âLie down,â I said firmly, and pointed to my lap.
âNay, Iâll be fââ âI donât care whether youâre fine or not,â I said.  âI said, lie down.â âIâve work toââ âYouâll be flat on your face in another minute,â I said.  âLie.  Down.â He opened his mouth, but a spasm of pain made him shut his eyes, and he couldnât locate any words with which to argue.  He swallowed, opened his eyes, and sat down beside me, very gingerly.  He was breathing slowly and shallowly, as though drawing a deep breath might make things worse. I stood up, took his shoulders and turned him gently so I could reach his plait.  I undid his ribbon and unraveled the thick strands of auburn hair.  It still was mostly red, though soft white threads caught the light here and there. âDown,â I said again, sitting and pulling his shoulders toward me.  He moaned a little, but stopped resisting and lowered himself very slowly, âtil his head rested heavy in my lap.  I touched his face, my fingers feather-light on his skin, tracing the bones and hollows, temples and orbits, cheekbones and jaw.  Then I slid my fingers into the soft mass of his hair, warm in my hands, and did the same to his scalp.  He let out his breath, carefully, and I felt his body loosen, growing heavier as he relaxed. âWhere does it hurt?â I murmured, making very light circles round his temples with my thumbs.  âHere?â âAyeâŚbutâŚâ  He put up a hand, blindly, and cupped it over his right eye.  âIt feels like an arrowâstraight through into my brain.â âMmm.â  I pressed my thumb gently round the bony orbit of the eye, and slid my other hand under his head, probing the base of his skull.  I could feel the muscles knotted there, hard as walnuts under the skin.  âWell, then.â I took my hands away and he let his breath out. âIt wonât hurt,â I reassured him, reaching for the jar of blue ointment. âIt does hurt,â he said, and squinched his eyelids as a fresh spasm seized him. âI know.â  I unlidded the jar, but let it stand, the sharp fragrance of peppermint, camphor and green peppercorns scenting the air.  âIâll make it better.â He didnât make any reply, but settled himself as I began to massage the ointment gently into his neck, the base of his skull, the skin of his forehead and temples.  I couldnât use the ointment so close to his eye, but put a dab under his nose, and he took a slow, deep breath.  Iâd make a cool poultice for the eye when Iâd finished.  For now, though⌠âDo you remember,â  I said, my voice low and quiet.  âTelling me once about visiting Bird Who Sings in the Morning?  And how his mother came and combed your hair?â âAye,â he said, after a momentâs hesitation.  âShe saidâŚshe would comb the snakes from my hair.â  Another hesitation.  âSheâŚdid.â Clearly he did rememberâand so did I recall what heâd told me about it.  How sheâd gently combed his hair, over and over, while he told herâin a language she didnât speakâthe trouble in his heart.  Guilt, distressâŚand the forgotten faces of the men heâd killed. There is a spot, just where the zygomatic arch joins the maxilla, where the nerves are often inflamed and sensitiveâŚ.yes, just there.  I pressed my thumb gently up into the spot and he gasped and stiffened a little.  I put my other hand on his shoulder. âShh.  Breathe.â His breath came with a small moan, but he did.  I held the spot, pressing harder, moving my thumb just a little, and after a long moment, felt the spot warm and seem to melt under my touch.  He felt it too, and his body relaxed again. âLet me do that for you,â I said softly.  The wooden comb heâd made me sat on the little table beside the jar of ointment.  With one hand still on his shoulder, I picked it up. âIâŚno, I dinna wantâŚâ  But I was drawing the comb softly through his hair, the wooden teeth gentle against his skin.  Over and over, very slowly. I didnât say anything for quite some time.  He breathed.  The light came in low now, the color of wildflower honey, and he was warm in my hands, the weight of him heavy in my lap. âTell me,â I said to him at last, in a whisper no louder than the breeze through the open window.  âI donât need to know, but you need to tell me.  Say it in Gaelic, or Italian or Germanâsome language I donât understand, if thatâs better.  But say it.â His breath came a little faster and he tightened, but I went on combing, in long, even strokes that swept over his head and laid his hair untangled in a soft, gleaming mass over my thigh.  After a moment, he opened his eyes, dark and half-focused. âSassenach?â he said softly. âMm?â âI dinna ken any language that I think ye wouldna understand.â He breathed once more, closed his eyes, and began haltingly to speak, his voice soft as the beating of my heart.
*Nothing better than a beautiful Jamie&Claire passage to sooth my heart after the new teaser of Season 3
