The Way In

"Aye, I doo like tae see a lass unafraid tae get her hands dirty," says Rupert, looking over my half-dismembered truck engine with an insultingly proprietary expression, "'Specially a fine, fine quality lassie."

Angus laughs, and Rupert smirks, both of them going to lean indolently against the nearby workbench. It does not escape me that from that angle, they have an excellent view of my rear end. . .

I make two fists inside the engine cavity. I may be back inside my own head, my disastrous slide into dissociative nihilism at least temporarily averted, but my wits are still scattered yet, and I have less than zero energy to be dealing with the Ruperts and Anguses of the world. My empty stomach twists in disgust, and I stare silently at Jamie, begging him with my eyes to get me out of here. He meets my look for a moment, and gives me the tiniest of nods.

"An' how d'ye ken that, Rupe?" he says, still looking at me, "I ken Claire'll be th'furst time ye'ev seen one." He rounds on him, sharply, "A'least in person."

"Well, is'nae that th'pot callin' th'kettle black!"

"That's Mac Dubh tae ye, Rupe."

Rupert scoffs, "Ye great arse - fine - but d'ye really think I hav neva-"

"Aye, an' jus' what woman of quality would evar hev ye?"

"Oh, gi' off yer high hoarse, Jam," says Angus, "Ee's no' as if-"

Jamie has distracted them perfectly. . . I deliberately drop my spanner and multi-tool. They land on the concrete with a loud clatter. I jerk my hands out of the engine, and grip the knuckles of one hand with the other, hissing in pain. To my own surprise, I don't have to fake the pain. At some point in the last hour or so, I've scraped my knuckles raw. I've only just now noticed.

"Now look what ye'ev dun," says Angus, to me, somewhat to my shock, "Now wheer did auld Beaton keep the bandages?" He pokes ineffectually at a shelf or two before Jamie interrupts him.

"He nevar kept a good first aid kit heer. I'll see tae her." He gestures to me, "C'mon, Sassenach."

"Haud oon a tick," says Angus, "Ye cannae jus' leave."

"Why no'?"

"'Cause Himself stationed us heer taeday tae mek shure she doesnae git in trouble!" says Rupert, heaving himself onto a workbench stool.

Jamie crosses his arms, "Aye, and a fine job ye'er makin' o' that. Exactly what trouble are ye thinkin' shee'll be gittin' in wi' me?"

Rupert blinks, and rapidly glances in between Jamie and me, suddenly rendered quite speechless.

"Aye, tha's what I thought," Jamie turns to me, managing to look concerned and annoyed at the same time, "Hev ye had lunch?"

"I haven't had breakfast."

"There ye are then," he says to both of them, "She's on her lunch break. If she spends it wi' me an' bottle o' antiseptic, tha's no' business o' yers."

"An' jus' what are we s'posed tae doo in the meantime?" says Rupert, quickly recovering his voice.

Jamie looks at me, significantly.

"Uhm. . ." I mumble, unprepared for any of this, "I guess you can help Willie shift the trash bags from the office. Maybe. . . help Geordie find a recycling service that takes glossy paper?"

Rupert nods, then looks up, slack jawed, eyes wide, comically appalled, "Ye arenae throwin' oot Beatons auld magazines?"

"Of course I am. What do I need with two hundredweight of pictures of half-dressed models draped over old ca-"

He launches himself off the stool, and is out of the garage and halfway across the yard before I can finish the word. Angus rolls his eyes, sighs a little, and goes after him, cursing softly the entire way.

When they're both gone, Jamie looks at me, smiling tightly, "Dinnae look a gift horse in the mouth, Sassenach." He grabs a jar of skin-degreaser and a large handful of cotton rags, and promptly escorts me to the runabout he has parked in the yard.

The house is a good two hundred meters, and the width of at least three fields behind us, before either of us says anything.

"Are ye much hurt?" says Jamie, quietly.

"It's just scraped knuckles, they'll be fine," I say, my voice much shorter and harsher than I mean it to be.

He looks at me, all gentle concern, "That isnae what I. . . I mean, ye. . . ye shouldnae be skipping meals, ye ken. . ."

"I've gone without before. It's not a problem." I grip my knuckles tighter, and clamp my teeth together. Any more of his caring tenderness, and he's going to make me cry. . .

He shakes his head, "Ye are contrary today, I see."

"I have to be, Jaime," I say, my voice catching in my throat, "Or I'll fall apart. . ."

His expression darkens, and his mouth works, but he doesn't look at me.

"It's no' much further."

There's a double-wide roadway in between the arable fields and the grass lands, bordered by stone fences and two overgrown ditches. We cross this, and go two, three field-lengths into the grazing land before pulling up in front of a small, two-room cottage. I can just see the horse stables and barn off to my right as I get out of the runabout.

The cottage is made of stone, its low, thatched roof coloured grey, its diamond-pane windows warped and greenish with age.

It is a place direct from all manner of fairy tales - from the sweetly romantic, to the murderous and terrifying. For a second, I don't know which one to expect. . .

"D'ye like my workshop?" asks Jamie, gently taking my elbow and guiding me past the gate. A carved wooden nameplate swings and clatters as he closes the gate behind us.

"Hotel California?" I say, "What am I supposed to think of that?"

I've always been good at historic geography - yet another talent my father did not approve of - so I know that California used to be on the western coast of the northern half of what is now the Western Hemispheric Landmass, for whatever that's worth, but, why the Hotel part, if this cottage is his workshop?

"Ye can think the truth. It's my favorite Eagles' song, Sassenach," he says, eyes twinkling.

"Oh," I say, noncommittally, as he hands me into the small lounge area, "You'll have to let me hear it sometime, then."

He rolls up his sleeves, and leads me to a washing basin, handing me the rags and pot of skin-degreaser. "Ye'ev never heard Hotel California?"

I fill the basin, and begin to scrub my arms, "Not that I can recall. Maybe I have, I just don't remember it."

I can hardly tell him that I barely know what an eagle is, let alone who the Eagles are. . . if they are anyone, but it sounded like he was speaking of a group of musicians. . . and as for a knowing a singular song of theirs. . .

"Weel, ye'ev not heard it, then. It's no' a song tae be forgot." He hands me a towel.

"Oh. Sorry," I say, patting my arms dry. I present my hand to him, the knuckles torn, my skin raw, but the bleeding has stopped.

He gestures me to a couch. We sit side by side, and he dabs on some antiseptic with a pad of cotton, then ties a long, clean strip of cloth around my hand, swathing my hurts from sight.

"It's no' a surprise, really. The album is a hundred years old."

"Oh? A classic, then."

"Aye. Tae be sure."

We run out of words to say, even these superficial, meaningless ones, whose only purpose is to fill the space between us with noise.

In the silence, even that barrier is denied me.

I am presented to him, raw, and torn, sick at heart, with nowhere else to go.

"Jamie?" I say, my voice very quiet and small.

"Aye?"

"Can. . . will you hold me?"

"Aye. A'coorse."

He opens his arms, and I go into them, leaning my head on the solid bulk of his chest, as his arms go around me, holding me close.

My tears don't explode or burst out of me, rather the weight of life presses on my heart, and overflows into my eyes. From within his safe enclosure, I can empty myself, break in half and bleed out the pain, fear and hurt. I can strip away the wrongness, the hate and suspicion. I can gasp and shake, fill with sorrow, and empty myself again.

It seems an age, as crying always does. But it is probably only a few minutes. I am calming down when I realize Jamie has been murmuring things to me the whole time, soft words, but intense, in a language I can't understand, his lips nuzzling into my hair as he repeats them over and over, like prayer.

"Tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn, mo Sorcha, na caoin, mas, e do thoil e, mo chridhe, tha gaol agam ort. . ."

I lift my head, sniffling, eyes streaming, and meet his deeply concerned blue gaze.

"Ha-gool ak. . . akham erst?" my voice is slow and thick with crying, and I stumble over the unfamiliar sounds, "What does that mean?"

A tiny smile twitches for a second in the corner of his mouth. He reaches to a side table, and brings back a packet of facial tissue that he tucks into my hand,

"I'll. . . tell ye one day, Sassenach. No' now."

I pull out of his arms, blow my nose, and wipe my eyes.

"I cried all over your shirt. I'm sorry."

He looks down at the dark blotches on the blue flannel, "Dinnae fash. I'll wear them. Proud tae. Like war medals."

I blink, and sniffle a bit, not knowing what to say to that.

"Now. Do I need tae kill Rupert for making ye cry?"

He's teasing me, and suddenly, I want to kiss him for it.

"No." I smile, and shake my head, "No. He. . . he didn't. He was just the last small thing in a long line of small - and big - things. I couldn't handle any more, is all."

"I think. . . he may like ye. Angus too."

"I'm almost certain they do. But they understand less than nothing about me."

"Aye, that's true enough."

He stands, and goes over to a small refrigeration unit. He extracts a large, paper-wrapped sandwich, and a bottle of water, comes back to the couch, and sets them on the low table in front of me.

"Ye must be hungry. Hev some lunch, Sassenach."

"But. . . I can't take your lunch!"

He laughs, and goes back to the refrigeration unit, opening the door wide, showing off two similar sandwiches, a container of potato salad, a container of fried mushrooms, and a glass pot full of at least a liter or two of stew.

"Mrs. Fitz feeds me like I'm still seventeen, a nighean. The mushrooms and lamb stew are from yesterday, the tattie salad from two days ago. Ye arenae takin' any food out o' my mouth, rest assured. It'll most like go tae the pigs if ye dinnae eat it."

He brings the salad and another sandwich back with him, sitting next to me companionably.

"Soo, I may take it yer audience wi' Colum was. . . complicated?"

I've just taken a bite of my sandwich, so all I can do is nod, and chuckle a bit. "That's an understatement!" I say, as soon as I can swallow, "So, so many things have happened since I got here, Jamie! Strange things, things I don't understand, things I understand all too well. . ."

"Weel, ye dinnae have tae talk about any of it if ye dinnae care tae."

"But I do," I say, fervently, "I want to tell you as much as I can."

And I do. But there are things I can't tell him, and things I won't tell him, and things I have no idea how to tell him. . .

"I guess the best place to begin is really when I hacked into Angus and Rupert's chat-app. . ."

"Ye told about that last time we talked. Is there more?"

"More than I said then, yes."

I can't tell him what I did in my Shadow windows, but I do tell him a lot more about what Angus and Rupert said, how they discovered the cameras were out, and how they reacted to my throwing a spanner in the works. He laughs when I tell him about taunting them on their transparent code names.

"Now I'm certain Rupert likes ye!"

"What?. . . Why?"

"Witchy Woman is his favorite Eagles' song, ye ken."

I blink, and unwrap the second half of my sandwich, "But, that would mean. . ."

"Aye, that he liked ye already, then," he takes a bite of potato salad, contemplatively, "He probably lost it the day ye fixed the Rover. I cannae blame him - ye were magnificent that day, Sassenach."

I snort. "Hardly that."

"Aye, that an' more. Brave and bonny. Smart and sassy," I laugh at his deliberate choice of words, "Needin' all our help, but no' taking any shite. Ye'ev moar steel in yer spine than a dirk, that ye have. I cannae blame any of 'em for being impressed, Dougal, Murtagh an' all. In fact, I cannae blame anyone if they fall arse over teakettle for ye the first time they lay eyes on ye."

Something in his voice brings me up short. The implications of that. . .

But no. Surely not. . .

"Well. Go on then," he says, quietly.

"Well. You know about how badly I mucked up supper that night. . ."

It's his turn to snort, "Ye mean when ye endured a lot o' pointed questions by twa grumpy auld men whoo dinnae ken ye, tae th'point that ye snapped at one o' them fer his foolishness? Agch."

His deeply disgusted grunt makes me smile, and I wonder, is there anything more about supper that night I can, or should, tell him? I won't mention anything about Hamish, I can't talk about my suspicions regarding Culloden, and does he really need to know I'm from Oxford, or why I taunted Dougal with the word Boston?

Although, that does remind me. . .

"Jamie? Do I sound American?"

He sits up straight at that, surprised at the question, "No' tae me, ye don't. I've nevar heard any'un speak quite like ye do, aye, but ye'er English, plain as plain. These days, with movies and technology - unless someone tries tae keep an accent, who knows where they're from? I met a lad from Guernsey once, born and bred there he was, and sounded German. Why? He had a cousin lived in Dresden, an' they were always talkin', video-chatting and such, while they were growing up. An' he said his cousin ended up speakin' French wi' a Guernsey accent." He shrugs, finishes the potato salad, and wipes his mouth, "Ye'ev a flat vowel oor two, and a right sharp cadence tae ye - and ye'ev a bit of an odd vocabulary. . . Och, but ye'er English, ceartainly. Whoo's been sayin' otherwise?"

"Colum. That first night, he said I sounded American."

"He might have been trying tae get a rise out of ye, Sassenach," he says, seriously, "He's been known tae do that tae people he doesnae trust."

I sigh, "And with Dougal there, no extra points for guessing why that was. . ."

"Aye, Dougal. . . did ought come of the cameras an' all?"

I bark a laugh, "Oh boy, you don't even know. . ."

I tell him about my meeting with Colum, all the things I'd said about myself, and how he'd offered me a job. Jamie nods along, surprised by none of it. . . until I tell him about the filigree camera cube. Then his jaw drops open, and he stares hard at the wall.

I still go on, carefully editing my encounter with Dougal so I leave out anything to do with Hamish or Culloden, winding up with Dougal tossing me the bunch of keys, and leaving me so strictly alone after that, he didn't even tell me there were three Sub-managers expecting me to have weekly meetings.

I stop, and silence falls again.

Eventually, he clamps his mouth closed, and goes through eight or nine uninterpretable facial expressions as he absorbs all I've told him.

"Ye really said all that tae Dougal?" he asks, slightly incredulous.

I can't blame him for feeling that way. I'm a bit incredulous myself, thinking back on it.

"Yes, I really did."

"Weel, I kent ye had baws, but *wheew*," he whistles, "Gi' ye a weapon and ye'er deadly, Sassenach. Remind me tae stay on yer good side, aye?"

I lean closer to him, lower my voice, and purr, "Stay on my good side, James Fraser."

He quickly crushes his sandwich wrapper, and throws it on the low table. He narrows his eyes at me.

I just smile.

"I bet that jab about if he breaks his word tae ye, you'd be able tae hold bein' a traitor over him is rankling somethin' fierce. If that doesnae shame him inta leavin' ye be, I dinnae ken what would."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because he already betrayed ye by spying on ye in the first place, and as for that camera ye found in Colum's office. . ."

He stares hard at the wall again, a lot very clearly going on in his mind, but what, I am uncertain.

"What about it?"

"Weel, I kent Dougal was after bein' Chieftain, but I didnae ken it'd gone as far as that," he scratches the back of his neck, "I'd always supposed that's what his candidacy for the Independent Scottish Council was about, ye ken, oor mostly, a'least. But nae, there must be moor tae it than just that, now. Ye kept the camera, aye?"

I nod.

"Good. Dinnae lose it." His brow knits up with hard thinking again, but then he shakes his head, decisively, "It doesnae matter, no' at the moment, anyway. Moor importantly - how are ye, Sassenach? Settlin' in at all, now that Murtagh's boys are helpin' ye?"

A light dawns, "Oh, Murtagh sent Willie and Geordie!"

"Aye," he grins, "An' he sent ye his auld clunker of a backup computer. If ye need tae doo something it cannae handle, ye can always come here and use mine, ye ken," he gestures at the desk in the corner, "Filling auld Beaton's shoos will be tough enough, nae doubt, without a slowpoke of a computer gettin' in yer way."

"Thanks, Jamie," I say, content. My stomach is full, and I'm sipping on the water, my lurching sick feelings entirely soothed. "I already was settling in a bit, I guess. I just. . . well. . ."

"Aye?"

"Well, I still feel like I'm living a half-dozen different lives here, you see. A different set of things to be and do with each individual person. I feel. . . fractured. I was sliding into a dissociative episode this morning - that's why I skipped breakfast - and I used dismantling the truck engine to ground myself. That's why Rupert and Angus being their normal selves was too much for me."

"I see," he looks slightly abashed, "An' I-"

"You were wonderful, James Fraser," I say, running my bandaged hand up and down his arm, "I don't know why it's so easy for me to be around you, and so difficult for me to be around so many of the other people here, but, that's what I'm dealing with right now. . ."

"Agch - ye just need tae spend some moor time wi' the lot o' us. Socially, ye ken."

I roll my eyes, "Oh, sure. That should be easy. . ."

He ignores my sarcasm, "Weel, the Cuckoos In The Grove are due here in the next few days. This Friday night, they'll give a big welcome back concert, an' if ye-"

"Wait. Back up. The who in the what?"

"The Cuckoos In The Grove. Colum's personal band."

"Band? He has a band?"

"Aye, he sponsored them before they got a record label. They spend a few months touring every year, but they always keep the winter free, and spend a month or two here. They bring their families, make a real vacation of it. Not that Colum doesnae work them while they're here, a'course. This year they'll be here though Hogmanay."

"Oh. Interesting. Will there be many hogs?"

He laughs, a joyous crowing shout I'm shocked I've never heard him use before, "Nae, Sassenach. One, perhaps. But the point is tha' there will be a concert here on Friday, with the lot of us there. When the Cuckoos are here, all manner of people come in from Cranesmuir too - it'd be a perfect time fer ye tae get tae know people, ye ken. An' if ye sit wi' me, dance wi' me, I'll be there tae make sure they're good tae ye. . ." He trails off, blushing bright red.

"James Fraser, are you asking me on a date?"

"Seems I am. Will ye?"

I smile, "Seems I will," I run a finger along the collar of his shirt, "Tell me about this concert, though. Will there be food?"

He nods, "Aye, and drink. They say the way inta a man's heart is through his wame, but the way inta any Scottish heart is wi' whisky, so there'll be pizza, and buffalo wings, and loaded potatoes, and lamb stew, and every kind and colour of whisky."

I want to ask what pizza is, and what buffalo wings are, and what you have to do to a potato to make it "loaded", but he mentioned them all so casually, I can't think of a way to ask without sounding unbearably strange about it. Instead, I fall back on the one thing I know for sure.

"Mmm, sounds amazing. I haven't had whisky in ages."

He rounds on me, almost more shocked than when he heard about the camera in Colum's office.

"D'ye seriously mean tae tell me ye'ev been here a week and nae'un has offered ye a dram?"

I shake my head. "Nope."

He jumps up, making several Scottish noises and muttering a long string of what I assume are curses, but they must all be in Gaelic, for I can't understand any of them.

He returns with a bottle, and two cut crystal glasses, all three of which he plunks down between us on the low table.

I read the label out loud, "Lallybroch, 20 Year Reserve."

"Aye. It means Drunken Tower," he says, pouring a small amount for each of us.

"An appropriate name then."

"Aye," he hands me one of the glasses, and taps it with his, "Slàinte mhath."

I take a sip before attempting to say the salute. It's earthy and smoky and rich and intoxicating and everything whisky should be. In seconds, it warms me down to my toes. I lick my lips and try to repeat what he said. "Shlan. . . gevah?"

It's a good thing he has swallowed by then, because the roar of laughter he gives at my attempt would surely have sprayed that good whisky all down his front. He sits there and laughs for several minutes, breaking out afresh every time he looks at me, shaking with a humour I don't quite get, but certainly appreciate.

Seeing someone I care about this happy is almost as good as being that happy myself.

"Dinnae fash, Sassenach, we'll have ye speaking the Gàidhlig in nae time at all," he says, finally getting himself mostly under control.

"And by "no time", I assume you mean. . . fifty years?"

"Aye, if that's what it takes. . ."

He takes another long sip, finishing the portion he poured himself. He puts his glass down, and turns to me, eyes roving over my face before he lifts one errant curl, and gently tucks it behind my ear.

"Claire. . . May I kiss ye?"

"I thought you'd never ask. . ."

I quickly finish my whisky, slap the empty glass on the low table, and wrap my arms around his neck to draw him closer. Only, he holds back, kissing me, but far too gently, too carefully, as though he is afraid of breaking me.

Which, now I think of it, he could easily do. Physically, mentally. . . He could smash me into flinders with a look, with a word, with one blow from those tough, sinewy hands he has braced on either side of my hips. . .

But, it's no use me being anything but vulnerable with him while he's still wearing the shirt stained with my tears - tears I shed after those same frighteningly strong hands, so far from doing me any harm, cleansed and bound up my wounds. . .

He delicately kisses the tip of my nose, and then, much to my confusion, pulls away entirely. He sighs deeply, turning to the low table, beginning to gather up the remnants of our lunch.

My mouth still tingles with his too-light kisses - kisses that have left me unsatisfied, worried. . .

"What's wrong, Jamie?"

He looks at me halfway, and blinks several times, "Noth-"

"And don't say nothing. C'mon, Jamie. You're no tentative boy - you asked to kiss me. And it's not like we haven't made out before. Now what kind of kisses were those?"

His jaw tightens, and he looks down at the papers in his hands.

"Ye. . . ye dinnae ken what it takes, Claire. How much it takes. Tae kiss ye, an' no' touch ye. This time I couldnae. . . no' without. . ." He flushes a rosy, delightful pink.

My worry collapses, and my heart warms, "Oh. Is that it?"

"Aye. Tha's it. But ye asked me tae be patient, and patient I'll be, even if. . ." he gives me a quick, businesslike kiss on the forehead, "Even if it means denying us both, sometimes."

I knock the sandwich wrappers and used napkins from his fingers, take his wrists, and deliberately place one of his hands on the back of my head, and the other on the middle of my back. "Touch me, then," I say, fiercely, "Just. . . don't wander too far yet. Understand?"

He looks at me with a sort of reverent wonder, his fingers tightening in my hair and on my spine, then softening, and stroking gently.

"Aye, message received, Sassenach."

He still doesn't lean into me right away, and when he does finally draw my mouth to his, sliding one hand slowly up my back, pressing me to him, it's not to kiss me just yet. Instead he whispers against my lips, "D'ye ken what I've been dreamin' of since ye got here?"

I shake my head, running my nose along the stubble on his upper lip.

"Feelin' ye tremble against me again. Only no' in fear. Oor sadness. Oor pain. . ."

Finally he slants his mouth over mine, and kisses me like I'm cold water on a hot day, drinking deep and sure and breathless. When we break apart, I indulge in what I have been dreaming about since I got here, and bury my face behind his ear, nuzzling into him, breathing deeply, luxuriating in the scent of him.

"Mmm. You work in a stable, Jamie. With animals. How on earth do you smell so good?"

I feel him smile against my neck, "Come an' see."

He takes my hand, and leads me into the other room of his workshop.

This is the larger room by far, square, and bright with whitewash. Bunches of dried herbs hang from every available space - marjoram, and mint, rosemary, dill, coltsfoot, summer savory, and dozens and dozens more things I might well recognize, but don't have time to take in, because the rich, spicy, overwhelming scent of the room is more intoxicating than the whisky. It is Autumn and Spring, blent with the riot of Summer, and mellowed with the cold air into a magical, seductive elixir. I cannot say anything, I merely sit on a stool at one of the workbenches, and breathe, filling my lungs again and again with the wild, odorous gamut.

I've dreamt of having a workshop like this. Of being surrounded by herbal sweetness, and the thrilling variety of things grown in soil. . .

Jamie crouches nearby, rummaging in a cupboard. He places three bottles in quick succession next to me, one large, and two small.

"There ye are. My secret weapons against horse manure." He points at the smaller bottles, "Erry'un likes this scent - can't keep it in stock. Ye'er lucky I just brewed some."

I pick up the little bottles and read the two identical hand-inked labels. "Soapwort, and Wintergreen. But. . . I have some of this in my rooms!"

"Aye, I noo, Sassenach. I make all the soaps and lotions for the guest rooms at Leoch. Mrs. Fitz comes tae me for her kitchen herbs, and ye may have noticed I'm something by way of being a doctor - tae both animals and humans, as the need arises."

I smile softly, "So this is where you learned to take care of a sprained ankle so well. . ."

"One o' th'places, aye."

"Do you know, I think I prefer your workshop to mine?"

"What? With that great lab o' yours, with the magic of it at yer finger-ends? An' every field, far as the eyes can see, yers, jus' waiting fer ye tae smile on them, tae make them green and beautiful? Nae, Sassenach, this is my wee corner o' the world - one cottage, one field, one life. 'Tis a cage as much as a refuge. And ye. . . ye'er made fer the sun, and the free air, the earth beneath yer feet and the sky open above ye. . ."

He stops abruptly, turning to fiddle with something on a different work table, full of some emotion I am at a loss to explain, and cannot understand.

Letting him be, I take up the larger bottle. It bears a similar label, hand-inked in a similar way, only this time it reads "Secret Shampoo: Formula 29". I open the cap, and take a sniff.

Even in the midst of the deep sweetness of this workshop, the scent of this shampoo stands out. Sharp, clear, cold, warm and soft all at once, sweet and savoury, intense and mellow, somehow everything and nothing recognizably specific has gone into it. It's heady, and to me, utterly perfect.

"Why are you giving me love potions, Jamie?" I ask, teasingly.

He turns, seeing me re-cap the bottle, "Och, ye like it then?"

"Like it? It smells like you. I can't wait to try it."

I pause, suddenly struck with the implications of covering myself with the scent of him, but I push forward, hoping he doesn't notice my brief stutter, "B-but that doesn't answer the question, you alchemist. Why are you giving me these magic brews? What are you trying to prove?"

"Not a thing, Sassenach. There's nary a drop o' magic in the lot. Jus' herbs." He goes and looks out one of the little diamond-pane windows, "But there are a fair number o' those, and strong ones too. I wouldnae recommend ye get it near yer. . ." He stops, and blushes again, his ears turning quite, quite red.

I grin, and have mercy on him, "Near my. . . eyes?"

He nods in relief, "Aye, those either. And dinnae drink it."

I give a mock gasp, "Don't drink it? Then how am I supposed to use this love potion, hm? Why kind of alchemist are you?"

He sighs, half bemused, half entertained by our banter, "An alchemist turns lead inta gold, Sassenach. Yer eyes are already that - and better, since they're alive. Ye dinnae need my potions. Ye dinnae need any magic but the light that flashes from ye when ye smile."

I suddenly realize that Friday is days away. I'm going to have to leave here soon, get back to my own job, and I can't stand the thought of not seeing him for all those hours, all those minutes.

"Jamie, will you walk the plots with me tomorrow? I could use a tour guide who is well-versed in local botany. To help me make a biome map, you know."

He gives me his devastating half-smirk, "Why, Mrs. Beauchamp. Are ye askin' me on a date?"

"Seems I am," I look over at him slowly, beseechingly, using every soft wile I possess, just to see how he'll react. "Will you?", I whisper.

His eyes have gone black, pupils blown so wide all that remains are narrow rings of electric blue, burning like twin suns in eclipse. In one long stride he's back next to me, as if he never left my side.

"Seems I will."

He tangles the fingers of both hands in the hair behind my ears, and with his thumbs, traces the edges of my mouth. It's exactly the caress Frank used to give me, right before he would. . .

Then Jamie's mouth is on mine, hot and hard, demanding entrance, melting me, dissolving me, driving me mad and keeping me sane all at once. His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling my head back as he works relentlessly down my neck, scraping me with his stubble, nipping, licking, sucking. He's bitten a delightfully stinging bruise onto my collarbone when he suddenly stops, stepping away from me entirely.

This time, I understand exactly why.

It takes us both a minute or two to compose ourselves.

"I'll meet ye in front of the Manager's barn taemorrow mornin'. Half-past seven." His words are slightly rushed, his tone one of mild detachment. Hearing the words in isolation, it might seem as if he were indifferent to me now, or even bored, but the look he gives me with them puts the lie to both.

Even without the look, I understand this too. He needs a little distance sometimes. A clean space around himself. He may have monumental self-control, but there are still parts of him I'm not allowed to see, not allowed to experience yet. He let me get too close there for a minute. Too near to a room in his heart where he'd accidentally left the door open. He has to close it on me now, before I knock something over.

He's been careful not to break me, and respectful of my limits. In the middle of enjoying him, I briefly forgot that he is Human, and just as breakable, with just as many hard limits. I've remembered now. I won't forget again.

He has yet to be nearly as vulnerable with me as I've been with him, but then, I haven't earned it yet.

Something in me wants to earn it. To win his trust. To be worthy of it.

I don't know how he's done it, but this man I barely know, whose history I haven't heard, whose life I do not understand, has earned not only my trust, but my loyalty, and my respect.

I want to honour him.

It's a strange sensation, especially with the marks from his mouth still throbbing on my neck.

"Sounds good. Count on it," I say, bustling about, gathering up the bottles he's given me, and going to get the remains of the pot of skin-degreaser.

When I come back, he's standing in the doorway between rooms, watching me with a pale, detached expression, and a strange, inexplicable pain buried deep in his eyes. I kiss the fingertips of my injured hand, and run them lightly over his jaw and chin, "Half-past seven, tomorrow morning, in front of my office. I'll be there."

Without a word, he drives me back to the Manager's barn, where four very different examples of men await me. . .

It's only hours later, while I'm changing for bed, that I realize Jamie also managed to drive all thoughts of Frank from my mind.

I turn off the light, slip under the covers, and wonder if I should feel at all guilty about that. . . and what it means if I don't.

Because I don't.

I sigh, as two different aches rise up in my heart, warring for dominance. One, a longing for what is gone, and the other a desire for what surely can never be. Tears start into my eyes, different tears than I cried on Jamie this afternoon - tears I can never, ever cry in the presence of someone else. These are the tears I cry when for no reason, my heart is lonely, when my mind cannot fulfill the needs of my soul, when parts of me become so vast, and so empty, so barren that no one can reach me when I'm in the center of them.

I felt this way sometimes, even when Frank was alive.

He called it my "cloud mood". Times when I would turn to mist and wind, he said, as unreachable as the stars.

The only way out is for me to be alone, and to cry, private, singular tears that mourn the unknowable parts of me that make my soul a prison, for me to weep for the dead day, not even knowing for certain there will be another sunrise.

My tears slow, as they always do, leaving the barren, empty part of me a little nearer the surface than before, a little closer to where I can bridge my way home.

But now, I'm inexpressibly tired.

After the stresses of today, I expect my dreams to be jumbled, confused, a chaotic mess - but they aren't. They're sweet, delicate, fairy images of flowers, morphing into moths that fly into a sunset sky of pink and orange and purple, and the colours pour clear and pure cross my skin, clothing me in celestial tapestry, rolling me though fields of white and green, the Spring scent deepening in my nostrils, even as Autumn sweeps my hair back clean from my face. There is a glade, little, and wild, but safe and full of worship, where I can leave my heart, and go journeying without fear, returning whenever the wind blows smooth and full, to carry me across space.

I awake at dawn. For the first time since coming here, I feel refreshed, encouraged, and without pain.

Heaven help me, I actually feel confident.

Determined not to live any longer in fear, I take off my nightgown, and then get dressed.

Tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn, mo Sorcha, na caoin, mas, e do thoil e, mo chridhe, tha gaol agam ort. . . - I love you, my brown-haired lass, my Claire, don't cry, please, my heart, I love you. . .