Author: Regency
Title: Every Little Thing
Pairing: (one-sided) Mark/Bridget, Mark & Miranda
Rating: G/Everyone
Warnings: None
Summary: (Set pre-BJB.) When Mark is asked to Hard News for an interview he has every reason to say no and only one reason to say yes. That one reason is Bridget Jones, and she's reason enough.
Prompt: Mark sees Bridget when invited to her news studios for an interview and he misses her.
Author's Note: Come flail with me on Tumblr at sententiousandbellicose.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from any incarnation of the Bridget Jones series. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
Mark's slated for an afternoon time slot, but he's early. Court adjourned earlier than scheduled and rather than become embroiled in another task and risk being late, Mark has opted to arrive at the studio ahead of his call time.
Hard News isn't his preferred network, but he's happy to discuss his work wherever he's allowed a platform. A well-informed public can only ease the difficulty of his work, which largely lays in their ignorance of the legal grounding of human rights and the definition of what they entail. It pays to grease the gears, as they say. He doesn't usually agree to sit-downs, but in this case, he has some comfort with the setting.
The staff at Hard News aren't unfamiliar to him. He met much of the crew in the final year of his relationship with Bridget when she was still learning the ropes of her new position as producer. She's been promoted since to Executive Producer, a much deserved move he doesn't doubt. Bridget's the type to bloom where she's planted and here she's done beautifully.
So, yes, Mark has his reasons for agreeing when Hard News requested this interview. Only some of them are altruistic.
He leaves his coat and briefcase with his assistant and relies on his sense of direction to find the bullpen where the directors, producers and middle-to-upper-middle management personnel do the grunt work of producing the news. They've upgraded their color scheme some. It's less technicolor nightmare than in the early aughts and more monochrome synergy and open plan.
He spots Bridget, not for the sustainable light bulb light washing her hair gold but for the rapid clip of her tread through the busy office. Clipboard in hand, smart glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, she's talking to herself. No, not to herself, he corrects. Her headset is live; somebody must be listening on the other end. She's become the cinematic archetype for women in power: composed, knowledgeable, untouchable to all but a few. Ten years ago, she would have lamented ever becoming such a woman, but the potential was there all along. Here it is, fulfilled.
Should anybody ask, he did come searching for her. What they needn't know is that he has no intention of speaking to her. He just came to watch her be.
He knows it's pathetic, pining from the outskirts of an old lover's life. He accepts that reality as gracefully as one can. What he won't accept is being confronted about it like some sexual pest violating an order of protection. No, better to be circumspect, discreet. Nostalgia is acceptable, longing, however, when one is married to someone else, has the potential to be socially disastrous. Best not.
He arranges his expression into one of admiration and respect. Busy place, Hard News. One would be wise to be impressed and Mark is known by many for his wisdom. Nobody that matters.
All the same, his keeps well out of sight of most of the office workers. Avoiding confrontation is one of the few areas of life where he's capable of thinking quickly on his feet, and a confrontation with his former fiancee is sure to be a recipe for disaster. It's to his credit that he can be quite unobtrusive when he's moved to be. He sidesteps out of Bridget's eye line as she approaches her desk. His heart leaps into his throat as she slows for just a moment, fingers hovering over her mouthpiece. She stares at the empty place where he was just standing, her mouth pursed in genuine confusion and it's only Richard Finch's approach that distracts her from investigating further.
Mark exhales in relief. James Bond, I'm not. He isn't sure how he'd deal with speaking to Bridget for the first time in over three years. The last conversation they had was at the Turkey Curry Buffet following their breakup. It was awkward, two people who knew each other as well as any married couple playing at acquaintances. That was what they were, lovers who hadn't quite got the hang of being friends, so now they're nothing instead.
"All right, Mark?"
Miranda. He's gotten a few drunken phone calls from her that he's sure can be traced back to Bridget's complaints about him. He mostly lets them go to voicemail these days. They're an amusing way to fill the lunch hours between sessions in chambers. He never lets Camilla hear them; she wouldn't see the humor.
"I'm fine. I was actually just waiting for a PA to show me to the set. I'm a bit early."
She leans around him to take in his view of the bullpen. Bridget's desk sits dead ahead. She's confabbing with Richard over God knows what, looking altogether collected and in-control. Bridget is a cog no more, she just short of runs the place, he's heard. It's one of the sexiest things he's ever seen, Bridget at her competent height. His cheeks color at Miranda's speculative glance. God, I hope that isn't written on my face.
"You should give her a call."
"Too late for that now." He watches Bridget stride confidently out of the newsroom conferring affably with her boss as a bevy of production assistants hang on her every word. "I just like to look at her sometime. I don't get to see her much anymore." Their social lives no longer overlap save in the places where they've merged. He's nothing of hers now, and she's little to him he can claim.
"Maybe if you hadn't gotten married…"
Mark sets his jaw and straightens up. "But I did. My reasons are my own and I think they're acceptable. Not marrying wouldn't have brought her back. She didn't want me anymore. Camilla does."
"Camilla wants your money." Miranda says it as though Mark didn't enter this marriage fully aware that it's status his wife is after.
"But she'll take me." Camilla is a friend and partner. They're occasionally lovers, despite a lack of natural chemistry between them. They're companions. They're mates. They understand each other and want similar things. They'll never be a legendary love affair, their fights run more to cold silences than anything more passionate than a slammed door, but their togetherness eases the emptiness of his Holland Park house. Sometimes they even laugh.
"I still say you should give her a call. Maybe you can be friends."
Be friends with the love his life? Nothing would gall him more, if he's honest. A friend doesn't have to sit on his hands to keep from reaching out. A friend doesn't have to stifle himself to keep from sighing the wrong name in bed with his wife. A friend needn't fight down a throat of bile at the thought of Bridget with someone else, hypocritical as that may be. Mark can never happily be Bridget's friend, not while he's still in love with her.
"I'd be a terrible friend and you know it." He smiles to disguise how despondent he feels. How did I ever think this was a good idea? Miranda wants the best for Bridget and she's one of the few remaining people to half-think Mark might be it. "We're better as strangers."
"You sure about that?"
Mark is painfully sure of it. Bridget's declaration that maybe someday they could try being friends was an open-ended peace offering meant to soothe his flayed feelings. He hasn't crossed that line, has in fact withdrawn as far as one can from it, and her silence tells him all he needs to know. Someday was a kind euphemism for never.
"I'm sure that's what she wants, and I respect her decision. If you'll excuse me, I should be going. Which way to the Green Room?" He points in the direction he originally came from. Miranda sets him straight, points him toward the opposite end of the hall.
"Go that way. Take the back corridor, go left, past the conference room, to get to the Green Room. If you go the way you're headed, you'll run into her."
Mark nods stiffly. Part of him wants to go that way just to see what would happen. But what if her response is non-existent? He's a non-entity, a non-event in the life of a person to whom he was once almost everything. He's not sure his ego could withstand the blow.
He disregards that horrible plan for the horror it is. "Thank you."
Miranda crosses her arms in front of her. She's sizing him up. He's sure she'll find him wanting. He finds himself wanting. That's nothing new.
"I'm not just doing it for you. Can't have you throwing her off her game this morning. I need her."
Everybody needs Bridget. She's a staple in the lives of those who love her. She's essential. Sine qua non, without which life would be much, much less lovely. Now that she knows that only a fool would take her for granted. Mark feels more foolish than usual today.
"So do I, more than I can say."
Pity whittles its way into her expression, forcing him to avert his gaze. He knows he has only himself to blame. He knows.
"Goodbye, Miranda."
"Till next time. Give my best to Chinchilla!"
He snorts before he can stop himself, and glares back at his former friend of a friend who stands smirking in triumph. "It's Camilla!"
"Nobody cares," she sing-songs at his retreating back. He hears her sigh as he takes the corner that will lead him to his getaway, "Idiot."
He cannot disagree.