Mark Darcy and the Overactive Imagination
By S. Faith, © 2018, 2019
Words: 10,781
Rating: M / R
Summary: Mark turns his attention to family, and to a neighbourhood mystery.
Disclaimer: So very much not mine, except for the words in this order.
Notes: This assumes a timeline in which Mabel gets to her know her dad as more than stories and old photos.
Chapter 1
It wasn't one thing that brought him to the decision he made. Though try convincing anyone else of that.
"Are you… feeling okay?" This was a question he had been asked often.
"I'm fine."
"Was it something the doctor said? You're not… oh God, you're not dying, are you?"
A small chuckle. "No, I'm not dying."
Many small things had contributed to the choice he'd decided to make. His newborn girl had become an alert, interactive infant in what had seemed to be no time at all. His infant boy had become a curious, active toddler. Violence had risen in the parts of the world to which he had often travelled for his cases, and he had encountered more close calls than he cared to consider. He was also keenly aware that he wasn't getting any younger.
He had always loved his work. But work was what had always filled his life because he'd had nothing else. Life had been empty. Lonely.
With a loving partner and two children, that was no longer true.
"So what are you going to do, Mark?" Bridget, his aforementioned loving partner, asked.
"Spend more time with you and the children."
She furrowed her brow. "You don't expect me not to work, do you?"
"Of course not," he said. "But you don't have an insane work ethic."
"Gee," she said, her tone heavily sarcastic, "thanks a lot."
"I mean that in the best possible way," Mark said, taking her into his arms. "You're not a workaholic with your mobile practically welded to your ear. We're financially stable; we're lucky enough to not need to both work. We can do what we love to do."
She drew away, a look of confusion on her face. "And don't you love what you do anymore?"
"Not as much as I love having a family."
Tears welled in her eyes; she was obviously overcome with emotion at his admission. "So what are you going to do," she said, sniffing, striving for levity, "be a house-husband?"
"I just might," he said drolly. "I haven't seen nearly enough of London's parks."
"This news does make me happy," she said. "I'm just so surprised, that's all. I never thought you could be persuaded to retire. I expected you to still be arguing cases propped up with a Zimmer frame."
"Priorities, darling."
She took a step back, smiling. "I just hope you don't get bored."
He spread out his hands, indicating the house around him, filled with toys and the sounds of active children. "How could I ever get bored?"
…
Mark Darcy was bored out of his mind.
He had indeed, much to everyone's surprise, retired from court cases over the course of a couple of months, working to transition those cases into the care of promising up-and-coming barristers. Shortly after the last day with his partners in chambers, he took his family on a much overdue holiday to Valencia on the south-eastern coast of Spain. It felt like a workaholic's detox. He had to train himself to stop looking at his mobile constantly. By the end of day two of the holiday, he had managed to break the habit, and thoroughly enjoyed his time out at the museum, the beach, and, in the evenings after the kids were asleep, spending romantic time alone with Bridget.
Once they had returned to London, once Bridget went back to work, he spent many hours in the company of his children. He watched more Disney films than he thought could possibly have existed. He praised so many slightly figure-shaped scribbles pronounced to be "Mummy" and "Daddy" that he lost count.
Make no mistake—he loved every moment of it. He got to enjoy the children's milestones, particularly of his youngest; his daughter Mabel's first words, his son Billy's stringing together of curious, intelligent questions. He finally even learnt the ins and outs of the kitchen in the house in which he had lived for years and years. He could now stride in and find the cabinet with the cutlery without hesitation.
But after a very short period of time, he found he was lacking intellectual stimulation.
Not that he didn't get plenty of stimulation from his darling wife, intellectual or otherwise. The thought of her always made him smile, even if the thought was along the lines of wondering what she up to now. He understood her need to decompress after her work day, and to spend time with the children; they still talked often and shared everything. He knew his need for adult interaction was getting desperate, though, when he started feeling like meeting her at the front door just to have a conversation with someone who spoke full sentences.
Bridget laughed when he told her that.
"You sound like Magda," she explained, still giggling.
…
Mark had made the acquaintance of his neighbours before—he'd given them a passing wave in greeting over the garden hedge or when checking the post—but wasn't entirely sure he even knew their names or what professions they were in. He realised he should make some kind of effort to befriend them, or at the very least, learn their names. It just seemed like the right thing to do. The neighbourly thing to do.
One day late in the summer, as the children were enjoying the pleasant weather in the back garden before dinner, Mark could hear voices in conversation floating over from the garden next door. He rose, thinking it would be a good time to make those introductions, particularly as this set of neighbours were newer and he didn't even think he knew them on sight.
He stopped in his tracks, though, when he realised the tenor of the conversation had taken a dark turn. They were not talking. They were arguing. One male voice; one female.
He couldn't quite make out the words, until the following rang out in a deep baritone clear over the hedge:
"No. I'm warning you—do not even think about it."
A door slammed, and then there was silence.
Mark drew his brows together. What had he just heard? He drew closer still, but no evidence remained of the man and woman who had just been arguing. As he ran his fingers back through his hair, he retreated to the house.
It was odd to hear so much commotion from such normally quiet neighbours, but after Bridget came home and they began to talk about their respective days, he didn't give it much more thought.
…
"Hi!"
Every time Mark took the children out in the double pram and down to the nearby park, Billy, aged three, liked to wave to and greet every person that they passed. So much his mother's son, Mark could not help thinking.
"Hi!" Billy said again to someone new.
Mark smiled at them with a little nod and kept walking until they reached the park, then found a bench under a shady tree to rest. He took Mabel out to hold in the crook of his arm as Billy toddled around in close proximity to him.
"Hi!" Billy said once more to another stranger.
To Mark's surprise, the stranger said in return, her voice friendly and kind, "Well, hello, Billy."
Mark looked up quickly to see a woman standing there, chestnut brown hair pulled up in a high ponytail; sunglasses covered her eyes, and she was dressed in what he had recently learned was called 'active wear': a tee shirt, yoga pants, and trainers. If he had to guess, he thought she was probably in her mid-thirties. She held a lead, on the other end of which was a beautiful English Springer Spaniel. She lifted her sunglasses up onto her head. "And hello, Billy's… dad? I don't think we've met before, actually. I'm Emily."
"I am," he said, somewhat guardedly; "How exactly do you know my son?"
Emily laughed lightly. "Oh, I'm sorry, I should have explained. I met Billy through Bridget when we were moving in about a year ago. I'm your neighbour to the… left? Yes, to the left, if you're at the front door. We share a hedge."
It was the mention of the hedge that sparked his memory; the conversation-turned-argument of a few nights earlier. "Ah, yes," he said, his tone warming considerably. He got to his feet, held out his free right hand for a friendly handshake. "I'm sorry we haven't met before now," he said. "I'm Mark." He indicated his occupied arm. "And this miraculously silent baby is Mabel."
"Oh, Mabel," said Emily. "Aren't you a doll?" The dog at Emily's side started to agitate a little, tugging at the lead. "And this impatient critter is Daisy. I'd better get her home. It was nice to meet you at last, Mark." She gave a little wave, then pulled her sunglasses back on. "Bye, Billy! Bye, Mabel!"
"Bye!" Billy said cheerfully.
Mabel made a happy burble in Mark's arm.
As Emily retreated, Mark only belatedly thought about her use of the word "we" when referring to moving in, wishing he'd asked about her partner, assuming the male voice Mark had heard was indeed her partner.
"I met our neighbours today," Mark said to his wife later that night. "Emily and Daisy."
Bridget's face brightened. "Finally," she teased. "They've only lived next door a year. What about Ian?"
Mark deduced this might be the partner, and decided not to mention the overheard argument; after all, it was probably meaningless in the grand scheme. "No, not yet," he said.
"Just a matter of time, I'm sure."
…
"You must be Mark."
Mark was sitting with the double pram in the park again when this greeting caught his attention. His head swung to see Emily (with Daisy at her side) standing next to a man, obviously the man who had spoken, because he was smiling as he raised his sunglasses.
"Yes," Mark said. "And you must be Ian."
Mark got to his feet to shake hands in greeting; Ian was about the same height as Mark, definitely younger, perhaps a bit more athletic, with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes.
"Pleasure to meet you at last," he said; only then did Mark notice the lilt of a Scottish accent in his voice. "Another fine day for taking the wee ones out for a walk."
Presently, the wee ones were so tuckered out from the walk that they were now soundly sleeping in the double pram. Mark introduced the children by name, and added, "Though I'm sure you've heard us say 'Billy!' time and again over the hedge."
Ian smiled. "They're beautiful children. Your little girl looks just like her mum."
Of course he had met Bridget before. "Thank you."
"Ian, we should be off," spoke up Emily. To Mark, she said, "Really nice seeing you again."
With a small, friendly wave, they headed off, Daisy trotting obediently by Emily's side.
…
For the next two weeks, it was like clockwork; Mark walking with the children out to the park, and Ian and Emily walking their Daisy. They exchanged waves; after the formality of introductions had been completed, it seemed they didn't feel the need to make small talk every day, and for that, Mark was grateful.
These daily encounters also afforded Mark the opportunity to observe their interactions as a study of human nature. It amused him to note that the couple reminded him of a ten-years-younger version of Bridget and himself. She talked and waved and chatted the entire walk while he listened attentively and stoically, and offered not much in response. But it was clear that they loved each other dearly; the tender way he slipped his arm around her shoulders or hovered around her waist, or the way he would anticipate, reach out, and lift a low-hanging tree branch so that she would not walk into it.
"Dada," came a small voice.
"Yes, Billy?"
"Can we get a Daisy?"
It took Mark a moment to realise he did not mean a flower. "You mean a dog," Mark corrected gently, watching said dog running after a thrown toy. "Daisy is a dog."
"Can we? I like Daisy."
"They're a lot of work, my boy," Mark said. "They need walking and feeding, playtime and baths…"
"Oh, I can give a bath!"
Mark tried to think of what to say in response, but the relative quiet around him was interrupted by heated, raised voices. Emily and Ian. Too far away for him to properly hear, but he could plainly see that their conversation had turned into an animated disagreement. His back was to Mark, but he could see her face, and she looked on the verge of tears.
Then she tugged on the dog's lead, and marched past where Mark and his children sat towards home. For his part, Ian stood there, running his hand over his face in what was frankly a familiar gesture. He then noticed Mark had seen him do it, and he offered an understated, sheepish smile.
"Sorry you had to see that."
"No need to apologise," Mark said.
"She's driving me completely insane," Ian said, unprompted. "When I ask her directly, she can't articulate," he said, sighing. "But I never seem to say the right thing."
"Oh, I know that feeling well," Mark said. "Sometimes I find listening and saying as little as possible can help."
Mark had hoped this would lighten the mood, but Ian still looked disturbed.
"Whatever you do," Mark added, "don't let things linger."
Ian seemed a little speechless, then nodded. "Of course." He nodded, then headed in the direction that Emily had gone.
"Dada."
Mark's attention was drawn back to his children; this time, it was Mabel who called out for his attention. He smiled at her beaming grin.
"Day-thee?" asked Mabel.
He was doomed.
…
"It's funny," Bridget said later that night as they tidied up after dinner, "that the children have met Daisy before and heard her romping around in the next garden over for months, but now, suddenly a dog is all they talk about."
"I'm sure it's from seeing our neighbours and their dog every day in the park," Mark said, scrubbing the pan, rinsing it, then setting it into the drying rack. "I'll put them off until they stop asking about it."
Bridget laughed sharply. At his look of furrowed-brow confusion, she explained, "It's cute that you think that'll work."
He smiled. "One can but hope."
"Having a dog might not be a bad idea," she said. "Daisy is a sweetheart. We should consider it."
"I'll consider it," Mark murmured as he dried his hands on a kitchen towel. He hung it up, then turned to her. "Now to more important decisions," he said in all seriousness. "Pudding?"
"We shouldn't make a habit of it."
"I know," Mark said, striding to the refrigerator and pulling open the freezer door. "But you had a hard day, wrangling one of the more difficult public personas to grace our presence in many a year. You deserve a nice bowl of—" He plucked something out. "—chocolate ice cream."
She grinned. "You know the way to my heart, Mark. But perhaps… certain small people should be put to bed first."
"Right," Mark said, stowing the ice cream again. "I know my cue when I hear it."
"Right behind you. This is a two-person job."