#i chose the easiest perspective possible too. got damn

[randomminty]

Soumer bird

[seven-oomen]

Until the end of time | Sambucky | Chapter 1

warnings/tags/main post here

Notes:

It's been a long while since I wrote anything for the Marvel fandom but I decided to step back into it after watching fatws. I'm writing this fic through Bucky's perspective mostly because I'm also doing it as an exercise to cope with my own CPTSD. And many of the feelings like pulsating energy and sensory overload are things I myself experience. Considering the things Bucky has been through, it seemed like a logical thing for him to struggle with as well.

I haven't decided if I want to turn this into mpreg near the end, but I wanna bring it up because I'm thinking about it. Haven't made my mind up on it yet. It will get a lot happier and brighter though, near the end. And they will end up together before the fic is over. But the fun is in the journey right?

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this.

-

He didn’t have a family. Not anymore.

The only living family he had left could no longer remember him. She was 102 and living in a nursing home. He visited Rebecca at times but, well, it never really amounted to anything. She couldn’t remember his name, what he looked like. And he made sure he only ever visited when her children and grandchildren weren’t around. How was he supposed to explain all of it anyway?

I’m your uncle James but I never contacted you or stuck around because I got brainwashed, experimented on, and kidnapped? Yeah… that would go over well.

He only ever observed Rebecca’s children from a distance. She had two sons; James and Robert, and a daughter, Annie, who looked just like her. It gave him some comfort to know that at least her legacy would live on.

Sometimes Hazel’s children and grandchildren visited her as well, even though Hazel herself had passed away a decade ago at 90. He didn’t know if Grace had had any children. He never saw them visit Rebecca if she had. The only thing he knew about her was that she had passed away a year ago at the age of 97.

Though they were his descendants, they weren’t his family. They didn’t know him and he didn’t know them. Not really. Files could only tell you so much about a person.

And now that Steve was gone too, life had become nothing more than a dull thrum as he tried to navigate it to the best of his abilities. Which was a lot harder than he’d anticipated. Living in New York had changed in the last century, of course it had. He found it difficult to settle in and pretend nothing had changed. To live life, go to therapy. None of that truly held any meaning for him anymore.

Or at least, it hadn’t.

Crossing the names of his list had given some of it back, for a while. He enjoyed being able to use technology and his particular skill set for the common good for once, even if his methods weren't exactly... therapist approved. Not that he listened to her anyway. He didn't see the need most of the time.

His phone pinged once again as he left the scene, letting the sirens of the approaching authorities drown out the constant murmurs and images in his head. A quick phone check revealed a text from Sam.

[Barnes I need you to answer me.]

He ignored it. Again.

It had been the fifth text in three days. Sam clearly wanted something from him, most likely his help. He didn't care much anymore. All he cared about was finishing his pardon and finding something, anything to stay alive for.

Please. Please I didn't see anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the intrusive thought, shaking his head and clenching his hands until his nails dug into his palms. Body thrumming with a pulsating energy. No. No, not now.

A deep breath. In, hold it, and out. He repeated the gesture, navigating his way through busy streets purely on autopilot

In the sanctity of his apartment, he dropped down in the nest of blankets in front of his tv and wrapped his arms around himself.

He- he couldn't.

Images of flashing metal, blood dripping to the floor plagued his mind, and the overwhelming feeling of his throat contracting made him gasp for breath.

He couldn't breathe.

His phone pinged again.

"What do you want, James?"

Family. Love. Understanding. But above all... "Peace."

"That is utter bullshit."

"You are a terrible shrink."

It was and it wasn't. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts but he also wanted those same thoughts to just- just stop.

[Barnes, pick up your damn phone.] Sam's text read this time.

He just needed it all to stop.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he breathed in and out, letting the energy just flow through him as he tried to calm his mind. Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall once he was done, he rubbed his hand over his face and got up to grab some water and a snack.

The days passed as usual.

He went to therapy, spend some time with Yori, went on a date that failed, and revisited Rebecca again. He read the hobbit to her once again, just as he had back in the '30s. She smiled at him once he was done and asked; "Who are you?"

He'd taken his leave after that. Endlessly roaming the streets of Brooklyn until evening fell and he ended up back at his apartment in front of his tv.

He had nobody left.

His sister was as good as gone. Steve had left him. He was alone. And he would die alone. Out of his mind with the walls closing in on him.

The incessant ringing and vibration of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. Jesus…

“What the hell do you want, Sam?” He said as he picked it up, probably a little more forceful than he meant to.

“Not Sam, and I’m just checking in on you.” Rhodey’s voice said on the other end.

Shit.

He sighed. “Rhodes, I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhodes paused, “Have you seen the news yet?”

He really couldn’t take this kind of bullshit right now, of course, he knew what Sam had done. “I know he retired the shield, Rhodes. You don’t have to keep checking on me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Rhodes clearly didn’t believe him, although to be fair, he wasn’t sure he would have believed himself right now, “And that’s not what I meant. They-”

His tv chose that moment to cut back to the news from the commercials that had been running. Almost as if it had a mind of its own with the world’s worst possible timing. There, in white letters on a blue banner, was the worst news he’d seen in a month.

John Walker named Captain America.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…”

“Barnes, I know what this looks like-”

“Please tell me you’ve tried to stop this.”

“I tried. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Fuck…” He couldn’t believe this, this was, just, fuck. He needed to punch something.

“Barnes,” A pause “do I need to call someone?”

He shook his head, though it only took him several seconds to realize; Rhodey couldn’t see him shaking his head. “No. No, I’m- I’m fine.”

Rhodey didn’t say anything for several seconds but he practically felt the man’s incessant gaze and knowing smile. “In that case, you should check on Sam, make sure he’s okay too.”

“Yeah…” He didn’t want to, especially not now. But maybe Rhodes had a point, he probably wasn’t the only one struggling with this news. “Give Pepper and Morgan my love, alright?”

Rhodey probably wanted to press on, judging by the hesitation in his breathing. He didn’t though. Something he was inherently grateful for. “Sure. I’ll pass it along. Take care Barnes, I’ll be a phone call away if you need me.”

“Alright. Bye.” He said, looking at the number on his phone screen for several minutes while the interview played in the background. He was grateful for all the strings Rhodes had pulled within the government to get him his pardon. He was grateful for Pepper’s non-stop work to get his bank accounts, social security, and money restored. He was grateful for the fact that they had helped and stuck their necks out for him, even though he didn’t deserve any of it. Especially considering his past and what he’d done to their family. They didn’t seem to care, and if they did, they were good at hiding it. They helped him anyway.

But he wasn’t part of their family. It didn’t feel like he was.

He sat there, watching Walker’s interview. And goddamn it was so stupid. The man didn’t know anything about Steve or the mantle he was taking on and yet there he was talking about him as if he’d always known Steve. Calling him his brother and whatnot.

He didn’t register the bleeding lip until a metallic taste filled his mouth, his hands clenched in his lap, and anger pulsing through him with an energy he couldn’t contain. What he wanted to do in that moment would have negated everything he had worked so hard for and would undoubtedly mark him an international terrorist once again.

Instead, he grabbed his keys, went to the nearest bar, and drank through so many bottles of booze that the bartender wanted to call an ambulance for him. He didn’t need one. It wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism in the slightest, but it was far better than tracking Walker down to pummel his ass.

Although he knew it wasn’t fair and part of him knew that Sam couldn’t have foreseen this coming. It was easiest to blame him. So he did.

It was all Sam’s fault. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, none of this would have happened. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, Walker wouldn’t have become Captain America. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, hadn’t given up on Steve’s wish-

He shook his head and sighed. If Steve had been wrong about Sam being the right man, then Steve was wrong about him too. And that was something he couldn’t process, not now, not yet.

In the morning, he arranged an Uber to take him to the Air force base.

-

End notes:

So that's it for chapter 1, there will be seven chapters in total. Let me know what you think of it so far, comments fuel me and keep me writing.

What did you like this chapter? Are there things that aren't clear or not written clearly? Let me know and I will make sure to fix them.

I would love to hear your thoughts.

[justjessame]

Silence Chapter 3

While I seemingly crossed paths with Negan more and more, the scarier moments came when I could see him, but he had no idea that I was nearby. Watching him turn the same charm on that he seemed to ooze onto the leader of the animalistic group made my stomach churn and bile threaten to force its way free.

If he used this tactic on her for some shady purpose, then what purpose was he using it on me?

During downtime, which I had an ample surplus of, I had to decide whether reflection of the past was warranted or wasting time on a future that seemed less and less possible was a better use of the time.

Memories? My dad-single or widower, depending upon which relative or narrative was easiest to swallow at the moment, a therapist who was more in touch with his patients’ issues than his own. Remember the old saying, “a shoemaker’s children always go barefoot”? My father took it to heart and made damn sure that I would be fine, he just wasn’t as careful with his own mental health.

His death, coming a full year before the rest of the world went to shit, was something of a gift. If I’d had to- no best not to even THINK it- OK memories were a NO.

A future daydream then-alright.

Let me think about it. First, we’d need a cure. A cure for anyone bitten by one of the infected or dying with the infection inside them. We need a humane way to end those who would rise if they do die, something that would allow us to keep our humanity in check. And let’s figure out how to keep one another from going full on feral.

So we have: Cure for bitten and dying? Check.

Humane end for the risen? Check.

Feral humans put back to sorts? Check.

That just leaves-

“Elara-” Damn it. He’d NEARLY gotten the drop on me. Almost. I’d heard the snap of a twig on his approach. The slight scent of that gruesome mask, hell even the undercurrent of his musk. “You look like you’re pretty fucking focused on something.”

I shook my head and stretched. Refocusing on him. He looked- Like he needed a distraction too.

“What’s wrong?” He barely breathed, but I could make out the gentle rise of his chest. A small sigh. “Pull up a patch of dirt.”

He sat, across from me, his long legs framing mine. “You said you aren’t a joiner.” I nodded. “Ever?”

“Clubs in school, I guess.” I settled more comfortably against my tree. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been a-” he shook his head like he was trying to convince himself. “Leader, a prisoner, a follower-”

“Any of them fit?” His eyes met mine and he smirked. “Ever try just being yourself?”

Huffing out a short breath, he shook his head. “And who the fuck is that?”

I shrugged. “Negan.”

I wander for a ton of reasons. Sometimes I get bored. I feel nomadic and I want a change of scenery. I like being near water, for washing, for fresh drinking, and for the calming effect.

I like to move so I can get a new perspective. Looking at the same thing over and over, even if the view is nature isn’t healthy. So I wander to get a fresh view, fresh air, fresh ideas.

Food is another reason. Be it for hunting or foraging, I like to have variety. Sticking to the fringes keeps me out of known territory, giving me plausible deniability if I’m ‘caught’ by one faction or another. It also keeps me apprised if I have to run, hide, or keep out of the fucking way of whatever wave of violence is coming next. Because while the monsters are real, humans are still just as fucking dangerous.

As I’m on one of my foot powered trips, I hear it. It’s as familiar to me as it is to any human being. Even if you were spared the rod like me, you’ve heard the sound of a whipping. It’s been used in movies, it’s been heard in music videos and in sex play, so the sound isn’t as foreign as one would like to imagine. And as much as I’d love to pretend otherwise, I’d heard it many times as I’ve flitted around the territory of the weirdos that Negan was making time with.

It shouldn’t have shocked me, really it shouldn’t have, that he’d be taking part in this round. Or that it would be a ritual between him and Alpha. They were doing a weird tug and pull, those two, and I had no reason to see it as anything strange or abnormal. I barely knew the man, afterall. Yet, as I stood far out of sight, watching as they whipped one another’s arms, as the chanting began warning me to seek shelter far away from what was sure to come, something told me that I knew him far less than even I’d thought possible.

I knew, regardless of how I felt about the chanting, whipping, really gruesome and sadly anticlimactic S&M imagery, that I needed to get my ass hidden in one of my MANY hidey holes. One of the other side effects of wandering is that I had a cache of places that most survivors barely glanced at that would not only keep me safe, but offered me a place to tuck away to and ignore the rest of humanity until they got their shit back in order.

Some were clearly old hunting cabins, others were shacks, and some bore the tell tale signs of being former moonshine stills. Regardless, four walls at least and a roof were my requirements. Bonus if there was a stove or fireplace of some sort, and God fucking praise Jesus if it was furnished.

Of course, I should have known, given my luck since meeting Negan for the very first fucking time at MY bathing spot that he’d find my spot. That out of ALL of the shacks in ALL of Godforesaken fuckoff Virginia Negan would manage to bring Alpha to MINE.

I was writing in my notebook, killing time as the quiet was cloaking me like a soft blanket when I heard the first hint that it was being broken. And then, arrow notched, shoulder against the side of the shack, I watched as he walked behind HER as they approached MY spot. My heart was pounding SO loudly in my ears that IF they were speaking I couldn’t hear the words. I knew the moment she saw me. I saw the surprise on her face. The confusion. I was shocked, because I expected an attack, but she only turned to him, a question on her lips, and then with a flash across her neck, she had a matching wound to his. Only hers was far more effective at quieting her than his had been.

What happened next? I sat down, back to the image of him and her, to whatever was outside MY shack. My back against the wall of the shack, my bow on my knees the silence returned or the pounding of my heart so loud again that I was rendered deaf. I didn’t see what happened after the flash of his blade, or after I turned away. I didn’t want to.

I’m not sure I was still in the shack, honestly. I thought about when I was a little girl. When my dad was seeing patients from his office at our house, a huge red brick Victorian on a tree lined street in southern West Virginia. The sidewalks were rippled by the roots of the trees, imperfect and I remembered jumping over the humps. Creating hopscotch boards on the sidewalk was difficult, so we had to go to the playground or the park.

I remembered my grandma fussing at Dad about a pair of white knit leggings he bought, and how he’d been so distracted with his schedule that he hadn’t paid attention to the panties I wore under them, so when I came home that evening, she’d had to point out that the very bright primary colored rainbow ones I chose weren’t appropriate and that he’d have to show as much concern to his kindergarten age little girl as to the crazies that were coming and going each day.

“Elara?” Hoarse, his voice sounded hoarse. My eyes were locked on the dust motes dancing in the late day sunbeams shining through the cracks of the shack’s walls. “Can you say something?”

“Is she dead?” Just as quiet and hoarse as his, I wondered, idly if he’d buried or burned her body. He knelt in front of me, in the path of my dusty dancers, forcing my focus on him. “Well?”

He nodded, eyes locked on mine, but hands to himself. “Yeah, she’s dead.” My turn to nod. “I need you to come with me, Elara.” I tilt my head, studying him. “Please?”

I want to argue with him on this. I don’t join anyone. Especially men who randomly cut a woman’s throat in front of another woman, but he cut a woman’s throat in front of me, so perhaps now is NOT the best time to poke that particular bear. I nod my ascent. He helps me to my feet and waits while I get my pack and shit together.

“I have to meet with a few people,” I’m thinking about the giant that is Beta, now that he’s killed their Alpha, he gets that designation. A leader, like he was before. “And, I need you to trust me.”

Easier said than done, I think, but say nothing.

Negan talks as we walk. He asked me if I listened as he and Alpha came to the shack. I don’t speak, honestly there’s not a hell of a fuck ton to say. He takes my silence as a ‘no’, so he tells me the story of his past.

“I was married,” I listen, thinking if nothing else it gives me something other than the bag he’s carrying or the knife I know he has to think about. “Before everything went to shit, I was married to a woman named Lucille.” He’s walking beside me, measuring his steps to match my shorter strides, keeping pace with me. “She didn’t tell me she was sick, not until it was too late to do anything to help her. She died right when-” When he stopped I understood, when he would have to make a choice that no one should have to make. “I couldn’t do it.” I thought about how I felt about Dad dying a year earlier, knowing that I didn’t have to make that choice. A gift. “My emotions? Gone. It changed me into-” he sighed, and biting his lip, I felt his gaze land on me. “I told her,” I knew he meant Alpha, “that I’m dead inside. It’s gone, I have nothing left.” I should be afraid then, right? Isn’t that the warning of a killer? Someone who wants to murder and rip people apart? “I lied.”

I swallowed, but kept walking. I didn’t know what he wanted. I didn’t know who he was, what he was, but I truly fucking hoped I wasn’t about to die at his hands. Or at the hands of whomever he was insisting I go with him to meet.

[ashleyfanfic]

Y'all done made me get my laptop out so I can type this and not on my phone. That’s how damn tired I am of it.

I am a Dany fan(Stan). But let me be clear in saying that I am also a Jon Snow fan(Stan). You people out here spewing your hate on one or the other are getting on my last fucking nerve because you’re all missing the fucking point of Jon and Dany’s entire arc! 

Dany’s Arc since coming to the North She’s having to contend with a people who didn’t sign up to be her people. Their king, the man they named king, named her his queen. Now, not one of them have asked why he did this, but you can tell they’re looking at him and her and made assumptions that it’s just because they’re together. But like Jon had to do when he was at Dragonstone, maybe it would make a little too much sense for them to ask why he’s so devoted to her. So, her arc is first coming to a place she doesn’t necessarily want to be, fighting a war she hadn’t intended on fighting, beside the man she loves. That’s all hard going for her. I think ep 3 will add some more layers onto this. Jon’s Arc since coming to the North Trying to logically reason with illogical people about bending the knee. Even his own sisters have doubts about why he did what he did and don’t actually ask as much as accuse him of being disloyal to his family or forgetting who he was. Then Sam drops the truth on him, not in a way that would have softened the blow for his best friend, the man who had always protected him but drops it in such a way it’s a gut punch and meant to drive a wedge between Jon and Daenerys. 

I know people take issue with Dany’s reaction to what Jon said to her, but wouldn’t you? I mean, you just got told that the man you love is a long lost relative and people will say he has a better claim simply because he’s a man? And then these same people turn around and chastise the fact that Jon will tell her he doesn’t want it and that makes him a bad person because he’s stepping away from it because of her? He loves her, you dope. He also doesn’t want to be a king, has never wanted to be a king, and if you don’t understand that, then you don’t fucking understand Jon Snow. He took positions of power because they named him or he was the best person. If he steps aside it’s because he believes in Daenerys. 

I don’t give a shit about your “A man steps in front of a woman to take her place even though she’s been working for it her whole life”. Correction, she’s been working for it since she decided she wasn’t just going to be a pet for Drogo and actively started taking on the role of Khaleesi. Jon didn’t know the opportunity was even out there.

But even if he did, what are you implying? That Jon has done nothing? Jon joined the Night’s Watch and became a steward to the Lord Commander and saved his fucking life from a wight. That’s how he got Longclaw. Then he goes beyond the wall with his brothers and gets captured by Wildlings and kills one of his own men in order to ingratiate himself with those people. In doing so, he learns that they aren’t as horrible as he thought. They were people who had the misfortune of being born on the wrong side of the wall and were trying to survive. Some are bloodthirsty cannibals, but your more rational Wildlings, like Ygritte and Tormund, don’t like that group. He still gets back to the Wall and helps his brothers fortify Castle Black and fights against them. It’s because of Jon that they win that battle. He executes Janos Slynt for not following order (and good thing Janos didn’t have any family that would have made him sympathetic to the group). Then we have him go save the Wildlings, fight the Army of the Dead, and watch in horror as all those killed were resurrected as dead. He was killed for this. Those people he saved, the Wildlings, came to fight and protect Jon even in death. He fought to win back Winterfell even knowing that the odds were against them. And he went south to meet with a potential enemy/ally because he saw they needed help. Jon didn’t know he was a prince. No one thought to tell him that before he went to the Wall, but I wouldn’t say he’s done nothing to deserve the crown.

And then there’s Dany, and the ole girl had a shit time of it as well. Her own family member sold her to a warlord for his army. Said family member was abusive and her husband raped her repeatedly. Even to the point where sitting in the saddle was painful. Her husband died, her baby died, all because of decisions she made. Those events made her even less trusting in others than she was previously. But she hatched Dragons in the fire. She made it through the Red Waste, the exact opposite environment that Jon Snow was living in. Her people were slaughtered so the dragons could be taken. She survived that and managed, through her own wits and not informing any of her advisors as to her plan, to acquire the Unsullied army who chose to follow her after she freed them. She takes Yunkai and Meereen and even marries a man she despises and reopens the fighting pits because she’s looking to make the people happy. She didn’t sail to Westeros when she was able. She stayed to try to make the lives of the freed slaves better. She learned the pitfalls of ruling and how hard it was. You know what she did learn? You can’t make everybody happy. She took the Dothraki, not with her dragons, but with her own plans. Everyone proclaims she’s nothing without her dragons, yet she managed to kill all the khals and took the Khalasar with fire and a well-placed lock on the door. She finally settles the issue with the Masters (by showing her ultimate power). She sails to Westeros and because she abandons her plans in favor of Tyrion’s plan, clever men, she loses all of her allies. She’s spitting mad when she learns about Highgarden but turns to someone who isn’t in her counsel and asks what he would do. Because Dany has proven that she will listen. She defeated the Lannister army coming back from Highgarden. 

But the same can be said for Jon which is why I don’t think EITHER of them will take it. Love is the death of duty. Jon and Dany love one another. Yes, fam, she loves him. He loves her. They have been beating us over the head with it over two years. They love one another. Yeah, they’re adding in drama, but they kind of have to. People would bitch, moan, and complain if there wasn’t some drama around this revelation.  But let’s go back to how he tells hers: They’re alone. He’s been avoiding her and she’s finally had enough and seeks him out. She finds him in the crypts and doesn’t approach him any further until he smiles at her and nods. She wraps her arms around him, he holds her hands as he stares at Lyanna’s statue. She asks who they’re looking at and he only says “Lyanna Stark”. She then starts speaking about her brother Rhaegar and how he was good and decent, loved to sing and gave money to orphans, and he raped her. She couldn’t wrap her mind around that. Jon tells her that he didn’t. They were in love. It’s not meant to hurt her, but I believe he was hoping that by telling her that, it was meant to soften some of what she believed about her brother, a brother she clearly loves even though she never met him. The look on her face is heartbreak and disbelief. She knows this changes everything. Because it’s not what either of them thinks their claim is, it’s what other people will think. They’ll push her aside for the male heir. And speaking of a male heir, Jon is the last of the Targaryens. The only one who can carry on the line. Dany has a habit of thinking of the long term, and she sees what’s going to happen. He’ll have to marry someone else, he’ll have to for their house to survive. And then people will really support his claim for the Iron Throne. 

But here’s how I think this plays out. I said above that I don’t think either of them will sit the throne, and I don’t. I think the world is going to change with this battle in ep3 and possibly ep5. I don’t really think there will be a throne to sit. Davos has already offered up the easiest solution: marry them. But Dany will be against this because she doesn’t believe she’ll be able to have children. She’ll make him go away because of this belief. I don’t believe Jon will ever do this willingly. He loves her. The throne means nothing to him, but belonging to a family does, and right now, Dany is his family. Sansa and Arya have already put themselves at odds against him because of how he feels for her. So he’s possibly going to fight Dany on this. I think we’ll get some trickery that will make them both realize how stupid they are for each other. Dany will have Jon’s baby, and I think this goes back to Emilia’s comment about how the end fucked her up. Think of it from her perspective. What has been Dany’s goal for the entire series, almost? To take the Iron Throne. She might have even expected Dany to die. But does anyone expect her to give up the throne to live out a peaceful life with the man she loves and her child(ren)? No. Dany wants to break the wheel that her ancestor Aegon built. What better way than to dissolve the monarchy? So, let’s say the last vision we see of Dany is that of a mother to an actual child, Jon at her side, with their dragons, living somewhere far away from Westeros. That would cause some people to be irate, but others to go, yeah, that’s what’s best for these two people who have done nothing but suffer. 

[imagineclaireandjamie]

After Claire reveals the truth to Jamie about who she really is, he replays the day they met in his mind to see it from a new perspective.

Hail Mary

Premise: What if Jamie and Claire had 1) been more openly affectionate, and 2) not *had* to get married?

Part I  Part II  Part III Part IV Part V 

Part VI 

He couldn’t get enough air. 

No, he wasn’t just suffocating. He was being suffocated, being pressed downward, screaming, but with no one to hear, no mercy from those cruel hands pinning him down. He struggled against them, struggled against the evil and the darkness of —

And then he was free and Jamie roared upward, lunging for his attacker’s throat. 

He came awake in mid-air, the cold air hitting his bare legs, reality still swirling and shifting in the darkness as he flung the intruder flat on the bed, pinning THEM, choking them with— 

“Ja—MIE—” came a strangled female voice, throat muscles working desperately beneath his hands. “—s’—ME!”

CLAIRE.

He leapt backward off her and off the bed so violently that he staggered and would have toppled onto his backside if he hadn’t caught onto the tall dresser. He steadied himself and his mind, though both were reeling: 

Leoch 

His chamber 

Dead of night 

Claire Beauchamp 

on his bed

She had sat up, and in the dim, flickering light, Jamie could see that she was clad only in her shift, a flimsy shawl underneath her on the bed. 

His heart thundered—melted— to see her; to see how lovely she was; to feel how deeply she roused him; to be hit with the aching of how much he wished to touch her—take her in his arms and tell her how much—how deeply, painfully—he’d missed her these last three weeks—

But the ice around his heart solidified again almost instantly, the ice that had kept him sane for those three weeks; the ice that would continue to keep him alive as long as he was forced to see her around Castle Leoch, until he could get himself away to Lallybroch, away from her. 

And yet despite everything, that very ice shuddered to see the fear in her golden eyes, her hands clutched at her throat. Despite everything she’d done and said, his heart contracted with panic. His voice came out urgent and strangled. “Have I hurt ye, Mistress?” 

She dropped her hands at once and shook her head quickly. “No, just startled. I’m not hurt, Jamie,” she said more firmly, seeing him unconvinced, searching her skin for marks. “I promise. I’m alright.” 

“Aye, well…I’m glad of it. I’m—I beg your pardon for—” he made a vague gesture toward the bed. “Ye took me unawares from my dream, and—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she repeated, giving him a weak smile. “No harm done.” 

He nodded, but the ice was firmly back in pace. “Tis time for ye to take your leave, Mistress Beauchamp.”

“No.” 

He shouldn’t have been surprised, not in the slightest.

“Mistress, ‘tis the middle of the night.  D’ye have any idea what they’d say if ye were found in my—” He took a step toward her. “Your reputation would be ruined.”

Her expression was hard, yet still somehow flippant in that damnable way of hers as she shrugged, “Don’t have a very good reputation to uphold, anyhow.” 

“Dinna be joking about,” he snapped, holding out his hand. “Come. NOW.”  

 “I’m not leaving. And before you threaten to carry me out yourself—” she said loudly, JUST as he’d been opening his mouth to do just that, “—know that if you so much as try, I’LL scream at the top of my lungs and see who comes running. I don’t give a rat’s arse about my reputation, and I’M willing to let the chips fall as they may. Do you want me to do that?” 

Damn her. DAMN her. 

“No.” 

“Well then,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “look’s like I’m staying.” 

Defeated and all the more angry for it, he threw his hands up in the air. “What in God’s were ye doing creeping about touching me in the night, anyway?”

She glared at him. “To talk to you, of course.”

“Talk?” He rubbed his hands backward through his hair to keep from throttling her in earnest. “Have ye no scruples, woman? Christ, there are proper times and places for—”

“Oh, there ARE, are there? DO be a dear and tell me when and where those might be, won’t you?” She made a sound of deep derision and crossed her arms sharply, apparently as angry and barely-restrained as he. “Jamie, you’ve spent THREE BLOODY WEEKS ignoring me—what else was I supposed to DO??”

*Avoiding* you, mo nighean donn; not ignoring you.

But avoid her, he had, and quite effectively, at that. Colum’s explicit instructions had been that she was not to leave the castle walls, nor had she, else she certainly would have come to find him at the stables, where he had spent every possible moment, save sleeping and mealtimes, though he’d contrived to eat at odd hours. She had tried half a dozen times to approach him, in the corridors, in the great hall, in the courtyards, but he’d said no more than a cool, “Mistress,” of acknowledgment as he took his leave.

Avoided, aye; never ignored. He had been as aware of her as of the daylight, her presence and absence fundamentally guiding his thoughts and activities. She was his light, whether he willed it or no. 

“What else was I supposed to DO, Jamie?” she was repeating, now standing just a few feet from him, moving with him as he stepped to and fro away from her, to MAKE him look at her.

He did look at her, hard. “Leave me be. That’s what.” Just go away. Go away from this Castle and rid me of the torment of having you near.

“Jamie!” Frustration and desperation were battling for dominance in her wearied voice. “We HAVE to talk!”

“We dinna have to do any such thing. And, by all the saints,” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly at her body, desperate for anything to throw her off the scent, “even if we did, did ye have to come practically naked?? You’re in naught but your—” (thin-as-an-April-breeze) “—SHIFT and I’m—” 

He could feel the draft from the window sneaking up his legs, caressing every inch of bare flesh under his shirt, and his face burned. 

“—I’m not presentable.”

She didn’t budge an inch. “Put some damed clothes on, then.”  

When he didn’t immediately make a move, she rolled her eyes, turned, and walked to the bed, snatching up her shawl and jerking it around her shoulders and pulling it around her. 

Breasts now covered, she raised a defiant eyebrow.  He glared at her, but finally decided that even if he should risk her threats and carry her bodily into the hall and bolt the door behind, best to do so with breeks on. He threw open the trunk at the foot of the bed and rummaged until he found a pair, turning from her as he laced them.

“Can we talk now?” she said, as he turned back to face her.

In contrast to her evident amusement, his own voice was low and nasty. “Go ahead.”

She blinked and dropped her eyes to her crossed arms. 

A dhia, how he despised himself in that moment—he wasn’t the kind of man that spoke this way to women, not least of all to a woman that he—but Jamie simply couldn’t shake the anger and hurt that coursed through him at the sight of her. She didn’t want him for a husband—fine; but could she not just stay away? Go away. Just go away. 

When she spoke, she met his eye straight-on, quiet, but determined. “Thank you. For helping me talk my way out from under Colum and Dougal,” her eyes were shining with sincerity. “I truly couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else, Mistress?” He gestured toward the door.

She threw up her hands. “Jamie, for heaven’s sake will please just hold your goddamn horses and give me a chance, here? I’ve got things I need to ask you!”

He bowed his head. Stop being a child, Fraser.

“What is it ye wish to know, mistress?”

She heaved a breath and let it out, preparing herself, shivering. He strode to the fire and stoked it, to give them both a moment for it. The light danced on her face as he turned back to her, her face strained and urgent with her questions.  “Why did you help me with your uncles? After all I—You didn’t have to tell them anything. You had every reason to just leave me to my own fate. Why?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable, still fingering the poker. “Didna wish to see ye come to harm.”

“Harm?” That genuinely startled her. “You think they would have….ordered me tortured, you mean?”

“Perhaps not Colum….” He chose his words carefully. “But ye have—not the faintest idea of the—the depth of the hatred Dougal bears the English, even more than most Scots. If he truly believed ye to be passing on dangerous information…” 

He shrugged again. He had no doubt that she would have come to some form of harm, whether at the hands of the MacKenzies or the English, had he not interceded. No matter how deeply she had hurt him, he didn’t wish to see any ill befall her. Not ever.

“And do they truly believe you?”

“Aye, they do.”

She nodded slowly, then suddenly dropped her eyes and began fingering the hem of her shawl. “The ‘allegiances’ you spoke of…Was that…” Christ, she was squirming like a worm on a hook, “were you talking about Laoghaire?”

He snorted. “Certainly NOT.” The look on her face made him realize too late that infatuation with Miss MacKenzie would have been a perfect ruse to hide behind; but then again, Miss Beauchamp always had a knack with catching him off guard. Without waiting for her to press, he grudgingly added, “It was my allegiance to Colum of which I spoke. That’s why he took it to heart as he did”

“To Colum?” 

He couldn’t shake the glow that had lit the ice around his heart when her face had lightened instantly at his disavowal of Laoghaire MacKenzie. 

He cleared his throat, squeezing the poker. “Colum wishes that I should succeed him as clan chieftain, someday.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s—Jamie, that’s wonderful!” She looked genuinely delighted and impressed. “Such a great honor.”

“Perhaps, though it’s a honor I dream not of.” 

“No?”

“I’ve no intention of leading the clan, at least not until after Dougal’s tried his hand at it. He’d skin me alive for taking ‘his’ position, and I’ve no desire to start a clan war. The easiest way is for me to remove myself. Colum doesna ken that, yet, though.” 

“But how does—? What does that have to do with…?” 

“My taking a Sassenach wife—” the word cut his throat like glass, “—would have negated my eligibility for clan leadership outright.”

She dropped her eyes. “I see.”

Aye, I would have done it in a heartbeat, mo ghraidh.

He cleared his throat again. “And so, while Colum and Dougal dinna yet trust that you’ve no other motive for being amongst us, same as before, they do believe my tale about why ye fled.”

Why she fled.

“I had a LIFE, and I’m far past due to return to it!”

“I don’t need your ‘protection,’ Mr. McTavish.”

And still, most cutting of all, the coldness in those golden eyes as she had said: “You were mistaken.”

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” she was saying, still facing him boldly, though he could see her twisting the fabric of her shawl again, faster and harder. “I don’t even expect you to speak to me again after this. And I’ll go, tomorrow, if that’s what you want.” 

Christ, she meant it. she would leave. 

Aye, Sassenach, just go. 

“I’ll tell your uncles to hand me over to the English and be done with it. It doesn’t bloody matter anymore.” 

Dinna leave me. 

He thickened the ice around his heart. 

“But—” A deep breath, and then her voice was softer. I can’t go another day without saying...I’m so sorry, Jamie.”

The depth of feeling in her voice was powerful enough to catch the breath in his throat… but the ice was powerful too. He only managed a quiet, hard, “What for?”

“For acting the way I did, the night I left. I was…” She paused, shaking her head, “—vicious….and you didn’t deserve that. Not at all. You are—were… are my friend, and I had no cause to treat you in such a fashion.” She took another deep, ragged breath. “The thing is—”

“Let’s just leave it be, aye?”Jamie didn’t think he could bear this. He moved from the fireplace to the window on the far side of the bed, quickly, that she might not see his face. “I accept your apology. There’s no point discussing it further, Mistress.”

“No point?” she whispered from behind him.

His anger flared and he had to grit his teeth. “Ye told me in no uncertain terms, that night, what your feelings were, Claire. Whether or not ye should have been nicer about it is truly neither here nor—”

“But Jamie—” He could hear her moving closer to him, her voice now with an edge of eager desperation. “—I had good reason to leave, I swear it, but—the most important thing you have to hear is—” Her voice was tremulous with emotion. “— you weren’t mistaken—and I came back for you.” Her hand came to rest softly on his arm.

“Jesus, Claire, can ye no’ hear yourself?” He threw off her touch and twisted to face her, hating the rage and scorn coursing through him, but feeling utterly powerless to halt its path. “So, your grand plans of returning to your old life came to naught, and ye came crawling back to Leoch because ye imagined I would be better than nothing, aye?” 

“Jamie,” she whispered, horrified, “it isn’t like that.”

“Oh, no?”

“No, you bastard!” she hissed, on the brink of tears, following behind him as he stormed back to the hearth. “it BLOODY isn’t!”

“Tell me, then, Claire,” he demanded, keeping his voice low. He’d come to stand behind the big armchair—to put some goddamn space between them— and he gripped the back of it hard with both hands to ground himself, “where did ye go?”

Silence. Fear in her whisky eyes. He could see the lie forming, see her closing against him in that glass face. 

“Ye left with haste and wi’ a purpose,” he pressed. “Why?”

Her eyes were down. Her head was shaking hard, fast. “I—I can’t tell you why.”

“You could.” 

“I CAN’T!” 

He nodded, shaking all over. “Then why on EARTH should I trust your word?”

She looked up with glassy eyes.

“WHY?” he repeated, more angrily, more pained with every choking syllable “When ye sleep in my arms, hold me wi’ your head on my chest of a morning and then shun me twice to my face before the next sunrise? When your face and your body told me one thing, and then your words another?” His hands were fists, quaking with fury and pain. “When ye STILL willna tell me where it is ye came from or where it is ye went? Why should I believe a word you say, Claire?” 

Silence. 

“TELL ME!!”

“You shouldn’t.” 

Her sudden quiet startled him and he searched her face. No longer angry and defensive, no longer controlled. He watched it fall, moment by moment, into a blank of despair.  She continued her descent, apparently helpless to stop it, and sank down onto the trunk at the foot of his bed. “You shouldn’t—you have no reason to believe me.” She released a gasping sob and buried her face in her hands. 

A long silence, punctuated only by the heart wrenching sounds of her sudden brokenness. 

Heart-wrenching. His heart was wrenching apart to see her in pain. 

He tried to be indifferent, to see in this another charade; but after a long moment, he couldn’t help but speak, to reach out to her. “Claire?”

She gave no answer, only wept harder and shook her head back and forth.

Another minute. 

“Why d’ye say I shouldna believe ye, Claire?”

Silence. 

Gently. “Why?” 

Why, mo nighean donn? 

“Because—” Heaving breaths. Crying. “If I told you the—truth, Jamie—the real, actual truth,” she sobbed still harder into her hands, her voice a strangled wheeze, “You’d never believe me…you’d think me completely—completely mad…”

Would he? Could he ever believe this marvel of an individual to be out of her mind? A lunatic? No. That simply couldn’t be. Whatever it was that she’d concealed, whatever it was she didn’t want to tell him, needed to tell him—it was truth. 

Slowly, he moved from behind the chair, slowly settled beside her on the trunk. 

She exhaled, moved and overcome. “Jamie….”

He couldn’t touch her, wasn’t sure what he would do if he touched her; but he was glad that she knew he was  near. She was right, after all: whatever else passed between them, she was his friend. “I’m here. Tell me….lass.”

Lass. 

It was the first time he had called her anything close to an endearment since she’d returned to Leoch—no, since the night she left—and the saying of it—Christ, it sent a bolt of blazing lightning into the ice around his heart. 

My lass. 

The crack was deep, deep enough so as not to be repaired, smoldering, spreading.  

My own lass. 

“The woman of Balnain.”

“The—what?”  She had blurted it with no preamble, and he yanked himself back from the melting of his heart to try to understand. “The—Welshman’s song? What of it?”

“I am the woman of Balnain.”

He gobbled for a moment, looking sidelong at her. “Well, the—the words actually translate more to ‘I am the wife of the laird of Bal—”

She shook her head, eyes squeezed tight. “No. No, that’s not what I mean.” 

“I…dinna understand.” 

“I. AM. her.” she whispered, looking up at the ceiling and blinking hard.  “I, Claire Beauchamp, AM the woman of Balnain.”

The room seemed to crystallize and go silent. Even the fire was muted out, a faint humming in the distance. 

“The truth…Jamie….The truth is that I am not of this time.” She was still shaking with sobs but was nonetheless speaking with an intensity that he’d never heard from her, not ever before.  “I woke up one morning in the year nineteen hundred and forty-five…and I landed in seventeen forty-three.” She could barely get the words out. “I woke up in Inverness and went searching for a flower I’d seen on the hill of standing stones…” 

She recited the eerie song, her voice—God, her voice—

“I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise…. I placed my hands upon the tallest stoneand travelled to a far, distant land,

….but Jamie….it wasn’t a ‘distant land.’ It was a distant time. The eighteenth century.”

He was gaping at her. She gave another desperate sob, her eyes boring into him, despairing. “That’s the truth, Jamie; The truth of where I came from. I—traveled—back—traveled here—in time.” 

Nineteen hundred…and forty….

Back… 

in time….? 

There were tales, of course—folk being stolen away by the fairies and being taken to times not their own—

—but as an educated man, he’d always—surely those were only—

But with a jolt akin to being kicked by a great beast, all of it flooded into his mind at once, bowling him over: 

The strange shift she had worn

Her lack of friends and relations

Her inability to account for her background, her intentions among us

The way she had asked for the town, that night we’d found her—a town that must have been visible, two hundred years hence

The way even the most common words and customs seemed foreign to her

The daft words she herself had used

The way this remarkable woman had fallen into his life….

The way this woman like no other he’d ever encountered in his lifetime…

“I was born in nineteenth hundred and eighteen,” she was saying intently, breaking apart, “I was born two hundred years from now.” She make a desperate sound at his silence—anger—fear—tragedy. “Jamie, do you hear me?”

But Jamie heard her words as though from under water; silently reciting the rest of the Welshman’s song

But one day, I saw the moon come outand the wind rose once more,so I touched the stonesand travelled back to my own landand took up again with—

“You’ve been trying to get back to him,” he moaned, the horror and the grief of it washing over him in a landslide, “’the man ye left behind.’”

She gasped, then gaped at him, utterly dumbstruck. She couldn’t speak for a long time. Nor could he; could only hear the wailing of his heart. 

When she did finally find her voice, it was strangled and tear-choked. “You—believe me??”

“Aye,” he said at once, his own voice far from strong, but confident in that, at least. “I do believe ye, Sassenach.”

Beyond the memories, all the evidence of her otherness running through his mind like a vision, he could see it in her eyes; he could see it in the slant of her shoulders, broken, but no longer on guard, no longer holding back; he could see it across her glass face, finally free of secrets and lies. Finally free. Aye, he believed her…

…and the truth broke his heart all over again, into more pieces—millions more—than they’d been before. She was married. She wasn’t free to give her heart—Nor had she been; not from the first moment he’d laid eyes upon her. Claire Beauchamp was another man’s wife. 

“Forgive me, lass,” he murmured, rising and going to the fire, trying to keep his voice from breaking, to keep from showing her his despair. He understood, now; understood why she had acted the way she had, but the pain was too great. He had only enough strength left to appear strong. “Stay here for the night—I’ll find another bed.” 

“Forgive?” came her voice behind him, truly bewildered. “Whatever for?”

He had tears in his eyes and he blinked them away fiercely, gritting his teeth. “I canna even bear to think of the—the fool I made of myself in your eyes back wi’ the rent party. Proposing marriage, professing love, when ye already had—”

“No!” she said, jumping to her feet and wiping her own tears away, hard. “Jamie, no, please—that’s what I’m trying to tell you—you weren’t a fool.” 

She came close to stand beside him, and after a long pause, she took his hand. “Jamie…..you… weren’t mistaken.”

He wasn’t—? He hadn’t been—?

He couldn’t shake off her touch. Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t even move at all from the inrush of feeling and hope and—

“I felt—just the same as you, Jamie—” she said, carefully but firmly through her tears and emotion. “—from the—God, the first time you held me here at Leoch,—From then onwards, I felt what it was between us.”

A Dhia, just slay me now, lass. Kill me here and let my heart be gone, rather than this torture. He felt like a boy, so eager for her love, and so frightened to hope for it.

“That’s why I left that night—” She was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt, and was staring up at him, her eyes unblinking and spilling with tears. Jamie was staring into the fire, trying to keep control of himself, but she wouldn’t look away. “—because I cared for you too and I felt—” She gave a wracking sob, “—so ashamed because it was like he—my husband—like Frank never—even existed to me—” 

She cares for me. 

She cared for me all along. 

“—And so when you—when you said those things—poured out your heart to me, and I—wanted to pour mine out to you—and I had to get away—and I ran—”

He was squeezing her hand to keep from flying apart. 

She ran because she felt she must 

She cares for me. 

“—and I was praying the whole time I rode it would have been a dream—that I would touch the stones and wake up, but it wasn’t a dream—you were real—and what I felt for you was real—”

—Jesus—

“—but I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d come back—”

She ran because of duty .

Her hand in his shook. His hand in hers shook. 

Claire cares for me, too.

“—then I got to the stones and I—couldn’t get through—” She was sobbing, harder than she had yet sobbed in his presence, panic and weariness overtaking her such that she swayed next to him. “—I couldn’t get back—was pounding on that stone for hours—hours—but I—I couldn’t get—couldn’t—”

“Oh, lass—” And before he could stop himself, he was clutching her tight against him, comforting her, holding her, trying to shield her from the sobs that wracked her body.  “I’m so sorry…Claire, I’m so sorry…”

God, and he was, too. The pain and turmoil she’d undergone, that had been tearing her apart with no one to help keep her sane; no one to keep her from being alone. He held her, forcing himself to think only of her. “It’s alright….shhhh, it’s alright… Christ, I’m so sorry.” 

She pressed her cheek hard into his chest. “Jamie, I was so ashamed.” 

“Ashamed? Lass, you’ve nothing to be—”

She pushed back from him and staggered away toward the fire,  just far enough to look him in the eye,. “Because I was relieved—Jamie— I was RELIEVED that I couldn’t go back to him—” She raised her hands aimlessly to the level of her eyes, watching them quake. “—RELIEVED—and I think part of me will be ashamed of that all my life—But I don’t care.”

Jamie didn’t say a word, just let his eyes cling to the sight of her face, open and breaking along with his. ‘Breaking,’—no, he was being utterly torn apart by the gathering of joy and hope, the banishing of the anger and pain. His heart was a gushing torrent, now—the skeleton of the ice wall still standing, but with the current clearly visible beneath, roaring to be free. 

“The fact is that I was relieved. Relieved that I could come back to you.” 

She cares for me 

She left from duty. 

She came back. 

She—

“Jamie….?” she begged, repeating the word like a prayer of supplication. “Jamie…..?”

“Aye?” he croaked.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry—I hate what I did to you— the look on your face when I denied you and—shamed and—wounded you—it killed me—”

“Dinna spare a thought for it,” he started to say, but she quieted him, begging to be allowed to speak uninterrupted.

“—And I can’t bear how this will seem—Like it does seem,” she amended. “You said it yourself: my plans fell through and I’ve come crawling back to you. But that isn’t true.” She took a deep breath and her eyes spoke true to him as she said, strong and clearly even through the gasping and the tears: “I love you, Jamie.”

The ice wall shattered. 

She loves me. 

She loves me. 

SHE LOVES ME. 

“I love you—” she was saying, over and over crying, laughing as the joy of it rushed through her,”—and I care for you—and I respect you, and—” She reached a hand toward his face. “— and I want to marry you.” 

Before he could reach back to her, she was kneeling before him, taking his hand, bowing her forehead over it. “I haven’t anything—I’m no one, in your world— but all I have, and all I will ever have, they’re yours—if you’ll still have me.”

Later, he never would quite recall the exact moment when he moved; the thoughts that went through his head at seeing Claire before him, asking him to share her life. All he could recall was the feeling of her in his arms, the burning in his heart as he crushed her to him; the way he could barely speak the most important words of his life: 

“Yes, mo chridhe—All my life, yes.”

And then he was kissing her. He was kissing her and kissing her and kissing her and feeling her pressed against him. Feeling her kissing him back, the joy and relief in her tears. Sinking back into the armchair, letting her straddle him, holding her and kissing her and drinking her into him.

The rasp of her voice as she clutched his face and groaned into his mouth. “I want to stay with you. I need to be beside you tonight.”

The agony of forcing himself to slow, to still. “No, lass, ye must go now,” he whispered, though his traitorous body kissed her deeper and pulled her closer. “Else I’ll have ye here…now…..”

“Have me,” she moaned, bringing his hand up to her breast—Jesus Christ, the nipple was hard, shockingly firm even through her shift, and she groaned so exquisitely as he ran his thumb round and around it, as she moved her hips against him with shocking urgency. “—Have me—Jamie, please—”

He felt those words strike directly down into his cock and he thought he would die of wanting her, but he managed a soft laugh and pulled away. She gave a growl of urgent protest, of need, and he felt the same rip through his own body at remaining separated from her another moment…but he forced himself to take her face in his hands. “Ye must go. Because as much as I want to be inside ye right now—you’re so much more to me than that, mo chridhe.”

He kissed her, slowly and gently. Kissed the tears on her cheeks. Felt her kiss his as her fingers ran across his face, his hair, claiming him as she settled, quieted to a slow burning, her forehead against his. “What does it mean?” she whispered, her hair falling ‘round them. “Mo…cree?”

“Mo chridhe. My heart.” He leaned his forehead against hers; the tip of his nose against hers. “It means, my heart.”

She took his face, then, her words strong and sure. “You’re more to me than that to me, too; than anything else, anyone else… mo chridhe, Jamie.”

[to be continued]