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☆ day twenty-four: murtagh fitzgibbons ☆ — outlander murtagh fitzgibbons fraser x gn!reader with the following prompt: You would never see it, for when you looked his way, he always turned his gaze. But in the moments before, when you were distracted, he believed that you hung the very stars in the sky—he believed you were the reason the birds sung in the morning, that the tide found its way to the shore. w/c: 883 words a/n: i lowkey wrote this prompt out of thin air and pinned it to murtagh immediately. i love him, your honor. p.s., mentions god if that makes you uncomfortable click here for the original event post. MASTERLIST

Murtagh was a rich man—not with money or good fortune, but because he was graced with your presence. Many a time, his past snuck up to haunt him, a reminder that he once held the world in the palm of his hand and lost it all in an instant. He did not talk about it, either. But now, as he lived his life regardless of what happened in his younger years, he had you. That alone was enough for him to believe that his fate was in the hands of some otherworldly being. Perhaps the fae saw his efforts and decided to reward him. Maybe God finally chose to listen to his half-hearted prayers and whispered promises.

You did not know this. You knew little of Murtagh's past, only knowing him for his present and the way in which he cared for his nephew and those he considered close—you, of course, being included in that mess. Other than that? You did not know how he felt. You did not know what he truly felt. You would never see it, for when you looked his way, he always turned his gaze. But in the moments before, when you were distracted, he believed that you hung the very stars in the sky—he believed you were the reason the birds sung in the morning, that the tide found its way to the shore.

No. It was not belief alone. He knew it to be true. Your delicate hands strung the lights in which he knew so well, your soul ignited the fire that kept him warm on nights so dangerously cold.

You were the reason he lived, the reason he breathed when he was not keeping a long-held promise to his nephew.

Perhaps that's why now, he stood in front of you, eyes locked with yours as they never had. You saw every mark on his face—every wrinkle, every sun-kissed spot, every crease of a man who had lived a life of daring. He saw you just the same, though his recollection of your features had long since burned itself into the back of his mind.

He had fallen completely and utterly in love with you like an absolute fool, and yet, he did not regret a moment of it.

His tongue darted out to wet his tongue, words soon flowing in an uncharacteristic way—he really was trying. "I've to confess to ye," he said, hands balled into fists by his side. "It's somethin' I've held on for months now, an' I cannae hold it any longer."

Your eyes widened at his words, but you made no move to interrupt. You may not have known—the intrigue, however, was enough to keep you enraptured with the rugged man before you. Ultimately, whatever he confessed to you now, you would accept it in stride. You were certain that there were parts of him that were like your own in that you cared for him. Deeply.

"I love ye," he said, voice quiet yet powerful in its own way. "I love ye, and there's no part of me that's ready to live without you." His hands relaxed by his side. For a man who stood proud before so many powerful man, he was a lost cause in front of you. "I cannae go another day without yet knowin', but I understand if there's no way you feel the same."

"What?" you balked, almost immediately speaking as soon as he finished. "What do you mean? Why would I not feel the same?"

"I never seem to catch your eye," he said, eyes twinkling with mirth. He always looked away on purpose, or pretended to be looking at something beyond you.

"Oh, Christ, Murtagh," you said, frowning deeply. "You never catch my eye because you're a stubborn man who refuses to be caught."

A small smile tugged at his lips. He tilted his head curiously as he watched, unable to stop himself from such a childish, mundane act. "For what it's worth, I cannae say I've ever spent a day without thinkin' of ye."

That familiar burn of embarrassment—or, well, your nerves—began to bubble in the pit of your chest, a tell-tale sign that he was getting to you with merely his words. You cleared your throat, glancing around. No one was watching, but it would not last that way forever.

"Should we... should we go some other place?" you asked softly. "You know. Speak of this without any prying ears."

"Pryin' ears? You care so much, hm?"

"No," you quickly said. "No, no, I don't. I just... assumed you would rather talk in private instead of letting everyone know your business."

His smile did not disappear. He continued to look at you, assessing the situation, before he nodded and motioned with a hand for you to lead the way.

"After ye, then," he said. "Take me where this conversation will best be had."

You hung the stars—that much was true. What you'd soon learn was that Murtagh now knew you to paint the very sky itself, your soul a canvas marked by all you were and all you would ever be—now with the help of the rugged Scotsman, as long as you let him.

He'd do anything for you. Anything.

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