General AN: This is just a little PSA/note to anyone who follows my writing in general on ff dot net. My frustrations with some aspects of the site are causing me to switch permanently to ao3 as a means of publishing fics. I won't be publishing any new works on this site, so if you're interested in continuing to read my stuff, you'll have to switch over to my tumblr (jhoomwrites) or ao3 (jhoom) accounts. HOWEVER, because I have a number of unfinished WIPs and series on this site, I will continue to update those until they're complete. That means that the following stories/series WILL continue to be updated on ff dot net: The Mark; Academy Blues; love to hate; What's in a Name?; any fics related to Welcome to SKU. Anything new that I post that is NOT related to those stories will NOT be published here.


AN: Apologies for the lateness of this update. I've been distracted by other projects, busy with real life, and oscillating between how ridiculous to make Mr. Collins. I've decided with *very* ridiculous (which is really just Mr. Collins, isn't it?). I also wondered how quickly to push his side of things relative to the Darcy, Bingley and Wickham stuff. (And I toyed with the idea of doing a Wickham POV, but I'll put that off for the moment.) Now that I've gotten all that squared away, I can actually try to get back to my biweekly update schedule :)


Any interest the Bennet household may hold in Mr. Bingley - and at the moment, it centered around enduring Mrs. Bennet's complaints of, "Why hasn't he proposed yet?" - disappears the moment their father announces he's received a letter and they are to receive a visitor.

"Mr. Collins?" Lydia asks, face screwed up in distaste. "My, even his name sounds dreadfully boring."

"Lydia," Jane scolds, "he can hardly help his name."

"Yes, dear," interjects Mrs. Bennet. "If you're to dislike the man for anything, let it be that he'll be casting us all out of the house before your father's bones are cold in his grave."

Mr. Bennet coughs to interrupt them and tells them to prepare themselves for the intrusion both this evening at their dinner table, as well as for a fortnight in their home. All of Lydia and Mrs. Bennet's gossiping, however, could not have prepared them for the man himself.

A short, balding man in plain attire descends a carriage. The moment his feet hit the gravel, he is bowing profusely and shaking Mr. Bennet's hands, platitudes and compliments pouring forth non-stop. Mrs. Bennet, normally so pleased to hear someone speak so well of not only her home but her daughters, is torn between accepting the praise and scowling at him for his impending role in her future homelessness.

A matter which the man himself brings up once they are seated for dinner.

"As you are all I'm sure aware, this lovely estate is entailed to me-"

"You wouldn't say?"

Mr. Collins continues on as if he didn't hear Mrs. Bennet's outburst. "-and I would be deeply remiss in my duties as both a clergyman and your cousin, if I did not try to assuage the stress you no doubt feel in regards to the rather morbid thought of your dear father's death."

Jane's mouth drops open and Lizzie starts. Mrs. Bennet has, for once in her life, been rendered speechless. Mr. Bennet, for his part, looks merely amused.

Unaware of the effect he's had on those before him, he continues on. "Which is of course to say that I came here with every intention of marrying one of my fine cousins, as it seems the best solution to the problem."

"Oh Lord, he's actually saying it out loud."

Lizzie kicks Lydia's foot under the table, though she finds herself equally baffled at the impropriety. She shares a look with Jane and then one with Kitty, who merely looks confused and perhaps a bit nervous at the vagueness of 'one of my cousins."

"Well," Mrs. Bennet says when she's finally recovered her voice, "I'm sure we can work something out."

The Bennet sisters spend the better part of the week avoiding Mr. Collins. It's to little avail, since the man is adept at being unremarkable in every way until he appears quite suddenly before them as they walk through the garden. Each of the sisters endures his company, the empty words with which he communicates everything while saying nothing. Even banding together and trying to monopolize the conversation does nothing to dissuade him from jabbering on about the great Catherine de Bourgh, his esteemed patroness, and the lovely parsonage under his care, etc. etc.

The sisters wake up early and rush through breakfast to set out on a walk to Meryton, reveling in their escape. Which is when, curiously enough, they run into three separate parties who all happen to converge upon them.

As they near the town itself, they are intercepted first by none other than Mr. Collins, escorted by both Lucas daughters. He begins with lamentations that he missed them setting out and is quite glad they did not wait for him, and how fortunate it was he found Miss Charlotte and Maria Lucas on his way because he is quite sure he would've gotten lost otherwise.

Thankfully, Kitty spies Denny with a group of soldiers outside the inn and nudges Lydia. Lydia, seeing total salvation in the form of officers (a dream come true, surely), starts waving and shouting enthusiastically for their attention. The three young men, quite fine looking in their regimentals, come over to greet the young ladies and Mr. Collins.

Elizabeth barely has time to process the fact that one is introduced as George Wickham before Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy arrive on horseback.

The flurry of activity leaves most parties flustered, though seem to be in more turmoil than Lizzie. She's reeling from the emotional onslaught - the embarrassment, the confusion, the curiosity and intrigue - that ensues from this pandemonium, though she also is aware that Jane is no doubt in a nearly equal state of distress. All of the Bennets, save for Jane herself, have been too distracted to tease her about Mr. Bingley, but his arrival re-sparks the interest in their sisters' eyes and tints the edges of Jane's cheeks red.

The men all vie for attention in their own way. Mr. Collins with his bows, Mr. Bingley with his cheerful nature, Mr. Wickham with smiles for all who look his way (and even for those who do not), and Mr. Darcy who wins by benefit of kicking his horse and disappearing at a canter back the way he came. (And poor Mr. Bingley, at a loss, bids them good-bye as he follows after his friend.)

Those remaining stare after them even once they've disappeared from sight, all surprised by the abrupt and somewhat rude departure.

"Well, dear cousins," and Mr. Collins nearly oozes delight at having effectively halved the number of rivals as he works to eliminate the rest, "Shall we continue our walk? I believe your dear mother said you set out to visit your aunt-"

"Oh, yes!" Lydia cries and takes Denny's hand in hers. "You three must join us! My aunt is a great admirer of soldiers, almost as much as I, and would very much enjoy your company."

"As would we all," Elizabeth adds before Mr. Collins can protest.

"Who are we to turn down the request of such lovely ladies." Despite herself, Lizzie finds herself blushing at Wickham's words and gladly accepts the arm he offers. Elbows linked, she leads the way to their aunt's home.


If Darcy's first impression was wholly poor, Wickham's is wholly good. His easy laughs and clear delight in not only Elizabeth's company but also that of her sisters does well to recommend him. He is the type of man she could not easily forget, so well mannered but also not bound by the stiffness of propriety instilled in those like Caroline Bingley and Fitzwilliam Darcy.

But of course the names on her wrist make it impossible for her to view him as a mere diversion, a new friend in the making. No, she listens and chats with him, all the while doing her best to discern if this man is enemy or friend. In contrast to Darcy, though, the choice appears obvious.

"You know Darcy well?" he asks over a cup of tea.

Elizabeth frowns slightly and shakes her head. "Not well. He and his friend are recently new to the area, we have but seen them a few times."

"And? Is he everything such a wealthy young man in his prime ought to be?"

Even with the confidence instilled in her by their conversation thus far, she decides to tread carefully. He might not be well-esteemed here, but Wickham obviously knows the man and she doesn't want to offend him with her ill opinion. "He has not been as ubiquitously well received as Mr. Bingley has."

Wickham chortles and nearly spills his tea. "Not as ubiquitously well received! Honestly, that's the most politic way of saying the man's an insufferable ass and you lot have already figured him out."

She colors at the language, only having heard her father refer to people in such a way. But she recovers quickly and laughs quietly with him. "We have noticed that, for all his wealth and upbringing, in some respects he is lacking."

"We were friends you know, as children." That illicits a surprised gasp before he continues. "You wouldn't have thought so, from the coldness of our meeting earlier. But we haven't spoken in some time."

Now that he mentions it, Darcy seemed more put off than usual. His face had gone quite red and he looked unable to speak. She had been herself far too flustered to pay it much mind at the time, but in consideration of Wickham's words it seems worthy of further scrutiny.

"And why is that?"

"His father doted upon me as a child, even if I was just the groundskeeper's son. The two of us were practically raised together. The late Mr. Darcy, god rest him, had it in his mind for me to join the church. It had been my fondest desire when I was a boy, and because of his love for me he was willing to purchase me such a living. Upon his death, I was to receive such a sum to do just that. And Darcy, jealous of me as he'd always been since we were only knee high, denied it."

Elizabeth frowns, unable to put such malevolent actions to anyone of her acquaintance, not even one Mr. Darcy. Not that it's out of the question - his behavior has not been the most kind, and she supposes in an extreme version of it he might very well take such actions - but because it seems too easy. Too easy to believe that the mystery is solved, that her before her sits her soulmate, identity revealed upon their first meeting. That the rival has been Mr. Darcy all along, more wicked than she'd initially thought but wicked nonetheless.

If she's honest with herself, she's somewhat disappointed, though she's not completely sure why.

"Oh," is all she manages.

Wickham surreptitiously looks around and, once convinced no one is looking their way, puts his left wrist on the table and pulls back the sleeve of his jacket to reveal the skin hidden beneath. And in a neat, familiar script reads the name Fitzwilliam Darcy.

So, it's true then. All of it must be true...

"I had no idea he was capable of such actions," she confesses. Her insides feel numb, the news not quite sinking in. "I thought him rather proud, but not-"

"A complete monster?" Wickham gives a lopsided grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "The man's an ass and doesn't deserve half of what he's got, but there's not much to be done about it now. And I've got a good life, a good position with the regiment. I can hardly complain."

Elizabeth's temper flares in indignation for him. "If he's been so terrible to you, I do believe you do have some right to complain about the treatment."

He shrugs as he covers his wrist back up. "As I said, nothing to be done about it. I'm not one to live in the past, especially when the future seems so much brighter."

Again she blushes, captivated by the intensity of his gaze it locks upon her.

The future does indeed seem, if not brighter, then at least clearer.