In the wake of Elizabeth's departure, Darcy found himself experiencing a diverse and confusing array of emotions. First and foremost was the hurt. Even though he could logically understand and even excuse Elizabeth's disbelief of what he had told her, it still stung more than he cared to admit that she hadn't believed him.

Her belief in him had been the linchpin of his whole plan, the one thing he'd had to convince himself of as he'd worked up the nerve to tell her of his Sight. It hadn't been an easy internal debate, carried out over the course of several weeks as Darcy had ultimately persuaded himself that she would have to believe him, otherwise they could never have a shared future. He had at last felt the logic was sound: If they were to be wed, she would have to know. If she knew, she would have to believe him. If she believed him, he could at last tell her everything.

She hadn't given him even half a chance and there was a part of Darcy that couldn't blame her for it. But the greater part of him didn't want to try to be understanding of her reaction, no matter how easy it was to comprehend it. No, the bigger part of him wanted to rage at Elizabeth, to say she was cruel or cynical or stupid.

It was the third emotion swirling within his mind that kept him from raging and that emotion was not anything tender such as love or devotion. It was not even optimism that everything would eventually turn out for the best. Quite to the contrary, the third emotion he felt was a crushing, suffocating sense of defeat.

Had his Sight at last failed him? Had those visions of a happy marriage and a rich life been a figment of his imagination? Elizabeth was certainly beautiful enough to inspire such thoughts and it was damned certain that nothing between the two of them had ever run smooth.

Such dark thoughts dogged Darcy over the days and weeks following their disastrous date. If he was not careful, his bleak mood was capable of consuming him completely. He attempted to behave normally with his sister and Bingley, but found the effort too taxing and soon took to avoiding them as much as possible. Bingley, who had a finger on the pulse of the situation thanks to his relationship to Miss Marchrend knew of the reason for Darcy's melancholy, or thought he did, and wisely allowed Darcy his space.

On more than one occasion, Darcy found himself cynically musing on what Bingley's reaction would be if he knew exactly why things had not worked out between Darcy and Elizabeth. Would Bingley have had the same horrified reaction Elizabeth had, thinking Darcy was at best a lunatic and at worst a pathological liar?

Georgiana did not say anything directly and did not pry, but her gaze was always filled with concern and she wore a perpetual slight frown when she regarded her elder brother. Her efforts to coax smiles or at least something other than a scowl out of him were gentle and ultimately ineffectual.

So she did what she always did when he proved to be too much a burden for her to handle on her own. Three weeks after the holiday had passed and four weeks after Darcy had fallen into his emotional malaise, Georgiana called in reinforcements in the guise of one Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, their cousin and the only person in the world that Darcy trusted with what few secrets he shared.

As was his habit (because Darcy had once decreed it to be annoying), Fitzwilliam showed up one evening just before dinner, not having bothered to inform anyone in the household of his impending arrival. He easily wrangled a not-altogether-sincere invitation from Darcy to join them for dinner, promptly accepted and was soon seated at the smaller dining table that usually served for family dinners.

The Colonel divided his time between chattering amiably away with Georgiana about how her studies were progressing and telling colorful stories of life in the Army and various mishaps that had happened at his last posting abroad.

Darcy listened with only half an ear, not interested in the stories for their own sake but feeling it his duty to attend at least far enough that he could stop his cousin if Richard got it into his head to tell some ribald joke or share some gory story that would be unfit for Georgiana's ears.

When dinner had ended, Georgiana excused herself with some briskness, citing a mountain of reading to get through. Darcy bade her a good night, knowing from previous exposure that his sister was not prone to exaggeration and would doubtless be kept busy with schoolwork right up to the point when she would choose to go to bed and he would not see her again this night.

As of late, on a normal evening, Darcy would take his sister's departure as his cue to repair to his study to work. In all reality, he accomplished little these days, having not the heart for paperwork or productivity. Most nights found him staring sightlessly into the fire, a glass of brandy or whiskey forgotten in one hand, miserable over Elizabeth but without the slightest idea of what he ought to do about it.

Another grudging invitation was extended to Fitzwilliam, this time for an after-dinner brandy in Darcy's study. Despite the obvious unwillingness Darcy displayed to actually sit and be social, Fitzwilliam once again accepted with alacrity.

There was silence between the two men as they made their way into the room and poured their drinks before settling into the comfortable chairs pulled up to the hearth. But as though their being seated were some sort of signal that Fitzwilliam had been waiting for, they had no sooner touched backside to chair before he cleared his throat and asked in his usual blunt fashion, "Just what the devil has gotten into you, Darce?"

Swallowing an audible sigh, Darcy turned his most imperious look on his cousin despite knowing that it would have absolutely no effect on the other man. "Nothing has gotten into me," he said in a voice to match his facial expression.

The Colonel snorted loudly. "Something must have done or you would never have let me get away with telling Georgie the story about the time I caught you kissing my sister."

Darcy sat forward so suddenly that his whiskey was in very real danger of sloshing all over the fine rug. "You told her what? When? I never kissed your sister!"

Fitzwilliam chuckled, waving a negligent hand in dismissal of Darcy's outrage. "Relax, Darce," he advised. "I said nothing of the sort, but the fact that you thought I might've tells me that you were as distant as you looked over dinner.

"So then. Georgie is worried about you. Says you've been lost in your head for a month now. Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Darcy glared over at his cousin for several long moments before finally shaking his head and allowing his shoulders to slump. "I don't know why I bother trying to keep my private life private. Between you and Georgiana always meddling, I'm never given any peace."

"Oh yes," Fitzwilliam agreed, his voice a sarcastic drawl. "No peace and quiet for poor, wittle Darcy-Darce. Georgie only gave you a month to mope around feeling poorly for yourself." He punctuated the observation with a light kick at Darcy's ankle. "You know I'm not going to leave until you confess and I've had the chance to properly mock you for whatever silly thing it is this time. You might as well save yourself the time and the fine brandy." He raised his glass, took a sip in illustration and then quirked up an eyebrow.

"Well?"

Darcy felt the back of his neck flame red. Fitzwilliam wasn't entirely joking about the mockery and surely his dashing and frequently romantically involved cousin would find Darcy's situation to be hilarious.

"Does it ever occur to you that perhaps I could do without you poking fun at me?" Darcy tried to dodge having to spill his guts to his cousin while also trying not to appear to be incalcitrant. The more reserved he tried to be, the more Fitzwilliam would take it upon himself to wheedle information out of him.

"Please," Fitzwilliam scoffed. "What you typically require is for someone to come along and give you some perspective. You spend so much time in your own head going over the same problem that pretty soon that problem is the only thing you can see. It isn't my fault that you wait until you've finished blowing everything all out of proportion to finally admit to whatever's been eating at you."

When Darcy still hesitated, Fitzwilliam set his glass to the side and leaned forward, his normally lively blue eyes now intense. "I urge you again to save yourself a little time and just tell me what the trouble is. Whatever it is, we can sort it out. We always do."

Laughing bitterly, Darcy tossed back a decent slug of his own whiskey before closing his eyes and answering. "No. I fear that this time there is nothing anyone can do. But who am I to deny you your joy in laughing at my problems? I am in love with a woman who hates me."

Braced for derisive laughter, Darcy frowned suspiciously when his admission elicited nothing more than a profound silence. Cracking an eyelid, he examined his cousin, finding Fitzwilliam wearing a bemused expression but clearly having no idea of anything to say in response.

"Well, say something," Darcy groused, aiming a kick at Fitzwilliam's shins in irritated repayment of the earlier blow his ankle had endured.

Fitzwilliam shook his head slowly. "I admit I have no idea what to say, Darce. I had no idea you were even seeing anyone. Georgiana has mentioned nothing of it to me."

"That is because she scarcely has any idea of it herself. And I haven't exactly been seeing this woman in the, er, traditional sense."

The various interpretations of that sentence struck Darcy as being particularly funny, but even Fitzwilliam knew nothing of Darcy's Sight, so he kept any smirks about it to himself.

The thought was sobering, not that he had been feeling anything too close to levity. There was no way to tell Fitzwilliam anything about Elizabeth without also disclosing information regarding his strange curse or gift or whatever he wished to call it.

Even as he processed that, Darcy felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. How long was he willing to go on living his life in the way that he had been? When his Sight had served only to help him make good business decisions or to keep Georgiana from harm, it had never seemed needful to mention it to anyone. For the former, he might simply be well educated or lucky or both. For the latter, if breaking his silence would have been the key to saving his sister from Wickham's depredations, he would have done so without a thought. As it was, the information had never seemed relevant before and Darcy had simply grown so accustomed to treating it like some dangerous secret that perhaps he had, once again, blown everything all out of proportion.

After all, other than the possibility that whomever he told wouldn't believe him, what was the harm of anyone else knowing? He was breaking no laws, harming no other people, there was nothing morally reprehensible about his Sight. It just was. Inexplicable and so heavy, crushing him however slowly under all the ponderous weight of secrecy.

For just a moment, Darcy was tempted beyond all words to throw caution to the wind, to tell all to Fitzwilliam, to lay out the whole dysmorphic tale of his doomed relationship with Elizabeth Bennet and to see what his cousin might say in response.

But then he thought of how the information had gone over with Elizabeth and Darcy's desire to tell his cousin anything about his Sight flamed out and died.

"So, who is this woman?" Fitzwilliam asked, having obviously paused to see whether Darcy would be forthcoming with any further details of his own accord. "How did you meet? And why do you think she hates you?"

Darcy would have liked to dodge the question or to tell Fitzwilliam to go away, but knew that both options were ultimately fruitless. Resolving to take his cousin's advice and save himself some time, Darcy heaved a sigh and answered dully, "Her name is Elizabeth Bennet. She's the sister of Charles Bingley's Miss Marchrend. We met upon the occasion of my firing her from the secretarial position at my offices and that, I think, adequately explains why she hates me."

Somewhat predictably, Colonel Fitzwilliam responded to Darcy's confessions with a roar of laughter.

Still slumped in his chair, Darcy eyed the other man with disfavor as Fitzwilliam's laughing fit carried on for some time. When at last Fitzwilliam swiped tears of mirth from his own eyes and the sounds of uproarious amusement had faded to an occasional snort, Darcy spoke again, "Are you quite finished?"

"For the moment, perhaps," Fitzwilliam allowed. He sat up straighter, becoming serious. "But Darce! Aside from what sounds like a moment of epic stupidity, you have explained almost nothing of this tale! Did you meet this Miss Bennet and then literally fire her on the spot?"

"More or less."

"But why? Had Bingley said something about her that made you think she was not fit for the job? And if she was not fit for the task of being your secretary, why was she hired in the first place?"

Darcy shifted uncomfortably. This was going to be a typical Fitzwilliam inquisition. "Mrs. Reynolds had handled the interviewing process. I trusted her to choose a likely candidate. And no, Mr. Bingley had not met Miss Marchrend at the time I met Miss Bennet. Though I believe the two meetings happened very close together."

Fitzwilliam's gaze grew sharply calculating. "But then it has been some months in the past that this firing occurred. Why grow despondent now?" Without giving Darcy a chance to answer, he thrust one finger dramatically into the air and exclaimed, "I have it!

"You have been forced to spend time with Miss Bennet due to pressure from Mr. Bingley. He's always after you to get to know the families of any woman he falls for for longer than a few days. It would surely be no different with this Miss Marchrend.

"So, with all this forced interaction, you have grown to know and esteem Miss Bennet, but she still hates you although you have doubtless attempted to show her that you're not always a hopeless idiot when it comes to dealing with other people."

Fitzwilliam sat back, triumphant at his deductions which were, on the whole, more or less accurate.

"Close enough," Darcy acknowledged. In an attempt to forestall any further questions, he then volunteered a bit more information. "And I had recently thought that I had begun to change Miss Bennet's opinion of me, but now it seems that I have undone any progress and I have no hope of ever recovering the barest inch of ground with her."

Fitzwilliam seemed to ponder that for a long moment and Darcy dared for a moment to believe that his cousin would be satisfied with the bare sketch of events that he had been given.

Unfortunately, Richard Fitzwilliam was nothing if not tenacious.

"Let us go back to the beginning now, for I do not understand why you saw fit to fire Miss Bennet in the first place. And if I know you, you have never adequately explained it to her either."

Darcy hesitated. There was nothing to say here that would not push the conversation into dangerous territory. Feeling backed into a corner, he attempted a bluff. "I don't see that I need to explain the reasoning behind my actions to you. Nor do I see that the reasoning is all that relevant to the outcome. Whatever my reasons were, they seemed sound to me and I cannot undo it in any event, nor would I wish to."

The Colonel's blue eyes were filled with puzzlement as he gazed back across the short distance to regard Darcy. "But of course the reasons matter! Perhaps not to me and perhaps not, as you say, to the overall outcome. But they must have mattered to Miss Bennet! I was correct, was I not? She asked for an explanation and you hid behind your haughty 'I-know-best' attitude and told her nothing."

He paused and shook his head when Darcy made no reply. "Just as I thought. It is no wonder she doesn't like you, Man! I may not know all there is to know about women, but even I know that they value honesty. How could they trust a man who won't be transparent with them? Especially with matters that regard them directly."

Fitzwilliam's tone was chiding and just a little bit condescending. It was enough for Darcy who, feeling his pride stung, blurted out, "It does not matter! I told her the truth of my reasons and it was that which finally drove her away from me once and for all!"

Fitzwilliam blinked in reply, absorbing that. At length, he shook his head again, stood and stretched and then moved to the sideboard to refill his glass. When he had finished, he returned to his chair and resumed his seat.

"You must have had one hell of a terrible reason then," he observed mildly.

"It was not. She did not believe me."

"What was it?"

"I see no reason to tell you."

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "I'm a third party who loves you enough to be on your side and who loves you enough to tell you when you're at fault." He flashed a brief, blinding smile. "I'm the best friend you've got."

All of that was true; annoying as Fitzwilliam could be, he never caused Darcy any real ill.

"You won't believe me," Darcy replied tiredly, feeling the pull once again to confide in his cousin.

"I promise that I will," Fitzwilliam swore solemnly.

Darcy could feel himself teetering on the edge of a precipice. It would be so easy to fling himself over the brink, trusting that he would somehow land safely. It would be just as easy to throw himself in the opposite direction, back towards the known safety of the solid ground where he had been living. It was only the edge that was unbearable, that crumbling space between two wildly different sorts of existence.

He had thought it worthwhile to fling himself over the edge for Elizabeth's sake. Could he now justify the same precipitate action for what felt like the sake of his own sanity?

"Do you recall the night I came and asked you for your help in going after Wickham?" Darcy asked, the words coming almost without his willing them. Off the edge of the cliff, then.

Fitzwilliam's face darkened in remembered anger. "Of course I do."

"Did you never stop to wonder how I knew what was about to happen if we had not made it in time?"

A pause. "No. I had not. I suppose I assumed Georgie had left a note and you discovered it earlier than she had intended. Or a servant had said something. Why?"

"Because, I only knew due to a phenomenon that I think you will not believe." Darcy hesitated, feeling the emptiness of open air whistling below him. "For my whole life, I have often Seen events before they have happened. I see visions of what may happen if certain steps are taken. I cannot control it, I never asked for it, but nevertheless, I have it."

Darcy watched his cousin closely as he spoke this time, searching for that moment when doubt or surprise or disbelief should show up clearly on Fitzwilliam's face. It would be a lie to say that there was not even a flicker of skepticism, but it seemed to be only a brief flash, there and gone so quickly that Darcy was not even certain he had seen anything at all.

But the moment dragged on into a silence more awkward than profound and the discomfort of it was enough to goad Darcy into speech once more.

"Say it," he commanded flatly. "Say you do not believe me and that you'll take the necessary steps to have me committed somewhere for my mental health. That Georgiana will be taken care of and that you hope I will no longer suffer these delusions."

"Why?" Fitzwilliam demanded. "Did you have some vision telling you that I would say any of those things?" He sounded almost hurt. "I said I would believe you, Darcy. And I do. It seems... extraordinary. And I suppose you haven't got any way of proving it if I were to demand such a thing of you.

"But I promised I would believe you," he repeated firmly, "and I do. In fact, I can think of any number of decisions you have made that have seemed to be either inspired or insane. If you say you've had this source of inspiration for your whole life, then I'll trust that's what it was."

Unexpected tears blurred Darcy's vision and a sob actually rose in his throat before he knew he had even begun to feel the emotional release of relief at his cousin's acceptance of his words as truth.

Burying his face in his hands, he wept until he could at last master himself again. With unwonted sensitivity, Fitzwilliam remained quiet and still, allowing Darcy to work through the moment in his own way and without having to bear up under any judgment.

When he had at last regained control and wiped away whatever evidence he could of the emotional outburst, Darcy locked his gaze with the Colonel's. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. "I had no idea how it would feel to have someone believe me nor how freeing it would be to tell anyone about it and be believed." He shook his head, groping for words. "It has been a lifetime of keeping that part of me a secret from everyone. I did not know it was such a burden until recently."

"Of course," Fitzwilliam said gruffly. "Just do me a favor and let me know if you ever get any idea that I'm going to end up getting into major trouble. Like getting shot. Or married." He gave a theatrical shudder.

The joking words broke the tension of the room and even wrung a genuine smile out of Darcy. Never one to let a thing rest, Fitzwilliam leaned forward again and met Darcy's gaze. "Now then. Tell me everything about this Miss Bennet."

Beginning with his vision of their life together, Darcy told his cousin and friend absolutely everything, sparing neither himself nor Elizabeth in the telling. It took the better part of two hours and a few more glasses of liquor before the whole tale was laid out.

At the conclusion, Fitzwilliam let out a low whistle. "No wonder you're such a mess," he observed.

"Thank you ever so much for that insight," Darcy replied sarcastically. "But you see my problem. I tried to tell her and she wouldn't listen at all. What else can I do? Try to tell her again? She would eventually have me locked up either for harassment or lunacy."

"Well, can't you somehow just prove it to her?" Fitzwilliam asked, scratching at a spot behind his ear. "I mean, next time you have a vision, just tell her what it was and then when it happens, she'll have to believe you."

"I'm certain she would find reasons to doubt me even then," Darcy replied morosely. "After all, my visions are typically things to do with profitable investments. It's impossible to prove that putting some of my money in a certain market isn't just a lucky guess or good acumen."

"And you have no control over it?"

"If I did, do you think I would be so miserable right now?"

"Fair point."

Silence settled over the pair of men for a while longer before Fitzwilliam slapped his hands lightly against his thighs and stood, saying, "I suppose I'll have to think on this issue a while longer then because I'm afraid I don't see a way out of it.

"But you say you've never had a false vision?"

"Never," Darcy shrugged. "Though there have been times when I haven't been certain that I had a vision or not."

"Well then, either you really are meant to be with Miss Bennet and somehow it will all work out if only you're patient and on the lookout for possibilities to mend things with her. Or it wasn't meant to be at all," he spoke bracingly. "And you didn't have a vision so much as you had a pleasant daydream. Either way, you'll eventually get through this."

"Remind me never to ask you for advice," Darcy commented, standing up himself.

Fitzwilliam only laughed, pulled Darcy into a rough embrace and pounded his back enthusiastically. "Mind if I stay over? I'm knackered."

"You know you always have a room here."

They parted then for the night. Despite his words to Fitzwilliam, Darcy found he did feel better for the perspective the other man had offered. When he tumbled gratefully into bed, it was to get the best night's sleep he'd had in quite some time.

A/N: We're in the home stretch now! The million dollar question is whether I can wrap it up this calendar year like I swore to myself that I would. Stay tuned!