#Whether that's on his own or with Mr. Benedict

[sophieswundergarten]

People talk about SQ going on a villain arc, but personally I've always thought he'd be more likely to just shut himself away for a while

He'd fall off the map, become a recluse not because he's trying to hide from his father, or his uncle for that matter, but because he's so confused and mixed up and lost he isn't thinking clearly

He finds an empty old house, one in a little town somewhere in the middle of nowhere, that he can live in. It's in much worse condition than Mr. Benedict's, and he gets to stay because he does farm chores for the nearby people who own the property

A quiet town. No one questions why this boy appeared, and as he keeps to himself no one bothers him

He comes into the general store sometimes, or maybe the hardware store. Buying basic necessities, repair materials, and asking sometimes strange questions with obvious answers in an embarrassed way

Every now and again, he stops by the pet store. Buying a small bird or two and an obscene amount of birdseed

He becomes known as a lonely artist, a mysterious figure the adults ignore for the most part and the children whisper about. He doesn't pay either reaction any mind

SQ's house is full of art

Colour splashed across the floor, tiny vines and butterflies covering the shutters, vibrant shades all over the fan blades. He etches painstakingly accurate bird footprints on every windowsill, sketches large diagrams of feathers and bird wings across most of the walls, because, who's there to tell him no?

He tries to teach himself to whittle, and there are many mishapen lumps of woods that vaguely resemble birds lined up on the back porch. (He knows they're terrible, but he can't bring himself to throw them away. He feels too guilty, after all, he's the one who brought them into existence. If he won't love them, who will?)

And he has a lot of birds. Some were wild ones he befriended, leaving food and nesting material out until they felt comfortable enough to rest in the rafters, flying in and out of the near-always open windows. Some were bird he saw, either sitting in a cage when they had no business to be, or wandering the park looking half frightened and confused. Birds that people had captured from their natural homes and probably smuggled, hoping to pass them off in a small enough town where no one would notice. Some were birds that had been "released" by their previous owners; left to wander an environment that was not their own and to fend for themselves when they'd been raised domesticated

It's these last few he feels for the most. It's not fair, he thinks. There's no one to take care of them, and it isn't their fault they were forced into a situation like this. At some point, someone had hurt them. Had taken advantage of their innocent nature, and it left some scarred.l

Some physically, like the ones who needed their wings splinted, or had lasting limps, or sometimes were even half blind. And sometimes mentally, like those that still shrank back from his touch after months of rehabilitation, or had missing patches of feathers, or would hiss instead of sing

And so he became known as sort of a wild artist. Someone who seemed to know everything about art and birds and the forest, but occasionally could be seen asking how microwaves worked or whether he would have to pay for checking books out of the small local library (He always returned them in perfect condition)

And, eventually, after he's had some time to think, he calls his uncle. He isn't sure how to contact his dad, but he isn't really surprised to hear the two are living together again. They're twins, after all

And so he tells them where he is, tells them that he wants to talk, wants to understand. And to his surprise, they come to him. And they offer apologies, and answers both

While the kids marvel at the birds and his art and the small collection of poetry and naturalist books he's been slowly building up as he shows them around, the adults confer on what it best to do

And he thinks that, if it's offered, he'd like to go back with them. But he isn't sure. And he's still caught off guard when they ask

[bosbas]

Chapter 5: I don't want you like a best friend

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader WC: 3.8k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love being idiots in love, angst, sexual tension, miscommunication (ish), benedict bridgerton being an idiot, anthony being a slayer in response

Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.

May 26, 1814 - Word has it that Benedict Bridgerton has returned from his mysterious disappearance to the countryside and was seen at White's with the Beaumont twins last night.

But more interestingly, the second Bridgerton brother was spotted with a certain Miss Y/N Beaumont about the town getting flavored ice in the growing summer heat, with Miss Beaumont appearing notably more joyous with him than during her interactions with other gentlemen she met at the Cowper Ball. While not privy to the intricacies of this friendship, this author does wonder whether Mr Bridgerton's newfound reappearance in the ton will affect Miss Beaumont's standing in the social season. Will suitors be too intimidated to pursue her? Though this matter might prove irrelevant, as Mr Bridgerton might decide to pursue Miss Beaumont himself...

Once again, you found yourself amidst the flurry of commotion that marked the afternoon before a ball. Only this time, you felt considerably less nervous knowing you had Benedict's company to look forward to. This would be your first time seeing him at a ball, dancing together outside the confines of either of your homes. You were quite accustomed to dancing with him. Both sets of your parents had been eager to teach their children the art of dancing, resulting in frequent informal post-dinner dancing lessons where you, more often than not, were paired off with Benedict. And you weren't complaining. He was a magnificent dancer, and you found you could just let go and allow him to take the lead while the two of you waltzed. Instead, you could focus on the feel of his steady hands on your waist, the handsome smile he cast down at you, or the shivers that ran up your spine when he would lean down to whisper something in your ear. Perhaps you were used to dancing with him, but that did not make it any less enjoyable.

Which is why you found yourself unable to keep still, excitedly humming and squirming around in the carriage bound for the Featherington residence. It was like your debut all over again, you thought, but with Ben being the only person who would be seeing you come out for the first time.

"Y/N, that's quite enough!" exclaimed Theo, clearly fed up with your antsy behavior. "Whatever is the matter? We are almost there; are you truly incapable of sitting still for a few more minutes?"

You glared at your older brother, choosing to ignore his comment but stilling your movements nonetheless. You were more than aware that Theo and Bastian were all but dragged to tonight's event by your mother, the pair being less than enthusiastic about attending a ball the very day they returned from their hunting trip, but you were not bothered one bit. If you had to go out and look for a husband ball after ball, they should, at the very least, be forced to be there as well. You envied their position in society, under no pressure to marry so soon and with complete freedom to do whatever they wanted, really. Your own literary pursuits were under somewhat of a time constraint unless you managed to find a suitable husband who would allow you the freedom to continue them, which was becoming increasingly unlikely as the season continued. Despite your mother's comforting words, assuring you that you did not have to marry this season, you honestly wondered how helpful another season would be if it was as fruitless as this one. You reasoned that you might just have to settle for someone you weren't particularly taken with, which was a dreadful thought, but at the very least, you were hoping to find someone who wasn't terribly dull.

After half an hour at the Featherington ball, you feared that "not terribly dull" might have been too high of an expectation to have for potential suitors. You were in the middle of a dance with some titled gentleman, his name you were not entirely sure of, who had been stunned into silence after you made a quip about a book you knew he should have read, as it was included in the Oxford curriculum you had been privy to courtesy of Benedict. Now, the two of you were dancing in complete silence, your eyes scanning the ballroom for any sign of your best friend. Just as you felt your foot being stepped on by your mute dance partner, you turned to see that Ben had entered the ballroom. The sharp pain in your foot was forgotten, and you relaxed, knowing you had an actually good dance to look forward to now.

Benedict eagerly entered the ballroom alongside his mother and older brother, immediately searching the crowd of people for you. Although he would never admit it, he was, for the first time in his life, properly excited for a ball. He knew he would be able to dance with you, granting a socially appropriate opportunity for him to hold on to your waist for a few minutes and feel the curve of your hips, occasionally getting close enough so he could smell your sweet perfume and whisper a silly comment in your ear. A comment that would no doubt make you laugh or at least giggle softly in a way that always seemed to elicit a warm feeling from his chest.

Unable to find you in the crowd, Benedict turned to Violet, who surely would know where you were by now, with a questioning look. She softened her features and gestured toward the dance floor, where Benedict could see you dancing with another man.

He barely heard his mother say over the roar in his ears, "She's out this year darling, with barely a spare moment away from a suitor or another," too focused on the man's hands on yours as he spun you around. Tearing his eyes away from the scene, he looked at Violet, who was already looking at him with a hint of concern. He swallowed thickly and put on a broad smile, not wanting to outwardly show what he was feeling.

"I suppose I'll be competing for her affections tonight, then. Hopefully she has space on her dance card," Benedict uttered, internally cringing.

Turning to Ben, Anthony leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. "I don't think that'll be too much of a problem, brother. If you'd read Whistledown in your time away, you'd know your dear best friend has scarcely been giving any gentlemen the time of day. At the Cowper ball, Colin and I were practically the only ones she danced with," he said with a meaningful look.

Ben looked puzzled, not entirely trusting his brother's account of your season so far. He probed further, "A couple of men asked the twins about her at White's last night, so I just assumed she was having a lot of success." At the mention of the gentleman's club, Violet excused herself and went to go chat with some other mamas milling about the ballroom.

"She is having a lot of success, to be sure. Lots of gentlemen callers and the like. I just don't believe she actually likes anyone just yet," Anthony explained, seeing Benedict's shoulders relax just a fraction.

Trying to appear nonchalant, Ben responded, "Oh. That's a shame then that she hasn't found anyone she connects with."

"Are you sure you think it's a shame?" came Anthony's teasing reply, earning him a small shove from Benedict.

Just before Anthony could return the shove, you came up to the Bridgertons, walking as fast as was appropriate at an event like this. "Oh, thank heavens!" you exclaimed. "I thought the dance would never end. What good is an Oxford degree if you haven't even read The Odyssey?"

Anthony couldn't help but laugh at your exasperated demeanor, making a dig at your previous dance partner. But Ben was too eager to get you to himself. He softly grasped your wrist and took hold of your dance card, wordlessly asking for your permission. You raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

"I can't say yes if you don't ask, Ben," came your response. Yes, he was your best friend, but he needed to show some decorum. Besides, you really wanted to hear the words coming out of his mouth, needing the sweet sound engrained in your mind so you could revisit the scene later when you were in bed playing over the best parts of the night.

Stifling a smile and giving you a slight bow, Benedict looked deep into your eyes and flashed you the most charming, rakish grin he could muster. "Miss Y/N Beaumont, would you do me the honor of giving me this dance?" he spoke lowly, sending you a cheeky wink.

A simple "yes" from you would have sufficed, but you were finding it difficult to form any words at all. Your throat had gone dry, and you were astounded by the intense effect his words had on you. Having such a close relationship, the two of you were as informal as could be. But here, in this ballroom, barely even touching you, Ben had managed to leave you feeling warm and out of breath with a more formal tone than you had ever heard him speak to you. You maintained eye contact with him, licking your lips in a failed attempt to get something out to indicate that, yes, you desperately wanted to dance with him. You settled for a quick nod, pushing your dance card-clad wrist further in his direction.

He clasped your hand in both of his, reaching his fingers to touch your own. A teasing smile pulled at his lips. "I can't take you to the dance floor if you don't say anything, Y/N," he retorted, throwing back your earlier words. You finally broke eye contact, shaking your head and looking down, laughing at yourself.

"Yes, Mr Bridgerton. I would be delighted," came your airy response. Your breath hitched in your throat as he interlocked his fingers with yours and put a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd during the short walk back to the dance floor.

"Very well, Miss Beaumont. But I insist you must call me Benedict," he said from behind you, lips dangerously close to your ear. You waited until you reached the dance floor, fighting goosebumps, and spun around to face him.

"Am I not allowed to call you Ben anymore, then?" you teased.

Ben could only smile down at you, a twinkle in his eye, "You can call me anything you like, darling."

Before you had time to process his words, which had undoubtedly left you breathless, the music started, and the two of you began dancing. It was a wonderfully familiar feeling, and you were gliding through the ballroom with ease, working perfectly in sync during every step, turn, and twirl. You were delighted. After far too long dancing with uninteresting or uncoordinated suitors, you could finally relax and just enjoy the dance, as well as the feeling of Ben's hand touching yours.

"So how is it, really? Looking for a husband?" Benedict asked after you had found a good rhythm.

Immediately, the topic clouded your features. You were unable to meet his gaze for fear of tears springing in your eyes. You bit your lip and composed yourself, blinking away any tears that had formed. With Ben, you could just be yourself; there was no need to pretend to want something you most certainly did not.

"Ummm... it's proven to be a challenge," you started, sniffling slightly. "Rather, I knew it would be challenging, but I didn't know how impossible it would feel. Every man wants a perfect, mindless housewife, and I fear I will be unable to fulfill that role. I want something different, Ben," you said, finally looking into his eyes. You were met with his sympathetic gaze, searching your face to take in all of your minuscule expressions. His hand softly squeezed your waist as you continued, "And I don't know if I will ever find someone who will allow me to do that. I can tell because barely anyone shows interest after they truly start to get to know me and can't keep up with the conversation," you added with a small laugh.

After twirling you around, he spoke, "I know, I can't say I envy your position. Truthfully, I would rather do anything other than get married at the moment, so I cannot imagine how you're feeling."

His words were thrown out almost casually, but you felt a stabbing pain in your gut as he said them. You already knew he didn't want to marry you. It would never work. He was your best friend. But it still hurt to hear him say it out loud. You were saved from having to respond by being twirled around again, so you simply nodded at him to continue, not trusting yourself to speak.

He sensed a change in your demeanor and thought that perhaps the prospect of marriage so soon was still a sensitive topic, so he tried to offer words of comfort. "At least you don't seem to have a lot of serious suitors right now. That way, you have time before you actually have to settle down."

But as soon as his words left his mouth and your face fell, he knew they were the wrong ones. You were staring off into the distance, refusing to make eye contact with him. The dance was almost over, and the pair of you were nearing Anthony once again, so Benedict knew he had to fix this in the next few moments while the two of you still had any semblance of privacy. Scrambling, he desperately searched for the correct words to say, blurting out the first thing he thought of to make you feel better.

"No, I didn't mean it like that, Y/N. I promise. You are so beautiful, and smart, and funny, and caring, and kind, and any man would be crazy to not want to marry you. With time, I am certain you will find a suitor who feels this way," came his rushed response.

Stunned into silence, seconds away from breaking down into sobs, you cut the dance short, disentangled your hands from Benedict's, and rushed to the ballroom exit, hoping not to cause a scene. The stabbing pain in your stomach was migrating to your chest. You were struggling to breathe and had tears blurring your vision, but luckily, you saw your mother near the exit and grabbed her hand, pulling her with you. She threw a startled apology over her shoulder at whoever she had been talking to and stopped you once you had left the ballroom.

Turning you around and firmly putting your hands on your shoulders, she scolded, "Whatever is the matter, Y/N? Why on earth would you–"

Stopped short by the sight of tears streaming down your cheeks, she softened and opted instead to hold you tightly to her, shushing you and stroking your hair.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked carefully.

You let out a choked sob, shaking your head. Primrose kissed the top of your head, not letting you go.

"That's alright, sweeting; we'll just leave the ball early then. Would you like that?"

You could only nod, holding onto her as she led you outside to the carriage. Desperate to go home and emotionally exhausted, you let yourself be directed into your seat and all but collapsed on top of your mother as soon as she was inside as well.

Back in the ballroom, Benedict stood frozen, looking in the direction you had run off in. Despite his utter confusion at your quick change in mood, he felt a crushing weight in his chest at being the cause of your distress. He thought things had been going quite well, actually. He had no idea why he had not been able to soothe you, usually an expert at reading your emotions, and had instead worsened the situation considerably. Wide-eyed, he turned to look at Anthony, who stood a few feet away. Ben was still stunned but shrugged at his brother, muttering, "Women" as an explanation for your sudden distress.

Benedict certainly had not been expecting Anthony to coddle him, but he could not help but be shocked when his brother's face transformed into a furious scowl, fists forming at his sides. He had barely reached his brother's side when Benedict felt Anthony's finger poking his chest aggressively.

"You are a complete and utter buffoon," whispered Anthony harshly, hoping to avoid a scene despite his overflowing anger. Benedict only sputtered in confusion, unsure of what to say.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I heard the last bit of your conversation, and obviously, this is a sensitive topic for Y/N. A large part of the reason no man has bothered to keep pursuing her is that they know the two of you have an incredibly strong 'friendship,'" continued Anthony in the same tone of voice, emphasizing the word 'friendship.' "You would know this if you bothered to talk to anyone at White's last night or kept up with your supposed best friend at all. But you were off in the countryside doing god knows what for whatever reason, and she had to face this alone."

Ire bubbled up in Benedict, feeling that his brother's response was uncalled for. "I cannot possibly have elicited this level of aggression from you. What the hell does Y/N's search for a husband have to do with me? Who she marries is entirely her choice," shot back Ben in the same angry whisper Anthony had been speaking in.

Anthony stepped back, looking at Benedict with disbelief. "You are either completely blind or the biggest fool I have ever had the displeasure of knowing."

With that, he turned on his heel, leaving Benedict reeling, still stunned, not to mention confused. He was replaying every interaction he had with you tonight, trying to find what he said or did that might have set you off, and, hopefully, trying to find a way to fix this.

---

Cass sat perched on your bed, where you lay in your night robe with a puffy face from the extensive crying you had done the previous night. Your mother had been discreet upon returning to your home, but your younger sister had inevitably heard you both come in and went to greet you in hopes of knowing what transpired at the Featherington Ball. Not wanting to explain your heartbreak to either of them in the moment, you had gone straight to your room and locked the door, not even allowing your lady's maid to help you out of your gown. But you knew you could not avoid your sister forever. So when morning came, Cass had slipped in before the rest of the Beaumonts rose. She found you already awake, staring out the window.

"Cass, I fear I have gotten myself into a most precarious situation," you started. She said nothing, opting instead to pat your leg in support. Her eyes grew wide as you briefly recounted your dance with Ben the previous night. You were near tears again, the pain of rejection still fresh.

"Well, I think Benedict Brigerton is an idiot. And a massive one, at that," your sister huffed out once you were finished speaking.

You let out a wet laugh in surprise, chastising her, "Cassandra! You must not use such foul language!"

"It's rather warranted in this situation, actually," responded Cass. Ever the fiery personality, you appreciated her fierce protectiveness in this moment.

"Honestly, I've gone over our conversation about a million times since it happened, and I don't think he actually said anything wrong. He doesn't want to marry. I don't have to worry about getting married right at this very moment, and I will eventually find someone who wants to marry me. Someone who is not him," you said carefully.

Tears welled up in your eyes again, but you pushed through, needing to say this out loud. "All of this is true. If Colin or Anthony or anyone else had said this, I would be inclined to agree with them. I think-" you paused, composing yourself.

"I think I have genuine feelings for him, which I had not entirely realized were there, or at least I had not categorized them as... whatever they actually are," you finished, unable to stop the tears from streaming down your face now. Cass reached over to hug you and moved to sit next to you on top of your covers.

You were still sniffling when she spoke up, "I was wondering how long it would take you to realize." Seeing your dirty look, she let out a laugh, "Sorry! I'm sorry! It was just quite obvious to me. Or to anyone with eyes, probably."

You put your head against the headboard behind you, closing your eyes in frustration and responding, "It's just very inconvenient that I feel this way. Obviously, he does not feel the same, which is obviously alright," you shot Cass a pointed look, warning her not to interject. "So, I believe that to actually find a husband, I must change my friendship with Benedict. Slightly."

"How do you mean?" asked Cass.

Rubbing your temples, you answered her, "Perhaps, seeing him less. So I'm not distracted. And so I stop comparing every suitor to him. And maybe not dancing at balls anymore. To have more time to dance with actual potential husbands. And because I do believe I will fall in love with him if we keep dancing like we did last night, which would not be helpful in the least." You had stopped crying now, your plan of action filling you with resolve.

"Are you implying that you aren't already in love with him? Because we both know that's not tr-" Cass attempted to say, before getting hit by one of your pillows square in the face. But this time, you were laughing with her. It was all going to be alright. You would find someone, and your feelings for Ben would soon become a thing of the past.

—

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[bellarkeselection]

2 - Interesting Conversations

Part 3

The Venus Muse

Not as long of a chapter as I'd like but here it is 😊 if you have any suggestions send them to my ask box

He extended his hand up to me and I smiled, placing my smaller hand in his larger one. “I accept so long as I know which Bridgerton are you?”

“Benedict, Benedict Bridgerton.” He replied, leading me out and onto the dance floor with the entire room having their eyes focused on the two of us.

I shifted my gaze up to his since he was taller than I was even with me wearing the slightly high shoes I was wearing. The others in the grand room began grabbing their own dance partner and the floor was filled with dancing suits and dresses moving about. “You’ll surely be the talk of the town after this night, lord bridgerton.”

“I don’t care much if I am. It is not my responsibility to carry the weight of my family's house on my shoulders.” The bachelor responded. 

His brother Anthony had found a wife last season, his sister Daphnie before that and now this year it was rumored that Colin was the next bachelorette according to the talk of the town. Holding my hand up away from his we slowly danced around in a circle where I chuckled. “So second siblings get to have more fun you say.” 

“Indeed they can. Would you not say the same for yourself?” Benedict asked, twirling me away from his chest throwing my hair all around and my dress twirled with such grace. 

I spun back into his embrace where our noses touched one another and the music began dying down meaning our time may have been limited so I quickly thought on my feet. “My lord, may I be so bold and ask to speak with you somewhere more privately?” 

“I’d love nothing more, princess.” He whispered, taking me by the hand and together we made our way through the crowd. We reached the outside of the ballroom but I figured we would be found if we stayed out there. 

So I squeezed his hand in mine taking the lead to the nearest horse stables that were just outside the nearest door. Benedict allowed himself to be dragged along by the princess in front of him. The fresh air finally hit my face when I busted through the large door. I sighed in relief. “Ah that’s much better. I must admit the castle walls can make me feel a little restricting.” 

“If I’m being honest with you. I don’t care for these seasons as much as others. Though it does give me inspiration for my drawings on occasions.” Benedict stands behind me. 

Spinning around on my feet I grinned hearing the excitement in his voice when he spoke the word of drawing. “You enjoy drawing, Mr. Bridgerton.” 

“I would like to just be Benedict to you, princess.” He nodded his head down to me. 

I chuckled moving across the stables yard until I found a bench to sit on and he joined me. “My father told my mother to just call him George the day she tried to climb over a garden wall so she didn’t have to marry him.” 

“I don’t think I've ever heard of this story. Care to share more details with me.” He scooted closer to me on the bench. 

Shifting my head up towards the sky I clicked my tongue thinking for a moment. My mother had told me how they fell in love despite the conditions my father has on his mind. “It’s a rather long story. I don’t wish to bother you with the full details of it. Surely you have other women you wish to spend your time with.” 

“Don’t let it be the fact that you are the princess and I am just a Bridgerton stop you from telling me the story you wish to tell.” Benedict pressed on touching my hand that was closest to his. 

I met his baby blue eyes asking the question I wanted him to answer. “Are we not expected to follow the rules of society that we have been born into?” 

“In my opinion I don’t wish to follow the traditional rules of society. Society leaves very little room for us to explore different passions. Whether it be through art, clothing, music or making our own beliefs.” Benedict moved his hands around as he declared about having some desire outside of just finding a wife or husband. 

Tucking hair behind my ear I felt the heavy weight of the crown on my head begin to disappear. “You make it sound so easy.” 

“Should it not be for you?” He asked me so calmly. 

I snorted shrugging my shoulders, explaining my situation to the lord sitting beside me. I wished the things that he was saying could be true, but I was far beyond ever seeing such freedom. “I may be a princess but it doesn’t mean I get to explore the world like I hoped.”

“What if I helped give you that chance.” Benedict asked me with that cheeky smile on his face. 

“How so?” I tilted my head to the side, very curious to what he was planning in his head only having met me a few minutes ago. 

He spoke up with passion. I almost believed it could work. “We could go strolling through the shops together, I could show you my art in the house we are staying near here or even just keep meeting in secret to have these conversations like this if it's what you truly desire.” 

“Benedict, that all sounds wonderful. But what if we get caught?” I was still uncertain of the bad consequences. 

A different woman's voice enters our conversation causing me and Benedict to turn our heads in the opposite direction seeing a girl with dark black hair wearing a light colored dress. “Live out of society's expectations please I beg of you.”

“Princess Y/n, I’d like you to meet my sister Eloise Bridgerton.” Benedict raised his hand out gesturing to the girl standing a few steps away from us. Her mouth hung open at the same time as mine, both in utter shock of meeting the other in this type of situation. For my mothers enjoyment I must say this season looks to be an interesting one from my current perspective. 

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[cinnamoodles]

the language of flowers — part one, daises

warnings: angst, of course, and bad writing? ooc anthony bc i suck and thats unwarranted <33

word count: 1.8k (wowza)

author’s note: hello! this is my first published fic, so im pretty sure it’s going to be horrible, but i had this idea after reading Sherlock Holmes, so… im excited, i guess? this is part of a series i will publish, but for now... yay! first fic celebration!

read the other parts! — part two, irises | part three, peonies

i don’t consent for my work to be reposted or copied, translated, or transferred to any other platform, or this one, in part or whole.

--------- . . . ---------

i. 1802, bellis perennis. daisies, platonic love

It was a day in which the sun blazed as though it had a fury against all of England, the sweltering heat resulting in most of the country to stay indoors, and perhaps enjoy a cool glass of lemonade. The unforgiving rays of the sun shone glitteringly on the lake, as if to mock those who stayed inside, flamboyantly displaying its beauty.

Anthony Bridgerton was a boy, (or a man, as he liked to proclaim himself, as he was just a year from being eighteen), who did not like to stay inside, especially on a glorious day like this. He liked to forget the matter that it was well over 35 degrees celsius, but in his words, such a beautiful, sunny day should not go to waste.

“Why have you dragged me out here, Mr. Bridgerton?” You groan against the thick coat of your own horse. As the only daughter of a Duke with three sons, you had to dress up prim and proper, much to your chagrin, before going out, especially with a boy, whether it be one of your closest friends or not. You run your hands through your hair—which you've left open, because, in your words, damn society, no single person should be subject to those horrid pins in their hair on a hot summer's day!, before you stormed out of your estate, to head to the stables to find solace in one of your most trusted companions.

He grins, sending a flutter of butterflies amok in your stomach. Deep inside, you knew that there was no way that he would ever even consider you romantically, as you were exactly the age of his brother, Benedict, who, no doubt, was ever the charmer, but Anthony had a special place in your heart. Your first love, (could one even call it love? You would often dismiss it as infatuation, but when he looked at you like that, how could your youthful little heart disregard it?), and most of all, your first friend. “Well,” he starts, “first of all, you can cease the formalities, or I’ll push you off your horse.” He leisurely rides up next to you, smirking. “And there isn’t any harm in calling on my closest friend for a few hours of her time, is there not?”

“Of course not, but you know how my mother hounds me,” you sigh tiredly, rubbing the nape of your neck. “It is almost as if…” reddening, you bite your lip. You knew that your mother was always on a tirade on how you and Anthony would be perfect together, but you know that he did not feel the same way. You sneak in a gaze at his soft dark hair, and his gorgeous, deep brown eyes, always glimmering with mischief of some sort. 

He turned to you, frowning. “As if? She hasn’t got a problem with me, has she?”

Your eyes widen, and you quickly backtrack on your words. “No! No, of course she hasn’t got a problem with you, she’s just a bit… spirited, that’s all. Just very spirited and a woman very worried about what society has to say about me—not that I care, of course.”

“Just let her know that I’m most definitely not giving up my friendship with you just because of the nonsense the Ton spews on an hourly basis.” You give an extremely unladylike snort at his words, which sends the both of you into a fit of laughter.

The both of you finally reach the site that Anthony must have wanted to show you. It’s a corner beside the lake, with a patch of wildflowers and a small woodland area behind it. The sunlight shines onto the surface of the lake, and small dragonflies lazily float around the flowers. What entrances you most is the flora near the area. While, of course, you've seen flowers before, since your own father boasts one of the most intricate gardens in London, there isn’t any garden that could hold a candle to the natural beauty, the wild, untamed, disorderly allure of this particular strip of land. Fireweed and cattails rub against the agrimonies and bellflowers, and you have to physically stop yourself from letting your jaw drop and stare at the scene in front of you.

The dark-haired boy enthusiastically gets down from his horse, rubbing his eyebrow, and holds his hand out to your stunned self. You bite back a smirk when you notice his actions, and steady yourself against his glove. “I don’t need you to do all this,” you tease. “I can get down from a horse just fine by myself.”

“Really?” He smirks. “Alright then.” Letting go of you abruptly, he wipes off his hands on his breeches, while behind him, you trip to the ground, dust pooling and clouding around you, and you land on your ankle.

“Ow!” You shriek, your hands scratched from the rough, gravelly grass. You examine your ankle, which is slightly swollen and red, along with giving you large, throbbing pains. “Anthony, you’re such a prick!” You steady yourself against a tree trunk when he turns around and sees you, in pain. He quickly rushes to your side, steadying you by placing his hands on your hips, and you try, (and fail), to ignore your heart working on overdrive. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. Really, I didn’t know it would hurt you, I didn't know you were that high up.”

“What do you know, then?” You grumble, trying to hold weight on your foot. When you wince, Anthony immediately carries you in his arms in a bridal hold, and you have to take all the willpower you have to not stare at his biceps, or worse, swoon right there. “Anthony! Put me down!” You cry, halfheartedly, your inner thoughts wishing that he wouldn’t listen to a word you said. “If you drop me, I swear I will hurt you.”

“Y/N,” he smiles at you, “trust me, I know better than to cross you by now.” He readjusts his hands, and one of them, (you’re too frazzled to notice which), lands on the small of your back, and you are sure that you will combust within a second if he keeps this up. “And,” he continues, “I haven’t dragged you all the way here just so you can go home. And trust me, you're not heavy at all.” He smirks, raising one of his hands so that you can see it, and taps your nose.

“Anthony—oh god—what the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Proving you haven't got anything to worry about. Don’t worry, darling.” The word sends a shiver down your spine, and the moment just seems so perfect: you, in his arms, his dark, dreamy eyes gazing into your own, his breath hot on your cheek. He smells of sandalwood and citrus—the same smell that haunts you day and night, in your dreams and nightmares.

You relax into his arms, and are snapped out of your daze only by the soft brush of something against your nose—petals? You open your eyes to a grinning Anthony, tapping your face with a hastily bundled bunch of flowers.

“Anthony,” you frown, “I was relaxing. Do not forget that you caused my devastating injury.” You pout, widening your eyes and biting your lips, trying to play the fact that you’re merely an innocent bystander of his tomfoolery. He sighs, and waves the flowers in front of your face.

“That is precisely what this is for, you hypochondriac—ow! Sorry! I picked you flowers, because you're so microscopic that I can carry you with one hand.” He gently placed you down on a gravelly stone bench, among the wildflowers and its concomitant insects, hurriedly putting a bouquet of flowers in your hand. 

Daises.

The Guide for Flora for Debutantes: Resplendent in its simplicity, the daisy's tender white petals encircle a sunny heart, a poignant reflection of the chaste and enduring affection shared amongst esteemed companions of a non-romantic nature. The suitor that gives this flower to you may not desire to pursue a romantic relation, but shows no ill will towards you, and would in fact like to continue a relationship based purely on friendship. 

Your mind flashes to a paragraph in one of your least-loved books, but one your governess insisted you study. Perhaps he didn’t mean to give you these gut-wrenching, heartbreaking flowers, flowers that left your soul shattered on the ground, due to your dramatics. Men, in particular, were never very observant when it came to flowers. “Well, there might be a privilege to being microscopic then,” you smile, feigning delight. “Say,” you gaze up at Anthony’s eyes, “what made you pick these particular ones? Is there anything special about daises?”

“Er, no…” Anthony frowned. “They were the only ones that looked nice enough to give to you. The others looked like weeds, if I am being completely forthright.” You stifle a laugh, and perhaps there indeed was no symbolism behind the flowers the gave you, nothing other than fate.

As you settle on the stone bench, your ankle throbbing slightly, you peer at the bouquet of daises now cradled in your hand. The delicate blossoms seem to mirror the delicate dance of emotions within your heart, or so your heart believes. Anthony's actions have always been a mixture of exasperating and endearing, and this moment is no different.

"Anthony," you say, suppressing a smile, "your chivalry knows no bounds, it seems." He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Ah, my dear, a gentleman's duty is to come to the rescue of a damsel in distress, is it not?" You roll your eyes with a playful sigh, though your heart flutters at his words. There's a familiarity between you that goes beyond mere friendship, a connection that has woven itself over years of shared experiences. But society's expectations and the complexities of your own heart keep those feelings hidden beneath the surface. 

"Are you suggesting that I am in distress, Mr. Bridgerton?" you retort, raising an eyebrow. His smile widens, and he takes a seat beside you on the bench. 

"Perhaps not in distress, but certainly in need of a flower-bearing rescuer." He quips, gently nudging your shoulder. You both share a laugh, the tension that briefly hung in the air dissipating like morning mist. There's a sense of ease in his company that you've never found elsewhere, a comfort that stems from him, merely his presence.

A sense of home—of love, and for now, it did not matter if he didn’t feel it, but the warm feeling that enveloped you was merely your own to enjoy.

[television-overload]

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 21/34 - eggs benedict

[Read on AO3]

It’s strange, staying with Sheriff Adderly and his wife Ellen during this case in Vermont. If he had his way, he’d be checked into a motel instead of infringing on their hospitality, but he’d been given no choice. They even refused reimbursement for their troubles, which did nothing to lessen the feeling—however true or untrue it was—of him being a burden to them.

Ellen Adderly had pulled out all the stops for their guest, preparing decadent meals on fine china for every meal, claiming she’d have done it whether he was there or not. He has a hard time believing that. He can’t imagine living in such a way every day of his life. He and Scully barely manage to set out real plates to eat on when they order takeout at home, and he certainly doesn’t expect her to have a three course meal set out when he gets back from work. Besides the fact that she’s always at work with him, it’s just not something he thinks is necessary. Is that something she’d want to do? He doesn’t think so. 

The routine they have works for them, that’s all that matters.

But after getting a taste of his own personal brand of domesticity, it’s… odd… to see how others do it. He’d never have thought there were so many different ways to balance home life, much less enough that he’d start to form an opinion on them. His parents had been one way—not a particularly healthy relationship—and he and Scully are… well, they’re not really anything besides roommates, but that still counts, in his book.

Whatever they are, he likes it. Far better than this constant fussing, at least.

Mrs. Adderly must notice his discomfort, because at breakfast as she masterfully puts the finishing touches on his eggs benedict, she says “I get the feeling you're not used to anyone taking care of you,” and for some reason, that assumption grates on his nerves.

He takes a measured draw from his cup of steaming coffee, swallowing back his immediate retort.

“What makes you say that?” he asks instead. She probably hadn’t meant anything by it, but it still comes off as rude. He has someone to take care of him, thanks very much. Just not exactly in the same way as Mrs. Adderly insists on taking care of her husband… and apparently Mulder too.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen says, realizing her statement had come out somewhat offensive. “I just mean… I didn’t see a wedding band.”

She nods at his left hand sitting atop the table, and he follows her gaze to the bare ring finger.

“Do you have a significant other, Agent Mulder?” she asks.

Significant? Yes. Very. Other? That’s a good descriptor. Single, married, other. Yeah, he’d select other, if this were a multiple choice question. Although he’s pretty sure that’s not what she meant.

“I’ve– um…” he starts, wondering how best to describe his situation to this woman. “I’ve got a wife, actually.” He pulls out the ring on its chain to show her. “It can be dangerous in my line of work to have it on display,” he explains lamely before tucking it back into his shirt.

Ellen smiles. “Ah, well that’s good. Don't miss out on home and family, Mr. Mulder. I imagine with all the things you see, you need that refuge more than most.”

Her words hang in the air, a bit of sage advice from a woman he otherwise has very little in common with. But before he really has a chance to think about what she’s said, Sheriff Adderly makes an appearance, and it’s back to business. Ellen excuses herself to go check on their daughter, leaving the two of them alone to discuss the case.

Mulder remains seated at the table, staring down the sheriff with a knowing look. He’d begun to suspect—and now his suspicions are all but confirmed—that the man had been unfaithful to his wife, and it makes him feel sick. Here this man has it all; a loving wife, a sweet baby that they didn’t have to jump through a million hoops to get, and yet he’s willing to throw it all away for some cheap thrills.

He’ll never understand it.

The man is no more forthcoming about his knowledge of the case than he had been before, so Mulder lets it slide for now. The last thing he wants to do is show all his cards too early and spook him. He gives him just enough to leave him rattled. To let him know that he knows . 

He lets the unspoken threat hang between them until the sheriff folds, squirming away to take a shower, or so he says. 

He’s still seething in bitter disgust when Ellen returns, carrying her sleepy baby in her arms. It’s a well-practiced juggling act, Mulder can tell, as she goes about fixing herself a plate of her now lukewarm breakfast. With only one arm, she clearly struggles to transfer strips of bacon out of the pan, and Mulder gets to his feet.

“Here, let me help,” he says, joining her in the kitchen. What he’d meant was that he could help assemble her plate, but as he goes to reach for the spatula, he instead finds himself being handed a baby, and his eyes widen comically. “Oh, right,” he says, then plasters a forced smile on his face. Sure, this was what he’d meant to do all along. 

The little girl is heavier than he’d expected. Like a sack of flour, though with limbs jutting out everywhere. It takes him a moment to adjust, his hands holding her awkwardly beneath the armpits. 

“Hi,” he says conversationally, looking down at her like she’s a ticking time bomb that could explode at any moment. The baby just blinks at him, a blank stare on her face. “Okay,” he mutters to himself, lifting her to his hip and returning to the table. He makes every effort to not look like this isn’t the first time he’s held a baby in—well, basically forever, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

Ellen smiles across the table at him and digs into her meal.

“Do you have children, Agent Mulder?” she asks, “You and your wife?”

It still makes his heart flutter to hear someone refer to Scully as such, but he supposes that to Ellen, it really is that simple. Scully is his wife, that’s all she knows.

He’d always thought conversations like this to be so dull. ‘So, Dave, how’s the ol’ ball and chain? Kids staying out of trouble?’  But, now… 

Well, it’s different now that he actually has something to contribute to the discussion.

“Yeah, actually, one on the way,” he says, giving a self-conscious little smile. 

He’s never told anybody about this other than Skinner, but he supposes there’s no harm in telling this random woman in Vermont. It almost makes him feel… normal. Like he can relate to other people over the simple fact of his impending fatherhood. A shared human experience. A milestone in his life that doesn’t involve aliens, ghosts, ghouls, or any manner of cryptozoological entity.

“We’re adopting,” he further explains. “Only a couple months left till the birth mother’s due date.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Ellen exclaims, smiling up at him over her bowl of fresh fruit. “You must be so excited!”

“Very,” he says, looking down at the drooling baby on his lap. “We never really thought it was possible. That we’d ever—” 

He pauses, the shrill tone of his cell phone breaking into their conversation.

“Speaking of my wife,” he says, flipping open the device. “Hey, Scully. How’s the stakeout going?”

Her voice crackles over the other side of the line, drawing a genuine smile out of him. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that, Mulder, so that I can give you the good news I just received.”

His stomach does a flip. “Good news?”

He pictures her nodding, sitting in that grimy, cold room surrounded by surveillance equipment, somehow brightening it with her smile. “Krista called and we had a little chat.”

Mulder looks up at Ellen from across the table, where she’s watching him with a knowing smile. “Oh?” he says.

“Mm-hmm. And you know what she told me?”

Scully is extra cheeky this morning, huh? He misses her horribly. This is the last time he’s letting Skinner split them up for a case. After this, no more. He’s putting his foot down. What are they going to do, fire him?

“What did she tell you?” he asks, turning to instead stare at the floorboards, giving himself the illusion of privacy despite the constant watch of Mrs. Adderly.

“She told me the sex of the baby. Would you like to know?”

His heart thumps in his chest suddenly, its rhythm erratic. This, he hadn’t expected first thing in the morning. He hasn’t even finished his first cup of coffee yet.

“She finally found out?”

“Yeah, Krista said she was a lot more cooperative at this appointment than the last one,” Scully explains.

Mulder freezes.

“She?” he says, his voice raspy with awe. “It’s a girl?”

He hears Scully release a shuddering breath before her voice comes back, with all the telltale signs of happy tears that he’s come to recognize in the last few months.

“It’s a girl,” she confirms.

It’s a girl. He’s gonna have a baby girl.

“That’s– that’s amazing, Scully! That’s… wow!”

“I know,” she says. “I’m– You’re not disappointed, are you?”

“Disappointed?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “Why would I be disappointed?” 

Disappointed is the absolute last thing he’d be feeling right now. Elated is a better word. Maybe a little scared, but he’ll get over it.

“I don’t know, I just thought… You know, you talked about coaching little league, and I’m sure you want someone to watch basketball with you…”

He laughs. He can’t help but laugh. “Just because you don’t like basketball doesn’t mean other girls don’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “And have you seen girls softball teams, Scully? They’re brutal. You try getting hit by one of those giant neon yellow ostrich eggs at 50 miles an hour. I volunteered to practice with the girls once in high school. Almost lost an eye.”

“But what if she doesn’t like sports at all?” Scully asks, and he’d bet good money that she’s chewing on her lip right now, the way she does when she’s worried. “What if she’s on the chess team or plays the violin or the piano?”

Oh, Scully.

“Then I’ll learn all the names of her concertos and cheer her on at every chess tournament,” he answers simply. “Look, Scully, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you and I are both gigantic nerds. I think we’ll be prepared for whatever she’s interested in when she gets older.”

She . They can finally stop talking about her in abstract terms. A girl. A daughter.

“Your mom’s gonna flip,” he says when she doesn’t respond. Margaret Scully has a grandson, but no granddaughter. He can just see the little plaid dresses, frilly socks, Mary Jane shoes, and giant velvet bows in their future. She’ll be spoiled rotten.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Scully says, sounding wistful. 

“Me too,” he agrees. “When I get back, we’re going out shopping again. I think maybe this time I’ll be able to hold it together in the clothes section.”

That earns him a laugh.

“I’m willing to bet it will go the same way as last time,” she teases back, and she’s probably not wrong. Just picturing this baby, a little girl like the one he’s holding now, has him emotionally on edge.

“I– I’ll talk to you later, okay?” he says, glancing up at the clock. “Let the thought of warm baby snuggles keep you from freezing your butt off.”

She sighs, the annoyance of her less than ideal assignment returning. “Thanks for reminding me, ” she intones.

They stay on the line a moment more, waiting to see who will be the one to hang up. Eventually he hears a soft click, and he smiles down at the phone in his hand. Goodbyes have never been necessary between them. Maybe that’s just another way they’re weird, but he likes it.

The baby in his lap gurgles, and he sets his phone on the table to turn his attention back to her. He sees her differently now, with the knowledge that he has a little girl on the way too.

“You’re going to be an amazing father,” Ellen says, eyes shining as she watches him.

Mulder feels his cheeks beginning to burn. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No, really,” she says more insistently. “You seem to care a lot already. And wanting to be involved… Well, that’s everything. Your wife is a very lucky woman.”

“I’m the one who’s lucky,” he says, and he truly believes it.

He’s the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.

~~~

wife guy / girl dad mulder says you get another chapter :)

Chapter 22/34 - pizza boxes

The sound of keyboards clacking fills the dimly-lit room. A greasy bag that once held at least a dozen cheap tacos from the place across town sits atop a stack of empty pizza boxes, not that the inhabitants of this particular abode pay much attention to that kind of thing. 

“Hey, here's something weird,” Langly says, looking up from the computer monitor, the unnatural light of it reflecting off his glasses.

“What? Is it Krycek again?” Frohike asks, crossing the short distance to lean over the other man’s shoulder. “What’s that little rat up to now?”

Langly adjusts the bright, warm-toned desk lamp to minimize the glare on the screen.

“No, just something strange in my sweep of government records,” he says.

“Mention of a virus? Shadow government stuff?”

Langly shakes his head. “It flagged a document mentioning Mulder and Scully's names.”

This bit of information piques Byers’ interest from across the room. “What agency? Homeland? DoD?” he asks, joining the other two at Langly’s computer.

“County court in Annapolis, Maryland,” Langly reads off the screen. “Dated December 24, 1999.”

“Open it!” Frohike demands impatiently.

It takes only a few seconds to hack the database, which is a little alarming. What would the public think if they knew how insecure county records are? But that’s a concern for another day. 

The document slowly appears on screen, and three pairs of eyes take in the information all at once.

“That's… unexpected,” Byers says.

“Married? Since when?” Frohike exclaims.

Langly looks up at him with a condescending glare and smacks the older man in the stomach. “Since Christmas, idiot, haven't you been paying attention?”

“Not that, stupid,” Frohike says, quick to respond with a slap to the back of the blond man’s shaggy head. “Since when are they an item? Did I miss something?”

“You seen a rock on her finger lately? I haven't,” Langly comments.

“Get Mulder on the phone, that little sneak owes us an explanation!” Frohike snaps, pointing a finger at Byers.

The phone rings a few times before it connects, the voice of their friend coming through on speakerphone.

“Now's not a good time, boys,” he says. There's some kind of noise in the background, someone speaking, but they can’t make out who it is. It doesn’t sound like anyone they know. 

“Mulder!” Frohike yells into the phone. “What gives, man?!”

“Yeah, bro, we'd have thrown you a bachelor party if we'd known,” Langly adds.

A sigh crackles through on the other end of the line, and Mulder murmurs something indistinguishable to someone before finding somewhere quieter to talk.

“How'd you find out?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

“Your marriage license record came up in one of our regular sweeps. No other threats, by the way,” Byers answers.

“Except maybe Frohike,” Langly jokes. “He might want to challenge you for her hand.”

Byers snickers.

“Shut up! I'm happy for them,” Frohike says, glaring at his friends.

Langly rolls his eyes. “You never stood a chance.”

“There's an explanation for this, I swear, now's just really not a good time,” Mulder says, insistent.

“What's there to explain?” Frohike asks. “You guys fell in love and got married without telling your best friends. No big deal.”

He’s not genuinely trying to guilt trip Mulder, but it does sting a little that they hadn’t said anything to them. Maybe just a little tiny guilt trip. A guilt excursion, if you will.

“It's not… really that simple,” Mulder says, his words hesitant.

“What do you mean?” Byers asks.

“I know you didn't knock her up, obviously, so what more is there?” Langly says, as delicate as a brick to the face.

“Well,” Mulder says, “I kind of did, in a manner of speaking.”

“Scully's pregnant?” Byers asks. This is shocking news. It should be impossible! “But—”

“No, Scully's not pregnant,” Mulder quickly corrects before the conversation can spiral out of control more than it already has. “But… we are expecting, actually. Hopefully.”

“IVF?” Byers asks.

“Not IVF. We tried that last year though, you're a little late to the party.”

Jeez, what haven’t they missed? Maybe the real conspiracy is whatever the heck is going on with Mulder and Scully.

“Then, what—?”

“We're adopting,” he says, interrupting them. They can almost hear his smile over the phone, all goofy and care-free. “There's a woman that selected us to adopt her baby when she’s born, so… I'm actually at this class for new parents with Scully right now. I should probably be getting back. Don't want the teacher to flunk me.”

“Wait wait wait,” Frohike says. “Adopting? How long have you guys been… you know?”

“Well we only started talking about it back in November. It's honestly moving pretty fast, but we're excited.”

“Not that,” Frohike says, waving his hands in the air. “You and Scully!”

“Oh,” Mulder says awkwardly. “Um, we actually aren't. A couple, I mean. If that's what you're asking.”

Frohike’s jaw drops. “You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not.”

“But you're married!” Langly insists.

“A formality.”

“The IVF!”

“Favor for a friend.”

“Yeah, right!” Frohike says with a laugh, sharing a disbelieving look with the other Gunmen.

“You love her, don't you?” Byers asks, sincerity breaking through his friends’ incredulity.

“If you're just gonna harass me, I'm going to hang up.”

Okay, so he’s done sharing for now. They’ll just have to try to get more out of him later.

“Mulder… what are we going to do with you?” Frohike asks, shaking his head.

“Listen, guys, I've got to go. We're learning how to change a diaper and I'd really like to not make a fool of myself, if at all possible.”

“Wait,” Frohike says. “Tell Scully congrats for us. We're happy for you, Mulder.”

“Yeah, we just think you're a complete idiot too,” Langly adds bluntly.

“Thanks, guys. We're really happy. Sorry I haven't been around, it's been crazy.”

Well, now at least they know why Mulder has been missing their poker nights and D&D lately.

“Don't worry about it, Mulder. Just—maybe tell us what's going on next time?” Byers suggests.

Mulder puffs out a laugh. “Sure, next time I marry my partner with the purpose of adopting a child, I'll let you know.”

Frohike points seriously at the phone, despite the fact that Mulder can’t see it. “Watch it, buddy, you're already on thin ice.”

“I'll talk to you guys soon,” Mulder says. “Oh, and if you're ever looking for me, I'm staying at Scully’s apartment now, by the way. I gave up my apartment.”

“Dude…” Langly says. There's something seriously wrong with those two.

“Alright, I gotta go. I'll tell Scully you say hi.” And with that, he hangs up, leaving the three amigos to take in everything they’d just learned.

“Aren't a couple…” Frohike grumbles, repeating his words. “They're a couple of idiots, I'll tell you that.”

Byers nods his agreement, and Langly shrugs. 

“Lucky kid, though.”

~~~

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[eleanor-bradstreet]

Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 4: Flight

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer From a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating/warning: T - brief depiction of sexual assault Word count: 8.5k

Masterpost Previous chapter Next chapter

Author's Notes: Now we're getting into the swing of it! Fair bit of AOFAG snippets in this one because there were exchanges I really liked. Heads up if you have read my other fic Fever. Dream. that a portion of this chapter is recycled. I was actually pulling from this fic to write that one before I knew this one would be shared. 💙

[Revisiting Benedict and Sophie two years later during the party at Cavender House as written in Part Two/Chapter 6 of AOFAG. 

It’s the spring of 1817 and the ton are in London. Depressed and listless, Benedict went to the party in the countryside for a change of scenery only to be disappointed by obnoxious drunks. He is leaving and feeling ill. Cavender House is located in Kent and Benedict plans to spend the night at Aubrey Hall. He does not own a bachelor cottage.

Sophie sold the Cowper’s jewels only to find they were made of glass (courtesy of one Jack Featherington). She scraped by with scullery work and selling her hair. Over two years she worked her way back into housemaid roles and has ended up in the employ of the Cavenders. The aging parents are kind but Phillip Cavender has been regularly harassing her.]

Two Years Later

With his parents away, Phillip Cavender had invited the most vile assortment of noblemen to fill his family home with drink and smoke, shouts and chaos. Sophie knew she should have left the grounds immediately, but Mrs. Cavender had treated her well, and she didn’t think it was polite to leave without giving notice to the lady of the house. With no locks on the doors of the servants’ quarters, she had angled a chair in front of hers and sat upon her bed, praying that Phillip would find distraction with one of the many hired ladies in attendance. 

Her prayers were not answered. Phillip had come banging into her room, easily shoving the chair aside. He began pawing at her, pinning her to the mattress. 

“Look what I have here,” he cackled. “Little Miss Sophie, my favorite housemaid.”

Sophie’s mouth went dry, and she wasn’t sure whether her heart started to beat double time or stopped altogether. “Let me go, Mr. Cavender,” she said in her sternest voice while she struggled. She knew that he liked her helpless and pleading, and she refused to cater to his wishes.

“I don’t think so,” he said, his lips stretching into a slippery smile. “I want you to join the party.” Restraining her with one arm, his free hand snaked up her torso, groping and beginning to reach down the neckline of her dress. She could smell the whiskey on him. Whiskey and the reek of dark intent. His voice was husky as he slurred, “You know you’re born to serve.”

When his rough fingers dragged across the skin of her chest, some primal corner of her mind snapped to attention and took control of her body, making everything both crystal clear and numbingly distant at the same time. She knew definitively that she was going to get out of this situation. No matter what it took. No matter what behavior she had to exhibit and to whom. Her knee moved before she commanded it to, driving swiftly up between Cavender’s legs.

She saw his eyes widen with pain for a split second before he doubled over, wheezing. When he tried to lunge for her again, her arm flew on its own, planting her fist into the side of his jaw. Cavender hit the floor with a thud, groaning as he began to roll across the boards. After the initial shock of her own actions, Sophie flew into a panic, stepping over the crumpled man to throw her few belongings into a bag. This was her chance. Without another look back, she hitched her skirts in one hand, clutched her bag in the other, and ran out into the night.

Her flight to the road was a blur. Her mind was blank to everything except one imperative: run. It felt as if she reached it instantaneously, but she knew it was a fair distance from the house. When her eyes began to refocus and the roar began to fade from her ears, she slowed to a walk, gasping. The night air was cool and soothing. The lights and noise of Cavender House were barely perceptible through the trees. The waxing moon illuminated the road in front of her and she set off for the village.

As she regained her composure, a sense of dread crept over her. She had attacked a gentleman. For her, a penniless maid, it was an offense worthy of a life in prison, if not transportation to the other side of the world. She certainly could not work in another household of the ton, lest word spread to find her. She hoped maybe he had drunk enough that he would not remember what had happened. But she could not rest on that hope. Perhaps he would be too embarrassed to tell anyone. Then she may be able to work quietly in a home a long distance away. But she would never be sure that Cavender would not visit that household someday and find her. No, as long as she stayed among the gentry, she would always be at risk. There was nothing for it, she would need to change her occupation. She could find work in a city somewhere doing…something. 

As she began to contemplate the many dangerous and demeaning ways poor women might make money in a city, Sophie heard the fall of hooves approaching behind her. Her stomach sank. It could be Cavender, or someone he sent after her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a single rider on a white horse moving at no great speed. The Cavenders did not own any white horses but nevertheless, she began to dart off toward the trees. She knew the rider had already seen her and how futile a chase would be, but it was her only fleeting chance at freedom.

“Hello there?” The rider called out, his voice gentle, somehow familiar.

She paused. He certainly did not seem to be chasing her and it was not unusual that other people may be out on the road at this hour. Something within was telling her not to run. Where did she know that voice from? But she was not about to have a roadside chat with a stranger in the middle of the night. She needed to get to the village. She continued to walk along the side of the road, eyes forward, her steps purposeful but not frantic.

The rider caught up with her in quick order and slowed his horse to match her pace. “Good evening, Miss.”

He sounded polite enough but it didn’t stop Sophie from feeling a stab of annoyance. She was going to have to converse with this person, delaying her arrival to safety. Tired and unable to hide the grimace from her face, she turned to look up at him. For a moment she could only see his silhouette - a tall shadow with unruly hair and a high collar. Then her eyes adjusted and his features emerged in the moonlight. Dear god, it was Benedict Bridgerton.

She froze, every sound and every feeling melting away until all she could see was him. She didn’t even breathe as she stared. She had been fleeing for her life, running from torment, facing a hopeless future, and then suddenly Benedict Bridgerton appeared on a white horse like a knight in a fairy story. She wondered if she had fallen in the road and dashed her head on a rock because why else would she be seeing him unless she was hallucinating or in heaven?

“Are you alright?” he asked, stopping his horse beside her. Sophie’s breath hitched. Those were the last words he had said before she ran out of the masquerade so many years ago. She had heard them echoing over and over in her dreams. Of course she recognized his voice. Sophie nodded, looking him squarely in the eye, waiting for him to recognize her. 

“It’s a bit unusual for a woman to be walking the road alone so late at night. Do you work at Cavender House?” He held the reins in his hand, looking her up and down.

She continued to wait silently, jutting her chin so that he might see her better. Surely he would be able to tell. Maybe it was too dark for him to see her properly.

“Miss?” His face was growing increasingly concerned.

She wasn’t sure if she knew how to form words but found herself replying, “Not anymore.”

“Oh,” Benedict frowned. This night was not turning out at all how he had anticipated. Cavender’s party was not exactly the bacchanalia he had been promised. Benedict had always found him to be a weaselly sort of fellow but he had grown so bored with the stuffy events of the London season that he would have accepted any invitation that got him out of the city. Rather than finding distraction in the amusements on offer, he had been repulsed by the callow attendees, their slovenly overindulgences and blatant disregard for the women hired to entertain. He had seen his own share of raucous parties to be sure, but there was still such a thing as taste in how one enjoyed themselves and what he had discovered was that Cavender and his friends were lacking in it.

It wasn’t only the company that had spurred him to leave early. Feeling an ache settling into his bones, he was forced to accept that he had not fully recovered from a recent chest cold. The stink and noise filling Cavender House were aggravating his poorly condition. He had managed to extricate himself, tired and wanting nothing more than to throw himself into a bath at his ancestral home. It was a long road to Aubrey Hall but he thought he had the strength to manage it.

Except now there was a strange young woman in the road and he was not one to ignore a soul in distress. The nearest village was at least two miles away and she was alone, carrying nothing but a small bag which, he guessed, was everything she owned if she had just left the employment of the house. From what he could see of her in the moonlight she was lovely, with a short crop of hair and large, luminous eyes. He had the oddest sensation that they may have met before, though he didn’t know how that was possible. Perhaps she had worked in a household he had visited.

Dismounting, he stood before her, trying his best to seem trustworthy. “Something drove you out of the house in a hurry.” 

Sophie continued to stare, unwilling to believe that he didn’t recognize her even now that they were so close. 

Benedict was running out of ideas to get her to speak so instinctively, he reverted to humor. “I’ve just come from there myself. Between you and I, it was turning my stomach to be around that bunch of louts. Plenty of drink, plenty of frivolity, but certainly no sense of taste.”

“No,” Sophie rasped, beginning to understand how he came to be there. It had indeed been a tasteless party, led by a tasteless host. She was reassured that Benedict wasn’t of the same ilk as Cavender, given his poor opinion of it. For the past two years the memory of him had been the only thing giving her the motivation to press on through the toil of each day, the dream of him and the fantasy life they may have shared together if she had been born legitimate. If it had turned out that he was no better than Cavender, she would have nothing left in her miserable little life. Not even the memory of the masquerade to treasure. But here he was, miraculously comforting her by the roadside, an avenue to safety. 

She opened up to him, surprised at her own words. “I was treated roughly so decided to leave.” Not the whole truth, but enough to explain why she was walking through the night.

Benedict’s brow furrowed with concern and he nodded. “May I ask your name?”

Her name. The name he had begged her for at the masquerade. Now she would tell him for the first time. “Sophie Beckett,” she croaked.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Beckett. Are you headed to the village?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “To the Wayside Inn.”

“Would you permit me to take you there?” He chose his words carefully. He didn’t know what this woman had endured at Cavender’s but if it was enough to send her hiking out into the road at night, it must have been awful. Being approached by another man was likely the last thing she wanted, but if she trusted him, he’d rather it be him escorting her than god knows who else. If she declined, he would leave her be.

“Yes,” she agreed so readily it surprised him. 

“Excellent,” he smiled. “I will drop you there and continue on.” Surely he could manage a detour on the way to Aubrey Hall. He would rest easier knowing she was safe. He held out his hand. She did not take it. She just continued to stare at him curiously, her head cocked to the side. “Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.

And that’s when Sophie realized. When they first met her face had been covered by a mask. Her hair had been longer and powdered to a lighter shade, lovely tresses that she had since sold to a wigmaker. She had grown scrawny in the intervening years of hard servitude. It was two entire years ago and they had only spoken for an hour or so, outside in the dark of the Bridgerton House garden. She understood now. He didn’t recognize her. How could he? She was not the same woman he had met on that magical night. 

She finally took his hand, her thoughts racing. Should she reveal herself? Would he believe her? As she followed him silently, he led her to the horse and patted the beast gently. “This is Danae. Not as comfortable as a carriage I’m afraid, but certainly faster than walking.” He grinned, his lopsided smile crinkling his eyes, and she felt her legs falter. 

As her mind whirred, Sophie moved automatically, lifting herself onto Danae and perching sideways behind the saddle. Benedict looked up at her, the cheeky grin still playing on his lips. “Where are my manners? I’m Mr. Benedict Bridgerton by the way.”

She almost said “I know,” but caught herself. Her voice cracked as she feigned ignorance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He glanced down at her legs. “If it would be easier, you can sit astride. No need to stand on ceremony with me.”

Benedict was on his most gentlemanly behavior. It was only right that he escort this quiet, poor young woman away from the fiend Cavender’s house and to a place of safety. It was also ridiculous to force her to ride sidesaddle. Firstly, she was not even properly in a saddle, and second, it was a most awkward feat that he had never understood how women managed. He genuinely wanted her to be secure and comfortable while they rode. But he also couldn’t help finding something alluring in the way she lifted her leg and swung it around to sit astride. 

Sophie caught a flicker of something devilish in his eyes as she repositioned herself. It forced a smirk across her own face even as the debate raged within her on whether to tell him that they had met before.

Benedict mounted into the saddle and took the reins. He was an inch away from her now, his broad back and dark hair filling her vision. She could see the fine velvet texture of his coat, the glint of the moonlight off the waves of his hair, and she could smell his cologne - sandalwood, fresh parchment, a walk in a green forest. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, her every sense engulfed by the man in front of her. Was this a dream? Was it a nightmare?

“Hold on,” he said over his shoulder. Sophie’s eyes flew open. Oh god, she hadn’t even thought about this when she agreed to ride with him. She would have to hold onto him, to wrap her arms around him and press their bodies together. She didn’t know if she would be able to bear it, but there certainly wasn’t any way to avoid it now. With great trepidation, she settled her bag securely in her lap then lightly rested a hand on either side of his torso.

She could hear him chuckle under his breath. “Tighter than that or else you’ll fall off, Miss Beckett.” Gently, he pulled her hands across his chest. Her palms rested against the buttons of his coat and she trembled as she realized she could feel him breathing. 

“There we are,” she could hear the smile in his voice. Then he signaled to Danae, tapped her with the stirrups and they set off in a gentle, steady trot. 

They encountered no one else on the road and the night was silent save for the trills of evening insects. This was nothing like the masquerade where they had so much to say to one another. But Sophie reminded herself that this was different. She was a maid and he was a gentleman of the ton. They shouldn’t have anything in common now.

But still, she kept waiting for him to recognize her and tell her he’d been looking for her for two years. But that wasn’t going to happen, she soon realized. He couldn’t recognize the lady in the housemaid, and in all truth, why should he?

People saw what they expected to see. And Benedict Bridgerton surely didn’t expect to see a fine lady of the ton in the guise of a humble housemaid.

Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t thought of him, hadn’t remembered his lips on her skin, or the heady magic of that costumed night. He had become the centerpiece of her fantasies, dreams in which she was a different person, with different parents. In her dreams, she’d met him at a ball, maybe her own ball, hosted by her devoted mother and father. He courted her sweetly, with fragrant flowers and stolen kisses. And then, on a mellow spring day, while the birds were singing and a gentle breeze rustled the air, he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him, professing his everlasting love and adoration.

It was a fine daydream, surpassed only by the one in which they lived happily ever after, man and wife, always with a new adventure in store; traveling across the Continent, filling their home with art and music, and visiting with the large Bridgerton family, a family that she could then call her own.

But even with all her fantasies, she never imagined she’d actually see him again, much less be rescued by him from the roadside after escaping a licentious attacker.

Benedict broke her reverie with a rasping cough before asking, “Is that bag all that you have?” 

“Yes,” she admitted. “This is everything.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “You have quite a refined accent for a housemaid.”

He was not the first to make that observation, so Sophie gave him the answer she kept in store. “My mother was a housekeeper to a very generous family. They allowed me to share some of their daughter’s lessons.”

“Why do you not work there?” With an expert twist of his wrists, he guided Danae to the left side of the fork in the road. “I assume you do not speak of the Cavenders.”

“No,” she replied, trying to devise a proper answer. No one had ever bothered to probe deeper than her offered explanation. No one had ever been interested enough to care. “My mother passed on,” she finally replied, “and I did not deal well with the new housekeeper.”

He seemed to accept that and they rode on for a few minutes. The night was almost silent, save for the wind, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and an occasional hacking cough from Benedict.

“Are you unwell, Mr. Bridgerton?” Sophie asked. 

“I’m fine,” he gasped, jerking slightly on the reins. 

And then there was more silence. Sophie tried to keep her eyes scrupulously straight on the road ahead, but they unfailingly wandered back to Benedict, to his shoulders, his hair, the angle of his jaw. She had the most absurd fear that if their eyes met, he would finally recognize her. But that was mere fancy. He’d already looked her squarely in the eye, more than once even, and he still thought her nothing but a housemaid.

Benedict was trying to fight down the coughs that continued to rise from his chest but it was getting harder and harder to do so. What a strange night. He could feel the creep of his oncoming illness and was growing more weary with each passing minute. He desperately wanted to rest but he also felt singularly invested in seeing Miss Beckett safely delivered to the inn. While rare enough to have a stranger riding on Danae, her arms wrapped around him, he felt the oddest tingling sensation across his skin where she was touching him. The heat of her against his back nearly made him shudder. There was something about her he couldn’t place. He stole a glance over his shoulder. There was something familiar about the curve of her cheek as well…

“Have we met?” he blurted out.

“No,” she choked, her answer instinctual as a spike of fear shot through her. “I don’t believe so.” 

“I’m sure you’re right,” he muttered, “but still you do seem rather familiar.”

“All housemaids look the same,” she said with a wry smile.

“I used to think so,” he mumbled. 

Sophie admonished herself as soon as the words left her lips. Didn’t she want him to recognize her? Wasn’t she hoping he would come to his senses, leap off the horse, gather her in his arms and declare his love? Didn’t she want him to carry her off to the life of her dreams?

But that was precisely the problem. They were just dreams. In her dreams she knew Benedict Bridgerton. In her dreams he loved her. Loved her enough to marry her despite the circumstances of her birth and the chasm of a class divide that existed between them. These were dreams and nothing more. In reality she barely knew this man. He had flirted with her at a masquerade when he believed she was a debutante. Just because it had been special for her did not mean it was special for him. He was a man, after all, and had most likely had passionate encounters with dozens of other women. She knew, in his position, that he attended scores of balls. Why should one masquerade stand out in his memory? Perhaps it was so insignificant that he never again thought of the lady in silver. If she revealed herself to him now there was a fair chance he would feel honor bound to return her to Cavender House or perhaps to Araminta. Either way she would end up in prison for theft or attack. Quite the opposite of a dream come true. 

It was best if he did not recognize her. She didn’t know if she could survive his rejection or retribution. She would be grateful for this second meeting that they had, though she railed against fate that it felt like a bittersweet joke being played upon her. She would enjoy the sight and feel and smell of him, the sound of his voice, for these brief moments, rounding off the dreams she had carried with her for years, then allow him to leave her at the inn and once again exit her life. It was heartbreakingly painful but she knew it was for the best.

As if the sky acknowledged her sorrow, she suddenly felt the plop of raindrops spattering her shoulders. 

“It’s raining,” she observed, immediately scolding herself for sounding obtuse.

Benedict looked up. The moon was now obscured by clouds. “It didn’t look like rain when I left,” he murmured. A fat raindrop landed on his thigh. “But I do believe you’re correct.”

She glanced at the sky. “The wind has picked up quite a bit. I hope it doesn’t storm.”

“Of course it will,” he said wryly. “Because we are out in the open. If we were in a carriage there wouldn’t be a could in the sky.”

“How close are we to the village?”

“About half an hour away, I should think.” He frowned. “Provided we are not slowed by the rain.”

“Well, I do not mind a bit of rain,” she said gamely. Then her voice grew quieter, “I have not yet thanked you.” 

Benedict turned his head sharply but again could only see the side of her face. By all that was holy, there was something damned familiar about her voice. But she was just a simple housemaid. A very attractive housemaid, to be sure, but a housemaid nonetheless. No one with whom he would ever have crossed paths.

“Any gentleman would have done the same,” he said at last. He wasn't sure which part of him was tied into tighter knots, his body, which was heating up as his throat began to ache, or his mind which was perplexed at why this woman was having such an odd effect on him.

Then the heavens opened up in earnest with a crack of thunder. Within minutes both of them were soaked through, pummeled by rain torrenting in sheets.

“I’ll get there as quickly as I can,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the wind.

“Don’t worry about me!” she assured him.

He nudged Danae into a faster pace, but the road was growing muddy, and the wind was whipping the rain every which way, reducing the already mediocre visibility.

Bloody hell. This was just what he needed. He knew he was already falling ill, and a ride in the freezing rain would not help matters. Of course, if he were ill, his mother couldn’t try to cajole him into attending every single party in town, all in the hopes that he would find some suitable young lady and settle down into a quiet and happy marriage.

To his credit, he always kept his eyes open, was always on the lookout for a prospective bride. He certainly wasn’t opposed to marriage on principle. His brother Anthony and his sister Daphne had made splendidly happy matches. But Anthony’s and Daphne’s marriages were splendidly happy because they’d been smart enough to wed the right people, and Benedict was quite certain he had not yet met the right person.

No, he thought, his mind wandering back a few years, that wasn’t entirely true. He'd once met someone…

The lady in silver.

When he’d held her in his arms and twirled her around in her very first waltz, he’d felt something different inside, a fluttering, tingling sensation. It should have scared the hell out of him.

But it hadn’t. It had left him breathless, excited…and determined to have her.

But then she’d disappeared. It was as if the world were actually flat, and she’d fallen right off the edge. And his long search had been fruitless. Interviewing family, friends and staff, no one knew anything about a young lady attending the masquerade in a silver dress. No one except his brother Colin who had also met her for a brief moment but confessed he had never seen her before or since. He had leaned hard on his younger brother, driven to near madness by every dead end he had encountered. Had Colin slipped something into his tea? Recruited a friend to seduce him as some kind of elaborate prank? When he saw the flicker of concern in Colin’s eyes he eased off, ashamed of how uncharacteristically bitter he was becoming.

He remained distraught. His only other clue, the lady’s silver glove, had also yielded no helpful information. He had clung to it, carrying it in his pocket for three days before Eloise asked why he had not brought it to the modiste to decipher its origins. In truth, he had thought of doing so but had not yet mustered the courage to face Genevieve, an old flame that had been so swiftly and unceremoniously snuffed out without explanation. With little more than a dismissive curtsy she had moved on, no longer escorting him in debaucherous adventures through the demi-monde. It was her prerogative of course and he harbored no ill will toward her, but still felt a pang of shame speaking to her again for the first time with another woman’s glove in his hand, begging his former lover to help him find the woman he wanted to marry.

In a few days more, the enduring mystery pushed him past his embarrassment and he found himself standing on the doorstep of the dress shop. Gen was surprised to see him and looked even more baffled as he produced the solitary silver glove, asking if she knew where it had been made and perhaps who had purchased it. Her expression was unreadable as she took it from him, examined it for a moment and then proclaimed she didn’t recognize it. She suspected it may have been purchased from any number of shops or street vendors but it was not her creation. After awkwardly extending his thanks, Benedict was back on the street marching to every clothier, atelier and corner shop he could find. None of them would claim ownership of the glove and each failed attempt widened the void of despair growing in his heart.

Over two years he never learned anything more about his lady in silver. For all intents and purposes, it was as if she hadn’t even existed.

He’d watched for her at every ball, party, and musicale he attended. Hell he attended twice as many functions as usual, just in the hopes that he’d catch a glimpse of her. 

But he’d always come home disappointed.

He’d thought he would stop looking for her. He was a practical man, and he’d assumed that eventually he would simply give up. And in some ways, he had. After a few months he found himself back in the habit of turning down more invitations than he accepted. A few months after that, he realized that he was once again able to meet women and not automatically compare them to her. 

But he couldn’t stop himself from watching for her. He might not feel the same urgency, but whenever he attended a ball or took a seat at a musicale, he found his eyes sweeping across the crowd, his ears straining for the lilt of her laughter.

She was out there somewhere. He’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t likely to find her, and he hadn’t searched actively for over a year, but…

He smiled wistfully, despite the rain on his face. He just couldn’t stop from looking. It had become, in a very strange way, a part of who he was. His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and sketching charcoal, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.

He kept hoping…and wishing…and watching. And even though he told himself it was probably time to marry, he just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to do so.

Because what if he put his ring on some woman’s finger, and the next day he saw her?

It would be enough to break his heart.

No, it would be more than that. It would be enough to shatter his soul.

Benedict breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the distant lights of the village of Rosemeade. He determined that he too would need to shelter at the inn for the night before continuing on to Aubrey Hall the next day. 

He felt a pang of concern as he realized Miss Beckett’s pale hands were shivering against his chest. But, he thought with a touch of admiration, she hadn’t let out even a peep of complaint. Benedict tried to think of another woman of his acquaintance who would have stood up to the elements with such fortitude, and came up empty-handed. 

“We’re almost there,” he assured her, but his voice faltered and he was gripped by a wave of coughs, the deep, hacking kind that rumble down in one’s chest. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and his throat like someone had taken a razor blade to it. 

Sophie winced as he convulsed within her arms. “You don’t sound well.” she shouted over the wind.

“I’ve a cold coming on,” he called back to her.

“I don’t want you getting sick on my account.” She tried to sound somewhat teasing, but in truth, she was terribly concerned. 

He tried to grin, but his face ached too much. “I would’ve been caught in the rain whether I’d taken you along or not. I was planning to go as far as Aubrey Hall, which is miles away.”

“Still - “ Whatever she’d intended to say was lost under another stream of deep, chesty coughs. Danae whinied as the reins went slack, but she held her course toward the village lights. 

Benedict shook his head, trying to clear the rain from his eyes and hold himself together for the final few minutes. His coughing fits were coming closer and closer together, and each time they were deeper, more rumbly, as if they were coming from the very pit of his chest. His throat was torn raw, but he kept his eyes ahead and spurred Danae on. Sophie’s hands clung to him tightly, with concern or fear he wasn’t sure, but he was grateful because she was, in fact, helping him to stay upright. 

He was wheezing by the time they reached the village high road and fortunately, the Wayside Inn was situated at the near edge of town. He turned Danae into the stables alongside the building, not bothering for anyone to wave them in. They had to get out of the rain. Once under the rooftop, a stableboy appeared and ran over to grip the horse’s harness.

“Evening, Miss. Evening, my lord. Nasty weather!” 

Benedict didn’t have the breath to converse unnecessarily. He went to haul himself down from the saddle but discovered that his every bone ached, his skin was on fire, and his clothes were so heavy with rain that he failed to rise. Before he knew it, Sophie had jumped down and was talking with the boy. His ears were ringing and he missed what was said, but the boy hitched Danae to the nearest post and dashed into the building.

“Come inside,” Sophie looked up at him and extended her hands. He stared at her, seeing her in the lantern light for the first time. She was soaked through in her thin cloak, dripping strands of her short hair matted against her face, her skin white with cold. Her large eyes were concerned but also insistent. She wasn’t delicate, that much was clear, and she was now trying to escort him to the inn, when he knew it should be the other way round. Truly, was he that weak that he had to be helped down from his horse by a woman? He appreciated her concern but he would not be so humiliated. Another round of coughs bent him double over Danae’s neck and he fought to regain his breath. He still ignored her hands and half-fell out of the saddle but was caught from stumbling to the ground by a man in an apron who had just emerged.

“Woah! All right, my lord?” the man asked, steadying Benedict on his feet. 

Before he could respond, Sophie spoke, “Mr. Bridgerton is quite ill and will need a room for the night, as will I. Please help him inside.”

Benedict was dumbfounded. Who was this maid to be issuing orders and tending to him like a child? He was very well in control…

“Very good,” said the man in the apron, placing an arm around Benedict’s back and urging him forward. Though he hated to admit it, Benedict did indeed need the support, as his legs were all but failing him, muscles sore from the ride and bones aching within. Sophie followed closely behind as they all entered the inn while the stableboy returned to tend to Danae.

The Wayside Inn was warm and charming, an undeniable refuge from the wailing storm outside. The man with Benedict did not stop at the front desk but continued straight down a candlelit hall and guided Benedict, stumbling, into a room. Sophie turned to the man at the desk. He was white-haired and rotund, with mutton chops and kind eyes.

“Don’t worry, Miss,” he spoke gently. “We’ll see that the gentleman is taken care of. I’m the innkeeper, Mr. Cooper,” he smiled.

“Thank you Mr. Cooper. I’m Miss Sophie Beckett.” Sophie was suddenly aware of how awful she must look, like a drowned rat with her clothes dripping pools onto the floor, but he did not seem to take notice. 

Mr. Cooper bent and scribbled something in his ledger. “And the gentleman you are with, the boy said he’s a Mr. Bridgerton?” 

“Yes,” Sophie nodded. She had sent the stable boy inside to fetch help and had shared his surname, hoping it would carry a weight deserving of urgency. “Mr. Benedict Bridgerton,” she confirmed. He scribbled again and she continued. “He was delivering me here before continuing on to Aubrey Hall. But he has fallen ill. We will need two rooms for the night, and can you send word to the Hall in the morning to send a carriage to collect him?”

Mr. Cooper nodded, “Aubrey Hall, yes, yes. I’ll send a boy there as soon as the rain stops. Cost for the two rooms…” He stopped writing and looked up as she began to dig into her small, soaked bag. “Cost will be charged to the Bridgerton estate. I’ll send the bill with the boy tomorrow.”

Sophie froze. The innkeeper likely assumed she was a maid employed by the Bridgertons and as such, Benedict would pay for her. That or he was extending her a courtesy and being incredibly diplomatic about it. She had the coin to afford a night in a modest room of the inn but could not afford two. It did make sense for Benedict’s expenses to be charged to his estate but she should pay her own way. She decided not to confuse the matter. She would settle up with Benedict, paying him in reimbursement.

She thanked Mr. Cooper as the man in the apron returned to the entryway. “Follow me, Miss,” he beckoned her down the same hall and into a large guest room. 

This was far more than the modest tier of room she could afford. It was clearly one of the inn’s finest accommodations reserved for upper class guests with a four poster bed, upholstered armchairs and a fire roaring away in the tiled fireplace. Sophie stood in the doorway gaping but before she could protest, the man explained. “Mr. Bridgerton requested that you have the room next to his.” There was, she detected, a tone of curiosity and perhaps a bit of snideness to his voice. No doubt he wanted to know why a bedraggled housemaid had shown up with a distinguished member of the ton and was being granted such luxury. She too wanted to know why Benedict had requested this.

“You will also need some dry clothes,” the man continued. “I have sent one of the maids to find a spare night dress.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said weakly, overwhelmed.

The man half-smiled, half-grimaced, then closed the door. The warmth of the fire beckoned her and she went to stand before it, holding her hands as close to the flames as she dared. She peeled off her damp cloak and smoothed her hair to look halfway presentable. She sat before the fire, warming herself and staring about the beautiful room. There certainly was no way she could afford to reimburse Benedict now. But, she reminded herself, if it was his request to have her stay in this room, she supposed he planned to pay for it as well. 

Without warning, she found herself inexplicably in tears. She cried for what could have been her fate that evening, and she cried for what had been her fate ever since her father died. She cried for the memory of when Benedict held her in his arms at the masquerade, and she cried because she had held him in her arms this very night. 

She cried because he was so damned nice, and even though he was clearly ill, even though she was, in his eyes, nothing but a housemaid, he still wanted to care for her and protect her. 

She cried because she hadn’t let herself cry in longer than she could remember, and she cried because she felt so alone. 

And she cried because she’d been dreaming of him for so very long, and he hadn’t recognized her. It was probably best that he did not, but her heart still ached from it. Eventually her tears subsided and she eyed the bed, feeling the weight of exhaustion descending on her. God above, a feather mattress and down coverlet looked like heaven on earth. She hadn’t slept in such comfort in years. But first, she should look in on Benedict.

Stepping out into the hall, she approached the door she had seen him led into. She knocked and called out quietly, “Mr. Bridgerton?”

A muffled sort of groan replied, which would have sounded like an invitation if it had been intelligible. She let herself inside and closed the door. Benedict was sprawled in an armchair before the fireplace, feet resting on the small table in front of him which held a decanter and glass half-full of some spirit. His outer coat had been removed but he was still in all of his sopping clothes, waistcoat unbuttoned and cravat hanging loose. He was pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and his disheveled hair continued to send rivulets of rain down the sides of his face. He clearly had collapsed there upon arrival and not moved since.

“How are you, sir?” She asked.

His eyes rolled slowly to look at her. “Not too well,” he rasped.

The fire he sat beside was not as tall as the one in her own room, Sophie noticed. She moved across and knelt, turning the logs with the poker. “You need to get warm,” she said. She could feel his eyes on her and suddenly wondered if it was dangerous to remain in the same room as him. She didn’t think he was likely to make an untoward advance; he was far too much of a gentleman to foist himself upon a woman he barely knew. No, the danger lay squarely within herself. Frankly, she was terrified that if she spent too much time in his company she might fall head over heels in love.

And what would that get her? Nothing but a broken heart. Sophie huddled in front of the fireplace for several minutes, stoking the flame until she was confident that it would not flicker out. “There,” she announced once she was satisfied. 

She turned to look up at him. For the first time that night she could see his face clearly in the bright light of the fire. She held her breath, seeing how simultaneously similar but still how different he looked from the vision in her dreams. When they first met he had been wearing a mask, the same as her, and she had only seen his full face for one fleeting moment after the gong had sounded and before she had run away. She had had to construct his face in her mind from that single moment and often found it easier to remember him in the mask. But here he was, in the flesh. His mouth was the same as her memory, his eyes the same piercing blue-grey, bloodshot as they may be at the moment. But to see all his features together, they were greater than the sum of their parts. He looked older now, slightly more world-weary, and like he smiled less often. His hair too was shorter, lending to him an air of increased responsibility, making him look less wild and boyish.

“Thank you for the room,” she said softly. “I could have paid for my own.”

“No,” he croaked, reaching for the glass on the table. “I needed to make sure you were somewhere warm. I didn’t get you from the side of the road just so you could die of influenza.”

He took a gulp of the brown spirit, swallowed, but then began to cough anew, the spasms wracking his body and forcing him to bend over at the waist.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton,” she could not help commenting, “but of the two of us, I should think you’re more in danger of contracting influenza.”

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, “I-”

“There’s nothing to feel sorry about,” she said. “You need to get into bed.” 

He swallowed convulsively and nodded, rising unsteadily to his feet, and managing to plod over to the bed. He bent over as he was once again engulfed by coughs. Sophie hurried to his side and stumbled under his weight when he decided to lean against her instead of the bedpost.

“Over here,” she guided him to sit on the edge of the mattress.

He grinned, “You coming?”

She pulled back, “Now I think you’re feverish.”

He lifted his hand to touch his forehead, but he smacked his nose instead. “Ow,” he frowned, sticking out his lower lip. His hand crept up to his forehead. “Hmmm, maybe I am a bit hot.”

It was horribly familiar of her, but his health was at stake, so Sophie reached out and touched her hand to his brow. It was burning. In fact, she could feel the heat radiating off the whole of his body from where she stood. “You need to get out of those wet clothes,” she said. “Immediately.”

Benedict looked down, blinking as if the sight of his sodden clothing was a surprise. “Yes,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe I do.” His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, but they were clammy and numb and kept slipping and sliding. Finally, he just shrugged at her and said helplessly, “I can’t do it.”

“Oh, dear.” she sighed. “Here,” First things first, she pulled his jacket down from his shoulders and he moved his arms to help her slip it off. It felt as if it weighed ten pounds, it was so wet. Next was his waistcoat, a lovely deep blue color with a gold brocade. Then her fingers went to work on his cravat, golden yellow silk held together with a jewel encrusted pin in the shape of a honeybee. She knelt before him, gently tugging the knots loose. He gave her a lopsided smile, his voice slurring, “Not very…” he coughed again, this one lower and deeper than before. “...gentlemanly of me.”

“Oh I think I can forgive you this time, considering the way you helped me this evening.” She smirked at him as she pulled the cravat loose, the wrapped layers slipping around his neck until it was freed. All that was left was his ruffled shirt. She made quick work of the buttons, gritting her teeth and doing her best to keep her gaze averted as each undone button revealed another two inches of his skin. “Almost done,” she muttered. “Just a moment now.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, so she looked up at his face. His eyes were closed and his entire body was swaying slightly. 

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked softly.

Benedict’s eyes flew open. “What?”

“You’re drifting off,” she warned him. “You can’t fall asleep in wet clothing.” 

He blinked confusedly. 

“Have you something dry you can change into?” she asked.

He shrugged the shirt off, tossing it to the floor. Sophie felt her stomach lurch, kneeling before him as he sat there shirtless, and she instinctively stood and stepped back. 

“No,” he mumbled, his hands falling to the buttons on his waistband.

“What are you doing?”

He looked over at her as if she’d asked the most inane question in the world. “Taking my trousers off.”

“Couldn’t you at least wait until I’d turned my back?”

He stared at her blankly.

She stared back.

He stared some more. Finally, he said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to turn your back?”

“Oh!” she yelped, spinning around as if someone had lit a fire under her feet.

Benedict shook his head wearily as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots and stockings. God save him from prudish misses. He stripped off his trousers - not an easy task considering they were still more than a little damp and he quite literally had to peel them from his skin. Once he was undressed, he quirked a brow in the direction of Sophie’s back. She was standing rigidly, her hands fisted tightly at her sides. 

With surprise, he realized the sight of her made him smile. Overwhelmed by descending exhaustion and the aching of his entire body, he grabbed the edge of the coverlet, dragged it over himself, sagged back against the pillows and groaned.

“Are you all right?” Sophie called.

He made an effort to say, “Fine,” but it came out more like, “Fmmph.”

He heard her moving about, and when he summoned up the energy to lift one eyelid halfway open, he saw that she’d moved back to the side of the bed. She looked concerned. 

For some reason, that seemed rather sweet. It had been a long time since any woman who wasn’t related to him had been concerned for his welfare. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to give her a reassuring smile. But his voice sounded like it was coming through a long narrow tunnel. “Go to bed,” he grunted.

“Are you certain?”

He nodded. It was getting too difficult to speak.

“Very well. If you need anything, just call out.”

He nodded again. Or at least he tried to. Then he slept.

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @eg-dr3amer3 @time-to-hit-the-clouds @lyta2323 @autumn-grace @sadprose-auroras @the-other-art-blog @goldrambutan @colettebronte @heeyyyou @musicismyoxygen84 @faye-tale @ambitionspassionscoffee @starchaser325 @malna4903

[reyllos]

Chapters: 4/?

Chapter Summary: Colin Bridgerton might be spiralling out of control

Fandoms: Bridgerton (TV); Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn

Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington; Eloise Bridgerton & Penelope Featherington; Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sheffield | Kate SharmaAnthony & Benedict & Colin & Daphne & Eloise & Francesca & Gregory & Hyacinth Bridgerton; Benedict Bridgerton & Colin Bridgerton; Colin Bridgerton & Violet Bridgerton; Eloise Bridgerton/Phillip Crane; if you squint; Harry Dankworth/Prudence Featherington; Colin Bridgerton & Eloise Bridgerton

Characters: Colin Bridgerton; Penelope Featherington; Eloise Bridgerton; Benedict Bridgerton; Francesca Bridgerton; Violet Bridgerton; Hyacinth Bridgerton; Gregory Bridgerton; Portia Featherington; Prudence Featherington; Harry Dankworth; Cressida Cowper; Lord Debling (Bridgerton); Lady Whistledown (Bridgerton); Kate Sheffield | Kate Sharma; Anthony Bridgerton; Daphne Bridgerton

Additional Tags: Romance; Slow Romance; Slow Burn; Happy Ending; Angst with a Happy Ending; Friends to Lovers; Colin Bridgerton Being an Idiot; an idiot we love truly; Regency Romance; Season 3a season 3/ book fic as I would have written both; Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington-centric; Bridgertons Being Bridgertons; Bridgerton Family Feels; Eloise and Colin getting closer as they are the only ones that know about lady whistledown; and see penelope; and have their own penelope dramas; penelope being the amazing woman we all know she is; bridgerton family being crazy and supportive; Romancing Mr Bridgerton (book) spoilers (in a way)

Summary:

“Fail to unders-” Colin shook his head and took a step closer to her again, “I’m sure you are aware that it is a gentleman’s duty to marry a lady should he bring dishonour upon her.”

“Yes, but you’re not a gentleman, you’re Colin,” she interrupted him, her blue eyes boring into his, “You don’t count.”

Taken aback by the explanation, he could only stare at her in disbelief. Those words were familiar to him, yet they made him feel strange.

"Just look at our surroundings," Penelope gestured to the empty room. “We are without a chaperone, as we have been on multiple occasions. Suppose someone were to enter through those doors at this very moment, we would be under an obligation to marry, regardless of whether or not we kissed. So, what difference does it make?”

----

The year is 1815, and Colin Bridgerton devises the brilliant strategy to aid Penelope Featherington in attracting eligible suitors.

[oflightningandstars]

Moocho/Milligan snibbet from Milligan fatigue au (nebulous collection of ideas)

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."

Milligan curled closer into Moocho and let out a pained noise.

Moocho wrapped his arm more securely around Milligan, and gently placed his other hand on Milligan's cheek, tilting his face towards his own.

Milligan's cheeks were wet with tears and his eyes were red above dark bags. He was looking away from Moocho, as if by not observing Moocho he could prevent Moocho from observing him. Moocho's heart broke once again.

"Milligan." His voice was soft. "Look at me, please."

Milligan slowly turned his eyes towards Moocho. Moocho smiled reassuringly. "There you go."

Moocho pressed a kiss to Milligan's forehead, then pulled back to look at him.

"You do not owe us anything, Milligan. We all love you so much just for you. Whether you have energy or not. You know Mr. Benedict thinks things will get better, but even if they don't, or if it takes years, we will all love you and take care of you. I promise."

Milligan made a noise that sounded concerningly close to a sob and buried his face in Moocho's chest.

Moocho held him close, rubbing soothing circles into his back as he cried. He murmured soothing noises and began rocking slightly back and forth, and Milligan moved easily with him.

After a bit, Milligan's tears slowed. Moocho kept up the rocking; it seemed to be helping.

Eventually, Milligan sniffed and leaned back, scrubbing at his face with a hand.

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for, honey. Nothing."

Milligan didn't respond.

Moocho noticed that his eyes had a somewhat glassy sheen; he was staring into space just over Moocho's shoulder.

"Do you want to sleep, honey?"

It took a second for Milligan to respond, with a quiet "yes, please."

"Alright." Moocho smiled gently at Milligan, who was now blinking blearily at him. Oh, he was adorable.

"You are so sweet, did you know that?" Moocho said, quiet. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." Milligan sounded like he was falling asleep already.

Moocho gathered Milligan into his arms, and Milligan melted completely.

"Sleep well, my love," Moocho murmured as he settled himself and Milligan onto the pillows and pulled the comforter over them.

[sea-owl]

Show!Bridgerton meeting their book counterparts

Oh that would be wild, especially since show Bridgertons tends to be younger than their book counterparts, with the exception of Kate I believe. I think the show aged her up and made her closer to Benedict's age.

Hold on I'm having Polin thoughts:

Imagine show!Colin met book!Colin on his way home right before the start of season 3. Now book!Colin has already lived his love story and is a happily married man with a child on the way so he's kinda confused as to why he woke up not in his bed. Also, why can no one see him? Did he die?! No, he couldn't have! Not with Penelope so close to giving birth!

Wait is that him? Fuck is he in the past?!

Turns out book!Colin is in a different timeline and show!Colin is the only one who can interact with him. They compare notes on what is different between their two timelines. Book!Colin also decides to keep his marriage quiet for now, he knows from experince show!Colin isn't ready for that yet. Book!Colin is pleasantly surprised when he learns that his other self is much closer to Penelope than he was at this age.

At least until that Penelope hits show!Colin with a cold, "Mr. Bridgerton."

Both Colins are sent in a whirlwind of shock and confusion.

"I thought you said you two were close!" Book!Colin exclaimed.

"We are!" Show!Colin said in hushed whisper, he was still in public after all. "I don't understand why she's acting like this."

Later when Violet and Anthony hand him a Lady Whistledown column both Colin understood.

"You're an idiot!" Book!Colin screamed at show!Colin once they were in his room. "I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington, no you shouldn't if this is how you treat her!"

Book!Colin is debating whether to strangle this younger version of himself or go find the younger version of his wife and curl her up in his arms. If he could touch her that is.

"She's only 19 yet you practically declared her a spinster to the entire ton! As if she's not good enough for you!"

Book!Colin knows he's being a little hypocritical, after all he himself told his brothers that he would never marry Penelope, and then made her wait another ten years. But book!Colin also never would have dared say something like that to the entirety of the ton, in his wife's own house and then laugh about it!

Show!Colin only glares at the floor. "I failed her. I promised to protect her and then I gave that damn Whistledown the gossip she needed to ruin her."

Book!Colin had to bite his tongue. It was loyalty to his wife that he stopped himself from wacking show!Colin over the head for insulting her. He would not reveal her secrets, no matter how much he disapproved.

He will however wack himself when he comes up with stupid ideas such as giving Penelope lessons in courting so she can attract a suitor that wasn't him.

Call him possessive, he doesn't care. There is no world where Penelope Featherington doesn't marry Colin Bridgerton. She will always be his true love. He just has to make his younger other self realize that too.

[regardstosoulandromance]

hello my friend are you also a bridgerton (books) fan if so i trust your judgement as to whether i should read them first or watch the series first

helloooooooo yes I have read all the books! Okay, the romances the show has done so far are Daphne, Anthony, Colin, in that order.

My favorites books are Antony’s (The Viscount Who Loved Me), Francesca’s (When He Was Wicked), and Hyacinth’s (It’s in His Kiss). I do recommend Anthony’s book before watching his season, there’s some plot and characterization changes that I liked in the book better but despite that, Anthony’s season (season two) is my favorite.

Daphne’s book (The Duke and I) and season one are pretty similar so if you just want to start the show you’re not missing anything. Her book was fine, there are some big issues in it surrounding sexual assault which I can explain in more detail if you want. (Also Daphne’s book and Anthony’s book have some very similar plot structure so reading both feels repetitive)

I haven’t watched season three, Penelope/Colin’s season, yet so I don’t know how it differs from the book. I didn’t like their book (Romancing Mr. Bridgerton) though because while I like Colin in literally every other book in the series, I found him super annoying in his book. But if you really really like Penelope, I think I remember liking her in her book.

Don’t read Benedict’s book, An Offer from a Gentleman. It’s horrible and now I hate Benedict so much because he’s the worst person ever. He’s fine in the show though.

I don’t really recommend Eloise’s book (To Sir Phillip, with Love) either. It’s just strange and doesn’t feel like it fits her character very well? Also has very troubling views about depression and suicide.

I liked Francesca’s book, When He Was Wicked, although it was after reading three bummers of the series in a row lol. It had deeper themes about being widowed and miscarriage and I liked the romance. I do recommend it, but it’s not necessary to watch the show since they’ve only begun to set up Francesca’s story in s3.

Hyacinth’s book (It’s in His Kiss) is SO FUN. It’s the most low stakes, it’s just a fun mystery with a lot of Lady Danbury who I love. Not necessary to watch the show, but if you want to read some of the books this one is good.

Gregory’s book (On the Way to the Wedding) is so weird. Don’t read it. It does have the one canon gay character but it was just,,, so weird and bad. Also not necessary to watch the show since Gregory is still like ten in the show.

tldr: I’m sorry this is such a long answer lol but all the books are their own thing. So the short answer is it’s not required to read all the books but I do recommend a couple of them, and at the very least Anthony’s.

[bosbas]

Chapter 7: you search in every maiden's bed for something greater

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader WC: 3.2k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, misogyny (not by anyone relevant dw), idiots in love being idiots in love, angst, mentions of sex and drinking

Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: errr.... it's going to get worse before it gets better. sorry in advance

June 19, 1814 - Perhaps word of this author's disappointment by the ton's lack of happenings has reached Bridgerton ears. Whispers around the ton indicate that Mr. Benedict Bridgerton has been packing his belongings for an extended duration, leading one to speculate if this departure is more than a fleeting journey. The observant eyes of society are left to wonder about the purpose behind such preparations and whether, in the midst of packing, the second Bidgerton son is inadvertently leaving behind not only his material possessions but also a potential union with a certain Miss Beaumont.

Benedict was just about done packing, disappointed that his upcoming trip had been pointed out in the ton's gossip column. He was hoping to slip out relatively quietly, not needing further speculation on why he was leaving you, an undoubted topic of conversation for Lady Whistledown. The very reason he was leaving was for your sake, and he didn't want anyone making his own absence harder for you. 

The past days had been nothing short of agonizing for more than a few reasons. Ben knew his mother was disappointed in him for leaving, not immune to her sad stares and soft sighs, but he just couldn't go on like this. If he ignored his feelings, he knew he wanted you to find a husband, just as you had asked him to let you do. But he couldn't ignore his feelings. Not entirely, at least. Benedict was going half insane watching you dance with eager suitors and hearing you talk about the exotic and beautiful bouquets you had later received from them. He could barely sleep, plagued by thoughts of someone else making you laugh, and the dull ache in his chest had become a permanent fixture. 

His art studio felt cold and empty now, rarely graced by your warm and lively presence. Ben couldn't find it in himself to spend the hours he used to in there, missing your animated commentary as you read whichever book you had taken from the Bridgerton library that day. He had barely been able to paint at all recently, inside or outside his studio, frustrated that every single sketch or painting he started was in some manner related to you. Worse, he found he had little to no inspiration for new works without you by his side. Every single aspect of his life was completely turned upside down by your absence. Even the moon looked different. He could not look at the stars at night without remembering how your eyes looked at night, reflecting the soft starlight in the sky. 

So he was leaving. Perhaps it was a cowardly thing to do, but Benedict was desperate to regain some sense of normalcy in his life. He knew he couldn't have you, but he couldn't watch someone else have you, either. The only viable choice he saw was to go away, back to the countryside. Of course, his family saw right through his weak excuse of "needing time away to work on his art," but at least no one had the sense to confront him about it. Yet still, the truth lingered in the look of pity he received from Anthony and Colin and the quietly exasperated "Are you joking?" he heard Francesca whisper to Hyacinth. 

Ben had come to see you a few days ago and broken the news, and you had barely been able to concentrate since. Even though you had established some distance from your best friend, you still relished in the comfort of his nearby presence. You knew that even if you had a dreadful dance at a ball, one quick smile from Ben could immediately heal your stepped-on feet and put you in a better mood. 

But you supposed him leaving was for the best. At the moment, you weren't seriously considering any suitors yet. No longer having Benedict by your side might end up being more beneficial to you, even if your eyes were constantly filled with unshed tears and your lower lip was raw from nervous biting at the thought of him away in the country for months on end. You supposed you would have to move on from him, laying your feelings to rest. That was the whole point, was it not? Benedict would leave, and you would stop wishing every man you talked to was him. 

You were in your garden now, hiding in your usual spot behind the rose bushes with your nose stuck in a book in an attempt to evade your mother's call to practice your needlepoint. With Benedict leaving tomorrow, you reasoned that you should be excused from mind-numbing activities such as sewing due to your emotional distress. Unfortunately, your mother did not share this opinion, and you were forced into hiding to escape her demands. 

Hearing footsteps coming your way, you shrunk further behind the bushes, hoping you hadn't been caught and could spare another five minutes of peace. 

"Y/N Beaumont, come out of there this instant. You cannot simply avoid me when you don't want to play the pianoforte," came Benedict's voice from above you, taking on a high-pitched voice as he attempted to imitate your mother when she was frustrated with her children. You instantly relaxed, bursting into laughter.

"You are so evil! I thought I had actually been caught out. Although my mother wants me to practice needlepoint instead of pianoforte this time," you said as you rolled your eyes, playfully hitting his arm as he sat beside you. 

Ben laughed, shaking his head and snatching your book from your hands, leafing through it absentmindedly. "Hmmm, I figured it was something like that. I came into your house and saw the Countess quite exasperated, asking me if I knew where you were hiding," he said. Seeing your widening eyes, he quickly continued, "Oh, but don't worry. I would never betray you like that. The rose bush stays between us."

"Well, since you're leaving tomorrow, you very well could have revealed the hiding spot and escaped an untimely death," you retorted. Although you meant it as a joke, you couldn't help the break in your voice as you took in the reality of Benedict leaving for the countryside. You wrapped your arms around one of his, resting your head on his shoulder. You were breaking every rule you had established for your friendship, but you didn't care anymore.

Sighing deeply, Benedict placed his hand on top of yours. He could easily sense the pain behind your playful dig and couldn't help feeling the same way. Not finding the strength to continue the faux-playful exchange, Ben simply placed a soft kiss on the top of your head. "Either way, I could never. You're still my best friend. Always have been, always will be, Y/N Beaumont." 

You could feel a wave of tears welling in your eyes, starting to flow as you softly said your next words. "I know. I'm going to miss you, Benedict Bridgerton."

He looked down at you, feeling a fondness so fierce he felt the prickling of tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat, wanting desperately to end this chapter of your lives on a good note. He grabbed your hands and stood you up so you were facing him. He could barely stand the sight of your tear-stained face, beautiful as ever despite your reddened eyes. A few quiet moments passed between you, both of you attempting to regain composure, but the pain of losing the other made it entirely impossible. 

He was still holding on to your hands, thumbs rubbing softly up and down in the way he had always done. But this time, they did not bring you comfort. Instead, you burst into tears, closing the short distance between you and sobbing into his chest, not caring that your tears might ruin his clothes. To be loved was to be changed, after all, and God did you love him.

Wrapping his arms tightly around you as you sobbed, Benedict was at a loss. He couldn't fathom what life would be like after you, barely remembering what it had been before you. To willingly walk away from this, from you in his arms, from your shared intimacy, from the unbreakable bond the two of you had formed over two decades... he had to be insane. Yet he had no choice, as the past few weeks had shown. All Ben could do was rub a comforting hand on your back as you cried, murmuring sweet nothings in an effort to alleviate the excruciating pain he knew you were feeling as well. 

Finally, he spoke. "I'm going to miss you more, Y/N. And I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to end like this. I never wanted it to end at all, actually." 

Feeling another kiss at the top of your head, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes. You were no longer sobbing, just sniffling as tears ran down your face. "Me neither," you choked out, eyes still on him. You wanted to take in as much of him as you could before he left. You wanted his face burned into your mind forever, leaving a permanent mark you could never get rid of. 

As you sniffled again, you felt him pull you into his chest, hearing him say softly, "It's going to be alright, darling." He placed a tender kiss on your forehead, pulling you back again to look you in the eyes. He then followed a delicate trail, pressing soft kisses between your furrowed brows, on the tip of your nose, and along the tear-streaked canvas of your cheeks. Then, hesitantly, he reached your lips. 

His eyes were intense, heavy with emotion, as you felt his lips hovering above yours. You had never been kissed before, but you would so easily forgo social norms if he just closed the distance between you. You were inches apart, breath intermingling, eyes boring into each other. You could feel the palpable electricity between you, a mix of fear and familiarity. In that suspended moment, your heart beating with his, anticipation hung thick in the air. You were about to cross a precipice of intimacy you never had before, finally acting on the pressure that had been building for years. You wanted him so badly, and you could tell he wanted you, too. At least right now. Desire was running through you in a way it never had before, and you wondered whether the sort of itch you were feeling right now was the same one Ben talked about when he explained the night of the marriage. Is this the itch that would be scratched? You understood what he meant now, needing him so desperately to touch his lips to yours, to bring you the relief you sought in him. Benedict moved a fraction of an inch closer to you, and you drew your breath in anticipation, lips forming into a smile. 

Yet suddenly, Benedict groaned and abruptly withdrew as if an unseen force compelled him to sever the burgeoning connection. Pushing you away in more senses than one, he roughly rubbed his face with his hands. You could tell he was in a state of complete panic. Hurt and confused, you watched him rub his eyes frustratedly, refusing to meet your gaze.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry," he stammered, a haunted look in his eyes betraying the fear of losing all the meticulously constructed defenses he had placed between you. "I don't know what came over me. That was so not right. I just—" His words stumbled, a confession hanging unspoken in the charged air between you.

You couldn't stop yourself from flinching, understanding the implications of his words. You supposed it should never have been like this. The two of you were best friends, after all. But you were desperate for him to look at you and give away some of what he was thinking, needing any sort of reassurance, so you reached out, softly gripping his bicep. "It's alright, Ben. I know you didn't—"

But he cut you off, his head shaking in fervent denial, avoiding your pleading eyes. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. Look, I should go; I still need to finish packing. But I'll come by early tomorrow morning to say goodbye if you're awake."

Without granting you a lingering look, he turned away, leaving you alone in the garden where you had played together as children, where your friendship had once blossomed. Tears ran unobstructed down your cheeks, and your heart broke cleanly in two. 

---

You found yourself promenading alongside Mr Henri Deschamps in Hyde Park once again, politely nodding every time he looked to you for reassurance that his talk about hunting was not, in fact, the most boring thing you had ever heard in your life. And it wasn't, but you were inclined to think that it was pretty close. Nevertheless, you liked Mr Deschamps more than most other suitors, enjoying the philosophical debates the two of you would sometimes engage in. 

Henri was from France but had come to England with his younger sister to see her married off last season. Although he was successful in this endeavor, he liked England so much that he chose to stay and find a wife for himself. Still, you were a tad fearful that Henri would want to return to France when, and if, the two of you were married. He had been courting you for a short time, only a couple of weeks. Still, you were careful in expressing your desire and taking it slow, despite thinking that you would probably end up marrying him if all kept going the same way it was now. 

All things considered, Mr Deschamps was an adequate match for you. He was intellectually stimulating at times, came from a good background to be able to provide for you, and he wasn't bad-looking either. Besides, his accent was fun to listen to even when his words were not. It had been nearly three weeks since Benedict had left for the country, and though you missed him terribly, you were having a much easier time actually thinking of your suitors as potential husbands instead of fun ways to pass time before you spoke to Ben next. 

Hearing Henri mention something related to a book you were currently reading, you perked up, excited. "Actually, I read that—" you started, only to be interrupted by the man at your side. 

"Ah, of course, you read this, you read that. When does it stop, Miss Beaumont? You are always reading something. Men do not want this. We want an obedient wife who will not cause us any more stress than we have in life. We want a wife who will give us heirs quickly and who will listen to what we say," came Mr Deschamps' interjection. You were stunned, frozen in your spot, but he grabbed your arm and continued speaking as he dragged you with him. 

"Men do not want a woman who is smarter than them, Miss Beaumont. How about you stick to your good qualities, oui? You are very beautiful, but no one will ever marry you if you keep discussing books. No one wants to hear about books," he finished, sending you a pointed look.

You could barely believe what you were hearing. "But—," you tried, only to be interrupted by Mr Deschamps once again. 

"But— But— But—," he mocked cruelly. "But nothing, Miss Beaumont. This is the truth, yet you still argue with me. It is the same in France as it is here: women should not argue with men. You would do well to remember that." 

You wrenched your arm out of his grasp, appalled by his egregious behavior. He rolled his eyes at your reaction, turning around and throwing his hands up in the air, clearly exasperated. You angrily stared after him as your mother, who had been walking a few paces behind the two of you, caught up. 

"What in the world was that? I cannot believe he spoke to you in such a disrespectful manner and in front of everyone, at that," she exclaimed, fuming. Clearly, she had heard at least some of your conversation. You could only shake your head in disbelief, still reeling from Henri's sudden outburst. He had effectively squashed your hopes of ever finding an appropriate husband in under three minutes. It would have been impressive if it didn't leave you so hopeless.

---

Far from the hubbub of the city, Benedict lay in his messy bed, staring at the now-empty spot beside him, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through his half-open curtains. With ever-deepening bags under his eyes and a dwindling excitement about life, he grappled with a reality he never thought he would confront. The echoes of your shared dreams from your youthful days mocked him, a poignant reminder of a time when marriage felt like a distant concept.

This had become somewhat of a routine by now. Benedict had taken to finding solace in the arms of various women, seeking momentary distraction from the ache in his heart. With each encounter, it became glaringly evident that physical intimacy offered no relief from the unending yearning he felt for you and your friendship, forever changed by his choices. 

Loneliness enveloped him each time the women left, a feeling he had become all too familiar with in the past few weeks. He barely slept, opting instead to imagine your life back in the city, full of exciting balls and surrounded by the warmth of your family. And his, he supposed. But most of all, he couldn't help the painful thoughts of you with another man, discussing your favorite books, or forming inside jokes with one another. 

He was comforted only by the fact that he had not yet received a wedding invitation. Surely Benedict would have been invited to the momentous occasion had you finally found someone to spend forever with. However, the comfort he felt from this was significantly overshadowed by the implications of your inevitable wedding. One last goodbye. A proper goodbye, this time. Here, in the countryside, he could theoretically return to you anytime. But once you were married, you would be gone forever, and the wanting he felt now would only multiply, consuming him entirely. 

In the quiet hours before dawn, he often wondered if the past could be revisited, a past where the two of you made plans to get married. The idea of a marriage where he was free to pursue his artistic endeavors and you continued your literary pursuits lingered in his thoughts every single night. It seemed that he was only interested in marriage if it was an arrangement similar to the one you had dreamt up as children, and the chances of attaining that were slim to none. Benedict found himself yearning for a simplicity that had been lost in the complexities of adulthood. With you married off, he would have to find a wife eventually. But perhaps he did not want to marry at all. Maybe he would stay a bachelor, making vows to his art rather than a woman he knew could never compare to you. 

For now, he continued his escapades. In the long run, he was not confident that this would help him forget you or forget the fierce love you inspired in him, but he was desperate for any way to stop thinking about you, if only for a few hours. So he indulged, going to raucous gatherings, mainly populated by artists. People used their canvases at these parties as a means of liberation, but he only used them to mask his true feelings. He could momentarily quiet his mind, painting and dancing and drinking before he eventually came crashing down to reality. 

—

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Tag List (lmk if you want to be added!): @bellahadidnt16 @like-gabriel-and-castiel @riverraingrayworld

[townsenddecades]

1308 – Day 2

It’s the summer harvest!

With Benedict, Bejamin and the girls helping out, it is still hard work, but doesn’t take as long as it would have done if father and son would have had to manage on their own. Only Gregory, Simon and Anne don’t take part, the former two because they are still too young, the latter because she is busy enough with her housework as it is. She does make sure they have plenty to eat and drink, however.

And what a crop it is! It is even better than in the previous summer and leaves their stores and their purse both full. Ample reason to celebrate, as far as the people of Tovar are concerned.

(The Watcher asks you to kindly ignore Anne’s suspiciously modern-looking cleaning-implement.)

When the harvest is done, Anne takes the walk over to Tovar, to sell their produce, accompanied by Edith, who wants to look in at the Watmore’s house, to see how their harvest has gone. They are surprised and rather happy to meet Robert at the market place, who is on a patrol trip around the countryside with Sir Silas. They use the time to catch up and make sure that Robert is well-cared for in his new home.

He assures them that while he misses them all dreadfully, he is learning a lot and that Sir Silas and his men are treating him kindly. While Anne doesn’t know if she believes him wholly, it is a comfort to see her son.

Afterwards, Edith makes good on visiting the Watmore’s cottage, where she meets not only Mrs. Watmore and her twin daughters, but William, who had made himself rather scarce during her previous visits. Truthfully, he had been working in remote parts of the parish, part of his duties as a serf, and hadn’t been home much himself.

Now, however, his eyes gleam when he spots her. “Edie! It’s so good to see you again.”

They get to reminiscing about simpler childhood days and are soon comfortably talking as the sun goes down outside. After not seeing him for so long, Edith had almost forgotten how much she enjoys spending time in William’s company. Her father eventually comes in as well, and with William’s parents, siblings and her own Da filling the small cottage, Edith doesn’t hesitate when William asks her to slip outside to stargaze.

Back inside, Benedict is deep in conversation as well, though not with the same youthful exuberance as the two youths outside. He is talking about the harvest and their families’ wellbeing with Elsie Watmore, besides exchanging news about the parish.

“Have you heard that the Baroness has died?”, she asks, with a look towards Elbenhawke Hall on its hill.

“Of course I have. Dreadful business. Apparently, she was heartbroken by losing her daughter.”

“And her son.” Elsie shuddered. “I can’t even imagine. Although there are joyous things, as well. William and Edith seem to get along rather well, don’t they?” She glances outside their window, where the two young people’s laughter can be clearly heard. Benjamin can’t help but smile.

“Don’t play coy, Elsie, I know what you’re hinting at. They have always gotten along well. We’ll see what develops out of it.”

“But you wouldn’t be opposed? I know Edith could do better than to marry a serf.”

“She could”, he agrees. “But Anna marrying the Crawley boy will be costly. I don’t know if we could afford another such marriage in the next few years, and a suitor might not like to wait that long. Besides, I know your family would treat her well.”

Elsie laughs. “Why, I don’t know whether to be offended or touched. But I’m grateful all the same.”

They don’t have to wait long to see which way the wind is blowing. In fact, William Watmore makes his decision while he and Edith are still joking about what they see in the constellations and the passing clouds. So when she gets up to go inside, he instead pulls her away from the house, so he can have at least a little chance of not being overheard.

“I was really happy to see you again, Edie. I didn’t know how much I had missed you until we met this afternoon.”

She smiles. “The feeling’s mutual, Will. You aren’t even half as annoying as you were when we were children.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “I’m glad, because I really enjoy your company. And, if I may say so, you look lovelier than even when we last saw each other.” He gets a little closer to her, taking her hand. It’s as if sparks are going out from that contact, but instead of flinching back, Edith just grips his hand tighter. Her heart is pounding, but not in an uncomfortable way. She feels drawn to him in a way she can’t quite explain.

It isn’t entirely unexpected when he kisses her, but she still gasps. He pulls back.

“I’m sorry, Edie. It was too soon, wasn’t it?”

“No.” And she grabs him by the collar and pulls him towards her again. “But not nearly enough.”

This time, neither of them flinches back when they kiss.

He rests his forehead against hers when they part. “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you this afternoon.”

She lets out a startled laugh. “You could have said something sooner. We could have spend the evening very enjoyably. Not that talking to you wasn’t nice.”

“I’m glad you enjoy both. Because I…I want you to marry me, Edie. I like having you around, and my mother adores you. I’m sure we could make a good family together.”

This time, she does pull back, if only to stare at him incredulously. “Is this a proposal?”

“Er…yes. I know your sister has this entire fancy courtship, but I felt I would go mad if I didn’t ask you already. I’m sorry if it wasn’t very…what you wanted.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just surprised, is all. I didn’t exactly expect a marriage proposal when I walked here. This has all gone rather quickly.” She takes a deep breath. “But I think I know my answer.”

She does love his family. She doesn’t know if she loves him exactly, at least in the way a woman is supposed to love her husband, but she loves spending time in his company, and he makes her feel alive in a way she can’t describe. She is still tingly all over from their heated kiss. Of course she knows she will be taking on hardships she wouldn’t if she married a freed man, and that they will have to get the Earl’s permission, but in that moment, she is sure it will be worth it.

So she quickly reassures him that of course, her answer is “Yes.”

To say that Benedict is surprised when William and Edith walk in hand in hand to announce their intent to marry and ask for his blessing is an understatement, but true to his word, he gives his consent readily – after making sure this is what his daughter really wants. The already joyful mood becomes celebratory after that, with the entire Watmore family congratulating the young couple, and Benedict can’t help smiling at Ediths dreamy expression when they walk home through the moonlit fields.

Prev: 1308, Day 1 <--> Next: 1308, Day 3

[nobodysdaydreams]

Update: Well friends, it's that time again. I have finished another chapter.

Click Here to Read the Fic

Chapter 9 Summary: Mr. Benedict and his team search for the right children for their mission while Dr. Curtain searches for the right children for his own project. Meanwhile, Garrison and Milligan struggle with their memories and their relationships.

Once again tagging everyone who originally expressed interest in the fic: @myfairkatiecat @oflightningandstars @mvshortcut @kneeslapworthy @serial-serializednovelreader

And @sophieswundergarten and @itsgoghtime, this is the new writing style I was talking about. A bit nervous about whether you'll enjoy the change, the build up might take a while to get to the payoff since I don't totally control the story anymore, but I hope you enjoy it (and I think you'll like where I end up going with it...)!

[john-smiths-jawline]

The Making Of Canon

Summary: The news behind the Making of Sherlock Series 5, and what happens once it came out.

The Making of Canon

---2023---

“Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat have just confirmed the release of Sherlock series 5…” (BBC Sounds, 2023)

“Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman have since talked about reprising their roles as Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson…” (Radio Times, 2023)

“Reports have just arisen of a fifth season of BBC’s Sherlock, and we have reason to believe them true…” (CNN, 2023)

“Sherlock Season 5 Has Been Confirmed!

[Picture of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes and Martin Freeman and John Watson in promotional photos for BBC Sherlock Season 1]

We’ve all been waiting for it since 2017! After six years, we have results! Here’s what we know so far:

-Benedict, Martin, Mark, and Andrew will all be reprising their roles!

-The show will not re-cast Mrs. Hudson following Una Stubbs’ death. How exactly the show will handle her death is currently unknown.

-There are unproven rumors that this will be a “re-do” of season 4, instead of a continuation. We can only hope!” (NPR, 2023)

---2025---

“…the BBC proudly stands with the LGTBQ+ community, and series 5 of Sherlock is only part of our mission to create shows that proudly reflect the diversity that exists both in the world and in the BBC itself…” (BBC), 2025

“In a show of solidarity with the LGBTQ+ community of London, the BBC has made one of their biggest couples—finally a couple.” (CNN), 2025

“In a stunningly beautiful scene, the BBC shows that is accepts everyone—no matter whether you’re Sherlock or John.” (New York Times), 2025

Mrs. Hudson’s Funeral (Sherlock S5E1, The Third Stain) by BBC on YouTube:

“Somber violin music plays in the background, one of Sherlock’s own compositions, as a closed casket makes its way into the ground. Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Greg, and Molly are standing there, all dressed in black. John’s arm has wrapped around Sherlock’s waist as a means to keep him upright. He himself is looking on with a soldier’s determination, but he’s clearly barely holding it together. Mycroft and Greg are standing closer together than necessary, sharing Mycroft’s umbrella even though it’s not raining.

Later, once everyone else is gone, Sherlock and John stand alone, loosely holding hands. The camera is positioned to make it reminiscent of John’s graveyard scene from The Reichenbach Fall.

“Sorry for being the worst tenants ever,” they said simultaneously, voices clearly strained and close to tears. Their hands squeeze together as they look at the cold stone. This is the start of something.”

John and Sherlock Confess (Sherlock S5E3, The Three Garridebs) by BBC on YouTube:

“John and Sherlock are running across rooftops. John starts lagging behind and Sherlock grabs his hand to help him keep up. A slight blush crosses both of their faces, barely visible in the dark London sky. The criminal they are chasing, a serial killer named Mr. Asmium, is cornered, and, seeing the silver flash of John’s Sig Sauer, shoots. The bullet hits John in the leg, and he goes down, dragging Sherlock with him. Sherlock takes John’s gun and shoots Asmium in the shoulder, snarling at him, before letting the gun clatter to the ground and dropping to John’s side, supporting his head as he uses his navy blue scarf to stop as much bleeding as he can. John’s eyes flutter open again, and relief floods through Sherlock so extremely that his thoughts disappear and he leans his head forward and kisses John. It’s messy, and John is in pain and bleeding, but it’s perfect. John slowly manages to take the control away from Sherlock, surging up and having Sherlock move his hands to support his head again, as the blood loss forced John to lay back as Sherlock broke the kiss, gasping for breath.

“I love you, John. I’ve loved you for so long.”

“I love you, Sherlock. I’ve loved you for so long.””

here’s the ao3:

[dragon-kazansky]

Hi! I've been debating whether i should buy the books or not. Are they worth it?

I've only read 3 of the books so far.

Heres my take based on my experience from those books.

The show does the characters a lot more justice, in my opinion. It really makes them likeable, and with the way the show is constructed, it allows character growth and goes more in-depth to some characters.

However, the books are good for what they are. I do prefer the show to the books, but I do highly recommend 'Romancing Mr Bridgerton' if you're a Penelope and Colin fan. Out of the 3 I've read, that's my fave so far!

I fully intend on reading the whole set. I've skipped Benedict's book for now, despite him being my favourite brother. Though I have heard he is much more likeable in the show, and as it stands, I would have to agree from what I've heard.

Daphne appears in the other books, so if you're a fan of her, I definitely recommend reading them for her appearneces. Plus, it's cute seeing the tidbits of the lives as each character marries and has children of their own. Though I'm sure the show will eventually grow into that one day.

The books I've read are:

The duke and I

The Viscount who loved me

Romancing Mr Bridgerton

I don't have much of an option on the first book, I'll admit. I stopped reading it halfway through at one point and didn't pick it up again for months.

I loved Kate and Anthony in their book. There's a whole side to Kate I feel like the show didn't explore enough of. The way they comfort each other from their traumas in the books hits differently.

Colin and Penelope, in my opinion, are everything in their book 💕 Colin has so many layers to him as you watch him grow through the span of the book, and you really feel for Penelope through everything she goes through.

The books are vastly different in so many ways, so for me. Yes, they are worth it, but I'll let you decide whether you want to go through the whole series, or if maybe you want to just read the books that interest you most from the series.

I will say I'm excited to read Francesca's book. I hear she goes through a lot 😭💕

[sophieswundergarten]

Okay so I saw you reblogged the game so I'm going to take advantage of this fine opportunity to ask for the alpaca and Nicholas Benedict. If you want to do some Narnia characters, I'll also request Uncle Andrew and Caspian. No pressure if you don't want to answer.

I hope you're having a wonderful day because you deserve it!

Oh, Bods. You are slowly but surely dragging me into your alpaca conspiracies /lh

The alpaca. Many, many questions about this creature. I feel like the alpaca had a rich inner journey on which it learned something about itself (Whether this character development is positive or negative remains to be seen), and is also such a misanthrope. I think he likes Kate and that's it. Everyone else can go fall off a cliff or something, and he's actively plotting how to make it so /j

Mr. Nicholas Benedict!!! He's amazing. And also so, so very much in need of therapy. I think he's probably committed some crimes (ie: forgery and bribe distribution) but it was all for the greater good and also can you blame him? No, no you can't. I wish we could have seen more of his narcolepsy on-screen in the Show, but I still think they did a pretty good job all things considered! (I relate to him in the feeling like I need to protect everyone/if someone I interacted with (especially a sibling) does something wrong I am at fault)

UNCLE ANDREW THE BELOATHED. He's such a disaster. I would hit him with a golf cart, but I don't think it would help honestly. He was in a vehicle-related crash already and it did nothing for his character. He's. He really is a disaster. I would hate him even if he weren't a raving lunatic who tested on children, just because he's rude and selfish and has no respect for animals or the scientific method. I just know he'd hate me. ALSO. He wasted his OWN potential. That's not a comment on Lewis. Uncle Andrew drove his own self into the ground and had to deal with the consequences.

Caspian!!!! You know when you pick up a book, and no matter how many times you've read it there's that one character who you're like "Yes! It's them! My buddy my best friend my pal I've known since childhood!" Caspian is one of those people for me. I wish we could have known more about him!! Silver Chair made me so sad for him, because he spent so long without his family. I wish I could have adopted child Caspian because his uncle is insane and kind of a war criminal (Which is also one of the major reasons I think the boy needs therapy), but I think about him a lot. Not as much as MBS, because I don't have anyone to really talk to about CoN, but often his is In My Mind. I relate to him because I, too, would panic after being told to flee my home in the middle of the night under threat of murder, run into a tree and knock myself out, and them wake up and have the first thing I say be "Please don't hurt my horse :(" addsjfdfjk