Quick background for those who haven't ready the Darcy edition;


Drunk. Fiztwilliam Darcy was undeniably drunk. It was a state he generally tried to avoid, but then again, he hadn't intended for it to happen this time either. But the strain of arriving at Netherfield the day of a ball on top of his churning anxieties over Georgiana had got him half way there before he'd even realised it.

He'd been loath to part with her – even today, a full two months later than he'd intended to leave. She was still so fragile, so nervous… On top of that, there had been no peace to be had at Netherfield Hall; Miss Bingley's sniping, the pressure of the ball, Bingley's obvious infatuation with another grasping, provincial-

Darcy turned on his heel and strode to the balcony. Several deep breaths of nipping winter air calmed him a little, and he wondered how long he could stay outside. He doubted he'd be missed: he didn't know anyone beyond his own party, and they were occupied hosting. Surely no one had noticed him leave anyway?

He was wrong. "Snakes alive!" exclaimed a short lady, barrelling into him. "You-" she heaved for breath, "You'll do." The next five minutes were a rush of darkness and light, shouting and crowds.

Dazed from the drink and the cold and the sudden assault of the women, he only caught snatches. "LYDIA!", a matron's face. Bingley was there? Looking angry….? Cries of "honour" and "compromise" and a scornful tirade. "Lydia," again, but softer and – flustered? The woman – Lydia? – had disappeared almost as quickly as she came, but others lingered longer.

The pandemonium eventually died down, as the swirl of onlookers moved back indoors. Left alone, in the sobering cool of the night, Darcy finally had time to reflect on his first ever kiss.