Chapter Text
i. this is how they begin
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It’s strange at first, she comes to realize, what being loved by this man means.
For so long she’d taken for granted the strength of his feelings, and it hadn’t been until she’d found herself drowning in the middle that she’d appreciated the torture he’d once put himself through.
It’s like fire and passion and a terrible ache all brewing in her heart at once.
And even then – after the videos and the fights and the confessions and the realization that she doesn’t dislike him; (a secret - she loves him) – even after all of that, she still doesn’t really understand how he loves her.
But slowly she learns that he does.
The truth; he loves her because of a million different reasons that he’s never been able to put into words and probably never will; but that once started with her eyes and suddenly, slowly, grew into everything.
They don’t tell anyone about their relationship in the beginning.
It’s a bold move, she knows, and she wonders how long she can keep it from Jane and Charlotte. How long he can keep it from Gigi and Fitz; but they both agree that too much has happened in the past to make anything easy, so much has been said and done, so many harsh moments exchanged – and they’re both so stubborn – so whilst the past can be learnt from it cannot be so quickly erased.
The last thing they need is a chorus of we told you so's raining down upon them as they navigate their slightly fumbled first steps.
William Darcy arrives on her doorstep the morning after she hangs up on an indignant Catherine De Bourgh, fidgety and awkward and with a million words hesitant on his lips, but also with a brief spark of hope – because she hadn’t denied his love to his aunt, and that’s more than he’s been given by her in months.
He stands before her and thinks, I love you – please don’t break me again - and in her bedroom she kisses him slow and soft and sweet, halting his stumbled words and apologies and answering with an unequivocal yes, my feelings have changed.
William, silent and still, doesn't move save to curl a hand low around her waist, steadying her as she teeters on the tips of her toes, and for the first time he allows himself a moment to truly smile.
The strong arms he wraps around her body later allow him to pull her up close and she laughs against his lips, gripping his shoulders tight so she doesn't fall. Their height difference is laughable he realizes as he holds tight to her hips, but Lizzie is barefoot and adorably wide eyed, and when they stumble backwards a moment so that she’s pressed to her bedroom wall she tips her head down and snickers, fingers scrambling at the nape of his neck.
He loves her laughter; her smile and her spark.
"We'll get the hang of this," she mutters, forehead pressed to his chest and he's sure she must be able to feel his heart beat stupendously - an hour ago he turned up on her doorstep to apologize for his aunt, and now he has a hand heavy on her waist and the soft wisps of her hair nuzzled under his chin and her own fingers itching hesitantly against his hairline.
"I hope so," he murmurs back, and leans down to kiss her.
They pass the afternoon in her bedroom – the house blessedly empty of Bennet’s – and William learns that she has a book collection much too large to have all been read; and a poster from a child’s movie (something about Wild Things, and he has a vague recollection of Gigi’s bedtime stories) and that she wears odd socks because she has a rather extensive draw full of them but can never find the time to sort through them all.
He sits on the edge of her bed, stiff at first, but she sinks slowly against him until they’re sprawled along the tops of the covers – his long legs dangling over the edge and his shoes kicked off haphazardly, whilst her own are curled up underneath her thighs, tipping her against the curve of his shoulder and chest.
Slowly his fingers crawl around her waist, and with a not so subtle smile she tugs at his hand until he’s cradling her flush to his body, fingers tangling and playing with his own across the expanse of her waist. He sucks in a deep breath because before this afternoon he could count the number of times they’d exchanged physical contact on one hand – now she’s running a finger along the edge of his fingertips and obliterating any notion of propriety he'd once held.
“Lizzie,” he murmurs, and his lips are pressed to the crown of her head. She’s been rambling softly about the latest draft of her thesis and he’s been half listening, noting the mentions of major scholars and information gleamed from Pemberley, but the majority of his thoughts are caught somewhere hazy and in-between; she hums in recognition of his words and the vibration rumbles heavily down his spine.
“I have to go back to San Francisco tonight,” he tells her finally, because he has a flight to catch in a little over an hour and while he’d much rather stay tangled in her bed for the foreseeable future, when he’d made quick plans to atone for his aunts actions this morning he’d not really considered the possibility that he’d end the day anywhere other than in a late board meeting via satellite phone to London.
She stiffens in his arms and he feels his heart hammer in his chest, and really, he thinks, he should get used to this. It would appear that his utter uselessness when it comes to rationality around her isn’t going to alleviate just because she’s content in his arms.
“Do you have to?” she murmurs, and her lips are worried between her teeth – her eyes are wide and hopeful and he feels everything drain from him – all his resolve and professionalism. He’d pull the moon from the stars for this woman if she asked him.
Once upon a time he saw a pair of bright eyes across a dance floor and hasn’t been able to see straight ever since.
“I’m so sorry,” he breathes, and she believes him – of course she does. His arms are heavy around her waist and his lips skim the crown of her head and his fingertips play with the ends of her hair. Charlotte had not been very subtle when she’d pointed out the utter adoration on his face when he’d sought to prove to her how special her vlogs were, in a video that feels as if it were a lifetime ago.
Sometimes she watches back those few videos of their time together and wonders how she'd once been so blind - her smiles and his eyes and the teasing and his comfort. He makes her laugh and she plays with him and somewhere in those few weeks she'd fallen in love.
“I know,” she says, because she understands now that he means it; she finds herself smiling and rubbing a thumb across his cheek.
“This just feels like a dream,” and he nods emphatically – neither of them want to wake up.
He holds her close on her doorstep and when he finally thinks it might be time to pull away he presses a kiss to her forehead and whispers, feather light, “I love you.”
He’s down the stairs before she’s had time to blink.
He’s on a flight back home within an hour and Gigi has texted him three times wondering as to his whereabouts. Fitz has tried calling, and instead left a long message that seems to be about sangria - nothing else. Bing has also text him about a possible weekend in Netherfield and Will's heart beats double as he messages back immediately – yes, that sounds wonderful. And then deletes the word wonderful so that he doesn’t sound so eager.
He's already plotting a trip there around an upcoming report and a reshuffle of the finance floor and the holiday he always takes with Gigi, because he's sure she'll be only too happy to join him at Netherfield - though he could always ask Lizzie to go away with them...
He pauses with his lips pressed to the top of his phone, trying to hide a smile because he has the option to invite her places now. She's in his soul and written on his heart and for the first time it feels like breathing is easy again - he's no longer trying to suppress the one thing within him that feels pure.
Back at home, half dazed and definitely giddy, Lizzie passes the night curled cross legged on her bed, a pillow hugged to her chest and the phantom press of lips to her own still playing across her mind and when Lydia stumbles into her room without preamble and immediately flops down next to her, she welcomes the distraction – and if she smiles a little brightly when she receives a small, but perfect message from him – well, Lydia already thinks she’s crazy.
Did I forget to tell you that you’re beautiful?
And whilst he’s never been one to focus solely on looks, he hopes it goes some way towards expressing how utterly blind he was to ever think she was merely decent enough.
That night he rings in the late evening and she answers with a sleepy sigh and then a hitch to her breath, as if she was half asleep but then remembered the events from hours previous – the kissing and the holding and the soft sighs that bordered on I love you.
Now, with the clock ticking towards midnight and the drain of business still heavy on his mind, he can barely get passed a hesitant, “Good evening Lizzie,” before he’s cringing at his own jilted conversation – but then she startles and huffs a laugh at him and something blooms liquid hot in his chest, warming him from the inside.
He remembers that she won't turn cold on him; instead she'll smile and tease, “Good evening Mr. Darcy," and he can chuckle.
“I’m sorry I had to leave,” he finally tells her, “Truly,” and she makes a soft, breathy noise from the back of her throat. She’s sleepy and curled beneath her covers now, Lydia banished from her room, and he wonders if it’s normal to be this intoxicated by one so far away from him – he can hear her steady breath and imagine her small and tucked in her bed – in a bedroom he’s now seen and can picture her amongst; she hums low and then shrugs her shoulders, tells him, “I understand. Work is important.”
“You are important,” and the inflection and emotion underlying those three simple words pound deep in her chest.
“I wish I could be there with you,” he finally mutters, and the giggle rumbles up her chest before she can stop it.
“Are you real?” she whispers, like the conversation might disappear if she speaks normally, and Darcy closes his eyes as he leans back against his kitchen bench. The apartment is still and silent and he wants her there with him – has wanted her in his space for over half a year now, but for the first time in his life has reason to hope in reality.
“Very real, I assure you.”
“Thank god,” and then she pauses. He can hear her stumble a moment, and then hesitantly murmur, “William?”
It’s the first time she’s ever called him by his first name and it sounds so much better than Darcy that he feels his toes curl and wiggle in his socks.
“Yes?”
“This will be here tomorrow, right?”
And he wants nothing more than to wrap her tight in his arms – “Yes, and the day after that. And the day after that.”
She hums and yawns and he bids her a soft good night despite her protests. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and with a happy little huff, “Sleep well.”
The name love almost slips from his lips without meaning to, but he manages to claw it back; savours it for another day – a tomorrow.
His heart is full to the brim with emotion but he has the rest of his life to show her each precious piece.