NOTES: Lizzy's POV. Mostly exposition. Sorry for the late posting, and sorry this chapter is sad. Next one will be Darcy's, and more COMFORT than hurt, I promise. And don't worry— listen to Mrs Bennet: 'It'll all work out.'

I'll be posting again very soon. Stay strong, y'all! 3 ~Vinny

The waiting room was bare. Stagnant. The ceiling fan twirled lazily, seducing dust mites into falling down, down, down to the waiting tiles. Chairs as stiff as cardboard stood to attention. Only six were occupied. And Lizzy Bennet was focusing on only one of those occupied seats.

She looked at the chair directly to her left. Then one further down. Fitzwilliam sat, hands folded staring at something on the wall. His face was just as handsome as Lizzy had remembered. He had grown out a bit of a scruff, during their time apart, but Lizzy highly doubted that was intentional.

He scratched his neck. She checked her watch. Someone in the room crossed their legs.

The silence was as fragile as a pipe bomb.

Suddenly the door opened, and a frazzled looking latino man wearing a white coat with a matching clipboard walked out. "Family of Mr… Thomas Bennet?"

"Yes!" Lizzy said, standing up. "That's us!"

Lydia (who had been there a few hours and who had taken to nervously chomping on fruity sticks of gum by the dozen) and Fitzwilliam (who was unreadable) stood up too. Mrs Bennet, as his wife (and a local neurotic), had been allowed in and out of his hospital room and had more information than any of them— though all she really accomplished was fretting. Right now though, she was.. eerily quiet.

"Want to come with me, please?" The doctor said, "We may want a private room for this."

Lizzy nodded, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. Oh god… that didn't sound good…

He ushered them into a quiet room adjacent to the one they were just in. He eyed Fitzwilliam, but then shrugged, and assumed a practiced stance of detached politeness.

"Mr. Bennet is experiencing some.. complications. After his partial hepatectomy to remove the cancer cells, we found something called cirrhosis of the liver. It essentially means damaged cells on the interior, a bit like scarring. This.. unfortunately… means that his recovery plan will have to be… adjusted."

"Adjusted?" Fitzwilliam repeated calmly.

Lizzy saw the cold, scared light in his eyes though, and… she took a sliver of pleasure in the fact he wasn't completely cut off to her.

"Yes, adjusted," the doctor said, with a wince. "We had to remove.. some more of the liver than we planned. It was very badly damaged. A… A human liver, you must understand, can regrow if enough tissue is present. The original surgery of..," he checked his notes, "Mr. Thomas Bennet.. was meant to remove 65% of his liver. We were forced to remove roughly 72.5%. It was a stretch for the liver to regenerate with the original amount removed… but now…"

Lizzy's hand had found its way to Fitzwilliam's arm. She hadn't even noticed she was squeezing until he put a soothing hand over her own.

She looked down. Then back up to the doctor. He was still talking.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Bennet's condition is growing worse. There… there is little chance.. he'll make it beyond six weeks without a donor."

"How do we get a donor?"

The man sighed. That wasn't a good answer.

"Getting a transplant… is tricky. We'll move him up the list, of course, since his condition is critical, but there are still around 14,000 patients waiting on a donor. We only have 5,000 willing donors for an entire liver transplant."

"C-can I give him mine?" Lizzy asked, wide-eyed and shaking.

"I'm afraid not," the doctor replied with a pained expression, "even if your body sizes were similar enough to try, the liver is a vital organ— you can't live very long without it. It is possible to donor half—"

"Then I'll do that!"

"— but it's a grueling procedure," he finished. "Not to mention expensive. Your insurance won't cover it, since you're asking for the surgery. And the risk of complications for a donor is 40%, for infections and the like. I.. I'm terribly sorry, but… there's nothing you can do, miss."

Lizzy Bennet felt like she was about to collapse. Like she was falling from an airplane without a parachute, without anything to stop the fall.

"Um, sir," Fitzwilliam's voice rumbled, "May I ask you a few questions."

"Certainly." The man grimly folded his hands. "Ask away."

"Alright. How much exactly…"

"I need to sit down," Lizzy blurted, feeling faint. She turned around, and on auto-pilot began walking (stumbling) back to the waiting room.

On the way, she felt her mother wrap a shaking arm around her shoulders. "It's gonna be okay, sweetie," Mrs Bennet whispered numbly. "It'll all work out."

At those words, Lizzy felt herself burst into tears. Her mother only ever called her endearments when there was something bad up ahead. And her father… her dad… was going to… going to…

She sat down in a chair, and curled up. Lizzy sobbed quietly into her knees, not caring (or even aware) that she was drawing attention from the other people in the room. She didn't want anything. She just wanted her dad back.

Some time had passed before a hand stuttering lay touched her knee. She didn't look up.

The hand reached around her, becoming an arm, and then she was being lifted out of the chair, cradled against someone's chest like she weighed nothing at all. Lizzy curled into Fitzwilliam. She couldn't stop crying.

"Shh, shh…," he was whispering, one hand rubbing her back as he carried her through the hospital, "It's okay… it's okay… I'm here… shh…"

Lizzy tried to sniff, and ended up choking. "Wh-why?" She managed to murmur.

Fitzwilliam didn't answer. But Lizzy couldn't ignore the way his chest constricted, and his arms tightened around her.

Soon, they entered a room where the light dimmed, and lavender and the sound of a heart rate monitor perforated the air. Lizzy felt herself lowering into his lap as Fitzwilliam sat against a chair.

He was so much bigger than her. So much stronger. With him right now, Lizzy felt small, and hollow, and broken. She felt selfish when she held him tighter.

"You shouldn't have to be here," she whispered, shakily.

Fitzwilliam's breath was warm, and his face was scratchy, as he laid his cheek against the top of her head and sighed. "I'm not leaving," he said in a quiet tone. "I'm staying, Lizzy. As long as you let me."

Lizzy wasn't ashamed about how much she cried that day. Actually, she almost wished she had more tears to give. Because when she was all cried out, and Fitzwilliam's hands were sore from soothing her to sleep, the silence crept in.

And this time, filling it was harder than ever.

The heart monitor kept tempo to the sound of heartbreak. It never once stopped.