William Darcy didn't know what heartbreak was supposed to feel like. When his parents died, he had felt despondent, lonely, almost resentful for them leaving him behind. His chest had ached and he had cried, but heartbreak was supposed to be more than that. It was supposed to be poetic. Something to remember.
Right now, the dull ache in his chest had grown into sharp, fleeting pains. Shards of hope, shattered with a kiss. If that wasn't poetic, he didn't know what was.
Lizzy— his bright, happy, intelligent Lizzy— had gotten drunk and cried in his arms. After kissing him, and then saying she regretted it. After staying out all night with Jorge fucking Wickham.
Darcy didn't know when he had started to cry.
The tears had come as easily as air used to, before this wild woman took his breath away in a thousand different, little, insignificant ways. She talked in her sleep. She bit her lip when she was thinking hard, or when she got nervous. The tip of her nose got red when cried.
As he had gathered her into his arms, after being the cause of so much pain— after being so selfish as to ignore her just for his own comfort— made him feel like the lowest amoeba on earth. And what was worse? He had enjoyed it.
He had enjoyed rubbing Lizzy's back as the sobbed quietly. Enjoyed how her nose fit like a jigsaw into the crook of his neck. Enjoyed how he could feel every shake and tremor of her fragile body as it was pressed against his. He liked being the one she turned to. The shoulder to cry on.
And yet he had been the one to make her cry.
He really was scum.
And now she was asleep, nodded off as Darcy fastened her seatbelt and tried to focus on the road ahead. It was hard, when Lizzy kept mumbling things he could almost understand.
Understand. He didn't understand anything, any more.
What had he done wrong? What had he said? He couldn't be close to Elize without pushing her boundaries, but keeping his distance hurt her even more. What could he do? What did he want?
Darcy opened the car door after he sat in the street in front of the Playpen. He walked around the side, and opened Lizzy's door. Her head was resting on the seatbelt. He unfastened it, and shook her shoulder as lightly as he could manage.
"Lizzy," he whispered, his voice halfway between hoarse and strained, "Lizzy, wake up. We gotta get inside."
She didn't answer. She was very still.
Darcy breathed out, steeled himself, and carefully lifted her out of the car. Lizzy was small, and fit almost perfectly in his arms. Darcy allowed himself to embrace her for a minute, quietly, his nose buried in the crook of her shoulder. Then he carried her the rest of the way inside.
The Playpen hallway was dark. He could hear soft breathing coming from the couch— it seemed Bingley and Rosa were once again sharing. Instead of returning to the normal sleeping bag though, Darcy hefted his precious cargo, grabbed the sleeping bag with two free fingers, and dragged it to his office. He drew the blinds. She was going to have a monster hangover when she woke up.
And Darcy wanted to do everything he could to make waking up as comfortable as possible for her. Carefully, he took Lizzy's shoes off her dainty little feet, and untucked her shirt (he didn't dare do any more, in case it would make her uncomfortable later on). Then he let her hair down, and, grabbing a warm washcloth from the bathroom, began to gently brush away the mascara stains.
Her skin was so smooth. Her rubbed as softly as he could, not wanting to disturb her placid expression. Her eyelids didn't even flutter, not once.
After that was done, Darcy allowed himself to change into soft pants and an undershirt. He stood over Lizzy, considering his options. She looked so peaceful laying asleep over top of the sleeping bag, her gorgeously rambunctious curls splayed out over the pillow.
Then Darcy decided to be selfish. Just this once.
He pulled Lizzy into the sleeping bag and slid in after her. Lizzy's back was to him, and, ever so gently, Darcy reached out an arm to pull her into him. She laid still, curled up against him.
Her body generated heat like a hot water bottle, and Darcy found himself pressing every available surface closer to her. He breathed in her clean, fruity scent. Sweet and watery, she smelled like freshwater streams and a thousand types of berries. Like rock salt, and lavender. He couldn't identify anything else. He just enjoyed it.
He snuggled up to her, and wished she would say something. Something like 'I am sorry.' 'I want this too.' 'It's not your fault.'
Something like 'I love you.'
In his mind's eye Darcy saw the future. Saw it as clear as day, as real as the gift of a woman in his arms.
"Hey," she whispered. Darcy just barely cracked an eyelid, and was greeted by a soft grin that showcased her twinkling eyes. "You awake?"
"I am now," he grumbled, pulling her closer.
Lizzy laughed as he pressed lingering kisses to the underside of her jaw.
"Uh uh," she taunted, pulling away, "Not THIS morning, mister."
Darcy manufactured a pout, and Lizzy kissed his nose. "It's your turn to wake the kids, remember?" She said, grinning.
Darcy smiled, and rolled out of bed. He padded to the door, but before he could open it, two little balls of curly-haired energy almost knocked him over. "DADDY!"
He managed to catch them, and laughing, he shouted over his shoulder, "My job's done!"
His lady love huffed behind him, amused. "SO lucky."
"You're right," he said, walking over to kiss her forehead, "I am so lucky."
Before Lizzy could rightly berate him for the cheesy line, the little boy, who had cinnamon-colored fluff for hair and his mother's eyes, tugged on his pant leg.
"Daddy, daddy," the boy said pleadingly, a gap-toothed grin firmly in place, "Can we have pancakes today?"
"OOOOH," chimed in his sister, a light-skinned sprite with Darcy's brown eyes and her hair in adorable ringlets, "CAN WE?! Pleeeease?"
"You'll have to ask your mother." He turned to her, and tried to adopt the puppy-eyes his children had so perfected. "What'd ya say, love? Pleeeeease?"
Lizzy laughed, a bright, carefree sound, and acquiesced. "But you have to get me coffee," she told the kids. "Can you carry the pot alright?"
"Yes yes yes, I can!" Squealed the girl.
"Nuh uh, I wanna be the helper!" Her brother cried out in consternation.
"Race for it!"
And just like that, the twins bounded out of the bedroom, leaving their parents chuckling behind them.
"You know they're gonna spill that all over the rug," Darcy accused mildly.
Lizzy shrugged, finger-combing her hair and smiling up at him. "Yeah. I just wanted to stay in bed a while longer. YOU, on the other hand, Mr Darcy, will be cleaning up any spilled coffee!"
He gasped in mock-outrage, then leaped at her. She giggled and tried to dive under the covers, but Darcy was too fast. He pulled her out and tickled her until she couldn't breathe, and tears of joy ran down her face, still beautiful and still freckled, after all these years.
"FINE," she wheezed, "You win, Mr Darcy!"
He smiled, the lines around his eyes growing more prominent. He brought up her hand, and kissed the golden band on her third finger. "Well played, Mrs Darcy."
"I love you," she whispered. "So much."
Darcy moved until their foreheads were resting together, as if he could send all his thoughts and hopes and dreams into her head— and show her they had all come true.
"I love you too, Lizzy."
He pulled her a little closer. Her hair brushed against his puffy eyes, still open in the darkness. If her curls were a little damp in the morning, no one would ever know.
He loved this woman, more than anything.
He just wished he had the strength to tell her.
