The Space Between
by S. Faith ©2006
Disclaimer: It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.
A look at what might have happened between the end of Bridget Jones' Diary and the beginning of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason.
Part 1
Friday 29 Dec
Stunned did not begin to describe how Bridget Jones felt: Mark Darcy had read that bloody diary, stayed anyway – stayed anyway! – and to top it off, had bought her a new diary. Her senses quickly returned and as she flew across the snow-dusted sidewalk to throw her arms around him, getting up on her toes to bury her face into his neck, she felt as if she might burst with happiness. 'Mmmm,' she thought. He smelled like musk, his cheek ever so slightly scratchy with stubble. Had he come here straight away from the airport? Too good to be true.
She pulled back to look to him and found she couldn't look away, even if she wanted to. Slowly their lips met for the first time. The gentle, tentative kiss quickly turned passionate, even hungry. Raising her hand to his face, she wove her fingers into his hair, then wrapped her arms around his neck. She never would have had the slightest inkling this side of him existed; never had she been kissed so exquisitely or with such evident want. Never. He was no prematurely middle-aged prick, not by a long shot.
"Wait a minute." Bridget heard her own strangely discombobulated voice speak from a million miles away. "Nice boys don't kiss like that." She realized she was grasping his lapels very tightly indeed.
His reply wasn't spoken so much as emanated past his lips in a low, guttural rumble, only the most miniscule hint of his cultured veneer remaining: "Oh yes, they fucking do." There was a beat during which she struggled to believe she'd heard those words come from his mouth, but as her lips met with his again, coherent thought all but ceased. Standing there in the middle of a snow flurry, she didn't care that her bottom was only covered with the tiniest knickers she owned, nor did she care that old lady passers-by were staring at said bottom.
Soon she found herself enveloped within the warmth of his coat, and she slipped her hands across the cotton of his turtleneck to wrap her arms around his waist. He continued to kiss her, still holding on to that diary, stopping only to breathe warmly (and rapidly) into her ear. "Perhaps your flat would be better suited for this."
"Yes," she managed, resting her temple against his chin, feeling her teeth involuntarily chattering. She couldn't agree more.
He kept her within the cocoon of his coat as they walked the interminably long block back. As they approached the building, she noticed that the oddball neighbour she had encountered on her way out of her building (sporting the most disreputable black and red plaid cap ever to exist) still stood by the front of the building, and now he let her back in, presenting her with a thumbs-up. She smiled gratefully, bashfully to him as they slipped past. She led Mark up the stairs by the hand, one of his fingers caressing her palm in a very distracting manner. He paused to set the diary down on the end table, and deposited his overcoat, scarf and gloves onto the blue chair. The window she'd lifted before in her frantic search for Mark was still raised, letting in cold air, and still shivering she walked over to lower it. As she finished latching the window, she was surprised to find him directly behind her, tugging the thin grey cardigan sweater down her arms and tossing it to the floor. He then ran his fingers back up her bare arms to her shoulders, causing her to quiver anew, and not from the cold. Hovering just above her ear, grasping her shoulders with very warm hands, he said quietly, "If that's all right." She turned around to face him, then stepped away from the window, their gazes locked. He stepped forward to follow her.
'More than bloody all right. Ohhh. Except…' At once she remembered that the past few days had been spent in something of a funk, and her usual attention to grooming had been somewhat lacking. She realized she felt like a garden gone to seed.
She must have suddenly looked quite mortified, for his face fell and he stopped in his tracks, looking wounded; his voice was low and quiet. "So… it's not all right." It was more of a statement – a dejected, pitiable statement – than a question.
"Oh no no no no no!" She waved her hand, shook her head vigorously, as if there was the tiniest possibility he might misunderstand the word 'no'. "It isn't that at all. Just not… prepared."
He looked reassured, but still serious. "If it's protection you're worried about, I have—"
"No, not that either… though well done…!" she added with a nervous chuckle. "What I mean is… just… hairy as yeti in all the wrong places, haven't washed hair today, flat is total ruddy disaster—" She stopped. Great. Damn her faulty internal editor. He ran his fingers through his hair; now that she'd completely turned him off, he was probably mentally composing a goodbye speech.
"Bridget," he began, fixing her gaze with his own. She steeled herself for the rejection. "I happen to like the way your hair smells, your flat isn't the one I'd rather like to take to bed, and I couldn't bloody well care less about a bit of hair on your legs."
Bridget was rendered temporarily mute, save for a silent "oh". She blushed deeply, looking down. Definitely Most Perfect Man Ever. All at once, she felt quite unworthy and extremely underdressed. Being Most Perfect Man Ever, it did not escape his notice that she'd taken up the same modest pose Venus herself has assumed in countless Renaissance paintings and statues. He strode forward, took hold of her wrists, and placed them to her sides. His appreciative smile was disarming. She took in those liquid brown eyes and softly waved chestnut hair, and all memories of reindeer jumpers were banished at once from her head. She opened her mouth to retort, but he held up a single finger to stop her.
"Don't you dare disparage my taste," he said gently.
Either Most Perfect Man, or Space Alien. Regardless, she wanted to shag him senseless. She then thought with some amusement that Mark Darcy would never be caught dead saying the word "shag".
He placed his hands upon her hips and pulled her against him, kissing her once again, fingertips moving to toy with the elastic edge of her ridiculously skimpy tiger-striped panties. That was definitely not a mobile in his pocket. Her head was swimming. As his teeth grazed her bottom lip, it was only his arm encircling the small of her back that kept her from actually falling backwards. She could feel his mouth smile against her own, and he broke away to speak in a low voice into her ear. "Nice to see that a man who wears the snowman neckties his mum buys him still has it."
"Indeed, Mr. Darcy." She found her feet again, but he did not relinquish his hold on her.
"So, Ms. Jones," he continued in that same muted tone, "am I going to have to fight two meters of detritus to get to your bed, or shall we drop to the floor where we are?"
The latter had merits, but visions of limping the following morning caused her to step away from him, pulling him towards her bedroom by the hand. "Chuh," she said dismissively. "It's just a few things to push out of the way."
She might have been understating things, she realized, as she looked again at the state of her bedroom, which had obviously been abandoned in mid-decision-making-crisis. It seemed every garment she owned had been strewn about onto every available surface and a few that weren't. She pushed the pile on the bed off onto the floor and the bedclothes back towards the far side of the bed, and sat on its edge.
He switched on the bedside lamp, switched off the light at the door. He crouched at her feet, sliding his hands up her legs and under the hem of her tank top. "Want to warn you," he whispered, as he slid his hands even higher, "I've just been on two trans-Atlantic flights, and may not be adequately up to the task."
"Something tells me you'll shore up just fine," she said softly, her arms encircling his neck to pull herself down into his kiss once more.
Saturday 30 Dec
Bridget drifted half in, half out of sleep, emerging from a dream, the most marvelous dream, and it included—
Her eyes opened wide, looked to her left, and she realized that, ohhh, it had been no dream. She could see in the dusky early morning light that there in the bed beside her was the serenely sleeping Mark Darcy, his face peaceful in repose, brown lashes upon his cheek, right arm beneath his pillow, the other over the sheet that just came up to the middle of his broad chest. She could not help but smile. Reining in the urge to reach out and touch him to make sure he was real, she turned onto her left side, laid her head on her folded arm and watched him sleep.
As if sensing her gaze, he slowly opened his eyes, looked at her through half-lidded eyes, then mumbled, "Bridget. What are you doing?"
"Just watching you sleep."
"Please don't." He closed his eyes again.
She did not budge.
"Bridget," reiterated his voice several minutes later. "Please."
As she spoke, her voice was hushed like a chastened child's. "I'm sorry, I can't help myself. I'm still trying to convince myself that you're really here. I mean, twenty-four hours ago I thought you were in New York for good with bloody Natasha, and that I'd never see you again."
"I am really here, Bridget… and really tired." He opened his eyes again, looking extremely severe until he mustered a sleepy, lopsided grin. "You know how to wear a fellow out." He reached out his left hand and lightly brushed her arm with his fingertips. The corner of her mouth turned up, and she snuggled into the warm circle of his embrace, resting her cheek upon his shoulder. Mmm. He must be a Space Alien, because he still smelled good. She brought her hand to rest on his chest, tracing a lazy circle in the fine mat of hair there as she felt herself slipping back into slumber.
…And jerked back out again as he began placing tender kisses on her temple, also tracing a line with his finger along the sensitive skin of her jaw to her shoulder. She tilted her head back; he kissed her fully on the mouth as his arms tightened around her shoulders and waist, pulling her on top of him.
So much for sleep.