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Chapter Text

Penelope stood on the cliffside, relishing the way the wind whipped her hair off her neck, how it tugged at her dress. She wondered if it blew any harder, if it would take her heartbreak too.

She knew she was lucky. Lucky she’d had enough money stashed under the floorboards to afford the little seaside cottage in the middle of nowhere. Lucky she’d spent so much time in the back alleys as her alter ego she’d made friends, one of whom had promised his aunt and uncle would help her once she arrived. Lucky the hired hack she’d always used was loyal to a fault, insisting on taking her well further than what was reasonable. Lucky Rae had insisted her brother accompany her until she arrived, for protection. For these reasons, and many, many more. She was grateful.

But every day she stood on the cliffs, wondering if she had made the right decision. Going over her options that fateful night, over and over, lest there had been some other way.

There never was.

The rope had tightened quickly, too quickly. Far more quickly than she anticipated. If she hadn’t already been out as Lady Whistledown that evening, she would have been home when the Queen’s guard sent for her. Instead, she’d watched from the shadows as Varley told the men that she wasn’t in her bedchamber. Watched them push inside and search for themselves. Watched the Bridgertons come to the steps of their house, concern etched on their perfect faces. Saw Anthony insist the girls return inside before striding up to the guards, speaking with them seriously before returning to Mrs Bridgerton and saying something to her. She was much too far for Penelope to hear them- huddled in the hedges at the front of Featherington House- but from the way Mrs Bridgerton widened her eyes and raised her hand to her mouth, she knew exactly what he said.

Penelope felt her heart break.

But there was no time to feel the pain that was threatening to engulf her.

Panic filled her lungs like water, and she couldn’t breathe.

She needed to get out of here. Mentally going over escape plans, heart hammering in her chest, she knew she needed to act quickly.

Then the door to Bridgerton House opened again, and Colin appeared. She should turn away, she knew her heart couldn’t take it. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away. This would be the last time she saw his face, she realised as the remaining pieces of her heart shattered.

She watched him speak urgently with Anthony, his voice raised and so unlike his normally easy demeanor as he seemed to demand information, turning to cross the square himself. Anthony grabbed his arm and Colin tugged, trying to escape his older brother's iron grip, struggling until Anthony said something that made him stand stock still. She watched, tears streaming down her face silently as Colin looked confused and then outraged, shaking his head in disbelief.

She wasn’t going to survive this, she was sure. But still she watched.

She watched the man she loved finally believe what his brother, and then his mother, insisted. Watched Violet place a hand on his arm. Watched his face twist, thought she could see tears glistening in his eyes, even from here. Betrayal, anger and pain swept across his handsome face so strongly she didn’t recognise him anymore.

Finally, the self-preservation instinct in her kicked in, and she turned away.

But it was too late. It was already burnt into the inside of her mind forever. The face of the man she had loved as long as she’d known his crinkled smile and deep blue eyes, knowing what she had done. Knowing how she had lied to him, hurt him, hurt his family. Knowing that what she had done was so unforgivable, that her inevitable disappearance would be a welcome relief.

He hurt then, but Penelope knew that with each passing day the pain would fade, and she took comfort in that. If she couldn’t love him, couldn’t know him, it was enough to know that he would be happy again, and likely soon. He would court and marry, or perhaps never settle down at all, and see the whole world. Either way, she liked to picture what he was doing now, all the ways he found joy in his life, and though it did not fix her broken heart, it did soothe it.

She watched the waves crash below her, now familiar friends. She loved them, their rage not controlled or smothered. They were free to roll and exist and fight against the rocks and she would envy it if she weren’t so in awe of them in the first place.

She felt the fine mist of spray even as high above as she was, like dust that stings, cold and jagged and miniscule. On the cliffside she was alone. No one came here, not ever, so she was free to wear her simple dresses and let the icy sparks turn her pale arms pink. It was cold up here, but she wanted to be cold. The more comfortable she was the more attention she could pay to the gaping hole in her chest, and these cliffs were an escape.

She looked out to where the horizon should be, fog turning everything grey. She considered the day before her, and in her mind it matched the ashen landscape in front of her.

She would walk over the hills, her feet sinking slightly into the soft ground as she went. The wind would hound her, beat at her, and she would welcome it. Eventually, though, she would run out of hills, and her small cottage would come into view hidden in the treeline.

A tiny stone thing, nestled in the edge of the forest, the greenery threatening to swallow it whole. Every fortnight John, the friend’s uncle who had helped her find and purchase the place, would ride in with the few supplies she required. Other than that, she hadn’t seen another soul in the two years she’d live there.

It was ironic, really, how she’d stumbled onto the life of her dreams only to be more miserable than she previously deemed possible. Free from her mother, free from her sisters. Free from the pressures of society and the suffocating restrictions of proprietary. Free from stifling balls and being ignored and mocked. Free from too-small corsets and hairpins that dug into her scalp and dresses so ugly she felt the need to apologise to everyone she crossed paths with.

Once inside, she would add some wood to the fire as it would have died down while she was gone. She had learnt to chop her own wood, and she felt pride at being able to look after herself in this way. She imagined how horrified her mother would be knowing this, and the satisfaction deepened.

She would light some candles, the rooms dark even in the middle of the day. The sun rarely shone here, but that seemed to suit her situation perfectly. Sunshine, just like all things warm and pure and good, reminded her of him.

She would make some tea, and then she would sit down to write. She would write until three o’clock and not a moment before. She forced herself to. She had written four novels since she had been here, and was about to finish a fifth. To be read by no one, she was sure. But it gave her something to do. Tales of tragic romance and drama. Something to channel the ache in her chest into some form of external entity.

After three, it was her favourite time of day. That’s why she put it off as long as possible, to savour it. She took the top book from a stack of journals and wrote for Colin. To Colin. About Colin.

She wrote him letters. She wrote down her memories of him. She wrote down every word she remembered him ever saying. She tried to replicate the letters that she’d had to leave behind when she fled. She wrote as if he were sitting in front of her. She wrote pages and pages of apologies.

Sometimes she simply sat and read what she’d already written, but not often. She was scared. Scared her real memories were being erased by the cheap copies she’d fabricated on paper.

She would write until it was dark, and would try to stop. Sometimes she couldn’t. Most days she could. She dreaded what would happen the day she ran out of things to say.

Then she would make herself a dinner, usually bread and cheese, before she went to her bed, an old four-poster that had been in the cottage when she’d arrived along with the other sparse furniture. She would lie awake, staring at the beams on the ceiling, and let herself pretend, somehow, that something, or a thousand somethings, had gone differently.

Eventually, she would fall asleep.

It was the same every day, and she longed to stay here, rooted to the ground like a tree on the clifftop. But she knew she had to keep moving. To stand still would be to die, she was sure of it. The part of her that hurt, that bled, was her favourite part. It was the part that reminded her that she’d known love once. That she’d had the privilege of knowing him. And she wasn’t ready to let that go yet.

And so she survived, gasping, clawing at every new day like she was drowning. But she liked the water in her lungs, as much as it burned, because it was how she knew they still worked. She knew they would never again know a full breath of air, but still they pumped, in and out, stubborn and relentless.

She turned and began her journey back. The wind still pushed, and she was sure it may rain soon, the clouds dark and heavy above her. She did not hurry or linger, because it did not make much difference to her whether it fell upon her.

As she crested the final hill towards home, fat drops began to fall on her, and she felt goosebumps rise on her skin. A few drops turned into a downpour in a matter of seconds, and she felt her hair stick to her face, blinking drops out of her eyes. Her dress stuck to her now, and she walked on, the ground squelching beneath her boots.

She took her time walking up the cottage’s garden path, finding she quite enjoyed the way the rain engulfed her. It felt cleansing in a way. She felt inexplicably lighter, for the first time since she got here. How curious.

She opened the door to her cottage and stood outside under the eaves for a moment, not wanting to drip inside too much if she could help it. She waited patiently, feeling her skirts drip as the sky fell around her tiny refuge.

Finally she stepped into the entryway, turning to take her boots off and let her eyes adjust to the dim light, the candles no match for the darkened sky outside.

The candles…

The candles she always extinguished before she left for her daily walk. Yet here they were, lit. So insanity had finally found her, she surmised.

“Pen.”

She spun around so fast it made her head spin, wet hair stinging her cheeks.

Standing in the doorway to her kitchen was Colin Bridgerton.

Chapter Text

When Colin was young, time went fast. Summer seemed to pass in the blink of an eye and days ran through his fingers like sand.

When he was older, he traveled every summer. Weeks slipped by under ship hulls and carriage wheels until he suddenly woke up one morning and it was time to return home. Even while in Mayfair, the days glommed together, punctuated by balls and promenades, teas and drinks at White’s.

That was before though. Time had never passed as slowly as it did in the years after Penelope disappeared. Which was odd, because he felt as though he hadn’t stopped running the entire time.

Colin wasn’t sure how long it took for the shock of what he’d learnt, standing in the evening light on the steps of Bridgerton House, to sink in. A minute or so, maybe? Truths slotted into his mind in quick succession as he stood frozen with such startingly surety that he moved straight from disbelief to determination.

Penelope was Lady Whistledown.

Penelope was in danger.

He needed to protect Penelope.

His mother’s worried touch and his brother’s restraining grip were not necessary. He realised the longer it took for the guards to leave, the longer it would be before he could try and find her. So he went back inside, stood by the front window and watched through anxious eyes as eventually the carriage pulled away.

It was dark when he slipped out again, and neither his mother nor brother tried to stop him this time. He suspected his face told them it would be futile anyway.

It was likely useless, but Colin snuck around the back of Featherington House all the same. He waited in the shadows before tapping at the servants’ entrance softly. Rae’s face, when it appeared, was shuttered, her eyes red from crying.

“Mr Bridgerton, I apologise but this is not a good time.”

“Please, Rae, I must know, have you seen Penelope?”

Rae pursed her lips and shook her head.

“No, Mr Bridgerton. I apologise.”

Colin felt his stomach plummet at that. To not be in Featherington House was one thing, but to not even make contact with Rae? How would she survive on her own? There was no way she could safely return now.

He nodded numbly as Rae looked down and softly closed the door in his face. He stood there for a moment longer, frozen in his despair. Flashes of terrible possibilities flickered in his mind.

Penelope being found by the Queen’s guards and marched into a carriage, fated to receive the Queen’s wrath alone.

Penelope huddled in some back alley in the cold, unable to return home but with nowhere else to go.

Penelope slipping through the dark, trying to escape, only to be happened upon by sinister men who would have no qualms taking advantage of a vulnerable lady in the dark.

He felt like he might vomit. He felt like he might faint. He felt like he might die.

He could only hope that somehow, somehow, she had found a way to flee. It was truly the only way she might be alright someday (but right now she wasn’t alright, right now she would be terrified and alone and Pen, oh Pen I wish I could see you). He allowed himself this small hope, trying to loosen the feeling around his chest, the one that threatened to tighten and tighten until he could not breathe at all.

He couldn’t live in a world where Penelope was not safe, he was realising rapidly.

That’s when another truth crashed down on him so heavily he slumped against the wall of Featherington House with the force of it.

He wouldn’t see Penelope again.

It was inconceivable.

It was impossible.

It was unacceptable.

Forcing himself to take a rattling breath, he pushed himself off the wall. Straightened his crumpled jacket. Ran a hand through his hair, pushing it from where it had fallen in his eyes.

He had a lot to do.

For the next two years, Colin didn’t sleep. Not really.

From that first night where he’d stayed up until dawn, discussing matters with Anthony. The night where he tossed and turned the say before his audience with the Queen where he would plead Penelope’s case. The nights he spent roaming London streets, searching for intel, interviewing hack drivers, even looking for fiery hair in bars and taverns, hoping against hope she’d found a way to stay nearby without being discovered.

His family tiptoed around him, clearly worried about saying the wrong thing. The Colin they knew and loved was gone, he knew that, but he couldn’t placate his family with falsities right now. Not when he had something so important taking up every part of his mind and heart and being. So instead of jesting with him over breakfast and challenging to games, they brought him scones while he pored over maps and wrote down gossip they had heard while they were at the balls he now refused to attend lest there be information pertaining to Penelope.

Anthony had been a surprising yet fierce supporter in his campaign, approving funds without question and checking in often on his search. His mother was quiet yet present, providing grounding touches and soothing words on the rare occasions she saw him sitting down somewhere. The way his family had gathered for him, for Penelope, touched him in ways he could not articulate nor express. Not until he found her.

He knew they loved Penelope, of course they did. But they loved him too. And they knew they would not get their beloved brother and son back so long as Penelope was gone.

It had taken three months for him to feel defeat begin to creep in. He knew the printers all by name, and knew which one she had used, but they swore they had not seen her since her last issue. The hack drivers looked at him with sympathetic pity when he came around, night after night, and he knew two or three who had driven her regularly, but none who had taken her the night she vanished. He visited the Featheringtons daily, paying no heed to what began as thinly veiled irritation at his doggedness and had now transformed to blatant displeasure at his persistence. But still he came, quizzing Portia and her remaining daughters relentlessly. He ignored the concern on his family members’ faces, barely speaking to them when he staggered in the door after dawn, preparing to find a few hours of rest before he got up and began searching again.

When he did sleep, all he saw was Penelope, and it was a special kind of torture, forcing himself awake each time. His longing to spend as much time as possible with her in his dreams was only surpassed by his need to find her in his reality, and so he let a tear or two slip out as his eyes opened, mind already turning over what avenues he could follow today.

It was around the three month mark that Rae came to him. He was left in the Featherington drawing room, slumped in the window seat where Penelope used to sit, having been dismissed yet again by her infernal mother. That was how Rae found him, staring at the floor, not even bothering to look up when she entered the room to clear the morning’s dishes.

“Forgive me,” His voice was raspy like he hadn’t spoken in an age. In some ways, he supposed he had not. “I will take my leave shortly.”

Rae stood in front of him, making no move toward the table or to respond to him. Instead she wrung her hands nervously until he eventually looked up.

“Are you well, Rae?”

He knew the young woman had taken her lady’s leaving hard, and he found comfort in that, somehow. There should be more people distraught by her absence. People should not leave their houses or speak louder than whispers. The sun should not rise at all.

Rae looked uncomfortable, staring at the floor before she finally spoke.

“I must apologise, Mr Bridgerton. I have not been entirely truthful with you.”

Colin furrowed his brow, confused as to what she could possibly be referring to. Rae continued, words rushing out.

“When you first came to me the night m’lady left, I was scared. I had promised her I would not say a word to anyone, and I couldn’t betray m’lady’s trust like that and I did not know whether you might tell someone who couldn’t be trusted and-”

Colin felt himself straighten, heart beating faster with each word out of the girl’s mouth.

“Rae, Rae, it’s okay.” He rushed to soothe her, needing nothing more than more information, desperately. “Are you saying you know where she is?”

Rae chewed her lip.

“Not exactly.”

Colin waited, not daring to breathe.

“I know where she was taken though, my brother accompanied her.”

Colin was frozen again. He could hear blood in his ears. He could feel his chest rising and falling. He could feel his mouth open, but no words coming out. Thankfully, Rae continued without the need for prompting.

“When the guards were interrogating her mother, m’lady had been hiding in the hedges by the square...”

She had been there that night. She had been so close.

“...she used the service entrance to find me, she knows about places most fair folk don’t. She asked for me to fetch her her Whistledown money and as many clothes as I could fit in a small bag. She said she would head to her printer’s but I told her it was too dangerous, the Queen would find out her accomplices soon if she hadn’t already. No, I sent for my brother. He has known Tommy, m’lady’s favourite hack driver, since they were boys. The two of them picked her up from down the road not an hour later. She hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes when you arrived.”

Colin stared at the women in front of him, speech still failing him.

She had made it out.

She may very well be safe.

He might even be able to find her.

“You said…” He croaked, hope clawing at his throat. “You said you knew where they left her?”

Rae nodded.

“My brother slipped into the printer’s before they left the city, m’lady insisting he pass on the money she still owed for the latest issue. The printer boy there, Theo, told Paul- my brother- his aunt and uncle that lived up north, that they could safely take her to them. They arranged to meet her in a small village a few days north of here, and that they would take her the rest of the way. I do not know from which town they hailed, I’m sorry to say. I believe they did not tell Tommy or Paul to ensure m’lady’s safety. At the time I was grateful for their caution, but now I am sorry I cannot tell you more, sir.”

“No, Rae, thank you. Thank you for caring so much about her safety,” Colin let sincerity soak his words, gratitude that she had decided to speak making his voice shake. “She is fortunate to have had someone like you to rely on.”

Colin’s heart tugged as he saw her eyes fill with tears.

“No, but I am sorry, sir. I feel I should have told you immediately. It…it hurt to see you suffer so much, especially when you were going to such pains to find her.” She raised her eyes to him, finally. “There is not anyone else I would have divulged this information to. I can see you truly have her best interests at heart, and so I hope that will help bring her home.”

Bring her home.

Oh how he wanted that more than anything.

Which let him here, sitting astride his horse atop a hilltop, looking down at yet another small village.

When he had first begun his quest, he had hoped to find her in a matter of weeks, perhaps months. He had not fathomed how difficult it would be to find a woman who did not wish to be found.

He had headed straight to where the hack had taken her, a small village to the north as Rae had described. But no one there remembered (or was willing to share) information about a trio travelling through months earlier. He had no names to go on, and no town from which they came, finding out Theo had left London shortly after Penelope, likely fearing the day that his involvement in her escape came to light.

So he had started north, stopping in inns and interrogating locals. Some were happy to help, many suspicious of the outsider. It pained and reassured Colin in equal measures, knowing this tight-lipped behaviour was keeping Penelope safe, while simultaneously stopping him from finding her.

How far north was too far north? Was north even the right direction?

Slowly, steadily, thoroughly, Colin made his way across England. He barely slept, leaving before dawn each day and bringing his horse in well after dark. Every few towns he would trade horses, exhausting them quickly with his pace and long hours.

It was on horseback, the long tortuous days bleeding into grey, that he could do nothing but think of Penelope.

How the next town might contain her.

How he hoped, prayed, that she was safe somewhere.

How he missed her laugh and little barbs.

How her hair was red, but how he could see the full spectrum of light in each strand in the sunlight.

How she was so clever, almost too clever. How it made complete sense she was Lady Whistledown.

How he was completely, irrevocably, undeniably in love with her.

He should have known that too. Should have realised when he sought her out in every ballroom. Should have known from how her opinion seemed to be the only one he cared about. Should have known when he didn’t just feel warmth in his entire being at her presence, but the presence of butterflies, a pounding heart and a confounding burning that made him hot and bothered for reasons he did not then feel the need to explore.

How he wished he had explored them. Then none of this would have unfolded as it did.

Even when his heart had shattered the moment he found out she was gone, he didn’t know. Not when his dreams ranged from warm and innocent to indecent and carnal, but never stopped being about her, did he realise. When his family all spoke of her like she was his, it still didn’t occur to him.

It was secondary, how he felt. All that mattered was finding her, bringing her home, making sure she was safe. He was aware of how his body ached with missing her and vibrated with need, but he did not question it, simply let it power his sleep-deprived searching and desperate investigation.

No, it was a quiet moment only a few days into his search of the countryside that it came upon him. Nothing big, or particularly unusual caused it. The first months had been frantic, a mad rush from one establishment to the next, with no time for ordered thinking or measured reflection. But out on horseback, hours of riding between villages, he had nothing but time to think and ponder and remember.

Oh, how he remembered. He cast his mind back over the years, recalling the day they met, the last time he’d seen her, and every moment he possibly could in between. He made himself concentrate on what she had been wearing when he took her aside to tell her of her cousin’s plot against the ton. Spent at least half a day cataloguing all of the books he remembered her telling him about. Nearly wept when he realised he did not know whether she had three pins in her hair the last time they danced together, or four.

It was like this, lost in a haze of recollection, that he came upon a group of deer in a clearing alongside the road. They had heard him come up, every head turned towards him, perfectly still and alert. He brought his horse to a halt and sat quietly, watching them watch him.

They were beautiful. Four does, and a fawn with white dappled across its back. Eventually they seemed satisfied he would do no harm and went back to feeding on the grass, looking back at him every few seconds cautiously.

They were beautiful. They were wary. They looked like art, but acted like escaped criminals.

Colin realised with astonishment he had tears running down his face. They reminded him of Penelope.

That in itself was not surprising. Everything did. But these creatures, ready to run at a moment’s notice, living in fear simply because of their place in the world they’d been born into, yet still graceful and magnificent in their presence.

And the fawn. Born into the world and taught to fear before it was taught to stand. Just like Penelope.

Had Penelope felt like she was prey, when she bolted? Had her heart beat in her chest as she watched the wolves close in? Would she live like these deer, destined to glance over her shoulder for evermore?

His heart ached for her, for them, watching the lithe creatures move off into the treeline. He felt like he would miss them, as illogical as that was.

He did not want Penelope to live like that, and he knew at that moment he would never stop looking for her. Even if it took years, or decades. Even if he died trying.

He loved her, and so he couldn’t be without her.

It came over him the way that morning fog creeps over the dawn fields, so slowly that you don’t think it’s moving and then suddenly you’re engulfed.

Of course he loved Penelope. Of course.

He had nudged his horse on with the realisation, feeling somehow calmer than he had in weeks. It didn’t matter how long it took, how far he had to go. He would find her.

Back in the present, on the windy hilltop close to the sea, Colin took a shaky breath. The kind bartender at the last village he had visited told him that there were a couple who came through town now and again, and once they had with them a small red-headed woman. Colin felt his heart begin to gallop.

Now he was here, the directions to the couple’s home stashed carefully and reverently in his coat pocket, forcing himself not to dash down the hill and beat down their door. He must be calm, he must be level-headed. If they did know where Penelope was, he needed to convince them he could be trusted.

Maybe it wasn’t her, he tried to tell himself. Tried to temper his expectations for the thousandth time. But this time, something felt different.

The sea air lifted his now unruly curls from his forehead, salty and brisk. For the first time in two years, Colin Bridgerton felt like he could breathe. Not completely, and only one strangled gasp at a time, but it was air all the same. He had no reason to believe this village would hold any more satisfaction than the hundreds he’d visited prior, no logic behind the way his heart began to bang in his chest. But something in him knew.

Pen was here.

Chapter Text

Madness was different than Penelope had thought it would be.

Better.

Worse.

Better, because there was Colin. Scruffy, stubbled, and with circles under his eyes, but Colin, nonetheless.

Worse, because the look in his eyes did not fill her with the joy she had anticipated.

He was not happy. He was not bright. He was not the Colin she had wished for every evening, the one who turned his gaze upon her with warmth. Before the knowledge of her true identity existed behind those dark blue eyes.

No. They were…desperate?

The eyes she beheld were pained. They were eyes she had not seen in all her years of knowing and loving Colin. If anything, these eyes reminded her of herself. If she had a mirror in this place, the wretched reflection would surely echo the form in front of her.

“Pen.”

He spoke again, his voice rough.

She still hadn’t moved.

How could she?

Do you run towards madness, arms outstretched?

What if he vanished when she reached him, like a mirage in the desert?

So she stood stock still, lest she disturb the apparition.

She had thought it would take longer to lose her mind. Not that she was complaining.

Oh Colin.

Even this wretched version was a marvel.

Tall and broad, his presence loomed large in her small home.

His eyes were not warm, too etched in worry for that. But she still felt him. That undeniable essence of Colin. And that held warmth, intrinsically, naturally, unstoppably.

She wanted to float on it, lay back and let the light of his soul provide a place for her to finally rest.

She did not know she had been tensing until now, her shoulders dropping from her ears for the first time in ages

“Pen, please say something.”

The ghost was asking things of her now. Silly ghost.

Would speaking make him disappear? She did not know the rules. It was unfair to let her access such things without clear parameters on how to keep them.

She was grateful all the same.

Colin was crying, she realised.

Not a dream, then.

A nightmare. A punishment for all that she had done.

She had to make it better, even if it meant he would leave.

Even the versions of Colin that did not exist should not suffer, not if she could help it.

“Colin, please do not cry.”

The words came out croaked, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Like she was the unusual presence here, not him.

His eyes widened, and he moved. She forced herself not to blink, lest she miss a moment of him disappearing.

But the vision moved towards her instead, sweeping her into a very warm and very firm embrace. A very real embrace.

He was real.

He was real?

He was real.

He was here.

And then she was crumpling, down, down, down until she was just a small form, shaking in a pool of damp fabric on the floor.

The arms around her did not release her, though.

She gripped him like a shipwreck survivor, his body heat the only tether to what she was still not convinced was reality.

He held her together, she thought, unable to stop trembling, suddenly freezing but blood rushing to her face so fast it made her feel dizzy. Icy drops ran down her back, her arms, yet Colin’s heat was insistent, even through his jacket.

Someone was saying something, muffled. Colin’s name over and over. She felt his chest rumble next to her ear, but it didn’t match the sounds she heard.

Colin

It’s okay

I’m here

Colin

It's me

It’s Colin

Pen

Colin

Colin

Penelope

Colin

It was both of them, she realised, raising her hand to her mouth to feel the way her lips moved when she muttered his name over and over.

It was too much, but it was also everything, so she couldn’t let herself slip away, no matter how much her consciousness implored her to dip below the surface.

Colin’s arms felt nice around her. Colin’s arms were around her. That had never happened before. Only when they were dancing. And not like this. Not with a grip so tight it seemed that maybe she was the one who might slip away.

She turned in his arms, lifting her face so she could see him.

He was still crying, she realised. Why was he crying?

His breath was on her face, warm and gentle and a little ragged, warming the icy tip of her nose.

He had sat on the floor, his legs framing her so he could pull her against his chest. It was the first touch she had felt since she had left Mayfair. It seemed too good to be true that it would be his.

“Colin,” she whispered, relieved to find that the word leaving her lips seemed to match what her mind wanted to say.

“Pen,” he whispered back, and she realised he had stopped speaking sentences, words, had stopped saying anything other than her name.

She reached a hand up to his face, brushing the rough stubble. She felt his hands find her hair, long fingers in wet ringlets, teasing out tangles and caressing the skin behind her ear.

They sat like that, whispering their names to each other back and forth for a while. Gradually, she felt herself come back to her body, and it was dreadfully loud to be in Colin’s arms after so long alone. It was like giving a feast to a starving man. She was not used to it, did not know how to hold back.

Her hands clutched his back, and she was very tired, she realised. Too tired to look at him, much to her chagrin. And she reluctantly let her head fall to his chest. Maybe she could rest here.

“Pen.” Colin was saying her name again, this time more urgently than before, and she smiled. She imagined it so many times and it was never real enough. Never like this.

She felt him lift her chin. His skin was touching her skin. Incredible.

“You’re dripping, Pen. You have to get changed out of this.”

Oh.

He was real.

Any other doubts she may have had faded then, the request so caring and Colin it was undeniable, yet so unremarkable and practical it could be born out of nothing but reality.

“I don’t know if I can stand?” Her voice was wobbly, and she said it like a question. Maybe Colin would know?

A hum. Not a laugh, or even a scoff, but a sound of amusement that filled her with familiar relief so potent it threatened to wash her away completely.

Colin gently stood, supporting her as she rose to her feet.

There would need to be thoughts at some point. But not yet. Her whole life here had been nothing but thoughts. She was tired of thinking.

She just wanted to feel. Feel his warmth - the warmth of his skin, of his voice, of his soul. Feel it thaw her like a snowdrop in the morning sun. She leant against him, basking in it.

“Can you get dressed alone?” His voice was so low it sent shivers down her spine. She didn’t remember him being so serious. This intensity was new.

She gathered her blurry thoughts and tried to focus on the words he was saying as she looked up at his beautiful face. Could she get changed alone?

Yes, she supposed she could. There was nothing physically wrong with her. She was shocked, frozen, and dripping wet. But she could function, theoretically.

Did she want to?

No, not really. She would miss him.

She watched Colin’s face etch out fresh worry. She reached out for his cheek once more, wanting to soothe him. When his large hand rose to cover her own, she stared at it incredulously. How?

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s the matter?”

They spoke at the same time, and the surprise was enough to make her gasp, almost a laugh. Colin’s eyes crinkled around the edges, and she felt like her heart might burst at the sight of it.

She bit her lip, waiting for him to try again. When he did, he moved his hand from his cheek to hers, wiping away raindrops.

“You’re crying again, Pen. What’s wrong?” Not raindrops, then.

She felt confusion cross her own face for a brief moment, but then remembered. Had enough presence of mind this time to feel the fresh tears fall at the thought.

“I…don’t want you to leave.” She knew desperation was written all over her face, but she was out of practice. She did not know how to hide her raw agony anymore. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

The arm that still supported her, wrapped around her waist, tightened. He still looked worried, even though she had explained. She wanted to take it away from him. In all her memories of him, he was not worried. And in her fantasies of him, he never was either. She hated it.

“I’m not leaving, Pen. I promise.”

She nodded, gulping, shaking even though she didn’t really feel the cold anymore. She did not fear him leaving while she was in the other room. She feared he would evaporate when she closed her eyes to blink. The thought unleashed terror within her, and she gripped onto him tightly.

She didn’t know how to tell him. Didn’t know how to express that her fears had nothing to do with his actions, and everything to do with his very existence.

But she didn’t have to tell him, somehow, because then he was walking them slowly towards the bed chamber, keeping her pressed up tight into his side, his own clothes now damp. Some distant part of her, one that she honestly thought had died, was amused at the impulse she had to tell him he should also change out of his clothes.

Molded into his side, she moved with him as he walked towards the small closet in her room. She clung to him as he used one hand to move through her sparse clothing, pulling out another dress. She watched, looking up at him as he looked between her and the dress in his hand, clearly confused about how to proceed.

The echo of a memory, something from a whole other lifetime ago, skittered around the edges of her mind, and she spoke the only sentence she could think of.

“I’m a lady.”

Another eye crinkle at that. She liked that.

“Yes, Penelope. You are a lady.”

She was beginning to remember that before, in the other place, there was a reason why she had never felt Colin’s touch like she had today. And while her apparent lack of composure had clearly been enough for Colin to push the boundaries, she was sure that he only did so for fear of her dissolving into hysterics. He was likely embarrassed by the whole situation.

The thought of this man suffering discomfort was enough to clear her muggy mind, at least a little. She straightened herself slightly. Swiping the back of her hand over her face, she cleared her throat, making sounds come out, pushing past the thickness of her throat.

“I can do it, Colin.”

She looked up at him, at his tired face. He looked relieved, she thought. Of course he did. His brow was still pinched with concern, though, and he hesitated.

“Are you certain?”

Even as her heart cried out inside her, she removed her hand from his chest.

“Yes, Colin. I have dressed myself for two years, remember?”

Suddenly she was once again pressed against his chest and she felt a shuddering sob rip through him. Stunned, but pleased to be once more in his arms, she clung to him, gripping him right back. But her heart also ripped hearing the pain. What was wrong with Colin? Who had made him hurt like this? She had never dreamed that harm or heartbreak would befall him while she was away from him. Couldn’t stomach it. Wasn’t sure she would have survived it. When she pictured him, he was always happier. It was how she slept at night.

Then she was being pushed away once more, far more gently than she had been pulled in.

“I’m so sorry, Pen, I just…” his voice cracked, and she hated the pain in it. She waited, but he did not finish the sentence. When she looked at him once more, he looked back intensely. He gently held her by the tops of her arms.

“Dress. I will be here.”

Anxiety galloped through her bloodstream, but she forced herself to nod. He would be here. He will be here.

“I’ll stay, but I’ll turn around.” He searched her face as he spoke, and she wondered if the relief at his words was as obvious as it was potent, threatening to bring her to her knees once more. She nodded, and it was easier this time. She took a step back from him, slowly, dreading the separation. She watched him do the same thing, watched him swallow as his arms fell to his sides and he took a few slow steps backward. Watched him turn around, facing the window that looked out into the forest, rain pattering on the glass.

For a moment, she just stood there, free to study him with his gaze on her. She detailed his outline, the way his jacket was slightly tattered, his boots muddy. His hair was longer, falling in curls. He was there, taller and broader than she remembered. But then again, he was also more real than she remembered.

Colin must have noticed the lack of sound or movement from behind him, because after a while, he spoke, his voice rough.

“Are you alright, Pen?”

It cut through her, left her ragged in the best way, to hear it. Like the brief silence had sealed it off from her again, letting her hear it like the first time once more. She remembered where she was, what she was supposed to be doing.

Was she well? No. But also, yes. Better than she’d ever been.

She cleared her throat.

“Yes, yes.” Her voice shook.

She quickly unbuttoned the dress she was wearing, letting it fall to her feet. Underneath, her shift was also damp, so she removed it as well, quickly dropping it to the floor to make sure he was still there, even when she had pulled the fabric over her eyes. Her heart thudding, she reached into the wardrobe for a clean shift and put it on quickly. She then changed into the dress Colin had chosen, a simple, green piece that matched the ferns that grew all the way up to her back door.

Once she had her dress on, she made sure it was on properly. All buttons done up the front. Smoothed as much as she could manage.

Then she stood for a moment. Uncertain if she wanted to break the moment. This uninterrupted stretch where she could gaze at him, uninhibited. But no. She wanted to speak to him, to ask him how he had been. Wanted to rememorise the way he spoke and each expression on his face. Wanted to scrub every memory she had overanalysed with new material. Wanted to understand how and why he was here.

Why he was here.

Why was he here?

Her knees buckled again. Because she remembered. Remembered more than just the fundamental love that beat in her chest just for him. That overwhelming sensation was all-encompassing, so consuming that she forgot for a moment.

Why she was here.

The last time she saw him.

Suddenly the pain on Colin’s face made sense, and it flooded her senses so completely that she stumbled where she stood as panic seized her.

It was her. She did this to him.

It was pain caused by betrayal. Hurt brought about by abandonment and distrust.

He had kept it in so far, as much as he could. He was a gentleman, but more than that, he was a good, good man. She was sure that once he knew she was well and warm, that then the reckoning would come. Not in the way of harshness and raised voices, that was not him. In the way of quiet hurt and disappointment. A way that would carve at her in ways violence and cruelty never could.

She had known it would hurt him. She just had never imagined it would be this much. And now here he was, in the flesh, and he had brought that pain to her.

He was here to say, Here, this belongs to you. Look at it, face it. Look at what you have done.

It would kill her, maybe. She took a moment, readying herself. Because she would take it all, without question. For two reasons.

Firstly, because it was his. He could berate her until roots grew over her toes, could rip out his battered heart and squeeze out the blackness she had injected there, watch as it seeped into her bloodstream and poisoned her. She would take it all, and thank him. Every word he spoke against her was a word he spoke in her presence. Every barb he threw her way was a piece of him she could keep for later. Every piece of disgust on his face would be catalogued in her mind, because she had not known this expression in her old life, and so it was one she would add to her collection safely to marvel at when she was inevitably alone again.

And second.

Well, secondly, she would take it because it was hers to carry, not his. Every piece of pain was because of her, and was what she deserved.

She swallowed, telling herself she must be brave and composed. Colin was so brave to come all this way. So determined. He may have even come to bring her to the Queen. She would let him.

Swallowing the lump in her throat and steeling herself, she spoke shakily.

“You can turn around now.”

Chapter Text

It seemed like years that Colin stood there, gazing out at the forest, watching rain patter on leaves and rivulets run down tree trunks. He wondered about the woods, whether they were safe. Whether they scared her. Whether she had ventured far into them. It twisted his gut to think she might have entered that dark, tangled mess, not knowing - and perhaps not caring - if she could find a way out.

He heard the rustling of fabric behind him, and bit his lip. He desperately wanted to help her. It was ludicrous how difficult it was to separate himself from her, even for what was sure to be only a few minutes. Yet he had struggled all the same, and didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from offering to stay in the room, desperately. Pathetically.

She looked relieved, though. It seemed she was so starved for company that she was frightened to be alone again, and understandably so. It broke his heart for the two years he was away from her, thinking of her alone, perhaps frightened, perhaps unwell. But seeing the effects in person? The woman he loved crumpled before his eyes, so worn down from isolation that the mere presence of another had left her breathless.

It killed him. Destroyed him so viscerally that he would not survive at all if it weren’t for the hope and life this woman infused into his veins with her mere presence.

More selfishly, though, he found himself pleased that he had been the one to see her first. This reaction was his to witness. To protect. To soothe and to comfort.

Still, he wished it was him undressing her now; gently, slowly, reverently. That he could remove the damp fabric from her skin and warm the goosebumps that rose when exposed to the air. That he could take her in his arms, undress himself so he could heat her body with his own. Guide her beneath the blankets and hold her while she slept. While he slept. While he got the best sleep he’d had in years. Maybe ever.

But seeing her in person was wonderful enough. Seeing her, alive and well. That was the sweetest fantasy yet.

He heard a shaky breath from behind him and was tempted to turn, but ordered himself to be still. She would tell him when she was ready. And she did.

“You can turn around now.”

It was like music, hearing her speak in the silence. He took a moment to compose himself before allowing himself to turn slowly. It took his breath away all over again, seeing her. She was really here.

When she had entered the cottage earlier, dripping wet and glowing in the candlelight, he was certain this was just another overzealous dream. Breathtakingly vivid, better than any previous, yet a dream all the same. Her hair hung in dark red ringlets around her face, her complexion flushed from the wind. Her dress clung to her body, wet pale blue fabric snug against her waist, her legs, her breasts. She looked like a river goddess. A forest nymph. An angel. Her skin was pale, freckles a stark contrast to the white. Her face was blank, serene yet resolved, solemn but alive. Her eyes were as blue as he remembered, vividly bright, yet somehow flat, like a blossom reflected in dark waters.

She was perfect, though. More beautiful than he remembered. More beautiful than should have been possible, actually.

He nearly couldn’t speak. Nearly didn’t. It was like his throat had closed over.

Then she had looked up from removing her boots and he had to tell her he was here because the sooner he did that the sooner she would see him and speak to him and the sooner he could make sure she was real.

“Pen.”

It was all he had managed, but it was enough. She had spun towards him, and those blue eyes locked on his. Light that he was sure wasn’t there a minute ago seemed to flicker, he thought. Or was that just the candles?

Now, it was happening again. It knocked the wind out of him. Her small frame stood in green, hair lightening as it dried, framing her face. She looked at him…differently than she had a moment ago.

Since he’s scooped her off the floor, she’s been afraid. Been unsure. Been confused.

Now, she looked…resolved. Like she had pulled herself together. It made his heart hurt, frankly. She did not need to be together. She had been hurt, isolated, neglected. She could fall apart again and again and he would understand, would be there to hold the fractured pieces until she was ready for reassembly.

He realised he was staring, but also didn’t seem to be able to stop. If she was a drink he would breathe in instead of swallowing so he could die surrounded and filled with her.

What now? The question seemed to float between them. What now, indeed. Of all the times he’d imagined this moment, he’d never considered what he would do when he actually found her.

He’d spent his time imagining what he wished he could do instead.

But now, seeing her fragile in front of her, he was suddenly very aware of just how irrelevant his feelings truly were. Nothing mattered less, honestly. He just needed her to be well.

The reminder seemed to break him out of his trance, and he spoke as gently as he could, not wanting to startle her. Flashes of the fawn flickered in his mind, skittish and easily spooked.

“Shall we sit by the fire? I can make some tea.”

He watched her gulp and nod slightly. She looked as though she was bracing herself. How badly he wished he could simply go to her, enclose her in his arms, whisper words of comfort in her ear. But he’d already done that, much to his own chagrin. He hadn’t been able to stop himself. He had seen her, seen her cry, and it was like his body was not his own anymore. All that mattered was being as close to her as possible. Keeping her safe.

He wondered, painfully, if his liberties had helped or worsened her anxiety.

He waited for her to move before he did, leaving space between them as he followed her into the small sitting area where two armchairs faced the fire, a surprisingly thick rug between them.

He watched as she stood uncertainly between the chairs, looking lost. She looked towards the tiny kitchen, then at the chairs.

“Sit,” he urged quietly. “I won’t be but a moment.”

He waited for her to sit, her posture tense, looking as though she might bolt at the slightest hint of danger. He swallowed back the fresh sob. He needed to stop letting it overwhelm him, his distress at her distress. She had enough on her mind without being startled by his reactions.

When she was seated though, she looked up at him, and he could have sworn she was reading his mind, judging by the concern clouding her vision. Concern for him, after all she had been through.

It was a losing battle between him and the waves of emotion, now, so he quickly cleared his throat and made his way towards the small stove.

He focused on fixing the tea, his days on the road teaching him to make the beverage that, until then, had always been made for him. He made himself concentrate, not letting himself be distracted by her gaze. She was there, he could hear her breathe, he was certain, even though the sound of boiling water and the crackle of fire would have reasonably drowned the sound out. Perhaps it was his own breath he was hearing. Wasn’t it the same? His heart beat hard in his chest, but his breath? He could not remember taking a single inhale in two years, and now every gulp of air felt almost overwhelming.

He brought the tea on a tray back to the sitting area, gently placing it on the small table between the armchairs. Silently, he fixed a cup for her, two sugars just as she had always taken it. He left one sitting on the edge of the table, there if she wanted it, not bothering her if she didn’t. He made himself a cup, more to busy himself than anything else. When he was finished, he sat gently in the armchair, letting the warm ceramic heat his skin. He gazed into the fire, relaxing slightly, giving Penelope the time to settle that he realised he, himself, also needed. It was a balm in itself to sit by her, after all this time, and know she was there. Safe. Breathing. Warm. Alive.

He had found her.

He wanted to laugh, scream with glee at the wind. Run along the cliffside. Cry.

Instead he sat quietly, sipping tea next to her like he had done in that world that existed so far away from this one. One where they were the best of friends, yet not permitted to spend time alone together. Something akin to amusement flickered around his mouth as he thought of how many rules of propriety he had broken in such a small period of time. He was lucky he had come alone, sure that the person who tried to interfere with him being close to Penelope in whatever state they both saw fit would be one ripped limb from limb.

He heard rustling from beside him, and he turned his head slightly, watching as she reached for the cup gingerly.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Of course,” my love, his mind added silently.

He willed himself not to stare as she sipped the drink, steam rising up and flushing her face. He felt himself relax more with each raise of the cup to her lips, nonsensically feeling as though the more tea she drank, the better she must be. He let his body sink into the old chair, only now feeling the weariness of his journey after all this time. He had slept even less than he normally did the night before, staying at the closest inn where John had promised to take him tomorrow, finally convinced he wished Penelope no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Colin?”

Her voice, saying his name, could not have been sweeter if he’d opened the sugar pot and dipped his tongue in it. He met her eyes immediately, the way he wanted to, the way he had been telling himself not to this entire time. One word, and she had undone everything it took his entire resolve to achieve.

He swallowed.

“Yes, Pen?”

She studied him, curious yet cautious. He wanted to hold her. He saw her throat swallow and felt himself lick his lips. Did she even know how intoxicating she was, even like this?

“Are you well?”

Colin blinked, startled at the question. It was not what he expected. But more than that, he did not know how to answer it.

Was he well?

Yes, better than ever. She was here.

But she was also hurt, traumatised, scared. And so, no. He was not.

He felt his brow furrow as he attempted to find an answer. He thought back over the last period of his life. Comparatively, he was better than he’d ever been, though. He decided to use that.

His voice came out husky.

“Yes, Pen. I am well.”

He watched her consider it, confusion at his answer seeming to match his own at her question.

When she didn’t speak, he did.

“Do I not look well?” He felt humour creep into his voice unbidden. How easy lightness found him in her presence, even now, in this dark cottage that he was sure had been filled with nothing but fear and sadness for days at a time.

She blinked.

“You do. You just…” She paused, seemingly looking for the right words.

“You were so upset…earlier.”

Of course he was. What kind of question was that? Before he could open his mouth to correct her, she was speaking again.

“I am sorry, Colin, if I am the cause of your anguish. Of the things I have done, all the things that have been difficult about this, hurting you was without a doubt the worst of it. I am glad I have a chance to apologise for it in person. At least once.”

It was curious. He understood the words, in theory, but not in practice. Apologise? For what? And once? What did she…but she was speaking once more. Words flowing out now for the first time since he’s arrived here.

“I do not ask that you forgive me, Colin. I do not feel that what I have done is forgivable. But I do hope you can at least know in some way how much sorrow and regret I hold, and always will hold, for my actions.”

Colin knew, in theory, that there must be something she was apologising for. Something small and insignificant that related to the beforetime - the time he looked back at with nothing but disgust at his own blindness to everything that stood before him so often. Everything else, the ins and outs of polite society, everything that had been considered then as terribly normal, had fallen into two categories in his mind; either sharpened into vivid detail as memories to cherish, featuring the woman speaking to him now, or fading into obscurity completely, useless and irrelevant. He was afraid that whatever Penelope was apologising for fell into the latter. He was sure he knew about the situation itself, having catalogued every moment, every detail he knew about her carefully. But if it was deemed wrong, he had no idea. There was no wrong when it came to Penelope. There was just Penelope or no Penelope. What was or was not.

He realised she was waiting for a response, patiently, calmly watching his face, but waiting all the same. He cleared his throat.

“Penelope, I appreciate your apology, I really do. Especially as it seems to have tortured you so. But I must confess that I know not of what you speak.”

How frustrating it must be for her, for him not to know. But she was forgiven, so it didn’t matter, did it? Perhaps forgiven was the wrong word. Forgiveness implied that there was a time when she had not been in his favour. And he knew very well no such time existed.

Penelope looked perplexed.

“How can you not know? Forgive me, Colin, but it is why you are here, is it not?”

Now he was really lost, and he placed his now empty teacup on the table between them, searching her words for some clue as to what she was talking about.

“I am here for you,” he stated. Simply, because it was simple.

Penelope narrowed her eyes.

“Yes, Colin,” she spoke slowly, like he might be dimwitted. Perhaps he was. “But why are you here for me?”

Well that was an easy question to answer. But not one that he felt he could divulge the full truth of. Not at least until they were at least somewhat on the same page.

“Because I care about you, Penelope. Because I have been worried sick thinking of you being alone, or unwell, or worse. Because I wanted to bring you home.” The truth. Not all of it. But enough for now, surely.

Penelope set her teacup down, looking confused. Perhaps even a little irritated. It felt nice, actually- to see a glimmer of the old Penelope in there. A spark, even if it might sting.

“Colin, you needn’t pretend. I will come quietly. I have expected it for some time, I suppose I was just confused when they sent you, of all people.” She pursed her lips.

Colin resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands and scream.

“Pen, I’m sure this is very confusing and I’m sorry about that, but I have no idea of what you’re speaking. Surprised who sent me?”

She huffed, and Colin felt his heart tug, not unpleasantly.

“The Queen, of course.”

The Queen?

Colin sat, ruminating on her words. The Queen. She thought the Queen had sent him? Then it came back to him. The very reason she was here in the first place. The reason she had felt the need to escape the ton. The reason she sat so straight, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. Fresh anguish washed through him.

“Pen… do you…do you think I am here to bring you back to the Queen? Because of Lady Whistledown?” He watched the way she flinched at the words and wanted, more than ever, to hold her.

She gulped visibly, chewed her lip.

“Well, didn’t she?”

It was taking every fibre of strength in his body not to take her in his arms. Instead, when he spoke, he did so softly, trying to infuse every word with the care and warmth he wished to wrap her in.

“No, Pen. No. I-”

He supposed he should tell her. He had been waiting for a more opportune moment, but now he can see that was stupid of him. Of course she was frightened. She did not know what he knew.

“I sought an audience with the Queen after you left, Pen. Pleaded your case. You have been cleared of all charges.”

Penelope looked at him, not moving. Blinked slowly. Moved her head slightly, like she was trying to make sense of what he had said. He watched, waited. He had time.

“I-”

She didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence. Colin swallowed, needing to reassure her more than he needed his next breath.

“Pen, I promise you. You are safe, no one wishes you harm. I have come to bring you home. That is why I am here. You can come home…I want you to come home.” His voice broke at the last sentence, the walls between what was safe and sane, and what was in his heart, desperate for release, dissolving.

She started to shake her head. His heart sank. She didn’t believe him.

“But if the Queen…”

She was perplexed, a line between her brows forming that he wanted to kiss every day for the rest of his life. He watched, enraptured as she abandoned one sentence in lieu of another.

“I can go home…”

She was staring at him, looking for meaning in his eyes he hoped she might find. It was a lot. It was so much. It was everything, really. She looked down at her hands, and he mourned the loss of her attention.

“Colin, if the Queen doesn’t wish for my return, then…”

The way her voice shook, he knew it would hurt, the next words she spoke. But he could be brave for her.

“...I’m afraid I do not know why you are here.” She looked up at him again, tears in her eyes. “There is no one I can think of who would want me to come home. I am not even sure if home is the proper term. I am afraid you have sought me out in vain.”

He was right that it would hurt. He was naive about just how much. How could this glorious being not have the slightest grasp on what she meant to the world? What she meant to him? If he had the chance, he would not allow another moment to pass where she did not know it in her bones.

Sinking to his knees, instinct taking over, he knelt in front of her even as her eyes widened.

“Penelope. I fear you do not understand how you are loved. How much you are loved and missed.”

The tired skepticism in her eyes would be adorable if not so heartbreaking.

“Colin, please, I-”

“Please, darling Pen. Please allow me to speak. I have not finished.” He was pleading, and he felt his hands move to grasp hers, her eyes widening at his words and the gesture as they looked down at them then back at him. She bit her lip, face filled with uncertain fear, yet she nodded. His brave girl.

His throat was thick with unshed tears, but he needed to do this. Could not have her be uncertain of such things for a moment longer. It had already been too long. An entire lifetime, in fact.

“You are missed, Pen. Terribly so, you must believe me.”

Her hands were cold in his, and he gripped them tighter, as if he might fill her veins with his own blood if they pressed close enough together.

“Bridgerton House has not been the same since you left. I’m sure I have a lot to do with that, but in many ways, I do not. Mother cries for you often. Brings you up over teatime, asks us to regale our favourite memories of you. No one could forget you, but she would not let us even if we tried. She keeps a vase of yellow flowers in the foyer at all times, just waiting for you to return. Even when it is winter, and the flower shops are sparse, she sends the staff to seek out primrose.”

He blinked back tears, fresh gratitude for his mother pooling in his eyes. How lucky he was to have someone care for this woman almost as much as he did. Who not only supported his devotion to her without question, but admired, respected, and adored her in her own right.

Looking at Pen, her face held fresh consternation. He set his jaw, determined. He was not nearly done yet.

“Anthony? Well, Anthony has not spared any expense when it comes to finding you. And I do not think I have heard him reproach me for the entire time you have been gone, which you must know is a miracle in itself. Especially with the erraticness of my behaviour lately. When we speak of you, he always speaks of your kindness, your cleverness. He speaks of how you would brighten every room you were in, even without speaking a word.”

Penelope stared at him, lips slightly parted. He continued, worried she might cut him off before he was finished.

“Benedict drew up posters of your face, had them printed in the hundreds, and distributed them far beyond Mayfair, asking about you. He knew of establishments I did not, had contacts in places I didn’t even know existed, and cast the net further than I ever would have been able to alone. At teatime, he smiles when he remembers your humour, the way you would surprise him with your quiet wit.”

She only blinked at him. He soothed the back of her hand with his thumb, trying not to be distracted by how soft her skin felt against his.

“Daphne championed you among high society. At first, when people first learnt of your identity, people were angry, it is true. Some especially so. But gradually, people began to see the value in Lady Whistledown, in all she had achieved and the role she played in the ton. And a large part of that change was thanks to Daph. She would not hear a word against you, none of us would, but she sought it out. She would hear of a lady or lord speaking ill of you, then invite them for tea the next day. Swiftly yet softly setting them straight. She and the Duke even hosted a ball dedicated to Whistledown, where entry cost each patron one piece of gossip upon entry. When she speaks of you, she misses the way you always had a kind word for her and wisdom beyond your years. But she also misses Lady Whistledown, I think. Misses the candor, the way it could equalise even the haughtiest of polite society.”

He was rambling, he knew that. But he needed her to know. Her absence wasn’t just noticed. It was a gaping black hole that took more and more from them each day.

“Francesca misses you so much. Misses your talks at the edge of ballrooms. The way you would exchange looks at overzealous gentlemen and ladies. The way you could both happily enjoy silence together. She has become something of a Lady Whistledown herself, in some ways. Not writing, but listening. Every ball, she lingers around the edges of conversations, taking notes and absorbing everything she can. Then she would tell me everything she had heard, no matter how trivial, lest it should shine some light on your whereabouts.”

Colin couldn’t have said exactly when it happened, but he realised that something had begun to flicker in her eyes. The sliver of light. A speck of hope, perhaps? He pressed on.

“Hy is beside herself. She quite openly pores over the previous editions of Lady Whistledown, the very same ones she claimed to not have read, let alone kept, before you left. She makes notes, pages of them, detailing anything that might give some insight into where you might have gone, who might have helped you. She is very frustrated at how little she is allowed to help with the footwork of the search, and has had to make peace with being the one who reports in the most detail in her letters to me while I have been away. Pages long. I am nearly certain Mother has postponed her debut until you are found, lest she dress down every potential suitor and their family for not appreciating you enough. She misses your jokes and the way you never made her feel unimportant, just because she was young.”

His knees were beginning to ache now, but it barely registered. Her brow was smoothing out, he realised.

“Gregory is frustrated by his age, feeling useless at times, I fear. So he has had to content himself with looking after all of us, something he has grown quite good at, I must say. While I was still in Mayfair, every morning I would wake to a fresh plate beside my bed, as I frequently would skip breakfast on my way out the door. If Mother had forgotten about the flowers, he would quietly replace them before she noticed they had wilted, knowing it would upset her to see them that way. He studied maps arduously, and for the last few months, his letters have detailed villages that are frequently forgotten or passed over due to their size. He used to say he missed your smile and your sparkly eyes, but then he…he misses your warmth, I think, most of all.”

Water had begun to gather in her lower lids, and she was gripping his hands back tightly.

“The Bridgertons love you, Penelope. And miss you. You are a part of us, and we have not been complete since you left.”

The expression on her face continued to change, emotion in her eyes so intense it took his breath away. He knew there were some omissions, and he wondered with a pang if she noticed them with dread at what he was not saying. Needing to quickly remedy that, he plowed on.

“And Eloise? Oh, Eloise. I fear she may never let you go once she sees you again, Pen. All reasoning for your falling out, all anger or sense of betrayal disappeared once she learnt of your leaving. When you are brought up during teatime, she will leave, every time, tears already beginning to fall. She feels terrible, Pen. She avoided me for weeks, shame etched in every part of her. I have tried to seek her out, tried to reassure her, but she will not listen. The only person she will listen to is you, I fear. You know how stubborn she can be.” He smiled sadly. “I think if she’d stayed during those conversations, though, Pen, she would say she misses her best friend.”

A tear fell, spilling over, and he was not strong enough to stop himself from gently wiping it away. He was only a man, after all.

“Rae protected you so well. Sought out information about you wherever she could, and only came to me when she feared for your safety and was certain she could trust me. Gen insisted I visit at least twice a week so we could exchange information on what we’ve heard. On more than one occasion, she has offered me a stiff drink after another fruitless night, and we have spoken of you until sunup.” He swallowed, proof of how much she is valued coming up faster than he could express them. “Lady Danbury flat-out shames those who speak ill of you - or Lady Whistledown - openly, stating they could only wish to have an ounce of the grace, intelligence, and integrity of you. And once I got to know those who helped you with your business, they asked after you every single day. Helped me however they could. Even the Queen berates your absence, missing the way there was at least some accountability in the days of Lady Whistledown.”

More tears came then, and he could not catch them all even if he tried. Instead, he held her hands tighter still, shuffling closer so he was pressed against the chair, arms resting in her lap.

“Even your family. Christ, your family. I am sure they are sickened by my tenacity, but they do not fool me. Your mother feigned annoyance at my repeated calls, yet would only leave once I had relayed everything I had learnt. She writes to me now, if you can believe it. Largely criticising the way I search, and how silly it was of you to go missing in the first place. But still she writes.”

He feels a smile twitch at his lips, a real one. Oh, Portia. Penelope is once again confounded, he can see. He curses her mother, everyone really, especially himself, for letting her believe things so far to the contrary that it would take so much for her to accept the plain and simple truth. He stares at their hands, needing something to tether him and stop his own tears from falling.

“Prudence has seemed to turn her ire, which is a lot, upon me. She dresses me down quite often, talking endlessly of how much of an inconvenience it is to be the sister of Lady Whistledown, how this could have ruined her. How, when I find you, I should relay what a terrible bother this has caused her. She always says When I find you, not if, though. And seems to be holding me personally accountable for bringing you back. To berate you, I am made to believe. But I am not a fool. I see how she sits in the window overlooking the square. I have caught her reading your books and old Whistledown issues on multiple occasions.”

The sound caused him to look up with a start. Like a gasp, a sob, but when he saw her face, he saw something between a laugh and an exhale. Eyes still shining with tears, the corners of her mouth twitched. He wanted to kiss her. Lord, it was indecent how much he wanted to kiss her. He spoke quickly, partly encouraged at her reaction, partly to stop himself from pulling her to him.

“And Phillipa does not know what to do with herself. Even more than usual, I mean. She’s begun collecting books for you, you see. And when I ask her how she knows you will enjoy the ones she has chosen, she looks at me as if I am mad, and says, “Well, if they contain words I do not understand, I am sure they would be interesting to her.” She’s also persuaded Portia to commission several dresses for you for when you return, each more gaudy and citrusy than the last. I haven’t the heart to tell them that you will hate them, and neither does Gen. She sends me letters as well, and they are surprisingly encouraging, once you get past the spelling mistakes.”

He was biting his lip to keep back his own smile now. Was it any wonder she did not believe she was loved when those tasked with expressing it, first and foremost, were so clearly inept at it? Most days, it set him alight with indignation and injustice. But now, seeing the way her lip wobbled at each relayed clumsy expression, he can’t help but be grateful for them.

Her eyes were brighter, he realised. More like the Penelope he remembered. She was coming back to life. Relief flooded him, and he could have stopped there. Maybe this was enough. Maybe it was too much. What if it undid it all?

He swallowed, staring at her flushed face, red hair tumbling down around her as she looked at him. For a moment, he nearly didn’t continue.

But then he remembered all the nights he’d prayed for this very moment.

He recalled how he had promised himself that she would never live another moment not knowing how loved she was, in every way, as long as he was alive.

Then she bit her lip, seemed to gather some courage of her own, and whispered;

“And what of you, Colin? Why did you search for me?”

Chapter Text

She was sure there were more important things. She should focus on this outpouring of love that was as unbelievable as it was unexpected.

But, as she sat on the same chair she had often cried in, over the very same man knelt in front of her, only one thing held steady.

At first, she had thought, for some inexplicable reason, that the Queen had sent Colin. Maybe to falsely reassure her. Maybe he had insisted, wanting her to see a familiar face before her reckoning. Maybe, somehow, her love was not only obvious but something that would be used against her, like cheese in a mousetrap. She would bite, every time.

But slowly, gradually, she began to believe what Colin was saying. Because Colin did not lie. A world where Colin was untruthful to her was one where she may as well leap from the nearby cliffs. She could either fly in this fantasy land or die on the rocks with the truth that she had never known him at all.

Then, she realised that he was searching as part of a larger effort. Each piece of evidence he brought to her, of how she was cared for, he hammered home with details so specific they could only be true. No one else would know how Gen liked whisky in the back of her shop when she was worried, or how Phillipa would screw her nose up over her shoulder as she tried to decipher whatever passage Penelope was reading at the time. And so it must be true. A lifetime of believing one thing, dismantled so quickly and efficiently she suspected she may be dreaming, or insane, once again.

But his hands were so, so warm.

Even that was not the complete picture, though. There were morsels, crumbs, that she fixated on. That she could not move past. That overshadowed every other thing he said about anyone else.

…she would tell me everything she knows, no matter how trivial, lest it should shine some light on your whereabouts…

…sickened by my tenacity…

…cast the net further than I ever would have been able to alone…

Colin was not simply a part of the search party, it seemed. He was so integral to it that he seemed to be spearheading it. Fervently. Relentlessly. Determinedly.

And then there was the way he spoke about his efforts. The way it seemed to not only be a task for him to complete as he worried about his friend, but one that drove him to behaviour so unlike himself she would not have recognised it had it been relayed to her by anyone else.

…the erraticness of my behaviour lately…

…frequently would skip breakfast altogether on my way out the door…

…we have spoken of you until sunup…

Not only was he searching, he was searching frantically. Desperately. Her absence had affected him so much he had acted out of character completely.

But it was more than that. There was an…intensity there, one that she hadn’t seen before. Or heard before. Not from him. Certainly not about her.

…I want you to come home…

…please, darling Pen…

…she avoided me for weeks…

It was dangerous, really, to hope for something so improbable on a day when she’d received so much more than she thought she would ever get again. But there was a big question, so big it felt like it was pressing on her chest, making her unable to focus on any of the wonderful and frankly inconceivable things she was hearing.

Every sentence he said filled her heart up.

She was loved.

But the question buzzed around her periphery.

There was more. She was sure of it. Which was an insane thing to suspect when he had already given her so much.

But still…

“And what of you, Colin? Why did you search for me?”

Colin stared at her and, for a moment, she feared she had asked the wrong question. Here he was explaining why. Colin was a good man, and nobody loved better than he did. If any of the people he cared about (or even slightly didn’t care about) were hurting enough, there were no lengths he would not go to remedy that. And from the sounds of it, nearly every one of his family members had been upset to some degree at her disappearance. And so that was why Colin was here, to fix it. To make everyone happier, just like he always did.

“Pen, I-”

His voice was thick, and Pen felt panic rise in her throat.

“Colin, forgive me, I-” she did not know what she was apologising for; she just knew she was plummeting towards disappointment, and she reached out blindly, trying to stop her fall.

“I love you, Penelope.”

Every bit of air left her chest.

Every drop of blood froze in her veins.

If the storm had washed away the walls around her, battering with wind and rain, she still wouldn't have been able to move.

She stared at him.

Colins face was serious, earnest as he studied hers. His eyes echoed the pain she saw in him the moment she realised he was standing in her kitchen, and every moment since.

Could it be true?

It didn’t make sense.

She could not form words. This was as dreamlike as seeing him in the first place, only that much more fantastical. Surely she was hallucinating. Panic fluttered around her chest while she considered the notion that this might not be real: his presence, his warmth, the way his eyes looked at her softly while she sipped her tea. All of it.

When it seemed she would not, could not, respond, Colin cleared his throat, nervousness etched on his beautiful face.

“I apologise, Penelope. I realise this is likely not the time or place for you to hear this. I know you have suffered a great deal, not just since being here, but during your time in Mayfair. You were not treated with the kindness and respect you deserved, and I contributed to that. I am sure the last thing you need on a day such as this is to hear anything about my feelings. But I also know that from the moment you left, I made promises, Pen. To myself, and to you, even if you couldn’t hear them.”

She watched him. She didn’t know how to tell him her silence was not because she didn’t want to hear what he was saying, but because she needed to more than she needed her next breath. Colin continued, brow crumpled in concentration. He was forcing himself to be brave, she realised, and the fact that she could elicit such a response from this man riddled her with consternation.

“I promised that I would bring you home, firstly. Bring you back to where you belong, because you do belong there, Penelope. That was the second thing I promised. That if I- when I saw you again,” he swallowed, looking like he was in physical pain, and Penelope felt tears well in her eyes. “I wouldn’t let a moment go past without you knowing that. It’s so clear to me now that you didn’t know, Pen. The way you left, the way you hid. You couldn’t have known what you meant to people to do that…what you mean to me.”

Her heart was cracking open, she thought. All this time she thought it was closed off, dead, sealed in rock after centuries of dirt and clay piling atop it. But something was shifting, geologically. Tectonically.

Colin had tears in his eyes, she realised, and there it was again. Pain, but not the hollow pain she was used to. Pain from feeling too much all at once. Hope and love and longing crashed into one another so powerfully she was scared she might be swept away before she could make this real.

Could it be real?

“I promised myself I would never lie to you. I never did, but I lied to myself about you, and I think that’s worse. Because how I feel about you didn’t come about because you left. It was already there. It was only in your absence, when my reality crumbled into ruins of fear and longing so powerful I feared I would never recover, that I saw it for what it was.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, and a hand that she wasn’t sure belonged to her reached out to gently brush them away. Colin leaned into her touch, eyes closing briefly, and a new part of herself, one she thought had died, stirred.

“It’s love, Pen. It always was. Your smile, your wit, your kindness, your beauty. The way you would shoot me knowing looks across the room and answer my jokes so quickly I was left in awe of how you think. The way you glow, so brightly that I don’t know how people don’t fall over themselves in your presence, just as I did. Because I did, Penelope. I just never realised that’s what I was doing. Seeking you out in every ballroom. Wanting to know your thoughts on every one of mine. Feeling dejected whenever an event passed where I did not see you, and too stupid to realise why.”

He raised his hand to cup hers on his face.

“Even when you left, I did not know. I mean, I knew in some way, I must have. But it felt like I had always felt, just desperate, and so painful that I feared for my wellbeing. I could not sleep, could not eat. All I thought about was you. All I dreamt of was you. All I spoke of, when I did speak, was you. Every hour I was awake, I was searching. Every moment I had to rest, I was thinking of ways I might find you. It was only when I was on the road, days stretching on endlessly, quietly, that I had the space and time to see it for what it is. What it always was.”

Penelope listened to him, scarcely able to make sense of it. This was too good to be true, was it not? Even in her fantasies, his confessions were not as detailed as this. Not so soaked with sincerity and passion that she could drown in them. But, again, Colin did not lie. And she felt his rough stubble under her hand, felt the dampness where his tears ran over his skin. Saw the dark smudges under his eyes and the torment within them. It had to be true, because the love Colin felt, she had felt it too. Only someone who had been eviscerated by love, completely devastated and left wrecked, yet somehow, against all odds and better judgement, hopeful, could speak of love like this. This was love that was real, because Penelope recognised it within herself.

Yet, she said nothing. Colin was still speaking. He gently took her hand from his face, taking her other so he could hold both of them while he spoke, looking at her so earnestly she feared she might burst into flames like sunlit paper under a magnifying glass.

“I love you, Penelope. I love you so completely, there is no part of me that does not want to know you, does not long for you. I cannot list the things I adore, the things I have missed, without doing a disservice to how I feel. Because it is complete, it is all-encompassing. You are not a list, a collection of things to me. Your being, your essence, is what I love, what I crave. Your existence and your presence. And I needed to tell you, because that was the other promise I made. That I wouldn’t waste any more time. If you do not feel the same, if you are offended by it, I am so sorry. But I couldn’t wait. Because what if? What if you did feel the same, and I waited one more second longer than necessary so that we could be together? I could not forgive myself.”

Penelope felt tears on her face once more, but they were silent and steady. This wonderful man. This wonderful man who loved her in return? It was nonsensical. And yet…

Colin stared at her, eyes rimmed red, lip swollen from biting it nervously. He was a man adrift, and he clung to her hands like she was a life preserver.

“Colin…”

He visibly gulped, looking as though he was bracing himself. It was torrential, the feeling of joy she felt upon her as his words sank in. And she realised she had the power to remove that ache from his eyes, perhaps for good.

“Colin, I love you. I always, always have.”

Colin’s eyes widened. Something sparked in them. He didn’t believe her yet, she could tell. She understood. If he truly felt the way she felt, it would take more than this. Yet another thing they shared, bringing them closer. She hoped she would feel every emotion behind those eyes forever. She felt herself smile, a real smile, stretching across her face for the first time in years. It felt alien.

It felt good.

She watched Colin’s eyes trace her lips in wonder, before he looked back at her eyes once more. More warmth seeped in, and it set her blood alight. She was thawing. So was he. Two heat sources, warming each other, gradually, completely, inevitably.

“I truly do not know how you did not know I felt this way, Colin. It is astonishing to me. How I followed you around at events, my voice shrill and nervous whenever you spoke to me, my blush overwhelming if you so much as looked my way.”

The corner of Colin’s mouth twitched, and there it was again. That eye crinkle. The one she thought about when she was trying to fall asleep at night. She pressed on, wanting to draw more happiness from him. Make him believe what she now believed. So they could revel in this feeling together.

Together.

She could scream, she thought. Tear off her dress and run across the cliffside in the rain. Of all the things she dreamt, she never considered a version this sweet. Not even in her wildest fantasies.

“All I have done, in my time here, is think of you. How you laugh, how you smile. How you make others smile. How your eyes crinkle when you are being cheeky, and how your hair falls on your forehead. How you have seen the world, yet never make anyone feel unimportant or uninteresting. How you love so fully, so completely. How you always, always saw me, no matter how tightly I hugged the walls at each society event.”

She was crying more earnestly now, and so was he. But she could see it happening before her very eyes. Belief was creeping in.

“I have journals, pages and pages, of writing about you. To you, about you. Even when I didn’t write of you, I was writing of you, forcing every protagonist into a copy of you, so I might find another way to speak with you. Another reality where I could see you. I’ve missed you so much, Colin. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you. I needed you-” She felt panic rising in her throat as she spoke, realising just how important it was that he knew this, now. She couldn’t believe she didn't tell him right away.

Colin was nodding, leaning closer, like he might inhale her words before they had even left her mouth.

“Colin, I love you, please. I need you to know. I love you, I-”

His lips found hers like there was nowhere else they could go, cutting off her words, taking her breath. Sweet. They were sweet. And gentle, but sure.

A soft touch, at first. A brush of lips together, so delicate she may have imagined it if it didn’t awaken every nerve ending in her body.

Her next breath in was Colin, and she sighed. It was like coming in from the rain, a ship coming to harbour, a homecoming. His hand gently cupped her face, and it was like awakening, like blooms opening in spring, the sun bursting through clouds, like a cold spring on a summer’s day.

He pulled back and, in a way, she was grateful. Her heart might burst. It was too much. How can you hold something so pure and beautiful without already grieving its end?

He gently ran his hand over her cheek.

“Forgive me, Pen. I could not help myself.”

She saw the twinkle in his eye, and she wanted to keep it in a locket, nestled by her heart for the rest of her days.

“I do not want you to help yourself,” she said simply, something bubbling around her throat. Joy, she suspected.

Colin smiled. Really smiled. Not just with his eyes. With his mouth. He cocked his head, looking curiously at her.

“You truly love me?”

She shook her head in wonder, how this brilliant man could be so oblivious.

“I am not certain of anything else, but I am certain of this.”

He watched her, eyes wide in awe, but warm as they captured her.

“And you feel the same?” she felt the need to ask. Because how could this be real?

He nodded solemnly. He understood, she realised. Because he felt the same. She would tell him again and again, until he believed it.

She felt her shoulders drop, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of not just today, not just the last two years, but of her whole life. She was amazed to find herself stifling a yawn. Apparently, getting everything she’d ever wanted was exhausting.

Colin smiled again, then stood, before leaning down and scooping her into his arms. She should be shocked, but she was not. She was only happy.

He cradled her to his chest, and carried her gently back to the bedroom. She rested her head on his chest, wishing to stay there forever. He placed her on her feet, then he pulled her to him, holding her tightly. A lump formed in her throat and she clung to him once more. Her love. Her love.

She was crying again.

Gently, Colin pulled back, and he wiped the tears from her eyes, his own eyes sparkling with moisture.

“Let’s sleep, Pen.”

She nodded, realising just how desperately she wanted that. Her legs felt heavy, and she felt her eyelids droop.

She looked at the bed and then back at Colin, before raising her arms and gazing up at him. She knew this was probably unorthodox. In the other place, the one before, she knew this was unthinkable.

He understood immediately, looking at her intently, ensuring that she meant it. She nodded, and he slowly leaned down to gather her skirts before lifting the dress up and over her body. She was so much smaller than him; he removed the garment with ease, and she felt immediately better, lighter, standing in her chemise. Colin’s eyes never left hers, and when she kept her arms up, he repeated the process with her undergarments.

She should have felt self-conscious, she supposed. But she didn’t. She wanted to be as close as she could to him. And when she fell asleep in his arms, she did not want a single layer between them.

Colin’s eyes swept over her this time, as he dropped her chemise to the ground beside them. Penelope felt her nipples tightening in the cool air, but it was a faraway feeling.

Colin’s eyes found hers again, and she could already tell he was waiting for her to do the same. She swallowed and gently pushed the jacket from his shoulders. One by one, she undid his shirt buttons, admiring with fascination the hair that revealed itself there. Once his shirt followed the same fate as his jacket, he slowly kicked off his boots, eyes never leaving hers. He stopped briefly to press a kiss to her forehead before moving towards his breeches. Penelope frowned. The boots she allowed. Not this, though.

Gently pushing his hands away, she found the laces herself and began untying his trousers. She opened the pants and saw his member, firm in the low light of the room. She wanted to touch it, but also felt as though now was not the right time, so she resisted. Instead, she pushed down his trousers so they fell from his hips. She looked up at him once more, and he stared at her intently, like he was memorising her. He stepped out of his trousers and reached for her, pulling her back into his arms. She supposed it should feel strange, she’s never felt so much skin against hers, perhaps ever. Never been held so many times in one day. Never been bare before anyone. But it didn’t feel strange. It felt deeply, deeply right.

Penelope knew, in the back of her mind, that nearly all the times she was in a state of undress in her mind with Colin, they did much more than this. That she explored his body, and she let him explore her own. That she felt pleasure that she only glimpsed in the dark of the night with her hand between her legs, pleasure that she imagined would be heightened by his actual presence. But right now, here in his arms, even though she felt that familiar throb between her legs, even though her nipples pressed against his chest, even with his hardness against her stomach, all she wanted was to exist in this moment.

For the first time in her life, she felt no need to run. To hurry from one moment to the next, lest something catch her. She felt raw and open and exposed, but for once, she felt no desire to hide. She was on the cliffside once more, except this time her heart was the one being battered by the wind and rain, and it was glorious. She was alive.

Her small hand found his larger one behind her back and she stepped from him for a moment so she could lead him to the bed, opening the blankets. Colin looked down at her as if entranced, before laying down under the covers, opening his arms and creating a space for her. Feeling like a fox cub reaching its den, she crawled in beside him, pressing herself against him, as close as she could.

She wrapped her arms around him and felt him pull her close, his face buried in her hair, hers in his chest. She wriggled her leg in between his, completely intertwining them, needing as much skin on each other as possible. At last, satisfied she could not be any closer, she relaxed, and felt herself be pulled under consciousness quickly and totally, the world going dark until all that she was aware of was Colin, surrounding her completely. The last thing she heard was Colin sigh, and then his heartbeat against her ear, gradually slowing as she fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Colin woke in complete darkness, and familiar pain found him, if it ever left. He had been dreaming of Penelope, as was typical, but this one had ripped him open particularly aggressively. She had been just here, in his arms. A simple dream, in comparison to his usual ones; just a mix of terror, despair and need.

He woke with tears streaming down his face, his limbs still warm from where he had felt Pen’s body entwined with his. He daredn’t move, lest the cold air cleanse the trace of her memory from his skin. The ache in his chest was heavy, so heavy it brought him to the depths of hell itself. He had never known a pain like this existed. How could it exist, and how were people expected to survive it? If he didn’t live for the hope of seeing her again, he was sure he would have given up long ago.

As the fog cleared, he tried to remember where he was. An inn somewhere, he supposed. He felt heavy, stiff, like he’d slept heavier than he had in months, years. Which was…odd. Lately, his sleep felt less like slumber and more like extraordinarily long blinks. Small pauses in reality, though not in suffering. Just a change in the form it took.

He breathed in and he could smell her.

He was going insane, perhaps. He didn’t really have time for that. He wriggled his nose and flinched when hair tickled it.

Hair. Smell. Warmth.

It took some time for him to realise he was not alone. His arms were wrapped around a soft body, face buried in a mess of hair. He did not need light to see who these parts belonged to. He would know her anywhere. Even if he had never held her when they danced, never sneaked sniffs of her hair when she passed him, he would know her, he was sure. Even if he’d never met her. His soul would recognise hers, like a key sliding perfectly into a lock. Clunk. There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.

He felt his heart speed up as he realised she was actually here, in his arms. She was here, in his arms. He forced himself not to move, lest he wake her. All he wished to do was pull her tighter still. Kiss her until they suffocate.

The day before came back to him in parts, accompanied by joy and pain in equal portions. Seeing her. Seeing her so broken. Holding her. Holding her together. Explaining to her how she was loved. Seeing her not believe it. Telling her he loved her. Watching her finally understand. Hearing that, she, somehow, felt the same. He was waking from the best sleep he’d had in years, and yet he’d never been more concerned he might awaken.

Yesterday - or earlier today? He had no idea what time it was - he had understood, finally, what it was to make sense of the world. And now he was scared, so afraid, that this was not real. That it was a cruel joke, or could be taken away somehow. But quietly in his gut, if he pushed past the butterflies rampaging in there, he also realised he knew. All along.

He knew he would find her.

He knew he loved her.

And he knew she would be with him.

Because how could it not be? Why would he have been blessed with so much love, only to have nowhere for it to go? It was made for her. Not for him to feel, but for her to use and bask in and heal with and enjoy. He was but a vessel for it, and she a lighthouse, guiding him home.

He was hers, and so he would always find her.

She was his, and so she would always wait for him.

It was miraculous. It was divine. It was otherworldly

And yet, it felt delicate, fragile. Dissolvable. Because such perfection could only be inevitable or nonexistent. Panic fluttered in his chest even as he felt Pen’s breath against the skin there. He focused on the feeling, the ways he could feel the hairs move with each warm puff of an exhale. Felt how her skin was so soft and so warm against his, he honestly could not tell where the two of them separated. Perhaps they didn't. He was hard, because how could he not be? But it was inconsequential, really. He needed her, wanted her. But it was secondary. She was here; that was all he needed, ever.

In his arms, Penelope moved in her sleep, making a small sound.

It was incredible. She was really here. Living and breathing next to him. He wished he could see her, but it was too dark; all he could make out was the dark outline of her, softly rising and falling with each breath.

She shifted again, and he gently ran his hand over her back, hoping to soothe her, but she let out a whimper, and he felt his chest twist at the sound. He rubbed her back, pulling her closer. She must be having a bad dream. It took everything in him not to burst into tears at the thought of all the nightmares she must have had here, alone, with no one to soothe her, hold her.

“Colin.”

It came out as a sob, and for a moment he thought she had woken, but she murmured something else and he realised she had said his name in her sleep, soft cries falling from her lips with each exhale. She was crying in her sleep. His heart was breaking all over again, and all he could do was hold her, murmuring in her ear.

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here. It’s okay”

Suddenly, Pen jolted in his arms with a sharp intake of breath, and she sat up. He loosened his grip immediately, not wanting her to feel trapped, but kept a hand on her back. He sensed more than saw her looking around frantically, trying to remember where she was, her breath coming in choked sobs. It took everything in him not to bring her back into his arms, but she had been alone so long. Her whole life, really. He didn’t want to overwhelm her, especially when she was so disoriented.

She was crying in earnest now, and he gently brought his other hand to her arm.

He felt her jump, the cool breeze of her hair as she turned her hair around quickly.

“Colin?”

“I’m here, my love.”

He felt her hands grasping, reaching for him, and he shuffled closer, enveloping her in his arms once more. He could practically feel the relief emanating from her, and she clung to him, running her hands over his chest and arms, in his hair. She found his face and used it to guide her lips to his, crashing into him in a kiss that was neither gentle nor reserved.

For a moment, he was shocked, but then he understood. He understood because he had woken from sleep like that so many times. Completely afraid, desperate. Lost. And how many times had he hoped against hope that he would wake up in her arms instead? Could he say he would do anything differently, as relief surged through his blood and joy threatened to stop his breathing?

He understood because he had been content to be here with her, had been happy to be as close as possible. To put all thoughts other than making sure she was okay from his mind.

But now she was here, kissing him, and that part of him that had rumbled like a beast ever since it had awakened, hungry and untamed, roared in triumph and relief at the feeling of her lips against his. Sustenance at last.

He pulled her to him, his lips moving on hers like he might absorb her if he tried hard enough. It was everything, but somehow still more than what he had hoped. Her lips; soft, her taste; sweet and rich, and still salty from tears. He wanted to consume her whole. He tried desperately to remind himself that she was inexperienced, but she was crawling into his lap like a wild creature, and he was helpless to do anything other than take and take and take as she gave and gave and gave. He plunged his tongue in her mouth, hands tangling in her hair as he kissed her and kissed her. She whimpered, her hands in his hair now, gripping and pulling. He felt her smooth bottom sliding against his hardness, and he felt feral, as if he could take her like an animal.

He let his hands wander down her back, around her front. He kneaded her breasts, squeezing and tweaking, and she whined and gasped, arching in his arms as he groaned in need. Holding her by the waist, he turned them so he could lay her down again, panting with restraint as every cell begged him to touch and kiss and be with her every way a man could be with a woman.

Looking down at her, he could make out her hair on the pillow under her head, could see the low light sparkle in her eyes. Could hear her ragged breathing, matching his own. He settled himself beside her on his side, his face close to hers.

He could feel her gaze on him, even in the dark, and he dropped his face to hers, needing to be close to her, even during this brief respite.

They lay, faces near, breathing heavily for a moment, his hand on her soft belly.

“Pen, I-”

She did not even let him finish his thought.

“I want you, Colin.”

He swallowed. Did she even know what she was asking?

“Pen, I want you as well, but-”

Again, she cut him off.

“I know, I haven’t done anything like this before, but I still know of it. Of how a man can be with a woman. And I want that. I’ve dreamed of nothing else.”

Colin bit his lip to hold back his groan, the animal part of him threatening to take over once more.

“Me neither, darling girl. But it may hurt.”

He saw her nod vaguely in the dark blue.

“I know, Colin. I still want it. I need it, I think.” Her voice was shaky with desire, and he recognised it in the roughness of his own. It was incredible that even parted, without truly knowing how the other felt, they had been intertwined by longing for the other. Even without each other, their hearts beat in unison, nonetheless, it seemed.

He leaned down and pressed his lips gently to hers, feeling his body responding immediately. Even as he savoured her, one breath of her scent at a time, his blood roared to life.

He lay his body over hers, her softness yielding to him immediately. Propping himself up on his elbows so as not to crush her, he kissed her firmly, years of longing pouring into her from him.

He gently ran his hand down her side, feeling her silky skin, and he felt his eyes close at the sensation. She was here, she was real, she was his.

“I am yours”

She whispered it, and he opened his eyes, realising he must have spoken these thoughts aloud. He could not bring himself to feel anything but glad. She should know.

“And I am yours.”

His hand reached her hip, and he trailed it gently to her curls, his breath coming in pants as he traced his fingers over her mound. Below him, he could hear her keen softly, need evident in her voice. When his fingers dipped into her folds, she was wet and warm, and he kissed her hard to channel his need, his lust for her.

“Pen. Love.” He could only whisper words of awe to her, and she moaned back, hips beginning to move, seeking out friction. He slid to her entrance and gently swirled the wetness there, spreading it around. He couldn’t believe it. He had dreamt of this moment a thousand times or more, and never was she this perfect, this responsive and bright, even in the dark.

He slid one finger in and out of her gently, taking his time even as his hand shook from want. She moved beneath him beautifully, instinctively riding out each movement as though she was made to take him. She was gloriously tight, and the thought of entering her fully made him bite his lip so hard it hurt.

He used his thumb to brush her clit, and groaned when she bucked and cried out beneath him. He did it again, watching the sparks of her eyes flutter with each new sensation. Needing to feel her fall apart, he slid in one more finger, and fucked her gently, his palm bumping against her nub with each thrust.

“Colin, I-”

“Yes, my love. I know, let go for me.”

“I love you.” It was frantic, and he felt his hips buck at the sound of those words on her lips, interspersed with breathless moans.

“I love you, Penelope. Fuck, I love you so much”

He moved faster and her form arched under him, head falling back as she moaned, long and loud, her cunt pulsing around his hand, wetness spilling onto it. He groaned, wishing there was light so he could see her properly, wet and pink. Unable to resist he moved down her body, finding her cunt and licking up the slick he found there, causing her to shout his name and grip his hair as she fluttered around his tongue.

He lapped at her greedily, needing every drop. He drank it in, sucking, licking, inhaling her as she bucked under him, oversensitised. He should stop, check on her, perhaps. But she was gripping his hair, pulling and pushing him deeper, closer, and he did not need more encouragement. All there was Penelope, and he lost himself in her scent, her taste, her ocean.

Losing track of time, he was surprised when he felt her clench around him once more, and he moaned into her, deepening and lengthening her orgasm any way he could.

As the tremors subsided, he pulled back, panting, and made his way back up to her once more. He gathered her in his arms, and she was shaking. He stroked her hair as she came down, wiping tears and murmuring against her temple. He felt like he might be going mad, so consumed by love for her, and realising he could always, always be the one to bring her back down to earth. Hold her, keep her safe. She would never be alone again.

He felt fresh sobs shake her and pulled her close.

“Is…is it real? Colin, I’m so scared.” She clung to him so tightly that it broke his heart, and he felt her fear because it lived in him too.

“Me too, Pen. But it’s real. It has to be. I promise.”

He felt her move even closer.

“You’re scared, too?”

He nearly laughed.

“Penelope, I have been terrified the moment I saw the Queen’s guard come to your door. I don’t think you understand. For two years, I have missed you, craved you, woken in tears to find you not by my side. And now, I can touch you, taste you, feel you. And I am still afraid, because what if this is just another dream?”

“What if it is?”

For a moment, they sat together in the dark, logic telling them that this was real. It had to be. But it had not been long since these dreams had been so real they had both woken to heartbreak, over and over again.

Colin swallowed.

“Well…I suppose. We shall just have to make the most of this dream, then, if it is one.”

Penelope laughed, a small one, sodden with tears. And then she was finding his face once more, and they were kissing like they might wake up at any moment.

And Colin knew, realistically, that it was silly to pretend such a thing. But it slowed his frantic heart, somehow. Because he did not know how long he would need before he would believe it, how many mornings he would wake, distraught, until he realised Penelope was indeed by his side. Because it was all so close to not being real, wasn’t it?

If Whistledown had never been found out.

If Rae had never spoken to him on that dreary day in Featherington House.

If he had not found her at all.

So he kissed her like she might slip between his fingers, even though it made him panic to even think of such a thing. But it was somehow easier than believing this might be true. It was too much to comprehend.

When she licked his lips, he nibbled on hers, and when she whispered that she loved him, he whispered it back. There was nothing he would not do. What if this night was all they had?

Laying them down once more, he scattered kisses across her face, licking tears away and nuzzling his nose against hers. He caressed her, every inch he could find, kissing her neck, shoulders and breasts. He felt her learning him with her hands, her mouth. Her lips were soft, her bite sharp as she explored his throat, his chest, his arms. They were tangled, and in the darkness, it felt like they were under warm water, no sense of up or down or where each particle began or ended. It did not reassure Colin, because it was perfect, surreal. Just like a dream would be.

Hoping he might sear her onto his body if he pressed hard enough, he dug his fingers into her flesh, sucked marks into her skin that he could not see but he would use as proof in the daylight that this was a continuation of reality. He savoured the feel of her hair strands, the softness of her upper arms, and the taste of her teeth. Little details he could take with him into the morning, whether it brought him a brand new heaven or a familiar hell.

He nudged himself against her, lining up, and her needy whine sent him mad. He pushed forward gently, slowly, her tightness taking his breath away. When he reached her innocence, he stopped, kissing her softly, languidly, before pushing forward, her sharp intake of breath making his stomach drop yet his heart hammer at once. And then he was inside her, up to the hilt, and she was moaning under him, reaching for him, clawing at him, drawing him closer.

He took a moment to breathe, needing to focus so he did not spill in her immediately. Once he was sure he had a hold of himself, he slowly drew himself back, and the drag was so exquisite he dropped his head to her shoulder. When he slid back in, he groaned, the feeling like coming home, like the feeling he had when he stood on the rise over the village the day prior. Like the feeling he had when he saw her, soaking wet in her entryway. The feeling of looking into her eyes when she told him that she loved him, that she always had. The feeling of their first kiss. It felt like that, only much, much more. Tears ran down his face as he began to move, and found her lips once more, their tears mingling in their mouths, sighs and sobs and gasps spilling from each breath.

He wrapped her in his arms, enveloping her as he moved within her, and he did not think they could be closer, even as he tried to drive deeper, to press into her more completely. She whimpered beneath him, murmuring his name over and over, her hands on his back and shoulders, caressing his arms and face in turn.

He felt her start to tighten around her even as the burn in his stomach became nearly unbearable. He maintained his pace, making sure to roll each thrust so her nub was bumped each time, her cries coming closer and closer together as she reached her peak once more. Colin followed her, losing control as she keened in his mouth, unwilling to part for even a moment. He groaned as he bucked once, twice more, and emptied inside her, buried so deeply within her he was sure perhaps they were not two people at all, but one, complete, inevitable entity.

His arms shaking, he tipped to one side, rolling her with him so he did not have to remove himself from her warmth. He held her close, even as he softened inside her, fighting sleep as he caught his breath, exhaustion tugging at him as he felt Penelope’s body relax, also falling into sleep.

“Colin…”

“Pen…” he whispered back; she did not need to say anything, he understood. He felt the same.

He kissed her lips firmly, hand on her face, her nose, her cheeks. His head dropped to the pillow against his will, and he felt hers loll against her shoulder.

He floated in the peace, powerless to stop sleep from taking him, even as dread pulled at his stomach. With his last thought, he tried to memorise the way Penelope felt in his arms, and prayed to every deity that she would be there when the daylight came.

Sunlight awoke Colin, just as he thought it might. Rays filtered through the curtains that were never closed, and dust particles hovered in the yellow light above the bed. He lay on his back, eyes adjusting slowly. The pain in his chest had not alleviated, and this time he remembered where he was instantly, as though he had been holding his fear in his stomach all night while he slept. For the first time in months, he could not remember what he had dreamt of.

Even though he knew immediately that the ceiling was not his own, and recognised the drab panelling as that of the cottage he found himself in yesterday, he still held his breath as he tilted his head down to look at the face only inches from his, and wiggled his fingers to touch the sleeping form in his arms. The relief made him want to cry once more, and he wondered how many mornings he would wake like this. Perhaps always. And that was alright with him. May he never forget what a miracle it was to have found her, lost her, and then found her again.

As though sensing his awareness, Penelope stirred in his arms, and this time she did not startle awake. Instead, she slowly fluttered her eyelashes adorably, and squinted up at him, studying him for a moment before sighing and snuggling deeper into his embrace. He smiled, happiness threatening to sweep him away the way despair nearly had so many times before. Love seemed to be little more than one weather event after another, in his limited experience. But he supposed that with time, the skies would clear. He did not mind it in the slightest, as it was, the rain so refreshing and life-giving, he wanted to open his mouth to the sky and let each drop fall on his tongue.

They lay there for a moment, all fears of what was real and what was not dispelled with the coming of morning.

Colin felt his stomach rumble, and Penelope looked at him with wide eyes.

“Colin, you have not eaten since you’ve been here!”

Colin laughed, realising she was right.

“I forgot,” he answered simply. He could not have thought of anything less important in all honesty.

Penelope was still staring at him, dumbfounded. Concern crossed her face.

“I’m afraid I may not have enough for you to eat. I only have a small portion of bread and cheese in the cupboard…and acorns. John is due to arrive today with more, though.”

She chewed her lip and Colin watched, mesmerised. Here they were, discussing breakfast like his entire shattered world had not been completely repaired in less than a day. More than that. It was revived, it was invigorated. It was brand new. It bordered on ridiculous.

“John gave me plenty of food when he brought me here, I put it away while I waited for you and forgot about it. It will be perfect.” He squeezed her tight. He needed to eat. But he also needed to hold Penelope, perhaps forever, so there was a predicament. Then he frowned.

“Penelope, have you been eating acorns?”

She snorted, and he grinned at the sound. That was his sound now, he decided.

“No, things aren’t quite that grim,” Her smile, her smile, her smile. “But there are some deer I’ve made friends with, and I like to keep some for the winter when things are harder for them.”

The giddiness was replaced with awe. At his Penelope, caring for others when she had so little herself. Of his Penelope, collecting acorns and keeping them next to her own food, saving them for cold days when she should likely not leave the cottage at all. His Penelope, interacting with the very animal that made him understand just how hopelessly and ridiculously in love with her he was. He took a breath, trying not to give away his excitement at the revelation.

“Deer, you say? Are they not rather skittish?”

Pen looked at him thoughtfully, thinking about his question.

“I suppose so, but I wish them no harm. I am patient, I have nowhere else to be. They have learnt I am safe to be around. I think that anything can be loved if it feels safe enough.” She shrugs even as he feels the lump in his throat.

He brushed a tendril of red hair from her face.

“Are there fawns?”

She smiles, eyes brightening.

“Yes, a few every spring so far. They are beautiful and so precious. I fear for them at times, they are so vulnerable, you know?” Concern crossed her perfect face, and he dropped a kiss in her hair as he hummed in agreement. He did know.

In his mind, he made one more promise. As long as he lived, she would never feel anything but safe.

“I love you, Penelope,” he murmured into her temple, wondering if he said it enough times whether it would be enough for her to understand just how much he did. In his arms, she sighed happily.

“I love you, Colin. So much.”

Perhaps they would stay there a little longer. He was patient, and he had nowhere else to be.