NEWLY SINGLE MEN WHO'VE INHERITED AN OBSCENE AMOUNT OF MONEY MUST BE IN WANT OF BOTTLE SERVICE ON A MONDAY NIGHT
October 5, 2006
posted by: kfeds_flipflop
They say everyone handles grief differently, and as all of you know, I've never been one to judge... sooo, here's a gallery of Fitzwilliam Darcy doing some late night healing up in AREA's swank V.I.P. section at the start of the work week:
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While you plebs were lying in bed (snuggled in exhausted disappointment about it only being a tuesday. counting on your fingers how much sleep there's still left for you to hope you'll get. making plans to be up in enough time to fight that 8am traffic and passive aggressively scrawl your name across a box of leftover chicken salad cuz that bitch, Stephanie, from accounting took the post-it off your marie callender pot-pie last friday before she swallowed it whole. you. just. know. it), Fitzwilliam, Darcy Media's own error-apparent, was out here necromancing chivalry:
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Look at that gentle hand guiding Paris Hilton safely down from that bartop with nary a wobble in her stilettos. So dashing!
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Can you say your bummy boyfriend has ever cut a handsome figure as he stuffed your drunk ass into a limo, hmm? Probably not.
Damn, Miss Caroline, how ever did you let such a catch slip through your fingers?
350 clapbacks/clapback
**
1.
"Darcy, do you have anything you'd like to add?"
The moment of panic on his face was brief although it had conquered several more practical and more stoic synapses in order to end up a slight, stiff quirk of his lips. In the span of a nanosecond, Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man who outwardly appeared to be the embodiment of all that was professional and joyless, had nearly been caught slacking off. Boredom and a decisive, gutter-esq appreciation for meetings led to the last forty-five minutes or so passing through his mind like a fog - with the occasional clear space in between taken up by list after useless list (i.e. 5 Tattoos I Swear Aunt Catherine has Lurking Under her Clothes// 5 Brands of Bleach that'll Cleanse the Image of Naked Aunt Catherine.)
The tenth mental list was in the middle of wrapping up (5 Things I'd Rather Sit Through than a Fucking Board Meeting: #2 a marathon of Ben Affleck's film oeuvre starting with Phantoms. #3 Ben Stein Reading War & Peace. #4 an Ashlee Simpson concert where she just mimes and jigs for an hour. #5...) when the attention in the room shifted from being about him in the abstract to directly.
And how embarrassing would it be to get caught in the act of not giving a shit when the subject of said meeting centered around his not giving a shit?
Tailored Gucci, a clean shaven face, and a serious brow belied the 5am ending to his night before. Any evidence that a bouncer was needed to peel Fitzwilliam off a lounge couch around 4am washed itself down the drain of a cold shower (one he shivered through in the corner with his knees to his chest and his bare ass on freezing, wet slate contemplating how he had gotten to this point, and why he had let Caroline talk him out of going with limestone decor.) The Starbucks dumped down his throat in the backseat of a blacked out SUV slowed the remainders of the mixed drinks in his bloodstream to a crawl as his driver maneuvered rush hour on the 405; the three tic-tacs melted over the back of his tongue masked the liquor smell.
And though the brunt of his current issues with the balding heads and ashen faces sitting on the board of Darcy Media Corp could be pinpointed to June, Fitzwilliam's troubles really began two years ago last August.
Back then he was still young and stupid enough to believe himself the sole lord and master of a cushiony trust-funded destiny, but a certain ennui with the state of his life was starting to form in the ethers (how many spontaneous private flights to Ibiza could one take before the whole deal lost its shine? how many forgotten faces of chalet girls would be awaiting his arrival at the bottom of an existential despair pit?)
At the center of his heart was a tremendous pull to make a mark independent of his (very) family name; Fitzwilliam Marcus Darcy III craved a passion for living that rivaled the way his lungs loved the air. His mind was practically all made up, and a culinary school was practically all picked out thanks to the handiness of a few scraps of paper and a Dodgers hat. Nights rolling on sandy beaches were turned down. Cabanas in Vegas would just have to miss the cut of his jib. He was twenty-six, and desperately ready for a purpose.
And then on August 20th, 2004 at the ripe, old age of sixty-two, Fitzwilliam Marcus Darcy II selfishly passed away in his sleep, losing out to a blocked artery.
With his dreams forgotten, and his time to mourn brief, Fitzwilliam naturally did what the other obedient sons of great men do when they inherit the family business- he vowed to suck it up and accept this newfound (if completely unwanted) role as president of the Darcy Media Corp. It was his duty, after all. So he did things like have suits made, and practiced waking up before noon. He took refreshers on a few of the business courses he got the most sleep in during his legacy stint at Harvard. He arrived first to board meetings, and kept a pad and pen next to his laptop for extra notes. He asked for emailed copies of shit he wasn't entirely sure he actually needed a copy of, and he let junior execs take the blame for his little boo-boos along the way.
For the entirety of the year after his father's death, Fitzwilliam was a proper, model heir. One in a long line of Darcys, his picture would some day hang in the family home alongside those important Darcy men that came before- where it was guaranteed to scare the last drops of individualism out of generations of Darcy men thereafter.
In spite of trashing that Dodgers hat, and finding himself with only enough leisure time for takeout so that he never really thought about cooking (except in the sense he was too fucking tired to do it), the same ennui that had requested a guided purpose now wished it were on the way to Bali instead of on the phone with headmasters discussing his little sister's grades. And this feeling emerged as a crushing grip in Fitzwilliam's chest whenever the occasion asked for him to appear serious and together in front of strangers; it flickered any time facts and figures forced him to cancel an evening out with Caroline, and settled into "night sweats" as Caroline became increasingly "busy" and Fitzwilliam became accustomed to calling her just to hear "Dont'cha" as a ringback tone before her voicemail.
By the second anniversary of his father's death, Caroline came to the conclusion it was best they see other people (and he agreed, but he would've rather she told him she was single before she told TMZ.) Old friends began getting in touch. One night out on a Saturday morphed into closing time on a Wednesday, until Fitzwilliam barely bothered showing up for Darcy Media at all.
Today was October 15th 2006, and his actions over the past year were soaked in top shelf (and a grief that hit him in the middle of the night so profound he was terrified to touch it.) Today was the day he would straighten up his act (because the board was not quite as keen to view the paparazzo Fitzwilliam took a swing at not publishing those pictures in exchange for $25,000 as the small victory he saw.)
Today Fitzwilliam Marcus Darcy III would snatch his legacy back from the clutches of being able to be summed up by the time he offered to light Lindsay Lohan's cigarette.
So he let the panic disappear from his face and he wiggled just slightly in his chair to work the kinks out of his back while taking in the sourpusses in the room, and he muttered, "No, there's nothing more to say for myself. Thank you all for this chance" adjourning the meeting.
"Sarah hold my calls."
Fitzwilliam grunted in the direction of his secretary as he rushed past her for the oak double doors of his office. Eager to lock himself inside, slip his iPod out of the top drawer of his desk and pretend he was anywhere else in the world.
"Mr. Darcy, wait! There's..."
Being very much caught up in his own internal pity party, Fitzwilliam missed the way Sarah's eyes bulged nearly out of her head when he flung open those double doors.
"...someone here to see you and she wouldn't wait…"
But it was too late, he had already stepped inside and come face-to-face with a drowned rat.
Standing in the middle of his personal space and making a puddle on his plush carpet, the young woman wrung water out of the bottom of her soaked shirt, and had the nerve to give him a grin. "Did you know it takes three buses to get here?" she said.
"... she just walked in, Mr. Darcy…"
Fitzwilliam blinked, his mind desperately trying to recall the name of anyone down in security that he could have the pleasure of firing. "No, why would I get on a bus?"
Drowned Rat narrowed her eyes slightly, and craned her neck to take in all six feet and two inches of him. The look on her face was oddly judgy, considering Fitzwilliam was going to be the one filing a trespassing charge. "Did you know it rained today?" she asked.
His gaze traveled slowly over the wet mess of her. "Yes."
"...I called security…"
Fitzwilliam shot Sarah a look over his shoulder. "Yeah, they're top notch. I hope I won't get stabbed before Passions goes on commercial break, I don't wanna bother them," he snapped.
"Hey, there's no reason to bite her head off." Drowned Rat now had the audacity to glare at him. "Maybe you should hire better people."
Fitzwilliam's head cocked to the side as he dared to take a step closer to her."And maybe you should mind your own- wait, who are you?
That got him an eye roll. "God, you're so… I knew in my bones you'd be a walking cliche." Drowned Rat sighed, turning her attention on Sarah. "You might want to close that door. I don't think you wanna risk having an audience."
Fitzwilliam let out a derisive snort but found himself shutting the doors on his very stunned secretary. If he was to be murdered in this moment, he at least hoped for a good excuse out of security, like "Luis finally found Sheridan trapped in Beth's basement" good.
"Remember about a month ago your friend Charlie threw a wrap party?"
"..."
Another sigh. "He's dating my sister, Jane."
"Ohh," he said, "yeah right, Jane and Lindsey. Yeah, I remember."
Another eye roll. "Lizzie. My name is Lizzie."
"Right," he said.
"Look, I wouldn't have even bothered coming here if it weren't for Jane. Like I get that we were a one night kind of deal, and I'm usually not in the habit of embarrassing the shit out of myself except that I've already been to this office five times last week because I didn't want to involve Charlie and you're never here and it takes three goddamn buses, and the phone number you gave me is to a Panda Express in Salinas, and I spent two hours this morning with my head in the toilet before I took three buses in the rain, Fitzwilliam."
"Listen, Lizzie- I don't know what you-"
Yes, today was the day Fitzwilliam Marcus Darcy III would reclaim his sense of propriety and snap out of this sorry state of being and bring pride back to the Darcy name.
"I'm pregnant."
And then a hookup decided to stop by his office and ruin his life.