From This Day Forward
Part 1 of 5
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 34,523 (this part: 6,357)
Rating: M / R
Summary: The chronicling of a wedding, through the groom-to-be's eyes.
Disclaimer: This universe is not mine… but the original characters and story concepts are.
Notes: I know I've already done a wedding story… but it didn't take place in my own little sub-universe now, did it? This fills in a very noticeable gap between "The Scandal" and "The Perfect Match". (Hail, hail, the gang's all here.) If I take a little liberty with English wedding tradition… forgive me.
With love and hugs always to my dearest C.
Two months to go
Things were careering wildly out of control, and there was nothing he could do about it.
The wedding was meant to only be a very small ceremony and a tasteful reception afterwards. But Bridget's mother had gotten it into her head that half of Grafton Underwood—hell, all of Grafton Underwood—would be coming to the wedding and reception, and Bridget apparently had no power to refuse her mother's crazy ideas.
So now, the guest list was growing exponentially, and nothing but the church and the marquee for Una's yard had been arranged.
There was only one thing to do.
As the phone rang, Mark cleared his throat and waited for his mother to pick up.
"Hello?"
"Mum," was all he could say.
There was silence on the line. "Mark, darling? Is that you?"
"Yes," he confirmed.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice panicked.
"The wedding."
"Mark," she said, both emphatic and empathetic. "Bridget and you are perfect for each other in every way, perfect complements…" She caused, then continued a little tentatively, "Everything will be fine. This will be a good marriage, better than—"
"No, no," he said, feeling almost relieved. He trusted Bridget. His feet, so to speak, were not cold in any way, shape or form, but it was nice to see that his mother agreed with his admittedly biased opinion. "This is about the planning. I was wondering if you could inject the voice of reason into these proceedings."
"Inject?"
"Well, I suppose not 'inject' so much as 'offer your assistance' and 'not taking no for an answer'," Mark said, finally cracking a smile. "Bridget's at her wit's end, doesn't want to end up having a huge row with her mother beforehand…" Mark drifted off, remembering the teary confession in the dark of their bedroom, in the comfort of his arms, and how he'd resolved to take care of this for her. "Can you help?"
"Of course," she said without hesitation.
He sighed with relief. "Thank you."
"There's just one thing," she said, very seriously.
A cold chill worked its way down his spine. "What?"
"It's your father," she began, and for a moment he felt like he might pass out. What was wrong with his father? Elaine laughed. "He's fine," she said, as he'd obviously telegraphed his thoughts. "It's just that he's invited half of his old colleagues from the Navy and the other half of Grafton Underwood that Pam hasn't."
After a moment of relief, Mark realised his horror and happiness: that his already immense guest list had just gotten that much bigger, and that his father, who barely showed interest in attending Mark's first wedding himself, was ringing up his old mates to ask them to come. It said a lot about how Malcolm felt about welcoming Bridget into the family.
"I appreciate his enthusiasm more than I can say," said Mark, "but you're going to have to ask him to pare it down."
She sighed, but was still grinning. "I've already warned him."
"Always good to set those expectations," said Mark.
Upon arriving home that evening he found Bridget at the kitchen table in tears. It was, unfortunately, not an uncommon sight these days. As he had taken to doing, he sat beside her in another chair and pulled her onto his lap.
"What's the matter?" he asked softly, feeling her hands flat against his back as she buried her face into his shirt.
"It's supposed to be the happiest time of my life," she said, "and I can't do anything right."
"That's kind of a broad statement," he said. "I can name quite a few things you do absolutely right."
She slapped against his back playfully and chuckled.
"I got you to laugh, didn't I?" he murmured.
Her laughter faded, and she sighed. "It's all just horrible. Horrible! How does any woman manage to survive this?"
"She pulls in her very sensible mother-in-law-to-be," said Mark.
Bridget pulled back, looking him square in the eye, as if searching for evidence of a teasing.
"She agreed?"
He nodded.
She grinned. "Oh, thank heavens." She relaxed, resting her head on his shoulder.
Mark was about to remind her that his mother was not a miracle worker, but for the time being, held his tongue.
………
One month to go
Bargains had been struck, compromises made, and the guest list reduced to something approaching reasonable and not the population of a reputably-sized country town, but Bridget's stress level had not seemed to diminish any a month out from the big day.
"I can't get the girls to agree on anything," lamented Bridget. "First it was the shoes: I don't think kitten-heeled slingbacks are too much to ask for, but Jude… Jude wanted something taller to give her height, and Sharon complained about the toe being too pointy…" She sighed. "Now they're all up about the flower arrangements they'll be holding—"
He didn't know quite what to say, but knew that he couldn't go wrong with a tight embrace, so drew her close, pressing kisses into her hair.
"Honestly, Mark, I wish we'd just thought to elope and skipped this whole mess."
Her statement made Mark contemplative. While he wanted nothing more in the world than to make her his wife, he also treasured the thought of standing up before God, friends and family (as crazy as the latter two tended to be) and declare his love and devotion to her.
She pushed back at his lack of reply, studying his features, and apparently misreading them: "And you must hate this whole thing twice as much, having gone through all of this rigmarole once already."
The corner of his mouth crooked up in a grin. "It would have been easier to elope in some ways," he said, smoothing her hair down, "but 'this rigmarole' has two very distinct benefits going for it."
"What would they be?"
"Number one," he began, bringing his fingers up to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I can't wait to take your hand and pledge myself to you for the rest of our lives in front of everyone we know and quite a few people that we don't. I wouldn't trade that opportunity for an elopement for all the world."
She smiled, then teased, "It's easy for you to say that because the most difficult decision you've had to make so far is the colour of your suit."
"Number two," he said, uninterrupted, "is that though I may not outwardly show it, the level of excitement I feel at the thought of seeing you in your dress, radiant and smiling, surrounded by hordes of people who love us and are happy for us, far outstrips anything I felt anticipating my first wedding day, which, you should know, was the plainest and most boring of all ceremonies: a civil ceremony with the registrar, a few friends, our parents, and dinner afterwards."
Her smile broadened into a big grin. "So what you're telling me," she said, on the verge of apparent giggles, "is that you want the big, white, fairytale wedding that all teenaged girls dream about?"
He pursed his lips, though secretly was glad to have turned her around from her near-hysterical state over shoes and flowers, even if it was at his own expense. "If you want me to do more," he said, "all you need do is ask."
"Hmm, now that you mention it…" she began impishly, taking him in her arms again, "stress relief for the bride-to-be is now at the top of your priorities list."
He feigned deep thought. "Well. I can pencil you in for a foot massage week after—"
Playfully she smacked his shoulder then kissed him thoroughly.
………
"Mark," Bridget said tentatively as she was fussing with organisational paperwork for the reception. "I hope you realise there is someone we've forgotten to invite."
"We've already invited half the known world," said Mark grimly. "Who?"
She looked across to him from her position next to him at the table, her expression a strange mixture of trepidation and annoyance. "Your brother."
"Peter?"
"Unless you have another."
"Bridget," he said. "I have not seen him or spoken to him in years."
"Why? He's your brother."
Mark hated to think of the circumstances surrounding their estrangement; how indignant Mark had been at Peter's suggestion that Mark's choice in bride the first time around had been a mistake; how Mark had dismissed his brother as best man on the eve of the wedding only to substitute him with a man who had proved his brother right; how resentful Peter must have felt towards him for never grovelling to say Peter had been right all along; how much he resented himself for never having reached out to do so. "It's a long story. I'm afraid he has no use for me."
"So why not find out? Give him the chance to accept an olive branch. I mean, what better opportunity than something as happy as a wedding?"
He didn't want to get into the details with her, did not want to sully their own happy event with details of the disastrous last one.
"I don't even have his address," Mark said.
"Ah, but your mum did, and she gave it to me."
"And it's only a month out."
"All the more reason to get it out in the post as soon as bloody possible."
Mark sighed. "Bridget, he's not going to come."
"So if you send the invitation, and he doesn't come, then you're no worse off than you are now."
Except of course for the blatant rejection, he thought. Ironic, really, since he thought Peter would have adored Bridget, as direct and unpretentious as she was. They were so alike in a lot of ways: same political leanings, similar sense of humour. He loved her, and despite everything, he loved his brother too. Ultimately, these similarities were what swayed him to agree.
"All right," he said at last, reaching to tenderly touch her cheek. "We can send him an invitation, but I want you to promise me not to be too disappointed if he doesn't turn up."
She nodded. "I promise." She then leaned forward to kiss him, sending her sheaf of papers falling to the ground. "Oh, bollocks," she said, but kissed him all the same.
………
A week to go
Uncle Nick's arrival from New York admittedly made Mark's heart pound a little bit faster, because it made the upcoming nuptials that much more real, even as much as he wanted them very much to take place. Nick was staying with the Darcys in Grafton Underwood, 'Wedding Command Central' as Bridget had come to refer to it, and had immediately taken to ensuring the menu had been drafted per his previous instructions. Nick came to London the day after his arrival to see the happy couple in advance of the day, and he also insisted on cooking that evening, a new pasta recipe he'd picked up from an acquaintance in New York.
"By the way," said Nick as he began dinner preparation, "I've taken the liberty of inviting a couple of my friends."
Before he could think better of it, Mark blurted, "To the wedding?"
Nick flashed his steely eyes to Mark as he replied, "No, to dinner. Of course to the wedding. Don't be daft."
Mark didn't see the point in arguing with his uncle on this matter, because regardless of the fact that this was his own wedding, Mark would lose. "Anyone I know?" Mark asked instead.
"Of course. Arthur Linley, whom I knew from Cambridge, and Robert Abbott, whom I thought might want to see first hand why you ended up turning down that very lucrative offer from the New York offices."
Bridget looked momentarily confused, but then clearly recognised the latter's last name from the New York law firm from which Mark had walked away from a position, just for her. "Oh."
Mark reached across the counter to take her hand. "I strongly suspect Robert will come away from the day with the sense that I made the absolute right choice."
She smiled, sweetly blushing pink and lowering her lashes almost demurely. He knew better, though… and was thankful for it. He was also thankful—not to mention very surprised—that his uncle was excited enough about the marriage that he was not only coming (usually he hated weddings, avoided them like the plague) but was inviting friends along.
Mark was a very fortunate man, indeed.
As they enjoyed Nick's marvellous meal, Bridget proceeded to explain to Nick in great detail all of the ins and outs of planning the day, the drama behind colour choices, of who would be sitting next to whom, of flower arrangements and logistics and every little detail that he himself had heard a hundred times before. Mark could only regard his uncle feeling something akin to shock that Nick was sitting there listening quietly and attentively, a look of pure affection on his face, without a wry comment or interjection, not a single one. It was unbelievable.
It was after that lovely dinner with him that, as they were rising from the table to enjoy a bit of a lounge in the sitting room, Nick placed his hand upon Bridget's shoulder, looking very serious indeed. Mark knew that Nick's opinion of Bridget had improved greatly over the course of the time they had spent together, but he wondered (with not a small amount of worry) what sort of lecture Nick might be about to give her. Mark remained attentive, ready to step in on her behalf if needed.
"Bridget, child," he said. "I've been waiting a long time to pass this on. It was mine to do with as I saw fit, and honestly there were times when pitching it out the window would have made me feel a whole sight better. I'm glad now, though, that I didn't, because now I can pass it on to you, since I'm not likely to ever need the blasted thing." He then handed her a small velvet pouch, which she worked open and gazed into.
Bridget gasped and looked up at Nick, her eyes wide and clearly on the verge of torrents of tears. Mark immediately went over to her and she turned, throwing her arms around Mark's waist and bursting into sobs, muttering something incomprehensible into his shirt.
Mark took the bag from her grasp and looked inside, saw what the object of discussion was and pulled it out to examine it closely: the gorgeous comb tiara that had been Mark's maternal grandmother's for her wedding to his grandfather, three gloriously bright shining flowers and leaves formed of diamonds, with additional accents of pearl along the headband. Mark had always found it beautiful without being ostentatious, but to his dismay he realised he had nearly forgotten all about it; certainly if any woman deserved to wear it, it was Bridget. She clearly was touched beyond compare, but from the look on Nick's face, it appeared he thought she was in some way offended, which somewhat amused Mark; the man remained cool in every situation, except he didn't know what to do with a crying woman in his proximity. Mark held her tight and met his uncle's gaze.
He offered Nick a translation with a smile: "She loves it."
Nick brought his brows together in a worrisome way. "Are you quite sure, boy? She's practically falling apart in your arms."
"Quite sure."
She reared back from Mark at that moment, then turned to throw her arms around Nick's neck and hug him within an inch of his very life as she started to babble in a slightly more coherent fashion.
"It's absolutely gorgeous and stunning and oh my God, I don't deserve something so exquisite, so precious… I mean, your mother's tiara…"
"Yes, you do deserve it," said Nick decisively, enfolding her in his arms to return the hug. "You will look like an angel, even though Mark and I know that to be quite far from the truth."
She giggled through her tears as she reared back to look at him again. He placed one hand on either side of her face, then planted a kiss on the centre of her forehead before engaging her eyes.
"I sincerely wish the both of you a long and happy life together, dear child," he said, quite soberly.
She smiled, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, before hugging him tight again. Mark was surprised to the point of speechlessness. He could not recall the last time he'd seen Nick do such a thing. In fact, he was confident that Nick had never before done such a thing.
"Thank you," she said at last, pulling back from Nick, wiping the tears from her face and grinning. "Though I will say that I'm terrified at the thought of one of those gems popping loose."
"None have popped free thus far," said Nick, "though to be fair, it's only been worn twice."
"Twice?"
"Mm," said Nick. "My mother and my sister."
"Oh, right," said Bridget, then screwed up her face. "You mean she—?"
Mark knew to whom Bridget was referring. "No, she did not," he said, then added with a grin, "Would not have gone with the business-suit-like dress she wore."
She smiled, though her eyes were still soft and emotional.
Nick added, half under his breath, "I didn't want that greedy little cow to even know about it, truth be told."
Bridget sputtered a laugh before stopping herself and looking at Mark for a reaction.
"No," said Mark, "go ahead and laugh. In retrospect, he was quite right to feel that way." He reached to give Bridget the tiara. "Here."
She took it, looking at it closely with a measure of awe, even still, then raised to place it on her head.
"No," said Mark abruptly.
"What?" she asked, alarmed, freezing in place.
"Sorry. I only mean… I don't want to see it on you until the wedding."
She lowered her hands, smiling almost bashfully. "Oh. Okay."
When Nick departed, Mark realised she was still holding the tiara in her hand. "Bridget, set that down already."
"I'm afraid I'll lose it," she confessed.
"We could take it upstairs with us," he said, slipping an arm around her waist. "It is, after all, time for bed."
"Oh, Mark," she said. "That reminds me. I think we shouldn't sleep together."
"What?" he asked, bewildered. "Where would you have me sleep?"
"No, no," she clarified. "I mean I think we shouldn't have sex until after the wedding."
He blinked in his disbelief that this would be coming out of her mouth. "I thought my chief duties were to be your stress reliever, though."
She smirked. "There's always a foot rub."
"Why, Bridget?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound like a whiny child. "What sort of madness is this? We've been sleeping together for nearly two years, give or take a few foolish months apart."
"To give it a little bit more authenticity, to make our wedding night that much more exciting," she said. "Was Jude's idea."
"Remind me to thank Jude," he said sarcastically. "Do you want me to go crazy, sleeping in a bed with you and being instructed I'm to keep my hands off of you?"
"Don't think you can control yourself?" she teased.
"Of course I could," he said. "I just would rather not."
"Ah, but you could," she said with a grin. "Perhaps a compromise?"
"Are you trying to negotiate sexual favours? You are completely mad."
"Oh, Mark, be thankful I'm not the sort to have held out altogether until our wedding night."
"Believe me, I am." Had that been the case, they would have been married before that second Turkey Curry Buffet.
"So let's see," she began, folding her arms across her chest. "I'll allow kissing. And hugging. And cuddling in bed, sleeping in each others' arms, and/or spooning."
"You're too generous," he said dryly.
They went upstairs, did their respective nightly routines and slipped into bed. After switching off the bedside lamp, Bridget turned to Mark to kiss him good night.
He raised a hand to her face, sliding it around to grasp the back of her neck, holding her to him as he continued to kiss her.
She broke away with a laugh. "Fair enough. I hardly gave you enough—oh."
Undeterred, he had begun kissing her chin, moving quickly to her jaw then her earlobe.
"Mark." It didn't sound like a protest so much as an impassioned gasp. "I told you—"
He had worked his way down to the hollow of her throat, swirling his tongue into the divot between her collarbones. "You said kissing was allowed," he murmured. "You never said anything about where."
"Damn bloody barrister."
He laughed low in his throat, but did not cease kissing her.
He had begun a trail down her sternum, could feel her fingernails raking through his hair—such violent protest, he thought amusedly—and had gotten as far as the top button at the vee of her nightshirt's collar when he stopped suddenly.
"What?" she asked, alarmed.
"Nothing," he said, pulling the sheets up, turning over and settling into his pillow. "Just a long day ahead of us tomorrow; time to turn in. Good night."
There was a moment or two of silence before she said, "Hey!"
"What?" he asked, feigning grogginess.
"You didn't have to stop."
"Oh, but I did," he said. "You told me no more than that and a snuggle before our wedding night."
Her voice came out sounding very, very pathetic. "I'll at least take the snuggle."
He gave in far too easily, as he always did. He turned over again and took her in his arms, pulling her close to him, feeling her arm reach around his waist to settle a hand on his back, as he buried his nose into her hair.
"Is that better?" he asked softly.
"Mmm," she said.
"Was that a yes or a no?"
"I'm not sure."
He chuckled. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"
"Well, now that the reality of it's here," she said, "I realise I would rather like to have one last meal before fasting."
At this he outright laughed. "For all your teasing, darling, it would seem that it's you that doesn't have the fortitude to withstand enforced celibacy."
"Mark," she said in a mournful tone, "don't tease me. It's like my suddenly resolving to give up chocolate biscuits, then you dangling one in front of me when I never got to eat one last one."
He laughed again. "I remind you that this was your idea."
"I know," she said mournfully.
"…but I suppose I could be persuaded to give you one last chocolate biscuit."
Now she reared her head back and laughed, which gave him an opportunity to descend upon her mouth with another kiss… to which he did not restrain himself for long.
Afterwards, nestled cosily in his arms, he heard what sounded like a long sigh come from his bride-to-be, not the sigh of contentment, but rather, of worry.
"What's wrong, darling?" he asked.
"What makes you think something's wrong?"
"That was rather an impressive sigh."
She sighed again. "I was just thinking. Will it always be like that?"
"What?"
"You know," she said. "People say the spark disappears when you're married."
He tightened his embrace. "Since it's not really appropriate to pledge this during our vows, I promise you right now that I will, with terrifying regularity, pounce upon you and ravish you senseless even when we're in our nineties."
She tightened her arms around him, too, and he heard her laugh lightly. "I'll hold you to that."
"I have no doubt," he said, closing his eyes, feeling utterly content.
………
Five days to go
Mark should have known that the 'quiet night out' would end up being something else altogether.
It seemed innocent enough at first. The wedding was looming on the horizon, but he was home alone; Bridget had gone out for the evening with her girlfriends, something she hadn't done for the previous month or so due to the pressures of wedding planning. A knock at his door revealed, to his great surprise, his friend Hugh standing there.
Hugh immediately burst into a laugh. "Don't have to look as if the world is ending, mate. I found myself unexpectedly in London, and thought I'd swing by and drag you and Bridget out for a drink before heading back."
"Bridget's not home."
"Well, you then. What do you say?"
Honestly, he just wanted to rest and watch some football highlights on the telly, but it was Hugh, and he rarely got an opportunity to see the man as it was. "Sure. Give me a moment to leave Bridget a note, so she doesn't worry if she gets home before I do."
"Fair enough."
Within moments they were on their way, and to his surprise once more, they ended up at the Carlton. "Didn't know you were a member," said Mark.
"I'm not," he said, "but I know you are, and they have a remarkable bar here."
Mark chuckled.
The man at the door tipped his hat at the two of them, and they entered, but found that the bar was apparently closed, something Mark had never seen before. "That's odd," said Mark.
"We're having difficulties up here," called the bartender. "You'll want to go to the meeting room down the hall."
Mark thanked the man, then the two of them went down the hall to the room he'd indicated.
What happened next nearly caused Mark to go into cardiac arrest.
A cacophony of male voices shouted out "Surprise!" at top volume as he entered; a sea of male faces grinned wildly at his entrance. He spotted a variety of friends, acquaintances, family, and associates: Giles, Jeremy, his father Malcolm, Bridget's father Colin, Derek, cousin Simon, and of course his uncle Nick, among others.
"What on earth is this?" Mark asked, astonished.
"It's your stag party, boy," said Nick, grinning and coming forward with a drink. "Thirty-five year old scotch," he explained, pressing it into his hand. "The occasion merits it."
"Told you we were coming for a drink," said Hugh, patting Mark's back then going for a drink of his own.
"Stag party?"
"Yes, you know, celebrating your last days of freedom, or so it goes," piped up Giles, who had clearly already had a drink or two. "Though given the choice of freedom or your choice in future wife, I'd leave the freedom behind."
Mark felt himself smiling despite his shock. He agreed with Giles wholeheartedly.
"A toast!" called out someone, possibly Jeremy. "To blissful captivity!"
A roar of laughter and a simultaneous raising of glasses—some tumblers, some wine glasses—was followed by the echo of said toast, and Mark found himself raising his glass, then drinking from it. Very smooth stuff, but still burned like liquid fire as it trailed down his throat. He felt a fingertip on the bottom of his glass, forcing him to empty the entire thing at once.
A loud "hurrah!" sounded through the room.
"Get this man another," called out the unmistakeable voice of Geoffrey Alconbury; within short order a second then a third drink was pressed into Mark's hand, accompanied by additional toasts that seemed more and more ridiculous.
"Indentured servitude and beautiful blondes!"
"Wedding bands and bonds of slavery!"
It seemed that the men there had made a pact before Mark's arrival not to let Mark keep a full drink or an empty glass in his hand. Before too long Mark could no longer feel the scotch hitting the back of his throat as he knocked it back, and his head was feeling distinctly swimmy. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there and had lost count of the number of drinks he'd had.
"So how did you know I would be free tonight?" Mark asked; his tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth, and he stumbled over his words a little.
Hugh burst into laughs. "She called me over the weekend to tell me she was goin' out tonight and to rouse up a stag party for you."
"Haw!" chimed in Jeremy, a bit squiffy himself. "Little does she know that her girlfriends got her a bit of eye candy for tonight! Magda didn't think I heard, but…"
Mark blinked, trying to comprehend what his friend meant by this. "What?"
"A stripper, Mark, a stripper," said Geoffrey, suddenly seeming very near and very loud.
Jeremy nodded. "Apparently quite, erm, talented."
Hugh began howling, sloshing his drink. "Mark, old man, can't believe you let her friends get her a stripper!"
"I had no idea!" he protested, trying to get to his feet, dangerously bobbing around as he did; he felt hands on his shoulders, chest and back as they tried to keep Mark upright. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to go home, irrationally but absolutely sure that this stripper would seem so exciting that Mark in turn would look like a stiff, stodgy old man in comparison, then Bridget would realise the error of her ways…
"Where are ya goin'?" asked Hugh, grasping his shoulder tightly.
"Home. Have to find Bridget."
"Why? Bridget's out."
"She'll wonder where I am at this late hour," Mark said.
Once again laughter resounded throughout the room. "It's only ten o'clock!" shouted a voice. "We've only just gotten started!"
"Give him another drink," said a second.
With a push to the shoulder, Mark sank back to the chair and took the drink as if all willpower had been drained of him. Someone started a round of an old bar song he hadn't heard since Cambridge, which he found himself singing along out of habit, though his thoughts got even darker, thinking of his first marriage, and his first best man. He also thought of his estranged brother, to whom Bridget had begged to send an invitation, whom Mark was confident would not come, and from whom they had not yet gotten an response…
It seemed that no time had passed since they had gone into singing and general rabble-rousing when he felt Nick grab him under the arm. Mark had a very difficult time getting to his feet, was slightly disturbed by the serious expression on Nick's face.
"Come on, time to go home," he said gruffly. He was, as always, stone cold sober.
"But it's only ten o'clock."
"Mark, it's one in the morning, you're hammered beyond recognition, and your bride-to-be is—"
Mark remembered in an instant. "The stripper."
"Well, yes, not appropriate for a young lady in the least," said Nick, "but I mean she's likely home by now and wondering where you are."
"But everyone else—"
"There is no one else, except for Hugh and Jeremy."
Mark suddenly realised Nick was right, as Hugh came to shore up Mark's other side.
"Come on, my friend," said Hugh.
Next thing Mark knew he was being herded up the stairs of his own home by his uncle. Mark felt morose. His own bachelor party had been pathetic in his own mind, his fiancée was living it up with her friends and a stripper, and he was the drunkest he could remember being for a very long time.
"Don't know where my key is," said Mark, feeling even more a failure.
"I have a key," reminded Nick.
They were then struggling up the stairs to the main bedroom. It didn't look like Bridget was actually home yet. Mark's world moved sideways as Nick released him to fall onto his bed; he came to rest on his stomach, could feel his leg being raised by the calf and the ties on his shoes being loosened when he heard Bridget's voice.
"What on earth?"
He heard Nick's voice respond but the words themselves were fuzzy. Something about the party and getting a little too toasted.
"Oh," said Bridget with a giggle. "Poor Mark. He'll have such a headache tomorrow."
She took up his foot and removed his shoes.
"So what's this I hear about a stripper?" came Nick's voice, sounding very stern.
She laughed, splitting his head in two with the volume, which he was certain wasn't actually all that loud. "Absolutely gorgeous hunk of a fellow. Came in dressed like a business man, stripped down to a little—well, just a little thing, really. It was a riot. He was great."
Silence from Nick. Mark imagined it was one of his stony glares.
Mark managed, "Great?"
It was, he realised, a rather pathetic tone; she settled on the bed beside him, felt her hand on his back. "Oh, Mark. No need to fret. He was not only as gay as an Easter bonnet, but dumb as a box of air."
"Gay as a—" began Nick. Mark turned a little and could see Nick looked like he was about to hit himself hard on the forehead.
Mark felt the second shoe coming off, then his socks. "Easter bonnet. Yes. Queer as all get out. And too dumb even for Tom, bless his heart. Jesus, Mark," she continued, "a little help here. Feel like I'm trying to undress a body."
He groaned. He couldn't even do this right.
"I'm going to head back to my room at the Carlton," said Nick, "before you rope me into undressing my nephew, which I managed to avoid when he was a babe. Good night."
She stopped what she was doing, presumably to go over to Nick; Mark heard the distinct sound of a kiss on Nick's cheek. "Good night, Uncle Nick, and thanks for getting him home safe and sound."
"Anytime, dear child."
There was a moment of silent and then he felt her climb back up onto the bed, pushing his shoulder then rolling him over so he was on his back. He looked up to her with aching eyes; she appeared to be completely amused. "How much did you have?"
"Don't know," he said. "They just kept coming."
"Well, come on. You need to get these clothes off and go to bed."
"I'm terrible," he blurted, as she helped him sit upright.
"How are you terrible?" she asked very seriously, undoing his shirt buttons.
"Stiff and boring."
She raised her eyes to him, ceasing what she was doing.
Now that he was on a roll, he added, "I'm no fun at all. And less than average looking. And you think I'm a monster for voting Tory."
"I do not."
"I'm just a stiff, boring old Tory."
"You are not," she said.
"I am, and I don't know what you see in me," he lamented. "You could do so much better."
"Mark," she said firmly, her hand on his cheek. "You're drunk."
"I know," he said mournfully. "I'm horrible."
He watched her suppress a smile. "You are anything but horrible. You are the best thing that ever happened to me." She reached forward and embraced him tenderly. "You're just being a morose drunk."
He raised his arms to hold her in return.
The next thing he knew, it was morning, he was still dressed and half under the sheets; Bridget was not beside him, though she clearly had been, judging from the indentation to his right. He raised his delicate, pounding head, felt his world go off-centre as that same world sloshed around him.
He groaned and his head dropped back to the wonderfully soft pillow; he remembered in an instant why he did not like partaking of an excess of any alcohol, especially scotch. Especially very old, very smooth scotch. He raised his hands to cover his eyes to shield them from the light, pressing gently as if that could relieve the pain.
He felt the bed depress beside him. "Good morning," Bridget said softly. It was still more than his head could take.
"I'm with you on the second half of that; the first, not as much," he whispered back.
He felt her fingers along his hairline, heard her softly chuckle. "I have some coffee and aspirin for you, my horrible husband-to-be. God knows you've nursed me back from a hangover often enough."
"Thank you," he said before daring to bring his hands away from his eyes again. The room seemed achingly bright. He turned to his side, then lifted his head to take the aspirin with the coffee. As he took in more coffee, he sighed, then said again, "Thank you."
"Of course," she said in return, her fingers combing through his hair again. He finished the coffee and she relieved him of the cup. "How does a nice hot shower sound?"
"Delightful," he said, "but right now you'd have to bring the shower to me."
"Poor darling," she said, settling in beside him, resting her head on the pillow, pulling him closer to hold him. "No sword fights for my honour today, I think."
"What?" he asked, perplexed, raising his head slightly to look up at her, even though it pained him to do so.
"Sword fights. You know. That whole 'making me a queen' business." His expression must have conveyed that he had no idea what she was talking about, because she smiled broadly. "You don't remember that, do you?"
"I am ashamed to admit that I do not," he said quietly.
"Oh, Mark, don't be like that." She raised her hand to trace her fingers on his cheek, along his unkempt sideburns. "It was so very sweet of you. You were going on about how if it were medieval times, how you would have done anything to make me a queen—fighting those who had wronged me at the point of a sword, among them—because I deserved to be one."
"Oh, God." Another reason he didn't like to get as drunk as he had: aside from getting morose, he got mawkishly sentimental. "I'm so embarrassed."
She laughed lightly, pulling him close again, kissing the top of his head. "Don't be. It's nice to know, deep down inside, all guards down, your thoughts are first and foremost of me."
He had no good argument for that, so he just closed his eyes and let her nurse the pain away with the comfort of her embrace.