A Labor of Love CH 7/11

[eggsbenni221]

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic
by Eggsbenni221 in 10 chapters+epilogue
Rating: T
Chapter Word Count: 4739
Summary: see chapter 1

Trust is like a paper. Once it’s crumpled it can never be perfect again.
- Author Unknown

Monday 1 May
7.30 PM
Back in London, sadly without Bridget, but she feels needed in Grafton Underwood, and my wish that she would look after herself more diligently notwithstanding, I recognize that this is what life requires of her at the moment. My desire to have her home with me is, I confess, largely selfish. I was too exhausted last night to pay much heed to the silence of the empty house when I returned, but when I arrived home from work tonight, I felt oddly detached as I went through the motions of my evening rituals. Clattering about the kitchen, searching for misplaced corkscrews and coffee cups, I suddenly felt like a stranger in my own home-a feeling I’ve not experienced since I first asked Bridget to move in with me. The idea that a person can’t live without another seems terribly cliché, until you suddenly realize that the simple truth of it has as much to do with one’s inability to locate edible food in the refrigerator as it has to do with love.

Thursday 11 May
11.15 PM
Life has returned to a state that I suppose resembles normal, though I seem to be moving through each day wrapped in a weirdly insulated fog of exhaustion-hardly surprising since, with Bridget still in Grafton Underwood with her parents, sleep has once again eluded me. I plunge myself headlong into work each day, hoping to return home weary enough to fall gratefully into deep, preferably dreamless sleep. Yet here I sit, my eyes aching with tiredness, but unable to find relief. How I long for Bridget-the warm weight of her beside me, her hair tickling my face, the soft, sleepy look in her eyes when she first wakes, like a morning sky shrouded in a dewy mist.
Bridget can do little more for her parents just now than offer moral support, but knowing what a comfort she is to Colin, I can’t object despite my concern for her health as well. Colin was released from hospital earlier this week, and I’ve convinced Bridget to return home tomorrow with the additional condition that she allow me to make the drive to collect her instead of making the return trip on her own. The minor argument that just broke out over this negotiation, I submit, lies at the root of the throbbing headache currently plaguing me. I came home from a quiet dinner with Jeremy and Magda (Magda has taken it upon herself to “look after me” while Bridget has been seeing to her father) and decided (or miscalculated) that the moderate quantity of scotch I’d imbibed would arm me sufficiently for convincing Bridget to return home.
“Mark, Hi.” Bridget’s cheerful greeting when she answered the phone tugged the corners of my mouth into a tired smile. “How are you? Did you go round to Jeremy and Magda’s for dinner again tonight?”
“Yes,” I said, resting back on Bridget’s side of the bed and pressing my cheek against her pillow.
“Has Magda been taking care of you?”
I rolled my shoulders, endeavoring to release the knots of tension in my muscles. “Not as well as you do.”
“You sound tired,” she said. I didn’t deny it. In a manner that reminded me eerily of Pam, Bridget began suggesting every remedy under the sun from hot showers, to alcohol (not surprising) to sleeping pills.
“Bridget,” I said, interrupting her laundry list of already-tried and failed solutions, “I think you should come home.” When she hesitated, I continued, “Look, I’ve got tomorrow relatively open. I thought I’d drive over and collect you.”
“Mark, are you sure? You’ve been so busy this week.”
“You’ll have to come home some time,” I pointed out.
She sighed. “I know. I just-can’t bear the thought of leaving. I’m not sure Mum can cope.”
“Bridget, you need to look after yourself too. Your parents understand that. It’s easy to overlook how much strain this is placing on you when you’re keeping busy, but I’m worried about you.”
“Mark, I really wish you’d stop trying to thrust this delicate, pregnant wife narrative on me. I can look after myself.”
“Fine, let me put it more plainly,” I said. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” she murmured, the warmth of her smile in her voice.
“Right then. It’s settled. I’ll drive over tomorrow afternoon.”
“Well…”
“Bridget, don’t argue with me about this.”
“Okay,” she relented. “You’re right, but you have to promise to stop being so overprotective.”
“I prefer to think of it as being vigilant,” I said.
“Call it whatever you like, Mark. It’s driving me mad.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s only because I love you.”
“I know. That’s why I put up with it.” We spoke for a few more minutes until the struggle to keep my eyes open became futile, and I reluctantly said goodnight. I’ll be glad to have Bridget home again-to have her fill the empty spaces in the house with her laughter. Felt comfortably sleepy after ending the call, but of course am now wide awake again.

Friday 12 May
7.30 AM
Woke this morning with a headache even more frightfully intense than when I went to sleep. I’d hoped that nothing more than a good night’s rest would be required to alleviate it, but such, apparently, was not my fate. A cup of strong coffee and a dose of paracetamol did little to remedy my discomfort. Nonetheless, after a quick shower, I feel just human enough to pop into chambers and tidy up a few loose ends before setting out for Grafton Underwood. I’d like to avoid the pressures of work casting a shadow over the weekend, which I intend to spend entirely with Bridget. I recall her mentioning a work-related social engagement for tomorrow evening to which I feel morally obligated to accompany her in an act of spousal, self-sacrificial love. Still, barring any other commitments, I intend to keep her almost entirely to myself.

Saturday 13 May
7.30 PM
Bridget is home. I’m still endeavoring to extract the events of yesterday from the mist of fatigue into which they seem to have dissolved. I managed to collect Bridget from her parents’ without incident, though alarmingly have no recollection of actually driving to Grafton Underwood. After lingering for a while over a late lunch with her parents, we returned home. Bridget’s chatter buzzed round the edges of my brain as I focused on keeping myself awake during the drive back to London, until one comment pierced the fog that threatened to engulf me.
“Baby names.”
“Pardon?” I said, realizing guiltily that I hadn’t taken in a word she’d said.
“We should really start thinking about baby names, Mark.”
I shrugged, internally bracing myself. “And I take that to mean you’ve been giving the matter your consideration during your absence?”
“Haven’t you?” Bridget arched a brow. “I’d have thought you would, considering your more detail-oriented than I am.”
“To be honest,” I admitted, “sometimes I still can’t quite wrap my head around the notion. It’s still so-intangible.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Easy for you to say.” One of my hands rested loosely on the steering-wheel, and I felt Bridget reach for it and place it against the curve of her stomach. “Is this tangible enough for you?”
For just a moment, I slid my eyes from the road to meet hers, and the throbbing in my temples lessened slightly as we shared a smile. “Well then,” I said, shifting my attention back to the traffic, “what did you have in mind?” To my amusement, Bridget withdrew a notebook crammed with scribbling. “Let’s see,” she muttered, flicking through the pages. “Well, for a boy, what about Taran? It means thunder, apparently.”
“That sounds slightly ominous,” I observed. “What about Afia, if it’s a girl? It means born on a Friday.”
“I wonder whether that wouldn’t be a bit restrictive if, say, she’s born on a Tuesday,” I pointed out.
“Mark, do you have to be so literal about everything?”
“With all due respect, Bridget, since we’re discussing the identity of our future offspring, I’d rather not take any chances. Where did you come up with these names anyway? But I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“The internet,” Bridget explained. “Baby Name Generator. Dad and I couldn’t sleep the other night, so we started messing about with it, for a laugh.”
“As amusing as that sounds, do you really want to leave our child’s identity to the fate of an algorithm?”
“Well, I don’t see you racking your brains to come up with anything,” she huffed, slamming shut the notebook.
I frowned, effecting a look of intense concentration that did little for my headache. “Archibald?” I suggested.
Bridget scowled. “When I told you not to take things so seriously, I didn’t mean go and be completely ridiculous.”
“Well, I wonder if we might just simplify things a bit.” I paused. “What about… Mark?”
Bridget stared out the window, chewing on her lower lip as she digested my question. “I’m-not sure.”
“Bridget, if you’re going to tell me after all these years that you’ve never fancied my name, I’m going to feel cruelly used. It’s not exactly Fitzwilliam, but I’ve always thought it suited me rather well.”
Bridget laughed. “It’s not that,” she soothed. “It’s more that, well, it’s you.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious,” I replied, rolling my eyes.
“No, Mark, I just meant… it’s you. It’s who you are. It’s your identity, you know?”
“I must confess, I rather like the continuity of it.”
Bridget nodded. “I know. It’s just that, well, you’ve always said, if you have a son, how important it is to you that he have a chance to develop his own identity, and I thought perhaps giving him his own name-his own sense of individuality-could be a good place to start.”
I considered her words. “That’s a fair point,” I conceded.
“Good,” said Bridget. “Fitzwilliam it is then.” I winced.
“For Christ’s sake, Mark, I was joking!” laughed Bridget.
“It’s-not that,” I managed, trying to ignore the way my headache was now reaching tiny fingers of pain through my neck and shoulders.

When we arrived home, I carried Bridget’s things inside before dropping wearily onto the sofa and lowering my head into my hands. Through my closed eyelids, I dimly caught Bridget’s shadow bending over me as she rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Mark?”
“I’m fine,” I protested. “It’s only this damned headache, and I’m a bit tired.”
Bridget frowned. “You’ve been having trouble sleeping again, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Mark Darcy, you are absolutely impossible. There you are, lecturing me about getting plenty of rest and not tiring myself because I’m this helpless, delicate little mother, and you’re so overtired that I’m pretty sure if you tried to stand up right now, you’d probably pass out.” With neither the energy to argue the point nor admit that she was in all probability correct, I sat perfectly still, trying to summon enough strength to fight the dense fog gathering at the edges of my brain. Bridget released a half-frustrated, half-affectionate sigh and reached for me, gently and methodically working at the knots of tension in my shoulders. At her touch, every tightly twisted muscle in my body began to unravel, and I allowed myself to slide into the warm cocoon of her embrace as she wrapped her arms around me. I wanted to tell her I loved her; how much I’d missed her these last few weeks; how glad I was to have her home with me again, but I just managed to catch hold of her hand and link my fingers through hers before my exhaustion overtook me.
The next thing I became conscious of was discovering myself on the sofa this morning, comfortably ensconced in a nest of blankets. I frowned at the light filtering through the curtains.
“Bridget?” I called, sitting up and scrubbing a hand over my face.
“Ah, you’re awake,” she said, entering the room with a steaming cup of coffee which she handed to me with a smile. “I wondered when you’d rejoin the living; I was actually starting to worry.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly 9,” she answered, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. “I’d ask if you slept well, but taking into consideration the fact that I couldn’t even wake you long enough to get you to bed properly, the answer is obvious.”
I took a sip of coffee. “I don’t think I realized how overtired I was. My head still feels a bit fuzzy.”
“Maybe you should just relax today,” said Bridget. “And maybe stay home tonight.” I suddenly remembered the wrap party I was to have attended tonight with Bridget for a recently-completed project. Over the years, I’ve dutifully played the role of the supportive spouse at Bridget’s work functions, considering it sufficient repayment for all of the law council dinners she regularly endures on my behalf, though it seems like a somewhat unfair tradeoff when I generally find the evening mildly entertaining. In a throng of television personalities with egos far too large for the room they inhabit, I usually have little to do but watch from the sidelines as the drama unfolds, punctuated with Bridget’s running commentary. It makes rather a refreshing change from discussing Tory politics and whatever current international crisis happens to be dominating my work.
“Darling, would you be terribly offended if I said I didn’t feel quite equal to it?”
Bridget frowned at my admission, knowing that, as a general rule, my scrupulous attention to decorum demands that nothing short of death itself prevent me from keeping a social engagement. “If you really don’t feel well, maybe I ought to stay home.”
“Don’t be silly,” I protested. “I’m just tired. I wouldn’t be the most charming date for the evening. You ought to go. It’s important that you go.”
“Well,” Bridget rested her chin in her hands, thinking. “I suppose I should, but I don’t like to leave you. Maybe I’ll just pop in, make an appearance, and come straight back. Besides,” she added, “I haven’t got one decent outfit.”
“Bridget,” I began, “I’m sure--”
“Don’t try to make me feel better,” she said. “Honestly, what’s the point of making maternity eveningwear anyway? I might just as well borrow an embroidered circus tent.”
“Bridget.” Gently I reached to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Listen to me. You’re going to go to that party tonight, and you’re going to look absolutely breathtaking, and you’re going to have a lovely time, and you’re not going to worry about me.”
“But Mark--”
“Sh. I insist.”
“Well,” Bridget sighed. “I suppose you’re right and I really should go.” She leaned in and pressed her lips to my forehead. “But if you change your mind, I’m happy to stay with you.”

I’ve spent the entire day being uncharacteristically lazy, alternately reading and sleeping; woke a few minutes ago to a hushed, empty house and a hastily scrawled note from Bridget on my pillow.
‘Gone to the party with Talitha. Didn’t want to wake you. Be back soon. Love you.’
At least she’s got Talitha to keep her company. And Daniel, of course. Bloody Hell, why think of Daniel now? Ordinarily, I’d simply brush the thought away, not allowing it to linger long enough to sting. Now, for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Daniel seems to have lodged itself uncomfortably inside me-a hard knot of ice in the pit of my stomach. Hmm, really, I feel surprisingly human after sleeping for the better part of the day; perhaps I’ll just surprise Bridget and look in on the party after all.

12.00 AM
My entire universe seems to have spun completely off its axis. I don’t expect to get any more sleep tonight, so I might as well try to sift through the mess of thoughts congealing in my brain.
Having made good on my decision to meet Bridget at the party, I immediately endeavored to seek her out on my arrival. The mild, spring air had coaxed guests onto the venue’s terrace, and no sooner had I begun to scan the crowd in search of Bridget than Talitha breezed over, drink in hand.
“Mark!” she exclaimed, leaning in to peck me on each cheek. “Darling, we thought we wouldn’t see you. Bridget said you were feeling poorly.”
“I was beginning to get restless. I thought I might just as well come,” I said, my eyes still sweeping my surroundings.
Following my gaze, Talitha gestured with her martini glass. “She’s sitting over there, and looking absolutely fabulous too,” she added, correctly interpreting my smile as my eyes came to rest on Bridget. She wore a tastefully simple, loosely fitting dark blue dress that both flattered and accommodated the contours of her figure; she had swept her hair back from her face with a silver comb, and even without the aid of a light dusting of make-up, her skin glowed, and her eyes held a playful, teasing sparkle. So completely had she arrested my attention that I hardly heard Talitha’s next words. “It looks like you’ve come just in time to protect your assets.”
“I’m sorry?” Tearing my gaze away from Bridget, I observed Talitha gesturing again in her direction, and I noticed, for the first time, that the individual on whom Bridget was looking with a familiar mix of amusement and tenderness was none other than…
“Cleaver,” I said quietly, my hand reflexively clenching at my side.
Talitha arched a perfectly penciled brow as she looked at me. “You can hardly be surprised,” she said, tapping one of her manicured nails against the edge of her glass. “You knew Daniel would be here, surely?”
“I just can’t seem to accustom myself to seeing them together,” I murmured, frowning as Daniel leaned in to whisper something in Bridget’s ear that she apparently found wildly entertaining given the burst of laughter that followed. As Daniel leaned back in his seat, I had a clear view of his face, and the sight of that lazy, roguish grin-an expression I had never managed to perfect-took me back to boyhood days of rugby and roughhousing; long, summer days and nights filled with harebrained schemes and stories of our-or rather Daniel’s-various female conquests. As much as I had frowned on his exploits, I had envied the ease with which he always seemed to carry himself.
“It’s all a matter of confidence, Darce,” he used to tell me.
“Mark?” Talitha laid a hand on my arm, tugging me back to the present moment.
“Forgive me,” I murmured, my eyes still locked on Daniel.
“Mark, someone has to be the one to tell you this, and it might as well be me, because Bridget certainly won’t.” She paused to light a cigarette, took a long drag, then continued. “This business with you and Daniel-it’s hurting Bridget. Anyone can see that, and you of all people have to realize it.”
“I know,” I sighed. “The trouble is, I haven’t a bloody clue what to do about it.”
“Look, Mark, we all know Daniel, you especially, since you knew him longest.”
“I thought I did,” I said bitterly.
“I’m not saying I approve of some of the things he’s done-sleeping with that horrible stick insect while he was with Bridget, for one, and, well, breaking up your first marriage. Daniel can be a complete bastard sometimes when he puts his mind to it-except, well, he never does put his mind to it, really; I suppose that’s his problem.”
“It isn’t that, Talitha; at least, I can’t exactly accuse him of destroying my marriage when there wasn’t much to destroy in the first place. I admit that.”
“If you ask me, he did you a favor,” said Talitha, gesturing with her cigarette in Bridget’s direction. “Daniel’s fuckwittage was your gain, really.” I knew this, of course; while I certainly wish that the life path that led me to Bridget hadn’t been fraught with so much pain, I’ve come over time to appreciate how fortunate I have been.
“You’re right, of course,” I said to Talitha. “And I would be unfair if I held Daniel solely responsible for what happened.”
“He’s more culpable in your eyes because you loved him more,” Talitha replied bluntly. “Honestly, Mark, why can’t the two of you just settle this, once and for all? Call him a bastard, throw a few punches, and get on with it. Isn’t that how you boys learn to survive at Eton?”
“I’ve already tried that,” I said. “It never works, and in any case--” I paused, turning to gain a clearer view of the sudden movement I had caught in the corner of my eye. “Excuse me, Talitha,” I said abruptly. “It appears I should take your advice and-protect my assets.” As I had stood engrossed in conversation with Talitha, I distinctly observed Daniel leaning forward again, playfully, and wholly inappropriately brushing a hand across Bridget’s breast. As I approached, Bridget laughed and swatted his hand away.
“Jones,” Daniel drawled. “I can’t help it. You look ravishingly pregnant. I’m sure Darcy would understand.”
“Are you so sure about that, Cleaver?” I said, stepping into view.
With a start, Bridget whirled round to face me. “Mark! What are you doing here?”
“Well well,” added Daniel, flashing that familiar, self-confident smirk in my direction. “If it isn’t Mark Darcy, brought to the scene by your sense of gentlemanly honor, no doubt, but everything’s under control here. I’m taking excellent care of your wife.”
I glared at him. “Taking excellent advantage of an opportunity, more like.” Before he could respond, I rounded on Bridget. “I expected better of you, Bridget. Haven’t you any sense? Can’t you see how this looks?” The instant I spoke, I realized my mistake, but in my indignation at Daniel and my concern for her, I abandoned my usual sense of decorum. Bridget’s eyes flashed, but before she could speak, Daniel rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Now, hold on, Darce. I’m to blame here, if anyone is.”
Blood boiling, I spun to face him again. “Who the Hell do you think you are, Cleaver?” I demanded. “Have you lost what little decency you possessed?”
Daniel cocked a brow. “I? You’re a strange one talking about decency, Darcy, coming in here and making a scene.”
“Let me make myself quite clear,” I said, fixing him with a threatening stare as I lowered my voice. “If you ever as much as lay a finger on my wife again, you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.”
Daniel smirked. “Well, that’s a proverbial slap with a white glove if I ever heard one.”
“Stop it! Both of you!” Bridget suddenly rose from her seat and moved to place herself between us, standing rather too quickly in her haste I realized as she swayed and nearly lost her balance. Instinctively Daniel and I stepped forward in unison, our hands brushing as we both reached to steady her, and for an instant our eyes met over the top of her head. At that moment, Talitha appeared, glaring at the both of us and wrapping an arm around Bridget’s shoulders. “Well, I hope you’re both pleased with yourselves,” she said; then to Bridget, “come on, honey. Let’s leave them to it.” I watched her usher Bridget inside, my stomach twisting into knots of guilt over my outburst. Only when Daniel spoke beside me did I recall his presence.
“Mark, listen, I--”
“I don’t want your apologies,” I snapped.
“Christ, Darcy, what do I have to do?” He studied me for several moments, a thoughtful, almost wistful expression in his eyes that tugged at my heart despite my bravest attempt to resist it. My throat tightened as I tried to speak. “Well,” said Daniel with a shrug, “you certainly know how to hold a grudge, Darcy, if any man does.” He gave another shrug and turned to leave. “I’m no expert on marital communication,” he said, “but if I were you, I’d be going after Bridget right about now.” I scowled as I watched him stride away before deciding to do as he suggested. Inside, I found Bridget standing in a corner with Talitha, who still had an arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. I noted with some relief that her color had returned, though her mouth remained set in a grim line that didn’t bode well for my attempt to diffuse the tension.
“Bridget,” I murmured as I drew near, “are you all right?”
She glared daggers at me. “Do you even need to ask?”
“No, I suppose not,” I admitted.
“Mark, I wish you’d-God, I can’t do this now. Can we just go home?” I nodded. As we turned to leave, Talitha gave Bridget’s shoulders a brief squeeze before allowing her gaze to rest on me. ‘Fix this,’ her look said.

Bridget and I drove home in a frosty silence that I didn’t dare attempt to break until we had entered the house, but the moment I opened my lips, she rounded on me, her eyes blazing.
“Mark, how could you?” she demanded. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“Bridget, I--”
“Don’t ‘Bridget’ me!” she shouted. “You, Mr Perfect Pants, striding in and making a complete fool of yourself, not to mention humiliating me in front of my colleagues! What did you honestly think was going to happen? You know Daniel; everyone knows Daniel. He was just-being bloody Daniel!”
“Well,” I replied with equal vehemence, “excuse me for thinking you’d appreciate my concern for you!”
“Your concern? Did it ever occur to you, just once, that I can look after myself? I’m not a helpless doll!”
“I never said you were, Bridget, and in any case, why are you so quick to condone Daniel’s behavior?”
Bridget sighed heavily. “I’m not condoning anything. I’m just not reading into his antics as much as you are. It’s not as if he was shagging me over the dessert table!” I winced. “For fuck’s sake, Mark, I was joking! Honestly, you’re my husband, and I love you, but you can be a complete idiot sometimes!” Without another word, she spun on her heel and left the room. I mounted the stairs with the intention of following her, wondering how best to make amends, but as I reached the top step, I heard the shower running in the bathroom. Closing my eyes as I dropped onto the bed, I replayed the confrontation with Daniel in my mind, trying to envision it as it might have looked from Bridget’s point of view. When I saw the pair of them together tonight, I allowed an overprotective and, I admit, jealous instinct to overtake my better judgement. The result not only embarrassed Bridget in front of her colleagues, but created, if possible, even greater friction between Daniel and me. How can I claim to respect-if not understand-Bridget’s ability to maintain a friendship with Daniel, and yet behave in a manner that absolutely contradicts that claim?
Eventually succumbing to the lingering fatigue of the last few days, I must, I suppose, have worried myself to sleep, for when I reopened my eyes a few minutes ago, I found myself tucked neatly beneath the sheets (Bridget’s doing, undoubtedly). She lay on her side with her back to me. Gently, uncertain whether or not she was still awake, I rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Bridget?” I felt her stir ever so slightly in response. “Bridget, about tonight… I-I behaved badly. I apologize. I never meant to upset you.”
She turned to face me. “I know that,” she said.
“And… you’re right,” I continued. “About Daniel. I do miss him, I think.”
“I know that too.”
“I think I’ve only just begun to come to that realization.”
Bridget leaned in to kiss me. “Because you’re an idiot. Now go back to sleep.”
I never imagined I’d see the day when I’d give serious consideration to reconciling my differences with Daniel Cleaver. Now, of course, there remains the question: what the bloody Hell am I going to do about it?