Tiny Miracles
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 1,727
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Is it possible there's something Mark Darcy's not good at?
Disclaimer: Happy Holidays. And, oh, not mine.
Notes: I kind of envisioned this occurring while they were still dating, maybe even early in the relationship. But it could really happen any time.
"Oh!"
"Yes, Bridget?"
"Ice skating, Mark. Ice skating!"
For a moment he looked completely horrified but managed to cover it, restoring a pleasant though neutral expression to his face. Ice skating was something she'd always enjoyed, had even been good at. She hadn't done it for far too long, but suspected it was just like riding a bicycle, something one did not forget.
"We've only just eaten," Mark said at last. "Shouldn't do anything too strenuous or you might get a cramp."
"Chuh," she said as she grinned at him, "that has never stopped you before."
He pursed his lips. "Your dress, Bridget. It's a little on the short side. That could be potentially embarrassing."
She became indignant. "Are you saying you expect me—"
"Of course not, love," interrupted Mark soothingly. "But it is ice, and things happen."
"I happen to be a very good ice skater," she said, then added at his look: "You don't have to act so surprised."
"Sorry." He took her gloved hands in his own. "Do you really want to ice skate?"
She beamed up at him. "I really do."
He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. "All right, though I must warn you I'm not very good."
Her excitement immediately deflated. While she was quite competent, Mark was probably going to put on his skates and instantly start turning in circles and doing flips, making her look like a novice. "Great."
He let go of one hand and they walked together to get some skates. After slipping them on, they made their way to the ice rink.
"I can't believe I'm doing this in public," Mark said, though he had a grin on his face. "Promise me you won't laugh."
She raised an eyebrow. Maybe he wasn't just being modest. Maybe there actually was something Mark Darcy was not good at.
"I promise," she said at last, then pushed herself out onto the ice, gliding forward gracefully, then turning in a half-circle to face him again. "Well, come on," she said with a grin.
He set one foot down on the inside of the rink, his foot wobbling precariously under him, before putting the second one beside it. He looked up at her sheepishly; it was adorable. He then gently pushed himself with one foot to slide forward on the other for mere centimetres, hands out to his sides to maintain his balance.
"Great!" she said encouragingly, moving back towards him as he shuffled forward. "You're doing great! Just… you can't walk on them. Try gliding. Just like skiing!" she added brightly.
"It's a millimetre of sharpened steel I'm balancing on," he said, focusing very diligently on moving. "Skis are an entirely different beast."
"Give me your hand," she said, extending her own.
With a dubious look, he clasped her hand, and she struck out forward. She didn't get very far because Mark only continued shuffling his feet.
"You have to do the same," she advised. "Push off and glide. Ready, on the count of three, push off with your left foot and we'll glide together."
"All right," Mark said, looking to her. She felt his fingers tighten around hers.
"One," she said. "Two. Three."
Together they pushed off and it was delightful, a picture-perfect evening winter scene, sailing through the air, the gently falling snowflakes blowing past their faces, over the mirror smooth surface, hand in hand.
Regrettably it was only picture perfect for mere moments, because that was when Mark lost his balance, gripped her hand even more tightly and fell to the ground… pulling her down, too.
"Bridget, I'm so sorry," he said after catching his breath. He'd landed on his backside; she'd landed on him.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
"Only my pride. How about you?"
"I'm fine."
A passing eight-year-old child, whizzing by like a professional figure skater, started laughing and pointing at the two of them, sing-songing, "I see London, I see France…" until he'd gotten too far for them to hear the end.
Bridget unfortunately already knew the end, and she felt her face flood with heat as she scrambled to get to her feet. She looked down and saw Mark was blushing too.
"After all of my concern about your embarrassing yourself," he said contritely, "I go and do it for you."
She smiled, not for a moment angry at him, especially not with the way he was sitting on the ice looking up at her with big, soulful eyes.
"Don't worry. It's not like you did it on purpose," she said. "We'll just try again."
"Except," he said portentously, "I don't have any faith in my ability to stand upright from this position."
She felt a giggle bubbling up in her throat, and she fought the urge to chuckle because she'd promised she wouldn't laugh.
"I could help," she said, though knew as she said it she would not be able to haul a man nearly a head taller than she was to his feet on the ice.
"I'll manage," he said. "I'll have to. My bottom's getting cold."
At that she did giggle. "Sorry," she said, immediately apologising.
"It's all right." He leaned to the side, then got to his knees, managed to get one foot under him, then another, then slowly rose to an upright position. "You see? Nothing irrevocably damaged."
She skated up to him, slipped an arm around his waist, and hugged him, her hand lowering to surreptitiously pat his bottom. "It was covered in snow," she said confidentially.
She felt him kiss the top of her head.
"Well, Bridget, there's nothing to be done about it except to try again."
This time, she decided to take both of his hands and skate backwards, leading him forward, and he did a little bit better, had a little bit more confidence in his skating, but again slipped, fell, and brought her down too.
She could not help but laugh. It was somewhat comical that this self-assured, professional, near-forty-year-old man skated like an unsure child. He, however, did not agree with her, judging from the hurt look on his face.
"Bridget," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said again as she stood. "I can't help it. I'm not laughing at you, Mark, I promise. The whole thing's just, well, funny."
He rose again too, a little more quickly this time. "I never skated because I never wanted to make an arse of myself in front of other people," he said quietly, his voice a bit defensive.
"And I'm touched that you're trying now," she said, looking up to him, meeting his eyes. "I really am."
A reluctant smile found his features.
"And if that two-year-old can do it," she continued, "I see no reason why Mark Darcy, world-renowned human rights barrister, with his commanding presence, extreme capability, and gorgeous bottom, can't."
He chuckled.
"I mean, just think about it," she went on, turning, holding her hands out as if to present the icy scene around them, the multitudes of other people skating under the light of the moon and the street lights. "With each stroke forward, even though they're not very thick, your blades are slicing through the ice, melting it before them like it was butter. It's almost like… you're walking on water, if you think about it; like tiny miracles, one after another."
He laughed, hugging her again. "That's very true," he said thoughtfully, "and as I've often been accused of claiming to walk on water, it might not hurt to actually do it." He pulled back and gave her a quick kiss. "Time to perform some miracles."
She beamed delightedly and took his hand again.
They weren't magically transformed into Torvill and Dean by any stretch, but even despite an additional few near-misses in the wipe-out department, Mark earnestly improved by leaps and bounds, moving from shuffling along unsteadily to actual gliding on one foot at a time. He looked so pleased and proud of himself that her heart was bursting with love; she felt pretty pleased and proud too that she had managed to get him from stuttering ice walking to bona fide skating.
"This has been fun," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her to him. "I'm glad we did this."
She grinned.
"And because I know you want to," he continued, "next time we can skate hand in hand 'round the rink."
"Next time?" she asked, surprised he'd suggest another skating outing.
"Unless you'd rather not."
"No! Of course I do!" she said quickly. "Of course I do. Have to keep your miracle skills finely honed."
He smiled, looking down into her eyes for many moments, then reached up to cup her face in his palm. Quietly he said, "I do believe, my darling Bridget, that you are the miracle."
She smiled, her vision blurring with her sudden tears; popping up onto the toes of her skates, she gave him a kiss, causing them both to wobble a bit. When they broke apart, she noticed that everyone passing by was smiling at them, soft looks in each of their eyes.
"Then again," he said, "why wait until next time to skate hand in hand?"
He held out his hand, which she took in her own, and they began to make a circuit of the rink. It was all very enchanting and lovely once more… except that he lost his balance, and while it was not enough to cause himself to fall, in overcompensating he managed to cause her to tumble down. She landed directly on her backside in a most undignified manner, her dress bunched up and pooled around her.
He looked traumatised. "Bridget, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. My ego, however, may never recover, and my arse now feels frozen solid."
She got to her feet again, brushing snow from her backside, when he embraced her and began doing same. "Why don't we call it a day," he began in a low voice close to her ear, "and I can not only help restore your ego, but warm your bottom as well?"
"Hmm," she said, as if she needed time to think about it. "Throw a little hot cocoa into the mix and I'm all yours."
As if I'm not already, she thought, taking his hand as they skated towards the rink's exit.
The end.