First Impressions Deleted Scenes

Deleted from Chapter 47.2 of First Impressions

When he pulled into the rest station, he wasn't sure if the nausea was from nerves, carsickness, or the lack of food and abundance of caffeine in his stomach. Or some of all three. The cars passing on the highway generated a cooling breeze and he gulped it in. It only tasted a little like gasoline, but the scent was strong enough to make him shudder still.

Darcy's hands were shaking. He stretched one out before his eyes, watching the fingers twitch. With a sigh, he laid it flat against the roof of his car, keeping it in place with pressure. He knew, more than he felt, that he was hungry. He needed food and water and rest, but he could only get two out of the three, so it would have to do.

He did not know what he ordered; he did not know what food he was handed. He had picked the first counter without a line. With his tray at a table, he pulled out his phone, checking the map. He looked for construction, accidents, anything that might slow him down; The roads between here and there were bright red, interspersed with bursts of orange. The only thing he could do was laugh. Or lay his head down on the table and give up.

It all seemed so futile—madly dashing back because of a whim, a guess! The uncertainty became suddenly overwhelming. (He resisted the urge to lie his face down, as the table was sticky with unknown substances and he wasn't quite that despondent yet.) He was too bold, too pleased to think he knew Elizabeth's mind. His confidence had been his downfall again and again and to think that he dared one more time?

He had half a mind to stand up, get in his car, and turn around. It was much later in the day than he had though, almost 4 PM, and with the traffic, he would not arrive until late. What was the point of it all?

The point was her. Obviously. The point was always her.

Darcy would not say he had a particularly powerful mind's eye. When writing, it took great effort to conjure scenes and characters faces; but not hers. Never hers. He could picture her in perfect detail. The glint she got in her eyes before she spoke some cutting remark. The way her hair curled at her temples and beside her ears in humidity. The soft curve of her smiling cheek turned into smooth lines of throat, across the swoop and dip of collar bone, and into strong, tanned shoulders. And all that from the first month of knowing her. He could not think of her as she was at Pemberley without almost physical pain.

He had really seen very little of her body until then, and it had already been enough to ruin him. She would have lived in his mind forever not matter what had happened next. The last two days of her time there had crawled under his skin, taking root, juxtaposing the physical beauty of her body and the agony of her pain. He let out another cry-laugh sound and covered his eyes with one hand, trying not to berate himself too harshly in his mind. He failed, as always.

It was with an internal monologue of disdain that he forced himself to eat his sandwich, though it tasted like nothing and had the texture of foam. He knew he would feel even sicker if he did not eat.

Lust was not exactly embarrassing, but it was an uncomfortable state for him. To want and to be wanted were a balancing act that he had not quite mastered. Fears of inadequacy and rejection when he was the pursuer, fears of incompatibility when he was pursued. More often than he would like to admit, it was simply unfathomable that he would be liked—that he would be loved—for himself, and not merely what he could offer. It had been getting a little better, he thought, but Elizabeth's reprimanding had knocked his senses as much as she had his breath away.

Finished eating, he disposed of his tray and trash, stopping in the bathroom to scrub the grease from his fingers, though it felt as if it would never come off. His agitation made him feel unclean, the memories crawling like ants under his skin. He wished for speed, wished to close his eyes and have it be over, finally over.

On the way out, he stopped in the convenience store for a bottle of water and a small snack, something to save him the trouble of stopping again. He picked the bag up between his fingers, trying not to crinkle the bag as the sound made him wince. Sensations were suddenly deeply overwhelming, the lights, the sounds, the way his shoes squeaked on the tiles... He could feel his body creeping towards flight mode.

His eyes lightened on the case behind the counter. Under the rows of tobacco products were boxes of condoms. His fingers began to twitch against the counter again. Without conscious impetus to speak, he asked for one from the cashier. There was something terribly forward in the action that, more than anything yet that day, sent his stomach into twisting knots. The man placed it on the counter, his face a mask of disinterest. There was no judgement in his movements.

Darcy paid and slipped the box into his pocket, his packaged food into the other, and held his water in his hand. It was insurance, he told himself. No one would ever need know of their existence if things did not go as planned. If he was rejected again, not a word would ever be spoken.

But he wanted. How he wanted and wished and... His wanting meant nothing, of course, if it was not reciprocated, but he still wanted. God, he wanted.

His face felt very hot as he hurried out of the store.