George Wickham had thought he knew London and everyone important in it. But now it seemed he only knew the important parts of London, and he apparently knew no-one in it.
He hadn't emerged from their room all week, but he seriously needed a drink. Lydia had woken up that morning at the crack of dawn, and had hardly stopped talking since. If she wasn't chattering inanely, she was complaining, and if she wasn't complaining, she was listing all the beautiful clothes she was going to buy once they were married, and every now and then she'd draw breath to laugh at the imagined looks on her sisters' faces.
He had tried to interject once or twice, but she had just spoken louder until he gave up. Sure, letting a girl talk was a good way of getting them to like you, but he'd never realized in Brighton that what Lydia truly wanted was a man to hear her monologues.
He finally spotted a likely looking fellow and ran over. "Excuse me, sir," he panted, "Can you please, PLEASE tell me of a good whiskey bar around here?"
The man he'd stopped looked perturbed. "Are you quite all right, young man?"
Wickham had no idea where to start. His brain was exploding with a million things he'd wanted to shout at Lydia but had to bite back, every single time. Finally, he managed to say, in a strained voice, "Are you married?"
"Ahh," said the man, face clearing with understanding and settling into sympathy. "Second street on the left, about five doors down."
"Thank you."
The bar itself wasn't the kind he usually frequented. It wasn't the fancy kind he went to with his fellow soldiers, nor the sordid kind he preferred to frequent by himself. It was somewhere in between, and usually would be far too mediocre to attract his attention.
But right now, it was the most beautiful establishment he had ever laid eyes upon. So beautiful, in fact, that he ran straight through the door and up to the bar and just said, "WHISKEY. PLEASE." The barman took one at his face and scuttled off to find a bottle.
Perhaps if he hadn't been quite so eager, he would have taken the time to look at the other clientele.
"Good evening, George," said Mr Darcy pleasantly from the stool to his left. "I'm impressed. I expected you to be out here by Tuesday."
Wickham let his head fall forward and hit the bar. "Before you haul me outside, can I have my drink?"
Mr Darcy looked thoughtful. For a second. "No," he decided, and dragged Wickham back outside by his shoulder.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2010-03-29 02:31 pm (UTC)He hadn't emerged from their room all week, but he seriously needed a drink. Lydia had woken up that morning at the crack of dawn, and had hardly stopped talking since. If she wasn't chattering inanely, she was complaining, and if she wasn't complaining, she was listing all the beautiful clothes she was going to buy once they were married, and every now and then she'd draw breath to laugh at the imagined looks on her sisters' faces.
He had tried to interject once or twice, but she had just spoken louder until he gave up. Sure, letting a girl talk was a good way of getting them to like you, but he'd never realized in Brighton that what Lydia truly wanted was a man to hear her monologues.
He finally spotted a likely looking fellow and ran over. "Excuse me, sir," he panted, "Can you please, PLEASE tell me of a good whiskey bar around here?"
The man he'd stopped looked perturbed. "Are you quite all right, young man?"
Wickham had no idea where to start. His brain was exploding with a million things he'd wanted to shout at Lydia but had to bite back, every single time. Finally, he managed to say, in a strained voice, "Are you married?"
"Ahh," said the man, face clearing with understanding and settling into sympathy. "Second street on the left, about five doors down."
"Thank you."
The bar itself wasn't the kind he usually frequented. It wasn't the fancy kind he went to with his fellow soldiers, nor the sordid kind he preferred to frequent by himself. It was somewhere in between, and usually would be far too mediocre to attract his attention.
But right now, it was the most beautiful establishment he had ever laid eyes upon. So beautiful, in fact, that he ran straight through the door and up to the bar and just said, "WHISKEY. PLEASE." The barman took one at his face and scuttled off to find a bottle.
Perhaps if he hadn't been quite so eager, he would have taken the time to look at the other clientele.
"Good evening, George," said Mr Darcy pleasantly from the stool to his left. "I'm impressed. I expected you to be out here by Tuesday."
Wickham let his head fall forward and hit the bar. "Before you haul me outside, can I have my drink?"
Mr Darcy looked thoughtful. For a second. "No," he decided, and dragged Wickham back outside by his shoulder.