Hello All! I decided to experiment with a different couple, this time choosing Lizzie Bennett and William Darcy from The Lizzie Bennett Diaries – a reimagining of Jane Austen's fabulous Pride and Prejudice as told by a series of vlogs. For anyone not already aware of it GO AND CHECK IT OUT RIGHT NOW! Youtube 'Lizzie Bennett Diaries', then say good-bye to about three days of your life whilst you get addicted and watch all 100 episodes. You may think I'm joking – im not. But don't worry, its totally worth it
Anyhow, this was largely written before the happenings of Ep 99, so don't expect it to include De Bourg (?) or Lizzie's Mum. Just Darcy and Lizzie. This is a Part of 1 of 2, and its not very interesting to start off with. Hopefully its not too dull. Also, i wasn't sure whether I should put it in the Web shows category or the P+P category. The bulk of others I've seen have been in pride and prejudice so thats what i went with. Hopefully no one gets offended or annoyed by it (apologies if you do).
Please Review – they brighten my day
Disclaimer: as the title of this very site suggests this is not my own work. All credit goes to the fabulously fabulous people who created them (and, subsequently, stole large amount of my time by creating something so addictive I had to watch it all. Multiple times.)
Lesson 1: Bubbly Makes Darcy Bubbly
Lizzie knows it is no coincidence that Mr. Fitz Williams video-calls her (using the Domino app Gigi has forced her to buy) at approximately 6:48pm on Saturday. Fitz smiles at her in that big cheesy way of his (which has become even cheesier since Episode 98 aired almost a month ago) and asks what her plans are for the evening. Lizzie knows that Fitz knows that tonight is kind of important – her and Darcy are going out to dinner.
To a very nice restaurant.
Some might even go as far as to call it 'a date'.
For the record, Lizzie Bennett is not one of those people. Darcy's told her he loves her multiple times, she has confessed to only wanting to be with him, and they have been seeing a lot of each other. And they've kissed. A lot. Calling dinner a date seems a little bit unnecessary and juvenile. So it's not a date. It's just dinner.
Fitz, it would appear, does not share her view.
When she tells him she's going to be having dinner down by The Mariner, Fitz inquires with whom shall she be dining. Chewing the inside of her lip she knows there's no point denying it – he clearly already knows, and denying it will only make things more painful.
"Darcy," she replies flatly, and hopes to appear nonchalant as she runs a hand through her hair. A smile literally explodes across his face.
"Ah yes! The date!"
She scowls at him the best she can (its kind of hard when he always looks so dopey with his big fuzzy hair) and rolls her eyes.
"It's not a date."
"I'm pretty sure it is."
"I'm positive its not."
"Does your dearest William share your views?"
She blanches. That did not sound right. At all.
"Ok, don't ever call him that again."
Fitz grins at her widely and she's fairly sure he's not going to abide by her request. Given that its Fitz, she really shouldn't expect anything different. After several moments of him rocking on his heels smiling at her, Lizzie finally breaks the painful silence.
"Is there a purpose to this call Fitz?"
His smile (somehow) expands and his eyes grow mischievous. Lizzie is suddenly painfully aware why Fitz and Gigi are so close.
"Actually, I wanted to give you some advice…"
"Advice?" she sounds a touch more incredulous than she planned and he seems to back-peddle, holding up his free hand in mock defense.
"Ok, not advice," he shrugs – turns out he's as bad as acting nonchalant as she is, "More like, interesting information about your beloved."
That was probably worse than dearest William. She raises an eyebrow but he continues to speak before she has a chance to scold him.
"Knowing Darcy, when he orders wine, he'll go straight for a red, probably a Merlot from a very good vintage," Fitz sounds strangely serious; its like he's planning a military attack, not beverages, "It'll be something he knows and enjoys, and he won't think twice before ordering it. But you have to stop him."
Seriously? He was treating this as if it was a matter of national security. Lizzie couldn't remember a time she'd seen him look so somber.
"Stop him?" she's as curious as she is weary – a serious Fitz was not something to be treated lightly.
"Yes – do not let him buy the red!" Lizzie is startled by his command and feels ever so slightly worried. Maybe she didn't know Darcy as well as she thought she did? Maybe this dinner was a bad idea…
Fitz's voice interrupts her thoughts. "Now here comes the most important bit – are you listening Lizzie B?"
She nods, fairly sure she can't actually speak at the moment. Fitz's words are slow and deliberate, like he's talking to a confused child (she doesn't like it).
"Make. Him Buy. The bubbly."
"Bubbly?" well that wasn't what she was expecting, "Like Champagne?"
"Why?" she raises a suspicious eyebrow and narrows her gaze. Fitz's eyes grow wide and she honestly thinks his smile may actually break his face.
"Oh, you'll see," he winks again and she has no confidence in the gesture.
"No, no, no; tell me. Now."
He almost buzzes with excitement.
"Because when Darcy drinks bubbly," Fitz pauses for effect; his eyebrows wiggling animatedly, "Let's put it this way, the lobster goes from being agoraphobic to hysterical."
Rather than offering proper elaboration, Fitz waves at the camera energetically and calls '"Catch ya later, Lizzie B!" before hanging up. Just like that. She didn't trust the twinkle in Fitz's eyes and she most certainly didn't trust his wildly animated eyebrows.
Lizzie decides then and there not to order the Champagne.
At least she wasn't going to – not until she actually saw Darcy.
Things were, well, weird. It was as if dinner at a nice restaurant with just the two of them caused a malfunction in the Darcy-Bot (even though she swore she'd never call him that again, he had retreated to his abrupt, robotic self of old) and he suddenly loses the ability to speak to her casually again. He tucks his chin into his neck and speaks in a monotone manner that reminds her about an old political science lecturer she had (and not in a good way). The car ride over is stagnant, the conversation more painfully forced than its been in quite a while, and when they sit down at the very exclusive table at the very exclusive restaurant he's brought her to, he begins perusing the menu straight away without so much as a glance in her direction.
Within five painfully long minutes of sitting, quietly discussing the menu (most of the words on which Lizzie doesn't understand), she feels so self-conscious and uncomfortable and just plain awkward that she feels she has to do something.
So when the waiter asks what they'd like to drink, Lizzie dives in despite the fact that they addressed Mr. Darcy directly. Her abrupt word vomit freezes Darcy mid-syllable. He stares at her strangely for a second before asking her to repeat herself.
"I…uh…" when has she ever in her entire life been at a loss for words? "I was thinking we should have some champagne! You know, if that's ok with you?"
Lizzie realizes she sounds strangely reminiscent of Gigi when she requested help on her Math – 'hidden agenda' practically spews from her words.
"Champagne?" he questions with a semi-pained expression on his face. She can't be sure, but Lizzie thinks that it may actually be fear spreading across his features.
"Yep," she nods overenthusiastically and adds in a smile for good measure, "We should celebrate finally having a first date."
Lizzie cringes to herself over the use of the word 'date' (because it is not a date). Darcy, thankfully, doesn't seem to register her cringe, but he also doesn't seem convinced that they should have the Champagne. In fact, he appears to be mentally devising a convincing argument for the 20-year-old Merlot of a particularly good vintage. Lizzie hates herself for it, but he's driven her to emotional blackmail.
"I really, really love champagne," she insisted, adding a little bit of a pout she's learnt from Lydia (bah! Learning from Lydia, who'd have thought), "It would really make my night. Please?"
His face softens into an expression she will someday learn to classify as defeat (he doesn't show it often, as the only people that cause this reaction are Gigi and Lizzie) and he lets out a heavy breath before turning back to the waiter.
"We'll have the 1998 Dom Ruinart, thank you."
"Excellent choice, sir."
The waiter takes the wine list from Darcy's grasp and retreats without a sound. Lizzie feels ever so slightly guilty for doing it, but she figures if he hadn't been so damned awkward she wouldn't be forced to use emotional blackmail and confidential information against him.
Her guilt evaporates by the time they finish their entrees. Both two glasses down, things are not only relaxed – they're fun. Darcy finally morphs back into the man she'd come to know these past few months, and she finds herself laughing more than she has in a long time. He makes little cynical comments and sarcastic quips that she can't help but fire back energetically. They have mock arguments just for the sake of arguing, and she finds that she has never had more fun on any date than what she is right now. Because now, as he holds her hand on top of the table and strokes her knuckles with his thumb, it is most certainly a date.
Lesson 2: 'Spatchcock' Is Actually a Juvenile Chicken (but that doesn't change the fact it has a stupid name)
Things get interesting when they discuss an odd dish on the menu.
"Spatchcock?" Lizzie questions with an overly dramatic quizzical look (due in part to the first flute of champagne she all-but inhaled), "What on Earth is a Spatchcock?"
"It's fowl," Darcy responds casually. Slightly put out by his abrupt response, Lizzie blanches momentarily.
"Ok – I'll avoid that one."
He looks at her with genuine curiosity, "Do you have an aversion to poultry?"
"No," where did that connection come from? Apparently she's not the only one that's confused judging by the look on Darcy's face.
"Then why are you avoiding the Spatchcock?"
"Because you said it was foul."
His face softens into a smile that she feels is a little too pompous for her liking.
"No I meant fowl," he explains, still with an air of arrogance, "F-O-W-L. Game, poultry."
"Then why didn't you just say poultry?"
"No, you said it was fowl."
"The terms are interchangeable."
"Yes, but when the term fowl can also be used to describe something distasteful, it makes more sense to use poultry instead," she knows the way she's sipping her champagne is just as haughty as his smile but she doesn't care – two can play this game.
"Regardless," there's a twinkle in his eye as he recognizes the challenge and rises to it, "I was still apt in my description."
"Yes but not precise nor clear."
He smirks at her as he picks up his own glass, "To you perhaps."
That was a line that would have really riled her up once upon a time; now she just glares at him whilst trying to suppress her smile.
They're silent for a few moments, casually reading through the menu, before Lizzie breaks it.
"So what's a spatchcock?" she knows it frustrates him. Which is excellent.
"Didn't we just cover this?" he tries to sound frustrated, but the smile he clearly can't keep off his features gives him away.
"We agreed it was poultry, but what type of poultry was never confirmed."
It's getting harder to keep her smile at bay, so she chooses instead to have another sip of wine. The fabulously bubbly wine that makes her head feel light and wobbly.
"Type of poultry?" he tries to sound incredulous. He fails, "Is poultry not enough of a descriptor as it is?"
"Not at all!" now she's just messing with him, "Poultry is an extremely broad category – ducks, geese, chickens, swans, emus!"
And pew! Up shoots the eyebrow. "I hardly think a restaurant in San Francisco will be serving Emu."
"So you don't even know what Spatchcock is?" Triumph!
"Of course I do – it's a juvenile chicken." Or not. Stupid Darcy knowing everything about everything.
Damn it was sexy. (FOCUS LIZZIE – you are having a dignified argument with William Darcy about the origins and nature of a spatchcock. You need to bring your A-Game.)
Only now does it occur to her that Spatchock is a very funny word. And that it involves the word 'cock'. She tries not to giggle.
"Then why don't they just call it a little chicken?" she challenges once she can get her brain back on track.
"Because they call it a spatchcock."
"Yes but why?"
"Why not?" Well now he's just being childish.
"Because it's a little chicken – that's a suitable name. The term 'Spatchcock' is redundant," she flicks her hair over one shoulder with a snobby kind of air. Darcy smirks and meets the challenge, sipping his champagne in a manner one can only describe as 'pompous' before continuing.
"But as Spatchcock is the juvenile form of the chicken it must precede it," Diplomatic Darcy was out in force tonight, "It makes no sense to call something a miniature version of something else when it came before the thing it is named after."
"Then why don't they just call a chicken a big spatchcock instead of having two different words for what is, essentially, the same thing just at different stages of its life cycle?" She didn't seem to realize, but she had begun to lean towards the center of the table.
"By that logic is makes no sense to use the term 'child'," Darcy didn't notice, but he began to lean in too, "You're suggesting we instead simply call them all 'Little Adults'?"
"No," wait – why was she grinning? This was supposed to be an argument; grinning was not allowed in an argument unless it was sarcastic. This didn't feel sarcastic. So why was she grinning? "Because that would, again, mean terming something a smaller version of a thing that doesn't exist yet."
"But it does exist – there must be an adult in order for there to be a child," his eyes darken and his voice lowers as his fingers begin to lightly rub the underside of her wrist (Seriously? It was her wrist – that was not supposed to feel sexy!) "You are familiar with the 'Bird and the Bees' are you not, Miss. Bennett?"
Wait a second.
Did Darcy – William Darcy – just make an indirect reference to sex, right here, at the table? Whilst caressing her skin?!
And just like that, the sexual tension in the room rises by about a bajillion percent (that's right, bajillion). Lizzie managed to stop picturing him naked long enough to lean in closer to retort with some witty and mildly suggestive innuendo.
Or at least she would have, had the waiter not chosen that precise moment to ask them if they would like to order. She looks away quickly and leans back, suddenly a little embarrassed at being caught in such an intimate moment. She indiscreetly goes about trying to straighten her napkin where it sits on her lap.
Darcy has stopped drawing patterns on her wrist, but his hand still rests on her own where it sits on the table between them. He sits up tall and away from her before gesturing to the menu, apparently about to enquire about something. Lizzie fully expects him to mention the Spacthcock, and takes a sip (read: gulp) of champagne while he no doubt plans to make fun of her uncultured nature.
"This lobster you list," Darcy begins in his usual 'all business' tone of his, the waiter looking enthralled and willing to help in any way possible. Lizzie raises an eyebrow.
"Do you by any chance know if it's agoraphobic?"
Lizzie is very thankful they are in such a secluded part of the restaurant, for she can do nothing to withhold the very loud (and rather vulgar) laugh that bursts from her mouth.
Unfortunately, it's accompanied by some of her champagne.
On the window beside them overlooking the lovely view of the city is now a nice shimmering layer of spit and champagne. Lizzie can't think of a moment in her entire life when she's been less civilized, but its hard to care when you're wheezing and crying from laughter.
Darcy continues to look at the waiter, completely ignoring her little show she's putting on (the waiter isn't).
"See my girlfriend here has a particular liking for agoraphobic lobsters," he turns to look at her, a highly amused kind of twinkle in his eye, "Isn't that right, Lizzie?"
Lizzie can't answer; she's too busy trying not to laugh up a lung. Darcy dismisses the waiter after a moment or two and tells him they should be ready to order in about another 15 minutes or so.
Suddenly Fitz and Darcy's being friends doesn't seem so strange.
Lesson 3: Darcy is a Ninja
She's watching him. Constantly.
The staff leaves them alone for the most part, deciding that its best to just let them argue and laugh on their own lest they be showered with champagne like the unfortunate window.
There isn't another occupied table for at least a solid ten feet.
Lizzie knows she isn't responsible for it.
So how on Earth does her glass seem to keep refilling itself?
Every time she thinks she's almost at the end of the glass, it is magically filled with sparkling exquisite Champagne that she is quite sure she will never be able to afford again in her life time (unless of course Darcy hangs around for a while and continues to buy it for her. Maybe he could buy it every year for their anniversary? Maybe they could serve it at their wedding? Whoa! Hold your horses Missy – no 'W' word, or any other word relating to marriage or the consequences of such round here thank you very much).
There is only one logical explanation; William Darcy is a ninja. Which is hot.
(Is Ninja-ism inherited? Because if so, they would have some kick-ass babies – WHAT DID I JUST SAY ABOUT NO MARRIAGE TALK?!)
Lesson 4: When it comes to matters involving Darcy, Fitz knows all
Every time she makes even a somewhat amusing comment he laughs openly without abandon, his cheeks growing red and, on occasion, his eyes tearing up merrily. Lizzie is quite certain she has never witnessed anything more hilarious or uplifting than a bumbling, giggling William Darcy.
That is, of course, until approximately 9:02pm, when certain events cause her to change her mind. It is then that Lizzie decides the most hilarious thing in the entire universe is William Darcy – who is oh so perfect and precise and orderly in every facet of his life – messily waltzing with her around the patio.
He said he owed her a proper dance after the uncomfortable situation at the Gibson wedding, and goes about rectifying the situation on the patio of the very expensive restaurant he's brought her to. They have to try and navigate around chairs and tables and the occasional expensive sculpture, but Darcy seems very confident in his dancing abilities. Lizzie isn't. This, apparently, only serves to increase his determination to prove her wrong.
"As long as you follow my lead, Lizzie Bennett," he takes hold of her waist and hand and Lizzie does her best not to swoon, "Then we will be fine."
She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but has no time to retort as he begins to waltz (or at least that's what he's claiming they're doing) around the hazardous area. They do ok for about a minute and a half.
Then it all turns to poo.
He spins her out a little quicker than her brain can handle, then tugs her in much harder than her feet can handle, and their dance ends abruptly when she accidentally kicks him in the shin and manages to wind him with a sharp elbow-jab to his solar plexus at the same time. She apologizes profusely through her giggles, and he somehow manages to stagger to a chair before collapsing, clutching his sides. Darcy does all he can to scowl at her, he really honestly does, but when she offers to kiss it better for him later he finds his anger disappears rather quickly.
They sit giggling uncontrollably on the patio as Darcy recovers, his hand still grasping hers as she sits in his lap. Lizzie makes a mental note to thank Fitz about the champagne – turns out it was a brilliant idea after all. And about Darcy having moves – the man can dance. Even if she can't.
Lesson 5: Darcy Knows Michael Jackson
When it takes her a considerable amount of effort to navigate the stairs leading out of the restaurant in her (ridiculous) high heels, Lizzy finds herself demanding to know just what evil spirit has caused the fuzziness in her head and the wobbliness in her legs. She suspects it may have been the deliciously delicious champagne she made Darcy buy. He walks beside her, a hand on her back to guide her, his walking almost as wobbly as her own (though not quite, because he's sensible and perfect. Stupid adorable bastard).
"Well you know what they say…" he suddenly stops speaking to help her down the last step that she seems to be having particular trouble navigating. She steps down, stumbles a little, and falls into her chest. It's quite nice here. Very nice indeed. She decides she might stay, right here, with her head resting against his chest, her arms encircling his waist, and his arms holding her close. Yep, it's definitely a nice place to take up residency.
"Prey tell, William Darcy," she says with a smile, feeling incredibly powerful when she sneaks a peek at him because no one else ever makes him look like this – all dark eyes and deep breathing and dreamy, "What do they say?"
He begins speaking as stoically and business-like as possible for a man as drunk as he is.
"Well, they say don't blame it on the sunshine. Don't blame it on the moonlight. Don't blame it on the good times," he leans in conspiratorially with a cheeky kind of a grin and a perfect eyebrow raised just the way she likes it, "Blame it on the bubbly."
It takes a minute for her brain to connect the dots, but once they do, stunned realization (and perhaps a little smidgen of awe) brightens in Lizzie's eyes.
"Did you just quote a Michael Jackson song?"
He tucks his chin into his neck and looks away from her in possibly the most adorably shy gesture she's ever managed to witness with her own two eyes.
Ok, so that was lessons 1 through 5. Lessons 6 through 11 (or possibly 12) will be up soonish, i just have to finish writing the last few. Hope you enjoyed it, i promise it will get more interesting.
Please review :)