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Chapter Text

“This storm is rather wicked.”

An especially strong gust of wind rattles the bedroom window, splattering it with rain and a few wayward leaves. Penelope sinks further under the covers as if to shield herself from the elements, despite the roaring fire in the hearth keeping them warm and a thick stone wall separating them from the blustery weather outside.

“Are you worried?” Colin asks, pulling his reading glasses down to the tip of his nose, shifting his gaze from his book to his wife lying beside him.

“A bit, I suppose,” Penelope says, her brow knitted with subtle concern. “I don’t ever recall a storm this bad.”

“Come here, then,” Colin sets his glasses atop his book on the bedside table, then turns to Penelope with open arms. “Allow your strong, sturdy husband to comfort you.”

She giggles and moves toward him, resting her head on his shoulder, luxuriating in his calming embrace.

“Perhaps there are other things that might put your mind at ease,” he suggests. Softly, his fingers travel from her hand on his chest, down to her elbow, then underneath to her breast pressed against his side. He lazily drags them over the thin fabric of her nightgown and gently squeezes the plush swell he loves so much. 

Penelope giggles again. “Colin,” she chides. 

“What? I only wish to help you relax.”

“Hmm...is that so?”

He nods with a half pout. Penelope giggles again and moves his hand to her shoulder instead.

She loves this kind of attention from him and, on most occasions, is easily compelled to satiate his appetite – and hers to be fair. But tonight, after a very busy day at six months pregnant, she’s completely drained. Penelope’s most lustful moments during her hormone-filled second trimester are usually devoted to midday trysts whenever and wherever they can find the time.

Colin groans, “Very well.”

The storm continues to rage outside and flashes of lighting cut across the ceiling of their bedchamber. The latest crack of thunder makes Penelope flinch. Colin squeezes her a little tighter and settles further down into the bed, covering them both with the quilt. Once his wife finally relaxes against him, they are able to drift off to sleep.

Chapter Text

[Mayfair, 1825]

Luke groans as a bright light hits his face. He sees a figure slowly moving away from the window and it startles him for a second, until he sees the deep blue and gold damask wallpaper, the yellow duvet covering his lower half and the red hair on his shoulder.

Damn, I must have drifted off. 

It wasn’t totally unusual for him to do so. The long hours, the lull between shots and set ups makes it easy to take advantage of the extremely comfortable bed beneath him.

A soft snore comes from the woman at his side.

“Nic,” he chuckles, shifting his shoulder to wake her.

She groans and stirs, rubbing her cheek against his bare chest. Her hand is resting on his stomach and slowly starts to slide downward, causing him to freeze. She turns her head and presses a kiss to his skin, her fingers now snaking underneath the cover just below his navel.

“Whoa, hey now.” Luke quickly grabs her wrist and chuckles uncomfortably. 

Maybe she just lost herself for a moment, caught in a drowsy haze. They both must have fallen asleep waiting for the crew to set up for another take, surely.

The crew. Where is everyone? 

Luke scans the room. No one. Whoever was here a few moments ago is gone. Very strange.

So Luke calls for the only person he knows is never far away – their director, “Andrew?”

“Who’s Andrew?” she says sleepily, shifting a little closer, wrapping her leg over his and tightening an arm around his waist.

“Boy, you’re in a state right now,” Luke chuckles, grabbing her arm and pulling it away as he slides out of bed. 

She groans at the loss of her headrest as she rolls forward into the warm void his body left in the mattress and instantly falls back asleep.

Luke leaves her to rest as he pulls Colin’s silk robe out of the armoire. The white fluffy one he typically wears to set on intimacy days is nowhere in sight. He steps out into the hallway, securing the tie around his waist as he looks down the silent corridor. No indication that a film crew was even there. No cameras, no protective covering over the delicate tapestry rugs, no lights, no boom.

Seriously, what the fuck?

Luke’s heart starts racing as he picks up the pace, bounding down the familiar stairs into the foyer of the Featherington house set.

“Good morning, sir.” A man dressed in footman’s livery greets him. Tom? Tim? He can’t remember the actor’s name.

“Uh, morning,” Luke replies, certain his confusion is not hidden well. The ‘footman’ is standing at attention. His head never moves, but Luke catches the man’s sweeping gaze over his tousled hair down to his bare feet. Odd, but he’s more concerned about finding Andrew, or a producer, or a cameraman – anyone who can tell him what the hell is going on.

He opens the front door and steps into the blinding sun. As his eyes adjust, he blinks and rubs them furiously before he can fully register the sight in front of him. Leaves, twigs and a few branches are strewn across the cobblestone street. Puddles of rainwater glimmer in the daylight and there, across the square, is Ranger’s House – Bridgerton House.

Luke’s jaw hits the stoop. He turns to look at the building he just exited. Sure enough, the exterior is that of Royal Crescent…which should be in Bath, not London. Darting between Ranger’s House and Royal Crescent, his eyes are desperately trying to make the connection to his brain. 

Back through the front door, he can clearly see the staircase he’d descended moments ago. The wrought iron railing adorned with butterflies is bathed in sunlight from the window above the landing. His attention turns back to the house across the square, squinting to make sure his mind is not playing tricks. It should be just an empty greenspace – a place for people to play frisbee, have a picnic or walk their dog. Instead, the imposing red brick, draped in Wisteria, stands prominently – almost mocking him. There are no barriers, no walls surrounding the set. 

As he looks to the left, there’s another sight that only serves to confound him more. A carriage parked next to the sidewalk and several others clattering along the cobblestone avenue, not a single car or box truck in sight. A few passers by are dressed in Regency attire, whispering as they peer in his direction.

Luke looks down. Even by modern standards, he’s a bit of a mess. He pulls the robe tighter around himself and shivers despite the warmth of the morning sun.

He steps back into the house, resting against the door when it closes behind him. Beyond it, the muffled shouts of carriage drivers and the clops of hoofs against stone are almost torturous. 

What kind of Regency Twilight Zone fuckery is this?

Never in his life did he ever think he would wish so hard to hear the honk of a horn, the whir of an engine or the ear piercing beeps of a delivery truck.

“Is everything alright, sir?” That same footman is standing tall in the foyer now, looking at him with the same bit of curiosity as when he first laid eyes on him this morning.

“Uh…yeah – yes. Just having…an interesting morning.” 

That’s the understatement of the 19th century. Colin straightens himself and rubs his hands harshly over his face.

The footman, still unconvinced, speaks slowly, “Breakfast shall be set in about an hour, sir. Are you certain there is nothing I can do for you? You are looking rather peaked.”

“Yeah, I bet I am,” Luke mumbles.

“Sir?”

“Hm – oh, no …no, thank you. I’m fine.”

The men nod to each other politely and Luke decides to see if Nicola can offer any answers as he makes his way back up the stairs.

The bedchamber is now empty, but he can hear her familiar humming from across the hall. 

The door is cracked open and without a second thought, he swings it open.

“Oh …” He halts in the doorway, his eyes immediately falling to the bright red bundle of freshly washed hair gathered at the top of her head.

“Where did you run off to so early?” she says sweetly. She’s submerged in a copper tub, with only her shoulders visible above the milky water which, mercifully, obscures everything beneath the surface.

Luke can hear her giggle as his eyes dart to the ceiling, refusing to look anywhere else.

“Well?” she asks.

“Well, what?”

“You abandoned me in a cold bed. I had hoped you might linger a while this morning,” she says with a distinct air of seduction. 

Oh boy. 

Luke doesn’t answer. He’s physically incapable as his brain spins in circles trying to figure out exactly what’s happening.

This has to be some elaborate prank. It even surpasses Nicola’s usual standards. There’s no crew – no reason for her to be in a tub. It’s just the two of them as far as he can tell. Plus, the hair and makeup team would never let her anywhere near water with an expensive wig unless it was a well coordinated scene. 

She looks at him curiously, as he has yet to respond, but she moves on. “I only wanted a quick wash. Will you help me out?”

Oh, come on. Let this be a joke. Please. She’s got to be wearing some strapless bathing suit and there’s a hidden camera somewhere.

Luke approaches the tub, still averting his gaze as he reaches out a hand. 

He can hear the water sloshing around as she stands, and in his periphery he can tell she’s definitely not wearing a bathing suit. 

He swallows hard when she asks for his other hand for balance as she lifts a leg over the edge of the tub. His eyes go straight to the floor, his chin nearly touching his chest so he sees nothing but her feet as she places them daintily on the towel after stepping out of the tub.

She releases his hands and giggles again, presumably because he hasn’t moved, his eyes still burning a hole in the ground.

“My towel is behind you,” she says.

He spins around quickly and grabs the towel from the shelf, stretching his arm out behind him to hand it to her without turning back.

“Could you grab another for my hair?”

He does so and reaches back with it again. When she doesn’t take it, he chances a look over his shoulder. Her back is to him now, her hair is down and the first towel – a thin linen cloth that doesn’t cover much – is wrapped around her body.

Luke’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do now. Drop it and run? Drape it over her shoulder? Go sprinting around the house screaming for someone in hair and makeup to deal with this?

“Well?” she inquires.

Well WHAT?! 

Luke just stands there, in the middle of the wash room, towel dangling lifelessly from his hand, while his naked, wet co-star waits for what…for him to dry her hair?

Jesus, fine. 

He unfolds the towel, begrudgingly playing along with this stupid prank or whatever it is, and flings it over her head.

“Colin!” she giggles.

He smirks a bit, for the first time this morning, thinking the conclusion of this wild hoax must be coming soon. 

“You deserve it,” he says.

She adjusts the towel so it’s no longer in her face. “Excuse me?”

“This little game you’re playing…give it up, Nic.” Luke grasps the towel around a handful of hair, squeezing it gently, then giving it a little pull. Surely the wig will slide off, loosened by the steam of the tub.

“Ow! Colin, what are you doing?!” She spins around, staring up at him in shock.

That’s when Luke starts to really freak out. The towel covers her chest, but falls on either side of her pregnant belly. He’s seen the rubber prosthetic one she has to wear under her dresses, and this is definitely not it. This is skin. Taught, smooth and a little bit shiny, with silvery lines running up her sides. 

What. The. Fuck.

“Colin?” She’s looking at him with equal parts concern and bafflement.

He’s speechless as his gaze shifts from her belly to her eyes. They’re Nicola’s eyes. It’s her face.

He looks at her hair again and runs his hand through it. There’s no mistaking it for a wig. It’s deep red, thick and sprouting directly from her scalp.

Maybe he’s dreaming, because nothing – absolutely nothing – makes sense right now. 

The only thing he can currently wrap his head around is the fact that the woman standing before him is actually Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.

Chapter Text

[London, 2025]

Colin wakes to intense sunlight blazing through the open window. Rae must have already snuck in and drawn the curtains this morning.

I really must tell her to just leave them shut. 

He grumbles and sits at the edge of the bed, his eyes still adjusting to the morning light. There’s not much time to fully come to his senses as a loud pounding noise comes from somewhere not so far away.

“Luke!” More pounding along with muffled shouts. “Luke! Answer the door!”

Who the bloody hell is Luke?  

Colin stands and shuffles around the bed, the bright light still clouding his vision as he trips over something on the floor. 

“Dammit.” He kicks it away – some sort of dreary grey fabric. That’s when he sees the floor itself. Not the plush floral rug that he’s accustomed to sinking his toes into every morning, but instead a cold, hard maple wood that is far from pleasant underfoot.

What in the world?  

He looks up, finally able to focus and look about the room. Unfamiliar to say the least. Stark white walls, clothing strewn about, sharp corners on every piece of furniture and colorless decor, aside from the navy blue bedding. It feels claustrophobic, all these things inside of one tiny room, about half the size of the chambers he shares with his wife.

“Luke! Come on buddy, you’re freaking me out!” 

That voice again. A woman. 

Colin rubs his face, still utterly befuddled. He walks out to a short hallway, the wood floor still cold beneath his feet. The pounding gets louder as he approaches the rattling door.

“There’s no Luke here!” he says loudly.

“Oh, shit. Thank fuck. What the hell, Luke?! Let me in!”

Dear Lord. He’s never heard such vulgar words in a feminine tone.

“Pardon me, but there is no Luke here!” Colin repeats, a little louder this time. His patience is wearing very thin as he tries to wrack his brain amidst the noise. 

How the hell did I get here? Where am I? Who is this Luke fellow?

A different bit of his brain is busy processing the sound of the voice beyond the door as the woman speaks again. 

“Luke, stop fucking around!” The language is crude, the accent is different, but the voice is so familiar. The only thing familiar at present.

“I do not know what to tell you, miss. My name is Colin Bridgerton, you must have the wrong residence.”

“Miss? Are you fucking kidding me right now?” she grumbles. 

They do this on occasion, speak in their Regency dialects away from set – usually at the end of the day when everyone is exhausted and cheeky, so she plays along, hoping he’ll finally answer the damn door. 

“Mr. Bridgerton, I only wish to speak with you a moment.” Her voice turns quintessentially British –  innocent, regal. 

Penelope?!

Colin flings the door open, only to be met with…well, he isn’t sure. 

Penelope?  

But, not. A very different version of his Penelope. Blonde hair, slicked back and bound on top of her head. Her makeup is the same, but her attire is certainly not. Baggy clothing in muted colors that do absolutely nothing for the voluptuous figure he so adores. Highly uncivilized, much like the words coming out of her mouth.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around his waist. Colin stands in stunned silence, one hand still grasping the door, the other floating in mid air, unsure if he should reciprocate this hug when he isn’t sure of anything right now.

“We’ve all been worried sick, you didn’t show up this morning, you haven’t answered your calls or texts. What’s going on?” She looks up at him with those icy blue eyes, that furrowed brow and all the sweetness he’s accustomed to with his wife - it’s uncanny.

“Penelope?”

“Fuck, did you hit your head or something?”

“Uh, no…No, I think not.” He runs a hand through his hair around the back of his head. 

Perhaps I did. Might explain all this nonsense.

The concern on this woman’s face becomes even more dire. 

“Sit.” She guides him to a dining chair and rushes off to the kitchen.

“Looks like your power is out,” she says after pointlessly flipping a switch several times. 

“Power?”

“Yeah, that glorious thing that keeps the lights on, allows you to play your video games and…” she picks up a black, shiny, tile looking thing from the counter and holds it up, “...charges your phone. It’s dead, nice going.”

Everything she’s just said makes him dizzy. Maybe he’s suffering from apoplexy.

“Drink,” she commands, placing a glass of water in front of him.

Colin does so as the woman pushes her fingers through his hair, taking him quite by surprise. Penelope does this, most often in very intimate moments, or in moments where she wants to become intimate. He gets lost for a time, thanking the heavens for this bit of familiarity that takes him back home, to the warmth of his bedroom, to the gentle touch of his wife. 

Right now, however, her touch is less than gentle. She’s roughly massaging his scalp, presumably checking for bumps or lesions that might suggest he has a head injury. After she’s completed a thorough once over, she sighs, half in relief, half out of frustration. 

“I’m going to murder you. What is going on? This isn’t like you.” She stands in front of him and leans down, putting her face level with his, eyes narrow. “Are you on drugs, Luke?”

“What – no,” he answers firmly. “My name is Colin Bridgerton.” He’s very clear about that fact. He knows who he is, even if there is no other discernible certainty other than the crazed look on this woman’s face. It looks just like Penelope when he takes his teasing a little too far.

“Oh my God.” Her frustration reaches its peak. “I’m going to call a medic, you’ve gone mental. If this is one of your pranks… it really isn’t funny anymore, Luke!” Her voice cracks as she becomes visibly upset.

“Apologies…sincerely. Please forgive me…I– I’m just out of sorts. Could I at least have your name?”

Her shoulders drop, the agitation still etched in her brow, tears welling in her eyes as she answers, “Nicola…Nic.”

“Nic,” he says gently. “Alright…Nic. Where am I?”

“Seriously Luke.”

“Colin, please.”

“Colin.” She sighs and drops her head back as she goes along with it, her phone grasped in her hand, still poised to call a medic. “You’re in London, in your flat on Wilson St.”

“Well, at least I’m in London,” he chuckles lightly, eliciting a razor-sharp glare from Nicola.

“Okay, Colin. Can you please explain what you’re up to with all this?” 

This has to be a prank. It has to be. If it is though, he’s gotten quite good at it. Normally this far in, he’d begin to crack and giggle like a school boy. That seems to be a far off possibility with the genuine look of worry he’s now adopted on his own face.

“In truth, I do not know, but please…may I just speak with you? Gather my thoughts?”

Nicola eyes him cautiously, sighs and sits across from him at Luke’s two person breakfast table. She simply raises her eyebrows and purses her lips, waiting for an explanation of some sort.

“I’m Colin Christopher Bridgerton. I live in Mayfair – Grosvenor Square – with my wife Penelope and our son, Thomas. The last thing I remember was falling asleep with her in my arms…” Colin’s voice starts to break and trail off as the full weight of what’s happening settles over him. And looking in Nicola’s eyes – exact replicas of his wife’s – only makes him miss her more.

The shimmering tears in his eyes finally give Nicola the indication that there is something very wrong here. She remembers the last time she was with Luke. They were on set and their final scene of the day ended with her head on his shoulder and his arms around her as Colin and Penelope drift off to sleep during a terrible London storm – not unlike the one that struck last night.

If this isn’t some sick fucking joke, she’s incredibly worried that he might be seriously losing his mind or there’s some very strange, insane cosmic screw-up that’s to blame for all this, as ridiculous as that seems.

Nicola takes his hand and Colin looks up at her, those tears hanging at the corners of his eyes refusing to fall.

“Lu– Colin…I know all this,” she says softly.

“You do?” he asks with complete shock.

“Yes. I know everything about Colin Bridgerton and Penelope and their families.”

“H–...how?”

“Let’s just say, I’m a very close, personal friend of theirs.” Nicola is trying to be sympathetic, but also feels like she might be the one who’s losing her marbles. 

She’s talking to Luke, in his apartment, like he’s actually Colin. Not running lines like they sometimes do and clearly not joking as the tears start streaming down his cheeks. It’s time to just figure this out and show this man some compassion.

“Why don’t you come with me? Go get dressed, and we’ll work through the day together.”

Colin stares at her for a moment. Every instinct is telling him that he can trust her, so he simply nods as she swipes her thumbs across his cheeks. 

As badly as he wants to kiss her, he can’t. He knows that. She’s not Penelope, no matter how much he wishes her to be.

This morning, he expected to wake next to his wife. To give her a kiss – maybe more – before venturing off to the nursery to greet his son while Penelope took a morning bath. He should be playing with his son at this moment, a realization that makes his chest excruciatingly tight.

“Go find some clothes, and I’ll pack up some of your things. You shouldn’t stay here while the power is out.”

The more she thinks about it, Colin would probably feel more at ease being here without power or modern amenities, but she really doesn’t want to leave him alone until they can figure out what the hell is happening.

Colin returns to Luke’s bedroom and starts searching through his drawers and grimaces. This attire is almost more casual than if he were to just walk around in a nightshirt and his underwear at home. Everything he pulls out only seems to be a different version of what he currently has on – thick cotton fabric with short sleeves that covers his upper half. Unusual, but not nearly as unusual as his bottom half – slippery, airy material with holes all over, stopping just above his knees. A proper lady would have been scandalized by his appearance.

Nicola finds him again after tossing his phone, charger and toothbrush into her purse. 

She can’t help but giggle when she finds Colin standing with a black shirt dangling from one hand and boxer-briefs hanging from the other, a clear look of disdain on his face. 

Nicola rummages through Luke’s closet and finds a folded pair of jeans and hands them to Colin. “We’ll get you more ‘comfortable’ clothes when we get to set.”

“Set?”

“I’ll explain on the way.” She closes the door behind her, leaving him to get dressed in private.

When he reappears, she smiles at his expression – apprehensive to say the least. He holds his arms out and shrugs. This is so far beyond his comfort zone of dress shirts and waistcoats. Even a stifling cravat might help him feel more at ease, but he admits anyway, “I look like a slob, but I will say, I am rather comfortable.”

Chapter Text

[Mayfair, 1825]

Luke managed to excuse himself from the uncomfortable washroom incident without rousing too much suspicion from Penelope. He outfitted himself in Colin’s clothes and successfully thwarted a panic attack with some deep breathing and meditation before making his way to the Featherington drawing room, determined to act the hell out of this for as long as it might take to work himself out of this mess.

Immediately upon entering the drawing room, Luke is handed either Owen or Caleb – he still hasn’t quite figured out how to tell the difference between the twins who fill the role of baby Lord Featherington. But, maybe this actually is Thomas Bridgerton? 

What the fuck do I know anymore?

“Good morning, Colin darling,” Portia welcomes him from her seat at the corner table, already tucked into a scone smothered with jam and clotted cream. 

“Morning, Poll–,” he catches himself, remembering what he’d learned this morning; he’s stuck in some Regency time-fuck and is now living as the real Colin Bridgerton and that’s not Polly Walker. 

“Portia. How are you this morning?”

“Wonderful,” she beams, happy as a clam.

The same footman who had thoroughly scrutinized his appearance earlier steps into the room.

“Sir, yesterday you asked that I remind you of your appointment with Mr. Dundas at half past eleven.”

“Oh…” Pausing for a moment, Luke takes a deep, extended breath, squashing the rising panic once again. “Uh, yes. Thank you.” 

Fuck.

As the footman leaves, Luke glances at the grandfather clock in the hall. He has a little over an hour before said meeting, and seemingly nothing else to do.

The one year old squirming in his arms reaches toward a cluster of wooden blocks lying near the front of the sofa.

Luke puts Thomas on the floor and goes to grab a scone for himself. Within seconds, Thomas is wailing, “Papa!” with a block clutched in his tiny grasp, reaching to be picked up again.

“That boy – you’ve spoiled him by holding him too much,” Portia patronizingly remarks. She pops the rest of her scone in her mouth, smoothing the newspaper and scanning it without so much as a glance at him.

Luke clears his throat to mask an annoyed grumble and sits cross-legged on the rug next to the little redhead. Calmed by the presence of the man he thinks is his father, Thomas begins aggressively gnawing on the wooden blocks scattered around him.

Luke breaks off some bits of scone for Thomas to eat. He stacks the blocks and the little boy delights in knocking them over, eagerly waiting for Luke to stack them back up again. He would be perfectly content to do this all day if it meant avoiding whatever this impending meeting with Dundas is about and not having to explain his situation to Penelope.

If only he were that lucky.

“What on earth are you doing?!” Portia has rounded the sofa, looking stricken as she peers down at the pair of them seated on the rug.

Luke shrugs, thinking nothing of sitting on the ground to play with a child, just as he does with the twins on set and his own nephew.

“Well, get up before you crease your trousers,” she scolds and strides to the other end of the room, muttering under her breath, “Honestly, sitting on the floor.”

After being schooled on etiquette, Luke obeys, smooths his pants and sits properly on the sofa, shoving the rest of the scone in his mouth. 

“And, for heaven’s sake, use a plate. What’s gotten into you this morning?”

Luke rolls his eyes when her back is turned.

In the meantime, Thomas has started crying again, reaching out for his father who is no more than a few feet away. Luke would love to pick him up, but now that he knows Portia’s feelings on the matter, he resists for Colin’s sake. Instead, he looks around for more distractions and spots a jack-in-the-box on the end table. 

Leaning down in front of him, Luke winds the crank and the familiar tune of ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ jingles throughout the room. Thomas eyes it cautiously, his little bottom lip still pushed out, but Luke continues to turn the crank.

“Colin, no,” Portia says, but it’s too late.

The box pops open and a jester springs out, far creepier looking than Luke could have ever imagined. It even startles him, but Thomas is now traumatized, screaming and crying – deeply disturbed by this supposedly ‘fun’ child’s toy.

Luke scoops him up immediately and tries desperately to calm him down with back rubs and bounces, but it’s no use.

“What’s happened?” Penelope arrives, freshly dressed and preened, now worried about her sobbing son.

“That ridiculous thing,” Portia answers, pointing to the box now lying on the floor.

“Colin, you know how much he dislikes that,” Pen chides him.

Great, now I’ve made it look like Colin needs lessons on how to play with his own son.

“I’m sorry. I suppose I forgot,” he says sheepishly.

Thomas is still whimpering, so Luke does the only other thing he can think of. He slides his hands under Thomas’ arms, holds him out in front of him and squats as he counts slowly, “One…two… three .” Thomas is tossed gently in the air and his cries instantly stop.

“COLIN! ” Portia and Penelope shriek in unison.

“What!? ” Luke looks at their stunned faces. Apparently this isn’t something Colin does, and perhaps something they’ve never seen a father do to his child.

“That’s dangerous …isn’t it?” Penelope asks, unable to deny that it was effective in getting Thomas to stop crying.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got him. I’ve done it before,” he reassures her.

“I’ve never seen you do that,” she counters.

Luke is spared having to reply when Thomas squeals and kicks his legs as if he’s asking for more.

Luke smiles back at Penelope and waits for her nod, granting permission. 

“One…two…threee.”

Thomas squeals and giggles, landing safely back in Luke’s arms saying, “Moh, moh .”

Their little game repeats several times, leaving everyone in the drawing room laughing and Luke feeling rather proud of himself for maintaining control over the situation.

**********

The dreaded meeting with Walter Dundas arrives.

The older gentleman has come well prepared. Several documents are fanned out in front of Luke with a quill placed neatly on top. Mr. Dundas gingerly slides an ink well across the desk. 

Luke clears his throat as his anxiety begins to build. Every word on those pages jumbles together and he’s forced to ask the question so he doesn’t irreversibly fuck up the Featherington’s lives.

“Would you kindly remind me what each of these is for?”

“Certainly, sir. Here we have the letters patent, issued by the Queen, granting your son the title of Baron. This is the deed which formally transfers ownership of Featherington land and properties to his name. Next are the custodial documents for the trust you and your wife wished to establish for him. It also states that you shall remain in control of those funds and all assets until his twenty-first year.” Dundas finishes his explanation, reclines back in his chair and calmly folds his hands over his stomach.

“Is that all?” Luke jokes while his head is spinning.

That’s a lot to take in, and now he’s in charge of deciphering these papers and signing them on behalf of Colin Bridgerton. If one simple thing is out of order, it could screw everything up for little Thomas and he really doesn’t want that festering on his conscience.

Dundas barely reacts, only responding with a half-amused smirk and telling him, "Once these documents are signed, my work is done."

“Would you mind if I take a moment to look these over? Important stuff, you know.” 

Luke tries to play it cool, acting like reading legal documents written in 19th century jargon while holding the fate of a one year old boy and his entire family in the tip of his quill isn’t the most overwhelming thing that’s ever happened to him. That, and the fact that he’s essentially forging a signature because on top of everything else he’s NOT ACTUALLY COLIN BRIDGERTON!

“Of course, sir. I will step out to afford you some privacy. I noticed tea and sandwiches set in the drawing room, if it’s not an inconvenience?”

“Umm…no, I suppose not. I’m sure my wife would be happy to offer you some refreshments.”

Dundas stands, nods and closes the study door before heading down the hall to mooch off the Featherington's lunch.

Luke finally heaves a huge groan, dropping his elbows on the desk and burying his face in his hands. The daunting task of reading these documents would be overwhelming for anyone not well versed in legal nuances, but it’s made even more challenging by his dyslexia. He needs to take his time, focus, and try his best for Colin, Penelope and Thomas. 

“This is why I’m an actor,” he mumbles, diving into the first document. 

**********

Luke wanders down the hall, pinching the bridge of his nose after living through one of the most confounding days of his life. He now knows more about how to transfer a Barony than anyone else in modern times, he’s sure of that. 

He wishes he could call someone, especially Nic. Someone to reassure him that he’s not having a nervous breakdown. That he hasn’t slipped into some bout of schizophrenia that has gone undiagnosed and unrecognized during his 30 odd years of life.

As he slips into Colin and Penelope’s bedchamber he has to tamp down the glimmer of hope he feels bubbling in his stomach upon seeing the familiar red hair and short stature of Penelope standing over the writing desk in the corner of the room. He knows – or at least thinks he does – that this isn’t real, she’s not Nicola. He can’t speak with her candidly like they usually do. Every indication today has been given that this really is Penelope. 

When she turns, his breath hitches for a moment. Her silk robe is tied loosely – very loosely – with seemingly nothing underneath. 

Oh, fuck. It’s not Nic. She’s not Nic. She thinks you’re Colin – her husband.

But this is wrong. SO wrong.

She steps forward and Luke takes a thick gulp and tries to summon even a wisp of air into his lungs. 

He begins weighing his options on how to handle this. He can’t outright reject her - Colin would never do such a thing and Penelope would be heartbroken if he did. He absolutely cannot have sex with her or do anything resembling a sexual act. All he can see is Nicola and it would be inappropriate and intrusive and she’s not here to give him consent even if he wanted to. 

That is a very big line he will not cross.

Before he can decide on a course of action, her hands are on his chest as she looks up at him with a definite blaze of desire alight behind her eyes. 

Shit.

One of her hands rakes through the hair at the back of his head as she raises up to meet his lips. A searing kiss, that leaves no doubt of her intentions with him – with her husband. Deciding quickly, his hands land gently at her waist as he returns the kiss, only enough to make it believable, but not push it too far to where Penelope believes there is a real chance for anything tonight.

She moans as they break apart. Luke grabs both of her hands and slips into Colin mode, painting on a face that shows adoration and desire, but also regret.

“Oh, Pen. I can’t – we can’t.” He takes a breath. God he doesn’t want to disappoint her. He loves Penelope, truly. “I’ve been feeling unwell, and I just…I don’t want to risk you catching something in your condition.”

Her shoulders drop. Then she presses her hand to his forehead, sliding it down to his cheek. He can’t help but quirk a faint smile – she’s so darling and sweet.

“You do look rather flushed,” she says with a slightly furrowed brow, then issues a disappointed sigh. “Very well. You must let me know when you feel better,” she smirks, hopping onto her tiptoes to offer a kiss to his cheek.

Whew, got out of that one.

Not quite.

Penelope pads over to the armoire and swings open the doors. With her back to him, she drops her robe. 

Yep, nothing under there.

Luke averts his eyes like a gentleman, but goddam, Colin’s a lucky fellow with a wife so open and seductive - he would be a dead man right now. Luke feels sorry that he’s missing it.

Pen pulls one of her cotton nightgowns over her head, closes the doors and throws her robe over the desk chair. She crawls into bed and draws the covers up to her neck, covering herself completely.

Luke finds a nightshirt and strips down to his underwear. He can’t jump into bed fully clothed, it would be too suspicious. He slides under the covers next to her and faces the back of her head. 

Closing his eyes, he desperately hopes to get some sleep and maybe, just maybe, wake up in his own bed tomorrow.

That is until he hears a sigh he knows all too well. Frustrated, sad, tired – on the verge of tears. 

Dammit. 

“Is something the matter?” He asks quietly, scrunching his face, hoping he didn’t royally fuck this up.

“Is it me?” She pauses a moment. “I know I’ve gotten…bigger. And I’m –”

“No. God no, Pen.” He shifts closer and slips his arm under hers, across her waist and over her growing belly. He pulls her closer until she’s molded against him – the perfect little spoon. “No , this isn’t about any of that, not in the least. You’re beautiful, even more so now,” he says truthfully.

If he can’t make love to her like she wants him to, at the very least he can hold her, snuggle her, preserve some sort of intimate bond between a husband and wife, especially in her vulnerable and emotional state.

“Pen, I just...I truly haven’t felt myself today. And…I want to give you everything you deserve, wholeheartedly. I want to make love to you when I can do it with every ounce of energy my body can hold.” The last part comes out deep and passionate against the shell of her ear. He’s not trying to seduce her, but he’s compelled to comfort her as Colin would. To assure her that her husband still desires her even though he, himself, can't fulfill those needs.

Luke knows it’s not enough. It will never be enough as long as he’s stuck here, but what else can he do? He presses his lips to the small patch of skin behind her ear. 

“I love you Penelope," he whispers with every shred of sincerity he can muster.

It is true. He projects the love he has for Nicola and their friendship, the love he has for Penelope as a character, and the love he has for Colin and Pen and their growing family.

It will have to be enough for now, as much as it kills him to see Pen so dispirited.

Chapter Text

[London, 2025]

“So…I’m an actor?”

“Yes.”

“And you are my wife?”

“In the show, yes.”

“And people can watch us? In their own home?”

“Yes.”

Colin takes a deep breath, turning every scrap of new information over in his brain. It was already shocking enough to wake up in a strange environment and have every sense assaulted by something new when they stepped outside, but now he’s learned he has an actual job and that everyone in the world has watched major parts of his life unfold in real time.

The vinyl squeaks when he shifts uncomfortably in the backseat of their hired car. Colin does his best to remain calm and settle the churning acid in his stomach by clamping his eyes shut. This way he can also ignore the imposing buildings and shiny vehicles speeding past the window. 

This is absolute insanity and he only wishes to be back home.

The car slows to a halt before a large black fence, stark and obnoxious. Once the car drives through it they are greeted by a large, stately brick home which he doesn’t recognize. Nicola explains that it’s one of their filming locations – Hatfield House.

“Now remember,” Nicola starts, looping her arm through his to keep him close and grounded, “you may recognize some people, but they are actors.”

Colin swallows and nods, trying to maintain his composure. 

“This way.” She guides him toward the trailers along the fence line and into the one designated for hair and makeup. 

For now, it’s just the two of them.

Nicola notices him fidgeting, squinting against the bright lights and looking around the entire trailer at every new and unfamiliar object.

“Talk to me, Colin. What are you thinking?”

“I do not know.” He takes a weighty breath. “It’s all so…unnatural. Everything is cluttered and bright, but also…lifeless and ugly, if I’m honest. And what are all these dangly things? I see them everywhere.” Colin reaches for a curling iron and holds up the cord attached to it, grasping the plug at the end.

“Almost everything runs on electricity these days. That end gets plugged into a wall and the curling iron heats up.”

Colin holds the plug in front of his face, inspecting it before putting it back on the station in front of him. 

“Oh! That reminds me.” Nicola reaches into her purse and pulls out another cord, along with what Colin now knows is called a ‘phone’ and demonstrates plugging it in. “I’ll show you how to use that later.”

Colin hums and continues to scrutinize the space around them. “Do these need to be so blinding?” he asks, pointing at the bulbs surrounding the mirror.

“I suppose it is pretty jarring when you’re used to just candlelight, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“And what’s this?” Colin hops up from his chair and goes over to the little machine in the corner of the room.

Nicola can’t help but smile at his boyish curiosity, now almost overshadowing his anxiety.

“A coffee maker. Want me to make you some?”

“Coffee? Please.” He nods as a small glimmer of excitement flashes across his face.

He watches intently as Nicola fills the reservoir with water from the cooler behind him – also a source of great interest – scoops the coffee grounds into the filter and flips the switch to get it brewing.

He’s only ever had coffee that’s already prepared, sitting in a silver pot on the breakfast table. He knows the very basics of how it’s made in his own time thanks to his travels abroad, so watching now, as the indicator light glows red and brown liquid sputters into a glass carafe, he’s entranced.

“So, the beans are already roasted and ground?” Nicola nods. “And you do not have to boil the water?” She shakes her head.

“Fascinating,” he mutters.

It isn’t long before she hands him a cup of black coffee, per his request, and he carefully takes a sip.

She can tell by the look on his face that it’s not what he’s used to and he’s just trying to be polite about it.

“It’s, um…unusual.”

“Not to your standards?”

“Not at all,” he starts to laugh. “It’s bloody awful.”

**********

A short time later, Colin has given up trying to stomach the weak coffee and opted for a bottle of water instead. He can’t stop fiddling with it – screwing the cap on and off and squeezing it to hear the satisfying crunch of the plastic. That is until Nicola gives him a look. The same one Penelope flashes in his direction when he’s doing something that’s particularly annoying.

Luke’s hairstylist, Sarah, takes the heated curling iron and starts breaking off sections of Colin’s hair and twisting it around the hot metal. Colin stays quiet while Sarah, Nicola and her hair stylist, Farida, make idle chatter.

He can’t help but wonder why they’re doing this. At home, he simply lets it dry naturally, resulting in a generally acceptable pattern of waves and curls. His wife likes to call them ‘dangerous curls’. The thought makes him smile. 

He smiles even more when he looks over to see Nicola, now the spitting image of Penelope with flowing red waves falling over her shoulders. The smile soon fades as he reminds himself of his painful reality.

When they’re finished, Nicola shows him to his trailer where a member of the wardrobe team is waiting for him. Again, Colin remains mostly silent other than offering a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ response to the man dressing him. Honestly it’s a relief to finally be dressed in his familiar trousers, dress shirt and waistcoat. The wardrobe assistant ties a cravat around his neck and the overcoat is secured at the front.

Colin feels more like himself right now than he has the entire morning. It makes him grin as he offers a jovial ‘thank you’ and leaves the trailer to find Nicola standing nearby, waiting for him.

“Feeling better?” she questions, looking up from her phone, noting his slightly more relaxed demeanor.

“Considerably,” he smiles down at her. “Though I am rather famished,” he says, patting his belly.

“Oh, good lord, we can’t have that now,” Nicola jokes, well aware of Luke and Colin’s similarities when it comes to their appetites. Plus, the poor man hasn’t eaten all morning.

He follows her into a tent at the side of the house and there, spread out before him, is one of the most glorious sights he’s ever seen. 

“This…is craft services.” she announces.

Food of every shape, color and texture imaginable. Like the big family feast that’s always set out at Christmas, only this is twice the size with twice as much variety. Fruits, vegetables, muffins, sandwiches and plenty of unrecognizable items wrapped in colorful plastic. 

He goes for what he knows, loads up a plate, and gorges himself to the point of having to unbutton his coat before they finally make it to their destination – the Featherington drawing room.

Colin gasps, not expecting to see this particular room inside a house that is very much not his own. 

Even though the room is teaming with activity – crew members staging props and cameramen lining up their shots – it’s at least somewhat comforting. The space he shares with his wife, child and mother-in-law has been infiltrated by all sorts of newfangled contraptions, but he feels like he belongs here.

Fortunately, this scene is one with very little dialogue on Colin’s part. Nicola remembers his lines well, and simply tells him to say them just as he would in real life.

“Portia. How are you this morning?” and “Yes, thank you.” are easy enough to remember and he has no trouble delivering them perfectly.

Where he falters is when the child who plays Thomas is placed in his arms. Tears sting at the back of his eyes and he tries not to squeeze the child too tightly, never wanting to let him go. 

Once he regains his composure, Colin delights in playing with the boy, stacking blocks and letting him knock them over.

When he takes in his surroundings for the umpteenth time, he notices the jack-in-the-box sitting on the end table.

Colin turns it over in his hands and shows it to Nicola, who has come to check on him while they are between takes and the crew resets some lighting rigs. 

“I thought we had hidden this infernal thing in one of my old trunks?”

“Did you?” Her use of ‘you’ versus ‘we’ is just another reminder that this is all essentially pretend, no matter how real it feels to him. 

Colin manages a light chuckle and stares at the toy with a sudden deep reverence. “Benedict gifted this to Thomas at Christmas. Painted it himself. The outside is beautiful, is it not?” 

Colin’s fingers trace the delicate designs on the sides as he holds it up so she can see the front panel clearly –  a picturesque scene of Aubrey Hall. 

He swallows down a lump of emotion and continues, “Everyone was terrified the first time the jester popped out. The least he could’ve done was give it a more pleasant smile – made it look less satanic.”

Nicola laughs and takes the box from him. Her hand settles on the crank. “Do I dare?”

Shuddering, he chuckles. “If you do, I politely request that it be done far away from myself and our child.”

She laughs again and Colin’s heart and stomach twist around each other. 

He misses her laugh. It always makes him want to grab her and kiss her and sweep her off her feet.

His shoulders sag and Nicola notices. A hand grips his shoulder and she tells him, “We’ll get through this…together.”

Colin can only offer a feeble nod as he continues to play with the boy who is not his son.

**********

Colin wades through the rest of the afternoon in a fog, delivering a few lines with scary precision for an untrained actor. It shouldn’t be that surprising given that he is the character.

He’s sullen and quiet as they are driven away from Hatfield House. Nicola has tried her best to remain upbeat throughout the day, for his sake, but she’s deeply sympathetic to his situation. Being away from his son and pregnant wife – not to mention the rest of his family – with no way to reach them must be eating him alive.

Nicola finally has a moment to scroll through Luke’s phone, now fully charged. She dismisses all of her frantic texts from the morning – and several others from their costars – and finds one from the power company. 

“Looks like your– Luke’s power might be out for another day or two…”

Colin hums and pathetically drops his forehead against the car window, streaked with rain. Fittingly melodramatic. 

“You’re going to stay with me tonight. I’ll introduce you to microwave popcorn, fizzy drinks and streaming.” She nudges his shoulder and smiles as he grunts in return with his head still pressed against the cool glass.

Inside her apartment, Colin flops onto her couch wearing Luke’s black t-shirt and a pair of extra sweatpants they’d found in his trailer. He’s too worn out to even comment on it.

Nicola tries to find something to distract him and keep his mind from spiraling into darkness.

“Come over here,” she calls from the kitchen.

Groaning, he rises from the couch and shuffles over to her, his posture quite different from the usual regal poise of Colin Bridgerton.

“Do you know what this is?” She holds up a flat, brown bag.

“Of course I do.” He blinks slowly as the sarcasm rolls heavily off his tongue.

At least his sense of humour is still intact.

“Have you ever had popcorn?”

“I have, but it did not look like that.”

“Wait, really?” 

He nods with the barest smile at her surprise.

“They had popcorn in the eighteen hundreds?”

“Yes. We have it every time we attend the fair.”

Nicola clicks her tongue “Huh…alright, well I learned something new today.” 

She smiles up at him and his face brightens at the sight of it. 

“But, I know you haven’t had it like this.” Nicola places the bag inside a big dark box on her counter, hits a button and the whole thing vibrates and hums to life.

Colin flinches. “What’s it doing?”

“You’ll see.”

They wait…and wait as Colin moves ever closer to the microwave while the brown bag spins on the glass plate inside.

The first pop makes him flinch again. “It’s popping the corn?”

“Mmhm,” she hums cheerfully. Soon, it’s a chorus of pops and fizzes and Colin’s expression becomes comical as he watches the bag expand with wide-eyed amazement.

She carefully pulls the steaming bag from the microwave and empties it into a bright orange plastic bowl. Colin can’t resist picking up a handful and shoving it in his mouth.

He groans and his body goes limp at the taste. “This is unlike any popcorn I’ve ever had.”

“That’s just the preservatives and artificial flavors.”

“Delicious,” he mumbles with a mouthful.

“Would you like to try a Coke?” She pulls a red can from another strange, much larger, box.

Nicola cracks open the can and hands it to him.

“It’s freezing cold!” His face scrunches in astonishment.

“Magic of refrigeration,” she says wonderously, waving her hands in front of the box. “Also brought to you by electricity.”

“Oh…oh…” he smacks his tongue on the roof of his mouth a few times after taking a sip, savouring the taste. “That’s delightful. And it tickles. Sort of like a seltzer.”

“You’ve had seltzer, too?”

He nods and she sighs. “Well…that makes two things I’ve learned today.”

A little smile finally breaks through. He takes another deep swig of Coke, grimacing at the sting of bubbles in his throat. It's a much stronger sensation than with seltzer, but the sweetness and flavor make it impossible not to suffer through that bit of discomfort for the joy it brings to his taste buds. 

They sit on the couch with the popcorn bowl between them and Colin’s hand immediately disappears within it.

“I’ll just go make another bag,” she smirks, leaving him alone on the couch, devouring another fistful.

“Nicola?” Colin calls a few moments later. “You said we are on a show – similar to a production that people can watch in their homes?”

“Right.”

“Are we able to watch it here?”

“We are, but…are you sure you want to?” she asks, sitting back down and emptying the next bag of popcorn into the bowl.

He nods, but it holds more apprehension than excitement. He’s not sure what to expect, but he trusts Nicola and wants to see just what all this is about.

She’s a little leery of the idea, herself. What if he becomes a complete emotional wreck? Did all of the scenes portrayed in the show actually play out in real life for him? The fights, the heartache, the…sex? There’s only one way to find out, though she picks one of the safer options from their season – episode two.

Right off the bat, with the opening scene of Queen Charlotte and Lady Danbury assessing gifts from the Ton, Colin’s interest is piqued. He’s sitting bolt upright, mouth agape, taking it all in – watching an interaction he would otherwise never be privy to.

When Penelope appears on the screen, Colin takes an audible breath. 

“You were absolutely breathtaking in that dress.” There’s a beat where Nicola can tell he’s thinking. “I mean…she did,” he corrects himself. 

Complimenting his wife is a natural tendency and it still feels like she’s sitting right next to him, even with the absence of her red hair.

“It’s okay, Colin. Speak however you feel comfortable.”

At the promenade scene, where Pen is royally flubbing it with potential suitors, he mentions, “You were so cute.”

“Awkward as hell, you mean?”

“Well, sure. But in the most adorable way.” He sneaks as sideways smile at her.

Nicola shrinks a bit as the scene featuring Portia, Prudence and Philipa discussing the prospects of producing the Featherington heir comes to the end. She knows what comes next – the brothel.

“Oh, God,” Colin buries his head in his hands.

Nicola’s face scrunches in mortification – full on, second-hand embarrassment for the man. 

“I really am sorry about that,” he apologizes with a shudder.

“Yeah…” she mutters. “Me too.”

She’s amused by Colin's commentary as the show continues.

When he tricks his family into a game of cards so he can escort Penelope to the Bridgerton drawing room unchaperoned: “That was quite improper wasn’t it?”

When Penelope compliments his remarkable blue eyes: “I definitely fell in love with you a little bit there.”

When the Dankworths and Finches escape the Full Moon Ball to get a start on making that heir mentioned earlier: He makes a disgusted groan. “That was rather unnecessary wasn’t it?”

“So was the brothel,” Nicola murmurs.

When Penelope is shuttered in her room after fleeing the same ball, mourning any hope of ever finding a husband: “My God, Pen…you were gorgeous.”

When they meet in the Featherington garden and have their first kiss: Silence. Colin watches intently as Nicola watches him, smiling sweetly when he reaches up to wipe a tear from his cheek.

As the credits begin to roll, Colin takes a deep breath and shifts back into the couch from where he’d been sitting at the edge.

“Nicola?” he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes?” she responds at the same volume.

“Could we…”

Nicola shifts closer to snuggle, needing no further explanation. She understands him perfectly. 

“I just need to feel close to her.” His voice breaks. “Only for a moment...I want to be with her…somehow.”

“Of course you do, Colin,” Nicola whispers, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and weaving her fingers through his as he rests his head on her shoulder.

And for that moment, it feels like her. Them. Colin and Penelope. Penelope and Colin.

The world is right again for however long they stay wrapped in each other's arms, draped across the couch.

It requires superhuman strength to refrain from burying his face in her bosom or kissing every inch of her velvet skin. If she still had the fiery red hair, he would certainly be wrapping it around his fingers.