(A/N): Nothing beats a good Skyffrey fic, but I wanted to explore some of the other relationships in the Penderwicks series. This one-shot isn't compatible with canon Tommy/Rosalind because this is me imagining what would have happened if they hadn't admitted their feelings for each other until closer to sixteen or seventeen years old. Hope you enjoy!
...
Tommy never intended for Rosalind to come on her own. He regularly asked the three eldest Penderwick sisters over for movie nights, especially in summer, when the thick humidity broke in favor of rushing down rain. That night, however, when he went to answer the door, he found only Rosalind on the doorstep. Her dark curls were damp from a recent shower and she was smiling brightly.
"Skye forgot she agreed to phone Jeffrey tonight," she explained, "and Jane's writer's block finally broke, so she thought it best to stay home and finish the eighth chapter of her latest Sabrina Starr."
Tommy blinked and stood back, ushering Rosalind noiselessly inside.
"So, it's just me this time. I hope you're not disappointed." She laughed, and Tommy's stomach shivered with ragged butterflies. He shrugged, making a feeble effort at nonchalance.
"You're only boring thirty percent of the time. It shouldn't be too much of a problem."
Rosalind whacked him roughly on the arm, rolling her eyes. "Idiot," she murmured affectionately. "What are we watching?"
"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."
"You know how I feel about horror movies."
"It's a classic." Tommy padded through the kitchen and into the living room with Rosalind at his side, wishing they weren't the only ones in the house. It made the warm, thrumming attraction beating in harmony with his heart impossibly difficult to ignore.
"How's Nick?" Rosalind perched on the edge of the sofa as he popped the DVD into its slot and flicked the remote at the TV.
"Busy. It's seems like he's always working."
"At least he's doing something he enjoys."
"Still." Tommy shot her a dark look. "If that means I never get to see him..."
"Have you told him how you feel?"
Tommy stared at Rosalind, raising one eyebrow in blunt incredulity. "Of course I haven't." He shook his head in a pantomime of disbelief. "Brothers don't sit around discussing their feelings with each other. Especially not at this age. It would be ridiculously uncomfortable."
"That's not just a guy thing," Rosalind corrected. "Skye feels the same way."
"Yeah, because feelings are awkward and messy and stupid. Best not to attempt talking about them."
Rosalind sighed and stretched, making room for Tommy on the sofa. Her invitation was blatant, and Tommy felt something twist in his stomach, happy and satisfied, but a little guilty. Rosalind did not mean anything by it beyond the usual—why would she—but it was still something, some kind of privilege to be allowed so close.
"Of all the films you own, you choose the one with the axe wielding ghost in it. Why am I not surprised?"
Tommy grinned. "You'll like it, I promise. When have I ever broken a promise?"
"In second grade we were partners on that science project and you promised you'd make the diarama if I wrote the report, but you forgot about it."
"Nonsense," said Tommy, briefly lifting the remote to press play. "Your memory is notoriously faulty."
"If I had rotten tomato right now, I would throw it at you."
"I know you would."
Rosalind met Tommy's eyes in a challenging gaze, glancing away before the hot blush spreading across his face made itself obvious.
Watching a film with Rosalind was a pleasure in itself. Usually Tommy poked fun at badly executed special effects and clumsy acting, and was never able to simply suspend belief. Tonight though, he was more laconic, his comments kept to quiet, friendly murmurs that made Rosalind laugh. He found himself relaxing effortlessly, Rosalind's gentle heat at his side, shoulder to shoulder.
Outside, the sun sank beneath the horizon, and the air coming in from the window took on a distinctly chilly edge. It felt like too much effort to get up and shut it, but before he could act either way, Rosalind had thrown half a decorative cashmere blanket over him.
"I hate this blanket," he muttered.
"Why?"
"Nick's stupid girlfriend gave it to my parents as a housewarming gift the first time she came over to meet everyone."
"It's just a blanket."
"You're just a blanket," Tommy retorted, but his annoyance faded when Rosalind leaned a little more firmly against his side, as if to share his body heat.
"It's cold," she said in answer to his questioning look.
"Yeah, whatever," he murmured. And then more softly: "I don't mind."
"You were getting cold, too," Rosalind said, smirking. She winced as one of the actors plunged a dagger into the chest of another. A melodramatic shriek rose up. "Not much longer. Then you can get hot chocolate or something else warm."
"Is that for my benefit or yours?"
"Well, since you'll be on your feet..."
Tommy rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. He tried to concentrate on what was happening on screen. He truly did. But this was not the easiest task in the world, because every nerve in his body had suddenly developed an obsession with Rosalind's warmth. Not so much because of the drop in temperature anymore, but because of something more solid and steady that made his chest clench.
By the time the credits were rolling, he had totally lost track of the film's conclusion and he really couldn't care less. Perhaps it was wrong of him to steal these moments, to indulge in unrealistic possibilities when they were clearly the last thing on Rosalind's mind, but he could not bring himself to feel remorseful.
"Do you want—"
"Should I go get—"
They both spoke in the same instant, and Tommy glanced over at Rosalind, his smile dying on his lips as their eyes locked and held. His breath stuck in his lungs, suddenly too tight, because he had not realized they were quite so close. Rational thought had fled him. All he could think of was leaning over and pressing a kiss to Rosalind's lips. It was crazy and illogical and rash, yet his body practically hummed with the urge.
It was like those moments after school, when they were walking home—laughing and stumbling and teasing each other—and the edge of exhilaration at being done for the day became something inexorably more significant. Except this time there was no cause for heady emotions that could be confused for something deeper, just him and Rosalind, whose gaze dropped to his lips for just a moment, eyes soft and pupils swollen.
Wait.
Tommy blinked and the moment splintered apart, leaving him flushed and confused. What had he just seen?
Rosalind was already getting to her feet, saying something about tea as she slammed the window casement shut and strode into to the kitchen, leaving Tommy to make some vague grunt of agreement as his head spun and his heart pounded beneath his ribs.
He hadn't imagined that, had he? Did he like her so much that he had started imprinting what he wanted to see on Rosalind's expression?
But no.
He knew what that was, fleeting or not. He might not be very good at reading people's emotions, but he would have to be an idiot to miss the tight, tense feeling in the air between them. And Rosalind's eyes…
He swallowed gruffly, pushing back the folds of the blanket and fumbling for the TV remote before he risked a glance in Rosalind's direction. All this time he had been assuming that his feelings were one-sided, desperate and unreciprocated, but a few seconds in the heat of that gaze were enough to make him question everything.
Rosalind had rushed off as though she had been burned, and Tommy's stomach coiled in knots of confusion and remorse. It felt like he was missing something terribly important.
He almost said something, almost voiced the tumult of questions in his head, but caution restrained him. He didn't think he was wrong, but the possibility remained and if he was mistaken, blurting out "Do you like me?" like a lovesick dunce would probably demolish everything they had. At worst, Rosalind would stare at him with apologetic pity while the closeness they shared became a yawning gorge.
At best…
Tommy's stomach lurched with joy.
"Tommy?"
He started, realizing Rosalind was holding a cup of tea out to him. Steam that smelled vaguely of chamomile wisped from the mug, and he muttered an apology, trying to detect the barest hint of anything in Rosy's expression as he grasped the mug. But it was as if it had never happened. There was no vulnerability, no hesitation—just a bit of bewilderment, as though she thought he was the one behaving oddly.
Tommy noticed that when Rosalind took her seat, she kept a bridge of space between them. Not much, just a hand-span or so, but it still caught his attention.
"Rosy?"
"Mm?"
She stared at him with those dark eyes, painfully calm. While his head buzzed with ragged, unspoken questions, she seemed utterly unperturbed.
"I don't—I wanted to tell you how I—" He broke off, twisting his fingers in his lap.
A frown furrowed Rosalind's brow. "What is it?"
"Just—how do you think of me?"
"How do I think of you?"
"Yeah." He swallowed and averted his eyes, listening to the steady tattoo of rain on the roof.
He missed the tinge of pink blooming on the crest of Rosalind's cheekbones.
"I think of you as a friend, a good friend. A really good friend," she corrected, with a little laugh.
"What else?"
She faltered under his gaze. "Uh, well, you can be tremendously annoying. And you eat too much. And you're not the neatest person, either."
Tommy's chest tightened with disappointment.
"But with you it's like I have permission to be who I am. I—I'm weirder than people think. I talk to myself and draw stupid doodles on my arm in class and sci-fi novels are my guilty pleasure."
Tommy made a little noise of amusement, but fell silent at Rosalind's indignant look.
"I'm glad you feel that way," he murmured. "You should feel like you can be yourself around me, because it's pretty obvious I was never anything close to normal."
Rosalind cocked her head, moving so that her knee brushed his. "It's funny you say that."
"Why?"
"Because you seem like the most normal person I know. Not normal as in 'average,' but normal as in, 'Finally, a person who understands.'"
Tommy drew in a breath to speak, a quick gasp of air that fell useless in his lungs as Rosalind abruptly shifted. Not back and away as he had feared, but closer. A small duck of her head, a tilted angle, and Tommy's brain crashed to a halt as his heart kicked into triple time, because that was Rosalind's mouth warm and full over his, timid in a way that made him ache.
Shock rendered him immobile, muscles locked tight in astonishment. His thoughts smashed to a halt, lost in a tangle of disbelief and confusion. But before he could urge himself move, she was drawing back, face turned away and her cheeks crimson as she blundered through awkward apologies.
I'm sorry, I—I didn't—" Rosalind edged away, closing her eyes in embarrassment. "Forget it."
"No!" Tommy reached out, cupping her jaw with one hand and peering into her face so he could meet that downcast gaze. "I don't want to."
He swayed closer and then they were kissing, really kissing, and a thunderous, exhilarating sort of emotion was bursting between them.
They pulled back after a moment, breathless and tingling.
"Are you sure about this? I didn't think this was what you wanted," Tommy said, his voice catching in his throat.
Rosalind looked up at him and her face was not painted with apathy or annoyance, but awash in warmth.
"Idiot," she murmured for the second time that evening. Her mouth curved in a soft, incandescent smile. "If you think I don't want you then you haven't been paying attention."