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[personal profile] dollsome
all her wishes - Selfie ; Henry/Eliza ; 1,500 words. Henry and Eliza spend Valentine's Day together. In a totally platonic fashion, of course (not).

Disclaimer: I have no idea what the likelihood is of Eliza never having heard of P&P, but let's roll with it!

She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both: by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance.
(Pride & Prejudice)


Eliza knows she should feel pathetic. It’s Valentine’s Day and she’s totally single. Which, not necessarily a bad thing, but she’s also totally not taking advantage of her single-and-ready-to-mingle-and-tingle state by going out and hooking up with some desperate hot dudes. She’s just hanging out on her couch with the big weirdo who has somehow become her best friend. And even worse, he keeps trying to convince her that watching some old British documentary (or something) called Pride & Prejudice is the best way to spend the night.

It has Colin Firth on the cover, which tells Eliza everything she needs to know. Colin Firth is for old ladies. And Henry, apparently.

“No offense, Henry,” she says, “but I am so not in the mood to watch something about Colin Firth being a racist in a ruffly collar.”

“No,” Henry says. “No, that isn’t remotely the plot.”

“You sure?”

“It’s a love story. And a biting yet sprightly social commentary.”

“Boooooooooo,” says Eliza.

“With a bright and intelligent protagonist who happens to share your name.”

“His name is Eliza?” Eliza wrinkles her nose and stares down at the DVD cover.

“No, not him—” Henry sighs. “All right. Some other time, then.”

He’s willing to give up, and that fact alone makes something go ‘oh, fine, what the hell’ in Eliza’s soul.

“No, let’s watch it,” she says.

Henry’s face lights up.

“I’m drinking this the whole time, though,” Eliza adds, grabbing the bottle of wine that Henry brought over with him. Alongside a box of chocolates and some flowers, which he insisted were purely friendly flowers.

(“I also got some for Charlie,” Henry had said, to break up the awkward pause that came out to play after Eliza took the flowers.

“You did?”

“Well, no. But only because he’s my assistant and not my friend. If we hung out on more of a ... friendship level, though? Charlie would have gotten some flowers. Flowers of friendship.”

“Good to know,” Eliza said.)

Eliza stares at the flowers, which she put in a vase on the kitchen counter. She still can’t really picture Henry buying Charlie a dozen red roses under any circumstance. Although, okay, if that did happen, it would be hilarious.

“A glass of wine sounds nice, actually,” Henry says.

“No, this is mine,” Eliza says, hugging the bottle. “You can get your own.”

She shares anyway, though. In the name of, like, friendship and stuff.


It turns out Colin Firth Is Not A Ruffly Shirted Racist is like eight hundred billion hours long. Eliza doesn’t even have live tweeting to distract her from it, because she so doesn’t want her followers to know that this is how she’s spending Valentine’s Day.

Well, that and it would distract her from the TV – and, more importantly, Henry watching it. Every time the snooty British people do something extra snooty, he chuckles in this conspiratorial way, like he thinks that he is part of their clique and he’s totally going to be invited to tea at Mr. Bingley’s next Tuesday.

Which, by the way, what is the big effin’ deal about Mr. Bingley?? He’s not all that. These people need to chill. It’s the sort of observation that she would totally live tweet.

But. Well. Watching Henry is honestly more fun than letting people bask in her snarky fabulousness via Twitter.

And that’s weird.

She gets it.

Sometimes she feels like she doesn’t even know who she is anymore. Other times, she wonders if maybe it’s more that she’s finally figuring it out. Either way, it’s a scary feeling. But not necessarily scary-bad.

Unlike this Miss Bingley chick’s hair.


Eliza takes a big gulp of pinot to deal with that one.


They take a break after a few episodes.

(“What? No!” Eliza hollered at the end of the first one. “Why does this have episodes?”

“Because you can’t possibly expect an adaptation to remain faithful to all the brilliant minutia of the novel if it’s constrained to two hours.”

“There’s a novel?”

“You’re joking.”

“You’re not gonna make me read the book too, are you? Henry. I am not reading the book. You hear me? Henry. I need you to acknowledge that you heard me. NO BOOK.”)

When Henry goes to make some popcorn, Eliza stares down at the red box that’s been resting on the floor next to her all night. Henry hasn’t noticed it yet.

Might as well, Dooley.

“Hey, uh.” When Henry sits down next to her, she shoves the box inelegantly at him. “I got you these.”

He looks all genuinely touched. The loser. “You didn’t have to get me a gift.”

“Pssht. They’re not a gift.” She watches as he pulls the lid off. “It’s just—you mentioned your feet have been getting cold at night lately, because you’re an old man—”

“I am not an old man—”

“—and so I saw them and I thought, ‘Well, better get them for Henry and his old man feet, because I know how he feels about wearing socks to bed.’”

“You have to let your feet breathe,” Henry says severely. “It’s a basic tenet of podiatric health—”

“So keep these by your bed, and your stupid toes won’t get cold when you get up to go to the bathroom or whatever,” Eliza interrupts.

Henry looks down at the pair of slippers. They’re just boring old slippers. Gray with that nice white fluffy stuff on the inside. Not a big deal.

“Thank you, Eliza,” he says, looking at her like she just gave him, like, all his hopes and dreams. Or a labradoodle.

I love you, Eliza thinks. Then she wants to kick something. It’s not really a surprise, though. These moments pretty much happen on the regular nowadays.

She’s sick of feeling that feeling so hard and then just tucking it away.

So this time, she doesn’t. She just ... feels it.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

“What?” he asks, looking up from the slippers and really noticing the look on her face.

“Okay,” she says, not quite meaning to. “So, uh, I really wanna kiss you right now. But the last time I tried to make this happen, you kinda crushed my heart into a billion pieces and I don’t really remember it, but I’m pretty sure I sang Sia sad. Like, it was sad, Henry. People cried. Probably. Well, I cried. And I think I might have danced up on Larry, which, yikes—”

“I accept,” Henry interrupts.

She gapes. “What?”

“Your invitation. I accept it.” He clears his throat. And leans closer. “Consider this ... my RSVP.”

Eliza stares at him for a long time. He is so close all of a sudden. Kissably close. Her heart feels like it’s going to blow up faster than Jupiter Ascending on Tumblr.

Then she bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she gasps.

“What?” Henry frowns.

That’s what you’re gonna say? That. We have had this massive sexual tension hovering around us for the past ever, driving us straight up Britney-circa-2007 cray, and then when the moment is finally happening, you say ... you say that?” She laughs again. This weird, waily laughter. She literally cannot stop.

“I thought it was good,” Henry says, a little dazedly. “I stand by it.” He moves closer again. “Eliza, I—”

“Just hold up a sec,” she says, lunging desperately for her phone. It’s like running and hiding. But quicker. “I have to Tweet this.”

“You do not have to Tweet this—”

“Please. I so do. I want to remember this moment forever. And share it with literally everyone I’ve ever met. And everyone I haven’t met.”

“You really shouldn’t—”

“And Taylor Swift probably thought she had Most Popular V-Day 2015 Tweet in the bag with that thing about throwing a super cute lesbian cat wedding for Meredith Grey and Olivia Benson.”


“Hah! Not this time, Tay Tay—”


It’s kind of hard to type with her hands shaking, but damn it, she is gonna make this happen. “‘First kiss fail: I accept ... your invita’—”

And then Henry clasps her wrist.

His fingers are gentle against her skin, but determined too. She looks up from the comforting glow of the screen, and there he is. Just looking at her, like ... like no hashtag could ever capture. Like no words could ever capture. Like she’s everything.

It works, Eliza decides. Because he’s sorta everything, too.

And so maybe it’s okay to just see what happens.

“Fail?” he asks, his voice low and pretty freakin’ dreamy.

“Well, maybe not total fail,” Eliza admits, trying to sound annoyed. It mostly comes out breathless.

And then someone moves forward, or maybe both of them do, and finally, finally, finally he’s kissing her.

She drops her phone and it lands with a thud on the floor. And it’s kind of like, screw that little robot machine. For the first time, she couldn’t care less.

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