#Outlander Fic

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Beside the Seaside: Ch 18

“That’s the last of it,” Gillian sighed and heaved the box onto the desk within her new residence. Claire set her own box down more gently on a stack near the door while Jamie, who had done most of the heavy lifting that day, clapped Fergus on the back and complimented him on a job well done.

“Suppose you’ll want a tour of the campus, while ye’re here,” Gillian added with a sly wink in Claire’s direction. Something twisted in Claire’s stomach, desperate and hopeful and terrified.

“A tour!” Faith cheered and slipped her hand into Gillian’s, and Claire caught the way Gillian tried not to startle. Ever since that day Gillian had taken the children for the afternoon, she and Faith had had something of an odd dynamic — odd, for Gillian at least, who never quite knew what to do with children — not unrequited so much as unbalanced perhaps. A baby duckling imprinting on a reluctant badger. Claire fought to hide her smile as she glanced surreptitiously at Jamie.

“A tour would be lovely.”

[read the rest on ao3]

[theawkwardterrier]

Hello Leah,

I love your Outlander stories, could you tell me how many you have written, I would like to ensure I read them all?

thanks,

Irene

That's so kind, Irene! I've posted (or am currently posting) 13 Outlander fics:

for peace comes dropping slow

Here's All the Melting Thrill (And Here's the Kindling Fire)

Each Step Closer (On Our Way Together)

Measure and Man

Days' Break

Inherent and Inherited

Bake On

Muscle Memory

After the War Is Over (Will There Be Any Home Sweet Home?)

Roots and Wings

All the Ways Home

Won't You Walk With Me (out of the mouth of this holler)

The Burden of Invisible Hearts (the current WIP!)

I'll also let you know that I've recently finished one more fic (my first attempt at canon divergent!) that you can probably look out for sometime in the summer 💜

[samsheughan]

Sutures ↳ Chapter 10: Lore and Legacy

A/N: welp...this is it. The last chapter of fanfiction I will ever write. After 25 years of writing fic in one form or another, I am finally ready to retire. I am forever grateful to this fandom for giving me the freedom to create and write amazing stories and for the love y'all continue to give me. Thank you and enjoy!

Beta: @islayandlochs (you gorgeous babe you 😘)

“Sae young,” Jamie whispered into Claire’s hair. “How ye could deal wi’ sae much loss at such a young age…”

“You learn to pick up the pieces and move along, I suppose,” Claire replied, muffled as her face was pressed into his chest. 

-----

Their bare limbs were intertwined between the bed sheets and each other, deliberately exploring, touching and kissing, caressing and stroking, as if time had stopped just for them. Jamie was unconsciously running his fingers through Claire’s slightly frizzled curls, his other hand languidly moving up and down her back. Claire had taken particular interest in the hairs on his chest, a finger coasting through its coarse ruddiness gently. 

They had made love cautiously at first, tender and aware that the other might have potential sensitivities, but it didn’t take long for them to realize that they needn’t be gentle, or subtle. 

What they needed was each other.

“Do it now! And don’t be gentle!” 

It was all Claire had to say before Jamie lost himself completely in his desire for her body and soul. And Claire didn’t hesitate to give him the same fervor. Hearts racing, sweat gleaming, and breathless, they rode the ride of each other’s pleasure til it’s conclusion, where they laid back down, exhausted yet irresistibly happy. 

Both of them had been sexually oppressed in one form or another for far too long, that was clear. And while Jamie believed it wasn’t his business to guess what kept Claire chaste, his own sensitivities brought back memories embedded not only in his mind and heart, but in his flesh.

“It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?” Claire had asked him.

“Since I’ve taken a woman to my bed? Perhaps. Since I’ve made proper love to a woman I desire? Well…ye might want to call me a virgin in that regard, Sassenach.”

“Oh? Is that a story you’re willing to share?”

Jamie took a deep breath, feeling the resistance of Claire’s head pillowed on top of his chest, and commended his soul to God.

“Aye. I think it’s time ye ken my true tale, Sassenach.”

Continue on AO3

[tropelibrarian]

The Journey so far: Jamie and Claire have been dancing around one another, sharing some secrets by the stables while some are still left buried. Jamie had met with charming Frank, giving him peace of mind. All the while, our main couple took a trip to Lallybroch, where heat bloomed, but an unwanted surprise awaited and made Jamie look back at his painful past.

This time: Jamie and Ian have a talk, while Jamie feels tortured. There is a jolly party and so much heat and tension. “Do ye really want tae play this game with me, lass?” He lowers his head to my ear, his lips grazing it, “Torturing me by dancing with other men in front of me…”

Read Chapter 18 here on AO3

[rhaenella]

Veiled Sin – Stephen Bonnet & Brianna Fraser

└▸ Summary: The night before her wedding to Roger, Brianna comes home to find her place ransacked. And in the midst of all the chaos? A ghost from her past. One that isn’t willing to let her slip free from his grasp for good just yet. ❦ ❥

Masterlist

Hello! I just posted part 1 of my new Stephen & Brianna fic. Beware, it’s a bit niche and a bit toxic, BUT it’s very hot (and lowkey a comedy). At least I think so. I hope you do too.

Inspired by and written for @xeresmalfoy <3 Happy birthday, babe! And yes, it’s a Stephen Bonnet masked man AU. What else was I supposed to do, huh?!

Read HERE on ao3

[lara-frasers]

For Auld Lang Syne

Here's a NYE one-shot I wrote, featuring an AU version of Jamie and Claire 🥰 I hope you like it!

You can read it here

Happy New Year! ✨🎉

[goodthingscomeinthrees]

the ghosts that we knew

outlander | jamie x claire | 3.5k, t, complete

"The type of surgery I learned is the most useful here, where my tools are limited.” She’s been grateful for that, time and again. “But I chose it when I thought I could never come back.” “Yer head might’ve thought so, Sassenach,” Jamie says, “but yer heart chose, too. Maybe it knew — that ye were meant t’come back, meant to find me again.”

[jamiemackenziefraser]

Hey— remember me?? Remember my faerie Claire and her sweet-as-a-cinnamon-roll Jamie?? Well I just posted an epilogue to All That Was Fair that I’d written years ago. Here is one last glimpse into their happily ever after!

I told you never say never ;)

[labarboteuse]

Is anyone interested in an Outlander fanfiction ? It's quite hard to find here and I’m finally currently working on one (with our delightful William Ransom). If it works, I'm thinking of doing one also about Lord John.

Please tell me ! 🥰

[pseudonym-lux]

THE CAST OF LABOUR OF LOVE (ACT ONE)

AOIFE MACBETH portrayed by eleanor tomlinson

CIARAN DUNSMORE portrayed by aiden turner

LANE CRAWFORD portrayed by claire foy

PATRICK MACBETH portrayed by ewan macgregor

RYAN BLACKWOOD portrayed by nicholas hoult

CAILEAN BLACKWOOD portrayed by nicholas hoult

CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP portrayed by caitriona balfe

JAMIE FRASER portrayed by sam heughan

MURTAGH FITZGIBBONS portrayed by duncan lacroix

DOUGAL MACKENZIE portrayed by graham mctavish

GEILLIS DUNCAN portrayed by lotte verbeek

"BLACK JACK" RANDALL portrayed by tobias menzies

RUPERT MACKENZIE portrayed by grant o'rourke

ANGUS MHOR portrayed by stephen walters

JENNY MURRAY portrayed by laura donnelly

IAN MURRAY portrayed by steven cree

reading links wattpad | ao3

[whorcruxes]

The Knight and the Dragon

Claire goes on a quest, seeking vengeance for her husband Jamie’s death.

AO3

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Soften Every Edge - "Arrival"

Chapter 4: Arrival

Murtagh knew by this time around to give Claire a wide berth until the bairn was here. He suspected it was the same for all women to have fractious nerves as an impending birth crept closer, but they usually had their husbands to direct their ire towards. In Claire’s case, there were three men in the household, and her son and her husband were entitled to a certain affection that softened her words, just a little. He did not begrudge her for it — growing a bairn was no small thing — but he gave her a wide berth just the same.

So he spent more time in the fields, more time tending to the animals, more time in the woods setting traps and bringing home game for their suppers. Jamie wanted someone always nearby the house, in case the bairn came while they were still deep in the spring planting season, but Fergus had taken the opposite approach that Murtagh had; he volunteered every morning until Jamie stopped asking and it was understood by all that Fergus would be at her side during the days.

Oh and they were long days that spring, rife with a peculiar tension that always came with a new bairn. Claire still had one more month to go, and Murtagh didn’t see how any of them would manage their held breaths for that much longer. He had picked up carving again, in the evenings, just to have something to do with his hands. Something to pass the time.

“Murtagh?” The soft, little voice pulled him from his reverie, and he looked up from his carving to see Faith clutching a knitted something in her hands. “I need help with my stitches.”

“Aye, alright, let’s have a look.” He set the carving and knife aside and pulled Faith onto his lap. “Where’s yer da?” Murtagh could clickit, but Jamie was better by far.

“Helping Mama with a bath.”

Murtagh made a sound low in his throat. Helping, indeed.

[read the rest on ao3]

[theawkwardterrier]

Toward Every Tomorrow

i.

"You can't threaten Stewart MacRae simply because he made a remark about me, Jamie."

"It wasna one remark, which ye well know, and he was prepared to knock the scalpel from yer hand so ye’d look clumsy before the professor, which ye well know, and all that aside: aye, I certainly can!"

"People will begin to suspect."

"They won't. I lived beside you for months and didna suspect a thing—-"

"They needn’t suspect the truth when suspecting something else could be just as damaging. And I might point out that you’d likely have realized earlier if you weren’t so distracted by certain elements."

"Which are distracting as ever, Sassenach, but that doesna change the fact that all anyone'll see is what they already expect: Jamie Fraser bein' a friend to Clar Beauchamp, just as always."

"You looked ready to ask him for pistols at dawn. Would a friend truly do that?"

"This friend would, aye! Especially when MacRae was disparaging yer technique wi' patients, and couldna even understand yer retorts well enough to ken that you'd the better o' him."

They pause their argument at the door just long enough for Claire to unlock it and let them both inside.

"Besides," Jamie adds, "at least between us we know I'm no' merely yer friend."

Continue reading on AO3

[littlecrabbs]

Chapter 1: Business as Usual

While working for a laboratory under his brother Hal, John Grey learns how little they see eye to eye. Grey navigates dealing with his petty and unrelenting brother inside and outside of the office, as well as concealing information he'd rather not let him know. Working with family has put his relationship with friends, family, and lovers under inspection in a way he never anticipated.

[tropelibrarian]

💫Re-enacting Life - Outlander fanfic

Read Chapter 18 here on AO3

Last time: Jamie and Claire are at a dance but Claire is dancing with another. Jamie is green with jealousy and takes matters into his very capable hands.

This time, we are airing out the skirts and kilts as they go on an outing to discover more about Scottish history and legends and share some confessions in the process.

[hurt-comfort-cache]

between a rock and a hard place

come get y'all outlander william hurt/comfort content!!!!

On this episode of “using my southern East Coast upbringing as an excuse to torture Outlander characters,” William gets injured from falling off rocks. Spoilers for Bees abound!

--

"Come, William," encouraged Amaranthus. "You're already damp enough from sweat; a bit of seawater won't make a difference."

Summer in Savannah was, in fact, sweltering, and William welcomed an excuse to shuck off his shoes and stockings and cool off. The sand was hot under his soles, but he reached the packed, damp sand closer to the water's edge in a few strides.

Amaranthus handed her fan to him wordlessly, then hiked up her skirts and stepped into the tide. "It's almost chilly!" she remarked.

She was right—the water was pleasantly cool around his ankles. He held out an elbow to her. "Shall we?"

They walked in the water for a while, Amaranthus pointing out the names of natural curiosities that had washed ashore. "That is a type of large algae, rather than a seaweed," she noted, bending over to inspect the indiscernible pile of wet vegetation. How a slimy heap of what looked like red ribbon was an alga, he didn't care to learn. "That is a Brachyuran."

Whatever creature lay past her extended finger, William couldn't say, nor could his brain supply the translation from Greek. "What?"

read more below the cut or read the rest on ao3!

Rather than reply, she pulled him close, much to the dismay of his quickening heartbeat. Indeed, upon closer inspection, there was a small crab nestled amongst the seaweed, fervently scuttling for a new hiding place. Its black, kernel-shaped eyes pierced the soul. "Admittedly, I am none too familiar with aquatic creatures, but this is an Atlantic ghost crab. It digs burrows in the sand and covers the top to avoid the heat."

"Fascinating." It wasn't, tell truth—he could scarcely concentrate as a strand of Amaranthus' hair, blown loose from her cap by the wind, tickled his ear as he leaned against her.

Just as soon as her dirty blonde locks had graced his face, she stood. "Come, cousin," she said, taking his elbow. "I wish to surprise Trevor with shells."

Beyond the waves, a large, brown bird—a pelican; he knew that one—swooped towards the water, its body level with the surface as it gulped ocean water. "What a beautiful creature," he marveled.

"Indeed," Amaranthus agreed. "Hold my basket, will you, cousin?"

Tucked beside her fan was a book. "Conchis Marini Americae," he read. American Seashells. "You mean to tell me you don't know them by heart?"

That made her smile. "I must confess, I am still learning. Let us practice, shall we?" She stooped to pick up a large, pear-shaped, gray shell. It was knobbed and looked not dissimilar to the cluster of large rocks nearby. She released his elbow, using her other hand to turn over the shell in her palm. It shimmered beautifully in the sunlight, waves of delicate, soft greens and purples.

He handed her the book, taking the shell as she flipped through drawings. It dwarfed her small hand, he noted, rubbing a calloused thumb along the satin interior.

"'Tis an Atlantic oyster, I think." Indeed, the shell to which she pointed in the book matched the one in hand remarkably. "Care for another?"

Obliging her, he slipped the oyster into her basket and picked up a small, triangular specimen, of which dozens more lined the shore. "To match your dress," he explained, passing her the pale orange shell.

She flipped through the pages until the correct one appeared. "A member of the genus Donax, the bean clams," she read. "A bivalve and much-loved meal of sanderlings—Trynga calidris."

The pair continued as such, Amaranthus matching shells William produced to drawings in her book, occasionally seeking his aid to compare between two similar species. How helpful he was, William was unsure, but he appreciated her leaning close and feeling her breath on his cheek all the same. When a live periwinkle snail's slick body struck an odd chord in his loins, recalling the feeling of soft flesh between a woman's legs, he knew he had to separate himself.

He cleared his throat in preamble and returned her basket, now full of lettered olives, surf clams, ark clams, cockles, and other such creatures whose names he would not recall come tomorrow. "I think I shall walk a bit deeper in the water and return the snail to its companions."

She nodded in acknowledgement, releasing his arm and allowing him to hike up his breeches to above the knee, lest the linen grow damp.

Up to his shins and ghastly petite snail in hand, he watched a group of silver minnows—did such fish live in the ocean? He hadn't a clue—dart away from the small waves he produced. The water was a greenish hue, like sea glass, and shadows from the waves dappled the undisturbed sand ahead of him. As he walked, he stirred up clouds of sand, hiding his feet from view. Very well then; he would look forward and admire the Georgian coastline instead. It seemed so different from the English shores of home, despite being the same ocean. Indeed, he had seen—and vomited into—the vast stretch of it on the ship to Newport News. Memories of the voyage would surely turn him as green as the water below, so he pushed the thought out of mind.

His mind was almost sufficiently blank when William reached a suitable embankment of rocks, dappled with small snails like the one he held. He paid no mind to the rough texture of the rocks underfoot as he plucked the snail from his palm and placed it onto a large, dark stone, black where the waves lapped at it.

Nestled between two rocks was a brilliant blue creature the size of his palm, its black eyes like drops of glass—a crab, perhaps? Something to impress Amaranthus, surely. He took a cautious step forward, foot placed on a submerged rock, and squinted for a closer look.

Noticing his shadow, the crab crawled further into the crevice such that only its eyes were visible.

"Bastard…" William muttered. No matter: He shifted his weight forwards, never breaking eye contact with the creature as he stepped forward onto a higher rock.

Just as soon as the crab's body reappeared, his foot twisted and slipped from under him, sending him flying. His breath left him as his back hit the water, knocked out of him by the impact.

He barely registered the pain in his ankle as he gasped for air, only succeeding in inhaling the brine. Oh, God. William couldn't swim. He was going to drown, wasn't he? He coughed and sputtered, limbs flailing and contacting the sandy bottom. Oh, right—he was only up to his shins when he fell. Fucking fool.

He pushed himself into a seated position, now sitting in the water, before hacking up the last of the seawater he had just inhaled. His eyes narrowed at the renewed site of the rocks, where the crab surely lurked to mock him. He swiped at the water angrily, as if perhaps he could knock the smug crab into the water. "Dammit!"

"William?" called Amaranthus from the beach. "Are you alright?"

He took a steadying breath, slightly calmer now that his lungs were rid of water. "Yes… Yes, I believe myself to be intact." He swiped damp hair away from his face, freed from his Q in the struggle. Despite the slight chill of the water that soaked him to the bone, his face felt hot with embarrassment.

He leaned forward, meaning to stand up, but even at a crouch, the weight sent searing ribbons of pain down his ankle. He collapsed back down into the water, unsure if his cry was in frustration or pain.

"What's happened?"

He gritted his teeth and lifted his leg to inspect. "It's nothing," he replied. Nothing was simultaneously bleeding steadily and growing purple, but no matter. "It seems my ankle caught on the rocks as I fell."

Expecting the pain this time and wanting not to worry Amaranthus, he stood gingerly, concentrating his weight on the undamaged leg. In comparison to being hit on the head with an ax, this was surely child's play, he reasoned. He hobbled to the beach, waving off her offer of physical support as he reached the shore. Amaranthus was not petite, but she was not tall either—and William was certainly the latter. An ankle injury was embarrassing enough without needing to lean on a young woman whose head barely reached his collarbone, ambling awkwardly on the Savannah coastline like a pair of drunkards.

"Come now, sit down, cousin," she urged, easing him onto the sand. He was probably getting seawater all over her gown; her maidservant would have his head upon their return to the house.

"Once more, I assure you that I am quite alright."

Her fair eyebrows narrowed and she knelt to inspect his foot, now bleeding freely onto the sand. He jerked his leg instinctively as she attempted to brush blood-soaked sand off his sole, barely suppressing an ungentlemanly German phrase from escaping his lips and huffing instead.

"Like that, is it?" Her eyes flicked up and met his, then she grabbed his ankle.

He let out a strangled sound, her grip shooting painful sparks up his leg. "P-please," he begged, practically panting. "Just let me put my stockings on, then we can return home."

Her grip relented, but only after a brief squeeze that made him see stars. "I suppose you're well-equipped to deal with the wrath you'll incur by bleeding all over your stockings."

He took the opportunity to heave a frustrated breath as Amaranthus retrieved the items in question. She relished his pain; he was sure of it. Curse that godforsaken crab for enabling her.

When she returned a moment later with his footwear, the matter of him being soaked in seawater was the least of his problems. The difficulties associated with putting shoes and stockings on wet skin, as it turns out, ceases to matter when one's ankle is swollen and bloody. His leg drawn closer to his chest, he was able to see the injury clearly now: His ankle had reached the size and turgidity of a small melon, and the sole of his foot, skin scratched to hell by rocks, looked no better. Nonetheless, he coaxed the appendage into a stocking—not his silk pair, fortunately—with only a few stifled grunts, lest he give Amaranthus an opportunity to dote on his injury and coddle or mock him in alternating bouts to her own satisfaction. His shoes slipped on with relative ease, though the buckle compressed his foot somewhat painfully.

Prioritizing the last shred of his dignity over physical comfort, he declined Amaranthus' proffered elbow to escort him to the cobbled street from which they could call a carriage. Each step on his injured foot was agony, equal parts stinging and shooting pain that forced all thoughts that weren't expletives from his head. He tried to steel his expression to avoid attracting attention from onlookers, but a light breeze proved that his face was cool with sweat. Fucking great.

He had no idea how much time passed before the coach arrived, too busy trying to squash his body's desire to faint to pay attention. Amaranthus had ceased making idle conversation sometime after a rushing sound filled his head, not dissimilar to the nearby crashing waves. As for the potential of his collapsing on the Savannah streets, never mind splitting his head on the cobble streets—and his skull had suffered enough since he returned to the Colonies, thank you—if he didn't die of embarrassment, Amaranthus' gleeful chidings would surely do him in.

He stumbled towards the stopped carriage, feet unsure as a new bout of pain surged over him. He put an arm in front of himself so as not to crash into the carriage, extended fingers brushing the painted wooden side. Sweet Jesus, he might vomit onto the stones below. His vision swam from the movement, but he ignored it to put a foot on the carriage step. This proved to be a mistake: The moment his good foot ceased contact with the ground, all his weight on its injured fellow, he saw white.

William collapsed onto the carriage bench, somewhat astonished he hadn't fallen facedown into the damn thing. A proper gentleman would have helped his female companion board first, but he felt his cousin would forgive him, given the circumstances. Quite frankly, he didn't particularly care if he did, so long as he made it back to Number 12, Oglethorpe Street without any bodily fluids contacting the carriage floor. He was even beyond caring about the fate that awaited him once they returned, to be nursed, pestered, and altogether treated like a feeble kitten.

With every bump and loose stone the carriage wheels caught, William gripped the side of the carriage ever harder, bracing himself against waves of pain. When his eyes were not screwed shut, he stared at the red streak creeping its way up his stocking, willing it to cease its course, lest his father—Lord John, his irritated mind corrected—send for the doctor. Lack of blood relation aside, William had seemingly inherited his Papa's nauseated distaste for having his blood let. He pushed the thought out of his mind, lest any further thoughts of his true paternity cling to the forefront of his mind like leeches.

After becoming agonizingly familiar with what seemed to be every wayward cobble in Savannah, the carriage at last reached the painted white exterior of Number 12, Oglethorpe Street.

"I'll fetch Lord John," announced Amaranthus, descending from the carriage step in a flutter of skirts.

William leaned back and closed his eyes, wood rough against his shoulder blades.

Soon after, he heard the flurrying crunch of oyster shells that lined the side streets and opened them again. Amaranthus no longer had her basket in tow and his father was missing his greatcoat. The latter stepped into the carriage, lines of worry creasing his face as his eyes searched William.

William gestured at his afflicted foot. "Caught the bugger on a rock and fell."

"So it seems," his father agreed. "Let's get you inside. Can you stand?"

He nodded as Lord John exited the carriage. He could hop the two steps to the carriage door, at least, even if the act of doing so brought yet another bout of pain as his ankle was jarred. He took his father's extended hand, the other gripping the side edge of the carriage as he braced himself to step down.

"That's it, William. Almost there."

Scarcely taller than Amaranthus and at eye level with William's shoulder, Lord John was somewhat ill-equipped to escort William inside, but he took as much of his weight as possible all the same. Still, he was unable to prevent William from crying out in pain as his injured foot reached the ground, supporting his not-inconsiderable weight for an excruciating moment.

"It's alright," said Lord John, coaxing William's arm around his shoulder in an instant. "Only a few more steps, then all will be well." William wished he could believe the man, but knew the worst had not yet begun.

Even with his father supporting most of his weight, climbing the steps sapped the last of William's ability to disguise the depth of his pain. He collapsed into the closest parlor chair with a groan, movement so ungentle that it shook the china in the cupboard and woke Trevor. Amaranthus clicked her tongue at him before vanishing upstairs to attend to her newly-wailing son. William paid her no mind, his father already lifting his leg gently onto the footstool and stripping off his shoe and stocking. He noticed himself panting as the bottom of the stocking stuck to the bloodied sole of his foot, feeling every bloodstained fiber as it separated from his skin.

He removed his waistcoat, damp with sweat and seawater alike, as his father fetched the ewer from the bedroom upstairs. He could feel Moira, the maid, behind him, likely standing in the doorjamb with confounded expressions, but he didn't bother to turn around.

Lord John descended the steps, ceramic water jug in hand. "Moira, fetch a doctor. Quickly."

William shook his head. "No, please. I beg of you; I'm fine."

Lord John scoffed. "And I'm the King of England."

He took a measured breath, then looked up. "Father, please. The limb isn't broken. Might we just bandage my ankle and be done with it?"

"God's teeth, William, have you seen that bloody mess you call an ankle? Surely some leeches for the bruising or—"

"I will not endure the torture of whatever quack physician can be plucked from the streets of Savannah." He saw his father open his mouth, but continued before the man could reply. "What's more, Father, if you allow such a man to let my blood or suffer me to leeches, you will faint."

He sighed, all too familiar with the shape of William's stubbornness. "If you insist." Lord John turned to look behind William. "Some cloth, then, to staunch the bleeding."

"And some brandy, if you please, Miss," added William before she could get far. He looked down at his ankle for the first time since he consigned its fate to his stocking. Christ, could the damn joint get any more swollen?

"As ye say, sirs." She started to leave but paused once in William's line of sight. "Shall I have Miss Crabb bring yerselves some refreshment? Ye look fit to keel over, son."

"Just the brandy," Lord John replied for him.

William groaned as she left. "Thank you. I fear I may vomit at the mere scent of a teacake."

His father smiled. "Wouldn't suit the brandy, in any case. Now, about that leg… May I clean the wound now, or would you prefer to wait until Moira returns with brandy?"

It would be best to get it over quickly, even without the soothing effect of alcohol. He gestured for his father to proceed.

Lord John wet one end of the linen cloth. "To remove the last of the sand," he explained, meeting William's eye.

It stung. Every swipe and pass of the rag was like a hot coal to his sole, and William dug his fingers into the arm of the chair to keep still as best he could, to little success.

His father muttered reassuring sentiments—that he was almost finished, that it would be done soon, that it was alright—with the same tone one would use to comfort a child Trevor's age. Still, he allowed himself to be comforted by his father's presence, and the presence of a fellow soldier at that, far preferable to being coddled and belittled by Miss Crabb, the housekeeper.

At last, his father's assault with the rag ceased. "I'm going to pour water over it now." Great.

If it was possible for the chair to have nail marks, it surely did now. Even still, clutching the sides of the chair as if it were at risk of floating away proved not to be enough to keep a groan from escaping.

"Almost done, Willie…"

He was too frustrated and exhausted from pain to take offense at being called by such a juvenile name. He hummed his acknowledgement through gritted teeth, then gasped as Lord John used the dry end of the cloth to dab the wound dry. It came away stained red, but less dramatically than his stocking, William noticed.

Moira returned with the brandy just as his father finished drying the wound with a resolute "there." She cleared her throat and handed a cup to William. The brandy stung as he inhaled its sharp scent. Perfect. "Best to take a stiff drink, son. Keep yer strength up."

He obliged her, the pleasant burn of the drink a welcome contrast to his present lower sensations.

"Good lad," she said, nodding as he took another hearty gulp. "That's the ruffle off've my oldest petticoat, sir." She handed a pile of formerly-white linen to Lord John.

"That will do nicely. Thank you, Miss." He looked at William. "Have you prepared yourself sufficiently?"

That earned his father an exhale with a note of finality.

"As you were, then." Lord John took one end of the proffered makeshift bandage in one hand, William's ankle in the other. He tried not to hiss at the sudden touch, managing to suppress it into a stiff exhale as his father wrapped the offending limb.

Whether Lord John wrapped the ankle incredibly tightly or if the ankle itself was so swollen it seemed fit to burst, William couldn't say, but the minute required for bandaging was excruciating. The pain climbed faster than he could stifle it with brandy; his leg would be squeezed painfully from all angles with no chance of reprieve until his bandages were changed the following morning. In fairness to his father, Lord John worked as quickly as possible, but German curses were uttered on both fronts.

Lord John heaved a sigh. "Nothing you can do now but wait. I assure you, though, it will heal."

"Thank you, Papa," he replied, realizing his teeth had been clenched since he had fallen off that goddamn rock and consciously relaxing his jaw. He sighed. It would heal.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or come chat with me on Tumblr! @hurt-comfort-cache. Panicking about drowning in shallow water: like father, like son. Also, I do love David Berry, but sometimes I wish Lord John was 5’6” like in the books. Justice for short kings. The sanderling was originally described by Pallas in 1764 as Trynga alba, then 2 years later, Linnaeus designated it Charadrius calidris; today, it’s Calidris alba. References: Wells, E., Brewin, P., & Brickle, P. (2011). Intertidal and subtidal benthic seaweed diversity of South Georgia. Report for the South Georgia Heritage Trust and Joint Nature Conservation Committee Survey, 1-20. Wenner, E. L. (1985). Shrimps, Lobsters, and Crabs of the Atlantic Coast of the Eastern United States, Maine to Florida. Estuaries, 8(1), 77-77. https://doi.org/10.2307/1352125