Behind the Scenes

by NotAContrivance

Lizzie Bennet Diaries. "In what universe would Darcy be in my bedroom?" THIS ONE. A.k.a. love, lust, and Russian literature.

14. Out of Reach

So, it's been a while. And I know some of you are probably angry and/or disappointed with me, but life is what it is, and it wasn't easy writing this story after LBD ended. I have a lot of things going on and to do and am mostly exhausted, which is why you haven't seen this story for a while, but I'm still writing it, so. Anyway, I stayed up all night writing and finishing this chapter, so here's hoping it's worth it. I know some of you won't like this chapter because it deals with Lizzie and George again, but try and give it a chance. Lizzie and George had unfinished business that needed to play out and be resolved before me and the story could move on, and he's such a fun character to play with. And I won't get to do it much. And again, just because G-Dubs is there doesn't mean that there's no Darcy at all. But a lot of stuff happens in this chapter, and it had to go down, so. Hopefully it'll surprise you? I have kind of mixed feelings about this chapter, but I think it more or less turned out as what I meant it to be, which is really all I can ask for.

Also, this chapter kinda gets pretty sexy at some parts. I wouldn't say necessarily more sexy than other chapters, but, eh, felt like I should give you a heads-up. It was for the story, I promise!

Weirdly, some parts of this chapter even surprised me, like the bit at the end that I just couldn't resist. But stories do that to you.

Anyway, this chapter is set about a week after Darcy and co. leave, but shortly before George leaves for the Meryton Marines. So basically after Snickerdoodles, sometime during that weekend. And Lizzie's been compensating for the absence of friends and Jane's distraction by hanging out with George in most of her free time, so they're pretty comfortable around each other. This is also my last at-home chapter for a while; after this I'm skipping to Hunsford. Which I estimate will be two-ish (or three?) chapters, and then Pemberley and so on. I make no promises about when the next chapter will show up.

I don't own LBD. Or the films mentioned at the beginning. Obviously. Review if you feel like it. They're very appreciated but not mandatory.

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Lizzie was still apologizing when they entered her house. She fumbled with her keys, darting looks back at George over her shoulder. "I'm so sorry about the movie, George. I had no idea it would be that awful, really!" George just smiled, trying to reassure her, but Lizzie continued to ramble. "This... friend of mine really loved it." She'd paused for a moment, unable to bring herself to say Charlotte's name. "And she was always saying how great it was, so I thought I'd finally give it a chance, you know..." She finally succeeded in opening the door and looked back at George in triumph.

He raised a brow, silently asking whether or not he was coming in or just seeing her to her door, and Lizzie rolled her eyes, motioning for him to come in. He smiled to himself as he followed her in; he hadn't wanted to go back to the place he was crashing at, back to his empty bed and empty life. "I mean, I shouldn't have been surprised, really," she said, kicking off her shoes and shutting the door behind George. Shutting the door brought her close to him, too close, and she fell silent, meeting his gaze. Then his eyes dropped to her lips. Something about him drew her in, like a current she couldn't fight, and it scared her. Lizzie took a step back, snapping out of it, and continued to the kitchen. She hadn't quite realized they were alone until that moment. "She likes so many documentaries that make me fall asleep, so why wouldn't she like some borderline disturbing artsy silent film?" she continued as if talking to herself, flinging her purse onto the counter.

George followed her down the hallway, guessing that the source of her aggravation probably had a bit to do with the best friend she mostly hadn't mentioned. He could recognize that ache, that absence in others. "It wasn't that bad," George cut in. Lizzie was standing in front of a cakestand that held an untouched cake her mother and Jane had made yesterday. She turned to shoot him a look. She'd carefully taken the lid off, and George reached across her to swipe at some of the frosting with his finger. He put his finger in his mouth, sucking the frosting off. Lizzie watched him (and more specifically, the way his mouth worked) out of the corner of her eye and bit down hard on her bottom lip. "Mm, cherry." He smacked his lips in satisfaction.

Lizzie threw him a slightly reproachful look, a little mad at herself for being so viscerally aware of him. But, after a moment, she let out a breath and asked, "Do you want some, George? It's angel food cake. Homemade." George nodded enthusiastically, and Lizzie headed over to get the required plates, utensils, and serving equipment. He missed the simple domesticity of home-cooked meals more than anyone would ever know. Most of the women he'd dated had been predictably hopeless in the kitchen. "Can I get you anything to drink?" she asked idly. Who was she acting all domestic, Donna Reed? She had a feeling that this wasn't quite how this was supposed to go and that she was abysmally failing at this whole dating thing, hence why George could be so flaky. But then again, it was always her fault, right, according to her mother?

"That's really nice of you, babe, but I can get it myself," George said, suddenly nearby, brushing past her to get two glasses. He was more used to doing things himself than most people. She'd noticed that George knew his way around a kitchen better than most men she knew. He'd made her dinner to make up for not being able to be at the party; it had been a pretty great dinner with no expectations of any horizontal action, so she hadn't had much trouble forgiving him. Though it had led her to be even more cautious with him and expect less... but she figured that wasn't really the point of George. The point of George was to have fun and... just like somebody the way she hadn't since before grad school.

She blinked and wisely decided to go back to cutting them pieces of cake, rather than meditating on their pseudo-relationship. She sometimes thought George wanted more, but he ran hot and cold, and there was still so much she didn't know about him. "I think I'm gonna have some milk to go with that nice big piece of cake... what about you?" She smiled to herself and told him that she wanted milk too. Lizzie carefully put the pieces of cake on their plates, noticing as she set the plates down on the counter that her house was eerily quiet. Her mom had Bridge tonight, her dad was on a business trip, Lydia was probably out partying, and Jane was busy up in her room crafting and scouring Pinterest in preparation for her big move. Lizzie was just trying to get her mind off of it all.

She hadn't thought the house would be more or less empty when she'd invited George in without even a second thought, and she suddenly felt nervous for it. Which was stupid, considering how many nights she'd had Darcy over when the house was full. She'd been paranoid of anyone, especially her family discovering them, but she wasn't quite so highly wound up and anxious every moment of it—not that she was going to ruin a perfectly lovely evening with George (okay, mostly lovely) by wasting a thought on Darcy. Then again, maybe it was because she was waiting for something to happen with George, already being driven crazy with the expectation of it.

But, as usual, George swooped in, buoyant where she could not be, two glasses of milk in hand. As usual, he was wearing a ready smile, though this one seemed particularly boyish. At her vaguely questioning expression, he said, "Feels kind of like I'm a kid again." Lizzie's expression fell, and George hurried to say, "It's a good thing." She didn't quite understand how much he meant that, how much he missed those idyllic days when it hadn't been quite so hard to be happy. He set the glasses of milk down as Lizzie carefully replaced the glass. She joined him a moment later. Her movements were a bit too choreographed and precise to belie her nerves.

He held up his glass of milk and motioned for her to hold hers up as well, which she did with an amused smile. "To La Roue, the greatest film ever made," he exclaimed, exaggerating the French pronunciation and waggling his eyebrows in a way that made Lizzie know he was joking. She dutifully clinked their glasses together. He started digging into his cake and eating with relish. His eyes closed in pleasure as he savored the cake.

Lizzie covered her face in embarrassment, remembering the film they had just forced themselves to sit through. It had been her choice, and she'd wanted to bail pretty early on after realizing her mistake... but George, bless him, had made a game of staying. They'd watched the other people in the theater, what few of them there were, speculating about their relationships and why they were here. After that, they'd amused themselves making up dialogue for the people on screen. A few times, when it was particularly bad, George had stolen a kiss, drawing back just before she could get really into it. The teasing sparkle in his eye promised "later." "It was bad, wasn't it? Really really bad."

George swallowed the cake, nodding. To Lizzie's amazement, he'd already polished off almost half of it. "Yeah, it kind of was." Then they looked at each other. Their eyes met, and it was all too much. They suddenly both burst out into hysterical laughter. "And what about the quasi-incestuous angle? Talk about creepy!" Lizzie added in between guffaws.

"I didn't think the writing in a silent film could be bad-" George said between laughs, dropping his fork.

"But that was awful!" Lizzie said, finishing the sentence. She finally stopped laughing and picked up her glass, taking a sip.

George shrugged casually, pushing his plate forward. Lizzie tried not to notice the smudge of pink frosting on his upper lip, around the corners of his mouth. Just like she was trying not to think about licking it off his face. "But, hey, I got to spend most of the evening looking at a pretty girl, so I think it was still pretty worth it," he said smoothly, moving towards her. His hand edged across the table until it found and covered hers. Lizzie tried not to tense as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "At least in my book."

Lizzie snorted, stabbing the cake with her fork. She was trying not to think about the way it felt when George touched her, the light but reassuring weight of his hand on hers. It scared her a little, how attractive and close he was. "I probably should've just made out with you so we both forgot about the movie," she muttered, still feeling like the date hadn't gone that well.

George smirked, waggling his eyebrows. He picked up his fork once again and started to cut another little piece. "Can't say I would've minded that... but I personally thought your running commentary was a lot better than the title cards," he said, squeezing her hand reassuringly. Lizzie was still stabbing her cake and not looking at him, though, so he sensed her unease. "Really, Lizzie, don't sweat it," he insisted, "I love movies. When I was a kid I actually wanted to be an actor for like, five seconds."

He let go of her hand so that he could use his dominant hand to eat. Lizzie looked over at him in interest, but George didn't elaborate. He knew how to get a woman's attention. Later she would realize that that was probably a sign. He knew she'd done a lot of acting in high school, even some in college. And he'd watched enough of her vlogs to know that she enjoyed pretending to be someone else. "Anyway, I've seen worse, believe me," he continued obliviously, his mouth half-full of cake.

Lizzie gave him a skeptical look, licking the frosting off of the back of her fork. "No way," she countered. She wasn't oblivious of the way George's eyes darted down to her mouth, or of the way he bit the corner of his lip, showing a flash of teeth and tongue. He swallowed hard, reaching over to pick up his glass and down half of what remained.

"Yes way," George retorted, staring her down playfully, moving just a bit closer so that his elbow slid across the counter. Lizzie was still wearing the same unconvinced expression, tapping her fork against her plate absently. "I had this friend too, a total film snob, naturally... and he went through this phase where he really liked German silent films," George began, shaking his head a little, "God knows how, but somehow he convinced me to watch Metropolis and Greed back-to-back." Lizzie whistled loudly, knowing enough about silent films and those ones in particular to know that they were famously long and deep productions. Certainly not the light, simpler sort of film George preferred—full of noise and color.

George frowned slightly, trying to remember but not to remember too much. "I think he told me there would be boobs or stuff blowing up or something? I was fifteen at the time." Lizzie snickered and wrinkled her nose, but George was a little too lost in his memories to see it. Sometimes George said things like that that made him seem kind of douchey, like a typical guy—and it turned her off a little. And she wasn't sure which George was the real one... the one who loved action movies or the one who put his jacket over beer puddles and made jokes about tandem bicycles? Men would put on all kinds of acts and say all kinds of things to sleep with you.

"God, that was bad," he said, shaking his head. After a minute, he snapped out of it and started shoveling cake into his mouth. Like that would stop him from talking about Darcy and the films he'd suffered through as part of their friendship.

Lizzie rubbed her arm distractedly. On a certain level she knew, even then, that Darcy had to be the friend he was referring to. "Wow, that makes all the documentaries my friend got me to watch sound light by comparison," she remarked, trying not to think about the Charlotte-shaped hole in her life. What she would give now to watch one of those depressing artistic films Charlotte liked now. But she'd been too caught up in her own life and projects and... other things, she thought unpleasantly, to see what she had taken for granted.

George shrugged, swallowing. The cake felt thick and sticky, almost congealed in his mouth. "The things we'll sit through for our friends, am I right?" Lizzie recognized the melancholy in his voice. His shoulders sank a little as he thought about it. It had been a long time since he'd had a friend like that, one worth doing things like that for, since he'd felt like he could just be himself around someone. Instead of being what everyone wanted him to be. His fork clanged against his plate. He'd finished the last of his cake. His eyes darted over to the cake briefly as he contemplated eating a second slice before ultimately deciding against it.

"Mm hmm," Lizzie said distractedly, rubbing her arm again. She'd lost her appetite. Lizzie got up, grabbing her plate and glass and taking them to the sink. She needed something to do to distract her from her thoughts. George didn't take his eyes off of her. Before she had time to so much as turn around, George was there next to her, dishes in hand.

"Let me help you with that," he said, setting his empty glass and clear plate down in the sink. He put his hand on her lower back. She was wearing a dress with a cut-out, so his fingers slid across her bare, warm skin. Lizzie turned around to look at him, meeting his gaze. A slow smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that did things to Lizzie's insides and made her pale cheeks flush. He bent down a little, pressing his lips to her shoulder. She smelled different than usual, like peaches and something peppery that tickled his nose a little. Lizzie tilted her head to the side a little, closing her eyes and leaning into the touch. George moved his mouth over her skin, up the column of her neck. She set her dishes in the sink distractedly and turned around fully to kiss him full on the mouth.

George grunted, wrapping both hands around her waist, pulling her away from the sink. Lizzie sighed, giving into the feeling. It felt nice, and there wasn't any reason to question it. She wound her arms around his neck, trying desperately to get closer. Then George reached down, hoisting Lizzie up onto the counter so that he didn't have to bend down so much. He moved the neckline of her dress to the side, pressing kisses to her neck, tasting her. Her skin tasted like almonds. Lizzie wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing their pelvises into alignment. She lurched forward, and George's lips went slack for a moment.

Encouraged by this distraction, Lizzie shifted, repeating the motion. George stifled a groan, dragging himself away from her neck so he could look at her properly. Her eyelids were fluttering closed, every part of her concentrating on this moment with him and making it last. The sight and the total trust it conveyed were more of an aphrodisiac than he could've thought possible. "Lizzie..." he said warningly, trying not to be distracted by the way her hands were massaging the base of his neck in slow, tiny circles. She opened her eyes and smiled at him mischievously before pulling him back to her by the collar.

Then her lips were finally on his, and the desire ignited in both of them, spreading like a wildfire. The skirt of her dress had ridden up a little, but George pushed it up further. His hands found the outsides of her thighs, stroking the bare, soft skin he found there. One of her hands gradually made its way down his back, rubbing him between the shoulder blades in that spot he could never quite reach, right where he was always sore (from all those hours in the pool). George would never admit to it, but his knees went a little weak when she hit a particularly sensitive knot. Her other hand played with the short hair at the base of his neck. "We... should... go... upstairs," Lizzie breathed between kisses, sounding a bit like a swimmer surfacing for air.

George nodded, sliding his hands under her thighs to pick her up. She was so light, so fragile-seeming, in his arms. Lizzie let out a nervous giggle, her thighs tightening around his waist. He began to make his way towards where he thought the stairs were, but Lizzie drew away from him briefly to catch her breath. "I don't have... your lung capacity," she muttered, gasping for breath. Trying to keep up with athletic, flexible George could be exhausting. George laughed and set her down carefully, like she wanted. Lizzie looked up at him, frowning, tugging on his arm. "Upstairs?" she reminded him, jerking her head towards the stairs.

She stumbled up the stairs with George in tow, all too eager to reach the top before something came along to ruin it. He kissed her at the top of the stairs. She tasted like sugar and cherries. The kiss deepened almost immediately, and they soon became a mass of tangled bodies and roving hands. One of George's hands made its way to her ass while the other one rested on the small of her back, slowly edging down under the fabric of her dress. Lizzie stood on her tiptoes for better leverage, her hands fisting the fabric of his t-shirt. She shushed George quietly, trying to avoid making any sounds that could attract her older sister's attention and ruin the moment.

Though she was slightly dizzy and disoriented, Lizzie managed to back George up in the direction of her room. She kept backing him up until he stopped moving when his back hit a door. Lizzie let out a soft sound of satisfaction, and in that moment George knew he had to get her naked. If whatever was behind him wasn't a door, he probably would've made it one in his haste to get her somewhere they could properly be alone. George groped behind him for the doorknob, feeling along the wall and doorframe until he found it and twisted it. Never once separating from Lizzie, even to suck in air, he used their combined weight to push the door open and staggered inside.

He turned them around, doing his best to kick the door closed before pushing Lizzie up against the first surface he could find, which happened to be her bookcase. The books and items on the shelves rattled ominously, particularly that old typewriter of hers. Lizzie grunted in discomfort, pulling away from George to rub her spine and make sure none of the ceramics fell. They both remained pressed up against the shelves for a moment, staring at each other, chests heaving, before Lizzie remembered the door. She squeezed out from between George and the bookcase, running a hand through her hair. As she locked at the door, she looked over at him with a shy little smile.

George had been in her room before, of course, and they'd even fooled around before, but this was... different. This time she could feel the intent. It was deliberate. She was really going to do this with him. It wasn't nearly as sobering a thought as it should've been. Ordinarily it was the sort of thing that might've given her pause, but... she wanted to do it, and she wanted to do something just for her without... questioning it or overanalyzing it and ruining it.

George attempted to smooth his shirt but never once took his eyes off Lizzie. He thought she might be having second thoughts about this, so he was a bit surprised to see her coming towards him with a purposeful look on her face like she knew exactly what she was getting into. For some reason he never thought she'd actually go through with it, had never figured he would actually get to know her, that he would get this chance. So, like any person, when presented with something he wanted but didn't think he'd ever get, George didn't exactly know quite what to do.

In his experience, things you built up in your mind rarely ever lived up to your imagination.

She put her hands on either side of his face, crashing her lips into his. Lizzie knocked him back a few steps with the force of her body. He hadn't expected that either. George started to push down the sleeves of her dress, tracing her neck with his tongue, enjoying the way she shuddered against him. He couldn't know that she'd shuddered because George had teased a sore spot—the remnants of Darcy's handiwork—but Lizzie did, and it made her feel a little sick. She dragged his mouth back up to hers, so she didn't have to think about that. "Bed," she whispered against his lips. It came out as more of a wanton gasp.

He didn't need any more encouragement than that. George started backing her up in the direction of her bed. It was hard to see because the room was dark. Eventually, though, Lizzie's knees hit the back of the bed and gave out a little, causing George to stumble and trip. Somehow, in all the confusion, both Lizzie and George lost their balance and wound up falling onto the floor. George fell on top of Lizzie, knocking all the breath out of her. For a moment the two of them just lay there, both trying to catch their breath.

Lizzie was crossing her fingers and holding her breath and hoping to God that Jane hadn't heard the loud thump they'd made when they'd fallen. They waited like that in silence for a minute or so until it became clear that Jane wasn't coming. Lizzie let out a breath, relieved, and then she met George's gaze. The minute their eyes locked, they both started laughing at the situation, at how unexpectedly comical it was. He rolled off of her so he wouldn't smother her, trying and failing to stifle his laughter. They tried not to look at each other in the dark because it was somehow worse when they did, but they couldn't stop doing that either.

After they were all laughed out, George pushed himself up into a sitting position and offered her a hand. Lizzie smiled warily, accepting it, and allowed him to help her up. This time she sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling him down with her carefully. Lizzie slid back on the bed towards the headboard and he followed, covering her body with his. He ran his hands down her arms first, pulling the sleeves off her shoulders a little. His hands rested over hers for a moment, pressing them to the bed, before he intertwined their fingers. George shifted his weight back on his haunches. Soon enough they were back to making out like teenagers.

A beeping sound interrupted them before any clothes could be removed. The two separated reluctantly, and a frowning Lizzie reached into one of her pockets, pulling out a phone. It was, predictably, a drunk text from her sister, a jumble of messy letters and emoticons meant to convey just how much fun she was having at Carter's. She rolled her eyes. George bent down a little to peer at the phone, attempting to read the message. "Is that Emma girl texting you again?" he teased.

Surprisingly, her face hardened at the mention. It was hard to tell in the darkness of her room, but he thought he saw her face change color. Lizzie snatched her phone away from him protectively, holding it to her chest. George watched her in amusement before deciding to mess with her a little more. He leaned in towards her. "Did you tell her to text you to make sure you weren't a bad girl with me?" he asked, running a hand up her forearm until his thumb was resting in the inside of her elbow. He rubbed circles into the skin, distracting her a little.

She made a face at him in response, making a show of turning her phone off and reaching over him to set it on the nightstand. "You got me, George," she said sarcastically, holding a hand up in a surrendering position. He stared at her hard, feeling that he hadn't, not really, at any rate. She forced a smile, very deliberately looking anywhere but her phone. There was a hard look—resolve—in place that wasn't there before. "No more interruptions," she told him. She was projecting more resolve than anything she felt.

He gave her a skeptical look, wondering at the sore spot he'd seemingly stumbled upon. Lizzie forced a smile, very deliberately not looking at her phone. She wished he would just leave it. She'd already turned off her phone, a completely unnecessary step, but what more could she do? "She won't be texting," Lizzie assured him with utmost certainty. She hadn't deleted the number, though God knows she'd thought about it far more than she needed to.

She could've kept it for a lot of reasons, like if she assumed she'd see him again or in the thoughts that it might come in handy sometime or for Jane. But that wasn't why. Lizzie kept his number in her phone as a reminder and because she didn't want to be blindsighted on the extremely rare off-chance that Darcy did do something like drunk-text her. He'd done that in the past, and while Lizzie was somewhere around 100 percent certain he wouldn't ever call her again and that she probably wouldn't even see the stupid prick ever again, she didn't want to chance it.

There was some immutable karmic law of the universe that you would run into an awkward hookup just when you were least expecting to. Kind of like how Ricky Collins had popped back up in her life and ruined everything.

Lizzie smoothed her dress. "Our group project... came to an end." She shrugged as she said it, and it was all a bit too casual, a bit too detached. George recognized deception better than anyone, after all, and Lizzie was a far better liar than everyone thought. Those cryptic texts he remembered had seemed innocuous at the time, but there was no way she was talking about a group project. Maybe she was lying to herself most of all.

He knew when not to pry, though, so George just bent down and started kissing her again. She arched her back, sighing into his mouth. He ran his hand through her hair, playing with the soft strands. Lizzie's hands were already starting to play with the hem of his t-shirt, teasing fingers slipping underneath, gradually rolling it up bit by bit. She turned her head to the side, and he took the hint, trailing kisses along her jaw and down the column of her throat.

She giggled quietly, pressing her mouth against his cheek, trying to muffle the sound.

George was busy kissing his way down Lizzie's neck, discovering just how ticklish she could get, when someone banged on the door Lizzie had been so careful to lock. At first they both ignored it, but the bangs only got louder and more insistent. "LIZ-ZZZZZIEEEEEEE!" Lydia screeched. Both Lizzie and George froze and winced at the pitch of her voice. "I need you! 'M drunk, and you have to help meeee!" She kept banging on the door.

George and Lizzie exchanged glances and then both looked at the door. It surprised George a little that Lizzie rolled her eyes and kissed him again rather than going to the door to help her sister. "She's just whining," Lizzie muttered in between pecks. She loved her sister, really, she did, but sometimes Lydia could just be so damn needy, and Lizzie was tired of enabling her. George was slowly pulling the top of her dress down, one hand sliding over her knee, heading down her thigh. She was glad she'd had the forethought to turn off her phone because Lydia was probably blowing it up with drunk texts in addition to the pounding on the door. "It's fine. She'll go away eventually," Lizzie mumbled, curling her fingers in his hair.

"Come on, you nerd! I know you're not sleeping or busy! And I need you now! Right away!" Lydia shouted at the top of her lungs. Lydia was so predictable when she was drunk: loud, obnoxious, and always insisting she needed you when she was desperately seeking attention. Lizzie had spent too many nights catering to Lydia's whims never asking for anything in return. She was due a little time alone with a boy, living her own damn life—the life Lydia didn't seem to think she had.

Lizzie shimmied out of the dress' sleeves, pushing the rest of the top down so that it bunched at her waist. George couldn't look away. She ran her hands up George's back under his t-shirt and tried to drown out the sounds of her sister shrieking. It wasn't like her to live in the moment, to be irresponsible, but what was the point? She was never going to be this young and free again. Was it such a sin to live the way her sister always did, so thoughtlessly, just for once? To enjoy this while she had it? George settled himself between her legs, trailing kisses down her chest, towards her stomach. It wasn't that late, barely late enough to be dark, but the sight of her pale, milky-white skin in the moonlight was entrancing.

She debated telling Lydia off, shouting at her to just go away, but Lizzie ultimately settled for ignoring her. Lydia was due, after all. Eventually, as Lizzie said, her annoying younger sister gave up and disappeared off somewhere where they could no longer hear her shouts. Lizzie's lips curved up into a pleased smile. For once, her head was blissfully free of thoughts except for this moment. She helped George take his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. Her fingers started to work on his belt. George lifted his hips a little to help her. When she'd undone his belt, George yanked it from his belt loops somewhat haphazardly, tossing it behind him.

Lizzie reached down to start unbuttoning his jeans, but George flipped them over before she could. His hands were resting on the sides of her ribcage, his thumbs running over her ribs. Lizzie inhaled shakily. He pressed kisses to her cheek, to her neck, along her cleavage. George reached up carefully, sliding his hand around her back, down her spine. His fingers slipped under the band of her bra and unhooked it with a motion that was little more than a twist. He gently peeled the bra away from her skin, pushing it to the side and then pulling it away, tossing it on the floor. He dragged her dress down her legs, and seconds later it joined her bra on the floor.

Ordinarily Lizzie would've been self-conscious the way she always was when men stared at her like this, and she was painfully aware of her own inexperience. She pulled George back down to her and kissed him hard before he could get a good look. When he shifted against her, she reached down blindly, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. He jerked away when she went to touch his boxers. "Damn, Lizzie. Not so fast," he muttered breathily, not sure how much more of this he could take. So Lizzie settled for pushing his jeans down, sliding her hands over his ass in a way that made George roll his hips involuntarily. He pushed himself off of her enough to help her take his pants off, clumsily kicking them off.

When that was done, he climbed back up her, trailing a hand up her side as he went. He enjoyed the way she shuddered when his thumb brushed over her nipple. Their eyes locked, and George saw the challenge in her expression. Lizzie eased back onto her pillows, digging her nails lightly into his lower back. George grunted, and she let him settle between her legs. Feeling his arousal was surprisingly reassuring, considering her tendency to drive men off. But the way George looked at her, well, it made it pretty clear that he wasn't going anywhere—at least not now.

She reached out for his face, her fingertips skimming his cheek and jaw. Her fingertips felt like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings. Her fingers gently traced the curve of a cheekbone, like she thought he was fragile or worth waiting for. No one ever treated him like that. Her eyes were wide and dark, silently cataloguing everything, and he could see entire worlds in those eyes. George couldn't look at her when she looked at him like that. He turned away, shamed, even as he leaned into Lizzie's touch. Her hand found his chin, forcing him to look at her. Her grip was almost bruising, but he pried her fingers away from his face with minimal effort, kissing her before she could protest.

He eased his weight onto her slowly as one hand covered her breast. The sensation stole her breath and made her throw her head back just a little. The other hand came to rest half on her hip, allowing him to brace himself. George kissed and licked his way from her face to her neck to her chest and down further. sucking on the skin enough to redden but not hard enough to leave a permanent mark. Underneath him Lizzie made some sort of whimper (part pleasure, part pain), wiggling her hips. Each beautiful, pleasure-filled moment seemed to last an eternity.

Lizzie was toying with the waistband of George's boxers, flirting a little, when she heard a knock. At first she thought she was just imagining it or that it was maybe some sound from the house. George had one hand on her breast, the other hooked under the waistband of her underwear, sliding down so painfully slow. She rocked her hips against his and was rewarded with a groan. Then she heard another tap, a bit louder this time. She dismissed that too. It felt so good that she didn't even want to get out of bed. She heard the sound again and froze a little, her hands stilling on George's skin. George lifted his head up from her chest to look first at her and then the door.

Then they both heard Jane's voice, a little timid and a little hesitant. "Lizzie?" Lizzie went completely rigid at the sound of her name. "Can you come out here? I need your help with Lydia." It was silent for a moment. Lizzie didn't move or look at George. She could never refuse her older sister anything, but she wondered why Jane couldn't deal with Lydia on her own. She was better at it than Lizzie was, and she would be leaving soon. "She's... sick." "Sick" was Jane for trashed and probably vomiting.

Her eyes briefly met George's. He saw the apology there and knew what it meant. George jerked his head to the side, motioning for her to go tend to her sister. He even moved aside like he understood, even though he was still aroused and panting. Lizzie mouthed a "sorry" to him and sat up as they separated. Her legs felt like Jello. She groaned a little, pushing herself to the edge of her bed. "I'll be out in a sec, Jane," she replied, raising her voice for her sister's benefit. Lizzie ran a hand through her hair anxiously and pushed herself into a standing position. Suddenly self-conscious, she crossed her arms over her bare chest, turning her back on George.

"Ugh, George, I'm sorry about this," she muttered. She picked up her clothes, beginning to fasten her bra. She tugged on a pair of shorts, pulled a shirt over her head blindly, and then smoothed her hair as best as she could. "I'll be back," she said, turning around to face him. George was lying on the bed, an arm thrown behind his head. In the darkness, he looked like Eros. Or a Playgirl centerfold. Lizzie bit down hard on her bottom lip; she somehow doubted Lydia would leave a guy like that to go help her sister. But, then again, Lizzie wasn't her sister. She walked back over to the bed, just barely avoiding tripping over his sneakers. Lizzie turned on the lamp on her nightstand, watching how the light illuminated him, all but caressing the muscles and tawny skin. She then bent down to kiss him. "Just... stay right there, okay?" she asked, pressing a hand to his chest.

He pressed his forehead to hers and then drew back, winking at her. "Where would I go?" he drawled, giving her a particularly hungry look and patting the bed invitingly. "Come back soon," he said, his gaze dropping to her lips. Lizzie smiled back at him, a little embarrassed, and then headed out of the room. She wanted to lock the door behind her, but then she wouldn't be able to get back in. When she emerged, looking behind her and all too careful to close the door as quickly as possible, Lizzie almost crashed into her older sister.

Meanwhile, in Lizzie's bedroom, George exhaled, closing his eyes and trying to relax. After about five to ten minutes of this and discovering he was too wired to nap, he sought other occupation. George leaned over, reaching for his phone, intending to play a game or text some friends while he was waiting for Lizzie to come back. His phone was sitting on Lizzie's nightstand, right next to her own. As he reached for it, he ended up knocking both phones off of the table. George reclined on one elbow, peering over the edge of the bed. He saw Lizzie's phone on the floor and reached down to pick it up, setting it back on the nightstand. His phone, however, was nowhere in sight.

George frowned; he would never quite understand the physics of why things fell where they did. As loathe as he was do to it, he got off of the bed and got down on his knees to search for his phone. For a moment he merely stared into the darkness under the bed, and then he started feeling around for the smooth metal and plastic. He reached blindly into one of the corners under the bed, and his fingers found something silky. George probably wouldn't have taken it out from under the bed, but he found his phone right next to it, wedged between the bed and nightstand.

He brought the items into the light: his phone and a scrap of red silk. He blew the dust off of both, untangling his phone from the fabric. He thought the silk was a pair of Lizzie's underwear at first, but he soon came to realize it was too thick, too high-end, and the wrong shape for that. The subtle pattern on it was all wrong. It wasn't something a woman would wear. In fact, it was a bowtie. What's more, George recognized it... as belonging to Darcy. For a moment he just stared at it in disbelief before untying the careless knot in it. George sat up, resting his back against the nightstand, twisting the strip of fabric in his fingers. Sure enough, when he brought it up to his nose, he caught the faint, all-too-familiar scent of Darcy's cologne—bergamot, myrrh, and cedar.

Subtle, expensive, and traditional, reliable and just a bit sad: that summed Darcy up neatly. Mr. Darcy had worn something similar, only a bit more leathery, George remembered dimly.

For a moment, George allowed himself to run through all the possible reasons why it could be there. He still couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. It shouldn't be there. Darcy did not just leave his neckwear anywhere. Darcy was never the sort of man to be careless with his belongings, especially sentimental ones, and Lizzie wasn't a kleptomaniac as far as he knew. But either way its presence meant that A. Lizzie had been in Darcy's bedroom at Netherfield or B. Darcy had been in Lizzie's bedroom. As far as George knew, Darcy had never even been inside the Bennets' house. There was really no other explanation for it but that Lizzie was, at some point, having sex with Darcy.

Or that her feelings for him ran deeper than anything she'd said. And they certainly ran deep; that much he could surmise.

Still, the thought of Lizzie sleeping with Darcy was strangely hard to fathom, and not just because he hadn't slept with her. It wasn't the sort of thing Darcy or Lizzie would do, for one, both being traditional, unsubtle, and bad at lying. George also couldn't see either one of them initiating the encounter. Darcy was awkward around girls, especially ones he liked, and Lizzie seemed to solidly despise him. But here he was looking at the proof that it happened.

He bit his lip, shoving the bowtie into his pocket. He didn't want to confront her about it, but George needed to know if she was using him to replace Darcy or... wishing he were Darcy. That feeling was admittedly far more familiar to his former friend, but some women had settled for George upon realizing that Darcy was unattainable and distant. Lizzie had always been fixated on him, after all, perhaps a little too fixated. After a moment, George decided to test her by bringing up Darcy and seeing if she continued the conversation. That would hopefully give him all the answers he was looking for.

Back outside, Jane reached out to steady her sister, giving her a quizzical look. Lizzie didn't quite look like herself. Her hair was messy and flattened in the back, like she'd been sleeping, but the rest of her told a different story. Lizzie's face was flushed, her lips pinker and swollen-looking. Jane noticed a faded red splotch she'd never seen before above Lizzie's collarbone. Furthermore, Lizzie's shirt was on backwards and sliding off one shoulder, showing off almost half of her bra—incidentally one of the sexier bras she owned. She probably hadn't fallen asleep in her clothes. Lizzie looked down, biting her lip, and pulled up her shirt a little.

Lizzie pulled down her sleeves self-consciously. Jane looked at her still, a kind of realization dawning on her. Was her sister changing into someone she didn't know, keeping things from her? Maybe she shouldn't go after all... Jane privately had her doubts about how her sisters would fare without her. Lizzie and Lydia didn't always get along, and their parents didn't always help with that. Lizzie was anxious to get back in her room, alone with George, and motioned for Jane to hurry to where Lydia was.

Jane, however, had remembered something; she'd seen George Wickham's car out in front of their house. That explained what had Lizzie all jumpy and preoccupied. She'd been with him. Jane colored slightly, trying to avoid thinking about what they'd been up to. She swallowed hard, stifling all of the questions she was dying to ask. It was strange for her, Lizzie being in... well, whatever sort of relationship it was. She couldn't ever recall talking to Lizzie about her own lovelife. Lizzie always dismissed it, saying that she had no lovelife, and she'd never had a real reason not to believe her. Lizzie rubbed the back of her neck, feeling guilty and a little bit dirty from the way her sister was looking at her.

Jane wanted to ask something, but it just didn't seem appropriate or like the right time, so she just headed to the bathroom like Lizzie wanted. Lizzie immediately got down on the floor next to her vomiting sister. Lydia's hair had already been secured with a ponytail, so Lizzie just rubbed her back idly as Jane went to get the cleaning supplies. Despite her other saintly qualities, their older sister got a bit squeamish around bodily fluids. Lizzie put a cool, wet washcloth on Lydia's forehead, doing her best to clean Lydia up with tissues. After ten more minutes of this, Lizzie helped Lydia rinse her mouth out, brush her teeth, and then guided her to her bedroom. She helped Lydia change into pajamas and tucked her into bed, taking the time to put water and aspirin on her bedside table. Then Lizzie headed back to the bathroom to help Jane clean and sanitize it as best as she could.

Lizzie rinsed her hands and splashed some water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, noting how wild she looked. Then Lizzie dried her face and almost jumped when she found Jane staring at her. Jane put her hands on Lizzie's shoulder, giving her a look that was both sympathetic and a little worried. "I'm not going to tell you what you're doing with George is wrong," she began, thinking almost immediately that that probably wasn't a good opening. Lizzie blanched, wondering how her sister had known. She opened her mouth to make a futile denial, but Jane carried on talking, sounding firm. "Because I know he makes you happy." Lizzie privately wasn't as certain of that (she didn't exactly see a future with George), but she enjoyed the time she spent with him, and for the moment that was really enough.

Jane attempted a smile, but Lizzie didn't exactly see approval on her sister's face. In fact, Lizzie sort of felt like Jane was disappointed in her somehow. She'd seen her giving Lydia this same look before. Many times. "And you deserve some of that in your life, just..." Jane paused and looked away briefly before reaching out to take her sister's hands in hers. She made sure to look Lizzie in the eyes. "Just be careful, okay?" she cautioned.

Lizzie nodded, though a part of her wanted to snort, remembering that she'd told Jane the same thing about Bing... which, when she thought about it, was probably what had prompted this little chat in the first place. Were they really having this conversation? "I don't want to see you hurt," Jane said softly, "and pretty soon I'm not going to be around to look out for you." Lizzie bit down on the inside of her cheek so that she didn't protest that she could manage her own business or, worse, get emotional about Jane's leaving. As good a sister as Jane was, she had never been as fiercely protective as Lizzie or even their mother. Jane squeezed Lizzie's hand, but somehow that just made Lizzie feel worse. The two sisters said their goodbyes, and Lizzie found herself considerably less excited to go back to George.

When she entered the room, still trying to sort her thoughts and feelings out, he was still stretched out on her bed in his boxers. He was playing a game on his phone, fully concentrating on that, and he looked more at ease in her room than she did. Despite appearances, though, George's mind was frantically turning, still processing. Lizzie locked the door behind her. "Well, hopefully there won't be any more interruptions this time," Lizzie said, heading towards the bed.

George looked up at the sound of her voice and straightened a little, setting his phone down. He smiled at her crookedly. "I was wondering when you were going to come back..." Lizzie responded by pulling her shirt over her head. He grabbed her around the waist while she was still extricating her head from the shirt, pulling her onto the bed up against him. Lizzie untangled herself from her shirt with a bit of difficulty and turned her head to frown at him. He was smirking up at her, and he used his hands to maneuver her so that she was inadvertently straddling him. "I think I like you like this," he drawled, caressing her side, tracing the curve of her little waist.

Lizzie just laughed and moved off of him, flopping down on the bed next to him. "You're gonna have to try a little harder than that." They were shoulder-to-shoulder, touching casually in that comfortable way friends do. George stared down at her, eyes darting from her mouth to her eyes and back. He pushed himself up on one elbow, planting one hand on her bed, moving to pin her down. She thought he was going to kiss her, so she was surprised when his mouth came to rest just against the side of her face by her ear.

It was so easy to bring up Darcy, easier than it should, by any right, be. "So, I hear my least favorite person finally bailed town. Don't tell me you're all broken up about it?" George drawled, pouting and making a little face. He was sure to make his voice sound teasing and playful, almost jaunty. He pulled away from her abruptly and stretched out a little bit more on Lizzie's bed in anticipation. In retrospect, he wasn't really sure what he was expecting her to say. He'd long ago learned that all people ever did was lie about one thing or the other—to others, to him, to themselves. A part of him wanted to think that Lizzie would drop it, that she was as honest as she seemed, but he wondered exactly how much of her talk about Darcy was just hot air.

She stiffened at the mention of his name and then snorted. "Good riddance," she pronounced. It didn't escape George's notice that she said it with a bit more bitterness than it warranted. For a few, glorious moments, though, George thought she was going to let it die there, that they would get to something a bit more productive.

Lizzie, however, was lost in her thoughts. It had been less than a week since the Nethertrio had left without so much as a warning, and Lizzie hadn't really had much time to think about it. Really. She was more worried about Jane and Charlotte and school starting, trying to think of a way to fix it for her sister, that she didn't really think how she felt about all of it. Lizzie was furious at so many things when Bing left, but not Darcy. At least, not really. Honestly, she was relieved he was gone for more reasons than she could name.

The first being that she felt lighter in his absence. Keeping the secret weighed on her, and doing what they had done had cost her more than she thought. Sometimes she'd felt sick inside, tied up in knots. And then there was the pressure of his expectations and the feeling she couldn't shake that he somehow disapproved of her, no matter what he did.

Furthermore, Darcy had a way of sucking all of the air out of a room; his presence was heavy, weighty, solid. Not to mention how imposing and indicting his gaze was, the force of his scrutiny, how his stare burned through her. He also had a way of getting under her skin and making her insanely, irrationally angry just with his mere presence. It was irritating, but not quite the paralyzing rage she would later come to feel, the hatred that coiled in her stomach and formed itself into a tight, compact ball in her stomach. She didn't like any of those feelings or being out of control.

She didn't really spare many thoughts on him. She didn't see the point. Lizzie had always known it would be temporary, and he wasn't a big part of her life. It was easiest to just think of it as one of those once in a lifetime sort of things, an experiment in being someone else. Later on, in passing, she would sometimes admit that she missed getting laid regularly, or, in weaker moments, that she wished for that sort of companionship. But she hadn't had time to really miss any of that yet, definitely not with George around.

There wasn't really anything about the man himself that she'd grown particularly attached to. He was an ill-advised summer fling at best, and she'd gotten out of it with minimal damage to all parties involved (and more or less minimal trouble to herself). It was really a wonder she hadn't made a bigger mess of it.

If she thought about it (not that she did), she would say that he was satisfactory in the bedroom and discreet. He was best summed up as a novelty: a rare handsome, wealthy stranger in her hometown. If she was being kind, she would admit that he was different and... interesting, at the very least. She certainly noticed him and wasn't indifferent.

But the suddenness of their leaving bothered her more than she liked to admit, and she knew Darcy'd had a hand in it, if only to avoid the ensuing awkwardness between them. She could hardly blame him for that; it wasn't as if she wanted to have to keep facing him after what had happened. What she could blame him for what Bing's sudden departure. She'd thought a lot about that, and any way she sliced it, she could only see Darcy being the main person urging Bing to ditch Jane and their small town. Bing didn't make a single decision or move in life without the input of Darcy and his sister. Darcy had never made a secret of his disapproval for the town and small town life, and she knew he didn't really get Jane-and-Bing. She could tell he had his doubts about her sister, that he didn't think Jane was good enough for his best friend. And the fact that he had the nerve to think that and used his own personal feelings to interfere in his friend's life, thus making both her sister and Bing miserable, well, that made her even more furious.

And maybe it bothered her a tiny, little bit more that he was just one more person in her life who'd left without saying goodbye. Even if what they had hadn't meant anything, that still stung. People were always leaving her behind.

Of course, aside from the niggling but undeniable feeling that Darcy was partially (totally) responsible for Bing's sudden departure (did he have to drag Bing along?!)... the thing that bothered her most of all was that Darcy still had her copy of Much Ado About Nothing. It wasn't worth anything, but Lizzie was more attached to it than she realized. It was her favorite of Shakespeare's plays, and Lizzie'd owned the book since she'd played Beatrice back in a high school production. She wanted the book back, and now she was all the more likely to never see it again. If she had one real regret from the whole affair, aside from whatever role it had in making them leave, that was it.

Lizzie shook her head, snapping out of her thoughts. George was in front of her, staring at her expectantly, not sure what to make of her silence. She didn't want to think about him, hardly wanting to dwell on bad memories of a man who had insulted or hurt virtually everyone important to her. But then she just started talking about him, like she had no sense or filter because she couldn't help herself. Darcy was the only person who had ever made her that angry, and the hatred didn't just go away because he had. "How were you two ever friends?" Her voice was disbelieving. It reminded George of high school, of the way others reacted when they found out the two men were best friends.

Something inside of George sank, even though he'd expected it. A part of him had still hoped she wouldn't take the bait so easily, that it could just be the two of them here... but it could never really just be the two of them anymore, could it? Not now that he knew there was more. Then again, no matter how hard George tried or how far he ran, he never could quite escape the Darcys. In a strange way, it always felt like Darcy was in the room with him, disapproving of everything he did. As much as he wished he could be rid of it, George supposed family (oh, how the word choked in his throat) was meant to be like that, like heavy baggage you carried with you involuntarily wherever you went.

He leaned towards her, resting his weight on one elbow. "What, Lizzie, are you looking for more good qualities in Darcy since he didn't win you over with his money or good looks?" he quipped, joking a little. Lizzie shook her head and rolled her eyes, shoving him in the chest playfully. She didn't want to look for good qualities in Darcy.

George still wasn't wearing a shirt, and Lizzie got distracted by the feeling of his bare, warm skin under her hand. She idly traced the lines of his pectorals, his abdominal muscles, staring at the smooth, tan skin.

And then, just because he couldn't resist, or maybe because he couldn't help but twist the knife a little into both of their sides, he brings Darcy up again. He wants to see how she'll react, wants to watch her deny it and call him crazy when he knows he's right. "You know," he began, seeing that he had her undivided attention. He took a calculated pause, reaching out and resting his finger in the hollow of her collarbone. He felt her swallow hard and then trailed his finger along her clavicle. He dropped his finger down to follow the curve of her breast. Lizzie's breath hitched. He leaned in a little, so that their lips were almost touching, and said, "I kinda think Darcy was into you."

It was probably the understatement of the century. The fact that Lizzie had that bowtie (it had struck George that Darcy may have deliberately left it there so he would have a reason to go back, or some other such nonsense) in her room spoke volumes about Darcy's feelings.

As predicted, her reaction was immediate: wide eyes, a spike in her heartrate, drawing back, a shrill laugh, and the too-vehement denials he was expecting. "Wh-what are you talking about? Darcy hated me. He was always looking at me like he was imagining my face on a dartboard." If he didn't before, he certainly did now, she thought. Whatever he felt (ugh), he would forget about it soon enough, in a month or so, and they would never see each other ever again. He gave her a skeptical look, not needing to say anything. But, George supposed, looking at her, maybe Lizzie really didn't know. It wasn't like Darcy to talk about his feelings. She was in denial about something, and when Lizzie didn't want to see it, then she didn't. Maybe it was just that simple.

Lizzie saw his jaw tighten a fraction, the way it always did when she brought Darcy up. She knew she shouldn't talk about him or bring him up, that it was a sensitive topic for George. There was some unwritten rule, wasn't there, about how you shouldn't talk about other guys when you were with one you were interested in? That was probably another of Lydia's Reasons Why Lizzie Bennet Is Perpetually Single.

She didn't want George to get the wrong idea about her feelings (or lack thereof) for Darcy. "I'm sorry I keep bringing him up," she said apologetically, playing with one of the edges of her sheets. She licked her lips distractedly. His hand was still on her breastbone, fingers lazily sprawled across her heart. "It's just... I can't believe you two were ever friends." She said it in that same disbelieving tone. "You're so different," she observed, as if marveling at it.

George smirked bitterly at the double-entendre of it all. "Not as different as you'd think." And certainly not as different as either he or Darcy wished they were. She gave him a somewhat startled look, opening her mouth and starting to protest already. George stopped her by putting a finger to those pursed, pretty pink lips of hers. He pushed her full bottom lip down a little with his index finger. Her breath quickened slightly. His eyes darted down to her lips briefly, but some of the thrill of earlier was gone.

He shrugged faux-casually, taking his hand away from her mouth. "Darcy needs to fix things, and I need to be needed," he said unthinkingly. As it sunk in, he realized with a start that it was the most honest thing he'd said in years. "We needed each other until we didn't, I guess." He tried to say it casually but even Lizzie could tell he was really very affected by it. He drew away from Lizzie, leaning back into her bed, staring up at her ceiling. He put a hand behind his neck, sprawling out on the bed, thinking. They'd relied on each other, leaned on each other for a while. He'd thought it meant more than it did. That was all. It was so much easier when he put his feelings in a little box, banishing them to the attic of his mind, and didn't think about them.

Lizzie was still on her side, facing him, a hand resting underneath her cheek. "You miss him," Lizzie said knowingly, thinking of Charlotte. She still couldn't quite believe it, that George missed Darcy after everything that had happened. For the first time since it happened, Lizzie thought about that night she went to Darcy, crying about Charlotte, how he'd known. How he'd understood. Maybe he missed George too. George grimaced, jolting a little next to her and turning to look at her for a moment. She's right, of course, not that he (or Darcy) would ever admit it.

It's more than that, though, really, because it isn't just Darcy he misses, or what they had or the money. It's those days of almost belonging, of having people who he thought cared about him for who he was. Of having people who knew who he really was, people he could trust. Of not having to put on a show, to really be his true self, no filters or smokescreens. He misses the illusion of that, the idea of living in a kinder, fairer world—the kind that has always been denied to him. How often had he wished as a child that Darcy, Gigi, and Mr. Darcy were his real family, that they wanted him around forever?

But no one ever wanted that, not from him.

He stiffened a little, the tension failing to edge out of his body, but didn't deny it. "I miss a lot of things," he said after a moment. George rubbed his chest distractedly. He wished he was wearing a shirt, that he didn't feel so exposed around her. Lizzie's eyes could be so piercing, to cut through the walls and layers he'd put up. "But I can't go around acting like I left my heart in San Francisco." He shrugged, making a face and shifting his shoulders to be a bit straighter. He motioned directly in front of himself, holding his hand out like a blade. "You have to look forward, to just keep moving. To focus on the future as best as you can because all the rest..." He sighed, pushing up against the back of her headboard into more of a reclining position. "Well, there's too much water under that bridge to cross back over it, you know?"

Even if it was the Golden Gate.

Lizzie stared at him contemplatively. It was the only time where she'd seen him that he hadn't been smiling or trying to make light of it, like it didn't matter. He's somehow more real for it. There's a lot of things George doesn't say, a lot of things he probably doesn't say to anyone.

She settled for saying, "I didn't know you were from San Francisco." It came out sounding so guileless, but George couldn't help but wonder if she was fishing. But she didn't ask any questions, and her eyes were focused solely on him. So maybe she wasn't wondering things about someone else.

George almost smiled, feeling the familiar burn in his chest like a shot of whiskey. He leaned in again, close enough to kiss her. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Bennet," he said, running his fingers through her hair. Lizzie stared back at him and thought that she wanted to, but she'd always been a little too curious for her own good. He enjoyed it a little too much when she leaned into his touch, and then he carefully pushed the hair aside to press a kiss high on her neck, just under her ear. "But you've got plenty of time to find out," he whispered against her skin.

And then Lizzie turned into him, her lips catching his. She caught him off-guard. It took George a few seconds to deepen the kiss. When that happened, it was as if they'd caught fire. Lizzie's nails scraped his skin, careless. In a few minutes, she'd unfastened her bra again. He moved a little slower than her, rolling down her shorts at a maddening pace, even as Lizzie wrapped her legs around him, urging him on. She grabbed his ass, trying to pull his boxers down, but George resisted, flipping her down onto her back.

Impatient, she struggled against him, but he held her down so that he could trail kisses down her torso until she was trembling and begging him. She surprised him again by reversing their positions so that she was on top of him, straddling him and leaning back on her haunches, trying to get comfortable. Judging by the dark gleam in her eyes, she knew exactly what she was doing to him, rubbing against him like that. He reached out for her breasts, but she moved out of his reach, flashing him a smug smile. He sat up a little, hands making their way to her ass. He squeezed her ass, using his hands to move her hips over his until he hit just the right spot and Lizzie cried out. He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the feeling and the friction, imagining just how it would be.

She glared, breathless, and he grinned at her wolfishly before repeating the motion. Lizzie bit down hard on her bottom lip, stifling a moan. She couldn't be loud, couldn't let her family hear the sounds of her adulthood. George let himself enjoy the sight and feeling of her on top of him for a few moments more before releasing her. Then they exchanged looks, and they separated for a moment so that they could tear off their underwear before coming back together.

For a few minutes they just made out like that, glorifying in the feeling of bare skin on skin, getting used to it. For Lizzie, George's skin was smoother than she'd ever imagined. If she was thinking at all of anything other than the moment and getting what she wanted, Lizzie might've been self-conscious, but that would've ruined everything. She knew that from experience.

Eventually, though, just making out and touching wasn't enough. Lizzie's shaking hands clawed at the sheets, pulling them back far enough so that she and George could scramble underneath the sheets. They went back to kissing frantically, George's hands traveling from her neck to her shoulders to her breasts and back again. He gently eased her onto her back, slowly moving over her. Then he pulled away from her lips, and for a moment they both stared at each other, blue on blue. They were both breathing heavily, their chests pressing against each other with every breath.

His hand found her hip. His thumb smoothed over her hipbone, and Lizzie shuddered. Her nails dug into the small of his back. George leaned back down with purpose, his lips ghosting over her cheek, the side of her throat, her collarbone.

Awareness had slowly started to sink into Lizzie like ink on paper. She'd been enjoying it, but a not-right feeling was slowly bubbling up in her. A feeling that only solidified when his hand started moving down towards the cradle of her thighs at the exact same moment his mouth found the tender spot just above her clavicle. It didn't help that she was still staring into a face and eyes that suddenly, unpleasantly reminded her of someone else. Someone else she had no business (or desire) thinking about now. She'd never thought they looked alike before. Lizzie went rigid immediately, feeling nauseous at the reminder, and she knew she couldn't do it. She... felt dirty, not ready... something she didn't quite understand.

George pulled back, feeling a little lightheaded. "Is everything all ri-" he started to ask. Lizzie shook her head no, still gasping. "What's wron-" he asked. Lizzie just shook her head no, unable to form words. She was still too busy trying to catch her breath. He drew back, pushing himself off of her, cringing a little as their sweaty skin separated. "Did I do something?" he asked, feeling helpless. But Lizzie just shook her head no again and looked like she was drowning in her sheets. George flopped ungracefully onto his back, scratching his chest distractedly and waiting for the fog of lust to fade so that he could think clearly.

After a few moments of recovery, Lizzie sat up in bed, pulling the sheets up around her. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking down to make sure she had full-coverage. She was still flushed, still breathing hard. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, but she couldn't look at George. She'd gotten his hopes up, gotten him all ready, only to flake at the last moment. Lydia was always saying that no one liked a tease, right? "George, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just..." She chanced a brief glance over at him from her peripheral vision. She felt the bed shift as he sat up too. "I just can't," she mumbled guiltily, feeling like a failure. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

She didn't get what had gone wrong. It had been so good one minute, so why couldn't she go all the way? She'd done other things with him. She'd imagined this, planned for it, thought about it a lot. She'd wanted to sleep with him, wanted to enjoy it, but she just... couldn't let go for whatever reason. It felt somehow wrong, and she'd thought she was okay with that, with making a mistake, but she just... couldn't go through with it. Despite all of her overthinking, Lizzie still couldn't get it. She liked George. She was in the mood and tired of waiting. He was good at it. So why did she stop?

Was it because it felt so final? Because there was no going back and... something in her just wasn't sure about it? Or because sleeping with him would've meant more than she was comfortable with?

Lizzie covered her face, wanting to dissolve into the pillows. She felt every bit as naked as she was. He'd seen everything, even her lack of nerve. Then she felt his hand land on her shoulder almost timidly. "Lizzie, it's fine," he said. "It's okay." She peered at him through the gaps in her fingers. "Really," he insisted. She lowered her hands, and George marveled that she looked like a scared little girl.

Maybe she was, but that wasn't the Lizzie he knew.

Her gaze dropped to his stomach, and she watched the way the muscles flexed as he stretched. His skin was glossy with a faint sheen of perspiration. He wasn't embarrassed like her; the sheets were low around his hips. She swallowed hard, wondering how she could say no to all of that. George was a little confused, not sure what to make of it, but he wanted to make sure she was okay before figuring anything else out. Wanting to put her at ease, he continued, "I'm not... mad or anything." He straightened the sheets around his waist a little, surprised to realize that he actually felt a bit relieved that she'd stopped first.

As much as he wanted to, he wasn't quite sure he could've gone through with it either.

Not because he wasn't interested or because he physically couldn't, either, not that George ever had those problems. Because he felt like he was betraying someone, like he was selling her short. He felt guilty about being here with her, like it meant something.

Lizzie's eyes, wide and disbelieving, shot back up to his. George rolled his eyes goodnaturedly in response. "Really, Lizzie. You were right," he said a moment later. He reached over for her hand, squeezing it understandingly. He knew things were winding down with them, could feel it in his bones. He has a well-honed instinct about that sort of thing. It's how he knows when to bail town before he gets too attached to any particular place. As much as a part of him wants to seal the deal, to neatly resolve this tension with Lizzie... another part of him can't. Not just because he doesn't want to resolve things or because he doesn't believe in closure or because he doesn't want the mystique and interest to fade as it generally does whenever sex is added to the equation, but, well... but because he doesn't see the point.

Will he regret not having sex with her? Yes, probably, and he'll probably think about it and wonder what might've been in random spare moments more than he'd like to admit. But she doesn't want to, and he's not going to talk her into it or be with someone who doesn't actually want to be with him. Things are already almost over between them, so why should he bother complicating it with another level of intimacy, another level of pointlessly intertwining their lives? Isn't it somehow sweeter and purer to leave the sexual tension unresolved? He's not a man who has a lot of Ones-Who-Got-Away, after all.

He leaned against her headboard. "Some people don't get a right moment." George offered her a sad smile, shrugging as he said it. His life had proved the truth of that statement. He had a gift for seeking out opportune moments, for making them for himself even, but he knew how to recognize a lost cause. Timing was a funny thing like that. Sometimes you got it just right by accident, but other times, no matter how hard you tried, that perfect moment never materialized. And that was the case with Lizzie. It was probably better off that way. Getting that moment with her might make it hard for him to leave.

Even if he wanted her with his whole heart, he still wouldn't be what she deserved... and she'd get bored of him sooner or later. It was strange for him because, well, it's rare nowadays that something feels wrong on moral grounds. But an interesting novelty, he supposed, and maybe sometimes he needed it to remind him of the boy he once was, with higher, less mercenary aims, who'd believed in and wanted bigger things for himself before everything became so... impossible and sad. The real world was overrated to George.

Lizzie frowned, feeling a bit confused. But she could feel it too, the magical moment-that-could-have-been slipping through her fingers like sand. Moments that could've been something were always slipping past her. She leaned against her headboard, closing her eyes. Her hot skin absorbed the coolness of the wood. She felt the cool air seeping through her thin sheets.

Why couldn't she just make her body and mind work and sync up the way she wanted? Why couldn't it be easy to be a different person for a single night of (undoubtedly) amazing sex?

George was staring at her, trying to decipher the unreadable look on her face. Her expression was a mix of disappointment, lingering shame, loss, and resignation more than anything. He wished she would open her eyes so that he could memorize the sight of her like this. Her skin is so pale, her hair dark like dried blood, her lips rosy and swollen. But he can't quite remember the exact shade of her eyes. He's sure Darcy would know, sure he'd have it memorized.

Cerulean, he thinks later, when she opens her eyes; they're cerulean.

He was forgiving, can't blame her, really. Because of course Darcy has yet another thing some small part of him wants. Why wouldn't he? Loyal, kind, perfect, selfless Darcy is always first in everyone's hearts, even people who despise him... and what's worse is George can't even blame them. He knows that appeal better than just about anyone, just as he's always known that Darcy is the better man. He just wished life wouldn't always rub it in his face.

In a way, it was as if Darcy had been in the room with them the entire time, even before he'd realized it. As ridiculous as it was, George couldn't just overlook that or pretend it didn't exist. All these years, and he could still feel the weight of Darcy's silent judgment as if he was staring down from him, the angel to George's devil.

That was really why he couldn't sleep with Lizzie. It wasn't just because he felt like he was cheating her, like he wasn't good enough. He didn't think it was because Darcy had been there first, or because Lizzie had made him feel like an afterthought or something like that. It was like he was violating some code—as if George ever heeded any code or rule except when it suited him. But he couldn't bypass this one. How bizarre that after all these years he should feel like he still owes Darcy some courtesy, that he can't sleep with the girl his ex-best friend loves? It's just more proof that Darcy still runs his life even after all these years... but doesn't he still owe Darcy that much respect, at least? Either way, if being with her reminds him of Darcy, George generally knows enough to take that as a sign to get out of bed and as far away as possible.

Those thoughts lead to nothing but bad memories and feelings.

George licked his lips, all set to leave, and started moving to the edge of the bed. He was already making up his excuses, going to reach for his boxers, when a sudden thought occurred to him. He stilled and straightened. Then He let out a yawn, one a bit too loud, too theatrical to be completely believed, but maybe it still would work. "Actually," he asked in a voice that was trying a little too hard to be casual, "can I crash here? I'm so tired."

It's not entirely a lie. He is tired of a lot of things—tired of always being second-best, tired of always being alone, tired of never being good enough, tired of never being wanted. He didn't have a home to go back to. Home, as if he remembers having one of those. There are no homes in his world, not even houses... just places he crashes, places he lays his head and hangs his clothes for a while until he moves on. The place he's temporarily staying, well, there are a few buddies there, but no one's really waiting for him. No one who would worry if he didn't show up, at any rate. Then again, George couldn't say that anyone's ever really waited for him except maybe Gigi.

There's nothing for him there, but there is something here he can have for the moment, even if he doesn't deserve it. George has never been above taking something he doesn't deserve.

A somewhat astonished Lizzie stared at him, unable to believe that he wanted to stay, even if they weren't going to... Nonetheless, she nodded hesitantly, biting her lip, and moved over to accommodate him better. George smiled at her, twisting to press his lips to hers as thanks. His hand stroked her cheek. Lizzie, however reciprocated a bit too eagerly, pulling him back with her so that he was half over her. He drew back before he got lost in it. "Ah ah ah, wouldn't want to get carried away, would we?" he murmured, pressing his index finger against her lips. His voice was still husky with residual arousal.

He figured it was probably best if he put some clothes on, so George sat up, reaching over the edge of the bed for his underwear. He turned his back on Lizzie to slip them on and set his alarm to leave early in the morning so as to not cause her any trouble. Lizzie took the opportunity to put on her underwear and a worn, baggy t-shirt. They got back into bed at the same time, which George would've once found frighteningly domestic but now thought comforting. He draped an arm over her waist, sliding it across the flat skin between her hips. Her shirt has ridden up, and his hand slides across easily. His fingers are rough and hard where Darcy's were smooth. George had callouses from work, from swimming and tumbling. He curled up next to her, into her body. "Is this okay?" he asked. Lizzie felt his breath, his words against the back of her neck. If his voice came out a little shakier than he intended, it was because he can't remember the last time he did this.

It was probably with Gigi, but it felt different then. He'd always felt like that relationship was doomed, like he was just waiting for an anvil to come crashing down on his head (Darcy finding out and putting a stop to it because he was that predictable), to break the spell. He'd felt at ease with her, comfortable but, well, just biding his time. Waiting for it all to come to an end. But he didn't remember feeling as strangely vulnerable and unsettled as he does now. Lizzie nodded, her breath rattling a little in her chest. She's never been so viscerally aware of how close she is to him, but it feels closer than she's been to another human being in a while.

Even Darcy had never stayed the night in her bed. She forgets sometimes how nice it is to share a bed with another human being, how it staves off that feeling of loneliness that wells up some nights when she's in her bed alone, left to nothing but her thoughts. She wouldn't have said no to George.

Lizzie tried not to think of how it felt to be sleeping next to Darcy because it felt wrong while George was in her bed. She generally tried not to think about those few times she'd ended up sleeping next to Darcy (had they really ended up having sex again every time that occurred?), purely by accident. It had felt different, though, emptier. He'd been just a warm body and a heartbeat. She'd avoided cuddling up to him as much as she could, not wanting to be close to him for any longer than was necessary. She didn't think about what it felt like to be in his arms. She'd been uneasy with him, wondering what he wanted, and waiting for him to kick her out, afraid of getting caught the entire time. Like a clock was ticking.

With George, there was none of that uncertainty or discomfort. He was a person to her. They were friends, and he respected her, which was kind of wholly unexpected, but... the attraction wasn't a problem the way it could've been. She hadn't been this comfortable sleeping with a man in years.

Lizzie put her hand on his arm, the one that was wrapped around her. She slid her fingers down his forearm, closing her eyes to savor the feeling of his skin. You had to enjoy things while you had them before they slipped out of your fingers. And George was, well, he was a boy of summer. He was never going to stick around forever. Hadn't she always known that? She squeezed his wrist, and George's grip on her waist tightened minutely.

Then she let out a breath, still staring up at her ceiling and said, almost in a whisper, "Tell me something real, George." She wanted to feel connected to him, as strange and probably stupid as it was. He could swear to God that his heart stopped for a second there. Whatever she says, whatever she'll think later, she really is a good judge of character. No one's asked him anything like that in years, mostly because no one's believed him or wanted to listen. No one cares enough to. "Tell me something no one else knows," she asked again, turning in his arms to face him. Her lips brushed against the side of his face as she said each word.

"I like you," he whispered almost directly into her ear, not quite joking but close. His breath brushed against the shell of her ear, making her break out into goosebumps. She let out a little laugh, and George marveled at how much he liked the sound. She really did have a great laugh, and he loved that he could make her laugh and smile so readily, so unguardedly. George was sure that was probably something Darcy also liked about her, not that he could ever elicit more than a chuckle. He shook off the stray thought, exhaling heavily, and did his best to think up something for her. He owed her that much honesty, right?

He turned to look at her, moving so that his arm was no longer wrapped around her waist. "You know why I asked to stay here tonight?" he asked. Lizzie opened her mouth to answer, but George shook his head, cutting her off. "I think you know it isn't really because I'm tired." Lizzie closed her mouth, and George let out a breath, looking away from her. He threw an arm behind his head. "It's because I don't want to be alone." Lizzie pushed herself up on an elbow to better examine the look on his face, but he was very determinedly staring at the ceiling. "I'm so tired of being alone, Liz," he breathed a moment later. The shortened version of her name feels like a caress; Lizzie could curl up in it.

It was the truest thing he'd ever said in his life. He'd been alone his entire life.

He'd finally said that aloud, and the world hadn't ended. Go figure. But George was still waiting for something bad to happen. The only thing that happened, however, was Lizzie's hand slipping into his. Holding his breath, he shifted to look at her, only to find her staring at him with naked sympathy in her eyes. She knew what it was like to be alone, but at least she had her family. He would kill for just that much.

He sucked in a shaky breath and kept talking, even though he didn't trust his own voice. He didn't move, afraid he'd break the sudden spell of honesty that had come over him. He wanted this one untarnished moment. "I know you think I'm kind of a flake, and you're... right, but it's not because I can't commit," he began hesitantly, rubbing a hand across his brow. He kept staring at the ceiling as if his gaze were affixed to it permanently. "It's because if I leave first, then I get to do the abandoning. That way no one can leave me behind."

George had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he couldn't have true friends or confidants, not equals, so he'd focused on what he could have: tangible things like money that make a life pretty and comfortable but not full. It's all an elaborate redirect to distract himself from the emptiness of his existence. After all, George mastered lying to himself first and foremost (not that it means he believes it).

Lizzie squeezed his hand. When he looked over his shoulder to meet her stare, he was surprised to see that her eyes were glassy from unshed tears. She rubbed her chest distractedly, thinking that that was perhaps the saddest thing she'd ever heard. It was strange for George to see her so moved, almost like she actually cared. He wasn't used to saying things like that and not thinking of what he could gain from it or what he could trade it for.

He nudged her, trying desperately to inject some levity, something nice rather than bittersweet, into their conversation. "Your turn, Lizzie," he reminded her. "Tell me something true... something you wouldn't tell the internet." She let out a wet-sounding laugh and thought it over for a moment or two. She'd gotten a little too used to picking and choosing what questions to answer, a little too well-versed at controlling the narrative.

Lizzie nibbled on her bottom lip, still thinking. George played with her hand, twisting it, holding it up in the light. Finally, Lizzie sighed, briefly closing her eyes. She needed to tell someone something, and George would understand. She knew that. He wouldn't judge her. She spoke in a very quiet voice, so that George had to concentrate hard to hear her. "Have you ever been so lonely that you..." Her voice broke here, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to go on. "Did something stupid just to try and make the empty feeling go away?" she finished a moment later, still biting down on her lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.

George finally understood then why she'd been sleeping with Darcy. Well, mostly, at any rate. After all, if no-strings-sex was really what she was looking for, she probably could've gotten that from him easily enough. Whatever Lizzie was telling herself, it had to be more than just a way of feeling less alone and getting her rocks off. It wasn't just because Darcy was there or because she wanted to be wanted. There was something about Darcy specifically, something that drew her in, something more than just her hatred. Some part of her recognized his former friend's substance.

Lizzie kind of didn't want to look at George, afraid that he'd ask more questions, but she made herself. His eyes were soft, sympathetic, and he offered her a small smile. He couldn't judge when he understood the feeling so well, after all. "I have, actually," he replied, squeezing her hand back. He wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, bringing her a little closer. God, he thought, closing his eyes, how many stupid things had he done to try and escape or forget that empty feeling? How many years had he been running from it?

She sighed, looking away from George to stare up at the ceiling. He'd been honest with her, more honest than she'd expected, so she owed him the same courtesy. "Sometimes I don't think I'll ever find anyone," she admitted in a small voice. There it was, her deepest, darkest, ugliest secret out in the open—something she only ever admitted to herself when she was lying alone in bed and couldn't sleep. She hated that she felt obligated to find somebody, that she didn't feel complete as who she was. She could blame it on her mother and social conditioning and whatever else, but that didn't change how she felt. Nor did it fill the well of sadness the mere thought formed inside of her.

Her shoulders slumped a little, even as she felt the heat of George's hand rubbing the curve of her shoulder. She could feel his eyes burning into the side of her face and crossed an arm over her chest in an attempt to feel more comfortable, more shielded. She let out a dry, almost mocking laugh. "I'm not as okay with it as I pretend to be." It was hard to say that and not cry or do something ridiculously melodramatic, even though it was such a mundane thing.

Surprisingly, instead of freaking out at this admission as she sort of expected, George offered her comfort. He kept rubbing her shoulder soothingly, and then he bent down, pressing his lips to her hair. He's both a bit taken aback and sad that the stubborn Lizzie he knows is so vulnerable at heart. "Don't worry about that, Lizzie," he assured her, burying his nose in her hair. It smelled faintly like roses. "You'll find someone," he added a moment later, dropping his mouth slightly to press a kiss to her temple. Lizzie's jaw went somewhat slack at the utter certainty in his voice.

George knew better than she did. A girl like her was rare and beautiful, and someone better than him would realize that someday and sweep her off her feet.

Probably improbably Darcy, if he still knew him at all.

Lizzie Bennet would get the blissfully happy ending she deserved, and he would be nothing more than a footnote in that love story. It almost broke his heart to think of it.

She looked up at him questioningly, needing reassurance. "I promise." George almost cringed as he said it, those fateful words. As a rule, he almost never makes promises because he knows he can't keep them, but he wanted this for her bad enough to overlook that.

Lizzie had often said and thought that men's promises were worthless—men's vows are women's traitors!—but she could tell that he meant it. Even if it wasn't something George could actually promise, she believed him. And even later on when she examined everything he did and said in hindsight, trying frantically to make it all add up (it never did), she still believes him. Even when she hates him with all of her heart, she believes him.

"I'm glad you're here," Lizzie murmured, kissing his jaw distractedly. Her eyes were shining, which was more than enough to convince George that she meant it. Feeling her eyelids starting to grow heavy, she turned into him, snuggling into his side. His hand found the curve of her waist again, fingers splaying across her lower back again.

"Me too," George replied quietly, meaning it. Then he too closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

George slept better than he could remember sleeping in a while. Maybe it had something to do with a light conscience? Sometimes he wasn't sure he still had one until it reared its ugly, annoying head (it was more of a pang, really) and prevented him from having a good time. He dressed as quietly as possible to avoid waking her, but she woke anyways as he was leaving. Eyelids fluttering open, Lizzie sleepily reached out for him like she didn't want him to go.

It was so adorable George hesitated before explaining to her in a whisper that he had to go before her family woke up. That woke Lizzie up a bit more, so he kissed her goodbye sweet and slow as a thank-you. He tipped her chin up with one of his fingers, let his hand linger on her cheek so that he would remember how her skin felt underneath his fingers, too soft and smooth to be believed. The sweetest things in life were always like that, just this side of unbelievable. He made the kiss last as long as it could because he knew it was the last time. Lizzie's hands started at his shoulders and made their way down his back, tracing his muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. If he didn't know better, he might've thought she wanted more.

Both were a bit breathless when he broke the kiss. George almost didn't want to go, thinking of the promise of it, but he knew he couldn't stay. "Don't forget me," he murmured just inches from her lips. Lizzie smiled at him sleepily, dragging her fingers across his stubble affectionately. She mumbled something unintelligible, and George helped tuck her back into bed. Long-forgotten protective impulses surfaced, making him press a kiss to her forehead before leaving.

He'd been lulled into a false sense of security by it being so early, so the last thing he was expecting was the sound of another girl's voice. "And why are you sneaking out of Lizzie's room like a thief in the night?" came a knowing, mock-intimidating voice from across the hall. George nearly jumped, freezing in his tracks, and slowly turned around, hoping he didn't look too guilty or gross. Lydia Bennet was standing in front of the door opposite Lizzie's.

He looked her over briefly, unable to stop himself. After all, he hadn't gotten any last night, and baby sister was wearing obscenely-short shorts and a semi-transparent childhood t-shirt with no bra. With all the bare skin, bloodshot eyes, and tousled bright copper hair, Lydia looked like the sister who'd had a boy over last night. Lydia noticed the direction of his stare and straightened a little, crossing her arms over her chest for modesty. George almost snorted. Lydia jerked her head towards Lizzie's door, her eyes hardening a little. "That's not exactly the way you should look at your girlfriend's little sister, George," she said pointedly. She pronounced his name with an edge that had been absent before.

He didn't see a point in denying it, so he just shrugged. "Your sister isn't exactly my girlfriend, and we both know I'm a flirt," he replied simply, suddenly too tired to bother being more charming to Lydia. He was slowly putting the walls back up again. It was more exhausting than he thought, actually being himself. Lydia's eyes widened a little. If he didn't know as much of her as he did, he might've thought she was actually scandalized.

She took a step towards him, her hips swaying in a predatory manner. "You still spent the night with her, though," she retorted. Lydia came even closer, invading his personal space. "My sister isn't the type of girl you use and leave, okay?" It came out like a threat. Her eyes—they were blue-gray, he just now noticed—narrowed and hardened like diamonds. She had her sister's fire, her zeal. How had he never noticed that before?

George held his hands up in a surrendering position. He wondered if someone had done that to Lizzie before. Maybe that explained a thing or two. Or maybe this was just about Bing Lee leaving. "And I'm not doing that," he countered. Lydia gave him an expectant look, so he was forced to elaborate. "We're friends," he managed after a few too many minutes. He knew almost instantly that it was the wrong thing to say, but what else could he say? He knew what Lydia thought, but he wasn't going to confirm or deny it. It isn't his place. Let her think what she wants. And why does he even care what Lizzie's kid sister thinks? She's hungover and will probably go back to bed and forget all about this. They'll both forget about him a few weeks after he leaves town.

Lydia still hadn't moved back. "Friends with benefits?" she scoffed, as if she didn't believe friendship was possible.

He deflected, "There are many benefits to being your sister's friend, Lydia." He smiled at her tightly. She rolled her eyes at him, opening her mouth to continue the argument. George, however, didn't let her do that. He needed to get out of here before someone else woke up and made this situation even more awkward. He took a half-step towards Lydia, his fingers briefly touching her forearm. She jolted a little, looking from her forearm to his face rapidly but saying nothing. "Listen, don't tell anyone about this," he whispered harshly. "I wasn't even here."

Lydia cocked her head to the side, implicitly refusing to do so. He was a bit surprised she hadn't given him some speech about treating her sister right. His eyes darted back to Lizzie's closed bedroom door. He'd felt like a totally different guy within those walls, like he could be different or better, but his true colors were showing out here with Lydia. She saw him for what he was, and she was unimpressed.

So George looked down, swallowing, and tempered his words. "It's just..." He licked his lips briefly. He wasn't oblivious to the way Lydia's eyes tracked the motion a little too long, how she looked away guiltily just a moment too late. He also wasn't above using that to his advantage now to get out. He leaned forward a little, touching Lydia's forearm again and letting his fingers linger a bit longer than was strictly appropriate. "I know your sister would be really embarrassed if this got out," he said, taking care to look Lydia in the eyes and speak softly. His fingertips rubbed little circles into Lydia's arms until she shifted her arms away from his hands.

She didn't move back, stubbornly standing her ground. He smiled a little; he wondered how neither sister could see their similarities when they were so obvious to him. Lydia didn't quite let her guard down, but he saw her soften a little. He licked his lips again and continued, "She's a very private person, and we kinda wanted to keep this between us." He motioned in front of his chest, glancing back over his shoulder at Lizzie's bedroom door. He tried to do his best impression of a lovesick suitor, even though the role didn't suit him. He did... care for Lizzie, but Lydia didn't have to know his real feelings, just enough to get him out of here and her mouth shut. "She didn't want to get anyone's hopes up..."

He saw Lydia's eyes flash and knew instantly that he'd said the right thing.

Even more surprisingly, it worked. Probably because it was mostly the truth. Lydia's eyes darkened a little as she inevitably thought of their mother finding out about this, and she nodded slowly a moment or so later. "Well, then," she began, moving away from him, back towards her door. Had she really been that close, less than a foot from him? He felt a chill as she stepped away. "Your secret's safe with me, Wicks," she pronounced, winking at him. He smiled at her, at the nickname, feeling a rush of fondness for her.

Lydia motioned down the hallway, dropping her voice to a stage-whisper. "Pretty sure no one else is up yet. You should be in the clear as long as you go out through the kitchen." She said it with the practiced ease of someone who had helped many men escape her house, slipping past her parents and sisters. The way he was looking at her must've suggested that because Lydia straightened a little, clutching the doorframe with one hand. She shrugged and gave him a peeved look. "Jesus, it's not the first time we've had a boy sleep over."

George chuckled, and Lydia shushed him, motioning for him to go down the hallway. He turned to do so, but before he could, Lydia's hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist. She wanted to tell him something. She was stronger than she looked, and she whirled him around to face her with a single pull. Suddenly she was back in his face, nearly nose-to-nose with him. For someone uncomfortable with him looking at her, she sure was comfortable being close to him. "Before you go, I forgot something," Lydia began hurriedly. He raised his brows questioningly.

She looked down, nibbling on her bottom lip as if uncertain she wanted to share this with him. But then she looked up, steeling her nerves, and started. "My sister... she doesn't, ah, let a lot of people in. But she likes you," Lydia all but stammered, tugging on the hem of her t-shirt, trying to get it to cover her stomach. She was no good at this emotional mushy stuff, and she was even worse at talking about it. But she needed to let him know that Lizzie's trust was a rare gift, that he'd better not break it.

She pulled him a little closer, close enough to make George's eyebrows shoot up. Their chests were almost touching, not that Lydia noticed. What did she... was she going to... Lydia rose to her full height, pulling him down so that he would be forced to look her in the eyes. George's stare slipped a little past her eyes, but she didn't notice that. Her other hand came up, balling into a fist excepting her index finger, which she used to repeatedly stab him in the stomach and side hard enough to bruise. "You hurt her, and, I swear to God, I don't care how pretty your face is, I will break it!" she threatened. "I might look adorable and tiny and harmless, but there's nothing I do better than revenge, and it will come when you're least expecting it, okay? Do you understand me?" she hissed, fixing him with her worst glare.

The vehemence of her threats impressed and intrigued him. He believed Lydia would do exactly as she said, but she was seriously underestimating his ability to get out of a scrape. George smiled at her smugly, choosing to focus on the backhanded compliment in there. He saluted her a bit mockingly, inclining his head in her direction. "Yes, ma'am." Lydia gave him a wary look but released her grip on his arm and took several steps backwards. "I'll see you around, Lydia," he said coolly, waving at her before turning around and making his way down the hall. It struck him as he said it that it was the second promise he'd made in 24 hours, both to Bennet sisters, and both ones he intended to keep.

George didn't know what that meant, but he didn't have time to think it over, narrowly dodging a meowing Kitty on his way out of the house. It felt like the end and beginning of something, but he didn't quite know what yet.

- Loren ;*