Author: Regency

Title: A Lifetime Guarantee

Pairing: Bridget Jones/Mark Darcy

Rating: G/Everyone

Warnings: None

Summary: (Spoilers for BJB.) The father of Bridget's child is revealed! But can she love him? Can they get it right? [Of course they can.]

Prompt: A fic in which Bridget gets told that Mark is Will's father

Author's Note: Come flail with me on Tumblr at sententiousandbellicose!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, settings, or plot elements recognizable as being from any incarnation of the Bridget Jones series by Helen Fielding. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun. The title is from the song "Babyfather" by Sade.

Bridget rocks her son slowly, humming a tune to soothe herself and to keep her mother from remarking too much on the night's events. Pam Jones had emerged victorious in the Parish Council election and didn't even get to deliver her victory speech. Bridget, her father, and her assembled friends become her captive audience.

It's a rousing speech softly spoken so as not to disturb the baby and Bridget is happy to leave her mother to it. She's got just about her whole world swaddled in her arms; nothing can unsettle her. No more 'when in heaven's name are you going to make me a grandmother, you aren't getting any younger' rants for me.

Bridget has it all. She has the baby she's dreamed of since her first negative pregnancy test. He doesn't have a name yet as she wants his father to have his input, though she has her heart set on one in particular. He looks–well, he's perfect in Bridget's eyes. Still pink and chubby cheeked. Quiet now he's been fed. He's a puzzle piece slid into place. She contends even now that she was perfectly happy before when she was on her own, but she can't deny she's happier than she was.

Hello, William, she thinks. He seems like a William. She hopes his father will like it. William Qwant. She grins. Sounds like the founding father of a country. William Darcy. She sobers. In all their hopeful pillow talks about what they might name their children were they blessed to have any, she hadn't mentioned that name. Mark would have laughed, meaning no harm, he never did, but she loved the name. She loves the name. For the literary reference, first; Fitzwilliam Darcy was a prideful but ultimately good man who offended his true love and only in eschewing his pride, his classist prejudices regained her good opinion. But more so she loved it for what it represented in Mark, his strength, his love, his brilliance, his steadfast and indomitable spirit. Those are the facets of him she still loves best, the ones she'd want her son to inherit if it were down to her to pick them out by hand.

Mark and Jack haven't returned yet. It's been over an hour. Bridget's earlier research into genetic testing tells her it's come a long way since the 90′s. Paternity can be established in a matter of hours under the right circumstances. In a hospital with a ready lab and physician in wait, the circs are ideal. In their case, it could already be established and she simply hasn't been told. They'd tell me, wouldn't they? I'd have to know. They couldn't just keep me in the dark.

She hugs her baby close to kiss his tiny button nose. He has her nose.

The more she looks at her son, the more she recognizes what her mother meant when she fleetingly mentioned the baby favoring one man more than the other. But he's a baby. Babies are just adorable blobs that smell of goodness and talcum powder. They don't look like much of anything, do they? She's mostly sure she's seeing things when she recognizes the expressions he makes in his sleep.

Nevertheless, she lightly traces her son's pronounced, dimpled chin, curious. His thin baby lips sit pursed, suckling intermittently at nothing in memory of his last feeding. She checks the clock. He'll have to have another go in twenty minutes. Time enough, she hopes, to see who she's to share this perfect creature with for the rest of her life. His cheekbones are more like her own, she decides, high and round. His eyes are a cloudy blue, which tells her less than nothing, really. Most babies begin with bluish-grey eyes. They could change for years yet. The shape of them, though…And the lushness of his dark eyelashes as he dozes.

She frowns, glances at her friends and parents where they converse among themselves, and lets herself really take her son in: He has a firm profile for a newborn. Sober as a judge, strong of jawline and stern right around the mouth. Only his slack brows in repose give him away. Her son is at peace.

A woman who had not passed years waking her exhausted partner with thought vibes might not have recognized him in the childish profile of her infant son. She might have disregarded the thought and sat on tenterhooks wondering what Dr. Rawlings would reveal. She might not have trusted her instincts as Bridget has come to trust her own. That hypothetical woman might have been afraid. But Bridget isn't afraid. Bridget knows. The test is immaterial.

Jack Qwant is a good, funny, extraordinarily sexy man. He's a wonderful lover, which went a long way to easing their transition from one-night shag mates to prospective parents-to-be, but he isn't the right man. The Qwantifier said hey'd have fun together and they did. It said they'd be sexually compatible and they very much were. It said their relationship would be low in conflict because their temperaments are so similar, and in some ways that's true. When they're on the same page, they're golden. Him doting on her and anticipating her needs to ease the worst of her pregnancy symptoms. Him making her laugh when she's ever so sad for reasons best unmentioned. Him taking her shopping for maternity wear that didn't make her look like she'd devoured Big Ben for lunch. When Jack is good he's unbeatable, but when he's wrong she's reminded that she scarcely knows him at all. Her son's father could have been a stranger.

But he isn't. She knows to her bones that he isn't. It's all in her son's face. Her face splits in a smile. He's their son. She kisses his brow in silent glee.

She has the best of all worlds, a beautiful, healthy baby boy and the man she's loved since he confessed that he liked her just as she was. She does have him, she's sure of it. Mark at his most insecure and uncertain is a taciturn, distant figure, more barrister than lover or friend, burying his fears beneath an impenetrable ivory veneer. But Mark when he's made up his mind to dedicate his heart is the most darling, loving man. And Mark loves her. She's convinced now more than ever that he never stopped. Moreover, he loves her son, just the way he is, all because he's hers. Whatever the test might say tonight, or may have said in another life, the truth is undeniable: Mark Darcy is her baby's father.

Her baby couldn't be luckier.

When the prospective fathers return at last, the hospital room drops into oppressive, waiting silence. Even her mother's auto-wittering draws to a halt at the swing of the door. Jack's expression is a good likeness of Mark as his most staid: eyes dark, face drawn, a military man's son to the last. The placidity sits wrong on his kind, rugged face. Like a book she's read before translated into a language she doesn't know. In contrast, Mark is fairly brimming with badly-repressed emotion, his throat visibly working to fill speechless lips.

Neither of them seem capable of saying the words.

Shaz finally cracks, "Well, tell us, for fuck's sake. Who is it?"

The men share a speaking look. One of commiseration, friendship, and respect. Bridget exhales, deeply pleased to realize they just might get out of this without every heart taking a beating.

"Well?" she prompts. She knows in her heart of hearts, of course she knows, but she wants to be right more than she's ever wanted everything. She wants this irrevocable truth with Mark, her Mark, the only Mr. Darcy she still dreams of.

Jack clears his throat, rubbing at the short hairs at the base of his neck, and Mark gives himself a fortifying shake. Then, he shrugs, as though finally embarrassed of the attention, "It's me."

Bridget's shifts, wanting to throw herself into his arms straight away, but her cooing charge and the pull of her stitches stop her in place.

"It's you?" she echoes, disbelieving despite her unshakable belief just minutes before.

He nods. Her parents whoop and hug. Her friends crow their delight. This is the outcome that everyone wanted, bar Jack. Seems like everybody was rooting for us.

Mark hesitates, stands waiting like a man at sentencing. His gaze could melt marble, the warmth of it. But its guardedness sends splinters through her heart. It's then that she realizes Mark has no idea how she feels about the news. He has no clue she's wanted this all along. She's been holding her feelings close to the vest with him, knowing how easy it would be to fall for him again, all while he had one foot out the door. She's been protecting herself and he himself, and in doing so they've largely left each other in the dark. Until he called me his world. She's his world. And he and their son have become hers.

She stems a tide of oncoming tears, but only just. "Get over here and kiss your son hello. And while you're at it, you'd better save a kiss for me."

On reaching her side, Mark nudges back the cap the nurse has topped their son's head with to give him a little kiss. The baby gurgles, waves his small fists at nothing. Mark's expression, already the tenderest she's seen it, manages to soften all the more. Mark Darcy gone gooey for a newborn. Her cheeks ache from grinning too widely. Did she love him this fiercely when they were young? She can't recall a time when loving him felt less than all-consuming.

A flash goes off and they both turn to find everyone's got their mobiles out.

"Sorry," Tom chirps for the lot, "it was just too cute to resist."

Mum harrumphs at Bridget's narrow-eyed glare. "Posterity, Bridget. It'll have to go out in the first Parish newsletter. Did I mention I'll be sending out a newsletter? Electronically, of course. Email, it's the done thing, now, sweetheart. Why didn't you tell me?"

Mark snorts but effects a perfectly polite expression of agreement when all eyes turn to him.

"Guess it just slipped my mind, Mum." Ten years ago, maybe. She's so busy rolling her eyes at her habitually late-adopting mother that she misses the wind-up and only catches the lingering pressure of lips on her skin. Mark is already back to the baby when she looks, testing the strength of his tiny hand (immense), counting his tiny fingernails. Fingernails at birth. Amazing. And toes! Have there ever been a more perfectly formed set of toes? She can see the thoughts flitting through his head. Like a rather more loving Grinch, Bridget's heart grows three sizes looking at him look at their baby boy.

Yet, something niggles at Bridget for the rest of visiting hours. Like a hangnail catching on a thread, something just bothers her till she can think of little else. It isn't until everyone is gone, even Jack with a tearful goodbye and an imprecation to 'bloody well stay in touch' from Mark of all people, that Bridget feels comfortable putting her feelings into words.

"Do you…That is to say, do you still mean….? About what you said earlier?" Do you still want us, both of us. Me and him. His love for the baby is abundantly clear. But is his love for her? Did she see what she wanted to see? Hear what she needed to hear to find the strength to get to the other side?

"That I love you and I love him and I want us to be a family?"

"Mmhmm."

"More than anything." His expression, how he brushes his fingers over her cheek, she's nearly diverted from her question by a rush of affection in answer to his. His hands are gentle as she remembers. That's what makes her withdraw, just a little, not enough to pull the baby from him, just enough for him to know she needs space outside the hypnotic influence of his touch. He gives her space.

"You didn't kiss me like you still loved me."

He chuckles. "Probably best not to do that in a room full of people."

She cocks her head just so. This feels very familiar, doesn't it? Her needing more and letting him slip by with giving her less.

"That's not good enough, Mark."

He looks up from their son to examine her more closely. He should be able to see that she means it. This isn't a joke. This isn't five years ago. His expression tightens. "All right. Tell me what is."

"How do you feel about me? And don't tell me you've already said. Pretend I don't remember." Now that the pressure is off, he has to mean it just as much. Enough to expose himself when they aren't down to the wire. Bridget is done shouldering her uncertainties alone.

"Very well." Mark stands from his bent position at her bedside. He makes abortive attempts to straighten his wrinkled clothing. His eyes flit left and right before settling on hers. She can see he's put his game face on. "I love you. As you were, as you are, as you will be tomorrow and the next day. I want to be with you, not like we used to be, but as we can be. I want to be part of your happiness, as you are part of mine. I used to tell myself that as long as I knew you were out there someplace, happy and well, I could be happy despite us no longer being together. But I'm not willing to be content just sharing this world with you. I want to share a life with you." He pets the top of their snoozing son's head. "I want a family with you. This family. I want you. Just you, however you'll have me."

Mark states his love as he would a case before the High Court, with great conviction, so much that Bridget wonders how she ever believed anything else was true. But then, that wasn't the problem, was it? It wasn't the fact of his love, only its endurance when so much else seemed to take precedence.

"Where do we fall on the list?"

He knows the list. The list she cited when she said goodbye. The To-Do List. The itinerary. The schedule that dictated his days and stole his nights. Bridget cannot abide living at the foot of the list. At this late date, it would be a hardship to even fall in the middle.

"The top."

"Mark-"

He staves off her protests. "I know you don't believe me yet. I haven't exactly made a convincing case of it these past six months, but I will change. Not merely because I can, but because you deserve that. Our family deserves that. I didn't see that before. I didn't see that it was me that put our dreams on a shelf. Not only my dreams but yours, because when you're in a relationship it's both your dreams together that are affected when one won't commit. I've never said this, Bridget, but I'm sorry. I am very sorry for neglecting you, for making you wait in line to have my attention when you should have been first. I know I wasn't very good at it, but I loved you very much. I still do."

His eyes have gone red-rimmed. His nose, the same. His hands are shoved in his pockets, an old courtroom trick he once confessed, to hide how anxious he is. Mark's body language is a nesting doll of tricks meant to disguise how deeply he cares about the outcome of his argument. A loss is one he takes personally, a victory is a relief. That, as most of his professional tics, carries over into the personal realm. She can even hear, in his own voice, the mantra he used to chant to himself before a decision was handed down, 'Please let that be enough.'

She very much wants it to be enough.

"I love you, Mark. I always loved you. When you didn't fight to keep me, I loved you. When you married somebody else, I loved you. When you looked right through me at Daniel's funeral, I still loved you." She lays a hand over her racing heart. Mark's look at her that day had stolen her breath. She'd stubbornly blamed the feeling on grief.

Mark's brow wrinkles, confusion doing nothing to mar his handsomeness. "I never looked through you. I always saw you, regardless of who I was with. I could pick you out of a crowd of blondes."

"Like radar."

"Precisely." He smiles his shyest smile. All of his expressions are like that, like he isn't sure he's allowed to be as pleased as he is and daren't show more for fear of chastisement. Bridget is firmly decided: Their son is never going to Eton.

"I love you and I know you love me. I know you love him. But you have to show it. We have to matter. If we don't, you can't do this to us." 'You can't be there,' she doesn't say. Her son deserves better than what time Mark can spare between playing the hero, but she doesn't know if she can bear denying Mark the child he already loves.

"I will do whatever needs to be done." He gets down on his knees. Not one, both. Were he any shorter he couldn't reach her, but he does all right taking the one hand not occupied holding the baby. Lanky bugger.

"I love you. I don't need anything but for you to be there when I need you. That's all love is, being there, caring."

"I will." He rests his head beside her hip. "Just…don't give up on me."

She brushes her fingers through his hair, gently strokes the vulnerable spot at his crown where it's begun to thin. He presses closer to her. She's not the only one in need of reassurance.

"Never."

She massages the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades till he finally begins to relax into her. This isn't a test. She doesn't want him to live on his guard for the rest of their lives, waiting for her to get fed up and go. She just wants him, as much of him as she can have for as long as she can have him.

He gazes up at her, whiskey brown eyes forlorn and not a little damp yet filled with determination. It's the look of a man unprepared to let go. Different from the man who left without an argument and married another woman.

He kisses her hand, rises to his feet, and kisses her lips. This kiss, tender yet insistent, is overfull with passion restrained. He holds her to his chest, buries his fingers in her hair, slight post-birth grunginess be damned, and kisses her like he is very much considering the logistics of further baby-making in the near future. Ding-dong!

As Mark deepens their kiss to something very inappropriate for company–the tantalizing sweep of his tongue over hers makes her shiver down to her toes–their son begins to squirm in the narrowing space between them, quite upset to find himself squeezed about after his harrowing journey into the world. Mark's lips part from hers with an obscene smack as he scoots back to give the baby room.

"Shit, did I hurt him?" He scratches his cheek, guilty. "Forgot he was down there."

Bridget snorts at his panicked frown. She has to pull him down by his vest for another kiss when she catches a flash of genuine upset at her laughter. She anticipates a lot of this in the months ahead. "It's all right. He's fine. Not even a bit mushed. Have a look."

Mark does. Checks all the fingers and toes and the button nose. Carefully prods the baby's chin and his own with a grumble of "How did I overlook that?" The Darcy chin never lies. Nor the brooding Darcy brow. Though Mark takes issue with his features being designated as the brooding ones of the bunch. Tough. He makes Heathcliff seem lighthearted he's so brooding.

Mark eventually sees the humor in it and decides that their son's innate Darcy-ness shall luckily be balanced out by Bridget's Jones-ness.

"That is not a word."

"Alas, no, but I contend it's a very real phenomenon. Your mother is living proof."

Bridget groans in disbelief. A tiny male Pam Jones. She shudders to think of what Turkey Curry-flavored mischief such a child might cause when he's old enough to shout about putting gravy in the Magimix.

"You must be joking. You can't want William to be anything like my mother."

"No, but I want him to be like you. Positive, outgoing, loving as you. Fun-loving as you. Just like you." He cups her face in his hands. "I love you."

All the endorphins infusing her blood make her feel like she's flying. He makes her feel like that. She's disgustingly happy with the way her life is shaping up. "Just as I am?"

"Just as you are."

This time when he kisses her, he takes care to leave their son undisturbed. Bridget, however, he leaves frustrated, hot, and not a little bothered. It seems Bridget remains a wanton sex goddess with a very bad man between her legs. Or rather she will be again, in about six weeks. Kisses, kisses for days will have to do to tide her over until then.

Mark gives her tired arms, and lips, a rest to walk their son around the room after his next feeding. It's the first time their son has stayed awake for more than a couple of minutes and the men are finally getting acquainted.

"Hello, William. I don't think we've been properly introduced." He lifts the baby to kiss his upturned face. William swats his chubby little arms and Mark laughs, catching a small fist to smooch the back of it. He's glowing with the force of his love. Bridget wishes she had her phone to take a picture of this moment. Note to self: always have mobile on hand to capture precious memories. Very important. "So…I'm your dad."

Mark shushes William's ensuing mewling, "Now now, none of that. Everything's all right." He pats William's bottom uncertainly to check his diaper. "You're dry, I think. You just had a meal and a burp. Are you tired? You've had quite a day." He tucks William in the crook of his arm till he starts to settle. "There you go, all better. Safe as houses, nothing to be scared of." He initiates a cautious bounce and walk that carries him past the foot of the bed to the window and back again. It's the greatest show on Earth and Bridget wouldn't dream of sleeping through it.

"I know I haven't been around much up to now, but that is going to change. You see, I know we've only just met, but you're my top person. You and your mother are the top two. That means nobody's more important than you in the whole world. You might not know how big the world is yet, but take it from your old man, it's pretty big and there are lot of people in it. To say I love you more than all of them is to say I love you very much. I'm going to be around a lot from now on. You'll see."

William seems to find this talk very reassuring, or otherwise quite boring, as he drops off soon after.

Mark rocks him in circle, gazing down at their son with all the love she knew he was capable of even when she couldn't see it.

"William's a good name," he says to finally break the silence.

"I meant to ask what you thought."

"I think if anybody is entitled to naming rights, it's the woman who did the heavy lifting, don't you agree?"

"I just want you to feel included."

"I'm here holding my son. I couldn't feel any more welcome. I don't care if you name him George Wickham; he's perfect and he's our son. Everything else is white noise."

He looks at her, really looks her, and in that look she can see every moment when he must have wanted her when they were apart, every time he awoke expecting to find her in his arms when she wasn't there. Like the rings in the trunk of a tree, she can count the years of wanting her, and the almost overwhelming triumph of getting her back this way out of all possible scenarios. He can't know how much his relief mirrors hers.

"George Wickham Jones-Darcy?" she jibes to lighten the moment.

"Bridget," he admonishes, sounding pained.

"I'm only saying that's a pretty crummy name for such a good baby. He hasn't even despoiled anybody's daughters yet."

Mark's lips curl up in a smile he's trying in vain to fight. "Or sons."

Bridget grins. "Or both. He's got your chin, could be dangerous days ahead. Broken hearts all over the floor, swooning maidens and men thumping at our door."

She loses the battle against an army of yawns and has to blink to fight her watering eyes. If she thought Coachella was a roller coaster for her body, childbirth is an earthquake. She feels like she could sleep for days.

"If that's what we've got to look forward to, you'd better rest up." He brings their son back to her for a goodnight kiss. She gives one to each of them. "Go to sleep, I'll take the next shift."

Bridget scoots down to make herself comfortable in bed. "You really don't mind calling him William?"

He pulls the blankets up over her shoulders. "I love it, darling."

"And me?" She doesn't mean to belabor the point, she just wants him to be sure. She needs him to be.

"Always," he vows with their first (first!) child nestled in his arms. " 'I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.' "

Bridget is going to tell her Mr. Darcy what an unmitigated sap he is to have read Pride & Prejudice after years of refusing, she really is, just as soon as she gets up in the morning. She can't keep her eyes open a moment more. This day feels forty hours long and it must have been at least that long since she last slept. She's knackered. My adorable, ridiculous, wonderful man, she thinks. Much better than the book.

"Sleep well, Bridget. We'll be here when you wake up."

Mark's lips in her hair are the last thing she feels and the peaceful coos of her newborn son are the last sound she hears.

She could get used to falling asleep like this, all sorts of blissful and safe and happy. She likes it very much.