You know what this story needs? More Wickham! I am appalled at the lack of requests on the subject. Simply appalled. :)

Red Right Hand

His day always started promptly at seven thirty a.m.:

One hundred crunches were completed by exactly eight o'clock.

Fifty push-ups followed up with thirty revolutions of the jump rope were finished around eight forty-five.

A plate of bacon and a protein shake were downed before the nine o'clock mark; his shower and shave accomplished some forty minutes later and you could expect the sound of his little Ford Focus cranking up to ring out over the sleepy West Hollywood street his apartment was located on at ten o'clock on the dot.

For a man who was scheduled every week for the evening shift at TGI Friday's, Daniel Wickham started his day curiously early; you see there was one tiny detail he'd conveniently forgotten to mention on his Friday's application – he had a second job.

"Morning, Danny." The security guard beamed as he leaned out of his booth to give Wickham's badge the once over.

"Morning, Phil," Wickham replied cheerily. "How was your weekend?"

Phil gave him a look that suggested worlds of naughty things and said with a laugh, "Exhausting. Did you know it's not a great idea to spend three days getting completely shit-faced in Vegas when you have to be to work at five Monday morning?"

Daniel grinned. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," the guard nodded, "if they spring a drug test on us in the next couple weeks, I'm screwed." With a flip of the gate switch, he added, "You have a good one. Don't work too hard."

"I never do."

As the elevator doors opened to reveal the sprawling tenth floor of the E! News headquarters, Wickham exhaled a breath he had not realized he had been holding. Truthfully, it felt as though it had taken him a good twenty years to get to this point in his career; after the Darcy funds stopped, well – funding his college education, he thought for sure his dream of dishing celebrity dirt with the best in the business was dead in the water. He had been approximately twenty-two credits away from graduating USC's journalism program when Fitzie the Fuck Head had seen it fit to pull all of the money old, Mr. Darcy (god rest his soul) had been pumping into the school. No financial backing meant, no shiny degree, and Wickham was unceremoniously left to his own devices. So, he did the only thing he knew how – he slept with all the right people.

A few dates and some frenzied heavy-petting sessions in the back of a Toyota Prius led to his scoring a job as a lacky in E!'s mailroom. Months later, it was his flirty smile and persuasive lie about his curiosity in same-sex relationships that landed him a special internship in the production department. The securing of his current opportunity, however, surprisingly had little to do with his penis, and more to do with who he knew:

Wickham rolled his eyes at the sight of the toad-like, balding, little man who greeted him behind the office doors. "I don't have time for you; where's, Anne?"

"That's funny," Toad-Man grunted and pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose, "Ms. De Bourgh said the same about you just five minutes ago. She's far too busy with actual important matters to waste her time on an intern." He paused, dislike shining in his eyes, "No matter how well connected that intern may be. We've just gotten word that Brad and Angie, are continuing their 'we are the world' adoption program; she's de-boarding a plane in some sweltering African country as we speak."

With a shake of his head, Wickham pushed past the beady-eyed frog in the ill-fitting Brooks Brothers suit and casually took a seat in a nearby chair. "This is much more interesting than some lucky, little, third-world bastard, Billy. Anne is gonna want to hear what I have to say, trust me."

Closing the door, Bill Collins eyed him pointedly. "Ms. De Bourgh instructed me personally, to inform you that she does not…"

"It's a bit of business involving her beloved cousin, Darcy, I think she'd love to hear," Wickham cut him off. "Would you really want to be responsible for causing your highly esteemed employer to miss out on the chance to break a huge piece of juicy gossip?" Smarmy look on his face, he lifted his perfectly formed ass out of the chair to be able to grip the cell phone that was stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans. "You know, on second thought, Collins, I think this is better suited for Perez Hilton and his people…"

"No, no, no!" He made a dive for Wickham's phone. "Ms. De Bourgh would die if she lost another scoop to that two-bit internet queen!" Off of Wickham's satisfied smile, the squat man attempted to regain his composure. Absently smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit, Collins cleared his throat, "I'll give her a call."

"A merger with Darcy Media can only mean good things, gentlemen. It'll assure you more money for advertisement, our web designers will be able to smooth over those problems with content loading, and of course, you'll be better equipped to handle any ridiculous copy-right lawsuits that may come your way…"

Two, pimply-faced teenage boys, who looked as if they had never seen light outside of their parent's respective basements, exchanged uncertain looks; with a taut smile, Denny Henson glanced to his right – the signal for Darcy to jump in and work his deal closer magic.

But no magic came.

No convincing spiel about how the two nerds in front of them could be up to their eyeballs in Yu-Gi-Oh cards and Cortana nudes if they sold their user-generated video website to the slick, corporate minds at Darcy Media was uttered.

No rabbits were pulled out of hats; no stunning bullet catches were performed.

That son-of-a-bitch didn't even bother to grunt.

Instead, Darcy's attention seemed to be solely on the window, and the small, curly-haired child who was busy making fish faces at them from the sidewalk.

Denny politely cleared his throat and took a sip of his Jack and Coke. "Darcy, anything you want to say? Maybe ease Brain and Paul's minds a bit…"

Turning away from the little girl's imitation of a monkey, Darcy's gaze traveled from his colleague to the teens, and without a single word, he got up from the table leaving Denny to gape at his retreating form.

A hollow chuckle escaped his lips as Denny attempted to appear cool and stave off the desire to kill his employer. "Now, about this contract…"

But the internet millionaires were focused on the sidewalk outside where Fitzwilliam Darcy had suddenly appeared, scooping the girl up and whisking her away. Poor Denny downed the rest of his alcohol while trying to think of a way to make the situation seem a little less like a Dateline story.

Once again, the teens exchanged worried looks before one said, his voice squeaking, "Did we just witness a kidnapping?"

Darcy nodded ever-so politely at the giggling kid bundled in his arms. "Good afternoon, Cousin Daisy."

"Good afternoon, Cousin Darcy," she replied just as graciously.

"Now, where is your daddy?"

Daisy shook her head emphatically, her blonde curls bouncing as she did so. "Daddy said if I don't tell you where he is, I can have Del Taco for lunch."

He gave her a sideways look. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded.

"Well…," Darcy began screwing up his face as if deep in thought, "if you tell me where your daddy is hiding out, I'll not only make sure he takes you to Del Taco, but I'll buy you two Bratz dolls."

Her green eyes lit up instantly and Daisy wasted no time pointing out the conspicuous man hiding behind a Maxium magazine on a bench across the street.

"You're my favorite cousin," Darcy told her planting a kiss on her rosy cheek.

A great sigh escaped his lips as he heard his daughter loudly exclaiming how jealous her sister would be of her new dolls, and he knew the jig was up; he had been sold out by his own flesh and blood, the fruit of his loins, and all for the promise of a plastic, baby prostitute with a giant head.

Richard hazarded a peek over the top of his magazine and was greeted by his smirking cousin.

"I found this lurking outside of La Sernenata," Darcy said trying to keep a wiggling Daisy secure in his outstretched arms. "She says she belongs to you."

Dramatically giving the girl the once over, Richard returned his eyes to the magazine in hand. "I've never seen this little traitor in my life," he exclaimed without an ounce of seriousness in his voice.

"It's me, daddy; Daisy!" She pouted as Cousin Darcy gently put her down. "Don't you remember?"

"Hmm…" Richard tapped his chin, "Daisy…Daisy, that name sounds so familiar. I think I knew a Daisy once…"

Her little lip quivered.

"Yeah, come to think of it, the Daisy, I knew was about your height, and she had curly hair, and a very ticklish pumpkin belly." Daisy squealed in delight as her dad tickled her insistently. When he had succeeded in tiring the child out, Richard motioned for Darcy to take a seat.

Long before the posh likes of the Darcy bloodline had entered into the equation, there were the Fitzwilliam's who, were quite the pinnacle of Boston's stiff, upper crusty society. Patrick Fitzwilliam had three, daughters (who were all lovely in varying degrees), Catherine, Emma, and Roseland.

Catherine loved to make the most of her excellent family name and when the opportunity to marry an Earl presented itself, she wasted no time in jumping on it. Though her marriage to Edward De Bourgh could only be described as cold on a good day, it afforded her the luxury of still turning her nose up at lesser people, but this time with a title.

Emma, was impossibly sweet (and honestly, very lovely) and her love affair with Marcus Darcy was filled with the sort of genuine passion and mutual respect people envy (and they did, envy). It was a love that resulted in two beautiful children and in spite of a few rough patches, their ardor burned just as brightly as it had on their wedding day, when Emma succumbed to cancer some fifteen years later.

Lastly, there was Roseland, who defied her father's wishes and ran away with a drummer (from a now defunct, but once very popular Bon Jovi cover band). Her father turned out to be right, Nick Milligan was good for fucking nothing (if you didn't count screwing groupies), but he gave her, her son Richard, and that was something. Roseland's 'common-law wife' status, and the fact Nick was from Jersey, caused a rift in the Fitzwilliam clan; Patrick disowned her and Catherine refused to acknowledge her existence on the planet, but Emma remained close – making sure her own son grew up alongside his cousin, thus ensuring Fitzwilliam and Richard would come to see each other much more as brothers.

Emma and Marcus saw to it that Richard have the same education as their son, and were happy to shell out the money for him to attend the best private schools on the west coast. For many years the cousins were each other's main confidant, and go-to sounding board. When life threw a huge, world altering curve, Richard could always expect to hear from Darcy seconds after it occurred…or at least he thought he could.

For, you see, Richard had heard about his cousin's latest girlfriend – not from his mouth, but from the filthy, frosted-tip likes of Ryan Seacrest, and his cousin's subsequent engagement from a fucking People magazine.

Darcy gazed sheepishly down at his feet. "Dude, I meant to call you, really…"

"Seacrest, Darce. There's nothing you can say to make up for that." Richard held firm in his displeasure, despite the fact Darcy's uncomfortable wiggling threatened to bring a smile to his face.

"It's complicated," Darcy sighed heavily.

Richard cocked a brow. "Really? Cause, Seacrest made it sound so simple."

"Christ," Darcy shook his head, "did the guy piss in your cornflakes or something?"

"Daddy, you promised! You promised!" Daisy had started to jump up and down, her face screwed up in exasperation and her tiny fists balled at her sides. "I want Del Taco. I want Del Taco…"

"I think his part in unleashing American Idol on the world is enough to justify my irrational hatred, and quit trying to change the subject. This is about you, and your phone Alzheimer's."

"Like I said," another sigh, "it's complicated."

"I want Del Taco. I want Del Taco. I want…"

"Well," Richard began as he watched his little girl fruitlessly try and hold her breath, "how 'bout you un-complicate it for me over a couple of Macho Tacos."

Though opting to skip out on the 'Macho Taco', Darcy did attempt to make his and Lizzie's situation a little, less complicated for his cousin; this proved to be more of a chore than he'd originally anticipated, what with Daisy's young and impressionable ears hanging about.

Before, taking a huge bite of his taco, Richard extended it in Darcy's direction, receiving a revolted look in return. "Too good for Del Taco?" he asked, mouth full and clearly amused.

"Yes," Darcy replied simply.

Snickering, Richard got back to the topic at hand. "You didn't wear a con…" stopping himself immediately, he swallowed hard and cast a fleeting glance in Daisy's direction, "I, mean you didn't wear a raincoat?"

"That's just it," Darcy began with a sigh, "I don't remember. I remember meeting her and Charlotte, I remember inviting her back to my place, the taxi ride over, I even remember what songs I played for her, but I can't for the life of me, remember if I – uh, properly dressed for the weather."

Richard nodded, wearing a solemn expression. "So, it's safe to say you really know nothing about this woman?"

Darcy cocked his head suddenly feeling a need to be defensive. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"America's Number One Bachelor, ring any bells, Cuz?" Richard shrugged. "I'm just saying…"

"Lizzie's not that kind of person."

Unbeknownst to Darcy and his naked eye, a devil was tap-dancing on his cousin's shoulder. It whispered irresistible nothings and attempted to lure him to the dark side with the assurance that the hours – hell, days of laughter he would gain out of the situation were well worth the price of his soul. It was Darcy's own fault for being so completely obvious; from the moment he opened his mouth to expound on the subject of one Elizabeth Bennet, it was clear he was harboring some very fuzzy feelings for the woman. The devil was quickly winning the battle and Richard was resigned to sign his name in blood – such was the lure of taking the piss out of Fitzwilliam.

Fingers brushing the strands of ginger-blonde hair away from his forehead, Richard grinned crookedly. "Is that what it says in her folder?"

Darcy glared. "Die in a fire."

That got a laugh. "C'mon, I'm serious…how much do you really know about Lizzie's past? Her dating history…" suddenly, he turned to his daughter who was busy making a smiley-face with her fries, "sweetie, cover your ears," when Daisy had enthusiastically cupped her hands over her ears, he continued, "that, baby could be anyone's. You're just the richest dumbass she could find."

Now, Richard knew very well that Darcy was the most discerning judge of character the world had ever seen, and if there was something even remotely fishy about Elizabeth, he would've jumped on it long ago and they're current discussion would've had more to do with lawsuits than nuptials. However, the devil had encouraged him to continue with this line of questioning, as it was causing the tiny vein in the middle of Darcy's forehead to dance.

Though his face remained cool as steel flames burned behind Darcy's eyes. "She's not – Daisy, earmuffs – after my money, you cockass!"

"Did you just call me a 'cockass'?" The devil was now doing cartwheels.

"I'd think I'd know if I were being taken in, as many vultures as I've had to deal with, and Lizzie's absolutely unlike any woman I've ever met!" Darcy continued, ignoring Richard's comment. "Besides, oh-fucking-wise-one, Georgie adores her, and if there's anyone in my life that's hard to win over it's her. Eva never got so much as smile."

Richard shrugged. "That's because Eva's brand of evil is a dead giveaway, what with those snakes for hair and her ability to turn people into stone and all."

Darcy made a noise somewhere in the back of his throat.

"I'll just have to be the judge of Ms. Bennet since you're too far gone to do it yourself."

"And what the hell do you mean by 'too far gone'?!"

Mouth agape and hands on the table instead of covering her ears, Daisy looked up at Darcy, clearly scandalized. "Ooh, Cousin Darcy, you said 'hell'."

Making sure to frown as dramatically as possible, Collins shoved his cell phone into Wickham's waiting hands. "Ms. De Bourgh has consented to speak to you," he said haughtily.

Wickham grinned madly. "Annie! How are you this fine November afternoon? How's the weather in Africa?"

"How do you think it is? It's hot and I'm surrounded by flies bigger than my head; and I've told you a million times, don't call me 'Annie'," a polished, yet supremely annoyed voice replied from the other end of the line.

Anne De Bourgh spent the majority of her formative years confined to a hospital bed. She had been an unusually sickly child – allergic to damn near everything animal, vegetable, or mineral, as well as severely asthmatic. She could barely take two steps out of her own house without breaking out into hives or collapsing in a coughing fit. Her early unhealthy existence molded and shaped the spoiled and rotten adult she would ultimately become; for her mother had constantly doted on her, and before long, Anne's sense of self was wrapped up in a false sense of great importance. Though most of her illnesses subsided with time, Anne had become quite the hypochondriac: hand sanitizer was on her person at all times, she absolutely refused to come in contact with small children and dogs (in that order), anyone who sneezed or hinted that they might have to cough in her vicinity was promptly dragged away by her hulking bodyguard/umbrella carrier, Rolf, and she wouldn't be caught dead out on the open streets without a mask (the smog, the hobos, the pigeons, germs, germs, germs…).

She never exactly went to college (the possible threat of meningitis was just too great), but that didn't matter, she was the offspring of Edward and Catherine De Bourgh and all she had to do was express an interest in any given field and they would make it happen. She'd tried fashion (the models were far too greasy), and acting (studio 9 on the Warner Brother's lot smelled strongly of onions and Chad Michael Murray made her itch), but it was journalism that ultimately called to her, and she proved to be quite good at it. Before long she was the head producer of E! News and was rapidly gaining a reputation as a cutthroat in the world of celebrity dirt.

"You've got one minute, Daniel," Anne barked and Wickham heard the distinct sound of a fly swatter crashing down on its prey. "Starting now."

"How can you be so flippant when I'm bringing you such a juicy piece of news?"

"56…55…" she counted down disinterestedly.

"Your dear, sweet cousin's humble fiancé is very much knocked up," he told her smugly.

"What? Why the fuck are you speaking in riddles? It's like I'm talking to Ted Casablanca." There was another loud smack, followed by a curse. "I swear to god, I'm going to get malaria…"

Wickham sighed. "Darcy's fiancé is pregnant and their wedding is totally shotgun," he told her plainly and was treated to a rather unmanly gasp from Collins' direction.

"What proof do you have?"

"I drove Lizzie to her doctor's appointment; she told me herself – what more do you need?"

"As truly special as your word is, Daniel, I need a little more than that to run a story. This isn't The Inquirer, I need baby bumps, pictures of this Lizzie stuffing down pre-natal vitamins or walking out of the office of an OB/GYN, she and Darcy shopping at Baby Gap, something physical!"

"But, I was told firsthand!" he said frustrated.

"Do you want a cookie?"

"And, I have reason to believe there's much more to this relationship than a baby – don't you think it's a little strange for Darcy, I mean, he was with Eva a full two years before he proposed and yet he and Lizzie…"

"I still need proof," Anne cut him off abruptly, "and your minute is up."

As he slammed the phone shut and stuffed it into the fat, little mitts of De Bourgh's assistant, Wickham silently vowed to do all he could to get to the bottom of Darcy and Lizzie's relationship.

Author's Note: Yes, I'm still here. I never actually dropped off the face of the earth or abandoned this story, in fact this chapter sat half-written for a month because, well real life decided to kick my ass. My classes this quarter aren't affording me a lot of free time right now, but that'll all be over next month and hopefully I can make it up to you all.

You've got more Wickham to look forward to in the next installment (I know you're jumping for joy, dont' pretend). And, Richard…can't forget Richard.

Review, it's all I ask.