Chapter Text
Fergus had learned, over the years, to walk quickly without seeming in a hurry. It was a useful skill to avoid suspicion when one was carrying knowledge that could ruin a man, or a family, or a smuggling operation disguised as a respectable print shop. Tonight, however, his pace had less to do with danger and more to do with impatience.
Young Ian, his friend, was waiting at the Printshop. And Fergus felt he was owed at least one pleasant evening in the company of a good drink and bonnie lass.
He, his laird James Frasier and his lady Claire Frasier were returning from the docks, the air sharp with salt and damp wood, the illicit wine safely accounted for. Jamie walked ahead, long strides measured and alert, one hand never far from his coat. Claire walked beside him, always beside him, now ever since she mysteriously appeared after 15 years of being thought dead.
Fergus understood why the love James Fraser had for his wife was immeasurable; he knew the extent to which losing that woman had done to the man, their love was strong, one of a kind, as though some invisible tether bound them together.
Fergus followed a step behind, observant as ever. He pretended not to notice, but he noticed everything. Jamie’s head turned too often. His hand reached without looking. His body angled instinctively between her and the world, even when the world consisted only of narrow shadows and damp stone walls. Fergus had seen Jamie guard men, armies, and causes, but this was different. This was vigilance born of terror.
As for Claire… well. Claire was a miracle, or a madness. Possibly both.
She had arrived as though summoned by grief itself, stepping into Jamie’s life like a ghost that refused to remain dead. From the Americas, Fergus had been told. And yet here she was, walking through Edinburgh as though she belonged to it again, her hand occasionally brushing Jamie’s sleeve, as if to reassure herself that he was solid.
Fergus cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, milord,” he said lightly, falling into step beside Jamie, “I’ll take the shortcut back to the shop. Young Ian is waiting, and I would hate for him to drink all the ale before I arrive.” Fergus gives Jamie a playful grin.
Jamie glanced at him, sharp eyes flicking briefly to Claire before returning to Fergus. “Aye. Don’t linger.” There it was again. That edge. As though the night itself might steal her away if Jamie looked elsewhere.
Claire smiled faintly at Fergus. “Be careful,” she said, and something in her voice was warm, her familiar English accent tickling her speech.
His lips quirked up in a smile “Always, milady,” Fergus replied, with a bow just exaggerated enough to make her laugh.
He turned down the narrow close without waiting for further instruction, boots splashing lightly through puddles left by an earlier rain. The city pressed in around him, stone and shadow and the comforting familiarity of danger. Edinburgh was a town that watched you back, and Fergus liked that. It reminded him of Paris, in a way. Of survival.
As he walked, his thoughts drifted, as they often did, toward possibility.
There would be music tonight. Laughter. The low, rough harmony of sailors’ voices, newly returned from the sea and drunk on the miracle of land beneath their feet. The taverns were always louder when the ships came in. Men singing too boldly, too badly, too joyfully, as though sound itself were proof they had survived.
Fergus smiled to himself.
There would be ale. There would be stories, half-lies, half-legends of storms and monsters and foreign ports. There would be Young Ian, already halfway drunk, trying to match the sailors verse for verse, and failing gloriously. Fergus could already hear the rhythm of the songs in his head, the pounding of boots on wooden floors, the familiar chaos of voices rising together. He straightened his cuff as he walked, smile easy, steps unguarded.
Then the alley swallowed him. A shape detached itself from the shadow cloaked, compact, smaller than him, the top of its head barely reaching his shoulder. Fergus barely had time to register the movement before an arm locked around his chest and a blade kissed his throat.
Cold.
Real.
He gasped, the sound caught in his chest as he was forced backwards into stone, the damp wall biting through his coat. The knife pressed harder, a silent command. Panic surged sharply and suddenly, not the slow fear of danger, but the shock of it. The kind that empties the mind.
“Milord-!” he cried out, the name tearing from him before thought could stop it.
His heart hammered, he felt the warm blood trickle down his neck, every instinct screaming that this was wrong, that this was not how the night was meant to begin, not with song and ale and laughter waiting just streets away.
He moved on instinct.
Fergus drove his elbow back hard, twisting his body, forcing space where there had been none. The blade nicked him again as he shoved forward, boots scraping stone, both of them stumbling out of the alley and into the open street.
Moonlight spilt over them. The cloaked figure staggered, grip loosening just enough for Fergus to tear free and spin, breath ragged, fists raised. The hood slipped back.
Red.
Not the dull rust of brunette hair, nor the brown-red of fire dimmed by soot, but flame, bright even under the pale wash of the moon. Her hair caught the light as though it burned with it, framing a face too young, too fine, too unreal for the violence of the moment.
Blue eyes met his wide, fierce, startlingly clear.
Pale skin. A small, sharp face.
She looked like one of the laird’s ladies woven into the old tapestries at Lallybroch , the kind meant to be admired, not touched, not bloodied by knives in alleyways. The thought struck him so suddenly that it stole his breath. For half a heartbeat, he forgot to move. Forgot the blood at his throat. Forgot the danger.
Forgot himself.
Then the knife flashed again.
Footsteps sounded fast, heavy, unmistakable. James Fraser.
She heard them too she didn’t hesitate. The world exploded into white as the handle of the knife struck the back of his head. Pain rang through his skull, sharp and disorienting, as though his head suddenly weighed ten pounds more than it should. His knees buckled, and he staggered forward, vision blurring, hands clawing uselessly at the air.
Before she could flee, a large hand closed around her wrist, and then another. James Fraser hauled her back with frightening ease, lifting her off her feet, holding her up with one hand as though she weighed no more than hung brazed lambs. He moved fast, but carefully mindful, even now, not to be rough with a woman.
“Hey-!” she snarled, struggling viciously, the knife clattering to the stones.
Jamie ignored it. “What are ye doin’ here, lass?” he asked, voice low, steady, the tone he used when trying to calm something wild rather than confront it.
She fought him, twisting, teeth bared like a cornered animal. Jamie tightened his grip just enough to stop her thrashing without hurting her, eyes narrowing as moonlight fell across her face.
Red hair. The same shade as his. The recognition struck Fergus even through the haze pounding behind his eyes. He blinked hard, sucking in a breath as the world steadied just enough for the detail to land. The impossible, there was an undeniable echo of Jamie Fraser written plainly into her features.
She could have been his daughter, Fergus thought wildly. If Jamie and Claire had ever borne one.
The thought barely had time to form before she moved. She drove her boot hard into Jamie’s stomach. The impact forced the air from his lungs, bending him forward with a sharp grunt, but even then, his grip did not falter. He was stronger than she expected. Stronger than most men.
Her face hardened, and without hesitation, she struck again. The kick landed brutally, precisely, and mercilessly straight to his manhood. Jamie gasped, the sound torn from him as his strength finally gave way, his body folding despite himself. He released her, one hand flying instinctively as he dropped to one knee, breath coming in ragged bursts.
She did not linger. The moment she was free, she turned, boots striking stone as she bolted toward the open street, putting the hood on, cloak flaring behind her like a torn banner. She had taken only three steps when she stopped short.
Claire stood directly in her path.
Moonlight fell across them both. the older woman frozen mid-step, eyes sweeping the scene in a heartbeat: Fergus bleeding, Jamie on his knees, the knife on the ground,
For a fraction of a second, the noise of the city seemed to fall away. Claire stumbled back, blocking the way. “Who are you?” she asked quietly.
Behind her, Jamie groaned softly, trying to rise.
Slowly, deliberately, the girl reached up and pushed back her hood. Moonlight caught her fully now, the blaze of red hair, the familiar line of her brow, the unmistakable echo of both parents written into her face.
Claire froze.
Her breath hitched sharply as her eyes widened, disbelief washing over her features. “Brianna,” she breathed, the name falling from her lips as though spoken against her will. She stepped forward, hands trembling, grasping the girl’s arms as if to prove she was real, solid, not some cruel trick of grief.
“Brianna… oh my God,” Claire whispered.
Fergus stared.
Nothing in this night made sense anymore.
He turned unsteadily toward Jamie, seeking explanation where none could exist. Jamie had gone very still. His face had drained of colour, blue eyes locked on the girl with an expression Fergus had never seen before, shock so complete it bordered on reverence. As if he were looking at a ghost or a miracle, as if Claire had returned once again.
Jamie swallowed hard. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” he breathed. He sounded more like Claire every day.
“Mum,” the girl whispers.
The word was soft, broken and utterly devastating.
The red-haired girl stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Claire, clinging to her as though she had been holding herself together by sheer will alone. Claire made a sound, half sob, half laugh and crushed her to her chest, fingers threading into her flaming red hair, holding her as if letting go might undo her entirely. As if she were finally home.
Fergus stood frozen.
Mum.
The girl’s voice was unmistakably British, clipped and familiar in a way that echoed Claire so clearly it made his head spin. Not the rough Edinburgh tones of the street, not French, not Highland, but hers. Understanding struck him all at once. Claire Fraser had a daughter. They had a daughter.
Fergus’s gaze snapped to Jamie.
Jamie had risen to his feet without Fergus noticing, standing rigid, hands hanging uselessly at his sides. His face was pale, eyes fixed on the girl on their girl with an expression that cracked something open in Fergus’s chest. A daughter. Jamie Fraser, warrior, outlaw, survivor. looked suddenly like a man afraid to breathe.
Fergus felt something twist painfully in his chest. Jamie could not have known. Of that, Fergus was certain. If Jamie Fraser had believed he had a living child in this world, he would have torn it apart stone by stone to reach her. There was no force, not prison, not exile, not death itself, that would have kept him from his own blood. So Claire had probably not told him. The realisation landed heavily, unsettling.
Fergus’s gaze flicked between them: Claire clutching the girl as though she might vanish if loosened even slightly; the girl, Brianna, holding on just as fiercely, face buried against her mother’s shoulder; and Jamie, standing a few paces away, rooted to the ground as if any movement might shatter the fragile truth forming before him.
Why would she keep it from him? Fergus wondered.
Not out of cruelty, never that. Claire Fraser loved Jamie with a ferocity that had survived oceans and time itself. But this secret was too large, too deliberate. Fergus’s thoughts were snapped short as Jamie came fully to his feet.
“It’s too dangerous here for the lass,” Jamie said, voice rough but steady now, authority settling back into him like armour reclaimed. Claire and the girl turned toward him at once. Something passed between the possible father and daughter. Swift and silent recognition.
Brianna met his gaze, chin lifting slightly, blue eyes bright with a determination that made Fergus’s breath catch. She did not look fragile. She did not look like someone who had stumbled into danger unprepared. There was steel in her posture, resolve in the way she held herself, the unmistakable mark of someone who had been tested and had not broken. She was like her parents, and she was the very image of her father. The same fire-bright hair. The same set of the jaw. The same unyielding presence that dared the world to try her. Jamie seemed to see it all at once. Eyes dimming as though the truth of her struck him , something he had not known he was missing until it stood before him.
They hurried out of the empty street and into the crossroads, one path leading toward the print shop, the other toward Madame Jeanne’s brothel, where Claire and Jamie lodged. The city opened briefly around them, lantern light spilling across stone before the shadows closed in again. Jamie moved ahead, purposeful despite the pain he clearly fought to ignore. Fergus took the lead by instinct, eyes scanning the street, every sense alert. Behind them, Claire and Brianna walked close together, heads bent, voices low, urgent whispers threaded with emotion.
Fergus tried not to listen. Their murmured words carried just enough to spark his curiosity, fragments of explanation, of reassurance, but never enough to make sense of what he was hearing. It was like catching the edge of a dream.
“Fergus.”
Jamie stopped suddenly and reached out, gripping his arm and pulling him back a step. Fergus turned at once.
“Take Brianna to the print shop,” Jamie said quietly. “Claire and I must gather a few things at Madame Jeanne’s.”
Fergus blinked. “Milord—”
“No arguments,” Jamie added, firm but not unkind. “Not here.”
As Jamie turned away, Fergus glanced back.
Claire had taken Brianna’s hands, speaking quickly now, intensity sharpening her voice even as she kept it low. Whatever she was saying made the girl still completely, shoulders squaring as though bracing herself.
Then Brianna looked up.
Her blue eyes met Fergus’s dark green ones across the narrow space, steady and assessing not frightened, not uncertain, but keenly aware. In that instant, Fergus understood that she was listening to everything around her, weighing it, committing it to memory.
Trust, unasked, flickered between them.
Jamie was already moving, Claire at his side, disappearing down the street toward Madame Jeanne’s.
Fergus exhaled slowly and inclined his head toward Brianna. “This way,” he said, gesturing toward the print shop. “And quickly.” She nodded once and fell into step beside him without question.
As they turned down the street, Fergus had the unsettling thought that this girl had crossed more than distance to stand here tonight and that whatever truth waited at the print shop would be only the beginning.
He ushered her ahead of him, one hand hovering just behind her shoulder as they moved through the narrow street. Her wavy, flame-bright hair fell loose down her back, catching the lantern light with every step.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her accent was unmistakably British, clean and familiar in an unsettling way, so familiar it shouldn't be.
“The print shop,” Fergus replied, keeping his voice light though his senses stayed sharp. “It is safe.”
They moved on, lanterns throwing long shadows across the cobblestones. Fergus kept one hand near his coat, the other hovering just behind her back, alert for any sign of trouble.
Fergus positioned himself carefully as they walked, keeping her a step ahead, his body angled to shield her from behind while his eyes stayed fixed on the street before them. Whatever she was, whoever she truly was, he would not allow her to be taken again
They slipped inside.
Warmth greeted them immediately, along with the smell of ink and paper. Young Ian looked up from where he stood, took in the sight of them, and sighed.
“Fergus,” he said, shaking his head, “ye ken how Uncle feels about ye bringin’ lasses here.” His eyes flicked to Brianna, then back again. “And were ye not supposed to wait for me so we could go to the tavern?”
The words landed awkwardly. Fergus felt heat rise faintly in his face, irritation mixed with embarrassment, and he cut a sharp glance at Ian. “This is not what you think,” he said firmly.
Ian frowned, clearly unconvinced. He turned to Brianna, studying her properly now. The red hair, the familiar blue eyes, the unmistakable resemblance that could no longer be ignored.
“Christ,” Ian breathed softly. “You look just like—”
“That's cause she is- “ Fergus says
“But how?-” Young Ian says, looking at Fergus and glancing at her, big and very confused
“Who are you?” she asked, redirecting the conversation.
Ian shifted, “I’m Ian Murray,” he said, tapping his chest lightly. “Jamie Fraser’s nephew.”
Her eyes flicked to Fergus. Fergus held her gaze for a moment, weighing his words carefully. “Fergus,” he said simply. “I work here.”
It wasn’t much. But for now, it was enough. “Brianna,” she said, her gaze moving between the two of them before settling on Fergus, where he leaned back against the door. Her eyes dropped to his neck, to the darkened smear of dried blood at his collar.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said quietly.
He straightened slowly, fingers brushing his neck as if only now truly aware of the wound. It stung, not badly, but enough to remind him how close the blade had been. “You did not kill me. I am grateful.”
Ian shot him a look. Fergus inclined his head slightly.
“You were not wrong to be careful,” he said. “Edinburgh nights reward caution.”
They did not have time to say more.
The door opened abruptly, and Claire rushed in, her eyes already fixed on Brianna. She crossed the room in two strides, hands gentle but urgent as she checked her daughter’s face, her arms, her shoulders searching for bruises, for blood, for anything she might have missed.
“Are you hurt?” Claire asked softly, voice tight with restrained fear.
“I’m fine, Mum,” Brianna assured her, placing a hand over Claire’s. “Really.”
Jamie lingered a moment, watching them, the sight clearly too much and not enough all at once, before turning toward Fergus and Ian. He reached into his coat and held out a set of keys.
“You’ll take the lodgings at Madame Jeanne’s tonight,” he said, tone breaking, no argument. “There’s a spare bed in the room. Arrange it.”
Fergus nodded. “Aye.”
Jamie’s gaze sharpened. “And I mean only the two of you,” he added flatly. “I do not want a whoore in my bed.” His eyes settled pointedly on Fergus. Ian bit the inside of his cheek, clearly fighting a grin.
Heat flared in Fergus’s face, sharp and unwelcome. He opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Jamie Fraser knew him too well.
“Yes, milord,” Fergus said stiffly.
Brianna, who had been watching the exchange with quiet interest, glanced at Fergus, then, one eyebrow lifting slightly, her eyes flicking between him and Jamie. Fergus straightened at once, schooling his expression into something carefully blank. He did not need her to know about that particular reputation. Jamie handed over the keys and turned back toward Claire and Brianna, already shifting into something gentler.
The two boys left the family and made their way to the tavern.