Chapter Text
It's late and Lizzie's phone is toast so she can't snap a photo of the hardcopy that Finance let her borrow. She doesn't have access to a scanner. She darts up to the fourth floor, which always makes her nervous because the executive offices are on that floor, but so is the only copier that doesn't require an access code.
She runs down the hall from the elevator and closes herself into the tiny room, which smells like burning powder, and gusts out a sigh of relief. There are twenty-four pages to be copied and she's rushing, tapping her fingers on the edge of the grayish-beige copier. All the pages come out copied at a jaunty angle. She's about half way through when the door opens and someone clears his throat. Twice.
She can tell from the the throat clear who it is. She closes her eyes and drops her head for a second before saying, "Uh, I'll be out of your way in a just one sec."
She doesn't turn around. The room is very small. Darcy closes the door and the air behind her grows thick and staticky. He's standing a little too close and yet not as close as she'd like.
He breathes on her neck as he peers over her shoulder to see what she's copying. She's afraid to move, growing more light headed with each shallow breath. The machine emits an almighty clunk and Lizzie makes fists. She'd punch the stupid copier if it wasn't an asinine thing to do.
She's not really sure how to get the crumpled up paper out of its innards, or where it is. It takes her a moment, a long one, for the little diagram on the readout to sink in. It's telling her where the jam is. Area three. What the crap is area three? She can't think properly with Darcy looming over her. If she moved back and inch or two she'd be pressed against him and she cuts that thought off at the pass.
"I'm so sorry." Lizzie yanks open the plastic doors and stares dumbly at all the rollers and slots.
"This machine has been acting up. I think it's time to have it serviced." He doesn't sound casual. He sounds like he just stepped on a tack.
Lizzie is on her knees and Darcy squats down beside her. He doesn't exactly knock her hands aside, but he reaches in and tilts a lever, revealing the accordioned sheet of paper. She grabs it and stands up because Darcy is too close and she likes it too much and it would be totally unprofessional to do anything to him, er with him.
Her face hurts from the stilted smile she can't release and her hands are like a Siberian steppe. Darcy methodically closes up the copier and stands. He's not looking at her, but she can see something building up under the surface, something frantically trying to break through his reserve. She knows what it is and she knows the slightest tap from her would do the trick.
"I'll... " Darcy shakes his head stiffly and turns for the door.
It's like a reflex. She grabs his arm and pulls him back. He yields and ends up very close, searching her face for something--for a sign.
She can't say what she wants. It's too big to squeeze into mere words. She's backed against the copier and it's warm. Darcy is also warm. That's surely why her bones feel soft and unsteady.
She nods. It's the best she can do. She expects him to take a moment, but he doesn't. He dives for her. His mouth reaches her before his hands land on her shoulders. They glide up her neck to cradle her head. The kiss doesn't break after a minute. There's no pause for breath. No moment to check in. It's all free fall.
Her brain is offline, but her body is delighted and hyper aware of everything, the location of each of Darcy's fingers, the way he has to bend to accommodate their height differential, the changing pressure of his lips, the swipe of his tongue along her bottom lip, the taste of him--mint and tea, the weakness in her knees, the ache that comes from her center and radiates out to her extremities. Her fingers twitch at her sides. Oh. She can touch him. She's allowed now.
She winds her arms around him and tips him closer, his weight settling more heavily upon her. The copier gives against the pressure and smacks up against the wall. They move with it, using it as ballast.
Their hands are furious, possessed. Lizzie needs to touch his skin. Want. Need. Hard to tell the difference. She untucks enough of his button down to slide her hands up his spine. He pauses for a fraction of a second, lips still but pressed against hers. Common sense tries to cut in. She should stop this. She should at least ask him what they're doing. And also here? Really? In the copier room? Where anyone could walk in?
She revives the kiss instead, using her tongue to taste him and make it clear that she wants this. She digs her fingers into his hips. He pushes against her over and over and the friction is not enough. There are too many barriers--too much fabric.
She's always been slow and cautious about sex, but she's never had her body spark and burn like this before. She thought it was an exaggeration--something that happened in romance novels and movies. Another thing she was wrong about.
He's obviously sick of stooping because he seizes her waist and lifts her onto the copier, standing between her legs. His eyes are bright.
"Lizzie." He's breathless. "Are you sure?"
Words are scary and powerful and make things real, but they're also necessary. She knows a nod is not enough. "Yes."
They should probably have a talk before they proceed, but Lizzie can wrap her arms tightly around his neck now, get her hands in his hair. She knows they should at least have the basic pre-sex talk. She doesn't forget, but she sort of doesn't care. She should, but she doesn't.
It's a struggle to get his tie off and the top of his shirt undone while he's kissing her neck and shoulders. She shucks off her cardigan, shedding a bracelet in the melée, while he trails his fingers up and down her bare arms. Something as simple as that shouldn't feel so good. It's kind of obscene and she worries that when he touches other, more sensitive places that she'll keel right over. At least she'll die happy.
She doesn't. Die, that is. He places one hand on the small of her back to bring her against him although they can't really get any closer unless they take off their clothes. His other hand ghosts over her breast timidly, uncertainly. She tilts her head back and sighs. It's almost a moan. It has potential. She's never been vocal--always too self conscious about it. Once again she really doesn't care. His hands are firm now that he's sure of their welcome. She bites his neck--not completely on purpose when he rolls her nipple between his fingers.
His shirt has to go. She gets it caught on his wrists because she's forgotten to unfasten the cuffs. They laugh into their kisses. Darcy is too impatient and flicks open the cuffs. Voila--shirt gone.
She drags her nails up his sides and he retaliates by pushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders and kissing his way down her breast bone, which she encourages with her hand threaded through his hair. She's glad she wore nice underwear today--a matched pale pink set.
Darcy is stymied when he finds the unbroken band at the back of her bra. She taps the hook in her cleavage.
"I didn't know that they came this way," Darcy says, unfastening the hook and parting the satin fabric. The expression on his face is too much. It's like staring into the sun, but then he reached for her--palms against flesh, and she might as well be blind. The world melts away and everything is touch.
This time she does moan against his shoulder. She runs her thumbs up and down the blades of his hips, memorizing their contour before grappling with his belt.
He makes a little noise when she flicks her tongue over his pulse point. She does it again and he glides his hands up her thighs. She goes for the button on his trousers at the same time that he hooks his fingers into her underwear.
The door creaks opens and they freeze. Darcy does his best to shield her from view.
"Oh!" The door slams closed and they're alone. The humming of the lights and the copier is super loud all of a sudden.
Darcy closes his eyes--his ears as red as his cheeks. "Cleaning staff."
"Oh, God." Lizzie covers her face with her hands--her arms shielding her breasts. "We shouldn't be doing this here."
"Lizzie. Come home with me." His breath stirs her hair, he's that close to her ear.
"Darcy, I'm sorry. I can't do this." She hurries to right her clothes, but he doesn't move. He's got his arms on either side of her legs, caging her there. "Darcy..."
"No. I understand." He picks up his shirt and buttons it crookedly. He's out the door before she can say, "I don't think you do."
Perhaps it's better this way. She's not sure what she feels for him, besides the need to fuck him so badly she'd do it on a copier at Pemberley.
She hops to the floor, locking her knees so she doesn't fall over. All of her is raw and strained, like her skin doesn't fit her anymore. She straightens her dress and puts her shoes back on before hurrying to look for him. His office is dark; he's nowhere to be found. It's a sign--an omen. She's leaving San Francisco soon. Her future is uncertain. She doesn't want to hurt him anymore than she already has. She doesn't want to make him think that she cares, at least until she's sure she does--that she can match his ardor equally. She doesn't want to be the woman who breaks William Darcy twice.
***
The next day is awkward, but it's clear that Darcy doesn't want to talk about it. Lizzie doesn't either--not really. It hurts, but somethings just aren't meant to be. She can't focus on work and when she finally wrestles her wayward thoughts into order--she realizes she left the report in the copy room.
She returns to the scene of the crime. No one sees her. Her copies and the original are neatly stacked on the top of the box of copier paper off to the side. When she bends down to pick them up she spots her bracelet on the floor. Her stomach jumps as if she's been caught shoplifting or speeding or cheating on an exam. She finishes her copying, willing her fingers to stop shaking. When she 's done she taps the papers into perfect order and waits a moment, but no one comes into the room behind her. The air is still electrically charged. She wonders if other people can feel it when they come in here? Like some sex phantom is haunting the copy room.
The rest of the day drags. Her phone is being old and cranky. She makes a mental note to stop at the store on her way home to see what they can offer her. It'll eat up some of the time she has to spend alone in the apartment with her thoughts rattling around in her brain so violently she can't sit still. She cleaned the bathroom grout with a tooth brush last night. She can do the back splash in the kitchen tonight if it gets bad. She'll stop and buy a couple of cheap tooth brushes tonight as well.