Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy understands war. Now, she thinks about it, about the people who have nothing to hide and everything to fear from it, and her smile is bitter. “Just because I understand the reason for why I am being treated this way, doesn’t mean that I have to like it.” Her tone rings with finality, the conversation over. She doesn’t want to alienate one of her only friends here over their split loyalties. “You went to university in Paris,” she says after a short pause. “What did you study there?”

Pyotr pops the bread into his mouth, his silence pointed. Kathy’s treatment at the Mackenzies’ hands doesn’t even come close to the treatment a Scottish young woman would receive at an English base. She might be frustrated, but the situation still doesn’t warrant this level of complaint. “Literature and history,” he answers after a few seconds, his tone a little less friendly than before. “I was there for three years. Have you been to France before?”

"Yes." The question is so innocent, and Kathy has never had a need to lie about this before. She answers truthfully without thinking, though she doesn’t mention that she’d been to France to watch men die. "Not for long, though. I didn’t travel much, no matter how badly I wanted to." She shrugs and takes another bite of cheese, looking out over the stables. "There was always something else to do, somewhere to be. And then I got married."

The diplomatic and cultural ties between Scotland and France run deep; back in the old days of prosperity, Brian Fraser, laird of the Fraser clan, had thought nothing of the expense of sending his sixteen-year-old heir off to study in Paris. But Pyotr isn’t here as the Fraser heir; he’s here in hiding as a wanted criminal. Such slips of the tongue don’t matter particularly on a day-to-day basis; the Mackenzies all know his history and identity. But Kathy does not, and what’s more, he doesn’t know that he can trust her with the information just yet. Pyotr vows silently to guard his tongue more closely—nothing else that might give the indication he’s more than a simple horse-handler and poor Mackenzie relation. “Paris is very diverting, aye.” He finds a flask of wine and takes a sip before offering it to her. “Did you meet your husband in France, then?”

"No, I met my husband in London. France came after. It…wasn’t what I expected." Some pain bleeds into her voice and she forced a smile. She doesn’t want to think about Frank. "The Highlands are beautiful, though," she says quietly, like a confession. "I’ve never seen anything like it, and I doubt I ever will. The songs — make sense here." She shrugs. "Is that an odd thing to say?"

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy understands war. Now, she thinks about it, about the people who have nothing to hide and everything to fear from it, and her smile is bitter. “Just because I understand the reason for why I am being treated this way, doesn’t mean that I have to like it.” Her tone rings with finality, the conversation over. She doesn’t want to alienate one of her only friends here over their split loyalties. “You went to university in Paris,” she says after a short pause. “What did you study there?”

Pyotr pops the bread into his mouth, his silence pointed. Kathy’s treatment at the Mackenzies’ hands doesn’t even come close to the treatment a Scottish young woman would receive at an English base. She might be frustrated, but the situation still doesn’t warrant this level of complaint. “Literature and history,” he answers after a few seconds, his tone a little less friendly than before. “I was there for three years. Have you been to France before?”

"Yes." The question is so innocent, and Kathy has never had a need to lie about this before. She answers truthfully without thinking, though she doesn’t mention that she’d been to France to watch men die. "Not for long, though. I didn’t travel much, no matter how badly I wanted to." She shrugs and takes another bite of cheese, looking out over the stables. "There was always something else to do, somewhere to be. And then I got married."

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy picks up his shirt and holds it out to him, groping for the reassuring smile that she’s tailored for soldiers and their families. It comes a tad more strained than usual, but honest all the same. “I’d like to see them changed twice a day, though three times is best. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange something for tomorrow.” She doubts that she’ll have anything better to do, and she would have sought Pyotr out anyway. He’s the closest thing she has to a kind face here, other than Mrs. Fitz.

Pyotr has grown up in a world of violence and war, and he knows all too well not to believe in promises and pretty smiles. But there’s honesty and genuineness in Kathy’s even so, and he can’t begrudge her that. “Thank you,” he says, the words simple and heart-felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He manages to pull the shirt back on one-handed and makes his way over to the door, pausing briefly at the exit. “Goodnight.”

He, alongside with Murtagh, is out in the stables early the next morning. Working one-handed simply isn’t an option, he quickly discovers, so Pyotr gets rid of the belt-sling before ten in the morning. After the requisite round of feeding and combing the Mackenzie’s horses, he and Murtagh turns to work breaking in the new foal. Whatever the throbbing and aching in his arm, it doesn’t appear to be bleeding again—and that means he can work through the injury. Kathy can scold him however she likes when she eventually comes to change his bandages; Pyotr just does what he has to do.

Kathy doesn’t know if she’s being followed or simply succumbing to paranoia, and she looks over her shoulder more often than necessary as she follows Mrs. Fitz’s directions to the stables. By the time she’s at the low gates, however, she becomes certain that there’s someone on her tail. A short conversation with the man does little to discourage him, though — orders are orders, especially those coming fro Dougal himself. Even though Kathy feels insulted, she has to admit that she’s not completely surprised.

The sight of Pyotr with the horse brings a smile to her face. She watches for a minute or so, frowning slightly at the recklessness with the injury, and finally steps forward. The foal startles at the movement. Kathy shoots Pyotr an apologetic look, holding the basket in front of herself like a peace offering. “I’ve come to bring you lunch and change the bandages, but it seems that I’ve managed to get in the way of your work.”

Pyotr takes a moment to soothe the foal, stroking its head and murmuring in Gaelic, before he hands the job over to Murtagh and flashes Kathy a brilliant smile. “Not at all. She’s a bit skittish of strangers just yet, that’s all.” Flushed and practically glowing with life and vitality, he walks over and hefts the basket on his good arm. “Come round to the far end of the stables with me,” he invites, his eyes flitting briefly to the man evidently appointed as her watchdog. “We’ll have a bit of a picnic and you can check I haven’t done any damage to myself yet.”

"With the way you’re chasing that horse, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t heal for months," Kathy says dryly, but makes her way to the stables anyway. Her escort, thankfully, lingers behind. "I’ll check the wounds first, then we’ll eat." She shrugs off the thick shawl and lays it over the hay, then reaches for the basket to set out her equipment. She’s more relaxed than she had been the last time they saw each other, more at home with the hope that she won’t be sticking around for long. Her smile lights up her face with warmth. "You look to be in good spirits."

"Small price to pay. That horse is going to be beautiful by the time we’re finished with it." He pulls off his jacket and lays it on the hay by the shawl; his shirt, he shrugs off and hangs on a nail sticking out of the stable wall. Pyotr likes this warm, relaxed Kathy even more than the one he met yesterday, he decides; even if her accent still jars discordantly among the earthier voices of Castle Leoch, she looks a little more at-home in her surroundings, a little less likely to burst into tears at any minute. "You’re looking to be a wee bit happier yourself," he observes, sitting down on the covered hay and smiling brightly up at her. "Mrs. Fitz is quite taken with you, y’ken."

She immediately sets to work unwrapping the bandages. Pyotr’s scars are even more gruesome in the light of day, but she doesn’t spare them more than a few glances. His smile, though, is a bit harder to look away from. “Mrs. Fitz is one of the few who doesn’t look at me like I’m a new and fascinating species of bug,” Kathy tells him, tone light. “It’s enough to brighten anyone’s day, really. Except for the fact that bugs aren’t generally privileged enough to have a bloody nanny follow them around.”

"Aye, she’s got a good heart." There’s no disguising the fondness in his voice. "She’s quite excited to have you here, I think. She’s never seen an Englishwoman up close before, God bless her." It’s hard to sit still when he knows that she’s looking at his scars; even after all this time, his first impulse is still to jerk away. But it’s nothing more than routine, and Pyotr forces himself to stay seated. To distract himself, he looks over his shoulder at Kathy’s Highlander watchdog, grins, and shouts a Gaelic greeting in the man’s direction. "It’s only wee Angus, mistress," he assures her in his normal tone of voice. "There’re worse men Uncle Colum could’ve assigned to you."

Kathy laughs quietly. “I’m hardly a prime example of an Englishwoman.” Not the kind of Englishwoman that belongs to this age, this England. “Yes,” she admits after a moment, tying off the ends of the fresh bandage. “There are worse. But there are also better. He could have left me unwatched, for one. I’m no threat to him.” She leans back and surveys her handiwork, then meets Pyotr’s gaze. “They don’t trust me.”

"Do you expect him to? You’re an Englishwoman who showed up on Mackenzie land without any warning, records, or identification. You ken things about healing that nobody ‘round here does. I’ve been to Paris, studied at the Université—which, you’ve got to have heard, has the best school in Europe for these things—and I’ve never seen anything like what you ken.” He uses his good arm to grab his shirt again and pull it back on, and rests back against the wall of stable. “You’re a mystery to us all, Mistress Moran. And until the mystery is cracked,” he gestures with his head to the young man observing them from a distance, “Wee Angus remains. It’s the best you’re likely to get in the circumstances.”

"There’s no mystery." It takes every ounce of her self-control to not snap the words. "It’s plants, not magic. If you’ve been to the best university, you must know that." She uncovers the rest of the basket and takes a clump of cheese, looking back at the aforementioned wee Angus. "If I were a spy," she says softly, "Would I want to leave so badly?"

“I’m not saying what I know. I’m telling you what my uncles are thinking.” He tears off a chunk of bread, absent-mindedly rolling it into a ball with his long fingers. “You don’t know what kind of place you’ve found yourself in,” he says finally, raising an eyebrow and looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “This is a war, whether you understand it or not. Dougal and Colum have a responsibility to their clan. They are doing their duty—nothing more, nothing less. If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to fear.”

Kathy understands war. Now, she thinks about it, about the people who have nothing to hide and everything to fear from it, and her smile is bitter. “Just because I understand the reason for why I am being treated this way, doesn’t mean that I have to like it.” Her tone rings with finality, the conversation over. She doesn’t want to alienate one of her only friends here over their split loyalties. “You went to university in Paris,” she says after a short pause. “What did you study there?”

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy picks up his shirt and holds it out to him, groping for the reassuring smile that she’s tailored for soldiers and their families. It comes a tad more strained than usual, but honest all the same. “I’d like to see them changed twice a day, though three times is best. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange something for tomorrow.” She doubts that she’ll have anything better to do, and she would have sought Pyotr out anyway. He’s the closest thing she has to a kind face here, other than Mrs. Fitz.

Pyotr has grown up in a world of violence and war, and he knows all too well not to believe in promises and pretty smiles. But there’s honesty and genuineness in Kathy’s even so, and he can’t begrudge her that. “Thank you,” he says, the words simple and heart-felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He manages to pull the shirt back on one-handed and makes his way over to the door, pausing briefly at the exit. “Goodnight.”

He, alongside with Murtagh, is out in the stables early the next morning. Working one-handed simply isn’t an option, he quickly discovers, so Pyotr gets rid of the belt-sling before ten in the morning. After the requisite round of feeding and combing the Mackenzie’s horses, he and Murtagh turns to work breaking in the new foal. Whatever the throbbing and aching in his arm, it doesn’t appear to be bleeding again—and that means he can work through the injury. Kathy can scold him however she likes when she eventually comes to change his bandages; Pyotr just does what he has to do.

Kathy doesn’t know if she’s being followed or simply succumbing to paranoia, and she looks over her shoulder more often than necessary as she follows Mrs. Fitz’s directions to the stables. By the time she’s at the low gates, however, she becomes certain that there’s someone on her tail. A short conversation with the man does little to discourage him, though — orders are orders, especially those coming fro Dougal himself. Even though Kathy feels insulted, she has to admit that she’s not completely surprised.

The sight of Pyotr with the horse brings a smile to her face. She watches for a minute or so, frowning slightly at the recklessness with the injury, and finally steps forward. The foal startles at the movement. Kathy shoots Pyotr an apologetic look, holding the basket in front of herself like a peace offering. “I’ve come to bring you lunch and change the bandages, but it seems that I’ve managed to get in the way of your work.”

Pyotr takes a moment to soothe the foal, stroking its head and murmuring in Gaelic, before he hands the job over to Murtagh and flashes Kathy a brilliant smile. “Not at all. She’s a bit skittish of strangers just yet, that’s all.” Flushed and practically glowing with life and vitality, he walks over and hefts the basket on his good arm. “Come round to the far end of the stables with me,” he invites, his eyes flitting briefly to the man evidently appointed as her watchdog. “We’ll have a bit of a picnic and you can check I haven’t done any damage to myself yet.”

"With the way you’re chasing that horse, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t heal for months," Kathy says dryly, but makes her way to the stables anyway. Her escort, thankfully, lingers behind. "I’ll check the wounds first, then we’ll eat." She shrugs off the thick shawl and lays it over the hay, then reaches for the basket to set out her equipment. She’s more relaxed than she had been the last time they saw each other, more at home with the hope that she won’t be sticking around for long. Her smile lights up her face with warmth. "You look to be in good spirits."

"Small price to pay. That horse is going to be beautiful by the time we’re finished with it." He pulls off his jacket and lays it on the hay by the shawl; his shirt, he shrugs off and hangs on a nail sticking out of the stable wall. Pyotr likes this warm, relaxed Kathy even more than the one he met yesterday, he decides; even if her accent still jars discordantly among the earthier voices of Castle Leoch, she looks a little more at-home in her surroundings, a little less likely to burst into tears at any minute. "You’re looking to be a wee bit happier yourself," he observes, sitting down on the covered hay and smiling brightly up at her. "Mrs. Fitz is quite taken with you, y’ken."

She immediately sets to work unwrapping the bandages. Pyotr’s scars are even more gruesome in the light of day, but she doesn’t spare them more than a few glances. His smile, though, is a bit harder to look away from. “Mrs. Fitz is one of the few who doesn’t look at me like I’m a new and fascinating species of bug,” Kathy tells him, tone light. “It’s enough to brighten anyone’s day, really. Except for the fact that bugs aren’t generally privileged enough to have a bloody nanny follow them around.”

"Aye, she’s got a good heart." There’s no disguising the fondness in his voice. "She’s quite excited to have you here, I think. She’s never seen an Englishwoman up close before, God bless her." It’s hard to sit still when he knows that she’s looking at his scars; even after all this time, his first impulse is still to jerk away. But it’s nothing more than routine, and Pyotr forces himself to stay seated. To distract himself, he looks over his shoulder at Kathy’s Highlander watchdog, grins, and shouts a Gaelic greeting in the man’s direction. "It’s only wee Angus, mistress," he assures her in his normal tone of voice. "There’re worse men Uncle Colum could’ve assigned to you."

Kathy laughs quietly. “I’m hardly a prime example of an Englishwoman.” Not the kind of Englishwoman that belongs to this age, this England. “Yes,” she admits after a moment, tying off the ends of the fresh bandage. “There are worse. But there are also better. He could have left me unwatched, for one. I’m no threat to him.” She leans back and surveys her handiwork, then meets Pyotr’s gaze. “They don’t trust me.”

"Do you expect him to? You’re an Englishwoman who showed up on Mackenzie land without any warning, records, or identification. You ken things about healing that nobody ‘round here does. I’ve been to Paris, studied at the Université—which, you’ve got to have heard, has the best school in Europe for these things—and I’ve never seen anything like what you ken.” He uses his good arm to grab his shirt again and pull it back on, and rests back against the wall of stable. “You’re a mystery to us all, Mistress Moran. And until the mystery is cracked,” he gestures with his head to the young man observing them from a distance, “Wee Angus remains. It’s the best you’re likely to get in the circumstances.”

"There’s no mystery." It takes every ounce of her self-control to not snap the words. "It’s plants, not magic. If you’ve been to the best university, you must know that." She uncovers the rest of the basket and takes a clump of cheese, looking back at the aforementioned wee Angus. "If I were a spy," she says softly, "Would I want to leave so badly?"

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy picks up his shirt and holds it out to him, groping for the reassuring smile that she’s tailored for soldiers and their families. It comes a tad more strained than usual, but honest all the same. “I’d like to see them changed twice a day, though three times is best. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange something for tomorrow.” She doubts that she’ll have anything better to do, and she would have sought Pyotr out anyway. He’s the closest thing she has to a kind face here, other than Mrs. Fitz.

Pyotr has grown up in a world of violence and war, and he knows all too well not to believe in promises and pretty smiles. But there’s honesty and genuineness in Kathy’s even so, and he can’t begrudge her that. “Thank you,” he says, the words simple and heart-felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He manages to pull the shirt back on one-handed and makes his way over to the door, pausing briefly at the exit. “Goodnight.”

He, alongside with Murtagh, is out in the stables early the next morning. Working one-handed simply isn’t an option, he quickly discovers, so Pyotr gets rid of the belt-sling before ten in the morning. After the requisite round of feeding and combing the Mackenzie’s horses, he and Murtagh turns to work breaking in the new foal. Whatever the throbbing and aching in his arm, it doesn’t appear to be bleeding again—and that means he can work through the injury. Kathy can scold him however she likes when she eventually comes to change his bandages; Pyotr just does what he has to do.

Kathy doesn’t know if she’s being followed or simply succumbing to paranoia, and she looks over her shoulder more often than necessary as she follows Mrs. Fitz’s directions to the stables. By the time she’s at the low gates, however, she becomes certain that there’s someone on her tail. A short conversation with the man does little to discourage him, though — orders are orders, especially those coming fro Dougal himself. Even though Kathy feels insulted, she has to admit that she’s not completely surprised.

The sight of Pyotr with the horse brings a smile to her face. She watches for a minute or so, frowning slightly at the recklessness with the injury, and finally steps forward. The foal startles at the movement. Kathy shoots Pyotr an apologetic look, holding the basket in front of herself like a peace offering. “I’ve come to bring you lunch and change the bandages, but it seems that I’ve managed to get in the way of your work.”

Pyotr takes a moment to soothe the foal, stroking its head and murmuring in Gaelic, before he hands the job over to Murtagh and flashes Kathy a brilliant smile. “Not at all. She’s a bit skittish of strangers just yet, that’s all.” Flushed and practically glowing with life and vitality, he walks over and hefts the basket on his good arm. “Come round to the far end of the stables with me,” he invites, his eyes flitting briefly to the man evidently appointed as her watchdog. “We’ll have a bit of a picnic and you can check I haven’t done any damage to myself yet.”

"With the way you’re chasing that horse, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t heal for months," Kathy says dryly, but makes her way to the stables anyway. Her escort, thankfully, lingers behind. "I’ll check the wounds first, then we’ll eat." She shrugs off the thick shawl and lays it over the hay, then reaches for the basket to set out her equipment. She’s more relaxed than she had been the last time they saw each other, more at home with the hope that she won’t be sticking around for long. Her smile lights up her face with warmth. "You look to be in good spirits."

"Small price to pay. That horse is going to be beautiful by the time we’re finished with it." He pulls off his jacket and lays it on the hay by the shawl; his shirt, he shrugs off and hangs on a nail sticking out of the stable wall. Pyotr likes this warm, relaxed Kathy even more than the one he met yesterday, he decides; even if her accent still jars discordantly among the earthier voices of Castle Leoch, she looks a little more at-home in her surroundings, a little less likely to burst into tears at any minute. "You’re looking to be a wee bit happier yourself," he observes, sitting down on the covered hay and smiling brightly up at her. "Mrs. Fitz is quite taken with you, y’ken."

She immediately sets to work unwrapping the bandages. Pyotr’s scars are even more gruesome in the light of day, but she doesn’t spare them more than a few glances. His smile, though, is a bit harder to look away from. “Mrs. Fitz is one of the few who doesn’t look at me like I’m a new and fascinating species of bug,” Kathy tells him, tone light. “It’s enough to brighten anyone’s day, really. Except for the fact that bugs aren’t generally privileged enough to have a bloody nanny follow them around.”

"Aye, she’s got a good heart." There’s no disguising the fondness in his voice. "She’s quite excited to have you here, I think. She’s never seen an Englishwoman up close before, God bless her." It’s hard to sit still when he knows that she’s looking at his scars; even after all this time, his first impulse is still to jerk away. But it’s nothing more than routine, and Pyotr forces himself to stay seated. To distract himself, he looks over his shoulder at Kathy’s Highlander watchdog, grins, and shouts a Gaelic greeting in the man’s direction. "It’s only wee Angus, mistress," he assures her in his normal tone of voice. "There’re worse men Uncle Colum could’ve assigned to you."

Kathy laughs quietly. “I’m hardly a prime example of an Englishwoman.” Not the kind of Englishwoman that belongs to this age, this England. “Yes,” she admits after a moment, tying off the ends of the fresh bandage. “There are worse. But there are also better. He could have left me unwatched, for one. I’m no threat to him.” She leans back and surveys her handiwork, then meets Pyotr’s gaze. “They don’t trust me.”

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy picks up his shirt and holds it out to him, groping for the reassuring smile that she’s tailored for soldiers and their families. It comes a tad more strained than usual, but honest all the same. “I’d like to see them changed twice a day, though three times is best. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange something for tomorrow.” She doubts that she’ll have anything better to do, and she would have sought Pyotr out anyway. He’s the closest thing she has to a kind face here, other than Mrs. Fitz.

Pyotr has grown up in a world of violence and war, and he knows all too well not to believe in promises and pretty smiles. But there’s honesty and genuineness in Kathy’s even so, and he can’t begrudge her that. “Thank you,” he says, the words simple and heart-felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He manages to pull the shirt back on one-handed and makes his way over to the door, pausing briefly at the exit. “Goodnight.”

He, alongside with Murtagh, is out in the stables early the next morning. Working one-handed simply isn’t an option, he quickly discovers, so Pyotr gets rid of the belt-sling before ten in the morning. After the requisite round of feeding and combing the Mackenzie’s horses, he and Murtagh turns to work breaking in the new foal. Whatever the throbbing and aching in his arm, it doesn’t appear to be bleeding again—and that means he can work through the injury. Kathy can scold him however she likes when she eventually comes to change his bandages; Pyotr just does what he has to do.

Kathy doesn’t know if she’s being followed or simply succumbing to paranoia, and she looks over her shoulder more often than necessary as she follows Mrs. Fitz’s directions to the stables. By the time she’s at the low gates, however, she becomes certain that there’s someone on her tail. A short conversation with the man does little to discourage him, though — orders are orders, especially those coming fro Dougal himself. Even though Kathy feels insulted, she has to admit that she’s not completely surprised.

The sight of Pyotr with the horse brings a smile to her face. She watches for a minute or so, frowning slightly at the recklessness with the injury, and finally steps forward. The foal startles at the movement. Kathy shoots Pyotr an apologetic look, holding the basket in front of herself like a peace offering. “I’ve come to bring you lunch and change the bandages, but it seems that I’ve managed to get in the way of your work.”

Pyotr takes a moment to soothe the foal, stroking its head and murmuring in Gaelic, before he hands the job over to Murtagh and flashes Kathy a brilliant smile. “Not at all. She’s a bit skittish of strangers just yet, that’s all.” Flushed and practically glowing with life and vitality, he walks over and hefts the basket on his good arm. “Come round to the far end of the stables with me,” he invites, his eyes flitting briefly to the man evidently appointed as her watchdog. “We’ll have a bit of a picnic and you can check I haven’t done any damage to myself yet.”

"With the way you’re chasing that horse, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t heal for months," Kathy says dryly, but makes her way to the stables anyway. Her escort, thankfully, lingers behind. "I’ll check the wounds first, then we’ll eat." She shrugs off the thick shawl and lays it over the hay, then reaches for the basket to set out her equipment. She’s more relaxed than she had been the last time they saw each other, more at home with the hope that she won’t be sticking around for long. Her smile lights up her face with warmth. "You look to be in good spirits."

"Small price to pay. That horse is going to be beautiful by the time we’re finished with it." He pulls off his jacket and lays it on the hay by the shawl; his shirt, he shrugs off and hangs on a nail sticking out of the stable wall. Pyotr likes this warm, relaxed Kathy even more than the one he met yesterday, he decides; even if her accent still jars discordantly among the earthier voices of Castle Leoch, she looks a little more at-home in her surroundings, a little less likely to burst into tears at any minute. "You’re looking to be a wee bit happier yourself," he observes, sitting down on the covered hay and smiling brightly up at her. "Mrs. Fitz is quite taken with you, y’ken."

She immediately sets to work unwrapping the bandages. Pyotr’s scars are even more gruesome in the light of day, but she doesn’t spare them more than a few glances. His smile, though, is a bit harder to look away from. “Mrs. Fitz is one of the few who doesn’t look at me like I’m a new and fascinating species of bug,” Kathy tells him, tone light. “It’s enough to brighten anyone’s day, really. Except for the fact that bugs aren’t generally privileged enough to have a bloody nanny follow them around.”

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy picks up his shirt and holds it out to him, groping for the reassuring smile that she’s tailored for soldiers and their families. It comes a tad more strained than usual, but honest all the same. “I’d like to see them changed twice a day, though three times is best. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange something for tomorrow.” She doubts that she’ll have anything better to do, and she would have sought Pyotr out anyway. He’s the closest thing she has to a kind face here, other than Mrs. Fitz.

Pyotr has grown up in a world of violence and war, and he knows all too well not to believe in promises and pretty smiles. But there’s honesty and genuineness in Kathy’s even so, and he can’t begrudge her that. “Thank you,” he says, the words simple and heart-felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He manages to pull the shirt back on one-handed and makes his way over to the door, pausing briefly at the exit. “Goodnight.”

He, alongside with Murtagh, is out in the stables early the next morning. Working one-handed simply isn’t an option, he quickly discovers, so Pyotr gets rid of the belt-sling before ten in the morning. After the requisite round of feeding and combing the Mackenzie’s horses, he and Murtagh turns to work breaking in the new foal. Whatever the throbbing and aching in his arm, it doesn’t appear to be bleeding again—and that means he can work through the injury. Kathy can scold him however she likes when she eventually comes to change his bandages; Pyotr just does what he has to do.

Kathy doesn’t know if she’s being followed or simply succumbing to paranoia, and she looks over her shoulder more often than necessary as she follows Mrs. Fitz’s directions to the stables. By the time she’s at the low gates, however, she becomes certain that there’s someone on her tail. A short conversation with the man does little to discourage him, though — orders are orders, especially those coming fro Dougal himself. Even though Kathy feels insulted, she has to admit that she’s not completely surprised.

The sight of Pyotr with the horse brings a smile to her face. She watches for a minute or so, frowning slightly at the recklessness with the injury, and finally steps forward. The foal startles at the movement. Kathy shoots Pyotr an apologetic look, holding the basket in front of herself like a peace offering. “I’ve come to bring you lunch and change the bandages, but it seems that I’ve managed to get in the way of your work.”

Pyotr takes a moment to soothe the foal, stroking its head and murmuring in Gaelic, before he hands the job over to Murtagh and flashes Kathy a brilliant smile. “Not at all. She’s a bit skittish of strangers just yet, that’s all.” Flushed and practically glowing with life and vitality, he walks over and hefts the basket on his good arm. “Come round to the far end of the stables with me,” he invites, his eyes flitting briefly to the man evidently appointed as her watchdog. “We’ll have a bit of a picnic and you can check I haven’t done any damage to myself yet.”

"With the way you’re chasing that horse, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t heal for months," Kathy says dryly, but makes her way to the stables anyway. Her escort, thankfully, lingers behind. "I’ll check the wounds first, then we’ll eat." She shrugs off the thick shawl and lays it over the hay, then reaches for the basket to set out her equipment. She’s more relaxed than she had been the last time they saw each other, more at home with the hope that she won’t be sticking around for long. Her smile lights up her face with warmth. "You look to be in good spirits."

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy picks up his shirt and holds it out to him, groping for the reassuring smile that she’s tailored for soldiers and their families. It comes a tad more strained than usual, but honest all the same. “I’d like to see them changed twice a day, though three times is best. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange something for tomorrow.” She doubts that she’ll have anything better to do, and she would have sought Pyotr out anyway. He’s the closest thing she has to a kind face here, other than Mrs. Fitz.

Pyotr has grown up in a world of violence and war, and he knows all too well not to believe in promises and pretty smiles. But there’s honesty and genuineness in Kathy’s even so, and he can’t begrudge her that. “Thank you,” he says, the words simple and heart-felt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He manages to pull the shirt back on one-handed and makes his way over to the door, pausing briefly at the exit. “Goodnight.”

He, alongside with Murtagh, is out in the stables early the next morning. Working one-handed simply isn’t an option, he quickly discovers, so Pyotr gets rid of the belt-sling before ten in the morning. After the requisite round of feeding and combing the Mackenzie’s horses, he and Murtagh turns to work breaking in the new foal. Whatever the throbbing and aching in his arm, it doesn’t appear to be bleeding again—and that means he can work through the injury. Kathy can scold him however she likes when she eventually comes to change his bandages; Pyotr just does what he has to do.

Kathy doesn’t know if she’s being followed or simply succumbing to paranoia, and she looks over her shoulder more often than necessary as she follows Mrs. Fitz’s directions to the stables. By the time she’s at the low gates, however, she becomes certain that there’s someone on her tail. A short conversation with the man does little to discourage him, though — orders are orders, especially those coming fro Dougal himself. Even though Kathy feels insulted, she has to admit that she’s not completely surprised.

The sight of Pyotr with the horse brings a smile to her face. She watches for a minute or so, frowning slightly at the recklessness with the injury, and finally steps forward. The foal startles at the movement. Kathy shoots Pyotr an apologetic look, holding the basket in front of herself like a peace offering. “I’ve come to bring you lunch and change the bandages, but it seems that I’ve managed to get in the way of your work.”

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy hesitates, and her hand stills. She doesn’t remember enough history to know whether there are any raids on English towns, though she doubts that there were, “I don’t know,” she says when the silence stretches too long, threatening to give her away. It’s one of the most honest answers she’s given him. “I do know that it isn’t right, what they’re doing. And you didn’t deserve this cruelty.” She brushes her fingertip over his back, then takes it away before he can react.

Pyotr falls silent for a minute, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the darkened room. He knows his uncles are suspicious of her—knows that Dougal suspects her to be a spy, knows that Colum hadn’t been pleased with her answers in their interview. He knows that the promise of passage to Inverness doesn’t mean anything; Colum won’t let her go until he’s satisfied of her loyalties. Pyotr knows there’s a reason for it, and he knows his uncles are wise men, and he’s in no position to go against them. Something isn’t right about this woman, he’s sure of that. She is hiding something, but does that make her an English spy? Pyotr doubts it. ”Any more than you deserve this misfortune,” he finally answers. “Dougal told me what happened in the woods with Randall. Must have been quite an…unpleasant shock for you.”

Kathy snorts quietly, humourless and grim. She begins applying the salve she’d managed to find to the open wound. It gives her something to focus on. “That seems like a flimsy description for a near rape.” Her tone lacks reproach, but it’s not as steady as it was. “I only wish that I could leave already, go home. I appreciate the hospitality, of course, but I—” Something sharp and heavy lodges itself in her throat, and she has to inhale deeply before blurting out, “Christ, I miss my husband.”

Pyotr’s heart twists slightly at the knowledge that Kathy won’t be leaving when she expects to, but he keeps quiet on that. It might be cruel to Kathy, but it will only create more problems and strife if she knows early-on about Colum’s deception. “Why isn’t your husband traveling with you?” he asks. He hadn’t noticed the ring on her finger in the chaos of their meeting, but it’s no surprise to learn she is (or maybe was) married. She has to be, a beautiful woman of her age. “Are you a widow, mistress?”

Done with the salve, she pulls out the clean bandages, and studiously avoids Pyotr’s gaze. She doesn’t really want to lie to him; of all the clansmen, he’s the only one who’s been unfailingly and consistently kind to her. But then, the crushing pressure in her chest reminds me that there are no guarantees about seeing Frank again. “My husband’s not alive,” she forces out. He hasn’t been born yet. But phrasing it like that doesn’t make it feel any more like that truth, and it only brings a wave of tears to prickle at her eyes. She swears under her breath, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her wrist, one hand still on Pyotr’s shoulder.

The phrasing is peculiar, and if it weren’t for Kathy’s tears, Pyotr probably would have prodded the matter further. But she’s obviously on the verge of crying, and he’s not fully sure of what to do. He’s never even heard a lady swear before now. Does she want to be comforted? Or would she rather he just pretend she weren’t crying at all? The latter sounds too heartless for words. So he rises to his feet and places a gentle hand on her arm—light enough that she could easily push him off, if that’s what she wants. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he whispers. “And I know this is probably the last place in the world you want to be right now. But I think you should know you’ve nothing to fear here. As long as I’m here, I’ll see you’re protected and safe. I promise.”

Kathy gives another choked laugh. The tears are coming in earnest now, and she can’t help leaning into Pyotr’s touch, blindly seeking some comfort in such a comfortless place. And what if you’re not here? she wants to ask him, but she can’t get the words out. She hates herself for crying, just a little. She has seen far worse, it seems, and shouldn’t be fazed. But this is the first time in her life that she’s been so well and truly alone, in such a foreign place, and she is not strong enough to handle it. So she cries.

Heedless of the injured shoulder and arm, he hugs her, his body warm and strong against hers. This is remarkably improper, and if anyone were to walk in, Kathy’s reputation with the Mackenzies would likely be ruined forever. But there’s a difference between lascivious intent and comforting a crying woman, and Pyotr knows for himself, at least, on which side his behaviour falls. “I think you’d best get to sleep,” he suggests after a few seconds, disengaging from their contact. “You’ve had the day from hell and you must be exhausted.” He smiles reassuringly. “Things’ll seem brighter and more manageable in the morning, sassenach. They always do.”

Kathy flushes with embarrassment when Pyotr starts pulling away, grimacing silently to herself. The impropriety of the scene doesn’t bother her, but she is not so pleased about appearing so weak in front of someone she barely knows. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She looks up to the realization that Pyotr’s face is only centimeters away. She can make out each individual eyelash, count the freckles — it’s disorienting, and it takes her far too long to blink and stop staring. “Thank you,” she says at last. “How are — how do the bandages feel?”

His heart beating rapidly against his ribs, Pyotr locks eyes with her, a warm flush spreading through his cheeks. It’s not the first time a girl has stared at him so intently; he knows that, even with the deformity of his back, he’s a bonny lad. But he’s never liked the look of a woman this much before in return, and the prospect fills him with untold excitement. But then he remembers that she’s just been crying over her dead husband, and wants to slap himself for his arrogance. As a precaution, Pyotr steps back by a pace and clears his throat. “—Good,” he says a bit belatedly, flexing his arm for show. “But how often do these need to be changed? Because I’m working in the stables from dawn tomorrow.”

Kathy picks up his shirt and holds it out to him, groping for the reassuring smile that she’s tailored for soldiers and their families. It comes a tad more strained than usual, but honest all the same. “I’d like to see them changed twice a day, though three times is best. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange something for tomorrow.” She doubts that she’ll have anything better to do, and she would have sought Pyotr out anyway. He’s the closest thing she has to a kind face here, other than Mrs. Fitz.

Sing Me a Song ~ Kathy & Pyotr (Outlander AU)

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

pyotrfyodorovich:

kathymoran:

Kathy hesitates, and her hand stills. She doesn’t remember enough history to know whether there are any raids on English towns, though she doubts that there were, “I don’t know,” she says when the silence stretches too long, threatening to give her away. It’s one of the most honest answers she’s given him. “I do know that it isn’t right, what they’re doing. And you didn’t deserve this cruelty.” She brushes her fingertip over his back, then takes it away before he can react.

Pyotr falls silent for a minute, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the darkened room. He knows his uncles are suspicious of her—knows that Dougal suspects her to be a spy, knows that Colum hadn’t been pleased with her answers in their interview. He knows that the promise of passage to Inverness doesn’t mean anything; Colum won’t let her go until he’s satisfied of her loyalties. Pyotr knows there’s a reason for it, and he knows his uncles are wise men, and he’s in no position to go against them. Something isn’t right about this woman, he’s sure of that. She is hiding something, but does that make her an English spy? Pyotr doubts it. ”Any more than you deserve this misfortune,” he finally answers. “Dougal told me what happened in the woods with Randall. Must have been quite an…unpleasant shock for you.”

Kathy snorts quietly, humourless and grim. She begins applying the salve she’d managed to find to the open wound. It gives her something to focus on. “That seems like a flimsy description for a near rape.” Her tone lacks reproach, but it’s not as steady as it was. “I only wish that I could leave already, go home. I appreciate the hospitality, of course, but I—” Something sharp and heavy lodges itself in her throat, and she has to inhale deeply before blurting out, “Christ, I miss my husband.”

Pyotr’s heart twists slightly at the knowledge that Kathy won’t be leaving when she expects to, but he keeps quiet on that. It might be cruel to Kathy, but it will only create more problems and strife if she knows early-on about Colum’s deception. “Why isn’t your husband traveling with you?” he asks. He hadn’t noticed the ring on her finger in the chaos of their meeting, but it’s no surprise to learn she is (or maybe was) married. She has to be, a beautiful woman of her age. “Are you a widow, mistress?”

Done with the salve, she pulls out the clean bandages, and studiously avoids Pyotr’s gaze. She doesn’t really want to lie to him; of all the clansmen, he’s the only one who’s been unfailingly and consistently kind to her. But then, the crushing pressure in her chest reminds me that there are no guarantees about seeing Frank again. “My husband’s not alive,” she forces out. He hasn’t been born yet. But phrasing it like that doesn’t make it feel any more like that truth, and it only brings a wave of tears to prickle at her eyes. She swears under her breath, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her wrist, one hand still on Pyotr’s shoulder.

The phrasing is peculiar, and if it weren’t for Kathy’s tears, Pyotr probably would have prodded the matter further. But she’s obviously on the verge of crying, and he’s not fully sure of what to do. He’s never even heard a lady swear before now. Does she want to be comforted? Or would she rather he just pretend she weren’t crying at all? The latter sounds too heartless for words. So he rises to his feet and places a gentle hand on her arm—light enough that she could easily push him off, if that’s what she wants. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he whispers. “And I know this is probably the last place in the world you want to be right now. But I think you should know you’ve nothing to fear here. As long as I’m here, I’ll see you’re protected and safe. I promise.”

Kathy gives another choked laugh. The tears are coming in earnest now, and she can’t help leaning into Pyotr’s touch, blindly seeking some comfort in such a comfortless place. And what if you’re not here? she wants to ask him, but she can’t get the words out. She hates herself for crying, just a little. She has seen far worse, it seems, and shouldn’t be fazed. But this is the first time in her life that she’s been so well and truly alone, in such a foreign place, and she is not strong enough to handle it. So she cries.

Heedless of the injured shoulder and arm, he hugs her, his body warm and strong against hers. This is remarkably improper, and if anyone were to walk in, Kathy’s reputation with the Mackenzies would likely be ruined forever. But there’s a difference between lascivious intent and comforting a crying woman, and Pyotr knows for himself, at least, on which side his behaviour falls. “I think you’d best get to sleep,” he suggests after a few seconds, disengaging from their contact. “You’ve had the day from hell and you must be exhausted.” He smiles reassuringly. “Things’ll seem brighter and more manageable in the morning, sassenach. They always do.”

Kathy flushes with embarrassment when Pyotr starts pulling away, grimacing silently to herself. The impropriety of the scene doesn’t bother her, but she is not so pleased about appearing so weak in front of someone she barely knows. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She looks up to the realization that Pyotr’s face is only centimeters away. She can make out each individual eyelash, count the freckles — it’s disorienting, and it takes her far too long to blink and stop staring. “Thank you,” she says at last. “How are — how do the bandages feel?”