Chapter Text
v. they stumble
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Lizzie sets herself up at the kitchen bench with the newspaper, a big mug of coffee and her hair pulled back in a ponytail that curls around the left side of her neck, tickling her collarbone.
She has her legs bent underneath her and a hoodie thrown over her pajama shirt with the sleeves too long – they curl around the tips of her fingers and she tucks them warmly inside. She leafs through the news slowly, reading a headline or a paragraph every few minutes, and her gaze flickers and then focuses on Will; half dressed, shuffling across the tiles in socks, and with a slice of toast held in his teeth as he navigates a jug of orange juice.
“Want any help?” she enquires, but he shakes his head and a lone crumb falls from the side of the toast; she’s a little bit in love with the fact that he slathers it in strawberry jelly (organic) like a small child, but his coffee is black and strong and makes her nose crinkle. She can only drink black coffee when she’s operating on less than three hours sleep but Will takes long, drawn mouth fills and she finds herself oddly fascinated by it.
As he passes her by into the lounge room to collect a portfolio she tugs at his shirtsleeves until he’s standing between her legs, body flush with hers and one arm curving around her waist and his mouth is all satiny smooth and rich deep coffee as she kisses him – intoxicating and stark and making her toes curl against the back of his calves through her bright pink socks – he laughs into her mouth and she feels her heart skip with delight because in the two days she’s spent here and the few weeks they’ve been doing this thing, even the months and months she knew him before, she doesn’t think she’s ever heard his pure, infectious laughter.
There’s an article on analysing the growth of online media content in the past three years that he points out to her, and she really should find it fascinating but she can’t focus, instead she tilts her head to the side, examining him as he moves – tie around his neck but hanging loose, buttons done up but shirt untucked – even his pants are unbuttoned, hanging open slightly, and whenever he maneuvers around the bench she catches a tantalizing triangular glimpse of his dark blue boxers.
It’s early in the morning, there’s only a little light streaming through the blinds, and Lizzie would usually still be curled up in bed, but Will had woken her with a soft hand trailing down her spine and a gentle kiss to the back of her head and a whispered, hesitant apology. She’d turned in his arms and tucked her head underneath his chin; hooked a calf over his hip and snuggled into him, relishing his warmth.
He’d humored her a moment, ran both hands up and down her back and whispered good morning into her hairline so that his breath tickled her skin – then he’d pulled himself away and shuffled off to the kitchen and it was then that she’d realized he’d already woken and showered – he was all clean skin and fresh scents and damp hair curling at the edges whilst she was still clogged and muzzy, desperately battling sleep.
“You can stay in bed,” he’d told her as she followed, eyes darting hesitantly around her face but with a soft finger held to curl around the tip of her ear and trace down the sensitive skin along the side of her neck. She’d shivered through a nod and tipped her forehead against his chest (and it’s so strange to press herself into his arms and feel his heartbeat against her ear she thinks; she’s a little in love with it – the promise that he’s real and alive) and then shrugged half-heartedly.
“Well I’m awake now,” she’d grumbled, and stumbled after him dolefully, bumping into his shoulder with a hand tangled around his wrist.
“Do you have plans for today?” he asks casually, standing before a mirror in the hall as he fixes his tie.
She’s leant against the doorframe with her both hands cradling a coffee mug and while she’s not drinking from it, the rich scent curls deliciously around them; strangely, it reminds her of mornings at Netherfield with Jane and Bing and Caroline moving around the spacious kitchen – Darcy always in the corner, flicking through emails and texts on his phone as he sipped at his cup.
It’s bordering on 7:45 and Will has to leave for work soon, so she’s taken to trailing after him as he moves around the apartment; makes a soft noise when he skims his hands through his draw full of scarves to indicate her favourite (red and yellow and there’s really no guess as to why); follows him into his office and marvels at the black and white photographs of the bay for a full minute before his hand skimming around her waist reminds her he’s leaving – she even leans back against the bathroom sink as he stands before the mirror, a bemused quirk of a smile curling at his lips as she watches him silently brush his teeth.
Now, and he’s standing in the hallway with his coat thrown over an elbow and his brief case leant against his knee and Lizzie realizes, suddenly, that she has no plans for the day.
“I don’t know,” she ponders, half surprised by her own realization – she has no plans for San Francisco in general, really. She came here to see him and now she’s seen him; beyond that there is nothing other than trying to convince him to stay in bed.
And whilst that had worked on Wednesday, something she believes may have been a first for William Darcy, she’s fairly certain her luck won’t extend to convincing him to spend a second day off work and underneath the covers.
Will glances at her, and it continues to cause a funny, tight feeling in her chest; he looks at her as if she’s something precious and timeless and safe; and then he offers, “You could visit the Legion of Honor. Gigi and I didn’t cover it on our tour,” and she’s distracted for a moment by the flick of his wrist as he turns over his tie, “but I believe you would enjoy the exhibitions.”
“Yeah?” she murmurs, soft and with a smile, because there’s a light blush tingeing his cheeks but his voice is earnest. She pushes herself off the doorframe with her shoulder and watches his body shift as she steps carefully towards him – his first instinct is to run, but slowly it’s being forgotten in lieu of swaying towards her – his body in a constant state of motion between giving her room and wanting to be near her - and it’s beginning to drive him insane.
He still can’t quite fathom that he now has permission to hold her in his arms.
She reaches up on tiptoes before him and with nimble fingers smoothes the last crinkle in his tie. She’s wearing black leggings and a t-shirt, the hoodie forgotten earlier as she’d picked at a dry piece of toast, and he can remember his mother doing this for his father every morning before work; leant up against his chest with a secret smile and soft words that Will could never understand and fingers playing with his tie before patting him on his chest and sending him on his way.
(Anne Darcy, a formidable women who would organize her young, quiet son for school and then follow her husband to work to build her own career)
Lizzie presses her fingers into the firm skin over his heart and his pulse jumps and beats double for a second, finally settling as she hums against his lips, soft and bitter with coffee and delicious in the morning; and he wonders if he’ll have this feeling every morning – he hopes so.
“Are you free for lunch?” she asks him, head titled up so she can remain close but still see his eyes. They’re a bluey-brown in the early morning light and Will holds her gaze as he glances down at her. He tucks both hands behind her back to rest in the dip there and she curls her own underneath his coat and around his sides, fingering the border of his belt.
He aches for her touch, for the tingly feeling down his spine, like a live wire connecting them on all points and igniting. They have words and assurances and soft smiles and nods; but they also have kisses and trailing fingers and flushed bodies and biting lips – all there to remind him that she cares about him, wants him – definitely doesn’t hate him (and in the small, silent recesses of his mind, even hopes she loves him.)
He brushes the back of his hand against her cheek and her pupils dilate at the gesture – each one new and startling – and whilst he has no idea what he’s doing in this relationship, he’s growing sure and confident in their touch. “Lunch sounds wonderful,” he nods, and her smile grows until she ducks to press a kiss to his chest, achingly close to his nipple. It’s a stupid thought, but last night she’d dedicated a good hour to driving him absolutely insane, and a large proportion of that had been spent in that general vicinity. He shakes his head to rid the thought but she’s already huffing a laugh into his suit shirt and he knows he’s blushing and that his fingers are digging into her skin – but none of it really matters. She knows how much he wants her.
All that matters now is his soft kiss and mumbled, “I love you,” and her returned, teasing, “Have a good day, dear.”
She rubs a thumb under his eyes but then pinches his cheek and as he skips down the stairs towards the street he can’t help but smile.
“I actually don’t have anything to do,” Lizzie realizes, startled, mid morning, announcing it to the silent room as she sits at the bench once more; now showered, dressed and picking at a handful of almonds.
She has them scattered on the dark marble top and flicks them against a glass of water, letting the dull chime resonate through the apartment because the crossword has proven too difficult. It’s still sitting beside her, her own answers marked in blue pen (Will’s in black, separate so she can clearly show him what she contributed, ever the competitor) and she’s scribbled a few answers onto the sudoku and word-finder as well.
She could ring Jane, she ponders, though she’ll be at work - so will Charlotte for that matter; and Lydia, whilst wonderful, isn’t really an option in the same way her mother isn’t. She glances slowly from the corner of the kitchen where the stainless steel refrigerator sits to the corner of the wide, open living space with it’s book shelves and tastefully placed art work, desperate for inspiration, and then thinks about going to the Legion of Honor as Will suggested; only she doesn’t really want to. Not now, at least.
Now she wants conversation and banter and someone to bounce ideas off and smile with – and she realizes with a start that really, she wants Will to come home.
She buries her head in her arms with a huff and a muttered, “pathetic,” and her elbow knocks the scattered almonds – one goes skittering across the marble top and falls to the tiles with a dull ping and she’s midway through standing to pick it up when the door flies open and her heart jumps, a voice shouting, “Lizzie B!?”
Fitz. Of course. She rests a hand to her heart and can’t stop a wide smile crossing her face, even as her pulse flutters madly.
“Fitz?”
“Yo, pumpkin!”
She wrinkles her nose; eyeing him distastefully as his head and smile pop around the corner of the hall, followed by his body. He’s wearing a dark, fitted shirt that buttons down the front and tight jeans, with a stripy scarf looped around his neck, and his brow crinkles as she stares at him, unimpressed.
“No?” he ponders, drawing to a halt and his head tilts, somewhat regretfully.
Lizzie merely shakes her head. She smiles though, full and real, as he stops across from her and plops himself down on the lounge. “And how are you this fine morning?”
“I’m good,” she hiccups through a giggle, and Fitz raises a thick eyebrow, waggling it a moment as she stands to push at his shoulder.
“I’ll bet.”
“What are you doing here?” she interrupts him, collecting her almonds in her palm and cradling them. She offers him one and Fitz’s face lights up like Christmas – she’s not entirely sure, but she thinks he might run on the same energy Lydia does, only his brand is all happiness, fun and rainbows.
“I am here to save you from the dull, aching boredom that is existing in Darcy’s apartment for more than a few hours.”
He nods decisively, and she can’t help but smile. She’s actually not that averse to the apartment – likes how it lives and breathes Will – but she’s also not looking forward to an entire day spent inside without company, so she nods, “Really?”
“Yes, darling heart.”
She rolls her eyes at that one, and Fitz pinches lightly at her hip.
“What were you thinking?”
“Well, I’ve already organized with D-Man to meet us at the Tea Room in the Japanese Tea Garden, but I was thinking a stroll through the Gardens would be a nice way to start,” and she nods unconsciously, still caught on the atrocious name. D-Man.
“What is with you this morning?” she asks incredulously, not so silently judging - and Fitz laughs delightedly. He stands quickly and pulls her up, ordering her into Will’s bedroom to get dressed, and shouting after her, “Brandon and I have a bet going. Who can come up with the most annoying nickname by the end of the day – thought I’d try a few out on you two, get myself warmed up.”
And Lizzie can only chuckle - trying to decide between a dress and jeans – because of course, that explains everything.
They’re ambling through the bright green glaze of the gardens, headed towards the Japanese Tea Garden, or so Lizzie is told – she has a white sundress on with a pale cardigan and a soft cotton scarf around her throat – it’s light enough for Spring but still warm against the occasional bite of cool – perfect for a day spent in the gardens.
She’s oddly quiet, and Fitz finds himself elbowing her at random intervals to goad her into conversation – eventually, mid way through an argument over Batman and Christian Bale, Lizzie finally manages to make him pause, biting her lip before taking a deep breath. There’s something that’s been playing on her mind all morning, and while it’s not that important, it still feels important – it's heavy on her mind and won’t dissipate until it’s been asked.
So she bites.
“Before you knew me,” she starts, and Fitz hums, intrigued, “I know you weren’t aware of the video’s...but had Will,” and she pauses, stumbling, “did he mention me, at all?”
Fitz stares at her a moment blankly, and then deadpan, asks, “You mean did my best friend tell me about the woman he was desperately, hopelessly in love with? Never.”
She sends him an unimpressed glare.
He laughs a little, knocks her elbow and smirks, but then makes a non-commital noise, and she feels a funny weight settle in her chest.
“Ehh. He only mentioned you to me, you know, a few million times, Lizzie. Your smile and your eyes and your intelligence and did I mention your eyes.”
She feels her face flush and burn and drops her head down a moment, before weakly rising again, “My eyes?”
“Yeah, the boy’s kind of in love with them.”
Fitz is smiling brightly and she feels all light and fluttery, like she might float away. “Look, he’s not one to talk about his feelings Lizzie. But yeah, Gigi and I both knew about you, and that he had feelings for you. After that it wasn’t that hard to put together that he was hopelessly in love with you – he’s kind of easy to read.”
She huffs again, throwing her arms up, because everyone keeps saying that and she still doesn’t understand how she was so blind, “To everyone but me,” she mumbles petulantly, and Fitz tugs her upwards, further towards the Tea Garden, laughing long and loud and clear.
Later, and they’ve found the garden. It’s a breathtaking mix of bamboo and miniature trees and blooming irises – there’s a hedge shaped like Mt. Fugi and a Pagoda and the amazingly u-shaped Drum Bridge – they spend an admittedly long time climbing it like children, and then bite back smiles as a seven year old eyes them with distaste.
“I have to ask,” Fitz starts, as they sit in the Tea Room waiting for Will – he’s minutes away and Lizzie is caught up by the thought of seeing him, like a 16-year-old girl. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, motioning Fitz on, but barely glances at him – eyes darting to the doorway every few moments.
He takes a deep breath, leant forward with his hands clasped; the picture of serious business, but then catches her attention completely when he asks, nay, demands, “What is my boy like in bed?”
“Fitz!” and she gasps, startled, slapping a hand to his shoulder.
“What?!,” he defends, laughing, “I never get to ask that question. In college he was all I don’t have time for girls, and then afterwards if he did open his eyes for more than two minutes to notice the other sex, it was always with someone that no one knew, or ever saw again.”
And Lizzie, now intrigued, leans forward, “You mean he’s never had a girlfriend,”
Fitz raises an eyebrow, judging her, “Have you met Darcy?”
She frowns at him and Fitz huffs, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Lizzie B. Spill,” he goads, and she feels her face flush and her fingers curl and Fitz has a stupid, wide grin on his face that turns into a cocky, loud smirk as she fidgets, obvious.
“Yeah, I knew my boy had moves,” and clapping his hands together, “Score baby!”
“Who did?”
Fitz jumps so high Lizzie almost doubles over laughing, but Will is standing before her – tall and real and present and he’s not wearing his suit jacket, only a tight, crisp white shirt with a skinny tie and the sleeves rolled up neatly – delicious, she thinks, and startles herself with the thought.
“Hello,” he smiles, deep and warm and bends down to kiss her cheek as Fitz rambles, not flustered but still talking in circles. Lizzie can feel Will’s fingertips along the curve at the top of her spine and they settle there as he takes a seat next to her, his arm along the back of her chair so he can play with the soft ends of her hair.
It’s intimate and tingly and something she’s only ever seen older couples do before – sometimes she forgets that this thing they have is a real, adult relationship – something that could one day definitely turn into forever (something she may want to turn into forever) and not a silly crush, or couple of fun dates with a guy.
Fitz seems to have explained away his words and Will is chatting happily with him about the meeting he had earlier in the morning – Lizzie listens half heartedly but mostly leans back; tips her head to the side with a smile that Will returns, and later, as their tea is brought to the table and Fitz is midway through a dramatic retelling of the night he and Brandon spent in a Fijian village drinking Kava, works up the courage to curl a soft, tentative hand across Will’s thigh, just above his knee, and squeezes softly.
He darts her a happy, startled smile, and she returns it was a soft laugh, and they spend the rest of their time sitting content; her tracing patterns into his thigh and Will thumbing gently at the nape of her neck.
They say goodbye to Will at the de Young Museum, and Lizzie watches him fold into a taxi with a small hum in her chest – it’s not quiet an ache, rationally she knows she’ll be seeing him again in a few hours – but she’s never had a person that she wanted to spend every waking minute with, and it’s a little hard to let go of that person now that she’s finally realised it herself.
“Hey, Lizzie,” Fitz murmurs, watching her with a happy smile and a hand holding her elbow. She hums and he starts walking, leading her further into the gardens where the flowers are beginning to bloom – everything green and bright and sunlight; intoxicating and muddling all at once.
“You love him, right?” and her throat goes tight and wheezy. Fitz squeezes her elbow and leads her towards a park bench and they settle with her legs crossed and Fitz still with a hand on her arm.
“I’m not pressuring you, you don’t have to tell me,” he explains, and her chest lightens a little. “I just think you should know something. Something about Darcy.”
In all the time she’s known Fitz, and admittedly it’s only been a few months and a couple of encounters – but in all that time she’s never heard his voice so timid. It makes something heavy settle in her stomach and between that and the ache of Will and the startling urge to say, “Yes, of course I love him,” she isn’t sure she wants him to continue.
But he must, so he takes a breath and forces out, “He’s a bit of a mess,” and she laughs, loud and sudden and Fitz cracks a smile.
“You don’t say?” she teases, knocking his shoulder with her own.
“Seriously, though, he’s a mess – he’s awkward and dismissive when he’s uncomfortable – but he’s also sensitive and loyal and so caring. He loves you Lizzie. I’ve never seen him act or think or feel like he does about you.”
And she nods softly; she believes it now. Can see what Charlotte and Gigi and Lydia and Jane have for so long.
Fitz huffs loudly and grips her elbow tight, finally saying, “You broke his heart last October – and I know, you had no reason to believe him or accept him – he was a total jerk about so many things...but you broke his heart when you rejected him. And then he went home and watched all those videos in one night and didn’t come into work the next morning,” he sighs loudly, “and Gigi was so terrified that something had happened to him –“
And Lizzie feels her heart constrict – feels all the terror and the pain of that one day in late October rush over her; feels the hollowness in his gaze as she’d yelled at him and then the mind numbing confusion that followed. Feels the hurt and the unsettling feeling that the world had just been tipped on its axis and the dull pounding in her temple – and then thinks of the man who had sat opposite her and been rejected – had laid everything on the line, his heart and his soul, and had had it thrown in his face. Thinks, if she’d had that happen to her, the way she feels about him now...it would shatter her.
“Fitz,” she croaks weakly, and he tugs at her wrist until she lays her head on his shoulder – hating him for bringing everything up but also secretly glad, because she and Will are champion avoiders but this is something that needs to be dealt with here and now.
“Gigi was scared,” he finally continues, soft and sad, “so I went to his apartment and he was there and...there was lots of whiskey drunk that night,” he pauses, and she swallows tightly, “I don’t know, the poor guy sat through hours of you calling him an emotionless robot that you could never love,” and she hiccups, softly with tears in her eyes; she hates the thought that at one time she’d been so needlessly cruel, “I wish I hadn’t told you, Lizzie B, because you are a gorgeous, wonderful woman and I adore you and that man loves you, so much. We are all so pleased that you both figured it out. But just...try not to break him again?” and she loves Fitz a little for the lilt in his voice, trying to make her feel better. She can’t help but chuckle, weakly, as he squeezes the arm around her waist.
Fitz cuddles her close and his hair is soft and springy against her forehead – she closes her eyes and imagines listening to hours straight of Will destroying her heart. She knows what it's like to be dismissed by him – knows how it feels to be hurt – but she can’t fathom what it would have been like watching him be so cruel, so calculating in his attack. It makes her stomach tight and rocky and swirly all at once, like she’s about to pitch forward and be swallowed into the ground.
She wishes Will was here, if nothing but for the assurance that despite everything, he still chose to love her – to care for her and hold her close. She wants his arms around her and his lips against her ear and his soft, rumbling murmur.
Fitz adds, “And just so you know, I’ll totally be having this talk with him as well, Lizzie B. Because you are my girl and if he hurts you again I will kick his sorry ass all the way back to Netherfield.”
And with a startled laugh, she thinks, we’ll be okay.
She gets home that evening before Will and feels fluttery at the thought; home – it sounds right.
She feels fragile in her steps and touch – takes off her coat and hangs it by the door and slips from her shoes, lining them alongside his own. She unwinds her scarf in the kitchen and it hangs on the edge of a stool, looped around the corner, and their half complete crossword is still spread out before her.
She finds some socks, her leggings and a soft, cotton shirt and lets her hair hang loose around her shoulders, free from confines; wants to feel light and warm and comfortable all evening.
Hours later and there’s soft music playing in the apartment and a few lamps, but mostly candles (she spends a good half hour searching for them amongst the linen cupboard) and the atmosphere is hazy and calm. There’s vanilla in the air and Lizzie spent 45 minutes deciding between dressing up and staying in her comfortable clothes – eventually ran out of time and had no choice – and the food from the Thai place she remembers Will and Gigi taking her to months ago is sitting in the oven to remain warm.
She’s curled on the couch with a book in her lap, blindly trying to read as she runs through her thoughts – plans what she has to say and how to say it and tries not to get muddled beneath the weight of terrible, honest feelings settling in her chest. Her heart is tight and achy and she never believed all those romance novels until this moment – didn’t know her body could physically respond in such a dramatic way.
She’s so intent on her thoughts and plans that she completely misses Will opening the front door slowly. Misses his footsteps down the hall and his soft, startled gasp as he enters the room; misses the thud of his briefcase as it’s left behind and the open, amazed look on his face – his wide eyes and parted lips and blushing cheeks – the tight, muzzy feeling in his chest that he never thought he’d experience.
He can see the peak of her head over the top of the lounge where she’s bathed in soft candlelight. It flickers against her golden dark hair, all red and fiery and ember like. He reaches out tentative fingers and brushes them down her shoulder, careful, but she jumps with a startled gasp and he finds himself ducking down to cuddle her close on instinct.
He’s pulling her up and on top of him as he clambers onto the lounge before she’s even had a chance to gasp his name, and it’s not until he’s spread out next to her, her body flush with his and cradled in his arms, that her heart starts to rest and she gazes up with a tentative smile, murmuring, “Hey,” and he parrots back, “Hey,” too.
He clears his throat, swallowing quickly, “How was your afternoon?”
She shrugs indifferently against his body, so he tries to bundle her closer, enjoying her warmth.
“The de Young Museum was fascinating. There was an exhibition on Dutch paintings from The Mauritshuis – Rembrandt and Hals and Steen – it was amazing. I saw The Girl With The Peal Earring,” she tells him happily, and pokes a finger into his chest.
She rubs it there, hard and intent, and then lets it rest over his heart, fingers just tucked underneath the buttons. “And yours?”
He hums softly and brings his legs up to rest, crossed on the coffee table, “Busy. Domino is entering the final stages before launch and we’re still trying to find business partners and staff to fill roles. There’s lots of offers, but we want someone who fits with the company, as well as the product.”
“And that’s difficult?” she murmurs, slipping a finger underneath his shirt to rub at his chest.
His voice rumbles beneath her palm, “Yes, but we’ll get there,” and then he squeezes the arm around her middle tight, asking, “Why candles?”
She hums gently, confused, before her eyes blink open and she darts a glance around, flushing slightly – he watches her bemusedly and thanks the moon and the stars and the gods on their mountains for creating her.
“So, I spoke with Fitz today,” she finally explains, and Will hesitates – understanding slightly.
“I’m concerned, but continue.”
She takes a breath, but then settles once more at his side, and with her head all but hidden in his chest, mumbles, “He explained some things to me, and it made me realise that we’ve not really discussed everything...before this,” and she waves a hand between them.
Will tries not to panic – really, honestly. He goes still and stiff but then wills his muscles to relax under her and his heart to stop pounding. “What did he explain?”
“You?”
“Lizzie, what ever he had to say –“
“Was true. He helped me understand that if I’d had to sit through hours of watching you basically...be completely and needlessly cruel about me, with the way I feel about you now...I...I would have broke.”
“No. Lizzie.”
He sighs, thoughts jumbled and a dull ache in his temple – he spent a long time putting all that behind him and simply wants to concentrate on the present – but she’s relentless.
“Will. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” and there are tears again – so many tears, and she was never much of a crier, she thinks. “I was stupid and blind and I hate that I ever caused you pain, but I promise, if you’ll let me...I want to spend as long as you’ll let me making it up to you.”
And his heart jumps and sings and flutters around madly because the rest of their life is a long, long time and if he gets to spend even a fraction of that with her then he’ll be happy.
“Lizzie,” he sighs, “You’re right. It was...horrible, hearing all that. Not because it was about me, though that wasn’t particularly pleasant,” he admits, stuttering “But yes, because it was from you. It hurt.”
He runs a finger across her brow and she has a crease down her forehead that he presses a kiss to, breathing in her fruity, fresh scent. “But I needed to hear all that to be the person I am today,” he tells her, and she thinks she’s beginning to understand. Hates it, but thinks they both needed the pain to be the people curled around each other in this moment. “I think I’m a better person, today,” he murmurs, “And I wouldn’t change any of that.”
“You are,” she presses, kissing his chest. “But you were a much better man to begin with, than I ever saw.”
“And you were a much more stunning, incredible lady.”
“With pretty eyes?”
And he chuckles, rocking her slightly. “Always.”
“Promise me something, though?” he asks finally. She hums and it vibrates down his chest, warming him. “Don’t spend the rest of your life working to make it up to me,” and he continues before she can object, “Just spend it with me. That’s all I want. You.”
Her heart beats quick and his arms are tight and fingers wandering – her own have dug beneath his mostly open shirt and are resting on the smooth, warm skin of his chest. She nods, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, and she tucks her feet up further so that her knees rest across his thighs.
“There’s food, by the way,” she murmurs eventually, and Will feels his stomach rumble on queue – she laughs a little. They rise and he fists a hand in the back of her shirt to trail after her as they move around the kitchen – she finds plates and he opens a bottle of wine. The apartment is warm and flickering with candlelight and music so soft he can hardly hear it plays in the background, a constant, calming hum.
Lizzie teases him when he can’t decide between dishes and he makes her tell him each detail of the paintings in the museum and then they argue over Van Gogh and Monet and Will ends up pulling a book from the shelf on early Impressionist painters.
She pinches his side as they wash the dishes and tucks herself against him with a book, (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, because one must not forget the third Bronte sister) while he does paperwork and then they crawl into bed and exhausted, curl in the middle – his arm around her waist and her hair pressed to his nose.
And just as he drifts off, thinks, this was a good evening – and he must have said it aloud because she hums, half asleep, in agreement.
He presses a kiss to her forehead and whispers, “I love you,” and as he’s drifting off to sleep, hears a sleepy;
“Love you too.”