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Frank would not lie and say he had entirely believed Claire when she appeared out of nowhere after three years looking entirely distraught and so so thin. He did not believe the tale of Redcoats and Highlanders and The Bonnie Prince and deadly battle. He did not believe the notion of fairy stones and time travel, they were just rocks for fuck’s sake.
He certainly had been surprised when she told him she was pregnant. That had stopped him in his tracks.
Pregnant. And there was no earthly way it was his.
He was however, ashamed to say he had entirely lost his temper and destroyed some of the Reverend's things. That was inexcusable in his eyes, no matter how many times Reverend Wakefield assured him it was a bunch of junk in a storage shed.
But Claire… and Bree. Brianna. The most wonderful thing he had ever seen. Even with her bright blue eyes and red hair that got so many strange looks because she looked absolutely nothing like either of her parents. The bloody Scot was still there, lurking over his shoulder. With Claire and sweet Bree. Even though Bree had absolutely no idea.
So here he was 10 years after Bree’s birth, sitting in his office with his lovely girl while Claire was in class. It was here he sat as Bree sat and read quietly as his entire world narrowed in on the letter in his hand,
“... I tend not to buy into this, I really don’t. But even you must admit that the Stuart Witch looks an awful lot like your Claire…”
His Claire. He scoffed internally before that familiar feeling of dread started to choke him. She hadn’t been his Claire since she disappeared.
“I have inclosed a copy of the painting of which I speak…”
His hands shook as he shuffled the pages of the Reverend's letter, even as he looked to see that Bree was still happily occupied on the couch with her book. He was afraid to look.
As he uncovered the picture the air rushed from his lungs with a woosh. There she was smiling up at him from the picture and his heart finally and fully cracked in two.
Claire. It was her. He had no doubt. Even with her curls tamed back into a low bun he could tell. The golden eyes left no room for doubt. And there she was, Wearing an arisaid of the Fraser plaid.
Fraser. And standing next to her, The Bloody Scot. There he was in all his Highland glory. James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser. The other man in his marriage bed so to speak.
Frank held his breath as he took him in, the height he saw as a promise in the long limbs of Bree. The blue cat eyes and square jaw. The flaming hair.
He looked up and saw all of that in Bree. Sitting across the room on the couch.
He also saw how the painting capture exactly how James Fraser looked at his wife. The Stuart Witch. Claire. Claire Fraser in any case.
The Fraser Tartan of Red Jamie blurred as tears came unbidden to his eyes. He drew in a shaking breath that rattled in his chest like he truly had gone hollow.
“Daddy, are you ok?” Bree asked, worriedly
“I’m fine my beauty, back to your reading, I am almost finished here.”
She looked unconvinced, and as though she were about to get up, but saw something in his eyes that made her stay seated.
“... It was painted sometime around Christmas of 1744. Prince Charlie commissioned paintings of all his commanding officers to celebrate Christmas and was sure the paintings would be hung up as soon as he restored his Father to the throne. Thought you might want to know.”
Honestly, Frank really hadn’t.