First Impressions: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Adaptation

Chapter 10.1

Darcy sat alone in his room on the bed, legs crossed. It was the closest he had come to a panic attack in years. He closed his eyes again, to focus on his breathing. His head felt light, a little floaty, almost insubstantial. He forced himself to breathe through what felt like a belt around his chest.

George

Wickham.

He had hoped—he had expected, perhaps optimistically—never to set his eyes on the man's face again. And there he was. Talking to Elizabeth.

Touching her, even.

Why did that make him so angry? He ran his hands though his hair and opened his eyes. Just seeing the man again should have been enough on its own, but somehow the circumstances heightened his feelings. Would George be brave enough—or stupid enough—to seek him out? Darcy very much doubted it. The last time they had spoken, December 19th, he remembered the day vividly, they had nearly come to blows. Darcy had a good four inches of height and George had cowered, ducking away. He took the money and ran.

Darcy could hear Ned laughing, loudly, downstairs. He had been almost aggressively cheerful since he returned, not speaking to Louisa as much as Darcy might have thought he would. He had not asked what, specifically, the argument had been about most recently, but their strife seemed to be going on much longer than was typical.

The sound brought him back more firmly to the present. He straightened his shoulders and swung his legs over the side of the bed, smoothing his hands across the wrinkles in his slacks, pressing the soles of his feet firmly to the floor. No, he wouldn't be brought down today. Darcy was almost certain he had the upper hand over George at any rate.

Darcy leaned forward again, hunching his shoulders slightly downward, and ran his hands through his hair again, rumpling it completely so it needed to be combed smooth again. He used the time to fully calm himself, feeling the hard, smooth plastic of the handle, the pull of the teeth through his hair, the number of times he brushed. One, two, three... By the time he put it down again, he was entirely back in order, mind and body.

He left his room and went down the stairs, through to the kitchen, which seemed to be inordinately noisy. Ned and Louisa were on the couch in the sitting room, a significant amount of space between them, Ned leaning away from her. She was sitting very stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap. Although they appeared to be watching TV, whatever program that was on was playing so low Darcy could barely hear it ten feet away. Caroline was sprawled in one of the armchairs towards the side of the room, scrolling absently through her phone, one elbow on the armrest, her opposite foot perched on the seat of the chair.

Darcy turned in towards the kitchen, where Bingley was the cause of the noise. A pot was steaming and he held the lid aloft in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other, but he seemed at a loss for what to do next, as he stood staring at it for several seconds, gnawing on his bottom lip. "How long do you boil potatoes for mashing again?" he asked suddenly without looking up. "I can't tell if I've overdone them or underdone them."

"Depends. How big did you cube them?"

"...Cube?"

"It's going to be a while." Darcy took the pot lid out of his hands and glanced into the boiling where, where four large and completely uncut potatoes lay, jostled gently by the bubbles. He put the lid on. "You're supposed to chop them up before you put them in the water if you want them to cook faster." He could have continued, citing the textural differences between a peeled versus unpeeled potato in different preparations, or bringing up questions on how and when to season the water, but Bingley was already far out of his depth. Instead, he said, "You didn't boil anything else, did you? Or steam vegetables?" He tried to hide the note of distaste in his voice.