So Well As You (The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, Lizzie/Darcy)
allthingsholy asked for Lizzie/Darcy drunken shenanigans and dancing, courtesy of this fic meme (which I am still accepting prompts for if anyone wants to give me prompts!). Ahhh, Christmas break and time to write things of the non-essay variety at last!
So Well As You - The Lizzie Bennet Diaries ; Lizzie/Darcy ; 2,000 words ; PG ; spoilers through Ep. 74 - "How To Hold A Grudge" & set a few plot points down the road. And maybe she wouldn’t hate it if they were a little closer right now. Because she hates him, and sometimes it’s easier to hate someone when you’re - right up in their face. On their face, even. (Lizzie, Darcy, and drunken shenanigans.)
I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is that not strange?
(Much Ado About Nothing)
“I’m not really one for the drunken shenanigans,” Lizzie tells Darcy. Maybe she tells him a little too late - after there has already been slightly too much with the drinking; shenanigans imminent! - but it’s the principle of the thing that matters, right? She’s not really sure when, exactly, her life turned into a thing where they go to the same parties and he’s the one who follows her to secluded corners and comforts her when she’s upset over Lydia. She’s pretty sure all of this is his fault in the first place. Somehow.
(Or maybe it’s hers. No - not maybe. When it comes to Lydia, she’s pretty much completely sure it’s her fault. She’s pretty much completely sure she needs to stop blaming other people for everything, and - and grow up. Right. How do you do that again?)
“Nor I,” Darcy says, with this warm laughing sound underneath the words that she really likes. Hers is becoming a seriously complicated hatred.
“So let’s just agree to disagree,” she continues, and pokes him in the bowtie. Just, you know. Professionally.
“I don’t know what that means,” he says, laughing a little, “but yes.” He lifts his hand like he’s going to take hers; she waits for him to, but it’s like he remembers chivalry at the last minute and just barely clasps one of her fingertips between two of his. It makes her skin tingle. It’s so stupid. She wants to grab his shirt collar and pull him closer. Like, so she can tell him how stupid it is close up.
“P.S.,” she says, because she’s not drunk enough to actually think that pulling him closer is a good idea. (Or is she??) “Did you seriously just say ‘nor I’? Nor? N-O-R? Are you Poe?”
Okay, wait, that’s ‘nevermore,’ but - close enough!
“I’m not Poe,” he says, with such perfect earnest eyebrow-scrunching bewilderment that she wishes it was being filmed. Then somebody could autotune remix it, and she would probably watch it every day for the rest of her life. To stoke the fires of her complicated hatred, and all. Plus, he has cute eyebrows. It’s a perfectly acceptable thing to notice about your enemies. Then he asks: “Did you just stay ‘P.S.’?”
“Pfft,” she says. “No,” she says. But then he’s looking at her, all Darcy, all right there and warm and stupid levels of handsome with his dorky bowtie. (Who wears a bowtie to a party? It’s so Eleventh Doctor. Maybe she has a thing for the Eleventh Doctor. Which makes her River Song, so, win-win! But that is not relevant right now!) And you know what they never tell you about William Darcy? The part where he’s a person. A handsome person. A good person, and maybe she wouldn’t hate it if they were a little closer right now. Because she hates him, and sometimes it’s easier to hate someone when you’re - right up in their face. On their face, even. God. He really just has a nice face, for a terrible good person. His mouth is a good looking mouth. She’s just saying. Probably shouldn’t mention that one on the video diaries.
“Yes,” she admits. She can’t totally remember what she’s admitting.
“You are,” he says, looking at her like she is the best thing that’s ever been his (not that she’s his, and not that she’s been secretly listening to Taylor Swift and having subconscious Darcy thoughts, pfft, please), “so very strange, Lizzie Bennet.”
“Oh yeah,” she snorts. “Like you’re so normal, Willllllliam Darcy.” She draws out the syllables of his name. Then she pokes the bowtie again. New favorite hobby! “You said ‘nor.’ News flash: It’s not the nineteenth century.”
“News flash,” he mimics, and something about that just, like, head-to-toe delights her. “It’s disconcerting sometimes how much I like you. And-and so sometimes, it drives me to antiquated word choice.”
“Because usually you’re so hip with the kids.”
“Absolutely,” he says, nodding. Too many times. Darcy bobblehead. Awesome. “Yes.”
“So it’s like a romantic gesture,” Lizzie tests. “The ‘nor.’”
“Yes?”
“Weird.”
“Yes.” Why does he keep saying ‘yes’? It’s just giving her ideas.
Yep. That is an idea she just had.
“If I kiss you, it’s a hate kiss, okay?” she says. To his lips, mostly. “Those are the terms. Do you accept?”
“Yes,” he says again. “Yep. Yes.”
Ha!
So she leans forward and she kisses him. Because why not? Might as well. Might as well kiss the guy she’s pretty much made a whole career (or, okay, not a career, what’s a career that you don’t actually get paid for? Maybe that’s just a life) out of hating on the internet. That makes sense! And ooh, okay, she hates him, but she’s pretty sure she doesn’t hate this, because this is awesome-
Until he screws it right up, of course. Because he’s Darcy. And just between you and her, she’s pretty sure he’s drunk.
“Wait,” he says against her mouth. “I think we’re drunk.”
“Whaaaat?” she fake gasps. Against his mouth. Maybe she isn’t exactly at her sexiest right now. “Brand new information!”
He frowns. She knows because she can feel it all up in her lip space. “If we’re going to-shouldn’t we be sober?”
“I’m always sober,” she protests, scowling, and pulls away. “I’m sick of being sober.”
“Lizzie-”
“If we’re sober,” she reminds him, and suddenly nothing about this night seems fun, and it sucks, because she really sort of loves this, just hanging out with him, “I have to hate you.”
“You don’t have to,” Darcy says. Gently, almost. “You could ... surprise everyone.”
“You think I should surprise everyone?” she demands, and it makes her heart hurt more even though it probably shouldn’t. “What, like I’m boring? I’m not boring.” Suddenly she’s thinking about Lydia’s video. Which: nope. More drinking! “I have hobbies.” She pokes his bowtie. Again. Hobby.
“You could never be boring,” he says. This time, he catches her whole hand in his. At the moment, she loves his fingers about as much as she hates his personality. Which is a lot, just in case you didn’t know. But it’s not like his personality is so bad either. Damn it. She still loves his fingers, though. Don’t. Tell. Anyone. “I think you should do whatever makes you happy.”
She really likes that idea. Especially when he says it. “Since when are you so nice?”
“I have no idea,” he says. One of his hands is resting absently on her knee now, just barely. She doesn’t mind at all. She would mind if he moved it away. “I think it’s your fault. You’ve turned me into a ... nice robot.”
That makes her laugh: this loud, silly, totally embarrassing laugh that she can’t be totally embarrassed about right now. She’s just - sick of being herself, and worried, and judgy. Maybe Lydia wasn’t totally wrong about her. Maybe she just needs to - make the most of the night like she’s gonna die young.
Okay, so that’s just Ke$Ha lyrics thumping out of the speakers and directly into her brain, which probably means it’s not actually the best advice the universe could give her. But then again, why not? Ke$Ha’s sure done all right for herself. She knows James Van Der Beek. And unicorns.
“Dance with me,” Lizzie says, standing up, pulling him up with her. Out of the secluded corner and back into the party world. It’s all cozy, hot darkness and flashes of colored light and many happy bodies and a beat so loud she can feel it in her bones. It doesn’t seem so hard to have fun here. To forget about whoever might be watching. Everyone’s doing their own thing. Why shouldn’t she?
She and William freakin’ Darcy.
“What?” William freakin’ Darcy says, alarmed.
“Come on, old chap,” she says her best drunk version of a blustering British accent. She thinks it’s pretty legit. “Dance with me. Bonus points if you do the robot.”
“There’s people,” he points out, his eyes sort of wide. Dork. “They’ll see us. Together.”
“And that’s a problem?” she asks, and knows somewhere in her brain that it would be so easy to get mad at him right now. For saying that. It’s I love you, you’re trash all over again. Except - it isn’t, she’s pretty sure. He wouldn’t.
“No, no, no, no,” he says, sure enough. There might even be more nos than that. She stops counting. It’s basically just one big no party. Finally, he moves on to, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just - you hate me, and everyone knows it, and - and it’s important to you. Hating me. I don’t wish to-”
“Dude,” she says, “shhh. It’s okay. Just dance with me.”
He just looks at her for a moment. Then his mouth quirks up in a smile.
“Please don’t call me ‘dude’ again,” he says.
“I make no promises,” she says, slinging her arms over his shoulders. “Dude.”
He shakes his head, his hands warm on her hips. He’s still smiling.
“Lizzie Bennet,” he says, like that sums it all up. And maybe it sort of does.
“William Darcy,” she returns, smiling up at him in a way that’s supposed to be teasing but mostly just feels true.
It’s some very bad dancing.
(It makes her so, so happy. Figure that one out.)
+++
“I don’t know if we should ...”
“Jane,” Charlotte says. “Come on.”
It takes approximately one second for Jane to cave. “Well, all right. I’m Darcy?”
“You are the greatest Darcy of us all,” Charlotte verifies smoothly.
Jane beams, proud.
Thirty seconds, a flannel shirt, a Newsie hat and a bowtie later ...
“I hate you!” Charlotte-as-Lizzie declares. “And I’m so mad at you that I just want to rage kiss your whole mouth.”
“I’ll allow it,” Jane-as-Darcy grumbles after a few moments of severe contemplation. Charlotte leans in. So does Jane. And so does Jane, and so does Jane, until-
“Whoa!” Charlotte springs backwards. “I wasn’t actually going to-”
“Sorry,” Jane says, blushing. “I just thought. You know, authenticity.”
“Sure,” Charlottes says, smirking. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Bing.”
“He won’t mind,” Jane promises. “Plus, he owes me one.”
“Moooving on, then.” And Charlotte-as-Lizzie is back. “Hey, Darcy! I still hate you! Dance up on me!”
“Ooh,” Jane-as-Darcy intones, pretty robotically. “Is this Ke$Ha? I enjoy her hip rhythmic techno beats. I suppose I shall accept your offer.”
“Great,” Charlotte says, and she and Jane clasp hands, ready for some truly cutting edge nineteenth century style grooving.
That is, until they’re interrupted.
“What are you guys doing?” Lizzie demands, coming into her room.
“I think they’re us,” says - Darcy??
“Darcy??” Jane and Charlotte say in totally subtle unison.
Which really makes it the ideal moment for a jump cut.
Lizzie-Lizzie and Darcy-Darcy are sitting in front of the camera now. In costume. Jane and Charlotte hover, grinning, in the doorframe like weirdos - but quiet weirdos, so nobody’s the wiser.
“I can’t believe you’re wearing the hat and the bowtie,” Lizzie says, prodding at his arm. Pretty cheerfully.
“I feel like I’ve earned them,” Darcy says with a perfect straight face (it’s kind of his thing), then tilts the hat at a slightly jauntier angle.
Lizzie turns her attention to the camera. “My name is Lizzie Bennet, and it turns out?” She points a thumb in Darcy’s direction. “This dude’s okay.”
Darcy sighs. Good-naturedly, though. Just out of frame, she rests her hand on top of his. His fingers twitch, affectionate, against hers.
They keep that part just theirs.
So Well As You - The Lizzie Bennet Diaries ; Lizzie/Darcy ; 2,000 words ; PG ; spoilers through Ep. 74 - "How To Hold A Grudge" & set a few plot points down the road. And maybe she wouldn’t hate it if they were a little closer right now. Because she hates him, and sometimes it’s easier to hate someone when you’re - right up in their face. On their face, even. (Lizzie, Darcy, and drunken shenanigans.)
I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is that not strange?
(Much Ado About Nothing)
“I’m not really one for the drunken shenanigans,” Lizzie tells Darcy. Maybe she tells him a little too late - after there has already been slightly too much with the drinking; shenanigans imminent! - but it’s the principle of the thing that matters, right? She’s not really sure when, exactly, her life turned into a thing where they go to the same parties and he’s the one who follows her to secluded corners and comforts her when she’s upset over Lydia. She’s pretty sure all of this is his fault in the first place. Somehow.
(Or maybe it’s hers. No - not maybe. When it comes to Lydia, she’s pretty much completely sure it’s her fault. She’s pretty much completely sure she needs to stop blaming other people for everything, and - and grow up. Right. How do you do that again?)
“Nor I,” Darcy says, with this warm laughing sound underneath the words that she really likes. Hers is becoming a seriously complicated hatred.
“So let’s just agree to disagree,” she continues, and pokes him in the bowtie. Just, you know. Professionally.
“I don’t know what that means,” he says, laughing a little, “but yes.” He lifts his hand like he’s going to take hers; she waits for him to, but it’s like he remembers chivalry at the last minute and just barely clasps one of her fingertips between two of his. It makes her skin tingle. It’s so stupid. She wants to grab his shirt collar and pull him closer. Like, so she can tell him how stupid it is close up.
“P.S.,” she says, because she’s not drunk enough to actually think that pulling him closer is a good idea. (Or is she??) “Did you seriously just say ‘nor I’? Nor? N-O-R? Are you Poe?”
Okay, wait, that’s ‘nevermore,’ but - close enough!
“I’m not Poe,” he says, with such perfect earnest eyebrow-scrunching bewilderment that she wishes it was being filmed. Then somebody could autotune remix it, and she would probably watch it every day for the rest of her life. To stoke the fires of her complicated hatred, and all. Plus, he has cute eyebrows. It’s a perfectly acceptable thing to notice about your enemies. Then he asks: “Did you just stay ‘P.S.’?”
“Pfft,” she says. “No,” she says. But then he’s looking at her, all Darcy, all right there and warm and stupid levels of handsome with his dorky bowtie. (Who wears a bowtie to a party? It’s so Eleventh Doctor. Maybe she has a thing for the Eleventh Doctor. Which makes her River Song, so, win-win! But that is not relevant right now!) And you know what they never tell you about William Darcy? The part where he’s a person. A handsome person. A good person, and maybe she wouldn’t hate it if they were a little closer right now. Because she hates him, and sometimes it’s easier to hate someone when you’re - right up in their face. On their face, even. God. He really just has a nice face, for a terrible good person. His mouth is a good looking mouth. She’s just saying. Probably shouldn’t mention that one on the video diaries.
“Yes,” she admits. She can’t totally remember what she’s admitting.
“You are,” he says, looking at her like she is the best thing that’s ever been his (not that she’s his, and not that she’s been secretly listening to Taylor Swift and having subconscious Darcy thoughts, pfft, please), “so very strange, Lizzie Bennet.”
“Oh yeah,” she snorts. “Like you’re so normal, Willllllliam Darcy.” She draws out the syllables of his name. Then she pokes the bowtie again. New favorite hobby! “You said ‘nor.’ News flash: It’s not the nineteenth century.”
“News flash,” he mimics, and something about that just, like, head-to-toe delights her. “It’s disconcerting sometimes how much I like you. And-and so sometimes, it drives me to antiquated word choice.”
“Because usually you’re so hip with the kids.”
“Absolutely,” he says, nodding. Too many times. Darcy bobblehead. Awesome. “Yes.”
“So it’s like a romantic gesture,” Lizzie tests. “The ‘nor.’”
“Yes?”
“Weird.”
“Yes.” Why does he keep saying ‘yes’? It’s just giving her ideas.
Yep. That is an idea she just had.
“If I kiss you, it’s a hate kiss, okay?” she says. To his lips, mostly. “Those are the terms. Do you accept?”
“Yes,” he says again. “Yep. Yes.”
Ha!
So she leans forward and she kisses him. Because why not? Might as well. Might as well kiss the guy she’s pretty much made a whole career (or, okay, not a career, what’s a career that you don’t actually get paid for? Maybe that’s just a life) out of hating on the internet. That makes sense! And ooh, okay, she hates him, but she’s pretty sure she doesn’t hate this, because this is awesome-
Until he screws it right up, of course. Because he’s Darcy. And just between you and her, she’s pretty sure he’s drunk.
“Wait,” he says against her mouth. “I think we’re drunk.”
“Whaaaat?” she fake gasps. Against his mouth. Maybe she isn’t exactly at her sexiest right now. “Brand new information!”
He frowns. She knows because she can feel it all up in her lip space. “If we’re going to-shouldn’t we be sober?”
“I’m always sober,” she protests, scowling, and pulls away. “I’m sick of being sober.”
“Lizzie-”
“If we’re sober,” she reminds him, and suddenly nothing about this night seems fun, and it sucks, because she really sort of loves this, just hanging out with him, “I have to hate you.”
“You don’t have to,” Darcy says. Gently, almost. “You could ... surprise everyone.”
“You think I should surprise everyone?” she demands, and it makes her heart hurt more even though it probably shouldn’t. “What, like I’m boring? I’m not boring.” Suddenly she’s thinking about Lydia’s video. Which: nope. More drinking! “I have hobbies.” She pokes his bowtie. Again. Hobby.
“You could never be boring,” he says. This time, he catches her whole hand in his. At the moment, she loves his fingers about as much as she hates his personality. Which is a lot, just in case you didn’t know. But it’s not like his personality is so bad either. Damn it. She still loves his fingers, though. Don’t. Tell. Anyone. “I think you should do whatever makes you happy.”
She really likes that idea. Especially when he says it. “Since when are you so nice?”
“I have no idea,” he says. One of his hands is resting absently on her knee now, just barely. She doesn’t mind at all. She would mind if he moved it away. “I think it’s your fault. You’ve turned me into a ... nice robot.”
That makes her laugh: this loud, silly, totally embarrassing laugh that she can’t be totally embarrassed about right now. She’s just - sick of being herself, and worried, and judgy. Maybe Lydia wasn’t totally wrong about her. Maybe she just needs to - make the most of the night like she’s gonna die young.
Okay, so that’s just Ke$Ha lyrics thumping out of the speakers and directly into her brain, which probably means it’s not actually the best advice the universe could give her. But then again, why not? Ke$Ha’s sure done all right for herself. She knows James Van Der Beek. And unicorns.
“Dance with me,” Lizzie says, standing up, pulling him up with her. Out of the secluded corner and back into the party world. It’s all cozy, hot darkness and flashes of colored light and many happy bodies and a beat so loud she can feel it in her bones. It doesn’t seem so hard to have fun here. To forget about whoever might be watching. Everyone’s doing their own thing. Why shouldn’t she?
She and William freakin’ Darcy.
“What?” William freakin’ Darcy says, alarmed.
“Come on, old chap,” she says her best drunk version of a blustering British accent. She thinks it’s pretty legit. “Dance with me. Bonus points if you do the robot.”
“There’s people,” he points out, his eyes sort of wide. Dork. “They’ll see us. Together.”
“And that’s a problem?” she asks, and knows somewhere in her brain that it would be so easy to get mad at him right now. For saying that. It’s I love you, you’re trash all over again. Except - it isn’t, she’s pretty sure. He wouldn’t.
“No, no, no, no,” he says, sure enough. There might even be more nos than that. She stops counting. It’s basically just one big no party. Finally, he moves on to, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just - you hate me, and everyone knows it, and - and it’s important to you. Hating me. I don’t wish to-”
“Dude,” she says, “shhh. It’s okay. Just dance with me.”
He just looks at her for a moment. Then his mouth quirks up in a smile.
“Please don’t call me ‘dude’ again,” he says.
“I make no promises,” she says, slinging her arms over his shoulders. “Dude.”
He shakes his head, his hands warm on her hips. He’s still smiling.
“Lizzie Bennet,” he says, like that sums it all up. And maybe it sort of does.
“William Darcy,” she returns, smiling up at him in a way that’s supposed to be teasing but mostly just feels true.
It’s some very bad dancing.
(It makes her so, so happy. Figure that one out.)
+++
“I don’t know if we should ...”
“Jane,” Charlotte says. “Come on.”
It takes approximately one second for Jane to cave. “Well, all right. I’m Darcy?”
“You are the greatest Darcy of us all,” Charlotte verifies smoothly.
Jane beams, proud.
Thirty seconds, a flannel shirt, a Newsie hat and a bowtie later ...
“I hate you!” Charlotte-as-Lizzie declares. “And I’m so mad at you that I just want to rage kiss your whole mouth.”
“I’ll allow it,” Jane-as-Darcy grumbles after a few moments of severe contemplation. Charlotte leans in. So does Jane. And so does Jane, and so does Jane, until-
“Whoa!” Charlotte springs backwards. “I wasn’t actually going to-”
“Sorry,” Jane says, blushing. “I just thought. You know, authenticity.”
“Sure,” Charlottes says, smirking. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Bing.”
“He won’t mind,” Jane promises. “Plus, he owes me one.”
“Moooving on, then.” And Charlotte-as-Lizzie is back. “Hey, Darcy! I still hate you! Dance up on me!”
“Ooh,” Jane-as-Darcy intones, pretty robotically. “Is this Ke$Ha? I enjoy her hip rhythmic techno beats. I suppose I shall accept your offer.”
“Great,” Charlotte says, and she and Jane clasp hands, ready for some truly cutting edge nineteenth century style grooving.
That is, until they’re interrupted.
“What are you guys doing?” Lizzie demands, coming into her room.
“I think they’re us,” says - Darcy??
“Darcy??” Jane and Charlotte say in totally subtle unison.
Which really makes it the ideal moment for a jump cut.
Lizzie-Lizzie and Darcy-Darcy are sitting in front of the camera now. In costume. Jane and Charlotte hover, grinning, in the doorframe like weirdos - but quiet weirdos, so nobody’s the wiser.
“I can’t believe you’re wearing the hat and the bowtie,” Lizzie says, prodding at his arm. Pretty cheerfully.
“I feel like I’ve earned them,” Darcy says with a perfect straight face (it’s kind of his thing), then tilts the hat at a slightly jauntier angle.
Lizzie turns her attention to the camera. “My name is Lizzie Bennet, and it turns out?” She points a thumb in Darcy’s direction. “This dude’s okay.”
Darcy sighs. Good-naturedly, though. Just out of frame, she rests her hand on top of his. His fingers twitch, affectionate, against hers.
They keep that part just theirs.