#mod wunder

„Miss Fraser, have you thought about exploring other options for your mother? It might be time to find a nursing home for her, for both your sakes,“ the hospital’s social worker told her the day before, her stuffy office filled with the sound of a ticking clock. Marsali only nodded and accepted the bunch of brochures, eager to escape the too small space, the implications of considering such a solution. The words haven’t left her, though, and neither has the feeling of uneasiness.

She sighs and stands, resolving to channel her inner unrest into movement, to temporarily fill the icy hole in her chest with coffee. She takes the long way down to the cafeteria, which is closed at this hour of the day, but has a coin-operated coffee machine much better than any of the hallway vending machines on this floor. She stares at the white walls, the bland hospital art, the petrol green room number signs. She counts the steps as she descends the stairs, but it does nothing to calm her. The strain on her nerves is almost unbearable. Marsali is sure that any minute now she’s going to snap when she rounds the corner opposite the hospital entrance and almost collides with Dr. Taylor.

„Oh, Miss Fraser, you’re still here? Shouldn’t you get some rest?“

Marsali manages a wry smile. „I could ask ye the same thing, Dr. Taylor.“

The doctor laughs, a genuine, friendly laugh that shows her white teeth and the dimples in her dark cheeks. „I’m on my way out, actually. I’m glad I bumped into you before leaving, though. I’ve been meaning to tell you that we’ll have your test results ready by tomorrow and I’d like to see you in my office, say 10 am?“

She waits for the string of her nerves to snap, waits for the impact of the doctor’s kind words to hit, but instead of the violent crash she’s expecting, there’s only a feeling of surreality. For a second, Marsali has the impression that she’s watching herself from a distance, eerily indifferent to her own numbness, her own shock. She has to force herself to nod, to mumble her assent.

Dr. Taylor is already walking away, but she turns again after just a few steps, finding Marsali still rooted to the spot.

„How’s your mother?“ she asks, and there’s real sympathy in her voice, a hint of worry in her dark brown eyes.

„She’s... not great,“ Marsali answers honestly, her voice cracking a little on the last word. Dr. Taylor nods.

„You get some rest, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow,“ she says and it sounds like an order and a reassurance at the same time, like something her father might say to her. It makes Marsali smile despite herself.

„Aye, I’ll see ye tomorrow.“

The fight with Fergus. Laoghaire’s fall. The possibility of having to place her in a home. Her own test results. Marsali’s mind is a battleground, a tangle of fear and pain and nerves, a virtual hell. It’s why it seems almost cruel, an unlikely twist of fate, when the moment after the door has fallen closed behind Dr. Taylor, it opens again and the quiet of the nightly hospital is broken by loud shouts for help.

Her body reacts before her mind is able to register the whole picture, and she takes in details while already moving; their jackets, identifying them as Hell’s Angels, the strained muscles in their shoulders, evidence of their struggle to hold up the slim figure in their middle. The blood on his face. The pain in his eyes.

She reaches him just when they set him down on a chair, one of them gesturing wildly at the woman behind the welcome desk.

„Marsali?“ he says and it’s a question, his voice quiet, disbelieving.

Her own voice is everything she would have expected it to be in her conversation with Dr. Taylor. There’s despair, terror. There are tears.

„Fergus. What happened?“

___________________________________________________________________

It seems all hospital offices are too small for comfort. Dr. Taylor closes the door behind Marsali and gestures for her to sit, moving to open the small window as if she can sense Marsali feels trapped. A cold breeze wafts in and Marsali is grateful for it; a reminder that the world keeps turning, that the seasons are progressing.

„Before I let you know the results of your blood tests, I want to go over the facts with you one more time,“ Dr. Taylor says as she sits down behind her desk, her calm gaze focused on Marsali, who just nods.

„You’ve decided to have your blood tested because your mother has early onset dementia, which can be hereditary. However, the results of this test will not conclusively tell you if you’ll suffer from the same disease.“

Marsali nods again. She knows all this, she’s had a lot of time to get informed.

„The test identifies certain genetic markers. People with mutations in certain genes are statistically more likely to develop early-onset dementia. We know your mother has tested positive for one of the markers,“ Dr. Taylor pauses and sorts through the papers on her desk.

Marsali grits her teeth together, balls her hands so tightly she feels her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. She holds her breath. She’s aware that no matter the results of the test, she could always develop the disease. She’s aware how little reassurance a negative result really holds. But she wants it, needs it. She needs to know that she can live her life without the sword of high risk hanging over her neck.

„Miss Fraser.“

Marsali hasn’t realized she closed her eyes until she opens them to meet Dr. Taylor’s smiling gaze.

„You do not have any of the mutations, you tested negative for all the genetic markers.“

And Marsali breathes. She breathes in the cold air wafting through the still open window and Dr. Taylor reminds her again, that the test results provide only an indication of what may or may not happen. And Fergus is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, two floors up, because he deliberately got into a fight with some of her father’s men. And Laoghaire is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, three floors up, because she fell down the stairs to the basement when Marsali hadn’t locked the basement door. And the hospital’s social worker is looking through nursing home brochures with her father five doors down.

But Marsali breathes, and for the first time in days, she feels like the air is reaching her lungs. She feels like there’s a tiny sliver of hope. And where that tiny sliver grows, a plan slowly starts to take shape.

___________________________________________________________________

It’s raining when the procession of bikes reaches the cemetery, the roaring of motors drowning out the splatter of water against stone for just a moment before the bikes stand as still as their riders.

Black is their everyday color, and only their somber expressions hint at the special occasion. The pastor has held gang funerals before, but never one like this, he realizes with worry, when he stares at the mix of Mongols and Angel signs on the jackets of the assembled. They’ve come together, and it seems they’ve come in peace. He hadn’t really believed in it until now.

„Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs. Proverbs 10:12.“ The pastor’s voice raises over the cries of heaven as the heads of the assembled men and women rise at his words.

„We lay to rest your children,“ he continues, „who, despite their youth, knew the truth of God’s word in their hearts. Marsali Fraser and Fergus St. Germain have loved deeply. Their love crossed borders, and stood safe in the middle of a stormy sea of conflict that finally consumed them. Let us remember that love and let us honor it by calming the conflict between us.“

Jamie Fraser is a wall of stone, a picture of hard edges. Claire softly squeezes Jamie’s hand, her face hidden in his shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation he squeezes back.

„Marsali and Fergus’ love has endured great conflict. It is now, on this day, reason and incentive for us to come together as they have, to cross borders as they did. May you be united in love and grief for your children as they have been united in love for each other.“

Nobody moves when the pastor ends his speech. The rain is too loud in the silence of their shared grief, too warm on their icy skin. It’s a day to be marked – the day they buried Marsali and Fergus, the day they’ve let a semblance of peace enter their hearts.

Jamie and Claire are the last to leave the cemetery. Jamie’s phone rings just when he sits down on the bike’s saddle and he shuts off the motor again before picking it up.

„How did it go?“ she asks and he thinks he must imagine the tinny quality to her voice – modern technology doesn’t bother with distance as much as the heart does, after all.

„All according to plan, a leannan,“ he assures her, and Claire smiles at him. „Ye’re safe?“

„Aye, Da, we’re safe.“ She sounds full of wonder, as if stunned this crazy plan of hers has worked, has somehow spit them out safe and sound on the other side of the border.

„Yer Ma?“

„They say she’s adjusting well. We’re going back to visit her on Sunday. I have a good feeling about this, Da.“

It takes him a moment to answer her, emotions warring in his chest. The pastor was right, he decides for himself. There have been too many wrongs in this story, too many obstacles in his daughter’s path. But however winded the way, however dramatic and unusual the means, love covers all the wrongs.

„Auntie Marsi, will ye come see my new spaceship bed?“ Jem crows, before either of them can even begin to form the words. Jem’s sticky little hands drum an excited rhythm on Marsali’s forearm and she laughs and shrugs at Fergus.

„Someone’s clearly had too much sugar,“ Brianna notes in a dry tone from the base of the stairs and Fergus notices, not for the first time, how well his sister has grown into her role as a mother – how much she reminds him of Mama.

„Of course I’ll come see yer space ship, buddy!“ Marsali smooths the russet curls out of Jem’s forehead and gets up. Before she joins Brianna and Jem on the stairs, she bends to whisper into Fergus’ ear.

„Tell them anyway. I dinna mind and we might not get them together at a single table again before he’s here.“

She silences his inquisitive stare with a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, then kisses his cheek. Claire stands up and joins her when Marsali moves towards the stairs,  announcing she needs to check out Jemmy’s rash again.

„Looks like we’re left wi’ kitchen duties,“ Roger sighs, but the soft expression he wears while his eyes follow his wife and son up the stairs of their new home betrays his mock irritation.

The kitchen is warm and cozy and Jamie turns the dials of the radio until low, slow blues rhythms fill the room. Roger fills the sink, chuckling at his father-in-law’s tuneless humming and Fergus has to take a deep swig of whisky to get a grip on his emotions.

This is his family. His growing family.

He accepts a wet pan from Roger and starts to dry it, then clears his throat. „So, Marsali and I have news.“

Jamie looks up from the paper he’s been studying while waiting for dried dishes to stow away. His eyes meet his adoptive son’s, alight with silent support. Fergus takes a deep breath.

„I’m gonna be a father.“

It’s Jamie’s turn to clear his throat, then – wrapping his son into a tight hug, both to express his joy and to hide the emotion in his face. Roger laughs and claps Fergus on the back, saying his congratulations.

They eventually turn to the dishes again, all the while discussing the news the way men do – in practical terms. The baby is due in May, it’s gonna be a boy, they’re gonna stay in their apartment for a while, Marsali has been fairly well.

Soon, the dishes are done and stowed away and they’re sitting around the kitchen table, glasses of whisky in front of them. Fergus feels almost dizzy, excitement and wariness battling in his stomach as fiercely as they did the day Marsali bought the pregnancy test. He’s grateful for the warm burn of the spirit down his throat, for Jamie’s heavy hand on his shoulder, for Roger’s stories of his and Bree’s first days as new parents.

„It’ll be fine, lad. Dinna worry too much.“

Jamie’s calm words are as reassuring to Fergus now, as when he was a little boy with a scraped knee or fear of the dark. The storm inside him dies down enough for Fergus to voice his concerns.

„What if I’m not a good father to him?“

Both Jamie and Roger look like it’s a thought they think him mad to consider, and he adds to his question before either of them can voice that. „You know, with the MS? I’m fine now but we don’t know for how long, and if I can’t throw a ball with him, or carry him to bed, or do happy dances...“  

„Fergus.“ Roger stops him mid-sentence. „Do ye love him?“

„Of course I love him,“ Fergus answers without hesitation.

„So ye have yer answer. Ye’ll be exactly the father yer son needs. And for anything ye can’t give him, ye’ll have the support of yer family,“ Roger says firmly and Jamie nods, making an affirming sound in the back of his throat.

„Most of all, ye have Marsali,“ Jamie adds, and smiles crookedly at Fergus. „The lassie will be yer arms and legs and move mountains for ye if need be, and ye ken that well. The bairn will want for nothing.“

He closes his eyes for a moment against the threat of tears, and pinches the bridge of his nose. „You’re right,“ he admits. „It’s just not fair that she might have to take all that on for me.“

„It’s not,“ Jamie agrees. „But it willna make ye any less of a father, as it willna make ye any less of a son or a friend or a man. I’m proud of the person ye’ve become, lad.“ His voice is rough on the last few words, his hand firmly squeezing Fergus’ shoulder. All three men are silent for a moment, burying their noses in their whisky glasses.

„Thank you,“ Fergus finally says, when he’s composed himself enough to speak. The kitchen door opens to the chatter of the women, all smiling widely with the news.

Claire kisses her son on the cheek, tightly hugging him. „I’m so excited for you!“ she smiles, sitting on the bench next to her husband.

Fergus looks up at Marsali – his fierce, radiant, strong Marsali. Reaching for her hand, he intertwines their fingers, and returns his mother’s smile.

Jem – my son, as you will remember – caught lice about a month ago. It was such a bad case that we ended up shaving all the hair off his head, and that was when we found it – a curious, big brown splotch right behind Jemmy’s ear. Of course I was worried at first, discussing its possible implications with Mama, when Roger reassured me that he’d had one just like it for all his life, and it hadn’t been of any concern. This was as close to a confirmation of Jem’s paternity as anyone could offer, and a vindication of the certainty I have always felt.

We have been a family for almost five years now, and Roger has never treated Jem as anything other than his own flesh and blood. But I know he carried his own part of this weight on his shoulders and I am beyond grateful it has lifted for all of us. I may not be able to completely rid myself of the memory of Stephen Bonnet, but Roger deserves to live without that shadow hanging over his head.

He has gone through so much these last five years – he has uprooted his entire life for me, he has been abducted, beaten and enslaved, and then came back from that only to find me pregnant. He had to find his place in a family that had done terribly wrong by him, with a wife that had been violated and a son he neither expected, nor had certainty shared his blood. And as if that wasn’t enough already, he was wrongfully hanged. The miracle of his survival does not negate the part of himself he did lose, his voice. He had to fight tirelessly to build himself up again, to become a new version of himself, one he still recognized.

And he did it. He stood by me through all of it, he built a relationship with my father despite their differences, he became a father himself despite what his own internal struggles might have been. He did it all for me. For our family.

I’ve been rambling, and you’ll forgive me for it. What I’m really writing for is not to gush about my husband, but to thank you, John.

Thank you, with all my heart. Thank you for not marrying me when I demanded you do. Thank you for standing by me regardless, through the tumultuous phase of life you encountered me in. Thank you for being a true friend and bearing with me the burden I shared with you many years ago. I hope you’ll find some of the joy and love I’ve felt this past month enclosed in this letter, and I hope I’ll hear from you soon.

Yours affectionately,

It’s only after – when they’re lying side by side in the wide bed, spent and heated, avoiding any more touch, that he realizes the crawling sensation has left him, his anger erupted in the heat of their joining. The silent emptiness it left behind is worse, still.

„Why do you continue to come?“ he asks, a bitter taste on his tongue – the taste of weakness. He’s not comfortable with this needy side of himself, this side that can’t stay away, this side that asks her to stay again and again.

„Ye’re a damn good fuck,“ she teases, but it’s half-hearted and they both know it. He sees the fire flicker behind her blue eyes when he turns to look at her and welcomes the bite of its flames reaching for him – anything to fill the void. He presses on.

„You refuse to quit the gang, you won’t let me quit either. You never answer my declarations or pleas, yet you always come back to me. Why?“

Marsali sits up abruptly, reaching for her shirt and swinging her pale legs over the edge of the bed. The set of her shoulders is tense and she doesn’t look at him when she snaps. „What do ye want me to say, Fergus?“

„I want you to admit you love me.“

It comes out a little too loud, a little too forceful, but he doesn’t care. This has been brewing inside him for weeks, a dark, bubbling mess long overdue to spill that he desperately needs out of his system. He wants clarity – all or nothing, to have her admit her feelings or provoke her until she finally walks out on him for good.

She’s on her feet now, moving through the room quickly, in jerky, angry motions, her body radiating stress, the stony expression of her face telling him she’s struggling to keep her walls up.

„Admit it!“ he says, even louder this time, crawling to the edge of the bed. He’s naked still, but he doesn’t make a move to get dressed. He wants to force her to be open and honest, to be naked with body and words.

„Admit it, or tell me you’re just coming back here because you need to get fucked so bad, because your shitshow of a gang doesn’t have one decent man who serves you as well as I do, because you’re a damned whore who doesn’t care one iota about who she’s hurting. Say it!“

He’s almost screaming at her now, the words purposely harsh blows, chosen to tear down her walls, chosen to make her react. It’s selfish of him, but he feels he might disintegrate, might lose himself completely if he stops.

„I do, okay?!“

It’s something between a sob and yell and he’s at her side in seconds when she drops to the floor crying.

„I do love ye,“ she admits, much quieter now, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to protect her from falling apart now that the walls of protection have fallen.

„Are ye happy now?“ Her voice rises again, and she lifts her head to stare at him defiantly through a curtain of tears. He thinks about that – tries to pinpoint his feelings, to interpret the turmoil in his stomach, but she’s not finished.

„It doesn’t change anything, don’t ye get it?“ The look of despair on her face scares him, and he reaches for her arms, trying to become a part of the forlorn embrace she’s wrapped herself in.

„Ye dinna even know my last name.“

He wants to protest, wants to tell her he’ll happily learn every little detail about her life – how she drinks her coffee, how she ties her shoes, what colour her shower curtain and oven mitts and toothbrush are – but the words die on his tongue at her merciless stare, and her next words feel like a stab with a knife. Brutal, painful, inflicting an irreversible wound.

„My name is Marsali Fraser. My father is James Fraser, president of the Mongols’ Badlands charter. My mother is Laoghaire Mackenzie. She has early onset dementia. I moved back in with her a year ago, because she can’t live alone anymore.“

Fergus suddenly wishes he had dressed. He feels exposed, Marsali’s words a cold storm attacking him full force, her face a mask of pain he feels mirrored on his own.

„We’ll find a way,“ he says, a weak attempt at gaining some semblance of control over this chaos. He doesn’t believe it, and she doesn’t either.

„I canna leave, Fergus.“ Her voice is tender now, as she bends towards him and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s salty and wet from her tears, and he feels stranded, disoriented. „I’m sorry.“

And then she rises and leaves, but he can’t move. Glued down to the carpet he hates himself for being naive enough to believe that all or nothing was possible, for not seeing this coming. She loves him, but he will never have her. It’s all and nothing at the same time.

___________________________________________________________________

She’s picking out cereal when her phone rings, the melody of her favourite song echoing off the boxes stacked on the aisle. She curses under her breath at her treacherous mind, immediately flitting to Fergus. They danced to this song. Made love while it played in the background. He wouldn’t call though; he only ever texts. And he won’t text anymore, now that they stopped pretending. She swipes at her phone angrily, without checking to see who’s calling.

„Yes?“

„Marsali, good! Don’t freak out, okay?“ Claire’s voice sounds pretty close to freaking out herself, although it’s clear she’s making a conscious effort to stay calm. Marsali immediately goes into emergency mode, her feet carrying her towards the exit, the groceries in her cart abandoned.

„What happened? Did she hurt herself?“

The memory of the big blister on Laoghaire’s forearm from when she had turned her back to the hot stove for just a second makes Marsali feel nauseous and triggers more images – images of every possible danger in their house, every step you could fall, every corner you could hit your head on.

„She got out. I’m looking for her now, and Jamie is in your apartment in case she comes back. I’m really sorry, love, I swear, I was only in the bathroom for a minute...“

Marsali has to swallow around the lump in her throat before she can answer. „It’s not yer fault,“ she finally manages to say, already climbing into the car. „I’m on my way. Let’s split areas to look – where should I go?“

She finds Laoghaire at the corner café her mother used to work at, where she smiles at the customers and cleans the tables. Louie, the owner, who’s called her only ten minutes after she hung up on Claire, squeezes Marsali’s shoulder.

„It was really no trouble. She just went right to work.“

She forces herself to smile at him. „Thank ye, Louie. For not saying anything to her. And for calling me.“

„No biggie. Let me know if I can ever do anything to help.“

She gives him a grateful nod, her lips pressed together tightly to keep in the sob of exhaustion and relief she doesn’t want the world to hear. With a light touch to Louie’s arm, she turns and approaches her mother.

„Hi, Laoghaire. Let me take ye home.“

The soft tone is practiced, not even stumbling on her mother’s first name anymore – Marsali’s long since accepted the fact that addressing her with „Mam“ only agitates her, that her own mother can’t remember having a daughter.

„Is my shift already over?“ Laoghaire asks, looking over Marsali’s shoulder at Louie.

„Oh yes, dear, you go right on home and enjoy your night,“ Louie smiles at her, and Laoghaire’s face lights up, and she lets herself be led out the café and towards the car.

___________________________________________________________________

„I found the brochures,“ Jamie says, and passes her a hot cup of tea. She avoids his eyes, burying her nose in the steam rising from the cup and coughing at the strong alcoholic fumes.

„Ye put whisky in that,“ she states with half a smile that he mirrors back at her.

„Thought ye could use it.“ They settle into the couch, and his clear blue eyes - so like her own – rest sternly on her. „Marsali,“ he prompts and she shrugs her shoulders.

„I havena taken the test.“

„Ye should. I think it might be time we find a good home for Laoghaire. It’s too much for ye to take care of her all the time. Ye should be able to live yer life. And not be afraid.“ His warm palm on her knee grounds her and she sighs and lets herself be comforted by his strong presence, his warmth and solidness and safety.

„What if I have it, too?“ she whispers, not looking at him.

He wraps his strong arm around her shoulder and draws her into his chest, enveloping her into the familiar scent of worn leather and aftershave.

The black jeans hug her legs and ass in a way that makes him remember exactly how her milky skin feels under his hands, reminds him of every curve of her body, and creates in him the urge to drag her out of the dingy bar before anyone else sees – a surge of possessiveness he hadn’t known to be a side of him. She runs her hands through her hair laughing, and he can’t decide what to focus on – the memory of his own hands tangled in her blonde tresses or the ghost of her kiss eliciting goose bumps all over his body.

He empties his glass in one long swallow, setting it down on the counter again, onto a crumpled ten dollar bill. Without looking at her again, he stands and walks out through the back door.

The sun has almost set now and the parking lot is bathed in a muted evening light, almost orange in color. Fergus leans against the whitewashed brick of the bar’s outside wall, lighting a cigarette. He takes the first drag and closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the fading sun on his skin. He’s uncomfortably conscious of the heavy leather of his jacket weighing on his shoulders, and not for the first time asks himself if he made a mistake getting involved with these people, if he’d been too desperate for a family, any kind of home.

His stomach flutters with nerves and he is thankful for the small remedy the cigarette provides. They chose this bar carefully, it being located in a sort of no man’s land between the gangs’ territories, but it wouldn’t be wise for her to be seen with him, even here. So he waits, like he always does, and he prays she’ll come to him eventually, like she always does.

Fergus is just putting out the cigarette under the heel of his boot when the back door opens and releases her into the almost dark lot. Her own leather jacket is blacker than the approaching night, taunting him like a bad omen for a moment, until she smiles and nods towards his bike.

„Let’s go?“

He nods, returning her smile and pushing himself off the wall. His stomach settles a little when she swings onto the seat of his bike behind him and wraps her arms around his middle. The roar of the engine coming to life beneath them is soon joined by the sound of the wind rushing by their ears. The outside noises drown out his worries bit by bit, catapulting him into a simpler place, one made up of freedom and the warmth of her touch.

___________________________________________________________________

„How did it go?“ Marsali asks softly, stepping back into the small living room and closing the door to her mother’s bedroom behind her, careful not to wake her up.

„It went well.“ Her father smiles at her from across the room, shrugging into his jacket. „To be honest, I havena seen yer mother this content in a long while.“

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. „Hmm, aye. I think she remembers ye from when you were young. She doesn’t recognize me anymore most days.“

He crosses the room in two big steps, enveloping her in his strong arms and she releases a breath that has been stuck in her throat, inhaling her father’s familiar, comforting scent, feeling the soothing softness of his jacket’s worn leather under her palms.

„Ye’re being a wonderful daughter to her, a leannan. I’m so proud of you, ye ken? And ye can call me anytime if ye need someone to watch her, I dinna mind.“

He kisses the top of her head and she sighs again, reluctantly letting go of him and following him to the door. He has to duck his head just slightly, stepping through it into the stairwell and she smiles to herself. Her father, the soft giant, the protector, the president of the charter.

„Thanks, Da. Tell Claire I said hi, okay?“

She closes the door only when she can’t see him anymore and the echo of his footsteps on the stairs has faded away. From the counter by the door she picks up the mail and distractedly sorts through it, balling up a takeout menu and an ad for a car dealership and tossing them into the trash when she reaches the kitchen. She opens the fridge and scans its contents, then closes it again, regretting for a second that she threw away that menu, but deciding it was too late to eat anyway. She eyes the two letters left on the table, sighing for the third time since arriving home.

Drawing up her shoulders, she sorts them both into the piles of unopened letters on the shelves – the bigger one with the unpaid bills, the smaller one with the growing stack that she can’t open, won’t open, but can’t bring herself to throw away yet. She knows what it says, because she opened the first one, and she’s missed the appointments for the lab tests ever since. She doesn’t want to know. Not yet, possibly never.

Her mother smiles at her from the picture on the living room wall, a radiant smile, full of unbridled happiness. It’s a healthy smile, a present smile, one from before dementia.

___________________________________________________________________

Fergus watches her stretch like a lazy cat on his sheets, his fingers spread on her belly, following the dip of her hipbone, not wanting to lose touch with her skin. He feels anchored, next to her in bed, in a way he hasn’t in as long as he can remember, and in a way he knows he won’t as soon as she leaves.

„Stay,“ he says hoarsely, voice coated with emotion and a remnant of the thirst she instills and quenches in him whenever they meet.

„Ye ken fine I can’t,“ she answers, turning towards him and propping her head up on her hand. Her tone is soft but final, the message one she’s told him a thousand times.

„I can quit. You could quit too. We could leave this place together.“ He argues because he can’t give up just yet, not because he really thinks it will change her mind. He’s said all of this to her before.

„It’s not that easy. Ye ken that as well as I do. And I have family here. I canna leave them. I canna leave my mother.“

He nods, and they’re silent for a while, him watching her closely, once more trying to memorize every line of her face, every lash, every speckle in her absent eyes.

„I love you, Marsali.“

The look in her eyes is so tender and melancholic, he wants to jump out of bed and punch something, crank the bike to full speed, get into a fight. Instead, he lets her kiss him, tastes himself on her lips along with the borders between them, lingering before his inner eye when she gets up and dresses, bending down to smooth the hair out of his forehead gently in a quick gesture of affection.

He opens his eyes to see her standing at the door, lingering, and for a short moment hope flares up violently in his chest until he sees her expression.

„Ye ken I can’t,“ she says again, an echo of her own words, heavy with meaning. „I’m not meant to have a big romance in my life. It’s better that way, I promise.“

Tipsy Fergus was a sweet torture. He was apparently very conscious of the approach of Sunday’s goodbyes and hadn’t left Roger’s side all evening, leading agitated conversations without ever letting his gaze stray from Roger for longer than a few minutes.

Somebody had handed Roger a guitar earlier in the evening, and Roger had played two of his own songs, then accompanied a short sing-along, but people had long since moved on to party games and quiet corners. The guitar’s elegant neck now rested against Roger’s thigh, his thumb barely brushing the low E string in regular intervals, creating an almost unnoticeable sound and a pleasant vibration matching the buzz in his chest.

It took Roger by surprise when Fergus’ long fingers wrapped around the guitar’s neck. Only then did he notice that the conversation Fergus had been involved in had died down, and Marlène, Kenny and Iona had wandered towards the kitchen to replenish their drinks.

Fergus lifted the guitar in what Roger was sure was a deliberately slow and calculated movement, his knuckles softly brushing Roger’s thigh in the process, his clear blue eyes fixed on Roger’s darker ones.

He stood, without a word, and grabbing Roger’s hand lead him quickly toward the bedroom where they’d left their coats, leaving the guitar on a couch in the living room.

„Where are we going?“ Roger asked, thinking to himself that it didn’t matter, that he would happily follow Fergus to the moon and back if he only asked.

Fergus tossed him his jacket in lieu of an answer and was already halfway out of the room, calling back: „Grab that bottle of wine on the dresser, will you?“ And Roger did as he was told, following Fergus into the chill of the Parisian night without a second thought.

It started on Paris’ cobblestones, on their endless and simultaneously brief, almost hasty journey home. They played into their own drunkenness, leaning on each other, a steadying hand on the other’s arm, a swaying bump to the other’s hip, a lingering hand holding onto cold fingers. They stopped to take turns drinking out of the snagged wine bottle, increasingly conscious of the fact that they were pressing their lips to the same small ring of glass, inching closer to each other with every stop, the bottle slowly emptying, their hearts impossibly filling.

Fergus stopped one last time on the corner of his street, setting down the empty bottle next to a trash can and leaning against the wall of the closed restaurant, the movement reminding Roger of Mrs Graham’s cat, just as fluid, just as perfectly elegant and lazy. In awe, he let Fergus tug him closer, wondering for a split second whether he’d maybe had too much wine.

Fergus’ hand wandered up Roger’s arm, finding purchase on the back of his neck, tangling in the ends of the unruly brown waves. With their foreheads connected they said nothing for a short while, just breathing the same air and Roger’s eyes slipped closed, his whole body focused on the sensation of Fergus’ fingers in his hair.

Fergus’ voice was lower, rougher than usual when he finally spoke, his grip on Roger tightening with his words, and shooting straight to Roger’s core.

„Fuck, j’ai envie de toi... Let’s go home, okay?“

After that, it was an unending string of snap-shots in Roger’s mind, each one a perfectly clear image, only their connection somehow lost in the intensity of sensation, each one a memory he would treasure like his own soul.

Fergus’ lips on his own, hungry, tasting like wine and desire. Roger’s trembling fingers on Fergus’ shirt buttons. The first brush of groin against groin, the added friction of their jeans, the hunger for more. The feel of Fergus’ sheets on his back. The miles and miles of Fergus’ pale, exposed skin, and how soft and smooth it felt under Roger’s hands and mouth. The desperate little sounds dropping from Fergus’ lips, each one spurring Roger on beyond anything he’d known of himself. The delicious, foreign slide of their cocks against each other, the almost unbearable thrill of anticipation. The sheer unbelievable satisfaction in the end, the rush of giddy power in knowing he hadn’t just received, but also given. The stark contrast of their naked skin pressed together – Roger; dark, hairy, broad and Fergus; ivory, smooth, lean.

They lay awake until the early morning announced itself through the small skylight, never losing their connection, not of their bodies, not of their minds. Roger could physically feel the pull of morning’s approach, and he knew Fergus felt it too, both of them doing their best to resist it, to carve a few stolen moments for themselves from the unforgiving tree of time.

It was only when the first sun hit their entangled legs that they let themselves drift off into sleep, escaping reality and finding refuge in their shared dreams of the passing night.

Only one more day.

Epilogue – More Letters

I told my great-uncle today. I think it might take him some time to wrap his head around it, but he said he’d already suspected something.

Marlène had her pictures developed. There’s one of us from the party, you know, at Isabelle’s. You’re playing the guitar and I’m just looking at you. I can’t believe it’s already been two months.

Next week, I get to play at the Hootananny in Inverness. It’s on a Thursday, so no big deal, but I think there’ll still be a few guests. I wrote a song about you... Maybe I’ll play it.

Maman wants to send you some of the cheese you liked so much. I told her it’s a bad idea, you should just come visit again so she can feed you. I listened to the song. It’s perfect.

I miss you.

She paced a few steps around the room before finally deciding to sit down on a chair opposite him. „I met John Grey today,“ she said.

„Oh? Weel, how’s he been?“ Jamie asked, pleasantly surprised, but still distracted by the letter in front of him.

„He wasn’t alone.“

It was her tone that made him look up at her again, and her face – in a testament to her mother’s heritage – that made him understand immediately. He dropped the quill and waited for her to go on, keeping his face blank. He had known that this might happen, if not consciously, he was still aware of the possibility. It was something he wouldn’t let himself dream about, a reunion of his children, his family coming together. It was something he would have avoided at all costs, had he a say in the matter.

„Were you ever gonna tell me?“ she finally asked, unusually quiet, her temper giving way to a variety of other emotions that neither of them could quite place yet.

Jamie shook his head, whether to say no or to signal that he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure.

„He’s here?“ he finally inquired, his voice sounding weak to his own ears, less sure than he had spoken in a long time.

„He looks exactly like you,“ Brianna confirmed, and after a moment of hesitation added, „like us.“

She had expected him to be defensive. Angry, possibly. She did not expect for her stoic, strong-willed, dependable father to start crying.

He didn’t look at her and he barely made a sound. If not for the unusual glint in his eyes and the tense set of his shoulders, she might have mistaken his reaction for refusal to explain himself.

Brianna stood, frozen in place and unsure of how to react for a moment, until finally crossing the room to lay her hands on his shoulders.

They remained like that for quite a while, until she felt his tremors die down and he reached out to cover her right hand with his left.

„I hope ye ken that I do trust ye, Brianna,“ Jamie finally said, voice rough but grounded, sure. „It’s not that I didna want to tell ye; I kept it from ye for his sake. And maybe mine.“

„Because he’s the Lord of Ellesmere,“ she stated, „John told me.“

„Aye. He’s the Lord of Ellesmere and I most definitely wasna.“

It still seemed odd to her, this persistence to leave a young man in the dark about his ancestry, to never have him truly know his heritage and family, just because of social status and appearances, but she begrudgingly had to accept that her objections to the situation sprang from her own history, and not only that – her own time.

„Tell me about his mother,“ she asked instead of arguing, curious and wary at the same time. Jamie raised his eyes to her at the unexpected question, as if checking whether she really wanted to hear the truth, whether she was prepared for it, could handle it.

„Her name was Geneva Dunsany,“ he finally began, slowly. „She... was an extraordinary person. Young. Very willful and stubborn.“

She could see the memories playing behind his eyes, his gaze far removed from the dark and stuffy room they sat in. Brianna watched him closely, a spectator to his remembrance, her scrutiny going unnoticed. She couldn’t quite place his look, she thought, distantly fascinated, but she was sure of one thing – it wasn’t the look he wore when he talked to Brianna about her mother.

„I think we both kent it was a mistake, especially after...“ His voice trailed off and for a short moment he seemed conscious of his surroundings and his audience again, for a slight hue of pink tinged his cheeks. „But she was determined and so scared of what was to come, and I was weak and angry, and frankly scared too...“ Jamie trailed off again and this time, Brianna knew that he would not continue talking. He had rejoined her in the present and left Geneva Dunsany behind, shielded from her prying eyes.

„I left Helwater when the resemblance became too obvious,“ Jamie continued after a few quiet minutes and turned to face her. „You canna tell him, Brianna. He’s safer this way. He canna know.“ His voice was firm, resigned. He was hiding behind the carefully erected wall of composure again and she took a moment to scan it for cracks, tells to reveal what was going on behind it.

“Call me Jeanne, cheri,” she told him and he felt a small stab of jealousy at Fergus’ incredibly cool, hippy mom. The familiar assault of sly sadness quickly followed, a feeling that accompanied each thought of his own parents.

“Everything alright?”

Fergus’ voice was still very new to his ears, he had barely spoken three sentences since Roger’s arrival. Still, Roger felt attuned to the sound of it, aware somehow, as if Fergus and he were on the same wavelength, their signals transmitting perfectly on the first try.

Roger nodded, letting Madame Callau’s descriptions of their plans for the week wash over him, and blend with the low music coming from the car’s stereo, the images of Parisian streets in the dusk, and Fergus’ proximity. Paris had given him a warm welcome.

On the first evening, through the window of the plane and later the Callau’s car, Paris had looked peaceful and romantic in a grand and elegant way. Over the next two days, it abandoned the picturesque façade, seemingly taking up speed like a enormous chairoplane. Now, it raced through its visitors hearts and minds like the gigantic, extravagant, metropolitan caleidoscope it was.

The lycée’s courtyard was nothing like his Highland high school’s. Several students were smoking openly, most girls wore heavy makeup and Roger felt like wherever he turned, there was a couple kissing.

In Inverness, all students had to wear the high school uniform. In Paris, it seemed like the French strived to be as unique as possible. There were certain corners of the courtyard where Roger felt like he had miraculously been dropped into a costume contest or a halloween party.

Despite all the extraordinary views Paris graced him with – be it people or sights – Roger found his gaze wandering to Fergus whenever his mind had a second to breathe between all the new impressions. From his letters, Roger had known Fergus to be thoughtful, sophisticated, interesting. From Fergus’ picture, he had anticipated beauty. But nothing could have prepared him for the intense attraction, the almost gravitational pull, he felt in Fergus’ presence.

It wasn’t just that he was beautiful – and he was, really, the picture didn’t do him and his long lashes, his soft, dark locks and his golden speckled eyes justice in the slightest. What Roger loved most about Fergus was what wasn’t visible to the naked eye. It was the little moments, the gestures, the looks and words that revealed the person under his skin, all the bits that shaped Fergus into who he really was.

It was the consistent teasing with which he manipulated Roger into picking up the guitar and playing one of his songs for the small group of French and Scottish students in Léon’s basement (“Vas-y, cheri, I want to hear your angelic voice on a melody” and “Non, vraiment, please! I will owe you one. Whatever you want”). It was the concentration, evident in the strong lines of Fergus’ face, when he listened intently to Roger’s singing. It was the private little smile and quick touch to his thigh, when, at the end of the song, he leaned closer to Roger, and the honest appreciation in his low “Merci, I loved it.”

It was the way Fergus seemed comfortable in all kinds of groups, at ease with all the people around him, socializing without effort, flashing smiles and exchanging quick but never banal words. It was the fact that, despite his obvious popularity, Fergus didn’t seem to look down on anyone, always a friendly greeting on his tongue. It was his conscious effort to include Roger in all those interactions; introducing him countless times, explaining inside jokes, telling sweet little anecdotes about everyone they met.

It was all these things that made Roger’s hopeless crush worse with every passing hour, but most of all it was their conversations. The long, private, intimate conversations they had before falling asleep – Roger lying on the air mattress on Fergus’ floor, Fergus sprawled out across his bed, never lying still for long.

“How long have you known?” Fergus asked on the second night. “That you’re gay, I mean.” He was lying on his stomach, head resting on his right arm, left arm dangling off the side of the bed.

“A few years. Fi and I have been friends since sixth grade and at some point everyone started wondering why we weren’t a couple, so I started wondering why I didna want to be...”

Fergus chuckled at that, shifting to his back so Roger could only see his hair hanging off the bed’s edge now and the sharp shape of his nose, distinct peak in the skyline of his body.

“What about her?”

Roger pondered that question for a moment. He had asked it himself before, but had never been able to come to a satisfying conclusion. He finally shrugged. “I dinna ken. If she ever had a thing for me, I dinna think she held on to it. I suspect she knows, although I never explicitly told her.”

“She sounds like a good friend.”