Living History

We are nearly past the broken gatehouse tower by the time I find breath to speak again.

"But, I thought. . . we lived in Castle Leoch!"

"Aye, the new one," Jamie nods around at the burnt-out hulk as he guides Donas inside it, "This one was the original. Plundered an' burnt by the English during the Clearances. After the '45."

So, this place is haunted, after all. . .

"The Jacobite risings. . ." I murmur, looking at the still soot-black stones around me, "Culloden."

"Aye," he slides off Donas, then lifts me down as well, "Where we live now used tae be the auld hunting lodge. Nowt but a smoke-filled hall, wi' a few manky chambers around it."

He ties Donas up, and leads me down a corridor, and around a few turns, to a big, sunken room, that looks and smells not unlike the hayloft we just left.

"S'where Lily keeps the bedding for the sheep," he says, leading me over to the large open space at the back of the room, "It used tae be the auld stillroom – where the Clan healer would work. I've allus wondered what it was like back then. What anyone could do tae help hard-livin' reckless men wi' nothin' but herbs an' a prayer or two." He runs a hand over the ancient stone walls, "Tennyrate – what MacKenzies were left in Scotland after the '45 moved inta the auld hunting lodge, an' over the generations they added tae it, an' fixed it up, until it's the house we have taeday. But it all started here. A long time ago."

He stoops into an old fireplace, where a large heat lamp now stands. He turns it on, and points it at an open and relatively clean patch of floor. Then he brings over a big double armful of straw, and a whole pile of blankets, making us a comfy place to sit, warm and cozy. He waits once I'm settled, and throws the last blanket over both of us, cuddling up close.

Then, he takes a deep breath, and says, "So, mo nighean. . . d'ye want tae talk about what Rupert said? About me being a virgin?"

I laugh, lightly, "Oh, he was just taking a piss, I'm sure. You're not a virgin. . . right?"

His cheeks go a little red, "No. No. . . but. . . what if I was?"

"But, you're not. . ."

"No' technically. . ."

"You mean technically you are?"

"Would tha' be. . . bad?"

I open and close my mouth a few times, unbelieving.

"You. . . do not kiss like a virgin, James Fraser! Technical or otherwise!"

The way he touches me, the things he says, the way he makes me feel – none of that has said "virgin" at all. . .

"You make out like a freaking pro. And don't get me started on your hands. . . or your bedroom eyes!"

"A virgin doesnae mean a priest, Sassenach. Or a saint. I've done plenty of things I would have had tae do penance for if I still went tae confession. I've just nevar. . . found the right one. Tae. . . weel. Ye ken."

"Yes. I do." I smile, and relent, "There were a half a dozen boys I kissed before Frank, and four I dated. None of them were particularly memorable. The most we ever did was kiss and. . . well. . . get handsy. I didn't even want to go beyond that until I met Frank." I sigh, remembering, "In every way that matters, I suppose, he was my first. My only, really. Not that I hadn't. . . explored my body before that, of course. . . and after, to be perfectly honest. . ."

He chuckles, "A'coorse. Ye'er an adventurous one - I'd expect nothin' less of ye." He shifts the blanket closer around us, "I've only had three relationships tae speak of - an' I'm no' ashamed of any of them. Would ye like tae hear about them?"

"That I would, James Fraser."

"Weel. I had my first kiss when I was eleven. I was still livin' in Broch Mordha then, a'course. It was behind the little schoolhouse there, wi' a girl I'd been makin' eyes at over my history and geography books all day."

I smile, "So how was it? Who was she?"

"If ye can believe me, Sassenach, I cannae remember her name. It was a kiss like most first kisses, I expect. Very brief an' no' exactly noteworthy, except tha' it starts something," he taps his chest, "Ye ken?"

"Yes, I ken."

And I do. There's something about firsts that speaks to the Human sense of pride. From continents to cookies, the desire to get there first, claim it first, name it first, just be there first, seems built in.

"Soo, after that. . . weel, there were several. . . what should I call them? Experiences. Nowt worth mentioning, except that they each taught me summat. How tae breathe durin' a kiss - how important tongues can be – an' noses too. How tae tell if someone doesnae like it - how tae take no fer an answer. . . an' so on."

He sighs, heavily, "There wasnae anyone important until Laoghaire."

My mind blanks for a second, quite unable to take in what he just said.

"Wait. . . your first girlfriend. . . was a dog?"

He laughs, "A'course no' – a girl. . . Mrs. Fitz's granddaughter. . . Laoghaire?" he blinks at my uncomprehending stare, "Ye really dinnae ken that Mrs. Fitz names the pups she keeps after her grandchildren? She says it keeps 'em close. It's the only thing that does, at that. She has two in China, three in South America, one in Africa, one in Japan, and two in the U.S. That's where Laoghaire is - or I assume she's still thear. I havenae heard from her in near ten years."

With a lurch, the world swings back into focus.

"Okay. . . okay." I clasp his hand, interlocking our fingers, "Go on, sorry I interrupted you."

"I was sixteen when it started. I was on summertime holiday, here at Leoch. We met down by the river there, an'. . . ahm. . . explored. Only wi' kissing, cuddling, an' clumsily using our hands, but we still explored rather thoroughly for all that. For the three weeks I was heer, we met nearly evary day, an' made each other feel good. It was all surface – we barely kent each other, really – there were no promises made, an' no feelings shared. We nevar even ventured under our clothes. Jus'. . ." he gives a frustrated sigh, "It got in my head. She got in my head."

"No shock there – you were a teenager."

"Aye, but it didn't stop there. The next summer, she had another boy. Young Hugh MacKenzie. I'd spent the whole year lookin' forward tae seeing her again, an' now she was hangin' off some other bloke's arm an' wouldnae hardly give me the time of day."

A strange, bitter fury rises in me. I've never seen this girl, but I want to rip every dirty blonde hair from her head, handful by handful, and make her. . .

I push back the feeling. I don't know the woman. She's done nothing to me. I don't know that she's even blonde.

And, clearly, this haunted old ruin is getting to me. . .

I click my tongue instead, "Shame. Her loss, clearly."

He bares his teeth in a growl of remembrance, "It drove me mad. I practically begged anyone who would listen tae tell me what I'd done wrong, or why I deserved how she was treatin' me. An' I wouldnae hear anyone who told me I hadnae done anything wrong, an' didnae deserve it, either." He shakes his head at his younger self, then goes on, "I was mopin' around our auld spot by the river one day, when I heard her an' young Hugh talkin'. She was complainin' that Colum wouldnae support her going tae dance school in the States, an' how unfair he was being. Hugh could hardly get a word in edgewise, poor lad."

He looks off into the distance for a bit, and shakes his head again, "So I went tae Colum, on her behalf. Stood in front of him an' told him tae his face he was bein' unfair. That there were far less worthy dreams than dancin' in America. That her jus' havin' the dream was worthy enough, an' he ought tae respect that. That there's some who never dream for anythin', never reach beyond what others put in front of them - an' if Laoghaire was a silly girl wi' silly dreams, then it'd be made clear good an' fast. I said that if he sent her tae a good school wi' a good job lined up, she might even do him credit. . ."

"Wow."

"Aye. I laid it on thick."

"I'll say."

"An' three days later, she was gone. Off tae America, tae follow her dreams. Wi'out a word tae me."

My jaw drops with shock, "After all that. . ."

"Aye, after all that. An' I still havenae heard from her, ten years on."

"Not even a thank you?"

"No' even that."

I sniff, my dark, instinctive fury rising again, "Entitled asshole."

"It might be she didnae ken I was the one who-"

I interrupt, shaking my head, "No, Jamie. People don't do things like that unless it's deliberate. And they don't deliberately do those things unless they care a lot about the outcome. She knew. She'd have made it her business to know. She probably knew you were there listening to her and Hugh. It wouldn't surprise me if you being there was why she said what she said in the first place."

And wanted to make you suffer even more, my dear, darling man. . .

He thinks for a minute, then tilts his head to the side a little. "Possibly. However it was, that's how it ended. That autumn Bobby died, and I changed all my plans for school, an' mam an' Rob moved tae France, an' Laoghaire was off in the States, ignoring me. So I forgot her. Tae be honest, I havenae even thought about her in years."

He moves his arm a little more comfortably around me, "Then, there was Annalise. I'd been a year at Université, going back and forth between Paris and a tiny village in Provence, still mourning Bobby, busy wi' classes, an' projects, an' my students' job. We met at a café – started talking, made friends, an' met up a few days later. It was jus' dating tae begin wi' – lunch, an' shows, an' walks in the park – ye ken the kind of thing."

"I do."

"It was such a relief tae be havin' fun wi' someun' I liked. She brought me out of a dark place, and for that, I'll be forever grateful tae her. I'd never kent anyone so bright as her before. It was like she was made of sunshine." He grips my hand a little tighter, "An' then one day she invited me tae her home. Tae meet the other three people she was dating."

"Oh."

Funnily enough, I don't feel any anger at this woman. Only a mild dislike. Even a sort of benevolent detachment.

Strange. . .

Given what I know about myself, I would have predicted my feelings to be the exact opposite – forgiving the teenager, and anger at lies by omission from an adult.

Just whose feelings is this place making me feel?

"Oh, indeed. She hadnae said she was poly before that, so it was a bit of a shock. But I met them, an' they were all very nice. Welcoming, supportive. Nae'un could ask for a bettar set of partners. She an' I went on dating for a while, but I ended it a few months later."

"Why? What was the problem?"

"I'm monogamous, Sassenach. Deeply so. Much as I liked Annalise, I couldnae get past the fact that she wasn't."

"But. . ."

"Bein' poly isnae wrong, mo nighean, but it's very wrong for me."

"And that was. . . a barrier?"

"No' a barrier. Distance. We each existed in places the other couldnae go. We werenae blocked, we couldnae get there at all. We liked each other, but we were wrong for each other. Simple as that."

"So, nothing ever. . . happened?"

"Weel," he tries to smirk modestly, and can't manage it, "While we were together I learned a great deal about. . . in the U.S. they call it 'third base', I think."

I'm not sure exactly what the term means, but if "bases" are anything like "exploring the Lower townships", "touring the Core", "being welcomed to Central", and "climbing The Spire", then it's clear enough what he's getting at.

The undiluted pride in his eyes only clinches it. So to speak.

Every man thinks he's the first to discover female pleasure. Every single one of them. . .

"I learned how tae pay attention to my partner, an' figure out what they liked - no' jus' what they didnae like," he continues, grinning, "An' I learned a great deal moor about what I like. Laoghaire was never good about. . . reciprocating. Annalise was very good about it, an' more – and she was wonderfully accommodating an' understanding of my preferences an' boundaries. There was much less distance between us, as far as she was concerned, of course. Tae her, I jus' needed tae 'loosen up'. But it was moor than inhibitions. It was. . . well. . . Monogamy is how I am, ye ken. I couldnae be wi' her wi'out denying an essential part of myself. I didnae blame her for being how she was, but. . ." he sighs, "It couldnae last. An' it didn't."

He is silent for a long few minutes, staring at the glowing heat lamp.

"An' then. . . there was John."

I'm struck speechless again, for several more seconds than is quite polite.

". . . . . . John?" I turn and look at him, with who knows what kind of confusion on my face.

But whatever it is, it's nothing compared to the confusion on his.

"Ye didn. . . ye didnae ken I'm bi?"

"Of course not, Jamie! How on earth would I ken that? We haven't talked about this until now!"

"But. . . but. . . that ye hadnae heard how Mrs. Fitz names her sheepdog pups I can believe, but the lads nevar let me forget that I'm no' het. Rupert especially, he calls me "the arse man in moor ways than one" an' teases me mercilessly - he even calls the clam an' sausage chowder Mrs. Fitz makes evary summer her 'Fraser Special'!"

I snort, quietly, but he rounds on me, flicked on the raw, "It's no' funny!"

"No. It isn't. But that Rupert had the wit to make such a joke is a little funny, Jamie."

"Maybe. Bu' he's nevar so kind as tae let someone I like go ten minutes wi'out blabbin' about it tae them. Granted he's no' done it in my hearin' jus' lately, bu' I only figured he was sayin' it behind my back. I thought for ceartain he'd have told ye. . ."

"Well, he didn't."

He shakes his head, in utter disbelief. Then he sighs, and opens and closes his mouth a few times, hesitantly.

"Is. . . is that. . . is it. . . a problem?"

"I don't see why it needs to be," I gesture expansively, "Any more than the girls in Cranesmuir chasing you has to be a problem. I mean, it certainly could be. If either one of us handles a situation in a way we shouldn't, or fails to communicate with the other well enough, it could become a problem - but that's on us - on our actions. It doesn't hinge on what gender the other person is, and it doesn't. . . it doesn't change. . . our feelings. Right?"

The real problem, of course, is that, despite everything, so far neither of us has actually said what our feelings are. . .

He takes both my hands in his, "I need tae be sure, Claire. I need ye tae be sure. It really doesnae bother ye that I've kissed other men?"

For whatever reason, no extra guiding emotion comes to me on this one, only a very distant, pitying sorrow, for a world where ordinary, good, loving people's very existence is somehow a taboo. Which is something I feel anyway. . .

"Just. . . so long as it doesn't bother you that I've kissed other men. . . other than Frank, I mean."

He waves this away, "Nah. Ye'er a beautiful, passionate women, Claire. Ye could walk up an' take any man ye want from anywhere ye choose."

I scoff.

"Aye, ye could! Ye'er so bold and bonny - ye'er intoxicating." He runs a finger down my jaw, gently tilting my chin up to look at him, "Aye, it is a bit surprisin' tae me that ye'ev only fully had one man. . ." he swallows heavily, "One extremely lucky man. . . But then, it's nae surprise at all that so far only one man has lived up tae yer standards of havin'."

He lowers his head, and gives me a long, soft, wonderful kiss. I lean back when we're done, quite thoroughly assured that whatever our pasts, we very much like each other now.

And now is what really matters. . .

I smile at him. "So. John."

He nods, "Aye. It was my last year of Université, an' his first. We were takin' classes next door tae each other and met in the corridor one mornin'. We fell hard, and fast. It wasnae the first time I'd had feelings for a man, but. . . that was the first time it felt serious - the first time I felt serious - about anyone, man or woman. An' John was – is – so wonderful. A gentleman in evary way, kind, funny, interesting, and brilliant. Good at everythin' – but nevar makin' ye feel bad about it. The best friend a man could evar hope tae meet, an' a sweet, thoughtful lover too."

A deep sorrow rises in his eyes.

"So. . . why didn't you. . ."

"He asked me tae marry him, Sassenach. On our second date."

I'm brought up completely short, "Oh. Wow. That. . . that's. . . a bit. . . uhm. . . sudden."

"Aye. T'was. An' I didnae react as well as I might ha' done. It does rather break the mood when the person just proposed tae asks the one proposin' what in bloody heck he thinks he's doin'."

"Ouch."

"Aye. I c'n still see the hurt in his eyes. I'd a' rather have broken his arm."

"But. . . but why didn't you marry him? If he's all you say. . ."

"Aye, he is all that, an' moor. An' I dunno, maybe I would'ha married him, had things been different. But as they were. . ." he sighs, mournfully, "He was only just eighteen, Sassenach. I was nearly twenty-three, and in my last year at Uni. I was about tae graduate, an' go back tae Scotland. Now, from Inverness tae Paris isnae exactly half the world, a'course, but it's still no' a walk across the street, aye? An' if I'd got the job I wanted, I'd ha' been hither an' yon, who kens where, while he'd ha' been stuck in Paris for four years, alone. Tha's nae way tae start a marriage, especially when one of the partners hasnae had his last growth spurt yet."

I blink, shocked, "Why did that matter, of all things?"

"He hadnae finished growin' up, y'see. He was still a lad. In places, still a child in his mind. A good-hearted, fine-souled teenager, but he was still too young for what he was askin'. He hadnae even considered that if we got married, we'd be in a long-distance relationship in a few weeks - an' that was enough for me tae ken he wasnae ready. An' as fer me. . ."

He gives a long, sad sigh.

"I did love him, ye ken. Still do, in a way. But my father allus told Bobby, an' Bobby allus told me that I'd ken it in my bones, in the core of my soul, when I found the right one. That I'd ken it like I kent how tae breathe, an' that I'd need them just as much as my lungs needed air. And when John Grey got down on one knee and asked me tae be his husband. . . I didn't. It didnae feel wrong. But it didnae feel right either. Ye ken?"

"Not exactly. I haven't had that particular experience. But I can imagine."

"Mebbe it was jus' too fast, I dinnae ken. Marriage. . . it ought tae be a thing well considered before venturing. John hadn't, an' he didnae give me much of a chance tae consider it after he asked. . ."

"Wait, you broke up over that?"

It is strange indeed, but I haven't felt any jealousy up 'til now. And somehow, knowing this stranger – this young man I've never met nor am ever likely to meet – broke up with my wonderful, delightful boyfriend for such a reason has me deeply, ragingly jealous.

"Aye. From meetin', tae dating, tae proposal, tae breakup, in just ower two weeks."

"But that's insane!"

How dare that. . . cub. . . throw away what we must work so hard to keep! Like Jamie's regard were some toy - to be bought and then discarded!

"No' when ye'er eighteen an' hungry, mo chridhe. John was jus' out of the closet, an' needed somethin' I wasnae ready tae give."

"Oh. Right."

My envy collapses at a touch. For a minute I had actually forgotten that this whole discussion began with the revelation that the man before me is still mostly a virgin. . .

"So. . . so you didn't. . . that is, you hadn't. . ."

"No. We'd touched each other, used our hands, an' kissed, a'course, but nothing else, no' yet. Christ, there was hardly time - we'd only been officially dating fer five days! But he thought I wouldn't until marriage, so he took the plunge. An' then thought I refused him because I didnae want tae at all. When really all I wanted was a step back, tae think before we went ahead."

"Oh, Jamie. You poor sweet."

I curl an arm around his, and lean my head on his shoulder.

"Nah, I could'ha handled it bettar. I could have been gentler - clearer. In that moment, I didnae love him like I ought tae have done. I was selfish."

"But he sprang marriage on you. . ."

"Oh, I was shocked, and he was wrong, but I was still selfish. I instantly wanted a step back tae consider my own situation, but I gave barely a thought tae his until weeks later. I didnae think about my words when I told him no. An' I didnae fight for us - didnae put myself out tae keep this amazing thing we'd both found. But what really shames me is. . . it was a relief. I felt relieved no' tae have tae deal wi' romance an' sex an' marriage and all that goes along wi' them. It was my final semester at Uni, and all I wanted was tae pass my exams an' go home. . ."

"There's no shame in that, Jamie."

"Mebbe no'. But it shames me nevertheless."

We are both quiet a long time.

"And then. . ." I start.

"An' then. . . the Dissolution Act."

"And Peace Agents, and the Clearings. . . and Black Jack."

"An' the murder."

"And the murder."

He holds my gaze for a long minute.

"An' then, there was ye. . ."

He dips his head to kiss me, but I put a hand on his chest, needing to give voice to the tense ice cube that's been forming in my stomach for most of this conversation. I've been trying to ignore it, but I can't anymore.

"Jamie – I'm scared."

"Scared? Why? What of?"

"Of us. Of this. That we're going to fall apart and totally destroy each other. We're only having this conversation now, Jamie. Lack of communication. Just like with Annalise and with John. And Laoghaire too – more on her side than yours, but still."

He opens his mouth to speak, but I put a hand to his lips, and press on.

"And then there's mental and emotional distance. Lest we forget - I have a secret. A secret I can't tell you, and I can't even tell you why. And to cap it off, you just have to trust me that it isn't anything horrifically disgusting or illegal. There's a space between us. Just like with Annalise and Laoghaire."

His brows draw together, but he lets me continue.

"There was age difference too, with John. You're. . . I assume, twenty six now?"

"Twenty seven."

"And I'm thirty-four. That's not so very drastic, but twenty-three and eighteen isn't very drastic either – and when you take into account that I'm a widow, and an outlander too. . ."

I sigh, "And then the problem was physical distance. With John and with Laoghaire. Well, all I'll say is we got lucky about this upcoming campaign trip with Dougal. Who knows how well we'd have handled it if we'd been forced apart?"

I ball up my fists, determined to get through everything, "And as for going too fast. . . I've only known you seven, almost eight weeks? And whatever else we have or haven't done, we've already adopted a son. What's that, sixth base? Seventh?"

He chuckles, but briefly, and sobers quickly.

"That's five for five, Jamie. My being with you hits all of the points that ruined your previous relationships. I'm scared."

And it's all my own feelings too – nothing extra.

Don't forget that he makes you feel things, Beauchamp!

At that thought I shiver, and tears prick behind my eyes. Oh yes. . . He makes me feel so many things. With just a touch, with just a word, with just a look. I'm so vulnerable around him – I haven't any of my usual defenses. He has my trust, but it's still scary. . .

The things he could do to me, all without even raising a hand. . .

He traces the lines of my cheekbone and jaw with a contemplative fingertip for a minute, then meets my eyes, very sincerely.

"What's for ye will no' go by ye, Sassenach. They've all gone by me. Evary one of them. Doesnae mattar whose fault it was – what's for ye, will no' go by ye. They werenae for me."

"And. . . that means I am?"

"Ye havenae gone by me yet. Tha's all I need, for now."

And for now, all I need is to rest, in his arms, in a warm, safe place, cared for and comforted. I tell him so.

Like everything else, Jamie gives me this, freely and generously, no questions asked.