Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grey was on his third glass of wine when he spotted a man sitting alone at a table at this gloomy inn in Wilmington. The stranger was nursing something from a tankard, his pale brow drawn tight in concentration. His hair was cut short at the sides, but was a mess of red curls on top. The man’s clothes were a bit too small for him, as if maybe they were borrowed, but the deep green wool still made him look utterly striking.

Grey sipped his red wine—not a great year, but it was just as dry as he liked it—and observed the man over the translucent rim of his glass. The man was turning over a gemstone in his hand, his teeth digging into a full, pink bottom lip. Grey thought he was being subtle in his observations, but then the man’s eyes met his.

He glanced away as quickly as he could, but not without seeing a tiny flicker of a smile on the red-headed man. Grey warmed as if he’d been drinking whisky instead of this mediocre wine. Moments later, the chair opposite his at the table squealed on the wood floor as it was moved. The man sat down across from him, and Grey felt his throat grow tight.

He smiled a wide smile—God in heaven, he was beautiful—which brought out the line of freckles above his cheekbones. “The wine any good here?”

“I’ve had better,” he said, feeling that familiar thrill of possibility in his chest. “I’ve had worse.”

“I guess I’ll have to form my own opinion,” the man said. His accent was unlike any John had heard before. He wasn’t sure where the man was from, but he certainly wasn’t British, though he spoke English as if it were his native tongue.

Grey slowly pushed his glass of wine towards the red-headed man. He smiled and took a sip.

“Not bad. Perfectly dry,” he said. “I’m Brian Randall, by the way.”

“John Grey.”

He felt something brush against his leg and, at first, Grey thought it was an accident but then it happened again… and again. His eyes went wide. This man was bold, a little reckless. Had this Brian Randall made an error in the judgement of Grey’s feelings, he could end up with a bullet in his brain or his neck in a noose. Luckily, he had not. And luckily, John was just as interested in this gorgeous young man as he seemed to be in him.

John took a deep breath, then pressed his leg back into Brian’s. He had to adjust himself so his stiffness would not show.

“I’ve seen better and worse than the rooms in this inn, but,” Brian whispered. “I am staying here.” He tipped the rest of Grey’s wine into his mouth, smiled, sat the glass on the table and walked towards the stairs that led to the upstairs rooms.

Grey would have to wait before he could follow the man, but he watched him go so he would know what room belonged to this handsome stranger. Grey would wait just long enough that it wouldn’t rouse suspicion from anyone that might be paying attention, then he’d follow Brian and scratch an itch he hadn’t scratched in too damn long.

Brian Randall kissed like a firecracker, all teeth and tongue. He tore at Grey’s clothes like a mad man, like if he didn’t touch bare skin, it just might kill him. So Grey let Brian get those big hands all over his skin. Hungry, was about the only way Grey could describe it. In all fairness, he could not blame the man. He was starved himself, and Brian, he was a five-course meal crafted by the best cooks in England or the Colonies or anywhere else Grey could think of.

So, when Brian ended up on his knees, fingers digging into the linens, as Grey took him from behind, it seemed all too inevitable.

When it was over, they lay side by side on the bed, trying to catch their breaths. Brian was naked and stretched out like a cat beside him, unspeakably long and pale and freckled with eyes like the deepest ocean water.

Grey ran his fingers along Brian’s cheek, sweeping at the freckles with his thumb. “I would stay, but… the innkeeper may notice.”

“Was I that bad?” Brian asked with a tipped smile that betrayed a genuine question.

Grey shook his head, then leaned over and kissed Brian on his wet, warm mouth. He felt that kiss everywhere. “You were wonderful, my darling.”

Brian blushed, smiling a small smile before clearly forcing it away. “Get out of here, then. If you have to.”

Grey carded his fingers through Brian’s hair and Brian let out a soft sound as he leaned into the touch. “I do, genuinely, wish I could stay.”

. . .

If Brian had not found his mother the day after it—he was calling “it” now—happened, he would be dead right now. After the gorgeous man (and remarkably talented lover) from the inn had left,  Brian found he could not sleep. Still aching in the best way from having been fucked, he’d wandered back downstairs for another drink. That was his mistake, though he couldn’t possibly have known it. Well, it was the first in a series of mistakes that had landed Brian here, wasting a way at River Run like the lady in “The Yellow Wallpaper”.

His mom and Jamie had stayed with him awhile, getting him over the worst of it.  But they’d had to go back to Fraser’s Ridge to deal with some sort of land dispute issue—for Jamie—and a pregnant neighbor—for his mom. She’d told Brian she would stay, but of course, he’d told her to go. Now, that she’d stopped the internal bleeding and set the broken bones in his hands, he was doing well enough.

Besides, Brian had a lot to think about, and he did his best thinking alone, despite the ugly wallpaper calling him towards madness. But that may be a wee overdramatic, as Jamie would say. As Roger would’ve said, too. Not that he’d thought about Roger in a while. That had been one disaster of a relationship after all. But at least he’d got a working knowledge of how to play a guitar out of it. Which could be useful. Seeing as there was nothing to fucking do here.

Seeing Jamie had been strange. He’d never looked at Dad and seen himself, though before he’d passed, there was no one in the world Brian was closer to, no one he loved more. Then, he’d met Jamie, despite the man being a complete stranger, Brian was all constructed of bits of him: eyes and lips and hair, obviously the hair. They weren’t identical or anything, not at all, but standing side-by-side no one would question it. Not like they’d always questioned Dad. Red-headed step child, indeed.

They’d talked and tried connecting, but it was stilted and strange. In some ways, it felt like a betrayal to find common ground with the man, to connect with him as a father. That said, it was easy to see now, the difference between what his mom had with his dad and what she had with Jamie. It hurt to see it. But he could not deny it.

Iff there was anything Brian Randall knew for certain, it was that you did not choose who you loved, so, for his mother’s sake, he really would try to forge a bond with Jamie.

And, maybe a little bit for himself, if he could have it.

A week later, Brian was still healing, still bruised in the worst places, but he was up and moving about—and Aunt Jocasta was demanding he attend some kind of party at River Run. He’d never been to an eighteenth century party, so he figured he should probably just go along with it. Make the best of it. At least it would make for a good story. One he could never tell anyone, but a good story, nonetheless.

Brian had been dressed exquisitely in a tailored, deep navy blue suit with polished buttons. He’d never get used to the shoes though, when he couldn’t wear boots—he’d just keep hearing Bing Crosby’s voice in his head singing—are they shovels or are they feet?—and just as bad as that, were the tall white socks that reminded him of the compression socks worn by his mother’s elderly patients to help with circulation.

Still, he looked nice for the era. Not to mention—Brian mussed his red curls with his hand—he was having a particularly good hair day.

That evening, guests poured into River Run. Men, dressed in outfits not unlike his own, but most with long hair coifed back into ribbons. He certainly stood out with a head of short, red curls. The women all wore gowns with voluminous skirts, their waists pulled in tight by bodices. Even though Brian had been in the eighteenth century for a while now, he still hadn’t adjusted to the styles and the dress and the manners. Suddenly surrounded by so many people trying to talk to him about inaccurate science and plays he’d never seen and books he’d never read, he found himself wishing he were back in his room, staring at the god-awful wallpaper. Maybe if he saw an opportunity, he’d duck away in the kitchen and see if he could at least find Phaedra to talk to, so he could take a breath.

Finally, there was a lull in conversation long enough he might get the chance, but just before he could Brian heard his Aunt Jocasta’s voice come from outside the room. “I would like to introduce you to someone. Lord John. Meet my nephew, Brian Fraser.”

Brian’s heart leapt into his throat. Not three feet in front of him stood the man he’d fucked in Wilmington.

Chapter Text

How was it possible John Grey was standing here before him in his aunt’s house? Brian Randall had never believed in fate, but then he hadn’t believed in time travel either and well, look around. But if Brian was shocked, that was nothing of what he saw in John’s face looking back at him. He appeared as if there weren’t a drop of blood left in his body at all.

His mouth opened and shut a few times before Brian managed, somehow, to say, “It’s good to make your acquaintance, Lord John.”

“Yours as well,” the man said flatly. “I am friends of your mother and father.”

The words ‘friends of your mother and father’ made Brian’s spine turn to ice. Would he…? John Grey wouldn’t tell Brian’s parents would he? No, no. A silly thought. John couldn’t, not without incriminating himself.  In that regard, Brian was likely protected from exposure.

The fact that they were friends though was a little strange, maybe. Brian could tell John was older than he was, but certainly not as old as parents. So what? So his last fling knew his mother and Jamie. This could be a good thing, Brian considered. John was, without a doubt, one of the most attractive men he’d ever laid his eyes on. He hadn’t been able to get that night out of his mind since. The connection with his parents might mean their paths would keep crossing. Brian could think of worse things.

Before they could say more, some very unwelcome guests who apparently knew John—Lord John, fuck that was sexy—came into the room to steal his attention, but Brian swore John kept looking over his shoulder at him during the conversation. That same confused and bloodless look in his face.

No longer interested in sneaking away to the kitchens to chat with Phaedra, Brian forced himself into conversations with the men and women in attendance in hopes he could steal John’s attention. One woman, Miss Forbes, kept touching his forearm and laughing much too hard at things he said that weren’t intended as jokes. And she kept asking questions about his cuts and bruises, like she expected him to recount the heroic tale of a warrior. Brian just kept deflecting as best he could, but it was getting near impossible. He did not want to talk about what had happened. He hated feeling stupid. And God that whole debacle only made him feel like an idiot.

Brian had never felt so relieved as when John swept up beside him to interrupt the attention of Miss Forbes. Brian quietly hoped John had seen his distress and swept in like a knight in shining armor to save him. And the man did look something like a knight. He had such a smooth and regal gait. Seeing him now, it was almost hard to believe just how primal he’d been the other night, like something wild from the woods. The memory made his mouth dry.

John spoke to Miss Forbes, rather than to him. “You’re Miss Forbes, if not mistaken?

She nodded. “Why yes, I am.”

“I just wanted to inform you that there’s a Mr. Whitley in the dining area and he was asking to speak with you.”

“Oh,” she said, not really paying attention to Lord John. Something Brian couldn’t even begin to understand. How could someone pay attention to anything else when that man was in the room? Brian thought John Grey could command the attention of God himself.

“It seemed urgent,” John added.

Miss Forbes frowned, let out a breath, but then bowed to Brian. “We’ll speak again.”

“I’m sure,” Brian replied, hoping he was wrong.

When Miss Forbes was out of sight, he and Lord John were left alone in the secluded corner of the study that Miss Forbes had cornered him into.

John frowned at him slightly, but there wasn’t anger in it that Brian could detect. “I thought you said your name was Brian Randall.”

Oh right. John would’ve thought he’d lied to him, though he couldn’t imagine that wasn’t standard practice at the time. Still, there was no harm in sharing part of the truth with him. “It is. Randall’s the name of the man who raised me. My mother’s late husband.”

A little blood seemed to fill his pale cheeks again. “You’re not truly Jamie Fraser’s son?”

“No, I…” He sighed, then smiled. “I am. It’s a long story.”

That bit of pink disappeared all over again and, in silence, John appraised Brian, head to toe. The look made him shiver.

John frowned. “You were hurt?”

Brian’s clothes covered most of the damage, though he knew the purplish-yellow still bloomed around his left eye socket. And the swollen fingers on his left hand were still healing. His eyes shut, trying to force out the new memory John’s words had conjured. The sound of that poor girl’s cry, the skirts around her hips. The kicks and blows that left him near dead, that still ached in his body now.

Brian had wanted to help—he’d tried—but he hadn’t been strong enough. He wasn’t Jamie. He wasn’t a fighter. God knows, he didn’t want to talk about it, but it was harder to lie to John than it had been to Miss Forbes. Still, he’d manage.

“Bar fight,” Brian said through a tight throat.

John’s brow knit as his observations of Brian’s injuries intensified. Brian felt exposed and he couldn’t bear it under the circumstances.

He put on a cocky smile. “You should see the other guy.”

Just then, his aunt approached and demanded he meet another one of the women who’d come here tonight.

Maybe it was an accident, maybe it was on purpose, but as Brian stepped past John, the back of his hand rubbed against the back of John’s and it was as good as any kiss he’d had from another.

Later that evening, John found him again—thank God. He’d somehow missed the man in the moments he’d been shuffled from one women to the next. Missing a stranger who was in the same house was ridiculous and yet…

John’s voice dropped down low as he leaned in, appraising Brian once again. “A bar fight, is it then?” He looked out and away towards the mingling guests as he continued, “Your aunt seems to think you received your bruises in a gallant attempt to protect a woman’s virtue.” John returned his attention to Brian, eyes warm and soft like fresh-baked bread. “Why wouldn’t you want people to know that?”

Brian stomach tightened. He thought he might just bolt, if it were anyone but the handsome man beside him.

He fought the dark emotions, bubbling up in him. Why aren’t you stronger? You’ve always been so weak. In the end, those thoughts won. “You gave yourself the answer. I attempted. I didn’t succeed. So you’ll excuse me, if I don’t want to share it as an anecdote at a party.” Brian put a hand to his forehead; he’d had headaches every day since the attack and a particular sharp one was coming on now. “I didn’t know he wasn’t alone.”

He’d shoved that damn pirate off her—Jesus Christ, he was a pirate. I fought a pirate. Fuck. Brian had never really considered that. He’d gotten in one good, solid blow too Broken the asshole’s nose. Then, his crew mates walked in and… Brian would never forget the blood dripping from the pirate’s broken nose as he raped that girl. One of his men held Brian back, the other administered blow after blow after blow…

“And you would’ve done something different had you known?” The resonant kindness in Lord John’s voice provided Brian a sense of relief he hadn’t felt since it had happened.

Would he have done something differently? Could he have?

“No,” he sighed. “but then I’m an idiot.”

When his eyes met John, Brian felt his heart flip in his chest. And that was… he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt that before, at least not exactly like that. Brian couldn’t explain it then, but it felt important.

They stood together for a moment, in companionable silence, just listening to the murmur of the other guests at the party.

“There are quite a few available women here,” John said, lips tipped into a rakish smile. With that look, Brian couldn’t help but remember the expert touch of him, the warmth of those slender fingers sliding inside him.

“Yes.” Brian smiled uneasily, finally ready to voice the concern that had been growing in him all evening. “I believe my aunt is attempting to make a match for me.”

John pressed his lips together, his brow furrowing. “Do you think she…?”

“What?”

“Do you…” John’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Do you think she intends to leave you River Run and believes that if you have a wife and child maybe, you’d be less likely to turn down the offer?”

Brian was taken back. He couldn’t imagine Jocasta had considered that. Who was he to give all this to? He was stranger. Besides, he had no intention of staying in this time, once he got physically strong enough to get back to the stones—not that John or Jocasta could  know or understand that.

“You really think she plans to offer me River Run.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it…” John seemed unsettled, though he’d seemed unsettled all night. "But I know she offered it your parents.”

“She did. “ He blinked. “Why did they turn it down?”

“From what your father said, they did not want to own slaves.”

Brian let out a long breath, reality settling over him as he thought of Phaedra. He had grown to consider her a friend, like an asshole, without considering she wouldn’t legally have a say in a matter of their friendship at all.

“I don’t want to own slaves either.” And I don’t want to marry a woman and have her kids. But the first was a lot more important.

“You may want to express that sentiment to your aunt before she starts measuring you for your wedding garments.” John gave him an unreadable smile, then walked away to join another conversation.

Throughout the rest of the evening, they barely managed to find a chance to speak together. Their interactions had been shortened to brief sentences surrounded by other people. At dinner, Grey had been seated about as far away from Brian as possible. He was rather certain this ignored protocol for how seating was usually done at dinner, but he also didn’t really know anything. He was a history major, but they’d yet to cover 18th century dinner party etiquette. Regardless of their distance though, Brian stole looks as often as possible. Each times their eyes met, Brian felt like he had on that wooden coaster during their summer trip to Coney Island. Free and dizzy and full of joy.

By the time the guests lived close enough not to spend the night had left and Jocasta and those that were spending the night, like John Grey, had gone off to their rooms, Brian could barely think of anything beyond getting his hands, his mouth, his everything, on that man again.

He only knew where in River Run John was staying as he casually wrangled the information from Phaedra. She seemed curious and, honestly, Brian wished he could indulge her with the truth. But he was used to keeping this quiet, even two hundred years from now.

Armed with information from Phaedra, Brian found John standing alone in a corridor, flickering in the candlelight. John turned to face Brian, opened his mouth as if he planned to speak, but those lips were too perfect and Brian needed. He rushed forward. He kissed John on the mouth, and John—fuck—John shoved him back hard.

“Brian—stop. Dear God.” He ran a hand through his hair, panting. “We can’t.”

“Why not? We’re alone.” Brian grabbed at the grey wool of John’s coat, trying to reel him in. “God, I’ve been wanting you all night.”

“Stop. Stop talking,” John growled and grabbed his sleeve. He pushed open a nearby door. Get in here,” he said, dragging Brian in with him.

He slammed the door shut behind him, grabbed a key off a dresser and locked it.

“Thank God.” Brian lunged for the buttons on John’s waist coat.

“Brian, stop. We’re not. I said no.”

Brian stumbled back, blinking, and got a good look at John’s face. “Oh, you’re serious. I’m sorry. Shit, I’m so embarrassed.” He laughed awkwardly. “You probably didn’t expect to see some random fuck again. Let alone want to—“

“Brian, it isn’t you. We just can’t. Among about a million other reasons I cannot explain now, your father will strangle me dead with his bare hands.”

Brian’s stomach suddenly sank. What had he been thinking?  “He’s going to kill me too, isn’t he? Jamie is going to kill me if he finds out what I am.”

He shouldn’t care what some man who barely knew him thought. His father, the man who had raised him and loved him, had known, only because he’d caught Brian in his office with his own teaching assistant. His dad had been surprised, but as okay with it as he could’ve been. But Frank Randall was progressive for his time. Jamie was anything but. Except maybe, in some ways, when it came to Mama.

Brian sat down on the foot of the bed, head in his hands.

Moments later, he felt John settle down beside him. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Does he know about you?” Brian asked.

John hesitated, but gave a nearly imperceptible nod. This made a small bubble of hope rise in his chest.

“You two are friends? So maybe…”

“It might be best not to tell him, Brian.” John gently touched his knee, and it made Brian shiver. John continued, “It’s fine. Nothing’s changed. I won’t say anything and it will be as if this never happened.”

“You’re right,” Brian stood, anger rocking through him. “I’ll wake up tomorrow and still be g—… this way.” He dropped his gaze, rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand.

“As will I,” John said.

“It’s not fair.”

“Many things in life are not fair.” John laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Now go back to your own room and go to bed.”

. . .

When Grey had received a letter from Jamie Fraser asking to look in on his son at River Run, he’d happily obliged. It was silly, of course, but he didn’t mind doing the man favors. It helped him feel close to the man, like they were a team in some small way.

That gentle warmth had turned cold as a winter wind the moment he’d actually met Jamie and Claire Fraser’s son.

All he’d thought in that moment was Dear God in heaven, I’m a dead man.

This was Jamie Fraser’s son and he’d buggered him.

In that moment, he saw, felt it, like it was yesterday. The warm skin, the frantic beating heart, the smell of salty sweat and the sound the man had made when he climaxed.

Grey had thought he might have just fainted on the floor if hadn’t been for some vague acquaintances from Virginia who stole his attention away.  As quickly as he could though, he’d departed from them, wandered outside and vomited in the bushes.

Jamie Fraser’s goddamn son.

He hated this. Hated that he now had a secret to keep from Jamie, a secret that if revealed would destroy their friendship, maybe even get Grey killed. He liked to think Jamie wouldn’t react that way, but he knew the man. His goodness and his rage.

Grey had intended to stay away from Brian the rest of the evening. And God help him, he tried. But a small, incessant, horrible (wonderful) voice kept telling him that it would seem strange if he avoided Brian and strange if he had nothing to report after being sent there to look in on Brian. And there had been something a little different about his face. In the low light, Grey had thought he’d seen cuts on Brian’s hand.

If Grey was a better man he’d managed to stay away, even stay out the man’s line of sight. Instead, he’d talked to him, smiled at him. At dinner—God help him—he kept catching himself looking at him without even planning on looking at him. Giving Brian Randall Fraser, whatever his name was, the wrong bloody idea.

Enough of the wrong bloody idea that he’d kissed Grey with that same firecracker kiss from Wilmington, and Grey could only imagine this man was, in fact, built entirely, blood, bone and sinew, of dangerous explosives.

One wrong move and Lord John Grey’s life would detonate.

So, understandably, he was in the kitchens at River Run drinking an obscene amount of Jocasta Cameron’s wine. Grey was half way through a second bottle when he heard a familiar yelp.

“God.” Brian said, standing there in nothing but a long, linen shirt. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He couldn’t see himself, but just knew his wine flush was darkening. He hoped the dim light wouldn’t betray the truth. “My apologies. I did not intend to,” Grey said, trying to sound formal.

“No problem. I’m just jumpy walking around a creepy old house at night.” Brian took a bite of the biscuit Grey only now realized he had in his hand.

“I don’t think River Run is all that old.”

“Right.” Brian’s brow furrowed in much the same way his father’s did. “I guess it wouldn’t be.”

Maybe if Grey had had less to drink or if he were a smarter man, he’d have stood up from the table, bid Brian a good night and excused himself to bed.

“Can I interest you in some wine?” John offered, holding up the bottle. “This one actually is good.” His eyes shut as regret flooded through him. Why did I bring up that night? Idiot.

“Why not? Can’t sleep anyway.” Brian sat down across from him. Like Wilmington but not like Wilmington at all. 

John poured Brian a glass of wine. Brian picked it up and took a sip. Then, his slanted eyes flickered to the left. “Do you play chess?”

Grey’s eyes moved the same way Brian’s had an he noticed a chess board tucked beneath one of the wooden shelves. “I do. Your father and I actually played quite often in our younger years.”

Brian drank a little more, then walked over to the board. He tugged it out from under the shelf and sat it on the table between them.

He put a slender finger on the white knight and spoke innocently, “I guess you’ll have to tell me who’s better—father or son.”

Maybe half an hour and a half a wine bottle later, Grey had Brian’s king cornered in checkmate.

“Your father’s better,” Grey announced.

“A dagger to my heart, sir,” Brian replied with a tilted grin.

Grey tried not to shiver at the way Brian’s mouth fit around the word sir and failed miserably.

“Oh well,’ Brian reclined comfortably back in his chair. “I’m more of a Scrabble man anyway.”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “Scrabble?”

“Nevermind.” Brian laughed, but mostly to himself, then stood. “Thanks for the game and the wine.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Fraser,” Grey said, even though the wine was more Brian’s than it was his—as it belonged to Brian’s great aunt.

Brian took a step forward, so they were side by side, though Grey was sitting. “Good night, Lord John.” His voice was a small, impossible whisper and the words though simple and plain, felt as private as a love letter.

Chapter Text

During the few moments of rest Grey managed to find that evening, he dreamed of Brian and also of Jamie. He was stood in a forest—like the ones they’d trudged through in Scotland during the highland wars. Jamie was there too, like he always was in these dreams. Most of the time, Jamie would watch him from a distance, like a great, lonely stag. If Grey approached, the man’s visage would dissipate into the mist of the moor.

Tonight, Grey wanted him gone. He took a step forward, but Jamie didn’t move. Grey took another and another, waiting for that telltale mist, It never came. Not even when he stood nearly toe to toe with the man. Jamie looked like he had that afternoon at Helwater, when he’d offered himself to Grey. When Grey refused and Jamie had taken his hand, put it on his, just as he had done to Jamie in Ardsmuir, the touch had felt like forgiveness.

Like a reflex, Grey was lifting his hand, letting Jamie take it. Jamie seized his hand, but unlike that day in Helwater, he didn’t let it go. Unlike that day in Helwater, Jamie pulled him in and crushed their mouths together.

It was only a dream, but it still made his toes tingle.

It was only a dream, but he still gave into it, kissing back, reaching up to that firm neck, fingers sliding into a short-sheared hair.

He wasn’t kissing Jamie anymore. It was Brian.

With a gasp, Grey pulled back. Brian was standing there before him with wet, swollen lips and messy hair. He had his father’s eyes. No, he truly had his father’s eyes. Grey stumbled back.

“John, what’s wrong?” Brian said in that unusual accent of his.

Then, his face altered even more. Half Jamie’s face, half Brian’s. Beautiful, deranged.

Like a flash of lightning, all of Brian was gone, leaving only Jamie. Not the Jamie from Helwater or Fraser’s Ridge or Jamaica or even Ardsmuir. This was Jamie was a laird, young and powerful, something wild and uncontrollable from deep in the highlands.

He reached out for John again, to kiss him, John thought, but then, two massive, strong hands wrapped around his neck and squeezed.

Terror tore through Grey and he tried to fight, but he was powerless against Jamie Fraser’s strength and against the look of absolute hatred and disgust in the man’s eyes.

Grey died, and then he woke up. In a bed in River Run, gasping for air.

Just a dream, he thought. Just a dream.

But the relief that accompanied realizing the unreality of his dreams was short-lived. Not everything terrible in his life was a dream. Brian Fraser was still also Brian Randall and he was still Jamie Fraser’s son and John Grey had still made passionate, rough love to him in a bed in an inn in Wilmington.

Exhausted, Grey dragged himself out of bed and got dressed. With each step out of his room and into the halls of River Run, he grew more and more terrified of running into Brian. Would he comment on the dark circles under his eyes? Ask why he couldn’t get any sleep last night?

Because I dreamed of kissing you, of kissing your father, of your father’s hand wrapped around my throat.

Feeling half mad, Grey had no idea how he managed to find the dining room and procure some tea and a scone for breakfast from a woman named Phaedra.

“Thank you,” he said to her with a smile. “May I ask if you’ve seen Mr. Fraser this morning?”

If she had and knew where he was, Grey could use that information to his advantage, to keep this distance from Brian. That was for the best probably, right? Keeping his distance.

“Yes, sir. He said he was going to go for a ride. He ate half his scone, then said he wasn’t feeling hungry and gave me the rest.”

Grey looked up at the woman whose brow was drawn in tight. “Is there something else? You look worried, and if you are… his father did send me to look in on him.”

“No. It’s only, Mr. Fraser is always hungry. He usually eats two or three scones,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I just worry. He was unwell for a long while.”

“Thank you, Phaedra. For this and for telling me about Brian.”

She gave small, practiced curtsey. “You’re welcome, sir.”

He ate the last bite of his scone, took another sip of tea and stood. Now that Phaedra had reason to be concerned, even if it didn’t seem like much reason at all, it gave Grey just the push he needed to use the information he procured to find Brian instead of avoiding him. It’s not like he could just ignore, even a subtle concern when that’s what he was here for.

Grey wandered onto the property, enjoying the brisk morning air and the bustle of the estate moving all around him. It reminded him somewhat of Helwater. He missed that place sometimes, especially the early years when Jamie was still there.

A few yards away his eyes caught a flash of auburn red, and he saw Brian Fraser atop a black horse, the muscles in his forearms rippling as he pulled taught the reins.

“Oh hey, John.” Brian smiled brightly down at him.

The wind was making a right mess of his curls and turning his cheeks a pretty pink. Grey happened to know that exact pink was the color Brian flushed all over.

Grey swallowed, pulling his shoulders back. “Good morning, Brian.”

“I was going to go for a ride.” Brian glanced over at the stables. “You in?”

“In?”

Brian gave Grey an exasperated look, which reminded him far too much of Claire. “Would you be obliged to give me the pleasure of your company on my ride this morning?”

Grey could say no. He should say no, just like he should’ve last night. Despite Phaedra’s misgivings, Brian seemed just fine. In good spirits, even. But there wasn’t any actual chance he’d do anything untoward with Brian Fraser now. Not now that he knew who he was. Why deny himself the pleasure of a morning ride with good company?

“As you wish,” Grey replied, giving in. Brian smiled back at him, beaming like the sun itself.

Grey took up his own horse at Jocasta’s stable, a pretty, ash grey mare, and joined Brian for a morning ride. The hooves of the horses clopped on the ground in a gentle melody as they wound their way into the beautiful wood nearby. They spoke, but of nothing. Not the bad sort of nothing—the gossip and small talk of a dinner party—the good sort. The nothing one could find in the quiet solitude of a cool creek.

Thoughtlessly, Grey mentioned something about Willa’s fascination with all the frogs in Lynchburg. She kept trying to keep them as pets.

“You have a daughter, I didn’t know that. Does that mean… are you… married?” Brian frowned.

Grey could tell the idea bothered him. He wasn’t sure whether it was because Brian felt guilty that he may have had sex with a married man or if he was jealous. Maybe if he told Brian he was married, it would sufficiently scare the man off. But he would eventually find out it wasn’t true and it felt wrong to lie to him.

“No, no.” Grey shook his head. “My wife died when I was governor of Jamaica.”

Brian’s eyes went wide, his bottom lip dropping slightly. “You were governor of Jamaica?”

He laughed. “Yes, it was a… very strange place.”

“You’ll have to tell you more about it some day.”

Beyond the wood they had wandered into was an open field, as deep a green as the slippery skin on the backs of Willa’s frogs. The sky was empty of clouds, as blue as egg shells. Grey felt small beneath it, like maybe he didn’t matter at all. He found comfort in that thought, if just for a moment.

“It is beautiful here, so… open.” Brian breathed in deeply. “And the air is so fresh.”

“Is it not so open in Boston?” Grey asked.

“It’s not,” Brian looked over at him with a tilted smile, “but at least we have the Red Sox.”

The Red what? He gave Brian a look. “You are as inscrutable as your mother.”

Brian made a sound with his tongue and turned the horse around, moving the steed closer to Grey. “I’ll try and take that as a compliment.”

Grey looked down at where his own hands were gripping the reigns painfully. “You should.”

“I’m starving,” he said.

The confession made Grey think of the half a scone he’d eaten this morning. He wanted to bring it up, but then he didn’t want him to think Grey had been discussing him with Phaedra behind his back. Even though he had been.

He watched for a moment as Brian rode off. The wind rippled his shirt and he cast a look back over his shoulder at Grey. If only… he thought, then cursed himself for it. He had to stop thinking this way. It wasn’t right. Not only was Brian Jamie’s son, he was also Willa’s brother.  Something, of course, Brian  didn’t know. That and that it wasn’t only the looming threat of Jamie’s outrage that kept John from doing with Brian exactly what his body wanted. It was his heart. The one he’d long ago given to Jamie, with no real intent on asking for it back.

With a sigh, Grey followed Brian back to the stables, going slow enough to never catch up to him.

He didn’t even see Brian the rest of the day and barely the day after that. He didn’t want to wear out his welcome at River Run, but he knew Jamie had also written Jocasta about his staying there for a while.

It was a late afternoon, towards the end of the week, when Grey found Brian reclining in the sitting room, the sun painting light over crimson curls. There was a book in his lap. He licked the side of his thumb, like a kitten, then used it to turn a crisp page.

Grey just stood there, observing for a moment, but then, suddenly overcome with the fear someone would catch him watching, he spoke up. “What are you reading?”

Brian glanced up from the pages, regarding Grey with thoughtful eyes. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s a French novel, but my French isn’t all it could be.”

Grey approached Brian and took the book from his hands. He flipped it over and read the title. It was actually one he’d read back at Helwater. The Dunsanys had it in their collection. “You should count yourself lucky your French isn’t great. I’ve read this one. It’s terrible. ” Grey didn’t hand the novel back to Brian, instead he wandered over to Jocasta’s shelves. He scanned for a book he recognized that he had also enjoyed. His search stopped on Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones. He removed it from the shelf and handed it to Brian. “Give it a try. I think you’ll like it.”

Brian reached out for the book, their fingers skimming at the trade. The touch, though small, brought with it enough sensation that Grey bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself together. He frowned. The book was large enough that Grey could only imagine the touch had been by Brian’s own design.

God, if Jamie Fraser knew what a shameless little flirt his son was.

Several more days at River Run passed. Grey and Brian wouldn’t spend all their time together, but they spent enough of it. Nothing unusual, though. There weren’t many others here and they got on well. They rode their horses and often ate lunches out in that green field. They would drink Jocasta’s wine and play chess. Grey would always win, and Brian’s nose would always scrunch up in frustration.

Grey wasn’t sure when he gave in to spending time with Brian. It wasn’t more than that. He kept his physical distance, even when Brian would try to encroach, but they enjoyed talking to each other. Enjoyed making each other laugh. Despite the spinning tangle of concerns around them, their friendship came easily.

Late in the evening, Grey was reading a letter from Jamie that Ulysses had brought in. His attention was stolen when Brian swept into the room, they way a storm would, his eyes on Grey with dizzying ferocity. “Both religion and virtue have received more real discredit from hypocrites than the wittiest profligates or infidels could ever cast upon them,” he quoted.

“Did you enjoy Tom Jones then?” Grey looked up from the letter in his hands.

“I did. Thank you for the recommendation.” He sat down in the chair across from Grey, his long limbs relaxed. “What are you reading?”

“A letter from your father actually.”

Brian’s face grew more serious and he leaned in. “What’s it say?”

“He’s asking if I can ride with you back to Fraser’s Ridge on my way to Lynchburg. If you’re feeling well enough for the journey. Are you? If not, he said, he’d come down here and travel back with you when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” Brian said quickly. “The little people in the wallpaper are starting to come to life up there anyway.”

Grey wanted to ask, but he was starting to learn it was easier to just accept the strange things Brian Fraser would say.

“How would you feel about leaving in the morning, then?”

“Morning it is.” Brian smiled at him, then hopped up from the chair.

The ride to Fraser’s Ridge from here was about four days. As comforting as their friendship had become in this place surrounded by servants and his Aunt Jocasta, the idea of four days alone in the woods with a handsome, young man who could barely keep his hands off Grey… that idea was far from comforting.

Chapter Text

Brian Fraser could not believe his luck. Four whole days alone in the woods with the man of his dreams. Sure, he knew John had shut him down and, though they were spending time together, he wasn’t really returning any of Brian’s flirtations. (He was starting to feel a bit like a hussy). But he also saw the way John would look at him when he didn’t think he was watching, the way they got along so easily, like long lost friends. And he also remembered how ravenous John had been back in Wilmington.

Like it was yesterday, Brian could still feel the scrape of John’s teeth against his skin, could still feel the warmth of John’s lips on his cock, how he’d swallowed Brian’s release down like it was water and he was a man lost in the desert.

Oh certainly, John Grey knew how to play the part he’d been taught since birth, genteel and proper. He was friends with Jamie, close enough that Jamie had entrusted him to look in on his son, so Brian knew he was wary of any farther sexual contact as it were. But Brian, Brian thought it was stupid. Even if Jamie was a raging homophobe, they didn’t have to tell him about it. It’s not like Brian would tell him if John were some random dude and it’s not like John would tell Jamie if Brian were. Why did it matter so much? Why deny themselves when Jamie would never have to know?

They were both into each other and their sex was dynamite.

So John was reluctant, tethering up the wild side he’d released when they were in bed together and retreating to the comfort of propriety. Was it a crime for Brian to tempt the man into loosening the reigns?

Brian pressed down on the top of the luggage with one hand and locked it shut with the other. “Guess that’s it,” he said to Phaedra, who was folding up his bed linens. “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me while I was here, especially when I was sick. I know I’m a terrible patient.”

She nodded. “I hope it’s not, well, I just want to say, I do hope to see you around River Run again.”

“Would you mind if I gave you a hug goodbye?” Brian asked. “You really can say no. I won’t mind.”

Phaedra stepped forward, a small smile blossoming on her face. She wrapped her arms around him, he squeezed and she stepped back.

“I hope you keep drawing, Phaedra.”

She tensed. “Drawing?”

Brian stepped over to the small writing desk and removed some tucked away papers he’d found the other night.

She drew in a sharp breath. “It’s… I can explain—"

“Phaedra. They’re beautiful. You’re really talented.” He flipped through the charcoal sketches. Some were of the other slaves, a few were of him. One of was of John. “I was wondering if I could buy one from you?”

“You want to buy one of my drawings?”

Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple coins. “Please.”

After he said goodbye to Phaedra, Brian headed downstairs with the charcoal drawing of John tucked away into his coat. He said his goodbye to his Aunt Jocasta as well, who told him that John was waiting outside and that Brian was welcome back anytime. He gave her a familial hug and thanked her profusely for everything she’d done for him. After that, he stepped outside to see John. His heart soared, then immediately crashed to the ground like an airplane with engine failure.

Beside John was a woman on a white horse. He almost didn’t recognize her, as he hadn’t thought at all about her since that dinner party, but it was Miss Forbes, and Brian had absolutely no idea what her first name was.

She smiled at him, batting her eyelashes. God, he hoped he didn’t look like that when he was trying to flirt with John.

“Miss Forbes,” Brian said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning.”

John answered, “Your Aunt Jocasta has asked us to accompany her to her uncle’s estate. It’s about a day’s ride from Fraser’s Ridge.”

Brian felt all hope of four days of fucking in the woods like rabbits slip away. And on top of that, he’d have a woman he really didn’t like at all tagging along with them.

“And I am grateful. A woman like myself isn’t safe traveling these woods alone. It’s good to know I have such a gallant man to protect my virtue.”

It took every ounce of restraint Brian had not to say that he did a god-awful job at that the last time he tried, so she might not want to depend on him. John was certainly a better source of protection than he could ever be.

Deflated, Brian walked down the porch steps and climbed onto his horse. He gave John a look, but this time, John wasn’t looking back at him.

Brian had no idea how John did it. He was exceptional at small talk. Brian didn’t feel like he was bad himself. He grown up going to events with his parents where he was expected to converse with the boring people they worked with, but this was different. This was like his parents had told him they were taking him to Disneyland and instead they dropped him off at the dentist’s for a root canal.

“Oh and I forgot to mention this other dress, the one I wore at my cousin’s wedding.”

“I actually do believe you mentioned it,” John replied. It was the first time the mask slipped and his voice indicated some annoyance. Brian had a feeling part of why John was being so nice to Miss Forbes was to tease him.

“Oh no not that cousin,” Miss Forbes said. “That was my cousin on mother’s side. Her brother’s daughter. This is my father’s uncle’s son.”

For the love of God if Brian had to hear about one more fucking dress… “I have an idea!” he announced, desperately. “Why don’t we play a game?”

“Ooh, yes. I do love games.”

He briefly considered the silent game his parents would make him play when he and his friend were being particularly obnoxious in the backseat, but he didn’t think John would approve of the overt rudeness.

“You ever heard of I Spy?” he asked, having no idea when the game was invented.

“I haven’t,” John said. “Have you Miss Forbes?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, it goes like this,” Brian said. “We take turns being the spy, and the spy finds something around them, then gives a clue as to what it is. Whoever guesses first wins. For example...” Brian looked around for something, then noticed the light glinting off John’s sapphire ring. “I spy with my little eye something… blue.”

“The sky?” Miss Forbes said.

Brian shook his head.

“Those eggshells from earlier,” Grey tried.

“Nope.”

“Oh I know.” Miss Forbes said, gleefully. “It’s my own dress.”

And she was still talking about dresses somehow...

No one said anything for a moment and then John spoke up, his voice unusually low, “It’s my ring.”

“Bingo,” Brian said, then realized his error in word choice. “Yes, it is.”

“I want to try,” she said, looking over at Brian. “I spy with my little eye something red.”

“My hair,” Brian said flatly.

“You’re good at this. Being observant is a good quality in a man.”

It’s a good quality in a woman too, Brian thought. If only she could observe that I’ve absolutely no interest in her whatsoever that would be fantastic.

“Your turn Lord John,” she said. “What does your little eye spy?”

“Hmm,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “I spy with my little eye something... does it have to be a color?” he asked Brian.

“No it doesn’t.”

“Something mine,” John said.

Warm light cast over the hills and across his fair skin and warm hair. His shoulders were tucked back tight. On the back of his black horse, he looked like a roguish prince straight from a fairytale.

Me, Brian thought, helplessly, but said nothing. You don’t know it but me.

Night had begun to fall and they had no choice but to stop and set up camp for the evening near a quiet brook and under the shelter of a grove of oaks. John had leapt off his horse with practiced ease, his hair fallen slightly from its ribbon, the sweat of the day’s labor shining on his skin in the sunset light.

Brian kept his eyes on John as he attempted to dismount his horse. He tried to pull his left boot out, but it was stuck, somehow. His stomach flipped as he lost balance. He wiggled back and forth a few time with one foot on the stirrup, then let out a yawp as he crashed backwards. His head smacked the ground hard.

Miss Forbes said something panicked and John said, “My God.”

When Brian’s vision cleared, they were both leaning over him.

“Are there little birds flapping around my head?” Brian said, trying to grin through the embarrassment of having just fallen off a horse in front of John-fucking-Grey.

“Birds? I think he may have a head injury,” Miss Forbes said.

John squinted. “I’m not sure. He typically says strange things.”

Brian gave him a look. “Thanks.”

John smiled softly at him as he offered a hand to help him up. The warmth of their palms touching sent a jolt through Brian. He wasn’t used to small touches having such a profound affect on him.

Once the pain in Brian’s head dissipated and he was able to see and think straight again, he helped John set up the small canvas tents they’d brought—basically just some simple sticks and canvas to drape over them.

It probably shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was to watch John rub two sticks together   to start a fire, but the thought of sticks and rubbing brought on other ideas. Brian shuddered. Miss Forbes was right over there. Looking at him.

For dinner, they ate more of the dried beef and tasteless crackers, they’d brought for the journey. It was too late to fish, but John said they could try in the creek early the next morning. That night, with only the warmth of the waning fire, they laid in their separate small tents, a few feet apart.

Time passed and Brian couldn’t sleep, but he’d recently discovered learned that Miss Forbes was asleep and that she had a serious snoring problem. He had the worst time sleeping when people were snoring. He hoped the exhaustion of the day would be enough to counteract it, but it wasn’t yet.

“John,” he asked softly. “You asleep?”

“Hmm. No, not yet. Almost,” he said with gravelly, sleepy voice that went right to Brian’s cock.

Fuck.

Brian got a dirty idea and he leaned up on his elbows. “I spy with my little eye—”

“How can your ‘little eye’ be spying anything right now?” John said.

Brian looked down at himself. John was right. It was too dark anything, but he could feel the strain against the buttons on his breeches. He rubbed his hand over the bulge, imagining it to be a very different hand.

“I spy with my little eye,” Brian repeated, petulantly. “Something stiff.” He rubbed his hand over himself again, letting out a soft whine he wanted John to hear.

John snorted. “Go to sleep, you arse.”

Brian just let his head fall back against his bed roll and bit his bottom lip, his cheeks as warm as the spot between his ribs.

When they woke up the next morning, the fire was nothing but a smoldering heap of ash and Brian’s horse was nowhere to be found. They spent hours they could’ve been traveling searching, and more and more, Brian was growing frustrated at just how nonplussed Miss Forbes seemed about the whole thing.

“I guess you’ll just have to ride with me,” she said to Brian, sickly-sweet.

The words brought back a dream-soaked memory from the night before. A woman’s voice, the cluck of her tongue. The slap of a hand against taught muscle and the words, “Come on. Get out of here. Get.”

Anger surged through Brian like hot fire. That was a perfectly good horse. Jamie’s horse they’d rode in on from Wilmington and she chased it off out some stupidely, misplaced idea that she could capture his heart because they were in close quarters on a horse. Maybe… if she were a man… and wasn’t one of the most obnoxious, self obsessed people he’d ever spoken to in his damn life.

“Miss Forbes is correct, unfortunately. We shouldn’t waste anymore daylight. The horse is likely long gone by now.”

Brian frowned, but there wasn’t much else to do. As Brian mounted the white horse, Miss Forbes looked just utterly pleased with herself. She settled in front of him, squirming back against his body. He thought if there were anything about her that was arousing to him, and there was not, he could’ve grown hard at the motion. He rolled his eyes, and Grey gave him a look that said he’d seen it.

Brian dug his boots hard into the side of the horse and pushed forward in a gallop. The faster they got to her uncle’s estate and he never had to see her again, the better.

The Blue Ridge mountains looked somehow different and somehow just the same as they did when he and Roger were careening through them by car on the way to that Scottish festival that spelled the end of an already tumultuous relationship. In some ways, it felt that more had changed in his life in the intervening year or so than had changed in these stalwart mountains in two centuries.

As they passed large boulders and navigated craggy ravines, it was hard not to imagine who might be there back in his own time. Was that same boulder still standing? Was a married couple in a Sears and Roebuck tent sleeping in a tent nearby? Maybe a group of Boy Scouts was earning standing just over there near that creek, earning their fly fishing badge. It could be that right now—in the future—two men were taking refuge in each other under the secret shelter of that thick thatch of fern.

If it wasn’t for the woman stuck up against his chest like wet toilet paper then maybe he and John could’ve used those ferns for just the same purpose. At least they would be arriving at her uncle’s estate early tomorrow morning, giving he and John one night alone in the woods together. And maybe being far away from civilization instead of in Brian’s aunt house, John might see reason and fuck him again.

On their way, they came upon a group of French fur traders. John conversed with them easily and there was something delectable about the way that man’s voice twisted and pulled around French pronunciation like salt-water taffy.

Brian had only picked up a few words—river, mountain and, he was pretty sure, danger.

When the fur traders road away, Brian asked John what they had said. Apparently, the rains last night had flooded the river and washed out the trail they were planning to take to the Forbes estate. They would have to go the long way around, meaning Brian wouldn’t even get one, single night in these damn woods without this woman who would not stop purposely wiggling her ass on his crotch. Brian thought to come up with some reason to send her over to John. As a Lord, he was a far better catch for Miss Forbes than Brian, maybe she’d shift her attention… but John had had a wife… and Brian actually had no idea what kind of arrangement that was. Unlike him, maybe John wasn’t exclusively interested in men. So, yeah, he was vetoing that idea.

“Want to play another game?” Brian asked, trying to distract them. “This one is called two truths and a lie.”

When they made camp that night, Miss Forbes fell asleep hard and fast as she had done the night before, her snores rolling through the hills like the call of a young, nasally- congested moose. In the small shelter of canvas, Brian was surprised to hear John call out to him as he had called out to John the night before.

“I was nearly initiated into a Satanic cult,” John said.

“What?”

“I was almost killed once by an electric eel.”

Oh, he’s playing two truths and a lie.

A long moment of silence passed, then John spoke again, “I’m glad you’re Jamie Fraser’s son.”

Brian shut his eyes, fingers curling up into the palms of his hand. He tried to speak so he didn’t sound too affected. He knew what John was trying to say and for some reason, he wanted to give the man a little space to breathe. There wasn’t much they could do with Miss Forbes a few feet away. “There’s no way you were nearly killed by an eel.”

“I was actually,” he said. “Never underestimate my penchant for almost getting killed.”

“When I was seven, I was hit by a…” he was a hit by a car, but suddenly realized he couldn’t say that. “…a carriage.” True enough.

“That hesitation is suspicious, Brian.”

Brian laughed softly. “I’m terrible at chess, and…” he frowned, “I’m the kind of man my father respects.”

He heard John let out a breath, then shift in his tent. “Brian…”

“Nevermind,” He couldn’t talk about this. He thought maybe he could, but he couldn’t. “Good night, John.”

“Good night, Brian.”

About midday the following day, they and the horses needed water. They stopped at nearby creek, but Miss Forbes claimed she was far too tired to walk over to the creek herself so she sent Brian down the sharp incline to fetch water for her. Grey offered to take down both horses and water them while he brought the canteen back to Miss Forbes to drink.

She took small dainty sips that Brian found remarkably annoying. As he was growing more and more frustrated, his thoughts were abruptly interrupted.

A wild snarl echoed through the mountains. Then, there was a broken scream of terror. John’s scream.

At the sound, every muscle in Brian’s body, every thought in his mind woke up, like cannons at the ready. He sprinted towards the sound, leaving Miss Forbes without a word.

Waves of tan fur rolled over taut muscles, the sun glinting on snarling fangs. Beneath the raging cougar, John blocked a snap at his throat with the swift block using his forearm. He screamed again as fangs dug in.

Brian screamed back, the thought coming from somewhere primal, irrational. He hurtled toward the creature and Grey struggling beneath it. As he ran, he pulled a dagger out of his coat. And shouting again, leapt onto the cat’s back, sinking the blade into his flesh of its neck.

The cougar snarled and thrashed, but Brian had gathered enough speed to knock the beast off John. A storm of dirt and leaves kicked up around them as they rolled on the ground.

Brian still had a grip on the dagger and he stabbed the bleeding creature again, slicing through the neck. Hot gushes of blood poured out onto the ground and all over Brian.

Somewhere, in what was left of his rationality, Brian knew the cougar was dead, or near enough that it didn’t matter. But the anger and fear he’d felt at the sound of John’s scream, at the sight of him so near death was still fully alive. He found himself wild with it, ferocious. He kept stabbing, the memory of the last time he’d failed to protect someone flooding through him like a thick poison. He could’ve failed today. John could be dead. I won’t fail now.

Brian straddled the dead beast. He stabbed the creature over and over. Its neck, its face, its eyes. His hands in the blood, his knees, the warmth on his cheeks and the taste of copper in his mouth. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t, he couldn’t…

Miss Forbes scream pierced through the air, sharp and horrified, but it barely registered.

“Brian,” came Grey’s gentle whisper. “Brian, please.”

Strong fingers touched Brian, sweeping through the cat’s blood on his hands.

“That’s enough,” he said so gently. “You have to stop. Stop.”

The dagger fell from Brian’s hand and landed in blood soaked leaves. Drained entirely, Brian slumped forward onto the carcass. His mind was a humming, numb thing and through his blurry vision he could see that Miss Forbes had fainted. John slumped over on top of him, his breath warm on Brian’s neck, his hand in Brian’s hair.

Deliriously, Brian started to laugh. Hard enough his belly ached.

“Why are you laughing?” John asked.

“I hate the sight of blood.” Brian laughed some more, and it was contagious enough that John started laughing too. His hand gripped tighter in Brian’s hair and he leaned in more.  Brian swore he felt John’s lips press against him, beneath his ear.

When John finally sat up, Brian was sure of it. His lips were covered in blood and it was dripping down his chin. Brian laughed again. It was good he’d always had a little bit of a thing for vampires.

“Do you vant to suck my blood?” Brian said with his best Transylvania accent.

John just gave him a confused look and Brian swept his thumb over John’s bottom lip, forgetting his hatred of blood for the want of this man’s lips, however they came.

“You two are bloody lunatics!” Miss Forbes shouted, voice shrill. “Satan-possessed, demon-worshipping,” she blathered, gathering her skirts to stand up. She grabbed at the reigns of her horse and shaking, she tried to mount it.

John hissed as he pulled away from Brian, trying to stand. “Now hold on, Miss Forbes. You can’t go wandering about the woods alone. There are clearly lions here.”

“Lions! I’d take the damn lions over you two… fiends. Laughing like mad men and rolling around in blood. Drinking it.”

John wiped at his mouth. “I was not drinking it.”

Miss Forbes shot a glare at Brian. “And to think I was planning to accept once you asked me to marry you!”

Brian let out a snort-laugh and John cast a look over his shoulder to kill. Fair enough, Brian thought, but he was still half out of his mind.

John clutched his injured arm as he spoke. Right. He really is hurt. “Miss Forbes, I noticed a settlement nearby. If you grant us some time, we will get you there by tonight and you can write to your uncle from there, alright? But just please don’t go wandering off into the woods alone.”

The fear in her face was still evident as she appeared to weight her options. “Fine. Tonight, and I won’t be sharing a horse with either of you.”

If Brian wasn’t completely pleased with the concept of sharing a horse with John, he would be annoyed at the fact she was now refusing to share a horse when she was almost certainly the one who’d scared off one of theirs.

His thoughts came back to him enough that he stood up. When John turned towards him, he winced, reminding Brian that he was injured.

“Let me see your arm.” He staggered towards John, helping him out of his coat when he noticed John was struggling. If it were under other circumstances, he’d be thinking more of the last time he’d helped John Grey out of his clothes.

His white sleeve was torn and blood soaked. Brian appraised it for a moment, then tore the fabric off at the seam near his shoulder.

“Sorry, but I doubt there’s any mending that.” Brian looked down at the bloodied and torn flesh of his forearm and hand. “I need to clean this.”

“The creek?” John asked softly.

Brian shook his head. “I’d have to boil the water. Do you have any of that rum left?”

John was giving him an inscrutable look.

“What?” Brian asked.

“Nothing, just… Frasers.” His lips moved into a smile.

Brian grabbed the alcohol from the saddle bag and brought it over to John. When he poured the liquid onto the injuries, John barked out a string of curses at God that had Miss Forbes putting a hand to her heart. She really would think they were warlocks or something by the time this was through.

It took almost all the rum to remove all the blood, but then Brian realized he had no clean cloth to wrap the wounds with. He was even more blood-soaked than John. Then, he noticed Miss Forbes behind them, frowning, arms crossed over her chest. Her pale yellow skirts were clean and glowing like the sun.

Brian picked up the dagger, poured the remaining alcohol over it, then and walked over to Miss Forbes. “Sorry about this,” he said, then knelt down and tore into the pristine apron of her dress, before ripping a large strip of it off with his hand.

It wasn’t until he looked back up at her, that he noticed the petrified look on her face. He couldn’t blame her for that, for once. He had stomped over here with a dagger in his hand, like a man on a mission.

He apologized again and returned to John. He ripped strips of the fabric as he went and tied them onto the wounds.

As Brian was wrapping one around John’s hand, he suddenly hissed.

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked.

“I can’t move my fingers.”

“At all?”

John shook his head.

“Shit. That’s not great. We need to get you to Mama. This is about as far as my first aid knowledge goes.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, clearly trying to push past the pain. “We shouldn’t just leave the cougar. If we clean it quickly, we can keep the meat.”

Brian was unsure, but he relented and did what John told him to empty the entrails. Not without vomiting. But he did manage to do it. Then with John and Miss Forbes very reluctant help, they managed to get the unwieldy beast tied to the back of a horse.

“You expect me to ride with a rotting corpse behind me?” she asked furiously.

“Or you can ride with me… or the vampire over there, but he’s kind of lost use of one hand.”

Miss Forbes glared at him, muttering something under her breath, as she mounted her horse in her now torn, blood spattered skirts.

John gave her a tight smile. “Wait there. While we clean off in the creek. Wouldn’t want to scare everyone in town as we’ve scared you.”

“John…”

“I promise to keep my arm out of the water.”

They wandered down to the creek together and did their best to use water to clean off their hair, faces and arms, but there wasn’t much to be done about the clothes. When they walked backed up, Miss Forbes was sat there, face beet red and furious.

They both just ignored it.

Brian climbed on the back of his horse and John joined him, impressively one-handed, settling down in front of Brian. Brian couldn’t help but smile when he reached his arms around John to hold onto the reigns. Holding this man again was like finally, finally, getting to breathe.

Chapter Text

When Grey saw the smoke of the nearby settlement, he offered to get off the horse and walk in. Two men cuddled up together on a horse would be suspicious enough if they weren’t covered in blood with a petrified woman in tow.

“No,” Brian said, and Grey thought he’d have to subtly argue his point without Miss Forbes realizing why they couldn’t be seen like that, but before he could Brian continued, “You’re hurt. I’ll walk.”

He hopped off from behind Grey, his boots crunching in the leaves. Grey took the reins with his one good hand and they continued on towards the smoke.

When it came into view through the trees, Grey realized that the settlement was barely a settlement at all. The beginnings of something maybe, a year or two on from where Jamie was with Fraser’s Ridge, with any luck. He could see that there was a main house, and a sprinkling of small cabins. There was also a small stable, a blacksmith’s shop and an inn and tavern.

The rode up to the inn and Grey slid off the horse to stand between Brian and the dead mountain lion’s smashed in head.

“I’ll go in and see if I can acquire a room for Miss Forbes this evening.”

A brass bell rang as he stepped through the door. Off to the left, he heard the familiar murmurings of a tavern and in front of it was a desk, and behind that desk stood a barrel-chested man with a bristled beard.

His dark eyes widened upon observing Grey. “What in God’s name happened to ye?”

Oh, right. I’m totally soaked in blood.

“A cougar attack,” Grey said. “My name is Lord John Grey and I’m accompanied by two travel companions. We’re not terribly injured. This the cat’s blood mostly. But we have a woman with us and the attack was too much for her constitution. We must continue on, but we were hoping she could stay here, write to her uncle who lives nearby.”

“Aye. We have a room. If ye have the coin, sir.”

“I do,” John looked over his shoulder. Though the window he could see Brian beside Miss Forbes’s horse and the kill. He was kneeling down a bit, to talk to some village children.

The innkeeper spoke to a Scottish boy in Gaelic, then directed Grey to follow the boy outside to where Brian and Miss Forbes were waiting.

“It’s a monster,” said one of the boys talking to Brian. “How’d ye kill it?”

“Don’t you know who I am?” Brian said, grinning. He took off his hat and put it against his chest. “Brian the Lion-Tamer, at your service.”

A smile tugged at Grey’s cheeks, but he quickly fought it off.

The Scottish boy from the inn said something to Miss Forbes, then started helping with her things. Beside him, the innkeeper stepped outside.

“My God,” said the innkeeper. “Jamie Fraser?”

Grey looked around for Jamie. He couldn’t imagine he would be here, but then again, it wasn’t that far from Fraser’s Ridge. He could be. With these bites, he hoped Claire was here too.

The innkeeper bounded down the steps of his establishment. “No, no you’re not Jamie. But Christ, ye do look like him.”

Grey’s stomach sank uneasily. He hadn’t seen Jamie at all. He’d meant Brian. Did they really look so much alike? Grey did not think so. Certainly not on first sight.

Brian let out an awkward laugh. “Hi, I’m Brian Fraser. But Jamie Fraser is my father.”

“No wonder you look like him stepped out of time.”

Ah, Grey thought, he hadn’t known Jamie in his youth.

“Name’s Bryce Lachlan.” He shook hands with Brian. “I haven’t seen yer da since we were wee lads together.” The innkeeper eyed Grey with hostility, then spoke quietly, “Ye here with the English lord of yer own will and volition?”

“Yes, um. He’s a close friend of my father’s actually. He’s doing me a favor helping me get to my dad’s land. I was living in Boston and haven’t been there.”

“Jamie Fraser friends with an English Lord. Never thought I’d live to see it.” The innkeeper laughed. “But any kin or friend of Jamie Fraser is a kin or friend of mine. Come on in, lad. Let me get you and his Lordship a drink.”

The innkeeper, Lachlan, didn’t offer them just one drink, but three. At first, he gave them good Scottish whisky, but then he’d switched over to a rum that tasted nearly freshly made. It burned like it would melt a hole in his gut. John was starting to grow quite a bit dizzy, but he was thankful that alcohol kept the pain of his arm at a low throb, though he still couldn’t move his fingers. He sincerely hoped Claire could do something about that when they got to Fraser’s Ridge.

Lachlan spilled stories of Jamie’s youth to them like cheap ale and Grey was warmed by it as much as the alcohol. There was so much about his dear friend that he knew, and so much about him that he didn’t.

Grey said something and he wasn’t even quite sure what it was, he’d thought that little about it, but it made Lachlan laugh and clap Grey on the back.

“I wish I had an extra room in the inn for ye both. I’d kick the English lady out, but… that would be frowned upon in some circles.” Lachlan looked over at Grey.

Grey was just drunk enough to say, “You wouldn’t hear an argument from me. She lost us our best horse.”

Brian smiled. Grey could tell he felt vindicated that he’d finally admitted that it had been Miss Forbes to untie Brian’s horse and scare it off.

“Either way, we’ll keep a good watch over Miss Forbes for ye, Brian. I’ll send my wife up to make sure she’s well cared for. I ken ye could stay with my wife and I. We have a wee bit of room for guests.”

“Thanks for the offer” Brian said. “But we need to be on our way. My mom’s an excellent healer and some of the wounds on John’s arm are deep. We should get to the ridge as soon as we can. Speaking of, do you think I could buy a bottle of your strongest and cheapest alcohol, as well some clean linens, for his injuries.”

“Ye canna buy it, but ye can have it.” Lachlan shook his head. He grabbed three linen cloths from under the counter and the removed a brown ceramic bottle from the shelf behind him. He sat the items in front of Brian.

Brian was standing to go, but a thought registered in Grey’s mind,

“I’ve realized,” Grey said to Lachlan. “We can’t keep the lion, not with its weight and all our equipment on one horse. Could you and your family make use of the creature?”

“Aye, I’ll have my son take it in off the lady’s horse.” Lachlan turned towards Brian. “Maybe yer right and this one is no that bad. Well, for an English Lord.” He clapped Brian on the back. “Jamie Fraser’s son, as I live and breathe.”

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by sudden roar of Gaelic voices behind them. Lachlan said something of his own in Gaelic, then in English, “Damn, bloody drunks. Aye, I’ll kick ye bastards out on yer ass,” he shouted, shaking a fist. He looked back at Brian. “Say hello to yer da for me.” Lachlan simply tipped his tricorn at Grey, then stomped off towards the raucous customers, letting out a string of coarse Gaelic.

With Miss Forbes and the cougar taken care of, Grey and Brian set off into the North Carolina woods once again. They would have to camp tonight, but nearer the ridge so they could arrive midday tomorrow. Brian walked beside their horse again until they were out of view of the settlement, then he hopped on behind Grey again.

Grey was still drunk enough to enjoy Brian’s closeness, the solid feel of him all around as they meandered their way through the acres of trees under the chatter of what sounded like an endless sky of passenger pigeons.

They were cresting over a particular steep hill when Brian’s low voice called out behind him. “I was thinking. When Lachlan was talking about Jamie growing up… we never did talk about how you and Jamie became friends?”

“Ardsmuir Prison, actually,” Grey said, leaning back against Brian’s chest.

“You were in prison?”

Grey laughed easily, the alcohol still clouding his mind. “No, not exactly. Your father was. I was the warden.”

Brian let out a sweet, snorted laugh. Yes, came Grey’s whisky thought, it is sweet. “Jamie became friends with his prison warden?”

“The others, they saw him as their leader. As the warden before me did, we would have dinner together occasionally and he would speak for the concerns of the prisoners.” They would speak of other things too, like past loves and then, eventually, nothing at all.

“He really is a natural leader, isn’t he?” Brian sounded thoughtful, even though his voice was a small thing. Like a moth.

“He is.” Grey yawned. “Men follow him.” Even Lords follow him, he thought. Bonnie princes too. Grey himself would likely follow Jamie Fraser off a cliff and into the sharp rock and freezing waves below.

“It’s strange he trusted his prison warden enough to send him to fetch me. Or maybe, he just doesn’t like me very much,” Brian said playfully and yet… it reminded Grey of what he’d said after they made love. Was I that bad? A joke betraying a genuine question.

Grey curled into Jamie’s son a little tighter, still eased by Lachlan’s Scottish whisky. “We were friends after that as well. When I secured the other prisoner’s transport to the colonies, I could not manage the same for Jamie, as he was a prisoner of great value. Instead, I managed to get him indentured servitude on a friend’s land. I would visit there. So, no, your father didn’t send me to fetch you in hopes you’d get eaten by a mountain lion.”

“Or that I’d let you get eaten by one?”

Grey was less certain of that, but still he laughed. “I feel I’m in safe hands, Brian the Lion-Tamer.”

“You heard that?”

Leaning back against Brian, he looked up at the man, whose pale skin seemed to glow in the early twilight. “Aye,” Grey said, in a feigned Scottish accent.

Grey yawned again, the waning drunkenness making him tired. Brian was all around him, his arms running up the sides of Grey’s arms, his chest to Grey’s back. He smelled faintly of soil and strongly of copper, of cougar’s blood, despite the washing they’d attempted in the creek. Between the whisky, the gentle motion of the horses and the feeling of being held by a man, this man particularly… maybe, Grey drifted out of consciousness.

Grey woke to the sound of Brian saying “John” in his ear and the feel of his hand cupped around Grey’s uninjured one. How long had Brian been touching him like that, holding his hand, practically, and guiding the horse with only one.

Grey was scared to ask.

“It’s getting dark and this looks like a good place to set up camp, I think,” Brian said, still keeping his hand over Grey’s, thumb rubbing gently now. It reminded him of the touch in Ardsmuir that had blown everything to hell with Jamie. He shot off the horse and away from Brian like a musket ball.

“Whoa,” Brian said, shocked.

“Sorry. You startled me.” It was more of a half-truth, than a lie.

Brian frowned, watching John for a moment, then he loosened again and slid off the horse himself.

After the past two days, they had setting up camp down rather well. Even with Grey’s useless arm. It was pleasant enough outside that they opted not to set up the tents, but just to lay out their bed rolls, collect some water for the evening and start a small fire.

Grey was leaning against a tree, trying to ignore his aching arm, when Brian said, “We should switch out your bandages.”

“I’m fine.” Grey tried to sound casual, unbothered, but God, it hurt. Worse now that he was perfectly sober.

Brian moved closer to him. He smelled of firewood now and warm male and Grey had to stop that thought right there. Brian untied the bloody linens and let them fall to the earth.

“Fuck that,” Brian growled. “You’re not fine. Your hand is a mess.”

Grey knew it was, but he just shook his head and stepped away. “Your mother can take a look at it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow could be too late... come back here.”

When Grey didn’t return, Brian shook his head, stepping forward. “Come here,” the man ordered, then he put one of his hands on Grey’s hip and pulled him in. Grasping Grey with one hand, Brian uncorked the liquor bottle with his teeth, then spat the cork on the ground. He poured a stream of alcohol onto Grey’s injured skin.

It stung like hell.

“Ow,” Grey yelped.

“Oh, stop it.”Brian poured more of the alcohol on the cuts. Grey winced again. “Don’t be a baby.”

Brian grabbed one of the clean linens he’d taken from the Lachlan’s and gently patted his arm, soaking up the excesses alcohol. Then he tore some strips off another of the linens and tied it around the deep wounds that hadn’t healed. A few of the ones in his palm, and two in the meaty flesh of his forearms.

When the last linen was tied, Brian’s eyes met his. Then, Brian’s gaze dropped to Grey’s broken skin. He observed it with focused, narrowed eyes before dipping down to lay a kiss on Grey’s finger. Grey drew in sharp breath, but did not pull away. How could he possibly?

Brian kissed another one of the healed tooth marks.

Grey’s lips trembled, heart racing. “Brian, what are you...?”

“Shh…” Brian said and Grey felt the vibrations against his arm.

Brian’s lips felt plush and warm against his sore skin. When his breath cooled on the remaining wetness, Grey shivered.

He moved his kiss from the back of Grey’s hand to the valley of his palm. To the racing pulse on his wrist. To the healing cut on his forearm. The tip of Brian’s hot tongue pressed against his flesh and he moved up and up for another wet kiss.

Grey’s eyes shut and he shuddered, trapping the air in his lungs. Breathing made him feel alive and if Grey felt alive right now he might just die. 

Brian tucked Grey’s fingers into the palm of his hand as he stepped even closer. Slowly, gently, he kissed each bruised knuckle. Brian took another step closer to him. As much as it terrified him, Grey had to breathe again so as not to faint on the floor.

Brian kissed his hand again. “Any better?”

Grey swallowed and barely managed to nod.

“I can think of a way to make you feel even better.” Brian whispered, the backs of his fingers sweeping across Grey’s cheekbones. His eyes cast down to Grey’s lips.

Grey’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” Brian’s breath was fire-hot on Grey’s ear as he spoke. “We’re in the woods, not another soul for miles. No one will ever have to know.”

After the day they had, Grey wanted to shut Brian up with his own mouth. Wanted to slam the man up against that sycamore tree, tear down his breeches and take him with his face pressed to the bark. Then again, Grey had also hit his head pretty hard that day.

“I’ll know.” He forced out the words, despising the taste of them in his mouth.

“I don’t care,” Brian whined, cupping Grey’s cheek.

“Then I’ll care enough for the both of us.” Grey used the last of his strength to move Brian’s hand away from him.

And that’s how Grey learned that when Brian pouted, he didn’t look like his mother or father. He looked like his sister.

“We have a long ride tomorrow. So off to sleep…” He gave Brian a sympathetic smile. “my darling.”

“You’re a cruel man, Lord John.”

Grey thought it wasn’t him who was cruel, but fate and God and goddamn mountain lions.

Chapter Text

However uncomfortable Grey imagined it would be upon seeing Jamie again, he had underestimated it. The Scot was standing here before Grey on his own North Carolina property, grinning broadly with those small round spectacles on his nose. Grey just wanted to die. Right here, right now. There was that ridge nearby… he could fling himself off it.

“What the hell happened?” Jamie said, bounding off the steps of his cabin. “And where’s my horse?”

They’d stopped sharing, just short of the ridge, like they’d done at the settlement. Brian was holding the reins, as he walked beside Grey who was astride his own horse.

“It’s a long story,” Brian said.

Grey still couldn’t form words. His ability to form thought was only slightly better.

Jamie’s eyes squinted through those small glasses. “Are ye both covered in blood?”

“It’s mostly not ours,” Brian said. “If that makes you feel better.”

“Well, whose is it?”

“Cougar,” Grey finally managed. “Your son killed it.”

Brian pulled his shoulders back, though he still looked small compared to his father. “The townspeople have started to call me Brian The Lion-Tamer.”

Grey shot him a look as he slid off the horse, being careful of his injured arm. “You’ve started to call yourself that.”

Brian shot him a matching look back, but then turned to Jamie. “Is Mama here? She needs to look at John’s hand.”

Grey clutched his arm close to his chest. “The injuries I sustained from the cougar are not that serious.”

“You’re just afraid she’s going to break the bones to reset them,” Brian said.

“She’s going to do what?” Grey shuddered, feeling the pain already.

“If they’re broken. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

“Yer mother is in the house. She’s in the middle of mixing an herbal concoction for one of her treatments.” Jamie turned his attention to Grey. “Ye truly should let Claire take a look at it.”

Jamie smiled, and it was good to see him smiling so often now. He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew… Goddamn, Grey needed something to distract him, in this moment, from how bloody like Brian Jamie really did look. Could he help it if he were attracted to tall, broad-shouldered men with nice eyes, good smiles and clever minds? He didn’t think Jamie would care if he could help it or not. Grey still crossed a line one did not cross, even if the line had been invisible at the time.

Jamie’s nephew Ian came up and started talking to Brian. He was very quickly interested in Brian’s dramatic retelling of the lion incident. Meanwhile, Jamie led John inside their cabin. Grey hadn’t been here since the horrible incident with the measles. He shuddered at the painful memory.

When they stepped inside, Grey immediately took note of the numerous weapons displayed on the walls. Muskets and a bow and arrow. A hatchet and an axe. The sight of all these deadly items surrounding him made Grey nervous for his safety, even though it was irrational. Jamie had no idea that Grey had carnal knowledge of his son…Oh God, I have carnal knowledge of Jamie and Claire’s Frasers son.

And he did. Grey knew Brian liked to be taken, knew he liked it hard and fast and fierce. Grey knew what noise he made when you first pressed inside him, knew the gentle tremble of his thighs. He knew the taste of him. Smoky like a campfire, but sweet too somehow, like French meringue.

Claire looked up as she noticed him. “Lord John, what’s happened to your arm?””

Brian’s mother. Holy God. That’s Brian’s mother. Stop thinking about his ejaculate.

He quickly covered the cougar scenario, and Claire had Grey ushered into a chair under a halo of drying herbs. She unwrapped Brian’s makeshift bandages then looked down at his hand, frowning. “Jamie, go fetch some of your whisky. He’s going to need it.”

By the time Claire finished doing precisely what Brian had warned him about—breaking and resetting his bones—Grey was sotted enough to not mind the taste of Jamie’s bitter raw whisky. Though the last time he’d had this particular spirit, he’d come down with the measles and nearly died in the bed just across the room. He could only hope this trip would be less dramatic. With Brian around, he doubted that possible.

Still, now, after tremendous effort on both their parts, his hand was set and bandaged in that particularly expert way of Claire Fraser’s. He wondered if Brian could or would explain the enigma that was his mother, not that Brian wasn’t an absolute enigma of his own.

He tried his best, however, not to think of Brian, certainly not with his mother’s hands all about him. The same mother that new just how Grey felt about her husband. A fact Brian did not know. Could not know. It would only make everything that much more complicated, and it was already an utter disaster.

After changing into a clean set of clothes, Grey spent the rest of the warm afternoon sat in a chair by the window, half-drunk and napping. His rest only momentarily broken by a game of chess with Jamie, that he lost promptly—all at the fault of the whisky, he told himself. And then there was Brian fussing over him, and his insistence that Grey drink water or tea to “hydrate”. By the time, Claire got around to starting dinner, Grey had to piss a river.

He stumbled to the privy and when he was finished with that river, he returned to the cabin. There, he was greeted by the sight of Claire and Brian whispering behind a spread of purple carrots, big, brown potatoes and yellow onions on the table. The thud of their knives hitting the wood as they chopped had a rhythm to it, a cadence. Grey stood there, watching transfixed. He’d noticed how alike Brian and Jamie looked, but hadn’t considered the similarities to Claire too. He had her fine bone structure, her nose, her delicate hands.

“You alright, John?” Brian asked. He had, John thought, just about the whitest, brightest, straightest teeth he’d ever seen. It was almost unnatural. Maybe it was just part of that angelic, unearthly quality the young man seemed to have… and God, did that damn whisky know how to talk.

Grey was only vaguely sober by the time Claire was pouring large scoops of a hearty venison stew into pewter bowls. The air smelled of savory onions and garlic that made his mouth water. Brian placed a crackling loaf of rye bread in front of him beside a slab of freshly churned butter.

Though Ian wasn’t there that evening—he’d gone trading with one of the nearby tribes—they all sat at the table and tucked into their meals. John liked the atmosphere here on Fraser’s Ridge, even if it had always unsettled him, seeing Jamie with Claire. The way they looked at each other. It was a remarkable and, in his case, a crushing kind of thing. Tonight, for whatever reason, the weight of their satisfaction felt easier to bear.

Brian laughed at something that Claire had said, something about the Spanish inquisition, and he looked to Jamie, who just shrugged, as lost as he was. But it didn’t matter. All about him, like a warm cloak, there was the sound of friendly voices, all of who knew him for him. Then, there was the comforting heat of the fire and the stories shared easily amongst people who enjoyed each other’s company.

Brian leaned back in his chair, his body spread wide, looking boyish. “What’s for dessert, Mama?”

“There’s a jar of preserves,” she said. “Put some on a biscuit.”

He looked utterly offended at the suggestion. “What I wouldn’t give for a double scoop of triple chocolate chunk, right now.”

Whatever that is. Grey resolved to visit Boston one day to find out.

Claire pursed her lips, eyes narrowed, and he just laughed, standing from his seat. He looked down at his glass, which was empty. So, he casually reached across the table and took a sip from Grey’s.

Brian had a coughing fit. “Oh my God, Jamie. This isn’t something you drink. It’s something you like strip paint with or play ‘never have I ever’. Jesus Christ.”

“What’s ‘never have I ever’?” Jamie asked with a furrowed brow. Grey had the exact same question.

“It’s a drinking game I learned in Boston,” Brian replied easily.

Claire shot her son a sharp look. “You’ve played drinking games?”

Jamie took a sip of his drink. It didn’t seem to bother him like it did Brian.“What are the rules?”

“Jamie.” Now Claire was glaring at her husband. “Don’t encourage him. This is not a game you play with your parents or…” her eyes cast to John, “polite company.”

He could barely believe Claire considered him polite company, but he took her meaning well-enough.

Brian grinned, hopping up to sit on the bare edge of the counter where Claire kept her healing supplies. “Okay, so basically you win by being the least wasted person. We all go around and say something we haven’t done that we think the other people in the room have done.  Like for example I would say “Never have I ever been married”.”

“And we all would drink?” Grey asked, much to Claire’s visible dismay.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Brian, we are not playing this,” Claire spoke through her teeth as she picked up a dirty plate from the table.

“And it has to be something that all three of the other people have done?” Jamie asked

“No.” Brian shook his head. “I could say like “Never have I ever been a Scottish rebel.”

Claire smiled and it seemed she was about to try a different tactic in stopping this game she most definitely did not want played. “We can all stop now because I think we know I would win anyway against you three troublemakers.”

Grey could see her point in wanting to stop this whole scenario before it got out of hand. Both Grey and Brian had done things they would not want to admit and drinking could cause loose lips. Still, Claire was usually so together, it was pretty entertaining to see her flustered.

He wondered suddenly if Claire knew about Brian. He didn’t think she did, but Grey knew how observant she could be. Still, a mother could sometimes be blinded about her own son in this regard. Maybe especially if their father happened to be James Goddamn Fraser.

“Is that right, Sassenach?” Jamie said with a grin. “Never have I ever been convicted of witchcraft.”

Now—Grey straightened up—This was interesting. “Why, Claire? Have you really?”

Claire’s eyes narrowed into sharp daggers and it was actually rather nice to see that look aimed at someone else for once. “Never have I ever married the woman who had my wife arrested for witchcraft.”

Jamie’s face reddened and his lips pursed. Well, Grey had not known that either and the sudden tension that fell over the room felt heavy. Reflexively, he shared a look with Brian.

Seeing Brian gave him an idea to ease the growing tension in the room. “Never have I ever gotten my foot stuck in a stirrup while trying to mount my horse and fallen directly on top of my head,” he said a bit raucously, before smirking at Brian. “Am I playing this right?”

Brian glared, but there wasn’t any malice in it. “Yes.” He grabbed a dish cloth and threw it at Grey’s head.

Grey caught it and smiled.

Claire let out a breath as well and relaxed, giving Jamie a soft look. They really could not stay mad at each other. He thought that likely the closest he’d ever come to that level of connection was with Hector.

Jamie stood up and walked over to Brian, patting him on his shoulder. “Son, we’ll have to work on improving your riding.”

Son.

That word alone brought Grey back to the grim reality that had slipped away, while he’d allowed himself to smile and banter playfully with Brian, as came so frustratingly easy to the two of them.

Grey stood from his chair and cleared his throat. “I think I’m going to head off to bed before we all come to blows.” He turned to Claire. “Thank you again, Claire, for the wonderful meal.”

She nodded at him and he began to make his way to the door when Jamie’s voice stopped him, “Wait, John. I think it’s starting to rain. Ye shouldn’t sleep outside. Brian can sleep in here on the floor, so ye can have the shelter.”

Something flashed across Brian’s face. Grey only caught it because he was looking when he shouldn’t have been.

“I don’t want to sleep on your floor,” Brian said, a little petulantly. If it wasn’t for that brief flash of something… of calculation… Grey would’ve thought he was behaving like a child.

“Brian, we have company,” Claire said, responding like a mother. It seemed she did not catch what he had.

“With his injuries still healing, Brian could use a comfortable bed after these last days,” Grey said, unsure how else to respond. “I’ll be fine outside.”

“You have injures too. Why doesn’t he just sleep in the shelter with me?” Brian said, casually. There it is, devious little bastard. “I was in there earlier tonight and the bed is totally big enough for two people.”

“Brian, I don’t know about that,” Claire said, while Jamie stayed silent as the dead. “I’m sure Lord John would like his own space.

Grey tried to figure out his own best move here. Sleeping in the same bed with Brian just a few yards from his parents was… well, sure they’d been alone and nearby on their way here, but Grey had purposely kept their distance. “I’m used to sleeping outside. I was in the army for years.”

Claire gave her son the kind of look only a mother could give. “Or you could just sleep on the floor.”

The fact that Brian didn’t buckle beneath it was rather commendable, though dangerous in this case. “I’m just saying I don’t know why anyone is sleeping outside or on the floor when there’s a big enough bed in the shelter.”

“He’s right,” Jamie spoke up, shocking Grey. “It’s the most sensible idea. Would you mind sharing, John?”

Grey’s mouth fell open and he expected a word to come out, but it didn’t. He shut his mouth, then opened it up to try again. “No,” he managed. “That’s fine.”

Brian grinned like the beautiful devil was. “It’s settled then.”

The shelter was small, but well-built. He didn’t imagine anything made by Jamie’s own hands could be less than well-built. The thought drew his attention to Brian—to his long, lean frame, those freckled cheeks, chiseled cheekbones, and that deep red hair set above rainwater eyes. Jamie’s son was another piece of evidence to that fact.

But if they were going to be sleeping in the same bed together for the next few days, and it looked like they were, then Grey could not be thinking of such things.

“I really could have slept outside, you know?”

Brian’s lips stretched out into a thin line. “I know.”

“Whatever devious plan you have…”

“Why Lord John,” Brian said with the feigned air of aristocracy. “Are you suggesting that I’m trying to seduce you?”

He laughed despite himself. “I most certainly am.”

“In that case, however will you resist my charms?”

“We’ll just have to see won’t we?”

Brian made a teasing show of removing his boots and his breeches. Grey shouldn’t have been watching, but he was no angel and Brian Fraser-Randall whatever was certainly the male equivalent of a temptress. Grey couldn’t help but notice the edge of Brian cotton drawers beneath the hem of his shirt. Brian took everything off, save the new shirt, non-bloodied shirt, he’d changed into earlier.

Grey removed his own outer clothes with his back turned to Brian, and then slid into the bed. He laid there for a moment alone with a stiff tension over him, aching in his bones and he waited for the inevitable. It came moments later when Brian blew out the candles and the bed shifted beside Grey. His throat tightened and it felt like his heart was lodged inside it. Cold toes touched the back of his thighs.

“Brian,” he yelped.

“I’m freezing and you’re warm,” Brian grumbled. Another set of toes pressed against Grey’s hot flesh.

“Jesus. It’s not even that cold right now. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not my fault I have terrible circulation.”

Grey should’ve tried to tuck his legs away from the chill of Brian’s feet, but despite how physically each toe was like a small icicle, Grey hadn’t felt this warm since… well, forever. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

He shut his eyes and stayed still.

Eventually, Brian’s feet warmed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, the man started to move his touch up and down Grey’s calves, which was so bloody unfair. Don’t, John. Don’t even think about it. But how much was he supposed to endure? He was only human after all.

Grey turned in the bed, rubbing his leg back against Brian. The broken breath Brian let out was delicious, and he hated himself for how much it stirred his desire. They kept on with those simple touches. With each one, Grey worried Brian would escalate their touching, take it from this simple searching to an undeniable advance he would have to reject, but he didn’t. Eventually, Brian just locked his ankle around Grey’s and touching like that, they fell asleep.

Chapter Text

This was the first time that Grey had ever actually woken up with Brian. They’d come close the previous evening, but they still slept alone under the cover of their small tents. He couldn’t see what he saw now.

Brian was still asleep, his lips occasionally pulling into a smile. His hair a tangled mess of curls and his limbs all askew. He also kept the covers tucked right under his chin, his hands fisted in them and held right at his throat. 

Grey laid there in the relaxed gentleness of the morning, just observing. Despite the complications, this was still the most at peace he’d felt in so very long.

When Brian he yawned, he pulled his body into one of those big stretches, like one of Stephan VonNamtzen’s hunting dogs. He rolled over and grinned as he had in his sleep. This time, his eyes were open, drinking Grey in.

“It’s not fair,” Brian said with a furrowed brow.

“What’s not?” Grey replied, though he could think of a great many things that were not fair. Like how he couldn’t roll over on top of his man right now and fuck him hard into the straw mattress.

“You’re as handsome when you wake up as you are when you fall asleep.”

Grey croaked out a laugh. “That’s generally how it works.”

“Not for me. I have this whole wretched gollum thing going on in the morning.”

“I haven’t a bloody idea what a gollum is, but if he looks like you in the morning and isn’t your father’s son, would you mind introducing us?”

Brian pouted and punched him in the arm. “You get the real deal or nothing at all, Mister.”

Grey laughed. “Speaking of your father—“

“Must we?”

Grey gave him a look. “We should probably get dressed for breakfast.”

“I’d rather order room service.”

Another inscrutable phrase from this unusual person. “You are a strange man, did you know that?”

“I know.” Brian quickly jolted forward and pecked a kiss on his nose.

“Brian.” Grey frowned. “We’ve talked about this.”

“If that kiss was sexual to you, then I believe you have other problems that need addressing.” Brian rolled out of bed, exposing his long legs beneath the hem of his shirt which barely covered his arse.

Grey’s prick twitched at the sight and he cursed under his breath. He tried to tell himself that connection to Brian had been severed the moment he found out about his father. That his attraction had died upon the realization. He hated the voice that cropped up in his mind, forcing in sinister truths. You would be lovers, if only…

Grey shook the thought away and focused on getting dressed.

Up at the cabin, they ate a breakfast of fresh eggs and rabbit sausage, and Jamie asked if John wanted to go for a ride after the morning chores to see the rest of the property. He’d missed seeing it all when he had been there before and gotten measles.Brian offered to go, which felt both more and less dangerous somehow. 

“Brian, I ken yer mother needed some help wi’ her garden.”

Claire looked at her husband with a slight tilt to her head. “I do?”

Jamie gave Claire a look.

“Oh, right,” she said. “Yes, of course. I do, Brian. If you could stay with me and help, I would appreciate it.”

Something felt off, but Grey chose not to question it.

“I guess,” Brian said. “Yeah.” He looked disappointed. Grey wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

On one hand, he enjoyed Brian’s company, his smile and easy demeanor. The way he knew the parts of Grey he normally had to hide; not only knew them or tolerated them. He accepted, appreciated, shared them.  Still, he hadn’t seen Jamie in quite a while and had always enjoyed—often too much—his time spent alone with the man.

They left a few hours later, after Grey had helped Jamie with a few of the chores near the cabin—which didn’t bother him at all. He’d always liked the gratification of physical labor as much as the satisfaction of fully exercising his mind. They washed up and returned to the cabin where Claire and Brian were working in the kitchen.

Brian smiled at him. “We made you lunch for your ride.”

“It smells great in here,” Grey said.

Claire glanced over at Jamie. “There were some leftover potatoes and Brian insisted we make you both a special treat.”

“They’re called potato chips,” he said, pulling back his shoulders. “They're my favorite thing in the world and you’ll see what I mean.”

Grey took his sack from Brian, and Jamie took his from Claire.

Then, Brian slung his arm over Claire’s shoulder and tugged her into his side. “Wow, Mama.” Brian put on a strange accent Grey hadn’t heard before. “We’re like pioneer women, sending our menfolk off to drive the cattle rustlers from the homestead.” He fake sniffed, then grabbed a linen from the table and waved it like a handkerchief. “Y’all come back safe now, ya hear?”

Claire fixed her son with the kind of glare that made Grey worry some for his safety after he and Jamie left. Brian ignored her and continued waving the linen, finally breaking into a fit of inexplicable laughter.

From what Grey saw last time he was at the ridge, he knew Jamie had not exaggerated the beauty of his property. Still, he hadn’t fully had the chance to appreciate it. He was glad now that he could see it all, listening to Jamie’s familiar voice rolling over him, explaining the land's peculiarities in a way only a man who knew it intimately could. 

At the edge of the property, they sat on split logs and enjoyed turkey and cheese set between slices of bread accompanied by thin slices of potatoes that had been fried to a thin, salty crisp. The sandwiches were deliciously easy to swallow with swaths of an eggy white dressing with the slight bite of vinegar.

“Do these taste as good to you as they do to me?”

“Aye. I didna ken my son was such an accomplished cook.”

Grey laughed. “He was particularly proud of these, wasn’t he?”

Jamie’s lips tugged into a small smile, then he brushed his hands off on his breeches and stepped closer to the ridge.

Jamie bit his lip, forehead wrinkling. John knew the man well enough to know he was thinking. He let out a heavy breath that shook his whole chest then said, “Thank ye for coming out here. I wanted to get ye away from the cabin and speak wi’ ye about Brian.”

Grey felt the sandwiches they’d just eaten burn in his throat. What would he want that had to do with Brian? And his son had asked to come, Jamie had made an excuse that kept him back at the cabin. Did Jamie know somehow? Oh God. “Brian?” John’s voice cracked. “What about Brian?”

Was this it? Was Jamie just going to hurl him off the ridge and be done with it?

Grey braced himself for an accusation at best, his imminent demise at worst.

Jamie pivoted towards John, kicking up dust with the heel of his boot. “It seems ye two have grown close during yer time at River Run and I was hoping that maybe he was more forthcoming wi’ ye than he’s been wi’ me.”

Every word needed to be chosen carefully. Grown close? That could mean something or it could mean nothing.

“I’m not sure, Jamie. About what?”

Jamie’s massive hands curled into equally massive fists. His eyes shut. “What happened wi’ Bonnet.”

Oh, Bonnet. Of course. Grey had been sent to River Run to look in on Brian for that precise reason. He let go of the tight breath he’d been holding in case he’d need the air to run for his life.

“I don’t think I know more than you do about it,” Grey admitted.

“He’s... he was verra hurt. Ye didna see the worst of it, but Claire wasna even sure if Brian would survive.’

A shudder tore through Grey. The thought that there could have easily been no Brian. That he’d never known him past that night in the tavern made him lightheaded. Grey barely knew the man but could scarcely imagine having not known him. That thought was dangerous and for another time.

“Oh God, Jamie,” Grey managed. “I figured the injuries had to be severe as he was still healing when I arrived.” And still is now, frankly. 

“He didna say anything else to ye about the nature of what happened?”

Was there something that Jamie knew that Grey did not? Some missing part of the story? Brian hadn’t been open about it beyond what little he’d said at River Run.

“Only that he tried to help a woman Bonnet was violating and he was jumped by Bonnet’s men.” Forced to watch as they… Grey pushed the thought away.

Jamie nodded. “Aye, that’s the story he told me as well.”

“Story? You don’t think it’s the truth.”

“I’m no convinced he isna holding back about everything that happened to him because he is ashamed of it.”

Grey thought on it for a moment, trying to absorb and understand the gravity of the man’s tone and what he was trying to convey. Then, the realization set in on Grey like a heavy weight. “You think... you think Brian was raped? By Bonnet? Why would you think that?”

Was that possible? That he’d invented the story about the girl? Or that he’d been a victim alongside her?

“The physician who treated him before Claire arrived said that from his examination it could be possible...”

Bile burned Grey’s throat. Was Jamie right? Was that why Brian wouldn’t talk about that night? A senseless rage tore through him but he had no outlet for it. Nothing to punch or hit or stab or slice open. 

“I just…” Jamie’s voice pushed through the fog of anger. “If Brian has been hurt that way I hope he would ken that I wouldna think less of him for it and that I could... that I ken what it is like. I havena told ye this, though I think ye may have guessed. I was hurt like that once. And it was... ye ken the scars on my back?”

Grey had assumed as a result of several conversations throughout their relationship, but he’d never asked and Jamie had never offered. He nodded.

Jamie’s eyes focused on him with almost terrifying intensity.  “It was the same man. He was my… jailer at the time.”

The word jailer fell down between them like an iron axe. Jamie had been raped by the man imprisoning him, and Grey had propositioned him when he was his… oh God. He felt like a truly despicable human.

He stumbled back. “Jamie. Oh God, Jamie... I’m… oh God.”

“No.” Jamie shook his head. “I ken ye are nothing like him. Now,” he corrected himself. “I do now.” He let out breath, like he was releasing a very old poison and stepped towards Grey. “Maybe If ye could try to talk to Brian about it, he would tell ye. I dinna think he wants to talk about something like that wi’ his parents.”

“Of course, Jamie. I’ll do my best to see if there is anything he hasn’t said, and ensure that he is not alone with this, if it is the case.”

Jamie graced him with a gentle smile, then said softly, “I am grateful to ye, for everything.”

They fished in the river for dinner, then rode back to the ridge, occasionally talking of other things, as one would in a friendship as long as theirs. Jamie asked if John would help him with splitting wood and John agreed. Claire swept out of the cabin and down the steps.

“A productive morning, I see,” she said, looking at the fish. She took them from Jamie.

“Lord John caught most of them.”

That was true. He’d caught three of the four, but Jamie had brought in the biggest one.

Claire smiled at him warmly. “Thank you then, your lordship.”

“My pleasure.”

“Where’s Bri?” Jamie asked. 

“He’s inside sorting through some wild mushrooms.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows.

Claire laughed. “I’ll be sure to double check them so we don’t end up dead or able to see beyond the third dimension.” She gave Jamie a kiss on the cheek and headed back inside the cabin.

“Claire is… it sure is good to have her here.” 

“So what about you, John?” Jamie’s lips tipped up into a sly smile. “Have you found anyone to spark your interest, since Isobel?”

“No. No, I don’t think I’ll marry again,” he said, casually. “Willa and I manage just fine by ourselves.”

Jamie grabbed a log from the pile and placed it on the stump. “I dinna mean a wife or a… a woman. I meant someone who strikes your fancy.”

Grey’s mouth dropped. He could not believe… “Are you actually asking me about… men?” He swallowed, a sudden sweep of terror in his gut. “Why?”

Jamie grabbed the axe and swung it down onto the balanced wood. That did not help the rising terror. “We are friends, are we no? Friends talk about such things.”

“Of course we are, Jamie.” His throat felt so tight it was as if he had strong hands around it. “But… we have never discussed this. The one time we came close to it, you nearly put a fist through my face.”

Jamie hurled the axe into the ground, then turned toward Grey with a raised eyebrow. “Ye were acting like a right bastard.”

Grey tucked his shoulders back, his jaw setting. “As were you.”

There was a moment of silence—a moment where anything could have happened, nearly any reaction felt possible, and then Jamie smiled again. “Aye,” he said gently. “Aye, I was.”

“I do just fine, Jamie.” Grey smiled, grabbing another piece of wood for Jamie. “If you must know. When I find the bloody time.”

Jamie chopped the wood, then slung the axe back over his shoulder. “Is it no dangerous? If ye misjudge a man’s inclinations?”

“Yes,” Grey snorted. "But I’m generally a sight better at it than our history would indicate.”

“Hey,” Brian’s voice came from behind him.

Grey squeaked, then knocked over Jamie’s pile of logs. He coughed and straightened himself out.

Jamie gave him a confused look. “I hope ye aren’t this jumpy when ye’ve got a musket in yer hands.”

“What’s wrong?” Grey asked.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Nothing. Dinner’s ready.”

Brian and Claire had constructed quite the spread from he and Jamie’s freshly-caught trout, paired with roasted squash and onions. Brian had even convinced Jamie to pull out a bottle of wine, and Grey enjoyed the sight of Brian, tall and languid, his pink lips darkened by the stain of sweet, aged grapes. He hoped it wasn’t obvious just how much he was watching as they ate their dinner.

The remnants of the meal cleared away, Jamie invited John to play a game of chess. Meanwhile, Claire darned worn stockings and Brian flipped through the pages of an old book, occasionally licking the edge of his finger to ease the turn of the page. 

After Grey managed a narrow victory over Jamie in their chess game,  Brian announced he was tired and dragged John along with him. 

Alone in their small shelter, away from their watchful gaze of Jamie and Claire, Brian yawned as he tucked his legs under the covers. “What were you and Jamie talking about when I came to get you guys for dinner anyway? You were super jumpy.”

Grey sat in the chair and released his hair from his tie. “He was inquiring…if I’d found anyone of.. interest to me.”

Brian snorted. “He asked if you had a boyfriend?”

Another one of Brian’s strange phrases. He’d never been in Boston, but apparently their dialect was far different from that of England or Virginia or North Carolina or… Jamaica. 

“That is an unusual way to put it, but I believe so. Yes.”

Grey slipped into his side of the bed and blew out the candle. They laid together, hidden in the darkness.

“Do you?” Brian’s voice was so small. “Have a lover somewhere? Back in Virginia?”

Grey turned over onto his side to face Brian, despite the fact it was too dark for him to see. “Why? Do you find yourself jealous?”

“Of you? With another man? Yes, I would be incredibly jealous,” Brian said, so easily.

Grey tried dragging in a breath but managed to choke on it. 

“What?” Brian asked.

“You are the most straightforward man I’ve ever met.”

“Is that a problem?” 

Grey smiled, thankful for the darkness concealing it, but then he thought of earlier and that smile drifted away. “That’s not all your father and I discussed today. There was something else. He asked me about you…”

He felt Brian shift in the bed before saying. “What about me?”

Choose your words carefully. If Grey planned to approach this and uncover the truth, he would have to do it properly. “About what happened that night with Bonnet.”

“I told Jamie what happened that night.”

“Did you tell him everything?”

“Yes…” Brian actually sounded confused. Or maybe it wasn’t confusion. Maybe nerves, the fear of exposure. “I told him what I told you.”

Grey could do this. He could say this and make certain Brian knew that it would be okay to speak of it if he wanted to, to him or to his father, even. If Grey had to tell him about his own experience, he would. 

“It’s just… he spoke to the physician that examined you prior to your mother’s arrival and I’m… well, I’m assuming, since you were not conscious he did a full body examination and well, he said there was evidence that you had been… sodomized.”

A long stretch of silence pulled out between them and then… Brian just started laughing. Big, bellowing laughs.

“Christ, Brian. Why are you laughing?”

“Because I had been ‘sodomized’.” Brian was still laughing. "By you. It was the same fucking night, man.” 

The thought that Brian was being hurt, that maybe he wouldn’t have been had John stayed with him that night hurt like a bullet wound but at least… at least, Jamie was wrong.

“So you weren’t raped?”

“No. Just got the shit kicked out of me.”

“Thank God, Brian.”

“Um, yeah, Thank God.” This time Brian’s laugh was small, awkward. "But doesn’t this present another problem, as in I don’t have an explanation for why the doctor said what he said. I could lie but no, I can’t. That would not be right. Just tell him the truth and he’ll go on thinking I lied to you too or maybe that physician was talking out his ass.”

“That’s an interesting visual,” Grey replied. 

They slipped into the comfortable quiet of falling asleep, their breaths all that was shared between them. Then, Brian nudged his hand into Grey’s. At first, he thought it was an accident but then it happened again and again and… Brian was slipping his thumb under the palm of John’s hand. He thought to jerk away, but didn’t, just let Brian slide his hand underneath and slide their finger together. Brian squeezed. John hesitated, but then sighed and squeezed back. God, this was… he’d so rarely held hands with a man.

“Can I ask you something?” Brian rubbed his thumb over Grey’s finger in a soft back and forth motion. “How does Jamie know that you’re um… like me?”

John considered telling him everything. Telling him about that night when he reached out for Jamie’s hand and he’d threatened him, but he didn’t want Brian knowing just how angry Jamie had been, how bad it got. And, maybe it just felt wrong… the truth that John was in love with Jamie. God, that was the truth, wasn’t it? No, Grey couldn’t tell Brian that. It would just hurt everyone. 

Besides, that was how Jamie knew John wanted him, but not how he knew John’s interests lie with men.

“When we were at Ardsmuir, he told me about your mother, about how he lost her after Culloden, and I told him about someone I lost there too. His name was Hector.”

“Jesus, I am so sorry, John. Was he fighting?”

“Yes. When it was all over, I saw him lying there on the battlefield, split open with an axe. Could barely recognize him, but I could because of his sapphire ring.”

“The one you always wear?” Brian asked, and Grey said yes. Brian continued, “Did you love him?”

“I’ll never know if it would’ve lasted, but God, yes. I did love him,” Grey said. “What about you? Do you have a secret for me?”

After a long stretch of silence, Brian spoke quietly, “I’m from the future.”

Grey rolled his eyes and whacked him on the arm. “Brian, I was being serious.”

Brian didn’t immediately respond, but eventually his voice floated through the darkness. “That night with you at the tavern was the first time I ever slept with a stranger. I just saw you and I knew I couldn’t let you walk away.”

Brian was gone by the time Grey woke up, which disappointed him. He had so liked waking beside him. But then he smelled his own ripeness and considered maybe Brian had left the bed just to save his own nose. 

The morning air was cool and damp on his skin as he headed down to the nearby creek. He stopped short as he heard a splash. Just ahead of him, Brian stood in the creek, water lapping around his calves. His skin shone a brilliant white in the light, red hair sparkling. It drew Grey’s attention to the thick of red between his legs and the prick nestled there.

Grey’s throat tightened. He shouldn't be skulking in the bushes, watching this. He had to make himself known. He stepped forward into the leaves and coughed.

Brian’s head jerked up, but then he softened, smiling when he saw Grey. He didn’t move to hide himself. He continued lathering soap over his skin.

Grey averted his eyes.

Brian laughed. “Come on. Don’t act like this is anything you haven’t seen before.”

“I beg your pardon, Brian. I didn’t know you were down here and I wanted to make my presence known.”

“You could have just watched. I wouldn’t have minded.”

Grey snorted. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

“You’re welcome to join me.”

“Oh, yes that sounds like a very sensible idea.”

Brian grinned the big, wide grin of a young man. “Not sensible, no. But fun.”

It would be a lie, if Grey were to say he didn’t momentarily consider stripping himself of his clothes and joining Brian in the cold water. He had come down here to wash after all. But there was every chance Jamie or Claire could wander down here. And just as disastrous as being caught would be knowing he took liberties with Jamie’s son, when Jamie knew that John’s heart had lied with him for so many years.

“I’ll wait for you to finish.”

Brian shrugged his bare, broad shoulders. “Suit yourself, but you did interrupt my… alone time.”

“You were going to touch yourself?” Grey asked, through a tight throat as he tried to ignore his own painful want.

With a lopsided grin, Brian brought his hand down between his legs. “Still am and the invitation to watch is still open.”

What’s the male equivalent, John thought, of a temptress?

“I’ll find my own spot up the creek.”

The rains came in during the afternoon. The skies opened up like skin being bled, gushing down in great torrents joined by the occasional crackling thunder in the distance. They had all crowded in the cabin and Brian dragged John by the sleeve of his coat over to the table to help him chop vegetables for dinner, and then demanded they race to see who could chop a carrot faster.

“Jamie,” Brian said. “You be the judge to see who is the carrot champion.”

“Somehow,” Grey said slyly, looking over at Claire. “I don’t think there are any winners in this.”

Brian narrowly finished chopping the carrot first, then challenged Grey to a potato and when he won that one too, he declared himself “Champion of All Root Vegetables”. 

Claire just shook her head. “I thought I taught you not to play with your food.”

After a dinner that was far more crudely chopped than it had been the nights previously, Brian had slipped out to the porch. When Jamie and Claire started looking at each other in that way that created an uneasy slither in his gut, Grey joined Brian on the porch.

The roof protected them from the onslaught of water, but the rain still roared as it hammered the house and woods around them. At least the lightning had stopped. 

Brian sat on a chair, a lantern at his feet, whittling into a piece of wood. He looked over at Grey and smiled, holding up what appeared to be a chopped up branch of some sort.

“Is this starting to look like a horse to you?”

“I’m not quite sure how you’d like me to answer that question.”

Brian sighed and chucked the twig into the rain. “Tell me a truth, John,” he said softly.

“Two truths and a lie?”

“No, just one truth. An important one.”

Grey breathed through his nose, then sank into the other chair beside Brian. “I killed a man in a duel once. It was an accident, but he died and I ran off to Canada for a while to avoid marrying the women I dueled him over.”

Brian laughed. “Why did you duel for a woman you didn’t want?”

“Well, he was being uncouth with my friend and I couldn’t stand for it.”

“Good for you.”

Grey braved the distance between them to gently elbow Brian. “If I had to share, then so do you.”

“I used to be so terrified of storms that every time there was thunder at night I started crying and the only way I could sleep was in my parents bed. Then one day, there was a really bad storm and I went to their room and they were arguing about something. I didn’t understand it at the time, not for a long time. But my dad was sleeping with other women, which just pisses me off because I love my dad. I admired him and I miss him. And as much as I don’t understand Jamie, don’t really connect with him, yet, I guess.” Brian stared down at his knees. “I don’t think he would do that to Mama.”

Leaning back and shutting his eyes, Grey said, “No, no he wouldn’t…. Brian?”

“Hm?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. It can’t really explain my staying past today.”

“Right,” Brian said without looking at him. “Right. Makes sense.” Then, the man stood up and walked inside, leaving Grey alone with the sound of the rain.

The afternoon and evening had been cold enough, but the night was absolutely frigid, even in bed and within the confines of the shelter. 

“I’m freezing.” Brian’s teeth chattered as he spoke.

Grey was shivering himself. The bed clothes weren’t thick enough for the sudden drop in temperature brought on by the rains. “It is very cold.”

Brian made soft grumbling sounds under his breath and turned this and that way in the bed. Grey was nearly asleep when the blankets were torn almost all the way off him.

“Brian!”  

“Stop hogging the blankets,” Brian grumbled.

Grey was lying there now with a quilt over only one leg and the thin linen around his hips. He was wondering, briefly, if this is how he would die. Freezing to death in a drafty shelter in bed with Jamie Fraser’s son. Imagine when news of this gets back to Hal.

A hand latched onto Grey’s wrist and wrenched his arm into the air. Brian’s long frame  slid up beside him, soft hair on Grey’s chest, tickling his neck. His arm was yanked back down.

Grey had been too tired and too startled to stop him. “What are you doing?” he finally managed.

Brian yanked the quilt over both of them, then threw a big, muscled leg over Grey, pinning him to the bed. “Body heat.”

The way a certain part of his body was reacting to this closeness made Grey yelp. “Your parents are three yards away!”

“I didn’t mean that,” Brian sounded pleasantly annoyed. ”Just…” and he nestled in closer. “Body heat.”

So, Brian just wanted this. The warmth of their bodies close together to keep out the cold air. There was… sense to it, on one hand. On the other hand, they were very close, in a bed, and not wearing much clothing, though Brian did have on a thick pair of wool socks. Thank God, Grey knew how cold the man’s toes could get. Socks or not, this wasn’t smart. Grey’s prick was already half hard—the traitor.

“Not sure this is a good idea, either Brian,” Grey confessed.

Brian whined. “But, it’s so cozy like this.” He didn’t move away, the bastard. Just nuzzled into John’s neck and made another strained little noise.

Grey shook his head and reached up instinctively to sink his fingers into those soft curls. “My God, you’re like a large kitten.”

Brian just purred in his ear, and maybe he should punish him for being a bad little kitty, Grey thought wildly. He was so shocked by his own thought he nearly shoved Brian onto the floor. In the end, Grey couldn’t do it. He couldn’t push Brian away. It was truly very cold and it was less cold with this young man’s body draped over his. He found himself absentmindedly stroking Brian’s arm, his chin resting atop Brian’s head. 

“One truth?” Brian said sleepily.

Grey muttered back at him his agreement to the private little game they played here, dismissing the lies of Brian’s original game to only have truth between them.

“I like being held when I sleep.” Brian’s breath warmed Grey’s neck as he spoke. “Your turn John.”

“One truth… hmm…” he considered, but not seriously, telling Brian that he had an erection. Instead, he thought about what Brian had said and realized he felt it too and how rare of a gift it was. “So do I and yet I can count the number of times I’ve been held like this on one hand.”

A moment of silence passed then Brian said, “Which hand?” He poked at that hand around his shoulder. “This one or... this one?” He laced his fingers with Grey’s, their hands lying together on Grey’s stomach. “This one, I think.”

It was incredibly hard to get out of bed the next morning and pull himself away from Brian’s warm, soft touch, especially because he knew he’d be leaving this morning. The devilish thought entered Grey’s mind that if he kissed Brian right now, the man would kiss him back. He’d let Grey strip him of that shirt and take his ruddy nipple into his mouth and suckle it until Brian was purring like he was last night. If Grey whispered, get on your knees in Brian’s ear, he was sure he’d do it. He’d take Grey’s prick into his mouth, maybe even his throat and if Grey said swallow.

Christ.

Grey would have to relieve himself or those thoughts would not remain simple, sinful thoughts. 

He carefully slipped away from Brian, tugged on his breeches and stumbled out to the privy. 

It smelled sour, like raw shit, which he figured it was. But he didn’t care. It wouldn’t take long anyway. Grey shoved a hand into his breeches and wrapped tight fingers around his prick. Biting into his cheek, he shoved his face against the rough wood wall and fisted his cock as fast as he could. All he had to do was think of the one night they’d had together.

The noises Brian had made.

The tightness of his body, how it had let him in so easily.

The strong, tensing of his muscular buttocks, the pink spots Grey’s fingers had left behind in them. 

With a sharp gasp, he turned and finished blindly, hotly, dizzyingly in the hole of the privy, where no one would know what he’d done. 

With shaky legs, Grey stumbled out into the morning air as he finished up his flies.

“Please don’t go,” Brian’s voice startled him.

“I have to. You know that,” Grey said, with a sad frown. He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of leaving either. “I have to meet my daughter in Williamsburg. She’s been staying with some cousins of her mother’s. I’ll write to you when I get there.” He could turn around and come back here with Willa. But no, of course he couldn’t actually do that.

Brian strode over to him, that brilliant red hair glistening in the morning sun. “Just one thing, before you leave…”

Grey swallowed, his heart thudding in his ears. “What’s that?”

“Kiss me,” Brian whispered.

How he wanted to. He wanted to slide his hand across Brian’s cheek, to the nape of his neck, wanted to draw him in, feel his lips, the ridges of his teeth with his tongue… but he couldn’t. Of course, he couldn’t. And somehow, someway, he’d have to stop wanting it too. But not today. He could not manage it today.

Grey pressed his lips to the warm skin of Brian’s soft cheek. “Goodbye, my darling,” he whispered in the man’s ear.

Chapter Text

Heat swirled between Brian’s ribs as he tore into the sealed envelope, the wax cracking with a satisfactory snap. John Grey had written a letter to his father and, enclosed within it, one especially to him. It made him smile, made him feel special, even though he had specifically asked for Grey to do that. 

A jolt of worry had shocked through Brian when Jamie had first handed him the letter, like somehow he’d understand the true nature of his son’s connection to John just through a simple, closed envelope. But when Brian had met Jamie Fraser’s gaze he hadn’t seen any suspicion there at all. Thank God.

Alone now, between the knotted roots of an old tree, Brian read the letter.

Dear Brian, 

As promised, I am writing to you upon my arrival in Virginia. The journey here proved far less eventful without a scheming woman to lose your father a horse or a mountain lion for you to brutalize. Alas, I was able to escort my daughter back to our home in Lynchburg. She was upset to find that I had been off having adventures on Fraser’s Ridge, while she was incarcerated (her words, not mine) at her cousin’s home in Williamsburg suffering through etiquette lessons. I had to promise she could come with me on my next visit. I told her of ‘Brian the Lion Tamer’ and she is most interested in making your acquaintance. I also spoke of your delicious crispy potatoes and she has demanded that you make them for her as she is a lady and you are without title. (Said in jest, at least I hope so). In any situation, I would not be above using my position to compel you to cook them for me again. 

Additionally, I thought that we could keep up our game, as it were. So I have a truth for you. 

I consider myself a brave man—at least I try to be—but nothing in the world terrifies me like my little girl growing up. Nothing. 

Yours,

John 

John Grey shouldn’t have felt the childish flip in his stomach when the letter from Brian Randall arrived. He shouldn’t have felt he had to wait until Willa was tucked into her bed and he was alone in his with the light of a candle to open it. But he did.

Grey shivered with a stupid anticipation as he ripped open the letter and unfolded it. 

He laughed.

Brian’s hand writing was… unlike any he’d seen before. It looked more like choppy, printed typeface than the normal swoop of someone’s handwriting. There was something new and strange to learn about the man every day.

Dear John,

I would be happy to cook you and the Lady Willa anything your hearts desire, but you should both be forewarned that my skills are limited and you might not want to dismiss your current cook to hire me on as of yet. 

I’m glad to hear you made it safely back to Virginia and I look forward to seeing you again and meeting your daughter. If she dislikes etiquette lessons, she seems like my kind of gal. 

Jamie has been trying to teach me how to build things. I’m pretty sure not a single thing we’ve constructed is up to code. But don’t worry, I’ll let you know everything I helped with so you can avoid it the next time you're here. I’d rather not be responsible for your death via shoddy construction. 

I can’t imagine how scary it must be to love someone as much as you love your daughter and know that you have to send her out into the world and allow things to touch her and hurt her when all you want to do is protect her. But I think allowing her to grow up, become herself and take the kind of risks that make life worth living is an extraordinary act of bravery from a father. 

And I strongly support keeping up our game.

My truth:

I’m starting to get really homesick.

Always,

Brian 

. . . 

Living on the ridge was harder than Brian expected, judging it against the life he’d lived thus far in River Run, though he much preferred it to the dank, swaying bowels of a sailing ship. He’d never in his life managed to work so hard and be so exhausted and yet so bored all at the same time. And he’d sat through Professor Kelly’s droning, slack jawed lectures at Harvard.

Here though, Brian felt constantly observed. He should probably be more grateful for the attention, but Brian hadn’t gone his whole life without a father the way Jamie had gone his whole life without a son. He felt guilty, like every time they interacted, Jamie was asking for a part of Brian that he didn’t have to give— a part that he’d already given away to Frank Randall.

And, on top of all that, Brian was really, really shit at construction work. So, by the time John’s response letter arrived, Brian couldn’t ever remember being so relieved to have a break from the mundanity and labor that was slowly crushing him, body and soul. Though he could never say that to Jamie or even his mom.

Brian opened the letter from John and, for a blessed moment, everything else in the world faded away.

Dear Brian,

I know what it is to be homesick. I miss London quite often, especially the Beefsteak, a gentleman’s club of which I’ve been a member since I was young. I also spent quite a lot of time away from home in the army, and the one thing I’ve learned in all this is that you must change your definition of home and be willing to keep changing it as necessary. 

When I visit next, I’ll be sure to stay away from anything you’ve built. Meanwhile, my house is in a disarray of its own. I’m having the worst time finding good help. The mother of the maid and cook I had before fell ill so she’s gone back to Pennsylvania to help her. I’m hopeless with chores. Today Willa and I washed all the painted flowers off our new dishes. 

My truth for this letter is:

I sometimes feel that I am in over my head without my wife. She took care of many of the tasks that now fall to me. It was one thing when I was merely an unmarried man, but it’s quite another as a widower with a rather spirited daughter.

Yours,

John

At this point, John didn’t know what his daughter wanted from him. There weren’t too many options in Lynchburg and Mrs. Thompson came highly recommended for girls of Willa’s age. 

“You can’t just demand I dismiss your governess after a single day’s work,” Grey said.

“But Papa,” Willa groaned. “She will not teach me maths.”

Grey rubbed at his eyes, trying to stave off exhaustion, so he could keep reading through these papers from the governor’s office. “I’m sure she has her reasons, Willa.”

Willa’s hand came down over his reading, obscuring the letters on his paperwork. With a frustrated sigh, John looked up at his daughter. 

“She does. Her reasons are that arithmetic is not ladylike and triangles are lewd. Triangles, Papa. Triangles.”

“I’ll discuss it with her in the morning. Does this appease you, my dear?”

Willa looked at him with narrowed eyes so startlingly like her true father’s. “For now,” she said, then perked up. “Oh I forgot to tell you, Papa. A letter came for you today.”

“A letter?” He straightened up, suddenly feeling more awake than he had all day. “From whom?”

“Mac’s son, I think.”

He stood up from his desk. “Well, where is it?”

“In here somewhere,” she said. “I put it on your desk. It’s probably under all those papers.”

Grey shuffled the papers aside, holding his breath. When his fingers landed on an envelope bearing Brian Randall’s name. He breathed again.

Willa plopped down in the chair by the door, spreading her hands out over her calico skirts. “What does it say?”

“How shall I know? I haven’t read it yet,” he replied. “Go on to bed now and I’ll give you the interesting bits tomorrow.”

With a grumble, Willa did as she was told. When Grey was alone in his room, he tore through the wax seal.

Dear John, 

If you ever want someone to talk to about your wife or being without her, I’m here. Or if you need to vent about the difficulties of single fatherhood, you can. I’ll never judge you. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you and for your Willa to have lost her mother. If there is anything I can ever do for either of you, all you have to do is ask. I’m here. 

I have some stuff of my own to report. I think Jamie is pissed at me, but doesn’t want to say anything. I fucked up something at the ridge he’d been working on for a long time and I can tell he’s trying to be nice about it, but he just keeps looking at me like he doesn’t trust me to do anything. I don’t know. Maybe he’s right.

Here’s my truth--I wish I could ask my dad, Frank, the man who raised me, for some advice.

Always,

Brian

It had been nearly a decade since Brian had felt this useless, this underfoot. Like a child, both Jamie and his mother had to keep him from causing more trouble. If Brian had some musical instrument, he’d spend his days out of the way, scribbling down melodies to the lyrics he’d been constructing in his head as he hacked away at brush or chopped wood or pounded nails until the palms of his hands were as calloused as the fingers he used to hold down guitar strings. 

He’d been helping to reorganize his mom’s herbs, an obviously invented task to keep him away from the serious construction work Jamie was doing on the barn that Brian had mangled a few weeks ago. In his mind, he was going over the chord changes to “God Only Knows” in his head, like if he got them just right he’d be magically transported to a California beach on spring break. He could be laid out on a beach towel with a mai tai in his hand, sun crisping his bare chest. The vision of John Grey came unbidden into his mind, stretched out beside him just the same in a short pair of swim trunks, Ray Ban sunglasses perched on his nose. Free. Just free. The both of them.

“Brian,” Jamie called out. “Yer mother said ye were in here.”

“Yeah, yes. I’m here. What is it?” Brian set down a bottle of hemlock, and looked up at Jamie.

He strode over, dirty and hair frazzled from a day’s hard labor. He felt small, having spent the day inside re-labeling and alphabetizing herbs. “A letter came for ye, again, from John Grey.”

“It did?” he said, his voice cracking, which did not help how much he’d been feeling like a child recently. He coughed. “Oh, I mean. Thanks.”

He put out his hand and Jamie laid the letter there.

“I’m glad ye have found someone to talk to here. I ken it hasna been easy for ye, but I want to tell ye, that I am here as well, for an ear or advice.”

Brian gave him a small smile. “I know. Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“Aye, good. Tomorrow, I’ll show ye how to till the field. Same as my father did.”

He blinked. “Right, yeah. Okay.”

Jamie stood there for a moment, forcing them to endure an awkward stretched silence, before he nodded and strode back out of the cabin.

Brian breathed a sigh of relief, then leaned against the wall and tore into the envelope, grateful no one was there to see his secret smile. 

Dear Brian,

I am truly sorry you lost the man who raised you, and I’m sure it is not easy if you’re feeling pressure to connect with Jamie and are struggling to do it. Jamie Fraser is one of the people I care for most in this world, but that does not make me unaware that he is not always an easy man to be around or an easy man to please. However, I’ll share some advice as someone whom your father has been displeased with on multiple occasions—he’ll come around.

I was invited to a party this last week and are you ready for who else was in attendance? Our lovely Miss Forbes. I tried being cordial to her, but she would scarcely speak to me. I reckon we truly and thoroughly scared the girl off. It was an eventful evening though. An earl got so drunk he vomited on a viscount’s wife. I wish you could have been there. 

Ever since the last letter, I’ve been thinking of what I should share with you, but then after that party, I could only think of one thing to tell you. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind and have come to believe the only chance I have of ridding myself of it is to confess it. 

I miss you.

Yours,

John

It had been early that morning when Grey first received Brian’s letter. Normally, he tore into them as soon as he could find a moment’s privacy, but he had a day’s work ahead of him and he wanted something good to look forward to. So, he tucked the letter into his coat pocket and endured a day of society and meetings about land and politics from men who couldn’t see past their own noses with a telescope.

He was grateful at the end of the day to tuck into a chair by the fire with a glass of brandy and indulge himself in the musings of a man that made him feel as lightheaded and giddy as his drink.

Dear John,

So you know how you miss me? I’ve solved your problem. Governor Tryon had business for Jamie in Virginia, but I’ve convinced him to let me go in his stead. Under the very important provision that you keep an eye out for me.

I’m pretty sure you’ll be getting a letter from him in this regard before this one comes around. It’s not a big deal but it does feel good that Jamie is entrusting this to me, even if he’s making you babysit me.

I’ll probably be on my way to Virginia before you get this. You can tell me your next truth when I get there. For now, here’s mine.

I miss you too.

Always, 

Brian

Chapter Text

The hooves of Brian’s horse clomped over the dirt road as he wandered through the bustling streets of Lynchburg, Virginia. Big clouds of smoke curled from brick chimneys and disappeared into low lying clouds. He breathed in whiffs of horse shit that reminded him of the tightly packed harbor town where he’d embarked on his journey from Scotland. Unfortunately, it also reminded him of Wilmington. A terrible thing had happened there, but before it, a great thing had happened as well. One of his favorite things. The juxtaposition was so dizzying it wasn’t smart to think about either. 

He focused instead of the tantalizing fragrance of roasted meat that cut above the less appetizing scents. On the quaint architecture that looked more like a stage set out of Johnny Tremain than a real place. From the carts of ruddy apples and baskets of dark berries to the stray mongrels fighting for scraps near the butchers to the sway of thick woolen skirts sweeping like beautiful brooms over the dusty road, he found himself strangely mesmerized. Brian should be used to it by now, but this time still so often felt like a dream. 

Reality settled in as Brian departed the busy heart of Lynchburg for the grassy open knolls to the north. His horse whinnied as a gray squirrel skittered across the path and delved into a red-leaved bush with a hearty crunch.

A two-story home, painted apple red, appeared through the waning fog. The property was hedged by towering cypress and willow trees and decorated with a sprinkling of crepe myrtle and flowering dogwood. When Brian was close enough, he saw a split-rail fence separating the green lawn from gardens of herbs and vegetables, productive with the heads of purple and yellow carrots bursting from the soil and hearty summer squashes left to grow too large on spiny vines. 

Brian tied his horse off to a split-rail. He’d move it later, when he knew exactly where to put him. 

He approached the house down the narrow brick path with an exaggerated gait. Brian bounded up the porch steps, eager to knock on the door and see a face he’d been longing to see for too damn long.

Brian dusted his coat and drew in a deep breath. Then he used the warbled reflection in the window to check for any stray bits of food in his teeth. He’d been traveling for days, but he wanted Lord John to see him and be, well, impressed. Attracted. 

Even if John was reluctant because of his friendship with Jamie, Brian and John had a friendship, a connection, of their own that mattered as well. He had to believe that eventually that connection might just mean enough for John to see what Brian saw—how good they could be together. 

Brian knocked on the front door and waited. Moments later, it swung open to reveal a thin girl, maybe ten or eleven, her dark hair tied up beneath a bonnet with a face nearly as familiar as the one in his mirror. Strange. 

“Hi.” Tendrils of a strange thought began to form in his mind. “I’m Brian Randall. I’m here to see Lord John Grey.”

“You’re Brian the Lion Tamer?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Brian knelt down so he’d be closer to her height. “You must be Lady Willa.”

She tipped up her chin in a way that reminded him so much of John that he almost laughed, but then there were those eyes. Those blue, slanted eyes—feral and...

Holy shit.

Those were Jamie’s eyes. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Randall,” she said, while Brian’s mind continued to whirr. “Father’s in his study, would you like me to fetch him?”

“Yes. Please. Thank you.”

Willa scurried off, her skirt swaying wildly about her legs. She ran for a few steps then slowed to a walk, as if she thought better of running in front of a stranger. There were such strange rules of behavior in this time, Brian thought he’d never get used to them, much less abide by them himself.

Moments later, there he was--John Grey.

John’s face was placid, then his eyes met Brian’s and he smiled. It was a wonderful smile and Brian had missed it more than he’d even realized. With Willa there, he couldn’t just rush inside and bear hug the guy. In fairness, he probably wouldn’t do that even if no one else was here. But he wanted to. God, Brian wanted to feel John’s body against his again.

John strode forward. “Brian. You’re here.”

“I hope you got my letter so I’m not just arriving on your doorstep like a lost puppy.”

John was now just a step away from him. “I did get it,” he said, laying a hand on Brian’s forearm. “But that does not stop you from looking like a lost puppy.”

Brian pouted, momentarily distracted by John’s closeness before reality set back in again. “We need to talk,” he said beneath his breath. “Alone.”

Worry lines formed on Grey’s face. “My study. Follow me,” he said beneath his breath.

Brian followed him down the hall, then turned through a doorway into what had to be John’s study. Half-full bookshelves, surrounded by boxes of more books, several faded rugs, a velvet sofa and a soft leather armchair. The nearby side table held a wine glass with a smudge of bruised purple.

As soon as John shut the door, Brian spat, “Oh my God, John. Oh my fucking God.”

“What?” Grey startled back.

“Willa,” Brian whispered through his teeth.

The man visibly tensed, like a steel cord ran the length of his spine. “Yes, what about her?”

“She’s… Jamie’s”

The blood drained from John’s face. “You cannot say things like that.”

“Sorry…” Brian put up his hands in surrender. “I just. I didn’t realize she wasn’t yours. I mean you had a wife, I just figured…”

“Willa,” Grey said her name firmly, “is the daughter of the earl of Ellsmere. Her true mother was my late wife’s sister.”

Brian leaned in, his voice soft. “John…”

He frowned. “You can’t say anything to her. Or anyone. She’d lose her title. Be branded a bastard.”

Brian ran a hand over his hair to the nape of his neck and sighed, nodding. “Does Mama know?”

“She does.”

Even if she knew about Willa’s existence, what did his mom know about the relationship Jamie had with this girl’s mother. “What happened to her mother? I mean, were they… did Jamie love her?”

“No. Much of what happened I’ve come to speculate and you may want to speak with your father about it, but Geneva—that’s Willa’s mother—she had an arrangement to marry the earl. An older man she didn’t love and was not attracted to. Again your father has never discussed it directly with me, but from what I can surmise, I believe Geneva blackmailed your father because she wanted her first time to be with someone more …attractive. Geneva was… well, you had to know her.”

Brian’s jaw twitched. That was a shitty thing to do. It was a shitty thing to make a woman marry a man she didn’t want to marry and it was a shitty thing for her to make a man sleep with her who didn’t want to sleep with her. He knew how fucked up history was. He was a history major for God’s sake, but it took on a whole different meaning when he was here directly facing it and the people it harmed.

“What happened to her?”

“She died in childbirth. The earl knew Willa wasn’t his and he… Jamie saved Willa’s life.”

Brian paced a few steps over the rugs and collapsed into Grey’s armchair with a sigh.

“What is it?” John asked quietly.

“I just feel kind of bad for Jamie, I guess. First me, and then another child he couldn’t raise.” Brian couldn’t believe he was saying it, but it was true. One thing he could tell about Jamie, despite it often causing conflict between them, was that the man desperately wanted to be a father.

“He did at least get to spend some time with Willa when she was young. He left when she was around six because we all started to worry people would realize her similarities to Jamie. Like you just did. Jamie asked me to care for her as if she were my own.”

Brian’s forehead ached from concentration “Is that why you got married,” he said softly. “To help take care of Willa?”

“Best decision I ever made. I love that girl more than life itself.”

“Did you even love her? Your wife, I mean?”

John blinked. His eyes went wide. His bottom lip dropped open.

“I’m sorry,” Brian said, feeling his face flush. “That was rude, and none of my business.”

A moment of silence passed between them. 

“I cared for my wife, but… it was not with the care one has for a lover. I don’t know if it’s different for you. I know that it can be, but I’ve never cared for a woman in that way,” John admitted.

Brian shook his head. “No. Me either. I’m very gay.”

John raised a dark, curious eyebrow. “About what?”

Right… that meant happy here and only happy. Fuck. “Oh. No.” Brian rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s a term for, um, guys like us. In… Boston?”

John gave him a skeptical look, but then smiled. “I should make a trip to Boston some time. It sounds like quite the interesting city.”

After their private discussion about Willa, John led Brian back outside and showed him around the side of the house to the stables. The building that housed the horses was painted black as dried currants, even the shutters. Beside that, only a few yards away, sat what was likely a servants quarters, just as black as the stables, surrounded by swaying tufts of switchgrass. 

“When are you to complete your task for Governor Tryon?”

“Tomorrow,” Brian said, nervous. “I have some documents I’m supposed to give to some Colonel here that he did not want delivered by a servant.” He shook his head. “I don’t really know what it’s about. I just heard Lynchburg, Virginia and offered my services.” Brian smiled over at John, whose cheeks pinked.

“Is that so?” John said, visibly fending off a smile.

They shared quiet, general conversation until they arrived back around the front of the house where a young man with fair hair stood on the front steps, holding his hat to his chest.

“My Lord,” he called out. “My Lord, I’m here to bring word from the General.”

John sighed and clapped Brian on the back. “Go on ahead inside. I’ll meet you inside in a moment.”

Brian gave him a quick nod and did as he was told.

Through the wall, Brian could hear the sound of voices, even make out the solid command of John’s voice. John acting as the lord that he was sent a hot shudder of desire through Brian. He was only starting to fend off the feeling when John walked through the door, shaking his head and frowning.

“What is it?” Brian asked.

“I’m not even in the bloody army anymore. You would think I’d be free from this shite. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, man.”

“I will apologize though because I have to leave for the remainder of the day and deal with this.”

“That’s alright,” Brian said easily, then lowered his voice. “I mean I’d rather you were here, but it's fine.”

“I can take Willa with me, drop her off at the church. Willa hates it, but I’m sure the Reverend could find some way to put her to use. I’d let her stay alone, but there’s unfortunately been some criminal activity in the area, hence why I’m being called away.”

“She can just stay here with me.”

“Are you sure?” John said. “I know most young men aren’t keen to act as governess, even for an afternoon.”

“As long as I don’t have to wear a bodice,” Brian said, deadpan. “They just don’t flatter my figure.”

John let out a small laugh, then frowned again, looked toward the door and back. “I wish I could stay longer to settle you in. I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to.”

“You’re fine.” Brian squeezed John’s arm gently, then allowed his arms drop. “Do what you need to do. I can hold down the fort.”

“And you’re sure you don’t mind watching Willa?”

As John had said, it wasn’t common for men of this time to watch children without the assistance of a woman. Even John watching his own child without a governess was an oddity. Only the lack of options in the area that John had mentioned in his letters provided some explanation for it, though it wouldn’t last forever.

“I think I can handle it. For a few hours at least.” Brian had done plenty of babysitting in his time for his parent’s colleagues, but it wouldn’t do to explain that to John.

“You’re going to leave me here?” Willa’s arms were folded over her chest. She had appeared in the corridor without either of them noticing. Brian wasn’t sure how long she’d been listening in. “In this musty old house? Alone?”

“No.” John said with a rather paternal smile. “I’m leaving you here with Mr. Randall.”

“Brian,” he corrected. Willa was his sister for God’s sake. He couldn’t have her calling him Mr. Randall. “You can call me Brian.”

She frowned, her shoulders slumping. This clearly did not appease her. “Oh, so you’re going to leave me alone in a musty old house with a strange man.”

“He’s not a strange man.” John gave Brian a look, his eyes rolling slightly as he looked back to Willa. “He’s Mac’s son.” 

“Fine,” she said, not sounding fine about it at all, “But if he chops out my liver and eats it for his—”

“Jesus, Willa,” John snapped, clearly appalled, though Brian found it funny.  “Where in Heaven’s name did you get something like that?”

“One of your books,” she mumbled with a shrug of her small shoulders.

John shook his head, lips pressed together. “Well, I am sure it’s not one of my books.”

“No,” she said, a devilish glint in her eyes that reminded Brian once again that they shared a father. “You prefer the French ones.” Willa threw a hand to her forehead and gasped. “With kissing.” She then proceeded to make a series of smacking noises with her lips.

John just sighed. “I knew it was a mistake to teach you French.” He pivoted towards Brian, awarding him with one of those perfect smiles. “I’ll return as soon as I can. There’s some bread and cheese in the kitchen, if you’re hungry. And if none of that strikes your fancy, my daughter has a perfectly good liver.” He winked, topped his head with a tricorn, and slipped out his own front door.

“Papa taught me how to fight, you know.” Willa said, eyeing him a remarkable sort of Scottish fierceness. 

“Then I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

For a while after John left, Willa avoided Brian, skirting around corners of the house like a pint-sized ghost. She must have realized that he had no intention of doing anything but reading some of her father's books and occasionally checking to see if she was still alive or if there were bandits or some such riding up the hill. Eventually, Willa came into John’s study and began to accost him with comments and questions.

Your hair is even redder than Mac’s.

Did you really kill a mountain lion with your bare hands?

Are you friends with Papa?

Are you a horse groom like Mac?

How do you make those potato chips Papa told me about?

With a sigh, Brian closed the book he’d been trying to read and looked up at his sister, “Why don’t I show you?”

The kitchen at the back of John’s home was spacious, with a massive stone hearth and plenty of room for a cook and several helpers to construct and craft grand meals. Today though, it was just Brian and Willa with purple and yellow potatoes spread out over butcher block tables beneath a sky of dried herbs that filled the room with the delicate aromas of rosemary, thyme and lavender.

Willa stared down at the knife gripped in her hands and hacked a slice off a potato. “How thin do you have to cut them?”

“Thinner than that. Like parchment.” Brian cut off a very thin slice of potato. “And make sure you keep your hand higher up on the knife.”

Her eyes narrowed and she adjusted her grip on the knife. “You know, this work is beneath my position.”

Brian leveled her with the kind of look his mother would give him when he was acting like a particular brat. “I think an attitude like that is what’s beneath you.”

“That’s what Papa says,” she muttered. “Sometimes.”

Brian smiled. He couldn’t help it at the thought of John. “Well, your papa is a very smart man.”

Willa visibly doubled her concentration and cut a thin slice of potato. “Like this?”

“Perfect,” Brian said, proudly.

Together, they finished slicing the potatoes and Willa directed Brian to a hefty square of white lard. He felt overtly witchy as he stirred a cauldron over the hearth until the lard melted and bubbled. He kept Willa back for her own safety as he slid the potatoes into the bubbling oil. It hissed and spit and filled the room with the savory fragrance of cooking potatoes. After a few minutes, Brian retrieved them with a flour sifter he’d attached to some bent wire and they laid the crisp scalding potatoes to drain and dry on cotton kitchen cloth. They sprinkled it all with a healthy layer of salt.

Once they were cooled, Brian gathered them up onto a plate. “Here you are, m’Lady.” Brian bowed as he presented the tray of freshly made potato chips to Willa.

Her small fingers pinched one of the chips and then she popped it in between her lips. Her eyes lit, then they shut and she lifted up onto her toes. Something shone inside her, like this one small thing—something that shouldn’t even exist in this time—that she’d made with her own hands, opened up a whole new world of possibility. “Sweet Jesus. Those are delicious. May I have another? I can’t possibly have just one.”

“We’ll set some aside for your father, then we can have at it.”

They stuffed themselves full of potato chips, talking of nothing important at all. Their conversation was surprisingly easy. Maybe because this girl was his half sister or maybe because she had been raised by John. Conversation was always easy with him, and she was enough like him, despite not being blood. Willa was bright and thoughtful with a certain air that he imagined could only come from being told that the nature of your lineage made you special.

Brian had gone out to feed the horses with Willa’s help. It was muddy and mucky in the stables. He looked down at his boots, which were swarming with leeches.

“Shit,” he shouted, kicking his foot. “We better get back inside before we get bled to death by leeches.”

When he looked up at Willa, her face was bloodless. He thought maybe she’d gotten covered in the leeches herself, but her dress and boots remained clear. Still, he could see her visibly shaking. Willa burst into tears and ran out of the stables.

Shocked, Brian stood still for a moment, then followed after her. Willa had made it as far as the back steps before she collapsed down on them. Unsure what had set her off but wanting to console her, Brian took cautious steps over the field and up to Willa on the steps. Her chest was rising and falling heavily and her hands were balled tight in her skirt. 

“I’m sorry.” Willa mopped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s impolite to cry in front of company, especially at my age.”

“I’m not really company. At least, not the sort of company you have to worry about impressing.” Brian settled down beside her on the back steps, looking out over the grassy field, to John’s black mare scuffing its hooves into the dirt and whinnying. “You know, my mother, Claire? You’ve met her. She’s a healer.”

Willa sniffed. “Mrs. Fraser? Yes. She saved Papa after he was stricken with those awful measles.”

“Well, she always told me that crying was good for you.” Brian shifted so his body was turned in towards Willa. “You see there are all these chemicals in your body that make you feel bad and crying helps release them. If you don’t cry, then they just stay stuck in there.”

“I’ve had many of those chemicals inside me, then. Since Mother died.”

Brian frowned. So that’s what this had been about. “There’s no shame in crying and certainly not about something like that. When my dad died, I cried a lot.”

“I thought Mac was your father.”

“He is,” Brian said, feeling uneasy about admitting it, even in a moment like this. “He’s my true father, but he didn’t raise me. You’ve spent more time with him than I ever have. The man who raised me. He was my dad in every way that mattered and when I lost him, it… broke me.”

Willa nodded, like somehow she knew, even at just eleven years old, precisely what Brian meant by it broke me. “That’s like me and Papa and mother. They’re truly my aunt and uncle.” She paused, her small face pinching up as he stared out towards the falling sun. “I watched it. Mum dying. We were on the ship coming to Jamaica when she got sick. They tried leeches. She looked so small, those awful things eating away at her. She kept telling me to leave, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t just leave my mother there alone, so I stayed and I watched… I watched her die.” The last was an admission and Willa crumpled like paper. Big, wracking sobs burst out of her and swallowed up the quiet. Brian just laid a hand on her back and stayed.

Once Willa was feeling better--those chemicals released--they’d gone back inside and eventually made dinner. After that, Brian had come upon a deck of cards and decided to teach Willa a game he’d played with his mom and dad many times growing up. For some reason, it just felt right to make her a part of this.

“Go fish,” Willa said, smugly.

Brian looked down at his hand and frowned. “No way.”

“Yes…” her eyes narrowed. “Way?”

With a heavy sigh, Brian slammed down his hand. “You win again.”

“I see you two managed to survive without me.” John’s voice filled the room with a warmth that fell over Brian like a cozy blanket.

Brian gave Willa a playful look, then turned his attention to John.“It was a true chore. Your daughter has beat me at every single game.”

John laughed and leaned down to kiss Willa on the cheek. “Good girl.”

“Did you get to eat while you were out?” Brian asked casually. “If not, there’s some dinner left over.” They hadn’t had any meat. John had chickens, but, after the mountain lion, Brian had done his share of killing for the foreseeable future. Beans were protein though, so they’d made beans with corn and squash and ate it on slices of yesterday's bread.

“And we made potato chips!” Willa declared enthusiastically.

John smiled. “I did manage to get dinner, but I won’t turn down those potato chips.” He slid a hand over Brian’s shoulder and left the room behind for the kitchens.

“Come back after,” Willa called after her father. “And we’ll teach you ‘Go Fish’.”

When John returned, he’d already shucked out of his coats, leaving him looking relaxed in just his shirt and breeches. Even his hair was looser than normal. He sat down in the chair between Willa and Brian with the plate of potato chips on his lap. John popped one of the chips in his mouth. 

“Even better than I remember.”

Willa bounced forward in her chair, snatching up the deck of cards and shuffling them, cards snapping pleasantly between her fingers.

John’s eyes went wide. “Where’d you ever learn to do that?”

“Brian taught me.”

“And watch this.” Willa stuck her tongue out between her lips and focused on his fingers before executing a rather adequate bridge shuffle.

John shook his head, but smiled over at Brian with alight eyes. “I leave for a few hours and you turn my daughter into a gambler.”

Later that evening, Brian was sitting in John’s study, his legs tucked up under him. He’d found the wine while cooking dinner and was now sipping sherry now that Willa was off to sleep.

John strode into the room and he was cast in strange shadows from the lit sconces adorning the walls. He said nothing as he crossed over to the sofa and gracefully sat down in it.

“So, now that she’s asleep and you can be honest, how was your afternoon with Willa?” he asked with a beautiful yawn. Brian hadn’t known before that moment that yawns could be beautiful. But they could. They definitely could.

“Growing up I always wanted a little sister…” Brian replied.

John stretched a long arm over the top of the sofa. “And now.”

“Sappy answer or hilarious quip?” Brian asked, adding a flirtatious tone to his voice.

“Truth,” John replied softly, not giving at all to Brian’s flirtatious tone, yet still he was warm.

“She’s… great. John, really. I mean she’s like a human tornado, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake, but in the best way. I wish I wasn’t just meeting her. I mean she’s my sister. I shouldn’t be just meeting her.” Brian felt that maybe in knowing Willa, he understood a little of how Jamie must be feeling about everything he had missed. “And I think she may have even come around to the idea that I’m not going to cannibalize her internal organs.”

“A step in the right direction, I’d say.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters? I never thought to ask.”

“I have three older brothers, two half brothers, Edgar and George, and then my brother Hal. He’s the Duke of Melton, and I…” he frowned, his brow pinching together. “I have a stepbrother.”

“What’s his name?”

John’s lips twitched as if he were going to smile, then it faded. “Percy.”

“Did… something happen to him?”

“Why would you ask that?” John replied, sharply. 

“The way you said his name is all.” Brian sighed. “It sounded… sad.”

“I lost him,” John said.

“I’m—”

“He’s not dead. At least, I don’t think he is, but I haven’t spoken to him since Willa was an infant.” John cleared his throat. “You gave me a truth, so now I’ll give you mine. I was in love with him.” 

Brian blinked, completely unsure how to process that information. Still, he didn’t want to offend John. Not yet anyway. “You were… in love… with your stepbrother?”

“We weren’t raised together, Brian. I met him… well, I actually met him at a molly house. I was there for business, not pleasure,” he assured Brian. “And only later realized his father was engaged to my mother.”

The arrangement was a bit strange, but Brian could also see the benefit in it. No one would question why two stepbrothers were spending so much time together. 

“So,” Brian raised an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ll go all the way with your stepbrother, but you’re far too honorable to fuck me.”

John snorted “It’s not honor. It’s a strong desire to keep my head attached to my neck.”

It always came back to that and, frankly, Brian was getting sick of it. If all John was worried about was Jamie finding out, they could work around that.

“I would be more inclined to believe that if there were any chance we’d be caught.” For God’s sake, John Grey could bend Brian over the sofa right now and fuck him senseless. No one besides the two of them, let alone Jamie Fraser, would ever know about it.

John brought a thumb to his mouth and worried the side between his teeth. His gaze cast into the dark shadows of the room. “There’s a chance. There’s always a chance. I’d say ask my stepbrother, but…” He looked directly at Brian now.  “Percy’s been on the run for more than a decade after being charged with sodomy.”

Brian shivered, cold sweeping through him like a winter wind. “You got caug—no you couldn’t have or you’d be in the same boat. Shit, did he cheat on you?”

“Cheat? I don’t…” John sighed. “He was caught sleeping with another man. I caught him sleeping with another man.”

Brian gaped. “And you turned him in?”

“No, Brian. Christ. How could you think I would...? I wasn’t alone at the time. God, I wish I had been.”

The pain in his voice weighed down the space between them, heavy as lead. It all sucked. There were still plenty of places in his own time where who they were was illegal. He’d even known men who’d been jailed or worse…

“Sorry. I don’t think that. I’m just sorry is all. For you, for him, for all of it.” Truly, all of it, all across time and space and he wished there was anything he could do to fix it.

“It was a long time ago.”

Brian stood from the chair. “Come here.” He reached out and took John’s hand to pull him up from the sofa.

John shook his head. “Brian…” he sounded wary.

“I just want to hug you,” Brian reassured him with the truth. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Not right now anyway. 

A small smile grew on John’s face and he let Brian pull him to his feet. Brian squeezed John’s hand. then tucked himself into John’s neck, arms tight around his waist. A laugh fluttered out John’s mouth as he lifted his arms to encircle Brian and hold him close. Brian felt John shift, relax, putting some of his body weight against Brian.

“Thank you,” John said, breathlessly.

“For what?”

“Just… for being here."

Brian thought, though he did not say it, that it was a silly thing for John to be thankful for when there was nowhere on earth, or even in time, that he would rather be. 

Chapter Text

Grey couldn’t sleep. He kept tossing and turning, a sea of moths fluttering in his stomach. As he lay beneath the bedclothes, he stared into the shapeless dark and tried to will himself to sleep. His attempts were of little use, yet he was far too old to be this giddy about someone, let alone someone he couldn’t have. 

But goddammit, he could have him. If it weren’t for Jamie and Claire. 

Still, even now Grey felt the ghost of Brian’s embrace. He was a truly peculiar man, devoid almost entirely of contrived male pretense. How he managed to remain so pristine, so unafraid of intimacy, Grey did not know. However Brian had done it, John was grateful he had. He’d never met anyone in his life quite like Brian Randall. 

When John finally fell asleep, it was still clinging to the feeling of that embrace. It was wishing he could have it now, in the dark, in the shelter of his bed.

John awoke to pale pink morning light meandering through a split in the drapes. That light came to rest in a stripe across his eyes. For a brief moment, he forgot Brian had come, but when he remembered, he smiled.

Suddenly, it didn’t seem such a chore to drag himself from the bed.

Is Brian already awake? Grey wondered. Possibly not. The man liked to sleep in and, when John had shown Brian to his room the previous evening, Brian was exhausted enough to put up only a cursory fight to sleep in John’s bed instead. If Brian was still sleeping, at least that would give John time to collect eggs and slice up yesterday’s bread to toast in the skillet.

This week, Grey would increase his efforts in finding a cook. Perhaps that way they could actually have something decent to eat, besides Brian’s potato chips. Especially as Brian was meant to be a guest and not playing as one of the servants. 

Downstairs, Grey noticed a variety of issues with the place that he’d been overlooking. The shelves were dusty, the floors and rugs dirtied from foot traffic. The dining room was littered with plates and glasses from the last several nights. He’d let his home fall into an unacceptable mess.

John gathered the dishes into his arms and headed to the kitchen at the back of the house.

Brian was already there, leaning against the sturdy pine table and sipping from a tankard. Coffee, John imagined, based on the rich aroma. Brian’s red hair was in disarray on his head and there were small purplish rings under his eyes. Grey resisted a compelling urge to wrap the young man up his arms and carry him back to bed.

“I apologize for the house being in such disarray. The housekeeper I had left recently to take care of her ailing father and well, we’re still just settling in here. I haven’t had too much of a chance to look for new help, and you wouldn’t think it would fall apart so quickly with only the two of us, but... a friend mentioned several slaves he may no longer have use of.”

Brian dropped the pewter tankard from his hand. Thankfully, it was empty and merely nipped the table and rolled onto the floor.

Grey looked up at the man, just to see him staring, stiff. The only sign Brian was alive and not a corpse was the folded line of flesh between his brows.

“Brian, are you feeling well?” Grey said easily, stepping forward. “You look pale.” When Brian didn’t react to these words at all, Grey reached for his elbow. His fingers only slightly grazed the man’s coat before Brian startled away from him like a scared rabbit.

“You would own a slave ?” 

Grey had seen before the precise look being leveled at him now. Never from Brian. But he’d been confronted by that same look more than once from Jamie Fraser. It had a name. He knew it well by now. Disgust. 

“I treat them fairly,” Grey said cautiously. His words did nothing to remove the look from Brian’s face. It simply left the young man clutching the edge of the table like he might crumple to the floor without its support.

“You treat them... man, do you even fucking hear yourself?” Brian snapped, then shook his head. His knuckles went white as they gripped the pine. A visible convulsion moved through his body. “Oh my God. I think I’m going to be sick.”  

Grey shut his eyes, feeling stupid. He knew why the Frasers had given up River Run. And he suddenly remembered Brian’s words at that evening party. I don’t want to own slaves either. “You’re an abolitionist.” The words were said softly, like the realization they were.

“You goddamn better believe it,” Brian shouted, snarling. He stomped to the door and flung it open. The roar of heavy downpour filled the kitchen. 

“Where are you going?” Grey said. “In that weather.”

Brian shook his head. He didn’t look at Grey when he whispered, “I can’t be in the same room with you right now.” He walked out into the rain.

“Brian,” Grey called after him. The wet torrents disguised his voice so he tried again louder. “ Brian! ” he shouted. It made no difference. Brian was gone.

Grey leaned against the wall, mouth opening and closing as he tried to process what had just happened. He had grown used to the warm way Brian would look at him, as if he were something good and precious. And now… it was just gone. Gone, because of some idle comment he’d barely even considered.

In all his years, Grey had never seen a white man react so strongly, emotionally, in opposition to the concept. Sure, he’d met some who were opposed to slavery. He’d met a few women who found themselves weepy at the idea, but Brian’s reaction was different. It was angry. It was unafraid of reproach. 

Grey himself certainly wouldn’t fight to keep the system in place, but knowing how rich and powerful men relied on it, he struggled to imagine the abolitionists ever winning their cause. Still, it wasn’t as if he disagreed with Brian. 

John Grey knew what the loss of freedom did to a person. He’d watched it enough times in his life to know it well.

The wind gusted the rain hard against the window, distracting John from his thoughts. Brian should not be out there in it, no matter how angry he was. Grey liked the lad, respected him, and honestly, he liked him quite a deal more now, he suddenly realized. Brian had been besotted with Grey since they’d met, but Brian had no difficulty choosing his conviction over anything else he may have hoped for between them. He must have known that many men would have a far less genial reaction to the revelation that someone was an abolitionist, especially in Virginia. Or perhaps, being from Boston, Brian didn’t quite understand what an outsider that made him here. That professing his distaste for the practice could be seen as a direct attack upon a man’s livelihood. Or perhaps, he did know that—and Grey believed he did—and did not care. Reckless. But admirable. 

About as reckless as it would be to walk out into a storm like the one raging outside now, Grey thought. He should wait for Brian to come back and then they could talk, or at least wait for the rain to slow and the booming thunder to quiet before searching the grounds for the man. Yes, it would be foolish to go outside now, Grey thought again, as he grabbed his coat from the hook and opened the door.

  He stepped onto the back porch and stuffed his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He pounded down the steps. Rain pelted against his cheek and his exposed hand as he stomped through the marshy ground, looking for Brian.

Grey caught a glimpse of red hair, whipping in the wind beneath the eave of the servants quarters. Lightning cracked in the sky and John hurried his steps until he was under the slight protection of the roof’s small, leaky outcropping.

“I said I don’t want to be around you right now,” Brian grumbled.

Grey sat down beside him, close, in a small haven from the wetness around them. “You said you didn’t want to be in the same room with me, and this is not a room.” 

Brian’s jaw twitched. He said nothing, but at least, he didn’t get up and walk away. That was a small victory. The silence gave Grey a moment to look over and realize what Brian had clutched in his hand. A piece of parchment marked with— dear God —his own charcoal image.

“That’s a good likeness,” Grey replied tightly. “You’re very talented.” It was. It was realistic, yet carried an emotional weight of understanding that simply looking in a mirror never could. He hadn’t even known Brian could draw.

“I didn’t draw this.” Brian looked at Grey for the first time since he’d walked over, then away back to the drawing. “Phaedra did.”

Phaedra? Grey shut his eyes and let out a small breath. “Your aunt‘s slave.”

“She’s a person.” Brian squared his shoulders, speaking with resolve. “Same as you or I. You’re too good of a man not to know that. At least,” those blue eyes appraised him, made him wither under the sheer force of their gaze. “I thought you were.”

“It’s just what’s done,” Grey said and felt pathetic for it. It was not the response of a man, certainly not the response of a good one.

“Men like us…" Brian swallowed, fingers idly touching his own throat. “…Hanged by our necks is what’s done too. Only people like Phaedra don’t even get the chance to escape their fates by pretending to be something they’re not.”

“You’re right. It’s no excuse, but when you’re different in a fundamental way, a dangerous way, the temptation to draw as little attention to one’s self in other areas can be strong.” He took a deep, steadying breath and blew it back out. “I’ll find some people to hire. I’ll pay them a fair wage.” Grey rubbed his knuckles over Brian’s. “Forgive me.”

Brian didn’t startle back, but he didn’t reciprocate the touch in any way. He just stared down at that charcoal portrait of Grey. “That forgiveness isn’t mine to give.” 

. . .

There was a saying from Brian’s time—something about rose-colored glasses—and he’d just taken off the ones he’d been looking at John through and stomped them into the ground. It was his own fault, Brian guessed, for forgetting what time he was in. Forgetting what the privilege of being a fucking lord could do to someone… and he’d meant it when he said the forgiveness wasn’t his to give. But it was his responsibility to call out the bullshit of other white guys when he saw it. So he did. John had listened, it seemed, had heard and had agreed to make changes. Still, it had been a swift reminder of the world he was in, one that Fraser’s Ridge had mostly sheltered him from. 

It wasn’t like he thought his own time so superior, though. He’d seen the horrific effects of racism his whole life, and after his mom left, Brian went a little… as Roger had said when they’d broken up… “off the rails.” At least in terms of how an upper-middle class white man attending Harvard was meant to behave. What would Jamie Fraser think if he knew his only son had been a fervent anti-war protestor? Brian still had that sign in the window of his apartment in Boston. Make love. Not war. And what would his mom think if she knew he had an arrest record—disturbing the peace, obstruction of traffic, trespassing, loitering. Stephen Bonnet was far from the first time Brian had ever gotten his ass kicked. Even then, even when he was handcuffed and dragged off, he still got treated a shit-ton better than anyone with darker skin. 

Even before then, even before seeking it out, Brian saw it happening all around him. Saw the reaction of his white friends to black kids getting bussed into their school, even his dad had said some cruel things… he’d watched the way people treated Lenny Abernathy. How he’d be accused of stealing things, get called names or asked to sit somewhere else. Sure, Brian had issues of his own. He’d grown up getting called a queer or a fag at school until he learned to hide the mannerisms and behaviors that got those insults hurled in his direction. He was lucky he was able to figure it out and hide it when he needed to, luckier than some other guys he knew. 

So maybe in the intervening years, Brian had forgotten how to do this. How to be “in society.” He’d played the game most of his life. Went to good schools, joined the “right” clubs, helped his father at work, had a summer job at an ice cream shop. So maybe the ice cream shop wasn’t that normal. He did give the owner’s son head at least six or seven different times. He smiled at the memory. He hadn’t seen the guy in years, but Hank had been cute and nervous and his little paper hat was always crooked on his narrow head. And there was that guy in debate club. Nevertheless, no one knew about those secret flings and thus, Brian felt safe in counting those experiences as part of his successful ability to seem normal.

Then, Dad died. And Mom told him about time travel and that his father had actually been a Jacobite rebel from the 18th century and he was the true love of her life and suddenly, he was watching her physically walk through some stones and Brian had no reason to be any of things he’d thought he’d had to be before. 

So he just… wasn’t.

He’d almost dropped out of Harvard, but Lenny talked him into getting his degree. Said he could use it to help people. Brian had considered history into law for post-grad though he struggled to keep his grades up with how often he missed class. Then, Brian found out he was on several government lists after some shit went down in Mississippi over the summer that had changed his life. He’d seen what most white people hadn’t seen or had ignored if they did see it and didn’t support it. He’d seen black women dragged away from lunch counters, despite legally being allowed to be there. He’d seen black children hosed down with water strong enough to tear skin. He’d spent a day caring for the six children of a man who’d been lynched by the klan that evening, while the family made preparations for his funeral. He’d brought out buckets of water to quell the flames of the burning crosses in his friends’ yards.

And still, he would always be safer. Always just be a witness to evil. Could never truly know the pain and the fear felt through whole communities compounded by centuries of hate and dehumanization. 

How could he do this? Be here, in this world? Playing their game? For God’s sake, he had to go right now to deliver information to Tryon, a slave owner and a man who represented everything Brian would see torn down. Maybe he should go back… like his mom wanted him to.

He sighed and stood. Making that decision was for another time. Brian stuffed Tryon’s papers in his coat, walked out of the guest room and down the staircase.

“Where are you off to?” Willa said, skidding up to him.

“I’m off to see the governor of North Carolina for my father.”

“Governor Tryon’s in Virginia?” she said, with a surprising amount of interest. “What’s he doing here? Is it about the Regulators?”

Brian’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about the Regulators?”

“Mac’s friend, Murtagh, argued with Papa about them when we were at Fraser’s Ridge.”

Brian had met Murtagh, though he didn’t know him well yet. He’d overheard him arguing with Jamie about the Regulators. From that conversation, Brian was rather certain Murtagh was one of them, and maybe not just one of them, but one of their leaders. 

“My mom must've nearly blown a gasket. She’s always hated an argument at the dinner table.”

Willa’s brow scrunched beneath a few loose curls. “How would your mother… blow a gasket?”

“Oops,” Brian muttered to himself. He was often so quick to speak that it was far too easy for him to say phrases that didn’t currently exist. Thankfully, people’s minds didn’t jump to ‘time traveler’ every time he said something weird. “I’ll explain later. I’m running late.” He really hoped Willa would forget and he would not have to explain later.

Brian had the door cracked open when he heard John’s voice behind him. “On your way to see Tryon?” 

The man’s voice still—likely always would—made something low boil in Brian’s belly.

“Yes,” Brian said. “I don’t want to be late.”

“No. Try not to be. Tryon finds himself deeply important. Best to be wary of that.”

Brian nodded and took to leave, but then, something told him to stop. He liked John and thought he was the good kind of person, the kind who could listen and change. God knew Brian had to listen, had to change. He wasn't born special and immune to a lifetime of lies fed to him by a society that told him he was better than other people because of the color of his skin . Lenny had given him a chance when they were both barely eleven years old. They were playing at the park and Brian repeated something he’d heard from some racist politician on the radio. It was the one time he’d been punched in the face and deserved it. 

Hell, he was still learning. Probably always would be.

“Thank you for listening today, John,” Brian said. “For hearing me.”

“Please, don’t thank me.” Grey placed a hand on Brian’s arm and squeezed.

“Papa, can I go with Brian?” Willa asked, suddenly at their heels.

John snorted. “No. You know he’s going out on business. Why would you even ask?”

She sighed dramatically and threw her head back so she was looking up at the ceiling. “Because I never get to do anything.”

John turned to his daughter, lips pressed together. “You do lead a very hard life, yes.”

Willa rolled her eyes. “ Brian .”

Briana knelt down so they could be eye-to-eye. “What your dad says goes. Besides, he’s right. You don’t want to waste an afternoon of your life listening to some old man in a wig drone on about himself. How about this? When I come back, I teach you… have you heard of Pythagorus?”

She frowned and shook her head.

“You behave for your dad while I’m gone and when I come back I’ll teach you his theorem. He was a master of triangles.”

She smiled and looked over at John, who just laughed and smoothed a hand over her hair. 

“You love triangles,” he said.

“I’ll be back in a flash,” Brian replied, then stepped through the open front door. 

The flash turned out to be more like a slowly droning light. John had been right about Tryon’s opinion of his own importance. It was very difficult not to announce that he wouldn’t be important, that almost no one would even remember his name. Brian was a history major, and sure he spent more of his time on modern history. But even so, Tryon would be a footnote of a footnote of a footnote, and yet, he walked around like he was fucking Charlemagne. It had been a Herculean effort not to roll his eyes at every other sentence the governor spoke.

The worst part, the fucking worst part, was that Tryon actually offered him a position—a temporary one—but still a position as some kind of go between for him with the governor of Virginia and his business with the Regulators. Tryon trusted Jamie and apparently Brian by association.

You shouldn’t trust me, you ass, Brian wanted to say, but he also figured any information on the Regulators could be useful in keeping Murtagh safe. He may not know Murtagh well, but Brian knew he was a good friend of his mom’s. And, of course, his own interests were far more aligned with the Regulators anyway. Regardless, this did mean he could stay in Virginia for a while. With John Grey. Brian’s heart thrilled a little at a thought. 

Brian rode back through town, trodding through the streets between pedestrians. He saw a flash of familiar blonde hair, and the sweep of a rose colored skirt. He tugged on his reins. The horse neighed as it stopped. He looked over his shoulder to see a face he’d never expected to see again. Brian’s stomach plummeted. It couldn’t be, could it? The girl, she had to be a figment of his imagination. He didn’t know her name. He wished he knew her name so he could call out to her, make sure she was all right. Brian hadn’t seen her since that day. He’d blacked out during the beating and the last thing he remembered was hearing her scream. Then, he woke up in some grimy room that called itself a physician’s office, with a big, red-head Scottish boulder pacing by the foot of his bed, with rosary beads in his hand, and the sound of his mother chewing out the doctor who’d seen to him.

But Brian swore it, that girl was her. There and gone far too quickly for Brian to follow in the crowd. But still, there.

“ Oi, yer taking up the whole road.”

“Sorry,” Brian mumbled, as he kicked the sides of his horse to encourage him forward. He spared another look over his shoulder, hoping to see another swish of rose cotton or ash-blonde. He saw nothing, so Brian looked ahead again, over the twitching ears of his horse and took the road back to John’s.

After tying up his horse in John’s stable, he walked back in through the front door.

“I’m back,” he called out. “John? Willa?” Brian drew in a deep breath through his nose. The air smelled burnt, like smoke, as if there had been a fire. Fear shot through Brian and he called out even louder as he hurried down the corridor. “John! Willa! Where are you?”

Brian heard a cough and the squeal of a door opening, followed by a gray cloud of smoke. 

“John!” he shouted again, heart racing.

“Shit. Christ. Bloody hell,” came John’s reply as he emerged from the smoke, waving a cast iron pan.

“Where’s Willa?” Brian said. “Are you alright, John? What’s happened?”

Now Willa emerged from the smoke, pushing it away from her small face with her hands. “I’m right here. Papa had the brilliant idea that me and him should cook you dinner this time and instead.” Willa glared at her father. “He nearly roasted both our arses.”

“It’s not polite to say ‘arse,’ Willa,” John coughed again into his sleeve.

“It’s a lot more polite than what you were saying a moment ago,” she mumbled, then whined. “Now what are we going to eat?”

“Yeah,” Brian sighed. “Where I come from this is normally when we call for a pizza.”

“Aren’t you from Boston?” Willa replied skeptically.

“Yes, but that does give me an idea…” Brian continued. He knew John had cheese, plus the ingredients for a bread like pizza dough, and he’d noticed a tomato plant in the garden. “Let’s go open the rest of the windows and try to air this place out before we all die of asphyxiation and then I’ll introduce you to my second favorite food.”

Chapter Text

The last several weeks in Virginia had been some of the best of Brian’s life. He hated working for a man like Governor Tryon, but it provided him insight about the state of things, especially in regards to the Regulators. He didn’t know Murtagh well personally, but the man had saved his mother’s life, Jamie’s too, and Brian empathized with the plight of his men. Besides, this work for Tryon required only a fraction of his time. The rest of his time was spent in this oft disheveled farmhouse and its grounds. 

Brian spent mornings collecting blue and brown eggs from the hens with Willa, then cooking them in goose fat. They’d gather around the table with John and eat them while drinking cups of black tea with fresh cream. When Brian wasn’t working, his afternoons were devoted to simple chores, going into town with John or Willa to make purchases, reading through the books on John’s shelves or writing letters to his mom and, occasionally, even Jamie, though he always struggled with what to say in those. Besides, John seemed to write the man often enough.

Sometimes, Brian would teach his sister things too. Geometry, Algebra. Physics, especially. How to calculate velocity. The nature of thermodynamics. Science and math weren’t his areas of expertise, but he was adequate enough to teach an eleven-year-old. 

Brian’s favorite part of the day, however, were the evenings. He spent those making and eating supper with Willa or John—he managed makeshift hamburgers just last week—playing games or doing chores together until Willa’s bedtime. (He was currently telling her a story about a little girl who got swept away to a magical land called Oz.) Then he and John would spend time alone, discussing work or art or literature or sharing stories from their lives, past and present. Of course, Brian had to alter the nature of some of his stories. Cars became carriages, movies became the theatre. At least once a night, usually in John’s study, after a glass or two of brandy, one of them would say to the other, “Tell me the truth”.

Tonight, it was Brian who happened to say it.

John was laid out on the settee, head propped onto a velvet pillow. His eyes were cast up towards the ceiling. “I was faithful to my wife.”

Brian blinked in surprise. “How long were you married?”

“Seven years.”

“Shit, man. Did you two... you know... I know it wouldn’t be the same, but were you sleeping with her? Or did you just abstain for seven fucking years?”

John laughed. “We would… occasionally, but not often. I don’t know if she realized I wasn’t interested or if she just wasn’t.”

“Do you think she knew?”

John sighed. “I don’t know, and I don’t know if I hope she did or I hope she didn’t. She seemed… content, enough. But then I think… did I rob her of some grand love story, of children of her own? I mean, I would’ve given her children, but she chose against it. Said Willa was enough and she is.”

“How many people do you actually think get grand love stories?”

“Fair enough,” John said. “But your parents did, for one.”

“Grand, I guess, but not easy. They spent twenty years apart. Broken hearted and married to people they… didn’t love.” Brian wasn’t sure he’d ever admitted his dad and his mom hadn’t loved each other, at least they hadn’t in his lifetime. Not like that. “It’s hard, I think, almost impossible to find another whose feelings match your own. My truth… I was in love with my best friend for years. His name was Lenny. His father was a physician and close to Mom. I realized at about thirteen that my feelings for him were the feelings most boys had for girls and I… like a complete buffoon… tried to kiss him.”

“Christ.” John let out a sympathetic laugh. “We’ve all been there.”

“He didn’t react well. It hurt our friendship for a long time. I think his reaction would’ve been different had I just told him who I was, rather than… anyway, he got over it, but it was tough. To care so much for someone and know they would never feel the same.”

“Yes… it is,” he said with the low, sad voice of a man who knew just what he was talking about.

“Then, there was Roger and I mean, he was, at least, like us, and I did like him. I liked him a lot, actually. We were together for a while, and he was even the one that helped Mom find Jamie, but it just wasn’t right. I tried to say it was because he was older than me, wanted different things, too set in his ways. But those were just excuses.It’s so hard to explain. It was almost right, but something was missing. I just knew, somehow, that he wasn’t the one for me.” Brian found that his gaze drifted to John, to the lines of his body stretched out over the settee. He was lovely and clean, yet beneath it all was something wild and exciting. Brian swallowed and turned his gaze away. “I think I’m just cursed to meet men whose feelings are not the same as mine.” He thought his voice sounded bitter, maybe even accusatory, which he had not meant.

“That’s not fair, Brian.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I know you can’t choose how you feel and it’s not right for me to make it seem like I’m guilting you for not feeling that way towards me. I’m not.”

“Christ, you make me bloody crazy.” John slung his legs over and stood from the settee. He walked over to Brian in the armchair and knelt down before him. “Your father is my dearest friend, and I care for your mother as well. On top of all of that, I am a father to your sister. The reason I have chosen as I have for us is not because I do not want you.”

“And if I wasn’t. Jamie’s son. Willa’s brother. What would you do with me right now?”

John rose, just a little, so they were looking in each other’s eyes. “I would take you upstairs, tear the clothes from your body, throw you onto my bed and make love to you until you were sobbing on my prick.”

Their breaths were heavy and loud in the study, mixing with each other. John's eyes dropped down to Brian’s lips, then Brian’s followed his lead. Brian leaned forward. Wanting. God, how he wanted. There was sherry on John’s lips and he wanted to drink it down. Their noses touched, gentle as a feather, and Brian lips had almost, almost, brushed John’s when John pulled back.

“Go to bed,” John said, turning away. “Now. Before I do something that I will regret.”

“John.”

“Darling, please.” He sounded sad. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Brian didn’t know what else to do, so he stood and walked out of the study, fighting a strange and vicious urge to cry.

Brian dragged himself off to bed with a sinking feeling in his gut. He forced himself to undress down to his shirt, chewed one of mint leaves he’d stored because he couldn’t stand a bad taste in his mouth. He could still feel John’s breath on his lips and still hear his words in that warm, sultry accent, throw you onto my bed and make love to you until you were sobbing on my prick.

He wanted to cry. Or throw something. Or hit someone. It wasn’t fair to like someone so much, to connect so deeply with them, to want them with a dizzying fire unlike anything you’d felt before and to know they wanted you back, but wouldn’t have you because of a father you hadn’t even known existed for the vast majority of his life.

Trying not to think any more of it, Brian crawled under the covers and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to sleep. He laid there an hour or two, unable to drift off, when he heard his bedroom door squeak open.

Brian yelped and jolted upright.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Would you mind if I…?” John stood at the edge of Brian’s bed, smoothing a hand over the quilt. In the moonlight streaming in through the window, Brian could see John worrying his lip.

“Of course not.” Brian threw back the covers to invite him in “Is everything okay?”

John hesitated, but then slid in beside him, a warm and comforting presence in the bed. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “I just couldn’t sleep. I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier.”

“You don’t have to, John. This… what’s between us… is confusing and complicated. I know.”

“It is hard for me as well. I reckon you imagine that it is not, but it is. It is quite hard. It’s hard not to have you, and it’s hard that I want you.” The sound of John’s breath was so long and heavy he must’ve emptied his lungs entirely. “I feel so guilty that I want you.”

Brian wasn’t sure if it made it better or worse that John wanted him too, but he hated that John felt guilty for it.

“We don’t choose who we have feelings for. You shouldn’t have to feel guilty, but I know Jamie’s your friend and Willa complicates things ever more. You’re just a good man, John. It’s one of the things I like about you. I do happen to wish you were a little less good, though.”

John looked over at him, sidling several inches closer. Not touching but close enough that Brian could feel the heat radiating from him. “I am in your bed, Brian. That’s not… above reproach. It’s hard to know where to draw the lines with you, especially as…”

“As I wouldn’t draw them at all?” Brian supplied.

“Yes.” After a long pause, John’s voice filled the silence again. “Do you mind that I’m here, even though I can’t kiss you or… take you?”

Brian risked brushing the backs of his knuckles over John’s warm, stubbly cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, John. I had so much trouble sleeping without you after you left the ridge. I got used to your snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“Babe.” Brian laughed. “I hate to break it to you, but you definitely snore.”

John gave him a strange look, likely a result of the pet name. But, hell, John called him “darling” so if Brian wanted to call John “babe,” he could shut up about it.

“I missed you too,” John finally said with a sigh. Then he reached out a tentative hand to brush away a curl from Brian’s forehead. “Brian…would you mind if I held you?”

“No…” Brian squirmed over, snuggling in by John’s side, placing his head against the well-worn linen of his shirt. “I’d mind much more if you didn’t.”

John kissed the top of his head and let out a quiet, little sigh. “Good night, darling.”

Brian stepped with bare feet over the porcelain precipice into the stream of hot water rushing from the shower head. The beads of water pelted against his skin, a warm and wet massage that relaxed long-aching muscles. He braced a hand against the tile and let the rain of the shower cascade with delicious pressure over his neck, shoulders and back. 

Steam filled the room, choking out just enough of the air that Brian felt dizzy, floaty, lightheaded. He didn’t mind. Couldn’t mind. Not with the incredible sensation of hot water pelting him. It had been so long since he’d felt anything but the chilled water of a river, since he’d rinsed with buckets from the well behind John’s.

John. Brian tightened like a coil. If he was here… back in his time… what about John? Oh God.

Before he could fully panic, the metal hooks jangled as the plastic shower curtain was pulled back. Through the heavy cloud of steam, John appeared and Brian could breathe again. He’d taken John back with him here. That was good. Very good, he thought, as those taut arms encircled his waist and brought them close together. John’s mouth covered his like an electric blanket. 

Large, calloused hands roamed over Brian’s much softer skin, then down between his legs. A gasp tore from Brian’s lips and he bucked into the touch. Hot wet lips attacked his neck, then moved in a line down his torso, until tight incredible suction wrapped around his dick, making his vision go spotty.

“Your mouth,” Brian muttered, deliriously. “God, John. Don’t stop. Don’t… Fuck.”

His body arched into the tight heat as he spasmed through the delicious pressure.

“Brian,” he heard his name. John’s voice. But that didn’t make sense. John’s mouth was still around him, drinking down his release. “Brian.”

A solid hand on his shoulder and he was no longer in the shower. No longer in the future. And John’s mouth was no longer around him. 

Instead, John sat up beside Brian in the bed, staring down at him with nervous eyes.

“Hmm?” Brian sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“You…” John swallowed. His hair was a mess and he looked lovely and disheveled in the early morning light. His eyes drifted down Brian’s body and Brian followed his gaze.

Brian had kicked off the bed clothes, his shirt rucked up to reveal the wet head of his penis and the shimmer of his release all over his thighs. Shit.

“You… said my name,” John whispered.

“I was dreaming of you,” Brian admitted.

John’s eyes fluttered shut and he lifted his hand until it was hovering mere inches over Brian’s thighs. “May I?”

Is he actually asking to…? Brian just nodded.

John dragged a finger through the stickiness, then brought it up to his mouth and painted it over his tongue.

Brian nearly choked. “Talk about mixed signals.”

John’s brow furrowed as he licked his lips. “Mixed… what?”

“Nothing.” Brian’s eyes drifted down where John’s stiff cock was tenting the sheets, then back up to John’s face. 

“Did you know you taste like … if you cooked meringue over a campfire.”

Brian snorted. “That’s very specific.” He was suddenly overcome with the image of John as a warty-nosed spunk witch, stirring up big cauldrons of meringue-flavored seed. “What do you taste like then? I didn’t get to try… before, when we…” Of course he hadn’t. Because that night John had spilled his release deep inside Brian and it had been fucking incredible.

“I don’t think I taste like much of anything. No one’s been able to tell me. I reckon I’d say bland, like egg whites.”

“Meringue is egg whites.”

“Yes.” John laughed. “But it’s different.”

Brian took another look at John’s hard-on beneath the covers. “I could try and tell you… you know… for your edification.”

It was a risky move, Brian knew, so he was surprised, and elated, when John took himself in hand and began to stroke. As he did, Brian took note of how John liked it. Just in case. One day. Maybe. Long, insistent tugs had him panting and arching. His gaze locked on Brian’s, making his gut swirl.

“God, Brian, I… I’m so close, but I…” John let out a delectable little whine.

Brian considered touching John to help him out, but he’d been pushed away every time he tried. Instead, he pulled his shirt up over his hips, exposing his spent cock and balls lying on his thighs. “John,” he whispered quietly. “Look at me.”

“Christ.” John wrenched off the bed, spilling like a fountain through his fingers.

Once he caught his breath, he brought his hand towards Brian’s face, wordless. Brian expected John to swipe his seed off on Brian’s lips so he could lick it away. Instead, the warmth fell against his cheek.

“John,” he whined. “What are you—?”

John hushed him and kept on.

“Seriously. What the hell?” On his left cheek, Brian felt a swirling curve. “Is that a heart?”

“Mmhm,” John said, sticking his tongue out between his lips as he moved over to Brian’s other cheek and began drawing there too. “And my initials. J. W. G,” he said as he constructed the sticky letters on Brian’s skin. Then, finally, he brought what was left to his lips, letting Brian suckle it off. Far longer than he needed to have him clean. Brian loved the weight and taste on his tongue. 

“And?” John asked as he pulled his fingers from Brian’s mouth and Brian instinctively chased after them, missing the feeling already. 

Brian licked at the top of his mouth, trying to understand the flavor. When hit him what it tasted like, he started laughing.

“What the devil could possibly be so humorous?”

Brian bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Sorry, it’s just I have an idea why you haven’t been able to find a man that can tell you what you taste like.”

John raised a clever eyebrow. “Yes, and what is that?”

Brian shook his head. “I shouldn’t tell you… oh, what the hell… you taste like something, um, very specific and very rare from… Boston.”

“Boston?” John did not look the least bit convinced. 

“Yes.” Brian cleared his throat. “You taste exactly—and I mean exactly—like Bazooka bubble-gum.”

“What in God’s teeth is Bazooka bubble-gum?”

A thought struck him so hard it nearly knocked him off the bed. “Oh my God.” He laughed. “I’ve got some. I can show you.” Brian kicked his way out of bed and rushed over to the chest of drawers that he’d started to fill up with his own things. He dug through his shirts, then tugged out the leather satchel he’d brought with him. He had a few things in it. A photograph of his father, Frank Randall. His senior class ring, a hand-stitched handkerchief Lenny’s aunt had given him that summer in Mississippi, his favorite purple guitar pick, a copy of the article regarding his parents’ death, a page torn from a book of Walt Whitman’s poetry, and yes, just what he was looking for. A paper lunch bag crumpled and filled with candy—an atomic fireball, Sugar Babies, a Charleston Chew and Cherry Mash, Turkish Taffy, a Cup-O-Gold and several pieces of Bazooka bubble gum. 

Brian unwrapped the bubble gum. He wasn’t sure he was ready to show John something as impossible as the brightly colored packaging. Still, he unfolded the wrapper and looked at the small comic inside. The sight made him smile, but he just shoved it back into the leather bag and brought the pink rectangle over to John. He started to hand the gum to John when Brian slammed his hand shut.

“Wait,” Brian said.

John’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“We need to do this properly.”

“Do what properly?”

Brian swiped the stickiness from his cheek onto his finger. He held his finger out to John. “Taste this first.”

“You cannot be serious.”

Brian sighed. “Just do it, man.”

John frowned, pursing his lips, but then leaned forward and sucked the seed off Brian’s finger.

“Okay, now…” Brian started to hand him the gum again before changing his mind. Again. “No. We have to do it the right way. For science. You need a palette cleanser.” 

There was a porcelain pitcher on the chest of drawers next to a cup. He poured some water from the pitcher into the glass and handed it to John. “Take a drink and swirl it around.”

John took the glass, drank and swirled, then swallowed. “Are you certain you haven’t gone mad?”

Brian just ignored him and finally presented him with the pink bubblegum. “Here.”

“What the devil is that?”

“Bazooka bubble gum, like I said. Take it. Just chew it though. Don’t try to swallow it or it will stay in your stomach for seven years.”

“What?” John squawked.

“Okay, that part might not be true, but still don’t swallow it.”

John took the gum from Brian, placed it on his tongue, and started to chew.

“That’s the taste though, isn’t it?” Brian puffed up, feeling quite proud for no real reason whatsoever.

“Yes. For Christ’s sake. It tastes exactly like me and I haven’t a clue how to feel about it, but I don’t think I want to keep chewing on it.”

Brian laughed and put out his hand. “Spit,” he said. The way his mother often would when he’d been caught chewing gum at some inopportune time.

John shook his head, but let the gum drop into Brian’s palm. He tossed the gum into his own mouth. Maybe that was gross, but this was John and Brian did have the man’s cum all over his face anyway. Chewing the same gum was hardly as bad, right?

“Brian!” Willa’s voice called for him in the hall. “Are you awake? I can’t find Papa anywhere.”

“Yes,” he said, without thinking. “What? Just wait. Hang on.”

As Brian scrambled to throw on his breeches, John pointed at his face. Fuck. Right. He opened up a chest of drawers and pulled out a neckcloth. He soaked it in water and started rubbing it on his face.

“Brian,” Willa whined.

“Just give me a second, kiddo,” he said, looking over at a frightened John on the bed. “Fuck,” Brian mumbled then grabbed an extra quilt from by the hearth and hurled it over John. Wildly, he rumpled up the bed to make John look like a lumpy mess instead of a person, then threw a pillow over him for a good measure. 

Brian opened the door just a crack, but Willa burst through anyway. “Have you seen Papa?”

“No, I just woke up. Why would I have seen your dad?” Because he slept in your bed last night, chided an accusatory thought. 

“I don’t know. Perhaps because you two are always together.”

We're not always… “I clearly just woke up, didn’t I?” Brian said, trying to use his body to block her view of the lump in his bed. “So no I haven’t seen him. What do you need him for?”

“Uh, I’m hungry and he won’t employ a cook.”

“Just go downstairs, Wills. Let me finish getting dressed and then I’ll make you breakfast.”

“No eggs though, Brian. I tire of eggs.”

He curtsied deeply. “Yes, your majesty,” he said, then ushered her out the door, shutting it behind him. 

John peeked worried eyes out over the quilt. God, he was adorable. And beautiful. And perfect.

Brian flung himself back dramatically on the bed, then tugged the quilt down even farther, laughing. 

“Dear God, you infuriate me!” John suddenly snapped.

Brian stopped laughing and blinked, startled. “What? Why?”

The laugh that tumbled from John’s lips was broken, near hysterical. “Because you bloody make me happy, that’s why.” 

“You are so weird,” Brian said, dumbfounded and shaking his head. “You make me happy too, but you don’t see me being a little bitch about it.”

John grabbed the goose feather pillow that was on his stomach and whacked Brian in the head with it. “Arse.” 

Brian grabbed the pillow and hit John with it, hard. A gust of feathers burst from the fabric. As the soft white rained down around them, Brian found himself wishing, quite madly, that he could stay in this moment with this man for the rest of his life. 

Chapter Text

Brian Randall stumbled into midday light. The sun’s warmth on his skin attempted a resurrection following his recent death from boredom. He could only endure listening to another discuss the price of different types of tea and their tax rates for so long before he wished the colonists would come along and dump him in the harbor with the Bohea and the Congou and the fucking Singlo.

Stomach growling, Brian hurried to the west side of the building where he’d tied and left his horse earlier that day,

“Mister Randall,” a voice whispered out of nowhere.

He jumped and scanned around for the source of the sound before the woman’s voice called out his name again. This time a familiar face popped out from behind a wooden post. Dark skin, warm eyes, lovely high cheekbones.

“Phaedra?” Brian spat, eyes blinking. What in the hell was she doing here? 

She hushed him, then looked surprised at herself, and took a tentative step forward. A cloak concealed her small body, the hood bunched on her shoulders.

“What are you doing in Lynchburg, and like… how?” he asked

Something flashed across her face, but she hid the expression quickly enough Brian couldn’t be certain it was ever really there. “I...” Her eyes widened and her breaths fell in a heavy rhythm. “Mistress Cameron has errands in Lynchburg and I was sent to—“

A horse and its rider dashed between them in a flurry, splattering mud on Brian’s breeks and sending Phaedra jumping back with a spit curse.

“Are you al...“ A glare of light on the silver barrel of a pistol on the ground arrested Brian’s attention and shut him up. He stared down at the object and stopped breathing.

There was no chance in Hell Jocasta Cameron had sent Phaedra here with a gun. It was incredibly illegal for Phaedra to possess a firearm. Not to mention, it would be strange for Jocasta to have sent Phaedra here at all, even gunless. 

Brian’s eyes met Phaedra’s. Her brows drew together, eyes wide, face paling. She jerked forward to snatch the pistol off the ground before Brian could. Not that he was moving to grab it. He was just standing there, stunned and useless.

Phaedra’s hands shook as she aimed the weapon at Brian’s breastbone, as tense and jittery as a frightened rabbit. 

Brian’s heart thundered against his ribs as he raised his hands in instinctive surrender. He’d never been held at gunpoint before, even with Bonnet. He was no threat to her, but he understood why she would think so, and he also understood what she would be risking by letting him go: her life and her freedom.

“Don’t move. I’ll shoot.” Her voice trembled. Her hands too.

“I won’t,” Brian said as calmly as he could manage while staring down the barrel of a gun grasped in the hands of a very nervous woman. “Shit. I have no idea how to explain this to you.” 

She blinked. “Explain what?”

“There’s no reason for you to believe me, even though it’s true.” 

“What’s true?”

The sound of horses and pedestrian traffic surrounded them on both sides, if someone happened to walk down this way and see a black woman holding a gun on a white man. Fuck. He had to get her to put it down. Somehow. Or shoot him and run. Though he was less enthusiastic about the latter possibility. 

“Phaedra, if someone sees you pointing a gun at me, you’re screwed. Please. ”

She shook her head. “You’ve seen me.” 

Brian had seen her and he understood the unfair leverage that afforded him. This wasn’t fair. Nothing about this backwards fucking time was fair. Phaedra had no reason to trust that Brian would never turn her in, never say a damn thing to anyone ever, but trusting him was still probably her best chance. Brian’s too.

“I would never, ever turn you in. Ever. I understand that’s hard to believe. But if someone else sees you, they definitely will, right? ”

Hands still shaking, there was calculation evident in her face as she came to realize that, as awful and unjust as it was, Brian was right. Slowly, she lowered the gun and stashed it away in her cloak.

Brian let out a breath through pinched lips. “What did you need?” he asked.

“What?”

“You… called out to me. You could’ve stayed hidden. Why?”

A broken laugh tripped and fell from her lips. “I… haven’t eaten in weeks. I was desperate enough that I thought perhaps if you believed I was here doing your aunt’s bidding, you might have something to spare me. Then I dropped that bloody pistol…”

Brian turned his back to Phaedra, as he reached into his saddle bag. “How did you know I was in Lynchburg?”

“I didn’t know.. I simply happened upon you and thought, well, you had been… kind to me… at River Run.”

Brian pulled out a gleaming green apple and turned around, holding it out to Phaedra. She grabbed it from him and sank her teeth into it with a hearty crunch.

“Other than that, I only have the crust of my bread I didn’t finish, but I can get you some more at home,” he said.

Phaedra swallowed. “Home? I thought you lived with your mother and father in North Carolina.”

“I do.” Was it strange that he’d so quickly come to think of Lynchburg as home? “I guess. But I’m staying here for a while with… well, you probably remember Lord John.”

A small smile twitched onto her lips. “Yes. You purchased the portrait I drew of him.”

Heat warmed Brian’s cheeks and he nodded. “You’re welcome to come back to the house. I can make up an excuse for why you’re here.”  After their heated conversation on the subject, Brian did believe John had become far more sensitive to the matter, he didn’t believe John would be the type to turn her in. He didn’t love the idea of lying to John, but he also wouldn’t risk Phaedra’s safety just so he could feel better about not keeping secrets from himJohn.

Phaedra’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to help me?”

Brian considered how he could answer, what he could say to explain that he was genuinely on her side in a way that someone from this time could understand. “I’m an abolitionist,” he finally said. “Slavery’s wrong and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

She appraised him with those still-narrowed eyes, then softened. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an abolitionist.”

“Probably not many in North Carolina. My mom is one too, though.”

“Is that why she always avoided my help?” Phaedra asked as she finished off the apple, core and all. 

Thinking back on it, Brian had noticed his mom not taking the help of enslaved people at River Run, the way the other’s did and the way he had to at the time.

“I’d imagine so. I would’ve more too probably. Had I not been incapacitated for like half the time we knew each other,” Brian said. “Did you want the bread?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Brian fetched what was left of his bread, feeling silly having to give her no more than a crust. “Did you want to go back to the house? I know it probably feels like a risk for you. I do have some coin, though if you’d prefer. I could go buy you food to take with you, but there’s a lot more at the house. You could also bathe and change clothes, rest a bit. It’s a long way to… where are you trying to go anyway?”

“Canada maybe… or one of the Indian tribes.” She shook her head. “I know it does not make much sense. Mistress Cameron was not especially cruel, but…”

“You don’t have to try to explain anything to me, Phaedra. Freedom is reason enough.”

Her lips curled into a small, tired smile. “I do miss eating though. Perhaps I shall take you up on your offer, Mister Randall.”

“Brian,” he said. “Please. Call me Brian.”

He smiled in return, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was fucking unfair she needed his help, but still, he was glad Phaedra was allowing him to give it where he could.

* * *

Grey had spent the vast majority of the day tucked away in his study reading through stacks of paperwork and adding items and amounts to a thick leather-bound ledger. His daughter joined him in the room for most of the day as well. Her voluminous skirts filled the leather chair and hid her tucked up legs. She was reading the book Brian had purchased her,  Experiments and Observations on Electricity, authored by a man named Benjamin Franklin. Grey’s afternoon had occasionally been interrupted by fragments of information about insulators and conductors or positive and negative charges, whatever it all meant.

After hearing some commotion in the house, he figured Brian was home from his work for Tryon. Grey departed his study and followed the sound into the kitchen at the back of the house where he found Brian rummaging around the tables and crates, filling his arms full of bread, fruits, and vegetables.

“Darling, what are you doing?” Grey asked, surprising himself at how easily the endearment came to him in a casual moment. 

Brian gasped, startled and dropped a large purple carrot that rolled to Grey’s feet. He picked the vegetable up and handed it back to Brian.

“I’m… hungry.” His voice was small, fidgety almost.

Grey blinked. “Clearly.” There was also clearly more to whatever was going on.

Brian’s back straightened and, with shoulders pulled back, he looked Grey in the eye. “Uh and Phaedra is here.”

It was Grey’s turn to be startled. “Your aunt’s slave?”

Brian visibly bristled at the phrasing, which brought Grey back to the conversation they’d had all those weeks ago, to the look of disgust and distrust he’d seen in Brian’s eyes at the time. He never wanted to see it again. They managed to find peace and trust between them since, but they also hadn’t discussed the subject. Not that John believed he was at odds with Brian on the matter, but he wasn’t certain if Brian knew that or entirely believed it. 

“Y-yes,” Brian finally said. “She was sent to do… errands in town and I offered her some food and a place to stay. I, um, hope that’s alright.”

He didn’t mind. They had plenty of room and he liked Phaedra well enough. He knew Brian did too. Regardless, it was more than odd that a female house slave would be sent a state away by her mistress. “Where is she now?” Grey asked.

“Um, outside. I was going to bring this out to her, and then we were going to have lunch outside.”

Lunch was what Brian always called the midday meal. John had grown used to it, especially as Willa had begun using the term, as well as a variety of other strange words Brian had brought here from ‘Boston’. “You’re both welcome to eat inside if you’d prefer. I’ll invite her in.”

“Wha— okay.”

Grey strode across the kitchen to the door. He pushed it open and sure enough, Phaedra was standing on his back porch, looking still lovely but worse for the wear. “Come in,” he said, smiling at her.

“Yes, sir,” she said stiffly.

“Brian needs a pack mule for the amount of food he was attempting to cart out of my house,” he said, an attempt at levity. Grey held open the door for her. “Go ahead, Miss.”

Phaedra eyed him skeptically, but hurried inside. She visibly relaxed as she closed in on Brian’s side.

“John said we could eat in here,” Brian said, laying out the food on a linen cloth. “It looks like it might rain anyway, so it’s probably for the best.”

“Papa,” Willa called out from somewhere in the hall. “Where are you?” Her head popped around the corner, Brian’s gift tucked under her arm. “Brian! You’re back. The book you gave me is so groovy. Did you know I can make electricity? Look!” Willa started to rub her stocking-clad feet on the rug.

Grey asked, “What’s groov—Ow!” A small blue light sparked between Willa’s hand and Grey’s forearm. 

“That is pretty groovy,” Brian said, a big smile spreading across his face.

Instinctively, Grey gave Phaedra a look as she seemed to be the only one who was just as confused as he was about this groovy electricity. She gave a small shake of her head in commiseration. 

Willa looked up at Phaedra and asked, “Are you the new cook? Because everything Brian cooks is quite strange and Papa doesn’t know how to cook anything.”

“I made dinner last week,” Grey argued.

“You burnt dinner last week,” Willa grumbled in reply.

“Strange?” Brian scoffed. “What’s strange about pigs in a blanket?”

Willa leaned over to Grey and whispered, “Does he hear himself when he speaks?”

“ Anyway, ” Brian said. “ Miss Phaedra is a friend of mine. She’s going to be staying with us for a few days.”

“So what are we having for dinner?” Willa asked as she sat down on a stool by the carving table. “And are bedclothes involved?”

Brian gave Willa a narrowed eyed glare. “We’re having hamburgers.”

“I don’t believe we have any ham,” Grey said.

“There’s no ham in hamburgers.”

Willa sighed, looking up to Phaedra. “Do you see what I must endure daily?” 

Phaedra cast a glance to Brian then looked back at Willa. “Indeed, you must be quite strong, My Lady.”

Willa perked up, back straightening, as if she quite appreciated the validation. 

Grey, meanwhile, had an ever-growing feeling that something else was going on here. Something unusual. He’d gotten to know Brian well enough to feel the shift in the usual easiness with which he carried himself. 

He seemed tense, as did Phaeda. Tired, clothes dirtied from travel. And, in all his life, he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of an unaccompanied young female house slave being sent hundreds of miles to run an errand.

“So…” Brian said, as if he somehow understood what Grey was thinking and wanted to distract him. “I’m starved. Phaedra, I know you’re hungry too. What about you, Wills?”

Willa shrugged. “I could eat,” his daughter replied casually.

“You wanna eat with us too, John?” Brian asked, popping a bit of crusty bread into his mouth.

“No, I’m… I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’ve already eaten.”

Grey hadn’t already eaten, but he couldn’t just sit there. He had to go into his study, into the quiet and think of what the bloody hell he was going to do with the escaped slave in his kitchen. 

** * 

Brian peeked into John’s study, with a tray balanced in his arms. “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but I thought you could use some tea.”

“Thank you,” John said, though he barely glanced up at Brian, returning his attention to the parchment spread out before him on the desk.

“Is everything okay?” Brian asked, setting the tea tray down on a bare portion of his desk.

John sighed, then huffed once through his nostrils, shaking his head. He looked up. “I don’t know, Brian. You tell me.”

An uneasiness began to settle between Brian’s ribs, his throat tightening. “What?”

“What…?” John’s head fell into his hands and he squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He lifted his gaze back up, settling his chin on his fist. “I should feel quite insulted.”

Brian drew back, blinking. “Why?”

“That you imagine me so easy to fool.”

That lump in Brian’s throat grew even bigger. Still, if there was even the smallest chance John meant something else, he couldn’t give Phaedra away. And even if that was what John meant, he wouldn’t confirm his suspicions. “Fool you how?”

John let out a heavy breath and stood to walk over to the window. Light cast over his face as he stared outside, over the garden. “Do either one of you at least have a reasonable plan?”

“Plan for what?” Brian tried again. “She’s leaving soon… to go back to River Run. I didn’t think you would mind her staying for a few days.”

John turned from the window, back to Brian, those eyes that were so easy to get lost in stared him down. “Do you not…? No.” John sighed. “Of course you do. You’re not a fool.”

“John…”

“It’s only that you think I am one.”

Anger surged inside Brian and his hands curled into fists at his sides. “It’s better than what you must think of me.”

John’s head titled, as if he were genuinely curious what Brian had meant. “And what do you presume I think?”

“That I’m desperate and weak enough that you could use my feelings for you to manipulate a confession out of me.”

“I’m not—“

“But you are. Phaedra is my friend and let’s say what you’re insinuating is the truth. I’m not saying it is, but let’s say for the sake of this stupid argument that it is. You’re trying to fucking make me feel bad that I’m keeping something from you because you know I care about you, but what kind of shit person would I be if that worked? Phaedra could be killed, certainly would be beaten and dragged back into a life of slavery, and I give her up because I feel bad that I hurt your feelings by keeping a secret from you?” Brian drew a deep breath in sudden, desperate need for oxygen. 

“You think I would say something to someone?”

Brian shook his head. “I don’t know. Fuck. I hope not. But you are… you. An English lord. You were governor of Jamaica, right? You had enslaved people working for you, didn’t you? And just the other day, you said—”

“I said you were right.”

“I know, but this is a person’s life at stake. Besides,” Brian let out a breath. “I would have to help her because it’s right, but I also do care about you and about my sister and I know this puts you in a difficult position. I do. But I would have to help, and if you didn’t know, then… if something were to go wrong, you would not, in this hypothetical situation, share in the blame.”

“Brian…” John sighed. “I know even less what to do with you than I know what to do with Phaedra. Can I just… have a moment? To myself please.”

“Yeah,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Sure.”

After the strange conversation with Grey, Brian met Phaedra in the kitchen where she was chatting with Willa. 

“Would you like a bath?” Brian asked. “I’d be happy to collect the water for you. Willa can help too.”

Willa tilted her head slightly. “But can I?”

“Yes.”

She slumped slightly, arms folded over her chest. Lady or not, no little sister of Brian’s would go around thinking she was too good to help someone in need. It hadn’t been easy to get her to help out, even though John had raised her well, albeit a bit spoiled.

“I don’t mind fetching my own water. It wouldn’t be right for you to or for her to—”

“I’ll help,” Willa said, surprisingly, and stood from the stool. “Oh and I can get you one of Mama’s dresses to borrow, she would hate that they’re just sitting up there in a dusty trunk.”

There was a look of defiance in Willa’s eyes, like she had suddenly realized that by obeying Brian, she was misbehaving on a much grander scale, which seemed to buoy her rebellious spirit. Maybe neither one of them should be surprised who their father actually was. 

Shoulders pulled back, Willa took Phaedra by the hand and led her out of the kitchen. 

Once Phaedra had finished bathing and changed into one of the dresses Willa had found for her, Brian joined her in her bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

“I truly hope I haven’t caused an issue for you here with His Lordship,” Phaedra said, smoothing her skirt over her knees, her tension and nerves obvious.

If only he could convince her that he truly was on her side, that he wouldn’t turn against her, even if things became difficult or complicated, so she could relax, even if just a little.

“No. No, you haven’t,” Brian replied, hoping she would believe him. “Even if you had, it doesn’t matter. I’m here for you.”

He meant it. He was here and grateful that she’d seen him in Lynchburg and risked reaching out for help. It was dangerous for her here, everywhere she went. He shuddered to think of all the horrific things that could happen with her traveling alone. Brian didn’t want to think of the woman Bonnet had attacked, but he couldn’t help it. And he couldn’t help but to remember the flash of blonde hair and familiar eyes he’d seen once in town...

“I do thank you for that,” she finally responded, her voice light and quiet. 

Brian shook his head. Guilt weighed him down like heavy lead in his gut. “You don’t ever have to thank me. I’m just doing what everyone should do.”

“Perhaps.” Phaedra looked up at him with a subtle frown. “But they don’t.” She sighed. 

A surge of hot anger licked through Brian like a flame. He wanted to slam his fist into the wall. He hated this stupid, unfair world. “Yeah, well, fuck those bastards.” He shook his head. “Shit, Phaedra. I’m happy to help, but doesn’t it piss you off that I have to?”

Something visibly shifted in Phaedra, as if his words had formed a small crack in the wall she’d been forced to erect. She stood from the bed. “Of course it does. I’m furious. All the time. With a rage you can’t possibly imagine. I don’t want to need you or to need to feel grateful to you and the reality if I upset you or you changed your mind or… I don’t know, but do I hate that my life has to always be in someone’s else’s hands, that I have to rely on their kindness. Yes. But what you don’t understand is that I don’t have the luxury of anger or resentment. There’s survival and death. There’s bondage and freedom. That’s… fucking all.”

Brian stood across from her, looking her in the eye and letting the weight of her words sink in. He did not—could not—know, ever what it was like to be her, for the color of his skin to dictate and limit the course of his life. But it was true that his own struggles, his own unfairness, had softened his heart in a way that maybe others would not experience.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, a tight twist of fear in his belly. He’d never actually told anyone this before. The people in his life who knew knew because he’d either come on to them, had sex with them or, in the case of his dad, caught him. Brian had never just sat down with someone and come out to them. Not ever. “I don’t know how you’ll react to this, but I want to tell you because maybe giving you a… card to play against me, if you felt it necessary… I’m…” Brian searched around in his mind for the word. He wished he could say gay, but knew that didn’t mean anything to people of this time and he didn’t want to use the coarse and cruel terms that did convey his meaning. “The feelings and relationships men normally have with women I… I don’t. I have them with men.”

Phaedra’s brow knit and she blinked. “Oh. Hmm… I’ve heard… that’s illegal, yes?”

Brian dug teeth into his bottom lip, still barely breathing. He nodded. “Hence the card… to, you know, play against me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

That sick heavy feeling just grew sicker, heavier. Brian had expected to feel righteously angry or defensive or even dismissive, scared maybe. Anything but small. Small was exactly how he felt. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Phaedra went on.

“Why would you want to sleep with a man ?” Her face scrunched up in disgust. “Women only do it because we have to.” She blinked and looked at him, not with the same disgust she’d just shown, but with confusion. “Right?”

Brian blinked, expanding somewhat on the inside but still not sure how he felt or how Phaedra felt. “I… don’t think so.”

She shook her head. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How could you have the opportunity to… to sleep with women and just… give it up?”

Brian’s held tilted slightly as he took her in, trying to understand the meaning between the words, the thing she was actually trying to say that it seemed she couldn’t quite find the phrasing for. Oh… Oh. “I think I may feel about women the way you feel about men.”

She stood there, blinking. “Do you think… I mean… that’s not possible that two women could… I’ve never heard of such a… you don’t think it’s possible, do you?”

Brian couldn’t help it. He started to laugh, and Phaedra frowned.

 “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you… it’s just.” He let out a breath. “Yes, it is possible.”

Her lips curled into a soft smile, then she was laughing too, and it was bizarre, ridiculous even, given the circumstances that led them to be in this room today together and yet neither of them seemed in control of it. 

Finally, their laughs faded away, then Phaedra looked at him, thoughtful, discerning. 

“If you’re… are you and Lord John…?”

Brian shook his head. Just as he’d keep Phaedra’s secrets for her, he’d keep John’s for him. “I… we’re close. My feelings for him are romantic, yeah, but he doesn’t return them.”

“That must be hard,” she said.

“Life’s rough, then you die,” he replied with a smirk. It was something Lenny’s aunt in Mississippi always said and he’d picked it up from her.

***

Dinner had been an uncomfortable affair. Brian had made dinner as usual, and “hamburgers” though strange, were also quite good. It wasn’t the food that was the problem, or even having a runaway slave sat at the dinner table with them. It was the fact that both he and Brian weren’t speaking to each other or looking at each other. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but as Grey lay tossing and turning in bed, he knew he hated it. 

When he heard an unexpected knock, he stopped breathing.

“Can I come in?” Brian asked through the door.

Grey shut his eyes and swallowed. “Yes…” he said. “Darling.” How could he not let him in? Had it become terribly inevitable that he always would? Perhaps. But Grey had far too much to think to consider that now. 

The bedroom doors squealed open and Brian appeared, face shifting from the lit candle in his hand.  The floorboards cried out with each step, then the bed shifted as Brian sat down on it. He lifted the bedclothes and slid into them, the moving glow of the candle illuminating him in elegant shadow.

A long moment of silence passed before Brian said, “I’m— fuck— I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know how to ask.”

A shaky breath pushed through Grey’s lips as he considered how to respond. “I know you don’t trust me right now, Brian. For whatever reason, but I give you my word that whatever you tell me I will hold in the strictest of confidence.”

Brian shifted beside him in the bed again and he could feel the line of the other man’s body curled against his own. “I can’t fix this,” he whispered. “I want so badly to fix it. To just undo the metric ton of bullshit… but it all just feels like nothing. I benefit from this fucked up power system and yet I feel powerless to change it. John, if anything happens to her…”

Phaedra was a runaway slave, regardless of whatever Brian was trying to pretend, still in Virginia. Grey could not promise that nothing would happen to her. “It wouldn’t be your fault.”

“Fuck. I don’t care about that, John. I care about her . I care about what’s right and I don’t know where she can go that’s safe. Shit. Fuck. I mean… I didn’t mean.”

“It’s alright, Brian. I want to help you and Phaedra. Please, let me.” Grey had made up his mind. First of all, because slavery was wrong. He did know that, had always known that, even if he hadn’t taken the time he should have to consider it. Second of all, because betraying Brian was unfathomable to him. Somehow. Already.

“O-okay.”

Grey sought Brian’s face in the darkness, found a curl on his forehead and brushed it back. “Where is Phaedra now?”

“In bed. Down the hall. I hope that’s alright, I—“

“That’s perfectly fine. I’m glad she’s here and safe. Tomorrow, the two of us will sit down with Phaedra and figure out what the next steps are, but right now, what you need to do is sleep. You look terrible.”

Brian frowned. “ Hey.”

“Not terrible. You look as tempting as ever. You seem stressed is all.”

Brian nodded, digging his teeth into his bottom. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

If they kept sleeping in the same bed, they could get caught by Willa or now Phaedra. “I should say no.”

“Will you?”

Grey cupped Brian’s face and the warmth spread over his body at the feel of warm soft skin beneath his rough fingers. “No,” he replied. “I won’t.”

Chapter Text

These last months spent in the company of Brian were the happiest Lord John Grey could recall  in recent memory. Perhaps the sentiment was naive or short-sighted, but Grey had melted as easily as fresh butter into this friendship. He had begun to struggle imagining the shape and texture of his life beyond it. 

Almost certainly, Brian would, one day, depart from Lynchburg and return to Fraser’s Ridge. But, for the time being, Grey shunned thoughts of that eventuality, preferring the delights of the present.

The sweet scent of his own lemon oil in Brian’s hair.

The melodic and unusual tunes Brian strummed on the guitar he and Willa has scrounged up from the attic.

Then there were the suppers of Brian’s strange foods and Phaedre’s familiar ones. All of them, including Willa’s new governess, Elizabeth, passing stories as easily as they passed the fresh-baked bread. 

Brian had even dragged Grey into personally helping Phaedre and Elizabeth improve the conditions of the servant’s house on the property with new paint and linen and flower boxes. 

When Brian had approached Grey with a candidate for Willa’s governess, Grey had been nervous about bringing a stranger into the house, especially given Phaedre’s precarious situation. After she’d first arrived here, everything had been tenuous. But it was Phadre’s had own idea for Grey to keep her on as a cook for the time being, and Brian’s idea to pay her secretly until whatever time she decided she could safely leave Virginia. But Willa still needed a governess beyond what Brian or Phaedre could offer under the circumstances. With the ever-mounting pile of letters of concern from Hal, he knew it would be nice to have something to tell him. Hal was less than supportive of his niece and younger brother “living alone in the wilderness”.

John,

As your daughter comes of age, she must have proper female companionship. It is not wise to be cavorting in the wild with a young woman. There may be experiences you, as a man, are not equipped to handle.

Hal

Letters from from his brother were always frustratingly short and never sweet. To this message, Grey had merely responded that if Willa had any questions in that regard that he was unable to answer, she could discuss it with Claire.

John,

Who the bloody hell is Claire?

Grey had smiled and bit back a laugh when he received that one. He’d omitted Claire’s surname in hopes of a reply similar to the one he’d been sent. Grey had felt decadently deviant when he’d crafted his response.

Jamie Fraser’s wife.

From across the ocean, Grey could just see that vein popping out on his brother’s forehead. It seemed younger siblings never grew tired of harassing their older counterparts. Whatever the reason, Hal had wanted him and Willa to return home to England ever since Isobel died, but Grey had somehow begun to see this wild place as home, and he’d grown attached to this house and its gardens and fields, but mostly the people within it. 

That now included Willa’s governess—a young, blonde haired woman with big expressive hazel eyes named Elizabeth. She’d been living on the streets when Brian had brought her home—as he was want to do—but Grey could tell she hadn’t grown up on the streets. She was well-educated and well-mannered, and it had been late at night, under the covers, when Brian had told Grey exactly who Elizabeth was—the woman Brian had tried to save from Stephan Bonnet. 

Grey knew he didn’t have the full story of the events that had happened that horrible evening and the subsequent months following, but he also knew it wasn’t his business, and if he could help this poor girl, and in turn, help Brian heal from that night as well, he would do whatever was in his power to do it. 

And, in truth, he liked the life they’d created here, a respite from the world, that had rejected them all in one way or another. So Grey found himself far from looking forward to the evening at the governor’s mansion, but at least Brian would be there. Though it might be strange to interact with him under the gaze of  polite company, where Brian’s idiosyncrasies would be in full of view. But Brian managed well enough out in the world working for Governor Tryon, and he knew full well how to hide the person he was behind these walls. Grey hated that for Brian, that he knew, as of course he did, how to hide the truth of himself when it was necessary. Grey felt incredibly grateful that Brian did not feel the need to hide the truth from him, and that he did not have to hide his own truth either.

Grey peered at himself in the mirror, smoothing back his own hair, and appreciating the new blue velvet overcoat and breeches he’d recently purchased. He skimmed his hands briefly over the fabric and imagined Brian’s hands there instead. 

For the last several weeks, every night after Willa went to bed, Brian would either sneak into Grey’s bed or Grey would sneak into his. They never did anything more than hold each other, though sometimes he could feel Brian’s body respond to his own and then he couldn’t help but respond in kind. Still, they never kissed nor ventured to do anything sexual and they wouldn’t. Of course, they wouldn’t. And couldn’t. Because of Jamie, and not only his certain condemnation of their relationship, but because of the feelings Grey kept safe and locked away from everyone, even, especially, Brian.

Perhaps he was a coward for not admitting what he’d felt… feels… for Brian’s father. The love he has for him, that for over a decade, he had not been able to shake, but he just couldn’t. There was no need to anyway. Jamie being his dearest friend was enough reason that his relationship with Brian could go no farther than these stolen nights of friendly closeness. 

Grey pocketed his watch, adjusted Hector’s ring on his finger, then strode out of his bedroom and towards the stairs. As he descended them, he heard the unsure pluck of guitar strings—likely Willa, as Brian had been teaching her. Though he was unfamiliar with any of the songs his daughter would mumble or hum as she went about the house. There was one particular one about a bullfrog named Jeremiah that Grey had also discovered himself quietly singing along to more than once during rides into town.

The sound grew louder as Grey approached, and he could overhear their conversation.

“It’s easier if you relax your hand a little,” Brian said gently.

“Oh. You relax,” Willa huffed. “Can you just play something before you go?”

“Alright. But only if you practice while I’m gone. I’ll bet you can get those new chords by tomorrow.”

Grey walked just barely into the room and it seemed neither his daughter nor Brian had noticed his presence. Brian was looking down at the guitar in his lap, red curls fallen over his forehead as he picked at the at the string, then gently tuned them. He cleared his voice, then began to sing another song Grey had never heard before. 

“Don’t much about history, don’t know much biology. Don’t know much about a science book, don’t know much about the French I took.” 

Not only were the lyrics unfamiliar, but as usual, the sound of the song itself was nothing like what was normally played. Grey liked it, though. More than other music and he wasn’t sure that was entirely because of the man singing it.

Brian went on singing and playing, skilled and beautiful as always, but still honest… vulnerable. Grey just stood there and watched and let the sounds wash over him, still unseen. 

But then Brian did see him, their eyes meeting and his voice lifted and softened. “But I do know that I love you and if you love me too, what a wonderful world this would be.”

John couldn’t help the warmth that rose to his cheeks as Brian continued to sing in that warm as whisky voice of his. He watched the young man and he watched his daughter watch him  and there was a peace inside Grey in that moment that was so profound it nearly frightened him. But then, it didn’t. Because it truly was peace, and he was glad to simply listen to Brian sing and play. To float. To drift away on the sound and the feeling of it. 

The song faded out, and so did Brian’s words. What a wonderful world this would be…

. . .

John looked incredible just standing there in the doorframe, watching Brian play. When he’d come to this time to warn his mother and Jamie, Brian had never imagined his journey would lead him here. To two good friends fighting to rebuild their lives, to the little sister he never knew he had, and to this man. He’d had feelings that went beyond easy crushes or physical attractions before. There had been Roger, and that had been serious. This wasn’t even a relationship. It was a friendship, a close friendship, intimate in ways he’d never experienced with anyone before. To connect with someone so easily… to never have to try… he had always been trying with Roger. 

“Are you ready to go?” John’s gentle, posh voice pulled Brian gently from his thoughts. 

Brian nodded and handed the guitar to Willa. “Remember ractice those chords I showed you while I’m gone. And be good for Phaedre and Elizabeth, will you?”

She took the guitar and grinned up at Brian. “Aren’t I always?”

“No,” John said, leaning down to kiss on her the head. 

Willa rolled her eyes and looked at Brian. “See you later, Alligator.”

He winked at her “After a while, Crocodile.”

Brian had unthinkingly said “See you later, Alligator” to Willa once and she’d thought it was the greatest thing ever. He’d explained that you were supposed to reply “After a while, Crocodile”, and it had been their customary goodbye ever since. 

He walked away with John and when they were alone in the front hall, John said, “I’ve never seen Willa take to someone quite like she’s taken to you.”

Brian nudged into John as he walked. “Well, I am impossible not to like.” 

John nudged him back. “You’re tolerable at least, I reckon.”

The Martin House was bursting to the brim with people. The energetic buzz of socialization hummed against Brian’s skin. Voices, most inflected with accents not unlike his mother’s or John’s, conversing over the playing of a lively fiddle. He breathed in the mouth-watering scent of roasted meat and savory spices as the guests swirled around him in richly colored gowns and well-tailored coats. In the busyness of it all, Brian’s mind wandered. He considered just how bizarre it was that he was here at all. This party was nothing like the kind of party he should be at or would be at if the world were as mundane and simple as he’d long been led to believe. He should be in a shitty Boston apartment in a pungent swirl of marijuana smoke. Or in a shotgun house deep in a Mississippi bayou half the Baptist church would pile into Lenny’s grandma’s house for Sunday lunch. He smiled at the memory, no matter how far away from here it made him feel. In a place like this, if it wasn’t for John he’d be as untethered as a lost balloon.

John pressed his upper arm against Brian. It looked innocent, and he guessed it was, but it was a gesture that sent a sweep of warmth through Brian. “Are you alright?” he whispered.

Brian looked over at John and smiled. He nodded. “Just went somewhere for a second. But I’m back.” 

“What do you say we get a drink?” John said. “And I’ll introduce you to some people.”

“Or we just steal their liquor and go home.”

John just shook his head and smiled. 

Brian was several glasses of wine in before he finally found himself relaxing and almost enjoying himself, despite feeling as if he had little to add to the conversation. It was easier when he was working and had something to talk about and something to do. Just making social conversation in a world he knew mostly through text books and lecture classes wasn’t easy. He missed the crutch of asking what kind of music someone liked or what movie they’d seen recently. But, again, as the wine kicked in, Brian stopped overthinking everything he said or finding silent fault with everything everyone else said and just followed John’s lead. John, as a matter of fact, was rather skilled at all this. He was a lord after all. Even if Brian forgot the importance of that detail more often than not.

The food was good, well as good as food ever was here, and he took it from the host’s slaves because he had to. And if he repeatedly imagined walking up to the  Lieutenant General, who thought it prudent to own other people, and kneeing him directly in the balls, no one had to be the wiser. 

He was glad for the distraction of watching the dancing, until he was approached by the daughter of said Lieutenant General and asked for a dance. He just sort of stood there gaping and then invented an ankle injury and apologized profusely.

“You never hurt your ankle,” John whispered to him. “I can tell you’re bothered, but you needn’t be rude.”

It wasn’t about that at all, but it didn’t mean John’s comment didn’t prickle him. “My attitude is the true atrocity being committed this evening.”

“Brian.”

“If you’re so concerned, I’m sure she’d happy to dance with you."

“Perhaps she would be.”

“Perhaps,” Brian replied with a slight edge to his voice. Were they arguing? How did they get here? If they were it was fucking stupid.

John looked at Brian for another moment, then sighed, and walked away towards the Lieutenant General’s daughter. 

Brian had only said no to the woman because he had no idea how to dance like that and figured now that he should probably learn. He could tear up the dance floor with the twist or the mashed potato, but whatever they were all out their doing now was beyond him. 

Still, he’d rather not watch John dance with a woman, even if he knew she wasn’t a real threat to him. The sight only bothered him because it was a reminder that he couldn’t just dance with John, not here. Even back home, it still required secrecy, hiding away in certain establishments in certain parts of town, hoping that when you walked back home, you didn’t run into anyone who saw you for who you were and wanted to hurt you for it.

As John turned regally on the dance floor,  Brian felt dizzy watching the swirl of it all and walked away, slipping out the back doors and onto an empty porch. Wine glass still in hand, Brian sat down on a rocking chair and stared out towards the blanket of stars. He found himself thinking of Stephen Bonnet. Of how his violent henchman hadn’t been the first…

“There you are,” John said. His voice having that miraculous ability to return Brian to the present. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me back there.” He sat down in the chair beside Brian’s

Brian sat his glass down between them. “I think someone spiked the wine.” 

John gave him a brief look of confusion, then his expression warmed and softened. “I used to like these affairs,” he confessed. “Now, all I could think about is how much better the evening would have been spent at home.” 

Brian knew what John was doing. Telling the truth. That strange game of sharing they’d done since not long after they’d met, so Brian added his own truth.

“I can’t dance.”

“What?”

“I didn’t say no to that woman to be rude or because I think her father is a perpetrator  in one of the greatest human rights violation’s in the history of world, even though he absolutely is… I said no because I actually don’t know how to dance.”

“Really?”

Brian shrugged. “At least not that kind of dancing.”

“What other kind of dancing is there?”

“Lots,” Brian said, feeling suddenly, stupidly, emboldened, thanks to the wine, John Grey’s handsome face, and the veil of moderate darkness. He stood to his feet and acted out a variety of other dances he was versed in, including, yes, the twist and the mashed potato. Brian was in the middle of a subpar watusi when John jumped to his feet. He wrapped his warm hands around Brian’s wrist to stop his movements.

Smiling and shaking his head, John said, “You’re absolutely mad.”

His heart pounded, blood surging hot at the touch, despite the risk of it. “You have no idea,” Brian replied in a low whisper. He grabbed John by the cuff of his sleeve and dragged him down the steps of the back porch. Brian led John far enough away from the main house that they were plunged into total darkness.

Brian couldn’t see John anymore, but he could feel him. His body, yes, but also the energy that always seemed alive between them. The energy he’d felt since that night they met in Wilmington. 

“Brian,” John’s voice was low. “I can’t see a damn thing.”

“That’s the point. If we can’t see a damn thing, neither can anyone else.”

Brian slid his hands until he found John’s arms and pulled them around his own waist. Then he flung his own arms around John’s neck, pulling their bodies close.

“Dear God,” John said, breathless. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing with you.”

“I can assure you that whatever this is, it is not dancing.”

“It is in Boston,” Brian whispered in John’s ear, breathing in the now familiar scent of him.

He could feel John relax underneath his touch, as they moved against each other. “Don’t you need music to dance,” John asked. “Even in Boston?”

Brian moved his body even closer to John’s, feeling himself respond, his whole body tighten. He thought of the song he was singing with Willa earlier, and when Brian opened his mouth a different Sam Cooke song came out of his mouth.

“If I go a million miles away

I'd write a letter each and every day

'Cause honey, nothin',

Nothin' can ever change this love 

I have for you.”

They stood there, moving together, as Brian sang and John clung to him, submerged in total darkness. The rest of the world was gone and they were all that was left in it. Touch and sound and smell and possibility.

Brian felt John’s breath on his lips and was drawn towards it, then the heat was gone and the hands around his waist with them. 

“We should go back inside,” John said. “Before anyone notices we’re gone.” 

Chapter Text

It had rained for nearly three days straight. Brian woke to the sound of the continuous crushing downpour, and the beat of John’s heart. He’d fallen asleep the night before curled up in the crook of the man’s arm, head on his chest, just breathing him in. He wished he could stay here cocooned in this exquisite comfort, but of course, he could not. They’d only managed to maintain this arrangement by being very careful to extract themselves from one another’s bed early in the morning.

Brian ghosted a kiss over John’s cheek, then slid from his bed. He’d slept only in his shirt and undergarments, so he pulled on the trousers he left hanging over the chair. 

Once Brian finished dressing enough that he could respectfully be seen by the girls, he peeked out the door. Seeing no one, he stepped into the hall and made his way downstairs to the kitchens.

Normally, Phaedre would be cooking breakfast by now. Often shadowed by Elizabeth, who would taste whatever sauce or concoction Phaedra had whipped up. He was glad to see how quickly they’d become friends. The formerly dull and dreary servant’s cottage had been spruced up with paint and flowers and scrounged up bits of furniture from the main house. They only had one bed, but they also had a small dining table, chairs and a settee by the fireplace. A few weeks ago, John had brought home some paints and canvas, which Phaedre had made excellent use of. Her drawings and painting covered the walls, brightening up the place even more. As a thank-you, she’d used one of the canvases to paint Willa. John displayed it over the sideboard in the main entryway. 

Brian took it upon himself to start the morning coffee. He drank the coffee more than anyone else, but Elizabeth liked it well-enough for it to be worth making. It was a slightly more complicated process than the coffee maker he had back home. Still, he’d grown accustomed to wrapping the grounds in linen and steeping them in the water. He was pouring the freshly made tea into a mug, when he was startled by Willa clomping into the room. 

“Where’s breakfast?” she groaned. “I’m famished.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Brian said, stirring a few sugar cubes into his coffee. “It’s your turn to make it.”

Willa just frowned at him, throughly unamused.

Brian took a sip of his coffee. He had no problem making breakfast for everyone himself. He did it on the weekends usually, but it was a Tuesday and Phaedre was especially prompt. It was strange enough that Brian sat down his cup and opened the door. He peeked out in the direction of the cottage.

Rain was still coming down in sheets and—Oh my God—Phaedre and Elizabeth were out there chasing the goddamn chickens. The coop, which sat just a few yards from the cottage, had been wiped out by the storm.

Brian spat out a curse, and ran out of the main house to help them. 

“Phaedre,” Elizabeth shouted. “Behind you.”

She spun around in her muddied skirts and tried to scoop up a fugitive chicken with her free arm. The other was already filled with a squawking bird. It escaped her grasp and barreled toward Brian, flapping madly. 

Using some sort of primal chicken catching instinct, Brian snatched up the squabbling escapee in his hands and held it against his chest. 

“What are we supposed to do now that we’ve caught them?” Elizabeth said, struggling to hold on to her hen. “The coop is destroyed. They can’t stay out here in the storm.”

Neither Phaedre nor Brian immediately replied, but a sly voice broke through the sound of the rain. It was Willa on the back porch. “I have an idea.”

And that was how Willa and Brian ended up hefting seven fat chickens up the stairs and into John’s bedroom. They’d had to do it unassisted because Phaedre and Elizabeth refused to be part of such an immature scheme, but he knew them well-enough by now to know they were in the kitchen just waiting for the inevitable hopefully humorous fallout.

The fallout came with a bellowed “Willa!” that echoed through the halls. For a moment, Brian thought the whole shenanigan might just get pinned on his little sister alone. But “Willa!” was followed by just as hearty a “Brian!” and he knew he was shit out of luck.

Still, Brian couldn’t stifle his laugh and couldn’t help but picture John waking to the sound of clucking, then sitting up in bed, surrounded by sea of soggy, displeased hens pecking at the bed posts. 

That image alone was worth whatever punishment would befall him… and if that punishment involved some light spanking, he wouldn’t say a word about it. 

John’s hair was down and he was in his shirt sleeves and wrinkled breeches when he came stomping into the kitchen with a scowl on his face.

“Who here would like to explain why in the bloody hell there is a flock of chickens in my bedroom? One of them laid an egg in my good wig!” 

Willa pointed at Brian. “It was his idea.”

Brian turned toward her, mouth open. “Lies.”

“For your edification, my lord, Phaedre and I were not involved,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

“I didn’t think you were, dear.” John raised an eyebrow as he looked at Brian. “The guilty parties are quite obvious, and they will be the ones to return the hens to the coop.”

“We can’t,” said Willa. “The rains destroyed the hen house.”

John turned to Phaedre. “Is this true?”

“Yes, my Lord. Unfortunately. I don’t think we can manage to rebuild it in this weather, either.”

“No, no. Of course not. There should be room in the stables, however.”

She nodded. “Would you like me to move them now or finish breakfast?”

“By all means, finish breakfast. I won’t be needing you to relocate the hens, will I?” He stared down Willa.

“Seriously?” Willa whined, another turn-of-phrase she’d stolen from Brian. 

“Yes, seriously.” John looked at Brian. He did look annoyed, but there was also a glint in his eyes Brian knew to be genuine amusement. “You too, Brian.”

“Aw, man.”

John pointed out the kitchen door. “Alright, get on with it.”

Brian and Willa exchanged a look, then slunk towards the kitchen door. As they were leaving, Phaedre called out, “While you’re up there, would you retrieve the egg from my Lord’s wig, we’re short one for breakfast.” 

. . .

Grey had no idea how a day that had started off so well could go so wrong. Perhaps it was strange to claim that there was merit to starting off one’s day surrounded by chickens, but even if he hadn’t shown it at the time, he reveled at the life that had been brought to the house in Virginia. Before Brian had come, it had felt dark, cold. Empty rooms he and Willa could barely manage to fill. But now it was bright and vibrant and bursting like a ripe plum. 

The chickens had been a laugh and breakfast had been delicious, as usual, and loud and full of arguments and preposterous jests. The storm let up, so he’d ridden into town with Brian at his side. They’d talked as they always did—easily. And the time between the farm and town seemed like no time at all. Grey had said goodbye to Brian, who, as usual, had some business to attend to for Tryon, and Grey had been called down by the magistrate via a traveling messenger for what he hadn’t known at the time.

If only he still didn’t know…

“Something’s happened,” the magistrate said, frowning beneath his ruddy, pockmarked cheeks. “And I thought you may be able to provide counsel.”

“I’ll help, however, I can,” Grey replied.

The magistrate opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head. “I reckon it would be best if I were to show you.”

“Whatever you think best.”.

He walked with the magistrate, feeling a strange sense of eyes on him as he did. The home they’d come was humble, but still quite nice. At least, the half of the building that was not black and charred. Clearly, the residence of a man of who’d come by what he had as a result of education and work, not someone, who, like Grey himself, had been born into means.

“There was a fire,” Grey said. “Is the cause known?”

“It appeared to be a malfunction of the fireplace.”

It was unfortunate but not rare. He still did not see why he’d been called here, nor how he could assist.

“Was anyone injured in the fire?”

There was a long pause, then the magistrate cleared his throat. “Yes. The man’s wife, three children. The maid and the valet.”

“And the man?”

The magistrate shook his head. “Isaac Harkins was not home at the time.”

“Harkins…” Grey muttered. The name was familiar someone he knew in passing. He had a daughter near Willa’s age. “I believe I may have met the man. He was a tax collector.”

“And a terrible one, at that.” His mouth twitched, almost smiling, but then his smile turned to an even graver frown. “Quite too much compassion.”

“He must be devastated.” The thought of coming home to find his own daughter… it came unbidden, unwelcome, into his mind. “I cannot imagine.” Though he could imagine. He remembered finding his father and …. he could imagine, and that was the worst of it.

“He is, at the moment, quite mad.”

“This is all a tragic, a horrific accident, however—”

“I’m not certain it was an accident,” the magistrate said.

“I thought you said it was a malfunction of the fireplace.”

“I said it appeared to be. But when I saw the bodies… as I said, I’m seeking your counsel.” He looked toward the half-burnt house. “Would you come inside? I must warn you. It is not an easy sight to behold.”

They did not need to enter through the door, they simply stepped directly into the parlor over a fallen beam. The smell of smoke laid heavy in the air and the furniture had been blackened. Grey navigated around destroyed fallen bits of the house. He followed the magistrate into what had once been a hallway. 

Grey had seen many an awful sight in his life and the one in front of him now, brought those memories now to the forefront of his imagination. 

The form of a human, though black and crusted as tree bark, draped in the thin remains of a child’s dress.

“I know it is not easy, but if you could… take a closer look at the body and let me know what you see.”

Grey hesitated, but pulled himself together, and gave the magistrate a sharp nod. He knelt down and looked, wondering exactly what beyond the obvious horror, the magistrate expected him to see. 

Then, there it was… the strange pose of her arms, both behind her back. If she had simply fallen prey to smoke or flames in this hall. Would she not have died trying to block the smoke with her hands over her mouth. It was instinct to protect one’s face. 

Sick to his stomach, Grey leaned in for a closer look and there was a pile of ash beneath the bones of her arms and in that pile of ash, he thought he saw several strands of unburnt rope.

He turned and looked up at the magistrate. “She was… tied here? Restrained. The others?”

“Take a look for yourself,” he replied.

Grey stood to his feet, dusting soot of unknown origin from the knee of his breeches. He did not want to take a look for himself. He wanted to turn around and walk away and never think on this bloody place again, but whatever had happened here and had been awful and important and it cried out for a witness to it. 

He followed the magistrate to another room, a bedroom—another young girl, this one likely several years older, leaning against the bed, arms also behind her back. Then, the walked into the nursery. Young boy—just three according to the magistrate, arms just the same, behind his back as if he were standing at attention.

Grey could not bear to look for long. He turned his back, bile in his throat. The fire had kept back the usual stench of death, but it did not help. “The mother?”

“Just in the other room.”

“What about the valet and the maid? In the kitchens, dead as well, but they’re not tied. It did appear that the door to the kitchen was locked though.”

Grey blinked, thinking for a moment. “If they were tied, whoever did it, wanted them, even the children, to die alone.”

Magistrate nodded. “We have one more to see, then we shall have the undertaker come. Mr. Hawkins is understandably upset that we’ve left them here this long, but I needed another set of eyes, to see if one might come to the conclusion I did. To know if there was even a killer we needed to look for.”

“Of course,” Grey replied tightly. “Let’s hurry then.”

Each step felt heavy, difficult, as they continued on through the house. Of course, he did not believe in such things, but it was as if he could feel the presence of the dead, the lingering energy of what might have been, what should have been.

The first things he noticed about the dead mother was that she had an arm behind her back as well, but only just one. The other was outstretched. Perhaps whoever had tied her had only managed the one arm, or she’d pulled free somehow. He stepped up to take a closer look, that sick, cold feeling growing sicker and colder by the second until it was heavy as lead.

The bones in her free hand protruded from the burnt skin, awful white mountains among the hills of black. Was she…? Yes. She was clutching something in her hand.

Grey didn’t want to touch her, didn’t feel exactly right about it, but he had to. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to steady himself as he pulled back the hand. It crunched and flaked away like ugly snow. Then, there was a dull thud and Grey let go of the hand, watching a glint of grey roll towards the magistrate, who stopped it with the toe of his boot.

The man bent down and picked up the object, examining it.

“What is it?” Grey asked, standing.

The magistrate held it out to him and Get stepped closer. It was a pewter ring with an inscription on it. He squinted to read the small lettering. Embossed in the metal were the words: The Sons of Liberty. 

. . .

Brian had expected John home by now. Elizabeth had already put Willa to bed, though she’d demanded he continue the story of ‘Dorothy and Wicked Witch’. He sat by her bedside and managed to get all the way to the part where the tin man showed up before she fell asleep. He kissed her once on the forehead, then slipped out of the room. 

He opened a bottle of claret that he’d been eying in John’s collection for a few days now, and slipped it slowly in the study by candlelight. He was reading one of the French novels from John’s shelves. He’d been trying to brush up on the language. He’d only taken a few semesters of it in high school.

The story was only marginally interesting, and he couldn’t help but imagine it would be far more intriguing if it were gay.  He was turning the page to find out what part of the heroine would quiver next, when John stepped into the room. 

In the candlelight, the man appeared unusually disheveled. He was frowning, and there was something about him that just felt wrong. An unseen but impossible to ignore tension. 

“What happened?” Brian asked.

His mouth opened but no words came out. He just frowned, his eyes fixed on Brian.

“John?”

“I…” He walked over to the settee and sat down beside Brian. His hands kept clutching and opening, arms laid across his thighs. “It was… not a good day.”

Brian shifted slightly, to angle himself towards John. He could feel the strain of the day, of whatever happened pouring off the man like steam from a tea kettle.

“I’m happy to listen if you want to talk about it.”

John’s eyes fluttered shut, lips pressing together. Brian expected him to say something, anything, even if it was that he didn’t want to talk about it. He did not expect the man to let out a heavy breath, then lean down to the side, placing his head on Brian’s lap. 

His heart fluttered, like a caged bird. He could not resist the urge to reach out, stroke his fingers over John’s tucked back hair, down to the green velvet ribbon. He held it between his fingers, gently playing with it.

“Brian, would you mind…” John let out a breath, shaky and unsure. “Would you sing to me?”

Brian stroked the backs of his fingers over John’s cheek, reveling in the scratch of the stubble. He smiled softly, considering the song he could sing in a moment like this, without a guitar or a piano or even space between them to cover the devastating gravity of what he was now beginning to suspect was love. It was… that’s exactly what it was. 

He was in love.

A single tear slipped from John’s eyes and traveled over the curve of his nose. Brian wiped it away with his thumb.

“Love me tender, love me sweet,” he sang quietly. “You have made my life complete, and I love you so.”

Love me tender, love me true

all my dreams fulfilled

For, my darling, I love you

And I always will.

When Brian came to the end of the song, John lifted his head from Brian’s lap. He turned his body in towards Brian, and just looked at him, brow furrowed. Brian held John’s gaze, feeling that connection he’d felt since that first night in Wilmington, but deepened, enriched, by experience and time. By the knowing of another person. And not just any person.

Then, there were, suddenly, lips on his own. The right lips. The lips he’d been waiting for his whole life without ever even knowing it. 

Brian opened his mouth in clear invitation. John swiftly accepted, filling his mouth with a heavy tongue that tasted like ale, like his birthday, like Christmas-fucking-morning. 

John fumbled madly at the button’s on Brian’s waistcoat, popping one from its stitches, sending it bouncing across the floor.

Intent was obvious in each touch between them as heat and want sparked between them, until they were caught in an inferno. John tugged Brian forward and on top of them. They were crammed uncomfortably into the settee, but it didn’t matter. To hell with anything but their hands and mouths on each other. 

God. Brian could feel John hard beneath him, a pressure against his own hardness. And it was exquisite.

As they kissed, John rocked up into him. Brian met him with a thrust back. Fuck.

Sure, it was late and it was dark, but they were still in the study and the door was still open. He would be an idiot to stop this now, wouldn’t he? If he made a move to take this upstairs it would give John a chance to rethink this and if he did, maybe he’d change his mind.

John was sucking a bruise onto his neck, and the attention moved through his body in glorious waves. Yet still, somehow. He pulled away just enough. It was true that this could end this perfect moment, but then again, it wouldn’t be perfect if it all it took was one small pause to bring all crashing down. Perfection wasn’t fragile as glass.

“John,” Brian whispered.

John just muttered, then leaned up, trying to devour his neck again.

Brian placed a hand on his chest and held him in place. “We should take this upstairs, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t breathe as he waited for John’s response, to see if John would retreat into his ridiculous notion that they shouldn’t.

“Your room,” John said in a graveled voice. “It’s farther from Willa’s and the bed makes less noise than mine.”

Brian nodded, smiling in astonished relief. He rolled off John, grabbed his hand and tugged.  On his feet now, they looked at each other. John wrapped his arm around Brian’s back and pulled him in for a kiss. 

The right lips, Brian thought, and the right goddamn man.

Hands never leaving each other for long they stumbled their way blind, on memory alone,  to Brian’s bedroom. 

Brian fisted his hands on John’s coat and shut the door with their bodies. He was pulling the shirt out of John’s breeches when John said, “Stop. Hold on.”

His stomach sank, but he did as he was told. He stopped. Stepped back.

“It’s dark,” John said. “And I want to see you.”

That relief came again, and Brian was shocked by how quickly John managed to ignite an oil lamp, given the lack of light. But it did make sense if John was driven by a desire even half of what Brian felt now.

With hair partially fallen from its ribbon, red, swollen lips and mussed clothes, John looked utterly debauched in the low light. His eyes traced Brian’s body with such intensity it felt like a hand sliding along the lines of him. 

“Did you know you’re my favorite thing to look at?” John said, a lilt to his voice that expressed his own surprise at the confession.

Brian felt heat in his cheeks. “And did you know this isn’t ones of those you can look but don’t touch scenarios.”

“Thank God,” John growled and was on him quick, with a ferocity and wildness that reminded Brian of the cougar from all those months ago. 

They were all mouths and hands and tongues and beating hearts. Then, Brian was kissing John’s neck, trailing the tip of his tongue over the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. Then, there was a hand thrust between them, the rustle of a fabric, another hand on his shoulder, and the dark command, “Get on your knees.”

Don’t have to ask me twice, Brian thought as he immediately dropped down to be faced with a stiff, leaking prick. The right stiff, leaking—oh fuck it. Brian wrapped his mouth around the tip and felt like a king.

John groaned and sank his hand in Brian’s hair, guiding his mouth down. Brian didn’t mind. Not at all. He just relaxed and let John take it with steady gentle thrusts that brushed the soft back of his throat.

“Brian,” John muttered. “Brian. I’ve wanted this for so long. You have no idea.”

I have some idea. Brian opened his eyes and looked up to see John looking back down at him, watching his do this. His lips and jaw had started to ache but Brian didn’t care, he would do this for hours if John let him. 

But suddenly, he was being dragged back to his feet and kissed again. John’s soft, warm lips soothed away the remaining ache.

The rest of their clothes came off in a flurry fueled by months of wanting and waiting and wishing. 

He was standing before John and let his gaze fall, taking it all in. Every muscle, every sun spot, every mark and scar. Each a small and precious piece of this man. This man he had been separated from by two centuries. This man he’d only met because, as it turns out, magic is fucking real. 

When John reached out, wrapping his hand around both their cocks, bringing them together, Brian had no idea how he’d ever doubted magic at all. No, Brian wasn’t the type to believe in much of anything. This world was unfair, brutal. It was Sisyphus shoving a boulder. up a goddamn hill. It was every injustice, every horror, that dragged people kicking and screaming from what little was left of their humanity. If there was a God he wasn’t worth the pennies they printed his name on. But this? Brian Randall had the faith of the goddamn saints for this. 

John let out a shivering gasp. “You feel… to touch you like this…”

“You’ve touched me like this before,” Brian said.

Brian was bathed in John’s gaze as he said, “No, I haven’t,” with a sober seriousness that struck Brian to his bones.

He knew just what John meant.

The first time they’d fucked, they’d been strangers. Two men with an instant attraction, nothing but their names shared between them. Months later, and everything had changed. They weren’t strangers. They’d shared hopes and dreams and fears and dinners and midnights.

And, it was clear, what they were about to share would be pristine, gloriously new. 

Brian was on the bed before he even realized it, too caught up in the repeating, wonderful thought—this is happening, this is happening, oh my God, this is fucking happening—to notice anything as mundane as the bed.

John kissed Brian’s mouth, then his neck, then caressed his collarbone with warm lips. He kissed down and down, sliding over to take Brian’s nipple in his mouth. The touch coursed through him, sparkling and hot.

Brian slid his hand into John’s hair and loosed it from its ribbon. His hair fell around his shoulders, making him look like something wild, untamable. 

His mouth kept on its course until John’s nose was buried in Brian’s curls and he was kissing a line up Brian’s prick, licking the tip and then taking it in. Deep. He swallowed around it. It was hot, tight. Glorious. It was a fucking miracle Brian didn’t come right then. 

Then, John was kissing his mouth against, and he could taste himself sharp on the other man’s tongue. Brian heard jostling somewhere, but everything had narrowed down to that kiss, to an all-consuming feeling of relief. 

The kiss ended just for warm breath to swirl around Brian’s ear, making him shiver. “May I… take you?”

Brian pulled John’s face back to him and looked him in the eye. “I don’t know. Can you take what you already have?” 

John blinked, brow furrowing, warm eyes narrowed. “Is that a yes, then?”

“Yes. Just fuck me before I lose my damn mind for fu—”

John shut him up with a kiss and then leaned back. He pulled a stopper from a small vial, then drizzled the oil over his fingers.

“Should I be jealous you’ve just got that in your nightstand?”

“Not unless you’re jealous of my own hands.”

Brian smirked. “So… do you think of me when you touch yourself?”

A finger pressed into him and he yelped, not from pain but from surprise. Though he wasn’t quite sure why he’d been so surprised…

He could feel John start to move his finger, in and out, curling it in search of—

“Fuck,” Brian gasped, arching off the bed. “Warn a guy. Jesus.”

“You’re less mouthy in my fantasies.”

“Then your fantasies are out of character, babe.”

John slipped in another finger and that shut Brian up. He bit into his own wrist to keep from crying. There was no room for words anymore, only the marvelous feeling of John’s fingers inside him, opening him up. 

“That’s more like it,” John said.

Then, those fingers slipped out and Brian felt so empty it made him whimper.

“Hey, why did you st—fucking Christ,” Brian spat as he was filled up again, and every single shitty thing that had happened since he walked through the stones in Scotland felt worth it.

. . .

It was so warm inside of Brian. Welcoming in some strange way Grey had never experienced before. Whatever the feeling was it made him sink deeper, faster than he normally would. Brian let out a groan so deep and guttural that it vibrated through him.

“I apologize. I did not mean to—“

“Don’t.” Brian wrapped his legs around the back of Grey’s. “Just.. wait for a moment,” he said softly. “Don’t move.”

“Why?”

“I want to remember how perfect this is.” A smile tipped onto Brian’s lips and he drew a deep breath in through his nose. “Alright,” he said. “You can fuck me now.”

Grey failed to keep himself from laughing, then swept down and planted a deep kiss on Brian’s lips. The world melted away, like hot candle wax, and he happily let himself disappear into this moment. The stress and pain and loss and ugliness of the day felt distant, something he would have to try to even skim with the tips of his fingers. 

Every inch he pulled out, then pushed back in, Grey felt. He’d craved this for so long and lied to himself about it for so long that giving in was far more decadent than he could have ever imagined. Taking Brian like this, seeing the desperate look in his eyes in the dim light, feeling the contractions of his tight muscles, the weight of the warm wide hands on his back. 

Heat, want, connection, driving him wild. An impossible kind of drowning that could bring a dying man back to life. 

Is dying what John Grey had been for so long? So long he’d barely noticed he’d become little more than a collection of walking bones, clattering habitually through his life. That night in Wilmington had been a single heart beat, but this night, here in this bed, was resurrection. Blood and muscle and skin and heat and humors and organs. 

It was a million thundering heartbeats, pouring out a fortune for all the ones he’d missed over the years. 

“John,” Brian breathed against his neck. “John. God. Oh god,” he whimpered.

“Yes, Brian. Yes,” came his desperately reply. Grey fumbled for Brian’s hands, feeling each precious, coarse finger before he pulled Brian’s arms up over his head, pinning them to the mattress.

The man’s hands were a distraction, and Grey didn’t want to think of anything but the place they were connected and the brilliant sensation of oneness created by this singular act. 

Brian pulled his legs back farther, letting Grey sink in even deeper. They cried out in unison as Brian flinched, rippled. Tightened. Loosened. Pleasure altering his face until Grey would swear he’d stolen a glimpse of the divine.

He finished too, then. Disappearing into the pleasure of it, rising up on it like a high wave, as he spilled himself.

It took sometime descend back down from the heavens, but eventually he did, having no choice but to slide out of Brian’s warmth and lay beside him. They said nothing, just touched each other with gentle touches, and kissed with gentle kisses. The room was filled now with nothing but soft sighs and the dance of candle flame.

“Would you like to clean up?” Grey eventually whispered.

Brian shook his head, close enough that their noses brushed. “I like the feeling.”

“Christ.” Grey swiped a thumb over Brian’s bottom lip. Then he leaned up and kissed Brian on the forehead.

Brian leaned into it, mewing quietly. “Did you want to talk about it now?”

“Talk about what?” Grey asked, meaning it.

“Whatever it was that had you so upset when you came home,” Brian paused, then his lowered his voice, “Truth?”

Grey knew what Brian was expecting him to say, what he meant by “truth” in this moment. To share something honest and oft unsharable. Perhaps one day he would tell Brian what had happened earlier, but not now, now there was a greater truth Grey felt compelled to confess.

“I don’t know how to care about anything right now that isn’t you.”

Brian swallowed, the sound audible with how close he was. “Do you want my truth?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Grey whispered back.

“I haven’t known since Wilmington.” 

Grey awoke, naked and tangled, with Brian. The night before had been phenomenal. It wasn’t just the sex, though that had been excellent. It had been the closeness. The intimacy. The trust. Perhaps it was wrong to consider the other men he’d been with at a time like this. He shouldn’t compare and yet, he couldn’t help it. The contrast was too strong. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why it was different, but it had been profoundly so. 

Grey was happy, this morning. Giddy, even. 

The memories of Brian’s body wouldn’t leave him alone. It had been so warm inside him, and he made delectable little whimpers when he was taken. Claimed. And the face, God, the face Brian made when he found his pleasure. It was beautiful beyond reason. The sort of beautiful that belonged in a museum or painted atop the ceiling of a cathedral, blasphemy be damned. 

Grey wanted to move between Brian’s legs and open him up with his tongue this time. Would he still taste himself there? Grey imagined taking him even harder. Relentless. He would wear the scratches Brian would leave on his back like a badge of honor. 

He could. Dear God in Heaven. He could.

Later, he told himself, tonight. Tomorrow night. The night after that and the night after…

But for now, Grey had to do what they’d been doing in the morning for weeks and weeks now. He had to slip out of Brian’s bed before Willa woke up, dress and head downstairs before anyone was the wiser. 

So he did. He pressed a gentle kiss to Brian’s temple then slid out from under the covers. He pulled on the clothes scattered about the room. He couldn’t find his hair ribbon, so he left it down and, light as a feather, he drifted from Brian’s bedroom, floating on thoughts of the young man, the taste of him still lingering in his mouth. 

His mind was elsewhere when he wandered into the kitchen to see Phaedre fussing with the tea pot. 

“Good morning, John,” came a familiar, terrifying voice. “I didna expect ye to sleep in so late on a Wednesday.”

Grey froze, swearing his heart had stopped altogether, as he slowly turned around and came face to face with Jamie Fraser. 

Chapter Text

Brian stretched out each of his tender muscles like lazy cat, then slid his arm across the bed linens in search of John’s warm, familiar flesh and found nothing but empty space. A wave of disappointment washed over him, but it disappeared swiftly when confronted with the crystal clear memories of the night before.

No, the previous evening hadn’t been a dream. Not like all the other times before it. It had been real, breathtakingly real and, with the flood of morning light shining through the window, John had likely only slipped out of the room as they always did to avoid any possible suspicion from Willa. 

So, under the circumstances, waking alone did little to quell the giddy joy bursting inside Brian like handfuls of Pop Rocks. He pressed his head back into the pillow and let out a breath, recalling the exquisite intimacy of the night before. God, he needed to have John like that again and as soon as possible. For now though, he’d have to settle for the tender ache that had been left behind.

Brian slid from under the covers. He gathered his clothes off the floor, finding John’s discarded ribbon under his breeches. Once he pulled them on, he stuffed the ribbon into the pocket and then tugged his shirt on over his head. 

He realized only now that the whole time he’d been humming song under breath and he was smiling so much his cheeks ached from the pressure. He couldn’t wait to get downstairs and see John again and just spend the morning in his company. He wished he didn’t have to ride into town today, but Brian would be happy for even a short amount of time with John, though at the same time, a lifetime with him wouldn’t be enough.

Pull yourself together, Brian, he thought to himself, but then just laughed. He didn’t want to pull himself together. He’d rather ride this high of the edge of the world. 

God he loved that man. He really did, and he knew it. With any man before him, Brian had been left wondering if what he felt was maybe love, but he couldn’t have been sure. He knew now that it hadn’t been. This was love. It was unmistakable, and there wasn’t a doubt in Brian’s mind about it.

In stockinged feet, he slid out of the room into the hall, and practically bounced down the steps into the foyer. His humming had grown louder, sprouting words like buds on a tree branch. “One more time, come on and let the good times roll.We’re gonna stay here till we soothe our souls. If it take all night long.” 

Brian had enough self-awareness to know how silly he was asking, but he also just didn’t care. He did a little skip into the kitchen, where Phaedre was chopping a squash. Still singing Sam Cooke, Brian slid over to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. He spun her like they were dancing, singing, “It might be one o'clock and it might be three. Time don't mean that much to me. I haven't felt this good since I don't know when And I might not feel this good—“

The words caught in his throat when his makeshift dance turned him so he was facing a red-faced, open mouthed John beside Jamie with a single ginger eyebrow raised.

Brian laughed and smiled. “Oh, whoa. Hey, Jamie. What brings you to Lynchburg?”

Jamie laughed, a deep, Scottish sound that reminded him a bit of Roger, then he briefly explained that he’d been only a town over and thought he’d stop by to see them.

“I wish I’d known you were coming. I’ve got to work in town today, unfortunately, but I’ll be home for supper. We can catch up more then.” He turned to really look at John, who looked more than a bit unsettled. Brian knew John had had some misgiving about them because of Jamie, but Jamie didn’t have to know, so he was sure it was fine. “You don’t have any work today, do you John?”

John swallowed tightly and shook his head. “No,” he said rather terse. “No I don’t.”

“Oh good. You can keep Jamie company then.”

“Quite,” John replied.

Brian smiled again and planted his hands on his hips. “Breakfast first though. I’m starving. What do we got Phaedre?”

“There’s jam and scones.” Phaedra gestured to the plate of scones behind Jamie.

“You’re the best,” he said to her. “Can I scootch by you there?” he then said to Jamie, who blinked and stepped out of the way. Brian grabbed one of the scones and unceremoniously slathered the thing in raspberry preserves. He chomped into it and swallowed. “Damn. That’s really good.”

Phaedre, John and Jamie were all staring at him. It was a little weird and probably should’ve fazed him more than it did, but he really was still riding the high from the previous night. 

“Mac?” Willa said, then turned to Brian. “Your father’s here.”

John drew in a sharp noise through his throat.

“I noticed,” Brian replied with a laugh. The thought passed briefly that Jamie was also her father and in a quite similar way as he was to Brian. Neither of them had been raised by the man, but at least Brian knew the truth about it, where Willa did not and could not.

Her little brow furrowed. “You didn’t tell me he was coming, Papa.”

“I did not know that he was.”

Jamie put a hand to his chest and spoke with an air of drama, “I can leave if I’m an imposition.”

“Oh, no, no. You’re welcome, of course.” She moved past Jamie and snatched a scone with about as much ceremony as Brian did. She, however, went for the orange marmalade. It was possible Willa was taking after him more than a young “lady” should, but she seemed free and happy and nothing else really mattered. Willa took a bite, swallowed and smiled.

Brian had noticed almost immediately when he had first met Willa that she was Jamie’s daughter. The similarity now though with them beside each other was staggering. As unlikely as it was, he felt they shared more of resemblance than he and Jamie did. He was accidentally staring with wide eyes.

Jamie cleared his throat and took a step forward. He put a hand on Brian’s arm and spoke in a low voice, “Speak wi’ me in hall, aye?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” Brian said. “Just let me grab another one of these.” He reached around to take another scone and gave John a quick wink as he did. The man turned white as parchment, and Brian had to stifle a small laugh. 

He followed Jamie into the hall, and they had walked almost all the way into the foyer before Jamie finally stopped and turned face him. His face was somber, serious.

“What is it?” Brian asked, his voice low.

“Firstly,” Jamie let out a long breath. “I should tell ye about Willa. It seemed that you noticed she’s…”

Oh, it’s about that.

“My sister?” Brian said. “I know, and I know not to say anything to her or to anyone.”

Jamie’s boots squeaked as they shifted on the wood floor. “John told ye then.”

Brian shook his head. “No, I guessed when I first got here. But John did explain it more, and he told me that mom knows.”

“Aye. Aye she does.” Jamie still looked nervous. “There’s also… the woman in the kitchen, I recognize her from River Run.”

Shit. Brian had been so distracted he hadn’t even though… goddammit. He scrambled to cover his tracks.

“Oh, yes, um, John he… well, he needed a cook and he was able to—”

“I ken she’s a runaway. My aunt Jocasta wrote me.”

For the first time today, Brian was sobered. Fear and a nearly brutal sense of protection struck through him. He pulled his shoulder’s back. “You won’t say anything to Jocasta.” It was a demand not a question. “I won’t let you.”

Jamie gave him a sympathetic smile. “Brian… ye must ken that I willna. Even if only for yer mother’s sake, but harboring a fugitive slave is dangerous.”

“Yes, and so is keeping the Regulators in your company while you work for Governor Tryon.” Brian sighed. “We both do what we have to do to protect the people we care about.”

Jamie sighed and squeezed his shoulder. “I ken that, I do. But perhaps forgive a father his concern for his only son.”

Brian nodded. “I should get ready to head into town. Oh, and speaking of… I’ve run across your friend Murtagh’s name on a number of, um, unsavory lists while working for Tryon. If I’ve altered a few of them… well… but anyway, they should be careful. I’d started to write you about it… don’t know if there is someone on the inside or they’re just being watched closely, but you should probably let them know.”

Jamie nodded. “Thank you, son.”

“Yeah, of course.” Brian looked towards the stairs. “I should actually go make myself more presentable.”

How was Grey going to bear the heavy weight of this guilt without shattering under it? What had he done? Oh Dear God in heaven, what had he done? Yes, he’d slept with Brian once before, but that was when he didn’t know who that the man was Jamie Fraser’s son. That was when it was an accident, a mistake that he could rationalize to himself. Of course, he still wouldn’t have ever told Jamie.  The truth would have incensed Jamie, made him utterly livid, but it would have been an unfair and irrational anger. Now, Jamie would kill him if he ever found out the truth, and Grey would deserve it.

Last night, it had seemed so easy not to think about anything but the fire burning between them both. So easy not to care that Brian was Jamie’s son. But in the clear light of day, with Jamie Fraser in his home, hearing his voice, feeling his presence, breathing in the familiar scent of him, Grey could not think of anything else. He betrayed Jamie, his dearest friend, in an unforgivable way, and he hated himself for it.

Grey had expected to see that same regret and fear overtake Brian, but when he’d seen his father, Grey saw nothing of the sort reflected in Brian’s demeanor. Nothing. No sense of regret. No sense of worry or care. He carried on as casual and calm as usual, even bloody daring to wink suggestively at Grey, and with Jamie mere inches away! Christ, Grey felt he’d come to know Brian well, and yet he did not understand this reaction at all. A powerful urge to shake sense into Brian ached at his bones.

And now, Jamie had taken Brian into the hallway to talk. But about what? His heart pounded frantically, and could barely manage to breathe.

Jamie couldn’t know what had transpired between Brian and Grey. He couldn’t possibly, and yet anxiety burned through him hot enough he expected the table to set ablaze with a mere touch of his fingers. His stomach churned, and he couldn’t bring himself to even sip the tea, let alone join in the casual conversation between Phaedra, Willa and now Elizabeth, who had joined them.

When, finally, Jamie stepped back into the room, Grey startled again, and Jamie gave him another strange look. “Ye really are jumpy, man, ye ken that.”

“Yes,” Grey said, glancing over at Willa. Surely, Jamie wouldn’t murder him in front of his own daughter. The daughter they shared. Bloody Christ, they shared a daughter, and Grey had gone and slept with Jamie’s son. What had happened to him? When had he become a man of such little honor?

“Where’s Brian?” Willa asked.

“Oh, he went to finish dressing,” Jamie said, then looked at Elizabeth. “Hello, lass. I dinna think we have met.” Grey introduced them the best he could given his internal torture, and then Jamie looked at Grey.

“I was wondering if Willa has some free time today, I thought the three of us could go on a ride.”

“Really? I want to go, Papa. Can we?”

“I… yes, I imagine so, but you’ll need to do your studies with Elizabeth later this afternoon then.” 

God, this was the absolute worst day of his life.

So Grey spent this worst morning with Jamie and Willa, and every word that he forced from his mouth fit between his lips like a lie, no matter how true their genuine form was. Beyond that, he could barely hear or process the words coming from Jamie’s mouth. He couldn’t stop thinking of the night before. Of where his mouth and hands and prick had been, and how he was torn bodily between wishing it had never happened, and understanding that he’d never experienced as profound a sexual experience in all his life. 

He was a miserable, downright evil bastard, wasn’t he?

If Willa hadn’t been around, Grey might have just admitted all to Jamie, and let the man kill him because how in God’s name was he ever going to live with this. With the kind of man he’d allowed himself to become. 

After they returned to the house, Willa went off with Elizabeth to do her studies, leaving Grey and Jamie truly alone. Jamie seemed so relaxed and happy that every casual smile pierced Grey’s heart. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a wonderful day, one of the best, but instead the day had been soiled, mangled and deformed into a hideous punishment. If Grey had thought Brian’s return to home would make things better, it only made them worse. Brian still did not seem bothered at all by Jamie’s presence, and he spent the evening playing his guitar and he and Willa taught that fish card game to Jamie. They’d asked Grey to join, but his mood was destroyed. Instead, he spent the evening skulking around and drinking as much whisky as he could manage. 

For the first time in a long time, Grey went to bed alone, but he could not sleep. He lied awake the entire night, staring into the darkness, trying not remember how it had felt to be inside Brian, how complete he’d felt at the time, and how much he hated himself now.

Jamie stayed for the next two days, and torture only continued. Everything appeared too normal, like a nightmare where everyone continued on as if they were safe, and he was the only one aware that were surrounded by a legion of bloodthirsty wolves preparing to tear them apart.

By the time he shook Jamie’s hand and the man departed, the stress was so overwhelming that he rushed up to his room without a word to Brian. He couldn’t bear to look at the man anyway.

He escaped for only a few moments before Brian slipped in through Grey’s bedroom door and rushed toward him. Brian was already trying to kiss him before Grey gathered his mind together enough to push him away. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" 

Brian’s brow furrowed, and he titled his head. "Trying to kiss you? These last few days have been excruciating." He took a step forward.

Grey stepped back, needing as much distance between them as possible. He no longer trusted himself or his judgement. He’d always believed himself to be a good man. He didn’t anymore. Besides, Brian had spent the last few days acting as if everything was fine, while Grey had been twisting and writhing inside as guilt and shame ate away at him. Brian’s nonchalant attitude had made it hurt all the worse, made Grey feel simply mad. "Really? You haven't seemed to be bothered at all.”

“Is that why you've been so grouchy lately? You were missing me,” Brian said those words softly accompanied by an endearing half-smile that made Grey want to scream. He still wasn’t bloody taking this seriously.

Another fiery rush of rage burned through Grey. It had to be obvious. There had be buckets of smoke pouring out of his skin, but Brain apparently failed to notice as he was stepping forward again and trying to wrap his arms around Grey and pull him in.

"Brian, don't!” Grey snapped. A viciousness seethed in Grey’s voice that bordered on cruelty. If he hadn’t been so angry then he would’ve felt terrible for it, but right now he could not manage a coherent thought, let alone a compassionate one.

Brian gave him another uncertain look. "Whoa, what is going with you?"

Grey shook his head, running a hand down his face. He let out a heavy breath. His heart pounded loudly in his head and ricocheted through his entire body with the sort of force that could fracture bone. "I... Christ, Brian. If your father knew what we did the night before he showed up here."

"Oh come on. He doesn't know. So who gives a fuck?”

There it was again. That casual attitude that just made Grey want to drive his fist through something. Grey was breaking, aching and suffering in a way he just couldn’t express, and Brian didn’t understand or didn’t care. It left him feeling lonelier than he could remember. "I do. You know I do. That I always have, and you bloody well never cared how I felt about it!"

Brian’s brow drew together, and finally there was a look of concern that shouldn’t have been as relieving as it was. "Are you...? You can't be serious. You started it. You kissed me. You took me upstairs. You fucked me.”

"I'd had a difficult day.” Grey attempted to explain it away, but Brian was right. He’d wanted Brian. Honor and consequence be damned. That alone was terrifying. “My mind wasn’t clear. It doesn't matter now. We can’t do that ever again.”

“Oh my fucking God, John.” Brian huffed, clearly annoyed. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re being ridiculous.”

If Grey hadn’t been angry before, now he was incensed. His fingers curled into his palms and he squeezed. Two fists he wouldn’t throw but comforted him nonetheless His face burned as he spit. “I’m being ridiculous? You’re acting like a child.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are.” Grey spat, letting his anger turn rancid and boil out of his mouth like bile. “That’s how it’s always been, but I never let myself see it. You have this fantasy of the way the world should be. The way you want the world to be and damn reality and damn everyone else if you don’t get your way.”

“Seriously, John. You’re being an asshole. You think I’m naive? I’m not. I understand the world we’re living in. The truth is I understand it even better than you. The difference is I’m not willing to simply bow down to it because I’m not a coward.”

“A coward?” Grey crossed his arms over his chest. “And what do you suppose I’m afraid of?”

“I don’t know where should I start? Your daughter? Yourself? Me? Jamie? Like for God’s sake, man. Grow a pair.” Brian was red-faced, no longer calm and passive as he had been before, and it was wrong but Grey felt as if he could finally breathe. He wanted Brian angry. Grey needed desperately to not feel alone in his madness. “You can stand here in front of me and pretend you haven’t always wanted me. You go around acting like wanting me will somehow taint your precious honor, but you’re just scared of being happy. We could have something incredible together, but that would mean you have to take a risk. But it’s just easier to just mope around and feel sorry for yourself and blame your unhappiness and your loneliness on everyone else.” Brian let out a breath and his eyes met Grey’s with pure, intense focus. “Christ, John. Christ. Look at me. Listen to me. I love you.”

Grey shook his head. “Brian—“

He stepped forward, reaching for Grey’s hands. “I am in love with you.”

Grey stepped away to avoid a touch he could not bear. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Brian’s voice broke on the words. 

Don’t say it. Keep your damn mouth closed. But sometimes you had to put a dying thing out of its misery. Sometimes you have no choice but to deliver that killing blow. “Because you might be in love with me, but I… I am in love with your father.” 

Brian stumbled back, all the blood rushing from his face, leaving him ghost white.“What? That’s… you’re not. Does he not… I mean he isn’t…” He just kept shaking his head.

“You’re right. Jamie’s not. But he does know of my feelings for him. As does your mother.”

Brian clutched the wall for support and mumbled, “Then, why would you? With me…??

Grey looked at Brian. There was Jamie in, of course. The hair alone… but when they’d been together… it hadn’t ever been Jamie in his thoughts or his mind or his desires. That was the truth, but sometimes lies had sharper blades.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you look an awful lot like him.”

Brian’s eyes shut.“So what? You were picturing him while we were…” He covered his mouth with his hand. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

And sometimes you were to weak to just let the cuts go as deep as they could. “No, It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“I don’t know, Brian. A mistake? I’ve come to care for you, and I’m so sorry that I failed to control myself and I’ve hurt and misled you. But now you know why this is over. Why it has to be.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever, some sort of gaping abyss, and then there was Brian’s voice again,“I’m an idiot. God, I’m so fucking stupid.”

You’re not stupid. I am. Stupid and broken and horrible. “Brian—“

He stumbled away from the wall, his face contorted into confusion. “I should leave. I have to leave.”

Stay, he thought, the darkness inside him committing another betrayal. What would life without Brian look like? Miserable, probably. And he deserved misery.

“... that’s probably for the best,” he muttered, unable to look Brian in the eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll…” Then, he looked up at Grey. “Phaedre?”

He knew what Brian was asking, so he replied simply, still unable to look at him,“Of course, she can stay here as long as she’d like.“

“Thanks,” his voice was cold, lifeless. “I’ll… I’ll pack my things, and get out of your hair.” 

Brian turned then, said nothing else and left. 

Chapter Text

One step, Brian thought, all he had to do was just take one single step and then take one more after that, over and over, until this house and the life he’d started to build, and John— God John —was too far behind him to see. If he took the time to consider the looming future, to consider what came next or what to say to himself, to his parents, to anyone, to consider what this meant for a freshly shattered heart, he’d never survive and survival was tenuous to begin with in this time for someone like him. But right now, he had to hurry to his—the guest— room and throw everything he owned into the bag he came with and get the hell out of here. Easier said than done. Over the months living in Virginia, he’d collected more than his share of meaningful or useful items. Letters and trinkets and memories—the guitar. He and Willa had shared the one he’d found for a while, but a craftsman had been selling one in town and so he’d brought it home to her… he hoped there would be someone to teach Willa to play in his absence. But he couldn’t think about that, not about Willa, not how he had no idea when or if he’d see his little sister again… it was all like quicksand and a man had to run over it so as not to sink.

In a blur, barely breathing the whole time, everything Brian had was packed, stuffed tight into canvas and leather satchels he could pack onto his horse without weighing the poor creature down. Brian put his hand on the bedroom doorknob, then hesitated to twist and open it. He just couldn’t bring himself to push through it yet, so he let it go and, turning, removed a piece of paper, a small scrap from some notes he’d taken in one of those endless, boring meetings. A cost he’d once willingly paid to stay here with John and now… Christ, fuck, he was going to be sick.

Brian grabbed his quill and ink and wrote one last thing. Maybe John would find it here in this room, and maybe he wouldn’t, and maybe even if he did, he might just toss it away without reading. But even if there was the smallest chance he might care enough to read it, Brian would try, because those words needed to be said, since he would no longer be able to remind him. Because even if Brian hated John right now he still loved him, goddammit. 

One last truth, for old time’s sake: you are enough, just as you are.

Brian folded the small note up, dragged in a real breath for the first time since John had set fire to everything, and placed the tattered piece of parchment on the pillow, the one that still smelled like the fresh lemon of John’s hair. Trying to force down the lump in his throat, Brian snatched up his belongings again, and this time, somehow, managed to walk out the door and let it clatter shut behind him with the horrible thud of finality.

He was standing outside, breathing in the cool air before he even realized he’d made it outside and under the suffocating blanket of night. Unfortunately, the next thing he had to do was tell Phaedre, and guilt at the thought dropped heavy as a lead hammer in his chest. John had told Brian she could stay with him, but he owed her the option to either stay here or go to Fraser’s Ridge with him, or for him to escort her wherever it is she wanted to go next. The fact that his own stupidity, his own foolish belief that he maybe could love someone and have that love in equal return, could harm Phaedre or put her in even more danger made him absolutely furious with himself. 

Without thinking—or maybe thinking too much, his mind an impenetrable briar—whatever the case, he shoved open the door to the servant’s cottage without knocking, just to be greeted with a sight he had most definitely not expected. 

Phaedre was sitting on the table with Elizabeth standing between her legs, pushing her skirt down. They were kissing and smiling into each other’s mouths.

At Brian’s shocked gasp, they broke apart and Elizabeth started to spout off a nonsensical jumble of curses and half-assed explanations.

“Everything’s alright, Beth.” Phaedre looked at Brian with a raised eyebrow. “Everything is alright, isn’t?”

Oh, oh shit. Brian nodded. “Yeah, um, yeah, for sure. That’s… I mean… that’s cool. I’m happy for you guys. Wow… um… can I actually talk to you for a second though?” he asked, directing his request towards Phaedre. 

Phaedre’s brow knit as she slipped off the table, the happy easiness of the earlier moment giving way to serious, darkened concern. “Of course. What is it?” Her gaze landed on his packed belongings. 

Brian managed to nod, not wanting to alarm her, despite the pressure of the growing knot in his throat and the salt-burn of tears prickling at his eyes. 

“Would you like to step outside?” she inquired. 

“I can step into the bedroom,” Elizabeth said. “I need to prepare for Willa’s lesson tomorrow anyhow.” She nodded politely at Brian, the back of her hand brushing Phaedre’s as she passed by, walking into the bedroom to close the door behind her with a gentle click.

“I’m sorry, Phaedre… I… I’m leaving.” Damn, those words were hard to say, like thick, sticky poison in his mouth. 

“For how long?”

“For good,” he said. “I… I can’t come back here.”

“Why not?” Her eyes went wide with concern. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Brian rubbed a hand over his mouth, then slid it around to the back of his neck, letting out a wheezing breath through nearly shut lips as he tried to stop the ugly swirl in his mind long enough to tell her what had happened in a way that did not betray John and the code of men like them to never out each other. However, he had a feeling that Phaedre knew, and given she and Elizabeth with her, was like John, it felt safe. But still, he left the entire truth of it implied, rather than confirmed. 

When Brian finished pouring it all out, with a healthy helping of apology to Phaedre, he finally finished speaking. “You two can come with me. I know North Carolina is farther south, but mom and Jamie wouldn’t turn you in, and…”

“Brian,” Phaedre said, the friendliness, the compassion, in her voice, was undeserved, but more than welcome. She’d called him by his given name before, but not often, and he wished he could wrap himself up in the sound of it now. Frankly, he wished he could take her and Elizabeth to the stones, gems in hand, and pray to whoever might listen that they could all shove themselves through time. Christ, he could really fucking use a hamburger and a bottle of Coke and a double feature.

“I’m sorry,” she continued, “But I want to stay, and if Lord John is willing… I make a wage here, and so does Elizabeth. We have... frankly, we’ve built a home.” She gestured to the clean, cozy space around them, the cream-colored hearth, the frayed but homey rug at its feet, the scent of lavender and tea warming in an old copper kettle. Brian understood what she meant, respected it, and was happy for her.

A tear escaped his eye without permission, and Brian quickly swiped it away. “It might not look like it because I’m kind of a mess right now, but I am so happy for you and Elizabeth. Really. Just know if you need anything, you can come to me or my mom or Jamie. We’ll have your backs… I mean, we’ll take care of you both. I give you my word.” Brian let out a heavy breath, then stood. “I… I should say my goodbyes to Elizabeth and then go.”

There was wetness in Phaedre’s eyes as well as she stood with him. “Can I give you a hug?”

Another tear slipped out, but this time Brian didn’t rush to wipe it away, he just nodded. “Yes, of course.” He smiled. "Always.”

…

That night was the longest and most sleepless night of John Grey’s life. He’d done the right thing. The noble thing. The honorable thing. He’d spent more than a decade of his life choosing Jamie Fraser, and he couldn’t imagine a world in which he didn’t, in which he could even understand the shape of himself, of his soul and his heart, if he didn’t. The decision— the mistake , he corrected himself—he’d made to sever the bond he’d built with Brian, with Jamie’s son, had been difficult, painful, yet inevitable. He still could not undo the night they spent together before Jamie had arrived and he never could, but he could burn the bridge of temptation and let the ashes of it wash away in the river. Grey had recovered from every man he’d ever loved and lost, even Hector in his way, every single one save Jamie Fraser, and that would be true of Brian too, never mind the cataclysmic emptiness howling from the place where his heart had once been. 

He’d been so caught up in his own issues, his own gnarled, thorny thoughts, that when he’d finally dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs, he’d been shocked by Willa’s small voice and her simple, impossible to answer question. “Papa, where’s Brian?”

Grey opened his mouth but no words came out, each possible answer tripped over itself in his mind. None of the true ones were dishonest enough and none of the dishonest ones were true enough.

“Papa?” she inquired again, head tilted to the side, mouth slowly sinking into a frown.

“He’s…” Grey managed the single word with serious effort. “… Gone home.”

Willa’s face screwed up, bottom lip pouting out, shoulders sinking. “This is his home.” She said it without any question or affection, just the surety of believing her words, and it was that simple surety that struck Grey with the same piercing sharpness as a blade between his ribs. 

“I understand how it might have seemed that way, but he was only ever staying here temporarily.”

Willa shook her head. “No. No, Brian wouldn’t just leave. We made plans for Christmas, and then for next spring. I… why would he leave without saying goodbye?” Tears started to well up in his daughter’s eyes. 

“I…” Grey did not have an explanation, no thought on how he could clarify this for Willa or make it easier to accept, not when it was this hard for Grey to accept himself. Why did Brian just leave without saying goodbye to Willa when he could’ve stayed long enough to do that? It wasn’t as if Grey had actually thrown him out, and it certainly wasn’t fair that Brian had abandoned Grey to explain this to Willa. But was this not actually Grey’s fault… He’d been the one to bed Brian knowing that his heart belonged to the young man’s father. Knowing that they could never have what Brian wanted them to have. Still. Grey had told him they couldn’t be more than friends. He’d said it over and over. It wasn’t his own fault that Brian hadn’t believed him and, when all was said and done, there was only so much temptation a man could endure. But not a single word of this was something he could say to his daughter, to Jamie’s daughter, to Brian’s sister.

“Papa.” Willa was crying in earnest now. “Tell me what happened to Brian. Please? You’re lying. I can tell when you’re lying!”

“I’m not lying!” he snapped unhelpfully. “I understand you’re upset, but I’m still your father and you do not speak to me that way, is that clear?” He shook his head. “Perhaps it’s for the best that Brian’s left before you picked up even more his disdain for manners and authority.”

Willa’s face fell, freezing into something icy and cold. “You’re glad that Brian’s gone?”

“I didn’t say…”

“Yes you did!” she shouted with the heat of that Fraser fire again. “You did! And why? Because he taught me how to stand up for myself? To… not take shit from anyone, including you.”

“ Willa Ransom!” Grey slammed his hand down on the sideboard, rattling a stack of silver trays. 

“You can stand here and tell me Brian just left, but I heard you. I heard you fighting.”

Grey’s blood ran ice cold at those words. If she had heard them fighting, how much had she heard? Did she know what had transpired between him and Brian, or between him and Jamie? Even if she heard the words, could she have understood them? “You shouldn’t be listening in on adult conversations.”

“I can’t help it when you’re yelling!”

Grey’s jaw clenched. “What exactly did you hear?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t really hear all the words, but I knew you were yelling. You were yelling and now Brian is gone because… because you asked him to leave. ”

“ Yes, yes, you’re right. He is gone and I did ask him to leave because I know what’s best for us. You might not like it but he’s gone and that’s the way it is. I don’t want to hear another thing about it.”

Willa’s face turned a bright, scorching red and her hands balled into fists at her side. “I hate you, John! I hate you and I wish Brian was my father not you. ”

Grey normally maintained his composure, especially with Willa, but these last days had taken a toll, and he suddenly had nothing useful left to give. “He’s your brother, Willa, he’s not old enough to be your father.”

Grey froze, the sudden silence choked out the air in the room.

“What?” Willa stumbled back. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, I…” Grey begged for more words to come but nothing did.

“If Brian’s my brother then—”

“Willa,” Grey interrupted his daughter. “He’s not… I misspoke.” 

“Is Mac?” Willa swallowed visibly, her small hands shaking. “Is Mac my father?”

“You are the daughter of the 8th earl of Ellsmere.”

“Bullshit,” she said flatly. “I told you. I can tell when you’re lying.” 

“Willa, please listen to me.” He tried reaching out to her but she pulled away from him as if his touch could burn. 

She just shook her head. “No, no,” she said, sniffling. “Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone.” With that, she turned, her skirts swishing, and rushed up the stairs in a flurry of angry feet. The door to her room slammed shut with a loud snap that thudded hard in his chest. Oh, dear God, what have I done? 

Grey leaned back against the sideboard for support, gripping the edge with his hand hard enough he’d have a bruise there tomorrow. Should he go up and talk to her? Try to explain, tell her that this was a secret she would always have to keep if she wanted the inheritance, the title, the opportunity to make a good match with a man? Despite the world Brian liked to create for her, there was a difference between the life of the daughter of an, albeit pardoned, Scottish criminal, and the life of the daughter of an earl. 

But, Christ, he was still hurt and angry. At Willa, at Brian, at himself, at the goddamn world, and he couldn’t bring himself to move, let alone walk upstairs and say to her something she needed to hear. He didn’t trust himself not to hurt her any further, so he would wait until he could figure it out, and until she could have time to think and process and calm down, then he could try having the conversation they needed to have, perhaps beginning to mend what had been broken. 

When Elizabeth and Phaedra came in to the house some indeterminate time later, he sent them away, claiming that neither he nor Willa were feeling well, and they should feel free to take the day off. They shared a look as if they both knew there was more to what had been said, but of course, neither pressed the issue. They merely thanked him, wished him and Willa well, then, most likely though he did not watch, returned to the servant’s cottage. Once Grey managed to move again, he struggled into the study and shut the door behind him. He didn’t care to eat, but he poured himself a whisky, not caring at all about the hour and buried himself in any work he could find to occupy his mind and help him momentarily forget the absolute disaster he’d allowed his life to become. 

It was hours, sometime long after lunch and not too long before suppertime, before he’d calmed enough to even think of going to speak with Willa. He walked up the stairs to her door and knocked, but there was no answer, so he knocked again and called out her name. Still, no answer. 

Strange, he thought, but perhaps she was asleep or still angry and ignoring him. He tried again. “Willa, I’d like to apologize for earlier, and I’d like to talk to you about this. Would you please open the door?”

He waited but there was still no response, so he tried a different tactic. “Wills,” he said, using the nickname Brian had given her without meaning to. “Please, just make some sort of noise so I know you’re alive in there?” Even then, she gave him nothing, and the empty silence made anxiety burn his chest again. He knocked harder. “Willa, I’m sorry, but I need you to open up now, you’re scaring me.” Nothing. 

He turned quickly on his heel and rushed down the hall to the closet where he kept the key to the room hanging. It was missing. “Dammit,” he spat and ran back to Willa’s door. Grey grabbed the handle and shook it, trying to loosen it, knowing it wouldn’t work, but still trying in a desperate panic. 

When it didn’t work, Grey stepped back, sinking into that place he would during a battle or a fight, when he had to balance skill and rational thought with brutal, primal fear. He’d kicked down a door before. He could do it now, certainly with the safety of his daughter in question. He brought his leg up and slammed his boot hard near the handle, shoving the lock through the wood with a crack. The door swung open, revealing Willa’s empty room and the open window, curtains fluttering in the warm breeze. 

Grey rushed to the window, where the bed linens had been tied into a rope and secured to the post of her bed. He looked out across the pasture but there was no sign of her. 

Oh, Christ. Oh, God. 

When he turned, he barely registered the room key laid on her desk, unimportant now, and he ran as fast as he could down the stairs and outside to the servant’s cottage. Grey pounded on the door, shouting for Elizabeth and Phaedre. They opened the door in no time at all, though they were both in a surprising state of undress for the mid-afternoon, beside the cloaks they’d obviously thrown over their shoulders in haste. 

“What is it, My Lord?” Elizabeth asked. “Are you alright?”

“Is Willa in here?” he asked desperately, knowing what the answer would be.

“No,” she replied. “We haven’t seen her all day. She’s not in her room?”

Grey shook his head. “No, no. I don’t know where she is.”

“She must be around here,” Elizabeth said, trying to sound calm. “We’ll spread out and look for her. We’ll find her, My Lord. We will.”

So they did, they spread out. They searched the property, and the only thing they found was a single horse missing from the stall. 

“But where could she have gone?” Phaedre asked, hand on the empty stall door. “An eleven year old girl. Alone.” Her gaze shifted to Elizabeth, then snapped back to John.

That single look at Elizabeth left Grey with a cold fear he’d never felt before. Not ever. They had to find Willa, now. At least, he knew where she had gone, somehow he knew. Willa had gone to see her father.

“Help me ready the horse. I have to go to Fraser’s Ridge.” 

Chapter Text

Brian arrived at the Ridge exhausted, bone-weary and drained from the constant hum of anxiety that accompanied traveling alone through the woods in the eighteenth century, alert to the myriad of possible threats, whether they be robbery, violence or disease. Relief at the sight of the old cabin and, beyond that, the construction of Jamie and his mother’s new home was dampened by the knowledge that he would have to explain his sudden and unexpected return to North Carolina. Best, he figured, to just get it over without delay. 

Brian tied his horse off near a full trough beside Jamie’s black mare and took the long walk up the sloped hill. His mom was kneeling in the garden, gathering herbs into the hammock of her apron. When Brian stepped on a branch, she looked up, startled, but her eyes met his and she smiled, though the confusion underpinning her expression was still obvious. She stood, collecting the herbs into her hands before placing them aside on a tree stump, then rushed through the overgrown grass to throw her arms around Brian’s neck and pull her into him.

With her small, familiar frame pressed against his own, Brian’s knees trembled, his chest ached, and he felt all at once seven years old again, crying in his mom’s arms because he was being bullied at school. He wanted so badly to cry now, to let all the pain spill out of him like a split-open vein, but she couldn’t ever know the truth, could never even know that the heart she so carefully knit inside her, had been ripped apart and left in tatters. 

She pulled back from him slightly, but kept her soil-speckled hands on his shoulders. “What are you doing here?” 

“Am I not welcome?” he asked with an air of feigned drama.

“Of course you are, it’s only your father didn’t tell me you were coming back. Why didn’t you just ride out with him? He could’ve waited. It’s dangerous to travel this far alone. You are alone?” She looked past his shoulder. “Is Lord John with you?”

Brian tensed at the name, and hoped his mom didn’t notice. “No… he’s not. No. I… my work for Tryon ended and I… just figured. I missed you. Is that so wrong?”

Her eyes narrowed into a familiar expression of suspicion, but thankfully, she did not press the issue, merely patted Brian’s shoulders and stepped back. “Well, Jamie will be happy you’re back. Young Ian too. Did your father tell you that Fergus and Marsali are living here now with the baby? And I think she might be pregnant again too.”

He shook his head. “No I hadn’t heard. That’s good. It looks like you all might need extra help around her anyway.”

His mom started to say something, but just then Jamie appeared around the side of the house. He smiled when he recognized that Brian was standing there, but his face was contorted with that same sort of confusion he’d seen earlier on his mom’s face. Jamie rushed forward, joining them, pulling Brian into a manly sort of embrace, then assaulted him with the same manner of question his mom had. Once again, Brian did his best to deflect. 

Jamie exchanged a quick look with his wife, then seemed to set any qualms aside, patting Brian on the shoulder and saying, “Weel, I help ye bring in yer things, then I’ll show ye around the new house. What’s finished of it, that is.”

Grey dismounted his horse near the stream. The poor creature needed to stop and drink. He needed to as well, but wished that he did not have to waste the time. Of course, he’d only taken the bare essentials with him, hadn’t taken the time to pack the small luxuries that suddenly felt necessary, if only that they might ground him in a reality that was not this reality, back to a world where they were all still safe at home in Virginia. He’d grown more accustomed than he realized to, for example, the peppermint freshness of Brian’s so-called “toothpaste”, a mixture of imported sodium bicarbonate, mint leaves and a sprinkle of salt, scrubbed onto his teeth with rough linen. Brian insisted they do this twice a day, combined with eating a “well-balanced diet”, which meant far more leafy greens and porridge than he’d prefer.

Grey knelt down to fill his canteen, his gaze dropping to the trickling water. The rustle of the bushes behind him, startled him into standing. He glanced toward the direction of the sound, but saw nothing beyond a small grey squirrel scurrying in the underbrush. Whatever it had been, sounded larger than that but Grey couldn’t be certain it was anything more than his worries about Willa causing him to be so tense. He surveyed the area around him for a while longer, hand to the dagger on his waist, but when he heard and saw nothing more, Grey mounted his horse once again and rode on, in desperate search for his daughter. 

He pushed himself and his horse farther and faster than he should’ve, faster than he even thought possible, exhausting himself as he came upon each town and village, giving everyone he saw a description of Willa and asking if they’d seen her. He was bolstered forward and in this direction—South towards North Carolina and Fraser’s Ridge—the few times he’d found someone who thought they’d seen her. One man, a farmer, had even spoken with her. From his description, the girl was definitely Willa though she’d lied and said she was traveling her father and older brother. 

As night fell, Grey wanted to go on, but he kept falling asleep, nearly toppling off his horse and the woods here were dense, confusing and it had become impossible to see more than a foot in front of him. Giving up, Grey stopped to make a camp, complete with a small fire to try and push back to the autumn cold. As he laid on the ground, surrounded by the trees, and chirping insects and the hoot of distant owls, Grey could not remember ever feeling so alone or so helpless.

He slept, but fitfully, and eventually was woken by the sound of many footsteps. Instinctively, Grey jolted to his feet.

The shadows in the trees, materialized in the moonlight, revealing their true form, the haggard bodies of desperate, armed men, glinting knives clutched in weather-worn hands. One man, the tallest, gripped a rusty blunderbuss aimed directly at Grey, whose first thoughts were not for himself but for his daughter—if this was the fate he’d met, what horrors might she encounter? 

“What do you want?” Grey asked, backing up, feeling the pressure of his own blade in his belt, considering how he could manage to grab it. “I don’t have much on me, but—”

“Shut up,” shut up shouted the bandit with the gun.

One of them came around to latch onto the reigns of Grey’s horse, he whinnied and bucked, and the man spat, “Quiet. You bastard.”

Quiet for what? They were, unfortunately, out here alone, isolated, from anyone who could hear a sound and come to his rescue. Whatever happened Grey had to get out of here alive so he could find Willa.

“Empty your pockets.” The man gestured towards him with the blunderbuss.

Grey nodded, reaching down as if towards his pockets, wanting to reach for his knife, so he could have some sort of defense but knowing it was useless when he was staring down a barrel. 

He had little in his pockets. Some coins and odd trinkets he’d picked up God knows where. 

“Put it on the ground,” the man continued.

Slowly, Grey obliged, laying it all the boots of this bandit before standing back up, jaw set, anger rising in him like hot flames. Even if they didn’t kill him, if they took his horse, and they likely would, how would he ever catch up with Willa who was on horseback, at least she’d left on horseback?

“Pick up the coins,” he ordered one of his men.

“Yessir,” the man said and rushed over to bend down and gather up the coins.

“This really all a man like you has to offer.” He stepped forward, crushing a glass figurine under his boot. Where had Grey even picked that one up? 

“I left in a hurry,” Grey said through his teeth.

A chill wind swept through the valley, the icy unwanted kiss of impending autumn. 

“Undress.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not some pervert, I just want your clothes. Those buttons are worth more than the rest of this shit.”

Begrudgingly, Grey slipped off his overcoat, then his waistcoat tossing them on the ground and the same man who scrambled to pick up the coins scrambled for his clothes too. That wind blew again, even colder, sharper now that there was only a thin sheath of linen to protect him from the elements. 

He thought they might kill him, but they didn’t. They just gathered up his things, took his horse and scrambled off into the night. 

Claire awoke to her husband, watching her, those wild blue eyes staring, observing intently her own face, inspiring her to smile in response.

“Well, good morning, then. Like what you see?”

“Ye look alike, Sassenach. Do ye ken that ye do?”

“Who do I look like?” she inquired, shifting her body towards Jamie’s warmth.

“Yer son.”

Claire hadn’t thought much about it, even when Brian was younger, always preoccupied with just how much he looked liked Jamie—his eyes and the unmistakable flame of his hair. “I am his mother.”

Jamie frowned, his brow drawn together in thought, an he let a small noise escape his throat.

“What is it?” Claire asked, stroking her cold fingers along the side of his arm.

“I was only thinking how strong ye must’ve been. I dinna think I could’ve survived it, seeing ye in him everyday, like a ghost of ye.”

“You could have,” Claire replied. “You would have. For him. I know you would have.”

He nodded subtly, then pressed his lips together in a thin line, something obviously still on his mind. “I dinna ken him like ye do, o’course, tis only… has he seemed different since returning to the ridge?”

Claire blinked. She had noticed a shift, a strangeness in her son’s behavior, but it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. Jamie wouldn’t know this, but Brian was prone to bouts of moodiness and brooding, of withdrawing into his own feelings and thoughts. In the future, he would lock himself in his room and play records way too loud, an act that seemed to be replaced in this century with strumming Patsy Cline on his guitar. She’d had “I Fall to Pieces” stuck in her head for days.

“He does this sometimes,” Claire replied. “You should’ve seen him when he didn’t get the lead in the high school play.” When the theater director had cast Brian as ‘pine tree #3’, Brian hadn’t appreciated Frank’s insistence that ‘there were no small roles only small actors’. 

“I think… I should’ve told ye this, but I didna want to worry ye.”

Claire sat up in bed, suddenly very worried. “What is it?”

Jamie sat up as well, swinging his legs off the side of the bed to stand. “Do ye remember when my Aunt Jocasta wrote us months back and in her letter, mentioned that her slave Phaedre had run away.”

“Yes.. what does that have to do with—“

“I saw her, when I was in Lynchburg. She’s John’s cook.”

“I don’t understand… he’s been to River Run, he must recognize her.”

“He does… somehow your son talked John into not only harboring a fugitive slave, but paying her a wage as a cook.”

“Well… that sounds… quite precisely like him.”

“Aye, weel, do ye think… when I was in Virginia they seemed quite close…”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I think he may have had a… romance of a sort with Phaedre or perhaps wanted to have had.”

Claire considered that for a moment. Brian had dated some in high school, nothing serious, but he was young and she didn’t know if there’d been anyone after that. Brian, in general, hadn’t been very forthcoming about what happened in the time after she’d left.

“It’s possible. Do you think Lord John found out? Thought it was inappropriate and asked Brian to leave?”

“Possibly… or perhaps it ended badly and he couldna bear to stay. Do ye think I should ask him about it?

“No,” Claire said a bit too quickly, obviously startling Jamie. “Sorry. I’ve just made that mistake before. He’ll talk when he’s ready or one day, he’ll just be back to his usual self.”

“If ye say so, Sassenach,” Jamie added with a soft smile, as he leaned down to grab his breeches. “I trust yer judgement.”

Claire spent the day in her surgery, organizing tinctures and sterilizing instruments. A few of their new residents visited, one for a toothache, another for a cut that required stitches and a third who’d been having migraine headaches. She’d treated them all to the best of her ability, only occasionally catching a glimpse of Brian, skulking through the house, in search of food and careful to avoid being dragged into doing anything useful, whatsoever. 

She knew her son well enough that if he wanted to sulk, she needed to let him, at least for a while, though it was beginning to get both excessive and concerning. If there were no signs of improvement in the next few days, Claire would have to talk with him about it. When it came to Brian’s moods, Frank had always been better at snapping him out of it and the fourth time Brian slunk past her door with a basket full of food, she found herself wishing Frank were here.

By early evening, Claire had retired to the porch with a basket of yarn to do some knitting and had somehow coaxed Brian out of his isolation with promise of hard cider. Tucked into the corner of the porch, he was alternating between sipping the cider and strumming his guitar. Jamie had come out to, kissing Claire before settling beside her on the porch.

Claire lost some track of time as she sat there on the porch, thoughts hopping between her work and the house and her husband and whatever the hell was up with Brian, but she was pulled back to the present by an unexpected sight ahead of her.

A figure on horseback emerged through the shelter of the tree line—no two figures—distant enough that Claire could not recognize them at first, but as the wind thinned out the evening mist, she identified the riders as Murtagh and—Jesus H Roosevelt Christ—that was Jamie’s daughter.

“Jamie, Jamie.” Her hand jutted out, grabbing Jamie’s sleeve, forcing his attention forward. “Look.”

“Christ.” He shook his head, jogging past Claire, bounding down the front porch steps and toward them. Claire followed him down into the tall grass.

Murtagh dismounted the horse, then Willa followed. He tried to help her, but she slid past him and took off like a shot in their direction, barreling toward Jamie. 

Jamie hurried forward, bracing himself, obviously anticipating a collision with his daughter but she streaked past him and past Claire too. Claire halted and turned back to see Willa hurl herself at Brian, who pulled her into him, tight, cupping the back of her small head with his hand, eyes shut.

Willa was muttering, sobbing, something incoherent and all Claire could make out was Brian saying, “I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Claire looked back over her shoulder, seeing Jamie in fierce discussion with his godfather. He let out a curse loud of enough for Claire to hear then stomped away from Murtagh. He didn’t even acknowledge Claire as he neared her. She reached out her arm, brushing his sleeve. “Jamie, what the hell happened?”

“Willa ran away from home.”

Claire blinked. “Why in God’s name would she do that?”

“Because.” Jamie clenched his jaw, fists balled into hands at his side, eyes trained on both his children. “She knows I’m her father.” 

Chapter Text

“Willa, what are you doing here?, Brian squeezed Willa tight, and, after a moment, guided her back, cupping her dirty face in his hands. “How did you get here? Where’s your dad.”

Willa said nothing, just stared back at Brian until she burst into tears, burying her face into his chest. They had obviously grown close during Brian’s time in Virginia, which didn’t surprise Claire. Her son had always been good with children.

Brian turned to Claire, eyes wide, body tense. “Mama, what’s going on? Did Murtagh say? Where’s John?” 

Willa sobbed harder, her hands, clutching at his cloak.

“He’s not here. Willa ran away from home.” Claire wasn’t Willa’s mother, but she didn’t have one at current and figured the girl currently needed a mother’s disapproving glare, so she spared her one, then said,  “Murtagh found her and brought her here.”

Brian’s eyes went as wide as she had ever seen them, and he pulled back from Willa again.

“Your dad’s got to be worried sick,” he whispered to himself, then laid his hands on Willa’s trembling shoulders. “What on earth were you thinking?” 

She sniffed, but her back straightened, her chin tipping upwards. “I was just so mad at Papa.”

“I don’t care how mad you were at your father, Willa. This was wrong. You could’ve been killed.”

“I know I should not have… it was foolish.” Willa’s eyes cast down, her voice softened. “I am sorry, Brian. It’s only that I… I missed you, and I was so angry with Papa for making you leave.”

So Lord John did make Brian leave? As skeptical as she’d been, maybe there was something to Jamie’s suspicions regarding Brian and Phaedre, though it was hard for her to imagine that Lord John would be so judgmental given his own attractions. 

Willa went on, still sniffling, wiping at her eyes. “Why did you two have to fight? Everything was... better. For the first time since Mum…” Her bottom lip dropped and she dragged in a heavy, shaky breath. “Everyone always leaves me. Mac, then Mum, and you. Now my father is probably going to be so mad he won’t even love—“

“No, Willa. Look at me,” Brian interrupted firmly. “If there is one thing in this world I know for sure it’s that there is nothing you could do that would make your dad stop loving you. 

Jamie had moved in close enough now that Claire knew he could hear them talking. She could feel the tension in her husband, even from this distance. 

Willa tucked herself away into Brian’s chest. “Can you come back to Virginia?” she muttered.

“No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Willa sniffed. “Because you’re mad at Papa?”

“No, no Willa. I’m not mad at him. The fight wasn’t his fault. It was mine.” He swept a big hand over her face, tucking a loose curl back behind her ear. “I’ll talk to him and fix it. Okay?”

“Promise?”

Brian put out his hand, pinky extended. “Pinky promise.”

Her brow furrowed. “What’s a pinky promise?”

“It’s a very special promise that can’t ever be broken.” 

At that Willa copied Brian, putting her small pinky out to him. He locked their fingers together.

“Alright, Willa,” Jamie’s voice broke through the moment. “It’s time for ye to come here.” He had a leather strap in his hand and his intent was obvious. 

“Mac.”

“Ye put yerself in danger, Murtagh as well for bringing ye here and possibly yer father out looking for ye right now God knows where.”

“Come on, Lass. I’ll make it quick if ye dinna fight me.”

Brian’s eyes narrowed, jaw set, a look of rage that reminded Claire awfully of the boy’s true father, even if she doubted he’d be happy to hear that right now. Brian put his body between Jamie and Willa. “Over my dead fucking body.”

“Brian,” Claire admonished, shocked.

“Excuse me, son,” Jamie said dismissively. “Step out of the way.”

Brian’s hands balled into his fists, and he growled through his teeth, “You will touch her over my dead. Fucking. Body.”

The dismissiveness in Jamie disappeared in an instant, everything about him seeming hard, powerful. The look wasn’t aimed at Claire, but she’d seen it enough times to know to be careful of it. She feared Brian did not.

“Maybe I should take the strap to ye,” Jamie said to Brian. “It’s clear ye were spoiled of it, though I dinna blame yer mother. This is a man’s responsibility.” 

“Don’t you dare act like you’re a better man than my father was because you’re willing to hit little girls!” 

A fire like brimstone burned in Jamie’s eyes as he stared down Brian. “Sassenach, take Willa inside,” he said, sharply in a tone even she wouldn’t be quick to disobey. “I need to have a word with my son.”

“Brian, I ken yer from a different, easier time, but this is how it has to be here.”

Brian just shook his head. He could not believe the audacity of this man. Swinging a leather strap around, threatening a ten year old girl. What the hell does John see in him? The thought made him lightheaded, a little sick to his stomach. 

“That’s bullshit. I’ve seen John discipline Willa and he doesn’t hit her.” He had her do chores or apologize to whoever it was she’d hurt. When she’d hidden frogs in John’s underwear drawer, Brian had come up with the idea to have her write a letter explaining why what she did was wrong. He’d kept that letter too. His sister was clever and fucking hilarious. 

“And maybe if he’d properly corrected the girl, she wouldna be here.” 

How fucking dare this man stand here before him and act like he knew a goddamn thing about what it meant to be a father. This man who’d thrust more than one of his children off to be raised by other men. Brian felt a rogue urge to take a swing at Jamie, but still retained just enough sense not to do it.

Jamie’s mouth set into a scowl. “This is no something ye can understand, but this is my duty.”

“Why? Because you fucked her mother?”

Jamie’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing until they were as thin and sharp as a blade. “Lord John told ye?”

“No, I’m just not stupid.”

Jamie nodded, pulling the strap tight in his hands. The leather snapped through the air. “Well, then ye understand.”

“The only thing I understand is that you’re a bully.” Brian was smaller than Jamie Fraser, shorter and far less broad. Still he tried to make himself as big as he could, as imposing, though he felt the futility of it even as he tried. “I meant what I said, Jamie. I’m not going to let you hurt her.”

Something vicious and wild flashed in Jamie’s eyes. “Ye think ye could stop me?” He stomped forward, towards Brian and the house where Willa waited with Claire and Murtagh. “Brian, step aside. Ye dinna want to do this.”

Brian was sick of it. Sick of Jamie Fraser’s fucking superiority complex. Sick of everyone acting like someone died and made him king. He just could not see it. This man was not that fucking special. A hot wave of rage crashed through him and Brian shoved Jamie in the chest.

“You don’t know a damn thing about what I want.”

He wanted John back. He wanted his real father back. He wanted just a little goddamn respect. 

Brian shoved Jamie again, but it was as useless as pushing against a mountain. When he pulled back to try something else, Jamie grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. A sharp shock ran through his body, immobilizing him. Brian tried to thrash his way free, but it was no use. Jamie wrapped one of those massive arms around his neck. He could choke Brian to death right here if he wanted and Brian couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Fuck, he was an idiot.

“It’s clear Frank Randall never taught ye how to fight. Tis my fault for no’ being there to teach ye no’ to be so damn soft. Reckon I’ll just have to correct that now.”

Jamie dragged Brian like a rag doll as he tried uselessly to fight back. “Get. The. Fuck. Off. Me,” he spat.

Jamie had dragged him several yards to the fence of his mother’s garden. “Fight all ye want, boy. Ye ken I’m stronger than ye.” He let go of Brian just long enough to shove him forward. “Put yer hands on the fence post.”

At first, Brian didn’t understand what Jamie intended to do, but then he looked down at that strap again. Realization set in hard and quick.

“Hell no. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Brian saw space between him and Jamie and tried to dart for it. Jamie stopped him again as if he were nothing. 

“Ye act like a child, ye get punished like a child.” Jamie manhandled Brian until he was bent over the fence of his mother’s garden. “Eight lashings will do. Drop yer breeches, son.”

“Like fucking hell, I will.”  Brian made to stand up again, but Jamie shoved him back down. “Hands on the fence.” 

Brian felt his buttons pop, then a rush of cold air on his bare ass. Seeing no escape, Brian’s heart sank. So much for respect. His face burned red and he was just thankful Jamie could not see the flush of embarrassment. Was his mother just watching this pathetic scene from the window of the cabin? Doing nothing to stop it. But what could she do? She was certainly no match for Jamie Fraser’s strength. No, Brian wouldn’t blame her for this. 

The shock of leather against his tender flesh made him yelp, made his knees buckle. He’d never been hit like that in his life. He’d had the shit kicked out of him by Stephen Bonnet’s men, by other assholes back in his own time, but he thought bizarrely, that there had at least been some dignity in that. 

There was none in this. Half naked in front of his own father, hands on a fence post, bent over and getting his ass smacked by a leather strap. 

By the time the strap came down a second time, he’d made up his mind to stay silent from then on out. No matter how hard it was, he wouldn’t give Jamie the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

And he didn’t.

He stayed silent the third time too, but God, he wanted to strangle this man. But if he couldn’t find a way to hurt him physically, maybe he could find a way to hurt him emotionally.

When the fourth one hit, Brian bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.

He wanted to speak through the gush of blood in his mouth. Say defiantly, you know the last time I was bent over like this your friend Lord John was balls deep inside me.

At the fifth strike of the strap, Brian was thinking of ways to kill Jamie Fraser.

I’d call him daddy before I’d ever call you daddy.

It was the sixth hit when Brian knew for a fact he wasn’t going to say anything. He didn’t give a fuck what this brute thought of him, but maybe John hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said Jamie would strangle him dead with his bare hands if he ever found out about them. 

The seventh smack was a sharp, searing shock. His legs bucked despite his efforts. Still, he managed to keep quiet. Brian couldn’t tell, but he was rather certain, this particular assault had drawn blood.

When the eight smack came down with less ferocity than the others, he had no doubt. 

He heard Jamie take a step back, and Brian stood quickly, pulling his breeches up. His legs were weak and he leaned against the fence post. He couldn’t look Jamie in the eyes, just observed him from the edges of his vision.

“Maybe there is some of me in ye after all, lad.” Jamie’s grin reminded Brian of that mountain lion. “And quite a lot of yer mother, that’s for sure.”

Brian’s shaking stopped and the warm blood he felt in his cheeks turned to ice. He gripped the fence post, overcome with a blizzard fury that froze his lips shut. If you’ve ever hurt my mother, I’ll cut your goddamn dick off in your sleep.

“Come inside, Brian. Now,” he commanded, with the voice of a man who’d thought he won.

Brian dragged himself along, his mind cold and dull, each step stinging and painful and embarrassing, the depth of the humiliation beyond what he could even express with John’s voice ringing in his ear.

Inside the house, Willa and Murtagh were standing beside his mother, all appearing to not want to look at him.

Then, Jamie turned to Willa and said, “Brian took yer lashes for ye, Lass. Ye should probably thank him.”

That night, as childish as it might have been, Brian considered running away himself. Was there even a reason to stay in this time anymore? He’d done what he’d come here to do, warn his mother and… that man about the fire. He could go home now. Pay for passage back to Scotland, walk through the stones, pretend he had never been here at all. He wanted to do it, just disappear in the night, but Willa’s words came back to him… “I didn’t want to lose you too.”

He couldn’t just abandon her. Look what she’d done when he’d merely left for North Carolina! Maybe he could take Willa with him… he might not be a fighter, but he knew how to sneak around, how to sneak in and out without being caught. He’d been doing it since he was fifteen. He could sneak into the cabin, get Willa out and make for Wilmington and a ship to Craigh Na Dun. Daughter of an earl or not, she’d have a better life there. She could get an education, live however she wanted. Never get married if she didn’t want to. Hell, she could become a fucking astronaut and fly to the moon. But, God, no matter how angry he was, he couldn’t take Willa from her father. And by father, he most certainly meant John and not Jamie. And what were even the chances that Willa could hear the stones?

There wasn’t any taking Willa with him, but he could try to explain, not just leave like he had in Wilmington. He could write her a letter, explaining. He could write her a dozen and tell her to read one a year or something… No, he couldn’t leave, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how trapped he felt… like he couldn’t breathe. But he couldn’t just keep living like he’s been since returning from Virginia, something had cracked in him in when John had told him the truth about his feelings for Jamie, but it was as if there had been the barest bit still holding him together, but what had happened with Jamie today had broken the rest of it and whoever Brian had been before this day, he could never be again. 

Freezing, Grey had stumbled through the woods, following the river on foot until he came across a small German village. Rain-soaked and shivering, an older woman had taken him in and let him warm himself by her hearth. He thought, if it hadn’t been for her kindness, he would’ve died. 

Where was Willa now? Had she managed find kindness? Or only cruelty? Grey never really thought much about religion or God and he certainly wasn’t a papist, but Jamie was Willa’s true father and if he knew she was lost, he would send up for a prayer for her, so Grey did it in his stead.

Please let her be safe, he whispered to himself, And Brian too. Please, he added at last, almost surprising himself. Almost. 

Chapter Text

Claire stood in her surgery, chopping herbs, wishing the knife could cut through the tension on the ridge with the same ease it sliced through the basil Willa had collected for her. It was odd that Jamie’s illegitimate daughter had, for several days, felt like the only ally Claire had here anymore. Whatever had transpired between Jamie and Brian on the day of Willa’s arrival, neither of them were willing to discuss it. Brian would talk to Willa, but no one else, disappearing for hours on hours at a time with no explanation for his absence. Claire had given up on asking him, given up, for the moment, on anything but what she needed for her medical practice, like the mushrooms she’d sent Willa out to gather. But some day, she knew she’d had to confront the reality of whatever the hell was currently going on under her own roof. 

Claire was looking down at the mold growing on one of several pieces of old bread when she heard footsteps at the door. Without looking up, she said, “Willa, it’s about time. I thought you got lost.”

“Apologies, Mrs. Fraser, I’m not—“

Lord John. She pivoted towards him. “No you’re most certainly not are you.”

“No.” He’d taken off his hat and was holding it to his chest. “I want to express my gratitude that you’ve taken in my daughter whilst I tried to make my way here.”

“It’s quite alright,” she said, dusting her hands off on her apron. “You took in my son for a far longer time. It’s only fair. Besides, Willa’s been rather helpful.”

He nodded. “I saw her on the way in and she said you’ve been teaching her medicine. Not the most proper occupation for a young lady but—“

“A fitting one for the daughter of a Scottish rebel, I’d say.”

Lord John flushed, caught off guard, but pulled himself together quickly as he always did. “Speaking of Scottish rebels, do you know where I might find your husband?”

“He’s out behind the house, last I saw.” Claire untied her apron and hung it over a chair. “I’ll help you look for him in case he’s wandered off.”

With how angry Jamie had been recently about Willa, Claire worried that if she weren’t there to stop it, Lord John would end up in several pieces and she’d rather not spend the weekend stitching him back together like Frankenstein’s monster. 

Brian had spent his entire morning chopping firewood. At this point, they had more than enough firewood for the next several weeks. Brian could barely feel his arms anymore, but he wasn’t ready to give up on the satisfaction he found watching the wood split under his own strength. He was in the middle of swinging his axe when he heard a familiar voice that struck him in his core.

John.

One part of him wanted to run but the other part won, and he leaned his axe against a stump and hurried towards where his mom, Jamie and John had gathered on the porch. He was several feet away when he overheard the conversation shift, overheard John about to confess that he’d told Willa about her true parentage. Something he knew had to be the case even if Willa wasn’t openly saying it… and he was suddenly betrayed by some deep primal instinct to protect John that had him launching up the back porch steps, between Jamie and John, interrupting. 

“I told her,” Brian said. “I told you I knew and… and…” think Brian, why the hell would you have done something like that? A few ideas fired through his mind and he settled on the one closest to the truth. “I know what’s like to be lied to your whole life about who you are by the people who claim to love you most so… it was me, not Lord John. I told Willa the truth, so if you want to have a fucking problem with someone, Jamie. Have it with me.”

He tried not to flinch at the phantom pain in his ass, a reminder of what Jamie Fraser was capable of when pushed. 

“Brian…” His mom’s voice was a warning, a forecast of what was coming. She didn’t need to warn him. Brian knew; he could see the barely contained rage flash in the man’s eyes. 

“Ye told…” Jamie shook his head, mouth dropped open. “And ye claim to care about her?” he scoffed. “That ye want to protect her and ye go and do a thing like… boy, ye are a child aren’t ye? Do ye ken what this knowledge will cost ye sister? Or do ye just no’ care? She has to carry this secret wi’ her for the rest of her life. If she wants a good marriage, a secure future, she’ll have to lie to everyone she kens, even her husband. And for what, because ye were angry wi’ yer mother and me? Christ, ye really dinna understand the price of a secret, do ye? No, course ye dinna. Ye speak every damn thought that comes into yer wee hied and ye dinna care who it hurts.”

There was a stretch of cold silence and then Brian just started to laugh. “Oh fuck you.” Brian laughed again. “Fuck all of your fucking bullshit, man.”

“Brian that’s enough,” John said. “Jamie, listen, it wasn’t—“

“Stay out of this,” Brian barked at John. Hurt him, Brian thought, hurt him so he doesn’t want to help you. “Can you mind your own goddamn business? Is that even possible for you? You think you can whatever you want just because you’re some rich inbred English prick—“

“I should take the strap to ye again, boy,” Jamie snarled. 

Without a thought, Brian balled his fist, swung his arm back and punched Jamie square in the jaw. Claire gasped, lurching forward, practically hurling herself between them. There were arms around Brian’s waist, familiar arms, dragging him. Stronger than Brian expected even with the white-hot rage boiling through him. 

“Stop it!” a sudden high-pitched shout startled them all. It was Willa, hands balled into his fists at her side, face red flushed. “All of you just stop it!” 

Brian’s eyes met Willa’s. Would she tell Jamie the truth of who told her? He wasn’t sure what she would do. He’d never seen her look half this furious before.

“I have had it with all of you. Fighting over me. About me. I’m bloody tired of it! And none of you, even consider that perhaps you should ask me how I feel about it. No. Because what I think couldn’t possibly matter. You’re talking about me like I’m not right here. Like you can’t just fucking ask me about my own damn life.”

John’s grip relaxed slightly on Brian and he frowned at Willa. “That is not way for a lady to speak.”

“Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it?” she said. “Because I’m not a lady. Never was.” With that, Willa lifted her skirts and turned, storming back inside, leaving all of them in a cold and stunned silence. 

John and Jamie shared a look, and Brian tugged completely away from John. He needed to go talk to Willa, and he started to follow her but Claire blocked him.

“I’ll go. You three idiots have done enough.” 

When Claire had gone to speak to Willa, she’d refused to say anything, just demanded something to do in the surgery and Claire gave in at the girl’s second, desperate “please”. Lord John had tried to take Willa home later that day, but she’d refused to go and Jamie convinced him to let her stay until they could figure out how they could help her adjust to her new reality. This left Claire to deal with several days of uncomfortable awkwardness. Claire had been glad to have Willa for a bit longer, though. She was helpful in the surgery, and the only person currently in the house who was at all tolerable to be around at the moment.

When Jamie came to bed, he was grumpy and muttering and Claire just could not take another second of this bullshit. These men and their constant refusal to talk about their feelings was going to put her in an early grave and she’d had it. 

“I cannot fucking take it anymore, Jamie,” she blurted, startling him. “You and Brian icing me out. Willa’s the only one I have to talk to anymore. Brian… he does this… I’ve been here with him before, at least I thought I had…” Claire was more familiar with the moping and the dramatics than she was with the dead-eyed stare her son had recently, but still… “What the hell happened between you and Brian?”

“What happened?” he gestured towards his black eye.

“I don’t mean that. I mean before that. I’ve never seen my son hit anyone, let alone… I know what you said, about Brian taking Willa’s punishment. I didn’t think you actually meant, not until… I still don’t…” her mind was spinning, she felt ill. “You couldn’t have…” 

Jamie ran one of his broad hands over his face, looking down at the smoldering hearth rather than at Claire. “It’s… fathers and sons, you wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what?” Claire let out a broken laugh. “Wouldn’t understand? I think you underestimate my experience with fathers and sons.”

“Brian, he’s… ye and Frank, ye both raised him for yer world, but he’s no’ in yer world now, Sassenach. He’s in mine, an he’s no’ prepared for it. I’m his father, whether he appreciates that or no’ and I have to teach him what he needs to ken to survive in it.”

Claire blinked, trying to make sense of what Jamie had just said and the literal meaning beneath it. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Jamie… you actually did, didn’t you?” Frank had spanked Brian only once and felt so guilty after he’d never done it again, and Claire most certainly hadn’t… she knew Jamie had been raised differently, but this…“Bloody hell, James Fraser. He’s a grown man.”

“Weel, he doesna always act like one.”

Claire glared at Jamie, a surge of rage blasting through her, and her arm pulled back to slap Jamie but he caught her wrist in a strong grip. He’d apparently gotten his instincts back since Brian had managed to punch him.

Huffing, Claire yanked away from Jamie. “Neither do you. I don’t care what it takes Jamie, but if you can’t figure out a way to get along with our son, I’ll never forgive you.” 

Brian couldn’t sleep, which wasn’t new for him since returning from Lynchburg. He’d gotten used to his insomnia, but tonight he genuinely wished he could just pass out and not have to think about any of the shit in his life. Not to mention, he desperately needed John to get the hell out of here because seeing him every day for the last several days had increased his desire to strangle the man by at least seven fold. 

The worst were those moments when he’d catch John in conversation with Jamie, chatting like old friends, which of course they were, but the truth of John’s feelings for him seemed suddenly, viciously, obvious and left Brian feeling so fucking stupid that he sometimes thought he might die from the embarrassment of it. 

He knew, of course, that John and Jamie weren’t laughing at him behind his back or anything. John would never admit to what happened between them for his own safety and to keep himself in Jamie’s life, but it didn’t really make Brian feel any better about the situation.

This tankard half filled with rum though had a better chance of improving his mood. Though even that would not suffice, when John himself wandered into the dining room with his own tankard and lit candle.

“I’ll go,” Brian said, standing up.

John gasped sharply. “Christ, you startled me. I didn’t know you were… you don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice softening, but he didn’t leave either. Just sat down across the table from Brian. 

Brian swallowed a whole mouthful of rum, and it made him just dizzy enough that he wasn’t quite prepared to stand yet.

“Are you having difficulty sleeping too?” John asked, but Brian didn’t answer so John went on. “I have since I got here. Your mother gave me a tincture to help, but I haven’t noticed the effects yet, so—“

“Yeah, I can’t do this with you,” Brian said flatly, a hand to his forehead. “I understand that we have to keep up appearances around my parents, but you don’t have to… make conversation when we’re alone.” Then, Brian sighed and mumbled under his breath. “It makes my fucking skin crawl.”

“I know my being here is not ideal,” John said.

“Christ, and that’s the understatement of the year.”

John sighed. His eyes, unreadable, were cast down to his interlocked fingers. “I don’t want it to be like this, Brian.”

“Well, we don’t always get our way, John,” Brian snapped as he stood, his tankard clattering on the table. “Fucking suck it up like the rest of us peasants.”

“You are the most infuriating—“

“I’m infuriating? That’s rich coming from—“

“For God’s sake, Brian can you stop talking for one single bloody minute? You think I don’t know what it is to not get what I want?”

“I really don’t want hear a sob story about how you never got to pork my dad!” Brian thought, bizarrely, that it was the first time he’d ever called Jamie his dad and he almost wanted to laugh.

“Keep your bloody voice down,” John hissed through his teeth, grabbing Brian by the arm. “I am not talking about Jamie. I’m talking about every other fucking day of my fucking life. You think it will matter to the goddamn hangman that I am lord of fucking anything when I slip one time, make one mistake with the wrong person and get hanged for sodomy? I am so tired, Brian. I am exhausted from decade after decade of hiding and lying and wishing and losing the people I love and being alone.”

Brian jerked away. “You don’t get to try to make me feel sorry for you. Fuck that because you’re the one who used me. I know how you see me, now. A poor man’s Jamie Fraser, but I was in love with you and I don’t know how to stop being in love with you without hating you. So leave me the fuck alone, alright?” He walked towards the door, but John called out him.

“Brian, why did you take the blame for me? Regarding Willa?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Brian gripped the door frame, his jaw clenching. He didn’t turn back to face John but said, “Because I’m allowed to hate you, but he isn’t.”

 . . .

That next night, Brian couldn’t sleep either, but this time, he had something else to do then try to drink his misery away, and as he rode, the resolve that had begun to build since his arguments with Jamie and then with John, had built to a point of no return. He followed the curl of smoke rising up like a long fingernails into the night sky. The meetings moved from night to night, but he always knew how to find them. Brian dismounted, then tied up his horse with the others before approaching the make-shift circle of haggard men, the lines of their faces deepened by the shadows of the firelight, all their attention turned to Jamie’s godfather, Murtagh. 

Brian leaned against a nearby tree, arms folded across his chest, listening. He’d been listening for a while now, unable to shake those summer memories of Alabama, Mississippi, with Lenny, watching men and women square up against a system, and an evil, far older than even the world he was standing in that night. 

He watched them in his own time, watched and learned, and he thought there were lessons that he could share now, lessons that just might help these desperate men who were sick of seeing the little they could manage for themselves being descended upon by the rich and powerful like vultures to a carcass. 

Brian had come to this time and this place for one reason: to save his mom from the fire in that newspaper clipping. He thought of his mother’s stories of Charles Stuart and of Culloden and France. Brian had come here to try to change history, if only just a little, but not like this. Not until now. When there was a lull in the talk, Brian cleared his throat and stepped forward. He reached into his coat and removed a roll of parchment—every bit of private information he had gathered about Governor Tryon and his operations while working for him. If Brian was going to help these men, they needed to trust him, and these notes were his ticket to doing the one thing even the perfect Jamie Fraser had never managed to do.