Three: Cars and Planes
In the last thirty years of her life, Elizabeth Bennet had developed about three key uses for her incredibly long, tangled mass of curls.
Will Darcy had been acquainted with one more than the others: The Great Curtain. That wall of hair she casually flipped over one shoulder to avoid being looked at, sought after or bothered. Commonly present when writing her Art History thesis, avoiding that bar leech, and (of course) their third date when Will had accidentally spilled Fettuccine Alfredo all over her white blouse. And it was present now.
Standing outside the dimly lit restaurant, nose pressed against the glass, Darcy momentarily forgot that his creeping was bordering on stalking. Charlie had insisted and he had arrived for a reason. Just come for drinks, Bingley had suggested. Meet my girl before she leaves on Monday. Will had been about to mock him for the dated, Forrest Gump like use of 'my girl', but then Charlie had played the Best Friend card. He had explained how much he valued his opinion, how much he himself dug Jane, and how much of a douchebag Will would be if he bailed.
So here he was. And there they were. Four tables, a live band, and a bar's length away from the entrance. Charlie looked like the quintessential burned out employee on a Friday night. His tie had been scrapped and his pinstriped button up was rolled neatly to the elbows. Jane, of course, was prettier than Will remembered. More womanly, he decided, what with her auburn gold hair wrapped in a loose bun and her face still classically beautiful. She was smiling. Of course she was smiling. He was about 90% sure that her face wasn't capable of contorting into any other expression.
And then to her right…
A part of Will had probably known that her sister would be there. But he hadn't let that part guide his feet from the Deerbourne building that Friday. He hadn't let that part start the ignition of his BMW and lead him to the corner of "Oh Fuck" and "Get Me Out of Here". No, it was his irrational side that rooted him to the spot now, staring at the girl he had left stranded in an airport terminal ten years ago.
Will saw The Curtain first and he couldn't help the smile that pulled at his mouth. Elizabeth was sitting cross legged at the bar, her shoulders shaking with laughter, her face obscured. Her hair was so dark that it reflected the dim pendant lights and shone. And gone were the ripped jeans and paint splattered flannel. She wore a fitted black dress and heels, and his eyes traced the shape of her small figure, remembering more than he wanted to. He suddenly wanted to see her eyes. But he beat the thought to the back of his mind and buried it beneath logic.
"Okay," Will sighed, stepping away from the glass. "You came, you saw. Leave. Really, you have no place here."
He looked towards the meter. It was a ridiculous intersection of his past and his present, and he felt like he was plucked down in the middle of oncoming traffic. Even Will's chest felt a little constricted. His shoulders dropped and he looked up at the sky. The sun was dipping low, sending ripples of dull pinks and oranges dispersing into the clouds. He closed his eyes. I don't belong here. I belong home. With my fiancée. Will fingered the car keys in his pocket.
And without a break in his step, he stepped off of the asphalt and slid into his car. He gunned the engine and pulled away from the curb like a man of purpose.
Will was also a man of delayed reactions. There was a swerve of a bicycle, a flash of blonde hair (and an emphatic Oh shit!) before Darcy turned violently and smashed into another car.
His head was throbbing.
And he just been dreaming of some grinning, Oracle like blonde teenager bent on warping his life for some alternate plane of existence. Seriously, who does that? It was more like a nightmare than an actual dream. Probably because of the pain medication, right?
Because he was most likely in the Emergency Room, on a stretcher with a cluster of concerned friends and family looming over him. Okay well, maybe only Charles. But it was debatable. They had a nice wine selection at that Center City restaurant; maybe Bingley wouldn't have even bothered to look outside. God, that's not depressing or anything…
Will felt himself drawing near consciousness.
And consciousness was a bed that didn't reek of that sterile starched hospital clean. He looked upwards toward the ceiling. Pale green, the exact shade of his bedroom walls in the penthouse. A sigh of relief rolled through Will's body. He pressed his hands against his face, searching for any signs of stitches, bruising or cracked flesh. All fine. Stubbly but fine. Was it all a dream, then? He perched himself up on his elbows. Even the car crash?
Before Will could congratulate himself for cheating a pseudo death, he suddenly became aware of the warm arm wrapped snugly around his waist. His eyebrows shot up. Will only saw the top of a woman's head, her thick dark hair brushing against his stomach. She slept in an old gray t-shirt; his old gray college t-shirt. And then Will saw one of her legs, the curve of a pale calf, intertwined with his. His mouth fell open. All Darcy could think was: Did I go drinking last night? Followed by: Carrie's going to skewer me.
Gently, he tried to squirm out from underneath the girl.
Her warm breath fanned out across his abdomen. "Stop," she mumbled. "It's too early, Will." Her arm tightened.
"I uh, I have to go."
"Mm," the girl murmured. "Sammy's not even crying."
Will looked up and nearly jolted. He was not in his bedroom. Jesus Christ. It was abominably small. The slipshod dresser in front of him was littered with children's clothing. He spied a pacifier and a bib that looked suspiciously unclean, right next to carelessly thrown flannel shirts. He swallowed hard and looked at the bedside table. An ancient alarm clock and a picture frame that boasted a laughing family: the blurred shape of a woman, her husband, and two small boys. Then a worn leather wallet that wasn't his, and a shitty watch that fell several notches below his own Omega.
With a splitting headache, Will looked to the small hand curled next to his. He gaped at the gold wedding band on her fourth finger for what must have been a full minute. Dear Lord. I slept with a married woman?
The door suddenly burst open and a little boy came rocketing into the room. The terror screamed with excitement and hopped onto the bed and (what must have been ) his mother rolled onto her back. Will clutched the covers, absolutely bewildered to the point of nausea.
"Hi, baby." The woman cupped the small boy's chin. "Is your brother up yet?"
The boy shook his head, "Sammy wet the bed."
"Wonderful. Ask Daddy to change the sheets."
The boy dropped to his knees and started delivering punches to Will's shoulder, "Daddy, Daddy, Dad! Change the sheets. Or I'll bite you."
Will leaped out of bed so quickly that he slammed into the wall and knocked over an ironing board.
"Liam, we said no biting," warned the woman. She lifted up his shirt and blew on his belly, and Liam erupted in giggles, shrieking with laughter.
And then the mother turned, and Will caught full sight of her face. The sleepy green eyes, the freckles, the cropped mop of curls. His jaw dropped again. "Lizzy?"
Elizabeth Bennet ran a hand through her hair blearily and stared up at him. His t-shirt dwarfed her and exposed the smooth plane of her collarbone, and she righted it without a second thought. Her hair was riotous and shorter, stopping just at her shoulders. Probably a more manageable length for an active mother who could skip two days worth of washes.
"Honey, change Sam's sheets. Please," those familiar eyes glanced at him imploringly. "And don't give me that look, Will. You want to know how many times I've changed his sheets in the past week? It's your fault for buying Huggies – they leak."
"What?" Will asked breathlessly. He could hear the blood pounding in his own ears.
Lizzy rolled her eyes, "Fine, I'll do it. Christ. You make the coffee."
What the hell is happening to me?
Darcy swallowed sharply, turned on his heel and fled the room.
