Chapter Rating – M for angst, adult themes, and consensual kinkiness. Play safe, my lovelies!

Retribution

I am nearly blank on how we get back to the hotel. Things happen around me, people come and go from my range of vision, words are spoken, showers are taken, clothes are changed, and all I can really comprehend is what the farmer's wife says while helping me scrub the blood off my hands.

"We'el see tae the bastards' bodies, dinnae fash, pet. They arenae the furst renegades tae disappear 'round heer, an' wilnae be the last, more's the pity. T'wilnae be any reprisals, hen."

Reprisals.

Reprisals.

Re, meaning in consequence, and prisal, meaning forced seizure of property for the payment of a debt.

Reprisal.

Because you have done this, now you owe us.

Requital. Revenge. Retribution.

Like lives are nothing but items in a salvage shop, with prices written on little plastic tags tied to them.

Like death is a minor business dispute.

It's a strange way of thinking about manslaughter.

Or justifiable homicide. Or self defense.

Or just plain murder. . .

I blink at the hotel room around me, vaguely aware that Jamie just said he needed to go do something, but entirely unaware of what he actually said.

"I'll be right back, Sassenach."

I nod, and watch the door close behind him.

I wander over to the window, and push back the long curtain with one hand, gazing blankly out over the town square, to the last sparks of light fading from the sunset.

I don't know if we can call it murder.

But it was still killing.

No matter what we call it, I now hold Death in my hand.

A hard knot of. . . something. . . settles in my chest.

I kill.

I killed.

I killed a man.

I killed.

I kill.

It doesn't matter in the least if he was a bad man, or if I killed him for the right reasons or not, or if I only did it because it was necessary. I have still crossed a line I swore to myself long ago I would never cross. And I did it for Jamie. I learned how to do it at his insistence, and I only followed through because he was in mortal danger.

My love.

I love you.

I'll kill for you. . .

I once held Death in my body. . . but then I let Faith go.

Now I hold Death in my hand, and He will stay with me forever.

Because of Jamie.

The hardness in my chest uncoils like snakes. Horrible feelings twist through me, far more viciously than any sgian-dubh.

I have no idea what to do about any of them, so I just stand still, holding back the curtain, and looking out of the window.

The act was horrifically simple.

The aftermath is devastatingly complicated.

I hear the sound of the door handle turning, and in the window's reflection, I see Jamie reenter our room. He locks the door behind him, and then looks over at me, his posture tense, and hesitant.

He doesn't say anything, or move toward me at all.

When I speak, my voice is tight, and flat, as though any definitive expression would be the end of me.

I am very much afraid it might be. . .

"I had to kill a man tonight, because of you, Jamie."

"Aye. Ye did."

"You let your guard down, you put yourself in danger, you made Murtagh and I rescue you, and you-" my voice catches harshly, "-you made me kill for you."

"D'ye hate me for it, Claire?"

His voice sounds more hollow than a cave.

Truth, Beauchamp. You've promised him the truth.

"I did. For a moment."

I can feel his pain, even from across the room.

I hate myself for causing it, far more than I could ever hate him.

But I hate this world even more, for ever putting us in this situation.

And worst of all, I hate that I am thankful I did it – that I'm glad I killed that man, so mine could live.

I might have deprived a woman of her beloved, separated a son from his parents, deprived children of their father – all so I might have my own husband.

And I'm glad I did it. I would do it again. I will do it again, the very next time a sufficiently dire threat presents itself. For Jamie, I will kill, again and again, as often as necessary. There is no doubt in my mind about it at all.

You are a vicious, vengeful, murdering bitch, Claire Beauchamp.

It doesn't matter how much you love him, you'll never deserve him, Claire Beauchamp.

All you'll ever deserve is misery, Claire Beauchamp.

And here we are. At the maximum. Pain and hate and all such feelings reach their end so easily. There's nothing in them.

Or not enough, anyway.

I shake my head, fiercely, "But hatred. . . it's too simple a feeling, right now, Jamie. It doesn't go far enough. Anger's no better. Neither is guilt, or shame, or sorrow. Grief. . ." my breathing stutters for a second, but I push through it, ". . . doesn't fit. I don't know who I'd be grieving. Or what. Fear is utterly foolish at this point. Horror is closer. Disgust even more so. But neither of them are feelings I can just summon, and even if I could, I do not know what I'd do with either one right now. And emptiness. . . is much too easy."

No. Running won't help with this. There's nowhere to run anyway.

Can a ghost haunt itself?

"Thorough confusion is. . . mostly accurate, I suppose. . ." I shake my head again, "But that's not in the least useful, Jamie. There's no comfort in chaos. Or at least, not for me."

I deliberately do not make eye contact with him in the window's reflection.

"But. . . but if I don't choose what to feel soon, I'm going to end up feeling all of it at once, and that will tear me apart. . ."

He closes the distance between us in two strides, but stops himself before he touches me.

"I'm so lost, Jamie. So. . . adrift. . ."

And trapped at the same time.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. . .

Welcome to the Hotel California. . .

Very tentatively, he touches my shoulder.

"Will ye let me anchor ye? Let me take re. . ."

I round on him, and take his face in my hands, "I can't, Jamie! Not that! By the gods, anything but that. I love you. I love you. So much, Jamie. So, so much. It's because I love you so much that. . . that. . ." I can feel the edges of myself breaking, looking into his dear, worried blue eyes. . . "Oh, gods, you're so sweet, so perfect, so wonderful, I just. . . I just can't. . ."

I can't put this on him. Not like this. Not my good, dear, wholesome Jammie Dodger. I can't trap him in here with me.

Not my innocent husband.

I know he isn't, not really. Not any more than most of us. But I have so little to hold on to, just now. Practically all I've got is an idealized image of Jamie, out in the world, gallant, pure, lovely and free. . .

My eyes burn with tears I don't dare cry, and my heart pounds with feelings I don't dare feel.

Much more of this and I am going to tear the both of us apart. . .

Gently, Jamie puts my hands from him. Then, he goes over to his luggage, and starts searching through one of the outer pockets, eventually coming up with a thin, soft belt woven from tiny strips of black leather. He doesn't often wear it – I think I've only seen it twice before now. . .

I take a few steps towards him, more curious than anything.

He does something simple yet incomprehensible with the buckle, curling the long end through and around somehow, and ends up with two loops he puts his hands halfway through. Then he pulls the long end with his teeth, and the belt tightens around his palms. He laces his fingers together, and lets his arms drop.

What on earth is he doing?

He's barely restrained – if you could even call it that. He is holding the belt, far more than the other way around. One flex of his hands and it would fall away.

But. . .

But it gives the illusion. . .

He stands awkwardly, suddenly looking terribly uncomfortable, and holding his head in a dejected, morose fashion.

"Did ye have tae ha' me arrested?"

"What?"

"I mean, ye could'ha jus' had the damm'ned hounds chase me off the property like the previous owners allus did – a'tually gettin' me inta trouble wi' the law s'goin' a bit far, in't it?"

His voice is deliberately deeper than usual, his accent is rougher, and his whole attitude one of enforced, grudging, resentful. . . servility. . .

Oh.

Oh.

My breath catches in my throat again.

Oh.

I take a few more steps closer. He's only an arm's length in front of me now, slouching and shrugging and practically sneering with indignation. . .

"I ken the English ha' gi'en ye this estate, but t'was only a few grouse – hardly poachin', aye? T'ere was nae need tae set yer men on me, Mistres-."

I slap him across the face.

Not very hard – there isn't even a blush on his cheek to show where my fingers connected – but it was still sharp enough to make his eyes blaze with surprise.

But now my entire self stutters to a halt, in utter, complete shock.

I. . .

Shock, and. . . something else.

I'm. . .

My hand tingles with the same something.

It's. . .

He's. . .

Oh god. . .

A hot cavern of liquid heat opens in my stomach. . .

But. . . it isn't just arousal, it's also. . . relief.

Pure, undiluted, insane relief.

What in all the hells, Beauchamp?

I look down at my palm, and run my thumb across my fingers.

This.

This. . .

I make a fist.

Say it to yourself, Beauchamp. Be honest.

You've imagined it this way around almost as often as the other, haven't you, Beauchamp?

Yes. But not like this.

Not. . . not when I'm feeling like this. . .

Not for these reasons. Not in this context.

Not as a tool.

Jamie is my husband. My heart. My other half. My second soul. So so so much more than a thing to be used.

And yet, this is what a safe space is for, Beauchamp.

Yes. But. . .

This is bad. This is very very bad, and you feel relief?

Yes. But?

But. . . it's. . .

Yes?

But it's also as bad as things ever need to get.

Just this. This and no worse.

And. . . we. . . we can handle this. . .

We can.

The intense, glorious relief morphs all at once into a dark, scalding, entirely ruthless power, spiked with the most intoxicating lust I've ever felt.

It is horrible. It is terrifying.

But it is also controllable. It is quantifiable. Understandable.

He was right to start this – because this, he can help me bear.

If I can do it without making him hate me, of course. . .

Assuming he doesn't already. . .

"You bloody Scot!" I hiss, "How dare you! I will decide what is or is not poaching around here, my lad." I take a fistful of his curls and pull his head back, forcing him to stumble backwards into a chair. He sits with a thump, and I tighten my grip, dragging his face to mine, "And my name is Madame Elizabeth, and you had better not forget that."

He swallows heavily, "Yes Mada-."

I tighten my grip even more, "I did not give you permission to speak. By god, I ought to banish you to Lallybroch!"

So here we are. With some trepidation, I meet his eyes.

And I see only good things in them.

Anticipation. Arousal. Trust. Pride.

I blink.

He's proud of me. . .

By all the gods that may or may not exist. . .

Of all the things I can't handle right now, I never thought Jamie being proud of me would be the worst of them by far.

Tears start into my eyes, as the word Oxfordshire forms on my lips.

I ought to drop all this. Stop at once and do something normal. . . something rational. . . something. . . sane. But I simply do not know if straddling him, cursing at him and weeping into his chest would be enough for me right now. . .

Or maybe I should just go implode. . .

"Lallybroch issno banishment tae me, Madame."

His confirmation of our check-in suddenly halts my doubts.

At least partially. . .

He is offering me this. He doesn't have to do it. He is choosing to do it. He is giving it to me. Space, boundaries, identities I don't have to think about, an impetus I don't have to justify. . . and his body.

I need them all, right now.

And, oh. . . I want to take them.

I know can trust Jamie to hold the boundaries firm, and keep me safe. Keep us both safe.

And that look in his eyes means that he. . .

He. . .

He is going to enjoy this. Just as much as I will. . .

If I choose to do it.

Suddenly, I don't have to do this either. We can find another way, if I choose not to.

Nothing is necessary.

Which means everything is possible.

I release his hair, and turn my back on him for a moment. The raging power in me hasn't subsided at all – Beauchamp is simply not equipped to handle such a thing. Slowly, carefully, I take her off, and put her safely away.

Slowly, carefully, I put on Madame Elizabeth.

My posture straightens, and the power in me is still there. . . but it no longer rages. . .

Like with all other things, this one starts with self-control. Everything else comes from that.

Start with what you know. And learn from there. . .

"Get up." I order, my voice shockingly cold, even in my own ears.

"Madame?"

"Get. Up." I whirl on him, and point to a spot on the floor, "Now!"

Quickly, he goes to stand where I pointed.

His hands are still tied in front of him. I slowly circle around him, inspecting him dispassionately, as though he were some strange, impossible creature, from fairyland or beyond.

Very, very slowly, I unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt.

Then, in a methodical, businesslike, almost medical sort of way, I press a finger to the soft little dip in between his collarbones. Pressure there gets uncomfortable for him faster than almost anywhere else on his chest, so I know I can push him to the point of pain like this, but without harm, and without bruising or marking him in any way.

Boundaries. . .

They keep us both safe. . .

I see his pulse point flutter at my touch, and his breathing gets much deeper. I poke a little harder, to emphasize my words.

"The crime of poaching carries a sentence of flogging, my lad. And three hours in the public stocks after that. You knew this." I narrow my eyes, "And yet. . . you did it anyway." I scoff, derisively, "Setting my men on you was a mercy."

I draw my finger slowly down his chest, then poke him firmly in the belly. I thrill a little as I feel his muscles contract beneath the pressure.

"Because. . . they brought you to me."

My voice lowers seductively.

"And all I will make you do. . . is kneel."

His eyes widen a bit, and his nostrils flare.

I lick my lips, and lift my head, in a pompous, haughty, heartless gesture, "And I'll even reward you for it afterwards. Doesn't that sound. . . better?"

I drag my finger a little lower, and pluck at the top edge of his belt buckle. The one around his waist, not around his hands. Just one, very brief twitch. It's barely even a pull.

But I see his whole body jolt with it.

That's my lad. So sensitive. So inexperienced. So naïve. So. . .

Delicious. . .

I give a broad, yet chilly smile, "It'd be quite a shame to flog such a. . . pretty package. . ." I step much too close to him, pressing my lower belly against his bound hands, and letting my arms slide around him. Ever, ever so lightly, my fingers trace the curves of his rear, "Unless that's the reward you want for kneeling to me, of course. . ."

A beautiful glint of excited mischief sparkles in his eyes, and his lips try to smirk. He suppresses it quickly, and after a moment's pause, his expression contorts into an ugly sneer, "I kneel tae noo un! 'Specially no' English usurpars!" He jerks his body away from me, and looks me up and down with gorgeous defiance, ". . . Libby."

I slap his face again. Still not very hard. Still my hand tingles delightfully.

And this time, a positively sinful jolt of electricity goes up my spine.

It feels so impossibly, terrifyingly good that I screech to a halt again, panting as though I've just slain fifty renegade Peace Agents, not one. I can only stand here, now, waiting for Jamie to use our word, tell me it is over, that this is too much, that I need to stop.

No one can contain this, can they? Not all of this?

Can they?

He can't. . . want me. . .

Not like this. . .

Not this me. . .

Can he?

But when he turns back to face me, more than just his cheek is flushed, and he is far more breathless than any blow as weak as that one was should rightfully account for. . .

His eyes blaze again, and a willful little grin plays around his mouth, "Weel, gi' oon wi' yer wee floggin', then. T'ere's nae enough English vixens in t'whole world tae mak a Scot yield."

Something triumphant in me roars - with either horror or perverse joy, it's impossible to tell - and I grab a fistful of his hair once more.

"Oh no?" I say, baring my teeth and giving him a very tiny shake, "Well, my lad. We shall see."

It takes an hour, but, in the end, we do.