Chapter Text
The frightened cry of his son ripped John into wakefulness. He jerked up, grabbed his pistol, and aimed it into the trees surrounding their small campsite. The dying embers cast weak, shifting shadows on the narrow tree trunks. They were alone, aside from their horses and the soft rustle of small animals moving in the brush.
John sucked in a gasping breath of relief and put his gun down with shaking hands. William whimpered high in the back of his throat, turning restlessly on his bed roll just a few feet from his father. John rolled and gripped William's bony shoulder, struggling to swallow past his heart in his throat. His son had tears on his round cheeks.
“William, it’s alright!” John gasped, his fingers tightening as he shook the boy awake.
Willie came to with a sob, red-faced and snot dripping from his nose. John crushed him to his chest and buried his face into his son’s auburn curls. “Willie, you’re okay, I’m here. I’m here.”
For a moment, the boy’s fingers gripped into John’s coat, clinging. Then, William went stiff as a board, and shoved his fist in his mouth—effectively cutting off the ragged sobbing. William tried to pull away, squirming in John's grip. John clutched him tighter. His ears rang. Oh, good lord, just a nightmare. Thank you, thank you.
“It's alright.”
Willie squirmed harder, and a sharp elbow caught John in the ribs. He let William go with a shaky breath, his heart ripping out of his chest as the boy's warm body left his embrace. William curled into a tight ball on his bedroll, his back to John. In the dim firelight, John saw the back of the boy's neck turn livid red. William’s shoulders heaved with silent, restrained sobs.
John squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled once, held it, and let the breath out in a rush.
It had not been more than a handful of months since Willie had arrived alone on the shores of Jamaica. John had…it had been difficult, for the both of them. William had lost the only mother he’d ever known, and John had lost—at the very least—a dear friend. Suddenly, John found he was all Willaim had left in the world, despite the fact that he had not been much of a father in a good while.
John was failing the boy, surely. What kind of father could he be without Isobel?
John opened his eyes and studied the little curls at the nape of the boy’s flushed neck. God, how could it be possible to love anyone this much?
“Have I ever told you the story of the White Witch and the Frenchman’s gold?”
Willie's head turned ever so slightly. He sniffed and scrubbed at his snotty nose with the back of his hand. John's chest warmed, just a bit. The boy had always loved a good story. John had spent some of the happiest moments of his life lulling the boy to sleep with tales of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table. William preferred stories of adventure and glory from his father, but he’d enjoyed the fairy tales Isobel had-
Well, John would have to learn new stories, now.
“No.” Willie sniffed, his voice just a bit watery.
John exhaled slowly and propped himself up on one elbow. “Really? It’s quite good.”
Willie said nothing, just sniffed again. John waited, keeping silent as the smile grew on his face.
The boy huffed in frustration, “Will you tell me it, father?” he said, just as John knew he would.
John’s smile widened, “Hmm, where to start…you remember I was in Scotland for some time, after the Rising? There was a rumor of treasure hidden somewhere in the Highlands. A great cache of gold sent by the French king and squirreled away by the Young Pretender before he fled to France in a petticoat and some strategic padding.”
Willie giggled, and John’s chest flooded with warmth, “Well, the Scots believed there was more to this tale—they thought a White Witch guarded the gold, waiting for a brave man to come claim it and begin the rebellion again. But the witch would not let it go lightly. If a coward were ever to try to lay claim to the treasure, a curse would fall upon him and take his life. So she waited, in a pool of glowing white stones, for a brave rebel to find her.”
Willie turned, rolling to look at John with wide eyes, the dark blue of a sapphire. John's chest gave a little thump. Willam looked more and more like him every day. John had never grown accustomed to the sight of that nose, or those eyes on his son’s face. He likely never would.
“Countless men searched for the treasure, but none found it. Some never came back. Finally, a fallen rebel general heard the tale and set off to the coast—to an island he knew, with a small spring filled with white rocks. A holy place. So, on a dark night with the storm just on the horizon, the Highlander swam. The sea almost took him, black and thick as tar, but he wouldn’t relent. He had to make it to the island. He washed up on the shore of the small island, half dead, and continued on. He climbed up and up until he reached the spring. And there, he found a small chest, nestled under the clear water between pebbles of polished marble and no white witch.”
Willie yawned, huge, and scooted closer, his eyelids fluttering. Travel was hard on the boy. Hell, it was hard on John.
“When he opened the chest—there wasn’t gold inside, but jewels. Gems of all colors and sorts, as big as a man’s fist. Worth a king's ransom, worth a war. And so, the Highlander took the chest and cast it into the sea.”
“What! He threw them away!” Willie said, aghast. “Why would he do that?”
John huffed, “I wondered the same thing when he told me. You see, he was the White Witch’s husband—a great love separated by the Rising. And well, I think I understand now. How disappointing it must be to find only rubies and sapphires when one was looking for a wife.”
Willie groaned in dismay, “I’d much rather have the jewels.”
That startled a laugh out of John, “I agree.”
Willie rubbed his eyes, lashes still dark and spiked with tears, “You knew the Highlander?”
John's gut flipped. Ah, that had been a slip of the tongue. That was dangerous territory, especially considering their impending destination.
“Yes, he was a friend.”
Willie blinked, “A Scottish friend?”
John smiled and rubbed his face, “Yes, indeed. We’re going to visit a Scottish friend of mine, you know.”
Willie didn’t respond, just huffed again. Then he yawned wide, peeked up at John, looked away, and scrunched up his face. John smiled and opened his arms. Willie scooted himself into John's chest, small bones, and knobby limbs. John held him close, pulling the thin camp blanket over them.
William had been strangely shy since their reunion. John had written to the boy constantly while he’d been in Jamaica, but a year was a lifetime to a boy. William was at that unfortunate age when he thought himself too old for affection from his father. And yet, it was painfully obvious how much the boy needed it after his mother's death. John needed it, too.
Willie was warm, and he smelled of horse and unwashed boy. His small fingers dug into John's outer coat, picking at the material with his index finger just as he did when he was a baby. John found his eyes were suddenly wet, prickling with tears.
John was trying to stay strong for William. He loved him so much. He couldn’t believe how much he loved the boy. Every time he could not get fuller with love, his cup overflowed, and he found it was indeed possible. It was terrifying to think he was all the boy had now. And who was he? A sinner, by all means. A man adrift, drinking and fucking his way into numbness. John simply wasn’t what a father should be.
Having Willie back helped with John’s bad habits. There were no men and only a healthy amount of drink. John had to be there to protect the boy. For all he promised Jamie, and for all John owed his son. He’d done a hell of a poor job of it since he left England. Even before that, perhaps.
When John had returned from that fateful Edinburgh trip with a broken heart…he had not handled it well. He drank, he broke things. John yelled at his wife until her quiet patience shamed him into silence.
He’d told her the whole of his messy history with Jamie Fraser. Isobel had sat in her chair in the sitting room, her slim hands folded in her lap, and she hadn’t left him. Nor had him arrested for sodomy and hanged. She’d simply said she liked being his wife. She’d said their life suited her just fine and that John was a good father. Isobel had met his gaze with that quiet, unflinching kindness she’d possessed since she’d been a girl and told him that part of his life was his own. As long as it stayed that way, nothing would change between them. It was the best John could ever hope for from a wife, really.
Isobel’s loyalty hadn’t stopped him from leaving her and their child to run from his own grief. She hadn’t forgiven him as easily for that. Then, she’d died on that boat, on a journey she never would have made if not for him.
And John….he should feel more. He should feel grief, pain, rage. Any of those. She was the mother of his child, a dead friend, and his companion for so many years. He’d known her since he was eleven years old. John hardly felt anything anymore—except for fear. The fear was constant since William stepped off that boat. John was terrified that he would never be what the boy needed. There was no one else, now.
Willie slept softly on John's chest, wrapped in John’s arms. John remembered when William's entire body fit into the crook of his elbow. It could have been yesterday.
The next few days would only bring more fear. John hadn’t told Jamie he was coming or that Willie was even in the colonies. John and Jamie had exchanged some letters since their last meeting in Jamaica. John could even say their last few had been downright friendly. It was easier with the distance between them. Jamie’s letter had been mostly about the progress of Fraser’s Ridge and other bits of his life. Claire, of course, always Claire. Every mention of that woman used to fill John with bitterness. Thinking about her now, likely in bed with Jamie, he still felt…nothing.
John should be grateful for that. Isobel had given him one last gift in death: freedom from his pointless jealousy and endless longing. He’d certainly wished himself freed of his feelings a thousand times. Now, their absence was just more evidence that something was deeply wrong with him.
John didn’t know what would happen when he arrived at Fraser’s Ridge with Jamie’s son in tow. Perhaps Claire would run him off. Maybe William would see Jamie and piece it all together. Did the boy remember his favorite groom? Likely not, Willie hadn’t seen Jamie since he was six. Still, John imagined the Scot made an impression.
As for Jamie…John doesn’t know what the man will do. He closed his eyes and thought of the last time he surprised Jamie with something of his son. John buried his face in William's auburn waves, darker than his father's. John’s son grunted softly in his sleep.
John had no choice regarding this visit. When he realized his business in Lynchburg would bring him so close to Fraser’s Ridge, he’d known what he had to do. For all John knew, this was William's only chance to meet his father and Jamie’s only chance to see his son outside a painting. John could not in good conscience deny either of them that. It didn’t matter what John wanted, not that John had the faintest notion of what he wanted. These days, his own mind was as much of a mystery to him as Jamie Fraser’s was. John did know that he dreaded the visit. And he hoped, a bit, that he would see Jamie and it would hurt just the same as it always did.