Archive of Our Own ^beta

The only spot that gets reception in the entire house is the back porch, where it’s 20 degrees and snowing, but Lizzie doesn’t care. She huddles under the porch light and dials Charlotte’s number.

“Get me out of here.”

“How?”

“I don’t know!” Lizzie yell-whispers, glancing over her shoulder. “Helicopter?”

“No problem. Let me call my helicopter guy.”

“Charlotte, there is no universe in which I can do this.”

“All the weather reports say the snow will clear by tomorrow afternoon. We’re talking less than 24 hours of awkwardness.”

“What if I just drive, like, really carefully tonight?”

“In the pitch black? On mountain roads? Good luck with that.”

There’s a knock at the back door.

“Lizzie?” comes a voice. “Are you...cold?”

“I’ll be right in,” she calls back, barely getting the words out through chattering teeth.

“I still don’t understand,” Charlotte muses. “How did this even happen?”

Lizzie doesn’t know exactly.

But she has her suspicions.

--

It started with her calendar.

Not the one on her phone. It’s old, glitchy, and she can’t risk missing a deadline or meeting on the off chance she drops it (again).

That’s why she lives and dies by the one on her desk, the giant paper one that served her through high school, undergrad, and now the home stretch of postgrad. Everything is color coded: green for her reading, blue for assignments, and purple for important due dates.

It’s a good system. It works.

That’s how she knows she’s screwed.

Because it’s there, in big purple writing on January 3rd:

FIRST DRAFT OF THESIS DUE!!!!

Lydia added the exclamation marks one day while Lizzie was at class, drawing hearts where the periods would be.

She can hear Lydia from her room now, making loud Vegas plans over the roar of music that’s all bass and autotune. Usually there’s a strict noise curfew, but their mom is at Bunko, Dad in the basement with the noise canceling headphones Lydia got him for his birthday; a gift for her as much it was for him.

Then again, Lizzie’s one to talk about pointed gift-giving.

She stares at January 3rd and calls Jane.

“Hello?”

“It’s late. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“If it’s late, why did you call me?”

“If it’s late, why did you answer?”

“Let’s try this again: hi Lizzie, how can I help you?”

Lizzie smiles, spinning in her desk chair.

“You have your office voice on. Do you have a minute?”

There’s a muffled noise, then the push of a door.

“Okay,” Jane says. “It’s five minutes to the vending machine and back. What’s up?”

“Are you coming home for Christmas?”

Jane sighs in a way that only Jane can, like she’s blowing on dandelion fluff.

“I wish I could. We’re showing the spring line right after the new year, and I don’t think I can get away without putting myself out of a job. Why do you ask?”

Lizzie stops spinning to face the calendar again.

“Lydia’s off to Vegas and Charlotte’s stuck at work. If you were coming home, I’d stick around, but I’m not sure I see the point. Plus, I sort of just realized that I have four weeks to draft my thesis and I have nothing.”

“Oh, Lizzie--nothing? How is that possible?”

“I mean, I have my research and notes and, like, five outlines. But the actual writing? Not so much.”

Change softly plinks into the machine one-by-one.

“So you’re thinking of skipping Christmas?” Jane says after a moment.

“Not skip, just casually observe. If I’m going to be alone, I’d rather be alone somewhere else. Does that make sense?”

“Sure. Though going away seems a little...extreme. Are you avoiding something?”

“No, nothing like that,” Lizzie says, even as she unfolds the all-but-memorized letter from her desk drawer. The paper is wrinkled, the creases thick and deep from multiple re-reads.

“Where are you thinking of going?”

Lizzie shrugs, doodling a snowflake in the margin of the calendar.

“The mountains maybe? Somewhere remote. WiFi, but no civilization.”

“I wonder if you can search by that on AirBnB,” Jane says through a mouthful of something.

“Oreos?” Lizzie asks, knowing her sister’s go-to stress snack.

“Flaxseed chips. We’re gluten-free here in LA.”

“Lucky you.”

“The mountains sound nice,” Jane says after another bite. “I’ll even donate to the cause.”

Guilt weighs heavily on Lizzie’s chest. If anyone needs to escape this year, it’s Jane, with her broken heart that’s still so open, even while it heals.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Merry Christmas, sister,” Jane says, soft and kind. “Call me when you find a place. ”

--

Darcy’s office door is gift-wrapped.

He’s face-to-face with Rudolph paper that stretches top to bottom, a bright red bow in the middle.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” he says, turning toward her desk. There’s a poinsettia wrapped in a gold-foil planter where her zen garden used to be. “Has my sister been by?”

Mrs. Reynolds smiles.

“First thing this morning.”

The headache that’s pulsed at his temples all morning intensifies.

“Could you patch her to my office phone, please?”

“Well--”

He opens the door and walks into a net of tinsel.

“Sorry!” Gigi calls out. He can’t see her, momentarily blinded by the garland coiled around his face.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” she repeats, glimpses of her beginning to appear as she untangles him. “I was going to fix that before you got here, my bad.”

The rest of the office comes into view: the offending tinsel framing his office doors, paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, and a multicolored tree in the corner window, blinking in time to Jingle Bells.

“I see our talk from last year was for naught,” he says, setting his briefcase on his desk. It’s also wrapped, this time with the Grinch.

Subtle, he thinks.

“Hello?” Gigi says, adjusting her reindeer headband. “Do you see any inflatable snowmen? This is restraint.”

“Gigi--”

“Before you get mad,” she says, retrieving a cup of something from the espresso machine. “Before you tell me it’s ‘unprofessional’--”

“It is unprofessional,” he retorts, taking the mug from her. Hot chocolate--peppermint, from the smell of it--with marshmallows in the shape of a happy face.

“You’re the boss! You set the company tone for the holidays and I, for one, don’t want to work for Scrooge. Well, Scrooge at the beginning of the book. By the end, he’s fine.”

“This is not what Dickens had in mind, I’m fairly sure,” Darcy says, picking a stray piece of tinsel from his suit.

Her smile falters.

“Don’t take it down,” she says quietly. “Please? You can unwrap your desk, that was a little overboard, I admit, but--not all of it. Okay?”

He won’t, of course. This is how Gigi copes at Christmas: keeping things bright and cheery, pasting holly and fake snow over the parts of their shared past that are too painful to look at.

It’s amazing she can do it the rest of the year. Darcy still doesn’t know how.

He pulls her into a side hug.

“It looks nice. Thank you.”

She elbows him, smiling again before tending to the tinsel mess by the doors.

“I’ll get your apartment before I leave for vacation.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“This is the first Christmas we’re spending apart; I have to overcompensate. Are you sure you can’t come with us? It’s not too late to book a flight, and I’m sure Fitz can work his magic to get a bigger bungalow on Rangali.”

Darcy shakes his head, tapping his keyboard to bring the computer to life.

“Public offerings don’t stop for holidays.”

“Promise me you’ll do something festive? Stay at the Tahoe cabin, at least,” Gigi says, taking her time to coil each strand of tinsel around her arm. “So you don’t go crazy from the stress of work, and the IPO, and waiting for a reply to your letter--”

“I’m not waiting for anything.”

“But don’t you want to know--”

“No, I don’t,” he says firmly. “An explanation was owed, and I gave one, but nothing is owed to me in return. I said my piece, the matter is closed.”

Gigi crosses her arms, remarkably formidable even with boughs of red and gold foil around her wrists.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He plucks a candy cane from his pencil cup, handing it to her as he pushes her out the door.

“Be sure to put that in my Christmas card.”

--

Gigi: countdown to the maldives starts NOW! so excited for SUN!!!!

Fitz: ☀️🍹 wish we could drag mr. humbug with us. I’m getting him hair dye for christmas to hide the stress-grays.

Gigi: i know. i told him to work from the tahoe cabin. sad to think of him here all alone.

Fitz: ...hmm

Gigi: ?

Fitz: it’s nothing. just a weird coincidence.

Gigi: ??

Fitz: i talked to lizzie bennet the other day. she’s freaking out about her thesis and asked if i knew of any “budget-friendly” places to hibernate.

Gigi: !!!!!!!!

Fitz: gigi d, do not get any ideas.

Gigi: ideas? what ideas? I’m fresh out of ideas.

Gigi: completely unrelated, do you still know people over at airbnb? on the engineering team, perhaps?

Fitz: troublemaker.

Gigi: do it for the stress-grays!

Fitz: 😎

--

It’s official: everything is too expensive.

After her talk with Jane, Lizzie scours AirBnB for any miraculous, last-minute deals that won’t send her from broke to ultra-broke.

But there’s nothing. The places she can afford are booked, and the ones that aren’t cost more than she makes in a month of part-time tutoring, per night.

And then one day, a miracle appears in her inbox.

Based on your recent browsing history, we thought you might be interested in this.

It’s a little two bedroom, one bathroom cabin in Lake Tahoe. Cabin almost isn’t the right word; it looks more like a cottage, like it should be in a Richard Curtis movie rather than the Sierra Nevadas.

Use promo code “XMAS” for 50% off your stay!

That can’t be right.

Lizzie selects her dates, enters the code, and just like that, it’s doable. Ridiculously, unbelievably doable.

She Gchats the listing to Jane.

Does this look real?

A few seconds later:

SO cute! And affordable! Lizzie, you have to. It’ll be like The Holiday!

Just have to find someone who wants to spend Christmas in a 1970’s split level with Mom’s eggnog and Dad’s miniature Santa’s Village.

I thought Lydia hid that in the attic.

He found it.

--

Despite her threats, Gigi leaves his apartment, mostly, alone.

The day of her departure, Darcy returns from the office to find only a simple strand of lights around the living room windows, and a new carbon steel pan on the stove, an envelope propped against the side. It’s heavy in his hands, and when he tears it open, he finds a letter and a familiar skeleton key inside.

Dear William,

Merry Christmas! The cookware is to encourage you to make more meals at home, though selfishly, I really just want you to make your paella more often (and invite me over for dinner when you do, of course).

The key, as I’m sure you’ve deduced, is to the Tahoe cabin. I got it from the safety deposit box, because I thought you’d use any minor inconvenience as an excuse not to go.

You need a break, big brother. I know all of this is for the good of the company and, by extension, the good of the family. Work if you must, but do it somewhere else; as Dad liked to say, “a change is as good as a rest”.

We have lots of great memories at that cabin. Try and find them, okay?

Call me when you get there.

Love you,

Gigi

P.S. If you’re still not convinced, I arranged for a grocery delivery to arrive in two days. How would Pemberley Digital’s green initiative look if all that food goes to waste, hmm?

--

Lizzie is two hours outside of Lake Tahoe when Charlotte calls.

“Just making sure you weren’t murdered.”

“Not yet. More likely scammed out of a few hundred dollars.”

“That’s the Christmas spirit.”

In truth, she hadn’t actually paid for anything, except for gas and an absurd amount of snacks for the road. The cabin listing stated that payment would debit after her stay, which struck Lizzie as odd, but she wasn’t about to argue. Especially since she had no idea who she was arguing with; the owner was vague with details, except that the fridge would be fully stocked and that a groundskeeper might be by to shovel snow, so she shouldn’t worry about any other cars in the driveway.

Lizzie would agree to pretty much anything for a full fridge and deferred payment.

She winds her way slowly up the mountain roads. There’s a light dusting of snow on the road banks, though her weather app says there’s more to come overnight.

“Did I lose you?” Charlotte asks.

“I’m here, but reception is spotty. Stick to email if you need me.”

“Will do. Happy writing.”

Lizzie knows that this is more of a study retreat than a vacation. That’s how she pitched it to her parents, at least, with a few minor embellishments about going with her school cohort (it didn’t take much convincing; she could see visions of a kidless house dance in their heads).

Looming school deadlines aside, the closer she gets to the cabin, the more her anxiety is replaced with excitement. She’s never done this before; set out on her own, alone.

Jane was with her at Netherfield, Charlotte at Collins and Collins. But for the first time ever, she has only herself to answer to.

She turns on to a path that goes deep into the woods. It’s noticeably darker under the cover of the trees, and she turns on her headlights to follow the long, winding road. Just when she thinks she’s missed it--or that Charlotte was right about the murder plot--the road turns into a driveway, and there sits the cabin, looking very real and not at all like a scam.

There are a few lights on inside, the echo of wood being chopped in the distance. The groundskeeper, presumably, judging by the tire tracks that lead to the garage.

There’s a key under the doormat, just as the listing promised. It’s old, maybe even the original, with its skeleton shape and brass finish. She lightly touches her own key necklace as she pushes inside.

“Hello?” she calls out. “It’s just me. The...tenant.”

No answer.

She flicks on a few more lights to reveal a cozy living room, with a plush loveseat and two armchairs framing a floor-to ceiling stone fireplace. Bookshelves line the walls, and there’s a breakfast nook off the kitchen with bench seating just big enough for two.

It’s tastefully decorated, all the pieces well-loved but in good condition. The framed pictures on the mantle almost look like stock photos, the people and the backdrops so exquisite, but they’re too natural, too candid in their poses. She picks up one with a little boy and girl, a few years between them. Her bright eyes are mischievous, while the boy looks pensive, like he has the entire world on his young shoulders. It’s familiar to her, she can’t quite place it--

The back door opens, and Lizzie jumps.

“Sorry, I--”

She gasps.

Darcy drops the bundle of firewood in his arms.

Neither make any move to reach for them.

“Darcy.”

“Lizzie.”

And as if just the sound of her name could conjure it, that’s when it starts to snow.

--

Darcy tries not to eavesdrop, throwing logs onto the fire to drown out the sound of her conversation with...he’d guess it’s either Charlotte or Jane.

He hears things like “out of here” and “helicopter”, and apparently a couple hours alone with him was enough to get her to start planning her escape. He busies himself in kitchen, starting a pot of tea just so he doesn’t have to hear, in specific detail, how much she doesn’t want to be here.

Not that he can blame her, exactly.

After the initial shock, after they picked up the logs and he’d found his voice, he asked: “What are you doing here?”

“I rented it. For the week, I saw the listing on…” she trailed off, the pink in her cheeks flaming red. “Did Fitz do this? I talked to him--is this his idea of a joke?”

“No,” Darcy said quickly. “He wouldn’t.”

At least not on his own, he thought.

“It’s my mistake,” Darcy lied. “We rent the house out during the winter months, and my assistant handles all the bookings. I should have checked with her before I came.”

Lizzie nodded once, though no less suspicious.

“You can stay the week,” he continued. “And we’ll refund you in full for the inconvenience. Give me five minutes to gather my things and I’ll leave you be.”

“No, you’re already here and settled. I’m the one intruding, I’ll go.”

But even as she said it, she glanced out the windows, at the falling snow, at the sky turning purple with the setting sun.

“You have a much longer drive home than I do. Stay, I insist.”

“I will if you will,” she conceded. “There’s no point in either of us trying to drive tonight when there are two bedrooms--”

“One bedroom.”

Lizzie stilled.

“The listing said there were two.”

“The basement serves as a bedroom, but it’s under repair. There was a flood a few years back. We’ve been meaning to renovate it, but as of now…”

Lizzie barked out a laugh, high-pitched and pained, pressing the heel of her palm to one eye.

“Of course.”

He finds her now in the living room, dusting the snow from her coat and shoes.

“Everything alright?”

She glances up at him, then away.

“Just checking in with Charlotte. I told her I’d call her when I got in.”

An awkward silence descends. Lizzie looks to the front door as though she still might try to escape, then at Darcy, as if he might try to stop her.

He might not.

He should do something, though. Set out towels, perhaps, or give a tour?

What are you, a docent? the Gigi in his head taunts him.

“Have you eaten?,” he asks. “The groceries arrived this morning. I didn’t do a thorough inventory, but I know I saw bread and at least four different kinds of cheese.”

Lizzie peels off her coat with a tired smile.

“Honestly, I think I just need a shower and sleep.”

Darcy nods.

“There are towels in the linen closet, and fresh sheets on the bed.”

“That’s alright,” she says with a dismissive wave. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Lizzie, take the bedroom.”

“No way, you got here first--”

“We’re not choosing bunk beds at camp. I insist you take the bedroom.”

“Darcy, I’m barely going to fit on this thing, let alone your gigantor legs. There’s no way you’re sleeping out here.”

She’s poised for battle, arms crossed over her chest. It’s a familiar sight.

“Gigantor?” he asks, after a moment.

“Am I the first person to notice you’re tall?”

“The first person to use such a descriptor.” Darcy sighs, resigned. “Will you at least take the good pillows?”

Lizzie rolls her eyes, grabbing her toiletry bag and heading toward the bathroom.

“Whatever makes you happy.”

There’s little joy to be found that night. Not with sound of the shower turning on just on the other side of bedroom wall, her feet padding around the house: it runs on a loop in his head long after he sees the light go out in the living room.

--

Lizzie was eleven the first time she saw snow.

They were visiting her aunt and uncle for Christmas in Colorado. That first morning, she and Lydia and Jane trudged outside in their snow pants, their puffer jackets zipped up to their chins, giggling and flinging themselves to the ground to make snow angels. When Lizzie looked up, she saw nothing but white. It hurt to look at, and as she squinted into the distance, she couldn’t tell where the ground stopped and the sky began.

She wakes up to that same burning white now.

It’s streaming through the windows, the only light in the otherwise dark living room. The house is quiet, no sounds of stirring from the bedroom or bathroom.

“Darcy?”

Outside there’s a scraping sound, metal dragging along pavement. She throws the blanket around her shoulders and shuffles to the front door, peering through the beveled window to find Darcy shoveling snow in the driveway, dressed in a black peacoat, jeans, and a pair of glasses she’s never seen before.

She cracks the door open, the cold air snatching the breath from her lungs.

“What are you doing?”

He turns to glance at her, then back to his task.

“Clearing a pathway. I’ll get your car next.”

There’s a car-shaped mound of snow where she parked yesterday.

Lizzie frowns.

“You didn’t--I mean, thank you, but you didn’t have to...”

Darcy rests the shovel on the ground. He’s panting a little from the work, short breaths puffing out into the morning air, and his glasses are fogged from the cold.

“The road plows should be along shortly. There’s coffee inside.”

His tone is polite, cordial, like he’s listing hotel amenities.

“Thanks.”

For the coffee or the snow-shoveling, she’s not entirely sure where her gratitude lies, but she pads to the kitchen anyway, her feet wincing at the frigid stone floors.

They survived the night. The couch was comfortable enough, and she really was so tired that not even the strange noises of a new place or the thought of Darcy sleeping fifty feet away kept her awake.

Mostly.

After he’d given her the letter, after she’d read it with equal parts shame and indignation, she’d found small comfort in the fact that she didn’t have to face him, possibly ever again. Their circles barely overlapped as it was, and should she ever make it to a point in digital media where there was even a possibility of running into him at an industry event, well, that was future Lizzie’s problem.

And now here she is, spending the night at his family cabin and drinking coffee out of a mug that reads “Lake Tahoe Shakespeare Festival, 1998”.

The front door opens, letting in a blast of chilled air. Darcy stands in the entryway, kicking the snow from his shoes on the doormat.

“It’s starting to come down again,” he says. “One of us should get going before it gets worse.”

Lizzie looks to the windows. The deck is buried, last night’s snow already disappearing under fresh flakes falling quickly from the sky.

“I’ll go. Really, I don’t mind. ”

She waits for the argument, the inevitable push-back. But he just looks at her, sad and defeated, as if all the fight has left him.

“Very well. I can start the car if you’d like, get the heater going.”

“Sure.” Lizzie smiles, but he doesn’t see it, already turning away and the urge to tell him wait claws at her throat.

It doesn’t take long to pack. She finds a thermos for her coffee and makes a bagel for the road, noting the homey touches around the kitchen while she waits for it to toast. There are souvenir magnets on the fridge; mostly Tahoe, a few San Francisco, and even the Pemberley logo, in what must have been the original font. A map of the lake hangs above the dining room table, and there’s a mantle clock at the kitchen window, with “Lake Time” embossed in loopy lettering on the face.

It’s all a little kitschy in a way that tugs on Lizzie’s heart, makes her smile, but it stirs something strange, too. She knows she can’t miss a place she’s never really known, but she can mourn--just a little--the fact that she’ll never really get the chance.

(You could, says a quiet voice in her head, but she bats the thought away).

Through the window, she sees Darcy, leaning over the hood of a car she doesn’t recognize.

The jumper cables attached to her own, however, are unmistakable.

--

It’s not the battery.

It’s just her piece-of-shit car.

Lizzie adds the last part while some nineteen-year-old tells her that it’s probably the alternator, or water in the fuel line, they won’t know until they can take a look at it.

“And when will that be?”

“Soon as the roads are clear. Where’d you say you were again?”

She has no idea. She can’t remember the street name; she’s not even sure there is a street name. This is what she gets for being impulsive.

The whistle of a tea kettle greets her as she goes back inside. Darcy’s at the stove, pouring water into two mugs.

“Any answers?”

“No, just a lot of condescension and a cost estimate that makes me want to throw up.” She winces as he hands her the tea. “Sorry, I’m just frustrated.”

“Understandably so.” He nods at her cup. “Mint with a squeeze of lemon, yes?”

Lizzie pauses, the mug halfway to her lips.

“Good memory.”

He shrugs.

“I was the only tea drinker at Netherfield until you and Jane arrived.”

Lizzie couldn’t recall him ever making tea, not specifically for them, anyway. She had a vague memory of him bragging about his boxes imported from England, then a discussion about varietal preference depending on the time of day and the “proper” additives.

“And you, Lizzie?” he’d asked, perched at the kitchen counter, his eyes never leaving the tablet in his hand.

He doesn’t actually care, she’d told herself. It’s a trap, even if I can’t prove it.

She manages a small “thank you” now, the steam from the mug tickling her nose as she takes a sip.

They drink in silence, leaning against opposite ends of the counter. It feels like an olive branch, a reset button; a moment of normalcy before they tackle the harder things, like how the hell she’s going to get out of here, and when.

But Lizzie’s not thinking about any of that.

“You changed,” she says.

Darcy looks down at his sock-clad feet. He’s traded his jeans for a pair of relaxed joggers, “Harvard” printed in faded red lettering along one leg.

“I did. I...I’d like to stay, too.”

“You would?”

“Just until your car is repaired. That is, if you’re comfortable with my being here. I brought quite a bit of work with me, but I won’t get in the way of...whatever it was you came here to do.”

“My thesis. I have a draft due in two weeks. I wanted to get away somewhere so I could focus.”

Darcy ducks his chin, and something twists in Lizzie’s gut. It’s such a familiar gesture, permanently preserved thanks to her videos, but it doesn’t seem so funny anymore.

“I apologize again for the mix-up,” he says quietly. “This really is a good place to study; I came here before finals on more than one occasion. For my part, I’ll do my best to be invisible.”

“It’s your house,” she reminds him with a laugh. “Of course you can stay, I just--I feel like I’ve already put you out. If you want to get out of here while you still can, I completely understand.”

There’s a moment where he just looks at her, as if he might be considering it. But when he speaks again, it’s to the mug in his hands.

“Please believe me, Lizzie,” Darcy says softly. “However difficult it was to let you sleep on the couch last night, it would be near impossible for me to drive away.”

--

It’s only a weekend.

That’s Lizzie’s mantra over the next two days. When they wake up on Saturday to no fresh snow, Darcy’s confident that the roads will be safe enough for the tow to arrive by Monday.

So Lizzie does what she came there to do: she writes.

There’s something about a new place and the mountain air that makes time lose all meaning, allowing her to dive into the words and only come up for air when her eyes start to burn.

Darcy’s true to his word, too, working so quietly, so unobtrusively, that anyone else might not notice he was there.

But Lizzie notices.

It’s impossible not to. Not when there are two sets of dishes in the sink after every meal and his contact lens case is perched next to her toothbrush. Not when the driveway is clear of snow every morning, and the stack of firewood by the hearth replenished every night.

The harder he tries to be invisible, the easier it is to see him.

(Quite literally, one morning, when he’d announced that the shower was free. She’d been on her way into the bathroom just as he was closing the door to the bedroom, and she caught a glimpse of a bare back, an arm, a towel wrapped around his waist. She nearly ran into the doorframe as a result and couldn’t look at him the rest of the day.)

“I have a call with London this morning,” Darcy says on Saturday, refilling her tea on his way back from the kitchen. “I was hoping it could be settled via e-mail, but apparently tone gets lost through the screen.”

“True, you’re much better on paper.”

The whole room goes still, and Lizzie wishes the couch would swallow her whole. But when she spares a glance up at him, the smile Darcy gives her is a knowing one.

“Noted.”

Silence follows, heavy and loaded.

“So, uhh, London?” Lizzie says with a sip of her tea.

“Yes, right. I just wanted to give you fair warning that the common area may not be the most conducive work environment. I’ll try to be brief.”

Lizzie waves him off, sitting up to stretch.

“Take your time. I’ll write in the bedroom, or make myself useful around here. Any light bulbs need changing?”

“Is there a joke coming?”

“If you give me a minute, I could think of one.”

She lingers on the couch for a few minutes while he settles in the dining room, closing her Word doc in favor of a paperback copy of “Game of Thrones” she found on one of the bookshelves. She wonders who the fantasy reader was in the family--or how any reading got done at all in a place with one bed, a loveseat, and a clawfoot tub that was clearly built for two.

There’s enough of a partition between the living room and dining room that she’s pretty sure she can read in peace and still give Darcy some semblance of privacy. His voice is low in the other room; short, clipped sentences that remind her of Netherfield, how he’d hole himself up in the study for hours at a time. She’d dismissed him then as anti-social, and maybe he was, but she also hadn’t known the scope of his responsibilities.

Now she knows that he paces when he talks, circling the dining room table, twirling the end of a fountain pen against his palm. She knows that he presses his lips together while he listens, and that what she once thought was a scowl is actually concentration.

When he lifts the hem of his shirt to clean his glasses, Lizzie couldn’t tell you the last word she read.

Snow is falling, but she throws on her jacket and ankle boots anyway. She remembers there being a pile of wood and an ax just off the back porch, and it’s all the excuse she needs to stretch her limbs, move muscles, do literally anything other than think about her thesis or gawk like an idiot.

Lizzie unearths the wood and ax from beneath the snow, and a pair of gloves two sizes too big for her hands. She remembers that scene from Titanic and tries to picture handcuffs right in the middle of the log.

Do it for Leo, she thinks, and then swings.

But Leo isn’t free. Neither is the ax, lodged a little less than halfway through the wood.

She pulls, but it doesn’t budge. She pushes her foot onto the log for more leverage.

“You can do this,” Lizzie whispers, her breath clouding the air around her. “You graduated magna cum laude, you have the fifth highest score on Dance Dance Revolution at Carter’s, you can chop a freaking piece of firewood.”

When she pulls a third time, she gets one glorious moment of victory as the ax pulls free before she realizes it’s flying.

And so is she.

She lands squarely on her tailbone, and the pain sends her flat on her back into a foot of snow; the world’s most pathetic snow angel.

She’s half crying, half laughing when she hears her name and a rush of footsteps.

“Are you hurt?” Darcy asks, running toward her.

“I’m fine, really--”

She barely has the words out before he scoops her up, one arm under her knees, the other circling her back.

“Your clothes are soaked,” he says, his own voice shaky in the cold. “Once we’re inside, can you point me to your suitcase?”

“But what about London?”

Darcy huffs a laugh that’s part growl.

“I’ll call them back.”

--

Darcy’s become quite good at not thinking about Lizzie Bennet.

It’s a skill he acquired at Netherfield, and expertly honed after Collins & Collins. At first it was to prove a point to himself, that the strong-willed Bennet sister with the pretty eyes had not, and would not, drive him to distraction.

It did not work, to say the least.

Then it was self-preservation. Watching her videos was like looking into a mirror, with every misconstrued moment, conversation, and exchange between them reflected back with embarrassing clarity.

He’s more careful now, especially now. The tightrope they’ve walked the past couple days has turned into footbridge; sturdy, but no less precarious. Darcy’s determined to see things for what they really are, not what he wishes them to be.

It’s easy, mostly, until it isn’t.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

Darcy looks up from his computer.

She’s out of the shower, hair damp, her fingers fiddling with the drawstrings of his University of Oxford sweatshirt. He’d left it for her in the bedroom, along with two aspirin and a fresh cup of tea.

“It felt odd--rifling through your things. I know it’s large, but it kept me warm through a particularly frigid February at Worcester.”

“Well, thank you. I think I’ve finally thawed. Seriously though,” she continues, wincing as she sits on a kitchen stool. “Did I mess up your call?”

“On the contrary, I rushed off the phone so quickly, they thought the deal was off. When I called back, they were far more agreeable to my terms. It was quite the negotiation strategy; I owe you one.”

“You rescued me from almost certain frostbite, you owe me nothing.”

“How about dinner, then? Tomato soup?”

“Add a grilled cheese and you have a deal.”

Darcy starts work in the kitchen, finding a loaf of sourdough and a can of whole tomatoes in the pantry. Lizzie appears next to him with a cutting board, taking the bread from him and beginning to slice.

“How long were you there? Oxford, I mean.”

“Junior year. I intended to stay only a semester to fulfill an international business requirement, but wound up staying the year.”

“I don’t blame you. I might not have left at all.”

“Have you been there?”

“No,” she says. Then after a moment, “Not yet. Some people from my cohort went last year, did the Lewis and Tolkien tour, and I lived vicariously through Facebook pictures.”

Darcy nods as he turns on a burner.

“I never did that one, though it was quite popular, as was the Great Hall from Harry Potter at Christ Church. I may have gone once or twice.”

Lizzie grins.

“Oh my God, you’re a Harry Potter geek. What house are you in?”

“Hufflepuff,” Darcy mumbles to the stove.

He expects outrage at this, but when he turns to look at her, she’s nodding thoughtfully.

“I see that, actually. Jane is, too, but we didn’t need a quiz to tell us that.”

There’s an uneasy silence at the mention of her name. Darcy keeps his eyes on the stove, stirring a pot of simmering tomatoes when he asks, “How is Jane?”

The one shoulder Lizzie shrugs brushes against his shirt sleeve.

“Good. She’s working for this fashion startup in L.A. They have a spring show coming up, so she’s busy, but good.”

There’s a long moment before she says, “How’s...Caroline?”

“I’m not quite sure. Busy as well, I would imagine.” He clears his throat. “Bing, too.”

“Good.” A beat. “Can you pass me the butter?”

He hands it to her, forcing himself to look her in the eye when he does.

“Please give Jane my best the next time you talk to her.”

Lizzie looks right back.

“I will.”

Darcy dips a spoon into the soup and holds it out to her.

“Tell me what you think.”

It’s a baby step, the smallest of peace offerings from a long ago war.

Lizzie takes it.

--

By Sunday night, Lizzie has five solid, thoroughly-edited chapters, and it feels like she might just escape this draft--and the weekend--emotionally unscathed.

“Well, we survived,” she says, making up the couch while Darcy throws a piece of wood onto the fire.

“Quite a feat. I hope it was a productive weekend for you.”

“It was. Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Let you?” The corners of his mouth turn up. “This is, by all rights, your place for the week. I sincerely wish you’d stay and let me be the one to leave.”

Lizzie shakes her head.

“I should get home. I got a lot done here, enough that I feel like I can maybe even enjoy Christmas without the spectre of my thesis looming over me.”

“The Ghost of Theses Present?” Darcy smiles.

“Exactly.”

He puts his hands in his pockets, chin tucked into his chest.

“Are you off to bed?”

“I thought I was, but I’m a little hyped after hitting a major chapter milestone. Will it bother you if I stay up for a bit?”

“Not at all. If you need to unwind, please help yourself to anything in the cooler.”

“What cooler?”

Darcy motions her to follow him to the kitchen, pointing to a small cupboard built into the wall.

“Only one bathroom, but you guys have a wine fridge,” Lizzie muses, pulling a bottle of red from the rack.

“My parents had their priorities.”

“I’m not about to open something rare and vintage, am I?”

“Those bottles are in Napa. The corkscrew is in the drawer behind you, glasses are in the dining room hutch.”

“Are you going back to work?”

Darcy pushes his glasses up to rub at his eyes.

“I suppose I should...”

Lizzie pulls a glass from the hutch, then another, holding it out to him.

“Need a break?”

--

“I don’t know how to ask this without sounding rude,” Lizzie says, settling into her corner of the couch.

Darcy sits on the other side, one arm thrown casually along the back.

“But you’re going to try anyway.”

“For a Darcy family property, this feels…small.”

He laughs, surprised.

“Is that a question?”

“I just mean--”

“Couldn’t we afford something bigger?” Darcy shrugs. “There’s a larger cabin in Aspen, and a chalet in St. Moritz. But I believe my parents wanted something more local and--ah--intimate.”

Lizzie turns to face the fire, hoping the orange light will mask the pink in her cheeks.

“Hence the one bedroom.”

“Two bedrooms, technically.”

“Kind of an important technicality, don’t you think?”

Darcy blushes, but smiles through it.

“It wasn’t an issue until this weekend. But you’re right, I should make use of the time I’m here. Start repairs on the basement, clean out the gutters, patch the hole in the basement ceiling, though really that should fall to Gigi, seeing as it was her fault.”

“Okay, I know there’s a story there.”

Darcy laughs, refilling his glass, then her own.

“I was twelve, Gigi was six, and she’d just received her first chemistry set for Christmas…”

--

“And that’s how Lydia got our dad to buy her an honest-to-god pony.”

“I don’t believe you. I demand proof of this pony.”

“It doesn’t exist! He’s in the pony protection program.”

“A likely story.”

--

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong! I got an A on that paper, thank you very much.”

“Which means that you effectively argued an incorrect point, one that clearly discounts Klapper’s theory on selective exposure in mass media, by the way.”

“Oh please, Klapper? The 60’s called, they want their over-simplistic generalizations back.”

“Over-simplistic--alright, there’s a book around here somewhere--I’m finding it before you leave, and when you read it…”

--

“Darcy?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you asleep?”

“No, I’m not, I’m...getting up now.”

“Your eyes are closed.”

“I’m still getting up.”

“Here, take part of the blanket.”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“Alright. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

--

Lizzie wakes up to the white light again.

She sits up gingerly, her head pounding, a twinge in her lower back from sleeping at a weird angle. Why did she sleep at a weird angle?

The reason is asleep on the other end of the couch, arms folded across his chest, his glasses askew. Sometime in the night, their legs became intertwined, Lizzie’s foot tucked between his knees, as if for warmth.

When she looks outside, she sees the familiar bright white.

Except this time, it isn’t still.

It’s moving, whipping the trees, falling so fast that the snow looks horizontal.

“Lizzie?” Darcy croaks, squinting against the light. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She points to the windows.

“Blizzard.”

--

The National Weather Service has issued a blizzard warning for the Lake Tahoe area, effective from 8 a.m. Sunday to 4 a.m. Thursday.

Motorists are warned that travel will be difficult to impossible in the area, especially Monday into Tuesday morning with the potential for significant reductions in visibility. High winds also are likely to damage trees and power lines.

--

The basement was always Gigi’s favorite place to hide.

There weren’t many options to begin with in the small cabin, but the younger Darcy knew that her big brother--even with six years between them--was too scared to go down there.

“Not scared,” he’d insisted at twelve. “Just mindful of the dampness.”

Dampness be damned, Darcy hides in the basement.

He told Lizzie it was in the name of supplies, checking the state of the circuit breakers, and locating the flashlights.

And if that happens to take him all day, so be it.

It was one thing when it was just the weekend. It would be a funny story, something to laugh about later (after throttling Gigi and Fitz, preferably at the same time).

But this is no longer a work getaway gone awry. This is hurricane-force winds howling outside, piles of snow barricading the front and back doors, the power barely hanging on.

This is a Hallmark movie! Gigi squealed through email, after he’d written to inform her of the turn of events, how completely unfunny they were, and how he refused acknowledgement of a sister or best friend until they could prove that absolutely no money had been exchanged in this hairbrained scheme.

Of course not, you paranoid weirdo. She needed a place to study, you needed company at Christmas, it’s a win-win.

Sleeping on the couch in a frigid house that is about to lose power is the opposite of a win, Georgiana.

You’re making her sleep on the COUCH?!?

At her insistence. I’m trying to be respectful of her wishes, something you might consider next time someone tells you they don’t mind being alone at Christmas.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. G2G, snorkeling with F & B.

I hope you swallow sea water….I take that back, please be careful.

God, you can’t even be properly mad at me. ILU!!!

He is mad, but more at himself than Gigi. He’s at fault for...what exactly? For not leaving that first night when he’d had the chance? For the weather? For letting himself fall asleep on the couch with her, their legs locked together like puzzle pieces?

He’s grown accustomed to laying blame at his own feet when it comes to all matters involving Lizzie Bennet.

“Darcy?”

Her voice comes from above. He’d left her to shower while he searched for supplies, urging her to take advantage of a functioning hot water heater while she still could.

“Everything alright?” he asks, jogging up the stairs to the bathroom door. It’s cracked only an inch, but he leaves a considerable amount of space anyway.

“Not exactly. I mean, I’m fine, I’m just...trying to get this sweatshirt on? But my back--between the fall and sleeping on the couch--I don’t know, when I try to lift my arms, I can’t...”

He silently practices his next words before he can find the voice to say them.

“Do you...need help?”

An agonizing few moments pass before she responds with a small “yes”.

“Alright, I’ll just...close my eyes and come in. Okay?”

“Okay.”

A wall of steam greets him when he opens the door. It’s hot and humid, and he’s careful to tread on the penny tile floor, one hand braced on the sink.

“I’m by the towel rack,” she says. “Just reach out for my hand.”

“That seems...risky.”

“Unless you wildly miss, you’ll be fine.”

He reaches out and finds her palm, warm and dewey in his.

“Do you,” he clears his throat. “Is everything else--I mean are you wearing, umm--”

“Yes, yep. Just help with the sweatshirt today. Here,” she says, placing it in his hands. “I think I have to dive into it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know--just--okay, you can’t see the hand motions I’m making, but trust me.”

“You can’t continue to sleep on the couch,” he says as she arranges the sweatshirt in his arms. “Not if it hurts this badly.”

“I just tweaked it or something. I’ll be fine.”

“Says the one about to dive into her clothes,” he mutters. There’s a smack on his arm.

“Are you ready?”

“As ever.”

Her arms slip through first, her palms resting against his chest.

“Okay,” she says. “You can pull down.”

A laugh threatens to escape at the sound of her voice muffled through the fabric. But then his knuckles graze her bare sides as he pulls the sweatshirt down, and all the air leaves his lungs.

The room goes still, unbearably quiet. He wishes she’d move her hands from his chest, certain she must feel his heart drumming wildly within.

But she doesn’t move them. Her fingers curl, just barely grasping his t-shirt, and he lets one hand flex on her hip bone.

“It’s safe to open.”

A large crack sounds from outside, a thump as something falls against the house. They jump back, Darcy blinking against the bright light of the bathroom.

“Probably a branch,” he says. “I should--”

“Yes, definitely.”

He pulls the door closed behind him, taking a long, steadying breath before escaping outside, grateful for the cold.

--

It hadn’t been much of a discussion that night.

“You can’t sleep out here,” Lizzie said simply, watching as he attempted to fold himself into the shape of the loveseat.

“I’ll be fine.”

“What if we lose power in the middle of the night? Freezing to death just to be a gentleman is a stupid way to go.”

“Lizzie--”

“We already slept on the couch. Is a bed really all that different?”

Darcy bristled a bit at that, all at once defensive of his principles and embarrassed by the need to cling to them. But there was something in her voice, as if she was trying to reassure herself as much as him, and it occurred to Darcy that perhaps he wasn’t alone in his quiet panic. They were treading on a minefield, and they both knew it.

It doesn’t stop him from stalling as he gets changed in the bathroom, washing his face, brushing his teeth twice for good measure. Perhaps if he takes long enough, she’ll be asleep by the time he’s done.

It’s not like he’s never done this before. He’d shared a bed--sometimes his own, sometimes not--in platonic and significantly non-platonic ways.

But never with someone he’d once told he loved. Never this someone, settled atop the patchwork quilt with a book propped in her lap, looking for all the world like she belongs there.

Lizzie looks up.

“Did I take your side?”

Darcy shakes his head, pushing off the doorframe.

“What are you reading?”

She holds up the “Game of Thrones” paperback.

“I’m told myself I wouldn’t get sucked in, and yet.”

“Don’t stop on my account. The light won’t bother me.”

But she turns off the bedside lamp anyway as he pulls back the covers. The sheets are cold, at first, but he can feel the warmth radiating from her side.

Darcy never did sleep well here, even as a kid. Everything was too loud in the dark; the crickets, the wind, a snap of a twig.

But now there’s nothing, just the low whistle of the wind and the rise and fall of their breath. Until:

“Lydia says I snore.”

Darcy laughs, half surprise, half relief.

“Is she right?”

The quilt rises up and down in a shrug.

“I asked Jane once and she said I ‘sleep very soundly’, which is Jane-speak for ‘yes’.”

“I talk in my sleep sometimes.”

“Really?” The mattress shifts, her voice turned toward him. “Like, leading a work meeting?”

“It’s mostly gibberish, but I’d like to think I’m making very persuasive arguments.”

“I’ll let you know.”

She shifts again on the bed, rearranging her legs, her foot brushing against his.

“Gah,” he yelps, just as she says “sorry”.

“Your feet are frozen.”

“I can’t sleep with socks on, unlike some people.”

“Ha. Here,” He takes her feet between his. “Better?”

He can just barely make out the nod of her head.

“Thanks.”

Silence stretches between them until she breaks it with a laugh.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing, I just...there was this video we watched in middle school. I forget what it was called, but it starred a super young Ben Affleck. Anyway, it was this educational series that was supposed to teach us about marine biology. There’s this ship and the crew is out scouting whales when the captain goes overboard. They pull him out of the water, but he has hypothermia, so two of the guys strip down and get in the sleeping bag with him to get his body temperature up.”

Darcy blinks in the dark.

“Did it work?”

“I think so. I mostly remember all the idiots laughing because it was three dudes in their underwear.”

“I can’t say we ever watched it at my school.”

“You missed out.”

“Clearly.”

A beat.

“It shouldn’t come to that,” Darcy says. “In case you were worried.”

“I wasn’t.”

Sleep comes easily that night, all things considered, and when Darcy wakes the next morning, it’s to the sound of pages turning. Lizzie is sitting up, the paperback propped open against her knees, a thumb grazing back and forth across her chin as she reads.

It is a sight one could become accustomed to.

He doesn’t mean to watch her, but when she looks over after a minute or two, she looks as though she’s the one who’s been caught.

“Sorry,” she whispers with an embarrassed smile. “Just one more chapter.”

It’s then he realizes her foot is still tucked between his, just as it was the night before, just as it was the night on the couch.

Except, she’s wearing socks that weren’t there last night.

Sometime in the morning, she arranged herself like this. Intentional, purposeful.

He clears the sleep from his voice before he says: “Take your time.”

--

The Bennets do most of their Christmas on Christmas Eve.

It wasn’t always that way. They were strictly a Christmas morning family, until Lydia came along; too impatient to wait another twelve hours to open presents, despite her birthday being just two weeks earlier.

Dad’s trains would circle around the tree, while Mom nursed a mason jar of eggnog all evening. They’d eat cinnamon rolls for dinner, plates balanced on their laps while they watched White Christmas, and Lizzie would stay up long after everyone else had gone to bed to read her newest book by the fire.

That was at home. This year, Lizzie’s fashioning a makeshift Christmas tree out of a stack of books and a string of lights she finds in the hall closet.

“Festive,” Darcy says, just as she’s placing a pinecone on top for the star.

“I saw it on Pinterest,” she says. “I hope it’s okay that I borrowed some books?”

“Of course. I’m sure they’re happy to be in use.”

Lizzie doesn’t even realize how close he’s standing until his shoulder brushes her back as he walks away.

She shivers, fiddling with the lights, and tells herself it’s just the cold.

--

Maybe it’s the holiday, but they don’t do much of anything. The laptops stay closed, phones put away. Lizzie finds a Nat King Cole Christmas album on vinyl, covered in a thin layer of dust.

“This is one of our favorites, too” she says, almost to herself, wiping the dust with her shirt sleeve.

She feels him behind her before he says anything. He really is tall, his chin just barely grazing her temple as he looks over her shoulder.

“My father’s favorite. There was no better ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, in his estimation.”

“We don’t have to play it, if it’s too—“

“No,” he says, taking the album. He turns it over in his hands with a fond smile. “It would be nice to hear it again.”

He places it on the record player in a way that’s both careful and familiar, precise and delicate in the way he lifts the needle with one finger, and like a phantom limb, the trail his knuckles left along her sides burn white hot in her memory.

The record crackles along with the fire, and when Darcy turns to face her, he’s smiling.

“Breakfast?”

--

They make eggs and bacon, plus a roll of Pillsbury cinnamon buns Darcy finds in the freezer.

“It’s likely that this has been here since the last time the house was occupied.”

Lizzie shrugs.

“I’ll risk it.”

They top off their orange juice with champagne and make a floor picnic in front of the fire.

“What does a traditional Bennet Christmas Eve look like?” he asks, swiping frosting from the corner of his mouth. “I imagine matching pajamas.”

“You would not be wrong. Mom and Dad match, too, for maximum embarrassment.”

“Tell me there are pictures.”

Lizzie rolls her eyes, but swipes through the photos on her phone.

“This was last year,” she says, holding up the screen.

Darcy takes the phone from her.

“Are those…dancing candy canes?”

“And fruitcake. Glamorous, right?”

“You pull it off.” His cheeks are red when he hands the phone back. “You all do, I mean.”

--

They find board games in the hall closet, though most are missing crucial pieces.

“Can you play Monopoly without the money?” Darcy asks.

Lizzie stands on her tiptoes to reach Clue.

“We can trade properties for murder weapons.”

“Much like the real estate barons of old.”

—

After Nat King Cole comes Joni Mitchell’s “River”, then Dolly Parton.

“Mom’s favorite,” Lizzie says with a rueful smile.

“My mother had a cross-stitch of ‘Find out who you are, and do it on purpose’ in her office.”

“Where is it now?”

Darcy sits back in thought.

“I’m not quite sure, actually. I should find it.”

They sit in easy silence as Dolly instructs them to go tell it on the mountain.

Lizzie smiles, and flips over an Uno card.

“Draw four.”

Darcy sighs, and pulls from the middle of the Jenga tower.

—

Around sunset, they take a break.

Darcy showers first, noticeably clean-shaven when he emerges in a black button down and dark jeans.

Lizzie doesn’t even realize she’s staring until he rubs at his chin self-consciously.

“All yours,” he says. “Should I start on dinner?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, her voice unreasonably high. “Yes, sounds good.”

After her shower, she stares at her suitcase, wishing she’d packed something nicer than yoga pants and oversized t-shirts. She settles for black leggings and a grey tunic, hoping her key necklace is enough to dress it up. When she applies the mascara and lip gloss she found at the bottom of her purse, she can barely meet her own eyes in the compact mirror.

When she comes out a few minutes later, Darcy’s in the kitchen, pushing something around in a skillet. He looks up, his eyes lingering just a second longer than usual before he turns back to the meal.

“Is that,” she asks, joining him at the stove. “Paella?”

“Gigi gave me the pan for Christmas in the hope that I’d make it more often.”

“And you brought it with you?”

He shrugs.

“We’ve never spent a Christmas apart. I suppose I wanted to bring a bit of home with me.”

He pauses, mid-stir.

“I’m sorry, I’m bringing down the holiday, aren’t I?”

“No,” she says, her hand flying to his arm. “Not at all. Can I help?”

She sets the table, stealing glances at him as she does. He’s comfortable here, in this space, with an apron tied around his waist and a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He tastes as he goes, muttering to himself as he adds this spice and that until he’s satisfied.

Lizzie lingers over the taper candles they’d set aside for the blizzard.

“Where are the matches?”

Darcy looks at the candle in her hand, then to her with a cautious smile.

“Top drawer to your left.”

--

The paella is incredible.

“It’s better with squid ink,” Darcy says after they’ve taken the last bite.

“Yes, I was just going to say.”

“But it’s all right?” he asks, a boyish note of hope in his voice.

“It’s amazing, thank you. And thank you to Gigi for bringing it back into your cooking rotation. Do you make it every Christmas Eve?”

He shakes his head.

“Never. We usually spend Christmas Eve with my aunt and a few hundred of her investees.”

“What about before?” Lizzie asks gently. “With your parents. Matching pajamas?”

Darcy smiles, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Not quite. The Pemberley Christmas party was usually held on Christmas Eve. Many of the early employees were transplants with family elsewhere, and I think my parents wanted to make sure they had somewhere to go. They’d send us to bed early, but I think they knew we’d sneak out anyway just to sit at the top of the stairs and watch. There was caroling and games and then a dance.”

“A dance?”

“A waltz, very traditional. When we were older, Gigi and I would join in, if there weren’t even numbers.

“All those years of study, no wonder you danced circles around me at the wedding.”

Darcy lifts an eyebrow.

“We danced in a circle, and your abilities far outweighed mine.”

“I stepped on your foot at least twice.”

“I assumed that was on purpose.”

Lizzie goes to throw her napkin at him, but stops, holding out her hand instead.

“Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The waltz. Call it my Christmas present.”

Darcy stares at her hand like it’s a bomb that might detonate with a single touch. But he takes it anyway, his fingers curled lightly around hers as he leads her to the living room, the first chords of “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” beginning to play.

“This isn’t a waltz,” he says quietly, even as they start to sway.

“Close enough.”

They dance in place, Lizzie letting her arm curl around his shoulder. The hand on her hip slides to her back, and she just barely presses her cheek to his.

What do I care how much it may storm?

He laughs softly in her ear.

“You’re standing on your toes.”

“You’re tall.”

“So you’ve said.”

My heart’s on fire and the flame grows higher…

“See?” Lizzie says quietly. “Circles.”

Darcy makes a “hmm” noise, turning his head, his nose pressed gently into her hair.

Why do I care how much it may storm?

“I feel bad,” Lizzie laughs quietly. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Darcy pulls back just enough to look at her.

“You mean you didn’t anticipate being stuck here for Christmas?”

Lizzie shakes her head.

“I don’t feel stuck. I feel…”

“What?”

I’ve got my love to keep--

The music stops.

They go still.

“Was that--

“The power, “ Darcy breathes.

It’s the tipping point, the sign Lizzie didn’t know she needed, and there’s only half a second before her lips are on his, his hands in her hair. They fumble toward the bedroom, bumping into furniture and walls along the way.

“It’s too dark,” he says with a frustrated laugh as they fall onto the bed.

“Stupidly dark.” She takes his face in his hands, pulling him to her, smiling against his mouth. “But we can stop if you need light to do this.”

He pulls back long enough to take off his shirt.

“I do not.”

--

“Are you cold?”

“Not at all.”

“And your back?”

“I think we determined it’s fine. Unless you’d like more proof?”

“Again?”

“And again, and again, and again…”

--

It’s the sun that stirs her first.

Lizzie wakes to beams of white light dancing through the folds of the curtains. Something from above is making them move: a vent.

It’s heat.

She blinks her eyes, disoriented in a way that feels like a hangover. The bed is empty, the side next to her neatly made, and she wonders if maybe the whole thing was a dream.

Though a dream does not explain her distinct lack of clothing.

When the door opens, she clutches the sheet to her chest, on instinct. But the sight of Darcy, in a t-shirt and pajama pants, brings the night rushing back in achingly vivid detail.

“Good morning,” he says, shy and unsure, his voice rough with sleep.

All things considered, she should be able to look him in the eye. But she just smiles down at the quilt when she says, “Morning.”

“I’m afraid I have bad news,” he says somberly, taking a careful seat next to her. “You do snore.”

Lizzie pushes against his chest, but he captures her hand, gently squeezing her fingers.

“I also have good news: the power is back on.”

“I noticed the heat,” Lizzie says, before immediately wincing. “From the vent, I mean.”

Darcy just smiles, fondness tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Very. You?”

“Better than I have in quite some time.”

He looks at her, a thousand questions in his eyes, and she tries to answer them all with a single kiss. It’s slow and soft, a mutual sigh of relief.

“Good morning,” he says again, pressing his forehead to hers. “I know I said that already, but--”

Lizzie silences him with another kiss, surprised at how it already feels like a habit, and how much she doesn’t mind.

“Believe it or not,” he mumbles against her lips. “This isn’t why I came back in here.”

“No?”

“The power returning,” he says when they finally break apart. “Means there’s coffee. Would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you. And hey,” she says, tugging on his hand as he stands to go. “Don’t be long.”

Darcy kisses her again, a promise of things to come, before heading to the kitchen. Lizzie flops back on the pillow, feeling reckless and more than little giddy.

She reaches for her phone on the nightstand. Power also means internet, and after cutting out all communication for the sake of writing, she checks her email for the first time in almost a week.

They’re mostly from Charlotte, one from Jane, all of them asking for updates.

Jane: Hi Lizzie! I tried texting you but Charlotte said reception wasn’t great. Is it snowing? Send pictures if you can. Love you!

Charlotte: This is me making sure that you weren’t dumb enough to drive in that weather just to get away from Darcy.

Charlotte: Are you okay? I just saw the blizzard warning…

Charlotte: Okay, it’s been a week. Please write or call me so I know you didn’t freeze to death.

Then, most recently.

Jane: I ran into Bing. It was fine, I think. Just call me when you can, okay?

All the heat in Lizzie’s body turns to ice.

She reads it over and over again.

Just call me when you can, okay?

“Everything alright?”

Darcy appears next to her, cup of coffee in hand.

“Yeah,” she says absently, setting her phone on the nightstand. “Just checking email.”

“Ah.”

He takes a seat next to her, brushing the hair from her neck, and pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’m sure you’re eager to get home, and I should return to work, but I wondered…if you have plans for New Year’s Eve?”

Her mental calendar jogs three days over from December 31st.

January 3rd.

FIRST DRAFT OF THESIS DUE!!!!

When was the last time she’d sat down to write? When was the last time she’d even thought about it?

Cold dread prickles at her skin.

“I…I don’t know.”

Darcy blinks, but recovers.

“It’s short notice, I know, and if you’re busy—“

“No, I’m not—I mean, I am, but—“

The heat blares from the vent above, thick and stifling. Lizzie starts to throw off the sheets, before clutching them back to her chest. Hurt flashes in Darcy’s eyes, his body flinching ever so slightly away from her.

“Lizzie—“

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

They both turn toward the sound, so foreign after days of solitude. Darcy starts to get up, but Lizzie springs out of bed, scrambling for clothes.

“I’ll get it,” she says quickly, throwing on the first shirt and pair of pants she can find.

At the door is a squat man, with a thick white mustache and a trucker hat that reads “Al’s Auto”.

“Someone called about a car?” he says, glancing at his clipboard. “Sorry it took us awhile. The dang weather was on lake time, am I right?”

Lizzie lets out a breath through her nose.

“Yes, it’s my car.”

“We’ll tow it to the shop. You can ride in the truck, or your husband can bring you there?” The man looks somewhere past her shoulder, and when Lizzie turns, Darcy is standing just behind her.

“I can certainly--“

“That’s okay,” Lizzie says. “The truck is fine.”

“Suit yourself. Give me ten minutes to hook it up.”

Lizzie only needs five to pack.

--

It’s a familiar feeling, watching Lizzie Bennet leave.

It just hurts considerably more this time around.

She flies from room to room, gathering toiletries and various chargers, and all the while, Darcy hangs back in the kitchen, wondering what could have possibly happened in the time it took to make a cup of coffee.

“Do you have everything?” he asks quietly as she rolls her suitcase to the front door. Lizzie just nods, winding a blue scarf around her neck.

“I think so. If not--”

“I’ll send anything of yours that I find.”

Lizzie glances to the door. It’s like the first night all over again, and even after everything, she’s still trying to escape.

“I should go,” she says, reaching for the doorknob, but he moves toward her.

“Lizzie, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing.” There’s a crack in her voice, tears in her eyes.

“Please, just tell me--”

“Jane ran into Bing.”

It’s the last thing he expected, and the words make him take a step back.

“Oh. Are they...is she alright?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzie laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “I don’t know, because I haven’t called her, because I’ve been here, ignoring my responsibilities when my responsibilities were the only reason I came here in the first place.”

“Jane will understand--”

“Of course she will, because she’s the most understanding person on the planet. Meanwhile, I am selfish and make stupid mistakes, regardless of who it hurts.”

And there it is. Darcy takes a step back, unable to look her in the eye.

“Mistakes.”

“No, that’s not--I don’t mean--”

A honk blares from outside. Lizzie sighs, running a hand through her hair.

“I’m sorry. I have to go. We’ll...talk?”

Darcy nods, even if he knows it isn’t true.

“Safe travels.”

She leaves him with a squeeze of his hand and not another word.

--

It’s her battery after all.

“That’s not what you said on the phone,” Lizzie hisses at Al, of Al’s Auto. “And we tried jumping it--”

He shrugs, closing the hood of her car.

“I don’t know what to tell you, but it’s the battery alright. We’ll install a new one and you’ll be on the road this afternoon.”

“Great. Perfect. That’s really just--fantastic.”

Al just looks at her, then nods toward the small shack just off the garage. “Complimentary donuts inside while you wait.”

As soon as she’s settled in the waiting room, Lizzie calls Jane.

“There you are,” Jane says, picking up on the first ring. “I was getting so worried. Are you okay?”

“You saw Bing?” Lizzie barrels over her. “Where? When? How?”

“A couple days ago. There’s a farmer’s market in my neighborhood, and he was there. Caroline, too. They were picking out tomatoes.”

This, of all details, is what breaks Lizzie. Because it should be Jane and Bing shopping for organic produce and artisan honey and bouquets of sunflowers for the apartment they’ll never get to share.

It’s not Darcy’s fault. At least, it’s not only his fault; Lizzie has a five-page letter that proves it’s not as cut and dry as that. But that doesn’t stop the guilt from crushing her anyway.

“Are you okay?” Lizzie asks.

There’s silence on Jane’s end, but Lizzie can picture her nodding, head held high and brave.

“I am,” Jane says, and Lizzie almost believes her. “It was good to see him.”

When she hangs up, there’s a new email from AirBnB

Please write a review for your stay at Quiet, Charming Mountain Cottage

She chokes out a laugh. Where would she even start?

Long talks by the fire, and cups of tea that never ran empty. Christmas carols, candlelight, his hands in the dark, her name on his lips, hot and urgent against her skin--

She slams the thought down, archives the e-mail, and turns off her phone.

--

Darcy spends New Year’s Eve at Fitz and Brandon’s.

They are the last couple under the age of 70 that show vacation pictures like old slides, but still he goes, mustering something close to enthusiasm for a hundred shots of identical fish.

Gigi is there, too, keeping her distance on the other side of the couch. There was a barrage of texts waiting for him when he was back within city limits, ranging from “did it work?” to “i’m sorry” to “please just talk to me”.

They’d all gone ignored.

“She means well, you know,” Fitz says, nodding toward Gigi as she boxes up leftover hors d’oeuvres into plastic containers.

“That doesn’t excuse it. And she didn’t act alone, as I recall.”

Fitz holds up his hands in surrender.

“Hey, I’m not denying anything. And you know I would have told your little sis to mind her own business if I didn’t think you and a certain redhead both needed a kick in the butt.”

Darcy looks down at his champagne glass, rolling the stem of the flute between his fingers when he asks, “Have you talked to her?”

They both know he doesn’t mean Gigi.

“Just a quick ‘glad you’re still alive’ text. She’s busy with her thesis, so.”

“Right.”

“Go easy on her,” Fitz says after a moment. “Helping the people they love is a Darcy family trait, am I right?”

He nudges Darcy’s shoulder, and Darcy only hesitates a moment before going to the kitchen.

“Would you like some help?”

Gigi glances at him, then shakes her head.

“I’ve got it.”

He joins her anyway, finding a lid for every container.

“This is nicely organized,” he says.

“Everyone’s fridge is empty after the holidays,” Gig says with a shrug. “I thought this might make work lunches easier.”

They work in silence for a few moments until Darcy takes a breath. “I’m sorry. For not returning your messages.”

It’s as if a dam breaks. Gigi throws her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

“No, William, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never thought--if I had any idea you guys would be stuck there, I never--”

“I know.”

“Are you okay? Is she okay? What happened? Were you safe?”

At this, his cheeks flame red. Gigi’s eyes, wet with unshed tears, go wide.

“Oh. Oh! That’s so not what I meant, but oh my god!”

“Gigi--”

“I mean, eww, obviously. But, wait,” she searches his face, frowning. “You’re sad. You guys aren’t…”

“No,” Darcy says, pulling her arms from his neck. “I’d rather not go into all of it, but suffice to say, we are not.”

“I don’t get it. I thought--I mean I know I should have gone about it differently, but I thought you guys just needed a nudge.”

Darcy looks at her, at the same blues eyes as his own, the chin that always juts out in defiance rather than duck in embarrassment.

“Will you walk me out? I have something for you in the car.”

Gigi beams.

“A present? Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“Just come with me.” They walk arm in arm to the parking garage, Gigi bracing herself against the winter air.

“You sure you don’t want to stay for midnight?” she asks as they reach the car.

“Glad as I am to see this year go, I’m not much for celebrating tonight.” He pulls the oval package from the front seat.

It takes her a moment when she opens it, eyebrows laced in confusion. Then he sees it dawn on her.

“Where did you--”

“One of the storage facilities. It took me awhile to find the right one, but…”

Gigi clutches the cross-stitch to her chest, Dolly’s words still in remarkably good condition.

“I had completely forgotten about this. How did you even remember?”

“You told me to go find memories at the cabin,” Darcy says, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “So I did.”

--

Lizzie submits her thesis a day early.

When she finally made it home, she’d locked herself in her room to write, a self-imposed punishment of no breaks and hardly any sleep.

She tries to read it, but the words just run together, indecipherable.

She sends it anyway.

It’s almost three days later when Lizzie receives a reply from Dr. Gardiner:

Let’s discuss. How’s Tuesday?

The walk to Dr. Gardiner’s office that morning feels longer somehow. Slower, too; a certain march toward doom.

“Ah, Lizzie,” her professor says when Lizzie pushes her office door open with a knock. “Good to see you. How were your holidays?”

“Fine,” is all Lizzie can manage. When she doesn’t elaborate, Dr. Gardiner thumbs through a stack of papers on her desk.

“Well, they were certainly productive, judging by your thesis. It’s quite good. A more generous advisor might even say ‘great’.”

Lizzie just stares at her.

“Really?”

Dr. Gardiner laughs.

“You seem surprised, though I don’t know why. It’s clear, focused, some of the best writing I’ve read from you. Whatever sparked this motivation, I highly encourage you to hold on to it.”

Lizzie doesn’t respond, doesn’t even begin to know how.

“Now, your conclusion is a bit muddy,” Dr. Gardiner continues. “It lacks the same conviction as the rest of the paper. You prove time and again that you know what you want to say, but when the time comes to really say it, you hold back. So,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “What’s stopping you?”

--

When Pemberley Digital goes public, Gigi is the one to ring the bell, smiling and giddy and clearly the more photogenic choice for the article that will appear in next Sunday’s Chronicle.

There’s a gala at the Plaza that night. The city is still recovering from New Year’s, errant bits of confetti floating through the cold January breeze, but in the glitz and gold of the Terrace Room, it’s as if the real celebration was saved for tonight.

Darcy does his best to hide in the corner of the ballroom, but people find him anyway, investors and employees alike lining up to shake hands, congratulate him on a job well done.

“Must feel good, eh my boy?” says one ancient board member, clapping him on the shoulder.

He smiles, numb, and doesn’t feel much of anything.

Gigi throws an informal after-party in their hotel suite, for close friends and “no one over the age of 40.” She plays DJ with her phone and portable speakers, while Fitz and Brandon don’t let the fact that they’re the only two people dancing actually stop them from dancing.

Bing is there, but hangs back from the revelry, instead looking out over the city from the window in the sunken living room.

Darcy joins him, handing over a glass of scotch as he leans on the other end of the frame.

“Thanks.”

The silences with Bing are always comfortable. Darcy knows how it must look to everyone not in their immediate circle, has heard all the same questions the entire time they’ve known each other.

Why is Bing friends with him? What could they possibly have in common?

Not the small things, like sports teams (or an interest in sports to begin with) or favorite books. But Darcy doesn’t mind the petty disagreements over where to eat or what movie to see, not when the person he’s arguing with picked him up at his lowest moment, a fellow pallbearer shouldering the weight of his grief.

“Thank you,” Darcy starts. “For flying out for this.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Bing says. His smile is easy, but half-hearted. “Besides, it’s kind of nice to get away.”

“Oh?”

Bing looks at his glass when he says, “I, uhh, ran into Jane.”

“Oh.” Darcy left his eloquence back in the ballroom, apparently. Or perhaps it’s still in Tahoe, along with his Oxford hoodie that he couldn’t quite bring himself to pack. “How is she?”

“Great. Really great. She’s busy working for this fashion startup, but it sounds great. It was...great to see her.” Bing winces. Eloquence is in short supply tonight.

Darcy’s not one for resolutions; not in the traditional sense, anyway. But there’s something to be said for doing better, being better, and if the past year taught him anything, it’s that it’s never too soon to start.

“You know, I was actually quite nervous tonight,” Darcy muses into his glass.

“Yeah, I noticed the chin-tucking was in full force.”

“But it helped, knowing the support I had from family and friends. I received numerous calls and texts with good wishes from those who couldn’t be here in person, and it was a good reminder of just how many people Gigi and I have in our corner.”

It only takes a moment for understanding to settle in, to make Bing stand a little taller.

“That startup Jane works for,” Darcy continues, keeping his eyes trained on the city below. “They have a show coming up, or so I hear.”

Bing glances at him, then back at the view.

“Subtle.”

Darcy looks back at Gigi, who’s spinning imaginary discs in the air.

“I’m learning.”

--

Lizzie drives down to LA for Jane’s show.

“It’s not my show,” Jane insists on the phone. “Really, you don’t have to drive all this way.”

“Too late. I’m already halfway there, with my oversized sunglasses and inexplicably large coat. That’s what everyone wears in the front row, right?”

“Oh yeah, totally,” Jane laughs, and it’s the closest thing to real and genuine happiness Lizzie’s heard from her in months.

Jane shows her around backstage afterward, introducing her to her boss and co-workers, a model who’s soon to be a new roommate.

“It all happened so fast,” Jane says, as she cleans up her workstation, pins between her teeth. “She found this amazing sublet closer to work, and while I’m not crazy about the idea of moving again, I couldn’t say no to the price…”

Lizzie’s only half-listening, too distracted by the literal bouquet of Oreos sitting on an ironing board.

“Wait, I’m sorry, can we talk about this for a second? Where did this come from?”

Jane studies her sewing kit.

“From Bing,” she says simply.

“From--what--how?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I mentioned it when we ran into each other, but I must have. How else would he have known?”

It takes all of five seconds for Lizzie to figure out how.

--

Darcy’s door is no long gift wrapped.

The bow is gone, Mrs. Reynold’s zen garden in its rightful place on her desk.

Everything is back as it was at the office, the last of the holiday spirit replaced with a new fervor following the public offering.

It’s a distraction, and a welcome one at that. Darcy’s in early most mornings and the last to leave at night. He’s spending one particularly arduous Friday afternoon tackling the backlog of emails that went unread over the holidays when a forward from Gigi arrives in his inbox.

The cabin just received its first AirBnB review. I thought you might be interested.

xo, Gigi

Review from: Lizzie

Comfortable, warm, and welcoming, this cabin is the perfect retreat for one--or two.

The host was incredibly accommodating, especially when faced with inclement weather and power outages. Every need was met, every detail accounted for; the tea service, in particular, was excellent.

Though I left before I could properly express my gratitude, I sincerely hope to return in the--hopefully near?--future.

Darcy stares at the last line, blindly reaching for his phone.

“God, you read slow,” Gigi answers on the first ring.

“If you’d like to be well and truly forgiven,” Darcy says, gathering his coat and briefcase. “You’ll run the 4:00 product development meeting for me.”

“I mean, I kind of assumed I was already forgiven, especially since that review--with its many uncomfortable euphemisms--clearly proves I was in the right--”

“Will you run it or not?”

“Of course. See you Monday. Or later! Later is fine, too.”

“In that case, you can have brunch with Aunt Catherine on Sunday, as well.

“Wait, what--”

He hangs up, immediately dialing another number as he darts to the elevator.

“Hello?”

There’s hesitant smile in her voice, as though she’s been expecting him.

“Hello.” He jabs at the down button. “Happy New Year.”

Lizzie laughs.

“Happy New Year. How’s it treating you so far?”

“Recently, quite well.” There’s a mail clerk in the elevator when the door opens. Darcy nods to him. “And you?”

“A little rocky at first, but better now. My professor loved my thesis.”

“That’s excellent to hear.” Darcy watches the floor numbers descend at a crawl, and ducks his voice. “I read your review.” “What? Hold on, I can’t hear you very well.” When they finally reach the lobby, he nearly takes out the mail cart in his exit.

“Is that better?” he asks, walking briskly toward the parking garage.

“Much. You were saying?”

“Just that I read your review, and...you are, of course, more than welcome at the cabin, whenever you wish.”

“That’s good. Because I’m kind of here.”

Darcy stops short of his car.

“Where?”

“The cabin. And for the record, this was not Fitz’s doing, or Gigi’s. I mean, they helped with getting the keys, but otherwise--”

“You’re at the cabin.”

“I am.” There’s a pause, a breath. “Did you tell Bing to reach out to Jane? To send her the Oreos?”

“We talked, briefly, in New York. I mentioned her show, but that’s all. Truly.”

“That was...really nice of you.”

“It’s a small amends, with many still to be made.”

There’s a smile in Lizzie’s voice when she speaks again.

“Can you make them here? Over the weekend?”

“With paella, I assume.”

“Among other things.”

Darcy lets out a breath and a small laugh, peeling out of the parking lot and toward the highway.

“I’m on my way.”

--

Eleven months later

Darcy is a little tipsy.

He’d tried to refuse the second glass of eggnog, but Mrs. Bennet pours with a heavy and insistent hand.

He and Lizzie sit at the fireplace, watching as Lydia distributes gifts, a Santa hat slightly askew on her head.

Darcy reaches for the cinnamon roll on Lizzie’s plate, but she gently slaps his hand away.

“Get your own.”

“I’m having difficulty moving,” he says, leaning into her, noticing the way the candy cane stripes of his pajamas line up perfectly with her own.

“Bing’s getting a pair of these, too, I hope.”

“Oh yeah. Jane says that Mom sent theirs early so they could wear them upon arrival tomorrow morning.” Lizzie threads her fingers through his. “Thank you, by the way. I know they’re silly, and Mom bought them without asking, but--”

He kisses her, and it must be the eggnog that makes him linger longer than he should, with her parents just in the kitchen and Lydia catcalling from the tree.

Lizzie’s smiling when they break apart.

“Okay, just for that, I will go get you another cinnamon roll. Happy?”

He presses one last kiss to her hand before she goes.

“Very.”