Author's note: Thank you to everyone who commented on the first chapter, here, finally, comes day 2. My biggest thanks to my betas Gayle and Matt for keeping my grammar in line and my plot in order and my kangaroos in a correct formation:) Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

Day 2

Thursday, May 27th 2009

It was just past midnight when they got to his flat, both a little tipsy. She was pinned between the door and his body, giggling against his chest when he reached behind her back and tried to open the door, fumbling with the key. He could feel the warmth of her breath through his t-shirt and felt strangely happy. She made him laugh. She made him feel warm. She moved things inside him he had forgot existed. And he was moving to bloody Vienna tomorrow.

Not six hours ago he had stood in a room full of people he barely knew, a pretentious glass of champagne in his hand, thinking that his evening couldn't possibly be any more rotten. He had been trying to converse with Charles and his latest angel, doing his best to ignore Caroline's remarks that had been varying from annoyed (what had he been thinking, showing up at the party wearing jeans and a t-shirt) to simpering (nobody could pull off a pair of jeans and a t-shirt quite like him) to things he couldn't think about without shuddering. Charles's angel had not been a revelation of any sort, not that he'd expected one. She had smiled too much and said too little and resembled the other angels that had come before her to a point of annoyance. By the time Caroline Bingley had dragged him onto the dance floor, it had seemed like the night had been completely beyond redemption. Little had he known that later he would find himself wishing that this evening would never come to an end.

He laughed and she felt his chest tremor with the sound. Unthinking, she leaned closer, pressing her face against his chest, inhaling his scent. Instantly, she felt him tense, and she smiled when she felt him lean against her, too.

"Bell..." he groaned, and she felt a momentary pang of remorse at not having told him her real name. "I can't even kiss you?"

"Nope. That was the deal, right?" Her smile grew wider when he leaned harder against her and breathed in a hoarse voice: "Screw the deal. I want to kiss you."

She had wanted to kiss him, too, about four hours ago. He'd looked so unexpectedly charming when she'd found him hiding in the garden, his hair a little mussed, a light stubble on his chin and an endearingly brooding look in his dark eyes, that for the first half an hour she'd wanted nothing else than to kiss him, drag him home with her and get rid of every single piece of clothing they wore. That's why she'd lied about her name. Bell, she had said when he had asked, the first thing that came to mind. If he was the sort to kiss and tell, then at least no one would know that she had been the one he kissed. And it was not a gross untruth, when one thought about it. Her father had used to call her his Lizzy-Bell. When she was five, that is.

But that had been four hours ago. Now she knew him better. If she kissed him now, she would regret it. They would sleep together and the next day, he would hop on a plane, and she would regret it. She would miss him. And, just perhaps, he would miss her, too. So a deal had been made shortly before they'd sneaked out of the party. No kissing. No nothing. But she still hadn't told him her name. It had seemed embarrassing to confess that she'd lied and she hadn't wanted to ruin the mood. And if he was going away the next day, what difference did it make? Besides, it had a nice ring to it, Will and Bell.

When the door finally opened behind them, they stumbled into his apartment and she quickly stepped away from him in the hope of regaining at least a little of her senses. She felt his eyes on her when she wandered inside his flat, and she tried to keep a nonchalant air about her. It wouldn't do to show him how much he affected her.

She had arrived to Caroline Bingley's party three hours late because she'd been held up at work. George Wickham was supposed to have closed the shop that night, but he'd had some sort of a family emergency and she had stayed late to cover for him. It was not the first time this had happened since he'd started working at Extensive Reading Co., and she felt a little sorry for him. He was such a nice guy but apparently his family was even more of a mouthful than hers.

By the time she had found herself by the river, at the front steps of the imposing house where Charles and Caroline lived, she'd half expected to find Jane waiting for her at the door, ready to murder her on the spot. She'd been wrong. Jane had been inside, very much enjoying the party in the arms of one Charles Bingley, obviously no longer in need of the sisterly support she had used as an excuse to get Elizabeth to come in the first place.

From the few words she'd exchanged with Jane, Elizabeth had quickly deduced what had happened before she arrived. Jane had met the imposing best friend who had, according to her, seemed a little reserved and slightly irritated. Elizabeth had taken this to mean that he had been a complete arse and Jane was just too kind to say it. Further proof of her suspicions had come when Jane had told her that she had last seen Darcy dancing closely with Caroline and that the two seemed to have disappeared together somewhere. Elizabeth had sighed in disgust. Dislike of Caroline Bingley had been the only redeeming quality of this stranger who supposedly had some influence over Jane's happiness. Elizabeth sincerely hoped that once he arrived in Australia, he would be trampled by a mob of kangaroos and never be heard from again.

Darcy looked at her as she wandered around his flat. Bell. He was fairly sure that it wasn't her real name. But then, he hadn't been entirely truthful, either, had he? She looked at him quickly, over her shoulder, and then turned away again. She was beautiful. He wondered that he hadn't noticed it at first. He'd been hiding from Caroline Bingley in the garden when she'd suddenly walked straight to his hiding place: a weathered, wooden bench by the river bank, conveniently placed behind some shrubbery so that it couldn't be seen from the door to the garden. He had seen her long before she'd noticed him and had been amused by the numerous curses she'd muttered as she walked.

Who throws a bloody party on a Wednesday, anyway, she had grumbled when she was only a few steps away from the bench, and shrieked at his sudden reply:

"I believe it was necessary in this case, since the man of the hour won't be in the country tomorrow."

"Oh, right," she had conceded after she'd got over her surprise at finding him there, "Darcy. I'd forgot about that prick."

He'd almost laughed in surprise at her outburst, wondering how he could possibly have managed to offend this girl who he didn't think he'd ever even met.

"He is a bit of a tosser, isn't he?" he'd offered, much amused.

She'd smiled then, too, a little sheepishly. "Actually, I've never met him."

There. That had been his chance to be forthright. But he'd passed it. Instead, for some reason that now seemed unfathomable to him, he'd said:

"Well, let's hope you never have to meet him then. If you already dislike him so much, you would no doubt loathe the poor sod if you ever had to spend any time in his company."

And then later, it had just seemed too embarrassing to tell the truth. He'd thought that she might guess when he'd mentioned that he was moving to Vienna the next day, but for some reason she'd seemed to be under the impression that the guest of honour was headed for Australia (he'd coughed to hide his laughter when she'd repeatedly referred to him as Crocodile Dundee) and though she had been surprised to hear that he, too, was moving abroad, she hadn't put two and two together and he had not corrected her false impressions.

And now, she was there, in the place that was his home for one more night, and he hadn't a clue of what he was doing. He never brought girls home. Well, never might be a bit of an overstatement. But he hadn't done it in ages. And certainly never with a witty, beautiful girl who he had promised not to even kiss. What a bloody moronic idea, that deal. And the product of his own mind, too.

"So this is what's all the rage in interior design now?" she smiled, indicating the piles of boxes scattered around the rooms.

He smiled, too. "Trouble with the movers. They picked the furniture up this morning and were supposed to come back for these later but something came up. This is the stuff that's staying here, it was supposed to be moved to storage today but now it'll have to wait until tomorrow morning."

"So are you moving back here when you come back to England?"

"Don't know yet. I'm renting it to someone for now, so maybe."

They stood for a moment in an awkward silence. He could think of nothing but kissing her. And if he'd known that she was thinking very much along the same lines, he might have done it, too, deal or no deal. But he didn't.

"Would you like something to eat?" he finally blurted, to break the silence. Instantly, he realized it had not been the best of his ideas. The fridge was probably almost empty.

"Sure," she replied, "What are you serving tonight?"

He smiled a rueful smile. "Chinese leftovers from yesterday?"

"Mr. Wong's?"

He nodded.

"Perfect, my favourite!"

She sat on the floor, watching him while he set them a table on one of the boxes. Cold Kung Po chicken and two cans of beer. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her and she was unable to stifle a giggle. And when she saw the dumbstruck look on his face, her giggle turned into outright laughter.

"What?" he demanded, thinking that she was laughing at him, embarrassed. Leftover Chinese, what a ridiculous idea. "I'm sorry, I know this is not exactly a gourmet meal, and..."

"No, no..." she hiccuped, "this is great. I... I was just thinking of what Caroline Bingley would say, if someone ever attempted to offer her a meal like this on a date."

He had to laugh at that. Caroline had barely tolerated his jeans and t-shirt, something he'd worn on purpose to irk her. A meal of yesterday's Chinese food served on top of a box with a can of beer to go with it would no doubt have been too much for her sensibilities. Or maybe not. Caroline Bingley had a surprising tolerance for things she generally disapproved of when said things were done by Will Darcy.

They ate in silence, both contemplating the sudden awkwardness that seemed to have overcome them when they'd reached his flat. They'd spent a good many hours on that bench in Bingley's garden, talking about everything and nothing, a little drunk, laughing like two lunatics when she'd managed to sneak undetected into the kitchen and back out again, with two glasses and a bottle of wine in tow, without alerting anyone to their secret side-party in the garden. When it had started to drizzle a little, both had been reluctant to go back inside and he had, in a spontaneous gesture that had surprised even himself, told her that he lived nearby and asked if she'd like to go to his place.

And that was when the deal had been made. After he'd told her that he was leaving the next day, they'd talked, half-jokingly, about the idea of two strangers passing in the night. It had seemed like a fun idea that, instead of talking about what they would do tomorrow or the next day, they would just enjoy this one night; and then the next day when they woke up, it would be as if they'd never met. No addresses, no phone numbers, no pathetic attempts to work out some sort of a long-distance relationship that would never work. If fate had intended that they end up together, they'd agreed, it wouldn't have had them meet at such an impractical time.

The deal had been simple: In addition to not exchanging numbers and other personal details that could induce one or the other to break the deal, there should also be no kissing or sleeping together. That would not be their story. Meeting someone amazing one night and then never hearing from them again was kind of romantic. Sleeping with someone amazing one night and then never hearing from them again was a one-night-stand. Nothing romantic about that.

She yawned and he wondered what the hell was he supposed to think about that. Was she bored? Tired? It was kind of late and he had a lot to do the next day. Should they call it a night? He could walk her home and then come back. But that's not what he wanted to do at all.

"Tired?" he asked.

"A little, it's been a long day. Would you mind if I tried out your mattress?"

He smiled. "Hardly."

He watched as she got up and walked to the mattress, flopped down on it and stretched her limbs a little. God, was she purposely trying to make him forget all about their well-laid plans? She flushed a little when she saw his eyes on her, intense, as he followed her and lay down next to her. Her smile returned when she watched him, awkwardly perching on the very edge of the mattress, leaving a self-conscious gap between them.

For a while, they only watched each other, so very aware of the small distance between them and how easy it would be to reach across it. When she was sure she was only seconds away from leaping at him and crushing his body against hers, she spoke to distract herself:

"Come on, Will. We must have some conversation."

"Must we?" he asked, his eyes dark upon hers.

"Absolutely. It would be entirely odd to just lie here for a half an hour and not talk about anything, wouldn't it?"

He smiled. "Do you talk as a rule then, while in bed with a man?"

"What? No! I mean, yes. That's a trick question. I'm not going to talk about that with you."

He laughed, relaxing himself on the mattress, inching a little closer to her and turning to his side so that they were face to face. "Very well, what think you of books?"

"Books?" she asked, incredulously, "Oh no, I can't talk about books right now, my head's too full of something else." She blushed bright red when she realized what she'd blurted and lay stock-still as he reached his hand to touch her cheek.

His voice was low when he asked: "And what might that be?"

This was it. He was going to kiss her, and she bloody well couldn't handle it if he did. "You know, scratch that," she replied, forcing into her voice a lightness she didn't feel. "Let's talk about books. You already know how I love them. Or even better, why don't you read to me?"

"Read to you?" It was his turn to sound incredulous.

"Sure. I saw you still had at least one book unpacked. You could read me a bedtime story. My dad used to do it when I was little." She smiled a beguiling smile, and he couldn't help but return it. She was right. Kissing was a bad idea, and they'd better think of something else.

"And did your father often read Raymond Chandler to you?" he asked, reaching for the book by the mattress.

"Sometimes," she replied, not missing a beat, "although I much preferred Agatha Christie. Smoking guns are not the thing when one wants a good night's sleep, you know. Arsenic in a cup of coffee is a much happier thought."

He shook his head and reached for his glasses, hoping that she wouldn't make jokes about them. Reading glasses always made him feel like an old man. But she said nothing, merely looked at him with a smile on her face as he set the black-framed specs on his nose and cleared his throat. His voice was low and even, and she closed her eyes, listening happily.

"It is quite true that I wasn't doing anything that morning except looking at a blank sheet of paper in my typewriter and thinking about writing a letter. It is also quite true that I don't have a great deal to do any morning. But that is no reason why I should have to go hunting for old Mrs. Penruddock's pearl necklace. I don't happen to be a policeman..."*

He was no further than at the bottom of page two when he noticed that she seemed to have fallen asleep. Her chest was heaving at an even pace, and there was a small smile on her lips.

"Bell?" he asked. She didn't reply. He smiled. So much for not sleeping together. He put the book back on the floor and took his glasses off, snuggling next to her. For a long time he looked at her, memorizing every feature and once again wondering that it had taken him almost an hour to realize just how beautiful she was. At first he'd thought that she looked quite ordinary. Then he'd noticed the amused sparkle in her eyes and wondered at the difference a pair of fine eyes could make. Now that he looked at her, he was unable to remember what it was that had made him think her ordinary. Extraordinary, that was the word for her. So full of warmth and laughter, of some secret happiness, that it made him want to wrap his arms around her and never let go.

And just like that, he made a decision. To hell with the deal. In the morning, he would tell her just that. They could make it work. Vienna wasn't that far, and Meryton was only an hour and a half from London. He could fly back on the weekends. Or she could fly there. Or he could tell the Austrians to keep their bloody job and just stay here. Deals were for tossers. They would make it work. With a happy smile on his face, Will Darcy fell asleep next to his girl.

Shortly after six a.m., Elizabeth woke up. Her head ached a little, and her mouth felt dry, and for a moment she wondered where the hell she was. And then she turned her head and remembered. Will. He was fast asleep next to her, sprawled across the mattress, still in his jeans and t-shirt, his hand holding hers. She smiled. He looked absolutely perfect, his hair tousled and his mouth hanging open. What the hell was she supposed to do now? All she wanted to do was to stay there, to wake up with him, to beg him to stay. But that wasn't the deal. The deal was that when they woke up, it would be as if they'd never met. He'd said it himself. Long-distance relationships never worked. Too little time together, too much leaving. It would only be disappointing. If fate had wanted them to end up together, it wouldn't have had them meet at such an impractical time.

Shortly after seven a.m., Will woke up. With a smile on his face, his eyes still closed, he reached his hand on the other side of the mattress. There was nothing there. "Bell?" he asked, opening his eyes. Maybe she'd gone to the bathroom. "Bell?" His heart lurched when he noticed a yellow post-it note on the pillow next to him.

In the morning it will be as if we never met. I loved every moment of not-meeting you. Bell.

No curse was left unused as he went about his morning that day. The movers that came for the boxes were met with such a black look that they nearly turned around at the door and ran away. The lady behind the counter at the coffee shop downstairs nearly dropped the coffeepot on the floor when she saw the murderous face of her latest customer. When Bingley called to ask what had happened to Darcy the previous night, he received a string of curses for an answer, although followed with an apology and an odd question: Did he by any chance know anyone by the name of Bell? He did not. More curses. When Richard came to pick Will up to drive him to Heathrow, he was met by a scowl unmatched by all the scowls he had previously seen on his cousin's face – and he had seen quite a few. As the plane took off from the runway, there was only one thought on Will's mind: What the bloody hell had she been thinking, leaving him like that?

What the bloody hell was I thinking, leaving like that? was the thought that mostly occupied Elizabeth's mind that morning. By ten o'clock, she had decided that she'd been a complete arse. By eleven, she was wondering if long-distance really was such a bad idea. Sure, it had never worked for her before but then, none of the guys before had been Will. By noon, she was running towards the street his flat was on. By one o'clock she was sitting on the floor outside his door, crying. He was gone. If she could have opened the door, she would have been met by four empty rooms and one yellow post-it note lying on the floor, crumpled.

*Raymond Chandler: Pearls Are a Nuisance