Pride and Prejudice Some Days

. . . . . .

Some days she thinks she might have judged William Darcy a little too harshly.

. . . . . .

The odd thing about having a video blog is that you have videographic evidence, irrefutable proof, of things you said and thought and did, and once the heat of the moment has passed you can go back and watch yourself with objective eyes, examine your behavior as though it was someone else doing it. And when she goes back and rewatches that first awkward meeting at Pemberley Digital, what she sees is this: Darcy was kind. Darcy expressed warm wishes for her happiness at Pemberley and offered her a ride and asked if there was anything he could do to make her more comfortable. Darcy smiled and watched her with attentive eyes. Darcy was thoroughly unlike what she'd expected and thoroughly, undeniably kind.

And she—well, she sees now that she was the one making it awkward; she's always thought that was his area of expertise but now she sees she has that ability as well. She ground out halting sentences, some of which now sound gratingly fakely cheery to her ears, and stared at the camera and didn't know what to do with her hands. She can't blame him for this meeting being as uncomfortable as it was (unless of course you're considering that little declaration of love that still hangs over both their heads).

And with that same peculiar clarity, she sees now that he was disappointed and maybe a little hurt when she turned down his ride offer; that quiet "Understood" speaks volumes, and though she decided months ago to retire from the sport of Darcy Interpretation after being shown how appallingly bad she is at it, if she had to guess she'd say that he assumed that rejection of the ride was yet another rejection of him.

But I wasn't rejecting you, she wants to tell him every time that self-deprecating, disappointed look appears on her screen. I was rejecting the situation. I was rejecting the idea of a car ride together that could only have been painfully uncomfortable for the both of us. I was letting you off the hook; your offer was polite, but I couldn't have accepted. Neither of us wanted to do it.

But the more she watches the less she believes her reasons are valid. The more she watches the more she thinks that he didn't offer to be polite, he offered because he sincerely wanted to give her a ride. And she doesn't know what that means for him, for her, for the non-existent them. After all, she gave up Darcy Interpretation a long time ago.

. . . . . .

She's read the letter more times than she cares to admit, and each time she reads it her feelings toward its writer are different: anger, confusion, amusement, frustration, sympathy. And now and then, the most reluctant, tiniest speck of admiration. Not about that Bing and Jane mess, of course; she doesn't know if she can ever forgive him for that. But for Gigi, for the way he's raised her since he was little more than a child himself, for the fierce protectiveness and love that shines through every pen stroke. If Lizzie wrote a letter about Lydia, she's not sure it would reflect quite as well on her own character.

And sometimes she wonders if both he and Jane were right: maybe the fact that Bing was so easily persuaded to leave Jane is a sign that he never cared for her as much as they all thought. Because in that case Darcy was just acting as the catalyst that hurried their inevitable breakup; maybe all he did was move her heartbreak up a month or two. This impression is helped by her brief meeting with Bing at Pemberley, who is polite and friendly but, to her eyes, not particularly sorry about what he did to Jane.

It doesn't change the fact that it was none of Darcy's business, but still, every time she reads the letter she's less and less angry with its author.

. . . . . .

It's hard to be away from her family but Fitz and Gigi have stepped into that role admirably, taking the new girl in town into their collective embrace. Over fish tacos in her second week Fitz slapped his hand decisively on the table and declared that lunch dates were going to be their new Wednesday thing, and Gigi's already taken her for coffee twice. That she adores Fitz she already knew, but that she's coming to care for Gigi surprises her. The girl is sweet and affectionate, absent-minded but intelligent, and despite being not much younger (and slightly taller) than Lizzie, seems to look up to her. Of course there's her painfully obvious attempts to get Lizzie and Darcy together, but in a strange way it's flattering; Gigi clearly thinks the world of Lizzie and wants her to be a fixture in the Darcy family's lives. So Lizzie sidesteps her attempts to talk Darcy up and when that's not happening the two girls get on wonderfully. They talk about books and movies and it feels a little like how Charlotte and Maria are together, and Lizzie feels terrible for even thinking that because she's already got a younger sister who she really does love, but there it is.

Fitz proclaimed absolute surprise on seeing her in San Francisco, but she keeps tabs on his Twitter and she saw his cryptic exchanges with Gigi, and she's fairly certain that he's been busy plotting lately. It's hard to be mad about that when Pemberley Digital turned out to be absolutely amazing, but she does worry that they still have plots up their sleeves, more unsubtle tricks to bring her and Darcy together, so she's on edge every time they go out somewhere together, wondering if he'll suddenly appear. So far her social life has been entirely devoid of him.

But that doesn't mean he's not a presence in their little social scene, in a roundabout way, because Gigi and Fitz both are like him in ways Lizzie's sure they don't even realize. Fitz is of course nothing like his friend in appearance or personality, but they share certain turns of phrase, certain mannerisms, the way people who are very close to each other often come to do, and every so often in a conversation, something he says will make her turn and stare because it's exactly something Darcy would say. And Gigi's the very image of her brother, the coloring and the nose and the certain way they sometimes move their mouths. Even when Darcy's not around, he continues to be part of Lizzie's life.

. . . . . .

The art in the memorial hall is amazing; Lizzie sometimes goes up there on her lunches to wander and think. "I suppose the art was Darcy's doing," she says to Gigi one day, because of course that would be just like him—why wouldn't a fine eye for art be another thing he's good at, another thing that makes her feel just a bit inferior to him, another thing she never bothered to find out about him.

"No, actually, it was my idea," replies Gigi, "and then Chloe is our curator. William likes art but not very seriously."

Somehow that makes her feel better.

. . . . . .

Some days she wonders how much of William Darcy's awful behavior in the summer was real and how much of it was in her head because it was so much easier to think badly of him.

. . . . . .

"You should apply to work here after your graduate," says Nora from accounting.

"It does seem like a nice place to work," Lizzie says noncommittally, not because she hasn't thought about how amazing it would be to work here but because she has also thought about how awkward it would be to work here.

"I'm serious," Nora insists. "Everyone here loves you and this place is the best—best perks, best hot chocolate, best boss, best swimming pool."

And there's one part of that statement she can't not ask about. "Best boss? Really? That Darcy guy?" (She's been keeping up this act, the one where the CEO is a total stranger to her, since she got here, but she's still not sure whether she does it for professional or personal reasons.)

"Yeah, of course, you don't think he's great?"

She hems and haws at that. "It's just—have you ever met him in person?"

"Once or twice," says Nora.

"Don't you think he's kind of . . . awkward? Like not great at talking to people?"

"Sure, he seemed a little shy," comes Nora's dismissive reply. "But look at all this amazing stuff he does for the company; it's clear he cares about the employees. Anyway, isn't it more important what he does than what he says?"

What he does is break sweet girls' hearts, Lizzie thinks, but then she thinks, Although that was part of a misguided but sincere effort to help a friend. She doesn't respond to Nora's question.

. . . . . .

His name is William. She knows that, of course, has known it since she met him, but somehow that thought never meant anything to her until she hears the name on the lips of his sister. And then it shocks her. He's not snobby, pretentious Mr. Douchey; he's not a dubstep DJ; his name is William. William. Will. Once upon a time a weary woman wrapped in the glow of new motherhood held him in her arms and whispered My sweetest William; once a dark-haired little girl toddled after her brother calling Wait for me, William, I'm coming too. Once William was a nametag on a fastidious little kindergartner in suspenders; once William was the namesake of a proud father.

Darcy was an unwelcome dinner guest who made her furious. William is a dutiful son, a loving brother, a kind-hearted boss. She doesn't let herself think about the fact that she still makes herself call him Darcy.

. . . . . .

Some days she realizes that she wants William Darcy to think well of her.

. . . . . .

"And before that," Reynolds recounts, "I was Anne Darcy's personal assistant."

Lizzie freezes, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. "Anne Darcy," she repeats. "Wasn't she—" and then she changes her mind about what she's about to say—"the CFO?"

"Yes," Reynolds smiles, "one of _the_ Darcys of Pemberley. There's been a few, over the years."

"Wasn't she married to the CEO? And—" she strives for a casual tone— "wasn't she the current CEO's mother?"

"Yes," says Reynolds, and then his face falls a little. "Before that terrible accident. Both parents in one day—those poor children."

And she dares to ask a question she's been wondering about for a while, because Reynolds seems like the kind of harmless old gossip who wouldn't find it an offensive query. "I heard about them at the memorial hall," she says, "and I was wondering, did anyone find it odd having the CEO and the CFO be married? Like, did people wonder if there was some nepotism there? Or was it ever, like, a conflict of interest?"

"With the Darcys? Never," says Reynolds confidently. "Anne started working here before she and William even knew each other, and they were always very careful that he never sat on any of her review committees. When she became CFO, it was the other company officers who recommended they promote her. And she deserved it; she was brilliant. Incredibly good at her job." He stirs his soup. "As for any conflicts of their personal and professional lives, Anne would always say to me, 'I leave my work life at work and my home life at home.'" He smiles fondly at the memory. "I sat in on all of their meetings and they were not afraid to duke it out if they had to, or to call each other out the same as they would with anyone else. Then after a full day of arguing, when five o'clock hit he'd kiss her and they'd walk out hand-in-hand." And now he's using his spoon to point at Lizzie and gesture emphatically. "'Respect,' she'd tell me, 'that's the key.' They loved each other but they also respected each other as colleagues—they respected each other's business skills. And so much so that neither one ever treated the other better or worse than they would any other co-worker."

Lizzie's still thinking about this conversation as she returns to her desk. Respect, that's the key: that statement had resonated with her, because it's not always part of her family relationships. She knows her dad loves her mom, but she also knows that he doesn't really respect her, that he thinks she's a bit silly. And she's wondered a time or two, in those moments where she dares to think that her father isn't perfect, if his opinion of his wife rubbed off on his second daughter, who also thinks her mother is a bit silly. And all her life she's promised herself that her own marriage won't be like that, that she'll find a man who both loves and respects her, who acknowledges and values her mind and her abilities as well as her more overtly feminine charms. And today she knows it's possible because Anne Darcy managed to do just that. Lizzie smiles to herself and wonders if she'll ever be as lucky as Anne, and then she looks up and her eyes fall on a photo of William Darcy in the hallway, and quite against her will she suddenly finds herself blushing.

. . . . . .

If you were to ask her when she stopped hating Darcy, she'd say that it depends on what you mean by "stopped hating."

The first moment that the unassailable wall of her hatred developed the tiniest of cracks was on that awful day at Collins and Collins, after she'd turned off the camera and an upset and disappointed Darcy had walked out of the office. It wasn't much of a crack—just the realization that her previously pure hate had been adulterated with just the tiniest hint of pleasure, of feeling flattered. Yes, she admits it, she was a little flattered to learn that a rich, handsome, and influential man was in love with her, and she dares anyone to claim they wouldn't feel the same way.

The moment that took the rancor out of her feelings for him was the reading of his letter. It didn't explain or excuse all of his behavior, and she's still angry with him in a lot of ways, but knowing how dead wrong she was about George, seeing how much Darcy loves his sister—it really took the wind out of her sails, and she knew as she read those words that if he came to her again she wouldn't yell at him again. She'd still reject him, but she wouldn't yell.

But it's weeks, months, before the negative Darcy feelings she's been clearing out of her heart are replaced with positive feelings—feelings that his presence in her life could be a pleasant thing. That first moment is a small, commonplace occurrence, nothing so dramatic as a declaration of love: she's walking down the hallway at Pemberley when she passes a conference room where he's having a meeting. He's at the front of the room, listening to a presentation, and when he sees her looking through the windows he nods and gives her a small smile, and to her immense surprise she finds herself smiling back. And she knows then that she hasn't forgiven him for everything, but she doesn't hate him.

. . . . . .

Some days she doesn't mind William Darcy's company.

. . . . . .

At the end of Lizzie's second week in San Francisco Gigi invites her over to Sunday dinner at the Darcy home. Lizzie knows without being told that Darcy will be there but she accepts anyway; she knows Gigi won't rest until they start socializing, and anyway she doesn't want to spend her evening alone. She and Gigi have played tennis and gotten coffee a few times, and she's gone out for drinks with Fitz a few times, but both of their social lives involve William Darcy so she can never fully be part of their circle until she starts hanging out with him.

She arrives early and carrying a used copy of _Fahrenheit 451_; in her head she hears her mother's voice berating her for showing up at an event like this with such an odd gift for her hosts, but her normal host gift is wine and she can't imagine there's anything she could afford that wouldn't pale in comparison with whatever the Darcys keep in their wine cellar (yes, they have a large and well-stocked wine cellar, as Gigi has told her) and she couldn't really offer to bring food because that's all being handled by the chef (yes, the Darcys hire a _chef _when they have dinner parties). (She thinks about her mother's bumbling attempts to impress Bing and Darcy when they first moved to town last summer and realizes for the first time that when Darcy thought they were all hopelessly backwards and poor—well, compared to how he normally lives, she's starting to see why he felt that way.) So instead she brings this book she picked up for $1.75 at the Lampton Book Company, and she hopes her new friend doesn't think it's too bizarre.

She gets to find out pretty quickly, because Gigi enthusiastically greets her in the entryway as she's taking off her coat. Lizzie hands her the book. "Sorry if this is weird," she says, "but I came across this yesterday at a used bookstore and I remembered you saying you'd been meaning to read it but you guys don't own it, and when I saw the inscription in this I knew you had to have this copy."

Gigi's eyes are alight with curiosity as she opens to the first blank page. "_Dearest G,_" she reads aloud, "_it's about blasted time you got around to reading this book. Love from Grandmother, 1968.__" _She bursts into laughter. "You're right, that is priceless." Her smile becomes softer, a little pleased and shy. "Thank you, Lizzie Bennet." Then her eyes flit to something behind Lizzie. "I need to go check on the food, but William can help you with your coat."

Lizzie turns around quickly to see Darcy standing behind her, his eyes alight with amusement and something else. "That's very kind of you, to think of my sister. And to find such a fitting gift."

She'd thought she was ready for this moment. She's not. "I—I felt like I should bring something, but I didn't know what because it seemed like you guys had the meal under control—"

"Lizzie," he says over her babbling, "it's fine. All that we want tonight is you."

And she promised herself that she wouldn't make this awkward, but all she can think now is that if one pronoun in that statement was changed it would have an entirely different meaning, and she can't think of how to respond so instead she asks "What do I do with my coat?"

"My apologies," he says formally, taking it from her and hanging it in the hall closet. And then he, of all people—Darcy, of all people—starts making normal, polite conversation with her as he leads her into the dining room. "Do you enjoy used book shops? I could recommend several excellent ones in the city, if you're interested in finding more."

"You get books secondhand?" she asks, surprised.

"Generally I'm more interested in rare or antiquarian books," he confesses, and six months ago she would have taken that as evidence of his snobbery but tonight she finds she doesn't, "but sometimes you just want a used book." They've reached the dining room, where Pemberley's elderly COO, the other dinner guest for the evening, is waiting. Darcy hesitates and gives her a shy smile and laugh, as though he thinks what he's about to admit is embarrassing. "Sometimes there will be a particular printing of a book that I love, but it goes out of print and I don't like the cover on the new edition that's available, so if I need a copy I'll hunt down the printing I like." He looks at her to gauge her reaction, but if he's expecting her to find that to be a weird habit, he couldn't be more wrong.

"Actually," she says, and she's just as surprised as he is to find they have this in common, "I do the same thing. I ordered the Dark is Rising series off eBay because I couldn't find the covers I wanted anywhere else."

The smile he gives her then might be the first full, genuine smile he's ever shown her, and she can't help but smile back.

. . . . . .

The Darcy home is beautiful, of course—of _course_—and decorated in a way that reminds Lizzie very much of some ancient, noble house from a Victorian novel: all leather-bound books and dark woods and trinkets from travels around the world. She prefers her decor to be a little lighter, a little more modern, but she has to admit that this place is beautiful; she could happily live in a place like this.

And yet, Lizzie thinks with some satisfaction the first time she's given a tour of the house, it's not _warm_, not like the Bennet home. It doesn't feel lived in or loved or inviting; it doesn't feel like the kind of home you could just cuddle with at the end of a long hard day or where you could sprawl out on one of those leather couches with a book in your hand and your feet up on the armrest. It feels a bit like a museum for lovely old things, a place where you'd be afraid to touch the antique coffee table or track dirt onto the Turkish rugs.

That's not to say she feels the place has never been loved, or never could be loved again; it's just to say that it feels like a place that for the past seven years has been the home of a man who's never home, who has a team of maids to take care of the place for him, who's been afraid to change anything since his parents died. Gigi, she knows, has been away at college for a long time; she comes home frequently but still spends about half her nights in her apartment near Stanford. And her brother, Lizzie sees now, has been living a half-life for a long time.

She suspects that he is much more lonely than he lets on.

. . . . . .

Some days she can't believe how thoroughly she misunderstood William Darcy.

. . . . . .

Lizzie didn't mean to be an interloper, but she needed to talk to Gigi and the girl wasn't answering her phone, so she'd decided to walk over to her desk. And now here she stands, staring in surprise, at Darcy sitting on the edge of his sister's desk and laughing out loud, while Gigi giggles with one hand over her mouth and the other arm propping herself up against her brother's leg. She's never heard him laugh before. Never. But it's a warming sound, and the look of mirth spread across his face suits him very well.

"Lizzie!" Gigi says delightedly, then looks at the clock on her computer. "We're not doing dinner until tomorrow, right?"

"Right," Lizzie manages to pull herself out of her surprise enough to say. "But I was actually wondering if we could change that until today; my dad's coming up here for business tomorrow and he's only going to be here the one day . . ."

"Absolutely!" Gigi chirps, but then her face falls. "Oh, but William and I were going to dinner tonight."

"We can reschedule," says her brother kindly. "It's not like we don't have dinner together most nights you're in town."

Lizzie's about to protest that she didn't mean to break up their dinner when Gigi perks up again. "Idea! How about we all just go together?"

"No, I can't intrude on a family meal—"

"You won't be," Gigi insists. "We're inviting you." She turns her beseeching eyes to her brother, hinting for him to help, and Lizzie finds herself looking at him as well.

"We would love to have you come to dinner with us, Lizzie Bennet," he says sincerely. There's still a smile on his face and she thinks to herself that if he'd smiled at her more over the summer—that adorable smile with the raised eyebrows and the dimple—she might have had a very different opinion of him.

And she can't stand up to two pleading Darcy faces. "All right," she agrees, and she's glad her YouTube fans aren't seeing this because they would have a heyday over her falling prey to his smile.

. . . . . .

It's an uncomfortable moment when she first sees Darcy address his employees at the monthly company meeting, where he discusses the planned expansion of the marketing team and the upcoming acquisition of a small Canadian company, and all she can do is stare. This is not the Darcy of the summer, all scowls and uncomfortable silences and a total inability to talk to strangers, and it's not the Darcy she knows now, sweet but awkward and shy. This Darcy is confident, well-spoken, and dynamic, and for the first time she understands how he could run such a company as this. And she's a little disconcerted to find that Capable CEO Darcy is rather attractive.

. . . . . .

Fitz convinces them all to go to the symphony with him. Lizzie can't figure out why—he's not really a symphony person—until she hears Darcy ask him about it.

"Because I wanted to hang out and you wouldn't have come if I asked you to go to a movie," says Fitz brightly.

And once they're in the concert hall, he manages to maneuver it so that she and Darcy are seated next to each other, with Fitz and Gigi on Darcy's other side so Lizzie can't talk to them without leaning over her seatmate's broad chest. And even when she tries, Fitz pretends to be too absorbed in doing something else to talk to her. Attending the symphony, with only each other to talk to: for all intents and purposes, Fitz has just gotten them to go on a date.

It's hard to tell if Darcy's noticed this; he's rather too inscrutable for his own good. "Are you a fan of Barber?" he asks her cordially.

She blinks up at him for a few moments, then delicately asks, "Is that who's playing tonight?"

He laughs aloud and she thinks again what a nice sound that is. "Fitz bullied you into coming too?" he guesses.

"I wouldn't say bullied, exactly. He asked and it was something to do." And then she shuts her mouth, blushing, because somehow she doesn't want him to know that Fitz and Gigi are her only friends in San Francisco.

"Well," he says, leaning in closer, "they're starting with Barber's Adagio for Strings, and you are in for a treat."

And then the lights dim and the applause starts and his attention turns to the stage. The music begins and even though she's not into this kind of thing, he was right, it's lovely. But her attention isn't entirely on the music. Her fake date doesn't seem to notice that leaning _toward _her a moment ago means he now ought to lean _away _from her to get back to where he was. Instead he stays closer to her than is strictly polite for two distant acquaintances, which she'd like to pretend they are, and so she devotes half of her attention to wondering how she should sit—does shifting like this bring her too close to him, does shifting like that make it obvious she's trying to get away from him, what does she do with her hands. She can't decide so she sits up straight and keeps her hands in her lap and tries not to notice that every now and then as the music rises the man sitting next to her breathes deeply in response, his chest rising, then lets it out in the tiniest of sighs. She has a hard time wrapping her head around the idea of a William Darcy who can be so moved by a piece of music.

. . . . . .

Some days she recognizes that she ought to stop holding William Darcy's past behavior against him.

. . . . . .

"You look fine," Gigi reassures Lizzie after the third or fourth time she pulls out her compact to check her makeup. "No, much better than fine. You look great."

Lizzie smiles her gratitude, but this is a dinner outing on which she absolutely must look her best: the Lees are in town. She hasn't talked to Caroline since those heated confrontations at Collins and Collins, and she's not much looking much forward to seeing her again, but she feels that if she knows she looks good, that will be one less thing to worry about—one less thing for Caroline to be smug about. As for Bing, well, it doesn't make much sense but on some level she feels that if Bing sees her looking good, he'll remember that she has a sister who looks even better.

Their car arrives at the restaurant and there in the lobby is Bing. He looks hesitant when he sees her and she knows she was not kind the last time she saw him; she doesn't really want to be kind now but she decides she can't pick a fight for Jane's sake when Jane would be the one telling her to be polite. So she smiles cordially, and the smile of absolute relief that crosses his face when he sees she's not mad at him almost makes her want to forgive him.

Caroline approaches then, looking as put-together and insincere as ever. "Caroline," says Darcy politely, and Gigi adds her hello, and Lizzie thinks to herself that her dress is rather much for the occasion. Catty, yes, she knows that, but sometimes catty is comforting. But Darcy and Gigi can't be particularly thrilled with Caroline either, and they're being polite, so she'll try to be polite too.

"Lizzie Bennet," says Caroline in that tone that Lizzie now can't believe she ever fell for. "Aren't you looking well. Must be climbing all the hills in San Francisco; I hear they're pretty unforgiving."

It's clearly meant to be a joke, a look-Darcy-I'm-doing-it-too joke, but all Lizzie can think is great, she still watches the videos.

But the dinner goes better than she was expecting; Bing tells her and Gigi all about his recent vacation and his studies, and she doesn't say much back but she doesn't scowl at him either. Caroline talks to Darcy and occasionally calls on Gigi to take her side on some point but never waits for her response. At one point, Lizzie notices out of the corner of her eye as Caroline leans over and puts one hand on Darcy's arm, and he promptly uses that arm to flag down a waiter with a question, making Caroline's hand slide off, and Lizzie would be lying if she said that didn't make her smile a little.

And so things go until their plates are nearly cleared and they're sitting together chatting like old friends, and Lizzie is glad she agreed to come to this dinner because it's been pleasant and a few unguarded comments are making her start to suspect that Bing isn't as over Jane as he pretends to be. But then Caroline turns her attentions to Lizzie's end of the table.

"So Lizzie Bennet," she says, "it's been a long time. Lots of interesting things going on in your life, I hope? I hope you don't feel too bad that you're not really seeing a lot of George Wickham anymore. He is a very handsome guy."

Out of the corner of her eye, Lizze sees Gigi's hand suddenly ball into a fist and her eyes drop to the table. She looks across at Darcy, at the stricken look on his face, and suddenly she realizes that Caroline doesn't know about Wickham and Gigi. She might think mentioning his name is a good way to make Lizzie uncomfortable, but she'd never risk upsetting Darcy and Gigi by bringing it up if she knew the whole story.

Both Darcys look extremely uncomfortable, and Lizzie realizes it falls on her to break up the awkward silence without bringing Caroline's attention to the fact that there is one, so she smiles politely and says the first thing that pops into her mind. "No, I can't say that I miss him very much at all. And you know, Caroline, your dress is just the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and it is making me so ready for dessert. Do we have a dessert menu here?"

And Caroline looks down at her dress, affronted at the comparison, and Gigi looks sideways at Lizzie and smiles, and then Lizzie glances up and sees that across the table Darcy is giving her a look like she's never quite seen from him before. It's a look of gratitude, but also one of something deep and earnest that she can't quite name, and it make her want to blush and look away but she forces herself to keep eye contact and smile back.

They do get dessert, and when they go to pay for their meals she discovers that Darcy has already paid for her. "It's the least I could do," he says, then pauses embarrassedly. "For Gigi."

And it's only when she's home in bed that it occurs to Lizzie that if Caroline doesn't know about Gigi, Bing probably doesn't know. She sees more and more what a closely guarded secret it is, and the fact that he told her makes her feel strangely pleased. It's an exclusive club, the people who look out for Gigi, and Darcy trusts her to be in it.

. . . . . .

"And then next month," says Fitz, knocking back the rest of his drink, "the Playhouse is putting on _The Winter's Tale_. We still haven't decided if we're going—that's one Shakespeare I don't know at all."

"It is the absolute worst," says Lizzie, at the same time that Darcy says "It's all right."

They turn to stare at each other, and across the table Gigi and Fitz exchange glances.

Lizzie breaks the silence first. "It's about a man who is such an idiot, who is so convinced that he knows everything, that he ends up alienating and in some cases killing everyone he cares about, including his wife and children. And then at the end magically his wife is alive and she forgives him and falls into his arms and they're supposed to live happily ever after."

Darcy is suddenly very interested in his glass. "It's about a man," he mumbles, "who makes a lot of stupid mistakes but in the end he gets a second chance at happiness."

Lizzie looks at him in surprise for a long moment, and then suddenly she's very interested in her glass too. Across the table, Gigi and Fitz exchange another glance.

. . . . . .

"Thanks for the ride, Darcy," she says, reaching for the door handle.

"Can you call me William?" comes the unexpected response from the driver's seat.

She turns back to stare at him, surprised. He seems uncomfortable but in earnest, and she hesitates a moment, wondering what to say. Finally she can't help pointing out, "Bing and Fitz don't even call you William."

"Never mind," he says, and he seems agitated, like he's upset with himself for asking.

But it's not an unreasonable request. "No, it's fine. Thanks for the ride, William."

There's that smile that makes one dimple appear, and she finds herself smiling in return. And only when he has pulled away in his fuel-conscious car does she realize how intimate a step it is to call him a name that only his immediate family uses. But it's too late now, she already agreed to call him that, and as she watches his tail lights disappear she finds that she doesn't regret agreeing to it.

. . . . . .

She ducks in the door, pleased as punch that she managed to keep the torrential downpour from ruining her hair, because without meaning to brag she thinks she looks pretty great today.

"Hey, Lizzie, that meeting's been rescheduled until next week," Grant says as he sees her come in. "Trenton had to leave town with Darcy; some last minute meeting in New York."

She pauses, then closes her umbrella. "Oh," she says simply, and finds that she's suddenly less invested in the state of her hair.

. . . . . .

Some days she thinks that she and William Darcy are friends.

. . . . . .

"I told you to call me William, not Will."

"William's just so formal."

"Which works for me, because I've been told I'm a very formal person."

"But I'm not," she shrugs. "Will or Darcy, those are your choices." And then she smiles. "Anyway, I've never understood people objecting to other people giving them nicknames. It's a sign of affection. Why would you object to that?"

It's not until his cheeks turn red that she realizes what she just said. And then her cheeks turn red too.

. . . . . .

The first time they socialize alone, just the two of them without Gigi or Fitz along, is a lunch outing. Gigi was meant to come with them but a schooling conflict came up—"No, really, see, here's the e-mail," she tells them, as she knows perfectly well neither of them trusts her not to make a story up in an attempt to try to push them together again—and she has to drive back to Stanford. Lizzie assumes Will will cancel because he mentioned last week that he only goes out to lunch if Gigi makes him ("What's the purpose in having these incredible dining facilities on campus if we never use them?" he'd demanded, and was not convinced when Gigi told him it was the act of going out that made going out to lunch so fun), but instead he glances over at her and asks "Postrio today?"

Lizzie says no. Lizzie says that they always go to these really nice restaurants, at least they do when Will chooses, and why can't they ever get just like a pizza or something? He looks surprised, because of course he's not a pizza person, but he goes along willingly as she checks Yelp and then drags him down the street to find Nicolita's Pizzeria. They split the Lunch Feast for Two and he lets her choose the pizza toppings and the salad.

"Because," he says with a little deferential nod as they wait for their pizza to arrive, "we are clearly in your world now."

She cocks her head to one side and looks at him a long, considering moment.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asks hesitantly.

"No," she says with a half smile. "It's just—I was just thinking that . . . if you'd said that to me last summer I would have thought you were making fun of me."

He looks surprised.

"Just—that you wanted to go to a nicer restaurant, and I insisted on coming here, and I would have thought you were saying that . . . poor people like pizza, I guess." She admits to herself that when she tries to explain the supposed offense, it doesn't make much sense.

And now he looks stricken. "It would never occur to me that my statement might be taken that way." There's a long, awkward pause—they've been having less of those lately—and then he looks up at her from under those dark brows. "But I suppose that was the problem, wasn't it?"

She promptly kicks herself for having brought up a subject that can only make both of them uncomfortable, and she racks her brain thinking of a way to change the subject without making it clear that she's doing so. So bless Caroline's pretentiousness for giving her just such a way. "Well, it'd be silly of me to think that pizza is the food of the unwashed masses," she says lightly, "because I'm sure I remember Caroline giving a very detailed description of a particularly fine and authentic pizza she had in Italy. And I don't think I'd dare describe Caroline as 'poor people.'"

He laughs but then it strikes her that even Caroline could be a dangerous topic, given her involvement with Bing and Jane. A certain part of her mind that she's been ignoring lately is upset with her for wanting to spare Will's feelings on the subject of Jane—has been upset with her for weeks now about this very thing—but she can't bring herself to be rude; they've been having such a nice time up until now.

So she turns the conversation. "So have you tried this famed Italian pizza?"

And now they're on the safe subject of his trips around the world, and they discuss art and architecture and fine foreign foods as they devour their lunch, and as they walk back to Pemberley Digital she's feeling rather pleased with the world and everything in it.

"So have you tried Horse Chestnut Books yet?" he asks, and she recalls that this is one of the used bookstores he recommended to her.

"Not yet; I'd have to take the bus down there or walk for like an hour." She hesitates and smiles. "And I don't know if I could handle all those—"

"Unforgiving hills," he breaks in with a grin, and she laughs a little and shoves her hands deeper into her coat pockets.

"Well," he says, then pauses, then clears his throat and straightens his tie. "I've been meaning to make a trip there myself soon. Maybe if you're not doing anything on Saturday . . ."

This is a terrible idea, says one half of her. No, this is a perfectly friendly and innocent idea, says the other.

And until she opens her mouth, she's not sure which side is about to win. "Sounds great."

. . . . . .

She was going to post it on Twitter, this TED talk that Will just has to see because he's going to think it's so ridiculous and winding him up is becoming one of her new favorite pastimes, but then she realizes that if she does that all her followers will see it, all 25,000 followers who already don't give her a moment's rest about him. And somehow—somehow—she doesn't want the whole world reading their private jokes. So she e-mails the video instead.

. . . . . .

She refers to him as Will once in front of the entire video app team, and they all turn to stare at her.

"Ah, Darcy, I mean," she corrects herself nervously. "I, uh, I'm friends with his sister, and she calls him by his first name, and I guess it just . . ."

Some look convinced, some still look curious. But all she can do now is furiously remind herself that no matter what he's become to her lately—and he's become something—he's also still her boss.

. . . . . .

Some days she thinks William Darcy might still care about her.

. . . . . .

There's a room in the Darcy house that's been left as a sort of shrine to their late parents, untouched and unchanged since the day of their deaths. (She sometimes wonders if this can be healthy for Gigi and Will, to keep this part of their own home frozen in time as a constant reminder of what's been taken from them, but she doesn't know what it's like to lose someone so she says nothing.) It's a long, narrow room that seems to have functioned as an odd sort of office, or a study: a desk and bookshelves at either end of the room, couches and armchairs in between, and right down the center a wooden Chinese screen, giving the two desks some amount of privacy from each other.

She's passed the room multiple times (the door is always open) but she doesn't understand its significance until Gigi happens upon her as she's standing in the doorway, looking at the framed picture of a much-younger Darcy family on the nearer desk. "That was my mother's desk," Gigi explains, and moves past Lizzie into the room where she picks up the photograph and reaches out to hand it to her. Lizzie hesitates, then follows her into the room and takes the picture from her outstretched hand.

"There's a cute story about this room, actually, if you want to hear it," Gigi says, and Lizzie agrees, so she leans against the desk and starts, "When my parents were first married and first moved into this house, they both agreed that it was important that they have their own workspaces, for personal projects and for when they brought work home, so they both had their own separate offices on different floors."

Lizzie nods to show she's following.

"But a few weeks after moving in, my father realized he didn't like being so far from my mother when they were both working, so he started going up to my mother's study frequently to visit. And then he started taking his work up there and doing it on her couch, and it eventually got to the point that he was always in her study and never in his own. So finally my mother decided to do something about it, so one week when he was . . ." She pauses. "Out of town somewhere, I guess—"

"He was in New York on business," comes a voice from the doorway, reciting a piece of what is clearly a familiar story to both siblings. Gigi looks up and smiles at her brother, and Lizzie finds herself smiling too.

"One week when he was in New York on business," Gigi amends, "she rearranged some of the rooms, so when he got home he found that she'd turned this room into a study for both of them, one where they could have their own space but still be together. And they used this room just the way she'd set it up for the rest of their lives."

Lizzie smiles at her. "You're right, that's sweet." Gigi beams at her and Will smiles his quiet little smile, and Lizzie hates that she's acting like a nervous schoolgirl but she finds herself dropping her eyes from his earnest gaze. As the two siblings start to reminisce about games of hide and seek played in this room, their guest examines the picture in her hands, the dark-haired couple and their dark-haired children.

The more she hears about William and Anne, the more it seems like they had the ideal relationship: one where professional and individual goals were balanced with a happy home life and with a deep and ardent love for each other. She idly wonders what it would be like to have a relationship like that, and then in the next moment she's uncomfortable with having thought it because their son is standing near enough for her to reach out and touch—their son who grew up with their relationship as a model of how a marriage ought to be; their son who loved her once and who she sometimes thinks might love her still. And now she can't help but wonder if he once hoped that someday she'd be filling the very desk she's now leaning against; if he once spent his time planning the way the two of them would balance their professional and personal lives. And now that she's thinking it, she finds herself imagining that life as well: her tucked away in her snug corner, tapping away on her laptop, while from time to time his voice rings out from the other side of the room, with Did you see that article in the Times? and What should we do for dinner? She is surprised—but in a way also not surprised—to find that she finds this imagined scene . . . cozy. Pleasant. Something she could want.

And with that she puts the picture back on the desk and asks Gigi if it's time for their planned tennis match, because she thinks it's time to derail that train of thought.

. . . . . .

She doesn't read her YouTube comments anymore. Will's been in a number of her videos lately (and the ones he doesn't appear in, he's discussed in) and her fans, her charming rabid shipper fans, have taken to planning their wedding and naming their children. It's more complicated than that, she wants to tell them. This isn't a story, it's my life.

. . . . . .

"I've been meaning for a long time to apologize to you . . . about your sister."

She looks up, surprised, and is even more surprised when he clarifies, "Lydia," because it's Jane who deserves his apology.

"Your video, where you two fought so much, and she was upset because you called her 'energetic'—" He hesitates. "I've felt guilty about that for a long time. I didn't mean to drive a wedge between you."

She shakes her head. "That wedge had been there a long time, and I'm the one who pounded it in." A sad half-smile touches her face. "But thank you." She means it.

. . . . . .

The first time she intentionally touches him, since that first awkward meeting courtesy of Gigi, is on a warm Saturday afternoon toward the end of her Pemberley placement (an ending she is trying hard not to think about). She continues to insist that the hills in San Francisco are not so unforgiving as the Darcys claim, and Will decides to prove her wrong by leading her on a walk on some of the city's most punishing streets. He reaches the top of one particular hill before her and looks down at her, smiling, as he waits for the light to change.

"Unforgiving?" he asks as she arrives, panting, at his side.

She doesn't have the breath to answer so she responds by bumping him playfully with her shoulder. After a long, still moment, he bumps her back and then she bumps him again, harder, hard enough to make him take a step to keep his balance. She doesn't miss the look of surprised delight on his face at the friendly contact, and for once she doesn't pretend not to notice it. Why should she always pretend? Why shouldn't she smile in response? They're friends, after all. He's happy to see her, happy to spend this afternoon together. He thinks so well of her. So why shouldn't she smile? The feeling's mutual.

. . . . . .

His mouth opens and closes a few times as he looks at her, and she can just imagine what a mess she looks, with her hands shakily covering her mouth and tears sending dark-smudged tracks coursing down her face. "If you're here about the brown bag lunch seminar," she says as steadily as she can manage, "I don't think I'm going to be able to make it."

He finally finds his voice. "Lizzie!" he says, with more force and feeling than she's ever heard him use. "Are you all right?"

She remembers the last time he asked her that, in another office three months earlier. This time she believes he really wants to know the answer. This time she understands him; this time they're so much more to each other than they were then. But she's not sure he'll feel so positively toward her if she tells him the news.

"I'm fine," she says, shaking her head. "But I'm leaving. I mean, sorry, that was a little strong, I just need some time off. But I don't know if I'll be back by the time my shadowing is done, so maybe we should call it over now."

He steps toward her. "Of course, that's fine, we can do whatever is best for you. But why?"

She shakes her head, unsure what she means by the action, and he walks to where she stands by the window and hesitantly places one comforting hand on the small of her back.

And that opens the floodgates; she wants desperately to share this burden with someone, and Will, with his own Wickham troubles in the past, would understand better than anyone. And anyway surely everyone will know soon.

"It's Lydia," she says, staring out at the city outside. He has reached into a pocket somewhere and produced a handkerchief, a genuine cloth handkerchief—of course, it's him, why wouldn't he keep a handkerchief along with his sealing wax—and she lets out a tear-choked laugh as she takes it from him and dabs at her eyes. "She's in trouble." And then she finally dares a glance upward. "With Wickham."

But maybe telling him was a mistake because as she spills the sordid details, that face that just moments ago was so filled with concern for her shifts slowly but inexorably to anger, and his hand drops away from her back and he steps away, taking away the comfort of his presence. (If anyone had told her six months ago she'd be comforted by William Darcy's presence, she'd have called them insane, but now it's the most natural thing in the world, and feeling him move away hurts more than she'd expected.) He won't meet her eyes now and is starting to pace the floor, and she wonders if he's thinking how right he was about Lydia's bad behavior back at Halloween, if he's congratulating himself on dodging the Bennet family bullet. She wonders if he's noticing how unattractive she is when she cries.

"I should have warned her," she finishes, crumpling the handkerchief as her hand tightens around it. "I know what Wickham is and I didn't say anything."

"Can I do anything to help?" he asks, eyes on the wall.

She shakes her head. "My dad is already headed down there. I've just got to go pack up my stuff and then Charlotte's driving me home."

He nods, and he finally turns around to meet her gaze, and his lovely blue eyes—the eyes that she was beginning to fancy she could finally understand—are distant and inscrutable. "You probably want to be alone right now," he observes. "I'll make the necessary arrangements here. Once you're done packing up in here, you'll probably want to be on your way, Lizzie Bennet."

And he leaves, just like that, no goodbye, no expression of sympathy, no acknowledgement that this parting is cutting off their budding friendship. And the leaving is so quick and uncomfortable that it's suddenly like the last month never happened, like he can't stand to be near the girl with the embarrassingly foolish sister. Like he has no more interest in having anything to do with Lizzie Bennet.

Well, if that's all it takes to destroy their friendship, to wipe away whatever feelings he might still have for her, then she says good riddance; she's got too many other things on her mind right now to worry about a guy who runs at the first sign of trouble, who clearly doesn't love her anymore because shouldn't love endure through hard times? She's got to think about Lydia. She's got to go home and comfort her family. She's got to be the strong Bennet, and she'll do that alone, as she always has done.

When she walks out the doors of Pemberley Digital for what she can only assume is the last time, she allows herself one look back to think about all the things she'll miss—the friends she's made and the professional experiences she's had and the incredible things she's learned. And Gigi, dear Gigi; she'll have to call her to explain (no, e-mail, on the whole she thinks she'd much rather deal with e-mail right now) though she'll leave out as much as she can about Wickham to spare the poor girl any more distress. And Fitz, but he'll understand.

And she thinks that's the end of her mental goodbyes to Pemberley Digital until she puts her hand in her jacket pocket and remembers that she's still got Will's handkerchief, and then he's there, inescapable, at the forefront of her thoughts. And she knows she'll mourn him too; their growing friendship, their fierce but amiable debates, their quiet afternoons wandering through used bookstores, and (though she hasn't quite confronted them yet) the things that she's been feeling for him over the last few days—the things that he'll never feel for her again. And with that she realizes that the tears on her face are no longer just for her sister.

. . . . . .

Some days she finally understands that she could love William Darcy. But today it's too late.

. . . . . .


End file.
