be kind. be ridiculously, radically, endlessly kind. be a part of someone’s good day. send nice thoughts, send positive vibes, send support and love and well wishes. be kind. so often we wish for tomorrow to be a good day when we are at our lowest. some sort of sign that it gets better. be a part of that better day for someone. the world does not magically decide that it will be softer on you today, tomorrow, the next day. and sometimes it starts with a message from someone else, maybe a little bit of inner strength to pull yourself up and take a shower, maybe a bit of sunlight makes the day better. but it’s these small things, these soft things that make a day better. so be kind. don’t ever think about being anything other than kind. be a part of someone’s good day because you don’t know how desperate they might be for it.
A/N: I’m so excited to be a part of yet another thrilling writing challenge in this fic community! Naturally, leave it to me to take a perfectly fluffy board, stick a knife in it, and twist! 😂🤷♀️
A modern day take on the Faith storyline, and what it would be like for Jamie and Claire to go through that grieving process together, and what a second pregnancy/the ability to parent together after losing their first child would look like. Naturally, therefore, there is a big old TRIGGER WARNING I need to place here for stillbirth/pregnancy loss. But I do promise this oneshot has a happy ending!
I’d known for four days by the time she came home from Tesco with a pregnancy test wedged surreptitiously between the milk and the K-cups. I busied myself with putting away the produce, feigning oblivion while she ferreted the wee pink box into the folds of her cardigan and escaped to the bathroom on the pretense of putting away the toothpaste and body wash.
When the door clicked shut behind her, I went very still, bone-white hands clenched on the edge of the countertop.
I already knew what the test would show. There was no doubt in my mind at that point.
I knew my wife’s body better than I knew my own.
Her breasts were an easy tell; she’d whimpered in protest when I probed them — gently, experimentally — while she slept. They were tender, aye, and the nipples a little more full already. The delicate veins along her areola were swollen with the increased blood supply, and as recently as that morning the color had started to deepen, darken. In a few weeks, I knew they’d be the color of champagne grapes.
At least they had been. Last time.
She had burst into tears the night before over a dog food commercial. She was short with me, quick to snap blazing whisky eyes up to mine and give me a thorough tongue lashing for whatever my perceived error of the moment was.
And perhaps most telling of all: it was the middle of March, there was still a dusting of snow on the ground, and my normally ice-blooded Sassenach was burning up. She kept kicking off the blankets in the middle of the night, scooting away from my body heat unconsciously when I tried to spoon around her. She’d started cracking the window and turning on the ceiling fan before bed, complaining that the bloody thermostat must be broken, because it was “sweltering in here.”
Aye, I knew. I knew fine well what the test would say.
Apparently, my wife had been less sure.
When the door to the bathroom creaked slowly open on its hinge, I stood motionless for a moment, watching. Claire stood on the other side of the threshold, just out of sight.
She didn’t move.
So I did.
I crossed the kitchen in careful, measured strides, gaze trained on that doorway, waiting for the moment I could find her eyes with mine.
When I did, I froze, every muscle in my body drawn taut, every hair follicle standing on end.
I didn’t breathe — couldn’t — and neither did she.
Tears stood like diamonds in her eyes, shimmering in the light. She looked up at me helplessly, her chin dimpled and quivering, and put a hand to her mouth to smother a sob.
I felt a crack through my chest like a gunshot, and then I was moving again, grabbing for her in the same moment that she reached for me. There was nothing soft or tender about the way we collided — clawing, scrambling to get each closer, tighter — frantic and shaking and terrified.
READING THIS FIRST THING IN THE MORNING WAS A MISTAKE!!!! I AM SO EMOTIONAL OVER THIS RN. I CAN’T HANDLE IT.
@smashing-teacups , my love, you are KILLLING ME with the angst!!! This one shot was so insanely captivating. I swear to god I felt every human emotion in it’s purest form. YOU ARE AN ARTIST!
Tori