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weepingfromacedartree · 10 months

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Ten Milestones: Dinner with the Future In-Laws

Hi friends!

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

CW: toxic family dynamics // alcohol

Dinner with the Future In-Laws

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

“What is it?” she can’t help but ask.

“Nothing, just —”

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” she can’t help but ask.

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

“Oh.”

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

One Year Earlier: April 7th, 2022

Relationship Status: Best Friends

꙳

Hors D’oeuvres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was Colin’s —

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

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

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

Turning her attention back to her best friend…

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

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

“El!”

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

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

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

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

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

This was Colin’s idea.

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

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

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

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

This was your idea.

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

This was your idea.

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

This was your fault.

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

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Main Course

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She isn’t drinking wine either.

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

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

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

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

“I thought that only happened in the morning.”

“Hy—”

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

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

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

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

(A first, for Colin Bridgerton.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

What the fuck?!

“But now —”

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

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

For the first time since speaking up, Anthony finds the balls to actually meet Colin’s eye. The bastard smirks.

“What? Ten years ago?”

Eight years. Dickhead.

Instead of actually answering Anthony’s question, Colin turns to Kate (the sensible one in their marriage). He expects her to reprimand her husband for acting like such an arse in a public setting. At the very least, he expects her to look annoyed with said arsehole husband. But no. If anything, it looks like she’s desperately trying not to laugh.

What the fuck is going on?

Colin opens his mouth, but before he can formulate a single word, Penelope speaks up.

“Well, I can’t speak for Colin, but I do date. Just for the record.”

She seems to look at everyone except Colin when she says this. Which is probably for the best. It’s probably for the best that she can’t see the way his eyes light up with jealousy at her words.

There are a variety of other reactions to Penelope’s words from those that sit around them. From Portia, a look of skepticism. From Violet, a silent apology for having inadvertently introduced this topic. From Eloise, a look of shared bewilderment that it had been brought up at all.

The most unexpected response comes from Harry Dankworth, of all people.

“Of course Penelope dates! We dated a few weeks ago!”

That earns a unanimous response from nearly every Bridgerton at the table. Most of the shock is delivered silently, but Hyacinth cannot help but release a “What the fuck?” beneath her breath.

When Colin’s eyes flick to Penelope, he finds that she’s staring straight ahead at her current brother-in-law/recent ex-boyfriend, Harry. She looks about ready to murder him.

Clearly unphased by the sudden shift in mood or the woman turning into a tomato right in front of him, Harry answers Hyacinth’s question while chewing on what appears to be a rather tough cut of meat.

“It’s a funny story, actually. We met on New Year’s. Went out a few times after that. I thought it was going pretty well, but we were in the middle of dinner and she turned to me and said, ‘I think you would really like my sister.’ Not exactly what you’d expect from a girl on the third date, if you know what I’m saying…”

Colin knows what he’s saying, and he suddenly shares Penelope’s visible desire to murder the bloke across the table.

“But she was right!” Harry briefly stops telling his tale to lean over and kiss his newlywed wife on the cheek. Prudence could not look any happier, listening to the re-telling of the most fucked up meet-cute Colin has ever heard. “Six weeks with Pru and I knew we were meant to be.”

“I know some people,” Prudence’s eyes shoot pointedly at her mother, “were disappointed by our decision to run off and make things official as quickly as possible… But it just felt right. Especially since we married in my ancestors’ homeland.”

Audibly confused, Penelope clears her throat and says, “Prudence, you eloped in Scotland.”

Her sister nods.

“I’m well aware, Penelope.” She snickers. “I was there, after all.”

Colin turns his head again and watches as Penelope’s brows furrow deeper. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head, deciding whether or not to inform her sister that their family hails from Ireland. A country that is decidedly not Scotland.

In the end, she holds her tongue, and Prudence resumes sharing the questionably factual details of her and Harry’s elopement.

“Well,” says Violet, voice willfully pleasant. “I think that all sounds very romantic. When some people fall in love, it’s just too obvious not to act.”

“Quite romantic,” Kate agrees.

“That’s one word for it,” Portia mutters into her wineglass.

An extremely brief moment of silence passes before Eloise huffs and releases the words that have clearly been stuck in her throat the past few minutes.

“Just for the record, no one has to date or marry anyone. Certainly not a woman with as much wit and potential as Penelope. And certainly not Colin — there are enough Bridgertons in the world as it is!”

“Elo—”

“Sorry, mum.”

“How’s university, Hyacinth?” Penelope promptly asks. Colin turns his head again, wishing to give her a silent “thank you” for altering the course of this blasted conversation so directly. But yet again, she isn’t quite looking at him.

“Oh, absolutely brilliant! I just got cast as Viola in the summer production of Twelfth Night.”

“That’s amazing!” Penelope exclaims, a genuine smile on her face. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you! Rehearsals begin next week and I’m buzzing to get started. They brought actual live lobsters on stage last year for The Little Mermaid and I’m trying to convince our director to incorporate goats into our story. I…”

Hyacinth rambles on for another minute or two before Anthony interrupts.

“Perhaps you could save some of the story for the stage, Hyacinth.”

From the other end of the table, Hyacinth sticks her tongue out at Anthony. From right beside Colin, Portia takes another long sip of wine before speaking.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Anthony, how did you and Kate meet? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the story.”

Colin looks to his older brother. Anthony is sharing a look with his wife, both faces adorned with shy smiles.

“Kate and I actually met about a decade before we married. We were both studying at Oxford Law. We were both bright, ambitious, bloody competitive students who wanted the top spot of our class. We met the first week of law school and —”

Anthony cuts himself off to steal another look at Kate. They both laugh giddily.

“We loathed each other,” he goes on to explain. “From the moment we met to the morning of our graduation. We were so obsessed with each other during that time — constantly bickering and trying to one up each other in our courses. Which, in hindsight, was really the first sign that our feelings for each other were not wholly antagonistic from the start, but…”

When his voice trails off, a hint of a smile creeps up Anthony’s lips. He spares one quick glance at his wife again before continuing.

“We didn’t even speak at our graduation. We just went on our separate paths, each hoping to never see the other’s face again. We didn’t see each other for five years. Then she won a case against me, and I never wanted her to be gone from my life again.”

When Anthony takes a short pause, his eyes settle on someone other than his wife for the first time in what feels like hours.

They settle on Colin.

“It’s funny what a bit of time apart can do to two people. When Kate and I were thrown into each other’s lives again, it just seemed so bloody obvious. That we had always been kidding ourselves. That the ‘loathing’ was just a distraction from how we really felt. I can’t help but wonder how different our lives would be now, if we hadn’t spent so many years running from the truth.”

Anthony’s eyes are still on Colin. Colin doesn’t like it. The weight of his brother’s gaze has never felt so heavy.

“Well, that’s a lovely sto—” Portia starts, but her words are interrupted by Prudence.

“It really took you two ten years to get married?”

Though visibly confused by the question, Kate nods.

“Wow. It only took me and Harry six weeks.”

“Yes, Prudence.” Portia sighs. “We are all well aware.”

After that, the table breaks out into mini conversations. Violet asks Penelope about the story she’s working on. Anthony and Harry discuss real estate. Portia and Prudence discuss fashion. Hyacinth inquires on Kate’s morning sickness comment from earlier with minimal success. Colin remains quiet through most of it, listening to Penelope gush over her latest column while chewing the last few specs of food from his plate.

When she finishes her story, Colin is suddenly struck by the fact that, despite sitting just a few inches to her right throughout this meal, he hasn’t spoken a single actual word to Penelope during that time. Before yet another one of his family members can steal her attention, Colin leans to his left and gently places his hand beneath her elbow. The connection is out of view from anyone else at the table.

Her eyes land on his in an instant.

“You wanna bail?” he whispers, only half joking. “We could go back to my flat and watch When Harry Met Sally.”

Penelope’s mouth twists together in that way that it always does when desperately attempting to hold in a laugh. After a moment, it straightens out.

“Again? What is it with you and that movie?”

Colin shrugs in response. Then he laughs, not even making an attempt to hold it in.

“I think it would be in poor taste to leave my own birthday dinner early,” Penelope tells him, her voice too soft for anyone else at the table to hear. “But I do appreciate the offer.”

Noticing that her hand has moved below the table in the last minute or so, Colin grabs blindly for Penelope’s palm. After accidentally brushing against her knee, he finds it. He squeezes it once.

“If you change your mind, just give me the signal and we’ll get the fuck out of here.”

Penelope nods, her lips twisting together again. A noticeable blush creeps up her cheeks. When she turns her head to the side to respond to something Eloise is whining about, her hand remains cradled in Colin’s. It remains there for the rest of the course.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Palate Cleanser

The group retires to the drawing room to kill time between courses. Almost immediately, two groups emerge.

On one side of the room, near the fireplace, Colin stands in a circle with Kate, Anthony, Hyacinth, and Penelope. They’re discussing… something. Maybe real estate. Maybe football. It’s hard for Colin to keep up while only half-listening to the conversation. Half of his attention is on the other side of the room.

On the couch by the window, Portia, Violet, and Eloise are discussing… something. Colin cannot make out the details from this far away, but judging from the look on his sister’s face, it can’t be good. (And judging from the way their mother’s arm is looped through Eloise’s, it can’t be one his sister is willingly participating in.)

After a few more moments watching Eloise squirm, Colin considers leaving his spot between Anthony and Penelope to rescue her. But before he can even decide, Eloise wiggles her way out of Violet’s hold and walks over to the table of leftover hors d'oeuvres. It isn’t until he spots Eloise throw a prawn into her mouth that Colin ultimately abandons the safety of his current spot.

“Why are you eating those?” he asks, pointing to the prawn currently placed between Eloise’s index and thumb.

“You’re one to talk,” she grumbles, mouth still full from her first two prawns.

“No. I just — Aren’t you a vegetarian?”

Eloise’s mouth stills. She gulps, eyes wide and not quite meeting Colin’s.

“I’m a pescatarian.”

“Yeah? Since when?”

“Since we ran out of vegetarian options 30 seconds ago.”

“El! You —”

“I’m uncomfortable!” she hisses. After turning her head from side to side to confirm that no one else is listening, she leans in close and whispers, “Portia Featherington is the devil!”

“That’s…” His voice trails off, searching his mind for the right words.

An apt comparison.

“A bit over-dramatic.”

Eyes wide and angry and very much pointed at him, Eloise lets out an exasperated huff of air.

“Colin —”

Quickly, he glances around to see if anyone else is paying attention to their conversation. Penelope seems to be keeping one eye fixed on them, but no one else is.

“I don’t disagree,” he cuts in, his voice but a whisper. He then pulls Eloise by the elbow into the hallway, out of view from everyone else. “But could you keep your loathing to yourself until the night is over? It —”

“Why should I?”

A pang of hot red annoyance hits Colin in the chest; they had discussed this earlier today.

“Why shouldn’t you cause a scene?” he shoots back. “For Penelope. The whole reason we’re here is to act as a buffer between —”

“Why should we have to be a buffer?”

“Are you seriously asking —”

“Yes, Colin.” She steps even further down the hallway, presumably so she can raise her voice above a hiss. “I am serious. Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it. Don’t you see a problem in that?”

All at once, Colin is hit by something very, very cold. Chills creep up and down his skin as he realises just how true Eloise’s words are. He feels momentarily stuck in place, frozen by revelation. Eventually, though, his body returns to relative normalcy.

He isn’t sure exactly what he says to get Eloise to nod and begrudgingly abandon any plans to cause a scene. He’s too busy re-playing her words in his head to pay attention to those currently leaving his own lips.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

When they walk back into the drawing room, Colin half expects the others to be staring at them in a mix of anger and sympathy after overhearing them in the hall. But no. By some grace of god, their conversation had gone unnoticed.

The groups had shifted in Colin and Eloise’s absence. Now, Hyacinth and Violet are on the couch, while Kate, Anthony, Penelope, and Portia are all standing by the fireplace. Eloise walks towards one group, Colin, the other.

Squeezing his way between Penelope and Kate, Colin inquires on the topic of conversation.

“Your brother was just telling me about his and Kate’s plans to move to the country full time,” Portia says.

“Well, we haven’t decided on anything yet,” Kate clarifies. “I was just about to say that the commute is what’s holding me back. Anthony and I both work in the city. Our friends are here. So many of our family members are here. Even if we move out to the country, so much of our lives will be spent here in London.”

Though he and Kate are fairly close, Colin nearly jumps when he feels the unexpected weight of her arm around his shoulder.

“Just think about how much traffic there is in London on a daily basis. We already spend so much of our lives lying in wait, killing time until the next thing happens. Do we — Anthony and I, I mean — really want to subject ourselves to even more time sitting doing nothing?”

Suddenly feeling quite lost, Colin looks to Anthony. He’s smirking.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, love.”

When he looks to Penelope, she appears just as perplexed.

“Yes, well…” Portia sighs. “I never cared much for the country either,”

With a nod, Portia steps away from the group. She’s followed by Anthony and Kate, leaving Colin and Penelope (relatively) alone.

“So…” he says, after a few solitary seconds of silence. “Ready to take me up on that offer?”

He expects her to smile or laugh or twist her lips together. But she doesn’t. Penelope’s face seems to freeze for a moment, looking up at him in quiet contemplation.

“I…” she starts, sounding as though she has no idea where the rest of her sentence is headed. In the end, she doesn’t get the chance to finish it.

“Dessert is ready to be served in the dining room,” Chef Anne announces from the doorway.

When Colin looks back to Penelope, her face is resolute.

“Come on.” She brushes past him. “The final course awaits us.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Dessert

The seating arrangements do not change much from one course to the other. The only person who has moved their spot is Hyacinth, who is now sitting next to Anthony and across from Penelope. She’s sitting in the seat that —

“Where is your sister and her husband?” Colin asks, leaning close to Penelope as to avoid anyone else hearing his question.

“Oh,” Penelope whispers, eyes darting between the seats they left behind. She chuckles softly. “Saved themselves, it seems.”

Colin grumbles something in vague agreement, the realisation sitting heavily in his stomach. He then picks up his fork, using its tongs to stab the gelatinous surface of the dessert on his plate. The little yellow tart smells so distinctly of lemon and sugar that he limits the number of sugar cubes in his tea to only two.

“Is there no birthday cake?” Hyacinth blurts out, poking at her own tart.

“No,” Portia answers, laughing lightly. “I’ve always found those to be a bit… cliche.”

“Too cliche for a birthday?” Hyacinth asks, and Colin can’t help but laugh beneath his breath.

“Hyacinth,” Violet cuts in, her voice clipped. “You’re so… inquisitive tonight, dear.”

“Yes,” Anthony agrees, smirking. “As opposed to her usual quiet, well-behaved self.”

Though Colin can’t see the act itself, the sudden pinched look on Anthony’s face tells him that their sister just stomped on his foot beneath the table.

“Please give my compliments to the chef, Portia,” says Violet. “This tart is delicious.”

Before that last word leaves her lips, though, Kate suddenly shoots up from her seat with an expression that screams anything but delicious.

“Please excuse me a moment,” she murmurs, words muffled by the hand covering her mouth. After she disappears into the hallway, all eyes turn towards Anthony, already standing to follow after his wife.

“Apologies. Her stomach has — uh — been a bit… unruly lately.”

After Anthony disappears into the hallway, Portia clears her throat.

“When I was pregnant, I could never eat anything this sweet,” she says, raising her wineglass to her lips. “My stomach couldn’t handle it.”

Baffled, Colin looks over to his own mother, who just so happens to have her eyes trained on the hallway. She looks as though she would very much like to disappear into its darkness, as well.

“Yes, well…” She draws her words out long. “I suppose there are lots of reasons why sugar could upset one’s stomach.”

“Lemon always gives me gas,” offers Eloise.

“I thought citruses were supposed to have the opposite effect on one’s body,” Hyacinth counters quickly.

“What can I say? I’m an enig—”

“Girls,” Violet cuts in, using that pleasant, clipped tone again. “I think that’s more than enough lemon discussion at the dining table.”

The room goes quiet after that. For a short while.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Colin,” says Portia. Which is true, but that fact doesn’t make her words any less annoying. “Is something on your mind?”

Yes.

“No. I, uh —”

He searches his mind for something to say that won’t get him kicked out of the Featherington home. (Possibly forever.)

“Sorry,” he says through a smile that stings his cheeks. “I apologise if I seem a bit off tonight. I got back from a trip just this morning; I’m still feeling a bit of jet lag.”

His words are true, save for the “jet lag” part. From the next chair over, Penelope has to clap a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from laughing at the “jet lag” part.

“No need to apologise. Where are you returning from?”

“Bath.”

“Oh.” Confusion presses into Portia’s brow, but she does not press the matter any further. “Do you have any other travels coming up?”

For a moment, Colin can’t recall. He can’t remember when or where his next plane ticket is scheduled for.

After a moment, the details come back to him.

“New York. But I don’t leave until the first week of June.”

“What was it that your brother was saying before? Something about you not travelling as often as you used to?”

“Oh, um… Yes. About two years ago, I switched from mostly writing and travelling to mostly editing and staying put. My trips have been sporadic ever since.”

His mother says something about how nice it is to have him home more. Eloise makes a “joke” about how unfortunate it is. Portia inquires on the reason for this change, to which he can only give a noncommittal, vague answer.

What Colin doesn’t say is that he came home because he wanted to focus his time on writing a book. That would mean admitting he has been firmly stuck in the middle of it for what feels like forever. That he has spent the majority of the last two years freelance editing real authors while his blog has been steadily losing steam.

What Colin doesn’t say is that he came home because he was terrified that his family and friends would forget about him if he stayed away any longer. That he feared becoming a living ghost — one who wanders from continent to continent looking for a purpose that was left behind at home long ago.

What Colin does not tell Portia is that he came home for her daughter. That he came home because he loves Penelope. That he came home because Penelope is his home.

Colin can’t say any of that aloud, because doing so would mean admitting that he hasn’t said anything of the sort to Penelope over the last two years. It would mean admitting to holding his happiness hostage at the hands of his fear. That he fears they aren’t ready to move onto the next stage of their lives yet.

(There are many other reasons Colin can’t say any of those things in the middle of a dinner party. That reason just happens to be the one that keeps him up most nights.)

Back in reality, Portia says something to swiftly bring Colin out of his own head.

“Perhaps you and Penelope could have a discussion about the importance of prioritising one’s life over their career. I certainly can’t get through to her.”

“What —” the fuck, he almost says out loud. For better or worse, Penelope interrupts him before he can get the words out.

“I’ll keep that in mind, mum.” Then, with barely a breath between topics, “Hyacinth — sorry, but could you explain to me again how you plan on incorporating live goats into your university’s production of Twelfth Night? I believe I missed the connection the first time around.”

Colin will have to ask Hyacinth to explain it a third time later on. Yet again, his mind is too loud with someone else’s words to properly pay attention.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

When Hyacinth finishes speaking, no one at the table jumps to fill the silence she left behind; the scraping of knives and the slurping of tea are the only sounds in the room for several unending seconds. Colin spends that time attempting to get Penelope’s attention with his eyes alone. In the end, he’s unsuccessful. Her eyes remain trained on the half-eaten lemon tart in the middle of her plate.

He longs to reach for her hand like he did during the previous course, but he can’t. The gesture wouldn’t be safe from prying eyes like it was before. Now, both of Penelope’s hands are above the table, sipping tea and poking at her food and fidgeting with her napkin.

As the longing and the silence both grow at exorbitant rates, Colin briefly considers other points of connection. He wonders if it would be better to brush against her back or her waist or her thigh. He wonders if any of those gestures would go unnoticed by everyone else at the table. He wonders if any of those gestures could be explained as the touch of a friend. He wonders if he should get her attention at all, or if it is better to let her sit and dwell in her own silence.

Before he can make a decision, the silence breaks.

“Is Philipa having a boy or a girl?” Hyacinth asks (yet another unprompted question).

Putting down her wineglass, Portia scowls ever so slightly. It’s barely a flash on her face, but it does not escape Colin’s notice.

“It’s too early to know for certain, but I do hope it’s a boy.” Then, with a great, suffering sigh, “I always wanted a son. But it was never in the cards, I suppose. After Penelope, we just… gave up.”

What the fu—

“Well, how fortunate we both are to have been blessed with the children we were given,” Violet says with a smile on her lips and a look of detest in her eyes.

“Of course,” Portia says, casually enough. She says something else. Presumably, something unrelated. Colin doesn’t catch the change in subject. Yet again, his mind is loud.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to —

His mind clears when a soft thud hits his shin. He turns his head to the left. To the culprit.

“Are you okay?” she mouths for the second time tonight.

Colin nods, but Penelope doesn’t look like she believes him. Before she can press any further, though, they are interrupted. Again.

“Apologies for running off so suddenly,” says Kate, walking back into the room with her husband two steps behind. She stands in the space behind Colin and Penelope, placing one hand on the backs of both chairs. “I must admit that my stomach has been a bit off all day. Penelope, I wish we could stay longer, but I believe it would be in everyone’s best interest for us to depart before I turn green.”

“Please don’t apologise,” Penelope insists, standing from her chair. “Thank you for coming tonight, but please go home and get some rest.”

“Thank you for inviting us. I would wish you a happy birthday, but I shall do that tomorrow when I drop your present off at your flat.”

“Kate!” Penelope cries out, mouth falling open. “I told you all not to —”

“Oh shush.” Any attempts from Penelope to do otherwise are swiftly killed when the taller woman pulls her into a hug; her protests against gift-giving are lost in the fabric of Kate’s sweater.

After she and Anthony disappear down the hall again, the remaining guests seem to take stock of the dwindling attendance all at once. Six sets of eyes dart from seat to empty seat.

Portia is the first to speak the obvious aloud.

“Well, it seems rather silly to continue sitting around this massive table with so many empty seats.”

After spending his entire adolescence in the polite, passive-aggressive London social scene, Colin could sort out the implication of Portia’s words from that very first “Well.” He knows that her statement was not so much an observation as much as it was an invitation. One prompting the remaining guests to follow Anthony and Kate’s leads and get the fuck out of her house.

While it would be wise — or at the very least, less painful — for Colin to play along and say something about how late it is or how wonderful the evening was… He can’t bring himself to do it. His head is still very loud.

Everyone is so quick to correct Portia’s bullshit, but no one is willing to actually call her out on it.

“Couldn’t agree more,” he says. The smile he forces on his lips feels just as strained as all of the other smiles he forced tonight. “Perhaps we should all retire to the drawing room to finish our tea.”

No one at the table seems particularly enthused by his suggestion — least of all Eloise, who darts her head back to throw her brother a death glare from two seats over. And yet, no one voices any protests aloud.

“Brilliant,” Portia eventually mutters.

As the room shifts and the six remaining guests stand to retire to the room a few doors down, Colin looks to Penelope. She’s looking down at her feet.

“Pen, I —”

Before he can say another word, Eloise steps forward and positions her body between them.

“Excuse me,” she grumbles, looping her arm through Penelope’s. “I require the birthday girl’s attention.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Smoke Break

“Are you having any fun tonight?”

“No.” Penelope takes a drag of Eloise’s offered cigarette. It’s the first one she’s smoked since graduating uni. “But ‘fun’ was never really the point of tonight.”

They’re standing in her childhood bedroom. They’re sticking their heads out her old window and releasing smoke from their lungs into the cold spring air. Eloise is complaining about Portia’s various “problematic” comments from earlier. Penelope is thinking about the real point of tonight.

Tonight was supposed to be a simple family dinner. No private chefs. No overdrawn, awkward conversations. No witnesses. Tonight was never going to be fun — but she could have handled the original version of it.

This version of tonight — the hell of Colin’s making — has been almost too much to bear.

She knows why he did it. She knows why Colin felt the need to get himself and every last Bridgerton in London invited here tonight. She knows that he knows how difficult things can become on nights like this. She knows he wanted to be here not to bear witness to those difficulties, but to try against logic to make them less difficult.

After all these years, Penelope knows Colin is kind. She knows he acts with the best of intentions. She knows he only wanted to help her tonight. But god — she wishes tonight wasn’t something she needed saving from. She wishes she wasn’t the type that needs saving.

Now that the night is almost over, Penelope can look back on it through a puff of smoke and know that things were easier, having Colin and Eloise by her side through it all. But tonight was also far longer and more complicated and more visible than it would have been, had it only been her own family in attendance.

In truth, Penelope doesn’t know which version of reality is the lesser of two evils. If she could go back in time to that pub in March, she doesn’t know if she would hold her tongue or invite the Bridgertons here herself.

This was Colin’s idea.

After a few more puffs of smoke, Penelope stubs out what little life remains in their cigarette on the windowsill.

“Hey —”

“Come on. Let’s get the rest of tonight over with.”

Penelope pulls Eloise into the hallway with a newfound confidence in her step. The last course was so dreadfully awkward… By the time they return to the drawing room, the others will surely already be wrapping up. And by the time those big green doors come into her view, Penelope is almost convinced that things will be easy on the other side of them. But just as she raises her arm to push through…

“Oh — Penelope, dear.”

When Penelope turns her head, she finds Violet walking down the hall towards them, presumably coming back from the loo.

“Eloise, may I have a moment to speak with Penelope?” she asks, closing the gap between them. When her daughter does not immediately respond, she adds, “Alone.”

“Mum, we’re sort of a package deal. I can’t —”

“El, go inside,” Penelope instructs gently. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

After throwing her best friend the briefest of glares, Eloise does as she’s told.

“Penelope, I wanted to give you something,” Violet says almost immediately after her daughter disappears from their view. She then starts opening the purse Penelope hadn’t realised was hanging over her shoulder until this very moment. (The blue of her purse is an exact match for the blue of her dress.)

“Oh!” Penelope breathes out, a panicked feeling rising in her chest. “You really didn’t have to —“

“Yes, I know dear.” Violet laughs lightly, waving one hand through the air in polite dismissal. “Colin told us all that you insisted upon us foregoing presents tonight, but…”

After rummaging through it another second, Violet pulls the item in question out of her purse. It’s a small thing. Pink with white —

It’s a birthday hat, she realises a second before Violet places it in her hands. There are little white bows and delicate paper butterflies decorating the pink fabric. Two silk ribbons are pinned to either side to tie it all together.

It’s perfect, she decides after possessing it only a few seconds.

“I know a birthday hat may seem like a silly gift to receive on the eve of one’s 27th birthday.” Violet laughs lightly, her lips pulling into a smile as the breath escapes her. “But it’s a family tradition. My father made one for me every year until he passed. I always make them for my children on their birthdays. I did not wish to come here tonight without bringing even a small token to commemorate this milestone in your life.”

A few seconds pass before Penelope can find the words to respond to all of that.

“It’s not silly,” she insists, voice soft but resolute. “It’s wonderful. But you really didn’t have —”

Violet places a hand over Penelope’s, still frozen in front of her holding the hat.

“Everyone deserves a bit of cheer on their birthday. And besides —” She chuckles softly, then gives Penelope’s fingers a little squeeze. “Auggie helped me create this one.”

“Auggie?”

She looks down to assess the craftsmanship of the hat in her hands. She finds it hard to believe a four-year-old came anywhere near it.

“Well…” Violet laughs again, a bit louder this time. “He picked out the butterflies. He was quite insistent, really.”

Penelope looks down again. She appraises those paper butterflies. She watches as the sparkles twinkle in the light of the hall. She tries to recall a time when her mother did something like this for her. She wonders if there was ever a time when Portia took time out of her day to do something small and unnecessary and kind, for no other reason than to bring her youngest daughter a bit of cheer.

Then Violet pulls her into a hug, and Penelope cannot help but wonder when the last time her mother did that. She thinks of other birthdays. Of celebrations. Of holidays. Of funerals. Of her childhood. Of everything.

In the end, she can’t recall.

“Thank you, Violet,” Penelope says into the older woman’s shoulder. By some grace of god, her words are too muffled to hear them crack.

“Happy Birthday, dear.”

She keeps her perfect hat in her hands when she walks back into the drawing room. Perhaps she’ll wear it tomorrow, but tonight does not feel like the proper place for it.

This was Colin’s idea.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tea

“Are you making it your personal mission to ensure this night never ends?”

Colin is standing by the hors d’oeuvres table with the very last prawn of the night in his mouth. He was by the couch before, but then his mum disappeared into the hallway and Hyacinth started discussing goats again. After about 30 seconds, he decided that wasn’t a conversation he needed to bear witness to and left Portia to fend for herself.

Now, Colin is in the center of the room. Now, Eloise is back and, annoyingly, Penelope isn’t.

“Lighten up, El,” he mumbles, swallowing the final prawn (which has grown to an alarming room temperature at this point in the night). With no real food in sight, Colin throws a mint into his mouth and about a dozen into his pocket. “We’re at a party, remember?”

“That’s a bit hypocritical, wouldn’t you say? Considering the scowl that’s taken ownership of your face the entire night.”

Eloise’s eyebrows shoot up, waiting for Colin to react. To confirm. To deny. To scowl again and prove her point. But he doesn’t. His attention has been caught by someone else.

He turns on his heel and walks back to the couch before his sister can say another word.

Penelope and Hyacinth are sitting closely on a settee that doesn’t look like it could bear the weight of another person, so Colin stands behind it. He uses one hand to hold his teacup limply in front of him, the other to clutch the back of the seat. His fingers graze the ends of shiny red curls.

The women are discussing something. It sounds like Hyacinth is gushing about a new instalment of her favourite book series, but Colin is struggling to pay attention to the finer details of the conversation. His eyes are glancing around the room. His mind is wandering.

Eloise was right, of course. He has been in an awful mood all night, and he’s made virtually no effort to hide that fact. Which is arguably strange behaviour coming from Colin Bridgerton, someone who typically excels in shoving his worst feelings down and upholding a charming exterior on nights like this. But not tonight.

Not here.

Being here has made it impossible for Colin to shut down his worst feelings. He can’t look around and not see the home little Penelope Featherington used to run away from crying in the middle of the night. He can’t overlook Portia belittling her daughter at every chance she gets. He can’t ignore the constant reminders of one simple fact. That Penelope was neglected as a child.

She may have had a roof over her head and food in her stomach, but Penelope had other needs that had never been met by the people who were meant to care for her above all else. Her family has never treated her with the basic care, attention, and love that a child needs to grow into an actual, functional adult. It’s a miracle, Colin thinks, that Penelope was able to cross that threshold without the help of her —

“Happy Birthday, Penelope!”

Hyacinth’s voice isn’t what pulls Colin from his thoughts. It’s Penelope. Or, it’s the loss of her. Instead of leaning back into his fingertips, she’s now leaning forward, towards his little sister. They’re hugging.

“I’m sorry,” he barely hears Hyacinth whisper, her words muted as they’re spoken into Penelope’s hair.

“What —”

Hyacinth darts her head back suddenly, keeping her hands locked on Penelope’s shoulders. Her eyes look guilty.

“I believe I was the only Bridgerton in attendance tonight who didn’t get you a birthday present.”

Though Colin can’t see Penelope’s face from his current position, he can see her shoulders shake in silent laughter.

“Thank you,” she whispers, pulling Hyacinth back into the hug. “For being the only Bridgerton to follow my directions.”

When his sister stands, it finally clicks. While Colin was busy stewing in his own misery, his family was wrapping up the night.

His mum is standing too. When he looks over to Eloise, her body is teetering on the edge of her chair — both hands clutching the fabric, both eyes pointed towards the nearest exit. Before she can move, Colin meets her gaze and tries with all his might to send her a look that screams: “Do. Not. Leave.”

If Eloise receives the message, she moves right past it. Literally. She walks right past Colin, rips their mother out of Penelope’s arms, and gives her best friend a fervent hug.

“Goodnight Pen! I’ll see you tomorrow for karaoke,” she exclaims, her excited tone slipping on that last word.

After Penelope and Eloise separate, all eyes in the room seem to fall on Colin. He can see the expectation in their eyes, for him to follow suit and announce his departure. But he doesn’t. Instead, he raises his previously forgotten teacup and swallows a sip of the frigid liquid.

“If it’s not too much of an imposition,” he says, eyes landing on Penelope and Penelope alone, “I think I’ll stay back and finish up my tea.”

“Of course,” Penelope says, but her face is made up of anything but assuredness. Her eyes scream, “Why?” Which is better than “Please. Leave. Now.” (Although harder to respond to with looks alone.)

As the rest of his family exits the drawing room, Penelope and Colin take their seats. She returns to hers. He takes Hyacinth’s, draping his right arm across the back of the settee. Almost immediately, he feels the weight of Penelope’s shoulders and the weightlessness of her hair brushing against him.

Portia remains alone on the couch, a tight smile on her lips and an indignant look in her eye.

For the next few minutes, the three of them sit idly, sipping tea and making mindless conversation. About the weather. About Philipa’s morning sickness. About the weather. About traffic. About the goddamn weather.

Through it all, Colin is a rather awful conversationalist, responding to Portia’s questions and hopeless attempts at small talk with monosyllabic sentences and a series of indifferent head nods. His behaviour does not change much when Portia re-introduces a topic from earlier.

“Colin, where did you say you were travelling to next? Somewhere in the states?”

Once again, it takes him a moment to recall.

“New York,” he eventually answers.

“How exotic,” Portia remarks in a tone that makes it difficult for Colin to discern if it was meant to be sarcastic or not. “And what brings you all the way out there?”

Once again, Colin does not answer straight away. Not because he can’t remember the details, but because he’s annoyed that the conversation has taken a turn that no longer allows for one word answers.

“I’ve always enjoyed my time there. And I haven’t made the trip in a few years, so…”

He shrugs noncommittally, not feeling up to the challenge of finishing that sentence.

“You always write of New York so beautifully,” offers Penelope from beside him, at which Colin cannot help but smile.

“You should see it for yourself.”

“I —”

Colin will never know what it was that Penelope was about to say. Portia cuts her off, a twisted smile on her lips.

“You know, I never quite understood how the two of you can be so… close.”

Yet again, Colin’s response is delayed. This time, due to shock. He doesn’t know what Portia is getting at, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.

“Pardon?”

“You two are such polar opposites. It’s difficult to imagine how two people can be so dissimilar and manage to remain friends for as long as you two have.”

“Mum —”

“‘Polar opposites?’” Colin echos, incredulous. He could laugh at her statement, if it hadn’t filled him with such a sudden burst of rage.

“Yes, I mean —”

She laughs suddenly, as if overtaken by the humour of a joke Colin can’t even begin to understand.

“You are so adventurous and independent. Penelope,” she says, as if Penelope is not also in the room with them, “would never run off to New York like that. She doesn’t have the follow through. Or the time! She’s so preoccupied by her job that she can barely make the fifteen minute walk from Hyde Park to Mayfair.”

“Mum —” Penelope tries to interject again. But again, it’s as if Portia can’t hear her at all.

“Lest a dinner be thrown here in her honour, of course.”

All night, Colin has done a remarkably awful job at letting his emotions stay hidden beneath the surface. All night, he’s sounded tense. Confused. Annoyed. But he has not sounded angry, despite the anger that has been building up in him from the moment he walked through the front door.

He has not sounded angry all night. Until now.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Portia must be rendered speechless by his sudden outburst; while she opens and closes her mouth several times, no words are spoken.

“Sorry,” he mutters. Not to Portia, but to Penelope. When he turns to look at her again, her mouth is hanging open like a fish. An adorable fish, but a fish nonetheless.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton?” Portia finally shoots out, which really does not help with Colin’s rage.

“Sorry,” he says again. “My emotions got the best of me. What I meant to say is that I don’t believe you know your daughter in the slightest. Which is a damn shame.”

Portia does that thing with her mouth again. “I love Penelope, of course, but —” she eventually begins to say. But Colin isn’t finished.

“But do you know her? All night, you’ve taken every opportunity to talk over and belittle her. And now you have the gall to claim that Penelope Featherington of all people isn’t ‘independent?’ To imply that her job — which she is so bloody passionate about — isn’t important or worthy of her time?”

Colin briefly halts his insane speech to steal another glance at Penelope. Her mouth is still hanging open, caught somewhere between being impressed and mortified.

Turning back to Portia…

“If you truly can’t see your daughter for the intelligent, funny, good person that she is, I feel very sorry for you.”

For a brief moment, Colin thinks he’s done. He thinks he did what he needed to do and will now face the consequences. (Most likely never being invited to step foot into the Featherington household ever again.) But there’s one thing still nagging at him.

“And just to clarify, Penelope is my best friend. And I’m lucky to be able to call her that.”

“I —”

Whatever Portia was about to say, Colin will never know. Penelope interrupts her.

“Colin, I’ll walk you out.”

In one quick motion, she stands, grabs him by his shirt sleeve, and pulls him towards the nearest exit.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Mint

The walk from the drawing room to the front steps was short and silent. It isn’t until now, stepping onto the pavement and into the cold April air, that either one of them says a word.

For his part, Colin doesn’t quite know what to say after his outburst upstairs. His first instinct — correct or not — is to apologise.

“Pen, I’m —”

“Thank you,” she interrupts. She looks so earnest in her resolve, gazing up at him with soft, open eyes. “For what you said up there.”

Colin’s eyes flick down, suddenly unable to keep her gaze.

“Please, don’t —” He takes a breath. “I didn’t say anything that shouldn’t have been said a long time ago.”

Penelope doesn’t drop her gaze. She looks at him like she’s about to argue. But in the end, “I don’t think anyone has ever spoken to my mother that way,” is all she says.

“Long overdue, I think.”

“Even then… Thank you for —”

“Pen, please. You —” He sighs. “You’re my best friend. It’s sort of my job to defend you.”

For the briefest second, he watches as something new crosses Penelope's face. Regret? Realisation? Despair? Colin can’t name it for certain, the change too brief and the night too dark for clarity. But just as quickly as it left, her resolve returns.

She smiles.

“I’m lucky, too,” she tells him. “To call you my best friend.”

Yet again, Colin drops his gaze. Penelope’s words. Penelope’s smile. Penelope’s lips and their relative distance to his own. Penelope, his best friend…

It’s all so good. There are times when it overwhelms him.

“Do you ever feel like it’s a curse?” he asks when the thoughts in his head get too loud. “Knowing your best friend your entire life?”

Penelope looks just as confused by his question as he feels himself.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He pauses, attempting to find the words. “You know me, the 29-year-old somewhat functional adult Colin. But you also know the 18-year-old complete arsehole Colin.”

“I —”

“And don’t forget about the 8-year-old idiot Colin, who thought fart jokes were the pinnacle of comedy.”

“So what?” Penelope asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. “We’ve always been friends. We were friends through all of the different versions of us. When I was an insecure dork or a —”

“You were never a —” Colin starts, but his voice doesn’t seem to break through.

“— little kid, afraid of her own shadow. We grew up together. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

Colin doesn’t know what to say to that, because it does feel bad. But it also feels great. And beautiful. And overwhelming.

“I think it’s a gift,” Penelope offers, only after several seconds watching Colin standing with his mouth hanging open like a fish. “To know someone for as long as we have. To be able to look back at who we once were compared to who we are now.”

That last sentence sends a chill directly down Colin’s spine, but Penelope does not seem to share his dilemma. She laughs again, crinkling her nose as she briefly turns it towards the stars above them.

“And it’s a bloody miracle, that our friendship was able to survive so many different versions of ourselves.”

Desperate to find his voice again, Colin clears his throat.

“I think ‘miracle’ might be doing us both a disservice,” he says, trying his hardest to keep his tone light. “We’ve put quite a bit of effort into maintaining this friendship over the years.”

“Sure,” Penelope utters quietly. Her head turns from right to left — from her childhood home to Colin’s. “You know… I don’t know what version of myself I would be today, had I not grown up on 15 Grosvenor Street.”

Colin mumbles something that vaguely sounds like agreement. His stomach is suddenly heavy with not just the food and alcohol and three and a half sips of tea he consumed all night, but also a revelation.

He was wrong. The two of them growing up together was not a curse. A history without Penelope Featherington would have been.

“Can I ask you a question?” Penelope blurts out, to which Colin can only nod.

“Did you stick around after everyone else left just so you could pick a fight with my mum?”

Colin tilts back and forth on his heels, considering her question. In the end, he gives her the most truthful answer he can find within himself.

“I wouldn’t put it in those words exactly, but… Yes. I suppose that’s the gist of it.”

Though it may be rather dark on this particular patch of pavement, it almost looks as though Penelope is holding in a laugh.

“And is that why you invited yourself and your family over tonight?”

Another chill goes down Colin’s spine.

“I… didn’t say you could ask me a second question.”

Penelope does laugh this time. Her laughter is short lived though, her face almost immediately settling back into seriousness.

“Well, for future birthdays and other family events… I need you to know that I can handle her on my own.”

“Pen —” he starts. He means to inform her that she should not have to handle this on her own. That she should not have to “handle” her mother in the first place. But his voice seems to get lost in the wind.

“Perhaps not as directly as you did up there…” She laughs again, nose wrinkling slightly. “But perhaps next time I can strive to be more forthright.”

“I know you can, Pen. But if you ever need someone there, I’m always —”

“I know, Colin,” she interrupts. Her voice is soft, but it cuts through the darkness between them. “Thank you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can figure out what, Penelope leans forward and wraps her arms around his neck. Well, she tries to. Even on her tippy toes, she has to pull him down to secure her position in the hug.

Though Colin is initially caught off guard by the feel of her body against his, he’s quick to recover. He wraps both of his arms around her — one across her shoulders and the other on her waist.

For a few seconds, time seems to stop. The rest of the world — anyone or anything not currently wrapped up in Colin’s arms — ceases to exist.

When Penelope eventually slips away, she looks up at him with a familiar expression. She’s about to say, “Goodnight.” But before she can, Colin uses his newly-free hands to fish the phone out of his front pocket.

10:11 PM

“Happy Almost-Birthday, Pen.”

“Thanks Colin,” she says a bit sheepishly. “You’re still coming to karaoke tomorrow though, right?”

Colin gasps in mock-horror, grasping a hand against his chest.

“Do you really take me for the type of person who would not show up for karaoke?”

“No,” Penelope giggles. “You’re not Eloise.”

“Thank god for that.”

“Are you heading back to Bloomsbury?” Penelope asks suddenly, before Colin has the chance to delay this part of the conversation any longer.

“Uh, no.” He nods his head to the house across the street. “I’m gonna sleep off my inevitable hangover at mum’s place. You know, there’s about a dozen vacant bedrooms there these days. If you want to —”

“No,” Penelope interrupts, sweet but insistent. “Thank you, but no. I’m just going to sleep here tonight.” She nods her head to the right, towards the house she previously claimed to never wish to sleep in ever again.

“Are you —”

“Yes,” she cuts in. “I am.”

She must sense right away that her words did nothing to quell his blatant worry.

“You know…” she continues. “This house feels different to me now. Different than how it felt when I was a kid.”

Colin lets out a shallow breath of air.

“How so?”

“It’s hard to explain. Maybe it’s just that I feel different. Like I finally grew up enough to not feel so small in its halls.” She laughs again, quietly. “It only took about twenty-seven years, but better late than never.”

Not for the first time tonight, Colin feels speechless. He feels as though he could search his mind for the right words for hours, and he would still come up short. But before he can muster up halfway decent…

“Goodnight, Colin. Thanks again.”

With that, she’s gone. Before he can even return her words, she’s disappeared from his view behind a big green door.

There’s no traffic on the street between his house and hers. He could cut across and be home in ten seconds. But he doesn’t. He pops a mint into his mouth and takes the long route.

After circling the block twice, Colin walks up his steps, opens the big blue door, swallows his mint, then throws one final glance over his shoulder.

Goodnight, Pen.

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

“You do realise that marrying me also means willingly making yourself Portia Featherington’s son-in-law, right?”

Colin shrugs.

“That’s a burden I’m willing to bear.”

“Are you —”

“But we’re spending holidays with my family from now on.”

“Okay.” Penelope laughs. “Deal.”

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

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