[ For four nights now, Claire has had the unpleasant experience of waking up after dreams she can't quite remember all of, only snippets of the victims she'd helped in the square after the kidnappings mixed with the worst of what she'd seen in the war, and always ending with Josselyn sticking two pointed fingernails directly into her eyes to gouge them out. That part she remembers, almost able to swear she can feel it.
This night, she gets out of bed instead of trying to force herself to rest when she knows it won't happen again. Making her way to where she keeps her liquor, Claire pours a healthy amount for herself and stands at the window, looking out at the fields, basking in the quiet stillness as she sips.
Almost idly, her thoughts turn to John. She doesn't have anyone else, no one she could turn to for comfort, except that he knows her, and she suspects she could wake him and he wouldn't mind. ]
[ She has no idea what happens if he isn't. Does her message splash across his dreams? Hopefully, it won't actually disturb him if he's truly sleeping well. ]
[Lord John's room in the Castle is modest at best. He does not mind so much. He has spent time sleeping on cots in the army after all, and at least he has a real bed here. All the same, he does have a difficult time getting to sleep some nights as well.
It's the novelty of the place, he supposes. Not just the unfamiliarity of it, but -- the unknown. He has never known anything like it. And he is not entirely certain of his place here. It is a strange feeling, when he has known who and what he is for so very long.
So he would not say he is entirely asleep, when the message writes itself across his mind. Though -- he cannot say he is entirely awake for that matter as well. Blinking into the darkness, Lord John squints up at the message for a few hazy moments before the writing and the meaning of it becomes clear. Claire's handwriting. Claire...
He would go to her, if he were able, but he supposes this will have to do. Rolling to his feet he makes his way to his desk to hazily formulate his reply.]
[ It isn't until he answers affirmatively that she realizes she was holding her breath, hoping that might be the case. Already she feels less alone, and she takes a sip of her drink. She finally takes a seat as if composing a letter, finding the words always come easier that way. ]
John sits blinking in the darkness as he reads that question out. The vagueness of it leaves far too much open for the imagination. Everything left unsaid, the room left for him to read in between the lines.]
[ Claire could assume things from the answer to her question, but instead, she decides that if they're close friends, she would confide in him. Why wouldn't she? And besides, she's never had much luck with female friends, she doubts that's changed. ]
[Lord John frowns at the question. Yes, he understands. Or at least he is beginning to get a picture of the thing...]
๐๐๐ . ๐โ๐๐ฆ โ๐๐ฃ๐.
[He does wish that they could be having this conversation face-to-face, rather than in this nebulously written conversation, but this will have to do.]
[ The beginning of an apology, in case he finds this as ridiculous as she's wondering it is. She's seen far worse in her lifetime, though that was the first time she's experienced another's pain in that way. ]
[ Claire's mouth opens, even if she isn't replying out loud. It's surprise mostly, and she finishes her whisky in one large swallow. Why even bother with the robe then? Christ. ]
Belatedly, Claire realizes she could be dressed in the best finery they've ever seen, because it's the Horizon, but she doesn't care to. instead, she's as promised in her shift and a robe, and she doesn't bother with shoes, either. Lying back on the bed, she lets herself relax and soon enough she's meditating well enough to step into the Horizon.
It's the first time she hasn't gone straight to Lallybroch, and she isn't sure of the structure in front of her.
"John?"
To everyone else, she's called him Lord John when explaining her good fortune of someone arriving from home.
Being English herself, Claire will perhaps recognize the Georgian facade of the building in front of her. It seems a bit odd to be freestanding and not on Curzon Street with its neighbors nearby.
As Claire arrives, John steps out of the front door, smiling in greeting. Much in the same way that Claire had imagined herself dressed for the evening, John has done the same. Albeit in appropriate clothing fit for a night at the club, which means he does have a shirt and breeches on, underneath a robe of his own, as well as a pair of slippers on his stockinged feet. Slippers are a definite must.
"Good evening, my dear," he says brightly, "and welcome to The Beefsteak."
Seeing John, Claire can't help but remember Hilda's gentle push to ask the questions she's mulling over. Even still, she pushes that to the back of her mind and smiles at his greeting before looking up at the building. It's more or less familiar feeling, she simply isn't sure what it means to John; she only knows Beefsteak establishments as dining clubs, so it's a bit curious to her.
"Thank you for having me this late. I admit I'm curious about what this location means to you." It must mean something, to be a comfortable place to spend his time. "You're sure it isn't too late?"
Her robe in Solvunn is simple, but in the Horizon she's made it as comfortable as silk. She has expensive taste, even if she knows how to (and has no problem with) living simply. Why not indulge a little?
"The hour does not matter," he reassures her. "My time is yours. Now come."
He gestures her toward the door and into the hall. The interior is dark and dimly lit, and decorated with a large Turkish rug. While the wooden paneling and general cosmetics of the place are expensive, there is a certain well-loved shabbiness to the place that is endearing.
"The Society for the Appreciation of the English Beefsteak," John says, by way of introduction. "Or the Beefsteak, for short. It is... My club. Well, one of them. But certainly my favorite. Rumor has it my grandfather enrolled me as a member on the day I was born. When I thought of creating a home away from home for myself -- much as you found yourself drawn to thoughts of Lallybroch, I found my own thoughts drawn to here."
He turns, pausing from where he had been leading her through the hallway towards a room in the back. "I hope you are not scandalized," he says, the quirk of a smile on his lips as he finds himself repeating Claire's own words from earlier back at her.
Duly reassured, Claire follows John, the rug soft under her bare feet. She takes in what she can, and when he explains, a wide smile causes the corners of her eyes to wrinkle. She likes a place with history, and she likes that it really does mean something to him.
"I've heard of clubs like this, but of course, I've never been inside of one. As for being scandalized, Jamie has you there by exactly one whore house." One eyebrow raises, smile turning to a smirk. "If I haven't told you that already, do feel free to ask."
She hates being so blind to everything, but she trusts that John won't use it against her. It is disorienting though, to be on the other side of things.
A whore house? John raises his eyebrows at that, equal parts unsurprised (this is Jamie Fraser they are talking about) and scandalized on Claire's behalf. It's not the sort of place a lady should be present, no matter how outspoken and independent the lady in question.
"You have not," he says. "Dare I ask?"
After a moment's consideration, he leads her through into a room just toward the back of the hall. A group of well-loved, overstuffed chairs sit grouped together near the window by the edge of the room, and several more before a gently crackling fireplace. While John might usually gravitate toward the Hermits' Corner, as it is called, for a bit of quiet conversation, with no one else there but them there is no need just now. And so he leads Claire to the fire, gesturing for her to sit with him. This conversation deserves a comfortable spot. And perhaps a drink, if she is amenable.
A drink is probably needed in all honesty, and she isn't worried about the after effects, which is the bright side of being able to meet in such a place.
"It's where he was living when I found him again. He thought I'd be alright to continue living there." She's explaining as she sits, and nods at the offer of a drink, holding up two fingers for a double as she continues.
"I suppose you can guess where I fell on the matter. Although, being told I still looked young enough to play the part by the women at breakfast the next morning wasn't unflattering." She decides to be comfortable, curling into their seating with one leg tucked under the other.
"His print shop burned and we had to run anyway. Quite the welcome back."
John's eyebrows remain raised as he crosses the room to the decanter to pour out two glasses of sherry for the pair of them. It may not be Claire's first drink of choice, but it's always on hand at the Beefsteak, and in John's experience it's always been pleasant to drink over a conversation.
"One could never accuse your husband of living a dull life," John allows, turning back toward Claire and crossing back to hand her a glass, folding himself into the chair next to her. "If I had known his residence at the time was such a place, however, I've blocked it from my mind. I will admit, it was a relatively busy time of my own life." Marrying Isobel. Settling into life with her and young Willie. Not to mention his continued work for King and Country, in the Black Chamber.
He flicks a smile at her, tipping his glass toward her in something of a toast before taking a sip, before moving to cradle it in his hands.
"You wished to speak with me about nightmares," he says, gently.
"I'll go out on a limb and say keeping up with Frasers can be an uphill battle." She smiles in spite of herself, then tips her glass in return before taking a generous sip. It isn't her drink of choice, no, but it's good sherry. She's still relishing the feel of it going down even as she turns events over in her mind. First, a bit of context.
"When I arrived I wasn't sleeping much at all. The separation from Jamie, and truly thinking I wouldn't see him again...not to mention getting used to all of this, it was overwhelming. I've adapted, a little. But now when I sleep, it's as though something awful from the past has been plucked at random to mix with what I've seen here."
She looks tired with her guard down, less put together than during waking hours. It occurs to her that John exudes a sort of comfort, finding herself at ease around him in a way that surprises her. Less so after their first Horizon meeting, but it's still there.
"Tonight was about Bree," rubbing her face, she sighs softly, "and not being able to get to her. I could hear the sounds of a battlefield, but I also knew it was the woods of Solvunn I was running through." Both words colliding.
John offers her an expression in response to her commentary about keeping up with the Frasers as if to suggest you have no idea, but makes no further reply. Settling himself down for the moment to listen instead.
He isn't certain exactly of what has her turning to him for this comfort. Not that he isn't grateful for it, of course. He cherishes the friendship they had cultivated together, in their loss, more than he can say.
His expression softens as she describes her dream. Her nightmare. Of her daughter in danger, and being unable to help. He contemplates reaching out to touch her, to offer what comfort he might, but is not certain how such a gesture might be perceived and so he settles instead for what he might offer in words instead.
"You love them," he says. "It is hard not to worry, when you cannot be there to protect them. And when they are particularly talented for finding themselves in trouble." He flashes her a smile, hoping that comment comes off as the jest he had intended it to be. "They are so very much alike, you know. Your daughter and your husband. And William. They must have bred stubborn-mindedness into their line."
Claire nods her agreement, letting her thumb run around the rim of her glass as she stares into it before taking a small sip. At the comparison of their children to Jamie, it occurs to her that of all the conversations she's had with her husband, the one about William is one she wishes they'd been able to have properly. It was stilted and rushed before, so she'd filed it away as something to ask him more about after they'd returned Young Ian home.
In Jamie's absence, her eyes lift to meet John's; he can probably guess what her follow-up might be, considering how far in his past she is. There are things she doesn't know anymore—if he ever told her at all. "What was he like to raise? Because I would love it if someone understood what ages two through four were like for me, from an emotional warfare perspective." She's laughing as she asks; Jamie is one of the stubbornest people she's ever met in her life excluding patients. (But even adding that in, he still wins.) Or so she thought until Brianna was mobile. Then, all hell broke loose when she could talk.
"Warfare committed, might I add, by a toddler who refused to wear clothing at all." She's laughing again, mostly joking, but Bree could throw a tantrum like no other child on Earth, Claire was convinced at the time.
John opens his mouth to remind Claire that she has met William -- but, no. She has not, has she? Not even for their brief stay at Fraser's Ridge, because of course for her, Fraser's Ridge has not even been built yet.
He lets out a huff of a laugh and raises a hand to rub tiredly across his face.
"You know," he says, "hearing a thing like that does not surprise me in the least."
Taking in a deep breath, he does his best to collect his thoughts before glancing back up at her with a smile that is equal parts sad, affectionate, and exasperated about their children.
"I cannot claim to have raised him from infancy," he says. "Isobel and I... We were not married until William was four? Five? Time passes so quickly. But as a close friend of their family, and." He flicks her a slightly more guarded smile. "As overseer of your husband's parole, I did visit often."
"Four and five carry on the same reign of terror, believe me," she says with a smile before taking a sip of her sherry. Should she jump on the chance to bring up Jamie, since John's brought up Ardsmuir, or is it too soon? She literally only walked through the door what feels like a few moments ago, so Claire decides to wait, biding her time.
"There's a saying about raising children, that the days are long but the years are short. I can remember looking at Bree the day she graduated from high school and thinking it wasn't so long ago that she needed me for everything."
And now she's an adult with her own life, for some reason in the past. That mystery is one Claire doesn't feel as compelled to know the details of, not yet. It's enough to know that she'll see Bree again sooner rather than later.
"And Isobel was a fine mother, I assume?"
William isn't hers, there's no reason to wonder so much, but even this question Jamie couldn't answer. Her curiosity is getting the best of her, she must admit.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beginning of june~
This night, she gets out of bed instead of trying to force herself to rest when she knows it won't happen again. Making her way to where she keeps her liquor, Claire pours a healthy amount for herself and stands at the window, looking out at the fields, basking in the quiet stillness as she sips.
Almost idly, her thoughts turn to John. She doesn't have anyone else, no one she could turn to for comfort, except that he knows her, and she suspects she could wake him and he wouldn't mind. ]
๐๐๐ข ๐ค๐๐ข๐๐๐'๐ก โ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐, ๐ค๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข?
[ She has no idea what happens if he isn't. Does her message splash across his dreams? Hopefully, it won't actually disturb him if he's truly sleeping well. ]
no subject
It's the novelty of the place, he supposes. Not just the unfamiliarity of it, but -- the unknown. He has never known anything like it. And he is not entirely certain of his place here. It is a strange feeling, when he has known who and what he is for so very long.
So he would not say he is entirely asleep, when the message writes itself across his mind. Though -- he cannot say he is entirely awake for that matter as well. Blinking into the darkness, Lord John squints up at the message for a few hazy moments before the writing and the meaning of it becomes clear. Claire's handwriting. Claire...
He would go to her, if he were able, but he supposes this will have to do. Rolling to his feet he makes his way to his desk to hazily formulate his reply.]
๐ด๐ค๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ก๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ค๐๐๐, ๐๐ข๐ก ๐ผ ๐๐. ๐ป๐๐ค ๐๐๐ ๐ผ โ๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข, ๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐?
no subject
๐ผ๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐ก ๐ฆ๐๐ข'๐ฃ๐ ๐๐๐๐ค๐ ๐๐, ๐ค๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐ ๐๐ฆ ๐ผ'๐ฃ๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐โ๐ก๐๐๐๐๐ ?
[ That's usually Jamie's area of unrest when faced with something insidious. Claire's is typically not sleeping at all. ]
no subject
John sits blinking in the darkness as he reads that question out. The vagueness of it leaves far too much open for the imagination. Everything left unsaid, the room left for him to read in between the lines.]
๐โ๐๐๐ ๐ค๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐ ๐คโ๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐๐๐ค ๐ฆ๐๐ข๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ข๐๐๐๐, ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ค๐๐ฆ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐กโ๐๐.
[John sits back on his bed, wrapping himself in a blanket as he frets from afar.]
๐๐๐ฆ ๐ผ ๐๐ ๐ ๐คโ๐๐ก ๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ข๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐ค, ๐ถ๐๐๐๐๐?
no subject
๐๐๐ก ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ค๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐ค๐๐กโ ๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐, ๐๐ข๐ก ๐ฆ๐๐ข'๐๐ ๐ข๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐ ๐.
[ At least, she hopes. ]
๐ท๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข'๐ฃ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ก๐ก๐๐, ๐๐๐กโ ๐๐ข๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐๐๐๐๐กโ, ๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ โ๐๐ข๐๐ก ๐ฆ๐๐ข?
no subject
๐๐๐ . ๐โ๐๐ฆ โ๐๐ฃ๐.
[He does wish that they could be having this conversation face-to-face, rather than in this nebulously written conversation, but this will have to do.]
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐๐๐ ๐ผ โ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ค๐๐ก๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐ก๐๐๐๐๐๐๐. ๐ด๐๐ -- ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ก, ๐๐ ๐ค๐๐๐. ๐ถ๐๐ข๐๐๐ก๐ฆ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐๐ก๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ค๐๐๐๐๐๐. ๐น๐๐ ๐๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ค๐๐๐ ๐.
no subject
๐โ๐๐๐ก๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐๐ฃ๐๐, ๐ผ โ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ข๐๐๐๐๐ก๐ข๐๐๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ข๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ค๐๐ก๐โ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐๐ฆ๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ก. ๐๐๐๐ฆ ๐๐ก ๐ค๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ก ๐๐ ๐ฃ๐๐๐ค ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฃ๐๐๐ก๐๐, ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐, ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐๐๐๐๐กโ ๐๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ฆ๐กโ๐๐๐, ๐๐ก'๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ก ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ .
[ Rubbing her face, she sighs softly, for her part not knowing if its easier not to have the conversation in person or not. ]
๐๐๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐ โ๐๐ข๐๐ โ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ข๐๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐.
[ The beginning of an apology, in case he finds this as ridiculous as she's wondering it is. She's seen far worse in her lifetime, though that was the first time she's experienced another's pain in that way. ]
no subject
๐๐๐ก ๐๐ก ๐๐๐. ๐๐ฆ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข. ๐ด๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ก ๐ผ ๐๐๐ ๐๐, ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐๐ .
[John raises his head from the wall, opening his eyes as the realization strikes him.]
๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐ก ๐ค๐๐กโ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ป๐๐๐๐ง๐๐, ๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐? ๐๐๐โ๐๐๐ ๐ค๐ ๐๐๐โ๐ก ๐๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ข๐ ๐กโ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ ๐๐ก๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐กโ๐๐, ๐๐๐๐-๐ก๐-๐๐๐๐. ๐ผ๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ก, ๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐.
no subject
๐๐๐๐, ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐'๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ง๐๐๐ ๐๐ฆ ๐๐ฆ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ค๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐โ๐ก ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ โ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐?
[ There's the hint of teasing; she doesn't truly feel the need to ask, although her next question is genuine. ]
๐ป๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐ ๐ข๐ ๐ค๐๐กโ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐, ๐กโ๐๐?
no subject
๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐, ๐๐ก ๐ค๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐ก ๐ก๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ก ๐กโ๐๐ ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐.
๐ด๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ก, ๐ผ โ๐๐ฃ๐! ๐ผ๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐ค๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐ก ๐ค๐๐กโ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐๐. ๐ด๐๐กโ๐๐ข๐โ, ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ง๐๐, ๐ผ โ๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐ ๐๐๐ก ๐๐๐๐ ๐คโ๐๐ก ๐ผ โ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐โ๐๐ ๐๐. ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ค๐๐ฆ๐ ๐๐๐๐ก ๐๐ก ๐ฟ๐๐๐๐ฆ๐๐๐๐โ, ๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐ก ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐?
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๐ผ โ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐คโ๐๐ก ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ฆ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐, ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐. ๐ผ'๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐ก ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐กโ๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ข๐๐, ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐'๐ก ๐๐๐๐.
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๐ต๐ข๐ก ๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐ ๐. ๐โ๐๐ก ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข๐๐ .
๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ , ๐ผ ๐๐ ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ค ๐ก๐ ๐กโ๐๐ . ๐โ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ก ๐ก๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข? ๐ป๐๐ค ๐ค๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐๐?
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[ Too late for how that sounds, but she isn't sure her sleep-deprived mind could have come up with any better. ]
๐ผ'๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ข ๐ โ๐๐๐ก๐๐ฆ.
Belatedly, Claire realizes she could be dressed in the best finery they've ever seen, because it's the Horizon, but she doesn't care to. instead, she's as promised in her shift and a robe, and she doesn't bother with shoes, either. Lying back on the bed, she lets herself relax and soon enough she's meditating well enough to step into the Horizon.
It's the first time she hasn't gone straight to Lallybroch, and she isn't sure of the structure in front of her.
"John?"
To everyone else, she's called him Lord John when explaining her good fortune of someone arriving from home.
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As Claire arrives, John steps out of the front door, smiling in greeting. Much in the same way that Claire had imagined herself dressed for the evening, John has done the same. Albeit in appropriate clothing fit for a night at the club, which means he does have a shirt and breeches on, underneath a robe of his own, as well as a pair of slippers on his stockinged feet. Slippers are a definite must.
"Good evening, my dear," he says brightly, "and welcome to The Beefsteak."
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"Thank you for having me this late. I admit I'm curious about what this location means to you." It must mean something, to be a comfortable place to spend his time. "You're sure it isn't too late?"
Her robe in Solvunn is simple, but in the Horizon she's made it as comfortable as silk. She has expensive taste, even if she knows how to (and has no problem with) living simply. Why not indulge a little?
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"The hour does not matter," he reassures her. "My time is yours. Now come."
He gestures her toward the door and into the hall. The interior is dark and dimly lit, and decorated with a large Turkish rug. While the wooden paneling and general cosmetics of the place are expensive, there is a certain well-loved shabbiness to the place that is endearing.
"The Society for the Appreciation of the English Beefsteak," John says, by way of introduction. "Or the Beefsteak, for short. It is... My club. Well, one of them. But certainly my favorite. Rumor has it my grandfather enrolled me as a member on the day I was born. When I thought of creating a home away from home for myself -- much as you found yourself drawn to thoughts of Lallybroch, I found my own thoughts drawn to here."
He turns, pausing from where he had been leading her through the hallway towards a room in the back. "I hope you are not scandalized," he says, the quirk of a smile on his lips as he finds himself repeating Claire's own words from earlier back at her.
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"I've heard of clubs like this, but of course, I've never been inside of one. As for being scandalized, Jamie has you there by exactly one whore house." One eyebrow raises, smile turning to a smirk. "If I haven't told you that already, do feel free to ask."
She hates being so blind to everything, but she trusts that John won't use it against her. It is disorienting though, to be on the other side of things.
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"You have not," he says. "Dare I ask?"
After a moment's consideration, he leads her through into a room just toward the back of the hall. A group of well-loved, overstuffed chairs sit grouped together near the window by the edge of the room, and several more before a gently crackling fireplace. While John might usually gravitate toward the Hermits' Corner, as it is called, for a bit of quiet conversation, with no one else there but them there is no need just now. And so he leads Claire to the fire, gesturing for her to sit with him. This conversation deserves a comfortable spot. And perhaps a drink, if she is amenable.
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"It's where he was living when I found him again. He thought I'd be alright to continue living there." She's explaining as she sits, and nods at the offer of a drink, holding up two fingers for a double as she continues.
"I suppose you can guess where I fell on the matter. Although, being told I still looked young enough to play the part by the women at breakfast the next morning wasn't unflattering." She decides to be comfortable, curling into their seating with one leg tucked under the other.
"His print shop burned and we had to run anyway. Quite the welcome back."
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"One could never accuse your husband of living a dull life," John allows, turning back toward Claire and crossing back to hand her a glass, folding himself into the chair next to her. "If I had known his residence at the time was such a place, however, I've blocked it from my mind. I will admit, it was a relatively busy time of my own life." Marrying Isobel. Settling into life with her and young Willie. Not to mention his continued work for King and Country, in the Black Chamber.
He flicks a smile at her, tipping his glass toward her in something of a toast before taking a sip, before moving to cradle it in his hands.
"You wished to speak with me about nightmares," he says, gently.
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"When I arrived I wasn't sleeping much at all. The separation from Jamie, and truly thinking I wouldn't see him again...not to mention getting used to all of this, it was overwhelming. I've adapted, a little. But now when I sleep, it's as though something awful from the past has been plucked at random to mix with what I've seen here."
She looks tired with her guard down, less put together than during waking hours. It occurs to her that John exudes a sort of comfort, finding herself at ease around him in a way that surprises her. Less so after their first Horizon meeting, but it's still there.
"Tonight was about Bree," rubbing her face, she sighs softly, "and not being able to get to her. I could hear the sounds of a battlefield, but I also knew it was the woods of Solvunn I was running through." Both words colliding.
"In any case, it was unpleasant."
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He isn't certain exactly of what has her turning to him for this comfort. Not that he isn't grateful for it, of course. He cherishes the friendship they had cultivated together, in their loss, more than he can say.
His expression softens as she describes her dream. Her nightmare. Of her daughter in danger, and being unable to help. He contemplates reaching out to touch her, to offer what comfort he might, but is not certain how such a gesture might be perceived and so he settles instead for what he might offer in words instead.
"You love them," he says. "It is hard not to worry, when you cannot be there to protect them. And when they are particularly talented for finding themselves in trouble." He flashes her a smile, hoping that comment comes off as the jest he had intended it to be. "They are so very much alike, you know. Your daughter and your husband. And William. They must have bred stubborn-mindedness into their line."
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In Jamie's absence, her eyes lift to meet John's; he can probably guess what her follow-up might be, considering how far in his past she is. There are things she doesn't know anymore—if he ever told her at all. "What was he like to raise? Because I would love it if someone understood what ages two through four were like for me, from an emotional warfare perspective." She's laughing as she asks; Jamie is one of the stubbornest people she's ever met in her life excluding patients. (But even adding that in, he still wins.) Or so she thought until Brianna was mobile. Then, all hell broke loose when she could talk.
"Warfare committed, might I add, by a toddler who refused to wear clothing at all." She's laughing again, mostly joking, but Bree could throw a tantrum like no other child on Earth, Claire was convinced at the time.
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He lets out a huff of a laugh and raises a hand to rub tiredly across his face.
"You know," he says, "hearing a thing like that does not surprise me in the least."
Taking in a deep breath, he does his best to collect his thoughts before glancing back up at her with a smile that is equal parts sad, affectionate, and exasperated about their children.
"I cannot claim to have raised him from infancy," he says. "Isobel and I... We were not married until William was four? Five? Time passes so quickly. But as a close friend of their family, and." He flicks her a slightly more guarded smile. "As overseer of your husband's parole, I did visit often."
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"There's a saying about raising children, that the days are long but the years are short. I can remember looking at Bree the day she graduated from high school and thinking it wasn't so long ago that she needed me for everything."
And now she's an adult with her own life, for some reason in the past. That mystery is one Claire doesn't feel as compelled to know the details of, not yet. It's enough to know that she'll see Bree again sooner rather than later.
"And Isobel was a fine mother, I assume?"
William isn't hers, there's no reason to wonder so much, but even this question Jamie couldn't answer. Her curiosity is getting the best of her, she must admit.
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