Loss Ficlet: Five Ways Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp Break In Their New Home (Part 3.0: Windowsill)

missclairebelle:

This is the third in a series of five “the future Mr. and Mrs. James Fraser debacuh their new house” ficlets for @sassenachwaffles. The third location she picked was a windowsill. @kkruml as always deserves props for helping me clean this up. In this installment, she helped identify a certain creepy passage and I will forever be in her debt.

I promised this to @jack-andthestalk as her Saturday evening treat, and I’m delivering! GO ME.

In the timeline this is situated right after Shed (where they agree to buy the house) and before the handfasting/wedding ficlets. Part 1.0 (Stairs) is here and Part 2.0 (Washing Machine) is here.

Do I even need to say this is NSFW?


Five Ways Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp Break In Their New Home
(Part 3.0: Windowsill)
Loss Ficlet
April 2018

I had woken in the night, uncomfortably warm.

The air in our room was thick and I was sticky with sweat from being curled against Jamie under too many blankets.

Extracting myself from Jamie’s embrace and slipping out from the bedding knotted around us, I carefully tucked the blankets back around him. With a quiet grunt, he burrowed his face down, fingers curling into the space where my body had been.

Opening our bedroom window, I breathed deeply and let the cool, damp air paint my skin a pre-midnight dark. With the chill in the early spring air, I cooled almost immediately.  A touch of breeze wicked away the sweat that had pricked up under the curtain of my hair. Skin dried and chilled, I balanced myself carefully on the broad window sill, drawing my legs up and crossing them in front of me.

I cast a look over my shoulder.  Jamie was sound asleep –– nothing more than a mound of slumbering muscle, breathing heavily under layers of bedding. Resting my head against the window pane, I kept my eyes on the sliver of his face that was visible under the duvet.

We had fallen asleep early. He had been called into work before dawn and arrived home late. Making dinner side-by-side, I had felt the tension fade out of him.  In its place rose a bred-in-the-bone weariness. It was an utter exhaustion that threatened to pull him under at any moment.  

With a voice at a low grumble, he told me about his day as he sliced onions. His fingers were sluggish near the blade in a way that made me want to snatch the knife from him, lest I end up trying to do some sort of kitchen table sutures to close up an errant thumb or forefinger.

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