Author: Regency
Title: Happiness Is a Warm Heart
Pairing: Bridget Jones/Mark Darcy
Summary: (Spoilers for BJB.) On Bridget's wedding night, she's so happy she could cry. Her husband is not entirely prepared for the water works.
Prompt: Mark walks in on Bridget putting the baby to sleep on her wedding night and crying (happy tears!)
Author's Notes: Come hang out with me on Tumblr at sententiousandbellicose.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters 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.
It's a fact not widely known that Bridget can carry a tune when she sings in her range. Nerves make her pitchy. Her voice wobbles when she has an unaccommodating, unwelcoming audience. But when she's alone in the shower, she serenades herself quite pleasantly. And sometimes Mark when he can't sleep (he's seen human atrocities that mar his rest; she tries to help).
Their son is the lucky recipient of her melodious work tonight.
Mark hangs back in the hall to listen as his newly-minted bride lulls William to bed with All the Pretty Little Horses. Her voice is huskier than usual, yet no less moving. He leans against the wall to let it wash over him.
"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleep my little baby."
William goes down quick when she sings to him. Mark thinks it must have been all those months when her voice was his only constant. He isn't proud of how easily he gave ground during her pregnancy. He should have been more willing to put his work on hold to be with her. A task more easily said than done, he knows; nevertheless, he laments those lost hours he could have spent bonding with their son in utero. And bonding with his mother. Considering how ardently he loves her–loved her, has always loved her–he's only just become worth a damn at showing it. Acts of love don't need to involve confronting rivals for a lover's affection; sometimes one merely has to be present to do the loving.
He twists his wedding band. He hasn't stopped touching it since Bridget slipped it on his finger. Over a decade in the making and here they are, married. Third time's a charm, he decides. He never plans to take it off.
"When you wake you shall have
All the pretty little horses."
Bridget's voice catches near the end and she sniffles softly. Mark frowns, worrying she's caught something from the children running rampant at the reception tonight. He'll ply her with orange juice and warm tea till she's well.
"Good night, William," she whispers sweetly. "Sweet dreams."
Once silence settles over the nursery and he determines that he won't be disturbing mother and son, Mark eases the door open and slips inside to check in on his little family.
Bridget wipes her face with the back of her hands and that's when Mark realizes it wasn't a cold threatening in her tone but tears. He crosses the nursery to join her where she's perched in the designer rocking chair Jack Qwant bought them as an engagement gift.
"Is something wrong?" He ducks down to see her face better. He brushes away a fresh tear seeping down the apple of her cheek. "Bridget, darling, what is it? What's happened? Why are you crying?" He previously thought they were well shot of post-partum emotional volatility. If you think law of war is difficult, try anticipating unpredictable crying and laughing jags for six months. He only hopes that's the worst of it. What if she has regrets? Where once a fear of rejection might have made him retreat to regroup, or rather panic, now he kneels to stroke his wife's face as tears spring forth anew.
Bridget fans her watering eyes, almost laughing in her hurry to reassure him, "It's okay. Don't panic."
Mark scoffs. "My wife is crying on our wedding night. Of course, I'm going to panic. Is it William?" He rises to check and she grabs him to pull him back from the silent crib.
"No, no, you'll wake him up to see if he's breathing. He's breathing, it's fine, Mark! Everything is fine."
"Then, why are you crying?"
She shrugs, coming over all self-conscious, throat and chest gone splotchy and telling. "I'm happy."
"Happy tears?" Mark knows how to handle those. "You're happy."
She nods, patting at her red nose with a tissue he hadn't seen crushed in her palm. "Yeah. I never thought we'd pull it off. The beautiful wedding. The beautiful baby. The beautiful life. But here we are. I'm so happy I could, well, cry."
"Me, too." He pulls her from the rocker into an embrace that conveys better than words could how happy he is to have her back, permanently. But words, words matter. "I love you, Bridget, and I'm so happy you married me."
She beams up at him, the joyful glitter in her blue eyes as unambiguous in this moment as it was when they were pronounced man and wife. "As opposed to who?"
Leave it to her to tease him out of worrying.
"Anybody. You could have had a billionaire, Bridget. One with abs." The emphasis isn't entirely his own.
Bridget rolls her eyes. "Have you been talking to Shaz again?"
"Miranda," he admits. The reporter had an opinion on every man, and some of the women, she came across at their reception. Mark had danced with her once, keeping her company while Jack took Bridget on spin around the floor, and by the end Mark was well-versed in her personal attractiveness scoring system for all their adult guests. As is the case with all of Bridget's friends, nobody would accuse the spunky, outspoken woman of being boring.
Bridget giggles at what must be his mildly traumatized expression. "Should have known. She's better than an NSA satellite at spotting dad bods in a crowd." She tucks herself under his chin, her favorite place to nestle, and his favorite to hold her close. "Just you remember, I've been in love with you since you had a six-pack."
"I've never had a six-pack." Not for lack of trying or training, mind. Mark's body shuns muscle tone the way Mark himself often shuns exercise. They aren't a natural match.
"Oops," Bridget snickers, "I was hoping you were too old to remember that."
He grumbles about being distinguished thanks very much and kisses her hair. "The strongest muscle I have is in my head. You should know that by now." He slides his hands down her back absently, basking in the sensation of her breathing under his hands.
She exhales and snuggles closer, as if she'd crawl into his wrinkled tux with him were there room enough for two.
"And it's a very sexy muscle. Don't you worry, not even ab-by, strapping billionaires can turn my head when you're in the room."
"I never worry. Not with you."
With Tamiko, yes, with reason. With Camilla, less so and with less concern. With Bridget, not now, not anymore. Not at all.
Bridget rears back to look at him. "I love you, too, in case I haven't mentioned that in the last hour and a bit. And I never worry. I never worried, Mark. Not about other women or whomever. I worried that maybe the reason you were gone so often was that you didn't really miss me at all."
He draws her into a series of tender kisses that can only stand in apology for all he missed when holding the line took precedence over listening to her. "I miss you all the time. My recognition of a need to be elsewhere never means I want to be. Believe me." Believe that was true from the first Turkey Curry Buffet and the first kiss; our first fight.
"I do," she says in complete confidence, her expression devoid of the resignation he was once accustomed to seeing in her eyes. The slate is clean, swept pristine by their combined work this past year and the strength of their abiding love. How did I ever get you? He doesn't care, really, he's only glad he did.
"For better or worse?"
"We've had the worst already, what say we give the best a try?" She kisses the underside of his jaw, smearing the fragrant traces of her lipstick on his skin. He tightens his grasp on her hips, then buries his fingers in her hair to gently tug her hairpins free.
"Gladly."
She unknots his tie, flicks loose two buttons and just misses sending them flying. He divests her of her jacket and lifts her into his arms. She's hardly immense now, she's a perfect burden, as much as his strength can bear. He props her against the far wall, farthest from William's crib to kiss her properly. Mark kisses Bridget as he couldn't, and by his reserved nature wouldn't, in public. Good boys don't kiss their wives like that in church.
Bridget writhes deliciously beneath him, humming in appreciation as he lets his hands wander up the skirt of her reception dress. It's ivory and knee-length and has been distracting him since she first appeared in it. He could scarcely maintain the composure to dance much less keep his hands off her while she wore it. He'd like to see it become history right…now.
"Oh, Mr. Darcy!"
William exhales audibly and Bridget slaps a hand over her mouth. They wait to see if they've woken him but he goes still, breathing even and peaceful. Perfect, as usual.
"Shall we adjourn?"
Bridget kisses him in agreement.
With a last glance at their slumbering son, Mark and Bridget retreat to bed. Their honeymoon away will have to wait till William is older, but there's nothing saying they can't celebrate right where they are.