Snapshots

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 5,313

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: A day in the life of a new relationship. Scattered pictures, if you will.

Disclaimer: Still isn't mine. Except for Edmund.

Notes: Just a little light fluff…

It's funny what a new relationship will teach a man who thinks he's already pretty well settled in his ways, especially one with a woman unlike any he'd ever known.

For starters, Mark Darcy never thought he would strive to be more impulsive, but the truth was, he liked what a little surprise would do to put an expression of pure joy on the face of the woman he was very rapidly falling head over heels in love with. Though it was not something he thought he was very good at, delightfully catching Bridget Jones unawares was something he felt he could never tire of; she had brought such a breath of fresh air to his somewhat musty existence that he couldn't help but try to repay her in kind. Mark didn't think it was the newness of it all that held him in thrall; rather, it was Bridget's frankness, utter lack of guile, and natural beauty that had first caught his eye and continued to enchant him so.

He was reminded of a few days prior, when he'd gone to see her for dinner at her flat. On a whim, he'd stopped to buy flowers to surprise her with, but for some reason all three florists he'd gone to had all been out of roses. He'd opted instead for a bouquet of carnations and daisies, disappointed how mundane and common they had seemed. Upon gifting her with them, though, he might as well have handed her two dozen ruby red long stem roses with diamonds speckling the leaves for the reaction she'd had, bringing them to her nose to smell them, clutching them to her breast, then throwing her arms around his neck and delivering repeated kisses to his face and mouth as she'd declared how gorgeous they were.

How content she always seemed to be to spend the evening in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine, listening to his stories from the work day; sometimes his tales were so pedantic he bored even himself, and yet she would sit and listen and offer opinions, often from a fresh perspective he might not even have considered.

The rational part of his brain figured it was all too good to last, that she was too good to be true. The other part of his brain told him to shut the hell up and enjoy it for what it was.

It didn't mean the rational part of his brain listened to him.

That particular evening, despite being a Friday, Mark hadn't planned on seeing her until much later (if at all) due to a heavy workload, but he was done with everything a lot sooner than anticipated. Embracing the spirit of impetuousness, he decided to show up unannounced bearing Tesco Metro carrier bags filled with the makings of dinner as well as dessert.

He had his driver park the car a few doors down from her building and was organising the bags to carry in order to do so in one trip—made more difficult to gather up due to night having already fallen and it being difficult to see—when motion in the periphery of his vision caught his attention.

There, across the street, was none other than Daniel Cleaver himself, striding down the walk with his hands shoved in his coat pockets. He stopped at the front stoop of Bridget's building and rang what he could only presume to be Bridget's bell—and to Mark's astonishment, after speaking a moment into the intercom, he was granted entrance to the building.

Mark's thoughts were in turmoil, his stomach churning. There was an eerie déjà vu about all of this; Mark leaving work early to find Daniel had slipped in to take Mark's place… with Mark's lover. He did not know quite what do to.

He was just telling himself to give it three minutes before going up himself and facing whatever there was to face when Daniel reappeared at the front door of the building looking sullen, angrily kicking the dustbin as he strode away.

Mark stared at the retreating figure, stunned, and released a relieved breath. It was all right. Bridget clearly had not expected Daniel either, and he was not welcome to stay. So why had she let him up in the first place?

"Everything all right, sir?" asked Edmund, his driver.

Only one way to find out.

"Yes, it's fine. Thank you. Have a good night."

Mark gathered the bags and exited his car, then walked up to the front of Bridget's building, ringing the bell.

Through the tinny speaker came her impatient voice: "What now?"

"Bridget, it's me."

There was a moment of silence. "Mark!" she said, her tone completely changed. "How wonderful! Come on up!"

He heard the lock release and he headed up the stairs to her flat, knocking on the door. It swung open and immediately she gabbled, "I haven't given a thought to dinner—oh!" She spotted the carrier bags. "What's all this?"

"Funny you should mention dinner," he said, coming up into the flat, setting the bags down and taking her in his arms, giving her a kiss before releasing her to slip out of his coat. "How was your day?"

"Good! Really, really good," she said, smiling. "Richard Finch was home sick with the flu. Everyone was so much more productive without him there. How about yours?"

No mention of Daniel?

"It was fine. Obviously got through work a lot faster than I thought."

"I'm so glad," she said. Straining to get a look into the bags, she asked, "What did you bring?"

Still caught off guard, he said in a disconnected voice, "Tomatoes, herbs, pasta."

"Oh, heavenly," she said with a smile. "Want my help?"

He thought about her birthday dinner and how lovely it had been to cook with her, but he couldn't resist affecting a terrified expression. She pouted. "I'm teasing," he said, pulling her to him again and kissing her. "Of course you can help. Won't even take that long."

He handed her the tomatoes and asked her to wash them, then as he chopped them and the herbs up, he had her get a pot to fill with water for the pasta as well as a saucepan for the sauce. As he made his way through the tomatoes and started in on the herbs, she rambled on about having been given too simple a task (he placated her by saying he could just do the tomato and herb chopping more quickly himself than telling her how much of each thing to do), then went on more about the details of the assignment she was currently working on. He, however, couldn't get the earlier visit by Daniel (and her neglect in mentioning it) out of his head.

As they ate, she raved about his dinner then asked him about whether he wanted to go out to a movie the following afternoon. He agreed. The rest of the evening went well, if subdued, coming to an inevitable (and delightfully reassuring) end in the bedroom.

After switching off the lamp and curling up to go to sleep, Mark was haunted once more by his thoughts. Why was she not mentioning Daniel's visit? Did she think he would go ballistic, go after Daniel and mash the bastard's face into the side of a building? Was she so convinced he would not trust her, that he wouldn't believe it was an innocent visit? Did she just not trust him to know? It disappointed him to think that she did not feel comfortable confiding in him.

He stared at the dark ceiling contemplating his dismal fate for longer than he probably should have, while Bridget seemed to turn over even more so than usual, though he figured that was probably just his imagination.

"Mark."

It was just a whisper, but it startled him awake as if a pistol shot had just sounded next to his ear. He turned to look at Bridget, resting on her elbow, looking at him in such a way that he was immediately concerned and instantly alert.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, though she looked far from it.

He pushed himself up, reached over to rest the backs of his fingers on her forehead to check she wasn't feverish. "Bridget, what is it?" He glanced over to the clock on the night stand. "It's three in the morning."

"I'm not ill," she said, casting her gaze down. "I've been thinking about this all evening and I… just can't keep it from you any more."

Panic seized his heart for a moment: was she going to announce to him that it just wasn't going to work out? Was she about to chuck him in the middle of the night? Was she—

"I should have told you right away," she continued. "I know that now."

Oh, God. Maybe one of the condoms had failed and—

Deciding against catastrophizing, he said, steeling himself against all possibilities, "Bridget, whatever it is, tell me."

She sighed. "It's Daniel. He showed up tonight under the pretence he'd found one of my—" He could see her blushing even in the dim of night. "—one of my favourite pairs of pants. So I let him up."

His thoughts were of a dual nature: relief that it wasn't something very serious (such as being chucked), and surprise not only that she'd finally told him, but that not telling him this of all things had kept her awake so long. He didn't know any other woman—save for possibly his own mother—with such an apparently unforgiving conscience.

As he was not supposed to know about the visit, he kept close rein on his features.

Especially since he was feeling a little jealous, too, retroactively speaking.

She hastened to add, "As soon as he got upstairs and I realised he didn't have any pants at all, that it was all a big fat lie to get into my flat, I kicked him out and told him if he came by again I'd bollock him…"

He reached forward and pulled her to him, protectively enveloping her in his arms.

"I didn't want to upset you," she said quietly, "but I don't like the thought of even the smallest stupid secret between us."

"Darling," he said gently. "I can't tell you how much that means to me. But… I saw him come… and go."

"What?" She pushed herself upright to meet his eyes. "And you didn't say anything?"

He smiled. "I didn't need to ask about it. I knew nothing had happened. Which is why I found it curious that you didn't say anything." He leaned forward and kissed her. "It doesn't matter. Daniel doesn't matter. Potentially missing pants don't matter." He kissed her again. "You are what matters."

Almost shyly she smiled, lying back onto her pillow. "You're lovely," she said, then pouted. "But I really liked those pants and I can't recall the last time I'd seen them."

"Which ones did you think he had?" Mark asked, stifling a grin.

"Well. They're blue and have black lace elastic."

He knew the very ones. "Blue ribbons on the hips?"

She stared at him, aghast. "Yes!"

"I know exactly where they are," he teased. "If you're a very good girl I might give them back."

"If you give them back," she teased in return, "you'll get to see them on me again."

"Fair enough," he said with a grin.

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his lips, then pulled back to meet his eyes with a smile.

"You're lovely too," he said in a very quiet voice. He brought his hand up to brush her hair back, then leaned over to kiss her again, quickly moving to nuzzle into her ear, drawing himself up close to her.

He realised in very little time at all that instead of hearing soft sounds of pleasure, he was hearing soft sounds of… snoring. He pushed himself back to see she had fallen completely to sleep, and he chuckled quietly. Given the activities of earlier and the tossing and turning afterwards, he supposed now that her conscience was clear, she was finally able to sleep.

………

He was sure he would live to regret letting Bridget make breakfast. At least, he hoped he would.

He sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee as she scurried around between the toaster and the range, spatula in hand, stirring what he hoped would be eggs around in the frying pan. The food smelled good at least. That was promising.

He gazed down into his coffee—not strong enough, and too sweet—and thought about the middle-of-the-night confession, about what she'd said. Oddly enough, it reassured him immensely that something so trivial could keep her awake; it meant that she would never be able to conceal something bigger, something really important. At least he hoped so.

Suddenly she was bringing their plates to the table. He tried not to stare in horror down at the brown eggs and near-black toast.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I think I had the hob turned up too high. I always misjudge—"

"It's all right," he said serenely, reaching over to place his hand on her forearm. "I'm sure a little extra carbon never killed anyone."

A reluctant smile found her face. "Thanks."

He speared a glob of scrambled eggs and ate them. They didn't actually taste that bad, though much too salty and inexplicably still a bit runny in the middle. "I do, however, reserve the right to taunt you mercilessly about last night."

She blinked. "What?"

"I start in on kissing you and you fall asleep…?" he said teasingly, hoping to prod her memory.

"No! Oh, Mark…" She looked truly crestfallen. "I'm sorry… I don't even remember that…"

He feigned a look of sheer offence.

"I didn't mean that!" she hastened to explain. "I mean, I remember you calling me 'lovely, too', then you stroked my hair, and then… nothing after that…" He began to chuckle. "Mark, what's so funny?"

"I'm only joking."

She pouted, then turned to her own eggs. "If I didn't like you as well as I do," she said, then brought a forkful of eggs to her mouth. Chewing hesitantly, she said, making a sour face, "Um. Yuck."

At that moment he bit into the toast, sending coal black crumbs exploding around him.

With great dignity, she said, "Maybe we should… go out for breakfast."

"If you insist," he said, holding up another pile of eggs, then allowing them to drop down and splat onto the plate. He grinned; she did too, then they both started to chuckle.

………

She lit up with delight when he returned to their table in Coins café with the largest chocolate croissant he'd ever seen and a cinnamon cappuccino. She picked up the pastry and bit into it, chocolate smudging across the tip of her nose as she did so, and as she chewed she smiled sheepishly as he reached across to wiped it off with his fingers.

He could only grin. He didn't know any other woman who would eat with such childlike abandon.

"Thanks," she said quietly, picking up her cappuccino and taking a sip, then pulled the cup away to reveal a full foam moustache.

She quickly licked it away and turned crimson.

"Sorry," she said.

"What for?" he said, then leaned forward to add, "Surely not the foam. Were we in private I would have taken care of that myself."

"It seems like these sorts of things always happen to me and you never get to see what a mature, responsible woman I really am."

"I don't?" he asked, deciding to play along with an incredulous look.

"No," she said woefully.

"What exactly do you think that entails, being a mature, responsible woman?"

"Well," she reflected, "not getting food all over one's face when eating or drinking. Wearing coordinating clothes every day, not just to work. Being immaculately groomed, always, including hair that behaves, and nice, professional-looking makeup. Having chequebook balanced and food in the pantry. Calm, peace-attracting demeanour."

He watched her intently as she spoke; her hair was up in a pony tail, she was wearing a very fuzzy pale pink mohair sweater that clung enticingly to her curves with a black skirt and tights that did the same, and her makeup consisted of a smattering of powder and pale pink lip gloss. "Ah," he said at last, drinking his own coffee before he could sputter out a chuckle. That list most definitely did not apply to her, and he rather liked it that way. He much preferred her as she was, like now, or in the evening eating chocolate ice cream straight from the carton and talking back to the television, rather than sitting with a composed, stiff posture and a restrained, annoyed expression. "Bridget," he said. "Do you think I am in the habit of lying?"

"What?"

"Well, I confessed to you once that I liked you the way you are. Do you think that was a big, fat lie?" Only then did he crack a smile.

"Durr, of course not," she replied, crimsoning, but smirking all the same. He reached across and placed his hand over hers, curling his fingers into the palm of her hand and squeezing gently.

They sat the rest of breakfast that way, even though he was sure she would have had an easier time drinking her big cup of cappuccino with two hands. He found it quite endearing.

………

She told him the film she wanted to see that afternoon had gotten excellent reviews. He hadn't actually heard of the film; it had a French title, and he was a little taken aback she would choose a foreign film. Upon arrival at the cinema Mark discovered that the theatre seemed to be filled with a high percentage of children. He had to admit it puzzled him a little bit.

He found the theatre had also been fitted with seats that had flip-up armrests. She was elated by this, and immediately pushed up the armrest between herself and him, moving so her hip was touching his. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. It was a big dark room where everyone's attention was directed elsewhere, but it was still a public place, and he hadn't quite warmed up to the idea of public snuggling.

"Oh, come on," she said, taking his hand and pulling his arm around her shoulder. "It's not like anyone's going to be watching us."

It's not like we're going to be doing anything worth watching, he thought; at least I hope not.

Shortly thereafter, the lights dimmed, and to his surprise a cartoon appeared to start up, parodying the main film, he supposed. Mark had no idea they still showed cartoons before films. It was quite entertaining, the story of a rat who was a gourmet chef, but it went on for what he thought was an exceptionally long time. He leaned over and commented the same to Bridget.

She chuckled. "Mark, this is the film."

He was astonished that she'd chosen a cartoon for their film, but upon further reflection he realised he should not have been. Her tastes were as honest as she was. She liked what she liked without preconceived notions or apologies. And, he had to admit, it was a good film.

She leaned even farther back into him, resting her hand on his thigh. With all the children around he didn't think she meant anything by it—just a casual hand-resting—but there it was all the same. She tightened her hand reassuringly.

He found his own fingers brushing back and forth along the soft knit sweater sleeve on her shoulder, felt himself automatically kissing her temple when during a quiet pause in the film she leaned her head against his chest. She softly Mmmed in response.

She turned and whispered, "What do you think so far?"

"Quite nice," he said.

Grinning, she lifted her chin and gave him a quick kiss.

It was only much later that he realised she was referring to the film.

………

"You know what I'm in the mood for?"

He was almost afraid to ask. She was full of surprises today.

"A pet rat?" he joked.

"No," she said, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "Ice cream. Specifically, an ice cream cone."

"Bridget, it's January. It's cold outside."

She stared at him. "It's not like my love of ice cream is seasonal."

He had no good response for that, so he had no choice but to concede the point. "And where, pray tell, can we get an ice cream cone in January?"

Her stare became even more intense, like she thought he was mad. "Ben & Jerry's, of course."

Of course.

They emerged from the cinema to find that it had begun to pour, and it seemed even colder than before, as if to reinforce Mark's point.

"We can always take the subway to Leicester Square," she said.

Mark reached his hand into his pocket for his mobile. "I'll call for the car."

"Do we need to bother Edmund on a Saturday?"

Edmund? She was on a first name basis with his driver?

"He's my driver, Bridget. That's his job." At that point Edmund answered and he asked the driver to pick him up in front of the cinema. As he hung up, he turned to Bridget. "He's five minutes away. He'll be here shortly."

He leaned up against the wall under the overhang; she put her hands in her jacket pockets and rested with her back against him. He embraced her within his overcoat, could not resist leaning forward and kissing her on the temple again. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against his shoulder; he could easily see the smile on her face.

Within a few moments the car arrived, and as they climbed in Bridget said brightly, "Hello Edmund!"

Mark watched as Edmund, a reserved man about twenty years Mark's senior, turned towards her to gift her with a warm smile. "Bridget, lovely to see you again."

"How's Katie? How did her graduation from pre-school go?"

"Very well, indeed," he replied. "She cried for hours beforehand, then cried when it was over because she was having too much fun."

Bridget laughed. Mark, once again, was floored. He had asked Edmund to pick Bridget up one night, when a wait for a taxi was more than three hours. The ride couldn't have been more than five minutes long, and yet she seemed to know more about the man than Mark did after having him in his employ for five years.

"Where will you be going today?" asked Edmund.

"Leicester Square," said Mark.

"Ben & Jerry's," Bridget said excitedly.

Mark caught the initial look of incredulity before turning to face forward once more. "Off we go, then," Edmund said, as he pulled away from the kerb.

"And how's your wife?" asked Bridget. "Did she finish that quilt she was working on?"

"Yes. She asked me to thank you for the colour suggestion for the border."

He never realised before that moment how truly approachable Bridget was, how easy it must have seemed for people who just met her to open up and talk to her. If he'd given her a fair chance at the Turkey Curry Buffet he would have known that a lot sooner.

The car slowed down and drew up in front of the Ben & Jerry's.

"I'll wait to take you home," Edmund said.

"Would you like a cone?" asked Bridget. "You seem like a Cherry Garcia kind of guy."

He seemed delighted at the idea until he glanced at Mark. Edmund's face went completely serious and he said, "Better not while on the job…"

Mark felt like a monster. How much of a stiff did other people think he was? Mark endeavoured to be a little warmer in future. "No, please. If you'd like one…"

"Yes, sir, thank you." With another little smile at Bridget he said, "Cherry Garcia would be delightful."

They decided to get Edmund a little cup of ice cream with a spoon rather than a cone, which could have gotten very messy on his jacket. Bridget proclaimed that nothing would do for her but Chocolate Fudge Brownie. "And what'll you have?" she asked.

"Vanilla Toffee Crunch," he said decidedly.

He paid for the three cones then took his own, licking his to keep it from dripping on his hand, thinking briefly he should have gotten a cup, too.

"Can I have a taste?" she asked, as they moved off to the side.

"Sure."

He held his cone out to her, but to his surprise she popped up on her toes and kissed him playfully, quickly licking the corner of his mouth. When she set herself back down on her heels she was smirking devilishly.

"I'm not usually a big fan of vanilla," she said, "but this… very nice."

He found himself grinning at her. He couldn't help himself. Such a spontaneous open display of intimacy would have embarrassed the hell out of the old Mark, but it was just this sort of unpredictable moment that made him fall even more in love with her. Even though he could feel the ice cream melting onto his hand, he just stood there looking at her with an indelible smile.

Bridget spoke at last, though she was beaming at him in a similarly besotted way. "We should… you know. Get Edmund his ice cream."

"Yes," said Mark, quickly cleaning up the drip. "Let's."

"Where shall we go from here?" she asked him as they made their way back to the car. Thankfully the rain had stopped.

"Excellent question," he said, pulling open the door for her. "It will be supper soon, though it seems we're having dessert first."

She took her seat in the car, and he handed her the cup of ice cream. She in turn handed it to Edmund, who for a split second had the joyous look of a little boy just given a sweet. Mark then slid in beside her and closed the door.

"Let's go home, then," she said, smiling warmly, resting her free hand on his knee.

As soon as Edmund had finished his ice cream they were off; it seemed Edmund had a clear memory of where Bridget lived, for he didn't need to be reminded and headed straight for London Bridge.

He pulled up in front of her building and stopped at the kerb just in front of her door. Mark stepped out and held out a hand to help her up out of the car, then said, "Go on upstairs and order us whatever takeaway sounds good to you. I need to go back to my house for a change of clothes, and I'll be back as soon as I can."

She smiled. "Okay."

He bent to kiss her, couldn't resist flicking his tongue out on the smudge of chocolate on her lower lip. He then whispered, "The chocolate's pretty damn good too."

He pulled away to see the pink flush spreading across her cheek, her lids lifting heavily to meet his gaze, her voice unsteady as she said, "See you in a bit."

He got back into the car but waited until she was actually in the building before asking Edmund to drive to his house.

"Mr Darcy," began Edmund, once en route, "will you be requiring additional service tonight back from your house?"

Mark fought a smirk; he supposed this was Edmund's circumspect way of asking if he was going back to Bridget's. "Yes, Edmund. Thank you."

"Very well."

In short order they were back at his own house.

"I'll just be in for a few minutes, and then I'll be returning to Bridget's for the evening."

Edmund nodded. "Yes sir."

It ended up taking a little longer than anticipated due to requests from his cleaning woman, an urgent, work-related answerphone message, packing an overnight bag, and a few other very important errands, but within the hour they were back on the road. As they came back up in front of the Globe, Mark said, "I know asking you to drive us today was kind of last minute, so let me express how grateful we are, Edmund."

"My pleasure," said Edmund.

"Have a pleasant evening," Mark said, grabbing his bag and reaching for the door handle.

"Likewise, Mr Darcy," said Edmund, who then turned in his seat. Mark held off on opening the door. "If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I am quite fond of your lady friend. Quite fond."

"As am I."

"That much is very evident," Edmund said with a sly smile. "And if I may be so bold, rather an improvement over the likes of Ms Glenville, your Bridget is."

Mark smiled. His Bridget. "I would never contradict you when you're right, Edmund." He opened the door. "Good night."

Mark went to press the buzzer for Bridget's flat, but realised the door was already ajar. He pushed it open and headed up the stairs, thinking how the tenants in her building were very careless about the security of others.

When he got to the top of the stairs, he saw her flat's door was also ajar.

He strode in, preparing to give her a talking to about her carelessness regarding her safety and security when alone in her flat, leaving doors open for anyone to walk into, but when he saw her, those words died instantly in his throat.

He found thick pillars burning on every flat surface of the living room; the lights down low and the fireplace was roaring with flame. And then there was Bridget; she was waiting for him on the sofa, beautifully bare, amber light playing over her body. He supposed she had intended on meeting him in a seductive sort of manner, but she had instead apparently dozed off to sleep.

Not that her lying there wasn't seductive.

He could tell by the scent in the air that the pizza had already arrived, but he cared very little for it at the present. He closed and locked the door behind him, slipped out of his shoes and padded over to where she was, crouching to kneel beside her. He considered gently stroking her hair or lightly caressing her skin to wake her, but instead decided naughtily to teach her a bit of a lesson.

In a flash he leapt up to cover her mouth with his, startling her, causing her to cry out in alarm; he placed his hands on her upper arms and held firm. Of course, from the moment she opened her eyes she realised it was him, and passionately kissed him in return.

"Oh, you bastard," she said as she broke away. "You scared me."

"Leaving your door open so that any stranger could walk in and take advantage of you," he said, moving his attention to her throat, running his fingers lightly down over her skin to then take her securely around the waist. "Not wise at all."

"Duly noted," she breathed in return.

………

It was a good thing that Mark was not picky about reheated pizza, which they had afterwards with chilled wine as they watched television. If he were to be pressed for details, Mark wasn't sure he could actually recall what they'd watched; he'd been too preoccupied with holding her against him, skin to skin, under the blanket. Eventually they picked themselves up and went to bed, acknowledging that neither were particularly interested in what was showing.

It had been a very good day. Very good indeed. He had a feeling Sunday would be just as good; after all, he still had to give her back her pants.

The end.