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Mark got home from work late one day in December to find Bridget sitting on the floor of his office, surrounded by toys and wrapping paper with her head in her hands. She wasn't crying, but her frustration was obvious from the way her fingers were snarled in her hair. Tape, ribbon and wrapping paper shreds were strewn around her in disarray, and what appeared to be Will’s Christmas gifts were in neat piles next to the mayhem.
“Bridget, what's wrong?” Mark had asked as he entered the office. Bridget's head snapped up, leaving her hair mussed and her face in a pout.
“I hate wrapping. I'm awful at it, and I wanted Will’s first Christmas to be magical. Plus, your mum and dad are coming down for Christmas Eve and I wanted all the presents under the tree to look picturesque and impressive, but so far they just look bloody awful.”
Mark gave her a sympathetic smile and sat down on the floor next to her. He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek, smoothing her crazy hair down with the palm of his hand. Despite her exasperation, Mark knew she was telling the truth--she was bloody awful at wrapping gifts. He couldn't forget their first official Christmas together. He had showed up to her flat with his present for her--a beautiful, blue cashmere sweater that matched the blue of her eyes--wrapped crisply and neatly in red and green paper.
Mark’s meticulous eye for detail and need for perfection had led him to become quite accomplished as a present wrapper--his corners were always sharp, and there was never an excessive overhang of paper. He had even gotten quite good at curling the ribbon that he had placed on top of her gift. He remembered the way Bridget's eyes had lit up when she saw it--she had been convinced that he had gotten it wrapped at the store, and it took him having to wrap a box of tissues in front of her to convince her otherwise.
Her present, on the other hand, had been a sloppy mess. She had gotten him a beautiful monogrammed martini kit, complete with a silver shaker and a bottle of very expensive vermouth. The only problem was that instead of putting all of the pieces into a box, Bridget had attempted to wrap each piece individually, which resulted in multiple lumpy packages. None of them had ribbon on them, and several had big white patches against the colors of the paper where Bridget had clearly tried to rip the tape off and reapply it. Some had gaping holes in them, where Mark could see what was inside without even peeking.
The worst part of the whole thing was that Bridget had clearly been proud of her work. She had grinned at him with pride, sweeping her hand towards the pile and eagerly saying, “Don't rip into them all at once!” Mark had smiled back at her, fighting down his urge to comment on her shoddy wrapping job, and had gently opened each gift as if it were wrapped in rice paper. He had placed each piece of snowman paper into a neat pile next to him as he opened the pieces, while Bridget had ripped into Mark’s meticulous wrap job with explosive force. More than once, Mark had grimaced at how unceremoniously she had opened his gift.
Throughout the years, Mark started to be more honest about his impressions of Bridget's wrapping skills. At first, Bridget would pout and passive aggressively ignore him, but eventually she had to agree. It wasn't a hard thing to realize when Christmas after Christmas she saw her presents next to Mark’s. Mark’s gifts were always sharp, clean and immaculate, whereas hers...weren't.
One Christmas she put his things into a gift bag to avoid wrapping paper altogether, but had forgotten the tissue paper. She later admitted to Mark that she hasn't realized it until an hour before they were supposed to exchange gifts, and the newspaper she had decided to use in the tissue paper’s place actually wasn't a “cool, eco-chic option” like she had told him originally. It eventually got to a point where Mark gently suggested she forgo wrapping his gifts entirely, to which Bridget scoffed in offense. She had, however, opted to just have a professional do it every Christmas instead.
But now they were approaching their son’s first Christmas, and Mark could kick himself for not realizing sooner that she'd want to be an exceptional mother and wrap all of “Santa’s” gifts herself. He looked at her now with sympathy in his eyes.
“I'm sorry you're having trouble, my love,” he said, giving her knee an affectionate squeeze.
Bridget gave him a pathetic look, then busied herself with picking a rather long piece of tape off of the track bottoms she was wearing. He didn't even bother asking how she had gotten tape on her pants--instead, he grabbed both of her hands and stood up. She followed suit, and Mark wrapped his arms around her. He felt her bury her face into his chest, and Mark leaned his face forward to pepper the top of her head with gentle kisses. She let out a groan, clearly still upset.
“Would you like it if I wrapped them for you?” Mark murmured into her hair.
Bridget pulled back and looked up at him, hope sparkling in the blue of her eyes. “Oh, Mark, would you?” she breathed, clasping her hands under her chin.
Mark chuckled and nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Oh, you're wonderful, Mark! Absolutely wonderful!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Bridget sat back down on the floor and patted the empty space next to her. Mark slid the cufflinks out of his cuffs, stowing them in his breast pocket, and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He undid the top button of his shirt as he sat down next to Bridget, and loosened his tie with one hand. When he looked over at Bridget, she was smiling fondly at him.
“What are you smiling about?” Mark asked.
“Watching you undo yourself like that reminds me of when you used to come to my flat after work and help me cook dinner. You remember, when we were first dating? I knew you always meant business when the sleeves went up and the tie came loose.”
It was now Mark’s turn to smile at her, pleased with the memories Bridget kept of him. “I do mean business. So let's get cracking.” The first present Bridget handed Mark was a box of hand-carved wooden blocks. He squinted at it, sizing it up and mentally making note of how much paper he would need, as he said, “Grab my glasses from the desk?” Bridget stood up, grabbed the glasses off of the desk and handed them to Mark. He thanked her as he slid them onto his face, finding relief in the clarity that they provided. “So, which paper is for Will?” Mark continued, looking at the scattered rolls around the room.
Bridget picked up a red and white candy-striped paper and held it out to him. “I figured I’d keep it neutral for his first Christmas. I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time before we’re wrapping things in trucks and dinosaurs.”
“Hopefully dinosaurs more so than trucks. Mechanics aren’t my strong suit,” Mark replied. Bridget rolled her eyes before smiling.
Mark deftly took the roll of paper from Bridget and began wrapping the gift at hand. He could see Bridget watching him with awestruck admiration as his elegant hands flew over the paper, scissors flashing in the process and tape quickly and expertly holding the wrap job together. By the time he had finished, the corners of the package were sharp, crisp, and perfect.
“Hand me that green ribbon, will you?” he said, gesturing to a spool of sparkly green ribbon. Bridget silently handed it to him, her eyes wide with wonder. Mark pulled a long piece off of the spool, confidently snipped it from the rest, and began to criss-cross it around the package with the expertise of a baker. He tied it near the top, and said, “Finger, please,” to which Bridget obliged. She placed her finger on the loop to keep it from slipping, and Mark quickly transformed the sloppy ends of the ribbon into a beautiful sparkly bow.
“How in bloody hell do you do that?” Bridget breathed, gently taking the package from Mark to inspect it more closely.
Mark shrugged, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back on his palms. “Practice,” he stated. Bridget shot him a look before placing the package down as if it were made of glass. “What’s next?” Mark prompted, looking around at the stacks of toys Bridget had piled into his office.
Bridget placed her point finger against her lip in thought, then handed Mark a stuffed dog. It was a dalmatian with an adorably cute pink tongue sticking out of its mouth, and when you squeezed it, the dog began to bark as its ears flopped up and down. “How about this?” she asked.
Mark frowned at the stuffed dog in his hand--it wasn’t in a box. It was just... there . “Bridget,” he began, turning the dog over in his hands. “How in the hell am I supposed to wrap a stuffed animal? With no box?”
Bridget shrugged--much like Mark had smugly done to her a few moments earlier--and said, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She stifled a yawn and stood up. Leaning over to place a kiss on the crown of Mark’s head, right where his hair was starting to thin, she said, “I’m knackered. Don’t stay up too late--and thanks again for offering to do this. You’re a lifesaver.” With that, she shuffled out of the office, quietly closing the door behind her.
Gobsmacked, Mark look around him at the piles of stuff surrounding him. Squeaky teething toys, stacking rings, a large stuffed car that Will could physically sit in, a rocking horse, books with stuffed animals hanging off of them...there was virtually not a box to be found. Mostly everything Bridget had bought for their son was lumpy and misshapen, and Mark had absolutely no idea how to tackle it. He scrubbed a hand across his chin, already kicking himself for not predicting this. He knew Bridget had a penchant for bizarre gifts, which usually meant their lack of box was touted as “eco-friendly”. Mark, on the other hand, went for practical--if it wasn’t in a box, he wasn’t interested.
Succumbing to his fate, Mark picked up the most angular gift he could find--a tiny piano that tinkled when his hand ran across the keys. He took a deep breath and grabbed the roll of wrapping paper. Logistically, it took Mark several moments to figure out how to tackle the task at hand. He eventually settled on cutting large panels of wrapping paper and gently taping them to each side of the piano, making sure that the seams of each panel meticulously lined up and that the tape wasn’t visible. The keys were the hardest part, due to the movement of them when Mark went to press down on the tape, but he eventually figured it out, holding his breath the entire time. Once the piano was sufficiently covered in paper, he leaned back to admire his work. It wasn’t necessarily his best wrap job, but it definitely wasn’t awful.
Spurred on by his success, Mark looked around him. He grabbed a wooden camera off of the pile and turned it over in his hands. The angles of the camera would work nicely, he thought, despite the knobbly pseudo-lens that jutted out of the front of it. If I can wrap a bloody piano, I can wrap anything, he thought to himself. He dove back into his routine, creasing the corners and paneling the wrapping paper to accomodate the lens. This time he was even able to tie a fancy bow around the camera, a smug smile crossing his lips.
It wasn’t going to be easy, but Mark was confident that he could get these gifts wrapped, even if it killed him.
The next morning, Bridget woke up feeling incredibly rested, but was surprised to find an empty bed. This wasn’t out of the norm, though--Mark sometimes slipped out of bed before her on the weekends to put on a pot of coffee and assemble some kind of breakfast for his family. Bridget’s job on these mornings was to rustle Will from his crib and bring him downstairs to greet Mark. She slipped out of bed and went over to Will’s nursery, where he was already waiting for her. He had pulled himself up on the crib bars and was standing up, a huge grin plastered across his face.
“Good morning, my beautiful boy,” she cooed, leaning over to give him a kiss on the forehead. He eagerly lifted his arms up to her, and Bridget scooped him up to give him more kisses on his cheeks and to plant one snugly in the fat roll of his neck. Will let out a delicious giggle, and Bridget’s heart ached with love. “Let’s head downstairs and find Daddy,” she said to him. She grabbed his little hand and tangoed out of the nursery, giving a little spin that caused Will to laugh with joy.
Once downstairs, Bridget was surprised to find that Mark hadn’t started breakfast. In fact, he was nowhere to be found in the kitchen. She padded around the table and peeked into the powder room, but he wasn’t there either. “Hmm,” she thrummed, looking down at her son. “It looks like Daddy has gone AWOL.” Part of her felt guilty for leaving him the night before with the mound of gifts to wrap by himself, but she knew how capable he was to do the job. She, however, would have made a complete mess of it. “Let’s go check the living room,” she continued, hoisting her son up higher on her hip.
As Bridget made her way down the hallway to the living room, her ears were met with a deep, loud rumble that she was entirely too accustomed to. Rounding the corner, she found that she had been correct--the rumble was coming from Mark. Bridget found all 6-feet, 2-inches of him sprawled out on the couch, barely covered by the turquoise blanket they cuddled under during family movie nights. His face was uncomfortably smashed against one of the throw pillows, causing his hair to do crazy things and his cheek to be pushed up, leaving his mouth slack. One arm fell over the side of the couch and his long, elegant fingers were still holding onto his glasses, while his two feet stuck out over the arm of the couch. He was still essentially completely dressed from the night before--Bridget could see that he had taken off his tie, but his button-down was rumpled and the sleeves he had rolled up had come undone and hung loosely around his wrists. She could also see his trousers were still on, and one pant leg was scrunched up so high that a bit of calf was showing between the cuff and the sock that he had neglected to get rid of.
Bridget couldn’t suppress the smirk that spread across her face when she looked down at her slumbering husband. She looked around her, trying to figure out why in the world he hadn’t come to bed the night before, and the answer became evident when she looked towards the Christmas tree. Underneath, Mark had laid all of Will’s gifts. They were wrapped beautifully, all different shapes and sizes, and Mark had really outdone himself with the bows. Gaping at his handiwork, Bridget couldn’t believe what an incredible job Mark had done. No part of her had doubted him, but the bewildered look of panic on his face before she went to bed hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Holy fuck,” she whispered to herself, her eyes the size of saucers. Gently, Bridget placed Will on the floor to pad across the room to where the presents lay. Even the stuffed toys were wrapped in a way that made them look crisp and neat, not rumpled and misshapen. Some presents had big, frothy bows of ribbon on top of them, and others had small little knots that exploded into a waterfall of curls. She gently ran a finger over the top of what she assumed was the toy piano she had bought for Will--she couldn’t get over how closely Mark had placed the seams of the panels of paper. He truly was a master at what he put his mind to.
Behind her, Bridget heard Mark let out a groan, and she quickly turned around. Will had managed to scoot himself across the floor to where Mark was, and was now standing on wobbly legs next to Mark’s face. One hand clung to the cushion of the pillow, and the other was grabbing at Mark’s nose, which was causing him to stir. “ Shit,” Bridget whispered as she crossed the floor in two steps. She quickly scooped Will up before he could disturb Mark any further, but the damage had been done. Mark rolled over onto his back and looked up at her through bleary eyes.
“Hello, darling,” she whispered, trying incredibly hard to ease Mark’s entry into consciousness with the softest of touches.
Mark closed one eye, squinting at her through the other with clear exhaustion. “Morning,” he replied. His voice was raspy from sleep, and she watched him stretch his body out like a cat after a nap. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Mark motioned for her to sit next to him. Bridget took heed and plopped onto the couch, which allowed her the opportunity to lean over and plant a kiss against his stubbly cheek. Mark leaned into the kiss, and she could feel him smiling against her lips. By this point, Will was beside himself with want--he was reaching out to Mark with both arms, making small grunting noises as his little fingers flexed hungrily. Mark immediately scooped him up and lifted him up over his head. When he brought Will back down towards his face, he peppered Will’s face with kisses and Will giggled as he grabbed again at Mark’s nose.
“Mark,” Bridget said as Mark settled Will against his chest, “how late were you up doing all of this? It looks amazing.”
Mark pressed another kiss against Will’s temple before turning towards Bridget. “Not sure...three o’clock, maybe? Once I finished I figured I’d just bring them all down here--didn’t see a point in not finishing the job. I was so knackered though that I guess I fell asleep on the couch.”
Bridget put a hand on his knee and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “You’re out of your mind,” she murmured.
He smiled at her before leaning in to give her a proper kiss on the lips. “I’ve been out of mind for the better part of sixteen years now, thanks to you,” he replied. Bridget narrowed her eyes and gave him a pout, but she couldn’t deny it. Mark was a man of resilience and strength, and he handled all of her muddled insanity with grace and dignity.
“Hand him over and head up to bed. You can get at least an hour’s worth of decent sleep while I get breakfast ready. How do omelettes and bacon sound?”
“That sounds amazing, on all accounts. Are you sure you’ve got it?”
Bridget gave him a playful shove in the shoulder before taking Will out of his hands. “Shut up,” she said. Mark grinned at her and she continued, “I’m serious. Go. Now.”
Mark kissed her on the cheek and stood up, looking even more discombobulated and rumpled now that he was vertical. Bridget laughed out loud and Mark looked back at her.
“What?”
“You look like an absolute mess. Your cowlick is out of control and I don’t think I’ve ever seen your trousers that wrinkled.”
Mark shot her a look and shuffled towards the staircase without a word. He’d have time to retort once he was restored to full snark level...but for now, his pillow was calling his name.