Sorry it's been a while since I last updated. I meant to post this much earlier today, but that did not happen. This chapter wound up being more of a bear than I expected, and I got a bit distracted with future chapters, namely a particularly juicy one involving George. ;) Anyway, the next chapter is... mostly done, and it will be the last Netherfield arc chapter. Things will move a bit quicker from that point since the majority of the post-Netherfield chapters are written already and done.
As for this one, it occurs sometime between Episodes 31 and 32... so Lizzie's been there about three weeks, give or take (I could give you dates if I really wanted, but I'll spare you)... and it hopefully satisfies to some small extent your desires for more Darcy/Lizzie action. I have to say that the characters involved surprised even me quite a bit and kind of expanded this chapter a great deal more than I intended. To its benefit, definitely. Darcy surprised me quite a bit at the end with his little speech, but whatever. I hope I've done a decent job adapting some of the conversations the series didn't really touch on and that it doesn't sound awkwardly formal.
I sadly do not own the LBD. Though I would love to. Or any pop cultural things mentioned here. Oh, and some of the stuff with Caroline was partially inspired by a Caroline fic someone wrote on tumblr. If you've read it you'll know which one, but alas, I forget the title. Also, I must thank Izzy for helping me get through the very end of the chapter when it was driving me completely nuts and helping to bounce ideas around because it so would not have turned out the way it did if we weren't talking.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Reviews and questions/comments of all kinds are highly appreciated. Also, apparently I have something ridiculous like exactly a hundred followers for this thing? How can this be?! I love you guys and hope you have a happy holiday and new year!
Lizzie and Darcy entered the kitchen at roughly the same time, though they came from different sides. Their eyes met briefly when both of them arrived at the large island in the middle of the room. Darcy attempted a smile, and Lizzie attempted to match the expression before making a beeline for the fridge. Her stomach was growling, demanding to be fed, and Lizzie'd worked up quite an appetite.
Bing's massive kitchen had at least three entrances, not to mention the sliding doors that led out to Bing's elaborate terrace, which overlooked the woods that bordered his estate (there was, truly, no other word for it). Everything about the kitchen was state of the art—marble countertops, stainless steel everything, multiple ovens, the largest non-commercial refrigerator Lizzie had ever seen, and all the kitchen tools and cooking supplies one could dream of. It was the sort of kitchen that belonged on the Food Network. It would've been perfect for filming, and if Lizzie had the cooking skills or desire, she would've been tempted to make a cooking video there, a la Hannah Hart (albeit a much more sober version).
Lizzie opened the fridge, stiffening a bit at the sudden chill, and rolled her eyes. Trust Darcy to be more or less fully covered as if he were in Aspen or something; he was wearing a new, clean t-shirt, navy striped pajama bottoms that were probably silk or something, and a matching robe that went down to his knees, though it at least wasn't belted closed. He didn't really understand the meaning of casual sleepwear, but he was always fairly covered in public. She quickly cast thoughts of Darcy's ridiculously preppy wardrobe aside, peering into the fridge and trying to find the leftovers she'd been craving.
Darcy, meanwhile, studied her mostly bare back, admiring the curve of her spine and the soft, pretty skin the rather skimpy blue tank-top she was wearing showed off. She'd clearly thrown on the first clothes she'd found, so she was also wearing a pair of light purple plaid shorts that she might've been wearing earlier when he'd come to her room. He didn't entirely remember much more than how great they made her legs look and that he'd divested her of her pajamas much more quickly than he usually undressed her. Lizzie had also put her hair up in a loose bun, baring the irresistible nape of her neck to his gaze.
She'd pulled her hair up because it looked approximately like a bird's nest, tangled and somewhat matted, and it would've been only too obvious to any discerning person she encountered that she'd had sex (or probably Caroline, at the very least). Since there were no men in her life and only two in the house, it would be pretty obvious who her partner had been. As it was close to three in the morning and Darcy was the only person she knew she'd be running into, Lizzie didn't make much of an effort to make herself look more presentable. After all, she didn't really care what Darcy thought about her, and there were only two potential things he could be thinking. He could either be thinking the worst, or he was too satiated to care what she looked like now.
His thoughts tended more towards the latter and were more flattering than she knew. He was smiling to himself at the brightness in her complexion, the way her skin was still just a little flushed. It also hadn't escaped his notice that she was walking a bit different than usual, her strides a bit wider as if she was sore, perhaps, or still sensitive from their earlier activities. The whole thing filled him with a rather unfamiliar masculine pride. She bent over a little, reaching back in the fridge to find the dumplings and leftover Chinese she'd been searching for. Darcy's arms were obviously much longer than hers, but she didn't think to ask him for help. Instead she leaned forward, snatching as many take-out containers as she could reach. Damn, Bing's fridge was deep, she thought with a little frown.
She turned to set the containers on the counter, but Darcy reached out suddenly and snatched them out of her hands and set them on the island he was presently leaning against. Lizzie blinked, not expecting that, but she turned back to the fridge, extracting more take-out containers and handing them to Darcy, who set them with the others. The leftovers had been her idea when she'd registered the gnawing feeling in her stomach preventing her from falling asleep.
She'd mentioned it partly as an excuse to Darcy, but, surprisingly, he'd said he was hungry too and agreed that Chinese would be really good right now. She didn't think he especially liked greasy, filling Chinese food since it was nonorganic and nonprobiotic and all that (which they'd only managed to order because Caroline was out with one of her friends for the day), but she supposed he'd worked up quite an appetite too. Truthfully, Lizzie was too tired and hungry to particularly mind. Sleeping with him was unfortunately building up her "snobby douchebag threshold" and making it disturbingly easier to spend time with him. She figured it was one of those neurotransmitters or endorphins or oxytocin making his presence almost pleasant.
Lizzie carefully reached for the big bowl of fried dumplings the chef had prepared earlier at Bing's genius request. Darcy, meanwhile, was grabbing plates and silverware for them both. He set the plates and silverware down next to the take-out containers and then headed back to the cabinets to get some glasses for them. He was thirsty and more than a little hoarse from their previous activities, as, he assumed, was Lizzie, who was considerably more vocal than he was, even when being quiet.
Lizzie turned, struggling a bit with the heavy ceramic bowl of dumplings. Seeing that Darcy wasn't there to help her, she sighed a little and set the bowl next to the rest of the food. Why did she expect him to help anyway? Darcy took her place at the refrigerator, pulling out the milk and pouring both of them a glass as Lizzie started to open the containers. She looked over her shoulder at him, making a little face. Milk did not go with Chinese food. "Hey, Darce. What do you want?" she asked as he headed back over to put the milk back in the fridge. She'd sounded a bit like Lydia there, and she didn't like that feeling.
For his part, Darcy shrugged, not particularly caring. "I can get it myself," he said off-handedly, setting the glasses off to the side where the stools were. Lizzie shrugged in response, grunting a little, and stepped to the side to give Darcy more room to grab food. She wordlessly passed him the lo mein he'd been eating earlier and emptied half of a container of rice onto the plate he'd gotten for her. Darcy's brows shot up a bit; she'd noticed that aspect of his preferences? He stared at her a bit too long, temporarily forgetting his hunger as Lizzie helped herself to a bit of orange beef. He shook himself out of his thoughts, emptying the rest of the container onto his plate.
He nearly jumped when he felt Lizzie's skin underneath his; they'd both reached for the beef with broccoli at the same time. He felt his cheeks heat faintly but didn't remove his hand. For her part, Lizzie noticed this and merely gave him a weird look, too tired to be properly annoyed with him or confused. Her scrutiny made Darcy even more self-conscious, and he licked his lips absently, looking down. "We can just share it, I guess." Lizzie looked up at him, a speculative look in her eyes, contemplating it. She kept him waiting for a few moments but eventually nodded, releasing her grip and grabbing the spoon to separate it out. She divided it equally and then moved on to eye the remaining dishes.
Darcy was feeling hungrier than he'd anticipated; the various aromas of the dishes before him serving to revive his forgotten appetite. He picked up the lemon chicken, pouring a bit of it onto his plate as Lizzie helped herself to a generous amount of dumplings. Lizzie surveyed her almost-full plate and cast a spare glance over at Darcy's, which was a bit less loaded-down than hers and made her feel a bit fat. He was the man, after all; shouldn't he have more of an appetite than her, even if she'd more or less picked at her dinner, lost in her thoughts? "You want dumplings?" Lizzie mumbled, pushing the heavy bowl towards him.
He nodded slowly and Lizzie motioned for him to help himself. She felt a bit better seeing the way the dumplings piled onto his plate. Evidently Darcy was a fan. He also chose that moment to attempt to start a conversation. "You were helping the cook make them, weren't you?" he said, glancing up and meeting her gaze. Lizzie nodded, frowning a little, wondering what he was insinuating about her and her low-class habits and relations. She didn't have the energy to get properly defensive about it, much less on an empty stomach.
She smiled thinly, wishing suddenly for Charlotte's presence. "I usually help Charlotte, so you could say I've got experience with it," Lizzie explained with a shrug, trying to force herself not to take what he was saying the wrong way. Charlotte's rule about dumplings was that she got to help eat them if she helped make them, and Lizzie was only too happy to oblige. She was being modest; Darcy had noticed that she'd folded the dumplings with more dexterity than the cook had, laughing as she did it as if it were a race. She missed the vaguely impressed look on his face. Darcy had liked the dumplings more than he would've usually because she'd had a hand in making them. He probably would've liked anything she'd made for him (even if they'd been for everyone, not just him), even if it was burned to a crisp.
He once again attempted a smile. "They're a family recipe, actually." Her brows shot up, and she turned to face him with a questioning look. Her hand was frozen in mid-air, reaching for one of the still-full containers. Seeing her look, he stifled a chuckle. "Not my family recipe," he corrected, "It's Bing's grandmother's recipe." Lizzie looked away, wondering why Bing or Caroline hadn't made them themselves, why they'd relied on a chef to do it for them when it was a family recipe. It wasn't as if making dumplings was particularly difficult.
But then, she supposed, the rich are quite different from you and me... and as skilled as their chef was in making gourmet meals, she was hard-pressed to say his food was that much better than the homey comfort food her crazy mother cooked up. Excepting, of course, that awful cranberry jello and green bean casserole that still made Lizzie shudder at the thought of it. She'd thrown up cranberry-flavored green beans for several hours after consuming the disgusting casserole, and it had more or less put her off cranberries for life.
Darcy noticed Lizzie was making a face and wondered at it. Had she not liked his topic of (admittedly stilted) conversation? He frowned to himself, resigning himself to silence. He thought he was getting better at relaxing in her presence, at sounding and talking like a normal person... at least after sex. Mired in this slightly depressing trend of thoughts, he nearly jumped when her hand touched his. They'd gone for the Triple Delight at the same time. They both froze and looked at each other, but this time it was Lizzie who volunteered, "Let's just split it." Darcy nodded, and Lizzie once again dished it out for both of them. She then headed over to the sink, grabbing two paper towels, moistening them and then wringing them out.
He gave her a questioning look, cocking his head to the side. This was the point when Lizzie remembered that Darcy probably wasn't used to eating leftovers like herself. He probably had a chef too and didn't squeeze an order of Chinese into three or four meals, depending. Then again, he probably also wouldn't touch the sixty-nine cent soup she bought at the Russian store either. "It helps keep the moisture in," Lizzie explained somewhat ineloquently, not knowing how to properly elaborate about how the rice was crunchy when microwaved as is. Darcy got up before she could, snatching her plate and whisking it off to the microwave. Lizzie started closing the containers and putting them back in the fridge methodically.
Darcy returned just in time to throw the empty cartons into the trash. Lizzie was frowning at the silverware; typical Darcy, acting like she was uncultured just because she hadn't grown up with ridiculous, probably obscene wealth. She merely looked up at him, nonplussed, leaning on the counter. "My best friend is Asian, too, Darcy. I know how to use chopsticks," she said pointedly. He took the fork from her hand wordlessly and went to get her a set of metal chopsticks while Lizzie picked up the dirty serving utensils and set them in the dishwasher. She stopped to take her food out of the microwave, tossing the paper towel into the trash and sitting down.
He handed her the chopsticks, which she accepted almost grudgingly, and went to put his own food into the microwave. Lizzie glanced over at him, but the food smelled so good, and her hunger overpowered any manners or compunctions she might've had about eating while he was not. Darcy watched her eat, drumming his fingers on the counter, waiting for his food to be done. She ate ravenously, not caring about how she appeared or how it made her look, unlike all the society women he knew who barely ate or had little mincing bites of tiny delicate gourmet dishes. Lizzie, in contrast, had just shoved an entire dumpling into her mouth, and Darcy found it somehow strangely endearing and infinitely preferable to proper table manners.
He nearly jumped when the microwave beeped, signifying that his meal was heated up. They were, after all, trying to be quiet, as unlikely as it was that they'd run into anyone at this time of night. He turned around, carefully taking the dish out and doing as Lizzie had, sliding into the seat next to her at the bar. He took a healthy sip of his milk and dove into his food with more gusto than he expected. And if it just so happened that his arm periodically brushed against Lizzie's, he certainly didn't do anything to avoid the contact. Darcy glanced over at Lizzie, her eyes faintly closed as she savored the food. It occurred to him after a moment or two that this was a pretty great time to talk to her. It could almost be like a date, really.
Darcy cleared his throat, and Lizzie made a soft noise in her throat that sounded more like a "mm" mumbled through food. He paused, unsure of what he was actually going to say. He generally liked to plan out what he was going to say to her in advance so that he could try to anticipate her potential responses. She cracked her eyes open to give him an expectant look when the silence had dragged on a bit too long. "What do you think of Tolstoy?" he managed finally, trying not to wilt under her scrutiny. He'd seen her with one of his books earlier and had wondered about it.
Lizzie raised her brows, swallowing hard. It was a bit of a loaded question, and she wasn't in the mood for any kind of argument with him, but she also wasn't in the mood to say things to avoid potentially getting into it with him. She paused, tapping one of the cool chopsticks on her bottom lip once and then twice. "I think he's overrated. A master, sure, one of the greats, whatever... but so damn self-righteous! And don't even get me started on what he said about Shakespeare!" Lizzie exclaimed, making a face. It was that smug, all-knowing paternalistic tendency of his that kind of put her off of him; his novellas were really much preferable to his novels, rich as they were. There was definitely such a thing as being too socially-conscious; ugh, what a moralistic prig.
Her enthusiasm mildly amused Darcy, who speared a dumpling. "What about Shakespeare?" he asked almost absently, bringing the dumpling up to his mouth and nibbling on it with a cautiousness that felt like almost like a rebuke to Lizzie.
She sighed, reaching for the milk. "He called Shakespeare a poor dramatist. But it's just an excuse for him not being able to enjoy him, and Tolstoy not wanting anyone else to enjoy him either." Tolstoy did not understand the bright, vivid colors of Shakespeare's work, nor did he appreciate his flair for drama or the appeal of his verse. He was rather like a petulant child who wanted to rain on everyone else's parade. The man knew about writing, certainly, but who would want to see a stuffy, moralistic play by Tolstoy when there were pleasanter playwrights out there?
Darcy nodded, slurping up his noodles in the most dignified way possible. When he'd swallowed, he turned to address her, brandishing his chopsticks. Lizzie sipped leisurely at her milk before setting it down. "But aren't you biased?" he asked, raising a brow. Lizzie backed up a little, almost affronted, her mouth full of rice. "You love Shakespeare. Weren't you saying the other night that he's your favorite playwright?" Darcy pointed out, twirling the chopsticks around his noodles. Lizzie blinked, wondering how he'd remembered that. She hadn't thought he was much paying attention since he'd been working yet again. Jane had been telling Bing and Caroline semi-embarrassing stories about her various theatrical performances. Lizzie had countered by showing pictures of the costumes Jane had designed for them which made her sister flush horribly at Bing and Caroline's totally deserved praise.
Lizzie made a noncommittal response, waving him off and going back to her food. Since when was he all of a sudden so talkative? There was no arguing with her own words, and she didn't want to speak and risk getting herself into a trap of Darcy's making. He would find a way to criticize even her love of classic literature. It was probably too mainstream for him anyway. He probably liked to read books written by antisocial hermit loners who isolated themselves from society... like Thoreau or perhaps obscure anonymous poets who only published something twice a year. Maybe boring postmodernist tomes like the unreadable Gravity's Rainbow or anything by William S. Burroughs. She thought these things despite actually knowing that his literary tastes were, as far as she actually knew, much in line with her own.
She compensated by shoving a big, fat dumpling into her mouth, hoping he'd take a hint. However, a lack of a response did not deter Darcy, who was determined to talk to her now. He'd found that it was easier to talk to her after having sex, though she didn't much care for post-coital conversation. "What do you think of poetry?" he asked a moment or so later.
Lizzie looked over at him, raising her brows. She made sure to chew very slowly, slower than she thought she could manage, even with her mouth stuffed choking-full of dumpling. Darcy raised his own brows, giving her an expectant look. He rested an elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his hand and turning in towards her, his food temporarily forgotten. Realizing she wasn't about to dodge the question entirely, Lizzie suppressed a sigh and swallowed for as long as she possibly could. "Isn't that a loaded question?" she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm. A tiny part of her hoped the classless gesture would repulse him, but he only tilted his head a bit more. His lips twitched a bit, almost into a smile.
She stifled another sigh and frowned, considering her words carefully. She was used to doing this around Darcy in order to suppress her hardly-becoming hatred. "Poetry is an art form, I will grant you..." she said, watching his reaction carefully. Sometimes she liked to say things just to see how Darcy would react... not unlike the man himself, actually. She figured he'd disapprove anyway, so she might as well be as extreme as possible to elicit the full reaction. She paused for a moment, almost smiling and a bit too aware that Darcy would probably agree with what she had to say, "but few people nowadays have the capability to appreciate it, much less truly understand it. It's a nicer idea than it is in practice."
Lizzie was a bit surprised at his reaction, actually. His brow furrowed up a bit, and he looked away, glancing at his plate before pushing it aside. Lizzie half-shrugged to herself and started heaping rice into her mouth, waiting for him to talk. Darcy pursed his lips, opening and closing his mouth more than once, wondering what to articulate. After several moments of this, while Lizzie was nosing around her rice, Darcy cleared his throat. Her eyes shot up to meet his, the expression on her face almost guilty. "I thought women liked poetry more." Lizzie's brows shot up, and she gave him a piercing look that made him feel very uncomfortable. "Isn't poetry the fruit of love?" he stammered after a moment or so of this.
She snorted loudly and almost choked on her food. Concern briefly flickered in Darcy's eyes, one of those large hands finding her back and patting it. Lizzie coughed and reached for her milk, taking a sip. It didn't help perhaps as much as water would've, but her throat felt better. Once she blinked away the moisture in her eyes, she looked up at him shrewdly, setting her fork down. "Isn't all writing the fruit of love or money?" she rejoined. Darcy opened his mouth as if to say something, but Lizzie beat him to it. "As far as I'm concerned, there's no better way to drive away love! Nothing like a sonnet to scare a girl senseless and expose its writer to ridicule!" Lizzie continued with a laugh.
His brow furrowed more deeply at this. As always, this was said with the utmost conviction. He was the first to admit that he did not yet know her well enough to understand which opinions were really her own and which ones she merely pretended to have. He wanted to, though. "I... I have never heard that before," he said stiffly, "I always thought poetry encouraged romantic feelings." He looked away, wondering why he'd brought up poetry, a subject he was comparatively poorly versed in and one she did not seem to enjoy. He'd been certain he'd heard her mention it before in more positive terms. What was he trying to do here?
Lizzie stifled another snort, throwing her wrist in front of her nose and mouth. Maybe in the 1800s, Darce, she thought sarcastically. She cocked her head to the side and looked at him incredulously for a moment. Her expressive eyes were wide, silently asking him if he was serious... but, then again, when was he not? He was the most uptight person she knew, and the closest he'd ever come to a joke was snarking about other people. She leaned forward a bit, resting her free hand on the table and bringing her wrist away from her mouth, swaying just a little.
Darcy watched her silently, mesmerized by the glittering flecks of green and gray in her eyes and the wispy strands of dark cherry hair that escaped her bun and floated around her face. He almost reached out to steady her, though his hand was still on her back. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with his hand on her back, twisting just enough so that he'd be forced to drop his hand. He did, and his face was an impassive mask once more, as opposed to a slightly more open and pleasantly neutral expression. Darcy turned back to his food, his eyes briefly flicking up at her as he brought the fork to his lips.
"Come on, Darcy," she quipped, elbowing him lightly and making a face at him, "how many modern men use poetry to try and win a girl over?" She gazed at him as if defying him to mention a few, though her tone made it plain that she thought such attempts would have little success, if any. Most people couldn't even name more than one or two modern, living poets... unless lyricists counted. Darcy half-shrugged a single shoulder. Just because he couldn't think of one did not mean that such a man did not exist. Ugh, she was twisting him up so badly that he was thinking in triple-negatives and sentence fragments. "And what girl would fall for that?" she asked a bit later, talking more to herself than him.
His lips formed a tight line. Why was she so opposed to poetry? He leaned in towards her, carefully setting his fork down. He was pleased when she didn't move away, though that was perhaps because she was too distracted trying to capture one particularly slippery shrimp with her chopsticks to notice. "Are you saying that even the great William Shakespeare, your favorite, wouldn't be able to woo a woman these days?" he asked ironically, taking care to emphasize those two words and hating that he was just the slightest bit jealous of Shakespeare's ability to write words that Lizzie enjoyed.
To Lizzie, however, his tone was full of disdain, disdain for her opinion she hoped (him potentially sharing Tolstoy's pretentious opinion on Shakespeare was a dealbreaker). Lizzie ate the shrimp, swallowed, and glanced back up at him. She scooped up more food and shrugged. "That depends entirely on the woman." Darcy lifted his jaw off of his hand, regarding her in a new light she was mostly uncomfortable with. She flushed a little under his scrutiny, trying not to think of how successful Shakespeare might've been in securing her affections. "And, besides, Shakespeare's in a class all his own..."
He raised a brow, intending to ask her about what she thought of other poets of a similar caliber, but he thought the better of it. "Your average would-be suitor is not Shakespeare," Lizzie added a moment later, her expression a bit more serious and less dreamy. Darcy wondered why that felt like a pointed rebuke; perhaps it was just his own failings with words that made him all the more envious of those who could express themselves more easily. Those who said what they meant. "A bad sonnet will drive away love sooner than a few poorly-chosen words," she declared rather boldly. Darcy almost started at this, trying not to allow himself to grow too hopeful.
Lizzie was giving him that strange, piercing look, so he averted his gaze and started playing with his food. He hoped it would give him a less studied air, that it would make it seem like he wasn't pathetically hanging on her every word, reading into everything to know what pleased her. Lizzie scrunched her face up, stabbing at another piece of shrimp. "It forces the wannabe writer to actually consider his subject, which naturally leads to the realization that he knows very little about the person he's supposedly writing about. And then he looks at his life and asks himself what the hell he thinks he's doing, writing a love poem about someone he barely knows. And that's that," Lizzie continued, making a hand-wiping gesture and starting back in on her food.
Darcy blinked, processing this. He frowned a little, watching her bent over her food. He wondered how she'd become so cynical, so unromantic. She was almost as apt to think the worst as he was. Of course, he would never have written poetry anyway, and he suspected any of the poems he had memorized by heart wouldn't be delivered quite properly. He couldn't think of a single verse that would suit her, really. "I never took you for a cynic," he remarked quietly before slurping down more noodles.
She snorted, rubbing the back of her neck absently. What did Darcy really know about her, to take her for anything? "Let's just say I've received more than my fair share of bad love poetry from would-be Romeos," she replied with a thin smile. Poems of admiration written by women-starved men at creative-writing camp. She'd been nothing more than an object for their desire, just that and nothing more. Certainly not a real person with real feelings. Some poems gave her brown hair, others red, others auburn. In some poems her eyes were sky blue or emerald green or slate-colored or hazel with flecks of all the colors, whatever was easiest for them to make up because they hadn't actually looked her in the eyes or taken care to notice much about her.
No, their poems weren't really about her, more about the feelings she inspired in them, and ultimately, themselves, what they'd projected onto her of their ideal woman. They'd manufactured a personality on a slim factual-basis, wrote a script of how their encounters had gone that could scarcely be further from the truth. And, in the end, as with the others, they eventually gave up once they realized who she really was, that she wasn't their perfect Barbie Dream Girl, or that she was impervious to their charms, and then they moved on to a new target, just like that. It had all made for a very timely Valentine's Day documentary project with Charlotte.
Darcy's litany was only different in that it was overt and articulated. Which, she supposed, she should appreciate. She knew ahead of time not to get her hopes up or caught up in things... not as if there was any risk of that with Darcy, but still. Lizzie shook her head as if to free it of these thoughts and turned back to her food. It was a wonder she could think at all by this point.
The man himself was eating quietly, casting glances at her from his peripheral vision in a way he thought was subtle. He bit back the questions he wanted to ask—how many? chief among them. Had any of them been successful, even for moments, or was her heart really as untouched and unmoved as she made it seem? He swallowed and reached over to grab his drink, his throat a bit drier than he liked. "It doesn't sound like any of them knew you well," he remarked, hoping it came out more casually than he felt it. He hurriedly took a sip of his milk, afraid to say more. Lizzie offered him a somewhat-lazy self-deprecating smile.
"You'd be surprised how many man who say they're in love don't really know the woman they think they've fallen for," she said wryly, making a face as she took a sip of her own drink. It was not an ideal combination. She said nothing further, however, and Darcy relaxed a little. Though, as he reminded himself, it wasn't as if he knew her much better. That bothered him more than he cared to let on, and of course he didn't dare let that on. It would be wrong to get Lizzie's hopes up for something that could never become serious or materialize into something lasting. She shrugged a shoulder, and one of the straps started to tumble down her shoulder. "Such feelings are easily overcome."
Darcy arched a brow, mildly startled and somewhat alarmed at how deep her cynicism ran, but it wasn't his place to comment. Lizzie met his questioning gaze, her darkening expression softening a bit. She scolded herself for sounding even remotely bitter around Darcy. She didn't want him thinking she wanted anything more from him. "I guess I'm saying a modern woman values deeds over pretty words. Because, ultimately, poetry is just a lot of very pretty words... and pretty words are empty without conviction behind them." It was very easy, all too easy, to say things you didn't mean, Lizzie thought with a frown. Like the boys before him who'd told her things and then turned around and told her something different. She'd had enough of believing them, of trusting that others felt the same because it seemed that way.
Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she closed her eyes briefly, casting the painful, half-forgotten memories of college mistakes away. Reminders of why she was cautious with her heart and had no male friends. Opening her eyes, she exhaled and added, quietly yet resolutely, "It's what you do and the intentions behind it that really matter." Darcy's lips quirked up into a small approximation of a smile. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of phenomenon, and Lizzie wasn't looking. He admired how similarly their minds worked sometimes, unaware of how different Lizzie thought they were.
They ate together in companionable silence. Lizzie was more focused on filling her stomach than much of anything else, but Darcy continued sneaking glances over at her frequently enough to distract him from his food considerably.
When they finished, Darcy took both of their dishes and chopsticks over to the dishwasher. Lizzie leaned over the counter a bit to admire his ass as he bent down to load the machine. When she realized what she was doing, she froze and shook her head. Her brain was clearly addled from a lack of sleep. She didn't need to ogle Darcy's very-covered-ass from over a kitchen counter as if she didn't know full well what it looked like, as if she hadn't seen him naked well over a dozen times already. She let out a breath and rose to her feet somewhat unsteadily, feeling exceptionally warm, full, and sleepy. She hadn't felt this content for quite some time, but, really, she could think of no complaints but that she wasn't already lying in her bed.
Darcy saw her eyelids flutter a bit and noticed her unsteadiness on her feet, and he reached out to steady her as he rounded the island. Lizzie looked up at him wearily, leaning on the edge of the counter. She didn't push him away as she would've earlier, partly out of benevolence and partly out of exhaustion. Darcy noticed this and smiled a bit to himself. He didn't let go of her as he should have, even though she straightened and looked up at him with slightly less bleary eyes, making it clear that she didn't need his bracing presence. He was too busy wracking his brain for an excuse to prolong their time together.
These few moments with her in the middle of the night, well, it was almost like a proper date. He would've preferred a bit more conversation, but it was three in the morning, so he could let that slide. Getting an idea, Darcy cleared his throat awkwardly. "Would you want to maybe watch a movie?" he asked anxiously, stretching up to his full height and twisting his robe in his free hand.
Caroline Lee had come down for a glass of water or something, but she hadn't expected to find Darcy down here. He did at times have trouble sleeping, but he rarely indulged in midnight snacks or anything of the sort. She drew closer at the sound of his voice, stopping when she realized he was addressing someone else. She didn't have to look to know who that person was. Darcy's awkward, clumsy, schoolboy-hopeful tone said it all. So when she peered around the corner for purely reasons of scientific curiosity, as Bing would say, she was not at all surprised to find him and Lizzie Bennet both in the kitchen.
She was, however, surprised to see that Darcy's hand was resting on Lizzie's arm... or, more specifically, that Lizzie Bennet was letting Darcy touch her and not putting up a fight. Had all of Caroline's efforts to drive a wedge between them somehow gone awry and produced the exact opposite result? She was too astonished to properly fume. Darcy's cursedly-tall, broad-shouldered body blocked most of the petite brunette from view, but Caroline noted with a hint of triumph that, from what she could tell, Lizzie looked tired. Unfortunately, she also saw just how little clothing the other woman was wearing and that it certainly hadn't escaped Darcy's notice.
Caroline's pretty face contorted into a scowl, but she determined it was ultimately prudent to wait and watch to see what happened. Even though every fiber of her being was calling for her to just walk in and ruin whatever strange moment they were having. She needed to assess what was going on and why they were standing so very close in order to determine her next move. Clearly her efforts to drive them apart were not going as well as anticipated.
Lizzie blinked, having not expected his question. Darcy released his robe and gestured a bit helplessly towards the lounge, his other hand still on her arm. Lizzie's brow furrowed as she momentarily contemplated it. "We don't like the same kinds of movies, Darcy," she mumbled almost pityingly, shaking her head slowly. The hopeful look started to slide off Darcy's face, but he opened his mouth to say something to counter her or make some kind of excuse anyway. Naturally, Lizzie didn't notice and didn't let him get around to it. "Besides, it's after three in the morning. Don't you have to work tomorrow?" she remarked pointedly after glancing at the clock, shifting her weight.
His face fell even more, although he could acknowledge on the one level that everything Lizzie was saying was perfectly logical—a bit too logical, since she sounded like the voice in his head telling him that all of this was a bad idea. Caroline tried not to smile; maybe she'd been wrong, a bit too hasty in her judgment. Yes, here was Darcy reaching out to Lizzie in the way she could only wish he would to her, but she was rejecting him with arguments whose sense even Darcy could not debate. Lizzie was doing her work for her! He hung his head a little, properly chastened. Darcy suppressed a sigh, and Lizzie let out a loud yawn, reaching up to cover her mouth, her eyes meeting his briefly in embarrassment. "I'm exhausted. I have no idea how your eyes are even open right now," Lizzie murmured, shaking her head in disbelief a bit slower than usual.
Darcy couldn't help but smirk a little, knowing he was, at least partially, the cause of her fatigue. Her tired indigo eyes met his, and she let out an undignified snort, evidently reading his mind. They'd gone three long, drawn-out rounds earlier in her bedroom, until they'd both been boneless and incapable of moving for a solid thirty minutes afterwards. His own body was pleasantly sore from the exercise. She reached up and smoothed his messy hair absently; he hadn't had the heart to fix it when he was in his room redressing, not when it was the product of her hands. He thought he heard her mumble something about stamina and wearing her out, but he couldn't be sure. His expression softened, but Lizzie didn't see it.
Caroline frowned, silently seething with jealousy. Since when did Lizzie touch Darcy willingly and unnecessarily? Caroline had, of course, touched Darcy and his hair before herself, but he'd never relaxed infinitesimally or leaned into her touch the way he did with Lizzie without even thinking about it. It was also strange that Darcy's hair was tousled in the first place; he tended to be meticulous about his appearance. Caroline curled her fingers around the door frame until her knuckles were white. She did not want to be jealous of Lizzie Bennet, of all people! Lizzie and her family were so far beneath all of them that it was simply unfathomable that she should pose any sort of threat... so why were her brother and Darcy so infatuated with the Bennet sisters, even with all these points against them?
Lizzie put a hand over her mouth as she yawned again, blinking more than usual. "Thanks for the offer, Darce, but... I think I'm gonna head to bed now," she said sleepily, sliding past him and heading back the way she'd come. It was a bit careless, nicer than she would've usually been because she was satisfied in nearly every sense of the word and her bed was calling to her. She patted him once on the shoulder distractedly before she turned to go, missing the way his whole body deflated when she turned her back.
The ever-discerning Caroline, however, did not. Nor, for that matter, did she miss Lizzie's sudden casualness, the way she seemed oddly at ease with Darcy. In fact, they both seemed more relaxed around each other than she could ever remember seeing them. This was not the way it was supposed to go. Darcy let out a deep breath, turning to the side so that she could see the powerful emotion flicker across his profile before he closed his eyes and was restrained once again. Then, surprisingly, Darcy pushed off from the counter and went after Lizzie. Caroline peered into the kitchen, craning her neck in an attempt to see them. She couldn't even tell if Darcy had followed her, let alone stopped her as he'd evidently intended.
As it was, Darcy had cornered Lizzie just out of sight, pinning her up between the door frame and the cabinets, glad for the darkness to camouflage them. She blinked, gazing up at him, evidently quite puzzled. Her eyes were a cloudy cyan and a bit bloodshot. And suddenly, whatever he'd been wanting to say to her, to use to entreat her to stay, had flown out of his head. All that was left was the consuming desire to kiss her, right here and now, damn the consequences. So he leaned forward and crushed his lips against hers.
"Mmm." Lizzie responded minimally, reaching out to push him back. He moved to his favorite part of her: her neck, and Lizzie's breath hitched, eyelids fluttering. She grunted involuntarily, and then, after a moment, her eyes shot open. "Not here," she hissed, suddenly quite a bit more awake, the blood pumping a furious beat in her veins. Darcy's eyes widened a little, and he pulled back, not quite smiling but almost there. How could he not be when his arms were full of such a vision as sleepy, satisfied Lizzie with her beautiful blue eyes hazy and heavy-lidded?
She knew what he was thinking, and she couldn't help but glance around them, paranoid that someone would walk in on the tableau and see them standing far, far too close to each other. "Anyone could see us!" She couldn't help but frown at the note of panic in her voice. He was breaking the cardinal rule of their arrangement, the unspoken agreement that all of this should go on behind closed doors rather than out in the open, where they were... exposed in more ways than one. A somewhat skeptical Darcy raised a brow; he just wanted to kiss her again. He opened his mouth to implore her or remind her that no one else was up, but she carefully pulled away, barely even glancing at Darcy.
"Don't bother trying to change my mind." Darcy's eyes widened a little. Sleep had made Lizzie's lips a bit more slack; she hadn't meant for it to sound so harsh. She sighed softly, closing her eyes once more as she reached out blindly to push him even farther back, startling him a bit. "Even if I had the desire or energy to do it again, I'd still probably fall asleep before you got me even halfway undressed," a weary Lizzie mumbled so quietly that Darcy had to lean in to hear her. He frowned, eying her attire and wondering if that was a challenge. She wasn't exactly wearing much clothing, after all, and he was certainly willing to give it his best shot. He briefly contemplated the wild notion of starting to undress her in the kitchen.
Then her eyes flicked open, and she regarded him with a relatively cool but pointed look. "Goodnight, Darcy," she whispered, jerking out of his reach, cruel as ever. Her voice was firm with an undercurrent of steel, but, more importantly, it was telling him not to follow her. However, she still had to pass by him to leave. Sensing he wasn't about to let her go, she let out a breath that Darcy felt on his face, over his skin. Then she pitched forward on her tiptoes just enough to press a short kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Truthfully, her lips were half on his cheek and half on his lips, likely because she was too sloppy to notice rather than her being scheming or affectionate. She'd meant to kiss him on the cheek but had gotten a bit too close and uncoordinated due to her sleepiness. But Darcy was free to pretend whatever he wanted, to make up whatever excuse satisfied him, and that is what he did as she slipped out of his path, barely brushing past him, headed for the stairs. He watched her go, her legs sturdier than his, hearing her bare feet pad across Bing's parquet floor. He hated himself just a little for wishing he could follow her, that it was his place to go back to her bed and sleep there, with her.
Despite its comfort and luxury, the prospect of his big, cold, and empty bed was no longer even a remotely appealing prospect. He'd rather be cramped in Lizzie's bed, tangled up in her, than alone in his own. The thought should've sobered him, but he too was fairly exhausted. It was all he could do to head back over to the counter and lean against it, looking a bit forlorn. He'd forgotten how much he missed having someone around and how tired he'd grown of just being alone all the time.
It was strange to think it but he was beginning to realize just how much he needed this, whatever it was, with her. It almost made him feel like himself again, or, at least, a happier person in his own skin. He'd forgotten what that felt like too.
Caroline, of course, saw this, and saw it as her opening. She stifled a scoff at the look on his face; he was getting awfully wrapped up in some small-town nobody. It was actually rather ridiculous that some little insignificant slip of a thing like Lizzie Bennet could leave someone of Darcy's consequence looking so slighted, especially when there were many girls and women across America who would give their right arm to get him to look at them that way. Caroline tried her best to put these thoughts out of her head and walked more or less silently toward him.
"I bet I know what you're thinking about," she trilled knowingly. His eyes shot open. Darcy nearly jumped out of his skin, startled out of his far more pleasant daydreams. He scowled, wishing she wore bells or otherwise announced her presence. He was not in the mood for her needling or teasing tonight, and there was nothing like Caroline Lee to ruin a good mood. She strolled up to him, standing too close as usual and wearing that predatory smile of hers. "Lizzie Bennet," she pronounced smugly. The whole thing was tiresome; he felt like they'd already had this conversation ten times over.
Darcy didn't challenge her, not seeing the point, especially since she'd been right. Saying something ironic and confirming her thoughts with a "Gold star, Caroline" would've been amusing on a certain level. He knew it would bother her more, him not saying anything and all but admitting that Lizzie Bennet was on his mind. As he'd expected, Caroline didn't smile; he'd robbed her of that tiny victory. She wasn't happy to be right about this. For his part, Darcy was back to being bored again. He'd rather be alone in his room thinking about Lizzie than here with Caroline talking about her. Dealing with Caroline rarely amused him in general; he supposed sometimes that her company was preferable to none at all. He would occasionally try to like and tolerate her more than he really did (he was not deaf to his aunt's less-than-subtle insinuations), but it gave him no measurable pleasure. He felt very little for her.
Caroline suppressed a sigh; sometimes she thought she had Darcy completely figured out, but then he would go silent and she would question everything. He could be so cold but also so warm, when he felt like it. The way he was when he devoted his full attention and intensity to something almost made her shiver to think of it. There was something about that intensity that was so attractive to her, maybe because it reminded her of herself. Darcy usually applied that single-minded focus and drive to work, to getting what he wanted, but Caroline could imagine what it was like to have even a fraction of it. "I was reflecting on her eyes," he replied after some time, proceeding to surrender to those thoughts.
Caroline made a look of displeasure that Darcy didn't see. He was too busy staring willingly into space away from her as if trying to will Lizzie Bennet back into touching distance. Caroline very nearly gagged at the cheesiness of it all. Feelings were not only making Darcy a sap; they were making him a cliché who went on about beautiful, sparkly, shiny, life-filled, lively, bright, fine, jewel-toned eyes. She hated to see him like this, reduced to such petty sentiments, much less bestowing his unrequited and intense affections on such an unworthy object. "Come on, Darcy. You really expect me to believe that she was here in her barely-there little pajamas, and you were thinking about her eyes?" she snorted, giving him a disbelieving look. It was meant to be skeptical at first, but she honestly couldn't believe it. "Even you're not that much of a prude," she added a bit more harshly, fixing him with a knowing look, crossing an arm over her chest.
She did this in part to accentuate her bust, but Darcy's gaze did not waver. He turned abruptly to glower at her, his spine stiffening as he turned. He'd taken offense at it, of course; what would Caroline know about that anyway? He hated how she presumed to know so much about him when she had no real concept of what truly mattered to him. Everything with that man and Gigi and this summer was opening his eyes and making him start to reevaluate some of his long-held assumptions about what was important and what he really wanted.
Caroline's presumption wasn't too far from the truth, but he disliked her accusing him of ungentlemanly thoughts. It wasn't like Lizzie was a random girl or that he didn't have reason, that he wasn't entitled to think of her that way after having sex with her three times that night. "Actually, I was," he corrected primly. "Her eyes are, by far," he continued, partly to spite her and partly because he was irritated, "her most arousing feature." He lingered over that word, "arousing" for a second, letting it roll on his tongue. Of course, he regretted it almost as soon as he said it, but it gave him a frisson of satisfaction.
He wasn't lying, either; Lizzie's eyes were remarkable and easily his favorite thing about her, the one thing about her that stuck in his mind more than anything. The rich royal blue, darker around the irises than at the edges, that was, at times, gray, or other times a deeper green. It was like the flecks of green in her eyes, lurking there under the blue, commingling with the sapphire, had come to the surface, had blossomed. The color changed in the light or depending on what she wore and gave him countless opportunities to watch the way they changed when she laughed, smiled, or when he kissed her, buried himself inside of her. He had never seen their equal.
Caroline's eyes shot up to meet his, widening. She sputtered, unable to speak. Had Darcy actually just said that? With that mild innuendo? His voice deepened on the one word, but his face was as impassive as ever. She scanned his face for an answer, trying to see how he felt, if he'd meant it that way. Ordinarily Caroline could read Darcy almost better than anyone, except, of course, Gigi, but he could shut down completely when he wanted to. Darcy stubbornly did not redden or relent; he refused to be ashamed of what he'd just told her, mildly enjoying her alarm.
She raised her brows and moved towards him, resting her hip against the counter. "Arousing, you say?" she asked, mimicking his tone and the way he'd lingered over the word. Caroline snickered, tapping her pretty, freshly-manicured nails on the counter. Darcy's jaw tensed a bit at the continuous sound. "Sounds like somebody was having a naughty dream about her!" she teased, her dark eyes glittering wickedly. Teasing Darcy and making him feel self-conscious and uncomfortable about his little crush was the best way to discourage him. It was her privilege as his friend, after all, to speak her mind with him.
Darcy remained as stiffly placid as possible, though his demeanor belied his irritation. It was a kind of forced calm, the kind that could only be the product of prodigious self-control. He neither denied it nor shifted guiltily. Darcy tried not to smirk at the fact that he didn't have to imagine, that he couldn't just have her in his dreams... that it was reality. That was the best part, that she was all his behind their backs. He almost smiled, thinking of Caroline's doubtlessly priceless reaction. Though it would be amusing, she would jump to the wrong kind of conclusions and make everything needlessly awkward when it had been going so well. The last thing he wanted was further complication.
Her eyes narrowed; Darcy was being surprisingly calm and quiet about all of it, and it was making Caroline a bit alarmed. He was normally a taciturn man, yes, but he could be trusted to speak his mind when he had an opinion as even the myopic Lizzie had noticed. His lack of an opinion on the thing he had for the redhead was worrisome because it could mean that he was considering things... and the last thing she wanted was Darcy confessing when Lizzie seemed to be warming to him. Disappointed at his lack of reaction, a finger to her lip, she continued rounding the island to approach him. There was something distinctly feline and predatory about the way she moved.
She sashayed towards him like the beauty queen she might've been in another life, pursing her lips. "Now, who should I tell first?" she drawled, tapping her bottom lip absently. She paused for a moment, her gaze briefly flicking up to his, her lips curling upwards at the corners like the cat who'd gotten the canary. She stood in front of him tall, proud, and more than a little smug and self-satisfied. Caroline was already thinking about things to say to Lizzie to distance them, planning ahead how she was going to twist and manipulate things. "Lizzie, the woman of the hour herself..."
He was fully aware that her bluff was just that, that she wouldn't do that to him (or herself), and shot her an irritated look at even mentioning the possibility. "Or perhaps sweet, innocent, trusting Jane," she continued mockingly, pausing a beat too long. Darcy's eyes darkened. He knew she wouldn't tell Jane either, even if she could get the woman away from Bing for long enough to speak to her properly. "-O-o-or," Caroline continued, drawing out the word, "that mother of theirs." Though Darcy generally agreed with Caroline about Mrs. Bennet, the disdain in which she'd spat the word "mother" made him uncomfortable. She smirked to herself at the joke, pleased at the way Darcy had paled and was visibly repressing a shudder.
Caroline very nearly laughed but held it back, continuing to drive her point home. She took a breath and composed herself before deadpanning, "Yes, I'm sure Mrs. Bennet will be delighted to hear that Bing Lee's handsomer and wealthier friend isinfatuated with her desperate and pathetically single middle daughter." If she'd thought she could've managed it, she would've attempted Lizzie's mother's infamous Southern accent. Darcy paled further at the thought, an expression of distaste appearing on his face. Caroline perked up a bit, trying to suppress her enjoyment of this moment. She did not entirely succeed, and it was not a good look on her.
Darcy drew himself up to his full height, staring her down and pushing away from the counter. "You're not the only one who knows things I'd prefer not to share, Caroline. In fact, I'm sure there are things you've done that Bing would be quite interested to hear about," Darcy said pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest. He raised his brows as if in challenge. "New Year's? 2009?" Caroline paled, and Darcy relished seeing her a little bit discomposed. He often envied her unflappability and occasional falsehood, betraying as it did a subterfuge he didn't have.
She'd gotten spectacularly falling-down drunk and, predictably, had called ever-reliable DD-Darcy (one of his college nicknames that had stuck) to pick her up. He had done so without complaint, though it was quite late and he much preferred staying up all night and watching movies with Gigi to going to parties and picking up silly drunk girls who had crushes on him. He had done so partly because Caroline was a friend but more out of an obligation to her brother. He didn't want Bing to have to know what it was to worry about where his sister was. Not that he had known that then.
Darcy was hardly the type to hold favors over anyone's head, but the only reason he hadn't told her brother was because she'd actually begged him not to. As a brother, he understood her not wanting to have her brother disappointed in her, to not appear somehow tarnished in his eyes, especially since she and Bing were closer than most siblings and shared almost everything. Out of further respect for Bing and partly a desire to forget it had ever occurred, he'd neglected to mention the way a drunken Caroline had all but thrown herself at him like she was no better than Lizzie's energetic little sister. In a way, he had to hand it to Lydia; her advances were likely never rejected... after all, it seemed no man in this godforsaken small town could resist the Bennet sisters, much to Darcy's annoyance. She always had to seize the day.
Caroline had a very vague remembrance of all this but pretended she didn't. She remembered kissing Darcy, of course, as she always did (though they had only kissed one or two other times, once when he was drunk and once under the mistletoe). For his part, though Darcy would deny it until the end of time, he lived with the shameful reminder that he had kissed Caroline back for a few seconds. It was one of his more extreme attempts to get himself to feel something for her beyond friendship, respect, and an appreciation for her wit and unqualified support. Sometimes he took his aunt's suggestions a bit too deeply to heart, but she was all the family left, his only mother figure for years, and he wanted to please her and the rest of the family.
But no matter how hard he tried or how much he wanted to love her, the socially-appropriate and acceptable model of womanly perfection (or so he'd thought once upon a time), he could never make himself feel anything romantic towards Caroline. Even though she was one of the more beautiful women he knew, what feelings he had for her, even lustful feelings, weren't even a sliver of what he felt for Lizzie at any given moment. The veils were starting to fall from his eyes; he could no longer overlook her lack of charity and insincerity. He could not fail to see how vain she could be, how caught up in appearances and her selfish needs she was. Nor could he miss the way she seemed to encourage his worst impulses. And he couldn't stop questioning her intentions and what she really wanted, not when she was so coy.
So he'd kissed her for a few moments, and he'd felt nothing and pushed her away and pretended to forget about it. He'd taken her to his place, set her up in one of the many spare bedrooms, and put a trashcan next to her head, all unsentimentally. He'd left a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of water by her bedside as an afterthought and left instructions for one of his maids to check in on her in the morning. Even despite this, she'd stayed awake for quite some time after, drunk-texting him to his growing irritation.
Though surprised (and a little turned on) at Darcy's sudden blackmail, though of course he would never call it such, Caroline stood her ground. She raised her brows, wondering if he was bluffing. It wasn't like him to lie, but, then, such disclosure wasn't like him either. Either way, she wasn't about to call him on it. She took a step towards him, smiling sweetly. "Lizzie's great and everything, but... you're not really serious about her. If you were, you would've told her already how pretty you think she is."
Darcy's eyes narrowed. He'd said quite a bit more about Lizzie, and they both knew it. Caroline was trying not to roll her eyes; playing the supportive friend while he talked her ear off (as much as Darcy could, anyway) about Lizzie Bennet's dubious virtues was slowly driving her insane. She was only able to tolerate it through simultaneously amusing herself with the irony of encouraging Lizzie to hate him more. Lizzie was a fine summer friend, tolerable company when everyone else was occupied, but that was it. Caroline moved in closer, tilting her head to the side and looking up at him. She was close enough to touch him, but she knew he'd move away if she did.
She laughed, straining her neck a bit to look up into his eyes. "Besides, there's really no point in pursuing it anyway." Darcy frowned, and Caroline went on, shrugging a shoulder. His silence on the subject was increasingly worrying her, but she didn't let it show. "It's not like it could go anywhere. A summer fling is all it could be," Caroline said airily. Darcy's frown deepened. She spoke with such authority on a subject she knew nothing about, shooting him almost pitying looks. Caroline paused a moment, her eyes shaded. "Like Bing and Jane." Darcy's brows went up a little in surprise. She had seen Bing and Jane together, hadn't she?They seemed to be getting pretty serious; the man had invited her to stay, after all, and had personally cared for her when she was ill. Of course, Bing would probably do these things for almost anyone, but his level of interest in Jane could not be mistaken.
Caroline's expression turned more serious, sympathetic. "It'd be cruel to get her hopes up, after all. You two are from such different worlds," she cooed, watching him carefully. She wasn't saying anything Darcy himself hadn't already thought more than he would care to admit, but it set him on edge a little. "After this summer, we'll probably never see her again... It's probably best not to get involved so late. I mean, you wouldn't want to make things awkward for Bing and Jane, now, would you?" Caroline suggested. She knew Darcy would appreciate her reasoning; he hated wasting time or pursuing things that couldn't, ultimately, go anywhere.
Darcy raised a brow, giving her a look. When had he ever cared about making social situations awkward? Though in retrospect he could admit that Caroline's considerations were good ones and chief among the reasons why he and Lizzie kept their relationship secret, he disliked her unspoken presumption that a real relationship between himself and Lizzie would end badly and messily. He was not that inept at dating or that unable to control his emotions and behave civilly. That being said, he didn't let himself think long about getting involved with Lizzie in the way Caroline meant. It wouldn't do to be too comfortable with the idea.
He cleared his throat, answering a bit more curtly than he perhaps should've. "Your points are all good, Caroline," he began, meeting her gaze briefly. It was hard to overlook how involved she was in his love life, even though she'd been nothing but helpful. While she hadn't exactly encouraged him in his feelings for Lizzie, much less doing something stupid like telling her, she had said nothing to give him the impression that Lizzie would be adverse to the idea. She'd listened patiently, though her smile was a bit more brittle than usual, and said encouraging things about Lizzie, a few backhanded compliments. She'd complimented him, said Lizzie would be lucky to have him if she was really what he wanted. She told him how to talk to her, slyly mentioned little things the other woman liked, and that was all fine. Caroline had teased him quite a bit more than he was comfortable with, reminding him of Lizzie's ill-mannered mother and younger sister whenever he chanced to forget them.
Caroline smiled at this, perking up a bit, anticipating a further positive response, like him acknowledging she was right. As was his wont, though, he disappointed her. "I'll definitely consider them." Darcy wanted to say more, knew he should probably thank her for her help or something, but he thought it was best not to. Most of what he wanted to say to her involved telling her to stop presuming she knew his mind and his heart better than he did. He wanted to tell her to stop talking about things she knew little about, to tell her that it was private. Since that wasn't polite and he did generally agree with her, he left it at that.
Masking her surprise, Caroline's smile froze on her face. "You're not really considering it... are you, William?" she asked a bit hastily, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. He tensed, and his jaw tightened further. If he were a nutcracker, he could've cracked walnuts. She rarely, if ever, called him by his first name; no one really did anymore, except his sister and aunt. He almost forgot it was his name some days. Caroline blinked and laughed nervously, flipping her hair. "I mean, it's just... you're so different. You barely know her. And the timing!" she continued, growing increasingly flustered. Caroline took a breath, smoothing back some hair, and Darcy jerked away from her.
Her practiced smile fell a little, giving way to concern. She almost reached for him again but stopped before connecting with his sleeve, looking down, chastened. "I'm just saying you should sleep on it before... getting ahead of yourself." Darcy's eyes flashed warningly, but Caroline leaned forward. "I mean, can you really see someone as... spirited... as Lizzie on your arm at a charity event?" She tried not to make a face as she said it, but Lizzie wasn't docile or the type to keep her mouth closed. She lacked subtlety and finesse and, sometimes, tact. "Do you think she would fit in... that she would feel comfortable?" she asked, giving him a skeptical look, the doubt heavy in her voice. Caroline tried her best to make it sound like she was saying it for Lizzie's sake too. He was silent; he knew the answer to that question.
Sensing a potential victory, Caroline reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, smiling up at him insincerely. "I'm not saying that she isn't charming and compelling, but she's hardly got her life in order..." she added, giving him yet another look. Her use of the word "order" was intentional, and she was rewarded with a frown and wrinkles. She'd wanted to say immature but couldn't think of a suitable euphemism. Barely able to suppress her glee, Caroline patted Darcy on the shoulder soothingly. She did her best, though, at furrowing her brow with just the appropriate amount of concern, pouting her lips just a little so that Darcy would know she was amenable to comforting him if he needed her. "She isn't what you need right now," Caroline murmured knowingly, idly massaging his shoulder.
Darcy didn't say anything. She was more right in some ways than he'd like to admit. He rolled his shoulder out of her reach, letting out a snort. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Caroline. It's not like I'm in love with her..." he nearly snapped. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Caroline stared; he looked more undone than she'd seen him in quite some time. He caught sight of her expression, and his scowl darkened. Darcy shook his head, throwing a hand in the air and beginning to pace. It was not a coincidence that he walked away from her. "I swear, women always do this! A second glance-"
Caroline gave him a look as if to point out that it wasn't merely a second look that was the problem. His increasing agitation was unsettling her. She'd only seen Darcy get this worked up before about protecting his sister. Darcy ignored her stubbornly and went on bluntly, "-admiration—does not equal love or a desire to commit. It doesn't mean a marriage proposal's imminent or that I can-" Realizing what he was about to say and that it included children, Darcy trailed off, stilling, and took a deep, calming breath. It was best not to get caught up in his irritation, to risk revealing too much. He looked up at her pointedly. "Sometimes a look is just a look and nothing more."
Then he looked away, as Caroline stood there speechless, and pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn't entirely trust himself not to snap at her further. "As fun as it is to discuss hypothetical situations with you, I've got to get to bed. I have work in the morning," Darcy said frostily but politely enough. It wasn't quite an apology, but Caroline relaxed a little at the familiarity of the clipped, very nearly robot-like voice.
Talking to Caroline about Lizzie, or, as happened more often than not, listening to her talk about Lizzie, always left him with more questions and aggravations than answers. He'd had great, glorious, exhausting sex three times tonight, and Caroline had somehow managed to ruin it for him and confuse everything that had seemed so simple and conquerable earlier. Things were so much simpler when it was just he and Lizzie, alone, without labels or society judging and intruding on their lives. But the minute he left that room, just about, the minute it stopped being the two of them... it was like stepping out of a warm pool where he was surrounded and supported by the water, able to do anything, and into the shockingly cold air without a towel, naked. Back to reality, to being a fish out of water. His thoughts tangled and unclear, lost in a fog of sensation and reason and so many other considerations.
Darcy let out a yawn and started to turn away, padding towards the exit. He offered Caroline a lame wave, wondering briefly why she'd been up at this hour. "Goodnight, Caroline." He was halfway up the same stairs Lizzie had exited by before Caroline said goodbye. She stared after him for a good five seconds, wondering if she'd stepped into some weird nighttime Twilight Zone or if the time of night was playing tricks on her. Darcy stopped when her goodbye reached him but otherwise proceeded up the stairs in with stoicism that was a bit more forced than usual. The furious workings of his mind, however, ensured that it was over an hour before he fell asleep.
- Loren ;*