A/N: I hadn't planned to write for this fandom (not yet at least), but I saw the prompt, and something sparked in my brain. I apologize for any mistakes regarding canon; at this point, I've interacted with fanfiction more than the source material, haha. I'd love to hear your thoughts, though!


"Mama, mama, look!"

"That's wonderful, darling."

The words slipped out of Claire's mouth with practiced awe, an automatic praise every parent learned to utter with conviction whether or not they'd even glanced up from whatever they were focusing on while letting their child run free at the park. Claire had sat on the grass with her medical books, away from the other adults: the small huddle of women gossiping by a picnic table, the man who was buried so deep behind his newspaper that the only visible part of him was the top of his fedora, and the frazzled-looking woman who was so young she must have been a babysitter rather than the mother of the two boys crying at her feet.

"Mommy, you're not looking!" Brianna accused.

Providing her daughter the audience she demanded, Claire swallowed her amusement over the pouted lips and hands resting on hips. Discounting the tapping foot that was one of the less endearing traits Bree had picked up from Frank, her stance was eerily reminiscent of Jenny.

"I'm sorry, lovey. Show me again."

Brianna gave an exasperated sigh that was as dramatic as anything that happened in the life of an eight-year-old, but she quickly whirled around and took off in a run. Her braids flowed in the wind behind her as she barely slowed down to climb up the slide, her arms spread out for balance but not support.

"Now did you see?" she asked with a grin, a proud king of the castle.

Claire smiled. "I did. Very good, Bree. Do remember to check that no one's sliding down while you climb up, though."

Brianna rolled her eyes but nodded. Her need for parental attention fulfilled, she went back to playing, not sparing her mother another glance.

Claire kept a constant eye on her daughter – her height and the flaming red hair making her easy to pick out from among other children – but let her mind wander back to where it had travelled before. After eight (plus three) years, it wasn't a surprise anymore that she found herself in 18th century Scotland more often than not when left to her own devices with no medical case or marital conflict to occupy her mind. The weather was crisp and sunny – the kind of beautiful autumn day Boston saw maybe two a year between the warm and humid summer and the freezing cold winter. She always felt the longing to the green highland moors more deeply on days like that.

Today, however, she wasn't aching for the heated kisses of a warrior or the mischievous smirk of a sister or even the stonewalls of a manor that was the only place she'd ever wanted to call home. Brianna was the spitting image of Jamie, but today she didn't remind Claire of red curls towering over her and arms wrapped around her waist but of a mop of dark hair tucked under her chin and dexterous, slim fingers fisted in the hem of her skirt.

She'd returned to the 20th century with a daughter, but she'd never told anyone of the son she'd left behind. The boy who'd made her a mother before she'd held a child of her own blood and long before she'd seen one grow up. The boy who'd be a young man by now, even if his childhood hadn't been stolen from him by being forced to fend for himself and getting caught up in a war.

Claire wondered what Fergus' life was like. Was he still living at Lallybroch? Had he settled in there all right with Jenny and Ian without her or Jamie to assure him that his place was there? How did the family fare with the redcoats and the famine?

Claire plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her thumb and index finger. Brianna had a habit of hunting for flowers in summer and had continued this year despite the change of season, determined to find one to give to her mother, be it wilted or frozen. She'd been more successful when she'd been younger and hadn't quite grasped the differences between species ("It's not a weed, mama, it's a flower!"), but now that she had realised not everything green and found on the ground equalled a flower (naturally, Claire had cherished every single gift just the same), the task was proving harder. Bree was nothing if not stubborn, however, so Claire expected the game to drag out at least till next spring.

Pressing her nose against the inside of her wrist that on her rare day off could smell of perfume, she thought back to other types of gifts, acquired by ill means but with equally pure intentions. She remembered the small row of bottles on her nightstand first in Paris and then at Lallybroch, ending in the one she'd never opened. She thought of reckless trips alone to the woods to snatch rabbits ("But milady, men hunt to provide for their families, non?") with sharpened wooden sticks that doubled as play swords after the chores were done (or when Jenny wasn't nearby).

"Mama, watch this!"

Dutifully, Claire turned to look at Brianna as she kicked herself higher and higher in the swing, squealing with delight in between bouts of deep concentration. Claire smiled at her adorable little girl, but her heart complemented the image with a teenaged boy pushing the swing. A boy, ten or so years older and never as carefree in his games as his sister, but equally desperate for love and approval.

Claire's stomach clenched at the reminder that no matter how hard she looked, she'd never see him again.