Invisible to the Eye

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 8,138
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: A little boy… with a big secret.
Disclaimer: A certain someone is mine. The rest, not so much, though dearly wish they were.
Notes: I couldn't help myself. Another holiday treat. (A follow up to "The Fox and the Rose".)
Additional note at end of story. Do not wish to spoil.

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
what is essential is invisible to the eye.

—The Little Prince

For a boy of his age, at the time of the year that it was, he seemed awfully distracted, even sullen. This concerned her, because in the time that she had known him he had turned from a quiet, introspective child into a happier, more expressive one, and she liked to think she had a hand in bringing that about, not that falling in love with his father had had no positive benefits for her, either. What was causing such a gloomy attitude at such a happy time of year—Christmastime, with good food, family gatherings and best of all (in the eyes of a seven-year-old), a visit from Father Christmas—was something about which she could only speculate.

It was about four days prior to the holiday proper, and she had agreed to have him over for the evening when his father had a late meeting to conclude court business. She had planned on making supper for them, simple baked chicken and new potatoes, but upon picking him up at school, at seeing his pursed-lipped expression, she decided instead to phone for a pizza.

"Martin," she said quietly to him, taking his mitten-clad hand as they sat together in the back of the taxi. "Is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing's wrong." He looked up to her though, and his big brown eyes looked incredibly soulful.

"Sweetheart," she said. "You can tell me anything. You know that."

He nodded. "I know. But not this."

It was an admission that there was something he wasn't telling her. He seemed to catch his mistake and clapped a mitten over his mouth.

"Martin," she said again, her heart heavy with the thought (improbable as it might be) that he didn't want her as a mum anymore. She carried on. "If there's something bothering you, I want to know what it is. That's what mums are for, to help you when you feel like you can't help yourself."

There was no obvious reaction to or recoiling at the word 'mum', which relieved her. He said, however, "But I promised Dad."

This was becoming more intriguing by the moment. "You promised your dad you wouldn't tell me something?"

Martin bit on his lower lip, but nodded.

The light dawned, given the time of year: "Oh, is this about a Christmas surprise?"

He nodded again.

She grinned. "There is no need to be so sombre, Martin. Are you worried that I won't like it?"

He shook his head vehemently. Not worried in the least; more curious still.

"Well," she said, drawing out the word, "it sounds like you've been given a pretty big responsibility with this secret of your dad's, but you don't need to worry. Everything will be all right. Can I have a smile?"

Reluctantly he did. "I just want it to be Christmas," he said. "Then I can smile a lot."

The pizza helped matters, too, as it usually did, as did the viewing of the film A Christmas Story, though afterwards she wondered about the wisdom of showing it to him; the rest of the evening he kept saying, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid," in an uncannily accurate American accent, then laughing giddily. She supposed, however, that it was better than the cloud that had been hanging over him earlier.

At about eight-thirty they were partaking in Christmas gingerbread biscuits and some milk when she heard a key turn in the flat door. She looked up as she saw a slightly weary-looking but happy Mark ascending the stairs up. Martin got up from the table and ran over to his father for a hug. "Hi Dad," he said. "I didn't say a word."

Mark blinked in slight confusion. "Oh," he said, glancing worriedly to where she sat at the table. "Good. Um. Hi, Bridget," he called to her as he moved closer. "Did you have a nice night?"

"Yup," said Martin. "We watched a really funny picture about a boy who wants to get this gun and everyone keeps telling him, 'You'll shoot your eye out, kid.'" For the last portion he affected that American accent again.

"A… gun?"

"And then he does!"

"He shoots his eye out?" Mark asked, aghast.

Bridget laughed. "No, he doesn't. Come on and have a gingerbread man and tell me how your meeting went."

He sat down heavily but with a smile on his face. "Very well, indeed," he said. "Everything's going according to plan." He yawned. "Actually, if you have any pizza left I'll have some. I never got a dinner break."

"How did you know—?"

He grinned. "You are very predictable at times, my dear."

She stood and bent to peck his cheek, and as she did, she saw Martin looking happier than he had in days. She thought it curious but was glad to see the turnaround.

When she warmed up the pizza and brought it to him she also brought over a glass of wine. He gave her a quizzical look. "You could just… stay here tonight," she said quietly. Mark had stayed over plenty of times when Martin had been with his grandparents or with the nanny, but never had the two stayed over together.

"Oh, Dad!" said Martin. "Can we please? I don't have to go school tomorrow. Please!"

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "Didn't think I'd said it that loudly."

He chuckled, then reached across the table to take her hand. "That's all right. Though… where will we put him?"

It was an excellent question, one she didn't have an answer for. Martin, however, evidently had ideas of his own. "I'll sleep on your cool sofa."

She tried not to laugh, and shot a glance to Mark, who was evidently equally surprised. "You won't put the telly on?"

He shook his head. "Promise. Mum, can I show Dad the part of the picture where he shoots his eye out?"

She did laugh this time. "He doesn't shoot out his eye."

They put in the disc and ended up watching the whole thing from beginning to end once more. "Ah," said Mark with mock seriousness as it began. "It's a period piece." Mark had a little more wine; Martin ended up falling asleep before the scene in question. When it was over Mark switched off the television and the disc player while Bridget pulled out a blanket and pillow for him.

"He'll be okay?" she whispered.

"He'll be fine," Mark replied.

After they washed up for bed, Mark took her by the hand and kissed her, then closed the bedroom door behind them. "But Martin—" she began, but he kissed her again, bringing his arms around her waist, his fingers tracing up and down her spine.

"Martin's asleep," he said, "and you've come to stay with us enough times. He knows we're in here together."

"But he doesn't know what…" She faltered. "What we do."

"Reasonable for a seven-year-old," he said. He brought his lips close to hers again then murmured, "Certainly isn't going to stop me, darling."

Indeed, it did not, though she made sure she kept herself as quiet as possible. After making love, a pleasure they had not shared in almost a week, she sighed and curled up against him, his arm around her. He, evidently exhausted, did not even ply her with the usual round of light, loving kisses. With his eyes closed he nuzzled up to her temple and sighed, whispering, "Can't wait 'til we're all together under one roof."

With this statement he had evidently fallen deep into slumber, but his words and their possible meaning resounded in her head. She could not imagine that he would wish to marry so quickly, not after the disaster that was his first wife (Martin notwithstanding). Did he mean to ask her to live with him? Was that the Christmas surprise? It was no wonder, then, that little Martin was so burdened with the weight of such a secret. He probably wanted to jump up and down and tell everyone he passed on the street that his Mum was coming to live with him at last.

With a smile and a bit of a flutter in her stomach, she imagined the moment when Mark asked her to move in with them. She would agree (of course), and the plotting and planning to get her packed up and moved out would begin; she considered that he would probably want to get professionals involved…

The idea of being with them every day, sleeping with Mark every night, brought a warmth to her that no gift could bestow, and ushered her into a deep and contented sleep.

…

"Oh, how about this?"

It was insane, going to a toy store three days before Christmas, but Martin was with his nanny, she really wanted to bring Mark along to help her make a decision, and they had not yet had the chance to shop together. She held up a game.

"He's not a big fan of card games," he said. "Plus, he… has one of those already."

"Oh," she said. She put it down then walked briskly away, eyes searching for the perfect gift she knew was waiting for her to find. Her eyes lit upon an Etch-a-Sketch. "Ooh! How about this? I loved this when I was a kid."

"He used to have one of those. He got frustrated when he couldn't do curves and… he threw it down and broke it."

"Oh," she said again. He put his arm around her shoulders and they began walking again.

"I know you want to find him something really special, but I can guarantee whatever you give to him he will love," Mark murmured close to her ear.

As he was saying this her eyes fixed on a plush… well, what appeared to be a tail. She stopped in her tracks and reached for it, then lifted it up. It was a fox. Drawing her brows together, she held it in her hand and looked to the tag… and discovered that it was an official Little Prince fox.

Evidently Mark saw the label too and said, "Well. Ask and ye shall receive."

"It's perfect," she said, then, cradling it under her arm, began to dig through the shelf for the rose, but one was not to be found. "Bugger."

"What is it?"

"It's not fair," she said. "If they're going to make the fox, they should make the rose too."

"Agreed," he said sombrely. "A grave injustice."

"You're patronising me," she said with a pout.

"Maybe a bit," he said, leaning to peck her cheek. "Martin will be very pleased with the fox even if he doesn't have his rose."

"The rose wasn't for Martin," she said with a smirk.

In the end she bought the fox as well as a new Matchbox car that Mark was sure Martin did not already have and a Magic 8-Ball. "What will he do with that?" Mark asked regarding the latter.

"The question should be, what won't he do with it?" she grinned. "It's great fun to have."

"Did you have one as a child?"

"No," she said. "Shazzer got one for me, birthday before last. Which I have since broken."

At this he laughed and kissed her. "Come on," he said. "Let's have something to eat before I take you back to your flat."

After arriving to the pub and ordering their food, Mark sipped from his bitter then cleared his throat. "We haven't really talked about Christmas," he said at last. She suspected the discussion they were about to have was the reason he'd asked her for lunch, because the holiday was fast approaching. However, she had thought the matter settled already.

"Well," she said, "we're riding up together on Christmas Eve Day, I thought, me bound for my parents, you and Martin for yours."

He nodded. "Right," he said. "I meant you and I."

She drew her brows together.

"Our gift exchange."

"Oh," she said. "I sort of thought we'd be doing Christmas dinner together, all of that."

"Yes," he said. "I would really like to exchange our gifts in private, though."

Her heart began to race. Surely she had been right. He was going to ask her to move in. "Oh," she said again, feeling rather stupid. "What about Martin?"

"I'd prefer to wait until Christmas to give him his gift," he said.

"I mean…" she began, then stopped. She was going to ask him if he should be there too, but didn't want to let on that she suspected. "Should we have our exchange when he's with Alberta?"

"Oh, good point. How about tomorrow night, then? Christmas Eve's Eve. You can bring your things and stay over, you know, for the drive on the twenty-fourth, and we can exchange after he goes to bed."

"Okay," she said.

"Perfect." He smiled, and though his smiles to her were always tender, this one seemed especially so. Their food was ready just then, so they ate, drank, and spoke of lighter subjects and additional Christmas-related logistics, but Bridget thought only of the following evening.

…

"Mum?"

It was just after dinner the next night that Martin said this to her. Startled by his sudden speech, she dropped her fork and looked to him.

"Yes, Martin?" she asked, noticing too that Mark had left the table.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I'm fine," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"You didn't laugh at my elephant joke."

"Oh? Oh, I'm sorry." She smiled. "It was very funny. I guess I just have a lot on my mind."

"Me too," he said solemnly. "Like, how does Father Christmas know that I'll be with Gran and Grandpa again?"

She laughed, then said confidentially, "I'm glad you're in better spirits than you were the other day."

He nodded. "It's almost Christmas, after all."

Mark returned with a casserole pan filled with baked apple slices covered in cinnamon and sugar. "Here we are," he said. "Looks like you're ready for dessert, Martin; Bridget, was something wrong with the chicken?"

She looked down. She'd hardly eaten. "No, it was very good," she said. "I guess my appetite has abandoned me."

He furrowed his brows, his worry evident. "That's unusual."

"I know," she lamented. "Can I still have some apples?"

He smirked and looked to Martin. "I don't know," he said. "What do you think, Martin? Should she get some apples even though she didn't finish her chicken?"

He giggled then nodded. "You know, since it's Christmas and all."

"O wise and wonderful sage," she said, also laughing, feeling relieved to be distracted from her thoughts. "I'm sure I'll want the chicken later. I could just put it in a container."

"Allow me," Mark said. "I have to get the bowls and spoons, anyway." He swept her plate up and went over towards the kitchen. "Milk, Martin?"

"Yes, please."

"Tea, darling? Have tea water ready to go."

"Yes, please," she said, winking at Martin.

She turned to watch him working in the kitchen, finding and filling a plastic container with her chicken remnants, and as he opened the refrigerator door to put it away, she caught a glimpse of what looked very much to her like a bottle of champagne. For some reason this made her very nervous; it was one thing to know he might ask, but it was another for him to be so sure of an affirmative that he had bubbly waiting in the wings. It was stupid to feel pressured by this, particularly when she was pretty sure of giving an affirmative, anyway.

"Here's your tea. And your milk."

"Oh," she said. "Thanks."

"Be right back."

He returned quickly enough with three bowls and spoons, and vanilla ice cream for the top. In the meanwhile the apple slices had cooled enough to eat, but were still warm enough to offer a pleasant contrast with the ice cream. He dished up three servings, dug spoons into them, and pushed two away.

"Happy Christmas Eve… Eve," said Martin with a smile—two front teeth now fully descended—before shoving his spoon, filled with apples and ice cream, into his mouth. She couldn't help but laugh any more than she could help the wave of love she felt for the boy.

She drank her tea and ate her apples with far more zeal than she'd had for the chicken. Soon after finishing his apples, Martin surprised her by jumping down from his seat and taking his bowl to the kitchen. "Are you finished, Mum?" he asked. "I could take your bowl for you."

"I am finished, thank you," she said, handing it to him. "I think Dad's done too."

"Yes," added Mark, handing him yet another empty bowl and spoon.

With the bowls stacked carefully together with the spoons, Martin walked and set them down on the counter beside his discard. "If it's okay," he said as he walked back towards them, "I'd like to go play upstairs with my cars."

"It's okay by me," said Mark. Bridget said nothing. She could not find the words. She wondered if this had been arranged in advance by Mark, or if Martin was working on his own initiative. Judging by the look of mild surprise on Mark's face, she had to think the latter.

"Have to go to bed on time," said Mark. "We have a busy day ahead of us."

He nodded fervently, his curls flopping as he did. "I know. Off to Grafton Underwood to see Gran and Grandpa." He looked to Bridget, grinning crookedly. "And Granny Pam and Grandpa Colin too."

It had touched her so deeply that Martin had taken to her parents as much as he had, not to mention how Martin had helped them reconnect with each other after the Julian fiasco. "They're very much looking forward to seeing you, Martin."

"Me too," he said; she knew what he meant. "Well, see you later." With that he dashed up the stairs, then across the floor above.

She turned back to Mark, who looked to her with very soft, warm eyes. How there had ever been a time when she hadn't felt the pull of his gaze, she wasn't sure; it had certainly not been a period of enlightenment. She cleared her throat. "Shall I… get your gift for you, then?"

"No hurry," he said, "though if you're done with your tea we can retire to the sofa."

She chuckled, though felt her heart race in anticipation. "I'll get it all the same."

They rose from the table; as she went for the carrier bag up in the foyer, he went toward the kitchen, and as she returned down the stairs he was already sitting on the sofa with no apparent gift in sight, the hint of a smile on his face. Setting down the bag, she took a seat beside him. He pulled her closer and into his arms, then kissed her before nuzzling his nose into the hair at her temple.

"Oh, Bridget," he whispered, running his hand down over her hair. "I don't know how I got along without you."

"You were doing fine," she said in an attempt at a light tone.

"You know what I mean," he chastised softly.

"Yes," she said quietly, closing her eyes, feeling the bristle of his sideburn against her cheek.

They sat together like this for many moments, and Bridget was content to do so. She too wondered how she'd gotten along without him; she'd had her friends for comfort and they had been a lifeline in her most desperate times, and she loved them without condition, but what she had with Mark was something altogether different. It was as if they had been long-separated halves, as if she were yin to his yang, the positive charge to his negative one. The thought of his being in any way negative made her chuckle, and when she did, he wondered what was so amusing.

"Just thinking the same," she said softly.

He pulled back, taking her hand, meeting her gaze with his. "Bridget," he said again, and the uncertain tenor of his voice caused her heart to race. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you." He released her hand, then reached around the edge of the sofa and pulled out a large envelope. "Here. You don't have to answer right away, and if you have any questions don't hesitate to ask me."

She was now utterly confused, and there was no disguising the tremor in her hand as she reached for what he offered. She undid the clasp at the top, slipped out a sheaf of papers from within.

Concerning Martin Darcy, a minor and citizen of the United Kingdom…

…papers herewith drawn by his biological father and legal guardian, Mark Darcy…

She looked up at him. She didn't know what she was expecting, but a stack of legal documents was not it. "I don't understand."

"Keep reading."

"But it's gibberish to me."

"Bridget."

She looked to the paper again.

…regarding the matter of his adoption by Bridget Jones…

Her eyes flew up; her mouth hung open in awe. Adoption? "Mark, what is this?"

"It's just a rough draft," he said; clearly he'd interpreted her reaction correctly. "But you get the idea."

"How can I… adopt Martin?" she asked. She felt completely shell-shocked. "What about his—"

"I think I've made it clear that as far as I'm concerned, you are his mother," he said, his tone a bit cooler. "The woman who bore him has no claim to him. She signed away her parental rights before she left." He took in a deep breath, then continued in a gentler tone, "This would make the bond you already have a legal one."

Completely overwhelmed, she stared at the paper; the words began to run into one another due to the tears welling in her eyes. "What about Martin?" As she asked it, she knew: this must have been the big secret he must have been bursting to tell her. This was something he wanted. She smiled, then sobbed in happiness; he seemed to know she already had the answer to her own question. "I don't know what I could say but yes." She set the papers down—tossed them to the side would have been a more accurate description—then threw her arms around him. That he would ask this of her, to be Martin's parent not only in his heart but in the eyes in the law, was more than she expected and deserved, but should something ever happen to Mark—heaven forbid—Martin would at least have her. She pushed back and met his eyes again. He wiped away her tears of joy even as a few welled in his own eyes. "I'm glad that all makes sense to you," she said; the thought of moving forward with this, with making it official, made her a little giddy. "Was this… my God, was this your big meeting the other night?" she asked. His grin answered everything. "So what's next? What happens next?"

"The process itself is pretty straightforward," he said, "and I've cleared the path adequately well. However, there is one thing that might make it easier still."

"Oh?" she asked eagerly. "What's that?"

"This."

He raised his hand, and it was only then that she saw he held a small square box, one he had flipped open to reveal a beautiful ring. At first nothing connected for her, but in an instant it did: the single platinum band, the single sparkling stone, could only mean one thing. She gasped, and brought her hand to her mouth. "I only thought you were going to ask me to move in, Mark," she said, exasperated. "I thought the idea of… marriage…"

He smiled, then pulled the ring out of its box. "Not at all," he said. "I never discounted the idea again someday… but the only reason I'd do it would be for love, which is what I should have done in the first place." He held it up by his fingers on its edge. "What do you say, Bridget? Care to go all in?"

His manner, playful and a little flippant, she knew was a mask for his true fear: that perhaps she would think it all too much, too soon, and sprint away as fast as she could. "Might as well not make the process any harder," she said, lifting her left hand up and covering his. With a grin she said, "In for a penny, in for a pound."

He turned the ring and slipped it onto her ring finger before framing her face with his hands and drawing her lips to his for a kiss that spoke not only of love and passion, but of thankfulness and joy. When they broke, she chuckled a little. "My present for you is going to pale a bit in comparison," she said, which caused him to laugh low in his throat.

"Your 'yes' is gift enough for ten Christmases," he said, kissing her again, then drying her dampened cheek. "Come now, darling," he said. "There's a very anxious boy upstairs waiting to hear how everything went." He rose to his feet—she noticed his rising was not a smooth one; despite his cool demeanour the poor man must have been keyed up inside—then offered a hand to help her to her feet.

"So he knew about all of this," she said, turning to face him, putting her hands on his shoulders.

"Yes," said Mark. "But you knew that already. He almost sort of gave it away."

She chuckled. "Ah, but it was you who nearly gave it away," she said. "When you stayed at my flat the other night you said something about not being able to wait 'til we're all together under one roof. This almost immediately after Martin said he had a secret he couldn't tell me, and the not telling me was killing him."

He blinked in his surprise but smiled. "Well, I can see why you thought what you did." Mark paused, his smile fading as he looked down. "Yes. He wanted me to phone you straightaway and ask after I brought up the possibility of adoption with him. I had to explain to him there were details to iron out before I could. And then he saw the ring, which only amped his excitement. It really is a miracle he didn't say anything, and if I could have done it without talking to him first… but I couldn't, not that he would have said anything but 'yes'…"

"I know what you mean," she said; he was the sort of man who wanted his son to participate in his own young life. She let out a long breath, drawing her fingers tenderly over the contours of his face. "I know we need to go and give him the good news before he pops," she said, "but… one more kiss before we unleash Cyclone Martin upon the world?"

"You hardly need to ask."

He dipped his head and kissed her, lightly, chastely at first, then turning deeper as his arms encircled her. The sound of thundering footsteps on the stairs caused them to break apart. "Dad!" It was Martin, and his voice was almost disappointed and impatient, as if they were intentionally leaving him out of the celebration. "You didn't come upstairs!"

"Come here, sweetie," said Bridget, crouching down to meet him almost eye to eye as he approached. "I'm sorry, we got caught up in being happy about it all, and didn't come up at once. You did know I'd say yes, right?"

Martin's sad expression changed into a more pleased one. "Yeah, I knew," he said, grinning crookedly.

"You did very well at keeping such a big, big secret," she said, holding her arms out. He stepped into them and hugged her tightly.

"Now no one can say you're not my mum for real," he said.

"Well, it's not finished yet—" She stopped, then drew far enough back to look at him. "Martin, did someone say that to you?"

He hesitated, then nodded.

"I'll find 'em," she said, "and I'll kick their bums in."

Martin giggled.

A loud pop behind them reminded Bridget there was champagne to be had. She rose from her crouching position. "Is this wise," said Bridget, "with the drive to Grafton Underwood tomorrow?"

"I don't care," he said. "We have something to celebrate."

Irrefutable logic.

He poured two flutes, and a small glass half-full for Martin with which he could participate in the toast. "To strengthening family bonds," Mark said, "and an on-going hurrah to finding love when you least expect to."

She laughed at his use of the word 'hurrah', raised her glass and touched the edge to his and to Martin's before drinking it all down in one sip.

After meeting Mark's eye and smiling, she turned her attention to Martin, who viewed the glass of fizzy champagne with scepticism.

"Have a sip," she said.

"It smells weird," Martin replied, but he brought it to his lips and drank. Immediately upon tasting it he started to cough. "Yuck!"

They both chuckled. "You don't have to finish it," she said.

"Did I have enough to make the toast work?" Martin asked.

"Of course," said Mark, extending his hand for Martin's cup.

"Oh, okay."

Getting Martin to bed was a challenge due to his being all wound up from the excitement, but after getting his kisses goodnight, Bridget agreed to read him his favourite chapter of his favourite book (The Little Prince, of course), and he drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. When she exited Martin's room, she noticed a light coming out of the master bedroom, not bright enough to be anything but candlelight. With a smile, she looked down at her hand, at the shining radiance emanating from her ring finger, and felt tears in her eyes.

She went to the door and saw that Mark was waiting for her, sitting on the edge of the bed in his robe, the bottle of champagne and their flutes on the bedside table. A small smile played upon his lips. "Didn't seem wise to let it go to waste," he said, pouring them each another serving. She almost asked him if he thought it was a good idea to polish off the bottle, but she knew what his answer would be: same as earlier. As she sat she saw he had also brought up the gift she'd gotten for him, one which she almost wanted to take back.

"Hand it to me," he commanded. She did so sheepishly. He opened it and seemed confused by what he found there.

"It's an iPod," she said. "I put some music on there for you."

He raised a brow, but was smiling. "Part of my continuing education?"

"Perhaps."

He took it out of the box to examine its sleek surface, turning it over, discovering the engraving she'd had added: My darling fox, you tamed your loving rose. He laughed lightly, then looked to her with warmth in his eyes. "Thank you." He set it aside.

"Don't you want to listen?"

"No," he said. "That I can do tomorrow. Right now, I want to indulge in a little more champagne, then I want to make love to my fiancée."

"Well," she said with a smile. "Twist my arm. Besides, I'll need a lot of practise with the whole 'wifely duties' thing."

He drained his flute, set it down, then reached to slip his hand around her waist. "Nonsense," he said, pulling her closer. "You've got that perfected to an art form."

She drained her flute, too, then proceeded to further perfect her art with his assistance.

…

The tone of the drive the next day was a bit muted, and there were many instances of asking Martin to keep his voice down. Even in hushed tones, his excitement could hardly be quashed. It was Christmas Eve, after all; he had presents to look forward to (Mark had packed the boot of the car with Father Christmas' gifts while Bridget had distracted him in his room), and beyond that, he would soon get to tell his grandparents that his dad was going to be getting married, that the woman he called Mum would soon be so in more than just appellation.

"Martin," said Bridget, driving her thumb and forefinger into the corners of her eyes in the hopes of ridding herself of her headache, a tactic which hardly ever seemed to work, "do you think you can keep a secret until everyone's together tomorrow night?"

"You'll have to stash your ring," muttered Mark. "Your mother has the eyes of a hawk."

She hadn't expected her question to bring tears to Martin's eyes, but when she glanced to him she saw he looked miserable and glossy-eyed.

"Sweetheart, what is it?" she asked, concerned.

His lower lip was trembling. "Aren't you going to be there for Christmas morning?"

She looked to Mark, who glanced to her as he drove. In their planning the holiday they had failed to consider Christmas morning from Martin's point of view.

"Oh," she said, flummoxed. "Um."

"Bridget," said Mark decisively. "Call your mother and mine, and tell them there's been a change of plan. We'll all stay with my parents."

She smiled, but inwardly knew her mother wouldn't like her only daughter to be out of the house for Christmas.

"I think Pam will understand," Mark went on as if reading her mind.

She nodded, then looked to Martin. He looked happy again.

"What do you think of that idea, Martin?"

Martin offered a smile. "It's a good one."

She pulled out her mobile, reached to turn down the volume on the iPod (which Mark had been able to hook into the car stereo system; so far he had liked the music she'd chosen very much), then dialled her mother's number.

"Happy Early Christmas!" chirped her mother as she picked up.

"Hi, Mum," she said, glancing to Martin. "Have some news."

"Not going to be late, are you?" she asked. "I've told you a hundred times—"

"What? No, we're not going to be late. We're on the way right now, actually," she said.

"Then what is your news?"

"Mum, Martin wants me to be there with him on Christmas morning. We've decided that I'll stay the night with the Darcys."

"With Mark you mean," she snipped. "You know I adore him, but you know what I've said about—"

"Mother," she interrupted again with emphasis. "Not with Mark. With…" She glanced to Mark. "With my fiancé and son."

Pam knew that her daughter thought of Martin as a son, but the new term in the mix, 'fiancé', had evidently left her at a loss for words. "Your… what?"

"Fiancé," Bridget repeated.

"Did he… oh my godfathers, he proposed?"

She thought of the rather unusual method by which he had done so. "Yes, he did. And I'll be adopting Martin officially."

"So much for keeping the big secret," said Martin from behind her.

"Oh my word, Bridget, this is fantastic news," Pam said giddily. "Yes, of course you must be there for Martin in the morning. Of course. Do you think they'll be able to stay for dinner? Oh, wait, no, I'm sure Elaine has dinner of her own planned for Christmas Eve…. Well, we shall all have dinner together tomorrow, families of the bride and groom together!" After a pause, she added in a level tone, "I'm sure Elaine was just as excited to hear the news."

Bridget knew what this statement really meant: you'd better not have told her before you told me. "We haven't said anything to Mark's parents yet. I was going to phone them next."

"Oh!" she said gaily, placated. "Well, shan't keep the good news from spreading. See you when you arrive!" She hung up.

"I didn't really mean for it to all come out," said Bridget.

"It isn't as if you're running away to join the circus," said Mark, which made Martin laugh.

"But I wasn't even able to keep a secret as well as Martin did," she said sorrowfully.

Mark reached and squeezed her hand. "It wasn't a secret anymore. It's news that's meant to be shared. Announced from mountaintops, et cetera." He always had a knack for making her feel better, and she smiled, squeezing his hand in return before he relinquished it for the steering wheel.

Since they were so close to Grafton Underwood, they decided to go directly to the Darcys' house and give Elaine and Malcolm the good news in person. They carried their bags inside; Bridget wondered about the wisdom of bringing her own overnight bag in before asking if it was all right. "It'll be fine. Don't worry."

Pam might have had the eyes of a hawk, but Elaine had those of an eagle. Immediately she honed in on the sparkling ring on Bridget's hand and grinned broadly. "So he did ask, then? I suspected he might. Oh, I'm so pleased," she said, reaching out and giving Bridget a big hug.

"She's gonna adopt me, too," piped up Martin.

Elaine pulled back then looked at Mark. "Really?" she asked, though the bright tone and smile meant that the question was joyous, not incredulous.

"Yes," Mark confirmed with a smile.

"Malcolm! Come here!"

When Mark's father came into the foyer, the good news was repeated over again, and he too was happy to hear it. "Good, sensible girl," he blustered approvingly. "Good mother to my grandson. Best news I've had in years."

It pleased Bridget that they were so happy. She sallied forth. "So… Martin asked if I could be here with you all on Christmas morning, if it's not too much trouble."

"Too much trouble? Nonsense. I'll get you a room set up at once." At the look of confusion that must have crossed her face, Elaine added, "Your mother would not forgive me otherwise if you stayed…" Her eyes shifted to Mark then back to Bridget. "Together."

"But Mum stays over in Dad's room all the time."

This unwelcome burst of truth from Martin caused Bridget to turn as red as a beet. "No, Martin, that's fine. I can have my own room. It's best that way."

Martin didn't look like he fully understood, but he could tell that he shouldn't say anything more. "Okay."

"I'll take Bridget to her parents'," Mark said. "They're expecting her for supper. But she'll be back later," he added, directed to Martin. "Maybe you could help Gran set the table for our own dinner?"

"Actually," said Elaine, "I know how much you like helping to put together the apple pies, and the pie birds are just waiting for you."

"Okay," Martin said, then looked to Bridget before going over and giving her a hug. "See you later, Mum."

"See you later."

"You aren't angry at me, are you?" he asked quietly, close to her ear.

"Never in a million years," said Bridget, holding him tight, then pulling back to peck him on the cheek. "See you later."

With that she and Mark left the house hand in hand. Once they were outside, she let out a long breath.

"You sound like you've just escaped the executioner's blade," said Mark.

"Sort of feel like I have," she said.

He chuckled. "If it were up to my mother," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders, "she wouldn't really care if we shared a room." He lowered his voice. "And besides, you could always come tuck me in."

"Oh no," she said. "I don't need that getting back to my mother."

"I could come tuck you in," he countered.

She looked up to him, saw the devilish glint in his eye, and thought just how much he had changed since she'd met him; looser, quicker to laugh and joke. She allowed a small smile. "We'll see."

…

After getting Martin sent off to Bedfordshire, Bridget did allow Mark to come into her room and give her a kiss goodnight. "Can't stay," said Mark, "My dad's waiting for me to help bring in the gifts from the car then take care of Martin's stocking. Swear Dad offered on purpose to keep us on the straight and narrow."

"Want any help?"

"It's all right," he said. "Get your rest. You'll need it."

She chuckled, kissed him then sent him on his way. Running her thumb along the band of the ring on her finger, she watched him retreat, and called after him, "I love you."

He turned just as he was about to descend. "Love you too, darling."

She fell to sleep a lot more quickly than she thought she might, and it was a good thing she had, because seemingly with the sunrise came an insistent knocking on her door: "Mum! Father Christmas came! You have to come see! My stocking's filled with candy and a new Matchbox car!"

She pushed aside her sheets, stepped into her house shoes and put on her robe. When she swung open the door Martin was standing there, or rather, Martin was there, bouncing in place with excitement, holding in his hand the very car she'd bought him. "Wow! Father Christmas, you say?"

He nodded, sending his wild, sleep-strewn curls bobbing even more madly as he went on about missing mince pies and brandy, further evidence (in Martin's opinion) of Father Christmas' presence. Motion at the end of the hall caught her eye, and she looked up to see Mark approaching, bearing two mugs of coffee. He smiled as he caught her eye.

"What a lifesaver you are," she said. "What time is it?"

"Too early," he said. "But not as early as he woke me."

"I think we should do what Dad says they do in America," Martin said with an air of seriousness. "Open gifts right away, not after breakfast."

"Breakfast will get cold. Gifts will not," said Mark.

Martin was adequately well-behaved through breakfast, though evidence of disgruntlement did surface once or twice, just not enough to invoke a scolding or punishment; the boy was no fool and he wanted his presents. Bridget observed Martin perched on the edge of his seat, waiting for his father to give the all-clear much like a distance runner waiting for the starting pistol to fire.

"Well," said Mark, setting down his emptied coffee cup and picking up his table napkin to pat his mouth with it. "I think we can head—"

Before Mark even got the words 'to the tree' out of his mouth, Martin vacated the room, causing the four remaining adults to howl with laughter as they rose and accompanied him to the sitting room. Gifts were distributed, though Martin's pile was by far the largest. Midway through this disbursement the front doorbell rang. Malcolm insisted on answering it. The sound of a familiar voice should not have surprised Bridget, but it did: "We decided we couldn't miss this," said Pam Jones in as confidential a tone as she could manage, "first Christmas with a grandson and all." Colin Jones came in with the presents and started parsing them out, once again in overwhelming favour of Martin.

From the centre of the sofa, surrounded by a near-mountain of gifts, Martin beamed. One by one he tore through the gift wrapping, and each one brought greater excitement than the last; particularly he loved the Magic 8-Ball and the new carry case for his expanding Matchbox car collection. As the luck of the draw had it, Bridget's gift of the fox (labelled as 'from Mum' and not in fact 'from Father Christmas') was the last to be opened, and she watched raptly as he tore away the paper, waiting excitedly to see his reaction.

"Oh my gosh," said Martin, then looked up quickly to her.

Bridget smiled. "Do you like it?"

"Oh my gosh, I love it!" He jumped down from the sofa, ran over the dangerously strewn discarded paper, in order to jump up into Bridget's lap and give her a tight hug. "I love having you as a mum better," he said, "but I love it lots."

At this she couldn't contain her emotions any longer and burst into tears of happiness. Martin instantly pushed himself away, his concern obvious. "I love the coffee mug you painted for me," she said shakily, patting down his hair, "but I love having you as a son more."

He seemed to understand he had not accidentally elbowed her in the stomach, and he smiled. After a moment's contemplation, he said, "This is the best Christmas ever."

She held him close again.

"Yes, it is."

Sniffing and wiping tears from her eyes, she glanced to her teary-eyed yet smiling mother, whose voice she had just heard, and who was not, to her credit, actually snapping photos of the emotional moment. Her father was nodding as well, as were Mark's parents.

And then she looked to Mark, who was seated in the chair beside her. He said nothing, but the welling tears in his eyes told her everything. She stretched out her hand towards him in an offer to hold his.

"Oh! I wonder if they have a rose!"

This innocent question broke the seriousness of the moment and made her chuckle. "Sorry, Martin, they don't."

"Believe me," said Mark, "we looked."

"I suppose it would be really hard to make a cuddly rose," Martin lamented.

Bridget glanced to Mark in time to see a smile on his lips. "Not one as cuddly as some, anyway," he said quietly.

…

The rest of Christmas Day was wonderful: the gift exchange between the adults was a success; Elaine insisted on tending to everything related to dinner herself; Pam insisted on helping (probably to ensure things went her way); and their fathers—the grandfathers—occupied Martin playing with cars with him, when the boy wasn't trying to help in the kitchen. This left Mark and Bridget with nothing to do but lounge in front of the tree on the sofa by the fire swaddled in heavy cotton blankets and surrounded by the scent of the Christmas feast to come.

"Sweet of them," she murmured, curled in his arm.

"It is," he said in reply, sounding very sleepy indeed.

"Glad your mum and dad liked what I gave them," she said.

"A happy son?" he teased.

She laughed. "Well, that too. No, I meant the Christmas CDs."

"Well, they do love the old crooners."

"And what about you?"

"They're pretty good, I guess."

Again she laughed. "No, I meant your gift from my parents."

"The muffler set with the Man U logo on it? What's not to love?" he said.

"And matching for Martin," she said.

"I missed that," he said. "That boy was buried in gifts by the end there." He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "It's not the presents he likes best, you know," he said.

She offered a cockeyed grin, felt her eyes welling with tears. "Nor I." She reached up and surprised him a lingering, sweet kiss, breaking away with a bit of a chuckle.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I just had a very vivid imagining of the conversation that surely is occurring in the kitchen as we speak," said Bridget. "'Didn't we know, Elaine?' 'Too right we were, Pam!' Bragging up a storm, I'm sure."

He didn't seem to understand at first, but the smile that slowly lit his eyes told her that he eventually got it. "Too right they were," he said gently, giving her another peck before they settled back against the cushions, enchanted by the flame and lulled by its crackle.

"Are you taking a nap?"

It was Martin, and to Bridget's eyes he looked really tuckered out.

"I think we might have been about to," said Mark. "Where are your grandfathers?"

"They fell asleep with their beers in front of a rugby show or something on the telly—" Martin began, but stopped talking when he was overcome with a yawn.

Mark held the edge of the blanket up to invite Martin in. "Come on. I think we might just be about to take a nap."

Martin settled in between the two of them; he curled up to hug Bridget and had his father's arm embracing both of them; within a scant number of minutes the boy was fast asleep. Warm and comfortable on the cushions of the generous sofa, she was herself fading pretty fast.

"Definitely not the presents he likes best," said Mark, stretching over his son's head to kiss her once more before she too drifted off into a pleasant, contented sleep.

The end.

Link & Note:

You really can buy the fox! (Of course, won't let me put in the link, so you can parse this to see it: www dot laboutiquedupetitprince dot com slash en (for the English version of the site).)

Please forgive me; I am not legally trained in the UK (or anywhere, actually) and I had absolutely NO luck trying to find example verbiage from actual UK adoption documents. So, I made stuff up.