Happy Bloody Christmas
By S. Faith, © 2015
Words: 12,450
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: It's amazing sometimes how things line up ever so perfectly.
Disclaimer: Isn't mine. Is all speculation.
Notes: More fic inspired by the photos we've seen coming out of the Bridget Jones's Baby location shooting.
Originally this was all one story, but I split it into two parts for length.
Chapter 1: Perfect Timing
11 December
Happy bloody Christmas, indeed.
Surely it was the nadir of her life to be a.) pregnant, b.) single, and c.) dragging a Christmas tree through the snow that currently dusted Borough Market. She was determined, though. Determined to have a festive Christmas holiday. Determined to get through the rest of the day being an adult, and holding it together. Determined to be happy in herself, complete and satisfied, with or without a man in her life.
She considered the flights of stairs that awaited her, and she sighed, leaning against the wall. Would have been nice to have had a man to help just then, though. She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the long climb up with the tree in tow.
"We really need to stop meeting like this."
She opened her eyes to see none other than Mark Darcy himself, finding her yet again on her own front step. Ask and ye shall receive? she thought. She couldn't help but wonder, though it seemed less likely that this was a chance encounter.
"Do you need a hand with that?" he continued, gesturing to the tree.
"I just need a moment and I'll be fine," she said, standing to her full height, placing her palms on her lower back to support herself as had become her habit. She had her pride, after all, despite her thoughts of a moment before.
He looked pointedly at her protruding stomach, then met her gaze again.
She huffed, then gestured towards the tree. There was pride, and then there was stubborn stupidity. "All right, then," she capitulated.
He took the end in his gloved hands and lifted it up. "This is heavier than it looks," he said. "I hope you haven't carried this far."
"Dragged," she corrected. "And not too far. A block or two."
His gaze got even more intense. "You probably shouldn't have done that."
"Pfft," she said.
They didn't say anything more as he climbed up pulling the tree and she followed. By the time she reached the top she was totally out of breath. She was quite grateful, actually, that he had turned up, and not only for hauling her tree upstairs. Talking to him in person would be easier than a phone call.
"Your key, Bridget."
"Right. Sorry."
She made her way around the prickly tree and to the door, slipping in the key.
"You're looking very well," he murmured.
She looked up at him. "Thank you," she said, then opened the door and gestured for him to go in first.
"Where do you want this?" He dragged it up and into the flat proper.
"Over there," she said. "By the fireplace."
"Ah, right," he said, as he spotted the tree stand. He turned the tree upright and put it into place. It became immediate apparent to even her that the tree was a bit too large for the space allotted. She saw him smile, then got it into the tree stand and managed to push it closer to the wall.
"I could get a scissors and…" She trailed off, watching him further adjust it.
He stepped back to look at it. "I think it'll be okay. Just… be careful if you use the fireplace."
She nodded, then reiterated, "Okay, thanks." He turned to her, just as she started to doff her coat, a task that was causing her increasing difficulty with each passing day.
He immediately moved forward to help her out of her coat, picking up the collar and guiding it down her arms.
"Thanks again," she said, turning to face him again.
"My pleasure." His eyes fixed to her belly once more. "When's…" He cleared his throat. "When's the baby due, again?"
She smiled half-heartedly. "I'm expecting a very exciting Christmas," she said.
"Ah," he said. He put his hands in his pockets, tell-tale sign he was a little nervous. "I didn't just happen to drop by," he said, meeting her gaze.
"Oh?" she asked.
"I—"
"Hold on. Sorry. I really need to sit down."
"Of course," he said. "Allow me to—"
She dropped down onto her couch. "Thanks," she said with a smile. "I'm okay."
"May I?" he asked, then indicated the seat beside her. It seemed a ludicrously formal gesture from a man who had seen her naked on multiple occasions. Something was making him more than just a little nervous.
Well, the more the merrier, I guess, she thought.
"Of course," she said. "Take off your coat, if you like." He did as she suggested, then sat beside her. "So what's going on?" she asked.
"I… I split up with her today."
Bridget did not need to ask who he meant by 'her'. "Oh, I'm sorry."
He shook his head, looking over to the tree, as bare, oversized, and raggedy as it was. "Don't be," he said. "It took me longer than it should have to realise that I was following the same path I had with Natasha. Ending it was… more of a mercy killing than anything."
She smiled in understanding. "It's still not easy to do," he said.
"Easier than this," he said, then looked to her again with that familiar intense gaze, clearing his throat. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. Despite everything we've been through—or perhaps because of it—and despite current complications, I still love you, always will. I want you back, Bridget. I want to adopt your child."
She could not find any words, was suddenly very glad that she was sitting down, because she may well have fainted.
Mark continued, "I know that there's… the baby's father to consider. But if you would just please—"
She laughed, short and sharp, then clamped a hand over her own mouth.
He looked wounded by it, and she felt instantly terrible.
"Sorry, Mark. Sorry. I'm not laughing at the idea," she said. "You just… you have impeccable timing."
Now he looked confused.
"We've broken up, too," she said. "I mean, do you really think I'd've gone out to buy a tree on my own in this state?"
"He didn't even carry it back for you?" Mark said, indignant.
"I told him I could manage it," she said, "and he believed me."
"Perhaps you were right to chuck him."
She allowed him the misapprehension. "Of course, he might have been in shock." He nodded; she realised he didn't take the bait, so she had to clarify. "Not from breaking up," she went on. "From learning he's not about to be a father."
Again Mark was visibly confused. "He's… not?" He stared at her pregnant belly.
"No," she said. "Back to that impeccable timing thing. I was going to ring you up once I was home. He's not going to be a father. You are."
He met her eyes, then looked to her belly, then to her eyes again. "I… I don't understand how that's possible."
"Not only possible, but tangibly—ugh—true," she said, just as the baby chose to kick her bladder. "Sorry. Must use the toilet."
"Did—are you—do you need a hand up?"
She fought the urge to be contrary, and instead said, "Thank you, yes."
He lent a supporting arm as they walked across the flat. "So let's rewind a moment," he said. "I am the baby's father."
"I just learnt while we were out at the market. I got a call on my mobile."
"But how? After years of intense trying, fertility treatments… one night of unbridled passion did the trick?"
"Apparently," she said. "Seems improbable, but it's true."
"But… how could the test have been so wrong?"
"They didn't explain why they retested it, but they did, and it was negative," she said. "If it wasn't him, it has to be you, Mark."
He ran his hand over his face. "Oh my God," he said, very quietly to himself. She took the opportunity to leave his side and close the loo door for privacy.
When she emerged back into the flat, she thought for a moment that he had left altogether, and she felt her shoulders slump. The news had been too much for him, and he had needed time to think… but these thoughts stopped almost as soon as they'd started, as the sound of movement in her bedroom indicated he was in there.
She hovered at the bedroom door, watching him working to clear the floor of clothing and other detritus that she had been too tired to clean up herself—not to mention that she was now too wide and too top-heavy to safely crouch and get up again. "What are you doing?"
"Tidying up for you," he said.
"Why?"
He looked up at her as he stood there, arms full of her things. "What do you mean, 'why'?" he asked, truly perplexed. "Why wouldn't I want to make up for all of the time during your pregnancy that I've missed? Tidying up, making sure you're comfortable…"
She felt the tears plop unexpectedly onto her cheeks at about the same time he dropped everything he'd picked up to go over to her.
"Are you all right?" he asked, leading her to sit down again, taking her hands solicitously in his.
She nodded. "Just feeling a bit overwhelmed—and hormones, probably." She sniffed. "So I guess… you're okay with the news?"
He blinked a few times. "Oh, Bridget, I'm more than okay with it," he said. Then he smiled. "I guess I'm a little shocked. But shocked in the best possible way. I thought I'd never be a father."
She smiled, too. "I'm glad to hear it." She squeezed his hands. "I was a bit anxious about telling you," she admitted. "I mean, thinking of the possible complications to your relationship."
"If I hadn't already broken it off, I would have done for this," he said. "For you." He stared at where their hands were joined. "I actually broke it off a week ago," he said sheepishly. "I just didn't know what to say, so I kept putting it off."
"What you said before was perfectly nice," she said. "Even if I did laugh. Sorry about that." She sighed. "You know, I still love you, too."
"Right, yes, that's good." He drew one of her hands up to place a kiss on the back of it. "On the same page there. More important than that, though, is that I'm still in love with you."
"Even better," she said with a matter-of-fact nod. "Still on the same page, then."
He released her hands then reached to put his arms around her, kissing her cheek before holding her close to him; it was a bit more difficult than usual due to her girth.
"In the past at this point, getting back together," she said, half-joking, "we would have fallen upon one another like rabbits."
He whispered close to her ear, "I'm game if you are."
She giggled a little, brought her arms up around him, playfully smacking his shoulder. "Not feeling very… I don't know, sexy," she admitted. "Less like Venus de Milo, more like the Venus of Willendorf."
His only response was to place a kiss against her throat, a tender peck before an open-mouthed one, moving the kiss up to bite and tease at her earlobe. His old magic was as strong as ever, and her eyes closed with the pleasure of it. "Still Venus," he murmured. "And who knows, they say that sex can help speed labour along. Would certainly help to free up your Christmas holiday a bit more."
She was going to protest further, but as he cupped a breast with his hand, kissed her properly on the mouth, it died in her throat.
She never would've thought that Mark was the sort of man who would want to have sex with a woman as fully pregnant as she was, but he did. In actual fact, he seemed exceedingly eager… though it could have been simply that they hadn't slept together since the conception of their child.
She certainly had missed him.
As they fought to regain their respective breaths afterward, she laid on her side and he stretched out beside her, facing her; she was inclined, as usual, to cover herself up, but he stopped her from doing so, his hand upon her stomach, rising and falling slightly with every breath she took.
"What are you doing?" she asked, looking over to him.
"Waiting for a kick."
She chuckled. "He's probably traumatised after all of that rocking about."
It was Mark's turn to look traumatised.
"I'm teasing you, silly," she said. She put her hand atop his own to pat it, then leaned over to kiss him quickly on the lips.
As she did, the baby delivered a kick precisely to where Mark's hand was. He gasped and withdrew his hand as if her stomach had just turned white-hot. "A kick," he said.
"Yes, I know," she said, with a chuckle. "I felt it, too."
"It's amazing," he said, then met her gaze again. "It's real."
"Very much so," she said, "as my poor bladder will tell you."
"Poor darling," he said.
"It's all your fault," she teased.
Having felt the kick he'd hoped to feel, he drew the duvet over them, then stroked her hair, brushing it away from her face. "If there's anything at all that I can do to make you more comfortable," he said, "you only have to ask."
She smiled lopsidedly. She had a bare tree out there and no earthly desire to decorate it—but she'd rather that he was in bed beside her. She was tired, but she was content. "Aside from the impossible obvious," she said. "If I think of anything, you'll be the first to know."
He smiled. "Okay," he said.
After so many nights of pregnancy-induced insomnia, this utter feeling of bliss and comfort meant she wasn't going to be able to stay awake much longer. Her eyes closed. She felt his fingers stroking her face again.
"I have to lie on this side," she said. He seemed to understand what she meant by this (she would have been surprised if he had not); she wanted to lie spooned up with him, but she couldn't turn over. Quietly he sat up then climbed gingerly to the other side of the bed, covering them up as he settled in behind her. He draped his arm across her, holding her stomach protectively, as he placed a kiss on the crown of her head.
Within moments, she was deeply asleep.
12 Dec
What a change of luck. What an incredible turn of circumstances.
Just a week earlier, Mark Darcy had been trapped in a relationship with a woman he didn't love, if what he'd had with her could even be defined with a word as loaded as 'relationship'. The old saying was dead right: that you don't know what you have until you've lost it. Their conversations of late had made him uncomfortable; she had begun to express interest in a family. After everything Mark had gone through with Bridget, he didn't quite know how to tell her that he was unwilling to go through that with anyone else, especially not with someone he didn't love, someone with whom he wasn't in love. More to the point, he didn't want to have a family with anyone but Bridget.
She'd been out of town, so he hadn't seen her in a week. They had planned for lunch upon her return. He had planned what he was going to say. And in the end, he had abandoned it all with a simple, "I can't do this. I don't love you. I'm sorry."
She had merely stared at him a moment or two before pursing her lips and nodding. "Not surprised," she'd said. "Disappointed, but not surprised. I mean, I knew from the start that you were still in love with someone else. I was pretty sure I knew who she was… and then that day on the street with you when I met her, and I was certain."
It had surprised him greatly to hear this.
She'd gone on: "You're always so calm, cool, and collected. But not that day. No, I'm not an idiot. But I am a fool for thinking you were over her."
So with that, it had been over. Mark had felt free, but anxious. He'd wanted to go directly to Bridget, but he'd known it wasn't going to be as simple as that. So he'd waited, contemplated, considered his options.
And then yesterday had happened. Resolution had turned out to be simpler than he'd ever imagined; the roadblocks had miraculously cleared on their own. No longer did he have to navigate around respective other partners, nor did he have to concern himself with the legalities of adoption. He woke that morning in Bridget's bed, with her warm body still spooned against him, his hand splayed on her belly again.
He felt movement under his palm—the baby shifting—and a thrill went through him again. His baby, his child. His own flesh and blood. When he'd lost all hope of the possibility of having a family, particularly with Bridget, this miracle had occurred. He couldn't have been more grateful.
He ran his fingers over the soft skin of her rounded belly, kissed her temple softly. She sighed in her sleep. Wonderful, blissful peace of the morning of the first of many more days back together with her. He closed his eyes and sighed, too.
It was then that a low howl shattered the serenity of the morning, as she folded in pain around the hand that had rested upon her. It brought him to instant wakefulness, and he sat upright (or as upright as he could).
"Bridget! What's wrong?" he asked. In his panic, the most obvious answer did not occur.
"Ohgoddddd," she groaned. "Oh, fuck. It's started. Oh. Fuck." He was about to ask what she meant, but then she added in a rough voice, "Waters. Just. Broke."
Mark froze. He had helped to broker peace deals, had arranged for hostage exchanges, but here, now… he had no idea what to do. So he asked her.
She was breathing hard, hair suddenly damp with sweat, but at least the wave of pain seemed to have subsided. "Need to get to hospital," she said, then laughed with as much mirth as she could muster. "Never packed my hospital bag. Kept putting it off. Of course I did."
He chuckled despite the situation. He bent and kissed her forehead, tried to remain calm, since she was not herself panicking. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"
She shook her head, then turned her blue eyes to him. "It can be hours between labour starts and delivery for a first child. Should be fine."
"Did you do classes?"
She nodded, clenching her jaw with another, though clearly less intense, wave of pain. "Have to call Shaz."
"Why?"
"Because my partner in birthing class… well. We broke up. Awkward for him to be there. Shaz has done this before."
"I could do it."
"Much as I'd love that," she said with a faint smile, "it really is about more than just breathing."
To his surprise, she rose from the bed, slipped on her robe, and dialled her mobile. As she talked to Shaz, she began to gather up things for her travel bag. He could only stand and stare mutely. It was like nothing had happened at all.
"No, you only need to meet me at the hospital," she said into the mobile. "I've got a ride sorted." She turned and winked at Mark, listening to Shaz talk. "Nope, not him. Guess again. Oh, wait," she said, stopped what she was doing, then sat on the bed. Her face contorted into a grimace of pain; she strained not to make a sound. He rushed to her side; she thrust the phone at him to explain.
"Hello, Sharon," Mark said.
There was a beat, clearly stunned silence, before she spoke. "Who is that?" she asked warily.
"Who else calls you 'Sharon'?" Mark said with a smile, then began to massage Bridget's lower back as she bent over as far as she could.
"Well, fuck me," she said, which made him laugh. "I can't keep things straight anymore. What's going on?"
"Will explain later," he said. "We'll be leaving soon."
"Okay," she said. "See ya there. Bye."
He disconnected the call, then turned back to her. She was taking deep breaths again; the pain had passed. "Come on, darling," he murmured softly. "Let's get dressed now, while you're not doubled over in pain."
She sat up again, nodding, taking in a deep breath, then getting to her feet again.
He helped to dress her, then dressed himself in his slightly wrinkled clothes from the day before. He caught her smirking at him, because she knew what he was thinking: he hadn't folded his underpants, let alone his clothing.
"Clearly, standards have fallen," he teased, smoothing down his shirt, then tucking the tails into his trousers and zipping them up. "All right. Are we all set?"
She held up a finger, clenched her teeth through another labour pain, took in a deep breath, and then rose to her feet. "Let's do this."
… … …
"Hasn't been the greatest 'morning after', has it?"
Mark couldn't help chuckling. Bridget was in the bed, sleeping, resting after the birth. The sun had long since set; Mark and Sharon sat in chairs next to the bed; in quiet tones, he had explained everything that had happened over the past couple of days for each of them, the revelation of the baby's true paternity, and last night's reunion.
"I beg to differ," Mark said. "Regaining the love of my life and a baby, to boot… not a bad day's work."
Sharon smiled. She looked tired, too, after all of the in-theatre coaching she'd done.
"I'm really glad it went well in there," Mark said.
"Smooth as silk. Just too bad it couldn't have been you," she said.
Maybe next time, he thought.
"Not that you… well, you know what I mean," Sharon added.
"I do. I appreciate you could be there for her. For us." He then turned to Bridget, brushing her hair from her face.
"This is probably the most sleep she's had in some time," Sharon said; he reminded himself that she had small ones of her own now. "And probably the most she'll have in some time to come."
The door to the room swung slowly open to reveal one of the nurses that had attended to Bridget before she'd gone to sleep—a young, blond, exceedingly efficient young man called Gareth—bearing a tiny wrapped bundle. Mark was instantly on his feet.
His son.
"You're the baby's father?" Gareth asked.
Mark nodded.
Gareth offered him the bundle. "Say hello to your little boy."
He stared at the baby. "I—I'm not sure I…" he stammered. "I don't know how…"
"It's as easy as anything," Gareth said. "Hold out your elbow… yes, that's good." He placed the baby into Mark's arms; he cradled the boy instantly, naturally. "There you are. Perfect."
Mark raised his other hand to pull the blanket back; the tiny, serenely sleeping face, the wisp of dark hair at the crown, the tiny bow of a mouth. Mark felt unexpectedly emotional… though perhaps not unsurprisingly so. "He's… beautiful."
He noticed then that Sharon was at his side. "He is, isn't he?"
Mark nodded.
"So what's his name?" Sharon asked.
"I… I don't know," Mark said sheepishly. "We didn't get a chance to talk about it."
Sharon chuckled quietly, waggling her brows. "I don't suppose you did."
The nurse had commenced to checking on Bridget, who, Mark could tell, was stirring to wakefulness. He turned slowly with the baby in his arms. Blearily she blinked, and smiled at them. Mark went to sit on the bed beside her; she raised the head to better see them.
"So what were you thinking of calling him?" Mark asked quietly.
"Hadn't decided," she said. "Just like I hadn't packed my bag. I thought I had some time yet."
Mark laughed a little. "Was hoping you hadn't absolutely decided with…" He trailed off.
"I didn't like his suggestions. Boring," Bridget said. Impishly, she added, "I did have a few ideas."
"Don't you dare say 'River'," he joked, and she laughed too. Theoretical scenarios all fell to the wayside in the face of an actual baby.
"Actually, now he's a Darcy, I was thinking Fitzwilliam," she said. His eyes flashed to her; she grinned at him. "What? It's classic and literary, and you never wanted a junior, anyway. And I could go down in the history books as the woman who brought a real Fitzwilliam Darcy into the world." Behind him, Mark could hear Sharon suppressing laughter.
"Sorry to interrupt the moment," said the nurse, who Mark forgot was still there, "but I'm here to give the new mum a little refresher on breastfeeding. Sir, if you'll give your wife the baby… great. Now, normally you'll have on a bra with nursing panels, but you'll need here to lift yourself up a little, like this…"
As this instruction went on, as Gareth reached to properly position the baby and the breast, Mark had to fight the urge to grab the baby and dash away; he didn't like the thought of another man having anything to do with her breasts, but it was the nurse's job, after all. No good could come from being irrational.
Sharon patted Mark's shoulder, as if knowing exactly what he was thinking.
The little one latched on and began to suckle. He saw tears well in her eyes, felt tears in his own. "There you are," said Gareth. Grinning, he stood up straight. "I'll be back shortly with the crib for little River, Fitzwilliam, or whatever you decide to call him." Gareth turned to Mark. "That chair reclines, if you'd like to stay, too."
Mark nodded. "I'd very much like that."
"I'll bring blankets and a pillow."
When Gareth left, Sharon moved in close. "Look at him go," she said, then affectionately smoothed down Bridget's hair. "Champion drinker, just like his mum." She chuckled, and he found himself chuckling, too. "I should go," Sharon said. "The fam's expecting me back."
Bridget nodded. "Thank you for everything today, Shaz. Means the world to us."
"Anytime," she said. "Though I doubt you'll need me for this duty again." She looked to Mark. "Good to, er, have you back."
"Good to be back."
To his surprise, she gave him a tight hug. "Congratulations," she said. Sharon then bent to give Bridget a quick hug too. "Talk to you soon."
She then left them, beaming a smile as she did.
Mark sat with Bridget again on the bed. The little one had apparently finished eating and was puckering his lips; Bridget reached to pull her nightgown closed again, but the front of it soon dampened with milk. "Oh dear," she said. "I suppose it will stop on its own. Ohh." A look of dawning crossed her face. "Now I understand nursing pads."
He smiled, stroking her arm, then brushing his fingers over the baby's forehead. She shifted a bit, and he was able to sit beside her, put his arm around her, allow him to hold her as she held the baby.
"By the way, I rang up your mum," he said. "She was surprised to hear from me, which was to my benefit, as she was quiet long enough to allow me to tell her you'd gone into labour. They were going to caravan down this way as we speak. I expect they'll be here soon to see you."
Bridget asked, "Did you tell her how you'd come to be involved?"
"Yes," he said. "Which is how she stayed quiet long enough."
Bridget began to laugh, then winced in pain. "Stitches."
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he said.
She nodded. "It's all right." She looked down to their baby again; he'd gone back to sleep. "So sweet and quiet," she murmured. "We probably should think of a name, though, before we're discharged."
"It's a big decision," he said. "You really didn't think of anything? Your friends didn't have any suggestions? Sharon?"
"Shaz's ideas were bollocks," said Bridget. "And anyway, she called her son 'Milo'." After a moment, she asked, "Haven't you ever thought what you might want to name your son?"
"Yes," he said plainly. "After my father, or yours, but now that I've seen him… neither one seems quite right. He's his own person, sure to have his own personality. He should have his own name."
This coming from him clearly surprised Bridget in a good way. "As long as you're not about to suggest 'Horatio'… I agree."
"'Horatio Darcy' doesn't exactly roll off the tongue," Mark said with a little laugh. "'Horatio River Darcy' even less so." He breathed in deeply, then exhaled. "I've been thinking about your 'Fitzwilliam' suggestion."
"What, really?"
"Yes, and no." He paused to kiss her on the hair at her temple. "What do you think of just 'William'?" She didn't say anything, so he added, "It may be a bit more on the ordinary side than you were thinking, but…" He trailed off.
"Hmm," she said. She traced a finger over the baby's fine brow. "William," she cooed to him. The baby, as if in response, sighed as if in approval. "Oh God, did you hear that?" she asked, turning to look at Mark, her eyes wide. He had. "Well, then," she said, then sniffed. "If it's good enough for Princess Diana, it's good enough for me."
Mark chuckled, kissing her temple again. "William Darcy it is, then."
"No," she said. "William Mark Darcy."
"Hmm," he said. "If you insist." He laughed lightly again. "Though that does make his monogram the equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction."
"Well, his nappies will surely qualify as such." This made Mark laugh aloud. She laughed too, uttering a little 'ow' again; he suspected this would be happening a lot until she healed.
Gareth returned with the crib and the blankets and pillow. Mark looked up to him as he did; Gareth was smiling. "Everyone's looking cosy," he said, wheeling the crib into place between the bed and the reclining chair. He handed a stack of round things to Bridget. "Meant to bring these before. Sorry."
"It's okay, better late than never." She took one and slipped it into her robe, and only then did Mark realise what it was.
"Baby doing all right? Fed all right?"
"Mm-hmm," she said.
"Didn't need burping?"
"Oh! I don't know," she said, sounding a little panicked. "How can you tell?"
"You'd know," Gareth said genially. "He'd cry or be very fussy."
"Oh," she said. He knew what the tone of her voice meant. The 'I'm going to be a rubbish mum who leaves her baby in a shop' voice.
To her, he whispered, "You can't know everything at once, darling. Don't worry. And I'll help."
"I'm glad." It didn't matter that he didn't have the slightest idea of what he was doing, either, but she seemed comforted. "You'll be a great dad."
"Now you're all set up, and baby's fed, I'll show in your visitors. They can only come in two at a time."
"Two at a time? How many are waiting?"
Gareth smiled. "You seem to be a popular new mum," he said, before leaving.
Within a few minutes, Bridget's mother came in. Pam Jones looked at the two of them, then clapped her hands approvingly. "Bridget, darling! Mark! What a beautiful little family you make. I couldn't be happier."
Coming in directly behind was her father. One look at the three of them on the bed, and Mark saw a surprising sight: Colin Jones began to cry. He held up a pocket square to daub at his face. "I'm overwhelmed, poppet. Overwhelmed."
"Here, this is for the baby," Pam said, handing a beribboned stuffed rabbit to Bridget; it had the look of an old-fashioned toy, with pale brown 'fur' and dark black eyes.
Bridget accepted it with her free hand, turning it over, looking at it, stroking the fabric with her thumb; her eyes went glossy, as if she might cry. She then smiled and looked to her mother again. "Velveteen," she said.
"Yes," said Pam, with a very emotional-looking smile. He sensed there was something more going on than what was apparent on the surface, and made a note to ask about it later. For now, though, Mark rose and, with a sniff to compose herself, Pam wasted no time taking his place on the bed beside her daughter, but not before giving Mark a hug. Mark turned to Colin, holding his hand out for a shake, but Colin hugged him, too.
"Congratulations," he said. "Though I understand this is news to you, as well?"
Mark nodded. "I'm feeling a little overwhelmed, too," he said, "but in the best possible way. Looking forward to the challenge."
"Come and look at this baby, Colin!" said Pam in her most fluttery voice. "He's absolutely gorgeous! Perfect little nose, and my goodness, Mark, he's got your chin." Colin moved close to his wife, then bent to kiss his daughter on the cheek.
"My goodness, he is perfect," said Colin. "And I don't think I'm being biased."
"Of course not," said Bridget. She was crying, but he suspected they were tears of happiness. Mark went for the tissues, which she took gratefully with her free hand, mopping at her tears, blowing her nose. Mark picked up the small waste bin and she tossed the used tissue inside.
"Mum?" asked Bridget. "Would you like to hold him?"
"Oh!" she said. "May I? I've washed and sanitised my hands…"
Bridget knew, as Mark did, that Pam had wanted to hold the baby the moment she'd come in. "Of course, Mum," she said.
Pam stood and picked the baby up, cradling him, cooing at him. "So tell, me, Bridget, Mark, what are you going to call this darling little boy?"
Mark looked to her just as she looked to him. He nodded.
"William," said Bridget. "William Mark."
"William Mark!" she repeated, touching the baby's nose gently with a fingertip. "I like it. Has such a nice ring to it." Pam looked to Mark. "When on earth did you decide on it?"
"Actually," Mark said, "about ten minutes ago. That's when we really got to meet him for the first time. It suits him."
"Very good name," said Colin. "It does suit him."
At that moment, the door swung open. "I'm so sorry." It was Elaine Darcy. "I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to see this grandchild for myself." Her eyes fixed on Pam. "Oh, let me see him," she said, her eyes welling with tears. "Oh, he's got the Darcy chin. No mistaking that."
"Here, Elaine, hold him."
Mark sat beside Bridget again, taking her hand, then kissing the back. Even though he was overwhelmed in the best possible way with the idea of being back with Bridget, being a new father, one thing kept swirling through his head: how Gareth the nurse had erroneously referred to Bridget. He couldn't get it out of his mind.
He wanted to call her 'wife', and mean it.