There was something about long walks that made Lizzie's world seem a little less bleak. She loved the way her shoes against the pavement and the beat of the music in her earbuds fell into perfect rhythm to carry her block after block. To melt her into the background of a sea of faces.
She easily maneuvered around lost tourists crowding the walk, and avoided asshole locals on Segway Scooters. She turned the volume up on Elliott Smith to drown out catcallers.
And for the twenty minutes it took for her to reach Chili's and the start of another regretfully employed day, Lizzie was just another face in a sea of faces briefly not dwelling on her problems.
"I said no gravy on these mashed potatoes, and they're slathered! I asked for steamed vegetables and these aren't steamed enough. And this steak…"
"I'm really sorry sir-"
From across the room a brief look of solidarity passed between Lizzie and her best friend, Charlotte.
"This is not medium-rare."
It was only 11am and the next eight hours already carried a distinctly shitty tone.
"What's his problem?" Lizzie asked over the punch of the timeclock.
"Overall," Charlotte began as she breezed into the back office, "a feeling of powerlessness in his day to day. With the meal? He asked for 'no gravy' on his mashed potatoes."
Lizzie Bennet and Charlotte Lucas met as a couple of twenty year old struggling actresses up for the part of 'Patient #3' in a class action lawsuit commercial (the part and recognition ultimately going to Charlotte "hey! aren't you that girl with mesothelioma?") The second Lizzie leaned over to let a panicking Charlotte read off of her script a friendship was born- the type which might've included handmade bracelets and yearbooks with BFF scrawled across their respective photos had they still been in high school. Instead they accompanied one another on auditions which varied between a total waste of time and a complete waste of time. With neither one of them burning up a screen big or small, the natural next step was to take a server job like all struggling actors to come before them.
When Charlotte grew tired of living with her head in the clouds and cockroaches in her apartment she simultaneously enrolled in the Chili's management program and moved in with Lizzie and Jane.
Lizzie, on the other hand, wasn't so quick in letting her dreams die.
"So you were knocked out when I got home last night, did you see Darcy?"
"I did." Lizzie pinned her name tag on with a sigh.
"And?" Charlotte asked excitedly. "What did he say?"
"He's a clown," she said throwing open the office door.
"Lizzie, there's a guy here to see you. He's waiting in your section."
Standing awkwardly near a booth Fitzwilliam looked like a lamb at the slaughter. The planes of his face set themselves into their familiar emotionless state, but fear was apparent in his eyes. Lizzie could spot it even from her hiding place between the register and the kitchen.
"Speak of the devil," she mumbled at Charlotte.
"Give him a chance, Lizzie." Charlotte grinned. "Walk a mile in his clown shoes before you judge."
As she approached him, Fitzwilliam's gaze traveled to Lizzie from a collection of license plates and photos of The Rat Pack on the wall.
"You work here?" he blurted and Lizzie's eyes rolled at the twinge of disapproval.
"No, I'm undercover."
Fitzwilliam looked down at his shoes. "Listen, I'm-"
"Do you wanna sit?" She gestured towards the booth. "It's just a chain restaurant I promise you can't become middle class from touching anything."
He pursed his lips, wiped the seat with a napkin and slid to the far corner of the booth.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," he said as Lizzie settled across from him.
"Cool."
"And I'm sorry about giving you a number for Panda Express."
"Even better."
Fitzwilliam cleared his throat and let awkward silence hang in the air.
"For real, apology accepted. But I'm kinda busy, so if that's all you wanted Darcy-"
"Actually," he began dropping his voice and leaning in, "would you meet me tonight to talk about things?"
Lizzie narrowed her eyes. "Meet you where?"
"Come to my office- I'll send a car. And bring your lawyer."
"My what?"
**
Fourteen hours ago while in the back of a blacked out SUV, Fitzwilliam Darcy devised a plan of sorts. Construction on the 405 gave him time to stop thinking long enough for the hints of a solution to spark at the very back of his brain; as his driver desperately searched for an exit that wasn't closed, Fitzwilliam realized there was currently a small and rather controllable number of people that knew the truth of his situation.
Lizzie Bennet didn't have to be his third strike of bad press. Not necessarily.
As his driver swore at a group of hard hats blocking off Mulholland, Fitzwilliam realized he had quite the window of opportunity to control the narrative from the start. He didn't have to end up tossed out on his ass and a laughingstock in Mykonos (he hated Mykonos anyway.)
Not when he could look like a man straightened up by the power of love.
"I caught a red-eye from Tokyo because you can't wear a condom?"
At 4pm Pacific Charlie stood in the middle of Fitzwilliam's livingroom with his bright red hair perfectly tousled, angular jaw covered in stubble, and bags under his eyes.
"How was Japan?" Fitzwilliam attempted a smile.
"You're an asshole, Darcy." Charlie maneuvered around his bags to flop down on the couch. "I like Jane a lot…"
"Oh, you still talk to her?"
"...her sister means the world to her, you dickhead," Charlie snapped and propped his feet on the coffee table. "And if you try to intimidate Lizzie or railroad her, I'll break your entire face."
"I don't want to intimidate Lizzie," Fitzwilliam said shoving Charlie's feet to the side. "I want to marry Lizzie."