Loss (Act II), Part Twenty-Four


This part would not exist without @holdhertightandsayhername​, who sat up with me until god knows what time in France encouraging me through the swamp of it, @sassenachwaffles​, who as always knows when I’m rushing and need to give things time to breathe, @kkruml​, who calls me out in the kindest/sweetest way possible when I’m not telling this story in the best way I can, and @thefraserwitch​, who keeps me in stitches with her reactions.

I hope that you love this part as much as I’ve come to love it. We’re coming to the end of this act, and I’m a little sad, but excited for you to see how it ends.

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 | Part Twenty-One | Part  Twenty-Two | Part Twenty-Three

Loss (Act II)
Part Twenty-Four
(Jamie P.O.V.)

Though I had never been much of a partier, Claire Beauchamp turned me into a homebody early in our relationship.

It started with weeknights on her couch in our early days together.

Watching movies. (Her film suggestions were so obscure that tracking one down had required the purchase of a creaky, dust-covered VHS player from a thrift shop that moaned when she hit “rewind.” The blockbusters that I suggested so ubiquitous that I could not hide my exasperation when she asked who certain stars were, and I echoed, “Really?”)

Reading to each other aloud. (Draped across or wound around one another on various surfaces. My bed and her declaration that Harry Potter was her least favorite character in the eponymous series met by a disgust so visceral that it took me a moment to recover.  A pile of blankets on her living room floor, Claire getting onto all fours and crawling for my messenger bag with her knickers pressed into the crease of her buttocks, insistent that we finish off a chapter before I took her to bed.)  

Flipping through file folders of take home work projects before dinner. (Her body migrating closer to me across the couch – closer and closer until I could read the indecipherable text of her medical journals and feel her stomach’s quiet grumble of protest at a skipped lunch.)

The first time she asked me to stay over on a weeknight. (Her sleepy fingers pulled me to my feet, eyes gone a mellow whisky – though surprisingly vibrant, vigorously stubborn, and commanding in its oakiness. I stuttered an uneasy, “Are ye sure, Sassenach?” The roll of her eyes as she said, “Of course.”)

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