Author: Regency

Title: Voices in Hi-Fi

Pairing: Bridget Jones/Mark Darcy

Rating: TEEN/PG-13

Contains: voice kink, sappiness

Summary: Before it all goes tits-up, Hard News interviews Mark Darcy and Bridget realizes it isn't just her fiance's face (or body or brain) she likes. It's that gorgeous voice. (Or, an ode to Mark Darcy, QC, by his loving fiancee, Bridget Jones.)

Prompt: Mark/Bridget, "Please shut up. I can't stand how appealing your voice is."

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 by Helen Fielding. 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.

Miranda thinks Mark is hot.

Miranda thinks every shaggable person of a certain age is hot, but she also has good taste in men. (And women, not that Bridget's judging. Miranda complimenting her legs is how they became friends in the first place.) But she thinks Mark's particularly sexy, and she's right.

"He's a little boring, sort of stuffy in a way you want to ruffle up." Miranda taps her chin and an impish grin takes over. "What's he like under the suit?"

Deceptively slim, Bridget wants to say. Strong enough to carry her from her front door to the bedroom without losing his breath. Enough stamina to get her off twice before they left for the studio this morning. She broke a lamp trying to find something to hold on to. He'd apologized rather smugly guiltily and buried his head between her thighs to make amends. Mark Darcy is very good with his tongue, on- and off-screen, in and very much out of the courtroom.

"Well enough, I guess," Bridget demurs in deference to Mark's private nature. She fans herself with her clipboard, keeping one ear out for Mark's voice. She wishes they were already back at home. There are still plenty of other lamps to break.

Miranda perks up like some bomb-sniffing dog except for obscene imaginings. "What dirty thought were you just having? Friends share."

"No idea what you mean. I'm just admiring my fiancee. Isn't he handsome?"

Mark's sitting an early interview with another anchor they've borrowed from the afternoon newsdesk. Though Bridget was initially put out on Miranda's behalf for the snub, she appreciates the chance to have someone to gush over Mark with who won't accuse her of being an awful Smug Fiancee.

"Very sexy philosophy professor."

"Ooh, hadn't thought of him that way." She has. She very much has. The introduction of glasses to his wardrobe has been a massive kick up the arse to their love life. Not that there was anything to sneeze at in the first place, but all it takes to get her going now is for Mark to peer at her over the frames of his specs and call her "Miss Jones" in that voice. He knows precisely what he's doing when he says her name in that tone. Don't think about it. Not now. She needs to be focusing; this is still her show, her credit, got to be on her best behavior for the boss.

"Liar," Miranda retorts out the side of her mouth as she pretends she has a very good reason to be in the control booth during a segment she isn't in. She technically has the day off, but habit and the prospect of seeing Bridget giggly over the notorious Mr. Darcy had compelled her to crawl out of her holiday den of iniquity to spectate. She's already come up with a handful of nicknames for Mark that Bridget can never tell him lest he go beetroot red and turn into a puddle of shame on the studio floor. The 'long arms of the law, and the legs' might be her favorite. Mark does have the inches to spare just about everywhere, doesn't he?

Bridget bites a nail. Don't think about Mark naked. Don't think about him naked...Fuck. She is so thinking of him slipping out of that suit last night, unself-conscious as each layer of his workday armor slipped off, hung up, folded, or abandoned to wrinkle at the foot of the bed. Collarbones revealed first, then a lightly furred breastbone, taut pecs and strong shoulders, a firm but softening stomach encircled by a trim waist. His crisp white shirt sliding down his arms, catching on curled fingers in a practiced motion that flexed his torso to almost athletic proportions. She had tossed her diary aside to rake her nails up his sides, had risen onto the balls of her feet nibble at his bobbing Adam's apple. She clenches her hands around her pen and clipboard to keep from storming the studio for a repeat performance. Work. Money. Food. Do not shag Mark Darcy on the newsdesk. Very unprofessional behavior. Could be grounds for chucking. Would bring ratings, however-something to consider. TOP BARRISTER DARCY ROUNDLY SHAGGED ON NATIONWIDE TELEVISION PROGRAM NOBODY WATCHES. She can dream. She sighs. But what a well-earned termination that would be.

"I'm going to rescind my initial offer of friendship if you start keeping your filthy thoughts to yourself," Miranda says in a verbal sulk.

"Just thinking about how he looks under that suit."

"Tease."

"I think you mean 'foreplay' and yes, he does." Bridget grins filthily and laughs outright at Miranda's put upon sigh.

"I would find the one best friend capable of keeping her X-rated secrets to herself. What a waste."

"Oh no, I never waste a drop." She makes a lewd gesture that gets a pen tossed at her from the rear of the booth. Bloody Richard! Miranda almost falls from her seat laughing. We're as bad as each other.

"You dirty bitch."

"Guilty as charged."

They giggle into their hands to avoid it coming in over the headsets, but must not be entirely successful as Mark's gaze momentarily roves toward them to fix them with a chastising yet entertained glance. Bridget wiggles her fingers in greeting. Miranda waves. His mouth ticks up at the side in wordless response. His eyes glow hypnotically from the flatteringly lit sound stage an his cheeks dip into enticing divots that never fail to make him look more boy than man and yet irresistible. Anyone to note the twinkle in his eye would have to know he was smiling at someone he loved. Bridget won't ever get over being lucky enough to be that someone.

Miranda side-eyes her soppy grin. "Just marry him already."

Bridget's smile widens. "Later. I want to enjoy living in debauched sin a few years more. Got to shame the neighbors to give the kids something to be embarrassed about later." She can laugh about that because she still has hope. Their respective careers take precedence for now, but their time will come. She doesn't mind the wait when she has him to share it with. And, yes, she is a little Smug.

Her friend pretends to retch beside her.

"Oh, shush!" She bumps the younger woman to quiet her down. The interviewer is about to ask Mark about the landmark case he tried earlier in the week. He'd emerged victorious, naturally, and his career prospects have never been higher. There's talk of him standing as an MP in the upcoming general election, talk he's repeatedly shut down in favor of keeping to the courtroom. "I'm no natural leader, Bridget," he'd told her. "This is where I thrive and am happiest: going to work to save people and then coming home to you. I'm not interested in anything that interferes with that routine."

Bridget is a very Smug fiancee, indeed. Who wouldn't be?

When the interviewer puts forth a patently false claim that is unquestionably the result of poor research, Bridget freezes. Partly because she can feel hell descending from the executive level, even though this get isn't her responsibility to oversee, and partly because Mark's entire demeanor palpably shifts. Miranda looks from him to her, obviously reading the change but unable to pinpoint it as Bridget can after so long.

"Oh, fuck," she whispers, and immediately keys onto the interviewer's channel, authorization be hanged, to course correct. Her afternoon counterpart, who's currently flailing at the other end of the control room, can get on her case about stepping on his toes later.

"The U.N. Resolution on the Rights of the Child is clear," she dictates, voice assertive and leading. She signals broadly to catch the interviewer's attention. She's covering from here on.

But it's too late. Mark, a man preoccupied with detail and accuracy, smells blood in the water. Misinformation offends him at a base level. Misinformation being touted as fact raises his hackles beyond the stratosphere. The last thing anybody from Hard News needs is to get into verbal fisticuffs with top human rights barrister Mark Darcy, yet here they are. And the interviewer, entirely bereft of Miranda's unflappable and adaptable nature, is flailing.

Oh fuck, oh shit. Oh fuck, oh shit.

The interviewer is about to get schooled on the Rights of the Child, and very likely the importance of preparing adequately before public appearances. Mark is in full barrister mode: posture erect and imposing, gaze direct, skewering, unforgiving in extremis, deft hand gestures limited to only the most emphatic for effect. His body is the tool of his argument and he employs it to the fullest.

Bridget has to take a sip of water totally unrelated to how smashing Mark looks when he goes on a tear. No relation at all. Her throat is still dry, after.

As Mark reaches the crux of his point, slashing the complexities of inter-state legal quandaries into soundbytes that are going to sting Hard News on the blogosphere for a week, Mark's voice drops dangerously low, all authoritative and commanding, rumbling, drilling the facts home so thoroughly Bridget can feel the rolling thunder of it in the pit of her stomach. It's a voice that could melt the knickers off a girl.

Bridget presses her thighs together, fighting a core-deep shiver. Melting is very much underway down there. Miranda is probably smirking to her right. Bridget is too enraptured to look with Mark at center stage. His detractors remark that he turns that personality of his off and on at will, as if he's some legal eagle automaton to be put in storage when not in use. Idiots, she thinks. And jealous ones at that. He doesn't need to put on a persona to be magnetic; he just is.

Up to now, this interview has been boilerplate standard. Mark is of course knowledgeable and articulate, the sort of barrister people think of by name when they get themselves in a pickle abroad, something Bridget can attest to from experience. This interview, this impassioned defense of children the world over, will be very good for him professionally. But the voice he's using to give it is going to get him fan mail. And possibly lacy pants from lonely housewives who enjoy current events reports with their espresso.

Bridget knows what sells to the general public. Sex sells and Mark's voice has gone all 'come here, pet, and leave your tights'. Women are going to remember that voice when they're alone. Men are going to remember it when they're alone, whether it's their thing or not, and try to imitate it. She's not sure how she feels about that, knowing it's her fiance whose voice is going to rile them up like it does her.

Mark won't care. Or he'll pretend not to despite coloring in embarrassment at attention being directed at anything besides his legal efforts. Despite recognizing the necessity of leveraging his likeness and reputation as part of his work, Mark does his best to evade the niche celebrity that requires. He avoids glossy tabloid entrenchments when they can be avoided (50 most eligible bachelors' lists that one year notwithstanding) and ducks penny paper profiles that ask what he looks for in a woman when he hasn't wanted another for years. He eschews any claim of being a sex symbol and gets on with the business of being walking sex itself.

Talk about your mixed signals. She grins devilishly at the bevy of production assistants cooling themselves with personal fans in the wings. That's her sexy bugger.

Mark is made for celebrity and not just for his brilliant mind. Not terribly self-aware, her Mark. She loves him anyway.

When Richard directs them to cut to a human interest piece in Devon, the interviewer bolts for makeup without a word to Mark. Mark rolls his eyes. He's too accustomed to incompetence to get wound up in the confrontation of it. He snags the interviewer's notebook casually to review the pre-approved questions. Bridget knows them because she helped him choose them two nights ago, but given the interview so far she isn't surprised he feels a need to ensure the interviewer's veracity when he couldn't be arsed to read the summary brief Mark had prepared for him. Some journalists think they can half-arse their jobs and get accolades; Bridget knows better.

Miranda is texting nimbly, for once not ribbing Bridget about how much she loves to watch Mark when he thinks he's unobserved. There's something about Mark just being Mark that enchants her. Funny to think she found him so distasteful after their first meeting as adults when he'd bowled her over before she even saw his face. He had his lovely arse to thank for that. Ten years, still lovely. This day can't end soon enough.

Mark below tugs expansively at his ear to catch her eye. He knows better than to tap at his earpiece. The feedback would kill her hearing for no less than a quarter-hour. Thoughtful Mark has entered the building.

She gives a headset click of acknowledgement.

"Everything all right up there, Miss Jones?" His inflection is cordial, but the undertone is positively obscene. The bass in his voice tickles her ear like his lips might were he standing right behind her.

She licks her lips, and she almost thinks he can see her do it from the widening of his crooked grin.

"Everything's perfect, Mr. Darcy. You've given us all a thorough lesson in doing our homework."

"Speaking of, I'd like to talk to you about your homework after class."

He's looking directly at her, inattentive of the makeup artist reapplying powder to keep him from shining on camera. His eyes are brown as good bourbon in the studio lights, and Bridget is very thirsty again.

"I hope I'm not in any trouble."

"We'll just have to see about that."

"Anything I should leave behind?" She fingers the collar of her shirt, loosens the uppermost button because it really is so warm in here.

He adjusts his tie. "Everything. After that, just come as you are."

"That sounds very cold."

His smirk blooms. "Don't worry, darling. I'll warm you up."

The other EP coughs on the channel. "Hot mic."

The rush of color suffusing Mark's neck is visible from the control room.

"Thanks, Randall. I'll take it from here."

The interviewer returns at the last possible moment, all stiff apologies for his gaffe which Mark accepts graciously, and they go on, but Mark never reverts to the milder temperament he'd displayed at the start. He's cast his interviewer as his adversary and as such takes it upon himself to correct him where he's wrong, each time he's wrong. He needn't even raise his voice, he knows he's won.

Miranda takes a pull from a flask she must have hidden in her purse. "Jesus Christ, he is hot."

"A bloody inferno in a suit." She regretfully passes on the sip Miranda offers since she is actually supposed to be working, the splendid Mr. Darcy's presence notwithstanding.

Richard sighs from the rear. "Hot mic, Bridget."

From Mark's self-satisfied smirk below, she doesn't think her fiance minds much at all. She fiddles with her pen and counts the hours till the end of work. Mark will get home before her. One of them will pick up takeaway, maybe both of them if they have a text message mix-up. He'll meet her with a kiss at the door. They'll eat and have the wine he brought over from the Darcy wine collection, retire to the sofa for a movie, and cuddle until they both nod off.

Or Mark will set the food out of the way, back Bridget into the nearest vertical surface and shag her until the neighbors worry that one of her appliances is on the fritz again. She's never had the guts to admit it isn't her washer thumping so enthusiastically on their shared wall, and she doubts that will change tonight. She basks in this little deception if for no other reason than to watch Mark stammer when confronted with Mr. Ramdas' pressing concern. Matters of life and death are nothing compared to sex-induced mortification and their lively romps have led to more than a bit of that. You wouldn't know he was a world-class attorney seeing him out of sorts and on his back foot, nattering on about a faulty agitator in the washing machine. Then, he's just a man in love who forgot to be discreet about it. That's what love does to him, makes him forget to keep all the thrillingly humans parts of himself locked away from prying eyes. The tenderness that colors his voice when they talk on the phone, the gluttonous passion that keeps them in bed for whole weekends when he's just home from long trips afar, the self-loathing she glimpses when he disappoints her and the almost instantaneous forgiveness when she disappoints him. Those are all the parts of him she loves, the polished bits and the rough. He gives her every ounce of it, of himself, of his heart in the plain, unwrapped box of his regard. He doesn't know another way.

Mark abhors affectation. He's not all charm and daring like some men. He doesn't always know the perfect thing to say. He's a pragmatic man, a learned scholar, a barrister with an impeccable record. He's a good cook. He's sweet to his mother. He can at times be boring in conversation. He works too much and is not terribly spontaneous. Yet he looks at her like she is, in fact, the only star in the universe and still his favorite one. All of that is real.

He is very sexy despite his few shortcomings-which do not include aforementioned stunning, authoritative headmaster voice (nor the affectionate glances he continually sends her, or his flawless carbonara, naturally). He is also very loved.

She smiles down at Mark as his interview comes to its long-awaited conclusion and he's finally free to join her upstairs. There's a swagger in his stride that can't be missed as he ascends the steps and she rises to meet him. She's so eager to join him she almost forgets to remove her headset. Miranda detaches it just in the nick of time. Bridget will thank her for that as soon as she's done talking to a certain Mr. Darcy about her homework, or her missing tights. Whichever comes up first.

Bridget Jones is exceedingly lucky she gets to take Mark Darcy home with her each night and wake up beside him every day. Don't worry, she knows.