A/N:

I tend to imagine all of my pieces taking place in the same, hopefully canon-compliant, universe, but this is an exception; it's meant to stand alone.

For Melanie, one of my dearest friends, who read a post with this basic concept on Tumblr and fell in love with the idea. Happy birthday :)

(i)

He's nervous the first time. She notices him slip unfastening the buttons on his dress shirt, and when she reaches up, places cool fingertips over his, she feels him almost shiver.

The hand that palms across her bare stomach is too practiced; William Darcy is not a blushing virgin, and anyway, they've discussed the particulars of this arrangement fully, but for a second, he's nervous, and it endears him to her just that tiniest bit more.

The twist of affection somewhere beneath her sternum should have been her first hint that this was a terrible idea, really. But the sex is good—all right, great; Darcy is nothing if not thorough, and Caroline's always had a talent for disregarding potentially painful truths.

(ii)

Darcy shows up at her apartment six days after his parents' death. He looks oversized, somehow; too strong and too solid, the only hope for a family and company rocked, ruined. His hair is perfect and his pants are neatly creased, in that way that makes Caroline casually want to wreck them both. Not many people are afforded the opportunity to see William Darcy anything less than impeccable.

Caroline glimpses it in his eyes, something rare and precious: like a willingness to drive a breakneck speeding car, or down an entire bottle of wine just for the pleasure of having something to smash against the wall.

He is not here for cheering up or platitudes. Bing would be better at either.

So she says nothing; takes one look at the flicker of restlessness in him and drags him upstairs.

(iii)

It's nothing against Catherine; the woman organizes a perfectly lovely charity auction. But Caroline is drumming her fingers on her chair with more than a little agitation, and Darcy's eyes have been glazed over for the last thirty minutes. Everyone else at this event appears to be as antique as the furniture they're attempting to purchase. Caroline is bored.

Darcy downs one, two, three glasses of scotch—he's had a falling out with an old friend, he explains, but he will not say any more. Caroline matches him drink for drink, pulls him into the cloakroom of whatever infernal hotel this is at the first opportunity. His aftershave smells like leather, and his hands are warm where they span her waist.

She's certain her expectation shouldn't feel this soft; that she should be anticipating the imminent burn of friction more than the tug of his lips against hers. But she isn't.

(iv)

She celebrates her first promotion in Los Angeles and Darcy is there. Caroline hasn't had the time, has never had the patience, besides, for romance. He doesn't bother with his own cab from the restaurant. They are adults with moments of loneliness that can be used to mutual benefit.

It's like clockwork.

It sounds indifferent and clinical, that way, but it isn't. Caroline has never been an idealist. Love isn't earth-shattering or life-changing; she and Darcy are well-matched and compatible in the ways that matter and she studies the angles on Darcy's face while he sleeps, ignores the swell of something tender in her throat, waits for him to realize this too.

She'll wait. She's gotten used to the scratch of his five o'clock shadow on the back of her neck.

(v)

They are in an unfinished mansion, filled with hideous furniture, in the middle of nowhere. There is also no (good) coffee. Caroline thinks it's her worst nightmare.

(It isn't; things only get worse. She is at least never surprised when that happens. Frustrated and angry, perhaps, but never surprised.)

Bing is waxing poetic about the redheaded girl with wide-apart eyes. She and Darcy are in agreement: there is no one else worth knowing and nothing worth doing in this town. They keep smirking at each other over their laptop screens.

Two hours later she finds herself lying next to him in a tangle of sheets and perspiration, idly wondering how she's managed to be happy in the middle of a supposed nightmare.

(vi)

Darcy comes back from his "business trip" in a foul mood.

He tells Caroline this aspect of their relationship seems to have reached its natural conclusion around the same time he starts forgetting that rooms have people besides Lizzie Bennet in them.

She nods along with him ("Yes, of course. It isn't a problem at all."), feels the muscles in her stomach tighten even as something much worse slashes through her chest. There is nothing to reproach him with; the outlines of their relationship have always been crystal clear.

Darcy is in love, and Caroline is restless in a world that's turned too idealistic to suit her tastes.