don't give up on me
\
Sometimes—well, often—he catches himself staring.
He doesn't mean to. He'll enter a room, a plan in mind, business and finances and everything, and suddenly he'll realize that he's not thinking about any of that at all.
He's thinking about her.
\
He thought it'd get better when Jane and Lizzie Bennet came to Netherfield. Then, of course, he would notice that she was really ordinary and nothing special and below him, definitely not appropriate at all.
He thinks it's working, that one night, when they're eating dinner together. It's Jane and Lizzie's first night, and Bing has invited them to eat dinner with them, all of them. Even him and Caroline. Darcy can't understand why; it's just so incredibly awkward. But Bing sees nothing awkward in it at all. Caroline explains how high-class their soy-grilled fish is, Bing and Jane are in their own little world, Bing being infatuated and Jane merely smiling. And Lizzie, ordinary-nothing-special-below-him-not-appropriate-at-all, is using the wrong sort of fork. She's using a dessert fork to cut her fish. And she's too messy, not dainty at all. Lizzie lifts the fish to her lips and opens her mouth and—
He catches himself staring.
He looks away. He's being absolutely ridiculous.
\
He wakes up early the next morning. He always wakes up early; he doesn't like knowing that there are things to be done, and he's just sleeping away his precious time. He washes his face, gets dressed, and grabs his laptop from his bedside people. He checks up on his email, his files, the usual.
Around eight, he decides to head downstairs for something to eat. He can hear bustling downstairs and wonders if Bing is awake too. A bit strange, because unlike him, Bing doesn't wake up any earlier than he has to. Maybe Caroline's up. Caroline usually wakes up early to do her hair or something, although she usually just stays in her room.
He gets to the kitchen, the tile cool underneath his toes, and freezes when he sees Lizzie sitting right in front of him. She's angled away from him so that she can only see her profile, a cup of tea in front of her, a novel in her hands. Her red hair is messy, as if she's just woken up, she's still in her thin flannel pajamas, and she's wearing fluffy navy blue socks. Ordinary-nothing-special-below-him-not-appropriate-at-all. She turns the page and shifts the book again so that he can read the title—Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. With her other hand, she lifts the mug to her lips, takes a sip, and then sets it down, a soft smile gracing her lips, the kind that's never directed towards him.
He wants to sit down on the seat opposite of her, ask her how the book is, how she is, tell her that he has a pair of socks exactly like that, run his fingers through her hair.
And then he catches himself staring. He turns around, all thoughts of breakfast gone.
Something is definitely wrong with him.
\
He tells himself that the more time he spends with her, the more he'll realize her faults, and eventually he'll snap out of this... whatever.
(That's his excuse for wanting to spend time with her, anyway.)
It's been five days since the two Bennet girls came. He learns that Lizzie likes to wake up early too, but for the peace and silence. Unlike him, who wakes up to get a head start on work and everything. She drinks her tea without any sugar or milk, just plain and piping hot, unless she's distracted by a very good book, in which she's forced to down her tea lukewarm. Although most of the time, she's not reading in the mornings, simply drinking her tea and looking out the window. Oh, and she owns three different pairs of those fluffy socks: in red, navy blue, and gray.
It scares him how much information he's picked up regarding Lizzie Bennet. Especially because he's hardly spoken to her: they've exchanged twenty words, maximum.
\
A few evenings later, Bing convinces him to stay away from his laptop for once and "mingle." Darcy tries to insist that he mingles plenty, but Bing eventually wears him down.
"Lizzie'll be there too," he mentions, a twinkle in his eye.
His heart nearly stops at the mention of the name. Oh my God. If even Bing has picked up on this, this must be bad. His friend, wonderful as he is, is one of the most oblivious men he knows.
"She always sits with Jane," Bing continues. "Jane and Lizzie are inseparable, and so sweet to each other. Jane especially, but then again she's always like that..." A dreamy look crosses his face.
Darcy realizes with an internal sigh of relief that Bing hasn't realized anything at all. Although his infatuation with the older Bennet is rather improper. Since, you know, the Bennets are ordinary-nothing-special-below-him-not-appropriate-at-all. Did he say him? He meant Bing.
Anyhow, he finds himself in the sitting room, at his desk, rather uncomfortable. Bing and Jane are conversing, and Lizzie sits on the couch with her ankles crossed reading a book. It's the same one, Anna Karenina. He tries to concentrate on his email, his work emails, all the things he has to do...
Oh Hell. He's kidding himself. Pemberley has been managing well without him, and he finished most of his work thirty minutes ago.
So he plucks up his courage and devises a logical plan. He stands up and pretends to be heading for the kitchen for a drink of water or something. On the way, of course, he has to pass Lizzie. And as he passes her, he'll talk to her.
"Do you want water?" he asks.
Lizzie looks up from her book, and a look of annoyance flits across her face before she plasters a smile over it. "No thank you."
He frowns. "It's very important to stay hydrated."
"Yeah, I know, I'm plenty hydrated, okay?" She goes back to her book.
He tries again. "How is the book?"
"Excellent, no matter what you think," Lizzie replies, not looking up, obviously engrossed and dismissing him.
He gives up, and he heads for the kitchen, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and agony and frustration that is absolutely, positively ridiculous. Because he is William Darcy, a successful businessman with a younger sister to take care of from a high circle, and she is ordinary-nothing-special-below-him-not-appropriate-at-all Lizzie Bennet.
But he can't help to glance back, just once. He looks at her for a second longer than he should—all curled up, her soft auburn hair over one shoulder, the skin of her neck creamy and cool.
Then he catches himself staring. And he looks away.
\
After that, he changes tactics. Because trying to convince himself that she is ordinary-nothing-special-below-him-not-appropriate-at-all is not working. Instead, he tries his best to ignore her.
(It doesn't work very well, though.)
He catches himself staring again.
\
It's a beautiful spring day, and they're at San Francisco together, savoring every moment they have. After all, she won't be in San Francisco for long. But today, she holds his hand and leans his head on his shoulder as they watch the ocean waves and thinks about lucky she is that she got her second chance after all.
She catches him staring at her.
"What is it?" she asks. "Do I have something on my face?"
He turns around and smiles. She's gotten used to his smiles by now, but each one still makes her heart tap-dance, gives her that rush.
"Lizzie Bennet," he says, "you know perfectly well you have nothing on your face. You just want me to make some comment about how I'm smiling because of beautiful you are."
She blushes and pokes him playfully. "Ah, well, caught in the act. I'm waiting."
He chuckles. "Nope, I'm not falling for that cliche."
"We are a big ball of cliche," Lizzie interrupts. "Opposites attract, hate at first sight and then falling in love, cheesy second chances, first kiss caught on camera, might as well be a television show!"
He waves her comment away. "Honestly, though, Lizzie. I stare because now I can, and I don't have to worry about you catching me. You have no idea how much agony you put me through at Netherfield."
"I genuinely thought you hated me. If you asked me if I wanted a drink of water, I thought you were somehow implying that I looked unattractively dried out or wasn't taking care of myself well enough or something," Lizzie says with a slight laugh. He himself winces at the memory.
"Doesn't matter now, does it?" she continues, smiling up at him, her arms wrapping around his neck.
"Yes," he breathes out, cupping her face with one hand while the other wraps around her waist and pulls her closer while she leans in closer.
\
When they break away from the kiss, she stares at him, and he stares at her, unabashed, unashamed, and happy.
Apparently it being Christmas means that everything I write is super fluffy. This is unedited and written in a bit of a rush (understatement) so please feel free to point out any grammatical errors or errors in general. And thank you for reading. :)