#ch: laoghaire

[incorrect-outlander-quotes]

Jamie: Look, Mrs. Beauchamp, no one was supposed to see me kissing Laoghaire! Claire: Oh, is that why you did it in the secret hallway where no one ever goes?

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Beside the Seaside: Ch 7

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Jamie might have called Murtagh in a desperate panic when he asked him to locate Murtagh’s cousin, Mrs. Fitz, and bring her to the inn, but he had done so knowing Murtagh was equal to the task. Still, when they arrived at The Fairy Hill’s doorstep in just a matter of days, Jamie couldn’t say he wasn’t startled by the haste at which Murtagh had brought her there.

“Mrs. Fitz!” he hailed in greeting, feeling his heart lift unexpectedly at the sight of the older woman’s beaming face. It had been nearly eight years since he’d seen her, but it felt like memories of another lifetime when they had both been at Leoch. “Welcome!”

“Och, Jamie lad, it’s good to see ye!”

He came around the front desk to embrace her and felt his throat swell when she uttered joyously, “You haven’t changed a bit.” He knew he had changed from the nineteen-year-old lad that she had known working at his uncle’s hotel. He was a father, for one, and… well, as much as he’d wished it hadn’t, the war had left him permanently marked in more ways than one.

“It’s good to see ye, Mrs. Fitz. Thank you for coming.” He met his godfather’s gaze over the woman’s shoulder, and while Murtagh did not look particularly pleased at the moment, the man had still shown up when Jamie had called. He had always counted on that with Murtagh.

“And who’s this wee yin?”

Jamie looked back to see Faith peering curiously at the three of them. He smiled and held out a hand to her, beckoning. “This is my wee Faith.” His hand rested lightly on her head once she was near. “Come say hello to our new cook, Mrs. Fitzgibbons. She’s an old friend of mine.”

“Ye can call me Mrs. Fitz — or Grannie Fitz if it suits ye.”

Jamie watched any hesitancy in his daughter melt at that. For all that she was a puir motherless thing, she had a habit of collecting parental figures, and he could practically see the moment she decided she would keep Mrs. Fitz held in her heart. “D’ye want to see the kitchen?” Faith asked her.

“Faith, I’m sure Mrs. Fitz wants to get settled first—”

“I can get settled after I see the kitchen,” Mrs. Fitz insisted, taking Faith’s hand in her own. “I’ll need to know what I’m working with, after all.”

He watched Faith lead the woman past the stairs to the doors they had always kept closed to the guests — but wouldn’t need to for much longer. The kitchen was modest, he knew, but he didn’t doubt Mrs. Fitz would be able to make it work, and there was a dining area for the guests, with small round tables and chairs. He’d already seen Mrs. Fitz in charge of a kitchen before, and he’d promised her the freedom to run this one as she saw fit.

Murtagh’s hand clapped his shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. “Are ye gonna tell me why I had to race here wi’ Mrs. Fitz because yer business depended on it?” his godfather asked, parroting Jamie’s own words from their telephone call back at him. Murtagh’s arm swept out in front of him, gesturing to the space around them. “The place doesnae seem to be on the verge of collapse.”

Jamie let out a measured breath, and patted Murtagh’s upper arm. “Thank ye for bringing Mrs. Fitz,” he said, ignoring that last comment. “I was having a devil of a time trying to sort out where she went and which grandchild she had gone to visit.”

“She was wi’ Laoghaire in Inverness,” Murtagh answered baldly and, seeing Jamie’s momentary puzzlement, added, “the blonde wee lassie ye met at Leoch.”

“Oh aye,” Jamie murmured, remembering vaguely the young girl who helped Mrs. Fitz in the kitchen and sometimes worked as a maid at the hotel as well. “She won’t still be a wee lassie now though, I suppose.”

“That girl will be a lassie until she's fifty,” Murtagh muttered dryly. “Now are ye going to tell me why I rushed the woman here, or do I have to beat it out of ye.”

Jamie arched one brow at that. Murtagh was scrappy in a fight, to be sure, but Jamie had the stronger build. But Murtagh had known him since he was wee and was immune to any of the natural intimidation that came with Jamie’s size. “The inn is doing well enough, I suppose, but I’m losing business every day when my own guests cannae even eat here.”

Murtagh grunted at that, but still eyed Jamie a little too keenly. “I’ll stay for a bit. Just a few days. Ye owe me that at least.”

Perhaps he did, and there was a chance Murtagh truly needed the respite, but Jamie suspected the time would be used to keep an eye on him. None of his family had come to stay since he and Faith had moved here, but Jamie hadn’t exactly extended an invitation either.

“Aye, alright, I have an extra bed in the spare room next to Faith’s. It’s all yours.”

  ----------

  Claire had been hoping to find Jamie alone when she descended the stairs, but she instead found him behind the front desk with a tall and lean dour-faced man.

“Sassenach,” he called to her before she had much of a chance to decide if she should change course or not. He was grinning broadly and she felt the pull to go to him, to bask in that light for a bit. “This is my godfather, Murtagh. Murtagh, this is Claire.”

Claire extended her hand to the man, wondering if Jamie realized he hadn’t said anything further as to who she was — no this is Claire, one of my guests here, or this is Claire, she stays on the third floor and occasionally patches me up. Just Claire, as if she needed no further introduction.

Murtagh shook her hand, eyeing her acutely. “Wee Faith had a lot to say about ye when she was at Lallybroch.”

And apparently, she hadn’t needed any further introduction. That revelation not only startled Claire, but Jamie as well, she noticed. “Oh,” she said, “All good things, I hope?”

“Oh aye,” Murtagh said immediately, but something in his tone seemed to indicate a layer of… was it curiosity? Claire glossed a smile over her face and looked at Jamie, unsure how to proceed from there.

“Go and check on Mrs. Fitz, will ye? See if she needs anything?”

Murtagh’s expression changed to something even more surly, realizing he was being dismissed. “Just to remind ye, in case ye’ve fallen on yer heid lately, I’m no’ yer errand boy,” he said, but still turned and went out of the room.

Claire turned wide eyes to Jamie.

“Aye, that’s just Murtagh for ye. A wee bit rough around the edges, but more loyal than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“He, uh—” she stopped herself from saying that the man seemed lovely, because in the few moments that she’d known him, she couldn’t say that was exactly true, but she could tell, even with just a glimpse of it, that Murtagh was protective of Jamie, and that was certainly a credit to him. “Is he staying?” she asked instead.

“Aye, for a few days.” Jamie grinned then and leaned forward against the counter, inching closer to her. “He brought my cook here — Mrs. Fitz. I cannae wait for ye to meet her.”

“Oh, Jamie, that’s wonderful!”

“Faith is giving her the tour just now, we can go and introduce ye now, if ye’d like.”

“Yes, but first,” she said, suddenly feeling a breathless flutter in her chest to seize the moment while it was just the two of them. “I’d like to extend our stay here. That is, if you still have room,” she added quickly, and hoped her nervousness that he might already be booked didn’t show as plainly as she felt it.

“Aye, I do have room,” Jamie said immediately, without so much as a glance at his booking calendar, though he did fumble for it after giving his answer. “For how long?”

“For three more weeks.” It was impossible to miss the unrestrained smile that those words brought to Jamie, and Claire felt her heart flutter again in her chest. “If you can bear the sight of us for that much longer,” she teased. “It’s been… so good for Fergus here. I was actually thinking—”

“Miss Claire!” Faith’s voice rang out from the other side of the room, and Claire turned to see the girl followed by Murtagh and the woman she supposed was Mrs. Fitz. Jamie came around the desk to join them.

“This is Claire Beauchamp, she’s staying here for a few more weeks wi’ her son Fergus.” Jamie’s smile was rapturous as he said this, never taking his gaze from her face even as he spoke to Mrs. Fitz. “So I’m sure you’ll get to see them plenty.”

   ----------

The days of their summer in Nairn began to change shape by inches, first with the arrival of Mrs. Fitz and the opening of the kitchen at Fairy Hill. Unsurprisingly, Fergus was quickly charmed by the inn’s grandmotherly cook almost as much as he was by her cooking. And though she didn’t speak a word of French, Claire watched with her heart in her throat as Mrs. Fitz fussed over the two of them and was never put off by Fergus’s silence.

It was during this time that Fergus had decided he wanted to return to the beach. Claire had begun inviting Faith to join them in their afternoon excursions, at first to be a playfellow for Fergus, and then because something had begun to resonate with Claire where young Faith was concerned; there was no doubt that Jamie loved the child with everything he had, but there was still a hunger — a longing — in that small girl that Claire knew all too well.

So on a bright day in late June, Claire took both children to the beach. Fergus sighed and squirmed while Claire covered him in sun lotion, but he didn’t slip out of her grasp until she pressed a kiss to his greasy forehead in silent permission to go. “You too, Faith,” she called as both children moved toward the water. When the girl looked back at her, brows drawn together in confusion, Claire crooked a finger at her.

“My da never puts that stuff on me,” Faith said bluntly, even as she flopped down onto the blanket in front of Claire and sat perfectly still.

“Most people don’t put it on, unfortunately,” Claire sighed. “But you are even more fair-skinned than Fergus, and I don’t want you to burn.” She carefully rubbed in the lotion over the smattering of freckles along Faith’s nose and cheeks. Where Fergus behaved as though Claire was torturing him, Faith seemed to relish the attention and care. Poor love-starved little thing, Claire thought, with no ire directed towards Jamie. She knew, after all. She’d had Uncle Lamb and loved him dearly, but there was nothing to be done to fix the yawning emptiness where one or both parents had been. Driven by sudden impulse when she was finished, Claire took the girl’s face in her hands and kissed her forehead. “Now go and play.”

  ----------

“You know that you could speak English here, if you wanted to… don’t you?” She said this in French when Fergus had collapsed onto the blanket in the shade of a beach umbrella. Claire had watched him and Faith run ragged in the water and then work side-by-side on a sandcastle, and it was during that latter activity that the language barrier between the two had indeed turned into a barrier, with Fergus giving instructions in French to a blank-faced Faith and none of the work truly being done together.

Claire reached over and brushed Fergus’s curls back from his face. Faith was nearby, still working steadily on a moat around their castle, but even if she heard them, there was a sense of privacy in speaking in French. “Frank was wrong for what he said to you. And none of our friends here would mock you for having an accent or saying the wrong words. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do know, Maman.” His voice was soft and unconvincing.

“I am happy to speak with you in whatever language you prefer, but even I know my French is atrocious.” That got a smile out of Fergus — yes, she did know her pronunciations were that terrible. “But you’ve never belittled me for it, and you still know what I’m saying to you just the same. And I don’t want you to… to not have certain friendships in your life because of something that a very selfish person said to you.”

Fergus’s gaze turned contemplative, and he tilted his face up, staring at the underside of the umbrella, fingers laced together over his bare stomach. She brushed his cheek with the backs of her fingers and struggled to tamp down on the sudden swell of guilt that still had a foothold in her.

   ----------

“—Ye could hire more workers here is all I’m saying. The place seems to be doing just fine.”

Claire looked up from her breakfast as Jamie entered the dining room, Murtagh hot on his heels. Fergus had scarfed his food down already and gone out to the front with Faith and her chalk — some things didn’t require the ability to communicate, and the children were finding those spaces all on their own, in a way that made Claire’s tender heart ache to see.

“I don’t recall sharing the inn’s finances with ye,” Jamie shot back.

“I just mean that ye never take a moment’s rest for yerself, and ye dinnae need to be doing it all by yerself. I suspect ye can afford at least another staff person.”

“I have another staff person already — Hugh Monroe.”

Murtagh grunted at that, though what the noise was supposed to imply, Claire wasn’t sure. She dropped her gaze to her meal, unable to give them the privacy of not eavesdropping while they were conversing right in front of her, but the least she could do was make it seem like she wasn’t trying to listen in. “And what if ye wanted to take a day off every now and then, huh? Ye could go home and see yer family then.”

It was Jamie’s turn for a Scottish noise of displeasure, though Claire had far less trouble interpreting his frustration from that. “I’m no’ going to take time away from the inn in the middle of my busy season. Also, I dinnae recall ye being this much of a mother hen with either Willie or Rob,” Jamie said pointedly.

“Aye well I wasnae their godfather, was I? Just yours. Lot o’ good having Colum and Dougal for their godfathers did them, though, god rest their souls.” Claire couldn’t help looking up at that, and caught Murtagh crossing himself.

Jamie was stone-faced, and turned for the kitchen, disappearing through the swinging door that separated it from the dining area.

“Who are Willie and Rob?” she asked, and found Murtagh’s surprised gaze on her. She was rather sure her own surprise reflected back at him, that she had even asked the question out loud.

“He doesn’t talk about them?”

She shook her head.

Murtagh considered that with a quiet sigh. “His brothers. Willie was the oldest, then their sister Janet, then Jamie, and wee Rob was the youngest.” She had a suspicion, from seeing Jamie, that “Wee Rob” was more of an affectionate family name for the youngest, for surely any brother of Jamie couldn’t be small in stature.

“That’s a big family,” she murmured, a little dazed by the thought. It was only ever just her growing up.

“Aye,” Murtagh sighed, his expression darkening. “Then the three o’ them went to war, and only Jamie came back. Now it’s just him and Jenny.”

She sat with that news, feeling a cold damp fist around her heart. After all he went through at the hands of Jack Randall, and losing his entire unit, and then… his brothers, too. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he’s no’ doing well, and I ken ye’re the only other person besides me who sees that.” Murtagh cleared his throat and straightened. “I’m his godfather, so I’ll always have his back, but he pushed everyone away when he came home, except for Faith. He willnae let me help him. But I think…” the older man raised one eyebrow, “he might let you.”

“And… you trust me to help him? You don’t even really know me.”

“Trust is a bit of a stretch, aye, but it’s plain on yer face that ye want to help him. So.”

Claire felt her face flush at those words, at being so thoroughly seen by someone who’d only been here a few days. “Jamie has been incredibly kind to me and my son. He’s… he’s been a very good friend.”

Murtagh grunted at that, though she couldn’t for the life of her sort out what he meant by that, either. “So, that’s why I told ye. And I have to go, he doesn’t want me hanging about much longer, but I trust… ye’ll keep an eye on him for me, aye?”

“Of course,” she found herself saying. Perhaps more startling to her was the realization that she had meant it.

He studied her intently for a moment and, finding something there in her face that reassured him, he nodded once and followed Jamie through the swinging door.

Murtagh left the next day, returning to Lallybroch, but their brief conversation in the dining room stayed with Claire long after the man had gone.

  ----------

“Claire!”

Someone pounded on her door, making her heart jump to her throat. She had just been to Fergus’s room to tuck him in for the night and was halfway out of her blouse, which she quickly began to shrug back into, trying to button it as fast as she could.

“Claire!”

More pounding.

It was Jamie’s urgent voice, and she swore under her breath as her fingers fumbled with the last two buttons. “Yes, I’m coming! I’m—”

She yanked open the door and took in the sight of Jamie looking more unraveled than she’d ever seen him before.

“Faith is sick. Please—She’s—she has a fever. Please come.”

She turned for her medical kit without a word, and by the time she returned to the threshold, Fergus stood in the doorway of his own room, peeking out in mild concern.

“Go back to bed. Stay in your room,” she told him, and followed a panic-stricken Jamie down the stairs.

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.

This is the last chapter of this story. Catch up here on Part One and Part Two.

Sadly, it is also my last regular publication on this blog. I have written a longer post elaborating on that on my personal blog, but I want to take a quick moment to say thank you on here as well - trust me to go out with a bang (although, which is unusual, in this instance I say that without innuendo)!

The Borders Between Us

by @wunderlichkind

Three

She’s never been comfortable in hospitals. The harsh lighting and sterile smell, the hushed noises – all of it reminds her of too many motorcycle accidents, too many visits after gang fights, too many of Laoghaire’s diagnostic appointments. Marsali squirms in the uncomfortable chair, staring at her own reflection in the small room’s window, unable to see the dark parking lot beyond it. A ghost stares back – someone she has to work to recognize as herself. Her hair is unruly, her eyes are ringed with dark circles, her expression somber, haunted almost. She hasn’t slept in nearly two days, hasn’t been well-rested ever since she left Fergus’ apartment.

Laoghaire stirs in the bed and Marsali jumps in her seat, but her mother doesn’t wake and she takes a deep breath. Her eyes are still scanning Laoghaire’s body, taking inventory of her broken wrist, her bruised cheek, the tear at her hairline, the swollen left knee – something she’s been doing several times every day since the fall down the stairs, something she can’t seem to shake.

„Miss Fraser, have you thought about exploring other options for your mother? It might be time to find a nursing home for her, for both your sakes,“ the hospital’s social worker told her the day before, her stuffy office filled with the sound of a ticking clock. Marsali only nodded and accepted the bunch of brochures, eager to escape the too small space, the implications of considering such a solution. The words haven’t left her, though, and neither has the feeling of uneasiness.

She sighs and stands, resolving to channel her inner unrest into movement, to temporarily fill the icy hole in her chest with coffee. She takes the long way down to the cafeteria, which is closed at this hour of the day, but has a coin-operated coffee machine much better than any of the hallway vending machines on this floor. She stares at the white walls, the bland hospital art, the petrol green room number signs. She counts the steps as she descends the stairs, but it does nothing to calm her. The strain on her nerves is almost unbearable. Marsali is sure that any minute now she’s going to snap when she rounds the corner opposite the hospital entrance and almost collides with Dr. Taylor.

„Oh, Miss Fraser, you’re still here? Shouldn’t you get some rest?“

Marsali manages a wry smile. „I could ask ye the same thing, Dr. Taylor.“

The doctor laughs, a genuine, friendly laugh that shows her white teeth and the dimples in her dark cheeks. „I’m on my way out, actually. I’m glad I bumped into you before leaving, though. I’ve been meaning to tell you that we’ll have your test results ready by tomorrow and I’d like to see you in my office, say 10 am?“

She waits for the string of her nerves to snap, waits for the impact of the doctor’s kind words to hit, but instead of the violent crash she’s expecting, there’s only a feeling of surreality. For a second, Marsali has the impression that she’s watching herself from a distance, eerily indifferent to her own numbness, her own shock. She has to force herself to nod, to mumble her assent.

Dr. Taylor is already walking away, but she turns again after just a few steps, finding Marsali still rooted to the spot.

„How’s your mother?“ she asks, and there’s real sympathy in her voice, a hint of worry in her dark brown eyes.

„She’s... not great,“ Marsali answers honestly, her voice cracking a little on the last word. Dr. Taylor nods.

„You get some rest, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow,“ she says and it sounds like an order and a reassurance at the same time, like something her father might say to her. It makes Marsali smile despite herself.

„Aye, I’ll see ye tomorrow.“

The fight with Fergus. Laoghaire’s fall. The possibility of having to place her in a home. Her own test results. Marsali’s mind is a battleground, a tangle of fear and pain and nerves, a virtual hell. It’s why it seems almost cruel, an unlikely twist of fate, when the moment after the door has fallen closed behind Dr. Taylor, it opens again and the quiet of the nightly hospital is broken by loud shouts for help.

Her body reacts before her mind is able to register the whole picture, and she takes in details while already moving; their jackets, identifying them as Hell’s Angels, the strained muscles in their shoulders, evidence of their struggle to hold up the slim figure in their middle. The blood on his face. The pain in his eyes.

She reaches him just when they set him down on a chair, one of them gesturing wildly at the woman behind the welcome desk.

„Marsali?“ he says and it’s a question, his voice quiet, disbelieving.

Her own voice is everything she would have expected it to be in her conversation with Dr. Taylor. There’s despair, terror. There are tears.

„Fergus. What happened?“

___________________________________________________________________

It seems all hospital offices are too small for comfort. Dr. Taylor closes the door behind Marsali and gestures for her to sit, moving to open the small window as if she can sense Marsali feels trapped. A cold breeze wafts in and Marsali is grateful for it; a reminder that the world keeps turning, that the seasons are progressing.

„Before I let you know the results of your blood tests, I want to go over the facts with you one more time,“ Dr. Taylor says as she sits down behind her desk, her calm gaze focused on Marsali, who just nods.

„You’ve decided to have your blood tested because your mother has early onset dementia, which can be hereditary. However, the results of this test will not conclusively tell you if you’ll suffer from the same disease.“

Marsali nods again. She knows all this, she’s had a lot of time to get informed.

„The test identifies certain genetic markers. People with mutations in certain genes are statistically more likely to develop early-onset dementia. We know your mother has tested positive for one of the markers,“ Dr. Taylor pauses and sorts through the papers on her desk.

Marsali grits her teeth together, balls her hands so tightly she feels her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. She holds her breath. She’s aware that no matter the results of the test, she could always develop the disease. She’s aware how little reassurance a negative result really holds. But she wants it, needs it. She needs to know that she can live her life without the sword of high risk hanging over her neck.

„Miss Fraser.“

Marsali hasn’t realized she closed her eyes until she opens them to meet Dr. Taylor’s smiling gaze.

„You do not have any of the mutations, you tested negative for all the genetic markers.“

And Marsali breathes. She breathes in the cold air wafting through the still open window and Dr. Taylor reminds her again, that the test results provide only an indication of what may or may not happen. And Fergus is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, two floors up, because he deliberately got into a fight with some of her father’s men. And Laoghaire is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, three floors up, because she fell down the stairs to the basement when Marsali hadn’t locked the basement door. And the hospital’s social worker is looking through nursing home brochures with her father five doors down.

But Marsali breathes, and for the first time in days, she feels like the air is reaching her lungs. She feels like there’s a tiny sliver of hope. And where that tiny sliver grows, a plan slowly starts to take shape.

___________________________________________________________________

It’s raining when the procession of bikes reaches the cemetery, the roaring of motors drowning out the splatter of water against stone for just a moment before the bikes stand as still as their riders.

Black is their everyday color, and only their somber expressions hint at the special occasion. The pastor has held gang funerals before, but never one like this, he realizes with worry, when he stares at the mix of Mongols and Angel signs on the jackets of the assembled. They’ve come together, and it seems they’ve come in peace. He hadn’t really believed in it until now.

„Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs. Proverbs 10:12.“ The pastor’s voice raises over the cries of heaven as the heads of the assembled men and women rise at his words.

„We lay to rest your children,“ he continues, „who, despite their youth, knew the truth of God’s word in their hearts. Marsali Fraser and Fergus St. Germain have loved deeply. Their love crossed borders, and stood safe in the middle of a stormy sea of conflict that finally consumed them. Let us remember that love and let us honor it by calming the conflict between us.“

Jamie Fraser is a wall of stone, a picture of hard edges. Claire softly squeezes Jamie’s hand, her face hidden in his shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation he squeezes back.

„Marsali and Fergus’ love has endured great conflict. It is now, on this day, reason and incentive for us to come together as they have, to cross borders as they did. May you be united in love and grief for your children as they have been united in love for each other.“

Nobody moves when the pastor ends his speech. The rain is too loud in the silence of their shared grief, too warm on their icy skin. It’s a day to be marked – the day they buried Marsali and Fergus, the day they’ve let a semblance of peace enter their hearts.

Jamie and Claire are the last to leave the cemetery. Jamie’s phone rings just when he sits down on the bike’s saddle and he shuts off the motor again before picking it up.

„How did it go?“ she asks and he thinks he must imagine the tinny quality to her voice – modern technology doesn’t bother with distance as much as the heart does, after all.

„All according to plan, a leannan,“ he assures her, and Claire smiles at him. „Ye’re safe?“

„Aye, Da, we’re safe.“ She sounds full of wonder, as if stunned this crazy plan of hers has worked, has somehow spit them out safe and sound on the other side of the border.

„Yer Ma?“

„They say she’s adjusting well. We’re going back to visit her on Sunday. I have a good feeling about this, Da.“

It takes him a moment to answer her, emotions warring in his chest. The pastor was right, he decides for himself. There have been too many wrongs in this story, too many obstacles in his daughter’s path. But however winded the way, however dramatic and unusual the means, love covers all the wrongs.

„Me too, Marsali. Me too.“

[thebrochtuarachs]

Arranged: Chapter 6

Modern AU. Set in present time. Where Claire and Jamie are arranged to be married.

CH: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5

AO3

A/N: Hello, everyone! I'd like to start with an apology for not updating for so so long. This story is still very dear to me, I daydream a lot of the next chapters, it's in my head and in my drafts and I just didn't realize that has been quite a while since I posted a chapter. Time flew by so quickly in the pandemic, I hadn't seen it pass. Anyway, posting this short and sweet update. Hope you like it! As always, your comments and suggestions are very much welcome :) Hope that you are keeping safe and healthy! Till the next!

XXXXX

The Ring of the Woman of Balnain – or that’s what they call the ring for generations since the 18th century.

For Jamie, it was simply his 8-times great-grandmother’s ring – a small circlet passed down his family for generations. His siblings never cared for the old thing but Jamie loved it ever since he was a wee lad and asked his parents to give it to him when he was old enough – and that time was, apparently, now.

After his mother ambushed him in the kitchen, Jamie was now in possession of one the most precious things in his life. He promised himself that he would give it to the woman he’ll marry someday as a gift and sign of his love and he hoped that the ring would bring luck in their relationship.

When he realized that Claire Beauchamp was the one, he thought about asking for the ring but then he found out about Frank Randall and had to re-evaluate his chances and options. All of his plans for him and Claire got put on hold until their parents intervened with this crazy scheme. But this crazy scheme, allow him to at least, put some plans in place.

A week later, his mother found the ring box on his bed side table, untouched and unopened.

“Give it to her. I want you to give it to Claire. It’s perfect” she heard Ellen say to Jamie who just groaned in disapproval.

“Mam, I thought we were going to do this in our own time, our own terms. Giving her this does not make all of this any easier.” Jamie replied.

“I know, son. But this has a special meaning to our family, ye ken that. Even if this arrangement is so, I would – no, we would, yer father and I – would love it if ye kept with the tradition.”

Then came one of Jamie’s exasperated sighs. “I’m no promising anything, Mam. I’ll think about it but don’t expect anything”

He and Claire hadn’t really discussed the nature of their relationship one month in since getting reacquainted. But the truth was, with all the time they’ve been spending together ( almost everyday ), they’ve gotten really close that even the people close to them have started noticing up to a point where they asked if there was something going on between them.

Of course, they denied it – not wanting anyone to know about what really was going on – saying they were just friends and reasoned the mere fact that their families were close and that was the way it’s always been for them. A damn, unreliable lie but it’s all they got.

Their research was not progressing in any form which was starting to frustrate Claire. Everything they were getting from “company sources'' just didn’t make sense in any scenario or plan. Money was not an issue, their family relations were not an issue, their business relations were not an issue… they were running out of “reasons” and “clues” but Claire refused to give up. Of course, Jamie knew otherwise but silently played along.

Thankfully, their final exams were coming and Jamie decided to put pause on everything and have a break from their research and each other - their schedule not permitting any free time. They haven’t seen each other in a week.

Today, Jamie had been in the coffee shop for hours since almost all of his classes got cancelled when his building suddenly needed to be fumigated.

“This seat taken?” the voice was unfamiliar and Jamie looked up to find Laoghaire Mackenzie looming over his table. He knew about her and her fondness of him, she was never to shy to show it anyway, but he’d never taken a liking to the lass. She wasn’t his type and he didn’t like her personality at all. Despite numerous turndowns, she was still persistent.

Sensing his refusal, she made another attempt. “The table sits four and yer the only one.” She moved the chair in front of him causing the bag to fall over and all of its contents sprawled over the floor.

“I’m sorry. Here” she said, giving some of his things as he stood to pick it up. “Well?” she asked again, waiting for his invitation. Jamie was a gentleman and seems there was no reason to give the lass a boot or the seat. He was about to reluctantly agree when another voice chimed in.

“Actually, the seat is taken.” Claire’s voice was a happy sound in Jamie’s ear. Laoghaire turned to see whose voice was cockblocking her to Jamie and frowned. Laoghaire and Claire have never had a conversation before past pleasantries and despite that, they seem to have grown a dislike to each other, an unspoken disapproval of each person’s position in Jamie’s life. Too bad for Laoghaire, Claire knew she had the upper advantage and would gladly take that road anytime around her.

Claire wore her smug face proudly as Laoghaire huffed and shoved her way past her. Jamie, to his credit, didn’t say anything but rather he smiled at her in such a way that made Claire’s heart sing and she knew it came from a place of utmost gratitude.

Claire took her seat and Jamie started fixing his bag. Upon inspection, he realized he was missing something. Alarmed, Jamie quickly put out its contents again but still, it was not there.

He stood up and looked around the floor, pacing himself around the perimeter of his area. At one point, he even kneeled and bowed down just to look under chairs.

It was still not there.

Jamie stood up, flushed and a paleness was creeping in his face. He has lost it. How could he have lost it? Did Laoghaire take it with her? How would he tell his Mam that he lost a 300-year old family ring? Questions were pouring out his mind and he felt utter despair in the situation.

He wasn’t even supposed to bring it. It was a last minute decision to have it checked and cleaned.

“Looking for this?” Claire lifted the black leather box.

Jamie turned his head so fast, Claire thought he’d trip with his own momentum. But seeing the relief on his face warmed her heart.

“Thank ye!” he sat and moved to get the box but Claire pulled it away. “What’re..?”

“What is this?” she asked genuinely. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Tis’ nothing, Claire” he said, attempting to grab it from her again but was unsuccessful. She gave him a look and he resigned. “Yes. But there’s no need to think about it now, we have exams coming up.”

It wasn’t the same for Claire. The box did cross her mind from time to time since the dinner. But she, too, resigned and gave the box back to Jamie. “Fine, okay. Can I, at least, see it though?” she asked shyly.

“What?”

“Can I see it?”

Oh. Jamie was not expecting that. He didn’t think she’d be interested at all but here they are. He looked around, checking the place. The coffee shop was sparse and there’s no one close enough to pay them attention.

Jamie then focused on her, his eyes boring intently on hers, hoping to convey a certain reverence and seriousness on what he was about to show her. Slowly, he lifted the lid of the box revealing the simple silver ring within, his eyes observing her reaction.

Claire’s eyes focused on the ring as soon it was revealed. She honestly wasn’t expecting anything but if it was an engagement ring, at least, she thought, there’d be a diamond on it.

But this one was as simple a simple band can be and she was captivated by it. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad ye think so. My brother and sister never cared for it…”

“But you do.” she finished and he nodded in agreement. “How old is it?”

“About three centuries old? It has been passed down in my family for generations” Jamie shared but not giving away any more details. That was for another story.

“Alright, I have to be honest” Claire began. “I heard your conversation with Aunt Ellen last dinner. I knew about the box. It was accidental, I promise! I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I’m sorry. This is what I was avoiding. We’re in a tough spot as it is and now this. I’m sorry, Claire. Don’t think about it. I’ll deal with my parents.” Jamie rambled on his apology and closed the box.

“No, no. It’s fine. I know what she meant and I know it’s ultimately up to us.” she moved her hand to comfort him and it landed parallel to where he clutched the box. Jamie startled with the proximity but she didn’t seem to notice and he didn’t move either. “Do you think it’ll buy us time if I wore this?”

“Ye want to wear it?!”

“Why not? If it’ll buy us time, why not? Plus, it looks nothing like an engagement ring. Nobody knows if I’m with someone. If anyone asks where I got it, I’d just say I got it from a vintage store or something old family heirloom.” she reasoned.

Jamie doesn’t look convinced still so Claire held his gaze having some unspoken conversation.

“Only if ye genuinely want to.” he countered.

“I want to”, Claire replied earnestly.

After a beat, Jamie lifted his hand and held it out to hers. “Give me yer hand.”

Claire smiled and handed her left hand to his. At that moment, they felt no awkwardness in their bubble. There was a trust, a knowing, a joy, and an excitement that neither thought of and realized until later. Jamie got the ring from the box and slid it on her ring finger.

A perfect fit.

Jamie wanted to kiss the back of her palm but resisted. Instead, he gave it a gentle squeeze and let it go.

Claire pulled back and proceeded to pull out her books and other stuff on the table and Jamie settled back to his. The rest of the afternoon went by as they normally did until it was time to head home.

[ladywynneoutlander]

Letters of Outlander

Jenny Murray to Jamie Fraser, TFC Ch. 99, September 16, 1771

Brother,

  Well. Having taken up my pen and written the single word above, I have now sat here staring at it ‘til the candle has burned almost an inch, and me having not one thought what I shall say.  It would be a wicked waste of good beeswax to continue so, and yet if I were to put the candle out and go to bed, I should have spoilt a sheet of paper to no purpose -- so I see I must go on, in the name of thrift.

  I could berate you. That would occupy some space upon the page, and preserve what my husband is pleased to compliment as the most foul and hideous curses he has been privileged to hear in a long life.  That seems thrifty, as I was at great pains in the composition of them at the time, and should not like to see the effort wasted. Still, I think I have not so much paper as would contain them all.

  I think also that perhaps, after all, I do not wish to rail or condemn you, for you might take this as a just punishment, and so ease your conscience in perceived expiation, so that you leave off your chastising of yourself. That is too simple a penance; I would that if you have wove a hairshirt for yourself, you wear it still, and may it chafe your soul as the loss of my son chafes mine.

  In spite of this, I suppose that I am writing to forgive you -- I had some purpose in taking up my pen, I know, and while forgiveness seems a doubtful enterprise to me at present, I expect the notion will grow more comfortable with practice.

  You will be curious to know what has led me to this action, I suppose, so I will tell you. 

  I rode to visit Maggie early Monday last; she has a new babe, so you are once more an uncle; a bonnie wee lassie called Angelica, which is a foolish name, I think, but she is very fair and born with a strawberry mark on her chest, which is a charm for good.  I left them in the evening, and had made some way towards home when my mule chanced to step into a mole’s hole and fell. Both mule and I rose up somewhat lamed from this accident, and it was clear that I could not ride the creature nor yet make shift to travel far by foot myself.

  I found myself on the road to Auldearn just over the hill from Balriggan. I should not normally seek the society of Laoghaire MacKenzie -- for she has resumed that name, I having made plain in the district my dislike of her use of “Fraser,” she having no proper claim to that style -- but it was the only place where I might obtain food and shelter, for night was coming on, with the threat of rain.

  So I unsaddled the mule and left him to find his supper by the road, while I limped off in search of mine.

  I came down behind the house, past the kailyard, and so came upon the arbor that you built. The vines are well grown on it now, so I could see nothing, but I could hear that there were folk inside, for I heard voices.

  The rain had begun by then. It was not but a smizzle, yet the patter on the leaves must have drowned my voice, for no one answered when I called. I came closer -- creeping like a spavined snail, to be sure, for I was gromished from the fall and my right ankle gruppit -- and was just about to call once more, when I heard sounds of a rare hochmagandy from inside the arbor.

  I stood still, of course, thinking what was best to do. I could hear that it was Laoghaire shedding her shanks, but I had no hint who her partner might be. My ankle was blown up like a bladder, so I could not walk much farther, and so I was obliged to stand about in the wet, listening to all this inhonesté.

  I should have known, had she been courted by a man of the district, and I had heard nothing of her paying heed to any -- though several have tried; she has Balriggan, after all, and lives like a laird on the money you pay her.

  I was filled with outrage at the hearing, but somewhat more filled with amazement to discover the cause.  That being a sense of fury on your behalf -- irrational as such fury might be, in the circumstances. Still, having discovered such an emotion springing full-blown in my breast, I was reluctantly compelled to the realization that my feelings for you must not in fact have perished altogether.

                                                                              September 18, 1771

  I dream of Ian now and then. These dreams most often take the shape of daily life, and I see him here at Lallybroch, but now and again I dream of him in his life among the savages -- if indeed he still lives (and I persuade myself that my heart would be some means now if he did not.}

  So I see that what it comes to in the end is only the same thing with which I began -- that one word, “Brother.” You are my brother, as young Ian is my son --  the both of you my flesh and my spirit and always shall be. If the loss of Ian haunts my dreams, the loss of you haunts my days, Jamie.

  I have been writing letters all the morning, debating with myself whether to finish this one, or to put it into the fire instead. But now the accounts are done, I have written to everyone I can think of, and the clouds have gone away, so the sun shines through the window by my desk, and the shadows of Mother’s roses are falling over me.

  I have thought to myself often and often that I heard my mother speak to me, through all these years. I do not need to hear her now, though, to ken well enough what she would say. And so I shall not put this in the fire.

  You remember, do you, the day I broke the good cream-pitcher, flinging it at your head because you deviled me? I know you recall the occasion, for you once spoke to Claire of it. I hesitated to admit the crime, and you took the blame upon yourself, but Father kent the truth of it, and punished us both.

  So now I am a grandmother ten times over, with my hair gone grey, and still I feel my cheeks go hot with shame and my wame shrink like a fist, thinking of Father bidding us kneel down side by side and bend over the bench to be whipped.

  You yelped and grunted like a puppy when he tawsed you, and I could scarce breathe and did not dare to look at you. Then it was my turn, but I was so wrought with emotion that I think I barely felt the strokes. No doubt you are reading this and saying indignantly that it was only Father was softer with me because I was a lass. Well, maybe so, and maybe no; I will say Ian is gentle with his daughters.

  But then Father said you would have another whipping, this one for lying -- for the truth was the truth, after all. I would have got up and fled away then, but he bade me stay as I was, and he said to me, quiet, that while you would pay the price for my cowardice, he did not think it right for me to escape it altogether. 

  Do you know that you did not make a sound, the second time? I hope you did not feel the strokes of the tawse on your backside, because I felt each one.

  I swore that day that I should not ever be a coward again.

  And I see that it is cowardice indeed, that I should go on blaming you for Young Ian. I have always kent what it is to love a man -- be he husband or brother, lover or son. A dangerous business; that’s what it is.

  Men go where they will, they do as they must; it is not a woman’s part to bid them stay, nor yet to reproach them for being what they are -- or for not coming back.

  I knew it when I sent Ian to France with a cross of beechwood and a lock of my hair made into a love knot, praying that he might come home to me, body and soul. I knew it when I gave you a rosary and saw you off to Leoch, hoping you would not forget Lallybroch or me. I knew it when Young Jamie swam to the seal’s island, when Michael took ship for Paris, and I should have known it, too, when wee Ian went with you.

  But I have been blessed in my life; my men have always come back to me. Maimed, perhaps; a bit singed round the edges now and then; crippled, crumpled, tattered, and torn -- but I have always got them back. I grew to expect that as my right, and I was wrong to do so.

  I have seen so many widows since the Rising. I cannot say why I thought I should be exempt from their suffering, why I alone should lose none of my men, and only one of my babes, my wee girl-child. And since I had lost Caitlin, I treasured Ian, for I knew he was the last babe I should bear.

  I thought him my babe still; I should have kent him for the man he was. And that being so, I know well enough that whether you might have stopped him or no, you would not -- for you are one of the damnable creatures, too.

  Now I have nearly reached the end of this sheet, and I think it profligate to begin another.

  Mother loved you always, Jamie, and when she kent she was dying, she called for me, and bade me care for you. As though I could ever stop.

                                 Your most Affectionate and Loving Sister,

                                  Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Metamorphosis AU: Ch. 25 - Horn of Plenty

Hey all! This chapter’s title is a lil play on words in honor of Thanksgiving (read: cornucopia) this week over here in the US, the decided air of gratitude in the content, and the medical instrument Claire and Jamie use. We’re almost done, guys! This is exciting!

You can find previous chapters here or over at AO3.

_____________________________________________________

January 29th, 1744.

“I have something for you,” I grinned proudly from my seated position against the pillows.

A slow smile tugged at the corners of Jamie’s lips as he paused in undressing and purred, “Do you now?”

I smugly nodded and left it at that, my excitement growing as fast as my husband’s curiosity as he hastily freed himself from his kilt. He tripped and nearly fell face first into the bed as he tried to extricate himself from his shirt while still moving forward, but caught himself just in time climb in with some shred of dignity left.

It vanished, however, as he then crawled towards me on all fours and I burst out laughing at his eager expression, which was part excited child, part aroused lover.

“What is it?” he asked with a wide smile, unable to help himself.

I kissed him and whispered, “Look under your pillow.”

He reached over, skimming his good hand over the top of the coverlet and under the pillow to retrieve the pinard’s horn I’d commissioned from Murtagh. He turned it this way and that, studying it carefully from every angle, and even went so far as to peer through it as one would a telescope.

“Bring it here,” I urged, beaming, and he returned to my side, handing it over with a rather befuddled look on his face. I placed it on my chest, beckoning, “Put your ear to it… Listen.”

Jamie did as told and grinned as he heard my heartbeat.

“Verra nice, Sassenach.”

I laughed again, tousling his curls as I moved it to my abdomen, commenting, “That’s not the best part.”

“Christ, really?” he caught on quickly.

“Well, hopefully… if we can find the right place.”

I returned the instrument to him and slid back, reclining in an attempt to do my part. My hands skimmed across my belly, curving round until I found the flat plane of one of their backs.

I offered, “Try here.”

This was all the instruction Jamie needed and he set about the delicate business of finding each baby’s heartbeat. He tried to remain quiet in an effort to hear better, but couldn’t help muttering to himself as he shifted the instrument this way and that to find the perfect spot. When this didn’t prove immediately successful, he began to coax them, cooing sweet nothings as he honed his craft and zeroed in on their elusive whisperings.

Jamie fell silent and quite suddenly reached out blindly for my hand. I took it between both of mine as he murmured low, “I can hear him, Sorcha.”

I nodded, at a complete loss of words, and squeezed his hand gently. His thumb began to wiggle a bit, but then I realized it was tapping out a steady beat.

He was trying to show me what he was hearing.

“Jamie,” I breathed and he gave my hand a gentle pat before slipping it away to place beside the instrument.

His palm pressed against me, his fingers splayed wide, and all I could see was the delightful image of our baby’s downy head cupped tenderly in his hand.

“I can hear you, mo beag leanabh,” he softly greated. “Your mam says you can hear me too… Tha gallom ort.”

His eyes slid shut for a moment, savoring the auditory confirmation that our child was safe and well, then he sat back up. He couldn’t bear to move his hand from the place he’d just been listening from, but the knowledge that his search wasn’t quite done had him eager to continue.

“If one’s there,” he thought out loud, placing his other hand on the opposite side of my belly, “I should try just here, aye?”

I nodded and my hand nudged his lower, showing him a better spot. A laugh bubbled up and I bit my lip to stop my grin as the baby in question began to move within me, protesting my stagnant, nearly fully-prone position by wiggling in a manner that made their father’s work just that much harder.

Jamie sighed in good humor, the joy in his eyes negating the very dry tone of his voice, “Sassin’ your da from the start, hmm? I see how it is.”

“They are your children,” I teased, recollecting the Laoghaire’s ridiculous claim that they were anything but.

He lifted his head with a wry smile, “Aye, heaven help them.”

My fingers twined amid the curls at the base of his neck as he resumed his search once more. He copied his movements from the last successful endeavor: still coaxing, still crooning. It worked and a small sigh of relief left Jamie’s lips as he listened intently.  

He stayed crouched in this position for a good many moments before returning the pinard’s horn back into my keeping and brushed his lips against the place it had just been.

His mission now accomplished, Jamie lounged comfortably beside me, propping himself up with a throw pillow and his good arm. His right was draped across my hips, his thumb caressing the place where one of the baby’s heels pressed against my side. He brought his face close and his lips hovered over my belly, his warm breath tickling my skin as he began to reverently croon to them again in Gaelic.

“That was lovely,” I hoarsely whispered, my throat constricting with the overwhelming feeling of complete and utter joy as my hand moved to cup the back of his head. “What did you tell them?”

Jamie shrugged slightly, his grin turning lopsided as he tried to downplay the importance of his words, all the while still feeling the weight of their significance. I pulled at him and he moved towards me, settling his head next to mine on the pillows.

“I asked them to be gentle wi’ you… that I kenned they’re tight on space just now, but that they’d soon be out and free to wiggle about to their wee hearts’ content,” his voice was as thick as mine now, the echo of their heartbeats still ringing strong in his ears.

Tears blurred my vision as he brought his lips to mine, overwhelming my senses with a kiss that defined tenderness itself. I looped my arms around his neck in an effort to anchor myself. I felt as though I were floating, all of my discomfort, all of my anxiety completely melting away until I was left with a single phrase.

All is well.

We settled ourselves with a collective sigh, Jamie helping me turn onto my side, and we spooned together in the gathering darkness.

“I want you to teach me,” I blurted, nestling myself more comfortably in his arms and clarified, “Gaelic, I mean… I know some phrases and can understand a good bit more, but I want to be able to speak it with you… with them.”

He planted a kiss atop my head as he eagerly agreed to this, “Aye, I’d love to teach you, but you have more of it than you realize.”

I made a small noise of negation, pulling a face even though I knew he couldn’t see, and a soft chuckle rolled through him.

“Tha gallom ort, mo nighean donn.”

“I know that one,” I insisted, playfully elbowing him in the ribs.

“Oh, aye,” he laughed again, but this time with a depth and warmth that I hadn’t heard since we were at Lallybroch.

“Where shall we begin, then?”

…

February 16th, 1744.

The captain of the Demeter was due to arrive into port any day now and tensions were high. Willie was making daily, covert trips to the wharf, unwilling to lose any of our precious time, and Murtagh was doing all he could to keep Jamie from going stir crazy.

A man of the outdoors, my husband was growing weary of remaining within the abbey walls, with his only respite sojourns in the resident stable and dormant courtyard gardens. I accompanied him often and it was there, amid the crumpled leaves and fallen snow, that our messenger found us.

“She’s here!” Willie burst into the withered kitchen garden with a shout, “The Demeter’s here an’ the captain’s agreed to take ye!”

Jamie let out an excited cry of delight and kissed me full on the mouth before clumsily gathering me into his arms. The embrace didn’t work remarkably well, with my face being squashed against his chest and my torso rather twisted in order for him to get even remotely near me, but I found myself laughing despite my discomfort.

“When?” He called out, “When does she sail again?”

Willie grinned, proudly answering back, “Five days time!”

A sigh of relief left my lips, albeit muffled by Jamie’s plaid, and I squeeze him tightly.

A week.

We would be in France within a week.

“A dhia, Sassenach,” Jamie murmured in amazement, putting his hands on my shoulders and abruptly held me at arms length. His eyes were bright, his chin wobbling slightly as he breathed, “We can make it, aye? We’ll make it to Le Havre before they come?”

My heart soared as high as the clouds above us as I grinned, “Yes… yes, we will.”

[bee-kathony]

McTavish & Beauchamp | Ch. 28 “Everything I Need”

a/n: Hello! I’m so sorry it’s been so long since I last updated this, thank you for being patient with me! And thank you @julesbeauchamp for this beautiful moodboard! 

Masterlist Here

May 6th, 1747 

Home. It had been weeks since we’d been there. Our visit to Leoch had been extended once we found out about Jamie’s father. While we were there, Colum had died, leaving everything to his son Hamish. I knew Jamie was sad about his uncle’s passing, but having his father by his side, lifted his spirits tremendously.

Jamie and I had a few rough days after his kiss with Laoghaire, but our marriage was strong and had survived much worse.

The journey back to Lallybroch was quick, as we were all anxious to return. Brian most of all.

“Do ye think Jenny will recognize me?” Brian said as we walked up the path leading to Lallybroch. We hadn’t bothered writing a letter to Jenny to try and explain how their father was possibly still alive. This was something one needed to see to believe.

“Aye, of course, Da. Tis been 8 years and ye dinna look all that different. Perhaps lost a couple stone,” Jamie said laughing as he hit his father on the stomach.

“And her bairns, how many does she have?” Brian smiled.

“Two,” I said. “But she’s pregnant with another, almost ready to give birth again. There’s Young Jamie and then wee Maggie who is just a few months older than our Faith.”

“Faith and then the lad William…” Brian said. We had spent the journey back telling him about our children and Jenny and Ian’s children. He had laughed when he found out that Ian had married Jenny.

“I always liked the lad, the two of ye got into so much trouble as lads,” Brian laughed over our meal of rabbit one night on the road. “I canna even count the times I used my belt on the pair of ye.”

“I can,” Jamie winced, shifting slightly as if just the mention of a beating hurt his backside.

“So Claire, my son told me a bit about the two of ye on the way back to Leoch,” Brian turned to me, his dark eyes shining across the glow of the fire. “What’s a lovely Sassenach like yerself marryin’ a farmer lad from the Highlands?”

“Well I suppose I didn’t have much choice,” I smiled over my plate. “It was either marry someone for protection or be furthered questioned for being an English spy.”

“Aye, but what she’s no tellin’ ye is that she did have a wee bit of choice in it,” Jamie smirked, glancing over at me. “Dougal told her she needed to marry someone and my Sassenach offered up my name first.”

“Ahhh,” Brian smiled, nodding his head and I felt a heat rising in my cheeks.

“If you put it that way, then yes,” I grinned. “I did have a choice, but then I didn’t really — not when it came to loving you,” I said softly, looking over at Jamie.

Leaning over, Jamie kissed me before turning back to his food, his cheeks a bit more red than they were before.

“All that to say, Mr. Fraser—“

“Tis Brian or Da if ye like…” Brian said, his hand reaching out to hold mine.

“Da,” I said softly only because any louder and my voice would have betrayed the emotion I felt at having him ask to call him Da. “I love you son dearly, and I may be a Sassenach, but I feel that I belong in the Highlands among the heather and moor.”

“Aye, ye do lass,” Brian squeezed my hand. “Ye belong wi’ us.”

It was two days after feeling so accepted by Jamie’s father that we arrived to Lallybroch. I could sense the nervousness from Brian — the same tense set of his shoulders and fierce looking eyes that Jamie had.

Brian Fraser… resurrected.

Before we went inside or called anyone out to us, Jamie and Brian tied up the horses, removing the saddles and our belongings.

“It’ll be alright,” I heard Jamie say to his father. It was so interesting to watch Jamie and his father interact. From all the stories Jamie had told me of him, he was not at all what I expected, but he had been imprisoned for eight years — that would change anyone.

The sound of our horses and general arrival must have been heard from inside and I turned to see Jenny in the doorway.

“Jenny….” Jamie looked at his sister as she crossed the threshold, a wide smile on her lips. We watched as her face shifted from a look of happiness to one of confusion and finally shock.

“Who is that?” She said softly as she took the final step off the stairs.

“There is a lot that I need to explain to ye, Janet,” Jamie reached for her hand, she was trembling as she looked behind him at her father. “It’s Da, he’s alive.”

Jenny looked at Jamie, her eyes pleading with him for the truth, for this to not be a dream. I knew the last thing she expected was to see her father, alive after all this time.

“That’s no possible. I saw him buried in the ground nearly eight years ago wi’ my own eyes,” Jenny’s lip quivered and I wanted so badly to hug her. She was always so strong, always holding it together so that others could lean upon her.

“Dougal did this, Jenny.” Jamie cupped her cheek and turned her face to look at him.

“I—“ she started and then pushed past him, her eyes focused on Brian. “Is it true?”

Brian looked at his daughter, tears in his eyes, “Aye, my lass. It is.”

“Then ye better be able to explain to me why I thought ye to be dead!” She took the final few steps and launched herself into her father’s arm, nearly knocking him over. Brian wrapped his arms around her, holding her shaking form to him. Tears of my own fell down my cheeks as I watched father and daughter reunite.

“Come, Sassenach.” Jamie took my hand, “Best to leave them on their own for a bit.”

I followed him into the house, and was immediately greeted by two small children, shouting and jumping at the both of us. Falling to my knees, I embraced my children, hugging them so tight, Faith complained that she couldn’t breathe.

“Oh I’m sorry, darling, I just missed you so much!” I kissed her cheek and then pulled Willie onto my lap. His small hands reached up to my face, “Mama!”

“Hello, my love,” I smiled and held him close. “Mama and Da missed you so so much, we didn’t mean to be gone for so long.”

“Aye, mo chuisle,” Jamie said and kissed Faith on the cheek. “But we’ve brought someone back wi’ us. He’s yer grandda, my own father.”

“Where did you get him?” Faith asked curiously as she squished Jamie’s cheeks together.

“We brought him from a far away place, a leannan. I havena seen him in a verra long time and yer Da is verra happy to have him here,” Jamie kissed her cheek again and then stood, picking her up in his arms. Reaching out a hand for me, he pulled me to my feet and I grabbed Willie’s hand, helping him to walk towards the couch.

“Jamie!” Ian came hobbling from the study, reaching out one arm to him. “Tis good to see ye both. Yer bairns wouldna stop askin’ when you would be comin’ home.”

“At least they asked for us,” I smiled as I sat down on the couch, sighing as the pressure was relieved from my back. William crawled up next to me, laying his head in my lap. Faith sat at my feet, tugging on the hem of my dress.

“Yes, what is is darling?”

“Promise not to go away again?”

My heart nearly broke at her small sweet voice, “Oh I promise! I can’t stand being away from you for even a minute!”

Giggling, Faith smiled and crawled up to sit on the other side of me. I shut my eyes as I held both of my children against me, feeling comfort in their little bodies.

“Ian, there’s somethi’ ye should know,” Jamie said softly. “My Da… is alive. I ken it sounds impossible and like I’m makin’ it up, but Jenny is outside wi’ him now.”

“Alive?” Ian said. “What? Where has he been then?”

“In prison,” Jamie said and then filled in Ian on the story of Brian’s mistaken imprisonment by Dougal MacKenzie.

I must have dozed off briefly, because when I opened my eyes, Jamie was sitting beside me with Faith on his lap and Ian, Jenny and Brian were all with us in the living room. Slowly, I sat up, adjusting a sleeping Willie on my lap.

“Good afternoon, mo nighean,” Jamie whispered to me, kissing my forehead.

“Those bastards,” Jenny barked. “If Colum and Dougal MacKenzie werena already dead and buried, I’d find them myself and put them right back where they belong!”

I caught on rather quickly to the conversation at hand. Now everyone was filled in and it was Jenny’s turn to be enraged over her own kinsmen’s actions. Jamie had once told me that Jenny had never actually met their uncles and I thought that was probably for the best.

“I just canna believe that I buried a stranger’s body all those years ago,” Jenny said as she sat back. “I was stricken wi’ grief at knowin’ Jamie was beaten within an inch of his life and then father, ye—“ she choked and Ian slid his arm around her trembling shoulders. “In my wildest dreams, I didna ever think I’d see ye again.”

“I’m here, a leannan,” Brian smiled at his daughter. “I’m not goin’ anywhere ever again.”

It was a touching scene, to see family reunited after so long and under such tragic circumstances. I thought of my own parents and of my Uncle Lamb who had raised me. My parents died when I was so young — I wouldn’t be able to recognize them on the street if I saw them. And my Uncle had died many years ago, but the thought of seeing any of them, even just for a moment brought tears to my eyes.

Jamie sensed something in me and placed a kiss against my temple, bringing his thumb to brush away the fallen tear from my eye.

“Weel,” he said to everyone. “We’ve been on the road for awhile and I’m afraid my pregnant wife willna last much longer in everyone’s company.”

“I’m so sorry everyone,” I said and then yawned as if on cue. “I’m so glad to be back, to be home.”

“We’re glad to have ye both back. To have ye all,” Jenny smiled, looking over at her father. “I thought ye might be bringin’ books back wi’ ye from Leoch — I didna expect what ye did bring.”

“Neither did we,” Jamie smiled and rose from the couch, holding a sleeping Faith against his chest.

Too tired to do much of anything else for the evening, Jamie and I tucked the children into their beds, then made our way to our own, nearly stumbling on the way.

“Ahh,” I let out a sigh as I laid back in bed in just my shift. Jamie was already under the covers but I insisted on washing the dirt and grime from my body before climbing in with him. His eyes were closed, but I knew he wasn’t quite asleep yet.

“Are you very glad to be home, Jamie?” I asked, pulling the quilt over my legs and pressing my cold toes against his legs. He let out a small yelp at the touch and looked over at me.

“Aye, of course. ’Tis a bit strange after all these years to have my father back here, it will be interesting to see how we get along,” Jamie said and moved his arm around me to pull me to him.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Och, only that we are cut from the same cloth, my Da and I. When I last saw him, I was still a lad, barely had any sense and now I’m a man of my own, wi’ a wife,” he kissed me. “And three bairns.”

“So you think he’ll treat you as the boy he once knew?”

Jamie’s eyes squinted, “Maybe. It’s hard to tell, Sassenach. He’s my father of course, but being in a cell for that long will change a man, ye ken. It’ll take time before he no longer feels like he’s in chains.”

“I expect it will,” I said softly and laid my head against his chest. “Now… let’s sleep. We have our children and our home. I have you and need nothing more.”

Sighing, Jamie’s grip tightened on my arm, “I have all I need, mo nighean. Everything here in this house.”

[owlways-and-forever]

Summary: The Marauders are getting older, and that means so many things. Mischief, heartbreak, and trying to figure out who they really are. They’ll face problems within their group, prove their loyalty to each other, and discover the ugliness that is brewing in the wizarding world at large. Welcome to Years 2-4 of the Marauders time at Hogwarts. **This piece is a sequel to Behind the Mango Tree, however, you do not have to have read the first installment to pick this up. It does stand alone, but there is some carry over from the last book, especially with inter-character relationships. Basically, you don’t have to have read BtMT, but it certainly helps. Word Count: (4,052) 26,414 Links: FFnet | ao3 | tumblr: Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7

A/N: Hey, look at that! I got the chapter up on time! Woohoo! This is a pretty long chapter, and there's a lot going on in it. Hopefully you guys think it's well done! Hit me up with thoughts and comments! :)

Warnings: Discussions of violence and descriptions of alcohol/drinking

Chapter 8: Firewhiskey Breath

The end of March was cold and dreary, and brought with it a cold change in the castle. The newspapers were darker, more foreboding, and students seemed to divide themselves, staring at the each other with suspicious eyes. Fault lines in the students and the staff were becoming more clear, and the castle felt like it was waiting on bated breath for something more to happen.

James returned from Quidditch practice soaked to the bone and covered in mud, barely hearing anything as he trudged through the halls of the castle. Before he even made it back to Gryffindor Tower, he was shivering with a feverish chill, and he sniffled every few seconds.

"You should go see Madam Pomfrey for some Pepper Up Potion," Gideon Prewett suggested, looking sideways at the young Chaser. "I can give you a pass so you don't get in trouble in the halls if you like."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine," James said, shaking his head.

"Suit yourself," Gideon replied, returning his gaze to the hall ahead of him. "But you better not be sick on Saturday, we need you to trounce Hufflepuff."

"Don't worry, I wouldn't miss it even if I had dragonpox," James grinned. He was always pleased to hear how much his captain appreciated him.

Gideon chuckled lightly, but didn't say anything, and the unusual pair continued to walk toward the Gryffindor Common Room in silence. Along the route, James thought he could hear a scuffle down a side passage, but he was more focused on the ache filling his bones and the thought of collapsing into his warm, waiting bed.

"Go ahead," Gideon said suddenly, his attention turning toward the faint noise. "Straight back to the Common Room, mind. No detours, Potter, I mean it."

James nodded, and though Gideon's command piqued his curiosity slightly, he felt far too crummy to think about doing anything mischievous. He continued trudging along, almost bumping into the portrait of the Fat Lady as his eyes began to drift shut from exhaustion.

"Puffapod," James mumbled, not even seeing the pitying smile the Fat Lady gave him as he nearly fell through the portrait hole.

The Gryffindor Common Room was a mess of noise, with Gryffindors studying and laughing. Sirius, Remus and Peter were in the corner, with Sirius practically climbing on top of Remus, who was adamantly trying to focus on the essay in front of him, while Peter laughed and tried to snatch the essay away. Lily was seated at one of the tables, looking sombre as she talked to Rosaline, something serious clearly on her mind. Marlene McKinnon was sprawled across the couch, chucking popcorn at Sirius absentmindedly while she talked to Enoch Audley, who had a typically sour expression on his face.

James marched past all of them, the sound suffocating against his stuffed sinuses, and wearily climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory. He barely managed to pull his robes off and snuggle into his flannel pajamas before he collapsed on his bed, pulling his heavy blankets up to his chin.

When Remus awoke, it was clear that Sirius had not so much as closed his eyes in the night, and he was starting to majorly crash. He knew those nights happened sometimes, where Sirius' demons haunted him and he couldn't bear to see what was waiting in his mind once he fell asleep. It was also clear that James was very ill, and desperately needed to visit the Hospital Wing. He was shaking violently, his teeth chattering together as he shivered, despite having both his and Sirius' heavy comforters on top of him. Remus could feel the warmth of his fever radiating off of him from across the room.

"You put your blanket on him, but it didn't occur to you to call for Professor McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey?" Remus chided Sirius, who looked up at him from tired grey eyes.

"I thought the blanket would be enough," Sirius shrugged, but Remus could see the worry on his face. As nonchalant as he might try to act, James was his absolutely best friend, and Remus knew it frightened Sirius to see him so sick.

"Nevermind, I'll take him to the Hospital Wing before class, you just make sure Peter gets to Transfiguration on time," Remus said, chucking his pillow at Peter's sleeping form.

"No, I'll take James," Sirius objected, rubbing at his eyes. "I could use some Exsomnis Elixir anyway."

"Alright," Remus agreed, taking in the dark circles under Sirius' eyes. He wished he could convince him to sleep instead, but he knew Sirius would never go for it.

Remus dressed quickly, keeping his eye on Sirius, who was trying to get clean pajamas on James, peeling off his sweaty flannels and piling them in a heap by their warming stove. When he and Peter, who had dressed sleepily and as usual buttoned his robes askew, were ready to go to breakfast, Remus grabbed his bag and headed toward the door, casting a backward look at his friends. Sirius was struggling to get an unconscious James out of bed.

"Oi, don't forget, it's up to you now," Sirius called after Remus, somewhat cryptically, but Remus knew exactly what he meant, and rolled his eyes.

He closed the dormitory door behind him, just as he heard Sirius mutter a curse and then a quick Wingardium Leviosa, lifting James into the air magically.

"Come on, let's move," Remus said to Peter, grabbing his arm and hurrying him along. Any second, Sirius would float James down these stairs, knocking them over if they were still standing where they were.

There was only time to grab a quick slice of toast from the Great Hall to get to Transfiguration on time, and Remus was nothing if not punctual. As they filed into their seats, Remus said a silent prayer that Lily wouldn't feel like answering any of Professor McGonagall's questions today. She had seemed rather emotional the night before, talking to Rosaline in hushed voices, and Remus thought she might even have been crying at one point. She took her seat in the row in front of him, offering Remus and Peter a small smile as she sat down.

"Good morning, everyone," Professor McGonagall said, sweeping into the room with a grim face. "Today, we will be beginning our unit on the Lapifors transfiguration. Can anyone tell me what this spell does?"

Remus raised his hand, as did a few others throughout the room. He had read the introductory paragraphs for each chapter in Intermediate Transfiguration so that he knew what each spell did. It had helped him to identify the units that he was most looking forward to, and though he remembered what Lapifors did, he wasn't overly excited about it. As Professor McGonagall looked around the room, deciding who to call on, Lily raised her hand, and Remus sighed deeply.

"I'm sorry," Remus whispered, and Lily turned her head slightly, her eyebrows pulling down in confusion, and Remus swung the hand he had raised down in an arc, connecting sharply with Lily's raised hand.

Lily dropped her reddened hand, turning to stare at Remus with her mouth gaping. He gave her the most apologetic look he could manage, but Lily looked thoroughly betrayed. She rubbed her palm lightly as she turned around to face the front of the classroom again, her expression sullen. Professor McGonagall was looking at Remus with the utmost disapproval, but to his surprise she said nothing to him.

"Miss Fionn?" she said at last, calling on one of her students to answer the question she had posed.

"Lapifors turns objects, ideally small ones, into rabbits," Laoghaire recited, "and allows the caster to control the rabbit after the transfiguration."

"Very good, Miss Fionn," Professor McGonagall replied approvingly. "Five points to Hufflepuff. You all have small statues in front of you -" she waved her wand and a statue about eight inches tall appeared on each desk "- so you may begin attempting to transfigure them using lapifors. Instructions and diagrams are on the chalkboard." Another wave of her wand and her neat scroll appeared across the chalkboard at the front of the class, detailing the precise wand movements of the spell, as well as numerous other technical details. "I have matters to attend to, but be sure that I will be listening."

Professor McGonagall swept back out of the room and all the students exchanged looks with each other. It was unheard of for Professor McGonagall to completely leave her class in order to deal with something else, so it must mean something significant was happening, but Remus had no idea what that might be.

"You are a total jerk, Remus Lupin," Lily said, not bothering to turn around to look at him.

"I'm sorry, Lily, I am, but Sirius would never forgive me if I didn't," Remus answered, and to his surprise, Lily turned around and smiled at him.

"Alright, but next time, could you not high-five me quite so hard, please? My hand is going to be too sore to hold my wand properly for days," she teased, and Remus laughed.

"Deal," he said, before turning his attention to focus on Professor McGonagall's instructions. "Right, so it looks like the wand movement is kind of in the shape of rabbit ears."

Remus and Peter focused on trying to get the spell right, helping each other as much as possible, and by the time Professor McGonagall returned to dismiss them, Remus had managed to make his statue grow a furry pair of ears, while Peter had gotten his to sprout a tiny white fluff of a tail.

As the third years filed out of the classroom, Remus hurried to catch up to Georgiana Laurent, with Peter trailing behind him. Georgiana smiled at the two of them, inviting Remus’ questions with her open gaze.

“Do you know why McGonagall had to leave?” Remus asked her, but Georgiana shook her head, golden curls flying.

“I heard something about a little Ravenclaw girl at breakfast this morning, but I don’t know why people were talking about her,” she answered. “Will you be in the library later?”

“I’m not sure,” Remus said. “We’ll see if James and Sirius are alright.”

Georgiana smiled and nodded, touching Remus’ elbow lightly before turning and descending a staircase to the left, toward the dungeons for Potions class.

When Sirius hadn’t returned to class by lunchtime, Remus started to grow concerned, and suggested to Peter that they use their free period in the afternoon to check up on their friends. Peter happily agreed, eager to spend his free period doing anything other than struggling with homework.

“Mr. Black is sleeping,” Madam Pomfrey said the moment Remus and Peter walked through the door. “A Sleeping Draught, to give him some dreamless rest. However, Mr. Potter is awake. He had a nasty bout of phoenix flu so do be sure to see me for a dose of Pepper Up Potion on your way out. Fourth bed on your left.”

Peter led the way to James’ bed, screened with a quarantine shield to keep his flu from spreading to the other patients in the ward. It was charmed to be either transparent or opaque, depending on James’ desire to interact with those around him, currently mostly transparent. Sirius lay sleeping on the bed next to him, snoring lightly. A few beds down and on the right, an opaque privacy screen shrouded the occupant from view, but Remus could hear sniffling from behind the screen.

“How’re you feeling?” Peter asked James, slipping past the screens around his bed.

“Bit groggy, but the potion’s helping,” James answered, his words loose and slurred.

“I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will have you up and about in no time,” Remus assured him, but his eyes flicked over to where Sirius lay resting. He looked peaceful and most unlike Sirius.

“Sooner, than Morgan in any case,” James mumbled, catching both boys attention.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked, his head cocked to one side.

“Has no one heard?” James replied, astounded, and he struggled to push himself up straighter, his eyes sharpening slightly. He lowered his voice to a hush, looking over at the shrouded bed across the room. “Timothy Morgan was beaten last night, pretty badly, after Quidditch practice. Life threatening type beating. I haven’t seen what he looks like, but I was here when they brought his little sister Edith in, and she hasn’t left his bedside yet. And I heard some professors talking, and... I think... I think they branded him. ‘M’ for mudblood.”

“That’s horrific,” Peter said, his voice cracking, and he looked a little green.

Remus felt bile rising in his throat at the thought of a brand on Timothy Morgan’s skin. He didn’t know Timothy well, being a few years apart and in different houses, but he knew that by all accounts he was a quiet and kind boy. Not that it mattered if he were horrible, nobody deserved that kind of treatment.

“Do they...” Remus’ voice faltered, and he tried again. “Do they know who did it?”

“Not officially, but I think we can all guess who it was,” James answered bitterly.

“Dolohov and Nott,” Peter and Remus said in unison, and James nodded in agreement.

“They’re despicable,” James said, a fit of coughing breaking up his words. “But I heard my parents talking when I was home last, and it sounds like more and more people are thinking like them. My father said there’ll be a reckoning, that things could be worse than Grindelwald soon.”

“He thinks it’ll get worse?” Peter asked, sounding fearful.

“Don’t you think?” James countered, a flush rising on his cheeks as his emotions mounted. “Doesn’t it feel like things are just beginning?”

“I’d rather they were ending,” Remus whispered, pressing the heel of his hand into his brow.

“This country will explode before there’s an ending,” James answered. “Bodies will fall and blood will stain the streets.”

Remus stood abruptly and rushed from James’ bedside, finding an empty bedpan three beds down. He retched, heaving the entire contents of his stomach, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His stomach clenched again, trying to make sure every ounce of bile had been expelled.

“Are you poorly?” a small voice said, and Remus looked up to see a young girl poking her head out from behind a privacy screen.

She had a kind looking face, still a bit pudgy with baby fat, all soft curves, and her dark eyes matched her chestnut waves, a blue ribbon nestled amongst them. But her eyes were sad and red-rimmed, tear tracks staining her skin from hours of crying.

“You must be Edith Morgan,” Remus croaked, his throat raw from vomiting, and she nodded. “I’m sorry about what happened to your brother. Are you scared?”

“I don’t understand why they hurt him,” Edith answered, casting a glance over her shoulder at her brother. “I don’t know if they want to hurt me too.”

“Not everyone in the wizarding world is kind,” Remus said, not quite an answer. “But those of us who are good will help you and keep you safe however we can.”

“Thank you,” she replied, tears springing to her cheeks again.

“I hope your brother gets better soon,” Remus said, nodding to her before returning to James and Peter.

It was Peter’s idea, the next night, to sneak back into the hospital wing with a bottle of firewhiskey Sirius had charmed out of Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks. What happened to Timothy Morgan had shaken all of them, and made them fearful of what might lie ahead.

It was past midnight as Sirius, Remus and Peter left Gryffindor Tower, the firewhiskey tucked carefully under Sirius’ arm. He hoped that they wouldn’t run into any trouble on the way, as they had not bothered to think of an excuse for being out after hours. He supposed they could tell something of the truth, that they were going to visit James, but since he was on the mend, he doubted it would get them far. At best they would be sent back to bed, with no punishment.

They snuck through the corridors as quietly as possible, careful to avoid trick stairs and certain particularly talkative portraits. For a moment, they thought the jig was up when they heard Peeves around the corner from them, but luck was on their side. They made it to the hospital wing without incident, ready to drown their heavy thoughts.

Peter pushed open the door or the infirmary as quiet as a mouse, peering around the corner to check that Madam Pomfrey was not about. She seemed to be asleep in her quarters for the moment, for there was no one in the ward but the patients, all soundly sleeping in their beds. They crept across the white linoleum soundlessly until they reached James’ bed.

With a wicked grin across his face, Sirius reached out and covered James’ mouth with his hand, but Remus rolled his eyes and waved his wand in the direction of Madam Pomfrey’s office, whispering muffliato under his breath. Sirius flicked James on the forehead, and he awoke with a start, a flash of fear passing over his features at the hand covering his mouth, before he recognized his friends huddled around him.

“What are you doing here?” James asked, shoving Sirius away from him and yawning but pushing himself upright. “Has something else happened?”

“Thought we could all use a bit of cheering up,” Sirius answered, pulling the bottle of firewhiskey out with a flourish.

“You’re sure we won’t wake anyone?” James asked, a bit hesitant. He’d never had firewhiskey before, he was pretty sure his friends hadn’t either, and he wasn’t sure the best place to try it for the first time was in the middle of the Hospital Wing.

“I cast muffliato,” Remus said, but he looked around the room anyway, making sure that none of the patients seemed disturbed.

Little Edith Morgan was curled up on the bed next to her brother’s, refusing to return to her dorm until he awoke. She was fast asleep, her fingers twitching around the blanket in her fist as dreams played out in her mind. Next to her, Timothy was as still as ever, still looking more like a corpse than a living boy. The cuts on his face had swollen more, and the hints of bruises that had been there before were now dark and angry looking. Remus had never seen anyone look worse, or less likely to wake up.

Sirius whisked out his wand and conjured up four small tumblers, setting them town on James’ nightstand and uncorking the bottle of firewhiskey. He doled out a healthy measure of the amber liquid for each of them, and handed them each a glass.

“Cheers,” he said, his eyes growing darker and more serious for a minute, before he pasted a mischievous look over it.

The four boys clinked glasses lightly, before bringing the firewhiskey to their lips. Sirius downed the whole thing in one go, shaking his head slightly at the burn. Peter sniffed and wrinkled his nose, but not wanting to be left out, he drank the liquid in two gulps anyway. Following Sirius’ lead, James attempted to swallow the contents of his class in one, but he coughed and spluttered, nearly spraying it across the rest of them. Remus drank more slowly, savouring the taste as much as he could, not altogether hating the burn of the firewhiskey sliding down his throat.

When all of their tumblers were empty, Sirius poured them another serving, and they drank that too. Again and again they downed the firewhiskey in silence, the bottle starting to run low. It wasn’t long until the boys could feel the effects of the firewhiskey, muddling their minds and their movements. They felt like the world was blurring around them, their cares and their worries fading into the haze.

They had been quiet as they drank the first few glasses, the mood still somber after their earlier conversation. But as the alcohol loosened their tongues and clouded their judgment, they began to dissolve into a giggling mess. Somehow, the world became amusing again, instead of scary, and they were able to laugh at the ridiculousness of a wizard calling himself ‘The Dark Lord’.

“Wha’f’s like the Wiz’d’ve Oz,” Peter slurred, practically cackling as the other three boys stared at him with dumbstruck expressions. “Y’know, with the guy like... and the curtain... ‘n’ something ‘bout a horse... a painted horse...”

“Peter, what in Merlin’s name are you on about?” Sirius asked, swaying unsteadily in his chair.

“I think,” Remus snorted, unable to stop laughing, “I think he means the guy on the curtain... the guy... the guy in the curtain? Jus’... poof! Smoke ‘n’ mirrors...”

“Mirrors...” James mused, staring at his hand in fascination as he wiggled his fingers. “Mirrors are weird...”

“Bet Tomothy Mirgin isn’t gon’ wanna look in a mirror any time soon,” Sirius guffawed, leaning back in his chair.

“No, he won’t,” Remus said, suddenly saddened. He looked like he might cry, his eyes shining.

“He’s brave,” Peter added, his tone becoming more somber.

“To Tomothy!” Sirius cheered loudly, hoisting his tumbler into the air.

“Do you think there really could be flying monkeys?” James asked, his mind spinning, his friends all answering in unison.

“No,” Sirius scoffed without hesitation.

“Yes!” Peter shrieked enthusiastically.

“Maybe,” Remus replied, ever the diplomat.

The four of them dissolved into a fit of laughter at the ridiculousness of giving three different answers all at the precise same time. From there, the conversations spiraled, drifting down every stray train of thought, incoherent to anyone but them. They stayed up for hours, fueling themselves with more firewhiskey any time they started to feel tired. Finally, as the sky began to lighten, Peter curled up on the bed with James, Remus leaned forward and rested his head on James’ stomach, and Sirius reclined in his chair, propping his legs up on the bed.

They dozed for half an hour before James sat up abruptly, shoving the others off of him.

“Move! Move!” he hissed, vaulting out of bed.

As the others rubbed sleepily at their eyes, James scurried to the bathroom at the end of the ward. They could hear the sound of retching coming from behind the door, and a few minutes later James emerged, wiping miserably at his mouth.

“Okay, I never want to drink again,” James sulked as he crawled back into bed. “You should get back to Gryffindor Tower before somebody catches you.”

Remus nodded, seeing the sense in James’ words, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. Sirius groaned and wiggled onto his side as much as he could in the chair, tucking his head into his hands.

“Okay,” Peter sighed, though his eyes didn’t open. “Okay, let’s go.”

Peter swung his legs out of the bed, nudging Sirius with his feet. Remus stood, hissing at the amount of light streaming in from the windows. Together, he and Peter hauled Sirius to his feet, and James watched as the three of them struggled out of the Hospital Wing together. With a groan, he rolled over in bed, covering his eyes with one of the pillows. He imagined that as soon as the others got back to the dormitory, they would be doing much the same thing. At least it was Saturday, and they could all spend the day in bed.

[creativinn]

‘Joseph Mary Plunkett is my great uncle. How more Irish do you want me to be?’

I was shocked when I was asked “With a name like yours and your accent, should you be representing Ireland?” It was not what I expected to hear when I called the Irish Embassy in Paris where I was living, particularly as I had been selected to represent Ireland in the 1990 international art exhibition in Grenoble.

The authenticity of my Irishness had never entered my head. I regained my composure and answered: “Joseph Mary Plunkett is my great uncle. How more Irish do you want me to be?” That has become my instant response to anyone who wonders.

During one Cannes Film Festival an arrogant producer asked me: “So, where are your roots?” I swiftly replied: “I am like the carrot; you pull me out and I am the root”.

Born in London - my father Irish, my mother half Irish - I was seven years old when my father was appointed general surgeon in the Bay of Islands, New Zealand. He flew and we (mother and five children) went by ship on a magical trip through the Panama Canal, stopping in Curacao, Cristobal, Pitcairn Island and extraordinary places that had my favourite trees - palm trees. I ran around the deck rather than be at the ship’s school.

Eventually arriving in New Zealand, I thought we were in paradise. We left 11 years later (we were now eight children) to live in Ireland. Soon after I left for London by boat.

Love for the arts has propelled me to spend most of my life creating in film, music, art and children’s opera.

My father’s love of life is my inspiration. I remember he said to me: Find what you love to do and do it till the day you die

When I was 16 and at boarding school, the New Zealand Herald ran a front-page headline: “Convent girl wins nationwide short story competition”. I was that girl, totally surprised as I hadn’t entered the contest. It was my teacher who had raided my desk. She claimed that if she had asked me, I would have said no. The Mayor of Auckland presented me with prize money and I spent it all on books.

My first real job was in swinging London at Horizon Pictures, Sam Spiegel’s film company, working on script development with screenwriters, buying film rights. Subsequently I worked for many producers. As European Producer for Prodigy Movies, I produced Australian thriller, Black Water. As time goes by I appreciate more what a great producer Sam Spiegel was.

I have co-produced documentaries, and directed and produced documentary Walk on the Wild Side about my experiences with Stage 4 cancer. In 1994 I was also on the fun team that launched Women in Film in France in Cannes.

After marrying in Dublin, I became a full-time student at Dún Laoghaire College of Art, interrupted by births of my daughter Nico and son Kristian. Moving to Paris with my two babies in 1978, I attended the Sorbonne and had my first art exhibition.

Sadly Covid scuppered our plans for being together in Dublin for Christmas 2021.

In 1982 I founded Dublin Children’s Opera. Dame Kiri Te Kanawa was our patron. While preparing a third opera we moved to US. Broken-hearted, I cried for letting down the 116 incredibly talented children and leaving what I had so loved creating.

When not working on film or music I am sitting in a café, painting, writing two books or scrambling to reignite projects left in mid-air when I was diagnosed with cancer 12 years ago. My steel mobile sculpture L’Essor still hangs opposite Dublin’s NCH.

Walk on the Wild Side is a film tribute to the great pioneers of cancer treatment and those who followed, together with the upbeat story of my (I hope) survival of stage 4 ovarian cancer in France. Thanks to my incredible medical team, family and friends I’m alive. It is on Amazon Prime for anyone who faces cancer (and other tough times). The film will be screened in Monaco early next spring to benefit The Princess Grace Foundation which supports medical research for children. It was also screened in New York City for the benefit of the Chemotherapy Foundation.

Despite Covid, with all the constraints, the initial terror of being locked down, the sadness of being cut off from those I love most and not knowing what to believe, I feel lucky I am able to continue most of my creativity at home. I cherish my friends and family now, more than ever and feel so thankful to have them all in my life.

My father’s love of life is my inspiration. Although a busy consultant surgeon until the day he died, he gave time to his family, sailed and golfed with astounding energy. He had tremendous kindness. I remember he said to me: “Find what you love to do and do it till the day you die”. My mother told me never to lose my sense of humour. She was right.

Germaine Kos lives in Paris

If you live overseas and would like to share your experience with Irish Times Abroad, email abroad@irishtimes.com with a little information about you and what you do

This content was originally published here.

[gotham-ruaidh]

Just read the post discussing Voyager Ch.59 wherein Jamie talks with Claire about Geneva, Laoghaire and LJG. They all lust for him in one way or another. (BlackJack could have also been included.) Is this an effort to say that extraordinary physical beauty has it's own penalties? Would Jamie trade his beauty for a quieter life?

I do think that’s part of it - each of those people certainly wanted Jamie (in part, at least) due to his physical beauty. Or could only relate to him through physical lust - without knowing or caring about Jamie as a person. But I don’t think that Jamie sees it as a burden. Plus, it’s only Claire who has ever wanted - ever craved - Jamie as a *whole* person. As in, not just his physical beauty, but his heart and mind and all the facets of his personality. And it’s only Claire that Jamie wants to reveal his full self to.

To be fair, John Grey does take the time to get to know - and admire - Jamie for many more reasons beyond his physical beauty. And I wouldn’t say that Jamie feels like he’d trade any of his characteristics for a different life. He *does* use his physical beauty to his advantage sometimes - certainly he uses his height to great effect - and, to be fair, Claire uses her beauty as well to trick witless men into doing something. In this way Jamie and Claire prove yet again how well-suited they share for each other.

[incorrect-outlander-quotes]

Laoghaire: I think I'm falling for you.

Jamie: Get up.

[thegirlwiththecoffintattoo]

Voyager, Ch. 39: LOST, AND BY THE WIND GRIEVED

“I’m not going anywhere.” 
He sighed deeply and pulled me closer, settling me upon his knee, so that his arms came inside my cloak, holding tight. Little by little, the shivering eased. 
“What are you doing out here?” I asked at last. 
“Praying,” he said softly. “Or trying to.” 
“I shouldn’t have interrupted you.” I made as though to move away, but his hold on me tightened. 
“No, stay,” he said. We stayed clasped close; I could feel the warmth of his breathing in my ear. He drew in his breath as though about to speak, but then let it out without saying anything. I turned and touched his face. 
“What is it, Jamie?” “Is it wrong for me to have ye?” he whispered. His face was bone-white, his eyes no more than dark pits in the dim light. “I keep thinking—is it my fault? Have I sinned so greatly, wanting you so much, needing ye more than life itself?” 
“Do you?” I took his face between my hands, feeling the wide bones cold under my palms. “And if you do—how can that be wrong? I’m your wife.” In spite of everything, the simple word “wife” made my heart lighten. 
He turned his face slightly, so his lips lay against my palm, and his hand came up, groping for mine. His fingers were cold, too, and hard as driftwood soaked in seawater. 
“I tell myself so. God has given ye to me; how can I not love you? And yet—I keep thinking, and canna stop.” 
He looked down at me then, brow furrowed with trouble. 
“The treasure—it was all right to use it when there was need, to feed the hungry, or to rescue folk from prison. But to try to buy my freedom from guilt—to use it only so that I might live free at Lallybroch with you, and not trouble myself over Laoghaire—I think maybe that was wrong to do.” 
I drew his hand down around my waist, and pulled him close. He came, eager for comfort, and laid his head on my shoulder. 
“Hush,” I said to him, though he hadn’t spoken again. “Be still. Jamie, have you ever done something for yourself alone—not with any thought of anyone else?” 
His hand rested gently on my back, tracing the seam of my bodice, and his breathing held the hint of a smile. 
“Oh, many and many a time,” he whispered. “When I saw you. When I took ye, not caring did ye want me or no, did ye have somewhere else to be, someone else to love.” 
“Bloody man,” I whispered in his ear, rocking him as best I could. “You’re an awful fool, Jamie Fraser. And what about Brianna? That wasn’t wrong, was it?” 
“No.” He swallowed; I could hear the sound of it clearly, and feel the pulse beat in his neck where I held him. “But now I have taken ye back from her, as well. I love you—and I love Ian, like he was my own. And I am thinking maybe I cannot have ye both.” 
“Jamie Fraser,” I said again, with as much conviction as I could put into my voice, “you’re a terrible fool.” I smoothed the hair back from his forehead and twisted my fist in the thick tail at his nape, pulling his head back to make him look at me. 
I thought my face must look to him as his did to me; the bleached bones of a skull, with the lips and eyes dark as blood. 
“You didn’t force me to come to you, or snatch me away from Brianna. I came, because I wanted to—because I wanted you, as much as you did me—and my being here has nothing to do with what’s happened. We’re married, blast you, by any standard you care to name—before God, man, Neptune, or what-have-you.” 
“Neptune?” he said, sounding a little stunned.
“Be quiet,” I said. “We’re married, I say, and it isn’t wicked for you to want me, or to have me, and no God worth his salt would take your nephew away from you because you wanted to be happy. So there! 
“Besides,” I added, pulling back and looking up at him a moment later, “I’m not bloody going back, so what could you do about it, anyway?”
The small vibration in his chest this time was laughter, not cold. 
“Take ye and be damned for it, I expect,” he said. He kissed my forehead gently. “Loving you has put me through hell more than once, Sassenach; I’ll risk it again, if need be.”
“Bah,” I said. “And you think loving you’s been a bed of roses, do you?” 
This time he laughed out loud. 
“No,” he said, “but you’ll maybe keep doing it?”
“Maybe I will, at that.” 
“You’re a verra stubborn woman,” he said, the smile clear in his voice. 
“It bloody takes one to know one,” I said, and then we were both quiet for quite some time. [picture source]

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.

Catch up on the first part of this story here. There will be one more chapter after this.

The Borders Between Us

by @wunderlichkind

Two

Fergus has felt the irritation crawl under his skin all day, like tiny little insects, hooking their hairy legs into every crevice, every artery, every synapse, laying their eggs on their quest to populate his every thought. He thought Marsali’s touch would make it better – her hands wrapped around his middle on the bike, her smooth skin under his hands and lips. But she hasn’t brought him any semblance of peace, not today.

Instead, she’s a sounding body to his vibrations, picking up the current of anger and frustration running through his veins and throwing it back at him, magnified and dangerous.

He isn’t gentle with her, and she spurs him on, as if challenging the fragile illusion of peace to implode and tumble to pieces, as if walking the edge excites her, and it isn’t lost on him that her behaviour in the face of his unrest says a lot about their relationship – the game they’ve been playing for too long, that she refuses to transform into something more real, more solid.

It’s only after – when they’re lying side by side in the wide bed, spent and heated, avoiding any more touch, that he realizes the crawling sensation has left him, his anger erupted in the heat of their joining. The silent emptiness it left behind is worse, still.

„Why do you continue to come?“ he asks, a bitter taste on his tongue – the taste of weakness. He’s not comfortable with this needy side of himself, this side that can’t stay away, this side that asks her to stay again and again.

„Ye’re a damn good fuck,“ she teases, but it’s half-hearted and they both know it. He sees the fire flicker behind her blue eyes when he turns to look at her and welcomes the bite of its flames reaching for him – anything to fill the void. He presses on.

„You refuse to quit the gang, you won’t let me quit either. You never answer my declarations or pleas, yet you always come back to me. Why?“

Marsali sits up abruptly, reaching for her shirt and swinging her pale legs over the edge of the bed. The set of her shoulders is tense and she doesn’t look at him when she snaps. „What do ye want me to say, Fergus?“

„I want you to admit you love me.“

It comes out a little too loud, a little too forceful, but he doesn’t care. This has been brewing inside him for weeks, a dark, bubbling mess long overdue to spill that he desperately needs out of his system. He wants clarity – all or nothing, to have her admit her feelings or provoke her until she finally walks out on him for good.

She’s on her feet now, moving through the room quickly, in jerky, angry motions, her body radiating stress, the stony expression of her face telling him she’s struggling to keep her walls up.

„Admit it!“ he says, even louder this time, crawling to the edge of the bed. He’s naked still, but he doesn’t make a move to get dressed. He wants to force her to be open and honest, to be naked with body and words.

„Admit it, or tell me you’re just coming back here because you need to get fucked so bad, because your shitshow of a gang doesn’t have one decent man who serves you as well as I do, because you’re a damned whore who doesn’t care one iota about who she’s hurting. Say it!“

He’s almost screaming at her now, the words purposely harsh blows, chosen to tear down her walls, chosen to make her react. It’s selfish of him, but he feels he might disintegrate, might lose himself completely if he stops.

„I do, okay?!“

It’s something between a sob and yell and he’s at her side in seconds when she drops to the floor crying.

„I do love ye,“ she admits, much quieter now, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to protect her from falling apart now that the walls of protection have fallen.

„Are ye happy now?“ Her voice rises again, and she lifts her head to stare at him defiantly through a curtain of tears. He thinks about that – tries to pinpoint his feelings, to interpret the turmoil in his stomach, but she’s not finished.

„It doesn’t change anything, don’t ye get it?“ The look of despair on her face scares him, and he reaches for her arms, trying to become a part of the forlorn embrace she’s wrapped herself in.

„Ye dinna even know my last name.“

He wants to protest, wants to tell her he’ll happily learn every little detail about her life – how she drinks her coffee, how she ties her shoes, what colour her shower curtain and oven mitts and toothbrush are – but the words die on his tongue at her merciless stare, and her next words feel like a stab with a knife. Brutal, painful, inflicting an irreversible wound.

„My name is Marsali Fraser. My father is James Fraser, president of the Mongols’ Badlands charter. My mother is Laoghaire Mackenzie. She has early onset dementia. I moved back in with her a year ago, because she can’t live alone anymore.“

Fergus suddenly wishes he had dressed. He feels exposed, Marsali’s words a cold storm attacking him full force, her face a mask of pain he feels mirrored on his own.

„We’ll find a way,“ he says, a weak attempt at gaining some semblance of control over this chaos. He doesn’t believe it, and she doesn’t either.

„I canna leave, Fergus.“ Her voice is tender now, as she bends towards him and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s salty and wet from her tears, and he feels stranded, disoriented. „I’m sorry.“

And then she rises and leaves, but he can’t move. Glued down to the carpet he hates himself for being naive enough to believe that all or nothing was possible, for not seeing this coming. She loves him, but he will never have her. It’s all and nothing at the same time.

___________________________________________________________________

She’s picking out cereal when her phone rings, the melody of her favourite song echoing off the boxes stacked on the aisle. She curses under her breath at her treacherous mind, immediately flitting to Fergus. They danced to this song. Made love while it played in the background. He wouldn’t call though; he only ever texts. And he won’t text anymore, now that they stopped pretending. She swipes at her phone angrily, without checking to see who’s calling.

„Yes?“

„Marsali, good! Don’t freak out, okay?“ Claire’s voice sounds pretty close to freaking out herself, although it’s clear she’s making a conscious effort to stay calm. Marsali immediately goes into emergency mode, her feet carrying her towards the exit, the groceries in her cart abandoned.

„What happened? Did she hurt herself?“

The memory of the big blister on Laoghaire’s forearm from when she had turned her back to the hot stove for just a second makes Marsali feel nauseous and triggers more images – images of every possible danger in their house, every step you could fall, every corner you could hit your head on.

„She got out. I’m looking for her now, and Jamie is in your apartment in case she comes back. I’m really sorry, love, I swear, I was only in the bathroom for a minute...“

Marsali has to swallow around the lump in her throat before she can answer. „It’s not yer fault,“ she finally manages to say, already climbing into the car. „I’m on my way. Let’s split areas to look – where should I go?“

She finds Laoghaire at the corner café her mother used to work at, where she smiles at the customers and cleans the tables. Louie, the owner, who��s called her only ten minutes after she hung up on Claire, squeezes Marsali’s shoulder.

„It was really no trouble. She just went right to work.“

She forces herself to smile at him. „Thank ye, Louie. For not saying anything to her. And for calling me.“

„No biggie. Let me know if I can ever do anything to help.“

She gives him a grateful nod, her lips pressed together tightly to keep in the sob of exhaustion and relief she doesn’t want the world to hear. With a light touch to Louie’s arm, she turns and approaches her mother.

„Hi, Laoghaire. Let me take ye home.“

The soft tone is practiced, not even stumbling on her mother’s first name anymore – Marsali’s long since accepted the fact that addressing her with „Mam“ only agitates her, that her own mother can’t remember having a daughter.

„Is my shift already over?“ Laoghaire asks, looking over Marsali’s shoulder at Louie.

„Oh yes, dear, you go right on home and enjoy your night,“ Louie smiles at her, and Laoghaire’s face lights up, and she lets herself be led out the café and towards the car.

___________________________________________________________________

„I found the brochures,“ Jamie says, and passes her a hot cup of tea. She avoids his eyes, burying her nose in the steam rising from the cup and coughing at the strong alcoholic fumes.

„Ye put whisky in that,“ she states with half a smile that he mirrors back at her.

„Thought ye could use it.“ They settle into the couch, and his clear blue eyes - so like her own – rest sternly on her. „Marsali,“ he prompts and she shrugs her shoulders.

„I havena taken the test.“

„Ye should. I think it might be time we find a good home for Laoghaire. It’s too much for ye to take care of her all the time. Ye should be able to live yer life. And not be afraid.“ His warm palm on her knee grounds her and she sighs and lets herself be comforted by his strong presence, his warmth and solidness and safety.

„What if I have it, too?“ she whispers, not looking at him.

He wraps his strong arm around her shoulder and draws her into his chest, enveloping her into the familiar scent of worn leather and aftershave.

„I dinna ken,“ he admits, „but it’s better to know than to wonder and fret, don’t ye think? And I’ll be here. Whatever happens, I’ll be here.“

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.

The Borders Between Us

by @wunderlichkind

One

The bar is dim, light coming only from the low hanging lamps over the counter and the narrow set of windows right under the ceiling, facing the highway. The setting sun streams into the room in starch beams cutting through the dusty air, bathing anything outside their reach into a muted amber. Her hair, golden like ripe corn, seems to emit its own light, the brightest spot in his field of vision. He can’t help but stare at it.

The barkeep slides his drink over the counter and Fergus accepts it without taking his eyes from where she’s dancing and laughing with some other girls. He knows she’s aware of his gaze from the way she moves, knows she’s taunting him, even though she hasn’t so much as blinked at him since she entered the bar.

The black jeans hug her legs and ass in a way that makes him remember exactly how her milky skin feels under his hands, reminds him of every curve of her body, and creates in him the urge to drag her out of the dingy bar before anyone else sees – a surge of possessiveness he hadn’t known to be a side of him. She runs her hands through her hair laughing, and he can’t decide what to focus on – the memory of his own hands tangled in her blonde tresses or the ghost of her kiss eliciting goose bumps all over his body.

He empties his glass in one long swallow, setting it down on the counter again, onto a crumpled ten dollar bill. Without looking at her again, he stands and walks out through the back door.

The sun has almost set now and the parking lot is bathed in a muted evening light, almost orange in color. Fergus leans against the whitewashed brick of the bar’s outside wall, lighting a cigarette. He takes the first drag and closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the fading sun on his skin. He’s uncomfortably conscious of the heavy leather of his jacket weighing on his shoulders, and not for the first time asks himself if he made a mistake getting involved with these people, if he’d been too desperate for a family, any kind of home.

His stomach flutters with nerves and he is thankful for the small remedy the cigarette provides. They chose this bar carefully, it being located in a sort of no man’s land between the gangs’ territories, but it wouldn’t be wise for her to be seen with him, even here. So he waits, like he always does, and he prays she’ll come to him eventually, like she always does.

Fergus is just putting out the cigarette under the heel of his boot when the back door opens and releases her into the almost dark lot. Her own leather jacket is blacker than the approaching night, taunting him like a bad omen for a moment, until she smiles and nods towards his bike.

„Let’s go?“

He nods, returning her smile and pushing himself off the wall. His stomach settles a little when she swings onto the seat of his bike behind him and wraps her arms around his middle. The roar of the engine coming to life beneath them is soon joined by the sound of the wind rushing by their ears. The outside noises drown out his worries bit by bit, catapulting him into a simpler place, one made up of freedom and the warmth of her touch.

___________________________________________________________________

„How did it go?“ Marsali asks softly, stepping back into the small living room and closing the door to her mother’s bedroom behind her, careful not to wake her up.

„It went well.“ Her father smiles at her from across the room, shrugging into his jacket. „To be honest, I havena seen yer mother this content in a long while.“

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. „Hmm, aye. I think she remembers ye from when you were young. She doesn’t recognize me anymore most days.“

He crosses the room in two big steps, enveloping her in his strong arms and she releases a breath that has been stuck in her throat, inhaling her father’s familiar, comforting scent, feeling the soothing softness of his jacket’s worn leather under her palms.

„Ye’re being a wonderful daughter to her, a leannan. I’m so proud of you, ye ken? And ye can call me anytime if ye need someone to watch her, I dinna mind.“

He kisses the top of her head and she sighs again, reluctantly letting go of him and following him to the door. He has to duck his head just slightly, stepping through it into the stairwell and she smiles to herself. Her father, the soft giant, the protector, the president of the charter.

„Thanks, Da. Tell Claire I said hi, okay?“

She closes the door only when she can’t see him anymore and the echo of his footsteps on the stairs has faded away. From the counter by the door she picks up the mail and distractedly sorts through it, balling up a takeout menu and an ad for a car dealership and tossing them into the trash when she reaches the kitchen. She opens the fridge and scans its contents, then closes it again, regretting for a second that she threw away that menu, but deciding it was too late to eat anyway. She eyes the two letters left on the table, sighing for the third time since arriving home.

Drawing up her shoulders, she sorts them both into the piles of unopened letters on the shelves – the bigger one with the unpaid bills, the smaller one with the growing stack that she can’t open, won’t open, but can’t bring herself to throw away yet. She knows what it says, because she opened the first one, and she’s missed the appointments for the lab tests ever since. She doesn’t want to know. Not yet, possibly never.

Her mother smiles at her from the picture on the living room wall, a radiant smile, full of unbridled happiness. It’s a healthy smile, a present smile, one from before dementia.

___________________________________________________________________

Fergus watches her stretch like a lazy cat on his sheets, his fingers spread on her belly, following the dip of her hipbone, not wanting to lose touch with her skin. He feels anchored, next to her in bed, in a way he hasn’t in as long as he can remember, and in a way he knows he won’t as soon as she leaves.

„Stay,“ he says hoarsely, voice coated with emotion and a remnant of the thirst she instills and quenches in him whenever they meet.

„Ye ken fine I can’t,“ she answers, turning towards him and propping her head up on her hand. Her tone is soft but final, the message one she’s told him a thousand times.

„I can quit. You could quit too. We could leave this place together.“ He argues because he can’t give up just yet, not because he really thinks it will change her mind. He’s said all of this to her before.

„It’s not that easy. Ye ken that as well as I do. And I have family here. I canna leave them. I canna leave my mother.“

He nods, and they’re silent for a while, him watching her closely, once more trying to memorize every line of her face, every lash, every speckle in her absent eyes.

„I love you, Marsali.“

The look in her eyes is so tender and melancholic, he wants to jump out of bed and punch something, crank the bike to full speed, get into a fight. Instead, he lets her kiss him, tastes himself on her lips along with the borders between them, lingering before his inner eye when she gets up and dresses, bending down to smooth the hair out of his forehead gently in a quick gesture of affection.

He opens his eyes to see her standing at the door, lingering, and for a short moment hope flares up violently in his chest until he sees her expression.

„Ye ken I can’t,“ she says again, an echo of her own words, heavy with meaning. „I’m not meant to have a big romance in my life. It’s better that way, I promise.“

And she leaves, as she always does.

[incorrect-outlander-quotes]

Laoghaire: One day, I’m going to finally win Jamie’s heart!

Claire: I wish you would stop making your inferiority complex my problem.

[incorrect-outlander-quotes]

Laoghaire: [whispering] I don't like you.

Claire: [whispering] I'll get over it.