Dear Readers, this is the last chapter! Option 4 and 5 in one fell swoop.

For those who are interested, I will post in the comments to talk about possibilities and prompts.

-X-

Option Four: Sleeping Beauty

When Mr. Darcy entered the parlor in his own decided way, Elizabeth was asleep on the sofa.

Her head was turned away, the letters she read had fallen near her hand on the cushion.

Everything was peaceful: her face, the room. The leaves of the giant oak tree, outside the window, were perfectly still under the morning sun.

He took a chair and sat down – at a respectable distance – and just watched her.

So, this was the woman he loved. It was a strange consideration. After she rejected him, he thought he would put her easily out of his mind – that he had been stricken by a momentary madness, been swept away by a bizarre, feverish obsession.

But he had not forgotten her.

Again, it was bizarre. He had never been in love before, not with that intensity, and why it happened to be her, an insignificant country miss that he had met at an insignificant assembly ball – if he had decided not to visit Bingley at the time he would never have led eyes on her – but – no one could comprehend the mysteries of fate. Yes, after Hunsford, he thought he would never see her again – for weeks, months, his heart aching in an inexplicable way as if something was always missing, he saw her ghost at every ball, in every London street. Sometimes it was a smile, a laugh, the turn of a dress, or a sprightly figure walking under the trees of Kensington garden.

He was so very lonely. But then he always had been, responsibilities and yes, solitude, were familiar companions. But without her – without that mirage he had of her as his wife – that solitude suddenly felt sharper. The vision he had, of her at his side, forever united to him – that illusion had lasted only a few hours. He had decided to ask for her hand around three in the afternoon – she had crushed all his hopes around seven.

But she was back.

She was here. At Lambton, five miles from his home. She was real; she was sleeping only a few feet from him. And she had not behaved coldly, she had not been disgusted by him, like she had been in his memories. (Sometimes, in his dreams, she was laughing, but that he couldn't control.)

No. She was – yesterday, at Pemberley, that evening had been – they had talked, they had smiled, she had sung and played, she really had seemed happy to see him – she was happy to see him – she had been affectionate to Georgiana, and – when Elizabeth had looked at him, above the piano – hope was a merciless friend, it had kept him from sleeping at night – maybe it was why she was sleeping now, maybe the thought of him had also troubled her rest – he didn't believe it, not really – but still – as long as she was sleeping, she hadn't rejected him yet.

He could just watch her, and see.

See her, at Pemberley. In the vision they were married – he allowed, for a few minutes, the mirage to play again in his mind. The first thing he always imagined was both of them walking, along the lime trees, north of the lake. She would be on his arm – in this vision nothing untoward happened, there was just this strong sense of intimacy and trust, she would turn to him, affection in her smile, and – that was all, but the image had haunted him for weeks, in town, when he realized it would never happen – she would never have this light in her eyes when looking at him. Then, there were other visions. Visions of her in bed – he knew what bedroom would be hers, of course, as his wife. He knew the furniture, he knew the bed, she would be waiting for him – smiling – in his dream it was day, a bright morning, the rays of the sun playing on the white linens, everything in a white glow, he'd put his hands on her naked thighs and open them – yes, those dreams were pretty racy, well, he was eight–and–twenty, in full health, and quite lonely – he'd bite her breast, her belly, the inside of her thigh again, not too hard, and she'd laugh. Then the dream would suddenly shift, and it would be night, she'd be wearing one of those delicate lace nightgowns they made for brides, and he would be inside her – feeling all the curves of her body, their faces so close, illuminated by the golden glow of the candle, she would moan something, open his eyes and look right at him – and – let's say – well – generally, the dream ended there.

One day, he woke up in his room, in his London house. And she was there, in his bed. Sleeping, besides him.

Then he actually woke up.

His cousin, Fitzwilliam, frequented one of those "houses" and Darcy had accompanied him there once that summer. Darcy also had an arrangement with a girl – Margaret was her name. He was very generous with her, and honestly appreciated her, she was energetic and fun, with a lovely smile – he had promised her a good dowry, when she'd be tired of that life and wanted to marry an artisan or open a little shop.

But it was not the same after Elizabeth. He enjoyed Margaret's attentions, of course, but – the comparison was cruel. He kept sending money, and he no longer visited.

Elizabeth was still sleeping.

He could have caressed her, at that very moment, and she'd never be the wiser. He imagined his hands brushing lightly the contours of her breasts… those muslin dresses didn't do much to hide a woman's figure – of course he would never do such a thing – and then, he thought with a bitter smile, maybe he actually never would.

Outside, a slight breeze was blowing. The leaves were rustling slightly.

Maybe he would never touch her.

Maybe they would never have endless discussions, in a low voice, on winter evenings, in front of the fireplace at Pemberley. Maybe he would never enter one of those dreadful London balls with her at his arm – she'd wear a dark red dress, with rubies in her hair, and her mere presence, her smile, would make the evening endurable, maybe even pleasant. Maybe she and Georgiana would never talk and laugh, on that blue sofa in the music room, after a late dinner, while he'd be silently watching, feeling that everything that was precious to him was there, in the room, while outside the wind blew in the cold autumn sky.

Maybe none of it would ever happen.

Elizabeth moved, and her eyes fluttered.

He stood up quickly.

When Elizabeth woke up, she was alone.

She stirred slowly, sat up, stretched her head. A few moments later, a light knock resonated on the door. "Please come in," she said, thinking it was Sarah – Mr. Darcy entered. Elizabeth was still a little dazed, and neglected to stand up to greet him.

"Please forgive me, Mr. Darcy" she said, with a tentative smile. She touched her forehead, her thoughts still a little confused. "I… I think I was sleeping."

He nodded. "I can come back later, if you wish." His tone was subdued; he was looking at her in a strange, earnest way.

And because she had just woken up herself, because she hadn't the time yet to invoke old doubts and fears, formality or manners, she was perfectly sincere herself, and said:

"Please stay. I am very glad to see you."

He took a chair, sat down, and just poured his heart to her.

Option Five: Just wait

"Hey. What are you watching?"

Elizabeth jumped to her feet, blushing.

"Oh, hey, hello… Hi, Darcy. Hum… Just a… I… don't really know, actually. A Regency bodice ripper movie… with actual bodice ripping?"

"Interesting choice."

There was a silence – she and Darcy, looking at each other, in that tiny lounge, at the far end of the modern lobby of the gigantic Italian hotel.

God. Those dreaded silences. With this man. Of course now – since yesterday – since Pemberley – those silences had taken a whole different signification. Or, to be honest – Elizabeth first had to rethink the significance of those looks right after Hunsford, five months ago. She had all the time in the world, after that disastrous encounter – no, wait – "disastrous" was not descriptive enough… After the catastrophicanormous, abominaballistic declaration of Darcy's affections and her own abominaballistic reaction, she had to realize that his embarrassed pauses, and his looks, did not necessarily indicate… as intense a disapproval as she had previously thought.

But they were intense, all right.

And now, OF COURSE Darcy had just walked in on her watching a romantic… Ok, borderline erotic movie. "This wasn't my choice," Elizabeth explained, with an amused smile, (the key thing: NOT sounding embarrassed.) "The TV was on. We checked out early – my aunt went to visit the church – the XIIIth basilica, south of the piazza? So I settled here."

"To watch a Regency movie, where…" Darcy looked at the scene unfolding on the screen – fortunately the sound was off – but subtitles were on, "… where the lady is lying on the table of the parlor crying, 'Oh, no! My honor!' and the gentleman is answering, 'I would never compromise you' WHILE LIFTING HER SKIRTS. Now she is… fainting? Elegantly? And of course she has lipstick and mascara on."

"Like every 1798 respectable lady did," Elizabeth explained. "You missed the part where he tore her dress down and her breasts just… popped right out of her corset, 'firm as cantaloupes and white as sour cream.'"

He arched his brow. "Cantaloupes?"

"I was making my own voice over. In my head."

"Of course you were."

"Well, the heroine tore off his shirt first, so – it was only fair if he… you know," her voice faltered – maybe talking about a sex scene with Darcy was a bit… odd.

"Yes. As you said, only fair." There was a weird pause after that – her skin was not white as sour cream, Elizabeth thought, she was rather tanned (Italy will do that to you) and she was wearing an extremely pretty green summer dress, kind of revealing, which Darcy was NOT looking at – impressive how much he was keeping his eyes at face level right now. By the way, he was wearing a shirt. "Hum, well," he started, his voice rather uncertain, then he hastily added: "You're the history student. I've always wanted to know: Did ladies actually faint in those times? Or was it a big conspiracy of the females to entice the males and make them feel strong and powerful?"

"Definitely a conspiracy. But also, corsets impaired women's ability to breathe properly. Of course, this corset wasn't even in fashion during that period, but who is criticizing, right?"

"You are," he said, smiling.

"True. I am." Elizabeth answered his smile – silently thanking all the overwrought, ridiculous movies producers in the world – turns out, what a wonderful way to break the ice. "This said, Mr. Darcy," she continued, in a theatrical, formal tone, "I hope you know that I did not keep watching for my own pleasure." She gestured toward the TV. "This is… documentation. I am working – studying – right now."

Darcy couldn't get his eyes off of her – and he seemed so fucking amused. "Oh, really… Miss Bennet? Studying?"

"Absolutely."

"Please elaborate."

"Certainly. Don't be deceived. This is not a brainless romance. This is an intellectual film, a translation of an ironic misogynistic narrative into popular media, portraying archetypes in an intentionally caricatured way to imply a self-created sense of distance enabling the analytical deconstruction of clichés."

He was still looking at her – with so much affection.

"God, I missed this," he finally said. "I missed your insane capacity of making up words and entire… crazy… inane… meaningless sentences at the drop of a hat."

Elizabeth couldn't help laughing. "That is not very complimentary."

"Believe me, it is," he added, in a low voice – and then – you know it – another DREADED SILENCE, (©Fitzwilliam Darcy.) He was staring at her – she was staring at him – they were not that close – but not that far either – Elizabeth became a little nervous. "Last night was so great," she finally stated, in a low voice.

"It was great seeing you."

Her heart beat a little faster. "The party was so much fun. Beautiful, actually. And Georgiana is extremely sweet. A little shy, though, maybe?"

"Yes. Introverts. You know the type."

"Actually – no I don't. You met my sisters. And my mother."

Darcy grinned. "God, yes."

"They are not introverts, by any definition of the term. I'd even like to coin the term 'overextraverts.' No – no – wait – 'obnoxverts'." Elizabeth thought for a moment. "Jane is the exception in our family – but she does enjoy parties and people. She's just more discreet."

"I suppose," Darcy said slowly. He looked embarrassed, and Elizabeth remembered that there was an embargo on the "Jane" topic… on the "Wickham" topic… on the "Bingley" topic… for Christ's sake. But now Darcy was smiling again.

"See?" he said, with that tenderness in his eyes which made her – well – her knees were a little weak. "'Obnoxverts'. You do that effortlessly. And, um, speaking of words – Elizabeth, I wanted to mention yesterday – I love your blog. The adult fairytales?"

Elizabeth became so red – Lydia always made fun of her, that each and every emotion could be seen on her skin, like she was a swooning XIXe century heroine – it is not fun when you want to be project an image of sophistication and distance and your face betrays you every day.

"You follow my blog? I – it's just stupid, silly… The stories… They're just…" She stammered, and Darcy started again, with a little color on his cheeks, too:

"They are not silly. They start cynical, because you try for a social critique, and you succeed – they are very funny – but they are also… tender. Kind. There is a humanity in them – they – they made me think of you…" Elizabeth became even more red – Darcy couldn't meet her eyes, he took a few steps toward the television – "you know, introverts," he started again, communication is not… their primary talent."

"I know," Elizabeth whispered.

"So, sometimes they… they want to express something… a… a deep… feeling," he continued, "and because they're not used to it, they can sound…"

His voice trailed off – she didn't answer – he turned to her, "I suppose what I want to say…" he continued, "would you like to have coffee with me sometimes?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answered. "Yes."

"Good." He smiled – still staring – she thought even an earthquake could not made him avert his eyes right now – and her face was – of course – crimson.

"Yes," she repeated again, smiling. "But – you are aware – that my plane leaves in three hours?"

He nodded. "I'm still hoping for a terrorist attack, and the airports to close. But – I meant – back in the States."

She couldn't stop smiling. "I live in Chicago. Isn't that a bit far from Manhattan?"

"I'll come."

"For coffee?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Good. Great," she answered, then, "Thank you," her heart was pounding in her chest – she sat down on the grey, impersonal hotel couch – he sat in front of her, on a chair, not meeting her eyes, and there was a good minute where nothing happened, "I just – had to see you before you left," he finally whispered, another silence – she was feeling too emotional to be logical – she suddenly blurted:

"There are things you don't know about me." She had spoken too low, and too fast, he looked at her, puzzled, so she smiled, trying to go back to her patented calm demeanor and arch humor, (©Elizabeth Bennet.) "There are many things I don't know about you either, Darcy. In fact, I don't know anything about you."

"What do you mean? We talked all the time, at Netherfield."

"I talked, you sneered. Well, I thought you were sneering."

A flash of pain fled through his eyes. "I was admiring," he whispered. "But you wanted to think the worse of me." She didn't answer – it was true. "So what don't I know about you?" he asked, his voice low.

"I…" She felt so embarrassed. "It's stupid. But it is something you should know before we have, um, coffee."

"I am officially intrigued," he said lightly – but his eyes were worried.

"I am slow," Elizabeth stated. "In… love, I mean."

"Slow?"

"I… I am a romantic, as you can guess from… the fairytales. And I… I fall in love very slowly, and when I do, it's important – essential – for me. Never casual."

He held her gaze. "This doesn't sound like bad news."

"Maybe, but it means… I need time… Many dates to… before… hopping into bed," she finally explained, the conversation couldn't be more embarrassing, so, you know – might as well go for broke. "Lydia says that my attitude – the jokes, the distance – are a posture, a barrier. She says that really, my way of – the fact that I'm laughing, all the time – she says I'm afraid of opening up – of intimacy. Maybe she is right. It's… There are so few people in the world that I love. And even fewer whom I really respect."

"I can relate," Darcy stated, slowly.

Elizabeth soldiered on. "I've only had two boyfriends – and I'm 24," she explained, thinking herself ridiculous for being self-conscious about her low number of partners – but, well, she was. "My high school sweetheart, and then I was with Frank for three years."

"I just had the one," Darcy said. "Girlfriend, obviously. We stayed five years together. And when we broke up, I didn't think I would ever…"

He didn't finish his sentence – Elizabeth gave an awkward laugh. "God. Talk of embarrassing. We are a couple of… I can't even make up a term."

"It took me months to realize I was in love with you," Darcy whispered, "and then months to do something about it. And then months to get over you – except I never did."

Elizabeth's heart hurt – physically hurt – except of course, no, her heart didn't actually do physically anything – but she was submerged an emotion so strong – maybe Lydia was right, maybe she was so controlled that real emotions, those that she couldn't contain or laugh away, were actually painful for her – she looked up – "Darcy," she began.

She stopped.

His face was ice cold. His eyes were focused on an open magazine, on the couch. There was a silence, and then he asked – in the in harshest voice she had ever heard:

"What exactly are you reading?"

Elizabeth stared at him for a moment – then looked at the magazine – and blanched. "No… It's not…"

"Fifty ways to seduce a rich man?"

She was now red as the hotel cushions. "No… It's not… Darcy, I swear…"

"Is that why you came here?"

"What? No!"

"You… If you came all this way to Italy to…"

"No, of course not…"

"Is this why you showed up at Pemberley?"

Elizabeth stared at him, aghast, anger rising.

"Oh my God, Darcy! I didn't know you were there! I didn't even know you were in this country! My aunt's family is from Florence, she has known the Moretti forever, and… I told you, we had no idea you rented that villa… Oh my God," she repeated, "you and your fucking vanity!"

Darcy became very pale.

"I am sorry," he said. "Clearly, this was a mistake." He threw a last look at her and walked away.

No. Elizabeth ran after him. She caught his arm – he faced her, white as a sheet.

"Wait, Darcy, listen." She was still SO mad, but they couldn't leave it at that – it was crazy – everything had gone to hell so fast. He didn't say anything – just watched her, "Listen, you moron," she said, "that magazine was there, on the table. I saw it, and it made me smile, because – because of my mother, ok?" He didn't answer. "I thought – I thought, if she ever sees this, she's going to scan it and enlarge it and print it and placard it above all our beds, and… I didn't even read the article – but of course you would think – you – you are so…"

She stopped – before proffering a string of unladylike insults – he shook his head, paced the room, she could see him struggling, trying to make sense of his rage, "You don't know how it is," he answered, "How it is with women now… with everybody. Since we sold the start-up, people are just… People I thought were friends… Bingley, he gets hit up all for money all the time – by his family even – by his sister…"

"Oh, I'm sure," Elizabeth gritted through her teeth. "And this is why you separated him from Jane? Because you thought my sister was a Caroline? Jane was in tears for weeks because of that…" She stopped again – with an angry gesture – her next word was not going to be flattering to Caroline. "And me too? That is what you think of me?"

"No!" He had almost shouted, pain in his voice – and the realization, that maybe, he had just lost everything – again - after getting so close… "No. Not you," he added, his voice a little hoarse. "Never you."

Elizabeth shook her head, furious. "But you JUST said…"

"I know!" he protested, "I – just"

"You think you're God's gift to women?"

"No!" He shouted again, and looked at her with cold anger: "You've made me very aware that I am not."

"Oh, so you're still angry about…"

He grabbed her shoulder – like he was drowning – a moment of hesitation, then he kissed her – violently – she stumbled back, hit her back against the wall, and suddenly they were kissing – violently again – she was gripping his arms and he was almost crushing her, kissing her everywhere, her brow – her eyes – her cheeks, she was breathless, "Forgive me," he whispered, "oh my God," she only breathed, she kissed him again, passionately, her hands framing his face, and they were lost – she was lost – they had turned around over somehow, he was against the wall now, they couldn't stop kissing and his hands were – everywhere – hers were too – she kissed his neck, bit his neck, he muttered something, then did the same thing to her – she tried to unbutton his shirt to – and ripped it – seriously, the buttons just – "Oh my God I'm so sorry" she stuttered, but he didn't care – didn't stop – they didn't stop – and it became a little – it became very – "wait, wait," she breathed, he stopped, he was red, disheveled, she certainly was too – she looked around – "here," dragging him in the empty conference room on the left – he began kissing her again the moment the door closed, there was a long grey conference table and somehow a fraction of second later they were on it – well she was on the table, he was – taking her dress down – ripping it a little on the process, revealing her bra, then her breasts, "it's only fair," he whispered, she laughed, while he was kissing her nipples and becoming a little crazy, but then so was she, she pulled him on the table with her just to feel his weight – and, ok, it was not sophisticated sex, you don't have sophisticated sex on a conference table in a room with only one unlocked door separating you from an hotel hall, he just – a few moments later she found herself sitting on the edge of the table while he penetrated her and she was holding to him like dear life, her face was burrowed on his shoulder and he was whispering things in her ear – she had no idea what – it didn't last long, but it was – just – so – yes, ladies and gentleman, sex is a great way to work out anger and to – to feel skin and heat and break barriers – and – to look at each other with nothing in your eyes but truth – no lie no pretense – no irony – to feel so safe and warm and – then they stayed unmoving in each other arms, for a long time, in a very scandalous and vaguely ridiculous state of undress.

"We didn't rent Pemberley from the Moretti," he whispered, in her ear, after a good minute. "They rented it. It's mine. Well, it belongs to my family – it has, for three generations."

Elizabeth laughed slowly, her face still hidden on his shoulder.

"Oh – of course. Of course, you'd have a mansion in Tuscany." She kissed him, softly, just below the ear. "Why was this information important just now?"

"I don't… know… Does it… Does our arrangement still hold?" His voice was almost shy. "Coffee? In Chicago?"

"Yes," she breathed, "Unless you've changed your mind?"

He had a short, strained laugh. "No. No, I haven't." He pulled back to look at her – to caress her face – his expression was serious.

"I just feel very silly," she admitted, (her face all red, of course – you know, the afterglow – on her, it was just – woosh,) "I mean, I just said – I just made that long speech – about how romantic and serious I was and how it took me a long time to – you know – and then…"

"Sure, yes, you're easy," he commented. "That is what I think of you now. You're easy to get. I've loved you for a year and a half – and after, what, months, of you hating me, a scathing rejection, one interminable e-mail, and two passionate declarations of love, I finally got you. That was definitely easy."

She kissed him, languorously – they both got a little lost in it – then, "Oh my God!" she cried, reality crashing down on her, "The plane! And my aunt will be back – and my dress is completely…"

She jumped down on the floor, good thing she had her suitcase in the lounge, then tried to smooth down her hair, protesting: "Two passionate declarations? I just remember the one."

He grabbed her by the waist and held her close – she felt his heart beating – then kissed her neck with so much tenderness, before he whispered, his voice breaking a little: "Just wait."