#pair: Fergus x Marsali

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.

This is the last chapter of this story. Catch up here on Part One and Part Two.

Sadly, it is also my last regular publication on this blog. I have written a longer post elaborating on that on my personal blog, but I want to take a quick moment to say thank you on here as well - trust me to go out with a bang (although, which is unusual, in this instance I say that without innuendo)!

The Borders Between Us

by @wunderlichkind

Three

She’s never been comfortable in hospitals. The harsh lighting and sterile smell, the hushed noises – all of it reminds her of too many motorcycle accidents, too many visits after gang fights, too many of Laoghaire’s diagnostic appointments. Marsali squirms in the uncomfortable chair, staring at her own reflection in the small room’s window, unable to see the dark parking lot beyond it. A ghost stares back – someone she has to work to recognize as herself. Her hair is unruly, her eyes are ringed with dark circles, her expression somber, haunted almost. She hasn’t slept in nearly two days, hasn’t been well-rested ever since she left Fergus’ apartment.

Laoghaire stirs in the bed and Marsali jumps in her seat, but her mother doesn’t wake and she takes a deep breath. Her eyes are still scanning Laoghaire’s body, taking inventory of her broken wrist, her bruised cheek, the tear at her hairline, the swollen left knee – something she’s been doing several times every day since the fall down the stairs, something she can’t seem to shake.

„Miss Fraser, have you thought about exploring other options for your mother? It might be time to find a nursing home for her, for both your sakes,“ the hospital’s social worker told her the day before, her stuffy office filled with the sound of a ticking clock. Marsali only nodded and accepted the bunch of brochures, eager to escape the too small space, the implications of considering such a solution. The words haven’t left her, though, and neither has the feeling of uneasiness.

She sighs and stands, resolving to channel her inner unrest into movement, to temporarily fill the icy hole in her chest with coffee. She takes the long way down to the cafeteria, which is closed at this hour of the day, but has a coin-operated coffee machine much better than any of the hallway vending machines on this floor. She stares at the white walls, the bland hospital art, the petrol green room number signs. She counts the steps as she descends the stairs, but it does nothing to calm her. The strain on her nerves is almost unbearable. Marsali is sure that any minute now she’s going to snap when she rounds the corner opposite the hospital entrance and almost collides with Dr. Taylor.

„Oh, Miss Fraser, you’re still here? Shouldn’t you get some rest?“

Marsali manages a wry smile. „I could ask ye the same thing, Dr. Taylor.“

The doctor laughs, a genuine, friendly laugh that shows her white teeth and the dimples in her dark cheeks. „I’m on my way out, actually. I’m glad I bumped into you before leaving, though. I’ve been meaning to tell you that we’ll have your test results ready by tomorrow and I’d like to see you in my office, say 10 am?“

She waits for the string of her nerves to snap, waits for the impact of the doctor’s kind words to hit, but instead of the violent crash she’s expecting, there’s only a feeling of surreality. For a second, Marsali has the impression that she’s watching herself from a distance, eerily indifferent to her own numbness, her own shock. She has to force herself to nod, to mumble her assent.

Dr. Taylor is already walking away, but she turns again after just a few steps, finding Marsali still rooted to the spot.

„How’s your mother?“ she asks, and there’s real sympathy in her voice, a hint of worry in her dark brown eyes.

„She’s... not great,“ Marsali answers honestly, her voice cracking a little on the last word. Dr. Taylor nods.

„You get some rest, okay? And I’ll see you tomorrow,“ she says and it sounds like an order and a reassurance at the same time, like something her father might say to her. It makes Marsali smile despite herself.

„Aye, I’ll see ye tomorrow.“

The fight with Fergus. Laoghaire’s fall. The possibility of having to place her in a home. Her own test results. Marsali’s mind is a battleground, a tangle of fear and pain and nerves, a virtual hell. It’s why it seems almost cruel, an unlikely twist of fate, when the moment after the door has fallen closed behind Dr. Taylor, it opens again and the quiet of the nightly hospital is broken by loud shouts for help.

Her body reacts before her mind is able to register the whole picture, and she takes in details while already moving; their jackets, identifying them as Hell’s Angels, the strained muscles in their shoulders, evidence of their struggle to hold up the slim figure in their middle. The blood on his face. The pain in his eyes.

She reaches him just when they set him down on a chair, one of them gesturing wildly at the woman behind the welcome desk.

„Marsali?“ he says and it’s a question, his voice quiet, disbelieving.

Her own voice is everything she would have expected it to be in her conversation with Dr. Taylor. There’s despair, terror. There are tears.

„Fergus. What happened?“

___________________________________________________________________

It seems all hospital offices are too small for comfort. Dr. Taylor closes the door behind Marsali and gestures for her to sit, moving to open the small window as if she can sense Marsali feels trapped. A cold breeze wafts in and Marsali is grateful for it; a reminder that the world keeps turning, that the seasons are progressing.

„Before I let you know the results of your blood tests, I want to go over the facts with you one more time,“ Dr. Taylor says as she sits down behind her desk, her calm gaze focused on Marsali, who just nods.

„You’ve decided to have your blood tested because your mother has early onset dementia, which can be hereditary. However, the results of this test will not conclusively tell you if you’ll suffer from the same disease.“

Marsali nods again. She knows all this, she’s had a lot of time to get informed.

„The test identifies certain genetic markers. People with mutations in certain genes are statistically more likely to develop early-onset dementia. We know your mother has tested positive for one of the markers,“ Dr. Taylor pauses and sorts through the papers on her desk.

Marsali grits her teeth together, balls her hands so tightly she feels her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. She holds her breath. She’s aware that no matter the results of the test, she could always develop the disease. She’s aware how little reassurance a negative result really holds. But she wants it, needs it. She needs to know that she can live her life without the sword of high risk hanging over her neck.

„Miss Fraser.“

Marsali hasn’t realized she closed her eyes until she opens them to meet Dr. Taylor’s smiling gaze.

„You do not have any of the mutations, you tested negative for all the genetic markers.“

And Marsali breathes. She breathes in the cold air wafting through the still open window and Dr. Taylor reminds her again, that the test results provide only an indication of what may or may not happen. And Fergus is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, two floors up, because he deliberately got into a fight with some of her father’s men. And Laoghaire is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, three floors up, because she fell down the stairs to the basement when Marsali hadn’t locked the basement door. And the hospital’s social worker is looking through nursing home brochures with her father five doors down.

But Marsali breathes, and for the first time in days, she feels like the air is reaching her lungs. She feels like there’s a tiny sliver of hope. And where that tiny sliver grows, a plan slowly starts to take shape.

___________________________________________________________________

It’s raining when the procession of bikes reaches the cemetery, the roaring of motors drowning out the splatter of water against stone for just a moment before the bikes stand as still as their riders.

Black is their everyday color, and only their somber expressions hint at the special occasion. The pastor has held gang funerals before, but never one like this, he realizes with worry, when he stares at the mix of Mongols and Angel signs on the jackets of the assembled. They’ve come together, and it seems they’ve come in peace. He hadn’t really believed in it until now.

„Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs. Proverbs 10:12.“ The pastor’s voice raises over the cries of heaven as the heads of the assembled men and women rise at his words.

„We lay to rest your children,“ he continues, „who, despite their youth, knew the truth of God’s word in their hearts. Marsali Fraser and Fergus St. Germain have loved deeply. Their love crossed borders, and stood safe in the middle of a stormy sea of conflict that finally consumed them. Let us remember that love and let us honor it by calming the conflict between us.“

Jamie Fraser is a wall of stone, a picture of hard edges. Claire softly squeezes Jamie’s hand, her face hidden in his shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation he squeezes back.

„Marsali and Fergus’ love has endured great conflict. It is now, on this day, reason and incentive for us to come together as they have, to cross borders as they did. May you be united in love and grief for your children as they have been united in love for each other.“

Nobody moves when the pastor ends his speech. The rain is too loud in the silence of their shared grief, too warm on their icy skin. It’s a day to be marked – the day they buried Marsali and Fergus, the day they’ve let a semblance of peace enter their hearts.

Jamie and Claire are the last to leave the cemetery. Jamie’s phone rings just when he sits down on the bike’s saddle and he shuts off the motor again before picking it up.

„How did it go?“ she asks and he thinks he must imagine the tinny quality to her voice – modern technology doesn’t bother with distance as much as the heart does, after all.

„All according to plan, a leannan,“ he assures her, and Claire smiles at him. „Ye’re safe?“

„Aye, Da, we’re safe.“ She sounds full of wonder, as if stunned this crazy plan of hers has worked, has somehow spit them out safe and sound on the other side of the border.

„Yer Ma?“

„They say she’s adjusting well. We’re going back to visit her on Sunday. I have a good feeling about this, Da.“

It takes him a moment to answer her, emotions warring in his chest. The pastor was right, he decides for himself. There have been too many wrongs in this story, too many obstacles in his daughter’s path. But however winded the way, however dramatic and unusual the means, love covers all the wrongs.

„Me too, Marsali. Me too.“

[desperationandgin]

B, C (for datril!), N, U!!!

Love it when you leave me stuff boo

B:  What was the first fandom you read fic in?  Which was the first you wrote fic for?

Other than that time I wrote a (fake) Power Rangers script, my first fandom to both read and write fic in, was the X-Files. Ao3 didn’t even exist yet, I think most of those fics were written in a Five Star notebook at school and then posted somewhere on FF.N

C:  How did you come up with the title to Deep as the Road is Long?

Nobody Knows, by The Lumineers played randomly on Pandora and I IMMEDIATELY thought of it as a J/C song. I actually keep a running list of song lyrics that I think will make great fic titles, and when I came up with what I wanted to do (a modern re-working of Faith’s death) that song came to mind. These lyrics, in particular:

Love is deep as the road is longAnd moves my feet to carry onIt beats my heart when you are goneLove is deep as the road is long

Faith is gone and the road to healing after her is long, but ultimately, Jamie and Claire’s love for one another was enough to keep them both going and carry on. It felt very fitting ❤

N: Any fic ideas brewing that you’d care to share?

I teased it yesterday, but there is a Market Price honeymoon coming (AHEM) next month!  I started working on a complete canon divergent story that has Jamie going through the stones. I’ve also started antiquities dealer Claire! Both of these things will be spread out through the spring and summer, and I can’t wait.

U: Is there a pairing you would like to write, but haven’t tried yet.

Within Outlander, probably Fergus and Marsali. If I did, it would be baby steps (them in a fic with Jamie and Claire), but I’m kind of into the idea! Not enough to commit to anything yet.

Leave a letter in my inbox!

[otheroutlandertales]

@notameeksassenach​ said: Modern AU where Fergus goes to Jamie and Roger for advice on becoming a dad.

Author’s note: It took us a while to get to this one - but here it is, and with (almost) perfect timing. Congratulations on notameekbaby! All our best wishes and we hope you find a quiet moment to yourself to enjoy this wee story, @notameeksassenach.

Nerves

by @wunderlichkind

Marsali is a warm presence, her citrus scent invading his space in a wave of comfort when she leans in and softly squeezes his hand under the table. He smiles at her and squeezes back, his chest constricting with the familiar force of his feelings, all his tenderness towards his beautiful wife. She gives him a look behind the golden curtain of her hair and he raises an eyebrow at her.

„Now?“ he asks softly, and she shrugs.

„Why not?“

„Okay then.“ He can feel his smile spread, sees it mirrored on Marsali’s features. For all his fears and doubts, he’s excited. He’s excited for everything to come, excited for taking the first step and telling the family today, as they’re all gathered around the long table in Brianna and Roger’s home.

It’s Jem’s third birthday, and the dinner he wished for - Fish and Chips - has been a turbulent affair, with Bree and Roger trying to keep the chaos in check and Claire and Jamie listening intently to Jem’s loud tales of wishes and presents. Marsali and Fergus have been content to watch quietly, saving their news as to not steal Jemmy’s spotlight.

„Auntie Marsi, will ye come see my new spaceship bed?“ Jem crows, before either of them can even begin to form the words. Jem’s sticky little hands drum an excited rhythm on Marsali’s forearm and she laughs and shrugs at Fergus.

„Someone’s clearly had too much sugar,“ Brianna notes in a dry tone from the base of the stairs and Fergus notices, not for the first time, how well his sister has grown into her role as a mother – how much she reminds him of Mama.

„Of course I’ll come see yer space ship, buddy!“ Marsali smooths the russet curls out of Jem’s forehead and gets up. Before she joins Brianna and Jem on the stairs, she bends to whisper into Fergus’ ear.

„Tell them anyway. I dinna mind and we might not get them together at a single table again before he’s here.“

She silences his inquisitive stare with a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, then kisses his cheek. Claire stands up and joins her when Marsali moves towards the stairs,  announcing she needs to check out Jemmy’s rash again.

„Looks like we’re left wi’ kitchen duties,“ Roger sighs, but the soft expression he wears while his eyes follow his wife and son up the stairs of their new home betrays his mock irritation.

The kitchen is warm and cozy and Jamie turns the dials of the radio until low, slow blues rhythms fill the room. Roger fills the sink, chuckling at his father-in-law’s tuneless humming and Fergus has to take a deep swig of whisky to get a grip on his emotions.

This is his family. His growing family.

He accepts a wet pan from Roger and starts to dry it, then clears his throat. „So, Marsali and I have news.“

Jamie looks up from the paper he’s been studying while waiting for dried dishes to stow away. His eyes meet his adoptive son’s, alight with silent support. Fergus takes a deep breath.

„I’m gonna be a father.“

It’s Jamie’s turn to clear his throat, then – wrapping his son into a tight hug, both to express his joy and to hide the emotion in his face. Roger laughs and claps Fergus on the back, saying his congratulations.

They eventually turn to the dishes again, all the while discussing the news the way men do – in practical terms. The baby is due in May, it’s gonna be a boy, they’re gonna stay in their apartment for a while, Marsali has been fairly well.

Soon, the dishes are done and stowed away and they’re sitting around the kitchen table, glasses of whisky in front of them. Fergus feels almost dizzy, excitement and wariness battling in his stomach as fiercely as they did the day Marsali bought the pregnancy test. He’s grateful for the warm burn of the spirit down his throat, for Jamie’s heavy hand on his shoulder, for Roger’s stories of his and Bree’s first days as new parents.

„It’ll be fine, lad. Dinna worry too much.“

Jamie’s calm words are as reassuring to Fergus now, as when he was a little boy with a scraped knee or fear of the dark. The storm inside him dies down enough for Fergus to voice his concerns.

„What if I’m not a good father to him?“

Both Jamie and Roger look like it’s a thought they think him mad to consider, and he adds to his question before either of them can voice that. „You know, with the MS? I’m fine now but we don’t know for how long, and if I can’t throw a ball with him, or carry him to bed, or do happy dances...“  

„Fergus.“ Roger stops him mid-sentence. „Do ye love him?“

„Of course I love him,“ Fergus answers without hesitation.

„So ye have yer answer. Ye’ll be exactly the father yer son needs. And for anything ye can’t give him, ye’ll have the support of yer family,“ Roger says firmly and Jamie nods, making an affirming sound in the back of his throat.

„Most of all, ye have Marsali,“ Jamie adds, and smiles crookedly at Fergus. „The lassie will be yer arms and legs and move mountains for ye if need be, and ye ken that well. The bairn will want for nothing.“

He closes his eyes for a moment against the threat of tears, and pinches the bridge of his nose. „You’re right,“ he admits. „It’s just not fair that she might have to take all that on for me.“

„It’s not,“ Jamie agrees. „But it willna make ye any less of a father, as it willna make ye any less of a son or a friend or a man. I’m proud of the person ye’ve become, lad.“ His voice is rough on the last few words, his hand firmly squeezing Fergus’ shoulder. All three men are silent for a moment, burying their noses in their whisky glasses.

„Thank you,“ Fergus finally says, when he’s composed himself enough to speak. The kitchen door opens to the chatter of the women, all smiling widely with the news.

Claire kisses her son on the cheek, tightly hugging him. „I’m so excited for you!“ she smiles, sitting on the bench next to her husband.

Fergus looks up at Marsali – his fierce, radiant, strong Marsali. Reaching for her hand, he intertwines their fingers, and returns his mother’s smile.

„We’re very excited, too.“

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.

Catch up on the first part of this story here. There will be one more chapter after this.

The Borders Between Us

by @wunderlichkind

Two

Fergus has felt the irritation crawl under his skin all day, like tiny little insects, hooking their hairy legs into every crevice, every artery, every synapse, laying their eggs on their quest to populate his every thought. He thought Marsali’s touch would make it better – her hands wrapped around his middle on the bike, her smooth skin under his hands and lips. But she hasn’t brought him any semblance of peace, not today.

Instead, she’s a sounding body to his vibrations, picking up the current of anger and frustration running through his veins and throwing it back at him, magnified and dangerous.

He isn’t gentle with her, and she spurs him on, as if challenging the fragile illusion of peace to implode and tumble to pieces, as if walking the edge excites her, and it isn’t lost on him that her behaviour in the face of his unrest says a lot about their relationship – the game they’ve been playing for too long, that she refuses to transform into something more real, more solid.

It’s only after – when they’re lying side by side in the wide bed, spent and heated, avoiding any more touch, that he realizes the crawling sensation has left him, his anger erupted in the heat of their joining. The silent emptiness it left behind is worse, still.

„Why do you continue to come?“ he asks, a bitter taste on his tongue – the taste of weakness. He’s not comfortable with this needy side of himself, this side that can’t stay away, this side that asks her to stay again and again.

„Ye’re a damn good fuck,“ she teases, but it’s half-hearted and they both know it. He sees the fire flicker behind her blue eyes when he turns to look at her and welcomes the bite of its flames reaching for him – anything to fill the void. He presses on.

„You refuse to quit the gang, you won’t let me quit either. You never answer my declarations or pleas, yet you always come back to me. Why?“

Marsali sits up abruptly, reaching for her shirt and swinging her pale legs over the edge of the bed. The set of her shoulders is tense and she doesn’t look at him when she snaps. „What do ye want me to say, Fergus?“

„I want you to admit you love me.“

It comes out a little too loud, a little too forceful, but he doesn’t care. This has been brewing inside him for weeks, a dark, bubbling mess long overdue to spill that he desperately needs out of his system. He wants clarity – all or nothing, to have her admit her feelings or provoke her until she finally walks out on him for good.

She’s on her feet now, moving through the room quickly, in jerky, angry motions, her body radiating stress, the stony expression of her face telling him she’s struggling to keep her walls up.

„Admit it!“ he says, even louder this time, crawling to the edge of the bed. He’s naked still, but he doesn’t make a move to get dressed. He wants to force her to be open and honest, to be naked with body and words.

„Admit it, or tell me you’re just coming back here because you need to get fucked so bad, because your shitshow of a gang doesn’t have one decent man who serves you as well as I do, because you’re a damned whore who doesn’t care one iota about who she’s hurting. Say it!“

He’s almost screaming at her now, the words purposely harsh blows, chosen to tear down her walls, chosen to make her react. It’s selfish of him, but he feels he might disintegrate, might lose himself completely if he stops.

„I do, okay?!“

It’s something between a sob and yell and he’s at her side in seconds when she drops to the floor crying.

„I do love ye,“ she admits, much quieter now, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to protect her from falling apart now that the walls of protection have fallen.

„Are ye happy now?“ Her voice rises again, and she lifts her head to stare at him defiantly through a curtain of tears. He thinks about that – tries to pinpoint his feelings, to interpret the turmoil in his stomach, but she’s not finished.

„It doesn’t change anything, don’t ye get it?“ The look of despair on her face scares him, and he reaches for her arms, trying to become a part of the forlorn embrace she’s wrapped herself in.

„Ye dinna even know my last name.“

He wants to protest, wants to tell her he’ll happily learn every little detail about her life – how she drinks her coffee, how she ties her shoes, what colour her shower curtain and oven mitts and toothbrush are – but the words die on his tongue at her merciless stare, and her next words feel like a stab with a knife. Brutal, painful, inflicting an irreversible wound.

„My name is Marsali Fraser. My father is James Fraser, president of the Mongols’ Badlands charter. My mother is Laoghaire Mackenzie. She has early onset dementia. I moved back in with her a year ago, because she can’t live alone anymore.“

Fergus suddenly wishes he had dressed. He feels exposed, Marsali’s words a cold storm attacking him full force, her face a mask of pain he feels mirrored on his own.

„We’ll find a way,“ he says, a weak attempt at gaining some semblance of control over this chaos. He doesn’t believe it, and she doesn’t either.

„I canna leave, Fergus.“ Her voice is tender now, as she bends towards him and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s salty and wet from her tears, and he feels stranded, disoriented. „I’m sorry.“

And then she rises and leaves, but he can’t move. Glued down to the carpet he hates himself for being naive enough to believe that all or nothing was possible, for not seeing this coming. She loves him, but he will never have her. It’s all and nothing at the same time.

___________________________________________________________________

She’s picking out cereal when her phone rings, the melody of her favourite song echoing off the boxes stacked on the aisle. She curses under her breath at her treacherous mind, immediately flitting to Fergus. They danced to this song. Made love while it played in the background. He wouldn’t call though; he only ever texts. And he won’t text anymore, now that they stopped pretending. She swipes at her phone angrily, without checking to see who’s calling.

„Yes?“

„Marsali, good! Don’t freak out, okay?“ Claire’s voice sounds pretty close to freaking out herself, although it’s clear she’s making a conscious effort to stay calm. Marsali immediately goes into emergency mode, her feet carrying her towards the exit, the groceries in her cart abandoned.

„What happened? Did she hurt herself?“

The memory of the big blister on Laoghaire’s forearm from when she had turned her back to the hot stove for just a second makes Marsali feel nauseous and triggers more images – images of every possible danger in their house, every step you could fall, every corner you could hit your head on.

„She got out. I’m looking for her now, and Jamie is in your apartment in case she comes back. I’m really sorry, love, I swear, I was only in the bathroom for a minute...“

Marsali has to swallow around the lump in her throat before she can answer. „It’s not yer fault,“ she finally manages to say, already climbing into the car. „I’m on my way. Let’s split areas to look – where should I go?“

She finds Laoghaire at the corner café her mother used to work at, where she smiles at the customers and cleans the tables. Louie, the owner, who’s called her only ten minutes after she hung up on Claire, squeezes Marsali’s shoulder.

„It was really no trouble. She just went right to work.“

She forces herself to smile at him. „Thank ye, Louie. For not saying anything to her. And for calling me.“

„No biggie. Let me know if I can ever do anything to help.“

She gives him a grateful nod, her lips pressed together tightly to keep in the sob of exhaustion and relief she doesn’t want the world to hear. With a light touch to Louie’s arm, she turns and approaches her mother.

„Hi, Laoghaire. Let me take ye home.“

The soft tone is practiced, not even stumbling on her mother’s first name anymore – Marsali’s long since accepted the fact that addressing her with „Mam“ only agitates her, that her own mother can’t remember having a daughter.

„Is my shift already over?“ Laoghaire asks, looking over Marsali’s shoulder at Louie.

„Oh yes, dear, you go right on home and enjoy your night,“ Louie smiles at her, and Laoghaire’s face lights up, and she lets herself be led out the café and towards the car.

___________________________________________________________________

„I found the brochures,“ Jamie says, and passes her a hot cup of tea. She avoids his eyes, burying her nose in the steam rising from the cup and coughing at the strong alcoholic fumes.

„Ye put whisky in that,“ she states with half a smile that he mirrors back at her.

„Thought ye could use it.“ They settle into the couch, and his clear blue eyes - so like her own – rest sternly on her. „Marsali,“ he prompts and she shrugs her shoulders.

„I havena taken the test.“

„Ye should. I think it might be time we find a good home for Laoghaire. It’s too much for ye to take care of her all the time. Ye should be able to live yer life. And not be afraid.“ His warm palm on her knee grounds her and she sighs and lets herself be comforted by his strong presence, his warmth and solidness and safety.

„What if I have it, too?“ she whispers, not looking at him.

He wraps his strong arm around her shoulder and draws her into his chest, enveloping her into the familiar scent of worn leather and aftershave.

„I dinna ken,“ he admits, „but it’s better to know than to wonder and fret, don’t ye think? And I’ll be here. Whatever happens, I’ll be here.“

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Modern day au where Fergus and Marsali are members of opposing biker gangs.

The Borders Between Us

by @wunderlichkind

One

The bar is dim, light coming only from the low hanging lamps over the counter and the narrow set of windows right under the ceiling, facing the highway. The setting sun streams into the room in starch beams cutting through the dusty air, bathing anything outside their reach into a muted amber. Her hair, golden like ripe corn, seems to emit its own light, the brightest spot in his field of vision. He can’t help but stare at it.

The barkeep slides his drink over the counter and Fergus accepts it without taking his eyes from where she’s dancing and laughing with some other girls. He knows she’s aware of his gaze from the way she moves, knows she’s taunting him, even though she hasn’t so much as blinked at him since she entered the bar.

The black jeans hug her legs and ass in a way that makes him remember exactly how her milky skin feels under his hands, reminds him of every curve of her body, and creates in him the urge to drag her out of the dingy bar before anyone else sees – a surge of possessiveness he hadn’t known to be a side of him. She runs her hands through her hair laughing, and he can’t decide what to focus on – the memory of his own hands tangled in her blonde tresses or the ghost of her kiss eliciting goose bumps all over his body.

He empties his glass in one long swallow, setting it down on the counter again, onto a crumpled ten dollar bill. Without looking at her again, he stands and walks out through the back door.

The sun has almost set now and the parking lot is bathed in a muted evening light, almost orange in color. Fergus leans against the whitewashed brick of the bar’s outside wall, lighting a cigarette. He takes the first drag and closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the fading sun on his skin. He’s uncomfortably conscious of the heavy leather of his jacket weighing on his shoulders, and not for the first time asks himself if he made a mistake getting involved with these people, if he’d been too desperate for a family, any kind of home.

His stomach flutters with nerves and he is thankful for the small remedy the cigarette provides. They chose this bar carefully, it being located in a sort of no man’s land between the gangs’ territories, but it wouldn’t be wise for her to be seen with him, even here. So he waits, like he always does, and he prays she’ll come to him eventually, like she always does.

Fergus is just putting out the cigarette under the heel of his boot when the back door opens and releases her into the almost dark lot. Her own leather jacket is blacker than the approaching night, taunting him like a bad omen for a moment, until she smiles and nods towards his bike.

„Let’s go?“

He nods, returning her smile and pushing himself off the wall. His stomach settles a little when she swings onto the seat of his bike behind him and wraps her arms around his middle. The roar of the engine coming to life beneath them is soon joined by the sound of the wind rushing by their ears. The outside noises drown out his worries bit by bit, catapulting him into a simpler place, one made up of freedom and the warmth of her touch.

___________________________________________________________________

„How did it go?“ Marsali asks softly, stepping back into the small living room and closing the door to her mother’s bedroom behind her, careful not to wake her up.

„It went well.“ Her father smiles at her from across the room, shrugging into his jacket. „To be honest, I havena seen yer mother this content in a long while.“

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. „Hmm, aye. I think she remembers ye from when you were young. She doesn’t recognize me anymore most days.“

He crosses the room in two big steps, enveloping her in his strong arms and she releases a breath that has been stuck in her throat, inhaling her father’s familiar, comforting scent, feeling the soothing softness of his jacket’s worn leather under her palms.

„Ye’re being a wonderful daughter to her, a leannan. I’m so proud of you, ye ken? And ye can call me anytime if ye need someone to watch her, I dinna mind.“

He kisses the top of her head and she sighs again, reluctantly letting go of him and following him to the door. He has to duck his head just slightly, stepping through it into the stairwell and she smiles to herself. Her father, the soft giant, the protector, the president of the charter.

„Thanks, Da. Tell Claire I said hi, okay?“

She closes the door only when she can’t see him anymore and the echo of his footsteps on the stairs has faded away. From the counter by the door she picks up the mail and distractedly sorts through it, balling up a takeout menu and an ad for a car dealership and tossing them into the trash when she reaches the kitchen. She opens the fridge and scans its contents, then closes it again, regretting for a second that she threw away that menu, but deciding it was too late to eat anyway. She eyes the two letters left on the table, sighing for the third time since arriving home.

Drawing up her shoulders, she sorts them both into the piles of unopened letters on the shelves – the bigger one with the unpaid bills, the smaller one with the growing stack that she can’t open, won’t open, but can’t bring herself to throw away yet. She knows what it says, because she opened the first one, and she’s missed the appointments for the lab tests ever since. She doesn’t want to know. Not yet, possibly never.

Her mother smiles at her from the picture on the living room wall, a radiant smile, full of unbridled happiness. It’s a healthy smile, a present smile, one from before dementia.

___________________________________________________________________

Fergus watches her stretch like a lazy cat on his sheets, his fingers spread on her belly, following the dip of her hipbone, not wanting to lose touch with her skin. He feels anchored, next to her in bed, in a way he hasn’t in as long as he can remember, and in a way he knows he won’t as soon as she leaves.

„Stay,“ he says hoarsely, voice coated with emotion and a remnant of the thirst she instills and quenches in him whenever they meet.

„Ye ken fine I can’t,“ she answers, turning towards him and propping her head up on her hand. Her tone is soft but final, the message one she’s told him a thousand times.

„I can quit. You could quit too. We could leave this place together.“ He argues because he can’t give up just yet, not because he really thinks it will change her mind. He’s said all of this to her before.

„It’s not that easy. Ye ken that as well as I do. And I have family here. I canna leave them. I canna leave my mother.“

He nods, and they’re silent for a while, him watching her closely, once more trying to memorize every line of her face, every lash, every speckle in her absent eyes.

„I love you, Marsali.“

The look in her eyes is so tender and melancholic, he wants to jump out of bed and punch something, crank the bike to full speed, get into a fight. Instead, he lets her kiss him, tastes himself on her lips along with the borders between them, lingering before his inner eye when she gets up and dresses, bending down to smooth the hair out of his forehead gently in a quick gesture of affection.

He opens his eyes to see her standing at the door, lingering, and for a short moment hope flares up violently in his chest until he sees her expression.

„Ye ken I can’t,“ she says again, an echo of her own words, heavy with meaning. „I’m not meant to have a big romance in my life. It’s better that way, I promise.“

And she leaves, as she always does.

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Would love to see a modern Fergus introducing Marsali to his parents for the first time

Read other fics in this Fergus/Marsali Modern AU here.

Fersali: Milk and Coffee 

by @ianmuyrray

“Fuck!” Marsali cursed loudly. She slammed on her brakes, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the vehicle in front of her. Surprised as her car jerked to a stop, she squeezed the paper mug of her latte, popping off the lid and sending its hot contents flying. She swore again, hissing at the burning sensation spreading over her leg and sped away, glaring at how the hot drink had ruined her nice pair of jeans.

She had been casually cruising along, no cars around for miles. Until this asshole - she wanted to yell after whoever it was - decided to screech to a halt and make a last-minute turn.

She’d already been in a hurry - now she was definitely going to be late. Tonight she was meeting Fergus’ parents, and she was desperate to make a good impression, so she had worn her nicest pair of jeans. But today had been exceptionally bad - she had woken late for work, her hair wouldn’t stay flat, she had to miss her lunchtime workout because a meeting ran over - and now, now, she thought, grimacing, the only clean trousers she had were the gym clothes she had hastily tossed in her car this morning. Gym clothes to meet the parents. Great.

Cursing, she pulled into the gas station at the next corner.

The gas station was nestled in a rural bend in the highlands, and she wasn’t far from Fergus’ childhood home. The building was a little run down, covered with chipped white paint and displaying a sun-faded sign, but it was surprisingly busy despite its remote location. It must be the only place around for miles.

She began to pull into a spot just as a middle-aged man was getting out of a truck; she braked quickly to avoid hitting him and waved apologetically that he should go first. Maybe she had been pulling into the spot kind of quickly. Unshaken, he nodded at her and waved back, zipping up his green jacket as he walked inside.

Once parked, she pulled out her phone, shooting off a quick text to Fergus.

Spilled coffee all over myself and have to change 🙄Will be late to dinner. Sorry…

❤️ce n’est pas un problème ❤️we will wait for you

The bell jingled as the door closed behind her, and she was greeted by brown tile floors and cluttered retail shelves lit by fluorescent lighting. She stalked gingerly to the bathroom, her gym bag over her shoulder.

She had to make a good impression. Fergus loved his parents more than anything in the world, and Marsali wanted to be worthy of the Frasers’ approval.

Adopted at the age of five, Fergus had come into the Fraser family largely by accident. After a couple years in France and difficulty conceiving, his parents had gone to an adoption agency. They never said they had intended to adopt an infant - but one night, in the dark, their fingers intertwined, Fergus shared his anxieties about it with Marsali. He had felt the insecurity most as a young boy, but it continued to haunt him as an adult; it haunted him especially when he unfairly compared himself to his sister, Brianna, who was their biological child. He wondered, was he enough, adopted as a child instead of as a baby? Adopted, when they ended up pregnant a few years later anyway? Had they settled for him?

But from what he told her of his parents, she knew the regret Fergus feared they felt was born of his own anxiety. He shared little of his personal life with his family, and she had gleaned it was because he didn’t want them to think him a failure. Although Fergus might be a little bit of a mess, Marsali thought with a loving smile, he had grown up within a supportive, stable home, and nothing he could do would shake the Frasers’ support of their eldest son. The Frasers loved Fergus unconditionally, unquestionably, more fiercely than Marsali thought even her own mother loved her. She envied Fergus, and for her own selfish reasons, she longed to be liked by them.  

His Da - that was the person she longed to impress the most. Fergus spoke of Mr. Fraser with a tone nearing worship, sharing with Marsali that all he wanted in the world was to be even half the man Jamie Fraser was. He loved and respected his father more than anything in the world.

Hastily, she changed out of her jeans, cursing herself for having screwed up so badly. She dabbed at her damp thighs with paper towel, trying to wipe away the stickiness of sugar left by the latte.

Her sweater had miraculously avoided the coffee catastrophe. And it didn’t look so bad over the athletic wear, she thought, looking in the mirror. With the boots, the ensemble might seem planned. But still. Her ruined jeans! She wriggled awkwardly in the gym wear, plucking here, straightening there, twisting back and forth in the mirror, hoping that she’d feel less ridiculous with each touch or glance. Nope. She began to feel worse.

She sent a photo of herself in the mirror to Fergus, along with a quick text.

Does this make me look ridiculous? My jeans were ruined.

She counted under her breath as she waited for Fergus’ reply.

🔥🔥🔥 hurry up and get over here

She laughed, beginning to type something back when another message popped up:

Can you grab milk? Da isn’t back yet and left his phone behind.

“Oh.”

She sent back: I’m going to be sooooo late

Mam is keeping dinner warm and I wont let Bree eat til you arrive. miss you see you soon 😘

She snorted and tucked her phone into her waistband, straightening her sweater over it. Fergus had said dinner would be casual, that she shouldn’t worry too much about what she wore. Athletic wear was certainly casual, wasn’t it? She sighed at her bad luck and exited the bathroom.

Shit, Fergus hadn’t said what kind of milk they need, she realized as she paused at the refrigerator. Skim? Whole? 2%? A gallon? Half gallon? She frowned, quickly scanning the options through the glass doors, trying to decide. Nervous about selecting the wrong kind, nervous about her terrible outfit and late arrival, she grabbed her phone again to call Fergus when she heard a voice.

“Pardon.”

It was the man she had nearly run over in the parking lot, now with a small basket of groceries on his arm. She let out an involuntary squeak and let him by. He was broad shouldered, red-haired, blue-eyed, and very tall; standing next to him made Marsali feel miniature. He seemed so large, Marsali thought, no wonder her car hadn’t spooked him.  

He paused and eyed her a moment, taking in the gym bag slung across her shoulder. The latte-soaked jeans over her arm. The hurried look about her. The phone in her hand lit to Fergus’ contact page.

“Ye look like ye’ve had a hell of a day, lass.” He grinned.

“Aye,” Marsali said, confused by his attention, “it’s been a day.” She smiled awkwardly until he walked over to the cashier, then she muttered to the milk, “Not that it’s any of yer business.”

In line, she glanced at her watch and sighed. She was late, she was so, so, late. Looking over the man from before, she figured that since he had seemed nice earlier, maybe he would let her cut him in line. She only had one milk jug to purchase, after all, and he had a basketful.

“Um, sir? Sorry,” she spoke to his back.

He turned and raised his eyebrows at her, expectantly.

“Would ye mind if I went ahead of ye? I - I have an important dinner to get to, ye ken, and I’m already late, and, as ye so kindly pointed out, I’ve had a terrible day,” she rambled, “I have to make a good impression, it’s my boyfriend’s parents, ye see, and I need them to like me--”

With an amused look on his face, the man moved out of the way, offering her his place in line. “Aye, lass, say no more. Go on ahead.”

Back in her car, winding through the countryside, she blew out a breath. She had only seen her reflection once since she changed, her nice sweater paired with athletic wear, and she felt herself sink into her seat. It had been so important to her that she made a good first impression; she had spent a week trying to figure out what outfit would make her more impressive. But none of it mattered. She screwed up. Now she looked ridiculous.

When she thought of her own parents, her selfish mother and her absent father, she thought of a childhood lost. She thought of herself as incomplete, somehow tainted by a family that never was a family. And so, she had decided, when she walked up to that house, when she met Jamie and Claire for the first time, she wanted perfection. She wanted to be worthy. Not just for Fergus, but for herself. And when she looked over at her stained jeans, piled upon the passenger seat, she felt unworthy.

Her heart skipped a beat as she parked outside the expansive brick home. A three-story manor of harled white stone, its entry marked by double doors, its windows outlined with natural grey stone; it was topped with a high slate roof and multiple chimneys. Land sloped gracefully around it, a mesh of trees in the distance. To the side of the house was a large, abundant garden and hen coop. Just beyond she could see a round tower, crumbling in its age, its arrow slits apparent.

Marsali went to walk up to the front door but froze when she heard a man’s voice.

He had just parked, was out of his car. “I figured ye’d beat me here after taking off like that.”

Marsali turned and saw him. The man from the store. Her eyes went wide.

“Oh,” she stammered, trying not to give away her embarrassment, “H-Hi …Mr. Fraser?”

He shook his head with a laugh. “Call me Jamie. We’re excited to have ye here, Marsali,” he said warmly, “Fergus has told us a lot about ye.”

“All good things, I hope?” She clutched the bag with the milk as he came towards her.

Jamie laughed again and shifted the groceries out of his hand to extend it to her in welcome. “He willna shut up about ye since he told us about ye,” he teased.

Marsali smiled awkwardly. “Well, that’s good, I suppose. I’m very sorry about my appearance.” She grimaced.

“Dinna fash, all that matters is ye made it. Now let’s head in, get that dinner warmed up.” He nudged her with his elbow and walked towards the door.

Marsali grinned, feeling a little more relaxed, more at home. “That would be great.”

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Fergus doesn't know what to get Marsali for her birthday

Hello OOT readers! Muy here. I’ve shaped this prompt to fit within my Fersali ficlet series, which means it can be enjoyed as a standalone fic or as part of a larger story. This particular ficlet takes place in between “First date”/Oversight and The jacket. enjoy!

Fersali: Pictures

by @ianmuyrray

Fergus lounged at the end of a metal pier, cigarette in hand, the sky an early morning blue-gray behind him. Across the bay stood a shadowed city skyline, rectangular windows winking golden in the shadow of buildings. In the distance, sailboats billowed their white sails, stiff, rocking clouds.

Marsali’s birthday is tomorrow. Fuck.

He drew from his cig, the end glowing a brilliant orange, and narrowed his eyes against a sea breeze. He took a moment to appreciate smoke-filled lungs. God, that feels good. He exhaled out of his nose, reluctantly.

He’d met Marsali about a month ago. And it’d been the best month of his life. It was a whirlwind, and yet, he forgot nothing. Time flashed by like lightning, but he knew he could freeze-frame, recall any image he wanted in high definition.

Marsali was a walking daydream. He constantly feared he would be roused from it only to find himself alone again. She was tough, funny, sweet, smart-mouthed, and ridiculously sexy. Their relationship had progressed very quickly, and Fergus felt the groove of pavement and the roar of an engine as he raced toward everything he never thought he wanted.

He was terrified, yet glad of it.

When apart, they were constantly in contact, unable to refuse the magnetism between them. He felt compelled to update her on the little things during the day, to check in on her smallest moments, to share everything. He had never felt such a depth of connection with anyone before.

He ran his hand absentmindedly over the phone in his pocket. It had been largely silent - nothing from Marsali in a number of days.

He stared blankly into the skyline. Boats bobbed around him, the air smelled of sea salt and algae-blanketed rock walls. Fergus frowned.

Rushing into things had its side effects. Like David - someone he reached out to when he was lonely and bereft, someone Fergus had used to pretend another person liked him, cherished him, wanted to spend time with him. But really, David was just someone he could get off with shortly after sending a text. Fergus never had to clean his shitty flat, or shave on his days off, or feel responsible for buying David’s dinner. David wasn’t a boyfriend, wasn’t a relationship; he was only a hookup.

Fergus hadn’t had an opportunity to reach out to David since Marsali had appeared in the restaurant, looking thoroughly fuckable, extremely dangerous, and forgotten by another man. He had been drawn to her, and watching her storm out of the restaurant made him shed his apron and tie and clock out-- assigned shift be damned. He needed to be near her, to find out if she felt the same undeniable pull.

He flicked his thumb against the cig’s filter end, ashes falling into the harbor water, before bringing it to his lips for a final inhale. He sighed as he exhaled and extinguished the cigarette butt on the metal pier before tossing it into a little rubbish bucket hanging from the pier’s post.

And tomorrow was her birthday.

Fergus had agonized over what to get her. Always strapped for cash, making little money as he did as a server, his options were limited. What the hell was he supposed to buy someone he’s only known a few weeks when it feels like he’s known her longer than time itself?

He had decided to show her how meaningful the time warp was to him. So, he prepared a box of photographs for her. Snapshots of them together, of silly selfies, eating mustard covered hot dogs from a street cart, climbing grassy hills in the park, sharing a slurpee at the theater. Photos of them separate. He had included several of the images she had snapped of him: one while he was reading under a lamp at night, one where he was eating an ice cream sandwich in the car, another where he lounged in bed, nude and happy.

And, of course, there were photos of her that he had taken. Photos of Marsali was the largest category in the box; he couldn’t seem to stop taking photos of her, let alone select only a few of the ones he had taken. He wanted to capture her in all lights, in all settings, in all expressions.

There was one he had taken of her in the shower. He snuck into the warm bathroom and playfully stuck his phone around the corner of the curtain. She had squealed in delight and surprise, trying to knock the phone from his hands and into the running water. Water droplets sprinkled his arm and phone, and he nearly dropped it, but he managed to snap a picture. He had leaned against the sink, admiring the image of her on his cracked screen, the out of date phone broad in his hands.

Shower still running, Marsali whipped open the curtain, wild-eyed and laughing. She leaped forward and tackled him, dampening his t-shirt and jeans. But he hadn’t cared. He stripped out of his wet clothes as quickly as he could and pulled her back under the running water, closing the curtain behind them.

The photo from that day is his favorite. A blurry image of Marsali whooping with laughter, surrounded by running water and steam and sea-foam colored tile. She was covering herself the best she could with one arm while the other extended to swat the camera away.

In that photo was Marsali, the woman. Daring, goofy, fun-loving, kissable, fierce Marsali, who trusted him completely from the moment she had met him, who gave him all of herself before he even realized how much he needed it.

His lips twitched, his mind cascading through tender memory, familiar tobacco whirring through his head. A seagull flew by him, then parted with a low swoop. Twilight was fading.

His phone began to buzz, and Fergus felt his heart stop as he was ripped back into the present. He swallowed hard but didn’t move to grab it. Instead, without checking the name on his screen, he silenced the phone.

Several days ago, he had been in the kitchen, stirring a bubbling pot of noodles for a macaroni and cheese dinner for the two of them. Marsali was on the couch, buried in her computer.

At the last second, he had heard his phone ringing.

“Marsali, could you get that?” he called, tapping starched water off his wooden spoon and reaching for a colander.

“Sure thing, dove,” she had replied, standing up from the couch and heading for his jacket on the coat hook, where his phone waited in a pocket, dinging.

Fergus busied himself by straining the noodles and pulling milk from the fridge, tearing open the cheese packet and dumping it into the new bowl of noodles.

Marsali entered the kitchen, her face stony and cold, and held out the phone.

“Who is it?” Fergus asked, mixing ingredients together, frowning at her severe look.

“It’s a call from some guy named David. He wants to know if ye’re available tonight,” she replied, her voice dark and clipped.

Fergus’ stirring efforts stopped abruptly, and he glanced over at Marsali. “Dav-- David?”

“Yes,” Marsali replied, terse. “He also sent ye a photo.”

She tossed his clunky, outdated smartphone to the counter where Fergus saw a graphic, closeup of David’s erect penis.

Fergus’ heart leaped into his throat, and his head spun. He rubbed a hand against his forehead, trying to stop it, staring hard at the macaroni bowl before him, the two smaller bowls he had set out for their dinner to share.

“Who is David?” Instead of demanding, Marsali was cold, her blue eyes glittered dangerously with ice. “And how often does this happen?” She waved a hand over the phone.

“It’s not what you think,” Fergus replied, his mind racing, trying to find a way to explain that wouldn’t upset Marsali further.

“It’s not?” she snapped, nodding towards the lit phone screen, David’s erection still displayed. “What is that, then?”

Fergus flinched. “He was from before you.” He had been so focused on Marsali during the last weeks that everyone else had faded into the background.

“Ye’ve been with men?”

Fergus swallowed. While he had reached an incredible level of intimacy with Marsali, he hadn’t yet shared that. No one knew he had been sleeping with David, or that David wasn’t the first. “Yes.” His cheeks flushed.

“Why didn’t ye tell me? Did ye really think I would care?”

He hadn’t wanted to find out if she’d care, fearing the worst. “Marsali, I--”

“Ye know what, I dinna care about yer interest in men. At all.” The words hung in the air, and for a moment, he felt he believed her. “What I do care about is ye sneaking around behind my back. I thought we had something good here, Fergus.”

He fought to catch his breath. “We do! Marsali--”

“Fergus, I willna have ye lyin’ to me.”

“Dammit, would you let me speak!” He gripped the edge of the counter tight with rage and fear, feeling everything slipping quickly away from him.

She glowered at him. “Go ahead then. What have ye to say?”

He breathed deep, ran his hands over his face, wanting to pace the small room that was his kitchen, try to gain some traction. “I didn’t tell you about him because I was a coward, Marsali. No one knows!” He took a deep breath. “And I didn’t tell him about you because he’s not important enough to me. I was just going to ghost him. I have no attachment to David.”

“No attachment? Ye seem pretty cozy to me.” She grabbed the phone, held it up again like she was a prize presenter on a bizarre game show he didn’t want to play.

“Put that down! I’m only going to delete it like I have the others.”

“The others? You’ve received other photos from him, or there are others who send photos?”

He had, actually, received late-night texts from Rhona, someone he had been seeing several months ago. He ignored them, but... he hadn’t actually deleted them.

Marsali immediately turned to his phone, beginning to search through his messages. He stood there, feeling trapped in quicksand, unable to move for fear of making the situation worse.

Finding the naked photos of Rhona, Marsali looked as if she was going to explode, a powder keg, set to ignite if he had reached to touch her. Full of disgust, she threw the phone at him, and he had to duck quickly to dodge it. It struck the wall and landed with a sharp sound on the linoleum floor.

“Ye didna delete it, you pig,” she uttered. Her eyes were bright and red, tears gathering in her long lashes. “Am I just another one? Another number for you to call when you’re lonely? To keep dirty pictures of?”

“No!” he reached for her, wanting to pull her into his arms, convey with touch what he couldn’t express in words.

She swiped at him, denying his embrace, and backed away. Without another word, she threw on her coat and shoes, slamming the door behind her as she left. At the sight of the shuddering door frame, his heart ached, his stomach churned, his head swam. Fuck, fuck, fuck his cowardice.

He hadn’t heard from her in several days.

He leaned back against the pier, all the way back, flattening himself, his ribcage collapsing with resignation.

From the beginning, he could have handled everything differently. He could have been upfront with Marsali, upfront with David, and yet hadn’t been. Because he wanted Marsali all to himself because he didn’t want to upend the boat. Because he was scared.

He sighed, lit a second cigarette. Savored it until it burnt to ash and stank of plastic filter. He lay silent, unmoving.

But the spell had broken the spell anyway. She was gone. He had gambled and lost.

The car he had been traveling in, towards his everything, disintegrated around him like the smoke he exhaled. His everything disappeared into the twilight, wafting up and away from the city skyline; it drowned in the water, trapped in weeds, too far gone to cry out to be saved.

She haunted him. Even now, he could hear her chastising him for not contacting her. These days apart were an eternity. If life was fast with her, it was glacial without her.

He ran his hands through his hair, sat up. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, finally able to look at it.

He ignored the notification-- it was just a spam email-- and opened an app to message Marsali, even as he guessed she wouldn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say, or where to start, but he had to try something.

A life without Marsali didn’t feel possible.

I’m sorry.

Immediately, the message registered as read. Bubbles from the other side jumped, stopped. Jumped again. He waited, hardly able to take a breath.

I know. Miss you.

She had been waiting to hear from him. Thank god.

He stood then, brushed the dust from his jeans.

He found his car, scrounged a pen out of his glove compartment. He opened up the box of photographs beside him in the passenger seat, began to write what he could remember about the moment he took it on the back. His heart leaped as he remembered being together in the park. How content he felt when they lay together. The exhilaration that rushed through him when he snuck into the shower to take a picture of her. He wanted to show her how she made him feel, wanted her to know everything, all of it.

It was her birthday tomorrow, dammit, and he wasn’t going to let cowardice or fear, or weakness, stop him from celebrating her.