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what a wonderful world (this would be)

Summary:

While in Wilmington, Lord John sleeps with an attractive young stranger named Brian Randall, only to realize later this man is actually Jamie and Claire's adult son.

Notes:

not sure how long this will be. a few chapters at least. just figured i'd share the first one now. thanks! (again, Brianna is actually Brian in this and William Willa, so Claire had Jamie's son and John's been raising Jamie's daughter, otherwise pretty much the same)

Chapter Text

Grey was on his third glass of wine when he spotted a man sitting alone at a table at this gloomy inn in Wilmington. The stranger was nursing something from a tankard, his pale brow drawn tight in concentration. His hair was cut short at the sides, but was a mess of red curls on top. The man’s clothes were a bit too small for him, as if maybe they were borrowed, but the deep green wool still made him look utterly striking.

Grey sipped his red wine—not a great year, but it was just as dry as he liked it—and observed the man over the translucent rim of his glass. The man was turning over a gemstone in his hand, his teeth digging into a full, pink bottom lip. Grey thought he was being subtle in his observations, but then the man’s eyes met his.

He glanced away as quickly as he could, but not without seeing a tiny flicker of a smile on the red-headed man. Grey warmed as if he’d been drinking whisky instead of this mediocre wine. Moments later, the chair opposite his at the table squealed on the wood floor as it was moved. The man sat down across from him, and Grey felt his throat grow tight.

He smiled a wide smile—God in heaven, he was beautiful—which brought out the line of freckles above his cheekbones. “The wine any good here?”

“I’ve had better,” he said, feeling that familiar thrill of possibility in his chest. “I’ve had worse.”

“I guess I’ll have to form my own opinion,” the man said. His accent was unlike any John had heard before. He wasn’t sure where the man was from, but he certainly wasn’t British, though he spoke English as if it were his native tongue.

Grey slowly pushed his glass of wine towards the red-headed man. He smiled and took a sip.

“Not bad. Perfectly dry,” he said. “I’m Brian Randall, by the way.”

“John Grey.”

He felt something brush against his leg and, at first, Grey thought it was an accident but then it happened again… and again. His eyes went wide. This man was bold, a little reckless. Had this Brian Randall made an error in the judgement of Grey’s feelings, he could end up with a bullet in his brain or his neck in a noose. Luckily, he had not. And luckily, John was just as interested in this gorgeous young man as he seemed to be in him.

John took a deep breath, then pressed his leg back into Brian’s. He had to adjust himself so his stiffness would not show.

“I’ve seen better and worse than the rooms in this inn, but,” Brian whispered. “I am staying here.” He tipped the rest of Grey’s wine into his mouth, smiled, sat the glass on the table and walked towards the stairs that led to the upstairs rooms.

Grey would have to wait before he could follow the man, but he watched him go so he would know what room belonged to this handsome stranger. Grey would wait just long enough that it wouldn’t rouse suspicion from anyone that might be paying attention, then he’d follow Brian and scratch an itch he hadn’t scratched in too damn long.

 

Brian Randall kissed like a firecracker, all teeth and tongue. He tore at Grey’s clothes like a mad man, like if he didn’t touch bare skin, it just might kill him. So Grey let Brian get those big hands all over his skin. Hungry, was about the only way Grey could describe it. In all fairness, he could not blame the man. He was starved himself, and Brian, he was a five-course meal crafted by the best cooks in England or the Colonies or anywhere else Grey could think of.

So, when Brian ended up on his knees, fingers digging into the linens, as Grey took him from behind, it seemed all too inevitable.

When it was over, they lay side by side on the bed, trying to catch their breaths. Brian was naked and stretched out like a cat beside him, unspeakably long and pale and freckled with eyes like the deepest ocean water.

Grey ran his fingers along Brian’s cheek, sweeping at the freckles with his thumb. “I would stay, but… the innkeeper may notice.”

“Was I that bad?” Brian asked with a tipped smile that betrayed a genuine question.

Grey shook his head, then leaned over and kissed Brian on his wet, warm mouth. He felt that kiss everywhere. “You were wonderful, my darling.”

Brian blushed, smiling a small smile before clearly forcing it away. “Get out of here, then. If you have to.”

Grey carded his fingers through Brian’s hair and Brian let out a soft sound as he leaned into the touch. “I do, genuinely, wish I could stay.”

 

. . .

 

If Brian had not found his mother the day after it—he was calling “it” now—happened, he would be dead right now. After the gorgeous man (and remarkably talented lover) from the inn had left,  Brian found he could not sleep. Still aching in the best way from having been fucked, he’d wandered back downstairs for another drink. That was his mistake, though he couldn’t possibly have known it. Well, it was the first in a series of mistakes that had landed Brian here, wasting a way at River Run like the lady in “The Yellow Wallpaper”.

His mom and Jamie had stayed with him awhile, getting him over the worst of it.  But they’d had to go back to Fraser’s Ridge to deal with some sort of land dispute issue—for Jamie—and a pregnant neighbor—for his mom. She’d told Brian she would stay, but of course, he’d told her to go. Now, that she’d stopped the internal bleeding and set the broken bones in his hands, he was doing well enough.

Besides, Brian had a lot to think about, and he did his best thinking alone, despite the ugly wallpaper calling him towards madness. But that may be a wee overdramatic, as Jamie would say. As Roger would’ve said, too. Not that he’d thought about Roger in a while. That had been one disaster of a relationship after all. But at least he’d got a working knowledge of how to play a guitar out of it. Which could be useful. Seeing as there was nothing to fucking do here.

Seeing Jamie had been strange. He’d never looked at Dad and seen himself, though before he’d passed, there was no one in the world Brian was closer to, no one he loved more. Then, he’d met Jamie, despite the man being a complete stranger, Brian was all constructed of bits of him: eyes and lips and hair, obviously the hair. They weren’t identical or anything, not at all, but standing side-by-side no one would question it. Not like they’d always questioned Dad. Red-headed step child, indeed.

They’d talked and tried connecting, but it was stilted and strange. In some ways, it felt like a betrayal to find common ground with the man, to connect with him as a father. That said, it was easy to see now, the difference between what his mom had with his dad and what she had with Jamie. It hurt to see it. But he could not deny it.

Iff there was anything Brian Randall knew for certain, it was that you did not choose who you loved, so, for his mother’s sake, he really would try to forge a bond with Jamie.

And, maybe a little bit for himself, if he could have it.

 

A week later, Brian was still healing, still bruised in the worst places, but he was up and moving about—and Aunt Jocasta was demanding he attend some kind of party at River Run. He’d never been to an eighteenth century party, so he figured he should probably just go along with it. Make the best of it. At least it would make for a good story. One he could never tell anyone, but a good story, nonetheless.

Brian had been dressed exquisitely in a tailored, deep navy blue suit with polished buttons. He’d never get used to the shoes though, when he couldn’t wear boots—he’d just keep hearing Bing Crosby’s voice in his head singing—are they shovels or are they feet?—and just as bad as that, were the tall white socks that reminded him of the compression socks worn by his mother’s elderly patients to help with circulation.

Still, he looked nice for the era. Not to mention—Brian mussed his red curls with his hand—he was having a particularly good hair day.

 

That evening, guests poured into River Run. Men, dressed in outfits not unlike his own, but most with long hair coifed back into ribbons. He certainly stood out with a head of short, red curls. The women all wore gowns with voluminous skirts, their waists pulled in tight by bodices. Even though Brian had been in the eighteenth century for a while now, he still hadn’t adjusted to the styles and the dress and the manners. Suddenly surrounded by so many people trying to talk to him about inaccurate science and plays he’d never seen and books he’d never read, he found himself wishing he were back in his room, staring at the god-awful wallpaper. Maybe if he saw an opportunity, he’d duck away in the kitchen and see if he could at least find Phaedra to talk to, so he could take a breath.

Finally, there was a lull in conversation long enough he might get the chance, but just before he could Brian heard his Aunt Jocasta’s voice come from outside the room. “I would like to introduce you to someone. Lord John. Meet my nephew, Brian Fraser.”

Brian’s heart leapt into his throat. Not three feet in front of him stood the man he’d fucked in Wilmington.