Chapter Text
What if things had been different?
She has her arms stretched out towards his shoulders. It’s actually quite painful because he’s so tall, but that’s also kind of sexy. Her head sits somewhere in between his chest and his neck. She thinks that maybe she could rest it there listening to his heartbeat if they’d known each other for more than a few minutes. As it is, she’s having a hard time keeping her arms stretched up.
The dance is awkward and quiet.
The music is terrible, some kind of horrid 80s power ballad about the giving love a second try. She feels uncomfortable with her hands on his shoulders. It reminds her of the homecoming dance her junior year of high school. His arms are pretty strong looking and he's obviously feeling just an uncomfortable as she is, locking his elbows to keep the space between them tangible. She would laugh about this whole situation, crack some kind of joke to ease the tension between them, but she’s still reeling from the smell of the blossoms in Emily Gibson's bouquet.
It doesn’t help matters that everyone in the wedding reception is staring at them.
Her palms are slightly damp and her throat is so dry. She really wishes she had said yes to that drink earlier. Alcohol is the world's natural lubricant in more ways than one. Oh God, now she's channeling Lydia.
She cranes her neck to look up at his face. For the few seconds she does get a look at him two things strike her forcefully: he has the most amazing blue eyes, and his mouth is turned downwards as if this entire dance experience is the very worst kind of torture to him.
Lizzie doesn’t know that she really blames him.
“So,” she finally says, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “you’re Bing Lee’s friend?” His hands flex against her waist, fingers spreading and pressing into her skin through the fabric of her dress.
“Yes.”
His voice startles her. It’s deep and rich, another point in his favor. Lizzie has always had a soft spot in her heart for quiet boys with smooth voices.
“How are you enjoying being out of L.A.?” She stretches her neck, looking at him. He’s wearing a bowtie, so he’s a little bit of a throwback. She can work with that. His shirt is soft under her hands, but her arms are more than tired from reaching so high to fit against his shoulders. She sneaks closer to him, shuffling in her heels until she feels the muscles in her arms give a little bit.
“It’s very quiet.” She half expects him to back away from her again as she waits for him to elaborate. Evidently, he’s said all he means to say on the subject.
They rock together, swaying side to side. It’s never terrible, but they don’t speak for the rest of the song, which seems to continue on for an eternity.
When the final chords resonate through the air he thanks her before walking off.
She honestly doesn’t understand what just happened in those four minutes of her life that she will never regain. She does the only thing she can do: she laughs.
-----
She dreams that night of a full mouth grazing her cheek, a deep voice whispering along the shell of her ear, and blue. Always blue.
-----
When Bing comes by her house in the days after the wedding, Darcy always sits next to her, quiet, but comfortable. He comments on the book she’s reading, she makes a scathing remark about how sickeningly adorable Bing and Jane are together and he chuckles – it’s under his breath, but she hears it just the same. She can't explain why the sound, deep and rumbling in his chest, makes her smile.
He listens to her, she realizes. He might not always agree - in fact most times he does not - but he always listens. He shares his opinions with her and she's more often than not surprised by his thought process. Sure, he has flaws. Huge flaws, like his belief in a classist society, or the fact that Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream is better than Tillamook, or that dancing and socializing at a wedding are completely preposterous ideas. She finds herself laughing at his abnormality. She almost finds it refreshing, especially when they are out with Bing and Jane, who are two of the world's most passive and agreeable people.
It's in the middle of one of these arguments that a thought occurs to her. She and William Darcy are friends.
She stops in the middle of her tirade about the benefits of aquatic exercise and stares. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges, the blue of them fixated on her. His nose is slightly crooked, maybe from an injury as a child, clearly not from swimming, but maybe something else. Unlikely a team sport, perhaps some kind of skiing accident, or maybe he fell of a swing or a ladder.
Her gaze slips lower, running along his lips, pink and slightly curved, like he's trying to smile but can't quite remember how. She bites at her lower lip reflexively. The would-be smile on his face falls.
"Is something wrong," he asks. Nothing is wrong, everything is fine.
She shakes her head, suddenly hyper aware of the hair falling around her ears. She pushes it back carefully looking down at the table instead of him.
She smiles and forces a laugh. "I just can't believe that you don't like swimming."
They lapse into a silence that is part awkward, part necessary. Then Jane drags her into conversation and she can't think about the intricate backstory she's creating for William Darcy.
She's not ready for these thoughts of him, not read to ask those questions of herself. She has only begun to recognize that they might be friends.
___
Her dreams are all strong arms, gentle fingers and curved lips grazing her skin.