There aren’t enough words to thank @notevenjokingfic, @kkruml, and @abreathofsnowandwaffles for their support as I wrote this. They don’t let me take the easy way out, and they keep me honest when I write. xx.
↳ ;tw- In canon, Claire is called on to help end the suffering of others in their last days from terminal illness, and she does. This ficlet includes that thread of canon. Please do not read this if you’re not in a space to read that.
Loss Ficlet Lamb February 2020
Lamb (dark-haired, mad scientist, beloved uncle) had wanted to die by the sea.
“I want sand in the folds of my newspapers,” he said quietly as he pulled off at the wrong exit on the roundabout. He slammed on the brakes and gripped the steering wheel. “I want to taste the water every time I breathe.”
And he did just that when I was nineteen years old.
It started with a spot on his shoulder when I was seventeen. I noticed the irregularly-shaped, slightly-raised tea stain of a mark when we were taking advantage of our Moroccan hotel’s swimming pool. I furrowed my brow and snapped a photograph of the mark with my mobile.
“By God, it’s the Czech Republic!” he remarked, knitting together his brows as he shielded his eyes to look at the screen of my flip phone. I touched the margins of the spot; he batted my fingers away.
“Pop by a doctor to take a look, will you?” I asked, my voice not quite imploring him, but firm.
He bandied back, “Check out my Czech mark?”
“I’m serious.”
And when he said, “I will, lioness,” I knew (just knew) that he was lying. He gave me a brief salute, and added, “When we’re back.”