Author's Note: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your kind reviews, I really appreciate you all taking the time out of your day to bring joy to my life and offer sage advice. Here's another quick story (this time a two-shot, we're taking baby steps). In this modern story, Darcy never proposed to Lizzy, but he did attempt to break up Charlie and Jane. However, by the time this story begins, he and Lizzy are the unlikeliest of friends, which is why he asked her to model for a project for his figure drawing course (no other reason, of course ;). Anyway, I hope you enjoy the first chapter of two, sorry for leaving it on a bit of a cliffhanger, but thank you again and as always, all constructive criticism is welcome! :)


"Hey, Darcy!"

His head jerks up at the sound of my voice, locks of his thick sable hair that were previously hanging forward, shielding his face, snap backward. His eyes dart up and connect with mine, while his hands frantically slam the notebook he was so entirely focused on before, closed, causing the desk he was working on to vibrate with the force of it.

He smiles, or at least, it looks like he's trying to smile - it's more of a strained and nervous, albeit genuine, uptilt of the corners of his mouth. Even though Darcy and I reconciled our differences, resolved the whole Jane/Charlie debacle, and even decided to be friends after it all, it still surprises me every time I receive anything other than a cold, persistent glare from Darcy.

Before, when things weren't so amicable between us (i.e., when he was calling me ugly and scheming with Caroline, deviously trying to drive a wedge between Jane and Charlie and dooming them to be alone and sad for the rest of their lives), I grew very accustomed to the constant scowl that adorned his face. Whenever I was around, he seemed to follow my every movement with his disapproving gaze as though I personally offended him with my very existence.

Thankfully, we moved past that once I yelled at him for sticking his big, meddling nose into my OTP and ruining the most beautiful relationship I had ever had the opportunity to witness in real life. He didn't automatically see the error of his ways and I understand now, that at the time, he did think he was doing what was best for his best friend, but after I essentially berated him and picked apart every shred of his personality in an argument of epic proportions, he realized that he had made a mistake and went about trying to fix it (with help from yours truly, of course). A week or so after this monumental event, he came to me – actually, he shuffled over to me, on his knees, palms pressed desperately together, humbled and groveling at my feet, begging for my invaluable advice and after a few hours of his woeful supplication, I decided to take pity on him (okay, not really but that's how I choose to remember it).

It took some master strategizing, an expert grasp of stealth, and possibly some questionable use of ethics, but with our collective efforts, we were able to mend the rift between Jane and Charlie and to this day, the two most perfect people for each other are still happily together. And, whilst patching together Jane and Charlie's relationship, Darcy and I somehow ended forming our own friendship in the process.

In fact, it is because we are such good friends now that I'm here to provide assistance with Darcy's project for his Figure Drawing course. Darcy attends art school and in my modest opinion, he's exactly where he should be because he's seriously a creative genius. All of his pieces (that I've been able to get a peek at before he quickly sweeps them away and out of sight) are stunning, precise, detailed, and brimming with meaning, each stroke carrying a wealth of emotion.

I'd never tell him this, but I'm secretly pretty honored that he'd ask me to be the subject for this piece. "Hi Lizzy," he says a little breathlessly, his eyes still tinged with panic. "Whatcha workin' on?" I ask cheerfully, leaning on the desk across from him. "Nothing! Nothing at all, I wasn't working on anything," he replies in a rush, looking sort of guilty for some reason. "Oh, then what were you doing in that notebook – " I manage to get out before he cuts me off, "What?! Notebook? What notebook? I don't remember any notebook!" he exclaims, his eyes shifty as he surreptitiously tries to slide said notebook off the edge of the desk and into his waiting backpack on the floor.

Okayyyy…that was pretty weird. I try again, "But what about that notebook right there on the des-" but before I can get the full sentence out, he's already distracting me by hastily asking "So, how goes the wedding planning?"

Oh, yeah! It turns out we were excellent matchmakers-in-crime because a few months after we staged our intervention, Charlie popped the question and Jane obviously said yes and as of right now, they're both neck-deep in tablecloth colors, centerpieces, and cake flavors. I occasionally wade in to assist them when it looks like they're at risk of drowning.

"It's going," I reply, running a finger along the ridge of the desk thoughtfully, "But I think it may be time to re-offer our services to the bride and groom-to-be." I'm the Maid of Honor (of course) and Darcy is the Best Man, and so far Jane and Charlie have refused our every attempt to help with the wedding planning like the martyrs they are, but I refuse to go along with any more of this foolishness.

Darcy smirks, "I reckon you might be right about that. Charlie is obviously very happy, just judging off the constant grin he's wearing, but he also looks like he's about ready to keel over." I smile mischievously, "Alright, Operation Get-Jane-and-Charlie-to-Relax-and-Let-Us-Help-for-Goodness'-Sake is a go!" I declare eagerly, as I raise my fist for him to bump.

He complies with a small smile and lightly taps my fist with his. "Cool, okay, so now that's settled, where do you want me so you can draw me like one of your French girls?" I ask playfully, as I look around the room. He automatically springs up from his chair, blushing and shaking his head and waving his hands wildly in front of him, "Oh! N-no, no, no, no, this isn't a nud-, I mean, this isn't that kind of a drawing, I didn't mean to imply-, I'm sorry if that's what-, that's not what I mea-, I mean please keep your clothes on!" he cries out in a jumble, horrified.

"Sheesh, Darcy, there's no need to sound so disgusted," I respond, feigning offense. Once again, his eyes widen and he starts spluttering, trying to apologize, but I stop him with a hand in the air. "Darcy! I'm just teasing, relax!" I laugh, as I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. His stammering dies down, and I ask again, "Okay so where should I be, and don't worry, I'll keep all of my clothes on for your comfort since the sight of me would be so repulsive to you."

He opens his mouth, ready to release another slew of half-completed apologies before he catches my eyes and recognizes the twinkle of amusement in them, betraying me while I try to keep my face straight. He shuts his mouth, gives me a jokingly austere look, obviously trying to pretend that he doesn't find this whole thing hilarious. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay, how about I just figure out where you should sit before I embarrass myself further?" Darcy says with a good-natured eyeroll.

"That sounds like a great plan to me," I reply with a triumphant grin. He leads me over to a chair in the middle of the room, "Okay, so I was thinking you could sit here with your body facing mostly forwards but your face turned towards the windows," he explains as he gestures with his hands. I follow his instructions as I speak, "Like this?" I ask, trying to make sure I'm positioned correctly.

"Hmm, almost, would you mind tipping your chin down a little and tilting your head a little more to your left?" he asks, motioning his hands to the left and slanting them. I try to mimic what his hands are doing with my posture, but it feels (and I bet, looks) awkward. "Umm, not quite," he mutters to himself as he studies the way that I'm sitting with a hand under his chin. He tilts his own head, presumably attempting to assess what needs to be done to fix what I'm sure is some awful modeling.

He begins to step forward, but hesitates, "Is it alright if I-, may I-uh-can I-," he asks while gesticulating, as if trying to get his words out through his hands. Luckily, I am well-versed in Darcy's singular manner of communication, so I know exactly what he's trying to say. "Yeah, go ahead," I tell him, "I am your clay, mold me!" I declare dramatically, shooting my arms out and spreading them wide.

He snorts at my theatrics and steps a little closer, taking one arm and placing it back in my lap quickly. He grasps my other arm around the wrist with just his fingertips, bends it at the elbow, and rests it on a side table next to the chair. Then, he gently places my hand on the side my face, his fingers lightly brushing against the skin of my cheek. Instead of freeing my hand immediately once its in place, as he did with my other arm, his fingers seem to linger against my face over my own hand and he pauses, as if in a trance, his eyes focused fixedly on our hands.

I watch him, a little confused, he looks like he's worlds away, and as much as I don't mind Darcy's touch (and probably enjoy it a little too much), Darcy isn't the type to get distracted or spaced out, much less the touchy-feely type. "Uh…Darcy? Is this better or…?" I trail off. That snaps him out of his reverie and as he comes back to himself, he notices his stance and snatches his hand back, taking several swift steps backward. "Yup, much better," he says clearing his throat and flushing a little as he turns away.

As he speed-walks back to his easel, I see him flex his hand, the one that had touched mine, stretching out his fingers and shaking out his hand as if touching me had been painful. Like I said, Darcy doesn't exactly love physical contact, so I try not to take it personally. When he reaches his stool, he sits down, picks up his pencil and gets right to work without a word while I try to stay as still as possible. For a while, it's total silence except for the scritch scratch of his pencil against paper. His piercing eyes flick down to his easel and back up at me over and over again, and it's enough to make even the most confident person a little self-conscious.

To combat this sudden attack of nerves, I try to occupy myself by soaking in my surroundings. This really is a beautiful room, the walls painted a lovely cream and set off nicely by the abundance of natural light streaming in through the huge windows to my left that I'm staring out of sightlessly. My mind starts to wander, and I wonder what Darcy sees when he looks at me. I happen to possess the knowledge that I am definitely not his type romantically. If you're wondering how I know that, it's because he announced it to a whole room of people within earshot of me, which, needless to say, wasn't so pleasant. I've forgiven him for that little snafu, but it doesn't mean that his words didn't take their toll.

I wonder, as his eyes travel over the slope of my nose and the curve of my cheek, as they skate down the length of my throat and hang a right to glide over my collarbone, what does he see? Through his perfectionistic artist's eyes, are my flaws especially apparent to him? When his scrutinizing, yet warm gaze floats over my face, does he only note the asymmetry? As his eyes flit over my shoulders and down my arms, does he only see the slouching and lack of tone?

I try to shake myself out of this particularly disparaging self-assessment because it's only bringing down my mood. Why do I even care so much what Darcy thinks? I mean, I know why, but I would love to know if/when I'll stop feeling this way. As much as I know that Darcy doesn't feel anything other than friendship for me, I can't help the way that I feel about him, and frankly, it's inconvenient and irritating. I huff and shake my head at myself internally in frustration, still attempting to maintain my fixed position. This won't do, I gotta divert my attention from this pointless line of thought.

"Sooo…," I break the silence, "Is this the sorta thing where we have to stay completely quiet or else we'll chase away the muse or something?" I ask, while trying my best to stay motionless except for my mouth. This results in my words coming out strangled and, admittedly, difficult to comprehend. He lets out a little laugh, never pausing in his scribbling, "No, we can talk while I do this," he replies, still amused.

"Okay, wonderful! So whaddaya wanna talk about?" I ask casually. "I don't know, what do you want to talk about?" Darcy responds, "I feel like you should be the one to come up with the topic of conversation since you're the one who so desperately needs to talk."

"Hey! I am not now, nor have I ever been desperate! Excuse me for trying to be polite by taking your interests into account so I wouldn't bore you with my drivel," I say indignantly, rolling my eyes (which wasn't very effective because I wasn't facing him), and wishing I could cross my arms. He laughs again, "You won't bore me. Pick a topic, any topic," he insists.

"Are you sure?" I reply warningly, "You're giving me a lot of power here. I could take this conversation anywhere and everywhere. We might end up in some place you never planned or wanted to visit."

"Yes, I'm sure," he states confidently, "I trust you, for better or worse, with this immeasurable amount of power," he finishes sarcastically.

"Alriiight…don't say I didn't warn you. If you find the conversation displeasing or do end up bored, don't come crying to me," I caution him. At that, he flicks his eyes up and holds them on me. I can't see him all that well; from my current position, I must rely on my peripheral vision. "Consider me warned," he replies sardonically, "And don't worry," he continues becoming a little quieter, "You could never bore me," he concludes in a small voice. Just as I begin to turn my head in response to the gravity of his gaze boring into the side of my face, he shyly dips his head back down, avoiding eye contact and the scritch scratching starts up again.

I take a breath, determined not to read into that because it means nothing, absolutely nothing, I try to convince myself. "Okay so last and final check-in, I can pick any topic off the face of this green Earth?" I ask, really wanting to make sure I have his consent before I bring up my topic of choice. "Yes! Please, just please, pick a topic, any topic, I promise I'll be interested," Darcy answers, exasperated."

"Okay, got it. So, the notebook – "

"Not that topic," Darcy retorts instantly, before I even finish half my sentence.

"But Darcy! You said any topic!" I cry indignantly.

"I'm afraid I misspoke, 'any topic but that one' is what I had meant to say," he rejoins smoothly.

"You can't do that! You can't take it back now! It's too late for takesies-backsies," I reply.

"Hmm, and yet, looks like I just did," he responds, completely calm and self-assured.

"But Darcy, why? You know I don't do well with mysteries! And you were so suspicious about it all, too, please - I have to know or I'll never die happy. Please tell me what's in the notebook," I plead.

He remains stubbornly silent.

"Darcy, come on," I whine, drawing out the "on." "What could be in that notebook that's so bad, huh? What have you done that's so heinous that you can't tell your very own best friend and preordained body-burying buddy? Is it a list of all your victims' names in alphabetical order? Or maybe a diary stuffed with your own dirty Twilight fanfiction? Or maybe you're working undercover and those are some confidential FBI documents that you've been entrusted with? OR, ooo a love letter to your secret crush?"

Throughout all of these silly and ridiculous guesses, Darcy was relaxed, sporting a small smile, exhaling through his nose in amusement, shaking his head slightly as he continued to attend to his work. That is, he was cool as a cucumber until my very last accusation. At that last guess, his head snaps up and his eyes widen, the blush comes back, and he opens his mouth, but he's speechless.

Again, this is all viewed through my periphery, so I don't notice the marked change in Darcy's demeanor until I hear the deafening silence, so sharp in its completeness. At the continued and uncharacteristically expansive quiet, I slowly turn my head, fearing a reprimand from Darcy about messing up the composition, only to find him as I said before, speechless.

I am confused until suddenly, the huge, all-encompassing, truly massive meaning of this dawns on me, "No wayyy! Darcy! You like somebody? Like like-like somebody?" I ask excitedly.

He shows some signs of recovery, in that he's at least blinking and closed his mouth, but neither the blush nor the diameter of his eyes have diminished in the slightest. I mean this reaction basically confirms that he does indeed have a secret crush.

I brace myself, waiting to feel the hurt and jealousy that I would expect to feel creeping its way up my spine at this sort of news, but I'm surprised to find that mostly, I just feel so excited for Darcy. Part of me wishes that he could feel that way about me, but a larger part of me is happy for him and hopes that he succeeds, both so he can be happy and so that I can move on the easy way.

Before he has a chance to fully recover, I keep gushing, "Oh, my gosh, who is it? Is it someone I know? You're gonna tell me who it is, right?"

"NO!" he practically yells, his eyes wild. "No, I'm not going to tell you who it is," he says more quietly after realizing his excessive volume.

"But Darcy, you have to! We already covered the whole I-don't-do-well-with-mysteries thing, so it would be cruel if you didn't," I say reasonably.

"Nope, not gonna happen," he mutters, rummaging around his work area, evidently still shaking off the shock and embarrassment.

"Please, Darcy!" I beg, clasping my hands together, my eyes beseeching, totally giving up any pretense that I was adhering to my model position.

"No! Absolutely not," he replies adamantly, still rifling through his things, reorganizing everything, in what I gather might be a self-soothing mechanism.

"Why not?" I cry.

"Because!" he shrills back, presumably trying to mimic my tone.

"Darcy, give me one good reason why you won't tell me who your crush is," I demand.

"Because I don't want to?" he ripostes sassily.

"I said a good reason," I retort, unimpressed.

"Because-," he halts to take a deep breath and sigh wearily, "Because I really like her, but I'm pretty sure she has no interest in me and it's completely one-sided. And because I'm not sure how to tell her without ruining everything and making things weird, which is why I was sitting there trying to write a stupid letter to her."

"Aww, Darcy! That's not stupid, in fact, I think that's sweet. How long have you liked her?" I asked curious.

He eyes me indecisively, chewing on his lip in contemplation, before he responds, "Six or so months."

"What?! You've liked someone for half a year and you're just telling me now? And you're not even really telling me, it's more like I'm forcing you to spill against your will," I reply incredulously.

"Yeah, I guess it's been a while since I've felt this way, but I don't know what to do! I see her all the time and she always seems happy to see me, but I can't tell if it's anything more than just friendship. I'm not sure how to broach the topic now and I'm too afraid to, anyway."

"Hmm…if you won't tell me who this mystery lady is," here I pause to make sure he sees my dissatisfaction, "Then, will you at least tell me a little about her? Maybe we can plan out the perfect way to make your feelings known based off that."

"We?" he asks doubtfully.

"Yes! We! I'm officially your wingwoman, on the case!" I announce optimistically.

He looks at me skeptically and it's enough to get his message across.

I give him a speaking look of my own and try to encourage him, "It can't hurt Darcy, I only want to help," I finish with a hopefully innocent smile.

He considers me for a while with a pensive look on his face until finally, "Oh, what the heck, I've already been exposed so what do I have to lose," he sighs in defeat. "And I could honestly use the help so, okay. Fine. What do you want to know about her?" he asks resignedly.

"Everything!" I exclaim, managing to suppress my delight at getting my way.

"Alright," he says a little uncomfortably, "Well, where do I start? She's…she's…," he trails off as though picturing her in his mind's eye, "I mean, well she's beautiful, like actually stunning, but I don't think she sees it," he chuckles ruefully, shaking his head. "She has this long dark hair, and she also has these big, soulful eyes that kinda suck you right in when you look directly into them. She's so kind and funny and generous with her time and energy, and I'm never afraid to be myself around her. She doesn't judge me, even when I sometimes probably deserve it, and she's so compassionate, always willing to help others. She's also fearless and so confident in herself and her abilities, sometimes I envy her of her certainty, but then again, I'd be confident if I were her, too," he says proudly. "She just really cares, and she's passionate and works so hard at what she does, and she inspires me, she's- she's perfect, perfect for me. And I consider myself lucky just to be in her life, even if I never get to be more than that." Throughout his entire speech, his body posture, stiff and rigid at the beginning, began to unwind, loosen and by the end of it, he was fully relaxed, an affectionate smile playing on his lips as he stared at a spot on the ground, focused on nothing in particular, lost in his musings, his fingers interweaving and lacing with each other over and over.

"…Darcy…that was like…real…like you really like this girl, like you might even love this girl," I say, gobsmacked.

Hearing my voice slashes through what I'm sure were some pleasant daydreams, and his previously loose limbs start to tense up a little in alarm at the "L" word, but he doesn't deny it. He meets my eyes, does a little shrug and a grim sort of smile at the sorry state of his affairs. Wow, I can't believe Darcy of all people went and fell in love with someone! And I didn't even see it happen! I mean, he looks the same (except for the slight sag in his shoulders), and he acts the same, so how was I supposed to know? Based on all the movies, isn't love supposed to completely transform a person?

As I'm pondering this, in the back of my mind, various puzzle pieces are being matched and fragments of new information are being stitched together, and abruptly it all comes together. I know who it is! It's definitely surprising, but all the pieces fit! Shocked and, honestly a little perplexed, I yelp, "Oh!" startling Darcy, his eyes shooting to mine, wary.

"I figured it out, I know who it is!" I blurt out.

Darcy's wary gaze, intent on mine quickly shifts into one of outright dread and fear, heavy with the knowledge that he's just lost his last chance to continue on as things were before, that everything would be different from now on.