John came to Helwater in early summer, arriving on a morning in the middle of June. A warm, yellow sun shone overhead against a bright blue sky; the air felt pleasantly warm against his shoulders and he kept his horse to an easy pace.

He had a week to spend in the Lake District before need returned him to London, which meant five days of relaxation among the Dunsanys and dear little William. And, of course, five evenings sitting in the stables with Jamie, exchanging their usual quiet conversations or perhaps indulging in a game of spoken chess.

John felt more at ease the closer he got to the estate. At times, he felt a small sense of guilt at being able to take so many moments of happiness in the name of duty. Not many men could claim country excursions as a matter of honor and duty. But then again, John had long ago accepted he was not like most men.

It's early afternoon when he finally arrived, to many fond embraces from Lady Dunsany and a handshake with some strength still in it from Lord Dunsany. William, with the impetuous wildness of a child raised by indulgent grandparents, imperiously demanded to know whether John had brought him any presents or sweeties from London.

Red cheeked, Isobel admonished the child to at least have the manners to say please, but John could hardly keep from laughing. In fifteen years, perhaps, they would see the ramifications spoiling William. At the tender age of three, he was little but charming. John handed him a few candies he'd thought to tuck in his pocket and, in return, earned an afternoon of unmitigated affection from the boy.

It was always a bit of an aching joy to spend time with William, who had his sire so clearly stamped in the snubbed lines of his young face. At times, John wondered how on earth no one had yet realized the parentage of poor Geneva's child didn't lay in her shriveled husk of a husband; though, he did at times wonder how so few people realized his own proclivities. Willful ignorance, it seemed, was a powerful force.

"We do so enjoy having you," Lady Dunsany said at one point, dandling William on her lap. Tragedy lay lighter on her than her husband and for that John was obscurely grateful. A woman who had lost two children to entirely different kinds of violence deserved the unmitigated happiness she found in her grandson.

"It's always a pleasure," John told her sincerely.

The unfortunate truth of his visits to Helwater would always be that courtesy and his own affectionate feelings dictated he spend the first day in the company of the Dunsanys before he could take his leave to the stables, to make the routine check of his ward. Which, as he and Jamie both well know, was driven by a feeling far deeper than that of a warden for his once prisoner. They had found an accord there.

After supper, the Dunsanys excused themselves to bed and Isobel went with William's nurse to tuck him into the nursery. He told John good night and, with the next breath, demanded no less than three stories from his aunt before he would even consider closing his eyes. Over William's head, Isobel offered John a wry, rueful smile. He returned it.

If things had been different, John sometimes thought he and Isobel might have made rather a successful go of it all.

But then John was alone and twilight had fallen. If anyone ever found his habits concerning Jamie odd, they had yet to say anything. Quietly, John made his way through the familiar passages of the house and out the back door.

In the purple light of coming dark, Helwater was a deeply beautiful place. The grass shushed softly beneath John's boots as he walked from the main house to the stables. The joke had always been that Dunsany treated his horses better than his house; it wasn't precisely true, but. Helwater, if it was known at all, was known for the quality of its horseflesh.

A thought pricked in the back of John's mind about the horses and their handler both being imminently meritorious, but he pushed it away with practiced ease.

He would never quite be sure what changed Jamie's mind from the blind hatred he had toward John when he first came to Helwater, but John knew damn well he would never cease to be grateful for it. Jamie was, perhaps always would be, an undeniable force in John's life and the one great question.

If things had been different, what might have been?

But that in itself was dangerous and John was content with what he had. Jamie's friendship was a rarer gift than many realized and John treasured it for what it was. The barn door creaked softly when John pushed it open and the pleasant, earthy smell of hay and horses wafted out gently on the evening breeze. He could hear the soft sound of the horses; some snorted softly and others stamped their feet and flicked their tails.

And, beneath that, John heard the soft rumble of Jamie's voice speaking in the guttural, beautiful tangle of Gaelic.

Pausing in the doorway, John stole a moment to look at Jamie. He let his eyes wander over the line of his old, neatly mended breeches and shirt, his hair gathered at the nape of his neck. The lines of care worn around his face never really went away, but they were much lighter than they had once been. He stood stroking one of the horses down its neck while it bumped its nose to Jamie's shoulder.

For the hundred thousandth time, John felt the familiar ache and pull of want and regret in his chest. For the hundred thousandth time, he thought that the woman who exchanged vows with Jamie Fraser was a woman who could not have possibly understood her luck.

"D'ye plan to stand there all night?" Jamie asked suddenly, switching to English with practiced ease. "Or will ye come in?"

Blushing slightly, but smiling, John chuckled and stepped in, closing the door behind him. "Hello, Jamie."

"Milord." Jamie inclined his head and stepped back from the stall. He gestured to a bale of hay with a wry smile and asked, "Will ye sit?"

And, of course, John did.