20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI9VDI811pDDecember crawled by slowly, grey and cold, but gradually something in the house began to change.
James hadn't healed one couldn't heal from a broken heart in a couple of weeks. But he began to function. He worked even harder, conducted workshop after workshop, answered messages, planned new projects. His scent was still bitter, but the acacia began to smell stronger, more confident.
"I won't let him steal my life," he said one morning at breakfast. "He took my heart. But my work, my dreams, my future he won't take those."
Mrs. Bennet stopped lamenting about lost opportunities. Partly because she saw how much James was suffering. Partly because Christmas was approaching, and she always transformed for the holidays.
The house began to fill with the smells of baking, pine, tangerines. Mother forced everyone to help with decorations. Kit and Lloyd threw themselves into it enthusiastically,for them it was perfect content. They filmed the process of decorating the tree, wrapping gifts, baking cookies, commenting on everything in their ironic style.
"This is what Christmas looks like in a ruined estate!" Lloyd announced to the camera, panning across the sitting room where half the decorations were old and worn. "Vintage, baby! Authentic!"
"Lloyd!" Mother shouted. "Put that thing away!"
But he only laughed, his scent of strawberries and spray paint so carefree and alive.
Michael announced he'd found documentary proof that their great-great-great-grandmother was a third cousin to some earl. No one listened, but he was happy, surrounded by his papers and genealogical trees, emanating the scent of wormwood and parchment.
Even Father emerged from his study more often than usual. One evening Elliot found him in the sitting room silently helping Mother hang garlands. His scent of cold Earl Grey was softer, warmer.
"Father?" Elliot said in surprise.
Mr. Bennet silently pointed at Mother, who stood by the stairs with her hands on her hips and a meaningful look.
"Strategic retreat," he explained. "Sometimes it's easier to hang garlands than listen to a lecture about family spirit."
A pause. Then he added more quietly:
"James will survive. He's stronger than he seems. You all are. Even when you don't feel it."
Elliot nodded, feeling unexpected warmth in his chest.
***
A week before Christmas Elliot met Wickham at their usual coffee shop. George was in high spirits, his scent of fresh bergamot and warm cedar mixing with the smell of the peppermint latte he'd ordered.
"You look better," he observed as they settled at their table by the window. "Less... gloomy."
"Christmas is coming," Elliot shrugged. "Hard to stay gloomy when Mother makes you bake gingerbread cookies at three in the morning."
Wickham laughed, and the sound was so light and warm that Elliot smiled involuntarily in response.
"Speaking of Christmas," George pulled a small box from his pocket, wrapped in simple but elegant paper. "For you. Early Christmas."
Elliot blinked.
"George, you didn't have to..."
"But I wanted to," Wickham pushed the box toward him. "Open it."
Elliot carefully unwrapped the paper and opened the box. Inside, on a velvet backing, lay an antique fountain pen, clearly vintage, with engraving on the metal body.
"George," Elliot breathed. "This is too much..."
"I saw it at a flea market and immediately thought of you," Wickham smiled. "You work with history, with archives. It seemed to me that this pen... it belongs to someone who values the past. Who understands its importance."
Elliot carefully took the pen from the box. It was heavy, cold, and perfectly balanced. On the body was engraved a date: 1923, and initials he couldn't make out.
And no visions.
He was touching an antique object, but his gift was silent. As always with Wickham. As always with everything connected to him.
"Thank you," Elliot said quietly. "This is... this is really special."
"For a special person," Wickham answered simply.
Something in his tone made Elliot look up. George was looking at him so... warmly. So sincerely. Without hints of romance or pressure. Just friendly affection and genuine respect.
"You know," Elliot said slowly, "you're one of the few people I'm really comfortable with."
"The feeling's mutual," Wickham sipped his latte. "Ellie, I wanted to tell you something. And please don't take this as pressure or an attempt to get something from you. It's just... I value our friendship. Very much. You're one of the few people who sees me not as 'a poor alpha without connections' or 'an alpha who lost something,' but just... me. George."
Elliot felt warmth spreading through his chest.
"Same here," he said. "With you I can be myself. Without masks. Without fear of being judged for being... strange."
"You're not strange," Wickham said firmly. "You're unique. And anyone who doesn't see that is an idiot."
They smiled at each other, and in that moment Elliot realized he'd found something rare. True friendship. Someone who accepted him without conditions.
And that was more important than any romantic attraction.
***
The town's Christmas event was scheduled for December twenty-third, two days before the holiday itself. It was an annual Meryton tradition: a fair on the main square decorated with thousands of lights, with music, mulled wine, roasted chestnuts, and the general atmosphere of celebration.
Mrs. Bennet announced that the whole family had to go. Everyone. No exceptions.
"It's Christmas!" she declared. "We need to show that the Bennet family isn't broken! That we're still here, still strong!"
"Mother, it's just a fair," Elliot tried to object.
"It's a symbol!" She wouldn't listen. "You'll all dress nicely, comb your hair, and smile!"
Even Father didn't dare object.
***
The evening was frosty but starry. The moon hung over the square like a huge silver disk. The smell of pine, cinnamon, and roasted almonds mixed with the scents of the crowd of hundreds who'd gathered at the fair, and the air was thick with their presence.
The Bennet family arrived all together, a rare sight. Mrs. Bennet glowed in a new coat she'd bought especially for the occasion, her cloying aroma mixed with expensive perfume she'd also saved. Father walked beside her, his face expressing stoic patience. James kept slightly apart, his scent of acacia calm but still bitter. Michael muttered something to himself about the dating of Christmas traditions. Kit and Lloyd were already filming everything, their scents bright spots in the general cacophony.
And Elliot walked last, his scent of bitter chocolate and smoke muted, almost imperceptible. He'd pulled on a long dark scarf, hiding in it like a cocoon.
The square was packed. Music played from speakers, children shrieked, adults laughed. Lights flickered everywhere: on trees, on stalls, on the tree itself in the center of the square, huge and majestic.
"Elliot!" Mother's voice cut through the noise. "Come to the tree! Mr. Wickham promised to meet us there!"
Elliot nodded and followed his family to the center of the square where the huge fir tree towered, still unlit.
***
George Wickham was already waiting for them, his scent of bergamot and cedar fresh among the chaos of other smells. He wore a dark green coat and knitted hat, his cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes shining.
"Ellie! Mrs. Bennet!" He waved to them. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come!"
"Of course we came!" Mrs. Bennet practically beamed. "How could we miss such an event?"
They gathered by the tree, Wickham standing beside Elliot.
"How are you?" he asked quietly.
"Fine," Elliot shrugged. "Christmas madness in full swing."
"That's good," Wickham smiled. "You need more moments like this. Fewer dark thoughts."
Elliot wanted to respond, but at that moment the music died, and a voice announced over the microphone:
"Ladies and gentlemen! In one minute we'll light our main tree! Get ready!"
The lights on the tree went out, leaving the square in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon and lanterns around the perimeter. Someone began the countdown:
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
Voices joined in, growing louder:
"Seven! Six! Five!"
Elliot felt a strange tension in the air. Something was changing, shifting. His instincts, usually dulled, suddenly sharpened.
"Four! Three! Two!"
And in that moment he felt it.
A wave of scent that cut through all the other smells like a knife through butter.
Aged whiskey with notes of smoke and oak barrel. Damp earth after rain. Dark honey.
Darcy.
"One! Merry Christmas!"
The tree burst into thousands of lights, and the crowd erupted in applause.
"Ellie, wait here a second," Wickham said. "I'll get mulled wine for us. Want some?"
Elliot nodded, unable to speak. Wickham disappeared into the crowd.
And then Elliot slowly turned his head.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood several meters from him, at the edge of the crowd. He wore a long dark coat, a scarf carelessly wrapped around his neck. His face was lit by the reflection of thousands of lights. Grey eyes looked directly at him.
And his scent... God, his scent.
The whiskey became scorching, the oak notes warmed, the damp earth came alive after the first drops of rain. And honey. Dark, thick honey emerged through everything else, so sweet and desperate that Elliot felt his breath catch.
Darcy took a step forward.
Then another.
The crowd around them danced, laughed, celebrated the lights, but for Elliot there existed only this man approaching him with an expression he couldn't read.
Darcy stopped a pace away. Silent. Just looking, and in his eyes was so much pain, hope, desperation that Elliot couldn't breathe.
"Mr. Bennet," Darcy finally said, and his voice was hoarse, as though each word came with difficulty. "Please... hear me out. Just for a minute."
Elliot wanted to run. Wanted to turn and disappear into the crowd. But his legs wouldn't obey.
Darcy took another step, and now only a few centimeters separated them. Elliot felt the warmth of his body, saw every detail of his face. Sharp cheekbones. Tense jaw. Grey eyes reflecting thousands of lights.
"I need to..." Darcy stumbled, clenched his fists as though trying to find the right words. "God, I've rehearsed this hundreds of times, and now... now everything I want to say seems insufficient."
His hand rose, slowly, uncertainly, and his fingers touched Elliot's arm.
The touch.
And the world exploded.
A wave of emotions crashed over Elliot with such force he choked. Not visions. Not images. Only pure, raw, primal emotions. And thoughts fierce, desperate, naked thoughts:
'Finally. God, finally I can touch him.'
He's not pulling away. Why isn't he pulling away? Is there a chance?
I think about him every second. Every damned second since that ball.
How to explain? How to say I can't breathe without him? That I'd do anything if only he didn't hate me?
'He's mine. God, how I want him. My omega. I feel it with everything, every instinct. Want to hold him close and never let go. But he looks at me with hatred...'
Please. Just don't leave. One more minute. Give me one more minute.
Darcy's other hand rose, trembling, and his fingers touched Elliot's cheek. So gently, so carefully, as though afraid Elliot would disappear.
"Elliot," he whispered, and the name sounded like a prayer, like a confession, like a plea.
Their faces were centimeters apart. Elliot saw how Darcy's pupils dilated, how his breathing quickened. Felt the heat of his palm on his cheek. Was drowning in the grey ocean of his eyes.
Kiss me, the thought flickered, and Elliot couldn't tell whose it was. His? Darcy's? Both?
And everything inside him was screaming. One half in terror, demanding flight. The other half... the other half wanted closer. Wanted to close this tiny distance. Wanted...
If I kiss him now, he'll push me away. Or... or won't he? God, I'm going mad. Just one touch. Only one...
Darcy leaned closer. His lips were millimeters from Elliot's lips. The scent of whiskey and honey enveloped everything, flooded all thoughts, all doubts...
"ELLIOT!" Mrs. Bennet's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "ELLIOT, WHERE ARE YOU?! WE NEED TO TAKE A PHOTO!"
Elliot jerked as though shocked.
The magic shattered.
Reality flooded back: music, laughter, lights, crowd.
And the realization that he'd just been a second away from kissing a man he was supposed to hate.
"I... I need to..." Elliot yanked his hand from Darcy's palm and stepped back, his heart pounding so fiercely it seemed about to leap from his chest.
"Elliot, wait..." Darcy reached out, his face so confused, so defenseless.
"ELLIOT!" Mother appeared from the crowd, her scent of fruity perfume suffocating. "There you are! We've been looking everywhere for you! Come on, we need to take a family photo by the tree!"
She grabbed his elbow and dragged him away, not even noticing Darcy standing in the shadows.
Elliot looked back over his shoulder.
Darcy stood motionless, his hand still extended as though still holding Elliot. His face was absolutely shattered. In his grey eyes splashed such pain that Elliot felt physical pain in his chest.
Then the crowd closed between them, and Darcy disappeared from sight.
***
"Smile!" Mrs. Bennet commanded when they gathered by the tree. "Like we're happy!"
"We are happy, Mother," James said quietly, and in his voice was something new. Determination? "Or at least we will be."
Elliot tried to smile, but his face wouldn't obey. His hands trembled. His cheek still burned where Darcy's fingers had touched it. And in his head those thoughts spun, so desperate, so fierce:
'I want him. He's mine. How can I be without him?'
"Ellie, you're pale as death," James whispered beside him. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Elliot croaked. "Just... too many people. Stuffy."
Flash. Click. A moment captured forever.
Seven people standing together under the Christmas tree. Not perfect. Not wealthy. But together.
***
When the photo was taken, Elliot immediately stepped away from his family.
"Hey," Wickham appeared beside him with two cups of mulled wine. "Sorry that took so long. The line was huge. You..." He froze, studying Elliot's face. "Ellie, are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I..." Elliot took the cup, his hand shaking so badly the liquid sloshed. "Darcy was here. He... we talked."
Wickham's face instantly darkened. The bergamot in his scent turned sharp, the cedar acquired a prickliness, the metallic note emerged brightly.
"What did he say to you?"
"Nothing specific," Elliot shook his head, trying to dispel the remnants of those emotions still pulsing beneath his skin. "Mother interrupted us. But George..." He looked at his friend. "Let's just leave here. Please."
"Of course," Wickham didn't ask more. He took Elliot by the elbow and led him away from the crowd, toward the quieter alleys between stalls.
But even leaving, Elliot felt a gaze on his back. Heavy and burning, full of unspoken words.
He didn't look back.
Was afraid that if he did, he wouldn't be able to leave.
***
They stopped in a quiet alley between two rows of stalls. The music and noise of the crowd were muffled here, almost distant.
"Sorry," Elliot finally exhaled. "I just... wasn't expecting to see him. Wasn't ready."
"You don't need to apologize," Wickham put a hand on his shoulder. "Ellie, what did he say to you? Something... bad?"
Elliot shook his head.
"No. He said... that he needed to tell me many things." He didn't mention the touch. Didn't mention those thoughts he'd heard. Didn't mention how close they'd been to kissing. "But it doesn't matter. Whatever he wanted to say, it doesn't change what he did. To James. To you."
To you, echoed in his head, and Elliot remembered Wickham's words about a destroyed life, stolen inheritance, betrayed hopes.
"You're right," Wickham nodded, the bergamot slowly returning to normal. "Words mean nothing. Only actions matter. And his actions speak for themselves."
They stood in silence for several minutes, sipping mulled wine, until Elliot's breathing evened and his heart stopped racing.
"Shall we go back?" Wickham finally asked. "Or do you want to go home?"
"No," Elliot straightened his shoulders. "I won't let him ruin my evening. Let's go back."
They returned to the square. The Bennet family had already scattered to different stalls. Mrs. Bennet was examining decorations, Father stood by a book stand, Kit and Lloyd were filming street musicians.
"Mr. Wickham!" Mother noticed them and waved. "Come here! We're going to take another photo! A family one!"
"With pleasure, Mrs. Bennet," Wickham smiled.
"You're practically family!" she declared, and Elliot felt himself flush. "So kind to my boys! Especially to Elliot!"
They gathered by the tree again. Wickham stood beside Elliot, putting a hand on his shoulder in a friendly gesture. Lloyd set the timer.
"Smile!" Mother commanded.
Click.
Another moment captured forever.
And in that moment Elliot felt it again. A wave of scent cutting through the air.
Whiskey. Damp earth.
But this time cold and sharp. Almost aggressive.
He turned, scanning the crowd.
Elliot saw him.
Darcy stood at the edge of the square, in the shadow of one of the stalls. His face was absolutely motionless, but in his eyes...
Fury. Cold, controlled, but absolute.
Darcy wasn't looking at Elliot.
He was looking at Wickham.
And in that gaze was such hatred that Elliot involuntarily stepped back.
Then Darcy shifted his gaze to him. Their eyes met. And for a fraction of a second Elliot saw something else besides fury in them.
Pain.
Deep, crushing pain.
Elliot quickly looked away, pretending he hadn't noticed. Pretended to examine the stall with decorations nearby.
But his hands trembled.
His heart raced.
And in his head one thought spun: Why are you looking at me as though I hurt you? You have no right...
"Ellie?" Wickham touched his arm, concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Darcy," Elliot whispered. "He was standing there. Watching us..." He didn't know how to explain that look. That cold fury in grey eyes mixed with something like pain.
Wickham's face darkened.
"Watching. As always. He likes to control, to know where everyone is, what they're doing. It's part of his nature."
Elliot didn't respond.
When he looked back at that spot, Darcy was already gone.
Only the trail of whiskey and damp earth dissolving in the cold air.
***
They stayed at the fair another hour. Bought roasted chestnuts, hot chocolate, several Christmas decorations. Mrs. Bennet was delighted, chattering nonstop. Father was silent but his presence was calming.
James stayed close to Elliot, and several times Elliot caught his concerned gaze.
"Are you sure you're all right?" his brother asked quietly when they stepped away from the others.
"Yes," Elliot lied. "Just tired."
James didn't believe him but didn't insist.
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***
When the family returned home, it was already late. Everyone dispersed to their rooms, tired but content.
Elliot sat by his bedroom window looking at the stars. In his hands he held the pen Wickham had given him. He turned it between his fingers, studying the engraving.
'1923.'
Almost a hundred years ago someone had held this pen, written letters with it, documents, perhaps declarations of love. And now it was here, in his hands. A connection to the past.
His phone buzzed.
A message. From an unknown number.
Elliot frowned and opened it.
'Dear Ellie,
Wishing you a Merry Christmas. I hope you'll spend it in warmth surrounded by family, and that this holiday brings you at least some peace after everything that's happened these past months.
I'm writing not only with greetings but also with an invitation.
William and I have settled into a small cottage near Rosings Park, the estate of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, my husband's patroness, where William serves as clergyman at the local church, and I keep house and... exist.
Life here is quiet. Comfortable. But very, very lonely.
I know we've barely communicated since the wedding, and I feel guilty about that. I miss our conversations. Your mind, your honesty, your ability to see the real me.
Would you agree to visit us in spring? Late March or early April, when the weather gets warmer? I would be incredibly glad of your company. I really need a friend here.
I should warn you: sometimes Rosings Park is visited by Lady Catherine's nephew, the well-known Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. He usually comes to his aunt precisely at this time of year. I understand this could be... awkward, given the situation with your brother.
But I very much hope that by the time you arrive, he'll have already left. Or won't appear at all this year.
Please, think about it. Our friendship is important to me. You're important to me.
With respect and hope,
Sher
P.S. William also wishes you Merry Christmas and sends greetings. He wants you to know you'll be a welcome guest in our home.'
Elliot reread the message three times.
Sher. His friend who now lived under de Bourgh patronage an influential family with suspicious connections. Elliot had little doubt they were connected to the Department of Genetic Anomalies. And they were interested in him. Had specifically wanted him to marry William.
And Darcy might be there.
I should refuse, Elliot thought. This is madness. Spend weeks at an estate where lives a man I'm supposed to hate? Where Lady Catherine rules, who wanted me to marry William? Where there could be danger for me and my gift?
But then he remembered Sher. His only true friend who had sacrificed himself for survival. Who was now alone in a place where no one understood him, saw him, valued him.
I really need a friend here.
Elliot closed his eyes.
He knew what he had to do.
Even if it was madness.
Even if it would put him face to face with a man who destroyed everything he touched.
Even if it was dangerous.
He opened his eyes and began typing a response:
'Dear Sher,
I'll come. Late March, if that works for you.
For you, anything.
Ellie'
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He hit send before he could change his mind.
And felt something shift. As though he'd just taken a step toward the edge of a cliff, not knowing what waited below.
A fall or flight.
Outside the window stars twinkled with cold light, indifferent to human fears and hopes.
And somewhere out there, in the darkness of night, Fitzwilliam Darcy stood by the window of his London townhouse looking at those same stars.
His scent of whiskey and damp earth was cold, controlled.
But beneath the surface raged a storm.
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and then Add to home screen.