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Chapter Text

Claire Beauchamp wasn’t exactly a creature of habits, but she found solace in morning rituals. She enjoyed starting her day with a cup of tea – swirling boiling water around the pot to warm it before pouring it out, adding loose leaves of Oolong to the pot, pouring fresh water over them – 70°C, not more, brewing the tea 3 minutes, placing a strainer over the top of a cup and finally, enjoying the honey-colored beverage. There was something meditative about her measured gestures, about the swirls of colour slowly spreading on the surface of the water, and the little wisps of steam exhaling and rising from the pot in aerial arabesques.

Somehow, after all these years, she still remembered one particular cup of tea– black, strong, milky, over sweetened, shared with her uncle by the Qarun Lake in the Fayum Oasis when she was seven or eight years old.

She remembered the charcoal eyes of their guide Faruq, lit up by the fire’s faint glow and the thousand stars of a desert’s night sky; his hands as he had poured the boiling beverage for them; and his voice, telling her about the beauty of Egypt – Umm el Dunya, the mother of the world.

Earlier that day, she had walked among fossil skeletons of whales, extinct for thousands of years. Staring at the shadows cast by the bones in a sand as fine as powder, on the ancient floor of a long dried ocean, she had been filled with a sense of complete and inexplicable peace, embracing her like a warm cloak, for maybe the first time since her parents’ death.

Would she ever feel that peaceful again?

Probably not today, Beauchamp, she thought to herself while making her way through the corridors of ward 37. Today, she was late.

With a resigned sigh, she rushed to the staff break room. She had just opened a cupboard and was trying to make up her mind between two depressingly bland tea bags of Twining English Breakfast and Lipton Green Tea when the door opened, and a tiny redhead with a messy bun barged into the room. She was wearing bright lipstick and blue scrubs, and carried a very large and very greasy paper bag.

“Christ, woman, ye look like ye’ve stuck yer head in the washing machine and started a full spin cycle!”

Claire turned back to the counter, trying to hide the half-smile forming on her lips, and snatched the box of English Breakfast.

“Morning, Geil’! How was your night?”

Geillis was a nurse at the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital in Glasgow, where Claire worked as a self-employed physiotherapist. She was also her best friend. As Scottish as can be, she had helped her settle to her new environment when she had moved to Glasgow two years ago. It was Geillis who had introduced her to the joys of Irn Bru and square sausages at the cafeteria; Geillis who had showed her around Glasgow on her first week; Geillis who regularly dragged her to her favourite pubs.

“Och, I am puggled. But dinna change the subject! I am serious, Claire. I dinna ken how I’m supposed to find ye a man if ye dinna at least try to make that hair look half-decent?”

Sitting at the kitchen table, she proceeded to unwrap what looked suspiciously like a giant breakfast roll packed with bacon, hash browns or potato scones, one sausage, baked beans, mushrooms, an egg and a tomato.

Claire rolled her eyes and decided to ignore her friend; she turned around and braced herself against the counter.

“I’m making tea. Want some?”

“Nah, I’ll have coffee, one sugar, thanks hen.” Suddenly, Geillis’ eyebrows shot up and she crooned, licking one of her fingers with a suggestive look: “Wait a minute– did ye spend the night with a tall, handsome stranger?”

Claire sighed and grabbed the shortbread tin, that someone had tried to conceal behind a package of Rice Krispies. “Geillis...”

“Aye, that would explain the curls explosion and the dark circles,” her friend snorted, biting into the roll with an appetite that would put a man twice her size to shame.
Between mouthfuls, she snorted: “Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp– finally indulging– in hochmagandy!”

“I did not-” Claire’s laughing protest was stopped by Geillis’ voice, stifled by a mouthful of bacon.

“Although I’m no’ sure what to make of the mismatched socks...”

“Geillis, seriously, shut it– if you choke on that monstrosity, I won’t lift a finger!” The greasy, pervasive smell of Geillis’ breakfast was starting to make Claire’s stomach churn. She moved closer to the window, cracking it open and inhaling the crisp air of a cold February morning.

“Alright, alright!” The redhead gave Claire an innocent smile, wiped her fingers with a napkin and stood up to grab her steaming mug. Claire noticed her smirk was mixed with an expression of genuine concern.

“Seriously though, are ye alright? If it’s about our favourite patient, dinna fash, he...”

“No, it’s not… I mean, I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

Geillis raised her eyebrows, asking a silent question. Inhaling slowly, Claire blew on her mug, the steam elevating in misty whirlwinds. Bracing herself, she tried to sound casual when she added:

“I got a call from Frank.”

Her friend’s reaction was immediate.

“No fucking way! Tell me ye didna give him the time to open his weesht?”

Turning her face back to the window, Claire took a sip of the hot liquid and grimaced. Really, how could this even deserve the name of tea?

“Claire?”

“Oh come on, Geillis, it’s not that simple. He begged me to talk to him.”

“I bet he did”, she snorted.

Starting to feel irritated, Claire abruptly closed the window. “Look, I know how you feel about him...”.

“Och, aye, I made that abundantly clear. What about you? Are ye going tae tell me that everything is forgiven?”

“Of course not!”, Claire retorted, feeling defensive.

“Thank Christ, ye still have some common sense”, she sighed and gave Claire’s forearm a squeeze. “What did he want?”

“He said he wanted to talk. Repeated that he made a mistake. That he always loved me. That he panicked but that he knows, now… that he wants us to be a thing.” Claire knew she sounded hopeful and cursed her incapability to keep a straight face.

Turning to discard her teabag, she heard the Scot mumble, “He should be so lucky… bawbag” as she sat back to the table to finish her breakfast.

“Can you stop for one second? Anyway – we talked for an hour, he asked if we could meet.”

“And ye’re going to consider?” Geillis’ eyes went wide.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I feel like we should talk about what happened. People make mistakes, alright?”

“Claire, people use this phrase, when…”, she swallowed loudly, “I dinna ken, when they said something daft and hurtful they didna mean, or when they started a petty argument - it doesn’t apply to the man who screwed you but kept going home to his wife, for Christ’s sake!”

“God, I know, I know! Alright?” She set down her cup a little too hard, trying to control her voice. “But I don’t know, Geil. Yes, this has been going on for a while, but what if he means it? What if we could actually be happy?”

Geillis’ cheeks were flushed. She let out a deep breath and stared at her with an intense, fixed expression, tilting her head to the side like a bird of prey.

“Claire…”, she said with a soft voice. “I ken ye love the man. And aye, maybe - I said maybe he would leave his wife eventually, and maybe things would be good for a while between the two of ye. But only for a while. Ye should start focusing on what ye deserve.”

Deep down, Claire knew Geillis was probably right, but she wasn't ready to admit it. God she was infuriating. This conversation wasn’t doing her headache any good.

“It’s ten to nine, I should get going.” She drained the remnants of her cup, wincing at the bitterness of the deplorable excuse for a drink. “See you later?”

“Aye, I’m on a day shift tomorrow. Text me. Ye ken ye love me!”, she shouted before the door slammed.

Unsettled, Claire walked towards the lift and started reading her emails. A patient had been admitted over the weekend and the medical team needed her assessment; she had planned a pre-surgery educational meeting with a group of patients before lunch, and the rest of the day would be filled with one-to-one physio sessions.

Yes, it was going to be a very long day.

But first, there was someone she needed to see.

***

“Good morning, Lamb! How are you feeling today?”

Peeking at the door, Claire smiled, hoping that her glass face wouldn’t betray her the way it did with Geillis, but ironically thinking that the odds of the man in the armchair truly seeing her were relatively slim.

Lambert Beauchamp was a short, slender man. His grey eyes were circled by round glasses that he always wore on the tip of his prominent nose. As slim as it was, his face was made striking by a broad forehead, sharp cheekbones and a snow-white beard trimmed short. To a casual observer, he looked like any other 70-year old man, dressed in black trousers and a grey sweater, reading his newspaper by the window. Except, Claire thought when she bent to kiss him on the cheek, the paper was turned upside down. And he didn’t seem to notice.

The man raised his head and frowned slightly, but his lips stretched into a polite smile.

“Not too bad, thank you my dear.”

He paused and gave her a glassy-eyed stare before turning to the door. “Do you know if Professor Hawkins has arrived yet? I was expecting him at noon; I hope he’s not been taken ill… But his secretary would have called, wouldn’t she?”

“Lamb, it’s not even nine yet. See your watch?”. Claire placed her hand on her uncle’s wrist to try to attract his attention to the ticking hands. “Besides, you’re retired from Oxford, and so is Professor Hawkins… Remember that party you hosted together?”

“Of course, of course.” Shifting slightly, Lamb started to flex his fingers, holding them together with infinite care, as if trying to grasp an invisible butterfly.

“While I wait for him, would you mind getting rid of this? A package arrived from Cairo, we can dispose of the wrapping.”

A protest raised in Claire’s throat, but didn’t pass her lips. She knew all too well this gesture. She had seen it in other patients of the dementia ward, who also presented what her community called “string hallucinations”. These imaginary strings, that her uncle felt and saw between his fingers, were only one of the many symptoms that could be associated with his condition. And he got them all - spatial disorientation, daytime sleep, memory loss, stiffness, loss of facial expression and confusion.

Congratulations, Lamb. You’ve won the bloody bingo.

The near-constant hallucinations were only the icing on the cake, she thought dimly. And progressively, they were getting worse. They had caused him to fall down the stairs two weeks ago, and he had been admitted to the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital with a broken hip. Claire had been in denial, but she knew she had to think about the next step. Lamb couldn't stay at home any longer.

Claire had been lost in her thoughts, but her attention snapped back to her uncle and his invisible strings. Any objection tended to upset him, so she decided to play along.

“Of course. Let me get these for you.” She cupped her hands together, ready to scoop up a handful of nothing.

“There’s no need, my dear, Ellen already took care of them”, he answered with a small shrug.

Claire startled. It was not uncommon for him to see her own parents in the room, or to mistake her for a doctor, but she had never heard that name before. Turning back, she crouched next to the armchair and raised her face towards the old man, looking him in the eye, amber meeting slate.

“Lamb, you know who I am, right? My name is Claire. I’m Julia and Henry’s daughter. Your niece.”

“Julia and Henry, yes, yes. I think we are having dinner this week. Could you bring me my diary? Ellen’s number is also in there.”

“Who is Ellen, Lamb?”

Slowly, the old man reached down to rub the tip of his slipper, and for the millionth time, Claire wondered what he saw behind the veil of fog and smoke.

She understood that there was no use insisting; she would only upset him, and she was running late. Non concomitantly, she answered:

“Well, I have to go to work now, alright? But I will stop by later today.”

Lamb didn’t reply; he was staring at a fixed point in a corner of the room, with a half-smile on his face.

Claire left with a vague choking sensation, thinking about the mysterious Ellen. Whoever she was, she hoped she was good company in the shifting sands of Lamb’s mind.

Chapter Text

3 weeks later

Claire was sitting in her old armchair, wrapped in a woollen tartan rug, still wearing her pyjamas bottom and an old T-shirt. It was around noon and her living room was flooded in light, a rare occurrence in Glasgow, but she couldn’t shake away the exhaustion lingering deep in her bones.

Looking by the window, she observed the few people walking down Kildonan Drive, along the red sandstone buildings; a father was pushing a stroller with one hand, holding a large box of Domino’s Pizza in the other, and Claire felt a smile tug at the corner of her lips as the little girl bounced ahead of the man, carrying a rather grubby, wide-eyed stuffed animal that could only be described as a sparkly unicorn on cocaine.

Having never had toys herself, or none that she could remember, Claire didn’t understand the attachment to teddy bears and other cuddly monstrosities. She could still hear her uncle, wondering how on earth people had persuaded themselves that their children needed inanimate friends. After all, Lamb would say, dolls and soft toys had only been ubiquitous since they began to be mass-produced in the mid-19th century. Before that, he would add with a snort, human effigies were used as objects of veneration or fetishes, or in witchcraft, not as imaginary friends or surrogate siblings. But she wondered if there had been a time− after her parents’ death− when she had wanted nothing so much in all the world as to have a toy of her very own.

As planned, Lamb had been discharged from the hospital, and with her colleagues’ help, Claire had organised his move to a nursing home. The last three weeks had passed in a daze− between her own work, the doctors’ appointments with Lamb, the forms to fill and the admission paperwork, she had gone from tired to just numb. It was a Friday and her first day off in what felt like an eternity; the day before, she had spent hours at Lamb’s little flat in Mansfield Park, trying to organise the mess, to think clearly, to be efficient, all the while feeling like her heart was being scrubbed raw with sandpaper.

She opened her laptop, rubbing her temples. Kildonan Drive was quiet, save for the laughs of two boys chasing a ball on the pavement. The first email was from Frank.

Good morning my darling.
I miss you already...
Can’t wait for our little getaway next month.

Claire could already hear Geillis angry howls and strings of curse words.

Over the weekend, Frank had called her again. She was visiting her sister, he had said. I love you, he had whispered. I need to see you, he had begged. Sitting on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes and piles of books, on the verge of tears, Claire hadn’t even tried to resist his pull − her attraction dictated almost as much by her heart, as by the physical and emotional tension she had been experiencing. The softness of his tone, the raspy edge of his voice, were like strong arms open in invitation; she had stepped into them once more. One hour later, he had been in her bed.

Ten years older than her, Frank was a skilled, refined and generous lover; if everything in their relationship wasn’t perfect− alright, Geillis, far from perfect− at least he was there. At least he loved her, she mentally threw at her friend. She enjoyed their conversations and admired his intellect. Maybe that was enough.

Alright, Beauchamp, stop musing.

With a sigh, she clicked on the email she had received during the week and read between two appointments, and scrolled down− Dear carer− thank you for choosing The Heathers Care Home− our monthly newsletter− to the part she was looking for.

Creating a memory box can help your loved ones recall events
and people from the past. These memories can prompt conversation
and link them to their identity, with keepsakes emphasizing a holiday,
a person or theme that lifts the senior’s spirit.
Though it will take time to find which keepsakes to store in the memory
box, it is worth the effort.

With a dry laugh, Claire wondered if the person who had written the article would have considered a mummified toe and a 2,000-year-old ceramic goblet to be appropriate keepsakes.

Lamb had been consumed by his work and passion for archeology, and had never been the sort of man to be encumbered with sentimentalism. One year, suddenly realising he had missed her fifteenth birthday by a fortnight, he had given her a small photo album: Henry and Julia on their wedding day, smiling at each other with a look that said: let tomorrow come; a group portrait in front of the chapel; holidays in the Peak district; Julia carrying her on the day she was born; Henry holding her hand while they walked towards the ocean in Brighton; Claire in a flowery dress, petting a white kitten. The rest of the pictures were probably buried somewhere in Lamb’s flat, or had been disposed of long ago.

And there it was, that nagging feeling of guilt. Her uncle was a complicated man, and her childhood had been unconventional to say the least, but he had taught her everything he knew, he had loved her- still did, she corrected herself. He was her only link to her parents - to the life meant for her -, and with his mind deteriorating at the speed of light, very soon, all that would be left of their family history would be contained in that ridiculous “memory box”. A few artifacts from a nomadic life, already half-swallowed by the desert while most of the camp had been buried in the sand forever.

How fitting for an archeologist, Claire thought, to have spent a lifetime in the past and eventually, completely forget about the present.

“Alright, Beauchamp, you’re going to stop whining right here, right now!”

Claire suddenly shook herself. Blowing out a short breath, she pushed back the plaid, closed her laptop, and started admonishing herself out loud.

“You’re going to make that bloody memory box...”

She stood up and headed towards a pile of boxes crammed in the corridor.

“...and then you’re going to text Geillis, shower...”

She grabbed the first box and dropped it heavily on the floor.

“...and move your sorry arse to the pub, if it’s the last thing you do today!”

She was 30 years old and owned a bloody medical degree; she would be damned if she couldn’t put something together. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she cut the tape sealing the cardboard panels, and got to work.

***

Five hours later, Claire had changed into her favourite white Irish jumper and simple black trousers, and had agreed to meet Geillis at one of their favourite places, not far from Glasgow Central. The basement-level bar was old-fashioned but welcoming, with its patterned wallpaper, white tablecloths, retro standing lamps and a roaring open fire. It was the kind of place that remained completely and blissfully unaffected by the passing seasons; a place to nestle in one of the massive Chesterfield sofas, soothed by the hum of the customers’ banter, the tinkling of glass and cutlery and the crackling sounds of the burning logs. For the first time in weeks, sipping a glass of red wine with her friend, Claire started to relax.

After entertaining Claire for some time, babbling about a newly formed couple at the hospital, a new MAC lipstick that she forced her to try on, her first date with a man who wore horrifying death metal T-shirts but had a great sense of humour, Geillis asked:

“So, how was yer day off, hun? Did ye stay in bed and watch EastEnders while painting yer toenails red, as I instructed?”

If the tone was silly and playful, her expressive eyes showed a tinge of concern, tiny ripples on a cloudy green pond; but she made no mention of Frank, and Claire was grateful for that temporary respite. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

“Not exactly… I slept like the dead until past eleven while you, my dear, were working your arse off!” Claire answered with a grin. “After that, I tried to declutter and gather a few things for Lamb. It’s going to take a while to sort everything out, but I will get there, eventually”, she added with a steady voice.

“Well, for what it’s worth, ye’re looking a wee bit more bright-eyed than ye did on Monday. Look at ye, ye even dried yer hair before coming!” Geillis smiled.

Claire made a face and had another sip of wine, pretending to be annoyed but secretly touched by her friend’s words. After ordering a second glass, Geillis reached across the table to grab the shoe box that Claire had brought along. It was filled with bits and bots she hoped would stir memories in Lamb’s mind.

Peering inside the box, Geillis paused, considering each keepsake. A PhD certificate delivered to Quentin Lambert Beauchamp by Oxford University’s School of Archeology; a battered paperback copy of Come, Tell Me How You Live by Agatha Christie; an excavation brush; a small jar filled with sand; a game of mancala, with two rows carved in the board and filled with pebbles; a handmade coffee mug.

Claire started twisting a curl around her index finger.

“What do you think, Geil? They ask families to make a ‘memory box’ for the residents, but it’s not like Lamb was the perfect homemaker…”

Geillis looked up with a curious expression on her face. “This is great, Claire, really, ‘tis. I mean, on most days, the board game might be a wee bit optimistic, but that’s no’ a concern- ye did well”. She shifted on her seat, clearly puzzled.

“What is it?” Claire asked, biting her lip. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Claire. It’s just that…”, she looked at her, frowning, “Did ye maybe think of including anything to remind him of ye?”

Claire’s mouth hung open. It took her a few seconds to realise that Geillis had a point. There was nothing in this box to indicate that Lamb had been (was, she corrected herself) her surrogate parent, or indeed nothing to indicate any sort of family life. She felt the giant knot form back around her windpipe, and swallowed audibly.

“I… I just didn’t find anything, I guess.”

Her eyes threatening to suddenly fill with tears, she took a deep breath and stared at a candle wax stain on the wooden table.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry damn you.

Thankfully, seeing her face crumble, Geillis was swift to react, in her usual ruthlessly efficient way.

“Och, absolutely NOT, Claire. You are NOT about to ugly-cry yer face off and ruin the makeup I just applied! That lipstick cost me 20 quid!”

Caught off-guard, Claire suddenly erupted in laughter, imitated by Geillis who grabbed a napkin and firmly placed it in her hand.

“Sorry, Geil. God, I’m all over the place”, Claire sniffled with an apologetic smile. “I actually… I actually brought some pictures. I didn’t have time to look carefully before leaving, but I must be on some of them... maybe I could have one framed?” She dabbed at the corner of her eyes and took out the small leather album out of her purse.

“Aye, sounds like a plan. Let’s see, what have we got here?”

The photographs were stacked in no particular order, a collection of colourful frames with annotations at the back. They went through the pile together, retracing Lamb’s travels, laughing at his very fashionable knee-high socks and sandals, and marvelling at the eerily beautiful landscapes he had captured in Syria, Egypt and Turkey.

Claire was surprised to find so many snapshots of herself. Claire w. Farag Mohamed, 1997. With one front tooth missing and her unruly hair tied in a thick braid, wearing jeans and an oversized T-shirt, she was looking proudly at the camera, standing next to a tall, dark-skinned man in a galabeya. Claire mapping the grounds of Old Luxor mount w. the team, 2001. On this one, she was crouching next to another worker she now remembered as “Sammy”, holding white measuring tape on the scorched-red floor. Her serious face was turned towards the man, revealing the unruly mess of her hair.

“Oh, have a wee keek at this one. Who’s the bonnie lass?”

Geillis passed her a small square frame - a polaroid, different from the rest of the pile. It showed a young woman (how old could she be, twenty?), sitting on the edge of a low stone wall. A simple linen dress and a blue cardigan hugged her slim figure; her slanted eyes showed a humor that did not quite touch the tender mouth, and the shadows highlighted the apple of her high cheekbones.

Perhaps her most striking feature was her flaming red hair, cascading to her waist and framing her silhouette like a burning sunshine piercing through a tall silver birch tree. Behind her, a river surrounded by palm trees spread out like an inland sea.

Without being able to explain it, Claire felt strangely moved by the woman. Geillis was still looking at her, expecting her to reply.

“I actually have no idea, Geil. I’ve never seen her before.”

She turned the picture, and Lamb’s handwriting stood out on the glossy paper.

Ellen MacKenzie, Giza, 1975

The mysterious Ellen had a face.

***

Once Claire had told her the circumstances in which she had heard the name of the woman in the picture, Geillis was so thrilled by their discovery that she took out her smartphone and began doing research on the spot, while stuffing her face with peanuts.

“Claire, this is so exciting! I feel like an investigator for Reported Missing. Ye ken I’m pretty good at this?”

“From all that time spent stalking your exes, I presume?” Claire remarked innocently, grabbing a crisp in the plate.

Her friend shrugged without looking up from her phone. “Just wait a minute, ya wee bam, ye’ll thank me later.”

As it were, it didn’t take her long to find a lead. Ellen MacKenzie’s name appeared on Cairo University’s website; she seemed to have contributed to the herbarium of their Botanical Institute. A quick Google search revealed that after studying botany at the University of Edinburgh, she had become a biology teacher in Inverness - several papers had been published under her name in the 1980s.

“There’s no mention of her after that. The lass must have gotten marrit and changed her name!”, Geillis said with a pout.

“Alright, Sherlock, I think your little investigation is over”, Claire smiled, patting her friend on the back with exaggerated commiseration. In truth, she was a little disappointed; she had hoped for… what is it exactly that you hoped for, Beauchamp? Something. A connection. Someone to remember Lamb with; the real Lamb. Somehow, she had the feeling that he had been close to this Ellen. Why, because he saw her at the hospital? He sees plenty of other people all the time! And yet… the way he had stared at the vision...

“Claire?” Geillis waved at her from across the table.

“Claire, I’m talking to ye! Look at the link I just forwarded ye on Whatsapp!”

It was an article featured in the ‘lifestyle’ section of The Scotsman.

Now a pillar of the Glasgow foodie scene, James Fraser is the embodiment of one of those great against-the-odds success stories. In only one year, the 32-year-old self-made chef has turned his venture into an institution.

Opened at the beginning of 2017, The Buck and the Stag (named after the crests of his parents clans- she a MacKenzie, and he a Fraser) occupies two airy rooms on the first floor of a sandstone building in Albion Street, in the heart of the Merchant City.

“I wanted this place to be a tribute to my parents, Ellen and Brian. My father taught me to work hard, stay focused, lead by example. And my mother being a botanist, she was always adamant that the best food was cooked with fresh and simple ingredients, nothing fancy or extravagant.”

Fraser makes no attempt to compromise on the quality of his produce. Rather, he sources high-quality ingredients that happen to occupy the cheaper end of the spectrum. That means seasonal food from his native Highlands, cheaper cuts of meat and good vegetarian options. On The Buck and the Stag’s menu this week, you might find braised sausages, grilled Scottish trout, or mushroom and lentils soup.

Supported by his sister Jenny Murray and his long-time friend Ian Murray, Fraser has perfected a formula that ensures his eatery is permanently packed: quality, homely fare at unbelievably reasonable prices. Nevertheless, the chef remains cautious: “It’s a dream come true, we’re almost waiting for the bubble to burst,” he says with a smile. “But our idea was that everyone should be able to afford a high-quality meal, and so far, the response has been incredible.”

Claire finished reading the last paragraph when she noticed that Geillis was frantically tapping her screen. Her friend looked up with a mischievous grin, put down her phone, and announced triumphantly:

“There ye go! I’ve booked us a table for tomorrow night. Let’s go ask this Highlander chef about his Ma.”

Chapter Text

“I cannot believe you talked me into this!”

Claire turned to her left and watched Geillis slip into the passenger’s seat, slam the car’s door shut and run her hand through her ponytail to smoothen the frizz caused by the rain. March in Glasgow was cold and gloomy, and it had been pouring the whole afternoon – a pure baltic day, as it were. Turning the steering wheel and stretching her long neck as she backed the car out of the parking space, Claire gave her friend a sidelong glance.

“Well, as I recall, ye didna call me to cancel, did ye?” the redhead answered, blowing on her manicured fingertips to warm them.

“Only because you’ll be the one to pay the bill, love!”, Claire answered with a grin.

“We’re just going to have a pleasant evening, enjoy the food, maybe have a wee conversation with the owner - what’s the big deal?”

“And tell him what?” Claire snorted as Geillis turned on the radio. “Oh hello, Mister Fraser, so sorry to bother you but while we wait for the chicken casserole, would you please tell us more about your mother’s travels, if it’s not too much trouble?”, she said in her poshest accent, giving a passable imitation of the Queen.

“Aye, I grant ye it’s a little odd... So what? Dinna be cranky, Claire. Ye’ve got the picture, I’m sure the man will be curious. Who wouldn’t be?”

The car crossed the bridge over the river Kelvin and followed the banks of the Clyde, the city lights reflecting in the water and on the windshield. Claire registered the song playing on the radio as Geillis hummed along quietly.

Claire couldn't tell who the artist was, but she recognized the music, one of those tracks that she had heard a thousand times without paying the slightest attention to the lyrics.

“Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo!” Suddenly carried away, Geillis raised her voice for the chorus and started drumming on the dashboard with the flat of her palm. Claire couldn’t help but smile. Yes, her friend was loud, insistent, cynical, chatty, and had basically no filter. But she was also generous, kind, witty and full of life.

By the time they came to the end of the tune, they were both singing boisterously, as Claire turned into Albion Street.

***

“Good evenin’ to ye, ladies! Do ye have a reservation wi’ us tonight?”

As soon as they stepped inside The Buck and the Stag, a staff member came to greet them. The man was tall and thin to the point of skinniness, with thick brown slicked-back hair and deep-set brown eyes that twinkled in the glow of candlelight.

“Aye, the name’s Duncan. We booked a table for two”, Geillis answered politely.

After a few rapid swipes at a small tablet, the man looked up and nodded with a smile.

“Found ye! Let me take ye to yer table. My name’s Ian, and I will be yer waiter this evening”. He gestured for them to follow him, and Claire noticed he walked with a slight limp.

The women sat down, taking in the simple decor featuring dark blue walls, wooden furniture and wall mounted lights. The main room, where the bar was situated, was dominated by an enormous painting of two deers– no, a buck and a stag, Claire realised– whose silhouettes were outlined in the golden mist of an early sunrise. It was magnificent.

After giving them enough time to look at the menu and nibble delicious appetizers, Ian-the-waiter came back to take their orders. Geillis chose the Shetland Isles mussels in tomato sauce and the pulled pork croquettes with pickled red onion, while Claire opted for the shallot tatin with crispy goat's cheese and the grilled trout with root vegetables. In truth, everything looked delicious, and Claire’s mouth started to water, woken by the ghost of the rich aroma of their neighbours’ plates.

She felt a small pang thinking about Lamb and the rather dubious meals served at the nursing home. When Claire was growing up, their eating schedule had always been erratic, absorbed as her uncle was in his research: from a very early age, Claire had learned to make pasta, toast a cheese sandwich or reheat a can of soup at an hour when children her age were normally asleep; she just tiptoed to his office to leave a plate on his desk. But unlike herself, Lamb had always enjoyed cooking, especially during their settled years in Oxford. That was before his hands started to shake, and before he seemed to have lost interest in food altogether. And she rarely ate out with Frank, nervous as he was that someone - a colleague, a relative, a friend of his wife - would see them. They usually met in the afternoon, always at her place; in the three months that they had been seeing each other, he had stayed over just once, and had ordered take-away from Pearl of Siam down the street, while she was in the shower. Her flat had reeked of cold grease and lemongrass sauce for days.

Just stop thinking and try to enjoy your evening, alright?

Ian arrived with their plates and provided a welcome interruption to Claire’s train of thought. Soon after the first mouthful, she and Geillis seemed to have forgotten about the original purpose of their visit. They ate slowly, savouring the rich taste of the sauce, the mild tang of goat cheese, the sweetness of the caramelised shallots.

As the waiters moved from table to table, balancing large trays with grace and perfect timing, they ate in companionable silence, Geillis suddenly deprived of her legendary chattiness, with only the sound of folk tunes playing in the restaurant and the rich babble of other customers’ voices. The Scotsman’s review had been right– the portions were generous and flavourful, made with simple and fresh ingredients.

Two hours later, Claire and Geillis were finishing their desserts, which had elicited embarrassing moans from them both (an orchard crumble with vanilla oatmeal ice cream, the house special, and a coconut rice pudding with apricot jam), and were falsely complaining that they couldn’t take one more bite of food. Ian came back, grinning at the spotless plates.

“I see ye’ve enjoyed desserts as well. Can I get ye anything else, ladies? A coffee, or maybe a wee dram?”

“Aye, it was well tidy! Best meal I’ve had in years” Geillis answered, placing a hand on her stomach. “A whisky would be grand, right Claire? And we’d love to compliment the chef, if he’s around?”

Unlike her friend, Geillis was a very good liar, and her expression of genuine interest was perfectly natural.

“Aye, I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige. I’ll let him know ye asked for him.”

The waiter walked to the kitchen and came back a minute later, moving behind the counter to brew coffee in individual French press pots. The large swing doors opened once again, and a man walked in.

What, that bloody giant is James Fraser?

Over six feet tall, broad in proportion, he was wearing simple black trousers, white sneakers and a white chef button-down jacket. He had thick, curly hair, with all the colours of red and gold mixed, just like the woman in the picture, Claire realised with a strange sense of shock. Copper and cinnamon, auburn and amber were all mingled together, made even more striking in contrast to his spotless uniform.

She noticed Geillis was staring, her mouth gaping slightly, and quickly nudged her foot under the table, while the man crossed the room in four long slides.

“Good evenin’ ladies. I’m told you enjoyed yer meal?”

As he approached to face them, Claire assessed the strong, good-humoured face, the solid jaw, the high, broad cheekbones and the slanted, cat-like blue eyes. Geillis suddenly recovered her spirits, her eyes bulging only a little, and extended her hand across the table.

“We did! Hiyya, I’m Geillis, and this is my friend Claire”, she crooned.

“James Fraser. Nice to meet ye.”

“It was delicious, the whole meal was perfect. She couldn’t stop ranting over that crumble”, Claire added, shaking his hand. The calloused palm that met hers was so hot that she jerked involuntarily.

“Well, it did taste like heaven!” Geillis answered, shrugging in feigned protest.

Fraser looked amused, his full lips curving into a smile. “Thank ye kindly. It’s a secret recipe, obviously I canna reveal the wee secret ingredient.”

He attempted to wink at Geillis, but ended up blinking like an owl. Turning his face towards Claire, open and warm, he added “Ye’re English, are ye no? This will be yer first time here then?”

“Yes! I mean, we both live in Glasgow, but we just discovered your place.”

“Well, I’m glad ye enjoyed yer meal. Ye’re welcome to come back anytime; we also have a brunch buffet every Saturday”, he offered, looking at them in turns. “Now if ye’ll excuse me, I have to…”, he added, gesturing towards the kitchen.

“Of course, duty calls!” Geillis added hastily with a dashing smile. “Before ye go, we were wondering…”

Claire felt it was her moment to step in. Reaching in her handbag, she took out the Polaroid picture.

“I know this is going to sound odd, but I’ve found this while sorting my uncle’s belongings, and I was wondering if maybe you knew that woman? We googled her name and connected her to your restaurant, so we thought… maybe you... would know how to reach her?” she finished lamely.

Slowly, very slowly, he grabbed the picture and raised it closer to his face, squinting a little.

“Aye... this is my Mam.”

Fraser’s face was calm but now perfectly inscrutable, with no trace of emotion as he looked at the picture; but Claire thought she had seen his index and middle fingers twitch ever so slightly against his thigh.

“Yer uncle, ye said? What did you say yer name was?”

“Beauchamp, Claire Beauchamp.”

He turned again to face her, blue eyes intent, and gave her back the picture.

“Look, if ye have time, why don’t ye wait until the service is over? The kitchen closes at 11; let’s have a wee chat then, aye? Yer dram is on the house.”

And with that, he turned around and left.

***

Just before 11, Geillis had left on the pretext that she had to work the next day, insisting to take a cab. “Tell me everything”, she had mouthed on her way out.

It was 11:30, and no sign of Fraser. She had seen a very young man with dark brown hair and a cooking jacket leave the restaurant with a wave to the waiters; the rest of the staff was still busy with desserts and checkouts. Sitting at the bar with her glass of whisky, Claire started texting her friend.

          Why the hell did you leave me here?
          You’re the one who wanted to crack this case!

Told you, I have to wake up at 6! You’ll be fine.          
It’s Saturday night. And your new Dr. Watson          
isn’t too upsetting to look at, aye? I saw his picture          
online, but I thought you’d like a wee  surprise...         

Huffind audibly, Claire started texting furiously.

          Oh ffs, Geil, this is ridiculous.
          I thought you’d stop trying to set
          me up with every man in Glasgow?

The answer was almost instant:

Your words, Sherlock, not mine.          

She finished the last drops of her whisky and thought of a good come back, when she heard someone clearing his throat behind her.

“Lass? ...Claire, right?”

She almost dropped her phone, and found Fraser staring at her, wiping his broad hands on a tea towel.

“Ah, Mister Fraser. Are you done for the night, then?” she managed with a croak.

“Aye, sorry it took a wee bit longer than I thought. Let’s talk in the kitchen, if ye dinna mind? And please, call me Jamie.”

She nodded, gulped the last drops of her drink and slipped from her stool. As they walked to the back of the room, she felt Ian cast them a quick glance while bringing coffee and liquors to one of the remaining tables.

The kitchen was rather spacious, efficiently laid out and well equipped, as far as she could tell: a six-burner gas stove top, a double oven, one massive refrigerator and a dishwasher, a large hand sink filled with pots after the evening service, food processors, as well as several wall-mount shelves covered with utensils. The centre of the room was occupied by a large workstation, probably made of stainless steel. At the far end of the room stood a small table with three chairs, next to a backdoor– leading perhaps to a storage room or a pantry?

Claire was so busy looking around that she almost forgot Fraser’s presence, and she came back to reality when she heard him ask behind her: “So. Ye said this picture belongs to yer uncle?”

Leaning on the working station, she briefly told him Lamb’s story– his work as an archeologist, his late career at Glasgow University, his memory loss, his move to a nursing home, the pictures… The more she talked, the more she felt oddly self-conscious. She probably sounded delusional.

“I know it’s been a long day, I don’t want to take up too much of your time… Do you think you might give her my phone number?”

A shadow passed fleetingly across his face– a mix of contemplation, embarrassment and… sadness?

Oh God, he thinks I’m a lunatic, hunting down a perfect stranger.

“I know how this sounds; I normally wouldn’t stalk anyone like that, but I am trying to stimulate Lamb’s memory, and this…”

“No, lass, I dinna think ye’re a stalker; I thought of telling ye earlier, but I was in a hurry and it felt a wee bit… personal, maybe. I would really like to help, but my Ma’ died ten years ago.”

“...oh.”

Claire suddenly looked down, and her cheeks started to burn.

Well played, Sherlock, really well played.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t… I should have…”

“No, I am the one who’s verra sorry. I wish I could tell ye about her stay in Egypt, but the truth is, I dinna ken much about it myself. And my Da, unfortunately, is no longer wi’ us either. We lost him two years ago. Heart attack.”

Claire looked up and saw his lips were pressed together, his jaw set tight.

“I know what you mean, I… lost both my parents when I was just a child. A car accident. There are so many things you wish you could ask them.”

He looked at her then, azure meeting amber, a warm gaze so different from those her story usually elicited; a mixture of grief, calm understanding and openness. She had told Frank about her parents’ accident, once. “In a way, it’s a good thing you were so young, darling. Time heals all wounds; you’ve managed to put this behind you.” She had wanted to tell him then, about the small everyday losses that still bruised her heart now and again, but she had kept her mouth shut. She knew he was trying to be supportive, in his own pragmatic way. And for many people, death was an uncomfortable topic to broach.

“Whisky?”

Seeing her nod, Jamie opened a cupboard and poured the amber-coloured malt in two tulip-shaped glasses, handing her one across the workstation. Raising his own in a toast, he paused for a second.

“To those who love us, and those we have lost”, he said softly.

“Sláinte”, Claire answered with a thin smile. She sipped slowly, feeling the warm liquid trickle down her throat with gratitude.

Jamie emptied his glass; as he turned his back to her and reached inside the cupboard to return the bottle, she head a sharp hiss of pain.

“Are you alright?”, Claire asked, alarmed.

“Och, it’s nothing, I’m just a wee bit sore. It’s been a busy day, and my left arm has been burning somethin’ fierce. Probably just cramps, happens every now and then”, he shrugged, and she saw him wince as he extended his stretched arm in front of his chest.

“Don’t do that, you might hurt yourself!”

His gaze crossed hers, and he smiled dimly, the tips of his ears turning red. “Really, it’s naught to fret for, lass, I...”

“If you keep pulling on that arm, if will get worse”, she said with a stern voice. “Just... sit down for one minute, and lay your arm flat on the table over there. I’m a physiotherapist”.

“Are ye then? But... ye’re so small!” he raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“And you’re so large it’s a bloody miracle you even fit in this kitchen, and yet here we are! Let me have a look”, she snapped back.

With a smirk, Jamie moved across the room and sat down. Claire approached him and felt the heat radiating from his body– latent at first, slowly turning into a powerful wave of warmth, flowing from her fingertips to her solar plexus; it was like drawing close to a campfire, on a cold morning just before dawn.

She didn’t meet his gaze and stood to his left, her eyes focusing on the overlapping collar band hugging the sides of his throat to his adam's apple, while he unfastened his cuffs and rolled up the sleeve.

“It would be easier if your arm was exposed completely.”

“Do ye customarily show up in people’s workplaces and ask them to take off their clothes?” He looked up, eyes glistening with mischief.

“Excuse me?” she felt her cheeks turn crimson. Cocky bastard. “I wasn’t attacking your virtue, I…”

“Dinna fash, lass, just a wee joke. We’ll manage just fine.” The tone was warm and amused, but firm.

Fraser finished rolling up his sleeve, revealing the graceful lines of a lean, muscular arm. Hesitating for only a split second, Claire slipped into her professional mode. She grabbed the crook of his elbow with her right hand– God, the man was a bloody furnace– while holding his own hand with her left, and started flexing the joint, bending and straightening the arm against the biceps. Claire thought she detected a faint whiff of warm bread, herbs and soap, mixed with his own male, musky, scent.

“I don’t think it’s serious; but the elbow is strained from repetitive movement. In jobs like yours, the tendons that connect the muscles to the bones can easily become inflamed. Why didn’t you see a doctor when it started?” She grabbed the top part of his forearm and started twisting outward, working her way down the arm.

“Didna hurt much at the time”, he answered matter-of-factly. “I work 15 hours a day in this kitchen… I dinna have time to pause and think every time I feel a wee twinge.”

Claire moved her hand and started pressing the lateral epicondyle, crossing the fibers of the muscle and feeling them roll and unknot under her thumb. The man was sizeable, and his arm was heavy as lead. He didn’t speak further, but he seemed to relax a bit under her hands when he realised it wasn’t going to hurt.

For a couple of minutes, the only sound to be heard was the steady drip of a leaky faucet. Once again, Claire’s thoughts drifted off to Frank. Where he was slender, lithe and dark, Jamie was large, powerful and fair; a stark contrast only increased by the age difference between them. Frank’s body was lean and graceful, but the lines she felt under her fingers were drawn with the promise of strength, heat still radiating against her palms. Claire suddenly became very conscious of the rise and fall of Jamie’s chest, and the slow, steady pulse in his neck.

“You should learn how to self-massage. There are also exercises you can do to help.” She grabbed a towel and rolled it up. “You’ll need to sit like you’re doing now, with your forearm resting on the table. Hold the rolled up towel in your hand, and squeeze for 10 seconds.”

He started exercising his wrist as instructed.

“That’s right. You can also hold this small bottle in your hand… Move to the edge of the table… yes, like that… and with your palm facing down, extend your wrist upwards.” From where she stood, she could see the long lashes, nearly black at the tip.

“If you do each massage and exercise ten times on each side, four times a day, you should see an improvement. For now, try not to overuse that arm, and take Ibuprofen to relieve the pain.”

“If that’s all the same to ye, lass, I think I’ll pass on the painkillers.”

Claire rolled her eyes with a smirk. “My goodness, you Scots are a stubborn lot. Where can I find ice, then? It will help reduce the swelling.”

Jamie directed her towards the freezer, and she wrapped a few ice cubes in the tea towel before applying it to his elbow. His skin had been so hot against hers only a moment before that the room suddenly felt chilled.

As they sat there, she felt an odd sense of intimacy with this stranger. Of course, through her work, she had learned that touch created a dialogue, brought people closer in ways more complex than they could have anticipated. But this wasn’t it. Maybe her feeling was due in part to the depth of the loss they shared, and in part to the strange atmosphere of this kitchen, where time seemed to stand still after hours of hassle, the sound of rustling pots and pans still echoing on the walls.

“I thank ye, Claire. Ye’ve a good touch.”

His hand reached out as though to pat her forearm, but he seemed to think better of it; the hand wavered and dropped flat on the table. Apparently, he had felt that odd surge of intimacy too. Claire looked away, flipping a hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture.

“I should be going. It’s getting rather late.”

She stood up and he shook himself, like a man rousing from sleep, rubbing a large hand tiredly across the back of his neck.

“Thank you again for your time… and the whisky.” She grabbed her purse and her coat, ready to depart.

“I’m sorry I couldna help, lass… Look, why don’t ye leave me yer phone number? I will see if I can find anything about my Mam’s time in Egypt.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you with…”

“On the contrary, I would like to know more. Truly.”

She saw in his eyes he was telling the truth. With a nod, she took the phone he was holding towards her, quickly typed her number, and gave it back with a smile.

“Good night, Jamie.”

“Oidhche mhath, Claire.”

She walked towards the swing doors, her curly hair bouncing slightly at each step, and spoke without looking back: “And don’t forget these exercises for your elbow, or you’ll regret it!”

“Oh threats, is it?” Jamie answered impudently. “And after I shared my best whisky wi’ ye!”

She turned her head and grinned silently as she pushed the doors open– a warm, heartfelt smile, that stayed with him long after she was gone.

Chapter Text

“And don’t forget to do those isometric exercises I showed you every day, Mrs. Fitz! If you keep up the good work, your knee will recover its mobility in no time.”

Claire stood and moved across the room, as the stout and plump little lady snapped her purse shut and gathered her cane in the crook of her arm. Slowly, she reached the door and gave Claire a warm smile that made her face look like a toffee apple.

“Thank ye Doctor, see ye next week!”

Claire closed the door behind her patient and ripped off the disposable paper sheet covering the exam table. As she sat back at her desk, she noticed her phone was flashing. One missed call, one text message.

Good morning, Sassenach. When can I call you back?

Raising her eyebrows quizzically, Claire starred at her phone for a minute. Who on earth calls their child ‘Sassenach’?   She quickly typed an answer.

 Sorry, wrong number.

Putting down her phone to check a patient’s file, she turned towards her computer screen but didn’t have time to open her mailbox: her phone stubbornly lit up again.

I’m talking to Claire, right?

Was this a scam? Three dots appeared on the screen immediately, and another message followed. 

Sorry- this is Jamie. From The Buck & the Stag?

Suddenly putting the pieces back together, Claire blushed and pressed the call button. There was no mistaking the deep Scottish burr on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Jamie, hi! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise it was you. Why did you call me like that?”

Her question was met with a low chuckle that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She pictured him standing in the same kitchen, running a hand through his bright copper hair, his wide mouth stretched into a haf-smile.

“Sassenach ? It’s just a wee nickname. It means ‘English’ in Gaelic. I thought ye knew.”

“Oh. Well, no, never heard that one before!”

“Sorry, lass. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

With a smile, Claire switched her phone to the other ear. It had been a week since her meal at the restaurant, and she felt surprisingly happy to hear his voice. Comfortable .

“It’s alright. How’s your arm?”

“Much better, thank ye. And before ye ask, aye, I’ve been doing the wee exercises ye taught me.”

She heard a loud siren in the background, a bus driving by. He was outside.

“Good. I’d hate to see your business close down because the chef can’t lift a pot anymore,” she retorted.

“Over my dead body, Sassenach,” he snorted.

A pause. Claire looked at her watch- only five minutes before her next patient.

“So listen, I’ve been doing a wee bit of research over the weekend at our family home, and I’ve found a few things. My mum’s pictures and souvenirs from Egypt. Maybe ye’d like to have a look?”

“That’s amazing, thank you!”

“I’ll be at the restaurant this afternoon. We’re closed on Mondays, but I’ve got a few things to prep up for tomorrow.”

“Today? Alright. I don’t think I can make it before half six, though.”

“Aye, that’s fine. Just ring the bell on the side entrance.”

***

Jamie was busy stocking the kitchen’s pantry with the day’s purchases when he heard the bell, and his heart skipped a beat.

Claire. The name spoke of gentle water stream flowing over polished stones, of honey-coloured sunlight shining through the trees. Everything about her was striking– the loose curls escaping from her bun, caressing her delicate neck; the dimple in the corner of her mouth; the way her chin quivered slightly when she was repressing a smile. A smile that never quite touched her amber eyes, filled with shifting shadows.

He opened the door and took her all in, amber eyes, flushed cheeks... and her usually riotous hair plastered down by the rain. April’s weather in Glasgow was unforgiving.

“Christ, Sassenach, ye’re soaked!”, he groaned, making way for her to come inside.

“I had to park in the next street!” She stepped forward and shook her hair. “You’d think after spending six years in England and two in Glasgow, I’d remember to carry an umbrella around, wouldn’t you?”

She was smiling, but her voice sounded strained.

“Let me get ye something to dry yer hair.”

As he bent behind the bar, she took off her coat carefully, hanging it on a peg by the door, and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.

“Maybe a wee dram with that?”, asked Jamie, handing her a clean towel.

“Thank you, but I probably shouldn’t... I didn’t have time to have lunch today” she smiled apologetically, dabbing the moisture out of her hair.

His eyebrows shoot upwards and he clicked her tongue with a disapproving look.

“No lunch? And ye call yerself a doctor? Come wi’ me.”

***

With the oven turned on, the kitchen was warm and inviting. Forced to sit down, Claire observed Jamie as he shuffled pots and dishes.

“No time to eat! No wonder ye’re the colour of bad buttermilk!”

Making snorting noises, he threw a handful of fresh pasta in the boiling water and crushed a clove of garlic in a pan, where melted butter was starting to bubble.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Claire exclaimed sarcastically.

“Ye need somethin’ hot, lass,” he said matter-of-factly, without turning to face her. “Something in yer belly will help more than anything”.

“I am a health professional, you know. Surely one skipped meal can’t kill me”, she answered mildly.

He gave her a look, strongly suggesting that not eating would never be a viable option, but merely gave another snort in reply.

Still shivering, she admired the precision of his gestures as he chopped sun-dried tomatoes, the knife becoming an extension of his arm. There were marks at the base of his forefinger; left by the blade repeatedly jumping against the hand, bearing witness to every dish he had made. She remembered how hot the broad palms had felt against her skin, and suddenly felt flushed.

“How did you get into cooking?” she asked, clearing her throat and grabbing a garlic clove from a plate.

“Well, it didna happen overnight.” Giving her a sidelong glance, he added tomato sauce to the pan, and the rich aroma made her mouth water. “I used to work in London for my uncle Colum, ye ken? He owns a media company. He hired me as an editor after I graduated from university.”

Sprinkling salt, pepper and chilli, he went on. “But it wasna fulfilling. Spending all my time at work, day in and day out... And, well... life happened. I realised that wasna what I wanted for myself.”

“And now that you get to pursue your passion...?”, Claire asked.

“Well, I still spend all my time at work!”, he answered with a lopsided smile. “But aye, I am happy in my kitchen.” He tasted the sauce, blinked twice, and moved to drain the pasta. “It forces me to be mindful─ walk away for a minute, get distracted, and ye’re going to burn a sauce, ruin yer dish.”

Pouring the pasta into the pan, he added: “I also like the connections, ye ken? Ye meet all sorts of people in a restaurant.”

“I can imagine.” She kept staring, fascinated by the ease and the grace of his movements. He gathered the tomato bits from the board with the knife, pushing them into the pan, and frowned slightly.

“And... I guess this is going to sound daft, but… when people come to my restaurant, they trust me enough to let me feed them. I give them their sustenance.”

After stirring the content of the pan, he transferred it into a plate with a quick gesture, grated some cheese on top of it, and handed her the plate with a grin.

“Thank you,” she said with a grateful smile. “And yes, obviously, I don’t think you’d receive so much praise from critics if you left your customers starve.”

Digging into the steaming plate, she swallowed a mouthful of pasta and her eyes fluttered closed at the explosion of flavours.

“I ken ye’re laughing at me, Sassenach. But you get my meaning. Cooking done with care is an act of love.”

Jamie clearly didn’t expect a reply but as he turned towards the sink, Claire could swear she had seen the tips of his ears turn faintly pink.

***

After Claire had finished her plate, they went back to the empty dining room to have a look at the contents of a box that Jamie had brought back from his parents’ home.

“It’s called Lallybroch. My sister lives there now, with her family.”

In the photo album, Ellen MacKenzie looked out at Claire as she had on the Polaroid; long-necked and regal, slanted eyes showing a humour that did not quite touch the tender mouth. Cairo University, the Botanical Institute, plant samples, smiling flatmates in front of a dusty building, a trip to Aswan… But Lamb was nowhere to be seen; not on a single picture.

And then, caught between two postcards, Jamie had found the letter.

Cairo, September 1st, 1979               

 

My dear Ellen,

 

 I hope you are well, and that you are still enjoying your not-so-new life in Edinburgh. By my count, you must have graduated─ Ellen MacKenzie being Ellen MacKenzie, incapable of doing a half-arse job even if she tried, can I go as far as to assume you finished this last semester early?

I know this letter probably comes as a surprise. I meant to write sooner. I’ve been collaborating with the UNESCO’s team; they are now transferring the Philae monuments before that god-forsaken dam floods the whole island. You must remember François Desroches? He got us clearance from the Minister of Antiquities to conduct fieldwork in the Sanctuary of Isis before they relocate. As it turned out, the Frog is not as much of a complete twat as I thought.

(I just stopped to read that last paragraph, and barely resisted the urge to scratch it out. You’d think academia would have taught me to express myself clearly, but I am hopeless. If I cannot be eloquent, at least I will do us both the favour of being straightforward.)

Many times, I’ve reached for my pen, started scribbling and gave it up as a bad job. I thought for once, maybe I ought to put the past to rest, but apparently, I can’t.

Ellen, do you also find yourself going back to Nabta in your dreams? Four years later, every time I remember that night (and I remember it, more often than I’m willing to admit), I still cannot believe it happened. Sometimes, in my sleep, I am standing in that desert, under the same moonlight, the same stars, and you’re beside me. I think of what we shared, and I wonder ─ was it destiny or chance? Did this night left the same imprint on you as it did on me?

I will be flying to London in December for a conference, and spend a few days in Oxford to present my latest paper and visit my brother and his family. Do you think we could meet?

Q.

***

They read the letter in turns, and once done, Claire felt so embarrassed she wished the ground could swallow her up.

“So your...”, she croaked, “... err... mother and Lamb...”

She saw Jamie’s face had turned blank.

“Aye. I guess so.”

Chapter Text

Claire stood under the shower, unmoving, the steady jet pounding down the back of her head and straightening her curly hair between her shoulder blades. She would stay there, she decided, letting the nearly-boiling flood run over her, until hot water would run out.

She had gone to bed the night before expecting to fall into a deep slumber, but her subconscious had decided otherwise and she had dreamed vividly of a man. Or, to be more specific, of a man’s hands.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the air thick with steam.

Short, clean nails, with perfectly shaped half-moons. Grazing the back of her neck just behind her ears, massaging her scalp, making her moan and shiver from head to toe.

Fingertips callused by the touch of hot dishes. Seeking shelter in the soft place behind her knee, tracing the pulsating artery behind the paper-thin skin of her inner thigh.

Three small discoloured scars on the knuckle of the left middle finger. Lazily trailing along her lips, her throat, her nipples, the soft plane of her stomach.

The ball of a thumb, slashed with a deep silver mark cut by a blade. Gently rubbing the most intimate part of her, shooting hot waves across her entire body.

These hands had been strong and decisive, painfully and exquisitely slow, leaving burning marks on her skin with each touch.

Large, blunt-fingered, the backs sprinkled with reddish hairs.

With a sudden gasp, Claire opened her eyes, grabbed the soap bar and turned the tap to cold.

 ***

1 day earlier

“Look, darling, I just don’t understand. First you tell me to come over, then suddenly you’re not in the mood? What the fuck is happening?”

“Well that’s exactly the point, Frank, fucking is not the only thing we can do together, is it?”

Claire stood up from her sofa and went to stand by the window, her whole body tense, eardrums beating to the sound of her heart. She was ready to admit that her motivations for calling Frank hadn’t been entirely platonic, but as soon as he had entered the flat, nothing had gone as planned. Apparently, if telling him to come over had been a mistake, trying to open up to him had been an even bigger one.

“Claire, I’m sorry, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress recently. But I just… miss you.”

He came close to her again, rubbing her shoulders from behind and wrapping his arms around her- this gesture only making her feel more suffocated.

“No, Frank, you don’t know that” she whispered through gritted teeth, trying to remain composed. “You don’t know what I’ve been going through, because you didn’t care enough to bloody ask.”

She shrugged to loosen the vice of his embrace and turned to face him, yellow hawk’s eyes defiant. For a split second, she saw a flash of surprise in his eyes.

“Claire, you're being overdramatic. I know this isn’t perfect”, he said, waving his hands to encompass them both, “but I'm trying to be there for you. Do you think it's easy for me to juggle everything? Between the department, that seminar coming up, and...”, he shrugged and finished, “...and Liz, I've been struggling to-...”

“Struggling?”

The word crossed her lips like a cannonball, first crack in floodgates kept sealed for too long.

“Do you know what I've been struggling with?”

She knew her voice was shaking, getting more angry by the second, but she couldn’t stop to compose herself.

“I'm struggling to keep it together, while my only living relative is becoming a bloody stranger! I'm struggling to do my bloody job every day, drive to the nursing home whenever this job allows me to, spend time with Lamb, sort out ten years of clutter from his bloody flat, cook for myself, keep time to see Geil- all the while trying to build a relationship with a married man , for fuck's sake!”

At that, Frank’s thin mouth twisted slightly, and he snapped back.

“You know I can't just leave Liz like that, we've talked about this! I love you, Claire, I want to be with you, I just need a little time. Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

“Oh. You’re right, I’m sorry. What was I thinking?” she apologized sarcastically, moving to the other side of the couch. Although Frank had stopped touching her, the grip on her neck hadn’t loosened.

“Listen, darling,” Frank added impatiently, “I know we don't spend enough time together, but did I complain when you chose to go chase a ghost on your last day off? Clearly you have too much on your plate- you need to move forward. Sell that flat and get back to your life!”

The look of unshakable certainty on his face. His righteous professor’s tone. The booming waterfall kept pouring.

“I should never have shared this with you. I thought, he’s a historian, of course he'll understand why I need to do this! But no, all you wanted was to come over, have a shag and go home to your wife.”

“My God Claire, can I even-”

“I’m sorry I made you waste your time, Frank.” In two steps, she went to the door and held it open.

He looked at her for a good minute, fists clenched at his sides; he looked torn between cold anger and hurt pride.

“You know what? Fine. I don’t have time for this. Call me when you've decided to come back from the fucking past.”

Without another glance, he grabbed his coat and slammed the door.

***

She had expected to feel devastated after her argument with Frank, but as Claire left the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her head, a different conversation kept replaying in her head.

“...would never have been unfaithful...”

She crashed on her bed, a collection of memories spiraling in front of her eyes.

“...not that kind of person…”

The way he had looked at her. Angry. Stubborn. Confused. The bloody Highlander was just a high-principled romantic who couldn’t stomach the fact that his parents’ marriage hadn’t been a bed of roses- no pun intended , she cringed.

Well guess what, Fraser, this isn’t the eighteenth century anymore! Life is complicated! People hurt each other!

She tried to go back to sleep, but the voice in her head kept nagging at her.

What about you, Beauchamp? What are your views on cheating?

I made mistakes, too.

Were they worth it?

She pressed her face against the pillow, groaning. This wasn’t about her. She hadn’t written the bloody letter. It was Sunday morning and she was supposed to be catching up on sleep!

Damn you and your nosey arse, Beauchamp. You should have stayed out of this.

*** 

4 days earlier

“Are you alright?”

Jamie’s face was still blank but had gone one shade lighter. He stood up, fingers twitching against his thigh, and leaned against the bar.

“The letter… When did yer uncle send it?”

Claire glanced at the sheet covered in her uncle’s illegible scrawl.

“September 1979, why?”

The sound that came out of him could only be described as a growl.

“My parents got married a year before that, Sassenach.”

She looked up and met his gaze with a sense of dawning realisation.

“Jamie, surely you don’t think-”

“Yer uncle very clearly refers to...”, he swallowed, “...the night they spent together. So why did she keep his letter? This album was in my parents’ bedroom, for Christ’s sake!”

“Well, I have to admit it’s puzzling, but there could be a hundred-”

“Claire, my Mam was a botanist. Our garden back in Lallybroch is filled with rose hybrids she created. One in particular made her verra proud. It’s a braw specimen, white petals with tints of apricot- d’ye ken how she called it?”

“I don’t under-”

“ Nabta’s Secret, ” he blurted out.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” Claire whispered. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, elbows on the table and her head against her hands, the thick, curly brown hair spilling forward to hide her face.

“ A Dhia , no, she couldna… We must have missed something...”

Feeling more and more uncomfortable, Claire stood straight and shifted on her chair.

“Hold on,” she objected. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that she ended up seeing him in Oxford... That doesn’t mean-”

“No. My Mam was true to her word. She would never have been unfaithful. She wasna that kind of person.”

These words stung, and Claire suddenly felt somehow defensive.

“Well, I know it’s difficult to admit, but people make mistakes.”

He sat back in front of her, blue eyes intent, with an expression of complete disbelief.

“Ye dinna understand, Claire. My parents, they... they were different. My Da renovated Lallybroch with his bare hands before they moved in. My Mam broke ties with her family to marry a Fraser! They did a blood vow on their wedding day!” He was growing more agitated and the tips of his ears had turned red. Claire noticed his Scottish accent was even broader when he was upset. “D’ye think she would jeopardize everything she fought for, for a wee Sassenach she barely knew? This doesna make any sense.”

The Gaelic nickname didn’t sound so endearing at present. “Well, believe it or not, the ‘wee Sassenach’ is the best man I know,” she answered sharply, raising her chin stubbornly.

Jamie answered with a scoff. “Is he now? Writing indecent letters to a marrit woman?”

“And what exactly are you implying? God, Jamie, for all we know he wasn’t even aware she was married!”, she protested.

“Aye? Well maybe he should have asked before suggesting a wee romantic getaway!” He sat still, red-faced, speaking through clenched teeth.

“And maybe you should calm down, instead of reacting like a pigheaded mule! Life isn’t black or white, whether you bloody like it or not!”

The air was buzzing with electricity, and the pasta suddenly weighed about half a ton in Claire’s stomach. She became highly aware of Jamie’s heavy breathing, of a small stain of tomato sauce on his tartan shirt, of the light rain tapping against the window. Night had fallen long ago, and the restaurant’s lights limned his face like a halo, the copper stubble of his jaw gleaming dully.

“I should go.”

The sound of her own voice suddenly felt deafening. She stood up, folded the towel he had given her. Jamie was running a hand through his bright hair until it stood on end like hedgehog quills, staring at the deers in the painting in silence.

“I’m sorry, Jamie.”

She wasn’t sure he heard her leave.

Chapter Text

To Jamie, bread baking was a form of meditation. Knuckle-deep in a mound of dough, he allowed himself to unplug and stopped thinking altogether. For a brief moment, he could focus on one task, and one task only. No calls to make, no emails from his sister Jenny about an order to a local producer, no concern about that new girl Laoghaire who clearly was in dire need of training- and had just called in sick, leaving him with no one to pick up her shift the next day…

He sighed deeply. 

Just get on with it, man, ye’ll figure this out.  

He plunged his hand into the cool, whisper-weight flour, sprinkled a large handful on the working surface, and tipped the smooth ball of dough out of the bowl. Only hours ago, this was nothing, just a bunch of simple ingredients mixed together. But during the night, patiently waiting under the cover provided by a tea towel, the yeast had been feasting on sugar, water and oxygen, triggering a chemical reaction, bubbles rising to the surface.

Kneading the mixture thoroughly, he pushed the sides onto the centre of the ball. 

“See, mo mhuirnín, ye will ken when tae stop adding flour when the dough stops sticking tae your hands. If the dough feels dry, just add a wee bit of water .”

His mother never used measuring spoons and cups to bake bread– he had to learn by feel, when she taught him her recipe.

Ye’re a fool, James.

Clearly, the thoughts wouldn’t be kept at bay– and their voice seemed to be Ellen’s.

Ye ken fine well how much I loved yer Da, and how much he loved me.

The urge to punch down the soft pillow of dough suddenly lost its intensity.

Ye’re just like him. Fraser rock-solid heads, both of ye. Ye had no right tae lash out at the lass. Typical case of shootin’ the messenger!

“Stay out of this, Mam” he mumbled, not realising he had spoken out loud. But whatever anger was left had started to deflate in his chest.

Claire.

She hadn’t chosen to be the bearer of bad news. And the letter had been in Lallybroch all along! Jamie knew he had hurt her. He remembered the crease between her brows, the quick colour rise in her cheeks, her delicate hands grasping her knees. Christ, she was so fierce. So beautiful.

The dough was now warm and elastic between his hands, spreading on the wooden surface of the board. Was that how Claire would feel, smooth and soft and pliable, stretched at length upon him? A jolt of electricity shot up the backs of his calves. His mind was suddenly filled with a very clear picture of his fingers gliding on her lower back, groping and caressing her round-...

“Uncle Jamie?”

Startled, he looked up and felt a rush of blood to his head as he tried to compose himself. His nephew was standing at the door, wearing jeans and a cooking jacket, his backpack slung on one shoulder. After hearing about his disastrous grades, Jamie had offered Jenny and Ian to hire their son as a kitchen apprentice on weekends, hoping to keep him grounded and out of trouble.

“Ian! Ye’re late.”

Clapping flour off his hands, Jamie cleared his throat and proceeded to divide the dough in two halves, a little too roughly, slamming it into two loaf tins.

“Aye, I’m sorry, a wee bit of traffic around Kelvinbride. Ye alright, uncle? Ye look a wee bit dour.”

“I’m fine.”

His nephew was staring with a puzzled expression.

“What’s the matter, lad? Are we to blether on all day and wait for these potatoes to peel themselves? Get to work!”

Young Ian hurried to the backroom, but Ellen’s voice still echoed in Jamie’s ears.

Call her, ye loon.

***

“Well, if... that’s not... my Claire!”

Lamb’s speech was slurred and hesitant as he tried to rise, weakly pushing on the armrests. Taking a quick step towards him, Claire kissed his cheek and eased him back in the chair with a smile.

“Hi, Lamb. You look well! Nurse Katy said it’s a good day?”

“C-could... be worse. Been busy, haven’t you?” he mumbled.

“What do you mean? You saw me yesterday!”

She opened the plastic bag she was holding and placed a fresh stack of the dreaded adult-sized bibs in the closet. Looking back on the past three months, Claire could count the good days on the fingers of one hand. Lamb’s condition was getting worse- and God, how she hated it. She hated it even more on the good days, when he was aware of the daily humiliations that came with his inexorable loss of independence. She hated the invisible children he talked to when he was eating, blaming her for not offering them food. She hated the fits that made him go back and forth dozens of times between the window and the door, and empty the entire content of his closet, looking for his car keys. And, above anything else, she loathed that she’d come to hate those things about him, those small evading parts that now composed him. The shadow was crawling its way through her uncle’s brilliant brain, and there was nothing she or anyone could do to stop it.

She decided to be grateful for his eyes’ alertness, instead of the usual blank stare that made him look a million miles away. Today, he was looking at her . Maybe she would get some answers.

That morning, Geillis had come over and suggested a walk to the Barras for a bit of thrift shopping. Claire had accepted, pretending she had any say in the matter, and her friend had ended up joining her for a visit to the nursing home.

“You remember my friend Geillis? She took care of you when you were at the hospital?” she asked her uncle, nodding towards Geillis. The redhead approached him with a disarming smile.

“How could I forget ye? Ye’re the English gentleman who wiggled like a worm when I tried to remove his staples!”

After a minute, they saw that Lamb was starting to make sense of the words he had just heard, and his lips stretched into a half-smile.

“In m-my d’fense, dear… ’ve always been t-ticklish.”

Both women laughed good-heartedly. Claire seated cross-legged on Lamb’s bed, Geillis propped on a formica chair, the three of them shared a cup of tea (a special blend picked by Claire, instead of that horrible beverage sold at the cafeteria) and Lamb’s favourite biscuits, Tunnocks caramel wafers, that he was able to grasp on his first try.

Go ahead, Beauchamp. Now or never.

Several days had gone by since the disastrous evening at the restaurant, and she hadn’t stopped replaying her conversation with Jamie in her head. God, she had been so insensitive. Having thrown a massive stone into the pond of Jamie’s life, albeit involuntarily, she could hardly be surprised to see a few ripples make her feet wet.

How would she have felt, had Jamie showed up at her door and befriended her, only to tarnish the memory of the parents she had lost? Had she become so bitter that she couldn’t believe in a happy, loving marriage, stronger than any obstacles encountered on life’s journey? Or was it only that she couldn’t bear the hard, naked truth- that whatever Ellen’s and Lamb’s shortcomings had been, they were still blurry and distant, far less tangible than her own? Her life was a train wreck. Jamie seemed like a decent man- a good man , she corrected herself. A Highlander born and bred, simple, straightforward, honest. No wonder he hated her.

If there is any way you can find out what happened, he deserves the truth.

Claire took a deep breath.

“Lamb, I’ve been meaning to ask… What happened between you and Ellen MacKenzie?”

Several minutes went by, and she wondered if Lamb had heard her, until he started mumbling to himself, so softly they almost couldn’t make out the words. Geillis shot her a questioning look.

“Doesna sound like English, does it?”

Claire threw her legs across the bed and scooted closer to him.

“You know, I think it’s Arabic,” she replied.

“It sounds like a poem,” Geillis said, munching on a biscuit. “Remember that patient, the one I told ye looks like Jeff Bridges? Braw fella, gorgeous mane of white hair... Anywho, the man has late-stage Alzheimer’s but he recites Keats like a priest says mass. Long-term memory, aye? And that’s more general knowledge than most men I’ve been with.”

“Keep quiet, will you?” With a snort, Claire silenced her friend with a mock gesture of dismissal. “What are you saying, Lamb?”

“She called me the man of sands, I called her the lady of green. Shyly we got acquainted, And exchanged our names. Then we parted. Don’t ask me what happens to things when they break, Or to echoes when they fall.”

All of a sudden, the atmosphere in the room had changed. Lamb had recited the lines in one breath, loud and clear. Geillis and Claire exchanged looks in silence and waiting for him to speak again.

“It’s a poem from… from… ah, damn it. That Egyptian fellow. I… translated it... myself. A-always reminded me of... of Ellen. The... lady of green... Sh-she was a botanist, you see?”

Trying not to press him, Claire took a deep breath.

“It’s lovely. So you two were an item?”

He looked at her then, with a heartbreaking tenderness mixed with sadness. For a moment, a mask had been lifted and she could see the face of the man who had raised her.

“I… loved her, Claire. She was an… an ex-ex-traordinary woman. But she never… saw me… that way. Maybe I waited… f-for too long.” 

She felt a huge weight being lifted from her shoulders, immediately followed by a trail of question marks. With a side-glance at Geillis, she swallowed.

“Alright… But what happened in the desert, then? What happened in Nabta?”

“Ah, we… wondered... the same thing, dear.”

Lamb shook his head and looked at Geillis with a smile.

“Now... it’s getting late… Let’s go home, sh-shall we?” Clearly, the conversation was over.

Oh God, she had to call him.

Chapter Text

As she left the Heathers with Geillis, Claire’s head was spinning, her heart echoing the two-beat rhythm of one single thought. Call him. Call him. Call him. But the relief she felt was mixed with uncertainty. Lamb’s memory was failing. In his current state, could she take his words at face value? More importantly, would Jamie? A cloud passed in front of the timid April sun, and the sudden chill made her gather her trench coat around her waist.

They crossed the property’s little garden and took the downward path leading to the parking lot. Geillis opened her car’s door and slipped into the driver’s seat; but instead of buckling her seat belt, she turned towards Claire, narrowing her crystal-clear blue eyes.

“Ye’re thinking so loud I can practically hear ye. Why didn’t ye call him already?”

With a deep sigh, Claire pressed her back into the seat. 

“I don’t know if I should.”

“T’was a rhetorical question, Claire,” Geillis pointed out, grabbing her purse on the car’s floor and placing it on her lap. “Ye ken the truth, ye’ve got a phone, ye like the man. Call him.”

“I… It’s not the point, Geil. Even if I did like him, after our last conversation, I’m pretty sure he’s not feeling very kindly towards me.”

“That’s what ye think. But there’s only one way to find out,” her friend answered, leaning on the steering wheel with a smile. 

“Oh come on, don’t mix things up. You know I don’t need more complications in my life right now.” Claire squirmed nervously on her seat, fiddling with her patterned scarf. The touch of a warm hand. Small laughter wrinkles marking the corner of deep, blue eyes...

Don’t. 

She wouldn’t allow these thoughts to permeate her mind. She had done enough to mess things up.

“I just think Jamie deserves to know the truth, but I can’t prove anything. For all he knows, I might as well have made up the whole story, out of guilt, to make him feel better.” Claire shook her head slightly. “No, if I’m to open that door again, I have to be sure.”

Without a word, Geillis turned on the ignition and pulled out the car of the parking space. Claire looked through the window, lost in her thoughts, and suddenly snapped to attention after they stopped at a red light, when Geillis took the direction of Finnieston.

“Geil, why did you turn left? We are supposed to go to the B-...”

“Och, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thrift shopping can wait,” she chirped, looking in the rearview mirror.

“Then what the hell…?”

“Claire, hen, I love ye, but I think ye’re just looking for a reason not to talk to the lad.” Raising her voice as Claire tried to protest, she continued: “If it’s proof ye need, why don’t we look for proof?”

Claire opened her mouth, and closed it in silence. Geillis had a point. Maybe she had missed something.

“You’re right. We have to search Lamb’s flat.”

Her friend answered with a grin and switched to third gear.

“Aye, that’s the spirit, my dear Watson! And before we start, ye can buy us a wee bite to eat at the chippy. I’m starvin’.”

***

The car entered Kildonan drive and Geillis pulled over on the side of the road, turning on her warning lights.

“Go get the keys. I’ll try to park somewhere here and I’ll wait for ye.”

Claire walked down the street, crossed Exeter Drive at a brisk pace, and stopped in front of number 20. The house with the red door; her first real home after two decades of a nomadic lifestyle. Rummaging through her purse to find her keys, she suddenly heard someone call her name, and froze. 

She didn’t have to turn around to know it was him.

“Frank.”

Strangely, her tone was devoid of any emotion. How could she feel nothing? She watched him as he got out of his grey BMW. It had only been a week. Had his hairline always been that far back?

“Darling, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I was with Lamb. What are you doing here?”

He leaned in to kiss her and she turned her head slightly, forcing his lips to land on her jawline. She felt Frank tense, but he kept on a bit too forced, a bit too cheerfully.

“You forgot, didn’t you? Our weekend?”

She stared at him, puzzled.

“The bed and breakfast in Luss? Our getaway on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond? I promised you I’d take care of everything.”

Pulling away, Claire rubbed her forehead with a sigh.

“No, I didn’t think about that.” 

Not taken aback, Frank took a step towards the door.

“Don’t worry, we still have time, check-in isn’t until 2pm. Just go upstairs, grab a bag and-...”

“I can’t.” A piercing, red-coloured headache was starting to bloom behind Claire’s eyelids.

“Look, darling, I’m sorry about the way we left things. I should have known you were under stress, and this weekend is going to be the perfect-...”

“You don’t understand. I’m not coming.” Index and middle finger still pressed on one temple, she hadn’t looked up.

The street was quiet, except for the occasional car passing by and the peeps of a couple of hedge sparrows in a nearby garden. Claire took a deep breath, smelling freshly-cut grass and the blue hyacinths that she had planted that autumn.

She found the eyes of the familiar stranger facing her, and suddenly, the headache lifted, and she was free. Free of fear, free of rage, filled with a quiet determination.

“For once in your life, Frank, you’re going to listen.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, in a measured tone, almost detached, the way she sometimes talked to herself when assessing a patient’s symptoms, in the quiet refuge of her office.

“You never really did, did you? It makes sense, in a way. You talk for a living, I was just another audience to impress. You gave me words, words, and more words, and I thought-...” 

He looked up at the sky, irritation crawling through his tone. “If you’re going to make another scene, we should get inside.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but kept talking over him.

“...and I thought, ‘this must be love’, right? But deep down, I knew. You could butter me up all day, I kept feeling lonely because you never actually listened.”

She took another step, and they were both standing at the small gate marking the house’s entrance.

“I know I’ve made my share of mistakes. But you won’t convince me that this has anything to do with love. This,” she waved vaguely, hand travelling back and forth between them, “is just the sad little story of how the respectable Dr. Randall went through a midlife crisis, and shagged his mentor’s niece because she was stupid enough to let him.”

Her voice shook, only a little, when that last sentence crossed her lips. Frank had stayed silent, his mouth pressed into a thin line, his fine brown hair blowing in the wind. The colour was a little dull, making the greys even more noticeable.

“So do what you want, Frank. Take that trip to Loch Lomond. Get a divorce. Try to salvage your marriage if you still can. We are done.”

One breath, two. With a gush of air, her words took flight, and all that was left was clarity and indifference mixed with exhaustion.

“So this is all on me, Claire, isn’t it? These past weeks, you’ve been acting all self-righteous, talking about love and feelings and whatnot, and now I’m supposed to believe you didn’t ask for it?” As he talked, he took a step to the side, inadvertently crushing one of the fleshy little blooms under his heel. “You know damn well you weren’t looking for a chat when you started this.”

Only pity and sadness remained as she looked at him with some kind of disturbing fascination. And you thought you loved that egotistical bastard.

“I don’t know what I was looking for, Frank, but clearly, whatever it was, I went to the wrong person,” she hissed. “I’ve made mistakes, it’s about time I fix them. Now get out of my sight.”

Another voice suddenly rang out, making her tear her gaze away.

“Ye heard the lass, ye shitbag. Awa’ an’ bile yer heid!”

Holding a brown paper bag of fish and chips, Geillis stood at the gate, looking fierce and more than ready to slap Frank in the face with a piece of battered cod if need be. Cursing under his breath, he turned around, and they watched as the BMW disappeared at the end of the street.

“Christ, Claire! Ye took yer damn sweet time, but this was worth the wait.”

Grabbing Claire by the elbow, Geillis made her sit on the narrow steps at the door, and they ate the half-cold chips in silence, turning their faces to the sun, letting the rays soak into their skin.

***

Sitting on a bench in the late afternoon sun, Jamie looked at his phone, reading the text message he had received earlier for what was probably the fifteenth time. 

Hi Jamie. Sorry to bother you. There’s something important I need to show you. Can we meet?

They had agreed to meet the next day, behind the greenhouse in Glasgow Green. The park was a mere 15-minute walk from Jamie’s flat in Dennistoun, but he had left home way too early, pulled by an invisible force. Anxious, he looked at his watch one more time. 4:21pm. How would he greet her? A handshake? The message was plain, non-specific. Did she resent him for his harsh words at the restaurant?  4:23pm.

Christ, man, can’t ye stay still for a minute?

As he looked up and leaned back on the bench, he saw her, walking down the narrow gravel path. As she approached, he didn’t even try to take his eyes off her. She was moving gracefully, wearing her usual trench coat, a simple white and navy striped top, high-waisted jeans, a pair of Oxfords. She had straightened her hair, he realised with a small pang of regret, making the lines of her face look slightly sharper.

“Hi,” Claire said with a featherlight smile.

She stopped in front of the bench, the golden light framing her delicate silhouette, and he found himself unable to move.

“Hi.” 

She sat down next to him and as they turned towards each other, he submerged himself in the small details of her. A hint of dark circles under her golden eyes. One glorious curl that the iron had failed to tame. White teeth worrying her silky bottom lip. She looked anxious- and Christ, even more beautiful in broad daylight.

“Look, Jamie, I’m-…”

“I’m sorry, lass, about…”

Having talked over each other, they paused and laughed quietly, with a mix of embarrassment and relief.

“I’m sorry about the other day, Claire. I was sore, and I said more than I meant. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course. Forgiven.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, only to have it come undone again. “I’m sorry too, Jamie. I was way out of line. It wasn’t my place to tell you how to feel.”

“Och, dinna think about it. I think we were both in shock, aye?”

“That’s a mild way to put it.”

Jamie’s genuine smile sent relief coursing through her. They were even.

“There’s another reason I got in touch… I visited Lamb yesterday and managed to get some information from him. About your mother. But I wanted to be sure, so…”

She grabbed the handbag resting on the weathered wooden slats, her delicate fingers moving like aerial dancers against the leather flaps.

“You’ve met my friend Geillis the other night, remember? Well, she helped me look for a clue, anything that would help confirm Lamb’s memories. We went to his flat, went through whatever I hadn’t sorted out already… It took hours. We were starting to think it was hopeless, but then… we found this in his library.”

She passed him a hardcover book filled with paper notes, its spine slightly worn out. Before the Pharaohs: Nabta Playa and the Birth of the Old Kingdom. Jamie flipped to the back of the book, skimming through the first lines of the summary. 

Understanding the origins of the Nabta Playa's astronomically aligned megaliths seems a near impossible task. No texts from this ancient culture have ever been found, nor is it likely they will, since these people thrived long before the dawn of the written word.

Looking up, he asked: “So this is Nabta? The place they went to?”

“It is. Look inside,’ she answered with a nod.

Jamie opened the book and found a thin letter pressed under a flap of the book’s dust jacket, and his heart skipped a beat. It was his mother’s handwriting. He hesitated somewhat, turning the folded paper between his hands, but seeing Claire’s encouraging glance, he started reading out loud.

“Dear Quentin... You are right, I was surprised to receive your letter after all this time− and yet somehow, I wasn’t. I never forgot the night we spent in Nabta, and I never will.”

Jamie rubbed his face, grimacing slightly. “Claire, I dinna think this is going to help.”

She answered with a pleading look. “Just… keep reading, please?”

Jamie took a deep breath, and went back to the letter, this time in silence.

I still don’t think we will ever be able to explain what happened. It took me a while to accept that. When I came back to Scotland, the memories would keep me awake at night. And then, I remembered a song my grandmother used to sing… “I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise / and the sound of thunder rolled across the land / I placed my hands upon the tallest stone and travelled to a far, distant land.”

She believed in magic and spirits and fairies, Q. Actually, until fairly recently, so did most people in the Highlands. She believed the standing stones had supernatural powers, and told me legends about a place called Craigh-na-dun. She believed that some things in life weren’t meant to be explained, and the older I get, the more I believe she was right. I know your rational mind struggles with the idea, but didn’t your work teach you about the mysteries of the unseen?

We don’t know anything more than we did that night. Who was the man? Where did he come from? He obviously knew what he was doing, so where did he go? Did he travel in time or space, or simply… vanished? There is no rational explanation for what we saw, and I stopped trying to make sense of it. I just embraced it.

What I do know is that we share a special bond, you and I− we always will. But Quentin, and I know this might not be what you want to hear, I would never have been happy in Egypt. Deep down, you probably wanted me to be more like you− a desert plant, thriving in harsh conditions, in perpetual change. But my roots run too deep in the Highlands, and this is where I belong.

Maybe you heard I got married last year. A small gathering, but it truly was the happiest day of our lives.

I’ve told Brian all about our adventures, and he would be thrilled to meet you. Why don’t you come visit us in Lallybroch over the summer? In August, the heather will be in bloom... Not as spectacular as Abu Simbel on nightfall perhaps, but this is Scotland; a simple place where the past never dies, where the door is always open, and where old friends can be reunited.

With all my love,

Ellen Fraser

***

After reading the letter, Jamie stayed silent, head bowed, elbows braced on his knees, shoving a hand through his hair. Behind him, the leaves shimmered and rustled in the declining sunlight, as a light breeze made its way through the trees.

A long moment later, he spoke slowly, choosing his words with care.

“So… they were not lovers after all.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“And whatever they witnessed…”

“I don’t know what to make of it, Jamie. Magic stones? This is madness, isn’t it?” Claire asked, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “I mean, there have been cases of collective hallucinations in the desert, but...”

“...but ye don’t think this is it, aye?”

“No.”

A grey squirrel passed by, hurrying to a nearby tree in search of provisions.

“So they witnessed some sort of… ritual, perhaps. And if we are to believe that letter, the man just... disappeared?”, she asked with a cautious tone.

“It’s a leap of faith, for sure.” Jamie stood up and started pacing in front of the bench, his copper stubble glistening in the sun. “But it’s not about what we believe, is it?”

His face still wore a look of struggle, and his hair was now standing on ends, but when he looked at her, she saw that his blue eyes were clear with interest.

“I dinna understand this, not one bit. But I trust my mother. Whatever she saw, she believed it to be true, and so did yer uncle, and my dad, by the look of it. So, I will too.”

Claire let Jamie’s words permeate her heart- for it definitely wasn’t a matter of rationality or common sense. Somewhere, somehow, was there a place where time and space no longer existed, or where they didn’t matter? Ellen, Lamb and many others had thought so. A place where all things were possible.

“I guess we’ll have to take their word for it.”

Time had passed without their awareness of it, and the last visitors were leaving the People’s Palace after closing time, dispersing in the park. Slowly, Jamie came back to sit next to her. The air was getting chilly, and he was only wearing a light cotton shirt, but she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“I’m sorry, Claire. What I said about yer uncle, it was…”

“It’s alright, Jamie. You couldn’t have known.”

Suddenly feeling exhausted, she thought of Lamb in his little armchair, of his nomadic lifestyle, of the sacrifices happily made in pursuit of his passion, of the bitter taste of unreciprocated love. Did he ever have any regrets?

“You didn’t tell me about his condition.”

She met Jamie’s eyes, filled with kindness and frank openness. He genuinely wanted to know.

“It’s called Lewy bodies dementia. The exact cause of the disease is unknown, but... to keep it simple, it causes protein deposits to accumulate throughout the brain. They damage the neurons until the patient loses all physical and cognitive function.”

With one nail, she scratched a thin patch of moss on the wooden surface of the bench.

“Lamb wasn’t diagnosed until last year, but I’m pretty sure the hallucinations had started long before that, and he didn’t tell me. Patients usually have a ‘guardian angel’. Apparently, his is your mother.”

“Hmm,” Jamie hummed in a low, vibrating voice. Somehow, he found comfort in the fact that his mother was now Lamb’s constant companion. He was sure even an imagined version of her filled the room with warmth and kindness.

“And the treatments...?”

“None. Inexistent. The drugs he’s taking can only alleviate the symptoms,” she answered.

“I’m sorry, Claire.”

“Me too.” Claire tried to control herself, but she felt her eyes filling with tears, suddenly overcome with emotion and tiredness. “He’s way too young to disappear like this, you know? I know it’s still him, but I miss him. How can you miss someone who’s still there?” Her voice cracked, and she crossed her arms, looking away.

Instead of looking embarrassed or changing the subject, Jamie drew closer in silence, and gathered her firmly against him. At first, she tried to pull against his grip, resisting the comfort offered; but when she found herself enveloped by his warmth, her face buried against the pillar of his neck, she felt something crack inside her, something cold and dark she hadn't even known was there. One tear rolled down her cheek, quickly followed by another, and another. Within seconds, a salted stream was flowing down her face.

“Na cuir dragh ort féin, a thasgaidh…”

As Jamie sat rocking her gently, muttering soft Gaelic in her ear and smoothing her hair with one hand, Claire wept bitterly, surrendering momentarily to the heartbreak, the confusion, the fear, the exhaustion, allowing her entire body to tremble. She cried for Lamb, for her lost childhood, for the memories forever buried in the sand, for the lie she had briefly lived with Frank, for the battles she had fought in vain, for Ellen gone too soon. She cried until her chest hurt, until her head felt caught in a vise, and until Jamie’s impeccable tartan shirt was soaked wet. 

After a while, she began to quiet a bit, but Jamie kept stroking her neck and back, offering her the comfort of his broad, warm chest. In spite of the circumstances, the feeling of Claire’s body against his was intoxicating. Knowing she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fluttered shut and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with her delicate scent of honey and sweet almond.

When the shadows grew longer and the night began to fall, he felt her stir and pat her coat’s pockets for a tissue. He gave her space to dab her eyes and wipe her nose, one hand still in her back, not willing to break contact. A little flushed, Claire didn’t meet his gaze, but coughed and cleared her throat before speaking in a small voice.

“There’s something else I want you to know.”

She didn’t look up, but felt the burn of Jamie’s eyes searching through the growing darkness, trying to meet her own.

“I think… I think the reason I got so mad the other day was because I… I was seeing someone. A married man. I think your words hit a little too close to home.”

She felt Jamie’s hand still on her back. No turning back now. She had to keep speaking before her courage failed her. Somehow, she felt he had to know.

“I thought we had... something. It went on for a few months. But in the end, I realised we were both looking for an escape, so I… I ended it,” she sniffed.

After shaking his head slightly, Jamie was silent for a moment and stretched against the backrest, noticing the first star to appear in the moonless sky.

This was it, she thought. She had revealed herself to him, and he was going to walk away.

Not that I blame you, Fraser. You’re so much better than that.

Her throat tight and dry, she was ready to rise from her seat; Jamie must have felt it, and he slowly reached for her, pulling her head back against his shoulder with a sigh.

“Did I tell ye about my brother, Sassenach?”

Confused, Claire shook her head in negation with a sniff, noticing once again the huge blot formed by her tears (or was it snot?) on Jamie’s shirt. If he noticed, he didn’t seem to mind. God, she was disgusting. A sorry-ass whiner, Beauchamp, that’s what you are.

Her attention was drawn back to reality as he spoke again, with a tone she hadn’t heard from him before.

“He was on his way to Lallybroch, coming back from university to celebrate his twentieth birthday wi’ us later that week; my parents, my sister Jenny and I. His car was hit by a drunk driver. He was killed instantly.”

Without a word, Claire placed a hand on Jamie’s arm, a fresh tear rolling down her face. At this rate, she would keep blubbering until she’d reach the point of fatal dehydration, but she couldn’t help it. The list of their combined losses was getting longer every time they met.

“Anyway… I was 5 years younger than him, and we were verra close, so… well, I didna ken how to deal with his death. So I started… acting out.”

His tone was calm and composed, but in the silence between the words, she heard the echo of an unspeakable grief, polished by time, but always beyond healing.

“I started skipping school… began mixing with the wrong crowds, did stupid things.” He looked down, giving her a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I had my parents worried sick, I can tell ye that much.”

“One day, someone in the group thought it’d be good fun to steal a motorcycle or two, and race down a train track. So of course, I volunteered, aye?”, he snorted without humor. “That didna go verra well. I was wearing a helmet but riding in a t-shirt and jeans, and when I tried to cross…”

Claire shuddered, remembering his reluctance to take off his cooking jacket, the night they had met at the restaurant. She knew all too well the injuries commonly suffered in such an accident. She saw them every day.

“The motorcycle flipped and I was dragged on my back for 30 feet or so. Wasna pretty. But I was lucky.”

After a pause, he shook himself, like a man rousing from sleep.

“Anyway, what I’m tryin’ to say, Claire, is that… I made some verra bad choices when I was a lad. Christ knows I lived to regret them. I hurt my family by putting myself in danger, by adding to my parents’ distress.”

He let out a deep sigh and frowned, as if the word left an unpleasant taste on his tongue. “But as much as they wanted to smack my heid, rightly so, they chose not to hold that time against me. Because they knew I was grievin’, and they saw I was asking for help.”

Claire’s tears were flowing once again, but this time they were warm and comforting, giving some relief to her weary heart.

“So,” he said in a low voice, holding her tighter, “I’m chosin’ not to let yer mistakes define ye. We haven’t known each other long, but I ken fine well ye deserve better than that.”

Night had finally come, and all was quiet. In the darkness, a lonely robin sang its final song from a nearby bush. They could even hear the whisper of the fountain at the entrance of the park.

“What was his name? Your brother?” Muffled against his chest, Claire’s voice sounded strained but more peaceful. 

“William.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. Jamie smoothed her hair from her face, marvelling at its silken texture. In the night-time air, laden with humidity, it was slowly returning to its naturally curly state. Her body slacked and she leaned tiredly into the curve of his neck, with a sigh that broke his heart.

“Be still, mo nighean donn. Lay yer head. Ye’re alright. It will be alright.”

Chapter Text

“Claire, I’m verra sorry, but I have to ask ye to leave my kitchen. Immediately.”

Biting back the laugh that was bubbling in her chest, Claire pretended to be completely absorbed in her task, chopping the chocolate as finely as possible with the back of the knife.

“Look, all I’m saying is that the the difference isn’t that obvious. The taste is pretty similar!”

“Mary, Michael and Bride!” Jamie threw his hands in the air in feigned indignation, glaring at her with a shocked expression. “And to think ye’ve lived in Scotland for almost three years! ‘Tis blasphemy!”

This time, Claire couldn’t suppress the snort that erupted out of her.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, why do you Scots always have to be so dramatic? All this fuss for a bloody drink?”

“Lass, ‘tis more than a drink and ye ken it well!” he sighed, moving across the kitchen to grab another mixing bowl. “This beverage is deeply tied up with our childhood, our sense of identity. Forget flag-waving, its sweet taste makes me proud to be Scottish!” he finished, placing his right hand on his heart.

“Well, national emblem or not, the new recipe tastes exactly the same,” Claire retorted, putting down the knife on the chopping board. “Besides, I’ll have you know that even with half the sugar content, from a medical point of view, Irn Bru is a public health hazard.”

“And I’ll have ye know, Doctor Beauchamp, that I like to live dangerously!” He clicked his tongue, one of the many disapproving noises she had heard from him, but his eyes were twinkling in amusement.

“Fine! They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our Bru!”, she quoted with a grin, nibbling on a piece of chocolate. As expected, Jamie’s reaction was immediate.

“Och, don’t get me started on that sorry excuse for a movie, Sassenach. If ye tell me you loved it, we won’t be friends any longer.” Turning his back, he opened the smaller fridge. “Mac an donais, where is the cream?”

Claire smiled but didn’t answer, gathering the bits of chocolate on the cutting board while Jamie looked deeper into the fridge.

Friends.

Yes, she supposed that’s what they were. Two weeks had gone by since their conversation in the park- eternity in the blink of an eye. That evening, he had walked her to her car in silence, placing one arm around her shoulder without a hint of seduction or pretense. And she had let him, like it was the most natural thing in the world, not ready to break the unspeakable bond that now tied them to each other. Standing on London Road, after a brief moment of hesitation, they had shared a hug, a little awkward but not embarrassed, a little heartbroken but full of hope, and wished each other good night. No other words were necessary.

Once home, Claire had undressed in a haze, gone to bed, and slept ten hours straight. Her memories were a little blurry around the edges, like a watercolour painting diluted in tears, but the raw emotions were still pulsing under her skin, as vivid as ever. The burst of unbearable sadness. The warm embrace of his arms. The fear of disappointing him. The unintelligible but comforting words whispered in her hair. The clean smell of his shirt and the carved muscles underneath. The rasp of his cheek against her temple. Each sensation was engraved in her heart, almost painful in its intensity, leaving her hungry for more.

Friends.

“Found it! How are things looking over here, Sassenach?”

Claire snapped to attention at Jamie’s question and sat straighter on her stool, while he poured the cream into a pot and placed it on the stove.

“Great! I think I’m done; what do you say?”

He moved to her side to inspect the chopped chocolate, moving the larger chunks to the side with the edge of the serrated knife.

“Aye, that’s not bad. Ye did well! These bits can be chopped a wee bit more finely; otherwise they won’t melt evenly before the cream cools.” The knife moved in rapid-fire strokes under his hands, and he transferred everything into a bowl. “Now, while ye’re at it, ye can cut shavings for serving.”

Moving behind Claire, Jamie gave her a vegetable peeler and placed his right hand on top of hers, holding a block of chocolate in his left.

“Like this, see? Press here with your thumb, and slide… Ye dinna want to push too hard, otherwise it’ll break. Stay on the surface… Aye, perfect.”

They had met several times over the past two weeks: one coffee over the weekend, a few early dinners at the restaurant before the evening service... Claire looked transformed, like a burden had been lifted off her shoulders, and he could see she was opening up. Whatever was this powerful force between them, he would keep his feelings in check rather than scare her away. And yet it was stronger than him, he had to be near her, and the more time went by, the more he realised he couldn’t be near her without feeling the consuming need to touch her again.

The milk chocolate softly curled against the blade, falling on the board like a delicate snowflake- her hair was exactly the same colour, he realised, only a few inches under his chin. In a flash, he saw himself burying his face in the soft curls, tugging her against his chest to bury his lips in the crook of her neck, let them travel down her throat to the shadowed hollow at its base, where her pulse was pounding madly- or was he imagining it?

Jamie straightened up and reluctantly let go of her hand.

“Alright, ye keep going. I think the cream is ready.”

“Yes, chef,” she answered with a little smile, not taking her eyes off the knife and biting her lip in concentration. Christ, she was beautiful . Did she feel the same force he felt between them? Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and she cleared her voice before opening her mouth.

“Do you have plans for the weekend?”

“Aye, actually, I do. It’s funny ye should ask, Sassenach, I was wondering...” Jamie poured the hot cream over the chocolate, stirring slowly at first. Now was the perfect time to ask. “Jenny persuaded me to have a wee gathering on Saturday, here, at the restaurant.”

“Sounds lovely! What’s the occasion?”

“Well… I’m turning 33,” he answered with a lopsided smile. “I’m not really one for birthday parties, so it will be more like a roast meal, nothing fancy. But everyone insisted, so...”

“Jamie, I had no idea you were born on the first of May! I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

Unlike Lamb, Claire had always loved birthdays. Not that age mattered in any way, but it was an occasion to celebrate a person’s presence in the world, to tell them they were loved.

“Aye, it’s always good to see everyone. And so… I was wondering…” The tips of Jamie’s ears had turned slightly pink. “I was wondering if ye’d like to join us? Geillis is welcome, and yer uncle too, of course- we’ll make sure he’s comfortable, and I can drive him back afterwards. I mean, if ye have time… Because if ye don’t, I would completely understand that-...”

“I would love to come, Jamie.” The smile she offered him was so genuine that he felt his breath catch. “That is, if I’m not intruding on a family moment…”

He stopped her with a small gesture, and a fleeting emotion passed across his face.

“Nothing would make me happier. Truly.”

***

“Claire, we’re going to be late!”

Ignoring Geillis knocking at the bathroom door, Claire stared at her reflection in the mirror, shaking her head in exasperation at her own indecision. She wasn't one to fuss over wardrobe and makeup, but this was an impossible choice. The red pleated skirt? Too out-there. Her favourite blue dress? She would probably end up being cold, and the white cardigan she usually paired it with was in the wash. Jeans and a T-shirt? Too casual. With a groan, she rolled her eyes, tossing the clothes on the side of the bathtub.

“Beauchamp, open that bloody door before I go get Lamb and leave ye here!”

Claire looked at her watch and cursed. She had called the Heathers earlier that week and submitted a request for a leave of absence; the care home was expecting her to pick up Lamb by noon. With a sigh, she unlocked the door and silently dared Geillis to say another word, wearing only jeans and a lace bralette.

“Christ, woman, the noise ye made in there! Ye sounded like a boar drowning in a tar pit!”

Playfully smacking her butt in retribution, Claire walked past her without a word- but Geillis followed undeterred, looking stunning in a bright blue sleeveless dress.

“And ye’re only half-dressed! I mean, sure, the Highlander will be head over heels, but his sister? Not so much, I assume.”

“Shut up, Duncan. Give me a second!”

Claire opened her wardrobe, paused, and grabbed a white silk oversized shirt and her only pair of heels. This would have to do.

“Look at ye! Mascara, rosy cheeks, frizz-free hair… Who are ye and what have ye done with Claire Beauchamp?” Geillis took a long, appreciative glance at her. “Christ, I could kill for these glorious curls!”

With a smile, Claire sat on the bed to put on her shoes.

“It's a new hair mask. I'm taking a break from my straightener...”

“Back to basics, aye? Well I've always told ye, nothing like getting rid of useless crap to feel ten pounds lighter. Straighteners, selfish arseholes, ye name it… Mari Kondo would be proud,” she chirped with a mischievous grin. “Alright. There’s only one thing missin’. Hold on.”

Moving to the bedside table, she rummaged through a small wooden box and picked Claire’s favourite earrings, green agates set in an elegant teardrop shape.

“There,” she smiled, placing them in Claire’s hand. “Perfect. I give it twenty minutes until Fraser ravages ye on the table. Now, let’s go pick up my date.”

***

An hour later, Claire was climbing the three steps that led to the Buck and the Stag, gently supporting Lamb by his elbow, while Geillis followed with two bags of presents. Thankfully, her uncle looked confused but relaxed, humming tunelessly and walking at a good pace, supported by his wooden cane.

It was a beautiful day, unusually warm for a Scottish spring. Finally deprived of the sharpness of winter, the air was fragrant with the smell of freshly-cut grass and wet moss, and the world around her was flooded with light. May had always been Claire's favourite month- a time of new beginnings and endless possibilities.

The door was wide open, and faint sounds of laughter and glasses clinking were coming from inside. Hesitant, Claire knocked on the door frame.

“Hello?”

A deep female voice answered, loud enough to redirect Lamb's attention from his brown loafers to the door.

“A bràthair! Someone at the door for ye!”

An exchange in Gaelic, more laughter, the sound of footsteps, and Jamie appeared, wearing a white cooking apron on top of a light blue shirt that made his eyes glow even brighter.

“Claire! Welcome!”

He had combed back his hair, and the russet curls caressed his nape in a way that made her weak at the knees.

“Happy birthday, Jamie.”

“Och, dinna say that, I feel like an old man!”

As they hugged each other tightly, Jamie felt her feather-like touch between his shoulder blades, marvelling at how perfectly his hands fit the contours of her back.

“You've met my friend Geillis…”

“Aye, t’was yer first time at the restaurant,” he reached out his hand with a broad smile. “Good to see you again.”

“And this is my uncle Lambert. Lamb, you remember when we talked about Ellen? This is her son, James Fraser.”

The old man stopped in his tracks.

“Ellen? A son? Y-you must be... mistaken, dear, Ellen is still-... a student, she hasn't got...”

Narrowing his eyes, he tilted his head to the side.

“But your- face does look... familiar. Are you here for the conference? Have we met before?”

Claire shot Jamie an apologetic glance, but his smile only got broader as he shook Lamb's hand.

“No, I dinna think I've had the pleasure, sir. Thank ye for coming!”

***

They entered the main room, where a large table had been set for a feast, with simple cutlery and a small thistle bouquet at the center. Music was playing from behind the bar, and children were running around, shrieking in delight as a large man with a black beard chased them and groaned like a bear.

Jamie cleared his throat.

“Everyone, this is Claire Beauchamp, her friend Geillis Duncan, and her uncle Professor Beauchamp, an old friend of my Mam...”

The guests answered with a chorus of ‘hiya’ and ‘welcome’, and Jamie proceeded to do a formal round of introduction as everyone stood around the table.

“Claire, ye've already met my brother-in-law and my nephew… This is my godfather Murtagh... And the rest of the staff, Fergus and his wife Marsali, Laoghaire, Angus, my cousin Rupert…”

Claire smiled at all of them, a little self-conscious to feel all these eyes fixed on her.

“Dinna fash Claire, ye’re not the only Sassenach in the room! Fergus is a Frog, that’s worse than being English!”

“Tell you what, Rupert, you’re just talking shite because I managed to snatch the prettiest lass in Glasgow!”

Jamie rolled his eyes as whoops of laughter erupted from the group.

The last person to be introduced to her was a woman. She immediately recognised the deep blue slanted eyes, the broad cheekbones, the straight long nose. But where Jamie was fair, she was dark, with cascades of black curly hair, highlighting her pale skin.

“Claire, this is my sister-...”

“Jenny,” Claire finished with a smile. “I can see the family resemblance.”

“It's nice to meet ye, Claire.” She stood and Claire realised she was smaller than she had expected- barely five feet tall. And yet, her embrace was firm and as warm as her brother’s.

“Jamie told me ye were here several times last week? I wish I'd met ye sooner; but I spend most of the time in Lallybroch, between our suppliers and the children… I'm glad ye could come, he told me so much about ye.”

“Alright!” Jamie clapped his hands with a smile. “Now that everyone is here, let's eat, aye?”

His suggestion was welcomed by a thunder of applause and whistles, and Jenny poured drinks to the newcomers while Jamie went to the kitchen, coming back with two large serving trays of parmesan roasted asparagus and fresh garlic bread.

Geillis sat next to Rupert, and Claire placed Lamb between them to make sure he had the space he needed. She found herself at the far end of the table, between Lamb and Jenny, and Jamie facing her.

Absorbed as she was by her conversation with Jenny, she didn’t notice him watching her as she spoke, listening carefully to the soft words, admiring her lips, her lashes, her perfectly-shaped ears. She was here, totally unaware of how beautiful she looked, and his eyes were drawn to her irresistibly.

Careful man, ye’re staring.

Suddenly registering that his sister had been entertaining Claire with stories of their childhood in Lallybroch, Jamie turned towards Lamb across the table.

“Tell me sir, how was Claire as a wee lass?”

Claire’s head turned sharply and she shot him a threatening glance.

“Don’t you try to embarrass me, Fraser! You’re the birthday boy!”

“Full of mischief, I'm sure?”

Feigning a sudden hearing loss, Jamie kept talking; and to her surprise, Lamb answered with a grin.

“Y-you know our lodger in Cairo used to say Claire's eyes were… ‘zzay el fahad’, like those... of- a panther…” he chuckled. “I think the other kids w-were always-... scared of her.”

“I can imagine, she's a lively one for sure!”

Claire smiled but didn’t protest, her throat suddenly tighter. She had never heard this anecdote before.

“One day… she w-went to the rooftop with our neighbours’ sons… They had a loft up there, where they kept pigeons…”

“Oh, God.” Claire buried her face in her hands.

“So Claire tells the boys, let's go inside and hide… N-next thing I know, she’s at my door, screeching like the devil, covered in birds droppings and f-feathers… They’d been chased by a geese...”

By the end of the story, both men were cackling like a pair of old witches. Claire crossed her arms.

“Well, I didn’t know geese could be so aggressive!”

They doubled up with laughter.

Still wheezing, Jamie went to the kitchen and came back with golden roasted potatoes, mixed greens steamed and drizzled in butter, and the largest chicken roast Claire had ever seen.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Claire discovered that the Murrays had met in a band when they were in university; Jenny sang and played the violin, and Ian was a true bodhran expert. Jamie requested a song, and it didn’t take too much persuasion to make them fetch their instruments; most of the guests were Highlanders, born and bred, full of love and pride for their traditions. Jamie was so out of tune that it was almost comical, but he gladly joined in the chorus of “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)”; even Lamb requested “Flowers of Scotland” and sang the first two verses by heart.

There was whisky and laughter and music and toasts and cheers, and all was well in the world.

***

Filled with a delicious exhaustion, Claire was sitting outside, breathing the evening air and watching Rupert and Murtagh improvise a little ceilidh with the children, while the rest of the guests engaged in a heated debate over Scottish independence. Lamb was sleeping in one of the Chesterfields at the bar. Coming from behind, Geillis caught her by the elbow, eyes shining bright in the semi-darkness.

“Claire, what are ye still doing here?”

“I just wanted to breathe some air. What do you mean?”

Geillis widened her eyes and started whispering in an imaginary walkie-talkie.

“Charlie Bravo, this is Golf Delta, the chef is in the kitchen- I repeat, the chef is alone in the kitchen. Please proceed to the premises and conduct yer field mission. Over.”

“It’s not like that,” Claire answered with a smile. “We’re just friends. Nice code name, though.”

“Oh, please. When Fraser wasna talking to ye, he was staring like ye were the most decadent birthday cake he's ever seen. Trust me, the man would give anything to get a bite of that frosting, if ye ken my meaning…”

“You’ve had too much to drink, love!”

“One, absolutely not, and two… I ken what I saw. Trust me, now is yer chance.”

***

Claire pushed the kitchen doors with her elbow, carrying a stack of dirty plates, and was hit by a wave of intense heat. With several pans simmering for hours on the stove and both ovens turned on all day, even the window cracked open couldn’t cool the room.

Jamie stood in a corner, unwrapping a bowl of custard. She didn’t have to turn her head to know his eyes were fixed on her, burning.

“So… for someone who doesn’t like parties, you seem to be enjoying yourself alright?” she teased, placing the plates in the dishwasher.

“Aye, well… Ye ken what they say, it’s about the people...”

“Your people certainly know how to have fun!” Claire laughed breathlessly, remembering the Gaelic song Rupert had tried to teach Geillis. She stood up to gather her hair in a bun, looking for a relief from the heat.

“But today wouldna be the same without ye.”

He was coming closer, his voice soft and a little hoarse, and the world went quiet. She could hear nothing but Jamie’s even breathing behind her, each breath a precious sound.

“And why is that?”

The heat seemed almost palpable now; she felt the blood thrumming in her ears, and her face was flushed.

“I dinna ken exactly. But there is something... something that draws me to ye…”

One more step. Closing her eyes, she felt his warm breath in her neck, blowing softly on the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her bun.

“And whatever it is… I think perhaps ye feel it too.”

Suddenly, she felt one big hand on the back of her neck, warm and hard on her skin, and she shivered from scalp to toe.

“And if ye do, Claire...”

He didn’t have time to finish. Her pulse raced and everything seemed to happen at once; him seizing her waist, her turning around in his arms and pulling his face towards her, and their lips meeting hungrily. It was a long, scorching question, as their bodies pressed together and gave out the same, the only possible answer.

In a haze, Jamie savoured the faint taste of whisky and summer berries, his hands travelling freely, deliciously, over the silky material of her shirt while his tongue spread her lips open. Claire’s arms slid around him, linking his waist as she shifted up on her toes to meet his mouth greedily. With a groan, he lost himself in the sweetness of her, slipping a hand under her hair at the base of her scalp, igniting an overwhelming ache deep in his bones.

The hard edge of the counter was pressed on Claire’s lower back, and she felt something seeping into her from him, a sense of unspeakable tenderness mixed with overpowering lust and strength held in check.

Behind the door, the happy chatter of the guests suddenly got louder, and the music stopped.

They drew away, feeling breathless and light-headed. A pulse was throbbing in the hollow of his throat, no more than an inch from her face. She wanted to brush her lips on it, feel his heartbeat echo in her blood, but felt oddly shy, as if such a gesture were suddenly too intimate to contemplate.

“Jamie! Is the cake ready? Get over here, lad, before we open all the presents!”

There was a slight catch in the rhythm of Jamie’s breathing, but he didn’t move, his arm still splayed on the small of her back.

“Aye, almost ready, I’ll be there in a minute!”

His voice was hoarse and sounded a little strange, as thought he hadn’t used it in a long time. They shared a smile and a thousand silent words, not able to tear their eyes from each other. Claire threaded his fingers gently between her own, her thumb rubbing lightly across the scar left by a blade.

“Claire, I…”

Dusted with golden-brown starlight, her amber eyes twinkled as she raised his palm to her lips, and whispered:

“Happy birthday, Jamie.”

Chapter Text

Al Qahira. The name always brought to her mind the overpowering smell of exhaust fumes, dust, bread, incense and grilled meat, corn roasting in its shucks over a charcoal brazier; the unending shouts of the street vendors passing by, the sound of car horns and the call to prayer in the grey hours before dawn; the meows of a pack of cats digging in a bin; the sweetness of almond biscuits and the heavenly juice of a small orange; the scrawny tree in front of the building; the bright light pouring from the lightwell of the building in the morning.

She recalled walking in the souq of Khan el Khalili with Lamb, wandering a maze of narrow alleys, stalls crowded along both sides. She had marvelled at the diversity of the merchandise displayed; cotton handkerchiefs, hair combs, jewelry, perfume oils, wooden boxes inlaid with mother of pearl, clay pyramids, leather handbags ; and had let the city sweep her away, swallow her in a cloud of sand, smoke, calls, songs, shouts, laughs, sirens and music.

Of her first few weeks in Cairo, Claire remembered very little. She was eight at the time, old enough to take notice of the world around her ; and yet she had no clear memories of the first room she had slept in, the first lesson with her private teacher, the first song she had learned, the first child she had talked to.

Even so, where so many recollections had faded in the mist, a particular memory of these early days had remained oddly clear in her mind. All these years later, it would often resurface in a recurring dream, with no warning sign. That day, she had been out playing football with neighbours in front of the local cafe, where working-class customers sipped a qahwa and watched a match, with the occasional angry murmurs and cries of joy. Raising her arms in victory, she had scored a goal between two scrawny trees planted along the sidewalk. And suddenly, the rain had began to pour. Without stormwater drainage, the open gutters ran like tiny creeks, and the many holes in the street had turned into swimming pools. One of the boys had dared her to step in the biggest one. “Khali balek”, he had said. “Beware. You never know how deep they are”.

Claire knew the smooth expanse was probably no more than fifteen inches deep, a film of water over solid earth. And yet, she had been paralyzed. The puddle looked like an opening into some fathomless space, impossibly deep, a bottomless sea in which the lazy coil of tentacle and gleam of scale lay hidden, with the threat of huge bodies and sharp teeth adrift and silent in the far-down depths.

Even now, when she saw a puddle in her path, her mind half-halted, though her feet did not, then hurried on, with only the echo of the thought left behind.

What if, this time, you fall?

***

“Happy birthday to you, dear Jamie... happy birthday to you!”

The dark room erupted in applause and whistles, and Jenny placed a massive cake on the table in front of Jamie, covered with raspberries and a smooth chocolate ganache.

“Go on then, make a wish!”

Claire met Jamie’s gaze behind a curtain of burning candles. From where she sat across the table, he suddenly looked like a Siberian tiger she had once seen in a circus- it must have been just before her parents’ death. A wild creature assessing her in a mist of fire and smoke, his scorching eyes tracing the contour of her mouth. Beautiful. Powerful. Dangerous.

“Aye, I ken what to wish for.”

His eyes were locked with hers, and she held her breath, still feeling the imprint of his lips burning on her skin. Her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow.

One breath.

The flames went out in a whisper and a puff of grey smoke, and time resumed its course.

Claire tried to smile as she clapped with the rest of the guests. Suddenly feeling nervous, she tilted her glass back and drained the contents; her heart leapt as Jamie rose to his feet to cut the cake.

She couldn’t deny that she longed for him, in a visceral way that had nothing to do with thought or reason. When he had pressed his weight into her, touched her neck, trailed burning kisses along her throat, she had wanted nothing more than to be claimed, to be tasted and touched and used, however he wanted. She would have burned, gladly, letting herself be consumed in the heat of the moment, and the thought now made her want to kiss him breathless, or walk out the door and run.

She snapped to attention when Murtagh cleared his throat and tapped a spoon against his glass.

“Bi sàmhach, èist! ”

While the group went quiet, Geillis handed her a plate, with a strange expression on her face.

“Are ye alright?”, she whispered.

“Hmm? Yes, I’m fine. I think I’ve had a bit too much whisky.”

Thankfully, her friend hadn’t noticed her brief absence, immersed as she was in her conversation with Rupert; Claire was in no mood to be questioned.

“A bhalaich, I ken ye dinna like grand speeches, and I canna say I’m good wi’ words, so I’ll keep it brief, aye?”

Looking both amused, emotional and mildly embarrassed, Jamie raised his glass with a grin.

“Lord knows we’ve had our shares of arguments. Ye’re as pigheaded now as ye were that time ye made yer sister fling a cream-pitcher at your head. A wee donas , ye were!”

More applause and a whistle ensued, and Claire couldn’t hold back a laugh as she imagined the scene.

“That's one hell of a woman you chose for yerself, Ian!”

At that, Jenny raised an eyebrow.

“Careful, Angus, I could turn against ye any minute!”

“And yet…” Murtagh paused until the laughter subsided, “And yet, I do not need to see them now to ken well enough what yer Mam and Da and Willie would be proud.”

Jamie’s face was now deeply flushed, his eyes shining a little too bright.

“Ye’re a man of honor, and duty. Ye’ve pursued yer passion, worked hard, and showed those Weegies what good food means!”

A concert of 'ayes' followed that statement.

“And now that ye’re officially the ‘rising star of the Glaswegian food scene’”, Murtagh added with a bow and a grin, teasing, “I hope ye’ll find time to start yer own family, before I die of old age!”

Jamie rolled his eyes while the group applauded. Claire felt Jenny’s eyes on her, and a knot formed in her throat.

“To Jamie. May he forever feed us for free.”

“To Jamie!”, the guests answered with one voice.

After they’d drank, Jamie rubbed his nose with one finger and crossed the room without a word, embracing his godfather in a tight hug. When everyone came back to their seats to eat the delicious cake, Claire tried to return his smile, unsure of how successful she was.

***

Excusing herself for a necessary trip to the loo, Claire had left the table, passing by her sleeping uncle. It was getting late, and she still had to bring him back to the Heathers and drop off Geillis before the day was over.

On her way back to the dining room, her steps led her back outside, and she breathed in the evening air, trying to calm herself down.

Don’t play all innocent with me, Claire.

She sat on the stairs, leaning against the wall.

I’m supposed to believe you didn’t ask for it?

A tired sigh, a rub on the painful ligaments of her neck.

You know damn well you weren’t looking for a chat when you started this.

Maybe it was the whisky, or the events of the day, but Frank’s last words seemed to resonate all around her. And as much as she hated them, she couldn’t get them off her mind. Was she repeating a pattern? Looking for another escape, a distraction? There was an attraction, no use denying it; an urge to follow Jamie with her eyes, to watch him unaware as he went about his work, an exquisite sensitivity to the small details of his body. But was this another infatuation driven by lust, a physical desire that would flame out within a few months after consummation, just like it had with Frank?

Her heart told her that it wasn’t. But her heart had been wrong before. And she wouldn’t let Jamie get hurt by her indecisiveness.

“Claire.”

Jamie stood in the door frame, his russet hair crowned by the light pouring from inside, his shirt opened at the neck.

“What’s amiss, a nighean ?”

His voice was low and tender.

“Nothing,” she smiled. “I’m just feeling a little tired.”

He sat closely enough that the sleeve of his shirt brushed her arm. She let her hand lie on her thigh. He took it naturally as he sat, and they leaned together against the red sandstone wall, neither of them looking down, but as conscious of the link as if they had been welded together.

“Look... I dinna pretend to know everything about ye, but I ken when there is something weighing on yer mind.”

Claire let out a little laugh and shrugged, running a hand through her hair.

“You’re perceptive.”

“Nah, no great task to puzzle that out”, he chuckled. “Everything ye think shows on yer face, plain as day. Is it because of what Murtagh said? Because if it is, I can assure ye, I…”

“No, it’s not about that… Well, not really.” She stared at the tip of her shoe, suddenly at a loss for words. “I just… I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

Jamie turned to face her with a raised eyebrow, bright head on one side.

“What is this , Sassenach?”

“I don’t know. Me, you, going down this road.” Apparently, she was now incapable of forming a coherent sentence. “I don’t know if I’m ready for… after...”

He released his grip on her hand, blue eyes intent on her.

“After him .”

She let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Jamie leaned forward and paused for a moment before speaking, looking down at his hands pressed palm to palm between his knees.

“D’ye feel sorry for kissing me, then?”

“No,” she blurted out, without a second of hesitation, “No. I don’t”. At least, there was one thing she was sure of.

The warm fingers moved to her face, drawing from temple to cheek, smoothing the hair back behind her cheek. She remained immobile under his scrutiny, trying not to shake as his hand passed behind her neck, thumb gently stroking her earlobe. The warmth of his breath caressed her cheek, and a shiver of anticipation ran down her spine.

“Well, then.”

Slowly, Jamie leaned down and gently fitted his mouth over hers. Unlike their first kiss, this one was full of restraint, almost tentative; but his lips were soft and warm, and she felt her body melt and respond without asking for her consent.

In a way, kissing Jamie was like entering a foreign land. As soon as his lips brushed hers, she got lost in a place of pure sensation, where all that existed was the details of him- his curls slipping between her fingers, the smoothness of his ears, the subtle spice of his scent, the hard lines of his body against her, his teeth hungrily biting the flesh of her lower lip, his large hands on her neck. The experience was both thrilling and terrifying: Jamie filled her senses so completely that her worries seemed distant and irrelevant. But she could not afford to ignore them.

Pulling her lips slowly away, Claire took a deep breath, palm brushing against the copper stubble on his jaw.

With the confidential air of someone about to reveal a secret, he whispered: “Obviously, if ye had answered ‘yes’, I would have been just fine, aye?”

“Obviously,” she laughed, a little shaken.

A group of drunk students was crossing the street, too loud, too cheerful. His thumb gently stroked her knuckles, a rhythmic reassurance that soothed her.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps inviting ye today was poor judgment on my part. It was too soon, and I ken my family can be a wee bit-…”

“No, they are amazing, they really are!” she touched his forearm in reassurance. “Today was the best day I’ve had in a long while. It’s just that I don’t know… I’ve never had a large family, so it’s a little…”

Oh, do get a grip, Beauchamp!

“They love you, Jamie, they want the best for you, it’s completely natural. This is all on me, really.” She took a deep breath, feeling the constraint coming back, and reluctantly kept going. “I really, really like you. But my life is a mess. I swore I wouldn’t go back to a place where I don’t know what I’m doing, and it's unfair to ask you to...”

“We have time, Claire.”

She raised her head sharply, like a deer caught in headlights, he thought, meeting his gaze with a mix of surprise, relief and worry. Clearly, the ghost of the Englishman was still around. Feather-light fingers brushed her temple.

“We do. I am not going anywhere. Well, technically, I am going to London in a few days, but… I’ll be back,” he added with a grin. “We will have a bit of time to talk, just be together, and we’ll see what happens.”

This appraisal of their situation relaxed her a little, and the knot in her stomach loosened slowly.

“I promise ye I’ll ask nothing of ye that ye canna give me, alright?”

He had spoken very seriously, and was now spreading his hands out, palms up, in a silent invitation.

Claire was becoming accustomed to the directness that characterized him- as well as most Highlanders- but it still took her unawares from time to time. Of all the things he could have said, he had found the simplest one. James Fraser didn’t play games, she realised. There was a matter-of-factness about him; a blunt honesty that left no room for pretend. Something told her she had to trust in this.

She placed her own hands lightly in his palms, and smiled.

“Alright.”

Chapter Text

Claire had never been overly dependent on technology. Following Lamb in his vagabondage, she had set up a series of temporary camps- the small flat on Abu Bakr El-Sedeek Street in Cairo, several guest houses in Aswan and Philae, a tent on a dusty plain. Apart from the occasional Internet search on the faculty’s sluggish PCs and a little Sony walkman, the first seventeen years of her life had been relatively disconnected. She had bought her first mobile phone at a local electronics shop, in case Lamb needed to reach her, on the day she had moved to London for her studies- not that he called often, but you never knew. When she had started working, she had reluctantly purchased a smartphone out of necessity; but until a few months back, she used to bury it in her handbag and spent half a day without sparing a thought for it.

But then, things had started to change.

Then, she had met James Fraser.

               16:02    Sassenach?

Her face splitting into a wide smile, Claire snatched the device on her desk, her fingers dancing on the keyboard as she typed an answer.

               16:03    Yes, Fraser?

The reply was almost instant.

               16:04    Remind me never to set foot in this place again.

She raised her eyebrows, cautiously sipping her cup of tea.

               16:04    I thought you were looking forward to this fair?

               16:05    I was. But there’s only so much wine you can taste and only so many people you can meet before your head starts to hurt something fierce.

               16:05   Sounds like you have terrible social skills for someone working in hospitality.

               16:06    I’m better at this, normally. Must be the London air.

               16:06    Or the Cabernet-Sauvignon?

               16:07    Nah. Don’t forget the spitting etiquette. Makes you look like a distressed camel, but at least you don’t end up under the table.

At that, Claire choked on her tea and set the cup down, giggling like a teenager.

               16:08    And the wine list?

               16:09    Nowhere near done. Ian hates me.

               16:09   What’s the matter? Lost your sense of taste?

               16:09   Not lost, no. All I can think of is the taste of your mouth.

A warm, fluttering feeling bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Taken by surprise, Claire had felt the ghost of his lips against her neck. Careful, Beauchamp. Her fingers paused for a heartbeat or two, hovering over the glass surface. What if this time, you fall?

***

Biting hard in a cheese sandwich as he sat on the steps of the Olympia exhibition center, Jamie mentally cursed himself. “ We have time ,” he had told her. And yet there he was, glued to his phone like a sixteen year-old, sending ridiculous texts dripping with innuendo only a week later.

Way to go, mate. So much for subtlety.

They had met a few days after the birthday dinner, just before he left to the London Wine Fair. Somehow, their steps had taken them to Glasgow Green, and they had passed in front of their bench. Yes, it was their bench now, he thought with a shrug and a smile, the one behind the fountain, facing an immense alder tree.

“ Did you know that Bonnie Prince Charlie’s army camped here, in this park? He forced the Magistrates to provide fresh clothes for the troops . 12,000 shirts, 6,000 pairs of shoes… As if he wasn’t impopular enough in Glasgow. ” He didn’t know, and had teased her for being more Scottish than him.

They had talked about her studies in London, Claire giving him a glimpse of the adjustments that her move from Egypt had entailed ( “the street felt way too quiet, so I slept with the music on”) , about his mum who had once told him he’d be some lassie’s choice (“ I told her I thought it was the man's part to choose… She laughed and said ‘Just wait, ye’ll find out, my fine wee cockerel’ ”), about her good friend Joe who now worked in Boston, and his best friend John, settled in London.

They had professed their unconditional love for the Isle of Skye, argued about the qualities of the main kinds of chocolate ( “No, Sassenach, white isn’t even a contender, ‘tis basically sweet fat”) and planned to attend a gig at the King’s Tut (“ You can’t call yourself a true Glaswegian if you haven’t been at least once! ”) . Would the day come when their conversations wouldn’t feel so effortless, so easy?

He hadn’t meant to touch her at first, knowing that if he started, he would never be able to give her the space she needed. But as they had reached the tidal weir, their hands had found each other, coming together like magnets. They had stopped in the middle of the bridge to look at the waters of the Clyde below, and with one palm laid flat against his heart, she had kissed him.

As ridiculous as his last message was, its content was entirely accurate. He couldn’t give a flying fuck about the best vintage of red Burgundy or Sauvignon blanc when he could still feel her lips warm as spring, the tip of her tongue tasting of crushed red fruit and sunshine. He had claimed her mouth abruptly, almost painfully, and slowly she had responded, sharing something unspoken with him, something dark and rich and full of promises.

At his birthday dinner, Claire had been cautious, knowing that loving and wanting weren’t necessarily the same thing. But in their case, it felt pretty damn close. He had never met a woman that he wanted to cherish, worship and ravish all at once.

Wispy gray clouds moved to block the afternoon sun and Jamie shivered, not because of the cold. Lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t realised his phone’s LED light was blinking.

He opened the message, and a smile bloomed in his chest, spreading to his face.

               16:19    Hurry back, Fraser.

***

Claire stood up and slipped her phone into her pocket with a little sigh. After he left, she had managed to resist getting in touch with Jamie, trying to slow down, to silence her body’s exhilarating response to him, and to simply listen to the sound of her heart. Up until now, she had been looking back on the past four months, desperately looking for a sign, something to tell her that she wasn’t making another dreadful mistake.

But as she had pressed that “send” button, she had realised that the signs were already there. The sum of every choice she had made was a path leading her to Jamie. She couldn’t explain their attraction, but no matter how hard she tried, the truth was that she missed him- badly. And deep inside her, a voice told her to trust in that.

Humming under her breath, her heart filled with a quiet joy, she slipped on her jacket and reached for her handbag. As she was ready to leave, the door opened and Geilis walked in without knocking, freezing at the sight of her getting dressed.

“Ye’re taking off early!”

Snatching a pack of custard creams on Claire’s desk, she grabbed a biscuit and proceeded to pull the two pieces apart, scrapping the filling off with her teeth.

“Yes, I want to stop by the Buck and the Stag before going to see Lamb,” Claire answered, tugging her curls from behind the collar.

“Any chance ye might finally confess yer love to the owner of said restaurant?” Geillis was now munching on the bottom biscuit with a cat-like expression. “Ye ken, the man who looks like a Greek statue and happens to be completely besotted with ye? The one who kissed ye and told ye that he would wait for ye? What's his name again, Johnny, Jimmy…”

“Shut up. Jamie won’t even be there!” Claire rolled her eyes, prying the pack out of her friend’s greedy hands. “I told you, he’s in London until Monday.”

“What’s the point in going, then?” Geilis replied in a mournful tone.

“I forgot my scarf the other night. Jenny texted me, said I could stop by.”

“Good thinking, lass, I like yer strategy! Become bosom buddies with his sister, and-...”

“I have to go now, before Jenny drives back to Lallybroch.” Claire swallowed a custard cream in one bite and playfully pushed her friend towards the door.

“Alright, fine. Guess I’ll have to find someone else to feed me.”

Geilis followed her to the end of the hallway and pressed the lift button.

“By the way, Claire. About Jamie.”

“What’s that?” Claire went inside the glass cabin and turned to look at her friend.

“Ye didna say I was wrong.”

She opened her mouth to laugh or protest, but the sliding doors were already closing, leaving her with a vision of Geilis grinning like the cat that got the cream.

***

It was long past the rush hour on the first day of the week, but Glasgow Central was still bustling with agitation. Sitting on a bench in front of the main arrivals board, Claire observed the last commuters rushing outside to catch a bus or a cab, Dutch tourists with bright rolling luggage bags, children crying, teenagers kissing on the platform, families waiting for their order at Pret à manger, a soldier on leave carrying a cup of coffee and a large backpack.

In the middle of the crowd, she was waiting.

And starving , she thought dimly. Seeing that she wouldn’t have time for a lunch break, Geilis had shared a snack with her- but as she was getting ready to eat, a notification had popped up on her screen, reminding her of a group meeting, and the sandwich had been forgotten in her coat’s pocket. She pulled it out and carefully unwrapped it. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread, it was considerably the worse for wear, with the purple stains of the jelly seeping through the limp bread, and the whole thing mashed into a flattened wodge. It was delicious, and she mentally thanked Geillis and her unending supplies.

The food reminded her of the restaurant, and Jenny preparing tea for Maggie and Wee Jamie. Claire’s forgotten scarf had been a convenient excuse for them to get to know each other a little better. They had ended up finishing the inventory together, Jamie being the central point, unspoken, about which their thoughts revolved. A woman used to running a large household, managing an estate since her parents’ death and dealing with suppliers, Jenny was a little intimidating, a force to be reckoned with. But she was also kind, warm, straightforward, with a very dry sense of humour. Claire wondered what she thought of her.

The next train to arrive to platform three will be the 20:17 ScotRail service from London Euston.

Jamie wasn’t expecting her- due to his late arrival, they had agreed to have dinner together on the next day. But as she drove home after work, instinctively, as if someone else had taken control of the car, she had swerved into the opposite lane, swiftly taking her foot off the brake. Her body had known what her mind had been slower to accept. Damned if she would wait another day to see him.

Please, let him be mine.

Swallowing the last rich, sweet bite of the sandwich, Claire walked to platform 3. All I can think of is the taste of your mouth . She started to regret her little picnic, thinking she should have bought mints instead. But it was too late now; the first passengers were already leaving the train.

If she moved towards the rear, she would risk missing him. She took a few more steps against the crowd, avoiding bulky pieces of luggage and a dog held in leash, and stopped. A few minutes passed, and she could feel the blood pulsing through her veins, sending jolts of electricity all the way to her fingers. All I can think of is the taste of your mouth. Leaning on a large pillar, she scanned the platform for a familiar face, raising slightly on her tiptoes. Maybe she had missed him. What if he was already gone?

Please, let me be his.

Just when she was about to take out her phone and text him, she caught a flash of auburn behind a group of tourists. Taking a step to the right, she let her gaze linger on the rich auburn hair sparked with copper and the broad, athletic shoulders. Getting off of coach number two, bent over a heavy suitcase, was Jamie.

Apparently engaged in a conversation with a woman.

A very tall, very attractive woman.

Who was now laughing and laying a hand on his arm.

Claire couldn’t see Jamie’s face, as his back was turned towards her. Motionless in the middle of the platform, she felt the urge to turn around, but her feet refused to move as blood left her face. They were approaching. Get a grip, Beauchamp! The woman ( who was she, damn her? ) was wearing a bloody jumpsuit- the kind of outfit that always made her arse look way too big and her waist way too wide. Tanned skin, soft blond hair the colour of crème brûlée, hypnotic blue eyes.

“Claire.”

Startled, she stared at Jamie without speaking, tearing her gaze away from her . A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed and his long mouth curled in a smile, his eyes filled with something that made her stomach flutter.

“Jamie.”

Her voice must have betrayed her, because he suddenly looked concerned and took two steps towards her. He hadn’t changed , she thought. How the bloody hell could he have changed , you idiot , you saw him five days ago . Still, she marvelled at the broad, good-humored face she had held between her hands; the odd eyelashes, blond at the root, auburn at the tips, that had brushed against her forehead as she cried in the park; the full lips she had unsealed with the tip of her tongue.

She stared into that face she knew so well and not enough, more real than anything had ever been.

Hers, and hers alone.

Hers to worship, and hers to claim.

Hers .

She only hesitated for a second. Filling the gap between them, she cupped his face with both hands, and without a thought for the woman or the world around them, she kissed him.

***

As they walked hand in hand in silence, taking a narrow side street where Claire had parked her car, Jamie tried to make sense of everything that had happened over the past hours. It had been a long train ride. He had hoped he would get some rest, but his very French, very chatty neighbour kept raving about Californian wine producers- until he had pretended to fall asleep. When they got off in Glasgow Central, she was still babbling.

Then, there had been Claire on the platform, so beautiful in an oversized white cardigan, looking torn between deep annoyance and… something else. There was something different about her. She had kissed him hard enough to leave the taste of blood in his mouth, with a painful urgency, wild and fierce and wanting, grabbing his hair and the back of his neck.

His lips still tingled from the memory, and he let out a nervous cough as all the warmth in his body suddenly seemed to rush southward.

They stood on the platform, clinging to each other as their bodies melt together. Claire, a living flame in his arms. Claire, filling his senses so completely that he barely remembered to breathe. Claire, searing his skin, filling his veins with fire. She was all that mattered, and she was there, and she was home.

“Well, I… should be going, I think.”

Hearing the awkward voice in his back, they broke the kiss, remembering they were not alone- damn the Frenchwoman! As he leaned his forehead against hers, he met Claire’s gaze, dark and almost defiant.

“Aye, of course!” He turned around, a little shaken, trying to look composed. “Claire, this is Anne-Lise de Marillac. She’s the head sommelier at the Roi Soleil in Kensington, and I attended a training session she was hosting…”

“It’s nice to meet you, Claire.”

Claire extended her hand with a sharp glance.

“Et moi de même, enchantée.”

After a polite exchange, friendly smiles and assessing glances, Anne-Lise had finally left, and Claire hadn’t said a word since then.

They stopped in front of her car, but instead of opening the door, she turned to face him. Summer was only a few weeks away, and the days were getting longer. Hit by a late ray of sun, her face was glowing; he could see the amber sparkle of her eyes, and a hint of golden peach fuzz below her ear.

“You’re back.”

It was a statement, not a question, but he felt the need to answer anyway.

“Aye. I am. And ye came.” Slowly, he put his hand to her cheek and traced the delicate bones with his thumb, over and over again. “I didna ken ye spoke French.”

Claire shrugged, looking annoyed and mildly abashed.

“Only when I have to.”

She noticed that Jamie’s pupils were suddenly fully dilated, and he glanced down at her, a wry smile on his lips.

“Jealous, were ye?”

“Of, please,” she scoffed, “don’t flatter yourself, Fraser.”

He raised his eyebrows, smirking.

“Christ, ye are jealous.”

“I am not.”

“Ye ken I barely know her, aye? She’s just a colleague.”

“I am not jealous!” Claire pulled back, now feeling more than a little irritated, at him or herself. “I mean, she was all over you, but the poor thing doesn’t know what I saved her from. You’re insufferable.”

His face was split into a wide grin, but his eyes remained serious and intent on her.

“And yet, here ye are. Why?”

A heartbeat, two.

What if this time, you fall?

The sunset was reflected in a puddle at their feet, a pool of molten gold and ash grey in the dark asphalt.

I’ll never know until I try.

Slapping his chest lightly, she stepped into his embrace.

“Because I bloody well can't do without you, Jamie Fraser, and that's all about it. Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

Chapter Text

“So... why the hell did ye not actually bring him home?”

Geillis was glaring at her, sitting cross-legged on the limp couch of the staff break room and looking so scandalised that Claire couldn’t help but laugh.

“Jamie had spent the whole day travelling, and I just thought- oh, please stop rolling your eyes at me, they’ll be stuck that way!”

Geillis scoffed and dramatically laid back on the couch, stretching her legs in front of her.

“Christ, Claire!”

“What? You make it sound like I committed some heinous crime.”

“Aye! It is a crime not to bed that man, and I blame ye for it!” Geilis paused, narrowing her eyes to mere slits. “So nothing happened? Ye just... dropped him off?”

“Well, no... His fridge was empty and it was late, so we went to the restaurant to have a bite to eat.”

“Oh, ye are hopeless,” her friend answered as she drained her cup of coffee.

Claire blew on her tea, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Some memories were not meant to be shared.

***

2 days earlier

“Here’s a thought: why don’t you let me prepare something, for once?”

Jamie interrupted his inventory of the fridge and threw her an amused look- with maybe a hint of surprise, she couldn’t tell.

“I didna ken ye were into cooking, Sassenach?”

“Well, I can cook,” Claire protested. “Clearly I’m no Michelin-starred chef, but I’ll be damned if I can’t make something decent.” Seeing him ready to protest, she added quickly, “I promise, I’m not that bad.”

Jamie closed the fridge with a smile and took a step towards her, his broad hands finding their place naturally on the hollow of her waist.

“Ye ken I’m more than happy to take care of this, aye?”

She leaned against him, burying her head in his chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the thinness of the layers against her cheek. The crisp cotton fabric that smelled of him and the slightest hint of clean sweat; the hard plane of muscle; and under it, Jamie’s steady beating heart.

“And you ken I love to watch you cook.” She closed her eyes as he wrapped his hands around her. “It’s actually pretty sexy, if you really have to know...”

The fragment of an afterthought brushed her mind, and she would have dismissed her last words with a cheesy joke, but that echo of her old life was silenced by the comforting weight of Jamie’s chin on top of her head.

“Is it, then?”

His deep voice reverberated against her ear, making the hairs on her neck prickle.

“ Aye . It’s like having my own personal, bloody handsome chef.” She looked up, warm lips ghosting over his. “But as much as I’d love to let you pamper me and enjoy the view, you look tired.”

“I am fi-... hmm.” Her small fingers were rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, easing the tension built up during the week, and he couldn’t hold back a small groan of pleasure mixed with pain.

“Sit down, Fraser. It’s an order,” she whispered, giving him her best attempt at sternness.

“As ye say,” he answered with a lopsided smile, his hands dropping to the lazy curve of her hips. “But I will help.”

He sat down at the small table, his hands itching to touch her again, watching her move across the room and return from the pantry with an armful of vegetables.

“What are ye making?”

“My secret signature dish!”

After washing two sweet potatoes, she started peeling them- a little clumsily perhaps, but with a steady hand, he noticed with a smile.

“Oh, aye? I’m intrigued!”

“It’s called shakshuka. Well, it’s a fancy name to describe eggs cooked in tomato sauce, really, but...”

Behind her, Jamie didn’t answer, and she began to worry that her choice might be too safe for a professional chef.

“While the sweet potatoes roast, I’m going to make a dressing with lemon juice, garlic, cumin and...”

“...tahini.”

Her head shot up and she almost dropped the knife.

“How the bloody hell do you know that?”

Almost comically, their words collided, a mishmash of sounds, confusion apparent in their tones.

“It’s my Mam’s…”

“...Lamb’s recipe!”

Jamie smiled and raised an eyebrow; she shrugged with an amused look and bade him to go first.

“She made that sesame dressing all the time... She used to say she discovered it in Egypt.”

“Yes… It’s not usually served with potatoes, but that’s how Lamb liked it... back then.”

Their eyes met and they laughed shakily, sparing a thought for the lady of green and the man of sands who, without knowing it, had weaved another link between them. Clapping his hands, Jamie was the first to break the spell.

“Alright. What can I do to help?”

“You can... turn on the oven for me,” she grinned.

Rolling his eyes, Jamie obliged before gravitating towards her. Strangely moved by the exposed line of her neck as she bent to her task, he kissed her there, softly.

“Done. What else, Sassenach?”

“Fine,” Claire leaned against his chest as he nuzzled her hair away. “You can have the tomatoes! But I’ll take care of the rest.”

They worked in companionable silence, with only the sound of the knives chopping, Jamie at the table and Claire standing by the kitchen island. After some time, she set the potatoes to bake, sprinkled with herbs and sea salt, and finished cutting an onion, tears streaming down her face.

“Damn it!” she choked as she washed her hands, “By now, you’d think someone would have bred a variety that doesn’t make you bawl your eyes out!”

“Och, they have! But it tastes like shite,” he answered matter-of-factly.

Being much more efficient than her, Jamie had had time to set the tomatoes aside, crush a garlic clove, wash the cutting board, the knife, his hands and the table, and was now staring at her from across the room. He extended a hand towards her.

“Come here, Sassenach.”

Seeing the look on his face, she walked over to the chair where he was sitting, drying her tears on her sleeve with a smile, and slid herself into his lap, straddling him. There was something about Jamie, something about the hungry way he looked at her and kissed her, that made her feel bold. After a week’s absence, she couldn’t bear not to touch him, the carved lines of his face revealing their story under her fingertips.

“The reaction fades with exposure, ye ken? Ye should have let me do it. I dinna cry anymore.”

“Oh, in that case, I’ll remember next time,” she sniffled.

Pouring a little water from a bottle on a clean tea towel, he gently wiped her face with his left hand, tracing the delicate cheekbones, the corners of her eyelids where the lashes were almost blond.

His right hand was splayed on the waistband of her jeans, and he tried not to think of her lower back under his palm, curved and arched against his thighs.

“There,” he smiled softly, setting down the towel.

Only a few inches away, Claire’s eyes locked on his, and the kitchen suddenly seemed to compress around them. She put a hand to his jaw, touching the mix of copper, gold and a roan so deep as almost to be black.

“I never noticed all the colours in your beard.”

The dark blue eyes had slanted into triangles of amusement, and he rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand.

“Hmm. Do ye want me to shave it?”

“No. I like how it feels… on my skin.”

His pupils were so dilated they made his eyes look three shades darker. Lazily, she brushed her lips on the corner of his mouth until the connection between them was merely a soft caress, their breaths mingling as Jamie spoke again.

“Ye do have verra fine skin, Sassenach. Like pearl.” He reached out a finger and very gently traced the line of her jaw, neck and collarbone, and quirked an eyebrow. “A lot of verra fine skin, if that’s what ye were thinking?”

Claire swallowed and licked her lips, but didn’t look away.

“That’s more or less what I was thinking, yes.”

She leaned towards him. Later, he would try to remember the details of that night and relive them, again and again. Her mouth engulfing his; his hands grabbing her tight curves and rocking her against him; her cool hands tugging the hair in the back of his neck.

She closed her eyes and pressed him closer, while his burning mouth explored the sensitive skin of her collarbone. Moulding his chest to hers, Jamie ran his hands along her back, found the hem of her woolen sweater and slipped a hand underneath, gasping as the warm skin came alive under his touch. She moved down a little, silently encouraging him. She was wearing a very thin wireless bra, and they both shuddered when his palm closed on her breast, the fabric rubbing lightly and increasing the delicious ache.

Swallowing his name on her lips, Jamie stood up, Claire’s legs still straddling his waist, and brought her on the counter, their bodies hungrily pressing against each other, knocking off cutlery and a salt shaker in the process.

In a haze, Claire started to unbutton Jamie’s shirt, clawing his burning skin in ways he’d only dreamt of. A primal need was pulsing through her- she must have him, or die - and the only things she could register were the throbbing of her bottom lip stuck between his teeth, the goose bumps raising the hair on his chest, the rock-hard pressure against her zipper, the infuriating layers between them… and an acrid burning smell.

“Jamie... the food!”

At this exact moment, the oven’s alarm went off.

They gasped, limbs untangling as Jamie cursed under his breath and ran to take out a rack of charred sweet potatoes.

Claire came down from the counter in a flash, pulling on her sweater as she opened the window as wide as possible. When she turned, Jamie was facing her, his eyes unfocused. She took in the sight of him- messy hair, swollen lips, half-unbuttoned shirt- and they erupted in laughter. Holding her close, he ran his fingers through her riotous curls.

“I’m never letting ye cook again.” His voice sounded low and hoarse.

“I plead not guilty, Fraser. I’ve been distracted.” Hers wasn’t better, and she cleared her throat, smiling shakily. “At least we still have the eggs?”

“Aye, that’ll do. Let’s eat, hmm?” He nuzzled her nose with a smile.

“Now?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Her lips were tingling, and she still felt the burning heat on her cheeks. Did he have second thoughts? Had she misread his signals earlier? What if...

He stopped the flow of her thoughts by grabbing her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and kissing her lips with a muffled groan.

“I have burned for you for weeks,” he said softly. “Do ye not know that? God, I would have had ye on this table and let the place burn to ashes, gladly.”

She didn’t answer but sighed and kissed him again, feeling the blood pounding madly in her chest and lower down.

“I want you, too. Then why…?” she whispered, wondering if - like with onions - her reaction to his touch would eventually fade with exposure.

“Because I canna serve ye properly in this kitchen. I want to savour this,” he answered with a smile. “To savour ye, Claire.”

***

“Hellooo? Radio central to Claire Beauchamp, do you copy?”

Claire blinked hard, suddenly transported back to the break room, the smell of burnt potatoes replaced by that of coffee and disinfectant.

“Ye have the most stupid grin on yer face,” her friend teased, rinsing her cup in the sink. “I ken Jamie is a fine cook; that chocolate cake was-...” she paused, dropped the dish sponge and turned around with a squeak. “ Beauchamp! Ye did have a bite of that butterscotch snack!”

“One more food metaphor, Geil, and I swear we are done!” Claire snapped back. “What does that even…”

“I knew it!” Geillis screamed triumphantly. “Oh hi, Malva!”

Another nurse entered the room and gave them a slightly worried look, seeing them cackling like two excited teenagers.

“Nothing happened!” Claire hissed between clenched teeth, lowering her voice as she sat at the table. “We just... kissed.”

“Really? Well, ye never looked like that when Frank the Fudcake was still around, bless his pathetic soul,” Geilis whispered with a maniacal look on her face. “Plus, ye guys had kissed before. Something is different.”

Before Claire could open her mouth to answer, her expression changed and she moved her chair closer.

“This is serious, isn’t it? Ye really do like him.”

With this sudden realisation, her hilarity was replaced with a wave of warmth and, Geillis being Geillis, near-hysterical excitement.

“Of course ye do, ye’re glowing… Oh my God, please name yer first daughter after me? Ye kind of have to, I’m the one who booked a table when-mmphm!”

“Just… shut up,” Claire giggled, covering her friend’s mouth with her hand. “Yes. I do like him. A lot. But don’t get carried away.”

She was trying to sound casual, but there it was again, in the pit of her stomach- that mixture of terror and absolute certainty. Not one to be easily fooled, Geillis squeezed her hand briefly.

“Good for ye, hen. When will you see him again?”

“On Friday… We’re going to a gig.”

Chapter Text

Like so many venues in the area, King Tut’s Wah-Wah Hut was located at the basement level of a building and would have been hidden from any passerby’s view, if not for the large red sign painted on the exterior wall at the top of the stairs.

It was a Saturday night and after a week of dreary weather, the skies had finally cleared, the evening air almost warm but still smelling of wet asphalt. Pacing up and down the pavement, Jamie unzipped his jacket and shot a glance at his watch- never entirely his, eternally Brian’s. The worn-out leather strap was starting to tear, but he couldn’t bring himself to replace it. Rubbing his thumb gently against the concave glass, he remembered a summer day working with his father, clearing the path edges of the estate; the sharp smell of crushed leaves; the brush cutter laying on the thick moss; the dark hazel eyes shining with amusement.

Jamie looked up, whispering a quick prayer for his father's soul. It was still two hours until sunset; the light had only just started to fade as the reddening sun disappeared between the clouds.

An Uber went down the hill and pulled over a few meters down St. Vincent’s Street. Eyes fixed on the car, leaning against the handrail of the first set of stairs, Jamie felt the now familiar warmth course through his body- starting in his chest and travelling to the tips of his fingers, like a sudden stream suddenly overflowing its banks, pouring into a glen.

A small hand pushed the door of the car open, and his gaze traced the line of her arm, up to the curls caressing her shoulder. A white tennis shoe on the pavement, a sudden flash of colour, and he took it all in: the shape of her, the black sleeveless top hugging her waist, the rise of her hips sending the hem of her red skirt rippling way up her calves, and the smile that split her face in two when she saw him.

“Mo nighean donn.”

He bent and cupped her neck, his blunt fingers soft on the bare skin of her nape. Her hands clutched the fabric of his jacket, dragging him closer as their kiss lingered. He smelled faintly of shampoo and mint and Jamie.

“One of these days, you’ll have to tell me what that means, you know?” she smiled against his lips. “Hi.”

“My brown haired lass, that’s what it means.” He looked her up and down appraisingly. “I dinna think I’ve seen ye in a skirt before.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything. Do you like it?”

“Like it?” he gave her a look that made her hold her breath. “I’m tempted to cancel our plans and keep ye all to myself. Ye look beautiful.”

Suddenly running out of air, Claire swallowed audibly.

“That does sound tempting.” She could feel his eyes on her lips and his hands running lightly along her spine. “But we came all this way, you took the evening off… We don’t want to miss the band.”

“Aye, it would be a shame for sure.” He reached over to tuck a curl of her hair behind her ear. “But d’ye know Sassenach... I dinna think I’d mind much.”

“Brat. Go say this to the fans who didn’t get a ticket.”

“Ye know I am completely tone-deaf, right?” he teased, pulling back slightly. “Dinna say I didna warn ye. I think my last gig was ten years ago in London, with John.”

“One, you’re not completely tone-deaf- I saw you enjoy the music the other night,” she teased. “Two- after tonight, you can have another decade of quiet.” Seeing him roll his eyes, she smiled and tiptoed until they were cheek to cheek. “Three... Good things come to those who wait.”

A dangerous look crossed his face as she pulled back, and he blinked hard, pressing her against him. Kissing him once more, lightly, she nodded towards the building.

“Let’s have a bite to eat. I’m ravenous.”

***

After feasting on deliciously unhealthy haggis bonbons and mac’n’cheese washed down with the King Tut’s Lager, they moved from the basement bar to the upstairs gig room.

Claire had been there twice before with Geillis. They had agreed to claim a spot early to make up for their petite frames, but by the end of the night, they had been stranded to the back of the room, behind the mixing desk. With Jamie, the experience couldn’t have been more different. Tall and impressive as he was, he parted the crowd like the red sea and carved out a perfect space for them on the right side of the stage.

As Claire turned off her phone (“How can you enjoy the gig if you're watching it through a tiny blue screen? These things should be banned”), he marvelled at the perfect shape of her face. No jewellery except for a thin golden bracelet (bought to herself on her first solo-trip to Greece, she had told him), no makeup. The first time they’d met, she had looked guarded, tired, with a crease between her brows that never completely evened out. Today, she was… solar. She was talking now ("Did you know Oasis was discovered here in 93? ”), completely oblivious to her own beauty- unlike most people around them, he suddenly noticed.

“Are you alright?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, with a mixture of tenderness and possessiveness, and bent to kiss her.

“Never better, Sassenach.”

The first part of the concert was played by an unknown singer. She had a pretty voice- not as pretty as Jenny’s, though- but all of her songs were walking the fine line between haunting and depressing; by the time she finished the opening act, they couldn’t decide whether they liked what they had just heard.

And then, the band walked on stage among the whistles and chatting noises of the audience, and the lights dimmed.

A crystal-clear vibration of ethereal beauty resonated from the keyboard, followed by the first warm, textured notes of the charango. The singer’s face was hidden in the shadow, but his voice made Claire’s heart swell.

Olalla more than a name

The crowd slowly fell silent, eager faces and shining eyes turned towards the stage.

Rest your eyes and stay in the shade

Claire’s head was resting on his shoulder, the porcelain of her skin bathed in the blue light of the projectors, glowing like a pearl still wet from the sea. He wrapped his arms around her, offering her the solid wall of his chest.

The electric guitar joined in, unleashing a string of aerial notes, soon accompanied by the bass.

From Olalla to the city lights

Somebody told me to believe

To believe

As the beat of the percussions started, firm and steady, Claire smiled and started to move to the music and against his thigh. Closing his eyes and trying not to groan, he buried his nose in her hair, swaying with her, becoming one with her.

Swept away by the rhythm, letting the sound flow through them both, she was lost- floating in a state of weightlessness, leaving all coherent thoughts behind, riding a wave of sensations. The vibrations travelling to her eardrum, making her heart beat faster. The colourful lights in a cloud of smoke. His soft breath warming her bare shoulder. The evidence of his wanting her, making her knees buckle. Her hands on his forearms. She was gloriously, wonderfully safe, grounded by the strong arms around her. Sanctuary.

Oh Olalla don’t you fear the night

There’s only time left to believe

As the song slowed down and reached its final notes, she felt his lips brush her ear and head a quiet whisper, completely out of tune, heartbreakingly perfect.

“To believe.”

***

Moving across Jamie’s flat, a glass of whisky in hand, Claire took in the grey corner sofa, the soft rug, the small bookshelf, the wooden desk by the large window, the spotless kitchen island. The most extravagant features of the main room were three small paintings and several interior plants. It was a place very much like him- neat, simple, fuss-free but welcoming.

“‘Tis not much, but ‘tis quiet. I get plenty of light in the morning.”

His accent seemed to get broader by the minute. They had made it to Dennistoun in a daze, her hand on his nape and his on her thigh as he drove in silence, the same thought uppermost in both their minds. But now that they were there…

A tremor shot through her, and it was anticipation mingled with terror and bone-crushing desire that pressed her against him.

Unable to find something to say, she looked up and met his lips, a little too hard, desperately trying to slow down the flow of thoughts assaulting her, to stay in this moment.

“Claire.” He stopped her, cupping her cheek gently and frowning slightly. “Ye ken we dinna have to…”

“No. I want this, Jamie. I do.” She shivered, suddenly chilled. “What makes you think I…?”

“Glass face.” He spoke in a low voice, the way he had learned to talk to horses, never breaking touch. “‘Tis me, aye? I promised ye I wouldna ask ye anything ye’re not comfortable giving. Ye dinna need to be scairt of me; I wasna planning to suddenly force myself on ye.”

Her heart broke a little at his words and at the loving look in his eyes.

“I never thought you would,” she reassured him, taking his hand. He was misreading her signals- she was afraid, but it could never be of him.

“Whatever it is between us… it’s different, right?” The words hung in the air between them. Seeing him nod, she kept going. “I’m not scared of you, just scared of… disappointing you.”

“And how exactly would ye do that?” He was almost laughing now, apparently torn between amusement and incredulity.

Claire shrugged and opened her mouth, grasping for words.

“Look at me.” Forcing her head up, one hand anchoring in her hair, he smoothed the crease between her brows with his thumb. “Ye couldna, even if ye tried.”

Seeing her shrug, he brought her closer until his voice was just a whisper.

“D’ye ken how many times I’ve imagined ye in my bed, Sassenach?”

He thought he must have surprised her- her eyes focused on his, pupils going slightly wider. At least he had her attention.

“That night I came back from London, and every night since then… I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes…” He swallowed audibly, and his voice went hoarse. “...all I could think of were those small tender sounds that ye made when I’m kissing ye deep.”

Slowly, she brushed his lips with her fingers, a fire ignited inside of her. He had not kissed her again, as if waiting for permission.

“And I could feel ye next to me in the dark, breathing soft and then faster… Aye, like that.”

The amusement in his tone had been replaced with something dark, vibrating from within.

“And then, I would remember what yer skin felt like…”

Tentatively, breath coming faster, she slipped a hand under his shirt and let it travel to his chest, feeling hundreds of tiny goose bumps spring up under her fingertips.

“Lord, touch me like that again.” He sounded breathless and his hands tightened suddenly, holding her against him. “Touch me, and let me touch ye, my Sassenach.”

Pressing his forehead against hers, he let her unbutton his shirt, and she kissed the hollow of his chest, a desperate urge building up inside her. His skin tasted of salt; she was still shivering, but not from cold.

“I’ve dreamed of your hands, you know?”

The words had crossed her lips without a conscious thought. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms.

“Months ago. How they would feel on my skin...”

She turned around and presented him her back to unzip. Slowly, he pulled the tab down, trying to control his ragged breath. She pulled the black top above her head, and he unclasped the simple lace bra, kissing the spot between her shoulder blades.

“Where did I touch ye… in yer dream?”

She let the bra slide off her, and there was the sudden shock of his chest against her naked back.

“Everywhere.”

Instinctively drawn, she pressed close against him and closed her eyes. His hands went to her waist, unzipping her skirt; it pooled on the floor in a lightweight sound. Cupping her with agonising gentleness, he felt her nipples, taut and hard against his palms, and her moan made his breath catch.

Turning around and lifting her face upward, she let him close his mouth hungrily over hers. Her hands travelled lightly on his waist, caressing his back and-... stopping abruptly.

“Claire...”

She saw the tension in his shoulders and kissed him softly, then moved around him, leaving a hand on his waist. Coming into moving contact with the ground, the skin had been cut and lacerated, asphalt and gravel grinding away several layers, epidermis, dermis, hypodermis, from shoulders to waist.

His throat closed. She was a doctor, but still, he should have kept his shirt; he should have warned her; he should have…

He blinked and composed himself, waiting to hear her gasp.

But the sound never came.

Instead, he felt her breasts pressing against his back, her arms circling his waist, and the soft, healing caress of her lips on his scars, slowly closing the gaping hole of doubt.

“Take me to bed, Jamie.”

Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the bedroom. Along the way, he heard her shoes drop to the floor. Shaking, he laid her across the bed, her hair spreading on the mattress like a fan.

Without a word, he encouraged her to lift her hips, sliding the black lacy fabric off her thighs, discarding the last layer between them. Within seconds, the rest of his clothes pooled at his feet. Never tearing her gaze away from his, she watched as he leaned in, hovering above her.

His mouth followed the arch of her eyebrows, the curve of her chin, the dark curls running in heavy streams on her shoulders, and tasted the salt crystals cradled in the hollow of her throat.

Let Claire be his offering, and let him be hers. He would honor her, taste every inch of her body. Nothing would be left untouched, unkissed.

Encouraged by her soft breaths and her hand on his cheek, he lost track of time, space, everything but the sensation of her body responding to his touch, blooming under his hands.

Laying next to her, their legs intertwined, he cupped the milkiness of her breasts, nibbling the dark berries of her nipples, hard and round and fresh under his teeth.

Stroking the fleshy roundness of her arse, dense and malleable, he felt the thin stretch marks that gathered on her hips, a smooth, silvery velvet.

His fingers massaged the ball of her feet, scraped over the paper-thin skin tight against the bone of her ankles and behind her knees, along the length of her inner thighs, shining in the dim light; and he watched her open up to him with a sigh.

“Christ, I can feel yer heartbeat between yer legs...”

He held her in his palm, a soft summer fruit blushed and sweet and warm, a ripe peach spreading under his fingers, melting in a delicate pulp, and he felt her shake and crumble, gasping, both hands flying to his hair and fisting his curls, her neck stretching and her lips parting into a soundless cry.

A moment later, heart pounding madly in her chest, Claire noticed that he had moved to the side of the bed.

“Jamie…”

In a haze, she heard the sound of the nightstand drawer, a plastic rip, and his strong arms pulled her gently over him. Her breasts were soft and warm against his chest, and he felt everything inside him tighten. He cupped her face as her mouth opened hungrily, her hips flexing to the slow dance of their kiss.

“Come to me, mo nighean donn,” he whispered, his voice thick and urgent. “Claim me, for ye ken I am yers, and yers alone.”

Swallowing the tears that threatened to spill, she rose above him, slowly, bathed in silver light. Her eyes were closed now, her hair wild, her lips swollen, in a trance-like state.

With a sure hand, she held him and sank down.

Existing in each breath between the helpless groans that escaped him, she let Jamie fill her and opened herself to him. Rising and sinking slowly, she watched, fascinated, the cords of his neck as they strained under the skin, the teeth biting his lower lip, the muscle of his shoulder flexing as he rocked her against him. She had never felt more powerful.

Bending towards him slowly, she sucked his neck, long and hard, craving, needing.

“Claire… Claire, we need to slow down, or I’m going to…”

She pressed a hand against his heart but let their bodies sway back and forth, speaking a language they shared.

“You’re mine, James Fraser,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and sensual. “Come to me. Claim me. I am yours.”

Feeling the blood coursing through his veins, Jamie flipped her on the mattress and with no conscious thought, picked up the pace, his muscles rippling with the movement.

“Jamie,” she said against his lips, warm breath between them.

The heat became unbearable as his body coiled and struck her; she jerked against him, urging violence, grasped the curve of his buttocks. Letting out low, throaty noises that could have made his heart burst, she was matching him, thrust for thrust, bite for bite.

“Jamie!”

The urgency in her voice was intoxicating. She burned like a flame, gripping his shoulders, grinding on him, her mouth demanding a fight.

“Ye’re so beautiful,” he gasped, “so beautiful... my own.”

Two more strokes and she shattered, convulsing around him, stroking him, urging him to join her. His release began deep inside her and he shuddered, pressing his forehead against hers. White bird in the moonlight, she wrapped her wings around him and took him home, again and again, swallowing his cries, calling him in the dark.

Eventually, their hearts still pounding against each other, he moved and gathered her on his chest, and slowly melting into each other, they slept.

Chapter Text

Claire opened her eyes in the grey light of dawn, awaken by an ambulance siren down the street. Floating between sleep and consciousness, she took in the unfamiliar room framed in shadows, the heaviness of her limbs, the feel of the light duvet on her skin- her naked skin, she realised, letting a hand travel down her hips. Then all the memories came flooding at once- the music, the visceral need, the fear, the dialogue of souls and bodies, the complete and total abandon, and the name gasped, cried and sobbed in the dark, over and over again, a sacred chant anchoring her to this earth.

Jamie .

Jamie.

Jamie.

Slowly, carefully, she shifted to the left and found him lying on his back, eyes closed, face turned towards her. Leaning back on one elbow, she watched him as the night held its breath for a moment longer. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t moved one bit; his left hand laid open next to his thigh, palm up, an invitation to crawl back into the safety his arms. She shivered, suddenly dying to comb his messy curls with her fingers, to relive the urgency of his strong body pressing against hers; but just sank deeper into the mattress and laid her head back on the pillow. Very soon, too soon, this night would end, replaced by the harsh morning light.

One more minute.

One more minute to watch him, savour the intimacy of sleep.

The long fingers twitched, and a small frown creased his forehead. Was he dreaming, or hearing her silent calls from the other side of the veil? Tentatively, she reached to caress his nape, and he let out a small sigh, the firm line of his mouth relaxing, his lower lip easing into a fuller curve.

The duvet had slipped down to his hips and exposed the width of his shoulders and chest, the lines of his stomach. In the semi-darkness painting his body silver, he looked almost surreal, as ageless as the marble statue of a long-gone warrior laid to his eternal rest. The thought made her shiver once more, and she fought the urge to curl up against him and rest her cheek over his beating heart.

A few birds were starting to chirp outside the window, and she focused on his steady breathing, the smell of his hair, grounded by the mattress underneath them.

“Ye’re awake.”

Startled, Claire felt his husky whisper resonate deep in her bones.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eyes still closed, he rolled to face her and his hand reached for her waist, bringing her closer against his chest. Without stopping to overthink, Claire pressed her nakedness against him, face buried in his shoulder.

“I’m cold,” she whispered.

Tangling his legs with hers, Jamie pulled the duvet around them and kissed her, slowly, unhurriedly, limbs heavy and mouth still slack from sleep. She sighed deeply, enveloped in his arms, and they let their hands roam lazily over each others’ bodies as a pocket of warmth formed around them.

Without a conscious thought, moved by the overpowering urge to give - to bring him even closer, to feel the life flowing inside him -, she trailed down to the line of hair on his stomach, and lower still.

Through a dreamy haze, Jamie felt his muscles clench and his breath stop as she touched him with agonising gentleness. A part of him, blind and frenzied, instantly ached to flip her over, spread her legs and fill her in one thrust, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bear the thought of her hand ever leaving him. Everything around them was a cotton-like universe, soft and blurry, and he could have stayed in this moment forever, facing her, looking into her eyes, tasting her lips, his hand splayed on her back, surrendering to the slow up-and-down rhythm she was setting, arching his hips to meet her, a pool of heat building up in his belly. Time was stretching toward infinity, the way it often does in dreams. Would he wake up in the morning and find his bed empty of her?

Shifting and moving towards the end of the bed, Claire pulled back the duvet, slowly, her breasts brushing his chest, kissing his stomach, his navel, scraping her nails lightly up his thighs, and- ah . Her warm mouth closed over him and he gasped audibly, eyes drifting shut. If this was a dream, please, let it last. The world disappeared, replaced by sharp colours and flashes of light. With each stroke, his whole body seemed to rise and fall like a deep, continuous wave, rolling in, gaining momentum but never breaking. He let himself be carried by the swell, feeling only Claire’s lips, Claire’s tongue, Claire’s hands…

Every nerve straining and melting, he opened his eyes and pushed himself upright on one elbow, touching her cheek, pleading.

“Come here, a chuisle…”

He was losing control, and the thought made her heart pound ever faster.

“No,” she whispered. “Let me.”

The need in her voice took his breath away. Kissing his knuckles, she pushed him back against the stack of pillows and bent down, keeping a light hand on the top of his thigh. He tasted of salt, of lovemaking, of them. Sliding his fingers along the back of her head, Jamie murmured a string of incoherent words that dissolved into a groan as she increased the pressure.

A ray of light struck him; he looked frantic and wild, lips parted, eyes hooded, fixed on her, dark and burning with a flame that seared her.

“Dinna… stop.”

Claire felt the tremors rack his entire body and took him deeper, swirling her tongue in patterns, feeling the blood pulse through him as his hips met her thrusts.

“Oh God… oh Claire!”

Jamie closed his eyes and the wave crested again, higher this time, crashing in an explosion of blinding light. He tightened his iron grip on her hair, looking for an anchor, something to keep him whole when the earth shattered and pleasure rolled over him, wave upon wave, the roaring noise slowly dying down.

***

“Alright, one more time.”

“You’re a stubborn one, you know that?” Claire smirked and laid back on the pillow, feigning to faint from exhaustion.

“Aye, so I’ve been told,” he answered, kissing the tip of her nose. “Just say it again.”

She turned her head towards him and her lips parted, pronouncing the word with exaggerated care.

“Qa-l-b. Qalb.”

“Kalb.”

She laughed and met his gaze, resting her chin on his chest. “No, that one means ‘dog’, not ‘heart’!”

“It's hopeless,” he sighed dramatically. “I'd do much better without all these strange letters, ye ken? Qaaf, Ayn, Sa, and the other ones?”

“Haa, Dhal, Tha...” she recited with a smile, nuzzling his neck. “But you know that's the pot calling the kettle black, right? Look at the Kha: it’s right there, in ‘Sassena- ch ’.”

“Och, Gaelic is much easier than Arabic.” He rolled his eyes with a smirk. “Both languages are kind of guttural and throaty, I'll give ye that,” he answered, making his point by running his lips down Claire’s neck with dozens of light kisses.

“Hmm,” she sighed. “Did both your parents speak Gaelic?”

His voice came muffled against her neck. “Aye. Well, my Da learned it when he was just a wee a lad- his mother was from Skye. My Mam was born in a wee town about ten miles south of Perth, so she was never exposed to the language until she met my Da, but she was a quick learner.”

“Hmm, so that's where you- hm…- you get it from.” Stretching her neck, Claire shivered when he blew a kiss in the hollow between her clavicles. “How did they meet? Your parents?”

“Well, after my Mam graduated, she accepted a teaching position in Inverness...” He smiled. “She met my Da, through mutual friends- he worked as an estate ranger on the Cairngorm National Park.”

He lifted up his head, his body hovering over hers. “Are ye trying to buy yerself time, Sassenach? Not that I dinna enjoy our conversation, but I had other plans for the time being…”

“Did you? That’s too bad...” Nibbling his bottom lip a little too hard, she kissed it softly and wove her fingers into the thick auburn curls. “I was really hoping for a full family history.”

“Oh, aye?” A low noise rose from his throat. Burying his face between her breasts, he kissed them slowly, skimming his tongue across her sensitive skin. “How many generations back?”

“The last-... two centuries will do,” she gasped, trying to control her breathing.

“As ye wish, Sassenach”, he took one nipple in his mouth, teasing her with calculated and agonizing gentleness. “I’ll tell ye everything ye want to know. I need ye to say it, though.”

His breath against her skin sent shivers down her spine.

“Say what?” Her body still humming from the night’s activities, she arched her back against him, helpless.

“Say you want me to stop,” he whispered, shaking a little, hot breath in her ear. “Say ye dinna want me to serve ye. Say ye dinna want to use me as ye like.”

Rolling onto his back, Jamie pulled her on top of him and moved her hips, circling, teasing. Scanning her face, transfixed, he watched the last shadow of self-consciousness leave her eyes as she lied across his chest, grinding, making urgent, husky sounds that drove him mad.

“What’s that? I canna hear ye.”

With a smirk, he closed his arms around her, forcing her to hold still, and she groaned and squirmed with frustration against his iron grip, desperate for friction.

“Cocky bastard. You won't- get away- with this.”

“I’m counting on it, Sassenach,” he laughed. “Now, while ye make up yer mind... let me tell ye about my six-times-great-grandfather James who fought at the battle of-”

Making a strangled noise as he felt a sharp bite on his neck, he finally released her, chuckling, and they didn’t talk for a while.

***

They spent the whole morning in bed, chasing sensations and exploring each others’ bodies. When Jamie’s stomach rumbled loud enough for them both to hear, they ended up in his kitchen after a quick shower, devouring scrambled eggs on toasts and cinnamon buns bought at the nearest Tesco (“It’s your day off, Jamie. Industrial crap has one merit: it’s ready to eat” ).

Buttering a slice of bread, Jamie observed Claire as she tore a pastry apart, lips moist and fingers sticky from the sweet filling. Claire with her messy hair, her sparkling eyes; Claire wearing one of his T-shirts, sitting in his kitchen.

In a split second, her facial expression changed as she took a glance at the oven clock.

“Shit!”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s already 3pm. I have to go see Lamb. Shit.” With an apologetic look, she drained the bottom of her cup and stood up, squeezing his hand. “I’m so sorry, Jamie. I should have thought this through.”

“It’s alright!” Jamie stood up with a reassuring smile. “Get ready, I’ll drive ye.”

Heading for the bedroom, she paused by the door, opening her mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

“Are you sure? I can call an Uber. You don’t have to…”

“Aye, I know. I dinna have to.” Taking a few steps towards her, he cupped her face and kissed her softly. “But I want to. Go get dressed. I’ll wait.”

***

Taking a deep breath, Claire knocked, using their usual code- one knock, three, one, two- and pushed the door open.

“Hi Lamb, it’s me!”

A hand in the small of her back, the warmth of Jamie’s body behind her.

“Do you… Do you want to come inside?” As they sat inside the car, the words had passed her lips without her realising it, and she had started babbling. “I mean, obviously there are better things to do on a Saturday afternoon… If you have anywhere else to...”

Turning off the engine, Jamie had simply got off, walked to her side of the car and opened the door with a smile. “Come on. We dinna want to keep yer uncle waiting.”

His words had been strangely comforting. She knew Lamb had stopped expecting her months ago. Actually, even the chances of her simply being recognized as Claire were slimmer than ever. She could have postponed her visit to the next day, and he would never have noticed, but the thought never crossed her mind. Every two days without fail, she sat on his bed and told him about the weather, asked him about his work, about Egypt, about her parents, trying to help him grasp the bits of reality he could still connect with. Maybe somehow, somewhere, a part of him was still waiting for her.

“And I’ve brought a visitor!”

Lamb shook Jamie's hand, but his eyes were glassy and unfocused, fixed on one foot of the bed. Only five minutes later, he stood up, grabbing his cardigan.

“Well, it’s g-getting late- should go home before n-nightfall.”

“Lamb, this is your home, you can’t…”

“Nonsense”, he replied, frowning. “I’m ex-expected for dinner... Mummy… going to worry.”

Claire touched her uncle’s hand gently, trying to bring him back.

“Look around. This is your bedroom. Your wardrobe, right here… your photo album... See?”

“Please, l-let me go at once!” He was growing more agitated, trying to reach the door, and looked at Jamie. “Sir, sir- call security!”

Rubbing her forehead, Claire took a step back and shot an apologetic glance at Jamie.

“I’m sorry, it’s not a good day… You can go, I’m going to wait until he calms down…”

He kissed her forehead, looking saddened but not alarmed.

“It’s alright.”

He raised his hands in the air, and stepped in front of Lamb, who was still looking for his cane in the wardrobe.

“Sir? Dinna fash, I’m going to drive ye home right now.” His voice was measured and kind. “I just need five minutes to take a wee bathroom break, aye?” He gestured towards the chair. “Ye can wait for me here, finish yer tea, and then we’ll go.”

Grumbling, Lamb didn’t protest and sat down with a huff. Claire exhaled a sigh of relief.

“In the meantime, why don’t we play some music?” Jamie took out his phone of his jacket and passed it to Claire with a wink, adding in a low voice: “Ye told me it helped, right?”

Nodding, her throat suddenly tighter, she didn’t have to think long. After typing a few words on the keyboard, she selected a track, placed the phone on the table, and came to sit on the bed beside Jamie.

The first notes of the oud took flight, slow and and nostalgic; they both held their breaths as Lamb laid back in his chair, his gaze suddenly sharper, more focused, two fingers tapping on his knee. The solo piano joined in, starting a dialog with the clarinets and the bassoons, carried by a background of swelling violins.

Concerto for Oud and Piano. She had heard it before, behind the closed door of Lamb’s office, sometimes in his car. It was a story of two worlds coming together, speaking of love and far-away lands, of nostalgia, of loneliness too. But she didn’t feel sad- not really.

Soothed by the familiar tune, Lamb closed his eyes and started snoring quietly. As she laid back on Jamie’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around her, warm, solid, Claire took a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed by the strange beauty of it all.

The old man sleeping as the sound travelled from the phone’s tiny loudspeaker and filled the small, impersonal room that smelled of linoleum, cold tea and hand sanitizer.

The strings playing pizzicato on her heart, swelling for the final moments, enveloping them.

Jamie’s kiss in her hair.

Hold them, she thought. Hold them close, while the music lasts.

Chapter Text

For the first time in her life, Claire felt that she didn’t have to play games, to figure things out. Since they'd met, she had known Jamie for what he was: kind, genuine, straightforward. His extreme gentleness was a challenge and a provocation the more remarkable for its lack of demand— he simply gave her all of himself without reservation, and the depth of her response to that unsettled her completely.

She had kissed men over the years; felt her body respond to their words and their touch; experienced attraction, connection, pleasure, love and heartbreak. But this was different. She found herself consumed by Jamie— the nearness of him intoxicating, the taste of his skin always on her mind and on the tip of her tongue, making her knees buckle and her skin prickle with anticipation as she went about her day.

After staying at his place several nights in a row, she had made a point to go home and sleep in her own bed. Twenty four hours later, after a long series of text messages and without pausing to overthink, she had typed a simple question, terrifying in its implications.

Come over?

He had. Welcoming him inside with a scorching kiss, she had slammed the door shut and they had made love silently, each taking from the other what they needed, filling a need that burned deep in their bones.

In the blink of an eye, days had turned into weeks. Jamie was in her life, and she wanted him to be.

And then, without a warning sign, he had started to change. And she didn’t have a clue why.

First, there had been a couple of missed calls and shortened conversations, when Jamie’s mind seemed to wander away on the other end of the line as she told him about her day. She would regularly drop by the restaurant to share a bite to eat with him and the team before their evening shift; but on her last few visits, although he’d looked pleased to see her, kissing her softly, an arm wrapped around her neck, she’d noticed a certain tension that never seemed to dissipate.

She hadn’t worried at first— as a business owner, stress was part of Jamie’s daily life, nothing that a good run and a relaxing night wouldn’t cure. Then, for a few days, after Lamb had tried to escape from the nursing home and cracked his head open on a vending machine, she’d barely had time to see him at all. But this week, even Jenny seemed concerned— whether by her brother’s silence or something entirely different, she couldn’t tell— and Claire’s unease kept growing.

Her last message reminding Jamie of their plans to spend the next Sunday in Edinburgh had remained unanswered. Until that afternoon.

   I’m sorry, I won't be able to make it, Sassenach…

                  ?? You recall it was your idea, right?

   So it was. I’m the worst. Something came up…

                  Is everything is alright? You've been acting strange recently.

   Fine- just doing closing checks tonight + have to catch up on admin.  It’s a wee bit crazy over here. Can we postpone?

                 Sure. Mind stopping by tonight?

    Not sure when I’ll be done, but I’ll try. I'll call you later, OK?

***

Putting his phone back in his pocket, Jamie read the dreaded notice for the fourth time, opening and closing his fists as the text unfolded, inexorably. Landlord’s Notice proposing a new rent under an Assured Periodic Tenancy of premises situated in Scotland … Dropping it on the counter, he rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes with a sigh.

“That bad, then?”

Jenny stood behind the counter, pouring two drams of whiskey. Without a word, he picked up the letter again, as if pulled by an invisible force. The two sheets of paper felt heavy in his hand. ... proposing a new rent of … Reaching for his glass, he drained the amber-coloured liquid in two gulps and passed the notice to Jenny.

“Bod an donais, it’s almost double our current rent! When were ye planning to tell me, ye bampot ?” She shot another glance at the numbers, then at Jamie. “Do they even have the right to…?”

“I dinna ken.” He folded the notice, his arms crossed and his jaw set. “I called Ned Gowan and he’s working on it. But this has to stay between ye, me and Ian. Not a word to anyone, not even to Claire.”

“Why the devil not?”

“I dinna want to worry her.” He sighed, rubbing a large palm on his face, like a man rousing from sleep. “She has enough on her plate already. Her uncle isna fairing well.”

“She’ll ken something’s wrong. In case ye havena noticed, Jamie, she’s a smart lass” Jenny raised her eyebrows, scoffing. “And not the meek and obedient type either.”

“Aye, I ken that well enough.” He answered gruffly. “But she canna do anything. I have to handle this myself. I’ll tell her when the matter is settled, or at least when we ken what to do. Until then, swear ye’ll shut yer gab.”

Stacking glasses behind the bar, Jenny wasn't facing him. He thought he heard her curse under her breath and say something about ridiculous men thinking it was their job to save the day- but after a few seconds, his sister turned around and nodded.

“As ye wish. After all, ’tis yer head she’ll be after, not mine.” She shook her head and took a good look at him, stretching her arms across the bar. “Ye really fancy her, aye?”

In spite of the nagging worry lingering in his mind, Jamie felt the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his lips, but shrugged noncommittally.

“Hmmphm, I’ve seen the way ye look at her.” Jenny grabbed a crate of table linens and walked towards the back door. “Dinna mess it up, brother. She’s a good one.”

***

More than mildly irritated and trying her best to ignore the nagging voice inside her head, whispering that maybe, maybe it had been too good to be true, Claire closed her novel and cursed, taking a glance at her watch. Instinctively, she had been listening all evening, constantly on the alert for the slam of a car door and a familiar footstep.

Feeling restless, she walked to the window and gripped the sill with both hands.

“Oh, fine. Bloody fine ,” she muttered until her breath. “If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad…”

Coming to a decision, she grabbed her keys and her handbag and walked out. Traffic was non-existent at that time, and less than 30 minutes later, she was standing at Jamie’s door with a pounding heart and nerves stretched to a breaking point.

“Sassenach.”

He was still wearing his work trousers paired with an old Edinburgh Marathon T-shirt; looking like he had meant to change, but had thought better of it in mid-process. His hair stood on end like a hedgehog's spines and she couldn’t tell if he felt relieved or upset to see her. After a few seconds, a smile flickered briefly across his face, and his hands were warm and solid as they enveloped hers, a welcome respite against the night chill.

“What happened?” He welcomed her inside, obviously concerned. “Are you alright, a nighean ? Is Lamb-...?”

“Lamb is fine, so am I. But where the bloody hell have you been ?” She stood in the hallway, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows as Jamie stared at her, looking puzzled. Finally, realisation dawned on him and he swore loudly.

“Christ, I forgot.” He waved a hand, helplessly. “I meant to call ye, and…”

She took in the dining table covered with paperwork (so far from his usual tidiness), the bottle of whisky (he never drank alone), Jamie’s blank face (that did very little to disguise his bloodshot eyes). She couldn’t bear that face, or the thought of what must lie concealed behind it.

“You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“It's nothin'... Just a wee bit of admin overload.”

She stopped him, lifting her hands, palms up.

“Look, if you’re having second thoughts, I’d rather you say it now and be done with it.” Her gaze had turned yellow, as sharp as a hawk’s— and yet, he heard the slight tremor in her voice, like the sound of wings flapping furiously inside her chest and travelling through her throat. Did she think…? The sudden realisation pierced his chest— marveling at the absurdity of the situation, he felt nervous laughter heaving in his chest, punching at the back of his throat.

“Mo chridhe, it’s not like that, not at all.” He raised a hand, tentatively. “Come here, I’ll explain.”

But she stood her ground. “Sorry, how is this funny?” She was trying to speak calmly, but the steam of the past week’s worries was building up, desperately looking for a release.

“Do you think I’m at your disposal? Do you think you can just ignore me whenever you’re not in the mood, and call me whenever you feel the urge?” Her voice grew louder and she was shaking with rage. “I’ve been that woman, Jamie, and I can’t—…” She took a deep breath and kept talking, more calmly. “I won’t let that happen ever again. Not with you, not with anyone else.”

He had the good grace to look abashed, before his face closed up again. He moved his shoulders impatiently, shrugging as though the fit of his clothes were too tight.

“Claire, ye dinna understand. It’s not-...”

“Talk to me, then! Make me understand!”

“Christ, I’m trying!” He was almost growling, his voice suddenly lower by several octaves. He took a step towards her, glaring. “D’ye think I would stay away from ye on purpose? D’ye not see how much I want ye, how much I love ye, damn it? Ye’re the only thing that’s been keeping me sane these past two weeks!”

When he had received the notice, the fear of losing what he had fought so hard to build had been overpowering— a roaring wave rushing through him, keeping him awake at night, making him oblivious to the world. But as it turned out, he had more to lose. The thought was new to him, and made his stomach clench with a mix of giddiness and complete panic.

“You what?”

Her voice sounded a little hoarse; she just stood there, staring at him, as still as a statue, her face unreadable. He took a step forward, then another one, until they were just an inch from each other.

“Ye ken it’s true, Claire.” He swallowed audibly and moved closer, brushing her fingers with his.

He could swear her chin had quivered, just a bit. But she wasn’t satisfied just yet, and her eyes glistened with angry tears as she crossed her arms on her chest, refusing the hand he was offering.

“Wait. First, tell me: what the bloody hell was that all about?”

“The owner of the building got in touch.” Jamie sighed in defeat and rubbed a hand on his face, then passed her the envelope sitting on top of the pile on the dining table. “He’s doubling the restaurant’s lease. And I dinna think we can afford it.”

Her eyes scanned the letter and she blinked, once, twice.

“That’s what you didn’t want me to know?”

He rolled his eyes, snorting. “I didna want ye to worry , is all.”

“Well I did, you bloody, stupid man!” She slammed a hand on his chest. “If you cannot share this with me, what the hell are we even—...”

“Look, I’m sorry I didna tell ye. Truly. I just…,” he shrugged helplessly, “It came two weeks ago, ye ken, when Lamb was poorly, and I meant to sort things out…” He averted her gaze, sounding as though his collar was choking him. “But I dinna think there’s a way around this.”

She watched him as he paced the room, running a hand through his hair.

“This is my whole life, Claire. This.” He lifted the hand holding the envelope. “I’ve invested my parents’ inheritance money in this restaurant, I...”

“I know how important this is to you— which is precisely why you should have told me.” The fury seemed to slowly drain out of her like water. “Just like I called you right away when Lamb had his accident. I felt like you had to know.”

“Hmmmph. Aye, I see yer point, Sassenach. But...” She watched his mouth twist into a bitter curve. “It’s not just me, ye ken? This place. It’s my Mam, and my Da, and Willie, and Jenny, and Ian, and their bairns, and...”

“Jamie.”

“We have three months left— maybe six, if Ned—...”

“Jamie.”

Deep lines were carved into the corners of his mouth, and he suddenly looked deeply tired and lost.

“Aye?”

Her hand went out and cupped his cheek, finally restoring their lost connection. He leaned into her palm with a sigh, like the quiet whisper of a tree bowing under the weight of snow. Standing on tiptoes, she sealed her lips over his, gently, trying to convey what she meant.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispered against his mouth. “I know we will.”

The rising sense of panic of the past few days seemed to quiet down. With a sigh, he enveloped Claire in his arms and the kiss deepened until their tongues caressed each other in a desperate quest, leaving them panting and shaking. She heard a growl deep in his throat and her body took over as she tugged on Jamie’s belt, grasped for his shirt, while he furiously worked the buttons on her light linen blouse.

Moments later, he was on his knees, laying her down on the rug between their scattered clothes. He stretched out his body on hers, naked skin almost hot to the touch, and she let out a moan, biting his shoulder, clawing at his arms, and sucking his lips in a way that made him feel lightheaded.

As he lowered himself towards her, she managed to flip him over and pin him down— knowing that, should he want to, he could tip her over in a heartbeat.

“Listen to me,” she grabbed the back of his neck with one hand, the other pressing on his chest. “It’s the two of us now, James Fraser.”

The soft fragrance of her hair caressed his face. She was straddling him, her hips circling shallow thrusts and punctuating each sentence, and he wanted nothing more than keep his eyes shut to the world, to bury his face in her breasts and forget everything but the sweet torture of her body against his. But she wouldn’t let him, and he knew better than to protest, knew he had to let her regain the control she’d lost.

“Look at me.” He did, and saw her in the dim light, wild and vulnerable in her nakedness. “I need you to talk to me. Always.” She pinned his arms down against the floor.

“We’re supposed- to be- a team”, she panted, shaking. “Whatever happens, we sort it out- you- and me. That’s the whole point- of being together .” Her eyes were glistening, filled with unshed tears. “Half measures won’t do it. Do you understand me?”

He nodded and gasped for breath, desperately trying to bury himself into that warmth, that home he'd hungered for, deeper and deeper, to ease the throbbing rush of blood and the pressure building up in his chest, choking him—...

“Do you?”

“Aye, you have my word.”

His words seemed to break the trance; Claire blinked hard and her face came to life again as she took him in deep, wild hair tangled around her shoulders, urging him to let go.

“Don’t hold back. Don’t you dare hold back.”

He hadn’t realized his muscles had been pulled tight until the tightness was gone. Letting go of his last bit of self-control, holding her so tight he thought he’d leave marks, he tipped his hips just so, rocking her hard against him. She fell apart, clenching around him with an intensity that made him groan and quiver and shake in agony. There was no tenderness in their lovemaking; it had the animal frenzy of offensiveness, the need to apologize and prove a point, to leave a mark on each other. Stroke after stroke, his vision went dark. As he trailed off in a string of incoherent words, Claire smiled triumphantly and took him over the edge with her.

***

Lying stretched out on the floor, only covered by a throw snatched from the sofa, Claire was drifting off, lulled by Jamie’s slow breathing on the top of her head and the steady beat of his heart. She couldn’t remember being so worn-out, and yet there was a fluttering glow in her chest, a small golden ember whose heat she was only starting to feel.

“You’d never said it before, you know,” she whispered quietly, light breath on the side of his jaw.

She had thought him asleep, but he reached down and caressed her face with his left hand, as the tip of his ears turned slightly pink.

“Dinna ken what ye’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do, lad.”

“Hmmphm, well,” he answered gruffly, propping an arm behind his head, “...dinna hold it against me, aye? Might’ve been the whisky talking.”

“Ha, bloody ha.” She averted her face from his eyes and glanced down, caressing the ruddy hair of his chest, the solid curve of his pectoral muscle, the flat plane of his stomach. “You meant it, then?”

“What d’ye think, Sassenach?” He shifted to meet her gaze, dark blue eyes glowing in the dark. “Of course, I did. I do.”

Claire didn’t answer, sensing there were more words to come, but the warmth spread beyond her ribcage, nestling in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m sorry I wasna open wi’ ye.” He took her hand, followed the contour of her fingers, one by one, and swallowed. “I’m used to… dealing wi’ problems on my own. Whatever happened, I could always handle it.”

Now that the mask had fallen, his face was exposed, an open book for her to read. Softly, Claire’s lips traced the space between his brows, the corners of his mouth, the center of his forehead, smoothing down the lines carved by years of soldiering on in the face of loss and confusion, and by the anticipation of fights still to be fought.

“I know you can handle this on your own. It doesn’t mean you should.” She placed a feather-light kiss in the hollow of his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. “I’m not made of glass, Jamie. The only thing I can’t live with is doubt. Uncertainty.”

“I gave ye my word. I willna happen again.” He squeezed her hand lightly in acknowledgement. “I guess I’m still figuring it out, aye? How to be yer man- the man ye deserve, on top of being everything else.”

“Hmm,” she teased. “All in all, you’re not doing a terrible job at it, if you have to know.”

He gathered her against him and stroked her hair lightly, letting the curls wrap around his fingers, sending a trail of goosebumps down her spine.

“I’m glad, a nighean.”

Silence enveloped them, and she felt him shift slightly.

“Now— we should move.” She couldn't see his face, but heard the amusement in his voice. “Ye weigh as much as a good draft horse, and I’m freezing my bum off on these floorboards.”

“Charming.” Making a face, Claire pinched his waist and bit his neck playfully. “Forget what I said earlier, you’re the worst.” He only held her tighter, with no intention of moving.

She was silent for a long time, soft and warm against his side, and he thought she had fallen back asleep until he felt more than heard the quiet whisper against his chest.

“Jamie?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Thig crioch air an t-saoghal ach mairidh ceol agus gaol

The world may come to an end, but love and music will endure

 (as quoted by Diana Gabaldon in Written in My Own Heart's Blood)

Strange, the things she’d remember.

The black marks left by rubber soles on the worn-out flooring. Light rain tapping on the window, as she sat heavily on the last step of the stairs. A little star engraved in the blue wall of the stairwell, probably carved with a key or a pin by an unknown visitor.

When the call came in, she almost missed it. She was running down the stairs, about to meet Geillis for a quick cup of tea in the break room before starting the day, and picked up just before the answering machine took over.

The voice was muffled, superficially compassionate. It didn’t take more than one or two minutes. It was only after she hung up that Claire’s breathing suddenly closed down.

She’d known the day would come. She’d thought she’d be ready. Burying her head in her forearms, tight against her knees, she took a deep, shaking breath. There’s been a mistake, she wanted to argue. See, the thing is, we were going to visit him this afternoon, Jamie and I- I told him we’d come, told him yesterday as I left, and he even nodded, looked straight at me for once, and he was doing so well and he knew so he can’t have- he can’t be-

“Are ye alright, hen? What’s wrong?”

Footsteps behind her, a light hand on her shoulder, and Geillis was sitting on the same step, a concerned expression clouding her bright green eyes. Claire shook her head, rubbing her palms on her jeans, trying to steady her breathing.

“The Heathers called.” Her voice was far away, oddly detached. “It’s... Lamb is… he’s...”

Geillis let out a small gasp. Claire opened her mouth to finish, but her chest was so constricted she thought she would choke. Her mouth, her throat, her eyes, her heart; everything felt paper-dry.

“Oh, Claire.” With a sure hand, her friend rubbed her back and talked to her in a low, soothing voice, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. She knew better than to hug her and burst into tears. “Listen to me, listen. Take a deep breath… Aye, that’s it. Another one.” Geillis’s words were grounding her, and the weight lifted, just a little. “Here’s what we’re going to do: ye’ll go to yer office, and ask Mary to cover yer patients today. Okay?”

“I can’t, I have a group session with-”

“Dinna fash, we’ll have a wee chat with Alex, I’m sure he’ll agree to reschedule. If not, I’ll deal with him. Let’s go.”

Going into doctor mode, Claire spent the next half an hour making phone calls, while Geillis sorted out the administrative details with the department's head. After what felt like an eternity, her friend walked her to the exit, and stopped in front of the sliding doors.

“I’d come wi’ ye, hen, but…”

“It’s fine, Geil. You just finished your shift, you must be knackered. Go home and get some rest.”

“Me? Ye ken I have the stamina of a 19-year old.” Her friend let out a weak laugh. “Nah, I’d come, but ye’re in good hands now, I think.”

Geillis tilted her head slightly, gesturing towards the parking lot, and on the other side of the sliding doors, Claire noticed a tall silhouette crowned in fire and light, leaning against the hood of her car. She swirled back to face her friend, mouth gaping.

“Aye, aye, ye can blame me later.” She hugged her, a little too tight, and whispered in her ear, “I’ll call ye. Now go- the lad’s waiting.”

In a haze, Claire crossed the hospital hallway, adjusting the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. She passed the front door, gulping the moisture-laden air in short, shallow breaths; it would rain again soon. Step after step, she let herself be pulled into Jamie’s orbit like an incandescent comet passing a very large planet, adrift in the cold darkness of outer space. He stood up, very slowly, and opened his arms to her- and without a conscious thought, she buried her face against his chest, suddenly bone-tired, enveloped in the warmth of his rock-solid body. The car park was quiet, and they didn’t talk until raindrops started to fall again.

“I thought you were meeting with Ned?” Her voice was muffled against his jacket.

“Aye. I rescheduled,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but found that she couldn’t. Her body felt sore, her insides stretched and bruised, every bone tight under her skin, and she wanted nothing more than to go home, close the shutters, slip into bed, and fall asleep with Jamie’s light breath in her neck and his arms around her waist. Instead, she pulled back to look at him, and they exchanged a silent nod.

“Let’s go.”

***

Sitting in the Heathers’ main room, Jamie was waiting. It had been a while since he’d last felt that peculiar sensation of having a cotton ball stuck in his throat and a tight band wrapped around his rib cage- he hadn’t missed it. The light smell of sanitizer and hospital food was taking him back to different days, different losses. The first had marked the end of his childhood, abruptly, without warning. The second time, he’d been able to say goodbye- way too soon, but he had learned to be grateful for it. The third time, he’d received the news of becoming an orphan in silence, with a tight jaw and clenched fists, and had turned his life around, driven by an unspeakable urgency. Death after death after death, he’d thought he’d lose his mind and he’d survived, carried by those who needed him.

This time, the loss wasn’t his- and yet he felt it, deep in his bones. He would be strong for Claire, would do anything to spare her. For her sake, he would walk down that path gladly, go through that gruesome process all over again. But the path was hers to take- he knew he could only follow a few steps behind, and carry some of her burden.

God, how pale she had looked upon entering the room.

“I’m not ready.”

He’d held her tight, his heart breaking a little.

“Ye’ll never be, a nighean. My brave lioness.” As he kissed them, her knuckles had felt so frail and cold against his lips. “I ken ye dinna want to go in there. Ye dinna have to- but ye have to ask yerself: if ye don’t, will ye maybe regret it later?”

She’d made a small, strangled noise, between fear and agreement.

“Talk to him- or sit by him,” he’d whispered in her hair. “Do what ye must. And then, I’ll take ye home.”

***

As it turned out, planning a funeral involved dozens and dozens of questions. Claire made every decision as she went along, wondering whether everyone truly expected her to have an opinion to begin with- with or without makeup? pine or oak? chrome handles or gold-painted ones? live music or taped?- until Jamie took over, seeing her dangerously close to screeching with hysterical laughter, throwing her teacup in the face of the funeral director, or both, simultaneously.

For a week, she functioned on autopilot, filing paperwork, arranging a meeting with the notary, making phone calls, eating Jamie’s food, watching TV in Jamie’s arms, lying sleepless in Jamie’s bed until his alarm went off.

And now that she was about to address the small crowd gathered in the funeral parlor, sleepwalking on the edge of a cliff, she realised Jamie had been right: she would never be ready. She unfolded the sheet of paper, and prayed for strength to whoever might be listening.

“Thank you all for coming. I...” She cleared her voice, cursing under her breath. “My uncle used to say that a man isn’t truly dead until he’s forgotten.” Her gaze turned to Jamie, towering a head above the rest of the audience, silently nodding in encouragement. With a steadier voice, she continued. “I think that’s one of the reasons he dedicated his entire life to the study of ancient civilisations- he believed it was his duty to tell their stories, respectfully and with integrity. Because their lives were worth remembering.”

She retraced up Lamb’s life journey, his childhood in Oxford, his adventures with Henry, his travels, his excavations in Egypt, his brilliant career and later years at Glasgow university. She paused and swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat and bracing herself for the hardest part. 

“Most of you will remember Quentin Beauchamp as a friend, a colleague, a professor, a mentor, a neighbour, a fellow bingo player, a patient. To me, he was…” As her voice cracked, she shifted nervously, looking up only to see Jamie with his eyes fixed on her, encouraging her to take a long, deep breath. “He was so many things we never even tried to define. He was the man who taught himself how to braid a little girl’s hair when he didn’t have a clue; who thought I must learn how to dig a pit latrine on my seventh birthday; who gave me the most awkward period talk you can imagine…”

A rustle of quiet laughter went over the crowd like a light breeze over barley, providing a welcome respite. She thought she’d seen Geillis wipe a tear and wink at her.

“He was the man who didn’t celebrate birthdays, but who never forgot to buy me sugarcane juice on his way from Giza.” She smiled weakly, remembering the old grey Peugeot 405 honking in front of the building. “The man who woke me up at dawn because he knew I loved to sit on the rooftop with a cup of tea, and watch flocks of pigeons take off and soar above the city.”

She closed her eyes, almost hearing the flapping of wings around her, the whistles of the pigeon breeders and Lamb’s amused huffing and puffing as they climbed up the stairs.

“He was a brilliant mind and a teacher of all things.” Her voice cracked again, and the cold settled upon her heart. “He never spoke of love, but made sure he didn’t need to. He was my family, and I’ll miss him forever.”

Claire folded the sheet of paper and walked back to her seat, wiping her icy palms on her skirt, feeling suddenly lightheaded. As she sat next to Jamie, he wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, warm lips brushing her temple.

“Ye did well, mo chridhe.”

Feeling her heartbeat in her throat and fighting the urge to leave the room, she noticed that Jenny and Ian had stood up, looking grave and solemn, and remembered she had asked them to play something to end the service. As truly thankful as she was for their support, she’d agreed to their choice of song without a second thought, assuming it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. She had been wrong: the music soothed her, and seemed to have the same effect on the crowd.

The Murrays had opted for an 18th century tune arranged with grace and skill, the fiddle graciously wrapping itself around the wooden flute. It was a lament filled with longing and sadness and hope, as only a Scottish song could be. Groping blindly, Claire squeezed Jamie’s hand, knuckles turning white; as the melody filled the room, she felt something snap inside of her, and tears finally ran down her face.

***

Silently closing the bathroom door behind him, Jamie turned around and felt his breath catch at the sight of her. 

Laying on her back with her right cheek resting against the pillow, an arm tucked underneath it, Claire looked so unguarded that it made his heart ache. Her hair was spread across the grey linen, cascading on her shoulders, revealing the whiteness of her neck between a river of curls the colour of oak, hazel and ash.

Gone heavier as sleep took over, her left hand was now resting on the duvet, the small fingers weighing on the cover of a novel she’d been reading. It was the day after the funeral, and Jamie had reluctantly spent the evening at work, making her promise to text him regularly. She hated going to sleep on her own, but the reception given on the previous day had lasted much longer than they’d anticipated, and she was exhausted. With a sigh, he noticed the shadows under her eyes, the eyebrows creased in a permanent frown of worry.

He moved to her side of the bed and carefully reached for the book to put it aside, not wanting to wake her before turning off the little glowing lamp, but her fingers twitched ever so slightly, and she let out a long, deep breath. Sitting on the side of the bed, he bent his head to kiss her briefly.

“I’m sorry, mo nighean donn, I didna mean to wake ye.”

In the semi-darkness, the amber eyes were fixed on him, filled with love, sadness, and something he couldn’t quite identify.

“You didn’t. Not really.” With a sigh, she pushed herself up and stacked the pillows behind her back. “I was waiting for you.”

She touched the side of his jaw before turning towards the bedside table, and he felt the hairs on his forearm bristle. There was something about her- a current beneath the surface, a live wire humming with agitation.

“You know I had a notary appointment today.” As he nodded, she handed him a thick brown envelope and ran a hand across her face. “Lamb left me this. I think I have to go back-… back to Egypt.”

Chapter Text

The plane took speed on the runway, and Claire forced a long breath through her lungs, heart pounding against her ribcage. The wheels hadn’t left the ground yet, but she was hit by an overwhelming wave of sensations.

There was the language of her childhood, with its fluid rhythm and guttural inflexions—light in her heart but still heavy on her tongue, never foreign but so long unused, the words like familiar objects covered in a fine layer of sand.

There was the weight of eight long years of absence, eight years since her last visit. Amin the bawab was dead. His wife Marwa had moved back to their hometown near Aswan. Disillusioned after having shed his blood and tears on Tahrir square in the lost cause of bread, freedom and social justice, their son Maher had emigrated, like so many others.

There was the bitterness of adulthood, and the knowledge that this time, Lamb wouldn’t be waiting for her outside of Cairo airport, waving in the crowd of loved ones and loud taxi drivers.

Everything had changed, and nothing—but she knew the people and the country she’d known were gone forever, and only memories remained.

“But you see, dove, that’s the thing…” She could hear Lamb’s soft voice, torn between amusement, annoyance and resignation. “Egypt is like the Nile. You stare at the water for ages, and everything looks so ancient and calm and slow, and you feel pretty chuffed with yourself, thinking you’ve got it all figured out... Then next thing you know, the bloody wind is rising, the waters are flooding the banks, your shoes are soaked and all your plans have gone to pot. It will always surprise you.”

Turning towards the aircraft window, Claire unconsciously patted the small bag on the floor beside her, feeling the urn that contained her uncle’s ashes, hard and cool behind the soft leather.

“Keep an open mind and go with the flow, hmm?” She let out a little sigh. “Well, let’s see how that goes…”

“What are ye saying, a nighean?”

A big, warm hand closed on hers, and the knot of panic in her stomach melted to the size of a kernel. She dragged her eyes from the window and turned towards the tall Scotsman sitting to her left, who had paused in the careful detangling of his headphones’ cords and was now staring straight into her soul.

“Nothing,” she smiled, shrugging a little. “Just a bit apprehensive. I’ve been away for so long...” She flapped a hand weakly, trusting him to understand.

“With my knowledge of Arabic, ye ken I’m counting on you not to get lost or hit by a car, aye?” Seeing the worry in her eyes, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “It was only a wee joke, Sassenach. In two days, ye’ll be able to hail a—… how are they called?—a microbus during rush hour. It will be like ye never left!”

With an amused snort, she buried her nose in his neck, breathing in the warm scent of citrus and sandalwood.

“I think we’ll stick to taxis, for your sake and mine.” She kissed him lightly, anchoring herself in the realness of him, and pulled back with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, though. I know it’s a bad timing, with—...”

“Dinna fash, Sassenach,” he shrugged with a grimace. “We’ve got three months, still. Ian scheduled a couple of viewings for next week. I’m sure we’ll end up somewhere... suitable.” 

Unable to find a more satisfactory outcome with the building’s owner, Ned Gowan had managed to negotiate for the restaurant’s lease to end on December 31st. Behind a facade of hope and optimism, they both knew how hard it would be for him to leave the place he’d invested so much in. He gave her a look of appraisal and his jaw relaxed slightly, eyes turning soft again.

"Besides, it will be good to spend time together, see where ye grew up... We’ve been to Lallybroch, aye? Now it’s my turn. So dinna be sorry—because I’m not.” 

“Selfishly, neither am I,” she smiled, raising her chin to meet his lips. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The seatbelt sign switched off with a small ‘ping’. Resting her head on Jamie’s shoulder, Claire remembered their conversation after the funeral.

“Like hell ye’re going alone, Claire.” He’d cocked an eyebrow and made a deep Scottish noise, as if the idea of her travelling to Egypt on her own was the silliest thing he’d ever heard. “D’ye recall what ye said the other day? It’s the two of us, now. Yer words, not mine.” 

Chuckling softly at the man’s stubbornness, she tangled her fingers with his and closed her eyes with a sigh. The last sights of London disappeared behind the clouds.

***

As it turned out, a few things hadn’t changed—one of them being the nightmare of navigating Cairo’s ring road. A sixty-eight-mile belt of dusty asphalt, looping endlessly above the city, where cars and motorcycles raced alongside tuk-tuks, microbuses, the occasional wooden cart dragged by a horse and large overloaded vans covered with rough canvas roofs. The road looked like a grey snake, coiling around the city at lightning speed before suddenly coming to a halt for no apparent reason.

Asked by the driver if they’d ever been to Egypt, Claire seized the opportunity to practice her Arabic. The young man gave them a sideways glance in the rear-view mirror, obviously torn between surprise and curiosity, and conversed amiably while frantically beeping his horn in a never-ending cacophony.

“There’s a pattern, you know?” Claire whispered to Jamie with a smile. 

“What d’ye mean?”

“There are no driving rules, but they use their horns to communicate.” she explained. “Hear that? The motorcycle is warning us that it’s about to overtake.” She grinned and turned her head to the other side as they entered a roundabout. “Ah, and that single ‘beep’ basically means ‘I’m going in, but I’m lost, so be careful’…”

“Organised chaos, hmm?” Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Canna say I’m surprised. I always thought yer driving was a wee bit... intense.”

“Intense!” She rolled her eyes, falsely offended. “I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent driver, thank you very much. When Lamb put me behind the wheel, you were still playing Gran Turismo on Ian’s playstation!”

“That, my Sassenach, was simulation-based training,” he grinned, uncrossing his legs with difficulty in the limited space available in the passenger seat. “All I’m saying is that ye could be a tad more gentle, ye ken?”

“Oh, yeah?” she whispered, eyes locking with his. “First time I hear you say that. I thought you didn’t mind a bit of... rough driving.” 

“Hmpf… Dinna try to twist my words.” Jamie’s eyes went a shade darker and his voice dropped to a soft murmur in her ear. “And dinna fash. Maybe I’ll let ye take me for a ride later.”

***

Jamie didn’t know if he’d been asleep for an hour or a day, when he was jerked awake by the sound of thousands of loudspeakers overlapping one another.

Rolling over with a groan, he glanced at the thin blue digits glowing on the flatscreen across the room. 4:10a.m. The call to prayer, then. But Claire…? The bed was empty. Noticing the glass sliding door open, he put on a T-shirt, ran a hand through the mess of his hair, grabbed a plastic bottle, took a few sips of water, and went out on the balcony, drawn by the lights on the opposite shore. As he stepped outside, a light breeze travelled across the water and caressed his face, carrying the smell of warm dust, exhaust fumes, jasmine, motor oil, and the promise of the nearby desert. It was mid-September: in a few hours, the pleasant coolness of the night would give way to the bite of the sun—not the crushing heat of August, but much warmer still than any Scottish summer.

Ra, the giver of life, as he was described in Jamie’s travel guide, had long been swallowed by Noot when the taxi had finally dropped them in front of their hotel, along the Nile Corniche. Exhausted by a day’s travel, they had ordered room service and brushed their teeth in silence, sleepily leaning on each other, a hand brushing the small of the other’s back as they moved. Slipping under the duvet, he had registered Claire’s hands on his chest, her lips in his neck, and had fallen into a dreamless sleep. 

Now, about eighty feet below, the Nile sparkled darkly, lined with palm trees, wider than he’d imagined. God is the greatest. There is no god but God. The last words of the call to prayer slowly blended with the street noise; a constant echo of car horns, sirens, dogs barks and street-side shouts of sellers in their daily commute from rural areas.

Dark and solemn, She Who Protects was still arched above the earth, but even the brightest stars were fading from her celestial body, announcing Ra’s rebirth. On the far end of the balcony, Claire’s profile stood out starkly against the dying darkness of the sky. Leaning on the rail of corrugated metal, she was facing the immensity of the city, wrapped in a long bathrobe, light curls drying around her face. The crease between her brows had faded, and she seemed calm, startlingly young, features softened by the grey light of dawn. If he squinted just a little, he could picture her at seventeen—a little skinnier, a little wilder, quiet and self-sufficient, probably wise beyond her years.

Suddenly overcome with the need to hold her tight against him, he walked towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

“Are ye alright?”

She snapped back to reality with a blink and leaned against his chest, tilting her head back until her cheek rested against his. 

“Yes.” Her skin was cool and soft against the stubble of his beard. “I’m sorry, I passed out before I could tell you to wear earplugs.”

“Before ye could tell me anything, actually.” He teased, leaning to kiss her shoulder. “Nah, I dinna mind being awake. There’s something really... special about this.” 

“I know. It does something to your soul, doesn’t it?”

He hummed in agreement, and stayed silent for a while. The city sprawled before them, as vast and intimidating as the sea—worlds within worlds, where twenty million souls breathed as one. The thought made him slightly dizzy, but he grounded himself to his reality, to the woman in his arms, smelling of lavender and sweet almond. A familiar tune rose from a window in the hotel courtyard.

“Didn’t ye play that song the other day?” 

Claire paused to listen. “Not bad, for someone pretending to be tone-deaf!” He felt the corners of her mouth turn up. “Yes, it’s by Umm Kulthum.”

“The ‘star of the East’, aye, I remember. But ye didna tell me what the song said?”

“Oh. Well… it’s pretty intense, actually,” Claire answered with a small laugh, and started to recite dramatically. “Only now have I begun to love my life… Only now have I begun to fear that time will fly…” She slowed down, sounding almost thoughtful. “Oh life of my heart, more precious to me than existence, why, why didn't I love you sooner?”  

Her tone was still soft and even, but Jamie felt the light squeeze of her small fingers on his arm.

“You are my life—its dawn began with your light.”

It choked her, sometimes, how foolishly happy he made her. The way her heart swelled when she woke him up in the morning; the look of sweet agony on his face when she drove him deep inside her; the way he blew on the baby hairs on her neck before pressing a kiss to her first vertebra... The knowledge that their meeting had been nothing short of a miracle.

“Look at me, getting all cheesy and sentimental.” She shook her head, cleared her throat, and let out a little snort. “A necessary side effect of being here, I suppose.”

Ignoring her attempt to shrug off the moment, Jamie dropped his hands to her waist, turned her around, and met her lips reverently, like a man quenching a deep and long-lasting thirst. They kissed long and gently, with the inevitability of breathing, mouths tasting one another and tongues softly tracing an unspoken promise. 

Breathing fast, Claire threaded her fingers in Jamie’s curls as he nibbled the side of her neck.

“Come back to bed, mo ghràidh.” His eyes shone bright in the growing light. “There’s another song I want to hear, before the sun is up.”

***

A good thing the Egyptians ate a very late lunch, Jamie thought to himself, nibbling on a small, crispy ball-shaped donut soaked in syrup and chocolate sauce. The day was well into the afternoon, and only just getting started.

Over the past forty-eight hours, they’d barely managed a stroll along the Citadel and medieval Cairo, a visit to Claire’s old district, and a late picnic in Al-Azhar park with a feast of falafel sandwiches, roasted corn, various baked goods, and juicy apricots, so ripe they looked ready to burst. Well, that, and mind-blowing sex, he thought with a smirk.

“What?” Sitting on the bench next to him, Claire flashed him a grin and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Do I have powdered sugar on my nose?” 

“No, it’s nothing,” he replied, playing with her hair gathered in a bun. “I was just thinking I’m glad we skipped the pyramids this morning.”

“Beauchamp Adventures - Not your typical sightseeing tour!” Swallowing her last bite, Claire nudged him in the ribs, laughing. “Do you mind, though? We can still catch a cab to Giza, if…”

“Nah, Sassenach.” He kissed her temple and, closing his eyes blissfully, leaned back to listen to a flock of sparrows chirping in the nearby trees. “I’m happy to stay right here.”

Crumpling her napkin into a ball, she admired the chiselled lines of his jaw, his nose already sunkissed, sprinkled with freckles, the fine hairs of his forearms, catching the light and looking almost blond. The tan became him, and he had lost the look of constant alertness that he’d borne on their first day.

An everlasting source of wonder, Cairo was as beautiful as it was relentless, and Al-Azhar was the perfect refuge from the city’s noise, pollution and congestion. The horns, the bitter smell of garbage mingling with the scent of flowers, freshly-baked bread and cooked beans, the blaring music from a local wedding, the dust that clung to their hair and found its way to their nose and ears... Jamie hadn’t said anything, but she was pretty certain that their walk in the medieval district had triggered in him a visceral longing for the fresh air of the Highlands. Or perhaps she’d had that impression because she’d felt almost as overwhelmed as him. It was the first time she’d thought of Scotland as home, she realised with a small jolt of surprise.

Everything about this trip felt surreal. The process of getting used to things, of slipping so easily into old, familiar speech patterns; the seamless ease of spending every second of every day with Jamie on their first trip together, apart from a weekend in Lallybroch with Jenny and Ian; the strange feeling of being torn between two worlds… and the loving presence of two men by her side, only one of whom was still breathing, leaving her on the verge of tears more often than not.

She’d considered keeping the funerary urn inside the hotel safe, but immediately dismissed the idea, feeling awfully claustrophobic. Leaving it in their bedroom, at the mercy of any overzealous housekeeper, wasn’t an option either. After one of the most awkward conversations of their lives, torn between hilarity and dismay, they’d decided to carry him around the city, inside Jamie’s backpack.

Cairo was only the first stop in their journey. Tomorrow, they would travel to Abu Simbel, and from there, to Lamb’s final resting place. But today… today was a day for the living, a day of sweetness, of light, sunny kisses stolen away from the crowd, modestly hidden behind the lush greenery.

“Come on.” She turned towards Jamie and stroke the back of his neck. “There’s something else I’d like to show you.”

***

Unhurriedly, they walked down an alley of palm trees and Andalusian fountains, and reached a wide stretch of lawn where local families played, ate and prayed, alongside tourists, joggers and timid students on a first date. The belvedere formed a panoramic platform overlooking the eastern border of the old city, offering a magnificent view of the Citadel. 

From where they stood, the canopy of minarets reminded Jamie of cosy winter nights tucked in his parents’ bed, and of his mother’s voice, warm as honey, telling the tales of Sinbad the Sailor. She’d always been a wonderful storyteller. In one of Sinbad’s adventures, which took place in a mysterious magical realm, she had transformed the white sea stallion emerging from the sea into a Kelpie, a shape-shifting water spirit—Eastern and Western traditions merging into a unique and colourful world.

Ellen had never seen Al-Azhar park, he realized with a small pang of regret—it hadn’t even been built when she’d passed away. But she’d been here, had breathed the same air, eaten the same food, collected roses, papyrus, tamarisk and sycamore leaves, and as the thought crossed his mind, a breeze caressed his cheek with a warm scent of jasmine, like a feathery touch from beyond the veil.

“So, Sassenach. What did ye want to show me?” He leaned against the wall, and turned towards Claire. Her amber eyes sparkled, reflecting the orange and red tones streaking the sky like a painting, and even the ribbons of pink and mauve floating on the horizon.

“You’ll see. It should start any minute now.”

Just as the words crossed her lips, a shrill whistle echoed through Cairo’s skies. Then another, and another... And Jamie saw them—tiny silhouettes standing on thin wooden towers painted in shades of blue, yellow and green, built precariously above the rooftops below; men and children encouraging their birds to ascend with nothing but a flag and their own unique signal. From almost every tenement, in a chorus of distant whistles, the flocks soared and dipped with precision and grace as the sky caught fire. Flying far and wide, with the promise of a return.

“You know... it doesn’t make any sense,” Claire said softly. “They’re just bloody pigeons!” She smiled broadly, shook her head in disbelief, and started to cry.

Chapter Text

“Claire! Hamdellah aala as-salama, habibti! ”

Waving in front of the exit doors of Abu Simbel airport, Hisham Rasheed rushed towards them, almost losing his glasses in his eagerness to engulf Claire’s hand in his.

“My God, how time flies!” The short man’s brown eyes were sparkling behind the thick frames. “Look at you, all grown-up and... lady-like, masha’allah! ”

Beside her, Jamie gave a distinct snort, concealing it into a fit of coughing.

“Well, you know, I suppose life in the U.K. has tamed me.” Claire rolled her eyes, grinning. “It’s good to see you, Hisham.”

“Tamed? You?” The short man wiggled his eyebrows, the lips under his moustache curving into a smile, and clicked his tongue. “No, an-nimr' mesh momken yista’nis… Tigers cannot be tamed!”

He’d put on some weight, lost more than a little hair, but still looked as jovial and kind-hearted as ever, his round face darkened by the sun. As his gaze drifted to her right, she realised she hadn’t had time for a proper introduction.

“Hisham, this is Jamie.” She paused, looking for the proper term to present him, wishing she were bold or sentimental enough to resort to the poetry of Arabic endearment terms. Jamie, my heart’s life. Jamie, my soul. Jamie, the light of my eyes. Surely, Lamb’s old friend would be able to fill in the blanks. “Jamie, Hisham was one of Lamb’s students at Cairo University. They worked side by side for more than fifteen years.”

The Egyptian’s smile wavered, ever so slightly. 

“And not a day goes by without me missing your uncle, Allah yerhamu .” He shook Jamie’s hand, assessing his tall frame, and seemed satisfied. “It’s very nice to meet you, Jamie. It’s true, Claire isn’t one to be tamed... and yet here you are, by her side. That tells me everything I need to know.”

Seemingly unfazed, Jamie grinned innocently and laid a hand on her back.

"Truth be told, sir, I didn’t give her much of a choice… Right, my wee vixen?”

“Oh, my God.” Cheeks burning, Claire nudged him with her elbow and turned toward Hisham. “Let’s get moving, shall we? There’s still a long way to go.”

***

“So, we’re about to enter the oldest stone alignment in the world!” On the passenger seat, Claire was flipping the pages of their travel guide with an eagerness that made him smile. “Do you know this place predates Stonehenge by at least 1,000 years?”

“Oh, aye? Why d’ye think it’s been built here?” Without taking her eyes from the road, Jamie brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead and pressed the AC button, trying to increase the airflow in the vehicle cabin. “In the middle of a desert, I mean.”

“Well, it wasn’t always a desert. 7,000 years ago, after the monsoon, the region was covered with seasonal lak—”

Hurtling over a bump in the non-existent road, the car lifted off just a little, and Claire grabbed the side of the door with a grimace.

“Far be it from me to question your driving skills, but I’m starting to feel a little queasy. Would you mind slowing down, just a tad?”

“Well, ye should tell Hisham; I’m just trying to keep up!” He shot her a quick glance, frowning. Whether because of the heat or the uneven road, she did look a little pale.

“Just… let him get ahead,” she answered dryly. “I don’t know why driving in this country always has to be a bloody Mario Kart race. It’s not like we’re likely to lose him, anyway.”

With Hisham’s help, they’d been able to obtain a four-wheel drive vehicle and a permit issued by the Egyptian government. After a stop at a local restaurant, they’d headed straight to the Nubian Desert, and were now following in the wake of their friend’s weary white jeep, surrounded by a landscape of largely barren, rocky, sandy hills.

In spite of her previous attempts at levity, he’d felt Claire’s nervousness grow as they approached their destination. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for his backpack once again and pat the funeral urn mechanically, like the head of a very large cat.

“Here, have a wee nip, Sassenach.” Jamie shifted into a lower gear, and reached for a lukewarm water bottle. “Dinna fash, I think we’re getting close.”

***

Varying from about one to four meters in height, the stones stood on top of a sandy knoll at the end of a shallow valley, casting long shadows over the dusty yellow ground. Several other smaller alignments stretched out in the distance, looking rather inoffensive in comparison.

Hisham had filled their boot with food and water supplies, camping gear, a first-aid kit, a GPS and a map, and had left with the promise to be back the next morning, giving them plenty of time and privacy to fulfill their mission.

Claire looked up, blinking against the light. The sun was already descending—which meant they would have to act soon.

“Ye said this was meant to be used as a map?”

Jamie stood inside the circle, slowly rubbing the back of his neck.

“More or less, yes.” She took a few steps towards him, and touched the large central stone. “Each of the six stones represents a star and its rising point. From here, you can track their distance from earth.”

“Like a scaled-down model?”

“And a bloody good one, at that.” In spite of the heat, Claire rested her chin on Jamie’s chest, feeling oddly uneasy. “If you were to draw lines along the alignment, you’d see they match the direction of sunrise on the summer solstice. Just like in Karnak temple.”

“Hmm.” He shook his head slightly in disbelief. “I wonder if there’s a connection to our stones back home.”

The words of Ellen’s letter echoing in both their minds, they stayed silent for a while, standing side by side at the centre of the circle.

“So, Sassenach... How do ye want to do this?”

“I’m not sure, actually.” Claire shrugged, frowning. “I’m not exactly an expert in ash-scattering etiquette, you know?”

Until his very moment, she had never even thought of questioning her uncle’s last wishes, but couldn’t help but feel mildly irritated. Was this another of Lamb’s hare-brained schemes? He’d kept his will short and matter-of-fact; after two flights and hours in a sweltering car, specific instructions would definitely have been welcome.

“Alright, well, maybe I should just… rip off the band-aid” She took a step back, looking helpless. “Do it right here, right now.”

“Aye, I’m sure that’ll do.” Jamie nodded, looking uncertain. “This is what he wanted, aye?”

“Right.” She unzipped the backpack, seized the urn and slowly opened it. It felt heavy between her palms. “Right.”

Jamie put a gentle hand on her shoulder for reassurance, and she took a deep breath. Now, you need to say something. The heat wasn’t as unbearable as it had been earlier, but she could feel drips of sweat run down her lower back. Come on, just say something… anything!

“Shit.” She shook her head, looking around them. “Shit, shit, shit!” She closed the urn swiftly, and placed it on a flat rock as if it were made of burning coals. “Why the fuck would he even ask something like that?”

“Sassenach, maybe we should sit d—”

“It couldn’t simply be Oxford or Glasgow, right? Or even the Mediterranean sea, or—... the Nile? A temple? No! No, he had to send us to a fucking desert!”

She was pacing around the stone circle, sending clouds of sand dust swirling into the air.

“And now, I’m just supposed to say a quick word, drop a pile of dust into more dust, and bloody walk away? Mission accomplished, thanks for playing!”

“Claire.” He reached for her hand, “Come here.”

Wrapping an arm around her, he wound his fingers in her hair and whispered soft, meaningless words until her ears stopped buzzing and her heartbeat slowed to a normal rate. He smelled of dust, leather and sweat, with hints of fabric softener.

“I dinna ken why he chose this place, but he trusted ye with this, aye?” She snorted something that sounded like an agreement. “And ye came. That’s what matters, aye?” Her shoulders were tense under his palms, but she gave the hint of a nod. “Alright. Look, why don’t ye lay down in the back of the car for a minute? I’ll try to build this tent before sunset, and then we’ll eat and figure something out.”

***

Claire woke up to darkness, feeling cold. In a daze, she groped blindly for the duvet—silently berating Jamie for his annoying habit of stealing it during the night—but the mattress felt oddly firm under her back, and her fingers came in contact with a metal object attached to some sort of strap... A safety belt.

She sat up abruptly, blinking. According to the colour of the sky, the sun had set for about an hour, the pink glow on the horizon deepening to a dark red; and night was spreading like ink in a glass of water. Feeling uneasy, she put on a sweater and went out.

Hisham’s green tent was set up at the back of the car, with a small, unlit fire pit on the side.

“Jamie?” The word came out as a croak, and she cleared her throat nervously. The second call remained unanswered.

To her left, the stones were standing in the distance, almost threatening in the last glow of the sunset, and a shiver went down her spine. What if Jamie had gone back to the circle, and...

“Oh, do get a grip, Beauchamp!”

The wind had started to rise, erasing any signs of footsteps in the sand. Claire sat inside the tent, shivering. Ten more minutes went by.

“Fine. Fine!”

Turning on the car’s headlights and retrieving an electric torch, she headed towards the nearest hill, trying to suppress the thought of the tall Scot stepping on a snake or a scorpion and slowly choking to death only meters away from her.

The desert was deathly quiet, the first stars cold and unblinking above. She squinted a little, trying to see past a small cluster of shrubs—and her heart nearly stopped.

He was lying flat on his face, his beige hiking trousers half covered in sand, as though someone had tried to bury him.

“Jamie!” Claire ran down the hill, nearly dropping her electric torch, and flung herself on his body with a cry of horror, knees sinking deep in the sand. “Jamie!”

As she grabbed his shoulder, he let out a blood-curling groan and convulsed under her. She jerked back, torn between relief and horror.

“Ah... there ye are.” He sounded drowsy. “Took ye… long enough.”

“Where?” Panic creeping up, her heart beating like a drum, the list of symptoms flashed through her brain like lightning; dizziness, slurred speech, please-God-no, numbness around the mouth, muscle weakness... “Jamie, where did it bite you?”

He turned his head slightly, eyes half-closed.

“Bite me?”

She ran both hands down his calves, frantically looking for puncture wounds. Nothing.

“The snake! Tell me where!”

“No, I’m... Claire, listen. I’m alright.” He grimaced as Claire placed a hand on his leg. “It’s just… my back.”

She stared at him, blinking.

“Ye were sleeping; I just went away for a piss...” He turned his head to spit sand out of his mouth. “On the way back, I jumped off that wee crop of rocks… and when I landed on one foot, my back went click! and I rolled down the hill. Next I knew, I was on my face in the sand, feelin’ as though someone had stabbed me in the spine.”

Claire’s heartbeat was still racing, but the feeling of utter terror was starting to dissolve in the pit of her stomach, leaving her slightly nauseous. She sat heavily on the cold floor.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called, damn you?”

“Fell asleep.” He laid his cheek against the ground, and sighed. “Did ye bring a bottle of water, by any chance, a nighean? I wouldna mind having a drop or two. That damn sand is creeping everywhere.”

“Water? No, I—I left it in the—” Claire took a deep, shaky breath. “Can you move your arms and legs for me?”

He gave her a mildly irritated look but complied, flapping his arms with a grunt, then lifting his toes up ever so slightly. Her heart rate settling down, she lifted Jamie’s T-shirt, feeling her way from his spine to his lower back.

“This looks like severe muscle spasms.” His skin was warm to the touch, but he shivered as the desert wind blew on his exposed back. “I need to go fetch a few things; I’ll be back in a minute, alright?”

He answered with a little snort.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach. I’m no’ verra likely to go anywhere, aye?”

Claire ran to the car, ticking off a mental checklist as she filled their largest backpack. Clearly, Jamie wouldn’t be able to walk back on his own, and outweighed her by a good thirty pounds. She wouldn’t risk driving through such a narrow valley—and the safest course of action was probably to leave the van in sight on top of the hill, if they were to be rescued—… Her knees wobbled a little. By the time anyone realised they were missing, the heat would be close to unbearable. Maybe she ought to leave Jamie and go get help… And drive alone in pitch darkness, so close to the border? Hisham had showed them the gun under the driver’s seat. She knew how to use it.

She pushed the thought firmly away, packing four—no, five large water bottles. She’d simply have to relocate the camp right where Jamie had fallen, and hope that he would be able to move in the morning.

It took her three round trips and a lot of cursing to carry all their gear, rebuild the tent, and help Jamie crawl inside at the cost of a few muffled oaths. After cleaning his face with a wet towel and helping him drink, she allowed herself to have a few sips, shoulders stiff with tension.

“Are ye alright, Sassenach?”

Still lying on his stomach, Jamie reached to pat her thigh. She grabbed his hand and nodded silently.

“Could be worse, ye ken?” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I threw my back out, but ye ken what to do about it, and there are worse places to spend the night.”

The upper portion of the tent was a mesh panel, planned for ventilation and stargazing. From their viewpoint at the bottom of the valley, they could see the stones backdropped against the dark sky, only a few hundred feet away. The wind had abated a little, its sound muffled against the outer bright green shell, and it was definitely warmer inside—or maybe it was an impression, created by the glow of the small electric light that hung down from the central pole. Either way, Claire felt herself regain a little strength.

“Well, since you mentioned it… Now that shelter and water are covered, let’s have a look at your back.”

Sitting at his head, she applied her hands on either side of his spine. A few inches under the crest of his left hip bone, the muscle felt like a tight, rigid rope coiled against his buttock, and he groaned loudly as she hit the spot.

“Sorry.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t mean to hurt you, but—”

“I’m fine.” His teeth were clenched, but she heard amusement in his voice. “Surely, I’m not yer first patient who sounds like a dying boar? Take good old Mrs. Fitzgibbons, for inst—”

“Idiot.” With a little snort, she moved along his oblique muscles. “You know I’m sworn to secrecy, right?”

“Hmm, thought so.” He closed his eyes with a smirk. “Seriously, dinna mind me, Sassenach. It’s alright.”

Leaning over him, Claire massaged gently with the heel of her hand, then began to sink deeper. Pushing in and out with her flattened palms, she slid her fingers along his spine and buttocks, pressing and releasing several times.

Holding back a wince, Jamie tried to ignore the burning sensation by focusing on his breathing, inhaling and blowing deeply whenever instructed. Claire’s fingers were warm and surprisingly strong, and her touch brought back memories of their first meeting—soon interrupted by another jolt of pain as she increased the pressure on his lower back.

“Alright, I think we’re done here.” She covered him with the top of his sleeping bag and moved on all fours towards the entrance. “Now, what you need is a warm compress.”

Leaving the front of the tent open, she went out to heat up some water on Hisham’s camping stove. When the kettle lid started jumping up and down, she soaked up a towel, cautiously inserted it into a plastic bag, and placed it on top of Jamie’s T-shirt before crawling back in the dark.Soothed by the radiant heat and lulled by the constant battering of the wind against the tent, he started to doze off, until a sharp zipping sound indicated Claire’s return.

“And here comes today’s special!” She was kneeling at the entrance, holding two steaming bowls of ful mudammas topped with Egyptian flatbread.

“Would ye look at that...” He smiled, rubbing a large palm on his face. “My fancy wee cook!”

“I know!” She used the thin, firm bread as a spoon, scooping a large bite of beans. “I’ve been trained by Glasgow’s best chef.”

“Oh, aye? What’s the man like?”

“Well, he’s a Scot.” She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “You know. Stubborn, proud. A bit of a food snob, really. Annoyingly good-looking. Makes a mean carrot cake, too.”

He answered with a sarcastic snort, and blew on his beans, frowning.

“A chef about to lose his kitchen, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, about that…” Claire opened her mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it. “Actually, never mind, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Aye,” he replied, “let’s not ruin our night under the stars.”

She smiled and passed him a painkiller and a vacuum flask of black tea, so sweet it made his teeth ache. As heat spread across and inside his body, Jamie’s muscles started to unclench, and he was able to prop himself up on both elbows to drink.

After a while, he put down his cup. “Are ye done eating, a nighean?”

“Pretty much, yes,”  she answered, swallowing her last piece of bread. “Why?”

“Because…” He grimaced, shifting to lie on his side, and patted the floor lightly. “Because I would like ye to lay down next to me. Would ye mind much?”

She stared at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her lip.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

Stretching the sleeping bag over their bodies, she turned off the light, nestled next to him and wrapped an arm around his waist. He held her in silence, her lips brushing the base of his throat, listening to the strange sounds of the desert wind at night—she’d told him some people in these parts of Egypt believed that it carried the voice of jinns.

“I’m sorry about earlier, by the way.”

He let out a low, questioning grunt.

“You know.” She shrugged, clearing her voice. “I might have… overreacted a little.”

“Ah, so ye did.” He chuckled, making goosebumps spread down her neck. “I thought ye were going to punch one of those stones and split it open.” Growing serious, he kissed her temple. “Ye dinna have to apologise for grievin’, Claire.”

She turned her head upwards, frowning.

“What does this have anything to do with—”

“‘Tis normal to get angry, aye?” Slowly, he ran his fingers through her hair. “Speaking from experience.”

“I—” She looked ready to argue, but paused and sighed deeply. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “It’s so odd. One day, everything is fine—more than fine, I can think of him and be happy, you know? But sometimes…” She laughed, without humour. “God, I want to run away and never look back. I want to hit someone—or something—anything.”

She shook her head helplessly, and he held her tighter.

“Been there, done that,” he answered with a smirk. “Wouldna recommend it, though.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“What, you—”

“Hit a tree, aye. In Lallybroch, after my Mam died. Ye ken that wood, behind the McNab’s field?” She nodded, and he trapped her fingers in his own. “It helped a bit. The tree was fine. My hand wasna.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. You can never forget, but it does get easier with time, aye?” His face wore a far-away smile, until he brought their joined hands to his lips, eyes intent on her. “So hit the stones, scream if ye have to... but dinna be too hard on yerself. I know he would be so proud, mo ghraidh.”

Unable to answer, Claire ran a hand along his neck and closed that last, agonizing space between them, a single tear sealing their kiss like a drop of melted wax.

Jamie managed to pull her closer without wincing, until their bodies were pressed together, taking each other’s shape. Hands roaming over her, he let out a starved groan that reverberated deep in her womb, a wave of white heat washing over them.

“Wait,” she whispered against his mouth. “Your back…”

“Never mind my back,” he answered breathlessly between kisses. “Might take my mind off the pain.”

Seeing her hesitation, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and guided her hand to the bulge of his trousers.

“I need ye, Claire.” His whole body was trembling, and he bent to fasten his lips on her earlobe. “And I havena lost all my faculties yet, so help me out of these, will ye?”

The urgency in his voice was almost alarming in its intensity, and Claire’s ears started buzzing. Wiggling out of her linen wide-legged trousers and cotton underwear, she scooted closer and lowered his zipper, eased her hands under his belt and pushed down, trailing her fingers over the smooth, burning skin as she went, and finally released him. His mouth fell slightly open as he moaned a string of Gaelic words, and she tasted the fullness of his lips, warm and soft and salty.

The wind seemed to have dropped completely, and the air inside the tent was thick and electric, humming with energy.

Pushing back the sleeping bag, she lifted her upper leg and firmly draped it over his hip, the soft cotton of his T-shirt gathered in a fistful. His hand followed the curve of her thighs and hips, cupping her flesh reverently, and guided her in shallow thrusts against him. They stared into each other’s souls, breaths coming in gasps, lips forming soundless words, unmoving except for the pulsating heart of their joining where blood rushed like the tide. Then Claire rocked against him, taking him slow and deep, her left hand pressed against his lower back, and watched his face reflect her every movement.

“Oh, God…”

He pressed his forehead against hers and gripped her shoulder, urging her to increase their pace. More heat surged along her spine as she angled her hips, and they took each other in a frenzy, their bodies slipping, sliding and crashing against each other until the storm died down, leaving them adrift in a sea of sand.

***

With a stifled groan, Jamie opened his eyes and rolled on his side, stretching his legs until his feet rubbed against the soft wall of the tent. Every muscle from the first vertebrae to the knees hurt like he’d been hit repeatedly with a blunt object, and he still couldn't bend his neck properly, but the sharp, stabbing pain of the previous evening was gone. So was his backpack, he noticed in a haze. And most importantly, so was Claire.

Cursing under his breath, he moved cautiously, put on his trousers and shoes, and crawled out of the tent on all fours.

The breath of the desert hit him in the face, dry and crisp, so pure he stood silent for a moment, eyes following the lines of the landscape. The grey light of the earliest dawn could already be seen in the east; the sun would be up in an hour or so, he thought.

He headed out in the direction of the car, slowly climbing up to the top of the nearest hill, pausing to find footing. On the downward slope, he passed a small sandstone formation, eroded by the wind, and a cold hand grabbed him by the wrist.

“Jamie!”

He whirled on his feet, nearly twisting his back again.

“Ifrinn!” he hissed, heart thumping wildly. “Sassenach, what the devil...”

“Shhh!” She waved, urging him to come closer to the ground. “Be quiet!”

Claire’s eyes were wide open, and he felt her hand tremble in his. He bent slowly and laid flat on his stomach against the rock, squinting to see across the hill, less than two-hundred feet away. The stones stood still and silent, as though waiting for someone. At the center of the circle, a burst of amber glowed in the dying darkness. Fire. With a jolt of adrenaline, he opened his mouth, ready to ask Claire to go back to the car.

And then, he saw them.

Tall figures clad in white—men, he thought, from the way they moved between the stones. Their faces were dark and fierce, their heads wrapped in turbans. What he had mistaken for a fire had been the light of their gathered torches; the amber glow was now split into seven bright fireflies, moving in harmony.

Claire’s hand was still cold against his; he wanted to turn towards her, to ask her if they were dreaming, to voice the thought that had just formed in both their minds, but he couldn’t look away, even for a second.

A chant rose through the still air, leaving his arms covered with goosebumps. The figures became ethereal creatures, hovering between two worlds, breaking the circle before reforming it. They were dancing, dancing surrounded by an infinite desert under an infinite sky, whirling like derviches.

Later, he would be unable to tell how long the dance lasted. The grey light of dawn was suddenly creeping over the hills, throwing shadows on the chiseled rocks and the smooth dunes; their lines growing sharper, their brown and reddish shades more brilliant. And when the first ray of sun hit the top of the highest stone, the figures dropped away from the circle, the chant ended, and everything was over as suddenly as it had started.

Too moved to speak, they watched the torches being put off one by one, and the group moved in the opposite direction to their vantage point. Jamie felt Claire stir beside him, and brought her closer.

“Are ye alright?” he whispered.

She rubbed a back on the back of her neck.

“I… Yes, I—”

Her eyes widened abruptly and she let out a small gasp. Following her gaze, Jamie realised that one man was still standing near the tallest stone—and seemed to be staring directly at them.

They held their breath, and the man slowly raised a palm in the air, placing it on his heart. One heartbeat, two . The whole scene only took a few seconds. Then, he turned around abruptly, and went out of view behind the hill.

They laid against the rock, souls gone quiet.

“I think...” Claire’s voice was a little hoarse, and she pointed towards the largest stone with an odd smile. “I think it has to be now.”

***

Jamie unzipped his backpack and took out the urn, carefully placing it between her hands, then moved to stand by her side between the stones. In the light of day, they didn’t look as threatening, only filled with a mysterious energy.

The sky had been a pinkish grey a few minutes ago, but was now turning a deep shade of copper, tinged with thin streaks of orange. It was a breathtaking view, one that almost wasn’t meant to be seen.

Claire felt calm, at peace. Her thoughts drifted towards Lamb, mentally drawing the sharp nose, the sarcastic smile, the deep, wrinkled eyes, the long hands moving as he spoke. Months after the revelation in Glasgow Green, the same thought resurfaced beneath the layers of her mind. Somewhere, on the other side of the veil, beyond the rock, beyond the tangible, physical realm, perhaps there was a place where time no longer existed. A place where all things were possible. Was there love there? Beyond the limits of flesh and time, was all love possible?

Yallah, dove. It’s time.

A breeze stirred her hair in soft affection, and she smiled, eyes filling with tears. Then, with a sure step, she moved on the edge of the stone circle to stand on the edge of the hill, overlooking the valley.

“In time's desert, I feel your presence.”

The perfect words had come from Lamb himself, from a strange tale, written by a nearly-forgotten poet. She paused, took a deep breath, opened the urn’s lid.

“In the rock's silence, I hear your footstep.”

Turning against the wind, she tipped the urn and held it parallel to the ground.

“In loneliness and sorrow… I turn to the joy of your love.”

The wind rose suddenly, and she leaned forward, releasing the ashes in a large, sweeping arc. For a moment, they seemed to linger in the air, rising above the hills and turning to gold as the light hit them. Claire stood and watched until the last particles floated out, claimed by the desert. Her cheeks were dry, for there was no cause for tears.

At last, she sighed deeply. Jamie’s hands came to rest on her shoulders, and she turned to face him, melting into his embrace. After a moment, her voice rose, muffled against his chest.

“I found a buyer for Lamb’s house, you know.”

“Oh, aye?” He kissed her forehead lightly. “That’s good.”

“They’re offering two hundred thousand pounds.” She lifted her chin decisively. “I’m going to accept. And then, we’re going to buy a restaurant.”

Jamie’s eyes widened in shock.

“What?” He tightened his grip on her arms. “Claire, ye canna be serious.”

“Well, I am.” She took both his hand between hers. “Between your savings and mine, we’ll have more than enough. You can start over, Jamie. Start over in your own place, and—”

“Absolutely not.”

He turned around, and she caught him by the wrist.

“Jamie—”

“‘Tis yer money,” he frowned, shaking his head. “I should provide for us, and I’ve got no right to—”

“Damn you and your bloody pride!” She stared at him, defiant. “I love you! I want us to build a life together, in Glasgow, doing what we love. Isn’t that reason enough?”

His face softened, and he bent to kiss her.

“And I love ye, a nighean, but it doesna mean—”

“Just… promise me you’ll think about it,” she whispered, holding him tighter. “I know that’s what he would have wanted.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the beat of his heart quicken against her cheek. After a long moment, he leaned back to look at her.

“I’ll think about it… on one condition.” His fingers tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, stroking the soft shell and moving down towards the jawline. “Ye want to build a life together? So do I.”

He kissed her again, softly, with a mouth full of promises.

“To do that, we’ll need a home. One that’s ours.”

The sunrise was reflecting in the undying ocean of his eyes, deep blue flickering gold and amber, glowing with the warmth of his love.

“Then take me home, Jamie,” she whispered against his mouth. “Take me home to Scotland.”

The end.