Violet and Benedict: The Mother and Her Mirror (x)
Benedict and Anthony: Who Parents The Parents? (x)
Francesca and Benedict: On Queer Joy (x)
- parallels:
Benophie as the Sun and the Moon (x)
Sophie and Benedict to Orpheus and Eurydice (x)
Sophie and Brienne of Tarth: On Heroes, Fairy Tales, Virtue and Honour (x)
- to literary works:
Benedict and Sophie to John Keats' Poems (1) (2)
deepdives & other stuff
An Examination of Benedict's Costume Evolution in Tandem With His Evolving Role in The Family (x)
Femininity and the Trans Allegory in Sophie's Story (x)
fics (longfics go on ao3)
- aus/multi-part chaps
Childhood Sweethearts AU- Or Benedict and Sophie meet as kids! Can be read in any order. Tagged #kid benophie au (while you're at it, you should check out @nallhir's beautiful artworks of Benedict and Sophie as kids, which uh.. suffice to say, sent me down this rabbit hole in the first place XD: Benophie with kites; Meeting as kids; Sophie's childhood)
- sophie povs.. or a look into sophie's perspective. canon and pre/post-canon fics:
Sophie tells her friends the news of her engagement (x)
The breakfast scene from Sophie's pov (x)
Sophie takes care of Posy when their father doesn't. (x)
- miscellaneous stuff
Benedict offers Fran some comfort as she prepares to leave for Bath (x)
My Brother's Keeper, My Father (is six feet deeper)
(.. or Benedict grieves his father. Properly, this time.)
Written for Benny Rave hosted by @ourcottagehq here on Tumblr!
Prompt-> Day One: Benedict Appreciation.
"Father! I know you are in here!"
Benedict crumpled down as if he were missing a spine. He rested his weary head against Edmund Bridgerton's headstone, but he very well could've smashed his head against the rough stone for how violently he put himself down to his father's level. With two of his shakiest hands — sometimes he could see three — he set the bottle of liquor down, right where his father's head would've been and stood still, listening to the sounds of birds chirping madly in the afternoon.
He took a handful of the soil, wondering what it must be like for his father.
He was in a place where the air was always cool, smelled fresh as the earth when it rained and teeming with cities of worms, mushrooms and grief. The groundskeepers at Aubrey Hall had diligently uprooted any and all weeds that had infected the late Lord Bridgerton's grave, but they could not remove the permanent, certain stench of death. It was a happy place, no really, it was. He rested beneath a tree that hoisted up a wasp's nest. Not a bee's, but what difference did it make?
Nature had a very.. interesting way of begging for forgiveness sometimes.
"I know you're here," Benedict spat. He wept, snorted and perspired all the same. Whatever salt he had left in him, it would go to help salve Edmund Bridgerton's wounds.
It was bad to get intoxicated at one's wedding. It was a crime to get wickedly drunk on a cocktail of a bit of everything at a brother's wedding, that too. Thankfully, the party had died down. The guests were securely ushered into the many, many parlour rooms Aubrey Hall had, for the wedding breakfast after a lovely wedding at a nearby church. Congratulations, gifts and even more congratulations poured in for Kate and Anthony, with of course, unnecessary questions such as, "When can we expect an heir?"
H-E-I-R. Not hair, which was spelled H-A-I-R.
He'd learned the difference the hard way, and felt quite stupid about it afterwards. It wasn't until Nan had sat him down and taught the difference when he was a boy of three, so he may never endure a confusion ever again. An heir, or a successor to put it colloquially, was "the eldest child in the family, who would take after their parent in the event of their untimely death". A strand of hair was immaterial, as it often grew back rather quickly. One would not fret about losing a lock of hair, but they would definitely worry if say, their beloved heir disappeared mysteriously in to the night.
One need not worry about losing a hare, as hares often reproduced senselessly, so you could hunt them down as much as you want and you'd never have to concern yourselves about whether there'd be enough of them left for the following day's hunt. One must however, worry senselessly about losing an heir, as an heir would inherit everything from their father, who in turn had inherited everything from his father and so on. Hares feasted on grass everyday and fucked every night. Heirs worked tirelessly at their desk, managing properties and investments, preparing their own heirs to inherit the desk before death came knocking.
Now, 'air' was a different word altogether, even though it rhymed perfectly with 'hair', 'heir' and 'hare'. Air was everywhere. Everyone required air, for they would not survive without it, and strangely it was invisible. When Benedict was a boy of four, he'd wondered why everyone could see water but couldn't see air. He'd tried trapping it in jars, but it did not slosh around the way water did, even though both were necessary for life.
It did not seem quite intuitive of nature to make only a few of life's essentials visible, and casting perhaps, one of the most important things ever discovered, into perpetual obscurity. He'd brought it up to Nan; one of the cleverest people in Benedict's life and perhaps one of the only few people who'd understand his inquisitiveness and were kind enough to provide him with their own answers.
"Well, Benny," she'd said, whilst stroking his hair as she often did. "No one can see air, you are absolutely right, but everyone can feel air. Where nature removes a sense, she gifts one in its place. Everyone longs for a refreshing breeze in the hot summer, do they not? Can they anticipate its arrival, the way one can see water gushing through drought-ridden canals? No, but everyone still longs for it. Everyone prays and prays for the first kiss of cool spring rain, but it is the wind that casts the raindrops, it is the air that keeps us healthy."
"But no one likes the cold," Benedict had mused, cuddling up to her like a hare in its den. "No one wants winter and winter is all about the wind. Everyone complains and broods. Everyone would much rather have some tea and be done with all of it, and tea contains water. Everyone thirsts for water, 'cos everyone is so thirsty all the time because of the cold."
"Not so. The fire that keeps them warm at night is air as well. No one can light a fire without air, my dear boy. Have you tried trapping a candle in a jar? You should try it sometime. It is the air that gives fire its flame. A fire needs kindling, yes, but wood alone cannot give it its spark and hence, its warmth. No one, and I mean, no one, can ever manage a spark, much less light something aflame without the air that surrounds it. And what can one do with water besides extinguishing a flame forever? No, Benedict dearest. The nature you see hides so many secrets. Everything is important; the things you see and the things you don't."
"But how do I know what is important if I can't see it?"
"Did you not hear me? Everything is important."
"If everything is important.. then nothing is important," he'd echoed his Father's words.
If something was important to you, it would hold precedence above everything else in your life. For Father, it had been Mother and Anthony in that order. If you loved everything, the way a newborn child might have an inkling to put everything in its mouth, then you love nothing in reality. You'd put anything in your mouth if the opportunity presented itself.
Now, both Nan and Father were gone. He remembered both their words, as he remembered every little thing about everyone he'd ever spoken to.
He remembered Edwina Sharma's letter to her sister — wishing her well, wishing all of them well — that the latter had read out at breakfast. He remembered Edwina's careful omission of Anthony from her wishes; the way Anthony's mouth contorted, as if to object, before he hid it behind his cup of wine. He remembered Lord Napier's rambunctious laughter when he toasted to the lovely couple.
He remembered Colin's encouraging words to his brother and "his sister". He remembered Eloise hugging Kate tight, weeping tears of joy for she'd looked so wonderful in her bridal attire. He remembered Lady Raine's beautiful speech about "finding your better half", remembered every word of Gregory and Hyacinth's little play titled 'Anthony's Great Misadventures'. He remembered Lord Greene, Mr Thorne and Lord Ali's anecdotes, chronicling their boyish adventures in Oxford, for they'd all been classmates.
Lastly, he remembered his own mother tearfully speaking about how she couldn't wait to welcome Kate into the family.
"To Lord Bridgerton and to his Lady!" they'd all cheered, but Mother cheered the loudest.
He remembered the way the sickly air tasted the day of Edmund Bridgerton's wake. He remembered the way the ground shook to honour his weeping mother who'd crumpled to the ground like paper, bearing the weight of death but also life at the same time. He remembered the single tear Anthony had managed, carrying the burden of grief on his tiny shoulders. He remembered the way he towered over his family, like an unassuming clock tower or a deplorable umbrella. He remembered the way his sisters clung to his shadow, for the day was unfathomably hot and they were all dressed in the heaviest, darkest clothes.
He remembered his Mother's parting words to her husband, remembered every word of Anthony's eulogy, memorised every choke, croak, scream, howl, shiver, shudder and shriek of anguish that had transpired during the course of the wake. He remembered how everyone scattered away after, refusing supper and wishing to go straight to bed to their nightmares.
He remembered his grief, but he remembered the loneliness even more.
Rain fell the night of his father's wake, and rain fell today with the same ferocity.
Benedict opened his mouth, catching a few drops of water in his throat but it stung when it went down so he stopped quenching his thirst with rain and instead turned to his bottle. He swallowed the rest of it in a swig, drunker than ever and curled up against his father's grave to somehow fight the chill. The rain worsened, and the warm spring air did very little to quell his sorrows. The water soaked through his clothes, penetrated into his skin like a hundred sharp knives and turned his blood blue and fraught with illness.
"I remember what you told me that day, when I'd left for Eton for the last time. You said I wouldn't have Anthony to rely on anymore. He had bigger dreams awaiting him, you said, and I've spent everyday since then wondering if I had dreams that were equally worthy enough to be brought up in polite conversations. But you said nothing of that sort to me. Instead you said, I'd be all on my own. Now, you are all on your own. Mother says you'd meant it as helpful advice, but stating the obvious is of no use to anyone. Now, you are on your own. In a way, you freed me from my brother's hip, but you sentenced me to desolation as well."
Benedict pounded his fist against the soil in a drunken fit.
"I know you are in here!" he wept. "I know you can talk! Anthony swears he hears you! Mother sees your ghost everywhere! You haunt every waking thing except I! I know you can hear me! You wouldn't come up for your son? What sort of a father misses their son's wedding? Your only son's wedding! Your heir! Your wonderful son! I would not bat an eye if you didn't show up for me, frankly, I'd expect nothing less, but at least show up for your son! Get out, now! Get out of your hovel! Get up! Get up! Get up!"
He crashed his fist into the ground so hard it left a crack in the earth. His voice lost all its cadence, now squeaky like that of a child's. When one is in pain so agonizingly inhumane, inhumane in the sense no human should ever have to endure it in their lifetimes, the very idea of pain loses its meaning. Benedict's fists reddened and swelled to the size of two rotten apples, but the hurt in his heart was so strong that he felt no pain at all. He felt none the scorching red-hot anger like Anthony's, none the towers of despair his Mother built in her heart and for a moment, he felt nothing. He was as still as the air.
"What is honour to you, I ask!" he screamed at the grave of a dead man, hoping to summon him from the deepest pits of hell. "What is honour? What is it? You hide safely in the caverns of your coffin, leaving your wife to weep blood! You hide away and rot and rot because you'd rather stomach your death than hold your newborn daughter in your arms! To fight and live one more day, even if it means watching the light leave your eyes, even if it means enduring a slow, suffering pain — any pain! For her! You lack the courage to defy Death! What sort of a father are you, then? Can you even call yourself one?"
Benedict shook his head.
"Anthony loves you. All Anthony's ever wanted was to be like you, but he's never wanted to be better than you." he spat. "I hope he's steered by all the wrong winds. I hope his sail catches wind that strays him far, far, far away from your grave. I hope you never rise again to darken his doorway. I hope the next Edmund, whoever that may be in this family, will make your name solely his. I hope people remember your death more than they'd ever remember you alive."
He felt the last few drops of rain settle upon his tongue. It burned even more now, as feverishly as the hot sun.
"I'm an unneeded spare, and yet I have been.. spared and you haven't." he hiccuped, drunkenly. "I'm not … I'm … I'm more than that. No I'm not. Yes. Yes I am. No. I'm worthless as the dirt you're buried in, but.. I carry some worth as the dirt hides the uncomeliest of things. I do not know why I am allowed to live in your place. Spares are reserves, but anyone can make more reserves. It is the heir who must be vigilant forever. It is the heir who is needed to live. Don't you find it cruel, Father? Don't you find our circumstances utterly laughable? Don't you find it awful that the true heir is gone and the spare — your spare — is allowed to live? Brought down by a bee sting? I'm unneeded as the spare! Anthony would no doubt return with a child a year from now! A child he will name after you! And yet.. and yet…"
He caught a few teardrops of rain in the bottle and raised a mocking toast.
"To Lord Bridgerton," he clinked the glass against his lord father's gravestone. "and his Lady," — he pointed in the direction of Aubrey Hall. "May they lead long and healthy lives."
Anyone who's ever known grief would tell you that it always lingers in the air. The air carried a great many scents with it, such as horror and despair among others. The air was asphyxiating in nature, one of the many, many ways a tool for survival could turn sinister as quickly as a lord might die and wither away in a matter of seconds. Anyone can tell polluted water from its cleaner counterparts, but not everyone can tell the scent of sweet-smelling roses from that of the putrid smell of corpses, for they were one and the same. The very roses used to decorate one's vases at home would be used to hide the smell of a rotting man in a rotting box.
Indeed, the very air they breathed deceived them in horrifying ways. An impostor taking on different shapes, sizes and shades. If air was indeed, everywhere, unlike water that you'd only find in rivers and ponds and in pitchers, then air was nowhere, by Edmund Bridgerton's philosophies. For only an impostor would be able to find himself everywhere, masquerading as different people, pretending to lead different lives and being different people all at once.
For only a fraudulent resource such as the ambient air would wear a thousand different faces. Typhoons would blow off the very same candle it helped light. Zephyrs offered kisses of life, whereas storms offered kisses of death.
It would seem Nan had conveniently left out explaining the many dangers of the whistling wind. Air was everywhere. One could swallow it in a jar. One could let themselves be swallowed by it.
Perhaps nature was right to make it invisible.
Much like how spares hid in their heirs' shadows, much like how the night consumed the reek of natural decay, the wind held her secrets, not to appear mysterious, but with the sole intention to hide the tragedies of the world.
What did honour mean to him? No use screaming at a dead man to speak.
Here he laid drunk, refusing to give a speech, much less meet his brother eye-to-eye. He was Anthony's best man, his brother's keeper, his.. reluctant spare. Perhaps it was a good thing he was born first and Benedict was born second. Perhaps his father was right to condemn him to eternal loneliness.
Perhaps he was not important. Perhaps Benedict had sorely mistaken the nature of his father's love for him, if he harboured any. Perhaps it was a good thing Benedict scarcely remembered his Father's last words to him. Perhaps it was a good thing that Edmund Bridgerton was everyone else's father before he ever was his.
"Papa?" he begged, ploughing his weakened fists at his father's gravestone. "Wake up. Wake up, please! Wake up! Wake up now! Are you in there? Are you in here? Can .. can you come here? Can you come back up, please? Not for me, I know I'm always a second son in your heart, but for Anthony's sake .. and Colin's.. and Daphne's and Eloise and Francesca and Gregory and Hyacinth.. you.. you've never met Hyacinth! Can you come back up? Mother.. she misses you everyday. She doesn't want to be put in a dowager's house, not when she doesn't call herself a dowager. Goodness knows we've tried! Goodness— I—"
"Are you here?" Benedict began digging through the soil. "Are you here? Are you here? I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I know you don't think about me, but I think about you whenever Mamma suffers a nightmare and — and I'm forced to think about you everyday? Please, just please, let us stop this. Let us stop all of this and let us all wake up tomorrow in the same house for once. Papa, wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"
Benedict tucked his head in between his legs as he'd so often done as a boy of six and wept and wept till his lungs gave out. He formed a barrier, so no one, not even the inanimate clouds above or the inanimate father below, would catch a glimpse of his fast-flowing tears.
This is why he preferred gin, for he'd grown used to its putrid strength. The kind of liquor they had served at the wedding had rendered him disoriented. Benedict liked to think he would never be bested by alcohol. After all, it was only old water which stewed in its history for years on end. There was nothing dangerous about it, he'd thought foolishly, only to have his heart yield to the same grief his brother had suffered not too long ago. His heart had known love, but was permeable to great sadness just as much, even if he'd wholeheartedly, foolishly, selfishly, stupidly, naively believed in the contrary.
"Wake up!" he mouthed, for he could shout no more.
The wind took all of his unspoken words, coiled itself around the wasp's nest over his head and threw a few of those buzzing creatures off their course.
Nature had an… interesting way of begging for forgiveness sometimes.
“Angels, Lenore Dove told me, are humans with wings, who live in a place called heaven. Some people believe, she said, it‘s a possible destination after death. A god world for good people to go to. But Lenore Dove is the winged creature on my mind at the moment. If there is anything after the life I‘m about to lose, will I be with her again?”
Since Benny Rave is fast approaching, I just want to put out a bat signal that I'm open for prompts!
Ships I'm down to write: Benophie, Beaphie, Franchaela (+ platonic/familial pairings too!)
Can't write: Explicit smut, not my forte, unfortunately. That's.. pretty much it lmfao. (I'm open to writing heavy angst but since it is Benny Rave uh.. maybe we can take it easy?)
And ofc forever open to writing Kid Benophie aus! Not so great w modern aus but I can take a shot at it if you'd like me to try!
(.. or Benedict and Sophie contemplate children three days into their situationship. ft. Benedict's teenage angst poetry.)
Very much inspired by the new (or well... old) Lukerin interview w Lele Pons! Takes place after the library scene, but before the kite scene and the lake kiss.
Sophie returned to the library the next day.
And the next.
She loved the garden, but on sunnier days, she preferred to spend her time indoors. A preference! She could have a preference! Araminta, and sometimes the vindictive Philip Cavender forbade their househelp from exploring the very house they worked in. Sophie wasn't allowed to visit her stepsister's rooms unless they explicitly asked for her service, and much less allowed to be anywhere she'd liked. Her and Alfie, and later at Cavender House, her and Hazel had kept to themselves — trading gossip in the kitchens, drinking leftover liquor and trying to keep away from the respective masters and ladies of the house.
And they certainly did not fill their rooms with libraries.
Araminta had a shelf of books on etiquette, but not much else. Her stepsisters had never had the inkling to arrange and maintain a library of their own, for when Posy had expressed a wish to have one, she was asked to purge that thought immediately. Their late father's study was always kept shut with a golden lock, behind which a library did exist but was never used. Family records, books on heraldry, proofs of purchase and volumes of boring texts remained aloof, as if they were being imprisoned. The study would only be unlocked on Sundays, and that too to clean and dust. Never to pick up and read or poke around and explore.
Sophie never had to survive under such restrictive predicaments in My Cottage. Mr Bridgerton had given her permission to do away with asking his permission for anything and everything during the remainder of her stay, and simply "do as she pleased", which wasn't very specific to begin with. He was abed most days, recovering from his wound that had now begun to develop a nasty infection. Thankfully, the Crabtrees had brought dozens of tonics from the apothecary in the village and he was able to well, survive for the most part. Though his recuperation involved sleeping on for hours and hours. He only awoke to pen some letters that Mr Crabtree would send off with some post boy who came around every day.
Sophie wondered if he would feel better enough to come and join her in his library, as he'd done a few nights before, but after what had come out of it.. it was reasonable to expect that the paranoid Mrs Crabtree to have chained him to his bed forever.
She shook the visceral image of his lips from her head and committed wholly to exploring his collection of books. It was difficult to ignore him even in his absence. Sophie wanted to be done with this already, to go anywhere but stay here for a day longer but he'd tempted her with gardens, books and delicious breakfasts, she had no choice but to stay.
Besides, it was far better than taking her chances out on the streets. Sophie had concocted an escape plan a few nights before but had to put those thoughts to rest, knowing full well the Crabtrees would have her drawn and quartered if she showed any signs of fleeing.
They liked her.
Why?
Anyway, the library was one place where she knew Mr Bridgerton would not be, for it was a good distance from his bedchambers where he was under regular observation. Not that such rules would prevent him from showing up like an apparition wherever she dared to go, rather perhaps she would be spared from his infuriating presence that day. Perhaps the odds would be in her favour.
Sophie studied the books on the shelves carefully. There were books on just about any subject, but ordered clumsily as if the owner couldn't be bothered with arranging them.
It was a bit of a search; she found cooking manuals sandwiched between storybooks, books on grammar next to six volumes on natural history. Six copies of atlases — goodness knows what that hermit of a man would want to do with six identical copies of the same book, all stacked in various locations as if they were meant to be hidden treasures. Texts of Homeric hymns right next to An Incomplete Critique of Homer. A copy of Ovid's Ars Amatoria, or 'The Art of Love' next to Maria Edgeworth's Ennui. Whatever sick and twisted sense of humour Mr Bridgerton had, he made it a point to make a dramatic show of it in the way he organised just about everything in the house. (Sophie had found expensive ceramics right next to a tall jar of shiny-looking rocks. She did not find it so funny.)
For a gentleman's library, he did not seem to keep .. gentlemanly books. He did carry a few classics — Sophie had read Emma cover to cover and had developed a particular fondness for Harriet a long while ago, and she was in no mood to read it again. There were books on migratory birds, several books on gardening and books on herbs that were written so long ago, they all lacked revision. There were many volumes of Maria Edgeworth's writings — Practical Education, Belinda and some more realistic anecdotes, lessons and memoirs edged between volumes of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Sophie picked up a book at random, turned to its first page hoping to find some inscription, but found none. Not even a scribbled dedication!
The books she was allowed to keep as a part of her paltry possessions in her trunk were all loved and treasured to death. It was hard to purchase books, given Sophie had barely money of her own but sometimes Alfie would lend her some so she may get something for herself from the market. Once, she'd struck gold when stumbling upon a vendor's cart and got an old, battered copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. She'd scribbled anything and everything across its pages - her thoughts and testimonies, especially. Alas, her book was now tucked away in Cavender's House as a cruel joke of sorts; such powerful words of a woman at the feet of one horrid man. No, the bag would be with Hazel, she reassured herself. But when will I ever see her again?
Trust was difficult to come by for Sophie, but Mr Bridgerton gave her no reason to not trust him. He seemed kind, he kept his promise and sent word to his friends to enquire if they were in want of help on the daily, he had even penned a letter to Cavender himself - demanding Hazel be allowed to take a leave of her employment and be paid the remainder of her salary so she may find room and boarding for a few weeks. Though his implicit trust of Cavender worried her a little. What if harm were to come to Hazel anyway? What if the worst were to happen even after they'd done everything right?
Perhaps she should run away, but where would she go? The village, perhaps. Someone must be in want of help there, but where would she go later? It'd only put further distance between her and her friends. What would become of Hazel? Of Alfie and Irma? They'd promised they'd exchange letters, and they had, for a short while. Perhaps she could go to London. Better chance of finding work there and she could remain in close proximity to all her friends. As for the risk of Mr Bridgerton's looming presence, well, she'd just have to take the chance.
Not that she was in any danger of being recognised by him.
Sophie found a book and sat on a chair. She didn't want to read anything that late afternoon. The library she was once fascinated with, came to repulse her. The frustration of his obliviousness was too much to bear. She did not want to do anything with Benedict Bridgerton, she did not want to stay in his house and share his meals with him and she certainly didn't want to think about him every waking hour. I should sneak out of the window and bolt for the hills.
What would Alfie do in her predicament? Tell Benedict the truth? Use the time to rekindle a fleeting fantasy of the past? Alfie could not be more different from her. He had a heart. Besides, nearly three months had passed since then and three months was a very long time indeed. No self-respecting gentleman would fill his thoughts with fantasies and romance.
But she stayed put instead. Perhaps inaction was the best course of action. Sophie did not wish to endanger herself by acting on impulses. The Crabtrees had vouched for Mr Bridgerton, and Sophie trusted them well enough.
She cracked open the book to its first page. Judging by the way it was bounded, Sophie gathered that it could only be a notebook of sorts. Benedict's name was scribbled on the first page in unruly handwriting. It was different than the style he sported today; Sophie had stolen a glimpse at his letters to his friends and had committed his signature to memory. She did not understand why she made it a point to memorise it, but it had become a habit of hers to remember every little thing about him. The practiced ease of his scrawling, the way he underscored words for emphasis, the way he crossed his Ts with a dramatic flourish; there was always much to learn about Benedict Bridgerton and this book proved to be an excellent aid to her cause.
She flipped it to the next page and the next. Each page was filled with half-written poetry, absent-minded doodling and more pages and pages of poetry. From the very generous use of the word "love", Sophie knew this could only be the scribbles belonging to that of a very distracted Eton boy. Sophie was surprised to discover such personal items from decades ago still kept in pristine conditions. She did not expect Benedict to be so preserving — especially for a gentleman who loved to forget.
Maybe he only remembered the important things.
The first complete poem he'd written was stuck in between two pages. It was scribbled onto an ugly leaflet of paper, presumably in a hurry. The handwriting was different — impatient, coloured with evident signs of sleep deprivation and Sophie deduced it must certainly be something he'd conjured up in the dead of the night, having woken up after suffering a fit of inspiration. Somehow the image of it made Sophie laugh — a little fifteen year old boy with a mop of brown hair writing furiously against the dripping candlelight much to the chagrin of his fellow boarders.
In the garden among heaps of violets, it said, in bold letters.
I have always loved you, even before you came to be,
Somewhere in the gardens where I shall find you asleep,
Curled up in nature's arms, kissed by the breeze,
Wherever are you going now, will you tell me please?
At first glance, Sophie thought the poem to be in honour of his mother, but the second stanza offered a clearer picture as to who the subject of the poem could be.
I dream of gardens and I dream of bees,
I dream of cradles the shape of pease,
The sweet songs of summer will whistle through the trees,
Wherever are you going now, will you tell me please?
A poem for a daughter. Some child, probably. No. Benedict's daughter. She did not know why but she had an inkling that it must be about a daughter. Sophie had to pause to mull over the detail and the implications of said detail. Could he have had a secret daughter of sorts? An illegitimate child all along that he was supporting? No, it couldn't be. The Bridgertons were too overwhelmed with their own scandals to give others a second thought. Although, it was rumoured that the present Viscount had a history of keeping mistresses, but their fates were unclear. The Bridgertons were no stranger to any scandal, after all. No. No. But what if?
After much worried speculation, she arrived back at her original deduction that Benedict must not have been older than twenty at the time of penning this poem. It was an odd age too, for a boy to be writing so passionately of family and children when he could be writing about a great many things. Then again, the Bridgertons did value family a great deal, so perhaps all of them were like that.
There exists a summer where you will come to be,
I do not know how or when, and Mamma says "we shall see",
When I wake up, you disappear with the rest of my dreams,
Will you tell me where you are, will you tell me please?
You will be very loved, wherever you will be,
Meadow's deep, far away and free,
But wherever you go, you will have me,
Safe and content in a cradle tied to trees.
The narrator of the poem must be calling out to his daughter who was compared to a "summer's song" and fleeting breezes. She must be too quick for him, wanting to have her own way and pay no heed to her poor father searching for her feverishly. But he would find her eventually, as Sophie gathered from the poem, as the father would find her in her cradle at the end of the day. She must have her father's imagination. She will always have a piece of her father and would never have to feel lonely.
It was an interesting poem to mull over, but there were other interesting poems that warranted attention. Sophie turned the page to another one. Ode to Joy, it read but it was far from being an 'ode' strictly speaking. In fact, it was more of a couplet than an ode, but she did not wish to argue with a fifteen year old boy over that matter.
A love that we leave unsaid is sour as a lemon,
Yet is as sweet as our child so lovingly awoken.
We do not have to shout it, for it to be love,
As it so exists in the form of our child, our beloved.
Another one, left untitled, read—
Let us speak softly for the briefest of whiles,
Else our child will wake and she will bear your smiles.
Then there was one titled At Home. It pulled a chuckle out of her lips.
Her Majesty has her diamonds, Mamma has her rubies,
But a mere second with you is what I desperately seek.
"I see you have found my failed writing attempts."
"Mr Bridgerton!" The book nearly flew out of Sophie's hands, but she quickly gathered herself before she could cause more trouble. She shot right out of her chair, but she did not know if she was meant to be bowing at him.
"Sit, please!" he insisted, leaning against the doorway. Sophie noticed he was paler than usual, terribly weak and in urgent need of rest.
"Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
"All day?" he huffed, as if it was Sophie who imposed those restrictions onto him.
"It is what Mrs Crabtree would like."
"There is no danger of her discovering my disobedience. I assure you, I am quite safe. Besides, I am recuperating, aren't I? Must I be confined to bed throughout the day, in addition to being confined all throughout the night as well, as if I were some prisoner?" Benedict expressed, with his usual theatrics. "Did you like it?"
"I.." Sophie promptly placed the book back where she'd found it. "I had nothing to do with it. I was merely.. um.. reaching out to retrieve a book behind it. Yes. This was in the way."
Benedict raised his eyebrow.
"Fine, well, I — I did read some of it." She handed the book back to him.
"I was perhaps, fifteen or sixteen when I wrote all of these? Goodness me, I must thank you for discovering it. I would've thrown it away, for I .. tend to forget myself sometimes. Thank you. Sophie."
"Ah, well, it is not —" she began, trying to refuse the compliment but off Benedict's misty-eyed expression, she withdrew her efforts. "You are welcome."
"I was in Eton, about Gregory's age, you see?" he said, "I'd loved writing these silly little things that don't really — I don't suppose they make a lot of sense, do they?"
"Actually," she replied, "they make perfect sense."
"You think so?"
"Why did you stop?"
"What makes you think I've stopped?"
"Given your… dabbles in artistry, I would not put it past you to give this up as well, perhaps out of fear of being scrutinised."
Benedict shrugged, "My brother is a better writer. He's got a nice little travelogue coming along, and I suspect he might write more volumes soon but I'm afraid he's more interested in cheese than anything else. My sister does some writing too, but she is a bigger reader than a writer, you must know Eloise by now. Point being, well, there are enough words as is. Words and pictures. It must get so repetitive after a while."
"No, I think it is all quite beautiful," Sophie averted her eyes, fearing she'd be more vulnerable if she were to look directly into his eyes. He did have nice eyes, she thought.
"I think it is .. silly," she continued, "to assume people would grow tired of words and — pictures, as you've put it, as if we'll run out of things to say. I don't think there are enough words to describe what I feel for.. what people normally feel. Or pictures."
She met his eyes again.
"Why did you stop?"
It was Benedict's turn to look away. She noticed his cheeks turning bright red.
"You are an artist, and an artist will want words as much as they will be in want of colours." she said, but quickly added in a, "I presume" so as to not be very definitive.
"It is unlikely I will ever marry," Benedict spoke, as if it was information that was directed at her specifically. He gave his book a little once-over. "I.. these are well, the dreams of a child really, so the poems — if you can even call it that — are of a different time altogether and holds a different understanding of the world. Perhaps one day, I shall return to the things I held close to my heart, but I reckon it will take its sweet time."
"By 'it', a daughter, perchance?"
Benedict chuckled. "I loved taking care of my sisters and um, childishly hoped that I'd — have a child of my own. A daughter, if I were lucky. I was very young then, so the reality of rearing children did not dawn on me just yet. I was .. small and loved my mother and loved my sisters, and bore a tolerance for my brothers — I jest! I loved them all equally. But.. after I'd returned a grown adult, there seemed to be a noticeable difference in the air. I miss the youthful innocence of spring sometimes."
"You are not dying, are you, Be- Mr Bridgerton? Sir."
Benedict laughed at that. It wasn't the least bit funny, but he still chose to honour it with the loudest of laughs. "Might as well die now and put an end to this suffering," - he gestured at the bandage.
Sophie rolled her eyes. "Isn't that always the case?"
"But I do live everyday for the prospect of a child. If not my child, any child would do. I wouldn't kidnap a child, no, I think that would be quite unpleasant to carry out. It would seem I have so much love to give, and I do not know where to put all of it so I yearn for someone to take care of. It brought me such happiness and joy, you see, to look after my sisters. At first, I'd deemed the task rather tiresome, for I'd wonder why on earth would my mother ask of me to look after them given she was already there. But I've grown to recognise its marvellous importance since then. Sometimes I wonder why they all flock to me, when my older brother is already elected to be their guardian, but I suppose you can never have too many guardians."
He sighed.
"I.. tend to speak on for eternity sometimes. Forgive me."
Then, he looked at her.
"Would you want to have children of your own someday?" he blurted.
"What?"
"Pardon me — I — it is only a — no, it is a silly question. I figured since we were discussing children, I— well, you do not have to answer that."
"I suppose I would have to find a suitable person to have children with." Sophie said, still reeling from the shock. "It will be a difficult endeavour, but I will be grateful for my hesitation in the end. Besides, finding a partner as is would be quite effortful. They would have to agree to the union and one cannot let their entire life hang on such slim luck."
"Why so? I presume it would be the easiest thing any of us will ever do."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"A partner is well.. not a problem!"
"But I am a maid, sir." Sophie said, through gritted teeth. "I cannot be expected to aspire on par with those who can, much less be comparable to those who have plentiful."
"Ah. I.."
"Please do not forget it."
A beat. Then,
"I must go."
"No, please, I.. I did not mean anything malicious!" he called after her retreating back, which made Sophie stop in her tracks. "If it is poetry you want, may I interest you in some — well, better-written ones?"
"You have more of your writing?"
"I'd meant.. written by true poets, but I suppose I can.. search for some of mine as well, if you enjoy my boring drivel… ow!"
Benedict reached for the nearest shelf, sending a flurry of books to the floor. He dropped down on the ground, picking apart books and searching through the accidental pile he'd created for any books on poetry. Sophie knelt down as well, helping him gather the books and for the briefest of moments their hands brushed. She caught him staring at her, the green in his eyes glistening in the soft candlelight. The air between them tightened, and immediately Sophie withdrew her hands. She rose to her feet and Benedict followed her stance shortly after. He handed her the books briskly with a bright smile on his face. There were some published works, but Benedict, per her request, had given her a book of his own poems as well.
"You certainly do not lack for words," Sophie grinned at the collection of books. "Are you certain you'd not mind me reading through your old writing?"
"Oh, no. Not at all! I told you, you can take any book you like," he beamed at her.
"Is it not .. an invasion of privacy? I certainly would not wish to intrude on your personal — stories and all."
"Not at all, actually. In fact, this is all for you. I mean—" he swallowed, "The library that is."
"We are to part ways soon, so I suppose it only makes sense."
"Ah. Right." he said, dejectedly as if he wasn't expecting it.
Sophie gave him a shy smile. "Well, your kindness is much appreciated. Even if I am to enjoy these books only for a short while."
"You can borrow them!" he nearly screamed. "You can have them if you'd like! Please, Sophie, I — I hate that I haven't made myself clear. You can take any book for yourself. They are only books after all, and they are of no use when they are sitting here, collecting dust for all of eternity. You may take them, as many as you want."
There were more handwritten couplets in the book Benedict had given her. Many witty rhymes about violets and hyacinths, which Sophie found particularly sweet but there was one that caught her eye—
My love, I hope our child has your joy,
All of My Love and all of your voice.
You are My Love, for ever, ever and ever,
Which is to say I hope she gets all from you altogether.
There were times in Sophie's life where she was convinced she was not the one being talked about. It was vainful to think so, yes, as clearly the world did not exist for her benefit, but it was difficult getting acknowledged as is. Sophie longed to feel included somewhere, even though Araminta was ever so frugal with her acceptance of her. For a moment, she let herself imagine the poems — well all of Benedict's poems —addressing her instead. She closed her eyes, letting a picturesque meadow swimming into vision, where a little girl played at the very center of it. She imagined a place where Benedict's child could feel all the love, remain happy, safe and content in her own little world. She imagined being the mother of said child, but stopped entertaining that thought as soon as she woke up from her dreams.
Sophie was a maid. A maid with a history of impersonating as nobility. They were but trivial dreams.
She shut Benedict's book, stuffed it in her bedside drawer and secured it tight under lock and key. She would hear no more of it.
(.. or Benedict suffers a traumatic brain injury and has to rebuild his fluency in speech all over again. Cue a truckload of adorkable Benophie.)
Thank you to a friend on twt for this lovely prompt (attached at the end)! Unfortunately I couldn't spend much time delving into the step-by-step process of speech therapy and rehab, so forgive any inaccuracies in the sciences. I've tried my best to consult various resources, so as to represent it right, but again, the information I've given here may or may not be accurate.
"Exactly how long would it take for him to regain his speech? I've consulted doctors here and several unhelpful internet forums and they all believe it would take upwards of about six months? Others believe it might take shorter, and yes while recovery rates do vary from person to person and the severity of the issue, I demand at least a number! A number is possible yes?"
"Ma'am—"
"So is it six or is it four?"
Suffice to say, it took a moment's time for Sophie to settle down.
The speech therapist, Dr Hale offered her a cup of water and some much needed space. Sophie's head was abuzz with questions, which only worsened as time went on. But how was she meant to go on like this without a morsel of information? Sure she'd studied his test reports cover to cover in addition to several medical textbooks that Posy had very kindly lent her, but they offered neither sincerity nor assurance in their figures. What was she to do?
The family were in want of answers as well. She'd seen how poorly Anthony had reacted when he was refused entry into the patient's ward, how their mother, Violet had wept endlessly with anticipation, how his sisters grew worried sick to their stomachs. She was answerable to all of them now. God, this was awful. He'd made a recovery, but at what cost? Given none of them were immune to worry, many a vexing speculations were issued which deepened the wound further. Benedict beginning speech therapy sessions only added to these growing speculations — friends and family wondering if he would make a full recovery after all.
It was a nasty crash and Sophie was to blame.
Sophie had studied every book on the subject, but each book left her with even more feelings of dread. Memoirs of people who've survived traumatic brain injuries, medical case studies, how to provide care and the recovery after. Her friends had sent her even more books and flowers as gifts, but she could barely look at them. What must've ran through Benedict's head the night of the crash? What did he think of? Something about his present recovery pulled her back to the past; the night of the phone call when the line cut short and laid dead. Sophie's breath hitched at the recollection, feeling the temperature in the room grow hot.
"He will need.. a friendly face." Dr Hale gave Sophie's hand a comforting squeeze. "I imagine it would be difficult conducting sessions with the entire family in the room."
"No, um, you're right. They keep texting me asking me for hourly updates. His brother has scared off every receptionist here, so much so he's been barred from entering. They would've given me the same treatment if I weren't his.. um.."
What was she to Benedict, now that she'd been the cause of his accident?
It didn't matter now, at least. He'd listed her as his sole emergency contact. There was a delightful irony in that.
The doctor nodded. "I'm.. well aware and those anxieties are completely understandable. Soon enough they will be happy to hear that he is on the road to make an excellent recovery."
"I do not think he wants to um, see me?" Sophie blurted out. "I'm not exactly a friendly face."
"But you will be his primary caretaker, correct?"
"I.. if he will allow me."
"So why doubt it?"
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know if he'll forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive." Dr Hale assured her. "The accident was just that. An accident. You did not hit him."
"No, but if I hadn't called him that day, he wouldn't have lost focus."
The doctor took a deep breath. "Caretakers can.. suffer burnouts too. Your situation is no different and definitely needs its own.. methods of.. healing, for a lack of a better word. I suggest you speak with the hospital's therapist if you require help and of course, you can always come to me for support."
"Thank you," Sophie accepted warmly. "I just— I just hope he doesn't.. I mean, it has always been you and him in these lessons. What if he is averse to having someone else in the room? What if he underperforms .. or forgets or God forbid, thinks of me as some rude interruption and that might affect his recovery? I do not want to be a part of that!"
"I assure you, he is still the same. Besides, you will have to sit with me at least once to learn how to help him through his lessons… unless you are interested in employing a speech therapist's services at home?"
"No! No! I mean — I would um, love to. Love to um, help him with his lessons. And we can always consult you, I suppose, if there are um, doubts afoot?"
"Of course."
"Good. Um. Excellent. Thank you." Sophie calmed down a little.
"Feeling better?"
"A bit. I know he won't.. bite. Goodness, I cannot believe I'm saying this! I'm not- I'm not afraid of him, all right? He's sick! He needs help!" she laughed mirthlessly. "I'm worried that he might — remember something and he might be averse to just the idea of being perceived, you know what I mean?"
"You have nothing to worry about. I assure you. Follow me."
Sophie followed her to the recovery room where Benedict was housed until he was to be discharged later that week. The pungent chlorine of the hospital walls tightened her throat.
Her heart cracked in half when she saw the husk of the man before her. Dressed in paper-thin hospital robes, a horde of machines surrounding him, he was unlike anything he used to be. Then again, he was still himself. Benedict stared out the window, watching the wind kiss the trees. A giant angry scar ran across his scalp but he did not seem the slightest bit perturbed the way it cut across his skin; the way the stitches wove into his flesh.
Sophie was no stranger to the scar, but it was her first time truly seeing its cruel magnificence. She'd visited him nearly every hour of everyday, only to find him fast asleep. She'd find him in deep slumber with his tousled hair covering the sides of his face, masquerading the severity of the surgery. She'd find him abed most of the days. Sometimes he'd sit up to eat under the supervision of his nurses. Sometimes he'd have music playing in the background — Francesca's rendition of Clair de Lune, against the cruel beeping of the machines that monitored his vitals confirming his soft existence.
That day, he seemed slightly chipper than usual, which was to say he wasn't curled up in a heap of himself every five minutes.
"How are you, Benedict?" the doctor asked him, already familiar with him and his manner of answering.
He answered with a hum.
"Liking the pudding?"
He gave her a lopsided grin, eyes still fixated out the window, presumably too tired to even sit up to greet his guests.
Sophie drew up a chair to sit before him, feeling a little too new to the room, but Dr Hale settled into hers rather comfortably. It was only pluasible that she'd struck up a newfound friendship with him. Expected, even! (It would've been a cause for concern if Dr Hale hadn't somehow earned his confidence yet.)
She had conducted private sessions with him before, and they'd done some phonetic exercises on a little tablet. She knew his family. She knew his hopes and dreams to some appreciable extent, probably. She must also know every inch of his condition, including his pre-existing medical conditions. Dr Hale was very much well-informed and therefore someone whom Benedict could consider a confidant.
Or even a friend.
It was childish to entertain the swell of envy Sophie was feeling at the moment, but she couldn't help but dwell on it. Benedict had spoken to his doctors more than he'd spoken to any of his friends or family — and by "spoken", he'd at least tried to; an effort he wasn't willing to take on for others who didn't know his body down to its very last neuron.
But the sessions weren't a breeze just because Benedict was willing to cooperate, as strange as it might seem. Dr Hale had shared her frustrations with Sophie before. It was difficult to get him to sit and work on it, for he would often slip away into sleep, but today presented a new opportunity. The speech therapist felt suddenly optimistic, and naturally Sophie had no choice but to follow suit. She was directed to hold a deck of cards and was told to pay close attention to the kind of exercises they worked on, so they could do the same at home.
"Benedict?"
"Hm?"
"Do you want to work on something today?"
"Eh."
Dr Hale laughed. "Not in a mood?"
"Nah."
"I've brought a friend with me. Do you want to see her?"
"Hm."
"You're going to get quite bored of that view, you know."
"Not.. much," he shrugged. "I am.. fine."
"You said that yesterday."
"I am fine!" he repeated with enthusiasm, but refused to look away from the window.
Dr Hale beckoned to Sophie, desperately in need of assistance.
"Ahem," she cleared her throat, drawing attention to herself. "Hi."
As if he were struck by a bolt of lightning, Benedict peeled his gaze away from the window to meet her. His eyes grew wide with surprise and immediately he sat up right, trying to make himself look as presentable as possible in front of her.
"The view is.. nice, isn't it?" Sophie supplied, trying to alleviate the tension in the room.
He must be so surprised to see her in the flesh, so she must take it as slow as possible. Not that he hadn't seen her face before, more so the fact that he must've not anticipated her visit today.
Either way, Sophie was very, very afraid of startling him. She thought of him as a porcelain doll, meant to be gently held, not rudely agitated. The doctors had assured her that he would need some time and to not worry herself sick if something out of the ordinary were to happen, for Benedict was still in the process of his recovery but to what extent did this space.. well, extend to anyway? She was afraid of overdoing it, but she was afraid of not doing anything simultaneously.
Clearly, there were a lot of things Sophie fussed about.
If the books didn't vex her, the articles certainly did. She'd devoured columns and columns of stories of people trying to regain their memories after losing it to brain injuries, and each one left her more uneasy than the previous. She'd thrown up countless times, cried herself to sleep in stuffy bathrooms and drank herself to oblivion at the thought of Benedict forgetting memories of her.
Oh not again. Oh please not again.
Dr Hale pulled her out of her thoughts by giving her an encouraging nod.
"Yeah, um the view…" she trailed off, returning her eyes to her cards. It took a tremendous effort not to cry. No, this was fine. He was here and he had recovered and most importantly, he was not dead. That alone was enough.
Sophie looked back up at him. Benedict's hand practically leapt out of its rest to curl against Sophie's, feeling her fingers. The gesture alone drove her to tears.
"Hi!" he greeted.
"Hi," said Sophie, grinning madly. She took his hands in hers, trying her hardest not to squeeze it to oblivion.
He croaked out a laugh. "Hi, S—S— So—"
Then Benedict stopped abruptly, struggling to recall what he had learned. Sophie's heart sank in the silence, but she did not let her sadness show. He took a deep breath to collect himself and decided that was good enough.
To think he'd went from sounding out her name as if it were a prayer to barely seeing it through to completion made her ache all over. Sophie knew she owed him that empathy, and that she could not hold it against him, but goodness, the recovery was torturous. She loved him. She'd tell him that every day and would beg with all her belief that he would have the strength in him to sound out her name one day. But God, it ached terribly. If all he can manage is 'So', then so be it. Let it be my name from here on.
"We've been working on our syllables last week," Dr Hale reminded her, in the off chance she'd forgotten. "This week, we'd started lessons in words and sentences, though it takes him some time to spell out a word. Improvement takes time, naturally. He was excellent yesterday. Managed a full sentence without any help at all. But it is important not to rush the process. We all have slow days. If it gets too much, take a break all right? It is very, very important you do not push yourself."
"I understand," Sophie agreed, pulling herself together. "What are we working on today?"
"Word associations," Dr Hale pointed to her stack of cards. "Each card contains a word, its synonym and a random, unrelated word. Select any card."
Sophie, grateful to be involved in the lesson, picked the first card from the deck and placed it in front of Benedict on the table.
"Now," Dr Hale turned to him. "You get a word and two additional words that come with it. Your job is to match the word with its right synonym, yeah? Try to sound it out the best you can. If you can't, just point to the option you think is correct. Understood?"
Benedict nodded. He focused his attention to the slip of paper before him, feeling the spot where Sophie's thumb had creased the edges. The first card contained the word 'Joy' with the words beneath it reading out 'Happiness' and 'Sadness'.
"J… Joy." he managed slowly as if he were savouring the feel of the word. Then, he identified a word that seemed to match it closely and pointed at it.
"Correct. It is happiness," Dr Hale guided him, nodding eagerly at his correct selection of word. "Happiness."
"Hm,"
"You remember happiness, do you, Benedict?" Dr Hale's voice was perfectly soothing. "Joy.. happiness.. it is quite a nice feeling, isn't it? The window.. the view from outside.."
"Yes," he agreed, looking at Sophie instead.
"We've discussed it before. Emotions and thoughts, and all the strangeness surrounding it, haven't we?"
"Mhm."
"Take as much time as you need. This isn't a timed exercise, so feel free to really focus on the airflow, the mouthfeel of the word, the sound. Lots to think about."
"Ha.. happy."
Relief flooded the whole of Sophie's body. Her shoulders sunk, feeling the weight of the world off her shoulders. Finally!
"You've got it! Now, can you sound the whole thing out for me? Happy is a state of being."
"Yes." he agreed.
"Happiness, however is a…?"
"F—feel.." he mumbled.
"A feeling, yes. What sort of feeling is it?"
"Joy."
"Correct."
"—Feeling," he repeated. "Happ—"
"Go on."
"Ha.. hap—" he concentrated, but he was too tired to get it out. Or maybe, something in him refused to accept the word.
His nose scrunched up as if he'd smelled something rotten, and gave his head a little shake. He looked up from the card and disappointment coloured his expression. He did not seem so satisfied with the lesson. Perhaps Sophie was to blame. His previous lessons had gone splendidly well without her in the room. He'd managed not only words, but full sentences and would have certainly improved if she weren't there. Now her presence confused him. He must wonder what his relationship was to her, even if they were.. for a lack of a better word, seeing each other. Benedict struggled with performance anxiety as is. She did not want to trouble him any further than she already had.
"Maybe I should go.." she whispered.
"No. Sit." Dr Hale insisted. "Benedict?"
"Perhaps I'm making him uncomfortable—"
"No, not at all. If you were making him uncomfortable, I promise he would've told you so. You have nothing to worry about, all right?" Dr Hale turned her attention back to her patient. "Joy. Happiness. Sadness."
"Yes. Well."
"Sound it out and don't worry about getting it wrong."
"Ha.. Ha..pe-e-e." Benedict stopped. Not that he was unable to continue, rather he was more interested in the "eee" sound. He seemed quite fascinated with it — isolating the "e" from 'happiness' to really sound it out. Dr Hale welcomed the process and let him figure it out on his own.
After much deliberation over the syllable 'e', he let out a sigh and turned to Sophie.
"So- So—ph..?"
Then, he turned to Dr Hale, quite proud of himself and awaited her assessment.
The room was.. understandably perplexed.
"Happiness," Dr Hale tried again.
"Joy," he spelled out the first word again, reminding himself of the question.
"Yes," she encouraged him. "How would you pronounce happiness?"
Benedict considered it, his head processing Dr Hale's questions. Sophie averted her eyes to the floor so he would not have to worry about her.
Finally, he managed an answer.
"So—f-ee?"
"Yes, that is Sophie." Dr Hale pointed at her.
Benedict shook his head, as if that wasn't what he was referring to.
"Joy?" he repeated the question as if he were quizzing himself and reminding the others. "S.. So.."
Halfway through her name, he gave up and pointed at her instead.
It took three more rounds of word association for Sophie to even begin to process what he'd just said. There was an evident confusion in the room that even Dr Hale, ever the composed professional, was forced to notice. But despite the tumult she'd caused, the speech therapist still insisted for her to stay.
Sophie did not feel anything but a present numbness. She felt cold and unfeeling as a machine as she supplied Benedict his cards for him to look at and pronounce.
Unfortunately for her, Benedict would not let her forget it. And by "it", well..
"Love. Passion. Oranges." Dr Hale read from the card first.
The words were all different in their syllabic pattern, so as to allow Benedict to get used to the feel of many a varying rhythms. Dr Hale was with him every step of the way upon noticing he struggled quite a bit on his own that day. She pronounced the words first, letting him repeat after her and awaited his answer. Benedict would follow her carefully, paying heed to every morsel of guidance she offered but when it was time to provide her with an answer, well..
"How would you say love?"
Benedict shook his head, rejecting all the options provided to him on the cards.
"Among these words provided to you." Dr Hale noticed the dilemma and promptly directed him to the sheet. She underlined the words with her finger. "What do you think 'love' is?"
Benedict giggled, as if he remembered some sort of an inside joke.
He hummed a snatch of a song, something Sophie could recognise in her sleep. God, he'd annoyed her with it many a times in the past. They'd spent two Valentine's Days together, and she had suffered solidly through both of them, for he would keep singing it unprompted. It had become somewhat of a little thing between them (even though Hyacinth had coined their behaviours "painfully milennial").
What is love? he hummed wordlessly, fashioning a beat by rapping his knuckles against the table. Baby don't hurt me. Don't hurt me, no more.
It pulled a laugh out of Sophie, which made Benedict laugh even more.
She remembered how effortlessly he could make her laugh with the stupidest of jokes. It was silly. He was silly. He was alive. He was silly and alive, which was a blessing, which implied he had not yet lost himself in the folds of his trauma. But he did endure other, perhaps more painful losses.
He'd loved talking. He still loved talking. It is what he did best. Benedict was still.. painfully Benedict. Sophie didn't know what she was even expecting - or supposed to expect (was it even up to her to expect things?) - when she'd followed Dr Hale to the recovery room, but she was relieved to know he still wanted to make her laugh.
"Benedict," Dr Hale said dismissively. "Let's focus, shall we?"
"Mhm, yes. Yes." He sent a wink in Sophie's direction.
"Love is..?"
"Uh—"
"You need to pick from these list of words, all right?"
"None," he said.
"What is?"
"None." he said, again. "L.. love is .. Soph.."
Benedict groaned, chastising himself for being so utterly helpless.
"Love is.." he began again, "..So.. ee…argh!"
He pointed instead, per Dr Hale's instructions.
"Her. Love is.. her."
Sophie opened her mouth to say something in response, but all she could manage was an awful, choking noise.
"No," the doctor began to correct him, as gently as she possibly could but Benedict was stubborn in his answer.
"No." he retorted. "Her."
Now, Sophie had shed many a tears — tears Benedict would never know of — all throughout the hospital over the course of his recovery from the accident, but she would always jam herself together despite feeling utterly weak. Someone had to keep their head above water, and the rest of the Bridgertons had succumbed to an early grief, so it had been up to her and Benedict's brother, Anthony, to steady the ship. Someone had to be there to receive him once he awoke.
But inside her heart wept inconsolably. He remembered! Well, of course he'd remember, but she didn't think he'd remember memories that she'd thought he would've already deemed insignificant, and therefore forgettable.
Once he'd cradled her face in his hands and in between his kisses, he'd said something along the lines of, "Words cannot describe how much I love you, so forgive me if I keep saying your name over and over again. The perfect word already exists."
Love is Sophie.
That is what he was trying to say, wasn't he?
The sentence cut through her like a knife, but it was as warm as a hug. It didn't feel real — whatever this feeling was. For a moment, Sophie was convinced Benedict must be referring to some other Sophie. He could not possibly mean her!
"That is incorrect, Benedict. Let's try again." Dr Hale had no patience for distractions.
"Hmgh," he said, pouting helplessly at the doctor.
Sophie laughed. He creased his brows and shrugged, as if to imply he couldn't quite understand what Dr Hale was trying to correct him on. Sophie had to exercise massive restraint. She had half a mind to kiss the pout from his lips, kiss him senselessly to the point of recollection, kiss him with an all-consuming hunger so much so he would never forget the feel of her name on his tongue ever again.
Her chest suffered a clench, as if someone were wringing it dry.
Be still, she placed a finger to her pulse point. Everything is fine. Control yourself, Sophie.
It was the sort of raucous optimism that kept her going these days.
Over the course of a month and a half, Sophie had suffered from feelings of dread, bouts of sadness, bursts of anxiety and yet, nothing was as severe as the feeling of elation. Elation, one that came with relief was as intoxicating as love. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but clamped it shut. Tears came steadily that she refused to show.
Not in front of Benedict.
They selected a different card. An easier one. It would be impossible for him to get it wrong.
'Everything'. 'All'. 'Apples'.
An odd mixture of words, but sensible nonetheless.
"Everything," he repeated after his instructor. "Everything.."
With each passing word, he seemed to show a jolt of improvement and his hesitation, as Sophie eventually gathered, did not stem from his inability, rather merely a hesitation. It was a hesitation that arose from a refusal to accept what was written on the cards; Benedict rejected those words that so conveniently came with their own synonyms and seemed to have a mind of his own.
Well, he did have a mind of his own, as any human being would, no doubt about that, but now he'd lent it to Dr Hale to assist him in rewiring it. And she was quite the expert, after all.
"Good. Very good."
He mumbled the words under his breath. Sophie studied his lips like a madman, the way they arched to sound out 'all' and the way his mouth contorted to accommodate a large word such as 'apples'. Sophie noticed that all the cards bore a fruit on them, which could only mean Dr Hale must've spent many a sessions, getting him used to various kinds of fruits, or food in general. Clearly these are all words he would have come across before, so he would have no trouble in getting this one right.
Benedict took a lungful of air. He must've repeated the answer a thousand times in his head already, just so he could deliver it right.
"Yes?"
"Sophie." he said, in a full breath and just to make sure, he repeated himself, "Sop..."
"Not .. quite." Dr Hale interjected.
He frowned. "It is Sophie! See?"
Benedict searched for her hands fervently and only upon receiving them did he quiet down. He pressed her palms to either sides of his cheeks. Sophie's heart was so full, it might as well burst but she had to keep it down.
"Sssss..Sophie." he beamed at her, delighted at having drawn out her name without pausing in between. His smile reached his eyes.
"Ben?"
"Your — name is so -" Another bout of exhaustion took over him. The drugs that kept him alive did so at the cost of his vim and vigour. Even the tiniest of exertions, as Sophie had observed, brought about such a fierce loss of energy. "- be- beautiful."
"You think so?"
"I.. I do not.." he exhaled deeply, conjuring the words in his head first and then training his tongue to expel it. ".. say it."
"No, you do! You have!"
"No," he shook his head. ".. sor..sorry."
"There is nothing to apologise for, you know?"
"I'm.. tr.. trying." he slurred.
"I know, I know. You're trying your best, and that's okay if things go slow. It's supposed to go slow."
"I want to .. say .. you.." Benedict tore his eyes away from meeting hers, his gaze falling to the floor. ".. your name.."
"What?"
"I miss... you, Sophie." he croaked, letting a single tear cross his face and down the length of his neck. "Sophie. Miss you.. so.. so.. much."
"I'm here. It's all right now, yeah?"
"Yes. Sophie." He would not stop saying her name now. He couldn't. Once he'd learned it enough to etch it across his tongue, there was no way he would struggle with it now.
"Things are going to be fine, you know? Just a little while and you'll be home."
"Long." he murmured.
"Yeah, I know. Awful."
".. Sorry."
"Stop saying that!" Sophie turned to Dr Hale, agitated. "Why would you teach him that?"
"I didn't -" she said, startled. "That's not how it works..?"
"You.. do." Benedict accused.
"I don't." Sophie said, firmly. "I don't - all right, maybe I am a little apologetic."
"Ha," he chuckled, turning his head away.
"I'm always going to be here, you know?"
"Hm?"
"You know that? I'll stay as long as you like."
"I.." he hesitated, trying his best to remember his old lessons and collect those pockets of memories at his tongue. "I.. know. You are.. here."
Love your work! Prompt (if this is your jam): Sophie being touchy feely during the engagement or marriage. Benedict is flustered as Sophie previously very guarded with her feelings🤣.
thank you so much! i love engagement-era benophie.
to everyone reading this: you may find my prompt submission guidelines here, and send me a prompt for a drabble here.
content warning: this drabble is suggestive, but not explicit.
The war commenced just before dinner, though Benedict did not know it at the time. It seemed accidental — innocent, even — when Sophie brushed up against his backside, passing him on her way to the dining table.
A sly touch of a palm to his bum, and Benedict straightened up in an instant, as though pulled up by marionette strings, much to the annoyance of Anthony and the confusion of Colin, who were seated on either side of him at this, the final dinner before the wedding.
The wedding.
It was Sophie — Sophie always, Sophie alone — who could draw such an exaggerated response out of this reformed rake, but it was the wait — the long months of abstinence while they were engaged, but not yet wed, as Benedict was nothing if not determined to respect any and all of Sophie's wishes — that transformed him from feverish for Sophie to downright feral. A mere touch and he was ready to whimper. That was his torture to bear, and only for one more night; no need to bother Sophie with the problem of relieving his seemingly unquenchable lust.
Then, during dinner, as Benedict's mother and endless gaggle of siblings each raised a toast to congratulate the couple, Sophie (who sat opposite him) kicked her up foot and delicately dragged down her dainty slipper — of silk, not glass — from the underside of his knees down to his ankle.
Benedict choked on a gulp of wine.
"Are you well, brother?" Francesca, who sat to his right, asked.
"Yes, of course. Yes! Yes. Yes." Good grief. Now, not only was he sullying his fiancée with increasingly impure thoughts, his fantasies running amok, but he was making a scene before his widowed sister, who'd so graciously given him and Sophie her blessing to proceed with their nuptials even while she was still donning her funereal blacks.
Benedict turned to Sophie, an apology at the ready, only to see her laugh into her cup. Laugh!
Nothing on God's green earth nor any hypothetical worlds beyond brought Benedict more joy than the sound of Sophie's pleasure, carnal or otherwise, even if it was at his expense, especially if it was at his expense. Her laughter at the sight of his confused arousal only made him more confused, more aroused, and thus promptly more laughter, and so on and so on. Oh dear Lord, may this feedback loop never end!
Dinner wound down soon enough. More toasts were made. More toasts (of the bread variety, that is) were served. Sophie looked at anyone and anything but Benedict, even as her feet lightly passed over his shin, once in a while. Benedict looked at nothing but Sophie, even when his mother bid them goodnight with stern instruction to remain in their separate wings of My-but-soon-to-be-Our Cottage. No one could accuse Benedict of being a rule stickler, but even if he had to sacrifice his mind, his sanity, even if he could never complete a second painting, he wanted to get this wedding right. He agonized for hours in that lonesome bed, taking himself in hand, flopping back in frustration when the mere fantasy of Sophie did not remotely quell his hunger for her reality, trying to surrender to sleep and pass by these tormenting hours unconscious, failing, and then, conjuring some new enticing image of his beloved, attempting to satisfy himself again.
He had just fished his cock out of his underpants when the knock came at his door.
Sophie.
"Sophie," Benedict sighed, the sight of her in a loose white nightgown, hair undone and and falling around her shoulders, bringing both relief and further torment. "What are you —"
She shoved him backward, then shoved the door shut.
"We should not ..."
"We should not what?" Her voice was rough, her desire too strong for her to even feign at a teasing innocence, the way she'd done when she played at being the silver ingénue at the masquerade.
With an arm full of Sophie, Benedict could hardly answer you if you'd asked for his own name, but he would always try to answer her. "We should be careful ... You said ... You didn't want ..."
"Oh, I want ..." Sophie whispered. Benedict's knees buckled at the sight of those eyes, glassy with wanting, dark with hunger. "I want you. I always want you." As he helplessly drew her back to him, she began mouthing at his neck. "It's one night."
"Oh ..."
"It's one night before we're married, before you become my husband, and I your wife."
"Oh my ..."
"One night. Even if I become with child" — her hands began to roam where his hand just been, dainty fingers dipping into his undergarments — "no one would know the difference." Her warmth tucked into his embrace, her lips at his ears. "Benedict, please?"
Months of patient restraint, of the careful upholding of a sacred vow, completely undone by a single plea?
Well, Benedict was nothing if not determined to respect any and all of Sophie's wishes.
☀️ “As I wait to be sure the coast is clear, I soak up the loveliness of Lenore Dove. She spins around, head back, arms lifted to the sky. It must have been hell for her being locked up. She can‘t stand for anything to be confined. Especially wild things, which, of course, she is.”
guys ignore the background president snow hacked my procreate 🤧
(.. or Sophie's stuck in Severance. Beatrice thinks of herself as Lemony Snicket. Much to bicker about over cute lunch notes and eggs.)
Slightly NSFW ahead! Nothing too wild though.. I think.
Sophie didn't ask for notes to be written for her, but it was one of those quirks that came free with dating one Beatrice Bridgerton.
It started out simple, actually. Unassuming. Conspicuous even. Not as out-there-in-your-face as say, a mother's loving note in one's lunch would entail. Not that she had much experience with loving mothers, but she imagined they'd conjure something up for their children to sweeten their Mondays. The concept of fun-coloured scraps of paper containing a lovely little something enclosed into the folds of a greasy sandwich delighted her initially, mostly because Bea had kept it.. how to put it delicately.. rather tame.
This new.. project, so to speak, of hers had begun with otherwise humble intentions at first— Beatrice, back then, could only make French toast, so she'd pack a Tupperware of it with a scrawly handwritten note in French. Grammatically incorrect French, but it was the thought that counts. Right? Once, she'd add a little dash of hot sauce onto it and had called it "spicy bread" but it was still very much a piece of French toast.
Nevertheless, Sophie encouraged her pursuits — she'd always return home from work with a finished lunch; the Tupperware licked clean.
Happy wife. Happy life.
But really, Sophie did want to support her.
Beatrice liked the concept of heat but feared cooking with it, so it was jarring.. and quite nice to see her in the kitchen these days and wield a hot pan without screaming bloody murder. She was in fact, an excellent baker but ever since the oven broke (... after a mishap involving several birds in the house. They didn't eat any, by the way. They also didn't die, so win-win..?) she was forced to work with hot stoves — or as she dubbed it, "the devil's asshole".
It wasn't like she could only make French toast. Bea could make a ton of other dishes just as well.
She made scrambled eggs.
She made soft-boiled eggs.
She made Eggs Benedict that she called Eggs Beatrice.
She made hard-boiled eggs.
She made eggs with rice, eggs with toast, devilled eggs that she called '#my eggs' (pronounced 'hashtag my eggs', no Sophie did not question it; she knew better now), jammy eggs, omelettes and of course, sunny side-up eggs that she dubbed 'Sophie!'
All right, maybe she had favourites, but who didn't? The chefs on TV had their own favourites, didn't they? Point being, that wasn't the point.
Or maybe it was.
You see, the eggs - a simple, otherwise humble dish requiring little to no preparation kept Beatrice's aspirations and therefore, the subject of her handwritten notes grounded. Sometimes she'd leave it with a "enjoy your day, soph!" or a "love you so so sooo much" with a sticker of a kawaii egg playing a musical instrument. Whimsical. Silly. Tame. Most importantly, not unsettling.
Worthy to underscore the fact that Beatrice Bridgerton, at some point not too long ago, was.. actually well, normal.
It wasn't until Sophie had bought a cookbook (it was on sale and she wasn't about to pass on a good deal especially when books did not come cheap) among other books that things had gone very, very wrong. In fact, Sophie could pinpoint the very second Bea, and therefore the kitchen and the rest of the house, began their respective descents into a downward spiral.
The lunches had become more elaborate. Shrimp risotto, decadent ravioli, ribbons of creamed fettucini, even tiny swirls of tortellini hid a sordid secret. The cookbook was perfect for egg lovers (or "ovarians" as Beatrice called herself) looking to make a transition into professional cooking. Homemade pastas employed lots of eggs too, and Sophie was relieved she could find a nice happy middle where she could expect new lunches everyday and not to have Beatrice give up her eggs as a result.
Poor choice of words, but still.
Going from cooking with eggs exclusively to cooking elaborate bouquets of pastas was a feat in of itself, something that seldom happened overnight. Sophie was impressed. Everyday there'd be a new pasta shape for her to try, a new mystery flavour for her to deduce and a delightful dessert to go with it — a square of chocolate, cream-covered strawberries, cubes of artisanal cheeses, a mini bottle of sweet champagne; everyday an endless surprise. Indeed, the cookbook did manage to make a mess out of their lives - arming her silly girlfriend with even sillier weapons from the silliest of arsenals but Sophie did not grow weary of the pasta lunches as she did with the eggs (Beatrice must've taken some sort of a personal oath; to prepare meals in a way that her tastebuds would never grow bored).
Sophie loved it, in fact. She loved the improvement.
That wasn't the worst part.
The notes were.
They went from being as short and curt as the size of her thumb to being as large as a full-blown handwritten letter that went on for two pages. Fucking stapled! And it wasn't a one-and-done thing, oh no, no. It progressively grew worse. They went from being a colourful Post-It to coffee-stained, parchement-shaped, like that of a terminally ill Victorian lady's scandalous writings authored to her "dearest friend". It would seem they became decadent and comprehensive in tandem with her lunches. Long gone were the days of simple squares of French toast with a heart-shaped piece of paper containing an even simpler message.
Last Tuesday, Sophie found a folded note with words covering every inch of it; a note about the size of a letterhead. That following Friday, she'd opened her lunch to find a five page note carefully packed into an envelope. The subsequent Monday, those five pages turned to ten.
Today, she held fifteen sheets of paper. (Sophie should've suspected something when Beatrice handed her her usual little baggie with her packed lunch and her mysterious folder that she'd asked her to open "much, much, much later" with a sly wink. That wink was unhelpful at best and deliberately misleading at worst.)
My darling, my sweetheart, my Sophie — oh what a delight it is to call you mine!
It is truly a shame that you are to toil away in the cavernous dungeons of your superiors. If I could burn every single one of them down, I will but you will hate me for it, but I can live with you hating me. I can tolerate your wrath, for I should be grateful to receive anything from you, as a matter of fact. Be it your love, your hate or even your mild loathing that I adore so much, I do not see the difference. Instead I see you make a delivery of who you are to me. You offer me your sincerity, your anger, your indifference and yet I have nothing to give you back. I shall give myself naked to your whims, hoping my vulnerability will suffice even though I know it will not.
On the menu today is a classic spaghetti dish with decadent tomato sauce. Homemade. A generous portion of cheese to go along with it — though I'm not exactly sure what it is though, I think you might have to give it the old sniff test but I'm.. at least forty eight percent sure it is mozzarella. It could also be cheddar, but you're always better at this than I can ever be, love. I chose this dish because it is a simple, unassuming plate of comfort. I recall the feeling of the warm breeze in summers, spending hot nights in Berlin with my stupid friends, the emptiness in my stomach the day after - this craving for a warm, hearty meal. I invoke the feeling of reassurance, one of solace and hope, one of your laughter the morning after, the softness of your skin, the gentleness in your sighs of pleasure.
Let me love you. Let me bring you pleasure abed, but let me bring you pleasure through nourishment just as well. I remember the feeling of you gazing through the window, this vacant, yet thoughtful stare you bore that inspired me to make this for you. I wanted to capture the essence of what it is like to be you — and I know I will never get it right in this lifetime. I'll never understand you but maybe as our months together turn into years and years into centuries and centuries into countless lifetimes, I hope you will show yourself to me. But I do not expect it — nor do I wish to hasten it. There is no Beatrice without Sophie; you, whose context I reside in.
Once at a friend's home, I was served some spaghetti for dinner. I hated it. It did not seem so.. understandable. It refused to be perceived. It kept getting everywhere. My mouth was as red as if I were a heron feasting on bloody carrion, and I hated it so much I never wanted to be served another bowl ever again. Now I want to make it forever, all for you. I want to know nothing but spaghetti. In a few years, they'd dig up my corpse from whatever fucking dumpster-on-fire, and they'd rip me apart because that's what these fucking doctors do - and they'd find my heart echo the same, soft sounds as the shrill crank of an old pasta machine. My heart beats for you and even if my body betrays me one day and my mind escapes me, my heart will always go to you and as long as you're somewhere in the world, I will not die.
Today's sweet treat is unfortunately not a bar of chocolate, but I hope you enjoy this little muffin I made! Well… sort of. I nicked it from Ma's house, but if she made me and if she made the muffin, then according to like laws and stuff, I made the muffin.. right?
I'm such a genius.
In fact, it is you who makes me better. You make me, me! You're all that I ever hope to have across all the lifetimes I've ever lived and..
… and it went on and on for ten more pages.
"Another one?" Alfie asked, claiming the spot next to her. Sophie gave him a solemn nod as she proceeded to stuff the giant folder into her bag. It didn't fit, naturally.
"She had it sent to me to the office."
"Like.. via the post? What?"
"You know, I've had people who've sent me flowers for Valentine's to my job in the past. Chocolates. Sometimes they'd book me a little spa day even. I mean, I'm not that likeable I.. think, but I'm not turning down a free spa day, am I? Ugh, I sound so ungrateful. Fuck! No. I mean, it is — great to receive little notes and everything, you know?"
"Of course, of course."
"But this is like, I don't know..? I mean, I'm not confused.. I'm not declining all this attention, I'm just not clining, yeah?"
"That girl loves you." Alfie said it matter-of-factly.
"Huh. Why?"
"Wh.. what the fuck.. what do you mean why?"
"I mean, we've only been seeing each other for like, a year and sure she kisses me everyday and tells me she loves me, but you know that's more of a friend-thing, I think."
"Sophie, um," Alfie set down his sandwich slowly. "What. The. Fuck?"
"Wait, hold on. Let me paint you a picture. You've been seeing this girl for a few months now, close to a year and you like her and you definitely find her.. like, amazing on all fronts, and that's great! We love the concept! It's great! Life's great. And she asks you to move in with her permanently so you do, and everything's great and she says I love you and you're like, yeah, I mean, it comes with the territory doesn't it? You love me because we're — dating now. Roommates. Besties. That sort of vibe. It's like, a casual I-love-you."
"Okay."
"Okay? Just okay?"
Alfie stood up, packed his half-eaten sandwich and walked away.
Psh.
Not that Sophie expected Alfie to understand.
But it was weird. It had to be weird, right? It was objectively, factually and at its heart, strange. It wasn't that Sophie had some attachment issues to work on, and it certainly couldn't be because she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that people liked her and went through with the effort to make it known. It seemed wrong, almost.
Work was exhausting and she was looking forward to some personal time. Back when she'd begun the job, she'd naively thought she'd have plenty of free time but it would seem late-stage capitalism had other plans for her. She made it a point to thank Bea everyday for making her homemade lunches (even if all she made were eggs), save for the.. unsettling love letters for it gave Sophie something to look forward to every day.
While the others poked at their bowls of slop, wearily scavenging through the apps for cold, uneatable food, Beatrice ensured she always had something hot and homemade to eat. Sometimes Sophie would rub a piece of pasta against her lips, as if to mentally savour the feel of Beatrice's hands against the dough, searching fruitlessly for her kisses in corporate hell. She was always so giddy when she thought of Beatrice's hands — her sculpted arms, the way she kneaded dough and leaned against the counter, watching the morning sun. Pity she would never find her cooking shirtless, no Bea was strict when it came to food — and strangely the strictest when it came to Sophie's food.
That night, Sophie sat with her book she'd bought six months ago and opened it to its first page. Beatrice however was determined to never let her begin, as she kept planting soft kisses to the sides of her legs.
"We need to go to bed," Sophie said, closing the book on the third page. To be fair, it was a dull book and it sent her right to sleep.
"Oh, is that so?" Beatrice mused in between kisses. "Someone's a little forward today."
"No, I mean, it is just an exhausting day."
"Mhm?" she left a trail of kisses from her knees to her thigh and began working at her underwear. Sophie clenched her legs at the gesture, effectively trapping Bea right where she'd like to be. It wasn't that she didn't want it, rather it felt new each and every time.
"Yeah, um," Sophie tried to compose herself. "They made me read a lot today. Lots of accounts to look at, quarterly reports to edit.."
"That is so sad, you must be so stressed—"
".. long-winded letters, even."
"They're so cruel," Beatrice dragged her tongue across her inner thigh, drawing gentle, deliberately teasing circles. It was awful in the sense, she'd like more but Sophie was supposed to be mad at her. Mad at how thoughtful and giving she was, positively enraged at the fact she had the audacity to pen her heart wrenching letters, adding an extra page filled with words every day. It went against everything she believed to be true.
"Bea,"
"I can stop, if you want to."
"No— I just — it isn't fair."
"What isn't?"
"Your letters."
Beatrice came up for air, cocking her head to the side.
"What letters?"
"Yours!"
"Oh, you mean the little lunch notes?"
"Little? They're fifteen pages long!"
"Eh."
"Beatrice!"
"What? I thought you liked them!"
"I do — I mean, I don't! It isn't — like — I don't know what to make of them?"
"I love you," she said. "That is what you should make of them."
"I should?" Sophie raised an eyebrow.
Beatrice crept her fingers around the sides of her hips, drawing her underwear down with her teeth. The action alone tore a desperate groan from Sophie's lips, which only encouraged Beatrice to take her time. Jesus fucking Christ. First the letters, now this? She craved a quick mercy, but she should've known there was nothing so quick about Beatrice. She liked her words long and elaborate as much as she liked being sickeningly gentle with her, to the point of making Sophie tremble with her unsatisfied hunger. God she was good. God she was fucking frustrating.
"Fuuck." she begged, borderline feverish, holding onto a fistful of sheets.
Beatrice stopped, just before she could relieve Sophie of her stress.
"Yes, you should," she cooed.
"I don't.. this is awful."
"I know,"
"I don't like your stupid letters. I don't.. I don't like any of this. I don't.. fuck!"
"You don't fuck? Oh that's such a shame, Sophie but I won't hold it against you. There's plenty of other activities—"
"You are fucking awful." she managed, her body shaking uncontrollably. She squeezed her thighs, feeling a growing dampness that required an immediate salve now. Sophie left her grip on the blankets, grabbed ahold of Bea's hair instead and guided her between her legs. Her desperation coaxed a laugh out of her. Maybe, just maybe she'd oblige just this fucking once.
Beatrice parted her lips to kiss her deeply. Sophie exhaled.
"Oh this is good?"
"I.. I'm.."
Another laugh. Sophie felt it course through her spine. Hell, she could melt into a puddle of nothingness right there on the bed.
"Just enjoy it, okay?"
And she did.
It was two in the morning when they were finally ready to sleep; Sophie resting against Beatrice's arm, Bea managing lazy kisses wherever she could find a snatch of Sophie's skin. It didn't matter — the world, the stupid job. Nothing mattered more to her than what she had now, and what she had, Sophie wouldn't trade a single moment of it for something else. They'd offered her a promotion at work the other day — more pay but more hours, but she'd declined it without a second thought.
"But why?"
"Huh?"
"Why did you find it awful?"
It took a moment for Sophie to make sense of Beatrice's words. Whatever this afterglow was, it definitely messed with her head a little.
"No! I — I love them. I just.. I don't know. I've been.. I'm not used to all of this, and I've looked up what lovebombing is and.."
"You— you think I'm lovebombing you?" she asked, in the softest, most tearful voice that made it even worse.
"No! I'm — I just want to know if you like me or if you like, like me."
A deafening silence followed.
"Sometimes it is hard to tell, all right!" Sophie expressed. "Like people can be — people. I don't know what I'm talking about but you know what I mean, right? I'm not crazy! I'm actually not. This is a very reasonable opinion to have."
Another deafening silence followed.
"I do like you." she said, softly, turning to face her. "I love you everyday. I love you here. I love you on made-up days, in made-up places and in made-up worlds. I love you, I cannot possibly contain it in myself and that is why you'll find your lunch always filled to the brim, to the point of bursting. I love you, I'll write a thousand pages of letters for you if you asked. I love you, I'll write a thousand pages of letters for you if you didn't ask. Even if you believe this is me lovebombing you, feigning commitment, I'll never ask of you to change what you think about me because I love you."
Sophie blinked. Beatrice tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
".. but as a casual little shindig, right?"
Beatrice plunged her lips to her neck, kissing and biting it as much as she could.
"Okay! Fine! I'm sorry!" Sophie captured her lips with hers, distracting her from leaving her with many a hickeys that she'd have to wear it to work the next day.
"Good," came a satisfied hum. "I wouldn't want you believing in the otherwise."
Sophie nestled her head against her chest, tracing the path of her collarbones all the way to the veins on her neck, the soft laugh-lines across her eyes, the feel of her lips.
You know, the more I think about it. Considering how much of a panic Benedict is in at the end of episode 7…it frankly wouldn’t surprise me if he was so panicked he legit ran on foot to the docks. Like didn’t even wait for his horse, he oriented himself and just booked it as fast as he could
