Alice laughed. 'There's no use trying,' she said: 'one CAN'T believe impossible things.'
'I daresay you haven't had much practice,' said the Queen. 'When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.
- Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
.::.::.::.
The day after Lydia revealed that it was Darcy who took down the website is tough for Lizzie. She can't understand why he did it; she knows that it makes her feel (more) things, but she can't quite fully elucidate what, exactly. It just makes her uncertain, curious, and most of all, flummoxed. She wants to know more, ask him why, and ask him why he never called.
She edits and posts the video, stopping it on the moment Lydia leans against her, their heads bowed and smiles light. It's also the second before Lydia asks what she'll do next, because really, what will she do next?
Lizzie never replies, not then, not the following morning over tea, and certainly not when she eases away to her bedroom, shutting the door quietly in the late afternoon sun. She's not fond of introspection and in waiting to hear back from the last company to shadow, she's found more than enough to scrutinize.
She holds her phone in her hand, thumb wavering over the taunting green button. She wants so badly to push it, yet… she's not quite finished teasing out her feelings and until then… she tosses the phone on her bed and for lack of anything better to do, turns to her bookcase. Without hesitation, she goes to an old favorite, a gift from her father on her eighth birthday. It's a leather-bound book, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll are written in gold lettering on the cover.
Collapsing on her bed, she settles in for an evening of nonsensical escape. As the hours pass, her eyelids grow heavy and the letters start to blur, her eyes tracing the words of the White Queen before drifting off to sleep.
.::..::.::.
It's a damp, dreary afternoon and they've decided to stay inside. She lies on the couch with her legs across his lap, both reading quietly. Every so often, he dusts his hand from her knee to ankle, thumb rolling a circle around the curve of bone before drawing still.
Eventually, his hand grazes more frequently, creeping higher each time until she starts to lose her breath and her book falls to the wayside with his. She quirks an eyebrow in response, to which he lifts the corner of his mouth impishly. He nudges her legs apart and braces his himself on his forearms, resting in the crook of her hips in an almost teasing fashion.
She bites at his lips and scrapes her fingers along the stubble of his cheeks. He slides his hands beneath her sweater and whispers words that make her skin flush. With his tongue he maps out freckles like a trail down her neck and along her collarbone. Closing her eyes tight, she squeezes her hips against his, enjoying the sharp buck and gasp he emits.
"Lizzie Bennet, you're the best kind of torture," he murmurs as he moves back up to her lips, mouth wet and hot and teasing.
"Really?" she nearly moans as his hands move to the snap on her denim shorts. "I could say the same about you, William Darcy."
He smiles just as his fingers reach their destination, her back arching delicately. "Then it's good we both know how to remedy this situation."
"That we do." She presses her lips against his in concert with the unhurried exploration of his fingers, her brain nearly blank except for him. "That. We. Do."
Their lonely books go untouched for the rest of the afternoon.
.::.
She wakes with a nose pressed against the hollow in her neck, a weight against the crook of her knees, an arm flung across the small of her waist, and fingers twisting her hair lackadaisically.
Looking across the pillow in the dim early morning, she sees Will's soft blue eyes crinkled with contentment. She reaches her free hand up to lace her fingers with the ones buried in her hair.
He grins at her, his gaze falling pointedly to the mop of curly dark brown hair burrowed against her chest. She smirks, her occupied hand holding their five-year-old son tighter in a sleepy embrace.
Following Will's eyes even farther, she sees a tiny hand belonging to their almost four-year-old daughter. From the bony knee pressed against her back and the small hand's upside down direction, Lizzie can only assume that her daughter's head is resting on top of their golden retriever, who's familiar snore and weight against her legs provide all the evidence she needs.
When she finally looks back up at her husband, he leans over and carefully presses his lips against her forehead.
"I guess my business trip was too long," she whispers.
"I will not deny that you were missed," his eyes conveying an ever-present love, "because you were, terribly so."
It's not so much his words, but the look in his eyes, the feel of all the tiny bodies so warm and content draped all across her, that makes her heart feel close to bursting.
"I guess you'll just have to come with me next time."
A smile flits across his features. "I'd be amenable to that idea."
Scooting closer, they spend the quiet of the early morning enjoying their peace before the chaos of another day begins.
.::.
The call comes during a business meeting.
"Lizzie," it's her mom and her voice is high and tight, "you need to come home. It's your father."
They're on the next flight out, his hand leaves hers only when necessary and even then, it's brief. She barely says more than a few words until they reach the hospital and when she finally does, it's in a bland, sterile room.
"You've made me so proud, my dear Lizzie," her father whispers between gasps for air. "I love you, so very much."
"Dad, don't you say that. Don't." Tears cloud her vision and track down her cheeks. Swiping at them furiously, she tightens her grip on his hand. "You… you can't."
A smile ghosts on his pale face as he squeezes her hand. "I can deny the truth no more than I can deny the sentiment. I love you."
When the heart monitor beeps its last, the sisters Bennet stand in an unbreakable circle, clutching each other and their mother tightly as the tears fall and anguish overtakes them. The three men who love each respective sister so deeply stand at the ready to provide support and a strong embrace that will never quite feel like their father's.
Later, dressed in black and desolation, Lizzie reaches out her hand and finds Will's open and waiting. He pulls her close and kisses the crown of her head before she rises to read the eulogy. Her candid words are elegant and poignant, leaving nary a dry eye among those who come to pay their respects.
Her father is buried facing the train station across the street; a train whistle and conductors cap resting beside him in his casket.
.::.
They may be in love, but most of their world does not know it yet.
When she starts working at Pemberley, Will drops by her office on the fourth floor and asks her to tea that afternoon. They go to the rooftop garden with their ceramic tumblers and settle on a bench, talking about first day nerves and overall expectations.
It becomes a daily ritual, one that most everyone has the opportunity to observe and come to expect. For it's not everyday their stoic and intrepid leader walks around with a smile on his face and the lovely woman who put it there at his side. Sometimes a friend or sister may join them, but mostly, it's just the pair walking to an unknown destination, hand-in-hand.
Now, when new employees are hired and they see the Darcys with each other — debating, laughing, shaking heads or crossing arms — the first thing longtime workers say is that Afternoon Tea is practically an institution at the company. It is when most employees take a short break, deserving of a warm beverage and relishing their chance to commune with their coworkers and make true progress.
Upon their retirement, the Darcys hand the reins over to their children, a pair of bright, promising, and complementary siblings. The event is held during Afternoon Tea. Every guest and employee walks away with excitement for the future instead of trepidation, sad as they are to see the elder Darcys enjoy their very last tea as full-time employees.
Still, from time-to-time, they'll stop in for a meeting or a quick hello — always with each other and always during Afternoon Tea.
.::.
When they argue, legitimately argue, it's loud and fierce and wholly heart-rending.
For the most part, they make it a point to never speak of money, both knowing that it will only end in hurt feelings. But when Will clumsily brings up his plans for a loan-repayment program with the company, Lizzie — highly sensitive over her money woes — interprets his good intentions the wrong way. Their argument escalates until words that cannot be unsaid emerge.
"Why must this always be an issue with you, Lizzie?"
"Why do you have such a savior complex? I don't need your help paying off my loans."
"Savior complex?" Will scowls. "You've been here over a year and have yet to buy more than a mattress because every cent you make goes to pay off your debt. You're drowning in it!"
Her cheeks flush in anger. "I didn't know my debt was such a problem for you. Sorry I wasn't born with a silver-spoon in my mouth."
"Lizzie, that's not fair —"
"It's true though! To this day, I still get comments from people saying 'how lucky I am to have found a sugar daddy' or that 'I really reached up high when I landed you.'"
"I get the same comments, just of a different nature." Will looks down, frowning. "'How'd you get someone like her to fall in love with someone like you?' or… 'Let me know when you screw it all up, she's someone worth getting to know better.'"
In her great tirade, his words cause her to falter. "Will —" her voice is softer, hesitant. "No one says that."
His head shoots up, jaw clenched. "It happened just yesterday at lunch, with an old friend from college."
They falls silent for several minutes, both watching the rain sputter outside. When he speaks again, his voice is tight and tentative. "I just… I wanted your help in developing this program. It's something I'm genuinely interested in, something I feel would be beneficial for many of the younger staff — a way to create a trusting foundation with the company."
Taking a breath, she nods slowly. "I… I would like that, very much."
"Would you?" I'm sorry I didn't approach this correctly. "Really?"
"Yes," And I'm sorry, for getting defensive and obstinate. "I think it's a great idea."
"Good," he sets his hand on the table, palm open and waiting as she places her hand in his. "I'm glad."
.::.
Lizzie and Will take a three-month sabbatical upon the eve of their marriage. It's a challenge professionally and personally, sometimes putting their resourcefulness and enterprising minds to the test.
"But you've already travelled the world," Lizzie states one evening when they're curled up on the couch after he makes the initial suggestion.
"Yes, but I've never done it with you, and I feel like your perspective would be… enlightening."
"You mean you'd get a kick out of watching me fangirl over works of art?"
"Well… yes, actually."
Their first stop is Paris in the spring, hands clasped tight as they traverse foliage-covered streets bridging arrondissements. They enjoy croissants and perfectly decadent meals, people-watching in the Jardins des Tuileries and strolling across le pont neuf. They take a three-day tour of Le Louvre, another day at Musée d'Orsay, and spare an additional afternoon for pastry tasting. They travel along the french countryside to Nice and Bordeaux, stopping for wine and bread and cheese — and for each other, their desires never quite fully sated.
The train carries them on an unpredictable schedule through Italy, the Tuscan countryside taking a particular ownership of both their hearts. They weave treacherously along the Amalfi Coast, stopping for limoncello in Sorrento and a long hike in Cinque Terre. Of course, they take in the history and grandeur of Roma, the winding, watery canals of Venezia, and the hectic life of Firenze, but it's the smaller towns they come to love. Will watches Lizzie's face every time she tries or experiences something new, preserving each and every moment in the catalogue of his heart.
A short plane ride takes them to Spain where they rent bikes, swap out their luggage for daypacks, and travel along the countryside, resting at inns and devouring all the Paella and Sangria they can get their hands on. Once they reach Portugal they find themselves exhausted and stay an extra week longer, lounging under beach umbrellas and walking aimlessly along the beach.
Their trip concludes in Great Britain and Ireland, the cool weather in the north a welcome reprieve during the early heat of summer. The countryside is lush, the beer is free flowing, and the highland cows resemble Ewoks much to Lizzie's delight and Will's enjoyment. They visit distant family members of Will's, scout out a new location in London for the European Branch of Pemberley-Woodhouse, discover an eclectic music scene in Edinburgh, and a fascinating journey through the library at Trinity College.
When they return to San Francisco they adjourn to the study and stand before a large wall map with faint coloring and crooked letters, plotting out places they've travelled together. They spend the afternoon planning out future adventures, Austria and Switzerland during the winter, China in the fall, Thailand, Costa Rica, Kenya… the list is as endless as their desire to discover and travel.
"So," Lizzie drops on the couch next to Will, admiring their handiwork. "Where to next?"
"Depends on where you want to go."
"I don't much care where —"
"Then what does it matter?"
" — so long as somewhere is with you," she places a quick kiss on his cheek and reaches for his free hand.
"Oh, that is sure to happen," he wraps his arms around her, "just hold on tight."
.::.::.::.
Lizzie jolts awake, completely disoriented and hugging her pillow tightly. Sitting up, she tries to clear her mind, but the imagined weight of Will's arms across her shoulders is hard to push away. She blushes at recalling some of her dreams, shutting the book in her lap and swinging her legs over the edge of her bed. She takes a long shower and returns to her room, dressing slowly.
"Lizzie?" It's Lydia knocking softly. "You hungry? Mom made waffles for breakfast."
Pushing the last of her dreams aside, Lizzie walks to the door and opens it wide, her sister standing cautiously on the other side.
"Sounds good. Lead the way."
Lydia turns and walks down the hall, casting Lizzie a curious glance. "You seem… different."
"Yeah," Lizzie takes a seat across from Lydia. "I guess so. I just spent the night dreaming up impossible things."
"Well, do you believe any of them?"
"I'm not sure." Lizzie sips her tea and surveys her younger sister. "Only time will tell."
Little does she know a visit from a familiar face that afternoon makes those impossibilities even more a reality.
.::.
fin