Chapter Text
Harry glances impatiently at his clock and wonders what could be holding up his cab for this long. He’s been waiting for ten minutes, going on fifteen, and there is only so much time one can spend loitering outside a Waitrose before it’s classified as suspicious, even if he does look like the sort of bloke who’d shop there. He watches a family of four emerge, one of the children screaming their head off and he’s just about certain his eardrums have ruptured, when he hears someone say, “Oof, Mark, there you are,” as she’s pushing a baby on him.
“Sorry I’m running late. William spit up on himself twice,” the woman says and Harry notes she’s out of breath like she’s run here, half her makeup done in a hurry and her dress is bunched up on one side, though her coat hides it well. What computes next is that she called him Mark, which narrows the cause of the spiel down considerably.
“I only just arrived,” he says, not quite playing along, but not correcting her on his identity either.
This, he decides, has to be Bridget Jones. She is all his mother would talk about the last time he popped down to the estate for tea between missions. Beyond that he only remembers her vaguely from a summer in his childhood, when he’d broken his leg and he’d watched her run around the garden with Mark from confines of the upstairs study. She’s entirely different now of course, although her hair still seems to be sticking out at the same angles now as she’s wiping snot off her son’s face.
William , Mark and Bridget’s son, Harry’s nephew. He hasn’t seen him before, couldn’t make it to the hospital - horrible tragedy in Brno - or the christening, which happened to overlap with a truly miserable three week stay in Southeastern Russia, and Christmas is yet to come. Despite Harry being a complete stranger, William seems happy enough to be in his arms, even if he’s got that contemplative frown of Mark’s etched onto his face. Harry has to admit he looks exactly like him and Mark did in the old photo albums, carbon copies the whole lot of them.
Peering up at his face, Bridget says: “I didn’t know you’d gotten new reading glasses.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, new prescription.”
“They’re quite nice.”
“Are they?”
“Yeah.” She bites her lip and he wonders if this is where she notices, because he’s got a rather jarring scar unfolding underneath them, snaking across the side of his skull and curling just beneath the temple of the glasses. Unlike Mark Darcy, Harry Hart has been shot in the head before.
Bridget doesn’t seem to notice. Her phone pings and snaps her out of her thoughts, eyes moving from his face to the screen. “Fuck, Shazzer just got the roast out of the oven,” she mutters, “We’re going to be so late.”
“I’m sure she’s more interested in our company than the food,” Harry says and hopes he’s deduced right that Shazzer is a family friend from Bridget’s side.
“How do you always know what to say?” There’s an evident fondness in her voice when she asks and Harry can almost feel the love of a relationship he isn’t a part of. William makes a displeased sound in his arms like he’s finally sussed him out as an impostor.
“Yes, we’re going,” Bridget coos at the baby. “God, you’re such an impatient boy.” To Harry, or rather Mark, she says, “Did you get the wine?”
“Oh blimey, I must’ve forgotten.” Harry mightn’t be half bad an actor when he’s emulating his own twin brother, but even he can’t procure a bottle of wine out of thin air. Theatre without props , he thinks. “I can pop into the shop though,” he offers.
“No, I’ll go. I need call Shazzer anyway, and it’ll be easier without William trying to nick the phone.” She smiles at her son as she says it and he grins back instinctively.
They’re so pure in their happiness, Harry smiles too and wonders if this is what Mark’s life is like nowadays. She presses a kiss to William’s soft cheek and barely escapes having her hair trapped in his chubby fists. He closes them around the folds in Harry’s scarf instead, making some high pitched noise of glee he can’t interpret.
“Right, time for some rosé,” Bridget says as she turns away to rummage through her purse, zipping open a compartment in search of her wallet.
Harry looks up to see Mark on the other side of the street, a look of confusion turning into realisation as their eyes meet, and Harry thinks he’s in deep shit. Their mother best not hear of this. “Bridget,” he says, eager to get William out of his arms.
“One sec,” she mutters, still engrossed in the bowels of her bag. He’s about to say something in protest, when one of the handles slips from the grasp of her fingers and the contents of the purse go spilling out on the street. “Oh, shit!”
“Bridget,” he says again, more impatient this time, because he can make out the death grip Mark’s fists are wrapped in around his briefcase from all the way over here.
“Just-”
“Bridget,” Mark, the real one this time, says from behind her with that dangerous edge to his voice Harry doesn’t dare use with civilians. It has the desired effect, Bridget spinning around on her heels to look up at him, and then over to Harry.
Her eyes move from one to the other a few times, her mouth opening and closing as the words fail to form on her tongue. “Mark?” she ask eventually, looking at the right man, although she’s soon got her attention on the double holding her baby.
“It’s Harry, actually,” he introduces himself with a charming smile and holds his hand out to her as she gets to her feet.
“My brother,” Mark clarifies.
“ Twin brother,” Harry adds.
She levels him with an incredulous look. “You have a twin?”
“Obviously,” Harry interjects before Mark has the time to reply. “Pleased to meet you. And William.”
“Christ, I’m so sorry for shoving him on you like that. It’s just… you two look exactly the same.”
Another glance between the brothers. Harry thinks they haven’t done this in a long time, not properly since school.
Mark goes to say, “Well, not exactly-”
“No,” Harry agrees, “I have a scar.” He points to temple.
“And there’s the moles.”
“The moles too, but that’s really not something you’d notice when we’re fully clothed,” Harry says and Mark blushes in the fluorescent glare of Waitrose. “We’re really quite easy to confuse. We even get our clothes tailored at the same place. Although, you’ll notice Mark’s coat is charcoal, while mine is pitch black.”
“Right,” Bridget says slowly. “How come we haven’t met?”
“Harry is very busy working with a variety of international clients.”
That catches her attention. “You’re not a barrister too, are you?”
“No, I’m a tailor.”
“Ooh, so you work with scissors and fabrics and things.” She laughs nervously. “Just cutting away bits and pieces and stitching them together, I presume.”
“Something like that.” Harry smiles at her, his best diplomatic smile, the one Mark taught him years ago when they started at Eton together. “It’s really not particularly exciting compared to what my brother does. Positively saving the world in courtrooms.”
“Yes, he’s quite marvellous, isn’t he?” She brushes a hand against Mark’s back and offers him a warm smile.
That seems to make the tension in his brother’s shoulders dissipate, and he crouches down to gather Bridget’s various belongings still scattered on the pavement. “We’re actually awfully late to a dinner party,” he says pointedly.
“Oh, fuck. Shazzer is going to crucify me.”
“No she won’t.”
“I certainly hope not,” Harry says. He’s relieved to see his cab has arrived, sidling up to the edge of the pavement in wait for him. But he doesn’t offer his excuses like he’d originally intended. Instead, he steps past Bridget to open to cab door and says, “You know what, why don’t you take my cab. That way, if it helps you avoid being murdered, we can all go out for dinner sometime.”
“Harry, you really don’t have to,” Bridget says, “Besides, the rosé.”
“Bridget, no one’s going to give a damn about a bottle of wine,” Mark says as he rises to his feet with her purse in one hand and his briefcase in the other. “Let’s go already.”
“You ought to listen to Mark; he’s a smart man.”
She looks between the two of them briefly, both equally convincing, and nods. Harry returns William to his mother while Mark clambers into the back of the cab ahead of them.
“My deepest apologies to the hostess for keeping you,” Harry says, holding the door.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was nice to finally meet you,” Bridget says and William adds a shriek that may or may not be in agreement.
Beside her, Mark says, “Bridget, we’re really late.”
All Harry hears when he shuts the door is Bridget’s accusatory: “Well, excuse me. You’re the one who never told me you had a fucking twin.”
Left alone on the pavement, Harry shakes his head. Sometimes his private life is more bizarre than his profession. As if on cue - and maybe Merlin’s been stalking him through CCTV again - his glasses announce an incoming call.
“Merlin,” Harry says cheerfully.
“Why aren’t you in the taxi?”
“Ever pleasant and always straight to the point, I see. It seemed to have a more urgent use.”
“Well, you need to get your arse to HQ right this instant. There’s been a gas explosion in Rotterdam.”
“I’m en route,” Harry says and shifts his umbrella from one hand to the other as he heads towards Savile Row. “I should be there in ten.”
“Bloody well hope so. What’s keeping you anyway?”
“Just a little dinner double booking hiccup,” he says, “Nothing to worry about.”