Chapter Text
Colin always felt something for Penelope Featherington, though God help him, he’d spent years trying to pretend otherwise.
It wasn’t supposed to be complicated. She was Eloise’s best friend, the young, quiet girl who listened to him ramble when everyone else couldn’t bear it anymore, who laughed too loud at his terrible jokes. He was supposed to think of her as a sister. A very close friend. Safe. However, when he was seventeen and she was just fourteen, she laughed at something he’d said. Just a simple sweet laugh, and yet his heart lurched and his stomach fluttered.
Or when a then fifteen-year-old Penelope had come back from a summer holiday, and, at eighteen, Colin took notice. She changed, her body filled out, her face shaping into something softer, lovelier. He stared. Long enough to make him feel dirty, wrong. He’d told himself it was biology, hormones, whatever excuse came to hand. Still, he couldn’t shake his internal shame.
At nineteen, she’d jumped onto his back, shrieking with laughter as Eloise chased her across the Bridgerton lawn. She pressed her body against him, warm and soft, demanding breathlessly in his ear that he protect her. In one horrifying instant, heat shot through him, unwelcome, undeniable. He nearly dropped her in his panic, brushing it off with a laugh, putting her down, and retreating before anyone could see his aroused state. He never acted on it. But that didn’t matter, because he’d felt it.
When she was seventeen and he was twenty, on the night before he left for his first trip, she’d handed him a leather-bound journal. “For your adventures,” she said, her smile so open, so proud of him, it made his throat ache. He’d gone upstairs after, sat on his bed clutching it like a lifeline, wondering why it felt like the most intimate gift he had ever received. He took that journal everywhere, around the bloody world. No one knew.
At twenty-one, he found himself staring across the table in the library at Aubrey Hall while she bent over a book, copper hair falling forward, lips parted as she chewed the end of a pen. He wanted, so badly, to reach over and touch her. Feel her soft skin under his fingers, his hands had curled into fists at the thought, nails biting into his palm until the guilt drowned him, and he had to leave the library altogether.
At twenty-two, there had been this party. He remembered the music, the clink of glasses, and her, in a dress of pale blue that caught the light like water. She was dancing around with Eloise and belting the lyrics while ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ played, her eyes shining, smile wide and carefree. He hadn’t even realized he was staring until Anthony’s hand clamped on his shoulder, dragging him into some dull conversation. He’d nodded, smiled, pretended to listen, all while his heart hammered and his eyes strayed back to her across the room. Other men noticed her, too, that night. Men with easy arrogance and smug smiles. Colin had burned with jealousy, made himself sick with it, hating himself for wanting something he had no right to want.
At twenty-three, his heart finally broke. Quietly, without ceremony.
He’d come home from months abroad, still carrying the smell of exotic air on his clothes, eager for that first familiar laugh, that flash of copper hair. He saw her in his mother's garden with Eloise, sitting beside a man. Not someone her age, not a harmless crush. A man seven years older than Colin himself. Confident and self-satisfied in the way of men who believed they deserved whatever they touched.
Penelope… she blushed when the man brushed a hand down her back and smiled up at him, sweet and shy and devastating.
Colin’s world was shattered. He’d been so angry with himself for every glance, every thought, every flicker of desire. He had convinced himself he was a creep, a fraud, a danger even to look at her the way he did. He’d drowned in guilt, shamed himself into silence, and carried his feelings like a sin.
Then this man, this….old man, stood there as if it were perfectly normal. As if there was nothing strange, nothing predatory, about claiming her. A woman just out of her teens, a decade younger than him. No shame. No hesitation. Just his arm around her and her smile in return.
Colin had smiled, too. He charmed, joked, and played the part of the unbothered friend. But inside, he was turning to dust.
That night, staring up at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom, he pressed his fist to his mouth to keep a sob from escaping. Years, he spent torturing himself for feelings he never acted on, feelings he buried so deeply they threatened to rot him from the inside out, only for another man to step in and take what Colin had forbidden himself to even dream of.
She dated that man for 4 years, her first real boyfriend, and Colin had convinced himself he would one day sit silently at her wedding, smiling and clapping while his soul withered into nothing. He was sure that was his fate.
Then she found out that fucker was cheating on her.
When Eloise told him, Colin had been across the world. He’d called Penelope instantly, and the sound of her voice on the other end was thin, wrecked, stripped of every ounce of her usual brightness; it nearly brought him to his knees. There must be something wrong with me she’d whispered, words drowned in tears.
Colin had booked a flight the next day. He couldn’t stay away.
For the next two months, he gave her everything he could.
He learned to read her silences. When she curled on the sofa with that far-off look, he wouldn’t press her to talk. Instead, he’d slide a blanket over her and sit nearby, thumbing through a book he wasn’t actually reading, just so she knew he was there for her.
When she forgot to eat, he stocked her fridge. Simple things like precut fruit, soups she only had to heat, and her favorite brand of crisps. He never mentioned he was the one doing it, but the way her face softened when she found them was enough.
When the mornings were bad, he showed up early with takeaway coffee, left it on her doorstep, and texted a silly joke to get her out of bed. Some days he waited in the car, just to be sure she actually came down to collect it.
He fixed little things in her flat she didn’t notice, changed the lightbulb in the hallway, tightened the hinge on the cupboard, and repaired a dripping tap. He did it without asking, without drawing attention to it, because he couldn’t fix her heart, but he could fix this.
When nights were unbearable, when the grief was heavy enough that she admitted she couldn’t sleep, he stayed on the phone with her until dawn. Telling her ridiculous stories about trips gone wrong, trying out accents until she laughed, describing the stars over whatever city he’d last visited until her breathing evened out and she drifted off. Only then would he hang up.
He hated that she cried over that man. He hated that man for making her doubt herself. But what he hated most was how much it hurt to hold her through it, her hair against his shoulder, her hand clutching his sleeve, her scent filling his lungs, knowing she had no idea that he was breaking in half just to keep her steady.
Colin loved her in a thousand quiet ways he never named; he told himself it was enough, being there for her. But every night, alone in his room, he would press his face into his pillow to keep the sound in, the tears that threatened to tear him apart. He loved her so much it hurt to breathe. Yet he said nothing.
Because this was Penelope’s heartbreak, not his. If loving her meant stitching her back together only to hand her over, whole, to someone else one day… then that was what he would do.
They were sitting in her living room one evening, after the worst of it had passed. The remains of takeaway containers were on the table, a film playing softly in the background. Penelope had been laughing, full and rich at a joke he made, and the sound of it had filled Colin with such fierce relief he thought his body might split open. She looked more herself than she had in weeks: her hair brushed, her cheeks warmed with color, her eyes bright.
She looked at him, her expression softening. “Colin,” she said gently, her voice carrying that quiet, steady note he’d always listened for, “you should go travel again.”
His next few heartbeats were actually physically painful, but he smiled all the same. “Trying to be rid of me?” he teased.
She shook her head, rolling her eyes at his deflection. “No. I mean it. You’ve done so much for me… more than I ever deserved. But you’re not meant to stay here, circling around me. You’re meant to be out there, seeing the world, writing about it, living your life.” She paused, eyes tender on his. “I don’t want to be the reason you stop.”
He nodded, because what else could he do? He knew she meant it with kindness, with care. She wanted him free, happy, unburdened. Yet, the words gutted him. She didn’t see that these past weeks with her had been more real than all his wandering put together. She didn’t see that she was the world he wanted.
He didn’t tell her. He only smiled, promised lightly, “I’ll think about it.”
The day he left, his suitcase stood by the door, passport tucked away in his pocket. Penelope lingered with him after his goodbyes at the threshold, arms folded, her face soft with gratitude.
“Promise you’ll keep in touch?” she asked.
“You’ll be sick of me,” he said, forcing a grin.
Her smile wobbled, but it held. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. It was warm, close, her cheek pressing into his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything, Colin.”
He shut his eyes and held her tighter than he should, memorizing the feel of her. He wanted to tell her he’d stay as long as she let him, that he’d never once cared for the world as much as he cared for her. Instead, he pressed his lips to her hair for one aching second and stepped back.
“Go have adventures,” she said, smiling up at him. “For both of us.”
He nodded, smiled too, because it was what she needed. Because she was better now, and she was letting him go.
So he turned, betraying every bone in his body, suitcase in hand, walking away with her wave burning in his peripheral vision.
She was free again. Whole again. She had told him to travel. So he would. With a smile on his face, and heartache eating him from the inside out.
Colin threw himself into it. South Korea, Australia, Brazil. He sent Penelope pictures almost every day. A plate of prawns that had been delectable. Neon-lit streets in Seoul, alive with noise and color, markets full of food and spices. A photo of the Sydney Opera House at sunset, its sails glowing pink. He found himself photographing shells on a beach, not because he cared for them, but because he thought she might.
She always replied quickly, and it made his day. Sometimes with a joke that made him smile for hours, sometimes with a quiet photo of London at dusk, or something about a book she was reading, or a photo of a dog in the park. He saved the images to his phone and carried her words with him. But the more her messages came, the more he felt the ache deepen inside. She was moving forward. He was glad for her, he really was, but it felt cruel that the only place he had in her life was through a screen.
Rio buzzed outside his hotel window, alive with the pulse of music and traffic, and heat. Colin stood in front of the mirror, dragging product through his hair, trying to tame it into something halfway presentable. A few fellow travelers he’d met earlier had insisted he join them for dinner, promising a hole-in-the-wall churrascaria that would change his life. Normally, this was what he lived for: new people, food, stories to tell.
But his heart hadn’t been in it for months. Still, he slipped into a clean shirt, tugged a jacket over his shoulders, and told himself that the night out would do him some good.
His phone buzzed against the counter.
He glanced down, casual, expecting a message about a meeting time.
Mum.
It was two in the morning in London. There was no good reason for his mum to be calling him at this time. His joints seized harshly, his blood turning cold.
He shook it off and answered in a rush, throat already closing. “Mum?”
A shaky breath, then Violet’s voice, thin and cracking. “Colin… dear, there’s been an accident.”
His grip on the phone tightened. “What? Who?” His voice was sharp, too desperate.
She took a breath, then he heard a stifled sob. “Eloise.”
His stomach dropped. Impossible. “Eloise, what happened? Is she okay?”
“And Penelope.” Violet’s voice wavered harder, the name nearly swallowed completely by her sob.
The room was shaking. His knees buckled, and he had to use the counter to stabilize himself. “Both of them?” His voice was raw and disbelieving. “Mum…both of them?”
“They were in an Uber,” Violet forced out, voice trembling over every word. “It was sideswiped…violently. The driver didn’t make it.”
Colin’s ears roared. His hand fumbled against the sink, knocking over the bottle of hair product. “And the girls?” he rasped. “Are they…”
“They’ve been taken to hospital,” Violet said, splintering. “That’s all we know. They were alive enough to be rushed in. We’re on our way there now.”
Colin didn’t remember moving, but the next thing he knew, he was ripping his suitcase from the wardrobe, dragging it open with shaking hands. Clothes, chargers, anything he touched went flying in. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. “Don’t leave them,” he choked out. “Stay with them. I’m coming, Mum. I swear, I’m already on my way.”
All he heard was her ragged breathing for a second. Then Violet’s voice came back, fragile but fierce. “I love you, Colin.”
His throat ached. He pressed the phone hard to his ear, eyes burning. “I love you too, mum,” he whispered, before hanging up.
Colin stood in the wreck of his hotel room, heart pounding so violently it rattled his ribs. Minutes ago, he had been fussing over his hair, thinking about dinner plans. And now… just like that, everything was terrifying.
He slammed the suitcase shut, grabbed his passport, and bolted for the door, one desperate thought pounding over and over in his skull.
Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.
He didn’t remember the cab ride. He must have paid the driver, must have hauled his suitcase onto the curb, but none of it registered.
The airport was suffocating. Lines curled in endless loops, people shuffled too slowly with luggage, and Colin felt madness rising in his body. He shouldered past clusters of travelers, suitcase banging against his shin, until he slammed up against the counter and pushed his passport towards the woman behind it.
“I need the first flight to London,” he said, voice ragged. “Earliest. Tonight. Now.”
The woman at the desk blinked at his wild-eyed urgency. Her fingers clicked infuriatingly calm over the keys. “I have a direct flight at 10 tomorrow morning.”
“No, I need something tonight. I’ll take as many connecting flights as it takes.” His voice was panicked.
She nodded and looked back at the screen, fingers clacking against the keys again. “The earliest connection is São Paulo, then Heathrow. Leaves in two hours.”
Two hours. A lifetime. He nodded anyway, snatched the ticket, and stumbled away.
By the gate, he finally sat down. He hunched over, elbows on his knees, his body felt foreign, carried only by panic. People around him were eating snacks, scrolling on their phones, laughing. Their normalcy felt obscene. Didn’t they know the world was ending?
He checked the board again and again, as though staring at the departure time could drag it closer.
When his boarding time approached, and his hands shook so badly the phone slipped through his fingers, clattering to the ground before he managed to pick it up and call his mum.
She answered on the first ring.
“Mum?” His voice cracked. “Please, any updates?”
Her words came rushed. “Eloise is stable. A few broken ribs, a broken arm, cuts and bruises, but she’s awake, Colin. She’s going to be alright.”
His chest caved in with relief. She’s alive. She’s okay. A sound tore out of him, half sob. “Thank God… oh, thank God.”
But the silence that followed was worse than any sound he had ever heard.
“Penelope?” His throat was raw, but he pushed her name out. “What about Pen?”
There was silence, and Colin thought he might die right there in the plastic chair.
“She was on the driver’s side,” Violet whispered finally. “She took the brunt of it, Colin. Her body is badly injured. The doctors… they’ve found bleeding in her brain. She’s in surgery now.”
He bent forward, pressing a hand to his heart as if he could hold himself together. He couldn’t even breathe. His grip on the phone was so tight it shook.
“She isn’t alone,” Violet said, her voice breaking. “Her mum’s here, we’re all here.”
Colin swallowed hard, fighting to form words around the jagged ache in his chest. “Tell her I’m coming. If she’s out before I get there, tell her I’m on my way.”
“I will,” Violet promised.
The boarding announcement blared.
Colin stood on shaking legs, his ticket in his fist, and moved into line. The terminal blurred into noise and light and strangers who didn’t matter. The only things that mattered were an ocean away under hospital lights.
Every step was heavy, nightmarish, as though his body was moving without his soul, which had fled back to London already. He shoved his bag into the overhead bin and dropped into his seat. The safety announcements droned on, utterly meaningless. Portuguese rippled around him, blurring into static.
When the plane lifted off, he let out a bone-aching sigh. They were climbing away from Rio, soaring higher, further away, and all he could think was that he was still impossibly far from where he needed to be. His family was waiting for news; he was strapped into a seat, useless.
The man beside him pulled on an eye mask and was asleep before they hit cruising altitude. Colin sat rigidly, pulse pounding in his ears. Violet’s words replayed in his mind, each syllable another knife: bleeding in her brain. bleeding in her brain.
He shut his eyes, and his mind conjured images of both of them broken and bleeding in a crushed car. “No,” he muttered, loud enough to draw a glance from the flight attendant. He pressed his palms into his eyes, but the images only became more terrifying, more gruesome.
He turned toward the window, shoulders trembling, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He had never hated distance so much in his life.
Another flight attendant passed, asking quietly if he was alright with a look of concern on her face. He nodded once, unable to form words. She didn’t press, just passed him a tissue before she moved on. He wiped at his cheeks, then pressed his forehead to the window.
They’ll be okay, they’ll be okay, they’ll be okay.
A short flight and he was waiting again, sitting by his gate, the clock seemed to have slowed significantly. Everything was taking too long.
The São Paulo terminal buzzed with chatter. Colin sat by his gate, his leg bouncing uncontrollably, his connection ticket crumpled in his damp hand. Every boarding call overhead made his skin prickle. Heathrow still an ocean away.
He couldn’t sit with his thoughts any longer. His body shook as he dialed his mum’s number. She answered immediately.
“Mum?” His voice cracked. “Any news?”
“There’s no update with Penelope yet,” Violet said softly. “She’s still in surgery.”
Colin wanted to pull his hair out, but his mum, unaware, went on gently, “Eloise is awake. Do you want to speak with her?”
A bit of relief burned through him like a match in the dark. “Yes…. Please. Yeah”
There was a bit of shuffling, then Eloise’s voice came through, small and slurred from painkillers. “Colin?”
His throat tried to close, but he forced his voice out, soft with fake brightness. “Hey, El. I hear you had a simple car ride turn into a full-scale calamity. You never did do anything halfway.”
A weak, shaky laugh that broke apart pained mid-breath, he clung to the sound. “Idiot,” she whispered.
“Yeah, I know,” his voice gentling. “How are you doing?”
“They’ve got me on… something strong. Everything feels fuzzy.” She slurred.
He let out a sound that was almost a laugh. “Good. Let them keep you fuzzy. Just rest, alright?”
Silence stretched, then her breathing changed. “Colin…” He could hear the tears in her voice. “There was glass everywhere. I shook her and shook her, but she was just lying there. She wouldn’t wake up. And I…” Her words tumbled out in a rush, broken and uneven. “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even get myself out. Everything hurt so bad. There was so much blood all over. I was so scared.”
Colin sucked in a wobbly breath, biting down on his lip, his eyes burning, his body aching. He wanted to howl, to weep with her, but she needed steadiness. “El,” he pushed out, his voice somehow stronger than he was. “Stop, okay. You don’t have to do this right now. You’re safe. Everything will be okay.”
She only cried harder, the words dissolving into pained sobs. “She wouldn’t open her eyes, Colin. I thought she was gone…”
The phone rustled, then another voice cut in, deep and steady.
“Colin. It’s me.”
“Ben,” he rasped.
“Mum and Daph are with El,” Benedict said quietly. “Calming her down. She’ll rest soon. You know how it is, shock and painkillers.” A pause, then steadier: “Anthony, Kate, and Hyacinth are with Portia in the waiting area, so she’s not alone until Pen’s sisters arrive. Franny, Simon, and Greg are at Mum’s house, and all the kids were dropped off there. We’ve got this.”
Colin ran his free hand into his hair, gripping it tight. His voice cracking. “I’m stuck in this fucking airport.”
“Colin,” Benedict said firmly, “listen to me. Take a few breaths. Even if you were here, you’d be in the waiting room with us. That’s all we’re doing, sitting, waiting, letting the doctors work. You can’t blame yourself for not being here right this second.”
Colin sagged forward on a heavy exhale, tears falling, the truth cutting deep. Words slipped out, hoarse and small, child-like, before he could stop them. “Ben… I’m scared.”
There was silence, then Benedict’s voice was softer. “I know. Of course you are. We all are. Everything is going to be okay. We’ll keep El steady and hold the line for Penelope. You just keep moving this way, Colin. I will update you as soon as I can.”
Colin shut his eyes, tears spilling over. He focused on steadying his breath, clinging to his brother’s calm like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Always,” Benedict said simply, and that one word pushed some stability back into Colin.
By the time the plane lifted from São Paulo, Colin was exhausted, emotionally and physically. He slumped back in his seat, body aching from the desperate cab ride, the frantic shuffle through both airports. His eyes were puffy and stung, his chest felt bruised from too many shallow breaths, and still, there were eleven hours ahead of him. Eleven hours to London.