First Impressions: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Adaptation

Chapter 25.1

He caught sight of his face in the window glass of the hallway, the darkness behind it turning it to a mirror. Looking at his face, he began to feel physically ill, discontent roiling in the pit of his stomach, his lungs pressing tight with the utter shame of the rejection. His hair stood up on the side and there were deep bags under his eyes. He looked ghostly pale; an insubstantial apparition reflected back onto himself.

The entire affair had felt almost dreamlike, nearly against his will. Darcy had almost dreaded her acceptance, though in the same thought he was assured in its inevitability. He had been so certain that she would practically fall into his arms at the confession that her refusal felt as harsh and sharp as a slap.

There was another feeling there, hiding behind the confusion. It was hot and bright and he could feel it beating like a second heart in his chest. Something he associated so far from even the thought of Elizabeth it took several achingly long seconds to identify it.

Anger. Almost...rage.

The emotion came on too fast for him to shy away from it, even as a tiny part of his mind hissed at him to slow down, to stop, to think things through. He didn't pause to consider what or who he was angry at, only that he was.

He glanced back at the reflection in the mirror, not at his face but at the door behind him. Trying not to think about who was behind it, he stalked off down the hallway, moving in no direction in particular. He made no move towards the elevator or the staircase when he passed them. His scarf, wrapped loosely around his hand, began to drag on the floor. With a hard tug, he pulled it up and stuffed it into his pocket with one hand, dragging the other through his hair for the hundredth time that day.

When he went in search of her that evening, he thought he had feared her acceptance more than her refusal, but that wasn't true—he hadn't even prepared for a refusal. Just another example of his own folly. He wanted to do something physical, to expel his emotions in some grand, explosive way. Something dramatic, like punching a wall or kicking something that would break with the force.

But he knew himself well enough to know he'd only end up with regret and a set of bleeding knuckles. He was too concerned with appearances to give such an unbridled show of emotion.

Appearances!

Elizabeth certainly had not thought much of his appearances. She didn't think he was "a respectable human being!" Clearly, he was doing a poor job of the one thing he knew was expected of him more than anything else in his life. The tightly controlled efforts were all for nothing if he couldn't convince...

Darcy bit the thought off before it could grow legs and burrow deeper into him. He didn't know where he was going until he found himself face-to-face with one of the outside doors. He shoved it roughly open with a slam; not as good as hitting a wall, maybe, but much more forgivable. The snow had started up again. The flakes were thicker but slower. The wind had died down and he was almost comfortable without a real coat.

Going outside before had not helped very much—or, rather, it had calmed his mind enough to convince him that telling Elizabeth exactly how he felt was actually a good idea. It had done the opposite of help, really. He wasn't sure why he thought it would help him on the second try. He strode down the walkway and stopped abruptly without really noticing his own movements. They were more away from than any kind of going towards.

He tipped his face up towards the sky. All he could see was deep navy and swirling white. The flakes caught the edges of light from the building and the lampposts and they shimmered in the air. He watched his breath swirl in the air, counting the seconds of each exhalation. The air was sharp when he breathed in through his mouth; it had a weight to it, as if it was a physical object in itself. He could feel it nipping the delicate skin inside his cheeks.