Chapter Text
Jane’s little giggles were music to Colin Bridgerton’s ears.
While his oldest son, Thomas — with his earnest eyes and pout of determination — remains steadfast in pursuit of his father in a rousing game of tag called ‘Sharks and Minnows,’ Colin’s third, Jane — whose little legs can only carry her so far and fast — spent the game giggling whenever she was able to ‘catch’ Colin.
The pair were running Colin quite ragged, literally.
Ever since his little Janie took her first steps, she ran. Unlike his other children, she was the only one he considered looking into one of those kiddie leashes. Jane was a runner if he’d ever met one.
His wife, Penelope, has consistently argued that Jane’s flight-risk nature was a trait that she developed from Colin’s side. Colin debated otherwise until his mother outed him as the only one of her children that she lost on holiday, an eight-year-old Colin wandering off distracted by a fish tank.
On the other hand, Colin argues that his kids could get away with anything because of her; All four of his children inherited her ability to bat their wide eyes at him. How can he not deny them anything when they look at him like that? It’s not his fault that he can’t say no to them. This is all Penelope’s doing.
As he runs from his children’s chase, the grass smooshes beneath his feet. He picks up his speed before coming to a slow jog, allowing himself a second to catch his breath from all the movement.
He’s never been out of shape, but now he’s considering upping his gym visits.
In his moment of respite, he realizes his break was a mistake as Thomas and Jane reach him.
Upping the antics and putting on a show, Colin dramatically clutches at his chest and allows himself to be dragged to the ground by Thomas. Thomas pounces on him and wraps his arms around Colin’s waist while Jane latches herself onto Colin’s calves.
Theatrically falling on the grass and onto his back, he spreads his limbs to make what his eldest daughter, Agatha, lovingly calls’ grass angels’ as the pair continue their attack. His babies try to tickle him with their tiny hands — or at least that’s what Thomas attempted to do. On the other hand, Janie gave up on her ticklish pursuit to move up to Colin’s face, focusing on peppering him with sloppy, wet little kisses.
Laughing, Colin pulls his kids to the ground to lay their heads on his chest and halts their movements.
“Okay! Okay!” Colin chuckles, tightening them in a tight hug. “You win, you win! I admit defeat.”
Satisfied with that answer, Thomas smiles big and toothy, running towards the family’s picnic set up.
“Mama! Mama! Did you see it? Did you see how I won?” Thomas asks excitedly.
“Yup, I sure did,” Penelope smiles. “You sure showed Daddy who’s boss, didn’t you?”
Thomas nods enthusiastically, sitting on their picnic blanket, reaching for his water and chugging it down like he had been lost in the Sahara Desert for the past year. Next to Thomas sat Agatha, or Ags for short. With her soft copper hair and striking eyes, Agatha looked just like Colin, but her personality was all her mother. She hardly acknowledges her brother’s arrival, too engrossed in her Warrior Cats book.
Colin and Jane follow Thomas to the blanket, holding Jane’s chubby hand in his. Jane, a tiny four-year-old, meant Colin needed to bend slightly at the waist to reach his daughter’s hand. Not that he minds; he wants to hang on to these moments of innocence for as long as possible before all four children are grown and more interested in their phones than their parents.
The thought of losing all of this frightens him so much that he could crumble right there, but he tries to shake it away and remind himself to live in this moment. To be present.
God, how he wishes he could bottle up this moment, though.
“I think I’m getting old,” Colin breathes, feeling slightly winded from his chase.
“Getting?” Penelope jabs, eyes twinkling with mischief as she glances up at him, eyes shifting away from George’s sleeping form in his car seat.
Colin loves that look in his wife’s eyes; she always has a barb lingering on her tongue, waiting to strike.
It reminds him of the first time he honestly considered his wife, seeing the mischievous spark that lingered behind her eyes and between her ears.
Sometimes, he can’t even fathom that there was a time when his wife was just Penelope Featherington — his sister’s friend and his family’s neighbor — and he was just Colin Bridgerton, his sister’s brother and the third-born son.
Back when life was full of ‘justs’.
The two of them had intersected in passing several times before they became something more than acquaintances — their three-year age difference, her friendship with his sister, and their proximity meant that she was always just around. He didn’t hear much from her until years later; Penelope spent most of their early interactions incredibly awkward around him, using his younger sisters, Eloise and Francesca, as mouthpieces.
He figured it was because of their age difference or because she only had sisters, unsure what to say to boys. Benedict, his older brother, remarked once that she probably had a little crush on him, but he was sure that if she did he definitely would have noticed by now.
When he returned home from his year abroad to Galavant around the European Western Balkans when he was 20, Penelope was the first person he ran into, literally.
Colin came home intending to surprise his family with his arrival. In a phone call with his Mum earlier that week, he had teased that he was flirting with the idea of staying a month longer, something he knew would be met with disappointment.
Colin directed the driver to park at the entrance of his neighbor’s, the Featheringtons, home practically vibrating with the excitement of finally being back. After he removed his bags from the vehicle, he paid for his ride, turning back to find himself suddenly knocked onto his back on the ground, a redheaded wonder atop him.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to topple you; I tripped over this bag and—” Penelope apologized. “Colin?”
Penelope was flushed, nervously examining his face before she realized she was still lying on top of him, scrambling to extricate herself.
Immediately, Colin let out an almost crazed laugh at the circumstance.
“That wasn’t very well done of me, was it?” He asked, his voice laced with humor. Waiting to hear her laugh, he stood up and wiped his hands on his pants.
Relief flooded her features at his reaction. Penelope gave him a farce consideration, mirth dancing across her features. “No, you’re right, it wasn’t,” she agreed, tapping a finger to her chin in mock consideration. “I’m no judge, but in terms of performance and execution, I’d say it was a 6/10 fall at best. I mean, your form was terrible.”
“A 6/10?” He asked incredulously. “I think I deserve at least a 7.2/10 since I did soften your fall with my body. Besides, I just got back home from being away for months. Can’t you cut a man some slack?”
“Well, if that’s the case, then I suppose I could be persuaded to raise your score to a 6.5, but would you really want a pity half-point?”
Since then, Penelope loosened around him, acting as his loyal ally against his siblings’ vicious sarcasm, always having something striking to say.
She was probably his closest friend before she was his wife. Now he comes home daily to his favorite combo meal, his best friend and wife, all in one.
Pulling on one of his wife’s curls softly, Colin rolls his eyes and takes in her form. With her back against a tree and her limbs stretched out on the picnic blanket, she looked content, her smile brightening when Jane asked if she could sit in her lap.
Penelope has always been beautiful, but at this moment, surrounded by the kids they made together, with her hair vibrant, eyes shining, and — courtesy of the new baby, George — her breasts even more impressive than usual, she is a goddess—a true dream to behold.
Colin joins the family on the ground, listening to Thomas as he speaks a mile a minute about everything from Sonic The Hedgehog to a kid at school who got his red card pulled during class for poor behavior. Colin couldn’t keep up with the jump between topics, but he still tried to nod along as enthusiastically as possible.
“...and then, and then—,” Thomas continues, stumbling over his words and talking with his hands. “Mama, are you listening? Okay, so then back by the swings, there were these yellow flowers that reminded me of Nana’s house, and I wanted to pick you one but—but I wanted to ask you if you wanted me to pick you one because Nana doesn’t always want us picking the flowers in her garden and—”
“Thomas, darling, slow down,” Penelope says. “Yes, you can pick the flower for me. That is very thoughtful.”
“Thank you, Mama!” Thomas calls out, running in the direction of the swings.
Penelope looked as if she was about to say something to Colin when she was interrupted by George’s cries. His wails reminded Colin so much of his youngest sister Hyacinth’s cries in her earliest months of life, shrill and heartbreaking.
“Oh, he must be hungry,” she says, taking George out of the seat.
“Like father, like son,” Colin laughs, standing to find the blanket Penelope uses to cover herself when she feeds in public. When he hands the fabric to her, he finds himself on the receiving end of a glare — that looked suspiciously like his other sister Daphne — from his eldest for blocking her sun as she read.
“I packed snacks and juice just in case,” Penelope hums. “They should be in the car.”
“Perfect, I’ll go get them,” Colin nods.
“I’ll go with Daddy,” Jane announces, rising from her seat on Mama’s lap.
“No, baby, stay with Mama and your sister; I got it. Thank you for the offer, though,” Colin smiles. The last thing he wanted to do was have his little track star near the busy intersection filled with distracted drivers close to the spot they parked.
“Mama, you will never guess what’s happening in this chapter! So basically, the cats…” Agatha begins, and Penelope looks towards him, sending him a wink before he walks off.
Colin crosses the street, reaching the car and pulling out the yellow cooler bag from the second row.
As Colin waits across the street for the cars to pass before crossing, he hears the familiar call of ‘daddy!’ Looking in the direction of the child’s voice, his stomach drops — it’s Jane, running into the street, arms stretched out wide.
Every thought that ran through Colin’s head halts, driving him into action. He tosses the bag and shouts for Jane to return to the sidewalk. He couldn’t hear anything except his blood rushing, his veins pulsing. A quick turn of his head made it clear to Colin that a vehicle was coming down the street fast, the driver’s attention away from the road, seconds away from striking Jane. In desperation and fear, he pushes Jane away from the oncoming car, so that the vehicle could collide with Colin instead.
The last thing he recalls before bright flashes over his eyes, blending into an overwhelming, blinding light, was Penelope screaming his name.
Colin’s eyes felt as if they were made of lead, impossibly heavy and uncomfortable. After several unsuccessful tries, he tries to gather himself. What was it that they told people having panic attacks? Something about gathering their surroundings through their senses?
Colin pauses and sniffs the air; everything smells sterile and vaguely of alcohol-based hand sanitizer. His ears perk at the faint beeping sounds, indoor ventilation murmur, and footsteps pattering. Is he not alone? Is someone there?
He tries to wiggle his fingers, fluttering as an early pianist does along keys, but not enough for him to lift his hand. All he can do is run his fingertips on the soft sheet covering him. The same can be said for his toes, joints cracking at their infrequent movement.
The footsteps that he heard earlier sounded like they were approaching. In a latch ditch effort, Colin attempted one more time to open his eyes, successfully opening his eyes in partial half slits, his eyesight incredibly blurry and foggy, the bright lights harsh, hurting his sensitive sight.
He exerts himself to take in his surroundings to the best of his ability before exhausting himself, his eyes slowly coming to a close, squinting in defiance.
Moving his line of sight towards the movement to the left of him, he spots a blue blob, seeing the vague shape of a person — was he in a hospital? Is this a nurse?
He attempts to speak when he immediately begins to choke. His eyes shoot open as he gags and gasps around a device that is in his mouth and down his throat. He can’t breathe, his airways feeling obstructed. He’s dying; he must be dying.
He wants his arms to move, to grab at his face and remove whatever is there, but they won’t cooperate. Nothing about him is cooperating.
As he struggles and his vision spots, he can hear the nurse in blue calling out for assistance, rushing to him to try to control and restrain his thrashing. Colin doesn’t want to stop, though; he wants to make clear that he needs help, and he needs help now.
“Mr. Bridgertons awake,” the person shouts before several blob-shaped people rush into his room with alarm. One of the blob-shaped individuals wearing gray approaches him on his right and places a hand over his.
“Mr. Bridgerton, I need you to calm down while I remove the intubation tube,” she demands, and Colin tries his best to still his movements as she pulls out the tube, a sharp pain striking his throat with its removal.
With its removal, he’s suddenly retching and spitting, entering a coughing fit as his chest heaves in an attempt to catch a solid breath, heaving as he tries to catch a solid breath. His throat feels so rough and dry in a way that he hadn’t felt before.
The woman — doctor? — who removed the tube, pulled out a flashlight pen, and shone it in his eyes, directing him to follow her finger.
Regaining a bit of strength, Colin attempts to say something, anything. He needs his wife and kids; he needs to know how Jane is. Is she okay? Please, God, tell him that Jane’s okay.
“Pen,” Colin croaks out. “Pen.”
“Pen?” The doctor questions, eyes shifting to the person beside her. “Do you need a pen?”
“My wife—my wife, Pen,” Colin struggles to force out. “Where’s my wife?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bridgerton, we will contact your family and let them know you’re awake,” the doctor answers, patting his hand and nodding at one of the others in the room, leaving the rest to attend to his vitals.
Outside the door of his room, the doctor examines Colin’s chart.
“Please contact his next of kin and request that they come here immediately,” she orders.
“Yes, doctor,” the nurse nods. “But there’s just one thing you need to know.”
“Yes?”
“He doesn’t have a wife listed anywhere,” the nurse said, showing his clipboard to the doctor. “As far as our records show, Mr. Bridgerton has never been married.”