Author's Note: Hello again :) Glad to see you back :) I was hoping to go for some humour in the last chapter. Did it work? Enjoy this new chapter!

Disclaimer: Last time I checked, Jane Austen would be about 200 years old if she was writing this now... And the world record for the oldest woman ever is about 116? years old... so yeah. I don't own her characters, but everything else are figments of my imagination :D

Chapter 7

Neither spoke a word.

He didn't dare look at her.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The silence was deafening. He could hear every single tick of the clock. Every breath she took. The dripping of the tap in her bathroom. The tapping of her fingers. Every single little sound seemed to be amplified. And it was doing nothing to help his nerves. He had some serious explaining to do. Yeah. No shit Sherlock. You think? He could now add imbecilic half-wit to the already miles-long list of colourful words that he could be classified as at the moment. He wanted to kick his teeth in. How could he have been so stupid?

In hindsight, he now saw all of the similarities between his and what Becca had told him about her night at the club a few nights ago. He should have worked out that Becca and the girl at the night club were the same person. There could only be one girl in the world who had the guts to pour a drink over a stranger, then self-righteously scold them - although he admitted that he had it coming for him. He should never have said that she was only tolerable. He should not have insulted her. He definitely shouldn't have yelled at her. He should not have been… how did she put it? An insufferable, rude, arrogant, unbearably irritating conceited ass. Those words hurt. They cut his heart worse than a thousand knives ever could. But he deserved it. Every last word. No, he deserved more. How could he?!

The way that she had yelled his name was so filled with hurt, exasperation, anger, shock and a myriad of other emotions that he didn't really want to guess. Darcy could tell that she was disappointed in him. She trusted him more than most people in the world, especially since the accident and the debacle with her – pathetic excuse of a person also known as her – mother and two – imbecilic, ignorant and nasty – younger sisters. And what had he gone and done? He had ripped that trust up into a billion little pieces and trampled, cremated and buried it. What must she think of me?!

He felt as if his tie was choking him. He reached up and pulled at his collar. He touched his forehead. It was moist. Damn, where's the Darcy mask when I need it? Idiot! The Darcy mask was what got you into this mess in the first place. His normally starched stiff posture deflated, leaving him slouched in his chair. He prayed desperately to whoever was up there laughing at him to give him a hand out of this situation. So he sat there. Desperately hoping for a miracle. Sweet baby turnips! Please! Maybe they could fall into a black hole and go back in time? Oh! How he would give all he had right now to go back to when they had met and replay the whole of the club disaster.

Becky looked at her watch. She tapped her foot. Stilled her foot. Glanced at the clock. Studied the wallpaper on her computer. She inspected her fingernails. Picked up a pen. Put it down. Picked it up again. Clicked it. Shifted in her chair. Slipped off the torture tools that she used as shoes. Crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Put her shoes back on. Tapped her fingers on her desk. Sighed. She looked everywhere but at him. She tried to distract herself by focussing her attention on other things. It wasn't working. But she'd as soon as jump out of her office window than be the one who spoke first. No. He got them here. He could fix it. Why should she make it any easier for him? He may be her best friend, but it didn't mean that he would be forgiven immediately. An ass was still an ass. Just because it got an identity change, doesn't mean that it could suddenly change from a donkey to a racehorse. She still didn't like the man sitting in front of her. And she'd go on disliking him until he did something about it. What had happened to the old Will?

Darcy opened his mouth. Snapped it closed. What was he supposed to say? He wiped his hands down his shirt. Expensive Italian silk be damned. He swallowed. His throat was uncomfortably dry. He wanted – no needed – a glass of water. He looked at the vase of flowers sitting on a stand in the corner of the room. Could he? No. It would only add crazy madman lunatic onto his ever-growing list. But he was desperate.

The tension in the room was so thick that he swore he could have swum in it. He was surprised that he could still breathe. Barely. The pressure was building with every tick of that bloody clock on the wall. He wondered if Becca would mind if he threw it out of her window? It felt as if it was mocking him with every tick. He wished that she would have mercy on him. However little he deserved it. He wondered how long this would go on for. He wouldn't be able to hold out any longer.

Squeeeeeaaaak.

Both Becky and Darcy jumped at the sudden sound. Becky was embarrassed because it was her chair – and therefore in extension her – that had made the sound and broke the silence. For Darcy, the creak was the catalyst to his breakdown.

"Mercy!" he cried out, while simultaneously throwing himself onto his knees. Darcy had always had a flair for dramatics; he never did things by halves. He had remembered a game that he and Becca used to play, Mercy. They would tickle each other until one of them couldn't take it anymore. Darcy was the one who had always held the advantage because of his greater height and weight, so Becky would scream out Mercy to make him stop his torture. Hoping that a bit of humour and a reminder of the past would soften her towards him, he acted.

Unable to help herself, Becky snorted. Seeing the stiff as a stick Darcy down on his knees in front of her was just too amusing. She too was reminded of the times where they had played that game together in the past. Now, the tickling was replaced with a torture of a different kind. And she held all of the cards. But he wasn't forgiven. Not yet. Not this easily.

She raised a disdainful eyebrow. She refused to open her mouth.

"I…I…" he stuttered. He should have known that she was going to be difficult about this. Get a grip on yourself, Darcy!

"Becca, I am so, so, so sorry. I… I didn't know what I was doing. I was… not in my right mind." he finally got out. Bugger. That had sounded a lot better in his head.

"Clearly." Becky muttered sarcastically. Darcy cringed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean what I said! I swear! I don't think that you're anything less than beautiful! I shouldn't have said that!"

"Damn right you shouldn't have." She snapped. Her rage at being insulted had risen full force. She stood up. "Who do you think you are, Darcy, insulting people that you barely know? But it's okay. Because now I know what you really think of me."

Darcy also rose. He didn't want to be spoken down on. It made him feel like he was three again. "No! I don't think that! If I had known who you were, then I would never have said what I did! I swear." Oh snake's armpit! That didn't come out sounding too great either. Argh! He roughly raked his fingers through his hair.

"No, you would have thought it, but not said it." She snapped. "I'm glad we got that cleared up. Now I know that you wouldn't give a pin's head about me if I wasn't your 'friend'." She drew quotation marks in the air with her fingers when she said the word friend.

His eyes widened. That wasn't what he meant! He should have known that she would misconstrue his words! At this rate, he was going to dig himself right through the core of the Earth. Fool!

"No! I didn't – I don't – I – " he tried desperately to explain himself. "I was a moron! A massive ginormous ass! A jerk! An imbecile! An idiot! I was an arrogant, pompous, conceited fool. And I know that you're probably never going to forgive me for it, but please believe me when I say that I didn't mean a word I said! And most definitely didn't mean for you to hear me!"

"Oh. I see!" She feigned understanding. "You are sorry!" Darcy nodded emphatically here.

"Sorry that I heard you." She continued bitterly. All the hurt that she had not allowed herself to feel because of his venomous words leaked through. "Not sorry for your disgusting words, or your disdainful attitude. But you don't care about what you said and how you acted, do you? You're only sorry that I heard you! How could you?!" Her pitch had slowly escalated, and she was on the verge of tears.

"Becky! I didn't mean it that way! I can't believe you're purposely misunderstanding me! I am sorry! Sorry that I said those words! I swear, I've always thought that you were the most beautiful girl I've ever known. I shouldn't have yelled at you when you spilt that drink on me, even if it was on purpose. I deserved it. I shouldn't have said those demeaning words to you. I should have behaved better.

Please forgive me? I promise. I swear I'll make it up to you! I'll do anything, anything, for your forgiveness. I don't even care if you told me to go to hell. I'll do it, if it means you'll forgive me for being such a fool."

Becky was moved by his earnestness. His eyes told her that he meant every word. And she believed him. Two tears slid silently down her cheeks. She had missed him. Her Will. Her best friend, confidant, partner in crime. She was glad that he was back. But there was a score she had to settle first.

"Anything?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"Anything," he nodded solemnly. Oh dear.

She slowly got up from her chair and walked around her desk on slightly shaky legs. Standing in front of Darcy, she closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she opened them again and lifted her right hand to his face.

Well?