"How did it go?"

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Darcy—not well." The older man was well dressed, mid-fifties, glasses. Utterly unobtrusive: the sort of man you hire to fade into the wallpaper and be forgotten. A man of function over style. "She's proving to be...difficult to handle."

William Darcy frowned. This wasn't unusual for him, though his frowns tended towards disapproval or annoyance more than puzzlement. He'd been working on that, recently.

"In what respect?" he asked the less distinctive man, evenly. There was something in his tone suggestive of not really caring about the substance of the answer. He was poised, handsome, charismatic—the sort of person eyes were drawn to against their will.

"Ms. Bennet is obviously very upset—"

"She's a twenty one-year-old woman being held in custody for a crime I'm reasonably certain she didn't even know she was committing," he snapped, impatiently. "I would be astounded if she wasn't upset."

His companion blinked, presumably surprised by the vehemence of this reaction, but he remained unflappable. Presumably he'd seen worse.

"Can't you...talk to her?" Darcy hesitated, sounding much more like the uncertain young man that he was than the CEO of a multi million dollar empire.

"I'm in the business of providing legal defense, Mr. Darcy—not counseling for hysterical girls."

Darcy stalked over to the wall, a restive animal in a cage. His lawyer had never seen him this on edge, though he'd known the boy nearly his entire life. There were many questions he wanted to ask—about the girl and the nature of his relationship with her, for starters. Of course, William F. Darcy had kept on his father's lawyer precisely because he knew when not to ask.

"You didn't mention my name."

"No, per your request I did not—though I believe she might've responded better if she knew her defense was working on the behest of someone she trusted." The barest hint of inquiry buried in a factual statement.

Darcy thought deeply for a moment, and Lynch's curiosity remained unsatisfied.

"Of course, you're right," he murmured, half to himself. "I'll go in and speak to her myself."

"You can't see her tonight—you'll have to wait until the morning." Darcy just looked at him. "She's only allowed the one visitor."

"No, it's better to reassure her now." He was not asking for permission from anyone. As was usually the case, there was no question of him having to. "The DA is an old friend of my father's, he can do me this favor."

The call was made—succinct and to the point.

"For someone who expressed such a strong desire for discretion you're taking an awfully big risk of exposing yourself. As your lawyer I would advise—"

"Today you're Lydia Bennet's lawyer first and mine second, Mr. Lynch." He checked his irritation and continued, "If bending a rule of minor police procedure is necessary to prevent a girl from ruining her life..." William Darcy ran one hand through his hair, a boyhood nervous habit he'd not been able to shake, even now. He still could not get her face out of his mind, try as hard as he could to distract himself with duties and work and the mechanics of what he needed to do to get Lydia out of this mess. "Taken in the balance, I'd say it was worth it."

She was terrified. More terrified than she'd ever been before in her life—so scared she'd actually gone numb. This was a freefall of out-of-control-ness that not even she could appreciate. People kept moving her from room to room, talking at her but not explaining anything, asking her questions and George wasn't with her anymore so she didn't even know what she was supposed to say or how to answer and how was this, like actually a thing that was happening.

This was the sort of totes dumb thing Lizzie made snarky jokes about happening.

First the one lawyer, then the other one—how the hell was she supposed to pick one? She knew there weren't supposed to be two of them, she wasn't an idiot. And what was up with third mysterious guy who was coming in and was apparently too cool to actually give his name, even though, like, the whole jail was supposedly closing in ten minutes, right—why do jails even close, its like the emergency room, people get arrested after 1 AM, right—?

"Darcy?"

"Hello, Lydia." He walked into the colorless room, stiff and impossibly formal as always—but he was someone she recognized—not a suit or a cop or someone yelling at her and that made his presence on this, the worst day of her life, weirdly okay. At least for a minute.

Then she remembered how she felt about Darcy.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I..." He hesitated. This was the thing about her—she was a wildcard. He hadn't the faintest idea if his presence would be welcome to her when he walked through that door, and now that'd he'd seen her, leopard print halter top et al, he was even less sure.

"Lizzie told you, didn't she?" She wavered, anger and hurt and fear and tiredness all mingling in the hotpot of her voice. "She's probably—she's probs congratulating herself about being so right all the time."

Lydia was on the verge of tears.

"Lizzie could never have imagined this happening, and even if she had, she would hardly have congratulated herself or taken any pleasure in it." Darcy paused. "She—happened to be in my office when Jane called her. She was so shocked and upset, and I wasn't going to leave her without asking what was wrong, so of course it all came out."

Lydia laughed, hollowly, tiredly—a high-pitch giggle that would have unsettled a more thin-skinned man.

"I'm surprised she even cares, since she's been having such a great time with you and your perfect sister." The girl crinkled her nose, sullenly. "Lizzie's always…I mean, it's not like she's made any secret that...that that's the sister she's always wanted."

"Lydia," he interrupted, forcefully, and Lydia sat up straight in her seat, just like she did when her 10th grade algebra teacher snapped at her to quit daydreaming and face reality. "Stop it. When I left your sister she was packing her bags. It was the middle of the night, but she insisted on booking a flight immediately so she could get home to your family. She was almost hysterical with worry for you." Lydia's lip trembled, her tears threatening to spill over. "She blames herself entirely. I've never seen someone so wracked with guilt. So don't you dare think for a second that your sister doesn't care, because frankly it's insulting to you both."

His heart felt heavier at just the thought of Lizzie. In his mind's eye he could see her face streaked with tears, her shoulders shaking—so fragile—as if she'd break at any moment. In a moment of vulnerability she'd collapsed into his arms but the rightness of her presence there had been immediately overpowered by his desire to take away her pain, take it on his own shoulders, his helplessness at not being able to provide her any real solace.

"Why...would Lizzie think it's her fault? It's not her fault, it's mine." A day of trying to hold in the sobs had evidently taken their toll—at last her cracking veneer shattered. "I screwed up so bad...this is all my fault. God, I can't believe this is happening!" She collapsed onto the table in a heap, arms covering her face but unable to hide her heaving sobs.

He glanced at the door—he wasn't meant to touch her and it could get him thrown out of the room if he did. The brief, firm pat on the shoulder he decided on seemed to soothe her.

"It isn't your fault," he said, quite calmly, and Lydia raised her head, surprised. "It isn't yours and it isn't Lizzie's. If the fault lies with someone...it lies with me."

"What?" She sniffled, wiping her nose with her bare arm.

He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to give her a sweater. Surely she must be cold in here wearing just that.

"This isn't the first time George Wickham has done something like this. I knew what he was capable of but chose to keep it to myself—for my own, in retrospect rather paltry reasons."

Lydia's eyes widened to near saucer-size.

"You told Lizzie in your letter."

He nodded.

"That's partly why she blames herself. I assume she thought the chances of him crossing paths with anyone in your family again were slim to none." A tense moment of silence. "Lizzie also—forgive me—she mentioned that you had a rather large falling out before you left town."

"She called me 'energetic.'" This left Darcy at a loss to respond. "That's the word you called me."

Never once, in all the times he'd rewatched that video, had it ever occurred to him that Lydia would have seen it, too.

"I'm sorry—obviously I didn't think of your feelings—but I'm very sorry that I've caused a rift between you and your sister."

She bit her lip and her fingers tapped a staccato beat on the table, as edgy and restless as the girl they belonged to.

"I was just...I was mad at her." Her shoulders dropped, as if the weight of shame and guilt were, at last, too much for them. "I think I just used being mad at her as an excuse…when I was really mad about everything."

Darcy licked his lips, trying to think of what to say next.

"Why did you dismiss Mr. Lynch?" was what he finally settled on.

"Who?"

"Mr. Lynch. The attorney I sent in a half hour ago."

"Wait—that guy's your lawyer?"

His infernal tendency to pace was putting them both on edge, and so Darcy sat down across from her, pensive and serious.

"I didn't come here by accident, or to sneer at you. I came to help you, Lydia."

"Why would you help me?"

He could see she was naturally suspicious of his motives, and who could blame her? At the best he'd been indifferent to her, at his worst, contemptuous.

"Because you shouldn't be in this position at all—because," he started, suddenly reminded of another girl he'd hand to comfort in this situation, who'd sobbed into his shirt. "Seeing you in this place, I can't help but think that, were it not for my money and connections, and sheer luck, I could just as easily be looking at my sister sitting across from me."

This extraordinary confession left her speechless.

"George has never mentioned Gigi to you, has he?" he asked, tersely. She did not reply. "I thought not. He never does."

Lydia again did not speak—from what he knew of her, this was not her usual mode of behavior at all. But there was a developing trust, or at least interest in her eyes, so he continued, patiently.

"Gigi has known George Wickham her whole life and even she couldn't see through him. You aren't an idiot for believing him, anymore than Lizzie is for trying to keep my family's secret for me. I should've known better, though. This is, after all, what George always does."

"Why...why is he like this?"

Darcy considered the question, asked so sincerely and innocently. His first instinct was to say that it was simply George Wickham's nature, though he wasn't sure that was quite true. He didn't think he believed that someone could be naturally the way George was.

"Wealth can have...a corrupting influence on a person, Lydia," he finally answered, feeling a little philosophic and a lot older than his 27 years. "People aren't meant to believe they have limitless access to what they want because, by their very nature, they can't. It warps them."

"How does it do that?"

"Well, in my case, for example, being groomed as the future scion of a media corporation, I became a man so arrogantly certain of his self-worth and importance that he expected a girl would be flattered by a declaration of love from him, even after he insulted her family, social status and his own judgment in choosing her."

For the first time since he'd entered the room, she cracked a smile—thin and watery, but it was there. He recognized it.

"In George's case, I suspect it helped facilitate the creation of a man who wants the same things most young men want—merely on a much, much grander scale."

"Like how, exactly?"

"He just wants a lot—and he doesn't want to wait for it or work for it."

He explained what would be necessary of her, in his usual matter-of-fact and efficient manner. He impressed upon her the importance of being careful about what she told anyone except her lawyer—himself included. The natural authority with which he spoke seemed to set Lydia at ease, calm her down—though that might've just been that he was a familiar presence in her life, however usually unwelcome.

"...We should be able to plea you out." He had just explained, very patiently, what a plea bargain was to her.

"But does that mean I...I won't..." She was quite incapable of saying it. "Go to..."

"I respect you too much to lie to you," he said, gravely. "The allegations are very serious. A lot of money has changed hands. I am going to do everything in my not inconsiderable power to help you—but I'll need your help as well. If all goes according to plan, you should be able to leave here with as minimal a punishment as possible."

If all goes according to plan.

"But what if..."

She began to cry again, large, fat tears welling at her eyes, and he felt the injustice of it down to his bones.

"Listen to me. You are going to be back at home, with Jane and Lizzie, before the month is out. I promise you, okay?" It was the same gentle but certain tone he used when his own sister cried—less often now that Gigi was grown up, but even still. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to Lizzie's younger sister. It was the only person effect that hadn't been confiscated when he entered the room.

"What..." Lydia blew her nose, noisily. "What about George?"

The proverbial wrench in the works.

"George is in more serious trouble than you," he replied, very carefully. Lydia didn't seem to understand the gravity of what George had done, or what he was—and at this point the less she knew the better. "You're an accessory, he's the primary-"

"Aren't you going to help him, too?"

For a moment he merely stared at her, one of his unnervingly long looks.

"The simplest way to prove your innocence—or lack of culpability, rather—is to expose George. This isn't the first time he's manipulated a young woman into helping him—"

"But he didn't—"

"Lydia!" he cut her off, sharply. "You can't tell me anything, remember?"

"I thought George was your friend—" he snapped back, ignoring his warning. "Are you really going to let him go to jail?"

"If it means keeping you out of it, then yes. I am willing to make that choice, gladly."

"Making G-Dubs look bad is really going to make me look good?" From her intonation, he guessed Lydia was inherently suspicious of this logic. "That makes no sense."

"There are more nuances at work but…very simply put, yes." He didn't have the energy or the willpower to argue the legal details with her when he was certain that wasn't what she cared about. "You have to trust me."

Lydia Bennet's jaw was set stubbornly—her green eyes bored into his, as if daring him to blink first.

He didn't.

"No."

"Pardon me?"

"I don't...want anyone to go to jail because of me. Either you help us both or…" She was shaky but resolute. "I don't want your help."

Darcy wanted to point out the worthlessness of the man she was throwing her chances in with—that he would never care for her because it simply wasn't in him to care for anyone or anything but himself. He wanted to ignore her request and go over her head entirely, damn her personal feelings on the matter. There were many things in the last year he'd been wrong about, but this wasn't one of them—not by a long shot. Lizzie would even agree.

Then he saw the expression on her face.

Just like Gigi.

And there was a grain of truth in her question, a niggling at his conscience. He wanted to divorce himself from George's fate, but he had no stomach for revenge. And George wouldn't be like this if he hadn't grown up surrounded by the wealth and privilege of the Darcy Family, William was sure of this, and though he knew it irrational in the extreme, he felt guilty, somehow. He had an almost pathological sense of responsibility, isn't that what George had always told him?

He engaged in a fifteen second battle of the wills with her before relenting.

"Fine. I will speak to him, and see what we can do."

Her face noticeably brightened.

"Thanks, Darcy." Lydia looked a little bit like her light-hearted, old self. What he knew of it, anyway. "No one is going to believe this when I tell them."

He felt his heart clench like a fist.

"You can't tell anyone about my involvement, Lydia," he said, quickly—suspiciously quickly, and her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "It's in your legal interest, you understand. No one can know I was involved."

"Not even…Lizzie?" she asked him, with the barest hint of slyness.

"Not even Lizzie." Especially not Lizzie. "Please promise me you won't say anything."

Her suspicion carried over for a few seconds before passing, replaced with the typical Lydia blasé flightiness (had there been a flicker of something else?—it was too fleeting for him to say, he dismissed it as a trick of the eyes.)

She shrugged. "Sure, whatever, Darce." Her "weirded-out" look calmed him down. Bennets thinking he was weird and awkward was something he'd gotten used to over the last 10 months—it was almost comforting in its familiarity. "I promise, scout's honor or whateves."

"Good. Lynch will be back in the morning to discuss the hearing in greater detail with you."

As he walked to the door where the guard was waiting, he heard a soft, barely audible, "Thanks."

"Well?"

"She'll cooperate—conditionally." The lawyer was nonplussed. "We have to get them both off. What are Wickham's chances, honestly?"

"Not as bad as they could be—at least from where you're standing. This is the first offense he's been charged with; he's the same as Lydia Bennet in that regard. More importantly, you control all the remaining incriminating evidence against him."

"That we know of, anyway," Darcy added, dryly.

"Well, yes—there is that."

"I can get the rest of it out of him," he sighed in disgust. "I'll have to go and speak to him myself. He's not an idiot, he'll know I'm his best chance, however...undesirable."

"Interestingly enough, he refused to see a pubic defender when it was offered to him."

Darcy's eyes widened just a fraction.

"A remarkably placid reaction to being arrested."

Had George had a hunch about this? As much as he hated to admit it, his former friend did have a keen understanding of him—and he knew Lydia kept up with Lizzie's videos faithfully, whether she was following her on twitter or they were fighting. It was hardly a stretch to assume she'd confided in George about the contents of her recent entries...Wickham probably knew about his confession, then, and the time he and Lizzie and Gigi had been spending together.

In this new light, her jealousy of his sister took on a new, sinister tone.

"I assume you'll want me to offer legal services, first?"

"No—that won't be necessary." Before Lynch could argue with him, he added, "And I'll speak to him alone, as well."

Lynch would be discreet, he always was—but if his hunch about George's motives was right, his old friend might bring up Lizzie in their inevitable tête-à-tête, and that was one complication too many for him to juggle right now. If he wanted to keep a low profile over this, than his lawyer's understanding of his very personal stake in Lydia would to have to remain…murky.

Mr. Lynch checked his watch. It was too late to argue with Darcy.

"You still have time to see him tonight, it you want to."

Darcy's face hardened.

"No—let him sweat it out for the night. I'll see him in the morning and he'll be no more worse for the wear."

George's peace of mind didn't concern him—and he was annoyed that he might be meeting his old friend's expectations by offering him help. He would need a clear head to talk to George, anyway.

Getting the whole story straight from Wickham would give him a much clearer picture than Lydia's sketchy comic panel synopsis. The more he knew, the faster he could go about fixing it all, or at least minimizing the damage as much as he could.

For Lizzie. All for Lizzie.

Had it been only last night that he had nearly kissed her? Now he might never see her again. This was not an entirely new prospect, he'd been resigned to it for much of the fall and early winter.

But now it felt so much more final, somehow.

Once the shock wore off and she realized he was as much to blame for Lydia's troubles and he was for Jane's…

If few people were allowed second chances, almost none were given a third. Her time at Pemberley had been it for him, that second chance he craved desperately—it had been going so well, he'd thought there was a chance…sometimes, the way she looked at him made him almost think…

It didn't matter now, he thought, bleakly. "Almost" was the operative word. Missed signs, missed connections, missed chances…that was all that they were.

Missed.

She would have made it home by now. Darcy wondered if she was back with Jane and her parents at this very moment, fraught with worry for Lydia—loudly declaring that she would bust down the jail doors herself if necessary. He wondered if she was unpacking the suitcase he'd watched her fling her belongings into only a day before, if she was still needlessly blaming herself for what had happened.

He wondered if even the smallest part of her was thinking of him.

Hundreds of miles away, in the bedroom she'd slept in since she was three years old, Elizabeth Bennet was drifting off into an uneasy sleep, wondering herself.

I freely admit that the "legal procedures" just described are probably on the level with most Law and Order fanfics, but I hope you could at least get what I was driving at. Thanks everyone for reading!