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Fic. No, really.

So, remember that thing I said I was writing 38 minutes ago? Here it is. And, no shit, it's one of the worst things I've ever written. Ever.

I was so close to using the following as an epigraph:

One fluid gesture, like stepping back in time.
Trapped in amber, petrified.
And still not satisfied.

Damn Placebo and their catchy melodies. At least they gave me a title, though. Also, I don't care what y'all think, Descartes invented the word molecule in the 17th century, and Dalton was doing his thing at the very beginning of the 19th, so she could very well know about molecules! No, really! Don't judge me!

Title: Airs and Social Graces
Fandom: Pride and Prejudice
Pairing: Elizabeth/Darcy
Rating: PG... I guess?
Wordcount: 463
Disclaimer: AHAHAHA PUBLIC DOMAIN. So there!
Summary: Darcy confesses his True Love (or, you know, desire for marriage) and Elizabeth forgets how to speak English.

They’re walking in the garden and it’s all she can do not to faint with the way he isn’t touching her. Ten centimeters of air and five layers of clothing and she’s pretty sure she can feel every single molecule in the space between them.

She’s also pretty sure that each one of those molecules is on fire.

He said it, that’s the thing. He said it, and his mouth was all turned up at the corners and tight around the words, forced and honest—he still wants her. Since April they’ve been dancing around each other, and every time she’s seen that stupid smirk of his all she’s wanted to do is smirk right back and reach across this emotional chasm they’ve built between them and press their smiles together and kiss, and kiss.

But she hasn’t.

Not that it matters now. She’s been staring at him for so long that she can no longer remember what sort of things she used to look at before she met him, but now, when it matters, she cannot force her eyes up from the ground. At least it’s an interesting place to be looking—their feet scuff the well-kept grass half a beat out of unison and every other step her skirt swings nearly close enough to brush his pant leg… but not quite.

Even without looking at him she can hear his words echo in the air and she knows it’s her turn to speak, but her social graces have deserted her, and her words will not leave her mouth. It’s just that if they did leave, she’s sure the combination of the hot sun scorching down and the tension in the air would ignite them and burn them down to their purest truths, and she would never be able to speak again because she cannot handle being laid bare like that. Not in front of him.

They keep walking.

Beside her, his breath comes slow and steady. She almost goes back to hating him in that moment because of how calm he seems, while she is here beside him grasping at straws. She does not let her face change. At all.

“I—“ she says, and then breaks off.

They keep walking.

She is better than this. She tries again.

“I, er… yes.”

Then, more decisively, “Yes.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. She almost glances up at him then, but the exhilaration of getting that affirmation out carries her forward.

“Yes, I will.” Electric current is flooding her body. “I will marry you, Mr. Darcy.”

She hears his breath catch, and she still can’t look up, but their hands bump together and their steps fall into unison and she is grinning like an utter maniac.

They keep walking.

I'm pretty sure it's terrible, but Springstubb doesn't know that. I can't believe I wrote fic for Pride and Prejudice. I also can't believe I wrote het. The last time I did that was... oh, right. Never.

Cross-posted to nowhere, because it's all for English class, guys. Also I still hate this book, which would be kind of Awkward in Austen fandom, I bet.


Oct. 26th, 2012 02:21 am (UTC)
Now I'm creeping down your old posts too. You are my favorite.

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