Bingley has drifted into deep conversation with the table beside him. He holds the discussion effortlessly, pleasantly, charmingly. The strangers, who are now steadfastly approaching acquaintances–or dare it, friends!–all talk over each other, eager to speak with Bingley. At this point, Bingley’s legs are turned to the side of his seat, so that he may more attentively attend to his neighbors.
And then there’s a phone in front of him. His phone!
“Ah, yes, of course it is! Thank you! But, well, I don’t need reminding, Darcy! I’m familiar with what my phone looks like, you know.”
A light puff of a giggle poofs out of him when Darcy accidentally drinks his coffee. There’s a slight wisp of whipped cream lining Darcy’s upper lip like a mustache. While beginning to stand to face Darcy, Bingley grabs a napkin. He crumbles most of it into his fist; a corner of it covers the pad of his thumb, and he gingerly swipes his thumb over Darcy’s mouth, cleaning away the whipped cream.
He smiles and nods like he’s admiring a job well done. And it is! A job well done, that is! Darcy looks incredibly handsome! Even with that brooding look on his face. Hmm. Perhaps the whipped cream was a better look. It made him appear less serious.
“Thank you, Darcy. Sit! I must have you sit and meet this delightful group of people!”
He sips. His face warms, lighting up like the sun.
“Ooh! This drink is positively perfect. Darcy, you know me well! Why, you may even know me better than– well– me!”
Were Darcy even slightly less stoic, his pale cheeks would be flushed by now, profusely enough that their glow might rival the warmth radiating from Bingley’s bright smile. As it is, his left eye twitches slightly while he submits to the attempt to wipe the whipped cream from his mouth, a flustered little tic easily misconstrued as irritation at having been subjected to so intimate a gesture.
Biting back the urge to explain precisely why he'd presented him with his phone, he turns his attention to the adjacent table instead. Is he pleased to see the small crowd of admirers that Bingley has amassed in his absence? Hardly.
Is he surprised? Hardly.
He won’t be able to charm these strangers with even half Bingley’s skill, he knows --- or any skill at all, really. Beyond that, he sees no particular reason to try, and so doesn’t deign to. Briefly, his dark-eyed gaze flits over their faces. After conducting what seems to be a cold, concise assessment, he nods by way of greeting, aloof as ever.
His expression says much more than he has, and what it says is that he would rather not be here, which is true.
"Of course."
Still, he yields, less because he was asked than because it was Bingley who did the asking. Claiming the seat beside his cheerful companion, he settles in with one leg folded over the other, posture almost imperious, and lifts his own drink (Scalding black) to his lips.
“How long have I known you, Bingley? At this point, it'd be difficult not to have noticed something as simple as your taste in coffee.”
It’s also difficult not to notice that half of these people might be a bit in love with his friend already. Knowing him, it might be mutual. Darcy, for his part, studies them with something just short of suspicion. His grip on his cup is tight.
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