Summary: Your cat is your life, lovable and sweet... to you. She seemingly is allergic to strangers—all but one in a red cape, it seems.
Word Count: 9.1k
Warnings: sickenly sweet fluff! coworker romance! cats (if you don't like them... sorry). reader doesn't know clark's secret uh oh! like, two suggestive comments.
A/N: based on a request! sorry this took me so long, it's been sitting in my drafts for like, half a year. whoopsies. also, I miss Clark Kent.
Millie was the light of your life.
Great company on cold nights, a steadfast presence in your space, she made living alone slightly less lonely. That damned cat loved you, you knew that, you raised her from birth practically—a wet and sodden box in the middle of a dumpster in a Metropolis winter was not the ideal place to leave kittens. It took weeks of bottle feeds, warm blankets and wet food to get her to perfect health. She was your baby, in the most serious sense of the word.
The problem?
She hated everyone else.
No matter who you introduced her to, she hissed, she hid, she ran away. Trainers claimed she’d grow out of the aggression, settle into her age as she grew. Others claimed some time with other people in ‘her’ space could help, too. You’ve exhausted all of your options and slowly came to the conclusion that Millie simply was a loner, much like yourself, resigned to the fact she’d love no other person.
But your love never wavered.
“No, see, I don’t think I showed you this one,” you shoved your phone in Jimmy’s face. “She was doing the absolute cutest thing this morning and I just—I thought about calling out, James, seriously."
“You know I love you,” Jimmy said, pushing the phone to the side. “And I care so, so deeply about your life and everything that pertains to it, but, as your friend,” he looked at you with pleading eyes, “please stop showing me photos of your cat.”
“Jimmy,” his name trailed off of your lips, nearly a song. You spun in your chair in protest. “I have nothing else to talk about. She’s the center of my universe.”
“Maybe you should make your job the center of your universe?” he said into his coffee, a brow meeting his hairline. “Just a thought?”
You stuck your tongue out at him. “You’re no fun.”
“And you,” he pointed, “have a draft to get to Perry by end of day, don’t you?”
“Actually, he wants it by noon,” Lois, ever the eavesdropper, chimed in. “Apparently the Gotham Gazette plans to run a story that’s eerily similar to yours, so…”
You groaned, paying close attention to the back of your eyelids.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Lois’ hands were up in mock surrender, sympathetic smile already on her lips. “But I’d get to editing if I were you.”
“It’s almost done,” you explained, tapping your pen rapidly against your leg. “Clark was giving it a once-over before I finished it up.”
“And Clark is MIA, per the usual,” Jimmy noted.
“Probably stuck at the café again,” the defense left your mouth before you knew it. “He gets everyone coffee on Tuesdays, you know that.”
Jimmy and Lois shared a knowing look. “Unless the coffee line is around the block—”
“It was around the block, actually.”
Clark was nearly breathless, carrying two trays of coffee cups and his briefcase—a superhuman feat, if you were asked. He held one tray out to Jimmy, who took his cup begrudgingly before passing the other to Lois. “Still, an hour late for coffee? Perry’s gonna kill you, Kent,” she said, holding back a moan after her first sip.
“I like doing Crazy Coffee Tuesdays,” his voice was small, as if not trying to take up much space. “Perry probably didn’t even notice I was gone.”
Clark’s tray was held out to you, your coffee awaiting your grasp.“Thank you,” your appreciation was noted, the man in front of you standing just a bit straighter after that. “I noticed that you were gone, if that’s any consolation.”
His glasses slid down his nose, just a bit. “I-I mean, I’d hope so. You’re waiting on my edits, right?”
“Well, yeah,” you laughed. “But you also sit directly next to me, and I know you would’ve backed me up this morning with Jimmy.”
“What did Jimmy do?”
“Nothing in particular,” you turn on your chair, facing back towards your desk. Clark finally sat down at his own. “Just got annoyed at me for showing off my cat and everything that she did before work.”
“What did Millie do this morning?” He was genuinely curious, not asking out of politeness, in that trademarked Clark way of his.
“I’m glad you asked!” Your grin lit up the room. “She crawled under my laundry pile and wriggled into one of my dresses,” the phone on your desk was passed quickly to Clark, the photo already pulled up. “Made me want to stay home. She was so cute.”
“She’s a cute cat,” Clark nodded, his lips curling at the image. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for staying home. I would’ve missed you here today, though.” The phone was passed back to you, your fingers brushing for a moment.
“I would never miss Crazy Coffee Tuesdays,” you said seriously, trying to ignore the warmth blossoming in your chest. “What would I do without you swooping in to save me from the sludge Perry supplies the office with?”
“You’d probably cry about it. Just a little.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m not that dramatic.”
“Says the lady who cried when the office got new paperclips,” he chuckled. It was a taxing day around the Planet, who could forget?
“They were so cheaply made! They didn’t hold as many papers together as the old ones, flimsy as hell.”
“Right, not a dramatic reaction at all,” he shook his head. “But the crying made Perry change them back, so…”
“See? I make things happen, Smallville,” you nod. “A perfectly reasonable reaction to such a travesty for the journalistic integrity of our work.”
“Well, forgive me for assuming you’d react to me not getting you coffee in a similar fashion,” he agreed.
You hummed. “You’re forgiven, on the notion you bring me another cup tomorrow.”
“But it’s not Tuesday tomorrow…?”
“And you like me enough to make an exception, don’t you?” It wasn’t exactly a question, you already knew the answer.
“Crazy Coffee Wednesday, it is,” he grinned.
But Crazy Coffee Wednesday never happened.
You hadn’t showed up to work, calling out for a ‘family emergency’, per Perry. Clark ended up drinking your coffee when he realized you truly weren’t coming in to work, but not before sending you a quick text—just checking in, nothing too fancy.
The response was almost immediate.
Millie was missing.
Robots attacked Metropolis last night, Clark knowing firsthand on the whole ordeal. The damage was minimal to the city, no casualties—nothing crazy. A typical Tuesday, all things considered.
But, Millie bolted out your open window in the commotion, trying to get away from the noise. You couldn’t chase her until the robots cleared your block, and by then she was long gone. It wasn’t something you needed the entire office to know, but Clark seemed like a good person to tell.
What you didn’t know, was that a certain red and blue clad superhuman was willing to help.
He took it upon himself to look for your cat. Clark knew the basics, what she looked like, what her collar looked like and roughly the area in which you lived. He had walked you to your building one night after a long day at the office—he insisted. Surely a cat, one used to being indoors, couldn’t have made it very far, right?
Wrong.
Clark—Superman, had been searching for the better part of his evening, scanning the alleys and streets surrounding your building. He had been distracted a few times, kids wanting a photo, a shopkeep asking for assistance in hanging a banner—little things, things that usually didn’t bug him. But he was on a mission.
Find Millie.
“Good gosh, how far could this cat have gone?” He mumbled to himself, floating directly above the bakery only a few blocks from your apartment. The smell of freshly baked bread was weaker than he expected, but, he assumed they didn’t do much baking at 6pm on a weekday night. He scanned the area again, using his x-ray vision to see through buildings, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gray feline.
“Superman! Superman!”
Clark looked down, meeting the gaze of a group of children yelling for him. Reluctantly, he reached the sidewalk near them.
“Hiya,” he said with a wave, forcing a smile. “Uh, what can I do for y’all?”
“Cape!” The young girl with pigtails giggled, touching his red cape. “Woosh!”
“Yeah, the wind makes my cape go ‘woosh',” Clark chuckled.
“Sorry, my sister’s little,” the boy, who looked to be only a few years older than her chimed in. “We need your help.”
“S’okay,” Clark nodded, patting the girl on her head. She beamed, vibrating with happiness. “What can I do?”
“We found a kitty,” the boy said quickly. “But it hissed at us and ran up a tree—but he was wearing a collar and my mommy says only owned pets have collars so someone is missing him, right?”
“A kitty?”
“Gray kitty,” the girl nodded. “Pretty.”
“A pretty kitty in a tree,” Clark repeated, his heart rate picking up just a tick. Could it be? “Which tree, superstars?”
The boy pointed down the block. “We can’t leave the street, mommy said so. But the kitty didn’t leave that tree, I watched carefully.”
“Save kitty?” The girl asked, her brown eyes practically glistening in the dropping sun. “Please?”
“Yeah, Superman’s gonna save kitty,” Clark nodded. “Wait right here, don’t want your Ma to get upset, yeah?”
“Mommy will scream,” the boy nodded solemnly, pointing to the apartment window nearest them. “She’s watching from her office.”
Clark turned, waving at their mother through the window. She was already filming on her phone, eyes wide with surprise. “Alright, gonna go get kitty!” He took off like a bullet, zooming all the way to the tree the boy had pointed to. “Who lets their little kids play outside alone…?”
Sure enough, in the giant tree on the edge of the park, a gray tabby cat was perched into one of the branches. With one glance at the cat’s collar—black with constellations littered across it—he knew it was the cat he was looking for. “Hey there, Millie.”
The feline hissed at him.
“Woah, take it easy,” he said calmly, as if the cat could possibly read his body language. “I just wanna help. You know, your mom’s been freaking out all day, worried sick about you and I know you’re not super friendly to strangers, but I gotta try to get you back. Sound good?”
She blinked at him, unable to move. He took it as agreement.
When Clark reached for her, he realized her back paw was stuck to the bark—claw latched onto the stuff. “Poor baby,” he cooed. “Lemme help ya.” Carefully, with the precision of a surgeon, he unstuck Millie from the tree—and got a closer look at her tag, which confirmed the fact that this was, indeed, the cat he was looking for.
“You got kitty!” The little girl, now held by her mother, shouted from across the street.
“I got kitty,” Clark nodded, waving to the little family. “You, uh, stay safe! And don’t… play in the street!”
“We don’t play in the street,” the boy mumbled, watching Superman fly away.
—
You had been pacing around your apartment, biting at your nails in worry. You spent all day combing the streets for Millie, to no avail. The printer sitting in the corner of your desk was working overtime, producing copy after copy of a poster you made in a rush, hoping to get the word out sooner than later.
“I just got a new cartridge too,” you hiss, accidentally drawing blood, biting a bit too close to your skin. “Shit!”
Running to your kitchen to grab your first aid kit, you tended to the bitten finger, washing it quickly and drying it softly. To your own credit, it hurt a hell of a lot less than Millie’s claws dragging across your skin—something you’d kill for about now.
A soft knock on your window drew your attention away from your pulsing phalange.
“Oh my God.”
You ran to the window, surprised to find Superman crouching on your fire escape. In his—very toned and capable—arms was the gray cat you’d been crying about all day.
Guinness World Records should’ve been notified about how quickly you ripped your window open.
“Holy shit, Millie!” You sobbed, reaching out for the gray tabby. The cat was more than eager to get back into your arms. “I-I don’t know what to say…”
“No need to thank me, ma’am,” Superman said, coughing lightly. “I just happened to find her hanging out in a tree and noticed her ID tag—it’s a good thing she has one. She seemed a bit lost.”
“No kidding,” you kissed Millie’s head quickly. “Was she far from here?”
“Down the block,” he pointed. “Few blocks, really. She seemed a bit turned around so…”
“Please, come in,” you said, a bit quickly, nearly regretting your words. “I can make you some tea? Get you a glass of water?”
Superman chuckled at the sight. “I, uh, don’t think I’ll fit through the window, ma’am.”
Your temperature rose, heat rushing to your face. The man was built like a brick wall, of course he wasn’t going to fit through your average-sized window. At least, not easily. “Shit. Right. Uh… I can buzz you up?”
“I don’t want to overstep, ma’am—”
“You’re not overstepping,” you said, petting Millie’s head. She was purring contently in your arms, a welcome feeling. Instinctively you turned towards your front door, ready for his arrival. “It’s an invitation,” you turned back towards him, “and don’t call me ma’am, I can’t be much older than you, right?”
“Noted,” he chuckled, the sound reverberating straight to your head. “I’ll be right up, then.”
Millie jumped out of your arms and ran to her cat tower, her safe space. Seemingly gotten enough loving from you, even if she had been homeless for the last day. Dinner would be a good way to get her back to normal, you thought.
The knocks on your door are similar to the way he knocked on your window—quiet, but firm.
With wavering confidence, you opened the door. “Superman.”
“Ma’am,” he cringed instantly, realizing his mistake. “Ah, sorry, how’s miss?”
You pushed the door open wider, stepping to the side, trying to make room for the giant coming into your space. “Miss is fine, but I prefer my name—like most people, I think.”
“Then, I suppose I should get your name?”
“You figured out my address from my cat’s ID tag, but missed my name etched right above it?” You grinned, closing the door behind him.
“I-I must have missed it?”
You told him your name, saying it slowly, hoping it’d stick to his alien ears.
“S’pretty name,” he said, repeating the syllables equally as slow. You wanted to melt on the spot, but persevered. “Mind if I sit?”
“Oh, of course,” you shook your head, trying to find the will to stay upright. “Like I offered earlier, tea? Water?”
“Water sounds good,” he nodded, smiling softly. “Flying around works up quite the thirst, if you can believe it.”
Your water pitcher was filled, a byproduct of your anxiety, pacing around your kitchen with nothing else to do. It was a rare occurrence it was actually full when you needed it to be—there was a bad habit you had of not filling it up when it was empty. “It’s just tap, but I promise the filter takes out the disgusting Metropolis taste.”
“I sorta like the tap water taste,” he said softly, a secret.
You peeked over the door of your refrigerator, nose scrunched in utter disgust. That confession brought you back down to Earth. “Ew, what?”
Superman looked at you, face puzzled slightly, as if deciding exactly what to say next. “My ma—mother, she insisted the natural minerals of the tap were good for growing.”
“That can’t possibly be true,” you shook your head.
“Of course it’s true,” he puffed his chest. “I grew quite a bit! My mother is usually right.”
A smile pulled at your lips. “You sure it’s not your Kryptonian genes making you the size of a barn?”
“My mother would never lie to me,” he said, taking the glass from you gently. You knew he meant that.
A loud meow echoed from the cat tree, Millie sitting on her perch.
Dinner.
Right.
“Thank you again,” you walked towards your kitchen, rifling through your cabinet. “For saving Millie. I didn’t think rescuing lost cats was in your repertoire—more alien attacks and re-routing the subway lines?”
“I like doing the little things like this,” he said softly, watching you intently depot a can of cat food onto a plate. It was shaped like a fish. Funny. “Not everything Superman does has to be this big heroic thing, you know? Gotta show people Superman cares about them.”
“Superman likes talking in third person?” Millie appreciated the plate brought directly to her tower, treated like the royalty she is.
“He… doesn’t do it a lot,” a faint dusting of pink grazed the bridge of his nose. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” the laugh you let out was soft, worn. “It’s cute. In a humbling, down-to-earth sort of way! Not that you’re cute—I mean, you are but that’s not…” you sighed, raking a hand over your face. “I haven’t gotten much sleep over all of this, I apologize, my brain is room temperature right about now.”
He finished the glass of water. “Well, I hope Millie being home brings you some sleep tonight, you deserve a restful evening.”
“That little hunk of junk being home already is making me drowsy,” you admitted, flopping onto the couch beside him. “It’s like my brain can finally relax.”
“Hunk of junk…?”
“Like the Millennium Falcon? From Star Wars?” The way you said it seemed like it was obvious. “That’s her government name, anyway. Millie is easier to say, other than when I’m yelling at her.”
“I didn’t know you liked Star Wars,” he sat a bit straighter, blue eyes just a bit wider. Clark hadn’t known the totality of her name—you only called her by her nickname. You paused, staring at him a bit quizzically. “I-I mean, you don’t seem like the type, is what I meant by that.”
“Why? You think girls can’t like Star Wars?”
“No!” Superman waved his hands erratically. “No, gosh that’s not what I meant! Obviously you can like whatever you want, it’s a good franchise—great franchise—I’m sorry, this is sounding terrible.”
“Do you need a shovel to dig yourself deeper or…?”
“No thank you,” he mumbled.
“Well, I love it,” you smiled, watching the man across from you take labored breaths. “Grew up loving it, still love it, it’s up there for comfort movies for me. Figured a name like ‘Chewie’ or ‘Leia’ was a bit on the nose for her. Besides, she’s my little trash baby.”
Superman coughed. “Trash baby? That’s a unique moniker.”
“Found her in the dumpster,” you shrugged. “Cat distribution system and all that.”
“Ah,” he laughed, the sound rang in your ears like a warm blanket, homey, inviting. “That makes sense, I suppose. Unique name for a unique cat.”
“I’m sorry she’s not more inviting, she doesn’t like strangers,” you pointed to the cat tower, watching her finish up her dinner. “Honestly, I’m shocked you brought her back to me unscathed.”
“Man-of-Steel, remember?” He knocked on his head. “That’s what the Daily Planet calls me anyway, some cat claws won’t hurt me.”
“You read what the Planet writes about you?”
“I keep up with it, occasionally,” he scrunched his nose, looking up at the ceiling. “Talented writers over there, y’know?”
“I do know,” you pulled your purse from the coffee table, grasping at your ID badge. The photo was taken a few years back when you started your job, doe-eyed and fresh faced. The job now had made you wiser, you felt more distinguished than the girl in the plastic photo. “I actually know it quite well, funnily enough.”
“Huh,” he glanced at the ID in your fingers, his eyes slightly fond. Soft. “Out of everyone in Metropolis, I had to save a reporter’s cat.”
“Don’t worry, everything is off the record, no steamy ‘My Date with Superman’ article in your future.”
“This is a date?”
His grin was blinding, much brighter than the setting sun.
It was then you realized how handsome Superman really was, especially up close. You had seen photos of him, of course, the occasional news clip of him saving the day and whatnot, but this? Having him in your space? It was a bit disorienting how good looking he was.
“Ah, no,” you rushed out, watching his grin grow a bit bigger, dimples deepening. “No, of course not. It was a joke—a bad one. But you have to admit, an article with that title would grab loads of readers.”
“It’s a hook,” he agreed. “I’d read it.”
“Maybe you should date a reporter?” You teased. “Get that ball rolling?”
“Maybe I should,” he laughed, pausing a bit longer than he should after he stopped. “Probably not the best idea in the long run, though. Wouldn’t want my dirty secrets leaking out to the world, could be fatal to my image.”
“As if any person dating you would do that,” you scoffed. “They’d be a terrible partner.” Millie jumped from her tower, waltzing over to you and Superman on the couch. She seemed apprehensive of the man in blue, sticking to your side like glue. “But it begs the question, does Superman have dirty secrets?”
“Sure,” he rubbed his nose, glancing down at the cat. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No,” he shook his head, turning his attention back to you. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Your cat got bold, curious if anything else, and hopped from your lap over to his own. She seemed at home, curling instantly on the blue jumpsuit, head tilted up—ready for scratches. “I’m so sorry, I can grab her if you’d like—”
Superman raised his hand, stopping your grasp. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. She’s rather sweet.” He scratched under her head lightly, just the way she liked it.
“She usually hates strangers,” you hummed, giving your cat another look, clearly enjoying the loving from the metahuman in your company. “Are you sure you brought me back the right cat?”
His fingers grazed her collar, the gold metal glinting in the waning sunlight. “Well, the tag says ‘Millie’—stars all around it, how accurately themed. So, safe to say this is indeed your cat.”
“Maybe you should add cat whisperer to your endless list of abilities,” you note, watching the way Millie melted into his touch, like a pat of butter on a hot pancake. “She’s entranced.”
“So are you,” he chuckled, pointing to your saucer-wide eyes.
“I just… she’s never taken to someone other than myself,” you shook your head. “I-I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
And, as if on cue, Millie jumped off his lap, the spell seemingly broken. “I guess all good things must come to an end, hm?”
“I guess so,” Millie jumped back to your hip, curling on your thighs as she had countless times before. The scene was nearly domestic, cat on your lap, sun setting, handsome man sitting across from you—it felt poetic, if not for the glaring fact the man in question was in a costumed leotard and cape. A loud crash came from outside, startling the both of you. “Speaking of good things…”
“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, sounding genuinely forlorn. “I should probably go see what that was—duty and all of that…”
His thumb was pointed towards your window, the orange glow practically illuminating off of his skin. “Yep. Duty,” you nodded, already peeling towards the front door. “Thank you again for bringing Millie home, I really can’t thank you enough. She’s everything to me.”
“I know,” he nodded, practically floating through the open door. “I’m happy to have been able to reunite you both.”
You smiled at that.
He said your name before you shut the door. “And, if you do end up writing that article, I’m sure it’ll be a good one.”
A blur of red and blue streaked across your vision.
He was gone.
—
You didn’t write an article about the whole affair, that seemed disingenuous. It didn’t seem ethical, as it had been off the record. No one needed to read about how blue his eyes were in the sunset, how gentle he treated your belongings and cat, his presence like a balm to your soul. No one needed to know that, no one but you and your memory.
You did, however, spill the beans at work the next morning to your gaggle of gossipers, the true worshippers of the spoken word.
“Superman was in your apartment?” Cat gaped, coffee in her hand long forgotten. “I mean, you just invited him up like a Tinder-date-gone-right?”
“I offered him something to drink—”
“Not helping your case, hon,” Cat pointed.
“Water,” you pressed, fighting an impossible grin. “He brought Millie home, what was I supposed to do? Give him a high five and skip away?”
Cat gave you a shrug. “Did you give him anything else? Got on your knees with gratitude?”
“Cat!”
“Come on, I’m sure he has a massive—”
“—deadline?” Lois chimed in, her glare icy as her tone. “It’s a very touching story, babe, truly. I mean, Superman himself rescuing your cat and all but come on, you should be writing. Perry already has it out for you for missing work yesterday.”
“I know,” your head hit the cinderblock pillar near Cat’s desk. “I already feel bad enough about it.”
“So,” Lois smiled, tilting her head towards your desk, “you should probably get those fingers flying across your keyboard, no?” You groaned, eyes meeting the ceiling. When was the last time someone cleaned it? “Thank me later,” she sipped from her own mug of sludge, grimacing after the gulp. “Y’know, preferably before Perry kills you.”
She was right, Lois Lane usually was.
“She’s right,” Jimmy said, watching you sit down.
“She usually is,” you huffed, pulling yourself closer to your desk. “God I hate her.”
“No you don’t,” he chuckled.
“No, I don’t,” you agreed, tapping your fingers on the woodgrain. “But you have to admit, it’s a thrilling tale, I mean how could I not talk about it?”
Jimmy’s eyebrow shot up. “I don’t think offering Superman a glass of water is very ‘thrilling’.”
“You’d think so if he was sitting on your couch petting your cat…”
“The demon let someone else pet her?” The blue stress ball you kept at your desk was lobbed at Jimmy’s head. “Ow?”
“She’s not a demon,” your hand already was gripping another knickknack—a smooth carved rock you kept as a paperweight. Not terribly heavy, but it did the trick to hold a few papers down. “So I’d choose your next words very carefully.”
His hands rose around his head, framing his face. “I surrender—please don’t throw a rock at me.”
With the promise of Jimmy shutting his mouth, a promise you kept near and dear to your heart, you began typing away, a blank document filling with words and phrases, flowing from your fingertips to the screen. It was a mundane article, a piece on the new parking garage being built downtown. Boring, sure, but the public reaction was mixed—small businesses being bought out to build the structure. Not a thoughtful piece by any means, but necessary for the city.
At the end of the day, it was news. News was your job.
But this news was boring.
Your head met your keyboard, eyes closing for just a moment, trying to gain some courage to continue on—press forward with the task at hand.
“That’s a lot of periods…”
The voice came from above you, pulling you from your dreary state. A glance at your monitor brought you back to reality—an entire page or more full of little black dots—a byproduct of your moping.
“Can’t you tell? It’s a period piece,” you hum, turning your head towards the towering voice. The creak of your back was audible as you rose from the desk. “Thought I’d give Perry something fresh, you know?”
“I don’t know if that’s the way to go about it,” Clark laughed, handing you a paper cup, warm to the touch. “For Crazy Coffee Thursday, seeing as you missed the make-up yesterday.”
Your face pinched. “You brought me a cup yesterday?”
“And you didn’t show,” Clark sighed, flinging himself into his chair—nearly spinning around. “Imagine my disappointment.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back for the coffee,” the coffee tasted delicious, per usual. “But it was a good reason, unlike the bull you have every time you play hooky from work…”
“You don’t have to pay me back, I promise. And I never play hooky,” Clark scoffed. “I’m occasionally late.”
“Keep telling your lies,” you hum into your cup, thumb pressing the backspace, “one day someone will believe them, surely.”
The page was restored to its former glory—a boring piece on a boring parking garage, half baked and flimsy. No conviction. You re-read your words, trying to find a through line, make any sense of your rambling.
“You know, with all the writing you do, your texts last night were nearly impossible to decipher,” Clark said, tilting his head. “Something about Superman?”
“I was exhausted, it’s a miracle I remembered how to type at all,” you gave him a look, prying your gaze from your slop, “seriously, the second after I texted you I was out like a light. But, yeah, Superman brought Millie back to me if you can believe it. All heroic and that.”
“I can,” he sipped his own coffee, “the guy saves cats from trees all the time, doesn’t he?”
Your eyes met the ceiling. “Probably. But that’s besides the point! Millie’s back home all thanks to him, and I mean really, this is something the Superman fangirls on Reddit would go crazy about.”
He grinned. “Post there often?”
“Longtime lurker,” you chuckled, the idea entirely ridiculous. You weren’t about to tell Clark the truth, how it was one of your favorite pastimes late at night, reading posts about the man in blue. “No, not really. But it’s a little fantastical, don’t you think? Like stuff from a storybook or a fan fiction, no?”
“Perhaps you should write that,” he pointed at you, “the fanfic of Superman saving your cat?”
“Shove it,” you laughed, reaching over to physically shove him. Alas, he was just a hair too far away. “But seriously, it was pretty cosmic timing. I mean, even Millie was starstruck! She hopped in his lap—”
“—your famously hateful cat jumped in his lap?”
“Famously—you’ve never even met her!”
“And who’s fault is that?” Clark hummed, raising a brow. “You never invite me over, but Superman gets to hang?”
“He found my cat,” another sip of your coffee, “there’s not much to it, really.”
Clark’s mouth was agape, closing briefly. “And what do I need to do to get an invitation?”
Your heart thumped a bit erratically for a moment, imagining having Clark in your space. He had never been over before, and you never really had the courage to invite him.
“Write this God-forsaken article for me?” The monitor turned under your palm, facing Clark. “It’s boring me to tears. I mean, a parking garage?”
“An important parking garage,” Clark smirked. “It’s desperately needed downtown, the parking is horrendous for the Meteors fans during game days—”
“See! You should be writing this, you clearly care more about this than me.”
“You shouldn’t have to care a whole lot about the topic you’re writing about to write it,” he said softly.
“But it helps.”
“Yeah, it helps,” he bit his lip, mulling it over. “I can maybe swap you…”
“Clark!” You shot up from your chair, flinging your arms around his shoulders. “You’re the best!”
“I said maybe,” your arms wrung tightly around his frame, caging him in the warmth of you. He could get used to something like this. “I don’t know if Perry’ll like it all that much, you know how he is, but, uh, we’ll figure it out.”
“I could kiss you, Clark Kent,” you swoon, patting his curls down lovingly. “But, I’ll settle with taking your article on… what was it you were assigned?”
“The homeless shelter’s coat drive,” he said, pink dusting his cheeks. “You know, the one off of Roosevelt?”
“See? Much more my style,” you nodded. “The offer still stands, though.”
“Offer? Of a-a kiss?” Clark’s face morphed from a light pink to a deep red, practically matching the shade of Cat’s nails—a new set she showed off this morning. “Oh, that’s alright—”
“No, silly,” you barked a laugh, watching him fail at covering his face with his coffee cup. “On coming over. I can make a mean pasta, or really anything—as a thank you for swapping?”
“O-oh,” his shoulders slumped. “Yeah, that makes much more sense.”
“Why? Do you want me to kiss you?” Your voice was low, only Clark could hear you. The fact you even were so bold to tease him shocked you to your core.
The tips of his ears were practically on fire. “Dinner sounds good.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night.”
—
It was a miracle you got your place cleaned up in time for Clark’s arrival. While you didn’t live a messy life, living alone got the better of you most days and Millie’s disappearance didn’t help matters. It was clutter, not filth, you reminded yourself. Papers strewn about, coats that fell off of your rack, little things that needed to be picked up. Superman didn’t seem to mind the mess.
But Clark wasn’t Superman.
Superman was an anomaly to your life, a blip in the grand scheme of things. Clark was a constant, someone you were friends with, someone you could see yourself getting closer to. Sweet, lovable and unassuming Clark Kent.
“This is fine,” you mumbled to the empty apartment gazing over your hard work. “It’ll be fine, Mills.”
Millie meowed.
“I know, I’m sorry,” your hand ran over her head, petting it gently. “But if you don’t take to Clark, and I know you won’t, you have to hang in the bedroom lovey."
She meowed again, clearly displeased.
“I don’t make the rules,” you shrug, putting the pasta in the boiling water. Dinner would be decent enough, spaghetti and baked meatballs, something you excelled at cooking. Clark would like it. Hopefully. “You make the rules, babe. So unless you want to wise up and start liking people, the bedroom is your fate.”
The phone on your counter buzzed. Clark was on his way from the dry cleaners, a pit stop he had to make after work. Something that he mumbled out after you finished at the Planet for the day, giving you an unanticipated hour or so before his arrival. You made a note to thank his oversized suits for the extra time.
“Do you think Clark would appreciate wine with dinner?” You showed the bottles to Millie—as if she’d have an opinion. “Or do you think that wine with dinner is too… date-y?”
The silence was damning. Even if your cat—your best friend—couldn’t respond to you, it was almost like you could read her thoughts.
“No, you’re right,” the bottles were placed back on the rack, ready for the next opportunity to drink wine. “This isn’t a date, no need to break out the wine. Unless—oh my God—do you think Clark thinks this is a date?”
Your conversational partner had already left the room, clearly finding your worry as stimulating as her scratching post across the apartment, the well loved one you kept near your bedroom door. It was one of her favorite things. “Do I think this is a date?”
A knock on your door pulled you out of your panic. Steady. Firm.
Clark.
“One moment!”
Thank goodness for the mirror you kept near your entryway, checking your reflection for just a second longer before braving the fact your co-worker was entering your space for the first time—something that always made you nervous. Jimmy and Lois had come over twice each for late night drinks after long days at the office, but Millie made it hard for them to want to come over more often, it was just easier to meet them at their place or a communicated third option, but it still stung regardless.
Standing in the dingy yellow hallway outside your door was Clark, drowning in his work suit, holding his briefcase and a small bouquet filled with warm tones—oranges and pinks.
“Uh, hi,” he stammered, pulling his bag up onto his shoulder, steadying himself. “Sorry for being late.”
“You’re alright,” you hummed, letting him enter, carefully avoiding the pile of shoes near your door. “I’m sorry for the mess.”
“No, no,” Clark shook his head, toeing off his own shoes, exposing his purple socks. “This was kinda last minute, so I understand any clutter, gosh, I’m usually a mess myself.”
His bag hit the floor, right next to his shoes. “Are those for me?” The flowers in his hand were close to falling out of his grip, wrapped delicately in newspaper—a copy of today’s run of The Daily Planet. Clark gingerly held them out, his cheeks matching the pink of the petals.
“Y-yeah, I figured you’d like them. I picked them up on my way over to make up for my… lateness,” you took them from him, admiring the blooms.
“You also found enough time to wrap them in our paper?”
His cheeks deepened in color. “It looked nicer than the plastic…”
The whisper was endearing, warm.
“It does,” you agreed easily, taking the flowers from him. The paper wasn’t just the front page, as you would have expected, it was the third page from today’s issue—your article on the coat drive for the homeless shelter in full display. Thoughtful, kind. “They look wonderful, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Clark sighed, a breath of relief exiting his lips.
Frozen in place, you stared at one another. “Oh, I don’t think I have anything to put them in…”
“No vase?”
“I’ve never gotten flowers before,” you hummed, looking towards your kitchen. Maybe you had a cup or bottle that was big enough to house the blooms, but that could be remedied. Something in your home could make this work. “So, no, no vase.”
“Ah geez,” Clark slumped, rubbing the back of his neck. “Gifts aren’t supposed to be an imposition, I feel like a jerk. I guess I just assumed you’d have a vase, gotten flowers before—I mean, look at you—I can go and run to get one for you real quick—”
Your hand met his shoulder, steadying his deep breathing. “Clark, it’s fine. I’m sure I have something tall enough to do the trick.”
“Still…”
The cupboard that housed your cups and bottles flung open, shuffling through your belongings. You really needed to donate some of your cups—a handful of them surviving many years of use and wear. “Make yourself at home, pasta’s almost done.”
Clark was already in your living room, having moved through your furniture with ease—the ease of someone who had stepped through your space before, you thought. “Pasta?”
“Spaghetti,” you elaborated, pulling a sky blue water bottle out from the top shelf of your cupboard. “Baked meatballs with mozzarella, figured you’d be on board.”
“I knew I smelled something delicious,” Clark chuckled, watching you fill the water bottle up with your faucet.
The flowers looked beautiful on your counter, the warm tones contrasting the blue water bottle, like the beginnings of a sunset. “It’s all baked in a skillet with the sauce,” you fluffed the bouquet, “thank you again for the flowers, they’re lovely.”
Clark’s smile was like the sun, brightening the room with just a grin with ease. “I’ll be sure to bring you a vase next time.”
Next time.
“What? Don’t think my insulated bottle does the trick?” Maybe if you tried hard enough, Clark wouldn’t be able to hear the way your heart was hammering out of your chest at his innocent declaration.
Of course, you knew that was silly.
“No, I mean,” Clark’s face blanched, “you’re very creative! I just think that maybe glass would look more elegant?”
He was already on your couch, sitting carefully—as if not to disturb your throw pillows or blankets. “Considering leaving journalism for flowers?”
The laugh from his chest echoed throughout your apartment. “Gosh, no. I’d be terrible at that. I’ll stick to the news and writing until my eyes bleed, I think. It’ll be enough for me to just buy the flowers—and put them in a proper vase.”
You leaned against your counter, not wanting to leave your boiling pot unattended. “Maybe I’ll invest in one.”
“I’m keen to think you should.”
A flash of gray sped across your living room from your bedroom—you had left the door cracked. “Oh! Millie,” you were already trying to meet her before the inevitable. “Sorry, she has a mind of her own.”
“The infamous Millie,” Clark said, staring down the gray feline across the room—she had stood like a statue, eyes locked with his own. “We finally meet.”
“I reckon this is the safest distance for you two,” you said cautiously, tiptoeing closer to your cat. “Unless you want to be hissed at or worse, scratched up.”
“Oh I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Clark waved, puckering his lips. He made a few kissing noises to get her attention, patting his lap. An invitation.
The pot on your stove began to bubble over, the flames underneath flickering unexpectedly. “Shit!” You were quick to fix the problem, turning the heat down and watching the bubbles slow their roll—the spaghetti nearly done cooking. Two more minutes, maybe.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you brushed hair from your face, checking the oven for the meatballs—which were also almost done. “Just boiled over a bit, but we’re good now!” Once you decided the pasta was done cooking—your eyes never left the pot this time—you moved it off the heat and strained it quickly. Turning the oven off, you left the skillet in to keep the meatballs and sauce warm until you served it all.
“Holy cow,” Clark groaned from your couch. “It smells amazing.”
Pride filled your chest, not unlike it does when he compliments your writing. “Thank you, I hope it tastes as good as it smells.”
“I’m sure it’ll live up to all expectations, if not exceed them.”
“You flatter me,” you peeled off your oven mitt, one shaped like a cartoon chicken head—a gift from your grandmother after moving in. “Hopefully the meatballs aren’t overcooked, I have a habit of doing…”
On your couch, you saw it.
Millie willingly on Clark’s lap, as if she was possessed to the spot. If you knew any better, you’d be convinced Clark somehow snuck in a doppelgänger cat and replaced your sweet baby. But, despite everything, that cat in his lap was the tabby gray cat you saved from the dumpster.
“…that.”
Clark scratched Millie’s chin, her eyes closing in a delighted purr. “She just jumped on my lap,” he said, looking down at the cat, pleased with himself. “Such a cutie.”
You blinked, clearly in disbelief. “I don’t understand. She hates people.”
“I guess I have a way with cats,” Clark shrugged, the cat in his lap practically melting into a puddle. “It’s a wonder you haven’t tried getting her around other people, she’s so sweet.”
“No one else has been able to get her to be such an angel,” you said, hand on your hip. “Lois tried, Jimmy bought like fifty different bags of treats—I really don’t understand.”
Millie seemed to be in heaven, enjoying all of the attention from Clark. His attentiveness to her was intoxicating, how careful he was touching her, softly caressing her head and body with featherlight precision. “You are such an angel, not a hunk of junk, no way,” Clark’s voice was nearly liquid honey, sweet and syrupy as if he was talking to a baby.
“It’s funny that you say that,” you smiled. “Because her name is actually—”
It was then you saw it.
On your couch, holding your cat.
You swallowed thickly. “I mean, what are the odds the two men I let into my apartment this week can charm her?”
“What was that?”
Shaking your head, you tried to rid yourself of the ridiculous thought. “You… and Superman.”
He stilled for a moment, but only for the moment. “Must be a lucky week?”
“Must be,” you said slowly.
As if she suddenly were made of lava, Clark removed Millie from his lap. “Is,” he cleared his throat, “is dinner ready?”
You were already peeling back to your kitchen. “I dunno, just about."
"That's good."
"Are there any Kryptonian allergies I should be aware of?”
“No, I don’t think—”
Your arms were crossed, hip jutting out almost accusatory, like he knew he was caught. It wasn’t a look of disappointment or anger on your face, but more forlorn, a bit sad, maybe?
He said your name softly, falling deaf on your ears. “No, it’s fine, really,” you said, completely not fine at all.
“I can explain,” he rose from the couch, trying to meet your gaze.
“I’m sure you can,” you poured the pasta into the sink, draining the water quickly. “And I’m sure there’s a great explanation as to why the only two people my cat has taken to are Superman and you.”
Clark didn’t have it in him to speak up.
“And I’m sure there’s an even better explanation on how Superman and you are nearly the same height? Crouched the same way to get in through my door?”
He said your name again. “I wanted to tell you, someday, but you have to understand that knowing this is… it’s dangerous.”
The pot slammed against your counter, a bit harder than you’d planned. “I just feel so… stupid.”
“Don’t, please,” Clark rushed to your side. “I do a good job at hiding this—”
“Please,” you scoffed. “The difference between you and Superman is a pair of glasses. How the hell did I not put two and two together?”
He took the opportunity to take the glasses off his face, the thick black frames resting gently near the empty pot. “They’re Hypno glasses, they alter my face—it doesn’t matter,” Clark shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” A laugh escaped you, one that surprised the both of you. “I’m your coworker, Clark. You don’t have to be sorry for keeping this from me. Truly I’m like, at the bottom of the list of people you’d tell about this”
“You know why I’m sorry,” he said softly, warmly, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. “I-I’ve only told a handful of people—”
“Lois?” Her name sounded a bit cold on your tongue, which was odd. You knew their failed relationship was nothing more than a fling, Lois not really wanting anything serious—they were better friends at the end of the day.
“A handful,” he repeated. “But she mostly figured it out on her own…”
“Go figure.”
“This kind of secret can hurt people,” Clark tapped his foot, the rhythm erratic. “If someone found out you knew who I was—gosh, I don’t even want to think about the danger you could be in—”
“I can handle myself, Clark.”
“Not in this way,” he pointed. “Not… not from everything I come across. It was safer if the important people in my life didn’t know.”
You bit your lip, a moment of clarity to keep your mouth shut while you tried to hear him out.
“You mean a lot to me,” Clark’s voice dropped. “It’s more than just the jokes in the office, late night edits over coffee. You’re the first person I look for when I walk into the office. My day is better if you’re there, even if we’re both swamped with stories and can barely breathe, you… you make space.”
“…make space?”
“In a world where all people do is take, you always find room to include others, love without condition,” he shrugged. “Like when you bring treats in once a week, even when Steve is being a jerk about your writing, or when you go out of your way to invite the layout team to trivia night. Maybe ‘making space’ was the wrong way to say that?”
You shook your head. “I don’t make space, I just… am that.”
“Exactly!” He said, a bit too loudly, his cheeks flushing pink. A bit quieter he added, “exactly… you just are so kind. So thoughtful. The Daily Planet would be a different place without you, gosh, Metropolis would be a different place without you.”
Millie purred at Clark’s feet, joining in the conversation.
“I care about you,” he finally said. “More than I should, honestly.”
Without a second thought, you scooped the tabby cat into your arms, a barrier between you and the man you thought you knew.
The man who could fly across the city in a second flat.
The man who could lift a building with his bare hands.
The man who lied to your face.
The scruffy cat in your arms pawed at Clark’s arm, trying to make some sort of contact.
Clark.
The man who always listened to your complaints.
The man who held the umbrella for you, even if he himself got soaked.
The man who had a good reason to lie to you.
He was both.
And maybe both was okay.
“The pasta is gonna get cold,” you finally said, handing Millie off to Clark, she took to him instantly and practically curled into his chest.
“So we’re done talking about this?” He asked hesitantly.
“No,” you laughed. The pasta was dry enough to serve, so you plated it quickly on two blue plates. “Not even close. But, I’m hungry. You?”
He nodded mutely, holding Millie closer to him. The gray tabby only put up with him for a minute longer—even Clark Kent couldn’t keep her tamed—she found solace in her cat tree across the room, jumping out of his arms. “You seem… okay with this.”
“Farthest thing from it,” you pulled the skillet out of the oven and let it rest on the hot pad you received from your mother when you moved into this apartment—a bright sunflower—it went with none of your decor, but it always brought a smile to your face. “But, I’m willing to table the discussion.”
“Table it?”
“For a later date,” you nodded. “Or later this evening, or… whenever you feel like talking about it. But, I worked hard on this dinner, so, I’d like to enjoy it while it’s hot.”
“A later date?”
You rolled your eyes in exasperation. “Are you a broken record now? Repeating everything I say?”
“No, no,” he shook his head. “Well, yes I guess I am repeating what you’re saying but I meant—you still want to, like, know me and be friendly with me after all this?”
You blinked.
“Clark Kent, I expect to be more than friendly with you after all of this,” you pointed at him with your wooden spoon. “You were too busy overthinking that I couldn’t really get a word in.”
“I thought you’d kick me to the curb to be honest,” he laughed lightly, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“Because you lied to me about being Superman?”
“Technically I didn’t lie—just… omitted a truth.”
“Which is lying.”
“You never directly asked if I was Superman, so, I never lied. Not about that. Maybe about where I was, or what I was actually doing… but you never asked.” It was that comment that made you peel into a roaring laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“This is just ridiculous,” you continued to laugh. “Entirely not how I intended to end my week.”
“It’s a little crazy,” he tried to find the humor in it now that the dust was settling.
“And to think it was Millie who figured it out!”
“She’s a smart cat, she has a smart mama,” he shrugged.
“I’m still gonna feed you, Clark, no need to butter me up.”
“Jus’ being honest,” his cheeks were still pink.
“Let’s eat, Superman.”
—
Dinner had been lovely, just as delicious as you predicted it would be. Clark had eaten quite a bit, whether it was the Kryptonian genes or the anxiety melting off with every bite, you certainly had no leftovers. Of course, the spandex-wearing-elephant in the room was being left for a later date to discuss. For now? Sitting on your couch with Millie between the two of you was enough.
“This is a pretty nice second date,” you hummed, fingers raking through Millie’s coat as she sat on Clark’s lap.
“Second date?”
“Well, I already had that first one with Superman,” you looked up at him, grinning wildly. “So, this is a good second date.”
“It’s your first date with Clark,” he laughed, resting his hand on top of your own.
“So you agree?” You grinned wickedly. “This is a date?”
“I—uh—well,” he stammered, face growing a deep red rather quickly. You realized you liked making him blush, seeing how you truly effected him. “If you wanted it to be, I guess I’m not gonna complain…”
“You afraid you’re not gonna have the courage to ask me otherwise?”
“Gosh no,” he agreed, huffing a laugh.
“It’s a good thing I like you, Smallville,” you nodded, feeling Millie purr in contentment at the current situation. It still boggled your mind how quickly she took to Clark, despite everything. “And an even better thing Millie likes you.”
He smiled, glancing down at your intertwined hands on the gray tabby. “I’m glad both of you enjoy my company.”
“I plan to enjoy more of your company,” you looked up at him into his blue eyes, finally without the glasses. Somewhere between dinner and now he removed the spectacles, feeling no need to hide anymore. “If you’re agreeable to it?”
“Oh?”
You could feel your cheeks grow warm at his response, how he grinned in response. “Not like—I meant more dates! If you’d like, that is.”
“I would,” Clark rested his forehead against your own, never losing eye contact. “I would like that very much.”
It wasn’t entirely certain on who leaned in first, but the feeling of his lips on yours was enough to clear your mind of any worry or qualm. It was the quiet in the storm, a gentle promise of a hopeful future. It was also the best kiss of your life, as luck would have it. Hesitant, a bit restrained, but full of so much care and kindness.
“‘My Date With Superman’,” you giggled, pulling away semi-reluctantly. Even Clark looked a bit displeased at your choice.
“Still gonna write that article?”
“No,” you shook your head. “I think ‘My Date with Clark’ is a much better story.”
This time, it was Clark who leaned in first, sealing your statement with another sweet kiss.
As it turned out, Millie liked exactly three people in this world; You, Clark and Superman.
Book Benedict: Be my mistress. Come on, Sophie, be my mistress. I know you said no, but still. Be my mistress. I'll lowkey blackmail you into being my mistress. You have no choice. Be. My. Mistress.
Show Benedict: I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you please don't leave me I love you I'll do whatever it takes and give up everything please I love you I love you I love you I love you I love--
Summary: It was a simple promise, one dance a ball with his closest friend. It was nearly euphoric for Benedict Bridgerton to realize how his dear friend could repel the the desperate mamas and debutantes of the ton, something he was keen to continue.
Word Count: 9.2k
Warnings: Childhood friends to lovers! Fake dating! Slimy suitor and threats from said suitor (not Benedict don't fret!)
A/N: I'm sorry that I haven't been writing lately. My brain is mush and the urge to write is non-existent, BUT Bridgerton season 4 rewired my brain frfr. All you new Benedict fans... welcome :)
“It was a foolish thing for you to do, truly.”
She had nearly giggled when she said it, lemonade practically dribbling out of her glass and onto her violet satin. It was a new dress, her mama would have her head if she stained another so quickly. She had a habit of that, racking up quite the bill at the modiste. The tall man across from her had little to no humor of the entire situation, standing nearly panicked.
“I fear I am not the foolish one in this scenario,” Benedict murmured lowly. “They were hunting in packs. I had to appease at least one of them with a dance—it does not mean I am eager to court her!”
This time, she did giggle. “That is precisely what that means, Mr. Bridgerton. Do you forget where you are?”
He groaned, practically pulling himself into the curtains. “I dance with you all the time! You do not expect me to come calling and court you after, do you?”
Her heart faltered, cheeks darkening. “O-of course not.”
“Why can the other ladies of the ton have such a level head on their shoulders like you?” Benedict downed a glass of lemonade. “Honestly… these bloodthirsty mamas and daughters are having me at my wits end.”
“It does not help that the Queen has not named her new diamond yet,” she hummed. “I fear it has made said mamas and daughters a bit stir-crazy.”
“A ridiculous notion at that, too,” Benedict pointed at the lady beside him. “I am sure every young lady has her charms, no need to rake yourselves over the coals to try and become something you are not.”
“You say that as if I do such a thing.”
“No,” Benedict hummed. “You, Miss (Y/L/N), have stayed a consistent presence of who you are. No need for the society dribble and drag.”
“Perhaps Miss Stowell is the same way?” She offered kindly. “You only have danced with her the once, but have you had a conversation with her?”
Benedict rolled his eyes, tapping his foot in frustration. “I do not wish to speak with Miss Stowell—I hardly had wished to dance with her but Colin was being exceptionally… Colin.”
She laughed. The tall man before her was acting like a petulant child, like a baby without his lolly. “Perhaps you should have said conversation?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean,” she gently pressed his shoulder, turning Benedict towards the crowd behind him. “Miss Stowell and her mother are coming this way.”
He blanched, turning quickly back to his friend, nearly feeling the glaring daggers in his back. “You must help me.”
She held out her wrist, offering her dance card. “I seem to have an extra space?”
“Anything,” Benedict said hurriedly, taking the pencil and scrawling his name against one of the many lines on her card—pointedly ignoring the fact it was entirely empty. She tried her best to not gasp at the way he held her wrist.
“Mr. Bridgerton!” Lady Stowell said cheerily, her smile anything but. “I say, you are a tricky man to pin down.”
“Lady Stowell,” Benedict grinned, acknowledging both ladies, “Miss Stowell, forgive me, but I fear that was by design—can’t be everywhere at once, can I? Busy man, after all.”
The ladies laughed, a pleasant sort, trying their best to not act offended. “Are you looking for another dance partner, Mr. Bridgerton?” Miss Stowell asked sweetly, laying it on almost as thick as honey, the lady in violet beside him seemingly ignored entirely. “I do think I have it in me for a dance this eve…”
His eyes opened a fraction of an inch, a silent plea.
It was a good thing she was proficient in reading him.
“Actually,” (Y/N) spoke up, gaining a sideways sneer from the mama to the left. “Mr. Bridgerton has promised the next dance to me.” For good measure, she lifted her wrist, as if her words alone would not satisfy the hungry pair.
“Yes!” Benedict’s shoulders dropped in relief, a chuckle deep from his chest. “I have promised the next dance to Miss (Y/L/N). I fear I won’t be taking any more time on the dance floor this eve after.”
“Surely you have the energy for one more dance after?” Lady Stowell pressed. “It is unbecoming to leave a lady waiting.”
“Indeed,” Benedict nodded thoughtfully. He tapped his fingers against his waist. “Which is why I should take Miss (Y/L/N) onto the dance floor at once—to prepare for the quadrille.”
“I believe it’s the cotillion next—”
“Never matter,” Benedict said, offering his arm. “Miss (Y/L/N)?”
The feeling of her arm against his own, or the look of disgust coming from both of the Stowells, the pride in her chest—she couldn’t decide what felt more victorious. Regardless, she could only focus on keeping her heart rate in check, hoping it kept in time with her clicking heels to the floor.
“Not a terribly smooth exit,” she whispered, daring to get a bit closer to him.
He leaned in equally as close. “Smooth or not, I believe it may have worked,” his ever-famous lopsided grin peeled against his cheeks, “they may be scowling now, but soon enough they’ll put their efforts to some other lowly sucker.”
“You must feel like a right swindler,” she laughed, dipping her head towards the man. The orchestra had begun their first pull at their strings.
He bowed back. “I feel lighter than air, all thanks to your quick thinking.”
“I have been known to do that from time to time,” she teased.
They had danced before, it was only the truth. Ever since her first season, albeit only just last year, Benedict had made good on his promise to dance with her at nearly every ball.
“I fear I will be a terrible dancer when the time comes,” she expressed, leaning back on the swing, pumping her legs just that bit harder to fly higher. “No one will wish to dance with me, no worthwhile man, anyway.”
“Your tutors are bad at their job, then.”
“Mama said they are the best that money can buy,” (Y/N) said, continuing to swing. “But I still have two left feet and cannot keep count correctly.”
“I was a bad dancer, once.”
“Was?”
“My mother,” Benedict said quietly, matching her pace with the swinging, “she insisted on teaching me and my brothers the proper steps, proper hand placement and the like.”
“Perhaps she could teach me?”
His feet dug into the dirt, halting all movement. “No.”
“What—no!?”
“She is far too busy as lady of the house,” Benedict said, trying his best to balm his friend’s worried heart. “But… I could teach you?”
“You? Teach me to dance?”
“Well, not entirely, we’re getting to be that age where being alone is problematic,” Benedict sighed, his eyes meeting the stars. “Scandal making and whatnot—all before you’ve even debuted! What a mess that would be—”
“Get to the point, Bridgerton,” she said, finally planting both feet back on the ground, though, no malice was in her voice.
“Let us say this,” Benedict rose from the wooden swing. “When you debut, I will be a faithful dance partner—a dance at nearly every ball until you find yourself a husband. That way, even if you do not have a line of suitors begging to fill your card,” he scoffed, “as if that is even a possibility, I will be there to give you ample practice.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course,” he said, sincerity in his eyes, his tone, his very being. “Is that not what friends are for?”
It had been the promise of children, in a fit of giggles under the stars. A promise he had so carefully kept—and carefully he did.
Careful with his hand placements, careful with his footwork, careful in the way he held her heart.
Of course, he had not known so much that last part.
“You’ve gotten better, you know,” Benedict mumbled in the moment she was close enough to hear.
“At dancing?” She breathed, trying to not make a face.
“All that practice,” Benedict pulled away, only to swing her back towards him, “you’ve had a fine teacher.”
“I have, haven’t I? Complimenting yourself, in a rather roundabout way, I might add,” she giggled. “Very Benedict Bridgerton of you.”
He furrowed his brows. “Am I to be offended?”
“Not at all,” she twirled. “It was intended as a compliment—should you allow your head enough time to deflate.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” he shook his head slightly, just enough to catch her eye in the dance. “Surely you’ve danced with other bachelors this season? I cannot be the only one you’ve shared dances with.”
“No, only you,” she quietly admitted.
“Only me?” He nearly laughed. “How do you expect to find a husband if you’re galavanting away with just me every ball?”
She allowed the dance to fill any awkward space—in the conversation and in their space—the twirls and steps far too concerning than furthering their discussion. She had grown increasingly more stiff in her movements, nearly begging to be free of his grasp, of his touch. His brows had furrowed, a fraction of an inch, not enough for anyone looking on to notice, but she did. She always noticed.
With a triumphant end, the dance ceased. Partners bowed and curtsied, allowing her to quickly duck out of the ballroom. “Excuse me.”
He was quick to follow her exit, nearly two steps behind her at all times.
Damn his long legs.
“(Y/N), wait!”
“I need a respite,” she called out, walking quicker towards the staircase. “Please, allow me this.”
He caught up to her by the time she made it to the balcony doors on the next floor, his hand covering her own on the knob. “No, I refuse to leave you.”
“Benedict, go back to the ball, if anyone were to see us alone—”
He turned their hands, twisting the knob with purpose and nearly pushing her out onto the balcony. It all had happened so fast, she hardly realized they had made it outside. “There,” he placed his hands on his hips, “now no one is likely to see us alone.”
“And if someone was in the gardens?” Her gloved hand waved wildly over the edge of the stone railing—a lush canopy of greenery trickled down to the aforementioned gardens below. A true piece of pride for the estate owners, to be sure. “If they happened to look up here?”
“All of the fun is in the ballroom,” he scoffed. “No one is likely to go out to the gardens at this hour, not when Lady Hanover made a big spectacle of their entertainment for this eve. Everyone will be watching that, I hear it’s another theatrical dance of some kind, you know how the ton has been eating those up.”
“Good,” she nodded. “You should go and watch it, then. Envelop yourself in the arts.”
“And leave myself susceptible to the mamas and debutantes once more? Especially after I clearly offended a great friend of mine?” He crossed his arms. “You take me for a fool if you think I would leave you in this moment.”
“Perhaps you should be foolish, then,” she quipped, crossing her arms in protest. “Or, perhaps you should listen to that great friend of yours and leave her be?”
“Not until you tell me why you ran from the dance,” he said matter-of-factly, hands gripping his hips a fraction tighter. “It clearly had something to do with what I said.”
“Again with your ego, Bridgerton,” she laughed dryly. “Not everything is about you—”
“But this is about me, of that I am sure—”
“No!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands down to her sides. “It is not about you! It is decidedly and never has been about you!”
He took a step back, bewildered.
“You are correct,” she continued, “I have had no other dance partners this season, I fear I have only ever had one other dance partner besides you—and he has been married off. Not that I would have married him anyway, he rather had an unsightly mole and terrible breath—”
“I do not think I understand?”
“It is not for you to understand,” she seethed. “Society is never for men to understand, you just have the pleasure to show up and do what you please while the women must flaunt around and beg for attention, beg for a lowly dance in hopes of securing a match, lest we find ourselves attached to the wall and dying a spinster.”
“You are hardly at that point, you are only on your second season,” Benedict noted.
“My second, leading to my third and fourth and probable fifth—”
“You must breathe,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, raising his own in a mirrored fashion. “Take a deep breath and hold it in.” Against her better judgment, she did as he asked. Deep breath in, her chest rising, holding for just a few seconds before letting it out. “Good, again.”
“This seems foolish—”
“Is it not working?” She shrugged his hands off her shoulders, fighting back her urge to grunt in annoyance. “See?” He smiled, ever-so-slightly. “Now, do you think you can find it in your heart to explain what’s going on in that fascinating head of yours?”
“As I tried to explain,” she took another deep breath, mostly for her composure. “You have been the only suitor I’ve danced with this season.”
“Suitor is a strong word,” he mumbled.
“Is that not what you are? In the eyes of the rest of the ton? Not everyone is privy to our personal lives,” she said plainly. “Sure, a good handful know of the friendship between our mothers, but not of the friendship between us."
“I do not see how that is relevant?”
“As far as everyone else is concerned, you are a suitor,” she said. “At the very least, you have taken pity on me. It is a wonder how Whistledown has not gotten word of this.”
“I would not call it pity,” Benedict said, a bit hurt. “Not for a moment.”
“What other word, then? Compassion? Sympathy?”
“I merely was helping a friend, we had made a deal—”
“A deal that has grown far too close to the sun, as it were,” (Y/N) nodded. “If I am to be dancing with you and no one else, truly, how am I to find a husband?”
“Have you not noticed what attention is brought to you after we dance?” Benedict asked. “Truly?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“After every dance we partake in, you are greeted by a handful of gentlemen—not a swarm, mind you—but enough to take notice and share a few pleasantries.”
“I do not see how this is relevant?”
He laughed sweetly. “My dear, do you truly not see it? Dancing with a Bridgerton gains you intrigue, if I were to see something in you, perhaps there is something that the other men of the ton are overlooking as well.”
“They never ask me to dance, never come calling—”
“We shall work on that, then,” Benedict nodded, hand pulling at his coat. “Take their interest more seriously, make them yearn for more.”
“I do not think I understand?”
He looked up at the stars, groaning in frustration. “How you do not see your own charms is beyond me…”
“Come again?”
“I said you must try harder,” he corrected quickly. “For these men to grow attached, enough to garner a proposal, you must try your very best.”
She blinked. “Right. As if the last year and a half I have been trying my very worst.”
“Flutter your eyelashes,” he pointed. “Lift your voice, make it sound breathy, airy. Men seem to love it when women do that.”
“Are you giving me wooing lessons?” She laughed, realizing the notion of his words.
“If it will help you find a match,” Benedict tilted his head to the side, “yes, I suppose I am.”
“I do think I can keep their interest if I put my heart into it,” she mumbled. “I appreciate the help, Ben, I do, but I think I just need to be in the right mindset.”
Ben. She had called him Ben. When had she called him that last? “Have you not been putting your heart into it before tonight?”
How could I? With you holding it?
It was what she wished to say.
“I think,” she said instead, “perhaps we continue our annual dance at these events, maybe sprinkling the occasional promenade or two. You said so yourself, it makes me highly sought after—even for a few minutes.”
“And?” He leaned against the railing. “What do I get out of this arrangement?”
“Have you not thought this through yourself?” She nearly laughed. “I was practically repellant to the Stowells, imagine how well you could avoid the rest of the hungry and insatiable debutantes if you were to dance with me every ball?”
“I already do dance with you at nearly every ball?”
It was her turn to look to the stars. “Men…”
“But I suppose…” He thought aloud. “You’re correct, the way the Stowells melted off of me just from the prospect of our dance was thrilling—quite the act.”
“I think we could be fine actors,” she added. “And by the end of the season, I will have a husband lined up and you will not have to worry about restless mamas—one could hope, anyway.”
He held out his hand.
“Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
She didn’t have to think a second longer to take it.
—
They made good on their promise, keeping up with their dances at the events of the season—(Y/N) charming the trousers off of the now interested gentlemen, Benedict swiftly avoiding all the vying debutantes. She had a handful of callers from this endeavor, though, none of the follow through she had anticipated.
“I just don’t understand what I am doing wrong,” she said quietly, walking along the lake, arm in arm with Benedict. “Surely one of my callers found me intriguing enough to come calling again?”
“I am just as surprised as you are,” Benedict said just as low, smiling to those passing by. “Not a single one has come back?”
“Save for Lord Hargrove,” she said. “He has danced with me twice, but only called upon me the once. We were supposed to promenade this afternoon, but, I fear he may have forgotten.”
“Hargrove?” Benedict clicked, his face souring. “You are interested in him?”
“I do not have much of a choice,” she laughed politely. “He is seemingly the only man interested in me—and he is a baron, I could do far worse.”
“Baron or not,” Benedict sneered, “he has substantial debts and rather works his way through the brothels. You, Miss (Y/L/N), can do far better.”
“Better to marry a rake than die a spinster,” she hummed.
He stopped walking, effectively pulling her back with her next step. “You must know I am correct? That you deserve better than Lord Hargrove?”
“In the grand scheme of things, it’s probable, sure,” she sighed, enjoying the patch of shade they found themselves under. “But, much like my mama, my patience is growing thin. I need to find a husband this season—if Lord Hargrove is my only option, I will see it through.”
Benedict took a sharp breath. “Fine. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to ask.”
“Naturally,” she smiled politely. “But, perhaps you could offer your assistance further in the park? I do fear that gaggle of girls is headed your way.”
His blue eyes widened at the sight, pulling her arm rather fiercely closer to him. “Walk. Now.”
—
Much like she found him on any other occasion, Benedict Bridgerton was stuck to the wall nearest the refreshments, glass in hand.
“You should smile, you know,” she teased, practically floating over to his side. “Much more handsome that way.”
“You don’t say?” Benedict smiled, not on her suggestion, but purely from her presence alone. “Perhaps I should continue to scowl, then. Dissuade any debutantes to come this way.”
“I fear scowling is more Lord Bridgerton’s style,” she quipped. “Smiling is much more becoming on you, especially when you truly mean it.”
“And how can one ‘truly mean’ to smile?” He crossed his arms.
“It’s in your eyes,” she shrugged, pulling a glass of lemonade off the table. “The way they shine in the light, how they crinkle with joy when your cheeks lift. That is how I know you ‘truly mean it’.”
Unbeknownst to him, the very tips of his ears grew pink. “Practicing your wooing, are we?”
She laughed into her glass. “No? Why would you think that?”
The pink trailed to his cheeks, now. “N-no reason,” he grabbed another glass and downed it quickly. “I just assumed you needed to test a few lines before engaging further with suitors this evening.”
“I’m afraid this is my respite,” she sighed, discreetly trying to stretch her legs. “I’ve been dancing all night if you can imagine!”
“You have?”
“Take a look for yourself!” (Y/N) thrusted her wrist towards the Bridgerton, showing off her rather full dance card. “I had no need to fill the card with false names like I have done in events past—every one is genuine.”
His fingertips grazed the card, holding it closer to the candlelight. Benedict had no reason to doubt her, of course, it was entirely plausible that every name was genuine. “Well, how about that?”
“Lord Green stepped out for a moment,” (Y/N) explained, pointing to the very middle of her card. “Hence my timing for a respite. I cannot say I am entirely too disappointed, Lord Green seems much too attached to his mama.”
It was a polite laugh, the one Benedict allowed to escape his lips, nearly a reflex whilst he was busy reading her card. “I see you have a dance with Lord Hargrove?”
“Oh yes,” she said sweetly. “Lord Hargrove has made much more an effort into a courtship since we’ve spoken last. He has called upon me twice more.”
“Has he, now?”
“I know how you feel about him,” she smiled. “But, I think he’s my best bet to be engaged by the end of the season.”
“You don’t say?”
“Careful with your hand, Ben,” she said quickly, placing her gloved hand upon his. “You’re gripping that glass rather tightly. I’d hate for you to shatter it, lest you end up with glass in your skin."
“You’re right,” he composed himself, “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You should be pleased,” she nearly sang. “Your efforts have proven fruitful—your friend is unlikely to die a spinster now!”
He laughed humorlessly. “Yes, yes, I am so pleased our agreement has succeeded.”
“Have they stopped as well? The mamas and daughters?”
“Mostly,” he said. “Half of the ton assumes I am trying to court you, the other half are wondering why we haven’t made a courtship official.”
“Is that so?”
“Nearly everyone at the Gentleman’s Club has asked me about it once or twice,” he rolled his eyes. “Lord Hargrove was being much too annoying about the entire ordeal.”
“He asked about us?”
“That is what you gathered from my retelling?”
“I think it’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” He scoffed. “He nearly wanted to put my head on a stick!”
“It shows his passion,” she argued.
“You can do far better than that neanderthal,” he quipped back.
“And who do you suggest?” Her arms had crossed, nearly on their own. “Seeing as you know better than I for my match.”
“Take your pick,” he flicked her dance card. “I’m sure any other man on that list is much more suited for you than Lord Hargrove.”
“What has gotten into you?” (Y/N) took a step back. “What happened to my supportive friend? That is the entire reasoning for our arrangement is it not? For me to find a suitor?”
“You are well suited for other men of the ton,” Benedict explained. “Hargrove will break your heart, amongst other things.”
“I do not believe that is your decision to make, if I wish to see a courtship and potential marriage with Lord Hargrove, that is entirely my choice—”
“A terrible one, really.”
She set her glass down. “I think I am finished speaking to you.”
“If it is coming from the same area in which you also think marrying Lord Hargrove is a good idea, perhaps you should reconsider that too.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He hadn’t had much focus in the duration of the evening, but with the way his gaze was trained on her figure growing smaller from him—storming out of the ballroom? He couldn’t pry his attention away, no matter how much it hurt.
—
As pleasant as a spring rose.
It was what her mother had told her, a phrase to frame her stature and demeanor during this mornings slew of callers. They had dwindled since the falling out with a one Mr. Bridgerton, but Lord Hargrove had redoubled his efforts, calling upon the (Y/L/N) home nearly every other day.
“I think we make a good match,” Lord Hargrove hummed politely.
“A pleasant one,” she agreed quietly, afraid to say the wrong thing.
“How I missed you on your last season is beyond me,” he laughed, taking yet another biscuit from the silver tray—he had already cleared a dozen since his arrival this morning. “Perhaps it was because you were hiding near the walls?”
“A wallflower,” she nodded. “I do think that is a good reason for your lack of notice—”
“Perhaps it was that Bridgerton fellow?”
Her neck could have snapped with how quickly she turned to look at Lord Hargrove. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is no secret that you and Mr. Bridgerton share a famed friendship,” he bit into his biscuit. “It is also no secret that he had been trying to court you all season—a failed attempt, I should add.”
She brushed the crumbs off of her skirt, as they had flown from his lips downward. “Oh, I do not think Mr. Bridgerton had any earnest in a courtship with me. Just a rather good dance partner.”
“With the way that bloke looked at you?” He barked a laugh, more crumbs flying down to the ground. Seemingly feeling polite, he took a sip of tea to quench his palate. “He’s a sore loser for getting to you after me.”
Her head quirked a bit to the left. “Well, you didn’t exactly ‘get’ me—”
“And with the way he spoke of you at the Gentleman’s Club?” Hargrove scoffed. “He’s a bloody poet, alright. Couldn’t understand half of the dribble he was trying to say, I think he was trying to sound smarter than me.”
“That was weeks ago, was it not?” (Y/N) countered.
“What do you mean?” He arched his brow. “This was just the other evening.”
“Oh.”
“Joke’s on him,” Hargrove scooted a bit closer to the woman beside him. “Because I’ve got the pick of the litter.”
She tried to laugh, but the sound was akin to a weak breeze. “Lord Hargrove, I fear you are thinking ahead, we are not—”
“Maid!” Hargrove snapped his fingers, gaining the attention of the lady’s maid. “Grab us another pot of tea.”
“Her name is Ursula—”
“I should remain here until Lady (Y/L/N) returns, she is but fetching her embroidery tools.”
“There’s no need,” he waved. “Fetch the tea.”
“But, my lord—”
“Now!” He had nearly shouted at the poor girl.
“Right away, my lord,” Ursula bowed, quickly exiting the room.
“You hadn’t the need to yell,” (Y/N) scolded quietly, “Ursula did nothing wrong.”
“The help was not being very helpful,” Hargrove said pointedly. “Forgive me for allowing her to recall her place.” His voice was filled with anything but forgiveness. “But… now we have a moment alone.”
His fingers tapped on her shoulder, his arm somehow snaking behind her. She hardly felt at ease, her entire body seizing at the contact. “We shouldn’t be alone.”
“If you are to be my wife, it will be fine,” Hargrove hummed, leaning closer to her ear. “I am sure your mother is willing to overlook such a thing.”
(Y/N) pried herself away from Lord Hargrove, nearly jumping out of her skin to get away. “If I am to be your wife, I would expect you to treat me with a little more grace.”
“Dramatic little thing,” he clicked. “No matter, I think we can work this little crease out before we are wed—”
“You keep saying that we are to be wed, yet you have neglected a proposal,” she pointed, taking another step back. “You are making assumptions on my behalf, assumptions that I would accept a proposal—”
“Of course you are going to accept,” Hargrove stood up, matching her eye line. “You have no other offers, no other suitors. I am the only one in the ton who is willing to overlook your downfalls and mold you into the perfect wife.”
“As if I were clay? You are going to mold me?”
“Naturally.”
She stood a bit straighter. “Lord Hargrove, this courtship has been quite the journey, but I am afraid we have reached the end of its course. I do implore you to leave my home at once, your dignity still intact.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, you think it’ll be that easy?”
She faltered. “Naturally.”
“What if I were to tell the rest of the ton that we had a romantic rendezvous in this very room? That you had been compromised? That you begged me to ruin you?”
“You wouldn’t,” she nearly gasped.
“We should work on that,” Hargrove tutted, pursing his lips. “Because you clearly do not know your future husband all that well.”
“Why are you doing this?”
He shrugged. “You have a pleasant face, seem just smart enough to not grow bored of and, above all else, have a rather sizable dowry,” he looked directly at her. “Of course, that is if your father hadn’t lied about such a number.”
She couldn’t find the words to form a rebuttal, only trying her hardest to set him aflame with her gaze alone.
“You reeked of desperation,” he continued, putting a hand into his pocket, “luckily enough, I was the only gentleman worth his salt to pick up on it.”
Somehow, by all that is good, she had made it to the doorway of the drawing room, her hand already turning the knob. “Leave.”
Lord Hargrove grinned wickedly, like a villain in her stories. “Of course, I would hate to get in the way of your wedding planning.”
She opened the door wider.
“Oh,” he turned, exiting the drawing room, “and do pay mind—I am fond of roses.”
—
Lady (Y/L/N) and the dowager Lady Bridgerton shared tea once a month, a catch-up of sorts. With their busy lives, it was hard to find time to meet and socialize, especially with daughters in the season. This time around, it was all cheers and celebrations with the news of Miss (Y/L/N)’s engagement to Lord Hargrove just the day prior. A future baroness in the making was surely a call for tea.
“Did you have a good tea, Mother?” Benedict asked absentmindedly, stroking his charcoal against his artist’s pad.
She nodded tightly. “Of course, Lady (Y/L/N) always puts out the stops for our teas.”
“Lady (Y/L/N)?” Benedict looked up. “I thought you were meeting with Lady Danbury?”
Violet removed her gloves, barely paying her second eldest son any mind, a whisper of a smile on her pink lips. “Did I? I must have muffed the names, then.”
“Mother, even I recall you mentioning Lady Danbury,” Gregory said from across the room, having been playing earnestly with Hyacinth. Marbles, all over the carpet.
“If Gregory recalls that,” Hyacinth sat straighter from the floor, pointing at her brother, “it has to be true. You know how terrible of a memory he has.”
“Like I said,” Violet hummed, finally sitting on the lounge across from her son. “I merely mixed the names up.”
Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Right.”
“How was Lady (Y/L/N)?” Hyacinth said, bounding over to her mother, clearly having grown bored of her game with Gregory.
“Oh, just fine as usual,” Violet waved, her voice airy. “It is always so good to catch up with such an old friend. We had much to celebrate, as it turns out.”
“Celebrate what?” Gregory chimed in.
“Her daughter has received a proposal from Baron Hargrove,” Violet said softly. “I am told she has agreed to the proposal and the news will break at tomorrow’s ball.”
A short snap, that was all the sound that came from Benedict, his charcoal cleanly broken in half.
“Lord Hargrove?” Hyacinth questioned. “Oh! That stinky man with the beard!”
“Hyacinth Bridgerton,” her mother scolded. “We do not speak of people in such a way.”
“What? Benedict said he was stinky,” her finger pointed to her older brother, who had been sitting as still as a statue across the room. “He also mentioned his beard.”
All eyes were trained on Benedict.
“He mentioned his occasional use of musk during his hunts,” Benedict said offhandedly. “Hence the stink.”
“I see,” Violet pursed her lips.
“An engagement?” Benedict practically threw his artist’s pad on to his lap. “Truly? They are to be wed?”
“It is a fine match,” Violet said. “After two years in the season, marriage to a baron is quite noble. Lady (Y/L/N) seemed overjoyed.”
“She’s going through with it?” Benedict pressed.
“I—of course she is,” Violet tilted her head. “After two years, she’s unlikely to find a better match than Lord Hargrove.”
“And you would be alright with one of your daughters marrying Lord Hargrove?” Benedict stood from his seat, now towering over his family. “Francesca or Eloise becoming his baroness?”
His mother’s face blanched. “Well, no—”
“My point exactly, Mother,” Benedict scoffed, making a swift exit of the drawing room.
“Since when did he care so deeply about Miss (Y/L/N)’s marriage candidates?” Hyacinth wondered aloud.
“I think, in a way,” Violet sighed, “he always has.”
—
The rain against her window was unrelenting, an outpouring of her emotions manifesting into the real world—tears she couldn’t bring herself to shed. Not any more, she had decided hours ago.
“So stupid,” she mumbled into her covers, the sound muffled by the plush pillows on her bed. With not much force, she rolled over onto her back, eyes trained on the ceiling. “I was so alright with marrying him at the start of the season…”
Her fingers ran up and down her blanket, a nervous habit she had from when she was a young girl. It helped her ground herself, keep her thoughts from running wild. With the pouring rain, it was hard to hear herself think, let alone try and figure out her entire marriage predicament.
Tap! Tap!
She pried her eyes from the ceiling to the window on her left, knowing full well that the rain didn’t sound like that.
Tap! Tap!
Throwing her covers off, she made haste in re-lighting the candle sitting nearest her bed before adventuring across her bedchambers to the clinking window—which in reality was a door made of windows, leading to a small balcony overlooking the family gardens.
“Perhaps a bird is trying to get in?” She wondered, taking cautious steps towards the glass. Peering into the darkness of the night, she saw nothing but the shadows and rippling rain down the pane. “Odd.”
Tap!
Now with her attention solely on the window, it was clear it hadn’t been a bird or the rain—it was a pebble, no bigger than a coin. Three of them rested on the flooring of her balcony, the rest seemingly were back down on the ground from which they came. She pressed the window open, against her better judgment, to get a better view of the ground below the small balcony. Standing in the dead of night was a face she hadn’t expected to see anytime soon.
“Benedict?”
“Allow me up?” He asked hopefully, one hand on his chest, the other full of small rocks.
She had half a mind to slam the window—door—back shut. “Why would I do that?”
“I must speak to you.”
“You could not have called upon me?”
“It is a matter most urgent, and I cannot wait until tomorrow to speak to you,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on desperate.
She had hardly stepped out onto the tiny landing, afraid of the rain soaking her to the core. “Whatever you have to say, I suppose you could say it from where you are.”
“And awake your entire family and staff?” Benedict scoffed. “It will take only a moment, I am rather swift at climbing.”
Her fingers tapped against the knob to the large glass door, buying time. “Fine. But only for a moment.”
He made quick work at scaling the building, a trellis of ivy was his main leverage to get to the balcony. It was funny, he had thought once before, that she even called it such a thing. The landing was not wide enough to consider itself anything of the sort, barely two people could stand on it comfortably. Before he could even leap over the railing, she held her hand out, effectively stopping him. “What is that for?”
“I just—it did not occur to me that you would be wet.”
“It is raining,” he said plainly, arms straining from the position he held.
“It is.”
“May I still come in?”
“Yes,” she shook her head. “Wait! One moment!” As quickly as she disappeared, she returned to the door with a spare blanket in hand. She held it out towards him. “Spare me the dripping, could you?”
He took it the moment he landed on the balcony floor, gingerly wrapping it around his soaking form. He took three steps into her bedchambers and finally out of the rain, a sigh leaving his lips, a relieved breath taken in “Thank you.”
“Save your gratitude,” she said softly, “at least, for when you are done explaining why you scaled into my bedchambers in the middle of the pouring rain?”
His fingers gripped the fabric around his shoulders, taught and tight against him. “You are marrying Lord Hargrove.”
She blinked. “Yes, I am.”
“You sound uncertain.”
“I am quite certain,” she crossed her arms. “He proposed this afternoon, I would have been a fool to say no.”
“Surely you have gotten other offers—”
“Like a pig for slaughter,” she nodded. “My father nearly had to beat them with sticks to keep the suitors away.”
“Sarcasm is unbecoming,” Benedict said sternly.
“Perhaps then you should say something more intelligent, then?” She countered. “Of course I have no other offers. Lord Hargrove is to be my husband, I am to be a baroness.”
Her words, though speaking the truth of the matter, held much more than that. Benedict caught it quickly, the sadness to her tone, how the ends of her sentences felt too final. Too much. “A baroness…”
“It is not the peerage my mother would have preferred,” she admitted. “I reckon Mother was aiming for me to marry an earl or duke, but we take what we can get, I suppose.”
“And the oaf whom you are marrying?”
“What of him?”
“You will… be happy with him?”
Her head tilted, just a fraction. “Happiness is of little importance in these matters.”
“When your happiness is tied to a man like that, I worry for you,” Benedict said sincerely. “He is drowning in debts, practically spending every other night at the brothels—he will not treat you in they way you deserve.”
“What if he does?” Her eyes were pleading. “Treat me in such a way, perhaps I deserve anything my future husband is to provide for me.”
“You deserve so much more than that,” Benedict nearly cried. “You deserve someone who can bring out the best in you, make you happier than anyone on this wretched planet—Lord Hargrove is not that man.”
“And where do you think I will find that man, then?” She asked, staring at him as if he held the answers to all things. “You say it so easily, as if I will meet a man such as that before the news of my engagement is public and—”
“Perhaps you would find him dripping rainwater in your bedchambers.”
“W-what?”
He dropped the blanket, taking a brave few steps closer to her, needing to be closer to her. “I have been a fool, (Y/N). All this time, I thought—no, I was determined that I had no need for a wife, no need to participate in the season. What good is a wife, anyway?”
“You are making little sense—”
“Forgive me, it is hard to explain,” Benedict shook his head, droplets of water landing on the wood below. “What I mean to say, is what good is a wife, when I already had such a friend who gave me all the fulfillment many men look for in a partner? I took you for granted—a constant in my life since our youth.”
“A-and now you are here to tell me all of this?” She couldn’t decide which of his eyes to look into, flickering between both of them in a rapid fashion. “Tell me how fabulous our friendship was to you, a friendship that seemingly was a placeholder for your potential romantic relationship?”
“You are right, I am making little sense,” Benedict groaned. “I did not see you in such a light, a fool I was for that, before the slightest idea that you would be with someone else came to fruition. And now… you are to be married.”
“I am to be married,” she nodded. “So… rotten timing on that one.”
He laughed. “A bit rotten, certainly. But do you, and I feel like a fool for asking, do you feel any inkling of that for me?”
“You’re dead serious?”
“I am professing my feelings for you dripping wet in the middle of the night,” Benedict said plainly. “I cannot imagine it gets more serious than that.”
“Benedict,” she said his name sweetly, like a hymn. “I have held you in the highest regard since we were children, higher than most. I always said you were a foolish one, perhaps most foolish in the sense that you never truly looked at me the same way I was looking at you.”
“You mean…?”
“I have cared for you, deeply, for a very long time, longer than I believe I will be willing to admit,” she said, her cheeks darkening in the candlelight. “I assumed since you had little want or need from a wife or marriage that it would be silly of me to admit those feelings to you ever.”
“And if I married someone else?”
“We’d still be friends,” she smiled sadly, smiled at a future she tried her best to not think of. “The closest of confidants. I Imagined we’d meet up every now and then and complain about our spouses—I’d give you advice on how to talk to your wife and the like, you giving me the same sagely wisdom on my husband.”
“But now you know I feel the same,” Benedict’s voice was lighter than it had been all evening, he could practically fly. “So there is no need to think of such a horrific future—we are the artists of our lives, we can mold it however we see fit!”
“Ben…”
He reached out to grab her hands, holding them tightly in his own. “You do not need to marry Lord Hargrove. Call off the engagement—we can begin a courtship in earnest, a real one.”
“I cannot.”
Their hands fell, still entwined. “You cannot or will not?”
“Cannot,” she repeated, a bit lowly. “My engagement is practically set in stone, I cannot refuse Lord Hargrove’s engagement. He…” (Y/N) knew she could trust Benedict with the truth—she could trust him with anything, including her heart. “He has made it clear that calling off the engagement is not an option.”
“Well, it hardly is ever an option by the ton’s standards,” Benedict scoffed. “But I think after some time the rest of Mayfair would overlook such a thing, given both of our family’s high standings…”
“No,” she shook her head. “You do not understand, Benedict. Lord Hargrove has made it abundantly clear that if I do not marry him he will claim that I had been ruined, that I urged him to ruin me.”
Benedict heard her speak, heard the words that she shared with him, but his entire mind went blank, the pale blue of the room suddenly had turned a violent red. “He… what?”
“I did not think him such a vile man,” she admitted. “But he had been hunting, and I was his prey. Meek and mild and ready for the kill, a perfect choice for his wife, apparently.”
“You are not meek and mild—”
“But I am!” She nearly shouted. “I cannot stand up to him, I will go along with what he says, he is entirely in control.”
“I have never known you to simply go along with anything—he clearly does not know you, truly.”
“But with what he is holding over me?” She pressed a hand to her chest.“What it would do to my family? We’d be practically exiled to the countryside in shame—no matter my marriage chances after the fact, which would be slim to non-exinsistant.”
He reached out for her—to grab her hand or otherwise, he did not know. All he did know was that he needed to be close to her, comforting her in any way he could.
“As terribly as I wish to pursue a courtship with you,” she smiled sadly, “and I do, I have wished for nothing more in my life, it is not possible. Not with the way Lord Hargrove has me in his grimy claws.”
His smile matched her own, wistful and forlorn. “I feel like a fool, for not realizing how I felt about you sooner. I fear we are like ships passing in the night…”
“You are no fool,” she assured him, trying to stand a bit taller, a bit more composed. “If it is anyone’s fault, it is entirely my own, I should have—could have said something sooner.”
Benedict placed a steady hand on her shoulder, still chilled from the rain. “No. Do not blame yourself—”
“Who else do I blame? I was desperate for a husband this season, and now I will have one,” she laughed to herself. “Even if he is loathsome and cruel…”
“Things no one deserves, but especially not you—”
“On the bright side, I will be a baroness, so, that is a balm to a rotten situation.”
“His baroness,” he corrected.
“What do you wish me to do Benedict?” (Y/N) said, a bit exasperated. “I have no way out of this, no way for us to explore a potential courtship, one that certainly could lead to nothing—”
“As if I would let you go so easily,” Benedict said. “If you think our courtship would lead anywhere but us at the end of an aisle, you are sorely mistaken.”
Her breath hitched. “You would be so keen on marrying me?”
“You think so little of yourself, it pains me to hear you say such things,” Benedict said. “Of course I would. I hardly think trying to get you to break off an engagement to another without plans on eventually marrying you is… idiotic.”
“Idiotic…”
“Entirely so,” Benedict beamed. “If I had half of a mind I’d take you to Scotland now, marrying you as soon as our carriage would allow.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re not seriously suggesting we elope, are you?”
“It was mostly in jest,” Benedict assured her, sighing softly. He took a moment of pause, recollecting his thoughts. “Although, it would be difficult to have you marry Lord Hargrove if you were already wed…”
“We’d come home to scandal,” she said quickly.
“Nothing our families can’t fix,” he shrugged. “Besides, I rather think the ton would appreciate such a story. Childhood mates fueled by love and desire, desperate to be married so quickly—”
“So quickly they couldn’t wait for a proper license,” she added. “Wouldn’t that add to whatever Lord Hargrove is surely to put out there, though? That I’m a ruined woman, marrying you so quickly seems to align with his lies.”
“And at the end of the day, you will be married off,” Benedict shrugged again. “Any scandal to come of his musings will be squashed by that fact alone. We do run the risk of being scorned from society for a bit…”
Her mind recalled a less-than-quaint cottage Benedict had mentioned once or twice, his personal escape from society.
“But a year in the country could do us some good too…?”
Benedict smiled, his heart feeling light.
“Pack a bag. We leave at dawn.”
—
Much like their hypothesis, their mothers, were in fact, enraged with their terribly thought out plan. Anthony even had some choice words to share with his brother upon their return, most of them not a proper choice for pleasant society.
But, simply put, what’s done was done, she now had a new ring on her finger and was promised to Benedict in every way that mattered.
Lord Hargrove took as equally kind to the news as their mothers did, as Benedict had expected. But, when (Y/N) offered half of her dowry as a consolation, Hargrove found it reason enough to let her go, to trap another poor debutante into a marriage. Seemingly enough, as the timing would have it, Lord Hargrove had no need for the dowry after all.
It turned out the debt collectors seemed more keen on escorting the baron out of the country than hearing his pleas for help.
What was the most shocking of the entire endeavor was Whistledown. By the stars above, she nearly seemed accepting of their sudden elopement. Whilst the rest of the ton gossiped about the true nature of the Bridgerton’s sudden marriage, Whistledown made it clear that she believed nothing untoward may have happened before the couple fled to Scotland.
“She says, ‘The passions of love are a fickle thing. Friendship, though as arduous as it may be at times, is the best foundation for a marriage. This author hopes the newlyweds are truly at peace,’” (Y/N) smiled softly, looking across her new drawing room, hoping to find the gaze she had been longing to see. Instead, she found her husband still hunched over his easel has he had been the last few hours.
“Whistledown seems like a fan,” Benedict hummed, peeking over his canvas.
“Clearly,” she giggled, placing the leaflet on the table beside her. “Everyone loves a happy ending.”
Benedict tutted. “I told you to not move! You were perfectly in the light, and now there is an unfortunate shadow…”
“I have been sitting like this for hours,” she sighed, trying her best to regain her posture from before. “I think we both deserve a respite from this daunting task.”
“You believe that I shouldn’t finish the first portrait of Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton with the utmost haste?” He gasped, sidestepping away from his easel. “I have finally found my muse, and now she wounds me so…”
Purposefully forgetting his instruction from before, she rose from her seat to walk over to her husband. He had been covered in paint, a habit she knew he tried very loosely to kick—but if she were honest with herself? She found him rather handsome when mussed with the pigments. “I wound you?”
“In the deepest way,” he nodded dramatically, placing a hand on his hip, pallet hooked in his thumb. Splotches of blue and green were the latest addition to the mountain of paint in his hand. “I was finally getting the shading just right.”
“I do fear we have all the time in the world for you to finish your painting,” she placed a hand on his shoulder, trying her best to sneak a peek at the half-finished product. He was insistent on her not seeing it, claiming it would be a belated wedding present. “Besides, it has only been a month since we’ve been out of the city, were we not planning on staying out here for a year?”
He nodded at that. “A year to allow the gossip to die out, a year for me to enjoy my wife.”
“So? You have a year to finish the painting,” she snaked a hand around his waist, pulling him closer to her. (Y/N) tried becoming more accustomed to touching him, allowing herself the pleasure to enjoy the feel of her husband under her fingertips. Benedict never found a reason to complain about it. “Perhaps it can be an anniversary gift?”
The feeling of her touch set him ablaze, nearly forcing him to throw his pallet aside to embrace her properly. “An anniversary gift?”
“Yes. I can think of a few things we could rather be doing than having me sit in this chair, still as a statue…”
“Oh?” He grinned devilishly. “And what sorts of things are bouncing around in my pretty wife’s head, hm?”
“Lunch plans, mostly,” she said honestly, watching his face fall in disappointment. “But I suppose I could be more creative in my thinking?”
“I urge you to be more creative,” he nearly growled.
It was no secret that the last month had been filled with the enjoyments a husband and wife could partake in—both in and outside of the bedroom. It took them some time to christen every room in My Cottage, as the newly appointed Mrs. Bridgerton underestimated how not quaint the cottage truly was.
“Maybe if my husband asked me nicely?”
“Please think more creatively,” he pleaded. “You did marry an artist, after all.”
“Perhaps I will think more creatively in the bath,” she said, poking his nose, revealing green pigment on her fingertip. “Somewhere I think you should join me this afternoon?”
“Oh love,” he grinned, dipping down to press his forehead to her own. “You do have such great ideas.”
His lips met her own, as they had hundreds of times over the last month. Benedict claimed he was making up for lost time, an oversight on his late realization of the true depth of his feelings for his missus. Every time they kissed, it felt like the first time, the promise of love between every labored breath and muffled moan.
To think his current happiness began with a promise, a promise to dance. A promise that allowed Mr. Bridgerton to, in fact, have a reason to dissuade debutantes from bugging him.
With Mrs. Bridgerton on his arm? It was simply all he needed.
THAT SUPERMAN FIC WAS. THE TEDDY BEAR ONE. OH MY GOD I RHINK I LOVE TOU FOR KT???? MOST BEUATIFUL THING IVE EVER READ. excuse me if this is all over the place but honest to God you cooked !!!
awweee thank you so much 🥹
It was my first time writing for Clark, so I hope I did alright!!
Summary: You were an adult, with adult money. You can buy things that bring you joy! Hopefully your boyfriend never finds out about it.
Word Count: 3.2k
Warnings: Straight up fluff, small mention of blood, superhero-ing things
A/N: First Clark fic! Hope I did the punk-rocker justice!! (also trying a new writing style to avoid having to use y/n as often. I think it's neat!)
It was a silly purchase.
Something that you insisted you didn’t need.
But, with ten dollars less in your wallet, you walked out of the mall with your head held high, new purchase secured in your bag.
It was the sort of purchase you’d want to keep from your boyfriend—at all costs. Not that it was a secret, something to hide in the dark shadows of the unknown, but because it was deeply… embarrassing. The kind of embarrassing that reminisced on high school days, mean girls and cutting words, lunches-eaten-in-the-bathroom kind of embarrassing.
So, it was an omission, you decided. Something that you simply kept from your boyfriend, but, if he were to ask, you’d tell him.
Maybe.
—
You didn’t mind the superhero-ing, not at all. You knew your boyfriend was a good person, him using his metahuman abilities for the greater good only confirmed your theories, amplified your feelings on the matter. He did the most for the people around him, friends, family and strangers alike. You didn't mind it, couldn't mind it, even.
What you did mind was the blaring fact that he was late to dinner… again.
You pulled all the stops. Handmade pizza with dough you had resting all day, your mother’s recipe for garlic knots—one of his favorites—and you even uncorked a moderately priced bottle of wine, the one from the back of your cabinet. Everything was perfect.
What would be even more perfect would be the man of hour sitting across from you, making that same corny joke about pizza—every time, without fail.
“Wanna hear a joke about pizza?”
“Clark…”
“Come on, you know you love it!”
“I really don’t—”
“Nah, you’re right, it’s too cheesy.”
What you would give for that right about now. Shit-eating grin and all.
Instead, you sat with a cooling plate of pizza and disappointment. In his defense, he had sent you a quick message about an hour ago, one like he usually does, laced with apology and too many emojis to decipher. He even added an American flag to the end of his message this time, which was odd, a new one for him.
Until you scrolled on your phone, passing post after post about Superman currently fighting inter-dimensional beings in Washington D.C, the monuments making for a more compelling backdrop to the fight than the typical skyline you were used to.
The American flag made sense now.
You gave up on the idea of a shared dinner about twenty minutes later, carefully replacing the slices of pizza and garlic knots in containers for a future meal—probably his lunch for tomorrow, if he even made it back in time to pack one. Instead of corking the rest of the wine, you carried it with you to the couch, sans glass, and made quick work to collapse into the pillows.
It was your first argument—if you could even call it that—what pillows to furnish your new apartment with. You had wanted something a bit more simple, something that wasn’t too flashy or forward, something to go with the seasons. Clark wanted… something different. He was a man—metahuman abilities or not—at the end of the day, and he wanted that stupid chicken pillow. Not a pillow with chickens printed on it, a pillow entirely shaped like a chicken. Claimed it ‘reminded him of Ma’.
No chance in hell you were winning the fight after that.
The chicken sat over on the seat across from you, menacingly, a reminder of who you were missing. A swig of a bottle in your hand calmed your sorrows, just for a moment, before tuning in to the news that flashed across your television. Reporters were focusing on the attack on the Nation’s Capital, the monsters that were attacking it and Superman’s ability to reign them in. Some were applauding Superman for his hard work and dedication to the country, others chose to criticize the damage he had caused to a few of the monuments.
“Rather there be some rubble from monuments celebrating slave owners than actual human lives,” you said into the bottle, taking another small sip. “But okay.”
You got tired of the news, tired of watching your boyfriend from afar, worrying about his safety as if he wasn’t literally the most capable man on Earth to handle something like this. Flipping through streaming services, you settled on something mindless to watch, to get your head out of the clouds and back to reality. Watching hot people try to flirt with one another seemed like a good way to do it.
You scowled at the phone, pursing your lips as you re-read the words.
Another buzz.
C.K 🤓:
Sleep well. Love you. ❤️
“Love you too,” you said softly to the universe, as if he could hear you across state lines. You wouldn’t put it past him.
It was difficult, being Superman's partner. The late nights, the constant worrying, the anxiety that maybe you'd let his secret slip if the right person asked you at the wrong time. You knew this. You prepared for this. What made it easy was Clark. Sweet, sweet Clark Kent, farmboy from Kansas with the heart of gold. He made it easy, made you so willing to keep up with it all.
He was worth it.
You give up on the rest of your evening, trashy reality television and wine long forgotten. With heavy steps you tread to the bathroom to get ready for bed, peeling your clothes off unceremoniously. The hamper was nearly full, you’d have to do laundry tomorrow, adding the cherry on top of your shit cake of a day. A moment of appreciation for your underwear was given, your eyes raking over your reflection in the mirror—bright red lace, accentuating your features nicely, a favorite of Clark’s.
“Shame,” you hummed, peeling it off and throwing it on top of the hamper, knowing he’d see it. Good, you thought. Suffer, you added.
Opting for something cozy, you rummaged around the dirty clothes and pulled out one of Clark’s shirts, one he had recently worn on your latest date night around the city. A black t-shirt from a Daily Planet outing, a picnic of some kind, he loved it to bits—meaning he wore it frequently. A quick sniff test allowed you to pull it on, choosing it as your sleepwear of the evening. Adding a pair of your own shorts, a pair from college, you decided this was the best you could do.
Washing of your face allowed you to take a moment for yourself. Rubbing your nightly routine into your skin was usually relaxing, methodical, even. Taking care of yourself before bed was something you tried to find pride in, whenever you remembered to do it, anyway. Grounding you to the here and now, not spiraling with thoughts of Clark getting hurt, limping home to you, bloodied, battered and bruised, dying—
You spat your toothpaste out.
When did you start brushing your teeth?
As if anyone else was in your apartment, you tiptoed across the hall into your bedroom, quiet as a mouse, ready for the comfort and solace of your bed. It was a cozy thing, sheets made of flannel for the cooler winter months, Clark’s pillow a bit firmer than your own—something about neck pain, he mentioned once. You found it hard to believe a metahuman like himself could get neck pain from simply sleeping, but you allowed the man to have his delusions, as long as you kept every single one of your own pillows on your side. All three of them, two for your head, one for your legs, saved for whenever Clark couldn’t replace it.
Much like tonight.
Falling asleep was never a chore, you welcomed it with open arms most of the time, shutting your brain off and allowing it to come… that was the struggle. But, with your secret weapon stashed behind your pillows, now firmly tucked between your chest and neck, you found the solace of slumber.
—
The sun was shining through your window, the curtains had been pulled back, much to your sleepy dismay. Groaning, you rolled over, hoping you could just… will them to close on their own. Instead, you were met with the brick wall that was Clark Kent, laying peacefully beside you. He hadn’t bothered changing out of his suit, not fully, taking in every inch of sunlight he could. You knew at first glance the man wasn’t sleeping, his breathing was too irregular. You also knew he could tell you weren’t sleeping, either.
“No… suit in the bed,” you managed to grumble, voice still thick with sleep. Your hand patted his arm lovingly, despite your words.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he responded, his eyes opening up to meet your own. Blue as the sky, deep as the ocean, you had told him once. He liked that. “I was so tired and—”
“—needed sun,” you finished, yawning. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I’ll wash them,” he promised quickly, turning a bit on his side, his gaze never leaving your own. “Today, I promise.”
“You promise a lot of things, Superman,” your voice had no real bite, no edge, but it still stung in his ears.
“I’m sorry,” Clark sighed. “I deserve that, yeah.” He deflated into the mattress, as if his body was finally allowing him to relax, your presence almost a soothing balm on his soul. “I deserve that,” he repeated, a bit softer.
The hum of the fan in your bedroom drowns your ears, filling any empty space your silence left. “You don’t. Deserve that, I mean.”
Clark closed his eyes for a moment, his lips pursing half as long before he responds. “I do. I-I promised I’d be here, I left you alone with your meal you worked so hard on—which looked amazing—”
“Slow down, Kansas,” you said, pressing a hand to his chest. He took a deep breath. “I know what I signed up for.”
He sat straight up, as if your hand had suddenly burned him. “No, you signed up for—for some dorky reporter, a kid from some small town in the Midwest, not… Superman.”
You look at him fully, watching as this sturdy rock of a man was practically crumbling before you.
“You’ve seen Shrek, yeah?”
“I—what?” He looked down at you as you began to sit up, not nearly matching his height, but closer than before. His thick brows furrowed nearly into a single line. “How does that have anything to do with—”
“Much like ogres,” you said, cocking your head slightly, “you, Clark Kent, are like an onion.”
He blinked.
“…an onion?”
“You have layers,” you shrugged. “Sometimes they’re stinky, complicated, superhuman, but layers nonetheless.”
“I don’t think I quite love this analogy, sweetheart,” Clark finally chuckled.
“It’s too early for me to be poetic, sorry,” you said a bit sheepishly. “But you get what I’m trying to say, yeah?”
“You love me, stinky layers and all?”
“Something like that.” Your grin could light up the room, sunlight be damned. It was something he was certain of. “I love you, stinky boy, please stop trying to make decisions for me.”
“I love you too,” he said softly. “And… I’ll try.”
“And stop overthinking so much,” you poked his forehead. “I can see the steam pouring out of your ears.”
He laughed at that. “Noted.”
“We can talk more about your layers later, after some coffee. Sound good?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. We can talk all about my stinky layers later.”
You groan. “You know I don’t think you're actually stinky—though let’s be honest you didn’t even touch a shower before getting into our bed—”
“I’m washing the sheets!” He laughed again, watching your nose scrunch up comically. “I’m serious!”
“So am I!” Your laugh matched his own, feeling his fingers run up your sides. An attack, clearly. “Clark!”
“Nope, Clark’s not here,” he said, expertly evading your dodges. “Superman’s got an agenda.”
“A-agenda?” You squeak between gasps.
“A tickle agenda,” he shrugged. “Tickle taxes need to be paid.”
If laughter was a true currency, as Clark had teased, the two of you would be rich beyond your years. Thankfully, after your fourth or fifth smack to his arms, he stilled his onslaught. “You missed pizza night,” you said breathlessly, eyes chasing his own.
“I know.”
“You love pizza night.”
“I know,” he groaned.
“It’s still in the fridge,” you hummed, thumb rubbing circles on his elbow. “I hardly ate any of it, so you can have all the pizza you want.”
“I only need a pizza your heart,” he grinned.
“Clark.”
“What? Too cheesy?”
“Clark!” You throw your pillow over your face, as if it would hide you from his blinding grin, the one you knew you loathed, the one you knew you loved.
“Come on, pretty,” Clark said, gently pulling the pillow off of you, a bit of your blanket following in his grip. “Let me see that smile.”
You tried your best to twist your smile into a pout, failing miserably. “M’not smiling.”
“Smirking, smiling,” he kissed your nose. “Same thing.” You allowed him to continue to press kisses to your face, each one taking great care to be gentle, not overwhelming in the slightest. His peppering slowed when his gaze found a flash of red and blue under your sheets.
Confused by the sudden break, your own eyes opened, following his sight quickly. If it wasn’t for his super-speed, you would have flung the culprit across the room and into the abyss, but no, your boyfriend was always faster, always one step ahead. “Oh you really don’t have to…”
In his iron grip was a stuffed rabbit, the one from your childhood, the one that survived every move, every heartbreak, every life change. That wasn’t the secret. Clark knew full well about BunBun, hell, he shared a bed with her occasionally. Who would try to separate a girl from her emotional support stuffy? Not Clark Kent, that’s for sure. What did surprise him, was her new attire. Long gone was the faded shirt with a baseball team’s logo—she was originally a gift from your father, a huge fan of the team—and in its place was a brand new, shiny, red and blue—
“BunBun has a Superman shirt?”
You wanted to die of embarrassment. Thrown off the top of your building, set aflame, drowned in the bay, whatever could kill you fastest. “Her old one was falling apart…” your conviction was shaky, your reasoning a bit unsound. You didn’t even believe you, how could you expect the man who could literally hear your heartbeat to do such a thing?
He pulled the rabbit into the light, fully out of the sheets and straight into the air. “Well I’ll be darned.”
“It was a stupid purchase, an impulse buy,” your grave was practically digging itself at this point. “It hardly cost me anything!”
His thumbs ran over the print on the front, his ’S’ logo clear and clean, hardly a shoddy piece of merchandise. “I didn’t even know they made stuff like this, I mean, the mugs and the shirts are a given, but this…?”
“Is silly right?” You finished his thought, trying to grab your rabbit from his death grip—obviously to no avail. “I mean, sooo silly! It’s hysterical, really. Clearly—Clark give her back!”
“No, no,” you could feel his chuckles shake the bed, his arm flying, trying to keep the rabbit out of your grabby hands. “It’s so… cute.”
“I swear on all that is holy if you don’t give BunBun back to me right now—”
“Did you…?” He pressed his nose to the blue fabric. “Oh honey…”
“Don’t.”
“You didn’t,” he nearly growled, the sound coming deep from his chest.
“Clark, please, just let me rot in this bed forever—”
“You sprayed it with my cologne?”
This must be what heaven feels like, you think. Considering you wish you were dead in this moment, you must be in heaven. Your eyes closed the second he spit out the truth, his arms grappling to you like a vice against his chest, all warm and full of affection. Your mumbles were lost to you, but everything to him.
“Hm? What was that?”
“You heard me, Kansas,” you said, a bit louder, peeking up from the mountains of his chest. “I miss you sometimes, okay?”
“Sweetheart, I know you do,” he rubbed your back lovingly, BunBun casually hanging in his other hand. “When I’m gone I miss you too, though, clearly you’re winning the ‘Missing My Partner Olympics’.”
He laughed at your attempt to smack his chest again.
“You can’t blame me,” you pointed at him, the distraction working just long enough to wriggle the rabbit out of his grasp. With BunBun in hand, your heart rate slowed, just a bit, your relief almost instant. “I occasionally miss my boyfriend, sue me.”
His grin softened at your declaration, though layered in that classic humor of yours he knew so well, it was honest—true. “It’s cute, you’re cute.”
“It’s embarrassing—”
“—adorable.”
“Deplorable—”
“—endearing.”
“It’s not even licensed!”
“Do I need to license my image?” He asked no one in particular, the voice lower than expected.
“I mean… they’re using it without your permission, Clark.”
He furrowed his brows.
“…should I be suing people? I mean, can I even sue people?”
This time, the laughter from the both of you shook your bed.
“Superman shouldn’t be suing people,” you decided.
“I’m not seeing any profit from this, sweetheart,” he added. “I mean, think of the things I could buy you with that kind of cash.”
“What? Like a ring?”
It was a tease, a joke.
“Yeah,” he said softly. "Like a ring.”
He wasn’t joking.
“S-Superman shouldn’t be suing people,” you repeated, your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears. Surely your pulse was skyrocketing.
“Yeah,” he hummed, looking down at the stuffed animal, taking care to admire his own insignia. “Probably for the best.”
And so, the conversation was dropped, the topic untouched.
“This is a sign though,” Clark added, turning to you now. “We have to make a trip to the mall.”
“Why’s that, handsome?”
“I need a stuffy that’s dressed like you, duh,” he said incredulously. “I feel left out.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly serious,” he booped your nose. “It’d be a matching set! BunBun could sit proudly next to Bearemy on the bed, you don’t have to stuff her between the headboard—”
“Bearemy?”
“Yeah,” his voice cracked, shoulders touching his ears in a shrug. “That’s his name.”
“You don’t even have a bear yet, and you’ve already named him?”
Clark jumped out of bed, peeling off his suit. “Oh honey, if that’s shocking to you, do not go through my notes app on my phone—you’d be horrified at what’d you’d find.”
The small revelation warmed your soul.
Maybe you’d tell him about your super-secret list, too. One day.
“I don’t plan to snoop, Supes.”
“Thank goodness,” he sighed playfully, walking to the hallway. “Your trust is everything to me, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you watched him swoon against the doorway, nearly naked—save for his grey boxers. A moment of appreciation for your boyfriend’s appearance was never a wasted one. “Go shower, stinky.”
“Stinky, stinky onion man,” Clark sang softly, a bit off key and no real tune in mind, waltzing to the bathroom only a few steps away. Only until you heard the old pipes creak did you finally flop back onto your pillow, rabbit cuddled against your chest.
“Yeah,” you nodded to the rabbit, as if she could hear you. “I’m gonna marry that man.”
Summary: Reader is on bedrest, nearing the end of a taxing pregnancy. Bored and restless, she hatches a plan to keep her hands busy.
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: Reader is pregnant, tooth-rotting fluff, self doubt, a joke about gaslighting.
A/N: sorry for the hiatus. I hated it too my loves, life is just... crazy. Also first Spencer fic?? word.
"I just have questions.”
“You always have questions,” she hummed, gliding her scissors across the purple fabric. “The only answer I have for you is that I’m on house arrest and restless. Gotta find some way to pass the time.”
“And tearing up my shirts is the best use of that time?”
“House. Arrest,” she clicked.
Spencer scoffed, smiling at her quip. The doctor had put her on bed rest for the last few weeks of her pregnancy, citing the stress of their job and the physical demand was too much for the baby. They had never planned on her continuing in the field during the final trimester anyway, but the doctor was adamant about as little stress as possible. “Bed rest isn’t the same as house arrest, lovey.”
“Sure feels like it,” she said, throwing a scrap over her shoulder onto the floor. “First, I had to give up sushi and my wine, now I have to sit around and be a proper housewife?”
“If it’s any consolation, you’ve never been a proper housewife,” Spencer said, cringing as soon as the words left his mouth. “I-I mean, in the traditional sense—you’re a hardworking woman with a rather successful career—”
“And now my husband is verbally abusing me,” she sighed, though no malice was in her tone. Very clearly a joke.
“I wouldn’t say—”
“And now he’s gaslighting me!” (Y/N) nearly giggled, trying hard to keep the argument going. Spencer joined in on her laughter.
“I…I’ll shut up now.”
She turned on her chair, looking up at Spencer. “Normally, I’d be against such a thing, but silence is appreciated in my time of solitude and sewing.”
“I didn’t know you could sew,” Spencer mumbled, rubbing her shoulder.
“My dad taught me the basics,” she explained, placing the fabric into a pile. “I was always getting rips and tears in my clothing. He claimed it was a valuable life skill for me to learn, but I think he was just sick of doing the mending himself.”
“I love learning new things about you,” Spencer said softly, his eyes practically pooling with affection.
She snorted. “It’s not the most interesting fact about me.”
“Every new fact is the most interesting fact about you.”
“Okay sap,” she pinched his waist, causing him to flinch away from her. “You better get going to work before Hotch throws a hissy fit.”
“How could I?” Spencer had already moved over to the fridge, throwing the essentials in his lunch bag. “You’re tearing up my work clothes.”
“You haven’t worn this shirt in months,” she pointed at him with the scissors in her hand. “I should know, you packed it away for the move nearly five months ago. If anything, I’m giving it a new life.”
“A new life as…?”
“Nope,” she shook her head, rising from the dining table. With a few careful steps she made it over to the fridge. “Not telling. It’ll ruin the surprise.”
“So it’s a project for me, then?”
All it took was a pointed look and a raised brow for Spencer to get the hint. He gave her a quick kiss, a loving goodbye to both her and their growing bundle of joy before leaving.
“Profilers.”
—
What started as a supposed and rare office day turned into a five day case in Wisconsin. Not unusual, given their line of work, but it was still exhausting to be away from his family for so long. Spencer decided exactly thirty hours into the case he’d never take the fact he worked with his wife for granted again.
His relief was found the second he returned to their home, opening the door to the smell of cookies and the sight of his wife hanging up their jackets in the hallway.
“Spence!” (Y/N) exclaimed, all but dropping the remaining coats to embrace him. “I didn’t know you’d be back tonight, Pen made it seem like you guys were still going to be there until tomorrow!”
“We had a new lead that wrapped it up rather quickly,” Spencer said, hugging her a bit tighter, not ready to let go of her warmth. “You’re unpacking?”
Their attention was turned to the boxes on the floor. All but one of their winter coats had already been removed and hung in the entryway closet. “I told you, I’ve been restless—”
“Honey, you’re supposed to be resting,” Spencer smoothed her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. “This could’ve waited until I got home.”
“I want to be settled before she comes, you know?” (Y/N) tried to explain, a hand moving protectively on her bump. “Nesting and all that.”
“How much more unpacking did you do when I was gone?” He didn’t need to ask, he already saw the pile of broken down boxes in their living room. If he had to guess, she’d made quite a dent in them.
“Only a little,” she argued. “After I finished my sewing project the mountain of boxes overwhelmed me—it’s silly that you think I could’ve stopped myself from doing it.”
He laughed. “I guess so.”
“I mean, who buys a house around the same time they’re expecting a baby? It’s maddening!”
He bit his tongue, knowing any statistic that popped into his mind to correct her wasn’t worth sharing with his extremely pregnant wife. He already learned his lesson when he corrected her on the history of bubblegum a few weeks ago.
“Maddening,” he agreed.
“So what if I unpacked a few boxes? I finally found my KitchenAid! Packed with the baking trays if you could believe it.”
“That explains the cookies,” Spencer said softly, smiling at his wife like she held the world in her hands. “Please tell me that other than the few boxes and cookies you spent your time off of your feet and resting?”
“Would I lie to you?” She crossed her arms, pursing her lips.
He gave her a trying look.
“Don’t answer that.”
“Will you please go sit down? I’ll bring you a plate of those delicious smelling cookies and you can interrogate me about my extremely exciting trip to Wisconsin,” Spencer rubbed her back lovingly, trying his best to convince her.
“Jokes on you, I was just about to go sit down anyway,” she kissed his cheek, patting his jaw lovingly. He needed to shave. “Now I get cookies brought to me by my handsome husband.”
It was chocolate chip cookies she had made, her mother’s recipe as far as he could tell. It was her go-to when she made cookies, save for the peanut butter blossoms she made for the holidays. Spencer loved either kind, especially because they were made with the loving care of his wife. Placing five of the still-warm cookies on a plate, he walked to their living room, his wife already making good on her promise of sitting on their new couch.
She claimed they didn’t need a new one, but Spencer made a rather convincing argument, the dark green of the new couch would fit much better into the aesthetic of their new home. (Y/N) didn’t have much of a leg to stand on, given her old couch was a ratty grey one she had since college. It was also really ugly, a fact Spencer chose to keep to himself.
Sitting on their—rather beautiful—couch beside his wife was a purple teddy bear, the striped fabric looking familiar. “You made a bear…?”
(Y/N) quickly tried hiding the stuffed animal behind her back. “What? No.”
“(Y/N),” Spencer chided lightly, sitting down beside her, the plate of cookies nearly forgotten on their coffee table. “I saw the bear.”
“I didn’t have time to wrap it,” she explained, pulling it out from behind her. “Again, wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow…”
With the purple bear in his hands, it was clear his suspicions were correct. It was made out of the shirt, the striped purple one she had cut up days prior. “You made this?”
“I did,” she nodded, feeling bashful. “I convinced a friend to let me borrow her sewing machine to finish it. I tried hand stitching, but my patience was growing thin, you can only prick your finger enough times before nearly giving up.”
He laughed at that. “I see.”
“To clarify the bear isn’t for you,” she said quickly, sensing his confusion and possible disappointment. “I mean, in a way it is? But it’s for her—”
“I figured that much,” he laughed again.
“I just thought, y’know, given our jobs and how often you or I might be away from her,” (Y/N) shrugged, placing both hands on top of her stomach. “It’d be nice to have a piece of you behind. So… I made the bear out of your shirt.”
“It’s really—”
“It still took like, a stupid amount of hours,” she continued. “And even if you hate it or think it’s stupid, please be gentle with your critique. I know the eyes are wonky and—”
“It’s a very thoughtful—”
“I figured you’d like the purple shirt I chose, but I was hesitant because you loved that shirt, it was the one I bought you for your birthday years ago, the one you told me I shouldn’t have bought you but I did it anyway—”
“My love,” Spencer placed his hands on top of hers. “You need to breathe.”
His shoulders raised, inhaling deeply, hoping she’d mirror his movements. To his surprise, she followed along instantly.
“Better?”
“A little.”
“Before you cut me off again,” Spencer chucked, looking at her in that sickening way he always did, the kind of way that made her want to melt into the couch. “I was trying to tell you how much I loved it, the idea, the execution, everything about it.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do,” he mumbled. “To think about her snuggling with this, obviously when she’s old enough to be left with stuffed animals—around the one year mark or so—especially cuddling with it when I’m away? I-I don’t know what to say…”
She could see the tears forming on his face, afraid they’d fall. “Oh no, I didn’t mean for you to cry!”
“Happy tears, my love,” Spencer clarified. “And perhaps a bit of mourning for one of my favorite shirts.”
“You haven’t worn it in a while,” she tried to argue.
“You haven’t worn your wedding dress in a while,” he teased, pulling her into his side. “Should I go and cut it up for a heartfelt gift for our daughter, too?”
“Hm, perhaps when she gets married. Could be her ‘something old’?”
Spencer’s face blanched, flashes of a distant future in which he was walking his little girl—someone he hadn’t even met yet—down the aisle. “I’m not ready for that. She’s not allowed to get married, ever.”
“Spence, she doesn’t even have a name yet, of course she’d not getting married anytime soon,” (Y/N) giggled, her laughter like a bell. His worried heart immediately felt at ease, the medicinal properties of her laugh was something he wanted to study.
“We should probably get around to that,” Spencer nodded, thinking back to their list of potential names.
“Probably.”
Her sweater felt like heaven against his fingers, soft fibers tickling his senses as he rubbed her side, enjoying the feeling of her next to him. “I’m just so ready to meet her, to hold her, to love her,” he sighed.
“Me too,” she said, her tone matching his entirely. “I want to be more sweet about it, but I’m so ready to not be pregnant anymore.”
“Just a few more weeks,” Spencer nodded, knowing the toll the pregnancy was taking on his wife. “We’ll celebrate with a dinner of all the foods and drinks you had to give up for most of this year.”
“We’ll also have a baby,” (Y/N) added.
“I know, but I figured you would be placated by the idea of a fun dinner,” Spencer smiled. “On top of our daughter being here.”
“God I miss sushi,” (Y/N) moaned, head turned towards their ceiling. “Yes, okay, a fun dinner would be excellent. Snuggling our perfect girl while inhaling a spicy tuna roll from that place downtown, sounds like a dream.”
“Well, preferably inhaling it away from our daughter, but yes, that sounds nice,” Spencer smiled softly.
“Our daughter…” (Y/N) said, looking down at her baby bump. “I still can’t believe we’re having a baby. Like, genetically fifty percent me and fifty percent you—one hundred percent our legal responsibility.”
“That’s typically how it works…”
“We’re not going to ruin her, are we?” She asked, turning to look at her husband. “I mean, with the work we do, how often we’ll likely be away…”
“She has her new bear,” Spencer said, his voice softer than silk. He pulled the bear into her lap, drawing her attention to it. “You already thought of something so kind to give her, to know we’re going to be with her even when we’re gone.”
“It’s only your shirt though,” she sighed, feeling too emotional about a silly bear. “She’ll only think of you.”
“Make another one,” Spencer offered. “You have that green blouse with the lipstick stain on it—the one you insisted you could get the mark out of?”
“I never got it out..."
“Cut around it,” he laughed lightly. “Even if you decide to not make another bear, rabbit or whatever animal your beautiful mind comes up with, she’ll know how much you love her.”
“You think?”
Spencer hugged the bear tightly, squeezing it as hard as he could. “Angel, I can feel the love you put into this bear. I know she will too.”
She smiled at that.
“I know how scary this all is,” Spencer reiterated. “I mean, I’m terrified. She’s going to be so little, so reliant on us, so fragile. But you know what else?”
(Y/N) tilted her head up. “What else?”
“She’s going to be perfect,” he said lowly, honestly, truly. “I just know when we meet her for the first time, all of those fears are going to just melt away.” His fingers wrapped between hers, squeezing them just tight enough, enough to convey every emotion he was feeling in that moment. “And even if they don’t? Even if we both are constantly freaking out and taking her to the doctor all the time or wrapping everything in bubble wrap, we’ll get to do it together, as a team.”
“We make a good team,” she agreed.
“The best team.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, hands still intertwined. “Thank you, I needed to hear that.”
“It’s the truth,” Spencer said, love oozing from his lips. “We’ll be ready for her.”
“I know,” she hummed in contentment, enjoying the moment. “I already did so much unpacking when you were gone.”
“Please let me do the rest, angel.”
She laughed lightly, patting his arm.
“No.”
—
BONUS:
Spencer had been going through their closet, trying to find a specific shirt for work—the one that matched a green tie he had in mind. “My love, was there another box of shirts hanging around? Or is everything already unpacked?”
(Y/N) placed the book she had been reading in her lap, looking towards their closet. “I think so? Why, is something missing?”
He walked out of the closet, hands on his hips. “I think a few of my shirts are missing.”
She bit her lip. “Uh… no, I don’t think there’s any shirts missing. You must be remembering wrong.”
Spencer blinked, posture unchanged.
“Which… would be impossible because you don't remember anything wrong,” she groaned, rolling out of their bed and planting both feet onto the ground. “Fine, okay. You’re missing a few shirts.”
His lip quirked, a smile tugging up one corner. “Casualties of your sweet gift, I imagine?”
“Shut up,” she swatted the air, not even in his general direction. “I couldn’t get the pattern right. The online print out was terribly misleading.”
He laughed. “I’m sure it was, angel.”
“It was!”
He took a few gentle steps over to her, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her hairline. “I believe you.”
Summary: Lady Barlow returns to Bridgerton House for tea, a mystery is solved.
Word Count: 3.5k
Warnings: enemies to lovers, flashbacks
A/N: sorry for the hiatus! here's pt 3 to make up for it my loves!! also, the tag list has been closed! so sorry
first part - previous part - next part
—
“You look radiant, my dear.”
She picked at the feather atop her head—it was drooping a bit too much for her liking. “Do you really think so?”
“Should Lady (Y/L/N) have been here to see it,” the older lady sighed, tears almost dotting her eyes, “why, she would be the most proud of you.”
Her mother had passed only last year, delaying (Y/N)’s entrance to society. Mourning came easily, she had found. The black attire, the dreary expression, the love lost. Lord (Y/L/N) nearly forced his daughter into the Mart last year, but, given the prying eyes of the ton it was best to wait a few short months.
She didn’t know how freeing those months truly were.
“What if I forget how to dance?” (Y/N) asked, turning to face her family’s maid—Mary. “Perhaps I fall on my face, or, perhaps I step on a suitor’s toes?”
Mary smiled kindly, head tilted in affection. “You have had wonderful teachers in that regard, I do not believe you have any reason to step on a suitor’s toes.”
“But what if I do?”
“You will not,” Mary reminded her. “And perhaps you do? If they are truly a gentleman, they will not mention such a thing.”
“Truly?”
“One may hope.”
“Mary!”
“Oh, miss, tonight is not about dancing anyhow,” Mary laughed, straightening the feather on the young lady’s head. “You will present yourself to the Queen as an eligible woman to be wed, she will judge you accordingly—”
“I am to be judged by the Queen?” (Y/N) quickly turned around. “Oh my God—I truly do not wish to go now!”
Mary sighed. “Miss, it is just how things are done. I know your mother is not here to explain the comings and goings, but… after this evening, I pray you find a suitable gentleman to court you and you will be engaged before season’s end. You will have little to worry about the Queen judging you if you become half of a suitable match.”
“And if I do not have a suitable match?”
Mary pursed her lips. “Well… then you hope another coupling takes the Queen’s attention from you.”
“These rules,” (Y/N) scoffed. “With my luck, I get married off by the end of the season—at least I’ll be free from my father.”
“Let us fix up your hair, hm?” Mary said quickly. “We have a Queen to impress!”
It was just as miserable as she assumed it would be, waiting outside of the door to be seen by the Queen, the one who will judge her worthiness to every eligible bachelor in the ton, the one who will give her an out from a life with her horrid father.
“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N), presented by her father, the admirable Lord (Y/L/N).”
The great doors opened, an aisle leading directly to the Queen and her band of merry onlookers, each eye judging her entrance with a balanced caution. Lord (Y/L/N) stood a bit straighter, his hand wringing tighter on his daughter’s arm.
“Do not make a mess of us,” he warned quietly.
Her breath caught in her throat. A silent acceptance.
The Queen’s eyes lasted only a moment on her before waving her off for the next young lady, not a true dismissal, but not a smile.
Average, her father called her.
A disappointment, he said.
She tried her best to avoid his gaze the rest of the evening.
What she didn’t know, however, is that one gaze in particular was trained on her nearly the whole time.
—
She had tea with Lady Bridgerton twice a week. It was a good habit to have. It was nice to have friends, now adding Lady Danbury to her little circle during these teas. She never had many friends growing up, nor many in her short time in the season, the closest she got to true friendships were with Lord Barlow’s friends wives, but those women were nearly always out of touch and hard to be friendly with. One time, Lady Whitehill insulted her for wearing white to her ball—the theme being black and white—that was enough for her to feign the friendship and keep to herself.
She grew to know a few of the Bridgerton children during her visits. Hyacinth and Gregory, the rambunctious bunch that they were, usually brought a smile to the young dowager viscountess’ face. Just last week, the pair put a toad in their older sister’s tea cup—Eloise nearly shattered the entire tea set in shock. A fun family, she had decided, one she nearly didn’t loathe to be around entirely. All but one member, of course.
He kept to himself, she had found. Whether that had been on purpose or a mere coincidence, she never really knew. Anthony Bridgerton made himself scarce during tea time, the mention of him only in passing and rarely—if ever—by his siblings. If she put money on it, Violet had something to do with it, a keen eye she had for the world around her—especially when that world was seemingly revolved by her eight rambunctious children.
“Anthony has been rather cross lately,” Hyacinth spoke up between biscuits. “Mother, do you know why?”
Violet gave her youngest a trying look. “Darling, we have a guest.”
“Oh it is just Lady Barlow,” Hyacinth admonished, nearly gulping her tea. Decorum was through the window during these less formal gatherings. “She is practically family at this point, is she not?”
“I am flattered you think so highly of me,” (Y/N) said sweetly, giving Hyacinth an equally sweet smile. “But I do think your mother is right—”
“Are we supposed to never talk of him when she’s around?” Hyacinth looked to her mother. “It’s a foolish thing—”
“Hyacinth!”
“Oh, Lady Bridgerton, it is fine,” (Y/N) said, finally finishing her own cup of tea. “He’s your son, her brother, I do not expect you to cease speaking of him for my sake. It is kind of you for requesting such a thing.”
“What?” Hyacinth nearly laughed. “It wasn’t Mama’s request—Anthony asked we didn’t speak of him when you were around. Of course, he wished you would not be around—”
“Hyacinth Bridgerton!” Violet stood up, her anger shooting to the ceiling. Why, one may have thought that it could have cracked the moulding clean off. “Retire to your bedchambers.”
“Mama.”
“Now, Hyacinth,” Violet nearly scolded. Her voice never raised to a shout, but the tone was commanding all the same. The practice and talent of a mother.
The youngest Bridgerton hopped off of the lounge and huffed towards the entrance to the drawing room, a staff member opening the door for her.
“I am terribly sorry for her behavior,” Violet tried to laugh it off, but the clear look on her face told an entirely different story. “She is the greatest gift, but also the biggest challenge of my eight, I fear…”
“Her candidness is charming,” (Y/N) said. “She will be a fine young lady, I am sure.”
“Once she learns to hold her tongue, I fully agree,” Violet sank back onto the lounge. “Please do not mind her words, she hardly knows of what she speaks.”
(Y/N) laughed, flattening her skirt to try and appear busy. “It is no secret that your son and I share a bit of an aversion towards one another, she was only speaking the truth.”
“Whatever my son has done to upset you, I fully apologize for that as well.”
“You must cease apologizing for your children, Violet,” (Y/N) said, nearly tired of the topic. “Your youngest daughter is one thing, I will give you grace with that, but your son is a man—you must not make apologies for whatever he has done.”
Violet shifted in her seat. “I do apologize quite often for my children, do I not?” A small laugh escaped her lips. “Goodness… I fear that is all I have been doing as of late.”
Lady Barlow joined in on the laugh. “A mother’s job is never ending, I fear.”
“But my son,” Violet said, her voice teetering on nosy. “He hasn’t… done anything untoward?”
“I rather think this is a sensitive topic for tea.”
“Right,” Violet shook her head. “Apologies, I just want to make sure he was on his best behavior.”
“Lord Bridgerton? On his best behavior?” She nearly barked a laugh. “Oh Violet, you jest.”
Violet chuckled. “I suppose it was a foolish thing to say, yes."
“Speaking of foolish things,” (Y/N) sighed. “I believe the time in which Lord Bridgerton has allowed me to be in your home is up for the day.”
Violet forced a smile. “You and I both know that your presence is welcome here anytime.”
“I find it so enlightening that you think that, Violet.”
—
“Brother, if you stare at that cover any longer, you may just set it aflame.”
Anthony tore his gaze from the red book atop his desk. He had planned on balancing various accounts for the estate that afternoon—Benedict ruined all concentration the moment he burst through the study doors. Mumbling on about the academy and his strife, the woes of a second son.
“I was not staring,” Anthony said, shifting a few papers to cover the book. “You simply made me lose my rhythm.”
“Rhythm,” Benedict hummed, barely moving from his seated position. “Rhythm of what? Modiste bills?”
“Actually,” Anthony laughed airily, “yes. It seems Mother has taken a great deal to get Eloise proper dresses this season.”
“Oh? How much in silk and other fabric has she paid?” Benedict peered closer to the desk, as if he was trying to read Anthony’s parchment.
“Too much,” Anthony said lowly. “I shall speak to her tonight.”
“Speak to her you shall,” Benedict agreed, fingertips dancing on the wood of his elder brother’s workspace. “As if Eloise needs the finest silks, it is not as if she will make a match this season.”
Anthony furrowed his brow. “She will make a fine match.”
“This season? Brother, you are more likely to secure a wife than Eloise a husband this season,” Benedict pointed.
“A fine match one day,” he corrected.
“Speaking of your match,” Benedict said, his voice nearly a song. In nearly a blink, he snatched the red book from under the carefully placed parchments, holding the cover up closer for inspection. “Perhaps that is the reason you’ve taken up reading poetry?”
“Give that back,” Anthony rose from his chair, hand stretched outwards, the other on his hip.
“No, I do not think I will,” Benedict said, a giggle following his words. “I did not take you for the poetry type, Brother. I recall numerous conversations in which you regarded the literature as ‘a waste of perfectly fine paper.’”
“I still feel the same,” Anthony reached further over the desk, trying to reach his brother. “Benedict, I will not ask again.”
“Is the viscount hiding something from his dear baby brother?” Benedict cooed, holding the text closer to his chest. “I cannot think of any other reason you’d have poetry in your study if not to gain favor of a lady.”
“As if I would stoop low enough to learn any poetry to woo a lady,” Anthony scoffed. “I am simply enough as I am for most ladies in the mart—they are the ones who have to convince me of a match.”
“The perks of a title,” Benedict sighed, lowering the book to his hip. “Still, I did not take you for a poetry man.”
“Colin was blabbering about ‘expanding my horizons’,” Anthony lied. “All that travel surely has gotten to his head.”
“So you chose to start reading poetry?”
“Why must you act like it is the most foolish thing?”
“Because it is the most foolish thing,” Benedict barked a laugh. Reluctantly, he set the book into Anthony’s still open hand. “But, if it has been bringing you bliss… who am I to argue?”
His fingers scratched against the leather of the cover, his heartbeat slowing the second he had the text in his hands. “I wouldn’t call it bliss.”
“Nor would I,” Benedict groaned. “Of all the poets to choose from, you picked up a copy of Byron’s bumbling. Truly, if you wanted recommendations on the subject, you need not ask, I am more than willing to assist.”
Anthony looked closer at the cover, as if his hours of staring at the text had done him any good, his brother was right, it was a collection of poems by Lord Byron. “I recall you mentioning the name,” he lied, quite easily, “I thought it was a recommendation in good faith.”
Benedict pressed a hand to his chest. “Then you have not been listening to me at all!”
“Forgive my transgression,” Anthony sat back down, his attention turning back to his papers, politely trying to ignore the fact he had not placed the book back onto the desk—the leather-bound book still tight in his grip.
“I could do you a favor, you know,” Benedict smirked. “Throw it right into the fire—it ought to make good kindling. Frankly, the only thing it’s good for, I fear.”
“No,” Anthony said a tad too quickly. He feared Benedict looking too terribly deep into the matter, so he composed himself just as fast. “I borrowed this copy, it must be returned.”
“Borrowed?” Benedict quirked his brow. “From whom?”
“Mr. Mondrich said a patron left it behind,” Anthony began to lie, his breathing even. “But I should return it soon, lest the owner comes back for it soon.”
Benedict scoffed, finally standing up and readjusting his coat. “I fear you’d be doing the owner a favor, then.”
“Should you not be heading out for the Academy?”
His younger brother nearly groaned. “Yes, probably.”
“You should probably get on that, then,” Anthony said, pointing to the door of the study. “We pay a fine tuition and I would hate for that money to go to waste on your need to be so flippant on the matter.”
“You certainly are no fun these days,” Benedict said, making his way to the back of the study. He opened the door hastily before turning back to look at Anthony. “Perhaps you should hasten to find a wife, so she could pull that stick out of your—”
“Leave.”
His brother’s laughter peeled away from the study, finally escaping to head off to his other duties of the day. Anthony felt like he could finally breathe, his shoulders falling and the book in his hands now feeling lighter than before, his grip not so deadly on the tome. He could feel every muscle in his body relaxing, nearly pleased he could finally go back to his stack of papers, all needing signatures and the like.
“You!”
Anthony’s head snapped back to his study door—Benedict had left it wide open in his exit. Standing in the entryway was a one Lady Barlow, dressed in a sage green dress, a matching ribbon dangling from her hair—she had finally and wholly retired the mourning attire, it seemed. “Me? What are you doing here?”
“You stole my book!” She pointed, stepping into the study with a hurried pace.
“You did not answer my question,” Anthony pressed. “What are you doing here?”
“Why do you have my book?”
He slammed the red leather book against the surface of his desk. “This book is none of your concern—your only concern should be related in leaving my estate with the utmost haste.”
“It seems to be entirely my concern,” she argued. “And I was leaving—had tea with your mother as I’m sure you’re well aware—until I saw my property in your hands.”
“It is very unladylike to accuse me of stealing your book—”
“I never used the word steal,” she crossed her arms, taking more space in the study, getting closer to his desk. Her eyes narrowed, obviously trying to read the cover or spine of the book. “But it is rather convenient that you happen to have a book that is identical to the one I lost…”
“Loads of books look alike,” Anthony challenged, crossing his own arms in defiance.
“Did I mention I seemed to have misplaced this particular book,” she quickly clawed at the desk to swipe the book up, “the very day we had our spat in the park? And now you seemingly have it in your possession?”
His mouth gaped like a trout, nothing but a puff of air passing his lips.
“I knew you were an unsavory man, Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) said, pulling the book to her chest—nearly afraid he’d take it back from her. “But I never thought you’d be a right thief, too.”
“I was planning on returning it,” Anthony said softly, so soft it was a wonder that anyone heard him at all. “Honestly. I just—”
“Just what?”
His brows pulled together, Anthony could practically feel his internal temperature rising. “Must you accuse me of such a crime when I was only meaning to do the right thing?”
“The right thing was stealing my book?”
“I did not steal your book!” He spat.
Her laughter was hollow, her face contorted in disbelief. “Oh? So you just happened to have it?”
“You were foolish enough to forget your own belongings,” Anthony stepped around his desk, getting closer to her. “You left it behind, you were neglectful of your possessions.” He boldly pressed a finger to her shoulder, poking her with every inflection of his voice. “I simply planned on returning it to you, being the gentleman I am.”
His finger felt like a brand against her skin, hot and sizzling, even over the fabrics of her green sleeves. She couldn’t tell what was feeling more heated, her cheeks or the patch of skin beneath his touch—all heated from anger, of course. “It has been more than a fortnight since our time in the park, you could have returned it at any time.”
“Is that what I should have done? Return the book, only for you to accuse me of stealing it?” Anthony tilted his head, removing his hand from her shoulder. “No,” he clicked, “that would be entirely too unreasonable, would it not?”
(Y/N) pressed the book closer to her chest. A beat of silence. “I do not appreciate your sarcasm.”
“Imagine how much I appreciate your accusation, then,” Anthony quipped, albeit softer than his previous comments.
She deflated, wilted like a flower in a drought. “Perhaps I was a bit crass.”
“Perhaps I should have made a greater effort to return your book.”
“Perhaps,” she coughed, looking down at the ground. “Perhaps I should not have entirely jumped down your throat with such an accusation.”
“Perhaps not,” Anthony said, cracking a hint of a smile.
“Perhaps we cease the use of the word ‘perhaps’?” (Y/N) said playfully, her smile matching his own.
A sigh of relief, a breath of fresh air filled his lungs. “Perhaps we should.”
She nodded, her grip loosening on her book just a bit. “Perhaps.”
“For what it’s worth,” Anthony said softly, fighting his grin from becoming much larger. “I am sorry, for not returning your book right away. You’ve been a welcome guest in this home many time since then, I really had no excuse.”
“I wouldn’t say I’ve been a ‘welcome’ guest,” (Y/N) said, a bit of bite to her words. She swallowed them quickly. “Of course, I do appreciate you allowing me my friendship with your mother. Even if that’s not something we necessarily needed…”
“It’s difficult for you to accept an apology, isn’t it?”
“From you?” A laugh escaped her. “Of course. It’ll take a lot more than just a few words for me to forgive your transgression. But, I appreciate having my book back all the same.”
“Is that a thank you?” Anthony crossed his arms.
“I am not sure,” she said, turning on her heels. “Is that an apology?”
She had already begun to walk away, but Anthony could’ve sworn he saw her cheeks lifting, a smile tinting her voice.
—
Returning to the Barlow Estate, (Y/N) held onto her book as if it was the most precious piece of literature in the world, almost as if it were a copy from the royal archives and the like. She wasted no time to return it to her own library, a small collection of tomes and books in her bedchambers, unlike the large expanse of books in the drawing room just a floor below.
She peeled open the cover, her fingers rubbing over the inscription on the inside. Her mother's name, written in the finest of penmanship on the top corner.
She realized, he could have left the book in the park, if she had truly left it behind. He could have allowed the changing weather ruin the perfectly good text, let someone else take it for themselves. And while he had many an opportunity to return the book, he was the head of his family, a busy man, after all.
Perhaps Lord Bridgerton wasn't as uncouth as she once assumed.
Summary: Reader is on bedrest, nearing the end of a taxing pregnancy. Bored and restless, she hatches a plan to keep her hands busy.
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: Reader is pregnant, tooth-rotting fluff, self doubt, a joke about gaslighting.
A/N: sorry for the hiatus. I hated it too my loves, life is just... crazy. Also first Spencer fic?? word.
"I just have questions.”
“You always have questions,” she hummed, gliding her scissors across the purple fabric. “The only answer I have for you is that I’m on house arrest and restless. Gotta find some way to pass the time.”
“And tearing up my shirts is the best use of that time?”
“House. Arrest,” she clicked.
Spencer scoffed, smiling at her quip. The doctor had put her on bed rest for the last few weeks of her pregnancy, citing the stress of their job and the physical demand was too much for the baby. They had never planned on her continuing in the field during the final trimester anyway, but the doctor was adamant about as little stress as possible. “Bed rest isn’t the same as house arrest, lovey.”
“Sure feels like it,” she said, throwing a scrap over her shoulder onto the floor. “First, I had to give up sushi and my wine, now I have to sit around and be a proper housewife?”
“If it’s any consolation, you’ve never been a proper housewife,” Spencer said, cringing as soon as the words left his mouth. “I-I mean, in the traditional sense—you’re a hardworking woman with a rather successful career—”
“And now my husband is verbally abusing me,” she sighed, though no malice was in her tone. Very clearly a joke.
“I wouldn’t say—”
“And now he’s gaslighting me!” (Y/N) nearly giggled, trying hard to keep the argument going. Spencer joined in on her laughter.
“I…I’ll shut up now.”
She turned on her chair, looking up at Spencer. “Normally, I’d be against such a thing, but silence is appreciated in my time of solitude and sewing.”
“I didn’t know you could sew,” Spencer mumbled, rubbing her shoulder.
“My dad taught me the basics,” she explained, placing the fabric into a pile. “I was always getting rips and tears in my clothing. He claimed it was a valuable life skill for me to learn, but I think he was just sick of doing the mending himself.”
“I love learning new things about you,” Spencer said softly, his eyes practically pooling with affection.
She snorted. “It’s not the most interesting fact about me.”
“Every new fact is the most interesting fact about you.”
“Okay sap,” she pinched his waist, causing him to flinch away from her. “You better get going to work before Hotch throws a hissy fit.”
“How could I?” Spencer had already moved over to the fridge, throwing the essentials in his lunch bag. “You’re tearing up my work clothes.”
“You haven’t worn this shirt in months,” she pointed at him with the scissors in her hand. “I should know, you packed it away for the move nearly five months ago. If anything, I’m giving it a new life.”
“A new life as…?”
“Nope,” she shook her head, rising from the dining table. With a few careful steps she made it over to the fridge. “Not telling. It’ll ruin the surprise.”
“So it’s a project for me, then?”
All it took was a pointed look and a raised brow for Spencer to get the hint. He gave her a quick kiss, a loving goodbye to both her and their growing bundle of joy before leaving.
“Profilers.”
—
What started as a supposed and rare office day turned into a five day case in Wisconsin. Not unusual, given their line of work, but it was still exhausting to be away from his family for so long. Spencer decided exactly thirty hours into the case he’d never take the fact he worked with his wife for granted again.
His relief was found the second he returned to their home, opening the door to the smell of cookies and the sight of his wife hanging up their jackets in the hallway.
“Spence!” (Y/N) exclaimed, all but dropping the remaining coats to embrace him. “I didn’t know you’d be back tonight, Pen made it seem like you guys were still going to be there until tomorrow!”
“We had a new lead that wrapped it up rather quickly,” Spencer said, hugging her a bit tighter, not ready to let go of her warmth. “You’re unpacking?”
Their attention was turned to the boxes on the floor. All but one of their winter coats had already been removed and hung in the entryway closet. “I told you, I’ve been restless—”
“Honey, you’re supposed to be resting,” Spencer smoothed her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. “This could’ve waited until I got home.”
“I want to be settled before she comes, you know?” (Y/N) tried to explain, a hand moving protectively on her bump. “Nesting and all that.”
“How much more unpacking did you do when I was gone?” He didn’t need to ask, he already saw the pile of broken down boxes in their living room. If he had to guess, she’d made quite a dent in them.
“Only a little,” she argued. “After I finished my sewing project the mountain of boxes overwhelmed me—it’s silly that you think I could’ve stopped myself from doing it.”
He laughed. “I guess so.”
“I mean, who buys a house around the same time they’re expecting a baby? It’s maddening!”
He bit his tongue, knowing any statistic that popped into his mind to correct her wasn’t worth sharing with his extremely pregnant wife. He already learned his lesson when he corrected her on the history of bubblegum a few weeks ago.
“Maddening,” he agreed.
“So what if I unpacked a few boxes? I finally found my KitchenAid! Packed with the baking trays if you could believe it.”
“That explains the cookies,” Spencer said softly, smiling at his wife like she held the world in her hands. “Please tell me that other than the few boxes and cookies you spent your time off of your feet and resting?”
“Would I lie to you?” She crossed her arms, pursing her lips.
He gave her a trying look.
“Don’t answer that.”
“Will you please go sit down? I’ll bring you a plate of those delicious smelling cookies and you can interrogate me about my extremely exciting trip to Wisconsin,” Spencer rubbed her back lovingly, trying his best to convince her.
“Jokes on you, I was just about to go sit down anyway,” she kissed his cheek, patting his jaw lovingly. He needed to shave. “Now I get cookies brought to me by my handsome husband.”
It was chocolate chip cookies she had made, her mother’s recipe as far as he could tell. It was her go-to when she made cookies, save for the peanut butter blossoms she made for the holidays. Spencer loved either kind, especially because they were made with the loving care of his wife. Placing five of the still-warm cookies on a plate, he walked to their living room, his wife already making good on her promise of sitting on their new couch.
She claimed they didn’t need a new one, but Spencer made a rather convincing argument, the dark green of the new couch would fit much better into the aesthetic of their new home. (Y/N) didn’t have much of a leg to stand on, given her old couch was a ratty grey one she had since college. It was also really ugly, a fact Spencer chose to keep to himself.
Sitting on their—rather beautiful—couch beside his wife was a purple teddy bear, the striped fabric looking familiar. “You made a bear…?”
(Y/N) quickly tried hiding the stuffed animal behind her back. “What? No.”
“(Y/N),” Spencer chided lightly, sitting down beside her, the plate of cookies nearly forgotten on their coffee table. “I saw the bear.”
“I didn’t have time to wrap it,” she explained, pulling it out from behind her. “Again, wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow…”
With the purple bear in his hands, it was clear his suspicions were correct. It was made out of the shirt, the striped purple one she had cut up days prior. “You made this?”
“I did,” she nodded, feeling bashful. “I convinced a friend to let me borrow her sewing machine to finish it. I tried hand stitching, but my patience was growing thin, you can only prick your finger enough times before nearly giving up.”
He laughed at that. “I see.”
“To clarify the bear isn’t for you,” she said quickly, sensing his confusion and possible disappointment. “I mean, in a way it is? But it’s for her—”
“I figured that much,” he laughed again.
“I just thought, y’know, given our jobs and how often you or I might be away from her,” (Y/N) shrugged, placing both hands on top of her stomach. “It’d be nice to have a piece of you behind. So… I made the bear out of your shirt.”
“It’s really—”
“It still took like, a stupid amount of hours,” she continued. “And even if you hate it or think it’s stupid, please be gentle with your critique. I know the eyes are wonky and—”
“It’s a very thoughtful—”
“I figured you’d like the purple shirt I chose, but I was hesitant because you loved that shirt, it was the one I bought you for your birthday years ago, the one you told me I shouldn’t have bought you but I did it anyway—”
“My love,” Spencer placed his hands on top of hers. “You need to breathe.”
His shoulders raised, inhaling deeply, hoping she’d mirror his movements. To his surprise, she followed along instantly.
“Better?”
“A little.”
“Before you cut me off again,” Spencer chucked, looking at her in that sickening way he always did, the kind of way that made her want to melt into the couch. “I was trying to tell you how much I loved it, the idea, the execution, everything about it.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do,” he mumbled. “To think about her snuggling with this, obviously when she’s old enough to be left with stuffed animals—around the one year mark or so—especially cuddling with it when I’m away? I-I don’t know what to say…”
She could see the tears forming on his face, afraid they’d fall. “Oh no, I didn’t mean for you to cry!”
“Happy tears, my love,” Spencer clarified. “And perhaps a bit of mourning for one of my favorite shirts.”
“You haven’t worn it in a while,” she tried to argue.
“You haven’t worn your wedding dress in a while,” he teased, pulling her into his side. “Should I go and cut it up for a heartfelt gift for our daughter, too?”
“Hm, perhaps when she gets married. Could be her ‘something old’?”
Spencer’s face blanched, flashes of a distant future in which he was walking his little girl—someone he hadn’t even met yet—down the aisle. “I’m not ready for that. She’s not allowed to get married, ever.”
“Spence, she doesn’t even have a name yet, of course she’d not getting married anytime soon,” (Y/N) giggled, her laughter like a bell. His worried heart immediately felt at ease, the medicinal properties of her laugh was something he wanted to study.
“We should probably get around to that,” Spencer nodded, thinking back to their list of potential names.
“Probably.”
Her sweater felt like heaven against his fingers, soft fibers tickling his senses as he rubbed her side, enjoying the feeling of her next to him. “I’m just so ready to meet her, to hold her, to love her,” he sighed.
“Me too,” she said, her tone matching his entirely. “I want to be more sweet about it, but I’m so ready to not be pregnant anymore.”
“Just a few more weeks,” Spencer nodded, knowing the toll the pregnancy was taking on his wife. “We’ll celebrate with a dinner of all the foods and drinks you had to give up for most of this year.”
“We’ll also have a baby,” (Y/N) added.
“I know, but I figured you would be placated by the idea of a fun dinner,” Spencer smiled. “On top of our daughter being here.”
“God I miss sushi,” (Y/N) moaned, head turned towards their ceiling. “Yes, okay, a fun dinner would be excellent. Snuggling our perfect girl while inhaling a spicy tuna roll from that place downtown, sounds like a dream.”
“Well, preferably inhaling it away from our daughter, but yes, that sounds nice,” Spencer smiled softly.
“Our daughter…” (Y/N) said, looking down at her baby bump. “I still can’t believe we’re having a baby. Like, genetically fifty percent me and fifty percent you—one hundred percent our legal responsibility.”
“That’s typically how it works…”
“We’re not going to ruin her, are we?” She asked, turning to look at her husband. “I mean, with the work we do, how often we’ll likely be away…”
“She has her new bear,” Spencer said, his voice softer than silk. He pulled the bear into her lap, drawing her attention to it. “You already thought of something so kind to give her, to know we’re going to be with her even when we’re gone.”
“It’s only your shirt though,” she sighed, feeling too emotional about a silly bear. “She’ll only think of you.”
“Make another one,” Spencer offered. “You have that green blouse with the lipstick stain on it—the one you insisted you could get the mark out of?”
“I never got it out..."
“Cut around it,” he laughed lightly. “Even if you decide to not make another bear, rabbit or whatever animal your beautiful mind comes up with, she’ll know how much you love her.”
“You think?”
Spencer hugged the bear tightly, squeezing it as hard as he could. “Angel, I can feel the love you put into this bear. I know she will too.”
She smiled at that.
“I know how scary this all is,” Spencer reiterated. “I mean, I’m terrified. She’s going to be so little, so reliant on us, so fragile. But you know what else?”
(Y/N) tilted her head up. “What else?”
“She’s going to be perfect,” he said lowly, honestly, truly. “I just know when we meet her for the first time, all of those fears are going to just melt away.” His fingers wrapped between hers, squeezing them just tight enough, enough to convey every emotion he was feeling in that moment. “And even if they don’t? Even if we both are constantly freaking out and taking her to the doctor all the time or wrapping everything in bubble wrap, we’ll get to do it together, as a team.”
“We make a good team,” she agreed.
“The best team.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, hands still intertwined. “Thank you, I needed to hear that.”
“It’s the truth,” Spencer said, love oozing from his lips. “We’ll be ready for her.”
“I know,” she hummed in contentment, enjoying the moment. “I already did so much unpacking when you were gone.”
“Please let me do the rest, angel.”
She laughed lightly, patting his arm.
“No.”
—
BONUS:
Spencer had been going through their closet, trying to find a specific shirt for work—the one that matched a green tie he had in mind. “My love, was there another box of shirts hanging around? Or is everything already unpacked?”
(Y/N) placed the book she had been reading in her lap, looking towards their closet. “I think so? Why, is something missing?”
He walked out of the closet, hands on his hips. “I think a few of my shirts are missing.”
She bit her lip. “Uh… no, I don’t think there’s any shirts missing. You must be remembering wrong.”
Spencer blinked, posture unchanged.
“Which… would be impossible because you don't remember anything wrong,” she groaned, rolling out of their bed and planting both feet onto the ground. “Fine, okay. You’re missing a few shirts.”
His lip quirked, a smile tugging up one corner. “Casualties of your sweet gift, I imagine?”
“Shut up,” she swatted the air, not even in his general direction. “I couldn’t get the pattern right. The online print out was terribly misleading.”
He laughed. “I’m sure it was, angel.”
“It was!”
He took a few gentle steps over to her, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her hairline. “I believe you.”
Hi! I love your writing of foolish endeavours!!! I hope you release the next part!!! I’m dying because of the cliffhanger!!!
I do plan on releasing the next part, trust!
For me, it's a matter of inspiration, and occasionally other fics and stories get in the way of my other works. I hate the way my brain deals with inspiration and the comings and goings of productivity, but here we are.
I hope to get the next part of F.E released soon though!
Anthony happily married, and OMG in F.E. Ben would be happily married as well 🥹
Have I watched season 3???? uhm...
yeah :) :) :)
How anyone expects the public to wait nearly a month to the second part is out of their mind imo. It's been pretty good so far! (not loving where they're taking our sweet Benedict this season so far, but I have faith Shonda will see us through and give him the best!)
And bestie, you are so right. I hope reader and Ben are happily married by season 3 as well!! Although... who's to say? (jk i know how their story ends, so dw!!)
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