Change of Heart

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,746 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary: Nothing is unbreakable.
Disclaimer: The known-quantity characters—including their creation, their backstory and history—I don't own. This story (and situations described therein) is mine. Arguably M.'s as well.
Notes: One more possible future for Mark and Bridget. Much angst to be had.

Chapter 1: One Last Chance

It was all his fault; that was what Mark told himself. If he'd had better rein on his eldest, his bright but somewhat mouthy son, none of the rest of it would have happened.

…

The telephone rang, and though it was rarely for Mark, he was closest to it. "Darcy residence," he said.

There was a pause before the caller spoke. "Yes, hello. Is this Mr Mark Darcy?" The voice was crisp and aged, and was one with which Mark had unfortunately become very familiar. He tamped down the urge to exhale loudly even as he felt his blood pressure rise.

"This is he, Headmaster Johnson. To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you today?"

"I think you know full well, sir, that no pleasure is involved," said Johnson, then let out a breath. When he spoke again his voice was stern yet sympathetic. "I have had to suspend your son for a week for unbecoming conduct."

"What has he done," Mark asked, his inflection making it sound more like a statement than a question.

"Confronted Ethan Hawthorne and assaulted him verbally." The headmaster cleared his throat; Mark had felt the sinking feeling at hearing the word 'assault', mollified slightly by the fact that it was not a physical one. "He did not care for the way Hawthorne was treating a younger student." He paused. "I trust the name Hawthorne is familiar to you."

It was. Ethan Hawthorne's father, Victor, had been a rising star in the Tory party, champion for education and learning, and was now experiencing an extended zenith. "Yes, Headmaster."

"Mr Darcy, you have my sympathies," he said, "but I have no choice in the matter."

"I understand," Mark replied, and he did; rules existed for a reason.

"I would ask that you make arrangements to pick him up by noon tomorrow," said the headmaster.

Mark heard the floorboard on the threshold into the room creak just as he replied, "I'll be there."

"Excellent," he said, then sighed. "I will be unable to offer any further chances to your boy. Do I make myself clear?

"Indeed, sir," Mark replied.

They exchanged goodbyes, then Mark placed the phone back on the receiver. He closed his eyes and let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding in, then turned to face his wife. Even in his state, he appreciated how lovely she remained, how unchanged she was in his eyes; there she stood in jeans and a brightly coloured top, her blonde hair pulled into a sloppy twist, her bright blue eyes inquisitive and as concerned as her expression.

"Who was that?" she asked. "Is it your mother?"

"Headmaster Johnson," said Mark. On the subject of the headmaster he did not have to explain the gravity of the situation. "Aidan is suspended for a week for fighting."

"Thank God," she said in a small voice; it took him a moment to realise she meant her words in the sense that the call did not relate to his mother, not that Aidan had been suspended, though she would surely be glad to see her son. "For a moment there I wished I still smoked! Is he all right? What happened?"

"It was not a physical fight," he said, stemming her concern. "It was in the name of speaking up for another boy."

"That's all?" she asked.

"That's enough, isn't it?" he retorted hotly.

She pursed her lips. "I meant that's all he did to get suspended? Boys argue all the time. Why suspension?"

"Sorry." He felt terrible that he had assumed the worst of her words; he just often felt he had so little influence over his own son that he took it personally when it seemed she was saying he was overreacting. "The headmaster referred to it as a verbal assault," said Mark, "and the boy at the receiving end is Victor Hawthorne's son."

He knew she recognised the name; she had certainly made enough disparaging remarks about the man's politics. The look of disgust on her face confirmed it. "Ah," she said in comprehension, then went to him to embrace him. "Ridiculous, politics are. I'm sorry."

He folded her into his arms and held her close, feeling the immediate calming effect of having her there. "Thank you," he murmured.

"I'm just glad he didn't actually touch the kid," she said softly. "What he and his father have might be contagious."

This caused him to chuckle, momentarily tightening his embrace; even if they still had differences of opinion after more than two decades together (nearly eighteen of those married), he was very grateful to have her at his side.

"You know what this means," he said.

"Hmm?" she asked.

"We will have to present a united front," he said. "This is his last chance to stay in Eton, and we must be equally stern."

She did not respond right away, and when she did, she drew back to speak. "Maybe we need to hear Aidan's side first."

"It doesn't matter what he says," Mark replied.

"Doesn't matter?" she asked in utter disbelief.

"I don't mean it doesn't matter at all," Mark corrected. "Obviously I want him to have a balanced sense of fairness. Regardless of his motivations, though, it's still his last chance."

She pursed her lips once again. "If they had taken his motivations into account," she said, "he wouldn't have been suspended. At least you as his father should feel a little compassion."

He brought his thumb and forefinger to the corners of his eyes. "Don't put words in my mouth," he said quietly. "There are two separate issues here: one is standing up for those who cannot stand up for themselves, a point of view I think you'd agree I support, given my line of work. The other is getting kicked out of the best possible school for him, which is in danger of occurring because of childish methods for following through on the first point, regardless for what actually occurred between him, Ethan, and this third boy."

At this she pursed her lips again. "You don't have to scold me, Mark, like you're scolding him. Perhaps just a greater emphasis on the first point than the second in your approach. Be on your son's side."

He was about to retort that he was on his son's side and to question whether she was on her husband's, but the appearance of his daughter Lizzie prevented that from occurring.

"Mum? Dad? What's wrong?"

He willed his expression to soften; smiling, he reached out his arm toward his little girl Elisabeth, who already at age eleven looked very much like her mother but was very much like her father in demeanour and personality, often too thoughtful and serious. "Nothing you should worry about, Lizzie."

As she embraced him, he offered the other to his wife, who, with a small smile, accepted it; the three of them hugged until Lizzie asked solemnly, "I still want to know what's wrong."

"Your brother," said Bridget. "He's got to come home for a week because he's been suspended. He was in a fight at school."

She furrowed her fine brows. "Did he knock someone out?"

"No."

"Did he at least get in a good punch?" she asked.

"It was not a physical fight," said Mark just as he'd said to her mother, struggling to contain his amusement at how like her Lizzie was in that moment.

"He was suspended for shouting?" Lizzie asked with incredulity, again so like her mother. "That's dumb."

Bridget kissed her daughter on the head. "I agree."

"When does he come back?" Lizzie asked. It was very disconcerting to have two pairs of near-identical blue eyes looking back to him.

"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll have to go and get him."

"Oh!" Lizzie said excitedly. "Can I go? Can we all go?"

He looked at Bridget, who returned the look. "I know you're excited to see your brother," Bridget said tentatively, "but it's not a holiday, Lizzie. It's a punishment."

He knew she would have preferred they all go, but he appreciated her effort to be on his side. "You can see him when I bring him back."

Lizzie sulked a little. "Okay," she said resignedly. "I'll even make him a snack and everything when he comes back." With that she kissed each parent on the cheek—she was still of an age when this was not an embarrassment—then went out of the room.

"But I can go with you, right?"

He turned to Bridget, who looked at him with a hopeful smile.

"I would prefer to go on my own," he said. "Not that I don't love your company."

She nodded. "I understand. Man-talk." She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, a sure-fire signal she was hesitant about saying something. "I know you want what's best for Aidan," she began. "I do too. I hope you know I'm on your side, Mark. I promise I'll stay there."

He reached to embrace her again, then gave her a kiss. He did not doubt the veracity of what she said, even though he knew they had divergent ideas on how to accomplish this goal. Bridget knew how much having his son attend Eton meant to Mark, and she had supported her husband since before they'd had children. Even though she'd hated the very idea of sending Aidan away, she had agreed anyway because she knew how important it was for Mark. For that he loved her even more.

He went to pull away from her but she gently reclaimed his lips, placing her hands on his face to delicately cradle it as she kissed him thoroughly. "There," she said, then added wickedly, "hopefully that will tide you over until after supper, when I can shag you properly."

He smiled at her phrasing, then nodded. "I'll suffer through it somehow."

Tenderly she brushed her fingers over his face, then, with another little smile, she retreated to get back to fixing supper. She must have known he had a task yet to accomplish: calling his son to arrange a meeting place.

Mark approached the telephone, eyeing it warily as if it were a mortal enemy. He reached and dialled his son's number, and as he did, he pondered his sixteen-year-old progeny. Mark was not a superstitious man, but perhaps he should have, after all, done a little research into what his son's name had meant before agreeing to it: 'the little fiery one.' He had inherited his father's intellectual aptitude (not that his mother was any slouch in that department), grasp of logic and sense of justice, but his mother's inability to keep his mouth shut when he should. It had gotten him in trouble more times than Mark could count, even if the majority of those times the boy had in fact been in the right.

Mark situated himself on the sofa to phone his son in comfortable circumstances. Aidan had the sense to answer the phone (and not avoid his father's call) with appropriate humility in his voice.

"Hi, Dad."

Mark dispensed with formalities. "You know why I'm calling."

He did not respond immediately. "Yes," he said. "I'll be ready to go by noon."

"Ten," he said. "I have court in the afternoon."

Aidan was silent for many moments, but sounded thoroughly chastened when he said, "Yes, Dad." After a pause, he added, "I'm really sorry. I never dreamt they'd—"

"Suspend you?" Mark completed.

"Yes."

"Would you have still done what you did if you thought they might've?"

"I didn't do anything but speak up," he said. "I wasn't even disrespectful. That arse Hawthorne—"

"Watch your tongue," scolded Mark.

"Sorry—Hawthorne is a coward in a bully suit. Anyone stands up to him in any way, he goes crying to his father, who then swoops in and bullies the headmaster into protecting his kid." Aidan snorted a sarcastic laugh. "Like father, like son."

He thought his son was probably right. "We'll talk about this more tomorrow," Mark said. "Your mother's got supper ready any minute now."

"Okay," he said, reverting to a more passive demeanour. "I'll see you at ten."

After they said their goodbyes, he replaced the telephone onto the receiver then exhaled loudly. He had a few moments to himself to recover his composure and calm his shaking hands, the residual effect of his adrenaline-inducing anger, before rising and walking towards the dining room, where the sight of his beautiful wife and daughter filled his heart with joy, particularly as they greeted him with equally loving smiles.

The evening to follow was one like many other: spirited conversation over their meal along with plenty of laughter; assisting his daughter with homework when she needed it then making sure she was tucked in (figuratively more than literally) by her bedtime; retiring to the master bedroom earlier than usual both due to the morning drive and the time they had promised to one another previously, because even if intimacy was offered in jest he intended on taking her up on it.

In this respect she had not lost her youthful enthusiasm, either; she was still very receptive to his touch, very evidently still quite desirous of him and their lovemaking. One of the things he was thankful for in all the world was that she was still as eager to sleep with him as he was with her. She was still all he needed, even if (as they had sometimes joked) they didn't have the libidos of newlyweds anymore.

Their sex life had suffered a bit of a blow when the children were younger, but never due to a lack of interest, just a lack of time and energy. Once the children had gotten older, they had keenly reclaimed that part of their relationship. They did so again now, leaving Mark in a state of sheer bliss as he drifted to sleep.

…

"You sure you don't want me to come with?"

As Mark slipped on his socks, Bridget's quiet voice sounded from behind him.

"I'm sure, darling," he said.

"You don't have to be all stoic and 'go it alone'," she reminded.

"I know," he said curtly, then sighed. "Sorry. I just don't want to make a big production out of this with an entire procession of family." He turned to look at her; she was looking up at him with wide eyes that had, on so many occasions, tested his willpower. He would be firm this time. "Maybe you can help Lizzie with her proposed snack, treat, or whatever it was she had in mind. Keep her from burning the kitchen down."

Bridget smiled, then laughed a little. "She does sort of take after me in that respect, doesn't she? Though goodness knows she's better than I was at that age."

"Or later," he teased, laughing low in his throat, memories of blue soup and orange marmalade for dinner coming to the forefront of his mind and probably hers too. He leaned forward, brushed her hair out of her eyes then gave her a kiss. "I'll see you when we're back."

"Okay," she replied.

The closer he got to Eton the more apprehensive he felt; logically he knew it was ridiculous to think that all eyes would be upon him with scorn and disdain as he arrived to pick up his son, but he felt that way all the same.

Before he knew it, he had his too-silent son in the passenger seat of the car and were winding their way back towards their London home.

"And you've got your laptop," asked Mark, "and your books for your schoolwork?"

"Yes," replied Aidan. After a pause, he asked, "Are you all right? You've asked me that three times already."

Mark's jaw tensed. "I'm just a little worried about court." He glanced to his son, wanted to say that it was because his focus was gone due to the situation at hand, but did not think making Aidan feel guilty about that would be helpful. "I'm sure it will be fine, though. Nothing I haven't done before."

"That's good," said Aidan in a small voice. He then cleared his throat. "You know I'm really sorry about this."

"I know you are," said Mark. "The best way you can prove you're sorry is to not let it happen again."

Aidan didn't speak in response, and when traffic slowed to a standstill Mark turned to look at his son. His posture and expression spoke of sadness, and Mark wished at that moment that Bridget was with them. She always knew how to best console Aidan.

"I just… wanted to make sure you could stay on top of your work," Mark went on in a more neutral tone, falling back on the previous exchange about the books rather than prolong the awkward silence that now filled the car. Traffic eased forward again. "You've been having a good term, I trust?"

"Yeah," he said at last. "Classes have been very good. Challenging. I like that."

Mark smiled. Of course he liked a challenge. "Aidan," he said, "I hope you know I'm always proud of you."

Mark glanced over in time to see a fleeting smile cross Aidan's lips. "I know, Dad." He looked up and met his gaze, then offered a wider smile. "I think Mum will have a litter of kittens when she sees me. I'm your height now."

It hadn't really registered earlier, but it was certainly true and surprising for so short a time, and it made Mark grin. "So you are," he said, looking to the road again. "Your sister is looking forward to seeing you."

"She looks forward to me going too," said Aidan, his tone light.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Lizzie must've sprouted up since I saw her last," said Aidan. "She as tall as Mum yet?"

"Not quite," said Mark, "but I expect she'll be there soon."

"Much longer apart from 'er and we might not have recognised each other," Aidan quipped.

Mark consciously knew that his son had spent a good portion of the last few years away at Eton, came home for breaks, but never had he considered how their relationship as siblings might have suffered for it. He really couldn't speak reassuringly regarding sibling bonds; he did not have any siblings, nor did his wife.

"Dad," added Aidan. "I'm kidding."

In his relief, Mark chuckled suddenly, then said as he shot a glance to Aidan, "I knew that. I think you'd recognise your sister anywhere. After all, she's the spitting image of your mum."

At this, Aidan chuckled. Mark could feel the tension dissipate.

Upon their arrival at the house, Bridget stared at her son as if he had sprouted a second head; her mouth gaped in surprise and eyes were wide as she looked up at him.

"What on earth are they feeding you there?" she said, then with a smile reached up and embraced him. "My God, how you've grown," she added, her voice clearly choked with a sob.

"Aidan!"

This from Lizzie, who offered a big grin as she dashed down the stairs and ran to tackle her brother with a ferocious hug. "You're as tall as Dad!"

"And you do look like Mum," Aidan said, flashing his mother a grin that made her lower lip tremble. "It's really good to be home."

"Remember this is no holiday," Mark said. He didn't think he sounded too paternal and serious in tone, but the three of them looked at him as if he had just rained on their parade or kicked a starving puppy. Bridget shot him a look that spoke of her irritation. He was sure he would hear about it later, but for now he had to get to court, so he kissed his wife goodbye. "Don't drive your mum crazy," he said, kissing Lizzie's cheek; "Well, crazier than she already is." They all three apparently forgot their offense and laughed. On his way out, he offered a half-smile, then patted Aidan's shoulder affectionately as he left.

Mark was able to immerse himself in his work that afternoon. He successfully argued his point and won the case, so was predisposed to be in a good mood upon arriving home. When he did, he was greeted by the sound of lively, happy voices in conversation from the lower level, presumably as dinner was being prepared.

He was immediately conflicted. On one hand, it warmed his heart to think of his family engaged and together in such a vignette of domestic bliss; on the other hand, it reminded him that his only son was unexpectedly home specifically because he had been suspended for a week. He exhaled then set his attaché down, stepped out of his shoes and slipped off his suit jacket; as an afterthought, he also tugged at the knot in his tie to loosen then remove it.

He went down the stairs, purposely refraining from announcing himself, and was greeted by exactly the scene he'd imagined; Lizzie was stirring a pot of boiling water, Bridget was sprinkling herbs into a bubbling pot of tomato sauce, and Aidan was approaching the cupboard where their dishes were stored. As he did, he called something to his mother that he did not quite hear about the china, and she laughed and replied, "No, just the regular dishware. It's just us. No royalty slated to attend."

"Oh, I'm wounded," came Aidan's response. "You don't consider me a prince?"

"A prince of dustbins, perhaps," she said, "which will need your attention this evening."

"Who does it when I'm not here?"

"The evil twin we keep locked up in the shed."

"I thought I was the evil twin."

At this Bridget laughed and said, "Catch." As she said this she picked up a small tomato and pitched it at him; quick as lightning he turned and caught it.

"Ha. Evil twin has terrible reflexes," said Bridget.

With a grin Aidan set the tomato down. "If I hadn't caught it you would have said the evil twin has good reflexes," Aidan said, then turned to reach for the plates. Bridget smirked, which verified this guess. Mark felt wistful at witnessing this interaction; Bridget and Aidan had always had a closer bond with one another, had been free from the sort of tensions with which his own relationship with Aidan had been fraught. He envied that closeness and had no idea how to bring it about without obliterating the ideals of father/son dynamic to which he subscribed.

It was then that Bridget spotted Mark and smiled at him. "Just in time," she said. "We're almost ready."

He smiled too. "It smells wonderful," he said, going for the table, where Aidan's notebook computer was sitting along with some papers and a pen. He intended on picking up the notebook only to move it to the breakfast nook and out of the way of dinner, but his gaze slid over the screen and quite against his will he began to read the text there.

It was obviously schoolwork of some variety, an essay he was writing on women's rights throughout the twentieth century. His eyes only skimmed over but what he read truly impressed him, not only for the quality of the writing but the choice in topic, which Mark would not have considered typical for a sixteen-year-old boy. As he set down the notebook computer he noticed Aidan looking to him.

"Is that for class?" Mark asked.

Aidan nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Nice work," he said. "I mean, only just looked at it briefly, but… it's very good."

Aidan smiled. "Do you think?" he asked. "I mean, you would probably know a lot about these things…"

"If you like I'll read it when you're done," he said.

At this offer Aidan seemed reluctant.

"I promise not to take your head off," Mark added. "I'm pretty good at constructive criticism."

Aidan allowed a small smile. "If it isn't too much trouble."

"I wouldn't have offered," Mark replied, patting Aidan's shoulder. "For now, we should worry about our immediate future, and lay out the table before your mother gives us the evil eye."

"Was just preparing to," came Bridget's teasing voice.

Dinner was delicious. As it turned out, the pasta dish was Lizzie's idea, and the preparation for it was done mostly by her. "I can do pasta, and do it well," she said proudly.

As they talked over dinner, although he was fully engaged, Mark began to feel as if he were witnessing the conversation as a third party, outside of the scene, and it evoked a sort of melancholy in him that left him torn. The opportunity for all of them to be together like this on any ordinary night was marvellous, but Mark knew the price to pay for his son to continue the family tradition was for Aidan to be away, at Eton.

Retiring to the bedroom that evening, Mark was caught in his tracks by a lingering and almost too-apologetic look from his wife.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I wasn't as stern with Aidan as I promised I'd be. I'm sorry." Her tone was sheepish, but she was unable to fully hide the extent of her happiness at having her son home for a week and sooner than she'd expected, before the much-anticipated long break at the end of October. This irritated him unexpectedly; it was not as if he were some kind of soulless monster who was not happy to see his son.

The feel of her fingers stroking gently on his upper arm startled him and he looked to her, saw the loving expression he had become so fond of seeing mixed with an obvious concern. In a moment his irritation disappeared. He smiled.

"I was just going to ask you what was wrong," she said tenderly. "If I was not actually forgiven."

He turned and took her into his arms. "I know you're happy to have him home," he murmured. "But—"

She drew back. "I know," she said solemnly, then smiled and lifted herself up to steal a kiss. He gladly relinquished it to her, and always would.

…

As the week went on, as he spent time at home with Aidan (who was as good as his word in doing his work and then some), Mark realised that his wife was right. As he observed Aidan and Lizzie playing Scrabble together, as they all watched the telly together, he saw first hand that the family dynamic was best with Aidan home.

On Saturday, Mark headed for his office on the main floor of the house; he had already been mentally reviewing papers for court on Monday morning and thought with the drive back to Eton Sunday night, he might as well get down to actually doing so now. However, the faint buzz of crowd noise caught his attention; he realised the telly must have been on in the sitting room. He diverted his path there to see if anyone was actually watching the unit, because Lizzie had a bad habit of leaving the room to take a phone call and forgetting to turn it off. He was surprised to see Aidan there typing into his notebook computer.

"Working?" asked Mark; he had always discouraged doing homework in front of the television.

"Nah, finished that up days ago," said Aidan. "I was just goofing around online." He shut the notebook, and pointed to the screen. "Newcastle versus Arsenal."

Mark came around and sat on the sofa, thoughts of paperwork fleeing his head. "Really?" he asked. "When did it start?"

"About fifteen minutes ago." Aidan chuckled. "Mum and Lizzie were here but as soon as the match began they suddenly decided they had to be elsewhere."

Mark chuckled; this sounded typical. "Any scores yet?"

Aidan nodded. "Newcastle."

"Of course," Mark said proudly. "Showing a bit of their old spunk."

"They've been bollocks for years."

Mark made a dismissive sound. "When your mother and I first met…" He thought fondly of their first Valentine's, when she had so thoughtfully given him the silly keychain and boxers; silly, but they had meant more to him than any expensive trinkets might have. "Well, you know. There are cycles. This is an up-cycle."

Aidan grinned, then reached for his can of cola. "If you say so," he replied. "They've been bollocks for as long as I can recall."

Aidan's knowledge of football surprised Mark a little; in between the action they had a rather lengthy discussion about the game, the current state of the organisation, the greatest players in recent memory and those that were overrated.

"And that guy," said Aidan spiritedly, stabbing his finger at the screen. "For all they've built him up, he is the worst of the lot."

"Agreed," said Mark. "He was supposed to be the saviour of the club, right?"

"Yeah. And Newcastle's clearly been saved," he said, his voice laden with sarcasm.

"Now, that's not nice," came a third voice; he turned to see that Bridget had come in and was hovering at the door wearing a smug expression on her face. "Obviously he's got some redeeming qualities."

"Like what?" snorted Mark.

"Well," she began, watching as the player in question stood discussing something with his teammates. "He's got a nice backside. That's got to count for something."

In unison the two of them began to laugh unabashedly. "Mum," said Aidan, amusement (and perhaps a little embarrassment) evident in his voice, "that isn't very helpful in actually playing football."

"Sure it is," she said defensively. "If you've got a flabby bottom you can't be very athletic…" She trailed off as they erupted into laughter once more; even still, she seemed unaffected by their apparent insult. "I'll just leave you two to your match, then." After a pause, she added, "Want something to eat?"

They both nodded. Over the back of the couch Mark felt her lean to kiss him on the top of his head, then did the same for her son before brushing the hair on the tops of their heads with her fingers.

In what felt like no time at all she returned with a tray, sandwiches cut into odd shapes, another cola for Aidan, and a chilled Newcastle Brown for Mark. He chuckled at her always unique method for quartering a sandwich, looked up to her and kissed her when she bent for it. "Thank you, darling," he said.

"Any time," she said.

"Thanks Mum," added Aidan belatedly. His attention had clearly been taken up by the match again. Mark's was too as he reached for the beer and a piece of sandwich; he thought about asking her to stay, suddenly delighted (despite the presence of their child) with the idea of her taking a perch on his knee, but he realised she had already gone.

"Mum makes the best sandwiches," said Aidan distractedly, then took a giant bite out of another of his pieces.

"Mmm," he assented.

The matched turned out to be favourable for Newcastle, leaving him and his son in high spirits for the rest of the day. For Mark, the beer probably had a little to do with it too.

After Bridget asked him what he wanted for supper, he thought for a moment, then said, "I think I'd like to take my family out to the pub." This surprised not only Bridget but Lizzie, who was unused to dinner out of the house.

"But don't you and Dad usually go out on Saturday together?"

"I think we're willing to make an exception," said Mark, though as he said it he realised it might be misinterpreted. "We don't always have the chance to go out all together like this." He caught the tail end of a look from Bridget; he knew what she was thinking: Whose fault is that? He pushed the feeling down. He didn't want to ruin the evening with negative thoughts, ruin the week by ending it on a down note.

Though The Globe had clearly seen better days appearance-wise, dinner was as delicious as ever and all four of them had a very good night. As they returned from their fish-and-chips-laden evening, as Bridget and Lizzie headed out of the foyer and into the house, in a low tone, Aidan asked, "Dad?"

"Yes?"

"When will you be able to take me back?"

Mark considered the activities likely to be occurring on Sunday evening; reading for the next week's lessons at the forefront most likely. "Probably be best to have you back for dinner."

"Oh." Aidan tried, but could not hide his disappointment.

"Why? Did you have something else in mind?"

Aidan looked a bit hesitant. "I'd like to go back after dinner tomorrow. One last home-cooked meal with you and Mum."

Mark thought of his words to Bridget about being stricter with the boy, even as he said, "Of course."

Aidan grinned. "Thanks, Dad." He indicated his room upstairs with a hooked thumb. "Gonna go check my email and all that. If that's okay."

"You're done with your work?"

"Have been for days."

He recalled belatedly Aidan having said that earlier. "Fine, go ahead."

Aidan bounded up the stairs two at a time. Despite himself Mark let out a long exhale of breath, one that would have seemed, he realised, like a sigh to anyone who might have been passing by.

At that moment, his wife did happen to return to the foyer.

"Everything all right?" she asked.

He turned. "Of course," he said, then smiled. He was as likely to hide his own feelings from her as Aidan had been able to hide his from Mark. "I will concede it has been nice for him to be at home."

"Very big of you, Mark," she said with a teasing smirk. "Well, he'll be back for long leave in a few weeks." The wistful way in which she said it made him wonder if she was playing it up for dramatic effect. "You two seemed to have an especially nice time today."

"I didn't realise he was a football fan."

"I think there's probably a lot about him that we don't know," she said softly as she touched his arm. This he did not think was melodrama. She seemed truly affected.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, he realised she was probably right.