A New Tradition
By S. Faith, © 2017
Words: 1792
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: It's funny what becomes a holiday tradition, isn't it?
Disclaimer: Isn't mine.
Notes: Takes place the Christmas after the end of Bridget Jones's Baby.
"Bloody hell."
The mild curse and a sharp rustle of newspaper pulled her attention away from her mobile's screen. She glanced up at her husband—who continued to insist upon reading the printed page every day—to see annoyance and frustration playing upon his face. Curiously, he had been reading the arts and entertainment section.
"What's the matter, Mark?" she asked, then teased, "Steamed about the latest celebrity breakup?"
Mark pursed his lips. "This is ridiculous." He stabbed at the paper with his index finger. "Tell me, darling, how on earth are these things a holiday trend now?"
She took hold of the newspaper and looked at what was that had him so riled. She could not help laughing. "Is that all?" she asked. "I suppose there is a certain nostalgia for the past—why not the tacky Christmas jumper? And after all, you're guilty of wearing one, yourself."
"I only wore one because of my mother," he said. "Anyone claiming to love them unironically is mad."
"Come on, now," she said, laughing lightly, reaching to pat the back of his hand. "Tell me in all honesty that you don't have a certain fondness for your reindeer jumper."
She watched Mark's features soften ever so slightly.
"What?" she prompted.
"The night I came to find you," he began. "The night William was born. I was sorting out my things and… deep in the back of the bureau drawer I came across the reindeer jumper."
"Oh really?" she said, resting her chin in her hand. She supposed they had been distracted, but he had not mentioned this at the time.
"And it's true, I couldn't help smiling. Couldn't help remembering everything good that we'd had, and all of the things that had gone south seemed… utterly fixable, you know?"
Unexpected tears pricked at her eyes, and she nodded. "I do know." She curled her fingers around his. "I guess that means you're mad," she added. "At least a little bit."
At this he chuckled. "I suppose I must be."
"It's not really so bad, that reindeer, now I think about it," she said. "It's downright tame compared to the jumpers I've seen these days." She grinned. "Oh! You ought to wear it for the holidays this year."
He lifted his coffee cup and took a sip. "We'll see, Bridget," was all he said in response, in the inscrutable manner she had come to know and love so well. "We'll see."
…
Christmas Eve Day
Babies always seemed to have a special knack for moving at lightning speed the moment the gazes of their parents or guardians were off of them for even a second. Little William Jones Darcy was no exception. Bridget looked away long enough to refresh her coffee, and when she looked back, he had darted off.
"I'm going to put that kid on a lead," she muttered. She set the coffee down, then followed in little Billy's most likely direction.
The fully trimmed Christmas tree.
Her hunch had been correct; he had gone to the tree, but instead of standing there unsteadily, gazing up at the fairy lights and ornaments in rapt fascination as she usually found him, he had plopped himself down under it and his little fingers were picking at the wrapping on a package there.
"Billy, honey, no," she said, racing over to where he was, sweeping him up (not without protest) into her arms. As she did, though, she knit her brow. Where on earth had these two boxes come from? One had a tag with her name, and the one to which Billy had been attracted was his. Mark must have placed them there, because who else would it have been? However, she had already talked to Mark about not placing presents under the tree because of the baby's curious fingers. And she didn't recognise these at all.
"Mark?" she called.
"Yes, darling?"
She looked up; he was already at the door, leaning against the door jamb, watching the scene with obvious amusement.
"Where did these come from?"
He only smiled enigmatically. "I have no idea," he said. "Must be from Father Christmas. He must have brought them early. Why don't you open them?"
She scrutinized him carefully, but of course, his expression gave nothing away. What did he have up his sleeve?
"Which one first?"
He half-shrugged. "How should I know? You choose."
She sat down and set the baby down beside her, then handed him his own package. "Go for it, baby boy," she said, then tore open an edge of her package's wrapping on one end. Inside was what looked to her like a garment gift box. As Billy tore wildly at his own wrapping paper, she lifted the lid. Buried beneath a layer of tissue paper was the last thing she ever expected to see.
Two big, goofy eyes, antlers, and a red nose.
"Your jumper?"
He shook his head.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "It looks just like—oh." She smiled, then began to laugh, tears of happiness in her eyes. "Oh, God, did your mum do this?"
"You'd have to ask Father Christmas," he said, winking.
She became immensely curious about what was in Billy's box, then set aside her own to help him with his. In short order, she found yet another reindeer jumper, this one miniature-sized.
"This is priceless," she said, pulling it out and holding it up to compare its size to the baby's. She set it back in the box, then got to her feet and went over to take Mark into her embrace for a hug. She whispered, "Thank you, Father Christmas." And then she kissed him.
"What do you say," Mark said, "to a little field trip to your old stomping grounds for lunch to test-drive our matching jumpers?"
"Really?" she asked excitedly. It was exactly the sort of thing she loved to do, but not something she would have expected him to suggest. "Right now?"
"Right now, darling. Or as soon as we can get everything together for Billy."
It was sweet of him to place the blame for her pathological lateness on prepping the baby to go out. "Let me change."
By the time she had finished changing into the jumper, refreshing her makeup, and pinning up her hair, Mark had the baby travel bag packed and ready to go, and had Billy's shoes on. They were both wearing their jumpers, which matched her own.
"Mummy, look!" said Billy, pointing to his reindeer and then to hers.
"Look at that!" Bridget said brightly. "We all match!"
The distance was one she would have covered by the Underground, but with a toddler and all of his gear, driving seemed a more prudent option. Mark had always seemed to have a preternatural ability to find a spot to park the car in Borough Market, and that day, despite it being Christmas Eve Day, was no different.
"Oh, look at that! Look how beautiful they've done up the place!" said Bridget, then took Billy up into her arms. "Look how pretty the decorations are!" she said, to the little boy's cooing. Evergreen garlands, fairy lights, red ribbons, all of it topped with a light dusting of snow.
"Pretty!" Billy mimicked.
"It is indeed beautiful," Mark said, looking around. As he exhaled, his breath clouded the air. "But cold. Why don't we find lunch, and perhaps some hot chocolate?"
"Mulled wine, more like," Bridget said with a smile. "Yes, please!"
They began to walk around the market and garnered many amused looks from passers-by. The three of them must have been quite the picture of holiday cheer; Mark pushing the buggy, Bridget with her arm linked through his, their jumpers all matching.
It took them a few minutes to locate the stand with the mulled wine, then they walked a little further in search of something to eat, setting at last for a couple of paper cones of fish and chips, breaking off portions of theirs to give to the toddler.
"Mmm. I am so glad we did this," said Bridget; she was starting to feel toasty to the tips of her toes thanks to the wine. "Perfect. It's all so perfect."
"We're practically a Christmas card," said Mark.
"Oh! We definitely need to find someone to take our photo," said Bridget. "Too late for a card this year, but if we do one of those New Year's newsletters…"
"Pho-to!" Billy burbled.
"No one will be able to resist volunteering," said Bridget, "with that adorable face."
Indeed, she was right; they only needed to ask the girl at the coffee stand and she was all too happy to take a few snaps with Bridget's phone. They stood to either side of their son, kneeling, helping to steady him. All three of their reindeers were plainly visible.
"Oh, my mother is going to love these," Bridget said, scrolling through the several shots taken by the coffee stand girl. "So will your mother."
Mark only smiled knowingly as he shook his head a little. "Oh, Bridget," he said wistfully, "you've changed."
"What?" she asked. "Why would you say that?"
At this he laughed aloud. "Sorry, sorry. I just mean there was a time when your mum's opinion would not have been the first thing to come to your mind."
"There was also a time when I was not posing for a photo with my husband and child," she said.
"Touché," Mark said.
Out of nowhere, Billy began to cry for a toy that they had not brought with them. Only then did Bridget notice the time. Billy was well past his naptime.
"We'd best get back to the car," Mark said, scooping the boy up in his arms, seemingly reading her mind. "Someone is cranky and in need of a nap."
Indeed, Billy was asleep by the time they got home. Gingerly Mark lifted him up and out of his car seat, and then carried him into the house to lay him down into his crib.
"I think the test run was a great success," Bridget said, pulling out the lower hem of the jumper to better observe the reindeer. "Shall we wear them for Christmas Day?"
"I think my mother would be horribly offended if we did not," Mark said. "You ready for tomorrow?"
Bridget nodded. Instead of packing up the baby and all of his things, and making the rounds to both sets of grandparents, they had agreed to come up to London for Christmas dinner. "I'm ready for anything."
"Even your mum taking over Christmas dinner?"
"Especially that."
She stepped forward and into the embrace he offered.
"Bit weird," she said.
"What is? Hosting Christmas?"
"No," she said. "Our reindeers are snogging. Kind of."
He laughed, full-throated and spontaneous. Bridget knew that this Christmas would be even better than the last.
The end.