Loss (Act II), Part Twenty-One

missclairebelle:

This chapter was the hardest one to write of any of the stuff thats come before.  The content that is here was easy. It was difficult because this is the third version I wrote. There’s a group that needs my love: @notevenjokingfic keeps me honest, gives it to me straight, and then walks me through the land mines of self doubt that I plant for myself. @balfeheughlywed holds my hand when I’m ready to walk away, and gives me the tools to figure out the questions I already have the answer to. @sassenachwaffles helps me pick up the pieces that need to breathe, finds the holes, and calls out the parts that are easier left unsaid. @thefraserwitch gets some solid cred for editing the previous version of Part Twenty-One that will become Parts Twenty-Two and Twenty-Three. Without further ado, I hope that this was worth the wait. xx.

;nsfw well beneath the cut.


Loss: Act I and ficlets

Loss: Act II: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight| Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen |  Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen | Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen |  Part Nineteen | Part Twenty


Loss (Act II)
Part Twenty-One

One more night in California.

A single sunrise and a discrete list of chores separated us from our departure.  A night of packing, laundry, binning unneeded and unwanted things, tidying the lived-in places of the bungalow, and polishing off half-finished bottles of semi-stale red wine.  

Before turning in for the night, we would set an alarm even though our bodies were clocks and compasses primed to gravitate towards home at the earliest possible opportunity.

In twenty-four hours, I would be home.

We would be home.

In five days, I would be right back in the thick of things at work.  

Seeing patients.  Surgeries.  Shifts on call.  Participating in the administration of the department as a shadow to my mentor.  

Curled up with my back on the couch and my laptop perched on my stomach, I finalized via email the details of my return as Jamie’s fingers attempted to wheedle their way into my waistband. The metronome of his peppermint-sweet breath ticked a perfect inhale-exhale-inhale rhythm against on my skin.

Within that perfect pattern existed a well of his temperance and restraint, my well for the same having readily run dry.  “Stop,” I mumbled, adjusting my computer and twisting my hips away from him.  “I need to get these few things wrapped up before we go.  It’s like my entire practice falls apart when I’m not there.”

He hummed a discontented noise, moving his digits to march as perfectly rebellious soldiers along the inseam of my jeans. I watched the procession with no small amount of interest.  (The scar on his middle finger had faded from an angry red to an undefined purple.  Soon it would be pink, then silver. Eventually it would be visible only to the two of us.)  The calvary advanced north and I gave myself to the featherlight sensation for a moment, my heart rate quickening and throat parching.

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