches for her hand. He gives it a familiar squeeze.

“I’m sorry for the last six months. I’m sorry I ever made you think you were not important enough to tell you about my book or plan my fucking life around. I promise that could not be further from the truth.” He takes one last breath, then…

“I love you, Pen. I always have. I always will.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Penelope knows there is a very simple four-word sentence she is supposed to say right now. But after such an overwhelming, awful, astonishing night, words don’t seem to carry the same weight they typically do to Penelope.

She leans towards him, lips first. He meets her in the middle. It’s perfect.

He drops her hand, just to place both of his against her jaw. His grasp is gentle at first, then firm. It’s perfect.

His tongue brushes across her lower lip. He tastes like salt and rain and Saturday night supper. It’s perfect.

He leans in, incidentally pushing her shoulders flat against the bed frame behind her. His jacket is still soaked-through and dampening Penelope’s blouse. It’s perfect.

Her hands are in his hair. Her knees are between his thighs. Her skin is flushed against his. Her heart is beating faster with every passing second. Her mind is just starting to catch up.

“I love you, too,” she tells him, several minutes too late.

“I know,” he mumbles against her skin, already moving towards her jaw.

“Fuck,” she bites out when his lips meet her throat. She can’t help the little buck of her hips that punctuates the expletive. Nor can she help but take notice of Colin’s increasingly hard erection when she brushes against it.

“Fuck,” he bites into her skin. Then, he pulls back.

Suddenly looking sheepish, he says, “Sorry.” Then, “You’re all wet.

Penelope’s eyes go wide. It takes several seconds for her to realise he’s referring to her clothing.

“Oh! Colin, I don’t care.”

She starts to lean in, expecting him to meet her half way again. But he doesn’t. He hesitates.

“Is this too fast?” he asks, one hand lingering just below her chest while the other sits heavy on her thigh.

Penelope shakes her head.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think anything we do together could be classified as ‘fast.’”

“I like the way you think, Featherington,” he practically growls, finally closing the gap between them. He places one achingly quick kiss against her lips before pulling back again.

He stands.

“What are you —”

“I’m not having my way with you on the floor, Penelope,” he says, lifting boxes of books from the comforter to the floor. “Not the first time, at least.”

“Colin!” she cries through a strangled gasp. She cannot help the giddy laughter that falls from her lips as she stands from her own spot. “Don’t trouble yourself. We can go to your room.”

“No time,” he insists, still working on that mountain of cardboard boxes.

With another laugh, Penelope starts, “How could this possibly be faster than —”

She doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence. With one fluid motion, Colin sweeps the remaining boxes to the floor with a clatter, wraps his arms around Penelope’s middle, then nudges her onto the bed. She lands with her back pressed firmly against the mattress.

“Let's get rid of these wet garments.” Colin’s fingers work at the top buttons of her blouse. He unfastens each one with quick, careful movement. “Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

“What a gentleman,” she remarks, though her words are obscured by the sudden burst of giggles caught in her throat.

She can’t stop smiling. She can’t quite believe this is all real. Ten minutes ago, she thought she was done with Colin Bridgerton, now he’s straddling her hips and exposing her skin to the light.

Just as he releases that final button, Penelope presses her palms flat against the mattress and pushes herself up to a sitting position. It’s not the easiest feat with Colin’s pelvis sitting so close to her own, but he thankfully adjusts.

When she peels the jacket from his body and throws it to the floor, she’s almost impressed by how soaked-through his shirt underneath is. The white fabric clings to his shoulders and biceps like it was painted onto him. Holding her breath, she takes one last look before tugging the shirt up and over his head.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, because no other word seems so fitting.

“You’re perfect.” He brushes her blouse off her shoulders, then unclasps her bra. “All of you.” He places a hand flat against her spine and lowers her back down to the mattress. “Perfect.”

They kiss a little while longer. For how long, Penelope cannot say for certain. When Colin’s mouth is on hers, it’s all-consuming. The only matters on her mind concern his tongue and his lips and his taste and his shape. It isn’t until his kisses trail downwards that any other thoughts filter into her mind. When they do, they come fast.

Suddenly, Penelope is brimming with questions.

“How — Um. How long have you known?”

“That I love you?” Colin asks, words barely audible when pressed against her jaw.

“Mhmm.”

“Since Catalonia,” he answers gruffly.

“That was five years ago,” she cannot help but note, still dazed beneath the pressure of him. Images of beautiful beaches and awful arguments come back to her as Colin’s mouth moves down and her eyes roll back.

“And about twenty years overdue,” he remarks between kisses. When they travel down to the side of her neck, Penelope asks another question.

“So… Where were you the — mmm — the last six months?”

“Aubrey Hall. Mostly.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He temporarily lifts his mouth from her skin to continue, “I fled to the country because I feared I wouldn’t be able to control myself while in the same city as you. But —”

“Oh?!”

“— as it turns out,” he laughs, “sequestering one’s self away from society exponentially helps one finish their unfinishable book.”

Penelope laughs, too. She brushes a hand through his hair as he returns to his task. When his lips find her clavicle, she asks another question.

“Who did you sign with? Not Danbury, right?”

(If he had, Danbury surely would have mentioned it to her. Surely.)

“No,” he confirms. “Romney House.”

A gasp escapes Penelope’s lips. Partially due to the realisation that he signed with Danbury Books’ biggest competitor. Partially due to the way his teeth grazed her skin as he said those words.

“I know.” He chuckles. “She’s going to have my head on a spike when she hears the news.”

“I’ll talk her down. Selfishly, I would prefer to keep you around a little while longer.”

“Going soft on me, Featherington?” he asks, lips going soft on her sternum.

“Mhmm,” is all she can get out as his kisses trail on. Just as his tongue grazes the shockingly firm bud of her nipple, he picks his head up again. It takes all of her remaining resolve to not to grunt or whine in disappointment.

“How long have you known?”

“That I love you?” she asks, her voice barely registering below a squeak.

After Colin nods, Penelope answers, “Always.” Or, she tries to. The word gets lost in a moan as he lowers his lips around her nipple and sucks on the sensitive flesh. He stays on that spot for a while, which she thanks god for at first, then curses just as quickly. As the seconds tick by, a proverbial truth hits her with increasing clarity.

She wants more.

“Colin.” She rakes a hand through his hair and tilts his head so his eyes meet hers. “Do you have a condom?”

He does, of course. He informs her of this with a very enthusiastic head nod.

He disappears down the hall to retrieve a box from the bathroom. He’s only gone a few seconds, but Penelope makes good use of that time; she pulls off her shoes, socks, and trousers and throws them somewhere out of sight and mind. When Colin returns, she’s sitting upright on the edge of the bed, the only garment covering her body a pair of plain white panties. (A garment she would not have chosen this morning, had she known what was to come tonight.)

(Not that she ever could have predicted this.)

Colin’s eyes — blue and sharp and searching — trace Penelope’s body as he traipses forward. He nearly trips over one of the many discarded cardboard boxes en route from the doorway to the bed, distracted by the view before him.

“Perfect,” he whispers against her lips, pulling her in for yet another achingly soft kiss. As much as she wishes to deepen it, Penelope pulls her head back an inch.

“Are you ready?” she whispers.

“Penelope,” he moans, removing his hands from her body to begin unbuckling his belt. “I don’t believe there are words to properly express just how ready I am.”

Penelope, feeling bolder than she ever has in her life, places a hand over Colin’s. With one quick pull, she rids him of his belt.

“Then don’t use your words.”

Her backside is pressed into the mattress again. He’s straddling her hips again. His tongue is in her mouth again. All of this is so new to them, and yet they fit together in a way Penelope previously believed could only be achieved through rigorous practice.

Also new is the feeling of his fingers at the rim of her panties. He’s gripping into them like he’s ready to rip them apart. Before he can ask, she positions her lips against his ear and whispers, “I need you, Colin.”

With a low grunt, he gives in and strips her bare. With his knees now settled between her thighs, Colin brushes a thumb down her center. This is when Penelope realises that she is already very wet.

“Fuck,” she whines, burying her head into the side of his neck.

“That feel good, Pen?” Colin asks, using his other thumb to graze her nipple.

“It feels —”

Penelope stops short. Her breath hitches. She decides Colin was right; there isn’t a word for this.

“Keep going,” she orders.

As Colin does as he’s told, Penelope wraps both arms around his neck and shoulders. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she could make better use of her own hands right now. But it’s difficult — impossible, even — for her to focus on anything except one basic need currently boiling up inside her. The need to have Colin as close as her body will allow.

As his index finger begins to circle her clit, Penelope’s breath hitches again. Fearing that she’s close to coming undone, she tears her lips away from his neck.

“I need you, now.”

If she had more control over her mind or body, Penelope would have phrased that request in a far more eloquent or seductive manner. Her diction is of no importance, of course. The look on Colin’s face makes it clear he needs no tempting.

Wordlessly, he pulls himself off her and drops his remaining garments to the floor. Though Penelope would like to be more helpful, she can only watch with parted lips as Colin rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth and slides the rubber across his cock. When she looks back up, she finds a shamelessly cocky smirk gracing his lips.

“Now or nev—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” she warns. With a little huff, she pushes herself onto her knees, cups his jaw with desperate fingers, and tugs on his bottom lip.

“Fucking hell, Penelope,” he mutters into her mouth, his muffled voice caught somewhere between excitement and genuine shock. He presses his whole body against her, sending them both crashing down to the mattress.

He only pulls his mouth away from hers to say, “Tell me if this hurts.” He’s already positioning the tip of his erection against her vulva.

Penelope nods. She places a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth before wrapping a hand around his base. Her touch is gentle as she guides him in.

As Colin pushes deeper and deeper, Penelope’s desire to have him as close as possible only grows more depraved. Her legs circle his waist. Her arms wrap around his back. Her fingers dig into his skin. Her hips push up and up and up, each jerking movement bring her closer and closer and —

“Fuck, Colin,” she moans into his ear. “I don’t know how long I can last.”

“You want me to slow down?” he asks, practically grunting out each word.

“No.”

“Good.” He grunts again, more forceful this time. “We’ll go slow next round.”

She reaches one hand up into his hair. She needs something to really grab onto. Colin is practically coming undone inside her. Like Penelope, his pelvic movements are growing quicker and more erratic with each passing second.

He’s panting into her hair. His chest is slick with sweat and heavy against her own. He’s holding himself back, she can tell, and she doesn’t like it.

“I need you to come, Colin,” she whispers. “Now.”

That last word does it.

“Oh, Penelope,” he cries against her skin. His hips sink down, thrusting as deeply into her as he can manage.

Penelope’s eyes roll towards the back of her head. The stretch of her skin burns in the most magnificent manner. If this was the end of their night together, she would be happy. If this was the end of everything, she would die a happy woman. But this isn’t the end of anything.

“Your turn.”

Colin snakes his left hand down between their bodies. Before Penelope can even consider asking what he’s doing, two fingers find her clit.

“Fuck, Colin!” she exclaims, head jerking up from the mattress just as forcefully as her hips do.

“Good?”

Penelope doesn’t bother answering that question; she knows he knows the answer. With her lips pinched together, she burrows her head deeper and deeper into his neck as he keeps going. As his fingers circle her clit. As his hips pick up speed and his semi-erect penis grows hard again inside her. Then, just when she feels herself on the precipice, Colin rakes his free hand through her hair and pulls her head away from the safety of his neck.

“Hey —”

“I want to see your face when you come on my fingers.”

Penelope has never felt such a compulsion to satisfy someone’s wishes in her life. When a wave of prickly, perfect pleasure courses through every inch of her being, she resists the urge to shut her eyes or turn away. She keeps her gaze focused on Colin and Colin alone, even when her brows furrow and her mouth drops open and his name leaves her throat in a pinched gasp.

“Perfect,” he whispers against her lips. He offers her a soft, sweet kiss before regrettably pulling out and leaving her core achingly empty.

After spending several minutes catching her breath, Penelope cannot help but ask one more question.

“Why did we wait so long to do that?”

Colin laughs. He almost sounds hysterical.

“I don’t know, Pen. It all seems rather ridiculous in hindsight.” He leans over and places a kiss against her temple before continuing, “In the future, we should endeavour to stop wasting so much of our precious time.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tonight, Colin Bridgerton is a very happy man.

He spent the first twenty-five years of his life oblivious to his most obvious desires. He spent the next five paralyzed by the true depth of his feelings. He spent the last six months stewing in his own misery, certain his love would forever sit inside himself, never to be returned. He spent tonight with Penelope, and it was perfect.

She’s resting her head on his shoulder, still flushed from their last round of lovemaking. Not moving his body an inch, Colin flicks his eyes away from her and to the alarm clock on his table. The bright red display informs him that it’s nearly 2 AM.

With a sigh, he turns back to Penelope. He;s about to make a light-hearted remark inquiring how she’ll take her eggs in the morning. But when his eyes settle on her face, he can’t help but notice something that wasn’t there before.

Nervousness.

Her eyes are glazed over and pointed aimlessly at a cardboard box in the corner of his room. Her brows are furrowed, leaving a crease in the center of her forehead. Her lips are twisted and pointing downward.

“Pen?”

Her shoulders jolt as she turns to meet his eye.

“Hmm?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she says quickly. Then, more hesitantly, “I just… I was just thinking about how much of a hypocrite I am.”

Colin breathes a sigh of relief. He laughs lightly as he presses a kiss against her temple.

“I know, love. Let’s not dwell on the —”

“No,” she interrupts, face painted guilty. “I’m not talking about the ‘break’ thing. I’m talking about your book.”

“Oh,” he says, even more confused than he was before. “What about my book makes you a ‘hypocrite?’”

Penelope gulps.

“You know the Whistledown series?”

Whistledown.

Colin looks to the ceiling, turning that word around in his head. It sounds familiar, but —

“Those romance books Hyacinth is obsessed with? The ones Eloise pretends not to be obsessed with?”

Penelope nods, and that guilty look on her face only grows guiltier.

“What does —”

“I am Whistledown.”

Still wrapped in each other’s arms, neither Colin nor Penelope say anything for several seconds. Then…

“Penelope, what the fuck are you talking about?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Whistledown’s Whispers is a collection of loosely interconnected romance novels set in Regency England. Danbury Books began publishing them in 1989 (years before Colin and Penelope were even born). The series was the first major success for the publishing house — for years, it was the hottest series in all of London. Part of the novels’ success was due to its daring take on historical romance for the time. But it was also due, in part, to the intrigue surrounding the author’s identity.

The original author only signed with Danbury under the stipulation that her work would remain anonymous in perpetuity. In accordance, the only writing credit that has ever been attached to the books goes to “Lady Whistledown.” When the books first came out, the public desperately attempted to uncover the truth behind the mysterious pseudonym. Then, with time, the mystery lost its intrigue. As did the series’ readership.

In July 2003, the series was officially put on hiatus. The original author had lost interest in her material as much as her readers did and cut her ties with the publishing house. The series remained dormant for over a decade.

In December of 2014, a professor of Penelope’s came to her with an opportunity. He knew of a local publishing house that was looking for a ghostwriter to revive an old series. They were looking for someone with a fresh, passionate voice. He told her he saw “great promise” in her writing and encouraged her to submit a writing sample for the position. Initially, Penelope did not even consider the offer. She deemed it too ridiculous. She was a second-year university student — one who didn’t have the time or skills or backbone for such a thing.

It took one singular conversation with Colin Bridgerton and his inherent optimism for her to consider it.

Penelope has been anonymously writing under the pseudonym for eight years. She has published six books and is currently writing the seventh. Today, only three people in the world know that Penelope Featherington and Lady Whistledown are one and the same: herself, Danbury, and Colin.

Colin swears he would have figured it out years ago, if only he had taken Hyacinth’s advice and read a single chapter. Though she won’t admit it, Penelope tends to agree with him. Although she has tried very hard to keep him out of them, over the years, she has come to accept that every love story she writes will have a little bit of Colin Bridgerton in them.

(Frankly, she’s a little surprised his sisters haven’t caught on yet.)

Now, Colin is looking at Penelope with a very familiar smile on his lips. She feels a smile pulling on her own. She can’t help it.

The game is over. They’ve both won.

“I believe this calls for champagne.”

Penelope rolls her eyes — an act that doesn’t carry much weight when accompanied by a smile like the one currently lighting up her face.

“I’ll get it,” she says, already standing from her spot on the rug.

“There’s a bottle on the top shelf,” he calls out as she walks out of sight. “Yell for me if — sorry — when you need my assistance.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Her sarcasm comes back to bite her in the end. After climbing on several chairs and countertops, Penelope is unable to locate a single bottle. She exits the kitchen with nothing more than two plastic flutes in her hand — which is for the best, in the end.

When she walks back into the sitting room, those flutes clatter to the floor.

On the rug where they just spent an hour playing a silly, life-altering game, Colin is down on one knee. He has a ring box in his left hand. He’s looking up at her with that smile that will always make her stomach flutter.

“Penelope, I don’t want to waste another second. Will you marry me?”

For a moment, Penelope cannot respond. She stands rooted in her spot in the doorway, staring down at Colin and his offered hand. She looks into his eyes and sees him — all of him. She sees the perfect boy of her dreams. She sees the imperfect man of her heart. She sees the love of her life. She sees her husband — even if they have yet to officially cross that threshold.

“Of course, Colin. Of course I’ll marry you.”

They meet in the middle of the room. He kisses her, and it’s as perfect as the first time.

When he slides the ring up her finger, Penelope cannot help but laugh.

“Did you have this in your pocket the entire time we were playing that game?”

“Yes,” he answers smugly. “I know you, Featherington. I knew your practical side would need a bit of reassurance before accepting my proposal — so I delayed it by an hour.”

“I thought you were being spontaneous,” she comments dumbly, running the night over in her head again. “Wait. When did you buy this?” she asks, holding up the massive rock currently sitting on her ring finger.

Colin smirks.

“Remember when I went out for pastries the morning after we got together?”

She nods. She remembers the past week in perfect detail.

“Remember how it took me over an hour?”

She nods again. It struck her as odd at the time; the bakery is only two blocks away.

“I told you, Pen,” he says, leaning down to plant a few more kisses on her lips. “Not. Another. Second.”

“Not. Another. Second,” she murmurs back. She likes the way they hang on her lips.

Not. Another. Second.

Those are words to hold onto, she decides. That’s a promise she can believe.

#I have covid no one yell at me for being a day late!!!#bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin x penelope #penelope x colin

19 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 5 months

Text

Ten Milestone: Wedding Date

Hi friends! Chapter 13 is live 💛

CW: alcohol // loss of a parent (mentioned)

“Number Nine: Being Each Other’s Wedding Date. Before walking down the aisle yourself, attending another couple’s wedding can be an extremely enlightening experience. Consider it a trial run. Can you two survive the most stressful parts of a wedding schedule? Are you comfortable showing affection so publicly? Does your partner have two left feet? These are all questions to consider before you can commit to your own special day.”

For this particular point, Penelope chooses to hold her tongue on debating whether or not this milestone is actually an important precursor to marriage. Instead, she picks at the edges of a fortune cookie and asks, “So… Half a point then?”

“No,” Colin scoffs, indignant. “We’re nine rounds in. All of which — in case you’ve failed to realise — have only succeeded in proving my point perfectly. You cannot ask to introduce half points this late in the game. It is literally built on the principle of ‘all or nothing.’”

Penelope puts the little beige cookie in her mouth. She chews it mindfully as she considers his point.

“‘Perfectly’ is a strong word.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Six Months Earlier: October 22nd, 2022

Relationship Status: Best Friends (Always)

꙳

Colin Bridgerton does not get enough credit for his ability to share nicely with his siblings. Especially when he would much rather keep what he wants to himself. (Or at the very least, complain about said sharing openly, loudly, and explicitly.)

Benedict and Sophie married in a little church in Mayfair approximately 35 minutes ago. Now, Colin is sitting in traffic on the way to the reception with his designated wedding date, Penelope. She’s riding shotgun. In the backseat sits Penelope’s other wedding date, Eloise.

Objectively, Colin knows he has no right to complain about the current arrangement. Eloise, who had been fresh off a breakup at the time of their brother’s proposal, had secured Penelope as her wedding date fair and square. Colin could have secured his own date at some point over the last six months. Hell — he could have come here alone tonight, just like he did at Daphne’s and Anthony’s weddings. The problem is…

Colin really wanted to come to this wedding with Penelope. Once the idea was in his head, he couldn’t let it go. So he’s compromising. And not complaining about it.

He’s allowed to complain about other facets of today’s festivities, though. Like the costume mask he’s forced to endure for the entire night.

Benedict and Sophie met three years ago at a Halloween party in Camden. She was dressed as a fairy, he, a clown. In homage to the night they met (and accounting for the couple’s shared love of theatrics), they have turned their wedding reception into a masquerade. No guests shall be allowed on premises without a mask.

Still stuck in traffic, Colin, Penelope, and Eloise debate the merits of such a decision.

“It’s tacky,” says Colin.

“I think it’s romantic,” says Penelope.

The jury’s hung on Eloise. She has been uncharacteristically quiet on the matter ever since it was first announced. Now, she is literally biting her tongue in the backseat, torn between her love for her brother and her hatred of unnecessary, frivolous things.

“Just let Benedict have his fun, Colin,” she eventually settles on. “One night in a mask won’t kill us.”

“Don’t jinx it,” he grumbles, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. When they come to a complete stop on the motorway, he turns his gaze to the left. To Penelope. She’s fidgeting with the ribbons of the mask in her lap.

On any given day, Colin finds it a difficult task to keep his eyes off of Penelope. Today, it’s verging into impossible territories.

She’s wearing a green satin dress, which shares the same colour and radiance as the emerald pendant tied around her neck. Her skirt falls just above her ankles, save for the slit that rises up past her left knee. Her neckline dips low — not so low that it’s particularly dangerous from where he currently sits, but he knows he has to be careful where his eyes land when they dance together tonight. Her hair is down and falling over her shoulders in loose red waves. Her lips are painted a perfect shade of red. Her eyes…

Her eyes are squinting at him.

“Colin?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words emerge. “Hmm?” is all he can manage to get out in the end.

“The traffic cleared, moron,” Eloise informs him from the backseat.

Sure enough, when he looks forward, there’s an open stretch of road ahead. There’s also a cacophony of horns blaring behind him, but he tries his best to ignore those.

Without another word, Colin hits the gas.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

It’s an October night in London. In other words, it’s freezing outside. Colin doesn’t mind the bitter breeze, though. He needed the fresh air. And a break from wearing that stupid fucking mask.

He pulls the dinner roll he had stolen inside out of his pocket. He picks off a piece and chucks it into the pond in front of him. He watches as a family of ducks fights over the fragment. In the end, the largest one swallows it whole.

Colin throws another piece into the water.

He wishes he had a cigarette. He’s been trying to cut down lately. He stopped leaving the house with a carton in his pocket, and now only smokes late at night after especially long days. He could have stolen a cig from Eloise’s purse, but the possibility of entertaining an argument with his sister was simply not a risk he was willing to take tonight. Even lung cancer doesn’t seem as pressing of an issue.

His family is probably looking for him back inside. Or they wouldn’t notice if he slipped away entirely and ended the night right now. It can go either way in a family with as many siblings as his.

“What are you doing?”

It’s Benedict’s voice that appears from behind him, loud and annoyingly jolly. Before answering his question, Colin rips off another piece of bread and throws it into the pond.

“Feeding the ducks.”

“I can see that.” Benedict stands right next to Colin. Together, they watch as the family of ducks fight for their meal. “But seeing as I’m the groom of the wedding located just about ten metres behind you, perhaps I could convince you to return inside? You know — where the other humans happen to be.”

Colin throws more bread into the water. When he doesn’t say anything, Benedict changes his tune to something a bit less jolly.

“Why are you so glum at your favourite brother’s wedding?”

“I actually found Anthony’s wedding quite enjoyable,” Colin shoots back, a half-assed attempt at sounding cheeky. “Certainly less gimmicky than yours.”

“Don’t act like the mask in your pocket is the problem here.”

From the corner of his eye, Colin watches as Benedict raises his own mask so it sits atop his head.

“Seriously — why didn’t you let me set you up with a bridesmaid? That surely would have been more enjoyable than sulking around by yourself all night.”

A pang of annoyance hits Colin in the chest, hot and fast.

“I’m not alone, I came —”

“Yes, I know. You have your ducks. But again —”

“No, you dimwit. I came with Pen.”

“Oh!” Benedict’s eyes flash wide in the moonlight. “Well that explains a few things.”

“What are you ta—”

“Wait. I thought Penelope was Eloise’s date tonight.”

“Yes, well…” Colin kicks the ground beneath him. “We double-booked her, it seems.”

He waits patiently for Benedict to fill the air with some sarcastic remark, but he doesn’t. A longer than expected silence passes between the two brothers before either of them says a thing.

In the end, it’s Benedict who speaks.

“I always thought you and Penelope would end up together.”

Contrary to what many of his siblings seem to believe, Colin Bridgerton is not an idiot. He knows that his siblings have picked up on his feelings for Penelope over the last few years. Their little remarks, knowing glances, and unsubtle metaphors have not gone unnoticed. They’ve simply been ignored.

Colin has only been able to ignore all prior attempts at meddling because none of his siblings or their spouses have ever had the gall to state their intentions so plainly. Until now, that is.

Picking off another piece of bread, Colin keeps his eyes forward as he says, “We’re just friends.” And though his eyes remain ahead, he can practically feel his brother’s eye roll on a psychological level.

“You’ve been friends for twenty-some years. Perhaps it’s time for a promotion.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“I just married my best friend.”

Now, it’s Colin who rolls his eyes.

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Sophie became your best friend after you two started dating. There was no risk involved there.”

“Risk?” Benedict echos. He’s searching for clarification, but Colin doesn’t quite know how to give it. After another long silence and two pieces of discarded bread, Benedict asks again.

“I didn’t mean it like tha—”

“I’m serious, Colin. What would you be risking by telling Penelope how you really feel?”

That isn’t an easy question to answer. It wasn’t easy any of the countless times Colin asked it in his own mind. It isn’t any easier now that his brother has committed it to air.

But maybe that’s the key to finding the answer, Colin finally surmises. Not keeping it all bottled up in his own mind.

“She’s my best friend,” he says again. “She’s always been there supporting me. Pushing me forward. Convincing me that my dreams aren’t stupid or silly. And I just — I love being near her. Spending time with her. Talking to her. She’s the only person I want to talk to when I’m at my worst — and the first when I’m at my best. She’s just — She’s the only person I can say anything to and not worry how she’ll judge me for it.”

After closing his mouth, Colin goes against his gut and chances a look towards his brother. He’s squinting.

“You can tell her ‘anything?’”

“Yes.”

It isn’t until after that word leaves his lips that Colin realises the irony of it. He watches as Benedict’s stunned expression melts into a smirk. He waits for him to point out the one subject that Colin — for the life of him — cannot bring himself to discuss with Penelope. But then…

“I caught you staring at her tits back inside. You feel comfortable talking to her about that?”

“Fucking hell, Ben!”

“What?” he asks, all too innocently. “I wasn’t the one staring at her —”

“I was not staring at anything! We were just talking.”

“With your lips, maybe. Your eyes seemed otherwise engaged.”

“I wasn’t — I —”

He stops short. He takes a breath. He rethinks his approach.

“Perhaps it looked like I was staring, but that’s just because she’s so short. When she’s standing right next to me, I have to look in the direction of…”

His voice trails off. He can’t finish that sentence. Not when Benedict’s smirking at him like that.

“Oh, cut the shit Colin.”

��I’m serious! I’m tall. She’s short. It’s an occupational hazard of our friendship.”

Benedict’s laugh is loud enough to scare away the ducks. Before he can think twice about it, Colin chucks the last little bit of bread into the water.

“Okay little brother,” Benedict finally manages to say. “Think about it this way. You and I are about the same height. What would you do if I told you that, for no other reason than my stature, I cannot help but stare at Penelope Featherington’s chest on a regular basis.”

Absent of any dinner rolls, Colin balls his hands into fists at his side.

“I’d call you a dickhead,” he admits.

Once again, Benedict laughs. The ducks flee the scene for good.

“I think you would be too busy punching me to say anything at all, but at least you seem to get the point.”

“And what point is that, exactly?”

Colin’s question is genuine. Any revelations he may have been on the cusp of now feel long gone. They were superseded by the aggravation he feels for Benedict’s unending laughter.

“That you don’t see Penelope as merely a friend. Not with those wandering eyes, anyway.”

“Ben —”

“All of those reasons you listed off before… They don’t sound like reasons not to act. Quite the opposite, really.”

This time, Colin thinks before he speaks. Just as Benedict opens his mouth to say something, he commits his words to air.

“You don’t get it. Pen has always been there. I don’t know what my life would look like if I didn’t have her in it anymore. And I don’t know if I can trust myself not to screw it all up, if...”

Several seconds after Colin’s voice drifts off, both men realise he has no intention of finishing that sentence. Then, Benedict clears his throat.

“And what of Penelope’s feelings?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think she might feel the same?”

That last word — same — rings in Colin's ears for several seconds.

It’s not as if the question never crossed his mind. It has — countless times. But like all questions surrounding the subject, it is not an easy one to answer. (Or even ask himself.)

Penelope’s feelings for him could go beyond that of friendship. Those feelings could have existed ten years ago, then been chipped away slowly with every stupid, careless decision he’s made in all that time. She could have never loved him. She could love him still.

But god — even if she does love him, could her feelings really be the same as his? Does she love him in a way that breaks her? Is her desire for him coupled with the knowledge that no other person on this earth will ever compare? Does she want his everything, always? Does she deem their friendship sacred? Does she fear it might not be enough anymore?

Can two people feel all that and manage to keep it hidden from one another? That’s not an easy question for Colin to answer, but he has a hard time believing the answer could ever be “Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Colin says out loud.

“You ‘don’t know?’”

“I —”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“No,” Colin answers. It was by far the easiest answer of the night.

“Too bad. I think that you and Penelope are both too close to the situation to see it clearly. I think you have blindspots for one another — ones that won’t be eliminated until you choose to do something about them.”

Benedict takes a breath. He sounds like he’s leading up to something very big. In reality, he’s leading up to something very simple.

“If you really want to know how she feels about you, just ask.”

Benedict goes on to say something along the lines of “You’re both writers, for fuck’s sake. Learn how to use your words!” but Colin doesn’t really hear it. He’s focusing on something else.

If you really want to know…

But Colin does not want to know. Or maybe it’s just that he fears knowing. That fact has been true for years, but he has never fully accepted it until now; the realisation hits him hard, squarely in the chest.

If the answer is no, it would kill him. If the answer is yes, he would find a million ways to fuck up that miracle.

The not knowing is what makes this all bearable. Having her in his life, but only as a friend. Talking to her about anything and everything, except for that one thing. Seeing the risk and calculating its cost and holding it in both his hands and not taking it. Never taking it.

Colin takes a step away from his brother, then turns so he can address him head on.

“You know, you have a bad habit of over-simplifying complex issues.”

“No. You have a habit of over-complicating simple issues.”

“What about this situation is simple?” Colin asks, feeling his annoyance and indignation building with every second.

“Tell her the truth and find out for yourself.”

Benedict waits for another snippy reply from Colin. When it doesn’t come, he simply sighs.

“I’m going to tell you this because no one else has the heart to. And because it’s my wedding night and mum will murder you if I have a black eye in any of the family photos.”

Taking one final step towards his little brother, Benedict claps a hand over Colin’s shoulder. He leans in close to deliver this all-important message.

“You need to get out of your own way.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

When Colin eventually finds his way indoors again, he spots Penelope right away. She’s by the bar with Eloise, a flute of champagne in hand.

When he approaches, neither woman seems to notice him at first. Eloise is ranting about some awful blind date Daphne set her up on while Penelope giggles so hard that she starts to hiccup. Suffice it to say, neither woman seems particularly sober.

“Eloise,” he finally manages to cut in. “Can I steal Pen away for a moment?”

His sister’s mouth falls open in disgust. “I don’t know — I don’t own her! Why would you ask me that when —”

“It’s alright, El,” Penelope insists, still giggling. She latches her hand onto Colin’s elbow and leads him away from the bar. When Eloise is just out of earshot, she looks up with a giddy smile and whispers, “She gets quite belligerent after a few drinks, doesn’t she?”

“As opposed to her usual even-tempered, well-mannered self?”

“Oh, stop,” she chastises him, still giggling. They take a few more aimless steps before Penelope seems to realise that he had approached her for a specific reason. She looks up and says, “Sorry — was there something you wanted to ask me?”

Colin feels a low level of panic shoot up and down his body (especially on the points where her body brushes against his). He still hasn’t decided on the answer to that particular question, so he delays the inevitable and poses a new one.

“Care for a dance?” He nods his head to the middle of the room where the other couples sway together. “As one of your designated pity dates this evening, I’m entitled to one of those, right?”

“It’s not a pity date. We’re just —” She sighs and shakes her head lightly, abandoning that sentence quickly. Her smile returns when she says, “Yes, of course. Let’s dance.”

When they step onto the dance floor, the band is playing a relatively upbeat song. But as soon as she folds her hand into his, one song bleeds into another and the tempo drops significantly. When the singer starts the first verse, Colin vaguely recognizes it as a love song.

He chooses not to turn his head and investigate which of his siblings was behind the sudden change. He doesn’t really care. Not with Penelope so close. Not with her looking up at him through that silly, perfect green mask.

“So…” she murmurs, swaying slowly to the music. “Are you giving a speech tonight?”

“Um, no. If every sibling gave a speech, we’d be holding the rest of the guests here hostage for hours. So we take turns.”

“Turns?” she echoes, eyebrows adorably raised. Colin can’t help but chuckle softly.

“Yeah. I gave a speech at Daphne’s wedding. Benedict gave one at Anthony’s wedding. Tonight, it’s Ant’s turn.”

“So by that logic, is Daphne set to give a speech at your wedding?”

Hearing the words “your wedding” fall from her lips sends another wave of panic across his body. With Penelope so close, it sort of hits him all over.

“Huh?” he breathes out before he can stop himself.

“Oh, you know…” Penelope blushes lightly as she smiles. “Anthony and Benedict are giving speeches at each other’s weddings. You gave one at Daphne’s, so…”

Once the panic starts to fade, Colin considers making a joke about Eloise reserving that right years ago. That she could not pass up the opportunity to freely roast him among an audience of their peers. In the end, though, he holds his tongue. He ends the discussion entirely by muttering something noncommittal beneath his breath. Having Penelope so close to him, hands intertwined and body pressed against his…

His future wedding is far too dangerous a topic to discuss right now. Instead, he goes back to complaining about the wedding they are currently attending together as friends.

“I love my brother, but this —” He uses his eyes alone to gesture to his mask. “— may be a tipping point for our relationship. I mean — why add an obstacle to drinking and eating? Those are literally the two best parts of attending these sorts of events.”

He had meant it as a joke (mostly), but Penelope doesn’t giggle like he expected her to. Instead, she juts her lower lip out in a gentle pout.

“You’re so grumpy tonight.”

“No. I’m —” he starts, but stops just as quickly. He can’t bring himself to finish such a patently untrue sentence. Instead, he simply mutters “Sorry” and hopes that will be the end of this conversation.

“You don’t have to apologise. I’m just surprised. Eloise is usually the one so fundamentally unhappy at weddings. I thought —”

She giggles suddenly, overcome by a humour that Colin cannot see from where he stands now.

“I always thought you were a fan of weddings. Tonight, I keep waiting for you to lean in and say —” She drops her voice about an octave to deliver: “‘You wanna get out of here and watch When Harry Met Sally?’”

The laugh that falls from his lips catches him off guard. For a moment, he forgets why he was in such a bad mood to begin with.

“Now that you mention it, that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, Pen.”

“Why are you so grumpy tonight?” she presses further, clearly unphased by his sudden display of levity. She’s still smiling up at him, a light pink flush across her cheeks, barely obscured by the green lace mask pulled across her eyes.

Colin considers her question.

Stupid masks. Stupid siblings. Eloise. Benedict. You — kind of. Myself — definitely.

“These stupid masks,” is all he ends up saying.

“I take it that you have yet to come around on the theatrics?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I suppose there’s still time left in the night for you to lighten up. Perhaps make some happy memories of your brother’s wedding.”

Colin doesn’t respond to that. He suddenly feels very focused on an errant curl that has fallen over the edge of her mask. He thinks about pushing it back, but doesn’t in the end. That would mean taking his hands off of her, and he can’t fathom doing such a thing for even a second.

The two of them are so close, still following the routine of the downtrodden melody. Their arms hang around each other. Their steps are in sync. Her chest is pressed against his abdomen and her eyes are on his. The only barrier between them consists of a few fragments of clothing.

Colin and Penelope are so close, and yet they exist on two entirely separate planes of existence.

To Colin, this moment is everything. It’s perfect. It’s overwhelming. It’s twenty years in the making. Maybe it’s the scotch. Maybe it’s that look in her eye or the curl of her perfect lips. Maybe it’s because he heard his own bollocks uttered aloud for the first time. Whatever the reason, for the first time that he can recall, Colin feels prepared to take the biggest risk of his life.

To Penelope, this interaction means very little. To Penelope, this is their relationship. Laughing. Touching. Teasing. Flirting. Dancing around in circles. Always on the cusp of something more, but never quite crossing that threshold. After a lifetime on that precipice, she has lost all hope of their friendship ever turning into something more. She doesn’t have to remind herself by repeating silly words or digging up painful memories, she simply knows. It’s ingrained in her now.

She tried to abandon her love for Colin at 16. Then 19. Then 23. Then…

It doesn’t matter. By the ripe age of 27, Penelope has finally accepted that her love for Colin will forever remain unrequited — but also, that it will forever remain. And she’ll remain on this precipice forever, if it means having him in her life forevermore.

Though the distance between their bodies may be slowly dwindling, the rift between them is as distinct as it ever has been. Tonight, Colin decided he and Penelope are ready for the next stage of their lives together. All day, Penelope wondered how many more Bridgerton weddings she’ll have to attend before she inevitably watches another woman walk down the aisle and marry the man she has loved her entire life.

Right now, Colin feels an invisible force pulling him towards Penelope, begging their lips to meet in the middle. Right now, Penelope feels perfectly natural maintaining the limited distance between them.

When Colin moves his head an inch forward, Penelope moves hers an inch back. To her, the movement barely registers — it’s just another unconscious step in a routine they perfected years ago. To him, it’s the answer to the question that he didn’t want to know the answer to.

It’s the answer that kills him.

“Hey, Colin,” Penelope whispers, breaking their shared silence. Her words are barely audible above the band playing in the background, but Colin can hear her just fine. Her lips are still close enough for him to smell the champagne that lingers on her breath.

Then, Penelope does the unthinkable. She breaks a rule.

Removing her hand from his grasp, she lifts her mask so it sits on her hairline. Her face, happy and blushing, is fully in his view again.

“You know it’s me, Penelope, right?” She giggles, and it causes her nose to crinkle. “You know — under the mask and all?”

“Yes, Pen,” Colin whispers, trying his hardest not to let the crushing of his heart carry through to his voice. After removing his hand from around her waist, he reaches up and pulls her mask down again — if nothing else, just to obscure that adorable crinkle of her nose. “You almost had me fooled, though.”

He’s not sure if it’s good luck or absolutely terrible luck, but the band suddenly halts its tune to announce it’s time for the first dance between the bride and groom. Either way, Colin uses it as an excuse to step away from Penelope completely.

Without another word, he’s gone. Penelope blinks and suddenly she’s alone, head spinning on the edge of a vacating dance floor.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Three glasses of wine was too much, Penelope realises — perhaps too far into the night to do anything to help her state of mind.

Like she so often does on nights like these, Penelope has found herself in a shadowed corner. She’s leaning with her back against a massive white column. She’s mindlessly scrolling on her phone with one hand and nibbling on a dinner roll with the other. (Unfortunately, even the carbs aren’t helping much with her befuddled state.) She’s trying not to think about Colin or the strange, sudden absence of him following their dance. She’s going unnoticed by the other wedding attendees — or so she thinks.

“Ahem.”

Instantly, Penelope’s head shoots up and to the side. Her eyes land on someone who had escaped her notice up until this point tonight (meaning she almost certainly turned up here “fashionably late”).

Her boss. Her mentor. The absolute last person she wants to see with her head this dizzy.

“Good evening, Danbury,” Penelope says with a put on smile.

The older lady traipses forward, dragging her cane across the marble floor beneath her. She’s wearing a burgundy mask fitted with what appears to be actual rubies — an accessory Penelope would guess is worth more than two months of her rent.

“Enjoying the festivities, Penelope?”

“Of course,” she answers in an unconvincing tone. Danbury scowls at her statement, then laughs at it.

“Perhaps there is some fun to be had away from the shadows.”

Penelope flicks her eyes to a better lit area of the room. Simply looking at the movement of the dance floor threatens to stir up all the alcohol currently sitting in her stomach.

Sighing, Penelope turns back to the woman standing beside her. “Perhaps,” is all she says to her.

Danbury regards her for a seemingly long time before uttering another word. The weight of her gaze is heavy. Heavier than usual.

“Don’t count yourself out of the party just yet, Penelope.”

Before Penelope can fully register the words, Danbury turns on her heel. Then, just as quickly, she turns back.

“Oh. Before I forget — I wanted to check on the state of those notes you owe me.” She laughs at a higher pitch than Penelope believes she’s ever heard come from the woman’s mouth. “Don’t tell me you forgot about them.”

Wide-eyed, Penelope briefly glances around the room. She’s shocked Danbury would bring up work now. They’re at a wedding, for god’s sake. A crowded one.

“I never do. I’ll have them on your desk Monday morning.”

Satisfied, Danbury departs. Once alone, Penelope’s mind cannot help but return to him. She doesn’t know where he is. She can’t spot him from her current position — but maybe that’s for the best. Thinking about Colin Bridgerton has never made her head less dizzy.

After swallowing the last of her bread, she sighs and rethinks her strategy for returning to a (relatively) sober state. She needs something to focus on. Anything other than the alcohol sitting in her stomach and the man eternally on her mind.

Like she so often does on nights like this, Penelope falls back on an old habit to help center her mind.

(Eavesdropping.)

At a dinner table on the edge of the ballroom, Kate tells Edwina that it’s a miracle she managed to make it here tonight. Little Edmund is due on Monday.

By the door closest to the back garden, Hyacinth informs Francesca of her plot to prank Gregory by the end of the night. Frogs seem to be involved, somehow. Francesca looks like she would very much not like to be involved.

At the bar, Gregory approaches a bridesmaid with a smirk Penelope has seen on his older brothers’ faces a million times before. The girl is Sophie’s step-sister, if she recalls correctly. Judging from the look on her mask-clad face, Greg’s opening line is not an especially effective one.

By the entrance to the front hall, Amy Trowbridge slips what appears to be a hotel room key into the pocket of a young man. Though he may be wearing a mask, that does not hide the fact that he is decidedly not her Mr. Trowbridge.

When Penelope finishes her third lap around the room, she finds that her footsteps are steadier than they have been all night. (A truly impressive feat, accounting for how much time she has spent in those heels.) Though it defies logic, she finds that her strategy actually worked. She feels better. She feels fit to return to the festivities.

But just as Penelope decides to step out of the shadows, she hears something just peculiar and intriguing enough to keep her hidden there another moment.

Out of her view on the other side of a massive white column, Benedict and Anthony are discussing something. Penelope didn’t catch the beginning of it, but now she can clearly make out Anthony saying, “I’ll handle it. Like I always do.” He doesn’t sound annoyed or angry.

He sounds cocky.

Penelope waits several seconds with baited breath. She expects Benedict to make a joke. She prays either man will give an ounce of context as to what it is they’re discussing. But nothing comes.

After several more seconds, she peaks one eye around the column and finds…

Even more nothing. The brothers have disappeared into the crowd.

Begrudgingly, she accepts that she’ll never learn the truth behind Anthony’s cryptic words. In defeat, she walks towards the table where Eloise now sits with the Sharma sisters. She picks up two pieces of bread en route, for good measure.

“Enjoying the festivities, El?” Penelope asks, handing her best friend a piece of bread as she takes the seat beside her. From the outside, Eloise doesn’t appear any happier or more sober than Penelope had when Danbury had asked her the same.

“Yep,” she mumbles half-heartedly, not looking up from her phone. When Penelope leans in to see what has taken Eloise’s attention away from the festivities, she’s shocked by what she finds. She laughs.

“I think you may be the first person in existence to ever get drunk and read The Bell Jar at their brother’s wedding reception.”

“What can I say? I’m an enigma.” Eloise snorts, then places her phone face down on the table. “Also, you disappeared and I couldn’t find anyone to entertain a halfway decent conversation with.”

“I didn’t disappear,” she mutters, suddenly defensive. “I was with Colin.”

As soon as his name leaves her lips, Penelope’s eyes gaze over the ballroom. Still, she comes up empty. And her heart sinks.

Due to his sour mood all night and the abrupt manner in which he left her on the dance floor, she cannot help but wonder if Colin left early. It’s not the sort of thing he would usually do, but he hasn’t exactly been acting like himself tonight.

“El, have you seen —” she starts, but a noise at the center of the room redirects her attention.

Anthony has made a reappearance in the middle of the dance floor. He has a microphone in hand, but is currently only using it to herd drunken dancers back into their seats. He isn’t wearing his mask anymore, and — Penelope suddenly realises — neither is Eloise. In fact, at least half of the room (including the bride and groom) are maskless. Suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of her green lace, Penelope discards of hers as well.

Edwina moves to the spot beside Penelope as the table fills out with other Bridgerton and Bridgerton-adjacents. Not Colin, though. Penelope still has no clue where he is. Or if he’s here at all.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anthony announces into his microphone. “If I could have your attention, I believe it is just about time to toast the bride and groom.”

As the guests sit and the room settles into silence, he takes one final breath before launching into his speech. In that time, Penelope spots something out of the corner of her eye.

Colin.

He’s taking his seat at a table on the opposite side of the room. His mask is gone. He has a drink in his hand. His gaze is far off and not looking remotely in her direction. Penelope only tears her eyes away from him when Anthony clears his throat directly into the microphone.

“As everyone in this room is so keenly aware, we are gathered here tonight to celebrate the union of Sophie and Benedict. As I’m sure you all can guess, as best man, it is my duty to take up the next several minutes of your time babbling on and on about my dear brother and what a lucky bastard he is to call someone as wonderful as Sophie his wife. But before I carry out such a duty, I would be remiss not to first mention another very important family member of ours.”

Anthony pauses before jumping into the next part of the speech. His eyes seem to scan over the audience intently — almost like he’s looking for someone.

“To most in this room, I’m sure it is not a surprise to hear that Benedict and I lost our father when we were both teenagers. And while he may not be here tonight to celebrate with the rest of us, in many ways, it still feels as though he is here. I suppose that’s one benefit of having so many bloody children. Willingly or not, they tend to carry you around long after you go.

“Every day — but especially on days as important as this — I can still see my father in pieces. I see him in each of my siblings. In Daphne’s eyes and Hyacinth’s smile. In Gregory’s blind optimism and the way in which Benedict sneezes (always in bursts of twenty). Or — perhaps most astutely — in the words and phrases that have seemed to pass from one generation to the next.”

Anthony takes another pause. This time, he briefly looks to the ground before continuing.

“I’m sure that any of my siblings could attest that, while it may be easy to imagine him here with us tonight, it was an impossible task when he first passed. At the time, I remember being consumed by questions more than anything else. Questions that never occurred to me to ask while he was alive, but seemed so important once he was gone. What were his dreams when he was my age? What made him excited about becoming a lawyer? What on earth possessed him to have eight bloody children?”

At this, the other members of the table laugh in hushed tones and gentle smiles. Penelope doesn’t. She doesn’t have the breath in her. Something about Anthony’s speech has her on the edge of her seat.

“Over the past two decades, I have typically turned to our mother for such questions. And while she has always done her best in answering them, there was always a bittersweet understanding that I would never hear the answers in my father’s own words. In most cases, at least.

“A few years ago, when I was getting ready for my own wedding with my own wonderful wife, I couldn’t stop thinking about how my father must have felt when he was getting ready for his wedding with his wonderful wife. More than anything else, I wanted to know how he knew that mum was the one. How he knew their love was the type to hold onto forever. So I asked my mum those questions, and when she answered, I realised that I had already heard the answer before. I had heard it in my father’s own words, probably a thousand times throughout the time I had with him.”

Penelope leans forward in her seat, anxiously awaiting Anthony’s next words. But before they come, a smirk crosses his lips.

“Actually… I believe a bit of context is needed here. You see — my parents knew each other long before they eventually married. They grew up together, and like most people who do so, they spent much of those early years in and out of each other’s lives. They went to different schools. They had arguments. They lost touch. But through it all, there was always an understanding between them. That if and when they lost each other’s company, they would always be there for each other to come back to.

“‘The door was always open.’ That’s what my mum said to me then. That’s what my father had said to her at least a thousand times throughout their lives together. Not that she needed reminding once they were married and shared a hoard of children. But still, he said it. Repeatedly. Assuredly.”

Penelope’s eyes could be playing tricks on her, but it seems like Anthony’s gaze settles on her and her alone as he delivers the next few lines of his speech.

“‘The door is always open.’ That was how he told her that he loved her. And that he always would.”

The speech continues on. Anthony talks about the bride and groom and describes in great detail just how much of a lucky bastard Benedict is. Penelope doesn’t hear any of this, though; her ears are ringing loud enough to drown out the rest of the world, let alone this ballroom.

The door is always open.

How many times has Colin said that to her? A thousand? A hundred? A dozen? She can’t even begin to imagine a number, but the instances are coming back to her loudly and out of order.

The door is always open.

I know.

In truth, she had never thought much of the phrase before. In the back of her mind, she just assumed it was an artefact from their childhood. Something Colin said once, then said again enough times for it to become a thing. A phrase you use because you’ve always used it, not because —

Just so you know, the door is always open. Always.

I know.

Words don’t mean anything until you assign meaning to them. Just because their father meant it in one way doesn’t mean Colin means it in the same. Just because Anthony said… that does not mean Colin —

The door is always —

I know, Colin. I know.

She never knew —

I hope you know that the door is always open.

I know. Trust me.

He doesn’t —

The door is —

Ears still ringing, Penelope sucks in a shallow breath of air and turns her head to the side. To the point where she last saw Colin, what now feels like a million years ago.

He’s looking right at her. Mask off, scotch to the side, an unreadable look on his face.

The weight of his gaze is heavy, but Penelope can’t bring herself to turn away. As the seconds — perhaps even minutes — tick by, she feels herself growing self-conscious. She can’t help but wonder what her face looks like to him. What emotion he sees made up in it. Whatever it is — she imagines that, like him, she is rather hard to read right now. She can’t think of a single word to describe how she feels inside, let alone what is slipping through her cracks and cast into the light.

She keeps waiting for him to look away. To glance to Anthony or his phone or anything else in the room besides her. But no. In the end, it’s Penelope who shatters the stalemate.

She doesn’t do it on purpose. It’s just that her body is on edge and quick to react when the entire room erupts in applause. Within a matter of seconds, Penelope’s eyes dart from Anthony, to Edwina, to Eloise, then back to —

Colin is gone. The seat he was taking residence in just a moment ago is empty. His mask and scotch are still there, but Colin is gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

“That was so romantic,” Edwina mutters tearfully, using a napkin to dab gracefully at her eye.

“It was utter bollocks,” Eloise says defensively — quietly. She raises a single finger to her eye and attempts to wipe away a tear without notice. Penelope, who is usually in the habit of noticing such covert details, does not notice.

Her eyes are stuck on that blasted empty seat.

Where the fuck did he go?

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“That was a nice wedding,” Penelope contends. The memory of it draws a smile to her lips. A mere week ago, a different emotion — something far heavier and dread-inducing — would have accompanied her recollection of that night in October. But not tonight. Tonight, she feels light.

“It was tacky,” Colin still insists. “I am banning any gimmicks from our wedding.”

Penelope laughs. She can’t help it.

“What if I want our ceremony to be nautical-themed?”

“Oh, well then…”

Colin leans forward and places a sloppy kiss across her cheek. He places a few more as he continues, “You can have any gimmick you like at our wedding, as long as we’re getting ma—”

“Slow down!” Penelope insists, barely able to keep a straight face as she extricates herself from his grasp. “We still have one milestone left. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Smile persisting, Colin picks up his phone again.

“Fine, Featherington. Let’s see what’s last on our list.”

#bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #penelope x colin #colin bridgerton

16 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 5 months

Text

Ten Milestones (Interlude): The Usual Spot

Hi friends!

The last interlude is live 🥳

May 9th, 2022

Monday

This morning, like most Monday mornings over the last twelve or so months, Colin is standing outside a coffee shop in Central London. He’s waiting for Penelope to arrive, which only happens about 33.33% of the time on mornings like this; usually, she beats him here.

She mouths “Sorry” from across the street at 8:34 AM — approximately seven minutes later than she usually arrives. Colin gives her a thumbs down and a sarcastic scowl in response. For about 30 seconds, he watches as she stands there, an unwitting smile rising then fading on her face; the passing traffic between them cuts up her movements like frames of an old movie.

Inside, she orders a croissant and a coffee with cream and sugar. He orders a sandwich and a drink with a silly name and a composition of at least 50% sugar. They leave the shop at 8:44 with their breakfasts in hand. As they start on a familiar route, they pick up a familiar conversation.

“So… What’s your pitch for today?”

“Ithaboutuh,” Penelope mumbles, still chewing on her pastry. She swallows, then clarifies, “About the Premier League.”

“Really?” Colin chuckles. “That doesn’t sound like a typical topic for a Penelope Featherington column.”

“Well, it’s less about the club itself and more about the effects it has on local tourism. You know — fans flying in from around the world, hotel rates skyrocketing, local businesses bringing in more cash, drunk Americans getting mugged at increasing rates, et cetera.”

Colin snorts.

“Sounds like something Danbury would like.”

“That wasn’t my reason for choosing the pitch — but Danbury’s approval always helps Monday mornings go smoother.”

When they halt at a crosswalk, Penelope sips her coffee while Colin thinks over her pitch. Just as the little green man lights up and signals for them to continue forward, he clears his throat.

“If you want to do some on the ground research on crazed football fans, I bet Michael could get us two tickets to the Arsenal game on Friday.”

“Friday?” she echoes, her brows stitching together. She sounds confused, like the two syllables don’t fit together correctly in her mouth.

“Um. Yes?”

“Friday night?”

“Yes,” he confirms, slightly more assured this time.

She takes another sip of her drink before saying anything else. From the way she tilts her head back, it appears to be the last sip.

“That’s a great idea, but I —” She takes a breath. “I’m busy on Friday night. Unfortunately.”

“Oh, that’s —”

Fine, is what he was about to say. Objectively, it is fine. Penelope is a busy person with a full life. She doesn’t have to come running whenever Colin wants to hang out with her. (Which is just about always, these days.)

It is fine. But Penelope’s sudden change in demeanour…

“Is something wrong, Pen?”

“No!” she answers quickly. “I just — I have plans.”

Colin takes a sip of his own drink. He uses those few seconds to mull over her words. He doesn’t want to pry, but he also knows there is something under the surface that Penelope isn’t saying.

“Do you already have tickets for the Arsenal game? If so, I promise I won’t be offended. Well, not too off—”

“No, I just have a date.”

She says those words casually, as if they would have no impact on him, past clarifying the nature of her plans on Friday night. Objectively, this makes sense, seeing as Colin has never said anything that would make her believe otherwise.

They do have an added impact, though. Even if Colin knows that’s ridiculous. Even if he knows that Penelope can and does date people who are not him. Even if they’ve discussed this subject in the past. Even if he knows they could put it to rest once and for all, if only he weren’t too scared to —

“A non-football related date,” Penelope clarifies with a soft chuckle, only after Colin doesn’t respond for several seconds.

“Oh! That’s —”

He searches his brain for something logical to say. He has trouble doing so, though; his brain is too busy focusing on one particular image, instead.

A pale blue envelope. One that arrived at his own flat yesterday and is currently sitting unopened on the counter in his kitchen.

“Does this have to do with Ben’s Save The Date going out? That’s over five months away. You have plenty of time to secure a da—”

“No, Colin,” Penelope interrupts, her tone suddenly defensive. She throws her empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can; he can practically hear it rattle against the metal basin as it drops to the bottom. Then, beneath her breath, she delivers him the most devastating insult he’s ever heard.

“You sound like my mum.”

“Woah! I —”

“I do date, you know. And not just to ‘secure’ a date for a wedding several months from now.”

“I know,” Colin claims, sounding just as defensive as her. He tries to tone it down as he continues, “I know that, Pen. The timing just made me think the two could be related.”

“Well, they’re not.”

When she offers no further details — when she doesn’t say anything at all — Colin can’t help but ask the question currently weighing heavily on his mind.

“So, uh… Who with? I didn’t know you were — uh — seeing anyone at the moment.”

Penelope swallows, then looks up. They’re a few steps away from her office.

“A coworker. We aren’t ‘seeing’ each other, he just asked if I wanted to get dinner with him after work on Friday.”

Stupid fucking wanker.

“That’s great, Pen,” Colin says through a smile and gritted teeth. Then, despite his better judgement…

“What’s his name?”

“Sam Debling,” Penelope says, still looking straight ahead. “You don’t know him. He’s, um, new to the city.”

She’s right. The name doesn’t sound the least bit familiar to Colin. He sounds like a right prick, though.

“That’s —”

“Oh!” Her voice goes up nearly an entire octave. She’s looking down to her phone. “I have to run — I can’t be late for this meeting. I’ll talk to you later!”

Before he can return the goodbye, Penelope turns on her heel and disappears into the lobby of Queenmaker Magazine.

Once alone, Colin raises his drink to his lips and whispers one word into its half-empty interior.

“Fuck.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

On Monday mornings, after dropping Penelope off at her office, Colin usually goes to the gym. Sometimes he visits Anthony at the firm. Sometimes he heads to Mayfair. Sometimes he gets work done at a park or a library or anywhere that isn’t his usual office. (His bed.)

On this Monday morning, Colin goes straight home to his flat.

The walk from Central London to Bloomsbury is long and bothersome. He spends most of that time swatting away the first flies of summer and unwittingly recalling Penelope’s words from earlier. Each step only sharpens the sting of annoyance in his gut.

A coworker. Sam Debling.

As he cuts through Russell Square (annoyingly over-populated with happy couples this morning), the irony of the situation does not escape Colin’s notice. For the first 25 years of his life, at least he was ignorant to his ever-growing feelings for Penelope. But what’s his excuse now? Timing? Fear? A lack of a sign?

I do date.

As he rounds the final corner to his flat, Colin thinks over those excuses. The ones he has gripped onto and subsequently lost sight of over the last four years. In truth, he doesn’t fully know why he remains quiet. It’s difficult for him to put into words. But still, there’s a block.

You sound like my mum.

A shiver runs down his spine as he steps into the air conditioning. He wonders how today got off to such a tremendously terrible start. Monday mornings are usually his favourite —

“Morning, Bridgerton.”

His footsteps stop short. It takes him a second to realise where they had led him to.

He’s in the middle of his lobby, about four paces away from the lift ahead. His name had been called out from the left. From the mailroom.

It takes him another second to realise who had called it.

“Morning, Cordelia.”

Cordelia Patridge lives in the flat directly below his. She moved in about a year ago, but due to London’s perplexingly tight social circles, he’s known her from afar for most of his life.

Over the past twelve months or so, the two of them have formed a routine of sorts. When passing each other in the stairwell, lift, mailroom, etc., the two greet, engage in about 30 seconds of playful banter, then go their separate ways.

That last part is crucial. Hypothetically, a stranger could walk into this lobby and perceive their “banter” as “flirting,” but Colin doesn’t see it that way. It’s not flirting if you have no intention to turn those words into action.

Today, Colin doesn’t have the energy for the words alone. After throwing her a polite nod, he turns back to the lift ahead.

“Running off anywhere special?” Cordelia asks, quickly falling in step with him. Her mail items remain tucked away beneath her armpit.

Colin hits the button with the upwards facing arrow.

“Not especially.”

“Just a boring day at the office, then?”

“Well, my office is typically just my bed, so —”

“Ooh.” She snickers. “Naughty.”

Colin clears his throat. Before saying another word, he listens to the creaking of the old metallic lift as it descends the floors. It sounds close.

“‘Lazy’ would be a more accurate term for it, I think.”

With that, the lift doors creak open. Inside, Colin pushes the “2” for Cordelia and the “3” for himself.

“Is that it for today, then? Wasting your hours writing in bed?”

Colin considers the question.

“Account for several trips to and from the fridge and… Yes, that sounds about right.” As Cordelia giggles, he asks, “And you? What of your day?”

“Working. But not from my bed. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

Perhaps on a different morning, Colin could muster up a halfway decent retort to that. Today, he thanks god that the lift doors open when they do.

“Toodles, Bridgerton.”

When those metallic doors screech shut again, an odd feeling washes over Colin. The stinging annoyance from before is still there, but it’s now mixed up with confusion after that interaction with Cordelia.

Objectively, it was not all that different from their usual random bouts of banter in the halls. It just felt… more than it usually does. Like, for the first time in twelve months, he doesn’t feel so confident in his distinction between “banter” and “flirting. (Even though his intentions were no different than they ever were.)

He doesn’t spend too much time thinking over the interaction, though. Once the lift opens to the third floor, the matter leaves his mind entirely. Annoyance takes over once more. It sticks with him as he walks down the hall to 303. It grows stickier when he enters his kitchen and sees the unopened blue envelope on the counter. It only lets up once he returns to his bedroom and opens the dresser, searching for something more comfortable to don before climbing back into his office for the day.

On top of the pile of clothes lies a burgundy jumper. The one Penelope wore on her last morning living in his flat. The one she wore most mornings during that awful, blessed month. When he lifts it to his nose, the fabric still smells of honey.

Objectively, Colin knows this is impossible. He knows that, two years later, even the faintest hints of honey are nothing more than phantom smells from a time he wishes to return to.

Pulling the fabric over his head, he doesn’t give a shit if the honey smell is real or fake. The jumper feels good around his body, regardless.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tuesday

It’s not fair to say that Penelope’s date with Sam Fucking Debling was the only matter on Colin’s mind for the past 24 hours. It would be fair to say it was the most recurring, though.

On his way home from the gym Tuesday morning, remnants of their conversation are still coming back to him — as much as he wished they wouldn’t.

You sound like my mum.

You sound like my —

With a long-suffering sigh, Colin forces his gaze to lift from the pavement below him. When it does, he sees a familiar face.

Cordelia isn’t looking at him. She’s leaning on the wall outside their building, a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She’s smiling down at whatever it is that’s on her screen.

Desperate for any sort of distraction from the date he won’t be attending later this week, Colin chooses to see this as a sign.

“Morning, Cordelia,” he calls out, slinging his gym bag further over his shoulder.

“Good morning, Bridgerton!” She smiles brightly as she looks up to meet his eye. “What can I do you for?”

After one millisecond of hesitation…

“Are you busy Friday night?”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Friday

Colin Bridgerton has not been on a date in London in over seven years. When he first began travelling, his time at home became too limited and otherwise-occupied to allow for non-essential activities like dating. And though he’s been grounded (mostly) in London for the past two years, this trend has not changed. Still, he only goes on dates when he’s far away from home.

Until tonight, that is.

He and Cordelia are standing outside of a Chinese restaurant in Central London. They’re waiting to be seated. She’s smoking a cigarette. He’s chewing on a mint and watching traffic pass by.

“Beautiful night,” he comments, unsure of what else to say.

“Every night looks beautiful through a puff of smoke, I think.” She laughs lightly as she offers Colin her cigarette. After thinking better of it, he pinches the little white paper and takes two drags before passing it back.

He’s about to ask Cordelia about her plans for the weekend, but then the hostess pops her head into the night air and informs them that their table is ready. Once inside, they order their drinks, then look down to their menus.

Colin doesn’t really like first dates. (A fact that’s coming back to him with startling clarity tonight.) He’s always found them to be too unfamiliar at best and dreadfully awkward at worst. His travels only exacerbated this issue; when you spend so much of your professional life making small talk with strangers, the prospect of dedicating an entire night to doing much of the same becomes rather unappealing.

Since his realisation in Catalonia four years ago, the prospect of a first date has only become less appealing. (The prospect of a second date has ceased to exist.) Now, he only goes on them when he finds himself so lonely or bored or desperate for connection that a night of endless small talk doesn’t seem so bad, in comparison.

That’s another reason why Colin never dates in London. If he’s bored here, he’ll just hang out with Penelope. Excluding nights when she’s on a date with stupid fucking wankers like Sam Fucking Debling, of —

“Are you two ready to order?”

Colin says yes to the sudden apparition of their waiter, despite having spent not a single second reading the menu in front of him. He blindly orders Kung Pao Chicken and a side of fried rice. Cordelia gets the Sesame Jellyfish.

“Any plans for the weekend?” he finally asks.

Cordelia shakes her head lightly.

“Just travelling north on Sunday. I have a conference in Manchester next week.”

“Oh. Right, you’re uh —”

Colin’s mind briefly short circuits. He thinks over the countless 30-second interactions they’ve had over the last year. He desperately attempts to recall any concrete details Cordelia has shared about her personal life through all that talking. When he comes up with minimal factual information, he realises just how much of a stranger Cordelia Patridge is to him.

“You’re in finance, right?”

“Sort of. I’m in marketing, but I work with a lot of pricks who work in finance.”

“Right.” Colin chuckles. After a beat of silence, he asks, “And you enjoy doing that?”

Cordelia shrugs.

“It’s a job,” she remarks unenthusiastically. As she picks up her drink, she laughs lightly. “I suppose when you’re a travel writer, your job isn’t ‘just’ a job.”

He considers her question.

“I suppose so. But if you do anything long enough, there will come times when it feels like a chore more than anything else.”

As he delivers those last few words, he feels a buzzing in his back pocket. When he pulls his phone out discreetly and checks who’s calling, his heart nearly skips a beat.

pen 💛

A millisecond before picking up, Colin remembers that he’s currently sitting across from a woman who is not Penelope, who he did ask out on a date tonight.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Cordelia just as her mouth opens to say something new. He’s careful to keep his phone screen pointed away from her as he continues, “It’s my mum. She’s, uh — It’s sort of an emergen—”

Before he can get through the lie, Cordelia smiles and gestures for him to take it.

Outside the men’s restroom, Colin picks up just in time to save Penelope from being transferred to voicemail.

“Hey, Pen.”

“Hi! By any chance, do you —” Her sweet voice stops short. “Sorry. Are you busy? It sounds a bit loud on your end.”

“No.” Colin is almost shocked by how quickly the bullshit falls from his lips. “I’m just, uh — I’m picking up some takeaway. Chinese. Why? What’s up?”

“Oh!” She chuckles nervously. “Nothing. I was just bored. Thought I’d see if you’re free and want to hang out.”

Colin’s grin grows even wider. He can’t help it.

“Well, we’ve already established that I’m free. And you know I always want to hang out, so…”

As Penelope laughs softly on the other end of the phone, Colin is suddenly hit by a fact that’s been haunting him for the past four days.

“So I take it your date didn’t go well?”

Moments after, Colin can’t believe those words left his own lips. Penelope sounds disbelieving too, her laughter cutting off just as quickly as it came.

“Oh. It was, um —”

She clears her throat. She laughs again — just a little.

“I’m surprised you remember that.”

Desperate to find his footing in this conversation again, Colin audibly gasps and says, “Pen, I’ve known you nearly three decades. By now, I would hope that you are aware of what an exceptional memory I possess. You should be careful what you say around me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says — mostly beneath her breath. Colin can practically hear her eyeroll through the phone. “Regardless… You want to meet at the usual spot?”

“Yes.”

And he does. He really, really does. But he also happens to be on a date right now.

“Okay, gr—”

“But is it okay if we meet in like —” He checks his watch. “An hour? Sorry. But I’m downtown and this place is an absolute madhouse. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” She laughs softly. “Is there any way you could pick me up an order of dumplings while you’re there?”

“Of course. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Perfect. See you soon, Colin.”

With that, Penelope hangs up. It isn’t until the line goes silent that the concept of guilt reintroduces itself to Colin’s brain.

“Fuck,” he mutters beneath his breath, turning on his heel to return to the date he left behind. The food is waiting for him when he gets back.

“This looks delicious,” Colin remarks, taking his seat again.

“Quite.”

After chewing a single bite of her jellyfish, Cordelia asks if everything is okay with his mum. Colin briefly considers saying “No” and that he has to rush to the hospital asap, but ultimately thinks better of it. Instead, he nods and returns to their previously scheduled awkward small talk.

Approximately seventeen minutes later, they both finish their meals and Colin signals for the waiter to bring the check. After such an awkward night, he assumes they’re under the shared assumption that they will go their separate ways as soon as the check is paid, but…

“So…” Cordelia smiles and brushes a piece of hair off her shoulder. “Our living situations certainly make it simple to share a cab home. And eliminate the need to ask questions like ‘Your place or mine?’ Although,” she laughs, “if we’re choosing, I would say mine. Save you a flight of stairs until the morning.”

Colin doesn’t know what to say. In the end, he goes with…

“Could I take a raincheck? I, um —”

His voice momentarily falters. He searches his brain for the lie that will cause the least amount of damage.

“I actually wasn’t planning on taking a cab back. I think I’m going to walk home, actually. My lungs could use the fresh air.”

Cordelia’s face tells him that may not have been the best lie for the current circumstances.

“You want to walk four kilometres in the middle of the night to get some ‘fresh air?’”

Colin nods — a poor attempt to appear convinced by his own statement.

“And does this ‘fresh air’ have anything to do with what your ‘mum’ said before?”

Fuck.

“I —”

“Save it.”

With that, she stands from her chair and starts pulling out cash to cover her half of the meal.

“Oh, you don’t have to —” Colin starts, determined not to be a complete arsehole tonight, but…

“You’re an arsehole,” Cordelia informs him. She throws the money on the table and swiftly takes her leave. It isn’t until she disappears outside that he realises their waiter has returned.

“Your check, sir,” he says, thankfully pretending he had not just witnessed Colin being so brutally, deservedly put in his place. Colin nods in thanks, pulling out his wallet. But just before he can hand the man his credit card, he remembers Penelope’s request from earlier.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Can I add another item to go?”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

The “usual spot” is Mondrich’s, a bookshop by day and pub by night. It’s located on the north end of Mayfair and just so happens to fall on the exact midpoint between Colin’s flat in Bloomsbury and Penelope’s in Hyde Park; it’s an approximate 19-minute walk from either end. The establishment also happens to be owned by Will Mondrich, an old friend of Colin’s; though the bookshop portion isn’t open at night, when accompanied by his “responsible friend Penelope,” Will lets them hang out upstairs after hours.

The two of them are sitting on a couch between the romance and true crime sections. There’s a little plastic container of dumplings precariously placed on the cushion between them.

“Why did you go all the way downtown for takeaway?” Penelope asks. Thankfully, she sounds more curious than she does accusatory. “They have Chinese in Bloomsbury, don’t they?” She giggles. “Or delivery, at least?”

Colin shrugs, plopping another dumpling in his mouth.

“Needed the fresh air.”

Thankfully, the lie works better on Penelope than it had on Cordelia. She doesn’t press the issue any further. Instead, she leans over, takes a sip of her cocktail from downstairs, and allows for a comfortable silence to sit between them for a moment. Unfortunately, Colin uses that time to fester on a subject that has been eating away at him for most of the week.

As soon as Penelope puts down her drink, Colin pushes away the voices in his head screaming “This is dangerous territory!” and asks her about it.

“So, how was your date with —” He facetiously stops short. “What was his name? Dan?”

“Sam,” she corrects, initially throwing him a suspicious look. “It was fine, just…”

Her eyes flick towards the true crime shelf, seemingly racking her brain for the right word.

“Awkward.”

“Awkward?” Colin echoes. Despite his consternation over the subject this week, he’s suddenly eager to hear more.

“Yup. I get along with him fine in the office, but I don’t think we’re meant to hang out outside of it.”

“Why’s that?” Colin asks casually, his gaze settling lazily on the romance shelf behind her head.

“I don’t know. I suppose it felt like we were both putting far too much effort into making the conversations flow naturally.” She wrinkles her nose before saying, “Like, he kept calling me ‘Penny.’ He never calls me that in the office.”

Colin snorts. Penelope hates when people call her “Penny.”

“And I don’t think we had much common ground to discuss, outside of office conversations. Like —” She laughs suddenly, bracing a hand across the back of the couch. “I asked him what his favourite type of food is. He said ‘crunchy.’”

Colin laughs, too.

“Sounds like a sociopath.”

“I don’t know about that,” Penelope says, laughter slowly leaving her system. “It just wasn’t a good match.”

Colin could have told her that on Monday, but he doesn’t say that now. He decides they’ve wasted enough time discussing Sam Fucking Debling as it is. Besides, his mind has moved on to another topic that has been plaguing him all week.

“So,” he murmurs, quickly taking a sip of his beer. “Does this mean you have yet to secure a date for Benedict’s wedding in the fall?”

“Jesus Christ,” Penelope murmurs into her own drink. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem quite as annoyed as she did when he first brought up the subject on Monday. She does appear a little annoyed, though. “I told you that’s not why I went out with Sam tonight.”

“I know. I just wanted to —”

“I’ve had one ‘secured’ for several weeks now.”

“What?” Colin says, unable to hold the syllable in. If Penelope notices just how quickly he lost his cool, she doesn’t let on. She shrugs, then takes another sip of her vodka cranberry.

“El asked me to be her date within five minutes of your brother becoming engaged.”

Silently, Colin wills his cool to return. “Oh,” he says, smiling in a way that hurts his cheeks as much as it grates on his nerves. “How proactive of her.”

Without much effort, their conversation returns to a natural, un-awkward flow after that. Colin retrieves them another round from Will downstairs. Penelope tells him about the progress she’s made on the Premier League piece. Colin spends the rest of the night listening and laughing and loving each moment he gets to share with her.

What Colin does not do tonight is consider if now is the right time to tell Penelope the truth. To tell her what he’s been holding inside himself for the last four years. Six months from now, though, he’ll look back on this Friday night at the usual spot and wonder, “What if?”

#im posting this early enough in the night that im not actively fighting off the delirium of insomnia #that's growth baby #polin #fanfiction #bridgerton #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

14 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 5 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Dinner with the Future In-Laws

Hi friends!

Chapter 11 is live! Warning: it is extremely awkward.

CW: toxic family dynamics // alcohol

Dinner with the Future In-Laws

Colin opens his mouth, presumably to read “Number Eight” aloud. But just when Penelope expects those words to leave his lips, he frowns.

“What is it?” she can’t help but ask.

“Nothing, just —”

Though she can’t see his screen from her current position, he appears to be scrolling up and down, re-reading the article’s text a few times. He frowns again.

“I’m only now realising that it’s a rather interesting choice of words to say that each one of these milestones should be ‘celebrated.’”

Anxiety hits Penelope swiftly as she thinks over his words. It’s coupled by confusion when she mentally goes through all of the milestones they’ve already crossed off.

“Grief” was one of those milestones. What could possibly be less celebratory than that?

“What is it?” she can’t help but ask.

“Number Eight: Dinner with the Future In-Laws. Whether you like it or not, marrying the person you love also means marrying into their family. Before you two can start a life together (or host a drama-free wedding ceremony), you must first ensure that your respective families can get along. If you can survive a meal with all future in-laws present, you will be one step closer to starting that life together.”

“Oh.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

One Year Earlier: April 7th, 2022

Relationship Status: Best Friends

꙳

Hors D’oeuvres

This was Colin’s idea, Penelope reminds herself for the twentieth time tonight. (Tonight began twenty minutes ago.) She’ll remind herself of this fact at least a hundred times tonight, because it’s a comfort to know that this hell was not of her own making. It might be her birthday, but this was his idea.

The idea formed about a month ago, shortly after Colin returned home from a brief trip to Amsterdam. He, Penelope, and Eloise had met at a pub to discuss, among other things, plans for her upcoming twenty-seventh birthday. She suggested karaoke, which they all agreed to (despite Eloise’s “fundamental” objections to such an activity). The problem — Colin’s bad idea — only formed after Penelope mentioned her plans for the night before her birthday (i.e. tonight).

Tonight was supposed to be a family dinner. The Featherington family, specifically. It was only supposed to be her, her mum, her sisters and their respective spouses. She had mentioned it in passing without thinking any better of it…

She certainly didn’t think Colin would worm his way into those plans.

Penelope realised her mistake approximately two seconds after the words left her lips, when she looked from Eloise to Colin and noted a familiar expression rising on his face. She noted his clenching jaw and his furrowing brow. She noted the way his gaze simultaneously focused on her and on something far away — something that didn’t exist in that room with them.

It was the expression Colin sometimes gets when Penelope mentions her mother in his presence. She has seen it on his face countless times over the last twenty-seven years, and it has only become more frequent with time.

He didn’t voice his idea aloud on that night in early March — but still, she saw it in his face. Her suspicions were confirmed the very next morning, when Portia called to tell her that she “just so happened” to bump into Colin on Grosvenor Street and that the chance encounter gave her “the best idea.”

Tonight, Portia may think that this hell was of her own making. But no. Penelope knows the truth.

This was Colin’s —

“I wish we were at karaoke tonight,” Eloise mutters sorely. Her words are delivered to her drink more than they are to her best friend’s ears.

Shaking her head slightly, Penelope takes stock of the room around her.

They're in the drawing room of her childhood home, which is just as green and dusty as it was when she was a literal child. There are ten people in attendance tonight: Penelope, Portia, Prudence, Harry, Violet, Kate, Anthony, Hyacinth, Eloise, and Colin. This event was meant to be a family dinner, and the Bridgertons are currently outnumbering the Featheringtons.

Turning her attention back to her best friend…

“I thought you hated karaoke. I thought you called it ‘dumb’ and a ‘voluntary act of public humiliation.’”

“It is. But this,” she hisses, her voice barely a whisper, “is an act of voluntary torture. If I have one too many glasses of wine, I’m going to get into a fist fight with your mother. Which —”

“El!”

“— would be fine if my own mother were not here to witness the indiscretion.”

Suffice to say, Eloise shares a similar disdain for Portia Featherington to her brother. Hers began at age six, when Portia’s face went red after witnessing she and Penelope tracking mud into the house from the back garden.

“Perhaps you should lay off the wine then,” Penelope suggests, forcing her voice to sound much lighter than it wants to be right now.

“How else am I supposed to make it through the night?” Eloise counters, clearly trying very hard to keep her words at a whisper.

Penelope can only shrug in response. She doesn’t know how to answer that question for herself, let alone Eloise.

This was Colin’s idea.

Taking a sip of her own drink, Penelope spares another glance around the room. Violet and Portia are on the settee in the corner of the room. They’re too far off to hear, but judging from the look on Violet’s face (pleasant but disbelieving), she can’t imagine she’s missing much from that particular conversation.

Anthony, Kate, and Hyacinth are having their own conversation by the fireplace. Well, Hyacinth and Kate are having one. It doesn’t look like the youngest Bridgerton is letting her brother get a single word in.

Prudence and Harry are technically not in the room, but are (unfortunately) within earshot of where Penelope stands by the door. When they aren’t audibly making out behind the bust of great-great-great-grandfather Featherington, they’re planning their escape from tonight’s festivities.

Colin is by himself in the centre of the room, chewing on a seemingly endless stream of prawn cocktails from the hors d’oeuvres table. After swallowing yet another, his head turns and he meets Penelope’s gaze.

This was your idea.

He shoots her a tight-lipped smile from across the room.

This was your idea.

She tries to return the gesture, but her lips aren’t quite listening to her brain at present.

This was your fault.

Colin moves his body like he’s about to walk over, but before he can take a single step, a new person enters the room — the private chef that Portia hired for tonight (a decision made after the Bridgertons were invited, of course). She informs them all that supper is ready to be served.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Main Course

Colin closed the distance between himself and Penelope about halfway en route from the drawing room to the dining room. The two of them are the last to enter and, by default, are the last two to pick their seats. Thankfully, the remaining seats are situated next to each other. Less thankfully, one seat is situated directly next to Portia’s, who currently sits at the head of the table.

Penelope’s first step into the room is pointed in the same direction as that seat. But Colin has longer legs than she; he steals it before she can sit down.

“Are you okay?” she mouths upon sitting down in her own chair. Her brows are furrowed in a way that tells him she was questioning his sanity more than she was his well-being.

“Of course,” he mouths back. He then throws her a smile, suspecting that his silent words won’t be enough to convince her. The latter must do it; with a nod, she turns to her right to say something to someone else.

As the chef moves around the table and presents each guest with their dish, Colin takes note of the seating arrangements.

Eloise is sitting on the other side of Penelope. Hyacinth is beside her. Violet is between her and Kate, sitting at the other head of the table, opposite Portia. Anthony is beside Kate. Harry is beside him. Prudence is between her new husband and —

“Oh, this is exquisite,” Portia gushes after the final plate is placed. “Anne, you have truly outdone yourself tonight.” As others sing their praises and the chef nods in thanks, Colin looks down to the food before him. It does look rather nice.

It’s beef wellington — a blood red piece of meat, encapsulated by a flaky crust with an intricate braided design on top. From the looks of it, Eloise is eating some dirt brown, plant-based version of the dish. This makes sense, seeing as his sister is a vegetarian. What makes less sense is that Kate also appears to be eating the alternative meal; as far as Colin is aware, his sister-in-law is not a vegetarian.

She isn’t drinking wine either.

Literally shaking away those thoughts before they can distract him too much, Colin settles his eyes on the plate next to his. Penelope appears to be playing with her food more than eating it. She’s currently prodding at a carrot on the edge of the plate.

“Why isn’t Philipa here?” Hyacinth asks bluntly from the other end of the table. Though he had surely just been lost in his own head, Colin assumes the question had been unprompted.

“Hyacinth.” Violet’s voice falters somewhere between a laugh and a scolding. “Don’t be ru—”

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Portia cuts in. “Unfortunately, she had to stay home in Kent. She’s in bed with a crippling case of morning sickness.”

“I thought that only happened in the morning.”

“Hy—”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Kate offers, scooping a carrot into her mouth. When several sets of curious eyes suddenly land on her, she simply smiles. “That’s what Daphne tells me, at least.”

After throwing his wife a brief but undeniable glare, Anthony clears his throat.

“Well, that’s too bad for Philipa — missing not only this lovely meal, but the chance to celebrate her sister’s birthday.”

A few others around the table smile and wish Penelope a happy birthday. When Colin flicks her eyes over, he finds that her cheeks are already burning a light shade of pink. After thanking the group, she turns her attention back to that carrot on the perimeter of her plate. After drowning it in a pool of gravy, she finally plops it into her mouth. It isn’t until she finishes chewing that he realises he has yet to actually touch his own food.

(A first, for Colin Bridgerton.)

After taking a few bites, he comments on how delicious the tenderloin is. His words weren’t delivered to anyone in particular. The only reason he said them was because he realised that, like eating, he had failed to say a single word aloud since sitting down at this well adorned table.

After several very long seconds of palpable silence, Portia is the next to speak up. Her voice is sticky with enthusiasm — a sound that immediately grates on Colin’s nerves.

“Oh — Violet! I meant to congratulate you on Benedict’s engagement.”

“Why, thank you, Portia!” His mother’s face is now lit by a smile. A genuine one. “We are all so happy for the two of them. And honestly,” she chuckles, “before he met Sophie, I feared Benedict might never settle down.”

“Ugh, mum —” Eloise starts, but her words are drowned out by Portia’s.

“Well, I can certainly relate to that feeling.”

Portia briefly stops talking to chuckle, like there is something very funny brewing on her lips. The sound turns the skin on Colin’s forearm into goose flesh; he doesn’t know what’s coming next, but he doesn’t like it.

“I should count my lucky stars that I was able to be in attendance for Philipa’s wedding. Between Prudence’s unexpected elopement and Penelope’s demanding career, I fear I won’t get another chance to watch one of my daughters walk down the aisle.”

In the back of Colin’s mind, he hears Eloise scoff very loudly. In the forefront, he’s fucking screaming. But before he can translate that noise into something appropriate for the dinner table (i.e. something other than “fuck off” or “fuck you” or “not if I can fucking help it”), his mother speaks up again. She sounds notably less enthusiastic than she had just a moment ago. Her smile sticks, but it looks put on.

“Well, I can attest from personal experience that worrying about such matters is typically more trouble than it’s worth. And fruitless, in hindsight. Just look at Kate and Anthony.” Her eyes point briefly to the couple on her left. “They both have incredibly demanding careers, but they always make time for one another.”

Colin prays to god that that will be the end of this discussion. It’s not, of course.

“I suppose that’s the key, isn’t it?” Portia muses, a confusing smile on her own lips. “Time. Ensuring that you’re using it for the things that matter most in life.”

“Like one’s career?” Eloise offers flatly from down the table.

“Well… Sure,” Portia concedes unconvincingly. “But also love. Family. Those things matter, too.”

The absolute fucking nerve of this woman, Colin thinks while his lips remain stitched together. Saying so much in the wrong fucking direction.

He isn’t sure if he’s ever hated Portia Featherington as much as he does in this very moment. He isn’t sure if he’s ever hated anyone as much as he does her right now. He doesn’t know what makes her think she has the right to speak on the importance of family, of all things. He’s questioning whether Portia knows her youngest daughter at all. He’s —

“You know,” Anthony says, catapulting Colin’s attention back into reality. “My little brother over there is the same exact way.”

What the fuck?

“Obviously, I’m no stranger to over-prioritising my career, but Colin really is the champion, in that regard. I mean, we barely saw him for five consecutive years due to his profession. And running from country to country during that time certainly didn’t give him much of an opportunity to maintain a romantic relationship.”

What the fuck?!

“But now —”

Anthony cuts himself off with a chuckle. The sound is almost enough to make Colin jump across the table and strangle his brother. Almost.

“Well, now I don’t know what his excuse is. But nevertheless, he hasn’t had a serious girlfriend since uni. And that was —”

For the first time since speaking up, Anthony finds the balls to actually meet Colin’s eye. The bastard smirks.

“What? Ten years ago?”

Eight years. Dickhead.

Instead of actually answering Anthony’s question, Colin turns to Kate (the sensible one in their marriage). He expects her to reprimand her husband for acting like such an arse in a public setting. At the very least, he expects her to look annoyed with said arsehole husband. But no. If anything, it looks like she’s desperately trying not to laugh.

What the fuck is going on?

Colin opens his mouth, but before he can formulate a single word, Penelope speaks up.

“Well, I can’t speak for Colin, but I do date. Just for the record.”

She seems to look at everyone except Colin when she says this. Which is probably for the best. It’s probably for the best that she can’t see the way his eyes light up with jealousy at her words.

There are a variety of other reactions to Penelope’s words from those that sit around them. From Portia, a look of skepticism. From Violet, a silent apology for having inadvertently introduced this topic. From Eloise, a look of shared bewilderment that it had been brought up at all.

The most unexpected response comes from Harry Dankworth, of all people.

“Of course Penelope dates! We dated a few weeks ago!”

That earns a unanimous response from nearly every Bridgerton at the table. Most of the shock is delivered silently, but Hyacinth cannot help but release a “What the fuck?” beneath her breath.

When Colin’s eyes flick to Penelope, he finds that she’s staring straight ahead at her current brother-in-law/recent ex-boyfriend, Harry. She looks about ready to murder him.

Clearly unphased by the sudden shift in mood or the woman turning into a tomato right in front of him, Harry answers Hyacinth’s question while chewing on what appears to be a rather tough cut of meat.

“It’s a funny story, actually. We met on New Year’s. Went out a few times after that. I thought it was going pretty well, but we were in the middle of dinner and she turned to me and said, ‘I think you would really like my sister.’ Not exactly what you’d expect from a girl on the third date, if you know what I’m saying…”

Colin knows what he’s saying, and he suddenly shares Penelope’s visible desire to murder the bloke across the table.

“But she was right!” Harry briefly stops telling his tale to lean over and kiss his newlywed wife on the cheek. Prudence could not look any happier, listening to the re-telling of the most fucked up meet-cute Colin has ever heard. “Six weeks with Pru and I knew we were meant to be.”

“I know some people,” Prudence’s eyes shoot pointedly at her mother, “were disappointed by our decision to run off and make things official as quickly as possible… But it just felt right. Especially since we married in my ancestors’ homeland.”

Audibly confused, Penelope clears her throat and says, “Prudence, you eloped in Scotland.”

Her sister nods.

“I’m well aware, Penelope.” She snickers. “I was there, after all.”

Colin turns his head again and watches as Penelope’s brows furrow deeper. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head, deciding whether or not to inform her sister that their family hails from Ireland. A country that is decidedly not Scotland.

In the end, she holds her tongue, and Prudence resumes sharing the questionably factual details of her and Harry’s elopement.

“Well,” says Violet, voice willfully pleasant. “I think that all sounds very romantic. When some people fall in love, it’s just too obvious not to act.”

“Quite romantic,” Kate agrees.

“That’s one word for it,” Portia mutters into her wineglass.

An extremely brief moment of silence passes before Eloise huffs and releases the words that have clearly been stuck in her throat the past few minutes.

“Just for the record, no one has to date or marry anyone. Certainly not a woman with as much wit and potential as Penelope. And certainly not Colin — there are enough Bridgertons in the world as it is!”

“Elo—”

“Sorry, mum.”

“How’s university, Hyacinth?” Penelope promptly asks. Colin turns his head again, wishing to give her a silent “thank you” for altering the course of this blasted conversation so directly. But yet again, she isn’t quite looking at him.

“Oh, absolutely brilliant! I just got cast as Viola in the summer production of Twelfth Night.”

“That’s amazing!” Penelope exclaims, a genuine smile on her face. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you! Rehearsals begin next week and I’m buzzing to get started. They brought actual live lobsters on stage last year for The Little Mermaid and I’m trying to convince our director to incorporate goats into our story. I…”

Hyacinth rambles on for another minute or two before Anthony interrupts.

“Perhaps you could save some of the story for the stage, Hyacinth.”

From the other end of the table, Hyacinth sticks her tongue out at Anthony. From right beside Colin, Portia takes another long sip of wine before speaking.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Anthony, how did you and Kate meet? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the story.”

Colin looks to his older brother. Anthony is sharing a look with his wife, both faces adorned with shy smiles.

“Kate and I actually met about a decade before we married. We were both studying at Oxford Law. We were both bright, ambitious, bloody competitive students who wanted the top spot of our class. We met the first week of law school and —”

Anthony cuts himself off to steal another look at Kate. They both laugh giddily.

“We loathed each other,” he goes on to explain. “From the moment we met to the morning of our graduation. We were so obsessed with each other during that time — constantly bickering and trying to one up each other in our courses. Which, in hindsight, was really the first sign that our feelings for each other were not wholly antagonistic from the start, but…”

When his voice trails off, a hint of a smile creeps up Anthony’s lips. He spares one quick glance at his wife again before continuing.

“We didn’t even speak at our graduation. We just went on our separate paths, each hoping to never see the other’s face again. We didn’t see each other for five years. Then she won a case against me, and I never wanted her to be gone from my life again.”

When Anthony takes a short pause, his eyes settle on someone other than his wife for the first time in what feels like hours.

They settle on Colin.

“It’s funny what a bit of time apart can do to two people. When Kate and I were thrown into each other’s lives again, it just seemed so bloody obvious. That we had always been kidding ourselves. That the ‘loathing’ was just a distraction from how we really felt. I can’t help but wonder how different our lives would be now, if we hadn’t spent so many years running from the truth.”

Anthony’s eyes are still on Colin. Colin doesn’t like it. The weight of his brother’s gaze has never felt so heavy.

“Well, that’s a lovely sto—” Portia starts, but her words are interrupted by Prudence.

“It really took you two ten years to get married?”

Though visibly confused by the question, Kate nods.

“Wow. It only took me and Harry six weeks.”

“Yes, Prudence.” Portia sighs. “We are all well aware.”

After that, the table breaks out into mini conversations. Violet asks Penelope about the story she’s working on. Anthony and Harry discuss real estate. Portia and Prudence discuss fashion. Hyacinth inquires on Kate’s morning sickness comment from earlier with minimal success. Colin remains quiet through most of it, listening to Penelope gush over her latest column while chewing the last few specs of food from his plate.

When she finishes her story, Colin is suddenly struck by the fact that, despite sitting just a few inches to her right throughout this meal, he hasn’t spoken a single actual word to Penelope during that time. Before yet another one of his family members can steal her attention, Colin leans to his left and gently places his hand beneath her elbow. The connection is out of view from anyone else at the table.

Her eyes land on his in an instant.

“You wanna bail?” he whispers, only half joking. “We could go back to my flat and watch When Harry Met Sally.”

Penelope’s mouth twists together in that way that it always does when desperately attempting to hold in a laugh. After a moment, it straightens out.

“Again? What is it with you and that movie?”

Colin shrugs in response. Then he laughs, not even making an attempt to hold it in.

“I think it would be in poor taste to leave my own birthday dinner early,” Penelope tells him, her voice too soft for anyone else at the table to hear. “But I do appreciate the offer.”

Noticing that her hand has moved below the table in the last minute or so, Colin grabs blindly for Penelope’s palm. After accidentally brushing against her knee, he finds it. He squeezes it once.

“If you change your mind, just give me the signal and we’ll get the fuck out of here.”

Penelope nods, her lips twisting together again. A noticeable blush creeps up her cheeks. When she turns her head to the side to respond to something Eloise is whining about, her hand remains cradled in Colin’s. It remains there for the rest of the course.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Palate Cleanser

The group retires to the drawing room to kill time between courses. Almost immediately, two groups emerge.

On one side of the room, near the fireplace, Colin stands in a circle with Kate, Anthony, Hyacinth, and Penelope. They’re discussing… something. Maybe real estate. Maybe football. It’s hard for Colin to keep up while only half-listening to the conversation. Half of his attention is on the other side of the room.

On the couch by the window, Portia, Violet, and Eloise are discussing… something. Colin cannot make out the details from this far away, but judging from the look on his sister’s face, it can’t be good. (And judging from the way their mother’s arm is looped through Eloise’s, it can’t be one his sister is willingly participating in.)

After a few more moments watching Eloise squirm, Colin considers leaving his spot between Anthony and Penelope to rescue her. But before he can even decide, Eloise wiggles her way out of Violet’s hold and walks over to the table of leftover hors d'oeuvres. It isn’t until he spots Eloise throw a prawn into her mouth that Colin ultimately abandons the safety of his current spot.

“Why are you eating those?” he asks, pointing to the prawn currently placed between Eloise’s index and thumb.

“You’re one to talk,” she grumbles, mouth still full from her first two prawns.

“No. I just — Aren’t you a vegetarian?”

Eloise’s mouth stills. She gulps, eyes wide and not quite meeting Colin’s.

“I’m a pescatarian.”

“Yeah? Since when?”

“Since we ran out of vegetarian options 30 seconds ago.”

“El! You —”

“I’m uncomfortable!” she hisses. After turning her head from side to side to confirm that no one else is listening, she leans in close and whispers, “Portia Featherington is the devil!”

“That’s…” His voice trails off, searching his mind for the right words.

An apt comparison.

“A bit over-dramatic.”

Eyes wide and angry and very much pointed at him, Eloise lets out an exasperated huff of air.

“Colin —”

Quickly, he glances around to see if anyone else is paying attention to their conversation. Penelope seems to be keeping one eye fixed on them, but no one else is.

“I don’t disagree,” he cuts in, his voice but a whisper. He then pulls Eloise by the elbow into the hallway, out of view from everyone else. “But could you keep your loathing to yourself until the night is over? It —”

“Why should I?”

A pang of hot red annoyance hits Colin in the chest; they had discussed this earlier today.

“Why shouldn’t you cause a scene?” he shoots back. “For Penelope. The whole reason we’re here is to act as a buffer between —”

“Why should we have to be a buffer?”

“Are you seriously asking —”

“Yes, Colin.” She steps even further down the hallway, presumably so she can raise her voice above a hiss. “I am serious. Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it. Don’t you see a problem in that?”

All at once, Colin is hit by something very, very cold. Chills creep up and down his skin as he realises just how true Eloise’s words are. He feels momentarily stuck in place, frozen by revelation. Eventually, though, his body returns to relative normalcy.

He isn’t sure exactly what he says to get Eloise to nod and begrudgingly abandon any plans to cause a scene. He’s too busy re-playing her words in his head to pay attention to those currently leaving his own lips.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

When they walk back into the drawing room, Colin half expects the others to be staring at them in a mix of anger and sympathy after overhearing them in the hall. But no. By some grace of god, their conversation had gone unnoticed.

The groups had shifted in Colin and Eloise’s absence. Now, Hyacinth and Violet are on the couch, while Kate, Anthony, Penelope, and Portia are all standing by the fireplace. Eloise walks towards one group, Colin, the other.

Squeezing his way between Penelope and Kate, Colin inquires on the topic of conversation.

“Your brother was just telling me about his and Kate’s plans to move to the country full time,” Portia says.

“Well, we haven’t decided on anything yet,” Kate clarifies. “I was just about to say that the commute is what’s holding me back. Anthony and I both work in the city. Our friends are here. So many of our family members are here. Even if we move out to the country, so much of our lives will be spent here in London.”

Though he and Kate are fairly close, Colin nearly jumps when he feels the unexpected weight of her arm around his shoulder.

“Just think about how much traffic there is in London on a daily basis. We already spend so much of our lives lying in wait, killing time until the next thing happens. Do we — Anthony and I, I mean — really want to subject ourselves to even more time sitting doing nothing?”

Suddenly feeling quite lost, Colin looks to Anthony. He’s smirking.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, love.”

When he looks to Penelope, she appears just as perplexed.

“Yes, well…” Portia sighs. “I never cared much for the country either,”

With a nod, Portia steps away from the group. She’s followed by Anthony and Kate, leaving Colin and Penelope (relatively) alone.

“So…” he says, after a few solitary seconds of silence. “Ready to take me up on that offer?”

He expects her to smile or laugh or twist her lips together. But she doesn’t. Penelope’s face seems to freeze for a moment, looking up at him in quiet contemplation.

“I…” she starts, sounding as though she has no idea where the rest of her sentence is headed. In the end, she doesn’t get the chance to finish it.

“Dessert is ready to be served in the dining room,” Chef Anne announces from the doorway.

When Colin looks back to Penelope, her face is resolute.

“Come on.” She brushes past him. “The final course awaits us.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Dessert

The seating arrangements do not change much from one course to the other. The only person who has moved their spot is Hyacinth, who is now sitting next to Anthony and across from Penelope. She’s sitting in the seat that —

“Where is your sister and her husband?” Colin asks, leaning close to Penelope as to avoid anyone else hearing his question.

“Oh,” Penelope whispers, eyes darting between the seats they left behind. She chuckles softly. “Saved themselves, it seems.”

Colin grumbles something in vague agreement, the realisation sitting heavily in his stomach. He then picks up his fork, using its tongs to stab the gelatinous surface of the dessert on his plate. The little yellow tart smells so distinctly of lemon and sugar that he limits the number of sugar cubes in his tea to only two.

“Is there no birthday cake?” Hyacinth blurts out, poking at her own tart.

“No,” Portia answers, laughing lightly. “I’ve always found those to be a bit… cliche.”

“Too cliche for a birthday?” Hyacinth asks, and Colin can’t help but laugh beneath his breath.

“Hyacinth,” Violet cuts in, her voice clipped. “You’re so… inquisitive tonight, dear.”

“Yes,” Anthony agrees, smirking. “As opposed to her usual quiet, well-behaved self.”

Though Colin can’t see the act itself, the sudden pinched look on Anthony’s face tells him that their sister just stomped on his foot beneath the table.

“Please give my compliments to the chef, Portia,” says Violet. “This tart is delicious.”

Before that last word leaves her lips, though, Kate suddenly shoots up from her seat with an expression that screams anything but delicious.

“Please excuse me a moment,” she murmurs, words muffled by the hand covering her mouth. After she disappears into the hallway, all eyes turn towards Anthony, already standing to follow after his wife.

“Apologies. Her stomach has — uh — been a bit… unruly lately.”

After Anthony disappears into the hallway, Portia clears her throat.

“When I was pregnant, I could never eat anything this sweet,” she says, raising her wineglass to her lips. “My stomach couldn’t handle it.”

Baffled, Colin looks over to his own mother, who just so happens to have her eyes trained on the hallway. She looks as though she would very much like to disappear into its darkness, as well.

“Yes, well…” She draws her words out long. “I suppose there are lots of reasons why sugar could upset one’s stomach.”

“Lemon always gives me gas,” offers Eloise.

“I thought citruses were supposed to have the opposite effect on one’s body,” Hyacinth counters quickly.

“What can I say? I’m an enig—”

“Girls,” Violet cuts in, using that pleasant, clipped tone again. “I think that’s more than enough lemon discussion at the dining table.”

The room goes quiet after that. For a short while.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Colin,” says Portia. Which is true, but that fact doesn’t make her words any less annoying. “Is something on your mind?”

Yes.

“No. I, uh —”

He searches his mind for something to say that won’t get him kicked out of the Featherington home. (Possibly forever.)

“Sorry,” he says through a smile that stings his cheeks. “I apologise if I seem a bit off tonight. I got back from a trip just this morning; I’m still feeling a bit of jet lag.”

His words are true, save for the “jet lag” part. From the next chair over, Penelope has to clap a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from laughing at the “jet lag” part.

“No need to apologise. Where are you returning from?”

“Bath.”

“Oh.” Confusion presses into Portia’s brow, but she does not press the matter any further. “Do you have any other travels coming up?”

For a moment, Colin can’t recall. He can’t remember when or where his next plane ticket is scheduled for.

After a moment, the details come back to him.

“New York. But I don’t leave until the first week of June.”

“What was it that your brother was saying before? Something about you not travelling as often as you used to?”

“Oh, um… Yes. About two years ago, I switched from mostly writing and travelling to mostly editing and staying put. My trips have been sporadic ever since.”

His mother says something about how nice it is to have him home more. Eloise makes a “joke” about how unfortunate it is. Portia inquires on the reason for this change, to which he can only give a noncommittal, vague answer.

What Colin doesn’t say is that he came home because he wanted to focus his time on writing a book. That would mean admitting he has been firmly stuck in the middle of it for what feels like forever. That he has spent the majority of the last two years freelance editing real authors while his blog has been steadily losing steam.

What Colin doesn’t say is that he came home because he was terrified that his family and friends would forget about him if he stayed away any longer. That he feared becoming a living ghost — one who wanders from continent to continent looking for a purpose that was left behind at home long ago.

What Colin does not tell Portia is that he came home for her daughter. That he came home because he loves Penelope. That he came home because Penelope is his home.

Colin can’t say any of that aloud, because doing so would mean admitting that he hasn’t said anything of the sort to Penelope over the last two years. It would mean admitting to holding his happiness hostage at the hands of his fear. That he fears they aren’t ready to move onto the next stage of their lives yet.

(There are many other reasons Colin can’t say any of those things in the middle of a dinner party. That reason just happens to be the one that keeps him up most nights.)

Back in reality, Portia says something to swiftly bring Colin out of his own head.

“Perhaps you and Penelope could have a discussion about the importance of prioritising one’s life over their career. I certainly can’t get through to her.”

“What —” the fuck, he almost says out loud. For better or worse, Penelope interrupts him before he can get the words out.

“I’ll keep that in mind, mum.” Then, with barely a breath between topics, “Hyacinth — sorry, but could you explain to me again how you plan on incorporating live goats into your university’s production of Twelfth Night? I believe I missed the connection the first time around.”

Colin will have to ask Hyacinth to explain it a third time later on. Yet again, his mind is too loud with someone else’s words to properly pay attention.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

When Hyacinth finishes speaking, no one at the table jumps to fill the silence she left behind; the scraping of knives and the slurping of tea are the only sounds in the room for several unending seconds. Colin spends that time attempting to get Penelope’s attention with his eyes alone. In the end, he’s unsuccessful. Her eyes remain trained on the half-eaten lemon tart in the middle of her plate.

He longs to reach for her hand like he did during the previous course, but he can’t. The gesture wouldn’t be safe from prying eyes like it was before. Now, both of Penelope’s hands are above the table, sipping tea and poking at her food and fidgeting with her napkin.

As the longing and the silence both grow at exorbitant rates, Colin briefly considers other points of connection. He wonders if it would be better to brush against her back or her waist or her thigh. He wonders if any of those gestures would go unnoticed by everyone else at the table. He wonders if any of those gestures could be explained as the touch of a friend. He wonders if he should get her attention at all, or if it is better to let her sit and dwell in her own silence.

Before he can make a decision, the silence breaks.

“Is Philipa having a boy or a girl?” Hyacinth asks (yet another unprompted question).

Putting down her wineglass, Portia scowls ever so slightly. It’s barely a flash on her face, but it does not escape Colin’s notice.

“It’s too early to know for certain, but I do hope it’s a boy.” Then, with a great, suffering sigh, “I always wanted a son. But it was never in the cards, I suppose. After Penelope, we just… gave up.”

What the fu—

“Well, how fortunate we both are to have been blessed with the children we were given,” Violet says with a smile on her lips and a look of detest in her eyes.

“Of course,” Portia says, casually enough. She says something else. Presumably, something unrelated. Colin doesn’t catch the change in subject. Yet again, his mind is loud.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to —

His mind clears when a soft thud hits his shin. He turns his head to the left. To the culprit.

“Are you okay?” she mouths for the second time tonight.

Colin nods, but Penelope doesn’t look like she believes him. Before she can press any further, though, they are interrupted. Again.

“Apologies for running off so suddenly,” says Kate, walking back into the room with her husband two steps behind. She stands in the space behind Colin and Penelope, placing one hand on the backs of both chairs. “I must admit that my stomach has been a bit off all day. Penelope, I wish we could stay longer, but I believe it would be in everyone’s best interest for us to depart before I turn green.”

“Please don’t apologise,” Penelope insists, standing from her chair. “Thank you for coming tonight, but please go home and get some rest.”

“Thank you for inviting us. I would wish you a happy birthday, but I shall do that tomorrow when I drop your present off at your flat.”

“Kate!” Penelope cries out, mouth falling open. “I told you all not to —”

“Oh shush.” Any attempts from Penelope to do otherwise are swiftly killed when the taller woman pulls her into a hug; her protests against gift-giving are lost in the fabric of Kate’s sweater.

After she and Anthony disappear down the hall again, the remaining guests seem to take stock of the dwindling attendance all at once. Six sets of eyes dart from seat to empty seat.

Portia is the first to speak the obvious aloud.

“Well, it seems rather silly to continue sitting around this massive table with so many empty seats.”

After spending his entire adolescence in the polite, passive-aggressive London social scene, Colin could sort out the implication of Portia’s words from that very first “Well.” He knows that her statement was not so much an observation as much as it was an invitation. One prompting the remaining guests to follow Anthony and Kate’s leads and get the fuck out of her house.

While it would be wise — or at the very least, less painful — for Colin to play along and say something about how late it is or how wonderful the evening was… He can’t bring himself to do it. His head is still very loud.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

“Couldn’t agree more,” he says. The smile he forces on his lips feels just as strained as all of the other smiles he forced tonight. “Perhaps we should all retire to the drawing room to finish our tea.”

No one at the table seems particularly enthused by his suggestion — least of all Eloise, who darts her head back to throw her brother a death glare from two seats over. And yet, no one voices any protests aloud.

“Brilliant,” Portia eventually mutters.

As the room shifts and the six remaining guests stand to retire to the room a few doors down, Colin looks to Penelope. She’s looking down at her feet.

“Pen, I —”

Before he can say another word, Eloise steps forward and positions her body between them.

“Excuse me,” she grumbles, looping her arm through Penelope’s. “I require the birthday girl’s attention.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Smoke Break

“Are you having any fun tonight?”

“No.” Penelope takes a drag of Eloise’s offered cigarette. It’s the first one she’s smoked since graduating uni. “But ‘fun’ was never really the point of tonight.”

They’re standing in her childhood bedroom. They’re sticking their heads out her old window and releasing smoke from their lungs into the cold spring air. Eloise is complaining about Portia’s various “problematic” comments from earlier. Penelope is thinking about the real point of tonight.

Tonight was supposed to be a simple family dinner. No private chefs. No overdrawn, awkward conversations. No witnesses. Tonight was never going to be fun — but she could have handled the original version of it.

This version of tonight — the hell of Colin’s making — has been almost too much to bear.

She knows why he did it. She knows why Colin felt the need to get himself and every last Bridgerton in London invited here tonight. She knows that he knows how difficult things can become on nights like this. She knows he wanted to be here not to bear witness to those difficulties, but to try against logic to make them less difficult.

After all these years, Penelope knows Colin is kind. She knows he acts with the best of intentions. She knows he only wanted to help her tonight. But god — she wishes tonight wasn’t something she needed saving from. She wishes she wasn’t the type that needs saving.

Now that the night is almost over, Penelope can look back on it through a puff of smoke and know that things were easier, having Colin and Eloise by her side through it all. But tonight was also far longer and more complicated and more visible than it would have been, had it only been her own family in attendance.

In truth, Penelope doesn’t know which version of reality is the lesser of two evils. If she could go back in time to that pub in March, she doesn’t know if she would hold her tongue or invite the Bridgertons here herself.

This was Colin’s idea.

After a few more puffs of smoke, Penelope stubs out what little life remains in their cigarette on the windowsill.

“Hey —”

“Come on. Let’s get the rest of tonight over with.”

Penelope pulls Eloise into the hallway with a newfound confidence in her step. The last course was so dreadfully awkward… By the time they return to the drawing room, the others will surely already be wrapping up. And by the time those big green doors come into her view, Penelope is almost convinced that things will be easy on the other side of them. But just as she raises her arm to push through…

“Oh — Penelope, dear.”

When Penelope turns her head, she finds Violet walking down the hall towards them, presumably coming back from the loo.

“Eloise, may I have a moment to speak with Penelope?” she asks, closing the gap between them. When her daughter does not immediately respond, she adds, “Alone.”

“Mum, we’re sort of a package deal. I can’t —”

“El, go inside,” Penelope instructs gently. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

After throwing her best friend the briefest of glares, Eloise does as she’s told.

“Penelope, I wanted to give you something,” Violet says almost immediately after her daughter disappears from their view. She then starts opening the purse Penelope hadn’t realised was hanging over her shoulder until this very moment. (The blue of her purse is an exact match for the blue of her dress.)

“Oh!” Penelope breathes out, a panicked feeling rising in her chest. “You really didn’t have to —“

“Yes, I know dear.” Violet laughs lightly, waving one hand through the air in polite dismissal. “Colin told us all that you insisted upon us foregoing presents tonight, but…”

After rummaging through it another second, Violet pulls the item in question out of her purse. It’s a small thing. Pink with white —

It’s a birthday hat, she realises a second before Violet places it in her hands. There are little white bows and delicate paper butterflies decorating the pink fabric. Two silk ribbons are pinned to either side to tie it all together.

It’s perfect, she decides after possessing it only a few seconds.

“I know a birthday hat may seem like a silly gift to receive on the eve of one’s 27th birthday.” Violet laughs lightly, her lips pulling into a smile as the breath escapes her. “But it’s a family tradition. My father made one for me every year until he passed. I always make them for my children on their birthdays. I did not wish to come here tonight without bringing even a small token to commemorate this milestone in your life.”

A few seconds pass before Penelope can find the words to respond to all of that.

“It’s not silly,” she insists, voice soft but resolute. “It’s wonderful. But you really didn’t have —”

Violet places a hand over Penelope’s, still frozen in front of her holding the hat.

“Everyone deserves a bit of cheer on their birthday. And besides —” She chuckles softly, then gives Penelope’s fingers a little squeeze. “Auggie helped me create this one.”

“Auggie?”

She looks down to assess the craftsmanship of the hat in her hands. She finds it hard to believe a four-year-old came anywhere near it.

“Well…” Violet laughs again, a bit louder this time. “He picked out the butterflies. He was quite insistent, really.”

Penelope looks down again. She appraises those paper butterflies. She watches as the sparkles twinkle in the light of the hall. She tries to recall a time when her mother did something like this for her. She wonders if there was ever a time when Portia took time out of her day to do something small and unnecessary and kind, for no other reason than to bring her youngest daughter a bit of cheer.

Then Violet pulls her into a hug, and Penelope cannot help but wonder when the last time her mother did that. She thinks of other birthdays. Of celebrations. Of holidays. Of funerals. Of her childhood. Of everything.

In the end, she can’t recall.

“Thank you, Violet,” Penelope says into the older woman’s shoulder. By some grace of god, her words are too muffled to hear them crack.

“Happy Birthday, dear.”

She keeps her perfect hat in her hands when she walks back into the drawing room. Perhaps she’ll wear it tomorrow, but tonight does not feel like the proper place for it.

This was Colin’s idea.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tea

“Are you making it your personal mission to ensure this night never ends?”

Colin is standing by the hors d’oeuvres table with the very last prawn of the night in his mouth. He was by the couch before, but then his mum disappeared into the hallway and Hyacinth started discussing goats again. After about 30 seconds, he decided that wasn’t a conversation he needed to bear witness to and left Portia to fend for herself.

Now, Colin is in the center of the room. Now, Eloise is back and, annoyingly, Penelope isn’t.

“Lighten up, El,” he mumbles, swallowing the final prawn (which has grown to an alarming room temperature at this point in the night). With no real food in sight, Colin throws a mint into his mouth and about a dozen into his pocket. “We’re at a party, remember?”

“That’s a bit hypocritical, wouldn’t you say? Considering the scowl that’s taken ownership of your face the entire night.”

Eloise’s eyebrows shoot up, waiting for Colin to react. To confirm. To deny. To scowl again and prove her point. But he doesn’t. His attention has been caught by someone else.

He turns on his heel and walks back to the couch before his sister can say another word.

Penelope and Hyacinth are sitting closely on a settee that doesn’t look like it could bear the weight of another person, so Colin stands behind it. He uses one hand to hold his teacup limply in front of him, the other to clutch the back of the seat. His fingers graze the ends of shiny red curls.

The women are discussing something. It sounds like Hyacinth is gushing about a new instalment of her favourite book series, but Colin is struggling to pay attention to the finer details of the conversation. His eyes are glancing around the room. His mind is wandering.

Eloise was right, of course. He has been in an awful mood all night, and he’s made virtually no effort to hide that fact. Which is arguably strange behaviour coming from Colin Bridgerton, someone who typically excels in shoving his worst feelings down and upholding a charming exterior on nights like this. But not tonight.

Not here.

Being here has made it impossible for Colin to shut down his worst feelings. He can’t look around and not see the home little Penelope Featherington used to run away from crying in the middle of the night. He can’t overlook Portia belittling her daughter at every chance she gets. He can’t ignore the constant reminders of one simple fact. That Penelope was neglected as a child.

She may have had a roof over her head and food in her stomach, but Penelope had other needs that had never been met by the people who were meant to care for her above all else. Her family has never treated her with the basic care, attention, and love that a child needs to grow into an actual, functional adult. It’s a miracle, Colin thinks, that Penelope was able to cross that threshold without the help of her —

“Happy Birthday, Penelope!”

Hyacinth’s voice isn’t what pulls Colin from his thoughts. It’s Penelope. Or, it’s the loss of her. Instead of leaning back into his fingertips, she’s now leaning forward, towards his little sister. They’re hugging.

“I’m sorry,” he barely hears Hyacinth whisper, her words muted as they’re spoken into Penelope’s hair.

“What —”

Hyacinth darts her head back suddenly, keeping her hands locked on Penelope’s shoulders. Her eyes look guilty.

“I believe I was the only Bridgerton in attendance tonight who didn’t get you a birthday present.”

Though Colin can’t see Penelope’s face from his current position, he can see her shoulders shake in silent laughter.

“Thank you,” she whispers, pulling Hyacinth back into the hug. “For being the only Bridgerton to follow my directions.”

When his sister stands, it finally clicks. While Colin was busy stewing in his own misery, his family was wrapping up the night.

His mum is standing too. When he looks over to Eloise, her body is teetering on the edge of her chair — both hands clutching the fabric, both eyes pointed towards the nearest exit. Before she can move, Colin meets her gaze and tries with all his might to send her a look that screams: “Do. Not. Leave.”

If Eloise receives the message, she moves right past it. Literally. She walks right past Colin, rips their mother out of Penelope’s arms, and gives her best friend a fervent hug.

“Goodnight Pen! I’ll see you tomorrow for karaoke,” she exclaims, her excited tone slipping on that last word.

After Penelope and Eloise separate, all eyes in the room seem to fall on Colin. He can see the expectation in their eyes, for him to follow suit and announce his departure. But he doesn’t. Instead, he raises his previously forgotten teacup and swallows a sip of the frigid liquid.

“If it’s not too much of an imposition,” he says, eyes landing on Penelope and Penelope alone, “I think I’ll stay back and finish up my tea.”

“Of course,” Penelope says, but her face is made up of anything but assuredness. Her eyes scream, “Why?” Which is better than “Please. Leave. Now.” (Although harder to respond to with looks alone.)

As the rest of his family exits the drawing room, Penelope and Colin take their seats. She returns to hers. He takes Hyacinth’s, draping his right arm across the back of the settee. Almost immediately, he feels the weight of Penelope’s shoulders and the weightlessness of her hair brushing against him.

Portia remains alone on the couch, a tight smile on her lips and an indignant look in her eye.

For the next few minutes, the three of them sit idly, sipping tea and making mindless conversation. About the weather. About Philipa’s morning sickness. About the weather. About traffic. About the goddamn weather.

Through it all, Colin is a rather awful conversationalist, responding to Portia’s questions and hopeless attempts at small talk with monosyllabic sentences and a series of indifferent head nods. His behaviour does not change much when Portia re-introduces a topic from earlier.

“Colin, where did you say you were travelling to next? Somewhere in the states?”

Once again, it takes him a moment to recall.

“New York,” he eventually answers.

“How exotic,” Portia remarks in a tone that makes it difficult for Colin to discern if it was meant to be sarcastic or not. “And what brings you all the way out there?”

Once again, Colin does not answer straight away. Not because he can’t remember the details, but because he’s annoyed that the conversation has taken a turn that no longer allows for one word answers.

“I’ve always enjoyed my time there. And I haven’t made the trip in a few years, so…”

He shrugs noncommittally, not feeling up to the challenge of finishing that sentence.

“You always write of New York so beautifully,” offers Penelope from beside him, at which Colin cannot help but smile.

“You should see it for yourself.”

“I —”

Colin will never know what it was that Penelope was about to say. Portia cuts her off, a twisted smile on her lips.

“You know, I never quite understood how the two of you can be so… close.”

Yet again, Colin’s response is delayed. This time, due to shock. He doesn’t know what Portia is getting at, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.

“Pardon?”

“You two are such polar opposites. It’s difficult to imagine how two people can be so dissimilar and manage to remain friends for as long as you two have.”

“Mum —”

“‘Polar opposites?’” Colin echos, incredulous. He could laugh at her statement, if it hadn’t filled him with such a sudden burst of rage.

“Yes, I mean —”

She laughs suddenly, as if overtaken by the humour of a joke Colin can’t even begin to understand.

“You are so adventurous and independent. Penelope,” she says, as if Penelope is not also in the room with them, “would never run off to New York like that. She doesn’t have the follow through. Or the time! She’s so preoccupied by her job that she can barely make the fifteen minute walk from Hyde Park to Mayfair.”

“Mum —” Penelope tries to interject again. But again, it’s as if Portia can’t hear her at all.

“Lest a dinner be thrown here in her honour, of course.”

All night, Colin has done a remarkably awful job at letting his emotions stay hidden beneath the surface. All night, he’s sounded tense. Confused. Annoyed. But he has not sounded angry, despite the anger that has been building up in him from the moment he walked through the front door.

He has not sounded angry all night. Until now.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Portia must be rendered speechless by his sudden outburst; while she opens and closes her mouth several times, no words are spoken.

“Sorry,” he mutters. Not to Portia, but to Penelope. When he turns to look at her again, her mouth is hanging open like a fish. An adorable fish, but a fish nonetheless.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton?” Portia finally shoots out, which really does not help with Colin’s rage.

“Sorry,” he says again. “My emotions got the best of me. What I meant to say is that I don’t believe you know your daughter in the slightest. Which is a damn shame.”

Portia does that thing with her mouth again. “I love Penelope, of course, but —” she eventually begins to say. But Colin isn’t finished.

“But do you know her? All night, you’ve taken every opportunity to talk over and belittle her. And now you have the gall to claim that Penelope Featherington of all people isn’t ‘independent?’ To imply that her job — which she is so bloody passionate about — isn’t important or worthy of her time?”

Colin briefly halts his insane speech to steal another glance at Penelope. Her mouth is still hanging open, caught somewhere between being impressed and mortified.

Turning back to Portia…

“If you truly can’t see your daughter for the intelligent, funny, good person that she is, I feel very sorry for you.”

For a brief moment, Colin thinks he’s done. He thinks he did what he needed to do and will now face the consequences. (Most likely never being invited to step foot into the Featherington household ever again.) But there’s one thing still nagging at him.

“And just to clarify, Penelope is my best friend. And I’m lucky to be able to call her that.”

“I —”

Whatever Portia was about to say, Colin will never know. Penelope interrupts her.

“Colin, I’ll walk you out.”

In one quick motion, she stands, grabs him by his shirt sleeve, and pulls him towards the nearest exit.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Mint

The walk from the drawing room to the front steps was short and silent. It isn’t until now, stepping onto the pavement and into the cold April air, that either one of them says a word.

For his part, Colin doesn’t quite know what to say after his outburst upstairs. His first instinct — correct or not — is to apologise.

“Pen, I’m —”

“Thank you,” she interrupts. She looks so earnest in her resolve, gazing up at him with soft, open eyes. “For what you said up there.”

Colin’s eyes flick down, suddenly unable to keep her gaze.

“Please, don’t —” He takes a breath. “I didn’t say anything that shouldn’t have been said a long time ago.”

Penelope doesn’t drop her gaze. She looks at him like she’s about to argue. But in the end, “I don’t think anyone has ever spoken to my mother that way,” is all she says.

“Long overdue, I think.”

“Even then… Thank you for —”

“Pen, please. You —” He sighs. “You’re my best friend. It’s sort of my job to defend you.”

For the briefest second, he watches as something new crosses Penelope's face. Regret? Realisation? Despair? Colin can’t name it for certain, the change too brief and the night too dark for clarity. But just as quickly as it left, her resolve returns.

She smiles.

“I’m lucky, too,” she tells him. “To call you my best friend.”

Yet again, Colin drops his gaze. Penelope’s words. Penelope’s smile. Penelope’s lips and their relative distance to his own. Penelope, his best friend…

It’s all so good. There are times when it overwhelms him.

“Do you ever feel like it’s a curse?” he asks when the thoughts in his head get too loud. “Knowing your best friend your entire life?”

Penelope looks just as confused by his question as he feels himself.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He pauses, attempting to find the words. “You know me, the 29-year-old somewhat functional adult Colin. But you also know the 18-year-old complete arsehole Colin.”

“I —”

“And don’t forget about the 8-year-old idiot Colin, who thought fart jokes were the pinnacle of comedy.”

“So what?” Penelope asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. “We’ve always been friends. We were friends through all of the different versions of us. When I was an insecure dork or a —”

“You were never a —” Colin starts, but his voice doesn’t seem to break through.

“— little kid, afraid of her own shadow. We grew up together. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

Colin doesn’t know what to say to that, because it does feel bad. But it also feels great. And beautiful. And overwhelming.

“I think it’s a gift,” Penelope offers, only after several seconds watching Colin standing with his mouth hanging open like a fish. “To know someone for as long as we have. To be able to look back at who we once were compared to who we are now.”

That last sentence sends a chill directly down Colin’s spine, but Penelope does not seem to share his dilemma. She laughs again, crinkling her nose as she briefly turns it towards the stars above them.

“And it’s a bloody miracle, that our friendship was able to survive so many different versions of ourselves.”

Desperate to find his voice again, Colin clears his throat.

“I think ‘miracle’ might be doing us both a disservice,” he says, trying his hardest to keep his tone light. “We’ve put quite a bit of effort into maintaining this friendship over the years.”

“Sure,” Penelope utters quietly. Her head turns from right to left — from her childhood home to Colin’s. “You know… I don’t know what version of myself I would be today, had I not grown up on 15 Grosvenor Street.”

Colin mumbles something that vaguely sounds like agreement. His stomach is suddenly heavy with not just the food and alcohol and three and a half sips of tea he consumed all night, but also a revelation.

He was wrong. The two of them growing up together was not a curse. A history without Penelope Featherington would have been.

“Can I ask you a question?” Penelope blurts out, to which Colin can only nod.

“Did you stick around after everyone else left just so you could pick a fight with my mum?”

Colin tilts back and forth on his heels, considering her question. In the end, he gives her the most truthful answer he can find within himself.

“I wouldn’t put it in those words exactly, but… Yes. I suppose that’s the gist of it.”

Though it may be rather dark on this particular patch of pavement, it almost looks as though Penelope is holding in a laugh.

“And is that why you invited yourself and your family over tonight?”

Another chill goes down Colin’s spine.

“I… didn’t say you could ask me a second question.”

Penelope does laugh this time. Her laughter is short lived though, her face almost immediately settling back into seriousness.

“Well, for future birthdays and other family events… I need you to know that I can handle her on my own.”

“Pen —” he starts. He means to inform her that she should not have to handle this on her own. That she should not have to “handle” her mother in the first place. But his voice seems to get lost in the wind.

“Perhaps not as directly as you did up there…” She laughs again, nose wrinkling slightly. “But perhaps next time I can strive to be more forthright.”

“I know you can, Pen. But if you ever need someone there, I’m always —”

“I know, Colin,” she interrupts. Her voice is soft, but it cuts through the darkness between them. “Thank you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can figure out what, Penelope leans forward and wraps her arms around his neck. Well, she tries to. Even on her tippy toes, she has to pull him down to secure her position in the hug.

Though Colin is initially caught off guard by the feel of her body against his, he’s quick to recover. He wraps both of his arms around her — one across her shoulders and the other on her waist.

For a few seconds, time seems to stop. The rest of the world — anyone or anything not currently wrapped up in Colin’s arms — ceases to exist.

When Penelope eventually slips away, she looks up at him with a familiar expression. She’s about to say, “Goodnight.” But before she can, Colin uses his newly-free hands to fish the phone out of his front pocket.

10:11 PM

“Happy Almost-Birthday, Pen.”

“Thanks Colin,” she says a bit sheepishly. “You’re still coming to karaoke tomorrow though, right?”

Colin gasps in mock-horror, grasping a hand against his chest.

“Do you really take me for the type of person who would not show up for karaoke?”

“No,” Penelope giggles. “You’re not Eloise.”

“Thank god for that.”

“Are you heading back to Bloomsbury?” Penelope asks suddenly, before Colin has the chance to delay this part of the conversation any longer.

“Uh, no.” He nods his head to the house across the street. “I’m gonna sleep off my inevitable hangover at mum’s place. You know, there’s about a dozen vacant bedrooms there these days. If you want to —”

“No,” Penelope interrupts, sweet but insistent. “Thank you, but no. I’m just going to sleep here tonight.” She nods her head to the right, towards the house she previously claimed to never wish to sleep in ever again.

“Are you —”

“Yes,” she cuts in. “I am.”

She must sense right away that her words did nothing to quell his blatant worry.

“You know…” she continues. “This house feels different to me now. Different than how it felt when I was a kid.”

Colin lets out a shallow breath of air.

“How so?”

“It’s hard to explain. Maybe it’s just that I feel different. Like I finally grew up enough to not feel so small in its halls.” She laughs again, quietly. “It only took about twenty-seven years, but better late than never.”

Not for the first time tonight, Colin feels speechless. He feels as though he could search his mind for the right words for hours, and he would still come up short. But before he can muster up halfway decent…

“Goodnight, Colin. Thanks again.”

With that, she’s gone. Before he can even return her words, she’s disappeared from his view behind a big green door.

There’s no traffic on the street between his house and hers. He could cut across and be home in ten seconds. But he doesn’t. He pops a mint into his mouth and takes the long route.

After circling the block twice, Colin walks up his steps, opens the big blue door, swallows his mint, then throws one final glance over his shoulder.

Goodnight, Pen.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“You do realise that marrying me also means willingly making yourself Portia Featherington’s son-in-law, right?”

Colin shrugs.

“That’s a burden I’m willing to bear.”

“Are you —”

“But we’re spending holidays with my family from now on.”

“Okay.” Penelope laughs. “Deal.”

#bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #colin x penelope

15 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 5 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Living Together

Hi friends! New chapter up for anyone interested

CW: alcohol consumption // COVID // toxic family dynamics // mentions of illicit drug use

Living Together

Contrary to what Colin may claim, Penelope honestly doesn’t want to argue every one of these points. Though she may have found this game tedious at best and nonsense at worst when they first started playing about an hour ago, her opinion on the matter has since shifted.

She likes this game. She’s rooting for their shared victory. She wants to go through each one of these milestones and discover that they’ve already done all the dirty work of dating — that they’re ready to get married.

She wants them to win so desperately that she has willingly pushed past many of the technicalities and shortcomings of the previous milestones. So when Colin reads the next one aloud, she has to remind herself that there is only so much you can stretch the truth before you break it completely.

“Number Seven: Living Together. Cohabitation is arguably the best compatibility test for a relationship. Living in a shared space with your partner will undoubtedly bring out parts of yourselves that remain hidden when spending so much time apart — bad habits, quirks, routines, secrets, and more. Seeing if you can stand living in such close proximity to your partner is essential in determining if you two can share a life together.”

With a disappointed half-laugh caught in the back of her throat, Penelope says, “I suppose we should have seen this one coming.”

At her words, Colin lifts one confused brow.

“Everyone says you can’t really know a person until you’ve lived with them,” she goes on to explain, more confused than disappointed now.

Why isn’t he —

“It’s a good thing I lived with you and still want to marry you.”

She tilts her head at his words. Not in confusion — she instantly knows what he is referring to.

“That was basically a sleepover.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Three Years Earlier: March 11th, 2020

Relationship Status: Cohabitants

꙳

Day 0

“When does your flight leave, dear?”

“In about two hours,” Colin mumbles into his phone, nearly choking on a piece of apple strudel in the process.

He’s eating breakfast on the edge of his already-made bed. As he finishes swallowing, he glances around the hotel room he’s inhabited for the past six weeks. It’s very quaint. Refurbished furnishings that are meant to look original. A small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. Beige features, everywhere the light touches.

Colin was supposed to remain in this quaint, beige, uninviting room for seven weeks total, but something came up.

“I’m about to check out, then I’ll head over to the airport.”

“Oh. Good.”

Violet’s voice is stilted and soft. So soft, that Colin can practically hear his mother’s hands wringing together through the phone.

“Mum, don’t worr—”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come home early? I was just watching the news. They say cases are skyrocketing in Italy and —”

“I’m not going to Italy, mum,” he reminds her, trying his hardest to keep his tone light. He understands why she worries… But he has other, more self-serving matters on his mind. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll always worry, dear. When you have children of your own, you’ll realise truer words have never been spoken.”

Colin silently thanks god she hadn’t facetimed him. He’s not sure he would be forgiven for the eye roll he just committed.

“You make parenthood sound so delightf—”

“Have you spoken to Penelope yet today?” Violet interrupts, her voice a pleasant tone that remains fringed with worry.

He can’t help the crooked grin that breaks apart his lips.

“Yup. I just got off the phone with her. She’s about to leave, too.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

The first time Colin arrived in Paris was in 2015, a few weeks before his twenty-third birthday. Like so many before him, he had entered the city with high expectations. Too high, he eventually realised.

During his weeks here, he enjoyed many of the individual aspects of the trip. The food, the art, the skyline, the wine… All of those things were good. And yet, when he ultimately left the city, he could not help but feel as though the sum of his experiences never succeeded in meeting his otherworldly expectations.

There’s a term for that feeling. “Paris Syndrome.” It isn’t exclusive to this particular city — it can apply to any place you enter into with expectations so high that they could never be met here on the ground. Colin has experienced that feeling a few times over the last four years, nine months, and two days. But during all of those trips, he did his best to prevent any disappointment from bleeding through in his articles. After all, you cannot blame a city for failing to achieve the perfection that was thrusted upon it.

When Penelope called two weeks ago to inform Colin that she was coming to Paris for work, any lingering disappointments he felt towards the city instantly vanished. When she asked if he could meet her here, his schedule instantly cleared.

Now, at twenty-seven, Colin steps through the city with new expectations. He could eat hot garbage and drink sewer water the rest of the week, and none of it would deter his mood. Not with Penelope by his side.

He’s late to meet her. Four hours late, to be exact. His flight was a mess, as was seemingly every other flight out of Václav Havel. But in spite of the initial chaos, Colin has finally arrived at his intended destination.

She doesn’t see him when he walks in. She’s sitting at the bar, legs crossed beneath her, emerald green peacoat draped over the back of her stool. She has a glass of red wine in one hand and her phone in the other. She’s wearing a black shift dress and red lipstick, the latter of which he can barely make out while she remains turned away from him. She —

She looks perfect, he thinks in those last few seconds before capturing her attention.

“Sorry, but is this seat taken?”

She turns so quickly that her red curls nearly whip him in the face. Her blue eyes are bright and round, but he barely gets the chance to look at them before she jumps off her stool and hugs him.

“Hi,” she says into his shoulder, a few seconds later. The word is barely audible; he can feel it more than he can hear it.

“Hey, Pen,” he says into her hair. It smells like honey.

“How was your flight?”

“Delayed,” he grumbles, then takes the stool beside hers. He signals for the bartender to get him whatever glass of wine Penelope had ordered for herself. “How was the train?”

“Good,” she answers, in a tone that doesn’t match her sentiment. Her eyes cast down to her phone for a split second before continuing, “The stations were pretty hectic, though. A lot of trips were cancelled at the last minute.”

Colin nods and grimaces, remembering the scene he left behind at De Gaulle. In hindsight, he should be grateful his flight took off at all.

When Penelope raises her drink to her lips and takes a rather long sip, Colin cannot help but notice the conflicted look that passes on her face through the glass.

“You don’t think it was a bad idea to —”

“No,” Colin interrupts decisively. He nods to the bartender in thanks as she hands him his drink. “Don’t worry about that. If it was dangerous for you to be here, they wouldn’t have let you on that train.”

“True,” Penelope says, still not sounding so sure of herself. But then she scrunches her nose, and the look that settles on her face afterwards is absent of worry.

“I can’t believe we’re in Paris,” she notes, smiling.

“Believe it,” Colin orders with a smile matching hers.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

The night air is warm — for March, at least. Penelope is bundled up in her oversized peacoat, while Colin’s jacket sits on the bench between them. Although it certainly wasn’t intended as such, that pile of brown leather acts as a barrier between their bodies.

It’s not actually that warm, even for springtime. But Colin’s body feels warm — particularly in his chest and on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Must be the wine.

They’re sitting on the edge of the Champ de Mars, waiting with hundreds of strangers for midnight to strike and cause the tower in the distance to illuminate the darkness with twinkling lights. Penelope is talking with so much excitement that her body is practically vibrating. She’s telling him all about her article on the Notre Dame fire and her plans to visit the reconstruction efforts later in the week. Colin, in spite of his buzz from the bar and the literal, incessant buzzing originating from the phone in his back pocket, is doing his best to remain an attentive listener. Listening to Penelope speak is usually one of his favourite activities, but right now…

Right now, he finds it to be an impossibly difficult task. It’s difficult to pay attention to words spoken from such perfect red lips. Lips he would very much like to be kissing right —

“Colin?”

Clearly, he was not acting as an attentive listener, for he has no idea what question Penelope is prompting him to answer.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, I —” She laughs. “Thank you, again, for meeting me here.”

Colin shakes his head, instinctually opposed to the notion of accepting thanks for such a self-serving act. But instead of arguing with her, he simply says, “Thank you for finally taking me up on that offer to run off together.”

Penelope doesn’t argue against his words. She doesn’t say anything. She simply turns her attention forward, towards the structure in the distance, still lit with a flat yellow gleam.

Like it so often does, a comfortable silence falls between them. The thing about comfortable silences, though, is that there are always uncomfortable distractions around, threatening to break them. Like the truly incessant buzzing from Colin’s phone (undoubtedly caused by some inconsequential but extremely common argument in the Bridgerton family group chat). Or the group of teenagers walking past, moaning about something in a language Colin could only understand before his third glass of wine. Or that invisible force that keeps pulling him towards the woman he loves so dearly. Or whatever it is that appears on Penelope’s phone and draws a gasp from those perfect red lips.

“Oh my fucking god,” she whispers, ultimately breaking that comfortable silence of theirs. Her words tumble out in one hurried breath.

“What?”

Colin’s gaze travels from Penelope’s lips to her eyes. He doesn’t dare drop it, even when the faintest glimmer of twinkling lights appears in his peripheral vision.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 1

Their trip ended the very moment the word “pandemic” fell from Penelope’s lips.

In a more literal sense, it ended the next morning when they received calls from their respective bosses ordering them to return home as fast as humanly possible. Penelope received that call from Danbury. Colin received his from both Anthony and Violet.

They spent the morning on Penelope’s balcony, munching on room service pastries as they scoured the internet for tickets to London. For all his experience securing last-minute transportation, Colin felt wholly unprepared for the plight of booking passage home during a pandemic. Flights, trains, and buses everywhere were getting bought out or cancelled before he could add the tickets to his cart. It was madness.

Eventually, Penelope found two open seats on an Easyjet flight. They had less than an hour to get to the airport. Once there, they sat in a terminal for six hours due to a series of delays and rebookings.

Eventually, they boarded their plane. She sat in seat 24A, he in 31E. Due to the full flight and their unfortunate seating arrangements, Colin could not witness Penelope’s reaction to their liftoff. He didn’t know if her hands still shake when the engines rumble to life, or if her teeth clench down when the plane lifts into the air. He was not there to offer her comfort, if comfort was what she needed in that moment.

Eventually, they arrived back in London. At first, Penelope had briefly considered returning to her own flat in Hyde Park (and risk passing along potentially life-threatening germs to her roommate). In the end, though, it only took a few passing words for Colin to convince her to choose the far more responsible, CDC-advised option of quarantining in his flat for the next two weeks.

Now, they’re sitting in traffic in the backseat of a cab.

Now, he’s placing a hand over hers, silently urging her to stop picking at her own fingernails.

Now, her head is falling on his shoulder, exhausted by the events of the last 24 hours.

Now, he’s regrettably pulling her back into the realm of consciousness and out into the cold.

Now, he’s holding a door open for her.

Now, he’s carrying their luggage into a lift.

Now, they’re home.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 3

When Penelope packed her suitcase Tuesday night, she had packed for five days in Paris. For walking along the Seine and marvelling masterpieces and conducting interviews at the Notre Dame restoration. She had not packed for fourteen days in Colin’s flat.

There are exactly two sets of pyjamas that Penelope deems comfortable and appropriate enough to wear in his vicinity — everything else has been banished to her luggage, where it will remain for the rest of her stay here. Thankfully, Colin, the ever-dutiful host, offered her a variety of alternatives from his own closet upon their arrival.

His t-shirts are okay, but tend to sit too snuggly on her chest to meet the “appropriate” requirements of her self-appointed dress code. His flannels are better — loose and soft and always a nice shade of blue or green. His jumpers are her favourite, though — even if the weather creeping in from outside is slightly too warm for such attire.

(She doesn’t have much choice when it comes to bottoms. Even when rolled up three-fold, his sweatpants and pyjama bottoms are too much of a tripping hazard. She’ll be wearing basketball shorts for the remainder of her time here, it seems.)

She’s wearing his burgundy jumper today — the same one she wore yesterday. Like yesterday, she’s spent almost all of her time on the big blue couch in his living room, watching the news, distracting herself with a movie, and/or doom-scrolling on her phone. Colin has been on the other end of the couch through most of that time, but he currently happens to be in the kitchen. From the faint sounds carrying in from down the hall, she can tell that he’s putting a kettle on and has Benedict on speakerphone.

It isn’t until this very moment that Penelope realises that Colin is the best distraction of them all. As soon as he left her line of sight, her mind began to wander to everything she cannot see, but worries deeply about.

Like her three-week-old niece, Poppy. Her sisters. Her mum. Getting an unexpected call from her mum. Getting an unexpected call from her editor. Her article. Whether or not she’ll have a job by the time the world returns to normal. The world, whether or not it will ever return to normal. Hospitals. Doctors. Nurses. Children. Little Auggie and even littler Blair. Daphne. Eloise. Colin. Herself. The ever-tenuous state of their friendship. The likelihood that it will survive the next fourteen —

“Pen.”

She literally jumps from her spot, having been too consumed by her thoughts to hear Colin walk back into the room. He’s standing before her with a cup of tea in his hand and a humorous look in his eye. After passing her the mug, he asks where her head just was.

“Everywhere,” she jokes. Even if it isn’t exactly a joke.

“I —”

“Did you get any information out of your brother?” she interrupts. This is closer to a joke.

A few days before the pandemic was officially declared, Benedict saw the warning signs and fled the city to stay with a “friend” in Southampton. Beyond that, the details of his current whereabouts are unknown. (Despite his siblings’ incessant interrogations on the subject.)

“Nope.”

“What’s the current theory? New girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

Colin chuckles into his mug. “The jury’s hung,” he tells her. “But whatever type of friend they are, knowing Benedict, there are benefits involved.”

Preemptively hiding the blush that is surely about to appear on her cheeks, Penelope raises her cup and takes a sip of her tea. Milk and honey, just the way she likes it.

“Well, wherever he may be, it was nice of him to lend me his room to sleep in while he’s gone.”

Colin doesn’t say anything to that, but nods his head lightly in agreement.

When a palpable quiet settles between them, Penelope realises that Colin had turned the news off while she had been lost in thought. Instinctually, her free hand wraps around the remote control sitting on the coffee table in front of them. Before she can hit the power button, though, Colin’s hand appears out of nowhere and plucks it out of her grip.

“Let’s not,” he says dismissively. He then tosses the remote onto the armchair in the back corner of the room.

“Why —”

“The news is so depressing. Let’s take a break and properly enjoy our tea.” With that, he clinks his mug against the one Penelope’s barely hanging onto.

“What difference does it make?” she asks, standing to retrieve the discarded remote. “Everything is depressing. One cup of tea isn’t going to change that.”

Usually, Penelope is not so quick to voice such blatant negativity aloud (especially in Colin’s presence), but these are unprecedented times.

Just as her pointer finger hovers over the little red button, the remote slips from her grasp once again. Standing now, Colin slides it into the pocket of his grey sweatpants. Though these may be unprecedented times, there is nothing in this world that could deliver Penelope the confidence (or madness) to try and retrieve it from there. Instead, she sits back down with a huff.

“Sit in silence, then?”

Lowering himself to the cushion next to hers, Colin begins to chuckle — an act Penelope deems wildly inappropriate, given its time, place, and irritated audience.

“What are you —”

“What exactly, Pen, is so depressing about your current situation?”

She looks at him wide-eyed and gaping, needing a moment to answer such an obvious, impossible question.

“In case you forgot, the world is falling ap—”

“No. I didn’t ask what’s wrong with the world. What’s so depressing about your life right now? What’s troubling you, Pen?”

She needs another moment to answer this question, but instead of staring at Colin, she turns away. She takes note of her surroundings.

She’s sitting on a big blue couch with her favourite person. She’s safe, healthy, and teetering on the edge of insanity. Knowing all the misery happening in the world outside this flat…

She shrugs. “Nothing, I suppose.”

Colin barks out a singular, disbelieving chuckle. “Well that’s not true.”

“I have empathy, Colin,” she shoots back. “I’m allowed to be upset about the state of the world, even if I’m not personally impacted.”

“What do you mean you’re not ‘impacted?’ The whole world shut down, everyone is impacted.”

“I know, but…”

It’s only after her voice trails off that Colin continues, “We were supposed to be in Paris today. Now we’re stuck in my flat and fighting over whether or not to watch the incredibly depressing news. You are allowed to be troubled, Pen.”

After a few seconds mulling over his words…

“Being stuck in a flat in London is different than — you know — dying from a mysterious illness that didn’t exist until a few months ago.”

“I know,” Colin insists, humour finally wiped clean off his face. “But you don’t have to be in active peril to be sad about your current circumstances. You selflessly refusing to moan about a missed holiday won’t resolve anyone else’s suffering.”

She doesn’t quite know what to say to that. “Are you sad about your current circumstances?” is what she eventually settles on.

He takes a moment before responding. His eyes roam, seeming to point in every direction but to her own.

“Mixed. I’m sad about our trip getting cut short so abruptly. I would prefer to be in Paris than London today. I’m happy I get to spend more time with you than originally planned.”

Resisting the urge to fester on the last part of his statement for a single second, Penelope simply says, “I thought you didn’t like Paris.”

From his spot one cushion over, Colin squints in that way that makes his blue eyes look grey.

“I don’t remember telling you that.”

“I don’t think you did,” she realises out loud. Absentmindedly, she places her mug down on the table. “But, you know… I edited every single one of your pieces back then. I suppose it just stuck out to me at the time, how it seemed less…”

She tilts her head upward, searching her brain for the right word. When she glances back to Colin, his eyes are round and blue again.

“It just, um, seemed less enthusiastic than your writing on other destinations.”

“I —”

“Not that it was any less lovely to read,” she adds with a quiet, nervous laugh. “Just different in tone.”

“Regardless…” He sighs, and the corners of his mouth tick upward just a little. “I was excited to revisit it. And to see you see it for the first time.”

“I’m sad about missing Paris, too,” she finally admits. “Even if being with you here instead of there isn’t so bad.”

Before she can process that it’s even happening, Colin is hugging her. His arms are wrapped around her back. Her lips are pressed into his shoulder. Her heart is beating so quickly that she fears he can feel it against his own chest.

“Paris will be there when this is all over,” he mumbles into her hair. “We can always go back.”

She wants to tell him how hard that future is for her to imagine. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything, answering instead with a tiny nod against his shoulder. When her nose brushes against the fabric of his t-shirt, she’s reminded of the true reason why she loves his jumpers so.

For as long as she can remember, Colin has always smelt the same. Like fresh grass, “unscented” bar soap, and the faintest hint of sweat. Like home.

That scent tends to stick around on jumpers like the one she’s been wearing for the past two days.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 5

Eyes too alert to find sleep, Colin turns his gaze from the ceiling to the alarm clock on his left. The bright red display informs him that it is just after midnight.

Turning towards the wall and away from those taunting numbers, Colin thinks over the last few days. He thinks of Penelope’s stay here. He thinks of the good — the talking, the closeness, the making up for lost time. He thinks of the not-so-good — the world outside, the worry that keeps creeping up her face, his inability to keep his desires at bay while she remains so close.

That last point weighs the heaviest on his mind. It’s the reason he’s currently awake and restless in bed.

On that night in Paris, he came so close to acting on his physical desires for Penelope. He was seconds away from kissing her in the moonlight, he realises in hindsight. He was so close to risking it all while drunk on wine and the perfect curve of her lips so close to his. Then, like a sign sent directly from God (or perhaps the CDC), the world came crashing down around them.

Now, Colin can’t risk it all. He couldn’t possibly put Penelope in that position — not when she’s forced to remain here with him for the next nine days. But having her so close to him at all times of the day…

It’s difficult. It’s good in so many ways, but it’s also difficult. There’s no escaping your feelings for someone when they are never more than a few footsteps away from you. Penelope is wearing his clothes every day and sleeping on the other side of his wall every night. Colin is growing restless, but as much sleep as he may lose over his desires…

He can’t risk it all now. As much as he wants to.

After a few more minutes turning over and over in bed, Colin lifts his head from his pillow. He hears something new emanating from the darkness.

Footsteps.

He listens as the tentative creaking noises get louder and softer, walking past his bedroom door, then away from it. Curious and alarmingly awake, Colin extricates his body from his sheets, pulls the first t-shirt he can find over his head, then heads in the same direction as those footsteps.

Penelope is in the kitchen. Her body is turned away from him and towards the kettle on the stove. The room is dark; her figure is outlined by the stove light that’s illuminating next to nothing. She must have not heard him coming, because she literally jumps around when he whispers her name from the doorway.

“Oh — Colin! Sorry,” she sputters out. She points her thumb behind her, towards the kettle. “I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to — Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” He steps across the precipice, leaning against the sink so his body stands about a metre away from Penelope’s. “I would have needed to find sleep to begin with for that to be possible.”

“Is there a lot on your mind?”

Colin doesn’t know how to answer that question truthfully. Yes, there was a lot on his mind keeping him awake tonight. No, not in the way Penelope had intended the question.

(She had not intended to ask if he had been too horny to fall asleep tonight.)

In the end, he simply shrugs and blames “the usual bout of insomnia” for his presence in this dimly-lit kitchen.

Penelope mumbles something that sounds like, “I thought that was my thing,” before turning back to her original task. As she pulls out two mugs from the cabinet, Colin clears his throat.

“What was keeping you up tonight?”

“Oh. You know…”

She doesn’t expand on her words. She keeps her eyes pointed on the kettle, patiently waiting for it to whistle. Colin lasts about 10 seconds before opening his mouth again.

“I’m glad you’re here, Pen. Even if the circumstances that forced you into my flat aren’t ideal.”

He’s not exactly sure what prompted him to say that. When Penelope finally turns to look him in the eye again, he can tell that she shares his curiosity. Before she can ask, though, he continues on.

“I feel like we’re making up for lost time. You know… After spending 90% of the last five years on separate continents.”

“Oh, Colin,” she says, and Colin cannot recall ever hearing two words uttered so sadly in his lifetime. “There is no ‘lost’ time to make up for. Not when we spent nearly every day of those five years communicating in one way or another.”

“That’s not the same,” he insists. “And after putting up with all of the emails and voicemails and other random shit I send you on a daily basis, I think this was long overdue.”

Penelope breaks their eye contact, shaking her head lightly as she turns her gaze downwards. With her voice barely above a whisper, she says, “I don’t ‘put up’ with anything.” Then, louder, “But while we’re on the subject, I did want to ask you about those emails.”

“Oh, yeah?” he needles, feeling cheekier than he has since stepping foot into this room.

“Yeah. It’s just… Between your articles and those emails, when do you have the time to actually go out into the world and gather material for them? It seems like all you do is write.”

“It’s quite simple, really. I experience the world during the day and write about it at night.”

“When do you manage to sleep, then?”

“Oh. I don’t.” He raises his arms in gesture to the darkness around them. “That’s the trick.”

Penelope’s laughter coincides with the kettle’s whistle. After handing him his mug, she takes a step back — a step further than she was just a moment ago.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty about being away from home so often,” she tells him. “For me or for anyone. Travelling — that’s your passion. You’re lucky to have found it at such a young age. You should hold onto it with both hands.”

Suddenly feeling at a loss for words, Colin nods into his cup. The water is hot, and yet his sip is long.

He can’t recall a single time over the last twenty-seven years that he has ever disagreed with Penelope as strongly as he does in this very moment.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 7

“Go fish.”

“Christ, Penelope. We’re friends — could you drop the poker face, just once?”

She laughs into her remaining two cards.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

They play for a few more minutes before Penelope secures her third win of the night. When Colin flips his remaining ten cards over and discards them on the coffee table, she can’t help but notice that they’re all hearts and diamonds — red cards, only.

Standing suddenly, Colin rakes a hand through his hair and walks over to the cabinet on the other side of the room. “Let’s switch to a game that I actually have a chance at winning,” he mutters, his back turned towards her.

As he searches through a pile of board games, Penelope fishes her phone out of the couch cushions behind her. In the time it had taken for them to play three rounds of Go Fish, she had received several notifications.

One text from Eloise, asking if Colin has driven her mad yet. A few news updates with death tolls, outbreak reports, and other awful, unimaginable statistics she’s now receiving on an hourly basis. At least a dozen messages from her family group chat, the last of which came from her mum, about a minute ago.

It’s awful. Being stuck in this giant house all by myself.

“Scrabble?”

Penelope’s head whips up to find Colin presenting the big burgundy box in the air.

“Oh, um… I don’t know. Perhaps another night?”

After throwing her a sarcastic scowl, Colin puts the Scrabble box away, walks over, and plops back down on the spot on the rug opposite Penelope.

“Something wrong?” he asks her.

Without meaning to, her eyes dip down to her phone screen.

“‘No,” she lies. “It’s just… Doesn’t it feel kind of weird to be playing games right now?”

“Now? As in… The end of the world?”

“I wish you would stop calling it that.” She sighs. “But yes.”

“I quite literally cannot think of a better time to sit around playing games.”

Penelope can’t help but roll her eyes slightly, because of course he can’t.

“I don’t know.” Her gaze unconsciously drops to the phone in her lap again. “It just feels sort of… wrong. Like I can’t have a bit of fun without being reminded of how awful it is for everyone else in the world.”

When she eventually summons the strength to look up again, Colin’s face is marked by concern. His eyes bear into hers.

“I —”

“Pen, you cannot hold your own happiness hostage for the sake of others. There’s no good that can come from forcing yourself to be miserable.”

Not for the first time in her life, Penelope is struck by how good Colin is at making life seem so much simpler than it really is. But while her instincts typically lead her to either challenge his revisionist view of reality or simply brush his words away, right now, she’s tempted to believe him. She’s tempted to buy into his bullshit.

“You’re so wise for someone who just lost so badly at Go Fish.”

“Thanks, Pen.” He laughs, then picks up the deck of cards still sitting atop the table between them. “Rematch?”

Tossing her phone out of sight somewhere on the couch behind her, Penelope smiles.

“Your funeral, Bridgerton.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 9

“What are you watching?”

Penelope’s eyes dart from the TV to Colin, then back to the TV. On the screen, Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal are walking through Central Park on an orange Autumn day.

“You don’t know what movie this is?”

Plopping down on the cushion next to hers, Colin shrugs and shakes his head. Penelope can instantly tell that he isn’t being facetious, but after growing up with four sisters, she can hardly believe he can’t name this movie. (Though she may claim otherwise, even Eloise enjoys the occasional romcom.)

“You really don’t know When Harry Met Sally?”

Colin shrugs again, an eager smirk now rising on his lips.

“Should I?”

After pausing the moving, Penelope turns to give Colin her full attention. She’s about to say “Yes,” and inform him of just how ridiculous it is that he’s never seen it before. But at the last second, she hesitates.

“I don’t know.”

“You ‘don’t know?’” he echoes, clearly baffled by her sudden lack of conviction.

“Well, I love this movie, but I can’t claim to be unbiased. I grew up watching it. If I were to watch it for the first time now… I don’t know. I think I might find the premise a bit…”

She quickly glances away from Colin and towards the ceiling, searching her brain for the right word.

“Outdated.”

“Outdated?”

“Yes. And perhaps a bit… sexist.”

“Good god,” Colin laughs. “What exactly is this amazing, outdated, sexist about?”

Penelope's lips remain sealed tightly shut for a moment, simultaneously fighting off a nervous laugh and a deep red blush.

“Well…” she finally manages to get out. “Perhaps ‘sexist’ isn’t the right word. It’s about two people — Harry and Sally — who meet and eventually become friends and eventually fall in love. And it’s a great movie — really. But the film revolves around this idea that men and women can’t be friends. Which is,” she gulps, “obviously not true.”

“Why can’t women and men be friends?”

“Well, obviously they —”

“According to the movie, I meant.”

Her lips stitch shut again. She simply cannot bring herself to voice aloud the movie’s thesis statement — that sexual attraction will always get in the way. Even if that statement is outdated, sexist, and objectively not true for the average opposite sex friendship…

It’s not exactly irrelevant in this friendship.

“Instead of having me explain the plot summary to you for the next 90 minutes, why don’t we just watch it? You know — so you can form your own opinion on the matter.”

“I happen to like it when you explain the movie to me. But fine.” He sighs with great, dramatic force. “Let’s watch it.”

Exactly ninety-five minutes later, Colin agrees that while it may be a fantastic movie, the premise is bullshit.

“I mean — if you and Benedict weren’t such good friends, you might not have had a bed to sleep in this past week.”

“Yeah.” Penelope forces out a quick laugh. “I don’t know where I would be without my best friend, Benedict Bridgerton.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 10

Despite sharing this flat with Benedict for over two years, due to their respective chaotic schedules, Colin hasn’t actually spent much time living here with another human being. That’s why he didn’t realise just how thin his walls are until about ten days ago.

Now, ten days into Penelope’s extended stay here, Colin has developed an automatic response to the sound of her phone ringing. Unfortunately, he can’t always find his headphones quick enough to avoid accidentally eavesdropping on those conversations. Like when his sister rang.

“God, El. Stop being so dramatic. I swear I am here on my own free will.”

…

“Well, I’m sure his hygiene has improved since you last lived with him.”

Or Penelope’s editor.

“She licked a toilet seat? Well, that’s um — That’s certainly interesting. But I struggle to see how we can frame that as an actual piece of news.”

Or her mum.

“It’s fine. No, I —”

…

“It’s only temporary, mum. I’ll come home soon. Once it’s safe.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 12

Twelve days into lockdown, meals have taken on new meaning for Penelope — a way to mark the passage of time.

Time itself has lost nearly all meaning. Seconds last for an eternity. Hours pass by like nothing. Days bleed into one another with no substantive markers. Fridays feel like Tuesdays. Everyday feels like Tuesday, actually.

Meals are now the only markers of time that feel real to Penelope. But as the food in Colin’s fridge and pantry starts to dwindle, the separation between breakfast, lunch, and dinner are becoming blurred.

Tonight, they’re eating eggs, baked beans, and a single microwavable pizza for dinner.

“You know…” Colin mumbles, chewing incessantly on his crust (which in Penelope’s opinion, has a texture similar to that of her leather purse). “In two days, we can venture back into the land of the living and get some proper food.”

Penelope mumbles something in agreement, pushing around the beans on her plate with the prongs of her fork. Her mind is wandering elsewhere.

Do you want to be a burden, Penelope?

“Pen?”

“Hmm?” Her head whips up suddenly, eyes finally meeting Colin’s after several minutes of focusing downward.

“Is something wrong?”

Yes.

“No.”

Colin isn’t buying her bullshit. She can see it in the look he throws her now.

“I’m just —” She sighs, mulling over her own words. “Just thinking about what’s going to happen in two days, when our quarantine period is up.”

“Oh,” Colin says, shoulders visibly relaxing. “Well, Benedict isn’t coming back to the city anytime soon. And Lord knows my trip to Kyoto isn’t happening anytime soon. You can stay here as long as you like.”

Penelope opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. There was a weight on her chest before. It’s lighter now, but still overwhelming.

Filling the interim silence between them, Colin leans back in his chair and chuckles softly.

“I mean, you can go back to Hyde Park and kill the endless expanse of time sitting around doing nothing with your roommate. But wouldn’t you rather sit around here and do nothing with your best friend?”

Not ready to address the main bit, Penelope smiles, crinkles her nose, and says, “Don’t let Eloise hear you claiming yourself as my best friend. I don’t need another Bridgerton bloodbath on my hands.”

He barks out a laugh.

“We can speak freely here. She doesn’t have my flat bugged.”

“That you know of.”

“Regardless… Can you really deny my claim?”

His words are delivered casually enough, but they don’t feel that way to Penelope. Not after spending so much of her life struggling to attach those two words to Colin in her mind and in her heart. Even if she probably should.

Best friend. There’s nothing that comes after that.

Penelope scoops a fork-full of beans into her mouth.

“I would… If I didn’t know any better. You two are so competitive. And you both seem to be under the incorrect assumption that a person can only have one best friend.”

Still chewing on that pizza crust, Colin’s eyes suddenly narrow.

“You call Eloise your best friend all the time,” he says simply. He doesn’t sound quite as casual as he had a moment ago. His voice is edged with annoyance.

Penelope scoops up another fork-full of beans. She’s stalling for time, trying to think of a better excuse than, “It’s easier to call someone your best friend when you’re not also madly in love with them.” In the end, she lands on…

“You know how annoying you get about this subject? Eloise would be a thousand times more annoying if the roles were reversed.”

He shrugs at that, because while it may be a dirty excuse, it’s also 100% true.

“Regardless… The world isn’t going back to normal in two days. If you have to be stuck somewhere, selfishly, I hope it’s in this flat.”

Penelope’s eyes turn away from him again — towards the clock on the stovetop that means so little to her these days. She can feel the blush rising in her cheeks. She can feel it in her chest and in her heart. It’s hard to really accept his words, though, as her mother’s voice still echoes through her mind.

Do you want to be a burden, Penelope?

No. Of course she doesn’t.

“I don’t want to impose,” she tells him, her eyeline unable to raise any higher than the stubble on his chin.

“You wouldn’t be.”

He sounds less humorous, less charming than he had just a moment ago. His voice is serious, which — despite the very serious events unfolding in the world lately — is a rare occurrence these days.

“You could never. Not with me.”

Just like that, the subject is dropped. Neither one of them picks it up again when the official 14-day quarantine endpoint comes and goes.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 17

After getting off a nearly hour-long phone call with Benedict (an ultimately fruitless endeavour to obtain the details of his brother’s extended stay in Southampton), Colin exits his bedroom with the intention to join Penelope on the big blue couch.

She doesn’t notice him walk into the room. She’s faced away from him, back against the armrest, headphones blasting music loud enough for him to hear it from his doorway. Her laptop is resting precariously on her knees, her fingers rampantly dancing across her keyboard. She barely looks up when he plops himself on the cushion next to hers.

“Hey,” she says half-heartedly, pulling one earbud out.

“What are you working on?”

“Work.” Just as quickly as the word leaves her mouth, she shuts her laptop.

“Did you ever decide on a narrative for your Notre Dame article?”

“Oh. God no.” She laughs lightly, scrunching her nose. “That article was shelved the second that the pandemic was declared.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I guess.” She shrugs. “But there are more important things for people to read about these days than reconstruction efforts on some old church.”

Colin scoffs. Literally.

“Did you just refer to the Cathedral of Notre Dame as ‘some old church?’”

“You know what I mean. Public concern has shifted over the last few weeks. That story isn’t exactly relevant anymore. Plus, I never even got to see the restoration efforts firsthand.”

“Okay…” Colin shuffles in his seat, raking a hand through his hair as he considers her words. “Even if it isn’t ‘relevant’ right now — what about when this is all over? That ‘old church’ survived over 800 years before this for a reason. People will always care about Notre Dame. There will always be a story to tell there.”

Penelope shrugs again. She’s wearing his green cable knit sweater, arms crossed in front of her with just the tips of her fingers peeking out of the sleeves. She’s tucked into the corner of the big blue couch, looking like she’s about to disappear into it.

“Maybe one day. But right now, it’s hard to imagine everything going back to normal.”

Colin considers her words for a few seconds.

“Well, maybe not everything will go back to how it once was, but the important things will. The things meant to last will last, even through fires and viruses and other disasters.”

From her spot in the corner, Penelope’s eyes narrow. “When did you get so wise?” she asks, only half sarcastically.

“Always have been,” he gloats, a smile overpowering his lips. “Took you long enough to notice.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 19

After several minutes (possibly hours) staring at a blank screen, Penelope shuts her laptop with a huff. She blinks several times, practically feeling the blue light still stinging her eyeballs. She scrunches her eyes shut completely, needing at least a few seconds of calming darkness.

For as long as she can remember, writing has offered Penelope an escape. Writing a story — gripping a pen in her hands and deciding what came next — offered her a sense of control in times when she felt no such thing in her real life. That control is an addiction of sorts — one most would be wise not to stake their careers around. Thankfully, Penelope’s career has yet to take away her passion for it.

She loves being a writer, but it’s hard on days like today when the words just don’t come. When both the escape and the control slip away from you, and the only thing you can blame for that loss is your own brain.

At least she has a different distraction readily available to her these days.

When she opens her eyes, she finds that Colin is still staring at his laptop screen on the other side of the couch. He isn’t doing much typing, though, so she doesn’t feel too bad about interrupting him.

“Hey.”

She nudges his bare shin with her sock-clad foot. He smiles softly as he pulls his headphones out and meets her gaze.

“Are you busy with something?”

“Too busy for you? Never.”

With that, he shuts his laptop and practically throws it onto the coffee table next to hers.

“God,” Penelope mutters under her breath, almost caught off guard by his charming ways after all these years.

“Nothing. Just… bored.”

Colin’s smile turns to a flat out smirk.

“And you want me to do something about that?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, fighting off a blush. “Can you tell me a travel story? One I haven’t heard before?”

Humming, Colin looks up to the ceiling, seemingly racking his brain to find such a thing. Then, he looks to the window. Then, to the coffee table. Then, finally, back to her.

“I don’t know if there are any, Pen. I think you’ve heard all of my stories already.”

“What about Prague? Anything you left out of your emails?”

“No,” he says softly, eyes still darting back and forth, searching for some memory to dig up. “On my way to the airport, my Uber got rear ended.”

“Yeah, I know.” Penelope breaks into a fit of giggles. “I was on the phone with you when it happened. I could hear them arguing in Czech in the background.”

Colin begins to chuckle.

“Oh, right.”

“Okay… So if I already know everything about your old trips, maybe you can tell me about your future endeavours. Any plans for when the end of the world ends?”

Penelope expects Colin to continue chuckling. She expects him to say something like “Greece” or “Kyoto.” But he doesn’t.

He frowns.

“I don’t know, honestly.” He looks away from her for a few seconds, towards the window. “I don’t see myself travelling for a while.”

Penelope nods sympathetically, suddenly annoyed with herself for asking such a silly question.

“That makes sense,” she says, voice tentative. “They said this would be all over in two weeks, but —”

“No, not because of COVID. I’ve actually been ready to pause my travels for a while.”

He says those words so casually. A few seconds pass before they fully register in Penelope’s brain. When they do, it feels as though all of the air has been sucked from her lungs.

“What?” is all she can manage to get out in her current breathless condition. Colin, for his part, remains casual.

“Japan was the last trip I had planned, and that certainly isn’t happening anymore, so…”

They sit in silence for a moment. Penelope waits for him to expand. Colin waits for her to ask him to. In the end, it’s she who loses the game of chicken.

“Why didn’t you plan anything past Japan?”

If she recalls correctly, he was supposed to remain in the country for approximately three months. She’s seen his calendar; he usually plans out his calendar a year in advance.

“Well, that trip was meant to end in June, which also happens to be the five-year mark for my travels abroad.” He shrugs innocently. “Five years seems like a good marker for change. I was thinking about maybe taking a year off travelling.”

“A year?” Penelope mutters dumbly, not really meaning to. The notion seems impossible to her. Between Eton, Cambridge, and his travels…

Colin hasn’t lived an entire year in London in over a decade. Not since he was sixteen and she was fourteen. Not since they were two completely different people.

“Yeah. I love travelling, but it’s also fucking exhausting. Especially at the rate I’ve been doing it the past five years. I…” He takes a breath. “I just need to stay put for a while. I’m sick of spending more time away from home than in it.”

When he goes quiet, Penelope nearly jumps at the chance to fill the air between them with her words. But something in Colin’s eye tells her that he’s not quite finished. That he has something else that he desperately wants to say.

“I don’t want my life to continue running parallel to the lives here at home.”

“Oh, Colin,” she says, her miserable words spilling from her mouth before she can stop them. Her mind is elsewhere, recalling something she said a lifetime ago on a night in December.

Those people who made up your entire world when you were younger are still there, but their lives aren’t intertwined with yours like they used to be. It’s more like they’re running parallel.

“I —” she starts, but Colin interrupts. His face looks lighter than it had a moment ago.

“Don’t be too sad about my indefinite return home for longer than usual, Pen. This —”

“I’m not! I —”

“— was always going to happen. A man can’t travel forever.”

“I — I know,” she sputters out. “But the — the parallel lines thing… You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself about not living in London full time. I mean — look at your family! Eloise and Francesca are both in Scotland now. Daphne practically lives in Hastings year round. Benedict spends even less time in this flat than y—”

“I know, Pen.”

Before she can say another word, Colin moves from the edge of the couch to the cushion right next to hers. She remains wedged in her corner as he raises his hand and gives her shoulder a gentle, familiar squeeze.

“It’s not like I’m never going to travel again. I just can’t keep up with the constant state of being away. I wouldn’t want to, even if I could. I want to be here. I don’t want to miss another holiday or be that uncle that Auggie and Blair only see one a year. I —”

His words stop impossibly short. He gives Penelope a long, wavering look before continuing.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before?”

It takes her a moment to find her voice. Eventually, she says something that sort of sounds like, “Of course.”

He sits in the silence an extra moment, as if still debating whether or not he wants to actually share his secret aloud. It’s an unnerving site for Penelope to behold on Colin’s face, of all things. But as a lifelong expert in bullshit…

She understands.

“My dad died almost eighteen years ago. Which is really fucking weird to think about at twenty-seven, knowing that I’ve spent more than two-thirds of my life without him there. But even knowing that…”

He takes a breath.

“At every major life event — every wedding or birthday or whatever — I just keep waiting for my dad to walk through the door and join the rest of us. Like he’s supposed to.”

His lips part to let out something that sort of sounds like a laugh.

“Is that strange?”

Although she feels at a complete loss for words, Penelope pushes herself to say anything aloud. To sit in this silence would be too painful.

“No. Of course not.”

“I just — I don’t want anyone to feel that way about me. Not while I’m alive, at least.”

Penelope literally gasps. She can’t stop herself.

“Colin —”

“Sorry.” He chuckles. “That was dramatic.”

“No, I — That’s not —”

Penelope shakes her head slightly, trying desperately to make sense of everything Colin told her in the last few minutes. To find the proper words to respond to them with.

“If you want to make this change for yourself, then you should do that. You should do whatever it is that makes you happy. But if it’s just for your family, or for —”

“It’s for me, Pen,” he interrupts. “Trust me. I — I’m tired of feeling homesick.”

Penelope begins to nod. She tries to muster up a smile. She uses these brief seconds of quiet to mull over his words again. To actually envision a reality where Colin isn’t away from her most of the year. She tries not to get too excited. She tries not to get too overwhelmed.

“What do you think you’ll do with all the time you usually spend travelling?”

“Ideally, I would like to get started on a book.”

Penelope smiles at this. Colin laughs.

“Sounds strange to say that out loud.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Colin.”

“Yeah?” he teases, his smirk suddenly making a reappearance. “You don’t think my plans are a bit mad?”

“A bit.” She laughs softly. “But that’s the best type.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 21

Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope sees her mum’s name and picture pop up on her phone. She turns the screen over — out sight, but not out of mind — by the second buzz. Turning her attention back to the TV screen ahead, she sighs.

Before Sunrise was probably not the wisest choice of movies to watch with Colin tonight. But she had never seen it before and the plot sounded intriguing, so she was willing to put herself in the uncomfortable position of watching a romantic movie with her platonic friend. (After all, they made it through When Harry Met Sally last week relatively unscathed.) She had not expected it to be this romantic, though.

When her phone starts buzzing again, Penelope clears her throat.

“Have you ever done anything like this?”

“What?”

She nods her head towards the screen ahead. Towards the two young lovers sitting on the steps of a statue in Vienna.

“You know… Met a stranger on a train and ran off to explore a city together.”

Colin reaches forward to grab the remote control and pause the movie. When he turns to look at her, his expression is made up of disbelief.

“No,” he says, with the same tone someone would use after being asked if they’ve ever sprouted wings and flown to the moon.

“This —” He points a finger towards the screen. “— only happens in movies. If I asked a woman on her way to Paris to get off with me in Vienna, she’d have me thrown off the train.”

“My question was not that ridiculous,” Penelope contends. “You spend more time on trains than anyone else I know. You’re certainly better at making friends out of strangers than anyone else. I think this —” She shoots her index finger towards the screen. “— is the exact type of situation you would find yourself in.”

Colin shakes his head, then settles his gaze on the TV again.

“Those sorts of ‘friends’ don’t compare to the real kind. From my experience, you need to know a person a long time before you can stay up until sunrise talking about nothing together.”

Before Penelope can say anything else, Colin hits play. She doesn’t speak again for another seven minutes. Not until the lovers part and a gentle melody fills the room.

“What was Vienna like? In real life, I mean.”

“Beautiful,” he answers, after some thought. “Also very cold, but I suppose that was my fault for visiting it in December.”

“You think?” she teases.

“Yeah.” He chuckles, wiping his brow with the palm of his hand in boyish fashion. “I think I’d like to go back one day, in a warmer climate.” A beat passes before he tells her, “I think you would like Vienna.”

Penelope feels a sudden rush of longing in the core of her chest. An image of the Eiffel Tower sparkling at midnight flashes before her.

“I think I’d like to go anywhere,” she says, sounding more glum than she had intended. It isn’t until the words leave her mouth that Penelope realises just how badly her words could be taken by Colin.

“Not that I’m not enjoying —”

“Come on,” he interrupts, standing up from the couch with his hand extended towards her. Penelope can only stare at his fingers for a moment.

“What — what are you doing?”

“Come on,” he says again. This time, he doesn’t wait for her to listen or react to his words. He takes her hand into his own and pulls her to a standing position. “Let’s act like we’re in Vienna. Or Paris. Or — wherever, as long as it’s not this little flat in London.”

“I —”

Somewhere in the background, movie credits start to roll and a more upbeat song starts to play.

“Come on,” he says a final time, pulling her around the coffee table so they stand together in the middle of his rug.

They’ve danced together a few times before. It’s far from a common occurrence, and yet, they’ve picked up a sort-of routine over the years. Unlike most dance routines, there are no specific steps or choreography for them to follow — it’s the speed and distance that’s become so familiar over the years.

It starts fast — two pairs of feet finding their footing to a song they’ve never heard before. It starts disconnected — their bodies joined only by their intertwined fingers. But then Colin drops one hand and spins her around with the other, and the routine shifts.

It’s slower now — two bodies swaying together to the beat of the music. It’s less disconnected too — her chest is pressed to his abdomen, one of his arms is snaked around her back. It’s different than it used to be, when they were teenagers and this felt more like a clusterfuck than a routine to Penelope. It’s easier now. More comfortable.

It’s still silly, but that doesn’t bother her like it used to.

After several moments staring into his chest, Penelope looks up. Colin was already looking down, but he quickly shifts his gaze to the side, towards the TV.

After clearing his throat, he asks if she liked the movie.

Penelope nods.

“Yes. You were right — it’s a bit of a fantasy. But I like fantasies.”

When Colin looks back to her, he has the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

“I liked Harry and Sally better,” he admits. “I’m not a big fan of ambiguous endings. It feels like a cop-out, leaving us wondering what happens next.”

Penelope furrows her brow, considering his words.

“I think there are times when ambiguous endings are fitting. But perhaps you should watch the next movie before you make up your mind on this story.”

“There’s a sequel?!”

Penelope cannot help but giggle.

“It’s a trilogy. Did you really not know —”

“Shh… No spoilers. I want to be surprised.”

Caught off guard by another round of giggles, Penelope unintentionally leans forward, even further into Colin’s chest. Her next words are nearly muffled by the cloth of his jumper.

“The last movie is when the zombies finally make an appearance.”

“Pen!”

They dance for another minute or two. As the music fades to nothing, Penelope swears she can hear phantom sounds of a phone buzzing. She does her best to ignore them, though, breathing in Colin’s scent one last time before letting go.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 24

Three weeks into sharing a flat with Penelope, Colin has become quite familiar with “the usual bout of insomnia.” Which, while troubling for several reasons, does have its perks.

Like all the late night tea breaks they’ve shared over the last three weeks.

When Colin hears the faint sounds of footsteps outside his door at 12:21 AM, he smiles. He pulls himself out of bed. He throws on his nearest shirt. He follows those footsteps down the hall.

Penelope must have heard him coming. There are two mugs sitting on the counter when he walks into the kitchen.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, leaning against the sink.

“Nope.”

She isn’t quite looking at him. She’s staring at the kettle like she’s willing it to whine.

“Something on your mind?”

She shrugs at that. She turns to look at him for a split second. She offers him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, as if that tiny gesture will ward off the question he’s about to ask her.

(It doesn’t.)

“Pen, are you o—”

“I’m fine,” she answers prematurely. “Just the usual bout of insomnia.”

Suddenly, Colin finds himself at a loss for words. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep he’s accumulated over the last three weeks. Perhaps it’s due to him ignoring so many of his other (more physical) instincts during that time. Perhaps it’s for some reason that Colin can’t pull out of the darkness right now… But he suddenly finds himself at a loss for how to act around Penelope.

He knows she’s lying to him. He knows there is something not fine going on with her. But Colin doesn’t know if he should push her on her secret or let it be.

While he stands there silently flailing, the kettle finally begins to whine. When Penelope hands him his mug, she’s standing taller than she was a moment ago. She’s looking him in the eye again.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before?” she asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

Though Colin still feels rather speechless, he somehow manages to mumble out an “Of course.”

Before she speaks again, a complicated look passes on Penelope’s face. It’s hard for him to read, with her face lit by nothing more than the tiny bulb on his stove, but it looks apprehensive — like she’s suddenly unsure of the secret she is about to confess.

“It’s just — It’s a family secret.” She laughs a little. “One I’ve never actually discussed with my family before, but…”

The mention of her family instantly raises alarm bells in Colin’s mind. In all their years of friendship, he has never known “family” to be a particularly happy subject for Penelope. But the last thing he wants to do is dissuade her from confessing what is so clearly weighing on her mind, so he tries to keep his face neutral.

“Your secrets are safe with me, Pen. Always.”

After one last moment of contemplation…

“My father didn’t actually die of a heart attack.”

What the fuck?

“Pen —”

“I mean — technically speaking, I suppose he did die of cardiac arrest. But I don’t think it’s exactly true to say someone ‘died of a heart attack’ when they also happened to have a few grams of cocaine in their system when they dropped dead.”

There are a million words currently running through Colin’s head — none of which he can string together into an appropriate response to the bombshell Penelope just handed him. But every millisecond that passes without response kills him. As his mouth hangs open, her eyes grow wider, and the silence between them gets louder, Colin feels it critical to say something. Anything. Anything but this silence.

“Did you say you’ve never discussed this with your family before?” might not have been the best thing to say… But it certainly was something.

Penelope shakes her head.

“On the morning that he died, mum told us it was a heart attack. And now that I think about it, no one’s really brought it up again in the last six years. But, um, right after he died, I overheard her whispering about it with Varley. After the funeral, I snuck into his study and found the autopsy report. And um…”

“Pen, that’s —”

“Bad. I know.” She laughs again, an awful sound. One that does not help the nausea currently building in Colin’s gut. “Saying it out loud, it sounds…”

She laughs. Again.

“Crazy.”

“It’s not crazy,” Colin says quickly. “It’s just — I don’t think that’s the sort of thing you should keep to yourself for six years. I —”

“I know,” she interjects, sounding more tired than anything else. “I think I stored it away in some hidden part of my brain for most of that time, though. It was surprisingly easy to ignore. For a while, at least.”

Colin still doesn’t quite know what the right thing to say is. But he says, “I’m glad you told me,” anyway.

They move to the big blue couch down the hall after that, sipping tea and talking about everything and nothing well into the hour of 2 AM. When he notices Penelope yawning for the third time in two minutes, he regrettably decides to wrap things up.

“Anything else you want to get off your chest? One member of the Dead Dads Club to another?”

“No.” She laughs for the final time that night. It’s so soft that it’s nearly inaudible, but at least it’s real. “You’ve done more than enough listening for one night. Thank you, Colin.”

He wants to tell her not to thank him for such a thing. He wants to tell her he would forgo sleep forever, if it meant he could stay awake listening to the sound of her voice. He wants to say so much, but before he can utter a single word, Penelope hugs him. It’s all shoulders and hands. It’s over too quick.

Without another word, Penelope disappears into Benedict’s bedroom. She shuts the door behind her.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 25

The last two days had been good.

Colin spent much of those two days waiting for Penelope’s good mood to shift suddenly. For her to frown at her phone or innocently ask if she can tell him a secret, only to reveal one of the most devastating pieces of information he has ever heard in his life just a moment later. But no.

The last two days had been good.

Colin made sourdough bread from scratch. Penelope won Scrabble twice. She also succeeded in uncovering the name of Benedict’s new friend in Southampton (Sophie). They watched Before Sunset. They watched When Harry Met Sally again, after Colin declared that he did, in fact, like that movie better.

The last two days had been good. So good, that Colin has finally stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. So good, that he doesn’t anticipate the utter gut punch he receives from Penelope now, at approximately 11:52 PM, when she utters eleven words into her mug.

“I’m going home, to my mum’s place, for a few days.”

For longer than he realises, Colin stands silent, tea already growing cold in the mug in his hand. Her words come back to him bit by bit.

Home.

Mum’s place.

A few days.

It’s April 5th — for the next few minutes, at least. In a few days…

“Your birthday,” Colin says dumbly, as if those three syllables provide a sensical response to what Penelope just said. Thankfully, she seems to catch his meaning.

“Yeah.” She shrugs, then forces a half-hearted smile onto her lips. “Mum and I will watch a movie or something. There will almost certainly be red wine involved. It might actually be… fun.”

Though her words reek of positivity, the look on Penelope’s face tells Colin that she posses about as much faith in that last word as he does.

(None.)

“We were gonna do that Zoom thing with my family.”

“I know,” Penelope mutters, a mix of guilt and regret flashing on her face. “We can still do that, just…”

“Just with me as one of the little faces on your screen?”

An inaudible, tragic gasp escapes her lips.

“Col—”

Belatedly hearing how needy he sounds, Colin takes a breath and rethinks his strategy.

“Sorry,” he interrupts. “I just — I know that you haven’t stayed at home in forever and I…” He takes another breath. “I don’t want you to have to go there, if you don’t want to.”

Lit by barely any light at all, Penelope’s eyes change as she keeps her gaze set on Colin. She looks sad. Almost angry. When she finally speaks, her voice is bizarrely calm.

“Philipa’s in Kent with the baby. Prudence ran off with her boyfriend in Bristol. No one else is here and…”

She takes a breath, one that threatens to break Colin’s resolve and bridge the one metre gap between them. It’s over before he can lift his left foot, though.

“I don’t want my mum to have to be alone right now. The past few weeks here have been… perfect. And I really can’t thank you enough for convincing me to stay here in the first place. But I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Penelope goes quiet, patiently looking up at him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. But he can’t. There’s one word echoing in his mind too loudly for him to conjure up anything even remotely sensical.

Home.

For Colin’s entire life, “home” meant a lot of things. The house on Grosvenor Street. Aubrey Hall. His parents. His siblings. The light at the end of a long journey.

“Home” meant a lot of things to Colin over the years, but the word has always been inextricably linked to happiness. After growing up together, after witnessing her avoid Grosvenor Street like the plague since she left for Cheltenham, after hearing her voice crack on that last word…

It kills him, but Colin knows “happiness” is not something Penelope has ever associated with “home.”

Penelope opens her mouth to say something. Anything. Anything to just break the silence. But Colin beats her to it.

“Please, don’t thank me for stealing you away from the rest of the world the last few weeks. Whatever you do next…”

He takes a breath.

“You deserve to be where you’re happy. If that means going back to your flat in Hyde Park, staying here, staying with your mum, stealing my car and driving to Scotland to see El…”

Another breath.

“Whatever it is, I just want you to —”

“This is what I want, Colin,” she promises. “With everything that’s going on right now, I just keep thinking about my father and…”

When her voice trails off, Penelope seems to notice the mug in her hand for the first time in several minutes. She takes a sip before continuing.

“I know it’s a bloody awful thing to say out loud, but I keep thinking about what would happen if my mum dropped dead tomorrow. I think it would kill me to know that I never even tried to make things better between us.”

Colin desperately wants to ask her if Portia Featherington is really someone worth trying for, knowing all the pain she has inflicted upon her youngest daughter over the last twenty-five years. But in the end, he holds his tongue on the matter. He doesn’t know what he can say to make anything better.

“So, uh… When would you be leaving?”

Penelope shrugs, lifting her mug to her lips again. “The morning after next, I think.”

Colin looks down at the mug currently gripped in his left hand, not wanting to look straight ahead anymore. When he raises it to his lips and takes the first sip, the tea is just barely holding onto its warmth.

“Right,” he says, eyes still cast downward.

She excuses herself to find some sleep shortly after. It isn’t until Colin watches her walk out of the kitchen and into the darkened hallway that it really hits him. That, not 36 hours from now, Penelope will leave his flat. That he has no idea when she’ll be back.

He can feel that revelation sinking in, upending his nerves and wrenching his heart. If the last 25 days have taught him anything, it’s this. Penelope is home to him, and that he’s fucking tired of feeling homesick.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 27

When Colin’s eyes first open Tuesday morning, his bedroom is still shrouded in darkness. He supposes it could still be the middle of the night, but when he turns on his side and catches those red, taunting lights, they inform him that the day is about to begin.

6:16 AM.

Groaning, Colin exits his sheets. He throws on the closest set of clothes (grey sweatpants and a burgundy Cambridge sweatshirt). He exits his bedroom with the intention of running straight to the fridge. But as soon as he swings open the door, his sluggish footsteps stop short.

Penelope’s sitting on the couch with her back turned to him. She’s looking out the window in wait for the sunrise — waiting for the grey London skyline to bleed into a slightly lighter shade of grey. After a few seconds of him silently standing in his doorway, she turns her head to look at him.

She smiles.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” he echos, stepping over to where she sits on the big blue couch. He plops down on the cushion next to hers. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

They sit in silence for a little while, twiddling their thumbs and flicking their eyes between the window and each other. When the room settles into the brightness of daylight, Colin turns his full attention on Penelope.

He has resisted many instincts over the last twenty-seven days. This morning — Penelope’s last morning here — he doesn’t even consider resisting his instinct to pull her in close. His arms wrap around her back and her chin settles on his shoulder.

Unprompted, he whispers “We’re gonna be okay” into her hair, which smells of honey. He hadn’t intended for those words to come out as a question, but he can’t help but hear them as such once committed to air.

Whether it's an answer or a concurrence, Penelope immediately nods into his shoulder.

“If you want to come back, Pen… The door is always open.”

“I know,” she mumbles into his sweatshirt.

Forty-seven minutes later, Colin watches Penelope walk out of his flat, leaving him alone for the first time in weeks. Leaving him with a sinking feeling that nothing will ever change between them.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

From the other end of the rug, Colin shoots Penelope an all too familiar look. His chin is tilted downward. His eyes are squinting slightly. The edges of a smirk are creeping up his lips.

He’s priming her, about to smooth talk his way into getting exactly what he wants. He’s expecting another battle. Another argument. A debate.

He’s wrong, of course. At this current moment in time, Penelope wants nothing less than to discuss the merits of another technicality.

“It —”

“Yes, fine. It counts,” she interrupts, hoping her words don’t deceive her interests too transparently.

“Really?” Colin asks, face breaking out into a full on grin.

“Yes. I mean, when a couple actually moves in together, at least they have the option to leave during the day to get away from each other. We were stuck in an 800 square foot box together for nearly a month straight — that has to count for something.”

“I like the way you think, Featherington.”

With that, Colin picks up his phone again.

#it is currently 5:05 am #its official #this fic has driven me to the point of insanity 😛#fanfiction #bridgerton #polin #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope x colin #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

16 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 6 months

Text

Ten Milestones (Interlude): Voicemails

Hi friends!

Another interlude chapter is ready for ya. It's quite different than our standard chapters, so... enjoy :)

Two quick notes:

1. This interlude spans the first five-ish years of Colin’s travels abroad. It starts after the events of Chapter 5 and will lead directly into next chapter.

2. Anytime “…” appears between paragraphs, it’s to indicate that the speaker is pausing for a few seconds.

June 9th, 2015 - 3:23 PM

To: colin ✈️

From: pen ✨✨

Hey! I wanted to call and make sure you landed safely. But I, uh —

[Laughter.]

I think I got the timing wrong. I think you’re still in the air. So just call me back whenever you do land.

…

I still can’t believe you’re really doing this. I mean —

[Nervous laughter.]

Obviously, I can believe it. I just — I can’t wait to hear all about it.

Bye, Colin.

~~~~~~~~~~

June 29th, 2015 - 7:07 AM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. I just emailed you a few pictures, but um —

[Laughter.]

Did you know there are like a million stray cats roaming around Athens? I swear, there’s at least one on every corner, popping his head out looking for food or attention. But I was just going for a run and — I swear to god — I saw the reincarnation of Mr. Whiskers pissing on an olive tree. This tiny grey fur ball looked up at me and —

…

Wait. Is Mr. Whiskers dead? He would be like twelve now, right? I —

…

Well… In the case that he’s still alive, I think I just saw his long lost Greek cousin. Professor Whiskers, maybe.

[Laughter.]

Alright, Pen. Talk soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

August 27th, 2015 - 2:13 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. Just saw your text. Yes, I landed safely. Yes, Madrid is beautiful. No, I have yet to try the paella — but I promise you’ll be the first to receive my review.

[Laughter.]

I’ll call you later once I get a bit more settled. Bye Pen.

~~~~~~~~~~

October 18th, 2015 - 9:20 PM

To: colin ✈️

From: pen ✨✨

Hey. I just finished reading over the Italy piece. It was good. Like, really good… But perhaps one too many cheese puns?

…

Anyway… Call me back when you have the chance. You still haven’t told me about Caffè Florian. [Laughter.] Do they even stock enough sugar for your tea?

…

Okay, well… Goodnight Colin.

~~~~~~~~~~

November 23rd, 2015 - 7:39 AM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen.

Sorry. I know it’s early. But I also know today is gonna be shit so, uh…

…

Call me later, if you can.

~~~~~~~~~~

December 16th, 2015 - 10:01 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. I’m calling from Paris and —

I don’t know why I said that. [Laughter.] Obviously you know I’m in Paris. But, I — I was just watching the tower light up and I had a sudden memory of you telling me you wanted to come here once and I…

…

I could be misremembering. [Faint laughter.] It was a while ago, I think. But I think you’d like it here. I’ll tell you all about it at that surprise Welcome Home/Birthday/Christmas Eve Party that I know absolutely nothing about.

Night, Pen. See you soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

February 14th, 2016 - 9:27 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. I hate to admit it, but I am only just now realising that time zones exist and that if it’s 9:30 in New York, it’s…

…

Shit. 2:30 in London.

I apologise for ringing you in the middle of the night —

Actually — no I don’t. If I recall correctly, you’re up writing or reading or procrastinating until at least 3 AM every night anyway. Please call me back ASAP with your own apology for dodging this very important phone call.

~~~~~~~~~~

April 7th, 2016 - 8:08 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. I’m on the train heading into Chicago. My computer just died, so I apologise in advance for the stream of consciousness bullshit I’m about to leave for you in this message. But, um…

There’s something about being on this train that has me thinking about travel and distance and —

Good god, this already sounds corny. Sorry. Bear with me a moment.

…

It wasn’t until I landed in New York that I realised just how far away from home I was. I looked it up, and the city was about five and a half thousand kilometres away from London. I mean — god. I remember being at Eton and thinking 35 kilometres was an insane distance.

In January, New York was the furthest place I had ever been from home. Then I went to Toronto, and that became the furthest place I had ever been from home. Now I’m heading into Chicago and —

I don’t know. There’s something about being on a train that’s making me hyper-aware of just how fast I’m hurdling forward. How, every second, I’m travelling even further and further away from the pinpoint where I’ll always measure my distances from. I —

[Tired laughter.]

I’m not sure where I’m going with this, honestly. Nonetheless, thank you for lending me your future ear — assuming you actually made it this far. I —

…

Oh — I see the city up ahead. Once I get to my hotel, perhaps I can try to turn this bullshit into something a bit less corny.

I’ll call you tomorrow. Night, Pen.

~~~~~~~~~~

June 6th, 2016 - 6:15 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen.

Guess who’s flight just took off without him? I know — shocking, coming from such an experienced traveller such as myself. But my connecting flight was delayed so I really can’t take any of the blame.

…

Anyway… I’m stuck in Terminal E of Logan International, where I’ll likely be spending the next several hours dying from boredom and eating as many bags of crisps as I can get my hands on. If you aren’t too busy, maybe you can call me back and help with the boredom bit.

Talk soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

August 7th, 2016 - 12:49 PM

To: colin ✈️

From: pen ✨✨

Hi! I was just looking at your pictures from Cyprus and I —

[Distant clap of thunder.]

Oh. [Laughter.] I was wondering what it’s like to be in beautiful, sunny weather in the middle of the summer. Must be devastating.

~~~~~~~~~~

September 21st, 2016 - 8:30 AM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. I was just reading back your notes on my piece and I’m a little confused about the last one.

What the fuck does “too many food puns” mean? The only reason I came to Hungary was to capitalise on its pun potential.

Please call me back ASAP so we can get this sorted.

~~~~~~~~~~

December 24th, 2016 - 12:02 AM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen.

Sorry, I know it’s late. But I’m also waiting around doing absolutely nothing, so I thought I would check in.

I’m still in Sweden. But we’ll, uh — we’ll probably take off in the morning once the snow lets up. I —

…

I can’t believe it’s been six months since I’ve seen you. Since I’ve seen anyone at home. I’m a little worried that I’ll get home tomorrow and find that Greg now towers over me. Hyacinth called me last week just to complain about his latest growth spurt, so…

…

Oh shit. Sorry — I knew it was late, but I didn’t realise it's already midnight.

Merry Christmas Eve, then. I suppose it’s still technically the 23rd in London — but I suppose that doesn’t matter much when it comes to voicemails.

I feel like there’s another commemoration on this date that I’m forgetting. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but it’s so late and I’m just so bloody tired…

…

Oh well. It’ll come back to me.

Night, Pen. See you soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

May 3rd, 2017 - 11:50 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. Sorry. I didn’t realise how late it was. I —

…

Did you know that you can’t sink in the Dead Sea? The water is so dense with salt that your body will just pop up if you try to go under. You could try your absolute hardest to sink to the bottom, and it just wouldn’t let you.

I think there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. But it’s also very late and I just spent half the night staring at a Word doc and I’m starting to lose my ability to process complex thought.

…

Fuck it. I’m sending you the first draft now. It’s shit, but if you’re not too busy tomorrow, maybe you can send me your thoughts. And prayers.

…

Alright. Night Pen.

~~~~~~~~~~

August 24th, 2017 - 10:17 PM

To: colin ✈️

From: pen ✨✨

Hey! Um…

Daphne wanted me to call and remind you all not to get the groom too drunk the night before his wedding. Fair warning: if you don’t call me back within five minutes to confirm that Simon is still standing upright, she’s prepared to send Eloise in to break up the party.

~~~~~~~~~~

October 10th, 2017 - 7:54 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. Just calling ‘cause I wanted to ask if you’ve ever tried pickle soup. It sounds kind of strange but —

[Slurp.]

Good god. It’s bloody delicious. Absolutely recommend.

[Slurp.]

Talk soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

December 31st, 2017 - 10:58 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey, Pen. At the risk of sounding extremely needy…

You’re still coming tonight, right? God knows who invited her, but Cressida Cowper is here and she keeps handing me tequila shots and I really don’t —

…

Oh shit! There you a—

~~~~~~~~~~

January 19th, 2018 - 2:30 PM

To: colin ✈️

From: pen ✨✨

Hi! Just wanted to call and see how Sydney’s treating you so far. Is it weird to be experiencing summer in the middle of January?

[Laughter.]

Anyway… Call me back when you have the chance.

~~~~~~~~~~

April 20th, 2018 - 5:58 PM

To: pen ✨✨

From: colin ✈️

Hey! Good news — the baby’s here! In worse, but also extremely funny news…

Apparently El walked in while Daphne was pushing. Mum said her face literally went white before doubling over onto the floor. I —

…

Actually, I should probably go and check on her. I think they’re treating her for a concussion as we speak.

See you soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

May 24th, 2018 - 4:44 PM

To: colin ✈️

From: pen ✨✨

Hey! Sorry — can you call me back when you have the chance? I know we’re supposed to get lunch tomorrow, but Danbury just called and asked if I could come in tomorrow about the columnist position and I know we already had to postpone, but I’m worried I —

[Sigh.]

Sorry.

[Nervous laughter.]

I’m rambling. Call me back so we can discuss.

~~~~~~~~~~

June 25th, 2018 - 6:21 PM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

Hey, Pen. Just wanted to call and see how your first day on the job was. And, of course, to complain about having to travel by myself again. I almost forgot how bloody boring these layovers can be without someone there to complain about them with.

[Faint laughter.]

In person, I mean.

…

Anyway, call me when you’re free. I can’t wait to, uh —

[Cough.]

To hear about your day. Talk soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

August 22nd, 2018 - 9:09 PM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

Hey, Pen. Just calling because, uh —

Because I wanted to say hi, really.

…

Venice is good. It’s quite nice, this time of year. The weather’s starting to cool a bit. The water is calm. The food is the best in the world — but that’s not really time sensitive.

…

I really cannot stress this enough. I believe it to be a great tragedy that you have yet to eat real Italian pasta. I know you’re extremely busy with work, but if you happen to have a free weekend over the next few weeks, the door is always open.

…

Alright. Night, Pen.

~~~~~~~~~~

September 21st, 2018 - 11:51 PM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

Hey, Pen. Sorry for the late call. But I, uh —

[Faint laughter.]

I forgot how warm it is in Greece this time of year. I’m currently sitting by a river at midnight and it’s actually quite pleasant. Disturbingly so, if you ask me.

There are a few dozen other people here enjoying the weather — smoking and talking and wearing sandals, or all things. I can’t imagine anyone wearing sandals in London tonight.

…

There’s a lot I’ve forgotten about Greece. Like the cats. It’s insane, Pen. I can see three right now without even having to turn my head. I —

…

It’s just strange. I stayed here for nearly three months. That was three years ago, but still… Nothing fundamental has changed during that time. And yet…

…

And yet it feels unfamiliar to me now. But I suppose that has more to do with me — and perhaps time — than the country itself.

…

God. I sound like somebody’s grandfather. I think that’s my cue to head back to my hotel.

Night, Pen. Talk soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

December 19th, 2018 - 11:12 PM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

Hey, Pen. Sorry — I know it’s late.

I just sent you the first draft of my piece and…

I don’t know. There’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot. I tried to weave it into the story, but my readers don’t come to me for Bridgerton family history lessons, so —

[Laughter.]

Suffice to say, I left it out.

But I don’t know. I just — I keep thinking about it.

…

Did you know my grandfather was stationed here at the end of World War II? He came here in ‘44, about a year before it all went shit for the Germans. And when it did, he was given the option to leave Vienna and immediately return to London. At the time, he hadn’t been home — hadn’t seen my gran — in over three years. They wrote hundreds of letters to each other during that time — all of which are stashed in a box at Aubrey Hall, in case you were wondering. But anyway…

When the war ended, as much as my grandfather wanted to go home and see my gran’s face again, he wrote to her and asked if she would be willing to wait a little while longer. If she could stand it if he stayed here. If he remained in Vienna while the allied forces first occupied the city — to continue carrying out his duty.

She said yes. He stayed here another two years. He arrived back on English shores on April 6th, 1947. Two days later, they got married. They did at a courthouse, just the two of them together. Like they were the last two people in the world.

…

I, uh — I didn’t piece this all together through the letters alone. My dad actually told me about it a few weeks before he died. I remember asking him why granddad stayed in Vienna for so long after the war technically ended. How he could stand to stay away from the woman he seemed so desperate to return to.

I remember my dad telling me: “There are times when duty surmounts passion.” Which I didn’t understand. Mainly because I was eight and had no fucking clue what the word “surmounts” meant, but…

Now, I understand what he was trying to say. That duty and passion are separate. That my grandfather’s duty lied in war, while his passion lied with his love. That his duty went beyond his required deployment period. That he stayed in Vienna those extra two years because that’s what he felt was right, even if he would have preferred to go home and be with the love of his life.

Now, I —

…

I think my dad was wrong. He described my grandfather’s duty to his country as passionless — as if it was something he had to do when he wanted to be elsewhere. But I’ve read my grandfather’s journals from that time, and he never wrote about his life like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back. He may have been homesick and distressed at times — it was a bloody war, for god’s sake. But he — he was also proud of what he was doing. He was fulfilled. He was not drowning in a lack of passion.

I think we —

[Cough.]

I think some people, at least, have multiple passions. Passions that are at war with one another. That make it impossible to achieve everything we want all at once. Some that beg us to go home, some that beg us to stay.

I think my grandfather made a choice. I think he chose one passion for a while, and one forever. I think he knew that once they married, he wouldn’t be able to bear living without my nan ever again.

…

[Awkward laughter.]

I guess he was lucky that she was willing to wait for him.

…

[Sigh.]

Well… I believe I’ve taken up enough of your time. If you somehow managed to listen all the way to the end, I sincerely apologise for the rambling. I promise I’ll wait until Sunday to share the rest of my travel epiphanies with you.

Take care, Pen.

~~~~~~~~~~

December 20th, 2018 - 12:11 AM

To: colin 🤡

From: pen 💛

I always listen until the end.

I’ll see you on Sunday. Goodnight, Colin.

~~~~~~~~~~

January 31st, 2019 - 3:45 PM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

You know, Pen, I’m starting to suspect that you purposely ‘miss’ my calls just so you can listen back to these wonderful voice messages whenever it pleases you. And while I can understand your desire to have these recordings stashed away forever, I would selfishly prefer some actual back-and-forth between us.

I’m currently sitting outside one of the seven wonders of the world. Call me back and I’ll tell you all about it.

~~~~~~~~~~

March 21st, 2019 - 5:17 PM

To: colin 🤡

From: pen 💛

Hey! Thank you so much for your insights on my story. Danbury loved it.

Call me back when you have the chance. Thanks again!

~~~~~~~~~~

April 29th, 2019 - 7:57 PM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

Hey, Pen. Just wanted to give you a head’s up that I just sent you a draft and it’s absolute bollocks. If you can manage to turn it into something vaguely readable, I will literally fly you out here just to say thanks. And I know how much you love Thai food.

~~~~~~~~~~

June 29th, 2019 - 10:20 PM

To: colin 🤡

From: pen 💛

Hey! Sorry, I just saw that you called! And I am now remembering that you’re in Dubai and probably — hopefully — fast asleep by now so…

[Laughter.]

…

[Indecipherable noise.]

We’re, uh — We’re still out for Kate’s birthday. We’re on our way to karaoke, actually.

[Laughter.]

Thank god El is here, or else I would be worried about being the worst singer in the pub. I —

[Indecipherable noise.]

Sorry! I have to go. Call me when we’re both awake.

Lo—

[Cough.]

Um… Goodnight!

~~~~~~~~~~

October 18th, 2019 - 8:08 PM

To: colin 🤡

From: pen 💛

Did you really just send me an SOS text from Los Angeles? I admire your creativity, but this is not how you convince someone to drop everything and take an impromptu holiday with you.

…

In the event that you are in an actual emergency, please contact the proper authorities. I appreciate your commitment to the bit, but I ask that you please not sacrifice your life for it.

~~~~~~~~~~

December 9th, 2019 - 8:30 AM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

Hey, Pen.

I just finished reading your new column. Phenomenal, as always… But how the hell did you manage to sneak a pun in there? I thought Danbury had a strict policy against “superfluous literary devices.”

However you managed it… Congratulations. I couldn’t be prouder.

~~~~~~~~~~

December 19th, 2019 - 4:41 PM

To: colin 🤡

From: pen 💛

Hey! I had a work thing tonight but it just got cancelled. Any chance you want to meet at Mondrich’s?

Let me know. I’ll, um, hopefully see you soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

January 29th, 2020 - 9:22 PM

To: pen 💛

From: colin 🤡

Hey, Pen.

…

You’re the closest thing I have to a manager, right? In your professional opinion…

Would it be crazy to bail on this trip early? Give myself, uh… 48 hours to go home and grab some proper fish and chips. See Auggie and Blair. See mum. See you — obviously. London isn’t the most logical pit stop between Berlin and Prague but…

…

Yeah — you know what? It was a dumb idea. I’ve got plenty of those, so…

Call me back when you’re not too busy. Maybe I can share some more.

~~~~~~~~~~

February 14th, 2020 - 10:00 AM

To: colin 🤡

From: pen 💛

Good morning!

Is it still morning in Prague? I —

[Faint laughter.]

I suppose that doesn’t matter much when it comes to voicemails. I, um —

I’m doing some research on old churches. Which — don’t ask. But I’m currently sitting on the steps outside St. Bride’s Church. I don’t know if you’d recognise it, but it’s the one downtown that, um —

[Laughter.]

The one that looks like a wedding cake.

I think you’d like it. And not just because of its food-shaped exterior.

It’s actually considered a church for writers. And for publishers. It got that reputation back in the 17th century, when the publishing industry was booming here on Fleet Street. But, regardless of all that…

It’s really quite an interesting building. I can see why it’s attracted and inspired so many great writers over the years.

Maybe we can check it out the next time you’re in town. Which is…

God. June, I think?

…

Anyway… I’m still at the very beginning stages of my research, so I barely know what it is I want to write about yet. But one thing that’s stuck out to me so far is how old these buildings feel. How the architecture, the acoustics, the artwork, the —

…

Honestly? I’m not sure exactly what does it, but something makes these buildings feel as though they’ve stood here forever. This particular church has only been here about 350 years. But still… You feel all that time when you walk through its halls.

It’s a good reminder, I think. To know how long things last.

…

Wow. So this is how it feels to be on the other side of these long, rambling, stream of consciousness voicemails.

[Faint laughter.]

Bye, Colin. Thank you for lending me your future ear.

~~~~~~~~~~

March 11th, 2020 - 5:55 PM

To: colin 🤡

From: pen 💛

Hi! I just got off my train. I assume you’re still in the air, so just text me whenever you land.

Hopefully the airport wasn’t too chaotic, but um…

…

I’ll meet you at the hotel. I —

I can’t wait to see you.

#bridgerton #polin #fanfiction #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope x colin #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

12 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 6 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Babysitting

Chapter 8 is up! Hope you enjoy the brief break from all the angst 😄

“Number Six: Babysitting As a Team. Just like —”

“Wait,” Penelope interrupts, once again not quite believing her ears. “I thought we were discussing the precursors of marriage, not childrearing.”

“Must you debate every point, Pen?”

She considers his question. Briefly.

“I didn’t debate the last one. This one just seems… outdated.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well… We may both want children, but not every couple does. Why would they need to babysit before getting married?”

“Well, if you would let me finish,” Colin grumbles, raising his phone so it sits a few inches away from his face again. (Silently, Penelope makes a mental note to remind him to book a much-needed optometrist appointment.)

“Just like travel, young children can cause more chaos and uncertainty than you could ever imagine. One night of babysitting with your partner will test your stress management and teamwork skills in vital, unforeseen ways. Do not be surprised (or discouraged) if there is a mess to be had along the way.”

With a laugh, Penelope concedes that the writer of this article may have a point.

“That last bit is quite accurate, if memory serves.”

“Hey,” Colin mutters sorely, looking up from his phone. “Give me a little credit.”

All his words succeed in doing is drawing another laugh from Penelope’s lips.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Four Years Earlier: August 25th, 2019

Relationship Status: Team Mates

꙳

About a year ago, Colin and Benedict moved into a flat together in Bloomsbury. Most friends and family members describe the building as “charming,” which is a polite way of saying “beautiful, but old.” It’s for this reason that Penelope takes the stairs up to the third floor tonight, instead of the lift. (The stairs are always faster.)

About a month ago, Penelope moved into a new flat in Hyde Park. When helping her move in, Colin had described it as “quaint,” which is a polite way of saying “old, but also quite small.” In fairness, she didn’t have much of a choice in her new building or its location. She had previously been living with Eloise, but when her best friend moved to Edinburgh for her Masters program, Penelope was hit by the realisation that she was not ready to live on her own for the first time in her life. When her coworker Geneveive mentioned she was looking for someone to fill a spare room, she jumped at the chance.

It had taken them two whole days to move a couple of boxes from one flat to another. During that time, Colin made a few remarks regarding the “safety” of her neighbourhood, despite it being quieter and far more residential than the one she was leaving. (Which left Penelope with the impression that Colin had viewed Eloise more as a bodyguard than roommate in the two years they shared a flat together.) In the beginning, she brushed off his comments. By the end, she compromised.

“Just text ‘SOS’ and I’ll run over, no questions asked,” he had told her. “And if I’m not in the city, I’ll dispatch one of my many siblings who are here to be at your assistance.”

At the time, Penelope had found the system too endearing to point out that the number of Bridgertons in London has been dwindling as of late. Francesca and Eloise are both in Edinburgh now. Gregory is set to leave for Cambridge in a matter of days. Daphne and Simon retain a flat in the city, but spend far more time in their Hastings estate. And while Benedict and Colin both pay an exorbitant rate for their flat every month, neither one seems to spend much time actually sleeping there.

While endearing, Penelope also found the “SOS” system gratuitous. She hadn’t used it once in the past 25 days. Twenty minutes ago, though, Colin had.

She doesn’t bother knocking. Her set of spare keys have been gripped in her left hand since she left her flat. She raises them now, but before she can reach the lock, the door swings open.

Colin is standing on the other side. There’s a toddler on his hip.

“Auggie?!” Penelope explains mindlessly, stepping through the doorway. Instinctually, she gently brushes a hand over his little head. If anything is the matter, the sixteen-month-old does not let on. Giggling, he raises both arms and grabs madly for one of her red curls.

Heart still beating in her ears, she turns her attention back to the only other adult in the room. “What’s wrong? What happened?” she asks, her words shooting out quick. Colin opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, Penelope’s heart lurches in her chest.

Auggie is here instead of with his parents. Daphne is currently eight months pregnant with his little sister. Colin sent her an emergency text. If Auggie is here…

“I was —”

“Fuck,” she interrupts, not really meaning to. “Is Daphne okay? Is the baby —”

Colin cuts her off by placing his free hand on her shoulder. He squeezes it gently, as he tends to do when he notices her spiralling out in front of him.

“Woah, Pen.” He laughs lightly, then lets his arm drop. “The baby’s fine. Daph is fine. She and Simon are out celebrating their anniversary.”

“Oh.”

Penelope nods slowly, suddenly hit with the memory of attending their wedding two years ago today. She should have remembered this date, but…

“Then why did you text me ‘SOS?’”

In response, Colin throws her a look that screams “Isn’t it obvious?” and lifts his nephew up a little higher in the air. Auggie, for his part, appears unphased. He continues staring up at Penelope with wide, happy eyes.

With a grimace, she asks, “Is there something wrong with him?” He seems well enough, but why else would —

“He’s fine. I just needed help babysitting.”

“Colin!”

She didn’t mean to shriek his name — not in such close proximity to the toddler. But her blood is boiling. Her blood has been boiling for the last twenty minutes.

“What —”

“If you weren’t using that innocent, defenceless child as a shield, I would punch you.”

With that, she tucks her hands beneath Auggie’s armpits and pulls him out of his uncle’s grasp. (If given another reason to strike, at least she has her legs free to kick.)

Colin laughs, which really doesn’t help Penelope’s temperament.

“Pen —”

“You scared the shit out of —”

She cuts herself off, looking down at the toddler in her arms. He remains unphased, staring up at her happily, but she offers him a silent apology for cursing, nonetheless. Turning her attention back to the so-called adult…

“Why, again, did you feel the need to summon me here so urgently?”

“I’m sorry! Daphne and Simon needed a sitter and all of the responsible adults in the family were busy! Mum is at Danbury’s conference. Anthony is on his honeymoon. Fran is babysitting Eloise in Edinburgh. Benedict’s on a date — although I’m not sure he actually counts as one of the ‘responsible —”

“Colin! I thought someone died! SOS texts are meant for emergencies!”

“I’m sorry!” he exclaims again. This time, Penelope can’t help but hear a tiny laugh escape his mouth as he says it. “I’m not used to taking care of a human this small. I —”

“What are you talking about?” she interrupts, incredulous. “You have five younger siblings? How —”

“In case you forgot, Hyacinth is a teenager now. I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Still —”

“I’m sorry,” he says a third time, calmer now. “I just needed your help to ensure that this innocent, defenceless child doesn’t turn into an emergency. He’s so small and —” Briefly, he tears his eyes away from hers and down to Auggie. “No offence — grossly incompetent.”

If Penelope were in a better mood, she probably would have laughed at that.

“I’m just not used to taking care of someone who needs 24/7 attention just to stay alive. And since you’re a responsible, nice, calming presence, I thought you would be the best person for the job.”

When Colin finally quiets, Penelope looks down at the emergency-waiting-to-happen in her arms. He’s giggling and playing with a strand of her hair.

After a moment, Penelope looks back up. She takes a breath. Summoning some great, far away strength, she tries her hardest to let the annoyance and panic still coursing through her body fade away. Then, she puts the small child back into the arms of his uncle.

“He’s a toddler, Colin, not a bomb. He is not going to combust if you take your eyes off of him for a second.”

“I never said —”

“And next time you find yourself in a non-emergency situation that requires my assistance, just send a normal text like a normal person.”

Colin chuckles, bouncing Auggie in the air.

“My hands were full. Literally. Sending a three-letter text is actually quite efficient for these types of scenarios.”

Penelope laughs at that. It’s barely a smile and breath of air from her nose, but still, she laughs. And the world is set right again.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

As the hours passed by tonight, the origin of Colin’s SOS text only became more of a mystery in Penelope’s mind. All through dinner, playtime, two diaper changes, and bedtime, Auggie proved to be a perfectly well-mannered toddler. Despite his claims of inexperience, Penelope still finds it hard to believe Colin ever viewed him as a potential emergency. Especially now. It’s been an hour since Auggie fell asleep in his little travel bassinet and he hasn’t stirred even once. (Even with his babysitters’ ceaseless, increasingly bizarre conversation on the couch a few feet away from where he rests.)

“When was the last time you were alone with a baby?”

“Hmmm… Hyacinth, I suppose?”

“You don’t sound so sure of yourself.”

“Need I remind you that she’s a teenager now? It’s been a while.”

Penelope nods, a pleasant hum of agreement in her throat. She assumes the subject is ready to pass, but then Colin clears his throat and continues it.

“Plus, I spent way more time alone with baby Gregory than I ever did with baby Hyacinth.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Actually —”

Colin cuts himself off with a laugh, running a hand across his brow. Though they were already sitting quite close, he leans in a few inches before continuing, a conspiratorial smile shining on his face.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before?”

Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, she shrugs. “Of course.”

“When Greg was a baby and I was about eight, I used to sneak into his room at night after everyone else went to sleep. To check if he was actually breathing.”

“Oh! That’s… sweet,” she says with a bit of hesitancy. She can’t imagine why something like that would be kept a secret for so many years. Or why it would cause such a wicked smile to appear on his lips now.

“No. It was more out of suspicion than sweetness.”

“Suspicion?” Penelope echos, dumbfounded. “You were suspicious of an infant?”

Barely containing his laugh, Colin nods.

“Yeah. He was just so quiet. He never cried at night — or during the day, for that matter. The only reason I snuck into his nursery was to catch him in the act. To prove that he wasn’t a real boy.”

Those last few words catch Penelope off guard. Immediately, they bring forth a laugh from her chest that sounds more like a shriek than anything else. Immediately after that, her eyes glance to Auggie, expecting him to wake with a shriek of his own. But he doesn’t. He remains still.

Catching her breath…

“A ‘real boy?’ Like Pinnochio?”

This time, it’s Colin who appears caught off guard by his own laughter.

“Kinda,” he eventually says. “But I wasn’t concerned about him secretly being a wooden doll as much as I was him being a robot. If I recall correctly, I believe my working theory was that he was so quiet at night because they had to plug him in and charge him for the day.”

Penelope, who has lost all ability to keep quiet, giggles giddily as Colin asks, “And frankly, Pen… You’ve met Greg. Can you really rule out the possibility that he’s controlled by AI?”

“You’re awful,” she claims while desperately trying to wipe the undying grin from her face.

The entire left side of her body is brushing against him now, but that isn’t her fault. It isn’t her fault that he’s making her laugh so hard that she can’t control where her knees and shoulders land as she sways into him. It isn’t her fault that she can’t keep her usual mindful distance.

That’s become an increasingly common occurrence lately, though. So perhaps Colin can’t carry all the blame.

For so many years following that night in Fife’s back garden, Penelope had kept Colin’s unfortunate overheard words hidden within herself under lock and key. She was so sure that if she ever spilled them back to Colin, her true feelings for him would inadvertently be cast into the light as well. She thought telling him the truth would prompt disaster — the end of them forever.

But it didn’t.

After she drunkenly spilled her guts to a stranger (and incidentally, Colin) in Catalonia, Penelope kept waiting for him to bring it up again. To ask why she was so hurt by what he said. Why his words stayed with her for so many years. Why she hurled them back at him like a weapon that night.

But he didn’t.

After that night, they watched a sunrise. They got on a plane. They came home. He left again. He came and left a few more times throughout the year. Through all of it, neither Colin nor Penelope brought the incident up again. She doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t question it either.

(If she did, she would probably land on the reasonable explanation. That there is no point in asking questions you already knew the answer to. That Colin already connected the dots — that he had told the girl who loved him that he would never love her back.)

(Never — not in a million years — would she ever be able to land on the completely unreasonable, but also completely true reason. That Colin has been too caught up in his own feelings to be able to look at the issue objectively. To see what was right before his very eyes.)

Penelope is happy. She and Colin are friends again. Real friends, perhaps for the first time in their entire lives. Now, she can sit beside him and laugh and talk and touch innocently and not want for anything more or less.

I am happy. Why question it?

Bumping her shoulder lightly against his, Penelope asks if she can share a secret, too.

“Of co—”

“It’s not my secret, though, so you absolutely cannot tell anyone.”

“You wound me, Pen.” Dramatically, he places a hand against his heart. “Your secret is safe with me. Your secrets are always safe with me.”

Before speaking, Penelope casts another glance towards Auggie, as if the semi-verbal sixteen-month-old could be at risk of spilling her secret. Unsurprisingly, he’s still asleep.

Turning back to Colin, she leans in another inch. “Philipa’s pregnant,” she whispers.

His eyes go wide. “Really?” he asks, an adorably enthusiastic quality to his voice.

“Yup. She told me and Prudence on Friday, but I figured it out at your brother’s wedding. A waiter walked past with a plate of fish. The scent was enough to make her double over and throw up in a potted plant.”

This time, it’s Colin who is hit with a laugh so forceful that it causes him to temporarily lose control of his limbs and where they land. He tilts towards her, his cheek brushing against her forehead. Then, his hand falls on her knee, as if to balance himself; the movement is just enough to cause Penelope to go rigid. Thankfully, Colin removes his grasp before he can make a serious impact on her last year of progress.

Pushing away the panic lingering in her veins, Penelope sits up and forces out a laugh.

“If Anthony and Kate lost a security deposit due to the incident, please forward me the invoice.”

“No, no, no,” he mutters through his laughter. “If anything, that’s the caterer’s fault. But if Ant asks me about any desecrated plants, I’ll use an age-old Bridgerton tactic and blame it all on Gregory.”

Penelope wants to protest, but can’t find the will to get her words out through her own laughter. When it finally stops and silence makes a brief reappearance, Colin clears his throat.

“Do you think Philipa will let me babysit for her?” he asks. Penelope answers with an emphatic “No!” before he can get the last word out.

“Why not?! I’m responsible.”

“Well, for one, you were alone with Auggie — the most well-behaved baby I have ever met — for twenty minutes before you called in reinforcements. According to my mother, any baby with the Featherington gene is practically the devil. So, no, I don’t think you would be a good fit to babysit my niece or nephew.”

As Penelope speaks, she watches Colin’s wide eyes narrow to a squint, his face turning from offence to skepticism.

“I don’t buy that.”

“What? That your babysitting skills —”

“No. That every Featherington baby is a nightmare.” He looks her up and down briefly. “I have trouble picturing you ever being a nuisance.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Though Colin couldn’t possibly remember what type of baby she was (seeing as he was a toddler at the time), he was there throughout the rest of her childhood. Anyone who stepped foot into the Featherington household during those years would know that, to her mother at least, Penelope was a nuisance.

Eventually, she shrugs.

“Still… Best to leave it to the experts.”

Colin sighs, pushing his back a little farther into the cushion behind him.

“Well, if you ever find yourself babysitting baby Finch, feel free to call on me for backup.”

Penelope can’t help but laugh at that. She only feels a little bit guilty when Colin gives her a disbelieving look.

“My babysitting skills are not that bad,” he moans, raising a hand towards the sleeping baby across the room. “Auggie’s doing great. And —” He turns back to her, eyes looking strangely vulnerable all of a sudden. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

“We, uh — Yes. Of course,” she stutters out, barely holding onto her resolve. “It just — It doesn’t inspire much confidence, you needing to call in backup for a child as angelic as Auggie.”

“Sorry,” she adds, only realising how harsh her words were when seeing them reflected in the expression on Colin’s face.

“You know… I think you might be the first person to ever accuse me of having a lack of confidence.”

“That’s not exactly what I said,” Penelope says while giggling. A few seconds pass before Colin’s words hit her as startlingly true, nonetheless.

Perhaps it’s due to her last year of progress, but Penelope has never seen Colin act with so little confidence ever. Perhaps she would have seen it much earlier on, had she not been so blinded by her hopeless love and idealised vision of this man for so much of her life. Perhaps she is finally seeing things objectively.

(She isn’t. That will take a few more years.)

“What did you mean, then?” he says, lifting Penelope out of her realisation.

In truth, she barely remembers what she said just a few seconds prior. So instead of answering his question, she simply says, “I’m glad you needlessly called me over here tonight.”

“Why?” In one swift movement, Colin leans back, folds his arms across his chest, and cocks his right eyebrow towards the sky. Voice low, he asks, “To witness me being a mess first hand?”

Penelope, a master in pushing past his naturally charming ways, remains rigidly upright in her spot. “Yes,” she confirms. There are other reasons, of course, but that is certainly one of them.

“Wow, and to think —”

Once again, Penelope is hit with a rather sudden realisation.

“I’m surprised you haven’t babysat Auggie before,” she interrupts. Her suspicion only grows when his eyes dart back and forth. “It just — It seems like whenever I speak to Daphne these days, she never fails to mention how good you are with him. I suppose I just assumed you’ve spent more one-on-one time with him.”

Completely ignoring the main point of what she just said, Colin lets out a strained chuckle and says, “I didn’t realise my merits as an uncle are such a frequent topic of discussion between you two.”

“Well, she probably —”

Penelope’s words stop short when she hears a distinctive noise coming from the other side of the flat. The clatter of keys in a lock.

“Speak of the devil,” Colin mutters from beside her. He almost sounds disappointed.

As expected, Daphne and Simon walk into frame mere seconds later. They’re both smiling, quietly continuing whatever discussion they were having out in the hallway. But when Daphne turns her head and spots the two friends now standing awkwardly in front of the couch, her jaw drops.

“Penelope!” Hand on her stomach, Daphne walks (practically waddles) over to give her a hug.

“Hi Daphne.” Penelope leaves Colin’s side to meet his sister halfway. “Hi Simon,” she calls from over her shoulder. He gives her a nod in response while walking over to Auggie. Though she can’t imagine why, it almost looks like he’s holding in a laugh.

“I didn’t realise you would be here!” Daphne exclaims. Keeping her hands firmly on Penelope’s shoulders, she pulls out of the embrace and looks pointedly between her and Colin. “It’s so wonderful to see you two togeth—”

“Yeah. Pen did me a huge favour, keeping me company tonight,” Colin interrupts. He moves away from the couch to help gather the baby toys on the floor. “Don’t tell Auggie, but his conversational skills could use a bit of work.”

“Really, mate?” Simon asks, finally letting out that laugh. “Blaming the toddler for invit—”

“Thanks again, Col,” Daphne interrupts, giving her brother a sidelong hug. She then turns to Penelope and looks as though she’s about to say goodbye. Before she can, though, Penelope looks at her phone for the first time in hours.

10:13 PM

Fuck.

“I’ll walk down with you guys. I have to be up early for work tomorrow. Monday Morning pitch meetings and all.”

Daphne smiles and nods. Simon picks up Auggie and a massive bag of baby necessities. Penelope trails a few paces behind them, Colin trailing just behind her. Just as the married couple exits out into the hall, he pulls her into an unexpected, slightly awkward hug. He wraps one arm around her, placing his left hand in the spot between her shoulder blades; he drops it before she can return the gesture.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he whispers after pulling out of the hug. “Really.”

“Of course.” Her words come out quick, not giving her brain enough time to examine his sudden change in demeanour. “If you ever need me, I’m always just one SOS text away.” Then, “Goodnight, Colin.”

When she finally exits the flat, Simon and Daphne are already in the lift, Simon holding it open by hovering his foot above the crack in the doorway.

“Thank you. Sorry,” she mumbles, belatedly stepping across the threshold. Just as those metal doors slide shut, Daphne perks up again.

“It was so nice of you to keep Colin company all night.”

“Oh! It was nothing. I think he was just nervous about being alone with Auggie. And I wasn’t busy, so…”

When Penelope’s words trail off, Daphne gives her a somewhat puzzled look. Behind her, Simon makes a suspicious noise that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a cough. No one voices their apparent uncertainty aloud; the cramped metallic box remains quiet until they reach the ground floor and the doors creak open.

When the four of them step out into the surprisingly chilly August air, Penelope cannot stop the words from leaving her lips any longer.

“I’m surprised Colin has never babysat for you guys before. He’s always bragging about what an amazing uncle he is. I just…”

When her words trail off, Daphne remains noticeably quiet. Simon, on the other hand, snorts.

“Colin babysits Auggie every time he’s in town. He’s putting thirteen-year-old girls all over London out of business.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Goodnight, Colin.

Her words ring in his ears long after he watches her scurry down the hallway and disappear behind those sliding doors. They echo through him as he turns on his heel and heads straight to his bedroom.

He plops down on his comforter like a paperweight. Heavy. Oblong. Lifeless.

Like it so often does these days, his mind turns to Penelope.

Colin thinks about the last year. He thinks about how much time has passed since he came to that inevitable conclusion on a balcony in Catalonia. He thinks about how nothing has changed between them during all that time.

That was his fault, of course. He could have said something. He should have said something. The problem with love confessions, though, is that there is never a right time for one. (Especially confessions as monumental and life-altering as the one this love would necessitate.)

Since last June, Colin has been waiting for a sign. Some tangible artefact to grab hold of — to convince him that now is the time to risk it all. That their relationship can handle yet another phase of life. That he won't screw it up this time. That he won't lose her again.

Suffice to say, he has yet to receive a sign that could convince him of all that.

When is the right time to tell your best friend that you’re in love with her? Colin doesn’t know, but it always seems to be some date far off in the future.

Now isn’t so bad, which makes the lack of progress between them this past year bearable. He still talks to Penelope every day. He still steals her time whenever he’s home. He’s still in love with her, he just realises it now. All of that is good, and none of that has changed.

Perhaps it isn’t fair to say nothing has changed since last June. Now, Colin’s desire to leave home isn’t nearly as strong as his desire to stay. Now, he’s more greedy with Penelope’s time during his trips home (hence the bullshit excuse for calling her over here tonight). Now, his feelings are overwhelming in the places they used to be obscured. Now —

*ping*

That little buzz in his back pocket momentarily brings Colin out of his own head. When he looks at the screen, his heart skips a beat. It nearly stops at the second buzz.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

pen 💛: Thanks for letting me hang out with Auggie all night. Maybe we can team up again next time you babysit him.

pen 💛: You know… Since apparently that’s your second job.

colin 🤡: don’t let daph turn you against me. i can’t compete with yet another one of my siblings for the title of penelope featherington’s #1 favourite bridgerton

pen 💛: That title is currently held by Auggie. You should be worried about his little sister arriving and stealing #2

colin 🤡: bullshit — they’re not even bridgertons!

pen 💛: My ranking, my rules

pen 💛: Goodnight Colin

colin 🤡: night pen

colin 🤡: get home safe

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“Another reason to get married now.”

“What’s that?”

“We can get a head start on our family.”

He leans in to kiss her, but just before their lips make contact, Penelope pulls back.

“I told you to stop skipping ahead,” she whispers, then leans back in to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Four more to go.”

#my sincere apologies to gregory bridgerton for the constant bullying #bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #colin x penelope

12 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 6 months

Text

Ten Milestones (Interlude): A Foregone Conclusion

Hi friends and happy Tuesday!!

Here's a little interlude for anyone interested ;)

August 2nd, 2019

“Look at them. They’re shameless.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘oblivious.’”

“You’re right. I would tell them to get a room, but they’d only waste it. They’d hop on top of that king-size mattress and use it as a surface to play Go Fish.”

In her current state (seven months pregnant and six hours into wearing heels), Daphne should really be more careful when joking around with her brother. If Benedict were not close enough to lend her his support, she surely would have doubled over with the force of that last laugh. But Benedict is here. Colin is also here — kind of.

Technically, their brother is about three metres away, next to a bush of red roses and in his own world. He’s talking to his dear friend Penelope. (Closely.)

(Very closely.)

Once her laughter ceases and she’s back on her own two feet, Daphne pulls Benedict away from the merrily unaware pair. They walk towards the centre of the ballroom, which is just as white and opulent as every other inch of this venue.

“How long until we’re attending their wedding, do you think?” Benedict asks. His head is tilted up, eyes turned towards one of the several chandeliers hanging above them.

“Ooh! Good quest—”

“Who’s wedding?” Anthony interrupts, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Kate is right beside him, one hand on her groom’s arm, the other carefully lifting the front of her long lace skirt.

“Colin and Penelope’s, of course,” Benedict replies, wiggling his eyebrows in a less-than-subtle manner.

“Ah.” Anthony sighs contemplatively, gently nodding his head. “Never.”

“Don’t be such a downer,” says Benedict, just as Kate begins to tut.

“I am no such thing. I simply —”

“Yes you are, love,” Kate interrupts, laughing lightly. “In case you forgot, there was a time when either one of us would have said the same about our wedding. And look where we are now.”

“I fail to see your point, love.” Anthony laughs too, although it does not come out quite as light or genuine as he may have intended it to. “We are nothing like them. We loathed each other. They’re just…”

He cuts himself off to crane his neck and get a better view of the pair in question. They’re just out of earshot, so Anthony can’t tell what it is that they’re saying to one another; he can only see that they’re talking closely. (Very closely.)

“... friends.”

“No offence, Anthony,” Daphne chimes in, “but you don’t have the best track record in seeing what’s right before your eyes. I don’t know if you’re the most qualified person to speak on the matter.”

After muttering something unintelligible beneath his breath, Anthony forces a smile.

“Can we please go back to discussing mine and Kate’s wedding — which, in case you forgot, is real and happening at this very moment — instead of some made up, hypothetical, fantasy wedding that will never happen?”

“Who’s wedding will never happen?” asks Francesca, who shares her eldest brother’s talent for appearing out of nowhere.

“Mine, obviously,” jests Eloise from right behind her.

Kate offers a more helpful answer.

“We’re placing bets on the date of Colin and Penelope’s wedding.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Eloise scoffs and says, “Never.” When informed that Anthony already called “Never,” she updates her bet.

“Fine. One hundred years. Perhaps then he will be good enough for her.”

“Good god. What made you two so bitter?” asks Benedict. “I’ll say four years. Oh — Frannie, are you making a spreadsheet?”

“Of course,” she mutters, not even bothering to look up from her phone. She’s disappointed that her brother felt the need to ask such a question; she’s always in charge of the spreadsheet.

Simon is the next family member to appear out of nowhere and inquire about the rules of the game.

“Christ,” Anthony mutters. He points to Eloise. “You, go track down Gregory and Hyacinth and wrangle them over here. I’m not going through these parameters again.”

After throwing her brother a perfunctory eye roll, Eloise does as she’s told. Not three minutes later, every Bridgerton sibling and spouse gather in a circle in the middle of the wedding hall. (Save for Colin, who remains blissfully unaware of the situation unfolding just a few metres away from him). Together, they agree to bet on the exact timing of a foregone conclusion.

“Two years,” says Daphne. “One year to get together, another to get married.”

“I don’t know babe.” Keeping his hand on Daphne’s belly, Simon glances over his shoulder. As expected, Colin and Penelope are still talking by the roses with smiles on their faces. “They look even more obsessed with each other than they usually do at these sorts of functions — and that’s saying quite a lot. I could see them getting married within the year.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Daphne chuckles, and her laughter is just forceful enough to make her brace a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “No. No offence, but you are giving those two far too much credit. I fear even my estimation was too optimistic.”

On the other side of the circle, Gregory clears his throat.

“No — I see where Simon is coming from. Penelope looks quite pretty tonight. Plus, love and marriage are in the air… Who knows? Maybe they’ll run off and get married tonight.”

When his answer is met with a chorus of boos and questions regarding his sanity, Gregory simply shrugs.

“Stranger things have happened. Put me down for tonight, Fran.”

“Fine. Your funeral.” After typing the last few digits, Francesca looks up from her phone and over to the bride. Smiling, she asks, “Are you ready to partake in your first official Bridgerton bet, Kate?”

“I would be honoured to,” she says, a smile lighting up her own face. For the first time since this discussion began, Anthony actually looks to be enjoying it; he places a kiss on his wife’s forehead as she considers the possibilities.

“Unfortunately, I am not quite as optimistic as Daphne. I’ll say ten years from now — that’s how long it took for Anthony and I to figure things out and get married.”

Her response receives a few “awws” from the group, but Anthony looks at her skeptically.

“Don’t forget that Colin and Penelope have known each other their entire lives. By that logic, they would have gotten married during primary school.”

“Fine, then.” Still smiling, Kate elbows her husband in the ribcage lightly. “Nine years from now, since they had such an ample head start.”

“Kate is on the right track,” Hyacinth chimes in from her spot beside Gregory. Before continuing, she plucks a sausage roll from his hand and plops it into her own mouth.

“Hey —”

“Those two are absolutely hopeless. I mean — just look at them.”

She raises her arm, indiscreetly pointing to the spot where Colin and Penelope still talk amongst the roses. (Still unaware of the bets currently being placed on their future wedding.)

“It’s unsettling, just how oblivious they are. They’ll continue on just as they are until one of us intervenes.”

“Get to the point, Hyacinth,” Gregory grumbles, guarding the rest of his sausage rolls from her carefully.

“Seven years. Once I graduate from uni, I’ll devote my time to selflessly ensuring that our brother finally figures his shit out.”

Although not intended as a joke, this earns her a few chuckles from the group. Not from Anthony (or Gregory), though.

“Don’t you think there could be a better use of your time following uni? A job, per—”

“Better than true love? I think not.”

Before Anthony can protest any further, Kate speaks up.

“Quick question: Is meddling allowed in Bridgerton betting pools?

“It’s encouraged,” answers Benedict. Then, he turns to the girl on his left. “You're up, Frannie.”

Looking up from her phone screen again, Francesca glances around the group with a conflicted look passing on her face. Sighing, she asks, “Since I’m the one keeping bets, should I not act as a neutral observer?”

When her question is met with a unanimous “No,” she places the final bet.

“Fine. Three and a half years.”

“What is going on here?”

Violet’s head pops up from just behind Francesca’s shoulder. Her face is fixed with an expression that the group knows well. The one marked by a pleasant smile and panicked eyes. The one that appears whenever her children are causing trouble at a social event. In other words, it’s the expression that has appeared on Violet’s face at least once at every social event they’ve attended in the last thirty years or so.

Francesca is the fastest to lie to their mother. “Nothing mum,” she answers, depositing her phone back into her purse.

“Just congratulating Kate and Anthony on hosting such a beautiful, drama-free wedding ceremony,” Benedict chimes in.

Violet’s face starts to relax into something a bit more naturally pleasant, obviously sharing her son’s opinion. Though she remains unconvinced by her children’s claims of innocence, she is willing to save herself the headache of investigating their suspicious activity any further.

“Well, I suppose it’s fortunate that I found you all in one place. It’s time to gather in the garden for the family photos.” She scans the group around her, smile suddenly faltering. “Oh, dear. Where did Colin run off to?”

Most of the group fail to hide their smirks, giggles, and (in Eloise’s case) audible groans. But before Violet can even react, Anthony steps forward and places a reassuring hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“I spotted him loitering by the refreshment table a moment ago. I’ll grab him and meet you all outside.”

As soon as he turns on his heel, Anthony finds that the pair are still in their spot by the red roses. They’re standing even closer than they were just a few minutes ago, leaning into each other to view something on Colin’s phone.

Walking towards them, Anthony doesn’t think much of that decreasing proximity. Nor does he pay any mind to the way Colin’s eyes keep glancing away from his phone and towards Penelope when she isn’t looking. Nor does he contemplate how his younger brother had been too distracted by this conversation to notice the trouble that had been brewing right under his nose for the last fifteen minutes. Despite his siblings’ fun and games, Anthony stands firm on his original conclusion.

They are friends. Why wouldn’t they be close?

Then, as he closes the gap between himself and the aforementioned friends, Anthony overhears the last few remnants of their conversation.

Then, he stops dead in his tracks.

“… ever want to abandon real life for a few days, I hope you know that the door is always open.”

“I know.” Penelope laughs easily. She nods her head for emphasis. “Trust me.”

Despite the pair’s reputation for obliviousness, it only takes them a few seconds to notice him awkwardly standing before them, speechless.

“Oh! Hello, Anthony,” Penelope says brightly, just as Colin (not so-brightly) asks, “Can I help you with something, brother?”

Mouth hanging open, eyes darting back and forth between the two “friends,” Anthony tries desperately to recall why he walked over here in the first place.

“Family photos. Outside,” he eventually manages to get out.

Penelope nods politely at both of them, then turns on her heel as if to flee the scene. Just before she can make her escape, Anthony clears his throat.

“That includes you, Penelope.”

Blush suddenly creeping up her cheeks, Penelope smiles. “Oh, right. Of course.” With that, she takes Colin’s offered arm and the three of them make their way towards the nearest exit.

The garden is brimming with Bridgertons and Sharmas by the time the trio step outside.

Kate, Edwina, and Mary are posing for a portrait by the lilacs. Simon and Daphne are taking a selfie by the irises. Francesca and Violet are laughing by the violets. Eloise is sneaking a cigarette by the willow tree. Hyacinth is attempting to push Gregory into the duck pond; Benedict is standing nearby, clearly amused.

When the two friends step away from Anthony and towards Eloise, he steps towards the violet bush. He pulls Francesca away from their mother — away from everyone within earshot. Once alone, he asks his sister for a favour.

“I need to change my bet.”

#this is the most on time I've ever been in my life #everyone clap #fanfiction #bridgerton #polin #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #colin x penelope

22 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 6 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Travelling Together

Hi friends!!!

New chapter up for anyone interested! (It's a big one.)

CW: alcohol // drinking to excess

In an instant, Penelope knows that this one will be good. (Or even more likely — bad.)

Colin’s smile gleams with the reflection of his phone screen. He’s practically giddy when he recites the text in front of him.

“Number Five: Travelling Together. Nothing tests a relationship quite like taking it out of its typical environment. Just like marriage, there will be many highs and lows on your first trip as a couple. For as fun and exciting as a vacation may be, there are a million things that could go wrong during your time away from home. A holiday away with your partner will test how you handle communication, problem-solving, compromise, and more. If you are with the right person, even the most disastrous trips will be worth it.”

At those last few words, Penelope cannot help but laugh.

“Too bad I’m dating a seasoned traveller who always handles our holiday plans perfectly. If only something went wrong on one of our trips; now, we’ll never know how we react to disaster abroad.”

“Yeah.” Colin rolls his eyes, giddiness already abandoned. “If only.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Five Years Earlier: June 6th, 2018

Relationship Status: Not Dating

꙳

Day 0

Over the course of the last three years, finding Colin Bridgerton in a London pub has become an exceedingly rare feat. He spent most of that time in cities with different time zones than this one, and even his brief trips home left him little time for leisurely activities. This particular break from his travels, though longer than usual, has been as busy as ever.

He arrived back in London on April 7th. He was actually meant to remain in New York for two more weeks, but changed his plans at the last minute. This choice was fueled by a variety of reasons, one of the most salient being his fears of missing his first nephew’s birth, had he come early. In the end, Auggie showed up two days late, but Colin couldn’t complain about having the extra time at home.

The last two months were busy. Colin and Benedict found a flat together in Bloomsbury. (Colin needed somewhere other than his mum’s place to stay during his trips home. Benedict needed out of a toxic roommates-with-benefits situation he had found himself in.) Francesca graduated from Edinburgh. Penelope completed her postgraduate degree at UCL. Colin signed a freelance contract with a local travel magazine. Simon announced his upcoming Parliament campaign. Hyacinth starred in a surprisingly bloody musical production of Carrie. Just last night, Anthony informed Colin and Benedict of his plans to propose to his girlfriend Kate later this summer. (Gregory had been excluded from that conversation due to his abysmal track record at keeping secrets.)

Life in London has been so busy these last two months that this particular trip to the pub had to be rescheduled three times. But they’re here now, and Colin supposes that’s all that matters.

“I don’t have to get a beer, do I?”

Penelope is standing right beside him, and yet she has to practically scream in order to be heard. For noon on a Wednesday, the pub is surprisingly packed.

Colin looks around, taking in the pub’s antique style and limited selection of bottles and taps on the back wall.

“Honestly? I don’t know. Even water might be out of the question.”

Penelope doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, she pulls a face expressing her disappointment. A distinctive “V” forms in the centre of her forehead, at which Colin can only laugh.

“Why would you choose this place if you loathe the taste of beer? We’re celebrating you, in case you forgot.”

Penelope keeps her eyes trained forward, as though she’s searching for something in the darkest corner of this room. With a deadly serious tone, she tells him, “They have the best fish and chips in Mayfair. If I go thirsty, so be it.”

Colin laughs again, but nods in agreement. She has a point.

While away on his travels, he misses his family and friends more than anything else. He would be lying if he said proper fish and chips wasn’t a close third.

Penelope opens her mouth to say something else, but shuts it when she sees the hostess re-emerge before them. She beckons them to follow her, then leads them to a particularly dimly lit booth in the back of the room.

“What can I get ya both to drink?”

Penelope opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, Colin clears his throat.

“Do you have anything other than beer available? Sorry — I know. I just loathe the taste of it. It always tastes like grass to —”

His words stop short when the tip of Penelope’s trainer collides with his shin. When he looks over, he finds that her eyes are verging on vengeful; he has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from giggling.

“We got vodka,” the waitress supplies skeptically. With knitted eyebrows, she looks to the bar over her shoulder. “I think.”

“Brilliant. Two vodka sodas, then.”

Penelope still appears cross when he looks over to her again. Thankfully, her frown is all but abandoned by the time the waitress returns with their drinks.

“To UCL.” He raises his glass. “And to those determined and lucky enough to survive it.”

After huffing out a single laugh, Penelope rolls her eyes.

“I graduated. I didn’t survive the Great War.” Before he can think up another quip, she taps her glass against his. “But thank you.”

“So, now that you’re free from the constraints of higher education… Any plans for the summer?”

Penelope shrugs, raising her glass to her lips.

“Not really. Just figuring out what to do next, now that uni’s over.”

“Next?” Colin echoes, genuinely confused. “What happened to working at Danbury’s magazine?”

“That’s not a done deal.” She shrugs again. “My final interview was yesterday, and I haven’t heard back from them yet. If I don’t get it —”

“You will. Obviously.”

Penelope picks up her glass, and Colin watches as her eyes roll from over the top of it. She takes a sip that drains about half her cup.

“Not necessar—”

“Pen, they would be mental not to hire you. The job is yours for the taking.”

Something new passes on Penelope’s face for a moment. Doubt, maybe. Or maybe it’s curiosity. In a brighter light, maybe Colin would be able to read her better.

“And what makes you so confident in that conclusion?”

“Because you’re accomplished, brilliant, and perfect for the job.” He takes a sip of his own drink, short and syrupy sweet. “Plus, you’ve known the CEO since you were born. That always helps.”

Penelope snorts in spite of herself.

“I pray nepotism is not the determining factor in their decision.”

“We both know you’re more than qualified. Does it matter what the determining factor is in a foregone conclusion?”

Penelope answers his question with nothing more than a simple shrug.

“And what of your plans for the summer?” she asks in a shameless attempt to change the subject. To take the spotlight off herself. “It’s unlike you to stay grounded at home this long.”

“Disappointed in the sudden lack of content on my blog?”

That statement was meant to be lighthearted, but when spoken aloud, Colin can’t help but detect an edge of bitterness to his own voice. If Penelope hears it too, she doesn’t let on. She laughs.

“No. As much as I love your updates, I can’t say I’m ‘disappointed’ in having you home a little longer than usual. I just thought you would be restless by now.”

“A bit. But you know… That’s inevitable.”

Penelope’s face shifts again. Even in the shadows, Colin can tell she does not know what he means.

“After three years of doing it nonstop, I’ve come to realise that the best parts of travel are the coming and the going. Arriving in a new location is always exciting and full of a million different possibilities, but inevitably that excitement fades away. No matter how fulfilling your experiences are in that place, there will always, inevitably come a time when you’re ready to leave. When you’re reminded that the place you’re in isn’t home — that your time there is up. Then you return home, and it’s refreshing and comfortable, and then it’s not. Life gets tedious and you grow restless and that inevitable cycle starts anew.”

Colin looks down at his drink, already growing watery due to the surplus of ice cubes in the cocktail. When he looks back up at Penelope, her eyes have grown even softer than usual.

“But I have spent far too much time away from home these past few years. I can stand a bit of restlessness for a little while longer.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Especially if it means having these sorts of conversations with you in a pub instead of over voicemail.”

Penelope doesn’t say anything in response to that. Her lips twist into a sort of smile, scrunched together and pulled to the side. When her lips finally part, she asks, “So when are you going again?”

Colin grimaces, suddenly struck by the fact that the date of his next flight is not all too far away. And due to the new contract, he couldn’t delay it even if he wanted to.

“About two weeks. Venice first, then I’ll be travelling around Italy for the rest of the summer.”

“That sounds exciting,” Penelope offers. There’s a far less complicated, albeit noticeably reserved smile on her lips.

“Yeah. Of course.”

It grows quiet between them for a second longer than Colin deems comfortable. He jerks his head to the side, glancing around the increasingly overcrowded pub. Though the room around them remains quite loud, he can clearly hear the growl of his own stomach above the chaos.

“Where the bloody hell is our food?”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Thirteen minutes later, two orders of fish and chips arrive at their table in the back of the pub. One minute after that, Penelope nearly chokes on a piece of beer-battered haddock when her phone starts buzzing in her pocket. Seven minutes after that, she hangs up and looks over to Colin. His smile is even bigger than hers.

“I fucking told you, Featherington.”

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, an unconscious attempt to wipe the grin off her face. Her happiness is so overwhelming that it feels as though it’s pouring out of her.

“When do you start?”

“Two weeks,” she barely manages to get out between taut lips.

“That’s —” Colin lets out a shaky, happy breath. “We should celebrate,” he tells her after a moment.

Penelope barely registers his words before letting out another laugh and raising her empty glass.

“We’re already celebrating, in case you forgot.”

Colin raises his own drink (also empty and awaiting a refill) and clinks it against the one aloft in her hand.

“In case you forgot, we’re celebrating your graduation. Landing your dream job deserves its own celebration.”

Finally, Penelope’s smile begins to drop. Her eyes dart to the bar on the other side of the room.

“We already ordered another round. We can make another toa—”

“No, Pen. A proper celebration.”

“Wha—”

“You’re the newest columnist at Queenmaker Magazine. This is amazing — fucking massive, Pen! We should do something big to honour it.”

Penelope looks away from him again. This time, to the phone that has been gripped in her right hand ever since she accepted her dream job. She sets it face down on the table before meeting his eye again.

“And what ‘big’ thing do you have in mind?”

A few seconds pass before Colin answers her question. In that time, his lips form into a troubling smirk.

“Let’s leave. Take a trip out of the city. Or better yet, the country.”

Penelope also takes a few seconds to respond.

“What?!”

“I said, w—”

“I heard you, Colin,” she interrupts. “I just don’t understand. Didn’t you just say you want to stay rooted in London until your Venice trip?”

Colin considers her words for a few seconds, breaking her gaze to stare up at the ceiling in recollection.

“That’s not what I said at all,” he eventually replies. “Do —”

“Colin, I —”

“— you want me to call up Danbury and tell her how unfairly her promising new journalist just misquoted —”

“I’m being seri—”

“I’m being serious, Pen! You’re willfully ignoring my po—”

“There’s no time to plan a —”

“You just told me that you have no plans for the next few weeks. You know, save for landing the job that you just landed. Now that your summer is free, you can finally —”

Penelope has argued with Colin before. Not as often as she does with Eloise, but this is far from their first dispute. Usually though, he will at least let her get a full sentence in before interrupting. Usually, he is not quite this vexing.

“Good god, Colin! You’re leaving for Venice in two weeks. Which — in case you forgot — also happens to be the same time I start working at the magazine. Temporarily ignoring the fact that you just told me you want to stay in London in the meantime, there is no time for us to plan out — or actually go on — such an impromptu trip. It’s impossible.”

It’s only after Penelope successfully gets all her intended words out that she realises Colin’s demeanour has completely changed. The tips of his ears are tinged red. His left hand is covering the lower half of his face. He’s barely holding in a laugh. His eyes are round and darting to the side.

When Penelope follows his gaze, she finds that their waitress has returned. Wide-eyed, she silently sets down two glasses (a Guinness for him and another vodka soda for her), then disappears back into the crowd. Once she’s out of sight, Colin bursts out laughing and Penelope takes a generous gulp of her cocktail.

“As I was trying to tell you,” he continues, once the laughter has left his system, “I did not say I want to remain planted in London for the next two weeks. If anything, I was torn between my desires to stay and to go.”

Colin’s lips stop moving. It takes Penelope a few moments to realise that means he has graciously given her the floor to speak.

“I understand that,” she says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “I also understand that you decided to stay in the end. That you’ve spent too much time away from your family as it is.”

Colin laughs — short and sharp.

“Wrong again. Given your line of work, I would expect you to pay closer attention to people’s words, Pen.”

Penelope opens her mouth, then shuts it just as quickly. If she says anything, it will undoubtedly be delivered through a scream; she doesn’t have enough alcohol in her system to justify doing so in such a public setting.

“I didn’t say anything about my family,” he reminds her. “The only person I mentioned wanting to stay in London for is you.”

And just like that, something new rises in Penelope’s chest, swiftly killing the annoyance that burned inside of her. She doesn’t have the words to try and name it. She feels at a loss for words entirely; her lips remain paralyzed as Colin watches her in wait.

It only takes him a few seconds to realise she has nothing to say.

“At some point in the last hour, the scales have tipped towards leaving. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe you have any plans tying you to London over the next few days. So, if I am correct and there is nothing stopping us from leaving… Let’s go.”

Penelope doesn’t think there is a single person on this planet that she knows as well as Colin Bridgerton. After all, she spent the first sixteen years of her life studying him with the same insistence and fervour that a nun does a bible. (And the last seven inspecting him with the same shame and compulsion that an addict does their vice.) And yet, there are still times when he surprises her.

No. ‘Surprises’ isn’t the right word. She knows Colin has a talent for making the world around him appear far simpler than it really is. To bend the light in such a way that makes you see the world that way too — even if just for a moment.

There are still times when it overwhelms her.

“You make dropping everything and skipping town sound easy,” she eventually manages to say.

“Because it is. Do it once and you’ll realise just how easy it is. Especially when you have an expert like me involved in the planning.”

Something about that last sentence sparks a realisation in Penelope’s brain.

This is a game. Or, it could be.

Penelope sits up and sets her shoulders squarely.

“Fine. But I have a few rules.”

“Go on,” Colin encourages, clearly intrigued.

“1) I can’t be gone for the next two weeks. I need to be back by early next week. 2) I don’t want to leave the continent, so no surprise trips to Antarctica. 3) You have a max budget of £500 for transportation and housing — for each of us. If you can find something that fits my requirements, we can go on a trip together.”

Wasting not a single second, Colin whips out his phone from his back pocket. His smile gleams with the reflection of his screen. Excitedly, he mutters, “‘If’ I can meet your requirements? It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

But Penelope does know Colin. She knows he loves these sorts of challenges. That he thrives under this sort of friendly pressure. And while she could certainly afford to spend more than £500 on travel and a hotel, she’s intrigued to see what he can come up with when given such a budget. (And fears what he might come up with when given anything more.)

As Colin stares intently at his phone, Penelope feels her own demeanour start to shift. Before, she had been too distracted by the perceived impossibility of the offer to give it a second thought. But when she does…

It’s tempting. It’s almost certainly a bad idea, but it’s tempting for all the same reasons.

Though they speak on a daily basis, Colin and Penelope have spent so little time actually together over the last seven years. Even during his hiatus at home over the last two months, they spent more time talking on a phone than they did in person. To spend a few days with Colin and only Colin…

It’s tempting. It’s almost certainly a bad idea, but —

“Booked,” Colin announces, maybe 30 seconds after picking up his phone.

“What — already?”

“Yup. £497 each. We leave tomorrow and fly home on Monday.”

“‘Fly?’” she echos. Unsure if she should be more excited or scared, she asks, “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Costa Brava.” Colin says these words casually, in the same way Penelope would expect him to say “Brighton.”

“Costa Brava… as in Catalonia?”

“No, the Costa Brava in Wales.”

He laughs sarcastically. Triumphantly.

“Yes, Catalonia.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 1

Penelope Featherington doesn’t have much experience with airports. She flew to Ireland a few times when she was a kid, but those trips fell off right around the time she started secondary school. She’s met or dropped off Colin at Heathrow a few times over the last three years, but rarely stepped inside on any of those occasions. She could count the total number of times she’s been in or around an airport on two hands.

Well, usually she could. Right now, her hands are too occupied wringing together incessantly to count imaginary numbers.

She is standing by a wall of windows, body facing the planes taxied outside. Her head is turned to the side, towards the man who dragged her here today. (Metaphorically. Literally, he got them both an Uber.)

Colin is by the stewardess desk, talking to the two women stationed at the gate. He’s just out of earshot, so Penelope can’t tell what it is that he’s saying. But whatever it is, it’s charming. She can tell by the way both women’s lips curl as he speaks to them.

Penelope doesn’t know why she’s so nervous. She’s flown on planes before — a decade ago, but still.

She shouldn’t be nervous about a two-hour plane ride. She shouldn’t be nervous about a few days in paradise. She shouldn’t be nervous about how so much can change in — she checks her phone — 22 hours.

She should be more like Colin; he’s never nervous about anything.

“Good news,” he tells her, walking up with two freshly printed tickets. “I got us a free upgrade.”

“Really?” she asks. Although really, she should have known. He got them two roundtrip tickets at the last minute for £97 each. Suffice to say, they were not very good seats. Penelope couldn’t have cared less, but Colin…

Before he can so much as nod, she steals one of the tickets from between his fingers. She gasps.

“How the hell did you manage to turn two middle economy seats into two first class seats?!”

“Jesus Pen, calm down,” he orders through a laugh. “We’re on holiday, remember?”

Before she can let out another huff, Colin mumbles something about being a “frequent flyer,” then turns his attention to the phone in his hand. Though Penelope would love to press him further on the subject, he magically receives a phone call from his mum and steps away to take it. He only hangs up when the flight attendants announce that it is time for them to board.

“Did your mum —”

“Come on. Don’t want to miss our flight, now do we?”

“Wha—”

With that, Colin puts away his phone and grabs the carry-on at Penelope’s feet.

“You don’t have to —”

“I got it, Pen,” he says nonchalantly. Then, without warning, he grabs her left hand and drags her towards the gate.

This is far from the first time that Colin has grabbed her hand over the course of their friendship, but this specific occurrence strikes Penelope as strange. His whole demeanour suddenly seems off; she would ask him about it, if he weren’t hauling them towards the plane like it’s threatening to take off without them.

His strange behaviour doesn’t cease as they continue forward. He practically pushes her past the flight attendant as soon as their tickets scan. His grip on her left hand only tightens as they walk down the boarding bridge. She tries to pull out of it when they step onto the plane and make their way through the cramped corner with the other flight attendants, but he just won’t let go. Through it all, she feels like a dog on a leash.

Colin only drops her hand after they find their seats, requiring both his hands to place their baggage in the overhead bins.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Penelope hisses once they settle in. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, out of Colin’s reach.

“Hmm?”

He shoots her a pleasantly oblivious expression, as if he genuinely cannot fathom why she would question his behaviour.

“You’re acting weird.”

“No, I’m acting excited. We’re on hol—”

“Holiday,” she interrupts. “Yes, I remember.”

“Good.” He smirks. “I was beginning to think you forgot.”

Penelope almost makes a kidnapping joke, then remembers that she’s currently sitting in a first class cabin and thinks better of it. Instead, she pulls a book out of her purse and ignores Colin completely. She reads three pages before he starts acting weird again.

Keeping his eyes suspiciously pointed at the front of the plane, Colin leans over and whispers, “Okay I may have lied a little bit.”

“What —”

“Well, a little to you. I lied quite a lot to the flight attendants.”

Penelope remains quiet for a moment. She really, really doesn’t want to ask, but…

“What the hell did you do?”

He meets her gaze again. His eyes look just as guilty as they do blue.

Dropping his voice to a whisper, he says, “I may have implied that we’re on our honeymoon.”

For a moment, Penelope doesn’t know if she heard him right. There’s a sudden ringing in her ears, but surely —

“What?!” she practically yells. “You ‘implied’ that we’re married?!”

“Yes.” There’s a sudden edge of annoyance in his voice and in that look in his eye — a reaction Penelope cannot even begin to fathom is warranted from him under the circumstances. “Then I remembered that I’m not wearing a wedding ring and that our two random middle seats in the back of the plane might be a bit of a red flag. So —”

“You think?!” Penelope cannot help but interrupt.

“Yes. So I clarified that we’re technically on our way to Catalonia to elope and —”

His words stop short and his eyes cast downward. They land on her left hand. Just as one could expect from a chronically single 23-year-old, it is quite bare.

“You don’t happen to have anything that could pass for an engagement ring, do you?”

“No, Colin. I do not happen to have an engagement ring on me. Seeing as I am not engaged!”

Though she tries to keep her words at a relatively low volume, she can tell that the boarding passengers to their left are not allowing their argument to go unnoticed. A small child snickers at them as he walks past.

“I’m sorry,” Colin whispers, but there’s a petulance in his voice that undermines any attempt at an actual apology. “I just wanted to see if they could switch our seats so we could sit together. I didn’t expect them to upgrade us — certainly not to first class. But apparently there was an actual newlywed couple that cancelled at the last minute. Now…”

When his voice trails off, Colin’s eyes shoot to the front of the cabin again.

“Now I fear they’ll kick us off the plane if you don’t go along with the bit.”

Penelope, who has apparently lost all ability to whisper, shrieks: “The ‘bit?!’”

Another small child passes them in the aisle. This one looks more scared than amused.

“We’ve come this far, Pen,” Colin whispers, seemingly unperturbed by her increasing panic. “Let's not risk it all now.”

Penelope bites down on her lip. She fears what she might say if her teeth ever unclench.

All of this is risky behaviour — starting with his proposition at the pub and ending with this fucking “bit.” And Penelope has gone along with all of it up until now. After so many years of carefully keeping him at a distance (both physically and emotionally), she had agreed to a trip she knew would entail more time by Colin’s side than she could handle. She knew this was risky from the start. She had braced herself for disaster. But this…

This is overwhelming. Pretending to be engaged to the person she loved, let go of, then — despite her best efforts — continues to love so ardently…

It’s too much for her to —

“Shit.”

Colin’s whispered expletive brings Penelope out of a thought spiral of massive proportions. Her teeth unclench. Her eyes look to him, then to the spot where his are pointed. The flight attendant who had scanned their tickets at the gate is walking over with two champagne glasses in hand.

“Shit.”

“Just follow my lead,” Colin whispers, then covers her left hand with his right. It takes everything in her to resist the urge to interlock their fingers and sink her nails in deep.

The flight attendant congratulates them on the wedding and hands them the little plastic flutes. Penelope (who had taken Colin’s instructions to mean “just sit there and let me do the talking”) extends her right arm across her body and silently accepts the champagne. If the flight attendant notices the awkwardness of her gesture, she doesn’t let on; she’s likely too distracted by whatever charming nonsense Colin is currently feeding her to push them past any remaining red flags in their story.

Penelope pours the entire flute down her throat before the woman disappears down the aisle.

“I’m going to kill you,” Penelope promises through a whisper. Her words don’t have any bite left in them, though. She simply sounds tired.

Before Colin can say anything, Penelope tunes him out with the headphones she had stashed in her purse. She doesn’t make it through the first verse before he pinches the little white cord and tugs the left bud out.

“Why are you so mad at me?” he asks, his voice equal parts annoyance and concern. “I apologise for putting you on the spot, but I don’t see why it is such a big deal. Am I really so awful that just pretending to be my wife could warrant this level of disgust?”

Penelope’s teeth sink down on her bottom lip yet again.

She wants to scream. She wants to point out his hypocrisy — to say it out loud. That he can announce to an entire party that he would never date her in a million years, but she can’t complain about being forced to play his pretend wife for the sake of a stranger.

But she can’t say any of that out loud, now can she? Not without unravelling everything else — the fragile net she has spun to maintain their friendship these last few years.

Pouring all of the willpower left in her body into a single smile…

“Don’t you mean your pretend fiancée? According to the backstory you crafted, I am not your pretend wife yet. I could still leave you at the pretend altar and live the rest of my life with a prince in the Catalonian mountainside.”

Thankfully, her facade seems to work. Colin laughs.

“I suppose that’s your prerogative. I don’t know how many princes are left in Catalonia these days, though.”

“Plenty of pretend princes, though.”

Penelope puts her headphones back in. She doesn’t hear the flight attendants’ instructions on what to do in the case of disaster. She ignores Colin’s sidelong glances when they begin to taxi. She closes her eyes when the engines rumble to life and the wheels below them pick up speed. She feels the plane lift into nothingness and tries her hardest to forget where she is. She moves her hand, intent on wrapping her fingers around the cool, silver divider between her and —

Suddenly, Colin’s hand is in hers again. Not covering it. Just holding on.

Any anger left in Penelope melts away. She squeezes the palm in hers gently.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 2

“I never knew the ocean could be this blue. Not in real life.”

In the past 24 hours, Penelope has made some variation of this comment to Colin at least a dozen times. In fairness, the water is insanely blue here. The weather is perfect. Everywhere you look, there’s something breathtaking and unimaginable to comment on. And like he always does when they’re together, Colin hangs on to her every word.

Right now, they’re walking along the edges of the Ruins of Empúries — a site Colin recommended they visit due to its history and beautiful views. To their left lies the ocean, as blue and breathtaking as it ever was. To their right lies the ruins — the archaeological remnants of two ancient cities. For the last hour, Colin has been playing the part of tour guide, filling the air with random pieces of trivia on the Greek and Roman settlements.

(Thankfully, Penelope doesn’t seem to mind the noise.)

“The name comes from the word ‘emporium,’ which means ‘market.’ Before the Second Punic War, the Greek traders thrived here. They set up ports on the beaches, then sold all sorts of goods here for about 300 years.”

Penelope stops walking and pulls out her phone. She points the camera in the direction of a nearby stonewall, then chuckles.

“What?” Colin asks after a moment, desperately wanting to be let in on the joke.

“Nothing.” She places her phone back in her pocket. “It’s just crazy to think about all that time. In 200 BC, someone laid these stones down in this particular way, just so I could take a picture of them with an iPhone two thousand years later.”

Very suddenly, a laugh hits Colin so hard that he has to place a cautionary hand on Penelope’s shoulder, so as not to risk doubling over and destroying this piece of history forever.

“Thank god for the Greeks,” he says through a giggle. “Building such an innovative, thriving marketplace, just so Penelope Featherington could take a picture of its carcass two millennia later.”

Penelope laughs too, though hers is more embarrassed than unrestrained.

“That came out wro—” she starts, but her words are interrupted by the sound of something high-pitched behind them.

Colin turns around. Penelope jumps. A teenage girl with hair the colour of butter stands behind them, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.

“Oh Christ, sorry! I just —” The girl’s eyes settle on his, squinting. “Are you Colin Bridgerton?”

Thoroughly confused, Colin gives the girl a quick once over. She has pink-tinted Ray Bans resting on the crown of her head. She has a gold chain around her neck with the letter “L” dangling off it. She’s wearing a burgundy “Oakham Hall” t-shirt, which is tucked into her jean shorts. He’s searching for any little detail that might clue him in on this girl’s identity; he comes up empty.

“Um, yes. And, sorry — who are you?”

“No one. I mean —” She laughs. “My name is Hermione. I just meant that you don’t know me. I’m a huge fan of yours, though. I, like, love your Instagram.”

Instantly, Colin’s eyes glance down and to the side, because of course this would happen with Penelope standing right next to him.

Over the last three years, Colin’s work has accumulated more of a following than he could have predicted at the start. Between his blog, Instagram, and occasional freelance work, he has built somewhat of a recognizable name for himself. However, given the type of content he produces, his face is not quite so recognizable.

Not once in three years has a fan picked him out of a crowd in public. Until now, of course.

“Lovely to meet you, Hermione.” Colin leans forward and offers his hand for her to shake. Though he is thoroughly baffled by this encounter happening in the first place, he does his best to not allow such skepticism bleed through to his voice. “It’s so nice to hear you enjoy my stuff.”

“Oh, I do! You go to the most wonderful places and write about them so beautifully! I never get to travel. Well —” She laughs. “Except now, of course. But usually, I just live vicariously through your posts.”

Colin, suddenly filled to the brim with an emotion he can’t quite name, does not know how to respond to the teenager’s words. His first instinct is denial, but Penelope speaks up from beside him before he can open his mouth to express such a thing.

“I’m the same way. I’m not sure I would have made it out of uni with my sanity intact if it weren’t for his blog. Sometimes, a bit of escapism is key.”

Hermione smiles at Penelope’s words, but as soon as she stops speaking, the girl’s eyes go wide.

“Oh! How rude of me. I just realised I never asked for your name.”

“Oh, please,” she chuckles softly. “Don’t apologise. My name is Penelope.”

The smile returns to Hermione’s face. Her eyes dart back and forth between him and Penelope. Before she has the chance to ask…

“Pen and I have known each other forever. She edits all of my posts, actually. So if you enjoy my stuff, you should really be thanking her. She’s more miracle worker than editor. I mean — you should see the bullshit I type up before she spins it into something readable.”

Penelope glances up at Colin with a wry smile on her face. Through gritted teeth, she says, “I’ve never known you to be so humble.”

Colin laughs just as Hermione asks, “Oh! Do you two always travel together? I never really thought about it, but I suppose I assumed that you travel solo.”

“No,” Colin answers. “I’m always trying to get Pen to abandon her responsibilities and run off with me somewhere, but you know…”

When he looks down to Penelope, there’s a very confusing look on her face.

“I, um —”

“You assumed correctly,” Penelope cuts in, setting her gaze back on the girl in front of them. “He always travels alone. This trip is an exception.”

Before Colin can say anything else, Penelope steps away from him and towards Hermione. “I can take a picture of you two together,” she offers the girl. “If you like.”

“That’s so nice, thank —” Hermione cuts herself off and looks back at Colin. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“Yes. Of course.”

He nods his head to indicate that Hermione should stand next to him. She does, and just as Penelope lifts the phone to take their picture, she chuckles nervously and says, “Sorry for being so weird. I live in the middle of nowhere; I never see famous people out in public like this.”

At the same exact moment that Penelope presses down and takes their photo, Colin unwittingly pulls a face. (How else is he supposed to react to someone saying that?) Thankfully, Penelope notices and, stifling a sudden plight of laughter, continues snapping photos until she gets something acceptable.

When Hermione receives her phone back, she seems pleased with the results. Smiling, she looks over to Colin and thanks him for the photos. Then, without a single ounce of hesitation…

“Do you want me to take one of you and your girlfriend?”

Though that last word may be incorrect, Colin doesn’t see the point in correcting a random stranger on such minor terminology. But at the very same moment that he answers “Yes” to the question that was asked, Penelope answers “No” to the one that wasn’t.

“We are not dating,” she clarifies at the very same moment that he says, “We would love a photo, thanks.”

Before she can say another word, Colin hands Hermione his phone and pulls Penelope into his side.

After so many years of friendship, there are certain routines that naturally form between two people. Movements that flow between them, automatic from so much practice over time. For example, when Penelope and Colin take a picture together, his hand always goes to her side while hers always goes to his back. Always.

Until now.

While Colin’s hand does land on Penelope’s waist, both of hers twist together down her front. Where she usually leans into him, she stands straight. And while she technically has a smile on her face, it’s not the one he’s used to seeing in their photos together; it’s strained at the edges.

When it’s all over, Penelope removes herself from the embrace, Hermione says goodbye, and Colin wonders what the hell just happened. He briefly considers brushing it all aside and just resuming his tour guide responsibilities, but can’t seem to find the words.

He’s too annoyed.

He’s been annoyed since the moment Penelope said “No.” Since she said that word in that emphatic, decisive way — as if clarifying the true nature of their relationship to a stranger was the most important thing in the world to her. As if being mistaken as his girlfriend was a fate worse than death. As if —

“So…” Penelope says suddenly, her voice noticeably lighter than it had been a moment ago. “How does it feel to be ‘famous?’”

With that, she steps back onto the path and resumes their trek forward. As he always tends to do, Colin follows close behind.

“Don’t start with me, Featherington,” he warns, trying his hardest to match her tone of voice.

“Oh, come on. She was sweet.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t sweet. She simply misspoke about the ‘famous’ bit.”

“Well —”

“I’m serious, Pen. That has literally never happened before. Not once in three years has anyone ever recognised me in public. I mean — she probably only noticed me because of you.”

Still walking right beside him, Penelope cranes her head and throws him a confused look.

“What are you talking about? She didn’t know who I was.”

“Well, no. But…” Smirking, Colin reaches over and flicks a strand of red hair off her shoulder. “This tends to get people’s attention. I, on the other hand, am rather unassuming. It’s —”

Penelope scoffs, interrupting him.

“You are not ‘unassuming.’ You’re so… tall. I find it hard to believe you go unnoticed in a crowd.”

Colin shrugs. He tries to examine another strand of her hair, but Penelope swats his fingers away.

“Agree to dis—”

“Regardless of how she noticed you — she still recognized you. Even though your entire Instagram feed is sunsets and food. It’s —”

“Hey, that’s not strictly —”

“— cool that she recognized you,” she interrupts, looking up at him again. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he supposes. “It’s nice to know my work has had an impact on someone. You know…” He looks down to her again. “Someone who isn’t biased because they’ve known me their entire life.”

“I can be unbiased,” she claims with little confidence in her voice.

“You —”

“Have you decided on a narrative for your story yet?” she asks him, providing no context for the swift change in subject.

“What story?” he asks after a few seconds.

“The Catalonia story.”

“Oh,” he says after a few more seconds. “I’m not writing one.”

After throwing him a bewildered look, she asks, “What wouldn’t you write a story about this place?”

“I’m on vacation. Why would I work?”

“Well… That logic might apply to someone whose job doesn’t require them to go on vacation, but —”

“Excuse me,” he interrupts, mock offence heavy on his tongue. “My profession requires me to travel. Even travel writers need a vacation every once in a while. A break from having to spend each waking moment of my day constructing narratives and meeting deadlines and memorialising every little detail of my experiences.”

Penelope nods sympathetically at his words, but is quick with her response.

“What about your two-month hiatus at home? Wasn’t that supposed to be your break from paradise?”

“Yes — but this is an extension of that break. And in case you forgot, we’re only in Catalonia because of you and your accomplishments.”

A scoff that nearly sounds like a laugh escapes her mouth.

“I seem to recall the planning of this trip very differently than you do.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Getting back to the point… Don’t you owe it to your readers to write about this place? To memorialise just a little bit of paradise for those who aren’t lucky enough to experience it themselves?”

Feet still propelling him forward, Colin takes a moment to consider her words. He thinks of Hermione. He thinks of the little black and white follower count attached to his Instagram. He thinks of his dreams. He thinks of Penelope on that night in December.

Something to propel me forward and set me free.

“No,” he tells her. “I think that’s bullshit.”

Penelope gapes at him, clearly caught off guard by his bluntness.

“Pardon?”

“The more time you spend worrying about what you ‘owe’ the world, the more you risk losing sight of what matters to you. I’m elated to know that people enjoy my work, but I can’t let that pressure me into becoming a slave to my purpose. I can’t let it stop me from running off for a weekend with a friend just to enjoy myself.”

A moment passes by with no words between them. It’s not silent, though; the ocean is too loud. When Penelope finally speaks, the crashing waves nearly drown her words out.

“I thought the only reason we came here was for me. I don’t remember your enjoyment being a factor in this at all.”

Colin can’t help but laugh.

“Yes, well… I suppose my pleasure is an added bonus.”

Penelope laughs, too.

“Even then… What if you wrote something just for yourself? So twenty years from now, you can remember how the water reflects the sun here . Or how you spent an hour describing the differences between the Greek Empúries and the Roman Empúries.”

Stifling a laugh…

“Technically, the Roman settlement was called ‘Emporiæ.’”

“Regardless,” she murmurs. “Maybe you can write a different kind of story. One that isn’t meant for anyone’s eyes, except your own. I mean — twenty years from now, wouldn’t it be nice to have a written account of this stunning place? To hold onto moments like these,” she raises her hands towards the scenery around them, “long after our feet carry us away from them?”

Colin considers her words for a moment. A very brief moment.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary for this trip.” It’s only after Penelope throws him a questioning glance that he continues, “If I were alone, then sure — I might worry about forgetting certain details about this place and be tempted to jot them down. But I’m not alone. If I want to come back to this moment twenty years from now, I’ll just talk to you about it.”

When Colin looks over to Penelope again, he finds that her cheeks are burning a bright shade of pink. He would blame the sun, if it weren't for the colour’s rather sudden appearance on her skin.

“Are you —” he starts, at the very same moment that she blurts out, “Do you ever get lonely on your trips? It just — it seems like a lot of time spent by yourself.”

Involuntarily, Colin’s lips twist together — as if his body is preventing him from answering such a complicated question too quickly.

In truth, he does get lonely on his travels, but that word doesn’t have the sting it once did. There’s an inherent loneliness to this job — especially for someone like Colin, who cannot focus on things like narratives and deadlines and details unless free from distraction. This particular trip has made that abundantly clear; he hadn’t even thought about writing until Penelope brought it up just a moment ago.

For Colin, finding success over the last three years also meant finding a way to live with the loneliness. To turn it into something good.

“Sometimes,” he finally answers. “But it’s a necessary evil. Writing, travelling, returning home — those things make the loneliness easy to live with. For now, at least.”

“For now?” Penelope echoes, suddenly sounding far away.

Colin shrugs.

“A man can’t travel forever.”

Just as those words leave Colin’s lips, the two of them reach a fork in the road. They could turn to the right, towards the ocean. They could turn left, towards the ruins. They could even turn around, back to where they began.

Penelope decides for them both in the end, her feet walking to the right. As he always tends to do, Colin follows close behind.

Their footstops halt when the pavement meets the sand. Both sets of eyes point forward, towards the breathtakingly blue water.

“You know, if you’re so worried about our feeble human memories being unable to do this place justice, you could always write about it. Last time I checked, you’re also —”

“No,” she interrupts. “You were right. I’ll remember this.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 3

The most difficult part of being in love with your dearest friend, Penelope has come to realise, is having to look at them. When she and Colin are apart — separated by school or a job or Penelope’s better judgement — being his friend is easy. It’s easy for her to be his friend over an email or a voicemail or even a Skype. It’s easy to keep her true feelings below the surface when their only connection is through a screen. There are times when it’s easy to trick herself into thinking friendship is not so different from (or inferior to) a romantic relationship. But when they’re separated by nothing more than a bit of air…

It’s difficult. Especially on days like today.

Today was a beach day. They’ve been here since breakfast. Penelope spent much of that time hiding from the sun under the safety of a giant beach umbrella, unwilling to risk showing up to her first day of work with a sunburn the same shade of red as her hair. But (unsurprisingly), Colin had coaxed her out of the shadows more times than she could count today.

Today was a test of Penelope’s strength of will. And her ability to keep her eyes trained upwards (an especially difficult task, given that her eyeline just so happens to fall directly on his bare, tan, surprisingly hairy chest).

Now, she is back in the shadows, pretending to read a book while Colin is a little further down the beach. He’s playing volleyball with a group of strangers who just so happened to need a sixth player. He’s shirtless, just as he has been all fucking day. He’s serving the ball. He’s laughing with a teammate. He’s running a hand through his hair, his —

Fucking hell. Are his biceps larger than they were yesterday?

Shaking her head, pushing her oversized sunglasses even closer to her skull, she looks down at the book uselessly sitting open in her lap. In hindsight, The Scarlet Letter was far from an optimal choice for a beach read. But still…

She should be able to get through a single line without her eyes wandering off to places they shouldn’t go.

When she looks back up, she finds Colin scoring yet another point in his impromptu game. He’s laughing with that familiar, carefree refrain that always falls so naturally from his lips. He’s flexing muscles she didn’t know he had. He’s shining like gold beneath the sun’s reflection. He’s looking up towards the sky, a frown suddenly marking his otherwise pleasant face. He’s walking away from his new friends.

He’s six metres away. Five metres. Four —

Fuck.

Once again, Penelope tilts her head down and pretends to be enthralled by the book in her lap. If Colin had noticed her staring, he doesn’t say anything about it when he closes the distance between them.

“It looks like it’s about to rain. You want to head back to the hotel?”

Suddenly struck by just how dry her throat is, Penelope only manages to smile and nod in response. It isn’t until she and Colin are halfway back to the hotel that she realises how long it’s been since she’s said anything at all.

“I can’t believe I slept through sunrise again this morning.”

Colin laughs in that easy, reassuring way that practically makes Penelope’s blood boil after her day under the sun.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he says. “Under normal circumstances, a 6 AM wake up call is difficult for an insomniac such as yourself. Taking into account that your body still thinks it’s an hour behind back in London…”

You have no idea what my body thinks, she wants to say. But she doesn’t say that. Obviously.

“Perhaps,” she says instead. “But we have such a prime view of it from our rooms. It would be a shame not to see it with my own eyes at least once.”

“Well, I have faith that you can manage it.”

“Thank y—”

“And when you do, perhaps you can bang on my wall a few times so I can enjoy the sunrise too.”

Feeling much lighter than she had just a moment ago, Penelope giggles. “Perhaps,” she says, picking up her footsteps. They remain light the rest of their trek, even when the rain inevitably pours down around them, transforming their walk into a run.

When they arrive back at the hotel, Colin immediately turns left towards the elevators. But Penelope, suddenly brimming with a very good idea, turns right towards the reception desk.

“Good afternoon,” she says to the woman behind the desk, an older lady with a cherry blossom tucked behind her ear. Isabella, her name tag reads.

“Hello,” the woman says brightly. “What can I help you with, dear?”

“Can I order a wake up call for tomorrow morning, please?”

(If ten alarms can’t wake her at the crack of dawn, perhaps the terror-striking sound of a phone call will.)

“Certainly! I just need your room number.”

“Of course. It’s 301.”

As the woman types away at her computer, Penelope turns towards Colin. He’s leaning against a pillar, a few feet back. He’s smiling. There are undoubtedly puddles forming in the soles of his sandals at this very moment, but still, he’s smiling.

Penelope can’t help but smile back.

“There you are,” the older woman says beneath her breath, just loud enough to bring Penelope’s eyes forward again. “So Mrs. Bridgerton, what time should I schedule your call for?”

Penelope doesn’t register the second half of Isabella’s question, her mind suddenly overcome with the sounds of alarm bells.

Mrs. Bridgerton.

Mrs. Fucking. Bridgerton.

“What?!”

The word shoots out of her mouth before she can stop it. She regrets it immediately. This kind woman doesn’t deserve such displaced aggression. That aggression should be aimed directly at the man standing behind them both.

“I’m sorry, dear. I was saying —”

“No, I’m sorry, truly. I just —” She takes a shaky breath. “I’m not Mrs. —”

She takes another breath. She says a prayer. She pretends to be a normal person — one who would have no reason to crack under the sheer irony of being mistaken as Colin Bridgerton’s wife.

“I don’t need that wake up call anymore, but thank you so much for your time. Sorry again.”

When she turns around, Colin isn’t smiling anymore.

“A word?” she hisses as she stomps past him on the way to the elevator.

“Pen, what are you do—”

She stops short in the middle of the lobby. So short, in fact, that Colin nearly runs right into her. Thankfully, Penelope has a lifetime’s worth of practice getting out of other people’s way; she dodges him at the last second.

“What did you do, Colin? Did you tell them we’re on our honeymoon, like you did at the airport?”

She tears her eyes away from his to quickly glance at the room around them.

Their hotel is gorgeous. It used to be a historic Spanish villa, but was renovated and transformed for lodging just a few years ago. It is not the type of place you can snag for just £100 a night (especially with the views they have from their rooms upstairs). Penelope realised this fact the very moment they walked into this lobby Thursday night, but after the stressful flight and initial pretend wife debacle, Penelope had chosen to overlook it then. Suffice to say, that instinct has long since left her body.

“Is that how you were able to get us this place for so cheap?”

“No. I didn’t do that.”

Colin’s eyes don’t look away from hers as he speaks. She knows that he isn’t lying, but…

“How the fuck did you, then?”

She doesn’t yell, but she doesn’t disguise her words with a whisper, either. Colin doesn’t make any attempt to disguise his emotions, either. He’s looking down at her with a disbelieving, bitter look — as if he is the wronged party here.

“I —”

“And why did she call me ‘Mrs. Bridgerton?’” she interrupts. Her voice is neutral in volume, but biting in its tone.

Colin takes a breath and wipes that bitter expression off his face. (For now, at least.)

“I know the owner,” he admits. His tone reeks of a nonchalance that Penelope feels is unwarranted, given the present circumstances. “I didn’t even make the reservation. He probably put my name down on both rooms and the receptionist got confused.”

“You know the owner?” she asks, incredulous.

“Family friend,” he clarifies, stunning Penelope back into silence.

After twenty-three years of living in such close proximity to the Bridgertons, she should be used to this by now. She doesn’t need to be reminded of the family’s seemingly infinite web of connections or be surprised at their ability to pull from them to get whatever it is that they want or need. But even now, it’s difficult for her to fully grasp.

At her silence, Colin decides to change tactics. Smirking, he continues, “I mean — how would I even pull that scheme off? We have two adjoining rooms. That would be a rather large red flag for a supposed honeymoon.”

Much quieter than she was a moment ago (but just as vexed), Penelope tells him, “I have faith in your ability to get around such minor details. If it means getting what you want.”

“Hey — if you didn’t want me to use any special discounts on this trip, you should have stipulated that in the rules of the game.”

After cringing at his use of the term special discounts, Penelope decides to give up. Turning her body towards the nearest elevator, she tells him she’ll “remember that for next time.” Before she can step away though, Colin stops her with a hand gripped tightly around her elbow.

When she looks up, she finds that bitter expression has returned to his face.

“Tell me, Pen,” he whispers, leaning in close. “Which has been the most painful blow to your ego — being mistaken as my girlfriend, my fiancée, or my wife?”

“Excuse me?”

Penelope feels as though she’s outside of her own body; she isn’t sure if she whispered those two words aloud or simply screamed them into the deepest caverns of her mind. It must have been the former, though. Colin’s eyes are wide.

“Honestly, Pen? It’s a bit upsetting to know that my best friend would raise hell before allowing a random stranger to think that we might be —”

He pauses for the briefest, longest second of Penelope’s life.

“Involved.”

Penelope stands silent for several seconds. What is she supposed to say to that? What platonic explanation is there for that?

You’re being a hypocrite. You’re being cruel, she wants to say. But she can’t say that. Obviously.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles instead. Then, she slips her arm from his grasp. “I — I’m just in a bit of a mood. I think it’s the sun.”

Her words reek of utter bullshit. They both know it. But at least Colin has the grace to let the issue go.

“Come on.”

His hand quickly finds its position around her elbow once more. This time, his grip is loose. Five tentative fingers tethered to her skin.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 4

“What the hell are you doing?”

Given the notable height difference between them, Colin always has to be mindful of where his eyes land when standing right beside Penelope. But when crammed into small spaces like the elevator they’re currently sharing, his eyes inevitably start to wander. Now, they’re pointed at her phone screen. (Which is an invasion of privacy. Which is bad, but the lesser of two evils, given his current perspective in relation to his best friend’s shirt.)

She looks up at him, but only after setting a 25th alarm.

“Tomorrow is our last morning here. I am not missing that sunrise.”

She looks down again, resuming her all-important task. By the time they reach their destination and the elevator doors swing open, she has set at least ten more alarms. Her eyes remain locked on the screen as she steps foot into the lobby.

They’re on the way to the hotel bar, a suggestion Colin made after an unusually tense 24 hours between them in paradise.

Well, tense might be too strong of a term to describe the atmosphere between him and Penelope. But still, the atmosphere has been different ever since he let his ego get the better of him in the hotel lobby yesterday. Different enough to scare him. Different enough to prompt him to call in the big guns to set things right again.

(Alcohol.)

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Two tequila shots into the night, Penelope is not having a good time.

She had spent the entire day trying her hardest to force a smile on her face and keep her bad mood at bay until they land back on English soil. This had proved to be difficult — not just because of the insistence and intensity of said bad mood, but also because of Colin’s not-so-subtle attempts to uncover the true reason for her outburst the day before. (And the day before that.) (And the day before that.)

His line of questioning has only become less subtle since walking into the bar. Logically, this realisation should have prompted Penelope to make one final toast then go hide in her hotel room, but…

Alcohol has a tendency to make good ideas sound bad and bad ideas sound good. The latter is why she’s currently standing at the bar waiting for another round.

Maybe another drink will make us both forget what happened.

“Here you go, miss.”

On the other side of the bar, the handsome bartender slides two clear glasses with lime green liquid sloshing inside. Penelope unconsciously licks her bottom lip at the sight.

Only after securing the glasses in each hand does she realise that she never technically paid for either drink.

“You can put these on 301,” she shouts over the music.

“No need,” the bartender answers in a low voice that somehow cuts clear through the chaos of the room. He winks at her. “Those are on the house.”

“Oh! Um. Thanks!”

With that, Penelope turns on her heel. The abrupt motion causes one tiny stream of syrupy tequila to trickle down her fingers and onto the floor.

Determined not to spill any more of her free drinks, Penelope walks to the table in the back of the bar with an abundance of caution. During the treacherous journey across the room, she keeps her eyes pointed intently on the glasses in her hands. When she finally looks up, she’s shocked by what she finds.

In the chair beside Colin sits the most beautiful woman Penelope has ever seen with her own two eyes. The two of them are turned towards each other, talking about something Penelope can’t hear from where she stands not four feet away. She stands there awkwardly hovering above the table for a few seconds before Colin notices her return. When he does, he shoots her an aggravatingly endearing smile.

“There she is!” He turns back to the girl on his right. “Paris, this is Penelope. Pen, this is Paris.”

God. Even her name is beautiful.

“Lovely to meet you, Paris,” Penelope says, taking the seat directly across from her instead of the one facing Colin.

Paris, in turn, throws her a smile that could rival Colin’s. Even in this dim corner of the bar, it manages to catch the light.

“You as well, Penelope! Colin and I were just bonding over our most harrowing solo travel stories.”

She’s American, her voice betrays.

“Do you travel much?” Penelope asks after taking a long, greedy sip of her drink.

“Not as much as I’d like to,” she admits, sighing a little. “But I had a few weeks free before my grad program starts, so I decided to say ‘fuck it’ and booked a flight over here.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope sees Colin open his mouth to say something. Before he can manage to, she leans towards their new, very beautiful friend and says, “That’s amazing. Where else have you been?”

Over the course of the next few minutes, Penelope practically forgets about Colin and the unresolved tension between them. She’s too busy listening to their new, very beautiful, remarkably interesting, extremely funny, perfect friend Paris. (While also finishing her two free drinks.)

“Enough about me,” Penelope’s new favourite distraction eventually orders. She flicks her eyes from Colin to Penelope and back. “I meant to ask before, but how did you two meet?”

Penelope opens her mouth to answer, but Colin beats her to it, speaking up for the first time in several minutes. Still grinning…

“You know, that question is surprisingly hard to answer. We’ve always just known each other.”

His response is the most infuriating string of words Penelope has ever heard uttered aloud in her life. Across the table, Paris looks as though she’s about to melt.

“Awwww, that is so —”

“I believe what Colin meant to say is that we grew up across the street from one another,” she interrupts, just barely able to keep her tone pleasant enough to not scare away Paris. “His sister is my best friend.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope watches as Colin’s grin finally drops. She nearly looks at him for the first time since sitting down, but then her new friend says something that immediately dislodges the impulse from her mind.

Specifically, Paris delivers the funniest joke Penelope has ever heard in her life.

“You two are childhood sweethearts? That is so sweet!”

Penelope snorts. Her reaction is so loud and unladylike that she fears her mother will be able to sense it all the way back home in London.

“No! We’re —”

She snorts again. Somewhere in the distance, she thinks she hears someone say her name like a warning, but it barely registers.

“We are not dating,” she continues, just barely able to keep in another round of giggles. She keeps her eyes trained on Paris, who suddenly looks rather wide-eyed in her seat across from Penelope. “I mean — my god! Colin would never.”

She hears her voice called out in the distance again, but refuses to heed its warning. She can’t stop now. She’s too close to the punchline.

“You know, he said that once. Literally. That he would never date me. Not in a million years!”

“Pen!”

Finally, she hears him. Her eyes snap to Colin. His face is made up of an emotion she’s never seen there before.

Betrayal? No, that’s not —

“A word?”

Before she can even register that he has moved from his chair, Colin stands above her. His hand is on her elbow. He’s pulling her out the nearest door.

The breeze outside is bitter. Though the nearest beach is at least a half-kilometre away, Penelope swears she can feel little bits of the sea spraying on her cheeks. Neither of those sensations are cold enough to distract her from the warmth wrapped around her elbow.

“What was that, Penelope?”

“I…” she starts, with no intention of finishing the sentence.

“What were you talking about at the end?”

The first question had been delivered to her with fury. The second, concern. The next one that falls from his lips…

Misery.

“What did you — what did I say? I don’t — I don’t remember…”

All night, knowingly or not, Penelope had been using alcohol to fuel the pyre of her own misery. But seeing it reflected on Colin’s face now…

“It was nothing,” she lies. “Just forget —”

“No. Whatever it is, it is not ‘nothing.’

“Colin —”

“Pen, please,” he begs. “Just tell me.”

Penelope wants to summon the strength to be honest. She wants to destroy her disposition towards bullshit and tell him the truth. She’s not certain if that’s a strength she possesses, but she knows for a fact that she won’t be able to summon it with Colin tethered to her skin.

Stepping backwards, Penelope untangles herself from his grip. She crosses her arms in front of her chest before he can attempt to take hold again.

“Honestly, Colin, it was nothing. It happened years ago — before you even left for Cambridge. At that party at Fife’s house, I overheard you talking with some of your friends. They must have seen us hanging out all night and got the wrong idea about us. They — they asked if we were dating and you told them we weren’t, that we would nev—”

She sucks in a breath. She chances a prayer. She tries her hardest not to bullshit.

“You were just correcting them. That’s all.”

Colin doesn’t say anything for several seconds. He stands before her with twisted lips, like he’s desperately trying to hold something in. Then, he parts them.

“Kind of like how you were ‘just correcting’ that girl inside?”

“Yeah,” she says, speaking 100% truthfully for the first time since they stepped outside. Honesty is hard, but his comparison is too apt to even try to deny it.

When Colin takes a step towards her, Penelope takes another step back. The motion is enough to make her dizzy and, thus, remind her of the tequila currently sitting in the depths of her stomach.

“Pen, I’m so sorry. I —”

“No,” she interrupts, her voice definitive. “Don’t apologise. For anything. I was being rude inside, but you — you were just being honest that night. You didn’t even know I was there — that I could hear what you said. You —

“I hardly think that mat—”

“You should not have to apologise for simply speaking your mind.”

“That’s bullsh—”

“Colin! It was forever ago, can we please just leave it be?” She takes a breath. “Can we forget about this whole mess?”

“How can you say that? It’s been —”

Raising his hands into the air between them, he uses his fingers to count off imaginary numbers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six…

“Seven years! Seven, Penelope. I can’t even remember saying it, but I —” He takes a breath. “I wish I could. If for nothing else, just to properly apologise to you for being such a dickhead.”

“Col—”

“But you remember. And after what just happened in the bar — after what’s been happening all week — don’t you dare try and pretend like it’s nothing. If it was truly nothing, you would not be holding onto it seven years later.”

That look — the one that appeared out of nowhere following her outburst inside — appears on his face again. The lighting is a bit brighter out here due to a nearby streetlamp, but it doesn’t make it any easier for Penelope to identify that emotion. It’s not betrayal. It’s not quite guilt. It’s —

It doesn’t matter.

Resisting the urge to drop her gaze from his, Penelope finally accepts that there are some things in life that defy definition. One of those anomalies is currently staring right through her, and there’s nothing she can say to make him see her. Bullshit or otherwise.

“Fine. Apology accepted.”

She turns to leave, needing the conversation to be over. But yet again, Colin’s hand wraps around her elbow.

“Can we please just talk about this like adults?”

“What is there left to say?” He opens his mouth, but she isn’t done. “You were right. I was hurt, but now I’m choosing to let it go. Seven years is far too long a time to take issue with a few words overheard at a party.”

“That is not what I meant, Pen.”

“I know. But it’s the truth.”

“Pen —”

“It’s late, Colin,” she interrupts, turning her back to him as she begins to step away. “Perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?” He’s already beside her again, footsteps in line with hers.

“Back to my room,” she huffs. “I wish to be alone.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting I let you run off by yourself right now, are you?”

“Yes —”

“Pen, you’re drunk.”

He certainly has a point but…

“You say that like you are not also drunk.”

“Yeah, well…” He runs a hand through his hair, then promptly finds her elbow again. “At least I’m not as drunk as you.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

On the way back down to the bar, Colin takes the stairs.

After ensuring that Penelope got back to her room safely, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his own bed and end this cursed day once and for all. But when he fished out his wallet to retrieve his roomkey, he realised that a different card was missing. That his credit card was sitting behind a bar downstairs, along with an unpaid tab.

He takes the stairs slowly, step by reluctant step. His mind is elsewhere, unwittingly replaying the night over and over again. He’s trying to make sense of it all. Of any of it.

Not in a million years!

He said that once.

He doesn’t doubt it. But god — he doesn’t remember it either. He remembers that night. He remembers sitting on the roof with Penelope, then dancing with her in the back garden. He remembers laughing. He remembers drinking. He remembers being eighteen. He remembers what a massive arsehole he could turn into when surrounded by other arseholes like Fife.

He doesn’t doubt that he said it — but he can’t quite explain it either. Lord knows he can’t justify it. The words just sounded wrong, especially when repeated back to him from Penelope’s lips.

That he would never date me.

Not in a million years!

Even in his own head, Colin struggles to explain why those words feel so wrong to him — why they reek of such potent bullshit. His dilemma is not made any easier by Penelope or anything she said tonight.

Fine. Apology accepted.

The way she looked at him when those words left her lips…

It was like she disappeared. Her eyes didn’t leave his, and yet it looked as though she was suddenly staring at something far in the distance. Like she was staring through him. Like —

“Can I help you, mate?”

Colin blinks three times, taking in his surroundings as he comes back to reality. His feet must have been on auto-pilot the last few minutes; he’s back at the bar.

“Mate?” the smug bartender repeats.

Not in the mood to dignify that with a response, Colin mimes a pen squiggle in the air. Thankfully, the man takes the hint and disappears down the bar to retrieve his check. Before he can return, someone on a barstool clears their throat.

It’s the girl from before. The American. The one who sat at his table to make small talk, then unintentionally fucked up his entire night. (And possibly his entire friendship with Penelope.)

Brooklyn? No, that wasn’t it.

“So… What the fuck was that before?” she asks, her voice teetering somewhere between faux-enthusiasm and genuine annoyance. “Some weird foreplay between you and your girlfriend?”

“No. We’re not…”

He could finish that sentence, but he doesn’t see the point. This stranger has already received a lecture on the true nature of his and Penelope’s relationship — what else needs to be said?

The girl rolls her eyes, dropping the fake enthusiasm entirely.

“If you two aren’t dating, why did you tell me your ‘girlfriend Penelope’ was grabbing drinks from the bar when I first sat down?”

“No, I —”

His voice trails off again. This time, his mind is kicking into overdrive, desperately attempting to relive that moment of the night. Surely, he didn’t —

“No,” he says again, this time more sure of himself. “I said she was my ‘good friend,’ not my ‘girlfriend.’” But as the words leave his lips, Colin’s short-lived confidence crumbles.

Good friend. Girlfriend.

The bar is loud and he’s consumed quite a bit of tequila tonight. Maybe he did misspeak.

Good friend. Girlfriend. Good friend. Girlfriend. Good friend. Girlfriend.

“Whatever,” the American says, pushing herself off of the barstool. “I hope you and your good friend can work out your issues.”

Colin gulps, because Lord knows that he hopes for the same.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Day 5

The first alarm goes off at 5:50 AM. Colin was technically asleep before it wrung out, but restlessly so. His body never fully settled into sleep that night, so it’s quick to wake when those artificial bells drift over from the wall behind him.

Another alarm starts at 5:51, then stops just as quickly. From his own bed, Colin can’t help but picture Penelope muting said alarm with her eyes scrunched shut, hungover and still 90% asleep. For the first time in what feels like ages, he smiles.

At 5:52, another alarm rings out as Colin sits up, wide awake. He runs a hand across his face as memories and realisations from the night before come back to him with startling clarity. They fit together in his mind like evidence for a cold case he didn’t realise was a mystery until yesterday. A few more alarms ring out as he pieces everything together.

Seven years ago, Colin left for Cambridge and Penelope left for Cheltenham and, for two years and three months thereafter, their friendship wasn’t the same. In those two years and three months, he lost the one person he could always and truly be himself around. Throughout those two years and three months, he assumed the shift between them had been an inevitable part of growing up and growing out of their younger selves. But now…

Now he can see it all clearly.

Seven years ago, Colin invited Penelope to a party, occupied her time all night, then claimed that he would never date her in a million goddamn years. He said those words in a crowd full of people — so crowded, in fact, that he couldn’t tell that she had been there to witness it all firsthand.

It all seems so obvious now. Of course she heard him. Of course the shift had been intentional — on one side, that is.

At 6:05, another alarm rings. Colin barely hears it, his mind occupied by the question that had been plaguing him all week.

Why is Pen so put off by the prospect of us being a couple?

He knows the answer now, but it’s of no comfort to him.

At 6:06, a new question rises to occupy that space in his mind.

Why aren’t I put off by the prospect of Pen and I being a couple?

Perhaps that is the question he should have been asking himself from the start. At no point during any of the many misunderstandings that occurred this week had Colin ever been put off by the titles others had thrust upon them. Strangers seeing Penelope as his girlfriend, his fiancée, his wife…

None of it put him off.

The 6:07 alarm seems to rewire his brain. More questions come to him.

Is it normal to be enraged by the idea of dating your best friend? Is it more or less normal to find the idea… nice?

At the 6:08 alarm, Colin asks himself another question. One he should have been asking himself for several years now.

Is it normal to be so preoccupied by the sight of your best friend’s cleavage?

At the 6:09 alarm, long after assuming Penelope would miss her final chance at viewing the Catalonian sunrise, he hears something new from the next room over.

“Siri, cancel all alarms.”

After that, he hears the faintest evidence of movement from her end. Rustling sheets. Footsteps. A barely audible “Fuck.”

By 6:10, Colin stands stiffly, inches away from their adjoining door. By 6:11, he actually knocks on it.

It only takes a few seconds for her to swing it open.

“Hi.”

Penelope is looking up at him with the eyes of someone who had four shots of tequila last night. Her hair has been twisted into a long red braid down her side. She’s wearing a matching set of pink and white chequered pyjamas and slippers in the shape of little white rabbits. Colin can’t help but smile.

“Morning.”

Without another word, she nods her head to the side, signalling for him to follow her out to the balcony.

The sky is navy blue, save for the thin streak of maroon rising up from the edge of the world. It’s still dawn. It will be dawn for another few minutes, until the sun inevitably rises.

Colin and Penelope stand side-by-side, hands on the railing, pinkies inches apart. Without a word spared between them, they watch as twilight bleeds into daybreak. As red turns to pink. Pink to orange. Orange to yellow.

The sea reflects it all like a mirror. Colin sees it all with his own two eyes.

“Is it everything you thought it would be?”

“More.”

When quiet falls between them again and yellow bleeds into blue, Colin can’t stop himself from asking and answering a new question. It’s the one that’s been hiding in the shadows of his mind for most of his life.

Am I in love with Pen?

Yes, you fucking idiot. Of course you are.

The realisation doesn’t come with any amount of shock or denial. It just feels…

Inevitable.

This was always going to happen. He was going to reach this conclusion sooner or later.

Tempting fate, Colin lifts his left arm and places it across Penelope’s back, hand settling gently on her shoulder. Both of her hands remain locked on the railing.

As much as it consumes him inside, Colin cannot bring himself to voice his inevitable revelation aloud. Not after last night — after realising the pain he has obliviously inflicted on Penelope over the years. Not after this week — which had been planned in celebration and is currently teetering on disaster. Not after an entire lifetime of getting it all wrong.

He can’t bring himself to voice his revelation aloud. Instead he asks a simpler, albeit similarly difficult question.

“Are we going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Penelope says, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Of course.”

Colin isn’t sure he believes her. He isn’t sure things will ever be the same.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“You know, Catalonia is beautiful this time of year. Perfect destination for a honeymoon.”

“Don’t skip ahead,” she orders, while also making a mental note on the topic in the back of her mind. “What’s next?”

#I thought this chapter was going to give me a hernia #right now there are THREE 10K+ chaps in this fic #and that’s three too many #bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #weepingfromacedartree #ao3 #fanfic #ten milestones #penelope x colin #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

22 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 6 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Hopes & Dreams

Hi friends! Chapter 5 is now available!

TW: drug and alcohol use

When Colin’s eyes scan over the next milestone, his face lights up in that aggravatingly adorable way it always does when things go exactly his way.

“Oooh,” he gloats. “This is a good one.”

“What?” Penelope asks, impatient. He’s sitting just close enough that she could steal the phone out of his hands if she wanted to, but she resists the urge.

“Number Four: Sharing Your Hopes and Dreams. Before you and your partner make the commitment to share a life together, you must first share what each of you wants out of that future. This conversation is important — not only will it teach you about each other as individuals, but it will also give you an understanding of how you fit together as partners. A strong partnership is made up of two people who support each other’s goals.”

Penelope doesn’t say a word. She simply smiles.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Nine Years Earlier: December 23rd, 2014

Relationship Status: Good Friends

꙳

December 24th, in Penelope’s opinion, has to be one of the worst days a person can be born on. (Third worst to be exact, narrowly being beaten out by December 25th and February 29th.) Every year, the celebration of your birth is overshadowed by the eve of someone else’s birth. Your birthday presents double as Christmas presents. Your friends are too busy with their own holiday plans to celebrate your birthday with you. Hell — most people forget your birthday exists in the first place.

December 24th is a rather shitty birthday for one to possess. But in all the years she’s known him, Colin has never been one to complain.

It helps that the other Bridgertons always make an attempt to separate his birthday celebrations from the holiday he just so happened to have been born on. That’s why these sorts of parties are always held the night before his actual birthday.

Daphne took the anti-Christmas strategy to a whole nother level this year. Invitations went out two weeks ago with a disclaimer at the bottom.

Red and green garments are strictly prohibited on the premises.

Penelope originally wanted to wear a velvet burgundy dress that she found on Dover Street tonight, but the garment has since been banished to the back of her closet. Instead, she’s wearing a dress made of a softer shade of pink.

Now, 57 minutes into the very-much-not-a-holiday-party party, Penelope stands above the Bridgerton foyer with a dark red drink in her hand. Eloise is beside her, grumbling about the many “unique” choices made for this event. (Including her required attendance.)

“I know Daphne banned holiday music, but surely she can play something better than Coldplay.”

“I like Coldplay,” Penelope mutters defensively. Eloise does not seem to hear her above all the other noise in the room.

“Have you seen the birthday boy anywhere? It’s his party and I have not seen him all night.”

“No. I haven’t.”

They’re standing on the second story landing, above the front entrance and foyer where most attendees mingle. This should be an optimal vantage point to look for Colin, but when Penelope scans the crowd, she comes up empty.

“I’m usually the one to pull a disappearing act at this sort of thing, and even I wouldn’t dare do so at my own party.”

Eloise’s words temporarily break Penelope out of her premature worry. She giggles.

“Weren’t you three hours late to your last birthday celebration? Something about needing to go downtown to visit a certain —”

“That’s different!” Eloise cuts in. “That was a surprise party — how was I supposed to know?!”

“Didn’t your family —”

“I thought I was delaying a casual birthday dinner with my mum and seven siblings. Obviously I would have been on time if I knew there were a hundred people crouched in the dark, hiding behind potted plants and couch cushions, just waiting for my return.”

Penelope’s giggles do not let up.

“Is that what you think happened while you were gone?”

“I don’t know.” Eloise literally waves off the question, gesticulating her hands so ardently that she nearly spills all the wine out of her glass. “I’m more concerned about Colin’s whereabouts at the moment.”

“Is something wrong?” Penelope asks, worry rising up in her chest again. It’s squashed just as quickly.

“No. But if I have to suffer through this party, so should he. It’s his fault we’re all here in the first place.”

Penelope scans the crowd once more. Yet again, nothing.

“Knowing Colin, he’s probably in the kitchen.”

“Oooh.” Eloise’s demeanour changes immediately. Her scowl pulls into a smile. “That also happens to be where they store the one thing that could actually make this party enjoyable.”

Penelope lifts an eyebrow, fighting off another bout of giggles.

“And what might that be? Good conversation? An old friend? The ghost of not-Christmas pres—”

“No. Liquor. Perhaps after a few drinks, your jokes will start to sound funny.”

As one final round of giggles bubbles up in Penelope’s throat, Eloise loops their arms together and leads them towards the stairs.

“And after a few more drinks, perhaps Coldplay will start to sound like actual music.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Twenty-one minutes later (and half a vodka cranberry later), Penelope walks out of the kitchen by herself, realising that she has seen every Bridgerton at this party except Colin.

Violet and Daphne had both greeted her at the door. She spoke to Francesca while waiting for the loo. She walked in on a fist fight between Gregory and Hyacinth. Anthony brushed past her to break it up, barely managing to prevent Hyacinth from knocking Gregory’s front tooth out. Benedict was in the kitchen, where he and Eloise are currently having a spirited (but hushed) debate over what Christmas movie to watch tomorrow night.

Glass in hand, condensation already dripping onto her fingers, Penelope walks the Bridgerton halls.

There are people everywhere she turns. Some she knows from her lifetime in Mayfair or from her extensive experience at Bridgerton events. Some she vaguely recognizes from Colin’s social media or from her sporadic trips up to Cambridge. Some she doesn’t recognize at all.

As her footsteps trail forward, Penelope resists the urge to look and listen. To keep listening. To peer into the conversations of these strangers and acquaintances, all while she remains unnoticed.

It’s a game she knows well, but still she resists. She looks for a face far more familiar than these.

Just before her feet can step into the foyer — into the heart of the party — they stop short. Her body moves to the side, leaning rigid into the wooden doorway, hidden beneath the cover of a shadow. On the other side of the room, Colin stands with his back against a wall and his arms crossed in front of him. Clearly, no one informed him of the dress code for his own party; he’s wearing an emerald green cable knit sweater.

(He’s also wearing a light blue birthday hat atop his head — one she can only assume was hand-crafted by Violet Bridgerton.)

He isn’t alone. Daphne stands beside him, body facing him, arms at her sides. They’re talking. Penelope couldn’t even begin to guess what it is they’re talking about, but she can tell from the other side of the room that Colin isn’t happy about it.

He isn’t saying much; Daphne is doing most of the talking.

After a stranger brushes past her, Penelope raises her glass to her lips and takes the smallest of sips. Her mind briefly considers walking over to the other side of the room, but her feet remain firmly planted in her spot in the doorway. She feels a peculiar, paralyzed sensation up and down her legs as she watches their conversation unfold from afar. She can’t help but worry and wonder why Colin looks so defeated at his own party. She also can’t help but deem this conversation too dangerous to peer into uninvited.

“Oh, Pen! There you are!”

Automatically, Penelope’s head turns in the direction from which her name had been called. Eloise is excitedly walking (basically skipping) down the hall towards her.

“You’re coming over tomorrow night, right? Ben is still advocating for Elf, but with your vote I think I can swing us back to the far superior Nightmare Before Christmas.”

“Oh! Yes, I think so. By the way, I found —”

Penelope turns her head, expecting to find Colin exactly where he had been not twenty seconds prior. But he isn’t. Neither is Daphne.

“What?” Eloise asks, now standing in the doorway beside Penelope.

“Nothing.” Penelope shakes her head, then shoots back the rest of her drink. “And just for the record: Benedict is right. Elf is easily the superior Christmas movie.”

Eloise’s jaw goes slack.

“You traitor.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

All night, the only thing Colin wanted was to disappear from his own party. He is aware of how bad that sounds — how he sounds like an ungrateful child instead of a man on the cusp of twenty-two. But even then…

No one can plan for their birthday. He didn’t choose this to be born on December 24th. He didn’t want to have this party to begin with. He couldn’t have predicted that tonight would land in the middle of one of the most uncertain, precarious, bad-mood-inducing phases of his life. It’s not his fault that he’s currently in one of those moods — one that makes the happiness of others feel like a personal attack on you specifically.

A party was the last place Colin wanted to be tonight. Now, he finds himself in a room situated in a more private wing of the house. He’s out of view of the random, too-happy people filling the halls, but close enough to hear the remnants of faraway music. He’s sitting in front of the giant oak that used to belong to his father, arms crossed in front of him and eyes trained on the door to his left. Anthony’s on the other side of the desk, donning an expression that makes Colin wish he was back in the heart of the party.

“Must we have this conversation now? I’m fairly certain mum’s downstairs lighting candles on a cake as we speak.”

That look on Anthony’s face — equal parts annoyance and amusement — does not let up one bit.

“I’ve been trying to have this conversation with you for weeks. It’s not my fault that we had to throw a party in your honour just to keep you at home for more than fifteen minutes.”

“That’s —”

Colin doesn’t finish that sentence. He could attach a million different adjectives to the end of it that would (rightfully) attack Anthony’s character, but none of them would make his words untrue.

“I’ve been busy,” he says instead.

“Clearly.” Anthony puffs out an audible breath of air from his nose as he leans back in their father’s chair. “Seeing as you can’t even make the time for one single phone call.”

For the first time in several minutes, Colin’s arms uncross. His hands move to the arms of the chair, ten fingernails biting into its vinyl surface.

Contrary to Anthony’s claims, they’ve actually had some version of this conversation several times over the last few weeks. Over those weeks, Anthony had suggested, reminded, then demanded that Colin reach out to an old friend of their father’s — one who just so happens to be the head of English Literature at Oxford. Also during those weeks, Colin reminded his older brother that he has no intention of doing so, but such details always seem to fall on deaf ears.

Also contrary to Anthony’s claims, Colin does have plans — or at the very least, dreams for what to do after he graduates from university in the spring. His aspirations simply have nothing to do with Oxford or any other form of higher education. His dreams —

“Is this about Marina?”

Those words break Colin out of the thought spiral he hadn’t realised he had fallen into. They leave him feeling even more annoyed and misunderstood than he had just a moment ago.

“Excuse me? What exactly —”

“This. This insistence to avoid real life. To sulk around and avoid your responsibilities.”

“I am not —”

“It’s fine, if it is!” Anthony offers, sarcasm not lost in his tone. “I get it. Your first real breakup can be hard. But at a certain point, you have to —”

“That was months ago. And I don’t see how a silly little breakup has any bearing on my career aspirations.”

It isn’t until those words leave his lips that he realises how potently they taste of bullshit.

No, this is not about Marina or the ultimate demise of their relationship. Obviously, she has no bearing on any of his future plans. But to refer to their breakup as “silly” or “little” feels dishonest. (On his end, at least. The words are probably more fitting for Marina’s feelings on the matter.)

In truth, Colin had been in a perpetual bad mood since she ended things between them back in August. They only dated for six months, but that was approximately five and a half months longer than any relationship he had held previously. He thought Marina was the love of his life; after their breakup, she admitted that the only reason they ever dated was to make her ex-boyfriend jealous.

At least the relationship had been successful for one of them.

“‘Career aspirations?’” Anthony mocks, pulling Colin out of yet another thought spiral. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Now, Colin wishes for nothing more than to strangle his older brother. Instead, he lets go of his tightening grip around the armchair.

“Once again — can we table this conversation for another day? Daphne will kill me if I kill you and thus, ruin her party.”

Anthony rolls his eyes, but nods.

“Fine. But isn’t this your party?”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

Anthony immediately stands from his chair, but Colin remains sitting. His gaze turns to the left again, pointlessly pointing at that big brown door — wishing against all reason and logic for someone to walk through the precipice.

Just as he always does on nights like this.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

At approximately 11:33 PM, after cutting the cake, after dodging more of Anthony’s questions, after acting like an ungrateful, bad-mood-wielding ass at his own celebration, Colin sits alone.

He’s in the drawing room, perched precariously on the edge of a windowsill. The room is dark, lit by one dying bulb in the lamp by the door. There’s a hastily-rolled joint (a birthday gift from Benedict) between Colin’s thumb and index finger. There’s a cloud of smoke sitting on his tongue and a bitter December breeze drifting in from the open window beside him.

The party he left behind is probably wrapping up right now. People are probably looking for him. He should probably go say goodbye (or even “hello”) to them. He shouldn’t keep himself here, secluded in a well of his own misery. But just the thought of going downstairs and speaking to one of those random, too-happy people fills him with a misery that —

Shit.

The door to the drawing room starts to creak open. Before it can open all the way — before he can even turn his head to identify the perpetrator behind that noise — Colin flicks the joint out the window. When he finally does look over to the entrance across the room, his panic starts to settle.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else,” he says, just as Penelope says, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Even in the dim lighting — even from across the room — Colin can see her cheeks flush pink as she laughs nervously and steps across the precipice. Thankfully, she shuts the door closed behind her.

“Sorry,” she says again. “Hope I don’t disappoint.”

“Not at all.” He shuts the window before standing from his spot. He meets Penelope halfway on the light blue couch in the middle of the room. “Quite the opposite.”

As she walks closer, her cheeks grow just a little more pink. The nervous smile drops though, her face settling into a look Colin has become quite familiar with over the years. He knows there’s a question behind it — something gnawing at her insides, begging to be asked aloud. Given his admittedly odd behaviour and the fact that this is the first time they’ve spoken all night, he feels rather confident about what question he’s about to be asked.

But he’s wrong.

“What happened to your birthday hat?”

“Fucking hell,” he unconsciously mutters. The words slip from his lips as his hands raise to the crown of his head. “Forgotten by a tray of eclairs. I think.”

That gnawing expression on Penelope’s face drops. She giggles.

“Shall we go look for it before your mum catches on?”

“No.” It isn’t until that word shoots off his lips that he realises how deeply he despises the idea of being anywhere except this spot on the couch. “Mum will forgive my carelessness.”

Penelope nods, a soft hum of agreement on her lips.

“Is there a reason you’re hiding up here instead of by that tray of eclairs?”

Colin’s first instinct is to deflect. He opens his mouth to do so — but before he can say anything, he’s suddenly hit by a wave of clarity that doing so would be wrong. That Penelope already knows something is up with him and lying to her would do neither of them any good. The epiphany is almost certainly a consequence of the weed he inhaled approximately 60 seconds ago, but still…

“Just in a bit of a shit mood. Which — I should really apologise for. To you and the hundred other people held hostage by said shit mood all night.”

Penelope’s face flashes with an expression different from inquiry, but just as familiar to him after all these years: worry.

“Don’t apologise.”

Maybe it’s the joint currently burning a hole in his mother’s lawn. Maybe it’s the deflection finally breaking through. Maybe it’s his inherent need to pull the worry off Penelope’s face, but Colin cannot help but smirk.

“Sorry. I’ll try to remember to stop doing that.”

“Why are you in a shit mood?” she asks, seemingly unphased by his facetiousness.

Colin shrugs.

“Not in the Christmas spirit this year, I suppose.”

“I don’t see how that’s of any relevance, considering the fact that this is not a Christmas party. In fact, I believe any mention of said ‘Christmas spirit’ has been banned entirely.”

“Bloody hell.”

Colin runs a hand across his face, literally wiping away that smirk.

“I told Daphne to relax on the ‘rules’ for this thing. Actually — I told her to skip this party altogether. To just tack on a birthday cake to the usual Christmas Eve celebrations tomorrow. Unfortunately, I don’t believe my input is of much relevance on the subject.”

Penelope remains quiet for a second longer than Colin feels is necessary or comfortable. In those few seconds of waiting, she sports a new expression on her face. This one is harder to read than the ones that came before.

“Is that why you two were arguing before?” she finally asks. And when Colin simply gives her a look of confusion, she clarifies, “I saw you two talking in the foyer earlier tonight. You looked a bit… I don’t know. Cross?”

Once again, Colin feels himself hit with a desire to drop his faux-nonchalance and charming deflection. To speak plainly. If there ever were a person to be candid with, surely it’s Penelope. Throughout the entirety of their friendship, she has only ever regarded him with an open mind. All his life, she has been so constant and loyal. If there is anyone he should be discussing matters such as this with, surely it’s her.

Surely.

“No, that wasn’t what we were talking about. As silly and unnecessary it may have been… You know how excited Daphne gets about these parties. I didn’t want to complain. Not that directly, at least. We were, uh —” He clears his throat. “We were actually discussing my post-uni plans.”

In the relative darkness surrounding them, Penelope’s eyes light up with eager curiosity.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Anthony has been on my ass for weeks regarding the future — which is completely out of character from him, I know. But I… I don’t know. Anthony isn’t exactly the easiest person to talk to about that sort of thing and I… I thought it would be easier to talk to Daphne about it, but…”

The longer he speaks, the more apparent it becomes that his usual capabilities for completing sentences have seemingly slipped away from him. It’s probably the weed, but…

“What are your plans?” Penelope asks, filling the interim silence. “It’s fine if you don’t know yet, of course. Not everyone has to know exactly what they want to do after uni, but —”

“No, I do have plans,” Colin is quick to clarify. “They’re just a bit… mad. According to Anthony, at least.”

“Oh.” Penelope shifts in her spot, sitting up a bit straighter. A wicked smile creeps up her lips. “Well, that’s much better than no plan at all.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I guess so.”

“So what are these mad plans, exactly?”

“Well,” Colin can feel his body sink just a little bit deeper into the couch cushion as he continues, “you know how I’ve always wanted to travel?”

“Of course,” she says, a softer smile suddenly appearing on her lips.

“I always thought of that as some far away dream. Like, once I become an actual adult and have my life figured out, then I can take time off from my ‘real life’ to go see the world for myself. The only problem was…”

His voice trails off again, still unsure of what words he could use to best describe what lies in his heart. Thankfully, Penelope describes it for him.

“You never had any dreams for your so-called ‘real life?’”

“Exactly.”

Though the window has since been shut tight, the air in the room remains quite cold. And yet, Colin feels a sudden warm sensation in the center of his chest; he does his best to ignore it as Penelope opens her mouth again.

“So you want to make a career out of travelling the world?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, his shoulders unconsciously shrugging upwards. “Though, when you put it like that… maybe I can understand Anthony’s reservations on the subject.”

“Don’t say that,” Penelope insists, a gentle breath of nervous laughter on her lips. “Lots of people’s jobs revolve around travel. There’s nothing wrong with that.” With another tiny laugh, she adds, “And I’m sure a business degree from Cambridge will be useful in securing those future plans.”

“I don’t know how true that is,” he admits, the words tasting sour on his tongue.

In truth, Colin had no idea what he wanted to study or work towards when he first started at Cambridge at eighteen. He had chosen to study business simply because it seemed like the rational choice to make at the time. Unlike his older brothers, both of whom knew exactly what they wanted to do with their lives before they hit secondary school, Colin was late to such a realisation. It wasn’t until very recently that his hopes and dreams for the future started to solidify.

“What do you mean?” Penelope asks.

“Well, obviously any degree from Cambridge will be useful for my future. I just meant…” He sucks in a cold breath of air. “If I were to go back in time and do it all over again, I wouldn’t have chosen business. I think I would have, uh, chosen something more in line with English Literature.”

Once again, Penelope’s face lights up in the darkness.

“You want to write?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles again. “I think so.”

“Colin, that’s —” Penelope’s hand, which had previously been sitting limply in her lap, moves as if she’s about to reach out and touch his shoulder. It doesn’t in the end. It now rests on top of the couch in the space between them. “That’s a great idea. Truly.”

That warm feeling makes a sudden reappearance in Colin’s chest. Again…

“Really? You’re not worried about what will happen if you’re no longer the only writer in this friendship?”

“No,” she insists, almost sounding defensive. “The world needs more good writers.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s fair to say —”

“You’re a good writer, Colin.”

At her words (and the adorably serious manner in which she spoke them), Colin cannot help but laugh.

“And you know this based on what? A few emails?”

To claim Penelope has only received a “few” emails from him feels disingenuous. But still, he struggles to see her point.

He sent the first email in January, shortly after returning to Cambridge from winter holiday and approximately six weeks after Penelope’s father passed. The email wasn’t about her dad or uni or anything in particular. If anything, it was a compilation of random thoughts (and several puns) he had collected in his brain in the five days that passed since they last spoke.

He sent that first email on a Friday. She responded on the following Monday. He sent another on Friday. She responded again —

Suffice to say, a pattern emerged. Both of them missed a few Mondays and Fridays over the last eleven months (especially around the end of the spring term and the termination of his relationship with Marina), but even then…

Penelope has read more of Colin’s writing than anyone else. More than even his professors at Cambridge.

“Yes, based on a few emails, Colin,” Penelope insists, rolling her eyes lightly. “Really, you are such a terrific writer. It doesn’t matter if it’s in an email to a friend — or in a term paper or a book or whatever it is that you want to do. I can tell that you like to write, and that’s really the fundamental requirement for becoming a writer.”

That warm feeling in Colin’s chest is back and it feels like it’s about to leave a rash on his skin.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Colin sighs and leans a few inches away from Penelope.

“Well… Thank you. But I believe Anthony would protest that last point.”

“What do you mean?” Penelope asks, similarly drawing a few inches backwards. Her left hand falls back into her lap from the couch cushion.

“Anthony is of the mindset that liking something isn’t enough of a reason to upend your life for that thing. He thinks the idea of me running off to another country after graduation and writing about my experiences is ‘silly.’ That if I want to be a writer, I should stay put, apply for a graduate program, and actually learn how to become one. Which…”

His voice trails off, because saying it all out loud makes his own plans sound a lot more “silly” than he had originally thought.

“Well…” Penelope starts. “In fairness to Anthony’s perspective, you can’t wake up one day, decide to be a lawyer, then go litigate a murder case at the courthouse down the street. But becoming a writer… It’s different than becoming a lawyer. Maybe Anthony isn’t the best person to talk to on the subject.”

Colin nods, a vague hum of agreement on his lips as he thinks over her words.

Maybe not so silly, after all.

“And Daphne? What did she say?”

“Oh.”

He had almost forgotten why they’re having this conversation in the first place.

“She was more supportive than Anthony. I think I was just a bit frustrated because she didn’t seem to fully understand what it is that I want to do. She thinks I just want to fuck off for a year, then come home and figure out what to do with my ‘real life.’ Attend postgrad, get a job in an office, do… Do whatever it is that real adults do.”

Penelope doesn’t say anything right away. She’s looking at him in that way that makes it clear that she has a lot to say and is still figuring out how to say it. Before she can, he opens his mouth again.

“I shouldn’t be cross with her. Or Anthony, even. I just think — for my own sake — I need to commit to the idea. To go out and try to make something of myself without having a backup plan to revert to if I don’t succeed within a year’s time.”

“Then you should go for it.” Her words come out quickly, in one determined breath — like she needs to get the words out before he continues rambling. “Anthony will come around. He probably just needs some time. And perhaps some perspective.”

“Yeah, may—”

“What is it that you want to write, by the way?” Penelope asks, interrupting whatever further deflection he was surely about to throw her way. “A book about your travels?”

Colin considers the question.

“No, I was thinking more in terms of a blog. Or,” he laughs, “a magazine, if they’d hire me. But I do like the idea of writing a book one day. Not any time soon, but once I’m older and wiser and have lived a little more, I think I’d like to have some written recollection of my experiences to look back on. That’s sort of the magic of writing, you know?”

Penelope doesn’t confirm that last bit. She stays quiet as she gives him a look that says, “keep going.”

“Like… When I was at Aubrey Hall last summer, I got bored one day and went snooping through my grandfather’s old study. When I did, I found this cardboard box in the back of his closet. It held all these little mementos from when he was on tour back in the forties. He kept so many journals from that time — all filled with these little details about what his life was like. Leaving England for the first time. Seeing the Eiffel Tower. Eating strudel in Vienna. Skinny dipping in the Danube. Wa—”

When Penelope lets out a surprised giggle, Colin can’t help but laugh, too. The bad mood that had been plaguing him all night has long since been forgotten.

“Anyway… I read through approximately five years worth of those stories in one afternoon, and I just — I couldn’t help but think about how lasting the written word is. My grandfather died before I was born, and yet I learned so much about him just because I happened upon those old journals. Just because he sat down one afternoon seventy years ago and decided to write about the time he and a bunch of his army buddies stripped naked and jumped into a river.”

Penelope laughs again. So does Colin.

“I just — I like that idea. That —” He inches forward to grab a little white napkin from the coffee table. “I could grab a pen, write about all the delectable food we ate here tonight, hide this in an archaic book on the shelf over there, then seventy years from now, my grandson could find it and understand just how ardently his grandfather loved eclairs.”

Penelope laughs again. This time, the laugh is strong enough to make her lose a little bit of her resolve; when she tips forward, her forehead lightly brushes against his shoulder.

“But like I said…” He says, only once Penelope has returned to an upright position on the next cushion over. “I think I need to live a little more before I even think about writing something as definitive as a book.”

“Well… Whatever you end up writing, I’ll read it.”

Colin laughs again. He can’t help it.

“You know — you’re quite the loyal reader, Pen. First you put up with my weekly long-winded, rambling emails, now you’re —”

“I don’t ‘put up’ with anything, Colin. You’re a terrific writer. I always enjoy reading your emails. Even if they almost always include one too many puns.”

“That’s debatable,” he mutters defensively, only able to cling onto those last few words.

“Even with the jarring amount of puns in your work —”

“Hey!”

“— your writing is good. You obviously have a passion for it, and that matters a hell of a lot more than a lit degree.”

Penelope takes a breath. Speaking a bit more softly now…

“Possessing a passion is important. It will fill your hours with a sense of purpose. When others doubt you or success seems illusive, that passion will drive you to keep going. To achieve something definitive — something you can look back on decades from now and be proud of.”

When Penelope stops speaking, Colin is reminded of that inability he possessed just a few minutes ago — the one that made it impossible to finish his sentences without trailing off into oblivion. It definitely wasn’t the joint. (The more he thinks about it, the more apparent it becomes that Benedict’s “present” was nothing more than a few grams of oregano rolled into a little white paper.)

No. A few minutes ago, Colin was unable to properly put his hopes and dreams into words without trailing off or sounding like an arsehole — just as he has been unable to do for several months now. But now…

Now he can. Now it all makes sense.

After thanking Penelope for her kind, insightful words, Colin decides it is time for this discussion to alter course.

“And what of your dreams, Pen?”

Penelope doesn’t answer right away. Though the room around them is still rather dark, Colin’s eyes have adjusted enough to see the blush that quickly forms on her cheeks.

“You know I’m studying to become a journalist,” she says, which is more of a protest of his question than an actual answer.

Of course he knows that. Unlike Colin, Penelope knew what she wanted to do with her life long before she began attending university. But despite their increased correspondence over the last few months, Penelope never really talks about why she made that choice.

“Obviously. But what is it that you’re so passionate about? What fills your hours with purpose?”

She considers his questions.

“I don’t know. I always loved reading, and that just naturally bled into a love of writing.”

“Okay,” he says belatedly, not initially realising that was her entire response. “But why journalism? Why not fiction or poetry or —” Colin chuckles. “Travel writing?”

“I don’t know,” she says again. “I just — I’ve always been interested in people’s stories. Real people’s stories. One day, I might wake up and suddenly want to write a romance novel or a children’s story, but right now… Journalism feels like the right fit for me.”

After another prolonged silence, Colin asks, “What interests you about real people’s stories?��

“I don’t know,” she says for a third time. “People are just so… complicated. Everyone has a million stories inside of them. That’s the fun part of interviewing people — finding ways to get those interesting, hidden details into the light.”

In the back of his mind, Colin wonders if Penelope has been practising that particular skill on him during this conversation. He waives the thought away before it can fully develop.

“Is there an area of journalism you’re specifically interested in?”

Before answering his question, Penelope scrunches her nose, then lets out a forced breath of laughter.

“Colin, I don’t know why you’re getting so caught up in the small details of it. What my dream is now could be different than what it is ten years from now — or even two years from now. However I choose to spend my hours, I just hope that I have a purpose to drive me. Something satisfying and fulfilling. Something that will challenge me to be brave and witty. Something to propel me forward and set me free.”

It takes Colin a moment to realise that he has been stunned into silence. Thankfully, he’s able to pull himself out of the daze with a little effort.

“What could possibly measure up to all of that?”

She shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

They sit in a shared silence for a moment. Colin wishes he could hear what is going on in Penelope’s head; his is filled with her voice.

Something to propel me forward and set me free.

“I think it’s amazing that —”

“Oh, stop,” she says, another forced laugh on her lips. Though she remains rooted in her spot on the couch, Penelope’s face turns away from Colin and towards the nearest door. For the first time in several minutes, he remembers that there’s still a party going on downstairs. His party.

“It’s late,” she says. “Don’t pay too much mind my silly little words.”

“I think your dreams are bigger than you let on, Pen.”

She turns back towards him, eyes meeting his again through the darkness.

“Weren’t we discussing your dreams?”

Yes, but he much prefers this subject.

“I —”

“What’s holding you back? Is it just your siblings’ reactions?”

“No,” he admits. “There are certainly bigger obstacles than Anthony’s lack of enthusiasm.”

“Such as?”

Colin doesn’t respond right away. While his concerns may be easier to conceptualise than his hopes or his dreams, they’re harder to speak aloud.

“Well… Working as a travel writer would also mean spending the majority of my time away from home.”

For the first time tonight, a strikingly sad expression flashes on Penelope’s face, as if it is only now that she realises the consequences of Colin’s dreams coming true. It’s only a flash, though. Her smile makes a quick reappearance, even if it isn’t quite as bright as it was before.

“You already spend the majority of your time away from home.”

“Yeah, but Cambridge is only two hours away. Plus, Eloise is there to annoy me if I’m ever feeling homesick. If I’m off in a different timezone the majority of the year…”

His voice trails off again. This time, Penelope doesn’t jump in to fill the lull.

“Is it awful to say I’m worried that life will move on without me here if I’m away?”

“No, it’s not awful.” Penelope’s smile looks even sadder than it did before, but it doesn’t drop. “I think a lot of people worry about that, regardless of their career paths. I think that’s just part of growing up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…”

Her voice trails off as she looks away from him and towards the ceiling, seemingly racking her brain for the right words to use. It only takes her a few seconds to find them.

“When you’re growing up, your world is pretty small. You have your siblings and your neighbours and your friends at school, and for the most part, that world is stable. Some people move away and you lose touch with others, but most people remain a constant. But then as you get older and leave for uni or work or wherever it is that life takes you, the world is suddenly really, really big.

“Those people who made up your entire world when you were younger are still there, but their lives aren’t intertwined with yours like they used to be. It’s more like they’re running parallel. Like… you know all those emails we send back and forth?”

It takes Colin a rather long moment to respond, and all he can muster in the end is a single nod.

“We’re still in each other’s lives, but the stories we share with each other are… separate.”

It takes him even longer to respond to that last part.

“Pen… Was that meant to be reassuring? That was the most depressing thing I’ve heard in my entire life.”

“Oh stop.” Penelope laughs half-heartedly. “It’s not depressing — it’s just life. Actually, it’s a bloody miracle. We should be thankful that our friendship has lasted so long, despite how much our worlds have changed over the years.”

After another extremely long beat of silence, Colin musters what little energy he has left to draw the faintest hint of a smirk to his lips.

“So, what you’re saying is… You will not miss me if I disappear to a different country every week?”

Penelope’s forced smile finally drops. She rolls her eyes.

“Obviously, I’ll miss you. But that’s no reason for you to stay home and prevent yourself from reaching your full potential.”

And just like that, Colin is eighteen again, not seconds away from turning twenty-two. He and Penelope are on Fife’s rooftop, not on the couch in his family’s drawing room. He’s hopeful for the future, not scared that their friendship won’t survive this next phase of life.

“I —” Penelope starts, back on the couch in his family’s drawing room. Colin has no idea what it is that she is about to say, because he leans in and hugs her, incidentally muffling her words with his cable knit sweater.

With his lips practically in her hair, he whispers, “Thank you. For being so supportive.”

Penelope doesn’t respond until approximately 25 seconds later, after she breaks the embrace apart and looks him in the eye.

“You don’t have to thank me for my silly little words.”

Before Colin can find an adequate response to such a ridiculous statement, Penelope removes herself from his touch completely. She stands from her spot on the couch and looks down at him as she continues speaking.

“It’s getting late, I should get…”

Her voice trails off when her eyes land on her phone. She smiles.

“Look,” she instructs, holding up the screen for him to see.

12:01 AM.

“Happy Birthday, Colin.”

Now standing beside her, Colin takes the phone from her hands, smirks, then throws it gently onto the couch. The cushions are still indented in the spots they sat together.

“Merry Christmas Eve, Pen.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“No debating that one, I suppose. What’s next?”

#I have to stop posting at 3 am #it took me 2 days to realize there was no link in this post #(and another day to realize I added the wrong link!)#(all fixed now. if I manage to post on time without tech issues on friday I'll invade France)#polin #fanfiction #bridgerton #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #penelope x colin

15 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 6 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Grief

Hi friends! Chapter 4 is now live.

This chapter gets pretty dark, so here are a few TWs if needed: 1) loss of a parent 2) toxic family dynamics 3) brief mention of illicit drug use

Ok if I didn't scare you off... enjoy!

“Oh.”

When Colin’s eyebrows shoot downwards, Penelope feels a familiar pang of disappointment start to well inside her. Once again, she fears their game has already reached its conclusion. But before her disappointment can even settle…

“This article is making it glaringly apparent that we have been ready for marriage for a very long time.”

Nerves settling back down…

“What does it say?”

“Number Three: Handling Grief Together. In cultures all around the world, the first step of marriage is making a vow to support one another through all things, including (and up until) death. While it may not be a joyful time in your lives, undergoing the grieving process alongside your partner will be an illuminating experience. After all, nothing can test (or perhaps even strengthen) a bond quite like the unforeseeable, unavoidable onslaught of grief.

Penelope sits with her jaw hanging open.

The two of them are no strangers to grief in its most unforeseeable nature. There is no denying that they can cross this milestone off their list. But god…

Does that even matter, if the game is bollocks to begin with?

“There is no way ‘death’ is on that list of yours.”

“See for yourself.”

Colin throws her his phone from where he sits on the other end of the rug. Penelope just barely manages to save it from flying directly into a container of udon noodles. She scans the text and…

There it is. Word for bloody word.

“And it’s not my list,” Colin gently reminds her, now reaching for those noodles.

“There is no way grief can possibly be considered a prerequisite for marriage.”

“Again, I didn’t write this article, Penelope. But as somewhat of an expert on grief myself, I’m inclined to agree with the marriage expert on—”

“I’m not saying grief isn’t a valuable test of a relationship,” she clarifies. “Obviously, it is. I just — I don’t understand how this can be the third milestone. It seems like a rather spontaneous life event.”

Colin leans forward to extricate his phone from Penelope’s gesticulating hands (most likely fearing that it will go flying across the room at any moment).

“I don’t believe these are meant to be chronological, love.”

It’s starting to feel that way, she realises, but does not deem pressing enough to voice aloud.

“I know,” she mumbles, placing both hands flat against her knees. “What I’m trying to say is that there is no way to plan for this supposed milestone. You can buy a goldfish or meet up with friends any day of the week. What if you’re engaged and neither of you have lost a loved one during the course of your relationship?”

They just stare at each other for a moment. Then, at once…

“Wait it out?” “Murder someone?”

Colin nearly howls with laughter. “Penelope!”

Penelope, in turn, removes her hands from her knees just so she can bury her head in them.

(Murder jokes always sound funnier in one’s own head.)

“Well…” she mumbles into her palms. “It’s a good thing we’re both members of the Dead Dads Club.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Ten Years Earlier: December 1st, 2013

Relationship Status: Old Friends

꙳

15 Grosvenor Street has never been a place that Penelope has associated with particular joy. Perhaps it’s the size of it — the vast, utterly unnecessary size of it. There are rooms here that have remained vacant since the day her family moved in, if not longer. There are some shadows that never lift from their corners, no matter what time of day it is. The entire estate is structured with long, arching hallways that carry noise loudly and silence even louder. All her life, it has always felt so…

Empty.

15 Grosvenor Street has never been a place that Penelope has associated with particular joy. Perhaps that makes it the perfect venue for her father’s wake.

Today is actually the most full she’s ever seen the place. There are at least a hundred neighbours, old business associates, and red-headed cousins mingling in the halls. They’re walking slowly, talking softly, chewing on the catered finger food. Most of them pass by Penelope with some combination of compassion and pity painted on their faces. She keeps her own head down, preemptively barring herself from whatever kind words of condolence they think they should be giving her today; she doesn’t want them.

There’s really only one person Penelope can bear speaking to right now. Thankfully, she was the first one to arrive this morning.

“I’m here, Pen. For whatever you need.”

In a shadowed corner, out of view of any nosy guests, Penelope feels a tear roll down her cheek and drop onto her best friend’s shoulder.

“Thank you, El. I —” She sniffs. “Thanks for — for just being here.”

Eloise tightens her hold, pressing her arms even more firmly into Penelope’s back. The wool fabric of her sweater tickles Penelope’s nose, causing her to sniff a few times more.

“Oh god, Pen. Please, you — don’t thank me for that. Today is…”

When Eloise’s voice trails off, she squeezes Penelope a bit closer. She lets out a sigh that Penelope can feel in her own chest.

“Today is going to be the fucking worst. Which sounds awful, but it’s just the bloody truth of it. I wish I could shield you from the heartache and the misery and all the people here encroaching on your grief, but…”

But I can’t. No one could. Eloise doesn’t say that part out loud, but Penelope hears it, nonetheless.

“I’d do anything, just to help you through it.”

More tears well up and fall down as Eloise whispers these last few words. Internally, Penelope thanks god that she had ignored her mother’s suggestions and forewent applying any makeup this morning. Once her eyes dry and her cheeks return to their usual shade of pink, there will be no evidence of her messy grief.

Ignoring her best friend’s orders, Penelope whispers another quiet, teary “Thank you” into Eloise’s shoulder.

“Of course. And I don’t just mean today. If you need anything in the next two weeks, just call and I’ll be out of Cambridge before you can even hang up.”

“No, no,” Penelope mutters as sternly as she can manage, finally pulling herself out of the embrace to look Eloise in the eye. “But you have to stay at uni this week. You already came home too often last week.”

“That’s not —”

“Plus, I have to go back to class tomorrow anyway.”

“Wait, really?” Eloise’s lips twist into an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and disgust. “Your father just died, surely they can afford you more than a single week of bereavement.”

In truth, she probably could get more time off if she wanted it. The problem is that she just doesn’t want it.

School has always been a welcome distraction from the painful things in Penelope’s life. Grief is no different.

“Yeah, you know… timing and all.” She squeezes Eloise’s shoulder one last time before letting go of it completely. “But I’ll be fine. The term will be over in two weeks and I can go back to grieving then.”

Something akin to pity flashes on Eloise’s face; Penelope has the sudden urge to avert her eyes.

“I suppose I could be persuaded to stay away for a few days, but Colin might be harder to convince.”

At the sound of his name, Penelope’s heart skips a beat.

It shouldn’t. Really, it shouldn't. Even if she and him aren’t as close as they used to be — they’re still in each other’s lives. She’s seen him nearly every day this week. He’s still her best friend’s brother, so his name is hardly an infrequent presence in conversations like this. And yet…

And yet, just the mention of his name is enough to get her.

“What do you mean?” Penelope finally manages to ask.

Eloise shrugs.

“He was so insistent about coming home this week. You know, not as much as me, but…”

She shrugs again.

“I wanted to take the train back and forth between home and uni — probably would have been faster, given how Grandpa Bridgerton drives. But no. All week, he just kept insisting on driving me himself.”

“Oh.”

Penelope turns away from Eloise and peers into the next room over, where a small group of mourners are mingling. And as if she summoned him from thin air…

“Pen.”

He looks nice. He looks sad, but still nice. He’s wearing a suit with an actual tie. His jacket is a little big on him, making him appear a bit smaller and a bit younger than he really is. He also happens to be wearing a smile on his lips, although it’s barely a shadow of the one he usually dons.

He looks nice.

“Colin.”

She accompanies his name with a little nod of her head. She nearly thanks him for coming, but realises at the last second that such formalities are unnecessary. Even if they aren’t as close as they used to be.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice is lower now that he’s right beside her. “I was standing over there eating a miniature quiche and I — I just realised that I forgot to tell you something earlier in the week.”

Penelope waits with bated breath. Colin pauses for dramatic effect. Eloise rolls her eyes.

“And that is?” she butts in from beside them, a petulant sting to her voice. Colin does not even bother to look at his sister. Instead, he holds his right hand out towards Penelope.

“Welcome to the Dead Dads Club. It sucks.”

Eloise smacks him in the gut. “You fucking imb—” she starts, but is interrupted by the quiet, deafening sound of Penelope’s laughter.

“Thank you, Colin,” she says in earnest. She shakes his outstretched hand, but tentatively so; her fingers just barely linger on his.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but is interrupted by someone new walking into their already cramped corner.

“Mum’s looking for you.”

Not for the first time today, Penelope’s stomach drops.

“Thanks Pru. I’ll be right there.”

Penelope spares one last glance towards Eloise and Colin before turning to leave. Her face is marked by compassion. His, concern.

“I, um — I’ll be right back.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Portia is mad, which is neither unexpected nor surprising on a morning like this. Penelope did expect it, long before she was called into this room to bear witness. But now that she’s here… she’s not quite sure why.

Portia is standing behind her late husband’s desk, shoulders hunched and hands planted firmly on its cluttered surface. She’s talking quickly — loudly, voicing aloud every little grievance that is plaguing her. The caterer was late. The flowers are too white. The house is a mess. Prudence’s hair is too festive. Documents are missing. Archie is — was an idiot. The funeral arrangements weren’t arranged properly. The neighbours are —

Suffice to say, there is a lot for Portia to grieve over this morning. But very few of those grievances have anything to do with her youngest daughter.

(Occasionally, Portia will throw out a “Penelope, stop fiddling with your skirt,” or a “Penelope, sit up straight,” or a “Penelope, stop scowling — do you want to look like a pug?” But she hardly thinks any of those fleeting observations justify her presence here.)

It takes several minutes for Penelope to understand the why. The reason she was called into this room in the first place. It has nothing to do with any particular grievance her mother has with her or anyone else. No, it’s all of it.

Penelope was called in here because Portia had a million things to say and needed someone to listen. To sit and nod and absorb just a little bit of that grief from her. (Someone with a less festive hairdo than Prudence, by the sound of it.)

On the other side of the room, receding into the corner of her father’s dusty leather couch, Penelope does as she’s expected. Mostly.

She listens. She sits. She nods. She absorbs. She tries her absolute hardest to remain in this room and hanging on to her mother’s every word… but that’s not an easy task on a morning like this.

There’s a game that Penelope plays when things get especially bad between her and her mother — when she finds herself on the receiving end of her mother’s harsh words and feels herself beginning to come undone. She goes back in time. She reminds herself of all of the good her mother has done for her over the years.

When Portia was engaged to Archie (and approximately 6 weeks pregnant with Prudence), she made sure that their prenuptial agreement contained a special trust for their children. One established specifically to fund their future tuitions to the best schools in the country. One that would be impossible for Archie (or even herself) to touch.

When Penelope was nine, Portia signed her up for her own library card (after realising how miserable her youngest daughter was, spending her summer holidays without purpose). For the majority of that summer, Penelope was able to visit the Mayfair Library unaccompanied as often as it pleased her.

When Penelope was thirteen, Portia temporarily lifted the “rodent ban” from the Featherington household. For two whole months, they fostered a little white dog; Penelope took care of it like the responsible adult she promised her mother she could be.

When Penelope was sixteen, Portia allowed her to go to Cheltenham for Sixth Form with Eloise, rather than going to a less expensive, less complicated school in London.

When Penelope turned eighteen, Portia bought her a dress that was decidedly not yellow.

This game — this retrospective on her mother’s goodness — has become increasingly ineffective over the years. This morning, it fails Penelope. It had been intended to counteract the sting of Portia’s acidic words, but none of these memories are sweet enough to do the trick.

She can’t think of Portia’s good deeds without also thinking of the other side of the coin. She can’t help it. Every light has a shadow, and Penelope’s mind has always had a proclivity towards darkness.

How Penelope was only able to go to Cheltenham because there was more money than expected left in the educational trust. Because her sisters’ did not take full advantage of the funds. How Portia appears unable to acknowledge Penelope’s academic success without disparaging her sisters’ beneath the same breath.

How Penelope’s library card was revoked before the end of that summer due to a water-logged copy of Peter and Wendy. How Portia insisted that the incident was Penelope’s fault, even after Philipa confessed to putting it in the wash. That Penelope should have protected the borrowed book better. That Penelope needed to learn her lesson by staying put at home for the rest of the summer.

How Portia gave the little white dog to his forever home while Penelope was across the street at Eloise’s house. How it never once occurred to her mother that Penelope would have wanted to say goodbye to the “rodent.”

How — two days before she left for Cheltenham — Portia casually commented that things would be easier for everyone once Penelope was away at school.

How Portia handed her that black dress and told her it would be more “slimming” than the clothes she usually wears.

The good and the bad and the indifference of Penelope’s mother are all twisted together and rooted deep inside her. This game has lost all its meaning; she can’t divorce the darkness from the light any longer.

Back in her father’s study — back in the corner of this smelly old couch, Penelope feels tears start well in her eyes yet again. By some grace of god, they stay put there. For now, at least.

“Penelope! My god — are you even listening to me?!”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

I, um — I’ll be right back.

Colin wanted to follow Penelope from the instant those words tumbled off her lips. He would have, if not for Eloise, who had kept him rooted in his place. (Literally. She used her freakishly strong hands to prevent him from following after Penelope.)

“Would it be possible for you to get your foot out of your mouth and back into your funeral loafers?” Her words had been punctuated by a swift kick to the ankle. “I can assist, if necessary.”

He had brushed his sister off. Unsuccessfully so, but he eventually lost her by the refreshment table when Danbury cornered them.

Now Colin walks alone, footsteps treading lightly across the Featherington’s creaky floorboards. He’s listening, but there isn’t much to hear.

The unusual thing about wakes is that they can be empty or crowded, but they can never be loud. People talk — they murmur, they cry — but never at a volume that exceeds a solemn hush. There are outliers (typically small children, the occasional drunk, and the impolitely anguished), but they are easy to spot and quick to stifle back into silence. Colin first noted this phenomenon at his own father’s wake; the theory holds true to this day.

Colin hates this type of quiet. He’s hated it since that morning in August eleven years ago. Today, though, he should be grateful for it. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to spot the outlier so easily.

“god — are you even listening to me?!” are the last words he hears before swinging the study doors open.

Portia and Penelope are on the other side. Needless to say, neither woman looks as though they were expecting his entrance. Aside from the obvious shock, Portia’s face is tinged by anger. Penelope’s just looks broken, like she’s cracking at the edges, by her eyes and her mouth.

“Shite! Sorry. I thought this was the door for the loo.”

As the bullshit falls off his tongue, Colin turns his entire body towards Penelope, who’s currently wedged into the corner of the couch. Getting a better look at her now, he can tell that she’s trying quite hard not to cry.

The realisation kills him. Nevertheless, he does his best to maintain the smile on his face.

“Oh, Pen! I was looking for you. Could I steal you away for a—”

“You were looking for my daughter in the loo, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Good god. I’m really off my game today.

“Uh —”

“Yes. You two go,” Portia cuts in again. She runs a hand across her creased brow. “I have… matters to attend to.”

Penelope stands from her spot and, without a second thought, Colin’s hand goes to the small of her back. He leads her into the hall, away from her mother.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

It isn’t until Penelope steps one foot onto the balcony that she realises she hasn’t left her house at all today. She hadn’t even looked out a window long enough to take in the state of the weather.

It’s one of those mornings that makes it seem as though London has been engulfed in a cloud. Everywhere you look, it’s grey. You can feel the air on your skin. You can extend your arm out in front of you and barely be able to make out your fingers. With this view…

They could be in Mayfair. They could be on a different planet. It wouldn’t make a difference.

Looking down, Penelope retrieves the lighter and little white box stashed in the pocket of her skirt. She takes out one cigarette — because the air isn’t grey enough as it is.

“Since when do you smoke?” Colin asks, looking down at her hands with a confused crease to his brow.

With a shrug, she answers, “Cheltenham.” She crosses what little threshold exists between them to offer him one of the few remaining sticks in the pack.

“No. Thanks, but… I’m trying to cut back, myself.” Then, after Penelope sets it alight and takes one singular draw, he plucks the cigarette from her hands and raises it to his lips.

“Better for us both, if we share.”

Penelope scoffs. It’s almost like a laugh, but not quite.

“I — I don’t smoke that often. I just…”

“Yeah, I know. Dead dads and all.”

After a stilted breath of smoke, Colin hands her the cigarette back. She can’t bring herself to raise it to her lips — not yet, at least. She keeps it situated between her index and middle fingers.

For longer than what either of them deems comfortable, silence and smoke hang in the air between them.

This is the first time they’ve been alone together all week. They saw each other almost every day, but always with others around. Eloise was almost always between them, hanging onto her best friend like a literal life preserver.

Colin had wanted a moment alone with her all week. To talk. To comfort. To just be. But the more he thinks of it, the more apparent (and alarming) it is, that they have not been alone together in a very long time.

He clears his throat.

“How are you?”

His words are purposeful. He says it in a way that makes it clear to Penelope that he actually wants to know the answer. That he expects a real response.

“Good,” she says automatically. Then, she runs a hand over her brow. “I mean — not good, obviously. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“In fairness, it was a bloody stupid question to ask at your father’s wake.”

“It was not a stupid question,” she insists.

“Perhaps. But it was a question I already knew the answer to.”

It felt nice to be asked, she almost says. When she doesn’t say anything, Colin begins to ramble.

“I mean, it’s a rather shitty time for your father to die. With term ending and all. Then the holidays —”

“Is there a good time for one’s father to die?”

Penelope’s question was asked in earnest. With another person, it would have probably made the rest of this conversation immensely awkward for both parties. But not here. Not with them.

“No,” Colin answers, shrugging lightly. “But there are certainly worse times than others.”

Penelope nods, then takes another drag.

He’s right, she immediately realises. There are times when it’s easier for a parent to pass, and there are times when it is harder. Eighteen is a hard time to lose your father, but nine is harder.

That’s not what Colin had meant. Penelope knows it’s not what he meant. And yet… she can’t help but compare their circumstances. It’s a game she’s played all her life.

The Bridgertons adored their father. They still do. They’re the type of family to say things like, “He’s been gone over a decade, and yet I can still feel his presence in this room with us tonight.” The Featheringtons aren’t that type of family. There were times when Penelope’s father sat two feet away from her, and it felt as though he wasn’t present in the home at all.

Penelope loved her father. She still does. But the loss she feels today is inherently different than that Colin felt — feels for his own father. She lost a person that she never really knew. That she’ll never get to know.

“Speaking of term…” Colin says softly, pulling her out of her mental fog just as quickly as he pulls the cigarette from its precarious position between her fingers. “Is UCL still treating you well?”

“Oh. Uh — yes.”

“Meaning… El hasn’t convinced you to transfer to Cambridge yet?”

Penelope’s face changes — the faintest hint of a smile hidden away on an otherwise somber face.

“Not yet. But certainly not due to lack of trying.”

“Damn.”

The corner of Penelope’s lips ticks upward again, which Colin takes as a sign.

“I’m going to say something mad and — the more I think about it — terribly narcissistic. But only because it’s so insane that it may force you to focus on how idiotic I am and thus, distract you from everything else for a moment.”

Intrigued, Penelope steals the stick back and says, “I believe explaining your motivation will undermine the intended outcome. But go on.”

“You know how you’ve been long-considered a part of the Bridgerton family?”

Her face flushes. Not embarrassingly red — she doesn’t have enough life left in her today for that to be possible. But it’s just enough for her to instinctually turn her head to the side, farther out of his view.

“Sure.”

“I feel like this is my fault. Actually — Eloise’s fault, since she was the one to initially bring you into this family.”

“What are —”

“That the universe agreed with us and decided that the only way to officially make you a Bridgerton is by giving you a tragic ‘dead father’ backstory. To join the Dead Dad Club, if you will.”

Penelope laughs, if for nothing else but the sheer irony of his statement.

“My father was pushing 60 and had a diet consisting of meat, beer, and sweets. I don’t believe his heart attack qualifies as a ‘tragic backstory.’”

(She also learned from eavesdropping on her mum and Mrs. Varley that there was a considerable amount of cocaine on the desk where he had keeled over and died. Penelope does not feel it necessary to voice this part aloud, though.)

“Don’t blame yourself,” she tells him, quieter now. Unprompted, she passes him the cigarette again. She can see out of the corner of her eye that he looks guilty.

“Sorry. For, uh — for joking around so much today.”

“Don’t apologise,” she responds quickly. “Everyone else has been so… serious. I think my head will explode if another person pats me on the back and insists that ‘everything happens for a reason.’”

She steals the cigarette back before he has the chance to take a draw. She doesn’t raise it to her lips, either.

She turns her head so she can fully look him in the eyes when she says, “I appreciate your attempts to distract me. From everything.”

She waits for his gaze to drop from hers, but it doesn’t.

“You know, I felt the same way when my dad died. I heard a thousand ‘everything happens for a reason’s and each one tasted like dogshit. In hindsight, I suppose I should have had a bit more compassion for all the adults trying to console me during that time; no one knows what to say to a child when their father drops dead. But god… I didn’t want their consolation. I didn’t want any of it.”

When Colin’s voice trails off, Penelope nearly offers him the cigarette once more. If nothing else, just to feel the warmth of his skin for that split second before she passes the stick onto him. But she doesn’t. She keeps her hands rested on the railing in front of them.

“But… none of us kids knew how to act when our father dropped dead either. I was nine, and I could still tell that everyone was acting weird. I could tell that my mom was a mess. That Anthony felt like he had to step into the father-shaped shadow our dad left behind. That Benedict — arguably the weirdest motherfucker of us all — was just trying to be normal. To act like he always did, Joking around and keeping us younger kids entertained and distracted while our lives were falling apart. It…”

Colin sighs, a shuddering breath lost in the smoke and the fog all around them.

“It took me a long time to realise that, actually. That Ben did all of that for us. That no one can just be themselves when their father unexpectedly dies. Your sense of self is just — it’s torn away from you when something like that happens.”

Finally, his eyes flicker away from Penelope’s. Just for a moment.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean —”

“No. I — I get that,” Penelope insists, desperate to interrupt any further apologies from someone so unqualified for the task. “I haven’t felt like myself since I got that call from my mum. Ironically, I’ve sort of felt like a ghost this whole week. Just drifting around from room to room. Like I’m looking for something I lost but — for the life of me — can’t remember what.”

It doesn’t hit her until this very moment — in the middle of the least normal conversation she’s ever entertained — that this is the most normal things have felt between her and Colin in years.

“Eventually, you’ll find it.”

“What?” she asks, her mind seemingly operating on a delay after that realisation.

“That thing. Whatever it is that allows you to stop drifting around and actually move forward in life. You’ll find it again.”

That seems impossible to her now, but she doesn’t dare debate him on the subject. Instead, she simply nods.

Still quite lightheaded, Penelope turns away from Colin and back to the grey fog in front of them. She places both hands against the railing again and watches her cigarette continue to dwindle away from her.

After what feels like a lifetime of silently standing beside each other, Penelope turns her head again.

“We —” should go back inside, she means to say. But Colin cuts her off.

“I miss you, Pen. I miss how close we used to be. I feel like… Like we’ve grown apart since we were kids.”

This is true, and they both know it.

At some point over the last two years and three months, Colin and Penelope had transitioned from “friends” to “old friends.” During this time, they rarely spoke when away from one another (which just so happened to be the majority of the year). When together…

Things were different. Their time together was limited and often interrupted by others. Their schedules went out of sync. Their conversations did not pick up in that natural way they always used to do. The two of them had, in fact, grown apart.

To Colin, this had seemed like a natural shift in their friendship. He had gone away to Cambridge, she to Cheltenham. He never blamed the physical distance itself, but the paths each of them had taken — they were simply at different stages in their lives. He had school and new friends and a future to focus on. And even if she kept most of the details to herself, he knew that Penelope had her own life to focus on at Cheltenham. On the nights he felt loneliest — when he really, really wanted to pick up the phone and call her — it was a comfort to Colin. To know that she did not have time for him, either.

But to Penelope, this change was not a shift as much as it was a decision. After what he said on that night in August…

She had never intended to hurt him. Or to exile him from her life forever. She just couldn’t continue on as she was — being his favourite person and that not being enough for him to see her as anything more than a friend. She had to put up a wall between them. To draw a line and to never to cross it. Even if it meant losing the company of her favourite person.

The distance had helped. It really did. It allowed her to move on. To stop dreaming of a perfect person — one who never existed. But as he stands inches away from her now… that distance doesn’t help one bit.

His sincerity stings.

“That’s not true.” She drops her gaze from his. It’s an obvious tell that she’s deluding the actual truth, but she doesn’t have the willpower to try and hide it. “We were close during secondary.”

“Secondary school?” he echoes back, questioningly.

Panic instantly fills Penelope’s chest. She knows that her eternal crush on him made her perspective on things less than an objective reality, but surely —

“We were friends then, weren’t we?”

“Of course,” Colin says, a reassuring quickness to his words. “We’re still friends now. I just meant…” He chuckles to himself. “We were still kids back in secondary.”

The panic starts to drift out of Penelope’s chest. Slowly, but she can feel it go.

“Oh.” She looks away again. Her eyes gaze forlornly at the blank grey space ahead of them. “I still feel like a kid now.”

Colin lets out one last chuckle.

“I know what you mean.”

Her eyes are fixed on the cigarette between her fingers. It’s holding on for dear life, whittled down to almost nothing.

Two years and three months ago, on the heels of her worst nightmare, Penelope made a decision. She put up a wall between Colin and herself, believing it was harder having him as a friend than nothing at all.

For two years and three months, she did everything in her power to avoid being alone with him. She ignored every urge to call him, just to hear his voice. She kissed boys who were not Colin Bridgerton. She found ways to distract her wandering mind. She moved on.

But now…

Now her father’s dead and she’s not getting him back. Colin’s standing right beside her, and — for the life of her — she can’t delude herself into believing this is better than what they once shared.

Today, drifting in a cloud in the middle of Mayfair, Penelope makes a new decision.

“I miss you too. I thi—”

She pauses. She takes a breath. She summons all the strength her tired heart can muster up.

“I want us to be in each other’s lives again. Like we used to be.”

But it won’t be like it used to be. Penelope knows this for a fact, even as Colin smiles and says something sweet and wraps his arm around her shoulder. Just like he used to.

She used to repeat ten words back to herself when living in such close proximity to Colin Bridgerton became too much to bear. But those silly little words have since been replaced by ten new ones.

He’ll never love you the way you want him to.

An assumption.

I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.

A fact. One she will never forget. One she needed to hear. One that could save their friendship — for real, this time.

“We should go back inside,” she eventually says, but makes no attempt at slipping out of his hold. “My mum will be…”

Looking for me.

Fuming.

Off her fucking head.

Seconds after her voice trails off, she feels a gentle, familiar squeeze on her shoulder.

“How are things between you two? I know things can just get… awful when this sort of thing happens. ”

“Bad,” Penelope answers truthfully. It would feel wrong to blatantly lie seconds into their re-established friendship. “But it’s not just her. Ever since Cheltenham… I just don’t like sleeping here anymore.” She could explain why, but she doesn’t feel the need to. Not with Colin.

“You want to stay over tonight? El and I aren’t going to drive back until the morning, anyway. So —”

“No. Thank you, but no. I’m going to stay in my d0rm tonight. I have to get back to class in the morning, anyway.”

“You sure?” Colin asks, concern blatant in his voice.

“I am,” Penelope promises.

“Okay.” He gives her shoulder another squeeze. “But just so you know, if you ever want a break and need somewhere to stay, the door is always —”

“I know, Colin.”

She stubs out the rest of her cigarette, marking the white finish of the railing with soot. She crosses her right arm over her chest and places her hand over his. She gives it a little squeeze.

“I know.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Penelope can’t recall exactly how it happened, but at some point over the last few minutes, she and Colin had both migrated to the middle of the rug. She lets her head fall onto his shoulder.

“I suppose I can agree with that point,” she finally admits. In response, Colin lets out an annoyingly triumphant laugh against the side of her head.

“At least one good thing came out of our fathers dying.”

“Oh god,” she grumbles, promptly extracting her head from Colin’s embrace. “What’s next?”

#bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #penelope x colin #(yes this is late)#(I am doing an apology dance as we speak)

14 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 7 months

Text

Ten Milestones: Meeting Each Other's Friends

Chapter 3 is now live!

Warning: angst.

His grin falters. Slightly.

“What does it say?”

Penelope’s question comes out a little sadder than she had expected it to. While she may have argued that this whole idea is flawed from the start, a part of her is disappointed that it could be over so soon. If nothing else, arguing with Colin is usually her favourite part of these silly little games.

“Something we never managed to cover in our twenty years of friendship?”

“Nope,” he says, eyes still locked on the screen before him. “It’s something we’ve done many times before. With varying degrees of success.”

Intrigue getting the best of her…

“What does it say?”

He clears his throat before reading.

“Number Two: Meeting Each Other’s Friends. Friendships are an essential and impactful part of any person’s life. Meeting the people whom your significant other considers friends is valuable for many reasons. Not only is it a first step in merging your lives together, but it also teaches you things about your partner that you could not learn when alone together.

After the briefest moment of silence…

“Well, I believe you’ve met my friend Eloise. So —”

“I have met plenty of your friends, all of whom are very kind and lovely people. Just as one would expect from a kind and lovely person such as yourself. Clearly Eloise — and perhaps also myself — is an outlier.”

“Hey, that’s not —”

“I believe ‘meeting each other’s friends’ has only ever been an issue when my ‘friends’ were involved.”

Penelope bites her lip.

“It was really just that one time.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Twelve Years Earlier: August 27th, 2011

Relationship Status: Friends

꙳

“Remind me why we’re doing this again.”

“To act like irresponsible teenagers who love parties and socialising with their peers.”

“That doesn’t sound like us.”

“Exactly. That’s why I said ‘act like.’”

Penelope has always been a good bullshitter. Since she was a child, she’s had an innate talent of bending the truth on a dime. It comes naturally to her; bullshit falls from her lips before she even has a chance to think it through. She never does it for fun — that filter is just built inside of her. There are certain truths that she simply can never say aloud, so her mind grew adept at talking around them.

The truth: Colin had invited her to this party, and if there is one talent that Penelope does not possess, it is saying no to Colin Bridgerton.

Another talent Penelope does not possess is walking into any type of social event by herself. Even at family gatherings — Featherington or Bridgerton — Penelope always finds herself clinging on to someone else. Usually Eloise. Sometimes Colin. Occasionally Prudence or Philipa — if she’s really desperate.

Despite the fact that he invited her here, Penelope knows she won’t see much of Colin tonight. She knows this party will be filled with at least a hundred people he considers friends. She knows that she will not be able to cling onto him all night — and that she absolutely shouldn’t.

That’s how Eloise Bridgerton found herself being dragged towards her worst nightmare: a house party filled to the literal rooftop with loud, obnoxious teenagers.

“This isn’t Skins, Pen. This is gonna suck.”

“It’ll be fun.” Bullshit.

“So fun!” Eloise mocks. “Why not continue the fun tomorrow and go shopping with your mother. I heard Primark is having a sale on yellow dresses.”

When Penelope forces out a sarcastic laugh, Eloise pulls her in even closer.

“Seriously, Pen. You owe me for —”

“Let’s see how the other side lives for a little while. If it is truly tortuous, we can leave and go get chips. You know… how we usually spend our Saturday nights.”

The offer does not smooth over any of the sourness present on Eloise’s face.

“You say that like there is something wrong with chips. There is absolutely nothing wrong with chips. Chips have never belched in my face or spilled a pint down the front of my shirt.”

At this point, Penelope does not know whether to protest, laugh, or agree with her friend. Ultimately, she decides on the first option.

“What are you talking about? You’ve never even been to a party like this.”

Eloise gulps. Her eyes flash wide, like she’s just been caught in a lie.

“Well… no. But I’ve seen Skins and —”

“Oh, for god’s sake El.”

Penelope wiggles Eloise’s phone from between her fingers. After typing in the four-digit passcode, she clicks on the little clock icon.

10:09

“What are you —”

“I’m setting a timer for 20 minutes. If you’re not having fun when the alarm goes off, we’ll leave and get chips.”

“Fine,” Eloise grumbles, grabbing her phone back from Penelope. “You got yourself a deal, Featherington.”

At 10:10 PM, Eloise and Penelope step foot into their first house party.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Fife’s house smells like piss.

There’s a lot happening in the room Colin has found himself in. There’s a lot happening in this little corner he has found himself in, surrounded by a group of his “friends” from Eton. They’re talking about the girls they’re gonna fuck at uni in the fall, meanwhile Colin can think of nothing other than the rancid smell of this room. Parties packed with hundreds of people are never going to smell nice, but this is just ridiculous. He almost wonders if the Fifes recently got a puppy and are still potty training him, but he can’t imagine that could account for such a stench. It would take at least a hundred puppies to —

“Ready for the birds up at Cambridge, Bridgerton?” Fife asks, breaking Colin from his thoughts and back into this piss-scented reality.

“Hmm? Oh — yeah. Sure.”

“No longer interested in the ladies, Col?” his “friend” Edward chimes in.

“For all his money and looks, he never had much luck with them in the first place, did he?” taunts his “friend” Fred.

“Are you calling me pretty?” Colin shoots back, an insincere smile pulling at his lips. He’s been forcing it so much tonight that it’s starting to ache at the corners. “Flattered, truly.”

Thankfully, the conversation quickly redirects to one of Fife’s embellished stories — this one about a girl he picked up at a pub earlier in the week. The commentary around it is just as mind numbingly boring as Colin has come to expect over the years. It’s just mind numbing enough for him to mentally check out of it completely, his smile fading as he glances around the rest of the room.

It’s 10:11. The party just started, and yet the den is already packed with people. Most faces are recognizable to him, either from his time at Eton or his lifetime in Mayfair. No one in this room, though, does he have any particular interest in. His eyes scan the room thrice, searching for the one person he’s actually interested in seeing tonight. By the third attempt, he accepts defeat.

When he turns his attention back to the group around him, he finds that Fife has already moved onto another story. This one smells of potent bullshit. Something about spending 20 minutes in a broom closet with a literature TA at Eton.

Once again, Colin’s mind is adrift.

Fife’s father is a member of Parliament — why does his den smell of piss?

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

10:29

Somewhere in this massive estate, Eloise’s phone is blaring an alarm, asking her whether or not she is having fun. Penelope has no idea what the answer is, because within 20 minutes of stepping foot into this party, she managed to lose her best friend in the crowd. She also failed to find Colin during that time, but that matter is not as pressing at the moment.

She steps into the back garden, hoping her luck will turn around in the fresh air. After all, surely Eloise would rather be out here than in the crowded interior — which, frankly, smells like someone pissed on the walls before the party started.

Unfortunately, the garden isn’t any less cramped than the halls inside.

As she continues forward, Penelope pays special attention to where her feet land in the crowd; the last thing she wants to do is trip over a forgotten beer can or get elbowed by someone taking a shot of liquor. This sort of manoeuvring isn't anything new to Penelope. When you’re as short as she is, you need to learn how to get out of other people’s way. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is when you’re the one who ends up crushed.

After her second loop around the garden (and about a dozen texts to Eloise), Penelope feels a prickle of anxiety run up and down her spine. She’s about to turn on her heel and look inside again, but before she can, her feet make an unusual misstep.

She slams chest-first into someone’s backside. Someone tall.

“Oh, hello,” he snickers, turning around to look down at her. “That’s certainly one way to get a man’s attention.”

“Sorry, I —”

It’s Fife, she belatedly realises.

Penelope has never actually spoken to him before. She’s seen him from afar on a few occasions, but certainly never this close. Despite them being friends since primary school, Colin never brings Fife (or any of his other school friends) around his house on Grosvenor Street. Penelope always found this odd; she’s a friend of the Bridgertons and spends more time at their home than her own.

“I —” she starts again, but still cannot find the words to finish the sentence. She tries to conjure up something logical to say, but it’s difficult to focus on words when you’re hyper-focused on other matters. Particularly, her feet and how she can move them far away enough to get her breasts off of Fife’s abdomen. Unfortunately, the crowd behind her does not grant her the space to do so.

Thankfully, someone else speaks before she can stutter out another mindless syllable.

“Hey! Back off Fife.”

It’s Colin. He positions his body between her and Fife, creating space that wasn’t there just a second ago.

“Woah, mate! She bumped into —” Fife starts.

“It was my fau—” Penelope starts.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ve heard that one before. Never your fault, is it Fife?” Colin interrupts. His tone confuses Penelope. She can’t tell if he’s teasing Fife, or legitimately wants to punch him in the face.

“Colin. Really, it was my —” she starts again. This time, someone new cuts her off. Another guy, standing close behind Colin.

“Do you know this chick, Bridgerton? Or do you simply enjoy saving random girls from becoming Fife’s next vict—”

“This is Penelope. My friend,” Colin cuts in, that confusing tone not letting up. Before she knows it, his arm slings around her shoulder, fingers gripping lightly into the fabric of her shirt. “Pen, this is —” With his free hand, he starts pointing to each of the men now forming a circle around them. “Edward. Fife. Louis. Michael. Fred.”

In response to Colin’s curt introductions, each of the five men nod, smirk, and/or unblinkingly stare at Penelope’s chest. She feels a nervous blush creep up her cheeks as she says, “Lovely to me—”

“No need for flattery, Pen,” Colin cuts in again. “Even this lot is self-aware enough to know they’re all shit.”

Michael snorts. Penelope gasps. Fife starts making a joke. Colin’s hand moves from her shoulder to her elbow, pulling her away before Fife can reach the punchline.

Once they’re out of earshot from the group, Colin lets out an agonised groan and says, “Sorry about them. They’re —” He groans again, then drops his hand from her skin, just to run it briskly through his hair. “They’re fucking arseholes.”

“They weren’t that ba—”

“When did you get here by the way?” he interrupts, his usual light-hearted tone making a reappearance quickly. Almost alarmingly so. “I was looking for you.”

“You — you were?” The words slip out before she has the chance to stop them.

Logically, such a statement shouldn’t be so surprising. They’ve been friends forever. He literally invited her to this party. But still… A part of Penelope cannot help but be surprised that Colin Bridgerton would seek her out in such a crowded group of people.

“Of course,” he says nonchalantly. He raises his eyebrows, reminding her that he had asked a question.

“Oh! Uh —” She looks down at her phone.

10:43

Shit.

“About a half hour.” She lets out a quick, nervous laugh. “Have you seen El? I lost her rather quickly, it seems. And I kinda promised her that we would be gone by now if she wasn’t having any fun.”

Colin scowls, then lifts his gaze from Penelope’s eyes to scan around the back garden. After about 15 seconds, he announces that he’s spotted her (and Penelope wonders how nice it must be to have an extra foot of height at your disposal).

Scowl suddenly lifting…

“Well, I don’t think you need to leave quite yet.”

Following his gaze to a bench on the other side of the garden, Penelope finally spots her best friend. She looks absolutely giddy.

On the other side of the bench sits Theo, a boy Eloise met through an internship at Danbury’s publishing house last summer and has had a massive crush on ever since. They’re holding hands. They’re both laughing. They’re getting closer. Then, even closer. Then —

“Yeah, I don’t need to see that,” Colin grumbles from beside her. His hand wraps around her elbow once more.

“Let’s go.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

“Are you sure this is… safe?”

“Live a little, Featherington.”

After climbing through the window himself, Colin extends his hand for Penelope to take. Begrudgingly, she takes it.

They’re sitting on the north side of the roof, facing the street. Colin pulls out the beer bottles he had stashed under his arm on the way up here, then flicks the caps off using his car keys. He hands one to her; it tastes like liquified grass, but Penelope tries not to grimace when she takes her first sip. Thankfully, Colin is looking up at the stars, so he doesn’t see her nose crinkle as the beer slides down her throat.

“Beautiful night,” he muses, eyes turning back to her.

She looks up, towards the moon. It’s barely a sliver in the sky.

“Yeah. It really is.”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for all that irrelevant noise in the background.

Penelope likes the quiet. She always has. Her entire life it’s been there, taking on different shapes and useful qualities for whatever situation she finds herself in. A cover. A cushion. A comfort. With Colin, it’s a comfort. When she’s with him, she rarely feels the need to fill the quiet spaces of air between them.

Colin is typically more inclined to fill them.

“Sorry, again, about Fife. And the other dickheads.”

“Colin, I told you. It’s —”

“‘It’s fine. They’re not that bad,’” he dramatically mimics. “Yeah I know. But speaking from the perspective of someone who actually knows them, they are shit and should be regarded as such.”

Penelope could continue brushing all of that shit to the side, but she doesn’t. Even if bumping into Fife was her fault, she didn’t like the way he looked down at her in the moment after. She didn’t like how he didn’t step away until Colin forced him to — when he surely could have done so on his own. And she didn’t like the way all five of them looked at her when Colin introduced her — as though her tits were more interesting than anything he could have been saying.

Instead of brushing it off, she simply asks: “If they’re such shit, why are you friends with them?” Her own tone confuses her.

Through the corner of her eye, she watches as Colin’s lips start to drop into a grimace; he takes a swig of his beer before it can fully take shape.

“Good question.”

He goes quiet again. When Penelope presumes that he is finished answering her question, she opens her mouth again.

“I —”

“Maybe I’ve outgrown them.” Swig. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m shit too.”

Penelope laughs lightly, praying that tiny breath of air will help lighten Colin’s mood.

“The former, I think.”

“I think you give me too much credit.”

Penelope doesn’t know how to respond to that. Her entire life, Colin has only ever existed in her mind under a golden ray of light. He’s always been the one who makes her happy. The one who can draw a smile out of her, even on her darkest day. The one who is always there for her. The one she’s always wanted more of.

How could claiming he’s not shit be giving him too much credit?

Penelope doesn’t know how to respond to that. So instead, she asks, “Are they also attending Cambridge?”

“Not all of ‘em.” Swig. “Michael’s off to Edinburgh next week. Edward and Fred are both staying here for Imperial.” Swig. “Louis will be up at Cambridge with me, but he’s not so bad. When he’s away from Fife’s bad influence, at least.”

“And Fife?” she questions. “Where is he going?”

Colin groans. He looks like he’s about to raise the bottle to his lips again, but doesn’t.

“Fife was admitted to Cambridge, but deferring a year to ‘go find himself.’ Hopefully, he finds himself at King’s College when he’s finished.”

“What’s Fife’s real name, by the way?” Penelope asks, unsure of what else to say. “Why does everyone just call him by his surname?”

For the first time all night, Colin laughs.

“Oh — uh. Cornelius. Cornelius Fife.”

Despite herself, Penelope snorts.

“Oh god, that’s bad. Perhaps even worse than ‘Penelope Featherington.’”

“What’s wrong with ‘Penelope Featherington?’” Colin asks, his tone earnest.

“Um…” Pointing her eyes to the little sliver of moon above, Penelope silently prays that the sky is dark enough to hide the blush currently warming her cheeks.

“A bit of a mouthful I guess. At least ‘Corn-eel-ee-us-Fife,” she punctuates each beat with one of her fingers, “is only five syllables.”

“I don’t know. I happen to quite like ‘Penelope Featherington.’”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, either.

She should be used to this by now — existing in such close proximity to charming Colin Bridgerton. She should know his flirtatious words are just that. Words. That just because they tug at her heart does not mean there was any intention on his end to do so. She should know by now that there is — that there never will be — any intention to do so.

She should be used to this by now, but she’s not. Even now, her cheeks burn red as he unknowingly fractures what little resolve she has left.

“You ready to leave London?” Colin asks, his voice breaking Penelope from her thoughts.

Next week, she and Eloise are set to leave for Cheltenham to begin their Sixth Forms. Literally, she isn’t ready (there are about a million things she needs to get done before she goes). But in her heart, she is ready. She’s been ready to leave home for the past two years — ever since Colin left for Eton.

“Oh — yeah.” She takes another sip of her beer. It still tastes like grass. “I think so.”

“It’s nice that you and El will have each other there.” He chuckles softly, turning the bottle over in his hands a few times. “With your good influence, maybe she’ll make it through an entire semester without being sent home.”

Penelope chuckles too, louder than Colin had a moment ago.

“Eloise will be fine, with or without me. She’s all talk.”

“Yeah. The ‘talk’ is exactly what I’m worried about. Also fist fighting, but at least she doesn’t have the balls to do that in the middle of class.” Swig. “Usually.”

As much as she wants to defend her best friend further, Penelope holds her tongue. He has a point. Last term, Eloise made a hobby out of backtalking their maths teacher.

“Really though,” he continues. “Leaving home is amazing, but it also kinda sucks. Having your best friend there… It’ll be good.”

“Why does it suck?” Penelope asks, little alarm bells ringing in the back of her mind. She and Colin rarely discuss Eton in detail, but the little he does say is typically positive.

He keeps quiet for a moment, seeming to search for the answer in the stars above them.

“It’s different for everyone. It might not suck for you at all. But for me…” Swig. “Maybe it’s just because I was so used to living with seven siblings and an overprotective mum. But going from that to Eton so suddenly…” Swig. “Felt a bit isolating at first.”

The alarm bells continue ringing. They’re a bit louder now.

“Colin, I —”

“It gets better, obviously. You adjust. It took me a while to be comfortable living without the people I lived with all my life, but eventually I did.” Swig. “Your friends really do help with that. Hopefully you can learn from me though, and cut them off when you realise they’re all bloody arseholes.”

She waits until she’s certain that he’s finished speaking before opening her mouth to speak again. But when she does, before she can even suck in a full breath of air, he keeps going.

“Sorry, by the way. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. I just thought it would have been good if someone told me that before I left for Eton. Prepared me for it, at least.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she insists. “And I appreciate your candour. Truly.”

Colin opens his mouth again, looking as though he’s about to say something else. Penelope knows she should let him talk. That she should allow him to alter the course of the conversation, if that’s what he wants. But she also can’t ignore those goddamn alarm bells ringing in her ears.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Even if — hypothetically — it could scare me. I just — I’m always here to listen. About anything.”

For the briefest moment, something new passes on Colin’s face. Even with what little light is left in the sky, Penelope can tell that she’s never seen it there before. She can’t quite put a name to it, but it almost looks… desperate. And then it’s just gone.

Turning his gaze away from her and towards the sky above, Colin shifts in his spot and — for the second time tonight — wraps his arm around Penelope’s shoulder. His fingers just barely graze the fabric of her shirt.

“Yeah, Pen. I know.”

She should be used to this by now. Colin is her friend. His touch is innocent, always. It doesn’t matter if her breath quickens when his body settles against hers. It doesn’t matter if her skin burns beneath his lightest touch. None of this matters to Colin — at least not in the way that it matters to her.

She lasts about 25 seconds before squirming out of his hold. She scoots back a few inches and turns so her entire front faces him. “What’s the distance between Cheltenham and Cambridge again?” she asks, as if the exact mileage has not been burned into her brain for months.

Colin scowls. “200 kilometres. Give or take.”

Penelope nods. Mayfair and Eton were only 35 kilometres apart. There were times over the last two years where it felt as though Eton may as well have been located on the moon.

“Chin up, Pen,” he says, his demeanour already lightening up. “It’s the twenty-first century. We can always Skype.”

“I know…” She raises her bottle, letting the glass rim rest against her lips. She can’t bring herself to take another sip, though. “Even then, I’ll still miss you.”

“Well, obviously,” he says through a smirk. Penelope scoffs, hiding her own smile behind her hand.

Charm and arrogance do tend to come hand and hand.

“That’s —”

“I’ll miss you, too. Obviously. But that’s no reason to stay home and prevent ourselves from reaching our full potentials. We owe it to the world, Pen. We can’t possibly be that selfish.”

In the time that it takes Penelope to think of a single sensical response to that, Colin goes to take another swig, comes up empty, then peers one eye into his bottle to confirm its lack.

“I sup—”

“To Cheltenham.” With that, he raises his bottle towards her.

Penelope smiles. Resisting the urge to remind him that toasting with an empty glass is bad luck, she clinks the butt of her bottle against his. Hers is still half-full.

“To Cambridge.”

The quiet returns. It sits between them for a while. Penelope likes it.

She likes it all.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

After spending an hour on the roof and beneath the stars, Colin and Penelope return to the spot where their night had started. The back garden has become less crowded, but only slightly so. She still has to look where she steps as they weave between the other bodies in the crowd.

“Bloody hell,” Penelope curses, ducking to avoid the crushed beer can hurdling towards her head. Inadvertently, her movement causes the aluminium can to strike Colin’s shoulder instead. “Shit! Sor—”

“You okay?” he asks, pulling her into his side even closer than she already was. His hand hadn’t left hers since he helped her climb back inside through the window five minutes ago. (She spent those five minutes praying that Colin attributes her sweaty palms to nothing more than the August humidity.)

“Of course. Are you okay?”

Colin’s smile makes a reappearance as his hand gives Penelope’s a gentle squeeze.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Suddenly fully cognizant of just how slimy her palm has gotten with her own sweat, Penelope pulls it out of Colin’s grasp. She raises all ten of her fingers to the sky and hopes her forced smile will distract from the pink of her cheeks.

“Fair point. Why wouldn’t you be having an amazing time at an amazing party like this?”

Colin laughs. He uses the hand that was holding hers just a second ago to run his fingers through his hair.

“You mean the one we were just hiding from for an —”

“Wait — Colin,” Penelope interrupts. On principle, she typically tries to avoid doing that, but alarm bells are ringing in her mind again. This time, for a different Bridgerton sibling.

“Have you seen Eloise anywhere? It’s been like two hours since I last talked to her. I hope she doesn’t —”

“Yeah,” Colin interrupts — a more common occurrence on his part. He rolls his eyes. “We passed her inside. She was in queue for the loo.”

“Oh,” she sighs, a bit confused by his sudden change in demeanour. “So she was by herself?”

Colin does not respond with words. First, his face contorts into an expression that falls somewhere between embarrassment and disgust. Then, he shakes his head.

“Oh.”

At least one of us is getting lucky tonight.

For a moment, the two of them stand side-by-side. Neither looks at the other. Neither knows what to do with their hands. They both listen — Penelope to the people, Colin to the music. They open their mouths at the same exact time.

“We should go ba—”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hmm?” Penelope mumbles, eyebrows shooting up. She has already forgotten what it was that she was about to say.

Colin smiles at her, just as he did a hundred different times in the past hour. It’s annoying how every single one of them has made her stomach flutter.

“It’s our song.”

Eyebrows shooting downwards in confusion, Penelope attempts to filter out the shrieks and gasps and fights and drama around them and just hear the song in question. Within seconds, she recognizes the familiar notes in the air.

“This is not ‘our song,’” she tells him, voice definitive.

“Sure it is.”

Before she can get another word in, his hand is in hers again. He’s pulling her towards the other side of the garden, where the music is louder and a small group of people sway to the beat.

“What are you doing?” She hates how shrill her voice sounds, but she doesn’t like the outcome he is pulling them towards, either.

Dragging her forward with a tightening grip, Colin spares a glance over his shoulder. “We’re dancing,” he says, as if the answer is obvious. Or at all sensical.

“No we’re not,” Penelope insists, but only with her voice. She makes no attempt at standing her literal ground against him, her footsteps trailing closely behind his. Their intended destination is less than five feet away now.

“Sure we are.”

That’s the end of it; as soon as the words leave his lips, they’re on the little patch of grass that will serve as their dance floor. Colin falls into position immediately, one hand grabbing hers, the other landing delicately on her waist. Penelope is slower, but ultimately compliant. Her right hand matches his grip while her left hooks onto his shoulder.

Their feet start moving beneath them and, at first, it’s not so bad. They’ve danced like this a few times before. (Three times, to be exact — at his cousin’s wedding, New Year’s Eve 2010, and that one time at Aubrey Hall.) With each instance, it becomes a little more natural — a little easier. A little.

Other than the places where their hands lie, their bodies remain separate by about a foot. But god — her skin is just so hot beneath his touch. The cloth between her waist and his palm feels like it’s about to go up in smoke.

Attempting to distract herself from his touch, Penelope tilts her chin up and asks the first question that pops into her mind.

“Do they teach you young men how to dance at Eton?”

“Why do you ask?” He looks down at her with a familiar smile gracing his lips. Then, he wiggles his eyebrows in that childish way that instantly takes her back to a time when his touch felt so innocent. “Have I improved since last summer?”

In truth, Penelope can’t quite remember what point she had been trying to make. Her brain is so hazy that it’s possible she never had one to begin with. Nevertheless, she continues forward, pushing words out of her mouth too fast for her mind to stop her.

“No… But there’s always Cambridge. Perhaps they can give you some useful pointers.”

Unphased by her teasing, Colin leans in a bit closer, a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t act like I’m not your favourite dance partner,” he tells her.

With that, it becomes painfully evident to Penelope that any attempt to neutralise this situation with words will ultimately fail her. Lips disappearing into her mouth, she smiles up at Colin and gives him the faintest nod of her head.

With her lips sealed tight, Penelope’s mind cannot help but linger on Colin’s hands — on the parts of her he holds so carefully. On her waist, separated by a fabric too thin to dampen the startling effect of his touch. On her right palm, pressed flat against his and growing damper with each passing second. On her left hand, suddenly drawn away from his shoulder so he can guide her away from him and twirl her back just as quickly. On her lower back, where his right hand settles far more firmly than it had on her waist.

Now, their bodies aren’t so disconnected.

Even though she can no longer use her voice to do so, Penelope feels an inherent need to protest this insane, silly, embarrassing situation. One Colin quite literally dragged her into.

Looking up, she attempts to protest with her eyes alone. In response, all she gets is that goddamn smile of his. It’s maddening. She tilts her head into his shoulder, just to give her eyes and heart a reprieve from its most detrimental effects.

They didn’t start dancing until nearly halfway through the song. It’s almost over now, which should make Penelope happy. She should be grateful for this fact. She should thank the universe for delaying their start, because at least that means the ending will come quicker. That she will spend less time doing something so embarrassing while surrounded by a group of her peers. That she will spend less time reminding herself that Colin is just her friend, while also being tucked into his chest and held tightly in his arms. But as the music picks up speed again, she isn’t happy or grateful.

She’s bitter.

She’s greedy.

Penelope Featherington may be a realist, but she’s equal parts a willing fool. She wishes this could continue on forever.

But she can’t wish for that, can she?

You’ve danced with him like this before. This is nothing new.

He’s your friend. He’s only ever treated you like a friend.

You had one beer. Your head should not be spinning this badly.

He’ll never —

“Pen?”

“Hmm?”

With her head still very much spinning, Penelope lifts her cheek off his chest and looks up. Thankfully, his smile has since dropped. His face is almost neutral now.

“Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Oh,” she whispers, mind barely beginning to clear. “You don’t have to thank m—”

“No, I do,” Colin insists. The faintest hint of a smile reappears on his lips. “For full transparency, it was for purely selfish reasons. I would have been miserable, had I been forced to endure Fife’s bollocks stories all night.”

Penelope laughs. It’s only half forced.

“Oh! Are you saying you like me more than Cornelius Fife? I’m honoured. Truly.”

Her tongue had been heavy with sarcasm, but for a moment, Penelope wonders if she should have laid it on even stronger. Colin is squinting at her like she just said something deeply offensive.

“I —”

Before she can finish that sentence, Penelope’s mouth is muffled by the cloth of Colin’s shirt. Once again, her face is positioned against his chest and out of his view. Unlike last time, the change in position had not been her decision.

His right arm is slung around her shoulders, pulling the two of them into a position not too different from a hug. But while Colin and Penelope have hugged plenty of times before, he has never held her quite like this. Like he’s scared she’ll slip away from him at any moment.

“I like you more than everyone,” he belatedly answers. There isn’t a single drop of sarcasm on his tongue.

For what little life is left of their dance, Penelope can’t summon the strength to lift her cheek from his chest. She can’t bring herself to say another word. She can’t even force herself to repeat the words in her head that have just barely allowed her to remain sane while in situations like this before. Instead, she listens intently to the music, hoping and praying that it will drown out everything else inside her.

Look how they shine for you

Look how they shine

“Pen!”

Before the song can reach its final note, it’s over.

She literally jumps out of Colin’s embrace, taking several steps away from him before her mind can even register what is happening. With wide, guilty eyes, Penelope turns towards the person who had just called out for her.

“El! It’s not —”

“Oh my god, Pen! I can’t believe I tried to weasel myself out of coming here. You will never believe what I was doing all night. Or who I was doing it wi—”

“Dear God, Eloise,” Colin grumbles rather loudly from out of view behind her.

In a flash, Eloise’s eyes go even wider than Penelope’s. Apparently, just now realising that her older brother stands before her.

“Colin?! When did you —”

Cutting off her own words with a huff, Eloise rolls her eyes, then turns them back to Penelope.

“Nevermind. Pen — let’s go get chips. I have so much to tell you about!”

With that, Eloise wraps her fingers around Penelope’s wrist. In the split second before she gets pulled away, she looks over to Colin again.

It takes everything in her to meet his eye. When she does, she can’t help but see longing staring back at her. She can’t help but wonder if her eyes are playing tricks on her — inventing a mirror where there isn’t one.

“Goodnight,” she barely manages to say. Using the hand not currently being strangled in Eloise’s death grip, she gives him the most pitiful wave that has ever been waved.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

At 12:16 AM, Penelope and Eloise step out of their first house party. To Eloise, night had been a dream. To Penelope, a brief detour into purgatory.

As Eloise recounts her magical night with the boy she’s been obsessing over all year, Penelope tries to forget the one she shared with the boy she’s loved her entire life. She does her best to ignore the dread boiling in her stomach and simply be happy for her friend.

“I can’t believe I ever doubted you,” Eloise exclaims, laughter light on her lips. “Tonight was fun.”

“That’s great, El.” Penelope tries to match Eloise’s light tone, but her words practically pour from her lips and fall to the ground between them.

Eloise squeezes her hand, still locked in the death grip from several minutes ago. Penelope doesn’t have the heart to turn her head and look her best friend in the eye. At best, she’ll see nothing. At worst, pity.

“What did y—”

“How did you make things happen with Theo?” Penelope interrupts. On principle, she typically tries to avoid doing that. “Didn’t you say that you always chicken out when trying to push things forward with him?”

“Oh.” Eloise chuckles nervously. “I don’t know, honestly. I sort of just said ‘fuck it.’”

“‘Fuck it?’” Penelope repeats.

“Yeah. You’re right. I spent the entire past year pining after him like a pathetic little school girl, too scared to make anything happen. Tonight, I saw him across the garden and it just hit me. I’m leaving for Cheltenham, he’s staying in London. I might never get a chance with him again. Why not get out of my own head and just go for it?”

Eloise laughs again. This time, she sounds victorious.

“And it actually worked! Can you believe it?!”

It was a rhetorical question, but Penelope cannot help but whisper, “No.” Eloise doesn’t hear her say it, launching back into her retelling of the night.

Quickly, Penelope doesn’t hear Eloise either, very much stuck inside her own head.

Penelope has loved Colin her entire life. She has loved him since before she knew “love” was the right word for it — for this longing that has been erected inside her soul. She has loved him long enough to know that this love wasn’t built to fade, even if it is never returned. She has loved him madly enough to pick up tricks that make things bearable — that makes the inevitable heartbreak of love easier to live in.

Since the moment she realised it was love, she has repeated the same string of ten words back to herself whenever things get especially hard. Whenever she risks losing sight of her circumstances.

He’ll never love you the way you want him to.

Those ten words had saved their friendship. They made it possible for Penelope to exist in such close proximity to him as nothing more than a friend. They prevented her from wanting even more than she already did.

But god. What if she has been wrong this entire time? What if those words — repeated back to herself even more than usual tonight — were just that. Words.

What if she had spent so much time in her own head that she failed to see what was right in front of her? To pay attention to the words and actions that actually meant something.

The way his fingers gripped onto her shoulder when he introduced her to his friends.

Back off Fife.

That look in his eye when they sat on the roof together.

I happen to quite like ‘Penelope Featherington.’

How he pulled her into him when they danced together.

I like you more than —

“Pen!”

She stops dead in her tracks, only now realising that Eloise had stopped moments ago while her feet had kept walking.

“Oh! Sorry, I just…”

Eloise laughs, then strides four steps to bridge the gap between them.

“One too many drinks tonight, Featherington?”

“Something like that,” she mumbles. When Eloise interlocks their fingers and starts to guide them forward again, Penelope doesn’t move.

“Speaking of which — I just realised, I really need to use the loo. I’ll run back inside. Can you wait for me here?”

With a tiny scowl pulling at her lips, Eloise reminds her that they have toilets at the chip shop.

“I know, it’s just kind of an emergency and the shop is —”

“Yes, right — of course. You go, I’ll wait here.”

With that, she turns on her heel and retraces her steps to the party.

For the first time in her life, Penelope Featherington runs headfirst into a disastrous situation without a plan in sight.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

The garden is slightly less packed than it had been when Eloise dragged her out of it. Which is to say, much more crowded than Penelope would like it to be.

She doesn’t spot him right away, but after agreeing on just how unbearable the stench inside was, Penelope can’t imagine he’s anywhere else at this party. She lifts herself onto the balls of her feet, but it gives her just as much advantage as one could expect from someone as short as her. (None.)

She continues forward, paying special attention to where her feet land in the crowd. She flicks her eyes up, looking for his outline against the rest. She keeps her eyes pointed outwards, searching for that familiar drawl. She does an entire loop around the garden and comes up empty. Just as she begins to rethink her strategy, she hears something familiar. Not Colin’s voice, but…

“Penelope Featherington?”

She jumps around at the sound of her own name. It had sounded far away, as if it had not been intended for her ears to take in.

It hadn’t been. No — it had been intended for Colin, she realises once her eyes finally spot him. He’s standing with those five dickheads he had introduced her to earlier in the night.

“The way you were dancing with her looked rather… interesting” Fife continues, practically shouting in Colin’s ears. They’re both turned away from her, a few metres off, but his words cut clear through the music and all other chaos. “Are you two —”

“No. No way, mate,” Colin interrupts. Of all the things he could do next…

He laughs.

“You sure you haven’t been keeping her from us this whole time?” His other friend cuts in — Louis, if she remembers correctly.

“Are you mad?” Colin interrupts again, another laugh ringing into the air. “I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.”

Another one of his friends — the Scottish one — says something else. Another joke. Penelope doesn’t hear it, though. There isn’t anything else she needs to hear.

Those ten words repeat again and again and again in her mind.

I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.

They ring in her ears as tears well in her eyes and drip down her cheeks. Those tears don’t stop, nearly blinding her as she carelessly pushes past all the people who stand between her and the exit.

I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.

The way he said it — how his laugh rang out just before… Like it was a joke. Not that the words themselves contained the punchline — what he said was true.

No. She was the joke here.

I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.

A fact. One she never wanted to hear, but will eventually grip onto for dear life.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

“I would never date Penelope. Not in a million years.” Bullshit.

It will take Colin several years to finally understand and accept the true depth of his feelings for Penelope. But even in this moment — standing amongst five fellow dickheads in Fife’s back garden — he can recognize the taste of bullshit when it falls from his own lips.

As Fife challenges Michael to “another” pissing contest, Colin staggers off to the side of the group. He finds the nearest bottle of clear liquid and raises it to his lips; he grimaces, but only after realising that not even vodka can dispel that taste from his mouth. Unfortunately, there isn’t a single substance at this party Colin could ingest that would make what he just said taste like anything other than bullshit. Not after everything else he had done tonight.

Not after he lurched forward to place his body between her and Fife, after that bastard bumped into her. How he placed his arm around her and wanted Fife to get the message that she was not his to take.

Not after his eyes lingered on her chest every time she turned away from him while up on that rooftop. That he was ready to murder each one of his “friends” earlier in the night for doing the exact same thing. How his eyes had refused to comply with his brain, reminding him that Penelope is just his friend.

Not after he pulled her in close while they were dancing together. How he felt it necessary to shield her eyes from his own, fearing they would reveal how desperately he wanted her. How he wanted to hold her even closer and never let her go.

Then, she let go. And Colin went back to his “friends.”

There is nothing in this world that could convince Colin that what he said about Penelope wasn’t wrong. But there is no short supply of substances that can make him forget he said it in the first place.

The vodka tastes bitter; he shoots it back desperately.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Colin lets out a groan so loud that Penelope can practically feel it from where she sits on the other end of the rug.

“God, I was such a fucking dickhead.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He scoffs. “I’m being hard on my younger self because he was a dickhead.”

“Maybe,” Penelope relents, knowing this conversation could play on loop forever if she doesn’t. “But hey — better he than you. We should be thankful that we both changed and grew out of our younger selves. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here playing your silly little game. ”

He scoffs, again. “‘My’ silly little game? You —”

“On the other hand,” Penelope interrupts. She typically tries to avoid doing that, but she does have good reason for it. She’s just had somewhat of a revelation. “Your words that night still ring true to this day.”

“I beg your pardon?” Colin asks, aghast.

“Why did you suggest we play this game again?”

“Because I love y—”

“Oh right — it was because you consider the idea of dating me ‘silly’ and ‘unnecessary.’”

Colin scoffs again, although Penelope suspects that this time he’s just trying to cover up a laugh.

“From a respected, ‘honourable’ journalist such as yourself, I would not expect to be misquoted in such bad faith.”

“Oh shush,” Penelope orders, biting back her own laugh. “What’s next?”

#yes this is late #yes I am sorry #fanfiction #bridgerton #polin #penelope x colin #ten milestones #weepingfromacedartree #ao3 #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

15 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 7 months

Text

Ten Milestones (Interlude): Aubrey Hall

Hi friends!

Here to share the first interlude chapter for this fic!

Interlude 1: Aubrey Hall

August 2nd, 2010

Monday

“Shotgun!”

“In your fucking dreams.”

Mere seconds before Eloise can wrap her fingers around the handle, Colin steps in front and leans his entire backside against the passenger door.

“Hey —”

“Children in the back,” he says, nodding his head towards the door to his left.

“Children?’” she scoffs. “You are two years older than me. And for what I lack in age, I more than make up for in intelligence and maturity.”

Again, Colin shrugs.

“Age before brains — or whatever it is you kids say these days.”

Exasperated, Eloise turns to their older brother.

“Ben?”

While clearly amused by the situation, Benedict does not want to get involved in it. He shrugs in an even more dramatic fashion than Colin had a moment ago. Before anyone can get another word in, he opens his own door and slides into the driver’s seat.

“Pen?”

The last thing Penelope wants to do is get involved. She mouths “Sorry,” and takes her seat behind Benedict.

After a miffed moment of consideration, Eloise determines that her brother has grown too tall and too sturdy for her to physically extricate from his spot (without resorting to scratching or biting, of course). Begrudgingly, she takes the high road. Rolling her eyes and sliding into her usual spot next to Penelope.

“This whole family is against me,” she grumbles to no one in particular. Her mood doesn’t lift until they get out of the city.

This is the fourth summer in a row that Penelope is accompanying the Bridgertons on their summer trip to Aubrey Hall. It started when she and Eloise were twelve; Eloise had threatened to throw a screaming fit all the way to Kent if she was unable to bring her best friend along for the ride. Violet had not appreciated her daughter’s dramatics, but obliged nonetheless.

By now, Penelope is used to car rides like this one. She’s used to Eloise’s little utterances and jabs. She’s used to Benedict’s giddy laughter and quick comebacks. She’s used to the way Colin smiles and bounces his knee and hums along to the radio, all while the sun seems to point through the window and shine on him and him alone. She’s used to sitting in the backseat and feeling as though she’s observing them all from somewhere far in the distance.

She likes car rides like this.

Right now, the three siblings are discussing their croquet strategies for the annual family tournament. Penelope is looking out the window, watching as the trees go by — until she hears her name called out.

Colin is glancing at her from over his shoulder in the passenger seat. He has an expectant look on his face. Clearly, Penelope’s attention had been lost somewhere in the treeline, because she has no idea what it is that he is expecting from her.

“Hmm?”

“Which mallett do you plan on wielding?”

“Oh. Um… None, I suppose.”

“Sitting out the game another year, Pen?” Eloise asks, a dissatisfied crease in her brow.

Absolutely.

Under most circumstances, Penelope finds croquet to be a rather tedious and boring game. But whenever the Bridgerton siblings get involved…

Stressful and unpleasant would be more accurate words to employ.

Her main reason for not wanting to play in the tournament is simply that it is far more enjoyable as an onlooker than it is as a participant. However, she doesn’t think that answer would go down very well with her current audience, so she only voices a secondary reason aloud.

“Are there not only eight mallets to choose from? I wouldn’t want to intrude and leave someone else without a stick.”

“We can always share,” Colin tells her.

“In fairness to Penelope’s point,” Benedict interjects, “our family does not have much of a reputation for sharing.”

“I meant that I can share with her, dimwit.”

“I don’t seem to recall you being very good at sharing, either.” Eloise laughs maniacally. “Or am I misremembering an incident between you and Daphne and a certain box of Christmas cookies.”

Colin unbuckles his seatbelt just so he can turn around far enough to look his little sister in the eye as he sneers at her.

“You do misremember. If I recall correctly, you —”

“Your recollection has about as much credibility as your penchant for sharing. I, on the other hand, would be happy to share with my best —”

“Oh come off it, El. In the last game, you nearly took poor Gregory’s eye out. Do you —”

“It’s not my fault he didn’t duck.”

“— really think Pen wants to share a mallet with —”

“Will you two knock it off?” Benedict would sound stern, if not for the laugh caught in the back of his throat as he scolds them. “Wait two minutes and we’ll all be free from this vehicle. You two can ignore each other from opposite ends of the estate — or get into a proper fist fight on solid ground. Up to you.”

Moving her head to the left about an inch, Penelope peers into the spot between Colin and Benedict’s heads. Sure enough, there it is. The estate that has been in the Bridgerton family for hundreds of years. The palace on the hill. The gardens and the ponds. The intricately trimmed hedges and the ivy-lined stone. The living quarters that could fit hundreds, but typically only houses a handful of people once or twice a year.

Aubrey Hall, in all its glory.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tuesday

It’s a warm, albeit slightly damp afternoon in the country. Penelope is spending it in the sunroom with Eloise. (And Gregory and Hyacinth, who are obnoxiously ignoring each other in the opposite corner.)

She’s sitting on the couch by the window, her best friend perched on the opposite end. They both have books in their laps, but the farther Penelope gets into hers, the harder it becomes for her attention to stay put. Her eyes keep drifting upwards. To the scenery outside, to the robin egg blue window frames, to the centuries-old lamp on her left — to anywhere except the book in her hands.

Eventually, her eyes randomly settle on a potted miniature orange tree on the other side of the room; it grows fuzzy in her vision as her mind continues to wander.

Like most people in this world, there are things missing from Penelope’s life that she longs for greatly. Small things, like a puppy — or that powder blue sundress she saw in a window on Dover Street. Bigger things, like a louder voice or a few additional inches of height. Monumental, fundamental things, which Penelope would do absolutely anything, just to be able to say were hers.

Living her entire life in such close proximity to a family like the Bridgertons — a family that loves each member so fully, so unconditionally — one might expect Penelope to be consumed by envy at the ripe age of fifteen. But she isn’t. She can’t.

It’s difficult to be envious of a family that seems so willing to extend that love to outsiders — even if it is only temporary. Even if it’s always a few steps removed. Even if it’s never real.

“Penelope dear.”

Nails digging into the deckled edges of her book, Penelope turns her gaze towards the doorway. Violet is standing there with a soft, expectant look on her face.

“I just wanted to double check — you take your tea with milk and honey, correct?”

“Yes!” She quickly stands from her spot and places the book down. “I can assist you with afternoon tea.”

“Oh, thank you dear,” says Violet, a soft smile still hanging on her lips. “But you sit, I can handle the rest.”

Already stepping closer, Penelope glances over to the copy of Little Women she had left behind.

“I could use the distraction. I just keep reading the same line over and over again.” Which is true.

I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world.

One final moment of pleasant doubt crosses Violet’s face, before ultimately accepting the offer.

There are two kettles on in the kitchen, and about a dozen teabags scattered around the counter next to the stove. On the island lies a silver tray and an assortment of food. Penelope attends to the latter as Violet readies the tea.

She barely lifts a finger before the older woman calls over her shoulder, “Are you excited for the school year to start up again?”

The question catches Penelope a little off guard.

Parents usually ask the opposite question. They ask about summer. They assume summer is the topic a teenager would wish to discuss — especially now, when the holiday is still fresh and the school year feels like a lifetime away.

Belatedly, she answers, “Yes. I’m really excited to start co-editing the paper with Eloise.”

“Well, that’s certainly something to be excited about. Although,” she laughs, “I fear my daughter is too busy fretting over your end-of-year exams to enjoy anything in the meantime.”

Penelope feels her lips unwittingly twist together. Though she may enjoy and appreciate her schooling, she isn’t completely mad — she’ll never smile at the mention of the GCSEs.

Violet laughs again, soft and warm. “I know they can be daunting, but I’ve had four children sit their exams and they all survived. I have no doubt you girls will be just fine.”

In response, Penelope can only smile and nod (and think about just how not fine both of her sisters did on theirs).

When the tea kettles start to whine and Violet turns back around, Penelope turns her attention back to the arrangement in front of her — fresh-baked biscuits, honey, jam, clotted cream, milk and sugar. She places them on the platter in front of her, tins and jars in the middle, biscuits going ‘round. She stacks each one with careful fingers, fearing the perfectly circular crusts will flake off beneath her thumb.

Biscuit after biscuit after biscuit after —

“Penelope dear.”

Her head whips around at the sound of her name. Violet is leaning against the counter again, tea seeping behind her. There’s a cautious smile on her face.

“Is something on your mind?”

Yes. Always.

In truth, Penelope’s mind has never been a particularly quiet place. Growing up, her primary school teachers would describe her as “thoughtful” on report cards and in conferences with her parents — which had seemed like an odd attribution to her at the time. After all, everyone is always thinking about something; her capacity for thought is no different than anyone else’s.

It wasn’t until she got a bit older that she finally started to get it. With time, her proclivity to over-analyze and over-worry and over-think about her every action, opinion, and impulse only grew. With such a constant, tangled web of thoughts hanging in the back of her mind at every moment of the day…

With time, it’s become obvious. That not everyone is quite as full of thoughts as she is. That, while seemingly intended as a positive attribution from her teachers, being “thoughtful” isn’t always a good thing. Or, at the very least, not always an easy thing.

But while Penelope generally considers Violet an easy person to talk to (easier than with her own mother, at least), there are some truths that she simply cannot bring herself to voice aloud. To say one word would risk untangling the entire web, and no one has time for that.

“Um… No, I —”

“Pen! There you are!”

Once again, she whips around at the sound of her name. Not that she needed to, to know who had called it.

Colin is walking into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets, typical charming smile on his face.

“I didn’t realise I was missing,” she tells him, her voice coming out the tiniest bit flustered.

He doesn’t say anything in response to that. He simply walks around the island to stand beside her. When he lands there, he playfully bumps his hip against hers — which, due to a recent growth spurt on his end (and a stagnation on hers), lands closer to her rib cage than her hip bone.

“Preparing tea?” he asks, picking up a single sugar cube from the dish in front of them and plopping it into his mouth.

“Yes. Still take yours with four sugars?”

Biting back a laugh as he continues chewing, Colin shrugs. “I suppose I could limit myself to three this afternoon.”

“A noble sacrifice,” Penelope teases.

His eyes suddenly point away from her, looking over to the spot where his mum was standing just a moment ago. Violet must have walked into the pantry or somewhere else down the hall, because she is nowhere to be seen.

“You missed all the fun outside,” he whispers, leaning in a bit closer.

“F — fun?”

“Yeah,” he says, smirking. “Daphne’s off to Cheltenham in a few weeks. Ben, Ant, and I couldn't let her leave home without a few self-defence lessons.”

“Self-defence?” she echoes again, evidently losing all conversational skills past that of a parrot.

“Yeah. You know, making sure she knows how to throw a punch or kick someone where it really hurts. Thank god Benedict volunteered to be her test dummy, or else I might have been showing up to Eton next term with a black eye.”

Penelope’s mouth drops open into an astounded gasp, picturing Daphne’s fist colliding with Benedict’s face.

“Oh my —”

“Colin,” Violet interrupts, suddenly reappearing from wherever it was that she disappeared to. She has a look on her face that tells Penelope she caught at least some of Colin’s last few words. “What are you talking ab—”

“Nothing, mum.” With his face the picture of innocence, he picks up another sugar cube, throws it into the air, and promptly catches it in his mouth. “Just helping Pen with tea.”

“Well, that’s very… nice of you.” Penelope has never heard Violet sound so sarcastic before. Clearly, her son’s attempt at charming misdirection had no effect. “And Daphne? Your brothers? Will they be joining us for afternoon tea as well?”

“How would I know?”

Face settled into a faux-pleasant smile, Violet’s eyes turn to Penelope again.

“I’ll take the tea out. Penelope dear, can you do me a favour and keep my son out of trouble in the meantime?”

Automatically, Penelope’s head turns up and to the side. To the boy who occupies such a vast space of her tangled up mind at any given moment of the day. He’s looking down at her, blue eyes peeking through brown curls.

In truth, Penelope doesn’t think she can keep Colin out of trouble, if trouble is what he wants. She doesn’t think there’s a single thing she can convince Colin of that he hasn’t already made up his mind about.

Cheeks suddenly a light shade of pink, she turns her gaze back to Violet.

“I’ll do my best.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Wednesday

It’s hot today. It’s the type of hot that feels sticky against your skin. The type of hot that infects your brain as much as it does your body. The type of hot that draws your footsteps towards the nearest body of cold water.

At Aubrey Hall, there are several bodies of water to choose from.

Almost everyone is in and around the pool situated in the back garden — which also just so happens to be situated directly under the sun at this time of day. After spending approximately an hour in the water, Penelope is now sitting off to the side under the safety of a big blue umbrella. Her hair and bathing suit are still damp. Her skin still prickles like it’s burning. Her oversized sunglasses sit as close to her skull as physically possible. There’s a book in her hands, but her eyes won’t let her get through a single line before they inevitably start to wander.

Colin is still in the water, surrounded by the majority of his siblings. He’s throwing Gregory an inflatable basketball. He’s picking up Hyacinth and throwing her three feet in the air. He’s splashing Eloise. He’s wading through the water. He’s laughing. He’s running a hand through his hair, his bicep growing taught with the motion.

It’s unfair, Penelope thinks, forcing her eyes downward again, how Colin can live under the sun and never sweat beneath its heat. How the sunlight follows him wherever he moves, eternally shining down on him in glorious reflection. How in a space brimming with other people, the light appears to fall on him and him alone.

After reading the same line for the sixth time in a row, Penelope abandons her dreams of lazily enjoying a book by the pool. She stands from her spot, throws on a white cotton dress, and tucks her copy of Sense & Sensibility under her armpit.

At Aubrey Hall, there are several bodies of water to choose from on hot days like this, so Penelope ventures deeper into the estate. As she steps forward, she cannot help but think about the things that have changed since this summer and last — since the last time she walked down this very path.

Last summer, she wasn’t alone — she was walking arm and arm with Eloise while Colin and Benedict trailed closely behind. Last summer, Colin was about to leave for Eton and Penelope could think of nothing else but his leaving and whether or not their friendship would survive it. Last summer, she knew her feelings for him were growing stronger with each passing day, and she knew that momentum would not halt once he was out of her view.

Last summer, Penelope was two cup sizes smaller. Last summer, Colin was two inches shorter.

Last summer, her footsteps did not seem so predestined for the shadows. Last summer, she had not been so keenly aware of the way in which the light reflects off of Colin.

Last summer, she felt like a kid. This summer, she feels like a kid with a lot more shit swimming around her brain and body.

Last summer —

Her footsteps (and her train collision of thoughts) stop short when she reaches her intended destination. It’s a small swimming pond, shaded by elm trees and outfitted with a little wooden dock. Positioning herself on the edge, Penelope lets her feet dangle into the tepid water. Then, she looks down.

Free from any visual distractions, she almost makes it through an entire chapter uninterrupted. Almost.

She knows it’s him long before she turns her head to confirm, but when she does…

Colin is walking down the path by himself. He’s wearing sandals and his navy blue swim trunks. And nothing else.

Once he gets close enough, Penelope says, “Hi.” Or, she tries to; the word comes out more like a soundless breath of air.

He plops down beside her with a smile on his lips and a glint in his eye. “I was wondering where you disappeared to.”

“Sorry. I, uh…” She closes the book that was previously sitting open in her lap and displays it for Colin to see. “I was having trouble focusing back there. Thought I would enjoy the quiet for a few minutes.”

“You want me to fuck off?” he asks, a hint of cheekiness to his voice as he smirks and nods his head towards the path from which he came.

The quickness with which she answers “No” is a bit embarrassing, even for her. But Colin doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe even notice.

“Alright.” He leans back from his sitting position to lay against the dock beside her. “You go back to your book. I’ll lay here and enjoy the silence.”

Penelope, who would do just about anything Colin asks her to, does as she’s told and reopens her book. But as determined as she is to keep her eyes focused on the text, she can’t stop herself from continually glancing sideways. She can’t prevent her mind from lingering on the smell of him — the soap and the sweat and the chlorine all radiating off his body. She can’t help but curse the few inches of distance that separate their bodies. And then, when he has the gall to drift off to sleep on a goddamn wooden deck, she can’t hear anything except those soft, even breaths.

Through all of it, she desperately tries to read — to continue forward. But yet again, she’s stuck reading the same line over and over and over again.

If I could but know his heart, everything would become easy.

If I could but know his heart,

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Thursday

It rained today. All day.

It’s the type of rainy day that makes you forget that the sky was ever blue — that the sun still exists somewhere high above you, out of sight from where you stand on the ground.

Everyone spent the day inside. Around 3:00, Daphne suggested that they all watch a movie together to pass the time. By 4:00, she and most of the other Bridgertons had abandoned that plan.

They had drawn cards in order to determine who would pick the movie. Eight-year-old Hyacinth had drawn a Queen, and was thus named the winner. Inspired by the current weather, she had plucked Singin’ in the Rain out of the box of DVDs.

No one was particularly enthused by her choice. Not even Hyacinth, who has since fallen asleep and is now curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room.

Sixty-eight minutes into the movie, the only people still present, awake, and watching it are Colin and Penelope. Well, they’re awake and present — to say they’re “watching” the movie is a bit of a stretch. Penelope’s attention is mainly focused on the notebook in her hands. Colin’s is mainly on his phone. It isn't until the music picks up again and Gene Kelly starts dancing around in the rain that he focuses his attention on the TV.

From his spot on the other end of the couch, Colin nudges Penelope’s knee with his foot.

“When was the last time you ran around in the rain like that?”

Looking up from her notebook, Penelope glances back and forth between Colin’s expectant face and the TV screen. Gene Kelly continues to dance around, skipping in puddles and twirling around lamp posts.

“Never.”

“Never?” he echoes, brows furrowed.

Once again, Penelope’s eyes dart back and forth between Colin and the fantastical scene playing out on the screen. Then, she shrugs. She’s not quite sure where his confusion is coming from.

“Do you have a habit of singing and dancing in the rain, Colin?”

“No.” He quickly throws a glance over his shoulder to confirm that Hyacinth is still asleep in the armchair. “But come on,” he continues, his voice a bit lower than it was before. “There wasn’t a single time in your childhood that you ran out in the rain and let loose?”

Penelope barely considers the question. She could wrack her brain for hours, searching for a memory of a time when she had “let loose” and would come up empty.

“No.”

Just as Colin opens his mouth to say something else, she continues.

“Does anyone really do this,” she uses a ballpoint pen to point to the TV screen, “outside of fictional characters who just so happen to live inside a musical?”

Colin laughs.

“Well, not this exactly. I never expected little Penelope Featherington to have broken out into song on a street corner. But come on — at some point, you must have had the desire to dance around in the rain.”

You don’t know what I desire, she wants to say, but doesn’t.

“No,” she says instead. “Dancing in the rain is just silly.”

Colin’s jaw drops in exaggerated horror.

“How is it —”

“Dancing without music is silly. In a movie, dancing in the rain might make for a good musical sequence, but in reality, there is very rarely music accompanying a torrential downpour. Save for a poorly timed outdoor wedding, I can’t think of many scenarios in which I would want to dance in the rain.”

Still looking a bit horrified, Colin crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“I would argue that dancing in the rain is one of the few times when one would want to dance without music.”

“You can’t dance without music,” she insists, crossing her own arms.

“Yes you can! If you have feet and rain — which, in case you forgot, we have plenty of in England — you can dance in the rain.”

“Why would you want —”

“Because it’s fun, Pen,” he interrupts — evidently a bit too loudly. Hyacinth darts her head up from the side of the armchair.

“Where is everyone?” she asks dazedly, rubbing a fist across her eyes.

Colin sighs, throwing Penelope one last over-exaggerated eye roll before turning his attention towards his sister.

“Nowhere, Hy. You’re still dreaming.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Friday

It’s raining again. Penelope watches streams of water rolling down the window beside her, ignoring the book in her lap. She’s also trying desperately to ignore the scene unfolding a few metres away from her in the center of the room, but that proves to be a more difficult task.

The annual croquet tournament was meant to be held this morning, but when the rain didn’t let up by noon, the siblings dispersed to different ends of the property to entertain themselves by other means. Currently, Colin and Eloise are in the library on the east wing, engaging in another family favourite pastime: argument.

Penelope has lost track of what it is they’re arguing about. It had started with Eloise attempting to offer Colin unsolicited advice on his croquet technique, then Colin offered his own advice on Eloise’s “perpetual lateness,” then the Christmas cookie incident got brought up again, then —

Suffice to say, Penelope has since lost the plot. But whatever it is that they’re currently arguing over doesn’t even matter. After sitting in on so many of these sorts of encounters over the years, Penelope has come to accept that the Bridgerton siblings simply love to argue. It’s like a sport for them — one just as blood thirsty as a casual game of croquet.

Sinking deeper into her chair by the window, Penelope casts her eyes downward and lifts her index finger to the page, tracing it across every word until her mind starts to actually register what it is that she is reading. She nearly makes it through the chapter before her ears unconsciously perk up at the sound of something all too familiar.

“Penelope is my best friend. Your need to encroach on everything I hold dear is ridiculous. I suggest —”

“Oh, come off it Eloise. At least I don’t speak about Pen like she’s a piece of property I own. And —”

“I do no such thing!”

“— we both know who she prefers to spend her time with. Of course I’m her —”

“Bullshit.”

“— best friend.”

As they continue down this path, Penelope tears her eyes away from her book and towards her supposed best friends.

This debate started up a few years ago (around the time that she and Eloise started secondary school) and hasn’t let up since. While some might think this a complimentary position for Penelope to be in, in reality, she has always found it quite exhausting.

From the beginning, she has taken the stance that she usually takes when thrown into the middle of a Bridgerton argument: neutrality. In her experience, that tends to lead to the least amount of bloodshed.

But while Penelope may insist upon not taking sides in this particular debate, the answer in her mind and in her heart is far more decisive.

In truth, Penelope has always seen Eloise as her best friend — not Colin. Not because the two of them were closer first. Not because she cares for Eloise any more or less than she does Colin. No, Penelope’s feelings for Eloise are simply uncomplicated.

In truth, to call Colin her best friend is difficult for Penelope. The term is just so final. Best friend — there’s nothing that comes after that. To call him that feels like an admittance that a friend is all she’ll ever be to him. Even if she always — always wants more.

“Pen?”

Penelope blinks several times before focusing her attention back on reality. She’s not 100% sure which of them had called her name, but Colin and Eloise are both looking at her expectantly.

“Sorry — what?”

“We’re gonna go into town — to that ice cream shop with the cows out front,” Eloise says. “You coming?”

Penelope nods, throws her book to the side, and stands fromthe chair. She smooths out her skirt and looks over to her friends. They’re still staring up at her from their spots on the rug.

“Of, uh — of course.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Saturday

Having spent her entire adolescence in London, there are many things Penelope has to adjust to while on these brief trips out to the country. The hardest to adjust to, she has found, is just how peaceful it all is.

In the country, the loudest noise you’ll hear on a Saturday morning isn’t a horn blaring or a disgruntled drunk stumbling home from a late night. It’s birds.

Every other day this week, Penelope had been jolted awake by the unexpectedly deafening sound of a dawn chorus. Most mornings, she had been able to turn over in bed and get another hour or two of sleep in. This morning was different, though; her eyes were already open and alert by the time the birds began their song.

Thirty-seven minutes after her wake up call, Penelope now walks along a bizarrely peaceful path on the edge of the property. She looks up, to a pair of bluebirds dancing in the wind. She looks down, to the grass silently being crushed beneath her trainers. She looks to the side, towards a pond so still that its tepid surface looks as though it’s been frozen over.

That is, until Colin skips a pebble across it.

When exiting Eloise’s bedroom door this morning, Penelope had planned on taking a quick trip around the ponds alone. But when she found Colin in the kitchen eating a “pre-breakfast,” suddenly it became a walk for two.

“Why were you up so early?” Colin (a perpetual early bird) asks her now. He does not miss a step as he doubles over and picks up another pebble from the path beneath them.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Is Eloise’s snoring really that loud?”

“No.” She laughs. “Well, yes. But I’ve gotten used to it over the years.”

And that’s true. Penelope has long since overcome her inability to sleep through disruption. (Save for the birds that have been tormenting her this past week.)

“Just your usual bout of insomnia, then?”

“Yup.”

Also true. And an increasingly common occurrence in her life.

“Is something on your mind?”

“No.”

Less than true. Colin looks as though he’s about to press her further, but before he can, she searches her mind for something to blame for her restlessness. Anything other than her own overworked mind.

“I think the quiet here is starting to unnerve me.” She laughs quietly, a forced breath of nonchalance. “I’m so used to falling asleep and waking up to the sounds of traffic and yelling. The birds chirping in the morning are starting to feel a bit…”

“Antagonistic?” Colin finishes when her voice trails off, looking up to the sky with a slight grimace on his face.

She laughs again, softer and more genuine now.

“Yeah.”

“I know what you mean.” Colin reaches down for another pebble, but doesn’t immediately dispel it like he did the others. He turns it over and over in his palm as he continues speaking. “I’m used to how Aubrey Hall sounds by now, but Eton took some getting used to.”

His mention of “Eton” causes Penelope’s ears to perk up.

After growing up in posh all-boy schools in London, Colin had left the city to attend Eton College for his A-Levels last fall. When he did, for the first time in Penelope’s life, Colin Bridgerton had not lived across the street from her. To Penelope, this change had felt monumental (to phrase it nicely). But to him…

Well, she doesn’t exactly know how he feels on the subject. He never seems to want to talk about it — with her, at least.

“What does it sound like?” she asks him. “At Eton, I mean.”

“Uh… Well it’s quiet, mostly. But loud in its own ways. I think it’s because the halls are so archaic and winding — noises carry differently there than they do here or at home.”

“Are you excited to go back?” she asks when he doesn’t expand any further.

“I…” He chuckles, then finally gets rid of the pebble in his hand. “I would prefer not to discuss the school year during my summer holiday.”

“Fair enough,” she mutters, shrugging her shoulders in acceptance of the brevity of this particular conversation. In its absence, a familiar quiet falls between them. (Save for the wind and the birds and the twigs snapping beneath their feet.)

Unconsciously, Penelope’s fingers pull at the hem of her skirt. It was probably not the best choice for an early morning walk around the ponds, but in fairness, she thought the air would be a bit warmer by now.

As the quiet continues, Penelope’s eyes dart all around, pointing everywhere, except to the person walking directly beside her. She looks down, noting how the whites of her converse are starting to turn brown. She looks up, curious about the colour of the sky, but unable to make out much between the trees. She looks to the side, to the nearest pond; she watches as the still surface begins to sputter.

“We should head back,” she murmurs, voice soft as she feels the first few drops of rain hit her bottom lip. Colin nods his head, then alters his footsteps accordingly.

The very moment that they step out of the cover of trees and into the open field, Penelope wonders if it was the right call to make. Her head swivels back and forth, from the wooded area behind them to the house ahead. The latter is about an acre of land away, but looks much farther from her current position.

Before she can make a decision, Penelope’s eyes settle on Colin. She does so looking for some sort of guidance forward. The only problem is that he isn’t looking at the woods or the house.

He’s looking at the sky.

He’s smiling.

“Should we —” Penelope starts, but stops after realising her tentative words aren’t quite audible above the rainfall.

Colin finally looks down, moving his attention away from the sky and directly onto Penelope. With a smile still plastered on his face, he tells her, “I think this is what some people would call a sign.”

“What —”

“Ready to let loose, Featherington?”

He extends his hand towards her, though Penelope cannot even begin to fathom why. Then it hits her.

There wasn’t a single time in your childhood that you ran out in the rain and let loose?

“No,” she answers for the second time that week. Which may be a new record for her.

“Oh, come on Pe—”

“This is silly.”

With a huff, she lightly slaps away his offered hand. Realising she needs to make this decision on her own, she starts walking in the direction of the house. Unfortunately, Colin’s footsteps are quicker than hers; he gets in front of her, blocking her path forward within seconds.

“How is it ‘silly?’”

There are many extensive, reasonable answers Penelope could give in response to his question. But due to the rain beating down on them — quick and gaining speed by the second — she defaults to brevity.

“No music.”

“I thought we already refuted that point.”

“Colin —”

“But if music is really so important to you, I could always sing.”

No. No no no no no no no.

Penelope feels her eyes go wide and her body go rigid as her brain briefly short circuits. In some universe, she could maybe — just maybe — handle dancing in the rain with Colin without having her heart explode. But there is simply no chance in any universe she could survive him serenading her while doing so.

“No,” she says again. Definitely a record.

“Pen —”

“No singing. That’s far too silly.”

“Okay, okay, okay…” A goofy, albeit expectantly charming smile graces his lips. “Fair enough — no singing. Out loud, at least.”

“What are —”

“Just sing a song in your head. I’ll sing one in mine.”

Again, there are a million questions and objections she could voice aloud. The one she lands on is: “What song?”

“Whatever you want. It’s your head.”

“But what if we sing different songs and our footsteps are all mixed up?”

“Then the world will end.” Colin tilts his head back as he laughs. “Nothing! Nothing will happen — other than a bit of fun.”

Once again, Colin offers her his hand. And god — for all her consternation on this ridiculous, utterly absurd offer, she can’t bring herself to deny him any longer.

Unsurprisingly, the dance begins with an awkward start. Their hands interlock with gripping fingers, continually adjusting to the rain slipping between them. All other points of their bodies remain separate; their arms form an oval shape as their feet pick up speed.

At first, they swing around each other like two little kids playing Ring a Ring o’ Roses. And while Colin laughs like this is the most fun he’s had in years, Penelope can’t help but bite at her lip; she feels even more exposed and awkward and utterly silly than she had expected. Just when she thinks they’ll follow the nursery rhyme and fall into the muddy ground beneath them, Colin alters their movements.

Dropping one hand, he raises the other to twirl her around — twice. By the second time, she actually has a smile on her face.

“This isn’t too bad, is it?”

“Oh! Uh, no — I —”

She doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence before Colin spins her around again, this time out and away from his own body. When her arm extends fully and she’s as far away from him as she can get with their hands gripped together, she once again fears that her feet will give out from underneath her and send her crashing downwards. But just as the Earth tilts and she feels herself falling, Colin pulls her back in.

Her right shoulder hits his sternum with a bang — hard enough that she fears either one of them could leave this encounter with a bruise. “Sorry!” she yelps, but suspects that Colin can’t hear her over the rain still pouring down around them.

She moves her feet just enough to extract herself from Colin’s center. She then finds his left hand and interlocks it with her right so they’re in a similar position to where they had started. This time though, their arms hang lower and their bodies aren’t so far apart.

As a low rumble of thunder starts beating in the distance, the two of them continue dancing. Their movements feel less awkward to her now, but just as silly. Which, Penelope finally realises, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Feeling lighter and freer than she has all morning, Penelope’s head tilts backwards with laughter. Unfortunately, such lightness is short-lived, for Colin misinterprets her unconscious movement as an attempt to dip backwards.

Following her unintentional lead, Colin’s left hand leaves her grasp and shoots to her lower back. The movement inadvertently pulls her pelvis right up against his leg.

“Fuck!” she yelps, too caught off guard to stop herself. This time, Colin can easily hear her above the raging storm.

“Pen, are you o—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence.

Caught off guard not just by Penelope’s expletive, but also by the way her body went rigid in his arms and against his middle, Colin loses track of his own footsteps. His left foot trips over his right ankle. He barely manages to let go of her before tumbling unceremoniously to the ground.

Still frozen in the position he had just held her in, Penelope can only watch as he falls into a particularly muddy patch of grass. His entire right side is instantly caked in mud.

“Oh my god!” she finally manages to get out. “Colin!”

She gets down on his level just as he rolls onto his back. As he opens his eyes and looks up at her, she expects them to squint in annoyance — the fall was her fault, after all. At the very least, she expects them to go wide, in shock or in pain.

What she does not expect is for them to crinkle. For his entire face to light up with humour as his head falls back even deeper into the mud and he starts laughing.

Laughing.

“Colin?” she repeats, tentatively this time; she fears he might be suffering from a concussion.

“That’s what I get for trying to show off,” he mutters, still laughing. Still laying in the mud.

Mouth opening and closing several times, Penelope takes in the state of him. Every inch of his back and right side — from the tip of his white trainer to the crown of his head — is coated in a murky brown sludge.

“I — I’m sorry,” she finally manages to say.

“For what?” He finally sits up, wiping his hands against the little bit of clean fabric left of his shorts. “I didn’t expect you to catch me before I hit the ground. No offence, but I think that could have only resulted in both of us covered in muck.”

She opens her mouth again, but before she can say anything, lightning strikes directly over their heads. A deafening boom follows less than a second later.

Though not at all a religious person, Penelope has to assume that flash of light was a message sent directly from God, telling her to keep her mouth shut.

What could she have said, anyway?

Sorry. I can’t get that close to you without losing control of all bodily functioning.

“I think that’s a sign to cut our dance short,” Colin announces. When he fruitlessly wipes at his brow and peels his legs from the Earth, Penelope lets out a semi-forced laugh.

“Was the mud caked all over your body not enough of a reason?”

Now standing above her, he shrugs.

“Eh. It’s just a bit of mess,” he says. “The rain will clean me off before we get back to the house.”

With that, he extends his hand down to her. And god — how could she not take it?

They run back to the house together, feet sinking deeper and deeper into the grass as they go. Just as they land on solid ground, Colin halts both of their footsteps by placing a hand around her elbow.

“I forgot to ask,” he starts, his voice warm but still raised. They’re technically out of the rain and under the cover of the back terrace, but the storm is so loud that they may as well be in the middle of it. “What song were you singing?”

“What?” she asks, genuinely not sure if she heard him right.

“When we were dancing — what song were you singing in your head?”

Like a lightning bolt, it hits her all at once that Colin was right. That she did not, in fact, need music to dance in the rain and have a bit of fun.

She didn’t sing a song in her head before, but he’s looking at her so expectantly with that goddamn smile on his face…

She can’t bring herself to admit the truth, so she says the first thing that pops into her head.

“Yellow. You know, that song by Coldplay.”

Tearing her eyes away from his, Penelope looks down to her dress — a chequered yellow and white sundress that flows down to her knees. It’s one of the few unsolicited pieces of clothing from her mother that she actually likes. Loves, even.

Though it hadn’t been her intention when looking down, Penelope can’t help but take in the state of her attire. Every inch of her is dripping with rain. And though it’s nothing compared to what Colin’s sporting now, there’s mud speckled all over her. Her dress is probably ruined, but truthfully, she couldn’t care less.

Turning her attention back to the blue eyes already fixed on hers, Penelope laughs.

“Funny how that song always gets stuck in my head.”

Colin laughs too. She can’t quite make out what he says next, but she thinks she hears the word “good” somewhere in all that noise.

He turns away from her slightly, body pointed towards the nearest entrance into the house. But before he can step away, Penelope taps him on the elbow.

“What song were you singing?”

Though his lips part immediately, he does not answer her question right away. Just when Penelope wonders if he forgot the answer, he leans in closer.

“Your song was better,” he insists. “That’s the song.”

Before she can muster up a single word in response to that, Colin turns and walks towards the door, his backside very much still painted brown. Penelope stays behind for a moment, feeling stuck in her place on the edge of the terrace, heart beating in her ears and raindrops pelting into her sideways.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Sunday

“Do you think time moves faster in the country?”

Penelope looks over and up, catching a glimpse of Colin’s face in the sun. It’s unusually sunny this morning — not a cloud in the sky.

“Don’t people usually say the opposite? That the days are longer in the country than in the city.”

“Yeah, I know that’s what ‘people’ say,” he mutters, rolling his eyes down at her with a smile still pressed into his cheeks. “But doesn’t it feel like we just got here?”

While her feet continue forward, Penelope looks over her shoulder, towards the building not so far in the distance behind them.

Aubrey Hall was built in the 17th century and has remained relatively untouched ever since. Thus, any 21st century cars have to be parked in the garage hidden behind a cluster of trees, about a quarter-mile away from the home. Eloise and Benedict are making the trek with them, walking about five paces behind them. (Although the pair seem so engrossed in conversation that they may as well be a hundred steps behind.)

Turning back to Colin…

“Isn’t that how all vacations go? Each day feels long, but then when you look back it’s like the whole week was a blur.”

He considers this a moment.

“That’s very apt, Pen.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she mumbles. “That’s just another thing people say. Honestly, I don’t have that much experience with vacations, other than a few trips to see my family in Ireland. And here, of course.”

Looking up towards the sky, Colin sighs.

“Yeah, I don’t have much experience with those, either. I’ve never travelled much farther than here.”

All at once, it strikes Penelope how true and how surprising his statement is. Since they were children, Colin has talked at great length about the places he dreams of travelling to one day. Paris, Vienna, Athens, New York, Venice…

The list is long, to say the least. But at seventeen, the number of countries Colin has visited is rather brief. For most teenagers, she would attribute that disparity to limitations in money or freedom — but neither of those are in short supply in the Bridgerton household.

“Why is that?”

Colin quickly throws a glance over his shoulder before answering, “Dunno. Probably has to do with the guilt that comes with owning such a massive estate. I mean, it barely gets used as it is. To spend our holidays somewhere else would just be… wasteful.”

Penelope also looks over her shoulder. She steals one last glance at said massive estate before turning the corner that leads to the hidden garage.

“It is a rather nice place to spend your time,” she remarks. “But there are a lot of amazing places out there in the world. Aubrey Hall will always be here to return to.”

It takes Colin a moment to respond to that. Though his footsteps continue forward, he turns his attention down and to the side. To her. His eyes squint softly in those last few fleeting seconds before he voices his response.

“Very apt, Pen.”

Though not a religious person, Penelope thanks God that Colin’s eyes flick forward just as a blush bursts up her skin and paints her cheeks bright pink. She opens her mouth, feeling a sudden urge — a need to say something to fill the air between them. But before she can, someone else’s voice fills it for her.

“Shotgun!”

She turns her head just in time to catch Eloise running up from behind them; her eyes are fixed on the car sitting a few metres away. When Penelope turns back to Colin, she expects to see him manoeuvring himself in front of his sister, just as he did when she pulled this same trick earlier in the week.

(Knowing the Bridgertons, she half-expects him to stick his foot out and trip her.)

But no. Colin’s footsteps remain even as Eloise rushes past. When Penelope throws him a questioning glance, he smirks.

“Sometimes, you have to let her get a win in,” he explains. “Otherwise, we’ll all pay.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Penelope mutters, doing her best to conceal the smirk forming on her own lips. Before either of them can say anything else, she quickens her pace and closes what little distance is left between herself and the car.

Mere seconds after she takes her spot behind the driver’s seat, Colin slides into the spot beside her. When their eyes catch, Penelope remembers what they were discussing before Eloise had interrupted them.

Leaning over the middle seat by a few inches, Penelope asks in a hushed tone: “If you had to jump on a plane right now and spend a week-long holiday anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

Colin smiles before answering, “Greece.” He raises one eyebrow before asking, “Where would you go?”

“Paris,” she says, not realising how true her answer is until about a second after it leaves her lips.

Both of Colin’s eyebrows lift. He looks like he’s about to ask another question, but before he can, the ignition kicks on and Eloise turns the radio all the way up.

During the remainder of the trip home, Penelope resists the urge to dwell on the events of the past week — to recall how Colin looked beneath the sun or how he felt in the rain. She also resists the urge to fester on the future — on the upcoming school year and the absence of Colin from her life again.

She does her best to focus only on the now. On the music. On the treeline. On her friends. On Colin, sitting beside her, humming a tune and bobbing his knee and smiling in that way that will always make her stomach flutter.

Now is good.

#there's about 45 minutes left in the day where I live #so technically this update is not late #:)#fanfiction #bridgerton #polin #fanfic #weepingfromacedartree #ten milestones #penelope x colin

20 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 7 months

Text

Ten Milestones: First Pet

Hi friends! The first chapter of my new fic is now ready for anybody interested.

Hope you enjoy! I'll be posting chapters every Friday (and sometimes Tuesday).

Chapter 1: First Pet

Today: April 29th, 2023

Relationship Status: Dating

꙳

“Gregory just texted me to ask if we’re dating. I didn’t think he had my number.”

“That little arsehole probably sent it to himself when he stole my phone.”

It’s Saturday, 7:02 PM. Penelope and Colin are sitting on the floor of his flat, a few containers of Chinese food littered between them. It’s not a particularly unusual setting to find either one of them in on a Saturday evening. However, some things are different now.

Two weeks ago, they would not have been playing footsie. Not this shamelessly, at least.

“I assumed that Eloise’s ‘vow of secrecy’ would involve her immediately telling Benedict… And that Benedict would tell Anthony… And that Anthony would tell Kate… But I don’t know how the rumour managed to spread to Cambridge in…” She glances down to her phone again. “Six hours flat.”

“‘Rumour?’” Colin echoes, a smirk on his face. “Surely, you’re not trying to keep this sordid love affair hidden from me as well.”

“‘Sordid?’ God, Colin. You make us sound so dirty.” She kicks his foot away, then picks up her container of shrimp fried rice. “And I’m not trying to keep it from anyone. We both knew what was going to happen when I told El.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised Greg didn’t text you sooner.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope watches as Colin uses his chopsticks to play around with his chicken dish, never actually putting a piece in his mouth. She can tell there’s something brewing in his mind.

“So… What are you gonna tell him?” he eventually asks.

“Well… I was going to leave him in suspense a little while longer. Maybe take the ‘no comment’ approach at first. Then, I don’t know… the truth?”

“Which is?”

Before answering, Penelope takes a moment to study the look on her supposed boyfriend’s face. She wonders if he’s playing dumb as a joke, or if there has been a miscommunication of monumental proportions between them. Judging from the expression on his face alone…

Neither option seems to be the correct one.

“Yes?”

She hadn’t intended for her answer to sound like a question, but her voice squeaked upward at the end, nonetheless. Colin doesn’t appear at all phased by her uncertainty, though. He looks quite calm and collected, placing his takeaway container on the coffee table and leaning further into the big blue couch behind him.

“‘Dating’ is a bit too casual a word for us, I think.”

“Okay…” Penelope draws those two syllables out as long as her breath allows her. She’s stalling for time, trying to sort out what it is that Colin is getting at. Still, she comes up empty.

“It’s only been a week. What do you suggest we call —”

“We should get married.”

“What!?”

He’s joking. He’s teasing. He’s —

“I said we should get married.”

Before she can yelp out another barely intelligible sound, Penelope bites her tongue. Literally. She watches his face, remaining quiet, waiting for him to expand on this insane, out-of-nowhere proposal. In the end, all she gets is a smug little smirk.

“What do you mean, ‘We should get married?’”

“I thought it was a rather self-explanatory proposition.”

“Col—”

“Why does anyone get married? I love you. I wish to continue loving you forever and ever. Ergo, marriage.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“It —”

“It was a proposal.”

“Colin,” she scolds, using the sternest tone she can manage to muster up — which, at the moment, happens to be about an octave higher than her typical speaking voice.

If nothing else, at least he has the decency to drop that stupid smirk from his face in response to her apparent anxious state.

“Pen,” he murmurs, leaning forward to place his left hand on her right knee. “Just think about it. We didn’t meet a week ago, we just finally admitted what we should have told each other years ago. I’ve known you my entire life, and I spent most of that time either too oblivious to realise how in love with you I was, or too scared to do anything about it. Dating just seems… unnecessary. We know what comes next — why delay it any longer?”

Sitting stunned, eyes wide-open and fixed on the thumb currently tracing circles across her bare knee, Penelope attempts to make sense of what Colin just said. But the longer she sits there silent, the more divided her mind becomes.

On one hand, at her core, Penelope is sensible. Reasonable. Logical. That part of her is sounding alarm bells, insisting his proposition is irrational and goes against everything she knows about marriages and engagements and proposals altogether. After all, plenty of people go from friends to lovers and don’t jump directly to marriage.

On the other hand, also at her core, Penelope is a romantic. A willing fool. An idealist against her better judgement. That part of her is susceptible to Colin’s sweet, silly, and perhaps not so irrational words. She has been in love with him her entire life. Would it really be so crazy to —

Shaking her head ever so slightly, Penelope tentatively, regretfully brushes his hand off her knee. At the loss of her touch, Colin’s bottom lip juts out in a pout.

“Dating isn’t casual, necessarily… It’s important. It’s like a — like a test run for marriage and —”

“Well —”

“And it’s different from friendship. It puts you through different tests and trials than you go through with someone when you’re just friends.”

Colin appears to think over her words for a moment, squinting at her in that way that makes his blue eyes look grey.

“Friendship is not so different from dating,” he argues, eyes wide and blue again. “At least, not the way we did it.”

“Col —”

“You’re right about one thing, though.”

“Oh. Is that so?” she asks, unable to contain her sarcasm, even now.

“Dating is like a trial period. It’s when you figure out if your relationship is strong enough to last through all of the bullshit life can throw your way.”

“That’s not exactly what I said.”

“Do you disagree with my summarisation?” His lips form a smirk that tells her that he already knows her answer. Still, she shakes her head.

“Okay,” he chuckles, leaning in an inch closer to her. “And after the mountains of bullshit we went through during the course of our friendship, do you have any doubt about our ability to stick with each other through everything? Is there anything holding you back, Pen?”

No. Nothing.

That’s the truth. There isn’t a single thing about Colin that she feels unsure of. Not anymore.

But still…

Even if there has been love between them for decades, they couldn’t admit that to each other until a week ago. That assuredness — that knowing — is still so new. She’s spent more time deciding whether or not to cut bangs, and the answer always ends up being not.

Still…

“Let’s consult the experts.”

Those four words break Penelope out of a daze she hadn’t realised she had fallen into.

At some point in the last few seconds, Colin had pulled out his phone. Now, he’s typing away at the keyboard with alarming urgency.

“What are you doing?”

With his phone screen mostly out of her view, Colin taps it one final time before looking up to meet her curious eye. Then, he clears his throat.

“Ten Milestones Every Couple Should Celebrate Before Walking Down the Aisle,” he reads aloud. “Number One: Sharing Your First —”

“What are you doing?” Penelope asks again. This time, a laugh escapes her lips as she does so. Something about the seriousness on Colin’s face reminds her of the absurdity of this situation. That it is a joke, whether or not he had intended it as such.

“I know you think this is all very funny, but I’m serious,” Colin contends. “Everything a couple needs to go through in order to be prepared for marriage, we have surely gone through at some point over the last twenty years. We’ve wasted enough time as it is — why was even more of it by delaying the inevitable? It just seems silly.”

Penelope has a bad habit of getting lost in Colin. In his words, in his voice, in his eyes… All of which seem to be pulling her in with a force that could rival anything she’s felt in the last twenty years. So when he stops talking, presumably offering her the space to get in her latest rebuttal, she remains silent.

With the smirk back on his face, he continues, “And while I know part of you is very tempted to agree with me and run down to the courthouse right now, I know the inherent skeptic in you needs some convincing.”

He briefly pauses again, this time to hold up his phone and display the article he had just been urgently searching for.

“So we will go through this list, which details every milestone a couple must accomplish before they get married. At the end, if we find that we checked off every single to-do item while we were just friends, we will make the reasonable decision and get married.”

If there’s one thing Colin Bridgerton is unnervingly good at, it’s making a convincing argument. The realist and the romantic on Penelope’s shoulders suddenly go quiet.

“And where exactly did you find this scholarly article — the one you are basing such a life-altering decision on?”

He looks down.

“TheMarriageExpert.com”

“Colin!”

“They’re an expert, Pen!”

Penelope giggles, for as often as Colin provokes her, his charm always gets her in the end. Once her laughter lets up, she thinks over his slightly altered proposal.

He’s convinced me to play more tedious games before…

“Fine. I agree to your terms. What’s first on that list of yours?”

Any seriousness left on Colin’s face quickly melts away. He grins at her in that way that always makes her stomach flutter.

“Number One: Sharing Your First Pet,” he reads aloud. “During the course of your marriage, you and your partner will share many things together. Finances, homes, memories, and a million other things you cannot even begin to fathom now. A pet will help you prepare for those shared responsibilities. It will teach you both about the importance of…”

As Colin continues reading, Penelope feels a frown pulling down on her lips. When he finishes, she attempts to cover her disappointment with a shallow laugh.

“Game over, I guess.”

His eyebrow arches. “Pardon?”

“We’ve never shared a pet, so…”

Colin’s mouth falls wide open. He pulls his free hand to his chest, as if the aghast look on his face wasn’t enough.

“Pen… Did Mr. Whiskers mean nothing to you?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Twenty Years Earlier: July 21st, 2003

Relationship Status: Sister’s Best Friend // Best Friend’s Brother

꙳

How did I end up here?

Today is Monday. Today also happens to be the first real day of summer holiday for children all across London. For most kids, that means the start of freedom — six weeks of fun, followed by real life crashing down on them when the fall term begins. But for Penelope Featherington, it marks the start of something different.

The loss of structure.

For the next six weeks, it is up to Penelope to determine how — and more importantly, where — she spends the majority of her time. She didn’t want to spend it at home. Not this morning, at least.

That was how she ended up in Grosvenor Square.

At just eight years old, there aren’t many places she can run off to unaccompanied. Even the park, just two blocks away from her home, is hard to get away with. Her mum only allowed it because she was under the impression that Eloise would be joining her — that between Penelope’s sense and Eloise’s toughness, the two girls would be safe in the nearby park. But when Penelope ran across the street to request her best friend’s company, Anthony informed her that Eloise was not available for a morning stroll in the square.

She could have gone back home, but she really didn’t want to. That was how she ended up in Grosvenor Square alone.

While walking around the park’s perimeter, she kept her eyes down, careful not to step on any cracks in the pavement. She kept her shoulders hunched, trying her best to blend in with the other park-goers. She kept her ears pointed outward, picking up every little sound that surrounded her.

She listened. To the birds chirping. To the wind rustling. To the rumbling engines of nearby traffic. Mostly, she listened to the people.

Two teenagers were fighting. She was mad. He was sorry. She said something about him cheating, then their shouts turned to whispers and Penelope couldn’t make out the rest. As she walked out of earshot, she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of exam he could have cheated on that would warrant such a reaction.

A man with a big yellow dog was flirting with a woman. Though Penelope couldn’t make out much of what he was saying, she could tell just from the look on her face that she wasn’t particularly liking what she was hearing. When Penelope got a little closer, the yellow dog started barking. By the time the man got his pet to settle down, the woman had disappeared.

A neighbour from down the street walked past, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and pushing a stroller with the other. As Mrs. Abernathy walked closer, Penelope briefly considered hiding behind the nearest tree, certain that the woman would recognise her and ask where her mum was. But before Penelope could turn and run in the opposite direction, the little blonde baby started crying and distracted the woman.

Just as she was about to turn the corner and listen into the teenage couple’s fight again, Penelope heard something new.

“Meow.”

At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. But no. When she walked to the bush that the noise had originated from, two round green eyes stared back at her.

Oh, right.

Penelope looks down at the little grey ball of fur currently nestled in her arms.

After approaching him in the park, the second thing she noticed was the kitten’s whiskers. They were so long — so disproportionate to how small everything else about him looked. He was so scrawny that Penelope couldn’t tell if he was actually a kitten, or just an older cat who had spent too much time with too little food in his stomach.

She spent an hour searching Grosvenor Square and the surrounding area for his family. But with no collar and evidently no family in sight, Penelope decided to take her new friend home.

Penelope and the cat spent approximately 20 minutes walking the 10-minute route home; she slowed her steps, took unnecessary turns, and waited longer than needed at crosswalks. During all of that time, she held the cat tightly to her chest, shielding him from the rest of the world with the nest she made out of her yellow cardigan. Also during that time, she practised what she would say to her mum once she and her hopeful pet arrived back at home.

“Penelope. Anne. Featherington. Get that rodent out of my house!”

It had not gone well. But in truth, Penelope knew long before she landed back on her doorstep that this was all a lost cause. That there was nothing in the world she could have said to convince her mother to let her keep the cat.

Penelope had followed her mother’s instructions, fleeing from their home as quickly as her feet would allow. She didn’t have much of a plan once she hit the pavement outside, but like they so often do, her feet automatically started walking in the direction of the home across the street; they stopped short before she could reach it.

Mr. Bridgerton died last summer. Ever since that morning in August when they learned of the awful news, Penelope’s mum has incessantly warned her against showing up at their door unannounced. After all, there are eight fatherless children in that house now — the youngest of which never even got to meet her father. They have enough going on as it is.

They have enough going on as it is, Penelope repeats again and again and again.

That’s how she got here. Sitting on the curb outside the Bridgerton household, a cat sleeping soundly in her lap.

“It’s all gonna be okay,” she whispers to herself more than she does to him.

Silently, Penelope wonders what the right thing to do is. Where the right place to go is.

The first place she thinks of is an animal shelter. Surely, that is the most logical place to bring a lost kitten to. The people there would know how to take care of him — how to find him a home with people who will love him and keep him safe. The only problem: Penelope does not know of any actual animal shelters in Mayfair.

The second place she thinks of is the fire station down the street. Firefighters save cats, don’t they? Or was that —

“Pen?”

Colin, her mind registers before she even has the chance to turn and look at him. Before she does so, she shifts in her spot and attempts to hide the contraband currently sleeping in her arms. And when she finally does set her eyes on him, her stomach starts to flutter; it always does when he smiles at her.

“Hi,” she squeaks out. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding to the kitten she clearly failed at concealing away from him. Before she has the chance to answer, he sits down beside her on the curb.

“Oh, I, uh — I found him in Grosvenor Square. He was all alone and I didn’t know where else to go…”

Her voice trails off, once again contemplating what a responsible person would do next in this situation.

“Are you gonna keep him?”

“No,” she answers, disappointment leaking through to her voice. “Mum won’t let me. She hates cats.”

Penelope takes her eyes off the kitten to look up at Colin. While he may only be two years older, he stands nearly a head above her (he’s tall for his age — she’s short for hers). Even sitting right beside him, she has to tilt her head up just to look him in the eye. As usual, his mop of hair hangs so low that it nearly covers both his eyes, but still, Penelope can see little glimpses of blue shining through strands of brown.

She’s always quite liked that shade of blue.

“I’d take him,” Colin says, raising his hand to pet the cat behind his ears. “But mum and Daph are both allergic.”

Any butterflies left in Penelope’s stomach are quickly replaced by a new sensation. This one, not so pleasant.

Mr. Bridgerton was allergic to hornets…

“Not that kind of allergic,” he reassures her, seemingly reading her mind. “They won’t, like, die or anything. Their skin will just get all red and scratchy if he gets anywhere near them.”

“Oh, uh — sorry,” she stutters out, barely comprehending his last few sentences. “I should just go.”

Pulling the kitten away from Colin, Penelope stands. She starts to turn in another direction, but is once again reminded that she has no idea where she is supposed to go.

“Stop,” Colin orders, gently. He stands too. “Where are you gonna take him?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Where are you supposed to take stray cats?”

He shrugs.

“Dunno.”

“Okay. Well —”

“But I have an idea.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

The Bridgertons live on a gold mine. Metaphorically. Literally, they live on nearly an acre of land in the middle of Mayfair.

The Bridgertons’ home has been in their family for several generations. This is the primary reason why they’re able to hold on to so much land in London’s bloodthirsty real estate market. If they ever were to sell, a row of flats would be built up in the back garden within a fortnight.

(Inheritance is the same reason why Penelope is able to remain in her own home on Grosvenor Street, despite her father’s tendency to dwindle away all of their other assets. The Featheringtons’ garden is not nearly this sprawling, though.)

“Where are we going?”

She and Colin hadn’t gone through his house. Rather, they went around it. They’re currently walking along the wall towards the back of the estate. Colin is a few steps ahead of her, tracing the cracks in the stones with his index finger.

“Have some patience, Pen.”

“I — I do.” And she does. Usually.

Usually, Penelope is a remarkably patient girl. Well-mannered. Quiet. She usually wears those attributes on her shoulders like a uniform. But for some reason, they tend to slip away from her whenever Colin is near.

She looks over her shoulder, towards the massive house behind them. It’s purposeful, she suddenly realises, that they’re walking along the shadows of this wall.

“Is Eloise home yet?” she asks, for no other reason than to fill the silence between them.

Usually, Penelope doesn’t feel the need to fill silences like these. She usually feels quite comfortable in them.

“Uh, no. Ben took her into the city for her, uh… Her doctor’s appointment. They’ll probably get back around supper time.”

Out of Colin’s view, Penelope nods.

For the past year — ever since her father died — Eloise has been seeing a doctor in the city pretty regularly. Penelope’s mum told her to never ask any follow up questions about these visits, but in her own head, she’s always wondered what type of doctor is able to fix an ailment such as heartbreak.

“Are you leaving London for the summer holiday?” she asks, another attempt to fill the void. She already knows the answer. The Bridgertons always travel up to Aubrey Hall this time of year. Always.

“No. Just staying here, I guess.”

Dread appears suddenly and sits heavily in Penelope’s stomach.

Mr. Bridgerton died at Aubrey Hall last summer. Of course they’re not eager to return.

“Oh, uh,” she eventually mumbles, her mind desperately searching for any route this conversation could take that would land them back in safe territory. “Us too,” is all she manages to say.

“Cool. I’ll see you around then.”

She feels her cheeks instantly flush. “Yeah. Cool,” she says, hoping her voice does not expose the growing warmth on her skin.

Without another word, Colin breaks away from the stone wall and walks towards a particularly dense cluster of trees at the edge of the property. He leads them to a spot that, despite spending so much of her childhood playing in this very garden, she has never seen before. It’s a little wooden shed, wide and about as tall as Penelope.

“What is that?”

“A shed,” he answers, shrugging his shoulders. “I think they used to store firewood in here — you know, back in the olden times.” Walking up next to it, he undoes the little metal latch with a flick of his index finger. “Empty now, though. I don’t think anyone remembers it’s here.”

“So…”

“So, your cat could live here.”

Penelope looks down. At some point in the last few minutes, she had somehow forgotten about the creature held tightly against her chest. She had forgotten her whole point in being here.

“Oh! Right. That’s, um…”

She steals another glance at the shed. It certainly looks like it hasn’t been used since the “olden times.”

“That’s nice of you to offer. But how would he — how would that work?”

“I know it seems bare now, but we get him a bed, milk, food — everything a cat needs to survive — and he’ll be happy here.”

Bed. Milk. Food.

“Those things cost money. I —”

Colin shrugs. “I’ll steal a tenner out of Anthony’s wallet,” he says casually.

When Penelope’s face is overtaken by shock, a cheeky smile erupts on his.

“Kidding! I’ll just tell him I’m sad. He’ll hand me some cash and tell me to go fix my feelings with ice cream.”

“Oh, okay. But…” Her mind stalls, searching for another flaw in his logic to voice aloud. The problem is, there are just so many to choose from.

“My mum always says we can’t get a pet because they’re too much responsibility. You have to take care of them. You have to feed them, make sure they —”

“Hey,” he interrupts, smile still hanging on his lips. “We’re both very responsible people. I help keep Greg alive, and that kid thinks licking an electrical socket is a fun hobby. If I can do that, keeping a cat alive will be nothing.”

“So we would, um…” She steals yet another glance at the shed in front of them; she can’t help but look at it and see a cage. “We would just keep him locked up in there all day?”

“No,” he reassures her. “We’ll keep the door open — or I could even cut a cat-sized hole in the side. You know, so he can come and go as he pleases.”

“But if he’s able to leave that easily… Won’t he get lost again?”

Colin shakes his head.

“If I know anything about cats it’s that if you feed them, they’ll always find their way back to you. And since you found him hanging out in Grosvenor Square, clearly he’s an outside cat, not an inside cat.”

Penelope looks down at the little grey cat in her arms. His attention is no longer on her, his round eyes darting wildly as he takes in the space around them.

“I thought only strays went outside.”

“No. A cat can have a home and not want to be cooped up in it all day long.” Colin takes a few steps towards her, raising his hand and scratching behind the kitten’s little ears. The cat seems to like it, as he starts purring immediately. “Clearly, this little guy wants to roam free.”

Yet again, Penelope feels her cheeks burn pink. She isn’t used to this — being so close to him. In fact, she can’t think of a single time when the two of them have ever been so close and so alone together. After all, Colin is her best friend’s brother — a friend of sorts, but tangentially so. Until today, he has only ever been in Penelope’s company through her friendship with Eloise.

She isn’t used to having this much of his attention on her.

“Here.” After what feels like hours, she pulls the kitten away from her chest and nearly shoves him into Colin’s. “He seems to really like you.”

Annoyingly quickly, the creature settles soundly into his arms. Clearly, Colin’s natural charm works just as well on animals as it does on human beings.

When Colin turns his back and his gaze falls on something other than her, Penelope’s mind flushes with panic. She rethinks words she had mostly brushed off just moments before.

Colin offering to spend his own money. To cut a hole in the shed. To take care of this little creature she found in a bush.

He has enough going on as it is.

When she looks to where he now stands, Penelope spots Colin setting the cat down in his prospective home. The cat takes two tiny steps across the wooden beams before Penelope walks over and hastily takes him into her arms again.

“I’m sorry, Colin. I didn’t mean to get you wrapped up in this.” She turns away, pulling the kitten even closer into her chest. “I’ll drop him off at the fire —”

“Pen, stop.”

Before she can step away, Colin’s hand falls on her shoulder. He squeezes it once before letting it drop back to his side. Although Penelope is not very experienced in receiving small physical gestures such as this, she can tell he had meant for it to be reassuring.

“He’ll be fine here. I promise.”

She turns slowly.

“Are you sure it’s not too much?”

“No,” he laughs. “Of course not. How could this little guy ever be ‘too much?’”

Pushing away all the alarm bells blaring in her head, informing her that this is a bad idea, Penelope pushes her shoulders back. She stands tall — metaphorically, of course.

“I’ll do half the work,” she tells him. “At least. I can check on his bowl every morning — make sure he has water and food and whatever else he needs. Maybe you can do the same at night. And if you ever can’t, just tell me and I’ll help. And if it ever does become too much, I can find him somewhere else to live.”

When she finally stops rambling and closes her mouth, Colin smiles again. Then, he extends his right hand towards her.

“You got yourself a deal, Featherington.”

Tentatively, Penelope raises her arm to seal said deal. But before she can make contact, Colin’s hand moves again. He turns his palm towards her, as if to signal “stop.”

“One ground rule before we make it official: let’s keep this whole thing between the two of us. Cause if Anthony finds out… he’ll send me and the cat to the nearest shelter.”

“Colin! I —”

“Kidding!” He laughs again, which has a shockingly effective influence on Penelope’s nerves.

“But really… It’s simpler if we don’t tell anyone else. Not even Eloise — she can’t keep a secret for her life.”

While thinking over his words, Penelope tilts her head upwards. She steals a not-so-quick glance at his eyes — at the little bits of blue shining through the brown.

For as long as she can remember, Penelope has always wanted more of Colin. Though she won’t be able to fully understand or define this feeling for several more years, it burns in her heart, even now. She wants to be closer to him. To make him laugh. To be his friend. To share a secret with him — even if she knows that it could very well end badly for everyone involved.

“Deal.”

With that, Penelope shakes Colin’s hand and seals their fate forever.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

August 5th, 2003

Their secret turned out to be a rather easy one to keep.

Penelope was good at going unseen. Every morning at approximately 7:00, she snuck into the Bridgerton back garden, walking along the shadows of the east-facing wall. At approximately 7:10 every morning, she snuck out without being noticed by anyone except Colin, who always kept an eye out for her from his bedroom window. If his mum or siblings ever were to catch her back there, he highly doubts they would care or even bat an eye; before this past year, Penelope seemed to spend more time in their home than she did her own.

Colin was also good at escaping notice on his daily task. Every night around dusk, he would sneak into a bathroom, fill a plastic bottle with tap water, hide it in the pocket of whatever hoodie he happened to be wearing that day, and slip out the back door — always unseen by his family members. They keep the cat food in a little locked container in the shed — both of which Colin had bought using money he had stolen from Anthony’s wallet (not that he would admit to following through on the theft “joke” to Penelope).

As the summer droned on, and as dusk came quicker with each passing day, Colin put less and less effort into sneaking out every night. The more time passed, the more obvious it became to him, how easy it is to disappear from a home with so many people — especially when everyone seems to be looking for a person who is no longer around.

The only conspirator that ever put them at risk of being found out was Mr. Whiskers (a name Colin picked after Penelope insisted that they couldn’t just keep calling him “little guy”).

Three times in two weeks, Whiskers had loitered around the Bridgerton’s back steps following his dinner, meowing for someone’s attention. Colin had caught him the first time and shooed him off. Daphne caught him the second time and screamed bloody murder. Anthony caught him the third and nearly called animal control. The only reason he didn’t was because Gregory just so happened to push a vase off a table one room over; the mess had been too distracting.

Thankfully, Whiskers seemed wary of coming close to the Bridgerton household after that last encounter.

A routine formed. Penelope would sneak into the garden in the morning. Colin would sneak out of his home at night. Mr. Whiskers would come and go as he pleased between meals. Their paths rarely ever cross. That is, until tonight.

Tonight — like most nights — Colin can’t sleep. He ran up to his bedroom at 9:16, only after being ordered to do so by Anthony. He’s spent much of the last 145 minutes in bed staring at the ceiling. Now, bored out of his skull and needing any sort of distraction, he jumps up to grab the MP3 player and headphones sitting on the windowsill.

He turns up the volume all the way and, for the next few minutes, does his best to tune out the rest of the world. It’s probably for the best that he fails in doing so, otherwise he wouldn’t have noticed the shadow cutting across the moonlight in his back garden.

Less than five minutes later, Colin cuts along that same path; he’s far less cautious than he ever is at dusk. He knows there’s a chance that someone in the house could still be awake and spot him out here, but that risk feels less worrisome, the closer he gets to his intended destination.

Just as it comes into view, he hears sniffling. The sound is quiet, but persistent.

He sees her before she sees him. She’s sitting with her legs crossed in the shed’s open doorway, Mr. Whiskers curled up in her lap.

Colin had felt uneasy from the very moment he spotted her from his bedroom window, but a distinct wave of dread hits him cold the moment that his eyes meet Penelope’s. Hers go so wide that he swears he can see the moonlight reflecting off of them.

She doesn’t immediately speak; even her crying halts after realising that she is not alone.

“Pen?” he asks, when he can think of nothing else to say. He waits several seconds for her to give some sort of reaction. A word, a nod — anything. But still, she remains frozen in her spot in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“Are you o—”

“Yes,” she shoots out. “Yes, I, uh — I — I’m fine.”

Finally, Penelope moves. She places her hands around the cat’s belly and uncrosses her feet like she’s about to run off into the night. And though her claims of being “fine” offered his mind zero reassurance, Colin nods at her words anyway.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, sitting down beside her before she has the chance to flee. He raises his hand and scratches behind Mr. Whiskers’ ears while the cat remains perched on Penelope’s legs.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he offers, unprompted. “I thought I would see what Whiskers was up to.”

“Oh,” Penelope says. Then, in an even fainter voice, “Same.”

As he continues scratching, the kitten purrs; his soft murmur is the only sound in the air for several long seconds. Just when the silence begins to feel a bit too heavy on his skin, Colin drops his hand and looks up at the scene above them.

“Do you know any constellations?”

After a few more beats of silence, Penelope raises her finger to the sky. “That’s the North Star. And that’s the Little Dipper, connected to it.” She repositions her finger slightly. “And that’s the Big Dipper, right next to it.” She repositions her finger once more before dropping it. “And that’s Aries.”

Though the stars don’t shine as brightly here as they do in the country, Colin’s eyes glaze over the soft specks of light in the sky, searching for something familiar. Specifically, he’s searching for the constellation that Benedict had pointed out to him last summer at Aubrey Hall, just a few nights before their father died.

“That’s Capricorn.” He points his finger towards the sky, to his own star sign. THe snorts. “Do you know what type of creature a Capricorn is?”

Penelope shakes her head.

“Half-goat, half-fish. Like a mermaid with horns and a pair of hooves.”

Then, a miracle happens.

Penelope giggles. The sound is soft, but it cuts right through the darkness.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not as cool as a ram, but…”

“Are there any cats in the constellations?” Penelope asks once Colin’s voice trails off.

He considers her question for a moment, recalling other star stories Benedict has told him over the years. He looks up to the sky, hoping he can discern an outline of a kitten somewhere between the lights.

“Dunno,” he finally admits. “But there are lots of stars — most of them, we can’t even see. There’s gotta be at least one cat out there. Somewhere.”

Penelope hums in agreement, looking down at her lap. “Mr. Whiskers is a good cat,” she quietly muses.

“Yeah.” Colin reaches over to pet behind his little grey ears. “The best.”

“He keeps trying to follow me home after breakfast.” She giggles softly. “He must not remember meeting my mum, or else he would stay away forever. She thought I was carrying a rat into our house. She shrieked.”

“Oh god,” Colin chuckles, and it’s only a little forced. “He tried sneaking into my house a few times. He met Anthony last time, though, and I don’t think he’s ever gonna forget that.”

She giggles again, her smile lighting up in the moonlight.

“Was he mad?”

“His face went red! Ant is always at least a little bit angry, but this was ridiculous. No normal human could get that mad about a cute little kitten hanging around their back door.”

With her eyes still pointed intently on the cat in her lap, Penelope’s voice lowers to almost a whisper. “I don’t know how people can see something so sweet and get so mad.”

Colin’s eyes don’t leave Penelope when he responds, “Me neither.”

For what feels like an unending moment, the three of them sit there in silence, looking up at the moon and the stars and the darkness all around. The longer the moment holds, the harder it becomes for Colin to push away the worries that had been building inside himself since the moment he spotted Penelope running across his back garden at midnight.

Trying his hardest to keep his tone casual…

“Was there a reason you couldn’t sleep tonight?”

She doesn’t respond right away. She doesn’t attempt to flee, either.

“No. It was…” She pauses for a very long, very quiet moment. “It was nothing.”

“Pen, you —”

“Nothing that isn’t — like — normal, I mean.”

Colin does not know what she means. He can’t imagine a single normal thing that would cause someone to run away crying from their home in the middle of the night. Especially someone as small and defenceless as Penelope.

“My mum and dad were just fighting,” she confesses, only after realising that Colin’s look of concern will not fade until she tells him the truth. “A bit louder than usual, I guess. But it’s not like I haven’t heard them fight a million times before.”

“That’s —” not normal, he almost says, but holds his tongue at the last moment.

He’s suddenly, alarmingly struck by the fact that what he deems “normal” might not be the same for Penelope. That there are “normal” things in his own life that others would say are unimaginable for a kid his age.

That’s not right, would be more accurate. But he doesn’t say that either. Instead, he simply asks, “Do you want to come inside? El is probably asleep, but I could wake her —”

“No,” she answers, looking him in the eye for the first time in what feels like hours. “Thank you, but… It’s really late. I should go back home before someone notices I left.” She lets out one awkward, forced laugh before saying, “Mum will kill me if she realises I slipped out.”

With one quick motion, Penelope scoops up Whiskers, plops him into Colin’s lap, then pushes herself out of the shed and back on solid ground. Just as she looks like she’s about to turn and run, Colin gathers the cat in his arms and stands beside her.

“Are you sure? It’s no bother.”

For the briefest moment, it almost looks like doubt crosses Penelope’s face. But then, just as quickly, she shakes her head.

“I should go home.”

Regretfully, Colin tears his eyes away from hers, turning his head to glance at his own home in the distance. The only light still on comes from his bedroom window.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, turning back to her. “I guess I should too.”

Penelope nods. Just when it looks like she’s about to turn and disappear into the darkness, Colin blurts something out.

“Do you wanna meet here again in the morning? When you feed Mr. Whiskers?”

She seems taken aback by his question. She doesn’t immediately respond to it with words, but with a confused, almost worried expression on her face.

“I —”

“Our system’s efficient and all,” he cuts in, “but we haven’t exactly seen much of each other since we started taking care of him. I dunno, I guess I just thought that we would be hanging out more this summer.”

“Oh!” Her voice suddenly comes out so high that it borders a squeak. “I know what you mean. I…”

Her voice trails off. It remains silent for so long that Colin wonders if it's his turn to speak. But before he can blurt anything else out, she opens her mouth.

“I’d like that.”

“Cool,” he says, lips pulling into a smile. “See you tomorrow.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

August 14th, 2003

“I’m not sure I understand the rules of this game.”

“It’s our game. The rules can be whatever we want them to be.”

Penelope stands with the tips of her toes and the palms of her hands pressed neatly against Colin’s matching sets. There’s a piece of cat biscuit placed between her right palm and his left. There’s a tiny grey cat peering up at them from where their shoes connect; he looks just as confused on the parameters of this game as Penelope feels.

The rules, they eventually settle on, are these:

Before getting into position, one person briefly presents a piece of biscuit to Mr. Whiskers. Players must take turns to avoid leading the cat towards favouritism.

On the count of three, one person takes the biscuit into their hands, then both turn around and run in opposite directions.

Mr. Whiskers follows whoever he believes holds his treat.

She ends up with the biscuit three times. He ends up with it five times. It falls to the ground between them eleven times. Each time, without fail, Mr. Whiskers immediately takes off after Penelope.

“This isn’t fair!” Colin calls out from behind a tree on their twentieth attempt at this so-called ‘game.’ “It’s not my fault you bonded with him first.” He points a finger at the cat currently pawing at her ankles. “I feed you just as much as she does — traitor!”

“Shhh, Colin!” Penelope whisper-yells. “Someone might hear you.”

“Oh, who cares?”

I care, Penelope thinks. She doesn’t want Colin’s mum or any one of his many siblings to stumble upon them back here. She’s not ready to give up this secret. She’s not willing to end this game.

Not yet, anyway.

“Mr. Whiskers cares. I doubt he wants to be kicked out of his home just because you’re a sore loser.”

Penelope picks up Whiskers from the patch of dirt he had just been rolling around in. She walks over to the shed where Colin now sits, then gently plops the brown-tinged grey cat in his lap.

“Well, he should have thought about that before picking sides.”

Like she has become accustomed to doing over the past two weeks, Penelope sits down on the other end of the shed’s open doorway. Colin’s body is turned towards her, but she keeps hers positioned outwards, as if to keep watch.

After a moment of quiet, he clears his throat.

“You can come over for dinner tonight. You know, if you want.”

“Oh, no. That’s okay,” Penelope says quickly. Dismissively. “Mum will expect me home soon. I think we’re having stew.”

“Yeah, but what about tomor—”

Colin’s voice stops short before he can get that last word out. Then, he pivots his head so he is no longer facing her.

“Well, maybe not tomorrow,” he eventually mutters, quieter than before. “But another day.”

Tomorrow is the anniversary, Penelope remembers. Along with that sudden, heart-aching reminder comes a little voice in her head that sounds distinctly like her mother.

They have enough going on as it is.

“I — I don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t.” He finally looks her in the eye again. “Trust me, you wouldn’t. When you have eight kids, one more mouth hardly makes a difference.” He nods his head towards the house in the distance, partially obstructed by the scattering of trees they’ve found themselves in.

“Eloise would be happy if you stopped in. Mum too.”

Trying her absolute hardest to ignore that little voice in her head…

“Yeah. Another day. Soon.”

“Good.”

After another moment of quiet, Penelope pushes herself forward and lands with two feet in the grass.

“I really should head back, though.”

“Okay, I’ll —”

“But, Colin?” she interrupts (a truly rare occurrence for Penelope Featherington).

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking and… Maybe I could feed Mr. Whiskers breakfast and dinner tomorrow. I know we have our system, but… I just — you shouldn’t have to deal with taking care of him on top of any… family stuff.”

Colin doesn't respond right away. He spends several seconds looking at her with his brows furrowed; Mr. Whiskers uses that time to settle even deeper into his arms. Finally, his lips part. Penelope expects the first word out of his mouth to be “No,” but it isn’t.

“Sure.” He nods, brows lifting up a bit. “Thanks, Pen. That’s kind of you to offer.”

Penelope is surprised by his words. Not just because she was expecting him to dismiss her offer, but because she had never been thanked for something like this before. Her entire life, kindness was something that had been expected of her, but never really appreciated. She had been rewarded for her kindness in the past, but never thanked for it.

She’s hesitant to accept such thanks — gratitude for something as small as offering up a few minutes of her time for someone who had experienced more grief than she could even begin to imagine. But she can’t bring herself to deny it either. So instead, she simply nods and says, “Goodnight, Colin.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

August 25th, 2003

It’s Monday morning, 6:55 AM. Like most mornings around this time, Penelope is walking along the Bridgerton’s east-facing wall, feet stepping in the shadows, one finger tracing the stones beside her. Unlike most mornings, when she steps away from the wall and towards the shed hidden by a cluster of trees, she notices that the door that is always open is suddenly shut tight.

At the beginning of the summer, Penelope had convinced Colin not to cut a cat-sized opening in the side of the shed (he wanted to use a saw from his garage). Instead, they decided to always keep the door open so Mr. Whiskers could come and go as he pleases. Always.

Her feet pace faster with each and every step, intrigue and anxiety building up and piling over the closer she gets to that closed door.

It could not have closed on its own. It wasn’t the wind or gravity or Whiskers himself. The latch is locked. Someone locked it.

Just as she raises her arm to swing the wooden door back open, Penelope hears footsteps. Quick and increasingly loud footsteps. She (literally) jumps around, heat pounding, eyes wide, and sees…

“Colin! Where’s Mr. Whiskers?!”

“In there.”

He points to the shed behind her, still shut tight. Once he gets close enough, he reaches over her shoulder and finally undoes the latch. Just as promised, the cat is there, curiously staring up at them with those round green eyes.

“He keeps trying to follow me back into the house after I feed him at night. Last night, he was scratching at the back door. Thank god I got to him before Anthony did.”

“So he was just locked in there all night?”

She spares another sideways glance at the shed’s interior. It’s not nearly as bare as it had been that first day she looked inside. Now, there are two containers, two bowls, two electric lanterns, a blanket, a few cat toys, and a few human toys she assumes once belonged to Colin.

To an animal as tiny as Mr. Whiskers, this place might seem huge — but to Penelope, it all feels very claustrophobic.

“Yeah,” Colin finally answers, sounding guilty. “But sometimes it’s just safer for him to stay put for a little while. Even outdoor cats need to be reigned in some nights.”

Penelope doesn’t know whether to agree or disagree with his words, so she tries her best to ignore them — for a little while, at least. After climbing into the shed and filling his empty bowl with food, she gives Whiskers an affection bop on the head.

“You’re not wrong,” she belatedly answers. When Mr. Whiskers finishes his meal, Penelope turns and hops back onto the grass. Tilting her head to look Colin in the eye, she says, “But maybe Mr. Whiskers isn’t an outside cat after all. Maybe that’s why he keeps trying to follow us back to our own homes.”

“I thought that was just because he loves us.”

Penelope can’t help but roll her eyes just a little. Leave it to Colin Bridgerton to transform guilt into charm in under 30 seconds.

“Well…” She turns back to Mr. Whiskers again. As usual, he’s peering up at them with a transfixed — maybe even loving — stare. “Maybe you have a point.”

“I usually do —”

“But still… Do you really think this is what’s best for him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…”

She bites her tongue. Literally.

All of this started because of her own selfish desires. To keep the cat. To occupy Colin’s attention. To possess a reason to get out of her house every morning.

Her selfishness and its inevitable consequences were easy to overlook at the start of the summer. But now…

“The summer is almost over. When we go back to school, we won’t be able to look out for him all day. Then the winter will come and this little shed isn’t going to be very warm.” She stops ranting briefly to glance down at the little grey cat in the doorway. “What if he gets sick? Or needs a vet? I just don’t know if this is really his best option.”

She points both hands towards the shed. Towards the small wooden structure that completely transformed her summer. Towards the only home Mr. Whiskers has ever known — dim and claustrophobic as it may be. She expects Colin’s eyes to follow her lead, but they don’t.

For a moment, it feels as though her presence completely slips from his view. His eyes are fixated on something in the distance. Something in the opposite direction. Something —

“Shite!”

Colin’s arms hastily wrap around Penelope’s waist. It takes everything in her not to shriek in surprise as he practically throws her into the shed. Thankfully, Mr. Whiskers jumps backwards instantly, or else she surely would have crushed him on impact.

“Colin! What —”

“Shh!”

He climbs in and quickly shuts the door behind him. If it were not for the electric lamps in the corner, illuminating the space with what little battery power they have left, Penelope wouldn’t discern him mouthing: “Anthony.”

They sit on opposite sides of the shed, the tips of their toes touching in the limited space. Penelope wonders if Colin can feel her shaking through the rubber edges of her yellow converse. The concerned look he throws her tells her that he must.

“You okay?” he mouths.

She thinks about nodding. She briefly wonders if a nod counts as a lie, or if lies can only be spoken aloud. In the end, she doesn’t do anything — except remain frozen in her spot.

Everything is quiet. For a fleeting moment, Penelope actually believes they may have gone unnoticed. Then, just as Mr. Whiskers decides to move out of the corner and crosses the wooden floor, she remembers that the latch — the flimsy piece of metal that is the only means of securing this thing — is on the other side. And when the cat uses his tiny paw to press against the door’s interior, she barely has time to gasp before it swings open.

The morning light nearly blinds her, but not enough to miss Anthony Bridgerton’s very mad, very red face staring back at her.

“Colin — what the hell?!”

Just as Colin had thrown her into the shed less than a minute ago, Anthony now pulls Penelope out of it by her shoulders. Just like Whiskers, she miraculously manages to land on her feet.

“I knew it! I knew you were irresponsible, but this —” He bends down and grabs Whiskers by the scruff of his neck. “This is insane. Even for you.”

Anthony turns to Penelope, looking as though he only just now discovered her presence here. In mere seconds, she watches his face turn from anger to shock to annoyance. Then, he turns to face his little brother again.

“I will be the responsible adult and make sure this — thing — finds an actual home and doesn’t continue living on the streets.” With a near-growl caught in his throat, he tells Colin, “We will discuss this later.”

Anthony turns to leave, but stops just as quickly.

“And Colin, do not mention this to mum. Or anyone else.”

He starts then stops again.

“And Penelope, please do not let my brother’s bad influence rub off on you. A nice girl like you has enough trouble as it is being friends with Eloise.”

It isn’t until Anthony has stomped out of sight with Mr. Whiskers in tow that Penelope starts to regain control of her body and mind. Slowly, she turns towards Colin. She uses every one of those seconds to begin preparing an apology. For getting him in trouble with his brother. For putting him in this mess to begin with. For being a bad friend. But when their eyes meet… Colin does not look as though he is expecting an apology of any sort.

He laughs.

“Did you see the look on his face?!”

“Uh — I don’t —”

“He looked like a tomato! I swear one day he’s gonna burst and —”

“Colin,” she tries to cut in, to little avail.

“— pasta sauce is gonna go flying ev—”

“Colin!” she says again, a bit louder this time. Thankfully, it seems to get his attention. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

“Oh god, Pen. Don’t be sorry.”

“But your — your brother —”

“I should be apologising on Ant’s behalf. Even if you and him were both right about Whiskers needing somewhere else to live.”

Penelope’s mouth parts, but all she can do is nod in response to those last few words. As much as she will miss her tiny, furry friend, this is for the best. For Whiskers, at least.

“But Anthony was so mad at you. And I —”

“He’ll get over it. That’s the great thing about having seven siblings — wait five minutes and someone will do something ten times stupider. Daphne and Eloise are probably inside getting into a fist fight as we speak.”

The mention of her best friend’s name temporarily draws Penelope’s thoughts away from her internal pity party. While she did hang out with Eloise over the last few weeks, their time together felt far less frequent and more fleeting than it ever had during previous summer holidays. During any time before last August.

“You wanna come over for dinner tonight?” Colin asks, breaking Penelope from her thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“I said,” he smirks, “do you want to come over for dinner tonight?”

“I don’t know… Anthony seemed —”

“Don’t worry about him — he’ll get over it. And you heard him, he’s not even going to rat us out to my mum.” He takes a step forward, then places his hand on Penelope’s shoulder. He squeezes it once. “It’ll be fun. Everyone will be excited to see you.”

Not for the first time — and certainly not the last — Penelope feels at a loss for words. All she can manage is a tiny nod. A nearly imperceptible movement.

Colin smiles.

“Good. Just so you know, the door is always open. Always.”

Finally, little Penelope Featherington finds her voice again.

“I know.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s a smile pulling apart Penelope’s lips, but she does her best to cover it with another fork full of fried rice. Colin — of course — sees right through her attempt at concealment.

“So…”

“Anthony was right. We were awfully irresponsible that summer. That cat was better off after Danbury took him in and re-named him Lord Whiskers.”

“Hey — give us a little credit! How many 8 or 10-year-olds do you know who could keep a cat alive for an entire summer all by themselves?”

“The only impressive thing we did that summer was keeping our little secret hidden from the rest of your family.”

“What are you talking about?!” Colin practically cries out, unable to keep his ever-charming laugh from escaping his throat as he speaks. “Do not downplay our role in raising Whiskers. You rescued him from the mean streets of London. I —”

“I found him hiding out in a bush in Grosvenor Square!”

“Exactly! And I —”

“Colin!”

“I built him a home,” he barely manages to get out through another round of laughter.

“That’s a bit over-dra—”

“We fed and took care of him for over a month. We were just kids — that’s pretty impressive. That means something.”

In her heart, Penelope knows that — obviously — it means something. But does it mean what Colin wants it to mean? That they should get married?

Even with the rules he set forth, it seems like an insane connection to even consider.

“I don’t know…”

“For five weeks, he was ours. That means a lot.”

For a moment, Penelope does consider it.

She thinks about who Colin was to her before she found that cat. A friend — of sorts. Her best friend’s brother. A neighbour. A crush. Someone she looked at and longed for.

Next, she thinks about who Colin was to her on that morning, when Anthony found them hiding out in a tiny wooden shed. A friend. A fellow kid. A conspirator. Someone who saw her cowering in the dark and asked if she was okay.

So what, if their hypothetical marriage hinges on a technicality? People have married on flimsier grounds before.

“Fine,” she relents. “It counts.”

A moment ago, she wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Colin’s grin grows even wider.

“Of course it does.”

Penelope scoffs, yet another lazy attempt to cover the grin on her own face. Colin makes no attempt to call her out on it, though. He’s too busy scrolling on his phone.

“Let’s see what we have next to cross off…”

#bridgerton #fanfiction #polin #fanfic #weepingfromacedartree #ten milestones #penelope x colin #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

23 notes · View notes

weepingfromacedartree · 8 months

Text

totally random reminder that most people who create dedicated "hate" accounts do so with the sole purpose of farming outrage and sowing seeds of discontent within fandoms. instead of feeding into that bullshit, I recommend using tumblr's block function liberally and engaging with blogs who actually want to bring joy to other fans.

speaking of bullshit... here's another excerpt from my WIP for anyone interested

tw: fife 🤮

Chapter 2: Meeting Each Other’s Friends

His grin falters. Slightly.

“What does it say?” Penelope asks tentatively. Although she argued that this whole idea was stupid from the start, a little part of her is disappointed that it could be over so soon. If nothing else, arguing with Colin is usually her favourite part of these stupid little games. “Something we never managed to cover in our twenty years of friendship?”

“Nope,” he says, eyes still locked on the screen before him. “It’s something we’ve done many times before. With varying degrees of success.”

“What?” she asks when he does not immediately offer up any more information.

He clears his throat before reading.

“Number Two: Meeting Each Other’s Friends. Before you and your significant other get married, it is imperative that you get to know each other's friends. Friendships are an essential aspect of any person’s life. Knowing what sorts of people your significant other is close with is an important step in starting your life together."

“Well… I believe you’ve met my friend Eloise before, so —”

“I have met plenty of your friends, all of whom have been kind and lovely. Just like anyone would expect from a kind and lovely person such as yourself. Clearly Eloise — and perhaps also myself — is an outlier.”

“Hey, that’s not —”

“I believe ‘meeting each other’s friends’ has only ever been an issue when my ‘friends’ were involved.”

Penelope bites her lip.

“It was really just that one time.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Twelve Years Earlier: August 27th, 2011

Relationship Status: Friends

꙳

“Remind me why we’re doing this again.”

“To act like irresponsible teenagers whose sole purpose in life is to get plastered and party.”

“That doesn’t sound like us.”

“Exactly. That’s why I said ‘act like.’”

Penelope has always been a good bullshitter. Since she was a child, she’s had an innate talent of bending the truth on a dime. It comes naturally to her; bullshit falls from her lips before she even has a chance to think it through. She never does it for fun (she isn’t a pathological liar), that filter is just built inside of her. There are certain truths that she simply can never say aloud, so her mind grew adept at talking around them.

The truth: Colin had invited her to this party, and if there is one talent that Penelope does not possess, it is saying no to Colin Bridgerton.

Another talent Penelope does not possess is walking into any type of social event by herself. Even at family gatherings — Featherington or Bridgerton — Penelope always found herself clinging on to someone else. Usually Eloise. Sometimes Colin. Sometimes Prudence or Philipa, if she was really desperate.

Despite his invitation, Penelope knows she will not see much of Colin tonight. That this party will be filled with a ton of his Eton friends. That she will not be able to cling onto him all night — and that she absolutely shouldn’t.

That is how Eloise Bridgerton found herself being dragged towards her worst nightmare: a house party filled to the literal rooftop with loud, obnoxious teenagers.

“This isn’t Skins, Pen. This is gonna suck.”

“It’ll be fun.” Bullshit.

“So fun!” Eloise mocks. “Why not continue the fun tomorrow and go shopping with your mother. I heard Primark has a sale on yellow dresses.”

When Penelope forces out a laugh, Eloise pulls her in even closer.

“Seriously, Pen. You owe me for —”

“Let’s see how the other side lives for a little while. If it is truly tortuous, we can leave and go get some chips. You know… how we usually spend our Saturday nights.”

The offer does not smooth over any of the sourness present on Eloise’s face.

“You say that like there is something wrong with chips. There is absolutely nothing wrong with chips. Chips have never belched in my face or spilled a pint down the front of my shirt.”

At this point, Penelope genuinely does not know whether to protest, laugh, or agree with her friend. After a moment, she decides on the first option.

“What are you talking about? You’ve never even been to a party like this.”

Eloise gulps. Her eyes flash wide, like she’s just been caught in a lie.

“Well… no. But I’ve seen Skins and —”

“Oh, for God’s sake El.”

Penelope extricates Eloise’s phone from where it sat gripped between her best friend's fingers. After typing in the four-digit passcode, she clicks on the little clock icon.

10:09 PM.

“What are you —”

“I’m setting a timer for 20 minutes. If you’re not having fun when the alarm goes off, we’ll leave and get chips.”

“Fine,” Eloise grumbles, grabbing her phone back from Penelope. “You got a deal, Featherington.”

At 10:10 PM, Eloise and Penelope step foot into their first house party.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Fife’s house smells like piss. That’s the only thing on Colin’s mind as he continues conversing with his “friends.” They’re talking about the girls they’re dying to chase after at uni this fall, meanwhile, Colin’s thinking about how rancid this room smells. Between the stench, topic of conversation, and the idiots leading said discussion — it’s truly a miracle that he’s able to keep his ever-charming smile plastered on his face.

“Excited for the birds up at Cambridge, Bridgerton?” Fife asks, his usual shit-eating grin plastered on his own face.

“Hmm? Oh — yeah. Sure.”

“No longer interested in the ladies, Col?” his “friend” Dave chimes in.

“For all his money and looks, he never had much luck with them in the first place, did he?” taunts his “friend” Zach.

“Are you calling me pretty?” Colin shoots back, his usual smile starting to ache at the corners of his lips. “Flattered, truly.”

Thankfully, the conversation quickly gets redirected to one of Fife’s reliably embellished stories about a girl he picked up at a pub last week. The commentary is just mind-numbing enough for Colin to mentally check out of it completely, his smile finally dropping as he glances around the party.

It’s 10:11. The party just started, but the den is already packed with people. He recognizes most of their faces from Eton or just from his entire life living in Mayfair. None of them he has any particular interest in saying hi to. There’s really only one person he wishes to say hi to, and although she’s usually rather easy to spot, he doesn’t see her anywhere.

Accepting defeat, Colin turns his gaze back to the men standing around him. Fife’s moved onto another story. Some bullshit about spending 20 minutes in a broom closet with some girl from Windsor.

Once again, Colin’s mind is adrift.

Fife’s father is a member of Parliament. Why does his den smell like piss?

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Penelope checks her phone.

10:29

Somewhere in this massive estate, her best friend’s phone is blaring an alarm, asking her if she’s having fun or not. Penelope has no idea what the answer is, because within 20 minutes of stepping foot into the party, she managed to lose Eloise. She also failed to find Colin during that time, but that matter is not as pressing at the moment.

She steps out to Fife’s back garden, hoping to have better luck finding Eloise in the fresh air than in the crowded interior that, frankly, smells like someone pissed on the walls before the party started. Unfortunately, the garden isn’t any less cramped.

Penelope pays special attention to where her feet step in the crowd, careful not to be crushed by the other teens dancing, making out, and throwing back shots around her. This sort of manoeuvring isn't anything she's not already used to — when you’re as short as she is, you need to learn how to get out of other people’s way. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is when you’re the one who always ends up crushed.

Just when she is about to give up and look for Eloise inside again, Penelope makes an unusual misstep. She accidentally slams chest-first into someone’s backside. Someone tall.

“Oh, hello,” he says, turning around. “That’s certainly one way to get a man’s attention.”

“Sorry, I —”

It’s Fife, she belatedly realises. She’s never spoken to him before. She’s seen him from afar a few times, but nowhere near this close. Despite them being friends since grade school, Colin never brought Fife — or any of his other school friends — around his house. Penelope always found that odd; she’s a friend of the Bridgertons and spends more time at their home than her own.

“I —” she says again. She tries to think of something logical to say. She also tries to step away from him so her breasts are not literally squished against his abdomen. But unfortunately, the crowd behind her does not grant her enough space to do so.

Thankfully, someone else speaks before she can stutter out another mindless syllable.

“Hey! Back off Fife.”

It’s Colin. She knows it before she even has the chance to look up. Somehow, she knew it before he said a single word.

He positions his body between her and Fife, creating space that wasn’t there just a second ago.

“Woah, mate! She bumped into —” Fife starts.

“It was my fau—” Penelope starts.

“Colin, really, it was my —” she starts again. This time, someone new cuts her off. Another guy, standing close behind Colin.

“Do you know this chick, Bridgerton? Or do you simply enjoy saving random girls from becoming Fife’s next vi—”

“This is Penelope, my friend,” Colin cuts in, that confusing tone not letting up. Suddenly, he slings an arm around her shoulder, his hand gripping her skin. She suddenly questions whether or not this tank top was a good choice for the evening. “Pen, this is —” He starts pointing to each of the men now forming a circle around them. “Dave. Fife. Josh. Michael. Zach.”

As Colin makes the rather curt introductions, each of the five men nod, smirk, and/or unblinkingly stare at Penelope’s chest in response. She feels a nervous blush creep up her cheeks as she says: “Lovely to meet you al—”

“No need for flattery, Pen,” Colin cuts in again. “Even these lot are self-aware enough to know they’re shit.”

Michael snorts. Penelope gasps. Fife starts making a joke. Colin’s hand moves from Penelope’s right shoulder to her left elbow. He pulls her away before Fife can reach the punchline.

“Sorry about them,” he tells her once his friends are out of ear-shot. “They’re —” He groans. He drops his hand from her skin and briskly runs it through his hair. “They’re fucking arseholes.”

“They weren’t that ba—”

“When did you get here by the way?” he interrupts, his usual light-hearted tone making a reappearance quickly. Almost alarmingly so. “I was looking for you.”

“You — you were?” The words slip out before she has the chance to stop them.

“Of course,” he says nonchalantly. Then, he raises his eyebrows, reminding her that he had asked a question.

“Oh! Uh —” She looks down at her phone.

10:36

Shit.

“About a half hour.” She lets out a quick, nervous laugh. “Have you seen El? I lost her rather quickly, it seems. And I kinda promised her we would be gone by now if she wasn’t having any fun.”

Colin scowls, then turns his gaze from Penelope to the rest of the party. She wonders what it would be like to have an entire extra foot of height when Colin announces that he’s spotted her in under 30 seconds. He chuckles.

“Well, I don’t think you need to leave quite yet.”

She follows his gaze and finally spots Eloise.

Colin was right — she looks absolutely giddy. On the other side of the garden, she and Theo — a boy Eloise met through an internship at Danbury’s publishing house last summer and has had a massive crush on ever since — are sitting together on a park bench. Closely. Then, even closer. Then —

“Yeah, I don’t need to see that,” Colin grumbles from beside Penelope. His hand finds her elbow once more. “Let’s go.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

“Are you sure this is… safe?”

“Live a little, Featherington.”

After climbing through the window himself, Colin extends his hand for Penelope to take. Begrudgingly, she takes it.

They sit on the north side of the roof, facing the street. The party and its noise linger in the background behind them. After flicking the cap off into the night sky using his car keys, Colin hands her one of the beers he had stashed under his arm on the way up here. It tastes like liquified grass, but Penelope tries not to grimace when she takes a swig. Thankfully, Colin is looking up at the stars; he doesn’t see her nose crinkle as the beer slides down her throat.

“Beautiful night,” he muses, eyes turning back to her.

She looks up, towards the moon. It’s barely a sliver in the sky.

“Yeah. It really is.”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the music and shrieking teenagers distant behind them. Penelope likes the quiet — she always has. Her entire life, it had been a cover. A cushion. A comfort. With Colin, it’s always a comfort. When she’s with him, she never feels the need to fill the air with noise for no other reason than to fill the quiet.

Colin is usually more willing to fill it.

“Sorry, again, about Fife and those other dickheads.”

“Colin, I told you. It’s —”

“‘It’s fine. They’re not that bad,’” he dramatically mimics. “Yeah I know… But speaking from the perspective of someone who actually knows them, they are shit and should be regarded as such.”

Penelope could continue brushing all of that shit to the side, but she doesn’t. Even if bumping into Fife was her fault, she didn’t like the way he looked down at her in the moment after. She didn’t like how he didn’t step away until Colin forced him to, when he surely could have done so on his own. And she didn’t like the way all five of them looked at her when Colin officially introduced her — like her tits were more interesting than anything he could have been saying about her.

Instead of brushing it off, she simply asks: “If they’re such shit, why are you friends with them?” Her own tone confuses her.

Colin grimaces, then takes a swig of his beer.

“Good question.”

He goes quiet again. When Penelope presumes that he is finished speaking, she opens her mouth again.

“I —”

“Maybe I’ve outgrown them.” Swig. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m shit too.”

Penelope laughs lightly, praying that tiny breath of air will help lighten Colin’s mood.

“The former, I think.”

“I think you give me too much credit.”

Penelope doesn’t respond to that. She doesn’t know how. Her entire life, Colin has been like a light shining into her darkness — how could claiming he's "not shit" be giving him too much credit?

Penelope doesn’t know how to respond to that. So instead, she asks: “Are they also attending Cambridge?”

“Not all of ‘em.” Swig. “Michael’s off to Edinburgh next week. Dave and Zach are both staying here for Imperial.” Swig. “Josh will be up at Cambridge with me, but he’s not so bad, I guess. At least when he isn’t actively under Fife’s thumb.”

“And Fife?” she questions. “Where is he going?”

Colin groans. He looks like he’s about to raise the bottle to his lips again, but doesn’t.

“Fife was admitted to Cambridge, but deferring a year to ‘go find himself.’ Hopefully, he finds himself at King’s College when he’s finished.”

“What’s Fife’s real name, by the way?” Penelope asks, unsure of what else to say. “Why does everyone just call him by his surname?”

For the first time all night, Colin laughs.

“Oh — uh. Cornelius. Cornelius Fife.”

Penelope snorts despite herself.

“Oh God, that’s bad. Perhaps even worse than ‘Penelope Featherington.’”

“What’s wrong with ‘Penelope Featherington?’” Colin asks, earnestly.

“Uhhh,” she stalls, hoping the night sky will hide the blush currently warming her cheeks. “A bit of a mouthful I guess. At least ‘Corn-eel-ee-us-Fife,” she punctuates each beat with one of her fingers, “is only five syllables.”

“I don’t know. I happen to quite like ‘Penelope Featherington.’”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, either.

She should be used to this by now — existing in such close proximity to charming Colin Bridgerton. She should know that his flirtatious words are just that — words. That just because his words tug at her heart does not mean there was any intention on his end to do so. That there is no real intention behind them (at least not when they’re directed at her).

She should be used to this by now, but she’s not. Even now, her cheeks burn red as he unknowingly squeezes her heart.

“You ready to leave London?” Colin asks, his voice breaking Penelope from her thoughts.

Next week, she and Eloise are set to leave for Cheltenham to begin their Sixth Forms (along with Daphne, who will be finishing hers). Literally, she isn’t ready; she’s been procrastinating packing for weeks and will likely not do so until the night before she leaves. But in her heart, she’s been ready to leave home for the past two years, ever since Colin left for Eton.

“Oh — yeah.” She takes another sip of her beer. It still tastes like grass. “I think so.”

“It’s nice that you and El will have each other there.” He chuckles quietly, eyes turning from the night sky back to Penelope. “With your good influence, maybe she’ll make it through an entire semester without being sent home.”

Penelope chuckles too, louder than Colin had a moment ago.

“Eloise will be fine, with or without me. She’s all talk.”

“Yeah. The ‘talk’ is exactly what I’m worried about. Also fist fighting, but at least she doesn’t have the balls to do that in the middle of class.”

As much as she wants to defend her best friend further, Penelope holds her tongue. He has a point. Eloise seemed to make a hobby out of backtalking their maths teacher last term.

“Really though,” he continues. “Leaving home is amazing, but it also kinda sucks. Having your best friend there with you… It’ll be good.”

“Why does it suck?” Penelope asks. Little alarm bells ring off in the back of her mind. When Colin had first left for Eton, he had nothing but positive things to say about leaving home.

He keeps quiet for a moment, seeming to search for the answer in the stars above them.

“It’s different for everyone — it might not suck for you at all. But for me…” Swig. “Maybe it’s just because I was so used to living with seven siblings and an overprotective mum. But going from that to Eton so suddenly…” Swig. “Felt a bit isolating at first.”

The alarm bells continue to ring within Penelope. A bit louder now.

“Colin, I —”

She waits until she thinks he’s finished to open her mouth again. But just as she does, he continues.

“Sorry, by the way.” His eyes truly look sorrowful when he finally meets her gaze again. “I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. I just thought, maybe it would have been good if someone had told me that before I left for Eton. Prepared me a bit.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she insists. “And I appreciate your candour, really.”

Colin opens his mouth again, looking like he’s about to say something else. She knows she should let him talk — allow him to alter the course of the conversation, if that’s what he wants. But Penelope also can’t ignore those goddamn alarm bells still ringing in her ears.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Even if — hypothetically — it could scare me. I’m always here to listen. For anything.”

For the briefest moment, something new passes on Colin’s face. Something in his eye looks different than anything she had seen there before. It almost looked desperate. But then it’s gone, his head turned away from her once more. Then, for the second time that night, Colin wraps his arm around Penelope’s shoulder. His hand dangles lazily off her shoulder.

“Yeah. I know, Pen.”

Penelope should be used to this by now. Colin is her friend. His touch is innocent, always. It doesn’t matter if her breath quickens when she feels his side settle against hers. It doesn’t matter if her skin feels hot beneath his fingertips. None of this matters to Colin — at least not in the way that it matters to her.

Colin grimaces. “200 kilometres. Give or take.”

Penelope nods. Mayfair and Eton were only 35 kilometres apart. There were countless times over the last two years that, to Penelope, it felt as though Eton may as well have been located on the moon.

“Chin up, Pen,” he says, face already starting to light up again. “It’s not the nineteenth century. We can always Skype.”

“I know…” She raises her bottle, letting the glass rim rest against her lips. She can’t bring herself to take another sip, though. “Even then, I’ll still miss you.”

“Well, obviously,” he says through a smirk. Penelope scoffs, hiding her own smile behind her hand. Charm and arrogance do tend to come hand and hand.

“Col—”

“I’ll miss you, too. Obviously. But that’s no reason to prevent ourselves from reaching our full potentials. We owe it to the world, Pen. We can’t possibly be that selfish.”

In the time that it takes Penelope to think of a single sensical response to his words, Colin goes to take another swig, comes up empty, then peers one eye into the bottle to confirm its lack.

“I sup—”

“To Cheltenham,” Colin says, raising his bottle towards her.

She smiles. Resisting the urge to remind him that toasting with an empty glass is bad luck, she clinks the butt of her bottle against his. Hers is still half-full.

“To Cambridge.”

The quiet returns. It sits between them for a while. Penelope likes it. She likes it all.

#I'll keep posting first drafts if this bullshit continues #like a reverse ransom lmao #polin #bridgerton #fanfiction #weepingfromacedartree #(also does fife have a canon first name? I searched for hours and couldn't find it lol)

33 notes · View notes