Gingerbread Hearts
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 1,458
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: The strangest bedfellows, and all that.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Inspiration for this came to me in the loos at work. Happy Holidays to you all. *hearts*
She furrows her brow at the hand-addressed envelope that's been dropped into her mailbox. It isn't familiar writing at all, which she finds even more intriguing than simply finding such an envelope is likely to do on its own. Furtively she takes it back up to her flat, which is ridiculous, she knows, but it's just a few days before Christmas and someone—A stranger? Someone from her building? A secret admirer? The possibilities are staggering—has dropped a mysterious card into her letterbox.
Can't have been Mark, she thinks as she eases her fingernail under the adhesive. His printing, even his script, is too angular, too regular, too obsessive to be disguisable. Plus, she knows he's out of town, Rome or Paris or wherever the fuck he'd gone. They'd had a huge row about it before he left; he hadn't seemed to care it was important to her to spend Christmas together. He especially hadn't paid heed to her warning that if he went she'd never speak to him again, that it would be over for good, an ultimatum she already regretted issuing even as she'd stuck to it out of sheer stubbornness; she hadn't called him, hadn't returned his calls since they'd argued.
Definitely not Daniel, she considers as she unfolds the paper. She hasn't seen him in weeks, possibly even months, and the last time she saw him she had been pretty definitive in not wanting to see him again.
She stops thinking about who wrote it when she sees what's been written.
Friday night
As the clock strikes eight,
Join me here
And don't be late.
I fear though you'll make it
Closer to nine;
If so, you'll owe me
A glass of mulled wine.
Below the snippet of poetry is a printed-out photo of a carousel; behind it, the distinct and instantly recognisable Houses of Parliament. The surrounding area's positively festooned with fairy lights; there's snow on the ground and everyone's dressed in coats and scarves, even the children on the carousel. She furrows her brow before it came to her: the Christmas Market at Southbank Centre.
All she knows as she folds the note closed is that she absolutely has to go.
…
In retrospect, not telling anyone where she's going is, perhaps, a bit foolish. She arrives to the vicinity of the carousel at about half-eight, her pink pompom hat, gloves and purple muffler to keep her warm, but after only a few minutes of standing in the snow her teeth start to chatter. She spots then marches over to a booth selling piping hot Glühwein, German mulled wine. Standing there with her hands cupped around the wine she's on high alert, because she has no idea what to expect, or who.
She looks to her mobile for the time. Only ten minutes have passed. I wasn't here 'closer to nine' than eight, she thinks. Damned if I'm buying anyone a glass of wine.
"Jones."
She knows in an instant whose voice that is and she's disappointed, then reconsiders; his tone seems surprised, as if running into her by the carousel at the Christmas Market were the most natural thing in the world. "Daniel."
She turns, sees him smiling broadly. "Well, hello," he says; he then spots her glass. "Fancy another wine?"
"No, I do not," she replies vehemently. "I'm here to meet someone."
"Is that so?" he asks, his brows arching upward. "Does Darce know about this?"
She lifts her chin haughtily. "He's not here," she says, "and he's not the boss of me."
At this Daniel laughs, reaches to put his arm around her and before she can move away his hand is gripping her shoulder. "Come now, Bridge, you're shivering. Let's get inside and get these cold clothes off—"
What happens next happens so fast that she can barely believe it: Daniel is wrenched away by the shoulder, her wine is suddenly no longer in her hand but forming a red arc through the air. She hears his weight hit the ground hard. She turns, sees him sitting on the snow, rubbing his jaw as if he's been punched—though she doesn't remember hearing the flat smacking sound of a punch, but it's all happened in the blink of an eye. She turns again and sees—well, no, it can't be, she thinks, because Mark's away.
But it is indeed Mark—as if she did not know every line and contour of his face, every plane of his body—and he looks like he's ready to spit nails.
"What, are you stalking me? Her?" says Daniel, struggling to get to his feet.
"I might ask the same of you," Mark retorts.
The two men are attracting an audience, but they only stand there silently seething.
"Mark, Daniel, come on," she pleads, with half an eye to the crowd, expecting to see her mysterious card-writer hovering on the periphery. Has someone sent them all cards? And if so, why? Are they all in danger from a madman?
Unexpectedly Daniel lunges forward to shove Mark back by the shoulders. He stumbles back and into a snow covered hedge. White stuff shimmers up and off of its limbs. Mark seems to fall to the side, but she realises he's done it intentionally, scooping up a handful of snow in a very quick movement, rushing up to Daniel and pushing it into his face, pushing him onto his back and into a snow bank.
The crowd Ooohs as he does.
"Boys!" she cries, still operating on the madman premise. "We could be in real danger!"
"Pardon?" asks Mark, turning to her; Daniel takes advantage of his inattention and hurls a snowball at Mark, striking him in the jaw. He grunts as he brings his hand to his face.
"That is enough!" she shouts. "Stop it right now." She looked to Mark, then to Daniel; it was a madman who'd sent that card all right, because one of these two had obviously found someone else to write out the poem and the envelope. "Which of you sent the card?"
"Card?" Mark manages, just as Daniel offers,
"Don't know what you mean."
"Oh, yes, this is all a big coincidence." She glares, or at least intends to, but looking at Mark standing there, wounded in her defence, melts the resolve that had been building. "Are you all right?" she asks tenderly.
He nods.
"Oh, I'm fine too," says Daniel sarcastically as he gets to his feet.
"Daniel, I'm glad you're all right, but go home already," she says wearily. "For the millionth time, I'm really not interested."
Daniel sighs. "Fine." He then saunters away.
She turns her attention back to Mark. The crowd's dispersing.
"I'm sorry, Bridget," Mark says solemnly. "I shouldn't have been so stubborn."
"You're right. You shouldn't have." She pauses, then asks, "What are you doing back?"
"Decided I couldn't be without you, after all," he admits. "You, your calls, your lovable neuroses…"
She allows a grin, then reaches up to kiss him, but he winces.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Instead she pecks where the snowball hit him.
"No, don't apologise," he says. "And by all means, don't stop."
With this approval she kisses him properly. He is responsive, pulling her up against him, holding her close. When he breaks the kiss, he nuzzles into her hair, and the feel of his warm breath on her cheek, the rough graze of stubble prickling her skin, is sublime; in future she would have to remind herself that no fight was worth losing this.
He says quietly, "I saw a booth back there with mulled wine."
Her glass, or what is left of it, sits accusingly on the ground, a red stain in the snow evidence of the scuffle.
"And gingerbread hearts," he adds.
She kisses his cheek. "I'll take whatever heart you have to offer."
…
His voice is quiet, and he rubs his cheek as he speaks. "There was ice in that snowball."
"I know; I'm sorry." Pause. "Though I think a real injury lent to the authenticity."
"Very funny."
Another pause. "I don't think she bought that you punched me, though."
"It doesn't matter." He glances over to the bedroom door, to where he knows she's sleeping, and smiles warmly. "All's well again, even if it took a little theatrics to reach that goal. So thank you."
He chuckles. "Offered the chance to fight you, even if it's staged? How could I refuse?" He pauses again. "I think you are mad, you know."
"Mad, indeed," he concedes. "Mad about her."
He laughs. "How tritely cliché… but I grant you, worth the insanity."
"Best get back to her," he says, glancing again to the door. "Happy Christmas, Daniel."
"Happy Christmas, Mark."
The end.