Summary: "She had a last independent study to set up, a thesis to finish, yet for the past few days, all she'd been able to do was fantasize what it would feel like to be wrapped up in his arms, pressed tight against him." In which Lizzie struggles with her imagination.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lizzie Bennet Diaries or Pride & Prejudice.

Author's Note: I have a resume and personal statement to finish and fine-tune by the week's end and what comes out of my head instead? This. Do enjoy!

He had come to talk to Lydia, he had said. There was some paperwork that needed to be dropped off; and if Lydia hadn't insisted that he stay for dinner as her way of thanking him, Lizzie was certain he would have left as quickly as he'd come.

Without so much as a glance in her direction.

He had made polite, if stilted, conversation throughout dinner. He was William Darcy, after all, and propriety demanded it. Her mother had been embarrassing to the nth degree, going on, and on, and on, about what beautiful babies Bing and Jane were sure to have. Dad had been pensive throughout the meal—and even though Lizzie had begged him not to, she'd seen her father drag Darcy away to his office for three long minutes, exiting with shaking hands and polite nods of the head.

But Lizzie…all Lizzie wanted to do was grab his perfectly immaculate shirt collar with both hands and drag him down to her level. She wanted to grab his hand and take him outside where they could walk around the neighborhood and talk until the sun rose.

He had left that night with cordial goodbyes and a brief and hesitant hug from Lydia—right outside the door, Lizzie had seen through the window—with a promise from her father to return again soon. He had shown up the next night. And the next night. And tonight he was here, once again, in her home, filling up her senses with his presence, and torturing her explicitly over the knowledge that he must be over her.

Charlotte had said he was just nervous; Jane had stated he probably didn't want to get hurt again. Lizzie had no idea. She had searched for every available sign—and sometimes she would catch his gaze across the table and see the heat (that she'd since correctly identified, having previously mistaken it for disgust) in his eyes that she had seen at Netherfield, but then he would turn away and leave her even more confused and frustrated.

She had a last independent study to set up, a thesis to finish, yet for the past few days (few weeks, really, but there was no sense in admitting that since he didn't seemed that interested anymore anyways), all she'd been able to do was fantasize what it would feel like to be wrapped up in his arms, pressed tight against him. Though over the past few months she'd come to realize she didn't know much about him, she still knew a little bit about the elusive enigma that made up William Darcy and this she could say for a fact: he rarely did anything by half.

There was a careful precision about his every move; the way his thumb would slowly wrap around Lydia's old Little Mermaid cup as he picked it up to take a sip of water, how his head would turn just the slightest degree whenever someone entered or exited the room, how his eyes would flick over to her baby sister whenever anything Wickham or Vegas-related was mentioned. They were calculated and done with assurance. He bumbled in conversation, yes, but he was a man who knew his station in life and took pride in it.

And it was unbelievably sexy.

So, she imagined…in the very recesses of her mind where she had managed to push the majority of her feelings to keep them successfully in hiding…he wouldn't just hold her with a light touch.

No.

When she was in his arms—and as she turned her head sideways to catch glimpses of him in the living room talking to Lydia while she was on dishes-duty and felt her body flush at the sight of the fabric covering his shoulders bunching and straining with the movement of his arms—it would be a tight and warm ebrace that would prove how special she was to him; and he to her. And if he felt any of what she was feeling now… he wouldn't let go. He couldn't. Because she knew that if someday she got the chance, if someday she got to feel what it was like to be held by him, she wouldn't let go either.

She had this overwhelming urge to make fantasy reality. To find out what it felt like to be held by that man; to be loved and cherished by him.

Lizzie rinsed the last plate, wiped her hands on the dishtowel, and cleared her voice. "Darcy, would you like to take a walk?"

And just like that, Lizzie took her fate and frustrations and fantasies into her own hands.

Author's Note: I don't really know where it fits...if at all. I imagine it's before ep. 95, but then again there wasn't a lot in the conversation in that episode that would lead Darcy to hope, so I suppose it could take place after. It'll surely-like it hasn't already-be taken out of the running by tomorrow morning with the release of 96, but ah, well... had to get it on paper and out there. Let me know what you thought :)

Oh, I shamelessly capitalized on the fandom idea that Darcy comes by to drop of paperwork for Lydia. Forgive me, whoever came up with that. I hope that's okay.