Chapter Text
Bag.
Coat.
Book.
Tights.
Beanie.
Jumper.
Glasses.
What else? What else?
Quick, Mary, think!
Pointedly not looking at the figure sprawled across the bed, still deep in sleep, Mary took one last look around. She spotted her phone on the desk across the studio, right beside the still-full cup of tea, now cold.
The memory of how it ended up there came back unbidden. She could feel the blush immediately blooming on her cheeks. Decidedly, she refused to dwell on it. She would not think of the way she leaned back on the desk, typing a quick text to her aunt saying that she might stay out for the night when his forearm entered her line of sight, offering her a cup of steaming tea.
She would not think of the way she grasped her phone and the edge of the desk where she had put it earlier, a shiver running down her spine when their fingers brushed as she reached for the offered cup. Or the way he inhaled sharply at the contact.
Certainly, Mary would not think of how they both froze, not daring to move a muscle until they looked up at the same time and a silent agreement—something unspoken—passed between their locked eyes as naturally as breathing.
Mary didn't remember who leaned in first. All she knew was that in a blink of an eye, she had her fingers buried in his scandalously soft curls and his arms were wrapped around her body, pulling them flush together until she could no longer tell where she ended and he began as they kissed and kissed and kissed.
He had slowly walked them towards his bed and gasped out a low, barely audible, “please” into her mouth, begging for something Mary wasn't quite sure she understood. Her senses were too full of him. His mouth on hers, faint traces of whiskey on his breath, the bridge of his nose nudging against her glasses frame and poking her cheek, one of his wide hands spread possessively over the small of her back and the other gently cupping her jaw.
His scent. Oh, it was divine. Clean and dizzying.
There was no word she could utter. She just pushed herself up to be closer to him, as close as she could before they both tumbled back onto the bed.
The rest was history that must be buried.
Mary would not think of any of it. She couldn't—she shouldn't.
If Mary had the liberty to groan out loud, she would, but she didn't, because she had to be quiet and get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.
What was she thinking coming to this strange man's place after a pub quiz night on her first day of moving to London?
Oh, but she knew exactly what she was thinking… she knew!
She had let Lydia's taunt get into her head. The crazy idea had formed before she could stop herself. To make things worse, another of her mother's cruel remarks had delivered the final blow to Mary's pride and worsened her insecurities.
“What good has your degree and job brought you when you can't even attract a man? Studying for a PhD wouldn't get you anywhere either. Men don't like independent women with brains!”
It hurt. Too much. Mary left without saying anything in return. Stubbornly held back her tears until she got into her car and drove away from her childhood home.
Mary had worked so hard her whole life. Pursuing her passion in history and a life in academia had always been her greatest dream. It was something that made her happy but it would never be enough in the eyes of Frances Bennet. As long as Mary stayed single, her accomplishments in academic pursuits and career meant nothing to her mother. What made it sting the most was the way her mother disregarded—borderline insulted—Mary’s intelligence. Treating it as one of the many shortcomings that had prevented Mary from finding a partner.
Her eldest sisters, Jane and Lizzie, practically sealed their fates with their respective husbands because of their brains.
Yes, they were beautiful, and Charles Bingley was clearly drawn by Jane's beauty when they first met at a party but the moment he learned Jane was a senior commissioning editor at one of London's major publishing houses, he fell in love with her all over again.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was more of a mystery. He first met Lizzie when Charles had brought him to meet the Bennet family. Darcy was cold and proud—rude, even. Everyone took an immediate dislike to him, especially Lizzie. But for some reason, he always tried to engage Lizzie in awkward conversations.
Lizzie's dislike of the man only increased as Jane and Charles’ relationship grew steadily which meant she met Darcy frequently. She thought he was trying to humiliate her whenever they met but in truth he was so attracted to her undeniable intelligence and could not help but fall head over heels in love with her in his awkward and secretive ways. In the end, they found a way to reconcile and were in love. Mary had never known that such a strong bond could exist between two people until she saw her sister and Darcy finally give in to their feelings for one another and embrace it.
And yet, mother never mocked Mary's sisters for their brains the way she did with her.
Mary didn't know why her mother singled her out from the rest of her sisters. She had done nothing but prove herself worthy. She had top marks throughout her school life. She completed her master's on a full scholarship whilst working herself to the bone and never once complained. She never misbehaved the way Lydia did. She never had a meltdown in front of company the way Kitty always had whenever she felt wrongly mistreated by Lydia.
Mary was obedient. She never caused a scene or did something scandalous. But in her mother's eyes, she would never be enough.
A husband was all Frances Bennet ever cared about when it came to her daughters.
This was not the 19th century for goodness' sake! Mary didn't need a man to be able to live her life to the fullest. Besides, she didn't have time to invest to find a man.
She arrived at her uncle's house on Friday morning. She had cried the entire two-hour drive and there was no mistaking the recognition in her uncle and aunt's eyes. They were kind enough to not question it though.
Mary was still unpacking when her aunt dragged her out of the house for a night of pub quiz. Though it was hardly ideal to leave whilst most of her things were still unpacked and she was expected to meet with the Head of Department for an induction at the school on Saturday afternoon, Mary was grateful for the distraction her aunt and uncle provided because, as it turned out, she enjoyed the activity.
The night was still young when Marianne, her sixteen-year-old cousin, called her parents and begged them to come home because her toddler brother, Sam, was throwing a tantrum and refused to go to bed. Mary was about to put on her coat when her aunt stopped her and told her to stay and enjoy the rest of the night. And so she stayed.
A quarter of an hour after they left, a man arrived and politely asked if he could sit on the last empty chair beside her. She readily agreed, too preoccupied with the quiz question to care.
At some point, the man joined in the game. He was cheerful but there was something deliberate in the way he carried himself, as though he was always aware of the people around him and considered them with great care. Mary was self-conscious at first when she noticed he was paying particular attention to her. He didn't shy away from expressing his amazement whenever she answered particularly tricky questions that no one, not even him, knew the answers to. She was worried he was secretly thinking she was a snob. But the way he was smiling at her was so genuine and calming. She rarely ever saw that kind of smile directed at her. In the end, her guard slowly bled away as she regarded him openly for the first time—recognising the kindness in each crinkle at the corner of his eyes whenever he smiled at her.
Unsurprisingly, Mary had won the pub quiz for the night. People who came and went by her table after her aunt and uncle left had congratulated her and gone on about their own business, except for one.
The man remained and talked with her about books after he noticed the book on top of her bag on the floor that she had brought with her. He had asked about it and seemed to be genuinely curious to know why she was interested in reading it.
They discussed their reading habits and in the two hours they talked, he managed to change her perspective on poetry. He had recited a passage to her from memory to counter her skepticism and she was rendered speechless at the way the prose spoke to her.
"Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things—
We murder to dissect."
Mary had never been a romantic. She didn't have it in her to understand the mystery most poets wrote about. But through this man's voice, she understood. She felt.
Hadn't Mary always wished to be more like her sisters: carefree and not so guarded? The truth in it struck her like a slap. It awakened something in her, a stronger motivation to stop overthinking everything.
And at that moment, she felt a connection with another soul that she had never experienced before. A kindred spirit, perhaps. But it was something more and it frightened her.
The sensation was so strong, Mary almost got up and left, but her mother's words, paired with Lydia’s taunt, came back full force and made Mary lapse into contemplation when he left their table to order something to eat and drink for the both of them.
"Men don't like women with brains."
"You gotta go out more once you're in London. Really, Mary, it's weird to be single at your age! You're not as ugly as you used to be when we were teenagers. I'd daresay you look cute now but you're still single and to my knowledge, zero sexual experience. Sometimes I wonder if you're a closeted lesbian, ace, or if men are just allergic to you."
To mother, Mary said nothing. But to Lydia, Mary had told her to mind her business and emphasized that she should be worrying about her own sex life instead of Mary's, given that Lydia was a frequent visitor at the hospital from how often she kept catching STDs from her long time, on and off boyfriend, the rake George Wickham. Lydia only rolled her eyes and left. But nevertheless, she had hit a nerve. She was right after all.
Mary was too busy with her old job as an admin at the local secondary school, saving money for her PhD and too easily annoyed by people in general. Finding a man in Hertfordshire was something she had given up hope on after that first attempt with John Sparrow when she was still in high school. Her mother had not approved despite her obsession with seeing all her daughters get a man. Mary didn't dare ask why and just complied as she always had.
Ever since then, Mary never tried to get involved with boys again. It felt futile anyway if she brought in the wrong person and disappointed her mother again. She wasn't a lesbian and she wasn’t asexual either—the thought of intimacy haunted her more often than she’d like to admit, something she secretly longed for but never acknowledged.
And men were not allergic to her. She simply never met one that was genuinely attracted to her as a person or moved her heart even a little bit.
But then here sat a man before her, clearly interested in her mind and smiling at her as his eyes mapped her face like it was the most rewarding thing in the world.
The crazy idea that formed in the middle of her sorrowful trip to London came back and took root. No matter what excuses she came up with to convince herself it was a bad idea, none of them worked. It was persistent—and it wanted to be realised.
I must get laid.
The motivation was selfish: she just wanted to prove her mother and sister wrong.
The initial idea was to get laid with anyone who showed the slightest interest. It should be a one-time thing she could easily move on from.
Not this. Whatever this was.
Mary knew it was a mistake when she suggested they should go to his place. The flicker of surprise and confusion crossed his face before it was brightened by an understanding that turned into a dazzling smile of pleasure and a nod of agreement.
Mary tried to convince herself that it was alright, that many people do this on a daily basis, but she knew she should've apologised and told him that she had too many drinks, that she was not in her right mind. He'd understand and he wouldn't laugh at her. They would go back to their own lives as strangers. It wouldn't mean a thing. They'd move on and forget about it all the next day.
Seemingly sensing Mary's internal war against herself, he asked if she was sure this was what she wanted as they stepped out of the pub.
Truthfully, she didn't know what she actually wanted at the time. Not really. She wasn't drunk but she was not sober either. Nor did he. They were both aware of the decision they had made—of the situation they had put themselves into. Maybe there was something in the air that night. Or maybe they were just both cowards that got themselves into a situation in a brief moment of rare bravery that they didn't know how to get out of.
In the end, Mary could only offer a shy, yet genuine smile that made him blink stupidly before something like a resolve settled in his eyes. He smiled back at her before tilting his head towards the direction of his place. The walk back was pleasant, albeit a little charged. There was an unspoken tension between them that they refused to acknowledge as they talked about nothing and everything—careful not to venture into private territory.
The bubble only burst when their skin touched for the first time when he offered her the cup of tea—neither of them seemed capable of rational thought after that.
The rest was history that must be buried.
Only when she awoke at dawn did she fully come to her senses. The guilt hit her right on her chest—she wanted to vomit from the intensity of it. The dread of what was to come when he finally woke was chilling her to the bone. She needed to get out of his space as soon as possible.
Mary grabbed her phone and quietly walked towards the door, her chest tight. She slipped on her shoes and couldn't help but look back at the man who was lying still on the bed, breathing deep and unaware of what was happening at the moment.
Something twisted in her chest—something feral that was telling her to be reasonable and wait for him to wake up so they could talk like adults. So they could figure out what the hell happened to them last night.
The feral thing sounded suspiciously like Lizzie and it was making a good point.
Running away wouldn’t undo what had happened between them. It would only create complications she didn’t know how to fix. She wouldn’t be able to go back to the pub. He was a regular there. What excuse could she give the Gardiners the next time they ask her to join them there?
Mary hesitated at the doorway. Her sweaty hand gripped the round doorknob as she stared at the man—willing him to wake up and stop her before she could leave and take away her ability to decide. She waited for God knows how long but he was so deep in sleep—so peaceful—as if he was having the first good sleep in ages. The deep, measured rise and fall of his naked chest only made the silence louder, heavier. She almost wished he would snore as if it would help her situation somehow.
The entire time Mary rummaged through his small studio for her stuff, she refused to bring her eyes to his face until the feral thing suddenly stopped talking and left a ringing sound of overwhelmed nerves in its wake. Slowly, her eyes moved up from gazing at the steady rhythm of his breath marked by the lulling movement of his chest onto the face of a man that had brought her to places she didn't know existed last night.
Was last night even real?
How could she end up in the bed of someone as beautiful as this man?
A scatter of freckles across his skin, his long and thick lashes, his eyes and the way they crinkle at the edges whenever he smiled—the kindness etched there…
He wasn't at all what people would call conventional beauty. No. This man was like a Greek statue that would captivate you the more you look at him. Every beautiful detail about him revealed itself one by one, making her wonder what would appear next.
Mary stood there, admiring him and waiting for one last moment for fate to take its chance to intervene.
She wanted to thank him. But it seemed wrong to do so, as if everything that had transpired between them was nothing more than just a transaction when it was anything but.
A connection was born last night. A connection that caught her so off guard, so overwhelming in its intensity, that she believed it would forever change her as a person. Would he wake a changed man too?
With that last thought, she carefully turned the doorknob, slipped into the cold hallway and quietly closed the door behind her.
It was a mistake, Mary thought, even as the feral thing in her chest that sounded like Lizzie began to scream again and told her to go back and wake him.
Mary shouldn't have let her guard down just because of some petty and cruel words from her mother and her sister. She had lived with them her whole life. This time it shouldn't be any different, but it did and it had made her reckless. She shouldn't have been reckless—especially not now—when she was in the midst of pursuing her greatest dream.
The bricks stacked themselves back up as she walked resolutely away from the door and the person behind it.