Author: Regency

Title: Kiss It Better

Pairing: Mark Darcy/Bridget Jones

Warnings: A bit of minor wound care if that squicks you

Rating: G/Everyone

Summary: Set between EOR and BJB. Mark Darcy's terrible, no good day, and the woman who makes it worthwhile.

Prompt: 'Bridget does something to cheer up Mark after he had to deal with incompetent coworkers all day

Author's Notes: Come flail with me on Tumblr at sententiousandbellicose

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, settings, or plot elements recognizable as being from any incarnation of the Bridget Jones series. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.

Bridget had already sat out the plates and utensils on the coffee table when Mark returned home. It was apparent to her immediately that her fiance was out of sorts. He slammed every door he passed through, his steps were heavy and his movements lacked his usual grace. He dropped the food when he tried to get out of his overcoat single-handedly, swearing colorfully under his breath as it collided with the floor. If Bridget weren't standing right in front of him she'd wonder if he even saw her.

Bridget salvaged the takeaway that had fortunately been packed securely as a queen's trousseau and set about portioning it out while Mark retrieved the wine she'd bought from the kitchen. He mumbled and slammed cabinets where he retrieved the glasses, and the fridge where he retrieved the wine. He banged his head on the freezer door and and his knee on the counter (she was well acquainted with the sounds of his annoyance). He swore bloody oaths up and down the kitchen. Something shattered, she guessed one of her wineglasses, and the swearing intensified.

Bridget ducked into her room to get her slippers and joined Mark in the kitchen to find him trying to sweep up his mess with jerky movements more befitting a recalcitrant child than a top barrister in his field. This was Mark Darcy at his most upset and the reason why he worked so hard to ensure nobody got the chance to see him this way.

"What can I do to help?"

Mark glanced up. "Don't come in. There's glass."

She wiggled a fuzzy bunny-slippered foot. "I've got the necessary protective equipment. Just point me to the problem and I'll handle it."

Mark handed over the broom and returned with a pained groan to a crouch to hold the dustpan while she swept the floor clear of glass shards. He kept his head down, only looking up briefly to direct her toward another piece she'd missed under the edge of the counter and then by the sink.

"There isn't any under you, is there? Just under your knees?"

Mark pushed himself up to check and caught just such a shard in the heel of his hand. "Fuck me. Fuck. Me. Christ, this day has been a record shit day." By the time Bridget had helped him back to his feet and to the sink he was blinking back tears. Mark wasn't the type to wince for less than a broken limb; this was more than glass burrowing under his skin.

She rinsed his wound carefully, tutting sympathetically at her scowling fiance till the water ran clear. The piece of glass he'd run into was about the size of his pinkie nail on the surface and no bigger beneath, she hoped.

"I'll get tweezers. Just stay here, back in a tick."

"I can just pull it out."

"You can, but you won't, because I am getting tweezers and some antiseptic to put on that. Leave it or you'll answer to me. I mean it, Mark."

"Yes, mum," he snapped. Had his face not immediately fallen in remorse she'd have considered leaving him to treat his open wound alone. She wouldn't have done it, she couldn't bear to see him hurt, but she'd have given it a reasonable amount of thought before she helped him.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

She returned in a short time to find he hadn't moved. Had in fact taken to staring out her kitchen window in a worryingly pensive fashion. She loved him thoughtful, but his propensity for brooding had given her pause for years. Mark took too much on his own shoulders and was averse to sharing his burden with anybody, much less the woman he most wanted to see him strong. She was going to convince him that she'd love him no matter how vulnerable he was if it took all their lives.

He offered his hand without complaint at her prompting, expression unreadable as she picked the first bit free and began to dig around for other shards. He hissed when she found a smaller one embedded in the side of his hand. She tutted in apology and mopped up any welling blood with pieces of sterile gauze she'd come to store for her own klutzy incidents. Spots of color appeared high on his cheeks; he abhorred the slightest display of weakness in himself. She elected not to bring attention to it. She poured a generous amount of antiseptic over his hand to see if she'd missed anything. On finding none, she patched him up with a couple of Pingu Band-aids leftover from her days keeping Harry and Constance for Magda.

"Pingu?"

Bridget brought his battered hand to her lips to kiss his wounds. "He's very gifted at settling the unsettled. Just ask my godchildren."

Mark nodded without responding. The air of despondency hanging over him concerned her. Mark, of course, had bad days like anybody else but they hardly left him monosyllabic or apoplectic over trivialities.

"You can tell me anything, you know? If it's work, I know how important it is that it not go any farther than home. I won't tell anybody."

"Not even your best mates?"

"Don't tell Tom, but you're my best mate. I keep your secrets first."

He took her around her waist to hug her and buried his face in her hair. Times like these she enjoyed being so much smaller than him. All the better for him to wrap her in his arms and just block out the world. She kissed the scratchy patch of skin just above his collar. The bits of him she could get to without taking a running start were her favorite bits. She peppered sweet kisses over his pulse point, taking the most perverse pleasure in feeling it stutter. His hands slid over her shape as a growl rumbled through his chest. Her core temperature rose in a Pavlovian response to the sound.

"Have I told you how happy you make me today?"

She shook her head. "Not today."

His hands worked their way under her jumper to stroke naked skin. Bridget hated wearing more layers than she needed and it wasn't anything approaching cold yet, so she went without. Mark's eyes darkened. Bridget's heart picked up speed. They rarely got much talking done when Mark looked at her like that. Dinner. We're supposed to eat. Food, very very important nourishment. Talking. Feelings. Sad Mark. Very upset. He didn't look very upset now. He looked ravenous.

"You make me ecstatic to be alive."

"Then, I must be doing something right. Now." She tipped upward to give him a quick peck and defuse the tension. It didn't half work, truth be told. "Tell me what's wrong. You're keeping something back."

"Does it matter?"

"Matters to me. Anything hurting you hurts me." She stroked the back of his neck. "It matters to me."

He exhaled, arms tensing around her. "I met a woman on the way home."

"Oh? Was she nice?"

His eyes crinkled but not in happiness. He shrugged.

"I suppose. It's immaterial whether she was nice or not. It was an uncomfortable scene. My head was in the clouds and I was trying to hurry to pick up our takeaway. I was on my phone and crossing the intersection and, I suppose, just overall distracted."

Bridget gawped. "What are you saying? Did you hit her with your car?"

Mark sputtered, "What? No! Don't be ridiculous. I ran into her, on foot, at the zebra crossing. Knocked her flat on her arse and made her spill her belongings on the pavement. It was awful."

"I assume you stuck around to help her pick it up."

"Naturally."

"Naturally," Bridget mimicked in his exact waspish tone.

He gave her his most severe frown. He looked like the handsome, stick-up-his-arse, Sartre-quoting geek he was. "It's no laughing matter. She could have been badly injured by my carelessness."

"But she wasn't. You wouldn't be home if she'd been hurt. What happened?"

At this Mark turned uncharacteristically evasive. He scratched his head. Bit his lip. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other, much like Harry trying to figure out how to say he'd put her tablet in the toaster and set it to a two-minute crisp.

Mark bucked up at her expectant silence. "She thought I was chatting her up."

That took a turn. It wouldn't be the first time Mark's discomfiture had gotten a woman's hopes up.

"Why?"

"I may have brushed her off when I was helping her up."

"Brushed her off how? I thought you said she had the wrong idea."

"No, I mean, I brushed her…bottom to get the muck off after we collided in the street. I was embarrassed at my lapse in attention and you know how I can ramble when I'm embarrassed."

She really did. They were a match that way. Not even Mark could be eloquent all the time. "What'd you say?"

Mark reddened. "I don't remember the exact words."

"You memorized the Magna Carta when you were seven and you still recite it in your sleep, but you can't remember what you said two hours ago? Likely story. What'd you say?"

"Something about there not appearing to be anything bruised back there and how she seemed to be in good repair after her fall."

Bridget chortled. "You mean you copped a feel and told her she had a nice arse and you're wondering how she got the wrong idea about you? Did she wallop you?"

Mark looked down. Bridget swallowed a further burbling laugh. "Or did she like it? You gave her a little slap and tickle in the street. Oh, Mr. Darcy. Did you pick up a mistress while you were meant to be picking up takeaway?"

"Never," he returned so forcefully he stopped Bridget's laughter short. She forgot how little that sort of thing amused Mark, how for a short time even the hint of another woman's interest could send her into a self-loathing tailspin. It was far enough in the past for it to seem shameful for her to have doubted him, but it was him that still wore the pain of her mistrust like a scarlet letter.

"Never," he said again, much more softly. "Just a misunderstanding. I tried to convey that I was happily engaged and that I took full responsibility for the mixed signal. My head was otherwise engaged, at home with my heart."

She rubbed a hand over his heart. She loved it very much.

"Is that all that's bothering you? You've been tense since breakfast."

"The case isn't going well. I fear we might lose. Lives are on the line and I can't see a path to victory for my clients–all because the barrister who handled the case before me bungled the prep work, and I don't know if it can be salvaged. What good am I if I'm not in a position to protect the people that need protecting? I may as well give up law for painting or some other unreliable, shiftless occupation."

"You are such a snob." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He lowered his head to let her kiss more of him, a task made all the easier when she stepped on the toes of his polished shoes. He was a good sport about not lording his height advantage over her; he was usually too happy to come down to her level to ravish her. Why does a man need to be 6′2″ anyway? What's to be gained from that except a proclivity for storing necessary items on stupidly high kitchen shelves?

"But am I good man beyond the snobbery?" He was unaccountably serious about this. He'd ask the question in jest once and she'd given the only possible answer: the truth. There was nothing to laugh about tonight.

"Of course you are. You're the best of men. That's what makes you so easy to love."

He kissed her for a long while, the two of them rocking in place, her still balancing on the tops of his feet. He toes curled into the laces.

"You make me feel alive. You make me happy on my worst days."

Mark's emotions sat close to the surface on his bad days. It was the only thing that kept Bridget from hating those times when Mark wore his hurt on his sleeves too obviously to hide.

"You make me feel the same way. Now, let's get to work on making this one of your best nights. Tomorrow will wait." If things went on like this, she'd have to buy more wine for the next night. Maybe some movies. Or ooh, a bubble bath. We haven't shared one of those for a while. She grinned in anticipation. Mark grudgingly loved hot baths full of bubbles. He always nodded off before the bubbles were gone.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead; she could feel the curve of his smile pressed into her skin. "So it will. Let's eat."

She hopped down from his feet, relieved to find his mood lighter than when he first returned home.. "Finally! This time I'll get the wine."

"You do that." He still sounded just a little sad, so she pivoted on her way to find replacement wineglasses to give him a tight squeeze from behind.

"You're doing the best you can, love. That's all you can do. I love you." She kissed his shoulder.

He clutched her hands at his waist. It really had been a horrid day, she could tell. "I love you, too. Always."

Bridget couldn't fix all the ridiculous, futile, or embarrassing moments that happened outside this flat. She couldn't even protect Mark from the incompetence of his colleagues or his own lovely, awkward self. But she could love him terribly. terribly much till he didn't have to think about it. That part was easy. She'd done it every day for years and if she had her way, she'd do it for decades more.

Very, very good plan, if she did say so herself.