A Chance Encounter
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 14,973 (Part 1: 4,511)
Rating: M / R
Summary: A/U. Suppose Mark had learned sooner of what Bridget had been led to believe about him…
Disclaimer: V. much not mine.
Notes: This is all getting very fractal-pattern, spinning A/Us out of the simplest change in scenarios… but it sure is fun to draw and follow those spirals, isn't it?
Of all the people to turn up at the party, Daniel was the last person Mark expected to see. What surprised him more was that Daniel hadn't brought her.
Mark hadn't even decided to go until the last minute, so busy was he in organising his life, reassigning or wrapping up open cases, putting things into storage and otherwise securing the house until he could sell it. His assistant Rebecca, however, had seen how hard he'd been working, how much he needed to take a break, relax, maybe have a few drinks, and talked him into going with her, even though it was being held at a nightclub to which he'd never been before, one to which he would not have been inclined to go on his own.
He didn't know anyone else there besides Rebecca, so he'd stayed fairly close to her side. Daniel he didn't notice until too late, and it was that sort of place, the crowd was just small enough, that it was going to be impossible to go the evening without acknowledging each others' presence. Daniel seemed to feel the same way, judging by the grimace that found its way to his features.
"What is it, Mark?" asked Rebecca, glancing to him, then to the man with whom he'd locked eyes. "Who is that?"
"No one," said Mark stiffly, even as the inevitable conversation drew nearer and nearer; Daniel was approaching him.
"I…" she began, then faltered, and looked back to Mark. "I think I need to use the ladies."
She shot off towards the ladies' room as Daniel got within earshot.
"Darcy," said Daniel. "You're the last person I would have expected to see at a trendy nightclub."
"I wouldn't have come under ordinary circumstances," he said tersely. "You're the last person I expected to see here alone. Where is she, then?"
"'She'?"
"I left, you stayed that night," Mark said.
The light dawned, and for a brief moment, Daniel looked taken aback before speaking. "How would I know where she is? Not like she took me back—not that I can really blame her." Daniel drank from his cocktail. "To be honest, with the way you were clearly undressing her in your mind (and she's hotter than you can possibly imagine, you old woman)… I half-expected you would've somehow gotten her into bed despite what I told her, and you'd be here with her instead of that cute little titless thing." As an aside, he added, "…Clearly too young for you."
Under ordinary circumstances, Mark would have been so angry he would have been gritting his teeth and fighting the urge to knock Daniel flat on his arse, but instead it was Mark's turn to be stunned by the admission that his former best friend was there alone. He said the first thing that came to mind apart from the mental image of a certain bunny girl: "I'm not with Rebecca."
Daniel gave him a disbelieving look. "Never understood that about you, Darcy. You're with a gorgeous woman who clearly fits your type and you deny—"
"We're just friends," he said curtly.
Daniel simply regarded Mark for many moments. "Stepping out on your snooty girlfriend, then?" he asked at last; he must have meant Natasha.
His personal life was none of Daniel's business, nor was Rebecca's; he said nothing.
"So it's all right if I have a crack at her?" asked Daniel.
"You can try," said Mark with some level of amusement, knowing what he did about Rebecca's proclivities.
Daniel was clearly torn between trying and being suspicious of Mark's reply. In the end, without another word, Daniel stepped away.
Mark, however, hardly noticed; Daniel's words had gotten him to thinking. She had not taken Daniel back, despite the direction in which things had seemed to go on that November evening, when that attraction had sparked and had seemed to hold the promise of even more.
He wondered too what Daniel had meant by what he'd said:
…despite what I told her.
"Everything all right?" asked Rebecca. She had veritably appeared out of nowhere, surprising him.
He wanted to say yes, everything was all right, but he felt too unsettled. The odd thing was that he wasn't even sure why. They'd only had one meaningful day together, and aside from that, a handful of scattered moments, most of which were not entirely pleasant, but those that were pleasant were very much so. He thought of her sitting out on the boat in the sunlight on that glorious summer day; answering the door covered in orange-scented crème and the way she'd smiled at him across the dinner table on her birthday….
"I guess not," said Rebecca, answering her own question, deducing correctly.
"It's… it's rather noisy in here," said Mark at last. "Do you mind if I leave?"
"I don't mind," she said, "on the condition that you promise you won't head back to working."
Mark smiled, though felt it was probably unconvincing. "I won't."
He honestly had other things on his mind.
………
He took a taxi home, but was not inside for five minutes when he felt he wanted to be anywhere but his big, lonely house; the ticking of the clock in the foyer seemed to echo through the hall, making it feel that much bigger and lonelier.
He decided to take a walk to work off the built-up agitation, to help clear his head, straighten out his thoughts, remind himself of his duties and realign his priorities.
It would not do to think about her, not at all. He had plans in motion to further his career in the New World beginning in about two weeks; he had plans to remedy the loneliness by asking Natasha to become his wife. He had nothing to complain about—and yet—
He could only picture that radiant smile, those sparkling eyes, that irreverent, playful demeanour.
Walking quickly, his hands balled into fists in his pockets, looking to the ground but focused intently on his thoughts, he turned a corner and in that instant collided into another person coming in the other direction, knocking them down and causing them to land on the ground with a great "Ooof!"
He stepped back and in his shock could only say the name of the very woman of which he had only just been thinking.
"Bridget?"
"You should watch where you're going," she said grumpily, staring up at him from her seat on the ground, squinting, clearly trying to make out exactly who he was and why he knew her name; the fact that he was probably lit from behind by a streetlight did not help her efforts. She was wearing a short grey coat over her very attractive skirt and blouse, but the position in which she had landed was not particularly ladylike or graceful. His gaze wandered despite himself, and to make up for it, he held out his hand to help her up.
"I can get up on my own," she said, turning to get to her knees, leaning on her hand. "And watch where you're pointing your eyes, sir."
He felt his skin flood with heat as he fixed his gaze on her hair. "I'm very sorry about this," he said.
She paused in her effort to get to her feet and turned to look at him again. "Mark?" she asked, finally placing him.
"Yes." He held his hand out again. "Please, let me help you."
This time she accepted his hand and was up on her feet in short order.
"So where's the fire?" she asked, brushing her hands down over her skirt, first the front to smooth it, then over the back to brush off dirt and debris. The simple action of her hands passing over her backside distracted him, not that he had any idea what she was talking about, anyway; she looked at him, eyes wide, as if willing him to understand, then took mercy on him and explained: "Where were you going in such a hurry?"
"Walking," he said, rather stupidly, then added, "Thinking."
"Perhaps you should be thinking less and paying attention more when you're walking," she retorted, her hand still hovering on her rear end. "That really hurt."
"Point taken," he said. "I said I was sorry."
There was an awkward silence following, during which Mark cleared his throat and put his hands back in his pockets. "So," he said. "Heading home?"
"Yes."
He realised at this that she was swaying a little bit as she stood; it was possible she was on her way home from a night out with her friends. "Shall I walk you the rest of the way to your place? Make sure I didn't damage anything permanently."
He caught a smile flitting across her face. "I suppose."
They walked side by side; he slowed his pace down to meet her somewhat unsteady one. "So," she said after a few minutes. "Looks like you healed up all right."
He could not help smiling at her reference to the street brawl (such as it was) with Daniel on the night of her birthday. "No permanent damage here, either."
"Blood came out of your shirt?"
"With a little work, yes."
"Mm," she said. "That's good. It looked like an expensive shirt."
He smiled again. Neither he or she said anything more for many moments.
"I'm sorry, you know," he said. "About that night."
He glanced over and saw her look to him.
"I shouldn't have called him out to the street," he continued. "He and I have our history, but I should not have ruined your birthday like that."
"It's all right," she said, but there was a sense to her words that it wasn't. In fact, her tone had gone slightly cool again.
Prompted by this reaction, Mark thought again of Daniel's words—despite what I told her—and before he could stop himself, he asked, "Did Daniel tell you about our history?"
She exhaled; he could see the cloud of her breath trailing behind her as they carried on walking. "About his fiancée. And you. So yeah."
Mark drew his brows together. Himself and a fictional fiancée of Daniel's? No wonder she thought he was a total jerk, no better than Cleaver; it sounded like he had altered the truth just enough to be an easily remembered lie. "Hm," he said thoughtfully. "And if I told you there was no fiancée?"
She stopped, turning to face him. They were within sight of her flat now. "What? Why would he make up a whole story?"
"He didn't make it up," said Mark. "He took the actual facts and changed the roles of the players to paint himself in a better light with you."
"I still don't understand—"
She broke off abruptly. If it was because she suddenly connected the dots, he wasn't sure, so he decided to expand on it to make it crystal clear. "I know you have no real reason to believe me when I say there was no fiancée," Mark said again, "but it's true. There was a wife, and she was my wife."
Bridget stared at him, clearly rendered speechless.
"Unbelievable," she said at last.
"It's true."
She blinked. "No. I meant him. That he'd lie like that."
"Are you really surprised?"
She blinked again. "No, I don't suppose that I am." She looked down. "I feel like an idiot for believing him. If he were here right now, I'd help you punch him this time."
A laugh erupted unbidden from his throat, and her eyes flashed up to meet his as it did.
"I'm kind of, you know, glad you ran into me," she continued. As she said this, as she smiled, her eyes got slightly softer, her expression warmer and more open, and just like that, Mark felt his life get that much more complicated:
He was scheduled to leave at the end of the month for New York, where he planned to settle in with a woman who in his eyes was a safe, known quantity, settle into a career that would be lucrative; now those feelings that had been pushed down that night after the fight in the street were surfacing again on the strength of her look, her smile. Now he felt himself less and less eager to proceed as scheduled. In fact, it was quickly becoming the opposite.
She continued talking. "Glad we got that… misunderstanding cleared up."
He realised he had been silent for far too long, lost in his own thoughts. "Yes," he said quickly. "So am I."
Within a few moments they were at her building's door, and she turned to look up at him again with a shy smile. "I know it's late," she said, "but if you'd care for a little coffee to warm you before your long walk back…"
He found himself smiling and agreeing. "Thank you. That would be nice."
He followed her up, and after slipping out of her grey jacket, she went straight for her kitchen. He divested himself of his own long woollen coat, and as he draped it over the banister, he heard mild swearing emanating from the kitchen.
"What's the matter?" he called back.
"Oh," she said, sighing. "You'll think me cursed in the kitchen."
"Why would I think that?" he asked, joining her by the hob.
"I offer you coffee, and have nothing but the bottom of a pot I made before I went out."
He didn't see a kettle, and he hated tea made with hot water from a microwave; he frankly thought the idea of old, reheated coffee to be a little appalling, but she looked so embarrassed and yet so earnest, he said, "That'll be fine. Thank you."
Her smile was a clear indication of her relief. "Great. Um, you can sit on the sofa if you like. I'll bring it right out."
"Great," he repeated, heading for her sofa.
While not spotless, her living room area was reasonably clean; the clutter and muss, though, lent a certain homey quality to her place that he liked very much. She came in to see him looking around and very obviously mistook his scrutiny.
"Ugh, I know," she said. "It's awful in here."
"No," he said. "It's lovely here."
"I'm pretty sure you're just being polite," she said, handing him a cup, "but thank you for that."
He looked down into the cup. The coffee was pale caramel coloured. She had put milk in it.
"Oh," she said, correctly interpreting what must have been a telling look. "I'm sorry. I should have asked."
"No," he said. "This is fine." He took a sip. It nearly made his mouth pucker from the sweetness but he resisted grimacing. "Delicious."
He looked to her. She was clearly feeling deflated. "You forget: I've seen you lie about my cooking before."
He chuckled. "The coffee's really not that bad. Just a little… sweeter than I was expecting." He took another sip to prove his point, and could only think that between the caffeine and the sugar, he might just be up the rest of the night.
She offered a little half smile. "Thanks." She drank her own. "Oh." She smacked her tongue loudly. "This is a bit sweet, isn't it?"
"A bit."
She laughed, which made him laugh, but neither set their coffees aside.
"So, work," he said, shooting for a little small talk, which ordinarily he hated, but he wanted to fill the silence, to keep talking with her. She immediately made a face, bringing her cup up to her lips again. "What have they got you doing these days? Bungee-jumping off of London Bridge? Jet-skiing down the Thames?"
At this she chuckled, which made her inhale her coffee, and she started to cough. Concerned, he leaned towards her, but she held up a hand. Her eyes met his as she shook with her amused choking until at last she swallowed. "Mark," she managed at last, her voice a little crackly. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"I swear I'm not," he said, fighting a laugh.
"Trust me, my work's not worth dying for." Her hand was still pressed to her larynx, but the wrong-pipe crisis had clearly passed. Clearing her throat, and sounding a little more like herself again, she said wryly, "I really have to wonder if it's possible for me to spend any amount of time around you without humiliating myself."
He thought of that summer day, the sunlight, her laughter; of her smile and the way she'd looked at him on her birthday. He said, "Absolutely possible."
She might have had a smart remark on the tip of her tongue, but something caused her to hold back and not say anything at all, just offer a smile.
They each finished their coffee (they were not large servings) and he set his empty cup down on the little table there. "Well. It's late. I should probably head home."
She nodded, rising as he did. "At least you have coffee fortifications."
"Very true."
He went to put his coat back on, and when he turned he was a little surprised to see her standing there. "Maybe, I don't know—maybe I'll see you around," she said tentatively.
"I'd like that very much," he said.
She smiled, nodded, then walked with him down the stairs to the flat door.
"Good night," he said, "and thanks for understanding."
"What?"
"My knocking you down."
"Oh," she said, laughing lightly again. "I think in the end it was worth a bruised bottom."
He smiled and passed by into the hall, considering giving her a quick kiss good night as he did, but in the end decided against it; it was too soon.
He wanted very much to see her again, though, to get to the point where he could give her that kiss good night, but he had some things to take care of first.
………
On the face of it, it might have seemed an easy decision to make: go with the sure thing, the ready-made wife and perfect social partner, the profitable career, the security and stability of the plans that were already in place. He thought about it constantly over the course of the next couple of days. He made lists of pros and cons: comfort versus the terrifying unknown; the difficulty of undoing all those well-laid plans all for something that was far from a certainty. He struggled to explain to himself why this was a decision he was considering making at all until he realised that no explanation was needed because no amount of logic factored into it; what appeared to be a cut-and-dried choice did not account for gut instinct, that feeling of rightness when he was with Bridget that overrode all rational thought on the subject. So when all was said and done, the decision had indeed been an easy one, just not the one Natasha was expecting when he finally told her he had news about the move.
"You've lost your mind."
The way she stared at him, he was beginning to think she truly thought so.
"On the contrary," he said, "I haven't felt such a sense of clarity in years."
"But to reject everything—the prestige, the position, the money, me—why?" She didn't seem sad, but she had always been more materialistic than romantic, evidenced by the placement of herself in that list. She seemed more surprised than anything that he would turn down what she considered the opportunity of a lifetime.
"It isn't what I really want," he said. "For too long I have accepted what I was handed because I thought I should, or I thought something better might not come along."
"And has something better come along?" she said, a hint of her usual fire in her words.
"Perhaps," he said. "I can't leave not knowing."
She regarded him with steely eyes.
"I'm sorry," he added.
"You're not sorry," she stated tartly.
"I'm not sorry that I'm doing what I feel is best for me for once," he amended, "but I am sorry if this hurts you personally." He paused; he didn't think it would be kind to actually say out loud that he never really loved her. "There's no reason why you still can't go to New York."
"Oh, I plan to," she said. She still had an air of faint disbelief about her, and she shook her head. "I can't believe you're doing this. You're walking away from a lot."
"I am fully aware of that," he said. "But I hope to gain so much more."
………
In all honesty, Mark didn't like to use the telephone. There was so much to be gained in a face-to-face interaction, so much subtlety in the expression that accompanied spoken words; the years he'd spent training for then practising law had helped him hone these perceptual abilities, even as they'd ironically helped him develop his skills in hiding his own emotions and thoughts from those around him.
It was this dislike of the telephone that brought him to be standing at the door of Bridget's flat, ready to knock, ready to take that first step into uncharted territory.
However, he did not get the chance because the door seemed to swing open of its own accord, instead.
"Oh!" she said, gasping, clutching her chest with her hand as if in heart-attack. "Jesus! What the hell are you doing lurking in my doorway?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "You're obviously, um, leaving."
"I was just going down for the post," she said. "I can go later. Come on in."
She stepped back and turned to head up the stairs into the flat. He followed her. "Someone likes to leave your building door open," he said.
She faced him again once she'd reached the flat proper, confusion evident on her face. "What?"
"I promise you I don't regularly lurk in doorways."
She laughed. "I don't know," she said. "I've found you out there twice now." She stopped and turned to look at him. "So what brings you by?" she asked, then quickly added, "Not that it isn't nice to see you again."
He'd been so busy in the week or so since he'd had coffee with her, busy with the finishing touches for his parents' fortieth anniversary party on Boxing Day (which he'd taken on since Natasha was no longer doing so), busier even still undoing all of those New York plans he'd made, that he hadn't had a chance to breathe let alone stop by to see her again. The reason he was here made him more than a little nervous, and he put his hands in his coat pockets.
"It's very nice to see you too," Mark said. "If not for the fact that I've been terribly busy, I might have stopped by sooner."
"Too busy defending the world from evil again to use a phone?" she said. The teasing in her voice was unmistakeable.
"Other things," he said deliberately vaguely, "one of which is actually the reason I am here today."
Her brows shot up in surprise. "Oh?"
He nodded. "How's your schedule look for the Christmas holiday?"
He didn't know what she was expecting him to say, but his question was clearly not it. "Um. With my parents in Grafton Underwood."
"Good," he said. "That means you'll already be there." As he said it, he realised it sounded like he thought her answer in the affirmative was a foregone conclusion when nothing could be further from the truth.
"If you're trying to pique my interest," she said, "you're doing an excellent job. There for what?"
Hiding the nervousness he felt, he said, "I'd like it very much if you came as my guest to my parents' Ruby Wedding party." He paused, then elaborated, "As my date."
"Ah." That single syllable seemed infused with amusement, even delight; her smile confirmed the latter. "Yes. I'd love to."
He hadn't realised how much he'd been dreading a refusal until he felt the relief of her acceptance wash over him. He grinned. "Terrific."
"Is this a fancy 'do?" she asked.
"Not formal," he said. "A nice dress will suffice."
"Great," she said. "Am I skipping Christmas Dinner for this?"
"No, sorry," he said; in his anxiety he'd forgotten to tell her when it actually was. "Boxing Day. I'll pick you up at noon at your parents', if that's all right."
"Oh," she said, sounding a little disappointed.
"Is that all right?" he asked.
"Yes, that's fine," she said. "I would have liked to have skipped the yearly gravy drama, though."
He chuckled. "Sorry to disappoint in that respect."
"Oh!" she said suddenly, obviously distraught. "Maybe I shouldn't. I mean go with you." She bit her lower lip. "What about… you know… Natasha?"
His momentary inner panic, that she was having second thoughts, disappeared very quickly. "Natasha is no longer… will not be present."
Her expression clouded over a bit. "I'm sorry."
Without hesitation, he said, "I'm not."
Instantly she smiled again; in fact, he thought maybe she hadn't really stopped smiling since he'd asked. "I'm looking forward to it."
"So am I," he said. He thought maybe he hadn't really stopped smiling either. "I must be off," he continued, which was a lie; he had no other pressing matter to attend to that afternoon, but he did not wish to impose himself on her free time.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye," he returned.
After considering it for a moment, he supposed it would not hurt to give her a quick little kiss on his way out, seeing as things were on track for him to stay in London, he was free of previous personal attachments, and an actual date with Bridget was now arranged, so he took a step forward and bent to give her a peck.
What he did not expect was an almost magnetic pull to her that caused him to kiss her again, coupled with her lifting herself up on her toes to better reciprocate with a little more eagerness, a little more passion, than he was anticipating.
He broke away, rising to his full height, and looked down to her and her wide blue eyes, slightly parted lips, and the barest hint of a smile. "Until then," she said quietly.
He said nothing more, just nodded a little as he took a step back, then turned to descend the stairs and leave the flat.
He had supposed it would not hurt to give her that kiss, but as he stepped out onto the street below, he realised now that it had been a mistake to kiss her… or at least a mistake not to keep kissing her. But no, he thought, it was best to have departed when he did, because if he'd kept kissing her, he might not have been unable to stop himself from going further… and he needed to wait. She was worth it.
She had a way of staying in his thoughts that was unlike any woman he'd ever known.
