The Good of Thorns

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 11,722
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: After so many (positive) upheavals to his life in a very short time—can young Martin take another change?
Disclaimer: A certain little boy is all mine, but the others, not so much.
Notes: The time was right to say hi to Martin again.

"If a sheep eats bushes, does it eat flowers too?"
"A sheep eats whatever it finds."
"Even a flower with thorns?"
"Even a flower with thorns."
"Then what's the good of thorns?"

—The Little Prince, Chapter 7

Chapter 1: Unexpected News

A Saturday morning in August

Half noon.

Bridget hadn't realised she'd slept so long. She hadn't meant to, surely, but she'd felt so poorly the previous night, she must have needed it.

As a light knock rapped upon the door again, it occurred to her that it was a previous round of knocking that had roused her awake in the first place. Half-coherently, she managed, "Yes, what, who is it?"

"It's me. Can I come in?"

She blinked a little, smiled, and sat up. At the door was her sweet, adorable son, Martin, whom she had grown to love more than she would have ever thought possible, even before she'd adopted him. "Hold on," she called to him. She pushed the duvet aside, then rose from the bed to slip into her dressing gown and tie it closed. "Okay, come in, sweetheart," she said, sitting again, pushing back to sit against the pillows, pulling the duvet over her legs; as she did, she registered the bed beside her was empty. Not surprising, given the hour, but it did make her wonder where he was. Mark.

The door swung slowly open, and he came in carefully, his voluminous brown curls practically proceeding him. "Oh, you're feeling okay?" he asked, confused and still concerned.

"I'm okay," she said, though she yawned halfway through. "Just a bit run down."

"I thought you were still asleep."

"I was until you knocked."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was worried you were maybe sick." After a pause, he added, "Dad's worried, too."

"Where is he?"

"He's downstairs," he said. "He's… um. He'll be here soon. I didn't want to wait."

She grinned, holding out her arm. "Come here for a snuggle." He climbed up onto the bed to sit next to her; she leaned and then gave him a big hug.

"You can tell me," she whispered. "Is he making me some tea?"

Martin thought for a moment, then nodded. "He's going to surprise you."

"I'll act surprised," she said. "Your secret's safe with me."

Martin smiled, hugging her more tightly.

"Door's already open. I can't imagine who might have done that," came Mark's voice; he was clearly amused. Martin got off of the bed just as Mark came through the door bearing a tray. "Actually, thank you. It made bringing this in a bit easier."

"Oh, what have you brought up?" Bridget asked, winking to Martin, as sat up straighter against the headboard.

"I made you some tea," he said, placing the tray over her lap. "And something to go with it."

"Oh, you're a doll," she said. The 'something' he'd brought was a plate of biscuits that looked to be made of shortbread, but had a chocolate coating on the bottom. "These look delicious." She looked up to him, the corner of her mouth hinting at a smile. "This is not the healthiest of breakfasts. I'm surprised you're bringing me this."

"I thought you deserved a treat," he said, then sat beside her and leaned to peck her cheek. Placing a hand tenderly on her gently rounded belly, he added, "You both do."

…

They hadn't been trying, but they hadn't not been trying, either.

Shortly after she'd agreed to adopt Martin—and had agreed to marry him—they had discussed the possibility of having children in the future, just to make sure they were on the same page. Fortunately, as she had suspected, her vision of a future sibling for Martin had been close to his own. But it was good to be certain.

"What do you think Martin would think of it?" Bridget had asked, more than once.

"I'm sure he'd love it," he had said, but they hadn't asked Martin, either directly or indirectly, because they didn't want him to obsess over it. And then after that, they hadn't given it much thought, since they'd continued to use preventative measures.

They'd done a civil ceremony (and then had a party) in February—no time like the present, they'd agreed—with close friends and family, in order to make Bridget's adoption of Martin that much easier. Martin had spent the entire day looking like a miniature version of his dad, beaming happily, taking his duty as ring bearer exceedingly seriously.

Mark was just as happy to not have a big to-do. After the fact, Bridget admitted that she had at first felt a bit sad about not having the big fairy-tale wedding, but ultimately had been very happy with how the day had turned out, and very relieved that she hadn't had to deal with the sort of wedding stress that her friends had dealt with.

That was not to say that she hadn't looked absolutely stunning, because the image of her from that day was one that would forever be burned in Mark's brain: a sleek ivory silk dress with very little ornamentation, the lower hem skimming her calves; the matching kitten-heel shoes; a pearl headdress to which had been affixed a soft, sheer veil; hair loose on her shoulders in a cascade of golden curls. Their wedding night had been utter bliss.

And had apparently been when certain seeds had been sown. When the bliss had gotten away from them, and they had been a bit too careless.

Late April (four months prior)

It was in the spring that they first suspected something might be up; or at least, Bridget suspected, as he would later learn. Mark had thought she'd just been run down from overworking herself, as per usual. It was Martin who told him that she'd been "puking all over the place" after he'd left for work, before Martin had left for school—which earned Martin an admonishment not to exaggerate.

"And remember what I said about that word," he reminded.

"You didn't say that, Mum did," Martin corrected, smiling a little, undoubtedly at the recollection of chanting 'puke' at the pictures.

"Fair enough. But it still stands."

"Yes, Dad."

The physician's visit (and subsequent testing) in late April revealed her suspicions to be correct. To not only be a father again, but to have that child with a woman that he loved deeply, that he knew would be as equally invested in parenting their child as he was… he was overjoyed beyond his ability to express it. In fact, she teased him (lovingly, of course) that she'd never seen him quite so speechless before. Rather than talk, he merely brought her to him for a tight, close hug, and a long, tender kiss.

After that glow passed, though, Mark had started to feel apprehensive about telling Martin. He knew that it was not reasonable for him to feel this way, but he also knew Martin well. Before Bridget had come into Martin's life with her unconditional love for him, the boy had not dealt well with change. Mark wasn't entirely sure how much better Martin would deal with it now. His son had adjusted so well to Bridget moving in, to their getting married, but these had been things Martin had been hoping for.

Martin had made it no secret that he had always wanted to know what life was like with a mum. Mark had no idea, however, what his feelings were regarding a sibling. He liked to think—he hoped—that the security that Bridget provided would help buffer any apprehension Martin might feel upon learning the news.

Mark knew the only thing to be done about it was to tell him, but they decided not to tell anyone just yet, to be on the safe side.

Mid-May (three months prior)

"Martin," said Mark almost immediately after dinner as he rose from the table. Given what they were about to tell the little boy, Mark was nervous, and it was evident in the low, moderated tones of his voice. "Come with us to the sitting room. We have something important to tell you."

"Oh?" Martin asked. Equally evident was Martin's anxiety in that one syllable, so Bridget did her best to soothe him.

"It's all right," she said, standing then crouching by where Martin still sat at the table. "It's nothing bad, and you've done nothing wrong."

"Oh, no, of course not," added Mark, seeming to realise belatedly how serious he'd sounded. "In fact, it's very, very good."

Now Martin seemed confused, and Bridget didn't blame him; his father's demeanour paired with those words were disconcerting. "Okay, I guess," he said, taking Bridget's lead and standing while she rose to her full height. "Are we going on a holiday?" he asked them as they went to the sofa. "Oh! Are we going to Disney?"

Bridget smiled as she sat. "As fun as that sounds, we unfortunately are not." Mark sat beside her and perched Martin on his lap, facing her, the better to talk to both of them without feeling intimidated.

Bridget turned to meet his eyes. They had agreed he would speak to Martin first, but Mark didn't seem to be saying anything. She prodded him gently on the arm, which seemed to prompt him, but he sounded like he was about to present an argument in court:

"The last year has been…" He faltered, and when he spoke again, his voice was decidedly softer. "Martin, our lives—yours and mine—have changed a lot since that day last spring when a certain someone read you a certain book at a certain party."

"Yeah," said Martin, looking to Bridget with a beaming smile; she marvelled at just how little actual time had passed since then. "Mum."

At last Mark offered a smile; Bridget reached to place a hand over the boy's. "Never thought that book of all books would be the one to change my life, but here we are," she said.

"I know you've been really happy," Mark continued, directed at Martin, who nodded. "I think we all have been."

"Yes," said Bridget. "We've become a pretty happy family. Don't you think?"

Martin nodded. "Yeah."

"What would you think," Mark said, "if I told you our family was going to be getting bigger?"

Martin's smile disappeared—in fact, his features went slack—and his eyes went wide. "Bigger?" he asked in a reverent whisper. "Oh! Are we going to get a puppy?"

Bridget bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing.

"I hate to disappoint you, son," Mark said, fighting a chuckle, too, "but no, not a puppy."

"A kitten?"

"It's not a pet," said Bridget gently. "How would you feel about being a big brother?"

At this question, his brows came together. "A big brother?" he echoed.

Bridget nodded. "In just a few months time, we'll be bringing home a baby."

"Oh!" Martin looked to Mark again. "Dad, are you gonna have more adoption meetings?"

"No, Martin," he said. "Mum is going to have the baby."

Bridget placed her free hand on her abdomen. "The baby's very small now, but it's there. Remember when I was—" Her gaze flicked to Mark as a smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "—puking all the time in the morning? That was because the baby was settling in. I didn't know yet that I was pregnant."

"Pregnant?" he repeated. "A baby's in your belly?"

She nodded. "I know you've seen ladies at the shops with really big bellies, right?" She mimed a full, round stomach. "That'll be me soon."

"But how did it get in there?" he asked; Mark couldn't stop his face flushing bright red. Then Martin looked horrified: there was, after all, only one way he knew of to get something into one's stomach. "Oh my gosh. Did you eat it?"

"No," Mark answered quickly.

"And how does the baby even get out?"

"Martin, suffice it to say, a full explanation—"

"It's something we'll talk about when you're a bit older," Bridget cut in before Mark could start sounding like a lawyer again. "Anyway, the 'how' doesn't matter right now. The 'why' is because parents like your dad and me… they love each other."

Martin looked a little shell-shocked, to be honest, and didn't say a word for too long.

"What do you think, Martin?" prompted Mark, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

He nodded slowly. "I like that I wouldn't be the littlest anymore," he said thoughtfully. "And maybe I can help watch like with Constance and Harry… oh, would I have to share my room, or give my cars to him?"

"No, there are enough rooms in this house to go around," Mark said. "And of course, you should always share—"

"Hello, the baby could be a girl," Bridget said, reminding them both of the alternative, as she patted her stomach again protectively. "I rather hope it is, as I won't feel quite so outnumbered." She went serious again. "I'm sure this is a surprise and a shock to you, but I really do hope you're happy, deep down inside. Because I think you'll make a really, really fantastic big brother."

Martin nodded, at last smiling broadly, popping up off of Mark's lap to throw his arms around her neck and kiss her on the cheek. Mark came closer to hug the both of them; she felt her husban's hand on the back of her head, felt his kiss on her cheek. Her relief was immense, and she knew his own was too.

"I'm so glad you're happy, Martin," he said softly. "We'll just have a bigger, happier family."

When the embrace broke after many warm moments, Mark reclined in the seat, but Martin simply reared back and looked down at her stomach. "I don't see anything. It looks the same right now."

"Yep. It's only been there a little over three months now."

"Did you ever have a baby before?"

"Nope," she said, smiling. "You're my one and only son right now."

"But did I really come out of a belly—?"

"Later," Mark said firmly. "Much later."

"Do Gran and Grandpa know?" he asked. "Or Grandma Pam or Grandpa Colin?"

"Not yet," said Mark. "We wanted to tell you first."

"Can I tell them?"

Bridget met Mark's gaze. He knew exactly what she was thinking: that she would never hear the end of it from her mother if Mark's parents learnt first, but it wasn't fair to the Darcys to be second-fiddle. "Why don't we ask them down for Sunday lunch, tell them that Martin has some big news to share?" Mark asked, winking.

Brilliant as usual, that Mark. But… "Won't they be suspicious at all the secrecy?"

"They might," he said, "but they won't care about the secrecy once they hear the news."

She couldn't help another smile. "I love you," she said, then ran her hand over Martin's unruly hair. "Both of you."

Martin grinned; Mark leaned forward again to embrace them both. "Love you too," Mark said, kissed his son on the crown of his head, and his wife on the lips.

Saturday morning, mid-August (present)

After eating the tea and biscuits, Bridget seemed to be feeling a bit better, and announced to the both of them that she'd have a nice hot shower to freshen up then would be down in a little while. Mark took that as his cue to retreat. "I'll leave you to it," he said, then placed his hand on Martin's shoulder. "Come on, I think the match is on," he said to his son.

Martin bounded out the door, and Mark turned to follow, but felt Bridget clasp his hand. He turned to her. "Thank you for that," she said.

"You're the one doing all the hard work for this baby," he said, pulling her into his arms; there was no denying that she was big enough now to come between them, at least a little bit. "Least I can do is bring you tea and biscuits."

"I appreciate every last crumb," she said. "Martin's been wonderful, too. So curious about what's going on inside me." She tightened her embrace. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You wouldn't be up the spout, for one," he teased, then drew back to kiss her before releasing the embrace. "I'd better get down there before—"

"Dad!" came Martin's voice up the stairs. "Come on! It's on!"

They both laughed low in their throats. "As I was saying," he said. "See you down there in a bit."

He heard the shower taps come on as he was midway down the staircase and he smiled. He continued down; as he got closer, he heard the match was already on. When he joined Martin at the sofa, he saw that Martin had already gotten a bowl of crisps for them and a bottle of bitter for his dad.

"I got that for you," Martin said; he held a juice box in his own hand, from which he then took a sip.

"Thank you, Martin," he said. "That was very considerate of you."

"I figured you might want it," he said.

He opened the beer. "I appreciate it."

"Well, when you take care of Mum, someone has to take care of you," Martin opined.

"We all take care of each other, don't we?" Mark added. He sat back, had a long draw off of the beer, thinking again of Bridget's bigger stomach. "We'll have to take extra care of Mum once the baby comes."

Martin looked thoughtful. "She'll have to take a lot of care of the baby."

"There are only some things she'll be able to do," he said. "But we can help with the rest."

"Hmm," he said. "She'll still take care of me, too?"

"Of course she will," Mark said. "But you're older, and there's a lot more you can do for yourself. Babies are small and pretty helpless at first."

"They can't walk or talk," Martin said, with an air of enlightenment. "I know."

"So you understand."

The action on the pitch went into high gear and the two of them were sucked in to the match; he loved that Martin had taken such an interest in the sport, and it gave them something over which to bond. Then came the half-time break, which Martin used to visit the loo. "Going to see how Mum is doing," he called to Martin. "I'll be right back, all right?"

"Okay," he called back.

When he got upstairs, he found that instead of having had a shower, she had drawn a bath, and she was floating peacefully amidst mounds of bubbles. He smiled; he could only see her face, breasts and her pregnant stomach.

She opened her eyes. "Hi."

"I bet you're nice and relaxed now," he said, sitting on the side of the bathtub.

"Mm-hm," she said, then sat up, bubbles sliding down over her body. "Thanks for this," she said. "Work's been such a bear lately. Are you enjoying the match?"

"Very much. Martin had a bitter for me and a bowl of crisps waiting for us when I went down."

She smiled broadly. "What a sweetheart."

Mark nodded, recalling their interaction downstairs, thinking of Martin's questions about the baby. "He's asking more questions about how things will be when the baby's here," he said, at her inquisitive expression. "I think that ever since it's become more obvious there's really something in there, he's curious."

"He keeps asking to touch my belly," she said. "I let him, because he asks so sweetly every time, but I told him there's really not much to feel yet." She sighed. "I'm so glad he's happy about this," she said.

"You and me both," he said. "Well, I should get back to the match before he starts calling for me again. Will you be joining us soon? Do you want a proper lunch?"

"Oh, yes, a sandwich would be lovely. Thank you."

When he went back, Martin had topped up the crisp bowl. "It's about to come back on," he said.

"I'll be there in a few," he said. "Just going to make Mum a little something more to eat, since the biscuits weren't really enough. Do you want anything?"

"No thanks." His eyes were already fixed on the screen.

He was just finishing with the final touches on her lunch when she appeared on the lower floor. "Oh, that looks marvellous," she said, putting an arm around him as he stood at the kitchen counter. "Thank you."

"Of course, darling," he said. He reciprocated the quick hug and kissed the top of her head, then handed her the plate. "Orange juice?"

"Sure."

"I'll bring it over."

Martin asked for some too, which he was happy to oblige. Such a mundane, ordinary Saturday, watching a football match with his two favourite people in all the world, but he wouldn't have traded it for all the world.

Mid-October (one month to go)

"I'm going to go mental."

It was the first day of Bridget's maternity leave, and Bridget was not at all thrilled at the prospect of sitting at home all day alone.

"You'll be fine," Mark said. "Perhaps you could take up crochet?"

She glared at him.

"It's not like it's, oh, enforced bed rest," he went on. "You can put the finishing touches on the baby's room. Oh. You can write that novel you've always wanted to do."

"I'll have to do something to make me forget that it feels like I have a boulder resting on my bladder."

At that he looked extremely sympathetic, and he reached to take her hands. "Do whatever you need to do to be comfortable," he said. "I won't be working too much longer, and I'll be home, too."

"We can go mad together," she said wryly.

She saw him off to work with a kiss, then went with him as he said goodbye to Martin, and to check on how Martin was doing preparing for school. She was surprised that he was not dressed. In fact, he was still in bed.

"Martin," Mark said, "what's going on?"

His little voice came out muffled from under his duvet. "I don't feel good," he said.

"Go on to work," she said quietly to Mark. "I'll deal with this."

Mark sat on the side, pulling back the duvet, and kissing him on the forehead. "Hope you're feeling better," he said. "I'll see you later."

"Bye, Dad," said Martin in a small voice.

Once Mark had gone, Bridget went over to the bed and sat on the edge. "What's the matter?" she asked; she placed the back of her hand against his forehead and cheek to feel for a fever, but did not find one. "Does your stomach hurt?"

After a pause, he nodded.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said, brushing his hair back with her fingers. "Let me give your school a call, and then I can… make you something to eat." She placed her hand against her lower back. "Do you think you might be well enough to go to the sofa downstairs? I don't know that I can make the trip up and down the stairs so many times with—ugh." She stopped abruptly as the baby kicked hard.

He nodded again. "Sure."

She made her way down the stairs, trailing behind Martin, who was taking the stairs two at a time. "Slow down there, buddy, or you're going to puke," she said. He did as she asked. Must not be feeling too bad, she mused.

He crawled into the sofa and pulled a blanket over himself; she, meanwhile, rang the school to excuse Martin for the day. When she was done, she went to the kitchen area, intent on making him breakfast, a nice oatmeal that would help to settle his stomach.

"Ooh, can you make eggs and sausage?" he asked.

She stopped mid-pour of the quick oats. The thought of eggs and sausage links was making her queasy, and she didn't even have a upset stomach. Was it possible that he was faking to stay home? If so… why? He had never done such a thing before in his life. "Not today," she said.

"Can I watch some cartoons?"

"Best to not get yourself all worked up when you're sick," she said.

"Promise 'll keep the volume down low," he said.

She pondered the alternative—that he might want her to read The Little Prince, and she didn't have the energy to go all of the way back to his room to get the book—so she agreed. "Very low," she said. "All right."

She switched on the kettle then found the orange marmalade, which he always liked a little on top. She poured some orange juice for him and a little for herself, then when the kettle boiled and switched itself off, she mixed up his oatmeal, added a dollop of marmalade, then brought it to him.

"Thank you," he said as she put the tray over his lap.

"Of course," she replied, then added, thinking how Mark had just been reminding Martin how to properly reply to being thanked, "you're welcome."

"Mum?" he asked, looking away from the television to her, sounding sad; she did not think he was faking that. "Do you think that you could sit with me a bit?"

"Of course," she said. "Just let me get something to eat, and I'll come right back." After a pause she said, "When we're both done, how about I sit with you on the sofa there for a snuggle?"

He smiled broadly. "Yes, please."

She came back with another bowl of oatmeal for herself, watching Martin watching the cartoons. He looked totally normal, totally happy. Back to his old self. After they both finished, he sat up, and she rested along the back of the sofa. He cuddled up to her, paying no further mind to the cartoons.

"Can I…?" he asked tentatively, his hand over her rounded belly.

"Of course, sweetheart," she said, "though I always appreciate that you ask."

He beamed a smile, then placed his palm against her. "How long 'til the baby comes out?" he asked.

"About a month," she said, then chuckled. "Actually, the due date is on our birthday. The ninth. Isn't that funny?"

Martin looked dismayed, as if he didn't find it funny in the slightest. "Oh."

She waited for him to say more, watching his features, then asked, "Is something wrong, Martin?"

After a very short hesitation, he shook his head.

"Martin, you can tell me anything, remember?"

"I know," he said, but nothing more was forthcoming. He laid his head down on her shoulder, his gaze directed at her belly still, his hand resting on he stomach. She leaned forward and kissed him on the top of his head, then rested her chin there. She was feeling a novel sensation regarding Martin: confusion and concern.

…

Lunch meetings with colleagues or potential or on-going clients were standard and routine in Mark's line of work, and this Monday was no different. Today it was with both, so that Mark might bring his client, Joseph Clint, up to speed on where things stood, and introduce him to Giles Benwick, who would be taking over the case for Mark when he went on parental leave in two weeks' time.

They had just placed their orders and were settling in with drinks when he caught the scent of a perfume he had not smelled in several years; the memories that this perfume evoked were not happy ones, as it was one that his ex-wife used to wear. Involuntarily he sat up a little straighter and began to look around for the possible source, which he knew was ridiculous as it was not an uncommon perfume, and as far as he knew, she hadn't been in London in many years.

And yet.

She turned her head ever so slightly as she passed by the table, and he knew it was her in an instant. He knew that profile, and her hair—a sleek bob—had not changed all that much since he'd last seen her. She appeared to be leaving the restaurant, with her handbag on her shoulder and a smile on her face directed towards her male companion. Once did she turn her gaze his way, but he didn't think she saw him; at least, her expression did not betray her if she did.

Mark felt paralysed in place, felt the breath catch in his throat, as he watched her disappear from sight. Not because he realised he still had feelings for her—far from it—but because the possibilities began to multiply in his mind. Notably, would she try making contact with Marin? Would she try inserting herself in his life? How would he tell Bridget without further adding to her stress?

"Mark, mate, you all right?"

He looked quickly to Giles, then to Joseph. "Yes, I'm so sorry," he said, clearing his throat and taking a long sip of his wine. He had to keep himself together and get through the meeting. "Now, what was the question?"

Giles looked at him; it was clear that he did not believe Mark, but was not about to press the matter in front of a client. "I was just wanting confirmation that the next court date is two weeks from today," Giles said.

"Yes, that is correct, and you'll be taking the reins." He turned to Joseph. "Here's where we are so far."

With this refocusing, Mark was able to get through the remainder of the lunch meeting, keeping himself on task more than adequately well. They parted ways at the conclusion, Joseph heading down the street in one direction, and Giles and Mark in the other towards the waiting car.

"Nothing wrong with Bridget, is there? The baby?"

"Oh, no, she's fine. They both are," he said with a smile. "Today's her first day of leave. She claims she's going to go stir crazy." He sighed. "I am a little worried about Martin. He seemed to be feeling unwell this morning. I should ring home to see how that turned out."

"I could see why your mind's elsewhere," said Giles, as they reached the car. "Are you sure you don't want to start your leave sooner?"

"It'll be fine," he said. He was relieved that Giles wasn't going to further press with questions. "Let's get back to chambers."

Once back in his office, Mark dialled Bridget's mobile, but got voice mail; he rang the house number, but she didn't pick that up either. He was puzzled until a few minutes later when his phone began to buzz with her return call.

"Hey," she said before he had a chance to say anything. "Martin and I were napping and I couldn't get to the phone fast enough, and foolishly, I left my mobile upstairs. Just sent him up for it. Everything okay?"

"Was about to ask the same of you," Mark said. "And Martin. I take it he stayed home?"

"He did. He said he had a sore stomach, but…" she trailed off, and in speaking again her voice had gone very quiet. "I don't think he was sick at all."

Mark drew his brows together. Was she suggesting he was feigning illness? "Why would he say he was when he wasn't?" he asked.

"Not sure," she said. "He seemed to just want me to sit with him. Which was fine; sitting was about all I was up for today." She was silent a moment more before adding, "It's going to be a very, very long month, Mark."

He thought about Giles' comment, regarding starting his leave earlier. It was starting to seem like a better and better idea. "I know, darling," he said. "I'll do whatever I can to make it easier."

"I know." She paused a moment before continuing. "Love you. See you later."

He put down the phone, and resolved to wrap up as much as he could, as soon as he could. It was one thing he could do to make it easier for her.

With that focus and determination he was able to get to the end of his work day, and it wasn't until he was on his way home that the disturbing occurrence earlier that day came rushing back to him. What he'd seen at lunch, or more precisely, whom.

He was going to have to tell Bridget. Not that he would want to keep anything from her—because he certainly didn't—but the fact was that it would be impossible for him to do so in front of Martin. He was determined to get through the evening maintaining an appearance of normalcy, and then afterwards, he could broach the subject.

"Hi, Dad!" said Martin upon his entering the downstairs sitting room where he and Bridget were watching a film together. The boy got up and went over to him as Bridget paused the film; Mark noticed it was the very first one they had ever taken him to see together.

"Hey, Martin," he said as he crouched to hug his son; he was not sure from where all of this affection was coming, but he welcomed it all the same. "Feeling better, I see?"

Martin nodded. "Lots better."

He looked over towards Bridget, who had nothing to offer but a little shrug.

"I'm glad for it," he said, rising to his full height. "And you? How are you doing, darling?"

"Pretty well, actually," she said. "Since Martin's recovered from his stomach bug, he's been taking care of me for most of the day."

Mark smiled, glancing down to Martin, who looked proud of himself. "Well done, Martin," he said. He looked to Bridget again; she looked so flat, not like her usual bubbly self. "But you're really okay?"

"I'm fine. Just tired, but after today, so much better than I have been feeling. I guess beginning my leave now was a good idea, after all."

He went to sit beside her on the sofa, near her knees. "Have some good news," he said. "I'll be starting my own leave earlier than expected, so that I can help out around here."

"Do all the stair-climbing, more like," she said with a grin, hinting towards how much better she felt. "When?"

"Not tomorrow," he said, "but Wednesday."

"Can I stay at home and take care of Mum tomorrow?" Martin asked.

"As much as I appreciate your care," she said, "you need to go to school."

"I must agree," Mark said. "You did a nice job today but she'll be able to take care of herself tomorrow."

"I am feeling better, sweetie," Bridget added. "Come here."

Martin came to sit next to her on the sofa, too, close enough to accept the hug she offered. So much preparation had been made for the baby's arrival that they had both tried very hard to make sure Martin still had their attention, too. Mark reached forward and patted Martin's shoulder.

Bridget smacked a comically loud kiss onto Martin's cheek, then pushed herself upright. Martin, giggling, stood up. "All right, I suppose we should do something about dinner, shouldn't we?" she asked as she got to her feet, bracing her lower back with her hands.

"Pasta is nice and quick," said Mark.

"I'm good at making pasta," said Martin.

"Go find the package of fettuccine," Mark said. Martin scampered towards the pantry. To Bridget he said quietly, "So you don't think he was sick?"

She shook her head. "I'm starting to think he knew I was going to be home on my own today, and wanted to be here, too," she said. "It was very sweet of him."

"But he shouldn't be faking sickness to do it," he said. "We'll have to have a little chat with him about his antics today."

She nodded. "I can talk to him, if you want, since I think he thought I needed the help."

"Sounds good."

"Found it!" cried Martin as he stood, package of pasta in hand triumphantly.

"Good job," Mark said. To Bridget he said, "Go on and sit. Martin and I can handle this."

"I have every confidence."