#part ix

A WEEK AWAY - PART IX: AVALANCHE

A High School Trip! What could go wrong? It's a day spent skiing or staying indoors as the teens take in the recent snowfall, as well as taking in their feelings about each other and their friendships and their wishes for more.

page 559 - I say "oh shit!" because what if it's not a computer.

(This is a long one! I'm sorry!)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI

Remus spent ten minutes in the washroom.

He didn’t want to spend ten minutes there, standing around by the sink, eying himself awkwardly in the mirror, nodding uncomfortably at the man who stood in the corner giving out mints. At first, Remus considered returning to the table, but then he pictured Sirius’ face, dark and cold, his glare as sharp as his cheekbones. 

A few minutes in, Remus noticed the bathroom attendant— Is that what he was called? — eyeing him suspiciously. He gave the man a guilty smile and tried to save face. 

“I’m uh… just waiting on some friends… they’re… uh… having a conversation at the table? A… A private one… I just…” 

Remus cut himself off after he realized how little the other man cared about his predicament and how awkward his explanation sounded. 

After ten minutes in the restroom, Remus eventually returned to the table, praying to whoever would listen that his friends' discussion was over; the last thing Remus needed was to walk in on them talking about him. When he arrived, Lily and James both offered genuine smiles. Sirius was staring intently at the menu, making a point of not glancing up as Remus sat down beside him.

“Remus! Hey… Sorry about that,” Lily began, before Remus shook his head in response.

“It’s no problem, really. Gave me a chance to… get some fresh air…” Remus didn’t know why he lied; perhaps he didn’t want his companions to know that he had spent the entire time staring at the mirror above the sinks. 

Just as Remus lifted up the menu to begin looking at it— Lily was right, there were no prices! — a server came by to take their orders. 

“Sir? What can I get you?”

“Oh…” Remus glanced down at the menu again, then back up at the server. “Can you… come back to me? At the end?”

“Of course, sir.”

Remus searched through the menu for the least expensive-sounding option as the rest of the party gave their orders. By the time the waiter circled back to Remus, he had settled on something.

“I’ll have the salad, please.”

“Very good, Sir. And for your main course?”

“Oh, uh… that… that was for my main course.”

The waiter cocked an eyebrow and Remus could feel the back of his neck burning. 

“Sir, this is a prix fix menu. It’s all included. The appetizer, the main course, the dessert, all one price.”

Oh.

That explained why the menu didn't have any prices on it. It also posed a problem for Remus, who wanted to spend as little as possible at this exceedingly expensive establishment. 

He glanced down at the menu again, feeling the eyes of his companions all settling on him, waiting for his response. Remus swallowed, trying to steady his nerves. He needed to keep his voice from shaking. 

"Wh— what do you recommend?"

"The steak is our most popular dish.  A very fine cut. Exceptional."

"O-okay… I'll have that."

"Very good, sir. How would you like your steak?"

Remus glanced over to Lily, hoping that she could help save him from embarrassment. He had never ordered steak at a restaurant; what was he supposed to tell the server? Lily smiled kindly at him, in that way she always seemed to smile. It was as if nothing about her could ever be unkind. 

"It's usually best medium-rare," she said softly.

"Okay, uh… medium-rare then…"

The server nodded before leaving the table. 

"Thanks," Remus mumbled under his breath, earning himself a gentle squeeze on the arm from Lily. 

Conversation at the table picked up, and Remus noticed his nerves settle slightly as James and Lily chatted away. Lily began talking about art, a conversation that Remus could participate in, resulting in a vibrant debate about the merits of the hand-made and the decline of technique in the contemporary art world. 

"I think that's the biggest flaw with performance art," Remus was saying as the sommelier filled his second glass of wine. "There's no skill involved. Sure, your idea can be strong, but there's a definite lack of artistic prowess, and it's a sincere pity. It really is detrimental to overall artistic growth in terms of sheer ability."

"You're wrong," Sirius said suddenly, speaking up for the first time since Remus arrived back at the table. Remus looked over to Sirius, expecting him to look upset. Instead, the gallerist had a smug grin on his face, his eyes sparkling with passion. "And if every artist thought like you, we would be stuck looking at the same thing in every gallery."

"Sirius," Lily said threateningly, before Remus cut her off.

"No, no, I want to hear this. Go on, Si— Mr. Black. I'd love to hear your explanation."

"Well," Sirius began, pausing to nod at the server who brought him a plate of food. "Performance art, readymade, the types of works that, as you say, don't require talent… those artists push the boundaries of what is defined as art. They move the contemporary world in a new direction, challenging the ideals of the time, bringing forth new concepts and making statements "

Remus smiled at Sirius, shaking his head.

"There's a time and a place, Mr. Black." He took a bite of his food and paused for a moment to savour the variety of flavours. Despite being a salad, it was so different than anything he had ever tried before; sweetness paired with bitter, the tang of citrus crossed with the bite from spiced pecans. He closed his eyes, relishing in the sheer sensation of eating. 

"You were saying, Mister Lupin?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. This is delicious. Yes, a time and a place. At the time that Duchamp first introduced the concept of readymade, there was a genuine need for it in the art world. Nowadays, if somebody presented a urinal in an art gallery, they would be laughed at! What the contemporary art world needs these days is a return to craftsmanship. We need to go back to our roots, to explore techniques, to learn how to paint and draw and sculpt the way we used to."

"And what of Abromovic, who challenges what it means to be an artist?" Sirius asked, his grin growing wider, a hint of colour spreading across his cheeks.

"What about her?" Remus retorted, taking another bite and picking out the individual flavours of the dish. 

"Well, Mr. Lupin, she changes the way we view art. Art is no longer something that is inaccessible to the lower class, the uneducated. Art is something that anyone can do, or be, or have, or create. Art is no longer reserved for the elite. People can no longer purchase art the same way they used to. I cannot own an Abromovic masterpiece. I can enjoy it and witness it, I can be a part of it, but it's not something that I can have and keep to myself behind closed doors. Art is no longer a commodity."

Remus nodded to the server who cleared his plate before giving Sirius a slightly skeptical look.

"You don't need to tell me about commodification of art and the inability to access it," Remus said with a grin. "If anything, I should be the one arguing for art accessibility for the lower class, not you."

Sirius' eyes flashed with something that Remus couldn't decipher, and for the briefest moment, the gallerist looked taken aback. Sirius' composure quickly resumed, however, covering up any sense of doubt, his lips twisted smugly.

"Well then, Mr. Lupin, my point shouldn't be lost on you."

"It's not," Remus said with a casual shrug, glancing over to James and Lily who were merely observers of the conversation rather than participants. "I understand what you mean. I just don't think people should become so wealthy on such minimal talent…"

Sirius didn't respond.

Remus noticed the silence that settled over the table and his smile faded. He sat up straight, fiddling with the corner of his napkin, realizing his error. 

"I… I mean… like Abromovic. She's so wealthy and she… well… she hasn't produced anything… and galleries keep bringing her in and, well, she… uh…"

Two servers arrived at their table, placing a plate in front of each person, and Remus had never been more grateful for a distraction. 

"Ah! Wonderful!" James exclaimed, drawing the table's attention to himself. He smiled across at Remus, as if to say that all was well, but Remus could tell that something was off with Sirius. The artist glanced over to his right, where the gallerist was digging into his dinner. 

With a shrug, Remus focused his attention on his steak, and the moment he took a bite, all of his worries faded away. 

Remus had never tasted meat like this before. It was soft and tender, dripping with juices and a punch of flavour. His knife slid through the meat so easily, so effortlessly, revealing a perfectly pink interior. This was the most delicious meal Remus had ever eaten in his entire life. 

No wonder rich people are always so happy. I'd be happy too, if I could eat this whenever I wanted.

Remus knew he'd never be able to properly enjoy a steak again, it would always be compared to the perfect dish before him.

"So Remus," Lily began, once their plates were beginning to empty. "If you don't like Abromovic or Koons, which artists do you like?"

Remus grinned at his friend as he set his fork and knife down.

"And I'm assuming I can't just say myself?"

Lily and James both laughed at his joke, but Sirius' face twisted into a scowl. 

"A little proud of yourself, are we?"

Remus' gaze returned to Sirius, trying to read the man; he couldn't tell if his joke was lost on Sirius or if the man simply lacked a sense of humour.

"I mean, I didn't name a gallery after myself…"

Another pause. The table seemed to hold its collective breath as Remus' taunt landed. 

Sirius' lips parted in a grin, and he let out a sharp laugh. Remus felt his body release the tension he didn't realize the was holding, his shoulders relaxing and a breath escaping his lungs.

Thank god.

Sirius laughing meant that Remus didn't put the rest of his life at risk. He was, however, beginning to despise the minefield that was this dinner, waiting for his next slip up, waiting for his world to explode. 

"That's funny, Mr. Lupin." Sirius said, after a good chuckle. "Very funny. Especially considering the fact that up until very recently, it was your desire to show in that gallery."

Shit.

"Oh shush," James butted in, before anyone else could say anything. "Learn to take a joke, Sirius. Don't be so—"

"Don't say it, James!" Lily warned, barely containing her grin.

"I was merely playing along!" Sirius teased, his cheeks rosy from the alcohol and laughter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. His gaze flickered toward Remus, and the artist felt his heart skip a beat. Sirius was a very handsome man, and laughter looked particularly good on him. He was attractive no matter what he did, any way that he held himself. When he smiled, though…

Remus quickly looked away, directing his attention to the remnants on his plate. When Sirius smiled, his eyes lit up, as blinding as the sun kissing the sky on a perfect winter day. They were the very shade of snow beneath a tree, the lightest of blues, perfectly undisturbed. Sirius' cheeks bore the morning blush of a sunrise, the colour of the sky just as it threatened to turn blue. Next to the creamy glow of his face, it took on an almost ethereal quality. 

Remus loved the colours of Sirius.

And he hated how much he loved it.

"Any coffee with your dessert, sir?" 

Remus thought his heart might have exploded with the shock of being wrenched from his thoughts. He looked up at the server with a look of panic, having completely forgotten where he was.

"Um… no, no thank you. I'm fine," he mumbled, tearing his eyes from the server and keeping them focused on the chocolate torte that had been placed in front of him.

Thank god.

Nothing could redirect Remus' imagination quite like chocolate, and he was thoroughly grateful for the distraction. 

Dessert passed with minimal conversation as everyone savoured their delicacies. As discussion resumed, it veered away from art, and Remus found himself listening more than talking. Eventually, the server came by the table, and Remus realized that his perfect meal and fantasy evening was about to come to an abrupt and painful close. 

"Will there be anything else you need?"

"No, just the bill, please," James said politely.

"Together or separate?"

"Together."

Together?

Remus opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it; he waited for the server to leave before he rounded on James.

"You really don't have to do that, James. Honestly, I can't let you—"

"Nonsense!" James said with an enthusiastic flap of his hand. "Of course I'm paying! This dinner is my treat!"

"But it really—"

"Remus, I invited you to join us! It's my pleasure!"

Remus knew he should be happy, he should feel relieved; his whole night had been laced with anxiety as he thought about the ludicrous cheque that was waiting for him. Instead, Remus felt guilty. He felt like he was in debt to James, like he owed the man. There was no way he could accept a gift this generous without repaying the favour.

"You don't have to," Remus mumbled, feeling the weight of his words press down on his shoulders. He was damned either way, but at least if he paid for his meal, he wouldn't be indebted to anyone. 

"I know," James said, his smile never faltering. "I don't have to do anything. I want to. Now, back to the real matter at hand…" James turned to Sirius. He was clearly finished with the discussion about the bill, and Remus knew better than to push.

"Yes, James?" Sirius said, quirking a brow playfully.

"Now that you've had a proper opportunity to get to know Remus, have you come to any important decisions?"

Remus' heart was suddenly in his throat, beating more rapidly than he thought possible. How could he have forgotten about Sirius' decision to have him in the gallery?

"As a matter of fact," Sirius purred, his smile crooked and sly. He turned to Remus, his chin tilted slightly upwards, a flash of pearly white teeth enclosed between tender lips that Remus wanted to forget about. "I have."

Remus' grip tightened on his napkin and he sank into his chair as the silence and anticipation steadily grew worse.

"Well?!" James was on the edge of his seat, clearly not a patient man. Lily had her hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him at bay.

"Remus, I require no less than five pieces in order to begin displaying your work. I would like to have them by our next show, which will be towards the beginning of November. Do you think you can accomplish that for me?"

Remus was at a loss for words. He nodded fervently, unable to get his voice out. 

"Good. I'll have my lawyers work up a contract. You can come by the gallery on Monday to sign it and discuss details."

Remus couldn't believe what was happening. He pinched himself on his forearm, trying to ensure that this was not some kind of vivid dream. As a jolt of pain shot through his arm, a smile spread across his face. 

A/N: Hello, beautiful beans. I’m back at it again with this series....I know it’s been a while but I hope you catch up with the latest update. Tell me what you think!!! Kudos to y’all my beautifulssss, sorry for the long wait.

Lena Luthor x Shapeshifter Reader//Word Count: 1, 284

#Mustang Ride: Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI -  Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX

The path back to consciousness is harder when the bloodstream is flowed with enough sedatives to put an elephant to sleep. You felt like a beached whale, stuck with an untalented drummer working a bass drum inside your head, and as you tried to open your eyes you had to take your time to even be able to do that.

Slowly, the sedative started to lose its effect and a terrible feeling started to creep inside of you. This was not the first time you had ever felt like this. Memories of metal cages, fights, and blood appeared one by one behind your eyelids every time you blinked, until you remembered you were supposed to have left all of that behind a long ago. With the panic threatening to take control over you, you finally opened your eyes to a dreadful sight.

First thing you noticed were the tubes and wires connected to your body, then it was the hospital bed you were laying in, the cardiac monitor and the tray of syringes beside you, the lack of lights around you, the metal door, and how small the room was. This was definitely not a hospital and you had no idea how long you had been there. However, what put you on edge was remembering the last time you were conscious you had been walking with Lena on the street.

It’s on Ao3!

I’d love some feedback!

““(...) 

I’m not worried.” Draco didn’t argue, giving him a grin, only. He was already used to Harry’s small anxiety attacks, even if they had not talked about it. It was as much the first night in which he discovered Harry had been stuck home as it was the way Harry ate his nails when he thought no one was looking, how much more relaxed he looked when he left any kind of crowded place, or his constant lip nibbling. They both had grew up with baggage from their teenage years, and unfortunately, they were not going to forget those so easily. It made Draco mad too, even though he smiled to calm Harry down, how much they still dragged through because of a maniac who decided their lives were his for the taking. The shame made him simply angry in the end, and he was glad he had to focus in calming someone else so Harry wouldn’t see any of his rage attacks.

Writing Masterlist | Chapter List | Previous | Next

On the twelfth day, Elide had a visitor. Manon, her best friend. When Elide opened the door, Manon marched in, arms full.

“You have been radio silent for almost two weeks, Elide Lochan. I know you’re grieving, but you can’t just disappear.”

“I’m sorry, Manon. I just haven’t been feeling up to interaction.”

“Well, I’m here now, and for your own good, I am forcing you to interact.”

Elide sighed. Manon held up a grocery bag. “I brought chocolate ice cream.”

Elide mustered the closest thing to a smile she could manage. If anyone could make her feel a little better, it was Manon.

Manon had also retrieved Elide’s mail and made a lasagna. They ate together, Manon continually cracking jokes, and even though Elide couldn’t bring herself to laugh at them, she did smile, for real this time. But after the meal, the mood turned somber.

“I don’t know if I can go on without him,” Elide said softly.

Manon took her hand. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t give up.”

Elide closed her eyes. “I know.”

You can find every previous part here.

Section 2

Part IX – “I’m walking after you”

Twenty-eight

Coming the following Christmas, I knew what gift I’d hope for. What I’d wish for, with all my heart, as I stepped ahead with my right foot, crossing the threshold as my ancestors did countless times before, Hogmanay blooming in the mantle clock and in the sparkling of champagne.

I wanted to walk inside her dreams.

Because her dreams took her away from me. Every night she went a little more, a little further – until I have started to fear I’d lose her altogether, to that strange land where past becomes present, where every outcome is again possible.

In her dreams Claire was shot every night – again, again, again. She cried out and I held her against me, as powerless awake as she was sleeping. Doomed to pay witness to the woman I loved being hurt by her own mind, replaying the events of that fatidic day, trapped inside it like a mouse in a deadly trap. Sometimes I wondered if the phantom bullet would go straight through her heart, if she would bleed out through those invisible wounds, robbing her of all rest and peace of mind.

Once the ghosts vanished with the rising sun, ebbing away in waves of darkness, she blatantly refused to talk about it – as if her fears were successfully compartmentalized, existing only in the wee hours between sundown and sunrise, never to be spoken about in broad daylight. Every attempt on my part to start a conversation on the subject, would end with her leaving hurriedly to an appointment with Denzel or to check the mail in her own apartment. Defeated, I would spare my strength, and resignedly prepared to the night-time hostilities.

Under my careful supervision, her body had healed – but I suspected her mind had not. Once the relentless war to reconstruct skin, muscle and organ was well on its way, something inside her had found the space to be properly broken.

“Talk about it?” I brushed a curl away from her face, slightly damp with sweat – God, please, let it not be from tears.

“It was only a dream.” Claire whispered on the other side of the bed, her voice so cracked I had a hard time understanding her. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

I didn’t mention how she had woken me with her screams. How I had to restrain her inside my arms, when she tried to blindly fight me off, clawing and screeching – her nightmares didn’t seem to recognize that she loved me.

We stayed awake that night, both pretending to be asleep, grasping each other – to keep the rising tide, threatening to cast us away, at bay for one more night.  

I taught my classes and supervised a test feeling as if I was still roaming on the waves, the roar of wind somewhere in the distance. I was a coward – the worst kind, a coward in love. Claire had been lost to me more than once and I refused to believe I could be losing her, while she dwelled in my own bed.

Denzel Hunter had told her that she needed to gain weight, to reacquire some muscle, before he could even consider deeming her fit to work again. But despite my best efforts – researching recipes which I thought might appeal to her and even calling Jenny to ask for some cooking tips -, she had barely gained an ounce. When I caressed her body, my hands still found the spaces between her ribs, the too-deep hollows in her hips. I longed to trap her in those moments of liberation, of dissolution, when she would be entirely free for a multitude of heartbeats after our joining.

I entered my apartment rushing, slightly shaking my drenched umbrella, after being caught by an afternoon shower.

“Sassenach!” I called out, undressing my overcoat. I had called Denzel earlier and he finally had allowed Claire to drink a glass of wine, so I was intent on serving her one of Lallybroch’s finest vintages in order to work her appetite for some fragrant mushroom risotto.

As I entered the living room, I immediately saw her, sitting on the couch like a marble statue. Her eyes were glazed, her hands shaking; a fine tremor that sent a chill down my spine, as if a powerful draft had suddenly hit the both of us.

“What happened?” I swiftly knelt in front of her, grabbing her hands – so cold. “Mo nighean donn?”  I added more softly, as she didn’t seem to have noticed me. I touched her cheek, my eyes coming within inches of hers, blocking everything else from her sight. “Claire?”

“There has been a robbery.” She blurted and from the corner of my eye I noticed the television, the colours of the news channel shining bright and alarming. “Another jewellery store. They – they killed a woman.” Her voice wavered. I squeezed her fingers, until I could almost feel the blood pumping in her small vessels. Alive, still. Thank God, alive.

“I’m here.” I said foolishly. I had been there on that day and had prevented nothing – we were both heartbreakingly aware of our frailty, of how quickly blood could run away, how a smile – and all promise of laughter to come – could die in a second.

“They were caught. The getaway car hit a truck on the crossroad.” Claire stared at me, her eyes darkened to well-aged brandy, just the colour of the last Autumn leaves. “The detective in charge of my case called me just before you arrived. They want me to go in and do an identity parade.”

“Alright.” I started to get up, prepared to get her coat and shoes from the bedroom. “It’s close enough, do ye want to walk there?”

“What do you mean?” She looked at me, surprised, as if I had just suggested a roadtrip to the moon for the weekend. “I’m not going!”

“What?” I stared at her, dumbfounded. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her lips pursed – her face was a mask of barely supressed anger and I should tread lightly for both our sakes – but I had tried gentleness and had seemingly achieved nothing.

“You heard me.” Claire repeated heatedly, crossing her arms. “I won’t go. I – I have nothing to say.” She got up from the couch and nervously walked to the window. “He was wearing a ski mask, so I never saw him. I have nothing else to tell the police.”

I strived for patience and empathy, even if somewhere within me an irrational anger – fear – was building up. “I ken ye’re afraid, but I –“

“I’m not afraid!” She hissed, almost biting her lip in fury. “I just don’t see the point of going there to tell them I know nothing. And don’t you dare pretending you have the smallest clue of what I feel.”

“Dare?” I snarled, blood thrumming in my ears like demons possessing me, whispering profanities in my head. “Dare? Must I remind ye that the first time we saw each other as adults, I had been laying in a hospital for weeks after being blown up in my own bed?” I tried to breathe and calm myself, reaching to touch her arms, but she stepped away from me. “I ken fine how it is to feel so vulnerable, so afraid that ye could weep just from thinking of it, every memory as raw as the scars on yer body, ready to bleed again at the smallest probing.”

“Those were your feelings and experiences – not mine.” I could hear the echo of tears in her voice, as coming rain forming on grey and heavy clouds. “I have been fine, I just don’t want to –“

“Ye are not fine!” I pointed an accusing finger at her. “Ye might pretend during the day, but yer dreams ken the truth of it. I share a bed every night with ye, Claire, and there ye canna lie to me.” There was a clear plea in my voice, but the look she gave me revealed how cornered – terrorized – she felt, that we were finally addressing the subject.

“I won’t be ordered around – not again.” I immediately knew she was mentioning Frank and his inability to accept her as she was. The mere comparison between us made me pale in dismay. “If you don’t enjoy sharing a bed with me, perhaps I should sleep elsewhere.”

“I dinna say that!” I brushed my knuckles against my eyes, exhausted and defeated. “Ye won’t talk to me, Claire, and you’re not healing properly. Perhaps ye should see someone – a therapist or a support group - “

“That is ridiculous!” Her hair was escaping her bun and she looked lost, frazzled, burdened. “I think it’s best if I go back to my apartment tomorrow – I can take care of myself now, so you can have your rest.” She tried to soften the blow, but I felt it in my gut, a dagger only she could yield to wound me as deeply. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed now.”

“Fine.” I replied mechanically, turning my back on her.

She didn’t kiss me goodnight and I didn’t go into the room to speak to her. I improvised a bed on the couch and wallowed in misery, always a welcoming companion.

I stared at the shadows on the wall and waited for her dreams to come.

***

I was already on my feet when I heard her sobs, the soft wailing that made her sound like a scared girl, the curly and lovely creature she had been in the graveyard, when love had found me never to leave again.

I padded softly, feeling the coldness of the tiles on my naked feet, trying not to frighten her. She was trashing against the sheets, her body contorting in a physical fight against unseen things, her mouth slightly open to breathe heavily.

I crawled to a position next to her and touched her forehead. “Claire.”

Claire opened her eyelids, her eyes rolling, following distant images. I repeated her name and grabbed her hands, avoiding her masterful attempts to hit me. She seemed to finally awoke, her eyes still glassy, restless.

“Fight back.” I whispered against her ear. “Fight me.”

“What?” She babbled, shaking her arms to try to free herself from my hands, like vines around hers.

“The gun is pointed at you. You can see his eyes in that ski mask. He is going to kill you.” I continued in a dangerous tone, applying more pressure to keep her in place. “Are you going to let him?”

“Get off me!” She trashed like a wild beast, her knee coming ever closer to my groin. I escaped with a faint groan of relief.

“You won’t fight.” I accused her, as she hissed in my face. “You’re afraid, and rightfully so - but he is coming and ye’ll just pretend to be dead?”

“I lost!” She sobbed in earnest, tears now streaming down her face, glistening in the silver light of the witching hour - the hour when I had come to evoke her demons, a modern warlock, so she could begin to fight them. “I don’t want to fight anymore!”

“You’re alive!” I said between teeth, having trouble keeping her underneath me – she was remarkably strong for such a scrawny thing and I didn’t intend to hurt her. “Fight back! Tell me you’re afraid and then fight me!”

“I’m afraid!” She roared and, as her eyes seem to blaze with renewed fire, she rolled and managed to get on top of me, trapping me with her thighs. “Damn you, James Fraser! Damn you!”

“Fight, Claire!” I urged her, feeling the pressure of her nails on my wrists. “Tell me what you see!”

“I’m bleeding.” She looked up as if she was struggling to breathe, tendons and muscles on her neck taut to the point of breaking. “Your hands are on me. They are warm, I can feel you shaking. I don’t want to let go of you. I just found you.”

“Good.” I lightly pushed her and my arms locked around her, so she was straddling me like a spider. “Keep going. Fight.”

“I – I’m cold.” Claire swallowed hard. “I hear sirens, people screaming. You’re saying my name and I know you love me just from the way you say it.”

“Yes, I do.” I breathed out, slightly brushing her back as I hugged her tightly. “What else?”

“He laughed.” She whimpered, trying to get away from the memory, but I held her there, forcing her to see. “His eyes – they were green. But there’s something strange about them.” Claire grimaced and I pressed my forehead against hers, steadying her. “His right eye – has a brown spot on its iris. It must be there since he was a child.”

“Ye did good. So good, mo ghraidh.” I soothed her, as her body was wrecked by urgent sobs, that broke my heart while hers started to mend. “Ye’re so brave. You fought. You fought, Claire.”

I lost all sense of time, as our entwined bodies – our battle positions turned into comfort – sought refuge in each other. Eventually she was calm, spent, almost peaceful and I laid her down beside me.

“I’ll go to the police tomorrow.” She said in a hoarse voice, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “I’m still afraid – but now I know that I can identify him.”

“Aye, ye can.” I kissed her temple, afraid that if I stopped touching her something we had conquered, so fragile and breakable, would slip away through our fingers. “Do ye want me to go with ye?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes.” Claire played with the curls on my nape. “Thank you for fighting for me, too.”

“It’s the only battle my heart truly kens.” I held her face between my hands. “I’ve known fear and loss and despair – but I’ve known love, too, through you. It will always bring me back when I need it. I hope mine can do the same for ye.”

“One day, I hope to tell our child our story.” She said softly, tenderness in her eyes.

“Including this?” I kissed her lips, savouring their moistness, the words she had just told me. A child. Our child, one day.

“Including this.” Claire nodded. “I think I hoped you would come, when we fought earlier.”

“You found me”. She had told me once. “I think I had been calling out for you”. Had I heard it again? Those silent calls her heart seemed to send into mine, luring me to her, a beacon guiding me home to her harbour?

“I’ll always follow you, wherever ye need to go, mo nighean donn. I’ll always walk after you, no matter the risk or the cost.”

“And when you’re not following me?” Claire asked with a small smile, her hand sliding on my chest to push me against the mattress. “Where will you be?”

“By your side – always.” I said in a husky voice. “Or inside ye, whenever ye want me.”