Sassenach Stories

Your request is my command, so I’ll give you some of my favourite Outlander fanfics in the sexy department (not necessarily smuty), anon!

Pre-Wedding series and The Five Senses, by @zoe1078 (you are very much missed, Zoe!). 

Hail Mary, by @bonnie-wee-swordsman

Where We Begin, by @laythornmuse

Clair(e)voyance, by @notevenjokingfic

Outlander Noir, by @mybeautifuldecay

A Port in the Storm, by @mybeautifuldecay

A Wild Night In Vegas, by @takemeawaytocamelot

Modern Glasgow AU, by @gotham-ruaidh (all the chapters with the camera!)

Flood my Mornings, by @bonnie-wee-swordsman

Abby After Dark Collection, by @abbydebeaupreposts

Le Taureau Vierge, @asthewheelwills

This is legit — Audible has Outlander, read by Davina Porter, as a free giveaway right now!

Davina Porter gives an INCREDIBLE performance, and if you haven’t checked out any Diana Gabaldon audiobooks yet, now’s your chance!

Don’t know how long this will last, but it’s on as of 10:30 ET March 9, 2017

ETA: No promo code needed — there should be a grey button that says $0.00 and “Get it for Free” on the right hand side on desktop or at the bottom on mobile

Scotham started as naught but a wee one-shot Batman-rip-off crackfic for @thewhitelady for Outlander’s Fic Secret Santa 2016! However, somewhere along the way, I fell in love with the concept of a Vigilante AU. 

AND SO, to commemorate exceeding 1000 followers today (still kind of in awe, THANK YOU ALL!–particularly those who joined today in the final push, thanks to some lovely signal boosts!), here is the next installment of Scotham.

Fair warning: This is meant to be silly, so SUPERHERO TROPES ABOUND. 

Fair warning: I WILL NOT BE UPDATING THIS FREQUENTLY 

((but it isn’t going away, either :D))

Episode I  

Scotham: Episode II 

“Whisky?” Miss Beauchamp had just pulled her mask up to rest on the top of her head, showing a nose wrinkled up in distaste at the proffered flask.

“Whiss-keee,” he enunciated, watching her lean toward him to give a tentative sniff, then recoil hastily. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? This is Scotham, lass.”

She punched his arm playfully—NOT gently—“I know what it IS, jackass, I just don’t like it.”

“Oh, so you’ve lost use of your tastebuds, then,” Jamie offered consolingly, mouth twitching.

“Bloody Scot,” she huffed, but fondly, her eyes rolling but full of laughter.

They were perched side-by-side on a concrete chimney pedestal on a rooftop near the police station, still heaving from the exertion of the past hour. Their breaths mingled snow-white together in the frigid air of the night before them.

“Did your parents no’ like it either, then?” Too late, Jamie realized what he’d said and could have cut his foolish tongue out for it. 

Thankfully, this casual reference to her murdered family didn’t seem to have dampened Miss Beauchamp’s good humor. “Oh, quite the contrary: my Mum and Dad loved whisky,” she said, emphatically. “They had a huge collection and drank it most every day. SO,” she pursed her lips and gave a mock-imperious look, “I decided at an early age that I didn’t like it.”

“So you’ve never even had it?” Jamie demanded.

She shrugged. “Other than a hot toddy or two when I was sick as a child, no.”

Jamie gave a good-humored sound of derision, turning to look straight ahead and thrusting the flask toward her again without even looking. “'Tis cold out, and you’re tired out wi’ the fighting. Give it a go, aye?”

The lass took the flask reluctantly. “There’s no ‘Don’t Drink and Leap Tall Buildings’ slogan, then?’” Jamie laughed aloud, and Miss Beauchamp broke into a beaming grin herself. “I’m serious! I’m fairly new to the alley-jumping thing myself, but not sure I’d want to go about attempting it while intoxicated!”

“Well, and if ye dinna think ye can handle it,” he baited, raising his eyebrows and reaching to take back the flask.

She glared at him took a sizeable, spiteful gulp. She started to cough and choke, but held his eye dead-on as she swallowed. After a moment, she blinked twice and nodded. “Actually, that’s not at all bad,” she said, sounding thoroughly surprised and taking another draught.

“Not at all bad, she says of my best five-year-old batch,” he said shaking his head with a grin. After enjoying a long swallow himself, he exhaled blissfully and leaned back against the chimney post. A moment passed, and then Miss Beauchamp did the same, the pair of them resting comfortably in each others’ company as though they’d known each other for years, rather than scarcely an hour. 

“You’re a bonny fighter, if I might say so, Miss Beauchamp. Ye held your own, back there.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see her head turn sharply toward him, appraising. “Do you mean that?” He could hear the suspicion rife in her voice. “Or are you just coddling me?”

Jamie snorted. “I dinna go about coddling grown women, Sassenach. Least of all, those that are fully equipped to break my neck and then send me home good as new and still trying to figure out what they feckin’ did to me in the first place.”

She turned to look forward again but Jamie could see her mouth working to suppress a smile of satisfied pride. “Well…it did feel rather good, taking down that group of Reds….No: amazing.”

They’d trussed the four Redcoats hand and foot—a rather incompetent batch: brawny, but wide-eyed and slow as sheep—without any bloodshed (though no little bashing about). One by one, they’d seen them deposited them at the Glenfiddich police station. It was one of the good ones, Jamie knew, with no more than one or two of the three dozen officers in the Red leaders’ pockets. Inspector Lindsay would see the scum properly tried and incarcerated.  City Center had no lack of prison cells in which to keep the bastards.

She was a good fighter, Miss Beauchamp; very good in fact. A bit lacking in brute strength, certainly, but she was quick, sure, and agile. She’d even helped him out of a tight spot when one of the Reds had him in a tight hold—just sailed in feet-first to the man’s skull, she had.  Jamie had never considered himself a team fighter—had actively avoided pairing up with Dougal and some of the others in the Resistance who’d asked, in fact—but even he had to admit that having an ally in the thick of things was no little asset. Who’d have thought: a wee Sassenach lass….

This thought reminded him, and he raised his eyebrows significantly. “You’re a formidable foe to the Reds—Assassinach.”

“I still don’t know if I quite like that alias,” she said crisply, though he thought she’d gone pink with something like pleasure.

“Your name, your choice, to be sure…but I think it’s important.”

She took the whisky flask and looked at him curiously. “What’s important?”

“For Scots to ken that there are English that oppose the Reds…For the decent English folk in Scotham to see one of their own resisting the thugs rather than standing silently by as they tear the city apart.” He nodded slowly to himself. “You’re needed, Miss Beauchamp….and just as much for your accent as your ability to fight.”

“Assassinach,” she said after a long silence, trying the word out gamely, though still sounding dubious.

“Can ye no’ just see it, then?” Jamie said with a spark of dramatic flair, fanning both hands out before them to lay the scene. “You’ve cornered a huge Red crony in a darkened warehouse. He’s grossly underestimated ye, so you’ve got him hanging by his boots from a crossbeam before he can blink. He’s begging and pleading—” On impulse, Jamie stood and assumed the stance of a sniveling weakling, hands clasped before his face. ‘DON’T kill me, wot-wot! I’m a jolly good chap, m’lady, I SWEAR!”

Miss Beauchamp choked on her gulp of whisky and straightened up, laughing, wheezing, to perch on the edge of the block. “That is—the WORST attempt at an English accent I’ve EVER heard, Mac!”

Jamie grinned but continued the pantomime, heightening the drama in his voice still further. “And then, ye pull out your knife, and—Ye dinna have a knife?? Christ, woman, how do ye—Well, we’ll get ye one pronto, but anyhow—Ye pull out your knife (aye, aye, JUST for show, I ken ye willna kill him, dinna fash) and he’ll go white and scared as a wee lamb and squeak, ‘Who….ARE…you?’ And you’ll lean right down close to his face…” Feeling ridiculously energized and alarmingly silly, Jamie went to his knees before her, and felt a tug of something in his wame when she didn’t pull away. “…inches away, just like this…and you’ll whisper… ‘ASSASSINACH’…”

She shivered. A tendril of her hair had come loose, and he saw for the first time that it was curly—looping black-brown and brilliant against the white of her face in the moonlight.

“….and the last thing he remembers before ye clobber him unconscious will be his dimwit’s brain desperately trying to figure out if ye said ‘A sassenach’ or ‘Assassin-ach’. But either way, he’s properly shit himself—”

 She laughed and Jamie gave a little breath of laughter himself before locking eyes with hers, voice now deep and growling with the depth of his fury. 

“—and that the tide is turning in earnest against all his foul lot.”

“Assassinach,” she said, and this time she said it with a thrill, the light of it reaching her eyes, her whole being gleaming with deadly determination. 

With a start, Jamie realized that, engrossed in his moment of playacting, both his hands had come to rest on her legs….her thighs.

Before he could even check to see if she minded, he jumped up to his feet and made a fuss of checking his suit and shouldering his targe. “We’d best be going, now, Miss Beauchamp.”

“We?” she said, standing, but looking thoroughly taken aback. “I’m…coming with you?”

That took him aback, though he supposed it shouldn’t have. “Ye dinna have to, I suppose,” he said, trying to look indifferent, though his blood had gone electric with sudden fear, “but ye canna bide here. The Reds will have heard about the four that got picked up and will be looking for vigilantes out and about. We need to get to a safehouse to lay low for a bit.”

“I’ll go straight home, now,” she promised, checking her own gear now and replacing her mask.

“No, ye canna do that. Going directly home could lead them right to your doorstep, Miss Beauchamp. Ye canna risk that if ye want to keep your identity secret…or sleep safely in your bed tonight.”

“I…do have a security team…” she said, looking torn.

“Come wi’ me, lass,” he said quietly, and he was shocked by the depth of feeling in his own voice as he asked, pleaded, “Please?”

He didn’t want her to be in danger. The thought of a Red ambush laid for her, a knife drawn across her beautiful white throat…

A dhia, what was this woman doing to him? 

For 456 days, he’d made the safety of Scotham his mission; risked his life night after night, not caring so long as he could safeguard Scots from the Reds…but Christ, he hadn’t felt concern for just one person, one particular person, in…in 457 days.

“I’ll come,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Mac.”

“Good,” he said curtly, turning toward the roof edge so she couldn’t see his face; couldn’t see him swallow back the lump that had formed in his throat. 

“Wait,” she suddenly blurted from behind him, “What is your name? Your real name?”

“Is MacDubh no’ enough?” he said, though teasingly.

“You know who I am, when not wearing a mask,” she said, shrugging. “Fair’s fair.”

“Fair’s fair,” he agreed, turning to smile at her, a little shyly. “James Fraser…. Jamie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jamie.” She thrust out a hand, a so-very-English gesture, and he took it with a laugh as she scolded, “And none of this Miss Beauchamp rubbish: Call me Claire, won’t you?”

“Claire, then,” he said, feeling the word warm him like whisky. Like sunlight.

Sorcha. Mo sorcha.

“What was that?”

“What?” he hissed, drawing his dirk in alarm. “Did ye hear something?” His eyes darted frantically about, looking for the source of the disturbance she’d heard.

“No,” she laughed, drawing out one of her grappling hooks. “YOU. Am I drunker than I realize, or did you just call me a stork?”

“Oh, ah, no—No, I was just saying—” Jamie blushed to the roots of his hair. Thank GOD it was dark. “It’s Gaelic, ye ken—I only said—”

He stood there for far too long, mouth gobbling open and shut as he scrabbled vainly for something to say. She kept those golden, twinkling eyes fixed on him, cool and patient as you please. She was in no mood to let him off easy, damn her hide.

Somewhere, far away, a church bell began to toll. He sighed with relief and held out his hand to her. 

“I only said… Happy Christmas, Sassenach.”

So very happy with the wonderful feedback you gave me for the first part of this story. I’m having kind of a writing high and because of that – and because I want to make up for lost time – here is Part II! See you on the other side, with much love!

All my fanfiction

Part II – Two Can Waltz

The plan was simple, really – I needed to show Jamie how little Geneva knew him and in the process highlight how I, on the other hand, knew him better than anyone. It should be easy, as they only knew each other for a few months, which they had spent mostly arguing.

“Where are we going?” I asked Jamie for the tenth time, watching the blur of the streets fly by through the car window, as he drove us to an unknown destination. “If we’re going to a strip club, I must warn you that extends way over my best woman duties.” I said jokingly, knowing that Jamie Fraser would sooner eat tar, than to secretly place a foot on a bawdy house.

“Nay.” He laughed. “You’ll see in a moment. Thank you for doing this for me, Sassenach.”

“What wouldn’t I do for you, darling?” I bent my head in a playful manner, but the truth of my words resonated between us. “Has Jenny gone completely mad, once she found out she only has six weeks to plan the weeding of her dear younger brother?”

“Ach.” Jamie made one of his signature Scottish sounds. “We are not to be wed at Lallybroch. Geneva’s dream is to be married at her home, on the Lake District.”

What about your dreams? I thought, sadness creeping through my anxiety and annoyance. Does she know how you always dreamt of taking your wife across the threshold built by your ancestors? How you craved to love her on the home of your heart?

“I’m sorry.” I said gently, my index finger slightly brushing his hand on the steering wheel. “I know how you wanted it to be there. To have your mother and father… close on that special day.”

“It’s alright.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his blue eyes. “I’m sure they will be there on some capacity. I’ll still be wearing my Fraser colours.”

“How did you propose to her, anyway?” I asked, drawing a crooked heart on the hazy glass. I bit my bottom lip, fighting the urge to add a “J + C” inside the heart – instead, I hurriedly cleaned it up with the palm of my hand, feeling the moistness of erased hopes on my skin. “You didn’t really tell me that part.”

He shrugged.

“We were eating take away – Mario’s – and I had the ring inside my pocket. She was telling me how she’d like to go on a vacation to Jamaica and I…spilled it out.”

“So, you popped the question over a pepperoni pizza?” I asked, incredulous. That notion disconcerted me beyond anything I’ve heard until that moment – and I had been pretty fazed at the thought of Geneva, uppity and stubborn as a hound, managing to conquer the right to marry the best man I ever knew. Jamie Fraser was a hopeless romantic – he had actually teared up watching “Nothing Hill” and “The Notebook”. He probably had envisioned his own wedding more vividly than most girls I knew (including myself). And, suddenly, this man of grand gestures, always wearing his heart on his sleeve, had mad the ultimate question without a minimum of effort or ambiance? Is your heart really into it?, I thought.

“It had olives.” He replied shortly. “We’re here.”

I peeked through the windscreen. Jamie had parked outside a small warehouse, painted in red and black, with a luminous sign twinkling – “Fitz’s Ballroom Academy”.

“Do I even want to know?” I whispered in dismay.

“Usually the married couple opens the reception dancing a waltz.” Jamie said, clenching his jaw. “I’d rather not make a complete fool of myself.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing this with your bride?” I asked, darkly looking at my sneakers and the reprehension certainly awaiting me beyond those doors.

“Geneva already knows how to waltz.” Jamie smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Perks of attending reputable schools, ye ken. I wanted to surprise her on the day. Besides,” He grabbed my hand and linked our arms, as if we were about to enter a debutant ball. “Ye’re far more patient than her.”

Oh, Jamie. Shouldn’t that tell you something? I protested mentally.

“Perhaps you need someone more…disreputable, then.” I suggested, pinching his arm, my heartbeat racing.

We were greeted by a stout and plump middle-aged woman, who examined us with a trained eye and – of course – clicked her tongue in disappointment at the sight of my used sneakers.

“I’m Glenna FitzGibbons.” She introduced herself, guiding us to a room with dim lights, where couples were standing talking in low voices. “You may call me Mrs. Fitz. You told me ye wished to learn some waltz basics for your wedding, is that it Mr. Fraser?”

“Aye.” Jamie nodded. I saw by the corner of my eye as multiple women turned their heads to look at him, tall and handsome even in the shadows. It was a recurrent effect – I was used to be outshined by Jamie and took great pride in it. “This is Claire, she…”

“Ah!” Mrs. Fitz nodded in my direction. “Ye’re going to be verra happy, I can see that.” She smiled and the gesture robbed all the sternness from her features, making her look younger and tender. “A beautiful couple, very much in love.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not the bride.” I murmured, my cheeks and neck flushed. “Just helping a friend.”

“Are ye sure?” She gave Jamie a narrow look, as if urging him to reconsider. “Well, if you say so…”

It wasn’t uncommon for people to mistake us for a couple – as a matter of fact, sometimes we wouldn’t even bother to try and explain our unusual connection. I remembered with a pang an occasion in which Jamie had actually put his arm around my waist and kissed my hair - “I’m a very lucky man.”, he had said. That was before Geneva – before I had to stop pretending I was in possession of another place in his life, that wasn’t only that of a dear friend.

Music started to drain from the speakers, as all the pairs in the room took position – it was “The Second Waltz” playing and we all might as well be wearing puffy dresses and gallant uniforms, drifting across the floor of a Czar’s palace, lit by hundreds of fragrant candles.

“Go on.” Mrs. Fitz instructed us, not-so-gently pushing me to Jamie’s arms. “Ye have to lead lad, dinna worry, she won’t bite unless ye want her to….”

Following her directions, Jamie placed his right hand on my waist, as I put my left hand on his right shoulder. Our free hands were soon clasped together and our bodies pressed in a tight embrace.

We swayed together, at first focused on trying not to massacre each other’s toes. But everything had always been easy with Jamie – to talk, to walk beside him, to sing along with his tuneless voice, to read aloud for him while he was half asleep, to find my will to smile inside his laugh – and dancing was no exception. There was an easiness in our shared space, in the way our bodies touched, that made me dizzy with the idea of making love to him. We became a little more daunting, venturing on doing some whisks and spins, and relaxed until we almost melted together.

I could feel the slight brush of his fingers on my waist, the way he rubbed my hand with his thumb while he guided us through the room. A waltz is not a tango – it wasn’t supposed to be that intense, that arousing. But dancing requires a shared intimacy only comparable to sex – hence is used so frequently as foreplay. I was burning, sweat dripping down the back of my neck – was it my imagination or Jamie’s grip was getting even firmer, his body acknowledging mine, seeking contact? His eyes were dark, his face fierce and his lips were slightly ajar, his breathing coming hot and fast.

The music stopped and I reluctantly increased the space between us, smiling as he bowed down to me in a whimsical curtsy.

“Jamie…” I licked my lips, about to ask him if he ever had felt like that before - If Geneva made his blood boil like an active volcano, about to produce something capable of changing the face of the Earth…

“Do ye think Geneva will be impressed?” He interrupted me.

“Yes.” I sighed, turning my back on him to hide my disappointment and the threat of tears on my lashes. “I think she will.”

****

“Hello, my love!” I greeted Adso, patiently sitting close to the door when I entered my apartment. “How was your day? Better than mine, I hope.” He meowed in response, coming to brush his back against my legs in a demonstration of both love and cleverness, knowing that I would shower him in tasty food afterwards.

I poured him dinner and stayed around, watching him lick the fancy cat mousse, remembering the day Jamie had appeared at my door, holding inside his folded coat a tiny grey ball with big imploring eyes.

“A cat!” I said, inspecting him closely. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Aren’t ye a funny one, Sassenach?” He smirked. “I ken ye like wee cheeties. I found this lad in a bush outside my house. I’ve been watching and his mother wasna around.”

“And you thought my maternal instincts would kick in?” I frowned. “He will ruin my rugs, curtains, books and eat all my herbs.”

“You woulna be a proper Ban-druidh without a cat.” He rubbed the cat’s neck and he immediately started to purr. “Besides I ken ye’d like the company.”

“Why don’t you keep it?” I tried one last time, but was already stretching my arms to grab my new roommate, a smile plastered on my face.

“He needs a good home.” Jamie touched my cheek. “And I couldna think of one better than the one he could have with ye”.

“Jamie is a fool.” I whispered to Adso. “I’m forbidding you to lay on his lap the next time he comes around. We don’t like him so much now.”

My phone vibrated inside my jeans’ pocket and I took it out, my hand shaking when I read the identifier on the message – “Geneva Dunsany”.

“Hello! Going to do some dress shopping on Friday. Can you come? Would like your opinion, plus the chance to get to know you better. XO”

I bit my lip, playing with the phone on my hands. Adso was now starting his daily bath routine, which always left me thoroughly fascinated and slightly disgusted.

I would rather spend a Friday lancing boils in the ER than hanging out with Geneva, particularly if it involved watching her try on wedding dresses to marry the man I loved. But it gave me an opportunity to enlighten her on the failures of her relationship with Jamie and sow some doubt. I unlocked the phone and quickly typed “Count me in! See you then.”

****

The rain was tapping on the window, like cold fingers demanding my attention, luring me in. The alarm clock marked 2 a.m., which meant that soon it would be useless to try to sleep anymore. My white phone was strategically placed on my nightstand, always available to warn me of any emergencies coming to the hospital. It buzzed with a light sound – I looked to the screen for a long time, until I almost forgot where and who I was, but eventually answered it.

“Is everything alright?” I said softly.

“No.” Jamie whispered back. “That nightmare again.” I knew well enough the dreams that haunted him – of the terrorist bombing on the subway that had left him almost dead, his back shredded beyond the ability to fully recover. “I usually don’t feel…anything. I don’t remember any pain – only afterwards, in the hospital. But this time…it hurt.”

“I’m here.” I watched as Adso got up from his usual place at my feet and stood watch, his eyes glowing in the dark, like beacons against my unseen demons. I could visualize Jamie, wearing his battered sleeping pants, curled on his huge bed like a little boy, his hair moist and tousled. Afraid and alone. “It’s gone, Jamie. It can’t hurt you anymore. The pain ended then – and it will again.”

“I’m sorry.” He seemed embarrassed. “For calling ye so late. I dinna even noticed the time – I just needed to talk to you. To hear the voice of another living soul and know that I survived it. Ye can always make the pain go away, mo nighean donn.”

I almost sobbed against the phone, the pain created by his words too great; daggers piercing through skin, muscle and tendon, until they reached the core of what made me his. He demanded only what I had given him freely in the past, but I had changed – I knew now that a man couldn’t have two masters and be whole still.

“Does Geneva know that this happens?” I said, my throat burning. “Perhaps you should call her and talk to her. She is your fiancé, after all.”

“I…” An hesitation on the line, heavy and meaningful. “You’re right.” He said finally in a hoarse voice – hurt but decided. “I should.”

This will be a short multiparter, hopefully of the cute and funny variety. I’m expecting it to be four to five parts. It’s a Modern AU and a giant departure from canon, so there’s that. So, without further delay I leave you with “Beauchamp Riots”, Part I! <3

Part I – Pretzel Logic

I met Jamie five years ago.

That’s one thousand eight hundred and twenty six days, give or take. More than forty thousand hours of mutual knowledge.

One would think it would have been enough for me to realize it sooner, before I was plunged into this shattering mess – but I didn’t. Perhaps I was lying, even to myself. Maybe, I was just too scared of ruining that precious and delicate thing, which I kept close to my heart – so close as to be inside it.

I was sitting at my local pub, a glass of strong whiskey placed in front of me, a lively reminder that I was supposed to be drinking and forgetting. I could barely see a damned thing – warm tears kept flooding my eyes, uninvited. I could hear masculine voices at distance, somewhere in the periphery of the constricted world I had built for myself, laughing and teasing about a disputed dart game. I raised the glass and took a long sip, darkly thinking about shooting darts at a figure that looked very much like my fiancé – no, not anymore! – Frank Randall.

But darts were just too good for him, the womanizer and conniving sod, for making me act like a heartbroken little woman. I almost smiled then, enthralled with the sudden vision of him, plunged in honey and chased by a hive, with his balls dangling in immediate and grave peril. I was still satisfyingly immersed in my vendetta when he came to sit next to me.

What I discovered afterwards is that Jamie Fraser is a gentleman. He could have been born in a castle in the eighteenth century and go about prancing his sword, ruling with an equal measure of grace and effortlessness. And like any other knight – well, I guess by then knights weren’t a thing anymore, but I digress – he couldn’t tolerate a damsel in distress. Not even one with wild hair, grubby scrubs and the breath of an ancient dragon.

“Is something amiss, lass?” He asked in a deep voice, soft and comforting as velvet, so much so I immediately craved to curl up inside it. He hesitated, his long fingers playing with the rim of his glass. Whiskey – neat, of course – filled the glass almost to the brim. “I’m sorry to meddle, but I’ve been watching ye and was that wee bit worried ye would drown inside that drink.”

“If I do,” I replied, ruefully. “Do not resuscitate me.”

He raised his eyebrows and moved to sit closer to me on the booth. I noticed then how his hair seemed like a perfect blend of auburn, roan, cinnabar and copper; how his eyes were a dark blue, slightly slanted, framed by long lashes – dark at the tips, but a pale blonde at the roots – in a degrade that seemed unfairly glamorous for such a small piece of hair.

“Ye dinna strike me as the quitting type.” He said in a conspiratorial tone, smiling. “More like the type that goes down swinging. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not – usually.” A hiccup escaped my lips – I was a little sloshed after a couple of hours of lonely drinking at my pity party. “But it turns out that being cheated on really reveals the worst in you.”

He brushed his jaw with his fingers in a thoughtful manner.

“Even the worst in ye doesn’t seem that terrible to me, lass.” He said at last and raised his glass before he drank down. I watched in fascination his Adam’s apple bobbing, feeling thirsty for more than beverage. When his eyes met mine, I blushed and almost overturned my drink with my elbow, feeling wildly inappropriate – five minutes of being single and I was already lusting over some Scottish stranger?

“Please, don’t waste your night babysitting me.” I pleaded, patting my hair – by then my curls looked like the hybrid offspring of a lunatic sheep and a cupcake on steroids. “I’ll be perfectly fine, really. Just need to sleep – probably a couple of years will be enough.”

“There’s no place I’d rather be.” He said softly and waved to his mates, grabbing jackets and tossing rumpled pound bills to the table, signalling that he was staying. “So, let’s hear it.” - And then noticing my surprised look. - “Ye need to get it out of yer chest. Just tell me how terrible he was, inconsiderate and flawed, and then ye can begin to heal.”

We talked for hours that first night together. When the pub closed we moved our conversation to the square and, before we parted, we had breakfast by the river- ate buttery scrambled eggs and crispy bacon that tasted like ambrosia. I poured my heart out and Jamie was there to catch every beating fragment.

For some time I thought we would transition into something more. I was acutely aware of him - the way he moved his shoulders when he was a bit uncomfortable; the salty smell of his skin when I met him at the gym; the capacity he had for hiding his thoughts behind a mask – how he chose not to wear it with me. When his eyes met mine I tended to loose simple skills.

Sometimes I would catch him looking intently at me, fire behind his eyes. Sitting beside him on my couch devouring chocolate ice-cream, I knew I could have his mouth tasting the sweetness hidden on my lips, if only I dared to say a word. When we went to dinner together, occasionally I would wear a flirty dress, wishing to see his mischievous half-smile, to feel his hand on the small of my back, lingering there as a promise.

But I was broken and Jamie knew it since that first night. Eventually the moment passed and we grew more accustomed to each other – we reached an unspoken agreement that what we had was so precious, that neither of us wanted to ruin it by trying to explore the romantic possibilities. We were each other’s bastion – the bestest of friends.

Ultimately he started dating her. I tolerated her mildly – tried my best to act with grace, like a solid and long-time wife that looks with bored amusement to the youngster plotting to take her place. I knew of every argument, tiff and complain – how exasperated Jamie frequently was, when faced with her tantrums and wilful side. Clearly, not an auspicious future.

We were at the pub, as per usual on Fridays, sitting on our booth, when he told me. When everything changed.

“I have something to tell ye, Sassenach.” He hawked. “Ye ken that Geneva and I have been seeing each other for some months…”

“Not likely I would forget.” I rolled my eyes, munching some pretzels. “What is it, then? Is it over? Because let me tell you that…”

“I asked her to marry me.” He whispered in a hoarse voice, avoiding my glare. “And she accepted.”

I thought I would die right there and then – if from a broken heart or choked by a pretzel, I couldn’t say. My airway became constricted, as if someone had stuck a thick branch through my nose, and I coughed violently. Jamie leaned over to rub my back in a soothing way and I almost fainted, the mixture of oxygen deprivation and shock combining to numb my brain.

“What do you mean?” I eventually gasped, cleaning the moisture from my eyes with a paper napkin.

“Well, ye ken how it is.” Jamie shrugged, looking calm and – defiant? “Seemed like the natural step going forward.”

“You can’t go two seconds without wanting to tear each other’s throats!” I said, irritated. “And now you want to put a ring on it?”

“She loves me, Claire.” He looked serious and decided. “And I want to be happy. I think I deserve that – don’t ye?”

My brain – still reeling from the almost pretzel-induced-coma, managed to clasp itself like a clam into his words “She loves me.” – not “I love her”. DAMN YOU, JAMES FRASER.

“Did you really think about it?” I babbled, trying to gain time by taking multiple sips of water. “It’s a big commitment.”

“I did.” Jamie grabbed my hand, resting on the table, and entwined our fingers. I wanted to open his fingers and brush them on my face, to kiss the hot flesh of his thumb – to read the lines of destiny on the palm of his hand and tell him that they would always lead straight to me. “I really want yer support on this, a nighean. Will ye be my best woman?”

I almost screamed then, from pain and frustration. Was he being purposely hurtful and maleficent? Or was he just blind to the blow he was delivering me? Could he really not know?

“Of course.” I heard a small voice answer and it must have been mine, because he smiled and brushed a curl away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “So are you thinking maybe two years from now? A long and happy engagement?” I gave my best to appear nonchalant, but hope dripped from my words, like poison from a wound.

“Actually,” He furrowed his eyebrows and – again – avoided my eyes. “Geneva was verra adamant that she doesna want to wait long. We’re setting the date for six weeks from now.”

I thought I was dying again, but this time there wasn’t a pretzel within sight – the snap could only be from my decaying heart.

“Six weeks!” I laughed nervously and it came out as a high-pitch sound from a banshee. “Better get started on my tux, then!”

“Thank ye, Sassenach.” Jamie kissed my cheek, his lips quivering against my heated flesh. “I couldna do it without ye. To have ye by my side is….everything I could ever wish for.”

I personally could think of a billion things a man about to be married should wish more than to have his best friend standing guard at the altar, from spending time with his bride to a scalding wedding-night – but found dark solace in the notion.

I twisted and turned in bed that night, sleepless. Tried every possible strategy – from visualizing peaceful beaches with golden sands, to counting livestock, to replaying inside my head my last repairment of an aortic aneurism. I stared at the ceiling, thinking that there was no greater injustice, than finding the love of your life while you are losing it.

Tears prickled my eyes and I allowed them to run freely. There, in the darkness of my bedroom, I finally accepted that I was in love with Jamie. I could be jealous of the woman that was robbing me my friend; I could be afraid of missing the huge place I had in his life – but I had to admit that I wanted so much more. Deep down I always assumed we were taking our time until we came together, inexorably, once we realized that forever was the only option for us.

But now the future, that once seemed inevitable, was slipping away. I had waited too long – enough for the wheels of destiny to begin to spin.

I had to take control back. I had to fight for Jamie.

Anonymous said: Hi Beautiful! If you have time, would love a modern fic where Jamie enters a TV dating show at Jenny’s behest but ends up falling hard for Claire, who’s on the medical crew 😀 Thanking you so much! If not your cup of tea, then no big deal! ☺

…if you grew up in Britain in the 90′s with Cilla Black, this is for you. I’m still chuckling to myself because @outlandishchridhe had to ask me whether ‘scouse’ was a real word. ILY girl.

As the VT ran for the last shoot of the day, Claire stood back from the rolling cameras, eager to be out of the way of the bustling studio. Sighing, she wiped the sweat from her brow. This was the worst rotation. As part of the surgical and medical interns team, Claire and her co-students were, as part of their residency, required to complete a whole myriad of tasks. One of these was on the set of a popular, high-stakes British television show as part of the crew. Most deemed it boring, yawning and complaining for the day as they sat off to the side and consumed their body weight in complimentary tea and coffee.

Claire, however, hadn’t had such luck. Instead her day had been filled with mardy television celebrities complaining of minor stomach upsets, crew members half-beheading themselves on the dangerous and often faulty equipment, and even –a birth!

Dropping her head into her hands, Claire rubbed her tired eyes as she counted down the minutes until the end of filming.

“Dr. Beauchamp…” a deep cockney accent boomed from behind her, “we have one last shoot for today and then you can go, but we need you on standby. I hope that’s alright?” he asked with such trepidation, Claire wondered how she’d sounded through the day to cause such care to be taken over the request.

“Of course, Tim. I’ll be with you in a moment. How long,” she broached, certain she didn’t want to know the answer, “is this one likely to take? It’s only, my fiance is waiting to take me out for our anniversary.”

A small lie wouldn’t hurt, would it? she thought. After all, she had had a fiance and it *would* have been their anniversary. Only, now, she did not, and it was not. But young Tim needn’t know that.

Glancing down at her ring finger to see that she did, indeed, wear jewellery indicating as such and then looking back up at her with a sort of mournful expression, Tim replied nervously, “A couple of hours….perhaps…”

At this, the poor lad made a run for it, darting off between all manner of cameras and sound equipment as if in a hurry to be away.

Claire shook her head and righted her lab coat.

A couple of hours, she reasoned, could be anything between two and seven.

–

The show, an incredibly cheesy dating show, was well under way by the time Claire finally pulled herself up out of the fold up chair and over to where the shoot was taking place. A small audience, formed of members of the general public, were placed off to the left, whilst the cameramen and women hovered below in a dip between the stage and the back of house.

Jamie sat off to the side, twisting his hands at his sides.

“I hate ye, Janet Fraser Murray,” he chanted, glancing towards his sister, who sat in the audience with a giant smile on her face. “I hate ye so much…ye wee fiend.”

“Mr. Fraser?” the young intern whispered, pulling his mic away from his mouth as he spoke. “Are you ready? They want to seat you and the other two contestants before the young lady gets here.”

Tugging at the bottom of his kilt, (something Jenny had made him wear) Jamie nodded at the prepubescent boy in front of him.

“Aye, I guess so.” Twisting his head from left to right, Jamie leaned down towards the lad, “What is the chance I can sneak out o’ the exit and make a run for it?”

Gripping his clipboard hard, his knuckles going a bright white colour, the young *man* paled at the question. “I– um –well. Y-you could, sir. But I think the p-producer and Ms. Black would have my head on the block for it.”

Sighing, Jamie resigned himself to his fate.

Suddenly, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Are you alright, Mr Fraser?” the intern asked, worry colouring his tone. “We have a doctor on site if you’re feeling ill?”

“Nay, lad,” Jamie answered, his stomach churning anxiously as he fibbed. “I’ll live.”

“If it’s any consolation…” the boy replied, quickly making sure nobody of note was about to hear him, “she might not even pick you.”

–

Sitting under the bright lights, Jamie bounced his leg against the thin metal base of the tall chair, sliding his tartan over the slick leather of the seat. Of the three men sat on the raised stage, Jamie was the last to enlighten the coy young woman behind the sliding wooden divider of his name, age and career.

The gentlemen that had gone before him had been all bluster and banter, something he had no knowledge of. Having never even watched the show before, he’d had no idea of what would be required of him.

Now, here under the spotlight, he was regretting not being more forceful with Jenny on the matter.

“…and lastly, young Amelia, we have our saucy Scot from Inverness. A handsome highlander. Contestant number three, would you like to introduce yourself?” the host cooed, her scouse lilt adding a dash of humour to her alliterative phrasing.

Having no clue about how to proceed, Jamie must have come up with something unconsciously. The next thing he knew, the audience were oo-ing and aw-ing before a large applause filled the studio, encasing him in a sound so loud that he wished he could crawl under the cheap carpet and melt away, back home and back into obscurity.

The sound of metal hitting the thin plastic liner of the camera bases caused Jamie’s head to lift. Turning, he caught a glimpse of the white lab coat as the person who inhabited it bent to collect their fallen stethoscope.

“Ah Dhia…” he muttered, *hopefully* too low for the microphone to hear him.

Waiting patiently, Jamie stopped focusing on the twee host and the other surreal members of the show, and started to watch as the statuesque form of a woman appeared, as if by magic, right in front of his eyes.

She was beautiful; tall and thin with the most vivacious curly hair.

Jamie held his breath, eyeing her up and down as she tapped her foot and stared disinterestedly around her.

Why hadn’t he taken the laddie up on his offer to see the doctor? he cursed internally, now realising who she was and why she was hovering about with no real cause to be there.

Maybe he could feign an injury, fall sideways from the slippy chair and bruise his coccyx. No, he realised, that was a daft move. For one; Jenny would murder him for making a fool of himself (and her, by association) on television and for two; seeing a lassie across the room and being attracted to her was one thing, but actually getting along with one another was something else entirely.

Bringing himself out of his lust induced stupor, Jamie turned his attention back to the filming. In his absence, a break had been called for, and the other two men at his side were absentmindedly sipping water from glasses passed to them by the refreshment team.

Taking the opportunity as it had presented itself to him, Jamie pried himself from the seat and sidled off stage right, subtly placing himself between the tall camera hoist and the pretty doctor.

As casually as he was able, he leaned in, trying his best not to catch her off guard.

“I dinna suppose ye ken an escape route, Doctor?” he whispered conspiratorially into her ear, congratulating himself on his whitting conversation starter. It was better, at least, than causing himself bodily harm.

“No, sadly,” she replied, a hint of desperation in her tone. “I’ve been considering the same prospect for hours. At least you,” she added, with a hint of humour, “have only had to endure this one show.”

“Aye. Alas, I am a member of this…circus, ken? Ye, if I may be so bold, get to hide away.”

Jamie grinned as he saw her lips twitch into a small smile.

“Are you telling me, Mr. Jamie Fraser of Lallybroch near Beauly in the Highlands,” she responded, parroting back the blurb he’d rattled off for the unknown lass only moments before, “that you didn’t elect yourself for this little –experiment.”

“Nay,” Jamie added, putting to rest any doubts on the matter, he hoped. “I didna. Do I seem the type? It was my sister. She’s worried,” leaning in further, his lips brushed her ear as he lowered his voice to barely a sigh, “that I might die alone.”

“Oh, I see…and will you?”

“I used to think so,” he said, licking his lips as the tension between them grew, “but suddenly it seems less likely.”

“You rate your chances then, with –Amelia?”

“Ach, Amelia, nay,” he returned, boldness brimming within him, “I dinna think she’ll pick me, and I hope that I’m right.”

“Mr. Fraser! Can we have you back please!” the producer called, stomping across the newly lit stage once more, clicking his fingers at whomever he laid eyes on.

“Yer name, lassie. Please, what is it?” Jamie asked, pulling himself away from her but not taking his gaze off her.

She had the most perfect blue eyes, he noted, darker than his own. Stormy, like the sea on a dark night. Like a mermaids, powerful enough to lure him to his doom, and happily so.

Taking pity on him, she cocked her head to the side as he distanced himself from her without breaking visual contact.

Merry Christmas @zoe1078! Here’s the last piece of your Secret Santa fic. One more round of thanks to @moghraidhjamie for organizing this massive endeavor. It has been a wonderful. 

Part One - With Snow Upon the Ground

Part Two - Not Unlike Plenty’s Horn

I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the past, the present, and the future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.

December 25, 1767 11:59 pm

Jamie woke gently, confused.

Claire’s arm was draped across his chest, her body turned towards him, and the bridge of her nose pressed to the curve of his shoulder. Her steady breathing raised goosebumps along his arm. He wondered what she would make of the dream he’d just had but didn’t want to wake her.

Instead stared up at the ceiling and walked himself through the dream again, trying to make sense of it.

Lallybroch––he would recognize the yard and house anywhere, even buried in snow as it had been in his dream… buried the way the little cabin where he now lay safe and warm beneath the blankets with Claire was buried.

Two children were playing in the snow with a tall, broad, dark-haired man. The lass had dark, curly hair while the lad’s hair was as vibrant of his own.

Jenny, Willie, and Da. That had been his first thought, that it wasn’t a dream so much as a memory from when he was small. But Jenny’s hair had never been that curly and when the man laughed it wasn’t his father’s laugh and when the man turned his head and Jamie saw his face, it was that of a stranger.

Then the woman had come to the door to call them inside and she looked just like his mother, her face even lit with excitement when she saw him watching them.

He hadn’t noticed their clothes before but they weren’t right––it was obvious when the woman came running out of the house towards him. She wore something like breeks but they were longer. Of course, as he stood puzzling out what they were the two legs merged into a homespun skirt.

The children turned to watch their mother and, spotting Jamie, squealed with delight. As they ran to him, their clothes also shifted into something more recognizable. The dark-haired man (most decidedly not Brian Fraser) smiled and nodded to him.

He blinked before the red-haired woman threw her arms around him and Lallybroch vanished. Instead, the five of them stood in the snow out on the Ridge. He closed his arms around the young woman for just a moment––long enough for her to whisper ‘Merry Christmas,’ in his ear before he woke and the dream dissolved.

“Are you all right?” Claire whispered against his skin. He turned to look at her watching him through one open eye, the other still shut tight against consciousness.

He smiled and rubbed the arm she had draped over him and noting how chilly her feet were where she’d snuck them between his calves.

“Aye,” he assured her. “Just a strange dream is all.”

“Something you ate disagreeing with you? Perhaps we should go for a Christmas ham next year instead of goose.”

“I dinna think that sow will last to next Christmas,” Jamie muttered. “Might be having ham for Easter dinner… or just a Sunday dinner in February.”

Claire chuckled and nuzzled his arm.

“So back to this dream… Do you want to talk about it?”

“I dinna understand it is part of it,” he murmured. “A mix of memory and something else, perhaps.”

“Memory? Of what?”

“Willie and Jenny playin’ in the snow at Lallybroch––maybe. If it was them to start it wasna them by the end.”

Claire frowned, confused and groggy. “They transformed?”

“No––though their clothes did.”

“Their clothes? What were they wearing to start then?”

“Nothing I recognized. The woman I thought was my mam wore breeks but they turned to a skirt ‘fore she reached me.”

“She came at you? What was she trying to do to you?”

“She gave me a hug and told me ‘Merry Christmas.’ Seemed happy to see me––part of why I thought she was my mam at first––but her voice… wasna Mam’s. They all came running at me in the end, smiling and laughing. They kent me but I dinna recognize them.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Claire yawned. “Don’t some people say that our dreams are populated by the people we know or will know?”

He chuckled and looked up at the ceiling above their heads again. The snow lay at least two feet thick on the ground outside and the roof above. It was an insulating snow, trapping the heat inside and keeping them all cozy… for now. He would need to clear the roof in the next day or two if possible; didn’t want the weight to strain the beams and shingles or to melt and find its way inside––or worse yet, melt then refreeze in the cracks of the roof where it might make those cracks significantly larger.

How many more families would be living on the Ridge by the next Christmas? By the Christmas after that? Right now it was just the few of them and part of him longed to keep it that way, longed to keep Claire all to himself; they had each been through so much in their years apart and since she’d come back things had hardly been uneventful. He wanted at least a little longer with her in the calm before the storm of life took up again.

Though the memory of the young family’s smiles as they saw him, the warmth of the woman’s arms as they embraced him…

“I dinna ken that I’ve ever heard that before,” he said finally responding to Claire’s comment. but I’d like to think it’s as ye say. I didna recognize them but… I felt I kent them…”

He looked down at Claire again but she had drifted off to sleep again. He reached over and brush a curl that fell across her face and threatened to tickle her nose.

It didn’t matter who came into or went from his life so long as Claire was there beside him to welcome them or bid them farewell.