A/N— :| I feel this chapter is a bit awkward. What say you?

Day 17

William gazed impassively at his luggage. The bags under his eyes felt just about as heavy as his heart. He sighed and rubbed his face, trying to will some energy back into his features.

He'd been up all night writing. Sometime after The Incident, he had composed himself enough to decide that if nothing else, Elizabeth deserved to know the truth—the truth about Wickham, if nothing more. He'd debated on whether he should tell her what he'd really meant to say to her (because writing had always come easier to him than speaking, and it would have given him time to reword his thoughts), but he decided against it. She'd made it clear she wanted nothing to do with his feelings, so he made sure nothing born from his confused, chaotic emotional state touched the page.

The end result was a letter that he felt would explain everything. It would expose Wickham for what he really was, and she would then know to stay away from him. That was all he wanted.

He hoped a great deal that it would work.

The letter was on this desk at that very moment, unfolded and silent in somber anticipation. He gathered the sheaves and was about to fold them back up when the first word caught his eye. He sat down and started to reread it. The words seemed to blend together at this point.

Elizabeth, it began. He'd had a hard time getting the greeting out. Seeing 'Dear Elizabeth' had caused him quite a bit of pain, and discouraged him from writing for a long while.

I would like to begin by saying that this is not a repetition of what I said—or what I wished to say—last night. You made your feelings about that matter quite clear; I believe the matter can be put to rest without any ill-feeling on either of our parts. I simply wish to clear the air about a certain accusation you flung at me in the midst of our conversation—that which dealt with a certain George Wickham, of whom you are acquainted. You said that I had wronged him, even though he was like a brother to me. I have no idea what George has told you, so I suppose I must relay to you the whole of our relationship. Some of this may sound familiar, as half-truths are George's specialty, but I am certain at one point our stories will veer widely apart.

The George Wickham you know is the son of the late George Wickham Sr., an admirable man whom my father called friend. My father was very close to Mr. Wickham, and had been since his university days; it was only natural that when George was born, he was given the title of godfather to the boy. George was charming as a boy, and my father was very fond of him. This charm never left him as he grew older, but it turned from an innocent sort to one that was used to beguile and deceive. As we grew up together, I began to notice some troubling personality traits in him that naturally made me want to distance myself from him. He seemed not to care. He went about his business with his unsavory group of friends, and I went about mine. He tried to hide his mean pranks from me, but only half-heartedly; it was my father that was never allowed to know. At present I will not discuss this in great detail; I doubt this childish mischief—which was quite mean-spirited, even if it was juvenile—would convince you of his true character.

By the age of eighteen or so, George took a turn for the worse. He had a fondness for cards, and would often go to a friend's to "study" and turn up the next day flat broke. He began siphoning money from both his father and mine. He was very clever about it, though, so as to never arouse suspicion in either of them. I noticed, but said nothing because I feared they would be hurt. It wasn't as if we were hurting for money, either. I tried to straighten George out myself, but he would not listen to me. He felt himself quite my equal in terms of fortune—both material and otherwise—and knew that as long as he stayed in my father's good books, he would be able to live the life of indulgence he so wanted. I think I've left out that Mr. Wickham and my own father were in completely different professions; my father was a business man, as you can surmise, while Mr. Wickham was a political science teacher at a local college. His father had not as much to give as mine, and so was of a lesser importance.

When Mr. Wickham died about ten years ago, we were all devastated. His father's death didn't sober George up—both literally and figuratively—instead, it gave him an excuse to completely lose himself in the world he'd only dabbled in up until that point.

In time, my father, too, died. His last words were such that urged me to help George out in the realm of finance. He'd created a position at the firm that could be made available to George. I honored my father's wish, despite my own private reservations, but it turned out George didn't want the job. It was just as well. He would not do well in an office, and he can be a destructive creature when bored—his refusal spared me much future anxiety. Instead, he said he wanted a sum of money that he could live off until he found a job more to his liking. I gave him the money and he disappeared. I did not try to find him.

Now, for the worst of it. It pains me to write this, but it must be done.

My sister, Georgiana, is very dear to me. She has always been rather shy around strangers, and so it is quite difficult for her to make friends. When she does, though, there could be no truer friend than she; she is extremely loyal, and thus—although whether wittingly or not, I can't say—expects the same loyalty in return.

George Wickham had, unfortunately, been a major fixture in her life when she was younger. She looked up to him as she looked up to me; he was an elder brother figure of sorts to her. He was always his most charming with her, and so it was no wonder she became attached to him. I believe that for a period, George really did care for her, but whatever affection he had waned as she grew older. Eventually, he viewed her as he viewed both myself and my father—as a means of income, and nothing more. He convinced her to give him some money from her allowance—not as a fixed thing, mind you, but with well placed simpering and flattery here and there. When my father died, I severed all ties with George, as I mentioned before. I had thought that he'd disappeared and would finally be out of our hair, but I was wrong. He'd kept contact with Georgie and still received an allowance of his own from her. When I found out, I was outraged and demanded she cut him off immediately. She'd felt something wrong with the institution, so she complied without protest—indeed, she was relieved to have everything out in the open and to have the affair over with.

George, however, was not happy with this.

An opportune time had arisen for George to strike—this was two years ago, when Georgie was sixteen, and we had just recently settled into our new home and Georgie hadn't yet begun school. George crafted a website about our family filled with malicious lies about me, and my late farther whose dying words had been filled with concern for his wellbeing—but it was targeted mainly on my sister. Pages and pages were written about her—true secrets, appalling lies, and crudely edited photos. Right around the time the school year started, he hung around her campus and spread word about the site. It wasn't long before everyone had heard about it and most had visited it.

Georgie had an uncommonly hard time making friends there, and was absolutely confounded as to why, as was I. Days turned into weeks, and although she put on a brave front, I knew she was hurting inside. Finally, one day, she came home from school crying. Alarmed, I'd asked her what was the matter; she told me she had been outright bullied by a group of girls at lunch. She said they had said the most horrendous things about her, and had even presented her with an embarrassing secret she had harbored for some time. She'd run to the bathroom and hid in a stall, only to overhear a few other girls enter, talking about the website. When she finished telling me this, we both sat down and looked the site up.

We were horrified at what we saw.

Georgie full out sobbed, and I don't blame her. I was enraged beyond belief that someone could be so malevolent to do something like this. There are tabloids in which we appear. Rumors abound about us that are both ridiculous and wounding. But this—this was vile. It used private photos of us, taken by family and friends, pictures that could never have been leaked to the press. It gave accounts of private instances that only someone connected to us could have known about. It had stated accurate facts amidst the slew of mistruths. There was only one person who could have done this, but it seemed low even for him. To make sure, I tracked down the IP address and contacted the owner of the computer from which the website originated. Sure enough, it was George. In my anger, I yelled at him, threatened him, cursed profusely. For the first time in his life, George was somewhat afraid of me. I managed to gain ownership of the site and immediately shut it down. As for George, he disappeared and hasn't reemerged until now.

Eventually, word got out that the site was false, but the damage was done. Georgie's reputation was forever marred. Those who believed her pitied her, but did not associate with her because of how it would reflect on them. Those who disliked her continued to dislike her, or regarded her with indifference, and those who shunned her continued to shun her so as to not admit being wrong. Luckily, though, teens have short attention spans. They eventually either forgot about the incident or just didn't care anymore.

Georgie did neither.

She will always be affected by the incident. She used to be a trusting person, but that person is gone. Even though it's been nearly three years since this happened, she's still struggling with trust issues. If it was hard to get into her inner circle before, it's nearly impossible now.

That is the end of the account. It can all be validated by my cousin Richard; he was a witness to all that happened, and he won't hesitate to give you any particulars I may have left out. I suppose I should say goodbye here; I have a feeling you will not accompany us to the airport in the morning, and I highly doubt I should run into you before we leave. So, goodbye, Elizabeth, and good day to you.

Yours, William

He thought the ending rather awkward, but there was no time to fix that now. His eyes quickly lost their focus and he blinked slowly. He couldn't remember being this exhausted in a long, long time.

"Ready to go?"

Will's head shot up. Charles gazed at him from the doorway with palpable concern. Or was it pity? He nearly seethed. He did not want anyone's pity.

The flare of anger was powerful, but short-lived. Immediately after it abated, he was filled with a greater emptiness than he had felt previously.

He nodded silently and got up, folding the letter neatly into thirds. With steady, mechanical movements, he placed it in the envelope on his desk before sliding it into his pocket.

The ride to the airport had been tense. William was exhausted and still smarting from the blow he received the night before. Charles and Jane, who had joined them to see the two cousins off, had identical looks of unease on their faces. Charles periodically flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror as he drove, glancing at Will for any sign of improvement. Jane looked to Charles in a similar manner for a signal of some sort. It made his mood positively beastly.

Richard, he knew, was concerned about him as well, but at least he had the decency not to show it.

At the airport, it was not much better. Charles attempted to lighten the mood, but all his jokes fell flat. Richard tried to help by laughing along and acting as if nothing had happened.

It had the opposite effect on Darcy.

At the boarding gate, they were forced to say their adieus.

"So, I guess this is goodbye, then," Charles said, singling Will out as Jane talked to Richard.

"I guess so," Darcy affirmed.

"You will come back to visit soon, won't you?" Charles asked anxiously. Darcy shrugged and forced a smile for his friend's sake.

"I don't know if it'll be soon," he answered, "but you know there's always an open invitation to my place for you."

Charles nodded.

"I might have to take you up on that sometime."

A trade-off was then made; Richard addressed Charles and William spoke to Jane.

"It's truly been a pleasure, Will," she said.

"Likewise."

"I hope you can come back. All of us here will miss you and your cousin."

He tried mightily to keep the self-depreciating sneer from his face. It wouldn't do; Jane would be offended. Still, he highly doubted that everyone would miss him.

He looked away and they lapsed into a few moments of awkward silence. He pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out to her.

"Would you please," he said, flicking his eyes back to her, "give this to your sister?"

She took the envelope from his fingers and placed it in her own coat pocket, giving him a nod. He nodded as well and then checked the time.

"Richard." Mr. Fitzwilliam turned to face him. "We should get going now."

"Alright, so are you gonna talk, or what?"

William slid an eyelid open and gazed tiredly at his cousin. He closed it again.

"I'll take that as a no."

They were seated in the first class section of the airplane, with ample room to spread their legs and get comfortable.

Will, though, could not seem to get comfortable.

He desperately wanted to sleep, but he'd always found sleeping in airplanes difficult. And there was no use denying it. He probably couldn't sleep, even if he was in a proper bed. His mind was far too occupied.

"Will." There was no compassion in Richard Fitzwilliam's voice. "Will, look at me."

Suppressing the welling groan within his chest, he complied, although not happily. He let his black mood hit Richard full force. The victim was wholly unmoved by it.

"You look horrible. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"No," Will replied flatly, "which is why I'm trying to get some now."

"You won't be able to now. I know you. And I know you hate pity, so I won't pity you. At least not to your face. But don't think you can bottle this up and put it on a shelf, Will."

"Who said I was going to?" he asked testily.

"Will. I know you." Richard's expression was unfriendly and unwavering. "You internalize everything. That's not always the best way to handle things. Unless you learn how to deal with things appropriately, it's going to break you one day, and I'm not going to be there to pick up the pieces."

Will stared stubbornly at the back of the seat in front of him.

"Are you done?"

Richard frowned.

"For now."

William closed his eyes.

"Good, because I'm tired and severity does not suit you. You can go back to flirting with the flight attendant, now."

Richard sighed, but Will could not pinpoint the emotion behind the action. He shifted, trying to get into a comfortable position to sleep.

He remained wide awake for the entire flight.

"Will!"

As soon as he stepped into the house, he was engulfed in a crushing hug. He smiled for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

"Hey, Georgie," he greeted, returning the hug. She beamed up at him, but her smile wilted when she took in his sorry appearance.

"You look terrible," she observed in surprised dismay. "What happened?"

"Well, thanks for the self-esteem boost," he said with a wry smile. "I had a long night, is all."

The events from the past twenty four hours passed through his mind. He grimaced. A long night, indeed.

"Oh?" He could discern she was still troubled. He assured her that he was fine, just had a bout of insomnia. He didn't want her to worry.

And, of course, he really did not feel like explaining everything.

She still looked concerned, but it was not of the pressing sort. She took hold of one of his bags and lifted it.

"Come on, Napoleon's missed you."

As if on cue, a loud bark echoed through the foyer, followed by a clattering of nails. The streak of brown, black, and white that was the giant Bernese Mountain Dog shot towards them, and upon reaching the masters of the house, bounded excitedly around them. He yipped excitedly, his tail a blur as it wagged erratically.

Will couldn't help but smile.

"So," Georgie began, drawing out the o with the expectation of being pleased, "how was the party?"

At once, he was closed off to her. His tone when answering was stiff.

"Fine."

"Oh." She looked crestfallen. Then, she brightened a bit. "I forgot, you hate parties. Was it really that bad?"

"You have no idea."

She looked at him curiously.

"It couldn't have been that bad. I mean, you had Richard and Charles with you."

"They love parties," he pointed out.

"And wasn't Elizabeth there? So you had some good company." She paused, noting his countenance darkening. "Unless something happened?"

He gave her a strained smile and shrugged. The inquisitive look would not leave her eyes, but she dropped the subject. Her eyes flicked upward.

"Is that a new hat?" she asked.

He gripped the handle of his luggage a bit tighter.

"Yes."

She seemed to not have noticed the stressed undertone of his answer, or if she did, she chose not to comment on it. Instead, she threw him an affectionate glance accompanied by a warm smile.

"It's good to have you back, Will."

His heart warmed a bit.

Just a bit, though. After all, he now had an icebox where his heart used to be. If he let it get too warm, all of its contents could spoil.