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All right.

[She offers him the address. It's a townhouse, posh and in one of the nicer areas of Olympia, because she and Dorian both are snobbish like that.]

Give me fifteen minutes, but I'll be there when you arrive.

[And true to her word, she is there. Her left arm is bandaged tightly, and she wears a long-sleeved, high-collared shirt, buttoned as high as it will go. Her hair is in a braid, and she opens the door with just a touch of . . . something in her gaze. Fear? Wariness? It's shoved down a moment later when she sees it's just him, and she steps back, inviting him in.]

[ He's not the best with navigating here, but Jamie does make it to her townhouse. He doesn't feel great about not telling Claire where he's going off to, but he's grown tired of feeling reliant on her. Especially when so many other people need his wife. That and Jamie despises this vulnerable position that Randall has put him in. Time has passed, but not nearly enough. He doubts enough time will ever truly pass.

Jamie's an observant man. Though he cannot see through everything he does notice the way she looks at him. Something that disappears upon realizing who is at her door. If he were any other man he might have just clocked it to ask later, but he's Jamie. Which means that the moment she allows him entry he takes it, but not without words.

Once he's inside he looks at her immediately. Concern for her takes over his vision as he studies her. He doesn't move to touch her or invade her personal space. He does look at her though. ]

Are ye alright? Did something happen to ye before? Did someone hurt ye, Rosalind?

[The questions, direct and blunt and caring, take her by surprise. She blinks at him, her right hand gripping her bandaged left arm, and for just a second looks stunned. But that barely lasts; soon she's shaking her head, scoffing quietly.]

I'm fine. It's, ah . . . it could have been far worse, believe me. My arm came from a man who ostensibly wanted to save me, if you can believe that. Although perhaps save is too generous a word.

[But she hates the attention being on her when she's feeling weak. And lately, that's all she's been feeling: weak and raw, broken and shattered. A ghost of herself, wildly uncertain on what she ought to do next.]

I'm fine. More importantly: is there something I can help you with?

[ He's far more tactical when it comes to matters of war. The battlefield is something that James Fraser can navigate. But things like this leave little room for skirting around. Directness has always worked just fine. Especially after the things that happened here. Violent things. Ones that remind Jamie of home far too much. How cruel the English could be. It worries him. It only makes him want a space for him and Claire more. Not that he doesn't trust the Stark's or their hospitality, but being a burden has never been something he's dealt with well in the past.

But he listens and nods his head. His gaze narrows about the man who wanted to save her. He wonders who it is. He wouldn't go so far as to look the man up and have a word with him, but he certainly would keep an eye out for him. A lot of folk go through Sanctuary at one point or another. ]

That's nae important for the moment.

[ His bandaged hand is pushed to the back of his mind. His broken and fragile mind. He does far better worrying about others and putting himself into a cause. Claire told him about Paris and how Jamie dedicated himself to stopping what would become of his people. The slaughter. His single minded focus. ]

Would ye tell me what happened when this fellow tried to save ye? Please.

[What does she say?

It's not that she doesn't know exactly what happened. It's not that she hasn't already put words around it. There's a man I know, a man who competes with me, a man who flirts and fights and always pushes me to see how I'll react. And he was there when they lead me to the pyre, he stepped in and he cut clean through my arm because he wanted to see if I'd scream, and then he pulled me close and said that it'd be a waste to throw me in so soon.

And the looks that mob had given her . . . the way they'd reached for her, their gazes mean and lustful, hungry to tear her to pieces in more ways than one . . . oh, Tani hadn't let them, of course. He'd yanked her in close and said she was his alone to ruin. And it might have been a noble action, had it not been for the way his eyes had glittered as he'd turned her back towards the fire and whispered in her ear.

Let go, she'd demanded, and he'd tightened his grip on her.

Make me, he'd breathed, forcing her ever close to burning.

She still has nightmares. Pathetic, isn't it, when nothing had even happened? Rosalind certainly thinks so. He'd pulled her off into an alley and they'd fought a little and that had been that. She'd fled Wyver, no one had touched her, and though her arm now bears a hideously long scar, she's fine. She'd not been touched, not once, and yet she still wakes up with sweat making her nightgown cling to her, her jaw aching from clenching it so tightly so she won't scream.

How does she say all that and not sound pathetic? Like a whimpering girl, begging for protection; like a mewling woman, desperate to run into a man's arm. How can she possibly tell him?]

You can well imagine what a mob might want from a woman. He, ah, he insinuated he wanted the same. He cut my arm to appease them in their desire for blood, and then when they reached for me, said that I was to be his alone.

[She says it carefully, factually, as though she's reporting it about someone else. Rosalind shrugs sharply, a hardness to her gaze, daring him to pity her.]

So he dragged me to an alley and let me be.

As I said: I'm fine. The wound is stitched and is healing, and the riots have finally settled.

[ Being a victim and surviving is entirely something James Fraser can relate to. Nothing quite cuts deeper than the way his wife looked at him after. Pity. Pity. Guilt. Sadness. Love. It all mixed and all Jamie could feel was shame. Deep and dark shame for what had been done to him against his will. He's been a raw nerve since it happened. Mr. Frag had only made him more angry. He had only shined a light on Jamie's insecurities. A man on the network had made Jamie want to stain his hands red. But he hadn't. Instead he simply let the words sit and fester. Like an open wound.

He nods his head. Mobs want many things. None of them good. Not long after his arrival during the celebration there had been mobs. People "celebrating" something. Really they just wanted to spill blood. They tried to spill Jamie's more than a few times. They wanted him on his knees and he wasn't going to be on his knees. Not anymore. Not after Randall. Not ever.

Without meaning to there's a faraway look in Jamie's eyes when she says she's fine. Only referring to the wound. His wife has been in similar situations to hers. Accused of witchcraft. Locked away. They tried to administer lashes to her before Jamie stopped them. He would have killed all of them. ]

Ye may be stitched and healing, but there are other ways to hurt someone, Rosalind. [ He lifts his good hand to tap the side of his head with his finger. ] They get in here. [ Then he taps his chest where his heart is. ] And here. If--[ He takes a breath. ]--ye are nae fine then it's alright. Ye can tell me.

Jamie--

[Thank god, she thinks dazedly, thank god she'd long ago learned to control her emotions. Thank god she knows how to stop herself from shattering in front of others, because it's so unfair that he's saying things like this. Sweet things, kind things (things that Robert would say, her traitorous mind whispers, he'd be the precise same way, he'd never let you get away with "I'm fine", he never has, he'd see through you in an instant and know that you were hurting), and that's all well and good for Robert, but how does this man know?

More importantly, though . . .]

You--

[Her breath catches. Just the once, just for a moment.]

You don't-- you don't know me. I did you a kindness once. I don't--

Why? Why do you care? Even if I did hurt there, why should it be your burden to bear?

[ He's not had the discussion yet with Claire in his memory. But the one thing that people don't know about Jamie right now is how scared he is. He's trying to hide under a blade of grass. Trying to manage everything and not willing to let anyone know how he feels. Not even Claire. He thought that he'd be different knowing how much he shut Claire out the first time, but it's too hard to let her in. Because twenty years has passed for his wife. It was one thing to know how his wife felt before, but time has passed and Jamie's even more afraid.

No words yet. He doesn't try to talk over her or insist. Instead he's quiet as he listens to her. He can't help himself, but helping another is something. Not to mention that even if Jamie didn't feel like this or have this first hand experience he'd still want to help. Because it's how James Fraser is. It's the kind of man that he is no matter what's happened to him or how it's happened. ]

Ye were the only one t' help me that day.

[ Which means the world to him. The only one to take a look at that man and help him. The only one to go so far as to clear his troubled mind and ease the pain of his hand. ]

Rosalind, ye did more for me that day than anyone.

[ Excluding his wife of course. ]

It's nae a burden. It's help. Lemme help ye. I care cause ye deserve to have someone care. I want t' care. I'd say yer one of the only friends I have here.

[She feels as though she's lied to him somehow. She isn't a kind person. She really isn't, there's no modesty or false assumptions; she's a selfish, horrid person and she knows it. She's proud of it. The only reason she helped him that day was on an idle whim, not because she's nice.

Robert, maybe, would be deserving of this man's devotion. He's the kind one; he's the one who looks at the world and wants to help people. Rosalind isn't that person. She doesn't deserve anything nice, not because she's somehow unworthy, but because she knows for a fact she's too selfish to ever earn such a thing.

He's so earnest. She looks at him, concern clear in his gaze and an urgent desire to help. He's so fucking earnest, and for a long few seconds it takes everything in her not to throw herself forward and melt against him.]

. . . you're going to get in trouble with that heart of yours, Jamie Fraser.

[Her fingers curl at her side, because she won't reach for him.]

You remind me of my Robert. The two of you are too caring for your own good. And even if you want to . . . I won't-- it isn't your place to take on my hurt. I'll be all right. It will pass, I promise you.

[There isn't as much conviction in her voice as she wants there to be. She won't cry, not here, not in front of him, but her heart aches right now.]

[ There's nothing that could really turn him away from being her friend. Not unless she turned out to be like Black Jack Randall. Or possibly even his Uncle Dougal. Maybe she only helped him that day on a whim, but she didn't need to answer his call. She didn't need to let him come over when he needed help. She didn't need to do any of those things. Yet she has. Maybe she she doesn't think herself nice or deserving, but her actions say otherwise.

He smiles just a bit. He's heard that once or twice. When he grows fond of someone his affection can go beyond. The things he endured for his sister. The awful things he went through just to keep Black Jack Randall's hands off his wife. To give her safe passage when she tried to save him. He gave himself over to Randall. It's true. James Fraser loves quite deeply. Whether it's romantic or familial. His wife has all sorts of close friends here. It's about time he made one or two of his own.

There's a node from Jamie as he thinks. He doesn't believe it. Any of the last bits. It might pass, but it will leave something in it's wake. Something new and painful. A broken and jagged feeling. ] Ye may nae want t', but that dinnae mean I'll give up. [ He's terribly obnoxious when he wants to be. Especially when it comes to the people he holds close to him. ] Like ye said--too cared for me own good.

Ridiculous.

[She scoffs, wishing it held more incredulity and less heartsickness.

How easy would it be to throw herself at him? But it wouldn't be at him. Robert, she'd think, Robert Robert Robert, and it isn't as if she doesn't recognize Jamie and his kindness, but she knows herself enough to know she'd happily substitute one for the other if she let herself.

She won't. It wouldn't be fair to him, and god knows she's simply break her own heart that way. Instead Rosalind crosses her arms beneath her chest, realizes what she's doing, and shakes her head.]

If, ah--

[God. God, and she meets his gaze.]

Even if that's true . . . at least tell me why it is you originally sought me out.

My sister says the same.

[ But Jenny thinks that most of the things that Jamie does are ridiculous. Ridiculous and full of testosterone. Which is the truth. Brock Rumlow sent Jamie into a tail spin before. He picked and he picked until he found the wounded parts of Jamie's psyche. He looked for all the things that made him hate himself more. He put a torch to every single one of them and it just made Jamie more raw. More angry. She thinks him kind, but she doesn't know every thought in Jamie's head.

He's quiet as she looks at him. He's not entirely sure what she's thinking, but he figures if she wants to she'll make it known. Instead he's quiet while he waits. When she speaks next he tilts his head for the moment. He looks down at his wrapped hand. No mobility there yet. Randall destroyed almost every bone in his hand. It was a miracle Claire could do what she could for him. ]

The day we met. [ He shifts just a tad awkwardly. He's nervous. He heaves out a sigh. ] I'm nae sure what ye did when ye touched me, but--it did something t' me. [ He lifts his hand to tap his temple with his index finger again. ] Something here.

[Ah. Rosalind nods, and finally turns, leading him deeper into the house. It's the kitchen she heads for, where there's a small marble table with three chairs. Taking a seat, she gestures, indicating he ought to do the same.

It's an open space, leading into a living room, and from one of the couches there's a soft grunt as something wakes up. Whatever it is, it's very small, because it's not visible, and Rosalind ignores it.]

It was a calming influence, I suppose you could call it. A present from six months ago, as a reward for helping cure a disease.

[She shows off her left hand, where a ring rests on her fourth finger. There's an emerald embedded within it.]

It dulls pain and relaxes a person temporarily. But it isn't a permanent cure.

[But that being said . . . she has no problems offering it to him right now. Rosalind offers her left hand, palm upwards, her gaze expectant.]

I assume you've seen a doctor already?

[ Jamie is quiet when she starts to lead them into her home a bit deeper. He bows his head and follows along behind her to the kitchen. He does attempt to step forward to pull her chair out, but she's already seated herself. Jamie instead sits in his own chair and settles back. He takes a quick glance around when he hers the soft grunt, but he doesn't quite find the culprit so his gaze returns to Rosalind when she starts to speak. She needs his undivided attention.

Whatever that ring was had to be a gift from the higher beings here. It made the most sense. He hadn't ever experienced anything so quick acting before. It was a reprieve from whatever Randall had done to him mentally. He needed it. He leans forward when she shows off the ring. He peers at it for a moment before looking at Rosalind once more. ]

I figured it was nae a permanent thing.

[ But it offered a brief time where Jamie felt like himself. The man before Randall broke him in that small slice of Hell. He doesn't reach out yet. Instead he chooses to speak first. ]

My wife.

[ Finally he reaches out with his wrapped hand and gently rests it on hers. He can't quite feel her touch through the fresh bandages, but that's alright. ]

How long do ye believe it lasts?

I don't know. But I'll try and make it last as long as possible.

[She might not have been so quick to admit that, but his touch startles her. Her fingers instinctively curl, but she doesn't pull her hand back. Instead she closes her eyes, trying to focus all of her attention on his hand.

She hates things like the ring. There's no scientific principle to it, no understanding or limits. It's all just magic. Why does it work? Magic. How long will it last? Who knows, it's magic. It frustrates her to no end, but she hadn't hated it enough to throw the ring away.

There's an impatient noise, and Darwin finally makes his appearance. Sliding off the couch clumsily, he trots his way forward, making his way to sit atop one of Rosalind's feet. He looks impatient and frustrated, with his ears wiggling and his eyes half-closed, but that doesn't matter. Soon enough Jamie will feel that same familiar feeling, cool and soothing, spreading through his fingers and dulling the pain in his hand.

Rosalind lingers there, wondering if prolonged contact might help the feeling linger.]

[ Jamie watches her with curious interest. This sort of thing is beyond him. It was strange enough watching Claire do things he'd never seen before. Medical things, but this is stuff from legends. Whispers said among his people. The talk of magic and fairies. But his wife came through stones from the future and then back through them. He can wrap his brain around a ring that brings him this sort of peace and clam.

He's trying to focus on their hands together, but the sound of whatever was on her couch draws closer. Heavy feet until finally he sees is near her feet. His eyes tear away from their hands to look at the animal. His gaze narrows and he looks incredibly confused. Rosalind doesn't seem bothered by it. He wants to ask if this is something different and strange like the animal his wife had been given.

But he doesn't have time to focus too much on the animal though because suddenly the feeling pumps through him. This uncontrolled calm that warms into his bones. Jamie smiles and shuts his eyes momentarily. For once Black Jack Randall doesn't occupy every moment in his head. ]

[She watches his expression melt, some of the tension leaving his body. It won't last for long, but at least it's something.]

His name is Darwin.

[She murmurs it, answering the question Jamie hadn't yet asked, as she keeps her hand pressed firm against his.]

My pet. Only a few weeks old.

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