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Chapter Text

I pull into my parking space in front of the Leoch building in an excellent mood. It is a fine Spring morning in Boston, I have a cup of coffee and a bagel in hand, I am a branch manager of Leoch Foods Inc., well paid, well respected, and, though I say it myself, well dressed.

I walk though the front door and greet Mrs. Fitz – our cheery, redoubtable receptionist, and then step blithely into the elevator that opens the very moment I walk up to it, as if by magic.

Life is so good, it's almost too good to be true.

And so, of course, it is.

Mary Hawkins, my secretary, comes up to me the minute I get out of the elevator, saying in a low voice, "M-miss Claire? Y-you have a visitor, m-miss."

"At this time of day? Who?"

She looks instantly highly uncomfortable, "H-him." She gestures vaguely.

I wrinkle my forehead in confusion, "Him?"

"Y-yes."

"Who is "him"?"

She gestures again, "Y-you know. Him."

My eyes go wide, "Him? He has the gall to show his face around here? After last year?"

"App-parently, miss."

"You've put him in my office?"

"Y-yes miss."

I hand her my coffee and the small bag containing my bagel. "Guard these, will you Mary?"

"Yes m-miss," she smiles, and walks before me into our office space.

I give a bit of a nod to most of the folks who say hello to me from the general office area, but most of my attention is on the clear glass wall of my corner office – behind which I can see the tall, imposing figure of my visitor.

My highly, highly unwelcome visitor.

I smooth the front of my skirt suit, and shake my curls back behind my shoulders, and walk boldly into my office.

I sit down behind my desk, turn on my computer, and do most of the rest of my morning set-up routine before I let myself acknowledge him, and even then I don't say anything – choosing instead to merely stare expectantly at him.

"Weel, an' a right good mornin' tae ye as weel, Ms. Beauchamp," he says, huffily.

"What do you want, Dougal?"

"Weel now. A polite good mornin' for a start. . ."

I clench my jaw, "Good morning. What do you want?"

His eyes twinkle, slyly, "Ah yes, ye'er always a businesswoman furst, a'course, Ms. Beauchamp, how could I ha' forgotten?"

"How indeed," I say flatly, "What do you want?"

"Weel now, tha's nae small question. Y'see it's this way. . ."

He launches into an over-wordy, and clearly rehearsed spiel, so full of flattery and flowery language it would be positively indecent to repeat it, but a few key phrases do stand out.

"My nephew. . ."

"Green card. . ."

"Really, all quite legal. . . "

"It would be a shame if. . ."

"The children, you see. . ."

"An' all because of a stupid clerical error. . ."

"Wouldnae need tae be any real inconvenience tae ye at all. . ."

By this point, I've had quite enough.

"Stop, stop, Dougal. . ." I sigh, "Let me see if I'm understanding you, okay?"

He shrugs, "Go ahead."

"Your nephew needs to get married in order to continue to live and work in the U.S. Right?"

"Aye."

"And, presumably, he wants to marry a woman, yes?"

"Indeed so."

"And due to a highly unfortunate clerical error, this marriage needs to happen within the next two days."

"Ye'er three fer three."

"So. . ." I rub my temples, "The first person – the first person – you thought to ask for such a massive favour. . . was the woman who won a workplace harassment suit against you last year?"

"Aye, a'course," he nods, "Ye'er the perfect choice."

"Now see, that's where you lose me. . ."

"Agch, come on – isnae it obvious?"

"Not to me, it isn't."

"Now then, las-," he checks himself sharply as he remembers the exact terms of our court settlement, "Ms. Beauchamp," he amends, "Don't ye see? That lawsuit means ye'er the last person in the world tae be marrying wee Jamie for convenience – an' ye most ceartainly wouldnae be doin' so as a personal favour tae me!"

My lips twist into a sneer.

"Correct on both counts. So why should I? Why would I? At all?"

He takes out his phone and taps it a few times, handing it to me once he's brought up the right picture, "Heer. Tak a look."

The photo is of a tall, red-headed, shockingly handsome man, sitting on a towel at the beach, grinning ecstatically into the camera while he plays with four little girls – the two larger of which have his long red curls, while the third has long brown braids, and the smallest - heartrendingly tiny – is almost impossibly blonde. They are all grinning at the camera too, even as they clamber all over his legs and arms.

"He's a widower, y'see," says Dougal, smoothly, "He's only in this country for his job, an' he only works at his job sae he can support his girls. Think of it as doin' them a favour, no' me, aye?"

I scoff, "As if I'd ever do you a favour."

"Precisely," he nods, and takes back his phone, "Sae will ye do it?"

I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. I'm still suspicious. He hasn't yet explained what he is getting out of all of this. And I'm sure he is getting something – Dougal MacKenzie isn't the man to go to any trouble for purely altruistic reasons, let alone this much trouble.

But the thought of that smiling, caring father, and his four loving, happy girls has touched me, I must admit. Dougal always did know how to play the sob story angle. In fact, if it hadn't been for a very canny judge, he might have had my harassment case against him thrown out of court. He came within a hair's breadth of it anyway.

But thankfully, the Honourable Geillis Duncan had seen through him, right enough. Just like I can now.

But, that man, and those girls – they aren't just a sob story. They're real, and in need. In need of something I can do.

I think again of those wide, joyous smiles, and that sweet-eyed, handsome face. . .

"Give me until lunchtime to think about it."

He shrugs, nonchalantly, "Aye, fair enough."

After he leaves, I retrieve my coffee and bagel from Mary, in a towering, despicable, horrendous mood.

Chapter Text

As I walk up to the Castle Leoch location nearest my workplace, I'm not nervous.

Nope.

Instead, I'm thinking about the first time I'd heard of Castle Leoch – the day it won "Best New Themed National Restaurant Chain" from the Restaurateurs Guild Of America. I had been in-between jobs that day – had been in-between jobs for six weeks longer than I had planned to be, in fact – and such an up-and-coming business like Leoch caught my eye. No doubt they were still in the risk-taking stage of their business – the part where hiring a female with a masters degree in business management to an actual management position is not only allowed, it is encouraged.

Thankfully, my hunch had paid off for both of us, although, I'm glad now Colum had hired me to run the parent branch of Leoch Foods, rather than the Castle Leoch chain itself.

Running a restaurant chain at all has been hell the past few years. I can only imagine what running a themed restaurant has been like. . .

Probably like some unnamed circle of hell Dante never mentioned, where mariachi bands play nothing but Billy Ray Cyrus and the Baha Men on an endless loop, and the only thing to eat is Cup Noodle ramen and lime Jell-o, and the unit of currency is the word "moist". . .

I shake my head.

No. I'm not nervous AT ALL.

I told Dougal at lunch that I would not marry his nephew – not unless I could meet and speak to him first.

"And at least give him a chance to propose on his own," I'd said, "Poor fellow."

Dougal had agreed, only slightly reluctantly reserving the private dining room at the nearest Castle Leoch location for just two people tonight.

The two being me and this "wee Jamie" Dougal is so harping on. In between the bouts of lavish praise I don't believe a word of, I did manage to get him to tell me a few more facts, however.

This nephew's real name is James Fraser.

He has been a widower for two years.

His wife's name was Annalise.

What story we want to go with – how we met, how long we've been dating, why we decided to get married, all that – will be completely up to us.

After the green card interview, all deals are off – given a positive result from said interview, of course. We will then be free to annul or otherwise dissolve our marriage at any time we choose.

"Oh, and Leoch Foods will be paying any and all expenses I may incur from this scheme, Dougal. Up to and including a Vera Wang wedding dress and a honeymoon cruise to the Caribbean, should they be necessary. Are we clear?"

He had grumbled at that, but agreed.

And so, here I am, at the nearest Castle Leoch location, not being nervous.

I briefly consider going in by the service entrance, but quickly decide I want to see how the new socially distanced table layout is working. Fitting into the cultural and culinary gap between Medieval Times and Chipotle, Castle Leoch has always been far more flexible about seating arrangements than your average sit-down establishment, and far more open to delivery/no contact options than your average fast food or pickup place.

As it turns out, Scottish food travels well. Meal kits and deliveries have skyrocketed in the past two and half years, putting serious strain on our haggis supply chain for the first time since I've been working for them.

And, as it turns out, staged recreations of famous Scottish battles, including kilts, bagpipes, fake blood and real horses, make for one rip-snorter of a popular YouTube channel. In fact, I had just spoken to Angus Mhor – Castle Leoch's performances coordinator – a few days ago, to look into expanding our YouTube presence with two or three "behind the scenes" channels, featuring some of the more popular characters from the shows.

As I cross the main floor on the way to the private dining room, I see this evening's claymore wielding chieftain has just reached the climax of his performance, shouting something utterly incomprehensible in Gàidhlig before charging headlong into simulated cannon fire. The rapt audience cheers heartily – making quite a din, despite the tables being so much more widely spaced than they would regularly be.

That's good, I think to myself. We're at capacity on the ground, and with such spirited performers like that in our employ, is it any wonder Angus told me Leoch's entertainment branch currently has three separate offers to do Netflix specials?

That whole running with your eyes wide open into certain disaster thing is quite compelling, I must say.

I blink.

Oh. . . right.

Yeah.

I settle myself for a second before I go into the private dining room. There's no reason this has to be a certain disaster. No reason at all.

I fling the door open.

Jamie is pacing around near the window that looks out over the performance area, visibly almost as nervous as I definitely do not feel.

He jumps as soon as he sees me, running to my side, and extending a hand.

"Ms. Beauchamp?" he asks, almost pitifully eager, "I'm sorry, but Dougal didnae tell me your full name. . ."

I reach out to take his hand, "Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp," I say, confidently, "And I'm glad to hear Dougal has been keeping my name out of his mouth."

The energetic and almost disturbingly handsome young man in front of me blushes to nearly as dark a red as his hair, "James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser."

And then, our hands touch. Briefly, but firmly. His skin is hot and dry, but he is trembling a little bit.

I tell myself that's why I feel an electric pulse thrill through my fingers at his touch. Of course, that's it. That must be it. That must be the reason why a sweetly painful warmth jolted though my arm and has now settled in my stomach, radiating a sudden aching, a hungry neediness all the way to my toes.

"Shall we sit?" he asks, cupping my elbow, and gesturing to the table.

His words are warm honey, poured over soft, fluffy pancakes, and covered in rich, melty butter.

I trace the outline of his lips with my eyes, and wonder what his tongue would feel like, gently caressing against my own. . .

I'm suddenly having trouble breathing.

"Y-yes," I say, absently, "And order us a whisky. A large one."

He grins boyishly at that, and this time my heart stops working as well as my lungs.

Okay.

Okayokayokay. . .

Now I'm nervous.

Chapter Text

"So that's how wee Bree had ta get her first haircut," Jamie chuckles, "An' a'course none of the girls have been allowed ta have bubblegum in the house ever since."

I smile easily into my bread pudding. Jamie has turned out to be a far better storyteller than his uncle ever was, and I have highly enjoyed his many and varied tales of life with four young girls. Almost as much as I have enjoyed my meal.

Which I did like, as usual – free access to the Castle Leoch kitchens being one of my favourite perks on this job – but nothing about it was anywhere near as luscious Jamie's frankly intoxicating presence.

"Care for another dram?" he asks, gesturing with the bottle. His voice is low and smooth, full of quiet, lyrical dignity, and rich, rolling "r's".

"Mmm, please." I hold out my glass, eager for more of the mild single malt he ordered for us. I've been sipping on it throughout the meal, and it accompanied the minced beef pies, cheesy broccoli, and mashed buttered turnips excellently.

Now to see if it goes equally well with dessert. . .

The cuff of Jamie's jacket brushes the sleeve of my dress as he reaches over to pour my drink.

I pull away a little bit, and take another bite of bread pudding, desperately trying to ignore the sweet, tingly sensations spreading all over my arm from that point of contact.

Contact? What contact? We didn't even touch that time.

What on earth is wrong with me?

I've never been this aware of a man before. . .

"Weel now," he says gently, pouring his own drink, "Ye've listened very prettily ta me natter on and on about my girls, but we both ken they arenae why ye'er here-"

"Oh, but aren't they?" I interrupt, "I mean, I highly doubt being forced to move to Scotland would hurt any of you very much – so I assume your wish to stay here is for their benefit, for the most part, and therefore, my involvement – ultimately – is really only for their benefit as well, right?"

He blinks, mouth still open in the middle of a word, "Hphh, weel, I suppose tha's one way ta put it. . ." He muses, "Really it's only this clerical error, y'see," he pulls his passport out from his hip pocket and presents it to me, open to the relevant page, "Which makes it so's I cannae stay here past midnight this upcomin' Friday, unless I'm married."

"Which is nonsense," I say, sharply, "Since you're working, and well established, and your wife died in this country." I gentle my voice considerably, "May I. . . ask how?"

"The first wave of the pandemic," he sighs, voice slow and rough with the kind of grief the whole world was feeling then, "She was still low after having given birth ta Joanie eighteen months before, an' a virulent 'flu like that jus'. . . took her. There wasnae any warning, an' we didnae get ta say goodbye – no' properly. Two days in the hospital, an' no visitors allowed. . ." he trails off, lost in the bleak injustice of it.

The hollowness of his voice, and empty look in his eyes wring a sympathetic pang from my heart. The true-hearted widower, devoted to his children and the memory of lost love. . . was there any more patently romantic figure in all of Western society? I mean, other than sparkle-skinned vegetarian vampires, of course. . .

I take a sip of my whisky, and tell myself to stop being such a fool.

"I'm so sorry, Jamie. Sounds like you've had a terrible time."

"Aye, it wasnae easy there for a bit. An' what with one thing an' another after that. . ." he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, "I feel such an edjit. . ."

"Surely not. . ."

"Oh, aye – I let the girls' passports lapse, y'see. So if I'm deported, it'll be six months or so before they could join me in Scotland."

"Oh," I say, realizing, "But that's not legal Jamie – they can't separate you. That new law, wasn't this sort of thing exactly what it was all about?"

"Weel, maybe that would apply ta Sally an' Joan, but Faith an' Bree were born in Scotland, so that just adds a whole other layer ta it – an' who can say how long the official machine would take, untanglin' such a mess?"

"Surely you could tell the passport office about the clerical error – try to fix the problem in that direction, I mean. Or maybe you could apply for emergency child passports. You must be in fairly good standing overall, surely you'd qualify for those? In fact, I think families in your position automatically qualify for them now."

He sighs deeply, "Ye aren't wrong, Sassenach, but ye really hit on something when ye said I wanted ta stay here for the girls' benefit," He twirls his glass slowly, and takes a contemplative sip, "Y'see, Colum wants me back in Scotland – he's aiming ta train me up ta take his place in the company. But I don't want ta be a CEO – nor anything close. I'm happy doing what I do – it gives me time ta spend with the girls, and doesna stress me out too much." He gives me a sidelong glance, "An' since you'r you, I'll tell ye this too – Dougal has his eye on the CEO spot, an' will do jus' about anything ta keep me in this country, away from Colum."

"Ahhh, so that explains it!" I exclaim, "I was wondering why he cared so much about you."

"Mmph. He doesna. No' really," he shrugs, "But with the situation so tangled, and the deadline so close, we agreed that me getting married was much the simplest way – provided that the woman was willin', a'course."

There is a long pause. I lean back in my chair.

"And so, here we are."

"Aye. Here we are."

Silence falls again.

I think of the three relationships I've had that might be classified as romantic. Tom Christie, my highschool boyfriend, had made out with me behind the gym, and taken me out to dinner and to movies, and had taken me to the prom, but dropped me like a rotten potato the minute I refused to put out. Then there was John Grey, the first boyfriend I had in college, but he was deeply in the closet, and liked me specifically because I refused to put out. When he finally found a boyfriend, I had rebounded into the arms of Frank Randall, and spent two months feeling deliciously naughty over making out with a professor. That was until I realized he was such a deathly dull human being he actually thought inviting me to his office so we could research his family tree together made for a good date.

I was out of there the minute I realized he was being literal when he asked me to "collate some documents", not euphemistic.

I had dedicated myself to my career after that, deliberately choosing it over the traditionally expected domestic life. Of course, I never gave up my personal life - I've made lots of friends over the years, both male and female, and been on lots of dates. But since Frank, I've never been out with anyone more than once, and there's never been more than a handshake or a peck on the cheek to say goodnight. It isn't that I don't want more – it isn't that I can't handle more. It's only that no man I've ever been out with has inspired a connection deep enough to convince me more would be anything worthwhile.

I look over at the richly curling auburn hair and deeply glimmering blue eyes of the man so prosaically asking me to marry him, and a shiver runs up my spine.

I've never felt a deep connection to a man. . . until now.

"Well," I say, softly, "I'm willing."

He smiles thinly, "So, the fact that I have four children doesnae bother ye?"

"No."

And truly, it doesn't. I've always loved children. My choice not to have them up until now was personal, not ethical. Four girls sounds like a lot - no doubt it will be a lot. But, this thing I feel for Jamie. . .

Some part of me just knows - in this case, the effort will be worthwhile.

However. . .

Perhaps it's time to see if this connection I'm feeling runs both ways.

I give a mischievous smirk, and meet Jamie's eyes squarely, "Not unless it bothers you that I'm a virgin."

Chapter Text

The silence between us is long and profound.

Jamie's eyes widened at my statement, but otherwise he doesn't react. Which in itself is impressive, really. I've used my virgin state more than once to successfully frighten off certain kinds of over-interested dates – it's the perfect scare material for the sort of men who are instantly turned off when you suggest an encounter with any kind of meaning to it. Jamie though, is taking it as well as anyone ever has – merely looking at me with an unblinking disbelief that slowly morphs into confusion, and from there, into wonder.

How?

The word is written across his face, so clearly there's no need for him to speak it.

"Oh, not that I'm ignorant, of course, or anything near to it," I say cheerfully, "I'm hardly a nun. I've done everything but the deed, with more than one man, and myself, thank you very much."

He finally opens his mouth to speak, but it still takes a few seconds for his words to emerge.

"Lass, I dinnae. . . I never meant. . . I never intended – I never thought that ye. . . that we, I mean. . ." He looks around awkwardly, and then, with gentle, tentative earnestness, he puts a hand on my shoulder, "Claire. Ye've kent me less than a day. An' with the ceremony ta happen in two days at the latest, I never expected ye ta. . . Christ, Mary and God above. . ." He puts his head in his hands, "I'm making a right bollocks of this, aren't I?"

I reassuringly pat the top of his head, "No, quite the opposite, really. I'm sorry Jamie - I usually only spring that on men I want to scare off. . . But I'm glad to see you don't scare that easily."

He looks up at me, "D'ye want ta know the truth?"

"Always."

"When I asked Dougal for help finding someone, I was expecting him ta produce some sort of dry, uninteresting secretary, or a plain, passionless manager type – someone more interested in her ledgers and Leoch's stock price than in helpin' a random stranger wi' his personal troubles." He leans both elbows rather heavily on the table, "I was expecting all this ta jus' be a straightforward business proposal, with us exchanging our signatures two days from now, an' then spending just enough time together after that ta pass the green card interview in a few weeks. An' then an annulment in a month or two, wi' the whole thing forgotten by this time next year."

I nod sympathetically. That's pretty much what I had expected too. Or rather, had somehow dreaded. . .

"T'was all goin' ta be so simple, so easy. . . so. . . " he gestures vaguely, "emotionless. . ."

"So uncomplicated."

He looks at me intently, "Exactly."

My stomach clenches, "And now?"

"Now?" he huffs a laugh, "Uncomplicated went out the window the second ye walked in, Sassenach."

I give him a slightly dubious glance, "That's the second time you've called me that. I know what it means, you know. . ."

He waves a hand, half in apology, half in dismissal, "But I like the differentness of ye, Claire. Whatever Dougal was thinkin' last year, he had ta have been plain daft ta have even tried it." He leans towards me, and puts a hand down softly next to mine, "The second I saw ye I kent ye were no' ta be meddled wi' – neither yer mind, nor yer person, nor yer emotions. Ye'er special, mo nighean." He brushes his fingers up against mine, "Unique. Too good for a dry, businesslike marriage – an' far too good for a foolish auld mug like me. . ."

My stomach unclenches, and swoops dizzyingly at his touch. I desperately want to grab his hand, and slide our fingers together to a frankly obscene extent. . .

Then his words register, and I blink.

"Wait - did you really just tell me I'm not like other girls?"

"I. . . suppose I did."

"Wow," I say, grinning, "That should feel awkward. And cliché. And horribly, horribly flat."

He looks down at our still touching hands, and then back up to my eyes, "But. . . ?"

"But. . ." I run my fingertips over the ridge of his knuckles, and down the back of his hand, thrilling to the warmth of his skin, "I can't explain it. Not sure if I want to. . ." I meet his gaze, my heart leaping at how frighteningly easy it would be to get lost in those fathomless blue eyes, "I'm completely under your power, James Fraser. . . and happy to be there."

He nods, a somber look hardening on his face, and he scowls down at the table. Then he jerks himself upright, shoves his chair backwards, and is suddenly on one knee before me, gently clasping one of my hands in both of his.

"If we do this, we'er goin' ta do it right."

He fishes a plain silver ring out of the pocket of his coat, and proffers it to me, "Claire Beauchamp, will ye marry me?"

I present my left hand to him, and he slips the ring onto my third finger.

"Yes," I say simply.

We have our stories yet to settle, a wedding to plan, green card interviews to prepare for, and we have to meet each other's families, not to mention who knows how many other laborious and complicated things that may yet get in our way. . .

But now. . .

Right now. . .

I'm not quite sure how the kiss started, or which of us started it, but his mouth is warm and delicious, he smells like whisky, his hands are in my hair, my fingers are digging into his back. . . and for the briefest, most infinite of moments, the entire outside world doesn't matter.

Chapter Text

I keep my eyes closed for several long seconds after his lips leave mine, needing the space that darkness gives me, and the separation it puts between us. Desperately, I try to reconstruct at least a fragment of the woman I was before I walked into this room.

It has only been a couple of hours, but it has been at least three lifetimes too, and I've lost track of exactly who I am. . .

If I open my eyes, I'll have to speak to him.

I've never fallen in love at first sight before. I have no idea what to say.

But my arms are still wrapped around him, and he's so big and solid and warm, and his wide, dry palms are still braced behind my jaw, warming the tips of my ears. . .

The imprint of his mouth is still tingling across mine. If I licked my lips I could taste him.

Presumably, I'm going to have to say something.

And, very likely, it would be wise to say something other than "Oh god, I love you, I love you so much, I didn't know it was possible to love anyone like this, please god never stop kissing me," over and over and over – which is all I feel like saying at the moment.

Come on Beauchamp! Get it together!

If I could face down Dougal MacKenzie, a man I despise, then I can face up to Jamie Fraser, a man I definitely do not.

I take a long, slow, deep breath, and tentatively peer up at him.

And it turns out I don't have to say anything at all.

He's wearing such a soft, sweet, wondering look. The kind of look that doesn't demand answers, or any conversation, only asks that the moment be experienced.

Well. That sure is something, isn't it?

He holds my glance just as gently as his hands are cradling my head, almost like the touch of even my eyes is precious to him.

Something warm starts in my bones. Something that feels remarkably like. . . trust.

Then he rests his forehead against mine, and slides his hands down around my shoulders, holding me closer.

I lean into him, blinking slowly, as though wrapped in a hazy, blissful dream, full of fragrant flowers, swaying trees, and distant, misty sunsets. . .

All of which makes it a highly inconvenient time for me to realize that neither of us have actually said "I love you" yet. . . and that he may not in fact feel the same way I do at all.

He said I was better than a dry, businesslike marriage, and that whatever we do, we were going to do right – but he hasn't actually said that our marriage will be more than that, now, has he?

One earth-shattering kiss and a really good hug do not a relationship make. They don't even promise that there will be a relationship.

We met less than three hours ago. We know very nearly zilch about each other. And we're getting married in two days time.

My glowing dream evaporates in a burst of good, solid practicality, and I just barely manage to keep myself from dying of embarrassment.

My arms fall limply to my sides.

Right.

Where were we?

"Well," I say, with a false brightness that is all too obvious, "We have a story we need to invent, don't we?"

He looks quite confused for a second or two, poor fellow, but mercifully he lets the moment pass.

"Aye, I suppose we do."

"No 'suppose' about it – we have to come up with something thoroughly plausible." I pull my phone out of my pocket and start making notes, "How we met, why we met, why no one saw us meet, why no one has seen us together until now, how long ago that was, why we started dating, how long we've been dating-"

"Whoa, whoa, lass," he puts a light hand on my wrist, "One thing at a time, aye? An' let's start easy – is it at all likely that we met because of work?"

"I don't know – is it?"

"Weel, I ken ye'er branch manager over here. Colum is yer direct superior, aye?"

"Pretty much. Technically I answer to the board of directors, but Colum has all of them nicely tamed. Apparently I'm in good with Colum ever since I didn't badmouth the company during the lawsuit last year – but I haven't tested the connection. Mostly I just want to live a modest life and be left alone. . ."

He chuckles a bit, "I ken the words of yer wee court order, Sassenach. T'was all over the papers at the time."

I wave my notoriety away, "Never mind all that. I'm a branch manager for Leoch Foods. Okay then. So what do you do? Up until now, I didn't even know for sure you worked for Leoch. . ."

He shrugs, a bit vaguely, "I'm head meal designer over in R&D."

"Oh really?"

"Aye. I've personally developed at least fifty percent of Castle Leoch's menu, an' it was my idea we start selling meal kits when the lockdown happened."

I smile. I've made liberal use of Leoch's meal kit delivery service over the past year and a half, ever since I fell in love with their signature slow-cooked creamy chicken stew. I've only just eaten, and still my mouth waters at the thought of it. . .

It takes a minute for my brain to catch up with the rest of me.

"Oh. Oh, wait. . . so that means. . . you're Alex MacKenzie? The chef who writes all the instruction cards?"

He smiles a bit ruefully, "Aye, that's my nom de plume - or nom de cuisine, more like. Colum insisted that Leoch needed ta present a united MacKenzie front for marketing purposes." He shrugs, "I remain unconvinced it's necessary. But it's two of my middle names, so why not?"

"Why not indeed?"

"So, how did ye ken that name of mine, lass?"

"Oh, I'm one of the official in-house testers for our meal kits. And I buy them quite often too." I grin, "Your meal instructions have taught me the right way to fry an egg, and how to sear a steak, and make mashed potatoes from scratch, and poach fish, and make chicken noodle soup, and, oh! - dozens of things!"

He jerks back a little, surprised, "Christ Sassenach, ye couldnae do any of that before?"

"Well, I could open tins and heat stuff up over a campfire, and pour hot water into dehydrated food packets, of course," I shrug, "But besides making the best hot dogs and sausages, and a truly smashing cup of coffee – even if I do say so myself - that sort of cooking didn't really teach me how to do much of practical everyday value. You see, there's really no point in learning how to make a proper omelet when all you have to work with is boiling water, dehydrated eggs, milk powder, and tinned mushrooms."

His nose wrinkles in barely restrained disgust, "What were yer parents thinkin' of, Sassenach?"

I shake my head, "Not my parents – my uncle Lambert." I smile affectionately, "We all call him Lamb, though. He was an archaeologist. He took me on one of his digs almost every summer during my school years. Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Greece, Crete, even Israel – I've been all over the Ancient Near East. Mother and dad said it would be educational – and it was, of course – just not terribly classy when it came to the camp grub." I smile into the rush of fond memories, "But other than that they were beautiful experiences, and I'm glad I had them." I pause, and just let myself remember for a bit. "Lamb's retired now – and he lives with my parents, so you'll get to meet him."

"Aye. I look forward ta it."

"And you can develop a dish called 'Uncle Lamb's Stew', and I'll make it for him, and everything will be right under heaven. . ."

He smiles indulgently at me for a second, but then his expression morphs into something far more contemplative.

"Weel now, tha's an idea, isn't it?" he asks.

"What is?"

"For our story, lass. You came down ta the R&D building one night, for whatever reason, I was workin' late, an' that's how we met. I made ye my world-famous cranachan-"

"Mmm. I do love a good cranachan. . ."

"Naturally. A'course ye do - ye'er a woman of eminent good sense," he tosses his head and smiles with a highly amusing false hauteur.

I can't help but chuckle.

"Are ye laughing at me, Sassenach?" he presses a hand to his breastbone in mock offense.

"I most certainly am!" I reply.

His face sobers quickly, and his eyes gentle into something quietly earnest, "Weel. . ." he muses, "Tha's promising."

After a few seconds, I pull my eyes away, afraid that if I look at him too long, I'll find myself helplessly kissing him again.

I clear my throat, though rather unconvincingly, "Well, go on then – what happened after you made me your world-famous cranachan?"

For answer, he leans arrogantly on the table, smirks in a most unfairly attractive manner, and says in a broad, purring Scottish drawl, "An' t'rest is hestory."

And heaven help me, I almost believe it.

"We. . ." I lose my voice for a frustrating second or two, ". . .we had better be a little more specific than that. . ."

We spend the next hour or so coming up with ideas, ironing out details, making plans, booking flights, and taking full advantage of Dougal's promise to fund the entire venture.

At last, we sit back, savouring the final two nips in our bottle of whisky.

He gives a long, deep sigh, "We'ev accomplished so much in such a short time I ought ta feel accomplished Sassenach – but all I am is tired."

"Mm," I hum, and pass a hand over my eyes, "I hear that. Let's leave the rest of the heavy lifting for tomorrow, okay?"

"Ughh," he moans, "Tha' means packing. I hate packing."

I lightly swat his knee, "It's for your wedding, silly. Suck it up."

"Oh, I ken, I ken. . ." his face brightens suddenly, "Will ye help me? Tonight?"

"Jamie, I don't think-"

"Jus' with the formal clothes, a'least? I'm hopeless wi' tie pins and cufflinks an' all the vital fripperies like tha'. They need a woman's touch. . ." he looks at me pleadingly, "Please? Jus' ta get it ovar wi'?"

"Jamie. . ." I sigh tiredly, feeling myself beginning to weaken. . .

But before I can continue the thought, he gives a distinctly Scottish grunt, has finished his drink, called an Uber, slipped on his outdoor jacket, and has extended a hand to me.

"C'mon lass. Let me show ye my home, aye?"

Trembling a bit, I finish my own drink, and then, very slowly, I put my hand in his.

Chapter Text

I keep expecting the Uber ride to get awkward. Like one or the other of us will finally realize that we've shared too much between us far too fast, or that there's only the slimmest chance even half of our plans will work at all, or simply that we're two strangers in a third stranger's car, and isn't that weird?

But the awkward feelings never come, chased away by our easy, friendly chatter. We talk about food, and sports, and household chores we like and don't like, and which vegetables taste the weirdest after being frozen, and our childhood fears, and our favourite animals, and how cool it would be to live on Mars.

A tiny, distant part of my brain is utterly flabbergasted at how easy this all is. I wasn't even this friendly with Joe until that semester we both took way too many units and ended up pulling a frightening number of all-nighters at the same Starbucks together. We had known each other well enough to speak to before that, but The Semester From Hell was when we became a team. He's HQ, and I'm LJ, and together we are Double Stuff.

Don't ask me to explain – because I quite literally can't.

All I know is this – once you stay awake for 36 hours, subsisting on Fair Trade chocolate, BBQ potato chips, and green tea kombucha, shit gets weird. But, once you see someone's "awake for 36 hours" face, and decide to be friends anyway, weird is okay.

And that's how I feel with Jamie. Sure, this is weird – all of it is weird. But, with him, for some reason, weird is okay.

And then we're pulling into his driveway, and he's paying the driver, and I realize the trip went so fast I haven't even noticed my surroundings until now.

It looks like he lives in a nice part of town – with the streetlamps illuminating fences and trees and little gardens all up and down the street. Everything looks clean and quaint, and almost stereotypically American.

I smile a bit at my too staunchly ingrained British sensibilities. I was born here, but my parents raised me to be English, and nothing else. Fortunately, I had Lamb too, and I absorbed a good bit of his philosophy of scientific pragmatism as well. I usually try to go with whatever works the best in any situation, and if I turn out to be wrong, well, no harm no foul – I just alter my ideas and try again.

Jamie comes up next to me, having said a few extra words to the Uber driver, and guides me by the elbow up to his door. There is the chink and rattle of keys, and then we're standing side by side in the warm, stuffy dark of a hallway.

"Porch light s'broken," he murmurs, and shuffles his way over to a nearby table, and clicks on a little orange-shaded lamp.

In this new rush of warm light, his hair shines even more richly red than before, and with a little sigh, I lean against the wall, slightly tipsy with the thought of running my fingers through those curls, thoroughly mussing them – and then delicately brushing them back from those clear blue eyes of his, and with one fingertip tracing the line of bone above his brows, down his temple and across his cheek, to end in the little dip in the softly curved bow of his lips. . .

"Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful, Jamie?" I murmur unguardedly.

His eyes snap to mine, "No' unless they were tryin' ta. . . extort somthin' from me. . ." He comes up close to me, and gently takes my chin in his hand.

"Not even your wife?"

He clicks his tongue, "Mm. No. Y'see, Annalise was so wee – such a tiny, delicate, exquisite creature, it hardly mattered how I looked – I always seemed a great lumbering brute next ta her. . ."

He leans on the wall behind my head, slowly inching our faces closer.

"Oh?" I breathe, and slide one hand up his chest and curl my fingers around the solid joint of his shoulder, "A wonderfully big, strapping man like you – and no one has ever genuinely told you you're pretty?"

He shakes his head, so close now his nose briefly brushes mine, "An' ye'ed bettar be careful, Sassenach."

"Oh really?" I bring my other hand up, and slip it behind his neck. My fingers thrill at the touch of his clean, smooth skin, and the workings of the sinewy, heavy cords of his throat, "And why is that?"

"Ye'el. . ." he pauses, and swallows noisily, "Ye'el be givin' me a swollen head. . ."

I can feel the breath of his whispered words now – tiny puffs of warm air against my waiting lips.

"Well? There are worse things. . ."

His mouth is just sinking against mine when a loud, reproving voice rings out -

"Jamie!? Ye're home very late."

He sighs – I feel his chest heave – but he manages not to make a sound. We both turn, and a small, brassy blonde, with wide, accusing eyes has just entered the hallway from the still dark portions of the house.

"Yes Laoghaire," he says, curtly annoyed, "I said I might be. An' did I no' make it clear I preferred ta be called Mr. Fraser?"

A twisted, haughty, and creepily possessive look crosses her face, "Awright then, Mr. Fraser," she drawls suggestively, "I hardly thought ye were serious – ye still call me by my furst name, after all, an' what wi' us havin' been childhood sweethearts-"

"I was nine," he interrupts her sharply, "An' ye were five. An' I dinnae even remember the incident ye speak of myself. Miss MacKenzie."

A dark look comes into her eyes, and she just barely holds back a sneer.

Finally, she looks at me. Briefly, coldly, and altogether suspiciously.

"Sae whoo is this then?"

"This," Jamie growls, triumphantly taking my hand, "Is my fiancé."

A cascade of emotions completely overtake her, and she stands there, rooted to the spot, utterly speechless.

I admit I enjoy the sight a good deal more than I really should.

"B. . . b-but. . ." she starts, but Jamie sweeps past her into the main rooms of the house, and catches up her arm to pull her after him.

I follow, at a slightly more deliberate pace.

I see him snap on two lights, and scoop up a small paper booklet that obviously contains checks. Then, he forcefully pulls her around, and makes her face him.

"I dinnae answer ta ye in this, Miss MacKenzie," he catches her eyes and continues, very deliberately, "In this, nor in anything else."

Swiftly, he sits down at a desk, clicks a pen, and scribbles out a check. Then he pulls out his wallet and extracts a few bills. He hands them to her, along with the check, with an air of utter finality.

"Thank ye for watching the girls. I assume evarything went well?"

She takes her pay and nods, curtly, but says nothing.

"Good. There's an Uber waitin' for ye. If there's any cash left over, use it ta tip him. An' say hello ta Mrs. Fitz for us, when ye get home, will ye?"

Jamie gestures in clear, lordly dismissal.

Laoghaire's eyes tighten, her teeth grind, and she makes two fists, but then without a word she whirls, stomps out of the house, and slams the door behind her.

Chapter Text

"So, you've been breaking hearts since you were nine, have you?"

I speak lightly, and all at once the air between us is clear again.

Jamie smiles, "Nah, Laoghaire's jus' a kid. I only hired her ta babysit in the furst place as a favour ta Mrs. Fitz – she's her granddaughter, ye understand. It can be difficult ta find a proper job these days, after all."

I snort softly, "True, but that's no call to impose an unwanted crush on your employer. . ."

"Aw, ye think she has a crush?" Jamie waves his hands dismissively, "S'nothing compared ta Geneva Dunsany's."

Involuntarily, my eyes go wide.

"Geneva Dunsany? Who on earth is Geneva Dunsany?"

"My first stalker."

"Your. . . hold on. . ."

I collapse onto a convenient nearby couch, and lean my forehead in my hands.

"Okay. Let's back up a step, here. Your FIRST stalker?"

Jamie nods.

"Just how many have you had?"

"Officially? Wi' restraining orders an' all? Three."

Well now, that's a stunner, for a start.

"My god, Jamie. Three? Most people go through life without one."

He shrugs a little, "Aye, weel. Isnae my fault."

"Christ, Jamie, I didn't mean to imply it was – just. . . just. . ."

I gesture vaguely, at a loss for words.

Confidences like this. . . they aren't part of the plan. . .

"Geneva had an impregnation mania, an' fixated on me ta be the one ta father her bairns. Didnae matter how often I refused her, so we ended up in court. It wasnae how I wanted it, but. . ." he gestures ruefully, "She ended up dyin' in childbirth nine months later. Dinnae ken who the father was."

I just shake my head.

"Aye, t'was quite a distraction during the first year of college. I did well ta pass my exams that semester."

"I bet you did."

He sighs, long and deeply.

"An' then there were Jack Wolverton and Duke Sandringham. So-called leaders of my college fraternity."

I catch a note of dark bitterness in his tone, and there is a very long pause. He contemplatively taps two fingers against his thigh, as though debating how much to tell me.

"Jack's currently in Wentworth, doing life without parole for murder, an' Duke ended up in the Ardsmuir Hospital For The Criminally Insane."

I blink. Several times.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," I breathe.

"Aye," he smiles thinly, "I'm lucky ta be alive. An' doubly lucky ta be able ta only call them my stalkers, no' my rapists."

A pit opens up in my stomach, and I shiver with the horror of it, "Oh my god. Jamie!"

"Aye." He pauses again, then gives a wry half-smirk, "I didnae pass my exams that semester."

I chuckle, slightly frantically, "I certainly don't blame you. . ."

"But a'tennyrate – what's a silly crush from a distant cousin when compared ta that? I was goin' ta let the lass crush on me all she liked, jus' so long as she respected my boundaries an' took good care of the girls."

I raise my eyebrows, "Was?"

He meets my eyes earnestly, "Of course was. Now, not only has she crossed the lines I put down, she's also insulted my wife."

He stands up, and reaches out to me. It takes me a second or two to realize he not only wants me to go to him, he means me when he says 'wife', not Annalise.

I step into his arms, and lean my head on his chest. His arms go around me, strong and gentle and warm.

"An' I willnae stand for any such thing, Claire," he whispers into my hair, "No' while I'm yet alive ta prevent it."

His breath is hot against the top of my head.

"This wasn't the kind of conversation I was planning on having with you tonight, Jamie," I mutter into his jacket, "Rather the opposite, really. . ."

"I ken, I ken," he pets the back of my head soothingly, "I'll go ahead an' choose my cufflinks myself if ye'ed' rather go on home now. . ."

I look up at him, "No. Now it's the bloody principle of the thing. I'm going to pick out your cufflinks now, or die trying," I say, solemnly, even though I can't keep my lips from twitching at how ridiculously melodramatic I sound.

Jamie looks amused too, his eyes twinkling, his mouth soft and slightly open.

But before I can begin to imagine kissing him again, he's leading me up the stairs to his bedroom.

I look around me appreciatively. He's obviously not a neat freak, not by any means, but he manages to keep things livably tidy, so far as I can see. There are a few scatters of toys and clothes here and there, and a few stacks of books and magazines where they maybe shouldn't be, but everything smells nice, and I don't automatically feel the need to wash my hands after touching something. Rather a miracle in a house with four children under ten, I have to say.

The bedroom itself still shows signs of feminine occupation – fancy pictures on the walls, a delicately gilded vanity table with jars of creams and powders still in evidence, and vases of silk flowers arranged atop a pastel-painted vintage armoire – but most of the signs of actual recent use are clearly male – a towel draped over the back of a chair, socks and t-shirts tumbled carelessly into the same half-closed drawer, the bed rumpled and unmade, with a single, solitary pillow set at the exact middle of the headboard.

It's all pretty much what I expected to see. Which is comforting, in its own way.

Jamie retrieves a small carved wooden case from a shelf inside the walk-in closet, and deposits it on the corner of the bed, gesturing for me to come take a look.

"I'll need a set of cufflinks, a tie pin, a kilt pin, an' a shoulder brooch." He opens the case, "Pick whatever ye like. I'll go get my kilt, so ye can match wi' it. . ." He disappears back into the closet.

I'm surveying his admirable collection of cufflinks when he returns, and drapes the long piece of tartan cloth over the edge of the bed. "Here ye are," he says.

I immediately find the soft grays and blues appealing, in a way I find hard to describe. It looks. . . homey. Warm and inviting, and simple, without being childish.

I pick a pair of silver cufflinks set with freshwater pearls, a matching tie pin, a mother-of-pearl kilt pin, and a large silver oval shoulder brooch, engraved with Celtic knots in the shape of leaves and thistles.

When they're all laid out on the thick piece of wool, they look. . . at peace. Like they were meant to be there. I nod. Not bad.

The soft smile on Jamie's face tells me he agrees.

Slowly, his smile fades into a serious, contemplative mask. Then, he goes over to the vanity table and extracts something from the jewelry box there.

He comes back offering a hand to me, something concealed in his large fist.

"Ye'el need 'something auld', will ye no'?"

I reach out my own hand, and he puts a heavy, coiled string of pearls in my palm, which then unfolds into a long, glimmering rope of pale, creamy beauty like I've never seen before. They're baroque freshwater pearls – none of them are perfectly round – but the play of colours and light across them. . .

I've never been unduly impressed with diamonds or sapphires or the like. But these. . .

These. . .

Their thick, smooth surfaces beg to be touched, to be worshiped, and I run them through my fingers, entranced.

"Jamie. . . I. . . I couldn't possibly. They're too beautiful."

Too much the woman who came before me. Too much Annalise.

He shakes his head, as though he knows my thoughts, "No, mo nighean. They were my mother's, and her mother's before her. They are meant for my wife – whoever she may be."

With that he takes my chin in his hand, and together we finish the kiss that we had barely started before Leoghaire interrupted us.

After we finally pull apart, he hums against my cheek, "There's a guest room next door, Sassenach. Please stay. Meet the girls before we catch our plane."

I shake my head, not without regret, "No. We have a plan, Jamie, and we need to stick to it. We've already done enough tonight that goes against the plan. I'm going to meet the girls after you have had a chance to prepare them, and after I have had a chance to prepare for them. Not all at once first thing in the morning after waking up in a strange bed."

He looks mildly disappointed, but nods anyway, "Aye, ye'er right. An' ye have ta pack yer own things too, a'course."

"Yes, there is that, but I've also got a lot to arrange at the office tomorrow – there's about a billion things that need to be put on hold – and I've got to get someone to feed my cats, and I have a business lunch I can't put off, and I have to pick up that dress I ordered. . . and that's all before we meet up at the airport." I sigh heavily, and lean my head on his chest, "Adulting, am I right?"

He huffs a laugh. "Aye, ye'ev got that right. A'least let me call ye an Uber?" he asks, his phone already in his hand.

I nod yes, and tell him my home address.

A very few minutes later, he drops a kiss on my knuckles, and hands me into the back of the car as though it were a royal carriage.

I cradle the pearls in my hand all the way home.

Chapter Text

I've been in rather a wide variety of airports in my time. From Cairo, to Izmir, to Istanbul, to Rome, to London, to Los Angeles, to Boston - and there is one thing I can honestly say – mostly, they are all the same. Unpleasant little packets of land with ugly buildings all over them, filled with impatient people, food vendors with magnificently hiked prices, and far, far more noise than any reasonable Human can adequately anticipate.

But the Las Vegas airport is different in one distinct, though not entirely surprising way.

It is the only airport I've ever seen, anywhere in the world, that has more slot machines than candy kiosks. In fact, the entire airport might as well be a casino – albeit a casino with rather more uncomfortable seating than is generally standard, and rather more non-Keno related announcements over the PA than might be expected.

At 2 AM, all of this is just enough of an unexpected occurrence to make my extremely tired brain shut down entirely.

I'm unsure how Jamie gets us from the exit gate to baggage claim, and I'm even more unclear how we got from there to an Uber, and from there to our hotel, but here we are, and here I am – swathed in an enormous white duvet, plopped into the embrace of a huge leather couch, and sipping a homemade whisky hot toddy whipped up by Jamie himself. Slowly, inexorably, I begin to feel the peace of all creation, and the blessed possibility of unconsciousness finally starting to creep into my soul.

I've never been able to sleep on airplanes. And I didn't sleep much the night before. So when you consider that our flight left at 10 PM, our journey took about seven hours, and then factor in the time difference, that means. . .

That means. . .

I just barely register my empty toddy mug clunking onto the floor as I fall into the world's most blissful sleep.

When I open my eyes again, all I can see is the crisp white cotton cover of the gloriously squashy feather pillow under my head. I yawn luxuriously, and gleefully punch it out of my way, so I can look around me.

And the honeymoon suite of the Highland Glen Hotel and Casino is more than worth looking at. It is perhaps the most jaw-dropping blend of incredible luxury and thoroughly ridiculous kitsch I've ever witnessed. And yeah, that's saying something.

There are at least half a dozen full sheepskin rugs, hugely fluffy, scattered around on the dark hardwood floors. The glass-topped coffee and end tables near me are all made from deer antlers, and crammed with brass candelabras, fancy blown-glass lamps, pewter beer steins, stacks of leather-bound books, and unopened bottles of single malt. More deer antlers hang from the two-story timber-beam ceiling, the collective tangle of them supporting a few dozen tiny lamps, in chandelier fashion.

The wall behind me has been papered in the most flamboyant red and green tartan imaginable, and hung with gilt-framed scenes of hunting and fishing. In between these are huge stuffed deer heads, mounted trophy fish, whole rows of tam o' shanter caps of various tartans, and about a dozen randomly placed shelves holding brass trophy cups, shadow boxes full of hand-tied flyhooks, fancy tobacco pipes, engraved shot glasses, and small framed sepia photos of people in fishing gear holding fish, and people in hunting gear holding guns.

In front of me is an eight-foot wide gas fireplace set into a simply massive stone surround. Twelve feet wide and at least fifteen tall, this pier of stacked, seemingly uncut stones really is the center of the room, looking like nothing so much as the rubble spoil that used to come out of Lamb's more rocky excavations. Above the brass fittings of the fireplace, there are two brightly coloured fishing poles, displayed crossed like swords, and above them, three bagpipes, displayed peacock-like with their pipes fanned upright. Which would be impressive enough, but there are more fishing poles above them, and bagpipes above them, ascending in alternating rows - row upon row - all the way up the craggy wall of rocks.

To one side of this monstrosity of a fireplace surround is an enormous oval dining table, encircled with heavy, tartan upholstered chairs, and hung over with another deer antler chandelier.

And to the other side is yet more rock, this time forming a water feature that cascades down into the stone-surrounded depths of the largest in-room hot tub I've ever imagined, much less seen. I can only see half of it from here - the other half extends into the other half of the suite.

Wonderingly, I shake my head. The online photos hadn't looked anything like this – though, granted, those were of the standard rooms, not the honeymoon suite. . .

But still. . .

I mean, there's over the top, and then there's over the top.

I've only seen the first half of what is to be our home for the next three days, and already the effect is of a brass-studded, tartan-encrusted, gilt-edged, antler-bristling, stone-rubble nightmare - like the Madonna Inn, but re-imagined by Groundskeeper Willie.

And yet. . . somehow, the whole thing works. It sounds insane, but it holds together. It's madness, but it's coherent madness. It's three parts utterly ridiculous, two parts confusing, equal parts truly astonishing and deeply mortifying. . . but somehow. . .

Somehow I can't help loving it.

Well. If nothing else, that's Vegas for you. . .

I decide to embrace it.

I throw off my enfolding duvet, and go in search of some breakfast.

Shuffling around the heavy oak table, I get my first look at the second half of the room.

This side of the fireplace is just as ridiculous, with alternating rows of claymores and crossed Scottish flags decorating it up to the ceiling, but this half of the suite is truly dominated by THE BED.

I can see the capital letters in my mind as I think the words.

THE.

BED.

I've never seen a bed this big – forget King size, is there an Emperor size? And it isn't just big, it's massive. There are flipping stairs to get in and out of it, and the turned wooden posts at each corner look big enough to be sections of telephone pole. The curtains and canopy are the same gaudy red and green tartan as the wallpaper, but mercifully the four duvets folded at the foot, the clean expanse of fitted sheet, and the veritable snowdrift of pillows at the head are all crisp, perfect white.

Or rather, three folded duvets. It's quite clear now where Jamie got the things I've been napping on.

And speaking of Jamie. . .

There's a big bar and kitchenette filling the corner next to the hot tub – where I assume Jamie had made my toddy from earlier – but he isn't there now.

No, he's sitting in the bubbling, gently steaming water of the hot tub, shirtless, cradling a glass of whisky in one hand, eyes closed, his head leaned back against the stones.

He looks so wonderful sitting there, so relaxed, so perfectly free. . . and god does he look hot. Bits of me start twitching at how incredible he looks. If I thought he was beautiful before, that did not adequately prepare me for seeing his naked chest.

Pale skin, flushed with the warmth of the water, and dusted over with a dark sprinkling of deeply auburn curls, his tiny nipple buds sparkling from condensed steam, just begging to be licked. . .

I must make some kind of noise, because he blinks his eyes, and grins over at me.

"Oh good, ye'er awake. Ye'ev got ta try this wee pool, Sassenach." He groans and stretches, long and luxuriantly, like a cat.

My heart nearly stops at the sight and sound of it. Oh god, the sounds he makes!

Certain parts of me stop twitching, and start liquefying.

The Plan, Beauchamp. Remember The Plan!

Basking in the godlike noises and ogling the touchable muscles and edible skin of my soon-to-be husband isn't part of The Plan.

The Plan is we're going to get married, and move in together, and pass the Green Card interview, and be good friends to each other, and see where we are in six months.

Neither of us can deny our attraction to each other, so we agreed not to try. But The Plan says it doesn't matter if we're married or not, we are going to let our feelings develop naturally. A kiss here and there, sure. Flirting? Absolutely. Sleeping in the same bed. . . very probably can't reasonably be avoided. But no hanky-panky until we've given it some time.

Six months is time enough for this level of attraction to develop naturally, right?

Right?

So why does it feel so natural now?

"Maybe later," I grunt, voice still gravelly from sleep, "What time is it?"

He reaches over to his phone, lodged safely on a shelf in the rock a few feet away from the water.

I nearly whimper at the sight of his damp curls brushing the great, solid curves of his shoulders. . .

The Plan, Beauchamp. Keep your mind on The Plan.

"S'jus' gone ten AM, Sassenach. An' the wedding's no' until two," he puts his phone down and settles back into the water, "There's no rush."

Delayed-action adrenaline finally jolts through me.

"No rush?" I nearly squeal, "What's the matter with you? Four hours is barely enough time!"

I run my hands through my hopeless mess of curls, "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Where is my garment bag?"

He nods at the huge door in the wall behind the oval dining table, "In there."

As I leap for the door handle, his words follow me, "Mine's there too – mind ye don't mix 'em up!"

I slam the door on his great roar of a laugh, and begin to search through the bathroom, frantically preparing for my wedding day.

Chapter Text

I smile a bit as I place the last shimmering little clip into the curls now artfully piled atop my head.

Well – hopefully artfully piled. I have been in a bit of a rush this morning. . . I turn my head this way and that, studying the effect in the mirror.

I am inordinately proud of these little clips. Shaped like tiny seashells, and covered in pale turquoise rhinestones, they are my 'something borrowed' and 'something blue' all in one, and I'd only had to vaguely hint that I was going to a formal function before Mrs. Graham was practically begging me to take them.

I was next door giving her my keys, so she could take care of Adso, Rabbie and Stuart, when she'd asked me why I was going away. I've asked her to look after my cats a few times before, but never on quite such short notice, and never in the middle of the week. At the barest hint that I might be dressing up or going out, she became effusive in her generosity. She's always after me to be dating, to find a man - "Or a woman, of course, my dear, I know how things are these days." - and "settle down". I've never gone so far as telling her that I am fairly well settled in our little apartment building, and really have no need or desire to date more than I currently do, because she always follows up such a comment with a cheery - "It's all written in your hand, my dear! A long life, a loving partner, and lots of children – Fate, you know! But you'd better be about it soon, or you won't have time!" And then she always winks, and I get this weird feeling that she knows more about my future than I do.

I always shake the feeling off, though. Ridiculous. But it does add extra zest to my having got these clips from her without her knowing what I really wanted them for.

I deliberately leave a few curls free at my temple, and then hold up my little fascinator cap, so I can position it to the best advantage. It's a tiny thing, really – the main body of it no more than 5 inches across, but it's frilly and fancy and I love it. It's made from pale grey felt shaped like an abalone shell, complete with an artistic row of holes, and topped with a few ridiculously long white feathers that curl up in a crisply elegant narrow fan. At the base of these is a fluffy sphere of black down, subtly iridescent, and in front of them both is a puffy little white tulle bow that manages to imply something veil-like without being anything of the kind.

I position it just right, and pin it to my hairdo with my vintage black-pearl headed hatpin.

I glance at the screen of my phone – 12:11.

Not bad. That's a shower, a shave, my hair, my makeup, my underclothes and my cap done, all in just over two hours.

Not bad at all.

I pull on the huge fluffy bathrobe provided, and go out into the main room, by this point so thoroughly ravenous I'd even resort to eating. . .

I stop in front of the big oak table.

Oatmeal.

There is a shockingly lavish breakfast laid out before me, the main ingredient of which appears to be oatmeal.

I hate oatmeal.

"Ye'er hair is quite bonny Sassenach," Jamie says cheerily, bringing a large pot of coffee from the kitchenette to the table, "Sit in an' enjoy. Ye've got great timing – I was jus' about ta come an' tell ye I'd got it all ready."

I look down at the orange juice, toast, poached eggs, bacon, strawberry jam, butter, cream, runny honey and porridge, and my jaw drops. "You. . . made all this?"

He looks mildly offended at my surprise, "Aye. A'course I did. I'm a chef, mo nighean."

"But – we're at a hotel!"

"Aye. A hotel in Vegas tha' thinks if they put enough claymores an' bagpipes on the walls they c'n call the place Scottish." He shrugs, and pours me some coffee, "A'least Castle Leoch is a classy place."

I raise my eyebrows at that.

"Weel, classy enough," he amends, "It's themed an' all, but if ye jus' want a proper plate of haggis, neeps and tatties, and a mug of ale, ye can get it. No frills attached, no overdone cheesy tut required."

"Whereas here?" I ask, amused.

"Whereas here," he gestures disparagingly at the room-service menu, "I'm no' entirely sure I'd trust the fish and chips, let alone the rumbledethumps."

I giggle a bit. The Scots term for bubble and squeak has always made me laugh.

"So, instead of room service, you went shopping for groceries on your wedding day?"

His expression twists up into a full-face grin, "No, I had groceries delivered on my wedding day, Sassenach. Totally different thing. An' besides, I'd much rather pay a delivery boy for fresh oranges an' organic rolled oats than be taking any chances on dodgy Scotch pies and highly questionable bacon stovies."

"Oh no, not dodgy Scotch pies," I say, deadpanning.

He rolls his eyes, "Every dish has little toothpick Scottish flags in, if the pictures are anything ta go by. An' the menu actually says "eggs fried in whisky butter". He shudders, "Nevar thought I'd see the day I'd find whisky unappetizing, but. . ."

I grin, "You want to know something?"

"What's that, Sassenach?"

"I actually kind of like it here."

I sit down, and begin to spread jam on my toast, enjoying the mildly stunned look on his face.

Suddenly, he throws his head back, claps his hands, and lets out a great roar of a laugh, "Ah, ye really are something else, Sassenach." He shakes his head and smiles at me, "If ye dinnae mind it being a terribly overdone sort of Scottish Disneyland, this place isnae so bad, I suppose. But one of these days I'm goin' ta show ye the real Scottish Highlands. An' after that, this place'll be nothing but a particularly gaudy memory ta ye, I promise ye that."

I chuckle around my toast, "I did know what I was doing when I booked this place, you know. I didn't expect it to be quite this bad, but I was booking a room at a Vegas casino, Jamie – not signing us up for an international cultural tour." I take a bite of my poached egg, "As if I ever once thought this was an accurate depiction of Scotland," I scoff, "One of the tam o' shanters in the other room is of neon pink and purple tartan – even I'm fairly certain that's not traditional."

He snorts, "That's the first non-traditional piece of tut ye noticed-"

"No – it wasn't," I interrupt, "But the point is – the silly kitsch is everywhere you look around here." I sigh, and brace a hand against the table, "I work for Leoch Foods, Jamie. I know the difference between an accurate reproduction and a dumb caricature. But when it comes to dumb caricature, I find this place weirdly charming in its own way. I mean," I gesture all around us, "Vegas, am I right? It's definitely its own thing, whatever else can be said of it."

"Weel, I cannae argue wi' that, mo nighean," he takes a long drink of orange juice and changes the subject, "Ye arenae eatin' yer parritch, I see. . ."

Shit, he noticed. . .

He's a Scottish chef, Beauchamp. No duh he noticed.

I shrug uncomfortably, "I've never liked most-"

"Then I insist you try it," he says, forcefully, "My parritch isnae like most. If ye try it and dinnae like it, I'll never say a word on t'subject again, I promise ye. But jus' this once – I insist."

For a father of four, I might have expected his voice to have gone into the coaxing, pleading, condescending tones parents use with children while he says this, but no. He is conversing with me adult to adult, professional to uninitiated amateur.

It is this, much more than his insisting, that leads me to take a tentative bite or two.

He's right that it isn't like most oatmeal – the whole rolled grains have been toasted and boiled just right so that the texture is more like soft, fluffy rice than the usual thick, gloopy sludge I was expecting.

And after I add enough cream, butter, honey, and dried cranberries, I even concede that I don't object to the flavour.

"But it'll never be my favourite, Jamie, I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, "Nothin' ta be sorry for, Sassenach. I only wanted ye ta try it. My parritch is a point of pride wi' me."

I smile indulgently, "Well, you can be very proud then. You're the first person who has ever gotten me to eat more than exactly one spoonful of oatmeal in my entire life. Which means it's by far the most phenomenal oatmeal I've ever encountered, bar none. But this," I take a huge bite of bacon, "This's wha I pref'r. An hash brawns." I quickly chew and swallow, "Hash browns with cheese. And HP sauce." I hum, remembering some of my favourite breakfasts, "Mmm. And spinach and mushroom crepes on special occasions. . ."

"Point taken, Sassenach," he grins, and takes his own bite of bacon.

We finish our food in highly companionable silence.

Chapter Text

Jamie is just gulping back the last of his coffee when he takes a look at his phone.

"Mmm. Almost one. Jus' time enough fer me ta shower an' change." He gets up, pausing next to my chair, "Where d'ye want yer wee garment bag then, mo nighean?"

"On the bed," I say, finishing up my orange juice, "And thank you for breakfast. It was grand."

"Even though ye dinnae like parritch?" he digs a teasing elbow into my side.

"Oh, especially because of that," I tease back, and get up to clear the table.

"Weel, ye ken it keeps ye regular, Sassenach."

I jolt to a stop, nearly dropping the stack of dishes I'm holding, "What?"

"The dietary fiber," he says, eyes wide and innocent, "It keeps ye good'n regular. S'one reason ye English are so uptight, historically. Too many of ye'ev nevar had a good clean shite."

With this, he plants his fists in his hips, like Superman imparting some timeless wisdom of the ages.

I just manage to hold myself together long enough to tumble the dishes into the sink, but then I shamelessly collapse into helpless laughter.

"Oh. . . oh Jamie," I giggle and gasp a bit, and peer at him through streaming eyes, "What. . . oh," I bite my lip and try to get myself under control, "Oh god help me! Jamie! Dietary fiber? Really? You have to be the first straight man I've ever heard mention the stuff, let alone care how much of it is in his diet!" I laugh heartily some more, then finally sigh, and look about me, trying to track down a kleenex. I spot a whole box of them built into the side of the kitchen counter and remove one so I can dab carefully at my mascaraed eyes.

I takes a few more seconds for me to notice the silence between us.

"An' who said I was straight, then?" says Jamie, a split second before the quiet becomes uncomfortable.

My jaw drops, and now the silence is uncomfortable for entirely different reasons.

"Uhhhm. You did? When we talked about our genders and sexualities two nights ago?" I crinkle up my forehead, suddenly doubting my memory, "I mean, a lot has happened in two days, and I can't pretend to remember every word we've said, but I could swear you said cis/het/mono. . ."

"Ye ken bi is a thing, do ye no'?"

"Of course I do, Jamie – and it isn't het!"

"No – it isnae." He raises an eyebrow, "Would that be a problem for ye, then?"

My discomfort coils up in my stomach, transforming into suspicion.

"Not if you are, no. But that you didn't say – yes, it probably would be." I look at him hard, "But you aren't, are you?"

There is another small pause, but then he grins, and shakes his head, confirming my suspicion, "Nah. I'm het. But my sister Jenny is bi, and she's been after me practically m'whole life ta remember that bi-erasure is a thing."

I smile at him, all the discomfort between us relaxing back into our easy camaraderie. Jamie has mentioned his sister and brother in law and their three kids more than once in the two days I've known him.

"That it is. . ."

"Aye. It's been 'specially hard on her since she married my best mate. She's always havin' ta say ta folks - "My marrying Ian doesnae make me any less bi, ye ken". Drives her mad."

"Folks?" I say, raising an eyebrow, "Your parents, I take it?"

"Aye, she usedtae haveta tell mam. But also Ian's parents too, an' more than a few people around the village."

I nod in understanding, "My best friend from college is bi. He ended up in a het relationship too. He says it's like wearing two masks at the same time, and any group he happens to meet only acknowledging one of them. Either way, he feels cut in half a lot of the time." I shrug, "I may be het myself, but I get the frustration."

"Aye," he heaves a sigh, "Weel. . . I could stand here talking ta ye all day, Sassenach, but. . ."

I wave at him in mock fury, "Get out of here you renegade! Go! What are you doing standing around when there are things to do? Chop chop!"

He chuckles, and retreats into the bathroom.

He comes out a few seconds later with my garment bag, which he drapes gently over one side of the bed, but he doesn't speak to me while doing so. I can hear the sink running, and little puff of steam came out with him. He quickly goes back inside.

I finish clearing the table, and wash my hands before going to put on my wedding dress.

I'm drying my hands on the blue and orange tartan dishtowel when it strikes me, and not for the first time, just how remarkable this man I'm marrying really is. Even in superbly uncomfortable circumstances, I can't deny the pull between us. It's like an instinct. Like something that's always been there, recognizing its long-lost other half.

It's true I barely know him – two days ago I didn't know he existed. . .

No, no, that's not quite true.

I've known Alex Mackenzie for nearly two years. I've liked and respected him too.

But this man, whose name I've only half-known, is rapidly becoming more than half my heart.

Every hour, nearly every minute since I realized I loved him, I have wanted to say it – to shout it – to scribe it on every wall and street and solid surface for miles around – I love you. I love you, James Fraser. Forever and ever, to infinity and beyond, I love you. I love you more than space, more than time itself. . .

I don't know how I'm going to get through the next few days without saying it.

I love you.

The words echo through my mind as I unzip my garment bag.

Tenderly, I remove the pale cloud-blue satin underdress, and the lacy gray silk net overdress, and lay them out on the bed, ready for me to put on.

The satin is my 'something new'. I've had the net overdress for several years, but I've never worn it with a dress of a colour lighter than itself. Usually, I wear it with black, or dark navy blue, so the soft, pearly shimmer of the gray silk shows up to best advantage.

I slip into the pale blue satin, and twist to zip myself up. There's a floor-length mirror on the wall near the bed, and I settle my skirts in front of it, turning a bit to study how it fits me. It's just a touch tight over my hips – the waist being perhaps an inch too long before the skirt flares out, but all in all, not bad for a dress bought online less than a day ago.

Far from not bad, actually. Pretty impressive, more like.

I go over to my phone, determined to leave a 5 star review and a nice comment for the online vintage store I bought it from.

I'm just finishing doing so when a few ideas for my lists occur to me, and I scroll through my phone to add them to my notes.

I scan through the lists contemplatively. I shake my head - this will never be enough. "Lists" though. . . that's quite right. Right in the medieval sense, of course. As in lances, and the tiltyard - the place where two personalities went crashing into each other with shattering force.

I put my phone down. There's nothing I can do about that right now.

I drape the grey net over the blue satin, pleased to note the subtle shine of both is retained, and that the fine, lacy design does not at all resemble fishnet stockings – which this look sometimes can, if the colour pairings aren't right. I turn once more while I button the net around me, making sure it falls correctly into all the drapings of the satin skirt.

Satisfied, I fasten Jamie's pearl necklace around my neck, and take a step back to survey the overall effect.

I don't look like a traditional bride, that's for certain. But subtle blues and grays and pearly shimmers aren't so far out of line that I think any eyebrows will be raised.

I smile, pleased. I have always been adamant that it is incredibly stupid and wasteful to buy a wedding dress that you'll only wear once, and my plan ever since high school has been to get something like this – something I not only could wear ordinarily, but would wear, at any formal function. I've pushed myself with it a bit – I don't often go for pastels of any kind, preferring dark, elegant colours for business, and bright, flowery or geometric prints for everyday - or solid fire-engine red when I'm feeling particularly feisty. But – I make a grotesque face in the mirror - I like this too. Soft and subtle. Everything Vegas is not. Everything I am not, if I'm being honest. . .

A pang of worry slices through me. Can I do it? Do I have it in me to be enough, to be the person he - they will need me to be? I've never been a wife before. I've never been a mother before. How. . . ? How do I. . . how will I. . .

"Christ, ye'er bonny," a soft, awed voice comes from behind me.

I smile past my self-doubt, "Not Christ. Just me."

Then I turn, and see him.

Now, I have always known that the full Highland regalia is an impressive look – I've seen it look impressive on old men – and it doesn't matter how bent, crusty, ill-favoured, toothless and mostly blind they may be, the proper clothes of a proud Scot sit nobly upon them, not like armour, but like a second skin, resplendent, alive – real.

On Jamie – he being neither old nor bent, crusty, ill-favored, blind or toothless – it looks like a costume only a king would wear. Magnificent isn't even the word.

Stunning.

Unbelievable.

As I look him up and down, I notice his plaid is pinned around him with the brooch I chose, and suddenly I am part of his splendor – an equal participant in it, both the beauty, and the responsibility carried behind it.

Then, I meet his glowing blue eyes, and I everything I thought I knew evaporates into history.

We have yet to say our vows, and neither of us has even said 'I love you' out loud. But, in this moment, we are married.

In a split second it's irrevocable – done, finished. Fate has closed the book.

It's forever now. For better or worse.

"We should go, mo calman geal," he says, reverently, "The limo is waitin'."

He offers me his hand, and I take it, threading my fingers through his, needing to feel his touch.

We are in the back of the limo, more than halfway to the chapel, when the realization overtakes me, stealing into my soul like the rose-gold light of a summer dawn.

I have to hold back tears at the beauty of it. At the shining, immortal truth of it.

I no longer have any reason for self-doubt, because there's two of us now.

Chapter Text

We're third in line for this afternoon's bookings at the Happy Snappy Weddings Chapel. The waiting room is decorated in the standard billows of white tulle and drifts of pink and red roses, and yet somehow, the place smells of canned beef chili. Don't ask me how, because I'll never know.

A bell dings, and the couple in front of us are ushered into the wedding chamber, affording us a brief glimpse of what awaits us in a few minutes time.

We glance at each other, slightly disconcerted.

Jamie had been adamant - and so had I - that we not be married by an Elvis impersonator. Well, from the looks of things, a tired-eyed, bored sounding person of indeterminate age and gender will have to suffice.

And at this point, why not? Tough, tacky and tawdry - Vegas, am I right?

The bell dings again, and it's our turn. The white-painted doors open, and the ushers gesture us inside. A few seconds of the Wedding March play tinnily from some hidden speaker as we advance to the rose-bedecked alter. The waxy surfaces of the pink and red petals hardly seem real.

Perhaps they aren't.

This room smells even more strongly of canned meat, and the officiant looks even more jaded up close.

For a second, I hardly feel real myself.

The actual ceremony is brief and unremarkable. A few spoken words in front of the officiant and equally bored-looking witnesses, and the thing is done.

More memorable is the full half hour's worth of paperwork that follows, in a thoroughly depressing little olive green painted anteroom, that instead of chili, smells weirdly like burnt cinnamon. Jamie and I take turns to scan through the stunning amount of lawyer-speak before finally scribbling our signatures to all the places needed to make us legally married.

By the time we're done, I have cramps in my hand - I've never signed my name so many times in so few minutes before.

"Weel now," says Jamie, taking a deep breath of the cool, dry Vegas air as we finally re-emerge, "I think we've earnt our tea, don't ye agree? Mrs. Fraser?"

"Mmm, very much so. Mr. Fraser." I take his arm, and go up on my toes to peck him on the cheek, "Though, if that's a taste of the kind of paperwork it takes to make something legal, I'm not sure I want to know what it would take to legally change my name."

He waves a hand dismissively, "An optional extra, at best, mo nighean – a vestige of the time when wives were chattel – I'd never ask it of ye."

I smile up at him as he hands me into the back of the limo, "Has anyone ever told you what a wonderful husband you are, James Fraser?"

He holds my hand tighter for a second, and a strange look crosses his face, but other than that, he doesn't answer.

I decide not to press him.

He gets in next to me, and slips an arm around my shoulders, "So. Italian or Greek?"

"Excuse me?"

"Lunch," he chuckles, "I have reservations at two places, because I didnae ken what ye'ed be wanting after. . ." he nods at the retreating chapel, "After." He pulls out his phone, "So – Italian or Greek?"

I smile, and lean into his embrace. This was part of The Plan. I was to book our flight, choose our hotel, and plan the wedding – he was to plan the honeymoon, and book the flight home.

And now that the wedding is over. . . it's his turn to take charge.

The very thought is incredibly relaxing.

"Italian," I murmur.

"Aye." He taps things into his phone, and clicks the intercom to tell the driver where to go.

I just sit, and lean against him, surprisingly emotionally drained after such a mundane wedding.

At last he sighs, and leans back next to me, cuddling me closer. "No' ta criticize ye, Sassenach, but I'm afraid ta say we ought ta have sprung for the deluxe package at that chapel. . ."

I chuckle darkly, "That was the deluxe package."

"What!?"

"Oh yeah. Three hundred dollars extra for there to be music playing as we walked up, and fresh roses in the chapel."

"Those were real roses?"

I shrug, "Who can say?" I sigh deeply, "I'm sorry Jamie – that was NOT the quality advertised. . ."

He half smiles, "Was it legal?"

"It better be, after all that paperwork!"

"Aye, the paperwork was genuine – we both ken that well enough." He looks at me, eyes soft, a tiny smile around the corners of his mouth, "Ye'er mine, an' I'm yours. Tha's all that mattars. . ."

His hand curls around the back of my neck, and he pulls my mouth to his, completely enveloping my lips, and running his tongue along mine in a way that feels far better than I ever imagined it could.

He surfaces with a gasp, "I ken ye want ta wait 'til we ken each other better, but-"

"No," I say, hurriedly, "Kissing is part of The Plan. It's fine. It's good." I slide my hands up his lapels, and pull urgently at his collar, "It's good. Very good. . ."

"Oh, thank God," he groans, and lowers his mouth to mine again.

Very quickly, I learn just how long I can survive without oxygen. It's a surprisingly long time for someone who never learned to swim. . .

Wait a second.

He might need to know that. . .

The next time we have to stop and catch our breath, I tell him.

"I can't swim."

He stares at me, baffled.

"I never learned how to swim, Jamie." I look at him, pointedly, "You might need to know that, someday."

"Oh," he says, his voice strangely bland.

"Yeah. Oh. That's what we agreed to, isn't it? To tell each other everything we think the other might need to know? We can keep secrets if we want to, but we won't tell lies? That is The Plan, right?"

I pull out of his arms, and sit up straight, "Right?"

He doesn't say anything, instead leaning forward, and putting his head in his hands.

He takes a few very long, deep breaths.

"The last time someone told me I was a good husband was just over two years ago, Sassenach," he says, in a slow, aching voice, "An' it was Annalise, telling me I was too good a husband."

"Too good?," I gasp, "What? How. . ."

"That I was too good a husband, an' too good a man," his voice lowers to a whisper, "An' that's how I found out she was havin' an affair."

"Oh, Jamie. No. . ."

"Aye. I kent she was low an uncommon long time after Joanie was born, but I thought. . . I always thought she'd come to me, that she'd ask me for help. . ."

His hands make slow fists in his hair. I reach over and gently run a palm up and down his spine.

Very slowly, some of the tension eases out of him.

"Sally an' Joan arenae mine, Sassenach-"

"Yes they are," I interrupt.

His head snaps up, and his tortured gaze meets mine.

"Yes they are," I say, more forcefully, "If not yours, then whose? There isn't anyone who could care for or love them more, Jamie. I've only known you two days and even I know that."

A tiny bit of the pain leaves his face.

"Aye. I love them. As my own flesh and blood and bone."

"And that's all that matters."

This time, when he meets my forceful stare, there are tears clouding over the brilliant blue of his eyes.

"Aye, that's all that matters."

With that, he gathers me sharply to him, and seals his mouth over mine.

The limo driver has to make use of the intercom several times before we notice we've arrived at our restaurant.

Chapter Text

Letting Jamie's take charge of today's plans was the best idea either of us have had yet.

After a delicious lunch, he takes me to a place that specializes in indoor mini-golf. There are five courses to pick from, and we choose the "Fairy Garden Experience". We spend the next few hours putting our brightly coloured golf balls through marvelous landscapes of huge fiberglass flowers and vines, oddly coloured stones, twisted tree root arches, mushroom windmills worthy of Smurf-ville itself, and even two or three rooms lit only by black light and covered in glow-in-the-dark neons.

The whole experience is a bit like a blend of that Fern Gully movie, and that one giant mushroom level from Skyrim - only there aren't any slime villains, and not once do we get attacked by giant bugs.

Which is to say it's just a tiny bit disappointing, really. But after this morning's debacle, I'm in no mood to criticize, and in no place at all to judge.

Jamie absolutely walloped me when it comes to overall score, but he is forced to concede that I am very, very good at trick shots. I actually win a free round by making a hole in one at the last hole, but since Jamie doesn't win one too, I take my free voucher to the desk, and trade it in for twenty dollars of their arcade tokens.

"Arcade tokens, Sassenach?" he arches an eyebrow at me.

"Just you wait," I say, feeling in my bones that any place so devoted to the genuine mini-golf experience is bound to have a first-class arcade.

And I turn out to be right. The game room is enormous, lit by nothing but neon and strobe lights, and is an absolute shrine to 80's and 90's nostalgia.

Jamie's mouth twists in several directions before he leans over and murmurs, teasingly, "Bet ye a cold drink I c'n beat yer socks off at Street Fighter."

I grin ferociously, and purr, "You're on, mister wise guy."

And the long and the short of it after that is - he's been buying me a steady stream of Mike's Hard Lemonades for the past two hours now, and he still owes me at least four more.

And he's been calling me Chun Li, which I have to say, hasn't been at all bad for my ego.

I can't quite remember how we got from the arcade to the dance club we're at now, but to be fair to me - gloating is distracting work.

Jamie plunks a basket of hot wings and a plateful of deep-fried mozzarella sticks down in the middle of our table, and slides me another bottle of lemonade.

"Only three left ta go now, Sassenach," he smirks, ruefully.

I pull my chair closer to him, and slip an arm through his, "Will you ever be able to forgive me, do you think?"

"For bein' better than me at an arcade game?" he dips a cheese stick in the marinara sauce and takes a bite, "I think I'll manage ta get over it eventually." He sighs, and looks at me, eyes twinkling, "Jus' so long as ye arenae better than me at making a hollandaise sauce, I might even find it in my heart ta let bygones be bygones."

"Teach me how to make a hollandaise sauce, and we'll call it even."

"Deal."

The expression on his face is warm and sweet, and his eyes are focusing on my lips. Slowly, very slowly, his head leans closer to mine. . .

He. . . he wouldn't.

Would he?

Not in public. . .

Most of the songs up til now have been things I either don't like or don't know, but suddenly, music I recognize starts playing.

"Ooo, I love this one!" I exclaim, jumping up from our tiny table and practically skipping over to the nearby corner of dance floor.

I know it's only a temporary distraction, but good lord do I need a distraction right now. . .

High dive into frozen waves where the past comes back to life. . .

I rock my hips, and tap my heels to the beat.

Fight fear for the selfish pain, it was worth it every time.

I raise my arms, and get lost in the music. . .

Hold still right before we crash 'cause we both know how this ends. . .
A clock ticks 'til it breaks your glass and I drown in you again. . .

A deep, magnetic hum pulses through me, and somehow, piercing through all the noise and dark of the room, my eyes find Jamie's.

'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need. . .
Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why.

If I thought this music would be an escape, I was wrong.

Funny how little I want to escape now, though. . .

If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?

I can feel the touch of his eyes on me. . .

If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?

I writhe and twist, but now, I do it for no one else in the room – not even myself. Just for him. . .

Only for him. . .

Walk on through a red parade and refuse to make amends. . .
It cuts deep through our ground and makes us forget all common sense.

Our eyes meet again, and he's half out of his seat, wanting to come to me, but just barely holding himself in check.

Only my gaze holds him in place. . .

Don't speak as I try to leave 'cause we both know what we'll choose.
If you pull, then I'll push too deep and I'll fall right back to you. . .

He narrows his eyes at me, his face frozen into an emotionless mask that doesn't fool me for a second. . .

'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need
Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why. . .

But I do. I know exactly why. . .

If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?
If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?

At this point the relentless motion of the dancers around me pulls me a bit deeper onto the dance floor, as though trying to swallow me up - but I grasp at the almost physical connection between myself and my husband, and manage to lever myself back to our table, just as the song ends.

Breathless, I slide back into the seat next to him.

He hasn't stopped staring at me for what feels like several hours now.

I lower my eyes and my voice, in a deliberate attempt to be flirtatiously demure, "Did you like watching me dance, Jamie?"

My tone is light, but his answer is very sober and serious.

"We'd better be getting home, Sassenach. I've a long day planned for us tomorrow."

"Ooo, you do?" I smile, and take a long swig from my berry-flavoured lemonade, "What are we doing?"

"Mmphm," he shakes his head, "That would be telling."

"Yes! Yes it would!" I bark an incredulous laugh, "It would be telling me."

"Aye, an' tha's jus' what I'm no' goin' ta do, mo ghràidh."

"Ugh, you're such a tease!"

At that, his hot hand clasps me around my wrist, and pulls my palm to his lips. The kiss he gives it is soft, and entirely chaste, but somehow. . . intimate. Secretive. Private.

I shiver. Yes. Going home would be a very good idea right about now. . .

"No, Sassenach, a tease is ye swingin' yer fine round arse at me while ye dance. That's a tease." He puts my hand back on the table.

I trace the faux wood grain of the table's surface with a fingertip.

"So. . . you did. . . enjoy it, then? Watching me, I mean?"

He exhales, slowly, "The only fault I found in it was that ye werenae doing so while wrapped in my arms. . ."

"Dance with me, Jamie," I make a motion to get up, but he holds me firmly in my chair.

"No."

"But. . ."

"I havenae liked any of the music so far. No' enough ta dance ta it, anyway."

"Oh." I wave a hand, "Well. Make a request then."

He lifts his chin, indicating the rest of the room, "Nah. They wouldnae like what I would request. . ."

"A fig for what they would like." I say, sharply, "It's your wedding day. Make whatever outlandish request you want, give the DJ a hundred bucks if he protests, and come dance with me. . ."

Jamie huffs a laugh, and shakes his head, but he does get up and go over to the DJ's booth.

I gnaw on a few hot wings while waiting for him, suddenly wanting to escape again.

What, oh what is wrong with me?

The problem is, you know exactly what's wrong with you, Beauchamp! You are only too aware of it!

I sigh at my inner voice, wishing I could, for once, get her to shut up.

Except that's part of the problem too, isn't it Beauchamp? You want to shout it, don't you? You'd like to stand here, in this club, and scream to anyone near enough to hear - "Jamie Fraser is mine mine mine!" - wouldn't you? So far from not wanting him to kiss you in public, you're afraid you wouldn't be able to stop at a kiss, aren't you? Aren't you?

Oh, shut up, voice in my head. . .

"And now, a very special tune, from one lad to his lassie, on a very special day. . ." The DJ's voice booms throughout the club, and at once sweet, melodic violins start playing over the speakers.

Not everyone clears the dance floor either. In fact, six or seven couples immediately start waltzing.

Say, it's only a paper moon,
Sailing over a cardboard sea.
But it wouldn't be make-believe,
If you believed in me. . .

A hand appears next to my elbow. I look up.

"May I have this dance, Sassenach?" Jamie asks, conspiratorially.

I put my hand in his, appreciating how clever he's being. Let the first verse play before we even take the floor, and it won't be immediately obvious who the requester was.

Of course, the full Highland costume might clue some people in to who the "lad and lassie" are, but he's being subtle. Thoughtful. Ingenious.

Incredibly attractive. . .

He slots one of my hands into his, settles his other hand on the swell of my hip, and with a few steps to find our pace, we're away. . .

Yes, it's only a canvas sky,
Hanging over a muslin tree.
But it wouldn't be make-believe,
If you believed in me.

His eyes are twin pools of deep, cool water, just waiting for me to dive into them, and in this moment, blithe, carefree, I do. . .

Without your love,
It's a honky-tonk parade.
Without your love,
It's a melody played in a penny arcade.

The frightening part about James Fraser isn't that I'm now married to a man I barely know and only met three days ago. No. The scary part is that when I look inside myself, I find him, already there. As if he's been a part of me since I was born.

It's a Barnum and Bailey world -
Just as phony as it can be. . .

We're always told how wonderful it will be when we find our soul mates.

But we're never told that they will hold a mirror up to our very selves, showing up all the flaws as well as features, turning us inside out at the same time they make us whole. . .

But it wouldn't be make-believe,
If you believed in me.

The violins go on a little while longer, and then die away.

Everyone claps politely, before going back to their usual hard, thumping dance beats.

Without another word, Jamie escorts me out to the limo, and tells the driver to take us back to our hotel.

Chapter Text

I sit, half sprawled, on our leather couch, sipping a dram of fragrant single malt, comfortable in soft flannel trousers and oversized cotton t-shirt, staring into a softly humming gas fireplace, replete with an excellent fried fish supper.

Jamie had decided he did trust the Highland Glen's hotel kitchens as far as fish and chips after all, and, thankfully, they came through handsomely. So handsomely, in fact, that Jamie has just gotten up to put the two large leftover chunks of beer-battered cod, and fully half the chips away in the refrigerator, for us to reheat and enjoy later.

As a chef, Jamie deplores wasting food.

Yet another thing to admire about him, I think, sleepily.

I watch the silent, bluish flames flickering in the otherwise dark room, appreciating how they make mesmerizing, almost living patterns in the brass fittings and gilded picture frames surrounding me.

The cheesy ridiculousness of the room is much reduced by firelight. None of the overdone features seem silly anymore – rather, they loom, and glower, and would in fact be altogether menacing if I was here alone, or for some nefarious purpose. . .

Jamie returns, silent on bare feet, and eases himself onto the couch beside me. He replaced his formal outfit with sweatpants and t-shirt almost as quickly as I did upon returning to our rooms, and this easy, altogether Human shape of him fits in next to me delightfully naturally. I shift against him a little, and he raises an arm, so he might tuck me into his side.

He sips his own drink, and we stare into the flames, content.

He is lightly dragging the tips of two fingers up and down the sleeve of my t-shirt when he murmurs, "May I ask ye a question, Sassenach?"

"Of course," I say, stifling a yawn.

He pauses a long time before continuing, taking several deep, considering breaths.

"Why. . . did ye agree ta marry me?"

I look up at him, surprised, and more than a little confused.

"Because you needed to be married, Jamie." I push myself up a little, so I can look at his face, "And we agreed that we are attracted to each other, and like each other, and that we would want to be friends regardless of the circumstances, so our being married or not was a nearly negligible formality."

His mouth hardens at that, but he says nothing.

"We can date, and get to know each other, and have conversations, and meet each other's families just as well married as not – and so, why not? Why not give it a try for six months, then see where we are? No-fault divorce is a thing, and so are open marriages-"

He opens his mouth to speak, but I hurry on,

"And I know you don't like the idea of either one of those – and that's all well and good – but the fact still remains – they exist. Legally, neither of us are trapped in this marriage, Jamie. We're both just as free now as we were this morning–"

He raises a hand in protest, "But-"

I catch his hand and grip it tightly, "Commitment to a relationship isn't slavery Jamie – it's growth. Mutual growth. It's trust – hope – that a relationship will become the strongest and most important in both lives involved." Gently, I push his curls back behind his ear, and run my fingers along the back of his neck, "It's giving of yourself – willingly – and knowing that what you give will always be accepted." I meet his eyes, "If that's not freedom, what is?"

The look on his face softens considerably, and he brings a hand up to caress my jaw, "But. . . the risk of it. . ."

"There's always risk," I say, gently taking hold of his wrist and turning my lips into his palm, "In everything, Jamie. Always."

He meets my eyes again, and says, softly, "But. . . why? Why did ye take a risk on me? Why?"

I sigh at the simple question, wishing heartily that it had a simple answer.

"A lot of reasons, really. Firstly because. . . well. . . you were asking for help. In my book, anyone who asks for help should get it." I pat his hand, "Granted, you're an able-bodied white male – chances are you'd find support of some kind no matter where you turned for help – but, in actual fact, you turned to me. And that's not nothing – or at least I don't consider it to be nothing."

I wrap my arm around his, and lean my head on his shoulder.

"Secondly, because I know what it's like to have a clerical error in my passport."

He laughs incredulously, "Really now?"

"Really really," I say. "It's such a strange feeling. This thing that's part of something so much bigger than you – but in a very personal way it also is you – and it's wrong. It's like finding out there's something wrong with your body - like cancer, or something - it isn't your fault, but somehow it's your responsibility. And there's this quiet, frantic voice in the back of your head, terrified of what might have happened if you hadn't noticed. . ."

Jamie nods, "Aye. Tha's right enough."

"And I'm a natural born American citizen, Jamie. I can only imagine what those feelings would have been like if I'd had to worry about deportation into the bargain."

He disentangles his arm from mine, then slides it around my shoulder, holding me tight.

"Thirdly – I know four couples who had quickie marriages with no lead-up and less fanfare, and one couple who actually married for green card purposes."

"Mmm," he hums, skeptically, "And?"

"And, of the four, three have been married for at least ten years, and the fourth for over twenty."

"An' the one?"

"They've been married forty seven years next July. They knew each other two months before getting married – so, not quite as drastic as us, but he was a student, and she had a good, steady job, so she offered to buy a house with him, and see if they could make a go of it. It took them eleven years to have a child, but they've been happily married all that time, and-"

"Sassenach," Jamie interrupts, his voice equal parts amused and suspicious, "This couple. . . how do ye ken them?"

I lick my lips, and pause. There's no reason he shouldn't know, but it still feels like a big thing to tell him, somehow. . . I sigh a little, and take the plunge. "They're my parents, Jamie."

At this, he sits bolt upright, turns, and stares at me. "Yer parents married for green card purposes?"

"Officially? Yeah," I say, mildly.

His face darkens, "But? In reality?"

"But," I say, lightly, "Do you know what my mother would always say whenever I'd ask her what to look for in a man?"

"What's that?"

"She'd say. . ." my voice goes dreamy, remembering, "She'd tell me I'd be able to look at him and know – know in my bones – that he was the one. That my heart would be safe with him. And that his smile could warm me from across the room. That he'd earn my respect and my trust, and everything in between, and in return he wouldn't be afraid to be vulnerable with me. That there would be plain, grey days, and mundane chores, and the long, ordinary routine of daily life, but there would always be. . . something, something about him - the same something I could see, and know in my bones, that would make every day special, and wonderful, just because he was in it. . ."

My voice trails off, my eyes staring fixedly at the pale flames of the fireplace.

Silence falls between us, deep and heavy. The air is thick with questions we can't ask – not because we wouldn't get answers, but because neither of us is ready for those answers yet. Hot and cold thoughts run back and forth around us, like currents in the sea, fast, and broad, and unending.

The world shrinks down to the rhythm of my breath, and slow, steady beat of my heart.

Eventually, he gets up. Without a word he finishes his drink, stretches, yawns, and pops his neck. In the still deep silence of the room, I hear him sigh.

Then, his big, warm hand rests gently on my shoulder. When he speaks it is with great tenderness, but also with deep, assured, impressive finality.

"Come ta bed, Sassenach."

Chapter Text

I silently look up at him, eyes wide and blinking, for a few very long and agonizing seconds.

Then his own eyes go wide with realization and horror, "Ta sleep, Sassenach, nothin' else. . ." he curses quietly for a second or two, grimacing at himself, "Weel. That's no' quite true. I do want ta hold ye, if ye'el let me. I dinnae think either of us are ready for more – no' just yet."

I have pity on him then, and smile at him, and let him help me up.

I have often gauged a relationship by how well we can share a bathroom, and in this, as in so many aspects I've noted already, Jamie comes through in spades. He doesn't crowd the sink while we brush our teeth, he's neither picky about my mess of cosmetics still spread out from this morning, nor is he particularly touchy about his own toiletries. He is extremely polite about toilet smells, and apparently just as scrupulous about hygiene here as I know Alex Mackenzie is in the kitchen.

I've just finished removing my makeup when he clears his throat.

"Yes?" I prompt him.

"In. . . the interest of tellin' each other everything we think they might need ta ken. . ." he scratches behind his ear, somewhat awkwardly, "When the girls arenae around I. . . I like ta sleep in my birthday suit."

I blink.

"Oh."

"But when a certain amount of modesty is called for. . . I normally jus' wear. . . this." He gestures at the boxers and an undershirt he's now wearing.

"Jolly good," I say, with only mildly forced brightness, "In the interest of reciprocity, I think I ought to tell you that I do not own a single piece of sexy underwear."

He has just begun taking a sip of water, and he immediately chokes, splutters, and sprays the water everywhere. He coughs into the sink for a minute, then reaches for the toilet paper to clean up the mess.

It is all I can do to keep from laughing.

His eyes streaming, he glares at me.

"Lord-" he coughs, "Lord love ye, Sassenach, have some pity on a man, aye? I'm only feckin' Human."

I do laugh then - "Really Jamie? The thought of me in sensible, no-frills, work-a-day white cotton underwear gets you going that much, does it?"

He groans, "Ye have no idea, Sassenach."

The plain, simple longing in his voice hits me surprisingly hard.

"Jamie I. . . don't know how to do this."

He smirks, casually, "Furst time for everything."

I don't reply for just a second too long.

"Indeed."

His eyes go wide and he curses quietly to himself again, "God in heaven help me, will I never no' say the wrong thing at the wrong time!?" He takes me gently by the shoulders, "I didnae mean that, Sassenach, Christ above, I didnae mean that."

I see care, and. . . and admiration in his eyes, and finally I lose it, "Will you forget about my being a virgin for one flipping second Jamie?" I take a handful of his shirt - unable to either pull him to me or push him away - "I know how to be that. I know how to do that. And I know how to be a friend, a girlfriend, a housemate, and a lover. But god help me I have no idea how to be a wife." My voice catches, and suddenly I'm on the verge of tears, "And soon – so very very soon. . . to be a mother. . . I. . . I've never. . . god this is embarrassing. . ."

He shakes his head, "No, no, Sassenach. Dinna fash yourself. C'mere."

He opens his arms, and I don't hesitate to go into them.

"I've never even shared a bed with anyone, Jamie," I whisper into his shoulder, my cheeks flaming, "Not even platonically. Not since I was a little kid having sleepovers, and even then we were usually in different sleeping bags. I. . . I don't. . . know how to do this."

My fists drum against his back in impotent frustration.

He rests his cheek on the top of my head, "Ah, Sassenach. I was only teasing ye. Ye'er so capable, mo nighean, always. This really must be the furst time ye'ev no idea what ta do, I swear it must be. I mean, ye practically moved mountains ta get us here, didn't ye?"

I scoff, sharply, "You can say that, when I booked us this hotel, and that wedding chapel?" I pull away so I can look in his eyes, "So far this weekend, your plans have been wonderful - my plans have been bloody shite!"

He chuckles, "Ye believe in truth in advertisin', mo nighean. An' I mean really believe in it. An' that means sometimes a huckster can get past ye if he's quick and polished enough." He gently pats my cheek, "Just give ye a minute ta think and I doubt anyone or anything could get past ye, but if there's been one thing lacking this weekend, it's been any abundance of time ta think. Tha's all."

His eyes are soft, and his voice is painfully sincere.

"My god, you believe that!"

"What's ta believe, Sassenach? 'Tis there ta be seen – just how much good ye'ev been for Leoch Foods. An' it hasnae been by any crooked means, that's plain as plain. An' how ye took on Dougal? I dinnae ken there's one woman in R&D doesnae want ta straight up be ye. An' more than a few of the young men do to, for their own reasons, nae doubt. An' why shouldn't they?"

I lean my head on his chest again, and for a few long minutes, he just holds me.

I run my hands along his spine, enjoying discovering part of the pattern of his bones and muscles.

At last, some tension eases out of me.

"So, you don't. . . you don't mind that I have no idea how to share a bed with you, Jamie?"

"Ah, Sassenach. What could be simpler?"

I can hear the grin in voice.

His hug tightens around me a little bit, "If evar there was a bed big enough ta share, it's this one, aye? Ye could probably roll over twice in the same direction an' no' evan ken I was there." He pushes me away from him, just far enough to look into my eyes, "An' if that's no' enough, ye'ev prooved the couch is more than comfortable. I'll sleep there, an' gladly, if tha's what ye want."

My eyes rove all over his face. His dear, dear face. This stranger, my husband.

My best friend, this stranger. . .

He's being sincere. There isn't a particle of hesitation, or even disappointment in his eyes. He'd do that – he'd do ten times more than that – and on his wedding night, for my sake.

"No," I say, stolidly, "That's not what I want. I don't know what I want. Or. . . no, I guess I do know what I want, it's just that I'm not ready for what I want. . . or, maybe it isn't what I want, exactly. . ."

Gently Jamie puts two fingers to my lips. Somehow, this instantly stops my helpless babbling.

He takes my hand, and leads me into the main room, and around to his side of the bed. He spends a minute arranging pillows and unfolding duvets, and then, half grinning, he gets in, scootches himself backward towards the middle of the bed, and flips back the duvet, showing at least four feet of empty space.

"There's more than enough room for ye, mo ghràidh . . ." he holds out his arms, "But. . . will ye let me hold ye?"

One of these days, I'm going to have to ask him what all his pet names for me actually mean.

I swallow. The clean, white warmth of the bed, and the steady sweetness of his arms beckon to me. . .

"On one condition."

"Annything, mo nighean."

"You don't apologize in the morning."

A baffled question crosses his face.

Helplessly, I blush, "I know what. . . what's likely to happen. To. . . to you. In the morning."

He blinks rapidly, and a wave of fiery red crosses his own cheeks, "Sassenach, I. . ."

I can feel the "I'm sorry" on his lips, and I stamp my foot. I have to stop him from saying it.

"Promise me you won't apologize for it. Please Jamie. I. . . might be able to do this. . . sleep here, I mean. . . if. . . if I know for sure you won't regret it tomorrow."

He lowers his arms for a minute, and says soberly, "I could never regret it, Claire. No' for a single moment. No' any of it."

"Then promise me, Jamie."

"I promise I wilnae apologize for anything. . . involuntary. In the morning or otherwise. Fair?" He raises his arms to me again.

"Fair," I whisper, and this time I ease myself down into the comfort of the bed, and the embrace of his arms.

I cuddle my shoulders into his chest and sigh. His hand comes up, and rests on my elbow, steadying me against him. Slowly, his warmth seeps into me, calming my stomach, my mind, and my soul.

And then, stirring them all up again. . .

I didn't expect. . .

Oh god, I never knew. . .

Just this, just lying next to him in bed is so good, so absolutely wonderful, it's almost too much. Jamie is here, pressed against me, surrounding me, the scent and pressure of him so close, so present, so beautifully and intoxicatingly real. . .

I hardly know what to do with it all.

Again, I don't know what to say.

What would a wife say?

What would a wife do. . . ?

I twist in his embrace, until I am facing him. I wind an arm around him, holding him tighter to me.

Yes. This is much better.

I feel his breath on my forehead. There is a tension in him that wasn't there a minute ago.

His lips brushing my eyebrows, he whispers, "I very much want ta kiss ye, mo nighean. May I?"

"Of course, Jamie."

His hand tilts my chin up, and he lowers his mouth to mine.

We've kissed before now, in at least a half a dozen ways – frantically, gently, quickly, fiercely, softly, passionately, chastely – but never before easily.

His mouth slips over mine in a soothing caress, and his tongue massages against my lips with a delicate touch. I let him in gratefully, inhaling the subtle, complex scent of him at the same time. I drink deeply from the kiss, and dig my fingers into his back.

I expect to feel a burst of fire in my stomach, or a shower of tingles all up and down my spine, but that isn't what happens at all.

Instead, a sweet, cool breeze touches my soul, sighing into every hidden place inside me, dulling every sharp edge, easing every tension, smoothing over every aching, burning spot with clean, beautiful peace. . .

There's nothing passionless or impersonal about his kisses, but they contain far more of the passion of care, rather than the passion of. . . well, passion.

Again and again he kisses me, and every time I feel freer, softer, sleepier. . .

I suddenly realize - he isn't winding me up – he's easing me down.

From the press of him against me, I can tell it isn't because he doesn't want me either – it's because. . .

Because. . .

Because it isn't time yet.

We've packed a lot into these past few days. A lot of changes. A lot of realizations. A lot of confessions. A lot of growth. We are quite literally different people now than we were a few days ago.

I suspect he knows even better than I do that piling sex on top of all of that would likely be the worst thing we could do, at least for tonight. We'd probably only half enjoy it anyway, given how tired we both are, and I'm certain we'd never fully process it. Which isn't what either of us need. . .

Add to that all the complicated things he's still feeling over Annalise, and the fact that I'm a virgin? No. He's right. Not tonight.

But soon. . .

Soon. . .

A flavour of hope enters his easy, gentling kisses. Hope. . . and promise. . .

Yes. Very soon.

I'm just dropping off when I realize – no one has ever kissed me to sleep before.

But, as Jamie says, there's a first time for everything.

Chapter Text

I awake to sizzling sounds, and the smell of freshly ground coffee. I half-open my eyes, and see Jamie in the kitchenette, pouring batter from a jug, flipping pancakes, draining bacon, and humming tunelessly along with an oldies station he has playing on his phone.

I smile, and sigh contentedly. It's an idyllic image – one I would be more than happy to wake up to for, say, the next fifty years or so.

But still, somehow. . . it's incomplete.

Slowly, one by one, I add in some of the things he's told me about the girls.

The loud, thudding feet of the nine year old twins, Bree and Faith, who always run everywhere, and the correspondingly loud voice of Bree, asking - or more likely demanding - specially shaped pancakes from her father, while Faith sits incongruously quietly at a bar stool, watching Jamie's technique in pouring the batter.

Followed by a soft pat-pat from the tiny angel-feet of three and a half year old Joanie, being led down the passage by the ever-moving, slippy-slidey feet of nearly six year old Sally, who always wears socks, and sings each and every moment of the livelong day, and dances while she sings.

These second two seem to act far more like twins than the first two, sitting down together on the corner of an area rug, babbling softly to each other in their own private language, and beginning to play a sweet, incomprehensible game they have invented, using large wooden beads, shoelaces, and their stuffed bears, completely in harmony, even their motions coordinated.

The long red curls and pert, upturned noses might seem at first glance to be all that is alike about the older two. Faith is thoughtful, studious and methodical, Bree is impulsive, eager and adventurous. Faith is already studying to be an artist – Bree has yet to be convinced she can't make a living shooting elephants in the Brazilian rain forest. They refuse to be dressed alike, sometimes even growing angry when they are referred to as "the twins".

But for all that, they love each other fiercely, and though they usually play dramatically different games, they often do so in the same room, each keeping an eye on the other, even while they play alone.

In the eye of my mind, all four of them converge around a large, honey-coloured kitchen table, Faith spreading her napkin demurely on her knee, and Sally rhythmically kicking the leg of her chair. Jamie distributes plates and silverware, and then serves up tiny silver dollar pancakes for Joan, a small Micky Mouse shaped one for Sally, a perfectly neat stack of midsize ones for Faith, and two large bunny rabbit shaped ones for Bree. He makes sure they all take a serving from the bowl of fruit salad he passes around, and then everyone quiets down as he says grace. . .

There. That picture is complete. And it's just as idyllic, in my opinion.

Suddenly, a part of me can't wait for the weekend to be over. I'm ready to meet them. I want to meet them, in a way I haven't until now. Up until today, the girls have been nothing more than faces in pictures glowing on telephone screens, or funny little people in some of Jamie's best stories.

They've been ideas. Features. Almost. . . accessories.

But today. . .

Today, they are children.

Jamie's children.

My children.

Our children.

Out of all the parts of our plans, the bits about the children are the most up in the air, the most unpredictable, the most likely to go completely pear-shaped. . .

And the most vital.

Jamie and I may be walking a thin line when it comes to the U.S. Passport office, but that's nothing when compared to the lines we'll have to walk with these four small Humans.

I've always loved kids, but four at once is a tall order. . .

"Dinnae think I cannae tell ye'er awake, Madame Lazybones," Jamie's cheerful voice breaks into my reverie, "Now get out of that bed and come make us some of that smashing coffee ye said ye could make – I've the grounds here, all ready for ye."

I grin then, and stretch, but I don't reply to him otherwise. I sit up, leisurely, and slowly pad down the three little stairs to get out of the bed. I run a hand through my riot of curls, and yawn.

"Lemme go do something with m'hair, m'kay?" I say, voice still thick with sleep, "M'be right back."

He gives me a bright, teasing glance, "Go on then. But hurry back, aye? I need my sous chef."

I go though my morning routine quite mechanically, those two words echoing through my brain, drowning everything else out -

Sous chef.

Sous chef.

Me?

Impossible.

I can boil water, fry an egg, and just about bake a potato. If I have all the ingredients to hand, and I follow instructions very carefully, I can even make a fairly complicated stew. But I'm not any kind of chef.

I know he was speaking metaphorically, but my woeful inadequacy to be anything of the sort on a practical front really digs at me.

As I wash and dry my hands, my jaw sets. As Alex MacKenzie always says – prepare your work space, go one step at a time, concentrate, and never give up.

I smirk a little at that. I really have known Jamie a lot longer than three days, haven't I?

Of course, after last night, it feels like I've known him for years.

But if I'm honest with myself, it's felt that way for even longer, really. Last night merely clinched it – I don't just want to live with this man – I want to make a life with him. Up to and including more children, if and when we're ready.

I exhale sharply at myself.

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, at least meet the four he's already got before you start having his babies, Beauchamp!

Something within me flares, hot and sweet and shivering, at the very thought of having Jamie's babies.

Oh. . .

Yes.

Yesyesyes. . .

C'mon, get yourself together Beauchamp!

I square my shoulders, re-enter the main room, stride confidently over to the kitchenette, and without a word, take total charge of the French press.

There is coffee to make, and it's time to prove that I can make a smashing cup of coffee.

Chapter Text

Jamie spends nearly all of breakfast coaxing stories of my trips with Lamb out of me.

I don't initially take too much notice – he's curious about my past, of course he is - but after my fifth long ramble about the dust and the heat, or the mud and the rain, and always the sweat, and the stink, and the grime, and the recalcitrant animals, and the local political skirmishes, and just the sheer amount of work involved with traditional field archaeology - usually with what looks like not a lot more than some tumble-down piles of rubble and a few bits of scraggy pottery to show for it. . .

"You don't really want to know how Lamb taught me to tell the difference between Neolithic and Bronze Age flint knapping do you, Jamie?"

"Oh aye, I do, Sassenach," he nods vigorously, and sops up the last bit of maple syrup on his plate with his final bite of pancake, "S'fascinating stuff, all this diggin' up of ancient cultures." He pops the bite of pancake in his mouth, and hums around it, "M'a l'il bit surprised ye didna go in for sumthin' a' th'sort yerself – when it came time for ye ta be choosing a career, I mean."

"Well, I nearly did, if you want to know the truth."

"What kept ye from it, then?"

"Well. . ."

I stand, and begin to clear our plates.

"I do think it's something I ought ta know, Sassenach," he smiles over his shoulder at me, "But yer face lights up whenever ye talk of Lamb. I'd gladly listen ta ye talk of horse shite if it makes ye look as happy as that. . ."

Suddenly, I nearly implode, trying to keep myself from laughing.

All this talk of Lamb. . .

And here I'd almost forgotten. . .

Almost.

The memory is not entirely polite – but it is funny, and it is the reason why I never went in for field archaeology. . .

Well, part of the reason.

Okay, a lot of the reason. . .

If Jamie notices my face turning red while I hold my breath with indecision, he wisely says nothing.

I exhale sharply, "Well. . . okay. . ."

I launch into the story, trying to keep the more technical details out of it – and signally failing, as Jamie's often confused look shows – but eventually getting around to the part that has Lamb literally pushing a donkey up a hill, while half of our dig team stare at us in amazement.

". . . so then Lamb turns to me and says, "And that's why you never poke an ass in the ass." And he hands me the stick-"

Jamie has pretty much dissolved into laughter at this point, but he pulls himself together enough to gasp out - "Please, god tell me ye threw it away!"

"No, I had it bronzed and I display it on the shelf next to my masters degree."

He sits up then, mouth open, eyes wide with horror.

I snort a laugh, "Of course I threw it away, Jamie! But only when the local archaeologist wasn't watching, because he'd seen the whole thing, naturally, and even though he didn't speak English, he'd have been able to tell something was up if I'd just tossed it there and then – so I ended up spending the next half hour in that blasted hill trench with Lamb, staring at literally nothing, but pretending it was full of the most interesting archaeology imaginable, holding that stick, just waiting for the local archaeologist to leave so I can throw the bloody thing away and go home for tea!"

Jamie chuckles, shaking his head.

"And the whole debacle kind of put me off the idea of pure field archaeology. Rewarding as it can be, I knew then I was cut out for something a little more. . . predictable."

Jamie snorts. I elbow him in the shoulder.

"Alright – less messy, then!"

He barks a laugh. I wave him off with a rude gesture, but he only grins.

"I almost went into experimental archaeology – and I'm still deeply interested in the subject. They utilize such a wide variety of processes - more than any other profession I've ever heard of. An experimental archaeologist is never bored, that's for sure – and they're frequently less messy than your bog-standard field archaeologist is – but my forte had always been the management side of things, you see. Talking to our team of local diggers, planning menus, buying replacement camping kit whenever things got damaged, balancing the budget, making sure everyone and everything got where it needed to be on time and in one piece. . ." I shrug, "In the end, a degree in business management just made more sense."

Jamie nods, seriously, "Aye. I can see that now. . ." his eyes glint, "An' nae doubt ye deal with significantly fewer. . . asses. . ."

"I'm not entirely certain about that!" I say, joining him in laughter, "More like graduated up to the really stubborn cases. Just look at Dougal-"

"Agch, do I have ta?"

"No, not really, but even you have to admit he's something of a case study when it comes to being an arse."

"Aye, that's true enough."

With a slow, lazy twist, Jamie stretches, and yawns. I'm just putting our coffee mugs into the dishwasher, so my back is to him. I allow myself a delicious shiver at the sounds he makes, and for just a few seconds, let myself dwell on the image I had of him yesterday around this time - shirtless, shining with steam and sweat, his curls dark and damp, just sweeping the strong curve of his back, his arm casually to one side, gently cradling a crystalline glass of whisky. . .

My breath hitches when I suddenly realize. . . I have literally no idea what his other hand was doing. . .

"So, ye ready for me ta tell ye where we're going today, mo ghràidh?"

I take a deep breath.

Get it together, Beauchamp!

"Yes, I am!" I say, with a tone of mock offense.

"Mmm. Too bad I'm no'," he smirks at me, eyes alight with mischief.

"You devil," I hiss, and punch the dishwasher's buttons with more strength than is strictly called for.

His smirk widens into a smile, "I promise ye'el like it, Sassenach. Wear something for outdoors, an' something ye dinnae mind gettin' wet."

I blink.

"Wet?"

Briefly, his eyes run over me, in a way he hasn't yet let them, to my knowledge. . .

His look is like a touch, and every nerve ending in me fires, shocked with how blatantly naked just a glance can be.

I've been leered at before. This is not that. It is. . . something else entirely. Something I'm not sure isn't unique to Jamie himself. I only know that no other man in the world has, or could ever, look at me like this.

When he speaks, his voice is low, and suggestive.

"Aye. Wet."

If his intention was to make me melt on the spot, then, mission accomplished.

Things have been so easy, so playful up to this point. . .

I take a shallow, ragged breath, not quite sure where I am with him. Are we friends, getting to know each other, transparent and open, without a care in the world, just laughing and talking. . .

Or, are we dancing lovers, hooded and smoldering, our every word hot, flowing foreplay, our every action double-edged, pressed tight to skin flushed with blood so near to the surface the very pulse may cause us to burst. . .

Or are we somehow both – sweet spun sugar with a core of rock candy – a cool, soft cloud enveloping a sultry, seductive pool of dark, steaming water - sensible, no-frills underwear on warm, desirable bodies, aching with want. . .

The memory of last night shoots through me. The feel of him pressed tight to me. . . the smell of him. . . the taste of him.

And all we did was hug and kiss. . .

We both know we want more.

Well then.

If he's willing to do this – to push at the soft, slippery boundary between us, to play delicately with the curls of feeling as they unfurl within and without our living, vibrant flesh, to caress the keen edge of temperature that hovers between cool, calculated teasing, and pure, boiling hunger. . .

If he's willing to do all that, then, that's a game which two can play. . .

I look at him from underneath lowered lids, and I consciously angle my body so he can't miss the curve of my hip, just where it emerges from the loose waistband of my flannel trousers.

"I did tell you that I can't swim?"

My voice is much lower than usual. Soft. Smoky.

"Ye did."

Slowly, I push a fall of curls back behind my ear, and I give a tiny smirk, "If things get too. . . wet. . . then you'll have to dive in after me."

His eyes, usually the colour of a bright summer sky, are now two spots of luminous black, tense and ravenous.

"Ye ken I will."

"I do." I say, echoing the words I said yesterday in front of the officiant, only this time I imbue them with passion, trust, desire – and, most importantly, love.

He hears it, hears it all, and his expression changes, in ways I don't even try to describe to myself.

I lower my eyes, and turn, and walk into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me.

I feel his eyes on my back all the way across the room.

Chapter Text

Saturday, March 12th, 2022. 11:30 AM, just outside Las Vegas Nevada.

I will always remember this as the day, place, and time that I, James Fraser, finally impressed Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

My wife. . .

It's still strange to call her that. It has only been true for 21 hours 31 minutes.

But hey, who's counting?

The past four days have totally upended my life, in more ways than one.

To be fair, discovering exactly how much of a fool you've been, and being shown exactly how much you'll have to grovel and beg to make it right will do that to any man.

If only I hadn't deluded myself about Annalise. I could have called it quits six years ago, taken Faith and Bree, gone back to Scotland, and she wouldn't have protested. I doubt she'd have even noticed. And then none of this would have happened. None of it. . .

I pull myself up short.

That's right - none of it would have happened.

Not Sally. Not little Joanie.

Or, if they had, they wouldn't have been mine. . .

And not Claire. Claire would certainly never have happened. Not to ordinary, working-man me. High-flying, fine-businesswoman, famous-for-taking-down-her-abuser Claire Beauchamp would never have taken a second glance at me.

And really, why should she?

I could hardly believe it when she introduced herself that night at Leoch. I had thought for sure Dougal had to have meant some other Ms. Beauchamp. Not Claire Beauchamp. Not the woman who had not only publicly exposed him last year, but had soundly trounced him as well. . .

What, on God's good green earth, had he been thinking?

Clearly, he hadn't been.

Or, rather, he had, but with the wrong head.

I shift a little in my own trousers. I can't quite blame him for that – though I can and do blame him for how he acted on it – because I do have to admit, there isn't a single thing about Claire Beauchamp that isn't instantly and overwhelmingly intoxicating.

From those snapping amber eyes, to her gloriously wild curls, to her razor-keen mind, to her incredible, petal-soft skin, and rosy, delectable mouth. . .

Her mind, Fraser. Remember how attracted you are to her mind!

Because that was what had truly impressed me, that first night at Castle Leoch. This woman's ability to jump straight into a thoroughly unlikely situation, break it down into a myriad of steps, rearrange them into a viable plan, and then somehow pick the whole thing up at once, turn and twist it around in her mind, rigorously reviewing every facet, ruthlessly examining it for flaws, accepting or rejecting it as likely to be completed, and then making a myriad of suggested alterations "to improve the likelihood of success".

She had made at least half a dozen suggestions that I would never have come up with on my own – never mind the fact that we were talking about her marrying a complete and total stranger in two days time. . .

By the end of the evening, I knew Dougal ought to be immeasurably thankful this woman hadn't wanted his head on a platter.

But even more, I knew I'd be thankful for anything she chose to give me.

Like that beautiful, impulsive, delicious first kiss. . .

My mouth is still tingling from the pure, exquisite shock of it. That she's kissed me several times since hasn't dulled the feeling in the least.

Virgin? The woman's a vixen. But that she hasn't yet found a man who lives up to her standards of sleeping with isn't a surprise to me at all.

My arms throb with the memory of holding her last night. I really did that. I got to hold her, kiss her, care for her, tend to her.

I highly doubt she's let a man do that for her since she's been out of diapers.

An independent woman, my wife.

I smile, thinking of our banter this morning. Even though I have to yet again adjust my trousers at the memory, I found her enthusiastic flirtation highly encouraging. She's been nicely receptive to my attentions this weekend, but she's never taken charge like that before.

I get the feeling taking charge is her natural state of being. To see her employ that in an active attempt to seduce me. . .

As if I needed seducing at this point. . .

My heart thumps, painfully.

Maybe we can parley this undeniable connection between us into a real relationship.

Her eyes light up when she sees the Precious River Interactive Tours sign and staging area. Not the same light as when she talks about her beloved uncle, but a similar, wild, adventurous light. In that moment, I know.

I did it. I impressed her. I made her happy.

I am capable of making her happy.

My heart swells with pride, almost overshadowing the core-deep, yawning ache there is in me that simply wants her.

Almost.

She turns to me, eyes wide, "We're going silver panning? How did you know?"

I've never seen anything as beautiful as the delighted grin now gracing my Sassenach's face.

"Ken what, Sassenach?"

"That I've always wanted to do this?"

"I didnae know that, mo chridhe. . ."

The truth is, when she'd asked me to plan the honeymoon, my immediate instinct was to look up anything in Vegas that was not casino-related. The very thought of subjecting my beautiful Sassenach to a series of Vegas stage shows turned my wame.

Silver panning was the third result on my search page. Simple as that.

Her arms go around my neck, and her lips touch my cheek. "You're an absolute marvel, James Fraser," she whispers.

Is it possible to die of joy?

Maybe no one ever has.

Reckon I'd be the first. . .

We spend the next half hour getting kitted out properly, and meeting our ravine-walker horses that will take us to the panning site.

Old Alex, the tour guide, takes us both in hand, showing us how to manage our animals.

He doesn't have to spend much time with me – I'm used to horses from growing up on my family's Highland farm.

But Claire isn't so lucky, and it takes her some minutes to get the knack of it.

But, in the end, she does. Of course she does.

And then, with a toss of her head more wild and free than the restive beast beneath her, an eager grin, and not a glance behind, my Claire turns her horse, and leads the way into the ravine.

I smile, take up my reins, and follow her.

My wife is an independent woman.

And I wouldn't have her any other way.

Chapter Text

The sun is finally westering, on one of the most beautiful days of my life.

If I had spent the day indoors, reading, or just sitting quietly, merely in the same room with Jamie, it would have been beautiful enough – but to have spent it outdoors, knee deep in the crystalline water of this bend in the river, breathing sweet, clean air, surrounded by the red-gold striations of the ravine, and the fresh, open, spring-blue of the sky, accompanied by the soft plish-plash of the water in our pans, and the occasional crunching stamp of a hoof from underneath the nearby pavilion sheltering our horses - not to mention a glorious picnic lunch, and Jamie's lovely, cheerful presence throughout – all that has made it a red-letter day, a day to be remembered, a day for the books – a day I will cherish in my memory, like a particularly rare gem.

And twice in the past two hours, I have seen the bright grey sheen of silver dust on the bottom of my pan, and called Jamie over to see it. Each time, he has proudly carried it over to the sluice-box and washing trays, and carefully transferred it to the small vial that contains our combined finds.

As I understand is usual with these sorts of experience tours, whatever silver we find today is ours to keep. Old Alex had given us two vials back at the staging area, but Jamie insisted on putting whatever showed up in our pans into the same tiny glass tube.

"There's a kit can turn a glass vial like that inta a necklace pendant, Sassenach," he'd said when I protested, "We'll no' be making more than one of those if we go that road. It'll be unique – I insist upon tha'."

I had smiled indulgently at him, and relented.

I touch the silver of my wedding ring - the small, foreign object on my hand that Jamie placed there less than four days ago. It still feels strange between my fingers - a hard little ridge, warm from contact with my body, but shining with the distant, cold distortion of a convex mirror, elongated and alien.

I realize now that the tiny amount of metal dust we've gathered today is actually far more symbolic between the two of us than the ring is. After all, we've found it together, to the surprise and joy of us both, in a place and time that no one could have predicted, with mutual labor and patience.

And in a delightful, exquisitely beautiful setting. . .

The light, which has been so clear and clean all day, is turning orange at last, with the few wisps of high cloud that show above the ridge to the east beginning to glow gold and pink and lavender against the sky.

I wade over to where Jamie is panning out his last find for the day, and lean on his shoulder while he swirls the water round and round on the base of the pan, washing the frail, gleaming smear of silver dust over and over with the clear, cold water. The thin 'swish-swish' sounds and the motions of his arm are hypnotic, and I close my eyes, basking in the warm light, and the new nip in the cooling wind.

Briefly, madly, I want to stay here forever. Just like this, leaning against him, in the rich light of an early spring evening, listening to the gentle sounds of sweeping winds and flowing water. I want the two of us, alone, separate from all the noise and cares of the world, in such easy harmony that our very breathing is synchronized. In this crazy, mad moment, I want to be immortalized in stone, frozen here for eternity, the peace and joy I'm feeling right now shining across the ages, glorious and perfect.

But then I open my eyes, and smile at him, and the mad impulse fades.

I don't want immortality or isolation – I just want him. Him, all of him, any way I can get him. . .

"Thank you for a wonderful day, Jamie."

He looks at me, and smiles that devastatingly charming smile of his, "My pleasure, Sassenach."

I sigh happily, "Mmm. Mine too."

It's a little difficult to tell, the light being so golden at the moment, but I think he blushes.

Suddenly, I want to do much much more than thank him. I want to give him an experience as wonderful and as meaningful as today has been for me.

My own cheeks warm a bit, because I can only think of one thing I could possibly do to give him that, and. . .

I clench my jaw.

I am not going to sleep with a man – any man, but especially Jamie - just because I feel I owe it to him.

He may be allowed to hold me, but I'm not beholden to him.

No, you're not beholden to him, Beauchamp. . .

I blink.

What?

It isn't him you're beholden to, Beauchamp.

What the hell. . .

You're beholden to you, Beauchamp. To yourself. And you're beholden to the truth. Don't you owe him that much? The truth? The whole truth?

Oh, please, just shut up. . .

C'mon Beauchamp! You know it's the right thing to do. You might even enjoy it. . .

Sometimes, I really hate the voice in my head.

I get out of the water, and sit down at our little picnic spot to dry off my feet and put my hiking boots back on.

I hear Brimstone nicker quietly, and take a long drink from her water bucket.

She knows what shoes mean, right enough. They mean I'm going to be on her back again very soon. Poor girl. It's been at least twelve or thirteen years since I last had anything to do with horses – and while it's true you never forget how, it's also true that you can get terribly rusty, and I didn't have very extensive experience in the first place. Added to which, Brimstone is a high-class lady, quite unlike the nags which used to be all Lamb's expeditions could usually afford, and my rough and ready method of riding quite offended her sensibilities, the poor thing.

Donas, Jamie's horse, nickers back to her, and lays his head across her neck, as if to say, "Don't worry lass, the one I'm carrying won't let anything bad happen to you either."

Jamie finishes up putting his last find in the vial, and then he joins me on the large blanket we have spread out on the riverside.

It takes him several minutes to dry himself off and put his shoes on. When he's done, he pauses. Without turning to me, or saying anything, he reaches his hand out to mine, and laces our fingers together.

We haven't talked much today, but I've never felt closer to anyone than I do now.

At last, I understand something my father told me once, not long after I had started dating for the first time. "Silence," he'd said, seriously, "Silence is a great test of a relationship. Perhaps the greatest. If you can be comfortably silent with someone, you can live with them. If you can't, then forget it. Life is lived in silences – just like solid objects are 99 percent empty space."

He never gave me any other dating advice than that, but, I have to say, it's been an incredibly good gauge so far.

Jamie is the only one I've ever been this comfortable with in silence.

He packs up our kit, smiling ruefully at me when he has to take up the blanket to fold it, but still not saying anything, preserving the fragile magic of the evening.

Unhurriedly, we walk over to the horses. Jamie loads up their saddlebags with our kit, clucking soothingly at them both. Almost as an afterthought, he hands me the little vial. I slip it into the breast pocket of my shirt, and safely button it closed.

The horses trust him. I trust him.

He trusts me.

Still without a word, he helps me into Brimstone's saddle, and with one swing of his long legs, he settles himself astride Donas.

With each gravelly thump of a hoof on the long, winding pathway, I desperately try to gather courage. All the courage I know I'll need.

Because it's true. I do owe it to him. And it is the right thing to do. And I will enjoy it.

After all, I've been wanting to do it for days now. And I know, I know – my heart is safe with him.

At the ridge of the ravine I look back into the deepening sunset, trying to find in that immortal light at least a fragment of inspiration.

Because, no matter how true it is, the thought of saying it aloud is still scary.

Life may be lived in the 99 percent silence, but the 1 percent is life too – and all the more weighty, perhaps, for being so much rarer.

As we ride slowly back to the staging area, I feel the solid presence of the man beside me, and know.

I have to.

I want to.

I will. . .

He ties the horses up at the hitching post, and comes around Brimstone to help me out of the saddle.

I slide gratefully into his arms, and twine my own about his neck. For a brief moment, I rest my forehead against him, and ghost my lips across his, in a chaste but intimate kiss. Then I lean back a little, and look into his eyes, glimmering darkly ultramarine in the purple light of dusk.

The silence between us is complete.

I don't know where the strength comes from, but I open my mouth, and say it.

"I love you."

Chapter Text

I was expecting shock.

I was expecting a long, awkward silence, wondering looks, baffled stares, perhaps even some stammered, unfinished questions.

I was even expecting a little bit of horror at the suddenness of my declaration.

And Jamie does all those things.

But whatever I was expecting him to do next, him leaning his head on my shoulder and bursting into tears certainly wasn't it.

And yet here he is – head bowed, his arms wrapped so tightly around me he's nearly lifting me off the ground, his face buried in the side of my neck, with great, wracking sobs shuddering though him.

I don't know if I expect him to say I love you back or not, but oh, god do I hope. . .

His tears only last a few seconds, giving way almost immediately into quite incomprehensible phrases muttered into my skin -

"My Sassenach, tha thu mìorbhuileach dhomh mo nighean donn, tha gaol agam ort - a Dhia, mo Sorcha, Cha mhòr gun urrainn dhomh a chreidsinn mo leannan, tha gaol agam ort, mo chridhe. . ."

It's difficult to be sure, but I think I make out at least three new pet names. . .

That can't be a bad reaction, can it?

He kisses up my neck and across my face, so frantically he only twice brushes across my lips.

It's not enough.

It's not nearly enough.

I catch his head between my hands, and pull his mouth to mine. He relents willingly, devouring my lips with the same frantic vigor he was giving my neck. His hands clutch against my back, pressing me so tightly to him it is doubly hard for me to breathe. . .

My god, why is he so desperate? He's acting like if he doesn't hold on to every part of me he can reach, I'm going to dissolve away into thin air, or disappear straight though solid rock or something. If I didn't know better, I'd even say he was scared of losing me.

But why?

Why?

I can only think of one reason, and that's if. . .

If. . .

A sickening knot of ice water settles in the pit of my stomach.

If he doesn't want to say it back.

If he doesn't want to say he loves me, all this desperation could well be him trying to fill the space with the nearest approximations to it he can come up with on a spur of the moment.

Or. . . maybe it isn't that he doesn't want to say it.

Maybe it isn't true. Maybe he doesn't love me.

Maybe the promise of truth between us is the strongest thing binding us together, and everything else is merely the reactions of our meat-machine bodies, automatically and soullessly recognizing our all-too obvious chemical and physiological compatibility.

The kiss between us deepens, and his hands migrate to my arse, but the cold knot in my stomach only grows.

Up until now, my lusting after Jamie has felt special. Timeless. Clean. Almost. . . pure. As though there was far more behind it than could ever be expressed, so I need not try.

It all seemed like. . . foreplay. Not a sham. . .

But maybe that was all only because it was happening so fast. . .

He finally pulls away from my mouth, gasping for air, groaning like a dying man, "O dhia, tha mi a 'smaoineachadh gu bheil mo chridhe a' dol a spreadhadh, mo ghràidh. . ."

As I catch my breath, the future stretches out interminably before me. I'm fairly sure I manage to cram all the doubts and fears of a twenty-year relationship into something like twenty seconds.

For the first time in the last four days, I feel terror.

If it has all been fake. . . if it has all been for nothing. . . I. . .

Somehow, in just the few short hours of these past four days, James Fraser has completely spoiled me for other men.

If I can't have him, then I'll never have anyone.

And frankly, I don't want to live in a world where Jamie isn't mine.

"Wh-what does all of that mean, Jamie?" I stammer, shaky, but determined to snap myself out of the sudden horrible sinkhole my brain has thrown me into, "Mo grai, and mo hrear, and mo kneein doun, and all the rest of it? I can tell it's the Gàidhlig, but what does it mean?"

Jamie's arms slacken around me. He steps back a little, then takes me firmly by the shoulders. In the glow of the newly lighted signage over the Precious River Gift Shop, his face looks even more shocked than when I'd said I love you.

"Claire," he says, in a thoroughly disbelieving tone, "Ye dinnae ken the Gàidhlig?"

My mind flips and flops and squirms under his gaze, but I'm just as confused as he seems to be.

"Of course not! Why on earth would you think I do?"

He blinks rapidly, "Ye. . . ye said ye kent what Sassenach meant-"

"One word doesn't make a language, Jamie!" I nearly shout, "Of course I picked up what Sassenach meant – working for Leoch, I've been called that more times than I've been called a cold-hearted bitch for not putting out!" I gesture incredulously, "And of the people who don't think I'm a "dammed Sassenach" which of them do you think has the time or inclination to teach me ancient Scottish? Dougal?"

His eyes and jaw tighten, and suddenly, a dangerous look comes into his eyes. For a brief moment I see the hot, wild core of him – the true son of fierce, relentless Highland warriors – and in an instant I understand the elemental, vital power of his race of men – the sort who would willingly, joyfully fight a losing battle, forever if they may, if the reason they fight is for life and for love.

That soothes me a little. If just the mention of Dougal brings out flashes of the territorial fighter in him, then what has gone between us hasn't all been for nothing, surely. . .

"I know Alba gu Bràth, and Sassenach, and that's about it, Jamie," I say, confused and discouraged, and oh, so forlorn.

He hears it, and his eyes tighten again, about a thousand different emotions crossing his face at once. Then, he steps near to me again, and puts one finger gently beneath my chin, drawing me eye to eye with him.

"Aye, I've been a fool an' I'm sorry for it, Sassenach." He kisses me softly, almost reverently, on the lips, "I promise I'll tell ye what it all means – evary word. Bu' no' heer." He looks around us, at the bare, empty Precious River staging area, bleakly lit by cold, flashing neon, "No' now."

Reluctantly, I nod.

"Good," he whispers. Then he straightens up to his full height, and I don't think I'm imagining the slightly forced note in his cheery tone, "An' for sure it has been a lovely day, aye? Let's go get something ta remember it by. . ."

He turns, and leads the way into the gift shop.

I pull myself together, and follow him, desperately trying to convince myself not to be heartbroken that he still hasn't said he loves me.

Chapter Text

I leave Claire to her own devices in the gift shop and go at once over to the custom jewelry counter. I scan the room for the shop attendant at the same time – I am in a hurry.

There is a hollow, aching look in my Claire's eyes, and I mean to get us back to our hotel and deal with it as fast as humanly possible.

I'm about to grab the Memento Vial transformer kit, deeply, painfully aware of how little it is to give her, especially when I must make this big of an apology, when my eye falls on a small rack of locally made fine jewelry, and I hesitate.

What was it Murtagh always says? "Nevar underestimate a woman, lad. 'For the female of the species is more deadly than the male' - now tha's a verrah true sayin', it is."

Given that Murtagh is a crusty old bachelor, and nearly all women are his natural enemy, that's not entirely bad advice, considering.

But, fool that I am, in my efforts to never underestimate her, I went and did the opposite.

Of course she doesn't understand the Gàidhlig, Fraser! And you deserve everything she gives you for ever once thinking she did!

Simply, the connection between us has been such that from the very beginning, it has felt natural to speak to her in the language of my heart.

Well. Natural it might have been. But I was still forgetting that it is highly unlikely she's ever had a chance to learn the Gàidhlig, much less come to love it as I do.

It's my first language. Deep in my mind, I still form my thoughts in it.

And when I heard those words from her – those blessed, holy words, from the mouth of a woman so much better than me I might labour two hundred years and still not deserve her. . . well.

You ought to have told her, Fraser! Told her just exactly what the Gàidhlig means to you, and how likely you are to use it when you feel deep emotion!

It was a mistake. A foolish, selfish mistake. And now there is pain in her eyes – a pain I put there – and I must do all I can, now, at once, to remove it again.

But not here. Not by cold, impersonal neon light, in the place she chose, and I failed to appreciate properly.

Slowly, I spin the little case of jewelry, not knowing at all what I am looking for, but, somehow I knowing I'll know it when I see it.

My father always said to bring something other than words when you make an apology. He said it doesn't have to be much – but it must be something. He said it shows you're thinking beyond just being forgiven, and actually want to change the behavior that led to your mistake.

I don't know if that's true or not.

All I know is I want Claire to feel the same beauty I did when she told me she. . .

I can't even think the words without the same warm rush in my stomach, and hot tears starting into my eyes.

Annalise used to say it, but always with a teasing lilt to her saccharine-sweet voice. Like she was just humouring me.

Geneva used to say it, but always desperately, madly – never calmly or softly. That was how I knew it wasn't real.

And Black Jack said it once too. . . but I do my best never to think of that.

But when Claire said it. . .

She chose her moment gracefully, perfectly, and said the words so truly. . .

I love you.

The memory warms me through, and will do, for the rest of my life.

And now, I must give such a memory to her.

In the last compartment of the small rotating jewelry case, there is a large amber pendant, on a darkly antiqued golden chain. The setting is a square of filigree, hung by one corner to make a diamond shape, but the amber itself is a perfectly domed circle, about the size of a quarter.

It matches her eyes, and her hair.

I hold it up to the light, and I see there, embedded in the center of the stone, is an ancient dragonfly wing, its beautiful lacy pattern at once impossibly delicate, and immortally tough.

It's perfect.

I buy it right there at the jewelry counter, along with the transformer kit, and four small packs of hair clips I noticed in a basket by the register – one in each of my daughter's favourite colours.

I smile at the thought of my girls.

Faith likes light blue – though she will gladly take blue of any kind, Bree prefers dark green – camo if she can get it, Sally is my pink princess girl, and Joan, being only three and a half, hasn't yet made up her mind, but her preference generally swings between yellow, orange, and magenta.

I've missed them an awful lot more than I thought I would this weekend. I've gone away before, but I've never been this disconnected.

Or rather, this wrapped up in someone else.

Ah well, only two more nights away. . .

I nearly run into Claire as she swings around a nearby aisle. She is carrying an inordinate number of gift bags – far more than I ever thought she would buy for herself. . .

And then I see. The bags are blue, green, pink, and orange. I see colouring books in all of them, a spyglass in the green one, a pack of paintbrushes in the blue one, a large bottle of bubbles in the pink one, and a magic wand topped with a magenta crystal star in the orange one.

There are obviously more things in each bag, but the rest of it is hidden by drifts of tissue paper and the handfuls of fruit snacks piled on top.

My mouth goes dry, and my heart speeds up.

It is easy to love quiet, neat, creative Faith, and angelic, delicate little Joan. . .

But these gifts incline just as much towards outgoing, adventurous Bree, and generous, practical Sally.

As I often tell them – I have four favourite children.

Claire doesn't just love me. She loves my children.

All of my children.

"So what is all this, Sassenach?" I ask.

I know, but I want to hear her say it.

"Well," she stammers a little, "I. . . I wanted the girls to know we were thinking of them while we were away. It must have been a surprise to them – you leaving so suddenly like you did – and I just thought they should know we. . . that they. . . really were here with us, in spirit if not in body."

She brings something up on her phone, and shows me, "See? I've been keeping track of all the things you've told me, and all the ideas I've had about what-"

She breaks off, blushing adorably.

"Oh. Is. . . is that creepy?"

If I ever doubted – and God help me, I have doubted, more than once, this weekend – if our instantaneous connection could possibly last, if I loved her enough to make her a good husband, if Claire was the best sort of woman to bring into my life and into my children's lives so abruptly – but all those doubts are swept away now.

The hollow look hasn't left her eyes. She must be suffering. And still – still! - she is thinking of others and not herself.

Thinking of the children.

My children.

Our children.

Thinking of them like her own, on their own, and not just appendages to me.

Christ in heaven help me, I've never wanted a woman more. . .

Slow down, Fraser! You have to make things right with her first!

So I do. So I will. And if she banishes me from our bed afterwards, then I will take that as my due.

"No' at all, Sassenach. Very natural – an' useful too. Four kids under ten s'no joke. Ye'll need everything possible ta recommend ye when ye meet them – an' I have no doubts t'will no' be easy at furst."

She nods. "That was what I was thinking."

"I'll call us an Uber while you go and pay, aye?"

She nods again, and goes to the register.

My original plan was to stop by a restaurant on our way back to the hotel, and get some take-out for our supper.

But there is food in the room already, and reconciling with my wife is more important than eating.

Making the mother of my children happy is perhaps the most important thing I will ever do. . .

Our ride home is tense, and quiet. Uncomfortably so. The only thing keeping me from blurting out my feelings there and then is the knowledge of what I have planned for as soon as we get to our rooms.

Just as soon as we get there. . .

Claire swipes the key card, and holds the door open for me, as I am carrying all our purchases. Then she goes directly to the restroom, murmuring that she needs to freshen up.

I don't stop her, since it gives me a minute to prepare.

I open a bottle of wine, and lay a light supper of olives and brie out on the coffee table in front of the fire. I turn the flames on, and the lights down low.

I am contemplating lighting a candle or two when she returns, looking dubious, and so fragile that it cuts my heart afresh to see her.

I draw her down next to me on the couch, and take her slim, soft hand in both of mine, like I did that night, so long ago now, when I asked her to marry me. I look into her wonderful, living golden eyes.

I don't beat about the bush.

"Claire. I love ye."

Chapter Text

My reactions to hearing him say the words at last are eerily similar to his.

Shock. Wonder. Speechlessness. A rush of questions that pile on each other so fast I can't actually ask a single one of them. A tiny bit of horror that I thought all the awful things I did.

And then joy.

And gratitude. And pure, vibrating relief.

And then I bury my head in his chest, and burst into tears.

I cling onto him, and his arms go around me, settling me close, and he murmurs to me all through it – using Gàidhlig words again, but this time with their translations tagged onto the end of them.

"Tha thu cho mìorbhuileach dhomh, mo ghràidh. . . You are so wonderful to me, my darling. . ."

Slowly, he strokes my hair, speaking softly against my forehead, "Mo nighean donn, feuch nach caoin thu, feuch, tha gaol agam ort, tha gaol cho mòr agam ort. . . My brown-haired lass, please don't cry, please, I love ye, I love ye so much. . ."

He lifts my face to him, and starts kissing away my tears.

"Such a wonder and a blessing ye are, Claire mo calman geal. . . my white dove. . ."

Holding him to me isn't enough. I'm hungry, starving for him. . . I reach between us and pull on his shirt until the hemline comes free of his jeans. Then I slide my hand under it, and run my fingertips along the taut softness of his stomach.

"Mo leannan. . . my sweetheart. . . that ye should love me. . . Cha mhòr gun urrainn dhomh a chreidsinn. . . I can hardly believe it." He soothes his hands across my back, and runs his fingers behind my ear, caressing the back of my head.

My tears slow, eased by his gentle openness.

"Have I forgotten anything, Sassenach?"

I hear the rueful smile in his voice.

"Mo hrear," I murmur, stroking my hand up to his breastbone, tugging out another several inches of his shirt as I go.

He looks particularly abashed at having to explain that one.

"My heart," he says, simply.

"And Sorcha?"

He grins, suddenly cheerful, "Tha's yer name - Claire. Bu' it also means 'brightness'," he looks earnestly into my eyes, "An' so ye are, ta me. My light, my Claire. . ."

He gives me a rueful, feather-light kiss across the temple.

"And the last thing you said, right after kissing me in the parking lot?"

"Ah. Yes."

Even in the dim light of the fireplace, I see his cheeks go red.

"I said I thought my heart was going ta burst. . ."

"Mmm," I hum, soothing my hand along his breastbone, very much enjoying his warm, smooth skin, "I'm glad it didn't."

Swiftly, I grab a tissue, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose, my outburst of relief turning now, very naturally, into curiosity.

"Why couldn't you believe that I would love you, Jamie?" I ask, slipping my hand back under his shirt, "Because I did, you know. Almost from the first moment."

"Weel. . . I. . ." he exhales sharply, sighing, "Mebbe it's because ye'er the furst woman ta say it ta me since my mam."

I blink, "No, Jamie! Surely not!"

"Say it an' mean it, aye," he nods curtly.

"But. . . the girls. . ."

"Ah!" he smiles softly, "Them. Aye they've said it too. Bu' I meant as a grown woman says it, no' a lass."

"And. . . your sister?"

He barks a laugh, "Jenny has ways of sayin' it wi'out saying it, ye ken?"

I nod. I may be an only child, but I understand that kind of relationship well enough.

"And. . ." my voice goes very small, "Annalise?"

He leans forward a little, pressing one of his hands against the one I still have up his shirt.

"I was a fool over Annalise, mo Sorcha. A fool, and young enough ta think it was love. An' stubborn enough no' ta let myself see it when t'was shown ta me it wasn't." He sighs deeply, "Aye, she used ta say it. But nevar like she meant it."

"So. . . when I said it. . ."

He leans back, eyes dreamy, "Ah, Sassenach, when ye said it like that. . . I knew. I knew this connection that we have – t'was somethin' real after all." He threads one finger though my curls, tucking them behind my ear, "An' I'm heart sorry I fell inta my mother tongue ta respond ta ye. T'was thoughtless, an' selfish of me."

I smile at him then, so far beyond forgiving him I'd actually forgotten to expect an apology until now, "That's all right, Jamie. I love the sound of it, truly I do. Just tell me what it means when you speak it, okay?"

"Aye, I will."

Suddenly, he jumps up, and goes over to the dining table, and rummages in one of the bags there. He returns with a small, clear plastic box. "Nae mattar how easy ye forgive me, I'll still be makin' it up ta ye for a while Sassenach."

He hands me the box, and I look with astonished pleasure at the lovely gold and amber pendant inside it.

"When ye'er raised as Catholic as I was, penance is almost instinctual, y'see, mo ghràidh."

He runs one fingertip down the line of my neck.

"Ye'el let me make it up ta ye, aye? So I c'n let it go?"

I put the box down, before the trembling in my fingers makes me drop it.

It really is remarkable, what this man can do to me.

For the first time in ages, I feel powerful. And not just that, but sexy.

I haven't felt sexy in. . .

In. . .

Well, in a pitifully long time, that's how long.

It suddenly strikes me, just how absurd this entire situation is.

Here we are, two adults, legally married, who like and love each other, and he, at least, is the hottest thing since Chris Hemsworth, and all we have done is kiss and hug each other a little?

That's not just absurd, that's a downright crime. . .

"So. . . what you're saying is. . ." I lick my lips, "You owe me?"

"Aye. I do."

"Right then," I smile wickedly, push him back into the couch, throw a leg over his lap, and settle myself firmly against him. His chest and thighs are solid and warm beneath me, his neck and chin in easy reach of my lips. . .

"Firstly," I smirk, "I want you to know that I am currently wearing completely sensible, plain, white cotton underwear."

His eyes go wide, "Christ, tha's playin' dirty Sassenach. . ."

I laugh pitilessly, "Of course it is. That's the idea."

He groans, lolling his head from side to side, "Ye'el be the death of me, mo Sorcha."

"And secondly," I say, pushing past his protests and grabbing his wrists, "You put your hands on my arse in that parking lot, and I was so worried and confused I couldn't enjoy it." I bring his hands to my sides. "I expect you to rectify this at once. At once, do you hear me, Fraser?"

Achingly slowly, his hands curl around my hips, "Yes ma'am," whispers, teasingly.

A crackling fire sprouts in my belly, and I set my teeth into the skin of his jaw, the short, rough stubble of the day grating against my lips, leaving a pleasant tingle behind. I nip and suck at his skin, perhaps hard enough to leave a mark, but at this point I don't care - "Do you love me, Jamie Fraser?"

He leans his head back as I bite and lick my way down his neck, "Aye. I do. More than I'll evar be able ta say. . ."

I pull back, and do what I have wanted to do since almost the first moment I saw him – I run my hand though his curls, down his cheek, and my fingertips across his lips. I want to memorize the shape of him, the texture of him. . .

"And I love you. . ."

His hands lock behind my head, and he kisses me so deeply neither of us can speak for several minutes.

"And. . . we're married," I pant against his cheek when he finally releases me.

"Aye. We are," he says, just as breathless as I am.

"And we're both committed to making this work."

He nods.

"And neither of us is currently drunk."

His hands tighten on me – not entirely in agreement, "No' wi' wine – tha's for sure. . ."

I smirk at him, "And we're both over eighteen. . ."

He chuckles sharply, "Dhia, I fervently hope so, Sassenach. . ."

I sit up a little, and look down into the twin sapphire rings of his passion-blown eyes.

"And so, tell me, Jamie. . . just what exactly is stopping us?"

Chapter Text

His hands go still in their slow exploration of my body, and he leans back, his mouth working dubiously.

"Protection?" he asks, flatly.

I shake my head, "IUD. And I have a dose of Plan B in my toiletry bag."

He stares at me.

"Y'know – just in case?"

He blinks.

"Really Sassenach?"

I scoff lightly, "The incredulity in your voice is hardly called for, Jamie. It's our honeymoon. Are you seriously telling me you didn't plan for just in case?"

He shakes his head, "I nevar once dreamed that. . . that ye'd. . . that we. . . would. . ."

He swallows heavily, his neck muscles contracting beneath my fingers.

I smile, "You know, if I didn't have. . ." I press closer to him, "Very solid evidence to the contrary, I might be in danger of interpreting that as you not wanting me."

His jaw drops, "Not want ye? Jesus, Mary and Bride, I'd have ta be in a coma not ta want ye, mo ghràidh – an' even then I'm no' entirely sure yer mere presence wouldnae wake me up good and proper. No. . . I was more askin' about. . . weel. . . safety. . ."

I roll my eyes, "I'm a virgin, Jamie."

"Lest we forget," he groans.

"Exactly," I say, practically, "And my last serious relationship was in college. And you have been a widower for two years. A widower who literally had to ask his uncle to set him up with someone suitable to marry." I laugh a little, "When you're asking Dougal to produce a possible partner, I think I can deduce how many possible partners you've had lately. . . And even if I'm wrong, given what I know about your attitude towards hygiene, I have difficulty thinking of you as anything other than clean."

"An' ye'ed just trust me on that?"

"Well, we have promised each other the truth, right?"

"Aye."

I push away from him a bit, and cross my arms. "Fine then, let's be blunt. Jamie Fraser, am I safe with you?"

His eyes rake over every inch of me, very seriously. "Aye. In evary way, Claire, evary part of ye is safe wi' me."

I sigh theatrically, "Now, that is a shame. I was looking forward to a little danger. . ."

His eyes blaze at me, "Oh, were ye now?"

"Yeah. Just a little. . ."

"Mmphm. Consensual danger."

"Exactly."

I nibble on his neck a bit, to show him what I mean.

He downright growls in response.

"Be bloody careful what ye wish for, Sassenach. . ."

Then, with a pounce, he throws me over his shoulder, so incredibly casually his strength is frightening. In a very few seconds, I find myself up against a wall, with two-plus meters of extremely determined Highland Scot pressed tight between my thighs. His kisses are rough and biting, and I hear a few stitches rip somewhere, but I am far too engulfed in him to care from what or where.

I am just beginning to wonder how I will manage to pry him off me long enough to remove my clothes, when he suddenly sets me on my feet, and backs away a step or two.

"Are. . . are ye sure, Sassenach?"

His eyes are intent, and the hand he brings up to cup my face is almost excessively gentle. As though this is the last chance either of us have to make a choice.

I, for one, don't have to think about it.

"I'm sure."

"Ye. . . ye'll nevar get another furst time. . ."

I grin, "Well, if we do this right, I'll never have another honeymoon either."

His expression darkens, and for one wild second I wonder just what exactly I've let myself in for. . .

But then he yanks his shirt off, and I don't have any more coherent thoughts for an embarrassingly long time.

The next time I surface, the rest of our clothes have gone. . . somewhere. . . and I'm laid out flat on the bed, Jamie between my knees, kissing the swell of my calf with the same fervor as if it were my mouth.

I reach down, bury my fingers in his hair, and pull the weight of him across me – my very own, king-sized, Scottish duvet.

He sets his teeth in my neck, not very hard, but firmly, and a thoroughly ecstatic jolt runs though me.

"Mmm," he hums against the new, lightly stinging bruise he's made, "Enjoying yerself, Sassenach?"

I mumble a response that is two parts desperation, two parts threat, three parts profanity, and several thousand parts pure, animal want.

He chuckles, voice thick and deep with his own desire, "Patience, Sorcha. We'el get there, I promise ye. . ."

And then his hands are everywhere, followed soon after by his mouth, and I am lost once again in simple, delicious, thoughtless feeling.

This part lasts much longer than I expect it to, running the gamut between desperate and feverish, to gentle and tender, to playful and teasing, to slow and languid and back again, at least twice, for what seems like hours, until I can scarcely speak, much less beg, which is all I want to do, though I can barely recall what for. . .

I incoherently moan his name a few times, and he seems to understand.

"This. . . might hurt, mo chridhe," he husks into my ear, "I'm sorry. . ."

I pull at him, not caring at this point.

But there is neither pain, nor even discomfort, really - only an unfamiliar pressure from an angle I'm not used to, and then a full, satisfying feeling unlike anything a toy has ever given me.

In truth, there is just Jamie, warm and passionate and delightful, the connection between us sweeter, and deeper, and more profound than it has ever been before.

I cry out at the wonder of it. At the sheer, joyful discovery of it. . .

Before this moment, I never knew "making love" could be literal.

We loved each other before. We love each other more now.

It is simply, vitally true, though I don't ask how.

Mostly because I can't think of anything except for the man currently entwined with me. . .

A thin mist of sweat makes the air heavy between us, his shoulder muscles are hard beneath my hands, his breath is hot against my neck, and he mutters snatches of Gàidhlig I can't understand and don't try to disentangle, but I know I hear both versions of my name in there somewhere. . .

And then. . .

Then. . .

I jumped off a waterfall once. Ran and jumped, into the pulsing, hungry air of a Mediterranean summer. Jumped and dove, head first, into the crystal-pure, ice-cold waters of the sea.

It was like the universe held its breath, and the world yawned wide before swallowing me whole.

I was never more alive than in that moment – flung into space, and falling as though to my death, but then, into the elemental embrace of time itself.

If poor words can describe it at all, what I felt then is something like what I feel now.

But it falls far short.

Chapter Text

I am awakened from my light sleep by my wife stirring in my arms. I briefly try to pull her closer to me, but she twists away, grunting the word "toilet", and I let her go.

The word brings me fully awake, and I watch her shadowy form pad across our darkened hotel room, only to be illuminated briefly by the caustic white light of the bathroom, her skin glowing an overexposed pearly pink for a second before she slips through the door.

She walks in beauty like the night. . .

I grin ruefully at myself. I've been known to get rather soppy and emotional after sex, to the point of quoting truly terrible amounts of poetry at my lovers, to an almost Vogonish degree. I have reams and reams of the stuff at my recall, and I have discovered there's nothing quite like a broad Scots accent to make even the most mundane quotes sound deeply romantic. My abysmal singing voice notwithstanding, there was even a period during my college years that I laboured under the nickname of "Jamie the Bard". I do admit that most of my girlfriends actually appreciated the majority of it - especially Shakespeare's sonnets - but even Mary MacNab, the most patient girl I ever dated, eventually told me to please shut up.

And here, now, with Claire, all of that seems like what it ultimately was - just so much showing off. Oh, I'd happily recite the entire text of The Tempest to her if she asked me, but to try and impress her with my high-class knowledge seems absurd, unnecessary, and weirdly manipulative. Claire fell in love with ordinary, work-a-day James Fraser, not the jumped-up intelligentsia scholar from my school days.

I tuck my hands behind my head and allow myself a smug grin.

Claire.

Claire fell in love with me.

Claire is in love with me.

Slowly, the smugness fades out of my soul, and I only stare in wonder, at and beyond the horrendous gaudy tartan of bed's canopy, which I can see only dimly by this light.

The truth is, I haven't done this in a very long time. Closer to seven years than two. I had almost forgotten what it was like to touch, and stroke, and kiss, then listen, and kiss again, and then. . .

I've never been someone's first before.

I've never had sex without protection before either.

Which I know is an odd thing for a man with four children. . .

How I fathered twins while wearing a condom is hardly one of the mysteries of the universe. If I never know for sure how it happened – and it is certain now that I won't – then that's no tragedy. Two girls with my hair, eyes, and instinctual love of porridge – not to mention the promise of my height – well, who needs a paternity test after all that?

Of course, years later, the thought has occurred to me more than once that there are other tall Scottish men with red hair in the world. . . but I am nearly certain Annalise still loved me then.

Or, at least what passed for love with her.

By now I've accepted the idea that I was never more than a plaything in her eyes. I'm a grown man – I can endure the fact that a woman isn't devoted to me body and soul – though it did hurt that I was married to such a woman. But what I really came to despise was the fact that playthings were all children were to her too – Human-shaped dolls she could dress up and make cooing noises at. But just let one of them have a nightmare, or come to her with a scraped knee. . .

She loved having children. And somehow hated being a mother.

When she got pregnant with Sally I was suspicious. I was still under her thrall then, but I could still count – and the long dry spell between us and her business trip to Prague added up to three months without, so how she could come home six weeks pregnant. . .

And still I told myself it was because I didn't love her enough.

Or, to be more accurate, she told me I didn't love her enough.

She was the tiniest of women, but she delighted in making me feel small.

Two years of therapy later and I'm still not sure I can love any woman enough.

Enough that they won't emotionally abandon me and my children, anyway. . .

Dr. Fitzgibbons is more Highland Scots Catholic than I am, but even he says I ought to have divorced her years ago, and why did I put up with the emotional abuse for so long?

I told him I supposed I put up with it because when you've spent the majority of your life feeling so huge and lumbering you habitually give yourself even odds on whether or not you can walk through an ordinary sized doorway without permanently injuring several body parts, occasionally feeling small is something of a relief.

He had pointed out, and rightly, that this didn't explain why I would allow her continued access to my children.

Little Joanie had just turned two that week. The first birthday in the house after Annalise had died.

The first birthday in the house without a mother.

The first birthday that was allowed to be about the birthday girl, and not about how Annalise had planned it, and decorated for it, and designed the cake especially, and how she had taken inspiration from a dress she had seen in Milan. . .

That was the first birthday I felt free – free to lavish attention on my girls, free to spoil them a bit, free to plan their futures with them in mind, not Annalise. . .

It wasn't until that moment I realized I hadn't been protecting the girls like I thought. . .

I had broken down then – though Murtagh had called it a "break-through".

I'm still not convinced they aren't different words for the same thing.

I had promised myself a long break from any kind of relationship after that, and was doing pretty well keeping it, thank you very much, until I looked over our family's set of identity cards while planning a trip to Scotland for this summer. . .

One look at Claire has changed my whole life.

Everything – everything about her is different.

How she thinks, how she reacts. How she feels. How I feel.

I've never felt small around her. Well, not small exactly. . . more like not less-than. . .

But not more-than either.

Something in between.

Capable. That's it.

Claire makes me feel capable. Capable of doing things, yes, but also of not doing them if I don't want to. Capable of all the little ordinary things of life, as well as a few extraordinary. . . well – extras.

Like pushing her up against a wall and holding her so tightly to me I manage to rip a few stitches in her jeans.

Like feeling her beneath me, delighted and shuddering, crying my name aloud to the heavens. . .

Making love with Claire has done something to the matted tangle of heartstrings wadded up inside my chest. It's almost as if one or two of them are emerging from their long confusion, and entering into a world not engineered to entirely destroy them.

I'm not sure if I'm hopeful, excited, terrified, or some incredible combination of all three.

But I do know I love Claire, and she loves me.

I'm not quite sure how I've managed to stay mortal in the midst of it all. Put Claire in my arms and I feel like God himself.

Or a god, at least. With his goddess. And we both live to worship each other.

She's only been gone a minute and already my arms ache for her.

At this moment she emerges from the too-bright little room - a deliciously curvy back-lit silhouette this time, instead of the glowing pearl-skinned statue she went in, but she pads with the same soft footsteps into and across the main room. Only she doesn't get back into our bed, instead walking round to the kitchenette, and opening the refrigerator.

The pale light makes an eerie blue-white mask of her face, but even this can't obscure the wry twist to her lips.

"What's wrong, mo chridhe?" I whisper.

"I'm starving, Jamie," she gives a sultry chuckle that does positively indecent things to parts of me I thought I had nicely tamed for the rest of the evening. . . "We haven't eaten since the picnic this afternoon."

"Weel. No' food. . ."

I make eye contact with her across the room, and even in the weak, indirect light from the still-open refrigerator, the connection between us is powerful, undeniable – almost a physical, visible thread between us, glowing spring-green and summer-gold.

She closes the refrigerator door, and glides across the room to me, bending over the side of the bed to give me a long, soft, lingering kiss.

I almost pull her under the duvet with me, and use every skill I possess to make her forget everything but my name. . .

Then she pulls away from me a little, tilting her head, prompting me to follow her.

"C'mon Jamie," she says in a siren's voice, "Come teach me how to make a hollandaise sauce."

Chapter Text

I keep getting in Jamie's way as he cooks.

Poor boy.

I had one arm around him while he made the toast and opened the packet of smoked salmon, and two arms around him while he fried the eggs, cobbled together a double boiler, assembled the hollandaise ingredients, and melted the butter.

Now, I keep bumping my hip into his, slowly sliding our legs together while he butters the toast, layers the fish on it, and then the eggs on the fish.

He keeps giving me bemused glances, but never actually manages to tell me to stop.

Finally, he turns on me, seemingly in exasperation, and presses me between the cold block of the refrigerator and the warm length of his body. The double thickness of our bathrobes is the only thing separating us at all. . .

"Now then, Sassenach," he rumbles, giving a very good impression of an annoyed professional – but there is a rasp of passion behind it all, and the way his hips are pressing into mine does not convince me he is in the least annoyed - "D'ye want ta learn how ta make this wee sauce, or don't ye?"

My eyes fix on the curves at the base of his neck, just visible behind the soft, folded collar of his robe, "Oh, yes. I want you to show me everything," I purr, and nudge my face into his smooth, hot, fragrant skin, nipping and sucking on his collarbone, "Everything, Jamie – don't leave anything out."

He growls, either in reaction or response I'm not sure, and then he picks me up entirely, spins us around, and twists me by the shoulders so I face the stove. I make a noise which is very much like a squeal, but he ignores it, instead taking one of my wrists in each of his hands, forcefully showing me what I must do.

And then his body is flush up against my back, his breath whispering instructions hotly in my ears.

I smirk. This is what I wanted, but it is also much much more than I ever expected. . .

"Ye start here, mo ghràidh, wi' these things here, in the pot like this," he puts the sauce ingredients into the double boiler, "An' ye take that-" he clamps one of my hands around a whisk, "An' that-" and wraps my other hand around the bowl to hold it steady, "An' now – don't stop."

He makes the hand I have holding the whisk begin to whip the mixture – quickly and unceasingly.

And then there are all kinds of swishing noises from the egg yolks and the mustard, and a sharp, pattering clack-clack from the whisk wires, and the slow, slippery dripping of butter, and a soft, steady hum from the gas stove, and all the rustling, shifting sounds of two active bodies dressed in nothing but bathrobes, but behind it all is the deep, almost tangible silence of midnight, and behind that - two hearts, beating wildly, two sets of lungs, gasping for air, two pairs of dry lips finding moisture only in each other, and the slick, restless pulsing of-

"Don' stop," he whispers again, slowly streaming in melted butter from a small jug.

I try and focus on the pale, creamy mixture developing in the bowl, desperate to hold back the great waves of memories I seem to be living in at the moment.

Not to mention that I seem to involuntarily shiver every time he touches me now. . .

He pours another long, thin stream of sweet, oily butter. This time his lips brush the rim of my ear as he whispers, "Tha's it, ye'er almost thear. Keep goin'."

I shudder, and almost drop the whisk, but I brace against his solid bulk behind me, get a firmer grasp, and actually speed up.

"Aye, tha's perfect, mo chridhe. . ."

He streams in more butter. . .

I draw my lower lip between my teeth, knowing I can't keep it up for long. . .

"An' ye'er done."

In one smooth motion he sets down the empty butter jug, turns off the stove, and lifts the bowl with the finished sauce. Then he pours it into another jug nearby, using short, smooth sweeps with a rubber spatula, not wasting a drop.

With a long, long sigh of relief, I lean against the counter, and lick the whisk.

"Mmm. Wow."

Jamie gives a great guffaw of laughter, teasingly bumping his hip into mine.

"Wow indeed, Sassenach."

He pours a healthy – or rather, probably very un-healthy – portion of the sauce over our salmon and eggs on toast, then lifts both plates over to the dining table, wordlessly indicating for me to follow him.

He sets both plates down in front of just one chair, then he seats himself, and reaches his arms out to me, smiling a silent question to me at the same time.

Indulgently, I smile back, and settle myself on his lap.

We lift our toast at the same time, tap the edges together in salute, and proceed to dig in.

It's so good, I can't help talking with my mouth full, "Hmmmm, ish so tangy, Jamie. An creamy an rish an smooth. . . "

He smiles softly at me, using his thumb to flick crumbs from one side of my mouth, "Oh, aye. An' the sauce isnae so bad either."

Briefly, we put our toast down, and I give him a long, sweet kiss. In fact, it lasts so long, it is decidedly not sweet by the time I pull away.

The arm he has steadying me on his lap tightens convulsively, his glazed eyes meeting mine in a look that practically crackles.

With hunger.

With want.

Want that knows what it could be having right now, and is practically screaming from its deprivation. . .

But I shake my head at him, and give a tiny wink, mouthing the words "not yet". My heart races as I peck him on the chin - I'm feeling more and more delightfully like the world's naughtiest tease by the second.

His free hand comes up, as if to grab the collar of my robe and pull it down. . . but brushes past me and picks up his toast again instead. I smirk, and follow suit.

"So does this dish have a name?" I muse, "It isn't eggs Benedict, exactly. . ."

He grins and takes another bite, "Mmphm. Aye. It does. Eggs Fraser."

I chuckle, and he leans his forehead on my cheek. It's such a sweetly intimate gesture that all of a sudden my throat thickens with tears. This man.

This man.

He. . .

He. . .

I put down my toast, and clutch him to me, running my fingers through his hair, across his shoulders and up and down his back.

I know so little about him still. What his childhood was like, what he used to do over the summer holidays, if he's ever broken a bone, if he can make an origami crane. . . Does he like licorice? Can he change a tire?

But at the same time I know things about him I don't know about people I've known my whole life.

I know the sounds he makes when I run a fingernail up his neck and behind his ear.

I know how steady he is on his feet, even when a frantic wild woman is trying to remove his jeans. . .

I know how soft his heart is, and how sensitive his soul.

I know he is wise, and strong, and kind, and generous, and funny, and interesting, and passionate, and yes, horribly stubborn.

But I know I trust him with my life. In fact, I trust him with even more than that.

I trust him with my pride.

And I know he trusts me with his.

We're friends. Best friends. Allies. Comrades. I don't just have his heart, I have his respect as well. And he has mine.

And holding him in my arms feels like having an army at my back.

I've never become friends with anyone this fast. Never. Let alone. . .

I scritch the back of his neck, and he purrs, sidling his shoulders and arching into my touch like a cat. I reach beneath the collar of his robe and scratch lightly along the skin of his shoulders, and he groans, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

"Och, I'll give ye forty thousand years ta stop that, Sassenach."

"Feel nice?"

"Mmphm. Tha's one way ye might put it. . ." he gives an exaggerated stretch and a yawn, and then picks up his toast again.

I shift in his lap, and pick up mine again as well.

Whatever this is between us, it is clearly meant to be. Fate, or destiny, or what have you. There's no other explanation for each of us just finding our soul mate – just being effortlessly delivered to each other like we were.

Here he is – the love of my life. And I didn't even have to look. . .

"So. . ." Jamie says, slowly chewing and swallowing his last bite, "Now that we've eaten the breakfast I'd planned fer tamorrow-" he glances at the clock above the stove, "-nine hours early – d'ye have any suggestions as ta what we should do for breakfast tamorrow?"

I shake my head, and grin knowingly, "No. But I have a few educated guesses."

"Oh? D'ye now?"

"I do."

I wipe my fingers and mouth, and hand him a napkin so he can do the same. Then I coil my arms around his neck, and cuddle into his lap a bit, "In the first place – there have to be porridge fixings-"

"But ye dinna-"

I hold a finger against his lips, "Let me finish – that's just in the first place. Second place – leftovers. I know we still have some. You can make me some authentic rumbledethumps – how about that?"

His eyes glitter, and his mouth twitches, "Oh aye, tha's fine. . ."

"And thirdly – we can ask room service to send us some bananas, and baked beans, and some fried ham, and maybe some mince and skirlie-"

"But – Sassenach. . ." he pauses, looking genuinely confused, "Why would ye want all that for breakfast?"

"Oh, I won't," I grin mischievously, "But you might."

He only looks more confused. I lower my head to his ear, and whisper, with long, drawn-out vowels,

"Prooteein. . ."

After that, I can tell by the look in his eyes that neither of us is going to be getting much more sleep tonight. . .

But, what little we do get is surprisingly refreshing.

Chapter Text

I wake up the next morning, delightfully sore in places it's never occurred to me before now that the Human body could be. I yawn, and stretch, and blink, and try to reconcile my reality with the sound that just woke me up.

After a night spent naked with Jamie Fraser, discovering all the heights and depths of pleasure with him, and participating in the kind of epic romance that usually only exists in very specific books of poetry, it somehow seems strangely appropriate that I've been awakened by perhaps the most prosaic sound imaginable.

A long, wet, extremely deliberate fart noise.

But behind it, there is the tinkle of at least two girls laughing.

"Bree!" says Jamie, reprovingly, "What did I tell ye about making such sounds on purpose?"

"Sorry Da," says a sweet girlish voice that doesn't, really, sound particularly sorry, "But it makes Jo an' Sal laugh-"

"Aye, an' as I've I told ye before - that isnae an excuse!"

"Yes Da," says the voice, now a little subdued, "D'ye wanta see the map I made in class?"

"Why, a'course I do, Wee Bee."

There is a faint shuffling sound, and the muffled patter of hurrying feet.

"Dinnae run in the house!" Jamie calls, raising his voice.

I turn over, and see Jamie sitting at the dining table, his phone on a little stand in front of him. I can't see the screen from this angle, but he's obviously Facetiming with the girls.

Why, of course he is. I'm sure he's missed them. . .

Some part of me I've only just let awaken misses them too.

You're a mother now, Beauchamp! A mother.

My stomach churns very strangely. I didn't know excitement and terror could mix in exactly this way. . .

I have to restrain myself from going over to sit next to him. This is not how we've planned to introduce me to them. Besides, with the sheer number of deliciously stinging love bites on my neck, I'm not exactly in any shape to meet anyone at the moment. . .

"Aye, that's champion, Bee-bee, darling."

"Fay colored it in, but I drew it. It's a treasure map!"

"Aye. I c'n see the X marks the spot and everything."

"Yes. And it's a haunted magical island, where all the ghosts of eaten Pop-Tarts go, so they can sit in the rainbow pools and have sprinkle showers and not be eaten anymore."

An indescribable look crosses Jamie's face, "That sounds. . . like a good time. . ."

"Uh-huh. And the treasure is a magic playbox, and you put your old toys in it and shake it around and it turns them new!"

"Exciting."

"And Ms. Williams said we didn't have to name our islands, but I called it Wishterland, but Fay says that's dumb and it should be Treasure Island, and she doesn't think Pop Tart ghosts should go there."

"Well. . . she got to make her own island, didn't she?"

"Yes. It's called Can't-elope."

There is a pause several heartbeats longer than would be necessary for a parent any less scrupulous than Jamie.

". . . . . . cantaloupe?"

"Yes, it's where all the fruit you can't spell comes from."

"I see."

There is a distant, muffled call from the screen.

"Mrs. Bug says breakfast is ready, Da."

"Weel, then ye'ed best go eat it then, mo nighean. Tell yer sisters I love them to the moon an' back."

"I will!"

"We will!" chimes in a sweet, similar voice.

"Be nice tae yer sisters, Fay m'annsachd!"

There is only great giggling in response, and then the screen goes silent.

Jamie sits a long time, staring past the dark screen with a smile of soft wonder on his face.

"I can't wait to be part of your family, Jamie."

He turns to me, an entirely different type of smile overtaking his expression. In a very few strides, he's beside me in bed again.

"Ye already are, Sassenach. Very much so." He kisses down my cheek, and gently nuzzles against all the marks he's left on my neck, "They're goin' ta love ye. But not half as much as I do. . ." He leans in to kiss my mouth, but I stop him, briefly.

"Wait, bathroom first," I wriggle out from under the vast ocean of duvets on this planet of a bed, "And for that matter, when does our flight leave?"

He glances at the clock and groans, "Four hours."

I grin, "Alright then. When I get back you'd better work fast, Fraser."

"Mmm. Not my strongest suit, but I'll try anything once. For ye, that is."

I chuckle, and go to brush my teeth before enjoying my husband some more.

Chapter Text

By a massive stroke of good luck, we both got upgraded to First Class on our flight back to Boston. Maybe it's because there are still so few people traveling, what with the pandemic and all, or maybe it's that we're flying out of Vegas on an off-season, to the slightly-less-than-massively-popular-destination-at-any-season of Boston.

Either way, I hardly care, I still escorted Claire to her seat with as much ceremony and pride as though it was the best box at an opera. We've both flown First before, of course, but I for one have never been randomly upgraded before, and this feels like a wonderfully good omen. I was initially going to splurge for us, since it's our honeymoon, after all, and Dougal is paying, but then I chose not to push his benevolence too far. I know what my uncles are like when they're pushed, and it's never pretty. But the universe decided we deserved First Class anyway. Lovely.

Just like the woman currently fast asleep against my shoulder.

She told me while we were checking out from the hotel that she never slept on flights, and was somewhat squeamish about this one, since we slept so little last night. . .

I smile down at the head of wild curls so near to my own, and listen to the tiny, cute little snores she's making.

I inhale the soft scent of her hair, and my heart melts.

I am so, so entirely gone. This woman isn't just my dream come true, she is every dream I've ever had, doubled and tripled and made into vibrant, living, colourful perfection. Does she have flaws? I'm sure I could think of some if I wanted to. I do not want to. Even her bone-deep stubbornness is going to be an asset in a household with four small girls in it. And it's tempered in her anyway, with compassion and empathy and generosity and kindness.

And she loves you, Fraser. Remember that part.

Oh yes. Impossible to forget that part. Or the many, many, many ways she finds to express it. . .

The many. . . creative ways. . .

She happens to have been entirely right about my need for protein this morning.

I have to admit I am thankful for a long flight at the moment. It's giving me a chance to recuperate a little. None of my previous lovers were anywhere near as. . . enthusiastic as Claire has turned out to be. Not even those twins my last year of college could compare to when Claire. . . I smirk at the memory, and shift in my seat a tiny bit. A vixen indeed.

The stewardess comes by, and I order a meal for both of us, not knowing how long Claire will be able to sleep.

I've been lusted after for basically my entire life. As soon as I hit puberty, I've had to beat off the admirers with a stick, a club, and a claymore. It's why I turned to Dougal for help finding a wife in the first place. I knew he'd find me someone decent that probably wouldn't just want me for my body, and might not even want me for that. Even though, just a few days ago, I was fairly solidly convinced my body was all I would ever truly bring to a relationship. I know I'm catnip on legs. I've spent some time denying it, a very little while exploiting it, and a lot of time just trying not to think about it at all.

But what I've never done, is feel called upon to outdo it. Claire wants me, that's been clear as day from the start, but I've never wanted someone more than they've wanted me. I bear the deliciously stinging evidence of how much she's invested in us all over my chest and back and thighs, and all that makes me want to do is mark her - in more and more obvious places. And several not so obvious.

I've never gone feral for a woman before. Love, I knew I was capable of. Care? Reverence? Respect? Of course. But never-ending, unfathomable, insatiable hunger? Not that. Never before Claire. It didn't even really hit me until the middle of last night, the first time she got on top. . .

I close my eyes and suppress a groan. There is no way this woman was a virgin before last night. Not in her spirit. No, in her mind, I have no doubt, she was every naughty, scalding-hot daydream that could possibly come to a lonely, abandoned, starving husband, yearning for someone to fill his heart. And now that I've got her, she has shown herself to be all that and more, purified and elevated and made good and meaningful and worthy, by being herself, whole, and real, and Human, and not at all a dream.

And I am helplessly, hopelessly, endlessly in love with her. . .

This green card plan of ours had better work, because now I'm damned if I'll be parted from her more than a few hours for the rest of my life.

Our food comes, but Claire never wakes up to eat it. I finally wake her on our descent into Boston. Owlishly, she blinks, and mutters something. I smile, and hand her a cup of coffee. It's cold, but I put enough milk and sugar in it while it was hot for her to be able to get it down. Then she settles back into her seat, and tries valiantly to wake up before we land.

She's mostly managed it by the time we get to baggage claim, and has full command of herself when we finally get into the Uber. I'm about to give the address for the little Air BnB we'd planned on for tonight when she speaks to the driver, giving him her home address.

She smiles at my surprised expression, and fastens her seatbelt before leaning her head against my shoulder again, "I'm done with you in strange beds, James Fraser. I want you in my home, my love."

I take her hand in mine, and once again, think it is very possible that my heart is going to burst.

Chapter Text

I leave Jamie in the front room of my apartment, and rush gratefully to the bathroom. It isn't just that the only thing I've eaten or drunk in the last six hours has been a cup of incredibly subpar coffee, it's that I've been traveling all that time, and I feel terribly sweaty and gross.

I spend a good twenty minutes freshening up. I'd spend even longer, but I'm more than half worried of what Jamie is going to think about my everyday-messy apartment that I didn't bother to clean before we left for Vegas. I had more than enough to do already, and he was never going to need to be in my apartment at all, ever, so I left it as is, and. . .

I desperately try not to have a total mental breakdown.

So much between us has changed, so fast. Our relationship can still competently be measured in hours, and I'm already at the point where I physically need him to fit, not just into my life, but into my home, and my heart. There is a large part of me that is terrified he won't. That some aspect of his history or trait of his personality will come up that I just can't accept, or live with, or reconcile. And I'm even more frightened of the reverse – that some part of my life or self will arise that he can't live with. I've never built my life goals or ideals with a partner in mind. I've automatically made room for him, and I've been delighted to do so, but I'm so much my own person. . .

I've lived such a blessed, truly independent life for so long. . . what if he doesn't like something he sees? I will more than willingly rearrange my entire life for him, but I won't change one particle of my self - not for him or anyone – unless I do it for my self too. What if he doesn't like that? He's been incredibly accommodating so far. . . just how far will that accommodation go?

I know he's a good man. But I am so fearfully unused to him, or anyone, being my man.

And I know it's probably my empty stomach and the random anxiety I often get when I'm hungry. . . but it's all been so random, and sudden, and inexplicable, and unplanned, and wonderful, and gorgeous and so, so, so perfect. Almost too perfect. Even our disagreements and misunderstandings have been perfect. It's like we have been and still are under some kind of enchantment, and the smallest thing could break the spell.

I just got him. And now I am so scared I'm going to lose him. . .

And then I walk back into my front room, and he's sprawled across the couch, with all three of my cats sitting on him. Even Adso, my grey ghost, who likes no one, and only comes out to eat at midnight, is inexplicably grooming himself smack dab in the center of Jamie's chest. Rabbie, the first ginger in my life, is curled up, appropriately enough, on Jamie's head, showing off how similar their hair colour is. And Stuart, my bonny but perfectly plain tabby, is draped ridiculously all over Jamie's legs, and is playing most ungently with the feather toy Jamie is shaking for him.

My heart melts at the sight, taking my anxieties with it.

My cats love him. He loves my cats. That has to be a good sign. . .

He grins at me as I go past him into the kitchen, "Want any help there, Sassenach? I can shift yer wee moggys in half a sec-"

"Nope," I cut in, "You sit and play – Adso never bestows his presence on strangers, and does so rarely enough for me - I'd never interrupt your audience with The King Of All Cats. And besides, I'm just going to re-heat a couple Castle Leoch meals I have frozen. I can manage that without help."

He grins even wider at the mention of Castle Leoch, "Auld Alex MacKenzie's been in the kitchen with ye often, then?"

"Nearly every week." I raise my voice so he can hear me around the corner, "Do you want wine, beer, whisky or gin?"

"With what Leoch meal?"

"Creamy chicken stew, soda bread, warm tomato lentil salad, and sticky toffee pudding."

"Red wine or white?"

"I have both. A merlot, a zinfandel, a reisling, and a moscato."

"Merlot."

"You got it."

I put everything in to warm, open the wine, set the table, and am just about to ask him what mood music he wants when he pokes his head into the kitchen anyway.

"I'm going ta go freshen up a wee bit, Sassenach. Won't be a second."

"Mozart or Mendelssohn?" I call after him, bringing up some playlists on my phone.

"Mulan!" he shouts from the bathroom.

"What?"

He opens the door slightly and leans his head out, "I like Disney music."

"During dinner?"

"At any time. I have four girls, Sorcha. I learnt to like it out of sheer self-preservation."

Then he shuts the door again, leaving me quite stunned.

If that's the case, I am probably going to have to do the same.

No time like the present. . .

I spend the next ten minutes scrolling through my app, and trying to assemble a playlist vaguely non-childish-sounding. There are a good number of instrumentals that answer the brief, and when we both finally sit in, I don't feel like we're at a theme park.

It's a start, at least. . .

We spend the meal talking about some of our experiences seeing movies in the theater, and how much we both miss going. With our lives and now the pandemic, neither of us have been in several years.

"Weel, at least I have a few good ideas for date nights, aye?" he smiles and pecks my cheek as he clears the table.

"You didn't before?"

"Oh, I had ideas, aye – but these I know are good ones."

"Mmm," I hum, and finish my wine, "Intending on wooing me, are you?"

He comes up behind my chair, and sets a warm hand on my shoulder, "For the rest of my life, Sorcha."

His voice is all deep and rumbly, and his presence is so nice and comforting. . .

Bits of me start positively melting. . .

I turn my head, and run the tip of my tongue up his index finger.

He freezes, and then jerks back, a look of utterly inexplicable uncertainty flooding his features.

"Jamie?" I ask, concerned, "What is it?"

His ears go red, "I. . . I just want ta reassure you that. . . That I don't. . . That I won't. . ."

"Jamie." I shake my head, "Just have out with it. I won't be angry, whatever it is, I promise."

"Well. Ye must be proper tired. And sore. I just wanted ye ta know. . . tonight. . . I. . . I don't require. . ."

I stand up, and reach out to him. When he comes to me, I cradle his head, and cup his jaw, running a thumb across his lips. Unsurprisingly, his look softens at my touch.

Agonizingly slowly, I lick my own lips, and look up at him with hooded eyes.

"But I do, Jamie. I require it immediately."

Chapter Text

"Ye do?"

God save me, this woman.

She gives an adorable little snort, and cheeky wee grin, "Of course I do, silly!"

Is this really the woman who didn't know how to sleep next to me two nights ago? Who didn't know I existed a week ago? Christ, this vixen must have been begging to be released. . .

Both her arms and one of her legs curl around me, and I am lost, lost, lost again. In her scent and her softness, and the sounds she makes. . .

"You've given me a taste of you, Jamie," she says, low and sweetly, giving me a taste of her mouth, "And now I want you like I've never wanted anything in my life."

I don't know how she manages to speak what I am thinking, I only know I am infinitely grateful she can.

Both of us half-stumbling, she drags me into her bedroom, and frantically helps me off with my shirt and trousers. I almost don't care that I feel like the world's clumsiest brute when our arms clash, and everything gets tangled in the least romantic manner. But I do care terribly when I face-plant into the pillows after yanking myself free, landing in an entirely inelegant sprawl, and giving a most unbecoming "oompf!" noise.

But she just laughs it off, so heartily and good-naturedly I'm genuinely stunned.

Annalise would have laughed at me, but Claire is so obviously laughing at the situation, it diffuses every feeling of embarrassment I have, almost before they start.

I look up at her, speechless for a minute.

She sees the wonder and disbelief in my eyes, and leans in to kiss my ear, whispering as she does so.

"Jamie, darling, I decided a long time ago that if I couldn't laugh with the person I have sex with, while I'm having sex with them, then it wouldn't matter who they were – the relationship wouldn't be worth it." She nuzzles into my neck and nibbles on me in a most tantalizing manner, "But you are, love. This is."

A feeling surges through me. It isn't arousal, though it brings that with it. It isn't love either, not exactly. . .

"And I've got a sort of feeling that this is the kind of wanting that doesn't stop, Jamie. Certainly not for a little soreness or sleepiness or awkwardness."

I gather Claire to me, slide my hands under her clothes, and caress and massage at her for a while before getting her naked.

This feeling. What is it?

It isn't comfort. It isn't care.

It isn't. . . sorrow?

Why would I think it could possibly be sorrow?

Claire gets tired of waiting, and pulls her clothes off herself, rolling us around until we are under the covers, skin to skin, our limbs just about as tangled as is it possible for two people's to be. . .

"For god's sake, woman!" I groan, "Won't ye even let me try ta control myself?"

She grins wickedly, and digs her nails into my backside, "No, I don't think I will. I think I like you uncontrolled."

I groan again, and take her mouth like the feral beast she insists I be. . .

I know what power feels like. And confidence. And fear and cowardice, for that matter.

Sex has always contained a little of all of them, for me. Or a lot.

This isn't any of them.

I sink against my wife, surrounding myself with her body, and her spirit. She holds me close, giving them both to me, freely, eagerly. . .

She sets her teeth in my neck, and demands my soul in return.

I give it to her. At once. Without hesitation. Without question.

Without regret.

And then I know.

It's trust.

I've never trusted anyone like this. Not with the core of my heart. I've been betrayed so often, in so many ways, it's never been safe for me to do so until now.

But with Claire I feel. . . sacred. Not just loved. Not just respected. Not even just worshiped. She makes me feel treasured. Immortalized.

This gorgeous, beautiful, miraculous woman makes me feel like a legend. A legend I allow only her to tell. . .

She mewls the tiniest of screams, and then surrenders into panting, moaning, writhing pleasure in my arms.

I enjoy the sight for a full minute before I follow her.

Sometime later, I have her tucked under my chin, a few long strands of her wild curls tickling my nose, the scent of her sweat and her shampoo mingling into a delightful, heady perfume I know I'll remember all my life.

She stirs, and hums a little, "Is this usual, Jamie?" she asks, very softly, "This. . . all this. . . thisness between us? The wanting? How good it feels when we. . . ?"

She looks up at me, so beautifully innocent and wise all at once.

"No, mo nighean donn," I murmur, running my fingers through her hair, and up and down her neck, "No, this is different. Certainly different than anything I've ever had before. It's different than anything I've ever seen before, for that matter. It's special. You're special." I run a hand down the elegant curve of her back, "And you're mine."

Our eyes lock, and I whisper, fervently, "An' I'm yours. All yours."

She hugs me tightly for a long minute, then asks, hesitantly, "Jamie?"

"Yes?"

"I. . . I know we were going to let you introduce me to the girls slowly. Bring me up in conversation a few times, and talk me over a bit before I meet them. And that would give you time to meet my parents and Lamb, and let us rearrange our lives at something approaching a manageable pace before I move in with you. . ."

"But. . . ?"

"But. . . Jamie. . . I don't think I want to sleep without you in my bed now. Even if we don't. . ." Her face blazes against my chest, "I'm so addicted to you, Jamie. Already. Don't make me do without you. Not so soon after discovering how wonderful you are."

My heart soars, and I nod, slowly, "We'll figure it out, mo ghràidh."

"Will we?"

"Yes."

I cuddle her even closer to me.

"But in the morning."

Chapter Text

For the first time, I wake up before him.

I've never had a chance to watch him sleep until now, and I revel in the opportunity

The morning light is still dim and blue through the frosted glass of my bedroom's transom windows, so his hair looks almost brown in the cool shadows of our bed. His face is slack and peaceful, though his lips do quirk upwards from time to time, as though his dreams are pleasant. He has curled one arm up in the blankets, and the other underneath his pillow, so his head is at a slightly odd angle to his body. He has one foot thrust over into my side of the bed, but I seemingly welcomed this, for both of my feet are on either side of his, imprisoning his ankle between mine.

This means my right foot has gone numb, and I carefully extract it, flexing my ankle until the buzzing pinpricks go away.

It's an odd feeling, knowing this man beside me, unguarded and naked and vulnerable, is not only a willing bedmate of mine, but one I've asked for. Or rather demanded, pleaded for. I never even wanted to share a bed until three nights ago, and now this gloriously strange creature of a husband is here, where I've begged him to be, soft, and trusting, and open, and loving, and a whole wild, passionate force of nature, wrapped up in glowing hot skin and brilliant red hair.

I shift my hips, and wince a little. If there was any doubt, last night only reassured me that I have indeed been fully unvirgined. And Jamie was right, just as he has been about most everything else on this subject – I am proper sore. He's not exactly of a light weight, nor of an unenthusiastic nature. And while he has been highly considerate, and mostly gentle, I don't think he's exactly small either – not that I have a lot of practical comparisons I can make - but it is definitely certain that I haven't been sparing with him. Considering our last couple of nights, he could probably be half his length and girth and I'd still be feeling it. It's going to be an adventure sitting down for the next few days. . . Week, maybe. . .

But I loved every minute of it, and god. . . I love him. . .

Very, very softly, I run a finger across the stubble on his upper lip.

The sex, fun as it has been, has only been an expression of something else. Or rather several somethings, all deeper and far more meaningful than mere momentary pleasure. Commitment. Love. Trust. Passion. Shared passions. Shared values. Shared lives.

It's been days. But we've somehow managed to fit in a decade or two of relationship and personal growth. We're nowhere near the people we were when we started.

I need to meet the girls now. There's a hole in my heart where they belong. I can't love their father without missing them, oh so terribly, terribly, terribly. . .

And I know what I have to do. It's been obvious since the minute I knew I loved him. I've just been too distracted, or too busy – or too chicken – to do it.

Slowly, I get up, put on a robe, and my favorite old slippers uncle Lamb bought me when I graduated college. They're shaped like fuzzy diplomas, and have no right being as ridiculously comfy as they are.

I feed Rabbie and Stuart, and refresh Adso's water. The picky Prima Donna won't drink out of the pet fountain – only from his special blue glazed bowl, and only if the water is poured from the matching water jug. And he can tell, the little mind-reading beast. . .

I make coffee, and serve myself up some yogurt and dried fruit. I could demolish some fresh pineapple at the moment, but I made sure there was no fresh fruit in the apartment before I left. . .

"Coffee smells good, Sassenach," says Jamie, striding in, and looking most unfairly alluring for someone with sleep-rumpled hair, and wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts. "What c'n I make us for breakfast? D'ye have bread? Eggs? Jam? Good, I'll make French toast. . ."

"Jamie, I need to talk to you, love."

"Oh, aye?" He slows down shifting things in and out of my fridge and cupboards, and setting up dipping stations, but doesn't stop, "I'm listening."

I tell him. I'm very clear about it.

It takes a long heart-to-heart before he believes me, and we're long done with breakfast before he accepts what I've known almost from the start.

"Ye're sure, Sorcha?" he asks one last time, pecking me fondly on the lips as we prepare to part for the day – he back home at last, and me into the office.

"Entirely. It just makes sense."

"Weel. I'll have a word or two ta say about that."

"A word or two more, you mean?"

He chuckles, "Aye. You've come up against the Fraser stubbornness, I'm afraid, Sorcha."

"Well, you've come up against the Beauchamp stubbornness, and given I've lived over three decades with me, and only a few days with you, I know who I'm betting on."

He smirks, "Ye might be right, Sassenach. But either way you ought ta sell tickets, really you ought."

"I very much doubt an audience would be appreciated."

"Now that is most certainly true."

He kisses me again, and we go to our respective cars.

My welcome at the office is warm, but not effusive. I didn't tell any of them why I left suddenly, or where I was going, only that I needed a few days for a non-sickness related emergency. Everyone understood then, and is glad to see me back now. I give Mary a hug. I missed her, quite a bit. As I turn away to go into my office, I hand her a small business card, with a handwritten number on the back.

"Would you arrange a Zoom meeting for me with this contact, Mary, please?"

"C-certainly. For when?"

"Now. As soon as possible."

She looks down at the card. Her eyes go wide, and she blinks at me, stunned.

"Yes, really," I say to her unasked question, "Yes, now."

She blinks once more, and then nods, "Of c-course."

I close my office door between us, and go over to my desk to set up for a Zoom call.

It takes Mary a little bit longer than it would with a previously established contact, but not too much longer.

The window on my computer screen flickers, and a very stately background resolves itself, accompanied by an equally aristocratic face.

I nod respectfully, "Good morning Mr. MacKenzie. Or afternoon, in your case."

"Good afternoon, Ms. Beauchamp," says Colum, quietly dignified, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I smile, but solemnly, "This is more of a courtesy call, I'm afraid. I'm tendering my resignation. Effective immediately."

Chapter Text

Colum is quiet a few moments, but he does not visibly react.

"A courtesy call, you said? May I assume the courtesy will involve an explanation as to why?"

I nod, "You may. It all began last week, when your brother asked me for a favour."

This time he blinks rapidly for a few seconds, and his jaw hardens.

"Dougal. . . asked you for a favour?"

I nod again, "Yes, that was more or less my reaction."

"And you. . . rendered this favour?"

"Well. . . yes. . . but not exactly. . ."

I hunker down to it, and explain. I start at the beginning, and tell it all. I don't leave anything out – except intimate details about me and Jamie, of course, but Colum is a decent soul, and doesn't press for those, or get anywhere close to doing so.

". . . and the simple fact is, sir, there are times in one's life when one's priorities change. I love Jamie. I love the girls. And their physical and emotional well-being is more important to me now than my career. My own physical and emotional well-being has always been so – this is merely a logical extension of that. I may return to the corporate world once things are more settled at home. I may seek out a new career entirely, who knows? I've always wanted to get into experimental archaeology. I'm not going to limit myself, and I won't ask you to put any part of Leoch on hold for the sake of my personal issues either. I considered a leave of absence, but that's not very good business sense in this case – you need someone who is totally committed in this job – totally committed to this job. And the fact is, I will never be that again, no matter where I decide to take my career." I pause a second, and take a deep breath before winding up, "I'm not giving anything up to be wife and mother, sir. I'm not doing anyone a favour, or being coerced into anything. I'm simply rearranging things so I can explore a different life path that has presented itself. And I'm thoroughly looking forward to it."

I sit back, and wait for the outburst.

It never happens.

What does happen is Colum stares at me, for so long and so intently even my businesswoman's shield-grade steel armour starts to crack a little.

"So, ye'er tellin' me, lass," he savours the word, very deliberately. He knows, better than anyone, that Dougal is officially not allowed to call me that anymore. . . "Ye'er tellin' me that you – you – my most upright and loyal of managers – find my nephew so attractive you'll risk a fine and possible jail time for Green Card fraud to continue sleeping in his bed?"

I am taken aback by this, "Fraud? What fraud? He isn't in violation of anything, and neither am I. If there's fraud anywhere it's with whatever distribution office that issued him a passport that read "married" and "issued March 11th 1742"! Does anyone think he risks a fine and possible jail time for being three hundred years old? Or for carrying an official US document that says it was issued before the United States was a legal entity? He reported both errors quite properly the minute he noticed them, but it's a government issued document, Mr. MacKenzie. Do you think he ought to just trust both errors will be fixed without any hitches along the way? When one error is as showy and as impossible as that, and the other as simple and mundane? Do either of us trust that the US government will give both errors equal attention? One might as well trust in God sir – and keep in mind I'm an atheist. The only thing he ought to have done differently was check his passport for errors sooner. And one cannot go back in time, sir, one simply cannot."

He considers this for even longer, but thankfully not while staring at me this time.

"I have always found it instructive," he says at last, "To take very careful note of which part of statements people are offended by."

I blink at him.

"You are in love with my nephew. And you married him for the reasons you gave me."

I blink some more.

"This is a family business, lass. An' I'll be damned if I dinnae keep my niece on the payroll."

"Sir. . ."

"You've said quite enough, lass. Now it's my turn. Dougal may be a fool and an idiot, yet I do admit he has impeccable taste in women. But I must say, you have chosen by far the better way to enter this family. Young Jamie has long deserved something a fair sight better than that shallow French twit, and no mistake."

I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out.

He taps at something offscreen, "You've been transferred to my personal advisory board – as a remote worker. I'll expect you to dial in for meetings once a week – and make contributions at them too. Be sure it's still work, lass – and the pay isn't quite as good either. But the benefits package is better, seeing as you're family now, and the hours are far more flexible."

Close your mouth, Beauchamp.

"But. . . sir. . ."

"The proper response is "Thank you, Colum." He leans back in his chair, "I don't expect uncle from you quite so soon, but I wager you'll come round to it eventually."

"Th. . . thank you. Colum."

He smiles, tightly, "That's better. Tell the girls hello from me, and tell Jamie I expect him home for Hogmanay. Good day to you."

He taps a button, and the screen goes blank.

I sit in utter shock for I don't know how long. Eventually, I mutter some sort of explanation to my team, and then drift out into the parking lot.

I take out my phone and bring Jamie up in chat.

CEB – Well. I told him.

JAMMF – How'd he take it?

CEB – Not. . . exactly how we hoped.

JAMMF – How YOU hoped, you mean?

CEB – Well. Yes.

JAMMF - Who won, Beauchamp or Fraser?

I laugh then, because, in the end, it is MacKenzie stubbornness that has won the day.

CEB – I'll tell you when I get there. It needs to be in person.

JAMMF – Can't wait.

Neither can I. . .

I get into my car, and start punching things into my GPS app.

CEB – What am I bringing home for lunch?

Home. Our home. . .

JAMMF – MickD's

CEB – Really?

JAMMF – Problem?

CEB – No. I just wouldn't have thought a professional chef. . .

JAMMF – I'm a father too, Sassenach. Sometimes only nuggies will do.

CEB - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . nuggies?

JAMMF – Yep. In all their processed, deep-fried glory. Talk to me after six hours of four separate emotional breakdowns, and I'll tell you calories matter more than nutrition, quiet matters more than sodium or fats intake, and sleep matters more than life. Trust me.

CEB – Oh, I trust you.

JAMMF – I did tell you you'd need everything possible to recommend you? Well, bringing nuggies and fries for lunch is just one more thing that will do that.

CEB – I see. . .

JAMMF – Here are the usual orders -

I take careful note of the detailed list that follows.

CEB – This may take half a second. . .

JAMMF – We will be waiting. Impatiently.

CEB – I love you.

JAMMF – I love you too.

I take a deep breath, and finally address the four miniature elephants in the room.

CEB – How are they taking it so far?

JAMMF – Pretty good. They knew Mrs. Bug wouldn't be their babysitter forever.

CEB – I'm still going to need her, you know. Four girls and a house to take care of – and I can't cook.

JAMMF – Yet, Sassenach. You can't cook yet.

I grin at my phone.

CEB – We'll talk more when I get there. Logging off now – driving.

JAMMF – Good. Stay safe.

I close the chat app, and tell my GPS to find the nearest McDonald's drive through.

Time to go meet the rest of my family. . .

Chapter Text

Jamie's house is even more charming by daylight. The perfect lawn and white picket fence are so picturesque I know they must be maintained by someone else. There are no toys in the grass, and the flowerbeds are so perfect I wonder if the girls are even allowed out here at all - until I see the profusion of tiny deck chairs all over the porch, and the buckets full of soap-bubble trays and wands.

My arms are so full of lunch, and the gift bags I got for the girls in Vegas, and my overnight bag, and several more things I got at a couple places on the way over, I struggle to hit the doorbell, but I finally manage it with one elbow.

There is a great deal of muted shouting, and the distant sound of a lot of small feet running, but eventually the door opens upon an older, very kindly face of a woman. She smiles, and opens the door wide.

"You must be Claire," she says, taking my great armload of hamburgers and chicken nuggets from me, "I'm Mrs. Bug."

"Yes, I'm Claire. It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bug." I shift my overnight bag into a more comfortable position, and start looking frantically around for a place to put the rest of this stuff down.

"Right this way," she leads me towards what I fervently hope is the kitchen, "And I must say it is good to ken that Mister Fraser has found a fine new lady, he's been positively languishing without one!"

I chuckle, "Well, I don't know about the fine part, but I'll do my best when it comes to the lady."

"Och, I can see the look in Mister Fraser's eyes, dearie, that I can! I haven't seen him so happy in ages."

We finally reach the kitchen counter, and I dump everything there immediately, "Whoof. That's a relief. Well, I suppose marrying Jamie does mean I can have cooking lessons regularly, at least."

I wink at her, and hope like hell she'll infer what I need her to without me having to outright lie to her. Somehow, I don't want to do that to this soft, sweet, welcoming person.

She puts lunch down on the counter next to my bags, "So how did you meet Mister Fraser then, dearie?"

I start unpacking our food, a little awkwardly, ". . . Alex MacKenzie, you mean?" I lift an eyebrow, and gesture vaguely.

"Ahhhh, say no more, luv." She grins widely, winks and taps her nose. Then she elbows me, playfully, "Cooking lessons indeed! I can take a hint when it's given to me!"

I smile, and hand her a small bag of food, "Jamie tells me this is your usual order? I hope I got it right. . ."

She unrolls the top, and rummages a little, "Oh yes, it looks like it, dearie. Dinnae fash. It isn't me who-"

A tiny platinum-blonde head suddenly appears under the arch of the kitchen door, attached to a correspondingly tiny body, hopping and skipping and stomping, and currently clad in an almost impossible number of white and purple tulle ruffles.

She looks over at us, and freezes utterly still. Then her enormous gray-blue eyes open so wide, I'll swear she becomes at least ninety percent eyeball by volume.

"T'E NEW MAMA IS HEER!" she shouts, with a voice much louder than I ever knew such a tiny creature could possibly possess, "BEE-BEE! BEE-BEE! COM QU-" she stumbles a little as she spins wildly around, "QUICK QUICK QUICK. LY! QUICKLY!"

Then she darts off, at a leaping, stomping run, back the way she came.

Mrs. Bug takes in my surprised face, smiles softly, and elbows me again, "Good luck dearie. I'll be upstairs cleaning the schoolroom if you need me."

Then she fades quietly away into the background - both of the house and in my mind - as the kitchen is suddenly overrun by approximately eighty-seven highly energetic and very vocal ferrets in fancy princess dresses. All of whom appear to be addicted to rhinestones and glitter.

Or, perhaps it is four small girls in the middle of playing dress-up. For a surreal few minutes I genuinely wonder which one it is.

I don't know how I manage to reserve both mine and Jamie's orders from the hurricane of hands and shouts and grabbing and sorting and exclaiming and demanding and ripping and tearing and wailing and screaming and admonishing, but I do, and suddenly everything is quiet, and there are four girls happily humming and grinning and chatting around the kitchen table, and Jamie is standing next to me, smiling down at my clenched fists, and wide, blinking eyes.

"Having second thoughts, Sassenach?" he murmurs, gently taking his bag of food from me.

"No." I say, meekly, "Third, fourth, or fifth, maybe. But not second."

"Mmm," he hums, noncommittally, half-grins, and leads me to the table.

I give myself a small shake, and force myself to get over the shock. I've faced hostile boardrooms, public courtrooms, vicious depositions, and even worse cross-examinations. Four girls under ten should be, if not easy, then at least possible for me, right?

Right?

The only problem is, you didn't love any of those board members or gawkers or lawyers, Beauchamp.

You weren't married to their father, and you didn't want any of them to love you.

You can handle this just fine, and you know it. But you're terrified they'll hate you. That would be worse than any failure you can imagine, and you can imagine quite a bit.

Well, they don't seem to hate you so far, Beauchamp. Take that as good sign, and eat your lunch.

Slowly, I unclench my jaw, and open my dipping sauce.

Jamie is playing with the girls and all their meal toys – which happen to be four differently colored train cars that all link together – when he finally brings me in to the light, happy conversation the girls have maintained while we all ate.

"Weel then, my lassies," he says, fondly nodding as me, "I've brought ye a new lass, ta keep ye company. I hope ye'll be good friends ta her."

One by one, each pair of eyes meets mine, and acknowledges me solemnly. Sky blue. Sky blue veined with brown. Brown with an inner ring of green. And pale gray-blue.

"Legally, since she's my wife, she is also yer new mam, like I was sayin' beforehand. But we thought ye might like ta choose yer own special name for her – we all could – tagether, like. Ta welcome her inta the family. Aye?"

There is very little response to this, save for a lot of almost audible thinking.

Eventually, Sally picks up her toy, and comes over to me. She holds it out and says, straightforwardly, "Mine has three lions in it. Will you help me name them?"

"Of course," I say, and am about to get up when Sally suddenly boosts herself up on the table, and with a jump, plops herself solidly in my lap.

She's heavier than she looks, and the edge of the chair digs painfully into the back of my thigh, but I don't care. A long, messy ponytail of light golden brown is waving in my face, and cheap, mismatched pink and green ruffles are filling my arms, and the knot in my stomach actually loosens a tiny bit.

It takes a lot of minutes that I don't bother to count, with Jamie gently and deftly leading the conversation, but they all finally start talking to me, all of them slowly at first, but then with more confidence.

We name all the animals in the zoo train cars, and recite all the names of the Seven Dwarves, and Jamie winks at me and rattles off the names of the thirteen dwarves – "An' one Hobbit, dinnae forget.", and then Bree mentions that one of her school friends has a new mama too, which she calls a "bonus mom".

"But I don' like that much – it makes her sound like a video game."

"But it's a place ta start, aye?" Jamie prompts.

And then, at last, the suggestions come thick and fast, overlapping each other, with a lot of chatter, and laughter, and funny objections.

Very soon, tiny Jo-Jo is on my other knee, and I am bouncing both her and Sal at varying speeds, while they make silly humming noises.

"I don't really like it, but "smam" might work. . ." says Bree dubiously, "S for second? Or step? I don' know which. . ."

"Mm." I say, mildly, "I don't really like that one either, to be honest."

Bree nods, with casual acceptance.

Suddenly, my stomach tightens again, some sort of inner sense telling me something is wrong. Something must be wrong. There has been remarkably little strenuous opposition to all this. . . Much, much too little. . .

And then, as if on cue, it finally appears, from the last place I was expecting. From the last place Jamie was expecting – or at least he certainly never warned me about this particular possibility.

"But you can't be our mama at all!" yells Faith, bursting into angry tears, "Our mama is beautiful!"

Then she runs from the room, leaving the rest of us well and truly stunned.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Bug meets me in the upstairs hall, and points me silently towards the schoolroom. Her expression is somber, but hopeful, and so I take heart too.

Well, a little.

I was expecting to need to have to do something like this, after all.

Only not quite this badly.

And not for Faith.

Of all the girls, she is the oldest, and the quietest, and. . .

I stop in my tracks, and make two fists.

Oh Beauchamp, Beauchamp, could you be more of an idiot? Of course this is all hitting her the hardest. She's the oldest. And the quietest. How much do you want to bet she's been blaming herself for everything the past few years? You used to do that yourself, Beauchamp, and all three of your parents loved you to distraction. One of them never cheated on the other, or did anything so horribly, patently non-understandable to a child as suddenly, permanently disappearing. And even if Lamb, say, had died unexpectedly overseas, you'd still have automatically thought it had something to do with you, wouldn't you? It's what children naturally think. Add in that she's the oldest, and the most contemplative. . .

And probably the most like Jamie into the bargain. Which is probably at least part of why he's been depending on her the most. Without even noticing that's what he's been doing . . .

I force my hands to relax, as I reach for the schoolroom door. It's all so incredibly obvious in hindsight.

You better hope you learn real quick Beauchamp. . .

I walk into the room quietly. I see Faith by a small play-kitchen over by the far wall, but I don't approach her, or acknowledge her presence in any way. Neither does she acknowledge mine, but I do notice when she sees it's me. Her back gets a little straighter, but she doesn't say anything, or try to leave the room.

Well. That's at least a partially good sign. . .

I think. . .

I put her blue bag of gifts from Vegas on the low round table that dominates the middle of the room, and saunter casually over to what is clearly the library wall. It is covered with shelves full of books, and has a line of beanbag chairs and mini futons all scattered in front of it. As I get close I can see they are mostly children's books, naturally, of nearly every genre, but a few of the upper shelves have some YA novels, and several of the lower ones have the non-kids versions of reference books. Atlases, and dictionaries, and the like. I select a history of Tutankhamen's tomb that I know well, and have often enjoyed for its profusion of photographs, and go back to sit at the table.

Fifteen, twenty minutes pass, of me leafing quietly through my book, and Faith playing rather aggressively across the room. She very pointedly drops things loudly, and bangs drawers and cupboard doors, her deliberate posture very clearly daring me to say anything about it.

But I don't. And eventually, things quieten down a bit.

Slowly – very, very slowly – she edges closer and closer to the school-table, playing first with one thing, then another, nearly aimlessly, her real goal thoroughly obvious. I pretend to take no notice. Finally, she sits down a couple of places over from me. She has a photo gripped in her fist, which she shoves across the table at me.

"That's my mama," she whispers hoarsely, "See?"

She turns away from me as I pick it up.

And I look down into the sharp blue-green eyes, perfect waves of golden hair, and sly, kittenish smile of Jamie's first wife.

Annalise.

The late Mrs. Fraser.

Colum called her a shallow French twit, but looking at her now, I don't think that's entirely the case. It is difficult to form a full impression of someone from a static picture, or even a truly functional impression, for that matter, but I can see delicate bones, an expressive face, and something ever so slightly odd about the eyes and posture.

Tiny Joan is the only one of the girls who favors her at all strongly, and even then, it is clear Annalise gave very little of her personality to her daughters. As much as I can tell so far, anyway. This is not a photo of a loud person, nor an energetic one, nor, strangely enough given her overall appearance, of a sweet one - all of which wee Joanie most certainly is. She does not look open or friendly like Sally, nor bold and honest like Bree, and certainly doesn't look sensitive and intelligent like Faith.

No. This is a photo of a self-centered person. She isn't even fully engaging with the professional photographer taking her picture. That's where the odd posture is coming from. . .

She is entirely, utterly. . . fatally wrapped up in herself.

But she is beautiful. Elfin and stylish, and perfectly made-up, so cleverly that it's nearly invisible. She looks fresh, and sculpted at the same time, like a lone white water lily on a still, dark pond. Rich. Elite. Lovely in all of the ways that I am not. Oh, I can pull off business-formal, and I know my way around a contour palette, but my hair will never be anything but wild, and my slenderness all too easily dips into skinniness, with bony angles showing up instead of rounded curves, if I ever work too hard for a week or two, or forget to take care of myself the way I should. I'll never be a perfect porcelain doll like the one in this photo. And my eyes are a strange brownish-yellow, flecked with dark green and black. Nothing like the classic, limpid sea-green Annalise had. . .

I hand the photo back to Faith.

"You're quite right. I don't look like her."

Faith looks more than a little shocked that I'm giving in so easily. She pushes more, trying to find the boundary.

"Ye'el never look like her."

"No. I never will."

"Ye'el never replace her."

"No. I won't."

Her face contorts with frustration and confusion, "An' I don' care if it's. . ." she pauses, obviously struggling with word that's new to her, ". . ."leegull". . . I don' want ta call ye mama."

"I know, dear. I don't want you to call me mama. I'm not here to replace anyone, love. That's why your Da and I thought you all ought to come up with your own thing to call me. So that way we-"

"You're no' supposed ta be nice!" she interrupts me, wailing petulantly, "You're supposed ta be old, an' ugly, an' mean, so's I c'n hate ye!"

Then, she dissolves into furious tears, and throws herself violently into my lap, her fists drumming against my thigh.

Very slowly, very gently, I rest my hand on the riot of her wild red curls.

Strange. Her hair is more like mine than it is her own mother's. . .

In almost imperceptible stages, she calms. She is still breathing heavily when she finally sits up, and slides back into her own chair, but other than an occasional sharp snuffle, her tears are spent.

I hand her a box of tissues.

"Would a hug help, dear?"

She takes the tissues, but shakes her head emphatically no.

"Okay. Would me leaving you alone help?"

She pauses, then shakes her head again, less emphatically.

"Okay."

I take up my book, and browse a bit, waiting.

"Mama never asked," she says, almost whispering, "She just left me alone."

My throat nearly closes at how bleak the poor dear sounds.

"Yes, sometimes adults forget they need to ask. Especially their own children. It's easy to forget when you assume you know without asking."

"But you don't forget?"

"Well, I'm new at this. It doesn't do to forget the important things on your very first day."

She considers this, for a long several seconds.

"I'm sorry I was mean."

"Forgiven."

She falls silent again, for a few minutes this time.

"I'm going to paint her one day, you know," she nods at the the photograph, "Holding white roses, and sitting on a golden throne."

"Sounds wonderful."

I've already noticed the many paintings taped up all over the walls. The majority of them are far better than might be usually expected from a child of nine, both in composition and in execution.

"Why don't you paint her now? Or practice, at least?"

She shakes her head, sadly, "Da says I cannae."

"He does?" I ask, taken aback. That doesn't sound like Jamie. . .

"Aye. No' yet."

I make a noncommittal noise, "Hm. I might have to talk to him about that."

She looks wildly at me, mouth gaping, "Would ye? Ye would do that?"

I blink, more than a little confused, "Of course."

She looks frantically around for a few seconds, then directly at me, "C'n I change my mind?"

"Change your. . ." I shrug, "I suppose so. . . but what. . ."

I can't finish asking her what about, because she's wrapped her arms around my neck, and I'm hugging her back, and her hair is in my eyes, and that's the only reason why my eyes are watering, yes indeed. . .

It is an age of the world before she pulls back. And nowhere near long enough.

I wonder, very much, if children ever know just how much of our hearts they hold. And I wonder too, if these girls specifically will ever know just how quickly I've become theirs.

Then Faith looks up at me, her eyes pert, and conspiratorial.

"I have an idea."

"I can't wait to hear it."

She leans in, and whispers in my ear.

I start back, surprised, "You know who Nobby Nobbs is?"

She nods vigorously, "Yes, Da said he preferred we read about Ankh-morpork instead of Hog-warts. At least for now."

I shrug a little. That sounds like Jamie. "Well, it's certainly the best suggestion I've heard so far. If everyone else agrees, I'm all for it."

She smiles at last, wide and shining, and drags me behind her as she rockets down the stairs. With one great, final leap, she lands in Jamie's arms.

"Da!" she exclaims, "She says we c'n call her Wum!"

Chapter Text

I'm not sure how he did it all in one afternoon, but Jamie has managed to almost entirely transform the master bedroom.

Well. That's not entirely true – he did explain to me that he was planning on swopping a good deal of the furniture here with the things in the guest bedroom – since he'd had some say in the furnishings there and preferred them anyway – and also that he would get some other stuff – sheets, towels, basic toiletries and so on – delivered by Prime.

But he's changed the pictures on the walls. He's rearranged the shelves. There are new chairs, new tables, new lighting. . . There are fresh flowers in new vases next to new lamps on top of new end tables next to the bed. And as for the bed, the quilt is new – or rather old – it looks like a hand-knitted antique, and it's almost the prettiest thing I've ever seen on a bed. And there are at least a dozen pillows where before was only one, and all of them have new, beautifully clean covers.

There are new rugs in the bathroom, not just towels, and far more than basic toiletries – he actually took note of nearly everything I had in my bathroom at my place, and has a duplicate waiting for me. Even down to my favorite type of lip balm. My regular hair care is in the shower, my preferred period products are next to the toilet, and my usual toothpaste is on the counter, right beside my favorite hand soap, lotion, face cream, face scrub, skin serum, tonic, and wipes. He's even got me a bottle of my favorite foundation - in the correct shade! - a tube of my current go-to eyeliner, a good lipstick, lip liner, lip gloss, and a very passable attempt at a blush/eyeshadow combo palette, from a brand I often use. The colors aren't exactly the ones I would have picked, but they're very, very close.

It's all so far beyond the minimum, and such an awful lot to have packed into such a short amount of time that I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, stunned, for nearly half a minute, turning around and around, trying to take it all in, my mouth half-open, my eyes wide.

Just a few days ago, this room didn't feel like Jamie's room at all. It felt like a sort of. . . crypt. . . A flat, cold place, where he was only existing, with the ghost of Annalise still hanging around, taunting him.

Now, it's so full of Jamie's personality it's almost overwhelming. And there isn't a single hint of the woman who came before me. . .

It doesn't feel like our room, though. Not quite. Not yet. But it's a massive step forward, and, as far as I can see, in exactly the right direction. For both of us.

He only grins at my reactions, "Like what ye see, Sassenach?"

"Like it?" I turn around one last time, and finally set down all the stuff I brought on the bed. In the face of all his effort, a bunch of things hastily bought from whatever store was nearest, and one small overnight bag feel woefully pitiful. I can hardly wait to bring more of my things here – really start to integrate our lives, "Jamie, you're a wonder. It's lovely."

I slide my arms around him, and relax into the long, deep kiss he gives me. It's been such a day. . .

"Mmm," he hums against my mouth, then starts to make his way deliciously down my neck, "An' I'm sure bedtime will get easier wi' time too, dinnae fash. It's already easier than t'was last year, an' wi' two of us now, it'll go on getting' better, I'm sure of it."

"Easier?" I chuckle, "There were only three pouting fits, two crying jags, six pairs of juice-soaked socks, three mouthwash spills, eight toothbrush mishaps, two lost teddy bears, three requests for cups of water, four night-lights, six special blankets, five read-throughs of Good Night Moon, twenty-eight separate requirements regarding exactly how open or closed five different doors have to be, ten separate requirements regarding which hall lights must to be left on or off, and only one debate on how many individual times "getting out of bed" one trip to the bathroom counts as, if you leave your going-with-you-to-the-bathroom stuffed animal in bed, but don't realize it until you're halfway through peeing, and so when you get up to go get it you trail pee down the hallway." I give a light sigh, "How could anything get easier than that?"

He laughs somewhat ruefully in response, "Still no regrets, mo Sorcha?"

"Regrets? No." I smirk a little, "Resents, perhaps. After tonight, I know evolution is bull."

His brow furrows in confusion, "Eh?"

"It must be, Jamie. Darwin had to have been a total asshat if he thought Humans evolved from fish. There is no way any parent, of any species, anywhere, has ever given up the advantage of having eight arms."

He blinks, then laughs aloud, "Ye might have something there, mo chridhe."

"Count on it," I grin, then open up my bag, and rummage around a bit, "But right now all I want is to change into something comfortable, and then snuggle up with you."

He pecks my chin, "Sounds lovely, Sassenach."

I go back into the bathroom, wash and change, and make full use of all the skincare products he's gotten me. A scan of the medicine cabinet shows he got my hair spray, my depilatory wax, and one of the perfumes I love too.

My heart warms, and little shivers go up my spine.

This man.

This man.

If he isn't in the running for Husband of the Year, it's only because I know he'd wave all of this off as just what a man does for the woman he loves.

Which only makes him all the sweeter, in my view.

It doesn't matter that I just opened a new bottle of this exact perfume two weeks ago, which means this one is a hundred dollars that manifestly did not need to be spent. We are allowed to have separate purchasing priorities, after all, just so long as they don't negatively impact our overall finances. He is giving this relationship his all. That counts. That counts for a lot.

And besides, there are things a woman just does for the man she loves, too. I may be new to wifehood, but I know that much. Overlooking a few points where he might have communicated better, and bringing the issue up gracefully in a different context is one of them. Were he practically any other man, I wouldn't give a plugged nickle about protecting his ego. Most men get enough of that elsewhere - they don't get to expect it from me too. And all too often they need a few bringdowns just to make them tolerable anyway.

But Jamie? I'd walk barefoot to Patagonia to avoid hurting this man's feelings.

I run a fingertip along the thick, smooth cardboard of the box, and tap it a couple of times, contemplatively. Then I open the box, take out the bottle, and give myself a few tiny sprays, at wrist and neck and knee. What's money, after all? When a man like Jamie Fraser loves you, there are more important things. . .

Many, many, far more important things.

He's leaning over the bed when I come back into the main room, and he starts violently when I touch him. Almost. . . guiltily. . .

What. . .

"Jamie? What's wrong?"

He holds out a box from one of the bags I brought, the guilty look quite undeniable, all over his face. . . "Why. . . why are ye buyin' condoms, Sorcha?"

I blink rapidly a few times, thoroughly confused now, "Why? Because I think four children is enough for right now, don't you? And I don't think we ought to rely entirely on my IUD, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye. B-but. . ."

"There is no "but" about it, Jamie! I might want your babies, but I intend on having some wisdom about when I bring more of them into the world. Four is enough for now, yes?"

He looks a little shocked for a minute, then coughs a little, and gets himself in hand. "Aye."

"Good," I plant my fists on my hips, "Now please tell me why the mere sight of extremely common prophylactics make you look so guilty."

His jaw clenches, his ears turn pink, and he doesn't answer me right away. Very slowly, he puts the box of condoms on the bed. "Your first time. . . was my first time wi'out protection, Sassenach."

My head whirls at that, "But. . . but. . ."

"I think – I'm no' sure, mind – but I think Annalise poked holes in a condom she gave me, and that's how we got Fay an' Bree. I think she thought t'was the only way she was sure ta get me – if she got pregnant first. I don't know. No' for sure, like I say. . ." He shrugs, sadly. "There's nae way ta know for sure now, annyway. But. . . now. . ." He flicks the box, "Now I'm automatically suspicious of anything of the kind that I don't buy an' keep myself." He glances at me, ruefully, "But I'm no' suspicious of you at all, an' when ye came up to me like that, all of a sudden, it made me mindful. . ." he runs his fingers along his forehead, "Just how wrong my sex life has been for so long, Sorcha. An' it's my fault. . ."

I gasp in horror, and gather him to me, "Your fault? Jamie, someone else's lies and manipulations are never your fault. Don't you dare think that was your fault!"

"But I should'ha left, Sorcha! I should'ha divorced her, ages ago! I. . ." he breaks off, and cups my face in both of his hands, gently and reverently, "Less than a week wi' ye, Claire, an' I ken I've never known what love was before." He runs his thumbs lightly along my cheekbones, "Ye're so perfect, I dinnae deserve ye. . ."

I grin at him, and kiss him heartily, "Of course you don't. No one ever deserves anyone else, Jamie. Deserving people isn't allowed. No one ever owns anyone else, and no one is ever greater or less than anyone else. When it comes to worth, to plain Human value, we are all equals. What we do with that value can be better or worse, and we all have different talents and abilities, of course. Humans have infinite variety. But we're all priced at one Human soul apiece, regardless of class, creed, color or competence." I kiss him again, "I love you, Jamie. You. Your personality, your mind, your heart. We all have a past of one kind or another. Whatever yours is, we'll work through it. Just let me help you, Jamie. Without any idea of deserving it or not. Respect is far more important, anyway. Just you respect me, and I'll respect you, and everything will be wonderful. Okay?"

He shakes his head in wonder, his eyes distinctly damp, "You're a marvel, Sassenach."

I smirk a little. "Funny. I've always preferred DC."

He throws back his head a laughs at that, long, and loud, and gorgeously.

My heart absolutely melts at the sight.

You get to make him laugh like that for the rest of your lives, Beauchamp.

He is the marvel. And he doesn't even know it. . .

Slowly, he goes quiet again. Then he picks up the box of condoms.

"I think," he says, contemplatively, "I think I need tae use these ones that ye've bought. Use them an' ken ye're no' tricking me each time."

I nod, "Seems reasonable. Only problem is, I am too sore tonight. . ."

He nods, and goes to put the box away.

"So get the strawberry flavored ones from the other bag."

He pauses, and looks most improbably confused.

Can it be? Is it possible that in this one instance, I know more about this sort of thing than he does?

Either way, he's about to find out exactly how much you know, Beauchamp. . .

I roll my eyes at him, "There's an awful lot I'll swallow for you, Jamie. Even my pride, if it ever comes to that. But I'll be damned if I swallow yours too!"

It takes another few seconds before my full meaning lands. Then his jaw drops open, and he stammers out-

"I. . . I wasnae. . . I didnae mean. . . Christ, Sassenach, I wasnae asking for. . ."

I push back some sudden anxiety. I have only actually done this twice before.

And neither of the men were Jamie. . .

Confidence, Beauchamp. With this man, that's all it's going to take, and you know it.

"And I understand that, Jamie. But you need looking after, and I'm too sore for anything else at the moment." I stand bolt upright, cross my arms, and toss my head in my very best Professional Businesswoman fashion, "Now, are you going to go lie down, or do you want me on my knees?"

Chapter Text

I've heard women describe this sort of thing as a power trip before, but I have never believed them until this moment. The look of utterly stunned and helpless arousal on Jamie's face is beautiful, and leaves neither of us in any doubt as to who is in charge at the moment.

He stares at me, quite speechless, as I stride forward, and slip my hands under the hem of his shirt. In a daze, he raises his arms, and lets me remove it. I lean forward, and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the smooth round of his shoulder, just where his collarbone swells before it descends into his muscles. Then I smirk, and lave my tongue across the spot, slowly and suggestively swirling the tip of it around, tasting him, feeling his shivers, and seeing his skin prickle into gooseflesh. His breathing goes deep, and rapid, and rough, and his arms move to embrace me. But I catch his wrists, and press them to the edge of bed right behind us. He tries to protest, but I silence him with a look, and then lean in again, so I might fully explore his chest with my mouth.

I've touched him quite a bit in the past few days, of course. Kissed him and caressed him, and done all manner of wonderfully intimate, pleasurable things with him. But this is the first time I've actually taken charge, or either of us have put his needs first, and his pleasure uppermost.

And by the look of astonished, almost frightened anticipation in his eyes, I can tell this has been the case for him only painfully rarely.

Well. Whatever else might be wrong, that at least is something I can fix.

I scrape my teeth across the skin of his ribs, and he lets out a wavering groan. I kiss down a mostly-healed strawberry mark I scratched into his belly two days ago, and busy my fingers with his belt buckle. . .

And, speaking of strawberries. . .

I grab a pillow from the bed, and quickly drop it on the floor before settling myself atop it. Then, I look up at him, and hold out a hand.

As if in a dream, he reaches back and rummages for a minute, then brings back a packet. Slowly, he places it in my palm. It's a small thing, wrapped in ridiculous red and pink foil that crackles as I open it. He stares as I extract the contents, and place them delicately in the O of my lips.

He gasps in utter shock as I swiftly duck my head, and apply it with my mouth. I pause a second, letting us both acclimate. One of his hands takes a large, and very firm fistful of my curls – not in any way controlling, or even guiding, but as though he must have a grip on my hair right now, and if he did not, he might well lose his grip on reality.

I know how he feels. As much as he needs to hold on to me, I am even more glad to have him there.

I look up at him, needing to see how he's doing.

A question enters his eyes, as clearly as if he has spoken the words.

. . . what do you get out of this, Sassenach?

I raise an eyebrow at him, unable to smirk at the moment, and answer, equally clearly.

Why, you, my love.

Then, I take a deep breath, and get to work in earnest.

Jamie descends immediately into the Gàidhlig, and stays there. He utters several strings of what I assume are curse words – and if so, they are ones even I have never heard before.

And, wow, is that saying something.

I run my fingertips along the scratches I left on his thighs yesterday. His hand resets its hold on my hair several times, but he does not let go.

Neither do I. . .

He snaps out a particularly sharp curse, and I look up at him again. Our eyes lock, and it is the intimacy of that which is the most remarkable thing about all this. The look of entirely open, vulnerable trust in his eyes drowns out even his passion, and is only overtaken, in the end, by a look of thoroughly adoring wonder, and incredulous, almost worshipful joy.

That look alone is more than enough for me to get out of this. . .

And quite beyond the sight of him in utter, glorious abandon, there are the sounds he makes, his helpless, insistent motions, the heat and textures of him, and the dear, final surrendering of self to self that our joinings always are. This time isn't any less for being mostly about him.

He is allowed to be the focus sometimes. The priority. The one served, and given to, and treasured. But I am beginning to think I am the first one who has ever convinced him this might be true. . .

His hand finally relaxes in my hair. Then he takes me by the shoulders, and pulls me to my feet. He lets us catch our breath for a few seconds, but then he grabs me roughly, and pulls my mouth to his, devouring me even more fervently then I just did him.

He pushes the rest of his clothes off, and manages to get me out of mine in between the deep, hungry clashes of our mouths. Then he slides us beneath the covers, and gathers me to him once more. His hands are everywhere, his lips are everywhere, his tongue and his teeth and his arms and his skin, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. . .

Except one place. . .

He rests a hand on my hip, and pulls back from me a little, a completely different question in his eyes now.

I take his hand by the wrist, peck a kiss to his knuckles, and slowly, very, very slowly, guide him.

I really am too sore for much, but he is delicate, and gentle, and precise, and attentive, and patient, and I have no complaints to make at all, at all, at all. . .

At last, we are stretched out next to each other, skin to skin, and I am holding his head to my chest, running my fingers through his brilliant curls, and contemplating all the different coruscating shades of red and orange and gold in them, when a question occurs to me. A basic, obvious question that I am shocked neither of us has asked yet.

"Jamie?"

"Aye, mo chridhe?"

"How old are you?"

Chapter Text

I feel him smile against my chest, "Thirty two. And ye?"

"Thirty six."

He chuckles, "Pair of auld geezers, we are."

I playfully smack his shoulder, "Speak for yourself! No, I just wanted to know, because. . . well, firstly, because I think I ought to, right? I mean, I really would know, or should at least, by now, right? If we really had been dating for months?"

He squirms slightly, and nods, "Aye."

"And secondly, I seem to recall your birthday being mentioned? Once or twice in all of our conversations, I'm pretty sure you've said you have a birthday coming up, is that right? It's between now and when we go for our Green Card interview, isn't it?"

He squirms uncomfortably again, "Aye."

"What's up, Jamie?"

"Weel. Nothing much, I suppose. It's just that. . . I had forgotten, for a minute." He looks me in the eyes, "It's all so real, with ye, Sassenach. So true. It seems almost unbearably strange that we haveta pretend about anything."

He's right. We met less than a week ago, and we've only just now learned each other's ages, but in our minds? We've been a couple forever. It sounds incredibly cheesy even to think such a thing, but in our hearts, we've always been in love.

All my life, I've never even wondered whether or not I believed in soulmates, and now, the question is entirely moot.

I don't have to believe in someone I am currently holding in my arms, so bright, and beautiful, and warm, and oh, so lovely.

I don't have to wonder if we were meant to be. I only have to lean forward and kiss him, and I know. I might not know exactly at what moment he became my home, but I do know that he is. Entirely. Completely. Unquestionably. My home, my heart, my soul, my everything. The strength in my bones, and the very breath in my lungs.

He's right about love, too. Less than a week, and now I know that I didn't know what it was before either.

I feel so much more than safe with this man. I feel like the richest, most beloved woman in the world. Like the freest, most beautiful creature under the sky.

Like the happiest wife who ever wived, so long as he is at my side. . .

"I know what you mean. But we don't have to pretend to very many people, now that Colum knows and approves."

"He does?" he sits up suddenly, "Colum does?"

"Oh, yes." I sit up too, "I haven't told you yet, have I? It's been such a busy day. . ."

Quickly, I tell him about my conversation with Colum this morning. He chuckles.

"The MacKenzie stubbornness certainly won the day, didn't it?"

"Yes, I thought that too."

"Well, if we're in good wi' Colum, then at least things will be easier here at home. He'll make sure ye have time ta be a mother - an' a wife too – Colum's no' the man ta be over-workin' family. An' by-the-by - how is it ye dinnae ken that a spot on his board of advisors is the most sought-after position at the company?"

"It is?"

"Aye. The direct pay is less, but the stock options are as cushy as they get. An' the rest of the benefits package is something out of a storybook. Full Thanksgiving dinners, trips ta New York for Christmas, access ta no less than three private jets – an' that's jus' the start. How did ye no' ken about all that?"

"Well. I sort of did. I mean, I knew Leoch Foods was a rich enough company to provide those sorts of things, and I've heard a few stories, but. . . Jamie, to most folks at work, I'm the boss. I might have a good working relationship with most of them, but I'm not likely to be on the grapevine, or hear much scuttlebutt. And personally, that's something I've always liked about being in the corner office. I'm not a natural gossip, and workplace rumor-mongering has always felt pretty unbearable to me. I'm in the running to be the last person who would know what the most sought-after company perks are."

His lips twist a bit, "Ye might haveta change yer tune a bit now ye're boss ta four very talkative wee girlies, Sorcha."

I grin, "I've already noticed that." I snuggle back under the covers, as the air is chill on my skin, "Just like I've noticed that you've very deftly maneuvered the conversation away from your birthday."

His eyes tighten.

So does my stomach.

A suspicion has been growing in me for quite a while, and this is a very decisive nail in a very unfortunate coffin. . .

"I wouldn't push if I didn't need to know, love. Your usual family traditions, at the very least. Or if you aren't ready to share those, can you tell me what you want for your birthday? What you want us to do? Me to do?"

He huffs an ironic laugh, and the face he turns to me is both sorrowful and wry, "Ye want ta ken what I want? An' what I want ye ta do?"

"Well. . . yes."

"Nothing!"

He raps the word out like a curse.

I blink, "Noth-"

"D'ye wantae ken what the most consistent birthday tradition has been around heer?" his face contorts into a strange, furious sorrow, "Annalise! Didnae mattar whose day it was, it had tae be about her! If she had ta start fights, if she had tae ruin photos, if she had ta spoil holidays, or upset entire restaurants, she'd do it. Nae'un else was allowed ta be the center of attention. Only her."

Slowly, he unclenches his fists.

"I got so tired, Sorcha. So tired of standing between her and the girls. So tired of no' knowing if I was the one ta blame for even trying ta make things work. So tired of absorbing her vacuous, idiotic bullshit. She was all saccharine platitudes and trite poetic quotations, Sassenach." He runs a hand across his forehead, "She looked like this sweet, perfect princess. . . but she had the morals of Jabba the Hutt."

I don't smile. He is in deadly earnest.

He shrugs, helplessly, "D'ye ken what I really want for my birthday? A day. Just that! A day all to myself, a day about me!" He hangs his head, "An' I jus' wish I didnae feel like the world's greatest pig for even desiring such a thing!"

I nod sadly, "Jamie. . . the night we met. . ."

"Aye?" His face softens, and he reaches out to me, taking my hand and threading our fingers together.

"I. . . well. . . at first I thought you were the classic romantic tragedy widower – still in love with his lost bride, and devoted to her memory."

The laugh he gives at that is very short, and very hard.

"And, while you very quickly overturned that image in my mind, I've still been working from it, as an ideal. And what else ought I to have done, Jamie? It's not like I could have predicted that everything I was subsequently going to learn about her would reveal her to have been a. . . a. . ."

I hesitate to say it, but Jamie doesn't.

"A domestic abuser? Aye. And an unrepentant narcissist, and an emotionally unavailable, attention-seeking, utterly selfish. . . parasite. She had me tied up in knots for years. Had me thinkin' I was the problem, an' t'was my fault nothin' was getting' better."

"And that's the point, Jamie. Why didn't you tell me all this? Why haven't we had this conversation before now?"

He snorts, "Oh, aye, that's exactly what a man wants tae be talkin' about with his bride on their honeymoon," he lifts a sardonic eyebrow, ""By the way my dear, I'm still in therapy for the woman who came before ye – she abused me for nearly eight years, gave me four children, PTSD, and an inferiority complex, an' I couldnae be happier she's dead." Perfect post-wedding conversation that would have been. . ."

"No, it would have been awful. Instead, it's awful now. After I've already told Faith I'd talk to you about letting her go ahead and painting Annalise."

He catches his breath, and looks at me, speechless.

"You were freed from an abuser, Jamie. They lost a mother. She might not have been the best mother, but she was still the only one they had. They don't know the difference-"

"Yet."

"Thank you - yet - but the point still stands. They're still grieving. Of course they are. They're only learning how to Human, Jamie. And they've had a lot less practice at it than you or I. Faith wanting to paint her mother is a perfectly natural mourning response, wouldn't you say?"

"Aye."

"Well then. Why forbid it?"

He slashes at the air in impotent rage, "Because I cannae see her face wi'out retching, Sorcha! An' ye've seen Faith's pictures. She'll have her down pat in a week if she's allowed tae start now. I'd be seein' Annalise everywhere. An'. . . an' I already have flashbacks. . . I. . . I cannae. . ."

He puts his head in his hands, rather desperately trying not to lose control entirely.

I say softly, "Have you considered telling her that?"

"Telling. . ."

"Faith. She's nine, Jamie, not an idiot. Rather the opposite, from what I can see. She will very probably tread on your feelings from time to time, no matter what, alas, but that doesn't mean she's incapable or unwilling to try not to. If you'd just talk to her."

"And say what?" he shakes his head, his voice bleak, "That I. . . that Annalise was. . . that we. . ."

"No. You say something like, "Faith, we all grieve in our own ways – you know that, because Bree is grieving your mama in a different way than you, and so are Jo-jo and Sally. Well, Da is grieving too. And seeing your mama's face hurts me right now. So, you see, I want you to paint her if you need to, but I also would like it very much if you kept the paintings where I can't see them."

I pause, a little pointedly.

"You know, I'd like to bet that would do the trick. She's an eminently reasonable girl, Jamie. Not at all spoiled, or even mean-spirited. She apologized to me this afternoon, without any prompting. She loves, Jamie. She's bad at hate. She still loves her mother, and she needs a way to express that. Now. Before more damage is done. And, above it all, she loves you. She'll listen, I'm sure of it. If you'd only talk to her."

He sits silently for a minute, utterly still. Then he nods, slowly, and gets up.

"Ye're right, Sassenach. More right than I c'n say." He goes over to a drawer, and brings out a big double-handful of cotton clothes. He hands me half, and starts to put on the others, "But we'll see tae it in the morning, aye? Get dressed now, an' come sleep next tae me."

I hold up the set of his t-shirt and boxers, looking at them dubiously, "You want me to wear these?"

He pulls his shirt on, then clears his curls away from his eyes, "Aye. Unless ye've brought other clothes ta sleep in."

"But. . . why can't we. . ." I gesture vaguely between us, and at the clothes we've left scattered over the floor.

He smirks, and goes to pick them up, draping them neatly over the backs of a couple of chairs, "Oh, if it were just us, we could." He gestures at the door, and down the hall, "But it isnae just us. An' I promise ye, come half-six, ye'll be glad ye have clothes on. Trust me, Sorcha, aye?"

I shrug. "Alright." I get out of bed, and put the clothes on. Then I get back beneath the covers, and reach at him with open arms, in very deliberate mimicry of our wedding night, "Now, will you let me hold you?"

His whole face goes soft, and a great deal of tension flows out of his posture.

"Aye. Jus' try an' stop me."

Chapter Text

I do turn out to be thankful I'm wearing clothes, but I learn why at three-thirty, not six-thirty.

A thin, soft sound pulls me up out of a deep dream.

"Dahhh? Dahhh?"

One of the girls is whisper-calling for Jamie. . .

I feel him stir slightly behind me, but not quite awaken, and when I open my eyes, the small figure is bobbing around near my side of the bed anyway. I try to force myself fully awake, only half successfully.

"Mmmwhatsit, swee'heart?"

"Mmwwmah?"

"Yes dear."

"Mmbad drem."

"Oh dear. Tha's icky. Be'er ge'in."

On autopilot, I fold back the covers, and scootch back a little ways to make room. The tiny figure that can only be wee Joanie hesitates.

"Wmah?"

"Yes dear?"

She hesitates again, then hefts her fluffy stuffed bear up before her, and clambers up into the clear space I've made for her.

I've only been doing what my own mother used to do when I had bad dreams, so I say the next thing she always used to say.

"Ge' com'fable honey. No nigh'mare s'gonna come 'round where the snuggle fairy is."

"Suggle fariy?"

"S'right. All nigh'mares skared of 'er."

I can practically hear her absorbing this.

"O."

Eventually, she curls around her bear, and wriggles her body around until the freezing-cold soles of her feet are just touching the tops of my thighs.

I have never been heartily thankful I happened to be wearing boxer shorts before, but now, at least those two ice cubes she has attached to her legs are touching me through cotton, and not on my bare skin.

I hold back my squeak of surprise, and carefully drape the covers over her. With any luck, she'll warm up quickly. . .

From the tension in his back, and the sound of his breathing, I can tell Jamie is awake now, but he doesn't interrupt our little interaction. I can almost hear him smile. I cuddle a little closer to him, and he to me.

I'm just easing back into sleep when Joanie speaks again.

"Wmah?"

"Mmmyes, luv?"

"Is the fariy heer now?"

"Mmcourse, baby. Snuggle fairy comes to ann'where you snuggle. Ev'n when yer a'lone. All y'need s'blanket. She p'tects you."

"O."

She doesn't say anything more, but I can hear her thinking again.

Time slows into the long, easy seconds of the middle of the night, and we all fall back into deep, settled sleep.

In the morning, everything happens fast. Waking up, showers, getting dressed, Mrs. Bug's arrival, coffee, breakfast, making lunches, and a great trooping into the schoolroom for Zoom classes all happen seemingly at the speed of light.

And then, I'm at the door, kissing Jamie goodbye for the day.

"Seems all backwards, this," he chuckles, "Ye're the businesswoman, an' all I want is ta raise my girls in peace."

"I know, love," I say, kissing him briefly again, "Everything is just in transition right now. We'll get things sorted soon enough, and then nothing will feel backwards." I smirk, "Only upside-down."

He laughs, then takes my hand more seriously, "I'll give ye a cooking lesson when I get home, aye? Grilled cheese sandwiches, and my special Cream of Five Roasted Vegetables Soup. The girls love it, an' they probably won't want what I hope I'll be bringin' home for us from the test kitchens tanight."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Well, if the dev team has done as they should while I've been gone, today ought ta be the final test day for the venison and pickled onion pie I mean ta put on Leoch's new seasonal menu. Which means there'll be a half dozen or so different goes at it to choose from, with at least a dozen pies in each go. I'll be back with enough for a week's dinners for the both of us, at least."

"Sound's lovely."

He scowls a bit, "They'd better've done as I told 'em ta do. I'll no' be happy if I haveta be eatin' bland pie for a week."

I laugh, and give him a gentle push out the door, "Sounds like the best of all possible worries you could be having, to me."

"Aye, ye're right, Sassenach," he pecks the tip of my nose, "See ye tanight, mo ghràidh."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

I watch him get into his car, and pull out of the driveway.

Slowly, I go back into the house, a most surreal drop in the pit of my stomach.

I nearly float upstairs, in an almost dissociative state, sounds echoing from the half-open door of the schoolroom as though they were coming from the bottom of a well, and the sunlight streaming in from the windows glowing hazy on the edges of my vision, as though I am seeing everything in a dream. Colours are brighter, smells are sharper, and it is only now, alone, in a strange house, surrounded by lives and routines I do not know, that the utter enormity of the past week bears down on me.

I stare blankly at the doors down the hallway, somewhat dizzily unsure which one I will choose. . .

I don't regret anything. I'm not even truly worried. I chose this life, with these people, willingly, eagerly, with my eyes open, my heart invested, and my soul ready. Or so I thought. . .

I could never have been ready. Not really. Not even in the months I have to say I had, and certainly not in the day and half I actually had.

The change is so much. I wouldn't have any of it otherwise, but it is still so much. I'm not backwards, or upside down, I'm. . .

Oh, what am I?

Inside-out?

I stagger a little muzzily through the second door on the left. The guest room. Where all of Annalise's old furniture is, and where we've agreed my new office space will be. My office and cat-acclimatization room.

I plop down onto the nearest chaise-lounge, or whatever the things are called, only barely noticing the elegant blue and white upholstery, and rest my head heavily in my hands, trying to encompass it all for a bit.

Okay. First and foremost. I love Jamie. Of course, I'm not naive enough to think that is all this will take. Not by half. But not only do I love him, we fit. We're compatible. And in the few areas we've discovered we aren't, so far we've both been adult enough to make compromises or allowances enough to give the other space to be themselves. Neither of us is frightened of the changes the other can and will bring to the other. Wary, perhaps. Intelligently skeptical. But we also trust each other. More than enough has occurred between us in the past week for there to be multiple opportunities for us to earn the other's trust – and we have, each and every time. That's huge. Because it means not only are our hearts in this, our consciences are too. Neither of us are only looking out for ourselves, but instinctively for the other now too.

And that's partnership. That's marriage.

I know that. I can encompass that.

So why does all this still feel so surreal?

I lift my head, and look around at the furniture haphazardly scattered all over the room. Chairs and tables and wardrobes and mirror stands and chests of drawers. . .

All that remains of a life. A life not well lived. And a death come early, but not untimely.

And, all at once, I know.

I don't feel inside-out, or backwards, or upside down.

I feel haunted.

I've lifted the ghost of Annalise from Jamie, or started to, at least, and begun to help him help the girls to do so as well.

But in doing so, I have, of necessity, taken her upon myself.

And she's still here.

And no one could possibly encompass that. No self-respecting wife would allow it.

No halfway decent husband would expect it, either. . .

I will live with grief, I will deal with sorrow, I can and will give my energy, my heart and breath and blood itself for my family's healing.

I can not, I will not - I dare not live one more second in the presence of evil.

I stand up swiftly, and stare myself down in the dressing table mirror, all askew and uneven as it is.

"This is my house now," I say, to myself, but also not, "Mine. My family, my children, my husband, my life. You abandoned them years ago. You never even truly had them. You had the chance to, but you chose yourself instead. You did damage them, but they all belong to me now. And I belong to them. And nothing can change that."

I plant my hands on the dressing table, and lean forward, whispering fiercely at the image in the mirror, "I'll fight you whenever, and wherever I must, but understand this – I have already won. We already have everything you tried to take, and now, we will have more. We will grow. We will heal. We will forget. Do you see? All you'll be is a shadow vanished in the light. A ragged old spirit with no one left to scare. Understand? You will be less than nothing. In fact, you already are – and once they realize that, nothing will be able to bring you back."

Some ancient instinct compels me to stand up straight, and hold my arms out in front of myself, palm-forward. I speak in commanding, otherworldly tones,

"I command you, Annalise de Marillac, to the abyss you made for yourself, to the oblivion that you chose, to the end all evil must come to, in the presence of right and good."

And, is it my imagination? In the yellowy-brown reflection of my own eyes, for the briefest of seconds, there seems to be a flash of blue, tinted with sea green, and in my ears there seems to be the most distant echoing sound of mocking laughter, tinged with the frantic, hectic terror of a soul that knows its due, and that there is no escape. . .

I lower my hands, and the vision – if vision it was – is gone.

So is the surreal burdensome feeling.

And suddenly this is just a roomful of old furniture. Old furniture that Jamie doesn't like, but lived with for years as better than the effort it would take to get rid of it.

Used to live with.

Now, he's told me to get what price I can for it all on FB Marketplace, and if no one wants it there, we'll donate it.

I pull out my phone and start taking pictures of each piece, and posting them up with, I think, quite reasonable asking prices.

I spend the next several hours shifting things in and out of the room, and planning my office layout, and starting to set up the large en suite bathroom and attached walk-in closet as a cat-haven for Rabbie, Stuart and Adso, when I bring them here next week.

I only stop when it's lunchtime, and I go to eat with the girls.

And all the time, I desperately try not to think how it is that I knew Annalise's maiden name. . .

Chapter Text

"They're running the Culloden series at the nearest Castle Leoch this weekend," says Jamie, poking his head into my office.

"Oh, are they?" I look up at him, and smile. It's taken a lot of work, and a little longer than the week we had initially planned, but we've finally achieved a stable enough routine that an unexpected interruption from him at an odd time of day isn't in the least upsetting to my work-brain. That wouldn't have been true just a few days ago, but now. . .

I hand a folder of printouts to Mary, "Get these filed, and contact that last vendor, and that's all for today. You can take off early."

"Th-thanks, Claire."

One of the first things I had suggested to Colum was that Mary be transferred along with me, as a PA. He had agreed at once, sensing almost instinctively, I think, that I needed just a little bit of workplace continuity. Between her and Mrs. Bug, I've started to not only find my way into my new job, but also to find my niche in the household.

Nothing is perfect yet, but it's definitely something to have started. . .

"The Culloden series is good. It's our most popular show by far," I say. Mary nods amiably to Jamie on her way out of the room, just as he sits down across the desk from me. "Angus made a YouTube channel just for it about a year ago, and he reports that the traffic there suggests we could run it up to three times as frequently as we do, even keeping it as a four-parter. Our other four part shows don't draw nearly the same numbers – I suggested to Colum yesterday that we get the writers to edit them down to two-parters. The next most attended show is Prestonpans, and that's a two-parter. Though I have to admit I don't really know how it's going to be possible to edit the Robert the Bruce saga down to less than an hour of stage time, not unless you cut a lot of the horse work. . ."

I break off. The look in his eyes is interested, but not focused.

"You're not here to talk about work, are you?"

He smiles wryly, "Aye, I'll talk about whatever ye want with ye, Sorcha, but I was meaning that since Joanie and Sally havena seen the Culloden series yet, Mrs. Bug could take the girls ta see it this Saturday afternoon, an' we could have a night out tagether."

I get up from my desk, and slip into his arms, "Mmm. Have I told you lately that you're absolutely brilliant?"

"Hm, no' exactly lately. . ."

"Remiss of me then, because you are." I kiss him heartily, then turn back to my desk, "Just let me log off for today, and then you can apply your brilliance towards making me a drink."

"Oho, I can, can I?" he raises an eyebrow, and slaps me smartly on the backside.

I snort with laughter, "Yes, you can. And you can tell me what you have planned for this weekend."

His expression goes soft, even as his eyes heat up, "Weel. . . we could go over ta your place, an' pick up yer wee cheeties. I ken an hour or so every other night isnae enough, nor what we planned."

"True, but it's all we've had time for, so far."

"Aye, I ken, but let's bring 'em home for good, aye? I'll cook up somethin' special, jus' for the two of us, and we'll eat it over there, all romantic like. An' if Mrs. Bug doesna mind stayin' overnight heer, we could sleep there, an' all come home Sunday mornin'."

My fingers tremble a little as I close my laptop. The past week has been very full, and very rushed. Practically everything has been positive, and we certainly haven't been at odds with each other, but we've had neither energy nor time to do more than kiss, and maybe grab an hour or so of privacy in the middle of the night, snuck in between bathroom runs, bad dreams, nightlight mishaps, spilled water, lost stuffed animals, tangled blankets, forbidden flashlights, and whispering campaigns world governments ought to envy. Oh, and sleeping, on occasion. . .

We've mostly spent what scant private time has been afforded to us just talking, and very little else. Getting to know each other. Sharing our minds, and opening our hearts. Not for any green card – or not only, anyway – but because we want to. And in fact, hearing his thoughts on such things as religion, politics and so on, and being encouraged to share my own such deep contemplations, has been more intimate than sex. I wouldn't have missed a second of any of it, and I treasure him more now - even more than I did a week ago, as impossible as that might have seemed then. Learning each other's minds has been essential, worthwhile, good and very pleasurable work.

But, it has still been work.

Now, he is talking about some play.

And yes, yes, yes, I am ready for some play. . .

"Did I say brilliant? You're a genius," I kiss him quickly, "Let's ask her."

We go downstairs arm in arm, and find Mrs. Bug in the breakfast nook, lingering over a glass of iced tea and her latest historical romance novel. The girls are just beyond, in the living room, singing along to their current favorite – Cinderella.

She agrees with Jamie's plan almost instantly, and gives both of us a look of soft, almost motherly pride at the request. She has been very circumspect about what she says, especially in front of Jamie, but I get the distinct impression that she did not like Annalise. Either way, she is highly approving of me, a thing which I have found almost impossible to over-value in the past couple of weeks.

We leave her to her book, and go into the main kitchen, where Jamie makes us both a drink, and then proceeds to take me meticulously through his recipes for French Onion soup, red bell pepper, cucumber, chickpea and dill vinaigrette, and herb-y soda bread bannocks, with apple-butter spread.

Sally and Bree appear beside us while we are making the bread, still singing A Dream Is A Wish, and between them they manage to get nearly all of the dusting flour, and several remnants of dough all over the kitchen. Jamie just laughs it off, and hands them both kitchen wipes, telling them to pretend to be Cinderella to some purpose for a minute. They do, and clean up after themselves, laughing the whole time.

A half an hour later, as the delectable odours of warm, fresh bread begin to permeate the house, Faith and Sally volunteer to set the table, and wee Jo actually consents to having her hands washed before she eats. Perhaps this is because I've let her climb the kitchen stepladder to do it at the big sink, but regardless, it is a win.

Sweet she may be, but our wee Jo-Jo is also fiercely stubborn, and no one touches her hands without permission, and usually considerable warning.

Jamie quickly whips up a bowl of cream, and Bree helps him make a granola and blueberry cranachan, and then dinner is done, and, each of us carrying a platter or pot full of something, we all troop in to the kitchen table, where Mrs. Bug is now waiting for us. She always stays on French Onion soup nights, Jamie says.

I don't mind. She could stay for dinner every night, as far as I am concerned. She's part of the family now, in my opinion, and since she hasn't much of her own family, why on earth shouldn't she?

Jamie ladles out soup, and I serve up salad, and Mrs. Bug butters the girl's bannocks, and then we all fold our hands, as Jamie says a brief grace, from the Book of Common Prayer.

"Dear Lord, thank you for this food we are about to eat. We are grateful for Your provision, and we ask that You would bless this food and continue to guide our family along Your path. In the name of Your son Jesus, amen."

"Amen," I whisper.

The girls do not whisper. Their "amens" are loud, and hungry, and once said, they waste no time at all in starting in on the food.

I start much more quietly and carefully, for the soup is still quite hot, and so is the bread. Mrs. Bug pauses in mid-bite, and jumps up. Scurrying shamefacedly, she fetches the big jug of raspberry iced tea she has made from the refrigerator, and offers some to us. I catch Jamie's eye as she bustles about, pouring glasses for everyone. He smiles at me, and I smile back. We don't need words – or rather, our exchange of looks is just as clear as words.

This is the life, isn't it, Sorcha?

It certainly is, my love.

Chapter Text

Walking back into my apartment is very strange, this time around. I've been here several times in the past week, of course, but tonight it is with a very specific goal in mind – that of removing all permanent residents from the premises.

Which makes things sound terribly dire, I know, but really, it is odd. . .

I've lived here quite contentedly for six years. I've had my family and my friends, and my cats, and my job, and all the myriad of distractions and entertainments every reasonably modern life can provide these days. It wasn't a remarkable life, but it was a comfortable one, full of interest and happiness, and freedom and fun. If it was the quiet versions of them, what of it? I've never had any ambitions to be a socialite, or even popular.

Yes, my six years here were quite satisfactory.

And now, we are going to pack up my three Flerken-spawn, and not come back for who knows how long. They probably never will. . .

Of course, I am not ready to move out entirely. Besides the fact that all of my things are here, and as Jamie has pointed out, it's a very handy place to get some privacy for a night out, I'm not ready to give up my independence quite so completely, and certainly not this suddenly.

I want a place to run to, if I need it. A place where three-decades-single, lifelong-only-child me can come for some solitude, if necessary. I know that at some point, I'm going to want a spot where I can lock the door behind me, put on a movie, and check out - and not worry about if someone will get their head stuck in a rocking chair or something while I'm gone.

I haven't talked about it with Jamie yet – there have been many other priorities, after all – but he shows all the signs of understanding, even before we talk about it.

I'll definitely bring it up this weekend. . .

Jamie rolls the big cooler with our dinner in it directly into my kitchen, and starts unloading it immediately. I can hear the bottles clink in the refrigerator as he unloads the wine he brought.

I check the three cat-carriers I have left open on the living room floor, and see Rabbie napping contentedly in his. The other two are empty, but that's not surprising to me. I gather a few scattered toys into a basket, and then a sweet, quiet miaow comes from the direction of my bedroom. I look over, and out comes Stuart, who runs over to me, and starts arching against my legs, and head-butting my ankles. I pet and coo at him, the poor confused dear. He, out of my three house-goblins, has been the most upset by the past two weeks. Rabbie, my pretty orange baby, has only had the brain cell once in his whole darling life, and that was last year, for a single day. And other than for that one day, he hasn't had a care in his entire existence. He's a cuddlebug, certainly, but he's never missed me. Adso, of course, doesn't need me at all – or, at least, is convinced he doesn't. I'm not sure who he thinks will buy him raw salmon steaks when he refuses to eat anything else, if I don't, but, well, that's cats for you. I wouldn't change my gray ghost one bit. . . the little spoiled brat.

My Stu-stu, conversely, is both Flerken and floof. He is here for both my servility and my snuggles.

I pick him up, and he immediately curls into my chest and starts purring, far more loudly than his small self looks capable of. I scritch between his ears, and babble all the baby-nonsense it just makes sense to lavish on him.

"Ooo is a good boi then? Oo is a sweet itty-kitty, mm?"

He miaows again, and rolls in my arms, asking for tummy scritches.

"Oh, is it you, then? Mm, yeah? You a good boi?"

I bury my fingertips in his tummy-fluff, and catch-and-release his paws as he playfully bats them at my knuckles. Then he squirms suddenly, and jumps out of my arms, trotting over to his favorite wispy feather-toy, and miaowing at it, very pointedly.

I smile indulgently, "Oh, you want to play, do you?"

He looks up at me, and miaows again.

I relent - not that I was resisting very hard – and go sit on the floor next to him, and get down to some serious play. . .

"The girls are going to love you, Stuart, my sweetie," I murmur, as I swing the feather toy back and forth, "I do hope you'll love them. . ."

Jamie comes out of the kitchen then, and comes over to us, smiling as he sees what we are doing.

"That one's Stuart, aye?"

I nod, "Yes."

"Pretty wee beastie."

"Oh yes, all my boys are lookers."

I raise an eyebrow, and look at him askance.

He blinks and half-smiles when the point lands, "Glad I pass muster, then."

"Mmm. And a good deal more." I hand him the feather toy, "Is dinner going to take long?"

"Not very. I have a sauce ta make, and a salad ta toss, but everything else is in the oven or on the stove, warming through very nicely."

"So I have time to go get my keys back from Mrs. Graham?"

He waves the toy for Stuart, grinning as he leaps for it, "Aye, I expect so."

"Right then," I kiss his cheek, and slip off down the hall to Mrs. Graham's apartment.

She answers after the first ring, and greets me happily. I hand her back the hair clips I borrowed two weeks ago, and start to explain why a four-day weekend of her taking care of my cats turned into two weeks of her watching my apartment, but she silences me with a wave,

"No problem, dearie, no problem at all. Honeymoons are bound to upset all kinds of apple carts-"

I start violently, "H. . . how did. . ."

I hadn't told her where I was going two weeks ago, or why. And we haven't spoken more than twenty words to each other since.

She waves the hair clips, "I got a wee glance at your hands while you were over borrowing these, and I saw all the signs, dearie. All the signs. I hope you'll be very happy. But I expect you will – he's very handsome, and he loves you desperately, of course."

I stare at her, my mouth half-open, thoroughly flabbergasted.

"He. . . does?"

She gives a soft, matronly smile, "Oh, yes." She holds out her hand for mine, "Do you want me to check?"

She's nattered on about things being "written in the hand" before, and she often speaks about the future as if it has already happened, but she's never been this direct about any of it.

She's never acted like it was. . . real.

Slowly, wondering just exactly what I'm getting into here, I set my hand in hers, palm-up.

She tilts it back and forth in the light, humming softly as she, apparently, takes careful note of what looks to me like a tangle of quite ordinary and meaningless wrinkles and lines.

"Ah. Yes," she says, quietly pleased, "Tall, handsome, and very. . . compatible," her eyes twinkle knowingly at me, "Mentally and physically. There was an instant connection, very strong physical attraction, and very few interpersonal hang-ups, yes?"

I blink slowly, once or twice, "Oh. Uh. Yes."

"And maybe one or two little spooky things have happened too, eh? Some things you can't quite explain?"

"Uhm. . ." I have scarcely felt quite so awkward in anyone's presence before, and I simply do not know where to look. . . "Uh. Yes. Nothing big, just a little. . . well. Odd."

She nods, quite oblivious to my discomfort, "Oh yes. It's because you're soulmates. See?" She points at an indistinguishable point on my hand, "Most palm readers would say that looks like two husbands, side by side – two marriages at once." Her eyes sparkle, "Naughty, naughty. But those markings can mean something else – and usually do, in my experience. They mean you've met your spouse before - in another life. And look here. And here." She points at two more equally indistinguishable spots, "You see? You're clearly an old soul, and you're part of an immortal bloodline. You've not only met your husband before, you've married him before. In other timelines in this universe, and in other universes. All of them, perhaps. You're true mates – mirrored souls. Fated to come together. Not just soul mates – infinite soul mates."

I blink again, totally lost now, "Al. . . alright. Bu. . . but. . ."

She smiles widely, "But what does that have to do with odd things happening? Well, dearie, you see, time is a funny thing. History. . . well. You could say it. . . leaks. There are so many loops, and pockets, and bits and pieces. Things spill out, here and there. So many things that never happened, because they happened too many times. Things that just keep happening, because they never did. Most people just call them coincidences, or conspiracies, or glitches in the Matrix, or Mandala effects, or just the way the world works." Her eyes go distant, and her voice goes dreamy, "But soulmates now. . . soulmates can't lie to themselves. They're too connected to the way things really are. They're woven into the very fabric of history - they can see – they can know. In ways most people just can't, and never will."

My mind buzzes, completely overwhelmed.

"Oh."

There's no way she misses the flat disbelief in my voice.

"Not what you thought, dearie?"

"No. I. . . I thought. . ." I shake my head, trying to remember exactly what I had thought. . . "I thought it was. . . well. A ghost. Maybe."

"And it might have been, dearie," she taps my palm one last time before finally releasing my hand, "But this is why you noticed it, I'm sure."

I give my whole self a little shake this time, trying to wake up out of the strange almost-fugue state she's managed to put me in.

"Well." I say, matter-of-factly, "Maybe so. But uhm. . . well. . ." I smile, brightly, "My keys?"

"Oh! Of course, dearie." She hands over the jingling lanyard, "It's been a pleasure to be your neighbor, dearie, that it has."

Impulsively, I give her a quick hug, and a peck on the cheek. My parents waited a long time to have me. Uncle Lamb is the closest thing I've ever had to grandparents. In all my imaginings of grandmothers, Mrs. Graham isn't far off from my ideal. She might be a slight bit strange, but she's a good old soul for all that.

Suddenly, I'm going to miss her a great deal more than I thought I would. . .

"I'll come visit sometimes, how about that? We will."

"That'd be nice, dearie."

I squeeze her hand, and turn to go.

I walk slowly back to my apartment, trying rather desperately to get back inside my own mind. . .

When I open my door, a great wave of savoury smells greet me. I can identify something bread-y, and something tomato-sauce-y, and maybe something chicken-y, but mostly, I'm just suddenly starving, and it smells like total heaven.

I go to my room to wash up a bit, and then meet Jamie in the living room.

He hands me a glass of wine, and clinks his own against it, "It's the moscato ye had here, Sorcha. I wanta save the rosé and riesling we brought for the three course dessert I have planned."

"Mmm," I take a sip, and grin at him, "Fancy. Three whole courses of dessert, huh?"

He raises an eyebrow, and smirks at me, "Aye."

I answer his smirk with a coy and knowing smile.

Two weeks. I have known this man just over two weeks. And this is where we are at.

Maybe memories and emotions spilling out from multiple universes and timelines isn't such a crackpot idea after all. . .

"I can't wait, love. But in the meantime, what else have you made? It smells terrific."

He leads me over to the table, and gestures at it proudly, "Turtle soup, mulled ale, some genuine Scottish cheese, my famous Pink and Purple salad with toasted sesame vinaigrette, Aberdeen butteries with garlic and chives, scalloped cheesy potatoes, and. . ." suddenly, he blushes, and it's so adorable I don't know why I'm not kissing him, right now, ". . . and. . . Marry Me chicken."

And then, he takes my left hand, gets down on one knee, and looks up at me imploringly, "Will ye, Claire?"

Chapter Text

I blink, both charmed and baffled at the same time, and in equal measure.

"Jamie. . . my lovely, darling man, I. . ." I run gentle fingertips down the side of his face, ". . . I do hesitate to point out the obvious. . . but. . ." I stare pointedly at my left hand, where he is still holding it, and more specifically at the ring. His ring. Our ring, that he put there, two weeks ago. . .

"Och, I ken that," he smiles and kisses it, "But a legal thing, done for the need of it, isnae a marriage, Claire. I ken we've both tried ta say it is, but we both know we werenae really married until the moment we'd both said "I love you". We jus' happened ta get married first, an' said it afterwards." He runs his thumb across my knuckles, and kisses them again, "I set all this up tanight because I wanted ye tae ken - I'd've asked ye anyway, had we met under different circumstances. I'd've asked again and again – whatever the circumstances. Only the most emphatic no from ye could evar have stopped me askin', an' evan then, I'd still have yearned for ye, in silence. An' so I'm askin' now, wi' my heart, an' no' my head. Will ye, Claire?"

"Oh, Jamie. . ." I can't keep myself from kissing him any longer, and I pull his mouth to mine, pausing just long enough to breathe my answer against his lips, "Yes. A million times, yes," and then I blithely lose myself in loving him.

When I am next aware of my surroundings, we are laid out on the couch, still wearing clothes, but with our limbs entwined as though we aren't. I pull away just enough so I can catch my breath.

And suddenly, infinity not only seems like the only possible, the only logical thing, it doesn't seem like long enough. . .

"I'd have said yes, Jamie. In any world, in any time, in any place, for any reason. If you are the one doing the asking, I'm in. Every atom of me. Every spark of my soul. Regardless of circumstances. Just so you know."

His eyes flash, and his lips twitch up in a half smile of total wonderment, and then he gathers me to him again.

I lose myself for even longer this time, and only surface at last because suddenly, my stomach burbles, loudly demanding that epic romance take some notice of the plain practicalities of life.

Jamie pulls back at the sound, eyebrows raised in surprise. Then we both melt into companionable laughter. He gets up, and offers a hand to me.

"Weel. This'll be all the sweeter for a wee bit of pleasurable anticipation, aye?"

I take his hand, and let him pull me to my feet. "Yes, I'm sure it will."

I am expecting him to lead me back over to the table with our dinner on it, but he doesn't. He simply stands in front of the couch for a long few seconds, holding my hand. Then, his free hand digs around in his pocket, and brings out the long string of Scottish pearls he gave me for my something old.

"Handsfast wi' me, Sassenach. Wi' these."

A half dozen emotions surge through me, only a few of which I can even fully identify. . .

"Handsfast? What's. . ."

He smiles, "Auld Scottish traditional marriage, Sorcha. I dinna intend ta let anyone else dabble their fingers in binding us tagether this time. We do it ourselves, or no' at all, aye?"

My heart warms at the thought, even as my brow furrows with more confusion.

"Jamie, knowing what I know now, I don't understand how you could have stood to see me wear those pearls at our ceremony - even that ceremony at that chapel - knowing they used to be. . . hers. How can you possibly want to. . ."

He gives his head one sharp, violent shake, "No, Sassenach. I gave them to her, aye. But she nevar wore them. They were beneath her. A cheap trinket that only proved I was a half-cultured brute, without true taste, or any intelligence ta speak of."

"Jamie!" I gasp, horrified, "The. . . the more I learn about that woman, the more I want to. . . to. . ." I bite back quite a lot of profanity, "To punch her in her stuck-up, cruel little face!"

"Aye," he nods, "I ken how ye feel. I've felt the same, many a time these past two years. Believe me." He shakes his head, ruefully, "But there's nothing doing, Sorcha. She's dead. Dead an' gone. Buried an' banished. There's no revenge left ta take. The only thing ta do is move on. Move forward. Ta grow. Ta live." He holds up the pearls, "Ta love."

I see his point, and take up the other end of the necklace with my free hand. Then, together, we wrap the long string of them around our joined hands, as many times as it will go, finishing by tying them loosely closed, so our fingers and wrists are bound with pearls.

Then his gaze catches mine, and he holds it.

"Repeat after me, as best as ye can, aye?"

I nod.

"'S tu smior de mo chnàimh, na mo chuislean 's tu 'n fhuil."

I haltingly say the Gàidhlig words, knowing they must mean something special.

Then, he translates. . .

"Ye are the marrow in my bones, and the blood in my veins."

I repeat this too.

"Bheir mi dhut-sa mo chorp, gum bith 'n dithis mar aon."

Slowly, I repeat again.

"I will give ye my body, that we two might be one."

I close my eyes, and say the words with all my heart.

"Bheir mi dhut-sa slàn m' anam, gus an crìochnaich ar saoghal."

Once more, my mouth forms the strange sounds, clumsily, but willingly, as though I have indeed said them a thousand times before, in times and worlds that I don't remember. . .

"I will give you my whole soul, until our world ends."

I open my eyes, and lock gazes with him again.

"I will give you my whole soul, until our world ends."

Then he leans forward, and kisses me. Softly, chastely, and for all time. . .

We are more married now than any religious ceremony or any legal document could ever make us.

Not just soulmates. . .

Infinite soulmates.

We have been, we will be, we are, and we will always be.

In a flash, it is simply, perfectly, true.

I don't ask why, or how, because my stomach chooses this moment to rumble again, and we both chuckle in response.

"High time I fed ye, Sorcha," Jamie says, amused, and slowly extracts our hands from the soft knot of pearls, while still preserving the tangle of them. He goes over to the kitchen drawer with all my hand towels in it, and puts them there, closing the drawer securely. I ask a question with my eyes that he answers at once, "Ye canna undo the knot for at least twenty-four hours, Sassenach. And in there, yer wee moggys wilnae get at it."

"Ah. I see." I take the arm he offers me, and look pertly up at him, "Now, what was that you said about the food? Some sort of chicken, is it?"

He seats me at the table only after lightly slapping my rear, "Hush, woman. Sit an' eat yer dinner."

I hum mischievously, and lick my lips at him.

He groans at the sight, and all at once, every wicked imp in my soul rises up to torture him.

I eat my soup suggestively, sucking the spoon clean with every bite. I savor every bit of the sauce laden chicken like it is the best thing I have ever eaten. . . which it very nearly is. I hum over the cheesy potatoes and flaky, buttery rolls like they are the naughtiest things I've ever put in my mouth. . . which they very nearly are. I sip at my ale, and crunch at his radish, radicchio, purple cabbage and pink ginger salad like I'm enjoying a different set of delicacies entirely. . .

Finally, he clomps his fists heavily on the table, "If ye dinna stop that, Claire, I'll throw ye down on this very table, and take ye right in the middle of yer salad, an' as much as I have planned for tanight, an' as lovely as yer arse is, I dinnae much care for the thought of licking my good dressing off it. No' wi'out warning, ye ken."

I nearly choke on a sip of ale.

"So just settle down, aye?" He deepens his voice beautifully, and narrows his eyes at me, "An' finish yer dinner like a good girl."

I drop my fork, as every nerve ending in my entire body lights up. My god this is a game two can play! Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. . .

I have to catch my breath for minute, and only pick my fork back up very carefully, with still-trembling fingers.

And this is just the start. Pace yourself, Beauchamp! You have all night! And most of tomorrow morning, too. . .

We finish the last of dinner in silence. And with considerably less. . . extras.

But, he does run the toe of his shoe slowly up and down my instep the entire time. . .

By the time he's clearing the table, we're both nearly panting, and both entirely hot under the collar.

He brings a small wooden tray and two bottles back from his last trip to the kitchen.

He pours us some of the rosé while I stare at the board. There are very clearly only three servings here, and small ones at that. . .

I take the glass of wine with a very confused look on my face.

A bright, wonderful look comes into his eyes. He takes a long sip of his wine, then leans towards me, saying softly, "I dinna intend ta leave either of us wanting, Sassenach. There's a butter pecan brownie, Irn-bru an' sour cherry swirl tablet, an' a frosted pineapple tartlet for ye. But as for me. . ."

He reaches a hand out, and makes me stand for him, and then he leans back, and runs his eyes all over me, slowly, and very suggestively, "My three course dessert, Sorcha, is you."

Chapter Text

"I've given much thought ta what I want ta do to ye, once I had ye all ta myself again, Sassenach," Jamie says, his eyes flashing brightly, "Wi' time ta serve ye. . . suitably."

"Have you now?" I say, and go to him, as though drawn by some invisible, irresistible force. Which I suppose my love for him is, when you get right down to it. . . I settle myself snugly in his lap, and turn to face him. Softly, I run the backs of my fingers across his cheeks, up and down his jaw, and along the smooth skin of his throat, before finally slipping my hands under the collar of his shirt. Gently, I start scratching the back of his neck.

He hums with pleasure, practically purring, just as charmingly and almost as cattishly as Adso, or Rabbie. I lean in, and whisper, "Tell me, Jamie. Tell me everything."

"Mmmm, the touch of ye, Sorcha." He groans, and his arms go around me, one hand settling across my back, and the other. . . "Christ! This lovely, round arse of yers!" Suddenly, he takes a proper handful, and clasps me even closer to him, "Ta see ye evary day, an' hear ye, live with ye - ta get wee tastes of ye, all throughout the day, from seeing ye in my clothes every time we wake up, ta bumping our hips tagether while we brush our teeth, ta taking sips out of the same coffee cup, an' then ta sleep next ta ye all night, an' ken all the time that I canna just have ye – strip ye naked, an' spread ye out across the nearest soft, clean place, an' do everything my heart desires to ye – it's been such a tease, Sassenach." With another groan, he rocks our bodies against each other, "The past week has been the longest, purest, most delicious torture, mo nighean donn."

I hum in agreement, all of my senses rapidly being consumed by the intensity of his. This only quickens when he lowers his head to my neck, and firmly bites a place he knows drives me wild. My whole body jolts with the sharp, electric sting of it, but my cry turns into a moan as he gentles the spot with several soft, soothing licks, and the lightening in my veins turns to warm, liquid heat.

His grip on my backside turns to deep, massaging strokes, "I've only survived by imagining all the ways I wanted ta have ye – first among which is ye on your hands an' knees, this perfect arse of yours in the air, an'. . ." he gives me a good smack, not too hard, but considerably heavier than his usual light slaps, and certainly more than enough to turn the soft fire inside me to sharp, prickly electricity again. My vision actually sparks white at the unexpectedly sweet, utterly magnificent naughtiness of it. I've never wanted such a thing before, but now, every bit of me is suddenly demanding it, and more. Much, much more. . . oh yes. Yes. My reaction is so raw, and so intense that I hiss, and lurch upright with a gasp, as though the blow gave me actual pain.

All at once he snaps his eyes to mine, questioning, suddenly terribly worried that he might have overstepped. . .

His mouth opens in speechless fear, but his eyes are more than clear enough.

Did I hurt you, my heart? I didn't mean -

I shake my head, and give him a look back.

No, my love. You didn't. The opposite.

Are you sure?

For answer, I reach over to the dessert plate, and take up the nearest morsel. It happens to be the cube of chocolate brownie. I put it halfway between my lips, and bring it to his mouth. A smile fleets through his eyes as he slants his head, bites half of the brownie away, and seals his lips to mine. The warm, rich, dark and heady sweetness of chocolate spreads like wildfire across my senses, followed perfectly with the buttery soft crunch of toasted pecans. For a minute, the caress of his hands on my rear, and the press of his mouth against mine aren't the most intense things I'm feeling. . .

Why did you never fantasize about marrying a chef, Beauchamp? You missed out on decades of dreaming about things like this. . .

I smile, and swallow, then lean in to deepen our kiss. I have nothing to regret. This reality is far, far, far preferable to even the best of dreams. . .

Sharing the lingering flavors of chocolate like this is almost unbearably lovely, but I pull back much sooner than either of us were quite expecting.

"I don't want a cake for my birthday, Jamie."

His lips quirk up at the non-sequitur, "Aye. Ye dinnae much like cake. Unless it's nectarine an' cherry blossom cheesecake. Wi' almond bits in the crust an' pistachios and crispy toasted coconut on top."

I snort, and chuckle a little, "Trust a chef to remember that, out of all the huge number of random things we've talked about lately!"

"Aye. A'course."

"You lovely darling. . ." I can't help but kiss him again, and in doing so, I nearly forget what I was going to say. . . "But if you presented me with three whole tiers of that brownie, Jamie?" I lick my lips and moan, "I would be so far from complaining I'd make you question whose birthday it was."

"Oh aye?" he cradles both hands under my backside, and lifts me up as he stands. I wrap my arms and legs around him, holding on as he carries me to the bedroom, "That good, was it?"

"Mmm. Yes." I nuzzle into his neck as he leans over me while setting me gently on the bed, "Tell me more things you thought, Jamie. Things you wanted to do with me."

Mischief flashes in his eyes, and he runs a saucy hand through his hair. I have only rarely seen a man preen before, but suddenly that is unmistakably what he is doing.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he starts to unbutton his shirt.

"I want ye ta watch me, Sassenach."

Several bits of me that had just managed to get back to lazily melting, suddenly jerk awake once more, with arousal so sharp, it's almost painful.

"You. . ." This time I am the one who cannot speak, and I meet his eyes with my own question.

Are you sure you trust me enough, Jamie, my love ?

There is something so vulnerable about him right now, even though he is the one in charge at the moment. I don't want to push him, don't want to upset his delicate balance. . .

An intense, glorious look comes into his eyes, even as he smirks the most infinitely sexy smile at me that I've ever witnessed.

I trust you even more than this, Sorcha.

Suddenly, I understand. My heart soars.

I jump up, and turning around, I divest the bed of its covers. Blankets are for later, when we want calm, and cool.

Right now, we are wild adventurers, and we are on fire. . .

I tear off my clothes, and lay down right in the middle of the bed, lounging opulently against the pillows, my hands arrogantly behind my head. I look suggestively at him, putting as much smolder into my expression as I possibly can.

"Show me, Jamie."

And he does.

First, he turns around, and with a slow, suggestive writhe, removes his belt. He raises his whole arm to dispose of it, and drops it to the floor with a decided clunk.

My entire body clenches at the sound.

Then, he faces me again, and very deliberately rolls up his sleeves, flexing his forearms as he bares them for me. He runs his hands through his hair again, and he actually poses, preening again, so gorgeously, just for me. . .

I have always felt more than a little bit uncomfortable looking at explicit photos or videos. Even when I know the people in them are celebrities, or other professionals, fully of age, properly protected and paid, and who enthusiastically want to be seen in that way, to me it has still always felt terribly voyeuristic, and not at all worthwhile.

But this?

Watching my husband display himself as he takes his clothes off for me has to be the most brain-meltingly erotic thing I have ever experienced, and not because he goes on to do anything shocking, or even particularly sexual, really.

No, it is because I know how much he's been hurt. How many times he's bared his heart to someone, and it's been thrown back at him with a curse. How often he's been wanted for nothing but his body, his soul be damned.

How rarely he's ever been this unguarded, and still been safe.

Him taking his clothes off for me like this isn't foreplay. Not for him. It's aftercare. He's telling me he can be this open with me now, because I've already given him the climactic pleasure of being known. . . and of being loved and accepted anyway.

And now. . .

Now it's his turn. His turn to show me, to prove upon my body just how much he knows me, and loves and accepts me anyway.

He is declaring us both safe. Intimately, gloriously, delectably safe.

And so, now, we can both indulge in a little bit of consensual danger. . .

At last, he peels off his undershirt, and stalks towards the bed. Slowly, he crawls in, and settles himself between my knees. He leans forward, the weight and heat of him hovering over me, the imposing bulk of his shoulders and chest just barely brushing my skin. He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck, and then starts savoring me, exactly as slowly and as thoroughly as he just displayed himself. He kisses and caresses his way down my body, spending even longer than usual on my breasts and my belly, until he finally lifts my legs, and drapes them over his shoulders.

I've been so wrapped up in him, and enjoying doing this with him again, that it hasn't dawned on me until now, exactly what he's planning to do. . .

He starts slowly lowering his head, and all of a sudden it's too much. I reach out, and stop him.

He looks up at me, totally confused.

"What's wrong, Sassenach?"

I scratch behind my ear, and suddenly can't quite meet his eyes.

"You. . . you, um. . . do you remember when you said I would never get another first time?"

"Aye."

"Well. That wasn't exactly true. Not. . . not in the literal sense. . . Not when you consider all firsts. . ."

He blinks rapidly, several times. "Ye mean. . . no one has evar. . . Evar?"

"No."

"And ye still ken how ta give it?" He scoffs incredulously, "How, Sassenach? How have ye possibly managed ta learn how ta give - and sae well - when ye've never gotten? How? An' - more important, maybe - why? Good god, why?"

"Well. . . well. . . I. . ." a fierce, almost painful blush comes up on my cheeks and neck, "I like giving it, Jamie. I like it, for me. It's a bit weird, I know, but. . . I do. I've never given it when someone asked me to, you know. Only when I've offered. And even that only happened twice before you. Neither man offered back, that's all. I. . . I just. . . I didn't think most men liked. . ."

I trail off as he throws his head back and laughs, so long and so heartily that my embarrassment actually starts to fade. At last, he calms, and snuggles his cheek against the inside of my knee, "D'ye ken what we call men who say they like women, but dinna like pleasing them?"

"What?"

"Boys."

I blink.

"I dinna ken what sort of man ye usedta date, Sorcha, but clearly none have evar served ye properly, if ye think doin' something wi' them that ye like – for yerself, for him, for ye both, or for its own sake – is in any way weird. It isnae. If ye have privacy, consent an' safety, that's normal. An' whatever hangups any of them had about pleasuring ye, let me reassure ye right now – t'was no' about you. Evar."

I look at him, somewhat dubiously, "Ever?"

"Aye."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because a man refusing his partner pleasure is nae moor than a bragging tactic, mo ghràidh. Meant for other immature men. Boys showing off ta each other, tryin' tae prove they own a playground that no one can own, because it's state property. It's empty, pointless posturing – nothin' about their partner at all."

My mind whirls. Academically, I know he's right, but here and now, logic has no place in me. . .

"But. . . but. . . wouldn't you prefer. . ."

He laughs again, "Prefer? Aye! I have all sorts of preferences Sassenach! Ye've already discovered a few, surely ye must ken that? But foremost among them is - I prefer ye! Any way I can get ye." His eyes blaze with fervent intent, "Tanight, I dinna have time ta waste on preferences. I mean ta serve ye properly, and well, an' verrah, verrah thoroughly." His voice lowers to a sweet, vibrating rumble, "An' I will no' have ye too sore for me ta do it all over again tamorrow morning. All of it. Ye ken?"

I open my mouth to reply, but I am too overwhelmed, so I say nothing. I fall back against the pillows, too stunned to even think properly, my mind hazy with passion, and love, and a very strange but incredibly intoxicating lust that I am scrambling to try and understand. . .

Somehow, not only am I furious that no one has loved me like this before, and simultaneously enraged at the mere thought of anyone else ever touching me like this again, I am also desperately, almost unimaginably hungry for him, and viciously frustrated at myself for not realizing before just how deeply, truly I have always wanted this. . .

He takes in my speechlessness, and only smirks. All at once, our safe, adventuring, playful space is back in the ascendant, and everything - everything - is alright.

"Aye, that's right," he purrs richly, almost smugly, "Lay back an' let me care for ye, Sorcha. Let me show ye how a real man loves his woman. . ."

His hands slide up my thighs, and he lowers his head again. I am in no state to protest this time. . .

He nuzzles his face just below my belly button, and murmurs into my skin, "Ye c'n try tae keep track if ye like, Sassenach. But I warn ye now. . . I mean tae make ye forget yer own name. . ."

I can only whimper helplessly, nod, and grab his curls, in a desperate attempt to keep the barest hold on my sanity. . .

I lose count at nine.

Chapter Text

Several hundred years later, somehow - and I am not in the least certain how - I manage to briefly achieve words again.

"Jesus. . . H. . . Roosevelt. . . Christ. . ." I say, just above a whisper.

Jamie stirs next to me, chuckling sleepily, "Feel nice, mo chridhe?"

"Nice?" I blink slowly, and roll the word around in my mind a bit, bouncing it off of the massive piles of cotton wool that have apparently temporarily replaced my brain. "Nice?" I grunt something that might be a laugh, "I cert'nly feel som' kinda way. Nice doesn' seem t'cover it." Languidly, I roll into his side, and drape my utterly boneless arms and legs over him, "Bu', s'no wrong. . ." I trail off into a deep, stretching yawn, so thoroughly exhausted I don't even care that the blankets are still on the other side of the room. . .

Or. . . on the floor? I can't seem to remember. . .

Well. They're somewhere. Somewhere that isn't here. Here on the bed. With Jamie.

My brain judders to a muzzy, endorphin-drunk halt.

Oh god. With Jamie.

I moan a little. I am here with Jamie. Oh yes. I may not recall what day of the week it is, but I know that much. . .

And he's just finished turning me into some sort of limp, used-up, wrung-out, worn and floppy dishcloth.

But. . . a nice one. . .

Here with Jamie. . .

I can feel his chest slowly rising and falling under my outstretched arm. I run my fingertips lightly over his ribs, and bask in the one thing my fluffy, floating consciousness can hold on to at the moment.

Whatever else is or is not true right now, he is. He is. He is.

"I love you, Jamie. . ." I murmur.

And it is a measure of just how tired out I am that I do not know if he answers me before I fall into deep, profound, endless oblivion. . .

I drift up through thick, heavy sleep, I do not know how much later, to the insistent buzzing of my phone next to my ear.

bzzt-bzzzt

It takes a long several seconds for me to orient myself.

I recognize the color on the walls, and the smell of the pillow, so I must be in my old apartment. . . but I am also well covered with blankets, and that was not the case, last I remember. . .

I think. . .

bzzt-bzzzt

Anyway, doesn't matter – blankets happened at some point last night. . .

Oh. . .

God.

Last night comes back to me in a sweet, overwhelming rush. I've never had a sex-hangover before, but now, a wide, foolish smile overtakes my face, and I shiver with all the memories.

Good lord, did we really. . . ? And then we. . . ? And then he. . . ?

Yes, he really had. And we really did.

Repeatedly.

bzzt-bzzzt

He must have brought me my phone. And put blankets over me. And one long sniff tells me why he's not in bed with me now.

Coffee. And bacon. And waffles, if I'm not mistaken. Which I rarely am when it comes to waffles. Walnut and banana. With salted caramel sauce. Homemade, I have no doubt at all.

At this point, why all girls everywhere aren't constantly being told they ought to marry chefs is entirely beyond me. . .

bzzt-bzzzt

I blink, and rub my eyes clear, and finally pick up my phone. There's a long string of texts in my chat app. . .

HQ – It is eight o'clock on a Sunday morning – do you know where your friends are?

HQ – You haven't texted or called for over two weeks, LJ. That's a whole seven days longer than normal.

HQ – You'd better not be dead, dying, or heartbroken.

HQ – You aren't allowed to be any of those things without telling me first.

HQ – I'm SERIOUS, Lady Jane – WHERE ARE YOU?

HQ – Don't MAKE me come over there.

HQ – I'll even ditch church if I have to.

HQ – You KNOW I mean it, Claire.

Despite my fingers still fumbling with the remnants of my pleasure-drunk sleep, I manage to type out a semi-coherent response.

LJ – jeeze joe dail it back kay? mfine

LJ – im the oppposit of hertbreopken

LJ – met a guy

LJ – nice guy

LJ – real nice not fake nice

LJ – an i kinda sorta lov him a lot

LJ – like really a lot

LJ – but i spose im kinda dieing right now

LJ – i gess

LJ – he jus totlly banged me silly

LJ – brian still wobbbly

LJ – hes the king of all men

LJ – an he makes GOOOD food

LJ – hel take care og me

LJ – so no needs to worry

LJ – il tell you mor later kay? need brkfest now

I switch my alerts to silent, push the phone onto my bedside table, and flop face-first into the pillows again. I really, really, really, really am not up to spilling the tea with Joe right now. Not while my blood is still singing with memories of last night. . .

Warmth blooms in my stomach again as I remember a few specifics. . .

Even our last night in Vegas hadn't been anywhere close to. . . to. . .

That.

I shiver again, roll over, and push myself up on my elbows. Very, very carefully, I maneuver myself out of bed, attempting, with great reluctance, to put some weight on my legs.

My brain isn't the only thing that's still wobbly, after all. . .

I manage to shuffle my way to the bathroom and back before Jamie appears, bearing two big trays of breakfast. He takes in the blanket I have haphazardly wrapped around me, my terminally disheveled hair, my love-bite marked skin, and my lazy, spaced-out expression, and grins.

"Good morning, Sorcha. Need a pick-me-up?"

He sets the trays down on my dressing table, and hands me a large, and very hot cup of coffee.

I suck what feels like half of it into me at one swallow, and revel in the feeling of dark, steaming hot caffeine restoring my soul.

"Ohhhh, that's good, Jamie." I moan a little, and sit back on the bed, "I don't know about doing everything all over again this morning, my love, I'm sorry. . ." I rearrange my pillows a bit, and lean back against the headboard, "I think you may have totally redefined the meaning of the term "love bombing" last night."

He chuckles as he sets a tray up over my lap, "Oh, aye?"

"Mmm. Yes," I take another long drink of coffee, "I'm not so much sore this morning as exploded into sixteen billion atom-sized pieces. I only seem to be able to exist in a sort of cloud-formation – I'm all hazy, and drifting, floating about in feelings and memories. Memories of last night, and. . ." my cheeks go warm, and I reach out, and run a finger up and down his arm, "Well, you."

He gets in bed next to me, and lifts the second tray over his own lap, "Aye, I find myself in much the same state this morning, Sorcha," he leans over and kisses me, briefly, "Dinna fash. Thirty two isnae twenty two. I canna imagine thirty six is twenty six either. I forgot that, in the heat of the moment last night."

"The heats of several moments, you mean?"

He grins, "Aye."

I grin back at him, and look down at the wonderful breakfast he's made us. I was right about everything, except there is a blueberry and apple fruit salad as well, and two more sauces besides salted caramel - honey yogurt, and fig balsamic, I discover after tasting them.

We enjoy our food in silence for quite a while. After the first sharp edges of my hunger are satisfied, I sigh, and lean against his shoulder, eating only choice bites, and more slowly, so I can talk to him.

"Jamie, my love?"

"Mm?" he hums around a mouthful of waffle and coffee.

"Are we still planning on attending the dinner we've scheduled with my parents and Lamb this week?"

"Mm," he swallows quickly, "Aye. I'm looking forward to it, Sorcha. It's been ages since I've had parents. Three all at once seems too good to be true."

I hum happily, "Lamb is going to love you, I know that for sure."

"An' yer mam an' da?"

"Well, it might take a few minutes longer for them to come around – but that's only natural, I think. And I'm certain they will."

He takes a contemplative bite of bacon, "Weel. I c'n deal wi' that, I think."

"I'm asking though, because Joe messaged me this morning."

"Your best friend, Joe?"

I nod, "Yes. He was worried about me. Normally we talk at least once a week. What with my new job requirements, and the girls, and the house, and the cats, and you, you you you, I just didn't get around to talking to him last week, or the week before. And now, once I tell him about you, I know he's going to want to meet you, so. . ."

He half smiles at me, prompting, "Aye?"

"Well, how would you feel if I invited him and Gail – that's his wife – to dinner at my parents' this week too?"

Jamie mulls it over for a minute or two. I finish my fruit salad, and sop up some yogurt sauce with a bite of waffle.

At last, he puts his hand in mine, and laces our fingers together.

"Weel Sassenach, it's like this. I made ye meet my four girls all at once, with Mrs. Bug an' Laoghaire an' the ghost of a dead wife inta the bargain. No' ta mention I have three restraining orders in my past. I haveta think that being introduced to three loving parents, and two good friends all at once is by far the better half of this bargain, Sorcha. I'll sort with the hand ye deal me. I owe ye that much, an' a lot more."

I smile softly at him, and kiss his chin, "Oh, you big sweetheart. You don't owe me." I forestall any comment with a hand on his wrist, "It's far too late to be thinking of this thing we have as a series of bargains, Jamie. Things may have started that way, but they haven't been like that for some time now. You know that."

He looks rueful for a minute, then takes a long drink of coffee, "Mebbe ye're right."

"Count on it, my love."

He's quiet for a long time.

I nibble the last bits of my bacon, and sigh, reclining back into my pillows, replete, and refreshed, and almost a solid human being again.

Without a word, he removes our empty trays, and then comes back to lounge in bed with me some more.

When he finally speaks, his voice is very quiet, and almost. . . small. . .

"Claire?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Could you. . . would you tell me that I'm enough?"

I have to blink a bit before I can answer, I am so stunned.

"Enough? Jamie! Have. . . have I not given you enough compliments, darling? I'm so sorry," I gather him to me, and start lavishing him with kisses, praising him between them, "It's only. . . because you're so wonderful, my dear. . . it's hard to know where to start. . ."

But, instead of melting into my embrace as I expect, he catches my hands, and stops my kisses, putting me gently away from him a little ways. He is in no way hard or unappreciative about it, it is only that the stunned confusion in his expression entirely dwarfs my own.

"Sorcha!" he says, voice rough with emotion, "This. This is your reaction to. . . My god. . ." he trails off, looking out into space, as though trying to encompass a world suddenly nothing like he thought it to be.

"What's wrong, Jamie?" I ask, baffled, "Whatever it is you need, I'll see you get it-"

He rounds on me, even more shocked now, "Need, Sorcha? D'ye ken how often in the past decade I've been allowed ta have needs?" The desperately pained look in his eyes softens a little, "I wasna fishin' for compliments, Sorcha. Honest I wasna. But you assumed I was, an' that was your response! I. . . I. . ." He puts his head in his hands, "I can hardly believe it, Sorcha. That's all. . ."

I take him into my arms again, more carefully this time, "Oh, Jamie, my lovely, sweet dear. You're just coming out of ten years of trauma and abuse. Like you say, you have a lot of needs that need seeing to." I stroke my hands up and down his back, "I know that. I accept that. In fact, I treasure that."

He looks up, disbelief still in his eyes.

"You see, my love, I am capable of helping you. I can give you a lot of what you need. Positive words. A safe place to be. A lot of love. A lot of lovemaking." I smile, and peck his cheek, "And yes, compliments. Buckets of them. If that's what you need, don't hesitate to ask, Jamie. I love giving to you. It has quickly become very nearly my most favoritest thing ever."

I pick up his hand and kiss his knuckles, just as he is so fond of doing to me.

Gently, he nods, and slowly, acceptance comes into his expression.

He licks his lips, "I hear ye. An'. . . an' I thank ye. But, I still wasna asking for them jus' now, Sorcha."

"Alright. What were you asking for?"

"The words, Sassenach. You see. . ." he pauses a bit, and snuggles himself more comfortably against the pillows, "Eight years is a long time to be made ta feel small, mo chridhe."

I wince at the very thought, "I believe you."

"Aye. An' even though you nevar have, my heart still gets scared of it from time to time. No' that you will, specifically, jus' that. . . weel. . . When ye've been stabbed in the heart on the daily for so long, there's quite a habit of fear there tae overcome when it stops. Ye ken?"

I shake my head, ruefully, "I can hardly imagine, Jamie. But I know what you're saying."

"Aye. An' I jus' think. . . I think if I heard it, I might be able ta ken it better. An' I want ta hear it from you."

I take his head firmly in my hands, and look him right in the eyes.

"You, James Fraser, are a good man. You are honorable. You are lovable. You are praiseworthy. You are loyal. You are whole. And you are enough. You will always be enough."

Gently, I kiss him, and use my thumbs to smooth away the tears rolling down his cheeks. "And you can ask me to tell you whenever you want, Jamie. No questions asked, no excuses needed."

He hugs me to him so hard it is difficult for me to breathe for a minute.

"Ye're a rare one, Sorcha. A precious an' perfect one. The best of women. He tilts my head up to meet his eyes, "If I hadna married ye already, ye'd best believe I'd be begging ye ta marry me now."

"Twice."

He blinks. "What?"

"We've gotten married twice, Jamie. Once in Vegas, and once in my living room. If you hadn't married me twice already, you'd be asking me to marry you now."

And, through all his emotions, and tears, and ten years of baggage and pain and torture and loss, he laughs, and the brilliant, golden sunshine of his personality shines through once more.

I smile, turn over, and snuggle into him, ready to take a nice, lazy, mid-morning nap.

He spoons up behind me, and softly strokes my arm, and hip, and neck.

I am half-asleep when his small voice sounds again.

"Claire?"

"Yes love?"

"Tell me?"

I smile, "You are good. You are honorable. You are lovable. You are whole. . ."

Chapter Text

It takes us a good hour longer to corral my small herd of cats than we expected it would.

Rabbie, the sweet thing, is totally predictable, taking his late morning nap in his cat carrier, and singing us the song of his people for several minutes after I close the door of it on him, but then settling down into slightly bewildered silence.

Adso, to my everlasting shock, is literally no trouble at all, walking directly into his carrier, curling up, and going to sleep without a sound, not even deigning to acknowledge that anything of import is happening.

No, against all previous experience, it is Stuart who turns out to be the drama king. We have just finished packing up all the toys and supplies we're taking from here when he takes it into his head to be difficult. Though, I don't know why – he watched us dismantle his favorite cat tree perfectly indifferently, and he didn't even raise his voice in solidarity with Rabbie two hours ago. And if this were any other injustice in his cat world, he would have, I'm sure.

I'm just about to scoop him into his carrier and call things job done when he decides he strenuously disagrees, and leaps wildly over my head with a yowl, and claws and scrambles his way to the very top of my wall-height bookshelf. He yowls some more when he looks around, and finds himself at least three feet higher up than he's been in his whole life before – yowls that quickly turn to whimpering squeaky whines when he also realizes he has no idea how to get himself down. . .

And twenty minutes later, when Jamie finally manages to extricate him, he twists in Jamie's hands, and with another leap, manages to get himself stuck behind the bookcase this time.

Jamie cusses him out – quite justifiably, I think – while disinfecting a long scratch on his finger. He spends the next half hour shifting books and boxes from the shelves, trying to get at the place where my poor baby is stuck.

"It wouldn't be such a production if he wasn't so scared," I say, taking yet another armload of books from Jamie, "But he keeps seeing you coming, and keeps moving away from you."

"Aye ye'er a bonnie beastie, Stuart, ye wee shite," Jamie grunts, thrusting his arm behind the shelves, all the way up to his shoulder, "Bu' ye'er also a right pain in the arse, an' nae mistakin'!"

There is a terrified, rolling growl, for a moment I am not entirely sure from which of them, but then Jamie finally extracts a flailing, spitting Stuart by a very firm fist on his scruff, and his hard, very Human cry of triumph drowns it out for a moment. He snaps something at him in the Gàidhlig, and then hustles him into his carrier with a victorious, "Thus to all tyrants! Mac na galla!"

Then he closes the door with a snap, and sighs in relief, even as Stuart gives one last, long howl, and finally subsides into sullen, furious silence.

We exchange a look, and a couple of rueful grins.

"Sorry about all that, Jamie."

He shrugs, "Acgh. Pets get allowances made for 'em. Same as weans. Except pets arna ever expected ta grow up, so they get double allowances."

I smile, and gather up the several bags of my own things that I am transferring today too, "You're a dear, my dear."

He picks up a big box of toys, and a bag of cat litter, and follows me down to the car.

The rest of the day's move is quite unremarkable. My load of personal items gets deposited in the master bedroom for me to unpack and arrange at will, and all of the cats and their goods get delivered to the big bathroom enclosure in my home office without further incident.

I set up a few of the basics for them, including food, water, toys and litter, and even a scratching post or two, and then open the carrier doors, to let them wander and explore, and get used to their new environment. I've been using some of Jamie's and the girls' used and unwashed towels as padding and covering for the carriers during the past week, so they've already been introduced to a good deal of the people-smells, and I know the presence of their own things will make the strange place-smells less scary than they might have been. I sit at the cozy little lounging place I've set up in the walk-in closet, and do a bit of work on my phone, while I wait for my wee Flerkens to emerge. I know they might not for a while, but I've done my best for them, and so I just relax, prepared to wait it out.

I've answered several e-mails before I decide to stop. It is Sunday, after all, and I am in my new husband's house, sitting all safe and comfy with my cats, listening to the distant sounds of the girls downstairs, as they enthusiastically re-enact some of the charging swordfights they saw yesterday.

I smile. Once everything was in from the car, Jamie left me to organize things however I liked, and went to play with the girls. They had been improvising claymores and broadswords out of plastic shovels and bamboo sticks before we arrived, but when Jamie saw them playing, he immediately went into full-on, pure-Scot, bladed-weapon-accuracy mode. It's an attitude I've seen many, many times from Scots while I've been working for Leoch Foods, and I don't try to fight it. They came up to the schoolroom for supplies about an hour ago, so I heard part of what they've been doing. By now he's commandeered just about every bit of cardboard in the house, and has been making historically-accurate, size-appropriate swords for the girls for the past two hours.

As the sounds of four small girls and one large man making yet another Highland Charge drift sweetly up to me, I scroll through a few ASMR shorts on Instagram, and some landscape ambiance videos on YouTube. I settle on an hour-long compilation of what is optimistically called "Highland ambiance" – drone footage of mountains, overlaid with the sounds of trickling streams and lightly sweeping wind.

I may have initially married Jamie specifically so he could stay in this country, and we might still be preparing for our Green Card interviews, but, suddenly, I want to go home. To Scotland.

I blink, surprised at myself.

Since when have I thought of Scotland as home? And why would I want to go there when everything and everyone I love is here?

I shrug, and push the feeling aside. No point in daydreaming, Beauchamp. Might as well face it now, while you have the time and solitude to do so.

Wait. . .

Face what now, voice in my head?

Oh, come on, Beauchamp. Don't play dumb. You know.

I sigh.

I do.

I open my chat app, to read the texts from Joe I know must be there, and have been so pointedly avoiding. . .

HQ – Oh good, you're alive.

HQ - . . . . .

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . .

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

HQ – A guy.

HQ – A GUY?

HQ – A

HQ – FREAKING

HQ – GUY?

HQ – YOU MET A V-CARD WORTHY GUY AND I AM JUST NOW HEARING ABOUT IT?

HQ – THAT ***IS*** THE KIND OF BANGING YOU MEANT, RIGHT?

HQ – DID YOU MISSPELL BRAIN OR IS HIS NAME BRIAN?

HQ – OH GOD IS THE KING OF MEN CALLED BRIAN?

HQ – JESUS H ROOSEVELT CHRIST, ****TALK**** TO ME!

I smile grimly. It's about the reaction I expected. . .

LJ – You on?

Sometimes he and Gail go out to lunch after church – he may or may not be able to text right now. . .

I'm not entirely sure which I am hoping for at the moment. . .

HQ – GOD YES

Welp.

Here goes. . .

LJ – His name is James, but everyone calls him Jamie, and he TOTALLY reverses the stereotype about guys with the initial J. . .

HQ – He. . . I take exception to. . .

LJ – He's a chef. And I love him like crazy.

HQ - . . . . .

LJ – He works at R&D for Leoch. Head of the test kitchens.

HQ – Well, that's. . . . . . . . . . . . . . well. . . . . . . .

LJ – His "nom de cuisine" is Alex MacKenzie. THAT Alex MacKenzie.

HQ – THAT Alex MacKenzie?

LJ – Yep

HQ – Well, no wonder then. You've been crazy about his food for ages.

LJ – Yep

HQ – And ***apparently*** he serves up other things just as well, too. . .

LJ – Better

HQ – Seriously?

LJ – Much, MUCH better.

HQ – So you're telling me the man whose food is better than sex, actually bangs better than his food?

LJ – Yep

HQ – Wow

LJ – Love helps

HQ – I hear that one. . .

LJ – I'm mad about him, Joe. Like, legit crazy.

HQ – Tell me

LJ – He's perfect. Body and soul. Totally perfect.

HQ – Uh-oh.

LJ – I know. The problem is, he's SO perfect, he has flaws. But they're PERFECT flaws. I don't know how he does it.

HQ – For instance?

LJ – He's a widower. Pandemic.

HQ – Oof.

LJ – Yeah. And he's in therapy because she was emotionally and verbally abusive.

HQ – OOF.

LJ – Yeah. But he's IN THERAPY. See? It might be a red flag, but it's a GOOD red flag. See what I mean?

HQ - . . . . . . . . okay that's fair.

LJ – And he's SUCH a good father.

HQ – Wait. . . WHAT?

LJ – Yeah, he has four girls.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – Yeah.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – I know.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – They're really great, actually. A handful. A DOUBLE handful. But great.

HQ – FOUR?

LJ – Yeah.

HQ – FOUR?

LJ – I can't make it any more or less true by repeating it, Joe.

HQ – How does a guy our age have FOUR kids already?

LJ – Well, the first two are twins, and his first wife just really liked having babies, so. . .

HQ – Ah.

HQ – Wait. . .

HQ – FIRST. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

LJ – Oops. Was building up to that.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . Claire

HQ – Are you seriously telling me. . . . . .

HQ – Are you SERIOUSLY saying you not only met a guy, you met a v-card worthy guy, who is a widowed, father of four, domestic abuse survivor, chef sex god. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AND YOU MARRIED HIM? WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE?

LJ – That about sums it up, yes.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

HQ – FOR FRICK SAKE WHY?

LJ – I can't say over text.

HQ - . . . . . . . . what?

LJ – It's not a reason I am comfortable sharing over text. Only in person.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . Claire, are you SURE you're alright?

I smile. Dear Joe. He's always had my back, for all these years.

LJ – I've never been happier, Joe. He's the sweetest, dearest man. And extraordinarily easy on the eyes. And he has the nicest laugh. And he puts every ounce of himself into what he does. He's committed to me, HQ. Devoted. And I'm just as all-in. We are going to make this work, and raise our girls, and be the best of friends, and make each other happy. We just are.

HQ - . . . . . . . . . . . wow.

LJ – Yeah.

HQ – I don't know what to say.

LJ – I doubt that.

HQ – Smartass. When do we meet him?

LJ – This Wednesday. You and Gail are invited to the Big House

HQ – Monthly dinner with mom, dad and Lamb?

LJ – Yep. And I'll need you on my side, because I have to break it to them face-to-face.

HQ – LJ. . . . . .

LJ – Mum will be brought around by the idea of four instant grandkids, I'm sure, and Lamb always wanted to dig a Scottish broch, and Jamie's family owns one, so that'll be no problem, but I need you there with me, Joe, if I'm gonna face down my dad and carry it off. He'll understand in the end, I know he will, but I need your backup, okay?

HQ – You know I've always got you, Lady Jane.

LJ – I do.

LJ – But?

HQ – But this is a big one.

LJ – So is he.

HQ – Okay. . . TMI?

LJ – XD

HQ – But seriously, LJ, this is. . . this is a lot.

LJ – I know.

HQ – You ****sure**** you're okay?

LJ – Yep. Just brought a big load of my stuff over to his house, and Rabbie just poked his nose out of his cat-carrier, so I think my boys will be comfortable here too.

HQ – You *moved in*?

LJ – He has four girls, HQ. It's hard to be a stepmom long-distance.

HQ - . . . . I. . . . . I guess so. . .

LJ – But Colum gave me a promotion, so work is easier to deal with, at least.

HQ – High time. You earned that much after the lawsuit last year.

LJ – No, I earned the settlement. I WAS fighting specifically to KEEP my job, after all. Promoting me out of it at that point would have been counterproductive.

HQ – Point taken. Hey look, I'll see you Wednesday, yeah? Nichelle just woke up from her nap. . .

LJ – The joys of parenthood.

HQ - . . . . . . . . indeed.

LJ – See you Wednesday.

An icon pops up to show he's logged off. I close my end too.

Well.

That went significantly better than I feared it would. . .

I'm just getting up to get a toy and try to coax Rabbie a little further out of his carrier when I hear a light knock on the big sliding bathroom door. I close the walk-in closet door behind me before going to open it.

Two pairs of big blue and brown eyes greet me. Both Brianna and Marsali are looking up at me, intently pleading.

"Can we see the kitties, please, Wumma?" asks Bree. Sally nods in agreement.

I smile, and let them in the bathroom. I direct them towards the boxes of cat toys.

"They might be too scared to come out to see you, but you can try, and you can help me give them wet food tonight. Okay?"

"Okay!" they both answer cheerfully, and select a catnip mouse apiece.

I spend the rest of the afternoon introducing my boys and my girls.

Chapter Text

"Wumma?"

Bree looks across at me while helping to clear up from today's lunch. I take the last small stack of cups and plates from her, to start rinsing them before putting them in the dishwasher.

"Yes Bee-bee?"

"Do ye love Da?"

She asks quite dispassionately, and without any hint of slyness or malice. It doesn't sound like a non-sequitur either – she's clearly been thinking about this question a lot.

"Yes. I do," I answer, matching her tone, "Very much."

"And he loves ye?" She hangs off the side of the counter, and looks up at me matter-of-factly.

"He tells me so quite a lot, and his actions tell me he's telling the truth, yes."

"So that's how ye know someone loves you? They tell you so, and then they do it?"

I hand her some coffee mugs for her to arrange on the top shelf of the dishwasher, like I know she likes to do, "It's one way, certainly."

"And what if they do it but don't tell ye?"

"That can be another way, sometimes."

I give her handfuls of silverware, and she sorts them into the basket compartments – spoons, forks, knives, and cooking/serving utensils.

"But what if they say it but don't do it?"

I hesitate just a little before answering, "Well, that usually means something other than love, in the end."

"Ye mean it's lying?"

I hand her the detergent and let her pour it. She does, and then closes the door with a click, and pushes all the buttons to start the dishwasher.

"It. . . can be a lie, if things happen that way, yes." I grab some paper towels, and start wiping up the counter, "But people are complicated, Bee. And so are feelings. That's why we look at actions in the first place. What people do matters. What people say. . ." I shrug, "Well. . . it can be hard to tell, sometimes, what people mean when they say things. But actions are much much clearer, most of the time."

I finish wiping up, and she goes to get two tangerines from the fruit bowl. Then she comes back to me, and raises her arms, "Can I sit on the counter, Wumma?"

"Of course dear."

I lift her up, and then bring over a couple more paper towels, for the tangerine peelings. She digs her thumb in near the stem-scar of one, and very, very carefully and precisely, starts pulling the rind off in as perfect a spiral as she can manage. She notices me watching her.

"Fay likes perfect spiral peels. We try and see who c'n get a better one every time."

"Oh. I see," I fold the peeling carefully in one of the towels, "Very nicely done."

She grins at the praise, pulls the fruit into segments, and offers me one, "Does sharing mean I love ye?"

I chew my segment slowly for a few seconds, "It can."

"What about helping in the kitchen?"

"That too."

"Is that why ye help Da in the kitchen sa much?"

"It's one reason."

"An' that's why he kisses ye all the time?"

"Yes."

She tilts her head, and thinks hard for a minute.

"He kisses us too."

"Yes, he does."

"But no' the same way he kisses ye."

"No."

"Bu' he does love us, and ye too?"

"Yes. Just differently."

She takes this in for a long few minutes, chewing her fruit stolidly. She finishes the one tangerine, and starts to peel the second.

"Do you love us, Wumma?"

I smile at her, a little sadly, "Very much, Bree darling. That's why I call you all by your nicknames, and call you dear and darling and sweetheart too – that's how I say it."

She unfolds the paper towel, and carefully places the second peeling next to the first, "An' that's why ye play with us, and eat with us, and read ta us, and serve the salad at dinner, and let us play wi' the cheeties?"

I smile, "Or try to. It's only been two days – I know they haven't been much fun yet."

"Yes – but that's how ye do it? Ye say it with our nicknames, and that's how ye do it?"

"It's a big part of how I do it, yes."

"It's how Da does it too."

I shrug a little, "He does it mostly similarly, true. It was by watching him that I figured out what would be the nicest ways to be with you, of course, so that's probably why."

She hands me another segment, "It isna how our mama did it, though."

I freeze with the fruit halfway to my mouth, "Oh?"

She shakes her head, so hard her curls fly out crazily, "No. Mama bought us stuff. Clothes. Dresses, and shoos, an' liked ta see us wear 'em. But. . ." She trails off, and looks down seriously at her last two segments.

"Yes, that is one way some people do it," I say, gently, trying not to prompt her at all.

She stuffs the last of her fruit into her mouth at one go, and chews and swallows with a surprisingly defiant look in her eyes. I just shrug a little bit, and eat my bite along with her. The longer I am unbothered, the more the defiance drains out of her. In a minute, she is back to her contemplative, chatty mood.

"Mama never said it. An' ye dinna do it like she did. So I wasna sure."

I nod at her, and grab us both some kitchen wipes, so we can clean our hands.

"But I guess she did love us."

This time I can't keep my jaw from dropping, or my eyes from going wide.

"She? You weren't sure if she loved you?"

Bree only shrugs, and wipes her hands like it's nothing, "Nae."

"But you are sure I do?"

She shrugs again, "Aye. Ye do it like Da."

I lean heavily against the counter, my heart pounding, my head in a whirl. . .

"Fay misses her," she says, her voice coming as though from far away, "But. . . I don't."

It takes a long, long few heartbeats for the meaning of this to fully register with me.

I turn, and meet her eyes, and defiance is back in them, but mixed with sorrow this time. A strange, almost adult sorrow, terrible to see on the face of a child.

"But. . ." I say, slowly, and gently, "You are still sad she's gone?"

With a suddenness that shocks us both, tears come up in her eyes, her lips quiver, and she nods. I pull her to me, and hug her tight, "It's okay to feel like that, Bree Bee. It is absolutely, one-hundred percent okay."

She clutches at me, not so much hugging as hanging on, as the sorrow tears out of her with long, shuddering sobs. I hold her close, and rock her just a little, like the baby I know she isn't. I am suddenly, horribly, ragingly jealous that I never got to hold her as a baby. . . I desperately shake off the feeling, and make the hushing sounds Lamb used to make when I skinned my knees – not in any attempt at actually hushing, only as a soothing set of things to say -

"Shhh, shh, it's alright, Bee-bee, love. It's all perfectly alright. You're okay, darling. I know it hurts, but everything is going to be just fine. . . sh, sh, sh. . ."

The next ten minutes take several thousand years, but in the end, she is okay, only more emotionally drained than any nine year old should ever rightfully be. . .

I hand her paper towels for her eyes and nose, and slowly, she cleans herself up.

"Would you like to take a nap until Da comes home, sweetheart?"

She nods, terribly forlornly.

I settle her on the couch with a big tartan throw blanket, and her favorite stuffed bunny rabbit, and sit with her, lightly stroking her hair, until she falls asleep.

When her breathing is finally deep and regular, I go back through the kitchen to grab something, and make my way into the master bathroom. I snatch up one of the extra pillows from the closet there, and lift the steak knife to it with a growl. I've never been angry like this before. I didn't know it was possible to get this angry. . .

"You damned filthy French bitch!" I hiss, and stab, and stab, and rip at the pillow, as though it is the very concept of abuse itself, and the more I try, the harder I can kill it.

Wads of stuffing and shreds of pillow covering are everywhere, and my face is streaked with furious tears when Jamie finds me there, who knows how long later, the knife only loosely held in my fist, the worst of my anger spent.

His jaw drops, and he blinks dubiously at me, "Sae what is all this then, Sorcha?"

I snort and sigh at the same time, "Ohhh. . . nothing!"

"This," he holds up the shredded pillow, gaping at it, "Is hardly nothing, Sassenach."

I cross my arms, petulantly, "Oh, I just wish I was Dante, that's all." I slap the knife down on the counter.

He raises his eyebrows, "Dante?"

I grab the pillow from him, and slam it into the garbage, "Yes. Because if I was, I'd travel to Hell and back, down to the ninth circle itself, just to make sure that woman paid!"

His face clears, but other than that, Jamie doesn't respond. He only draws me gently to him, and holds me close, until the last remnants of my anger subside. . .

But I've only bottled it away. I haven't dealt with it yet. It isn't the sort of thing that can be dealt with all at once. . .

And he, of all people, knows that.

He kisses me softly, helps me brush off all the polyester fluff and cotton scraps, and takes me downstairs to start dinner.

I don't know what part of his reactions sicken me more – the fact that he never asks for an explanation. . .

Or the fact that I know he doesn't need one.

I take a firm hold on my sudden nausea, and bottle it away too. There will be a time and a place. Several, probably. This is not one of them.

I plaster a smile on my face, and force myself to focus on Jamie's cooking lesson.

Chapter Text

"So is there anything else I need ta ken?" Jamie asks, as he fastens his plaid's shoulder brooch with slightly trembling fingers, "Anythin' at all?"

I hang small amber dangles from my ears, and study the effect, "I'm not sure, Jamie, love." I take them off, and go with some pearl studs that match his cufflinks, "We're just meeting Joe and Gail for drinks before we go to my parents' for dinner. I'm not sure how much you need to know for that. You already know he's my best friend, I met him at college, he owns Street Wise Books-"

"That city-wide fleet of mini pop-ups? The combination secondhand bookstore and coffee-shop food truck ones?"

I nod, "Yes. I thought for sure I said?"

"You probably did, at some point Sorcha," he straightens the folds of his kilt around him with a highly jittery few gestures, "I'm only nervous, ye ken."

I smile, and go to him, straightening his collar and tie and giving him a few encouraging noises. He calms visibly at my touch. I shake my head, slightly bemused, "You weren't this nervous to marry me, Jamie! This can't be worse than that, can it?"

His lips quirk up briefly before he bends his head and kisses me softly on the lips, "No' exactly worse, Sorcha. More complicated. More things that c'n go wrong. More elements I canna control." He shrugs, "An' more people involved. Marrying ye was ye an' me. An' I kent we both wanted ta be there. Now. . ." he gestures expansively.

"I understand." I smooth his lapels, and peck his chin, then turn away to do one final check in the mirror.

My long sleeveless sheath dress of sparkly beaded black is sitting just right on my hips and shoulders, the slit in the side just high enough, showing off just enough bare leg and spike-heeled black leather boot as to be tantalizingly daring. It is not in the least a conservative business look, and I love it. It's been ages since I've had a worthy excuse to wear this outfit. . .

And, of course, I've never had such delicious arm-candy to wear it with before.

I run my eyes over his reflection in the mirror. He's standing just behind me, slightly shadowed, his hair glowing deep, almost scarlet red in the soft, cool light of our bedroom lamps. All dressed up, he's impressive, mysterious, alluring, and every kind of sexy.

I can't wait to show him off to my best friends. . .

As I lean forward to apply the final touch-ups to my makeup, I smile reminiscently over all the long talks Joe and Gail and I have had over drinks at Rupert's Corner Bar. We're headed there tonight, for a strategic early meetup. A nice, simple double-whammy, before we face down the triple-whammy of my mother, my father, and Lamb. Hopefully with Joe and Gail as our allies by then. . .

I suddenly realize the only reason I am not nervous is because I already know them, and I am certain just how quickly they will be charmed by the wonderful man beside me.

I grab my clutch purse, and turn back to him, "Joe's a nerd, if that helps."

He takes my arm with a little huff, "Well, what with yer funny little nicknames for each other, I had assumed-"

"No, I mean a nerd, nerd," I shake my head, "A big-time, card-carrying nerd. Gail is too, but in her case that's mostly because she's a Trekkie."

He smirks teasingly at me, "ToS, Next Gen, or NuTrek?"

"Yes," I grin back, "But mostly ToS. They met at a convention, when they both dressed as Andorians." I shake my head wonderingly, remembering Joe's hardcore LARPing phase. He still does sometimes, on weekends, I know, but he's had less time for it in recent years. "He's a Whovian too, and a Browncoat."

Jamie's brow furrows briefly, "Browncoat?"

"Firefly."

"Ah."

"Plus, he loves Lord Of The Rings, Star Wars, Farscape, Transformers, Gargoyles, Batman, Justice League, Superman, Spiderman, Supernatural, The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, The Dark Crystal and Willow. And several and various anime things I can never remember the names of and have a hard time distinguishing from one another other than some have big robots in them and some have big boobies in them, and some have both."

"Wow."

"Yeah. He and Gail named their kids Leonard and Nichelle, because calling them Spock and Uhura would have been playing too much to stereotype."

"I'm surprised they didn't call them Madmartigan and Elora, or somesuch, at this point. . ."

I laugh, "You'd be shocked how close they came."

He gapes a little at me, "Truly, Sorcha?"

I nod, "Oh yes. And I wouldn't have been surprised if they had. Bruce and Diana were in the running too. And Victor and Raven."

"Those arenae bad, though."

"No. But I also happen to know they considered calling Leonard "John J'onn Jon" after Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, and the son of Superman."

"The whole Justice League all at once, eh?"

"Something like that." Suddenly, I remember something actually important I haven't told him yet, "Oh, by the way – your chef-brain might like to know that Gail is alcohol-free. Her favorite mocktail is a virgin Manhattan, followed closely by a craft root beer Old Fashioned, and a spicy ginger ale martini, with pickled jalapeños instead of olives."

"Noted," he nods, eyes brightening up at the information.

"Also, sometimes I drink non in solidarity with her. I like root beer Old Fashioned's too, but my favorite is a virgin strawberry mojito with extra mint. Strawberries only when they're in season, of course. And you can't beat a classic Shirley Temple, but I like mine with a twist of lemon, and three cherries."

He smiles widely at me, completely relaxed now, "Understood. Thank you, Sassenach."

We go downstairs to kiss the girls goodnight, since they'll be in bed by the time we get home. They're in the middle of one of the many Cinderella sequels I had no idea existed until last week, and in no mind to pay much attention to us. All except for Sally, who stares at the sparkly effect of my dress with wide-eyed fascination. . . We kiss and hug them all anyway, and Mrs. Bug gives us a big reassuring smile and a quiet, "Have a good evening dearies," and then we're in the car, and on our way to Rupert's.

"Isn't it funny?" I ask, a few minutes later.

"What is, Sorcha?"

"This is the first time I've been in your car. We used mine to move the cats last week, and when it's the two of us, it's been Ubers in every other case."

He frowns in thought, "Huh. Suppose it has."

"You'd better let me DD tonight then. That way you can drink, and I'll have a chance to get familiar with driving your car."

He gestures at the gear lever as he shifts into second, "Ye c'n drive a stick?"

I snort, a little incredulously, "Lamb taught me to drive one summer in Istanbul. Stick shift was the only option."

His lips twist ruefully, "I stand corrected."

There is something strangely tense in his tone. . .

"You stand informed, Jamie." I pat his wrist, "Asking the question wasn't wrong, and I'm sorry if I made you feel like it was. It wasn't. Not unless you were also assuming I'm incapable of such a thing."

He smiles at me, and his voice relaxes again, "Never, Sorcha."

"And I know that, but it doesn't change the fact that most people do assume just that. I'm very used to being underestimated, Jamie."

This time he snorts, righteously indignant, "Idjits, the lot of them. No, it's jus' that I remain continually stunned at how much we still have ta discover about each other, Sorcha."

I smile too, and lean back against the comfortable leather, "Me too, my love."

We pull in to the almost empty parking lot of Rupert's a short time later. Joe and I have always liked coming here at off times of day, for the cool, quiet ambiance of the place. Everything is upholstered in green, and all the fittings and trim are polished or antique brass. The ceilings are high, the light is low, and somehow everything feels both open and private at the same time.

Geordie is behind the bar tonight, and he greets me with a smile.

"Evenin' Claire. Been a while." He nods welcomingly at Jamie, "First time here, sir?"

"Aye," says Jamie, seating me at the bar, and sliding onto the stool next to mine, "A virgin mojito with extra mint for the lady, an' I'll have a whisky sour – Japanese bourbon, egg, no ice, yuzu bitters if you have them."

Geordie smiles appreciatively, "Comin' right up. . ."

"An' we're waiting for two to join us. A virgin Manhattan and-" Jamie looks at me for what to order for Joe.

"A Dark 'n Stormy, substitute orange twist. You know how Joe likes them."

"That I do," Geordie nods, and gets to work.

Jamie picks up the little filigree picture frame that holds the bar food menu, and scans it with professional interest, "What appetizers should we get, Sassenach?"

"The tasting fries, full spread, and the mini baked ginger-apple dumplings."

"Oh, aye?" he murmurs, still scanning.

"Yes. And if you want more than that, the mini nacho cups with salsa verde, or the chicken avocado salad wraps with grilled serrano cream cheese."

"Right then." He puts the menu down, "I'll order when we get our drinks."

He does, and we are halfway through our plateful of crispy little nacho scoops when I finally hear a familiar voice that I haven't heard in far too long -

"Ahh, now there's my Lady Jane!"

Chapter Text

Watching my wife joyfully hug another man is a moment of incredibly mixed emotions for me.

On the one hand – they are longstanding friends, in a healthy, publicly acknowledged relationship, openly approved of by her family, and his wife too. She has been looking forward to tonight so much, and the look of happiness in her eyes when she sees him, and the sound of joy in her voice when she greets them are both so wonderful. . . I would never do anything to deny my Light such a friendship, not when it makes her look and sound like that. Her fulfillment fulfills me, in ways I do not know how to describe.

But on the other hand. . .

When a man has been cheated on to the point of raising the offspring of two other men as his own, it changes his perspective on things. Not some things. Not most things. Everything.

I know Claire isn't planning on cheating on me, and certainly not with Joe Abernathy. That does not stop me from fearing it.

I know her peck to Joe's cheek is only her sweet affectionate personality, and their close, longtime connection. That does not stop me wondering if she has ever kissed him in any other way. Or even just wanted to.

I know the rapt attention she is giving him and Gail at this moment is nothing but the natural reaction of good friends that have been too long apart.

That does not stop my wild desire to grab her attention back to me, all of it, at once, and fix it upon myself alone, any way I can.

I am not jealous. That does not stop me from feeling jealous.

I know all this is a trauma response. That doesn't make it any less of a shite experience.

I am anxious. And all the knowing in the world cannot stop it.

I diligently fight against my traitorous feelings, and stand to greet my wife's friends as charmingly as I can.

If my smile is somewhat flat as Claire introduces me, I don't think anyone notices. I shake hands with the both of them, taking note that Joe's tie matches with Gail's hijab, and that they are both of a sky-blue silk, stamped all over with the Starfleet logo from Star Trek, in a subtly lighter blue.

Nerds indeed. And now I understand Gail's reason for not drinking alcohol. Well, one of the reasons anyway, I think I can safely assume. . .

After handing them their drinks, I lead us all to a booth instead of the bar, and call out the second half of our appetizers order.

I know Claire has no idea how much of a boost she's already given me tonight, just by telling me things she thinks I might need to know. Simply being able to confidently make orders for everyone is huge. Going into a situation like this, with so little I can control, taking charge in one thing at least is an anchor and a comfort like nothing else.

As I settle in next to her at our booth, she slips her hand into mine, and weaves our fingers together.

No. I was wrong. This is an anchor and a comfort like nothing else. . .

I did think to warn her about my anxiety over hands, and now I am so unfathomably thankful I did. She was incredibly scrupulous in greeting her friends, not to let her hands linger, even on shoulders while hugging them, and she hasn't let either of them shake her hand, or hold it, or, worst of all, kiss her fingers.

All of which were things Annalise would do, or let other people do, when she was about to start withdrawing from me again, and blaming me for not being enough of a provider to be given her love, or interesting enough to keep her attention, or cultured enough to earn her respect, or educated enough to. . .

Firmly, I stop my spiral of negative thoughts and memories, and grip Claire's hand a little tighter. This woman's love is unconditional, and she has already sacrificed so much for me I can hardly wrap my mind around it. I owe it to the both of us to find joy and fulfillment in the other people she has deemed worthy of her love.

"So. Joe," I say, leaning forward seriously, "An important question. . ."

I must look and sound a good deal more serious than I intended, because both Claire and Gail stop chatting, and lean forward a little too.

"Yes?" says Joe, eyes tightening.

This is much more of an effect then I was trying to make. . .

Ah well. I shrug internally, and decide to roll with it. They're nerds. They'll forgive me.

I deepen my voice, and give him a look like I give to my line when none of the day's test recipes worked properly. . .

"In your opinion. . . Miles Morales, or Peter Parker?"

The tension collapses into warm, easy laughter.

Ten minutes of lighthearted discussion later, and I don't wonder this man has made and kept Claire's friendship for so long. He's incredibly easy to talk to, just as much of a listener as a talker himself, and while he is always ready and willing to see the funny side of things, there is a core seriousness to him that is wonderfully reassuring. The way he sees to Gail is to me especially poignant. I don't know how long they've been together, but I know the signs of a man smitten with the woman beside him – I have seen them in my own mirror every day since I met Claire – and Joe is in love with his wife. She responds to it beautifully, never interrupting her chatting to Claire, but always sparing just a little attention for him – with a touch, with a gesture, with a glance.

I hold Claire's hand a little closer, so thankful for her, even as I tamp down an instinctive surge of anger at being robbed of eight years of such a connection.

Ever since Claire has learned the full truth of what Annalise was, not a day has gone by that I haven't been some level of furious. At myself for not escaping sooner, yes, but also at all the wrongness, all the insanity, all the. . . evil. . .

I push the feelings very firmly back. Moving on is the best revenge, after all. . .

The four of us get on to talking about our children soon enough, and how we think the pandemic has impacted their educations, and what plans we've made to counteract/support the changes we see.

From there, we talk about travel – where we all have been, and some places we hope to go some day. My Scottish antecedents are discussed, very positively, and Uncle Lamb's many international adventures are talked over at length. Claire and Joe discuss some of their shared challenges in managing a food-service industry in these unprecedented times, and Gail and I discover a shared love of American Women's soccer. It's the only sport other than shinty I don't find myself unbearably sleepy while watching. . . We discuss the current season for a little while, and then Claire speaks up, saying we ought to leave soon, if we want to get to the Big House on time.

She and Gail get up to go to the ladies room, leaving Joe and I alone at our booth. I settle up the bill, and then turn to him, regarding him silently for a long couple of minutes. He does the same to me, not with any hostility, but with a quite justifiable wariness, and what I find to be an admirable curiosity.

"I've never seen Claire so happy," he says at last, "I. . . hope you appreciate that."

I nod solemnly, "She's my guiding Light. My heart and soul."

He considers for a minute, running a knuckle back and forth across his lips.

"Alright then. So long as you're all-in, I've got your back," he holds out a hand, "Welcome to the family." He catches my gaze as I grip his hand, "This is your only chance. Don't waste it."

I smile, more than a little grimly, "Nae fear."

The women come back then, each of them gracing the one of us they love with a soft, happy smile. We get up, and walk companionably out to our cars. I toss Claire the keys, and settle into the passenger seat – after adjusting it further back than it's ever had to go before, of course. . .

She takes a few minutes to learn my car's controls, then starts us up, and gets us on the road to her parents' house. I don't speak, letting her concentrate.

When we pull up at a stop a few minutes later, she turns to me, and takes my hand.

"Two down, three to go. How are you holding up, my love?"

I run my thumb across her knuckles, and kiss her fingertips, "I'll think I'll be alright, Sorcha."

"Good."

She smiles, and gets back to driving.

Chapter Text

We pull up to my parents' house a few minutes early. I am glad, since it gives us time for a brief council of war. We meet up around Joe's car, parked in the little covered space next to the Big House's garage exit.

"So, how much have you told them, LJ?"

"Not a lot. I met a guy, his name is Jamie, I'm bringing him to meet them tonight."

"So nothing about your promotion? Nothing about the girls? Nothing about you moving in?"

"No."

"Nothing about. . ." Joe gestures at my left hand.

I look down at my ring, "Oh! No. . ." I hold out my hand to Jamie, giving him a significant look.

If he's willing to let tonight's revelations happen at any sort of manageable pace, then he has to be willing to let me remove the sign of our marriage for a little while. But I won't do it unless he is willing. . .

He clenches his teeth, and his face is solemn, but eventually he makes the decision, and takes off the ring he put there nearly three weeks ago. He tucks it away into his breast pocket, a look of both promise and determination in his eyes.

Then, he takes my arm, and the four of us walk slowly past the thick street-facing hedge, and up into my parents' front garden.

"The Big House" is called that for good reason. My parents are what is known - rather snobbishly, I've always thought - as "old money". Everything about them shows it, including their house. It is in fact two old Neoclassical era houses thrown into one, with a charming little Romanesque section showing the join between them – and the fact that I am even aware of the building styles proves the old money point rather nicely, I think.

I run my eyes over the grand façade, with its barrage of columns meant to impress, and yet, I feel nothing but the warmth of familiar, everyday memories.

. . . Mum and I scattering wildflower seeds in all the beds surrounding the lawns, and waiting for the sweet, many-coloured display through spring and summer, then picking the flowers and pressing them, and embedding them into homemade paper greeting cards, which we would then decorate with fancy lettering, and hand-gild the edges. . .

. . . Dad and I setting out Halloween decorations, and then sitting with a bucket of candy to give out to all who came Trick-or-treating – the pair of us dressed as Thor and Mjolnir, perhaps, or Farmer Giles and the dragon Chrysophylax, or Mr. Darling and Wendy, or even Aslan and Lucy, one year – dad always entrusting the candy distribution to me. . .

. . . Lamb and I returning home, tired and dusty after a long summer in fascinating foreign trenches, to our traditional welcome of warm baths, clean cotton shirts, and cool lemonade on the back porch, mum and dad all agog to hear about our months of adventures. . .

In fact, one whole sprawling wing is devoted to Lamb, with his libraries and labs full of sketches and notes, photos and equipment, and crates upon crates of artifacts and other finds. Some rooms are wonderfully well organized, almost to a professionally curated museum's standards, and others are deliciously haphazard, inviting visitors to rummage and explore – usually while Lamb cheerfully narrates some story related to every random thing you bring to light, hopping easily from how early Anatolian cookware was probably made, to some truly revolutionary theories regarding Jordanian roofing tiles, to the fantastically mundane things often found on ancient Egyptian shopping lists, to some scandalous old ideas about Middle Stone Age Iberian marriage rituals, to the most recent pollen analyses of deep mud-core samples around the Sea of Galilee, and back again, never losing your interest, and always surprising you with his breadth of knowledge.

The other wing is where I grew up. Though, I was far more often among Lamb's books and brushes and beakers, and ancient, storied objects than I was my parents' conventional sitting and dining rooms. Which I know says a lot about me. . .

If there was one place in the Big House I was going to learn to think unconventional thoughts, ask hard questions, hear hard answers, and have no fear regardless, it was in Lamb's libraries.

As I reset my grip on Jamie's arm, and ring the front doorbell, I can't help but think my entire history with this place is probably about to stand me in good stead. . .

Old Alec answers the door – my parents' chauffeur-valet, and man-of-all-work. He is, in fact, a distant cousin of my mother's, but he's worked for us so long it is history that binds us together, not genealogy. His hair is almost fully white now, the old dear – he must be nearing eighty, at least – but he is still rather spry, all things considered, and more than capable of training up his grandson, Young Alec, to take his place in the next year or two, or so I understand it. . .

"Good evening, Alec," I say, with a grin.

"Evening Miss Claire," he says, pale blue eyes darting between the four of us, and twinkling knowingly, "And company."

He takes our shawls and jackets, and then begins to lead us to the far dining room - the one in my parents' wing. Gail and Joe step up to walk nearest him, so they might ask him about his most recent competition. Old Alec breeds roses – some of the best in the county – and it being April, the flower fairs have started up again, and he has two blue ribbons already.

Jamie and I hang back a little, his steps slowing and eyes widening the more rooms we pass. Eventually, he leans over and whispers in my ear,

"I feel like ye ought ta introduce me as Laird Broch Tuarach in a place like this."

I whisper back, "I will if you want me to."

"Seriously?"

"Of course, my love."

"But. . . Sassenach. . ." he blinks, and looks around us with an incredulous half-smile, "When ye said yer da was a student, an' yer mam offered ta buy a house wi' him, ta "make the best of it", this isn't a'tal what I pictured."

"No?" I grin at him, "Perhaps I ought to have said he was Henry Beauchamp, of the Oxfordshire Beauchamps, over from England on a rowing scholarship, and she was Julia Moriston, of the Oxford, Mississippi Moristons, in Boston solely to escape having to go to Ole Miss, and become a Southern Belle."

"So she became a Northern one instead?"

I dig a finger into his ribs as I desperately hold back a snort, "Hush, you. We want them to like you, darling, not toss you out on your ear for inveterate Scottish impertinence."

"Mmph. Ye seem ta like some bits of my inveterate Scottis-"

I poke him again, harder this time.

"Quiet. I did say I grew up rich, didn't I? At some point? I'm sure I mentioned it. I must have. . ."

"Aye, "wi' every advantage" was how ye phrased it, if I recall correctly."

"Well then?"

"Weel," he rolls his eyes expressively, "When I think of advantages, I dinna exactly think of sixteen drawing rooms, three swimming pools, two tennis courts an' a planetarium, Sorcha. No' first thing, annyway."

"No?"

"No."

I shrug, "It's only five drawing rooms. If you only count the formal ones, at least. Two in each wing and one in the transitional house. And there are only two pools. Unless you count the hot tubs, I suppose. Or the self-cleaning pond. But we only swim in that during the summer. And either way, we use the Turkish bath more often. And the sauna. And it's a combination observatory and planetarium, by the way. That's in Lamb's wing. He had it built because he was always having astronomers over and wanted a place to entertain them prop. . ."

I trail off as Jamie stares at me, open-mouthed.

"I was imagining advantages more along the lines of dance tutors, music classes, art teachers, horses, a Lexus or two, a cabin in Maine, an' a mini fridge in yer room growin' up, Sorcha."

"I had those too."

He blinks, "You had?"

"Yes. At various times, I've learned polo, impasto, piano voce, and the polka. I can't say I cared for any of them much. Dad sold the cabin in Maine seven years ago, and bought land in Alaska instead. I traded the Lexus they got me for graduating high school in for my first Audi ages ago, and I have no idea if my mini fridge is still kicking around, but I imagine it is. Mum never throws anything away, and neither does Lamb."

He shakes his head, still wide-eyed, "Nae wonder a promotion an' few job perks dinna impress ye. . ."

I don't have time to respond, seeing as we have finally reached the dining room.

Dad is over by the sideboard, mixing drinks, and so mum is the one who greets us first.

"Joe! Gail!" she shakes their hands, and pecks Gail's cheek like usual, "Henry's just made a whole pitcher of virgin frozen Manhattans just for you!"

My friends make the requisite appreciative noises, and part around mum to get to the sideboard.

Leaving her line of sight clear to me and Jamie.

Her eyes brighten as her gaze passes over me, but then her entire expression freezes when she reaches my husband. He is quite a sight to see - tall and broad and impressive in his boots and plaid, his red curls glowing, his posture almost instinctively heroic - every inch of him a Scot.

Dad turns towards us in the sudden silence, his gaze hardening as his eyes make the same journey my mother's just did. . .

I cough, just a little, "Mum, dad, I would like to introduce James Fraser, the Laird Broch Tuarach. My. . . boyfriend."

Joe turns around at that, though if it is the Laird or the boyfriend that surprises him I do not know. Mum and dad don't notice him, still absorbed in taking Jamie in.

Mum comes to herself first, and puts out a gracious hand, "Well, you are most welcome, James Fraser. Laird Broch Tuarach."

Jamie takes her hand, and bows over it like the gentleman he is, "My friends call me Jamie, ma'am."

At that my father harrumphs, like the pompous windbag I know he isn't, not usually. . . "And just who said we were friends of yours, young man?"

This time, the entire room halts, stunned.

I blink, not knowing at all what to say. . .

The almost insanely awkward silence is broken by a clattering entrance, and the voice which, for me, this entire exercise as been building towards -

"Well well well, here we all are then, and here am I, late, when we have such distinguished guests! And I don't even have an excuse to offer – I simply lost track of time. I'm sorry, mia familia. Mea culpa."

My heart swells, as it always does around my favorite and only uncle. After all, it's his approval I am really hoping for tonight. . .

I turn, and go to him, my hands stretched out.

"Lamb! Oh, I've missed you. . ." I kiss him gratefully, on both cheeks, as though we have been apart far longer than our normal four or five weeks or so. So much has happened, it feels like years. . . "Come have a drink, my dear old sweet, and meet Jamie. . ."

Chapter Text

For the second time in three hours, I watch as my wife happily embraces another man.

This time is nothing like the last, of course, and I am neither anxious nor jealous at the sight, only deeply, sorrowfully longing. I lost my father and older brother Willie in a car accident more than two decades ago, and that kind of loss never leaves you. Seeing Claire greet her uncle so lovingly only reminds me I can never see my father and my brother again.

Except. . .

Funny, how a few weeks with Claire have not in any way revived the religious feelings I was brought up with, but they have made me want to pray again, and somehow, back behind it all, I also feel a germ of belief beginning to grow. Belief, not in god, or gods, or goddesses, or any such thing, but, very simply, in more. I cannot put it any clearer than that, not yet, even to myself. More. There is something more, or we ourselves are something more, perhaps. There is more. More than we can see, more than we can know.

It is a long way from believing in an afterlife of any kind, but, suddenly, a good bit of the sting is gone from my sorrow.

Da and Willie aren't fully gone. They were more than physical beings, and their physical ending did not change that. . .

I blink at the bowl of soup in front of me, almost entirely unaware of how it got here, or anything that has been said or done for the past fifteen minutes or so.

Mechanically, I pick up my spoon, and rigorously focus on my eating, trying to get back inside my head.

I haven't dissociated like that for years. . .

It must be the overload of information, coupled with how little control I feel over my environment at the moment.

I scroll quickly through what I can remember, and note that both Joe and Lamb have been cheerful and accommodating, taking up the burden of active conversation, giving both myself and Claire a respite.

Claire. . .

I glance at my wife, and see a great deal of hidden tension in her. Not surprising. Neither of us had much of an idea how to properly prepare for tonight, and so this confrontation sort of snuck up on us, I suppose. The past few weeks have been so crammed full of so many changes, and so much growth, so fast, that my soul aches with it all. I would not have anything different, but it is so much more than I ever thought I could take. . .

I reach a hand towards Claire under the table. She reaches back, and I see a huge weight lift from her shoulders.

My dear woman. . .

A great deal of my mind is still back in her apartment the first night we retuned from Vegas, luxuriating in each other, alone in her bed. No one knows about us, no one cares what we are doing – it is as if the entire outside world does not exist. I feel as though nearly all of our time since then has been spent in a desperate game of catch-up.

And if my mind is like that, how must hers be? I still have my job, and my home. I am still living with mostly the same people as I was three weeks ago. I have no older generation I must answer to for my choices, nor social expectation of perfection hanging over me. I still have most of my life-anchors, while she has given most of hers up.

And even in the midst of all that, I can tell that most of her tension tonight, far from being about herself, is worry over me.

Her wedding ring burns in my pocket. I know she must have some kind of plan, even it is a vague, loosely constructed one, because she would never have asked me to remove it if she hadn't, and that goes double for introducing me as her boyfriend, but every molecule of my self, every glimmer of my manhood, is screaming to give her the stability, the grounding of our wedding vows. To see her so at sea, so unmoored, for want of the one thing I can give her tonight, is nearly worse than the powerless frustration I feel for myself.

Surreptitiously, her fingers slip into mine, and give my hand a brief, hard squeeze.

Something about the touch grounds us both, and all at once, my mind is clear enough for me to take some notice of the conversation around the table.

The subject of flower fairs has been thoroughly discussed, and also the springtime horse-racing season. Mr. Beauchamp held forth for some time about the upcoming exclusive amateur golf tournament to be held next week at one of the local country clubs, and now Lamb and Joe and Claire are discussing the similarities and differences between campsites at archaeological digs, and dorm rooms at colleges.

The empty soup plates are taken away, and the cold meat course is brought. It is a fine charcuterie board, accompanied with an even finer wine. . .

I take a long few sniffs before I taste it, and savor the sip once I do. I must sigh, or make some other sound as well, for suddenly Mr. Beauchamp addresses me directly.

"Is there something wrong with the wine, Mr. Fraser?"

I give a small smile at the thought, "Far from it. It is merely that I have only tasted the '82 Lafite-Rothschild Pauillic once before now, and it was not so much like the '59 then." I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers, "It's gotten better, even in five years. I do hope you've put down a good supply. This is one that will only get more magnificent as it ages."

I take another small, slow sip, and enjoy the mostly embarrassed silence around the table. Of course, it's patently obvious that I am not the sort of person who regularly has the ability - or desire, thank goodness! - to drink two-and-a-half-thousand-dollars-per-bottle wine with my pre-dinner cold cuts, but it is also just as obvious that I'm bang on the money with my identification, and this has flipped nearly every brain at the table, and impressed the ones it hasn't.

I see an extremely small smirk on Claire's face – one mirrored almost identically by Lamb – but everyone else is some mixture of shocked, disbelieving, incredulous, or. . . scared?

Huh. That's one to keep in my back pocket. . .

Gently, Mrs. Beauchamp breaks the silence.

"So, you are a Laird, Mr. Fraser?"

I shrug, and take a bite of prosciutto, "Weel, that's a bit of a odds-and-ends title anymore. I'm heir to a piece of land in Scotland with tenants living on it. That's about all that c'n be said these days. It's been in my family a long time, but even that doesna mean what it usedta. It isnae a job – no' annymore. An' certainly not a livin'."

"I understand," she smiles demurely, "So what do you do?"

"I'm a chef, and head meal designer for Leoch Foods."

Mr. Beauchamp's eyebrows raise a little at that, but he says nothing.

Claire nudges Lamb a little, "Never mind that, ask him what his estate in Scotland is called, Lamb."

He turns to face me, an expectant look in his eyes.

I smile flatly, "It's called Lallybroch."

Lamb inhales sharply, "Lallybroch? – is there a broch?"

"Aye. Still standing – or mostly. It's a decided ruin now, a'course."

"Well, of course. Has it ever been dug?"

"Not that I ken. It is a registered monument, though, so I doubt it."

Lamb nods contemplatively, "Any known henges nearby? Or ancient burial sites? Or standing stones?"

"Aye, a few. They're a good ways off, though. None on the property itself, I don' think. Why?"

"Nothing much. Just a silly crackpot theory of mine."

"Oh aye? An' what's that?"

His lip twists a little, "Well. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be something in the old ley line hypothesis?"

I try to look as though I know at all what that might be, "No. I cannae say it has."

"Well, I posit that there are some places on the Earth's surface that show a concentrated energetic flow, and that those places seem to coincide dramatically with the positions of important buildings and structures."

"Ye might be right, but what does that have ta do with anything?"

"Well, for one, it might go some ways towards explaining legends of visual and energetic phenomena, or visions, or even physical translations or miraculous healings. Resurrections, perhaps. Even. . . time travel."

I knit my brows together, as the charcuterie board is removed, and an exquisitely poached sole with beurre blanc and chives arrives on the table, "I dinnae ken about all that," I say carefully, "It sounds an interesting theory, though, and I would be fascinated to see what evidence ye would put forward, but in my own mind, I cannae help but think that time travel, at least, is. . . well. . . already possible."

It isn't the answer he was expecting. He raises an encouraging eyebrow.

"Isn't that all archaeology is, sir? Paleontology too. Entomology. Geology. Even astronomy. In fact most of science is exploring the past as though it were a foreign country, isn't it? What is that but time travel?"

Lamb shrugs, "An interesting perspective."

"And may be useful to you," says Claire.

"Oh really my dear? How do you think?"

Claire's eyes light up with memories, "Well do you know how you always used to say that history had history? That even people in the Old Stone Age saw the signs of people older than them, and investigated, reverenced and probably worshiped them?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Well, what if those legends, and visions and phenomena and such, what if they are real in the same way Jamie says time travel might be? Visions might be people experimenting with drugs, or suffering from head trauma, and myths might just be a particularly imaginative storyteller plying his craft. One hunter tells a really good story one night, and everyone likes it so much it gets passed down, and embellished, and retold, and embellished some more, and they add theatrics and sound effects, and costumes, and eat the strange looking mushrooms while they tell it, and soon enough, an indigenous tribal story bears an uncanny likeness to Transformers Dark Of The Moon. It doesn't mean Micheal Bay is a Cherokee medicine man, or whatever, it means that history has history, and people back then were probably very much like people are today."

Lamb shrugs again, "Very likely, my dear. Like I said – it is only a crackpot theory. There probably isn't anything in it. But you never know. . . And in either case, I do wish I'd had a chance to dig a broch, back when I was working – that and a Manx keeill. But, you can't have everything."

"No sir. No, ye surely cannot," I say, slowly, and tense silence falls again.

Claire finishes her sole, and wipes her mouth delicately before speaking up, in a quiet, but very determined voice.

"Dad?"

Mr. Beauchamp blinks at her, "Yes, Claire?"

"Would you tell my birthday story?"

"Over dinner?"

"Why not? It's your best story, and you know how much I love it."

"No one wants to hear me ramble on-"

"But-"

"Tell the story, Henry," Lamb cuts in, his voice very quiet, and suddenly dangerous, "Tell your daughter her favorite story. Or I will."

Chapter Text

Lamb doesn't use his "I Am The Oldest Person In This Room And By Jingo You Young Whipper-Snapper Will Do What You Are Told For Once Goddamn It" voice very often, and even less frequently on my father, but when he does, you can bet shit just got real.

Adrenaline fires to the very tips of my fingers. If anything is going to work, this is it. . .

Dad stares Lamb down for all of half a second before he capitulates.

"Oh, very well," he sighs, and tosses his napkin down beside his plate before leaning back in his chair, and looking dreamily off into space – his usual attitude for storytelling.

"I was over from Oxford on a student visa – this was in '74, you understand – and I was young, and full of vim and vigor, and very foolish – as we all are in our twenties, I rather think."

I see Jamie smirk ruefully in agreement.

"And I was going along, enjoying life when – and I forget exactly how, now – I discovered my visa was about to expire. I had neglected to renew it at the proper time, and like the thoughtless boy I was, hadn't even considered the consequences."

He glances at mum, and a soft smile comes into his eyes, "I was lucky though, because the college librarian and I had started dating a couple of months before, and she was enamored enough with me by then to take the biggest chance of her life. I, of course, had been smitten after the first ten minutes, and wasn't taking the least chance at all." Dad takes a sip from his glass of ice water, then resumes his storytelling posture, "A few days and a trip to the courthouse later, and a Green Card was in the offing."

He pauses, as Old and Young Alec make the round of the table, removing the fish plates and serving up grilled asparagus and quail stuffed with morel mushrooms and wild rice.

"I very soon learned that there is a great deal of difference between a fool and an idiot, of course," he continues when they've retreated once again, "I had been a fool – I own that, and easily, now – but Julia had still rescued me, and only an idiot would then proceed to lose such a woman. But there were several impediments – chief among them being that both our parents had other plans for us. Plans that both of us were extremely frightened to upset entirely, at least for a time. So, other than the authorities, of course, we didn't tell anyone we were married."

Dad takes a few bites of his dinner and a couple sips of wine before continuing, "Naturally, that only made us two fools together. But we were happy enough, just so long as we were together. And eventually our parents accepted the situation, even unblessed as they thought it was, and we graduated school, and moved into this place, and Lamb set up his home base here, and all seemed right under heaven for, well, quite a long time."

He gives a long sigh, "We had both been wild for children, of course, especially in the first few years. But nothing ever happened. And then eventually, things settled down, and. . . well. . ." he gestures noncommittally, "Your thirties aren't like your twenties, if you're at all wise about them."

Jamie smirks in agreement again.

"And then suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, Julia discovers she's expecting. And wouldn't you know it, her due date is two days after our anniversary."

Dad glances between mum and me, "It was quite a hectic nine months after that. We'd told Lamb about us by then, of course, but no one else in our family or friend circle knew we were legally married. We'd gotten into such a habit of not telling, you see. And, really, for a decade it didn't much matter. But now, with a child on the way, the legal aspect of the thing reared its head again – or that was what everyone told us. We knew everything was fine. But it's difficult to reassure someone you've been lying to by omission for eleven years, especially when it's not just one someone, but dozens of someones."

Dad addresses his quail for a minute, then looks over to me and smiles, "And then there was the aspect you brought to it, my dear. We weren't planning for one minute on lying to you. So we had to tell people. But how? It was something of a dilemma."

I take a sip of wine, and surreptitiously touch Jamie's hand under the table. His mouth quirks up at the touch. I wonder if he has twigged to what I am planning by now. . .

"In the end it was absurdly easy. You came three days early, my dear. And so the next night, the night of our anniversary, I gathered all our local friends, and the family who had flown in to be with us for your birth, took them to the country club, ordered all the champagne they had in stock, and nearly all the brandy too, and got up and made a speech."

He clears his throat, and holds his arm out like a Greek orator, "Thank you all for being here, to celebrate the birth of my daughter, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp," - there was great applause, of course, and I had quite a time getting everyone to listen again – "But before we begin the festivities in earnest, I must make AN ANNOUNCEMENT."

Dad chuckles, "And, do you know, it was just like that scene at Bilbo's birthday party – everyone was laughing and joking and spoiling for a good time, but the very idea of an announcement made everyone suddenly tense and quiet. So I grabbed a flute of champagne, and stood up on a chair so everyone could see me, "In justice to my daughter, I wish to inform you all that I have married her mother, Julia Moriston."

"Everyone went even more quiet then. And I raised my glass high, and said -"

"And, in justice to my wife, I must also tell you all that I married her, eleven years ago."

"Well. That took quite a while to sink in. I had plenty of time to take a long drink of champagne in total silence. I even manged to start speaking again before the questions could begin."

"I know this is a surprise to you all, and may be a shock to some. Rest assured both Julia and I have spent much time and worry these past eleven years, wondering what other people think of us. But now we have a girl," I said, "A great, golden-eyed eaglet of a girl – worth fifty sons – and we are not afraid of what anyone thinks anymor-"

Dad always chokes up at this point, and he does so now, but he pushes past it quicker than I've ever seen him do before,

"We nearly drank the bar dry that night – for a birth, a marriage, and an anniversary do not commonly happen all at once like that. It was some days before I was any good to Julie at all, but at least I stayed out of her hair all that time."

There is another long pause as the table is cleared again, and pinwheel steaks, with carrot and caper salad is put in front of us.

"So, my dear," says dad, solemnly, "Now, will you please tell me why you insisted I tell the story I always nearly cry while telling in front of a young man who, by tradition, I am supposed to be nothing but gruff to, and stoic in front of, and hard to impress?"

I swallow a bite of salad, and take a sip of wine before answering, "Well, you know how I've always loved that story, right dad?"

"Yes, I know it's the one you ask for the most often."

"And that's because I've always wanted to be able to tell a story as good as that to my own children, one day."

Dad shrugs a little, "Not perhaps the grandest of aspirations, but worthy enough, most certainly."

"I'm glad you think so."

I reach over to Jamie, and gently touch his breast pocket. He blinks at me for just a second, and then digs out my silver wedding band. I present my left hand to him, and he slips it back onto my finger.

"I hope Jamie and I won't have to wait eleven years to tell it to them."

Chapter Text

I kiss Claire's restored wedding ring, and give her a long, loving look before turning to the rest of the table. Everyone is some level of stunned.

Joe and Gail I think because they knew most of the story, but did not know why Claire married me, and now, without either of us actually saying it, it has been made clear I was in similar need as her father had been. Though if they are shocked because I needed help in that way, or that Claire was willing to render that help, I do not know them well enough to judge.

Mrs. Beauchamp somehow looks just as shocked at her own husband as she does that I am now her daughter's husband. Seeing how emotional he got while telling his story, I can only assume this is in response to how unfeelingly he was treating me before telling it. It is clear now he was only doing so in accordance to the look of the thing, as the traditional Disapproving Father, and, it is just as clear that she had no idea he was going to take that angle on matters.

And Lamb. . .

Lamb looks far more impressed than stunned. And his look is split equally between me and Claire, not focused upon Claire alone. I understand now why it is his opinion Claire most values, among all the opinions on offer here at the Big House. He is not only the most insightful among her three parents, he also has the most flexible, resilient way of thinking, the most upbeat, welcoming philosophy, and the gentlest, kindest heart. Not that his brother or sister-in-law are at all dour or heartless, but Lamb, as an individual, as a man, has more parent-craft in his left thumb than most people ever will in their whole souls. He isn't Claire's second father, he is utterly and in all ways her uncle. An uncle who helped raise her. And in doing so, he has also raised the title of uncle into the ranks of honoured, venerated parenthood. Ask Claire who her parents are, and Lamb will always be mentioned.

I will never again wonder how Claire has been able to come into my home, so easily, so naturally, and become a third parent to children who need her, without in any way defacing the memory of what they have lost, or blaming the children for what they now need from her. How she has been able to not only walk that tightrope, but make a place of her own in their hearts, without any malice that it is a secondary place.

I myself ought to know that secondary places are just as important as primary ones, and sometimes better, in many ways. . .

At last, I bring myself to look at her father. The stunned look in his eyes is not one of malice, nor of opposition of any kind, but of strained, long-awaited, distant but present. . . fear. He has been afraid of this day, for much longer than most men with a beautiful, capable daughter ever are. He has fought against the feeling, as any good man would, and with far more resources than afforded to many. But no amount of privilege can insulate a child from their own heart, and no good parent ever tries. He hasn't. He has feared and fought in silence, and now. . .

Now, here I am.

I do not know if I am everything he expected, or nothing he could have imagined.

Perhaps I am both.

I give him a respectful nod.

"We're no' in violation of any laws, sir. The fault – if fault there be – lies with unknown data entry personnel. I just didnae catch their mistakes right away. I am at fault for that, if ye like, but I do have somethin' of an excuse in that my. . ." irony, regret, shame and bitter bewilderment rise up in me, as they always do when I think of Annalise, ". . . my first wife had jus' died."

There is a room-wide stir at that. I cannot blame them. I am not only a stranger suddenly promoted to son-in-law, I am damaged goods. . . "That was over two years ago now, sir, an' it's been a rough road for me since. Details like making sure my passport had no errors in it were verrah far down the list of my priorities for a verrah long time."

I interlace my fingers with Claire's, and very deliberately put our clasped hands on the table between us, "A Green Card is the least part of the rescue Claire has brought me, sir, an' that's a fact. I daresay you understand – an' better than most."

He nods, very slowly, "I do."

I turn back to my steak and salad, "We didnae come here tanight ta demand your approval, sir – nor demand anything else. We're here only to inform, an' explain. An' neither of us is likely ta hold aught against ye if ye'er solid angry at that. I'm a father myself sir, an' if one of my girls came ta me wi' a strange man, the very least I'd do is deny him the house. Granted, that's mostly because the eldest two are still only nine, but the sentiment is understood an' appreciated."

There is another, longer stir, less awkward, but more intense.

I take a bite of my dinner, and wait for the barrage of questions I know are coming.

Her father leads with perhaps the most obvious.

"You aren't going to try and convince me you're in love with each other, then?"

I briefly tighten my grip on Claire's hand to stop her saying anything, "No, sir."

He blinks, and raises his eyebrows, "No?"

"No, sir," I shake my head, "Even the most sincere love sounds cheesy and fake when ye're trying ta convince someone of it, sir, an' besides – there arenae words for what Claire an' I have." I turn, and quickly, run my eyes over my wife - and then stop. . . and slowly do it again.

"I. . . I cannae even look at her wi'out getting caught in her spell."

She raises her eyes to mine, and I quickly look away. Much more of that, and I will do something neither of us want her parents to see. . .

"I daresay there have been men throughout the ages that have felt as I do, sir, an' women who have felt as she does, but if so, none have made the words for it. None that have lasted, anyway. I might go so far as ta say the feeling is stronger than words, but even that sounds mocking and dumb when said out loud." I slide my hand free of our entwined grasp, to gently brush one of her long curls back behind her shoulder. While I am there, I touch one fingertip gently to her jawbone, and caress very lightly down her neck. . . and then stop, pushing aside distraction again, "No sir. There are things far better left unsaid."

He grunts, a little dubiously, and takes a bite of steak.

Into the ensuing silence, Mrs. Beauchamp finally speaks up again,

"How many children do you have, Mr. Frase. . . Jamie?"

I half smile at her artfully clumsy use of my familiar name. She's quite a cunning diplomat, this woman. Lamb is certainly not the only parent Claire has learned from. . .

"Four, ma'am. Four girls. Faith, Brianna, Marsali and Joan. Known affectionately amongst us all as Fay, Bree, Sally and Jo. Sal will be six next month, Joanie's three and a half, and Fay an' Bree are twins. Would ye care ta see pictures?"

Those are exactly the right words. Claire's mother's eyes light up, and she nods eagerly. Of course, I have never met a middle-aged women who did not want to see pictures of children, much less pictures of children she has any prospect of calling her grandchildren. I bring up the proper folder on my phone, and hand it to her. Joe and Gail get up to stand behind her, and the three of them very quickly descend into soft laughter and cooing noises.

Mr. Beauchamp observes them for a minute, a small smile on his face at the sight of them, and then turns to Claire.

"How are you coping, my dear? A husband and four children all at once. I can hardly imagine. . ."

She smiles, and glances briefly at me, "Better than might be expected. Colum promoted me at work, and gave me a remote-working position, so my hours are much more flexible now."

He nods solemnly, "And I assume you'll be moving in together? I can't think co-parenting would work too well otherwise."

"We already did. Two weeks ago."

"And the house goblins?"

She chuckles, "Just a few days ago."

He smiles broadly, "Was Adso a holy terror?"

"No! It was the most shocking thing!"

"No?"

"Nope. It was Stuart!"

He laughs, long and steadily, "Ah, I might have known! The bonny princeling! Of course he turned out to be far more trouble than anyone had planned for. He would!"

Claire snorts, then joins her father in laughing over her cats.

They quiet down gradually, and while they do, he gives her a long, very serious looking over.

"Are you happy, Claire?"

There is worry in his eyes now, and his voice is a little unsteady.

She takes my hand again, and speaks with the most lovely quiet conviction.

"Very. Almost incandescently." She meets my eyes briefly, "Perfectly."

He nods slowly, and shares a long look with Lamb. Then he gives the trio still looking at pictures another soft, appreciative smile.

"So," he says turning to me, almost casually, "When does my Julie get to meet our granddaughters?"

Chapter Text

I know the night has been a success when dad brings out the brandy. The good old French brandy. The really good old French brandy. He brings five of the big balloon glasses back to the table with it, and calls for the Criollo chocolate truffles, and some of the cook's homemade black current and lemon verbena cordial for Gail and I.

Jamie and I are toasted then, several times, and so are each of the girls, and Joe, and even Colum, "for being a good sport".

All in all, it is the most perfect, most intimate wedding reception we could have hoped for, and with Jamie's hand clasping my own nearly all night, for me, it is almost idyllic.

We finally manage to pull ourselves away, after promising to come back, girls in tow, just as soon as physically possible.

Our drive home is quiet, not entirely comfortably so, but I am still on too much of a high to parse out exactly why. . .

I pull us into our driveway, and let us sit for a bit, knowing Jamie will tell me what is on his mind if I just give him a chance.

Slowly, he runs a hand across his face, "Why didn't you tell me, Sorcha? Why didn't you say you were a blasted Rockefeller?"

I blink, and suddenly completely understand.

"Why didn't you tell me you were a sommelier?"

He gives me an angry look.

I shake my head, "No, I'm not trying to derail the conversation – it's relevant – why, Jamie, did you never go completely textbook on me whenever I offered you wine? And I'm a totally uneducated lump in regards to wine too – I know it comes in red, white and pink, and if you drink enough of it, you wake up with a hangover. Everything else I know about any wine comes from reading the label. Why did you never pull the same trick on me that you did on dad at dinner tonight? Why, Jamie?"

He sighs exasperatedly, "Because being a sommelier is just a thing, Sorcha! It doesn't really matter. It doesna change who I am, and there's nae reason to be showing off all the ti-"

He breaks off as the point hits him.

"I. . . I get what you're saying, Sorcha, but. . . but. . .

"Yes?"

"All the same, I. . . it's just that. . . I'll. . . I'll never be able ta give ye-"

"No." I interrupt, "You won't. And do you know why? Because if you were the sort of man who could, I wouldn't have married you."

He freezes at that.

What. . .

"Ye mean ye married me out of charit-"

"No, Jamie!" I gasp, horrified, "No! I did not condescend to marry you! And I didn't do it because Dougal asked me to either. I didn't even go to Leoch that first night because he asked me to. I insisted on that part, quite emphatically, because. . ." I sigh deeply, and shake my head at myself, "Jamie, I went to Leoch that first night fully intending to turn you down."

Jamie's mouth opens, but he does not speak.

"All the guff I'd fed Dougal up to that point was just that – guff. To get him off my back. I wanted to deal with you, and I wanted to give you the courtesy of my saying no in person," I nod firmly, "Just that. Only that. But then I actually met you and. . ." I reach to him, and grip his wrist, "Jamie darling, before that moment, I didn't know falling in love at first sight was real. Lust yes. But not "I-have-an-instantaneous-and-extremely-strong-connection-to-this-person", love. And yet. . . there you were. Like a miracle, Jamie. Like. . . like an angel. Like a thunderclap and soft spring rain all mixed together. Like wild honey on fresh-baked bread. Like wind from the snows that reaches the valley in summer. Like the smell of home. You're my heart, my love, and my other soul. I saw you, I loved you, I chose you. And I will go on choosing you, Jamie - until the end of time. I've vowed to do it – twice – and I will."

He takes that in for a long minute or two, staring down at my hand on his wrist. Gently, he puts his hand on mine.

"But. . . but ta go from all that to. . . to. . ."

I sigh, "Do you know what being raised like that taught me, Jamie?"

"What?"

"That in this life, I had better know what I want. Because just as certainly as money alone can't make you happy, it most certainly does buy you the privilege to choose what will. So. Did I want more money? Or perhaps fame? Or maybe power? Or fun? Adventure? A career? My choice of lovers? Clothes? Chocolate? Shoes? A pile of drugs? A life of crime? I learned I'd better figure myself out, and know what the hell I want, and pretty fast too. In that tax bracket, it doesn't matter how good your parents are – you don't get a prolonged childhood. Well, sometimes you do, but the choices are either to grow up fast or never grow up at all. And being a perpetual half-baked little snot didn't appeal to me. So I chose a quiet, modest career, doing something I find worthwhile and fulfilling, in a service based industry. I chose that, Jamie, every step of the way. Because I had the privilege to choose."

I let the deep silence settle around us for a minute, and then continue.

"And then. . . Dougal entered the picture."

He inhales sharply, but I forestall him, "Do you know why I fought him so hard, my love? Fought him tooth and nail, and so publicly, for so little monetary profit? Do you know why?"

He shakes his head.

"It was because I knew I wasn't the first woman he'd harassed. No way in hell. I was only the latest. Who knows how many women, how many girls? Who knows if they were married or not, or even experienced or not, or what they were coerced into doing to protect themselves? Who knows how many couldn't fight back?" I swallow thickly, "And so I did. I fought for all of them, however many there were, stretching back however long. I fought like my life depended on it, because theirs very well might have done. I fought because I had the power to fight – I had money, and support, and status, and time, and, in the end, absolutely nothing to fear. I had the privilege to choose. And so I chose to fight him. Because it was the right thing to do."

Silence settles around us again.

"And then. . ." I smile, dreamily, "Then, there was you. I wasn't exaggerating when I said it was like a miracle, Jamie. I loved you from the very first moment I saw you, obstacles be damned. The rest of the world be damned. I had influence, and money, and status, and time, and I wanted you. And so everything else became secondary, Jamie. I am not giving anything up by being with you, my love. Marrying you isn't counter to the way I was raised. Quite the opposite. By choosing you, I am fulfilling how I was raised to be. I know what I want, and I am choosing it, day by day, because I have the privilege to choose. And you, and the girls, and our life together, are exactly what I want. I want it, Jamie. I want you, I want them, I want us, and I want our life, just as it is. If you were the sort of man who was more interested in procuring genuine Chinese cloisonné vases for our bedsides than in making sure there are fresh, cat-friendly flowers in them every day, I would not have married you. Alright? You are wonderful, Jamie, and your love and trust and respect are far more valuable to me than any collection of things in all the world throughout history. I'd choose you over the Colossus of Rhodes, the hanging gardens of Babylon, and the Library of Alexandria, and let me tell you, for a girl raised by Q. Lambert Beauchamp, that is saying something."

He smiles, a little shakily, and leans over to kiss me, long, and deeply, and with great relief.

I look up at him when he finally releases me, "I don't want a hundred million dollars, Jamie. I don't want a million dollars. I don't want any of the fancy things millions of dollars can buy. Give me a living wage and you for a million years. Everything else is frosting."

"A little frosting is nice."

"Of course it is. No one is disputing that. And between us, I think we can afford sufficient sugar and butter to make our own, don't you? Enough to give the girls a beautiful childhood, and ourselves some nice fun times too. With Grandma and Grandpa Beauchamp, and good old Uncle Lamb there in the background, ready and willing to take the pressure off when we ask them to." I run a finger across his chin, "I'm sorry I didn't prepare you well enough for tonight, Jamie. I can only tell you it wasn't intentional, and reassure you that I love you, our family, and our life."

He smiles again, more confidently now, and lowers his voice to a deep, dark purr, "Soo. . . does this mean ye owe me, Sassenach?"

Delicious tingles bloom in my stomach.

"I suppose it does."

His eyes flash with mischief, and he gets us out of the car and inside the house in record time. His mouth is on mine, and his hand is caressing my bare thigh up the slit in my skirt almost before I know it.

"This damn dress has been teasing me all night, Sassenach."

"Oho, has it now?"

"Mmm. It has." He slides his hand even higher, and takes a handful of my backside, "An' now it's time for ye ta pay, Sorcha."

I giggle, utterly intoxicated with this lovely, gorgeous man, "On one condition."

"Mmm. Anything, Sassenach."

I giggle playfully again, and slide a hand daringly up his thigh, "You leave the kilt on. . ."

His eyes darken, and he pounces on me, throwing me casually over his shoulder, and carrying me up the stairs. Then he presses me up against our bedroom door, even as he closes it behind us.

I grope for the handle, and manage to both lock and bolt the door before he shoves my skirt out of his way, and tries to muffle our sighs and moans by kissing me deeply again. . .

We do make it to the bed. . . eventually.

Chapter Text

“Wumma?”

Faith pokes her head into my office, just at the worst moment. Well, the best, from one point of view. . . I’m on hold, in the middle of an important business call.

“Come in dear,” I say, brightly, and dig quickly in a side drawer, “Sit down.”

All the girls know my Business Mode voice by now, and mostly understand that when they come to me without warning during the day, I may be quite a different person for a little while, for very good reasons that are not their fault. They mostly understand. . . Wee Joanie still struggles with the concept, and so does Sal, a bit, but Jamie is helping them, and so are the twins. We’ve also instituted a trick or two to help smooth down the process for everyone. . . Faith clambers meekly into the chair opposite my desk, just as I manage to extract the twist-timer from the drawer. I hand it to her, urgently, not knowing when things will begin to happen on the other end of the line.

“Set it for ten minutes, Fay, dear. Either way, I should have a moment then to-”, the line pops, and the connection I’ve been waiting for is finally made, “Yes, hello? Yes, this is Claire Beauchamp, I’m calling on behalf of Leoch Foods. . .”

I descend into the depths of my job.

Some interminable amount of time later, a small but insistent *ding!* recalls me.

I blink at the e-mail I am composing, decide it can wait an hour or two, and save it to drafts. Then, I turn to the small figure waiting patiently across from me. I smile, and force myself out of Business Mode, and into being Wumma.

It was hard to do, that first week, especially at random times during the day, and multiple times a day, but it’s getting easier and easier, the more practice I have. . .

“Thank you for being so quiet and polite, Fay darling,” I hold out a hand for the timer, “What did you want to ask me?”

She hands the timer back, then looks away a little, and blushes softly. I come around my desk, and sit on the ottoman next to her.

“Do you have a surprise for me?”

She nods.

“Would you like to whisper it?”

She nods again.

I cup my hand around my ear, and she leans forward-

“I have something to show you in the schoolroom.”

“Alright then, lead the way!” I stand, and take her hand.

At that moment, Wee Rabbie comes out from underneath my desk, purring and mewling, and arching against Fay’s legs.

She grins at the sight of him, and coaxes him to follow us. He does, and she leads us down the hall, to one corner of the schoolroom, and seats me at the tiny play dining table next to the mini play kitchen. Rabbie curls up on one miniature dining chair and falls asleep. My knees barely fit under the table, and the chairs are almost painfully small for me, but Faith is dancing with excitement, so I have no trouble ignoring my own discomfort. She hops up and down, and gestures excitedly at Sal, who has danced up too, and who now hands her a big sheaf of stacked up construction-type paper – each sheet quite stiff, but rather wobbly in texture, like they have all been wet, and dried warped. . .

Faith takes the top one off the pile, and turns it over, sliding it towards me, half-grinning, bashfully but hopefully.

I smile at her, and then look down at a plain, crude, rather disproportionate, but still quite recognizable portrait of Annalise. Faith’s technique is still quite untrained, even I can tell that, and her materials are of the usual schoolroom quality, but she has still managed to convey the form and colouring of her mother very well, particularly the shape of her mouth, and the posturing of her hands. I have, of course, only seen Annalise one time, and a photo at that, and so I am even more impressed I can so easily recognize her in Faith’s rendition.

“Why, it’s marvelous, darling!” I say, holding it up to look at it from a few different angles, “Have you been practicing?”

She grins, and nods, and starts turning over several other sheets of the thick white cardstock. She takes me through all the problems she’s had – and indeed, none of the other renderings are nearly as good. The shapes are far cruder, the proportions are even more off, and the coloring is what you might expect from any ordinary nine year old, playing with schoolroom paints and brushes. Then, she shows me the children’s art books she’s been learning from, and one college-level reference book she can’t actually read yet. But I can tell she has practically inhaled the many helpful illustrations. Proportions of the face, the importance of structural line work, light quality, direction, and temperature, how shadows function, the basics of colour theory, etc. She eagerly takes me through the majority portion of the chapter on hands – which happens to be particularly well-illustrated – and I can see quite clearly that she’s picked up a lot, just by observation and practice.

Bree and Joanie join us at this point – Bee-bee with an armful of snacks, and Jo-Jo with a persistent case of the fussy snuffles. No one seems to know what set her off, but now she doesn’t want her bear, her blanket, her pretzels, or her apple juice, and neither Sal’s singing, nor Bee’s pretending to be a dinosaur - complete with sound effects - nor even Fay’s emergency deployment of Jo’s favorite game of “make it rainbow” using colorful crystal beads and a big paper crown can distract her from her loud, extremely damp difficulty, whatever it is. Eventually, I tell the other girls to have their snacks, and go settle poor wee Jo down for her nap. It’s a little early for her, but she is clearly tired. If anything else is wrong, we can address it when she wakes up. I get her comfortable on one of the mini futon cushions here in the school room, and only manage to get halfway through A Very Hungry Caterpillar before tiny, hissing snores finally replace her worked-up crying. I give her face a quick clean-up with a hand wipe, and cover her snugly with her favorite crocheted blanket, and then return to the mini kitchen, so Faith can resume where she left off.

Bree and Sal braid each others hair with different coloured ribbons while Faith explains paint layering to me, and her multi-media use of crayons to make highlights and borders easier with watercolours. I’m genuinely interested in all of it, and thoroughly impressed.

At this point, we all hear the front door open and close downstairs, and big striding footsteps coming up the stairs.

We all know it’s Jamie, even before his cheery - “Where are my girlies, now?” - reaches us from down the hall.

If I thought I was impressed before, it is nothing to the clearly rehearsed routine I see the girls suddenly swing into.

“Da! Da!” calls Sal, and she runs out into the hall, after a big, wide-eyed look at each of the twins.

Bree hops up, and quickly scoops all the dress-up clothes out of one big built-in wall drawer. At the same moment, Faith shuffles all the sketches of Annalise together with quick, almost desperate grabs, and with almost the same motion dumps them all into the bottom of the drawer Bree just emptied. Then, together, they shovel the frilly, fluffly skirts and scarves and things back into the drawer, covering the paintings as if they were never there.

“Ah, there’s my bonnie pink princess!” comes Jamie’s voice, still in the hall, “Where are yer sisters, chickadee?”

Quickly Bree and Faith stomp back to our little table, where there are still some of Faith’s pictures, all still stacked neatly to the side. Faith hastily flips some over, and pushes them around a little, and Bree grabs one and holds it up, as though examining some ancient artifact, her expression one of almost cartoonish concentration.

I am caught, speechless, somewhere in between incredulous laughter and effusive praise.

I’m not entirely shocked – I have seen them do something similar with several piles of things a few times over the past week, but never, seemingly, for any substantial reason. I thought they were just playing one of their ingenious made-up games, probably having something to do with Bree’s love of mystery and adventure, and Sally’s obsession with the dress-up clothes.

But it is clear now that they were practicing. . .

Practicing in tandem with Faith, so she could paint her mother, and Jamie could be protected at the same time.

I knew Jamie had talked to Faith about allowing her to paint Annalise, the very morning after he and I had discussed it, but this is the first I’ve heard or seen any more about it.

And impressed simply isn’t the word. . .

I look down at the new sketches now laid out in from of me – all of white flowers, this time, clearly meant to be roses, but none quite managing it yet.

The one Bree is holding is one of the better ones, which is fortuitous for Jamie, as he strides up behind us, carrying Sal.

“Entering a floral phase, m'annsachd?” he asks, brightly, “Weel, tha’s a grand wee’un, that is.”

He pecks Sal on the temple, and puts her down, leaning forward onto the table to survey the other sketches, “All white flowers then, mo chridhe?”

Faith nods vigorously, “Aye. Did ye ken that ta make a flower look white, ye cannae use hardly any white paint?”

“Really?”

“Aye. A white flower s’more colors than a colored one – there’s green an’ pink and purple and violet an’ yellow an’ orange and blue!” She points eagerly to several relevant points on one of her sketches, “See?”

Jamie turns the paper around, picks it up, and looks at it closely, “Yes, I see.”

He puts it down, and gives Bree a quick hug, and Faith a kiss to the top of her head, “I’m goin’ ta shower before dinner tanight – t’was a long day taday. But I’ve brought home mac-n-cheese pies for dinner, wi’ rainbow crunch salad.”

All the girls grin at that. They love his mac-n-cheese pies – though I admit they are often a mite too rich and stodgy for me – and we all love Jamie’s colorful red-orange-and-yellow bell pepper, cucumber, snap-pea, red cabbage, golden beet, black bean, and purple carrot salad, with pumpernickel croutons, blue cheese crumbles, toasted pistachios, and citrus, cranberry, and purple basil dressing.

And then, finally, he turns to me, pulls me to my feet, and gives me a chaste, but very long kiss on the mouth.

I can feel the tiredness in his arms as they go around me, and see it in the circles around his eyes. . .

“Go play in the living room, girls,” I say, speaking to the whole room, but looking at Jamie, “So Mrs. Bug can look after you. I need to take care of your Da right now, okay?” The girls all nod quietly, and start gathering up the things they want to take with them, “And tell her Jo-Jo is up here napping, and might cry when she wakes up.”

Jamie wrinkles his forehead at me, concerned.

“Fussy spell,” I say, checking up on Joanie briefly. She’s sleeping soundly, and breathing smoothly. “Best we can tell, she stubbed her toes, but couldn’t figure out how to say that. Worked herself into a proper lather, poor dear. She might fuss some more if she wakes up alone.”

“I’ll tell her,” says Faith, “And if she comes up here to sit with her, can we come back in here ta play?”

She asks while biting her lips, and a highly unsubtle look at the dress-up drawer.

I smile, and forestall Jamie’s slightly confused look with a pat to his arm, “Of course darling. Just play safe, wherever you are, okay?”

“Yes Wumma.”

The girls file downstairs, and I half lead, am half led by Jamie into our bedroom. As soon as the door is closed behind us, he sinks down onto the bed, more worn out than I have ever seen him before.

“Ahhhgch. That’s nice.”

I pull an ottoman over to the bedside, sit down, and lift his legs one by one into my lap. Slowly, I untie his heavy kitchen shoes, and remove them, and also massage his calves and knees a little before letting his legs down again. Then I sit next to him on the bed, snuggling my hip into his side. He raises an arm heavily, and very, very slowly, strokes up and down my spine.

“Mmmthankee Sorcha,” he says, yawning, “So good ta come home ta ye, tha’ i' t’is. . .”

“What’s wrong, Jamie?”

“Mmm?”

“I’ve never seen you as tired as this. What’s wrong?”

“Mmnothin’. S’jus’ inspection time at R&D again. Workplace certifications, safety stuff – y’know.”

“Ohh,” I nod, understanding, “Yes, I know.”

He grunts, “Hmmphm. Stressful when s’kitchen. Lot c’n go wrong,” he yawns again, “Good team tho. No’ bad time. Jus’ a lot. . .” He drapes an arm over his eyes, “T’morrow las’ day. Than’fully. . .”

His voice trails off, and his breathing starts to deepen. But before he falls asleep, I lean over and kiss him, then stand up and lift his feet into the bed, swiveling him around at the same time.

“You’d better sleep some before you shower, my love.”

“Mmmgoo’ idea,” he mumbles, curling onto his side, then stretching out like a cat, “Lov ye.”

“I love you too.” I kiss him again, and stroke his hair a little.

He’s asleep almost before I know what I must do.

Almost. . .

When his breathing is securely deep and regular, I get up, and go back to my office, but not to do any work – oh no. Quite the opposite. I’ve been planning something for weeks now, and it’s finally time. . .

Chapter Text

Jamie sleeps for eleven hours straight. I let him. When he does resurface, it is the middle of the night, and he wakes up with such a jolt he wakes me up too. He jumps to his feet, half-tottering with disorientation and shock.

"Wwhhha. Whatimsit?" he grunts, almost incoherently, "Whatimsit, Sorcha?"

"Mph," I turn to my bedside clock, "Fff-i-v'fif'een. Com' bac t'bed."

"Mmcant. Gotta go do-"

"Nno y'dont."

"Mmeh?"

"Callld in sic f'you las' night. Me to. Mmday off. Com bac t'bed."

He manages to push the covers back before flopping down next to me.

"Mmmmwhut?"

"Day. Off. Both'v'us. Mmsleep mor nao."

"Whait Sorcha. . . what? . . . Mhow-"

"Phone. Called in, sick day. PTO. Fr'both'v'us."

". . . but. . ."

"Goo' team, y'said, yes?"

"A-aye."

"Mee to. An' so le'um tak it, J'mie. One. Fr'th'team. Tak one fr'th'team. Thay c'n do it. 'N we c'n sleep. Yes? Yes."

I drape one arm over his chest, and suit actions to words so quickly, I don't even know if he replies.

The next time we wake up, it is much more slowly, and far less confrontationally. We grunt and hum pleasantly to each other, and stretch, and yawn, and snuffle ourselves awake in a highly comfortable fashion. I'm just putting on my bathrobe and slippers when Jamie looks up sharply,

"The girl's breakfast?"

I smile, and shake my head lightly, "Told Mrs. Bug last night. She got here early today. The girls are fine."

"Ah."

He relaxes. Then tenses again.

"Our breakfast?"

I scoff playfully, "I might not be a chef, James Fraser, but I can just about manage a few fried eggs on toast - you know I can – with butter, and sour cream, and slices of fried ham. And there's plenty left of that pineapple and mango salsa you made two days ago to top everything off. And I think I've proven myself by now on how well I can make coffee, yes?"

He grins, "Many times."

"Right. So have a nice long shower and a shave, and come down when you're ready."

"Mm," he yawns lazily, and scratches his ear, "An' then?"

"Why don't we talk about it then?"

"Hah," he laughs, kisses me, and turns towards the bathroom, "You win, Sassenach."

I watch him go, and then make my way down to the kitchen.

Breakfast and hot coffee are waiting for him when he comes down, three-quarters of an hour later, while I'm sipping on my third cup, lounging comfortably at the counter bar, and scrolling idly through my phone. He looks infinitely perked up – a glint in his eyes, and spring in his step once more.

"Mm. Smells good, Sorcha," he says, sitting down at the bar next to me, and drawing his plate over to him, "Three eggs, jus' like I like 'em. You're a treasure." He kisses me – a hearty smack on the cheek, and then he doesn't talk anymore, digging into his breakfast with quite complimentary gusto.

I smile fondly at him, "What's that line from Tom Sawyer? "It is remarkable what a sauce the open air, a free heart, and healthy hunger make"? Something like that?"

He shrugs, mouth full, "Smmthin' lik," he swallows, "S'true, however ye say it." He takes a long drink of coffee, and I actually see the tension start to release from his shoulders.

I wait until his first hunger slows, and then scootch my barstool a little closer to his, and show him my phone,

"There are three different Farmer's Markets in operation today – two with vendors we've worked with at Leoch, so we know they're good quality. Take a look at this map and tell me if you think you'd be interested in going to one. Or two. Or all of them. And if you don't want to go to any of them, I've brought up a map of all our local libraries too – I bet you haven't explored one of those in an age and a half – so pick one and we'll go. And I have an appointment at one P.M. for both of us at my father's country club – where I am also a member. We can get you signed up – if you want to join, that is – and either way we'll have lunch there in the visitor's lounge. They make an excellent roast beef on rye. . . and their chicken piccata isn't half bad either, in my opinion. And then we can stop by Himeko's on the way home and pick up some of their big sushi roll burritos to go. Or a couple of sashimi and hand-roll platters if you want those for dinner instead. Or some udon. Whatever, really. And then there's this new little Basque bakery and sweets place I'd like to check out, called Gozoa, and it's in walking distance from Himeko's, so we could. . ."

I trail off, noticing at last that Jamie has been doing nothing but staring at me, his eyes soft, his mouth a little open, for most of the past three and half minutes.

"Orrrrr, if you don't want to do any of those, we can lounge on the couch all day watching Rocky movies?"

His eyes go wide, and he throws back his head and laughs, long, and wonderfully, and so incredibly beautifully I can hardly believe I get to be the one to make him laugh like this. Eventually, he draws me to him, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me gently.

"Ye're a wonder and a marvel and a blessing, Sorcha, an' every time I think I canna love ye more, I turn around, and find I've just begun." His thumb swipes across my lips, "Ye'er a hundred-thousand times the woman of my dreams, that ye are."

I lean into him, and kiss his chin, "But, it's only what you would have done for me if I'd ever come home as tired as you were last night. . ."

"Mm. True. Bu' that doesna take away from how wonderful it is ta be married ta ye, Sorcha. How lovely ye are. The most delightful, the most beautiful woman in the world."

I look him in the eyes. And it's true there. That's all I need. . .

I kiss him, softly, and slowly, and then lean back onto my own barstool. I gesture at my phone, which he is still holding, "So. What do you want to do today?"

He grins, puts my phone down, and turns back to his breakfast, "How about all of it?"

I gape a little, ". . . all o-"

"Weel. As much as we can reasonably do wi'out tiring me out too much again, aye?"

"Right."

"That first Farmer's Market looked nice."

"It's the biggest one too. Let's check it out and then see what we want to do next?"

"Sounds like a plan."

I finish the last of my coffee, "I need to go to shower and change. I'll meet you in the car in half an hour?"

"Count on it, Sorcha."

We take my car, since all the info is on my phone, and the proper apparatus to hold it is in my car. Jamie adjusts the driver's seat, as I put in the GPS targets.

It's a lovely spring day – enough clouds in the sky to be picturesque, but not enough wind to be chilly, and all the grass and trees dressed in their whites and pinks and pale greens and yellows of the season. I roll down the passenger side window, and relax in the softly warm air.

The Farmer's Market is everything I hoped it might be. For Jamie, and for me, and for both of us. It isn't quite the weekend yet, so there aren't too many people around at this hour, and we make a round of all the stalls, inspecting and taste-testing all kinds of fruit and vegetables, and honey, and baked goods, and popcorn, and spice blends, and olives, and cheese, and even wine. We spend far more than even I predicted we might. Jamie looks alarmed at the bill for a second, but I laugh it off, as only someone born into wealth can. He trusts me, shrugs, and doesn't mention it again. Truth be told, I have a great deal more saved up from just these last years working for Leoch than I think most people would reasonably guess. I can afford a splurge or two, and Jamie is more than worth it.

We drop most of our purchases off at the car, and then saunter down past a few historical buildings, and end up at a tiny memorial library, dedicated to one of the victims of the Boston Marathon tragedy, who, apparently, loved all things poetry. We browse in the cool, solemn quiet, holding hands, and stroking each other's fingers. I check out one book of Dickinson, and one of Nash, and Jamie buys one of the complete sets of Shakespeare's sonnets on display at the checkout counter.

We remain quiet on our way back to the car, and on towards our next destination, the only sounds between us the impersonal instructions of the GPS on my phone. We're halfway to the country club – and a good ten minutes early for our appointment, at that – when I finally emerge out of our sweet, companionable silence.

"Faith showed me some sketches of Annalise yesterday."

He surfaces out of silence too, with a long, deep breath, "Yes, I know."

I blink, "You do?"

"Aye."

"But how?"

He smiles, ruefully, "Annalise and my wedding photo useda be in the hall, where all the girls would look at it. She carried a bouquet of white peonies that day, and Faith in particular has allus loved that bouquet. That was the flower she was tryin' ta paint in white, an' showed ye yesterday. Stands ta reason she'd be paintin' aught else she's been wantin' ta for such a long time, now she's allowed ta."

I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to keep up with him, "Wait. . . peonies? Faith said roses, and I thought she was painting roses. . ."

He shakes his head, and sighs, "I hadta start calling 'em roses, because Bree wouldna stop makin' a "pee on me" joke every time I said the real name."

Somewhat indelicately, I snort. Jamie only grins.

"Aye. An' then Faith picked up on calling them roses, an' I've hadta wait until Joanie is old enough ta understand before I c'n set things straight."

"I see. . ." I pause a bit, making sure I phrase this next bit carefully, "Jamie, if you don't mind telling me, what exactly was the deal you made with Faith about her being allowed to paint her mother?"

He gives me a brief, slightly confused look, but then shrugs, "She could paint her mam as much as she wanted, jus' so long as she didna show me, or let me see any of them, until I asked her to show me, which I will eventually, because seein' her mam hurts me right now, but it probably won't always."

"And she agreed to that?"

"Aye. Gladly too."

"Were any of the other girls there when you made that agreement?"

"Bree was, aye. But why?"

I smile grimly, and tell him about the little rehearsed routine of hiding the paintings that I witnessed yesterday. He barks a laugh,

"Hah! So that was what I saw them doin' a few days ago. They were shiftin' books about, in and out of drawers in their bedroom. Didnae seem tae make sense, but t'was so harmless, I let it go."

"Yes. They must have been. . . well, practicing." I tell him about the times I saw them practicing too.

"The sleekit wee beasties! An' ye say Sal was in on it?"

"Yes. She was a very calculated distraction."

"Braw wee thing."

"I. . . I suppose so. . ." I hesitate again, "But do you think we ought to let them think they're hiding things from you?"

He shrugs, "Why no'? I've asked them to."

"I know, it's just. . . and I am impressed, don't get me wrong. . . but it sets a precedent, Jamie. Should we let them have something like this, where they feel like they're. . . getting away with something all the time?"

He frowns contemplatively, "I see what ye mean. But they were happy ta show off the whole thing in front of ye, ye say?"

"Oh yes. They didn't even try to distract me."

"An' they havena hid that routine they worked out either, if we both saw them before they did it for real. Dinna see why they shouldn't feel like they're getting away with something, Sorcha – especially when they aren't. I mean, didn't ye ever do somethin' just to feel like ye were gettin' away wi' it? Readin' under the covers? Watchin' an R-rated movie at a friend's house? Lookin' up dirty words in the dictionary?"

I giggle and nod, "Oh yes, and then falling asleep before chapter two, but with the flashlight still on and wasting your batteries, or really not liking the blood and guts of that action movie you thought you'd love, or getting distracted by all the interesting definitions of things you like, and forgetting to even look up what "fuck" meant."

He snorts, and laughs at my frankness, "Aye."

"But none of those things took this kind of concerted effort to do, either."

"True enough. But then, in this case they are "getting away" with helping me, Sorcha. An' that's no small thing. Changes the whole aspect of it, wouldnae ye say?"

"I would, of course," I nod, "I'm just worried about the precedent, is all. What if they know that smoking pot, or somesuch thing would make Da sad, and so they should hide it, and then it's okay?"

"I was verrah clear that I would want ta see the pictures one day, Sorcha. I'm no' tellin' them' it's okay ta keep secrets of bad things – or, at least, I very specifically tried no' ta tell them that – I am sayin' please consider my feelings about this one good thing, an' if ye do, ye can have it."

I nod, slowly, "Alright. But I think both of us should check in sometime soon, and make sure they understand that distinction. And reinforce it, either way"

"Aye. Agreed," he takes my hand briefly, and grips it tight. "I never kent jus' how much I'd love co-parenting with someone who cares just as much about the girls as I do, Sorcha. But I do. Love it, I mean. It's such a comfort, knowin' ye're there, backing me up, but also coming at things from yer own angle, and thinkin' your own thoughts. I've felt alone everywhere these past ten years, but never so much so as when I kent there were four wee chicks relying on me, an' only me, an' there was quite literally no other option within the realms of decency." He draws his brows together for a second, "Mrs. Bug did help a lot wi' that, a'course. But I canna talk to her like I can ta ye, an' she doesna challenge me like you do, Sorcha."

I grin mischievously, "Like a bit of a challenge, do you, my lad?"

His voice lowers, and his eyes sparkle, "Oh aye, ye ken I do."

"Well, the sixth hole is par four, so that ought to do it."

He blinks at me, somewhere between confusion and incredulity, until the GPS tells us to turn in to the country club.

Then, he laughs so long, we almost miss our appointment.

After a short, but very nice little tour, Jamie decides not to sign up for membership just yet, and retaining his visitor status, we go to the lounge to have lunch. He scrolls on his phone, relaxing and eating, and laughing with me in between times. We linger in the classically paneled, pleasantly scented room, enjoying the views of lawn and trees, and relaxed, happy people. I tell him a few stories about coming here with my dad, and he comes back with stories of the actual Royal and Ancient golf course at St. Andrews.

"An' I promise I'll take ye there sometime, Sassenach."

"I look forward to it," I say, and take his arm, and let him escort me back to the car.

We decide to get a big order of vegetable and seafood tempura at Himeko's, and leave the Basque bakery for next time.

Back home, we sneak in quietly, and manage to make it upstairs without disturbing the girls in the living room, or interrupting their viewing of, from the sounds of it, Moana.

We hunch over the coffee table in our room, eating wonderfully savoury, crunchy, deep-fried food, dipped in delicious sauce, and accompanied by Himeko's signature bright and delightful seaweed and sesame salad, and try not to giggle at each other too much. If anyone has "gotten away" with things today, it is certainly us.

Eventually, we snuggle up on our couch, replete and satisfied with a wonderful day off.

Jamie is running his fingers through my hair, and sighing occasionally, in such obvious pleasure I haven't wanted to interrupt him. But I'm starting to get sleepy, and I really do need to do this now. . .

"Jamie love?"

"Aye, Sorcha?"

"I have a very important few questions to ask you."

"Oh aye? Weel, go ahead then."

"Okay. Are you happy with today, Jamie?"

"Happy? Taeday was a delight, Sassenach. I havenae had such a good time in my own home city for ages."

I smile, "Good. And we did just as you wanted today, yes? You didn't feel pushed or prodded or obligated to go anywhere, or do anything that you weren't one-hundred percent up for?"

I hear slight confusion in his voice, "Aye, but. . ."

"So, you would be comfortable describing today as for you, yes? About you, even?"

"Aye."

I sit up, and turn in his arms, so I can look him full in the eyes, "Alright. Now, this is the important one. Tell me, Jamie – do you feel like a pig?"

Chapter Text

"I. . ." Jamie gapes at me for a second, in wild confusion, "I. . . weel. No' especially. I mean, I havena overeaten or anything. . ." he tilts his head, "B. . . but. . ."

I nod, and pat his arm reassuringly, "Good. Now then. Your birthday is in three days." He tenses, but I shake my head quickly, "And I have not planned anything for it, don't worry. But I just couldn't let you go on thinking that wanting a day to yourself is a selfish thing, Jamie. It isn't. Or, it doesn't have to be. Today was all about you, and we both had fun, and the girls are happy and taken care of, and you don't feel like a pig. If all that is true after being given a day all to yourself, then you don't have to feel like one for wanting a day all to yourself either. Your birthday, or any other day." I kiss him, lightly, on the cheek, "That's all."

I turn around again, and snuggle into his side like I was before, "And besides - I love giving you attention. I can hardly wait until you need a day off again. Seeing you happy is one of the most wonderful things I've ever witnessed, my love. I'm wild to give you so much more than a day it's not even funn-"

I break off as his arms go around me like two collapsing sides of a wave at the beach, enfolding and surrounding, not just holding. His face burrows into my hair, and I feel his chest shudder, even as I realize I didn't think of water accidentally – for a distinct dampness has now reached the side of my head, and starts running down my neck. . .

"Oh! Jamie!" I twist, and hold him to me, my own chest shuddering a few times in self-reproach, "I didn't mean to make you cry, oh darling. . ."

He splutters a laugh into my check, "Will ye jus' stop, Claire? I dinnae ken how much more perfection I c'n take. . ." He swallows, then pulls me as close as I can physically get without one or both of us taking our clothes off, "Just hold me, woman. Remind me I'm Human, and no' some auld faery god, given new life and breath and power by his druid witch of a wife. Hold me, an' let me find myself in your arms, Claire. Hold me close, an' let me forget. An' remember. An' forget. An' be. . ."

He stretches out full-length on the couch, and I settle myself atop him, pressing my legs, and arms, and body to his, then sliding our palms together and holding all his fingers between my own. I snuggle my face against his collarbone, and kiss what I can reach of his neck.

Strange, almost otherworldly silence settles around us.

Into it, he speaks, with a voice not unlike his own, but with a sort of wonder and strength behind it so that it is also not in the least my Jamie's voice.

Or, perhaps it is. . .

Another Jamie. . . but still mine. . .

Another me. . . but still his. . .

Another time. . . but still ours. . .

"For ten years, I was dead. So small I could hide underneath a blade of grass, mo duinne. Such a shadow of a man I could slip into the earth an' no' be missed. I was fog. I was air. A ghost in all but name. If no' for my wee flock of chicks, I'd have faded, dissipated, been forgotten by everyone, including myself. An' there, in the dark, ye found me. T'was so sudden – so bright! What a light there is in ye – Sorcha, my Sorcha! A golden, summer light, all flourishing an' free. So bold, an' unafraid. So pure, and clear, and strong. . . an' all I ever wanted. . ."

He presses several kisses to my forehead.

"For ye, I'll no' longer be a man of mist, but become as sure as stone. I'll roar, when all I think I can manage is a whisper. When my soul wants ta hide, I'll fly. When my heart fades, I'll breath fire. I'll move mountains. I'll stand an' fight all the horrors of Hell. I'll curse Heaven wi' my last breath, an' still come back from the dead. All for one more moment in your light."

Now he's made me cry, but I try to hide it. . .

"I canna help but heal in your presence, Sorcha. I've stopped askin' why. I don' know. It's too much for me. It's beyond my ken. All I say now is thank ye, god or fate or the whole universe all together, for sending me the rarest of women."

He tilts my chin up to his, and smooths away my tears with the lightest, sweetest touch, and then kisses me, like the first cool breeze after a hot day, just as the light turns from mirror-bright to copper gold. His arms go around me again, this time like swathes of long, sweet grass, rich and soft and welcoming.

And the warm, dear earth opens up into a glade on either side of us, and trees grow all around, beech, and fir, and rowan, and oak, and ash, and larch. Herbs carpet the soil, thyme, and lady's smock, and clover, and primroses, and mint. A wild profusion of forget-me-nots spring up in a circle around us, carrying us gently away into their scent.

And then the world is dark. One by one, in the soft, velvet blankness, appear points of silver light, and then ruby, and sapphire, and jade, and aquamarine, and topaz, and opal, and citrine, and amethyst and garnet. We float among them, jewels in the heavens, ourselves neither planets nor stars, but something new, and glowing, and good.

And then we are ourselves again, in our bedroom, on our couch, and my husband is kissing me, thankful for a good day, better memories, and the best of meanings.

He pulls back, then settles me close against him, holding my head, and stroking my back, up and down, up and down, in a slow, soothing, reassuring rhythm.

We don't speak.

For just a little while, there is nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

As Jamie and I pull up to the Boston branch of the U.S. Immigration Office, finally on our way to our Green Card interview, and hopefully making our lives together fully official at last, I am struck by the very distinct feeling of something being missing.

My mind scrambles to figure out what it could possibly be. . .

We are both neatly dressed and fully caffeinated – two things I positively insist on being before I interact with even the slightest portion of the U.S. government – so that isn't it.

We are both in possession of all the official paperwork we have been instructed to bring, and a good deal more that we haven't, but brought just in case. We've even got the few of the girls' official documents we've had time to get me listed on as second Legal Guardian, and my updated and Jamie's new country club membership cards – which he only finished making up his mind about getting two days ago – and upon which we are listed as married.

So that isn't it either.

We have spent a very significant portion of the week since Jamie's not-birthday studying up particularly heavily on all the questions we're likely to be asked today - and from toothbrushes to t-shirts, from travel to tonsillitis, we now know just about all of each other's preferences, histories, plans, wants, needs, and physical and financial capabilities. We've talked about Michigan, movies, malt vinegar and moon landings. Potted plants, peripatetics, ping-pong and Plantagenets. Allspice, androgyny, alt-rock and antediluvian mammals. Basket weaving, bolero ties, bongo drums, and badminton. Neither of us like licorice, we both would like to visit Peru, and Jamie prefers American women's soccer to American men's football, while I don't much like either of them. I like pesto on pizza and he doesn't. He likes squid ink pasta and I don't. He often sleeps on his side, but never on his stomach. I sometimes sleep on my stomach, but most commonly on my left side. Jamie uses a shampoo marketed to women, in the scent Lemon Zest Curl Care. I use a leave-in conditioner marketed to men, in the scent Thyme Out Frizz. We would both gladly adopt a dog. He would like an herb and vegetable garden - I am ambivalent. I am fascinated by the historical implications of so called "bog butter" – he is ambivalent. Neither of us like using grocery store plastic bags.

There might be some details we've missed – no doubt there are – but on the whole, I can't think of anything which would make me feel as if something – let alone something important – was actually missing. . .

So that can't be it.

We're here in good time, the weather is good, the line we have to wait in is good – or good enough – and the office is clean, and cool, and not at all noisy or crowded.

But it can't possibly be crowds I'm missing, can it? I've never even been to these offices before, and while they are not unlike Leoch's office spaces, those were hardly ever crowded either.

So what do I feel is missing?

We slept alright last night, got up on time, and had a perfectly ordinary breakfast with the girls this morning. Nothing is the matter with the cats, or Mrs. Bug.

I told the girls all about my parents and Lamb three days ago, and they are all excited to meet them – except for Joanie, who is only meh, but mostly because she only half understands what the word "grandparents" means. Both Jamie and I think she'll warm up the minute she meets my mother. Bree in particular is absolutely wild to meet Lamb, and especially his libraries.

We both also told them that Da might need to take a long trip to Scotland after today, and if he did, we would have to go to Scotland if we wanted to see him, and we might have to stay there. . .

Bree and Fay had only shrugged. They were born in Scotland, and still have a few memories of it. It's another home to them, and the prospect of Jamie going there before them, and us joining him later was not any kind of a shock or a stretch to them. They were sorry they might not see Jamie for a little while, but time is still a very flexible concept to them, so there was hardly any pushback.

For Sal it was a little rougher – life without Da every single day is a bit more difficult to understand when you're very-nearly six, but a trip and visiting she did understand, and was mostly okay with.

Wee Jo just clung to me, and to Jamie when he told them in his turn, the sweet dear-heart understanding the idea of leaving, but without understanding any of the reasons why, or being able to look forward to a reunion.

But nevertheless, the girls are as prepared as we can make them for either outcome of today's interview.

So that's not what's missing either.

I sigh a little as Jamie seats me in the waiting area, and goes up to the nearest vaguely relevant-looking counter and says we have an appointment.

I suppose it doesn't really matter what I feel is missing, just so long as nothing actually is. . .

Jamie pays for something, and brings a numbered receipt back to where I'm sitting. He settles into the chair next to mine, to wait alongside me, twitching his knee and twining and untwining his fingers with mine in nervous fits and starts. I pat his thigh and peck his chin, but I can't bring myself to actually say I know things will be alright, because I don't know that, do I? The seconds lengthen, stretching out until they seem like hours, and minutes feel like days. Very soon, I am entirely unsure how long we've been here. Inside my head, it feels almost like weeks already. . .

I'm just about to bring up an audiobook on my phone, if for no other reason than a much-needed distraction, when a woman comes out from a little side door, and calls out the numbers on Jamie's receipt.

We rise and follow her, back through some highly dreary hallways, until we reach a long double row of closed off cubicles, branching in either direction. The woman gestures for Jamie to go to the first open door down the left side, and she murmurs for me to follow her down the right side.

With a nervous half-smile and a nod to each other, Jamie and I part.

My guide leaves me in a small and almost oppressively bleak little room, with no more than a desk, two chairs, a computer and a filing cabinet in it. There is a calendar pinned to the wall, with an utterly anonymous landscape pictured on it. I don't have too much time to lament the horrid aesthetics of this place though, because my guide left me with an impressive and quite intimidating pile of forms I must now fill out.

I pull a pen out of my pocket, and sigh. Was the world a better place before we wasted half a cord's worth of wood pulp every time someone wanted to do something officially? Is this starkly monumental, overbearingly civilized way of doing things really better than the seat-of-your-pants swords and shotguns, blood and guts and gore and murder and action and adventure of times gone by?

Yes, very probably it is.

In ages past, Jamie and I would have been married by blood vow or something, and no one would care about my birthdate, or current weight, or at all about my gender identity, only that I was a virgin, or if I was not, that Jamie knew he was purchasing previously used goods, and whether or not he had been properly compensated for his loss. What countries we were born in would have mattered far less than what lords or kings our fathers had pledged allegiance to, and if those distant mighty ones were currently in conflict with each other. It wouldn't have mattered if I wanted to sleep with him on our wedding night or not, and he very probably wouldn't even have thought to offer me the option not to.

It would have been a hard bargain, cruel, and cold, and harsh, and not at all concerned with whether or not we loved each other.

Even being born into wealth might not have saved me. In some eras of history, it very likely would not have.

In virtually all eras of history there was nothing that could have saved Jamie. What the man thought or felt about his marriage was so clearly always assumed to be positive, or if not, that he would exercise his agency for divorce as a matter of course. Any situation at all like his with Annalise would not even have been on the books as a possibility.

But I'm sure it happened. I'm sure there were women back then who used and manipulated and mutilated feelings, and used men just as cruelly as some men used women. People are just the same as they ever were. Some good, some bad, and some very, very ugly. It is the world that has changed, not us Humans.

Now, the process is cold, to be sure, and the surroundings not nearly as cheerful as they might be, but at least both Jamie and I have a recourse. At least if we did not love each other, we wouldn't be stuck with each other.

At least there is hope.

No one will die today - not even if the worst happens. No one's soul will be crushed, and no one's heart torn out or torn open.

At the very worst, all that will happen is we must wait. Just that. Wait to see each other again. It would be hard. Very hard. But not cruel. Not horrifying.

Not deadly.

And since in this time the entire matter hinges on whether or not Jamie and I love each other, I have every hope we needn't be separated at all.

I sign my name three times and initial twice on the last of the almost interminable forms, and, like magic, my interviewer appears. She takes the pile of papers with a cheerful, but somehow still flat smile, and puts them to one side.

Then, she starts talking to me, I'm sure in a way that was supposed to sound reassuring and natural, but to my sensibilities, is anything but. She sounds like she is reading off a teleprompter, but has also memorized the script. So little of her mind or heart is engaged in what she is saying that her words slide right off me – like they are the beeps and whirrings of some machine I do not know the use for, and cannot operate.

Eventually, she winds down, "And so, miss, you see, we must take your opinions, see your knowledge, all that kind of thing you see. Just to make sure, as you know, that you didn't marry the man for convenience, you see?"

I nod, quite bemusedly, "Yes. I understand. That's. . . what the appointment was for, yes? A Green Card interview?

"Yes. But we must ask. . . indelicate things. You see."

"Of course."

She looks blankly at me, as though still slightly dubious of my understanding the full weight of the questions she must ask.

I sigh.

"Six inches soft, nine inches hard."

She blinks.

"What?"

"Six inche-"

"I heard you, miss, but what do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?"

She blinks again, but her eyes are so dull about it I know she's heard brides say such things before. Many, many times.

I feel a little bit of pity for her.

Not much.

But a little. . .

I sigh again, "They're my husband's rules for how to properly proportion the fillings in seaweed-wrapped sushi rolls. Hard things like carrot or cucumber are easier to control, so you can lay out the full nine inches of them – always remembering that a little bit should poke out of each end – and soft things like avocado or chopped spicy tuna will squish quite a bit as you roll, so spread them out in two three-inch long heaps a little nearer to the center of the sheet than the edges. Six inches total. Never overfill, grip lightly while rolling, and add sauce to finish."

She blinks again, and doesn't even smile. . .

I sigh once more, "I don't care about indelicate questions. Let's just move the process along, shall we?"

"Very well."

She takes up a pen and a clipboard, and then the interview questions begin in earnest.

Most of the questions are easy. Some I have to think about for a minute or two. A few I simply do not know. For an interview which will direct the course of our lives, this has been shockingly dull so far. . .

And then, finally, an impossible question.

"What was the name of Jamie's first pet?"

I smile a little. "Jamie grew up on a farm. He had whole barns full of horses and pigs and cows and ducks and chickens and sheep. And the house was full of dogs and cats and frogs and turtles and birds and mice. Which animal among them all you could call "first" is quite impossible to say." My voice goes a little dreamy as I recall several of the wonderful stories Jamie has told me about his childhood, "His first horse was called Thora, if that helps. But he'd had a dozen or so dogs and cats by that time, and helped to bottle-feed who knows how many lambs. They call them pet lambs when they're bottle fed, you know. And they're often given names. Clover and Savory were two, as I recall. He said they lived until he was fourteen, and came to him when he called their names, like dogs do. And his family are the main hosts of the local mouse show-breeding club. He'd had at least three show-winners by the time he was seventeen. They maintain five best-in-breed bloodlines of mice in his hometown. I'm told that's quite noteworthy."

Once again, my interviewer only blinks, but I get the feeling that this unconventional answer went over at least a little better than the previous one.

She opens her mouth to ask the next question, but suddenly, she is interrupted by a hard, reverberating shout from down the hall, only a little muffled by all the intervening cubicle walls -

"I dinna ken how often I mus' tell ye – I. LOVE. MY. WIFE!"

Then there is a clattering thump, and a series of protesting door hinges, followed by a succession of viciously slammed doors.

**squeek**BANG**

**squeeeeek**BANG**

**squeeek**BANG**

The sounds keep getting closer and closer, and I just know – Jamie is looking for me.

I look apologetically at my interviewer, and, with a deep sigh, get to my feet.

**squeeeek**BANG**

That one was only a few doors down. . .

I suddenly realize exactly what it was that I felt was missing about today. . .

Of course. Of course. Stupid of me not to have thought of it first thing, really.

Drama.

Everything was going along so officially, so dully, there wasn't any drama.

**squeeeeeeek**BANG**

Well. There's plenty of it on its way now, isn't there, Beauchamp?

I set my jaw, and stand right in front of the cubicle door as it opens.

**squeee-

Chapter Text

"James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser - that is enough!"

I jerk to a halt, and look down at the firmly set chin, tight lips, and stern eyes of my wife.

I've never seen her look so implacable.

Then again, I've never felt quite so violently wild as I do at this moment. A little implacability might not be a bad thing. . .

I reach out and grab her to me, speaking all in rush into the wild tangle of her hair,

"They keep asking me. . . over and over again. . . they keep implying. . . my god Sorcha – that I'm using ye – that. . . that I only wed ye for. . . for. . . that I'd. . ."

My voice breaks, and I can't even let myself think what some of the questions implied I was using my wife for. . .

At the mere thought that anyone, anywhere, would think I could treat anyone at all like Annalise, or Geneva, or Duke, or Jack treated me, my stomach churns, and my vision goes red. I know it is a trauma response, but I still cannot stop it. Long ago, I swore, before God, heaven and earth, the devil, and hell itself, that I would never become my abusers. I would never be like them in any way. And through it all, I've clung to that vow - even when it worked against me - even when breaking it would have been fully justified, I've clung to it, closer than I've held any lover. . .

Until Claire, of course. . .

The vows I've taken with her are more important to me now.

But the other vow is still there, and still happened first, and still drives my mind and heart in so many deep and important ways. . .

Claire's arms are steady around me, and her voice is cool and logical,

"And if someone was using me like that, you'd be pretty darn glad someone was asking those questions, wouldn't you? Over and over again? In an official setting, with legal consequences in the offing? Wouldn't you, Jamie?"

My whole self shudders, and I hold her tighter, "I. . . of course, Sorcha. . . I mean, I. . . I mean yes, but. . ."

"Jamie, has anyone asked you anything really untoward? Or has everyone around you simply been doing their job?"

My face blazes, because I know the answer. One half of my mind cowers in shame, while the other half screams in self-reproach. But my insulted pride isn't ready to give up on imperious rage just yet. . .

I sigh deeply, "Oh, I dinnae ken what all annyun is aimin' at. . . I. . . it's all such a muddle o' nonsense. . . I. . . I cannae. . ."

She raises her head, and gives me a long look, right in my eyes, straight through to my soul. She knows what's going on. I cannot hide from her, and frankly, I don't even want to try to do so.

"You can, Jamie."

It wasn't true until she said it. But it is now.

The boiling, churning fury inside me doesn't stop, but now I am able to float to the top of it, and ride the swells. I go a little queasy – a little muzzy and irritable and sneeringly rude – but it is leagues better than drowning in the depths of vicious revenge.

Her arms twitch tighter around me for a second, "You must. And you will. They're only fulfilling their responsibilities, my love. Now. Go see to yours."

Instead of the hateful faces of Jack, and Geneva, and Duke, and Annalise, I bring up memories of the faces of Joanie, and Brianna, and Marsali, and Faith. Giving the girls a good life - that is the very best revenge. And the best way to give them a good life, is to give them two parents who love them.

And the best way to do that is to swallow my pride, and go quietly back into my interview cubical, and be straightforward and calm and businesslike about whatever it is I am asked.

I sigh, and shake my head.

"I wish there was a different way, Sorcha."

"I know, my love."

"I want ta go home."

"I know."

"I hate bein' poked an' prodded at."

"I know."

I take a few deep breaths, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"I dinnae want ta stop holdin' ye."

"I know."

Somehow, her knowing is more than my knowing. When she knows what is wrong, I can do something about it.

Finally, my fierce, needy rage retreats, leaving behind only tired, sorrowful me. I cup my wife's face in my hands for a minute, and kiss her, softly, and long. Too long for it to be a chaste kiss, but with far too much restraint for it to be anything else.

It's the kind of kiss I could only ever give my soulmate.

I am fortunate, then, that this is exactly what she is. . .

I sigh again, draw myself up, set my jaw firmly, and stride back to my interview cubicle.

I sit down, and send a look over to the officious little punter behind the desk, just daring him to say anything. I'll admit I may have overreacted, but this slimy little shite is a big reason why. He knows I could flatten him with one fist - and I am certain that's at least part of where the sneering little smirk he's been asking the questions with has been coming from – but we both know that's not any sort of an excuse. He's been trying to tick me off this whole time. We both know that too. A little squirt like him isn't usually handed power over someone like me – and I don't know that in his place I wouldn't be reveling in my discomfiture just as much as he is - but shite's gotten real now. Just let him ask one more thing about Claire, and responsibilities be damned, I'm going to teach this bawheid a thing or two about the Scottish temper, and its relationship to Scottish honour – and exactly why it is that we've practically made up the entire front line of every British army since the eighteenth century. We generally have two settings – pissed off, and "let's get the feckin' bastard". Currently, this particular feckin' bastard has no clue how lucky he is that Claire was both within my reach, and deeply personally invested in getting me back down to merely pissed off. He's dealing with a Fraser, and a Laird, and he has no idea how close he's gotten to a hospital visit a half dozen times already.

But now he does seem to know he's pushed me as far as it is safe to do - and very probably a little further – and the rest of the interview goes about as well as it can. I give clipped, emotionless answers most of the time, but we get through them with a minimum of annoyance to either of us.

Then he leaves at last, and I sit in the ugly, fluorescent-lit, uncomfortably stuffy silence for a lot longer than I thought I would. I don't want to be here, but I also don't want to move.

Eventually, I make it back out to the check-in counter, where we wait even longer for our assessment and results.

After a while, Claire says she can't take it anymore, and will wait in the car. I squeeze her hand, and watch her go.

I stare blankly at a water stain on the ceiling for approximately seventeen years.

Or twenty minutes. It's genuinely difficult to tell. . .

In the end, they call me back to the counter, and show me the results. I blink at them, hardly believing what they say.

Then they hand me two printouts, two receipts, and several folders of paperwork, and, dazed, I make my way out to the parking lot.

The heat and position of the sun tells me it is still an hour or two before lunchtime.

All of that took three hours, at most. Three hours. That's all.

You could tell me right now it had taken two hundred years, and I would heartily believe you.

I get into the car, and sit heavily. I stare at the driver's side sun-visor, not knowing how to start.

I have to tell Claire, of course I do, but. . .

It's such an. . . impossible thing to say out loud.

I twist my eyes tightly closed, and run a hand across my forehead.

"Weel. We passed."

My voice is so flat, she doesn't react, knowing there's more to come.

"But a violent outburst is an automatic fail."

Chapter Text

I stare at my husband, in blank-faced, stunned disbelief for a good deal longer than I think either of us expects me to.

Then, I do what I know is the last thing either of us expected.

I burst out laughing.

It is very slightly manic, but mostly, it is genuine, heartfelt laughter. It takes me several minutes to get a hold on myself. When I finally do, I gesture, vaguely mockingly, "It was the best of times – it was the worst of times – at the same time!" I snort, and shake my head, "Well, this is why we made several backup plans, yes?"

"Aye," he hands me a quite impressive armload of paperwork, and begins to buckle himself in, "I'm to be issued a valid US passport, but they intend on sending it tae my contact address in Scotland. I will, at the very least, need ta fly there ta properly claim it. There's a whole load of temporary an' provisional an' probationary things in that pile there, ta make it all possible. And while we do meet all the requirements for a Green Card, there is an active impediment in the way now – an official black mark, requiring some combination of reassessment, stamps from judges, and payment of fines, and possibly including temporary deportation." He starts the car, and pulls out of the parking lot, "I'm to report back in four days with a valid Boston to Edinburgh plane ticket, just in case this is deemed necessary."

I nod, "Right. Sounds like Plan C, mostly. With all the improbable bits from Plans A and B still left in," I chuckle some more, "This is wild stuff, Jamie – who would believe it?"

He smirks, "Charles Dickens? Like ye said? Granted Boston and Edinburgh aren't the Two Cities he meant, but there's quite a Tale to be told of them regardless, wouldn't ye say?"

"I'd say th-"

I break off abruptly.

"Sorcha?"

I blink, and shake my head, trying to clear it, "I. . . Jamie. . . A Tale Of Two Cities. . . it takes place in Paris and London, right?"

"Aye."

"During the French Revolution?"

"A good deal of it, aye."

"'Tis a far, far better thing a do now than I have ever done, and a far, far better death I go to. . ." etc?"

"Aye. But what. . . ?"

"I don't know. Only. . ."

I look down at the palms of my hands, "It's only that. . . something about that story. A revolution. England. Paris. A doomed king. Two men who look almost exactly like each other, but are deeply, fundamentally different. An adult daughter a father has never seen. Treason, heroism, romance, self-sacrifice, tragedy, fate. . . bloody death and miraculous escape. . . survival. . . hope. . . separation. . . reunion. . . and. . . I. . . I don't know. It feels like. . . like the memory of a dream. A different story entirely, and yet. . . not a story at all."

He shrugs, "Daresay we've all had déjà-vu from time to time."

I remember what Mrs. Graham said about soulmates, and the fabric of history. . .

"Yes. That's probably all it is."

I give myself a shake, and shift my focus to all the paperwork on my lap.

It takes many minutes of intense reading, but as far as I can tell from the general look of it, if we just went with things as they are now, we'd be apart six months. . .

I sigh a little, somewhat lost in the legal-speak. I'm very glad we've settled on Plan C. . . I'm very glad we made Plan C. I'm very glad we-

"Sorcha?" Jamie's small, quiet voice interrupts my musings.

"Yes, love?"

"If. . . if ye'er going ta shout at me, would ye do it before we get home?"

My jaw drops, "Shout at you? Jamie! I'd never. . . not for. . . Jamie! My love! Why would I-"

"Because it's my fault we-"

I roll my eyes, "We're a bit beyond attributing fault here, don't you think? We both went into this knowing hard questions would be asked, and your somewhat erratic emotional state. You could make it just as much my fault, maybe, for not seeing to it you were adequately prepared!"

He scoffs, "But that wasnae your responsibility, Sorcha!"

"Oh no? When I know how much of an emotional tangle you've been in, and for how long, and just how much our marriage is a keystone point in your current emotional identity? You don't think I bear some responsibility for making sure you're ready for a highly stressful situation?"

"Weel. Mebbe some, but-"

"When I'm the one who has more strength and flexibility in this area for the moment? Who can take - and survive - a hit or two? I'm your emotional bodyguard right now, Jamie, and I take that position very seriously. You do your internal work – that's your responsibility. I protect you from whatever outside forces might disturb that work, how-ever, and where-ever I can – that's my responsibility. Together, we reinforce each other. There will be times I'll need to do some internal work, and you'll be my bodyguard – that's how these things go, my love. There's no point in putting any energy into whose fault something is, just like there's no point in owing each other. We're past that. Have we both made mistakes? Very probably. Will we both make mistakes in future? Absolutely. Anger and blame won't fix them."

His jaw and eyes relax a little, but he is still gripping the steering wheel terribly hard. . .

"And besides all of that, I am not the shouting kind, Jamie. I thought you knew that by now? Cold fury when it's called for, sure. Biting sarcasm on occasion, perhaps. But am I likely to say anything in those sorts of ways to you, here, now, when I know what hells you've been through?"

"No. Ye wouldna." He takes a deep breath, and slowly loosens his death-grip on the steering wheel. He nods at the pile of paper in my lap. "I just have a hard time believing ye're so accepting of this, Sorcha."

"Well. . ." I sigh, deeply, and decide to finally address the elephant in the room. "Maybe we deserve it, Jamie."

Now his jaw drops, "What?"

"We have just lied on official documents. . ."

"About the exact date we met. Nothin' else. An' the day we put was the day I read about the wind-up of your case wi' Dougal. An' ye had known about Alex MacKenzie for months by then. That was the first day we both knew of the existence of the other. The day we "met"."

"Which is a stretch, Jamie, and you know it. A wildly impossible stretch. We met that first night at Leoch, and got married two days later, because you needed assistance to keep a valid passport. Yes, I was in love with you from the first moment, and yes, you weren't far behind at all – to the point it would be very, very, very difficult to say you married me under false pretenses – but we have still lied on official documents, Jamie! You're a recovering Catholic – and were just willing to take the entire blame on yourself - are you telling me you don't think we might deserve a little Purgatory?"

He pauses long enough for me to know some part of him does think exactly that.

"Weel. . . I still plan ta fight. . ."

"Oh fight, yes – of course. Plan C all the way! I don't mean we deserve to give up. Just that. . . well. . .

"Yes? Well what?"

I lean back in my chair, and stare at the passing trees a while, "Whatever angle you want to take on it, we've been given the easy universe, Jamie. You and I. We've got the one-star Sudoku. We're playing modded Skyrim with console commands. That doesn't mean things haven't been hard, or bad, or even tragic for us – but it does mean there are so many burdens we do not have to carry. So many years of suffering we don't have to go through. So many trials and tortures that simply will not happen to us. I just feel like. . . like. . ." I shake my head, "Like we ought to be thankful for such an obstacle as this. At most, six months apart? In a world where Facetime and Amazon exist? Let alone private jets at our disposal? A Tale Of Two Cities? What rot! I have no idea why I even thought to quote from it to begin with. The richest and most powerful people in ages past would have invaded continents – obliterated continents - to get a tiny fraction of what we carry around in our pockets every day without thinking about it! Yes, spending some time separated would be hard. Neither of us would like it, and it would be rough on the girls. But moonstruck teenagers manage to have long distance relationships that survive six months apart, Jamie. Refugee children get separated from their parents not knowing if they'll ever see them again. This situation of ours might not be the definition of fun, but it's still life on easy mode!"

He doesn't answer that, but he does look very contemplative for the rest of the way home.

The girls run to meet us at the door – their faces both excited and wary that Da is home in the middle of the day.

Jamie picks up wee Jo, and kisses her heartily on the cheek, "Well, my chickadees, how would ye all like ta go an' meet your grandparents for lunch?"

Chapter Text

Jamie's second appearance at the Big House is very nearly the opposite of his first. He picks up Jo, takes Sal's hand, and, leaving the twins to me, raps smartly on the door. He is the one who leads us inside when Young Alec answers. It is he who calls out a greeting to Old Alec as we pass through the transitional house on our way to my parents' wing. It is he who points out pictures and other details to the girls, so they are not frightened by such a big, new, empty-feeling place. It is he who wonders out loud what cook has made for lunch.

His whole attitude - the way he carries himself, the way he talks to Old and Young Alec, the way he confidently steers the girls through corridors he's only seen once before himself – all show me a side of James Fraser I have only been blessed to witness tiny glimpses of before now. All of a sudden, the title of Laird does not sit on him like some stale relic or a macabre afterthought – he is Laird Broch Tuarach – used to land, used to servants, used to labyrinthine hallways, used to status, used to command, used to power. It is so incredibly clear that last time he was merely shocked into awkwardness, and frightened into timidity – and equally clear that he will never be so by the Big House or my family ever again. Rather the opposite. He is going to enjoy being my parents' son-in-law.

I have worried, once or twice in these past weeks, if Jamie really was the ideal man to bring into my incredibly strange, multi-faceted, many-chambered life. There are so many versions of me, and most of them seemingly have no contact with any of the others. I have lived my life in boxes – the businesswoman box, the personal time box, the home box, the Big House box, the childhood memories box, the newsworthy public figure box, the goals box, the hopes and dreams box. . .

Other than myself and my family, Jamie is the first person who has ever comfortably fit into more than exactly one of them – let alone them all. But I suppose it's true – when someone is determined to love you, they will love all of you, instantly and unquestioningly, no matter what that ends up meaning.

I certainly know that was true in my case with Jamie. I shouldn't really be surprised it is in his case with me too.

No. I'm not surprised.

What I am is incredibly impressed. I didn't think I could get prouder of my husband. But in this particular instance, I don't think I'll ever get tired of being proven wrong. . .

We find mum and dad waiting for us in the big back sitting room, both pairs of French doors opened wide onto the lawn, a soft breeze bringing all the sweet scents in from the garden, and stirring the air around inside like the bubbles do in a gently fizzing soda.

They are sitting with Lamb out in the sunshine, as is their wont on fine days like this, but they hear our entrance – not that they could help it! - and instantly ready themselves for introductions.

Wisely, mum and dad both hang back a little, and let Lamb go first.

Bree, of course, leaps at him at once, and brings out her spyglass and asks "to see the dino-sour snails" almost immediately.

Lamb gives her the same tightly controlled smile he used to give me whenever I said something incredibly funny, but he was utterly determined I should not be laughed at.

"The ammonites will be very glad to meet you, Miss Bree – just as soon as it is polite for us to go and meet them. Will that do?" He offers her a hand to shake, formally, like a man making a contract with a serious business partner. He used to do that with me too, and it always had the same effect on me it has on Bee-bee now. She nods, takes his hand and shakes it, a tiny spark of joyful self-confidence glinting in her eyes.

I smile. That's the Lamb effect. There's nothing quite like being taken entirely seriously by a man like Lamb. It's like graduation day, and a trip to Disneyland and Narnia all at once. You feel capable of anything, in a world built just for you, and one that wants you to succeed. You aren't, of course, and the world isn't and doesn't. But as long as you're with Lamb, he manages to make things otherwise. Reality has always been a slightly flexible concept for Lamb. He's the sort of man who can bend the fabric of the universe in mostly any way he chooses, and, to the the world's and our great good fortune, Lamb's way is always one of pure, undiluted, instinctual and unconditional love. There's no wonder to me why he chose to give his life to history, instead of to a partner and a home of his own and a commonplace job. Choosing history was the only way he found to love everything, everywhere, at all times, from all times, for now, and on into the future. He's the most Human human I've ever met, and if I could be said to have a hero among the flawed, fallible lot of us, then Lamb is it.

He shakes hands with Fay next, and smiles and winks at blushing wee Joan, who buries her head shyly into Jamie's shoulder at all the new people, but still smiles back a little, and doesn't fuss at all.

Lamb doesn't push, and directs his attention to Jamie's other side.

"And may I ask for your name, young lady?" Lamb asks, the soul of politeness.

"Sally. . ." she says quietly, half hiding behind Jamie's leg. But Lamb has his effect, and so she still puts out one hand – formally, with her fingers down, like she is always seeing her beloved princesses do.

Ever the perfect gentleman, Lamb takes it, and bows over her hand like he's being introduced to a duchess.

"Charmed, my dear lady. Are there any dino-sours you want to be introduced to?"

She nods, and whispers. Lamb leans down to hear. Then he straightens back up, and says, quite solemnly, "Well. I don't think I've ever dug up any unicorn dragons, but I have a pre-Roman era aurochs's tooth carved with some mysterious runes. It's right out of Just So Stories. I've put it on a long fancy necklace just like they do in the story too – only on mine it's right next to a rattlesnake rattle, and an arrowhead made of glass that started its life in a volcano. Will that do?"

Sal hides her face in Jamie's thigh, but still nods and smiles.

By this time, dad has out a pack of cards, and is doing some wonderfully entertaining shuffling tricks. Both Fay and Sal look on, transfixed. I direct them over to him, and introduce them. He smiles, and invites them to sit on a couch. He sits across from them, spreads the cards out on the coffee table, and starts to do his repertoire of card magic.

Mum invites Jamie to sit next to her at the tea table, and she pours him out a tall glass of lemonade. Jamie offers Jo a wee walnut cookie, which she takes without comment. They start talking companionably about farmer's markets and old family recipes, and I am certain Jo will warm up to mum very soon.

I take Bree's hand again, and link my other arm into Lamb's waiting elbow.

"Well. The ammonites await!" I say.

Bree skips and jumps as we make the walk over to Lamb's wing, always hopping over any line across the floor, and stepping smartly in the middle of every square when it's tile, and every board when it's wood. The black and white marble in the foyer of the transition house gets a full-out game of hopscotch.

"I foresee a lot of chalk being used in the tennis courts very soon," Lamb says, smiling.

I smile back, "Oh yes. Most definitely."

"And probably a lot of plays and charades being done in the garden. And fishing being done in the pond. And tadpole-raising being done in the greenhouse."

I giggle lightly, "Those too."

"See here though," he gets Bree's attention, and frowns at her, mock-seriously, "You are not to play dolls with my Persian grave figurines. There are plenty of other things you may play with – you are not to touch those - is that understood?"

His tone is light, but he clearly means what he is saying.

Bree nods back cheerfully, "Only Sal likes dollies much anyway – though we all play Barbies when she wants to. There's cars and things for me, and play food and makeup and stuff for Fay, and Jo is happy if you give her one Barbie and a big bucket of Barbie shoes. Jo-jo might still be a baby, but she never loses Barbie shoes – she likes putting them on and taking them off, and mixing them up, and making Barbie wear one boot and one sandal and stuff like that. Jo-jo is so funny."

Lamb smiles reminiscently, no doubt remembering when I used to talk like Bree is doing now. All over the place, unfocused, but bright, and altogether personable.

"Well, all right then."

He taps her shoulder, and points her over to the big double doors that house the first big room of his museum.

"Would you like to unlock the doors?"

He holds out the big brass key.

Bree's eyes go wide, the key glowing golden in her vision, but looking at me for confirmation – her adventurous soul not entirely able to believe that dreams come true quite this easily.

I nod encouragingly, "Yes dear, go ahead."

She takes the key, and opens the lock, as slowly and as reverently as though she has just been given a free pass to Aladdin's cave.

Of course, it's Lamb's museum, so she's not entirely wrong. . .

This first big room is this house's converted library – with most of the built-in bookshelves made into well lighted display areas. The first big wall that greets you as you walk in has been divided into three sections – plant and animal fossils, minerals, and human-made artifacts. Only a tiny portion of the items in this first display room are ones Lamb has dug himself – instead they are the choicest things he has acquired over the years, either by being given them, or buying them from some of the most far-flung places in the world. There are pearls from Fiji, shells from Tasmania, crystalline geodes from Afghanistan, jade beads from India, pottery sherds from Finland, Crete, Orkney and Malta. There are hieroglyphed limestone chips from Egypt, carved alabaster votive idols from Syria, and, of course, a dozen or two museum quality ammonites, along with three or four pieces of ammolite, and one, complete, absolutely stunning opalized fossil, the full shell of which must be at least eighteen inches across. Right next to this, there is a small bronze dish with half a dozen much smaller opalized specimens, and beside that, a wooden tray with several still embedded in the rock where they were found. These are labeled as okay to touch, which I tell to a stunned, wide-eyed Bree.

She comes out of her wondering stupor, and with a grin, starts exploring. Lamb and I sit in one of the cozily appointed corners, and watch her range over nearly the whole collection. For perhaps three hours she roams through everything, occasionally coming back to us with a small thing from one of the "okay to touch" trays, and asking Lamb to tell her about it. We are brought lunch – chicken and pesto sandwiches for Lamb and me, BBQ chicken lettuce wraps for Bree – but she has only the barest attention left for food. She must know about everything, from the replica of an enormous stone sarcophagus on one side of the room, to the big display of amethyst, jade, quartz and tourmaline on the other, and the beautiful agate geodes arranged beneath them. She brings back one of these in particular – a small one that someone might well dismiss, but it turns out is a relic of Lamb's one trip to Botswana, and he relapses into such reminiscences about it that we must spend nearly an hour on this one stone by itself.

Bree is transfixed the entire time, and Lamb always thoroughly enjoys airing his stories to anyone who wants to listen, but he is especially enchanted by this one, small, extremely eager audience.

"There are some who might call you crazy, Claire," he says, conversationally, during a moment when Bree is across the room, well absorbed in sorting through a dish full of seashells, "Absolutely mad, for marrying a man with four children already. But me? I say you've been beyond lucky. One might even call it blessed."

My heart warms, and I take his hand, "That's what I think too, D.O.T."

He smiles at my old nickname for him. When I had reached the ever-wise age of fifteen, our usual old-fashioned terms of endearment suddenly became stale and pointless to me. Very naturally, I had complained. So Lamb and I had devised a new thing I could call him – provided I always pronounced the letters, never the word they made – Dee Oh Tee – never dot. They stand for Dear Old Thing, and ever since, the nickname has been a byword between us, of the fellowship and compromise that being friends and companions across generational boundaries often calls for.

Bree runs up to us then, "Look, Wumma, look! A seashell that's Joanie's favorite color!" She hands me a lion's paw clamshell of quite brilliant orange, "And one for Fay," a piece of abalone mother-of-pearl in lovely rainbow-blue, "And one for Sal," a calico scallop with bright pink stripes, "And one for me!" a turban snail shell which is, indeed, several shades of green, in a sort of camo pattern. "I've never seen shells in so many colors!"

Lamb is about to launch into his wide range of beachcombing stories, when suddenly, dad appears. He smiles at all the scattered bits and pieces of things, and at the haphazard pile of books Lamb has used to aid his memory throughout all his storytelling, but he knits his forehead, and doesn't say anything. Clearly, dad is here with a message, and he can't let himself get distracted, however much he may want to be.

"Would you mind keeping Brianna in here with you for a while longer, Quentin?"

Lamb looks surprised dad needs to ask.

"Of course. No trouble at all."

"I mean alone," dad turns to me, "It's time for a council of war, my dear."

I raise my eyebrows and chuckle a little, "War?"

"Well. That's what Jamie and your mother have been calling it all afternoon." He pats my shoulder, "He told us all about things, dear. And we mean to take action. Soon. Now, in fact. That's why we need you to come. Ned's here."

Chapter Text

"Ned!" I call out happily, and rush across the sitting room to my old friend, my hands stretched out in greeting. It is only when he is giving me his usual kiss to the fingers that I remember Jamie's particular anxiety about this very thing, and look over at him in wild worry and apology. But he just smiles at me, gravely solemn, but neither offended nor unduly anxious. I relax, and give Ned my usual peck to the cheek. I don't wonder Jamie's trauma-response isn't triggered by him – Ned is so very obviously a dear. Small in one sense of the word – he is slightly built, and might generously be called of average height – but he also happens to have a positively gigantic heart, and the sweetest, gentlest nature. His gray hair does not negate the constant twinkle in his eye, and his habitually dry, official-sounding vocabulary cannot drain his words of good-natured mischief, no matter how hard it may try.

He's the sort of man who overturns practically every stereotype about lawyers there is, simply by existing. He's been our family lawyer for close to forty years now, and he's one of a very small group of men I would unhesitatingly trust with my life.

"Good to see you again Claire, dear," his bright eyes look me up and down, "I see marriage agrees with you, and motherhood too." He smiles over at mum, who is holding a very sleepy Jo-Jo against her shoulder, "And you aren't the only one."

I grin as Bree rushes up to Fay and Sal, excitedly babbling all about Lamb's roomful of treasures.

"Lamb isn't the only one with a room worth exploring, girls," says mum, standing, "Come see your Wumma's old play room." She cradles Jo-Jo close as she passes me, and pats her comfortingly on the back, "We'll settle this one down on the daybed there, and keep the rest of them out of your hair for an hour or two, love."

"Thanks mum," I kiss her cheek, and help Lamb corral our other three chickadees, as Jamie so poetically calls them. "Go with Nana Julie, girls, and be good. We'll come get you when it's time to go home."

Bree is enticed by a mention of my old big wooden rocking horse, Fay by the arts and crafts supplies I reminisce about for a minute, and Sal by Lamb mentioning my old collection of My Little Pony dolls, and soon enough mum and Lamb are carrying or leading four eager little girls upstairs, for play and a nap.

Leaving Ned, dad, Jamie and I in a clear, quiet room, suitable for Serious Business.

Dad watches them go, a soft smile on his lips, and a spark in his eyes, "It isn't every day a man's family is doubled in size at one stroke," he clouts Jamie fondly on the shoulder, "Thank goodness you have daughters though. I admit I'd be thoroughly at sea with boys."

Jamie smiles, "I doubt that, verrah much. Bairns are bairns – ye ken that, I know ye do - an' it's all ye need. Nae mattar how the details change, wean tae wean, ye love 'em an' feed 'em, an' love 'em an' care for 'em, an' love 'em an' teach 'em. It's half love an' half work – that part's all the same, nae mattar what or who they are. It isnae easy, but it also isnae complicated."

Dad laughs warmly at that, "He's been like that all afternoon, my dear," he takes my elbow and seats me in mum's vacated chair, "So serious, and solemn."

"And from what I understand, he has good reason to be," says Ned, piping up, his voice gentle but firm, "Immigration law," he peers pointedly over his quaint half-moon glasses, "Is no joke."

"Very few sets of laws are," dad says, wryly, and sits down next to me, "Now then, Claire dear, why don't you and Jamie bring Ned up to speed?"

Each of us having practiced explaining our story on our own – me to Colum, and he to my parents here today – now we have a go at doing so together. We skip around a little bit more than optimal this way, and interrupt each other rather a lot, but we still convey the overall point well, I think, and I don't think we leave anything out.

"Hmm," says Ned when we've finished, in his usual, noncommittal, lawyerish way, "And you're sure the interviewer was trying to rile you up, are you?"

Jamie nods, "Aye, as sure as I can be about anything."

"Hmm. Well, that does give you some grounds for appeal, but fudging the numbers on the date you met also means your interviews cannot stand up to the deepest level of scrutiny, so our ability to appeal is slightly limited. However, if we're careful, we should be able to strike the right level of balance." Ned turns to me, "The first thing I want you to do, Claire, is get Jamie a seat aboard one of Leoch's private flights to Scotland – you can do that, yes?"

Jamie takes my hand, and holds it in his lap, "Yes, I can do that easily," I say, looking at our entwined fingers for a long minute. Then, I look back at Ned, "But, why that, and not a commercial flight? We can afford a-"

Ned waves a hand to interrupt, "No no, your ability to fly commercially isn't the issue. It's your ability to fly privately I want the immigration offices to appreciate," he gives a dry little cough of mildly exasperated impatience, "It is not exactly fair, but when there is a question in regards to residency, deportation, fines, mild demerits, and the like, a show of wealth. . . well. . . it can ease some of the sharp corners around slightly fudged numbers, if you follow me. Show them a valid itinerary to fly aboard a private jet, and I think you'll find a majority of these issues -" he riffles briefly through the mass of paperwork laid out before him, "- will probably "magically" resolve themselves."

Relief floods my stomach. But it brings a good bit of anger along with it.

"That isn't fair," I say, more than a little grumpily, "I wish I wasn't so thankful it's true."

Ned smiles knowingly, "Yes my dear, I know how you feel. But the brief in this case is to make it possible for you and your husband to live comfortably together in the same country at the same time, yes?"

"With our children, yes."

"Just so. When the brief is to change the world, I will attempt to do so. Until then, I do what I can."

I smile sadly, "And we are all extremely thankful that you do." I get up, and peck his cheek again.

Ned's eyes crinkle with soft laughter, and he pats my hand, "Just give me a little while longer with all these," he gestures at the table full of paperwork, "And I'll be able to tell you if there's anything else you need to do immediately. I'll start the appeal process in the morning, and I'll also try to get the girls' passports expedited either way."

"You're a wonder, Ned."

He shakes his head, "Oh, nothing terribly clever this time – it's just knowing the system, and playing the cards you're dealt. If you have the ace of spades, it'd be a shame not to play it."

I go to stand behind Jamie's chair, put my arms around his shoulders, and gently rest my chin on his head, "I have the king of spades, Ned. Thank you for helping me keep him."

He only chuckles in response, and then Jamie and I go out into the garden, leaving him to his paperwork.

Chapter Text

We walk companionably through my parents' back gardens, chatting of nothing much, Jamie skipping a rock or two across the surface of the big swimming pond, me picking all the dandelion flowers I can find, and making a flower crown.

"I like this auld garden of yours, Sassenach," he says, boosting himself up to sit on a low retaining wall made of rough, unfinished stones, "Ye cannae hardly tell ye'er in a garden at all, let alone in the middle of a city."

I smile, and scramble up beside him, "Yes, and a lot of time and work has gone into making sure that's so," I gesture around us, "All the hedges are native fir and hazelnut trees, and only certain areas have been maintained with turf grass," I point across the pond to a wide, smooth, open area, "Over there, for instance. But most of the space out here is full of carefully curated wild plants, a lot of them native, and most of them edible."

I wave at a nearby stretch of purple clover and wild strawberry, dotted through with patches of violets and wild leeks, all surrounding a tupelo tree, and several clumps of beautifully pale-golden flowering spicebushes. A stand of cattails rim the nearest edge of the pond, joined with many other edible or harmless plants that like the damp coolness of marshy ground in mid spring. "Mum has always been adamant on having a garden that people could enjoy for its wildness, but that wouldn't hurt anyone if they happened to eat something from it."

I smile ruefully, "Apparently a phrase she heard a lot growing up was "don't eat that, it's poison!", when all she was doing was going up to a plant and trying to ask questions about it. So, when she got a little older, she looked in books to see if those things really were poison – and it turns out a surprising number of them weren't. There was a not-insignificant number of things that were, of course, but she learned that a lot of things we take for granted are either perfectly harmless, or actually really tasty, apparently." I pull off my dandelion crown and hold it up, "I was always allowed to pick and play with any flowers out here that I wanted, because mum would make her herbal teas out of them later, and nothing would go to waste."

He grins, and takes the flowers from me, spinning them around and placing them back atop my head, this time rakishly askew, "Aye, an' I c'n make a verrah tasty wee fritter out of them too – those an' wild carrot flowers an' daylily buds make for a mighty pretty spring appetizer platter, Sorcha."

I can tell from his teasing tone and playful eyes he's expecting me to laugh, toss the flowers back at him, and maybe take off across the lawn, leading him a merry chase. And maybe at any other time I would, but just at this moment, something else has occurred to me. Well, it occurred to me a long time ago, but now is the first good chance I've had to talk to Jamie about it.

"Jamie. . ." I say, slowly, "Once your passport and our green card are all cleared up. . . would you mind. . . would you think it terrible of me if I asked if we could go to Scotland for a while? Together? All of us? For a couple of months, at least. . . ?"

He crinkles up his forehead at me, looking confused, but not upset, thankfully, "I'm hardly likely tae mind annything of the kind, Sorcha, but. . ."

"But, why?"

"Aye."

"Well. . ." I take the flower crown off the side of my head, and run the blooms gently between my fingers, "You see, the thing is, this new job position Colum has given me - on his board of advisors?"

"Aye?"

"It's not like the manager job I had before. It's much more idea based and flexible, and open to interpretation."

"Aye. Meaning ye c'n spend more of yer time wi' me an' the girls, an' on yer own interests too."

"Yes, and that's lovely, but it also means that being successful at it looks entirely different than my previous job did – than any other job I've ever had before ever did."

"And?"

"And. . ." I sigh, a little frustrated, "Jamie, I have to give a big presentation to Colum next quarter - a little over four months from now."

"Oh? An' what – d'ye no' have any good ideas for it?"

"Oh no – the exact opposite, actually. I've had one very definite idea for weeks now. But. . ."

"Aye?"

"But, in order to research my idea properly, I need to go to Scotland. Actually be on the ground, seeing real conditions and talking to real people. At three locations, at the very minimum, for a combined total of at least six weeks – and then afterwards, ideally, I would make the presentation to Colum in person, not over a Zoom call." I give a long, quiet sigh, "I mean, I suppose I could send a proxy, but it's just not the same."

He shakes his head in agreement, "No. Proxies never are. Weel, one thing is clear at least, Sorcha."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Ye need tae tell me all about this idea of yours. Anythin' that requires that much Scotland, I'm bound tae hear all about. All about, Sorcha. Dinnae leave anything out."

He pulls a stem of mint from the slope of earth behind us, and chews thoughtfully as I speak. I don't leave anything out.

"Mm. Not a bad idea, that," he says, once I've finished, "Colum should like it, I reckon."

"You really think so?"

"Weel I like it. An' in the end, Colum an' I arenae so wildly different. Aye, I think he'll go for it."

"So you think I should go ahead with the idea?"

"I do."

"Including dragging us all to Scotland for a couple of months?"

He chuckles, "Aye, ye c'n jus' picture me, can't ye? Dragged kicking and screaming back tae my homeland, the place that I love more than almost anywhere else on earth." He rolls his r's extravagantly, "Drr-rragged!"

I smile thinly, "But, you don't feel undermined?

He blinks at the word, "Undermined? Why would I?"

I roll my eyes, "Jamie, you married a stranger in order to stay in this country. There is still some question as to whether or not you even did so successfully. And now that exact same person is asking if we can go to the place you just spent all this effort not to go to. Yes! I am asking if you feel undermined!"

"Well I don't, Sorcha!" he leans forward and kisses me fiercely, "D'ye ken how much I'd do for ye, mo nighean donn? How much my heart begs tae serve ye? How often I wish I could. . ." he gently traces the edge of my ear with a fingertip, "oh. . . pick ye up and carry ye through life. . . having ye always close, an' all mine?" he shakes his head, "But that's a nonsense. I ken that. Ye dinna need me tae be yer servant." He lowers his head and plants one warm, soft, and very deliberate kiss on my neck, "Tho I will be annyway, any time ye ask. But what ye really need is an ally. A partner. Mebbe evan a partner in crime." He winks, and we both chuckle. "An' that's all yer wanting us ta go ta Scotland is, Sorcha. Ye want ta do your job properly, an' ye want me an' the girls near ye while ye do it. There's nothing underminin' about that. Not a thing."

I nod contemplatively a few times, "And you don't feel. . . thwarted in any way?"

"No' a bit."

I nod a little more, then reach out, and run a finger down the line of his jaw. "Alright. I love you, James Fraser."

He grins, and pulls me into his lap, "I love ye too, Claire Beauchamp."

Then he draws my mouth to his, and shows me just how much.

We are still sitting there, making out like teenagers, when dad comes out to call us in for dinner.

Chapter Text

"Happy birth-day to you!"

Joe, Gail and I sing around the kitchen table, the light dimmed, the table lavishly decorated, while Jamie slowly and dramatically brings in the cake.

"Happy birth-day to you!"

He sets down the tray-full of cupcakes arranged into a large "6" in the middle of the table, and lets our girls and Leo and Nic take one before sliding the rest down towards the birthday girl.

"Happy birth-day, dear Mar-sa-liiii! Happy birthday to youuuuuuu!"

All of the children clap their hands, and grinning from ear-to-ear, Sal takes the one glittery pink-sprinkled cupcake that has a candle in it. Jamie moves the remainder of them back out of the accidental-spit-zone, and then gestures at Sal to blow out her candle.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds, making her birthday wish as hard as she can, and then, with a great heave of breath, blows out the candle so decidedly, the next day, I clean some tiny droplets of congealed wax off the chair all the way across the table from her.

The kids applaud again, and Jamie brings up the lights. After a few go-ahead nods from us adults, the kids all start in together, demolishing their cupcakes as quickly as they can.

Jamie smiles at the scarfing noises, and hands the tray around to us too. I take one, but put it aside for a minute, more focused on making sure all the shiny pink and gold-foil wrapped presents are organized as they should be. I shuffle around a bit in a positive snowdrift of tissue paper, and do some mental calculations again, just to be absolutely sure about one or two of the planned upcoming activities.

Six kids is a lot to deal with at a party, even with all four of us adults contributing. . .

Leo and Bree both won the apparent "inhale your first cupcake as fast as humanly possible" competition – in a dead heat, as far as I can tell – and now they are both at the counter asking for seconds.

Deftly, Jamie takes a bunch of cupcakes from the second tray he has concealed behind some decorations over on a side table, and replenishes the nearly depleted "6" before returning it to the big table, for everyone to take their second serving.

I smile, admiring the way Jamie has found to do birthday cakes in this era of masks and social-distancing. This way, it still feels like An Occasion, everyone gets to participate, the birthday girl still feels special, and the very minimum of people are touching any one piece of cake. It can be quickly and easily portioned out, and can easily be brought into and out of the kid-splatter zone multiple times. Decorated properly, it's still impressive, and given Jamie's skills, still very much a treat.

I look over at Sal, where she is comparing her brightly pink-dyed tongue with Fay's.

I blink a little, surprised. They are pink-lemonade spice cake, I know that, but Jamie told me the batter was coloured with raspberry powder, and per Sally's request, frosted white, with gold glitter and light pink sprinkles. Where is that intense colour coming from? I take a curious bite of my own cupcake to find out. . .

Ah. Flavour floods my mouth as I reach the middle of it. Jamie filled each one with his homemade lemon-ginger curd, and dyed it a brilliant neon. Perfect for our wee Marsali, Pink Aficionado.

Joe helps me clean up after Nic and Jo-Jo – our two youngest girls seem to be in a contest to prove who can make a bigger mess – and then Gail starts up the first round of songs and games.

We've reached the third round of distributing candy and toys as prizes, in a big build-up to the main unwrapping event, when Jamie's phone buzzes, with its special ringtone, indicating the call is from Ned.

Our eyes meet over the table, and he holds my gaze for a long couple of seconds before leaving the room, as quickly and quietly as he can.

It's been nearly a week since our failed success of a Green Card interview. Ned has taken all sorts of steps to help us clear things up, not all of which I understand entirely, and some of which I think might not be the most honest of actions, but at least I can see the very positive effect he's had on Jamie. Just being able to do something about the whole tangle of it all has helped him immensely. Ned picked up on this almost at once, and has kept Jamie scrupulously informed of all developments, no matter how vague or irrelevant they might seem to be.

Jamie pokes his head back in to the kitchen, "Claire?"

"Yes love?"

"Could ye come out here for a minute?"

"Of course."

I join him in the living room, quietly closing the kitchen door behind me.

"That was Ned."

"Yes, I heard the ringtone you gave him."

"Aye. There have been. . . developments."

My stomach knots up. He doesn't look. . . anything. Not sad or glad, up or down. There is no indication if they're good or bad developments, or what the consequences of them might mean.

All I can manage to say is, "Oh?"

"Aye. Apparently this Mr. Brown-"

"Who?"

"Richard Brown. My green card interviewer."

"Oh. I never knew his name."

"Aye. Weel, apparently he has some sort of grudge against British men. He's interviewed nineteen of us from Scotland, Northern Ireland, England and Wales in the past two months, and failed all but one. And even that one lodged several complaints. Our appeal against him was only one of many. So many, Ned says it practically got lost in all the noise."

Hope rises in my chest, "Was?"

Jamie nods, "Aye. All impediments dismissed."

My stomach untwists with a thrill of adrenaline, "You mean. . . ?"

At last there is a twinkle in his eyes, and he grins at me, and pulls me into his arms.

"Aye."

Then, his mouth descends to mine, and he kisses me with all the pent-up passion and stress of the last week, and all the gratefulness, joy and relief of nearly two months of grasping, desperate hope.

I clutch him tightly to me, determined to never let him go.

Eventually, we both come up for oxygen. He runs the tip of his nose along my cheekbone, and kisses all down my jawline, ending up just below my ear, where he nibbles on a little spot that sends tingles all through my body. I laugh at the sensation, so full of happiness I don't know quite what to do with it all.

He nuzzles into my neck, and speaks softly next to my ear, "I still havetae go ta Scotland ta retrieve my passport, Sorcha. But Ned says that won't be for another month or so yet, and then I wilnae be gone more'n a week. I think we can all handle that. Aye?"

"Aye."

My brain is so buzzed with relief, I'd agree with just about anything right now, if Jamie is the one saying it. . . I reach up, and pull his mouth back to mine. . .

I lose myself in loving him, for minutes that feel like years, and still are nowhere near long enough.

"Mo Sorcha. . ." he whispers against my lips, "My sun and moon. . . my evening star. . . my love. . . my Light. . .

I smile, and look wonderingly up at him. Surely, surely such pure, epic romance cannot be real, cannot be here, in my arms, warm, and alive, and all mine?

All, all mine. . .

"I love you Jamie. There aren't words for how much. . ."

Gently, oh, so incredibly gently, he strokes my cheek.

"I love ye too, mo nighean donn."

Then he lowers his head, and kisses me again.

We really, truly do not want to let each other go, but eventually we force ourselves to, and go back in to the party.

Chapter Text

Scotland is even more beautiful than I imagined.

It hadn't been last night - traveling by private jet could not make a transatlantic flight with four children who all got airsick anything other than utterly exhausting - even with all the help Jamie and I admittedly had. Neither Lamb nor Mary had come along with us on this trip specifically to help fussy wee lassies with their aching ears and queasy stomachs, but Jamie and Mrs. Bug and I had all been manifestly grateful they volunteered to help anyway.

We'd landed at Glasgow International a full hour after sunset, and what with sorting out rental cars, shifting four very tired and very grumpy girls into them, dealing with tummies so recently upset they could hardly help getting carsick, our phones suddenly getting no signal at all, so no GPS app right as we're on our way to our hotel, getting lost, asking directions at three cottages we could barely see, driving on through wind and drizzling rain, finally getting to the B&B four hours late and waking the landlord up out a sound sleep just so we could get in out of the cold, a supper consisting of toast and crowdie, mint tea and profound tiredness, even the good things – Scottish cheese always impresses with how satisfyingly tasty it is – and the adventure of it all – driving through the dark and rain to ask people in cottages how to find other people in cottages is inherently a charming exercise – and even the pure excitement of being in Scotland at last all barely signified. We were entirely worn out, and it was even odds half of us would be able to keep down even our frugal supper.

But our rooms were clean and comforting, and the beds in them warm and welcoming. We all slept deeply, and long. Even wee Joanie didn't have to get up until half-seven, and Mary – dear Mary! – took care of her for us so we could get a few more minutes sleep.

And now I can see - everything is different this morning. The sky is no longer cold and dripping with rain – instead it is the warmest blue I have ever seen, full of character and distinction and huge, fluffy clouds. Everything sparkles with dew, making even old ugly wrought iron railings shimmer and glisten. The air is laden with the magic of all mornings, but there is something unique in it too. A tang or savour that I have never smelled before, and yet still instantly remember, like a voice heard in a dream.

I clutch a mug of hot coffee as I stand on our second floor balcony, and look out over the bright colors of the city. Mary and I will have two weeks to do our research here. We'll spend the same amount of time in Edinburgh, and then in Inverness. With the irreverent, lively energy I can feel all around me, even from up here, I am encouraged that this stage at least will go well. Mary has already made what appointments can be made, and so now all that remains is to go out there and do it.

I smile. That feels like a Scottish sentiment. Yes, I do think Jamie is right – this idea I've had is a good idea – or at least one worth doing the work to develop.

Jamie joins me on the balcony, his own cup of coffee in one hand, and the pot in the other, to refill mine. I hold out my mug, and yawn, before murmuring thanks. He leans on the railing beside me, and takes a long pull from his steaming cup.

"So, are ye ready ta carpe diem, Sorcha?"

I grin, and lean my head against his shoulder, "Mm. Yes. But in a minute."

He chuckles, puts one arm around me, and pulls me close.

We get less of this companionable waking-up time than we'd like, for soon enough the thump-thump-thumping of small feet running up and down the halls sound very near to us, and then our four tiny earthquakes burst in, all agog with a new place, and new things, and new people, and when is breakfast, and can we go explore, and what is this place called, and can I have some hot chocolate, and my bathroom has a funny toilet, and aye da, we did, and nae, Wumma, sorra. . . sorry, no, I forgot, and on, and on, until four wee chicks feels more like several dozen, and the only option is to take them down to breakfast.

I contemplate the twins while we wait for our parritch and cream, banana pancakes, or Full Scottish breakfasts. I've been hearing more and more of that code-switching from them lately. One minute they'll have the lightly Scottish burring lilt they did when I first met them, and the next they'll sound patently American, with flatter, smoother sounds, and the next they'll mix both together in a charming tangle that's quite impossible to predict. I can tell they're doing it mostly unconsciously, but once or twice it's been obviously deliberate like just now – like they are mimicking my accent on purpose, out of a sense of. . . connection? It feels like that. They've never tried to exclude me while using their more Scottish accents, but I think the only reason they started code-switching at all was as a way to incorporate me into their lives – the only way they've known how.

I've let it be without comment, since it's quite harmless. But it's certainly something to think about. . .

After breakfast, Lamb goes off on his own, to explore the two nearest ancient broch sites, and Mrs. Bug and Jamie take the girls to Loch Lomund for the day, leaving Mary and I to take to the streets of Glasgow.

We have several set questions we ask the people we meet, and a couple very short forms to give to folks who express a little more interest. Then, we go to our lunch meeting with a couple of local land agents, and have questions asked of us, instead of asking questions. Then we visit several empty buildings, and take note of any attached empty land, or nearby wild spaces.

There are a surprising lot of them, and we get a far more generally positive response to our first day's work than I ever hoped we would.

When we meet back up with everyone for tea, we're both full of encouraging stories. Everyone listens, and we discuss our day quite cheerfully, until Mrs. Bug gets up to corral her charges into bed. Jamie and I give our girlies hugs and kisses, and send them off with a smile. Lamb says goodnight, but actually goes into the other room, to more fully explore the hotel's library. Mary says she's going to go relax in her bath for a while, and all at once, Jamie and I are alone. He buys both of us a wee dram and a few sweet treats, and takes us into the lounge to watch the sunset.

We cuddle up on the couch, and sip our drinks, and don't talk for a while.

"So, only nine more business days ta go then, eh?" he says eventually, "An' then on ta Edinburgh."

"Mm. Yes. And then on to Inverness."

"Ye'll find the most likely places up there, I reckon."

"You think so?"

"Aye. It's an idea more suited ta the Highlands than the Lowlands, Sorcha."

"But nearly everyone we talked to today was all for the idea!"

"Oh aye – it's a good idea. But it suits the Highlands more, is all."

"I see."

"If Colum decides ta go ahead wi' yer plan after ye present it ta him, I predict he'll base it in Inverness, an' branch out inta the Lowlands, rather than t'other way around."

"You're probably right."

"Annyroad – ye'r no' meetin' wi' land agents evary day, are ye?"

"No."

"Good. Then we'll have time ta go an' see some sights tagether – ye an' me an' the girls. We agreed this doesnae have ta be only a business trip, aye?"

I cuddle against his side, "Oh yes, certainly. Plus there's the weekends, of course."

"A'course. An' what was the name of that vicar Lamb wants us to meet?"

"Wakefield. He lives right next to Inverness, so that's when we'll go see him. Really though, just so long as Lamb gets to end up exploring Broch Tuarach, he'll be happy."

"Right."

"And then. . ."

"An' then – Leoch. The real, original Leoch. And Colum," he bends his head, and whispers in my ear, "An' then we'll have twa weeks all ta ourselves. I've a mind ta take ye ta Skye, find a wee bothy back behind everywhere, build a bed in the heather, an' take ye until ye cannae walk."

Warmth blooms in my stomach, "Mm. What would we eat?"

He smirks, "Ye'er here researching what ye are, an' that is yer first question?"

I poke him playfully in the ribs, "You're the chef, wise guy. What would we eat?"

"Smoked venison an' grilled trout wi' bannocks baked over the coals. Mead flavoured wi' wild cherries. Foraged green salad, wi' sheep's milk cheese. An' gorse flowers, wild blackberries, an' honey for dessert."

"Mmmm," I sigh, "I've just eaten, and you're making me hungry. You've really bought in to this idea of mine, haven't you?"

"Aye. I think it's a verrah good idea."

"I just hope Colum thinks so."

"Agch. He's nae edjit. He'll at least consider it. He might insist on a few changes, an' ye may no' like them all, but he'll see the value in the idea, nae fear, Sorcha."

"I wish I had your confidence. . ."

He chuckles, "But ye do, Sassenach. Tha's why I'm here, isn't it? Or a'least part of the reason? Sae I c'n give ye my support? Here – there's my confidence – tak it." He kisses two fingers, and presses them to my lips.

I laugh, soothed, and kiss his fingertips, "You are a ridiculous darling, and I couldn't love you more."

"Tha gaol agam ort, mo ghràidh."

I still might only understand the barest basics of the Gàidhlig, but I have at least learned what that means. . .

Very, very thoroughly. . .

Our fortnight in Glasgow goes very quickly. Our time in Edinburgh goes even more so.

We manage to cram in trips to Stirling Castle, the Kelpies, Jupiter Artland, the Antonine Wall, Hadrian's Wall, and even a tour of filming sites from an historical romance television show set in Scotland that Mrs. Bug watches.

But my favorites are undoubtedly the total of four Michelin starred restaurants I take Jamie to.

Ordinarily I wouldn't bother with such places – in my opinion they are mostly overhyped, always overpriced, and no matter how good the food is, usually underwhelming – but since we are here on an official research trip for Leoch Foods, I can fully justify visiting them as a business expense. Jamie practically jumps at the opportunity to explore this portion of Scotland's food scene, and in his doing so, I discover that every time I have tried a starred "cuisine" foodie place before now, my problem has been that I have entirely failed to bring along my very own experienced, undeniably brilliant, personal chef. Jamie talks me through every complicated process and rare ingredient used, criticizes or praises every wine pairing, flavour profile, texture experiment, and plating aesthetic, and thoroughly de-mystifies and un-pomposifies the whole experience.

He walks away from them all mostly whelmed, and entirely un-threatened by their coexistence with Castle Leoch.

I however, finally have a better appreciation for the artistry of them, but also an even more firmly entrenched stance that they are not for me.

But now I know why. . .

I understand that society must have a certain amount of class division. I might even go so far as to suggest I have a better understanding of this need than most. But it is a thing which must be balanced. The privileges of the rich must never so outstrip the reach of the not-as-rich that the very essentials of life become a luxury. And that is what uber-expensive starred-restaurant food has always felt like to me. Jamie's in-the-know explanations have only proved it. Such places are the luxurification of essentials.

Certainly, that tiny bowl of sea-urchin caviar risotto might cost what you paid for it, but was it worth what you paid for it? Sure, the experience might have been nice, but wouldn't a bowl of that huge tray of savory rice pudding your husband made last month, with ordinary butter and chicken and completely common spices, all for less money than you'd willingly pay for a nice bottle of imported soy sauce really be better? And, let's be honest, taste better too?

There is absolutely a place for ridiculously expensive ingredients, and overly-complicated cooking processes, and over-the-top experimental pairings and platings and surrounding aesthetics. But like all other art, I feel, such things ought to be measured by how accessible they are, not how exclusive.

When you have to be in a six-figure tax bracket, and very likely have gone to school with international royalty just to have access to, let alone appreciate something as basic and necessary as food, then I think things have gotten out of balance just a wee bit.

I talk all this out with Jamie during our alone time that fortnight, and they are some of the best, most enriching discussions we've had together yet. We don't end up agreeing entirely, but we aren't on opposite sides either – his perspective has merely been influenced from his position inside the creative aspect of the thing, and mine has been influenced by being raised rich, and then spending years working the business side.

We lead our family's wee caravan up north to Inverness more in love than ever, utterly fascinated with each other, and very much looking forward to our promised two weeks alone.

But first, a fortnight more of research. And it turns out Jamie was quite right – Inverness is the most accommodating place for my idea so far. We only go on a few day-trips up here – Culloden and Orkney are all we manage – because Mary and I throw ourselves so much into finalizing the project.

Eventually, it's all been dressed up into a nice presentation, and, two days before our appointment with Colum at Leoch, I sit Jamie down on the couch in our room, and stand in front of him, next to the television, where several illustrations and maps are projected.

"Here," I say, putting on my official Boardroom Voice, "Is my contribution for this quarter's expansion suggestions." I click through to the next illustration, "I propose Leoch Foods begins to offer Foraging Experience packages, to both tourists and locals, beginning here in Scotland, and eventually expanding to the international branches. In order to do so consistently and safely, we would need to acquire several new properties, along with nearby lots of undeveloped land. Within the borders of this land, we would cultivate as many safe-to-consume wild species as possible, while at the same time employing experts to remove any harmful ones. Once these plots of land have been well established, tours may be brought through, and classes taught on wild foraging, including safety protocols and conservation strategies. The attendant buildings may then be used as classroom kitchens, where patrons learn to prepare the foods they have gathered, supplemented with ingredients we will provide. Forms of this proposal have been placed before a wide variety of locals, with the following results. . ."

I click through to the first of several graphs, and continue with my script.

Jamie listens intently to my whole presentation. We discuss it when I've finished.

"So, you still think Colum will go for it?"

"Aye. I'm a wee bit surprised Leoch Foods hasnae done something along this line before now, in fact."

"Really?"

"Aye. Like I say, it's a very Highland idea, Sorcha. There's hardly a family in these parts doesnae have some foraging experience, evan if it's just a wild blackberry or hazelnut or two. Offering classes on it, employing local experts, and wi' all the practical applications included – weel, that's about as Scottish as it gets."

I sit down next to him on the couch, "And you liked the presentation?"

"Aye. T'was a bit drier than your usual manner, but tha's ta be expected, aye? I wouldha' liked a wee bit more in-depth explanation of. . ."

He makes several helpful suggestions, and we debate a minor point or two, and I fall asleep in his arms that night, more hopeful than I've been in weeks.

He waits outside the Leoch boardroom for me two days later, and when I come out, he concludes from my face that it went about as well as it could. He doesn't ask me any questions, only holds out his hand with a smile.

"Now then, Sassenach. Come with me. Home. To Lallybroch."

I take his hand in mine, and away we go.

Chapter Text

Ten Years Later

Vegas hasn't changed much.

It's a strange thing to realize while walking down the same street you and your husband last saw ten years ago, and neither of you are able to recognize a single business. But their replacements have all been so similar in type, even so, virtually nothing is really different. The only explanation is – Vegas is Vegas, and it always will be.

But it's an even stranger thing to realize when the only reason you're back in Vegas at all is the opening of the city's very first location of the themed restaurant you both work for - which just so happens to have been built on the exact piece of land that used to contain the hotel you stayed at for your honeymoon.

Jamie smiles at me as he opens the door into the big stage/arena enclosure for this new Castle Leoch. We soft-launch in seventy-two hours, so almost everyone around us is in a major flurry to get things done – but our anniversary is tomorrow night, so Jamie is feeling romantic, and more than a little nostalgic.

He leads me out to the middle of the stage area, to the raised platform free of hay bales, sand and sawdust, and gestures to some unseen sound-tech people.

The speakers pop and crackle into life, and a slightly distant, slightly tinny music starts playing -

". . . it's only a paper moon,
Sailing over a cardboard sea.
But it wouldn't be make-believe,
If you believed in me. . ."

I grin as Jamie sweeps me into his arms. It's the same song we danced to the very first time we ever danced together – in that grubby little club we ended up at right after getting married.

All these years, and he's remembered. . .

Which means Jamie hasn't changed much either.

There hasn't been a single minute in all that time when he's ceased impressing me.

I look up as sounds start coming from a VIP booth up on the restaurant level. It is cheerful, teasing applause, mixed with rather impressively loud wolf-whistles.

I grin, and shake my head.

Mum and dad and Lamb haven't changed at all. Neither have Joe and Gail.

I see Young Alec and his husband and their two boys are up there too, and as I watch, Colum appears, his wheelchair being pushed by his wife, Leticia. I'm glad to see them here – I wasn't 100% certain they'd accept the invitation they were sent. But here he is – grim-faced as usual, but a mostly benevolent presence nonetheless.

He retired from Leoch Foods almost two years ago, now. To Dougal's great relief, he did not appoint Jamie to be his successor. But, to Dougal's even greater chagrin, he did appoint me.

I feel a little bit of pity for poor old Dougal. Not much, but a little. He's probably the only one of the family who won't be here for opening night. A strange thing to say about Leoch Food's most natural grandstander. The man can speechify, I'll give him that, but I don't think he ever made a plan in his life that didn't backfire in some way. Even his marriage to Laoghaire six years ago had only lasted three weeks. And what a three weeks that had been! It's one thing to make the news for losing a harassment case, like he had with me, but it's something else entirely to make the news for being cheated on – while on your honeymoon – by a wife half your age – with three men at once – while they were making videos for her wildly popular OF page - and having the clip of you finding them go viral.

And there was also an anaconda involved somewhere in there, but I was never certain how. . .

The poor man has barely left his New York penthouse ever since, and I think he's earned a little bit of my pity. Taken all together, I'm more than a little thankful for him too, really. If he hadn't been such a scheming bastard, I might never have met Jamie at all.

But he had been, and Jamie and I did meet, and our longstanding, quiet, steady happiness must be the most galling thing about us, to Dougal.

I smile a little. That much, he deserves.

The very minute Jamie learned I was Leoch's new CEO, he had immediately started the process to move us to Scotland. With the twins just about to start university – Bree going for landscape archaeology in Munich, and Fay for commercial illustration in Florence – not to mention Fergus saying he would like to go for a degree in English Literature from Edinburgh in a few years - us living in Europe for a while would be a good idea anyway, Jamie had said, and besides, "A company's evan worse ta see to long-distance than a bairn, Sassenach. Best be on the spot, aye?"

I had smiled, agreed, and then went to feed Wee Ian, who had just woken up for his four-thirty nurse.

It had taken a good six months to move us all and get settled in properly, especially with a newborn in hand, but we'd done it.

And one of the very first things I'd done as CEO was buy this place.

The land had been on my radar for years – the old Highland Glen Hotel and Casino having gone out of business two years after we stayed there, and the property being totally dead on the market ever since. If we moved cautiously, we very likely could get it for a good bargain. I had long thought Leoch needed a location in Vegas, and once I had settled into my new position, looking into acquiring that seemed the logical first step to make. So, I called the owners, and made a cautious opening bid.

And they had been so desperate, they accepted that offer – a horribly low figure I never dreamed they would jump at like they did. I was expecting a hard negotiation, a drawn out bidding process - but apparently all they wanted was out. I'd had the land surveyed and assessed at once – anyone willing to accept a price like that had to have a terror on their hands – but no. Everything was about as might be expected after years of standing empty. The owners just wanted out. I'd shrugged, and finalized the sale.

Nearly all of the old building had needed to be pulled down, sadly. Years of neglect and decay had taken their toll. But the foundations were still sound, and rebuilding on a previously developed piece of land is nearly always cheaper and easier than breaking new ground, and so in less than two years, stables and horse pens, and practice stages and kitchens, and staff accommodations, and gift shops and arcades, and one of the biggest restaurants by footprint in all of Vegas replaced the old, kitschy and rather commonplace hotel and casino.

The big double doors slam open behind us, and our wee William darts pasts us, pursued hotly by Fergus, who is yelling, "William Henry Elias Fraser, give me back my phone!"

William only laughs and runs harder, but his seven-year-old legs cannot keep ahead of Fergus's sixteen-year-old ones for long, and soon he's been tackled into a large pile of straw on the other side of the stage, the two boys rolling and wrestling playfully, laughing and chaffing each other good-naturedly.

"Let yer brother up, Fergus!" Jamie calls, after letting the roughhouse play go on for a generous minute or two.

Fergus responds with a pert few phrases of decidedly non-English words.

"Cheeky wee plague!" Jamie snorts, "I kent I'd regret lettin' ye take French!"

"Aye papa!" Fergus laughs, and with exaggerated care and a playful cuff or two, sets William on his feet – after extracting his phone from his younger brother's grip, of course.

Despite everything, I decide, even Fergus hasn't really changed much.

Jamie confessed to me recently that, to begin with, he'd been worried he wouldn't be able to love our eldest son enough. That he'd miss Marsali too much to give him the support he needed. I had only smiled and kissed him, saying I could have told him even back then that such a worry was misplaced. I knew it had been clear to both of us from the very first moment Fergus told us who he really was that Marsali had only ever been a performance – an alias, a costume, a dress he'd been told to wear so often, he'd thought for a long time that he had no other options – that he was trapped forever behind the mask imposed upon him by a birth mother who only ever saw the surfaces of people, and not for any benevolent reasons, either.

I knew then just as well as I know now that Jamie was not and could never be the sort of man - and much less the sort of parent – who would fail to see the torment in that, or refuse to do anything about it. Of course he'd be able to love Fergus enough. Marsali was Fergus, and always had been.

Thankfully though, most of the changes had happened in a simple, undramatic fashion, not only giving us all more than enough time to acclimate, but to rejoice in how. . . ordinary the whole process ended up being. . . Usually. Haircuts and wardrobe changes happened relatively quickly, but those were mostly uncomplicated anyway. Hobbies and friend groups were not, and there were some inevitable tears along the way with them, very naturally. But the big one was that it had taken until I was pregnant with Wee Ian for the name Fergus to become an absolutely settled thing. First there had been a long stretch of him asking to be called Solly, instead of Sally, and Sol for short, instead of Sal. But then, when I'd had William, he'd wanted to be introduced to his new brother as Claudel, confessing that this was the name he'd thought of himself as for years - instead his original middle name of Claudia. And then he'd wanted to be St. Cloud, and then Pink Cloud, and briefly several other unconventional things, during that very confusing time for all of us – puberty. Fergus had been a fairly steady choice for his new middle name by then, but it didn't enter the running for first name until quite late in the day.

The moment of finality came on his fourteenth birthday, when he'd told Jamie and me he'd made his decision at last, and gave us the name he legally wanted to change his to, and that being so, he didn't know what to wish for anymore - that the only birthday wish he could ever remember making was to wake up the next morning a boy. And now that it was about to come true, he wanted to give his wish to Jamie, since he'd never seen his father make a birthday wish at all.

Jamie told me later that at that moment, he had felt the very last bits of anger and resentment towards Annalise slip away, her presence entirely gone, his revenge utterly complete.

But what our son didn't know was that he was making one of my longstanding wishes come true, because ever since then, Jamie has let me throw him a birthday party.

Well, a public one, anyway. He's let me give him something special for his birthday privately for years. . .

After that though, things settled down significantly, and two months after Fergus Claudel Julian Fraser became official, Wee Ian Lambert Edward Fraser was born, and Jamie and I had our even half-dozen – Faith, Brianna, Fergus, Joan, William, and Ian.

Our dance ends, and Jamie leads me upstairs to our huge, lavishly appointed CEO suite. There are five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a full kitchen, and a dining room with a window overlooking the performance stage. It's the most VIP experience Castle Leoch has to offer, and our family is installed in it.

Mary greets us as we walk in, not-quite-two-year-old Ian on her shoulder.

"Problem?" Jamie asks.

"N-no. J-just a fuss. He f-fell and bumped his l-lip on a chair. N-no damage, just n-needed a good cry."

Jamie goes over and gives our smallest son a soothing few pats on the back, "We'll be going down ta lunch in the family's VIP booth soon – d'ye want me ta take him?"

Mary nods, and hands Ian to Jamie, going off to her own room to get ready.

Five years ago she'd married Xander Denys, a curate at the little Anglican church she attends every Sunday. She hadn't wanted to give up working for me, but did want to give up Leoch then, since being my PA was a full-time job, and she wanted some more flexibility. I'd told her this was only natural, and that since Mrs. Bug had retired the year before, we needed help with the kids. Mary only too gladly stepped into the role, and she and Xander have been members of the family ever since.

The moment she disappears, Bree and Fay come clattering into the living room, arguing companionably about who-knows-what -

"Bu' why canna I see yer phone? Ye texting Roger again?" Fay teases.

"No," says Bree, a shade too quickly, and with a thoroughly revelatory blush, "Are you texting Louise?"

Fay blushes too, "No! And whoever said I was c'n-"

"Jesus, Mary an' Bride, what is it wi' ye chickadees an' phones taday?" Jamie laughs loudly at them, amused and frustrated all at once, "By all that's braw, I dinnae care who is texting who – if they arenae spoon material they're nowt. Now, go get ready for lunch, the lot of ye!"

He points, and they obey.

A week and a half ago, while we'd still been at our home in Inverness, the Lallybroch folks had sent Jamie and I over a lovely case of a dozen antique silver Apostle spoons. An anniversary present from Jenny and her Ian. We'd opened the package in front of our chickadees, and they all loved them nearly as much as we had. The evening ended with Jamie and I deciding a pair of them will go to each of our children upon their marriage – one for each of them, and one for each of their eventual spouses. Because everyone in our family knows, and better than most, that when you marry someone, you marry their family too.

Whoever our chicks choose to marry, those people will then become our children, and just as deserving of an antique spoon.

It is an odd thing to think that I've only ever been pregnant twice, but will still end up having had a dozen children. . .

"Wumma?"

Jo-Jo might be thirteen, but her voice and manner are still that of a ten year old. That she's only about as tall as one helps the illusion too. But she doesn't let any of that stop her. Sweet she is, and gentle and kind, but she is also loud, and bold, and ferociously capable. Tiny she may be, but even Bree looks up to her.

"Yes, my sweet?"

"Hamish and some of his friends have invited me down ta the arcade for lunch. Since I'm family I c'n have a free-to-play bracelet too – no tokens needed! - but we do havta buy our own lunches – c'n I have some money, Wumma?"

I smile a little sadly, as I reach for my purse. Joanie is the only one who calls me Wumma anymore. The rest of our older chicks started calling me mum after they were old enough to understand what Annalise had done to Jamie. Will and Ian have never called me anything else. Mum is all they know. But wee Jo-Jo barely remembers her birth mother. Calling me Wumma is very nearly all she knows, so she's hung on to the name, when everyone else has let it go.

I hand our middlest chick a coin purse with a few twenties tucked into it.

"You'd better put a scooter in your cabooter, kiddo. Time's a-wastein'!

Joanie laughs at me, "Oh, Wumma! You're so silly!"

Then she kisses my cheek, gives Jamie a flying hug, and bounds off to be with her friends.

Jamie watches her go, Ian in his arms, a sweet smile in his eyes.

"Bairns are all the same, Sorcha. And yet, there is nae end ta their variety."

"You've got that right."

The rest of us go down to lunch in the VIP booth.

Hours later, Jamie and I make it back to our rooms, a little slyly. Everyone else is watching a rehearsal showing of Leoch's Culloden re-enactment. They were all so engrossed, Jamie and I found we could sneak away without anyone noticing.

And so we did. . .

Jamie locks the door of our bedroom behind us, and flips on the lights.

And Vegas hasn't changed much.

This is a big, important suite, and built on the very same ground that our honeymoon suite had been. Of course there is still an over-the-top use of tartan that nowhere truly Scottish ever uses. Of course there is still a focus on golf and whiskey and bagpipes that isn't really Scottish either. But it is a much more dignified room – more coherent, and approachable.

More. . . us.

Though, there is still an incomprehensibly enormous bed in it. . .

Well, perhaps that is like us too. . .

And, of course - because this is Vegas - there is a hot tub in the corner.

Jamie looks between me and it, and grins.

"Ye nevar did try out that wee hot tub we had in our auld honeymoon suite way back when, Sorcha. . ."

I smile softly, remembering, "No, I didn't. I had. . . other occupations on my mind at the time."

His eyes sparkle delightfully, "Mmm. So I recall. Annyway, let's fix that now, aye?"

Slowly, and with many loving, intimate touches, mischievous looks, and naughty, teasing jokes, he undresses us, and eases us both into the bubbling, steaming water. I float a little while, luxuriating in the beautiful, soft, free feelings that being naked in front of my husband have always inspired in me.

He catches hold of my hand, and floats me over to his lap. He turns on some massaging jets, and holds us in front of them, relaxing into my side, kissing my neck, and wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

Ten years haven't changed us much either.

My heart still flutters at the sight of him. My lips still tingle after he kisses me. My hands still yearn to touch his skin. . . to hold his chest against mine. . . to caress his back, his sides, his hips. . . He's still the most delicious man I've ever laid eyes on, and my whole self still hungers for him, body and soul, night and day.

I still make him laugh, he still makes me forget my own name.

And he still makes me waffles after he does it, too.

I slip my hand into his, and contemplate our entwined fingers. We are like that. So closely knit it is impossible to imagine us apart, now.

Sometimes I think back to that spring morning, ten years ago – before Dougal asked me for a favor, before I'd met this love of my life, before the idea of marrying for a Green Card was anything more than a quaint, fanciful story my father used to tell about the foolish boy he'd been thirty, forty, fifty years in the past.

Before I was a mother. Before I was a wife. Before my world changed.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if Dougal had ever had any sense, or at least not nearly as much audacity. Sometimes I think Jamie and I would have met anyway – the sort of love we share certainly feels inevitable enough. But I often wonder if that's really so. I wonder if the world as a whole would have been in any way different if we'd never met.

Probably not. . .

Yet sometimes, I think back to old Mrs. Graham, and how she'd said we were infinite soulmates, destined and predestined to meet in all possible universes, and in all possible timelines.

I have no way of knowing if that's even the least bit true, of course.

But with Jamie at my side, I don't need to. We're together here and now, and that is enough.

It has always been enough.

It always will be.

Fin