William went to the hotel bar primarily out of a sense of frustration. He needed to get away from his aunt (and even his cousin whom he usually didn't find frustrating). Earlier that afternoon, he had sat down with them and brought up the idea of renegotiating the land deal, but they were rigid in their outlook.

Their attitude was that what's done was done, and they didn't want to change anything. He thought they were doing themselves a disservice by not attempting to negotiate the best terms possible. Anne planned to pour a significant amount back into the community and not into her pocket (as though she was a philanthropist). There wasn't enough money to do that. He suspected Aunt Catherine's undue influence for that stance. His cousin needed money to live on and couldn't afford to waste it on business ventures that were more speculative than straight-forward.

William ate dinner alone as he thought through his problems and then made his way to the bar for a drink to think some more. He also worried that he was spending far too much time on family issues and not enough time on his company's concerns.

But then there was a breeze that seemed to clear his mind and a movement caught his eye — the simple action of a woman playing with her hair. He looked towards the end of the bar and noticed Lizabeth Bennet sitting next to the piano player. Those long, luxurious locks were played with, absent-mindedly, and William watched as she pulled her hair out of her face and flipped it back over her shoulders. It was so heavy that it immediately spilled forward and obscured her profile.

He lost himself, just watching her, though her movements went from distracted to tearful. It seemed that the piano player and Lizabeth were talking about a difficult subject, something which made her gulp at her drink and dab at her eyes. He wondered if it wasn't that damned ex-boyfriend again. On Monday, she hadn't seemed upset, but perhaps life had caught up with her.

Eventually, she moved to a separate table, and William watched her go. She seemed distraught and called for another drink, which she gulped greedily — not the signs of a composed person. Their eyes met; William left his stool, grabbed his drink, and walked over to her table.

"Hi," he said. Fingers jabbed at her tears as she looked up at him.

"Hi," she finally said after quite a long pause, as if she had considered not responding or if she wanted to tell him to get lost.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

Again there was a pause. "No," she answered and took another sip. William wanted to comment on that but held his tongue. He sat in the opposite chair. "I'm done with the platter if you want anything," she offered, pushing a plate forward.

"I already ate, but thank you." He looked at her. "I stayed in town for family reasons."

"I sort of wondered," Lizabeth replied and sipped again. A hand came up to rub at her cheek, but she didn't seem inclined to conversation. He was used to women who always had something to share with him.

"You look unhappy," he tried.

"I suppose the tears give it away?" she said as a palm rubbed her cheek. "I probably look awful."

"You're a beautiful woman, Lizabeth," he said. That seemed to have been the wrong thing to say as she looked even more upset.

"I think I'm done with all men," she said. Her eyes blinked a little as though she was having trouble keeping them open, yet she took another sip of the drink.

"It's that bad, huh? You've got to the 'I hate men' stage?"

"Un-huh," she agreed, nodding. Then her head jerked a little. "Wait! Is that a stage?"

"Yeah. I thought all women got to that stage in a breakup where they declare all men bastards and swear off of them forever. It's part of the checklist," he said.

"I didn't know that!" she moaned. Her eyes grew large. William wondered if she would cry again.

"It is," he assured her, biting down on the sharper retort he had of 'where have you been?' She was different. "You know my job is to be a storyteller…"

"I thought you were a producer," she interrupted.

"Yes, but I produce stories, so I'm always on top of current stories or trends or memes," he explained. "And with breakups (and I'm just guessing here that it's a breakup), there's always a tough period, and you'll hate all men, but it will get better."

"That's rich, advice coming from a guy!" Lizabeth snorted.

"Think of it as coming from a storyteller or a friend and not a guy."

"It's not that I regret us splitting up," she moaned. "It's the knowledge of what he did while we were together."

"Care to share?" he asked.

"We only saw each other on Friday nights. Sometimes Saturdays," she paused. Whether to find courage or because of the alcohol, he couldn't tell. "But he always told me he was too busy to see me any other time—that he was working the rest of the week. But I've just found out that he's been here, two or three times a week, with other women."

"Oh," William replied. "That's gotta hurt."

She looked at him. He hoped that she could see in his eyes and hear in his voice that he was sympathetic. She had to know it hurt. Surely she had experienced that before? He'd been through many breakups, and they were never easy, but you knew, a part of you clung to sanity and understood that you had the strength to carry on.

"Were you in love with him?" That was a bold question considering that he and Lizabeth barely knew each other. She came out of her reverie and looked at him as she realized the boldness of the question. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "That was impertinent. I just…you seemed fond of him, but I think we were all surprised by his showing up on Sunday."

"I was surprised by his showing up on Sunday." A hand came up to run through her hair, and William was momentarily distracted. He was doing well as a friend and a shoulder to lean on. But when she played with her hair, he was distracted by other thoughts.

"He was my first real boyfriend, you see. I seem to have gotten it all rolled up in one." Lizabeth made the worst face as though tears and a torrent of emotions would break through the dam walls.

William felt as though cold water had been thrown over him, which dampened his interest. "Your first boyfriend?"

"My first, real, long-term relationship, yup," she admitted. She thumped her hands down on the table; her hands gathered the cloth beneath up into her fists. "I was too busy with grad school and college before. I'm not sure that they counted. This is my first real job."

"I see," he said automatically. He felt like his mind still couldn't process her disclosure.

"You know," she said. "I think I am really drunk. I am distraught, and I need to go home." She stood suddenly but swerved on her heels and listed over. He had to stand quickly to catch her from falling.

"Did you drive here?" he asked.

"I did, but I promised Mary and the waitress that I would take a taxi home," she explained.

"I've only had one drink. I can drive you home and drop you off," he offered.

"I thought you were a different person," Lizabeth murmured, "but okay." William thought that was an interesting comment.

"Do you have everything?" he asked. Her coat had been left on the back of a chair, and they went to retrieve it.

"I'm going now," she declared to the piano player. "William will take me home."

"That's good. You have to work tomorrow," said the woman at the keyboard.

"Oh, yeah!" Lizabeth grinned. She was unsteady on her feet as he escorted her to his car. The walkway to the parking lot was covered, but it was open at the sides which allowed the cold in. She shivered in the February air as they made their way to his car. William held the door open for her, and she fumbled getting in, indicative that she had too much to drink.

"You need to tell me where you live," he said.

She gave him directions to the east side of town. He drove; she was quiet. William thought she must not feel well with the motion of the car as her hand was on her stomach. He didn't talk so she could concentrate on the road, lest she be sick.

When they arrived, Lizabeth indicated where the guest parking was located, but William asked where her spot was. "You're not coming home tonight," he pointed out.

"Oh yeah!" she slurred, and he pulled into a covered area and went to help her out.

When she stood, she wobbled, and he had to put an arm out to help her. "You okay?"

"I don't think so," Lizabeth said, almost sounding as if she was going to cry. "I think I may throw up."

"That's probably a fitting end to your evening," William quipped, "given everything else."

"it's probably not very lady-like," she moaned.

"I don't think you have to be lady-like, especially right now," he placated.

He tenderly walked her to the building and helped her up the stairs. Lizabeth slipped once, but William caught her; luckily, she also had a hold of the railing as well.

She had to fumble to get her purse unzipped. He couldn't help but think that she was very intoxicated, but helping her with her purse wasn't an activity he could off to help with. Lizabeth finally got her purse open, got the keys out, unlocked the door, and stumbled through. William was assaulted by a chorus (at least it seemed) of meows as a tiny but vocal kitten scolded them.

"Don't let her get out," she called, stumbling as she leaned over to ensure that the cat didn't escape through the open door. She fell on her heels, and he had to grab an arm. He also reached down and grabbed the kitten, who was still small enough to fit in his hand.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Is she okay?" Lizabeth cried, the words a slur.

"Yes," he replied as the kitten squirmed in his firm grasp, still howling. Lizabeth righted herself, and William shoved the kitten into her hands before making sure the door was firmly shut and locked. She talked to the creature in the way that people did with small animals, standing next to the apartment's front door. He had only intended to drop her off and leave, but now he was worried.

"Um, Lizabeth," he began. She cradled and cooed at the kitten in her arms. The thing had at least stopped chattering at them and was purring. He wondered if it would want food and start howling again. "You should get out of your coat," he prompted, "and your heels." He didn't want her falling again.

"Oh, yeah. Here, hold her," she said.

"I don't need to hold her," he protested as the kitten was passed back. He could only think about the fur that he would get on his coat. She took hers off and threw it on the couch and then leaned down to undo the buckles on her heels. When she wobbled, Lizabeth thought better of it and walked over to sit down on the couch so she wasn't too dizzy.

"You should hang your coat up," she announced as she flicked off first one shoe, then the other. The second went flying across the living space to land near the kitchen; then she leaned back on the couch, sprawled and looking comfortable. William thought he should pass back the cat and take his leave. Her eyes closed; she looked serene—almost to the point of sleep.

He gave up and cradled the cat against his chest since it squirmed in his fist. "Lizabeth?" he called. She didn't respond, but the kitten started meowing vociferously. He thought it was hungry, so he walked into the kitchen, hoping he didn't have to look too far for food. There were stacks of tiny cans marked 'kitten chow' on the counter next to the fridge.

William didn't know what vessel to use, so he opened a cupboard at random, pulled out a small plate, and hoped she didn't object (they were all the same: white). He peeled back the cover on the tin, turned it upside down over the plate, and put it on the floor. The kitten, who had been yowling since he put it down, started eating as soon as the plate was set next to it. He wasn't sure if the kitten was greedy or starving, but it seemed to swallow the contents of the whole can within seconds. He worried that it would choke, then he was concerned that once the plate was licked clean, it would cry for more.

He didn't feel he could justify feeding it another can but bent his frame down to look at the cat. "No more. I don't know what your instructions are." The damn cat rubbed against his legs then. They had a stand-off about the food, but the cat eventually gave up having a stare-down for food. Instead, she pounced up and leaped onto his legs with needle-like claws.

"Oh my god! Ow!" He tried to peel her off his leg, but as he stood, he realized that the kitten was still clinging there (she was probably embedded in his leg). She started to howl again. William glanced over at Lizabeth, who looked to be asleep. He sat at the small dining table. Sitting down relaxed the kitten's hold, but she merely curled up and went to sleep on his lap.

"That's not what I had in mind either, you idiot!" He didn't know how the darn thing knew he didn't like cats. It seemed to be an in-bred instinct that cats knew he didn't care for them. The creature had an awesome motor on it as he stroked it. He almost didn't need to pet her; he could merely put his hand on top and wiggle his fingers as his whole hand practically covered its body. He sat quietly, letting the rumbling and purring under his hand distract him from considering how he got into this situation — being in a strange woman's kitchen with an orange cat on his lap (and of all the days to be wearing black pants).

"Why couldn't you be black?" he asked the kitten, but she didn't answer. Again, William looked over at Lizabeth, who hadn't moved. He worried that she was asleep. It was too cold to sleep on a couch without covers. He also worried that with all that drink, she would be sick; she might need a bucket if he left her in that position.

"Okay, you, I need to take care of Lizabeth now." He scooped his hands underneath the sleeping kitten, stood up, and molded her to his chest. There was a throw on the couch on one end. He set the kitten down on top of it. She rearranged a paw but continued sleeping off her meal. William turned to look at her owner, who was sleeping off her drink. Lizabeth's head had listed over; he thought her neck would be rather kinked if she slept like that.

I wonder how I got myself into this? He thought. Because you find her attractive, he answered, though is she just as beautiful when she's drunk? Yes, he answered. He wondered if she looked pale because she was slightly sick from the drink? But the pale skin and dark hair when she slept was an oddly attractive combination. And given everything, getting drunk to get over a bad relationship seemed like the time-tested and reasonable thing to do. William couldn't fault her for it, especially when she dumped that idiot businessman.

He was worried about looming over her when he woke her, so he knelt in front, and tapped a knee. "Lizabeth. You're going to be cold if you sleep on the couch."

"Hmm," she replied.

"Lizabeth."

"Ed?" Her eyes didn't seem to function properly, and she opened one, and then the other, but not both at the same time. "William?"

"I brought you home, remember?"

"Oh yeah," she smiled weakly as she drew out the word.

"You better get to bed. The piano player said something about you having to work tomorrow?" he reminded her.

"Oh!" She groaned. "I'm going to be so hungover tomorrow. I shouldn't have drunk so much." He nodded and made a sound in agreement. "I can't move," she said then.

"Look, can I get you blankets?" he offered.

"Help me up," one hand reached out.

"This is going to embarrass both of us tomorrow," William said in a very stern voice. "I think I should get you some blankets and let you sleep here."

Somehow, she managed to notice the cat. "It's the kitten's bed; I can't sleep here. Besides, she'll wake me up, and I won't sleep. William," she pleaded, managing to open both eyes to look at him. "Help me to bed."

"What have I gotten myself into?" he murmured. He stood, leaned over, and put an arm around the back of her, helping her to stand. She shuffled down the hallway, her body heavy against his.

"Back bedroom," she barked.

"Okay." William hauled her along, and she stumbled through the doorway. He didn't want to let go of her, but she leaned towards the bed like there was a magnet pulling at her, and he let her fall onto it. She landed with an 'oomph.'

"Oh," she wailed. Her hair spilled over her face. A hand came up in an attempt to wipe it out of her eyes. "I feel sick."

William turned quickly to look for a garbage can. There was a fancy wicker one, but nothing so practical as a plastic container that he could find. He sprinted down the hall to a bathroom. Inside was a plastic, utilitarian wastebasket, and he ran back to the bedroom.

Oddly, he found her sitting up; he couldn't believe that she had managed to move. Lizabeth was attempting to get her hair out of her face. William deposited the can between her knees then ran his large hands through her hair, sweeping all of it out of the way. He held her hair with one hand. His timing was impeccable as she threw up into the trash can.

"I'm sorry," she moaned, sounding miserable. Then she threw up again. "I feel terrible."

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Yes," Lizabeth answered. He didn't want to let go of her hair until she could wash her face.

"Hold your hair," he ordered. A hand came up to clasp her hair. He went back to the bathroom. She was the type that had matching washcloths stacked neatly on top of the towels. He snagged a washcloth, wet it, and grabbed the towel as well. He found her in the same position, though she had turned from white to green. He hoped she wasn't going to throw up again.

"Here," he gave her the washcloth. She wiped her face, then he gave her the towel. "I am going to empty the can, but will bring it back and leave it by your bedside."

"Okay," she moaned. He didn't think there was a creature more pathetic.

"Why don't you lie down," he suggested. She flopped backward and closed her eyes.

Why am I doing this? He thought again as he took her keys and took the can to the outside bin. All for a woman he barely knew. He brought back the empty bin.

Wasn't I just going to drop her off? William considered as he brought her a glass of water. She appeared to be sound asleep again, but he shook her and insisted that she drink it. "You'll feel much better in the morning. I'm going to go now," he explained.

"How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow? My car is at the hotel," she suddenly argued.

"A taxi," he quipped. He thought he had done more than enough and wasn't going to offer to come back to drive her to work in the morning.

"What if the cat needs help?" the pitiful voice pleaded, "what if she needs something in the middle of the night?"

He thought he could recreate this scene in one of his productions, and no one would buy it. "Do you need me to stay to look after the cat?" he asked in exasperation. Why the hell did I just offer that?

"Yes," she answered and turned on her side, asleep. There was no arguing with her. He'd offered, she'd accepted; it was a done deal. He had no idea where anything was but poked around. There was a closed door in the hallway, which was a second bedroom with a made-up bed. William figured he'd sleep there and avoid the cat hair on the couch. Shucking everything that wasn't necessary, he crawled in bed and fell asleep.

He felt like no time had passed when howling woke him up. "That damn cat," he said in a low voice and threw back the covers. The creature sat beside his bed, looking up at him expectantly. "Oh no you don't!" he said, looking down at it. The kitten stopped mewling but stared at him, fully expecting to be picked up and put on the bed. It was so small that it could join him.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, but then he wondered why he was asking. The cat pounced at his foot, and William instinctively moved his toes out of the way. "Two a.m. is not the time to play," he said under his breath. (He didn't want to wake up Lizabeth.) The cat moved closer and sat right against his foot. It was warm.

"Just…go back to bed," he told it. She took him at his word and leaped onto the sheets to crawl up them with needle-like precision, purring with self-satisfaction.

"Oh, no!" he yelled. "I am not sharing a bed with a damned cat." The kitten just purred as it kneaded a few times, curled up, and then went to sleep. "Damn," he yelled before he let loose stronger words. But William curled back under the covers, careful not to disturb her. She seemed to have made a nest in the middle of the bed, but he fell asleep.


A/N: we're in lockdown here in the Bay Area so I may as well up my postings. This depends on my beta keeping up with me.

Back when I was a young single person, I had a boyfriend who claimed he fell in love with me because I threw up with grace and style (please don't tell my husband). I do not ever recommend alcohol to excess, please drink in moderation.

Also, I have a friend I've known since we were teens who claims the height of friendship is holding the other's hair out of her face as she worships the porcelain goddess. We're still friends, decades later.

Maybe these two will be friends now? :)