Work Text:
You tear me up and wreck my dreams
I hold your hand when I'm asleep
I don't mind falling for a lifetime
'Cause you break my heart right
Anthony Bridgerton loves his wife. Theirs was, without question, a love match.
Although he spent quite some time denying it and doing everything in his power not to fall for her, he’d been failing miserably since many would argue from the first moment he laid eyes on her.
Kate Sheffield, now Viscountess Bridgerton, fell deeper in love with her husband after every passing day.
There’d be no more secrets between the two of them after the viscount finally shared the paralyzing fears of his mortality but conquering one’s demons would not be an overnight fix—no matter how adoring and supportive one’s wife is.
And especially when said wife means more to him than life itself. It’s now a different kind of fear.
A desperation rather, for love at this caliber was new to him and thus, staggering intimacy almost crippled him to his bones.
Everything was different with Kate, for Kate, because of Kate.
A bone-chilling fear brought on after Kate’s accident that any moment, she could be taken from him. A fear that she couldn’t possibly love him as much as he loved her. A fear that time, no matter how long, past 38 even wouldn’t be enough.
Was he worth it?
Did he even deserve her?
Fear. Staggering, palpable fear that gnaws at him more often than anything else he’s faced.
No matter what he did, a part of Anthony was always with his wife.
His wife.
His extraordinary, at times unbearably captivating wife.
God, how was he this fortunate?
How was she his?
She hadn’t chosen him, and he hadn’t exactly chosen her upon their betrothal, but they’d choose each other every day after that.
It had been one week since her accident. No vigorous exercise for two months. He was already going mad—mad with fretting, mad with desire, and mad with fear. Today a broken leg...Tomorrow. God.
She was his undoing, his homecoming, his everything.
His wife.
He wasn’t tired of carefully peppered kisses, featherlike touches, and succumbing her into perfect oblivion as best he could. But with Kate, the desire for more would always reign. With Kate, it was never enough.
The weeks went by slowly, agonizingly sometimes. She’s ready to strangle him for fussing until come nightfall and he’d give her more than just scolding. He’d question his mother. His sisters. Her mother.
When it came to Kate, he was a mess. The days never seem to pass, somehow making the fear worse. Maybe when she is up and about, he could relax. He could stop fussing, stop worrying. Stop fearing. Maybe.
Creativity lived up to its name—his mouth, her hands—they’d spend hours exploring the distinctive ways their bodies could tangle and intertwine without the cast’s interference.
She loves him—deeply and to no end. He knows it. But fear still creeps up. Could she tire of him?
The two months are now up. She is up and about. And yet, the fear still haunts him. When he leaves her, knowing full well she wants her space, as does he, it's still not enough. Perhaps time would always be his worst enemy—finding its curious ways to haunt his every move; first his father, now his wife. Dammit.
“Penny for your thoughts, husband.” He had been back to work in his study at Bridgerton House and she is due to afternoon tea with his mother.
“Kate,” is all he could say.
She chortles. “Are you to tell me that my name is the only thing on your mind?”
“You, yes. Always, dear wife.”
“You flatter me. Will you be joining us for tea? I imagine you could use the break.”
“I could, but I am going to have to object. If I am to return to home in time, I’d much rather work through these promptly.”
He could join them for tea. He is just about done with today’s work anyway, but his head is too muffled.
Someday we’re gonna get to do all the things that we wanted to …
Never wanna say goodbye
You always see through my disguise
Someday, he would be less afraid.
Someday, he would not doubt.
Someday, he could reign over time.
Kate looks to him with an expressiveness he knows she secures for moments he isn’t completely bare with her. She tilts her head ever so slightly—“Of course. Well, I believe your mother and sisters are due for a visit at Hasting’s House for supper. Wait for me before returning home?”
“I wouldn’t dare leave you behind. Come back when you’re finished,” he says.
The time between the next few hours becomes almost unbearable. Fuck. Anthony would never be Edmund Bridgerton, he knows as much. And Kate doesn’t expect him, too, he knows that as well. And yet, his imperfections linger again in spite of knowing she loves him.
Knowing she will hold his hand through everything. It helps. It's a potent reminder. She is his strength—thinking of her eases him in every way.
What does thinking of him do to her?
Does he ease her soul?
Could she love him as much?
Could she be as overwhelmed?
They had conversed plenty after her accident—there probably wasn’t a childhood memory they hadn’t shared with each other. He told her of the time he swore he would protect his mother from a fire-breathing dragon.
He told her of the treehouse at Aubrey Hall and how his father built it himself.
He told her of the time Benedict drowned Daphne’s favorite doll. He told her of the night Hyacinth was born and how for a moment, everything felt right as he held his youngest sister in his arms—knowing that he would never really be a brother to her, but a father. Seeing that she looked so much like their father and how his mother's cries tore them all to pieces. Things he never shared with anyone else, words he never thought to utter aloud, they all came easy around Kate.
The story of the red ball incident in great detail, claiming with the bold eagerness of how many games he had won. Vowing that when she was better, love would still not exist on the field. It was every man and woman for themselves.
He even told her about a woman named Siena—the very one, she saw--a woman he believed to have loved momentarily, but now knowing with certainty he was nowhere near close to comprehending the gravitas of the emotion. Oh, how unaware he was that there would come a time and a woman he would die without. A woman whose very presence, in every way heals his soul.
He told her of all the times (with the exception of their bed chambers) where he tried and failed to keep her from his mind. His dreams. Every single detail pertaining to the explosions she aroused within him and in turn, making her giggle—allowing her to bask in her power, knowing full well she has all of him.
He told her of the duel, the mistakes he made, the moments he was proud of, and of his vigorous grooming methods involving his mutton chops.
She told him of the day her father married Mary. The day she and Edwina tried to nurse a bird back to health but were too attached to then let it go.
She told him of the way his kindness towards Penelope stunned her very being.
She told him of the day she was given Newton and how much she loved the dog—how she believed he was like an anchor for her in some ways, whatever she couldn’t say aloud to others, she could always say to Newton.
She told him of how much she adored her sister, really and truly that she would give her life for her. Of how much she adored his family, too—each of them in their own way.
She wanted to tell him about the night at the library—about how she had wished at that moment that she could be the one to help him while he faced his fears.
But she didn’t.
They had laughed for hours. There were moments of genuine heartache, too as he tried to keep in his tears while talking about his father and she had held his hand through it.
They spoke frequently. They shared everything—baring their souls was far from difficult. But something in Anthony ached. Something deep within him burned at the concept of time still. Time with her.
Time. He pours himself brandy and manages to complete the remaining work. Time. He looks to his father’s pocket watch, realizing it’s been a while he has done so. Time.
She wants to say something. She wants to ask. She knows the pocket-watch means everything to him. She wonders, as she always does. Time might always haunt her husband—she knows this. She has accepted that they, she and time, may have to share him.
But something is off today.
He is off today.
She closes the door behind her, bringing him out of his own head.
“Kate, when did you come in?”
“About an hour ago, I’d been wondering when you’d notice, but I grew tired of standing,” she says with an admirably straight face.
“What?”
“Only a moment ago. Right as you were looking to your father’s watch.”
“I was waiting for you, dear wife.”
“Oh, were you?” She walks toward his desk. The very one she once hid under. In the very room, he first kissed her. The very room she kissed him back. She has not been here since that very night, she realizes.
She leans against the desk for a brief moment, before he pulls her into his lap instead, burying his head into her neck. “What is with you and the absence of control in this room?” she giggles between his kisses.
“Control? Around you? I know no such conception, wife.” He holds her for a moment, basking in the warmth of her skin—his favorite scent, soap and lilies. He thinks often: how close could two people be? Would he ever tire of this? Would it ever be enough?
“How are you today, my love?” she breaks through to his thoughts once again. My love. It does something to him--those very words.
It’s a simple question. But she knows. He knows she knows. He knows he can’t hide it. It’s those brown eyes—the ones he could gaze into for hours and lose himself every time. It’s the way she sees all the way into his soul.
Be tender and honest
And sometimes say words that hurt
I’ll hold all your troubles
Even if you won’t
“Kate.”
“Anthony, what is it? Something troubles you,” her response is barely a whisper. She looks to him with more fervency, more vigor— talk to me.
“Nothing, nothing. Nothing is amiss, Kate. If it were, this would make more sense.”
“What would?”
“If I could put it into words. If I could tell you I would.”
“Surely nothing can be harder than what you have already shared. I will not press you. But know this, whatever troubles you, you are not to bear it alone. I’m here, Anthony,” she strokes his cheek with rhythmic ease, and takes his free hand in hers. “Nothing will be simple. No fear of darkness is overcome in a day. But I am not going anywhere. And I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”
“Say it again,” he closes his eyes to the very words he realizes he was longing for.
“Which part?”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, Anthony Bridgerton—more and more every day. Heaven knows I never thought that possible, but I do. And tomorrow I will love you more than I did today.”
“Whatever did I do to deserve you, Kate? To deserve us?”
“You are far from perfect. I will not pretend you are, but my God, Anthony you are as close as they come to me. You would lay down your life for those you love. You take care of everyone to the best of your abilities. And you care, more than any man of my acquaintance, more than my own father, I’d say. And he was an incredible man. You have no idea how vast your capacity to love is, do you?” she presses her forehead to his. “You are not your mistakes or your failures, my love. You are your trials and your devotions, which includes your unbearable stamina in a game of Pall Mall,” she says with a wink. “And I love you for all those things. If I could not bicker with you, our marriage would be excruciatingly dull, dear husband. I beg of you not to attempt to rid yourself of your idiocy. It’s the only leverage I have," she is smiling now, and his grip on her tightens.
They resort to complete merriment and enveloped in each other’s embrace.
“I will fight time for you, Kate. I will.”
“You know, I had imagined perhaps you’d fight another person. Maybe even the carriage. Perhaps even, me when I steal the mallet again. But time is a surprise, dear husband.”
“Tell me you love me again.”
“I love you,” she kisses him, showing him with actions, as much as words, just how deep her love runs—the fervency it consumes her with in hopes that she passes it on to him. In hopes that he knows, even more now.
“One day, you’re going to make it to 39. And one day you’ll make it 59, too. Lord have mercy on our daughter then should we be blessed with one. But you will, and I will want to throttle you more often than not, and at the same time, I will love you more than I do today.”
She pauses to trace the sharp lines on his face. His tired, darkened eyes. His lips. She strokes his hair. “And should you need me to remind you of much I love you every day, I will.”
He shuts his eyes at her words. She is time.
No one has held such power over him.
No one has consumed him as so.
Nothing would break his heart quite like losing her. She can invade every corridor of his mind, every wall in his heart—she can bring him to catharsis, and she can heal his scars. Whatever she pleases. Whatever she wants.
He doesn’t deserve her. No one does. But dammit, he will try. To the end of time, he will try, and he will fight. He will be worthy. He is worthy. And perhaps one day he will allow himself to believe it, too.
“Kate. My love.”
She knows. She knows he needs her. She knows he has ways to go. And she thanks her lucky stars every day that she gets to be the one to help him through it.
“Could I tell you a secret?”
“Oh? I was under the impression we no longer had any.”
“My lord, we will always have secrets, but only when it involves the whereabouts of the mallet of death,” she snickers, he smirks.
“Go on.”
“The night at the library. When you were with me during the storm. There was a moment where you spoke of fears and I knew something had haunted you then. I knew in my heart you were speaking of an experience and not an idea. And …” she chokes at the memory. The moment where she felt so much. The moment where had no idea just how much she wanted him--just how much the feeling would grow from then on.
This time, he holds her face in his hands. He gestures her to go on, knowing, just how strong his wife is, but more than that, just how daunting her attacks were.
“I wanted to be the one who’d help you through it. I wished, with everything in me that it would be me. And knowing that it wouldn’t be given the situation, of course, it pained me greatly, Anthony. I had never felt anything quite like that. To think that another woman could be your anchor. That another woman could hold you as I wished I could,” she takes a deep breath and lets the tears fall as he wipes them away.
His eyes are now filling up, too, his body shakes a little remembering that night—remembering her position. And knowing that at that moment, she was seeing him, too.
God, what a woman.
His wife.
This is why he would break for her. This is why he would give the world for her. His extraordinary wife, the most selfless woman he has ever known, and she sees all of him.
It fills Anthony with the utmost sense of contentment—the kind of serenity he feels only around Kate and because of Kate.
“You have been. You are. You are the only one, my love—no matter who I married. I’d bear this all alone. And even if they somehow knew, I could not share as much of myself with another person as I could with you. Only you.”
“I love you. Know this. Believe it. And carry it with you.”
“I do, Kate. I do. I am yours. You are mine.” He looks to his father’s watch on his desk, to the picture hanging in the study. “For so long, I’ve looked to my father for strength. But you are the answer, my love. To all the prayers, the conversations—even when I didn’t know what I needed, what I was searching for, I have found all the answers in you.”
She kisses him. It’s all she can do. And he knows—really and truly this time.
He understands. He feels it down to his bones.
This battle towards time--it won’t be an easy one. But it’s one he will fight like hell against.
Anthony Bridgerton loves his wife. And God above, she loves him just as much in return. It’s good—so good and it’s beautiful, and he is damn worthy.