Archives for the Date July 16th, 2018

I read on twitter that Cait come to Sophie’s defense when a fan asked about Sophie not looking like book Brianna. OMG some fans are really cringe. And awwww for Cait being protective of Sophie.

Yep. That happened. It was really awkward and clearly made everyone including the audience uncomfortable. Someone also said to Cait something about the ‘rumors’ of her engagement. Cait was offended and held up her ring and asked, ‘rumors?’ I mean, there are just some questions that are not appropriate, no matter what your personal belief is.

I agree with fatchance…C did not sell her story to People. C was asked a quick question while walking through a crowd of gossip reporters. She didn’t name her fiancé. The magazine asked because it was a rumor & filled in rest. The AU reporter who broke the story works for gossip celeb show & probably has friends at People. That AU reporter was in L.A. the same time, too. P mag choose old photo of C/T looking upset. They did not pose for mag or send a decent photo of C/T for publication.

Hello !

That is not how an exclusive works. People ( not the mag, actual persons 😉 )  can hold an exclusive way before the moment of publication, and are the only one aware of it. It is not really possible to give an exclusive to one random reporter at any given event, when you are also surrounded by 100 other reporters. Exclusives are usually given by a PR team, not by the celebrity.

If what happened is what you mentioned, then it simply cannot be referred as an an exclusive by the media.

Hope it helps 😘

Are you surprised that a comment/ question about the Tait engagement was supposedly allowed to be asked at the event?

Here’s the thing, you can give rules ahead of time and that doesn’t guarantee anything.  But given that this was a Sony event, it does seem mighty coincidental…

Her response was even more interesting but I think Cait tends to have a short fuse and goes all in when there is push back on whatever it is she/they are supposed to be selling (e.g. the accomplished woman nonsense and I’ll block my long time supporters who say otherwise).   She’s the queen of overkill.  She’s the thou in thou doth protest too much.

With that said, whoever asked the question is an ass lacking in social grace and looking to stir shit.

Same goes for the person who asked Sophie that question.  I’m not in favor of the casting either but I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing someone who looks to be a sweet person (and who is stuck with Rankin love scenes) by basically saying to her, in front of a crowd, how do you feel about people who don’t think you deserved this job?

supertam87: lynnialljohnson: supertam87: Sophie: Cait is the one who looks after absolutely…




Sophie: Cait is the one who looks after absolutely everyone regardless of their job on or off the set. She looks after everyone. Richard: when she’s not bullying you. Caitriona: Richard I only really bully you.

That was in answer to my question. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerree 😍❤😍❤😍❤

That was a great question!!!! In a sea of cringy ones.

cb4tb: ladyjane-lj: supertam87: Cait was horrified that they didn’t ever include the scene from the…




Cait was horrified that they didn’t ever include the scene from the book when Bree was hurt while Claire is at work. She felt it was emblematic of the struggle of working mothers. And she huffed on stage. It was adorable.

They really need to let Sam and Cait make decisions about scenes to include. No one knows these characters better!

Will be interesting to see if they have producer credits for S4

Fanfiction – Scalpel & Needle II


Scalpel & Needle (Arc I: Incision), Previously

Scalpel & Needle II

Part VII – Inked

Claire slowly opened her eyes, dreamily watching the suspended
particles dancing in the golden light, streaming through the fabric of the
curtains. Her legs felt heavy, muscles substituted by lead like a tin soldier.
She had arrived terribly late from the hospital, only allowing herself to leave
her desk after finishing half of the administrative work that was pending, a
pile which seemed to relentlessly grow a couple of inches every day.

When she had silently entered the darkened house, Jamie was already
asleep, curled under a blanket on the balcony. For a second Claire thought of
laying beside him and watching him sleep; let herself be soothed by the peace
he found in those moments, even if far away from her. But her body had begged
her for the relief of a spacious bed and soft mattress, and she had caved in
without much mental protest.

Yawning and stretching, the
female surgeon raised from the bed feeling mildly dizzy with tiredness,
reaching for her phone while distractedly scratching Adso’s furry – and
slightly on the overweighted side – flank.

Shit.” She cursed between
her teeth, after sleepily checking her messages. The day had just started and
already plotted to give her a headache. With a final bump on the cat’s belly –
foreshadowing a reduction on the daily rations of the gluttonous feline -,
Claire left Adso to regally claim her bed and went to the bathroom.

After a quick shower – much quicker than what her body yelled it
deserved -, Claire padded to the living room. Jamie was sitting on a chair
close to the window, his forehead creased with concentration, as he
meticulously drew with a small pencil.

Jamie’s therapist had suggested that drawing might be a useful
outlet for the emotions he had tried so hard to repress; or for the things that
haunted him, which he couldn’t effectively put into words. Claire had seen
flashes of his sketches, unfinished faces of unfamiliar people and shapes of
ruins, but he had never displayed them openly. Eventually, Jamie might reach a
place where he would be comfortable in sharing them with her – Claire wasn’t
sure if she was hopeful or fearful of that particular instance.

“Good mornin’”. Jamie offered her a soft smile, when he finally
noticed her presence. “There’s omelette for breakfast in the stove, if you want

“You made omelette?” Claire tried to sound casual, but her surprise
was evident. Jamie looked unvulgarly well-rested and in good spirits that
morning; he had shaved two days ago, hence his reddish scruff was short, smooth
and actually quite charming.

“Aye.” He shrugged, clearly not wanting her to fuss about his sudden
appetite for complex food. “I woke up hungry. Skipped the smoothie today,
though – hope that’s alright.”

“Sure.” She nodded, studying him carefully. The idea had occurred to
her in the shower, seeming to have entered her ear whispered by a drop of
water; it was probably too soon and undoubtedly risky, but perhaps worth
trying. “Are you terribly busy today?”

“No.” His tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth, as he squinted
over a particularly troublesome part of his portrayal. “Do ye need something,

“I do.” Claire carefully sat on the edge of the sofa closer to him,
fidgeting with her hands in nervousness. “But not as Claire – as Chief.”

Jamie immediately stopped the movements of his pencil, his cobalt-blue
eyes locking with hers in confusion. “I’m on leave of absence – ye put me on leave yerself. We both agreed I wasna fit to practice medicine for a

Yes – and I stand by that
decision.” She bit her bottom lip, balancing the weight of her torso on her
palms, flattened against her knees. “But I have a tumour the size of a
cantaloupe to retrieve from a retroperitoneum. Louise was scheduled to scrub in
with me, but Geillis texted me earlier to tell me she is sick.” Claire sniffed,
divided between irritation and amusement. “Apparently Louise managed to escape
chickenpox until the ripe age of thirty-two, so she is busy scratching herself
at home.” She paused to inhale deeply, anticipating his reaction. “I’m using
the Beauchamp Method and you’re the
only other surgeon who knows the technique as well as I do.”

“Ye’re asking me to perform
with ye.” Jamie slowly repeated, his eyes darkening. “Claire, ye
ken that’s not wise. I havena even
been inside the hospital in weeks, I canna just –“

“She’s twenty-years old, Jamie!” Claire protested passionately,
opening her hands in exasperation. “Barely more than a child. The surgery has
already been delayed for months, as she bounced between surgeons who told her
it was inoperable. The window to save her is almost closing.”

“I dinna ken if I’m ready.” He swallowed hard, but in his eyes there
was a small glint – a seed of resolution. A
man called to arms.
“My presence might hinder ye more than help ye.”

“Are you willing to find out?” She pressed, the corner of her mouth
twitching in an encouraging smile. “Because I


Walking with Jamie through the corridors of the hospital had been a
harrowing experience. Nurses, doctors and orderlies glared at him with eyes the
size of new planets – some seemingly trying to locate him on the shelves of
their memories, as if the tome of his identity had been lost; others with the
shock of recognition, that quickly turned into pity and discomfort. A few dared
to throw him a cautious smile, and actually stopped to pat him on the back, stating
that he had been missed. Claire had grown accustomed to his dramatic physical
change, but seeing it again through the eyes of others had been enlightening in
the most painful way.

“Missed this?” She asked him, as they started to scrub in together.
Jamie had seen the CT scans and had donned the usual blue scrubs of the Royal Infirmary. There was a dangerous
swirl of memories about the body that hid underneath them – from before -, whispering too close to the
surface. She couldn’t afford to lose herself to the embrace of such reveries.

“Feels good.” He smiled shyly, spreading the foamy soap on his
forearms, almost reaching the elbows. “I reckon this is as much a ritual to
find the appropriate mindset, as a way to prevent infection.” His eyes glanced
to the inside of the operating theatre, where the anaesthetist was already
working on the young patient. “I missed seeing ye here as well – where ye
always looked the happiest.”

“I’m truly content here.” Claire admitted, activating the water tap.
“But you’re wrong. I’ve been happier in other
places.” She could feel Jamie’s stare, fixed between her shoulder blades, as
she moved to enter the OR with her hands raised before her. As she was being
gloved and gowned by the assisting nurse, Claire wondered if he would dare to
ask her about those other happy places – and what would she say then?

His bed. Her bed, but only
when it smelled of him. The locker room floor, whenever he was sitting next to her.
The rooftop, when he gave her his father’s pendant, to keep her anchored.  Every inch of floor where she had been
pressed down by his body, the cold tiles kissing her skin along with his hot mouth.

She had been happy. He had
made her happy
. Claire wished she had been able to tell him how much, then.

The first steps of the surgery went smoothly, Claire leading the way
and Jamie assisting with simple motions – suction
, retract there. But as they
approached the critical point of the surgery, the removal of the tumour itself
and subsequent anastomosis attempt, Claire noticed how Jamie’s hands started to

It wasn’t a blatant tremor, the kind that would elicit scandalized
looks from the instrumentalist nurse or catch the eye of the resident
accompanying them; but it was enough to unbalance him, to make him question
himself, the finesse of his movements with the blade lost to the doubts of his

“Jamie.” She called him in a soft whisper, her voice muffled by the
surgical mask. “It’s alright.”

“Ye should call another surgeon to assist ye, Doctor Beauchamp.” He
flexed his glove-covered hand, his long fingers gripping the handle of the scalpel
in his hand. Above the rim of his mask, the blue of his eyes seemed bottomless
and much darker.

No.” Claire said, her
voice sounding absolutely calm – controlled.
“You are here. We both are. You’ve got this, Fraser.”

“I canna seem to recall the next step in the procedure, Doctor
Beauchamp.” Jamie stated softly, but his melodic voice dripped with a warning.
His body was trying to shut down, to recoil into a safe place, away from the
memories linked to the last time he had been holding a scalpel in his hands. In
such a scenario, his memory might fail completely, and they were vulnerable to
a mistake.

“Don’t think.” The female surgeon searched his eyes with hers,
nodding in incentive. Their hands met briefly in the sterile field, a quick
brush of fingertips, magnetized by the thrum of blood.  “Just move with me, Scalpel.”

In a time when being lovers had seemed like an anecdote to her – and
a thoroughly improbable dream to him -, still they had found an unparalleled synchrony
of actions within the OR, a cadence that went beyond the necessity of words, as
if their bodies already knew that they were meant to move together.

Such things weren’t easily forgotten.


Doctor Fraser.” Claire
grinned when she entered the house, her hands occupied with a box of fragrant
pizza, the scent of oregano, tomato and melted cheese drifting pleasantly along
the hallway. “Brought a much-deserved dinner to our small victory party.”

The surgery had been, by all standards, a success – the tumour was removed with clear margins, and the
patient had come out of the anaesthesia with a smile on her lips, as if she
already knew the outcome by the sense of lightness inside her. Jamie seemed on
the verge of fainting from exhaustion and relief once they were finished, so
Claire had sent him home to rest while she finished her duties for the day.

“Let me help ye.” Jamie stretched his left hand to grab the
cardboard box and she immediately noticed the bandage around his wrist.

“What’s this?” She questioned, alarmed, imprisoning his hand on a vice
grip. Her lips felt numb, cold. “Did
you cut yourself?” Self-mutilation had been one of her many concerns about him,
her eyes always scanning him for signs of any hidden cuts.

“Of course not.” Jamie gawked at her, his eyes widening in shock. “Christ!
I made a tattoo.” He shrugged unfazed, as if going to a tattoo parlour was part
of his regular activities.

“A tattoo?” It was Claire’s turn to stare at him, puzzled, her mouth
slightly ajar. “I thought you said there was nothing else you wanted marking
your body forever.”

“I changed my mind.” He tilted his head in amusement, raising a
brow. “Do ye want to see it?”

“Do you want to show me?” Claire
rebutted, placing the food on the counter and crossing her arms.

Without responding, Jamie starting to unfold the bandage around his
wrist, spinning it around. The white fabric finally fell at his feet and he
offered her his arm, palm up.

The word inked there was simple enough to comprehend; what rendered
her speechless was the lettering used, a sense of strangeness followed by
sudden familiarity as she recognized her own handwriting.


Jamie had tattooed the word on the soft skin inside his left wrist,
the small characters probably copied from the letters she had written him, back
when he didn’t have another name to her. It was both of them, together in seven letters – what he was and what he meant to

“This way I’ll remember.” He said haltingly, a tinge of crimson painting
his high cheekbones. “Even when ye’re not
with me
. Because today, for the first time in a long time, I felt in

Claire enveloped his hand and
brought the sensitive skin – covered with a thin plastic film – to her lips,
pressing a soft kiss above the black letters. She felt Jamie’s body relaxing and, framing
his face – still much too gaunt, much too haunted -, kissed him softly on
the lips.

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