Of Us

The growling in my stomach wakes me up.

I smile.

I suppose, if I wanted to eat virtually nothing for almost a whole day, and then engage in highly vigourous exercise for almost a whole night, I ought to have expected such consequences. . .

At the very least. . .

I hop somewhat awkwardly to the bathroom. It's been a long time since I've had to deal with the. . . other consequences. . . of a long, passionate night with my husband. . .

Fortunately, the bathroom is close.

I stretch in front of the mirror after, enjoying how deliciously sore I am, in every place I should be, and admiring all my lovely marks, in spots I'm ridiculously proud of. I touch the little pink love-bite over my right breast, and stroke over the softly purple finger-shaped bruises on my left hip. I wish I could show them to the world, and shout "Jamie Fraser loves me!", so loud even people who won't be born for twenty years could hear me.

I make a face at myself in the mirror, and shake my head.

You are such a fool in love, Beauchamp!

I brush my teeth, scrub my face, and just manage to get a comb through my wild tangle of curls. All that work Jamie did last night. . . only to undo it with all that. . . work. . . he did last night.

I grin. One night your big round arse, Beauchamp. One lifetime isn't going to be enough. . .

I shiver as I come back into the cooler main room, and my stomach growls again.

Clothes, then food. Then. . .

I look at the shape of my husband, sprawled out under the covers, only his head and one hand visible, his mouth slightly open, his breathing smooth and deep.

Then, perhaps, I start to show him how much I love him. . .

But food first. And clothes before that.

I look around at my options. My wedding dress took three women who weren't me to get me into it properly. Jamie's dress shirt doesn't cover nearly enough of me, especially with how cold it is this morning. My shift is a distinct no. There's really only one choice. . .

I wriggle into Jamie's plaid, tightening the belt to the very last hole. The top half of it nearly swamps me, but I eventually manage to arrange it so I'm decently covered, and have full use of my arms. I use Jamie's brooch to pin it closed. There. Not great, but functional.

I go over to the mini kitchen, determined to heat up most if not all of our leftovers, and make a decent dent in them before Jamie wakes up.

My stomach rumbles again at the thought. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I'm hungry. . .

Where the mini kitchen should have a stove, or wave-heater oven, at least, there is a small card.

"Please request hot plate at manager's office"

I sigh.

Fine.

To my mild surprise, the night-porter is a woman. She hands over the hot plate with a grin, and when she asks if there is anything else, I ask her to see to the transfer of my things. I don't even know if they're still back at the sugar house. . .

But she smiles, and brings my bags out from the luggage room.

"Thanks. I'll come back down to get them after I have some breakfast. . ."

"Just as you please."

My way back to our suite takes me past the dining room. I can't help but look in. Places like this are so different when they're empty. . .

But the dining room isn't quite empty.

Dougal is there, sitting at a chair in front of the dying fire, three-quarters of the way through a bottle of whisky.

He looks up, and sneers at me. Then he kicks back his dram, and gestures at the chair across from him.

I go stand by it, but do not sit down.

"Arenae ye going tae thank me foor findin' ye someone better tae doo than ye muckin' up my campaign?"

Someone, not something. And his accent is deliberately deepened. He's trying to rile me up.

"It hadn't occurred to me to do so. No."

"Ye ken, if he cannae serve ye properly, ye have a'least one moor option."

He looks me up and down, a disgusting half-drunken leer spread all over his face.

I put the hot plate down, grab a shot glass from a side table, pour a shot of whisky from his bottle, take a sip, and sit down. I don't speak, instead looking deeply into the glowing red embers of the fire.

He hasn't miscalculated this badly since the night of the concert.

What the hell is he playing at?

I let the silence linger for several long, long minutes. Too often, he's rushed me into a confrontation. This time, I'm going to take a few minutes to think.

At first, the silence is wretchedly uncomfortable. Then, it deepens into something resembling peace.

I realize some things. Some things that should have been blatantly obvious to me before, but I was too distracted to notice. Some things I could never have noticed until I realized how much I loved Jamie. . .

Finally, the silence grows sharp, like a knife's edge.

At last, I break it, with a deliberately baffling non-sequitur.

"Jamie calls it Hotel California. Did you know that?"

Dougal looks just as off-kilter as I intended.

"What?"

"His workshop at Leoch."

"Oh. No. I didnae know that."

Of course he didn't. Such details are beneath him.

And that's my advantage. . .

"And, you know, that baffled me a long time. Even after he'd told me it was his favourite Eagles song, and even after I'd heard it. For a long time I wondered. Because it just didn't seem like him. He's more creative than that, surely? What could he possibly mean by calling a cottage something like that? So I listened to the song again. Several more times. But things didn't fall into place – or have a chance to, anyway - until two days ago. When you told me the devil was a woman. And then it struck me."

I tap a nail on the side of my shot glass.

"The song is a very evocative depiction of hell. Or. . . maybe. . . heaven. The lyrics even say so. But either way, it all builds to one line – "You can check out any time you like – but you can never leave"."

I put my glass down.

"He feels stuck at Leoch, Dougal. Trapped. Imprisoned. Like he'll never get out."

I look at him, not needing to gauge his reaction, but very much wanting him to see how furious I am with him.

"Why do you think he ever agreed to help with your campaign? And I don't mean your political campaign – I mean Culloden. Perpetrating what is essentially the murder of thousands of men. Guilty men, maybe, but still men. And still murder. Why do you think he agreed to help with that? Letting you use him. Showing his scars and everything. It took him almost two months to tell me about them, and even then it was just luck. . . or fate. . . that forced his hand. Why do you think he would agree to show strangers? I'll tell you why."

I lean back, and tap my fingertips on the arm of my chair.

"Until Jack is dead, he's stuck everywhere. It doesn't matter where he is, or who he's with – he's in the room with Jack. Listening to the whispers of a demon that wants him – him, specifically. Not wants him dead – wants him."

He heard my confrontation with Jack. He knows I'm right.

"Culloden is his only way out. It's his one best chance to see Jack dead, and seeing Jack dead is his only way out. You are his one best path to Culloden, and so you are his only way out. So he'll show his scars, go against all his doctor's instincts, hide in horse trailers, keep secrets from me, or try to, and comb through insane amounts of data given to us by a dubious ally – all for a chance – a chance – to leave the room with Jack."

I wave a finger. Just once, and very decisively.

"And now he has me on his side. So. When you get to Inverness, you're going to intercept that armored information transfer truck I know you know about now. You're going to do everything in your power to get his warrant lifted. You are going to help me protect him. And you are going to help me free him."

He takes a long drink, and looks at me defiantly, not understanding just how much I have over him now. "Or else?"

I shake my head, "There is no or else. I'm telling you what you are going to do for us. I'm giving you orders, Dougal. Because I'm the one in charge here now."

He leaps to his feet, "An' jus' what meks ye thi-"

"A weak come-on - to a bride - after her wedding night - with the groom you knew she would choose to marry!"

That stops him in his tracks.

"Now, sit down, and shut up. I'm going to talk a while, and you will listen to me. When I am finished, then you can speak."

Very, very slowly, he sits back down. His fiery rage morphs into cold, sharp steel, equally slowly.

"A come-on like that is not like you, Dougal. I mean, you're pretty much always weak on the strategic, but with tactical? No, this isn't like you at all. You're much better with tactics than a half-arsed leer at a woman who you know has just been bedded. You're more skillful than that too. So, I have to wonder. . . why? What is it about this situation specifically that has you so tangled up that you think propositioning me - here, and now of all times - is a good move?"

I shake my head, "It can't be about your political campaign. You want to get me to stop stealing your thunder? Stop treating me like shit. Easy." I shrug a little, "Well, maybe for a good man it'd be easy. But still. . ." I shake my head again, "No, you know how I approach our battles by now. I open with defense. I stay on the defense, for as long as possible. And then, if forced onto the offensive, I move decisively. And inexorably." I take a long sip of my drink, "But not implacably. In fact, you have ample proof that it is easy to come to terms with me. But you pole-vaulted over "terms" the day you put cow-guts in my bed. You chose to do that. In petty revenge for an interview. So. Whatever is going on here is about much, much more than me being better at politics than you."

He blinks at that, but doesn't deny it. In fact, he hardly reacts at all, his face a frozen mask.

"I suppose it could be another move to try and get me beholden to you. Like the whole silent treatment and Gàidhlig thing. But that's a strange choice to make after spending a lot of money and effort to marry me off to someone else. And it's an even stranger choice if it's yet another move to get Jamie beholden to you."

He inhales sharply. It isn't much - barely a sniff, really - and no other signs of surprise or dismay show on his face. But I've learned his tells very well by now.

"Oh, yes, you didn't know I knew about that too? Well, it became entirely too obvious, I'm afraid. You're about as subtle as a bolt of lightning, especially when you really want something. You can be good at playing the long game, but you're very obvious about it."

I tick points off on my fingers,

"You got Jamie out of Jack's clutches the first time, gave him a place to run to when the warrant came down, gave him a new name, a job, a workshop, and his godfather nearby. You ordered the men to stop teasing him about being bi, and ordered them to dial back the jokes about his being a virgin."

Because that's the only reason I can think of that Rupert didn't tell me either of those things a long time ago. . .

"So, telling him to marry me wasn't going to tip the scales either way. I don't really think you thought it was going to. He's already bought himself off you, and if he doesn't consider himself spiritually beholden to you personally, he probably won't ever feel that way, no matter what you do or don't do. And even if you do think otherwise, casually flirting with me isn't going to help you with that. So, all this isn't another ploy to try and get him under your heel. . ."

I realize I'm giving away a lot of how I think, showing Dougal just what my mental processes are, but at this point, that might actually be what I need to do, more than anything else. . .

"Perhaps, it may have something to do with the fact that Jamie is your older sister's son? He certainly could be the next MacKenzie, if enough of the clan wants him to be. And I'll grant - a Sassenach wife might scuttle that chance for him. But there's three good reasons why that isn't what's going on here either."

I pick up my glass, and take a small sip.

"First and foremost. He doesn't want it. He's one-hundred-percent a Fraser. Even the name he chose to hide under wasn't MacKenzie. If by some chance he ever does get forced to be Chief, well, he'd do his duty for as long as he is needed, and then hand the position over to someone else just as soon as humanly possible. And if I know that, then you know it too."

"Secondly, it's 2079. I may be a Sassenach, but I'm also part Scot. Dozens of current Clan Chieftains can say the same thing these days. Functionally, in my case, it's about as much of an obstacle as Jamie being bi. Which is to say - it isn't one. Or, at least, it shouldn't be. I don't discount it entirely, but would you to go to these lengths just to marry a rival off to "an unsuitable woman" - who may or may not even be considered unsuitable? I don't think so. And if you did, you wouldn't be coming on to me after succeeding. You'd want our marriage to last - which clearly you don't."

"Thirdly. . . if you really want to be The MacKenzie that much, having a Sassenach lover who is also your niece-in-law is not the smartest way to go about it. You do have your blind spots, of course, but I seriously doubt you're that bad with strategy. Especially considering that you're at least nominally Catholic."

"No, this isn't about MacKenzie being a Tanist clan. You have nothing to fear on that score. Not from Jamie, or me. Colum's successor has to be either you or Hamish." I give him a pointed look, "So - you, either way."

"Now then, what's left? You know I'm not a spy, and that I'm no danger to your Culloden campaign."

Not now that I know exactly how much it means to Jamie. . .

"You could just be trying to get me, I suppose. Blunt, unsophisticated, flat-out sexual domination, without any sort of stable relationship otherwise. Which, if you've learned anything about me at all, you'd know is not one of my turn-ons. Particularly from the likes of you, and especially after a wedding night with Jamie."

I soften a little bit, remembering.

"He was quite wonderful, by the way. Perfection, in every respect. I am thoroughly satisfied with my choice of husband. In case that wasn't clear."

I twitch a fold of the Fraser tartan a little closer around me.

"And then, it was such a half-hearted come-on, Dougal. . . No, if you just wanted to sleep with me, you wouldn't insinuate - you'd just take. Or try to. And I'd kick you in the balls if you did. Which. . . I think you know. Or at least strongly suspect. So that's not it."

I kick my shot back, and slap the glass down.

"No. No, there's only one thing that makes any sense."

I give a long, very tired sigh.

"It could only mean that I got it right. By sheer, wild chance, I got it right. While I was in the room with Commander Thomas, I said you'd fallen in lust with me. Which, honestly, I never thought was true."

He inhales sharply again.

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Fitz suggested as much to me my second morning at Leoch. And several things have suggested it since. But so. . . outlandish an idea. . ." I smirk at the pun, "No, I never suspected it was true. But it must be the case, because why else would you marry me off to your nephew, and still think you had a chance with me? You knew Jamie and I were attracted to each other, but you didn't know how far it had or hadn't gone. Even after listening to us in Rover, you had no idea how much I knew about him. You didn't even know if I'd seen his back before Burns Night, or knew the story behind it. So. . . rush us into marriage and. . . maybe. . . it will drive us apart. Marriage is a lot of work. It takes a lot of commitment, a lot of effort. A lot of love. Manipulate the situation enough, and perhaps. . . Jamie and I won't work out. It's a gamble, but if you plant the suggestion in my mind that you're ready and willing to rescue me from a hasty and unconsidered marriage. . . well. Who else am I going to run to? Who else would understand the situation and graciously take me under his wing? Strictly for my comfort, of course."

Of course, I could probably run to Ned. Or Murtagh. Or Mrs. Fitz. Or Leticia. Or a few dozen others at Leoch.

Or Craigh na Dun. . .

But that's irrelevant right now. . .

"And, it would explain your actions surrounding the wedding. Spending so much money without a word of protest. Being so nice to me about it all, but being so blunt with Jamie. Telling us we had to consummate the marriage when you were unsure if I was aware of Jamie's inexperience. Or if I even knew he was bi, for that matter. Giving him such awful advice for the wedding night – faking it indeed!"

I give him a look of such cold, infinite disdain, a tiny portion of his steely armor crumbles.

"You couldn't keep Geillis on a string if you couldn't make a woman go wild in bed. You know women don't usually fake it. Not with men they like, and who like them. You monster."

Never, ever has a positive statement of a man's sexual prowess been such a deep, personal insult.

"How dare you speak to him like that. You messed with his head. You bruised his heart. You damaged him." Very slowly, I unclench my sudden fists, and flex my hands in the firelight, "I could strangle you right now, Dougal, and I'd watch you die without a qualm. You hurt him. In an attempt to get at me. The latter is bad enough, but you hurt my husband. Deliberately. You have no idea what I am capable of doing to people who hurt the ones I love. Justice and vengeance are very well acquainted, you know."

But, as Jamie says, justice without mercy is only another form of murder. I take a deep breath, and banish Warrior Claire to her armoury, until I need her again.

"And then, you enabled such crude behaviour from Rupert and company – because how else did he and Angus get access to our rooms last night?"

And why did they feel like they had the right to come snooping around the honeymoon suite?

"Throw Jamie and me into enough awkward situations, and maybe our marriage will fall apart before it starts. Maybe he won't "serve me properly". Maybe he won't live up to my expectations. Maybe I'll be so shocked by all the wedding night revelations that by the next morning, I'll be looking for other options. Maybe I'll be desperate enough to run to the arms of a man who has threatened and mistreated me for months, trying to isolate, control and manipulate me, under the mistaken notion that I want to be anything other than his ally. Maybe I'll even be grateful to him for giving me sanctuary. Maybe I'll be seduced by his power."

I say the word with such a vicious snarl, he knows just how little he has over me now.

"Maybe you thought I didn't love Jamie. You could be forgiven for thinking that, of course. I only just discovered it myself. But I do. I've loved him from the start, if unconsciously, and I love him now, eyes wide open, with all my heart, and every particle of myself. He might not be the best man I've ever met. He might not be the noblest, or the kindest, or the most supportive, or the strongest, or the sweetest. . . but, then again. . . he might well be all of that, and more."

I press my hands together, and tap my fingers against my lips.

"Though, one thing is for sure. Rank and titles not withstanding. . . he's your superior. In every way."

I let my hands drop.

"And he's my husband. Which means I'm your superior too. And since you believe I'm an Auld One, that means I'm in charge now. So. You will help me free him from Jack. You will use your position in the Underground to get control of the money away from Sandringham. And in every other instance you will leave us the hell alone."

With a sneer, he stands, and turns to leave the room.

"You have too much honour, Dougal."

He stops. But he doesn't turn around.

"But it's all the wrong kind. It's all outward. A show. A pretense. Politics. You betrayed your inner self the minute you chose to let Colum kill himself with ignorance."

His back goes rigidly straight. He didn't know anyone knew that.

"Except you're not a demon. You're not even a villain. You've just done some monstrous things. As have we all."

He doesn't move.

"It's time to join us, Dougal. The people of the light. It's where you belong. There's already room for you here. There's always been room for you here."

He still doesn't move.

"I'll be waiting."

With a clatter of boots and a cold gust of air, Angus enters the room, and strides over to the fire, rubbing his hands and pouring himself a drink.

"Oof, tha' drive from Brockton is a chill one a' this hour. . ."

He trails off, staring at Dougal, who seems to be practically frozen.

"I'll. . . go check on the horses, then-" he starts, absently.

"Agch, I did that befoor I came in – they're fine, I-"

"Then I'll check on them again, shall I?" Dougal raps out, grabs his coat and cap from the table nearby, and stalks through the door.

Angus grunts, "What's wi' him?"

"Hangover, I think."

He grunts again. "S'the season for 'em, eh?" He nudges my knee, "I jus' got back from hand-deliverin' yer marriage papers inta Brockton."

"Oh?"

"Aye. An' I think even ye'd be shocked a' the swearin' I heard."

I chuckle, "That'd be difficult to do, after months with you lot."

He laughs along with me, giving me a long, appraising look.

"He was good tae ye, then. Jamie?"

"Very."

Angus nods, then says, in a voice much gentler than I've ever heard from him before, "Claire?"

"Yes?"

"He's. . . weel. Jamie's no' the man tae raise his hands tae ye, evar. Bu' if he does, tell me, aye? I'll knock his block off for ye. . ."

I grin, and hold out my hand, "I don't think I ever thanked you, Angus."

"Foor what? I havnae knocked his block off yet. . ."

"Not for that. I mean. . . the first day. My first day here, in Scotland. When Black Jack attacked me. You were there, with Murtagh. It was your shot took down Jack. I never thanked you for that."

He shrugs, but takes my hand, briefly, "Wasnae anythin' special. I'd shoot Black Jack anny day, for anny reason. For no reason. An' I'd do t'same again, an' moor, for ye. 'Specially now ye'er one of us."

"One of us. I like the sound of that."

"Aye," he scratches his ear, a little awkwardly, "Ye kind of were before, but this. . . I mean. . . he. . ."

"I know. Jamie changes most equations, doesn't he?"

"Aye. Reckon he does."

I get up, clutch the hot plate to me, and give him one more nod. Then I turn, and make my way back to our suite.

And to Jamie.

Talk about changing equations.

Reckon he does. . .