After No Man Is an Island, Isobel brings Hamish home.
Before he’d been ashore five minutes, someone started telling him he really had to see to old Anna, did he know what she’d been at, up in that cottage of hers? And someone else asked what he meant to do, Hamish, about the bicycles, Hamish, shouldn’t he see to that, Hamish, as it was a living disgrace, Hamish, really it was. The air was salt and chill on his skin and he was tired and sore, and they’d wear a man to death with their schemes and their feuds and their pet problems, and he loved the place like it was the whole of the earth. He felt like Lazarus.
A fic that is almost certain to get fewer reads than even the Talisman slash (which itself has fewer reads than the One Foot in the Grave femmeslash (!)). But it is finished which makes it better off than all the other little fuckers messing with me these days.
Crossposted from http://merripestin.dreamwidth.org/5841.html