Chapter Rating - Soft M for non-graphic married nookie.

Steel And Ivory

We're back in our room for less than ten seconds before Jamie rounds on me, more confused than angry, but still very angry too -

"What was that, Sorcha? Ye said Dougal made suggestions tae ye that mornin', an' that ye'ed tongue-lashed him for it, an' then gave him orders tae help us an' leave us alone - no' that ye'ed. . . co-founded the Ministry of Dirty Looks taegether oor summat!"

I sigh, and collapse onto the couch, nearly more exhausted from having tea with Dougal than having a knife fight with him, "Yes, well, it was the morning after our wedding night, Jamie! I couldn't exactly tell you everything we'd said, now could I? I hadn't even told you I loved you yet, so how exactly was I going to tell you I'd told your uncle that I loved you?"

The hard look in his eyes softens a touch, "Ye did?"

"Of course I did! How do you think I tongue-lashed him? I broke him down into bits first, and then sang your praises. I believe the word perfection was used. So was the phrase "best man I've ever met". That was around about the time I told him I could kill him for the awful "advice" he gave you for our wedding night. Messing with your head like that, the snake." I sneer at the memory, "I meant it, Jamie. Every word of all of it. I totally stomped on all the bits of him, and I used you to do so. Took the wind out of his sails entirely. Or the blood out of his shorts, if he's to be believed. Which, in this instance, I think he is."

"So why did he-" he gestures angrily, still upset.

"Jamie. . ." I sigh again, "You've spent a rather significant percentage of your life in company with Dougal – yes?"

And all of a sudden, he calms.

"Ye ken I have."

His voice is nearly back to normal, gentle and clear. He's not really upset with me. But his natural protective instincts make these sorts of things more difficult for him to understand, and then his impulsive, stubborn, Scottish personality gets in his way.

He might be brilliant, studious, insightful, and very often wise, but sometimes, he's still my young, inexperienced, sweet Jammie Dodger. . .

"Right. So tell me, what does it sound like when he says "I'm sorry"?"

"Well he-" Jamie breaks off, and sits down next to me, his expression a mixture of confusion and desperate remembering, "I. . . dinnae think he's evar. . ."

"Exactly. And what does it sound like when he says "thank you"?"

"He. . ." Jamie blinks in shock, "He doesnae say that either."

"Correct. Now. With all that in mind, what do you think he was saying with all that clunky guff just now? Do you really think, after everything that's happened, that he was coming-on to me again? In your presence, after I've shown myself to be ready, willing and able to kill him, and he's acknowledged that very fact to you directly? Don't focus on what he said, Jamie – or what he looked – or what he did – ask yourself - what was he saying? What did he mean, back behind it all?"

"I. . . a'course there's more behind it, bu' I'm no' sure if I. . ."

I roll my eyes, "Oh, come on Jamie. . . anyone who can figure out Sandringham's game without the benefit of two hundred years worth of history books can parse Dougal easily enough. In fact, the one and only thing exactly similar about the two men – thank heaven! - is that they're both much simpler souls than they fondly suppose. Now, I will allow that Dougal has some highly complex musculature, and a very well put-together set of bones, but at the core? He's just a soldier. Colum knows that – I know that – and you know that."

"Weel. . ." Jamie shrugs, and still looks stubbornly confused.

"And beyond that – well – he's just a man." I smile, and kiss his shoulder. "And men, for the most part, are simple creatures – not even saving your presence, my dear."

He smiles ruefully, "Aye, I ken ye'er right – for the most part – bu'. . . weel, I think I'm too close tae see it. . ."

I nod, "Yes, that can happen. Alright, let me walk you through it." I start to tick points off on my fingers, "First, he said it wasn't only lust – not his feelings, or anyone's specifically, just "it" in general. Therefore, I'm worth loving – and he knows that you love me. Then, he repeated himself, and said I was smart – I'm a little less sure about what he meant there, but I think he was apologizing for being such a pain in the arse to me for so long. Then he agreed with my stated goals for our relationship – which of course was his way of thanking me for not killing or injuring him both times I had the chance-"

Jamie holds up a hand, "Wait, both?"

I explain about the tonfa bar.

"Ah. Strange, I didnae notice that bit while ye were sparrin'. But. . . ye were the one who said thank you, Sorcha."

"Of course I was, Jamie. He can't actually say it. His ego is so far gone I'll bet you it's nearly physically impossible for him to say it nowadays, if he ever could. That and "I'm sorry". But my thank you meant something else anyway, and I'll tell you in just a minute – because then, when he said it was a pity we couldn't be screwing, he meant you are the better man, James Fraser. And when he said he likes a woman who knows what she wants, he meant he's proud of me for choosing you, and being a loyal wife to you. And if I know the man at all, he was probably also telling you to be a good husband to me or he'll end you. . . and maybe make a pass at me at your funeral while he's about it."

At last, Jamie chuckles, "Now, that I believe."

I smile, briefly, then pause, "And then. . ."

I sigh a little, "The first thing he said to me that morning after our wedding was - "Aren't you going to thank me for finding you someone better to do than mucking up my campaign?"

"Someone?"

"Yes. He was trying to use you against me, my love. And he wasn't just trying to make me feel like I owed him for giving you to me either – he was also trying to make me feel bought and paid for. Degrading me. Cheapening us. And that's why the main point of all my counter-strikes were "No, Dougal – I'm better than you – we are better than you." I just kept repeating that, over and over, in as many ways as I could find, until he finally got the point."

I sit up, settle myself against Jamie's back, and wrap my arms around him, "So, by saying thank you to him just now, in that context. . . that was me telling him I consider everything square between us, now that I know he's not trying to degrade us anymore. And more than that – now, I consider him our equal. That's why he gave me that terribly presuming look. I've never validated him before – not like that, anyway, with a private, intimate byword – and he was telling me he appreciates that I did. Saying thank you again, you see. Without saying it."

Jamie runs his hands along my wrists, and lightly massages my fingers, but doesn't say anything for a long few minutes.

"Weel," he finally says, nodding, "Mebbe ye'er right."

I kiss behind his ear, "Count on it, my love. Of course, he only did it that way to show off that he really is a good politician, and just as good at battling with words as I am. Which, personally, I am willing to let him believe, regardless of if it's true or not."

He only grunts, and reaches back to touch my knee, and caress a little up my thigh. . .

I nuzzle into his hair. He ran out of his homemade shampoo three days ago, and while I miss the smell terribly, I am loving the scent of pure, very male Jamie, "And of course, he was trying to get a little of his own back on you at the same time. I mean, you've always been a huge threat to him all by yourself, and I've always been a wild card, so just how much of a threat are we going to be now we're married? He isn't sending us back to Leoch early out of pure altruism, I know that much. Especially when you consider that he'd have to be in a coma to miss how much we love each other." I kiss the back of his head, and run a thumb along the side of his neck, "He's jealous, my sweet. Deeply, bitterly, painfully jealous. Of both of us – for highly related and yet wildly divergent reasons – all of which is probably working quite a number on his soul this very minute. But I'm not going to hold any of it against him – or not much of it, anyway, because we're allies now, Jamie – Dougal is our ally. Just barely, and none of us are used to it yet, but we are. That's more than enough of a win, as far as I'm concerned."

He leans sideways a little, giving me better access, "Jus' so long as ye'er sure, mo ghràidh."

"Oh, I'm sure alright." I smile as I run a line of kisses down his neck, "Mmm, your skin is so nice, Jamie. So warm, and smooth, and smelling like you. . ." I nuzzle against his pulse point, "I saw some ivory carvings once – lovely things, made of long, graceful shapes, all charming and touchable – and your skin would remind of them, except that I can feel your heart beating, right here. . ." I lavish the spot with open-mouthed kisses, then lave my tongue across it, tasting him again and again, "You're so alive, Jamie. So vital and brilliant. Don't let that righteous husbandly jealousy of yours get too much in the way of seeing things as they really are, my love. And besides. Righteous husbandly jealousy has so many other, much more fun applications." I slide my hands down his chest, and run a line of kisses up his jaw.

"Oh aye?"

"Mm. Certainly. Why don't you come join me in the shower and I can explain some more?"

"Aye. Bu' is there much left tae explain?"

"Of course. All sorts of. . ." I lightly nip his ear, ". . . details. Lovely. . . intimate. . . delicious. . . details."

He reaches around and pulls me around into his lap, lowering his mouth to mine, and his hand to my rear. . .

"Hmm. Ye'ed bettar get started then, Sorcha."

"Mm-" I grunt when he releases me, but just long enough to find the fastenings of my trousers, "Can't when you-" he takes my mouth again, "Keep on kissing me so mu-"

I break off with a gasp as his fingers find a sweet spot, and for a while I give up on words entirely. . .

"This afternoon went much tae quick, Sassenach. Taenight, I mean tae take my time. . ."

"Ohhh. . . god. . ." My head lolls back onto the arm of the couch.

"Noo, mo chridhe. Jus' me. . ."

It takes us a long time to get to our shower, and even longer to finish it.

When we're finally cuddled up in bed, I ask him,

"What does it mean that Old Simon owes you thirty men? He can't mean actual men, can he?"

He grimaces a bit, "Weel. . . no' exactly. No' these days. It means thirty fightin' men. Or a'least it used t-"

"Wait, wait. . . Old Simon holds to the noble vows of service? Really? In 2079?"

"Of course he does, mo nighean. It's 2079 in the Scottish Highlands. Ye ken there's more medieval social structures around here than ye c'n shake a stick at, Sorcha."

"Well, yes, but-"

"An' jus' how d'ye think I kent enough about noble warfare tae question why ye kent sae much about it?"

"Oh. Right. Good point." I sit up, "But. . . that must mean he acknowledges you as a fellow landowner, and at least his equal in the nobility. He says he owes you fighting men? You can't owe someone steel unless they're of equal or higher rank! You can pledge someone of lower rank protection, and that might include fighting men, but pledging the men themselves. . ." I run a hand across my forehead, "Old Simon is the Chieftain of Clan Fraser, yes?"

Jamie nods, "Aye. That's what's notable about it all. Even if I nevar collect on the debt, it's a mightily important gesture. No' just of solidarity, but of respect, familial trust, and. . . well, of deeply Scottish identity." He sighs. "My only livin' grandsire hasnae paid me more'n a whisper of attention my whole life, an' now he's offerin' noble brotherhood like it's feckin' candy? Highly sought-after videos to use against Black Jack or no, tae say I'm suspicious would be an understatement, mo ghràidh." He sighs, runs his hand up my back, and starts to play with my long, newly-combed curls, "But the letter of reprieve is real. Right now, tha's all that mattars."

I think silently for a bit.

"This might seem like a silly question, Jamie, but. . . does Old Simon have any legitimate children? I know he's. . . engendered a lot of them – but when I was looking at facts about Clan Fraser I was only looking for English people who had been incorporated into the line in some way – to use to make a point to Colum if I ever needed to defend my "Englishness" again. And I found Davina Porter. And. . . well. . . others. Lots of others. But I never looked to see if Old Simon had any official heirs. Does he?"

Slowly, Jamie nods, "Aye. Young Simone. Puir lass."

"Poor lass? What's wrong with her?"

He clicks his tongue, "Bad case of Anne de Bourgh Syndrome."

I raise an eyebrow, "And. . . what is that, exactly?"

"Agh. Ye have Pride And Prejudice in the future, aye?"

"Yes, of course. It's been a long time since I've read it, but yes."

"Weel, if ye'el recall, Anne de Bourgh was the daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. . ."

"Ah. I see. Poor lass indeed."

"Jus' so. The only thing wrong with Young Simone is bein' the daughter of Auld Simon. Bu' that's enough tae make her fair unbearable – even by Fraser standards. . ."

"Ha!" I chuckle, fondly, "You know all about that, right enough," I lay back down, and kiss him, "Well, it's a lot to think about, and no mistake. . ."

Jamie yawns, "Aye. An' I cannae wait tae tell Murtagh. About the reprieve, a'tennyrate. But in the morning."

I cuddle closer into his arms, and nod, "In the morning."

But before we can drop off, he stirs, "Sassenach?"

"Yes?"

"What's a "hugger"?"

I laugh heartily, and explain before we go to sleep.

Over breakfast, we show Murtagh the letter of reprieve.

Very rarely have I seen so many emotions on someone's face at the same time, let alone our dear, gruff, stoic Murtagh. He leaves his breakfast uneaten, and has all our things transferred from the Rover in record time.

The three of us are on the road back to Leoch before most of the rest of the party has even finished their morning porridge.

"Wheer did'ye go while I was loadin' up, lad?" Murtagh asks, from behind the wheel of the small support car.

Jamie looks up from cuddling with me in the back seat, "Hm? Dougal's cottage. I settled up wi' him. Used nearly all the money we were given at the wedding - paid him back for almost evarythin' he spent on us – but he insisted on payin' for the reception feast. An' given errything, weel. . . I decided tae accept." He smiles at me, "What wi' one thing an' another, I figure he owes us that much."

Murtagh grunts, "Aye, a'least. An' speakin' of, lad – I've got the top tier of yer weddin' cake in a freezebox in the boot."

"Thankee," he grins, "We forgot it entirely."

"Aye, I ken, but auld Lia won't've, an' if ye talk tae her before I do, she'll wan'tae ken about it."

"Lia?" I ask.

"Mrs. Fitz's first name is Amelia, Sorcha."

"Oh."

"Aye, an' I was plannin' on callin' ahead tae Leoch at the furst village we come to," he says to Murtagh, "If I ken Mrs. Fitz at all, she'll skelp the lot of us if we dinnae let her throw the decade's best party for us when we get back, so I'd better tell her we mean tae take things slow-"

"Do we mean to take things slow?" I ask.

I look up at him, and he gives me a tiny, teasing smirk, "Aye. Nae reason not to. There's four villages on MacKenzie land we need tae visit on our way – on business for Leoch, ye ken – an' there's nae need tae rush in any case."

"An' that bein' so, ye c'n take back callin' that wee lad of yours," says Murtagh, half-smirking at us in the rear-view mirror, "I'm tired o' dodgin' all his questions about the twa of ye. I ken ye want a honeymoon, but week and a half is long enough for an auld cuss like me tae be seein' tae a wean all by myself. An' annyroad, ye adopted the rascal – ye c'n see tae him."

"You're absolutely right, Murtagh," I say, relaxing against Jamie's shoulder again, and scanning over whatever he's reading on his e-padd, "I'll call him tonight."

He grunts again, and doesn't speak any more until he pulls us in to our first village on MacKenzie land. It's a small place, but charming, with a very picturesque row of shops. Jamie gets out to call Mrs. Fitz, and Murtagh takes me on a stroll down the little main street. There are the usual cafs and tea rooms, bakeries and camping goods places, but the first place we go into is a dim and dusty antique shop, where Murtagh saw a pair of what he called "dancing swords" in the window, and insisted on asking the proprietor if he could look at them more closely.

I browse around, as the two men have what sounds to me like a contentious and highly technical discussion in the Gàidhlig, and I discover a small counter in a back corner that intrigues me. It's full to overflowing with custom bookmarks, cards and jewelry, and there's a little machine in the middle of it all labeled "Donner's Keepsakes". A small cardboard placard next to it lists out instructions for how to use the thing, and winds up with a cheery – "Why not turn yesterday's trash into tomorrow's treasure!"

I look at it for a long while, then rummage in my shoulder pack. Slowly, I bring out the long ivory ribbon Murtagh gave me for my something old. Then, decided, I feed the ribbon into a slot, and punch a lot of buttons on the control pad.

It takes the full fifteen minutes it said it would take, but eventually, the machine beeps, and delivers the ribbon back to me, suspended in chronicler's resin, and transformed into a short necklace of barrel shaped beads, and two cuff-bracelets. The resin is beautifully clear, and shows off the segments of ribbon perfectly. I slip the beads back into my pack, and go looking for Murtagh.

I find him looking for me.

"Didnae end up getting' the swords, lass," he says, dourly, "They looked genuine enough, bu' the style's no' quite right for me – I like a bit moor class in my dancin' accessories."

He raises his voice and puts such venom into the word "class" that I am certain this shopkeeper will have some interesting stories to tell about us when we're gone. . .

I smile at him, "Well, come see this other thing I've found then, and. . . well, I know you aren't the sort to take thanks for things very often but. . ." a blush comes up on both our faces, "Would you take a tribute from a happy bride who owes you much and loves you dear?"

I hold out the ivory coloured bracelets.

He recognizes what they are made from at once, of course, and very slowly, puts out his hand, touching them reverently for a minute before finally picking them up.

"He's. . . a son tae me, Claire."

I pat his shoulder affectionately, "I know. Come see what I've found for him. It probably isn't real, but we take what we can get in this life, don't we?"

"Aye, we do."

I lead him back into the shadowy aisles of the shop, and show him one shelf, crowded with all manner of daggers and knives. I point at one in particular.

Murtagh picks it up, and hefts it, examining it closely for a great deal longer than I expected he would. Eventually, he puts it back on its stand, and he murmurs, almost wonderingly, "Weel, would ye look a' that. A genuine auld Fraser dirk."