Kafka's Ultimatum
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 5,784
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Ultimatums can be a very powerful tool for good…
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish were.
Notes: The possibilities on this rather short scene continue to be endless. And before anyone asks: the end is the end, and I don't plan on continuing it. :) Written 15-18 November.
What the bloody hell, thought Mark Darcy, is he doing here?
It was unfortunate that his noticing Daniel Cleaver's presence happened when it had. Not only had he thought he'd be safe coming to a Pemberley Press event, but Mark had been on the verge of a possible actual conversation with the decidedly more attractively dressed Bridget Jones when his eyes connected with a man who was not supposed to be in this city, let alone this continent. Daniel, to the best of his knowledge, was working in New York.
His thoughts whipped up in a whirlwind at the idea that Daniel, who had seduced his wife away, who would pretty much sleep with anything that moved, was back in London. Mark not only still despised Daniel for having committed such a betrayal… he despised himself for having allowed it to happen.
Mark still regretted the decision to take on as much work as he had so soon after their wedding, would regret it probably for the rest of his life; at the same time, however, he was all too aware something must have been fundamentally broken to begin with if she'd been so easily swayed by Daniel's charms.
Their eyes met; the rest of the party blurred out of existence. Yes, I see you, thought Mark, giving Daniel his most intense gaze. Yes, I know who you really are. And I'm not willing to forgive you for it.
Daniel broke the gaze and, with a simpering smirk, dashed into the loo.
"If you'll excuse me," came a coolly polite female voice from beside him, "I have to make the introduction to the introduction."
Before he could turn to reply, to apologise for his distraction, she was gone, striding away towards the stage. It was really too bad. He had genuinely enjoyed their too-brief second encounter, had been surprised at how pleasant, how friendly she'd been considering their disastrous first meeting (and his subsequent unwarranted foul comments). He had already begun to feel a sort of camaraderie with her; he sensed she hated being at this soiree as much as he did, sensed the discomfort she assuredly felt at being surrounded by so many strangers with nothing but meaningless small talk to offer them.
Everyone seemed to be moving towards the stage. He figured he might as well go and have a listen, even though the early buzz indicated this book was a piece of trash and the author, a hack; most attendees were here either to be seen with the more talented authors that were present, or to partake in the free food and wine. Mark had hardly seen a soul speaking to the author himself all night, and the pile of his books sat undisturbed.
There, on the stage, was Bridget, in the middle of a worst-case scenario; the microphone did not appear to be working. Clearly flustered, she then went into a sort of panicked autowitter which, to his surprise, seemed to echo the thoughts of everyone there, even as he felt deeply for the agonising embarrassment she must have been experiencing.
Mark thought that the man she was introducing, her boss (who was clearly ogling her), would save her from further indignity, but only caused her more grief by pointing out that the microphone need only have been switched on. With a wan smile she retreated from the stage in utter and complete mortification.
His heart truly went out to her, and he had every intention of going to offer a sympathetic word or two, to get that apology in for earlier when he'd been distracted, to even offer friendship to her, but at that moment he felt a hand slide around to claim his elbow.
"Mark," purred the voice of the woman he'd come to this book launch with, Natasha, a woman he only knew through work but whose motives were all too transparent. "Come with me. I've just been introduced to Salman Rushdie. You've got to meet him. The man's a legend."
Mark was actually interested in meeting the man, to talk to him about life with a price on his head, and so walked with her over to where the author stood with a blonde woman he did not know; she was clad in a lurid green outfit.
After the briefest of introductions, Natasha quickly launched into conversation, asking this legend perhaps the most obvious question possible, causing Mark to inwardly roll his eyes and wish he were anywhere else. Quickly his attention wandered away to where he saw Bridget standing all on her own with a glass of wine and a lit cigarette, clearly lost in thought, clearly feeling like a social pariah after her faux pas on the stage. He quietly excused himself from the group with the renewed intention of going to speak to her, offer friendship and apologies, but to his surprise, Daniel Cleaver got there first.
Further surprising him was the way Daniel claimed her waist with possessive familiarity. He could hear what Daniel was saying, but even if he hadn't been able to, Mark would have known by body language alone what Daniel's intention was; with the innate ability of a shark to detect the barest traces of blood in the water, Daniel possessed a talent for discerning the smallest hint of insecurity, of weakness, of low self-esteem.
Daniel Cleaver was on the prowl, and he'd found the perfect target.
Daniel ushered her towards the door, towards the coat check, then watched her walk away to claim her coat; he stood there looking very smug and sure of himself. Glancing between Bridget and Daniel, Mark realised she was nothing like the women Daniel usually went after, both in looks and in temperament; Daniel may have thought her as charming and as refreshingly different as Mark did, but there was one reason and one reason alone he was attempting to whisk her away from this party: Daniel wanted a conquest, and she was vulnerable and convenient.
Rather than stand idly by and do nothing, he broke away from the group he was in, walking quickly towards Daniel. Damn my own feelings, my hatred of you, he thought. I'm not letting you hurt her.
"Darcy," said Daniel in surprise upon seeing Mark approach.
"Leave," Mark said, glancing up to Bridget, who stood there at the coat check, impatient to be waited on, her back to the both of them.
"Ohhh, sorry, mate," said Daniel, having seen that glance. "I'm afraid I saw her first."
"You lost the right to call me 'mate' years ago," said Mark, simmering with quiet fury. "Leave or I'll be forced to tell her what kind of man she's about to get tangled up with."
"You'd never do it," Daniel said in return.
"Try me."
Daniel pursed his lips. "She'd never believe you. She's had a thing for me since I got back, and you…" He snorted. "God knows how she knows you, but I'm sure she only knows a tight-lipped, judgmental man who lurks in corners and exudes broodiness. She's not that desperate."
"I'm willing to gamble that she will believe me," Mark replied, staring unblinkingly into his former best friend's eyes. "Are you?"
Daniel blew impatient air through his lips. "How do I know that the moment I leave you won't just tell her anyway?"
Solemnly Mark said, "I swear to you that I won't."
Whatever damage Daniel might have done to their friendship, it didn't diminish the fact that Mark was and always had been a man of his word, and Daniel knew it.
"What's it to you, anyway?" asked Daniel. "Why do you care about Bridge?"
"Daughter of family friends," said Mark. "And a friend of mine."
Daniel said nothing for many moments, then let out a long breath, looking in Bridget's direction. She was getting her coat at long last. "Fine," said Daniel. "Just… see her home safely, all right?"
Surprised by this show of concern, Mark agreed. With that, Daniel turned and went back into the party, disappearing into the crowd. With any luck, thought Mark, he'd find Natasha, always desperate for someone who can do something for her.
"Hey." It was Bridget, standing there, her hands in her coat pockets. "Where did Daniel go?"
Still feeling residually angry at Daniel, Mark said a little more brusquely than he intended, "I'll see you home safely."
"'See me home safely'?" she asked, bristling. "What am I, four years old?" Seeming to remember their paddling pool history all at once, she flushed red. "I'm a grown woman and I'll see myself home, thanks all the same."
"I insist," Mark said in a kinder voice.
She narrowed her eyes. "What did you say to him?"
"What?" he asked, surprised.
"He was going to take me to dinner," she said. "He was eager to take me to dinner. What did you tell him about me that made him change his mind?"
"I promise I told him nothing about you," said Mark, then added gently, "Let me just… see you home."
She looked at him warily, folding her arms across her chest. "Why?"
"Because I'd like to," he said plainly. "That's all. No strings attached."
She regarded him with suspicion even still, raising her chin. "In other words," she said, "'don't flatter yourself, Bridget.'"
For all of her refreshing honesty, he was quickly learning she could also be extremely maddening.
Trying to maintain a kind, even-keeled tone, he explained, "It's merely that it's dark outside, and not prudent for a young lady to walk home alone." Without conscious thought he glanced down to her dress, which reminded him how much different this outfit was from the one he'd seen on New Year's, and from what the other women there were wearing: business suits, hideous two-pieces, and matronly frocks.
Her mouth dropped open. "Are you insinuating that I look like I might be on my way to work?" she said, gritting her teeth on the last word.
"No. Of course not." He took in a deep breath. He was not winning any points with her, and was in fact losing whatever ground he might have gained. "It's simply that… you look very attractive and that might garner you unwelcome attention."
She blinked in disbelief. "Oh," she said at last. After a beat, she asked, "What about Natasha?"
"She…" he began unsurely. "She'll be all right."
"She doesn't need your escort home?"
"Frankly," he advised, "I think thugs and thieves alike would grant her a wide berth on even the darkest and most dangerous of nights."
She looked surprised yet again, then cracked a reluctant smile. He could not help but notice what a lovely smile she had.
"All right," she said at last, looking at him in such a way that told him she was assessing (and reassessing) him on a multitude of levels. "Onward home, then."
Her building was not terribly far from where he lived, just as his mother had hinted was the case. As they drove towards their destination, he felt her gaze upon him.
"You never did answer my question," she said, her tone calm but curious, nothing of the accusatory tenor of just a few minutes earlier.
"Question?" he asked, concentrating on driving.
"What really happened that Daniel left."
He didn't reply at first. "We knew each other once," he said, very deliberately.
"I gathered you weren't strangers when I saw you look at him."
"I hadn't spoken to him for quite a long time before tonight." He pulled up to the kerb in front of her building, then turned to look at her. "Even if I can't tell you why," Mark said, "you need to be on your guard with Daniel."
"So I'm supposed to just… take your word for it."
"You work with the man day after day. You must see what an irredeemable scoundrel he is."
She looked thoughtful, leaving him with the feeling he had been spot on with his assessment. "But," she said, "you can't tell me how you know."
"I can't," he said, looking to her with a piercing gaze. "I promised I wouldn't."
She only continued to regard him with something akin to astonishment.
"I'm truly sorry," he continued.
"Don't apologise," she said, "least of all for keeping a promise to an irredeemable scoundrel."
"I don't mean for that," he said. "I mean for my own rudeness, both tonight and back on New Year's Day. I hope you can forgive me, and we can move forward from there."
She said nothing, prompting him to continue.
"I could well understand if you never wanted to see me again; after all, I was an all-around haughty arse who deserved a bollocking after what I said to you that day."
Still no reaction, except maybe the barest hint of a smirk.
"I certainly never expected you to speak to me again under any circumstance; I'm glad we had a chance to talk tonight, but if this is the end of our acquaintance, so be it." He took in a breath, a little unsure about proceeding, but deciding to sally forth anyway. "Despite our inauspicious start or how you may regard me… you're nice, Bridget; too nice for the likes of Daniel. You're funny, witty, and too good for him. Far too good for him."
"It didn't seem like you were glad," she said in a neutral tone, though her eyes were sparkling.
"I'm just terrible at flirting," he said before he could stop himself.
Both of her eyebrows shot up. "Oh," she said.
He felt himself flush, and he looked into the steering wheel as if for guidance on how to proceed, grateful for the low evening light. "Well. I've delivered you safely home." He looked up at her with a smile, then turned to open his own car door to step out to go around to open her door for her, aware the entire time of her curious gaze on him. Hesitantly, she rose from her seat and stood before him.
"Good night," he said.
"Good night, Mark, and… well, thank you. I'll definitely take your advice to heart."
"That's all I ask."
"And I look forward to moving… forward."
She reached out her arms, got up on her toes, offering not so much a hug as a chance to wipe the slate clean and start again; for a moment he felt utter disbelief at her willingness to forgive him even as he accepted the embrace. Despite her coat and his jacket, she seemed so warm and soft against him, and her hair smelled wonderful, like a floral vanilla mix, light and sweet and only discernable in such close proximity to her. To his shock he felt her press a friendly kiss into his cheek before she pulled away from him.
After a few moments of standing there in silence, seemingly studying him with a subtle but genuine smile on her lips, she said again quietly, "Good night." She then turned on the ball of her foot and walked towards for her building, turning back to wave before letting herself in.
He smiled to himself and got back into the car. He was pleased with the progress he'd made that night. Definitely pleased, though he was loathe to think that Daniel's very presence helped to bring it about.
His mobile chose that moment to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the incoming caller display. Natasha.
"Yes?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm sorry," he said; "I had to leave suddenly and didn't have time to let you know."
She exhaled impatiently. "Rather rude of you, you know."
"You have your own car," he reminded.
"I thought we would have a late dinner together afterwards," she said.
"Natasha," he said, "I'll remind you again that we are merely friends."
She sighed loudly in his ear again. "Whatever. Good night."
She hung up on him. He put his phone away, and drove home, feeling extremely relieved that he had not fallen prey to Natasha's repeated and clumsy attempts to weasel herself into an intimacy with him.
When he got back to his own home, as he made his way to the kitchen to fix himself something to eat, he found that he had two messages on his answerphone. He drew his brows together and pressed play.
"Hi," said a female voice. "I'm guessing this is you, Mark, I mean, the Mark who just dropped me off, because you're the only one in the directory, but, um, anyway… I hope you don't think it too forward of me to be calling; God knows my friends would think me mad for doing so, and frankly I can't believe I'm doing it, myself, but, well… it occurred to me when I got up to my flat that I never got anything to eat tonight except one of those satay sticks, and that was a while ago, so—"
The message ended as the time limit had run out, and after a beep, the second one began to play. He almost missed the beginning of it for the chuckle that had bubbled up in his throat.
"Oh, God," began the second message. "I'm sorry for rambling on. Anyway, this is Bridget, in case you couldn't guess, and I'm ordering a pizza, so if you're not doing anything else and find yourself sick to death of microwave Tesco meals or whatever it big name barristers eat when they don't feel like cooking supper, feel free to—"
The machine again cut her off. He was helpless with laughter by the end of it.
He picked up his phone and dialled 1471 to ring her back before she had a chance to phone back and leave yet more of the message.
"Bridget Jones," she said, answering immediately.
"'Feel free to' what?" he asked, a smile on his face.
There was a beat before she asked, "Who is this?"
"It's Mark Darcy," he replied, then added, "you know, the man whose answerphone you just tried to fill up."
She chuckled, but there was a hint of discomfort to it. "I'm so embarrassed."
"No, please don't be," he replied. "It's nice to come home to a message or two on the answerphone that isn't my mother or Natasha. And it was not only entertaining, but filled with the promise of pizza."
She laughed again, a little more at ease. "I thought it might be nice not to have dinner alone," she said, "and honestly, if there are leftovers, I'll just eat them and I really shouldn't." She sighed. "Besides. I know Daniel's bad news even if that is sort of his appeal… but anyway. I would also like to thank you for shoring up my conscience and my resolve."
She was doing it again, letting the words fall out of her mouth out of nervous habit. He was already feeling more comfortable talking to her, enough that his own nervous habit—not saying anything at all—was starting to wane. Maybe the tide would turn for her, too.
"I'd love to take your extra pizza off of your hands," he said at last. "Give me a few."
Silence, then, "Okay. Bye." He could tell she was smiling, too.
As he changed out of the suit and into casual trousers and a jumper, he told himself not to think of pizza in her flat as anything more than dinner with a friend. Even if she is, he thought, unpretentious, smart, witty, charming, just as uncomfortable in overwhelming social situations as I am, and damned sexy in a little black dress…
He was at her doorbell within minutes after that. It was not a long drive, but he took it a little faster than strictly necessary; after all, he didn't want to arrive to find cold pizza. At least that's what he told himself.
She cheerily buzzed him in and he hiked up the multitudes of stairs to arrive at her flat. "Hi," she said as she swung open the door; she couldn't have looked more different than earlier that evening if she had donned the brocaded skirt/vest combination again, though this ensemble was decidedly more flattering than that New Year outfit was. She had taken down her hair so that it was loose and wavy around her face, had dressed in a pale blue knit top and a pair of denims. "Sorry the place is kind of a wreck," she said.
"No," he replied. "Don't worry about that." He looked around, immediately struck by the hominess, the charm of her flat: bright, cheery colours; eccentric décor of every design; and every horizontal surface filled with photos, books and an assortment of knickknacks. The sum total lent real life and vivacity to the place. "I like it just as it is. Very lived-in."
She looked up at him, cocking one eyebrow up. "You're obviously teasing me," she said in a serious tone, "but I'll let it slide as I don't want the pizza getting cold while we stand around talking about your teasing me. Come on into the kitchen."
She led him into her smallish kitchen area, where the box sat on the counter, waiting to be cracked open.
"You realise," she continued with a smile, "that 'lived-in' does not usually have the best connotations."
"Sorry?"
She pulled down a couple of plates.
"If I were looking at estate agent listings. 'Lived-in' usually means 'run down and in need of serious renovation'."
"That isn't what—"
"I know," she said. "What do you want to drink?"
"I meant that it looks like someone actually lives here, someone with personality and taste," he said. "Unlike my house, which could double as a museum display." Belatedly, he added, "Um, whatever you're having. To drink, I mean."
She pulled down two wine glasses and then went into her refrigerator to pull out a bottle of chilling wine. "It's not a particularly noteworthy vintage," she said sheepishly, "but it's good."
"That's fine."
She'd gotten pepperoni pizza from a place not too far away, an establishment he'd passed many times but had never patronised. It had obviously just arrived, and was still very hot. "How many?"
"What?"
"How many pieces do you want?"
"Um…" He stared at the pizza. "Two."
For some reason she looked appalled.
"One?" he said, backtracking a little, feeling he'd just stepped in it.
"Mark," she said before he could get the count down to zero, "I was going to take three, and now I feel like a glutton."
His eyes flitted down of their own accord to her shirt, form-fitting enough to remind him that she had anything but a glutton's body. "You're not," he said. "I just have a terrible time judging what to take when it comes to pizza, since I don't get it often."
She was looking at him with an odd expression he couldn't quite place.
"Why not give me three, as well, then?" he added.
She smiled almost shyly, pulling three slices onto a plate and handing it to him. "If you're taking three to make me feel better… thank you. I'm just really hungry."
He grinned, reaching for his plate and his glass of wine.
"You can take that into the sitting room," she said. "I usually just sit on the sofa and… well, watch the telly when I eat."
"Tables are overrated," he said as he left the kitchen. He heard her chuckle.
They sat side by side on the sofa with a little table between them to set their wine glasses upon. Something about the spicy pepperoni, the slightly sweet tomato sauce and the tang of the wine all fit together perfectly, and the meal was delicious.
"This…" began Mark. "This is really very good."
"I'd say 'thank you'," she said, "but it was hardly my doing."
"But you could have ordered from a dozen places nearby," he said. "You chose this one."
He watched her glance shyly down to her plate, a little smile in place. "In all honestly… it was the closest." She looked back up, then drank from her wine glass.
He chuckled, still gazing at her, finding himself unable to look away. Even though he had offered an apology and she had accepted it, he felt twice as bad about treating her as horribly as he had on New Year's. She was kind, funny, giving, easy to talk to, and humble to the point of self-deprecation. Nothing about her was untrue; there was no façade to break through, no mask to pull away. There was only her, and he liked what he saw, what he had learned about her, very much indeed.
"What?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, then glancing down to the front of her shirt before wiping at her face. "Have I got sauce on me?"
"Um," he said; he hadn't realised he had been staring to the point of her discomfort. Lying wildly, he said, "Just a little on your mouth."
She swiped at her chin again, also peeking her tongue out to lick at her lips.
"Did that get it?" she asked, her eyes wide and inquisitive.
He should have said 'yes' and carried on with his pizza, but the truth was he was rather enjoying this, enjoying how open and adorable she was being.
"Not quite," he said. "Just a little to the left."
She raised her finger, brushing at her face to take away the non-existent sauce.
"Sorry," he continued. "My left."
She did the same motion again, only on her right side.
"Now?" she asked.
"A little higher."
She let out an impatient breath. "Why don't you just get it for me?" she asked, then thrust her chin towards him.
Caught in the lie, he had no choice but to reach forward and brush his thumb on the upper right corner of her mouth. The feel of the soft skin of her lips beneath his thumb was surprisingly wonderful, and he lingered probably longer than he needed to before taking his hand away.
"There," he said, looking into her eyes.
"Thank you," she said quietly, meeting his gaze with equal intensity.
"Of course," he said.
"Mark?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"There was no sauce, was there?"
He did not quite know what to say, which apparently was answer enough.
"Right."
She looked down and to her left, then reached for a—
Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the sensation of a small throw pillow connecting with his head, which bounced and landed in the middle of the floor, narrowly missing knocking over the wine glasses. She was giggling.
"Such subterfuge," she said with a smirk, "to avoid admitting you were staring at my chest."
"I—" He was about to admit he wasn't actually staring at her chest but rather at her, then realised it was just easier to admit to the chest, because that excuse would be less complicated an explanation to someone he'd only really gotten to know that night. "I'm sorry," he concluded.
"You men are all alike," she teased.
"At that," he said, striving for a light tone, "I take great offence."
She looked at him, and he watched as a very small smile crossed her lips. "You're right," she said. "That was definitely not fair. After all, I have personally gotten a rather pointed comparison of the extremes tonight."
Unsure of what to say, he merely offered a cordial, "Thank you."
She started to laugh again. In an overly formal tone, she said, "You're welcome. Now if you'll pardon me, I must attend to this delicious slice of pepperoni pizza before it turns ice cold and disgusting."
He smirked and carried on eating his own pizza, but again found he had a rough time keeping his eyes off of her, try as he might. She definitely noticed, and only offered shy, appreciative smiles in return.
He could only wonder how was it possible that his own mother had been so right.
All too quickly he was through with his third slice, had finished his glass of wine, and sensed the impromptu dinner date might be winding to a close.
"More sauce on me?" he heard her ask in a teasing tone.
"What?" he responded, snapping out of the state he'd been in, then realised she meant he'd been staring a little too long again. "Yes, sure," he offered.
"Funny," she said. "Your eyes were nowhere near my chest that time."
"Sauce can get just about anywhere."
She laughed lightly, then met his eyes, her smile smoothing out into an expression of contemplation. "I'm glad you came by for pizza," she said at last. "I had a nice time."
"I'm very glad you asked," he said, rising from the sofa at her little cue. "Beats Tesco microwave meals any day of the week."
She chuckled, following his lead. "Let us never speak of those answerphone messages again."
"Which answerphone messages?" he returned playfully.
"Exactly."
Both stood there, neither saying a thing for many moments.
"Well… I should go," he said at last, rather stating the obvious. "Thanks again."
"Of course," she said. "Maybe we can—well, do it again sometime."
He grinned, slipping into his jacket. "I'd like that very much."
She walked him down to the door and he opened it to leave, but at the threshold, he turned around to face her again. He wasn't sure why he'd done it; maybe he was hoping for another friendly hug and affectionate peck on the cheek as she had done earlier. It had the net effect of sending her features into a state of confusion as he looked to her, their heights about even due to her standing up on the lowest step.
"Sorry," he said rather stupidly, as it was clear she was offering neither.
"Did you forget something?"
"I—no. Sorry," he said again.
He watched as a smile made its way across her lips. "What are you apologising for, then?"
"Nothing. I'm just going to… go." He pointed out into the hallway.
"Okay, then," she said with a nod. "Goodnight."
"Except—" he began, then stopped suddenly.
"Except?"
Except there was no way around the fact that he was not going to be able to leave without a kiss of some variety. He realised to his dismay he much preferred the thought of a kiss on the lips.
"Never mind."
She sighed, shifting her weight on to one foot, crossing her arms in front of her chest as if to keep herself warm. "The air in the stairway is freezing cold. Let's have it already before I catch my death."
He stepped forward, closing the door behind him, then came close to her again.
She was visibly perplexed. "Mark, what—?"
She might have continued asking a question of him, except he had put his hands on her upper arms and bent forward for a chaste kiss goodnight.
When he pulled back, he said, "That's all."
She was blinking, clearly trying to get her bearings from the surprise he'd sprung upon her. "That's all?"
He nodded.
"Oh," she said quietly.
"Good night, Bridget." He made to reach for the door again.
"Hold on," she said abruptly. He turned back to face her. "That was hardly fair."
"What?"
"I had no time at all to anticipate or appreciate that."
It was his turn to be a little surprised, especially since she then reached forward, took hold of his shoulder and pulled him towards her, pressing her lips to his before letting go.
"I see what you mean," was all he could say in response.
"I thought you might," she said; she was so close to him he could feel her breath on his skin; her eyes were unblinking and burning into his. "You know, before tonight… I couldn't have sworn you had a single human emotion," she said, then added, "and I would have happily given you that bollocking if not for my ingrained social programming."
He laughed low in his throat.
"But now…" she continued, "pleasantly surprised at the full range of emotions available."
He had been attracted to her since… well, since earlier that evening at the very least, but now he was starting to think she might be actually attracted to him as well.
"And the bollocking?" he asked.
"You're off the hook on that one," she said, "so to speak. At least for now."
He smiled. "I'll be sure to keep on my toes."
A sudden, sizzling tension had exploded in the air around them; every word seemed to be layered with a deeper meaning. Still, he was unsure about making any sort of move that might cause it to dissipate in a catastrophic manner, especially if he was misinterpreting what he was sensing in any way.
And then he thought, To hell with it.
In the blink of an eye, he reached forward, took her into his arms, and kissed her. It was no demure peck this time; instead he covered her mouth with his, impatiently already wanting more than that. Flicking his tongue along her lips, he heard her sigh, felt her mouth yield, felt her arms encircle his neck as she returned the kiss in full.
It was no exaggeration to call kissing her one of the most amazing experiences he'd ever had; all sense of time, of space, of surrounding, vanished, leaving just her and him and the gentle yet hungry play of lips and tongues, of reverent caresses. She was responsive, passionate and eager, tangling her fingers into his hair, leaning forward into him, causing his head to spin and his pulse to race as he ran his hands up and down her back. He loved the feel of her warm body under the pads of his fingers and crushed close to him, of her silky mouth moving against his, her tongue sliding along his.
However, as much as it pained him to do so, he broke away from her, pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, his cheek resting against hers; there was such a thing as too much, too soon, and he liked her enough not to take advantage of the situation they'd suddenly found themselves in.
He reared his head back to better meet her eyes as he spoke. "I should leave," he said quietly.
"O-okay," she said unsurely, looking confused, looking slightly hurt.
"Before something happens that we're not prepared to deal with just yet," he added.
"Oh," she said. "I, um… okay."
"Perhaps dinner again tomorrow?" he asked in a gentle tone.
She nodded, meeting his eyes, not blinking.
"Bloody hell," she said under her breath, as they stood there together.
"What is it?"
"Hate when Mum's right."
The end.
Links / Notes:
Thanks to my dear C. for finding these lovely interview snippets. They were most inspirational.
Why do you think Mark Darcy falls in love with Bridget?
I think that, again, there are all sorts of contradictions in that relationship, and on the face of things, you'd think they were nearly opposite: He has poise where she has none, he is pompous where she has low self-esteem, he is taciturn, where she can't stop talking. But on some level, I think they're quite similar. He recognises her agony in certain social situations because he shares that, and I think he also recognises her vulnerability. She's also wry about her own clumsiness, which he finds appealing.
— "Darcy Returns in Bridget Jones's Diary" (interview with Colin Firth) by Paul Fischer, Dark Horizons
...
"But as aloof as Darcy is, he can spot a quality woman across a crowded ballroom, even if she is spilling the punch, or dressed in a most inappropriate bunny costume.
"I think that, quite bizarrely, that he sees someone a lot like himself," Firth said of Darcy and Bridget. "She's socially ill at ease. I think he also detects a wit and intelligence there. He sees a fellow fish-out-of-water. He senses that she's as disgusted with this suburban mediocrity as he is. He is paralyzed with discomfort in social situations, and so is she. He deals with it by clamming up, and she deals with it with pure verbal diarrhea. In a way, they're two sides of the same coin."
And both Darcys react the same way when Bridget Jones or Elizabeth Bennett falls for the wrong guy.
"The whole thing goes up a gear when he sees his arch-enemy swooping in on her," Firth said. "He sees her in danger… He's got a very old-fashioned protection instinct."
— "Snob Appeal: Colin Firth in a Tale of 2 Darcys" by Roger Moore, The Sentinel
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I stayed on to watch the next scene, and got my big break, when Sharon [Maguire] placed me in the foreground. My task was to make small talk with Colin Firth and Salman Rushdie, while Colin, as Mark Darcy, gazed tormentedly over my shoulder at Bridget getting off with his archenemy, Daniel Cleaver. It was so fascinating to watch Colin doing real acting, like closeup magic, that I kept forgetting to make small talk. His face was such a mask of distracted agony when he turned back to me after watching Daniel leave with Bridget that I wanted to reassure him "It turns out all right for you in the end - I've read the script."
— "How I became Jude in Bridget Jones's Diary" by Tracey MacLeod (the blonde woman in the lurid green outfit), Evening Standard, April 3, 2001