Work Text:
Contrary to what she assumes to be popular belief, there are things that Lizzie Bennet does not like to share with her viewers.
Because they are boring (grocery shopping at normal hours of the day; her paper and basically anything relating to her studies), or gross (that time she had to stop recording four times because snot kept coming out her nose at inopportune moments) or sometimes, just plain embarrassing (spending an entire meeting staring at the dimples of a certain CEO she had sworn never to fall in love with...).
Which is why nothing about what happens that Thursday after she posts Episode 82 ever makes it onto one of her videos.
As soon as the video hits the internet, she knows there will be comments and messages and twitter alerts making her phone buzz off the table, but for right now, everything is silent and Lizzie lets her head fall to her desk with a groan. It's made of glass and normally, she hates everything about that because it makes her cringe every time she puts a mug down on it too hard and there's just no way you can get away with toeing your shoes off under the table while still looking professional. But today – today she loves nothing more than this cool, smooth surface that soothes her burning skin. Because her head is pounding and her back is sweating and Lizzie Bennet is pretty certain that she is sick.
For Lizzie, there has always been a rather distinct pattern to getting sick. It starts with a scratching at the back of her throat the day before and although more often than not, she tries her hardest to ignore it and will it away with sheer power of mind, the scratching has proven to be an unmistakeable sign. It always develops into a sore throat that makes her want to put her cereal through the blender by the next morning and she normally burrows down into her blankets and stays in bed the whole day.
But this is Pemberley Digital and she has meetings to attend and a video to post and, really, she hadn't felt that bad when she left the house two hours ago, but as she moves her cheek around on the surface to find a patch of glass that has not yet been heated up by her burning skin, she realizes staying in bed would have been the only sane decision.
Because Lizzie also tends to run really high fevers on that first day of her cold.
Which is why she doesn't even lift a finger when she hears someone enter her office.
“Lizzie? You okay?”
It's Gigi and her voice is loud and squeaky and it makes Lizzie's temples throb painfully. She tries moving her head to look up, but her muscles don't seem to obey her and this position is the most comfortable she has been in all morning, so she settles for a muffled “Mhm. Fine.” that reverberates through the glass and vibrates against her forehead.
“You don't look fine”, Gigi insists and a flash of green moves into Lizzie's line of vision. The green shifts and is replaced by the face of a very concerned looking Gigi.
Lizzie tries for a reassuring smile but she can tell by the deepening crease between Gigi's eyebrows that it's not working too well.
“Are you sick?”
She's stating the obvious but still, Lizzie feels the need to argue.
“Nope”, she mutters, the sound popping on the “p”.
A pitiful smile appears on Gigi's lips and Lizzie doesn't like it.
“Then why are you lying on your desk?”
“'S comfy”, Lizzie tells her seriously and she feels like she has just proven a very valid point even though the amused look that appears on Gigi's face suggests otherwise.
A warm hand lightly touches her cheek and the part of her forehead that is not pressed to the glass then and it's too warm against her hot skin but it's already gone before Lizzie can will her muscles to move away from it.
Concern settles over Gigi's features once again.
“Lizzie, you're burning up. I'm gonna get you home.”
The thought of having to walk makes Lizzie's head spin and this desk is pure heaven for her heated skin and the throbbing headache, so she tries to protest but even to her own ears, the attempt sounds weak.
“Noooo...”
But Gigi is already gripping her upper arms and she has incredible strength for someone so tiny, so despite all of Lizzie's best efforts to remain unmoving, it doesn't take long before Gigi is dragging Lizzie out the door.
“I promise there will be glass desks where we're going, Lizzie”, Gigi tries to placate her and it's probably a blatant lie, but even though Lizzie leans heavily on Gigi's shoulder, this walking gig is taking up all the strength she has left and she suddenly can't seem to find her voice to tell Gigi off.
…
As it turns out, Gigi had been telling the truth. There were glass desks where they were going.
Which, as becomes clear almost instantly upon walking through the door, is William Darcy's place.
There's glass and steel and black leather everywhere and even though it's much too sterile for her taste, Lizzie has to admit that the apartment is beautiful. And much too masculine to be Gigi's place, which was where she had expected to end up when Gigi mumbled something about not carrying her across town to the apartment Lizzie currently lived in.
It's difficult to find her lips through the feverish haze that has become her mind, but she fights through it with all of her remaining strength to adopt an admonishing tone:
“Gigi...? Why are we here?”
Lizzie is still leaning heavily on Gigi, her left arm draped across her shoulder, so she has to crane her neck pretty far to be able to look her in the face, but she still manages to catch the look of alarm that flits over Gigi's features before she covers it up with an upbeat smile.
“Oh, Lizzie, I already told you! I painted my bedroom yesterday and the fumes are no good for someone in your condition! Plus, William has a guest bedroom, so you'll be much more comfortable here! It'll be a blast!”
Lizzie narrows her eyes suspiciously at Gigi. She can practically smell the scheming from miles away and she briefly (and irrationally) wonders if somehow Team FiGi had anything to do with her getting sick but before she can drift off into conspiracy theories of mutant bacteria and poisoned tea, Gigi has dragged her into a bedroom and at the sight of the fluffy white bedding, Lizzie can't find it in herself to care about anything else than sinking down into it.
The linen is cool and soothing against her skin and she barely registers Gigi tugging off her shoes before she buries her face in the soft fabric and inhales deeply. Somehow, oddly, she had expected Gigi to slyly direct her into Darcy's bed, so she is surprised to be met with only the clean, soapy smell of fresh linen.
And somehow, she realizes that even the thought of encountering something stronger and masculine had soothed her in a way that had nothing to do with her pounding head and her burning throat. And in this feverish state, with no means to restrain her wandering thoughts, she has to admit that the slight pang in her stomach feels dangerously close to disappointment.
…
When she wakes, the room around her is dark save for a few odd rays of light falling through the blinds.
Lizzie feels like she has just been rudely woken from a deep dream and the prodding of her upper arm that registers a second later tells her she might not be too far off with that assessment.
She turns around sluggishly and is met with a beaming Gigi.
“Hi! Do you feel any better?”
Her voice is high-pitched and Lizzie alternates between telling her to quiet down and demanding to know why she has been roused from a healing sleep just for a status-update.
“I would feel even better if I was allowed to keep sleeping”, she grumbles at last, but the bite is diminished remarkably by the sound of her voice, all raspy and clogged up from the snot that is slowly gathering in her sinuses.
Still, Gigi has the decency to at least look mildly embarrassed and it placates Lizzie a little.
“I'm so sorry! I didn't wake you just for fun, I promise!”
And Lizzie might be imagining it, but Gigi's cheeks look decidedly pinker than they did a minute ago and it makes Lizzie dread whatever words might come out of her mouth next.
“I just got a call that there is this totally important meeting that I completely forgot about and I'm sorry, but I really, really have to go.”
Which is not too bad, so Lizzie tries smiling and nodding to convey her consent at being left alone, but Gigi has already continued talking.
“But don't fear, I'm not going to leave you alone! I got you the best nurse ever!”
And Lizzie immediately thinks of Fitz, which is actually a rather daunting thought with all of his exclamations and exuberance and overall loudness that makes her head hurt just by imagining it, but then there's a glimmer in Gigi's eye that can only mean one thing.
Scheming.
“William is coming to look after you! Isn't that great?!”, Gigi exclaims and she literally claps her hands together in excitement.
Lizzie briefly thinks about how on earth he managed to weasel his way out of work at 2 pm and then she realizes she's essentially lying in bed at his home, completely knocked out by her fever and probably talking gibberish and this is the most embarrassing moment of her life, but then...at least he's quiet. Calm. Strong.
It might not be the worst thing in the world.
“Yes. Great. Bring him on”, is what manages to escape her lips, because apparently, fever makes her lose her filter, and she quickly turns away and buries her face in the pillow that still does not smell like him so she doesn't have to witness Gigi's gloating.
The squeal still manages to haunt her into a dream of wild carnival rides, cotton candy and tall dark men vanishing into the crowd before she can get a good look at their faces.
…
This time when Lizzie wakes up, there is no prodding. As soon as her mind reaches the surface of her consciousness, despite the haze that still lingers on the edges of her brain, she is wide awake.
Because she knows he is here without opening her eyes, knows it by the way the air shifts and her body comes alive with a buzz. It's what has made her hit the replay button on her videos more than once in the dark of night in a desperate attempt to put a name to what changed.
He's very quiet and she tries not to move a finger as she slowly opens her eyes. He sits in an armchair in the corner, reading some papers that look long, and from the tired look on his face, boring. He hasn't noticed her waking up and Lizzie seizes the opportunity to study him unabashedly for a moment. He looks different than she has ever seen him before and it takes her a second to figure out why. He looks relaxed. He is wearing jeans and a dark gray v-neck pullover which she assumes is probably cashmere, but still the most casual she has ever seen him. To top it all off, his hair is mussed and he is wearing glasses. Freaking hipster glasses. Somehow, she assumes that this is the Darcy nobody apart from his close family and friends ever gets to see and it makes the situation feel so much more private. And it doesn't exactly help either that the sight of his glasses makes her stomach flutter slightly and she involuntarily squirms at the blush she can feel spreading up her neck.
The movement attracts his attention and he looks up at her, reports instantly discarded on the small table to his right. There's an air of hesitation around him for a moment before he resolutely pushes himself out of the chair and closes the distance between them in three quick strides.
He stops about a foot from her and sways a bit on the spot, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets.
“Good afternoon, Lizzie”, he says, tone careful and soft. “How do you feel?”
He's so close that Lizzie can make out the slight wrinkles around his eyes that she likes to imagine come from laughing too hard rather than exhaustion and she is suddenly reminded that she has a raging fever and she probably looks like hell. She has been sweating like crazy all morning and she's pretty sure her hair is matted to her forehead and her make-up is basically non-existent at this point. She feels gross and with her luck, she probably looks it as well and it makes her uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.
It almost makes her forget he asked her a question and she is just trying to focus her blurry mind enough to form an answer when without warning, he reaches out a hand and lightly places the back of it against her burning forehead to test her temperature.
It catches her off guard, this sudden feeling of his skin against hers and it makes the words die in her throat. His skin is cool and dry against her heated, sweaty forehead and although for a tiny moment, she's afraid he's grossed out by it, this feels too good for her to care about anything else too long. She closes her eyes against the feeling and sighs contentedly.
“Much better now.” The words fall from her lips lazily as she fuzzily remembers there was once a question directed at her.
Her eyes are still closed, but she can feel him tensing up at her words in the way his fingers twitch against her skin and if this were any other day, she would tense up along with him and hastily excuse herself from the situation. But this is not any other day, because she has a fever and there is nowhere to go and his cool skin feels so good, so when he moves to take his hand away, Lizzie quickly reaches out to hold it in place.
For a second, neither of them moves and Lizzie is rather glad that she is already flushed with fever, because the awkwardness practically radiates off his body and makes a blush spread over her cheeks. There's a short moment where she considers releasing his hand and laughing this whole thing off, but her fingers seem to work of their own volition as they shift Darcy's hand to where her cheek is still burning. Lizzie actually audibly sighs at the relief the coolness of his skin brings and somehow, it makes him release the tension in his muscles and it makes molding his hand to her face a lot easier.
They stay like that for a minute, Darcy quietly breathing and unmoving and Lizzie opens her eyes to shoot him a grateful look and a grimace that will hopefully translate into a smile, but she stops when she realizes he is not even looking at her. She always forgets how tall he is when they're not standing right next to each other, so she's a bit surprised to find him awkwardly stooped over. He's hunched over to reach her on the low bed and looking at her would afford craning his neck, which is why he's facing the bedside table at the moment and everything about this position screams uncomfortable. So without thinking about it too much, Lizzie scoots over on the bed to make some space for him beside her. And because she's still keeping a firm hold on his hand, she practically tugs him onto the bed with her. His eyes briefly flash a look of alarm towards her and she can feel him hesitating in the way he sways back and forth a bit, but the increased distance he has to bridge doesn't exactly make his position any less awkward.
She thinks she can pinpoint the exact moment he decides to forget about propriety for a while because the muscles of his jaw twitch slightly and he takes a deep breath while sliding onto the bed next to her.
And then they're both sitting in bed together and it makes this whole arrangement much more natural, but still, they are in bed together and maybe Lizzie did not think this all the way through.
Because she is still sick, after all, and his sudden proximity makes her body thrum with nerves and every one of her quickening heartbeats is accompanied by a piercing throb in her temple. She tries closing her eyes against the pain, but all she accomplishes with that is the sharpening of her other senses. She can feel his pulse against her ring finger (not as fast as Lizzie's, but not exactly slow either) where she lightly holds his wrist and the warmth from his body radiating off him in waves. She can hear his quiet breathing and most unnerving of all, there's no need to imagine what his pillow would smell like anymore. Because he's here and so close that she can feel him against her side even if they don't touch except for their hands and his scent is fresh and slightly musky and there's only a small hint of cologne and – it's making her antsy.
He hasn't said a word since his opening statement and the silence suddenly weighs heavily on Lizzie. And because she has a fever that she can always blame it on later if things get weird, she doesn't think twice about the words that come out of her mouth then:
“Your apartment is beautiful”, she mumbles and Darcy starts a bit at the unexpected sound of her voice (and also, probably, because she sounds like a dying woman...) and, because this is the only time she will ever allow herself to say such a thing, follows it up with: “It suits you.”
The air around them stills for a moment as both of them let it sink in that she has just basically called him beautiful. Lizzie has the strongest urge to smother her face in a pillow, but decides against it when she realizes it would only draw more unwanted attention to all of this awkwardness and instead, sits still and holds her breath.
Somewhere in all of this, she has lowered both of their hands to the small patch of mattress between them, but is still lightly circling his wrist with her fingers. His hand twitches against hers and for a second, Lizzie is afraid he is going to pull away but instead, he takes a deep breath and, with his eyebrows creased together uncertainly, stutters out a reply:
“Th-thank you?”
And Lizzie can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of her lips, because this is William Darcy in all of his lobster glory and she has never found anything quite so endearing.
His uncertainty making her bold, she lets go of his wrist and lightly hooks her pinky finger around his. After a millisecond of hesitation, Darcy closes his finger around her, effectively securing her in place and making her stomach come alive with a fluttering sensation that leaves her reeling.
Because as she settles deeper into the mattress, sleepy and comforted by his proximity, she wonders when this strange man that she has once so vocally hated has turned into someone who makes her come alive with the touch of a finger.
(If she's being honest, the answer is a lot easier than she thought it would be. Because between costume theater, quirky little sisters and business lunches, she could probably narrow it down to 9.06 am on any given morning.
Lizzie always gets her first tea of the day at 9.06 am, sharp. The first staff meeting of the day normally ends at nine and it takes Lizzie about four minutes to trudge up the stairs from the second floor to where her office is located on the fourth floor and another two to deposit her laptop bag on her desk and make her way back to the break room.
She always drinks a cup of earl grey and on her third day at Pemberley Digital, she almost spills it all over Darcy's shirt when she bumps into him on her way out the door.
The next morning, he comes in just when she is putting her tea bag in the mug and they make slightly awkward small talk as Lizzie waits for the three minutes her tea needs to brew to come to an end.
After that, she runs into him in the break room every morning. He is always already there, stirring half a spoonful of milk into his coffee (and sometimes, she suspects that he doesn't actually like milk in his coffee, but puts it in anyway so he can appear to be doing something useful when she comes in instead of just waiting for her with his coffee black and cold).
Monday of her second week, a mug appears next to his cup of coffee, bag of earl grey already inside with the little string wrapped around the handle. (He hates fishing for the string in the hot tea, so he doesn't want her to have to either.) She doesn't know what he's doing and goes to prepare herself another cup when he awkwardly asks her if he was wrong in the assumption that earl grey is her drink of choice. And he's trying to hide his blush behind the rim of his cup and it's the first time the word adorable flashes across her mind when it comes to William Darcy.
After that, it's a ritual she comes to expect. He is always stirring his coffee, her cup is always already prepared and she always thanks him with a smile and a few minutes of small talk.
Once in a while, her meetings go long and she doesn't make 9.06 am. The cup with the string wrapped around its handle is always still there, even if Darcy is not (he waits until 9.10, she learns and if she hasn't turned up until then, he leaves) and when it happens the first time, she doesn't think about it and prepares herself a different cup.
She gets another cup of tea at the end of the workday and is surprised that the mug is still standing right where she left it in the morning and only then does she realize that it's not just a cup of tea that anyone can claim, but hers and obviously, the employees of Pemberley Digital do not need to watch her videos to know that something strange is going on between Lizzie Bennet and their CEO.
It cumulates, all of this, until one day, Lizzie looks up and suddenly William Darcy is a completely different person. )
…
The next time she wakes, the first thing that registers is that apparently, her fever has broken. Instead of the heat that had her sweating all day, now she is shivering. She guesses it's why she woke up when she realizes there's something else nagging at the edge of her consciousness. Without opening her heavy eyelids, she wills her muddled mind into scoping out her surroundings and it becomes clear pretty quickly why she's awake now. Judging from the warmth beneath her, she has draped herself halfway across Darcy in her sleep, arm flung across his torso and cheek pressed to his chest. The embarrassment is almost enough for her to scramble off of him as fast as possible, but something else stops her. And she assumes this is why she woke up: Darcy is rubbing circles on her back.
It's warm against her shivering body and the action itself is soothing, even if the end result is not.
Lizzie's heartbeat picks up and she tries her hardest to keep her breathing deep and steady because she's pretty sure that all of this will end in a big mess of awkwardness and eye-avoiding as soon as she makes it known that she is no longer asleep.
She slowly opens her eyes and instantly realizes that the lights have changed. There's a glow of orange to the rays that make their way across the room that suggests it's probably close to sunset by now and it makes her wonder exactly how long she has been using Darcy's chest as a pillow. And even though it makes a surprisingly comfortable substitute for the real thing, now that her mind is slowly shaking off the remainders of sleep, the pain that radiates off her neck tells her that it may not exactly be the most natural angle.
She's just thinking about how much longer she will be able to pretend to be asleep before her neck is going to kill her when she realizes that Darcy's hand has stopped moving on her back and it only takes a flick of her eyes to where her hand lays to pick up on the reason why. Somehow, subconsciously, her index finger has started idly circling one of the buttons on his shirt while she had been lost in thought.
Well, so much for not drawing attention.
There's nothing else to do now, so she hastily scrambles off him, eyes averted to the bedspread. Her cheeks are burning and for the first time today, it has nothing to do with her fever.
The tension is thick and she is acutely aware of his unmoving form next to her. Somehow, she wishes she still had a raging fever that made her feel reckless right about now. But she doesn't and she's not sure what to do. Relying on her own instincts has gotten her nowhere so far when it comes to William Darcy.
So she tries going against them and even though everything about this is awkward as hell, she slowly raises her eyes to meet his. He looks like he has been staring at her the whole time and it makes her falter a little.
His eyes are the lightest shade of blue with little specks of silver in them and she can still feel the imprint of his shirt button on her cheek and his scent lingers in her nose and the air around them is too thick and she can feel her heartbeat pulsing in the tips of her fingers. And it's all too much and they're still staring at each other - it makes words fall from her lips to cut the silence:
“Sorry for using you as a pillow there...”
He starts at the sound of her voice and his eyes flick away briefly.
There are more words at the tip of her tongue threatening to slip out (“I'm not quite myself today.”), but Lizzie clamps her mouth shut and swallows them down with great effort.
Because they are childish and cowardly and they are unfair to him. But most of all, with the taste of them still on her tongue, Lizzie finds that they are not entirely true.
Silence fills the room again. Darcy is concentrating hard on his hands and Lizzie finds her eyes drawn to his long, slender fingers as well. He taps his left thumb on his leg three times before clearing his throat.
“It is...”
He looks up at her while speaking and they are close enough for her to feel his breath against her eyelashes and he seems to have forgotten the end to his sentence.
He opens his mouth mutely and Lizzie keeps staring at him expectantly even when there's a knock at the door and he turns his head abruptly to face it. She concentrates on his unmoving lips, mouth slightly agape, willing them to finish his sentence.
It is... fine? My pleasure? The most despicable thing anyone has ever done to me?
But Lizzie never finds out what all of this is to him, because the door opens and a beaming Gigi starts talking about dinner and whether Lizzie likes Mac and Cheese and it makes the bubble burst and the distance between them grow.
( And Lizzie can almost convince herself that none of what happened that day is true outside of the vivid imagination of her feverish mind, but it's 9.12 am when she gets her first tea the next Saturday before starting their tour of the city and the hipster glasses make a reappearance.
And try as she might, Lizzie has a very hard time taking her eyes off that Darcy. )