#she cherishes the trust Gregory put in her

[boringa55binch]

I can imagine Vanessa holding Gregory down so the doctor can fix Gregory's ear but he is trashing all around because he wants no one to touch him

At that point i think Vanessa would just try to treat him herself

[hopepaigeturner]

Villain Benophie AU: Part 4

Inspired by @orangepeelshortbreadcookies; BRILLIANT Villainous Viscount AU (read on AO3 here). So all creds go to her!

And while she has done a beautiful fic about Benophie in this universe, Thieves of Dusk (10% RECOMMEND A READ. Read on AO3 here). But we’ve been chatting about my own ideas for Benophie. So, with her blessing here’s the next part of my version.

WARNING: References to assault.

Part 3 Here

Sophie slips into her new role with an ease she’s learnt long ago to question—but cannot help but indulge in. Her charges, Hyacinth and Gregory are intriguing young pupils—not least because the girl almost beats Sophie at cards and she watches the boy make his way from his bedroom to the classroom by running across the roof tiles.

Yet their guardian, the Anthony Bridgerton had explained his wish for his younger siblings to rise out of their impoverished circumstances into gentile society. And with the initial scouring look he had given her, (mixed with the shadow of his reputation) Sophie did not wish to disappoint.

It was just…the pair found History boring unless Sophie slipped in the gorier details as with Geography.  And so, what if they engaged best in equations and arithematic if the problems revolved around organising heists and calculating bomb trajectories? Or that she taught them rude expression of Latin and French while teaching the tenses? It got the job done and the pair off the streets—unlike their other siblings whom Anthony was also wishing to enter society.

Eloise Bridgerton running around supplying working-class revolutionaries with explosive material—both in paper and powder. Or Daphne who danced so beautifully but could not help walking through a crowd and bringing home presents for herself. And Francesca, the quietest one of them all, whom Sophie sees sneaking out in breeches and a fake moustache to slip into the band of the opera and play theatres.

And then Benedict. Oh Benedict. Constantly ‘popping in’ with the pretence to see his family, a weird phenomenon according to Hyacinth—almost a peculiar as him constantly flitting around her. But something softened in Sophie as he watched him spar playfully with his siblings (words or weapons), or when she watched him sit next to his mother and engage in conversation (the only one who seemed to have the patience to still do so).

Benedict could make her feel all sorts of things—and that was the problem. He could infuriate her with his teases and just as quickly thrill her with their catty banter. He made her shiver when he whispered in her ear or when she noted the red marks under his fingernails.

Regardless, she would not falter in her convictions, no matter how he smiles at her, or how he talks with her when they share cigarettes under the different phases of the moon.

Those nights start off as sporadic but then become routine. As soon as she has put Hyacinth to bed (knowing that the girl will be reading with a candle until dawn) and Gregory is in his room (where he will spend the night drawing different diabolical inventions). Benedict will light the cigarette but give her the first puff. The pair will then talk, their initial dance of words fading with every night until they are meandering through topics without veils. One night they sing songs from their cherished childhoods and the softness on Benedict’s face as he sings to the stars entrances Sophie.

This Benedict is so different to the one who teases his siblings and plasters on a wry smile. This Benedict is also so different from the smirking criminal who can instil fear with one look. A different Benedict, one she covets in her daydreams, and the Benedict that sinks deeper and deeper into her heart.

And then one night he passes her a cloak and holds out his hand, in his eyes a question.

Do you trust me?

She puts her hand in his.

They slip through a connection of darkened corridors, so it takes a moment for her to recognise the Royal Academy. The walls are lined with art and the rooms cluttered with canvases discarded after the days end. Benedict takes them to the smallest of these and undoes a panel lifting out some large black books.

Sophie’s heart thunders as he presents them to her.

Sketchbooks.

She looks up to find Benedict with that perfectly beguiling mask, rigid as a statue. Yet something shivers in his eyes.

So, Sophie takes his offering and reverently looks through the pages. Her eyes trace over each picture and portrait: landscapes not of hills but bustling intersections fo Covent Garden, portraits of his siblings in various hijinks; the dynamism of the club floor. Then her breath catches when she finds a sketch of her in a silver dress. Then her cheeks burn as she passes page after page of sketches—of her.

She is dancing, she is putting her hair up, she is laughing, she is leaning over to read, she is sipping tea with his mother, she has her eyes closed singing to the stars, she is billowing smoke from her lips that rise like incense into a moonlit sky.

At her old home no one had ever listened to her, no one had ever given her the time of day. Yet here Benedict has given her pages and pages. Here Benedict has seen her.

And she realises what this is, what this whole night is. What that shimmering look in his eye means when she looks back up at him.

And so, she pushes away the ripple of darkness, leans up and thanks him for the offering of his soul by giving hers—in a kiss.

At their second meeting he had asked, in veiled words, whether she’d thought of that first night and it had taken every fibre of control within to reply the negative—even though it had all been a lie. She’d dreamed of that moment, how his touch felt like the coolness of moonlight while his kisses drew heavenly fire from within. In those moments she had reassembled herself, something in her shifting, fundamentally.

That kiss was nothing to this one. It is a spiral, higher and higher or deeper and deeper—she does not know. All she knows is that the man of her dreams is kissing her as if she is the most precious jewel in the world, the most reverent of beings.

It is the antithesis of before, of him.

She pushes that thought away and concentrates on the sparks that Benedict ignites as he runs a hand down her spine.

Unlike him who had grabbed fistfuls of hair and dress.

She tightens her hold on Benedict in an attempt to anchor herself. She tries to separate the sensualness of Benedict kissing down her neck with the sloppiness that he had done.

But she continues to slip, no matter how hard she tries to push it away.

The scuffle of limbs.

His hand clamped over her mouth.

His hand slipping under her neckline just as Benedict’s hand plays with her sleeve—

Suddenly there is space. Suddenly there is Benedict’s eyes staring at her with an expression that causes more tears to stream down her face—when did she start crying?

“I am sorry,” she whispers, wiping the tears away.

In an instant Benedict’s eyes darken

“Do not apologise, never apologise.” His eyes then turn thunderous. “Tell me who did this to you.”

Sophie cowers under that stare, that fury broiling within. She shakes her head. Benedict steps towards her.

“I need to know.”

Vividly she remembers how he had towered over her on their second meeting, the darkness, the danger that rolled off of him as he had looked at her with almost murderous intent. So she can do nothing but reply,

“He was my fiancée.”

Part 5 here

[imjustmejca1971]

Hey Dad.. (Father’s Day 2015)

So..this is a bit strange. Father’s Day is approaching and it’s the first one of my life that you’re not physically here.  In years past, I would give you a call and wish you Happy Father’s Day. I might’ve gotten you a gift. I might’ve agreed to be Republican for a day. This year, I figure I can write about you so other people can get to know you a bit more.

So many things come to mind. I remember what a great father you were when I was a child. We moved to a small town when I was 6 and I remember that time of my life as one of the few times that were “yellow.” For me, yellow means sunshine and bright..a feeling of being loved and just being happy. As kids, we had no fear. That was in large part of how protected we felt because of you.

You were an equal balance of tough love, humor and compassion. You never met a stranger. You tried to teach us things every day (even if we didn’t pay attention). You certainly weren’t perfect as you had a temper that wasn’t pretty and even then your politics were a little..off. As a kid, though, those things didn’t matter. We saw you as a pillar of strength and, with Mom, the definition of family.

I remember how you taught us to swim by having us wear ski belts for 3 weeks and then telling us we were no longer allowed to swim if we didn’t take the ski belts off. We were nervous, but you looked at us said, “Do you honestly think I’d let you drown? I’m always here and you’ll always be safe.” We jumped in and realized you had taught us to swim without realizing it. You Miyagi-d us years before “Karate Kid” came out. :)

I remember watching you play ball with neighbors in the street and riding by on my bike, kicking you in the ass and saying “Hey fucker!” I was 8. Barely able to contain your laughter and trying to be a stern parent, you asked where I heard such language. I wanted to say “you, Dad” but thought that wasn’t best, so I said I’d heard it on the schoolbus.

I remember you coming to the rescue of a neighbor who needed help. Without a second thought, you invited their family to stay with us for a while to ensure they were safe and taken care of.

You trusted us. There were no phones, no GPS to know where we were. We knew we were out from sunrise to sunset and could go anywhere we wanted within the addition we lived in. We just had to be back before the street lights came on. It was a wonderful feeling of freedom and adventure.

You let me be me. I was a strange child. I would play Uranus (yes, I know) God of the Sky in the back yard with my bedspread of stars wrapped around me..by myself. I could curl up for days in my room just reading comic books (that hasn’t changed). From ages 9-11, I had one of Mom’s purses always on my shoulder. I brought it to the dinner table and put it on the side of the chair. I’m sure that was weird for you, but you never gave any indication it bothered you. I eventually grew out of that phase (until Halloween in the 90’s).

As teenagers, our relationship with you changed a bit. We both developed an innate sarcasm and a questioning that didn’t really sit well with you. In fact, it pissed you off. I learned quickly just what the boundaries were and how far I could bend them without breaking.

I wasn’t the best of students in high school. I figured out the last ½ of my sophomore year I didn’t really HAVE to go to school. I was bored most of the time, aside from when I was performing. This frustrated you considerably and we had numerous conversations around the importance of an education. The drive that you had to be successful is with me to this day.

You made someone a part of our family when we were teens. You told her you would always be there for her, regardless of where life took her. You showed us that family goes beyond blood. Through that action and her support of Mom (and me for that matter) since you passed, I now have a sister that I trust and that I know has our family’s back.

When you found out about my orientation, you reacted as most parents in that time did. You didn’t understand. First and foremost you told me you loved me, but this was something you couldn’t fathom for me. It was against everything you had understood a man to be. It was tough to hear that, but I knew that you didn’t see me as a gay man. You saw me as your son. The two didn’t compute.

When you kicked me out of the house (finally) at age 22 after I broke rule after rule, I moved to Kansas City. I know this was one of the hardest things you ever had to do as parents, but it was the best thing you could’ve done. I needed to grow up and take ownership of my life.

When I was going through a difficult time inthe early 2000’s after a series of bad choices, you put aside all of your disagreements with my “lifestyle” and were just there for me. You told me I deserved to be happy..that was what was most important.

When I met Gregory and I knew pretty early on it was going to be serious, I told you and Mom about him..the first time in my life I had shared anything about a positive relationship with a man with you. It was tough for you to hear and it didn’t happen right away, but it was the first step in you being a part of my entire life, not just a compartmentalized version.

I remember our political fights. We could just go on and on at each other. With the advent of Fox News, your opinions seemed to get further and further from the reality I knew. I enjoyed us yelling at each other and then finally admitting we could find common ground. I realize now that you said many of those things just to get a rise out of me. You enjoyed the debate itself more than who “won” it.

I remember one night in particular where you were going off on some conspiracy theory and I stopped you and was very direct. I told you that, as a white man of a certain age, you had never faced discrimination in your life. I talked about the struggles Mom had in the workplace. I talked about that EVERY DAY your son heard something horrible said about who he was..whether it was walking in the street, reading something online or especially on the very channel you loved to watch so much. You got really quiet and we talked about different ways people react to being treated horribly. Some take it in a quiet silence. Some want to educate. Some get angry and express that anger. I said you were lucky that was something you never had to know. Less than a week later, you called to say you and Mom would be in town and wanted to meet Gregory. After that dinner, you told me he was welcome in your home.

In recent years, there was an instinct or a voice in my head always telling me to spend more time with you and Mom. You and I had many conversations about what would happen if either of you passed. I had begun to mentally prepare myself for losing one or both of you.

When Gregory and I decided to get married, I knew that was a strange thing for you. You had come such a long way in accepting me, but getting married was something you had always understood was reserved for a man and a woman. After numerous conversations and realizing it was about my happiness, you moved past that. In fact, when we made it official with the save the dates, you told me there was nowhere else in the world you wanted to be.

My wedding was the happiest day of my life. It was such a blur of yellow that I don’t remember a lot of it, but do remember seeing the smile from you every time I looked your way. I remember seeing you and Mom on the dance floor and you had this wonderful (yet almost puzzled) look on your face..as if you were thinking, “I am at a damn gay wedding…who would’ve thought that?” You and Mom being there for that day was something I will never forget.

You sent me an email the next day that said, “Chris, I just wanted to drop you a quick note with some of my thoughts. While I watched you and Gregory exchange your vows. I was watching a couple very much in love. It touched my heart and made me very proud to be your father. I thought to myself, now I have another son to watch over worry about and offer some good republican advice and help if I can.– Love, Dad”

Over the next few years, you came up and helped with the house when you could. We continued our political fights. And every call, every week was ended with “Love you, son. Love you, Dad.”

I don’t want to talk about how you died. It still hurts so much. All the preparation in the world and the logic knowing that you and Mom would eventually pass could’ve prepared me for this feeling of loss.

Grief is a weird thing. I've found it's made me oversensitive to everything. Successes are that much more meaningful. When people disappoint, it's magnified much more than it should be. I find myself getting sad at inopportune moments, such as balling in a McDonalds when a Carrie Underwood song comes on. I also find myself getting angry..angry that folks that are older than you, in worse shape than you, are still here. I even get bitter when I see elderly couples. Hopefully, I don't frighten people. :)  I'm sure you get a kick out of some of my more ridiculous reactions to all this.

Your voice is still in my head. When I get upset, I hear you saying that it’s going to be ok. When I go on too long, I hear your voice saying..”ok..you’ve had your cry..keep moving forward.”

Now that the political season has begun again, I miss our "debates." Every time I see another idiot join the circus, I smile how much I loved arguing with you about it.

I still talk to you every day. There are times I feel you’re sitting right next to me. There are other times I hope you are not hovering around, as I’m sure there are aspects of my life that you would not want to be a silent observer of. :)

You’ve got to be so proud of Mom. She misses you every day, but she’s doing what you wanted her to do. She’s living her life as best she can, moving forward every day.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you for the journey we went on together. Thank you for the childhood I had that I will always cherish. Thank you for the drive and even the stubbornness. Thank you for letting me get to know you as an person, not just as a parent.

Happy Father’s Day. Love you, Dad.