James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser (
seventeenfortythree) wrote2018-11-24 10:48 am
River Run | A slight AU PSL
"You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?"
Her question echoes in his mind as Jamie sits awake, crouched by the fire in the hearth wearing nothing as his eyes watch the flames dance. He'd been too restless to sleep, leaving Claire to the bed while he paced, thinking. He'd lost everything he had to Stephen Bonnet, and now his fingers rub together while he gathers his thoughts to speak.
"I ken being in this very place, the idea of owning slaves turns yer stomach. Mine as well. But we're no strangers to doing a wee bit that makes us uncomfortable if it can help in the long run, are we not?"
He'd spent many a night in a brothel with Charles Stuart, aggravated about it, and yet trying to do his part to stop the Uprising.
"Jocasta might've made an underhanded move in declaring me her heir in front of witnesses, but maybe we can do some good w'it, Sassenach. Find a way to undermine even the law." You can take the smuggler and outlaw out of Scotland, apparently, but it seems his mind will always drift back to such things eventually.
Her question echoes in his mind as Jamie sits awake, crouched by the fire in the hearth wearing nothing as his eyes watch the flames dance. He'd been too restless to sleep, leaving Claire to the bed while he paced, thinking. He'd lost everything he had to Stephen Bonnet, and now his fingers rub together while he gathers his thoughts to speak.
"I ken being in this very place, the idea of owning slaves turns yer stomach. Mine as well. But we're no strangers to doing a wee bit that makes us uncomfortable if it can help in the long run, are we not?"
He'd spent many a night in a brothel with Charles Stuart, aggravated about it, and yet trying to do his part to stop the Uprising.
"Jocasta might've made an underhanded move in declaring me her heir in front of witnesses, but maybe we can do some good w'it, Sassenach. Find a way to undermine even the law." You can take the smuggler and outlaw out of Scotland, apparently, but it seems his mind will always drift back to such things eventually.

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"Thank you for my gifts."
She's not forgotten. How could she, when she can feel the metal on her skin?
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"It's just another gift from you."
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It might even warm her up and send her back to a peaceful sleep.
He kisses her first, long and deep, before disappearing between her thighs, intent, focused, listening for every sign and moan she'll grace him with as his hands move up and down her thighs. He doesn't take his time, he's a man on a mission this morning and one single goal.
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By the end of it, she's decided she's not getting out of bed, as her legs are not fit to hold her weight. Clever man, but her content sigh is choked by a laugh when she sees what she's done to his poor hair by gripping it gently as he had her way with her.
"Oh, come here. Let me fix your hair," she grins, reaching out for him. Can't be too obvious, now.
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He runs his own hand through his hair, though truly, he doesn't care much. If no one knew by now he loves his wife well, then clearly he'll need to redouble his efforts.
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His hair that never really looks perfectly in place is only a little off, but maybe she just wants to sneak in one last kiss.
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And clearly, that's gospel. Claire smiles, almost a dare in her eyes, but fixes his hair as promised. Her fingers comb down his fringe, and she brushes some of it away from his eyes.
He gets a peck on the nose for his patience.
"See? Much better."
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"I'll be back well before supper. Or perhaps a wee bit later, seeing as how my wife was being spoiled," he teases.
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"Not too late, I hope. I've got to properly thank you, after all."
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He sees to his duties, part of that making sure all of the slaves have extra blankets and extra firewood for the plunging temperatures. He's good at listening to any concerns, and while he can't always promise things or resolve them the way they'd like, he hears everything.
It's what causes an argument with his auntie. He's too soft on them, she says. He argues sheer numbers and the way things are done beyond expectation. She calls him unconventional and improper. He pushes back that the slaves are happy and healthy. Jocasta states in her ever even voice that another point of contention is Claire and her over-involvement in the goings on of the slaves, especially the children who won't ever learn by coddling. That's when he truly loses his temper.
"Ye dinna complain when the profits came in, double yer expectations. What my wife does is no'a concern of yours, auntie. And if I recall, you graciously bestowed upon me the honor of running yer estate. Run it I will. And I'll be grateful if my wife doesna come up again in regards to her healing."
With that, Jamie's done, walking out with the last word toward the dining room for supper.
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At least until the sound of raised voices filter into the dining room. Claire, already seated and waiting for Jamie, shares a worried look with one of the newer girls she's brought into the house. When Jamie's footsteps approach and Elisa looks about ready to hide behind the curtains, Claire gives her a nod to go. Claire would maybe follow, if not for her wifely duty of calming a likely irritable husband.
So, when Jamie enters, Claire doesn't even bother with pretense.
"What was that about?"
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"Dinna fash," he finally says, letting out a breath, calming himself enough to be tender when he moves to his wife to kiss her softly.
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"Come here. Sit."
She pats the seat beside her and reaches over to the bottle of whiskey so kindly set out, pouring him a glass. He looks like he needs that rather than wine or ale.
"Tell me what happened."
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"She," meaning his aunt, "Doesna like the way certain things are done."
The way he won't look at Claire likely tells all she needs to know, but he does finally say it.
"I didna ken there was a limit to being kind to others."
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She's more patience than most, but Jocasta likely to keep as silent on a matter as Claire herself is. There's a reason Claire's been giving the woman a wide berth--the last thing Jamie needs is her clashing with his aunt. He can do enough of that on his own, it seems.
"We knew her ways of being kind were not the same as ours."
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He loves his aunt, fiercely, as much as his own mother, God rest her soul. He'll defend his wife to his dying breath. But he does close his eyes as she rubs his neck, trying to relax.
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It might be better that she not know, but the floor's open for Jamie to volunteer the information. Claire doesn't need to know the exact words--she can guess well enough what Jocasta has to say about this wife of his, and how they're aiming to change things.
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"Ye do things to help people Claire, that I canna explain or understand." He kisses her wrist again. "Never stop."
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"Go up to our room, Jamie. I'll go see to it that supper is brought to us. I don't want to sit at the table." Too big of a table for the two of them, and the bloody chairs keep her too far away from Jamie when it's clear he'd be happier right up beside her.
Dinner in bed is almost as good as breakfast in bed.
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He goes upstairs, removes his boots, then his vest and shirt before using the water in their basin to splash water on his face then wash up at least a little. The only reason his trousers haven't been removed is solely because he doesn't want to scandalize whoever is tasked with helping Claire.
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"Just on the desk there is fine, thank you," she says with a nod, and watches the young girl quickly set down her tray beside Claire's, give the world's most hurried and polite curtsy, and rush out the door like the room was on fire. Ah, well. Some are taking longer to adjust to the new couple in charge than others. She'll come around.
"Looks like veal tonight," she says, lifting one of the lids. "And extra dessert."
Not her doing, of course.
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"Some days, I think we're doing a verra fine job here. Then others, I'm quickly reminded this is no' like being a laird, and the settlers don'expect us to treat slaves like people. Only property that either works or doesn't, and to be punished when it doesn't."
It wears on him, truly, though he tries valiantly to let it roll off of his shoulders. He doesn't know how to explain what it is to simply be a decent person to every plantation owner. He could show them his back, to show what the aggressive punishment does to a person, dished out by someone who thought he had no rights to humane treatment, but it wouldn't matter, and he knows it. He has more white hairs than he did before, and this evening, he simply feels tired.
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"A weaker man would give in to the pressure," she reminds him quietly. Jamie is a great many thing. Weak is not one of them. "We are doing good, Jamie. You are doing good. In time, maybe Jocasta will come around."
... she's not so certain about old dogs learning new tricks, or whole ways of living, but she has to offer some sort of optimism for him.
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