"Oh, Mr. Lee…excuse me, Bing—I'm so silly, when you're practically family to us—we always have our best meals on Sunday. It's a little throwback to my childhood—so I'll have to just insist that you come over for barbeque tomorrow night. It's a little piece of North Carolina—Western style, of course," Mrs. Bennet's delighted, beaming face fell when she remembered who was standing next to Bing and what common social decency required of her to say to him in this situation. "And of course you can come, Mr. Darcy."

The tall, impassive young man colored at being addressed thusly.

"I—it would be my pleasure, thank you," was his polite reply. He then exchanged a quick, tight look with Mrs. Bennet's middle daughter, who nodded, encouragingly. "I didn't…realize that there was difference between western and eastern style barbeque."

Since William Darcy, CEO of Pemberley Digital and well-documented tool (though the middle-aged daughter of Dixie was not familiar with that particular example of youthful vernacular) had never in the whole of their long acquaintance spoken more than four words at a time to her, she was more confused than flattered by his attempts at small talk.

"Of course—they couldn't be more different. Anyone who has spent any time in the south knows that," she said, stiffly.

"I…see." He could see over her mother's shoulder that Lizzie was miming a "face palm"—she had recently explained the concept to him for the express purpose of signaling when his social skills were particularly…lacking.

Jane pulled Bing out of the room to show him one of the original fashion portfolios she'd been working on in LA—normally this would have been considered rude behavior at a dinner party, but the hostess didn't seem to mind because said portfolio was located in Jane's bedroom. According to Lizzie, her mother was "not taking any chances" with Jane and Bing this time around, and if that meant encouraging the affable young med student to "make up for lost time" with her daughter while everyone else was enjoying a lovely pea salad downstairs, so be it.

Unluckily for them, this left no one but the Bennet parents, Lizzie and Darcy to fill the silence.

Unluckily for Lizzie, she was really, really nervous—like, beyond talking fast nervous.

She was actually blank out nervous.

This was bad.

"I don't suppose you've ever been to the Carolinas," her mother picked up the awkward barbecue conversation (probably best left dead) for want of anything else to say to him.

Darcy licked his lips and deliberated for a moment. Travel was a subject he felt much more comfortable with, and so when he finally spoke his words were less halting than they'd been. A generous observer might have called them natural.

"Charleston—once. When I was much younger. I go to Atlanta occasionally on business trips." He coughed, before adding, "I hear the…Great Smoky Mountains are quite beautiful this time of year."

"They're very wet through April, actually."

"I…defer to your experience in this matter."

A very generous observer.

There was a long, and from Lizzie's perspective, excruciating pause.

"I'm surprised that a man of the world such as yourself has never been to North Carolina, Mr. Darcy."

"Really, my dear—" Mr. Bennet interjected, peering over his spectacles (and the copy of the Wall Street Journal he'd guilelessly brought with him to the dinner table) at his wife and their young, comically uncomfortable dinner guest. "I think we've known 'Mr. Darcy' here long enough that you can start calling him by his first name."

Darcy froze. Lizzie's father, unperturbed, continued laconically refilling his tobacco pipe.

"Mr. Darcy," her mother repeated, firmly. "Is a very successful business man, my dear. I'm sure he expects to be addressed formally."

The subtext of the statement was that Mr. Darcy should probably also expect a swift kick in the seat of his pants. Her husband shrugged and turned his attention to his third favorite past time (according to Lizzie, anyway.)

"It just seems unfair not to afford him the same honor you've bestowed on Bing Lee, when he's also dating one of our daughters."

The only sound at the table was the rap of Mr. Bennet's pipe on the pinewood.

"Dad!"

"I'm sorry, honey—" He chuckled, jerking his head at the rapidly reddening Darcy. "He was trying so hard, I had to put your young man out of his misery."

Mrs. Bennet—too busy gaping at her daughter's newly revealed boyfriend, fidgeting awkwardly under her scrutiny—did not notice this obvious dig at her.

"I…you…" Her brain finally caught up with her mouth when her eyes locked on her daughter. "Elizabeth Beatrice Bennet!"

"Lizzie informed me of these recent developments in her personal life earlier this evening—" Mr. Bennet continued, much to the chagrin of both interested parties. "She seemed to think you needed the idea introduced to you in graduated degrees—" Lizzie fixed him with an irritated glare. "For what reason, I cannot possibly begin to imagine. Surely there's nothing in her seeing this young man we'd object to."

"I never said mom would object—" She turned her attention from her father back to said, erstwhile boyfriend, currently the mouse to Mrs. Bennet's overeager cobra.

"Object? Lizzie, darling—" At first her mother's voice was pitched higher than usual, impossibly shrill—then it turned syrupy and knowing, and William Darcy could see the woman's daughter's face turn beat red from across the table. "When did you become so coy, darling? You didn't say a word."

Darcy's lip twisted in what might have started as a suppressed laugh but quickly turned into a grimace.

"It's—it was—complicated—" Lizzie sputtered, weakly. "I wasn't being coy!"

Mrs. Bennet gave her the 'you-call-hiding-your-rich-handsome-suitor-not-coy?' look.

"Well—" She smoothed her dress, all at once the pinnacle of Southern charm and grace. "Mr. Darcy…that is…"

"William," he supplied, glancing over at the father, who was now puffing on the pipe, placidly reveling in his discomfort.

"William," she repeated, her lips practically smacked with delight at the sound of the word. "What a good, strong, manly name—don't you think so, Lizzie?"

"Yeah, just like the conqueror," was her daughter's terse reply. Darcy's mouth twitched for a half second before he received a small kick under the table.

"Elizabeth, don't be rude to our guest," Mrs. Bennet admonished, before turning her attention fully back onto said guest. Only three minutes before, she had been uninterested, bordering on uncivil—now she was equal parts awe and fawning, trying to press him on his opinion of her family's mashed potato recipe and practically force-feeding him the stuff.

It was hard to tell which mode of conduct was worse, really.

Compared to the less-than-stellar impression he had made on her parents the previous summer, Darcy was the pinnacle of good manners, accepting the hostess's borderline sycophantic compliments with relative equanimity. Bing and Jane finally made it back to the main area ("Jane, did you know about your sister and William? Dating the CEO of Pemberley Digital—what a pretty name for a company—can you imagine such a thing for our Lizzie?") and the dinner proceeded, Jane and Bing drawing their mother's attention away from Elizabeth's hitherto unknown beaux, thankfully.

When he and Bing finally successfully protested that work and studies beckoned them, Mrs. Bennet still managed to keep them lingering at the doorway, singing both their praises effusively.

Jane, hand in hand with Bing, followed him outside to say goodnight at his car. Darcy tried to catch her sister's eye to do the same, but Mrs. Bennet was at her arm, apparently speaking about something of a very serious nature, judging by their expressions.

He frowned, disappointed.

"Well, young man, I hope we'll see more of you."

The mild voice in Darcy's ear almost made him jump out of his skin. Turning around he saw Lizzie's amused father standing at his shoulder, serene as always.

"Ah—yes, sir." Darcy rubbed his shoulder for want of anything else to do. "Of course. I look forward to it very much." He swallowed, wondering what the older man was thinking. It was a little unnerving speaking to someone drier than he was.

"My wife will probably invite you over every night you're in town, so be prepared to eat a lot of things with butter and salt as the primary ingredients. The amount of saturated fat in your system will likely exponentially increase before you go back to…San Francisco, was it?"

"Yes. I'll…" He searched the older man's face for even the faintest trace of solemnity—Lizzie would know immediately if he was joking—but found himself at a loss. He was still getting used to being teased by the man's daughter, after all. "…Take that under advisement."

He tried to catch Lizzie's eye again, but when he finally did, she shook her head, indicating he should cut and run while he still had the chance, because this 'might take awhile.' He nodded back, and murmured a goodbye and a thank you to her father, feeling a palpable disappointment. Opening the door he followed his friend out (one final glance back at her for good measure) and trailed behind him and Jane at a safe distance, lost in his thoughts.

Yes, he was disappointed, but the evening had overall not been…well, it wasn't a success, exactly, but it wasn't a failure, either…and he could come over and see her tomorrow, first thing, at least. That was a small consolation.

His solitary walk back to Bing's car was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder—a tap he recognized, just from the pressure exerted, the spot right at the base of his shoulder (she was so petite.) As he turned around, his heart felt lighter.

"Lizzie!"

William Darcy smiled, the same smile that overtook him whenever he saw her. She returned it, though her version was a little strained.

It was then that he noticed there was someone dramatically silhouetted in her house's front window.

"Is your mother…watching us?"

"She…" He could hear her gritting her teeth. "Sent me out here."

"'Sent' you…?" Darcy repeated, perplexed.

"To wish you goodnight."

"Well, I'm glad to speak to you for a moment alone before I go, but I don't see why she needs to watch—"

"Oh, for God's sake—she's making sure I kiss you goodnight, Will!"

He looked up at Mrs. Bennet, who waved cheerily, and then back down at her decidedly more peeved—and, it was difficult to tell in the dark, but… was Lizzie blushing?—daughter.

"Oh."

"You know, she's threatened not to let me back in the house if I don't plant a big one on you."

In spite of how annoyed she looked (or maybe because of it—she was, after all, notoriously cute when annoyed) he couldn't resist.

"Well…" Darcy lowered his voice, amused. "What are you waiting for?"

Unsurprisingly, she shoved him, instead.

"Stop laughing!" Lizzie elbowed him again—ugh, she could tell she hadn't hurt him at all, he was deceptively muscular under all of that plaid. "I am not putting on an exhibition for her."

"I'm not laughing—" Even if Mrs. Bennet was looking at him, being out of earshot of her was enough to put him at ease. He felt more relaxed than he had all evening—there was something about being around her that calmed him—made him feel almost younger. Maybe for once he felt the age he was supposed to feel. "But I'm also not entirely sure why she would want you to in the first place."

Lizzie looked down at the ground, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. He now recognized that as a sign of her embarrassment, a nervous habit.

"She—she says that I'm 'lucky to have you' and that I should've been nicer to you at dinner…apparently rich young men with the world at their fingertips don't like girls who scowl."

Under that heavy sarcasm, a smidgen of insecurity crept into her voice. Will had been getting much better at being able to separate the glib, dismissive Lizzie from the vulnerable, defensive one.

"You don't scowl," he said, gently taking a half step towards her.

"Apparently I've got to—" The next part clearly mortified Lizzie to say out loud. "'Give you a taste but keep you wanting more.'"

"That sounds…intriguing."

"Will…" . Another wisp of hair from her bun had escaped, and almost without thinking, he tucked it delicately behind her ear for her. "Will!"

"If your mother only knew that I'm the one who has had to work to deserve your respect and affection." He smiled down at her, a steady, secure, warm smile she had never seen him give anyone else. "I could tell her if you like."

"That'll make it worse!" she groaned, mock horror-stricken. "If she ever finds out I rejected you I'll never hear the end of it."

Darcy frowned—he didn't want to argue, not tonight, but there were times he was tempted to point out how she (consciously or otherwise) allowed her mother to rattle and steer her by fixating on how the woman would react to any given (usually, in Lizzie's mind, doomsday) scenario. There would be plenty of time to have that discussion, though. The things he wanted to talk to her about seemed infinite, they stretched out before him in his mind like time itself, or the Pacific Ocean, or…something very large.

When it came to her, metaphor failed him.

"She's going to find out about your videos eventually, Lizzie. Everyone always does." He tried and failed to keep the heavy irony out of his voice.

"Well," Lizzie waved him off, not wanting to get drawn into a debate on her past spotty judgment on the subject. "She's not going to find out from you."

"You could just come back with us to Netherfield, if you'd like…"

Darcy looked to the side, hoping his eagerness wasn't too obvious. It was meant to be a joke, but if she wanted to come with them, he wouldn't say no…

Lizzie glanced back at her living room window, scoping out the situation, as it were. Mama Bennet was gesturing rather aggressively with her hands, pressing her palms together in a manner that was frankly obscene. Darcy decided it was better to not think too hard about the intended mechanics of what was being expressed and instead focused on Lizzie, futilely attempting to shoo her mother away from the window.

"Are you kidding?" she finally asked, turning back to him with a long-suffering sigh. "She'd like that even better."

"If your mother won't let you back in, and you won't come with me…I suppose we're at an impasse." shift

Instantly the mood changed. It hung in the air between the two of them—a tightly coiled spring of expectation, and as she shifted her weight from one foot to another, looking up at him, the thought (a thrilling thought) occurred that he could…do something about it.

"I suppose we are."

Lizzie was sobeautiful, even when she was parroting his "weirdly formal manner of speaking." She seemed to be waiting for him, and though he was still uncertain with her, loving Lizzie Bennet had also given him the courage to throw caution to the wind.

"Unless…" His eyes darkened, and that sudden, blazing determination made something in the pit of Lizzie's stomach dance.

"What are you—"

He cut her off and answered the unfinished question, kissing her with a passionate spontaneity that was so simultaneously him and excitingly new that it made her heart rate shoot through the roof. Warm, broad hands found her waist and pulled her closer, impossibly close. Lizzie reached up, stood on her tiptoes, how else could she wrap her arms around his neck when she needed the surety of those steady, wide shoulders because William Darcy had quite literally caught her off-balance.

Mom didn't matter, just his closeness and the faint but unmistakable sent of cologne and the feel of Will's mouth on hers—gentle and bold, a contradiction in terms. He was a freaking contradiction in terms, a wonderfully ridiculous paradigm. How else could he make her feel safe and secure and so totally all at sea in the same moment?

Just as suddenly he broke the kiss, leaving her breathless.

"…Why did you stop?" she asked, the words coming out in short bursts. She was almost beyond caring how desperate that sounded.

"Well, you know…" He leaned over again and kissed her again—disappointingly brief—and she could feel his lips curling upward in a smile. "You've got to 'give them a taste but leave them wanting more.'"

Lizzie shivered—ugh, he should not be allowed to affect her like this when he was being such a corny dork. Lightly she smacked him on the arm in punishment—Will's attention, however, had been drawn back to the window, where Mrs. Bennet still stood and was now giving them two enthusiastic thumbs up.

"I sometimes wonder where that woman was when they were handing out shame."

Sighing, he reminded himself of his earlier resolution not to argue with her. It didn't help that he found Lizzie's deft rhetorical style so arousing he actually enjoyed it.

"Does the fact that she's glad make it unbearable by definition?"

She smoothed his tie, tracing the trail of buttons down his coat—fingers soothing and playful in equal doses.

"I'll be happy when she's glad for the right reasons."

"I'm not sure how I'm meant to take that."

Lizzie rolled her eyes.

"Oh, come on, she spent the first twenty minutes of dinner being borderline hostile and bitching at you for your lack of knowledge about regional barbecue."

"The evening could've gone a lot worse," was his diplomatic but unrevealing rejoinder. In truth, Darcy was glad it was her mother that was taking the brunt of Lizzie's ire and not him, for once.

"And then when she finds out about us—thanks, dad—suddenly it's all smiles and 'please have a third helping of cornbread, handsome rich stranger, before you carry my daughter away on your white stead to your mystical company in the hills of yonder San Francisco.'"

"To be fair, being financially well-off may be the only thing I have to recommend myself to her—" He gave her a rueful half-smile. "I haven't exactly tried to make a good impression in the past."

Will said it lightly, but she could tell that what her silly, ridiculous, embarrassing mother thought did matter to him. He got more endearing by the hour—that was a thought that kept popping up in her mind. It was a good sign that it kept happening.

It boded well for their future together.

"First impressions aren't your strong suit, Will," She gently slid into his arms and rested her head on his chest—Lizzie was meant to be comforting him and letting go of him for the night, only it felt so warm and cozy nestled in here, she wasn't sure she wanted to leave.

"I never thought of understatement as being a talent of yours."

Months before, those words would have come across as biting and caustic—or that's what she'd have heard. Now, even with her face buried in his silk shirt, his gentle humor was obvious.

"Don't worry about it. Once she gets to know you, she'll love you just as much as I—…"

"As you…what?" His arms pulled her closer, his voice a teasing caress. She was glad he couldn't see the girlish glow of her face—girlish glow, really? Was this what being with him turned her into, some third-rate Hardy heroine?

"You know, William Darcy."

They just stood there for a moment, enjoying the peace of it, not thinking about whether or not Mrs. Bennet was still watching them—she was, of course, Lizzie didn't need to look to know that her mother's eyes would track her movements until the second she walked back into their house so she literally could not escape discussing her unexpected potential husband windfall. But for now, it was only the two of them.

"I should probably—" Reluctantly, Lizzie extricated herself from his arms.

"Yes, of course. I understand." He let them drop to his side like dead weight. "I'll…see you tomorrow, then?"

"Of course." The girl he was in love with—had been in love with for so long—looked up at him, gaze direct and eyes sparkling. "You're coming over for barbecue, right?"

"Western style, of course."

His smile back was gentler, more unsure. He was less used to smiling than she was, after all.

"Please—we do not speak of any other 'supposed' regional varieties. They impugn barbecue's good name."

"What about Kansas City—"

"If you want to impress my mother," she interrupted, tutting. "You will not utter that combination of words in her presence."

"Thanks for the tip," He brushed her cheek with his thumb—Lizzie shivered at an early spring chill that swept through the air. "I suppose I should let you return to your warm house and er—expectant family." Reluctantly he lowered his hand, steeling himself to let her go again.

"Wait."

Unexpectedly—a welcomed unexpected, one of the few surprises in life he could truly say he wanted—she stood up on the tips of her toes, laced her fingers around his broad shoulders and, with a surprising amount of strength for someone so petite, pulled him down for a kiss. Long and warm and romantic and silly—like her.

She broke it this time.

"Goodnight," Lizzie whispered, and it took all the willpower he could muster to let her walk away.

"You don't care that your…mother is watching?"

"Nope." She brushed her lips against the stubble of his cheek one last time. "I don't. At all. You make me indifferent to my mother. How about that?"

How about that?

His smile was bigger than hers.

I hope you enjoyed—feedback always appreaciated.