#in another story it would have been pen growing out of her childish infatuation

[jadelotusflower]

maybe it’s just because I have no particular investment in polin, but I was so much more into penelope/debling? The agony of the romantic false lead being so much more appealing than the true one

[tiny-slasher]

Thomas Hewitt x Reader | Coffee Shop AU | Part 2

“Some more coffee shop AU thomas hewitt?👉👈“

“i've read that coffee shop au you wrote for thomas multiple times and i need more please!!!“

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･

You'd started to get strange looks from your coworkers. They never explicitly said so, but you knew why. You'd gone to Luda Mae's coffee shop every Wednesday and Thursday evening, spending more money on coffee than you had in your entire life, just to catch a glimpse of him.

He was so large, barely fitting in the space between the workstation and the counter you paid at. His hair was tangled under the straps of his mask, and his clothes were always stained with coffee. The intenseness of his eyes and constant furrow of his brow should've frightened you, and yet you found yourself lured by him instead. He always seemed surprised to see you, no matter how many weeks you'd continued your pattern, as if expecting you to just disappear one day. You were hoping that eventually the shock would fade, and that he'd seem relieved instead.

Upon arriving early at the coffee shop one Thursday afternoon, you were disappointed to see that Thomas wasn't there. You hadn't meant to show up so soon, but you'd felt so angry at your coworkers that you'd decided you couldn't stay at work for a second longer than you had to. Still fuming, you walked into the shop amidst the dwindling crowd of customers. The fact that they were all in such a hurry to leave, knowing Thomas' schedule themselves, had your blood boiling.

Your thoughts were broken by a familiar snap of fingers in your face, "Oi! What's gotten you all in a hissy fit, huh?"

The man at the register was Thomas' uncle, Charlie, who had introduced himself the third time you'd showed up in the shop. He was...not the type of person you would generally find yourself in company with, but he was nice enough when he wanted to be. Even though you hadn't breathed a word of your infatuation with Thomas, he and Luda Mae seemed to be very aware of it. You weren't sure if it made you giddy or uncomfortable when one of them was smiling at you, happy to see you in their shop again.

"What's the matter, darlin'? How bout I get'cha a cup, alright? The usual?" Luda Mae asked from behind Charlie, making her way to the coffee machine before you could respond.

You sighed and apologized, pulling out some money from your pocket. Luda Mae shook her head, "Nah, it's on the house, today. You look like ya need it."

Charlie groaned and turned to her, "Mama, ya can't be givin' out free drinks to them every time they show up!"

"It's my coffee, and I'll do as I please!"

You tiredly smiled at the two, shoving your money in the tip jar while they were looking away. Sitting down at a table nearby, you rubbed your temples in an attempt to rid yourself of a frustrated headache. You didn't realize that a cup of coffee had been set in front of you until a warm, gentle hand rested on your shoulder. Looking up, you saw Luda Mae watching you in concern.

"I'm alright," you sighed. "Just had a long day at work, 's all."

She hummed, sitting down in a chair across from you. You sipped your coffee, sighing at the deep, silky, smooth flavor that hit your tastebuds. Despite your coworkers' very unkind opinions, their description of the coffee was shockingly accurate. The thought of them brought a frown to your lips.

"Oh, is the coffee no good? The machine's been a bit fussy today," Luda Mae sent a glare towards her coffee machine.

"No, no it's delicious! I was just..." You sigh and rub your eyes. "I just need to take a breather, I think."

"Well, alright. But if ya need anything, jus' holler, alright?" she patted you on the back before walking back behind the counter.

You tried to distract yourself with the coffee, but no matter how delicious it was, it wasn't strong enough to rid you of the memories in your head.

"His name is Thomas!" you'd bit out right before taking your leave for the day. "Not Leatherface!"

The disgusted glances they'd sent your way the entire morning had been bad enough, but hearing your coworker's unsavory nickname for him had been the final straw. You'd been tempted to punch each of their faces in, appalled that grown adults were even capable of such childish gossip and name calling, but settled with slamming the door on your way out. And now, your anger was growing again at the ever dwindling crowd in the coffee shop.

Now you understood why Luda Mae and Charlie had been so quick to dismiss you the first time you'd spoken to them, and it hurt to think about. How often must Thomas have been ridiculed or teased in his life for his mother and uncle to just assume that everyone automatically disliked him? That everyone had something nasty to say? The thought alone that anyone would purposely hurt Thomas, just because he was different, made you see red.

You jumped out of your skin when you felt a nudge at your shoulder, looking up to see Thomas standing over you. You were not used to him standing so close to you. He lifted his hand in a small wave, which he'd started doing after the fourth time you'd shown up to the shop, and you reciprocated.

"Hey, you're early!" you smiled at him.

He just shrugged, lifting his hands as if to try and say something with them, but then lowered them. Butterflies filled your stomach as he sat down across from you, his knees barely fitting under the table. You didn't want to seem like you were staring, but it was hard not to. He was just so handsome!

Still, you knew you were apparently in the minority of people who thought so. Everyone who talked about his looks always had to bring up his mask, and the scars on his arms. Someone had even started a rumor about what his face looked like underneath, and the descriptions only grew more and more elaborate as time went on. Even the smarter people that you knew were buying into these stories, and it frustrated you to no end.

"Hm?" you asked.

Thomas gestured if you were alright, and your cheeks heated as you realized you'd gotten lost in your thoughts again. You apologized, assuring him it was nothing, when Luda Mae walked over and placed a cup of coffee in front of Thomas.

"Here ya go, darlin'. Charlie and I will be leavin' in a few minutes. You might have a bit of trouble with the machine...it's been actin' a bit strangely," she told him, and then turned to you with a smile. "I suppose I'll see you next week?"

You nodded, "Hopefully."

Her smile grew wide, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. She gave you another pat on the back, kissed Thomas on the forehead, and then left into the back room. Thomas blushed at his mother's antics, and you couldn't help a smile from forming on your lips.

"You two behave!" Charlie yelled at you before walking into the back room himself.

You nearly choked on your coffee, but managed to compose yourself. The flush on Thomas' face was a lot darker than before, and he huffed in Hoyt's direction. You could feel his distaste rolling off of him in waves, and it was one of the many times you wished Thomas spoke. You always wondered what he was thinking. Was he funny? Was he smart? You got the feeling that he was sarcastic, if his eye rolls were any indication, but you never knew for sure.

Thomas sipped his coffee, alternating between looking at it and looking up at you. He always seemed like he wanted to say something to you, but of course, he never did.

"Have you ever tried to learn sign language?" you asked him.

Thomas slowly shook his head, his fingers twitching as if wanted to add on to that statement.

"Well, we could learn together, if you want!" you suggested, nervously.

Thomas blinked, his eyes burning into yours, and then he nodded. His mouth opened, and then slammed shut again, as his fingers twitched in abandoned attempts to communicate. Frustrated, Thomas stood and walked behind the counter, and then came back with a notepad and a pen. Your heart fluttered, excited and a bit nervous. You'd spent so many weeks wanted to know more about him, and now you supposed you'd get your chance.

So what if he wasn't behind the counter like he was supposed to be? It wasn't like many customers showed up anyway. You'd be surprised if he got more than two or three, and even then they'd probably leave in a hurry.

Seemingly agreeing with you, Thomas sat down and began scribbling on the notepad. Turning it towards you, you saw the phrase "I might learn slow" in very sloppy handwriting. Clearly, his penmanship wasn't the best, but it was legible...and that's all that really mattered.

"That's okay! I don't mind!" you said excitedly.

He nodded, his concern somewhat put to rest, and he clasped his hands on the table in front of him. He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat as he clasped his hands in front of him, unsure what to do. Hearing his voice for the first time did strange things to you, especially with how gravelly and soft it was. It made you wonder what he'd sound like speaking, if he could.

The bell over the door rang, signaling the entry of a customer. You turned to see who'd entered, and saw Thomas get up from the corner of your eye. He walked behind the counter as the man who'd walked in slowly made his way forward. His stance revealed how nervous he was, but he managed to order a cup of coffee without much fuss. He glanced in your direction, giving you a look similar to the ones your coworkers had given you.

Your gaze fell to Thomas as you played with the rim of your now empty coffee cup. You tried not to ogle his backside for too long, in case he looked your way, but you couldn't help but spare a few glances. It didn't take him long to finish brewing the drink, hurriedly paid for by the man ordering it. The man was out the door when you blinked next, and you rolled your eyes.

Thomas made his way over to you, grabbing your cup before you could protest. At first, you assumed he was going to toss it in the sink, but were surprised to see him going to refill it. Of course, you ordered the same thing every time you showed up, so he didn't have to ask what you wanted.

You jumped when you heard a loud bang, and the smashing of ceramic on the tile. You turned to see Thomas recoil from the coffee machine, grunting in what you could only assume was pain. The machine rattled and hissed until Thomas punched the off button to it, holding onto his right hand as though it had been broken.

You immediately stood from your chair and ran over, uncaring of the broken ceramic on the floor, and took his hand in yours. It was bright red, scalded by the hot water of the machine. You dragged him over to the sink and turned on some cool water, making sure it ran over the worst parts of burn. It wasn't until you'd assessed his burn to be fairly minor that you realized how close you were standing to him.

You were holding his wrist in your hands.

You turned to him, noticing how heavy his breathing had gotten. His eyes were wide as he stared at you, and you were sure yours were as well. One of your hands began to travel a bit past his wrist and up his arm, trailing over the thick hair that lay there. Swallowing, you shook your head to gather yourself and looked back at his hand, turning the water off and gently drying it off with a towel.

"It doesn't look too bad...might hurt for a couple of days," you said, frowning at it.

You looked back up at Thomas, still holding his hand in yours. All the air in your lungs vanished at the look he was giving you, one of disbelief, shock, and...something else. You trembled, frozen in place. His chest heaved, as if having to remind himself how to breathe.

He yanked his hand away when the backdoor opened up to reveal Charlie.

"Sorry, forgot my wallet-" he paused, looking at the two of you with a raised eyebrow. "Weeeell, what've we got here? I thought I told you two ta behave!"

Thomas sighed and grabbed a broom to clean up the mess on the floor. You tried to move out of his way, picking a piece of ceramic out of your shoe that had wedged itself there in your haste to help Thomas.

You cleared your throat, "The machine burned Thomas' hand, so I was just helping..."

"Damn thing! Knew we should've just kept the ol' one!" Charlie whacked the machine with a glare, shaking his head. "I told Mama not to get all dazzle-eyed at how shiny it was, but did she listen? Nah."

He grumbled as he walked over to grab his wallet from under the counter, shoving it in his pocket as he shook his head at the machine. Thomas dumped some of the broken cup pieces in the trash, not even wincing when he accidentally brushed his burnt hand on his apron.

"Guess we'll have to pull out the old one, the way the good lord intended," Charlie huffed before turning to Thomas. "Don't even bother making coffee with this piece of shit, we'll just close for the night."

Thomas stopped sweeping and glanced in your direction, his hesitation catching his uncle's attention. Charlie gave him a long look, eyebrow raised, and then followed his gaze to you. Recognition filled his gaze, and your cheeks grew even warmer than they already were.

"Well, if ya wanna stay open all night, be my guest," he drawled, making his way back out. "But I don't wanna be cleanin' no suspicious stains tomorrow, ya hear me?"

Thomas stomped over and ushered him out the door, and you heard Charlie laugh obnoxiously. Thomas spared a glance at you, clearly embarrassed, and then went back to sweeping. You decided it might be best to give him a bit of space, so you began to walk out from behind the counter.

Your heart rate increased exponentially when Thomas' arm wrapped around your stomach from the front, stopping you in your tracks. His grip on you was strong, and your hands instinctively grabbed his arm, feeling the unevenness of his skin where all his scars were. You wanted to ask him about it, but didn't want to drag up any bad memories.

You turned to him, surprised, and he let go to point down at the floor. A few inches from your foot lay a rather jagged piece of ceramic. The odds of it making its way through your shoe and into your foot were extremely unlikely, but clearly Thomas thought otherwise. His brows were furrowed in concern, searching you for any signs of pain.

"O-oh, thank you Thomas," you laughed awkwardly. "I guess I should probably just stand still then."

He nodded, huffing out a breath that resembled a laugh. You backed away a bit and stayed put, letting him finish his work. You definitely did not ogle his backside again when he crouched down to gather everything up. Once finished, he turned back to you as if to say something, but then shook his head and walked back over to the table. You followed him, surprised when he picked up the coffee his mother had made him, and offered it to you. Your heart swelled and a strange sort of a feeling settled in your stomach when you realized he was trying to make up for the refill he wasn't able to give you.

"No, that's alright, if I have any more coffee I'll be up all night," you smiled at him, gently pushing his cup back towards him. "I guess I'll just have to come back when you guys get the coffee machine working again."

Thomas nodded, satisfied with your reply, before reaching down to the notepad on the table. Scribbling something down really quickly, he tore the paper out and handed it to you. You laughed at loud when you read what it said, covering your mouth with your hand.

"IOU 1 coffee - Thomas"

"I'll put this to good use, don't worry," you thought for a moment. "You work in the back the rest of the week, right?"

Thomas nodded, curious as to why you were asking.

"If I come tomorrow," you hypothesized. "Would you come out and make me a coffee?"

Thomas' cheeks reddened, and he played with the strings of his apron. He looked away for a second, and then around at the empty tables, and then finally back to you. Seeing your hopeful expression, he nodded.

You beamed at him, throwing your arms around him in a hug before you could think of doing otherwise. He jumped, his arms hovering out as if they didn't know what to do. Realizing what you'd done, you began to pull away, only to have two large, and warm hands tentatively settle on your upper back. He was so warm, and his embrace was so gentle.

How could anyone think he was a monster?

You smiled up at him, and he let go of a breath he'd been holding a bit too long. You knew you should leave, since you would need to get up early the next day, and there was no reason for Thomas to have to keep the shop open when he couldn't make coffee. Yet, you found yourself hesitating, comfortable in his arms. He seemed to return the sentiment, his grip on you tightening in a barely noticeable way. The two of you stood there for much longer than you probably should have, reluctant to pull away from each other.

Eventually, you made your way over to the exit, with the door held open by Thomas.

"You take care of that hand, alright?" you stressed. "When I come back tomorrow, it better be on the road to recovery."

Thomas rolled his eyes, but smiled at you with such fondness, you found yourself burning. You told him goodbye, parting ways for the evening, relishing in the way he watched you leave.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Well, back so soon?" Charlie teased. "You know it'd be against company policy for me to let'cha out back where Tommy is."

"I actually came to redeem this," you replied, holding up the piece of paper Thomas had given you. "To go, please."

Charlie's grumbled as he pulled out a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. Snatching the paper out of your hand, he read what was written, and his eyebrows raised. Snorting in amusement, he folded his glasses back up and gave you a once over.

Without a word, he walked over to the back door and slammed it open, yelling out into the other room, "TOMMY! GET OUT HERE! AND QUIT GIVIN' OUT COUPONS!"

If you tried to hide the joy you felt upon seeing Thomas, you failed miserably. The smile on your face seemed to be contagious, since Thomas returned it twofold. Neither of you paid any mind to the whispers of the other customers, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

Luda Mae invited you to dinner while you waited, earning a grumble from Charlie about 'being a freeloader'. You'd agreed, earning an excited and nervous glance from Thomas, who gently placed your coffee in your hands. You smiled at him, confirming that you'd see him later. Waving goodbye to the three of them, you exited the shop to head to work for the day.

It wasn't until you were about to toss the now empty to-go cup in the trash that you noticed a hastily written note on the side.

"Have a good day ♥"

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

PART 1

[imagineclaireandjamie]

What about a teenage modern au where Claire gets hired as a tutor for Jamie because we know from some of Jamie's stories that he didn't really like school when he was young.

This is a little bit of an abstract take on this prompt but since it’s 100 years in Britain since women achieved the right to vote (in some capacity) I thought I’d pen something with some baring on the strong actions of those women involved in the suffragette movement. Here’s to them, may we be ever grateful for their stance and politics  MBD

Deeds Not Words: Part 1 -

Introduction: 1905: The Past:

The coach rattled -the ancient cobbles beneath the Edinburgh streets shaking the wooden carriage as they forged ever onwards. Dim shafts of light penetrated through the curtains and the sides of the car, the beams throwing deep orange shadows across the paneled floor as Claire watched, her hands wound tightly together.

“I just have to pick up some papers, and then we’ll be onwards to Glasgow, my girl.” Lamb said kindly, his hand hovering over her tightly linked ones (her pale skin encased in the rough lace of the gloves her mother had worn at a similar age - in a completely different scenario) as if to offer some comfort. As much as he felt able to give.

Another move.

Another upheaval. But at least Claire felt like some weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Decisions had been made. Choices that she hadn’t been privy to because she was too young to effectively understand what was being asked of her -or offered *to* her, as she had been righteously told later.

But, as young as she was, she was still intelligent. Smart enough to tutor the lairds youngest surviving son when he was struggling to comprehend his own studies. But it wasn’t him she was promised to. No, he had just been her educational charge. Instead, Claire had been unwittingly betrothed to another.

But hearts don’t necessarily beat the way others require, and Claire had spent much of her young life nurturing the wrong Fraser brother…and subsequently falling for his natural charm - despite their five year age gap.

Neither had done anything. Though it was clear that, as Jamie grew older, their dual infatuation increased.

Their lessons became longer as Claire and Jamie talked long into the night, increasing their bond with one another, and deepening the worries of her uncle (though Brian Fraser exercised his patriarchal role with added humour, using every opportunity to chuckle at Lambs worried glances).

‘He’s just a lad, Claire…’

The words rang in her ears as the distinct bray of the horses in the stables nearby pierced the air, pulling Claire from her memories.

‘…we haven’t done anything wrong.’ She had begged when Lamb had announced their move, knowing from the sad glint in his eyes that he meant to take her away from temptation. ‘Why can’t we just stay…here?’

She should have married William, the elder of the boys. She should have learned faster what had been bequeathed to her and been smarter about concealing her true feelings. But she had a glass face and nothing she could and would say to uncle Lamb would stop him from uprooting their simple lives and moving them to a place where she couldn’t disappoint him with her poor life choices.

‘It simply isn’t done, Claire, I’m sorry,’ he had said softly, ‘it’s my choice, as your guardian, and I cannot allow it.’

“Yes, uncle.” She replied, answering both to their present conversation (and one buried in the past), finally, her voice low and calm though she felt far from it. “I’m sure wherever we’re going it will be ...suitable.”

– — –

1909 - 4 years later: The Present:

Sneaking across the top level of their apartments, Claire slid her fingers beneath the loose floorboard in order to pry the wood from its temporary holding.

Time had been good for her in some respects, she had grown more independent, the scent of the city fueling her ever increasing desire to be wild and free. Lamb had despaired of her, cutting the chord, metaphorically, as Claire proved too hard to pin down - matrimony and a quiet life as a wife and mother seemed beyond her and an ever increasing part of him understood that.

‘You’re a bachelor!’ She had often complained, her protestations growing less timid as she aged. ‘Why do you get to live as you want, yet I have to marry whomever you choose for me?’

Lamb couldn’t accurately answer her question. He simply shrugged his shoulders with a withering glance and repeated the oft spoken words - ‘…it is simply what is done, my dear.’

Only it wasn’t what Claire thought should be done, she mused as she pulled the dusty broadsheet from its hiding place beneath the boards of the attic.

The headline was clear, though small and not the title for the paper for which it had been penned. But it was there nonetheless. Women’s liberation movements had been increasing in popularity. Manchester in 1905, the year which she’d been coaxed from the only home she’d known and away to the city, had produced a society of women who were not in favour of the maniacal rule they’d been placed under by their superiors. The WSPU had spoken and Claire’s heart beat with intense pride as she re-read the words that had emboldened her and continued to do so.

No longer did she wish to languish beneath men. Emmeline Pankhurst had risen as a shining example to her and she would no longer hide away, arguing her point over and over as Lamb continued to placate her.

Using her position as a tutor to some of the more well off local children, Claire had met Geillis Duncan the year previous. Along with Gellie, Glenna Fitzgibbons and Laoghaire Mackenzie and a few other intelligent women in the area, Claire had begun to show her support for the Glasgow branch of the WSPU. Their meetings were mostly conducted quietly, the cloak and dagger operation instilled to protect their powerful and subversive opinions. Glenna and Geillis were married, both powerful men who agreed and helped to assist their wives in their views. Herself and Laoghaire were both still alone, their position in the local community making them eager talking points for the men who still thought it laughable that two pretty young things were still unwed and childless.

None of her companions knew about Jamie Fraser.

Unwrapping the newsprint, Claire pulled the sgian dubh from its tight concealment. Rubbing the fading font, she held it closely to her chest. The Fraser crest was still visible, the engraving carved deep into the ornate metal as the heat of her fingers warmed it up. It was the only thing she had left to remember him by and the joy of having it close to her with the words of Pankhurst keeping it safely hidden from view solidified her opinion that if she couldn’t have Jamie, she wouldn’t have anyone at all.

It was a childish notion, but one she was invested in nonetheless. 

The image of him was fuzzy now, the years tainting their friendship but she could still remember the sea-blue tint of his eyes as he watched her read aloud to him in Latin. They had never crossed the boundaries with one another, him being too young factoring in that decision - but their warmth towards one another was obvious to see. Had she only been a few years younger and there would have been no quibbling over their relationship, but she was too old to be hovering around a teenager; no matter how mature Jamie was for his age.

Sighing, Claire stashed the blade back where she found it and grabbed for a small satchel that she’d hidden a little lower down. It contained as many fliers as she could stuff in there, enough to coat many of the Glaswegian streets in the WSPU’s very vocal propaganda. Steeling herself, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and snuck downstairs.

Lamb was still sleeping, she could hear his light snores filtering underneath the door. Claire knew that he had an early coach to catch to the coast for his latest business trip to a small freeholding in Ireland. He wouldn’t be away long, but it was long enough that Claire didn’t need to worry about him checking on her before he left.

“Come on, Claire!” Geillis hissed as Claire slunk from the house and trudged the small distance from her residence to where Gellie was hiding.

Pulling her hat down lower over her ears, Claire tutted, rolling her eyes at her partner in crime. “Just give it a rest would you, Geillis. You know I’d never leave you here loitering in this alleyway like a reprobate. I just had to make sure I didn’t wake the whole house as I left, aye?”

Being English, the basic Scots variants that she had picked up over the years still sounded foreign on her tongue -though she had long since given in to trying to tamper them. Geillie, however, with her broad Glaswegian accent always tisked at Claire’s attempts at fitting in and her eyes shone with mirth at Claire’s use of the word ‘aye’ instead of a simple ‘yes’.

“The others will be waiting for us, lass,” she said instead, choosing to ignore the colloquial term and move on with their plans for the evening, “do ye have the posters?”

“Of course.” She muttered, flashing the pile that were stowed safely away in her large leather satchel. “That was my one job.”

Taking Claire by the hand, Geillie tugged them back out into the streets and they set off, quickly, in search of the rest of the party.

Rain had coated the cobbles and both women struggled not to lose their footing as they scrambled from one end of the city to the other. All candles had been extinguished in the windows and the streets were devoid of life. Most of the city was still asleep, not even the early risers had begun to wake yet. As quietly as they were able, Geillis and Claire slipped further into the heart of Glasgow, their excitement palpable as they got closer and closer to their intended destination.

“Did ye hear?” Laoghaire mumbled, her words shaky and light as she reached out and grabbed for Claire and Geillis as they approached the small group of gathered women that had congregated in Glenna’s living room.

“Heard what?” Geillis asked, looking from Claire to Laoghaire.

“Ye ken they’ve been making arrests now - they say we’re breaching the peace or some such nonsense.” Laoghaire griped obviously frustrated at the state of their current situation.

“Aye, I ken, get on wi’ it lass.” Geillie said, prodding her playfully in the side as Claire scratched her head thoughtfully.

“Weel, a lassie went on hunger strike the other day, the news is all over the place. They set her free! The police dinna want deid lassies on their hands, aye? So they set her free to recover. She was ailing quite badly they say but she refused to give in and eat.”

Claire’s heart beat double time in her chest as she listened, a hum of approval floating through their congregation. The small loophole in the law had allowed the woman, one Marion Wallace Dunlop, to be released on grounds of ill-health - meaning the county holding her wouldn’t be responsible for her death should she perish from her ordeal. As luck would have it, she was on the mend (so Glenna said, with a joyful spring in her step as she passed out the sashes to the gathered women) and had been talking about her successful ‘escape’ from incarceration to as many people as possible.

“Would ye do it, Claire?” Laoghaire asked excitedly as she pulled the painted ribbon over her petite head and allowed it to rest neatly on her shoulders. “If ye were arrested, would ye no’ eat to further the cause?”

“Of course!” Claire answered truthfully. “I haven’t come this far, Laoghaire to let them lock me up. I’d do whatever I had to. Truly.”

“Me too,” she returned, eager to show her own willing, “there’s no going back now.”

“No,” Claire whispered, collecting her small bag from the ground now it had been almost emptied of leaflets, “there definitely is not.”

It was a few more hours before the women picked up their leaflets and placards and went on their way. The sun had still to rise and the streets were only now just starting to fill with early risers on the way to the factories. It was that distinct bustle that rallied the troup, their eager hands tightening around the wooden spears that held their banners in place. The wood bit into Claire’s hands as she followed directly behind Gellie and out onto the busying cobbles.

With her head held high, Claire scowled meaningfully at a group of passing men who looked enraged by their clear message. Unwilling to stop, she narrowed her eyes, her fingers twitching as if she was restraining herself but the heat of the blood in her veins made the reasonable side of her cower and she stamped her feet with more vigor as she turned on her heel and marched through the growing crowd, back to the men who’d given her such a filthy look.

“What’s the matter?!” She spat, her cheeks red with anger as she squared up to the two broad men, her eyes alight with fire as she confronted them. “Do our views upset your civil liberties, gentlemen?” She continued, hissing the word ‘gentlemen’ at them like it was a dirty word.

“Come on…” she goaded when they refused to speak but maintained eye contact with her. “You are bold enough to scorn me with your impolite gaze, but you cannot speak for yourselves?”

“Claire!” Geillis whispered, suddenly appearing behind her friend as she took Claire by the arm and attempted to pull her away. “Come wi’ me now, lass. It isna worth it.”

“I’d listen to your friend…if I were you.” The taller of the two men spoke, finally, his blunt, pretentious English accent piercing the quiet morning air as he cockily quirked his brow at her - his dismissive attitude causing Claire to grit her teeth - her anger only rising by his arrogance.

“You…” she belted out, her voice echoing, the wisps of it hovering in the air long after she had begun her fatal statement.

“Claire no!” Geillis and Laoghaire chorused together - but too late.

“…utter arse.” Claire finishing, dropping her sign and slapping the man before she could even take stock of her actions.

Her palm throbbed as it connected with his cheek, the weight of her actions solidifying like lead in her belly the moment the fog cleared and clarity resumed. Claire’s mouth fell open in shock as she took one shaky step backwards as if she were about to make a run for it.

Geillie saw the decision in her movements and took hold of Laoghaire’s arm whilst still keeping hold of the arm that lay limp by Claire’s side.

But the second man, the one who had remained brash but silent, was upon Claire before she had chance to follow Geillis’s instructions. Gripping her wrist tightly, he pulled her to him - yanking her from Gellie’s grip as the other women loitered with fear in their eyes.

“You are going to regret that, madam,” he said, a strange aura of calm surrounding him as he flexed his fingers as if to perpetuate his worrying message.

“U-unhand me.” Claire balked, her tone belying her concern as she made one feeble attempt to pull herself from his grasp. With Lamb about to leave the country, Claire panicked. Any trouble that these men were likely to get her into would either derail his important business or render her isolated and alone at the mercy of the penal system. Cursing internally, she held her breath as her mind worked overload, trying to comprehend how much bother she might be in.

By the look on his face, a lot, she thought, swallowing around the massive lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat.

She wanted to be sick, but she wouldn’t show any weakness. Even now.

Chuckling under his breath, her captor allowed a careful smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. It was not a pleasant smile, nor was it a humorous laugh and Claire’s nervousness intensified.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he began with no hint of niceness in his tone. His words were ice cold and it sent shivers along Claire’s spine. “I am Captain Jonathan Randall. And you are under arrest.”

–

The steady sound of dripping water kept Claire lucid enough as she sat on the small cot. It was the only piece of furniture in the draughty cell keeping her from the damp, soiled floor. In only a few moments the local bobbies had appeared, the captain’s friend having signalled them from a few streets beyond. Geillis had tried to reason with the police men but to no avail. Claire had been cuffed and walked across the city to the jail where she had been stripped of her jacket, shoes and socks and placed in her current location.

The likelihood of Lamb still being close enough for them to contact was slim and Claire had to bite her lip to keep the tears at bay.

Without a guardian to sign her release, she would be left here to rot and there was no telling how long her uncle would be out of contact.

Randall hadn’t said another word to her but he had accompanied them all back to the station, encouraging his companion to make a full statement and ensuring Claire was treated appropriately. Her breach of the peace and ‘physical assault’ had already made the rounds in the streets and there was nothing that Glenna (once she had been caught up on the events) could do to override the decision. Captain Randall had too much sway.

“Miss,” the elderly desk clerk mumbled through the door after he’d finished banging to wake her up, “your uncle is no longer in residence in Glasgow. The captain said I should tell you to prepare yourself for a long stay.”

The feeling of hopelessness wrapped around her as she pulled her legs up to her chest. She had spent the whole day locked away. She had been fed, but the story Laoghaire had told them at dawn had struck a chord, though she hadn’t expected to be able to test the theory so soon after being made aware of its significance. With that in mind, Claire had let her small portion of stew go cold and her stomach rumbled audibly at the memory of it.

As the key clinked in the lock, Claire’s head snapped up as the door squealed on its hinges.

“It seems like you have a guardian angel, mistress Beauchamp,” the same elderly clerk muttered as if irked by the fact, “you are free to go.” He said, sweeping his hand in front of him in a sarcastic motion that would have frustrated Claire had she not been overwhelmed by her sudden freedom.

Back at the front of the station she was handed her belongings and given a small amount of time to put her shoes back on before being escorted out and onto the steps of the police station.

“A word of advice,” the police man who’d helped to sign her release papers said behind her, his stoic gaze causing her to bite her tongue as he continued, “dinna get on the wrong side of the Randall brothers, mistress.”

“Was the other man…?”

“The captains brother, oh aye, lass. A powerful man as well. Yer just lucky your gentleman friend,” he said, pointing to a small carriage that was waiting patiently close to the station, “had a smart enough argument to aid yer release.”

“Thank you.” She replied nodding once and walking down the few steps towards her transportation.

Opening the door with some trepidation, Claire’s heart almost lept into her mouth as she half expected uncle Lamb to appear, a disappointed look on his face as he tisked and helped her into the carriage. But instead a flash of auburn caught her eye, the lose curls making her breath catch in her throat as Jamie Fraser turned to meet her eye.

“Ye appear to have gotten yerself into a wee bit of a swivet have ye no’?” He asked sedately offering out his hand to help her into the compartment as his carriageman closed the door and readied himself to pull away from the curb.

“What are you doing here?” She whispered, sitting still as the carriaged moved off, a slight waver in her voice.

“I came for ye,” he said honestly, “if ye’ll have me, mistress Beauchamp?”