Chapter Text
vi. they learn
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There are small, intimate touches that they’ve fallen into like breathing – the way he grabs her hips to keep her steady when she reaches for the top shelf, or how she knows that he sometimes runs into the shower door when he’s particularly sleepy and so needs a hand to tug him along.
Her fingers dance across his tie in the morning and his palm curves around her shoulder in the back corner of a bar late one night with Fitz; her head tips back against his chest when they sit and he presses his nose into her hair, bathed in vanilla and raspberry and jasmine – she feels the pressure against her scalp and pushes back into his body and he grumbles softly and jostles her from side to side in his arms.
One night they take a walk along the beach and Lizzie digs her fingers into his hip until he agrees to take off his shoes and then it’s all wet sand and soft granules and the occasional splash of shockingly cold water; their fingers tangle loosely and Lizzie decides that there’s nothing more inviting than the soft touch of his warm skin.
She doesn’t think about the future. Not the phone calls from possible investors or the terrible but giddy ache in her stomach at the thought of her own business, her own home. Doesn’t think about moving to San Francisco, nor what it will be like to leave Will’s apartment. He’s warm in bed and she sleeps with her head nestled under his arm and some mornings she wakes up overheated and halfway down his chest while on others she’s spread out across the mattress and freezing, and he’s already in the shower.
She watches him move fluidly through his bedroom in nothing but a towel and droplets of water curl down his shoulders and across his chest and all she can think about is calling the bedroom their own one day – the apartment their own too; and possibly licking the path of water up from his navel.
The game starts one evening over dinner; they’re sat side by side at the table and Lizzie’s left foot is tangled around Will’s ankle – she’s in pale blue socks and he’s still wearing shoes and the smooth leather is slippery when she runs her toe along it.
She’d spent her day on Fillmore Street browsing through stores and tweeting pictures of long knit sweaters and gorgeous boots at Jane in an attempt to goad her older sister into visiting – when she’d first raised the subject Jane had questioned, with all the mystique she could muster, just how long Lizzie was planning on staying in San Francisco if she was already organizing trips there and Lizzie had been left speechless for a moment before spluttering her way through explaining that perhaps San Francisco was exactly where she was meant to be.
For business, she’d added hastily, of course.
Lunch had been spent in Ghirardelli Square; Gigi had joined her fresh from tennis practice and the pair had spent a good hour discussing everything from work to films to Lizzie’s atrocious attempts at team sport when she was younger. Gigi had let slip that Will was a champion swimmer and Lizzie had been distracted by the image of him in nothing but tight swimming trunks; solid thigh muscles that she was intimately acquainted with cutting through the water and the gorgeous swell of his shoulder blades -
“Lizzie,” Gigi had teased, poking her and disrupting the fantasy, “please stop objectifying my brother.”
They’d taken a quick peak inside the ice cream and chocolate shop and Gigi had promised they’d return for the Chocolate Festival in mid-September. “It’s to die for,” the younger woman had moaned and Lizzie had laughed as Gigi knocked into her shoulder, stumbling dramatically, “So much chocolate, so little time.”
The afternoon had been clear and bright; San Francisco on display in all it’s multi-coloured glory, and even after a couple of days and her 6 week internship, Lizzie was still captivated by catching glimpses of the Bay – every time she turned a corner and was met with the fresh breeze off the water she’d take a moment and breathe it in. “Do you ever get used to it?” she asked Gigi, half in awe, and Gigi had shook her head quickly, the linen scarf around her neck fluttering in the wind.
“No. Never. I think the best cities are the ones you’re constantly falling in love with.”
She’d pondered that the entire way back to Will’s apartment; jostled between people on the cable car as it crept up a hill and then on the short walk (not uphill, thankfully) to his block.
The apartment is always so quiet when she comes home of an afternoon; the past few days she’s taken to staying out later and meeting him for drinks or dinner after work (and she’s well aware that he’s been cutting his days shorter; knows that when she interned at Pemberly he was lucky to be gone by 7 and now regularly steps out the main doors just as the clock strikes 5).
They’ve created a little bubble of existence that can really only last a few more weeks. Will has work and Lizzie has a life to prepare for and at some point they both have to return to that – they can’t keep wining and dining themselves giddy each night.
Now, and they’re having a late dinner at the table and the apartment is quiet but for the grandfather clock down the hall – it’s comfortable and peaceful and Lizzie can’t help but watch Will’s chest hitch whenever she dares dart her toe up the knob of his ankle and underneath his pants.
“If you could live anywhere in the world,” she starts, just as he takes a thick spoonful of roasted pumpkin soup that burns down the back of his throat. He swallows quickly and takes a sharp breath to stop a cough, and she continues, oblivious to his peril, “Where would you go?”
He pauses, caught. Lizzie’s voice is pensive but not serious; instead curious. She’s eyeing the opposite wall with it’s large black and white photos of Piccadilly Circus and Will wonder’s if she’d like to go there one day – he’d take her, multiple times.
But she’s asking where he would go – where he would live – and the immediate answer is stuck in his throat.
London, of course has fascinated him since he was a small child. He’d spent a summer there when he was nine years old living with a distant relative and whilst the reasons for that trip weren’t pleasant – William Darcy Sr. suddenly finding himself with two small children and an entire business to run – Will can still remember the museums and parks and old, beautiful buildings with lush red carpet and people with funny accents. He often thinks he could pass a year or two living in London, or perhaps just beyond in Derbyshire, where his family is from.
France, also, would be fascinating and enriching; wine tasting and tiny old towns and rolling hills and markets on weekends. He’ll take Lizzie to Paris one day, and Rome and Prague, but he thinks living in a villa in the south of France would be the perfect way to spend a summer.
It takes him a moment to realise that he’s been silent much too long, caught up in his fantasies without answering her question. Lizzie is eyeing him critically and she’s leant on her elbow to peer closer at him. He blushes and apologises quickly, ducking his head down until she tuts and knocks a finger under his chin. “Tell me,” she teases, and Will glances up to find her gorgeous blue eyes.
“I don’t know,” he answers finally, voice raspy. He clears his throat and tries to decide if answering honestly will fall on the side of romantic but not desperate. He’s not usually aware of the distinction – is actually appalling at anything remotely within the realm of romance. But being with Lizzie is teaching him slowly and surely that romance isn’t about knowledge or perfectly constructed lines, but instead being honest with the person before him – simply loving her as best he can.
“There must be somewhere you would go,” she teases, playful and messing with his fingers by tickling her own along his palm. He grasps her hand tight in his and she smiles happily; leans forward to press a kiss to his white knuckles and he can’t help but reach his free hand down to pull the legs of her chair closer to his own, shuffling her against him.
“London,” he answers, “Paris perhaps. Or Vienna – Japan or Dubai or Sydney,” and now she’s laughing, rolling her eyes.
“I’d go anywhere,” he tells her, swinging their clasped hands on the table, “As long as I was with you.”
And he can hear her voice catch and her face sobers and for a brief, startling second he thinks perhaps that was too much – sirens sound and his eyes widen and he stiffens – but then she smiles beautifully; radiant and whole.
She ducks her head in the little way he’s learnt means she’s shy or embarrassed and her grip on his hand tightens as she squeezes. She shuffles closer to him and hooks her calf around, under his knee; presses her forehead to his shoulder and sighs, laughing, “Who knew you could be so smooth, William Darcy.”
He can’t help the bubble of laughter in his chest and the vibrations shake her by his side – he wraps his free arm around her shoulder and then with a little hop and some maneuvering she ends up straddling his lap, knees pressed against his hip bones and hands settled firmly on his chest. “Paris would be nice,” she tells him, and Will leans forward to kiss her, steady and slow.
She sucks at his bottom lip and as he pulls away she keens softly; a little breathless whimper that has him leaning in again and again until her lips are red and plump and he’s whispering nothing against the corner of her mouth. Her forehead is resting against his right temple and she’s puffing short, little gasps of air. “Lizzie,” he groans, because she’s dropt her body down to sit across his thighs and he can feel her there, warm and solid, and her fingers keep playing with the wisps of hair at the back of his neck. Her eyes are unfocused but he makes her hold his gaze until they clear – they blow wide and her irises are a deep, dark blue and he’s only so strong when it comes to resisting this woman; still wound tight by six months of watching this sensual, intelligent being command his presence on screen.
“Bed,” she mumbles; demands of him, really. She leans forward once more and he’s already scooping an arm around her waist – she lets him lift her quickly and she hooks both legs around his waist and then it’s a slight hop, skip, stumble down to his bedroom, but eventually they make it in one piece – for a fleeting second Will thinks they should probably slow down, after all the evening is young and he was enjoying talking to her about the future, but Lizzie is unhooking her bra and Will’s quite fond of that job, so he surges forward and bats her hands away with a low groan and then Lizzie has her hands on his belt and everything is a wet, hot blur – hands and hearts and fingertips trailing along sweaty skin and gasps and moans and his teeth digging into her collarbone as she fists his hair.
And that’s how the game begins.
It continues the next morning while Lizzie is lounging in bed.
It’s Friday and Will has a meeting with personnel at 10 and he can’t find the grey skinny tie that he usually wears with his shirt and suspenders. He’s digging through the top drawer of his dresser and trying to ignore the blissfully naked woman lying on his bed, chatting to him amiably about the summer she and Lydia built a raft and tried sailing it down the stream a few miles from their house, only to have it capsize and soak them in brown filth and mossy slim.
She has her right leg bent up with her foot planted on the mattress and the other is crossed over her knee, jiggling as she talks. The bed sheet is pushed as far down the bed as possible but she has a corner of it fisted in her hand and every now and then it flutters up as she gestures – her hair is out and messy and her eyes are bright and Will is on the verge of a headache from the strain of ignoring her – does she realise what she does to him?
When he finally turns to face her she’s smirking and he growls low in his throat but refuses to step forward – of course she does. Little minx.
“What’s your middle name?” she asks, and Will is so taken back by the question that he messes up his tie mid-windsor. He stares down at his hands holding the silk fabric, lips parted in surprise, and Lizzie laughs high and merry at his confusion.
“Frederick,” he grumbles finally, and she parrots it back at him.
“William Frederick Darcy. I like it. Very regal,” rolling the final word off her tongue as her left hand trails slowly across her collarbone.
Will watches her a moment, the shift of skin under her fingertips along the exact same path that his lips had mapped in the early morning light; “And you?” he questions, curling his fingers around the final part of the knot to distract him– he tugs and it sits perfectly across his throat and he can’t help the small thrill of accomplishment that shoots up his spine; he still has a small amount of control left.
“Cassandra. Elizabeth Cassandra Bennet,” she says, voice low and he thinks that’s probably her attempts at being posh. It’s somewhat like her imitation of his voice, and he can’t help but glance at his open drawer where a red bow tie still sits, unworn for the past year since his first visit to Netherfield.
“That’s pretty,” he murmurs, stepping forward and leaning close. She curls her head to the side on the mattress as he hovers over her and he can imagine her mind whirling behind her eyes, wonders what she’s thinking – is it about me? About getting me back in bed? Or perhaps something entirely different – for all he knows she’s probably planning where she’ll go for lunch.
“Do you have plans for today?” he asks, and her gaze darts just over his shoulder.
Her smile is playful, however, and she’s caught the end of his tie in her fingertips, slowing crawling up it until there’s a steady pressure around his throat. She tugs once at the end and he can’t help but fall forward, hands catching the mattress on either side of her head and she darts up immediately to press a kiss to him; one hand scrambling up his back to fist his shirt whilst the other hooks underneath the knot at his throat.
When they break he’s panting quickly and drops his head, nuzzling her neck until she laughs weakly. She’s got a firm hold on his tie and she tugs once to try and pull him back up, whining when he resists and shudders against her.
“What is with you today?” he breathes against her collarbone, mouthing at soft skin and Lizzie laughs quickly, letting go of his tie to run both hands up his back. He leans back and she’s wonderfully happy and he can’t help but smile, heart still beating double and pants uncomfortably snug.
“You’re just really gorgeous today,” she shrugs nochantly, and he huffs, pursing his lips.
“Really?”
“Yeah babe,” she teases, and slaps a gentle hand against his side. “You should go to work,” she tells him but instead he melts back into her body. She’s feather soft without her clothes and Will inhales against her; she smells of vanilla and some soft fragrance that he thinks belongs to his soap. “Soon,” he grumbles, lying completely still.
She’s petting her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck and it takes him a minute to realise his cheek is pressed to the supple curve of her breast – he’s too tall for this position to be comfortable for long but Lizzie is warm and inviting and tickling his scalp in the most delicious way.
It takes him a moment to realise she’s telling him about her plans for the day, her voice drifts through the open room and lulls him against her. “I have some people to call, actually,” she’s saying, and she sounds excited but also nervous – and suddenly he realizes she’s talking about her business. He makes a noise to indicate his interest but she remains silent after that, still petting his hair absently.
He pushes back and she smiles hesitantly; rubs a thumb down his flushed cheek. “You’re going to be late,” she reminds him and he nods. He waits her out and eventually she sighs loudly, deflates back into the mattress and lets her hair fan out beneath her – a rusty auburn backdrop to the myriad of emotions flittering across her face.
They’ve talked about her plans for the future; one hazy night when they’d both had too much wine and Will had stumble through expressing just how much he wanted her to work at Pemberly. She’d leant back in his arms and bit her lip and her eyes had been crossed like she was trying to navigate something painful – and for a few, horrid seconds Will had felt that rush of dread that he’d once come to expect.
She’d hastened to assure him with her forehead pressed to his temple that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to work with him, wasn’t that she didn’t like Pemberly Digital – “But I don’t want to be the bosses girlfriend,” she’d finally murmured with her fingers playing under his collar – and Will had taken a moment but nodded; understanding. Of course he understood.
And then Lizzie had mentioned shyly her plans to start her own business, to perhaps be his rival, to start discussions with investors, and Will couldn’t stop the warm, bubbly feeling in his stomach because the woman in his arms was incredible. How he’d ever ended up with her love was beyond his wildest dreams.
It’s been three days now, however, and she’s yet to tell him anything more than a few cryptic sentences; offered a few shrugged shoulders and one teasing wink and Will is desperate for something. Information or plans or procedures – he’s a pragmatist at heart and not knowing what she’s got mapped out is driving him slightly insane.
“I’ll tell you later!” she finally exclaims with a smile, and he grumbles, finally acquiescing. Tonight, he decides defiantly – he’ll get her to explain everything this evening over roast lamb and red wine. He stands with a groan and she stays lying naked on the bed and he rubs his hand against her hip fondly - she seems to take it as a goodbye and smiles back at him full.
“Meet me for lunch?” he asks softly, and she bites her lip before nodding in agreement.
“I’ll tell you about the phone calls then,” and when he still doesn’t leave the room even after her assurance, she lifts a foot to kick at him. “Goodbye William,” she sings, nudging him insistently out to the hall.
On his way out of the apartment he runs into three doorframes.
Lunch is skipped, as some inevitably are, because Lizzie gets caught up in a phone call with a man from Chicago whose nephew originally started watching her vlogs last July and had passed the link along to his uncle with a clear message to find this girl and fund her. Will, too, is caught up with Human Resources and only has time to send her a quick message – “Sorry love, can’t make lunch, HR trying to kill me,” and receives in return, “Thank god, me too. I think I’m talking to someone who actually wants to give me money!!!!!”
He does manage to break free of the meeting to wander down the street for five minutes to the nearest decent coffee shop. He orders a gibraltar and sits in the window of the shop for five minutes and picks up a newspaper but only reads the front page – then there’s a message from Timothy in the finance department and he’s rushing back out of the cafe and down the street – he barely has time to wave goodbye to the barista (a short, happy guy with square glasses who's been supply him with coffee for three years) before he’s back on the phone and organizing a quick report to hopefully explain why Timothy’s having a meltdown.
The apartment is dark when Will returns home. The television is off and the kitchen is silent; there isn’t a glass of water resting by the sink or three mugs of mostly drunk tea to indicate Lizzie has been there. He passes through the living area and her bag is sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen bench – the only sign that she’s home – other than that it could be any desolate evening before Elizabeth Bennet invaded his life.
He toes off his shoes and leaves them with his coat and suit jacket in the study – there he notices Lizzie’s first mug of tea and can’t help but smile. So she has been home and puttering about. If he closes his eyes he can imagine her curled up in the office chair with a notepad out, scribbling ideas down hastily.
He’s just putting his briefcase in the room’s corner when there’s a brief shuffle outside the door and Lizzie’s sleepy, warm voice fills the empty silence.
“You’re home,” she mumbles, and the word, home, sings through his veins quickly.
She’s by his side before he can move and then there’s a heavy weight against his chest and her two arms anchored around his waist, clasping together at the small of his back. He returns the gesture with an arm around her shoulder but rests the other on the crown of her head and pulls her forehead to his collarbone, rocking her from side to side.
She’s still half asleep and her body melts into his and Will could easily scoop her up and carry her back to bed. “I’m sorry I missed lunch,” he tells her, and she rubs her nose against his chest in what he thinks must be understanding.
“I was busy too,” she murmurs, and then tugs her hands at his back to get him to move.
She runs her hand down his arm and circles her fingers around his wrist so she can pull him into the living room. Once there she falls down to the couch and pats the space next to her; he curls into it without question.
He doesn’t ask how her day went – she’s clearly exhausted, was probably asleep when he arrived home – and he think she wants to tell him in her own time. She’s heavy and still in his arms but underneath is the slightest hint of a tremor – like she’s vibrating with some uncontained excitement. Just a few more minutes, he thinks, and she’ll bubble over completely.
He has a hand in her hair and she’s managed to nudge him backwards so that she’s lying on his chest without him noticing, and seconds later she tells him, voice a little clearer, “I think I took the first, solid step towards starting the business.”
He can’t help but smile even if she can’t see him in the dim room. He rubs his fingers at the nape of her neck instead and she purrs at the steady pressure down her spine – “Good?” he rumbles, and she nods distractedly.
He doesn’t quite know what to say in response to her admission – he’s excited for her (ecstatic, really). She’s bright and smart and compelling to watch and Will’s sure that she’ll go far in life with such tenacity. He could say he’s proud of her, and in some way he is, but at the same time it sounds like something her parents might say – sounds condescending when he rests it on his tongue. He doesn’t want to pat her on the back and tell her she’s done a good job; instead he wants to tell everyone else that she’s amazing.
“Will?” she prods, lifting her head slightly from his chest, and he can hear the underlying trepidation.
He runs a hand down her back and she seems to settle a little and then he presses a kiss to her forehead and speaks the only words he can think; the only ones that truly summarise how he feels.
“I love you,” and she curls further into his chest as she smiles.
They don’t talk much more about the future. Lizzie has a business to start but also a home to return to in between and Will has his own company forever weighing on his shoulders. Instead they rest sleepily against the other and when Will’s stomach rumbles they wonder into the kitchen and cook chicken strips and then eat them dipped in tzatziki with fresh lemon juice and chilled wine.
Lizzie announces midway through their makeshift meal that she’s decided her company will be called Longbourn Media, and Will knocks his elbow into hers where they’re sat side by side at the bench when she mentions looking for office space in San Francisco. “I could help,” he offers, feigning indifference, and even though she hesitates a moment, he can’t help but feel a little more at ease when she nods slowly and tells him that would be wonderful.
“I actually have no idea where to look,” she murmurs, and he reaches down to tangle their hands together and squeeze. He knows just how terrifying it can be to run your own business, especially when you’re young and unprepared. She’s not yet asked about his parents, or the intricacies of owning Pemberley, but it’s a discussion not far off and he’s already thought about what to tell her – he’s never discussed his parent’s death with anyone beyond Fitz, Bing and Gigi – and even then it was never his truest, dearest thoughts. He’s always been the strong one, the one to guard his heart, but he thinks he might have to be honest with Lizzie.
No matter what problems their relationship faced in the past they’ve never once shied from being truthful.
Later that night they’re lying in bed with Will on his side, his knees bent up so their legs are tangled and his elbow supporting his weight as he leans up and over her. She’s resting one hand against his chest and he’s playing with her hair and even though it’s well past midnight neither of them can be bothered resting – tomorrow is Saturday and the day is blissfully theirs to spend and they’d both much rather be wrapped up in each other than sleeping.
“Favourite colour?” Lizzie asks, and Will can’t help but laugh – they’re playing their game again, but he loves learning little things about her.
“Green.”
“Green?”
“Yes. An emerald green, I think.”
He ducks his head and Lizzie huffs and pushes his chin up until his eyes catch hers; “You were wearing an emerald necklace the day I first noticed you; noticed your eyes and how they sparkled. It was a tiny, teardrop stone. But I loved it,” he finally mutters.
She’s silent a moment but her gaze is locked on his; she gets this look of pure adoration when ever he mentions loving her or noticing her, and Will can’t help the shiver down his spine whenever she smiles wide.
“And you?” he presses.
She gets a determined look and then grins, “Red.”
“Red?”
“Yes. You wear lots of red. It makes me think of you.”
“You do know that I’ve only worn that bowtie once or twice. And that cap. They’re hardly staples of my wardrobe.”
“Yes, but they were the first thing I ever saw you wearing. It stuck.”
He grumbles a response and Lizzie pushes back a stray lock of hair that’s threatening his forehead; nose crinkled as she smiles. “You make a cute newsie,” she finally teases, and he sighs deeply.
“You should kiss me now,” she demands.
He leans down and brushes his hand along the back of her shoulder to rest at the nape of her neck and her own fingers march up the column of his spine to pinch at his shoulder blades. Her body is pressed up against his and he works his free hand underneath her shirt to find warm skin and then she’s shuffling impatiently, trying to worm her fingers between them and undo his buttons and kick at his pants. He laughs and she takes the opportunity to suck at his chin and his neck and down his collarbone; a hot little trail along his skin – and then she hooks her leg over his hip and Will groans as she rocks him back on top of her, presses into her body and the cradle of her thighs and pulls her up to meet his lips again, and she gasps as he works her shirt quickly over her head.
“Slow,” she mumbles, cheek hot against his own; her lips are red and bitten and her eyes are blown wide and her hands are everywhere – his back and his shoulders and down the curve of his waist and his thighs – she’s moving and shuddery and he wants to pull her up and over his body to sit on his hips but then she’s moaning long and deep, telling him again to go slow, and he mumbles against her lips, “Yeah?” voice rushed and shakey.
“Want to feel you,” she tells him, and her toes curl into his thigh – he can feel each tiny pressure point anchoring him and in that moment completely understands – wants to feel every second of her body with his until they’re exhausted and sweat slick and sleepy in the early morning.
“Love you,” she mumbles, and he pauses only a moment, breath caught before returning the sentiment, pressing her down into the mattress and tucking his nose to nuzzle against her neck; breathing her in.
When they wake in the morning the sun is high and it’s already nine but it’s a Saturday and Lizzie’s hair is crazy and Will can hardly see without his glasses or contacts and so they decide to keep sleeping until their bodies wake them.
Everything else can wait.