Chapter Rating – M for non-graphic married nookie, mild kinkiness, discussion of same, and discussion of past trauma
Glowed In Her Soul
Our next campaign stop is only a few kilometers down the road. The dawn's mist has barely had time to settle into an early-morning fog by the time the picturesque rows of shops and cottages weave into sight. As we pull up to the little hotel, and smell the wonderful odours from the bakery next door, Murtagh taps on the Rover window, signaling Jamie to roll it down.
"About half the men'll be stayin' in cottages heer, lad, an' Dougal's one is wheer the stables are. Also wee Donas needs his exercise taeday, an'. . ." he trails off, with an apologetic look at me.
I smile, and kiss Jamie's cheek, "Never mind, my dear. You go to work. I'll go get us checked in. Hurry back to me."
He grins a little at that, "No fear of anythin' else, Sassenach."
I manage to wrangle all our luggage inside, where the landlord helps me with it. I hand him our official MacKenzie requisition notices and itinerary, and he gives me a respectful nod and a pair of keys.
"Sae are ye th'laas whoo got marrit yeastarday?" he asks, leading me upstairs.
I smile. Gossip really does move faster than light. . . "Oh. Yes."
"Mennay happay returns," he nods in over his shoulder in solemn salute.
"Thank you."
"Wisht I couldv'e made it tae th'partay, bu' t'was holed up heer."
I find the right door number, and unlock it, "I wish you could have been there too. It was a very good party."
"Aye. Sae wheer's th'laad?" He arranges our bags neatly in front of a large wardrobe.
"Working. He'll be along presently."
"Good good," he gestures around, "Gave ye a single room wi' a biggar bed, rather than a double wi' twa smaller. Ye'll let me ken iff'n t'ere's aught ye need?"
"I will. Or one or the other of us will. Thank you."
"Good good," he says again, and goes back downstairs, to deal with the rest of the men clattering into the reception area. I can hear their loud footsteps and incessant chaffing, even all the way up here. . .
Very, very deliberately, I push all thoughts of other men out of my mind, and go sit on one of the two easy chairs by the coffee table.
Jamie.
He was very quiet on the drive over. In fact the whole ride was remarkably silent. It was the soft, companionable sort of silence that reassures rather than worries, and refuses to be filled with anything but sweet, sidelong looks, and gentle, surreptitious touches.
I hadn't touched a book or my com, he hadn't reached for the radio, or put on any music. We had simply. . . basked.
A half a dozen times, I had begun to open my mouth to tell him I loved him, but the silence stopped me. It was too perfect to break, even with something good.
And I still haven't earned the right to say it anyway. . .
I didn't say it this morning when he did, and he didn't act as though he expected me to. I sigh. He is so sure I don't. . . and I know that's my fault. My own clueless, distracted, traumatized heart's fault. I might have walked into this with my eyes open, but I also did it without fully knowing my own soul.
And so now it's easier for me to tell Dougal that I love Jamie, than it is for me to tell Jamie himself.
How? How am I going to prove it to him?
I've never had this problem before. The declarations Frank and I shared had been so natural and commonplace that I'm not even sure now the ones I remember as "firsts" really were. None of my other relationships had progressed that far.
In this, conceivably, Jamie is actually more experienced than I am. . .
Besides, the Claire I am now is manifestly not the Claire I was then.
And none of the men were Jamie.
How?
How?
I immediately decide against a deliberate grand gesture. Those only work in vidcasts, and not very well then.
An intimate, personalized gesture sounds better, but also. . . contrived. Like "I love you" is a line to be spoken, not a feeling to be felt, and a life to be lived alongside someone. Like I'm not proving anything, just setting up a scene to be played out.
And just blurting it out whenever my heart wants to say it wouldn't be proving it either.
I shake my head at myself. I know I'm overthinking this terribly. . .
It's just that my lovely Jammie Dodger deserves so much more than I've given him. . .
Jamie comes through the door like a whirlwind. He lifts me out of my chair, and deposits me on the bed in less time than it takes me to think it. I don't remember which of us started to kiss who first, but with his mouth on mine, that scarcely matters. . . I pull back with a gasp.
"You're here much sooner than I expecte-"
"Aye," he takes my mouth again, grunting as he tears off his overcoat, "I must have ye." He nibbles and licks at the tingly spot on my jaw, fully exploiting everything he knows about my body now. . .
"Mmm. Yes, right there. And the horses?"
"Made Murtagh take charge of carin' for 'em."
"Ah. And the men?"
"Told 'em ye were carsick on the way over, an' needed an acupuncture session."
He's down to his shirtsleeves, and reaches for the zipper on my cardigan. . .
"Acupuncture?" I laugh, "That's a new way of putting it. And they believed you, did they?"
"Och, there's nae chance in hell they believed me. Bu' they let me come tae ye. That's all tha' mattars. No' that annythin' could'ha stopped me. . ."
He tries to push me down onto the bed, but all this talk has reminded me of a particularly delicious little fantasy of mine. . .
I stand up, turn around, and test the height of the bed. It's a little low, so I grab the cushion from an easy chair, and try again. Perfect. I give him a mischievous grin, and wriggle my backside at him.
He doesn't look bewildered so much as several competing types of excited.
"What's in yer mind then, lass?"
I chuckle at him, "I said I could be insatiable, didn't I? I said I'd start tomorrow, yes? Well, it's tomorrow, and here I am, and I want you to. . ." I yank his head to mine, and whisper some truly filthy things into his ear. . .
He pulls back to stare at me, his eyes blazing blue even as they darken almost wholly to black, "Humans really can do it like horses, then? I havenae thought about it like that since I were a wee lad. A very wee lad, I-"
I snort, "Not precisely like horses, I imagine. . ."
"Noo, no' exactly, but-"
"Too much talking, Jamie. . ." I fumble a little with his belt, then manage to get it off.
"Mmm, yes but. . ."
"Still too much talking. . ."
He agrees with a grunt, and then we both burn with such insistent heat we don't bother trying to remove any more of our clothes than absolutely necessary.
One of his hands anchors my thighs to him, and the other grips my hair just exactly how I wanted him to. . .
It's all over far too quickly, and not a moment too soon. . .
"How, Jamie?" I pant, still breathless, face down and spread out at an awkward angle all over the bed, "How are you so good at this already?"
"Hmmmpf," he flops down in an equally inelegant sprawl next to me, "Passionate exuberance. A lifetime of abstinence mixed wi' intense curiosity. An' extreme motivation."
"Well, the first two I grant you," I smile, and run my fingers along the bit of him that's the easiest for me to reach, which at the moment happens to be the collar of his shirt, ". . . but. . . extreme motivation? You weren't that desperate for this, were you?"
"Mmm, no' exactly, mo chridhe," he lifts my arm a little and nuzzles into my wrist, "I'll explain what I mean when we get back tae Leoch. Deal?"
I'm much too satisfied at the moment to ask any more questions, "Deal."
He buries his lips in the palm of my hand, then gives a very long, half-pleased, half-frustrated sigh, "Christ above, does it ever stop, Sassenach? Do ye know?"
I blink, and pull myself away from the edge of hazy, beckoning sleep, "Stop? What. . ."
"This ache, Sassenach. The. . . the wanting. The hunger of it. I've just had ye, and I'm still ravenous. More desperate than I was that day I first gave ye a love bite," he kisses my fingers, one by one, and moans at the memory, "God, ye'll nevar ken jus' how close I came tae ravishin' ye that day - how badly I wanted tae taste all of ye." He sighs again, "An' now we'er heer, an' I can, an' it's only worse. Does it ever stop?"
I love him. That means I can read him now, like I never could before. He isn't asking if his feelings are alright with me – he's asking if I think he's a better lover than Frank.
I love him so much, the truth is easy.
"I honestly don't know, Jamie. I've never felt this way before either."
A questioning line appears between his brows, "But. . ."
I shake my head, "Things were never like this with Frank. Yes, I loved him, and he loved me. Yes, we made love, and we tried to have children. Yes, we built a life, and it was warm and beautiful. When he died, yes, for years I was bereft and hollow with grief. But most of that was how he died – not simply that he died. If I'd been able to resolve things between us – apologize, tell him I loved him. . . if I'd been able to say goodbye. . . Well, I don't know how I would have felt, exactly, but I know the past five years would have been a much different prospect."
I shift around, and snuggle into his side, "The truth is, you gave him back to me, Jamie."
There is confusion, and uncertainty in his eyes.
"Thinking of him isn't a cold or empty thing for me anymore. It doesn't hurt me like it used to." I twine my arms around his neck, and run the tip of my nose across his jaw, "I still miss him, but in the way we all miss people who are gone forever. What is essential is invisible to the eye – remember? And a lot of that is thanks to you, Jamie darling. Everything that was good, or worthy, or wonderful about my life with him then, is echoed somewhere in my life with you now. And everything with you is so much better, my dear."
His eyes light up, but his voice is still a little hesitant, "Everything?"
"Yes. Everything. From the sound of your voice, to the feel of your touch, to the scent of your skin. Every. Single. Thing."
It's the truth. He can hear it.
"But. . ."
I set my jaw, "You, James Fraser, are the best I've ever had, and that's the complete, one-hundred percent truth."
I kiss him then, in a way that leaves no room between us. No room even for doubt.
When I pull away, I look deeply into his his warm, beautiful eyes, and feel the echo of his soul inside my own.
"With him, I never felt like I would starve if he didn't kiss me. Or like I might evaporate if I couldn't touch him. I never felt like I would cheerfully face Hell itself if it meant saving him one minute's pain. We were close, yes," I put my hand over Jamie's heart, and look him straight in the eyes, "But I never. . . belonged to him. Nor he to me. We had affection, stability, friendship, equality, respect – everything really. Except. . ."
"Except. . . passion?"
"Except – we weren't soulmates."
Heaven help me, I love him. Can I tell him now? Have I proved it enough? Simple sex in a hotel room doesn't feel like anywhere near enough, fantastic though it was. . .
"Ye ha' nae moor doubts we're soulmates, then?"
"We must be, Jamie. We certainly fit perfectly."
"Mmm. That we do."
He kisses me, delicately.
"But. . . does it ever stop?"
I sigh, "Jamie. . ."
"Because I've just had ye – twice if ye count this mornin', an' as soon as I c'n convince my body tae cooperate, I'm bound I'll have ye again. An' again an' again. As often as ye say yes an' I c'n stand for it."
"Sounds lovely to me. . ."
"But. . . I nevar dreamed that marrying ye would make the wanting worse, Sassenach. Does it evar stop?"
He isn't asking about Frank this time. He's asking about us.
"It must. Married couples get other things done than just this all the time, no matter how much they want each other."
He shakes his head, "Reckon we're not like other folks, then. It cannae always feel this way between people."
I sigh, and sit up, starting to free myself from my tangle of clothes, "Probably not, but I don't think that signifies too much, really. We're soulmates, Jamie. That may not be usual, and it's certainly different, but it doesn't mean we're mythical inhuman creatures that can't be explained or understood. If it's happening to us, it has happened to countless other people all through the ages. If we can feel it, it's been felt by thousands of generations before us. We're just Humans. No matter how unique we are, we're not special."
He scratches his chest through his shirt, "Now, why is that comfortin'?"
"Peter Pan."
"What?"
"'All this has happened before. All this will happen again,'" I quote, "It's comforting to know you're just a step in a cycle, just one chapter in a book, just one piece of a larger puzzle. It means the whole thing doesn't rest on you, no matter how connected you are to everything else." I put the cushion back on the easy chair, dump my clothes on it, then shiver my way under the blankets on the bed, "It means you can just do your best, and that will always be enough."
"Huh."
He says it contemplatively, and doesn't say anything else for quite a while. He gets up, removes the rest of his clothes, and joins me under the covers. He cuddles me close, and caresses me with long, sweeping strokes.
"Let me do my best, then, tae discover all the ways ye like tae be touched. . ."
I grin eagerly, and am just about to lose myself in his kisses again, when I glance at his shoulder. . .
"Jamie! What happened?"
I brush my fingers over the mark I made on him this morning. Or rather, the nearly invisible yellowish-green stain where my mark used to be.
He glances down, "Oh tha'. I towld ye I was going tae disinfect it, aye? Went an' put some of my own ointment on it too, while we were packin' up this mornin'."
"Your own ointment my foot – it's almost gone."
"S' a good formula, s'pose. . ."
"Can't just be the formula, Jamie – I broke the skin this morning, and it's only been, what, two hours? Three?" I brush my fingers over the spot again, "How?"
He shrugs, "Dinnae ken. Jus' as well tho."
Wonder and confusion collide in my brain. I blink at him, not knowing what to say.
"Ye did say I could do whate're I liked wi' it, aye?"
"Of course – that's not the question at all – I just. . . completely misunderstood what you actually did want to do with it. I thought you wanted to show it."
He chuckles, "Nae, I wanted tae show it tae Rupert. Or one of his kind. Tae stave off the teasin', ken? I knew the virgin jokes were comin', an' saw potential in it," he touches the spot himself, "Didnae think the chance tae use it would come so soon after, bu' I'm glad it did. An' if I heal up quick, sae much the bettar."
My confusion only deepens, "But. . . but, Jamie, you. . . you asked me to bite you. You told me to do it – you almost ordered me. Hell, you practically begged me there at one point. . ."
A flush comes up on his cheeks, and he clears his throat, "I like a little pain, mo chridhe. A wee sting. A tiny nip. A pinch, here an' there. A poke. Pressure tha's no' quite comfortable. It makes the contrast so much the sweetar, in the end."
I nod, in full agreement.
"Bu' I hate bein' marked. I hate it a lot."
I gasp, as realization dawns, "Oh god, I'm such an idiot!" I slide a hand across his shoulders, "Of course you do. Of course."
"Aye, my back has summat tae do wi' it, right enough," he nods, "I hate it much more now. But I was allus like that, even before." He touches the spot again, "The feel of it was good, mo nighean. The mark of it, nae sae much."
My whole self burns with shame, "I'm so, so sorry Jamie."
"Nae, it's alright. Ye didnae ken."
"No, I didn't."
But that's hardly an excuse. . .
"An' besides. Marks from ye get a pass-"
I shake my head emphatically, "No. No they don't."
He is brought up short, and looks at me, mirroring my previous confusion.
"No, I bloody well don't get a pass, Jamie," I cup his face with both hands, "If you aren't going to lay down a boundary here, then I most certainly am. We didn't just promise each other truth, you know. We promised honour too. So you listen to me, and listen well, my lad. Until you clearly and specifically tell me that both your feelings and your wants on this matter have changed, I will not mark your skin again. Never deliberately, and I will do everything in my power to make sure I don't do it accidentally either. That's not just a promise, that's a line in the damned sand. Are we clear?"
"Aye, very," he says, eyes roving desperately all over my face, "Christ, I've nevar wanted ye as much as I do right now, Sassenach. . ."
He rolls us over, and takes me hard, and so fast that I plummet deeper into gorgeous oblivion than I've ever been before. I'm incapable of speech for so long afterwards I'd be embarrassed if I didn't feel so wonderful. . .
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," I manage to say, finally, "How are you so good at this already?"
He chuckles, "Mebbe it's that I have an excellent teacher. . ."
I grin, "Excellent answer. I suppose the real mystery is why I'm any good at this at all anymore. It's been five very lonely years, Jamie."
He nuzzles my cheek, and kisses my ear, "Ach. It's like riding a bike, I expect."
I am incredibly satisfied. My mind is somewhere misty and golden and rosy and completely protected from the world outside.
It's the only excuse I have for what I say next.
"Mmm. What's a bike?"
I haven't heard him mention that kind of horse before. . .
His whole body freezes, and he looks at me, not incredulous, just intensely confused, "A bike. . . ye ken. . . a. . . bicycle?"
"Oh. . ." I try and look as though that word isn't just as unknown to me. I try to parse it. Bi-cycle – two wheeled? The only things with two wheels on Skycity 15 are mobile market stalls, and no one rides on those – at least not on purpose. . .
"They. . . dinnae call them bikes in Oxford?"
I shrug, "They must not. I've never heard the idiom before."
It is a measure of how relaxed I feel that the prospect of telling him my last secret doesn't terrify me in the least. . .
"My beautiful Sassenach," he whispers behind my ear, "Sae sweet, sae strong, sae strange. . ." he runs the tip of his tongue down my neck, and sucks gently on all the tender spots he left on my chest last night, "Hot as the sun. Lovely as the moon. . ." his hand disappears beneath the covers, "Slick as waterweed. . ."
Warm, nourishing fire burns between us again, and I am completely engulfed once more.
I don't know if this feeling ever stops, my love – because I think we might in fact be made of it. . .
