Rebirth

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 4,909

Rating: M / R

Summary: Just because a phone rings doesn't mean it has to be answered.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish were.

Notes: The deleted scene "The Christening" from EOR is not required reading (so to speak), but it might help to watch it to see where this diverges from the scene as presented. M. I. R. is to thank/blame for reminding me of this little "What if…?" scenario.

It was bad enough that Bridget was late (again), this time to Magda's daughter's christening and wearing colours that made her feel like an Easter basket had exploded on her; bad enough that Mark had brought with him that skinny young thing with legs up to her ears; bad enough Bridget had to stand next to him, wanting to touch him, under the watchful gaze of that Rebecca woman casting gooey, loving looks at him; bad enough Rebecca had been romping with the children as if to say "I would never name a child River"; but now Bridget was making a fool of herself in front of him once again, the telephone pressed to her ear, listening to Mark's voice through the ear piece, knowing he was just standing right behind her with her own mobile against his ear.

She knew she couldn't stand there with her back to him indefinitely.

She spoke into the telephone. "I was just trying to ring myself on the phone so I could find it…" She paused to turn, slowly lifting her eyes to his; he looked very severe, almost disapproving, as she expected; she then continued, nervous chuckling peppering her words, "…but obviously… now I have. Why don't I come and get it then?"

She turned and replaced the receiver on the telephone, heard her own mobile snap shut as she walked closer to him, reached out her hand for her mobile. His fingertips brushed along her palm ever so briefly as he deposited the phone into her hand; if she hadn't been sure she still loved and wanted him before that moment, that light touch zinging to her toes would have been her clue. "Thanks," she said, her voice much steadier, much calmer, than she actually felt.

His voice was quiet, his eyes intense as ever as he said, "You're welcome."

She continued to look at him, barely blinking, and noticed he was doing the same. She was unable to read his expression; reverting true to form, she began to speak, laughing nervously at the end: "Can't just… stand here looking at each other forever… people will start to worry."

"Right." He looked down, and she was instantly regretful of trying to make light of their discomfort. He looked back up though, and after a pause that seemed to last an eternity, he continued, "It's very nice to see you."

Relief washed through her and she said, gushing a little bit more than she really intended to, "Oh, it's very nice to see you too."

Another eternity passed during which she struggled to think of what to say, until (to her great surprise) Mark began to speak instead. "I've been doing a lot of thinking since our last… encounter." He paused briefly, thoughtfully, and continued, "Men Are From Mars is a remarkable piece of work."

She saw the barest hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth and a laugh rose unbidden in her throat, despite the nervous lump that had formed there.

"It's made me…" said Mark, stopping abruptly, looking very pensive, then starting again. "It's made me wonder whether… perhaps… despite events…" It was not his usual confident oratorical style, but staggered, uncertain—which she knew happened when he tried to speak of emotional matters—and she felt her head bobbing forward as if somehow she could encourage his words out in a more timely fashion. "…circumstances and appearances—"

Her mobile chose that moment to start ringing, startling her out of her reverie, distracting him from what it was he was about to say. She tapped the button on the side of her phone to quiet it.

As Mark regrouped his thoughts (or so it seemed), it began ringing again.

"Are you going to answer that?" he asked brusquely.

She tapped the button again, then pitched the phone against the wall, heard the outer casing of the phone crack, saw that there was now a little dent in the wall beside the framed photo she'd nearly hit. She figured she would be forgiven, as the damage was in the name of a good cause. "No," she replied, rather stating the obvious.

He blinked in surprise.

"You… you were saying?" she asked tentatively.

He cast his gaze downwards. "Seeing you again… I…"

"Mark! There you are! And Bridget, hi! So nice to see you!" Bridget's heart fell to her feet. It was Rebecca; she had appeared suddenly at the door, beaming a particularly glaringly white smile in their general direction. "Are you ready to go?"

"I need a few more minutes," he said in a surprisingly cool tone, not turning to face her, not even looking up.

"Oh! Okay," she said brightly, either incredibly confident of her relationship with Mark, or incredibly clueless to what she might have almost interrupted. "I'll just wait out here then."

"Close the door, please."

As the door clicked shut, Bridget's heart returned to its place in her throat. She heard the feeble ringing of her mobile from behind a table, a bookcase, or wherever it had skittered off to but was determined to ignore it.

Mark raised his eyes again, engaging her own, his expression one of pleading determination, his voice reserved. "I think perhaps the rashness of our choices—" He stopped, clearing his throat. "I was hoping you'd consider—" He stopped, sighed, muttered under his breath, "Dammit." When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. "Bridget, I… miss you. Terribly."

It's what she'd hoped he'd say, what she wanted to hear, yet her heart was torn, equal parts joy and pain. She missed him more than she could ever say, loved him beyond all sense, had regretted walking out on him almost as soon as she'd done it, but there was a rather obvious obstacle sitting just on the other side of the door, and she wasn't the kind of woman who could blithely ignore it. "What about…?"

He knit his brow. "'What about' what?"

She made what she thought was a very obvious pantomime, indicating with her eyes towards where Rebecca had last appeared at the door. She hardly wanted to speak the name, because memories of asking him point-blank about whether he was having an affair with Rebecca and the row that had ensued were still too raw and painful. "You know." She tilted her head in the direction of the door for emphasis.

He blinked very quickly. "Rebecca?"

Bridget nodded.

He then asked, "What about her?"

Her mouth gaped ever so slightly open. "Mark," she said, appalled for his girlfriend despite everything else. "How can you say that?"

"Say what, exactly? We talk, she knows I still lo—" He stopped himself short; adrenaline shot through her system, imagining the word he seemed poised to say, despite said girlfriend.

Quickly, incredulously, she asked, "You talk to her about me?"

"She's been a very good—ohhh, Christ," he said, his tone changing suddenly, an obvious dawning realisation making its way across his features. "Bridget, please tell me you are not still persisting in the belief that we—that Rebecca and I—were having an affair."

Bridget said nothing. The affair was a moot point at present, anyway.

"I'll take that as a yes." He stepped closer to her. "For the record, we are, always have been, and always will be just friends." She looked down, her heart pounding in her chest; she wanted it to be true but it was hard to accept it as so in the face of such evidence. She closed her eyes as he echoed his earlier words: "Despite events, circumstances and appearances…" She then felt the back of his fingers brush against her chin to lift it up. He waited until she looked to him again before he finished speaking: "I love you. I have never stopped loving you."

She could not breathe. It was like falling into a trance looking into his eyes, knowing what he said—that he still loved her—was the absolute truth. She hated to think of the things she'd said to him during that argument, how she'd accused him of lacking spontaneity and a sense of romance, and of not being able to fight for her, when in actual fact it all paled in comparison to him being the kindest, most honest man she'd ever loved.

Like he was reading her very thoughts, he said quietly, "I'm determined, if you'll let me, to show you how wrong you were the night you walked out on me." He immediately set out to prove this by leaning forward, taking her in his arms, and kissing her deeply, catching her somewhat by surprise. It was not unwelcome, and she was, as she always had been, powerless to resist; she felt his fingers playing along her back, weaving into the hair at the nape of her neck, and she sighed softly. I love you too, she thought.

"Oh!"

She must have missed hearing the sound of the door opening, but recognised the voice at once. Bridget broke away, flushing deep crimson; it was indeed Rebecca again, looking more startled than a friend should, in Bridget's opinion. The turmoil of conflict suddenly roiled in her gut.

"Rebecca," said Mark crossly, turning to face the door. "I told you I'd be out soon."

"I'm sorry—I did knock," she said, her voice rather higher and tighter than usual. "I just wanted to tell you—well. It's not important." She looked to Bridget, then to Mark once more, her own eyes looking quite dewy. "I knew I didn't have a chance, but—" It was immediately obvious by the way she stopped that she had not meant to say these words aloud.

Bridget stared at Rebecca in confusion, then realised Mark was doing the same.

Mark's voice was gentle when he addressed her. "Rebecca, if I've done anything to mislead you… I've always been very up front that it's Bridget I—"

"You haven't misled me," she interrupted; her smile was bittersweet as she turned her eyes to Bridget. "You know what they say, though: the heart wants what it wants. I'll get over it."

"I'm sorry, Rebecca," Mark said, still quite stunned. "If I'd had any inkling of how you felt about me, I would never have—"

Rebecca brought her hand to her mouth, unexpectedly laughing, further confusing both Mark and Bridget. "Mark, oh, I don't mean to laugh, but it's not you I was talking about."

Realising Rebecca's eyes were still fixed firmly upon her own self, it was Bridget's turn to be stunned. She could find no words to offer, and, apparently, neither could Mark.

Rebecca cleared her throat, the blush retreating from her cheeks. "I was just coming to say that Giles has room for me in his car if you weren't ready to go yet… or, as the case may be, would rather have a different passenger… so…" she said awkwardly despite her smile, "I'll leave you to your reunion."

Rebecca left, closing the door once more.

Bridget said at last, "Wow."

"My sentiments exactly," said Mark, obviously still quite discombobulated as he turned back to Bridget and their eyes met again.

"I guess that means…" began Bridget.

"I'm completely exonerated?" he supplied, a smile finding his lips, followed by a laugh.

She couldn't help herself; she laughed, too. She wanted that easy comfort with him back so badly, and it appeared it was going to happen sooner rather than later, which filled her heart with glee. It didn't mean she didn't still feel guilty about chucking him in the first place. "I'm so sorry I ever doubted you about the affair, about Rebecca," she said, her smile fading, her tone becoming serious. "I mean, I was sorry even before she came in here and said… what she said."

"Never saw that coming."

"Couldn't tell."

This led to another unexpected round of chuckling, but instead of replying with words he reached for her wrist and pulled her close. She snaked her arms around his waist and settled her cheek against his suit jacket as the giggles faded. It hit her then just how much she had missed him too—his familiar scent triggered every happy memory she had made with him; the strength and reassurance of his embrace reminded her of all the time she'd spent contentedly (and ecstatically) in it.

"Did you mean what you said?" he asked quietly close to her ear, his words like a caress all on their own. She closed her eyes.

"About doubting you?" she asked, her fingers absently tracing the valley of his spine up his back. "Of course."

"No." His hands grazed down over her bottom before returning to her waist, well beyond 'easy comfort'; she swore if he continued in this manner, they'd end up shagging right there on the pile of coats. Then again, she was pretty sure she wouldn't even care where they were (or who walked in on them) if they did. "What you said just as Rebecca interrupted us."

She pulled back to look at him, utterly perplexed. "Did I say something?"

"Only three words I don't think I've ever heard you say to me before," he said softly. She blinked, could not imagine what he was talking about. He then prompted her with words she was convinced she had only thought: "'I love you too'…?"

She felt herself flood with heat. In response she retorted, thrusting her chin out defiantly, "That's four words."

Playfully he swatted her backside. "That's hardly a reassurance."

Right.

"Is this?" She quickly got up on tiptoes, threw her arms about his neck and ambushed him so forcefully with a kiss that he had to step back to regain his footing. As she held on tightly, she felt his hands encircle her waist and pull her against him. She drew his lower lip between her teeth and nipped it gently, heard and felt him exhale quickly; this was followed by a measurable escalation in the urgency and hunger of his kisses. Many minutes passed in this ecstasy before she broke away from the kiss.

"Yes," he said in answer to her question. He again looked completely discomposed, clearly for a very different reason. He then stated, "I have a question for you."

"What?"

"Three, actually."

"Okay."

"Why are we still here?"

She blinked. "That's a very good question." She broke away from him, looking for her handbag and quickly finding it. She'd talk to Magda about the mobile at some later time.

"What's the quickest route back to your flat from this place?" he asked eagerly, taking her hand.

She smiled almost bashfully.

………

The ride back to her place was filled with silence, but quite the opposite the sort of silence they'd faced the last time they'd driven together. Though they were not talking, they were both smirking, holding hands over the gearshift. The distance itself was not great but the time to travel it felt like a lifetime with the excited, nervous anticipation crackling between them.

He surprised her by pulling a key out of his pocket and opening her building's door for them; she'd nearly forgotten he had one. They raced up the stairs and were barely in the flat when were on each other like two adolescents, ravenously kissing, hastily pulling off shirt, trousers and dress alike, panting for breath. He picked her bodily up and took her into her bedroom, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms sliding around his neck. She had a vague recollection of the room being slightly less tidy than a hurricane zone, but the attention he was lavishing upon her person took far greater precedence.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of the bedroom he launched forward to land them unceremoniously onto the bed, the familiar, heated dance of ardent lovemaking beginning almost before they hit the mattress. He raked his short, blunt nails along the backs of her thighs; she swirled her tongue along the whorls of his ear; he practically tore her pants to get them over her arse and off; she arched up to elicit a throaty groan from him as he entered her. She doubted she had ever been so vocal with him before, and he was matching her, moan for moan. She had tears in her eyes as she felt that powerful ripple work its way down from her very center, tightening around him; he growled and said her name like a prayer as he found his own release.

"Oh," she sighed immediately afterwards, tipping her head back, her breath ragged; he placed lingering kisses on the thumping pulse on her neck, which didn't help her regain her breath any faster, and pulled her with him as he turned to lay on his side. His own breath was rather uneven from the exertion.

He raised his thumb to dry under her eyes. "Didn't mean to make you cry," he said, smirking.

She chuckled. "These are the extreme opposite of sad tears, Mark." Her smile faded, as did his, and they simply looked into each others' eyes as they laid there amidst the jumble of clothes, sheets and duvet. She was so very happy to have him there again, to know he still loved and wanted her. Suddenly she felt her lip start to quiver, felt fresh tears in her eyes, as she recalled what he'd said before their mad, lustful dash for her flat; if anyone she'd ever been involved with deserved to hear her say 'I love you' more, it had been Mark, and yet...

Her voice was thick with emotion when she spoke at last. "Did I really never say so before?"

He knew precisely to what she was referring. "Not that I was keeping score," he said tenderly, "but no. I can't recall that you ever did."

She was embarrassed, especially thinking of his amourous declaration the night of the law council dinner. "I'm sorry," she said at last.

"As a teacher of mine used to say: don't say you're sorry, just don't let it happen again." He stroked her cheek with the pads of his fingers. "Besides," he said softly, "it wasn't as if I didn't know."

She managed a small smile, then said with absolute intention and conviction, "I love you."

"Good girl."

He reached forward and kissed her again.

………

The shadows in the room had gotten longer, the shafts of sunlight more and more oblique, before Bridget gave a second thought to what Mark had said as they'd departed Magda's. As she rested on him, she trailed her fingernails along the short hair of his sideburns, which roused him back from his doze.

"Mark?" she began, fixing her eyes upon his sleepy brown ones. "You said you had three questions for me. What was the third? 'Can I shag you senseless?'"

He chuckled sleepily. "I hardly needed to ask that out loud. I'm pretty sure you felt as much after you jumped up, pressed yourself against me, and started kissing me."

She smiled, laughing lightly, remembering as such. "So what was it then?"

"Perhaps I had just forgotten how to count in the excitement of it all."

She laughed again, combing her fingers through his hair. She had been very wrong, indeed.

"Oh, I remember now," he said, running his palms up along her bare shoulders. "Bridget, will you marry me?"

She was about to tease him for being quite the post-coital comedian, but she saw the extremely serious look on his face, the intensity of his eyes, and knew it was no joke. She opened her mouth to speak but could not find the air to get any words out.

One word, three letters long, actually. Because there was only one right answer to that question.

In lieu of actually speaking, she hoped a fervent nod and a teary smile would suffice as her answer.

………

Sunday morning found Bridget waking up with Mark's arm still quite firmly about her and she smiled, sighing. She had half-convinced herself the whole of their reunion had been a lovely dream, but no, he was quite there and quite solid. As she gazed upon him lovingly, his proposal came back to her in a rush and she said "Oh!" before she could stop herself, which naturally roused him from his slumber.

"Staring again?" he teased.

"No, just remembering last night." Tentatively she continued, "You really did ask me, right?"

He laughed low in his throat. "I thought the question was fairly direct and to the point. Your reply, however, was less than exact."

She mockingly furrowed her brows and frowned at him, but she couldn't hold it for long, and felt her mouth twist into a grin again. "Never dreamt when I woke up yesterday that the day would end like it did."

"I had high hopes when I went to find you after the christening."

"You went looking for me?"

He nodded. "Seeing you again… standing next to you… I wasn't sure how you felt about me but I knew I had to try to at least talk to you."

"Obviously am glad you did."

He smiled, but his eyes were still intently gazing upon her, then he leaned forward to kiss her again, pulling her to him, she at once feeling he was at the ready. His hand quickly rounded the curve of her bottom and encouraged her knee to lift as he turned her beneath him.

It was only then she realised what they had not done last night in the heat of their passion, and she broke from the kiss. "Oh, Mark, wait, wait."

"What, love?" he said, looking down to her with some concern.

"We should, you know… protection," she finished ineloquently.

He kept his eyes upon her. "I haven't been sleeping with anyone else," he said quietly.

"Nor have I!" she hastened to assure him. "I couldn't. But… you know." She was thinking of the point of contention during the ill-fated ski weekend, and surely he was too.

"Bridget," he began in all seriousness, "I'm willing to take that gamble with you, 'River' notwithstanding."

She began to laugh and cry at the same time; he took advantage of her mouth hanging slightly opened to continue what he'd started.

………

In the haze afterwards, dozing between sleep and wakefulness, she realised she was hearing her telephone ringing, and was struck with the sudden need to share her happy news. She wriggled out from under the arm draping over her, grabbed his dress shirt to cover up, and dashed for the phone.

"Hello?"

"Bridget! Did I wake you?" It was Magda.

Bridget smirked. "Sort of."

"Sorry," she said. "Anyway, I wanted to let you know I found your mobile."

"Oh, thank you!" She honestly had forgotten all about it.

"I'm so sorry," Magda said sadly.

"Why?"

"Well, it looks like one of the children pitched it against the wall and broke it. I'll pay to replace it."

She briefly considered fessing up to having pitched it herself, but instead said, "Oh, no need for that."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I shouldn't have left it… lying around."

There was a moment's silence before she spoke again in a very grave tone. "Bridget, I hope yesterday wasn't too difficult for you."

"Difficult?"

"With Mark there. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Magda. Actually, I have—"

"Bridget," she tut-tutted. "No need for a brave face."

"Magda, he's here," she blurted. "We're back together. He proposed."

The earpiece was suddenly filled with a choking, hacking cough, the sounds of a surprised woman struggling with her tea in order to get air. "He… you're… proposed?" she said at last between coughs.

"Yes," Bridget confirmed.

"And you accepted, right?" asked Magda dangerously.

"Of course I accepted. I'd've been mad not to."

"Oh, Bridge!" she said happily. "Wait until I tell Jeremy. He'll be delighted. We were so hoping something might… happen."

Bridget narrowed her eyes. "You planned this all along?"

"We might have done," said Magda knowingly, smugly. "Go on back to him. I'm sure he's missing you."

"Not anymore," replied Bridget.

As they were saying their goodbyes, Bridget noticed that the answerphone light was blinking. It probably had been since last night, but she'd been in no position to notice. She punched the button to listen, regretting doing so at once.

"Bridget, it's Daniel. I tried calling your mobile just now but you didn't pick up… are you avoiding me? Anyway, call me; let's have that dinner and talk about Thailand."

"Thailand?" came the quiet, almost wounded voice behind her. Mark.

She turned to look at him standing there in his wrinkled boxers; his expression revealed his confusion. His pain.

"He was the one calling you yesterday?" he asked.

"I don't know, Mark; I didn't answer it," she said. "I was far more interested in what you were trying to say to me."

"What's this about dinner?" he asked overly-placidly.

"I have no idea," she answered. "I've no interest in finding out."

"And Thailand?"

"The station wants to send us to Thailand together for 'The Smooth Guide'."

He blinked.

"Are you going?"

"If I have a say in the matter… no."

He sighed, looking away, pinching the corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You know how he gets to me."

"I know." She walked over to him, placed her hand tenderly on his face, waited for him to look at her again. "I'm sorry too, sorry that I even have to work with him."

He took her hand in his own, turned it over, then placed a kiss in the middle of her palm. "Mmm," he said, the sound thrumming through her hand, which he then lowered. "We've got options here."

"'We'?"

"Yes. If you have to go to Thailand, I'm going with you."

She raised her eyebrows. The thought of Mark accompanying her and Daniel to Thailand… it would be like riding on a powder keg.

"Not to keep an eye on you," he added, taking her in his arms, his broad hands spanning her back. "Rather, on him. I mean, never mind I couldn't bear to think of being separated from you by half a world."

She chuckled, her heart bursting with joy again. "Do you like travel in general?" she asked.

"Why?" he asked.

"Thailand is only the first of many of this series they want to shoot, with the two of us as co-host and co-hostess."

"Oh," he said noncommittally.

"I do realise that might put a crimp in your own work, though," she allowed.

"It would be difficult to defend my clients from another country," he said.

"Exactly. So what's option B?"

"You could refuse to do it."

She snorted a laugh. "What if they sack me?"

"Is that the only reason you'd consider accepting?"

"Well…"

"Bridget, it doesn't hurt to give it a try."

"Hm," she said thoughtfully, then prompted, "Or…?"

"Or you could simply quit."

She reared back to look at him. "You mean not work there any more?"

He nodded his head a little off to the side. "That is the general definition of that word, yes."

"I rather like working."

"I seem to recall you didn't much care for working there. So unless something has changed…"

Suddenly the idea of not having to see Richard Finch every day was very appealing.

"Plus," she continued, "there's the whole 'I like to eat and have a roof over my head' aspect of things."

"True… though I'd hardly let you swing in the wind in that regard," he said, releasing his embrace on her.

Hugely appealing, even.

"Hm. I'll have to give all of these options some serious thought."

"Any incentives I can provide?" he asked, his gentle fingers parting the halves of his dress shirt, pushing it off of her shoulders.

She figured she might be able to think of one or two.

She stepped into his arms again, trailed her fingers around the waistband of his boxers to hold him around his waist. Instead of kissing her, though, he simply looked into her eyes thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, grazing his thumbs over her bare shoulders, his gaze moving across from side to side, "let's get it over with."

"What?" she asked, puzzled by his words and the long-suffering sigh that had accompanied them. "Get what over with?"

"The phone calls I know you're dying to make," he said.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, feigning ignorance and flushing; she had forgotten how transparent she could be with him. Truth be told… she'd kind of missed it.

Smiling, he confessed, "I overheard the tail end of your conversation with, er, Magda."

"Well, I had thought about calling, but… oh," she admitted, then continued with a swelling sense of panic: "If I don't start making phone calls, Magda might inadvertently tell Shaz or Jude before I do, then there would be hurt feelings all around….Jesus."

"I'll get you the phone. On one condition."

She smirked. "What condition might that be?"

"That you do it in your present state of undress, next to me, in your bed."

She pretended to think about it. "Provided you don't try to distract me while I'm talking…?"

He pursed his lips tightly, a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm willing to take that gamble with you, I guess," she said jokingly.

………

To his credit, he behaved extremely well… while she was speaking to her mother, at least.

The end.