Chapter Rating - Soft M, for non-graphic married nookie, and adult themes.
Upon You
I am delighted to discover that Jamie makes just as good a shower-mate as he does a bedmate. He scrubs my back and washes my hair as a matter of course, all the while displaying an ease in his own skin that somehow does not seem at odds with how tense and unsure he's been up til now. Perhaps it's the fact that he's constantly smiling, making jokes and gentle teasing remarks, unable to keep his hands or his mouth off me. In short, he's playing all the bold, boyish games any young, lively lad who has just gotten laid would very naturally be inclined to play. The simple rightness of it all is impressive, and soothes me far more than anything else could.
Maybe I've given him something good to remember after all. . .
I step out of the shower just as soon as I am finished returning the favour of scrubbing his back and rinsing his hair, not wanting to linger too long in any water tonight. The fire has warmed our room, and the house is very well insulated, but it is still winter, in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, and nothing can keep the air from striking cold on damp skin and wet hair.
I bundle myself across the room, wrapped in several towels, and take up a position directly in front of the fire. I readjust the towel wrapped around my still-dripping curls, and then look up as Jamie joins me on the hearthrug. He's also wrapped in several towels, except for his hair, which is still sopping wet, but he was smart and brought a wide-bristled brush and some condition-spray.
He gestures at me to turn, and I shift so I can angle the back of my head towards him.
He unwraps my hair, and slowly, carefully, starts to brush it out.
Very quietly, I moan. It's been a ridiculously long time since anyone did this for me, and it feels so, so intensely good.
It takes nearly three-quarters of an hour for my hair to dry properly, but he shows incredible patience with it. Only after all my curls are cared for does he start the whole process over with his own.
I watch him for a few minutes, then I raise my left hand, turning it so the firelight plays across the golden surface of my ring. As his hand goes back and forth, warm reflections flash from his ring too, almost as though it is responding to mine.
"Rather a good look for a key to Lallybroch, isn't it, my Laird?"
"Aye."
"Rings made from a piece of the Drunken Tower, of whisky fame."
"The very same," he leans back a little, and ruffles his nearly dry curls once more in the heat from the fireplace, "Though tae be honest, I never could see much of a lean tae it. I suppose, from certain angles, it might seem tae be a wee bit tilted - no more than that. But the Drunken Tower it is."
I smirk, "I'll have you know, Mr. Fraser, that your tower is not drunk. . ." I pause, and chuckle at him, ". . . but it is a wee bit tilted."
"Agch! Ye wer'nt complaining an hour ago! Mrs. Fraser!"
He throws down the brush, turns and pounces on my ticklish places, using all his new-found knowledge of my body to his advantage.
I manage to gasp, in between shrieks of helpless laughter, "Who. . . says I'm. . . complaining now?"
He stops, abruptly somber.
"But. . . I haven't. . . I mean, ye haven't. . ."
I sigh, and roll my eyes, "Why do people always act like a wedding night is the end of everything, Jamie? Like if we don't instantly make the earth shatter into stars or something, we're somehow failing?" I put my hand on his chest, and feel his steady, thudding heartbeat. "If everything doesn't happen right now, tonight. . . we will. . . what, never have another chance? C'mon, Jamie, let's be real. This is only the very beginning. Of what I expect to be a very happy marriage, thank you very much."
All too brief, perhaps. But full to overflowing with happiness. Or, a form of it, at least. . .
I gather him to me, pulling off the uppermost of his towels, and running my hands boldly up and down his back, "And if it turns out not to be, I know for absolute certain it won't be for lack of. . ." I smile wryly at him, ". . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, for lack of trying. So let me give to you tonight, alright? My experience is what I brought into this, after all, so why not let me share it with you?" My fingers lightly trace the map of his scars as I meet his eyes sincerely. "I promise I can be as insatiable as you want. . . I'll start tomorrow, okay?"
You told yourself one night, Beauchamp. One. This is not one.
Shut up, Beauchamp! There's too much going on here to make decisions right now. . .
But that was a decision, and you know it, Beauchamp.
How many times do I have to tell you to shut up, Beauchamp?
Jamie blinks and shakes his head, ruefully, "Aye, ye have the better of me on all counts, Sorcha - save one. . . and that one is your gift tae me. . ." he heaves a great sigh, "Dhia, it'll take my whole life tae make it up tae ye, mo chridhe."
My still unsatisfied body gives a delightful shiver of anticipation, "Can I hold you to that?"
He laughs, "Ye can hold me wherever ye like. . ."
I poke him in the ribs, "You greedy, insufferab-"
He cuts me off with a kiss. A long, sweet, utterly delicious kiss. Then he lifts me up, casually, and deposits me back on the bed, already a hundred times more confident in handling me than he was a mere hour ago. He leans me back, and hovers over me, the solid, glowing weight of him perhaps the most intoxicating thing I've ever felt. The thought of him actually taking charge this time. . . I moan, and clutch at him, helpless with hot, cavernous hunger.
Oh, my dearest Jamie. I was a fool for thinking I could ever get enough of you. . .
"Tha gaol agam ort," he whispers against my mouth.
"Ha gool akham erst," I repeat back, my Gàidhlig sounding as inept as usual. He's said that several times the past few months. I can't help wondering what. . . "Mmm. . . You said once. . . that you'd tell me. . . what that meant. . . one day." I kiss him messily as I writhe against him, drunk with his presence, vague about everything except that I want more of him, right now. . .
"Aye. I did."
He stills. His brows draw together, and he visibly makes a decision.
I had thought we were past all the big, important steps we needed to take tonight, so now we could just relax and enjoy each other. . .
I was wrong.
I sober up quickly, refocusing my attention away from his body, and onto his face.
"It means," he says, slowly, seriously, "It means. . . all my love. . . is upon ye."
I blink.
Oh.
An icy thread uncoils in my stomach.
Oh.
Oh no. . .
My eyes go wide, and who knows what my face looks like. . . "Oh. . . Jamie, I. . ."
He presses his fingers to my lips, "Shh, now. I ken, an' I don't need ye tae say it." He looks into my eyes, "Ye hear me, Claire? I don't need ye tae say it back. I dinnae even need ye tae feel it. . . yet. One day soon I will, but no' now. No' yet."
My mind flips and fumbles, and my voice comes out very small.
"What do you need?"
He could ask for the world itself, and I'd give it to him. . .
He looks at me, his expression in a strange place between bashful and stern, "I need ye tae hear it. I need ye tae ken it. I need ye tae be. . . suffused with it. Like. . . air in your lungs. Like blood in your heart. Like sunshine on the water in a burn, all motion and colours and light." He slides his hands underneath my shoulders and presses me tightly to his chest, "I need tae see ye come alive with love, Claire. My love."
Oh. . .
It's like he knows the quickest way to destroy me. . .
Slowly, I raise my eyes to his, and tell him the only truth I can.
"I always feel alive when I'm with you, Jamie."
I've never felt quite so lost in a kiss as the one he gives me now. It lasts a long, long time. A whole age of this world, in fact. With a language and a culture between. But the touch of him, his being, the very fact that he exists - bridge all of that over, reaching deep into the barren place inside my heart and lifting me, catching me up, whirling me around in a cloud of glimmering dust and wrapping me in peace and joy and safety and. . . something more, too. Something glorious, eternal, essential. . .
What. . . ?
"Tha gaol agam ort," Jamie breathes intensely against my mouth for a moment, then practically attacks my neck with hard, rapid kisses.
"I love ye. . ."
He moves on to my shoulders.
"Mo Sorcha."
He meets my eyes for a moment, and I smile at him, because I know what that means, at least. But he gives a tiny shake of his head, and runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek.
"My light. . ." he translates.
Oh. . .
His kisses move lower on my chest.
"Mo chridhe," he murmurs, then meets my eyes again, "My heart. . ." he translates again, while kissing over my left breast.
"Oh. . ."
"Mo ghràidh," he says, lips gently caressing my ear, "My darling. . ."
Oh. . .
"Mo leannan," he whispers, purposefully nibbling the tingly spot on my jaw.
I shiver at the touch, and smile again. He doesn't use that nickname often, but I learned it while learning songs for Story Night. It means sweetheart.
He sighs against my skin, "My lover. . ."
My breath stutters for a second.
Oh. . .
Oh.
"Mo nighean donn."
Both his hands rake through my hair, and he dives deep into a kiss. Then he pulls back, fingers still playing with my curls, a look of almost incredulous wonder in his eyes.
"My brown haired lass. . ."
Oh.
"I've carried that wee curl of yours next to my heart evar since ye gave it tae me, Claire. Sometimes I'd take it out, an' look at it, an' whisper all the things I wanted tae tell ye, bu' I thought ye werenae ready tae hear. I thought ye didnae want tae hear most ov them. . . mebbe evar." He sighs, ruefully, "Bu' may any gods that are or evar were forgive me for evar lettin' ye think I didnae love ye, wi' evary grain ov my soul."
I stare up at the canopy, breathless, and quite beyond stunned.
Oh.
All those things. . . all those nicknames he gave me that I refused to learn anything about because I was too afraid of what they might mean. . . of what the knowledge might do to me if I knew. . .
"When?"
His expression goes soft.
"When did I want ye, or when did I love ye?"
"Both."
"I wanted ye the first moment I saw ye. But. . . I loved ye when ye wept in my arms the first day ye came tae my workshop."
Yes, that was the first time he had said it.
"As far back as that?"
"Aye."
He never had me on a pedestal. He always wanted me for myself. . .
"Tha gaol agam ort," he says again, and takes my mouth briefly, "T'isnae a pretense, nor a lie, Claire, lass. No' evan a white lie. Not the least bit of one. Nevar has been."
Then he nudges his head into the crook of my neck, and he nuzzles me, holding me close, rocking gently.
Oh, my lad. . .
All this time I've been afraid of what he could do to me if I let him, and now I find my heart was safe with him from the beginning.
I can feel tears gathering in my throat, but I refuse to cry on what is supposed to be the happiest day of our lives. Instead, I bury my hand in the hair on the back of his head, and pull hard enough to bring him back eye-to-eye with me.
"Now, you listen to me, James Fraser," I say, my repressed tears making my voice both sultry and stern, "You must never think that you haven't given me just as much - more! - than I've given you tonight. Do you hear? You are not allowed to think your gift doesn't surpass mine. By a hundred, by a thousand, by a hundred thousand times. . ." I kiss him, fierce with that thing I cannot name, ". . . do you understand me?"
For answer, he pushes me into the mattress, and is all over me again, with his hands and his mouth and everything else, stroking, gliding, pressing. . . caressing. . . gripping. . .
He uses every bit of what both his old and his new experiences have taught him.
And this time. . .
I'm so wound up. . . he is so determined. . .
This time. . .
This time the pleasure is so great, I nearly lose consciousness.
When we can breathe again, I'm stretched out next to him, tracing my fingers through the hair on his chest, marveling at how beautiful the universe can be when it tries.
He takes my hand, and kisses my fingertips, one by one. Then he looks down at me, for some reason still slightly hesitant. . .
"I may assume. . . tha' was. . . it?"
I chuckle, and shake my head in disbelief. I'm beginning to think this man will never be done with impressing me. "Yes, Jamie. That was it. The very, the indubitable it. The last word in its."
"Weel, ye were right. Quite unmistakable."
For a minute, I also feel inexplicably hesitant. "Did you. . . like. . . it?"
His eyes go wide, "Och. . . 'like' isn't nearly strong enough a word tae say. . . it. . . I. . . I've nevar. . ." he kisses the palm of my hand, then holds it to his heart, "Claire, I'm fair sure now those other girls werenae faking, but evan so - I've nevar seen, nevar heard, nevar felt annything like that before. Nothing previous was like that at all. It. . . this. . . you. . ." He smirks a little, "T'was ten times bettar." He dips his head to kiss the little cleft between my collarbones, "Feeling ye thrill like that. . . feelin' ye clutch at me, yer nails diggin' inta my back - it was so. . . direct. So immediate an' strong, so. . . Dhia, I dinnae ken." He sighs, deeply content, "So good, mo nighean. T'was like. . . like there were mirrors between us. Reflecting everythin' back and forth. Amplifying it." He grins and hums at me, cuddling me close, "I think I want it tae be that way every time."
"Oh, if only, my lad." I stretch and turn over, mildly surprised I can even move, given how impossibly comfortable I am at the moment.
"It will be," he says, stubbornly, "That and bettar, if I ha' anythin' tae say in the matter."
"Better huh?" I grin, and snuggle my shoulders into his chest, "How did I get so lucky?"
"Lucky?"
"Yes, lucky, you silly idiot! I'm married to a man who is kind, gentle, passionate, smart, fun, interesting, a hard worker, and an amazing father, and that's just the beginning. He's also a quick study, a cuddler, a fantastic kisser, he looks like a young god, smells like pure heaven, and wants nothing more than to give me pleasure." I sigh, "That's not just jackpot lucky, that's. . . that's betting against the house and winning enough to buy the casino lucky. That's plotting a random hyperspace course and finding a planet full of friendly non-toxic aliens whose hugs cure cancer lucky. That's Jesus existed lucky. That's how lucky I am right now, Jamie."
And I'm even luckier than that – because he loves me. . .
He loves me. . .
He never just said it because I asked him, he really actually does.
"Mmpf," he grunts in my ear, "Doesnae sound like luck tae me. Sounds like fate. . ." His voice fades off, and his breathing evens out. The arm he has draped over my side relaxes fully, molding to my curves. The weight of him against me takes on the heavy immovability of sleep.
I can feel sleep lurking just around the corner for myself as well, but at this exact moment, I am strangely, almost unnaturally awake, one idea rocketing around in my brain, repeating itself over and over.
He loves me.
Jamie loves me.
He loves me.
And I. . .
I. . .
Just exactly how do I feel about him?
I've spent all of tonight with him, speaking to him, touching him. . . tasting him. . . experiencing him. . . and thinking about him – about us. And most of the time I've been doing so almost as if. . . as if. . .
As if we have a future.
As if we'll be together forever.
As if I'm never going to leave.
He loves me.
I wish he hadn't said it. I wish he'd never said it. It's going to make next week so incredibly difficult. . .
I twitch the blankets a little closer around us, and settle a little deeper into my husband's arms.
My mind stutters to a halt.
My husband.
My husband.
Already, I am thinking of Jamie entirely as my husband. I have been all night. It's been easy. Natural.
Inevitable.
My husband. All mine.
Only mine.
The word echoes importantly through my thoughts, crashing into the other phrases hovering there, and blending into them.
Mine. . .
Love. . .
Me. . .
Us. . .
And then, I know. I have no idea why now is the moment, but it is. A crystalline-blue wave of realization overtakes me, flooding my mind with memories and feelings – our whole history replayed in a moment of delight so intense, it's almost painful.
I love him, too.
I love him. . .
I'd die for him. I'd live for him.
I'd come back from the dead for him.
My heart pounds, and I twist my eyes shut for a moment.
I love him. I love Jamie.
I, who was once nearly dead of loneliness, love Jamie. And he loves me. We will never be lonely again.
I'm breathless with the truth of it.
I almost wake him up to tell him, but then I stop. I can't say it to him just yet – the realization was too sudden. I can hardly wrap my own mind around it yet, and he has every reason to disbelieve any such declaration of mine, especially tonight.
I thought he didn't love me.
He knew I didn't love him.
So how can he possibly believe me if I only barely believe it myself? I'll have to find a way to convince him, to prove it to him. . .
Soon. One day very soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. Just not right now. . .
I run my fingers across the hand he has curled over my hip. I feel his heart beating against my back, and his breath against the top of my head.
Every part of him, even that ghostly touch of his breath on my hair, is suddenly infinitely precious.
I did care for him before. And adored, liked, wanted, respected and admired him.
And lusted after him. Lusted quite shamelessly.
But now. . .
Now he's more to me than my own life.
I love him. So much. So, so much. I'm overflowing with it. I'm suffused with it. Every particle of me glows with it.
It. . . it isn't a new feeling at all.
It's just been with me so long, and pushed aside so much, I didn't realize what it was until now. I've loved him since he dream-kissed me that night at Lamb's manse, and I've only fallen deeper in love with him since then.
I shake my head at myself.
Love.
Overwhelming, all-consuming love.
And then the next revelation hits me, almost as hard as the last.
I can't leave him.
I won't leave him.
Let anyone threaten us how they will, I am not going to leave him. Not for the future's sake, not for the past's sake, not for the present's sake, not for any reason. Maybe it is selfish, and maybe it isn't right, but I don't care. Leaving is unthinkable. Jamie is mine. All mine. And I'm his. Completely, thoroughly his. We belong to each other - we belong with each other - and that's all there is to say.
Maybe there is something in this whole soulmate thing after all. . .
A self-determination like Geillis's, and a stubbornness like Letitia's, mixed with a fiery passion all my own rises in me.
I'm going to stay here, and love him, as hard as I can, for as long as I can. Just let anyone try and stop me. . .
And I will deserve you too, my love - your mind, your soul, and your heart. I swear, by whatever deities may or may not exist. . .
I reach back, and run my fingers lightly across his hip.
I smile to myself. I can't ever deserve his body, of course. That level of sainthood simply doesn't exist. . .
My smile fades. He's everything, everything to me. How I missed it for so long, I don't know.
But I know I love him now.
Start with what you know. And learn from there. . .
I know so very little. And I have so much to learn. . .
But I will make you happy, my love. I promise.
"Ha gool akham erst," I murmur, then pause to listen.
His breathing doesn't change. He's asleep.
"I love you. I love you. I love you," I whisper, fiercely, "All my love is upon you, Jamie. I love you."
I can't get enough of saying it. I'm hungry to say it to his face. To see the look in his eyes when I do. To feel the kisses he'll give me after that. My stomach swoops deliciously at the thought. Almost, I turn in his arms, and wake him with my mouth caressing every available bit of his skin. . .
Almost.
There will be plenty of time for that. I'll find a way to prove myself to him soon enough. For now, let him sleep. My heart leaps at the peaceful, contented sound of his breathing, and I smirk at myself.
I am so, so gone. . .
Well, this changes things, doesn't it, Beauchamp?
Yes. . . yes it does. . .
Maybe. . . perhaps. . . it is Fate. Maybe this is what I was meant to do here.
Maybe this is why either of us exists.
Maybe. . .
Hope rises in my heart.
Maybe loving Jamie will be enough to change the future.
And if it isn't, then. . .
I can't imagine what then. Not tonight, anyway.
I stare for a long time at my wedding ring, and fall asleep with it pressed to my lips.