Sawney
Before I can stop myself, my knee connects hard with Jamie's groin, and I roughly shove him off of me.
"Why should I tell you anything, you goddamn hypocritical piece of shit?"
He folds in half with a grunt, and starts a long string of Gàidhlig curses even I haven't heard yet.
And after Leoch, that's saying something. . .
"Sorry!" I hiss, and groan in frustrated sympathy, hammering my fists on the wall behind me, "You surprised me out of the dark and you pushed me around and Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ it's been three weeks Jamie what. . . what. . ." I weakly punch his shoulders, again and again and again, and suddenly I'm on the floor, crying, and he's curled up behind me, his attention divided between managing his own pain, and trying to hold me. I try to slap his hands away - not because I don't want his comfort, but because I want him take care of himself. This only frustrates me more, and confuses him, and we're both in serious danger of complete nervous breakdowns when in desperation, he grabs my hand. He locks our fingers together, and holds hard.
"My room," he says, voice pale, and shaking with more than physical pain, "Down the hall. C'n ye make it?"
I take a deep breath, and finally get my sobbing under some semblance of control, "Yes. Can you?"
"Aye."
We both struggle to our feet, not letting go of each other, and manage to stumble our way to his room.
He locks the door behind us, and for the first time in over three weeks I feel safe.
We're here. Together. Neither of us can leave.
Everything will be okay. . .
A huge band of tension releases all down my back, and I collapse onto his bed, still crying, but quietly now.
He lets me go, and brings over a box of tissues before laying down next to me. He doesn't say anything.
I twist my eyes closed, and just let the tears happen.
Several generations and half a box of tissues later, I look over at him, still snuffling, but very sincere, "I'm sorry I kicked you."
He huffs a laugh, "It isnae ye tha' needs tae be apologizin' at this moment, Claire."
"But I am sorry – it was just a self-defense reaction - if I'd known it was you I wouldn't have-"
"An' I appreciate that," he shifts gingerly, "Ceartain parts of me less so, bu' still – Claire, I. . ."
He doesn't go on. The room goes very quiet, with only the ticking of the clock in the hall, and the distant thrum of music from the pub breaking the silence. He digs in his pocket for a second, and brings out an oddly shaped palm-sized knicknack thing I cannot identify in the low light. He runs it lovingly between his fingers several times, his thumb lightly caressing the textured upper surface. Then his big hand engulfs it, and he sits up to turn on the bedside lamp.
"I've told ye about most of my family by now, mo nighean," he says, laying back down on the quilt next to me, "Ceartainly all the ones I grew up close to. I've named them, a'least, if I've no' described them much."
He opens his hand, and shows me the little object. It is now easy to tell it is a crude carving of a coiled snake, made from a dark, beautiful wood.
"But I've nevar told ye about my da."
"No. You haven't."
I shift my head to rest against his shoulder, both of us still looking up at the little snake.
"His name was Brian – Black Brian, they called him, for his hair – an' he eloped wi' my mother, against both their parents' wishes. They'd deliberately got her pregnant wi' Bobby furst though, sae nae'un could say aught against it."
He runs his thumb tenderly over the little carving again.
"Ye ken Bobby was a special nickname, aye? Only mam called him that. "Bright as a bobbin", she'd allus say. Da carved a wee sunburst for him, an' put the name on the back of it, but he never called him Bobby."
He swallows, then looks at me, eyes red and damp, "Th'rest of us called him Willie."
My heart thumps at the name.
"Oh. . . Jamie. . . I. . ."
He shakes his head, plowing through, "Nae, I need tae tell ye." He nods at the little snake," Da made Jenny a wee shell, wi' "Winkle" on the side, 'cause mam allus said she was quick as a wink. And he made this'un for me - " he turns it over, " - 'cause mam said I was sly as sawneys."
And indeed, the word "Sawney" is carved deeply into the underside of the piece of wood.
"Sly? You?"
He shrugs a little, "I usetae smile in my sleep, mam said. She meant cunning or cute, I think. . ."
"And for Rob?"
He sighs, and puts the snake away, "He nevar met Rob. He died in a car accident four months before he was born. I was five. Jenny was seven. Willie was ten."
I slip a hand back into his, "I'm sorry Jamie. . ."
"Nah," he grips my fingers tight, "S'jus' one of those things tha' happen, an' we were lucky. We had Willie. He really stepped up – became the man of the house. Though mam allus made sure he had time tae be a boy too," his eyes crinkle up with happy memories, "Those years werenae bad mo ghràidh, no' bad atal." His face darkens as dramatically as a winter sky, "It was only after Bobby died that things went wrong. Y'see, mam usetae paint – usetae dance - " he looks at me, long sorrow in his eyes, "Usetae sing. She was the best, most beautiful mother, an' none of that changed after da died. After Willie though. . ." he shakes his head, "She stopped singin', stopped paintin', didnae dance annymore. An' she nevar said our special nicknames again. Tha's why I call him Bobby now – tae keep the name alive. Tae keep him alive. Tae keep her alive. As vibrantly alive as she was back then. . ."
I push some curls away from his forehead, and cradle his cheek, "But you've watched people sing lots of times since then, Jamie – what was so different about tonight? What did I do to make you-"
"It was the Gàidhlig. An' the dancin'. An' ye bein' sae bright an' bonny." He looks at our still-clasped hands, "An' Willie bein' on my mind. . ."
He doesn't say which one.
I know it's both.
I close my eyes, but I can still see the red, steaming snow around my knees, soaking into my jeans. I can hear it, smell it. . .
"Three weeks, Jamie. Three weeks. And not a word from you. Not a look, not a note, not a hint. For three. Damn. Bloody. Weeks." I pull my hands away from him as they form two tight fists, "There's no excuse for that. Not even one horrible death that reminds you of another horrible death."
"I ken," he runs his fingers through his hair, and scratches the back of his neck, "An' if that means ye cannae be my girlfriend annymore, I'll. . . I'll try an' accept that, but. . . please, please tell me where ye learned those songs before ye go, Sassena-"
"Don't call me that!" I snap, "I haven't heard anything else from anyone for three goddamn shit weeks – I don't have to take it from you too, and so I won't – not for a long time - we clear?"
"Very."
"And I notice you still haven't apologized for any of it."
The edges of his mouth lift a little with hope, "Does that mean ye'd accept an apology from me?"
I set my jaw, and purse my lips, "You'll never know unless you try, Fraser."
He gently cups my face and speaks low, and sincerely, "I am so, so sorry Claire. Wi' all that is in me, I'm sorry. I was mad, an' sad, and. . . wild, wi' grief. I was angry at ye, horribly thankful for ye, furious at the universe, an' feckin' disgusted wi' myself." He shakes his head, "If only Colum had listened tae me – if only I had told him the dangers one more time. . . if only I was a real doctor, if only the ambulance had got there quicker, if only it hadnae been Willie. . . if only, if only, if only. . . I couldnae look at ye wi'out feelin' all of it at once, an' then. . ." he sighs, "Dougal ordered us no' tae speak tae ye, or use any language other than the Gàidhlig in yer presence. It was a shite thing tae do, I ken, but then it seemed the only way out that didnae leave me in pieces during a time when I need tae be sae alert an' on my guard. I regretted it the very first minute, an' havnae stopped regretting it, bu' once begun there jus' didnae seem any way tae stop. No' wi' the camera crew still here, an' my deal wi' Dougal," his thumb ghosts over my lips, "Can ye forgive me, Claire, mo chridhe?"
I hold his hands to my face, feeling the warmth of his skin against my own.
"You damn great brute. Of course."
I jump at him, practically biting my way into his mouth. I sink against his body, pushing him into the mattress, taking handfuls of his shirt that dig my nails into his chest. His arms clamp around me, much too hard, crushing the air from my lungs.
It hurts, but pain has never been such a relief as this.
We're both totally breathless when we finally let each other go, and we lie there panting for some few minutes. It's impossible to tell how many.
"I learned those songs for Story Night. From network vidcasts. Those and several others."
He smiles, his lips pressed against my forehead, "All for wee Fergus, then?"
"Not exactly. For me too. I'm not great at languages, but having some Gàidhlig is a survival skill in Scotland these days, and learning something I could immediately use seemed the smartest place to start."
His smile widens, "Ye'er such a good mother. . ."
My heart stutters a bit, a hole opening up in my stomach.
He's been so vulnerable with me tonight.
Perhaps. . . perhaps. . . I can. . .
"It was five years since Frank. The day you showed me your back. Five years. The baby was three months before that. Our house was almost a year ago, ditto my job. My parents were almost eight years ago. Ditto almost everything they ever owned. My entire past is a wasteland, Jamie. How. . . how can you possibly know that I'm a good anything? I'm a hollow, empty wreck. What do you see in me? What can you see?"
He spends a long minute running his fingertips along the ridge of my knuckles. Then he lifts me off him, and rolls us so I'm in his arms, facing him.
"I think about that wee bairn of yours, every now and then, you know."
I gasp in disbelief, "You. . . you do?"
"Aye. An' a lot more jus' lately."
"But. . ."
"I've kept on asking myself – if I could'ha fixed things so it had lived – I dunno, sent ye back in time, or whatever – if any choice of mine could've made ye happy, even if it meant I nevar met ye at all – would I still do it?"
"And. . ." my voice catches, "Would you?"
"Aye. In a heartbeat."
His eyes meet mine, and the look in them is so soft, so tender, so. . . so. . .
So nameless. . .
"It isnae what ye have, mo nighean. It's who ye are. I think of your wee bairn for the same reason I think of Frank sometimes. An' Lamb. An' yer father. An' Oxford." He lays a gentle hand on my chest, "They are part of ye. An' ye carry them wi' ye. Evan when they aren-"
"Her name was Faith."
He blinks, "Her. . ."
"Frank always insisted it was going to be a boy, but I just knew it wasn't. I called her Faith. Something I'd never had before. And would never have again. . ."
His arms close gently around me. I speak into his shirt, "I've never told anyone that before."
Very, very softly, he pets my hair.
"Yer secret's safe wi' me, mo ghràidh."