Chapter Text
One could fault Colin Bridgerton for a great many things. It would be wrong, however, to fault him for his irrational, obsessive, one-sided feud with Alfred Debling, Penelope’s love interest in her debut play.
Was he aware that Penelope had worked her ass off to get this play off the ground? Yes, of course. Did he know how hard it had been for her to stand up to Portia and declare her intention to act and write? Intimately. And had it occurred to him that every single time he winced or rolled his eyes at the mere mention Alfred, he was actively taking away from Penelope’s hard work and joy? Well…no…he didn’t know that.
And he says as much to his mother who has grown tired of his antics.
Her tipping point came today at brunch, though, when Colin reduced Penelope to tears by likening Alfred to stale bread and his stage presence to a tub of lard. And why lard, might one (Anthony, to be precise) ask? Because, Colin answered with a straight face, like lard, Alfred was all hog.
“Colin Bridgerton!” Violet chastised her third born, but it was already too late. Because Benedict guffawed, Francesca snorted into her napkin, Anthony sent Colin a chastising look, his upturned lips betraying his pride, but Eloise glared daggers at him. Colin waggled his eyebrows at her, but his face fell when he saw Pen. Pen, sitting on the opposite side of the table, gaze cast downward, hands clutched tightly on the chair handles, and a lower quivering lip.
Colin said reflexively, “Pen, Pen, I — ”
But she would hear none of it. Instead, her chair scraped back and she was on her feet. With all the dignity she could muster, Pen locked eyes with him.
And all he saw was hurt.
“He may be all hog, Colin, he’s still the only person, only friend, I can trust to play a character I’ve worked on for four years. But, thanks for your valuable opinion.”
No, no, no, Colin thought, rising from his chair all of a sudden, unable to verbalise all his swirling thoughts.
That he was only joking… kind of.
That he didn’t mean to insult her…just her choice of castmates.
That he didn’t want her to be sad… ever.
But then Penelope turned to Violet, “Thank you for having me, Violet. But I think it's time for me to leave.”
From her vantage point, Violet found it comical how her children’s eyes ping-ponged between the two warring parties, immensely entertained by the evening’s dramatic left turn. However, the tension filled moment begged for relief and as the matriarch, that responsibility often fell to her. “Of course, darling! It was so good of you to join us!”
“I’ll walk you to your car, Pen.” Colin offered, his voice cracking slightly.
“Piss off, I’ll do it.” Eloise announced, as the rest of the table groaned in unison.
“No, thanks,” Pen replied tersely like a punch in the face. “Violet, if it’s not too much trouble, could you please see me out?”
“Of course, dear.”
And just like that Penelope bid everyone a hasty goodbye. Before Colin could say anything else, she picked up her bag slung at the back of her chair and practically jogged from the dining room and out of the door, Violet in tow. Colin sank back down in his chair, unable to shake the image of Pen’s quivering lip from his mind.
As the main door shut with a soft thud, Eloise, of course, was the first to pounce.
“You’re a right asshole, you know that?! It is bad enough she has very little support to begin with, and you go ahead and say shit like this?! Don’t ever call yourself her best friend again! ” Eloise spat at him, throwing her napkin onto the table and stalking off, presumably behind Pen.
“Oh, come on! I was only joking, you all know that! And I am her best friend!” Colin called behind her, but Eloise didn’t dignify that with a response save for the middle finger she held up as she walked out of the room.
“Are you?” came the curious question from Benedict, its sly intonation clear as day.
“What?” Colin responded, hackles raised.
“Her best friend?” Benedict challenged, “Because I don’t have such tension and prolonged, passionate eye-contact with mine.”
“Look at you pretending you have any friends, let alone best friends,” Colin retorted.
Benedict smacked a hand over his chest dramatically, retreating to his plate of food with an ‘ouch’. Just as Colin opened his mouth to smooth over the sting in his reply, Anthony jumped in, “Colin, don’t be a twat. It’s one thing to make fun, but your jokes are becoming mean-spirited.”
“That’s just how Pen and I vibe. We make jokes and snide comments about everyone and everything! Two weeks ago she said my buzzcut made me look like a sheared sheep! Eloise nearly pissed herself with laughter, ask her! It’s just how we roll!” Colin protested.
“Yes, but she said that in private. And she said it about an objectively stupid haircut. You’re insulting her work… Do you see the difference?” Anthony reasoned.
“Woah, I am not insulting her work. I go to rehearsal every day to help build the sets, dude! Not even El goes every day. I just don’t like Alfred Debling. I don’t see why she had to cast the great boring sandworm of Arrakis looking motherfucker in her play. It makes no sense. I have read the script, and he’s totally wrong for the part.”
“You know, you keep saying he’s wrong for the part but you haven’t once explained why.”
“Well, how much time do you have? I wouldn’t even know where to start. ”
“Start somewhere.”
Colin huffed, tearing off a large piece of toast and chewing it angrily as images of Alfred Debling filled his mind. Alfred and his stupid mustache. Alfred and his pretentious vocabulary. Alfred “join me in a hunger strike for aquatic mammals” Debling and his boring brochures on veganism. Alfred Debling and his chapped, reptilian lips and how Colin’s stomach had roiled in disgust when he kissed Penelope’s cheek and palm during rehearsal. And then the jagoff had kept his beefy arm around her shoulder after the rehearsal, only letting her go when Colin accidentally spilled white paint all over a small set. Alfred Debling, whose mouth had set into a pout and eyes into thin slits as he watched Pen and Colin mop the mess.
Alfred fucking Debling, who had offered Penelope a ride back home, knowing fully well that was Colin’s job. And what was worse, Pen had actually agreed. Alfred fucking Debling and his fucking audacity! And Pen! Why Pen agreed to leave with that poor man’s Owen Wilson, Colin didn’t know!
“Ahem,” Anthony cleared his throat and Colin was jolted back into reality, “We’re waiting.”
Colin looked up to see his siblings observing him like hawks while he squirmed in his seat, “Well, for starters, there’s the height thing! He’s way too tall for that role. Pen is tiny. Next to her he looks like a giant. Total aesthetic mismatch.”
“Interesting. How tall is Alfred, Ben? Your height?” Anthony inquired, as if in a cross examination.
“About Greg’s height. Shorter than the three of us, I’m sure.” Ben responded.
“So about 5’ 8, and Pen must be around 5' 3?”
“5’ 5 when she wears the heels Daphne’s designing for her play,” Francesca chimed in.
“Right. So not much of an aesthetic mismatch. In fact he’s the perfect height.” Anthony smirked.
Colin’s brows knit in confusion, “For what?”
“Oh, you know,” Benedict leaned forward, his eyes glinting with menace, “for a little bit of kissy kissy.”
Colin, incensed, grabbed every single spoon within his reach and launched them at Benedict, “There. Will. Be. No. Kissy. Kissy. Got it?”
Benedict, an expert at duck and dodge, caught the spoons mid-trajectory, and with a shit-eating smile said, “Oh, look! He’s defensive. Or should I say depensive.”
“Shut it!” Colin replied, his eyebrow twitching.
“Don’t dish it if you can’t take it, lil bro!” Benedict beamed.
“Is that so?” Colin smirked, eyeing an empty dish near him. Ben realised what was about to happen as the mirth on his face began to fade.
“Colin,” Ben warned, his tone alerting Anthony and Fran to Colin’s intentions. When they turned to look at Colin, however, it was too late.
Swoosh.
A plate went flying past Anthony’s head and right at Ben, who barely managed to catch it. Then another. Then another. Then one more. Anthony and Fran screamed at Colin to stop, but Colin’s smile grew wider and wider in response.
“Ow, Colin,” Ben, now juggling dishes, yelled from the other side of the table, “Stop hurling cutlery at me, you twat! Some of these are from the 19th century!”
Colin laughed, “ Oh, big bro, whatever happened to don’t dish it if you can’t take it?”
Swoosh. Another dish flew past Anthony’s head. “That’s enough!” he roared, using his best, most effective Dadthony voice.
The sudden yell threw Colin off and the plate in his hand ricocheted off a teapot and landed in Franny’s lap, splitting into two, ultimately slipping down and crashing onto the floor. Fran screamed and moved away, slamming her knee on a chair. Colin watched on in horror. All of a sudden the room stilled and fell silent. Then Colin rushed over to her, “Fran, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Fran simply shook her head, still a little shaken. Colin gathered her in his arms, “I’m so sorry, Fran. Truly. I didn’t think that through.”
Anthony was having none of it though.
“Oh, so just like everything you do then!” Anthony sneered, “ It’s bad enough you’re hanging out with those numpties Fife and Cho, but it looks like you’ve regressed into an actual toddler. Or worse, an ape. No wonder Greg and Hy love hanging out with you these days. Banter and pranks are one thing, but whatever braggadocio bastard’s possessing you these days has got to go.”
Remorse flickered across Colin’s face for a second before he schooled his expression into his patent non-chalance.
“‘Braggadocio’,” Colin mocked, “Started doing ‘word of the day’, have we?”
For a moment, no one said anything. Then, Fran set her knife and fork down and calmly said, “Colin. Do you remember that summer at Aubrey when Ben and Ant were riding high on their hot boy era, acting insufferable and douchey for no reason?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Congratulations, you have officially topped that. Excuse me. I’m going to go call Michela.” With that, Fran polished off her last bite of fruit and left the room.
“At least she didn’t call me a capital R Rake, amirite, Anthony?” Colin winked and then snickered at his two elder brothers— neither of whom looked the slightest bit amused.
In lieu of responding, Anthony sent a deathly glare Colin’s way, taking two steps towards him until they were face to face. Though he had about four inches on him, Colin gulped at how intimidating his brother looked in that moment, and how it made Colin feel like he was eight instead of eighteen.
“Funny you’re mouthing off to me when I can cut off your allowance in three seconds. Now, whatever is wrong with you — and admit it, you’ve been off for a while — you need to introspect and fix it. And that starts with apologising to Pen. Pen, who has done nothing but love and support you all your life. You will say sorry, get on your knees if you must, and tell her you did not mean to hurt her.”
“And then Alfred jokes have got to stop, as well.” Benedict added, his hands folded across his chest, “Just because you’re jealous and don’t know how to process Penelope’s choices, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on her.”
“ Woah! Jealous? What are you talking about? What has jealousy got to do with anything? I’m not jealous!” Colin responded, looking genuinely shocked at his siblings’ assertion.
Benedict stood there, mouth agape, and Anthony sent up a prayer to the high heavens, fingers drumming his temples.
“Deep breaths….” Anthony muttered to himself, “Long, deep breaths, in through the nose,” he inhaled, “and out through the mouth.”
Benedict, however, went straight for the jugular, “You’re an idiot, Colin. Of mythic proportions. God, how can a sibling of mine be so fucking dim!” Benedict exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Oh, big talk coming from the art school dropout!”
As their squabbling continued, Anthony continued to breathe in and out. In and out. In and out. In and —
“What is going on in here?” boomed Violet’s stern voice throughout the dining room, the three brothers turning to look at her.
And when they did, it was a terrifying scene.
Violet was surveying the wreckage, the carnage her dining room had become in a matter of ten minutes, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the shattered plate at the foot of the table. Then she closed her eyes, seemingly gathering her composure, before turning to glare at Colin.
“Colin Christopher Bridgerton, it’s time to talk.”