Embareassed

I can't speak for a few very long seconds.

"Going. . . with you?" I say finally, "Wh. . . what possible use could I be on a two month political campaign with you? Especially when I'm needed here!" I thump the lab counter in exasperation.

"It's the dead of winter, lass," says Dougal, flatly, "There's more meat on a clay pigeon than work in the fields for the next two months."

I roll my eyes, "And there's more grass on the ocean than use I'd be traipsing around Scotland asking people to vote for you!" His eyes flash, but I press on, "Besides, there's Fergus to think of now, and-"

"Ach, yer wee French baguette will be just fine here with the rest of the weans," he waves a hand dismissively, "I'll even ask Letitia to take special notice of him, aye?"

My jaw drops and I stare at him, right in his eyes, until I can tell he finally feels uncomfortable. "Are. . . are you. . . listening, to yourself, right now, Dougal?"

He starts to reply, but I interrupt, "Because I know – I know – you did not just dehumanize an abused orphan child so you could take petty revenge on a homeless immigrant woman." I jab a finger at him, "You did not just do that, did you?"

"I. . ." he blinks and stutters helplessly.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ – how often are you going to just hand me ammunition?" I cross my arms, "What does Colum think of all this?"

He shrugs, "He's all for it."

"Oh really?"

"Aye. His prosthetic is working again, y'see. And he kens ye fix folk's cars and trucks when they come by and need some help – and he knows the job ye did for the Rover yer first day here."

"Alright. So?"

"So, when I said the campaign team needs a mechanic, yours was the only name that came up."

I throw my arms in the air, "But why, Dougal? Why me? I'm a farm tech. I'm an expert at crop regulators, and full crystolic fusion tractors, and that's it. Not full combustion engines, not hybrid engines, not domestic vehicles, and certainly not domestic utilities," I say, pointing at the comms. I tick off points on my fingers, "I can read a maintenance manual, I can do basic programming, I can usually figure out the basics of how engine-type things are supposed to go together, and I can keep and maintain farm equipment – and none of that makes me a qualified general mechanic, and it certainly doesn't make me someone you or anyone should want tinkering about with highly specialized automotive mechanisms while on the road." I shake my head, "Why do you want me to do this – hell, why does Colum want me to do this?"

He shrugs again, "Well, ye're here, your wages are cheap, ye're a conscientious worker, an' ye dinnae mind that some of the men are bit rough."

"And you requested me."

His jaw juts out a little, and his eyes harden even further.

"Yes."

I sigh, put my elbows on the countertop, and my head in my hands, "Do you remember my first morning after taking this job, Dougal? When we sat in that office over there," I point vaguely, "And I gave you a chance to end this nonsense before we made each other's lives hell? Do you remember that?"

He grunts, very softly, but he doesn't answer otherwise.

"Nevermind, I know you do," I look over at him, "Well, here is another chance. Drop this now – right now – and I won't do everything in my power to make your life an utter, suppurating, oozing, stinking, hell."

He still doesn't speak, but he does give a very, very tiny smirk, and a gleam comes into his eyes.

"You don't think I can? Fine." I step boldly over to him and gather up the comms in their bin. Then I muster all of my Central Township arrogance and gesture with my free hand, "You may go."

It's such a cold, sneering dismissal I surprise even myself, but it shocks Dougal out of his metallic silence.

"Dinnae ye even wantae ken why I asked for ye?"

"Not particularly. But go ahead."

"It's because ye hate me. That way I ken I c'n trust ye."

He turns on his heel, growls "Don' be late," and stalks out.

I sigh, grab my manila envelope, and take it and the bin of comms into the office.

Geordie is sitting behind the desk, but he stands the minute I enter, "I heard raised voices – is everything alright?"

"Yee-es", I say, doubtfully drawing out the vowel, "Or, it will be, I think." I sit at the desk chair he's politely holding out for me, and nod him thanks, "So, how do you feel about being Acting Farm Manager for two months after Hogmanay?

He blinks a little, then grins uncertainly, "Good?"

"Good. That's all I can say for now – I'll let you know more when I know it myself."

He shrugs, "Awright. I'll be in the garage office if ye need me – there isnae much doin' taeday, anyroad." He saunters out, flipping and catching a little ten-cent coin, as he habitually does.

I settle a bit more easily into my desk chair, and finally turn my attention to the manila envelope. I pull out several handfuls of filler forms and waste paper before I finally get to the two main prizes. First, an official Oxford, England IdenTcard – or ID card, as I've learned they call it here – complete with a small photo of me, scans of my fingerprints, and my full name. I turn it over and over in my hands, glorying in the professionally plastic surface, all the perfectly official-looking numbers, and the horrible quality photo. A real IdenTcard, at last. Secondly, I carefully unfold what must be the world's most illegal birth certificate. I haven't forged the doctor's signature – I've stolen it, from the birth certificate of a random Oxford child, about the right number of years ago, and from a doctor who is now dead. All the other names and numbers are forged, except for the footprint, which is perhaps the only real thing about this document. Well, mostly real. It is my own footprint, shrunk and modified to resemble an infant's. I smile at the small stamp in the corner that says "copy" in red ink. A copy of a document that not only doesn't exist, but that never existed.

Or, rather, will exist, in two hundred years.

I shake my head, and carefully put the birth certificate back in the envelope.

Then, I pull out the last handful of papers – a collection of stuff offered by the interim Scottish government almost as an afterthought, given their current social and legal situation, but nevertheless of paramount importance to me.

I spread out in front of me the initial paperwork required to apply for Scottish citizenship. Of course, they don't mean much legally, Scotland can't officially naturalize anyone until the country's full independence is ratified – which won't be for nearly four years yet – but I figure a completed and logged petition for permanent residency and official allegiance can't hurt my standing here and now, with the people and officials of Leoch.

I put the IdenTcard into my pocket, and the citizenship papers back in the envelope.

I still don't know if I'm going to fill them out. I don't know if I'll need them. I don't know if I want them. Hell, I still don't know if I'm staying. . .

Jamie walks in then, carrying two steaming plates. He hands me my lovely reheated pizza, piled high with cheese and vegetables, and puts down his own lunch of Mrs. Fitz's famous broccoli beef and gravy over neep and tattie mash.

I grin as I thank him, "Smells lovely. Where's Fergus?"

He shrugs and smiles as he digs in, "In the dining room with Hamish an' the rest of the weans."

I smile too, "Good for him."

"Aye. It's allus good tae see the young ones making friends. An' I'm particularly happy for Hamish. He's needed a good friend his own age, and the rest of the boys feel a sort of separation from him – seein' as how he's the son of the Chief. But Fergus hasn't got the same feelings, being French an' all. And it's good for Fergus too. Hamish is a fine lad – they'll be good for each other."

I nod, and take a deep bite of my pizza. The flavours and textures of fresh vegetables and real cheese slowly infuse my soul. Just as good as it was last time. Better, maybe.

We eat companionably for a few minutes before Jamie notices the bin of comms next to me.

"What's that then?" he asks, nodding his head towards them.

"Oh. Those," I sigh, my elation at finally having an IdenTcard evaporating in the presence of my annoyance with Dougal, "Those are a bit of a story. . ."

I tell him, but instead of sharing my frustration, he brightens up at the prospect.

"This means we wilnea havetae spend two months apart, Sassenach – isn't that grand?"

"Well, of course that part is wonderful, yes, but what about the farm? What about Fergus?"

Jamie also dismisses the latter, but much more thoughtfully than Dougal did.

"He'll be fine here with all the lads his own age. It'll be better for him too – they start the full Winter curriculum after Hogmanay – the wean's schooling has been mostly Winter sports and games for the past month or so – wi' a bit of Home Economics and Arts and Crafts thrown in tae give them a part in preparing for Yule."

"Oh yes, Yule," I say, thinking of one of my current projects in the lab. . .

"An' Dougal was right about the farm – January an' February are the slowest time of the year – even with that test crop ye put in to try out the regulator."

"Mmm," I hum, mouth full, "An' wha' 'bout. . ." I swallow, "And what about the fact that going with you means I'll be spending the majority of my days in close company with the one person of influence at Leoch who manifestly hates my guts? How about that part, huh?"

"Ach, Dougal doesnae hate your guts, Sassenach."

I almost choke in disbelief, "What? How do you figure that?"

"Oh, he may think he hates ye, but really it's that he doesnae ken ye – and the man cannae stand no' tae understand something or someone he thinks he ought tae."

I half-grin, "And is that why you like me so much?"

"Well, I certainly ken ye better than Dougal does, but I'm no so obsessed wi' understandin' as he is. I'm content for there tae be mysteries in the world that I dinnae ken the secrets to." He looks at me slyly, and winks, a beautifully mischievous smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.

"And it does give us the perfect setup for tonight's little stunt, of course. Funny that, don't you think?"

"Think what, Sassenach?"

"The minute we need an in to a very private meeting – well, I do, at least - up pops this mandate from Dougal. Don't you think that's just a bit odd?"

"It's a coincidence, certainly," Jamie shrugs, "And in life, as in breakfast cereal, coincidences do happen."

I snort, and can't keep myself from laughing uncontrollably, "In life, as in breakfast cereal? You, Jamie Fraser, are too much."

I dissolve into giggles, and he laughs along with me.

"Well, now," I say, when we've finally calmed down, "Shall we make our plans for this coincidence-full meeting tonight?"

"Aye," he nods, "An' since he was so insistent for ye no' tae be late, I think ye should be early, and I should be late. . ."

We finish our lunch in earnest conversation.

When we're done, Jamie goes back to the house, to set some things up to make sure our plan will go smoothly tonight. We can't count on any more convenient coincidences. I make my way back into the lab, and work on a few personal projects for the rest of the afternoon.

I don't bother to change when I come in for tea, since I still feel far more at home in the casual atmosphere of the kitchen than I do the formalized attitudes of the family dining room. I'm a little early tonight, so I go and sit with Annie and Ev, making out that I'm intensely curious about all the things they did after we were separated on our shopping day. Which, in a way, I suppose I am, but I'm much less curious than I pretend to be.

Tea itself is the kitchen's usual fare of hearty, starchy, meaty dishes, full of cheese and butter and fat. I work my way through a plateful of roasted root vegetables, and a small portion of cream of chicken stew. I've mostly gotten used to all the fish and beef and pork they serve here, but I was born and raised on Skycity 15, and I still prefer chicken, whenever I can get it.

I finish in good time to be among the first in the conference room off the main hall. I take a look at the clock on the comm that Dougal gave me earlier. 8:48. Two minutes before Jamie and I planned. Perfect. I take a seat about three-quarters of the way down the long table, and am industriously exploring the full capabilities of the government-issued comm when the rest of Dougal's campaign team arrive. The man himself is also a little bit early, and he spends the few minutes talking to Angus, Rupert, and what are clearly other group leaders.

At nine o'clock exactly, he thumps his fist on the table a few times.

"Now are we all heer? Well, it doesnae matter, because we're startin' anyway."

There are some scattered chuckles, but they die down quickly.

"We've been sent the updated approved route and schedule-" here he gestures to Rupert, who starts handing out small sheaves of paper, "But as usual the interstitial time is ours tae fill as we please. If ye'll all turn tae page three, ye'll see the first village where we-"

One of the two doors into the conference room opens with an enormous gust of wind. The door itself bangs hard against the wall, and Dougal whirls at the sound. At the same time, the poorly secured other door yields to the air pressure – caused, as I know, by the industrial strength fans Jamie has strategically placed in the hallways – and another gust of wind comes in the other way.

With perfect timing, the heavy pleats of Dougal's kilt flutter up and catch on his belt, exposing his rear end.

And not only is he, indeed, a True Scotsman, there is a large red welt, prominently displayed in the middle of one cheek.

"Agch, sorrae I'm late!" says Jamie, coming through the first door, and rushing around to secure the second, "Brr!" he shivers, "Some housemaid or another must'ha left a door open somewhere – t'wind is fair brutal taenight."

Jamie bustles innocently about, but everyone is staring at Dougal. Even though he very quickly resettles his kilt into decency, everyone saw it, and you could cut the leering suspicion in the room with a laser drill.

His jaw is set, and the look in his eyes is one of almost desperate helplessness.

I wait until I hear one whisper say "-heard stories about that wee Geillis Duncan", before I speak up.

"I forgot to thank you for being kind to our new arrival this afternoon, Dougal."

All the whispers stop, and I am suddenly the center of attention.

"Fergus was playing with Hamish, and I saw you take part in their mock-sword battle – I see where Hamish got you there – Fergus got a couple of marks himself - but the boys had a wonderful time, and Fergus says he feels at home here already. Thank you for your part in that."

The entire feeling of the room changes instantly, much like it had in the dining room last week. Dougal hasn't let someone spank him – he has been a good host and mentor to two little boys – one of whom is the son of the Chief.

There is a little bit of shamefaced murmuring, but mostly, things go back to a casual, approving, businesslike atmosphere.

Jamie sits down silently next to me.

"Ye're. . . quite welcome, Mrs. Beauchamp," says Dougal, the helplessness in his eyes replaced with plain bewilderment, "Now then, as I was saying – on page three. . ."

The rest of the meeting goes without incident, and afterwards I manage to escape to my rooms without encountering Dougal in any way.

I am extremely careful to securely lock my door.