Day 2 - "Choking", Day 11 - Drowning, Roger
There are times, Roger thinks, when he can almost love it, here in the past.
It is one thing, he thinks, to read of lives lived on paper and bear witness to History made in the elegant writings of old scrolls and manuscripts he's studied many a time. It is something quite different to live it in the flesh, to actually be part of something so much bigger than himself and leave his mark upon a story that will be told for generations to come.
The world seems to have gotten endlessly larger than he remembers it ever being, since his fingers brushed the stones of Craigh na Dun and something otherworldly brought him here, to Brianna and the other half of his heart, and a home and family he wishes not for the first time he could call his own.
It's a beautiful day outside, Roger thinks, as he squints up into the sky: the sun rains a golden halo upon copses of pearly arrowheads by the river bank and if he listens more intently, the low thrum faintly tickling his ear might be that of bees going back-and-forward as they work a few feet away from him. If he takes a minute to just – breathe – Roger thinks he can appreciate the world permitting him to do little else but – be - a reprieve he has longed for many a time since Bree and he have settled here on the Ridge.
It's not that Jamie's lack of faith in him has wounded him – and his father-in-law has been rather discreet on the matter, Roger knows he's tried not to let it show in front of him lest it hurt his feelings – but the ceaseless reminders that despite everything, he remains still other to the Frasers and to what Jamie no doubt wishes he was has begun to weigh somewhat upon his heart. Roger knows that, when one compares him to the Laird, he is bound to fall short in nearly every way – one simply cannot live up to the stature of Jamie Fraser – but with Bree opening her workshop and Jamie and Claire so obviously having an additional purpose outside of each other in this time, Roger has often found himself wondering, as of late, if he might one day find a reason to be here for himself.
Jemmy should be enough, he thinks, a little guilty, as he and Germain both giggle where they play in the river under his and Fergus' watchful eye, Roger knows his son ought to be gift enough for him to be content. He loves him dearly, of course - remembers welcoming him into his heart the moment Bree breathed him into existence upon her lips when delivering him the news – yet when Roger thinks of the other children here on the Ridge, sees how their fathers are carpenters, hunters and men of strong labour who make their community come alive, he thinks himself woefully lacking. He's been here for months now, surely one does not need so long to find something suitable to do with their life?
At least, he thinks, Bree has purpose – Roger swears he can still feel the lingering warmth upon his skin where her lips had gently kissed his cheek and the laughter in her voice as she'd mercilessly teased him about his bad morning breath on her way out to Wilmington with Marsali, where she'd intended on gathering the makings of a fine meal in one of her wicker baskets and, if fortune favoured them today, perhaps get their hands on new sewing needles at a reasonable price. Brianna might have said something about pipes also, but Roger cannot be certain.
Roger had watched them go, his cheek tingling and his heart full, the sound of two rambunctious little boys hunting for breakfast bringing him back to the kitchen. He can't say they've settled down any ever since, if the laughter coming from the river is anything to go by.
"A penny for vos pensées?"
Fergus' voice sounds sharp, as it brings him back to the here and now, but it is not uncaring. Unlike what is left of his own, there is a palpable kindness that underlies a language he has learned to consider his own, he struggles not to strike up a conversation and include him in a world that has not yet offered him a place to be, and if Roger must confess his sins, he is more than a little envious of him.
"I was thinkin' is all," He sighs, hesitates for a moment thinking he probably ought not to burden Fergus with his banal preoccupations – they are, after all, ever so trivial when Roger considers the day-to-day worries many here on the Ridge must have. All things considered, Roger knows he lives a relatively comfortable life: he has a home, a healthy family and wants not for food every night, and with the touching kindness Jamie and Claire always afford them (on Brianna's behalf, Roger is no dupe), they want for very little. He knows, guilt in his heart, that he ought not to be so discontent when so many would look to him with envy. "Jamie doesna like me verra' much, does he?" He asks nonetheless, a little despondent.
Beside him, Fergus takes a moment to consider, a frown creasing the elegant arch of his brow.
"Milord can be stubborn." He concedes eventually, something fond pulls at the edges of his lips and Roger can read between the silences the story of a life lived under the care of a father Roger wishes, at times, he'd been lucky enough to have growing up.
"And wrong." Fergus pointedly adds catching his eye, and Roger swallows, something touches the tendermost of his heart at the quiet acceptance Fergus gives him not in words, but lets the silence between them speak for instead.
"Aye," He says, recalls Jamie embroiled in many an argument with a tenant or two of the Ridge, the Scotsman not always being in the right, but willing to stand for what he believed in nonetheless. "I ken he wants the best for his daughter – fer Bree – and I'm grateful he allowed us te marry." He says, his thumb coming to rub lovingly at the silver band upon his finger, a promised forever he wishes he could be worthy of. "But I wonder sometimes, how I can ever be enough fer her and wee Jemmy when I have no purpose here?"
"You do not think you belong?"
"No… I…" Roger swallows – it is painful, still, as it catches upon the raw parts of his throat that have not yet healed – he has learnt to pick his words with more care now that he knows how terrible it feels, to have his voice robbed of him. He does not think neither Claire nor Jamie have told Fergus the whole truth about the nature of their family – thinks Brianna would undoubtedly have let him know, were it the case – and Roger does not think it his place to callously disregard their wishes. Fergus is their son, and he supposes they'll tell him when they see fit, all he has to do in the meantime is write a convincing enough tale to fill in the cracks. "It's just that I look around, and I see everyone here, they 'ave a place, they belong, they have a home and a purpose here while I'm just… Existin', ye ken?" He shrugs, a heavy weight upon his shoulders when Roger thinks of having to care for Bree and Jemmy, wishes he could carry out his husbandly duties and gift those he loves with a peaceful life with want of nothing.
"And despite what Milord and Milady tell you, you see everyone around you is capable and whole and can support their own lives and you just… Don't measure up."
A heaviness settles in his heart at finding such intimate understanding, and when Roger looks to Fergus, a slight movement catches his eye where his brother-in-law worries at his hand – the wooden one he hides beneath a leather glove, the one Roger knows he no longer has. It looks rigid and cold, the fingers carved into the prosthetic a pale substitute for the ones Roger feels flinching upon his knee. Fergus' shoulders cringe where he notices him staring, and Roger understands the heavy judgment he thought he'd been bearing alone is, in fact, something they seem share.
He wonders, momentarily, if the realization ought to be of some reassurance to him.
"It's just that I've been here fer months now," He says, looks to stiffened limbs Fergus has had for years and wonders if it will take him a lifetime also to perhaps be granted more here than a mere existence, "And I'm wonderin' if I'll ever find a purpose. What if the Ridge doesna give me a place te be, what do I do then?" He worries, bites into the flesh of his lower lip and feels something ugly distort his voice a little more, wonders if he'll lose that to time also. What life will he lead then, he thinks, for Roger knows the prospects of a man who can hardly talk without it paining him are not ones he wishes to ever experience.
The thought of burdening Brianna with his incompetence only twists the threads of guilt around his heart a little further. Oh Bree, what must ye think of me?
"You live." Fergus says simply, "You live in the here and now, and trust that things will get better."
"Is that what ye do?" Roger asks him, curious. He's heard vague stories of the horrors the Frasers have been through, and while he's not ever been given the full story – and, frankly, Roger doubts he ever will, for it is not his place to expect such scars to be shared with him – this picture of perfection they so effortlessly give to everyone they happen to cross is one he's envied on many a worried night.
"I try to, it's not always easy." Fergus concedes, and while they may not share blood, the curve of his lips and the dent in his cheek as he smiles reminds him of Bree, and that look she often harbours when, pencil in hand, she finishes the last scribble of her newest project. "I've not told Marsali, but the whiskey maker I work for, he has eyes on another apprentice. One who can work faster, one who is whole."
The fingers of his left hand involuntarily twitch in understanding – they are bruised and scratched still, but still there, still his own – and Roger feels guilt gnaw at him, for perhaps wanting for more than he rightfully should and not appreciating enough what he has.
Roger coughs – it is rough, still, a sound so ugly still to his ears when Roger remembers what it felt like, to sing with such carefreeness, the thought of one day losing his voice never even crossing his mind. His lack of appreciation for a gift that had once been his is one he sorely regrets now, as he is expected to still be whole with the little shards of himself he has left – he wishes he could believe Fergus as easily as he seems to trust in some bigger benevolence tending to their worries.
Roger is a man of faith but as something catches in his throat and sends him into another coughing fit, threatens to send his chest rattling and his lungs burst as they starve for air, he wonders what place the world can offer to a man who can barely speak without it paining him so terribly?
He means to ask Fergus how he does it – how he can learn from him, perhaps – to cling to something good in the world when it seems to offer them little else but hardships. The question is tender still, where it blooms upon his lips, yet as he parts them, it is not his voice that utters a bone-chilling cry.
"Dada! Dada help!"
Roger's heartbeat stutters in his chest, the two of them turn to the commotion down upon the riverbank – the tide has gotten stronger, Roger notices, the crash of the current against the banks a distant roar he begins to hear, the water laps at Jemmy's ankles where he struggles to stand, and Roger does not need to get any closer to know his son is crying, the tremor in his voice and the tremble in his shoulder is enough to send him scrambling to his feet.
"Lad, ye alright?" Roger asks him, swallows heavily around the trembling hug his son tries to give him and feels the way his entire body is pulled taut, a palpable worry that sends his world upside-down not one Roger would ever wish upon his little boy.
"Dada," He cries, the broken syllables accentuated by a heavy sob Roger tries to soothe as he gently rubs the fragile skin of Jemmy's back. His shirt is soaking wet, clings to him in all the wrong places, and Roger worries when he thumbs a tender spot that might be a bruise.
"Jemmy, what-?" He tries asking him again, Fergus cuts him off.
"Jemmy, where is Germain?"
Something ugly curdles in the pit of Roger's stomach at the obvious worry in his question, and only when Roger pulls himself back does he realize that Germain is nowhere to be found, only the little green knitted bonnet he so often likes to wear lopsided upon his head lays upon the banks of the river.
Jemmy clings to his side, shrinks away when Fergus calls after Germain once again with increased worry in his voice, like he might somehow think his friend's predicament his fault. Roger's throat burns, the salvation he wishes to offer his son one he cannot utter aside from a touch he wishes were more comforting around his shoulder.
"Merde, Germain!" Fergus calls again, pale-faced and with a feverish franticness Roger has seen one too many times since crossing the stones, restlessly pacing up and down like it might help somewhat as Roger looks to the river – to anything that might be a little boy caught beneath the current. He tries not to think about the seconds escaping them like quicksand, tries not to think about what it means that Germain has not resurfaced, tries not to think about what he might have to say if-
"Au secours!"
It may be small, terrified and in pain, but Roger blesses it nonetheless as Germain resurfaces, struggles against the embrace of the current as it covetously tries to carry him away in its clutches. He coughs and splutters, goes under once again and screams another au secours! and papa! and something else half-French and half-Scottish Roger cannot make out in the terror of the moment. His heartbeat halts for a moment, around him, the air tastes bitter and it is only when the crash of another ripple in the water roars in his ear, threatens to devour Germain completely, that Roger feels his body move again, struggles to catch up to Fergus who has already hurtled down as close as he can get and pulls him back roughly by the collar of his shirt.
"No!" He chokes, as realization seized him, wraps one hand around Fergus' shoulder and pulls him back, his brother-in-law shaking with anger and worry Roger can feel burn the tips of his fingers.
"Roger, what do you think you are-?" He means to ask him, furious and indignant he would dare try and stop him like this, but Roger has no time to explain.
"I'll get him, it'll be easier." He says quickly, motions to his two hands and Fergus swallows, seems willing to see sense in what Roger offers, and stands back, uncertain but understanding. "Just… " Roger says, looks up to the hill where he has left Jemmy – his little boy is worrying at his fingers, biting his lip and something he wishes were not tears gather in his blue eyes. "Take care of Jemmy fer me, will ye?"
Truthfully, Roger does not give Fergus room to argue or voice even a hint of protest – he does not give him time to do anything really as he struggles out of his coat and promptly shoves it into his arms – and before either of them might say anything else, Roger dives in head first.
The water is freezing, as it bites his face and eats at the tips of his fingers already, and the current seems, all of a sudden, so much stronger now that he's at its mercy. Roger's world turns grey, as it stings his eyes, and the wails of a child are all too soon swallowed up by a pounding he can feel strike his head. There is a heaviness upon his shoulders, and it takes him a dangerous second too long to manage to kick his feet – it feels slow, his movements sluggish, like something weighs him down and when he tries to fight it, Roger struggles to kick himself up. He just about breaks surface, has enough time to breathe in far less than he would like before another wave carries him under – something painful enters his nose and he tries not to panic, instead Roger shuts his eyes closed and lets the current carry him to where he remembers Germain being. Blindly, he reaches a hand out, flails about and prays, heart pounding, for a miracle.
He nearly sobs when his fingers close around a fistful of damp cloth and soaking wool, and without thinking, Roger fights against the current as he drags Germain close to his chest and closes his arm in front of him. He doesn't let go as he kicks the bottom of the riverbed as hard as he can, fights the pull of the current as, together, they desperately reach up, up, up.
They break surface – thank God – and the breath of fresh air Roger greedily chokes on has never tasted so sweet. It clings to his throat and makes it hard to breathe as he struggles to push against the current while trying to drag Germain – who is crying and shaking in fear – with him, a mop of soaking brown hair and a wet cough as the lad's head rises above the current. As Roger holds the boy as close to him as he can, he wishes his touch were perhaps a tad more gentle as he blinks furiously – his eyes sting, still, and the skin around them feels swollen and irritated, it hurts to so much as look around for help, for the world is blurry still, around the edges.
"There there, Uncle Roger's got ye, lad." He spares a comforting few words for Germain nonetheless, broken-voiced and perhaps not as reassuring as he'd have liked to sound, and where Roger can feel the biting cold of Germain's neck, he tries to rub his thumb in the crook where it meets his shoulder as the boy cries against him, his little heart pounding loud enough, Roger wonders how the entire Ridge isn't hearing it right now. Roger's arm tightens around his back, his muscles ache already from tiredness and the cold, and he wants nothing more than to get them both out of here.
With his free arm, Roger can do little else but flail around – Germain weighs heavily upon his side already, his shoulder is sore, and he swears that each movement of the current around him bruises it further. Roger already dreads to think of what a state he'll be in tomorrow – paws around him blindly to touch only water and begs to whatever might be listening out there to please grant them salvation.
"Roger!"
He thinks he imagines it, at first, for his ears ring still and Roger does not think anything could ever possibly reach him over the deafening sound of the roaring current, Germain's cries in his ears or the pounding of his own heartbeat – painful now, in his chest – in his head. Next to him, the boy screams again, something raw and terrified, gets about half of a syllable out before water crashes over them once again and it is only Roger's sheer stubbornness that saves them from being carried away.
"Dinna cry, Germain, we'll get ye out of here in no time." He tries to tell him as gently as he can, the tears that pool in Germain's big brown eyes and the tremor in his lip threatening to undo him on the spot. His little fingers are frozen, where they fist into the laces at the front of his shirt seeking a comfort he cannot give him. Roger wastes no time, kicks blindly into the water beneath them, not caring where they may be headed, for he knows simply that they cannot stay here a moment longer.
His top is frozen where it clings to him, Roger can feel the goose bumps blossom upon his skin and his heart halters for a moment too long, his breeches feel heavy when he shifts his leg, laden as they are with water and a biting cold he wishes he could escape from already and when they try to move, something burning erupts in his side, the skin around Roger's hip feel tender where it burns – he figures he probably hit something when they'd been dragged under, and is spared only a moment to hope it's nothing too serious. If his ribs are broken, he thinks – not without a little cynicism perhaps – that Jamie's wrath might finish the job. And then Bree – dear Bree – well, Roger thinks she'd probably be upset enough to bring him back to life just to throttle him six feet underground again. Roger wishes not to thrust such grief upon her, not so soon after barely escaping Alamance.
"Roger!"
Germain's eyes flutter closed, his nephew's lashes tickle his neck with a disconcerting gentleness where Roger feels him nuzzle into his neck, his breath warm upon his skin. His name comes not from upon his lips, he realizes then after a moment, but it carries instead from someplace else, far away over the current. It pains him terribly, when Roger twists himself around the child in his arms, coughs and splutters when another wave hits him in the face, and when he comes up for air again and paws away at the water in his eyes with his free hand, he thinks he recognizes the thin figure reaching out for them on the bank. It's Fergus.
In the tendermost of his chest, Roger's heart lurches with hunger as he can feel himself brush the barest of edges of newfound hope, and so he forces himself to push forward once more. Every part of him aches dreadfully and begs him for a reprieve, and the river has yet to cease trying to sweep them up in its clutches. In his arms, Germain grows heavier as the seconds pass them by, but Roger spares the boy a gratefulness from the bottom of his heart when he catches him waving his little hands about, trying despite it all to help him swim to shore. Roger clings to him for dear life, feels his hands struggle for a moment as he gets a better grip upon his coat, and, fighting to keep his head above water, he can feel it rattle in his chest where he coughs and splutters more than once as, miserably, they battle the river as they make their way over. This is hardly the dashing rescue he'd sing about around a cosy fire with the Frasers.
He feels it, as, inch by miserable inch, they at last close in on the bank. Fergus, bless him, is already waiting for them, his coat discarded for Germain as, with one hand, he grips the bark of the lone tree bent low enough to nearly kiss the river with its branches, leans over as far as he safely can and tries to reach out for them with his wooden hand. Jemmy, little angel that he is, is standing aside, gives them the space he understands they need and tries not to cause a fuss, even though Roger can feel it in his bones from where he is, his son is absolutely terrified.
A sudden weight is pulled away from him, and if Roger had the words to express his relief at Germain finally being lifted from him and seen safely into his father's arms, he might have indulged in it. Fergus kneels in front of the boy, drapes his long coat over Germain's trembling shoulders as he rubs his hands up and down the poor lad's arms trying no doubt to dry him off and warm him up all at once, tells him something Roger cannot hear but can probably guess, if the relief he thinks he can see upon their faces is anything to go by.
A moment passes, Fergus kneels to gently kiss the crown of Germain's head and asks Jemmy to look over him as he turns back to Roger, hastily makes to help him.
Roger has a second to feel relief flood his bones, his erratic heartbeat almost settles at the thought of touching dry land, and his cheeks already hurt where he can feel a ridiculous smile pull at the edge of his lips for the boys are both safe and sound and alive and this entire sorry affair is finally over. Roger even thinks he might have the audacity to tell Jamie to his face that there is no way on God's green earth he's comin' back here tomorrow if Jamie dares him to do something so absurd as beckon him to swim or fish with him. He may be daft, but even Roger is not so foolish as to tempt fate twice – there is, after all, only so much he can put his poor voice through before he might lose it for good.
Behind him, the current offers him no mercy as it roars to life again. Dread is a sudden weight upon his heart and whatever he means to say gets stuck in his throat when Fergus and he lock eyes for the barest of seconds. His lips part, his brother-in-law shouts something his way, the lines upon his face stricken with worry and an aborted attempt to reach out for him one Roger manages not to grasp with his fingers in time. Whatever Fergus says goes unheard, for no sooner does he try to do so that the world tilts, darkness embraces him once again as water crashes over him, and Roger cannot breathe.
Oh dear God, not again, he has a moment to beg, terrified, as water fills his lungs, his body far too tired now to fight it.
Around him, the world is black, and it pains him terribly to think that the last thing Roger will probably ever see is the raw horror upon his nephew's face, anguish and distress a child his age ought to be sheltered from for years to come. Morbidly, Roger clings to it nonetheless, remembers the lines pulled taut upon Germain's wee face, the worried creases around Jemmy's blue eyes as Roger had asked him to stay put, for Roger knows that when they will disappear this time, the world will go dark forever. Roger is an optimist, perhaps, but he is no fool, he can feel it in his bones how what little fight he still has is leaving him, knows with dread in his heart that he has not the strength left to battle the current any longer – the tips of his fingers have frozen already and it hurts to so much as move them the slightest inch, the tender warmth Brianna so effortlessly bequeathed him this morning as he remembers stroking the soft skin of her cheek is no match for the cruel iciness of the river, and feelings of love and ache have begun to lessen somewhat – he's going numb.
Roger has heard enough tales from Claire's surgery to know this isn't good, and the thought of being dragged down any further without getting the chance to say goodbye is terrifying.
I'm dying, he manages to put the words upon his thoughts, and despite the burning of the water in his lungs, the sting in his eyes or this newfound heaviness lacing his limbs, the only thought Roger can muster is how utterly alone he feels. He wonders if, perhaps, this might be God's twisted mercy upon him – he might have entertained such thoughts once, Roger can acknowledge in the privacy of his own head that perhaps, once, he might have considered the notion of ending it all when the touch of rope around his neck and the foreign feeling of his shattered voice in his throat had threatened to unravel him completely. Yes, he might have thought about it in the vaguest sense of the term, but no longer does he want to even contemplate the notion now. He has a family of his own, a beautiful wife who loves him and a son Roger has given his heart to already, and that he should die now, like this, feeling every second as whatever crumbs of life he may still have escape from his grasp and wonders which heartbeat will be his last seems such a cruel punishment for his soul to bear in its last moments. A sinner he may be, and Roger is fully ready to acknowledge and atone for his wrongs – he has a lot to learn, still, and even more to do, to become a better man – but to feel his chance at redemption and belonging be so suddenly torn away from him makes something ache in his heart with a searing fierceness.
There is no salvation to be found however, when Roger struggles to open his eyes: everything has gone dark and the world has turned to ice where it stings the skin upon his cheek and Roger has never before hungered so desperately for life. He prays such thoughts come to him merely because he's sinking further into the depths and not because he's dying.
When he tries to move the fingers of his left hand, they refuse to obey him, his limbs having long since gone numb with cold, there is a cramp in his back and his side throbs still, where he vaguely remembers hitting something sharp what feels like a lifetime ago already. He tries to breathe, and his lungs disregard him, Roger feels like he's burning from the inside, and when, panicked, he tries to perchance reach for the surface, a cramp erupts in his back and his hip feels like it's on fire. Roger thinks it ought probably to scare him more, when he feels his body shutting down on him – he's dying – and every part of him feels pinpricks of pain as he is set alight from within. His body jerks, maybe once or twice (Roger remembers Claire talking about survival instincts once) but he is far too weak now to try anything further than that.
I'm either going to drown or I'll freeze here, no use denyin' it, he tells himself, yet with Fergus' gentle reassurance still a soothing balm upon his heart still, Roger dares to hope, as he forces his fingers around something when he feels a roughness brush the tips of his fingers. He cannot say for certain what it is for it hurts too much to try to open his eyes, but he knows that, right now, it is the only thing that might halt him being devoured by the current, a sliver of chance that he may yet see Bree and Jemmy again, and that's enough.
Time passes – Roger is no longer sure how long it has been since he's seen Germain safely out of the water. It could be minutes (which, if Roger could think properly, it probably was) but to his battered body, it feels like a lifetime ago already, and this is none other than some twisted purgatory for him to atone for his many sins. Keeping his eyes open has become a struggle, and around the rock, his bruised fingers ache, the pressure of the water makes him feel like they're bending out of shape and snapping all at once. It hurts, but it's all Roger has. Blessedly, he rouses with a jolt, moves just enough to catch a something slide upon the surface of the water – it takes him a moment to recognize the shape as that of a shadow dancing upon the riverbank, and he swears that the moment it hits him, Roger feels something lurch in his chest.
It's Fergus and the children.
Roger means to shout for him 'I'm here!' and 'Don't go!' and a thousand other things, but his voice is broken still, his lungs are starved for air and too pained to permit him such small clemency. Instead, with increasing dread in his the pits of his stomach, Roger watches what precious little air escape him, struggles anew as a painful throbbing erupts in his temples and he can do little else but clench his teeth against it, grinds them down 'til it hurts and he wonders, absently, if the pressure might not shatter them completely.
Life dances above him, taunts him with something he desperately craves but cannot touch, and the figure Roger thinks he can make out begins to retreat, salvation and light along with it and Roger knows he cannot afford to let it go. Panic and a newfound urge to live – desperate, this time – seize him completely, something stings in the corner of his eye as Roger yanks at whatever it is that is trapping him here below and does not need to be asked twice to kick with everything he has left. All of a sudden, everything goes so fast around him, light rushes to meet him, the surface is in touching distance again and Roger – at fucking last – breaks free, and air has never tasted so sweet upon his tongue.
"Help!" He belts as loudly as he can, forces his voice to croak far beyond what is reasonable and feels it as he tears his throat to pieces. Roger thinks that if losing his voice completely is the price he must pay to get to see Jemmy again, to hold Brianna and kiss her on the forehead and feel the softness of her curls against his fingers as he breathes in pine, smoke and the sweetness of home, then it is one he is more than willing to pay.
"Roger!" He hears it clearly this time, the ugly taint of fear and worry cracking the accent of his brother-in-law, but Roger has never been so glad to hear something other than the horrible loneliness of the pounding of his own ears. Fergus' eyes dart between him and the riverbank once, and before Roger can even think of crying out for him again, he's already running his way. "Ne bougez pas, I'll-" He starts to tell him something, but Fergus cuts himself off abruptly as he scrambles back to the closest tree to him he can find. Roger watches him, heart in his throat and desperately trying not to let the current carry him away, as he grapples for the furthest branches he dares go for and reaches out for him with his wooden hand. "Take it!"
Roger tries, feels every muscle in him protest as he claws for salvation and brushes the edge of stiffened fingers once, twice – his arm is beyond exhausted, his lungs are positively ready to burst and around him, the water threatens to drown him again. He has a moment to sorely regret that Fergus cannot pull him up by himself before – finally – he feels the tender skin of his fingers wrap around something hard and solid and Roger can do little else but give away with a sob that rattles his chest, relieves the ache in his body and feels it acutely when he can breathe again.
Roger readjusts his grip a little better, and then hears with horror in his heart, the distressed sound that passes Fergus' lips, as he struggles not to be dragged in also.
"Roger, I need you to move! You have to help me!" He cries, a pained crease in his brow and an unspoken apology of asking so much of him.
Roger doesn't want to, Roger can't, Roger is far past exhausted, but as he tries to blindly paw for Fergus' wrist, Roger is keenly aware that of the two of them, he is the bigger man, and with a sinking feeling, knows that unless he forces himself just a little further, he'll pull them both in and then they'll both drown. His teeth grind – it's honestly a miracle they haven't shattered yet – and something close to a sob escapes the back of his abused throat as Roger forces himself to give one last exhausted kick – and does not move at all.
What the devil! He thinks, heart stopping.
He tries to move again, jerks his leg with renewed franticness, and to his horror, Roger stays exactly where he is. His hand around Fergus' wrist grows sweaty (how he has not crushed his bones is a miracle), he can see it begin to slide as his grip slackens – No! No! Gods, no!- and the thought of having to fight it all again asks too much from him. Roger almost feels his chest give out, defeat a heavy thing looming over his shoulder as another ripple in the current drenches his face and sends him into a coughing spurt. He's so damned tired, he simply cannot hold on any longer.
"Roger!" Fergus struggles as he tries to make for his sleeve, "Roger s'il vous plait, I cannot pull you up!"
"My foot," Roger croaks as he feebly attempts to jerk it again, "It willna move, it's stuck!"
He can't – He can't – He can't –
Somewhere, far over the deafening sound of the current and the reverberation of his own struggles in his ear, there is a child crying. Roger would recognize it anywhere: it's Jemmy, and he thinks that, perhaps for his little boy, he can.
Roger swallows, gathers everything he can possibly muster within him one last time and pulls until there is nothing left in him, and in the space of an erratic heartbeat, everything happens too quickly. He can barely feel it the moment he finally frees himself, for Roger cannot afford to linger upon how blessedly liberating it is, he pushes himself up instead and feels Fergus pull him the rest of the way, their hands drenched and slippery, and then Roger is lying on the softest bed of lush green grass he thinks he has ever felt. He stays there, does not dare move any further as he chokes and feels like he's coughing up half of the river and the remainder of his throat along with it, distantly feels a gentle hand upon his back and the reassurance of having someone here with him, something tender blooming in his chest at the notion. Roger gasps, struggles to breathe as, greedy for life, he takes in too much, too fast, feels it stick to his throat and hurt his lungs and yet, after a horrible coughing fit, when he at last gets his first real stuttered breath – ugly and hoarse and probably beastly to any civilized company – whatever lowing he might otherwise have been embarrassed by is, right then, the sweetest of music to his ears.
He can breathe.
Roger takes a few moments to hear it once again, life has never tasted so delightful upon his tongue. His ears pound, still, the river an jarring beat to his every breath, and it pains his ribs when he coughs out the last remainder of water. He remembers now, in a vivid flash, how his side had felt tender in the water, knows he must have probably hit a boulder when going in after Germain, and when he is foolish enough to brush the area with his fingers, it bursts into flames and Roger bites down an rather shameful whimper. He definitely won't be in any shape to trail game with Jamie anytime soon.
Instead, he lies there for a couple of moments longer, hears nothing but the sound of his own breath and the current in his back, deceptively quiet now that he's escaped it. In his chest, his heart begins to quieten down somewhat as the world slowly settles around him.
"Roger?" It sounds distant, but the edge of an accented worry touches him nonetheless. Warmth blooms in his chest at the concern, and when Roger tries to answer, his lips part, but have not the energy left to utter anything beyond a silent breath.
"Roger!" He feels it again, with more urgency this time as someone's hand touches his shoulder, shakes him slightly while trying not to jostle him too much, an attention and care to his poor state he greatly appreciates. His eyes flicker up at the tangible distress he can feel lacing his name, and Fergus looks stricken as he eyes him over critically, his shirt half drenched from having to rescue him.
"Aye, we make quite a miserable pair, don't we?" He chuckles hoarsely, seemingly finding nothing else to say.
A moment passes before a smile weasels its way upon Fergus' lips, and Roger does not need any further words of reassurance when the gentle hug Fergus gives him is enough. It is a genuine warmth that soothes the frigid ache in his bones, the feeling of Fergus' hands upon his back chase away whatever droplets cling to him and sting his skin with their frosty bite, and Roger needs not to look him in the face to feel how happy he is to have him back safe and sound – like he somehow cares about him being here, might actually want him here with him, even. Roger swallows, heavily, and desperately tries to hold back the sting he can feel in his eyes where dampness of another kind gathers in their corners, for now is not a time for tears.
"I'm glad you're alive." Fergus tells him quietly, and for the first time, Roger feels like he might just begin to have a place here.
"Thank ye, fer not letting go." He says, shivers slightly as an ache borne from exhaustion runs down the length of his arm, "I dinna think I would have gotten out of there without ye."
"Non," Fergus argues firmly, shaking his head, "I should be the one thanking you for what you did. Not everyone would."
"Aye, well," Roger says a little awkwardly, pride a sentiment that feels ever so new to his soul in this world of the past. "At least 'tis only my shirt that is ruined." He tries brushing it all off lightly as his heartbeat begins to settle, well-assured now that he is safe and will live to see another day. Without thinking about it much, Roger wipes his hand under his nose, and thinks it is probably because he's exhausted that he feels little concern when it comes away stained crimson.
He's bleeding.
"Here, tenez." He has no time to think much of it, Fergus' offer is quickly followed by the rather sharp sound of cloth tearing where he pulls at the bottom of his shirt, and if Roger were more lucid, then perhaps he might have protested somewhat instead of merely staring, dumbly. Instead, he accepts the token of gratitude, brings it to his face and stems any further blood there as Fergus reassures him that "I'm afraid it's the best I can offer you, Milady can take better care of her when we return home."
Oh Claire… Roger thinks, not without a hint of dread in his stomach, for he must admit, he hasn't even had time to consider that part of their adventure yet.
"She's going to kill us, isn't she?" He says, a little apprehensive, for he has witnessed Claire's dismay more than once when treating negligent tenants of the Ridge decided to haunt her surgery like unwanted growths upon her skin, and he cannot say her fearsome scorn is something he wishes to be subjected to. There is a reason, after all, why his mother-in-law inspires so much awe to those around her, for Claire Fraser truly is, in all respects, a formidable woman.
Jemmy and Germain have the decency of hanging their heads in shame when Roger catches their gaze, and the sight of the two little boys – drenched, exhausted and having had more than enough scares for one day – is enough to melt the little ice wall around his heart. Perhaps more than one might have criticised him then, for how utterly powerless he was, to resist the two wee devils, but they are of his blood and heart, and Roger loves them dearly, enough even to face the brunt of Claire's distress himself if it means he might spare them some.
"Dinna fash lads, Fergus and I will cover fer ye." He reassures them, runs a hand through Jemmy's hair and feels his heart flutter in his chest when his son giggles, clear and bright, music Roger cherishes after coming so close to losing it.
It puts a smile on both their faces, and he thinks it might just make his splitting headache worth it.
"Aye, Milady will be furious," Fergus grimaces next to him, and Roger sees beneath the man he has become the lingering memories of a ten year-old boy who landed in far more mischief than he probably ought to, Claire's motherly scolding probably something he has faced many times before. "But she'll take care of you after, Milady is kind like that."
Fergus smiles at the mention of Claire – it takes Roger a moment to remember that she is, for all intents and purposes, his mother also – and while they may not share bonds of flesh and blood, it looks so much like the traits he's seen many a time upon Claire and Bree's faces that it would be impossible to think him anything else but her son. Perhaps neither of them were born of Fraser blood, but Roger begins to realize, then, that it matters very little to them, for they are family of the heart and choice instead, and the realization is a gentle balm Roger has been seeking for so long, his chest feels fit to burst at perhaps finally finding a home for himself. Around Jemmy's shoulder, his hand tightens somewhat, a fatherly love he knows now to be unconditional bleeding from his fingers.
Roger sniffles – tis far from elegant or manly, but he cares not, when his heart feels so raw, still, as it struggles to accept this new affection he's craved for so long – for this might not have been the family he'd dreamed of once upon a time, a lifetime ago when he'd been naught but Roger Wakefield, an orphaned boy who'd found a home with the Reverent, but when he takes a moment to consider how much he is loved, how many people are there for him now, Roger thinks he would not change it for the world.
"Ach, now where's my wee devil?" He chuckles as he turns to the children, feels it in his bones when he beams at them as they run to him, laughing.
"You're a hero, dada." Jemmy tells him – smiling, sobbing, overwhelmed – as Roger closes his arms around him, holds his son close to his chest and takes a moment to just – be. He is enough, he realizes then, perhaps, he thinks as he looks down to his two smiling boys, that this is all he needs to be. "I'll tell Granda all about it." Jemmy says as he nuzzles into his neck, his little hand coming up to the back of his head, small fingers gripping the strands of wet hair and clinging to him because he loves him.
"You will not, Milord will kill us both!" Fergus exclaims, scandalized, his hands around Germain still as he rubs up and down his arms, the green coat nearly drowning the poor lad where he stands. Germain, bless him, just laughs, the thought of Grand-père's scowl and bushy eyebrows as he would scold them like bairns a funny one to him indeed. Roger cannot exactly blame him either.
"It'll be our little adventure, all right lads?" Roger holds out his hand to them, lifts his little finger and wiggles it as he asks them for a promise.
Jemmy and Germain are, of course, elated, and need no further prompting to swear not to tell a soul – not even Adso! Jemmy ads, with helpful enthusiasm – and while Roger thinks he might have to be careful about what they might say for a couple of days, he is glad to know he can trust them so.
"Uncle Roger?" Germain asks him after a moment, his voice has regained some of the confidence Roger remembers it to usually have, and is glad he seems to be recovering well. When Roger turns to him, Germain merely bends down, kisses his bruised knuckles with a tenderness that makes his heart stop for a moment. "Merci."
Upon his shoulder, Fergus' arm tightens just enough to make Roger swallow heavily. When he smiles to the lads this time, it feels bright and whole and him, and Roger thinks, perhaps he does belong after all.