We all know what this weekend is, and we all know how great this con could be, just as we all know it could just as easily be a bloody clusterfuck.
So let us bow our heads and pray that this weekend, in Paris brings everyone, including Sam and Cait, happiness and fun. That this con gives us something to be excited about and gives hope to those that need it.
That there are no ‘surprise hanger ons’ and a break from seeing the walking coat rack and having to watch the awkward interactions, would be nice.
Bless us with some shippery goodness, that we can all smile, squeeze and enjoy all the feels that come with shippery goodness.
One more thing Lord, can you organise they get ‘caught’, if not this weekend, real soon.
Jamie met her in the bedroom as promised. He made love to her but she could tell something was wrong.
Her husband was a very good lover. Incredible, even. When he was lost in her, lost in the moment with nothing on his mind but them, their bodies, and chasing satisfaction, the sex was amazing. When Jamie was ‘present’ he listened to every little thing, her sounds, the way her body reacted, what she wanted. And his kisses. God, his kisses made her weak.
Often, in the operating room, Geillis would start talking about her latest conquest and she’d carry on about whether the guy was good, or selfish, horrible, or sloppy. Claire would silently tune her out thinking about how lucky she was that Jamie wasn’t like that. He was just good in bed, be it rough, or tender. And he was good company afterwards.
Since the kids were born his new motto became “Quality over Quantity, Sassenach!” because quantity wasn’t always possible. They were busier, interruptions were plentiful, and they were generally more tired. All of this led to a natural decrease in intimacy. How many times had she heard a colleague say, “if we just had more sex” as an excuse for an affair or a divorce? Claire was living proof that it was bullshit.
Quality over quantity.
But something had changed between the fire escape and the bedroom.
Jamie was ‘there’ but he just wasn’t ‘present’. He touched her body, but not her soul.
He met her needs, then met his own, but his mind was elsewhere. She could feel it. She could feel it in his kisses that were a little more distant than loving. Could feel it in his caresses that were a little more static than sensuous. Could feel it afterwards, when he held her in cold silence.
“What’s wrong? We had such a nice day at the zoo, and now you’re …. I don’t know.” Claire tried to get him to look at her.
“Nothing. Just tired.” His eyes rested steadfastly on the ceiling.
“Liar,” she whispered.
“Not now, Claire. Be still, aye?”
He hugged her tight for a moment, pressed a kiss on her forehead, and laid a big hand on her head to keep her against his shoulder. She would get no more out of her stubborn Scot tonight. Resigned, Claire closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saturdays were for chores. Market shopping, cleaning bathrooms, hoovering floors, with a nice walk in the late afternoon to round out their family centered weekend. Claire put Henry to bed while Bree and Jamie spent the next hour playing a card game in front of a rugby game on TV.
Bree went to bed at 8:30 feeling rather special.
“Who knew all she needed was a few perks of the job to settle her into the big sister role?” Claire said, laughing as she came downstairs.
Jamie smiled absently, eyes still on the game on TV.
Claire sat next to him on the sofa. She slipped her hand on top of his, pressing her fingers between his, linking hands.
“What is it, Jamie? Why are you upset with me?”
Jamie sighed, and squeezed her hand.
Still looking at the TV, he spoke. “I’ve been thinkin’, since last night, about what ye said. ‘There’ll be no more babies’. And for the past 24 hours I’ve been tryin’ to remember when we had that conversation.” He looked at her then, his eyes a cool blue. “And for the life of me, I canna think of it.”
He let go of her hand.
Claire blanched. She barely remembered making the comment.
“Jamie. Come on. You know my pregnancies are high risk. After Henry was born you said you were grateful that God had given us perfect and healthy children. You said we made a beautiful family.”
“We do make a beautiful family. One of each, so far. But I dinna recall saying that we were a beautiful, finished family.” His eyes were back on the TV.
Claire’s heart started to pound. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. She could not believe what she was hearing. For a man who had forever been in tune with her body he was being ridiculously obtuse right now.
“Jamie. You do know how old I am, right?” She sat up and grabbed the remote, paused the game. “I’m 41! You know the risks of having children after 40! I’m not willing to take that chance. We’ve been blessed, Jamie. Why can’t you be satisfied with what we have?”
“Have ye done something, Claire, that ye didna tell me about?” Jamie decided to get to the meat of his concern.
Claire was confused. “What do you mean?”
“Ye said, ‘there’ll be no more babies”. I ken I’ve not done anything to prevent them. So. That leaves you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So, I ask again, have ye done something that ye didna tell me about?”
Claire sat very still. She didn’t know whether to be angry, insulted or ashamed.
“I’ve done nothing either.”
Jamie made a Scottish noise deep in his throat.
Claire shifted to sit on the large trunk that served as their coffee table. She faced him squarely placing her knees between his. She leaned forward so that her head blocked his view of the TV, forcing him to look at her. She put her hands on his knees, gripping tightly.
“You know what’s so great about being an orphan, Jamie? I have no medical history. None. Zero. No idea whether cancer runs in my family, or high blood pressure. Not to mention the myriad of other things that could develop because I’m a woman, such as fibroids. I don’t know when my mother started menopause. Well, may have started,” she amended. “Because she died before even she could know that.”
Jamie’s lids lowered. He couldn’t imagine.
Claire pressed her lips tight, composing herself so she could continue.
“I don’t know if she had trouble conceiving, or if she ever….ever…miscarried. I have no idea if her pregnancy with me was high risk or not. If she was on bed rest, if she had preeclampsia. No idea if she ever had the risk of placental abruption. Like me.” She took a deep, calming breath. “I want to be done, Jamie. We have two beautiful, healthy children, and I will not tempt fate.”
“Jenny had her last in her forties.”
“Oh, come ON!” Claire lost her temper, throwing her hands into the air. “I am not Jenny! Jenny had no problem with her pregnancies. None.” She ticked the next points off on her fingers, “No trouble conceiving, no trouble carrying. And you know as well as I that if you have a history of healthy pregnancies, there’s no issue for a woman in her forties. And even Jenny was worried with the last one. Not that you’d know.”
He made the mistake of pushing too far.
“Ye promised when we married to accept children lovingly from God!”
“And I have!” she shouted. “For Christ’s sake, Jamie, I have!” She stood up, towering over him for a moment.
“I’ve accepted three children from Him, but maybe the fucking priest should have highlighted the fine print where it said that God could take one back before it was born! No vow said I had to be okay with RETURNING a gift.”
She was visibly shaking now.
“Claire -” He couldn’t have regretted his words more than he did right then.
“No. Stop. I don’t want to hear it right now.”
She walked over to the kitchen, pressing her hands to her head, flattening the curls. “I need to make a dish for Sunday dinner at Lallybroch,” she mumbled.
She rested her hands on the kitchen counter and spoke to him one last time.
“I don’t want to fight. I don’t. But dammit, Jamie, you need to think. I carry these children, not you. It’s my body that gets big and bulky, my back that gets sore. It’s my age we have to contend with. And my anxiety over every twinge, every pain, every cramp. My being forced to bed rest. And I can’t anymore. I physically cannot.”
Her caramel coloured eyes were swimming in tears.
“And for the record, he gave us two girls, and one boy. Not ‘one of each’”.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jamie stood by the fence at Lallybroch watching the horses.
Sunday dinner was the usual. Loud. Chaotic. But he hadn’t enjoyed it. The tension with his wife was eating away at him.
Claire had made what she needed to contribute to the dinner and had gone to bed. He’d heard her sniffing while she cooked. He knew she was crying. And it made him feel bad. She would always blame herself for Faith regardless of what the doctors said; regardless of what she knew as a doctor. He also knew she worried during her pregnancies. He knew she hated the bed rest, especially when she was carrying Henry because she couldn’t play with Bree or do the things she wanted with her. And yet he still didn’t get off the damn couch to fix the situation.
He needed to say he was sorry, but he hesitated. And it took him well past midnight to figure out why. He needed to grieve first.
Jamie turned and looked down the hill at Lallybroch. He watched as Claire came out the back door, basket on her arm, heading toward the kitchen garden. And he made up his mind right then and there.
His long strides carried him down the hill and through the gate. When he reached Claire he softly took her hand, and lifted her chin up so she was looking at him.
“Come wi’ me?” he asked softly.
She nodded.
He walked her back up towards where he had been standing, entwining his fingers with hers.
“I had envisioned having a entire team of kids, when I was a lad. An even dozen.” He huffed in embarrassment. “I dinna ken what I was thinkin’. That’s a lot to ask of a woman.” He raised an eyebrow at Claire and she smiled.
“I wanted a big house with lots of noise, and room to roam. This house, if I’m honest,” he waved a hand around the property, “but it wasna long before I realized that was impossible, but still. Dreams die hard, aye?”
They’d reached the fence again, and Jamie turned towards his wife, and gently placed his hands on her waist. She grasped his shoulders in confusion. He lifted her up, and placed her on the fence rail. She wobbled a bit, clutched at him and laughed. He leaned in and kissed her, gently.
“When we were marrit, Claire, I was 23. Everything I wanted was all there, right in my hands. We were young, and healthy, and in love. But we never conceived. Five years, and nothing. A miscarriage on a fateful Valentine’s Day.”
He wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
“I was as heartbroken as ye were. But,” he said doggedly, “we kept trying and finally, Faith. And we went home empty handed. My dream…” Jamie stopped to clear his throat. “My dream floated away with every year that passed childless. Finally, Bree. And then six years of barrenness. Again. And then Henry, our final miracle.”
“Jamie-” she whispered.
“Nay, Claire, let me speak, aye?” He swallowed hard. “Every month that passed without a child in your womb I watched ye become more and more disappointed. I watched ye embrace life as Bree’s mother, and as a doctor.”
“And now I’m embarrassed at my own selfishness.”
Claire reached out and hugged her husband tight, brought his bright red head against her chest and held him there. “Dreams die hard,” she whispered into his ear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “Sorry for accusing ye of something ye hadna done. Sorry for being an absolute arse over the whole situation. I should have just asked ye what ye meant back when ye said it instead of lettin’ it fester. I kent the truth of it, in my heart. I just didna want to face it I guess, and I lashed out.”
Jamie looked at her, pushed a curl behind her ear. “Can ye forgive me?”
“Forgiven,” Claire said, and kissed the tip of his nose.
Jamie lifted his head and gave his wife a long, lingering kiss.
“And now,” he said, smiling against her lips, “I believe it’s time to take my perfect family home.”
“Did you sleep well, Fraser?” Claire asked causally, as Jamie
entered her kitchen, barefooted but respectfully wearing a large t-shirt and
loose sweat pants. She knew painfully well that he preferred to sleep – and sometimes
walk around the house – only in his underwear or even naked.
He shrugged without saying a word and patted Adso, who was nagging
Claire in order to conquer an early breakfast, since both the night and his
appetite had been extensive. Throughout
the dark hours, Claire had heard Jamie trashing in the bedroom adjacent to her
own, the spring mattress being on the overused and whinny side, so the question
had been fundamentally rhetorical.
“Did ye make coffee already?” He asked in a very hoarse voice, as if
his vocal cords weren’t entirely aware of his wakefulness.
“Yes.” Claire smiled smugly, presenting him with a huge glass,
filled to the brim with a green and viscous liquid. “And you can have a bucket, as soon as you finish your smoothie.”
Jamie stared blankly at the glass and winced.
Jamie still maintained a stubborn avoidance of a proper diet,
jumping meals and filling his plate with a portion that would be no more than
an appetizer to Adso. Ignoring his vehement protests with a squint that was
pure steel, Claire had started to concoct a smoothie for his breakfast that
consisted of several fruits, vegetables, seeds and a pinch of protein powder.
The potion – varying between grassy green, muddy burgundy and radioactive
yellow – carried her high hopes for him to regain some weight and avoid an anaemia
from vitamin deficits.
“Tastes like heather.” Jamie scowled above the rim of the glass. He
peeked at the kitchen counter, trying to decipher the ingredients she had used
in such a despicable recipe.
“Works for the sheep.” Claire pointed optimistically. “All fat and
energetic.”
“Are ye herding me then?” He raised his brows, almost smiling. Almost.
“Oh, pinch your nose if you must!” She tried to hide an amused grin,
watching the look of profound aversion he directed to the liquid. “Or you can go to therapy without coffee.
How was it yesterday, by the way?”
The previous day Jamie had gone to his third appointment with a therapist
specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder, who had been enthusiastically
recommended to her after a few discreet inquiries at the hospital. He had
arrived home late, when she was already snuggling in bed with a book,
pretending not to keep a diligent watch on his movements. The glimpse she had
caught of his face as he entered his impromptu accommodations had scared her –
he looked a generous inch beyond devastation.
“I’d verra much like not to speak at all, to be honest.” Jamie
gulped half of the glass’ content, clicking his tongue in distaste. “Everything
feels – heightened, after each
session. Raw, as if every wound I’ve
ever made would maybe bleed again.”
“That’s good.” Claire patiently munched on her slightly burnt toast,
trying not to look too eager. Too hopeful. Too invested. “Bleeding is always
better than scar tissue, that leads nowhere in healing properly.” It was the
practicality of a surgeon, but accurate when applied to wounds or spirits.
After finishing his juice, while Claire studied some forms from the
hospital with small notes written on the margin – budgets, OR schedules, the rotation of the new residents, complaints
from a few disgruntled patients who would prefer a softer bed or a smaller
suture -, Jamie filled a mug with dark simple coffee and sat again
examining his fingers. She waited for him to say whatever he had been preparing
so nervously, playing with her pen as if the growing number of appendicectomies
constituted a complex conundrum.
“The therapist suggested that I told ye stories about – there.” Jamie finally said, his voice
low. His eyes were fixing Adso, masterfully licking the bottom of his plate
with his pinkish tongue. “A bit each day, he said.”
“And do you want to?” Claire entwined her hands on top of the table,
her whole body indicating full attention, her eyes gentle but direct.
“I want ye to know.” He sighed, scratching the stubble that had not
been shaved for several days. Hygiene wasn’t optional under Claire’s roof – she
had threatened to clean his ears with the toilet brush if he didn’t comply -,
but she had conceded on the overgrown beard. “And I dinna want to feel so numb. A man permanently underwater. If I
tell ye these things maybe the present will start feeling more real.”
“Alright.” She nodded softly, brushing away a tenacious curl. Claire
tried not to look too expectant.
Jamie remained silent for a time; if the pain of such memories made
him unable to talk for a moment, or if he was trying to decide where to start,
Claire wasn’t entirely sure. “Ye were their favourite story.”
“What?” She asked, puzzled. He raised his eyes to her and smiled, shy
but decided. There was something undefinable about his face, as if he had just
come to the surface after prolonged immersion, experiencing the blessing of
cold air in his lungs all over again.
“The Syrian doctors and nurses I worked with. When we had a moment
of respite, I used to tell them about ye – our
story.” His lips twitched on a lopsided smirk. “I told them about this extraordinary
lass who hated my guts and how lucky I was when she changed her mind. Some of
them barely had any English, but somehow, they all understood. Love was common ground, aye?” Jamie licked his
lips, slightly shrugging. “I showed them photos of ye – not all of them, of course.” There was a faint tinge of pink on his
cheeks. “Some were just for me.”
“That’s –“ Claire hawked, trying with all her resolve to disperse
the knot inside her throat. She couldn’t allow herself to break everytime he
was strong enough to share something with her. “Thank you for telling me.”
Jamie nodded and grabbed the jacket he had left dangling from the
back of a chair. “I remembered ye.” He whispered softly, his fingers playing
with the buttons. “I remembered ye always.”
***
It had been an unusually long day, with multiple surgeries pilling
in sequence, until Claire couldn’t even remember the exact name linked to the
flesh she was cutting. It was a day built on flashes of sterile gloves, her commanding
voice asking for “scissors” and “suction”, rounds of antibiotics quickly
prescribed in recovery, the blue of scrubs and surgical fields so intense it
all seemed like an endless sea. Thankfully, it had also been a day of hopeful and
relieved smiles on the waiting room, when she opened the door to give away encouraging
news.
Exhausted, she had arrived home and collapsed on the bed for a short
nap before dinner; awaking with a startled gasp well past midnight, fully clothed
and sweaty. The explanation for the rough awakening became evident as soon as
the buzzing inside her ears diluted – she could hear the heart-wrenching wails
and sobs on the room next door.
Feeling that the situation went far beyond his recurring nightmares,
she slowly walked to Jamie’s bedroom. The closed door seemed like a warning not
to trespass on his stoic suffering, but Claire blatantly ignored it. His need for her surpassed all the rest.
He was laying on his side, his firmly closed eyelids indicating he
was fast asleep. There were traces of tears on his face, glistening on the
scarce light flooding the room, like cobwebs made of silver. Jamie was naked,
save from the crumpled sheet around his waist, and beads of sweat coated his
body like little open mouths ready to cry out. The room smelt of terror and sandalwood,
like the den of an injured animal.
Claire sat on the edge of the bed, covering her mouth when he moaned
and sobbed again in his sleep. “Fraser.”
She attempted, gently touching the side of his face. His skin was very warm and
sticky to the touch. “Jamie.” Claire
insisted in a firmer voice, her hand travelling to his forehead. No fever, but
his body was certainly struggling. “Scalpel!”.
She called out, gripping his face with both of her palms. He trashed against
her touch, trying to escape it, but she applied more pressure of her body
against his, willing her palms to become a safe haven for him. “It’s alright. You’re home. I’m here.”
He widened his eyes, coming out of sleep with a jump, his breathing
laboured. For a moment, Claire thought he didn’t recognize her, her face
blurring into a million different ones, features of loss and guilt he couldn’t
allow himself to forget.
“Claire.” He croaked, his trembling hands covering hers.
“It’s me.” She asserted, her index finger
tenderly tracing his brow. “You were dreaming.” He nodded and gulped, adjusting
the moist sheet around him to better cover himself, as he realized she was indeed
very real and palpable. “Get dressed and come with me.”
Claire slightly turned her back to allow him
some privacy as he fumbled with his pyjama pants, the concept of not openly
sharing their bodies still foreign and unnatural. When he hawked, indicating he
was suitably covered, she nodded and waved for him to follow her.
As Jamie stood on the cold floor of the living
room, looking lost and misplaced, Claire went into her closet and came back
armed with a large grey sleeping bag. She opened the doors to the wide balcony,
the full moon smiling on the starry sky like an open eye, witnessing everything
at a safe distance.
“I read that adjusting to their previous life can
be tasking to people who were in conflict zones.” She explained naturally, as
she prepared what seemed like a camping bed outside, amidst the vases of her
balcony. “It might help to find references that were similar between both
places, so it doesn’t seem like a sudden change.”
“I dinna understand –“ Jamie started, furrowing
his brow in puzzlement.
“The moon and the stars are the same, are they
not?” Claire smiled a little, tilting her chin to indicate the sky outside. “I
don’t think there’s much else in common between my house and a hospital in Syria,
but that might work.”
“Aye.” He agreed, his voice husky. “I used to
look at the sky at night and think it was almost strange, to have something sae
beautiful, still there, amidst such a place.”
“Get comfortable then.” She encouraged him,
pointing to the bed she had composed with feathery pillows from the sofa and a patterned
quilt. “The weather is quite nice, so you should be alright.”
“Will ye stay?” Jamie asked hurriedly, words
coming forcibly out of his mouth, like bullets that might wound him if contained.
“I won’t touch ye, I promise. I just – dinna want to be alone tonight.”
“Fine.” Claire said cheerfully, as if the
thought of being in close proximity with his vulnerability didn’t give her any
pause. “Scoot over and try not to snore, bloody
Scot.”
They laid on their backs, avoiding to touch each
other even in passing, Claire cosily lulled by Jamie’s steadier breathing. Adso appeared on the
balcony and sniffed her hair, questioning the motives for such odd behaviour,
and came to happily nestle between their legs.
“The therapist says I have a bad case of
survivor’s guilt.” He said softly. She didn’t turn her head to look at him, tracing
constellations with invisible fingertips; she might kiss him if she did. “I can’t
forgive myself and did my best for ye not to forgive me either. Did my best to
destruct everything I had.”
“Did you?” Claire asked to the stars. “Do your best?”
“Aye.” He whispered somewhere, achingly close to
her ear.
“Your best is not that good, then. Because I’m
still here – thoroughly pissed, but laying on my back in my own balcony
just to be beside you, Fraser.”
“I dinna deserve ye.” Jamie said in a rumble.
Claire’s fingers lightly caressed the back of his hand.
“Regardless of where we end up,” She whispered
back. “That is for me – and only me – to decide.
Strop trying to convince me.”
He talked then, in a voice that was no more than
a caress to the moon. Stray words and fragmented sentences, mostly in Gaelic; confessions the absence of
light made less frightening, elusive, shooting up to the sky like firecrackers.
And Claire saw the man remaining, illuminated by those painful admissions, and felt
nothing but love.
Tori