Riviera’s Stories

It was almost the reason you set up a little date with your friend. Your relationship with Benedict had somehow…shifted? You didn’t want to jump to conclusions before talking with your husband; you knew he preferred some space at times, especially if an idea popped into his creative brain and he wanted to sketch or paint it out before the thought could disappear. But this time…this time felt off. Your first hint was waking up to a cold and empty bed, though you passed it off as a little accident from him staying up late painting (it’s usually when he feels most creative), but then those cold mornings became continuous. You felt it was best to leave it as it was, for now—not exactly avoiding the situation but analyzing it for a deeper reasoning. In the afternoon, when the family mostly had time to take a break from societal activities, you would greet your husband with a simple “Hello love” or “Have a wonderful evening, Ben,” but it only resulted in brief nods and odd grunts he never let out before. It was a breaking point when he stayed out the whole evening, never coming back until early morning, only making eye contact with you for the first time at breakfast. There was a feeling in the pit of your stomach that whatever was troubling him could not be good and would only be revealed if he communicated with you.

“Of course, dear sister,” she said with adoration. “What has been on your mind?” You played with the embroidery on your dress, encouraging yourself to say what had been on your mind for the past week.

“Has Benedict been acting a bit…strange around me?” You could tell your husband had no problems with his family; in fact, you noticed he’d been engaging with them more than usual. It only made you feel more hurt than you already were, knowing the problem was most likely you. Your friend only added more salt to the wound when a poorly concealed look of guilt was etched onto her face. Shaking your head, you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to pour from your burning eyes. So it is you. You’re the reason he’s been acting this way; you're the reason he can’t so much as look you in the eye with adoration and instead, uncomfortableness-

“Now, now, I did not say I know the reason why he has been acting this way…just that I have noticed,” she said, placing a gloved hand on top of your fidgeting bare ones.

“Have I done something wrong, Daph? Did I disrespect him in any way? Could it be the time I accidentally took the last blueberry last Monday? I swear I didn’t know that was the last of them!” You remembered his frustration when he found out who ate his favorite dessert that only came seasonally, but he told you it was perfectly fine, blaming himself for not getting to them fast enough. Daphne only smiled at your silly accusation; this was a serious matter, of course, but it was nice to see you deeply care for her brother and his feelings, even going as far as to think of the tiniest times something conflicting had happened between you two.

“It couldn’t possibly be because of something so little and, dare I say, pointless,” Daphne moved closer to you, grabbing both of your hands in the process. “Tell me, when was the last time he acted normal towards you?” You tried to recall, surfing past a week of old memories until focusing on a time when he told you quite happily about a new art project that consisted of a new muse he met at one of the diversified functions he (now rarely) went to. You knew where Benedict’s heart lay and had no problem with who he used for his artistic designs whatsoever, so using another woman for his professional acts never caused you discomfort.

“Well, he was boasting to me about finding a new muse for some artwork before going to bed, and then after his first encounter with the woman, that was when he started to act strange.” Daphne hummed, understanding your words carefully.

“Now, I don’t want to worry you, but maybe his actions have something to do with this muse.” You tried to ignore the deep pang of nervousness within your chest. No. Ben is never the type of person to commit such an act.

“I won’t jump to conclusions, but somehow I need to talk with him.” Your dear friend only nodded in agreement.

“It is all you can do, sister. Benedict can have some trouble confessing things that do not relate to others, but with a gentle push, he’ll pour everything he’s tried to conceal out like a waterfall, so don’t try to drown.” She teased with a slight squeeze of your hands, trying to lighten the dark conversation.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

It was now late evening. Most Bridgertons had called it a night, preparing for the next activities that awaited them the next day; meanwhile, you awaited your husband in your shared chambers, sitting on the foot of the bed in your cream nightgown, one of Ben’s favorites. Your husband awkwardly met with you after another time at the bar with Anthony. He stood in front of the entryway, tugging on the collar of his suit as if a hand clasped his throat. You immediately arose from your position, too nervous to say anything that would get him to abruptly leave like other times.

“Ben…” you whispered softly, unintentionally reaching out a delicate hand in the hope he’d grab it and hug you like he never had before and all would be well, but instead, you received a firm nod and a fast-paced walk toward the water closet. “Benedict!” you demanded more firmly, grabbing his wrist in the process. He instantly removed it from your grasp like it was the hottest thing in the world and stumbled back, wide-eyed with unstable breaths, heart pounding from the touch. You stood where you were, not knowing what to do. Never had he purposely removed your touch; never so quickly and with a face of horror. “What have I done?” you mumbled more to yourself.

Benedict hesitantly said your name but was quickly cut off by your pained voice. “What did you do that day in your art room with that…woman?” you cautiously crept closer to your husband, too afraid he would jerk away once again. Benedict looked as if he was on the verge of vomiting, cringing when you mentioned ‘woman.’

“N-Nothing, love.” Love. The kind and adoring word felt forced and bland coming from him. It only made you inwardly cry out more.

“Benedict, you must tell me. Whatever it is, I won’t get mad. I swear of it.” It was like a wave of guilt, hurt, and resentment came crashing out of a dam he tried so desperately to hold back. His eyes were now red and irritated with tears threatening to spill. It was as if his knees had a mind of their own and felt the need to give out, and before he came crashing down, you were there to hold him and gently place yourselves on the carpeted ground. You cradled him, caressed him, gently whispered comforting nothings in his ear—anything and everything to ensure he was alright and safe.

“I-I never meant to hurt you, angel,” he croaked out through his sobs. You shook your head, almost on the verge of tears yourself.

“You can never truly hurt me, Ben; who did this to you? Was it the woman? What did she do?” you questioned wholeheartedly. Benedict cleared his throat while lifting his head to meet your eyes, your slight nod encouraging him to release the burden that had been locked up within his soul for the past week.

“She…She touched me.”

“Touched you?” you repeated, knowing exactly what he implied. You couldn’t bear the culpability to engross your body. You selfishly thought that whatever was going on between him and the muse was…intimate, but in true reality, your husband had been assaulted. Your hold on Ben tightened, silently apologizing to his heart over and over again.

“I tried to tell her to stop…I tried to yell, scream, shout ‘stop,’ but every time the word formed in my mouth, it…it melted. I was scared, only thinking about how you would feel if I,” he paused, “if I told you what she tried to do to me. My mother knocked on the door before anything further happened, and I never felt more grateful in my entire life.” You speechlessly cradled your hands on either side of his face, connecting your heads as one.

“Don’t ever be afraid to come to me when you need help, my heart,” you soothed. “I’m sorry for trying to touch you, and I respect it if you would like more space. I’ll find a guest chamber tonight if I have to,” you said before releasing your hold from Benedict, though he grabbed one of your hands and rested it on top of his.

“There's no need. I think I’m alright now, a little jittery but okay. I need you by my side more than ever now.”

“And I’ll be there every step, Ben.” Your smile slowly turned down at the thought of that imbecile of a woman. “I will kill her even if the whole ton watches. Fuck society, fuck Whistledown,” you seethed. Benedict breathed out a chuckle at your antics.

“Though I would have loved to see that, it has been already dealt with.” You ‘awed’ in partial defeat, making your husband laugh more.

“I love you, Benedict. Never forget that,” you demanded sincerely with every nerve and fiber in your body.

“I love you. Never forget it either.”

 Arthur had known Dutch for more years than he could count with his worn fingers and it gave him insight into a pattern he used when it came to convincing others to do something he felt was under him to do himself. He knew he was using that pattern right now and it only encouraged him to keep his mouth shut and move on. Though the look in the prideful man’s eyes demanded a response, feeling beneath Arthur. Feeling rejected, displeased, and ignored, he hated it.

“I understand Dutch. You’ll have them papers in a couple of days.” Arthur grumbled out, exhaustion coating his voice like a weighted blanket. 

“Ahh, There’s my boy!” Dutch smiled and gave the man a final firm squeeze on his shoulder before turning on his heel, distracting himself with other business. Before Arthur could leave, Dutch called his attention once again; his back still faced him. “Oh, and Arthur, don’t disappoint me now. I’ve noticed your slackin’ and it’ll only hurt the gang more than they’re hurtin’ now if you keep that up.” The way Dutch pronounced every word in the simple sentence with no ounce of his signature dry humor or Southern slang made Arthur shiver with uneasiness. Whatever was in the papers had to be important, and he almost didn’t even want to know, scared that what he’d see if he did read them wouldn’t be good. He kept his composure and nodded once again.

“Never have, never will,” Arthur replied, finally leaving the tent.

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The winter air threatened to claw its way through Arthur’s layered clothing as he and his horse trudged against the stubborn snow. It had only been a couple of slow hours since his departure from the camp and he had already missed the smell of Simon’s common, but delicious, bear stew and the uncomfortably comfortable makeshift bed that rested in his tent. He had lost his sense of time, only focusing on the hidden road ahead of him, since it was really all he could do. He could feel the strain on his legs from the constant hold on his horse and his back had never felt more stiff in his long years of life. It only encouraged the man to keep going, hoping to find some type of shelter before sundown. 

It was like the clouded air had a mission to blind Arthur’s vision, covering miles of the environment, but what surprisingly caught his ill sight was movement from below. Stopping his horse, his minimum curiosity seized the best of him as he stiffly rounded off his horse and adjusted the black bandana that clung to his jaw. Moving closer to the object, he quickly realized it was a body that was leaning against a tree in a rather defensive position; their knees were tight against their body, their head covering the gap, tucking themselves into the tiny hole with their arms holding their head as if they were waiting for something, or someone, to attack them. 

“My God…” Arthur muffled in the cloth as he knelt on the white ground, removing the layered snow that covered the person…or woman, he discovered. Your eyes were involuntarily shut tight as your body shivered with each harsh breeze nature gave you. Your hands clung to your iced shawl as tight as your weak body could handle. Every fraction of you felt numb. Arthur looked at your form in bewilderment, there you were, struggling in the middle of a calm winter storm in nothing but a dress that barely gave you any type of warmth. He was surprised you haven’t died already, and a little impressed by your stubbornness to stay alive. He already made the decision to help you. Could he tell you why? Kind of. Did he want to? No, not really. The man gently wrapped his arms around your frail form, trying not to cause any pain, and lifted you with ease. 

“Alright little lady, Imma get ya home soon enough; I just need ya to stay with me. Can you do that sweetheart?” He asked softly while grazing over your features in the hope his gloves would warm your face to some extent. To his surprise once more, you found the strength to curtly nod. Arthur managed to balance yourself on his horse while he mounted on and moved you to his front, the newly found warmth giving you a sense of strange reassurance. Continuing down the path, he was finally met with, what looked like, an abandoned cabin “There we go.” Arthur celebrated as he mounted off. He took hold of your golden-bowed waist and rested your body on one of his arms as he quickly found a pole to tie his horse to with the other, grunting at the sudden pressure in the process. After giving the rope a tight tug, he cradled you with both arms and stepped up the porch to enter the worn snow-covered building.

As he figured, the inside was completely dark and cold. The few windows that surrounded the single room were covered in frost giving the place a pale blue hue. When fully entering,  he felt something hard hit the ankle of his boots and looked down to see a decent bed with layered quilts set as a mattress. Relieved, he placed you down on the cushion before going back outside in hopes of getting a light source by clearing the window's frosted layer, but before he could leave he felt a frail hand trying to grab his wrist. Arthur looked back to see your eyes open for the first time. Never had he seen a woman with eyes that held such a deep vulnerability for someone, and he realized that someone right now was him. Your attempted grip tightened even more before he rested his free hand on yours in reassurance, returning a squeeze himself.

“Hey, I’m not goin’ anywhere. I promise.” That seemed to lessen your worries, releasing your hold on him. Your eyes began to flutter and soon close, too tired to gaze into Arthur’s.

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Your body shuffled on something soft yet firm and textured. Familiar warmth engulfed you like a mother’s hold on her child. For a split second, you could finally exhale the long breath you’d been holding in for the past few hours. You could still feel the silk and cloth inlining of your dress rub against your goosebumped skin with every slight move you made, and your eyes no longer needed to be squeezed shut in pain. Craning your neck to the side, too weak to move any other muscle in your body, you observed what looked like an old, weary, one-room cabin with a worn-out kitchen area that hadn’t been used in years and a section for resting which was acquainted with a fireplace that blazed with fire and crackled with every burn of wood. Where am I? were the words you so desperately tried to voice, but your throat felt as dry as cotton, and the thought of the person who saved you being not-so-nice lingered in the back of your head. Instead, you tried to hold back the anxiety that barely fit in the cage of your heart, hoping–no, begging your rescuer was a decent person. 

You stiffly jolted at the sound of a stubborn door opening and you couldn't help but wrap your arms around yourself and tuck your knees up to your chest, afraid that mother’s warmth would leave as soon as it came. Heavy footsteps echoed throughout the room, only making you tighten in your small ball more. You assumed the person was a man, given that their footsteps were heavy and the faintest sounds of grunts surrounding your ears weren't very ladylike. You heard the sound of something heavy make contact with a hard surface followed by more footsteps that seemed to be getting louder and louder towards you. It felt as though every dreadful step he took ripped the thin walls of your will to stay quiet and not beg for mercy. The man came into your vision, standing in front of the fireplace with gloved hands reaching out for heat. His body was covered in heavy attire with wolf-pelted shoes, thick black pants that clung to his legs due to the wetness of the snow, a gun belt, and a brown fur coat that looked like it could wrap around two people. His dark hair was messy and stuck out in different directions, most likely being the cause to constant hair pulling.

The cloth of whatever was under you felt hard and soft at the same time, though one stiff edge of the fabric dug into your side and you mindlessly twisted your body, finding a better-cushioned surface until a loud croak filled the room. You paused your movement and held your breath with widened eyes. You knew he turned around; you could feel his eyes trying to bore into yours, but you didn’t dare look back, finding the cobwebs that lingered on a wooden chair more interesting.

His warmth came closer and closer making you sharply find his eyes. Tears welled in the corners but you blinked them away, trying not to break down in front of him and show the little vulnerability that tried to slip out of your grasp. The man stopped his movement. He looked tense, rigid, almost like he feared you’d scream if he made another step. You could hardly dissect his face, the fireplace being the only light source he was currently blocking.

“Easy ma'am, I’m only just trynna help.” You sensed honesty and genuine care in his deep, southern voice that contrasted with your English one. 

“Where…where am I?” You regretfully asked with a hand to your sore throat. There was a pregnant pause until the man broke it with a poorly convinced cough. 

“Hopefully dead center of Valentine,” He grunted. “I reckon you’re a long way from home. You gotta funny accent.” 

You would’ve chuckled if the situation was different but only gave a weak nod instead. 

“I…” you winced. The man must’ve noticed your discomfort, reaching for a wooden cup from a makeshift table that separated you from him and handing it to you, the light steam warming your face. You eyed it before sipping the bitter liquid and the dryness in your throat instantly subsided. “I was in Saint-Denis before…” Flashes of a man with greasy brown hair and a worn top hat came into your mind. His hands shamelessly roaming around your body with a grin that held the definition of pure sin. “Before they kidnapped me.”

“Who? Have an idea of what they look like?” He innocently questioned but thinking of the situation gave you a type of uncomfortableness you never wanted to feel again. Still, you tried.

“One was old, dressed in dirty formal attire, and wore a hat with hair that touched his shoulders-.” 

“Colm O’Driscoll.” Never had you heard a man say a name with such disdain. His head shook as he mindlessly brushed his fingers through his hair. “Horrible piece of shit. Be thankful you’re not within his grasp anymore.” 

“And I should be thankful I’m within yours?” You asked with a bit of newly gained confidence. The faintest smirk appeared on his lips as he knelt into a sitting position, one leg sitting up while the other rested on the ground.

“You should. Better than an O’Driscoll, I’ll tell ya that…I’m Arthur Morgan.” For some odd reason, your instincts were telling you to trust the man despite your heightened fear of him. His eyes held certainty, and his body language was open, almost welcoming. He was also your only source of guidance home, so without further thought, you replied with your name.

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It was almost as if he read your mind because you then heard the sound of keys dropping on the ground and whispered curses coming from outside the apartment door. Excitement filled your entire body as you closed the book, gently placing it on the coffee table before you, and rushed to help open the door. Your eyes met his tired, sunburned ones, and you swore everything around you disappeared, only brightening his perfectly imperfect features more.

“Sunshine,” Spencer breathed out, engulfing the light of his life in a bone-crushing hug. You felt all of the built-up tension in his muscles melt away as he held you in his arms.

“I missed you,” you muffled dearly into the crook of his neck, smiling at the distant smell of your signature perfume you accidentally sprayed on his white collar while you two got ready for work.

“I missed you too, darling. This case will be the literal death of me.” You sighed while mindlessly tugging at the nape of his unruly curls, eliciting a relaxing groan from him. You knew what you were in for when Spencer revealed his tiresome job to you all those years ago, and you understood the stress that came with it, even if you felt the concern resting in the pit of your stomach when you saw the damage the job could do to him.

“Oh, Spence...Hey, let’s put a hold on dinner for now and rest on the couch. You can tell me everything that’s been clouding your perfect mind, yeah?” You released your hold on him to snake an arm over his limp one, guiding him into the apartment and closing the door to make your way back to where you were sitting. Spencer only followed your way without complaint, already knowing it wouldn’t have made a difference if he rebuttaled.

You sat crisscrossed on the cushioned surface while your love rested his head on your lap, the rest of his body spread out on the other cushions. Your fingers went back into his hair, hitting all the right spots you’ve memorized just for him. Spencer’s eyes fluttered in complete bliss, and just for a second, all of his troubles disappeared. One of his hands reached up from its rested position to your wrist, gliding his fingertips loosely back and forth on your soft skin until mindlessly playing with the beaded friendship bracelet he made for you in high school.

“Morgan’s been telling me to cut some slack with everything that's been going on, but I just…I feel like the answer to all of this is on the tip of my tongue, and I’m scared it’ll be too late when I finally figure it out.” He then grabbed your wrist and laid a lingering kiss on your skin before placing your hand on his heart, craving reassurance that you weren’t going to slip out of his grasp at his most vulnerable moment, and you let him. You’d let him do anything if it assured you that he was okay. “God, the look on the victim's face when we told them there was another holdback right after we gave them hope–right after I told the team that I figured a way out of the loop.” You realized he was blaming all of this on himself, something he usually did when he felt obligated to carry anything to feel like he’d done good. You patted his chest a few times before tracing the outline of a random clear button on his shirt.

“Honey, you do realize you have a whole team that has your back, right? I truly, and I mean, truly understand how you’re feeling right now. I do, love, but please understand you can lean on them from time to time. You don’t have to share everything that’s on your mind but just something so you don’t have to hold in all of those strong feelings that are begging to be free.” You knew sometimes Spencer needed some type of push to get your word across, but you could feel his shoulders tense once again, and his finger tapping on the side of the couch grew faster. You sighed, placing your hands on his shoulders and massaging them, hoping they would relax again. You then thought of an idea, an idea your beau probably wouldn’t agree to. “What if I…helped you?”

Spencer let out a breathless chuckle. “You tried to, remember?” Though he couldn’t see, you rolled your eyes with slight amusement.

“And I failed because I didn’t have all of the information.” His lazy smile was still planted on his face as he sat up to face you.

“I told you, sunshine, they’re confidential.” You sensed seriousness in his tone, but that didn’t stop you from backing down.

“Please baby, let me help you. It kills me whenever you're feeling this way. I just want you to feel better. Let me make you feel better.” You whispered as your hand cradled the side of his face; he automatically melted into your touch. You could see the gears moving in his head until he threw his head back, his hands covering his face as he groaned in half-hearted annoyance. He couldn’t say no to you, and you knew that. You grinned as he began to get up and head in the direction of your shared room, already knowing he was getting the files to the case.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

It had been a few hours since the start of you and Spencer’s private investigation. The aroma of chicken alfredo still lingered around the apartment as your bowls rested on the coffee table that accompanied scattered files and loose papers. Your body relaxed against Spencer’s as his arm lay behind you on the couch. Your brows scrunched together in thought as you looked at your notebook, each scribble, and scratch having some type of codded meaning only you could understand.

Spencer stayed silent as he went over old articles and personal intel from the victims and convicted felons for what felt like the hundredth time. His glasses hung loosely from his nose, mindlessly pushing them up every once in a while. You skimmed through your notes until finding a sentence that felt very familiar to something that was based on the case. Sitting up, you scrimmaged through papers and more papers until finding exactly what you were looking for. Holding the two pieces of paper together, you actually found what was missing.

“Spence! Spence! I think I found it!” You beamed, shaking him out of his daze.

“Lemme see love.” He asked before you gave the two pieces of paper to him. You explained the connection between the two objects, deciphering the little details that were lodged into the evidence. What fit. What didn’t. How the intel was missed. The truth behind the victim really having something else up their sleeve that was blinded by manipulation and advanced guarding. Spencer couldn’t believe it. After weeks and weeks of constant stress and broken evidence, his beautiful, smart, endearing, love of his life managed to figure it all out.

“We did it!” You celebrated with a sigh and big stretch that’d been contained for hours and Spencer could only look at you in awe. He then grabbed your face which erupted a yelp from you until it turned into giggles when he began to litter kisses all over you.

“I love you, I love you, I love you!” He kept repeating, each vowel sounding more heartfelt and meaningful. His smile radiated off of him like the sun and you couldn’t help but really kiss him, wanting his love more than just simple physical contact. He melted into you as his soft lips moved in sync with yours, following your lead. You held on as long as you could before releasing for air. “I don’t deserve you.” He whispered though the sentence was loud and you understood him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed the top of his head, then nose, and lips before whispering back, “You deserve the world.”