This fic is now officially the longest work I have ever published anywhere – not only in word count, but also in chapter count! Thanks to everyone for coming along on this voyage with me.

Three Of Us Now

December fifteenth.

There was a time not long ago when I thought I'd never live to see another one.

December fifteenth.

A day.

The day.

The worst day.

I relax into the hot, scented water that fills my tub. It's taken me all the weeks I've been here on Cold Island 12 to get used to using water in all the ways they do, but out of all of them, this is unquestionably my favourite.

Wait. . .

Not Cold Island 12.

Scotland.

I sigh, and sink a litter deeper into the warm, comforting depths.

December fifteenth is really working a number on me.

I didn't go into work today, even though I ought to have done. Geordie covered for me, without me even having to ask, but I think he must have told Murtagh, because I have had several visits by the kitchen staff today, bringing me things like chicken noodle soup, hot milk with cayenne, tea with lemon and honey, innumerable digestive biscuits, and at least three hot toddies.

I'm honestly surprised he hasn't sent Jamie round in full doctor's kit, with a black bag in his hand, and a stethoscope around his shoulders.

I chuckle a little. Ridiculous.

Although. . .

The thought of Jamie giving me a shot is weirdly arousing for some reason. . .

I take a deep breath, and hold it, pushing myself just under the water in the tub. The heat soaks into my face, and I just float, dead to the world, inexplicably happy, as only a hot bath can make me.

December fifteenth.

Five years.

Five years to the day.

The worst day.

I surface to breathe, then go right back under.

I need the peace.

I need the silence.

I need to forget.

Come on Beauchamp!

Forget the argument.

Forget the tears.

Forget the baby you never held, the milk you never made, the crib and clothes you donated because you didn't need them anymore.

Forget the husband that cruelly blamed you, but only because he was so busy blaming himself.

Forget the bombs, those stupid remnants of a stupid war, that mindlessly threw blue fire across your future.

Forget the cold, forget the rain, forget the tent, forget the empty, fruitless days labouring only for yourself.

Forget the despair. Forget the pain. Forget the barren place inside you that clamours still for whatever the nearest 'tiller made yesterday, and is selling cheap today.

Forget the heavy, drunken dreams - of tiny, curl-fingered, disembodied hands - of chuckling, infant sounds overlaid with the scream of Silverwing fighters - of Frank's kind eyes turned cold and hard - of the home you built together dissolving in fierce blue light - of your past evaporating as if it had never been. . .

Forget. . .

Forget. . .

And still remember.

Remember. . .

Remember. . .

Remember December fifteenth. . .

Remember the day you lost him.

Remember – it was the day you lost yourself. . .

Remember every slowly passing second of every dragging week of each excruciating year that followed.

Remember. . .

Remember. . .

I surface to breathe again, my eyes stinging with more than just bathwater. . .

It doesn't matter that I'm two hundred years in the past, it has still been five whole years for me.

I get out of the tub, and wrap myself luxuriously in two towels and a huge bathrobe, very deliberately not looking at myself in the mirror as I do. My body feels pretty good right now – I don't need to see the disgust and self-loathing filling my eyes, tempting me to feel bad again.

Don't waste a good bath, Beauchamp! Just dry off and go lose yourself in a novel, or something.

I sigh, frustrated with myself. Depression is a bitch.

Never mind that December fifteenth always knocks me on my ass.

I throw myself heavily across my bed, bouncing petulantly once or twice.

Grief, survivor's guilt, depression, and loneliness make for one hell of a cocktail. And with a particularly vicious anniversary thrown in as a chaser, is it any wonder I'm craving however many fifths of 'tiller vodka I can drink without vomiting?

I look at the empty hot toddy mugs scattered across my little end-table.

A few spoonfuls of whisky in hot water had been nowhere near enough. . .

And no novel is going to be enough either. . .

I get dressed listlessly, not looking forward to going out into Leoch's cheery, lights-and-greenery-bedecked halls, but encouraged too – this is Leoch, after all, and Yule is coming right up.

There's bound to be an unattended case of alcohol laying around somewhere. Or two. I mean, hell, considering how often Geillis visits, and that Leticia lives here, there might even be a liquor cabinet specifically dedicated to the needs of stubborn, grieving women. . .

I'm dragging a brush through my barely-dry hair when I hear a soft, cautious knock at my door.

I sigh, and very nearly yell at whoever it is to go away, but instead I stomp over, and throw the door open.

It's Jamie, arms full of presents wrapped in green paper and silver bows, and his eyes full of suppressed but still obvious worry.

He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, I throw my arms around him, not caring what ribbons I'm crushing, and attach my mouth to his, drinking more deeply from him than I would any fifth of 'tiller vodka. . .

I bury one hand deep in his hair, gripping tight as I hold his head to mine. The other hand I thrust as hard as I can into his waistband, needing to be closer to him than I've ever been before. I pull roughly at the shirt he has so neatly tucked into his jeans, then dive back under his clothes until I finally find skin. His lower back is velvet-smooth, his hip is heavy and warm, and this is nowhere near enough contact, not enough of him, never, never enough. . .

I whimper as he pulls away, but it is only for a second. He dumps the packages somewhere, and then is back against me, pushing me up against the doorjamb, this time undoing his belt with a click, and deliberately placing my hand on his rear. . .

"I need you," I pant against his neck when we next surface for air. I step backwards, dragging him after me, and fall awkwardly across the sofa, thrilling as he tries to keep up, but stumbles into me instead. The sudden weight of him presses me deep into the cushions, and sends all kinds of wonderful feelings all through every bit of me.

"Mmm," I hum, as I shamelessly grope the soft skin of his backside, and lasciviously nibble on his lips, "So good, Jamie. Don't stop. . ."

He tries to speak in between giving me deep, exciting kisses.

"Sassenach, we ought. . . ye need, that is, I must. . . before we. . ."

He gives up with a groan, and one of his hands finally finds my chest, cupping me and massaging gently.

He has just given me one tiny, sweet, delicious twist, when I hear, "Uncle Murtagh said you needed to be cheered up, maman, and so we – oooh."

I open my eyes to a shining-eyed, grinning Fergus.

"Shall I come back later, maman?"

Jamie quickly levers himself off me, and the pair of us try desperately and unsuccessfully to make ourselves presentable in less than half a second.

"No, Fergus, dear," I say, simultaneously patting my hair and tugging my shirt straight, "Of course not. I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry," he says, smiling, and putting the two presents he's carrying down onto the nearby coffee table, "It is high time you fucked."

"Fergus!" says Jamie, shocked and reproachful, "There's nae need for such language," he nods sideways at me, "An' in the presence of a lady."

Fergus shrugs, in this moment unquestionably one-hundred percent French, "What is true is true, monsieur."

Jamie shakes his head ruefully, then shoves him playfully on the shoulder, "Ya wee plague." Then he turns to me, "He's right, Sassenach – Murtagh did say ye were down, an' the twa of us decided we'd bring 'round all our Christmas gifts for each other, an' open 'em now." He shrugs a little, "Christmas is over a week away, true, but it'll be Yule in only a few days now – sae why not?"

Fergus eagerly gathers up Jamie's discarded packages, and brings them to the little coffee table too.

"Where shall we begin, maman?"

I stand up, already ten times brighter than I was a few minutes ago, "We will start, Fergus, with me going to go get my presents for the two of you. If we're doing this, we might as well do it right."

I am only gone a minute, and I bring back two largish boxes, and one big, nearly two-meter tall cone-shaped thing wrapped in preserv-plast. I put the boxes next to the prettily-wrapped ones on the coffee table.

"Sorry I haven't gotten around to wrapping them yet. . ."

Jamie shrugs, "Nae problem Sassenach," and he whips the crocheted doily from under the vase on the nearby flower table, grabs the small green blanket from the back of the lounge chair, and removes the top ribbon from one of the presents he brought. In fifteen seconds flat, one box is draped in fancy, knitted lace, with a few bright red rose petals scattered on top, and the other is covered in green wool, and topped with a shiny, silvery bow.

"There ye are. Wrapped an' ready."

He winks at me.

My heart leaps, adrenaline still coursing through me at the memory of his body pressed against mine, at the feel of his warm, living skin beneath my hands. . .

I cough a little, then turn back to the tall thing behind me. I set it up on its stand. Then, carefully, I take hold of the little tab built into the special preserving plastic it's wrapped in, and draw it down the whole length of the sleeve. It comes away perfectly, and the branches of the best surviving sample of the first Fraser's Beech prototype unfurl in perfect, sweet-smelling glory. There is an excellent array of cones – even one perfectly placed on the very top sprig.

I wait for all the branches to settle into their natural shape, and then I hand Jamie and Fergus a lighter each.

"Touch a flame to the top of each cone, and see what happens."

I smile, and step back.

Jamie clicks his lighter, and gingerly touches it to the top of the cone nearest him. The upright, tightly furled green cone begins to glow orange all over, and the scales slowly begin to open. The inner surface of each petal is coated in a waxy, yellow pollen. The flame dies quickly, but the heat has turned several nearby specialized leaf-buds a tangled, brilliant white – not quite like snow, but suggesting it pretty well, considering.

I step forward, and tap the now soot-blackened cone. Dozens of tiny, golden-winged seeds fly out, sparkling like glitter, and catch on the white and dark green bristles of the tree. They hold there, sticky with glue-like sap.

"It's a Christmas tree that decorates itself," I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice, "It's a special hybrid I made, just for us."

Fergus has watched the whole performance wide-eyed and transfixed. Now he practically leaps forward to light as many of the rest of the cones as he can, as fast as he can. He laughs when he realizes the inner pollen coating comes in several different colours – orange, red, red-orange, pale yellow, deep yellow, two shades of pink, and occasionally, a very pale bluish-green. He taps every one to release the showers of twirling, golden glitter.

When Fergus is done, Jamie lights the very top cone. It's slightly bigger than the others, and the inner pollen glows a brilliant, perfect gold.

"Ye never cease tae amaze me, Sassenach," he says, affectionately, and he takes my hand, weaving our fingers together.

Fergus is about to burst with excitement, and so we sit down on the couch, and let him open his presents.

There are the expected toys from Jamie – though the range and amount of them is quite impressive - and a rather beautiful collection of books and puzzles from Murtagh. There is a starter rock collection/identification kit ostensibly from Geordie - but it has been signed by most of the men from the stables. There's a huge box of gorgeously iced cookies from Mrs. Fitz, and no less than eight advent calendars from various other boys, including Hamish.

Last of all, Fergus removes the doily and petals from my present, and reverently opens the box. His eyes light up at the fully supplied chemistry set – complete with Bunsen burner, safety goggles, and white lab coat.

"I've set aside a corner of the lab counter for you to use too – gotta keep an eye on you."

He throws his arms around my neck and kisses me on both cheeks, "Thank you, maman. I love it - and the tree is beautiful. Happy Yule!" He hops away then, and soon has one of Murtagh's puzzles spread out all over the floor.

I watch him for a few minutes, my mind silent and far away, my heart aching in ways I cannot explain.

Eventually, Jamie slips a long, flat box into my hands.

"Will ye open this one first, Sassenach?"

I come back to life at his words, "Of course, Jamie dear."

The ribbon unties easily, and the paper is only stuck on with a single point of easy-peel glue, so soon I am removing the lid of a thin cardboard box, and looking down at three long, knitted black cords. The first is the plainest, but even this is some fancy seven- or eight-string braid in flat, coiled loops. The second is woven round, into a compound cord, and incorporates several large knots that look like beads at first sight. The third is a long, tapered triangle of fancy, intricate lace, with elaborate, interlocking flowers and leaves worked into the pattern.

I touch each one, marveling. The cord is plain, stout black Tyfon-fibre string – or something very much like it. Such cordage might be used for a myriad of reasons on Skycity 15. It's cheap, common, and utilitarian.

And they're beautiful. . .

"Jamie, I. . ."

"Ye did say such a thing was the gift ye missed most from Frank?" he interrupts quickly, "I ken nothing I make could evar replace summat like that, but, weel. . . what's the use of being able tae crochet if ye cannae make yer girlfriend some jewelry, aye?"

This is a fresh surprise, "You. . . made these?"

He draws himself up. "Aye, evary bit. I am capable of moor than patchin' ye up and kissing ye silly, ken."

My heart melts anew, even as other bits of me do the distinct opposite, "Of course you are, Jamie my lad – I'm just impressed. They're lovely." I run my fingers over the middle one with the large knots like beads, and pull it out. "Will you put this one on me now?"

He smiles, and does so. "I used a double slipknot bow, mo nighean – pull either free end, and it'll come right off."

I touch the cord, as it lays lightly on my throat. I didn't realize just how much I had missed my little bracelet/necklace cord until now. Wearing this one, and knowing it's something Jamie made with his own hands. . .

I want to cry, but I haven't felt so happy all day.

I'm about to suggest he open my gift to him now, when another knock sounds at my door, a very urgent one this time.

Geordie pokes his head in without waiting for us to answer, "Ah good – the both of ye are heer. Marc's called up – urgent. Betsy's calving her twins, an' they're tangled up somehow, an' the ultrasound is broken – he needs the both of ye twenty minutes ago, he says."

Jamie nods curtly, and turns to Fergus.

"Stay heer, lad, and mek sure ye lock the door before ye go tae the kitchen for yer supper – we may be some time. Aye?"

Fergus nods, "Aye."

Then Jamie grabs my hand, and we hurry out to the cattle barn.