Disclaimer: I don't own the works of Jane Austin, Joss Whedon, or the poem by Spike.
Despite what Elizabeth believed, George Wickham had every intention of marrying Lydia Bennet. They had fled Brighton together and descended on London together. He in his red coat and she in her muff and bonnet, they were ready to catch the next coach going to Gretna Green. However, the stars were not with the young couple as they sought to run away together.
Miss Lydia had chosen too handsome a man to take into the dark London streets, but she was a foolish girl. Never had she paid any heed to any warnings from anyone. She laughed too loudly and flirted too forwardly and she walked in dark alleys with nary a cross about her person.
And so, on their first night in London, the fair young maiden’s virtue was much intact, but the handsome young man’s soul was unfortunately, not.
As they walked through the alley, neither bothered to lower his or her voice, both had had perhaps a little too much wine with dinner. George was serenading his young bride to be with the poetry he had worked on. It was a secret no one had known about, especially not that nosey Darcy, and he felt such love for his soon to be young wife he just had to explain his love through prose.
“Lydia, my darling, you know I love you… right?” Wickham looked into his angel’s eyes as he spoke.
“Oh George, of course you love me! Everyone does, and I’m not just saying that either! Why just last week Denny was telling me-”
“Forget him, my sweet, I love you.” He looked more earnest than any who knew him would give him credit for. “I wrote you a poem, and well… I want to get it published. I already have some other poems in a little book, and I was going to have it done under an assumed name. I was thinking William, its not like Darcy ever uses it, and then we will have money for our new life!” Wickham trailed off, looking into space and thinking about all the changes about to come. Oh, he couldn’t wait, new wife, new carrier, and rubbing it in that lousy Darcy’s face in it when Poor old George had all the money.
“Oh!” Lydia squealed at the thought, “My Mr. Wickham, famous! Why I can hardly breath it puts me into such a state just thinking about it. Why none of my sisters will have famous husbands, that is if they get husbands at all, the boring old maids. Wait till all my friends hear about my famous-”
“No! Lydia, darling, you couldn’t tell them!” George pleaded with his lovely, darling Lydia. “The point of the other name is so no one knows its me!”
“Don’t be silly George.” Here, the couple blushed at each other. It was the first time Lydia had used her dear Mr. Wickham’s first name. “Eh-hem, George, there is no reason not to tell the family and a few close acquaintances. After all, what is the point in fame if no one knows about it?”
“My dear,” Wickham looked deeply into his darling Lydia’s eyes, “No one knows of this but you. It is all for you, every line. But if it gets us money, we can live better than we can on a soldier’s salary. After all, I still want to put you up in the custom you are accustomed to, but I only have what I have earned from the sweat of my brow. My dearest, after Darcy cheated me of my inheritance…”
“My dear Mr. Wickham, don’t speak of that horrid man! But surly a few
of our friends could know?” Lydia rather liked the idea of one-upping her sisters not only in having the first marriage of them all, but also marrying a famous man.
“Oh Lydia,” George sighed, knowing she could never keep a secret from her sisters. No, his Lydia was such an open, honest girl. “You may share with your sisters, but we shall keep the secret of William the poet between us.” George looked deeply into Lydia’s eyes and recited:
“ My heart expands,
'tis grown a bulge in it,
Inspired by your beauty...
As Lydia drew breath to deeply praise her romantic lover, a voice interrupted their moment.
“More like William the bloody awful poet if you ask me” A tall man stood flanked by two women, hookers most likely based on their attire.
“Oh father, let me keep him!” The brunet sighed with bulging eyes, “He is so pretty.”
“Now Drusilla,” The blonde woman scolded, “A sap like him does not a good Childe make.”
“Oh but the stars like this one,” ‘Drusilla’ continued.
Wickham stepped in front of the lovely, innocent
, Miss Bennet, “No one needs to be kept by anyone.”
“Ah look, he does have a back bone,” The blonde one drawled. The group of three continued to close in on the handsome young man.
“This may hurt a little bit my pretty,” Drusilla murmured like a lover into Wickham’s ear.
“Stay away!” Lydia found her voice and opened her mouth in time to be splattered as another woman violently kissed the throat of her love. Wickham’s knee’s collapsed and the freakish woman held him up in one hand, eagerly sucking the lifeblood out of him. Lydia did not know what to do; she had never encountered such horror. She whimpered and then realized she really didn’t love Mr. Wickham enough to die for him. She felt slightly guilty running, but as much as she seemed empty headed, Lydia had never been one to risk her life for anyone.
If the others realized the supposed lover of their prey was escaping they didn’t care. No one chased Lydia as she ran back to the carriage house. Wiping the blood onto a filthy towel, the remaining red served to brighten her cheeks. Lydia paid for passage back to Loungbourne and never spoke of what took place.
George Wickham woke without a soul and remembered himself only as William, a stronger man who wouldn’t get caught up in a pretty face. He didn’t speak of his poetry or his love affair with Lydia Bennet, she had fooled him and left him. He would be a strong independent man from now on… He thought as he followed Drusilla into his new life.