author's note: thanks again for your reviews for the previous chapter, they are very, very much appreciated:) I might do some rewriting on chapter two at some point, if I come up with anything, since, as snowtigress suggested, it might fall better in with the rest of the story if it was a little more me and a little less austen. as to how the rest of this tale is going to proceed, I must say that while I had the first two chapters and parts of the third mostly finished when I started posting, chapters four and five are planned but as of yet unwritten, so it might take a bit longer for me to get them out there. not much, I hope, but a little.

(edit: oh, and not to forget to give credit where it belongs, i've borrowed one little line from anthony minghella's cold mountain, as i simply couldn't resist. i've marked it with an *)

but anyway, here goes part 3, what do you think? enough darcy? (as if there could ever be such a thing)

Part 3: Darcy

4 June, 1940. Dunkirk, France.

Darcy stood in the water, shoulder deep, soaked to the bone. His boots felt heavy and the salty water stung the wound in his leg. His right arm was draped around Bingley who was leaning on him heavily, his teeth clattering.

"Hold on, Charles. It won't be much longer."

A ghost of a smile appeared on his friend's tired face.

"Y-you said the same thing t-two hours ago."

Darcy tightened his hold around his friend. He was right, it had been too long. Bingley was barely conscious and he himself wasn't faring much better. Hundreds of men stood around them, all tired from the wait. He wondered how many of them would succumb to exhaustion before they could get on the boats. He knew that all that was keeping him and Charles upright was his willpower and it was weakening by the minute.

He fixed his gaze on the horizon and summoned up all his determination. He was William Darcy of the Pemberley Darcys and he sure as hell would not give up. If he had to stand there, supporting the weight of his friend, until judgment day, he'd bloody well do it. He would go back. He'd made a promise and he intended to keep it.

Concentrating on her image he tried to chase away all thoughts of his present predicament. He'd done it a thousand times in the months gone by, conjured up her face to remind himself why it was so important that he'd get through the war in one piece, had imaginary conversations with her in which she was always eager to forgive him his former stupidity and welcomed him with open arms. Imagined her small, warm form pressed against his on a cold night. She was the place he was headed.* If only he could keep that in mind, he could survive anything. Hell, he could swim across the Channel, if that's what it took.

He thought of the dance in Meryton, the very first time he had seen her. He had been in the blackest of moods. Three months earlier, he had watched his childhood home, his parents' legacy, burn down to the ground, almost taking his sister with it. He shuddered to think what might have happened had he not returned home in time to get her out safely. Together they had stood on the lawn of Pemberley, watching as the flames consumed it, despite the best efforts of the firemen. There were no words to describe how he had felt that night. George Wickham was fortunate to have been arrested and thrown into jail before Darcy had got his hands on him.

As soon as he'd got over the first shock of it, he had determined to rebuild everything, brick by brick. But there was a war coming and it was not a time for rebuilding. So he and Georgiana had gone to live with their aunt Catherine and their cousin Anne - the only family they had left. Three months he had spent in his aunt's house, listening to her endless complaints about how he had been so careless as to let that blackguard Wickham burn down the house that had been the pride of the family for so many generations. As if it was his fault, as if he could've somehow prevented it. Georgiana had been happy in their temporary home, growing closer to her cousin by the day. Darcy, on the other hand, had felt much like a caged animal. When Bingley had written to him, to invite him to his new home for the summer, he had seized the offer like a man drowning.

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten about Caroline Bingley and the fact that staying with Bingley meant staying with her as well. So there he had been, almost as worn down by her ceaseless flirtations as he had been by his aunt's tirades, standing in the corner of a small-town dance hall, sulking, when Charles had spotted the two girls he'd been told were his new neighbours. Reluctantly, he'd allowed Charles to drag him closer, not sparing another look at the girls when his friend had made the introductions. It was enough of a burden to have to tolerate Caroline's advances, he didn't need any more fawning female acquaintances. Especially ones that were, if he'd heard correctly, the daughters of a local pig farmer.

He winced as he remembered the comments he had later made to Charles about Elizabeth, when Charles had tried to get him to dance with her. If only he'd spared her more than a cursory glance before he'd opened his big mouth. It had been only a half an hour later that he'd realized that she, with her laughing eyes and carefree air, seemed undoubtedly one of the most enchanting women he'd ever laid eyes on. But it had been too late then, he now knew, for she had heard his every word.

He wished that he'd been more observant. That he'd seen her impertinent remarks for what they were, instead of thinking she was flirting with him. That he'd realized that the fire in her eyes had been born rather out of annoyance than of passion. Sure, he'd looked at her, but had he ever really seen her?

He remembered one particularly hot day, early in June. Elizabeth and Jane had cycled to Netherfield that morning, as was often their wont. Bingley, who had the day before discovered an old croquet set, had suggested they play a game. Caroline had declined, stating that lawn games were for children. When everyone else had decided to play, however, she had deigned to come to the garden with them and had sat in a garden chair in the shade of the trees lining the lawn, giving imperious advice on where to place the hoops, as if she knew anything about the game. Darcy had briefly thought she had looked much like a younger version of his aunt.

The game had not lasted long. As the sun had risen higher up in the sky, the heat had become more and more unbearable. After less than a half an hour they had, at Elizabeth's suggestion, decided to give in and abandon the game in favour of a swimming trip. Caroline had been hard pressed to get on a bicycle, but when she'd seen that Darcy was going to go, she'd climbed on the saddle, a dark expression on her face, casting an angry glance towards Elizabeth. Darcy had read her mind as easily as if her thoughts had been written on her face: How was it that Elizabeth Bennet seemed to somehow manage to get William Darcy to take part in all manner of vulgar activities?

A small river, or rather a stream, ran between Netherfield's lands and the much more insignificant property of the Bennets. It was there that they had gone that day, Jane and Elizabeth arriving a little later than the others, having made a little detour to get their bathing suits. There was a tiny pier at the river bend, an old wooden structure with a few weatherworn wooden chairs. Caroline had placed herself on one of the chairs, opting for sunbathing instead of swimming. Jane had dragged Charles a little to the side and he had whispered something in her ear, making her blush furiously. Darcy had guessed that Jane, ever demure, had been shy about taking her dress off. Elizabeth, however, had had no such qualms. She had hung her flowered dress on the handlebar of her bicycle, donned a white swim cap to protect her hair, walked straight to the end of the pier and, in one fluid movement, jumped in the water.

Darcy had stood still for a long moment, looking after her, mesmerized both by her lithe, slender figure and the confident grace of her movements. Elizabeth, in her white suit and that ridiculous cap, jumping in the water had been the single most bewitching thing he'd ever seen.

Later, Darcy, Charles and Jane had sat on the pier, drying off after the swim. Elizabeth had still been in the water, leaning against the pier, her chin resting on its edge. Darcy had mentioned a novel he'd finished the day before, addressing his words mostly to Charles. He had been in the middle of describing how very impressed he'd been by it, when he'd suddenly been interrupted by an audible sneer coming from the general direction of Elizabeth. Oh please, she'd said, A Farewell to Arms is as pathetic as it is poorly written. If you wish to read Hemingway, try The Sun Also Rises. It had been an obvious challenge and one he'd been unable to resist. A heated debate had ensued on the merits of the two books, mostly between Elizabeth and Darcy, only interrupted after Caroline, unable to long take interest in any conversation that didn't directly involve herself, had finally declared she could take no more of sitting in the sun and demanded that they all head back home.

This had not been the first or the last time Elizabeth had challenged his opinions and Darcy, in his misguided arrogance, had always thought she did it to impress him, to flirt. Oftentimes he'd been fairly sure that she had even been professing opinions that were not her own, merely to garner his attention. It had been this mistaken notion that had led him to believe that she was expecting for his addresses, hoping for them. That under the enchanting, witty exterior, she was just like any other woman, hungry for his attention. That the decision was his and his alone and that if he ever deigned to ask her, she'd be his for the taking.

His thoughts were disturbed when Bingley sagged against him, his body suddenly limp on his arm. Unsure if he'd lost consciousness or simply fallen asleep, he shook him forcefully.

"Bingley! Charles! Wake up!"

His efforts were rewarded when his friend stirred and his eyes opened.

"Sorry, old man, I must've dozed off for a minute."

Darcy sighed in relief. It would not do to pass out now, not when they were so close to getting home. But Bingley looked so pale it had him worried. His lips were chapped and his eyes glazed under the drooping lids. Darcy wished he had some water, even a few drops to give to his friend. They'd had none since yesterday morning. Reaching his other hand to touch Bingley's forehead Darcy realized that though he had been freezing earlier, he was now running a fever.

Bingley let out a mirthless chuckle. "Stop fussing like an old lady, Darce, it doesn't suit you. I'm fine, just a little tired."

Darcy tried to laugh at his friend's attempt at a joke. He could not. Adjusting his hold on him he repeated his previous promise:

"Not much longer Charles, just hang on. I'll get us on the next boat, I promise."

Darcy thought about the wound in his leg and prayed he would be able to keep his promise. It was not very deep and at first he had not been worried. But this morning he had taken the bandages off to see how it fared and, though he was no medical expert, he was fairly sure it had become infected. In a moment of panic, words like necrosis and gangrene had crossed his mind, but he'd immediately pushed them away. To Charles he'd said nothing, no use in worrying him about something he could do nothing about.

Closing his eyes he tried to find another memory to concentrate on. Images of her furious face on the beach as he'd proposed to her came to him unbidden, but he expertly blocked them, trying to focus instead on something more pleasant. Many months he had been consumed by those images, at first angry at her for her accusations but quickly redirecting all the anger towards himself. How could he have said all those things to her? How could he have even thought of them? No wonder she'd called him prideful and conceited. He had been nothing but.

In a desperate attempt to redeem himself in her eyes at least a little, he had finally written the letter. He had no idea how it had been received by her, or if she'd ever even got it for that matter. But writing it had been a cathartic experience none the less. Into the pages of the letter he had poured all the things he wished he'd said to her during their acquaintance. And though there was no explaining away the things he had said, on that fateful morning on the beach, he'd tried anyway. And when he had finally sealed the letter and sent it off, he had allowed himself to hope again.

A faint smile crossed his lips as he remembered the day the old Wolseley had broken down halfway from Netherfield to Meryton. He still couldn't believe she'd fixed it. He remembered standing next to her the whole time, ostensibly to hold the flashlight but in all honesty, just to gawk. He'd tried to convince himself that the sight in front of him was just the proof he'd needed: As lovely as Elizabeth was, she was a pig farmer's daughter who could fix cars. She simply wasn't suitable and he needed to stop thinking about her fine eyes before he got himself in trouble. But he hadn't been very convincing. So when she'd finally got up and turned to him, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright, it had been all he could do not to reach out and touch her, to feel the soft warmth of her face under his fingers. In retrospect, he was glad he'd tried nothing of the sort. He would probably have ended up with a black, oily handprint on his cheek where she'd slapped him.

Back in the car he'd been beside himself with confusion. His head had told him he'd be better off spending as little time in her company as possible, yet his traitorous mouth had voiced the suggestion to drive her back to Netherfield after they'd taken the others to the dance. He'd vaguely registered the conversation about Elizabeth's mechanical abilities, all the while trying to figure out what the hell he would say to her when they were left alone in the car. When Caroline had asked him if he could imagine Georgiana fixing a car, he had answered with unthinking honesty: He could not. The idea that it might not be such a bad thing if Georgiana could do such things had already been slowly forming in his head, but he had not been ready to admit it, not even to himself.

The drive back to Netherfield had proved to be one of the more embarrassing moments of his life. There he had been, tongue-tied like a smitten schoolboy, unable to come up with anything rational to say, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he'd blurt out a confession he was not willing to make. So he had just sat there the whole way, silent, stealing glances at her when she wasn't looking. What an idiot he'd been.

Started from his thoughts by the sudden flurry of movement around him, Darcy realized that another smaller vessel was approaching. There seemed to be more of those than the day before, commercial and private boats by the looks of them, come to the aid of the army at its most desperate hour. Getting the men on the larger warships was a slow process as the ships were unable to come very close to the shore. There was a small harbour where the big ships were more easily able to pick up the evacuees, but it had already been packed with men when Darcy and Bingley had arrived at the beach and they, like thousands of other men, had decided that trying to get in from the water was their best bet. And now one of the smaller boats was approaching them and Darcy, looking at his pale friend leaning on his shoulder, drifting in and out of consciousness, decided that they had waited long enough.

Determined, he grabbed a tighter hold of Bingley and started pushing forwards, towards the little boat that was quickly filling with soldiers. The men before them gave way to them, seeing the poor condition Bingley was in. But the distance seemed insurmountable and Darcy was tired. His leg, though it had felt blissfully numb when he had been standing still, was now burning with pain and the fact that he had managed to stand on it the whole morning suddenly seemed unfathomable. By the time he finally reached the boat, it was full, dozens of men packed on the deck like canned sardines, and preparing to leave.

"Wait!" he shouted, desperate, his voice hoarse.

A man on the deck heard him and turned in his direction, spreading his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Sorry man, this one's full."

"Please," he shouted, gesturing towards Bingley, "just one more. I don't think he can wait much longer."

The man on the deck looked at Bingley's white face for a moment and then turned to the men behind him.

"Come on boys, give me a hand, there's one more we need to take."

Darcy sighed in relief and started hauling Bingley towards the boat. With a joint effort he and the men on the deck managed to lift Bingley onboard. Just as he released his hold on his friend, Bingley's eyes opened. Darcy smiled at the best, most loyal friend he'd ever had.

"Cheer up, old man, you're going home."

He watched as Bingley's tired return for his smile turned into shock as the fact that Darcy had said you instead of we registered into his consciousness. But the boat was already moving and there was nothing more to be said. Keeping the smile on his face, Darcy lifted his hand in goodbye. Bingley, with a bemused expression on his face, did the same. And then he was gone.

Darcy limped a little backwards and turned his eyes again towards the horizon, just staying up on his feet taking all his concentration. The pain in his leg was searing and he felt utterly, completely exhausted. Not much longer. Just hang on.

As he opened the door to Netherfield's library he saw Elizabeth, sitting in his favourite leather armchair, her feet tucked up next to her, wearing the pale yellow summer dress he had always loved so much. Rays of the afternoon sun seeped through the window, playing in her hair. Her brow was knit in concentration, the left corner of her mouth turned up in some private amusement, as she perused the volume in her hands. He could've just stood there all day, spying on her, taking in every little detail of her. But the door creaked and suddenly her eyes were on him. He felt his heart might burst out of his chest as she smiled at him, a sweet, radiant smile, just for him. Her voice was so soft, barely a whisper, when she came to him, wrapped her slender fingers around his hand and said:

"There you are, love, I've been waiting for you."

The horizon seemed to be swaying and the water enveloping Darcy felt suddenly very warm and inviting. Maybe he could close his eyes and rest for a while, only for a little while. There would be another boat soon. He felt tired. So very tired.