A short little one shot of Elizabeth confronting Darcy about the tolerable comment during their dance and his explanation.

A Dance of Realization

The music swirled around them, and Elizabeth found herself in an unfamiliar position—dancing with Mr. Darcy. He had asked her earlier in the evening, much to her surprise. The tension between them had been thick with unspoken words and the history of their interactions, and she could not help but notice that he seemed almost... distant, as though his mind was elsewhere.

As they moved through the dance, Elizabeth couldn't help but feel a little prickly, the memory of his earlier insult still fresh in her mind. It had stung then, and it still lingered now. She glanced up at him and couldn't resist the temptation to provoke him just a little.

"Mr. Darcy," she began, her voice light but tinged with sharpness, "I do wonder... do you often insult your dance partners?"

Darcy's hand stilled slightly on hers, and he looked down at her, his brow furrowing as though he was searching for the source of the accusation. For a moment, it seemed he would ignore her comment altogether. But then, his lips quirked in a half-smile, and he replied with a subtle but amused tone.

"That was you?" he said, as if the realization came to him in a slow trickle. "I had forgotten. Yes, now I recall. I said it to Bingley to get him to leave me alone. I did not wish to dance with anyone who saw me only for my income."

Elizabeth blinked, her heart stuttering for a moment at his words. She had not expected such a direct answer, and certainly not so... casually delivered. He hadn't even seemed to care much about her comment. Was he truly so indifferent to her opinion?

"You were referring to me?" she asked, her tone a mixture of surprise and curiosity. "You said that to get Bingley to stop asking you to dance?"

Darcy gave a small nod, his expression more guarded now, but still less severe than she expected. "Yes, Miss Bennet, I did. I confess, I had no intention of insulting you. But I was... frustrated. You see, it was not just you. It was the entire room. The way they viewed me—only as a man with a fortune to be won. But none the less it was wrong of me to take my frustration out on you, my comment was churlish and I am sorry that I allowed my frustration to get the better of me in that moment.

Elizabeth's mind raced as she processed his words. She had always assumed that Darcy's insult had been a reflection of his pride, but hearing him now—he seemed almost... vulnerable in his admission.

"Come now, Miss Bennet," Darcy continued, his voice lowering slightly, as though he were confiding in her. "I'm sure you heard the chatter. 'He has 10,000 a year,' they said. Half of Meryton was already calculating how to gain my favor, as if I were nothing more than an opportunity to be seized."

Elizabeth's pulse quickened as the realization sank in. The way her mother had talked about Darcy at the Meryton assembly—boasting of his fortune so loudly—was something she had dismissed at the time. But now she understood. He had been listening, and he had been just as uncomfortable with the way people saw him as she had been. And for him to feel the sting of her mother's words, only to have that compounded by a roomful of people treating him as little more than a wallet—it made sense, in a way.

"I see," Elizabeth murmured, her voice quieter now. "So it was not just me, then, but rather the way people speak of you." Her mind flickered briefly to Wickham, but she pushed the thought away. She would not let herself be swept away by his tale of wrongs that Darcy had supposedly committed. Not now.

Darcy nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor as he continued. "Yes, Miss Bennet. I know it may sound like an excuse now, but at the time, I was so tired of being viewed through that narrow lens. I did not want to dance with someone who would likely care for nothing else but my income. So, I spoke out of frustration. And, admittedly, my words were... poorly chosen."

Elizabeth swallowed, her pride battling against the understanding that was slowly blooming within her. "I—" She stopped herself, suddenly unsure. Was she really about to apologize? After all, his insult still had stung, and there was much to be said about the way he had treated her. But she couldn't help feeling a twinge of sympathy for him. In truth, he had been cornered by society, reduced to little more than his fortune. And perhaps she, too, had been guilty of a similar misjudgment.

"You were wrong to say it," Elizabeth said, her voice steadier now, though still soft. "But I begin to understand... that it was not just about me."

Darcy's expression softened ever so slightly, though his tone remained firm. "It was not, Miss Bennet. But in that moment, I took the opportunity to lash out at the perception of me, to defend myself from a world that seemed to want nothing more than to make me a prize to be won."

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "I believe I can now see that."

The dance ended, and they moved to the side of the room. But Elizabeth's mind continued to churn over Darcy's words. She had been so quick to judge him, so quick to hold onto her own biases. And while his actions had been hurtful, perhaps they were born of something more complicated than she had ever considered.

However, just as her mind began to settle into this new understanding, another thought rose, one that she had kept buried ever since she first heard about the quarrel between Darcy and Wickham. It was a matter that had lingered unspoken, but she could no longer ignore it.

"You mentioned the opinions of others," Elizabeth said, breaking the silence, her voice now more hesitant. "And you have spoken of how society has treated you, but there is something else, something I must ask. About Mr. Wickham... You cannot deny that his story, his account of your past, has shaped the way I see you. I know he has spoken against you, but I... I must hear it from you, Mr. Darcy. What is the truth?"

Darcy's face immediately hardened. The warmth that had begun to soften his expression vanished, replaced by a cool reserve. He glanced away for a moment, his jaw tightening.

"I see," he said quietly, his voice low but steady. "So, you believe him, then."

"No," Elizabeth replied, her voice firm, but gentle. "I am not so quick to believe. But you must admit, his version of events is far different from yours. You owe me this explanation. After all, I have listened to his side, and you—" she faltered for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, "You have not given me yours."

Darcy sighed, a deep, almost reluctant breath. He stood tall and straight, but there was a tension in his posture now that had not been there before.

"Wickham is a man of many lies, Miss Bennet," he said at last. "I will not indulge him, nor will I give you the details of our past in full. But I will say this—he is a man whose moral compass is as misguided as it is crooked. His version of our history is entirely fabricated. I cannot make you believe me, but I must warn you, his words are poison."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed as she absorbed his words, her heart aching with the confusion of it all. She had always been so certain, so sure of the injustice of Darcy's treatment of Wickham. But now, faced with Darcy's earnestness, she felt a growing sense of uncertainty.

She took a step back, her hands clasped tightly together. "I… I see," she said, her voice softer now. "I had thought it all so simple. But I can see that I have been too quick to judge. Perhaps I have not considered things from your point of view. Perhaps I have been selfish in my desire to protect what I believe is right. I must confess, Mr. Darcy, I never fully understood the weight of your burden."

Darcy's gaze softened at her words, his shoulders relaxing for the first time that evening. "You have your principles, Miss Bennet. I respect that. But I, too, have my truths. And I have often been misunderstood. It is the burden of those who cannot simply be reduced to a single label or a single story."

Elizabeth's heart swelled with a mix of regret and new understanding. For the first time, she saw Darcy not as the aloof, proud man she had so easily dismissed, but as someone who had borne a great deal of pain, someone who had suffered not only from the cruelty of others, but from her own judgments.

As the evening wore on, and they returned to the gathering, Elizabeth couldn't help but feel a shift within her. She had always prided herself on her ability to see the truth, to judge others fairly. But now, she realized how little she had truly understood—about Darcy, about Wickham, and about herself.

Perhaps, in time, she would come to see him with different eyes.