A/N: I wrote this awhile back (like before PD) and I thought it’d be a nice little fic to celebrate all the amazing things mothers and mother-figures do for their kids. Please let me know what you think!
Claire was begrudgingly
getting used to going to bed alone. Their schemes kept Jamie away from her so
often, she was starting to entertain the idea of riding off with him somewhere
far away, with Fergus and Murtagh in tow, and throwing the notion of stopping
the rebellion to the hell that would soon be Culloden Moor.
Her dreams painted serene
flashes of empty fields, free of redcoats and danger, with Jamie’s arms wound
around her waist and her fingers lost in his hair. Muted sounds of explosions
and war, sounds already too familiar for both of them, were lost in the buzzing
in her ears as she pressed her lips against his.
The guilt that swirled in
her stomach was also familiar. Luckily for all involved, Jamie always returned
to her in the wee hours of the night – wound his real arms around her waist –
and thoroughly cast away anymore insane and dangerous notions of hers as the
two fell asleep together.
Tonight, there was a light
creak in the floorboards of the hall and Claire smiled drowsily. She fell in
and out of consciousness, and let her mind wander to that night she found Jamie
sleeping outside her door, another lifetime ago. Long before they’d married,
before she’d even let herself admit it, she’d imagined all the ways that night
could have ended differently: how he might have taken her offer to share the
room, how things might have changed between them then. But no, thank heavens
for small mercies, he had been steadfast and stubborn like a child, and it only
further endeared himself to Claire.
Child.
She cracked her eyes open,
vision slowly settling in the dark to reveal Fergus standing framed in her open
doorway. He was in his bedclothes, rocking on his heels – hence the creaking –
and as he noticed Claire staring, he straightened his back hurriedly.
“Apologies Milady,” he
whispered. “I-I did not mean to wake you. Is…” His large eyes scanned the room.
“Is Milord not here?”
A/N: My word. I’ve written about a dozen iterations of this chapter and deleted them all. Nothing felt right, no next step seemed logical or natural in moving these characters to where I want them to be. With some serious hand holding, love, and, encouragement by @abreathofsnowandwaffles, @missclairebelle and @ecampbellsoup I hope I’ve managed to stay true to these characters and this story.
A sincere thank you to anyone out there still reading this story. 9 months is an insane amount of time to wait between chapters so I am really grateful for anyone who still finds this story worthy of their time.
“Ye’ve spent sae many hours scouring my bookcases looking for Laird knows what– this is a better- and more entertaining- use of yer time.”
“More
entertaining, you say? For whom, exactly?” Feeling the smile in her
voice, he let out a heavy sigh and nuzzled his nose into the curls at
the nape of her neck. Her voice was shy as she asked, “Would you show me
a few more?”
This just might work.
Slowly, and carefully, he showed her cord after cord. Pausing occasionally as her crude British tongue
broke his concentration, he watched her fingers move slowly from string
to string. Kissing her shoulder, and feeling confident he had shown her
enough cords to pique her interest, he reluctantly disentangled himself
from her.
Slowly shuffling to the hall, he turned at the doorway for a final look. He stopped to take her in.
A
look of determination set on her face. Her left hand was rotated and
gripped the guitar’s neck with purpose. The loose white shirt, his
shirt, hung off her shoulder- exposing the faintest of black ink on her
shoulder.
Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he swiped the
screen and held the phone up. He watched her form come into focus on his
screen and hit the shutter button, watching a freeze frame of this
moment flicker and disappear.
Tori