A Labor of Love Epilogue

Jun 03, 2016 15:29

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue
Rating: T
Chapter Word Count: 1541
Summary: see chapter 1



Epilogue (Bridget)
I was waiting for so long
For a miracle to come.
Everyone told me to be strong.
Hold on and don’t shed a tear.

Through the darkness and good times
I knew I’d make it through.
And the world thought I’d had it all
But I was waiting for you.- Celine Dion, “A New Day has Come”

Sunday 23 September
12.05 AM
Just woke up to find Mark gone, probably to see to Billy and not wake me. (Love Mark). Drove to Grafton Underwood today to visit with Mum and Dad, and so that Dad could have his first look at the baby. Mark was an absolute tower of strength, as always, obvs. Really feel as if haven’t fully appreciated how wonderfully supportive he’s been, esp during childbirth.
Despite focusing all thought vibes on own uterus (entirely understandable under circumstances) had a moment in the middle of entire ordeal of labor to be v proud of Mark for refusing to leave my side, except when insisted that he really should get something to eat. Would have been completely pointless and unhelpful if, after hours of chivalrous devotion, he fainted from lack of nourishment. (Of course, he almost did anyway when first caught sight of mucus-covered alien emerging from self that was actually Billy). V proud of him for keeping his head about him in manner of soldier or embodiment of Kipling poem or similar. Of course came over all stern and Markish when I ventured to congratulate him on his show of masculine fortitude.
“Really, Bridget. You needn’t act as if I’m not in the habit of being remarkably self-possessed under pressure.” These were strong words for a man who looked every moment as if he were on the point of either collapsing or being sick. Still, decided best way to award him supportive, brave husband points would be to keep self from pointing this out.
Hmm, really wonder if should check on Mark. Not that don’t trust his parenting abilities, obvs. Is not as if have more experience than he does, though suppose maybe if counted gestational period of baby could technically give self a nine-month head-start. V unfair though, really, as crying and eating trays of dairy milk doesn’t really count as parenting experience.

12.15 AM
Really worried about Billy though. Feel v attuned to all physical and emotional vibrations of child after carrying him round for nine months in manner of baby kangaroo or similar. Mark entirely responsible father though, and is midnight, so not as if he’d take Billy out and leave him in a shop.

12.25 AM
But what if Billy needs feeding? Mark perfectly capable father, obvs, but not currently equipped to provide child with necessary nourishment as not woman and does not have breasts, so cannot express milk. Hmm, think vocabulary of breast-feeding v odd. ‘Express’ makes it sound as if self’s breasts are some sort of baby protein smoothie bar or something. Am human being, not lactating factory. Who coined the term ‘express milk’ anyway? Sounds as if breasts have emotions, like individual entities with own thoughts and feelings. Now imagine all breast-feeding women dancing through streets of London waving their wobbly bits about and singing “I’m coming out” in manner of Dianna Ross. Yes, we’re coming out! WE want the world to know-right, going to check on boys.

12.30 AM
Have just stumbled across guilty secret of husband’s-quite literally as actually tripped over it getting out of bed. Suppose must have knocked it off of bedside table. Turned on lamp and bent to retrieve offending object, cursing v quietly under breath so baby monitor wouldn’t pick up not-safe-for-infant language, and discovered it to be a book. It lay open at my feet, face-down, but as I turned it over, my eye suddenly caught a page of handwriting-Mark’s handwriting. It can’t be-but yes! Ha! Have found Mark’s diary! Poetic justice! (Really shouldn’t read though, as am not vindictive, vengeance-seeking wife, and is not as if Mark has anything to hide. Besides, accidental diary discovery did lead to snowy kiss and passionate whirlwind relationship culminating in marriage, so haven’t ever really held it against him). Am going to be virtuous saint-style wife and allow Mark his privacy. Tralalala.

12.35 AM
V curious though. Mark keeping a diary is v different from self keeping one, as tell Mark everything anyway. Wonder if maybe should just have a peek. Just mild curiosity. Not as if am snooping anyway as Mark is my husband and I know all of his dearest concerns. (I do, don’t I? Of course I do). Right. Going to practice saint-style restraint.

12.40 AM
Just one page, maybe, to satisfy curiosity. Not, obvs, to get even with husband for discovering my description of him as having giant Gherkin shoved up his backside. (he did, though. Still does, sort of, if I’m being honest. Love him anyway).

1.00 AM
Oh! Mark! Heart suddenly overflowing with love for husband in manner of ocean. Diary seems to go back only as far as January of this year, just before I learned I was pregnant with Billy, and after we found out, Mark decided to chronicle whole experience of expectant parenthood. Have always known how much he loves me, obvs, but Mark also not the most demonstratively affectionate person in world, so seeing him record his feelings like this, in such painstaking detail, is like holding his heart in my hands. Can’t let him know I’ve seen this. He’d be terribly embarrassed. Just going to set it right down where he left it.

1.05 AM
But really can’t resist teasing him a bit about it. Why waste an opportunity? Where has he got to anyway? Should really see if baby needs anything.

1.30 AM
Billy asleep again. Now back in bed, snuggled beside Mark, warm and safe under his arm. Mmm, still love to watch him sleep. After peeking into (and crying over) Mark’s diary, tucked it beneath my arm and went into the nursery to make sure he was managing with Billy. Heard his voice as I approached, murmuring something to the baby. Paused in the doorway, eyes filling with tears as I took in the sight of my husband, seated in the rocker with Billy nestled against his chest. A book lay open in his lap-the book Dad gave us today, and I brushed away tears as I listened to the gentle rhythm of his voice as he read.
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
or walk with kings-nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
if all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
and-which is more-you’ll be a man, my son!”

“If we keep this going,” I said, “he’ll grow up to be a Kipling scholar.”
Raising his eyes from the page, Mark’s gaze met mine, and he smiled. “Did we wake you?”
“I thought I’d just look in and see how you boys were getting on. Everything okay?”
Mark nodded. “We’re fine here.”
Crossing the room, I sat down beside him and bent to kiss the baby’s forehead. “He seems quiet now.”
“I tried everything I could think of, and then--” Mark gestured to the book. “I don’t know why I thought it would work, but I was desperate.”
“Interesting selection,” I observed.
“I’d hoped he wouldn’t wake you,” said Mark, draping an arm across my shoulders.
“It’s all right. I thought about going back to bed, but I was distracted by some interesting reading material myself.” Withdrew the diary, and Mark studied it for several moments before giving a resigned shrug.
“I wondered how long it might take you to find that.”
Surprised at his nonchalance, I arched a brow. “You’re not upset? I mean, Mark, there are feelings in here. Actual emotions.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Bridget, I’m not an automaton.”
I laughed. “No, but this is-I mean, it’s terribly sweet, but it’s-I don’t know-a bit unlike you.”
One corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. “It’s only a diary.”
“But this, Mark Darcy,” I declared, leaning in to kiss him, “is most certainly not full of crap.”
“I would have to agree with you,” murmured Mark, brushing his thumb across my cheek.
V comforting, in a way, to know that mark has been just as nervous about being a parent as I’ve been-not that I didn’t think he was, but think he really did his best to conceal it from me. Stupid really, but can’t fault him, exactly, as only doing it to give me less of a burden to carry. AS much as his insistence on taking all of that weight on his own shoulders irritates me, it’s also one of the things I love most about Mark. And from what I’ve seen thus far, I do think he’s going to be a fantastic dad. I think we’ve both been getting on tolerably, actually; nearly a month, and the baby’s not been left in a shop. Excellent start.

fic, romance, mark darcy, what if, bridget jones's diary

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