#CAVELIERS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nellienellnell · 2 years ago

Text

Finally Getting the Joke

Fandom: Batman, DC Comics

Characters: Harley Quinn, The Joker, Jeremiah Arkham, Poison Ivy

Warnings: None

Series Summary: Fresh out of her residency, Harleen Quinzel begins her career in psychology at Arkham Asylum, a place of terrifying rumors and even worse truths. Armed with her wits and some determination, she sets out to make a difference and help Arkham's inmates. Will she be strong enough to face what's waiting for her, or will she succumb to the insanity surrounding her?

Chapter Summary: Harleen starts her first day at Arkham.

Words: 3,866

A/N - Welcome to my first fic! I'm very new to this, so there's bound to be some errors. All criticisms and critiques are welcome (and encouraged)!

Chapter One - Entering the Mouth of the Beast

It was morning, she was sure, but the clouds that encircled the building blocked out the sun entirely, holding it in constant night. The state of the building only added to the unease one felt as soon as they met its steps. There was also the impression that it was frowning, almost crying. Standing before the brick behemoth was a young blonde woman, who flattened her sweaty palms against her skirt. After taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps and pulled the front doors, entering the mouth of the beast.

The daunting nature of the situation made her mind buzz with worries, like if her makeup looked quite right or if her hair was still under the strict hold of her hairspray. She toiled over the look of her smile, if it was too toothy. Frustrated, she gripped at her blazer, buttoning it and unbuttoning it, only to button it again. Her short black heels clacked loudly against the tile flooring, which only embarrassed her further. At one point, she even tried to tiptoe, but that only looked weirder. Only a few steps more , she reminded herself. Only a few steps more to Dr. Arkham’s office.

The door creaked softly, and a worn-looking man in a white coat looked up from his desk. He smiled faintly at the woman who then entered.

“Excuse me, Dr. Arkham?” She mutters. He stands from his seat, offering his hand out to her.

“Yes, that’s me. And you are…”

“Quinzel,” The woman yipped. “Harleen Quinzel. Doctor Quinzel.” Tacking on a title to her name was still foreign, tumbling clumsily off her tongue.

“Right, quite right. Your first day,” Arkham remembered. “Please, take a seat,” Harleen looks behind her, finding a chair. At first, she finds she doesn’t know how to sit; legs crossed or uncrossed, hands folded or at her sides. Finally, she decides on locking her ankles and placing her hands on her knees.

“I was reviewing your information again, Doctor Quinzel. I must say your qualifications, your references, they’re quite astounding,” Dr. Arkham said, pleased. He fished a paper from a jumbled stack on his desk.

“I mean really!” He beams, leaning back in his chair. “Top of your class at Gotham State,”

“Valedictorian,” Harleen chimed. She then noticed her intrusion and sank into herself. Dr. Arkham didn’t seem to notice.

“Valedictorian! Excelled during your residency with only good things to say about you. Kid, I think you’re going to do great things.”

“Really?” Harleen grinned. The look of her smile didn’t bother her much, she couldn’t hide it anyway.

“Really,” He answered her. Then, leaning towards the desk, he donned a much more serious look. “With all these shiny accomplishments, I really have to wonder. What made you choose a place like Arkham? You could have had your pick of any major institution in the country.”

“I know the reputation Arkham has. . I don’t live under a rock. Over ten years I’ve spent in Gotham, I’ve heard the horror stories. That’s exactly why I applied,” Dr. Arkham furrowed his brow. “Those ten years, I fought tooth and nail to get where I am. I want to help people, Doctor. Even these people. I think they might need help most of all, quite frankly.” For just that moment, her confidence bloomed, and the continuous buzzing in her head began to settle.

“Well,” Arkham started.. “I think you’re a perfect fit. Welcome to the team, Doctor Quinzel.”

“Thank you, Doctor Arkham.” Harleen bowed her head respectfully.

“Has anyone shown you around the facility yet? If not, allow me to give you the full tour,” Arkham said before standing and gesturing for her to follow him out the door.

They started down a corridor, where Arkham would go to explain each office, with its use and who usually works inside. The two passed the filing room, where all inflows of mail and documents end up to be sorted, though, by the looks of the room, its purpose had long been neglected. Every few steps, one of the lights just above would flicker, and the scent of cheap coffee wafted by their noses. Harleen was introduced to many of her coworkers, who looked through her glumly, muttering hellos and other basic introductions.

The hall would then make its way to the wards, sealed away behind a locked door that Dr. Arkham opened with a keycard.The lights were significantly darker after they trekked into the inmate section of the facility. Harleen recounted her residency and the places she’d been, but what she saw around her was nothing like her memories. She remembered common rooms, people constantly around to offer help and company to the patients. Instead of that she only saw emptiness, with each patient awaiting silently in their rooms. Cells, more like , Harleen thought with a shudder. Only a thin sliver of glass made the world outside their doors visible. Some of the windows revealed eyes behind them, watching the doctors walk. It was almost instinctual for Harleen to look away, avoid their gaze, refusing to look back into their eyes.

This issue didn’t bother the man she walked with, however. He continued to talk and explain the history of his asylum, not even noticing the eyes that glared as he passed. At several doors, he would pause and begin a speech about the criminal who lived inside, what they had done, and how Arkham had finally gotten their hands on them. Like it was a field trip through a museum. Or a zoo. He brought up news headlines and police reports. When asked about psychiatric records or case files, the information was much more sparse, and the doctor became much less enthusiastic.

A light sparked in his eyes when he remembered the asylum’s fascinating newest addition. Arkham excitedly led the way, guiding Harleen through a series of doors until they arrived at one plastered in warning posters. “EXTREME TEMPERATURE WARNING” they read. “PROCEED ONLY WITH PROPER PROTECTION”.

Dr. Arkham went up to the door, slid open the slot, and turned back to Harleen, grinning ear to ear. “About a year ago, his wife was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Doctors said they couldn’t help. So, get this, he tries to freeze her . I guess to preserve her. But his experiments backfired on him. Now, his body has to be kept at sub-zero temperatures in order to survive.” He backed away from the slot, making way for Harleen. Slowly, she stepped forward. As she got closer, her breath became visible, escaping in white plumes. The frigid air met her nose, spreading its chill across her cheeks. It was colder than any winter she had ever experienced.

She peered through the slot, almost expecting to see hanging meats and to be told he had actually led her to the walk-in freezer as a joke. She thought she’d see nothing. But instead of either, she did in fact see a man. His skin discoloured, lacking any human warmth. He shared more resemblance to an ice sculpture of a man than to one of flesh and blood. Though his history had been explained to her, and for what she knew he was safe and sound, the sight of him caused her to jerk back.

“We must be sure not to leave his slot open too long,” Arkham explained as he slid it closed, clicking the lock. “Even a slight raise in temperature could potentially be fatal.”

“How awful,” She lamented.

“Don’t feel too bad. This man is up there with the likes of Riddler or Bane. He caused a lot of casualties in his crusades. Almost put Batman in the hospital.”

Harleen grimaced. “I almost think he should have.”

The tour continued on as usual, only now Harleen couldn’t resist wondering how many of the inmates had been victims of the Batman. How many had never been given a proper chance at all, from the likes of masked vigilantes and police and even the asylum they’re all doomed to fall into. She was of the opinion that even he deserved a room in Arkham. He was one of them, just as crazy and psychotic, but he was a flavour of crazy that society could stomach.

“Oh, and another ‘special case’,” Arkham once again prepared to show off another door. “A metahuman with the ability to control plants. Unlike most of the others, she’s not allowed time in the courtyard, as she could use even a single blade of grass to bring the whole building down.” Like the previous door, he pulled open the slot for Harleen to look into.

Inside, a figure within sat atop a bed, her knees held tightly to her chest. Crimson red hair trickled over her shoulders and down her back. Her head turned slowly to face the intrusion. Harleen found herself making eye contact with the figure, looking into her green eyes. The emerald depths contained only contempt for the doctor’s presence. Harleen identified something in that glare, a feeling that travelled the distance between them and gathered heavy in the pit of her stomach.

Dr. Arkham slammed the slot shut. “Don’t let the calm fool you. She’s as crazy- maybe even crazier than most in here.”

“Who’s assigned to her case?” Harleen asked, her eyes still fixated on the slot.

“Ehm,” The man rubbed his chin. “I don’t think anyone is at the moment. No one’s ever gotten much from her, she’s not really a talker. What, do you want her case?”

“I would like to try. Maybe I’ll be the one to get her to open up.” She said hopefully.

The older doctor laughed. “Hey, I like the enthusiasm. I don’t think that would be a bad idea.”

“She’s the craziest, you said?” Harleen asked. Arkham knitted his brows, shifting his eyes around the room.

“Well, not the craziest, I suppose. But we do have a man who takes that title. Come on, I’ll bring you to his room. When we get there, just stay calm. If he says or does anything, try not to react, it only gets him riled up,” The doctor warned. Harleen gulped down the lump in her throat.

The elder doctor’s pace sped up significantly as they neared the room. His fists repeatedly clenched and unclenched, with his knuckles turning stark white each time they closed. A close inspection would even reveal tiny beads of sweat clinging to his temples.

They passed through multiple clearance checkpoints, and after several keycard slides and passcodes punched in, they arrived at a giant, looming metal door. Unlike the other cells, there wasn’t a slot for Dr. Arkham to pull open. There wasn’t a window to connect the room within with the outside world. The door was smooth, strong metal. Harleen would have guessed it was a bank vault if she didn’t know any better.

“So… is he like the other two? Does he have special abilities, or special requirements to keep him alive?” Harleen asked, gesturing vaguely towards the large door.

“Worse,” Arkham croaked. “He’s completely human.” Harleen looked back at the door, and the lock that kept it in place.

“That’s all for a human man?”

“Doctor Quinzel, behind this door, is arguably the most dangerous man in Gotham, if not the country.” He stressed. A moment of realization washed over her.

“He’s the Joker .” She breathed.

“We’ve held him up to five times now,” Arkham began. “Blackgate has had him four times before us. He even served an extensive stay in Belle Reve in Louisiana. It seems prisons are more of a hotel to him, given that he never stays very long. The only thing we can do is adapt, strengthen our security, basically “Joker proof” the asylum. That has all amounted to this, a vault of reinforced steel; materials donated to us by Gotham city bank. It needs a passcode as well as a key for the door to open.” The doctor continued to explain.

“His meals are given to him through this compartment, which connects to another door on the other side.” He pointed to the small square hatch beside the door. “The tray goes in, the door is then locked again on our side, while his door is unlocked remotely; this way he doesn’t have to leave or make any physical contact that would put anyone’s safety at risk.”

The precautions they took made sense to Harleen. She had certainly lived in Gotham long enough to know about this inmate. She knew he was dangerous. She knew that he had escaped many prisons, tricking and killing his way out of each one. Above all, she knew of all the blood he spilled, and the risk he imposed on society. Still, there was a question she couldn’t fight out of her mind.

“So, he’s always completely alone? No company? No counsel? Isn’t he here to get treatment?”

“He’s here because we need somewhere to keep him. Your heart is in the right place, Harleen, but he’s not capable of being helped.”

“Everyone can be helped. It just depends if someone is actually willing to put in the work. Respectfully, I know it isn’t always easy, but it can be possible.” She argued.

“Respectfully, ” The doctor echoed. “Some people can’t be helped. And when it comes to people like him, they shouldn’t be helped. They’re not worth the effort.”

Harleen felt heat rising in her face, fueled by a familiar anger. She wanted to argue. This was a debate she knew well, having encountered it all throughout her schooling. Where was the line? What did it take before someone was too far gone? It was on this topic that she often disagreed with her classmates and professors. After so many fruitless efforts, she learned to just keep her mouth shut. But, for some reason, this time was different. This time, it made her ask something stupid.

“Could I be put on his case?”

“It’s only your first day and you want me to put you on the case of the most prolific murdering maniac that we have in here?” Doctor Arkham raised his eyebrows.

“What can I say, I’m ambitious.” Her tone implied she was joking, but inside she knew she was serious.

“I can tell that about you, Harleen,” Arkham laughed. “You’re going to do great things, but let’s work ourselves up to it. Baby steps, Doctor Quinzel. Baby steps.”

“Baby steps,” She repeated in agreement.

Dr. Arkham escorted Harleen out of Joker’s section of the facility, but just before they were out of earshot, Harleen heard faint laughter in the distance. A primal kind of sound, like that of a hyena. A sound born of impulse instead of joy. Something inspired by convulsions, with the same amount of control as a cough, or a sneeze, or hiccup. A necessity that clawed its way from deep inside the chest and up one’s throat. It echoed down the hall following them, chasing them, as they left. She felt it gnashing at her heels, running a chill up her spine. She couldn’t escape it soon enough.

With the tour concluded, Harleen was led back to Dr. Arkham’s office. He pulled open a drawer from his filing cabinet and leafed through manila folders. Making his selection, he plucked some files and settled them into a pile, which he then turned and handed to Harleen.

“I would like you to look at some of the cases we have, Dr. Quinzel. See what sticks out to you, what might interest you. From there, we can try to get you started with a patient.” Arkham instructed. His eyes darted anxiously to his watch.

Harleen quirked her head, “Well, what about the one from earlier? Could I start off with her?”

“I would rather you start out smaller. Preferably with a patient who doesn’t have powers. It’s just the precaution of your safety, really.” He answered, before once again lifting up his sleeve to inspect the clockface on his wrist.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you and welcoming you on board, but I really must be going. They’ve scheduled me into another meeting to discuss the efficacy of Arkham,” The aged doctor shook his head. “We’d be a hell of a lot more efficient if they would stop voting to cut our funding.” His weary eyes sealed themselves to the floor as he stood frozen; apparently drifting into deep thought. After a beat, his eyes returned to him, and they locked with Harleen’s.

“Good luck. I will try to check back with you in your office later.” Arkham exited through the door, beginning a quick pace down the corridor.

“Doctor Arkham, wait!” The doctor did so, spinning around.

“My office,” Harleen spoke. “You never showed me which was mine.”

Arkham blinked absently. “Oh, yes, right. I got quite carried away. So confused anymore. Your office is in the west wing, down that hall, and to the left. I would take you to it, but I really haven’t got the time. It should have your name, so hopefully not too hard to find.” With the information delivered, Dr. Arkham scurried back and out of the corridor.

Following the directions she was given, the psychologist came upon the door that, according to the Sharpied paper taped beside it, belonged to her. She took the doorknob in her hand, but it resisted as she tried to turn it.

Rosy embarrassment painted her cheeks. Reluctantly, Harleen approached the office door adjacent to her own and knocked. Heavy footsteps preceded the jostling of the doorknob and the door swung open, revealing a short, pudgy man. The few remaining wisps of grey hair laid messily across his balding head. He looked Harleen up and down and cocked an eyebrow.

“Whuddya want?” He grumbled.

“Quinzel. Doctor Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. Psychologist,” She reddened further and she closed her eyes tight, organizing her thoughts. “Sorry, my office is the one across the hall. It’s locked.” The man looked at her, then to her office door, then back to her. He scratched at the stubble on his chin.

“So you got that office, huh?” The tone was mostly rhetorical, but held traces of genuine surprise.

Harleen nodded. “Yes, but it’s locked and Dr. Arkham left before he gave me the key.”

“I’ll call up security for ya,” He said, turning and receding back into his office. Under his breath, he continued to mutter. “Thought we should have kept that shut up.”

She had gotten tired of staring at her watch. The second hand ran countless laps around, each completed circle marked by a lunge from the minute hand, who had gotten many good jumps in before someone finally turned the corner.

“Heard you got a locked door,” said a young, and oddly chipper, security officer who punctuated his statement by jingling his ring of keys. The energy he carried was visibly and immediately different. For the first time since she entered Arkham, Harleen’s shoulders untensed.

He stepped forward, taking note of the office, then went to his collection of keys, picking at each one until he concluded on the correct one. He inserted the key, hesitating briefly before turning and opening the door. His head whipped around, assessing the entire room. Finding the switch, he flicked on the lights, before backing up and holding the door open for Harleen to enter.

“Thank you so much. How embarrassing to get locked out on my first day,” She forced a laugh.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. And you’re very welcome, Doctor…” He leaned back to look at the paper on the wall. “Quinzel. Did I get that right?” The officer’s eyes gleamed.

“Yes, that was perfect.” She giggled, though this time was genuine.

“Well, I’m Aaron. If you need anything else, just ask for me. I’ll see you around, Dr. Quinzel.” Aaron waved before leaving.

“Yes! I’ll see you around!” She bit her lip. “I hope.”

The swivel chair squeaked under her weight as she settled into it. She inspected the nicks, scratches, and scuffs that adorned the dark wooden desk. They mingled alongside white rings; the ghosts of hot coffee mugs that had been placed there before. Hiding these imperfections from view, Harleen laid out each of the files that Dr. Arkham had handed to her.

Which would be the perfect choice to start out her career at Arkham? As she read through the files, she found that there would be a spark of remembrance when their criminal alias was mentioned, and suddenly Harleen would envision the morning that she had read that name in the newspaper, or heard about their crimes on TV.

It intrigued her to learn about the person behind the mask, so to speak. These criminal masterminds were once children. They were people with families and jobs and hardships who one day decided to throw it all away and create a whole new identity. One that would solely exist for their spiraling life of crime, theft, and violence. They traded blazers and suits for masks and capes, items and colors that would show everyone who they were. Who they’ve become. Who the world has shaped them into.

Harleen carefully read over each file multiple times until her brain became foggy and her eyes blurred. After a few hard blinks, she looked at her watch to find that nearly three hours had passed. Each minute was felt in the stiffness of her neck and the soreness that stretched down her back.

A knock at the door broke the silence of the room and caused her to jump slightly.

“Come in,” she chimed.

As commanded, the door slid open and Dr. Arkham stepped inside. The way he studied her face made Harleen worry if it outwardly showed how tired she felt. But, looking back at the aging doctor, it seemed like he was just as tired as her.

“Long meeting?” She asked. Arkham looked at the floor and placed his hands on his hips, sighing.

“Very. It shouldn’t be a fight to keep our funding stable but,” The doctor waved his arms up and let them fall loudly to his sides in defeat. “That’s just how it goes now.”

There was a beat before he shook away the stress and remet Harleen’s face, now with more enthusiasm. “Did you get to look through those files?”

“Oh, yeah,” she responded. “I just got done rereading each one like, five times.” Dr. Arkham laughed.

“And? Do we have any winners?”

Harleen looked at the spread of manilla folders once again, recounting the contents of each one. Her eyes fixed on one sitting in the middle. It was slightly slimmer than the others, but she had found the contents interesting. She picked at it and handed it to Arkham, who had now taken a seat in front of her.

“This one, I think. #181. Mortimer Drake.” she told him. Dr. Arkham flipped through the papers in the folder, then held up a photo. A grin spread on his face as he let out a chuckle.

“Oh, yes, I remember him,” he said, still smiling. “The Cavalier. Yes, I think this will be a great choice for you, Dr. Quinzel. I’ll go ahead and set up your first session.”

#Harley Quinn #Harleen Quinzel #Arkham Asylum #DC Comics #my fic #fanfiction #The Joker #Poison Ivy #Mr. Freeze #The Cavelier #my first fic #I went through this several times already there better not be huge glaring errors

4 notes · View notes

pencil-n-pen · 1 month ago

Text

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

─────────────────────

Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

──────────────────────

benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

──────────────────────

title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

──────────────────────

taglist: @mythical-goth @sfotiegiuls @shoyooss @booknerdlife @gratuitous-and-superfluous @got-the-cheese-touch @amysfav @pear-1206 @purplefluffycows @secretisme4 @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @s0mewhereweaknessis0urstrength @twistedkisses @vcnillafairy @labellapeaky @fxiryeon @eddiiiieeee @kalanthra @soniiyi @famouslywaiting @deeninadream @moschinocherries @monaskydancer @bobo-bush @agreeeeeeeeeee @tardis--tea--time

641 notes · View notes