A Wild Night In Bed
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 1,816
Rating: K / PG
Summary: Some things just can't trump a good book.
Disclaimer: Isn't mine, characters nor books.
Notes: A silly little speculation about a year and a half too late. Um. Better late than not at all…?
Saturday, 21 July
Bridget was not going to be pleased by this development. Not at all.
After repeated begging, pleading, and bouts of pouting, he had promised he would finally set work aside and really begin their summer together, take the weekend off and do something special with her. But due to miscommunication with his partner in chambers he found he was suddenly unprepared for court on Monday morning, and thus this unexpected bump in the road to summer bliss.
Mark Darcy descended the stairs to the kitchen, taking in a big reassuring breath, bracing himself for the onslaught to follow. He saw his wife stirring her coffee, robe askew and sashed crookedly, her hair a bit mussed, but then she looked up at him with a sleepy smile. For a moment he forgot his nervousness and could only think how adorable she looked.
As they dug into breakfast, she asked, "Who was that on the phone?"
The anxiety returned. "Jeremy."
She narrowed her eyes.
Mark continued, "He asked me to bring over the brief I wrote so he could review it."
She smiled, obviously relieved. "Oh, that's no problem. We can drop it off while we're out."
"There's a small problem," Mark explained. "I was under the misapprehension that he was supposed to have written the brief."
Her mouth dropped open slightly. "Mark, you promised."
"It'll take me a couple of hours at most, and then we're free to do whatever we want."
"Hm." She looked very thoughtful, which was not at all what he was expecting. "I did just get this book last night that I've been dying to read, so I suppose I could do that while you work, sit with you in your office."
He wasn't at all sure about having her read in his office, what with her propensity for impatience and his propensity for turning his eyes to look at her when she was near, but he thought it better than the alternative of cross looks and a sullen mood.
"Absolutely," he said.
She smiled brightly up at him. "I'll get dressed, get my book, and meet you there."
He had barely had a chance to pull out the papers he needed to review to write the brief when Bridget turned up, looking lovely in a summer dress, bare legged and barefooted (as she would likely wear her jelly mules out as she was so fond of doing) and bearing a glass of iced tea. She also had in hand a book that looked much too thick for the juvenile-style cover it had. At his assuredly questioning look, she explained, "The so-called adult cover cost more."
He chuckled. He supposed she would never get used to the idea that it was okay not to worry so much about money anymore.
She went to him at his desk and gave him a quick peck before settling in on the big armchair by the window. She stretched sideways across it as was her habit, so that her knees were cradled by the arm rest, and flipped the book open. He watched her sink into the story before beginning his work on the brief.
Of course, it would only be a matter of time before she interrupted him with a request for a status update, any number of silly questions or asking him if there was anything he needed, but he was halfway through with writing the brief before he realised she had been much quieter than usual.
Almost too quiet. Worrisome levels of quiet.
"How's your book going?" he asked.
She did not answer.
"Bridget, how's—"
"Shh," she said, not looking up. Judging from the level of tea in her glass, she had not even stopped to sip it.
He was somewhat taken aback, but decided to try again.
"What is it that you're reading, anyway?"
She huffed out an impatient breath. "Finish your work," she said, irritated.
He decided not to press the subject. She must have been more upset at their delayed weekend than she'd let on, and so he endeavoured to finish the brief as quickly as possible.
He hit a bit of a stumbling block near the end, meaning he'd had to get up and dig for one final book—Bridget didn't look up with a hopeful expression as he'd expected—but after that it was relatively smooth sailing. He re-read the brief, and, satisfied with the end result, he had the brilliant idea to email it to Jeremy, thus saving another obstacle to their weekend.
And it had only taken him an hour and a half. Amazing how quickly he could progress without constant interruption—even, he thought, if I did miss it a bit.
"I'm all finished, darling," he said, clicking send on the email. "How'd you like to take a walk?"
She didn't reply at first; placing her finger on the book, she turned her head towards him, but her gaze remained fixed to the page until it was no longer possible. That was when she looked at him at last.
"A walk?" she asked, astounded.
"Okay, fine," he said. "We could go shopping."
"Shopping? Are you mad?"
He was beginning to think she was.
"Mark," she continued, speaking to him like he were a daft toddler. "Things have just started getting good. How can you expect me to abandon Harry now?"
His mind reeled. "What? Abandon Harry? Harry who?"
Her expression betrayed her feelings: she clearly thought he was a moron, a space alien, a hermit living on a rock on the middle of nowhere. "You cannot be serious, Mark. It was only the most anticipated book release ever."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't follow publishing trends. That was your area of expertise. That would be like me asking you to get excited about an anticipated court ruling."
"That isn't quite the same," she said. "They don't typically do feature stories on every magazine cover, every website, every news programme or newspaper, for the typical court ruling."
"I can think of at least one that garnered quite a bit of media attention," he said wryly.
"I mean globally," she said frustratedly, before slipping a scrap of paper into the book and slapping it shut. "Fine. I'm already interrupted. Let's go have your walk."
He felt a bit hurt. She was, after all, the one who wanted to spend a real summer weekend with him, and now she was being indignant about his interrupting her reading.
"You can tell me more about the book," he offered in a very conciliatory manner.
She allowed a smile. "I'm sorry, Mark," she said. "That wasn't very nice of me to snap at you like that." She stood, held up the book for him. He looked over the front and back cover. To his credit, he did recognise the author's name.
"It's the last in the series," she explained. "Everything's going to be settled at last, we'll find out who's on the side of good and who's on the side of evil."
He opened the book and read the inside flap, recognition of the story arc coming back to him. "Oh, I do remember hearing about this." He looked at her. "But I thought this book was for children."
As the words left his mouth, he knew instantly he'd stepped in it; he watched her jaw set with annoyance, almost anger, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Right," she said, snatching her book back from him and tromping out of the office. "I'll be upstairs reading. Alone."
He knew he sort of deserved it for insinuating she had childish tastes, but he also knew she was overreacting. He'd give her a few minutes to calm down, then follow her upstairs, apologise, and hopefully they could spend the day in the sunshine.
When he got upstairs, though, he realised she had been serious. The bedroom door was shut, and when he quietly slipped it open, he saw her lying crossways on the bed on her stomach, her feet in the air and the book in front of her. She apparently hadn't even noticed he'd entered. He sighed, his eyes sweeping first over her lovely, bare legs (she couldn't resist a short dress in the summer) then over the room as he pondered his next move.
That's when his eyes were drawn to the bookcase, the one that housed their favourite books for pleasure reading, and he spotted a series of books with colourful book jackets similar to the one she was now reading. He went to it, brows drawn together, then plucked out the first book of the row, evidently the first in the series. He opened it to page one, began skimming his eyes down over the page, and before he knew it, found himself completely engrossed in the tale of The Boy Who Lived.
He had no memory whatsoever of taking a seat in the chair by the window, no concept of how long he had spent with the book, until he hit the final page, closed the book, and realised the sun was low in the sky, casting oblique shadows across the bedroom. He heard a gentle throat-clearing, and looked up to see Bridget towering over him, smiling almost wistfully.
"I hit a stopping point," she said. "Looked up with a mind to find you and apologise for being so mean to you… and realised I had never even heard you come in." She pursed her lips in a sweet, contrite manner. "And there you were, reading away, my childish book in hand."
She reached down, took the book from him, and sat across his lap to give him a hug and kiss.
"I'm sorry," she said, her blue eyes trained on his brown ones.
As if he could stay angry with her for long. He pulled her close and held her tightly.
"You are, as always my love, forgiven," he said into her hair. "And I'm sorry for even remotely slighting your choice in reading material."
He heard her giggle. "You weren't too far off. They are actually young adult novels."
After many moments of revelling in just holding her close to him, enjoying the light, almost giddy feeling of no more tension between them, he whispered into her ear, "What do you say we spend a little time in the sunlight, have dinner out on the patio of that bistro around the corner, then return for a wild night in bed?"
She pushed back, fighting a surprised smile.
"You want to finish your book," he explained, "and I'm keen to start the second."
At that she began to laugh, and she embraced him once again, holding on to him tighter than strictly necessary. It was not as if he minded. Not in the least.
"I love you, you know," she said. "Even if you are completely mental."
That was high praise, coming from her.
The end.