Morning Light

"Did ye no' ken Dougal an' Colum were my uncles?"

Jamie's voice is stunned, as though he thinks he told me all about this long ago.

I sigh a bit, and hold my head. The blue, lambent light of early morning isn't painful, but I'm still quite overwhelmed by the number of things happening at once. Strange dreams, men in my bedroom when I have no memory of how I got back here myself, and a rocking headache is already more than enough, but here I sit, my stomach churning with unpleasant feelings regarding Dougal, my heart still singing with the opposite of unpleasant feelings regarding Jamie, and now. . . how am I supposed to understand this level of family intrigue at this hour of the morning, even if I didn't have the great-grandmother of all hangovers?

"How exactly would I 'ken' that, Jamie? No one around here tells me anything - except you, and Murtagh, a bit."

"Weel, ye do ken my real name, an'. . . erhm. . ."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, "You have five names, Mr. James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, and considering that upwards of 75% of everyone else around here is also named Mackenzie, I'm about as likely to assume you're that closely related to the Laird as I am to assume you're Laoghaire's first cousin!"

I groan a bit, then rub my temples. Whatever Jamie is doing in my room, and whatever just happened with Dougal, my head is still looming over me, like an old, damaged Skycity, creaking and groaning as it repeatedly changes course to try and avoid yet another squadron of incoming enemy fighters. . .

And this conversation isn't helping.

Jamie snorts, then sighs, "Aye, fair enough." He takes a deep breath, then dives headlong into an explanation I can only barely follow - "My mam is the eldest of six siblings - Ellen, Dougal, Colum, Janet, Flora and Jocasta. She married my da against her father's wishes, an'-"

"Hold on a minute," I interrupt, trying desperately to focus, "Back up. Dougal is older than Colum?"

"Aye, by moor than a year."

"So. . . how is Colum the Chieftain and Laird, and Dougal just War Chief?"

And why on earth am I having this conversation before six in the morning, while hung over, with a man I don't remember arriving here last night? Why?

My head twinges.

Dear god, why?

Jamie sits back down beside me on the bed, "MacKenzie is a Tanist clan, mo Sorcha. Mam's father, Jacob Mackenzie, put the succession tae his advisers, and tae every male of age in the clan at the time, as has allus been MacKenzie tradition, and between themselves they chose Colum tae be their leader, no' Dougal. If he'ed been dead set against it, Granda might ha' fought their choice, but he wasnae, an' he didnae."

Finally, several large pieces of Leoch's puzzle fall into place for me. My head doesn't clear, I still feel incredibly fuzzy and strung out, but once I've recovered, I feel sure I'll be able to understand whole new aspects of what's going on in this place. . .

"This was before the Clan Restoration Act, a'course," Jamie continues, "Sae it was largely a ceremonial title a' the time, though I doubt verrah much if it didnae still sting somethin' awful. Dougal had counted his chickens, ye see - oor so my mam allus said."

"I bet he had. . ."

And, clearly, he still is. Though, if that were his only sin, neither Jamie nor I would be sitting here now.

"For Dougal tae be overshadowed by a younger brother, an' a disabled one at that - disabled in body, no' in mind, a'course - bu' it still ha'tae have cut deep. Even though. . ."

He stops, and puts a finger to his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say next.

But I am sure.

"Even though Dougal loves his brother."

Jamie looks at me, eyes wide, as though seeing me for the first time.

"He loves him with a depth of feeling I doubt he has for any other creature," I say, dreamily, "And that must be the most galling thing of all, because no matter how much he might hate that his brother has what he doesn't, Dougal can't help but admit it - Colum is, unquestionably, his Chieftain too. Let anyone else even suggest that Colum isn't an ideal Chief and the perfect Laird, and I'd bet a considerable sum Dougal would strike their head from their shoulders without a second thought."

Jamie is shaking his head slowly in disbelief, "How. . . how did ye ken all tha', Sassenach?"

"It was obvious from the first moment," I say, hearkening back to that fateful garage and those arguing, contentious voices, with one smooth, calculating, devious voice dominating them all. . .

All except one. . .

"And so that means, you, James Fraser, are quite a threat to him."

He half-smiles, "Am I now?"

"Of course you are. The eldest surviving son of an older sister, smart, handsome, talented. . . and, most importantly, well loved by the members of his clan?" I click my tongue, last night's confrontation on the dance floor with Dougal making new, horribly disgusting sense to me, "If the succession is determined as you say, he must play his cards exactly right. . . or you'll be the next Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie."

He shakes his head sharply, "Nae. It'll nevar happen, because I dinnae want it, Sassenach. I'm Clan Fraser, no' MacKenzie. I'm nae moor a threat tae him than Rob is, livin' wi' Mam in the south of France. An' if, by some wild chance, the clan evar chose me against my own wish, I'd shift the title on as fast as humanly possible. Dougal kens tha' - nae'un bettar."

The back of my neck tenses as I attempt to force my brain to engage in a logical discussion, "Maybe he does, on some level. But I bet he still fears you. . . You're here after all, not in France. The men love you, you cut quite a figure, especially in a kilt, and. . ."

I take a deep, considering breath, and decide Dougal no longer deserves my silence. . .

"Seeing that Colum doesn't have a legitimate heir. . . well. . ."

Jamie rounds on me, his jaw slack, beyond shocked now, "Ye ken tha' too?"

"Yes."

"Bu' how?"

Quickly, I outline the three encounters that revealed the truth to me – Hamish greeting Dougal my first morning here, both Colum and Dougal's reactions to my innocent comment about the boy at supper that night, and the section I deliberately left out when I told Jamie about my first private confrontation with Dougal.

"He confirmed it himself, you see. Not that it needed much confirming by that point."

"Christ, Sorcha, is it no' safe tae have secrets around ye?"

"I wouldn't recommend it, no. Not unless you have a very good poker face, at least. I've always been far too good at reading people."

"Includin' me?"

I groan as my head throbs sharply, "Oooh. You're a special case, Jamie Fraser."

"Am I indeed?"

"Yes, you see, I got close to you." I smile, remembering the cupboard, and all at once I am back there, in the dark, pressed so near to Jamie that I can't help but breathe him in. . . My heart gives a little leap of happiness so sweet that for a moment my headache almost releases, "Very close, very fast. And now it's difficult for me to get the distance needed to see you properly."

I reach out for his hand, and he takes it instantly, "Is tha' so?"

"It is. But I wouldn't trade the two, Jamie. Not for the world. I'd rather be close to you than have creepily accurate insight into your heart any day."

Gingerly, I lay my head on his shoulder.

Jamie harrumphs a bit, "Sae ye didnae ken that I was Dougal's nephew?"

I huff a laugh, and my head instantly regrets it, "Ow. I'm good at reading people, Jamie. That doesn't mean I can read minds. Until last night, he, you, and I haven't been in the same room with each other since we were in the van on the way here. The few times I've seen you two interact, he's treated you almost exactly as he treats most of the other adults around him, and he's never once called you nephew. And I've never seen you and Colum interact at all – the one time I mentioned you to him, it was as Jamie MacTavish, and he didn't correct me. So how was I to know?"

"Weel, when you put it like tha'. . ." Very, almost extremely gently, he leans his head against mine, "For some reason I thought for certain I had told ye, but I suppose I hadnae. Nae'un could know wi'out bein' told, a'course. Dougal isnae the demonstrative type." He swipes a tired hand across his face, "Tha's how I kent about Hamish, y'see. I noticed Dougal paying a deal moor attention tae the lad than he evar had tae me at that age – an' no' in a worrying way, either. It all seemed sae. . ."

"Natural?"

"Aye, tha's the very word. Natural. An' sae I kent he nevar would be doin' sae if Hamish wer'nae moor tae him than a nephew."

I rub my forehead, chasing my headache to my temples.

"Do you know how much Colum knows?"

"Nae," he sighs, ruefully, "But, seein' as he's no' blind, nor stupid, nor senile, he must ken some, or all of it. He loves the lad too, though, that much I ken. An' Hamish is a thrivin', happy boy, thank Christ above. I couldnae stand by tae see any child mistreated, much less my own kin."

I massage my temples, but the pain just moves again. . .

"Does Dougal know you know?"

"He may. Why?"

I pause, mind simmering with all the implications and possibilities, even despite the fog lingering in my brain. It's clear I am going to have to go on the offensive with Dougal soon, and considering just how deeply allied I am with Jamie now, I must figure him into any plan I make. . .

I yawn, and mumble into Jamie's shoulder, "What, if you don't mind me asking, is the 'other arrangement' you have with Dougal?"

We've gotten wildly off-topic, and I still need to understand what exactly Dougal was doing in my room at such an odd hour of the morning. It had to have been more than he admitted to. . .

Doesn't it?

I beat back another pounding twinge in my head, and force myself to think. Would Dougal really take the risk and trouble to retrieve the cameras himself, and now, of all times? I feel in my bones that Jamie is right, and that it was out of character for Dougal to be doing his own dirty work, especially here and now.

And besides, short as their conversation was, more than half of it still went over my head. . .

Jamie sighs heavily, and rubs the back of his neck, "I. . . weel. . . ye ken when Dougal was all worrit about ye knowin' he sometimes sneaks past his assigned campaign-zone boundaries?"

"I do."

"Weel, I'm among the ones who go with him sometimes. Tha's what we were doing when Murtagh found ye, y'see. Oor, rather, we were oon t'way back."

"Alright. . ." I knit up my forehead, waiting for him to actually explain.

"I. . . ah. . . hmphm," I can feel his shoulders go rigid as he searches for words, "I ha' ceartain. . . furst-hand knowledge tha' Dougal finds helpful oon occasion." I raise my head slowly, and look at him. The pre-dawn light in the room is still dim, but I think I can make out a reddening of his cheeks, "An' I ha' a . . . weel, a 'party trick' ye might call it, tha' is often useful tae him."

"A. . . party trick?"

"Aye. Summat along those lines."

The hell?

"A. . . vague party trick, that you do at unspecified times, for unspecified reasons, at mystery locations beyond arbitrary borders?"

"Aye."

I sigh, "I'm much too hung-over for this kind of thing, Jamie."

"Aye, sorrae Sassenach," he says, squeezing my hand tighter, "I'd be clearer, but I'm no'. . . that is. . . I dinnae. . ." he sighs sharply at himself, "Can we call this'un my secret, d'ye think? Can ye stand no' knowin' the details?"

"Of course, if that's what you want," I say, lightly stroking his fingers, "We did agree that secrets were allowed."

"We did, but-"

"The real question is, why did Dougal only mention it after going off on you about being my boyfriend? I may not know much French, but I know 'Cherchez la femme' isn't a compliment."

And I really didn't like the ugly little laugh Dougal gave when he said it. There was something ominous about it. . .

"He. . ." Jamie momentarily releases my hand, only to wrap his arm around mine and entangle our fingers together, gripping my whole arm like a lifeline, "I praised ye, Sassenach."

I can't help but smile, remembering everything Jamie said about me. He hasn't been so direct about his feelings to my face yet, but most of what he said I've already been able to infer from our previous conversations. . . or taste in his kisses. Except for one thing. One new, delightful affirmation of how he really feels about me. . .

"Mm. Can't imagine life without me, huh?"

"I most certainly dinnae want tae, mo chridhe," quickly, he kisses the top of my head, "An' Dougal's the sort who thinks I could only be sayin' such things tae set myself up a convenient excuse tae get out of things - tae get out of our agreement."

"That must be some party trick you do," I snort, more sarcastically than I mean to, but my head is very sore, and my feelings about Dougal are very dark indeed. . .

"Aye. 'Tis. It's alsoo. . . no' exactly fun, or comfortable for me. But it is in searvice of a cause both Dougal an' I believe in, sae I endure it."

My stomach drops, and Dougal's voice echoes in my ears, telling me he can make Jamie's life a bitter, bitter hell. . .

But why would Dougal. . . shit, why would Jamie. . .?

Ice-cold fingers of terror lance through my stomach. Again, I've forgotten about Culloden. But that must be it – what other cause could Jamie and Dougal possibly have in common?

I scoff, "You mean, he's using you, and you let him, because he's your uncle."

"Agh," Jamie grunts, "Tha's a wee bit harsh, mo Sorcha, jus' because-"

"No it isn't," I snap, and jump out of bed, headache be damned, "Do you want to know how much you're worth to him?" I take two paces to my dressing table, and remove the plastic cup that holds the greenhouse flowers from the mouth of my enamel bottle. Jamie's eyes follow the cup, because among the bouquet it is currently holding are the yellow rose and carnation that he gave me, but I couldn't care less about flowers at the moment. I dump the cameras and microphones into my hand, stalk back to the bed, and thrust them into his hands.

"There," I say, "There's your price, Jamie. That's how much you're worth. He was more than willing, even eager, to trade you to me for them."

"Trade. . . me?" he moves the deactivated bits of electronics bewilderedly around him palm, "But. . ."

"Yes, you, my darling lad. You're a battle prize to him. An asset to be traded away, used for blackmail, or if that doesn't pan out, worked to a shred, worn out, and tossed aside when he's finished with you. A thing," I say, mournfully, "On par with broken spy equipment."

He closes his fist tightly around the bits of metal and plastic, "I think. . . ye'ed bettar explain, Sassenach."

I get back under the covers, and relate to him, word-for-word, exactly what was said between Dougal and I during our dance. And I tell him a great deal of what I thought, too.

"So, you see, he's more interested in getting the upper hand on me than he is in even thinking out his plans properly. And you were just an incidental resource. A tool to be used," I cross my arms, remembering, "To be traded for spoils of war – not even treated as Human. I was so mad, I almost throttled him right there."

"Sae. . ." Jamie draws the word out, clearly thinking of several things at once, "He was here accordin' tae the rules o' parley, then?"

I nod, "Yes, he was."

His mouth works for a while, but he says nothing.

I'm not sure I can convince him to stop supporting the plan for Culloden. I'm not even sure I want to try. Unless I reveal everything I know about the future, there's no way removal of the Scottish contingent of Peace Agents – even by ambush and murder – can be framed as an ultimately bad thing. How could it possibly be a significant step on the road towards nuclear Armageddon? Jamie might like me a lot, but I doubt even he would believe such a wild notion, much less that I was born generations after that same apocalypse.

But here, now, Dougal is exploiting him. I don't know the specifics, but my darling, sweet laddie is a victim of an injustice. A small, perhaps even insignificant injustice. . .

And I've been looking for one of those to solve.

It won't save the world – it'll do nothing close to that. But it might help someone I care about be happier-

"Sassenach. . ." Jamie says, breaking into my thoughts, "How is it ye ken sae much about noble warfare?"

I blink.

Oh. . .

"Twice now, ye'ev counterstruck an experienced Scottish War Chieftain in head-tae-head combat, booth times on a spur of the moment, an' last night t'was alsoo in a public settin'. Ye took him on wi'out hardly blinkin', an' no' losing a step in yer dance, mo Sorcha. I was watchin' ye close, and ye took it all in perfect stride. We lads might ha' stood yer guard, but ye fought the battle alone, wi' nae moor than lightnin'-fast instinct, a sharp tongue, an' such a knowledge of the rules tha' I cannae hardly believe it." He sighs, and shakes his head at me, "I praised ye tae Dougal no' jus' because I meant evary word, mo nighean, but because I wil'nae evar again be caught underestimatin' ye, and here I am, thinkin' mebbe I still am! Are the modes o' chivalry tha' common a subject of study for folk in Oxford?"

It's a good, fair question. For several very long seconds, I say nothing. Then, I slowly lean back against the headboard, and sigh, tears pricking in my eyes for no reason at all. . .

"My father didn't understand me much," I say, finally, "I don't even know that he liked me, really. He was. . . he was a narrow-minded snob, overpaid and over-privileged to the point of utter ridiculousness. Lamb called him a poor stick-in-the-mud, and so he was. For all his money, he had as much class as a steel girder."

I pause for a moment, bringing myself up short. Why does that word sound familiar? I mentally shake my head, and press on.

"Practically the only thing that redeemed him from being total pain in the arse was that he was keen enough to know some of his deficiencies. That's how, despite everything, I know he loved me. In all our interactions, he was determined that I would have the nobility he knew he lacked. I was fed so much class growing up, it's a miracle I didn't become a Duchess by pure osmosis!"

Jamie chuckles, "Now tha' I'd pay tae see. . ."

"And then, after being born into money, and brought up like that, I managed to fall in love with a sanitation worker."

Jamie stops laughing and blinks at me, "Ye mean. . . Frank was. . . ?"

I nod, "He was as common-code as they make them. A street-sweeper, a garbageman, who was anything but a garbage man to me. He had more true class than any ivory-tower professor. . . and my father couldn't stand him."

"Ah. Tha' explains a lot."

I nod, and reach over to him again, "Yes. So you see, my dear lad, most of my life has been one fight or another, and the only code I was ever taught was noble warfare. It'd be odd if I didn't know the rules by now."

"Makes eminent sense, Sassenach." He puts an arm gently around my shoulders, then looks questioningly down at me, "Sae who is Lamb, then?"

"Father's brother. And his complete opposite," I settle into Jamie's embrace, and lay my still-twinging head on his chest, "My uncle. Who loved me like a third parent."

"Mmm. It's nae wonder ye saw through Dougal, then."

"Yes. And speaking of Dougal. . ."

I'm exhausted, and ready to go back to sleep, but I can't let this matter drop just yet. . .

"Hmmphm. Aye." He sounds about ready to go back to sleep himself.

"He's treating you very badly Jamie. Is there anything you – well, we - can do about it?"

"Dinnae ken yet. Y'see, it isnae a mattar of him wantin' a mostly symbolic title, nowadays. The next Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie will have full place in the Council - by birthright, no' election."

"Mmmm."

Politics. Ugh.

When it's before six in the morning, and while I'm hung over, I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to hate politics. . .

Jamie rolls the cameras in his hand a bit, "Ye should probably shift where these are hid, Sassenach. Wheer d'ye want 'em this time?"

"Mmph. Don' know." I shrug heavily, "Why don' you keep them for now?"

His weight shifts next to me, and with a click, he turns on the little lamp next to his side of the bed, filling the room with a warm, pale glow. It's bright enough to easily overpower the dim bluish light of early morning, and, more importantly, is more than enough to fling a thousand daggers straight into my brain.

"By all the gods that may or may not exist!" I shout, twisting my eyes shut, not that it helps much, "What the hell did you do that for?"

"Ach, sorrae!" he yelps, and jumping up, begins to move around my room, opening something, picking something up, I don't know, nor can I force myself to care at the moment, what with my suddenly screeching, rolling, diving head to manage. I haven't had any nausea until just now, and heaven help me if it isn't overwhelming. . .

I hear the water spigot run, and a moment later, Jamie's voice rumbles close to me, "Heer, take these, Sassenach."

Slowly, I open my eyes onto a full glass of water, and about a half-dozen tiny, greasy-looking capsules. I just look a sharp, surly question up at him.

He smiles, the fiend, and prompts me to take the pills again, "S'all right, Sassenach, it's just some evening primrose oil. I make it meself."

I grunt, unconvinced, but unwilling to argue. After I swallow them back, I continue to sip listlessly at the water, focusing my entire being on trying to control my rebellious stomach. I take no notice of what Jamie does for several long moments, but eventually, I become aware that he's sitting next to me in bed again, on top of the covers, but wrapped in my quilt.

I want to snuggle into him and sleep for at least a week. But, he shouldn't be here. . . Quite beyond the fact that I don't remember how either of us got here last night, I ought to have ordered him out the minute Dougal left. Not for my reputation or anything - but for his. I want to make it as easy as possible for him to be the princely white knight that Murtagh has raised him to be. And yet, somehow, having him here feels like the most natural thing - the most comfortable, the most important thing in the world - and I don't want to give that feeling up just yet.

"So," I moan a bit at the vibrations of my own voice, "Somebody's been sleeping in my bed."

He huffs a quiet chuckle, "Aye."

"Care to explain yourself?"

There is a very long, very shocked pause.

"Ye. . . dinnae remember?"

"At the moment, not a whit."

"Christ Sassenach. . . then how are ye sae calm?" he asks, wonderingly, "How have ye no' torn me tae shreds yet fer jus' bein' heer?" He points towards the door, "How did ye no' reduce Dougal tae a pulp the second he burst in? I'd only been awake a minute myself then, an' was just thinking on gettin' some water when I heard yer breathin' change. Then I looked up, and there he was. I near jumped out of my skin - how did ye no' skelp the both o' us at tha' very instant?"

I shrug a little, "Well, primarily because I didn't recognize his voice right away, and as for you. . ." I give into my desires a little, and cuddle into his arm, "I'm so far from objecting to you being here, Jamie, that I was actually dreaming about you right before your whispering woke me up."

"I see. . ." he pauses, and then gives a long, soft sigh, "An' ye really dinnae remember anything from last night?"

Just a minute. Why does it matter so much if I remember or not? What happened? Did I give away that I'm from the future? Did he reveal some dark secret from his childhood? Or. . .

There's no way we. . .

Surely not. . .

"Well, if my brain runs true to form, I'll probably remember almost everything eventually. Most likely in bits and pieces all throughout today and tomorrow. But uh. . . I wouldn't object to hearing what you remember."

Smooth one, Beauchamp. There's no way he didn't see right through that.

"Sae wha's th'las' thing ye do remember?", he says, far too casually for my liking.

"Uhmm." I cast my mind back, "Doing 'gel-oh' shots with you and Angus."

Doing anything to try and forget the feeling of Jamie's hands on my arse, of his kisses burning on my lips, of his soul itself invading my very dreams. . .

To forget that haunting song, and a waking vision that hasn't totally left me even yet. . .

"Agch, the limoncello 'uns?"

"They. . . were lemon-flavoured, yes."

"Hmmf, those are th'deadliest kind."

"Oh, are they?" I say, trying to be sarcastic, but not quite managing it.

"Aye. Worse'n the crème de menthe ones, even."

"Those I don't remember."

"Cannae blame ye." Gently, he pats my knee through the blankets.

"And. . . after that?"

"Weel, 'tis all a bit blurry, ye ken, but ye got inta a 'rap battle' with Angus and Gil."

"A what?"

"Aye, tha' was my reaction. It seemed tae involve a lot of fast-spoken words an' terrible puns."

"Oh." I take a long sip of water, trying to steady myself. "You know, there isn't any other kind. Of pun, I mean."

He chuckles, "Aye, true enough. An' by the time the three of ye had half the room chantin' some truly awful dick jokes, I kent ye'ed had enough, and carried ye away."

"Mm. Now that I think I do remember, a bit. You literally threw me over your shoulder, didn't you?"

He looks over at me. I suddenly realize just how bleary-eyed he looks himself, but his voice is still fond, "Aye. I did."

"And. . . after that?"

"Weel. T'was a long walk back tae yer room. There was a lot o' protestin'."

I snort a bit, "I bet there was."

"Aye, ye called me many a thing, not one o' them complimentary."

"I'm sorry."

He grins, "Och, nae. T'was quite entertainin'."

"Oh, was it?"

"Aye. An' then eventually, dyin' sheep were mentioned, an' I think there was some contention over the quality of Irn-Bru, an' there was definitely somethin' about theremins makin' good vodka."

Theremins?

What on earth are theremins?

Wait. . .

There. . . rims. . .

And vodka.

Uh oh. . .

I manage a half-smile, "Yeah, that sounds like drunk me."

"An' ye went on fer a while, about experimental fertilizer bein' too expensive, beer in between lucky rooms, and whisky bein' central tae it all. Didnae quite ken what ye were on about there."

The Rim. And Central.

I let out a tiny sigh of relief.

If that's all I mentioned, then no harm done. I can probably pass it off as nothing more than drunken ramblings.

"I probably didn't know what I was on about either, Jamie. . ."

Which is, almost certainly, no more than the absolute truth. . .

"Aye. Probably no'. An' then I carried ye heer tae yer bed, an' ye, uh. . . weel. . . "

"Yes?"

My stomach knots with completely inexplicable tension. What doesn't he want to tell me?

"Ye may oor may no' ha' offered tae suck me off."

"Oh, is that all?" I relax, and manage a genuine laugh, "Yeah, that sounds like drunk me too. . ."

"Does it?"

His voice is very dubious, his expression hard and quite unhappy.

I shrug, "If several experiences with Frank are any gauge, then yeah," I take a quick sip of water, "So. . . did I?"

His eye brows fly up his forehead, and he makes a strange gurgling sound, "Fairly ceartain I'd remember it if ye had."

"So, that's a no?"

"Tha's a no."

"Ah. Good," I chuckle, "If I ever do, I'd rather like to remember it too. . ."

"Sassenach, this. . ." he gestures at me, bewildered, "This isnae the reaction I expected from ye, I mus' say. . ."

I smile and shake my head, "What, do you want me to be horrified? Do you want me to be ashamed? Do you want me to be ashamed of you?"

"Nae, is'nae that, it's only. . ." He looks sternly down at his hands.

"What? What is it?"

"Ye. . . ye thought I was feedin' ye drugs, Sassenach. . . like. . . like I was gonna force myself on ye oor summat. . ."

"And I. . . welcomed the idea?"

"My fingers ha' never been happier. . ." His fingertips rest very gently for a moment on my lips, and it's clear what he means. But his eyes are very grim indeed.

"And now. . . what, you're worried about me?"

"Aye. I dinnae like the thought of any man takin' advantage of ye in that state. Oor takin' advantage of ye. . . evar. . ."

"Jamie, do you seriously think I'd have even considered getting slightly tipsy unless I knew you were going to be there the whole time? Do you think I'd get drunk around any other man? Especially that drunk?"

"But. . ."

"James Fraser, I'll have you know I only let loose like that when I'm with someone I thoroughly trust. And sometimes that trust translates into offering sexual favours, yes. Sometimes I demand them too, by the way. I'm not ashamed of it. You don't need to be either. Especially since you didn't take advantage."

"Dammit!" he snaps, growling, "Next time warn me when ye plan tae trust me tae extremes then, aye?" He cups my face, but very gently – clearly he knows that my head still feels like a cracked eggshell, "I couldnae bear it if. . . if I evar failed ye. . ."

Oh.

Oh, my sweet man. . .

"It wasn't exactly the plan, my lad. Or I would have warned you. But after. . . after that last dance. . ."

And a terrifying, glorious waking dream that seems to have drawn this amazing, perfect man into my unknown, labyrinthine fate. . .

"You kissed me to pieces, Jamie Fraser. After that, I needed. . . I had to. . ."

I had to stop. I had to forget. I had to run.

But the point is, I ran to him. I look into his eyes, trying to get him to understand. He's my refuge now. My safe place. My anchor.

My home.

Slowly, he lowers his head to mine, and his mouth undoes me again. Gently, softly, making no demands, still he somehow manages to leave me aching and breathless.

"What if I had'nae been heer when Dougal. . ." he whispers against my throat.

I snort softly, "Then I'd have leaped out of bed, tackled him to the floor, and choked him into unconsciousness."

He pulls back sharply, "Ye c'n doo tha'?"

I shrug, "I'd have found a way."

He shivers a bit, giving a slightly uncomfortable laugh, "Aye, I bet ye would have, at that. . ."

"And I'd probably throw in a kick to the balls, just to make the point clear."

He huffs a laugh, but sobers again very quickly, "Have ye evar taken a self-defense course, Sassenach?"

"No."

"Why no'?"

"Because sugar beets very rarely assault anyone. Look, why are talking about this now? So I got drunk and propositioned you, and you were a gentleman about it. Right?"

"Weel, I suppose you might put it like tha'. . ."

"Alright then. So what? It's all over and done with. I'll most likely remember it all eventually, and if I'm offended by anything you did, I'll let you know, okay?"

He ponders for a minute, then nods, "Alright."

I hum a bit, and cuddle into his chest, yawning hugely.

"Ach, ye need yer sleep, Sassenach." He lays me back on my pillows.

"Mmhm. And you should go. . ."

He laughs softly, but he's already standing, rearranging the quilt over me, "Throwin' me out, are ye?"

"No." I grunt a bit and snuggle under the covers, "You can stay if you want. But I give you fair warning - the next time I have you in my bed, Jamie Fraser, you're going to prove that True Scotsman thing."

"Och, I am, am I?"

"You are. The very next time."

"Soo. . . there's tae be a next time, then?" He pauses tucking me in, and meets my eyes.

"Eventually. . ." I smile, "I'm pretty sure there will be. But under much different circumstances."

"Mmm. I rather like the sound of that."

"Don't get cocky now. . ."

"Och, 'tis far too late for that Sassenach." He leans over, and gives me a completely chaste kiss on the temple. Somehow, it feels like the most intimate thing we've ever done. "Sleep well, mo Sorcha."

I'm already nodding off as he gathers up his sporran and boots, "Mm. You've called me that before. Are you ever going to tell me what it means?"

"Sorcha?"

I nod.

He stops in the middle of pulling on his boots. "It's yer name. Claire. But in the Gàidhlig." He comes back over to me, and runs his cool, soothing fingertips across my forehead, "Mo Sorcha. My Claire."

I fall asleep with the feel of his touch on my skin, and the sound of his voice in my ears.