Chapter Text
The elevator doors opened to their penthouse apartment. Lizzie kicked her shoes into the hall closet with a vengeance. “Lizzie! You’re going to damage the wall.” She rolled her eyes at him, but he could only see her back as she headed to their bedroom.
Things had been... tense. William was in the middle of an acquisition of a company based on the east coast, a move he was hoping would broaden Pemberley’s base, but the company was dragging its feet. Lizzie had a new project in the works, but it seemed that the money just wasn’t coming together and one of her assistants broke their leg, not anyone’s fault, but frustrating and throwing a huge wrench in her plans.
He pulled at his tie and followed his girlfriend. She was slipping on an old comfortable tshirt. As he went to the closet to put away his tie, he noticed her nylons on the floor just shy of the hamper. He sighed and put them in.
“What!”
He turned, “What?”
“You made that sigh. I didn’t miss the hamper on purpose.”
“Lizzie,” he tried very hard to keep the strain from his voice, “I know you didn’t. It’s just been a long day and I don’t like it when there’s clothes on the floor.”
She didn’t respond. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and changed into a more comfortable pair of cashmere sweatpants and a tshirt his sister had bought for him. By the time he went into the kitchen, Lizzie was going through the mail and logging onto her laptop. He turned on their espresso machine.
“How was your day?” she asked from her perch on the table.
“Frustrating. How was yours?”
“The same.”
Neither of them supplied further information and neither of them asked. Silence reigned aside from the sounds of his coffee and her keyboard. He took his finished drink and sat in his favorite chair with his own computer. Suddenly, her head popped up to look at him. “None for me?”
Why didn’t she ever ask for these things when he was in a position to actually do something about it. “I didn’t know you wanted any. Do you?”
A sigh, “No, I’ll make some in a minute.”
He shifted his laptop with a slight moan and stood to bring her his coffee. “I said I’d make some in a minute.”
“Just take mine.” He offered his mug.
“No, it’s yours, I’ll make my own.”
“Why? Have this one.”
“I don’t want yours.”
“Take it, I’ll make another one.”
“No, I’ll get my own!” she got up and dodged his extended arm, heading to the machine. He gave up and shuffled back to his laptop and chair.
She banged around making her coffee. He allowed himself to relax and surf the internet, maybe mindless browsing would help his cloudy mood. He didn’t know how much time passed, but the last sip of his coffee was cold when his stomach growled.
He glanced into the kitchen. Lizzie was pounding away on her keyboard, now sitting cross-legged on the counter next to the espresso machine. “What do you want to do for dinner?” He called.
It was a moment before she answered, “I’ll order something. What do you want?”
“Whatever you want to order is fine.”
“Just tell me what you want.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re the one who’s hungry!”
“Exactly, so I’ll eat whatever you order, just order something!”
“God, William! I’m busy! I’m not your house-wife, just pick something!”
He laid his head back and took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?”
It was the genuine care in his voice that made her stop typing her furious email. She was able to stay her fingers, but she couldn’t keep her mind from the subject matter. “With Candace out of the office, we double booked investor meetings and now Christina wants to keep the Heartfield Group at that time and move the Cleary Foundation but--” she sighed in exasperation. “But I got a call today that the Cleary Foundation is considering pulling out of the project all together and I don’t want to piss them off and she’s being stupid and...” She made a face and threatening gesture at her laptop.
He came to the edge of the kitchen area and looked at her. “You know...” she kept typing her email as he spoke, “I was a little surprised that you didn’t come to Pemberley for some support.”
“Why would I come to Pemberley?”
“Because you know we’d back you.”
“I don’t want your charity, William, I can do this on my own.”
“Clearly.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She looked up, but he was already heading back to his big fancy chair with his big fancy laptop.
“Nothing.”
“No!” she got up and followed him, “No, what does that mean? You don’t think I can do this?”
“Of course you can do this, Lizzie, but why would you not use all the resources you have available to you? You’re looking for backers, why not start with someone you know will have your back? Why won’t you let me help you?” His voice had risen only a minor fraction, but it was a degree she registered.
“Help me like you helped me move to San Francisco? Help me like you gave the poor, starving grad student a place to live? You’re not my savior, William Darcy, I don’t need you to save me!”
“Oh don’t throw that in my face, we got this place together! We-”
“Together? This place is one-hundred percent you. Look!” She turned around to the wall behind her. “Your fancy art!” A stack of records on the coffee table were picked up and slammed back down in disorder, “Your pretentious music!” She strode over to the countertop where his mail-organizer was and grasped a fist-full of envelopes, “Your name on the fucking rent!”
“My credit is better than yours! What, you want me to change that fact? I can’t do that, I’m sorry!”
She turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen. He followed her. “What are you doing?” She didn’t answer, she just grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack and a glass from the cupboard. She went to the bedroom and shut the door. Hard.
She turned on their television--his television-- and poured a very large glass of white wine. She didn’t really know what she was watching, but it was noise and it was something to look at. And the wine helped a lot.
As she laid on their bed, he found his bottle of scotch and poured a glass of his own, returning to his chair. He also turned on the tv, but instead of mindlessly viewing whatever was on, he turned to CNN and tried to engage his brain in the story. He wasn’t very successful, but the scotch helped a lot.
She finished her first glass of wine and decided to change the channel. Once she started clicking, she couldn’t really stop. A million stations and nothing to watch. Why did they even have cable? Oh... It was because she loved Project Runway. She and Jane used to watch it together and it made her feel close to her sister. William had watched a few episodes with her. He used to help her make fun of the lame designs and always picked one he’d like to see her in. Where the hell was he anyways? He should be in here apologizing to her. She poured another glass.
He was in the other room, finishing his scotch and opening his laptop again. He noticed the icon telling him there was a cd in the drive, so he opened it to see what he’d forgotten in there. The disc was a homemade cd with sharpie written in a bright shade of red. ‘Makes Me Think Of You’. It was a mix Lizzie had given him. When was that? Oh... his birthday. She had bought him a very nice set of pens, but wanted to give him something “from her heart”. They were mostly mainstream hits, but a couple of classics and even some independent bands. She’d asked him to put it in and they danced together in the kitchen. Why the hell was she still in the bedroom anyway? She hated being alone for too long. He poured another scotch.
The intercom buzzed almost an hour later. Lizzie stood and walked to the door... sort of. She needed to get food in her to soak up some of the three glasses of wine she’d had. As she reached the front hallway, Darcy was already buzzing up the delivery guy. She stood behind him and crossed her arms, unwilling to yield any ground. He turned and looked at her. There was something... he was leaning a little on the wall. Her Darcy doesn’t lean.
He was hoping she wouldn’t notice how much he was relying on the wall. What he noticed was her stance. It was a little wide and a little wobbly. He was thankfully much better at holding his liquor, it was true, but her wine was a lot less potent than his $200 scotch. Tipsy or not, Lizzie was obviously still angry with him for god-only-knows-what reason. Well he wasn’t about to just let her treat him like her punching bag.
The pair opened their mouths and spoke at the same time, with the same amount of a slight slur:
“I-I ordered a pizza.”
“I gottus Indian.”
She gaped. “You ordered a pizza?”
He nodded and furrowed his brow, “I thought you didn’t like Indian.” The elevator dinged and opened to two delivery guys, looking slightly confused. Lizzie paid for her Indian and he paid for the pizza. When the strangers left, they faced each other. Without a word, they traded the food in their arms and made their way to the living room to deposit the box and bag.
Lizzie sat down, a little heavily, and picked up the bottle of scotch. “Omigod, how many glasses did you have?” When he didn’t answer fast enough, she leaned forward and inhaled. “Omigod, you’re drunk.”
“I am not drunk.” His spine straightened to prove it, “You, on the other hand...” he reached forward and gave a slight push on her shoulder. She bobbled like a toddler’s toy, but regained her upright position.
“Oh yeah?” She pushed at his shoulders.
He didn’t know if it was her balance that threw them off or if it was his, but somehow they collided, tipped over, and landed together on the floor in between the couch and the coffee table. For a brief and terrible moment, Darcy looked into her eyes and saw absolutely nothing. He was shocked, she was shocked. They were lying on the floor in each other’s arms and for the first time didn’t know how to behave in that position. She was still upset with him, surely.
She searched his face and found nothing but his own search in response. Their t-shirts had moved to expose the skin and he felt warm against her. Which reminded her that he was drinking. They were drunk on the floor and no one was naked. That might have been the most hilarious thing she’d heard all day. She threw back her head and laughed.
He didn’t realize he was laughing too until his abs started to hurt a little bit. Maybe there was a little more scotch in him than he had admitted to himself. Maybe it was just that he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and the clock was inching towards eight. Maybe it was just her.
Lizzie wriggled out of his arms and made her half-upright way to the bedroom and returned with a very much depleted wine bottle. He sat on the floor against the couch, clutching his own alcoholic beverage. She joined him.
They were quiet as the sun’s lingering shadows began to fade and were replaced by the lights of the city. Darcy took a sip of scotch straight from the bottle. What the hell happened to the man he used to be? “I don’t care if we don’t acquire the east coast corporation.”
“The board?”
“Yeah.”
She took a swallow from her wine. It must frustrate him to be in charge of something he wasn’t passionate about. They must be dictating to him all the things he needed to do and needed not to do and he couldn’t go about the acquisition in the way he wanted... no wonder he was upset at the things she’d said. She opened her mouth to comfort him. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get the project off the ground.” What? Where did that come from, that wasn’t at all what she wanted to say.
“The investors?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you make it into a competition? Have the meeting with both Heartfield and Cleary and show them that they aren’t the only parties involved... see how fast they jump.”
He drank again. “Wow,” she looked at him. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
He shrugged. “You would have eventually.”
As she drank, she shook her head, spilling a little on her chin. “I wouldn’t. You were right, I should’ve come to you first. You have all this knowledge and Pemberley has capital...”
“I don’t want to make your business my business.” She looked at him as he took a sip. “No, really. I know what you’re capable of and as much as I want to do everything in my power to make your life easier, I would hate myself if I knew I was stealing even an ounce of your thunder.”
For a brief moment, their eyes met. She whispered, “I know.”
For the first time that evening, the pause between them was comfortable. Their shoulders rubbed together each time they lifted a bottle to their lips. The food they purchased cooled on the coffee table, but they didn’t notice or care. It was an intimate silence. The kind of dim quiet that was perfect for a confession. The alcohol helped it ease out of her,
“I’ve always wanted to get married.”
“What?”
Her cheeks burned, but she plowed on. “I always wanted the fairy tale. I grew up a Disney Princess kind of girl.”
“But in your videos...”
“When I got to college I started to study the feminist movement and.. I felt like a traitor. My mom was so gung-ho about it.. and..” She distracted herself by swirling the remaining wine she held.
“I came to terms with the fact that you probably wouldn’t want to get married.”
“You... when?”
“I don’t know.. Sometime around when you moved it. I figured that this was going to be the... the...” He frowned at the scotch who betrayed him with the theft of coherent thought.
“Epitome?” He tipped the neck of the scotch towards her. She swallowed again before continuing. “It can be. But it doesn’t have to be.” She quickly looked at him. “Oh God, whatever you do, do not propose while we’re both drunk, I will never forgive you.”
“I am not drunk.”
“You liar.”
“I’m not!”
“Stand up, right now.”
He set down his drink and rose to his feet. Suddenly, San Francisco experienced a historic earthquake and his head evolved in a manner independent of his body. The couch was inexplicably underneath him. He could hear her laugh from very far away. It suddenly moved closer and she was on top of him.
To Be Continued...