Work Text:
@ladywhistledown: hey! sending over a final design. lmk if you’re good with this?
@colin_b: looks awesome!
@ladywhistledown: great 😊 tomorrow 12 pm, yes?
@colin_b: yup!
@ladywhistledown: see you then 😊
He swiped up, closing the Instagram app. Then he swallowed.
You’re acting like a child, he scolded himself. His internal voice sounded scarily like Anthony. It’s just a tattoo. Every bloody person in bloody England has a tattoo. It can’t be that hard, can it?
“It’s just a little pinch,” Eloise, who had like a hundred tattoos, had advised him. “Well, thousands of little pinches. But it doesn’t hurt!,” she added as he paled. “I promise it doesn’t!”
“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Anthony had reassured him.
“No, I want to,” he had protested. “It’s an amazing gesture, Ant, obviously I want to be a part of that.”
Edmund Bridgerton had been gone for nearly two decades, but had lived on in his family’s memory. Every year, Violet and her children got together on the day of his birthday and made him a paper crown. This year, however - now that Hyacinth was turning eighteen - the siblings had a surprise planned.
“You could get a piercing instead,” Hyacinth suggested. “Ooh, get a cartilage piercing.”
“What about a nipple piercing?,” Benedict smirked.
Colin’s nipples twinged with phantom pain at the thought of sharp needles coming anywhere close to them. He crossed his arms.
“Piercings involve needles too,” he reminded them. “I’m getting the tattoo, all right! I want to be part of this. Mum will love it - all of us remembering Dad on his birthday.”
They would reveal their tattoos on March 20 - Dad’s birthday. Anthony was getting a pocket watch tattooed on his forearm, to represent the gift that Dad had given him on his eighteenth birthday. Benedict, a portrait of Dad that he had sketched himself. Daphne, a One Direction lyric, from the time that Edmund had taken his first girl to see the boy-band she was obsessed with. Eloise, a picture of Ada Lovelace - Edmund’s bedtime stories about real-life role models had inspired her to become an engineer. Francesca, Mozart’s requiem in D minor. Gregory, a picture of Dad holding him when he was born. Hyacinth, a hyacinth - because Dad had been the one to choose her name.
And Colin, a robin on his upper arm, from a poem that Dad used to read to him.
He’d found a great tattoo artist. Eloise had recommended her. He’d only communicated with @ladywhistledown on Instagram, but the design she had sent over this morning was perfect. She had taken his idea and created everything that he had wanted and more.
So why, upon confirming the appointment, were his palms sweaty? And why did he feel like he was going to vomit?
“Do you want me to come with you?,” suggested Francesca, sweet as always.
There would be, Colin decided, nothing more embarrassing than having his little sister holding his hand as he squealed in pain in front of a room full of hardened tattoo artist-types.
“Nah,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Don’t worry about me,” he reassured the seven pairs of doubtful eyes trained on him. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”
Wallflower Ink Co., read the colourful sign. Colin had been standing across the street from it for… fifteen minutes? Twenty? He wasn’t sure.
He could still duck out, he reasoned. Sure, he’d paid a £200 advance, which was no small amount on a writer’s salary, but he’d be fine. He’d eat beans and rice for the rest of the month. It’d be fine.
He glanced longingly in the direction of the Tube stop he’d come from.
Get it together, he told himself fiercely. You can’t be the only one to show up to Dad’s birthday without a tattoo, for fuck’s sake.
And so, heart hammering, he crossed the street and stepped into the tattoo shop.
The shop was empty.
“Hello?,” he called. He checked his watch. Yep, he was on time.
“I’ll be with you in a second!,” a musical voice rang out from what looked like a supply closet.
He swivelled, taking in the place. It was clean. Good. Well, of course it was clean. It was one of the best tattoo parlours in London. Then he made the mistake of looking towards one of the tattoo chairs. Next to which lay a large, scary-looking tattoo gun.
He breathed deeply, trying to quell the nausea.
“Hi! How can I help you?”
He turned. “Hi, yeah, I…”
Then he promptly forgot to speak.
Wow.
The prettiest girl he had ever seen stood in front of him, sporting an enchanting smile. She was dressed in a soft-looking pink sweater and high-waisted jeans. She had curly red hair tied up in a bun, and her blue eyes sparkled. A hint of a tattoo peeked out where the sweater slipped toward her shoulder. And, well, when his eyes naturally drifted downward…
Mentally, he slapped himself, and wrenched his gaze away from her chest.
“Hi.” She was smiling at him tentatively. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes,” he croaked. Good. Great. He could speak normally. Even if it was just one-word replies.
“Are you Colin?,” she asked encouragingly. She clearly thought he was some type of lunatic.
“Yup,” he nodded vigorously.
She smiled. “I’m Penelope. Lady Whistledown on Instagram - I think we were chatting.”
Penelope. Wow. Even her name was pretty. “Yup,” he said again, moronic.
She gestured behind her. “Come with me.” Then she turned.
Oh. Wow. That was… a very nice view indeed.
She led him to one of the chairs. He sat, and tried to not look at the gun and the variety of needles at her station.
“I hope you’ve eaten something,” she said. God, her sweet smile was like the force of a thousand suns. “And hydrated?”
“Y-yeah,” he croaked. “Had some eggs for breakfast. Baked beans on toast. Sausages. Orange juice and coffee, too. Uh - wait - fuck - I was supposed to avoid caffeine wasn’t I?”
What the fuck was wrong with him?! Why was he reporting everything he’d eaten and not eaten to her? Now she’d think he was some sort of glutton. Well, he was, but he didn’t want the prettiest girl he’d ever seen to know that. That was after-third-date territory. Not that he thought she’d even agree to date him. Fuck.
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” she laughed. “As long as you weren’t slamming Red Bulls all night.”
He nodded.
She glanced at him appraisingly, a little smile on her face. “Are you nervous?”
He felt the tips of his ears turning red. “A - a little, yeah.”
“You didn’t want to bring anyone with you?”
“My siblings were my only option, and I knew they’d take the mick.” A normal sentence. A full sentence. He congratulated himself.
She giggled. God, she had the sweetest giggle. “Siblings can be like that.”
He attempted a normal sort of grin in return, but he was pretty sure he looked like one of those chimpanzees they showed in nature documentaries.
“Give me a second.” She hopped off her stool. She was adorably tiny. “I’ll just grab the design.”
She fussed away at a printer, and Colin just stared at her. This, he decided, was insane. He hadn’t been affected by a girl like this in… forever. Maybe it was the sheer terror? Was it an evolutionary response of some sort? Fight, flight… fancy?
“Here we go.” She adjusted the stool to her height, and hopped on again. “Does it look all right? I can’t change it too much at this point, but let me know if there’s anything you don’t like - I’m happy to change it a little bit.”
It was perfect.
“It’s perfect,” he said honestly. “Exactly what I imagined.”
She looked pleased. He felt absurdly proud.
“Great. Do you want to take your shirt off?”
What?
She blinked at his open-mouthed response. “For the tattoo - you said you wanted it on your upper arm?”
“O-oh!” His face was burning. “Y-yeah, of course.” He sat up and unbuttoned his shirt, wanting very much to kill himself. He carefully folded it and placed it next to him, so that he could avoid looking at Penelope. When he looked up, she was a little pink.
God. He’d embarrassed her. What a wanker.
“Where do you want it?” Gingerly, she touched his arm, and even though she had donned gloves, he felt a thrill rush through his skin. “Here?”
“Great, yeah,” he nodded. “That’s perfect.”
She smiled again, and busied herself with peeling some sort of sticker off the piece of paper. She pressed a button and he felt his seat descend. “Can’t reach you at that height,” she smiled, biting her lip. Wow, even her lips were perfect.
“That’s all right,” he smiled back.
She took his arm. “I’m going to apply the design, okay?” At his nod, she pressed it into his skin, and peeled it off. “Does this look all right?”
He glanced at his arm in the hand mirror she was holding up.
Fuck, that looked so cool.
“I’m going to take that smile as a yes,” Penelope laughed. “Okay, just give me a moment to get set up.” She turned to her station, and…
… attached a needle to the tattoo gun. Then, after dipping it in a little pot of ink, she turned it on. It emitted the most terrifying buzzing sound he had ever heard.
“W-wait,” he gasped, as she lifted it. “Uh - could we take a moment?”
To her credit, she didn’t bat an eye. “Of course. Would you like me to step away for a second?”
God, she was kind, too. “No. I, uh…” How was he supposed to say that it would be much more comforting to have her next to him?
“I can stay here,” she added.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.”
“Lie down,” she suggested.
Well, that was… absurdly sexy. He tried not to think about other contexts in which she might utter those words. He did as she said.
“It’s not really like getting a shot, you know,” she said conversationally.
“My sister told me it’s like getting a thousand shots at once.”
She laughed. “Your sister’s just trying to fuck with you.”
“That tracks, yeah.”
She laughed again. “It’s more like a dull ache. It starts out a little sharp, but your body gets used to it in a minute or two. At least, that’s what it’s like for me.”
“How many tattoos do you have?,” he asked before he could think.
“Fourteen,” she said. “A lot of them are small!,” she laughed in response to his stunned look. “I have a couple of big ones, though - one on my shoulder, one on my lower back. One on my calf, too. It’s mostly botanical stuff, but I’ve got a couple of my favourite quotes…”
She went on, detailing the placements of all her tattoos on her body, as Colin sweated bullets. That had been the wrong question to ask. He licked his suddenly dry lips. “Cool. That’s really cool.”
“I’m actually not all that tattooed for a tattoo artist,” she remarked. “One of my colleagues, Rae, she has twenty-nine -”
And then suddenly Colin realised that Penelope had been tattooing him for some time, and he hadn’t even noticed.
He would have jumped, if his brain hadn’t kicked in and terrified him with the thought of accidentally stabbing himself with the tattoo gun. “Y-you started,” he said in astonishment.
She smiled slyly. “It’s the best way to get started with nervous clients.”
He didn’t know if he was impressed or outraged. “This isn’t so bad,” he noted, after observing the pain for a few moments.
“I told you,” she said jauntily.
But then he made the mistake of glancing at the needle. “Oh, fuck.” He looked away, his stomach churning.
“Let’s talk,” she said soothingly. “It’ll distract you.”
“Won’t it distract you?” What if she got too wrapped up in talking and ended up stabbing him with the gun?
“Nope,” she said, cheerful. “I’m used to it. It’s two different parts of the brain, apparently. So tell me, what’s the story behind this tattoo? If there is any.”
“My siblings and I are each getting them,” he explained, and found that talking did indeed distract him. “Not all the same ones, of course. Just things that remind us of our dad. He died when I was twelve, we’re surprising Mum on his birthday.”
When he glanced at Penelope, she was looking touched. “Wow. That’s… really sweet, Colin.”
“Mine is a robin,” he continued, encouraged by her interest. He was doing it! He was talking to her like a normal person! “Well, you know that already, of course. It’s from a poem he used to read to me - it’s called ‘If I can stop one Heart from breaking’, it’s by -”
“Emily Dickinson,” she completed, her eyes sparkling. “If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain – or help one fainting robin, unto his nest again.”
“You know it.” He felt warm inside.
“I studied literature in college. My thesis was on Emily Dickinson, actually.” She bit her lip shyly.
“Oh. Me too,” he said, his stomach fluttering. “Literature, I mean. Not Emily Dickinson. Although she’s great, of course, but I, uh, wrote my thesis on travel in fiction.”
She looked intrigued. “Really?”
“Yeah - I’m a travel writer,” he explained. “I work at, er, NatGeo?”
“That’s so cool,” she said admiringly. Fireworks exploded in his heart. “I always wanted to be a writer.”
“Why did you become a tattoo artist, then?” He was genuinely curious.
“Well, I do like art,” she said thoughtfully. “And I’m quite good at it, and the business just took off - it’s a way to pay the bills while doing something cool… I suppose I like the idea of creating art that has meaning, no matter how I’m doing it. But I’d like to write something someday.”
How was it possible for someone to be pretty, hot, kind, funny, intelligent, and so cool? Had he fainted out of fear outside the tattoo shop? Was this all a dream, and he had just conjured up his perfect woman in his mind?
“What would you like to write?”
She went a little pink. “A romance, actually. I’m really into historical romance. Hence the name of the shop. I have a few drafts… but I don’t think they’re very good.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s so cool, Penelope. I’m sure they’re amazing.”
She laughed, self-conscious. “It’s just for fun, really.”
“I’m sure you’ll be great at whatever you do,” he said sincerely. “I mean, you’re running such a successful business at this age. Not - not that I’m assuming your age or anything.” He cringed.
She giggled. “I’m twenty-eight. Yeah, I am quite proud of it. I didn’t expect it to take off like this.”
And she was age appropriate.
“Do you want to take a break?,” she asked. “I think I might need one, shake out my wrist a little bit.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” His arm was feeling rather warm. Experimentally, he tried to move it.
“Not too bad?,” she grinned teasingly. He’d thought she would go off to her office, but she was still perching on her stool, stretching out her wrist.
“No,” he said, impressed. “I’m quite proud of myself.”
“You should be,” she said warmly. “It’s scary getting your first tattoo, even when you’re not scared of needles.” Glancing away, she again said, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring anyone with you.”
He shrugged. “Barely made it in the door, actually. I think I was standing outside the shop for half an hour, talking myself up.”
She laughed.
“And my sister Fran offered to come with me, but I thought it might be embarrassing to have a mental breakdown in front of my little sister.”
“It’s good I’m here, then,” she grinned. “You can have a mental breakdown in front of me, I’ve seen it all before.”
“At least it’s only you,” he laughed. “I think I’d have turned back around and walked out the door if there were a bunch of people with tattoos and piercings just looking at me having a panic attack.”
“You’re in luck, then,” she laughed. “My colleagues Rae and Genevieve are off today, they had plans for Valentine’s Day.”
He blinked and checked his phone. “It’s… Valentine’s Day?” Indeed it was. “Well, that explains why my brother Benedict hung up on me this morning when I panicked and asked him to come with me.”
“All right, let’s get back to it,” she laughed, looking rather bright all of a sudden. She stretched one last time, and then…
… she pulled her sweater off.
Colin swore in that moment that he was like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes bugged out with hearts and tongues lolled out of their mouths. She was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt underneath with a low scoop neck. As if in slow motion, her beautiful tattooed skin was revealed - flowers on her arms, a rose by her collarbone, a quill by her wrist. He had a vivid vision of kissing the elegant lines curving across her body.
“Did - did you do these yourself?”
What a stupid fucking question. Of course she didn’t.
“I did the quill myself,” she said, though, raising her wrist. “But I’m too chicken to do bigger pieces on myself.”
“You’re chicken?,” he said, glancing in awe at the sheer expanse of tattooed skin. The tattoo gun was whirring, and she had again begun inking the robin into his arm. He was pretty sure that the tingles from her touching his arm were cancelling out the pain. Sounded scientific.
“I’m not chicken about the pain,” she corrected. “I’m chicken that I’ll fuck it up and I’ll be stuck with a wonky tattoo.”
He laughed.
They were quiet for some time, the only sound the hum of the tattoo gun.
“My dad died when I was young, too,” she said suddenly. “I know how it feels.”
He looked at her, struck.
“I mean, we weren’t too close. He was kind of a shit dad. I wouldn’t get a tattoo in his memory, that’s for sure. He gambled, drank, died, and left us in debt. Really fucked me u-” She stopped suddenly and went red. “Sorry, I don't know why I’m telling you this.”
“You can tell me,” he said quietly.
She continued tattooing, pink, quiet.
“My dad died of a bee sting,” he disclosed. “He was allergic… we didn’t know. Anthony - my eldest brother - he saw him die. Blamed himself for a long time. He tried to become our dad, basically. But sometimes he didn’t do a very good job.” He laughed. “I had such a difficult relationship with him for years. Dad was the one who was supposed to teach me how to - to be someone. I didn’t want Anthony to take his place. He tried to tell me what to do, I fought back, eventually ended up being really directionless for a while. It was hard. Death leaves us all fucked up.”
The tattoo gun had paused, Penelope looking at him with those big blue eyes. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I suppose it does.”
They stared at each other for a few moments. Then suddenly Penelope cleared her throat. “Um, yeah. So it’s done.”
He frowned, confused.
“The tattoo,” she clarified. “It’s done.”
“O-oh.” He felt inexplicably disappointed.
It was as though their lovely little bubble had popped. Suddenly all professional, she wiped off the remaining ink (he saw a hint of blood and wanted to die) from his arm. She rattled off a list of aftercare instructions. Then she guided him toward the mirror, and he turned, looking at the soaring bird on his arm.
“I love it,” he said, awed.
“I’m so glad,” she chirped. “Um. I’ll take a few photos, if that’s okay? I might put them on Instagram. If you’re okay with that, of course.”
Bemused, he let her snap photos of him from various angles.
“Right, so, um…” She was looking anywhere but him.
“I’ll pay, I guess?”
“Yeah,” she squeaked. He followed her to the till.
She took his card. “I’m giving you a twenty percent discount,” she muttered shyly.
“There’s no need!,” he protested, embarrassed.
“I’d like to.” She looked up, her clear blue eyes meeting him, sincere. “Let me.”
Arrested by her gaze, he let her.
They stood there, looking at each other.
“Thank you,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Yeah. You’re - you’re welcome.”
He had a mad urge to ask for her number.
This is her place of work, you knob. This time, the voice in his head sounded like Eloise.
The door swung open with a tinkle. They both jumped.
“Hi, we have an appointment?” Two teenage girls with an alarming number of piercings stood in the door.
“Of course!” Penelope swung into action, checking an iPad. “Tabitha and Rita, right?”
Tabitha and Rita wandered over to their chairs, and Penelope stood in front of him awkwardly.
He didn’t want to say goodbye.
“Um. Well… bye.”
“Bye.” She was twisting a piece of her hair around her finger.
“Thank you,” he added. “I really love it.”
“You’re welcome.”
He paused. “I - it was nice meeting you.”
She glanced toward her new clients. “Yeah,” she smiled awkwardly.
“Well. I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Um - yeah.”
“Bye then.”
“Bye.”
He left the tattoo parlour feeling rather sad.
Also, his arm hurt like a bitch.
God, it smelled awful in here. Was secondhand weed smoke a thing? Could you get high from the fumes of other people’s joints? Why on earth were all of Eloise’s friends so fucking weird?
He found Anthony and Kate in the kitchen, looking similarly repulsed.
“Next year,” Colin said flatly, “I’m going to tell Eloise to have one birthday party for friends, and one for family.”
“I’m too old for this shit,” Anthony agreed. “Whiskey?”
“Nah.” He grabbed a beer.
“Should we mingle?,” Kate asked.
“With who?,” Colin asked.
“You might meet a girl here,” Anthony suggested. “Talk to a woman or two, try to get someone’s number.”
“They ask for Instagram handles these days, jaan,” Kate told him.
“I’m pretty sure none of Eloise’s friends are my type.” He leaned back to avoid a blonde reeking of pot as she reached for the vodka.
Kate and Anthony laughed.
Briefly, his thoughts flitted to Penelope. He’d agonised and agonised after that day about whether he should reach out to her on Instagram. In the end, he had decided it would be creepy. Maybe he had made up their connection in his head, anyway.
“Dad’s birthday party was nice.” Anthony smiled.
“It was,” Colin agreed.
Everyone’s tattoos had turned out amazing. Even Hyacinth’s, who had gotten hers the very day of her birthday, buzzing with excitement (and maybe a few too many celebratory drinks), as she stumbled into the first tattoo parlour she saw. Mum had cried for at least an hour. Then she had announced that she, too, would get a tattoo. There was a lottery going on in the siblings group chat to pick the unfortunate soul who would have the job of escorting her - if Colin was a wimp about pain, Mum was a mega-wimp.
He was nursing his second beer, absentmindedly running his hand over his tattoo, when he saw her.
And just a moment later, she saw him.
“H-hi,” he breathed. He couldn’t believe it.
Her mouth was open. “Hi.”
He couldn’t help his wide grin. “Wow. Hi.”
“Hi.” She giggled. “Wow. What a small world.”
She looked glorious. She was all wrapped up in a little black dress, off-shoulder, her curls cascading down her shoulders. He could see her calf tattoo, and a peek of something on her thigh. Her lips looked all glossy and kissable.
“Yeah. Who’d have thought? How do you know Eloise?” He was practically vibrating with excitement.
“We’re friends from college,” she laughed. “How about you?”
“We’re friends from… the womb. She’s my sister.”
She looked amazed. “Are you serious?”
Now that he thought about it… it was El who had recommended her. He shook his head, laughing. “I’m so glad to see you, Penelope.”
He couldn’t tell in the low light, but it looked like she was blushing. “Yeah, me too. Um - how’s the tattoo?”
He was in short sleeves, now that the weather had improved, and he turned and showed her.
“Wow, it’s healed so well.” She traced it with her fingers and he felt that thrill again. “I’m so sorry,” she said hastily, snatching her hand back. “I just wanted to see if it was raised or flat -”
“It’s okay,” he said, beaming. He was so glad to see her he wouldn’t even have protested if she had pulled out her tattoo gun and started tattooing his neck. “Uh - can I get you something to drink?”
She smiled shyly. “One of those canned lemonade cocktails would be nice.”
He could not help his expression of disgust and shock.
“What?!,” she exclaimed, giggling. “They’re nice!”
Laughing, he found his way to the kitchen and retrieved her drink. Happily, she was exactly where he’d left her. This was it. He wasn’t going to let his chance go again.
“Penelope, I -”
“I’m so sorry I said bye so awkwardly. I mean, it was just, the new clients came in, but -”
“It’s totally fine -”
“- I just wanted you to know that I also really liked meeting you too,” she said in a rush. Then she went bright red.
Oh. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Okay. Okay. Okay.
It was time.
He sucked in a deep breath. “Penelope…”
She looked at him, with a shy, hopeful smile on her face.
“... I know this is weird but, um, I really liked talking to you that day.” Blushing, he soldiered on. “And please tell me if this is totally unwanted - I promise I won’t be offended or hurt or anything - but I, um, I haven't… been able to stop thinking about you.” His ears felt hot. “I thought I’d ask for your number that day but I, well - first of all, I felt really tongue-tied around you? And second of all I didn’t want to, like, hit on you at your workplace, but I - I would really like to get to know you better, and I was wondering if -”
“Yes,” she cut him off, smiling radiantly. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as they grinned goofily at each other.
Fuck yeah.