I Burn, Not Shine
I was unprepared. . .
I thought I couldn't be, but I am.
Thoroughly, deeply, elementally unprepared.
Breathlessly, shockingly unprepared. . .
I was prepared for the varied, powerful odours to be found in the cattle barn – and even for the ones specifically found in the birthing stalls.
I was prepared for the noise, I was prepared for the mess, the profusion of machinery, and its paradoxical proximity with bodily fluids. I was prepared to watch Marc casually shove his arm up a cow's vagina – well, mostly prepared. I was prepared for him to shout at me, curse modern technology, and grumble at Jamie.
I was prepared for the enormous Jersey-Friesian cross to. . . well, be cross, as it were. . .
I was even reasonably prepared to deal with the ultrasound machine that is beeping insistently at me right now, furious that I'm ignoring it.
But at the moment, there is nothing in my world except the fact that Jamie has just taken his shirt off.
I thought I was ready.
But I was not.
Good lord, I was not.
His hair glows a deeper red than usual under the cool LED lights of the barn, and his skin shows pale against the dark background of byre walls, putting me in mind of watercolour illustrations I've seen of ripe, blushing apricots. Even in cool, impersonal lighting, in a dirty, smelly cow shed, he shines. His body hair ranges in colour from pale blond to dark brown, and in texture from short, tight curls near his shoulders, to long and straight near where he – thank Christ! - is still wearing trousers.
Don't think about his trousers right now, Beauchamp! You can barely handle the man's naked chest!
My eyes range over him again and again, unable to look away. . .
He is smoothly, beautifully muscled, defined but not too much so, being softly rounded everywhere, and deliciously proportioned, with curves and dips in all the right places. Best of all, he's still confidently himself - listening respectfully to Marc, and scrubbing up with both the casually intense strength, and deliberate, businesslike control I've come to expect from him.
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, this man. My hands practically itch to touch him, and I have never wanted to take a bite out of anyone before, but now. . .
My eyes get caught on the curve of his hip, where it disappears into his waistband. There is a tiny line of darker, reddish skin there, where my nails had found purchase, not half an hour ago.
Correction. My hands itch to touch him, again.
And then my lips would follow.
And then my tongue.
And then my teeth.
And then. . .
My mouth waters at the thought.
I have no idea where this sudden urge to taste him is coming from, but, well – there it is. I'll have to unpack that later.
Much, much later. . .
Bits of me throb, and I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing ten minutes ago.
If ever there was going to be a distraction from December fifteenth for me, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser is that distraction. A magnificent, glorious distraction. . .
He finishes scrubbing up, and Marc hands him a big rubber apron and two long, plastic gloves. He puts them on, and turns around so Marc can fasten the apron.
Unfortunately, my jaw is already on the floor – so it cannot hit it again.
I thought I understood what being unprepared meant.
I was wrong.
So very, very wrong.
Long, puckered burn scars crisscross his back, some grotesquely uneven and random, and some looking horribly, horrendously straight and deliberate, like someone purposely slashed at him with red hot knives. Or scratched at him with burning claws. Nearly his entire back is shredded – mutilated. . . There are several places where it looks like he's been stabbed with a soldering iron, again and again, and again, and again. . .
They've all healed, but they still radiate pain, and torture, and evil. . .
Not Jamie's evil, but someone's. . .
My breath rushes back into me with fiery, scalding rage.
Who – who – would dare to. . . ? Such a desecration – such defilement. . . Who would have the heartlessness. . . the gall?
Who?
I touch my cheek, remembering.
Somehow, I know who it was.
I can even guess at why. . .
A vat of ice water could not have quashed my arousal more efficiently. I shake myself out of my ogling stupor, and turn to the now desperately beeping ultrasound machine. Marc shouts something I don't hear, as I clear contacts and punch buttons as though my life depends on it.
With both Marc and Jamie in the room, it probably does. . .
"It's fixed now!" I yell over Betsy's bellowing, "It should take ten seconds for the screen to reset!"
"Aye lass!" Marc grabs the imaging wand, and rams it up against the cow's painfully bulging stomach. A few seconds later, he calls out, "Second calf's breech, wi' its leg back, like I thowt, lad. Ye'el need tae gi' in there wi' a rope, double time – yer reach is longer'n mine." Then Marc dumps a whole bottle of sharply antiseptic-smelling gel over a long coil of twine, works it in with two rough scrubs, and ties the end in a complicated loop, "Ee's blockin' 'is sister, an' shee mus' com oot furst, sae mek shure ye git it b'tween the cleats, an' be ready tae shove when I say – aye?" He slaps the twine into Jamie's outstretched hand.
"Aye," says Jamie, his single-minded focus making him sound more curt and brusque than I've ever heard him before.
He gives one brief look at the ultrasound screen, and then he's shoulder-deep in the cow, trailing twine and dripping fluids everywhere. He makes several comic, straining faces that I would laugh at were not the situation so clearly dire. And then, his expression clears.
"Got it!" he crows, triumphant.
Marc starts barking orders in the Gàidhlig, and goes over to take the trailing end of sodden twine. Together, they push, and they haul, yell at each other and at the cow, and I might as well not exist, and at this moment, I'm glad I don't. Finally, two shining, slimy hooves appear, followed in a rush by a nose, a head, and a long, slippery body.
The calf practically splats onto the straw, nearly unheeded by the men, as they labour to get the second calf out.
I've only seen someone do this once before, and only then on a vidcast show, but I take up a big handful of dry straw from the pile next to me, go over to the newborn calf, and start scrubbing at its wet, sticky pelt. I brush some jelly-like stuff away from its nostrils, and suddenly its ears perk up, and it shakes its head, blowing sharp, uneven breaths across my hand. A minute later, she's pushing herself half up on tottering, shaky legs, trying valiantly to stand.
She's very nearly managed it by the time her brother joins us. Shrugging, I scrub down this calf with straw as well, marveling at how quickly he tries to stand up too.
Marc looks down at the pair of them, and nods solemnly at me.
"Thankee, lass. Ye'ev done a man's work," he turns, and clouts Jamie on the shoulder, "An' ye'ev done two. Well done, laddie."
And then he's at the bucket of hot water, swilling himself down, without another word.
Jamie and I look at each other, over the pair of newborn calf backs struggling to find their mother's udder.
I can't find words to say. But Jamie can.
"Ardeo, non luceo, Sassenach. Ye ken what that means?"
I nod.
"Weel, it's true. I'm no' a MacKenzie. I do burn."
"So. . . so I see."
"I've been tryin' tae find a way tae tell ye for weeks now, ye ken."
"You have?"
"Aye. But it's a hell of a downer of a tale, an'. . . weel. . ." he shrugs, and starts to peel off the long plastic gloves, "Issno exactly something I tell tae everyone – sae I didnae know how tae begin."
"Well. . . you've begun now."
He nods a little, "True. But this isnae the place. An' I need a shower."
He removes the apron, and hangs it in the birthing stall's sanitation chamber. Then, he wraps a large horse blanket around himself so he doesn't freeze before we get back inside. Gingerly, he takes my hand, and we run across the barn yard. Once indoors again, he leads me to his rooms. I go directly to the little sink he has in his tiny corner-kitchen, and with nothing more than a sigh of both relief and finality, he disappears into his bathroom.
I'm waiting on his couch for him when he emerges, half an hour later – his hair slicked back, fragrant steam still rising off his skin, and wearing nothing but an enormous, fluffy white bathrobe.
He sits down next to me, not saying anything, not meeting my eyes.
The earthy-stink of cow barn is gone, leaving nothing but the soft odour of warm cotton, the faint, complex scent of his own custom soaps, and the dark, musky perfume of Jamie himself.
I lean a little closer to him and inhale deeply. He has never smelled this good. It's better than steak – better than bacon – better than chocolate.
The wild, mouthwatering desire to taste him comes back to me with treble force. I fight it back, and tamp it down. This is not the time, Beauchamp!
He reaches a hand out to me.
I take it, twining our fingers together.
He looks up then, and catches my gaze, holding it for several seconds past when it ought to feel awkward, but it somehow doesn't.
He is merely my intense, lovely laddie, with something important to tell me.
His grip tightens for a minute, then he pulls a little away, gesturing at his robe.
"May I show ye?" he asks, quietly.
"Of course."
He loosens the top of his bathrobe, and lets it fall to his waist. Slowly, but deliberately, he turns, exposing his entire back to my sight.
It isn't any better up close.
Whole areas of his back have been taken over by nothing but scar tissue, spreading their thick, bloodless lines across what ought to be healthy, glowing skin. I see his muscles move as he shifts slightly, so clearly everything still functions, but. . .
But. . .
I'm unable to keep from touching him any longer. I smooth my hands across his shoulders, and bury my lips in the cleft of his spine. I stroke down his sides, and kiss along the line of his shoulder blade, and then he is suddenly gone from the couch, standing and whirling on me, a painfully shocked look on his face.
"Claire!" he stammers, wordless for a minute, "Ye. . . ye. . . I thought. . . I thought ye'd be repulsed. Disgusted. . ."
I bark a mirthless laugh, "I am disgusted. But not by you. Jamie!" Gently, I pull him back down next to me, and take him lightly by the jaw, "Darling! You're wonderful. Perfect. You hear me? Completely, totally, shockingly perfect." I kiss him on the sides of his mouth, then get up, push him a little more onto the couch, and plunk myself in his lap. I wrap my arms around him, deliberately placing my hands on his scars, my fingers spread as wide as I can, to cover as many of them as I can reach. Then I massage up and down his back, kissing him every time I lean in, and giving my hips a little shimmy against his every time I pull back.
Slowly, his arms go around me. As they tighten, I stop moving, holding his head to my chest.
We sit there, very still, for an age and an age of the world. Or a few minutes, at least.
"It was the day they came for Ian," Jamie says at last, his words only mildly muffled by my shirt, "Black Jack was leadin' 'em. Bloody bastard."
I don't respond, just letting him talk.
"They stomped 'round our dining room, cursin' an' threatenin', beatin' people up, or startin' tae, anyroad, but the minute Black Jack saw Ian he. . . he. . ."
He buries his head a little deeper into my shoulder, "He said he'd let everyone go if Ian would give him a night in his bed."
I clench my jaw, red rage and disgust boiling hot in my stomach.
"Ian stood there gawpin' for a minute, no' bein' able tae believe what he jus' heard, an' nae wonder, bu' just then auld Mrs. Murray screamed, an' leapt out tae protect Ian, an' one of the Agents clouted her across the head wi' the butt of his stun-stick. She fell back, gaspin', an' two days later she died."
He clutches me closer, and takes a deep breath before going on, "That's when I walloped the bastard across his disgusting face, an' there isnae a hell or a purgatory in any religion anywhear tha' c'n mek me sorrae I did it."
"Of course not," I say, gently petting his hair.
"But he put me in lockup instead of Ian, an' spent two days doin' this tae me." He jerks his head, indicating his back. "An' the whole time he was whisperin' he would stop if I'd let him do to me everything he'd planned tae do tae Ian. . ." He gives a long, tortured sigh, "Sassenach, I. . . I considered it. Moor than once. Almost gave in moor than once too. . ."
"Of course you did," I say, with only a little forced brightness, "Anyone would. If it meant escaping - " I stroke up and down his back one more time, " - this."
"That doesnae disgust ye either?"
"Of course not! He does though."
He nods, emphatically. "Aye."
"How did you ever escape him, Jamie?"
"Dougal got a statement of Unlawful Detainment from Overseer Sandringham. Murtagh brought it at the end of the second day. Took me straight home tae the hospital in Broch Mordha. Neither of us kent a guard was murdered that same night – an' we still dinnae ken much about it, save that he was stabbed in the back. I was still wrapped up in gauze an' ointment the day the warrant for my arrest for suspicion of murder came 'round. That's why Murtagh ran here tae Leoch wi' me. An' why I cannae stand the smell of lavender anymore. . ."
His voice slowly peters out, and we relax silently, leaning against each other, holding each other up.