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By popular request, here is a sizable slice of the scotch pearls cake for all my valentines! This may be a bit verbose and quickly edited, but among forgivable sins, I suspect that is high on the list. This one shot is based on the end of Outlander episode eleven, “The Devil’s Mark” in which Claire is accused of witchcraft, tells Jamie that she’s from the future, and he decides to take her to a place where she can get back to her time ... if she chooses. Enjoy!

Since the age of sixteen, I’ve been used to riding across the country at grueling speeds, in any weather, with nary a short rest for many days, but whether because of the chaos at Crainsmuir, or the shock of discovering my husband came to me through the mists of time, by nightfall on our third day of travel, I am tired to my bones.

Peeta must be as weary as I am, and probably more, with his back still raw and striped with angry lashes, but he swings down from the horse and reaches up to help me down, ever a gentleman, though his brow creases in a wince as he raises his arms.

“I can do it,” I say, touching his shoulder to make him step back. “You’re wounded, mo chridhe.”

“I can bear it,” he says. The faint hint of a smile touches his lips. “You’re a regular Doctor Everdeen, Katniss. My back feels brand new.”

“A doctor?” I ask, as I get down from the saddle on somewhat wobbly legs and turn to unpack Lady, patting the mare’s neck with pride. She ran like a destrier today. She’ll deserve all the oat mash we can muster at Lallybroch. “Are women doctors where you come from?”

“Nurses,” Peeta says. “War nurses, some of them as good as doctors.”

“I only have my mother’s skills,” I confess, “and then only by half.”

He touches my face, tucking a strand of sweaty hair behind my ear. It’s odd, to feel so protected by this man, when I’ve spent my entire life protecting myself, when, as it turns out, he knows a pittance about the world I was born into, but I do. I feel safe beside him. Above him. Beneath him. In his arms, anywhere, be it in the sparse luxury of our bed, or here on the wild moors, under the stormy skies.

I reach for his hand, stronger and larger than mine, but calloused alike, and bring it to my lips, breathe in his scent. I want him to understand that I am here for him, that I believe him, unbelievable as his story is, that I’ll care for him, however I can.

And I know now how I can care for him best. Even though it may kill me.

We make camp for the night on the banks of a river. Peeta starts a fire, and I take bannocks wrapped in cloth from my saddlebags, and water from my waterskin. We eat and drink in quiet, staring into the crackling and popping flames. We must be near half a mile from where I am taking him, within walking distance. He doesn’t know. He believes I’m taking him to my family’s estate, but somewhere along the path, I made up my mind.

When I was a child, my father had helped me catch a dove that had been savaged by one of our cats. I kept it in a sewing box with cozy scraps of cloth and nursed it back to health under my mother’s instructions. I wept something dreadful when it was time to let the bird fly away again, pressed its downy head to my cheek and implored to my father that I simply loved my pet too much to let it go.

My father had smiled at me, gentle and wise. “My bonny catkin,” he’d said. “There is something you must learn about love. Sometimes, to love a thing truly, you must set it free.”

We curl up together to sleep, tucked under folds of tartan on the grass. My husband dozes, breathing deep and slow against my palm on his chest. His spun flax curls catch the light of the fire, the shadows play over his pale, handsome face. My heart is straining in agony against my throat, imploring me, as I implored my father, not to let him go. I have to, I rebuke myself. I love him.

He startles awake when he feels me caress him as he taught me to on our wedding night. His brow creases in confusion, even as his pupils go wide and dark. “What are you doing?” he chokes, and I smile, lifting my head to kiss his mouth, loving the way my husband, a soldier in his own right, and far more imposing than I am, comes apart under my simple power. Soft, broken sounds fall from his lips. He gasps and tries to stay me with a murmured “you too” but I stop him.

“No,” I say, out of breath myself. “I want to watch you.”

His head falls back with a groan, and it doesn't take very long after that. I try to memorize every vulnerable expression of his face, every bitten back plea, every kiss and nip bestowed on my eager lips, the feeling that he is mine.

But he isn’t, I tell myself. Not yours. Not anymore. Not ever, not really.

He wraps me in his arms after, tremulously kissing my hair, and I hold him tight, too tight. But if he senses something is amiss in my demeanor, he doesn't say it, and I cling to him like a drowning sailor to the wreckage of a ship, dreading the moment I will have to let go.

The next morning dawns too early, and my body protests as I make myself stand. Peeta seems in good spirits, asking questions about Lallybroch with an interest he hasn’t showed the past few days. I wonder if he has resigned himself to a future with me. I wonder if he will be disappointed by my surprise. Or perhaps I’m hoping. I force myself not to hope.

“Are ye ready to go home?” I ask.

He smiles at me, kisses me. “Lead on, my fair maiden.”

So I do. I sink my teeth into my lip to keep my composure, and I lead him up the shrubby slope. When we are nearly at the top, he puts an arm around my waist, nudges a kiss to my temple. He picks up the pace, though my boots beg to drag, to delay us a second longer. But it’s no use. We’re here.

“Katniss,” he says, just as we come into sight of the stones, “I’m glad to be going home with ...” His voice trails. He stops in his tracks.

I clear my throat, step ahead of him. “It’s what you wanted,” I say softly. “Aye? To go home?”

He stares at me, eyes wide and jaw slack, like I’m a ghost. And I am. To him. I take his hand, give him the encouraging hint of a smile. I want this for him. I want him to be happy. To be free.

“Come on,” I whisper, squeezing his hand tight.

Fog floats in the air as we make our way in silence up to the stones, that uninteresting, mouldering, mossy circle among the copse of trees. I let go of his hand only to draw my dirk, on the off chance that the supposed magic of the place offers up something more dangerous than a passage between realms. It doesn't seem like an enchanted ground, but then, faery rings rarely do.

My husband seems to be in a daze, standing in place as I stride up to the largest stone. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary about it, but I hear Peeta’s intake of breath when I set my hand on its surface. Nothing happens.

“Is this the one?” I ask.

“Yes,” is his reply, strangely hollow. It must be the dreary day making him look so wan and sick, but he does look it.

“What did you do?” I say, stepping back over to him. “Last time?”

He blinks, as if coming out of a dream. ‘I - I hardly know,” he says, taking a step forward. He extends one hand, as if about to give a blessing, towards the stone. “I heard this odd, buzzing sound. Like a beehive or a radiator. And I just ...” His fingertips nearly brush the rock surface and I panic.

I grab his hand and yank with all the might in my little body. “Wait!”

He staggers back, then grasps my shoulders, steadying me. My hands clutch at his shirt and I take deep breaths. Almost immediately, I feel a horrid wave of guilt come over me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking up at him. “I stopped you. I shouldn’t have.” I kiss his hand, the hand that bears my pearl ring on his smallest finger, the only place it will fit. It looks a bit silly, but now the sight almost breaks my resolve not to cry. “I wasn’t ready.” I bring my hands up to caress his face, the soft stubble that has grown on his cheeks. I would believe he belonged here, among the highland men, if I didn’t know better.

“I know,” he says, voice rough with emotion.

I swallow hard. “Well, there’s no use in waiting,” I say, thumbs tracing his skin. “We must part now. There’s nothing for you here, save for danger and death. You belong in your own time. Go back and be a great artist,” I breathe. “Travel the world. Open your bakery.” I laugh softly. “Save something sweet for me.”

“Katniss ...” he starts, but this is no good, no good at all. I won’t be able to let him go if I stay any longer.

“You have a place there,” I say. “You belong there. I want you to go. I want you to be free.”

I tear myself away, letting my hands drop, awkwardly straightening my belt and my dirk above my plaid skirts. “I’ll stay at the camp until nightfall,” I say. There’s so much more I want to say, but the words won’t come. I barely make myself say “goodbye” and turn my back on him.

“Katniss!” I hear him shout. I can’t look back, but I stop, my nerves quivering. There’s a pause. “Goodbye,” I hear him say.

That’s it then. I square my shoulders, and stride down the slope. The tears start to fall down my cheeks, hot and fast. I know I have no right to him, the boy who stumbled out of time and into my heart, a heart that I’d no intention of giving to anyone ever, not before him, but I mourn him. I mourn him like I’ve just been widowed.

He was the sort of man my father would have loved. Kind, hardworking, generous, and clever. I wipe my eyes, but the tears won’t stop coming at memories of promises sworn in the country kirk, of laughter over whiskey, of rolling in the heather, so I let them fall. Finnick always said it would take a miracle to make me a wife, and maybe God had given it to me. But the Lord taketh as He giveth, my sister’s voice reminds me. Be glad of the good, Katniss, be grateful of the time you had it.

And I am. So glad and grateful. But it doesn’t balm the pain.

I keep my promise to wait at our makeshift camp until night. I watch as the stars come out, and find a fleeting comfort in the notion that, even hundreds of years in the future, my husband is seeing those same stars. Exhausted with grief, I lay down to sleep, lulled by the rustling of the trees ...

“On your feet, soldier.”

I jerk awake and into what must be a dream. Because he can’t be standing there, eyes full of love and tears, against the backdrop of moonlight, teasing me with my own words from many months ago. He can’t be real.

He kneels down beside me and touches my thigh. “I’m real, Katniss,” he whispers, reading my mind like a book, like always.

I can’t fight back a sob, and he pulls me into his arms, kissing me fiercely. I accept his kisses hungrily, desperately, messily.

“But why —?” I whimper joyfully, as confused as I am ecstatic.

“You are my home, Katniss,” he says fervently, “and I want no other ... in this time, or in any time ... always.”