Chapter Text
How ungainly.
Mary’s mother had a tendency to say things like that.
Throughout Mary’s childhood, the woman imprinted these criticisms in her daughter’s brain. If little Mary tripped over the very ball she was supposed to catch: how clumsy, Mary. If little Mary failed to place in a dance competition she had never wanted to enter in the first place: so graceless, Mary. If little Mary accidentally dropped the mug of tea she’d made especially for her mother: you ungainly, ungainly girl, Mary.
Before Mary even knew what those words meant, she knew they were not good. More specifically, she knew those were words that described her. Somewhere down the line, long before she acquired a proper understanding of the meaning of these words, she had absorbed the far more important lesson: these were things she was not supposed to be.
So, she worked on it.
Or rather, she spent years trying to eliminate every possible opportunity for anyone to call her those things ever again.
Her every action became deliberate, her every move became calculated. She approached everyday tasks with severe caution, her brain running through complex equations to perform them.
In theory, it worked.
In practice, it worked a little too well.
If her teenage job waitressing proved anything, it was just that. Customers would watch this painfully serious girl approach their table carrying plates of pasta with the same concentration and precision of a heart surgeon midway through a transplant. She would avoid any form of small talk whenever possible, as though the vibrations from a brief comment about the weather would cause detrimental miscalculations and send a bowl of pappardelle with short rib ragu flying.
So who cared if her customer service was subpar at best? She could serve an espresso martini without spilling a single drop. Not a splash. Not even a wobble.
Frankly, Mary thought, it was beautiful to watch.
By the time Mary finished university, years of repetition and conscious overcorrection calcified in her natural demeanour. Thankfully, her degree in Political Communication required very little physical fluidity. Even more thankfully, such fluidity and grace were not assessed during interviews for journalist internships. Otherwise, Mary was fairly certain she would never have landed a 6-month internship at The Woodhouse Post, one of the country’s most prestigious newspaper publications. And Mary was thrilled about it. The internship paid very well. It would look fantastic on her CV. It will be a great stepping stone towards her dream career in journalism. And, most importantly, Mary loved mundane administrative tasks. Organising sources? Managing databases? Proofreading articles? Yeah, Mary lived for that sort of thing.
It was her bread and damn butter.
In conclusion, the internship was a win for Mary. A win so obvious that, lying awake in bed after receiving the acceptance email, Mary found herself wondering:
How hard could it be?
The answer, as it turned out, was very.
It would be very hard.
-
Tom has been ungainly for as long as he could remember.
The first time he heard the word, he was ten years old and standing in the kitchen with the Wii remote snapped clean in half.
Again.
His mother took one look at what used to be the second last working remote, then at her tearful son, and let out the sort of sigh that only a mother could produce, the sort of sigh weighed down with 10 years worth of accumulated property damage.
“It’s alright,” she consoled, smiling lovingly at her endearing son, “Some people are just a bit more ungainly than others. And that’s okay.”
After encountering the word, he became convinced ungainly was some type of bad omen.
And, to his defence, there was evidence. A lot of evidence.
Tom had never fully worked out whether his motor skills had just given up trying to develop at the same pace as the rest of him, waving him off into his clumsy teen years, or whether the universe loved messing with him.
He found both explanations equally plausible.
What he did know, however, was that doorframes were a recurring enemy; tables, no matter how much they remain in the same place, often caught him by surprise and Tom had spent a big part of his life apologising.
Mostly to furniture.
"Shit sorry, mate," he would mutter after kicking a chair leg, "Didn't see you there."
The chair, understandably, remained unmoved by the sentiment.
Regardless, Tom had just returned from a three-week assignment the Friday night. He'd spent the better part of a month following the Indonesian student protests against the government. The trip itself had been extremely enlightening. Exhausting, but enlightening, which meant Tom invested the whole weekend in relaxing and sleeping.
Which was why, on his first day back at the office, he woke up feeling unusually optimistic.
That should have been his first warning.
The day began with what Tom internally considered the trifecta of good omens. First, he woke up before his alarm. Second, his phone had somehow remained on the bedside table charged throughout the night instead of depleted sadly on the floor. Third, when he swung his legs out of bed, he didn't immediately collide with the corner of his bedframe.
Within 30 seconds of his consciousness, his toe remained unstubbed and shin remained unsmashed.
A personal best.
When he glanced at himself in the mirror, even his curls appeared cooperative. They sat on his head in a passably intentional shape rather than their usual night-washed mess. Tom figured it was because he was overdue for a haircut from his long trip.
Still.
He looked presentable. Felt well-rested. The moon and stars aligned in retrograde, or whatever they say.
Today was going to be his day.
Or so he thought.
It was, decidedly, not.
First incident occurred approximately twenty minutes later.
Long story short: he smashed the toilet seat in two.
In his defence, Tom had just finished his morning green tea and he was sure his digestive system decided to show its distaste for English food after the first weekend without Indonesian cuisine.
Basically, he really needed a shit.
Immediately.
And Hurst, being the frustrating flatmate he is, had left the toilet seat up and Tom was not going to fall into the toilet bowl this time. So, Tom did the only thing a human could reasonably do in such a limited space of time: he slam-dunked that toilet seat down as hard as he could with his underwear pooled around his knees.
And, to his dismay, Tom spent his morning poo hovering over the toilet with a piece of the wooden seat held in his left hand, glaring at his least favourite framed artwork in the whole flat.
"Alpha Horse," as Hurst lovingly named it, was a painting of a brown horse reading a newspaper on the toilet. It's beady eyes staring intensely at the viewer; the text 'please stay seated for the entire performance' unironically printed out beneath it.
The portrait had been personally commissioned after a particularly profitable quarter because, according to Hurst, "the grind never stops."
And also, "I just really fucking love horses."
The horse stared down at Tom with an expression of unsettling dominance.
Tom stared back.
The horse seemed disappointed in him.
Tom felt disappointed in himself.
Hurst and John were in the kitchen when Tom emerged from the bathroom carrying a large section of the shattered toilet seat under one arm.
Silence.
John blinked.
Hurst looked from Tom, to the toilet seat, then back to Tom.
"That's my toilet seat" Hurst observed.
"Yes."
"Why," Hurst asked eventually, "are you carrying my toilet?"
"It wasn't intentional."
"I figured."
"I'm sorry."
Hurst closed his eyes.
The look on his face suggested he was mentally calculating how much handcrafted replacement mahogany mid-20th century toilet seats are to replace.
Tom quietly placed the evidence on the kitchen counter and walked into his room.
Nobody spoke about it again.
It was later, as Tom left for work, the lift doors closed directly onto his shoulders with surprising force as he tried to step inside.
He took a few steps back.
“Fuck.”
The doors reopened.
Tom stepped forward.
The doors immediately tried again.
“Ow.”
Today was not his day at all.
-
Mary had been at The Woodhouse Post for exactly one month and, all things considered, she believed she was doing rather well. Sitting at her desk that morning, carefully reviewing a stack of sources she had already reviewed twice before, Mary thought to herself, who am I kidding? I am nailing this.
Yes, her boss was terrifying, but terrifying in a sort of professional way. The terrifying that produced award-winning geopolitical journalism and emotional trauma at the same time. But, most of Mary's responsibilities so far consisted of organising files, proofreading articles, handing memos over to co-workers, and occasionally carrying things from one place to another.
Some people considered these tasks monotonous. Mary considered them delightful.
She found a particular joy in completing a task correctly, knowing that success could be measured objectively rather than through the terrifying uncertainty and subjectivity of any type of human interaction. Frankly, she was having a lovely time.
Well. Kind of.
She looked up from her monitor when a shadow appeared across her desk. Her co-worker, Will, stood there wearing the permanently amused expression he always seemed to wear.
"She's asking for you."
Immediately, Mary felt her spine straighten. Not because she was nervous, but because she was professional. The nervousness was wholly and entirely unrelated.
"Oh," she said, setting her papers down.
Will's smile widened slightly in encouragement.
"Good luck."
The walk to her boss' office was only a few seconds, but it was a long few seconds for Mary to mentally review every interaction she had ever had with her supervisor and plan accordingly. None of them had been bad. Her boss had never raised her voice. She had never insulted Mary or expressed visible annoyance in her direction. Yet, every conversation with the woman had Mary feeling like she was being evaluated by a panel of judges, who had already made their decision, but hadn't informed her of what it was yet.
Mary took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of her white blouse, before she knocked twice against the office door.
"Come in."
Two sharp eyes looked up from the computer.
And just stared.
Not aggressively. Not kindly. Simply stared.
The eye contact lasted perhaps two seconds.
Mary experienced all two seconds of it.
Caroline Bingley, rather inconveniently, was one of the most beautiful people Mary had ever encountered. Not in an approachable way nor in a warm way. More in the way invaluable, historical sculptures were beautiful. Caroline remained perpetually composed, perpetually elegant, perpetually brilliant, and perpetually aware of exactly where all her limbs were at any given moment. Her posture alone was enough to make Mary feel inadequate.
Nobody should be capable of sitting that straight, Mary thought.
"I need you to do the coffee run before the morning meeting."
"Of course."
"And tell everyone that I am not in the mood for anybody slacking today."
"Okay."
"If I see so much as a slouch or an unnecessary conversation, I will kill someone."
The woman smiled.
The smile somehow made the statement somewhat more concerning.
"Of course," Mary replied automatically. "I'll make sure to buy you a knife while I'm out too. Just in case."
A small laugh escaped the intern. The laugh died almost immediately.
Caroline continued staring.
Several seconds passed.
"Was that supposed to be a joke?"
The horrifying thing was that she didn't sound offended.
She sounded confused.
Mary would have preferred offended.
"Yes."
"I don't need any of that here."
Caroline's eyes briefly travelled up and down Mary's figure before returning to her screen.
"You should leave now."
"Okay, thank you."
"Yep."
Mary left the office at a speed that technically qualified as walking but only because running would have attracted unnecessary attention.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Mary released a breath she had apparently been holding for the entire conversation. She continued down the hallway towards the lifts, her heart rate dropping down to something medically acceptable.
As she walked, her attention habitually drifted towards the framed articles lining the office walls. The displays had become familiar over the past month, but she still found herself skimming them whenever she passed. They reminded her why she was here in the first place.
When Mary was younger, her father had read the newspaper every morning without fail. At the time, she'd assumed he simply enjoyed keeping up with current events. Looking back, she suspected it was also a fool proof method of avoiding conversation with her mother, as well as also evading parenting 5 daughters. Eventually, Mary found herself reading alongside him at the table. At first, it had simply been a way of sharing space with him, sitting together in comfortable silence and exchanging the occasional comment between pages. Over time, however, Mary developed genuine interests of her own. Her father remained devoted to domestic politics while Mary found herself increasingly drawn towards international affairs and environmental policy.
Mary briefly paused.
One article in particular always caught her attention whenever she passed it. It discussed Peru's political climate in the 60s and the fascinatingly consequential start of the punk rock movement. Mary remembered reading it during her first year of university and offhandedly bringing it up to her dad before the rest of the family came down for breakfast. For nearly an hour, the conversation developed as her father had talked memories of his youth as a die-hard punk rock fan with his face holding something Mary had never seen before. Mary thought about it a lot when he passed away last year.
At the bottom of the framed article sat the author's name.
T. Hayward.
Mary smiled.
Then, she continued towards the lifts.
Thankfully, Mary's department was relatively small. The coffee order itself, however, was not. Over the course of the last month, Mary had memorised it: two oat iced lattes, one flat white, three iced Americanos, two iced matcha (one with dairy milk, one with coconut milk) and one hot matcha for herself. Balancing the drinks carefully in the cardboard carriers, Mary made her way back towards the office.
The security guard smiled the moment she entered the building.
"Morning, Mary."
"Good morning."
Without even asking for her lanyard, he waved her through the barriers. A gesture Mary appreciated immensely given that both her hands were currently occupied.
"Can I ask what time is it, please?" she asked.
"Quarter to ten."
Perfect.
Fifteen minutes before the meeting.
Amazing. Fine. Cool. That's fine.
While the security guard kindly pressed the lift button for her, Mary adjusted her grip on the drinks and mentally calculated her timing. Fifteen minutes. She could work with fifteen minutes. When the lift arrived, she stepped inside and violently stabbed the button for the fifteenth floor with her pinky. Then the close-door button. Then again. Then several more times for good measure. Not because she believed it made the lift move faster. But, because it did. Probably. She thought.
Before the doors slid shut, she glanced towards the lobby clock.
Fourteen minutes.
More than enough time.
When the lift reached her floor, Mary instinctively checked the drinks. Everything remained upright. Nothing had spilled. Nothing had leaked.
Excellent.
A small smile appeared on her face.
I am the picture of grace and poise. Take that, Mother.
Mary immediately regretted thinking that. Then regretted regretting it. Then cringed at herself for having an imaginary argument with her mother inside her own head.
As she stepped into the corridor, Ann greeted her from reception with her usual warmth.
"Good morning again, Mary."
"Morning. Could you tell me the time?"
"Ten to ten."
Even better.
Mary thanked her and continued down the hallway.
Nine minutes to spare.
A new personal record.
Ahead, she could already see the glass meeting room. Not even half of the team had arrived yet. Mary was that early. Caroline was stood outside, facing away from her, speaking to Will. The movement from Mary caught Will's eyes, his face offering the intern a bright smile in acknowledgement.
Mary felt a ridiculous surge of pride.
Why, yes, she thought, acknowledge my efficiency and competency, I did this with nine whole minutes to spare.
Mary began returning the smile.
Suddenly, Will was horizontal.
Mary blinked.
Hard.
For one deeply confusing second, her brain attempted to process the image before it. Will appeared sideways. The ceiling appeared lower. The floor appeared significantly closer to her face than she remembered.
What the hell? Oh my god?
The drinks exploded.
It's everywhere.
One moment they existed peacefully inside their cardboard carriers. The next, splatters of green and brown erupted across polished wooden flooring.
Mary (and her clothes) were too busy soaking up the mess in front of her. She barely registered the searing pain that shot through her ankle. Barely noticed the sting of hot liquid splashed against her arm. Barely registered the arm suddenly wrapped around her waist. Instead she stared, frozen, at the spreading puddles around her.
For four years, Mary had not tripped.
Four years.
Not one significant spill.
Not one stumble.
Years of careful movements. Years of calculated steps. Years spent proving to herself that she wasn't clumsy. That she wasn't graceless. That she wasn't-
Ungainly.
The word arrived instantly.
Followed by another.
Maladroit.
Her mother's tone voiced it helpfully.
Mary felt tears immediately sting her eyes.
Everything she had worked for. Everything she tried so hard not to be. Spilled out onto an office floor covered in oat milk.
I'm getting fired, Mary realised.
No.
Worse.
Caroline Bingley was going to kill her.
No.
Even, even worse.
Caroline Bingley was going to stare at her and not say a single word.
Then, the floor groaned.
Mary froze.
Floors don't groan.
The floor shifted beneath her.
Mary froze harder.
Floors sure as hell don't move.
Slowly, she turned her head and realised she was lying on top of someone. Specifically, on top of a chest. A very solid chest. Attached to a very large man who was currently looking down directly at her.
Mary's heart drops.
She scrambled upright so quickly she nearly fell over again. Pain immediately burst through her ankle. She ignored it, too busy feeling the scene in front of her engraving in the area of her brain dedicated to the "Top 10 Worst Moments of Mary Bennet".
There were bigger problems. Much bigger problems.
For example, she had just tackled Thomas Hayward.
Not just Thomas Hayward.
T. Hayward.
The Thomas Hayward.
The award-winning political journalist. The Thomas Hayward whose article on Peru's punk movement was framed on the office wall. The Thomas Hayward whose work led to one of the few meaningful conversations Mary had ever shared with her father.
That Thomas Hayward.
The one currently lying on the floor covered in coffee and matcha.
Mary felt another sob threatening to escape.
Wonderful.
Not only was she getting fired. She was probably going to be blacklisted from the industry entirely. Future generations would study this incident with pure second hand embarrassment.
“I am so, so sorry,” Mary burst out, immediately dropping back to her knees and desperately attempting to clean the spreading liquid with the hem of her brand-new spring green skirt. “I’m so sorry, Mr Hayward, I didn’t see you at all. I did not mean for this to happen.”
Mary glanced up warily.
Thomas Hayward was lying on the floor. Not unconscious. Not visibly injured. Just... there.
Spread out in a strange starfish-like position and not moving nearly enough for Mary's liking.
Oh my god, Mary thought. I broke him.
The thought arrived fully formed and completely reasonable to her panic-stricken brain: He has sustained some sort of catastrophic injury and is now paralysed because I assaulted him with coffee.
Immediately abandoning her attempts to scrub oat milk from the floor with her also brand-new white blouse, Mary froze.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Then louder:
"Oh my God, are you alive?"
Abruptly, Tom pulled himself upright.
Mary flinched.
Unfortunately, at that exact moment, another thought entered her brain.
Fuck, he is gorgeous.
Amazing!
As though the situation wasn't already humiliating enough. Now she was nervous in a completely different way too.
Tom blinked a few times.. Mary sat frozen opposite him, ankle throbbing, eyes burning from unshed tears and mentally prepared herself to be screamed at. She could see the future unfolding before her. The internship is over. Caroline fires her immediately. Every newspaper publication in Britain receives a photograph of her face alongside a warning not to hire under any circumstances.
Then, Mary heard something.
A low chuckle escaped from the man as he rubbed a hand over his face.
"Shit," he mutters. "You've done it again, Tom, you ungainly man."
Mary froze at the word.
Ungainly.
The word landed somewhere unpleasantly deep inside her chest.
Before she could dwell on it, however, Tom looked at her with genuine concern.
"Did I hurt you?"
Mary was too stunned to answer.
The man she had just flattened in front of half the office just asked if she is okay.
He shuffled slightly closer and carefully placed a hand on her shoulder. His eyes scanned her face, checking for signs of injury before drifting down to the lanyard hanging around her neck.
Intern.
The photograph clipped to it shows a slightly awkward young woman grinning directly into the camera. Beneath it read: Mary Bennet.
Tom realised immediately that he had never seen her before.
His gaze drops briefly to the bright green ribbon attached to the pass. Unlike the standard black company lanyards, hers matched the exact shade of her skirt.
Cute, Tom thought absently.
When he looked back up, his expression immediately changed.
A tear ran down her cheek.
"I'm fine," Mary stuttered.
She was, objectively, not fine.
She couldn't look him in the eye. Her entire body rigid with embarrassment. Worse, she could feel herself shaking.
Tom's frown deepened.
"Are you sure?" he asked, "I completely wiped you out with a sliding kick tackle."
The joke is accompanied by a warm smile.
An attempt to ease the tension.
Before Mary could react, he gently reached forward and straightened her askew glasses.
Mary stared.
The man has dimples.
Actual dimples.
His smile lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes.
Somewhere in the distance, Mary's remaining dignity silently packed up its belongings and left the office.
Tom rose to his feet, wiping coffee from his shirt before offering her a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Mary takes it.
Her fingers are trembling.
The moment Tom felt it, he instinctively squeezed her hand reassuringly.
She immediately snatched her hand back as though she's been burnt.
Tom blinked.
"What the fuck?"
Caroline's voice cut through the corridor. The effect was immediate. Both Mary and Tom visibly flinched. Caroline strode towards them, pushing past Mary entirely to inspect Tom.
"Hayward, are you okay?"
Then her eyes landed on the crime scene surrounding them. The spilled drinks. The soaked clothing. The shattered remains of Mary's decorum.
Her expression hardened immediately.
"What is this mess?" she demanded, turning sharply towards Mary. "What on earth did you do, intern?"
Mary exhaled shakily.
This is it.
The execution.
She closed her eyes.
Well, Mary. Your life was fun while it laste-
"Caroline."
Tom's voice cut through her internal eulogy.
"This wasn't on her. I'm fine. It's just a bit of liquid."
Mary's eyes flew open from the lack of Bingley impact. For a second, she simply stared. Tom caught her gaze and offered a small reassuring look. Mary immediately looked away. Her face somehow becoming even redder.
"Hayward, seriously," Caroline said with a short laugh. "Don't cover for her. She's just an intern."
Dread settled heavily in Mary's stomach. She should say something. She should explain. She glanced towards Tom again and found him looking expectantly back at her, clearly waiting for her to tell the truth. That this was his fault. That he was the one who launched himself into her path. That she wasn't responsible.
Mary hesitated.
Then stopped herself.
Oh, what the hell.
"I'm so sorry!" she blurted out, "I'll clean it up immediately!"
Thomas stared at her. Completely baffled.
This was his fault.
"Wait, no," he began. "I'm serious, this was all me-"
"I truly expected better than this, intern," Caroline interrupted. Clearly unwilling to spend another second discussing the matter, she gestured vaguely towards the mess. "Clean it up."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed back towards the meeting room. Will followed behind her, shooting both Tom and Mary a concerned glance as he left.
Mary watched them disappear. That could have gone worse. She still has a job; that alone felt miraculous. Looking down at the sticky coffee stains drying across her skirt and blouse, Mary sighed weakly. Before she started cleaning, Ann appeared. Without a word, the receptionist gently but firmly guided her away from the increasingly curious collection of prying eyes gathering nearby.
-
Meanwhile, as the office began to move again, Tom finally snapped out of his disbelief.
He opened his mouth, fully intending to fix this.
Only to hear Hurst's voice booming across the floor.
"Hayward!"
Tom winced.
"What are you doing?" Hurst sighed, "Everyone's waiting for you. The meeting started five minutes ago and Ed's already fuming."
Before Tom could protest, Hurst dragged him towards the conference room.
Tom casted one last glance over his shoulder, catching a glance of the intern being led away by Ann, still looking utterly mortified.
Well, Tom thought grimly, so much for first impressions.
During the meeting, Tom absorbed approximately none of the discussion. Instead, his attention remained firmly fixed on two things:
- The coffee-and-matcha-stained shirt sticking to his chest.
- The cute intern he accidentally tackled into the floor.
Yes.
Today was definitely not his day.