Fool Me Twice
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 5,395
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Mark expects Bridget's second appearance in his sphere of society to go differently, and when it doesn't…
Disclaimer: In case you hadn't noticed? Not mine.
Notes: Mark can be a real tool sometimes.
He had been looking forward to this night for weeks now, and as he buttoned his shirt, he smiled. He couldn't wait to see Bridget, couldn't wait to have her by his side as he accepted his award for his work in the area of humanitarian concerns; she had already told him on many occasions how proud she was of him but to see her face beaming up at him from the crowd would be in some ways better than any plaque.
He stepped into his tuxedo trousers, tucked the shirt in, and fastened the button at his waist; as he did, he wondered what she would be wearing tonight. If it was anything like the sleek, elegant, and extremely flattering gold dress she'd worn to the last formal law event he'd brought her to, she would look stunning.
Taking care of the finishing touches—the tie, the jacket—he could not wipe the smile from his face. It was going to be a wonderful evening, made all the better by having the love of his life there. With his wallet and his mobile in his jacket pocket, he slipped into his overcoat and left the house for the car. He was leaving later than he would have left were he going alone, but he knew Bridget, and knew she would be running late. He was still very much on time, as it would not do to overtly anticipate her tardiness lest she come to expect it, but he'd realised it was always important to set his expectations correctly.
He rang the entryphone bell upon his arrival, thinking once again how much more convenient things would be when they lived under the same roof. It took a little time for her to respond. "Yes? Who is it?"
"Father Christmas," Mark said; it really was amazing how like her he could be when his spirits were happy and untroubled.
He could hear her laugh lightly in response. "Mark. Come on up. I'm nearly ready, I promise." The lock release sounded and he trudged up the stairs to the top.
"Hi Mark," she said, smiling up at him as she answered her door, then ran her hand down over his lapel. "I love the way you look in a tuxedo."
He smiled, then bent his head to kiss her. "Too bad these events are so few and far between," he said, brushing his hand over her waist, "because I happen to love the way you look in a dress like this one."
Indeed, he was not disappointed in the least. She'd chosen a black satin dress that came to just below her knees. The sleeves were off the shoulder, and at the centre point of the collar was a tasteful bow, also in black satin. Her hair was swept up off of her neck, except for a few tendrils curled prettily around her face. Her jewellery consisted of a simple silver necklace with a diamond pendant, one he had given her for her thirty-fourth birthday earlier that month.
After a moment of appreciative gazing, he concluded, "You look stunning."
"Thanks," she said. "Let me get my bag and my coat and we can go."
As she spoke he realised she sounded a little off. "Everything okay?"
She smiled brightly, though to him it seemed a little forced. "Everything's great. Been looking forward to tonight since you asked me."
It was probably some little thing from work that was troubling her; she likely as not did not want to clutter up his evening with negative thought bogs, as she put it. He smiled as he watched her retreat back up the stairs and into the flat, very much liking the way the satin sheathed her backside. He knew he was staring, and she turned, as if sensing his eyes on her, to smile at him and chide playfully, "I'm glad you like the view."
"Always do," he murmured.
She blushed a little and continued up the stairs.
As she descended again she coughed a little, then cleared her throat. "Bloody frog in my throat all day long. Well. Let's go."
He smiled, helping her into her coat. By the end of the evening, despite her own coat, he hoped to have her encircled within his own.
………
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
He had hoped that her enthusiasm for the evening would outweigh the realities presented at their first somewhat disastrous formal evening together; he had hoped she would remember that he would have to spend time socialising with his colleagues and away from her, to participate in discourse with his peers about subjects relevant to his profession. It seemed that being the recipient of an award that evening took him away from her more than even he had expected, which he was not exactly happy about. As the minutes ticked away, however, she was acting more sullen and distant than she would have expected, and, from the look of her gait presently, drinking more than was good for her. He did not see her once without a cocktail in her hand, vodka and tonic with lemon from the look of it.
His colleagues had taken notice.
He was deep in conversation with Horatio and a new acquaintance from America called William when Horatio veered wildly off topic: "Something the matter with that little Liberal spitfire of yours, Mark? Seems a bit off her game."
"Not used to the company of we lawyers," said William, smiling. "I think if I found myself at a pro-cannabis rally I might feel the same way she does tonight."
Horatio laughed aloud, clapping William on the shoulder. "Mark, where exactly did you meet her again, anyway?"
As William chuckled again, Mark only firmed his jaw, not answering the question as the two of them continued to laugh at his expense. In an attempt to redirect conversation back on track, he said, "As I was saying, the reason it's so important to continue to focus on the African nations—"
"Mark," interrupted Camilla, catching him by the sleeve. "What is wrong with your fiancée? She looks like she might faint."
Yes, he thought, she does that when she's pissed beyond reason.
Derek, who had been walking with Camilla, added, "Indeed, Darcy. Why did you bring her here tonight?"
Again he said nothing, just looked over to where Bridget stood, glugging back another cocktail, steadying herself against at the wall. As she righted herself, she swept her hand over her forehead, then over her mouth, to her throat and her breast. She looked like she might actually be sick. She then ducked into the ladies room.
He was furious. For all of her smiles and reassurances before the party, she must have been nervous going into the evening; even still, her behaviour was an embarrassment beyond the pale. She had made it perfectly plain that she had no desire to be there, was paying no attention at all to the conversations struck up around her, no wish to engage one of her own. Despite an occasionally forced grin, her resentment at his required social duties was tangible. He knew that the subject on everyone's mind was not the award he was being presented with for the critical work he'd done to advance human rights in the downtrodden nations of Africa, but rather, how in the world could he still be with—be engaged to—a woman so far out of her element in his society, so different than he was. Especially frustrating to Mark was that if she'd only given half the effort she was capable of, she would have conquered them all with her humour and her wit. Instead, she preferred to inebriate herself to the point of intoxication and avoid all such interaction.
He excused himself from the company of his peers to wait outside the ladies' for her to emerge. When she did at long last, he took her roughly by the arm and led her off to the side for a little privacy. "Bridget," he said, reining in his anger. "What's the matter with you?"
She blinked at him, as if she couldn't focus her eyes, sighing heavily. "I thought I could make it but… I… I don't know. I just don't feel—"
"Like you belong," he supplied, his voice quiet but his tone harsh. "You could try a little harder, you know, to be nice to the people I work with. They may have different ideas than yours, but they're not monsters, and you're so witty and bright…" He exhaled in exasperation. "Maybe if you'd had less to drink—"
She looked a little surprised and furrowed her brow. "It's not that at all, Mark," she said, her voice slightly slurred. "I just feel awful—"
"Yes, well, I'm afraid that's of your own making," he interrupted. "If you were just going to come to get pissed, you could well have gone out with your girlfriends instead."
She looked at him intently, her eyes watery, as if she might cry. "I see. Fine."
At that, she turned and stormed away, walking as best she could with the heels she was wearing and her wobbly state. "Bridget," he called sternly. She did not react, only kept going until she disappeared down the stairs, presumably out the front door and to a taxi. At that moment, with the tell-tale sound of silverware meeting a crystal wineglass, his head jerked back towards the dining room. The presentation of the awards was about to occur.
"Dammit," he cursed under his breath, pressing into the corners of his eyes with his fingers. He couldn't go after her, not when he was so eagerly expected. He only hoped that she would be able to make it home safely in her current state, though he knew she had plenty of experience finding her way home whilst soused. He also prayed that his acceptance speech would help to calm his ire so that when he left he could speak to Bridget like a rational person.
If she was the least bit coherent, he thought.
………
After receiving the award, congratulatory conversation with his peers helped to take his mind off of the oncoming discussion, perhaps argument, that he knew would follow; before he knew it, the evening was over. With a round of goodnights, he made his way towards the coatroom, preparing to leave.
He considered his immediate future as he drove. At the last moment, he turned right, heading for his own home and not her flat. The necessary talk with Bridget would not happen tonight. He would speak to her in the morning. He still felt too angry with her, and did not want to say things he would regret. It was also now quite late, and she was probably out cold and fast asleep.
As he prepared for bed, he sighed. He did not doubt all would be well in the end, but he hated things being unresolved. He especially hated sleeping alone.
………
Mark contemplated calling the moment he woke, but knew that six a.m. was too early for Bridget to be up on a work day, even when she was sober the night before. He showered, shaved, dressed and went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. He was waiting for the coffee to finish steeping when he picked up the phone and rang her number.
It rang so long he knew the answerphone was bound to pick up. He hung up, then tried again, and this time he let the answerphone kick in. He did not leave a message, only felt his anger surging again. Too hung over to be up on time for work. She should really have known better.
He decided he would try again once he got to his office.
"Morning, Mark," said Horatio as he arrived.
"Good morning," he said in return, though did not in his heart feel it.
"Mark." It was Camilla. "How is Bridget feeling today?"
"Miserable, I'm sure," Mark returned, a little irritated and humiliated to be asked about his girlfriend's hangover by his colleagues.
"Poor thing," Camilla said. "I'm sure she is miserable."
"I'll say," commented Horatio.
"Excuse me," said Mark curtly, heading for his office, reaching for his telephone to phone her.
She did not answer.
He tried again mid-morning, not only her home number, but mobile, and even the number at her desk. No answer on any of them.
His anger levels were rising to meet those of the previous evening. How irresponsible to drink so much not only to be sick at an evening she knew had been very important to him, but to then sleep it off all day long and miss work…
"Everything okay, Mark?"
It was Horatio at the door of his office.
"Fine."
"It's just you've been sequestered in here all day long."
Mark ran his hand over his face. "Sorry. I've been distracted."
"I'll bet," said Horatio. "Even I've been worried about your fiancée. I can't imagine how you feel."
Mark was confused. "What?"
"Your dedication to work is admirable, though really, we could have done without you today. You should go and take her to a doctor, or at least go home and take care of her."
Surely Horatio didn't think a hangover warranted a visit to a physician. "What?" he asked again.
"Well, it's nothing to take lightly. She sounded dreadful last night, seemed short of breath, looked pale and feverish, drank her weight in water."
Mark was starting to wonder if he and Horatio had been at the same event the previous evening.
"It's nice that she wanted to support you at your finest hour," continued Horatio, "but you should not have let her talk you into bringing her."
"I agree." Camilla was suddenly beside Horatio. "She should have stayed home in bed. Bronchitis, if I had to guess, judging from the way she was coughing in the ladies'."
"Either bronchitis or pneumonia," added Horatio.
My God, he thought as every word of every comment from his colleagues echoed in his head, every action he had observed that he had misinterpreted in the worst possible light. He realised that each of their comments was intended to show concern, not contempt. How could he not have noticed? How could he have been such an arse?
"Mark?" asked Camilla. "Are you okay?"
He nodded, though wasn't sure he actually was. A dread washed over him; he realised that she might not have answered the phone not because she was sick from drinking but because she was ill, or maybe worse after such an exerting night out… if she'd in fact even made it back to her flat. He stood suddenly. "You're right, Horatio. I should go take care of her. Bring her to the doctor's."
"Good man," he said. "All our best wishes for good health soon."
………
Despite the surprisingly light midday traffic, the drive seemed extraordinarily long; he suspected it had more to do with his own state of mind than anything else. He felt like a fool for getting so angry at her, for assuming the worst, for not seeing what everyone else saw. He tried to remain calm as alternating waves of hot and cold washed through him. He tried calling again. No answer.
He was immensely grateful to have his own key to get in.
Upon his arrival, he raced up the stairs and found the door to the flat yawing wide open. His heart raced in his panic, and he went immediately inside. The flat was dead silent and, with all of the blinds and curtains drawn, fairly dark considering the time of day. However, there in her entryway, on the little sideboard table beneath where she hung her keys, sat the clutch purse she'd had the night before. Her shoes had also clearly been kicked off in haste, and her coat was thrown haphazardly on the banister. She had at least made it in. He sighed in his relief.
He made his way to the back of the flat and went into her bedroom. Bridget was utterly buried in sheets and blankets that she had huddled around her head, and she was out cold. On the nightstand beside her was night time cold medicine and fever reducer. Her beautiful dress lay in a pile on the floor.
"Oh, Bridget," he said softly as he looked down upon her for many moments before taking off his own coat and suit jacket. Despite his efforts to be as quiet as possible so not to wake her, she began to cough; it was a little one at first, but it escalated quickly into a wet hack that brought her out of sleep. He sat beside her, pushed back the duvet, and brushed her hair from her face. She felt hot to the touch.
"Darling," he said, his throat choking with emotion. "You should take some paracetamol."
"Mark," she croaked. He dug out two tablets for her, and got her to take them with the water that was sitting there. "What time is it? Late?"
"You need to see the doctor," he said authoritatively.
"Already been," she said blearily.
He screwed up his features. "When?"
"Earlier," she said, closing her eyes. Her breathing did sound terrible, just as Horatio had said. His stomach sunk. "Doctor has stuff for me. Get it?"
"Bridget, where do I need to go?"
She however was already drifting back to sleep, and despite repeated requests, did not answer. He sighed. It was probably best that she slept, if she'd roused with a cough all through the night. If she really had gone to the doctor's, though, he needed to get whatever prescription she needed.
He went back to where her clutch purse sat and took out her mobile, going straight for her address book. He found her physician's listing and dialled.
"Dr Brown's office, Lottie speaking," came the sing-songy voice on the other end. "How can I help you?"
"Lottie, I'm calling for a patient of Dr Brown's, Bridget Jones."
"And you are?"
"Mark Darcy," he said. "Her fiancé. Was she in yesterday?"
"I'm not sure I can say, sir. Privacy laws and all."
"Lottie," he said in a dangerous tone. "She's feverish and incoherent, and mentioned something about a prescription. I need to know what she's talking about."
There was a moment of silence before Lottie spoke. "One moment. Let me get the doctor."
"Thank you."
He walked back to the bedroom. She had not budged. He sat on the bed beside her and held for a few more minutes before the doctor came on.
"Mr… Darcy, is it? This is Dr Brown."
"Yes, it is, Doctor."
"Is Bridget there?"
"She is, but she's sleeping. However, she's not at all well. She managed to say she had been to see you and had a prescription, but is out cold again."
He was quiet for a moment. "I do remember her mentioning you, Mr Darcy." He cleared his throat. "Yes, she was in to see me yesterday. She was coughing and having a little trouble breathing. Acute bacterial bronchitis. I told her to take it easy, get plenty of rest, stay inside, and start her antibiotics immediately." He paused for a moment. "Feverish, you said?"
"Yes."
"She must have gone out against my orders." He sighed. "Well, if you can get her to take her medicine as well as something to bring down her fever…"
"She has the antibiotics already?"
"Yes," the doctor said. "I sent her home with them."
They had to be somewhere. He'd turn the flat upside down to find them. "Thank you, sir. Very much appreciate your help. I'll see to it that she gets to her regimen."
"Thanks," he said. "And… Ms Jones has been a long-time patient of mine so… good luck."
Despite everything, he felt a laugh escape his throat. "Thank you."
He ended the call and immediately set to scour the flat for her medication. He found her usual handbag. No medication. He found a carrier bag that she sometimes used for bringing home groceries. It was empty. He then found her grey jacket she often wore to work. He thrust his hand into the pocket, and within found a little white paper bag that rattled when he pulled it out.
Success.
He pulled the first bottle out, the antibiotic, and read that she needed to take two for the first dose, then one each evening and morning until they were gone. The second was an expectorant for her to take once every four hours. It was clear that neither bottle had been opened. He did not understand why she hadn't started the medication yesterday. He especially did not understand why she had not told him she was sick.
She was sick, he thought again.
She was sick, and had gone with him anyway.
His colleagues had noticed she was sick, and he had not.
Not only had he not noticed, he had assumed she was drunk and had otherwise thought the worst of her. As he took the bottles back to her, he was ashamed to think he didn't even know how long she'd been sick, that he hadn't asked, that he didn't know she'd been to see a doctor and that he had told her to stay inside. How selfish he had been, thinking only of the dinner, of his award.
He had chided her for not being nice enough or sociable enough regarding his peers, when she was having a hard time staying vertical and conscious.
As he looked down upon her sleeping form, he felt his thoughts spiral deeper and deeper into despair. Surely this was the straw that broke the camel's back. Surely, once she was no longer delirious with fever, after the indignity of his assuming the worst of her, she would be so angry at him (and rightfully so) that she would chuck him once and for all. He would get no sympathy from his contemporaries, from Horatio or Camilla, from Giles, Jeremy and Rebecca, who all probably already thought he was a buffoon for not seeing what everyone had so clearly seen.
Even as he roused her again, got her to take her pills, and stroked her hair until she went back to sleep, he could not help but think his days as her fiancé were numbered.
………
He left her side to let to her sleep in peace, because peace was far from what he was feeling. To burn off some of his nervous energy, he tidied up her room as best he could without making too much noise, hanging her lovely dress back up, fetching her shoes and putting them back in the closet. He moved on to the rest of her flat, straightening pillows and folding blankets before eyeing the clock and noticing it was getting close to supper time. He went into her pantry and found a couple of cans of chicken soup with noodles and vegetables. Not perfect, but it would do on short notice, and it was at least a decent brand name.
He put some soup on to simmer, then went back to the bedroom to see how she was doing. She was still softly snoring, which he supposed was an improvement over the hacking cough from earlier. He watched for a moment or two more before returning to the kitchen to fill her bowl with soup and some crackers on the side.
Setting the bowl on her bedside table, he sat beside her. A kiss to her forehead confirmed she was no longer burning hot like she had been before. The kiss served to rouse her awake, and she reared her head back, blinking sleepily, wrinkling her brow in confusion.
"Mark?" she asked, her voice a pitiful rasp.
"Bridget," he said, his voice laden with emotion.
"What are you—when did you get here?"
"I came as soon as…" He trailed off, then finished with a pathetic, "…I could."
"I don't even remember hearing you come in." She stared, obviously scrutinising his features. "You look rough," she said. "Are you okay?"
He was astounded. He had expected a right reaming when she woke after the way he'd spoken to her last night, not casual conversation and concern for his own well-being. "I'm fine," he said, then amended, "No. I'm not fine. I'm a total arse."
"Oh," she said, blinking. "So you're not angry anymore?"
"No," he said, thinking it not the best time to express his concern that she'd gone out against doctor's orders and had not started her medication as she should have. "On the contrary, I'm surprised you're not angry at me."
She glanced down, biting her lip. "I should have told you I was sick."
"Don't try to apologise, because you have nothing to apologise for," he said, smoothing her hair back. "If anything, I owe you an apology. I was a…" He faltered, then remembered her words from what seemed like a lifetime ago. "…a stuck-up snob last night and somehow failed to notice how terrible you were feeling… the assumptions I made, how I thought you didn't care about being there when your support was so important to me… and God, the things I said to you… reprehensible. Deplorable. Unforgivable. I am so, so sorry for all of it."
Her eyes searched his face, getting a little misty as she spoke again. "I only wanted to be there for you. I know how important the night was for you. Instead I embarrassed you even further."
It meant a lot to him that despite feeling ill, her biggest concern seemed to be that she'd somehow offended him. "I should have known better because you're always there for me, my darling Bridget," he said. "As for embarrassing me, well, I'm afraid your ill state was evident to everyone there but me. The fact that you came anyway seems to have garnered you a little admiration in the eyes of the balding upper-middle-class twits. You didn't embarrass me. I embarrassed myself."
She smiled wanly.
"I hope you can forgive me," he said in conclusion.
She studied him further, quiet for a very long time until the corner of her mouth curled into the barest hint of a devilish smile. "You thought I was going to chuck you for thinking I was pissed, didn't you?"
He did not answer.
"Hm," she said. She still looked tired, but at least she was lucid. "If I'd realised that sooner, I would have milked it for all its worth." She sighed, blinking sleepily. "Well, we all make mistakes, I suppose, even top notch human rights barristers winning prestigious awards. But that was some pretty impressive grovelling you did just now, so I think I can be persuaded to forgive you." She then offered a smile.
He smiled too, continuing to stroke her hair. She was definitely feeling better—and so was he. "Fever seems to have broken."
"Finally," she said. "Couldn't shake it."
"Ah yes," he said. "About that. You should have at least started your medication before the party."
"I meant to, but I was in a hurry to get ready after the appointment," she admitted. "And I felt all right, except for the cough. I thought it could wait. Plus… I thought I might want a drink to take the edge off, and you're not really supposed to drink with antibiotics." She scoffed. "Ice water for me, all night long."
"So I heard." He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss. "It's time for more expectorant. And some soup."
"I don't want soup."
"You have to eat something, and I made you soup," he said. "You really shouldn't have all of this medication on an empty stomach."
She pouted at him but turned her eyes to the bedside table. She then pushed herself to sit up, her pillow at her back. "It does smell good. What I can smell of it, I mean. Ooh." She ran her hands over the flannel on her upper arms, and said, "I'm cold."
He grabbed the blanket at the foot of her bed. He climbed in beneath the duvet with her and wrapped the wool then his arm around her shoulders, resting back against the wall for support. "How's that?"
"Better," she said, leaning against him and into his warmth.
He reached for the bowl and handed it to her, holding her close, his hand on her waist while she ate. When she was finished with it, he set the bowl back.
"Have to have your medicine too," he said.
"In a bit. Right now, this is all I want." She turned to him to embrace him, and he took her in his arms. "This is nice," she murmured. "And it's easier to breathe this way, propped up like this."
"Good."
He ran his fingers up and down her back, then raised his hand to smooth down her hair. She had a palm pressed against his shirt, tracing an arc with her thumb; only then did he wish he'd divested himself of his work clothes and dressed in something more suitable for cuddling with her.
After a few minutes, she said, "You know, it's a shame, really."
"What's a shame?" he asked, thinking she was going to mention his more formal-than-usual bed attire.
"The time I spent reading up on current events," she said, "mostly political and economic—and boring beyond all sense—just so I could to prepare for last night's dinner and prove myself after the last one… and then I go and get sick. It was all for naught."
He looked down to where she rested upon his shoulder, incredibly touched and feeling twice as badly about his own assumptions that she would go through the effort to try to fit in a little bit better with his colleagues. "It wasn't for naught," he said, kissing the top of her head. "You could talk about it with me."
"Oh, please," she said. "There are many other much more interesting things I'd rather do with you, many other ways in which I can win an argument against you."
He chuckled, then raised her chin with his fingers so he could give her a proper kiss on the lips.
"You're lucky I'm not contagious," she said afterwards.
He smiled. "If you were," he said, "I'd already be doomed."
She laughed, then started to cough. At least it sounded like a productive cough, but it reminded him she needed her expectorant pill. He leaned over for the bottle, got one out, and handed it to her along with the glass of water.
After she took it, she set the cup down herself, then leaned into him to give him a lingering kiss on the lips.
"So," he said as she settled in to his embrace again, "am I indeed forgiven?"
"Of course," she said, her hand splayed on his chest once more. "I could never stay angry at you."
After a moment of contemplation of her words, he asked, "Stay angry?"
"Mmm," she said drowsily. "I might have bollocked you if not for your impressive grovelling."
He chuckled. He would have deserved it, too. "You know," he said after a moment, stroking her cheek with the pads of his fingers gently, "the honour I was receiving last evening didn't mean half as much to me as your being there and being proud of me."
She didn't respond right away, and when she did, her voice was thick with emotion. "Mark, damn you—getting me all teary and snotty when it's already hard to breathe." She pushed herself up to look at him, and presumably to breathe more easily.
"Sorry, love," he said with a smile, brushing the tears away from under her eye.
"Mark," she said, "I'm sorry I wasn't there… but you know I am always proud of you."
"I know," he replied, "but I don't tell you how much I need you to be proud of me, or how proud I am to have you at my side… not nearly enough."
"Ever," she amended for him, a smile finding her lips.
"An egregious oversight on my part," he said. He pulled her even closer to him for another kiss. "And in future, if you are sick, no matter how big the event or how prestigious the award… I would choose to stay home with you."
He watched her eyes get glossy even as she smiled. "Damn you again," she said softly.
The end.