Silent Observer
Part 1 of 4
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 21,016 (this part: 6,525)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: An invitation to renew old relationships and strengthen new ones is something a brother can't pass up.
Disclaimer: Well-established characters: not mine. The others: well, you know the drill.
Notes: The further adventures of Peter Darcy. Takes place after "Prodigal Son". All mistakes, typos, etc. etc. are my fault and mine alone.
"So you're going to need a place to stay."
It was a couple of days after Boxing Day, and Peter Darcy, his brother, and his brother's wife were sitting in front of the massive fireplace with spiced wine in their cups.
"I have a place to stay."
"Don't be silly, Peter; stay with us," she said insistently. "You said you were waiting to be settled in somewhere in London. You can't be anywhere permanent yet."
He looked down into his mug. He'd known this woman less than a week, and already she was treating him with the unconditional love of family. "It's a little hotel at the edge of town."
She made a dismissive sound, cute and raspberry-like. "Bah! Cold and impersonal there." She smiled brightly. "Stay with us! Please? It'll be fun."
He had to wonder about how much 'fun' it would really turn out to be, but he hated the thought of going back to that hotel. He turned his eyes to his brother. "Is this what you want, Mark?"
"Our being married," Mark said stiffly, "does not mean I expect her to fall in line with my wishes. In this case… we're of like minds." Only then did Mark grin.
"Bastard," Peter said with a grin in return. "Thought you were going to say no." Peter had to keep reminding himself how much Mark had changed.
"Like I would," replied Mark.
"We'll probably head home first thing in the morning," said Bridget.
"Let's be realistic, Bridget," Mark replied. "Afternoon."
She pursed her lips but leaned over to kiss her husband, then snuggled into the crook of his arm. "So we can caravan together. We're having people over for New Year's, you know."
Peter's mind flashed to the soirees of their youth, ones that he had snuck out of his bedroom to spy on: evening gowns, black ties and tuxedos, incessant chatter like a droning flock of gulls and chamber music to fall asleep to (he had, more than once, been roused and marched back to his room from his position at the top of the stairs). "That'll be… nice," he said politely.
"I think so. It's the first real party we're throwing since the wedding. Oh! I can't wait to show you all of the pictures," she said, clapping her hands. "The wedding and Paris and… oh, but I wish you had been there."
"I would have come if I had gotten the invite in time," Peter said, meeting Mark's eyes. "I promise you that." Mark nodded, acknowledging, believing.
Bridget smiled proudly. "Hurrah! Houseguest!"
Mark then yawned, which prompted them to all rise as if by some unspoken agreement; the moment they did, she jumped forward to kiss Peter on the cheek.
Mark laughed, undoubtedly at seeing the look of surprise on his own face. "Sorry, Peter. She gets a bit excitable at times."
"I'm so looking forward to getting to know you!" she said. "And to get all the dirt on young Mark."
"Pay no mind to her," said Mark teasingly. "She's a bit squiffy."
"Am not," she said indignantly, but wobbling on her feet a little.
"Yes you are," he said, "and I'm taking no chances, you falling down the stairs and breaking your neck." With a quick, fluid moment, Mark bent, took her around the back of her knees and then stood, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Hey!" said Bridget in protest.
He turned to his brother with a grin, but said in all seriousness, "Peter, if you'll excuse us, good night, and we'll see you in the morning."
"Hey!" she shouted again, futilely banging her fist in the middle of his back.
He then turned on his heel and headed for the hallway, then turned for the staircase. Still hearing her residual futile protests, Peter shook his head, disbelieving the transformation, even still.
………
As predicted, Mark and Bridget appeared in time for lunch in the early afternoon the next day, much like every day so far during their stay. It was a very grey day, and the snow was dumping down on them in piles. "Sorry we're down so late," said Mark. "We had a lot to pack."
"Mmm," said Nick, raising an eyebrow as he worked on his crossword puzzle.
"Want something to eat?" asked Elaine. "Nick's chicken soup."
"Oh yes, thank you." She took a seat as Elaine reached for a bowl and filled it from a tureen.
"Mark?"
"Of course."
They ate their lunch and engaged in discussion on the best route given the weather conditions—with Malcolm proclaiming the absolute best route in any weather—before everyone rose from the table and goodbyes were said.
"Have a safe drive," said Elaine. Peter watched her first take Mark then Bridget into a hug, each equally tight. Peter then watched Mark and Bridget alternate between Malcolm and Nick, firm handshakes and caring hugs.
Peter himself have his mother a tight, close hug—"I'm so glad you're going to stay with Mark and Bridget," she said; "You will adore that girl"—and his father extended his hand, which he accepted, only to find himself being pulled into another embrace.
"It's good to have you back, son; good to have gotten to know you all over again," said Malcolm, sounding quite emotional for Malcolm. "Very good indeed."
"Thanks, Dad," Peter replied, feeling a little emotional himself.
"Very good year," said Malcolm, smiling as he met Peter's eyes. "Regained a son, and gained a daughter."
Before leaving the kitchen though, his uncle pulled Peter aside as Mark and Bridget left the kitchen. "A word, Peter." Nick looked and sounded as serious as he ever had.
"Yes?"
"Make sure," began Nick, "to insist upon the guest room at the far end of the hall and away from the master suite."
Peter furrowed his brow.
Nick added, "You want to be able to rest a bit, don't you?"
It took a moment for Nick's meaning to filter through, and when it did, he had to suppress a laugh. It amused Peter greatly to think of the staid brother he once knew engaged in activities noisy enough to keep his uncle awake. "Duly noted."
………
Peter was, yet was not, surprised to see their home in London: large, tall and imposing and in one of the finest London neighbourhoods, but on the inside, the décor was bright, beautiful and lively, which bespoke that the house was likely Mark's choice, brought to vivid life by his bride.
Mark excused himself to check the answerphone down on the lower floor; as Peter looked around in the foyer, Bridget happily offered to show him upstairs. "I used to think of it as a wedding cake," she offered in confidence. "Only inside was not at all sweet, just plain cream and brushed steel."
"Not a very appetizing cake at all," he said.
She chuckled. "I was very reluctant to get some of the things I really wanted for the house," she said, leading him up the stairs. "Mark kept telling me to stop looking exclusively at price tags and going for cheap, and just get what I wanted to get."
"I think you did a lovely job," said Peter, entering his room for the duration, and loving the colour accents in deep ruby and hunter green.
"Thanks," she said with a smile. "The funny thing was," she continued, "once I stopped looking at the cost, I found exactly what I wanted… and most of it didn't actually turn out to be the highest priced stuff."
Immediately he was impressed that she didn't go strictly for pricey when she could have. Definitely a different sort of woman that those usually found in Mark's social sphere. "Well, having never seen the original state," he said, "and knowing Mark's taste, I'm sure this is an enormous improvement."
"Thanks," she said with a grin. "So why don't I show you around? You can't make yourself at home if you don't know where to go."
They both heard footsteps in the hall, saw Mark hauling Peter's bags upstairs; at least Peter was travelling light these days. He let them drop to the floor. "Thanks for leaving this all for me."
"It's your job," said Bridget, "to do all the heavy lifting."
"Sorry, Mark," he replied. "I was so spellbound by your lovely house and your gracious wife that I forgot all about them."
"That," Mark responded, pointing a finger at Peter, then smiling, "was the only acceptable answer possible."
Peter grinned. His brother having a sense of humour so readily available was still something he was getting used to.
He not only had Bridget's attention as tour guide, but Mark joined them as well, showing him the bathroom, pointing out their bedroom door, which Peter amusedly realised was at the opposite end of the corridor from his own room, after all; Nick must have complained directly to them. They then travelled down to the main floor (home to the library, the front sitting room, the dining room and Mark's home office), and after that, one flight further down, to the kitchen and the more casual sitting room.
"This room's the best place to relax in," said Bridget. "The view of the backyard, the comfy sofa, the telly…"
"And Star Trek?" said Peter, coming up near to the shelves upon which their DVDs resided. "Is this yours?"
"It belongs to both of us, though I never saw an episode before Hugh gave us the set."
"You still see Hugh?" Peter grinned. "I always did like him."
"We'd been in sporadic touch," said Mark. "He's a doctor too, you know."
"I didn't realise that." For some reason he had always thought Hugh had focused on the law as Mark had.
"It was only after Bridget was ill that we really reconnected as friends."
"Ill? Ill with what?"
Instead of answering, Bridget said, "Hugh adopted our baby, too."
Peter looked up suddenly in alarm, his mouth dropping open of its own accord. "He… he what?"
"Well, it got to be that I couldn't be in the same room as him… and Mark never really warmed to him anyway…"
"Sure I did—" At Peter's undoubted paling expression, Mark laughed out loud. "She's talking about Wickham… the kitten."
Peter blew a great gust of breath out between his lips. "Oh, lord." He started to laugh too, despite himself. "Not that I don't like Hugh, obviously, but I was about to wonder if you'd lost your minds…"
"No, no. Not about that, anyway," said Mark, heading into the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink after that gruelling drive?"
"Sure."
"Beer or wine?"
"Red, if you have it. Thanks."
He continued thumbing through the DVDs and chuckled upon finding a set of discs that every female of a certain age seemed to own. "The Pride & Prejudice is undoubtedly Bridget's, though."
She grinned, blushing a little. "Of course. No self-respecting woman would be caught dead without that set."
"Be sure to put it back exactly where you found it," called Mark from the kitchen, "or she'll claw your jugular."
"I will not," Bridget said in a light tone, from close to Peter. "I'm always up for a viewing, though, if you want."
"I'll think about it," said Peter. "It's weird to hear one's own name bandied about in a fictional context, especially as some grand romantic character."
Bridget chuckled. "That reminds me of something I thought when I met your brother."
Peter saw Mark's head whip up with interest.
"Do tell."
"Well, I thought it was kind of silly to be called Mr Darcy and be standing by himself at the party we were attending, all aloof and snooty." Mark's eyebrows raised. "How it was rather like being called Heathcliff and spending the whole night on your own in the garden shouting 'Cathy!' and knocking your head against a tree."
Peter couldn't help the laugh that erupted from his mouth; poor Mark looked both amused and mortified at the same time. Their uncle and mother had been dead right. He liked her very much already and looked forward to getting to know her better, to becoming friends.
"Bridget!" Mark said sharply, though he was grinning. "You never mentioned that little gem to me."
"I never got the chance to," smirked Bridget. "You always seem to have something very important to do in another room whenever the subject of Pride & Prejudice comes up."
Peter laughed again as Mark came around the kitchen counter bearing two wine glasses. He handed one to Peter with a look that indicated to Peter that Mark was considering his reply. Mark gave one glass to Bridget before slipping an arm around her waist, and quickly winked to Peter. "It is kind of funny," Mark murmured to Bridget before kissing her cheek. "Have some wine," he said in a louder tone. "Maybe you'll let something else slip."
"Not in front of your brother," she said, then took a sip of her wine, flicking her eyebrow up.
They all took seats in the sitting room, Bridget resting comfortably in the crook of Mark's arm yet again. Peter had found in the very short time he'd known her, had seen the two of them together, that they really acted like they'd been together all their lives, fit together like pieces of a puzzle. They were so comfortable with each other; in Peter's experience, Mark was more comfortable with even himself than he had ever been.
"This is nice," said Peter; he sighed then took another sip of wine. It was an incredibly good vintage.
"I suppose life was not easy in Sudan," said Bridget, looking concerned.
"No, it wasn't," Peter said, "but I meant this. Your home. How wonderfully relaxing it is to be here."
She grinned. "Oh. Well, I'm glad you think so."
Peter turned his eyes to Mark. "I do," he said with a smile, then added teasingly, "In fact, I may never want to leave."
"Sorry, brother," said Mark. "Three's a crowd."
"I'll remember to tell your hypothetical future offspring you said so."
Mark and Bridget both chuckled.
They sat and finished their wine in peaceable silence then Bridget rested her head back on Mark's shoulder.
"Why don't you let me buy you both dinner to thank you for the lodgings for the immediate future?" Peter asked.
"That isn't necessary," Mark said.
"Yes it is," Peter said insistently, "since I know you're not going to accept any sort of money for your generosity."
"You're absolutely right."
"You see?" said Peter. "Dinner is my treat."
"Only if we can go to my favourite place," said Bridget.
He caught Mark grinning.
"Okay," said Peter tentatively, suddenly wondering if he'd made a big mistake. "Do you mind me taking a quick shower before we go?"
"Of course not," said Mark.
"I wouldn't mind freshening up myself," said Bridget. "Always feel a bit icky and stiff after a long car ride."
"Well then," said Mark. "Let's reconvene in the foyer at six and head out."
………
It had been a while since Peter had had an opportunity to dress up a bit. He wasn't sure if any of his jackets would even fit anymore; he'd gotten leaner and more muscular during his time in Africa, so he'd found he needed to replace a good deal of his trousers. He slipped into his favourite dinner jacket and was pleased to see that it still fit just fine.
He still had a hard time taking himself seriously in a dress shirt and suit jacket.
After one last inspection in the mirror, smoothing down stray hair and brushing lint off the jacket (it perplexed him how a jacket wrapped in plastic in storage could acquire lint), he headed down for the foyer. A check of the watch showed him he was about right on time. His brother and Bridget, though, were not yet downstairs.
After five minutes of waiting, he decided to sit down in the front room.
After ten minutes, he decided to rest his head back on the sofa.
"Peter. I'm sorry we're late."
He knew instantly that he had dozed off; he hoped it hadn't been for too long. Upon looking at the two of them, though, he became utterly confused: Bridget was wearing jeans and a long sleeved tee-shirt; Mark, casual trousers and a dark blue cotton jumper. "Is dinner out cancelled?"
"No," replied Mark. "Why would you ask?"
Bridget laughed. "I think he was thinking something a little more upscale than the Globe."
"The what?"
"Bridget's favourite pub," answered Mark, who, in his apparent amusement, seemed to agree with his wife's assessment. "I'm sorry. I should have said something."
"No, that's okay," said Peter. "That's what I get for assuming. If you give me a few minutes I'd rather not be too overdressed."
"No worries."
Peter dashed up the stairs, quickly changed back into his favourite denims and jumper, and headed back downstairs in a matter of minutes.
It was apparently long enough, though, for Mark and Bridget to be drawn together in a loving embrace, he looking down at her with obvious adoration, brushing hair back from her face, beaming in a smile in return.
"All set," said Peter, loathe to interrupt.
"Fantastic," said Mark, not looking away from his wife until she stepped away to get her coat, handing him his own as well. "Let's go."
"Your car or mine?" offered Peter.
"Neither. It's not that far a walk."
Peter was sure his eyebrows jumped clear up to his hairline, but he smiled to show his approval. "Very well, then."
Mark had been right. The walk was not long at all, and the evening pleasant for late December. They found seats and were served ale within moments of arriving.
"I used to live in this building," said Bridget. "One of the top flats."
"That makes sense then. That this is your favourite pub."
"Well, yes and no." Bridget grinned. "I never ate down here when I lived upstairs. I only got nostalgic for the place when I moved in with Mark."
Peter chuckled. "What do you recommend?"
"Hm, that's tough. I love their fish and chips, but there's nothing here I've tried that I haven't liked."
Peter decided to be adventurous and try the stew, which proved to be excellent.
Partway through the meal, Mark's mobile started to ring. He reached into his pocket, then excused himself to answer it.
"Worth the gamble, the stew?" said Bridget.
"A bit spicier than I was expecting," said Peter, soaking a heel of bread into the bowl, "but overall quite excellent."
"You managed to pick one of the few dishes I've never tried," she said with a grin, then reached out one of her chips towards his bowl. "May I?"
"Absolutely," said Peter, then watched her swipe the chip into his stew.
She popped the end into her mouth and bit it off, looking thoughtful as she chewed and swallowed. This was followed up by a generous smile. "Oh, that's heavenly," she said. "I must order this the next time we're here."
"How often do you come here?"
"About once a week, truth be told," said Bridget. "Tend to come for our date night when we can't think of anything else to do."
Peter smiled, fighting a laugh, trying to imagine Mark not having planned each date out to the second.
Mark returned just then looking a little crestfallen.
"What's wrong? Who was that?"
"Giles," he said sombrely. "Turns out I'm needed in the office tomorrow."
Bridget pouted. "But it's Christmas holiday. They promised not to bother you."
"Giles feels terrible," said Mark, "but I really am the only one with the expertise for this aspect of the case. He said I'd be needed a few hours at most."
"Yeah, just like they said they wouldn't need you during the holiday."
"Bridget," Mark said, his voice tightening up, assuming the stern tenor Peter was much more used to hearing, "we can just do the party shopping later in the day. Don't worry about it."
"I'll go," said Peter, startling the both of them. "I'd be happy to help."
Bridget turned her blue eyes to bestow a very broad smile on him. "Oh, thank you," she said. "It'll be fun."
Peter didn't typically think of shopping as fun, but he thought with Bridget, shopping stood a good chance of actually being so.
Suddenly, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, an expression of discomfort flitted across Bridget's face. "I'll be right back. Loo calls."
Peter's thoughts hearkened back to the mention of her illness, how he had never really gotten an answer about what she'd taken ill with, when, and if she was fully recovered. Shortly after her departure, Peter asked Mark.
"Her leaving doesn't have to do with it, does it?" he concluded.
Mark smiled. "No, she's fully cured. She contracted leptospirosis whilst in Thailand, which presented itself while we happened to be on mini-break out near Wellesbourne. Hugh diagnosed her and I treated her during the week we stayed there."
"What was she doing in Thailand?" asked Peter, his mind racing over the details he could remember about that disease; predominantly, the vomiting and the high-dosage antibiotics required to treat it.
"In prison," said Mark, causing Peter to gasp. Mark then explained the circumstances under which she'd happened to land in prison, her peripheral involvement with her friend's shady acquaintance and how Mark's helping to free her brought them back together.
"Wow," said Peter, feeling sorry for his sister-in-law, and almost as sorry for Mark. The disease could be difficult to handle even with professional care. "And you cared for her on your own?"
"With Hugh's guidance, yes."
"That's no easy disease to treat," he said, stunned.
Mark smiled. "It was no picnic, that's for sure. She wasn't the easiest of patients, nearly drove me mad. Big fear of needles."
As lively, as animated and as opinionated as Peter had already seen Bridget to be, he could only imagine how she might have driven Mark crazy. "And the glutamine? How was she able to keep that down?"
Mark sighed, and he looked for a moment as if he was considering exactly what to say. "They were not oral capsules," he confessed.
"Right," said Peter knowingly.
Peter watched Mark's features soften to form a look of almost melancholy. "I'm eternally grateful that the worst of the complications were tantrums and pouting. Grateful too for her quick recovery, even though treating her was like trying to pill a cat." They both chuckled, and Mark raised his glass of ale, his eyes flitting up as he took a sip, his voice going softer as he continued. "She's still rather sensitive about the whole thing, as you might well guess, so I think we best get off the subject."
Peter glanced up, turning towards the loo, and saw Bridget heading back to the table, to them; for such a monumental undertaking—difficult treatment, difficult patient, a week away from work—it must have been love, to want to spare her the indignity of such a intimately humiliating treatment administered by total strangers. The Mark he'd once known would have taken his girlfriend to some high-priced private clinic and been content to visit after business hours.
"I'm sure," said Peter, keeping his voice low. "I'm impressed, though; impressed that you managed it on your own, at home—or in a hotel, as the case may be."
Mark grinned and said, "Thanks," just as Bridget resumed her seat.
"For what?" asked Bridget.
"For supper," Mark lied smoothly, scooping up the last of his shepherd's pie with his fork. "You feeling all right?"
"I'm fine. Just a bit of an upset stomach, but it passed," she said with a pout.
"Are you sure?" asked Mark, his brow wrinkling with concern. "You still look a little unsettled."
She nodded. "Just think I ate too fast."
"You always do when we come here," teased Mark gently, taking her hand with his.
Peter slipped out his wallet and from within pulled out the money to cover the bill. He watched with amusement as Mark picked up Bridget's glass of ale and took down the last swallow as she donned her coat, as if it were something she was used to him doing, something he did all the time.
Peter grinned. He really liked seeing this new, changed, happier brother.
………
30 Dec
One thing that did not surprise Peter was that he was the first to rise the next morning. He went down to the kitchen, found the coffee and the press after a little digging, and even fried himself a couple of eggs. He had been so long away from a television set that he didn't have the faintest idea what was on, but with his eggs and coffee in hand, he set out to find a bit of a news broadcast.
"Morning," came Mark's voice; Peter glanced up to see his brother not dressed and ready to head with devotion to the office as Peter might have expected, but wearing a robe and looking a little dishevelled and scruffy.
"Morning," he replied. "Made a full pot of coffee there. Excellent roast."
"Thanks. Fair trade from Ethiopia."
Peter watched Mark pull down two coffee mugs, put a little sugar and milk into one of them, then fill the mugs with coffee. The whole while Mark had an utterly content look on his face.
"What is it?" Mark asked, not looking up from stirring the coffee Peter presumed to be for Bridget.
"Nothing."
"You're watching me," he said, glancing up with a smirk.
Peter laughed. "I'm sorry. This is all still kind of unusual for me."
Mark furrowed his brow.
"Not that I don't like it. It suits you well."
"What, fresh out of bed and fetching coffee?"
"No," said Peter. "The fact that you obviously love every moment of it."
At that, Mark did not respond, simply smiled, picked up the mugs off coffee and headed for the stairs. "Continue to make yourself at home," he said, just as he was about to ascend. "I have a delivery to attend to."
After finishing his own breakfast, Peter went back upstairs to dress for the day; as he passed into the bathroom intending on showering and shaving, he heard the unmistakeable sound of giggling coming from the end of the hall. Peter grinned, suspecting he might be doing that quite a lot during his stay with the two of them.
It was nearing to noon when Bridget finally found Peter in the lower sitting room. He had found an interesting and not-too-thick book, was about a third of the way through when she appeared. "Mark's off," she said, "and I'm ready if you are."
"Absolutely." He put a scrap of paper in as a bookmark, then folded it shut. He thought it best not to mention he'd been ready for at least an hour.
"Hmmm," she said, "except I am a little hungry. I could make us a couple of sandwiches if you are too."
"That sounds very nice," he said, cracking the book open once more. "Thank you."
The sandwich she made looked like a disaster, but was incredibly delicious, heaping with roast turkey, cheddar, lettuce, tomato and mustard. "I'd forgotten how much I liked turkey sandwiches," he confessed, licking the last of the mustard from his fingers. "Thanks again."
She smiled. "Thank you," she said in return, "for not commenting on the presentation, much like your uncle did when I first met him."
Peter laughed out loud. "I bet he did."
………
As it turned out, 'party shopping' didn't involve much more than picking up existing orders from a few stores, but conversation didn't stop for a moment, and Peter had such a good time that the boring nature of their errands was completely forgotten. It all began with Bridget asking for the most scandalous story about Mark from their childhood.
"I don't think Mark has one," offered Peter honestly. "Except maybe…" he added, drifting off in a tantalising way.
"Maybe what?" she asked.
"Well, no. It's too much. I couldn't shame him in such a way."
She gave him a dangerous look. "Peter."
With a smirk, he said confidentially, "Well, I was too small to really remember, but I hear told about a rather amusing birthday party. Seems this little blonde girl tore the place up, eating cake, tearing off her dress—"
Realising he was talking about her own paddling pool antics at age four, she reached over and smacked his arm. "You tease."
"Seriously, though," said Peter, "Mark was not one to engage in behaviour that could in any way become embarrassing. Ever. He was the original Mr Play-It-Safe, Mr Don't-Rock-The-Boat." He reached for the bag of food and their bottled waters as Bridget signed the purchase slip. "I think he took his duties as eldest son, heir to the Darcy name, a little too seriously. He was a strict older brother with a very black-and-white view of the world, a very clear idea of what he wanted to do, what he wanted to become, with a very small, rigidly inflexible margin of error."
Bridget looked thoughtful. "He seemed kind of a stiff when I met him," she said, "but he didn't seem that bad." She paused, then added, "Well, that's not true. He was horribly rude to me."
"That doesn't surprise me," said Peter. "You would not have fit into his worldview as it was at the time."
"Poor Mark," she said. "His ears must be ringing."
Peter chuckled. "You must have represented an enormous paradigm shift to him. I can just imagine him meeting you, finding he liked you, but being very conflicted about those feelings because they wouldn't have been correct for him."
Bridget laughed out loud. "Wow. Hit the nail on the head with that one. What kind of a doctor are you, anyway?"
They got to Peter's car, loaded the bag into the boot and handed Bridget her bottle of water before climbing in. "Medical doctor," he said. "But very astute observer of human nature, and, well, I knew my brother very well."
"Knew?" she asked, twisting open the cap.
"He's not the same man I tried so very hard not to be like," he said.
Peter engaged the engine and they drove to the next destination, this time to pick up the champagne for the evening.
"So you can see," said Peter, "why you were such a surprise to me. I was expecting another—not to put too fine a point on it—sunken-cheeked, tight-arsed, humourless berk."
Bridget nearly choked on the sip of water she had just taken, laughing and coughing at the same time. "Oh my God. Was his ex-wife really that bad?"
Peter nodded. "Oh, yes."
"Poor Mark," said Bridget again, her voice sorrowful.
"No need for that," said Peter. "After all, he got better."
She turned her blue eyes to him and smiled. "I'm glad he did."
"I think you were the reason he did," said Peter frankly. He swore she blushed.
As they entered the shop for the bubbly, Bridget asked, "So tell me a little more about you, Peter. All I really know is that you're a medical doctor, you spend time helping people in third-world countries… and you bat for both sides."
He laughed. "And I'm an astute observer of human nature."
"Very true," said Bridget. "But there has to be more to you than that."
"Well," he said, considering his words. "I'm pretty liberal. The only Darcy in generations, if ever, to not vote Tory."
Bridget giggled. "I'm not surprised."
"Aside from that… I don't know what to say. I like to think of myself as deeply complex," he said in a teasing tone.
"I'll tell you what," said Bridget. "We'll have been all over this bloody town picking up stuff for the party by the time we're done, and we will deserve a treat. A movie. You can pick, and that'll tell me lots about you."
"No question," he said. "I want to watch your Pride & Prejudice."
She blinked in surprise. "But it's over five hours long."
"We don't have to watch the whole thing in one sitting," he said, "and besides, it will tell me a lot about you as well."
She grinned. "You have a deal."
Since they had a treat to look forward to at the finish line, they whipped through the rest of their chores. Taking several trips to do so, Peter brought all of the packages into the house, stowing those labelled as needing to stay chilled. As he did so, Bridget set up the movie, then popped some popcorn, and fetched a couple of cans of Coke.
"Just like the theatre," said Bridget as she pressed play.
They had only intended on watching maybe one or two chapters, but before they knew it, Elizabeth Bennet was revealing to Fitzwilliam Darcy that she had feelings for him.
Mark came down the steps near the end, said nothing until the final kiss concluded. "I was about to apologise for being gone so long, but I see you found something to do."
He bent to kiss his wife, but she pulled away teasingly. "You were gone a lot longer than a few hours!"
"I bring a peace offering," said Mark, indicating the trays of pizza resting on the kitchen counter. She squealed.
"Forgiven," she said, leaning forward to peck a kiss on his lips.
"One pepperoni, one sausage," he said.
"My favourite," said Peter and Bridget at the same time.
"Pepperoni?" asked Bridget.
"Sausage," said Peter.
"Ah well, nobody's perfect." Bridget winked.
They ate in companionable silence—each too hungry to talk—and only afterwards did Mark ask them how the day went.
"Perfect," said Bridget.
"Though I was beginning to be afraid there wouldn't be enough room in the Fiesta for all of it," added Peter.
"And I see Bridget managed to sucker you into her favourite mini, after all," said Mark with a grin and a glance towards his brother, dabbing his mouth off with his napkin.
"Ha!" said Bridget suddenly. "I'll have you know that he asked to watch it as a treat after all of our hard work today."
"It's true," said Peter, explaining why she'd offered him the pick, and why he picked what he did.
"You should have gone into psychology," said Mark wryly.
Peter chuckled, then settled back into the sofa again. "So, did you learn what you wanted to learn about me?" he said.
"I learned that you have excellent taste in movies," Bridget said with a grin. "Seriously, though—any person who can sit through that mini and truly enjoy it is someone I want to keep around."
"Funny," said Mark, "that I was never tested in such a way."
"Not for lack of trying," retorted Bridget, "but luckily you passed a multitude of other tests."
"Did I?"
She held up her hand and pointed out her own wedding ring set. "Yep. Oh!"
Suddenly Bridget got up and dashed for the other side of the room. Peter was perplexed; Mark was too at first until he saw what she was doing, then he smiled and said confidentially to his brother, "Prepare yourself for a pictorial onslaught."
She returned with a thick book in her hands, clearly a book of photos; he knew innately what its contents would be and grinned. She sat down between the brothers and flipped it open.
Every picture, every page, helped Peter feel like he actually had been present. There were no photos of his brother's preparations that morning—which didn't surprise him, knowing his brother—but both the posed and candid shots of whom Peter could only presume were her girlfriends helping Bridget to get ready were both heart-warming and funny.
Then came the photos of the ceremony itself; of Mark's face when he first saw Bridget in her dress then when her father lifted her veil; of the two of them looking into one another's eyes with absolute adoration as they recited their vows, exchanged their rings; of the shots of whom Peter guessed were Bridget's parents, the woman's blue eyes gleaming with both happiness and tears; of the moment when Mark leaned forward to kiss his new bride.
"He did it too soon," confided Bridget with a smile. "He was supposed to wait for the vicar to say so."
"I was impatient," Mark said. "I hadn't been able to since the night before."
"Completely understandable."
They then moved through the posed shots outside, as well as a couple of clearly unposed shots—"I had no idea he was shooting us there," Bridget said; Mark countered that it remained one of his very favourites of the day—then off to the reception, highlights of the toasts, the dances (leading Peter to question who the man was that Mark was dancing with; Bridget advised with a grin that he'd meet Tom soon enough), the garter toss (causing Peter to howl with laughter when he realised it was his bachelor uncle who had caught it), and then—
"Did—did you leave by chopper?" Peter asked incredulously.
"When I realised it would take us forever and a day to get to Wellesbourne by car," said Mark, "I knew alternate means of transportation would have to be obtained."
"Ah," said Peter. "Impatient, once again?"
He swore Mark blushed at that.
"We spent a night at this place we'd been to just after… well, once before but I'd been too sick to really enjoy it," she said. "Absolute heaven. And then…"
"Paris?" supplied Peter, remembering her comment a few days earlier.
"Yes!" said Bridget. "Again, completely amazing and so, so romantic. All of it was. Let me grab the photos from Paris…"
Peter could not help but be surprised at hearing Mark being described as 'romantic', even as he knew so much about his brother had changed. Bridget stood with the photo album of the wedding and went in search of the Paris book.
"You know," said Mark quietly, "if you've had enough you can say so."
"Oh, no," said Peter. "I'm quite enjoying this."
Mark only grinned and sat back as Bridget returned with a smaller album, and he was treated to shots of their grand suite at The Ritz, of outdoor shots walking along the Seine, and a few very amusing pictures of the two of them atop the Eiffel Tower.
"What's this?" asked Peter, pointing to an extreme close-up of their faces.
"Oh," said Bridget, "I forgot I had the camera zoomed in when I pointed it at us. Mark wouldn't let me delete it from the camera."
Peter chuckled. It was funny and again, he was surprised that his brother would choose not to remove the mistake.
"There was just something so… representative of our entire wedding in that shot," explained Mark without prompt. "Charming and funny and slightly off-centre, and nothing at all like one would expect."
It was, thought Peter, a little like Bridget herself.
End notes:
The "Mr Darcy / Heathcliff" bit is from the first chapter of BJD, just to give credit where it's due:
It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It's like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting 'Cathy' and banging your head against a tree.
Not at ALL a nice term, "Berk" is Cockney rhyming slang, short for "Berkshire Hunt", which rhymes with….