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“It isn’t like that,” Claire insists, blowing an errant curl away from her face, as she bends over to type in her patient’s chart. Her last shift before heading off for the holidays had been exhausting, already resulting in a change of scrub shirts, the rancid smell of projectile vomit still lingering in her nostrils, and the telltale sign of a headache slowly shifting behind her eyes taking shape. The usual enjoyment she reaped from her job having slowly dissipated along with her patience of this conversation.
“’Tis exactly like that,” Geillis laughs, her eyes glinting in the florescent lights. “Ev’ry year, you and the wee fox cub ‘get together’ as ye call it, and then ye come back a mess, and I—“ she says with a flourish of her hand towards herself, catching in her red hair, “have tae pick up the pieces.”
Claire narrows her eyes at her friend, continuing to type her notes into the chart. She was beginning to believe the headache wasn’t so much from this day, as it was the topic.
“I am not—“ but she stops short, seeing Geillis lift her eyebrow in a dare to lie to her. She pulls her chapped bottom lip between her teeth, willing herself not to fall into the trap. Nibbling on the loose skin of her lip, she looks up from her work, the back of her hand landing on her hip. “Have you ever thought that maybe I come back a mess because the holidays are a difficult time for me…you know, not having a family and all…?”
Geillis leans further over the counter so she can catch Claire’s full attention. “If ye say sae,” she shrugs, a knowing grin spreading across her face, suggesting that she wasn’t buying the orphan act one bit, no matter the validity to the factual truth of her family history…or lack thereof.
Truth be told, Claire knew full well that her friend was correct in her assessment of the mess she’d created between herself and her ex. Every year, she made the trip to spend Christmas at Lallybroch with the family that had welcomed her with open arms as a teenager with only an uncle and a caring boyfriend who refused to let her spend the holiday alone.
But when she’d lost James Fraser, she thought that would also mean that she’d lose the only people she’d ever known as family, as well. Her avoidance of what she anticipated to be rejection led her to spend several years away while she was at university, dodging phone calls, until Jamie’s sister Jenny had marched herself into Claire’s flat in London insisting that she partake in family gatherings, “dammit,” whether she wanted to or not.
She can remember the shy smile she’d given at the idea that she actually had someone, after her uncle’s passing, that cared enough to do so was reason enough to go, despite the tearing she’d felt at the stitches she’d so carefully sewn into herself against the knife that had so swiftly cut her open years ago, severing ties that she thought had been so securely knotted they could never be undone.
What had begun as an awkwardly gaping wound pulsing just below the surface at the mere sight of Jamie that first year, had quickly forged into a meeting of mutual need, bandaging each other in the shedding of their clothes, the silent agreement to shield each other from getting a closer look at the wounds that lay within, effectively stalling the healing process. Instead, they’d chosen to relish in the seeking of a high, a scream of pleasure to mask the tears at the loss of a future that could have been.
It was always that moment afterwards with their limbs entwined, the glistening sweat cooling over their heated skin, as he’d slowly slip from her, that she’d feel the separation engulfing her, acting as a glaring reminder that they were nothing more than an annual fuck. She was alone. Leaving the quick gathering or straightening of her clothes and awkward avoidance, before skulking off to Geillis’ before the new year to drink heavily, attempting to suffocate her feelings for the rest of the year, until she inevitably repeated her mistake over and over again.
“This year will be different,” Claire blurts out matter-of-factly with a tilt of her head, causing the curl to fall back into place across her forehead. Nervously tracing the inside of her hand, she tries to maintain some semblance of keeping it together.
“He’s no’ coming?” Geillis asks with a wicked grin on her lips.
“That one was too easy, even for you,” Claire fires back, an exasperated sigh leaving her, as she clicks out of the computer, turning to leave, her watch signaling the end of her day. “And of course he’s coming. It’s his family.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will be,” Geillis snickers, her grin refusing to leave her face. “So what di’ ye get him for a gift?
“We don’t do gifts,” she adds, hoping it’s the end of the conversation.
“I dinna ken about that, seems he manages to slip you a package—“
“I’m leaving,” Claire proclaims, pretending to have not heard her comment as she heads to grab her things in the locker room.
“Dinna do anythin’ I wouldna do,” Geillis chimes back at her, and this time, Claire doesn’t stop herself from the eye roll, despite the now full blown headache, knowing full well that the list of things Geillis wouldn’t do she could count off on one hand. But she can’t help but acknowledge that Geillis has a point, Claire’s self-control seems to float out the window whenever she’s around Jamie Fraser.
xxxxx
Two days. It had been two days since she’d arrived at Lallybroch, and there had been no sign of Jamie. At first, she’d been walking on pins and needles, expecting him to walk through the big door leading into the house at any moment. Her neck was beginning to scream at the strain she continually put it through, checking over her shoulder at the tiniest hint of him, only to find the footfall, usually much softer, the running of wee Jamie and Maggie instead of the lithe, confidently heavy sound she was accustomed to.
But here it was, Christmas Eve, and still no sign of the man who haunted her dreams more than she’d care to admit.
“He’ll be here,” Jenny said, coming up behind her, starling Claire from her reverie, handing her a glass, the spice of the liquid inside reaching her nose, causing it to twitch, before she steadied her hand. Her fingertips numb from digging into her palm, her nails leaving behind indents to match the white glisten of a long ago promise.
“Who?” Claire tries to play coy, like Jenny hadn’t read the question etched so clearly upon her face. Leaning up against the wall, the velvet of her red shirt rubs against the stone, catching ever so slightly, anchoring her to a home that was never her’s to begin with.
Jenny’s dark brows narrow at her, and Claire almost takes a step back, but with nowhere to go, instead feigns innocence, taking a sip of her a drink.
“Ye twa are sae damn stupid,” her eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head with sheer force of will at the gesture.
Claire nearly chokes on her drink, attempting to recover when she sees him.
He’s not much taller than her, the creases on his cheeks having increased over the years, but she instantly recognises him.
“Frank,” she grits through her teeth. “What are you doing here?” She asks, casting a glance at Jenny, who shrugs, as if she wasn’t clearly the one who had invited the man to her home.
“I ran into him in Inverness last weekend when Ian and I went tae get some last minute shopping done,” she explains, as if this were a normal occurance. “I couldna verra well let the man spend Christmas Eve alone, could I?”
Claire casts a pleading gaze at her ex’s sister, before quickly looking at the man in front of her, giving a hesitant, barely there smile.
“I do hope I’m not imposing,” he says, and Claire bites her tongue from biting back yes.
“Nonsense,” Jenny says, squeezing his arm. “We’re happy tae have ye. Excuse me,” she says, and Claire all but reaches out to grab her, but she’s gone, and she’s stuck with Frank.
The awkward silence shrouded them in its grasp, the swirl of her drink in her nervous hand attracts her eyes, and it’s only when she hears an almost hiss, his teeth taking in his bottom lip, does she glance up to an almost predatory look that he must think appeals to her in some way, because he quirks a grin, the indent on his face extending to his eye.
“It’s been a while,” he tries, and she just nods, her lips pursed, not willing to give him anything. “I’ve not seen you since…”
“That night, I know,” she finishes for him, and immediately regrets it, as she sees the flash of recognition in his eyes, before they roam over her body. She juts her chin out, adjusting her stance.
He takes this as an invitation, his hand landing on the wall next to her head, bringing him closer to her. She can feel his breath against her, the smell of cigarettes hitting her in the face the grin never slipping from his mouth.
“As I recall, you left rather early,” he teases, and her eyes glance around, in search of what, she’s not sure, until she meets the steady gaze of familiar blue, staring directly at her. A quick glance down, and she sees his fist clenched tightly by his side, the other hand, lightly tapping against his thigh.
“Much like now, I’m afraid,” she says a sweet drip of her voice, laced in arsenic. She ducks out of the cage he’s attempted to trap her in, quickly making her way through the crowd of screaming children, and half-gone friends and family. But by the time she gets to where she swore she saw him, he’s gone, the sound of the front door closing heard throughout the hall.
xxxxx
Grabbing her coat, she set her drink down on a side table, heading out into the cold. The nip of the winter night immediately bites at her nose, beginning it’s numbing journey, taking the outer extremities with it first.
The lights twinkle against the bits of snow left, haphazardly strewn across the dirt, threatening to turn to mud in the sludge.
“Ye’ll freeze tae death in that,” she hears to her right, the bench occupied by the man she’d been eagerly anticipating the past couple of days. Glancing down at her already red hands, she shrugs before trudging over to where he sits.
His hair is shorter than she remembers, soft curls falling around his ears, the glint of copper hair exposed on his forearms, sleeves rolled up in a green tartan shirt that seems to have been molded to his form, causing Claire to lick her lips, before stifling her thoughts.
“Says the man in nothing but a shirt,” she teases with a laugh, but it comes out with a squeak, causing a smirk to appear on his lips.
“I dinna get cold,” he tries to wink at her, both of his eyes closing, and she bites back a laugh, the curls catching on his copper lashes as he opens his eyes again, and she resists the urge, silently pulling back her hand, to swipe them back, her fingers itching to touch the flame, but knowing it would only lead to get getting burnt.
“I remember,” she says, instead, glad that chill of the night had already left her face red, hiding the sure blush that was would be heating her otherwise. “You’re a fucking furnace,” she admits through chattering teeth.
Jamie lets out a purely Scottish sound, a hybrid of a laugh and a grunt, as he glances over at her, grabbing her hands before she can protest, rubbing them gently between his own, the body heat radiating off of him leaving her with a tingling she swears is just the feeling her fingers coming back to life, but settles somewhere further south. It leaves her scooting closer to Jamie, swearing it’s for more warmth, but knows it’s her resolve slowly melting away with the chill.
His thumb finds the curved line, tracing over the same path she so often found herself making, the same white scar on his own palm, gliding across, briefly connecting the two, resembling something of a broken heart when separated, and she can’t help but scoff to herself at the truth of that.
She dare not look up into his eyes, less the last of her resolve melt away, so she focuses instead on their hands, twisting in their search for warmth, rubbing against the rough ridges of a hand well worked, callused ridges, scratching the surface of her, demanding her attention, but simultaneously fogging her mind with nothing but the thought of where else those hands had been, blazing a trail across her entire body, mapping their journey of peaks and mounds, followed closely behind by his eager lips.
So she’s not surprised when she feels the curls that had managed to veil her face, slowly being pushed behind her ear, his finger hooking beneath her chin, slowly bringing her watery smile, eyes filled with trepidation, as he brings his mouth close enough that she feels as if he’d stolen her breath.
“Jamie,” she whispers, the wind pilfering his name from her. “I can’t…” she admits, her lip trembling, whether from anticipation of a kiss so close she could taste it or the pulse just beneath the wound of the promise she’d made herself. This year would be different.
She swears she can hear the hitch in his breathing, the thumb that had been lightly tracing over the curve of her jaw, coming to a halt.
Her grip tightens on the one hand still clinging to her fingers, not wanting him to go, but too afraid for him to stay.
“’Tis fine, Sassenach,” he says with a lilt in his voice, laced in acceptance, but shrouded in heartbreak.
He stands, breaking contact, her body immediately going numb with the absence of his warmth.
“I’ll see ye in there,” he says, a moment of indecision rising his shoulders, before he quickly turns back, placing the sweetest of kisses against her forehead, not unlike the countless times before, but this one leaves his lips to linger just a half a second more, an air of finality in the release.
His retreating figure makes its way back into the lit house behind her, leaving Claire with that same void of emptiness she’d been trying to avoid. Closing her arms around herself, she attempts to recreate the warmth she’d just been encompassed in, but finds that there is no substitute for the real thing. And she’s gone and chased him off.
Fuck.
xxxxx
Staring up at the ceiling, the images of Jamie’s crestfallen face haunt her mind, keeping her from sleep.
After heading back into the party, they’d carefully avoided each other, but ever so aware of his presence, she’d kept an eye on him, playing with his niece and nephew, scooping them up, a raucous ring of laughter echoing through the large room, as they squealed in delight. She’d been lying if she said her stomach hadn’t twisted with a sense of a future she could’ve had. A future in which they were their kids, curly hair sticking out in all directions, and the bluest eyes peeking through dark lashes. A life she once thought was within her grasp, but had relinquished for reasons that were no longer obstacles.
The dark room seemingly creaks with no prompting of fallen footsteps, but the crack of the wind against the window. She shivers further under the blanket, the sheets cool to touch, not even the socks she had found herself haphazardly tripping to find without a light, offer any relief to the bitter cold that seeps into her.
He doesn’t want ye, Beauchamp.
It wasn’t the first time that thought had bannered across her mind. She’d certainly felt it when they’d broken up, the sting of her heart flowing through her until it resonated in the freshly carved hand, pulsing in time with the pain radiating from her. She’d certainly felt it with every last kiss, every parting of ways, every silent year until Christmas came around again.
The vibration of her phone brings her back to herself, and she fumbles for the thing that she’d buried underneath her pillow. The light nearly blinding her when she finally gets the screen in front of her.
So…how many times has the wee fox cub tried to put a bairn in ye?
A flurry of emotions pass over Claire’s face, ranging from the urge to burst into laughter at the turn of phrase to a groan, tears quickly gathering in the corner of her eyes at the thought of just how far off she was.
Claire’s silence prompting another text coming in.
I’ll take the lack of response to mean he’s trying right now.
With a sigh, she heaves herself out of bed, tossing her phone to where she once lay. Pushing the curls from her face, she finds herself pacing back and forth. Her teeth biting down onto her thumb, debating with herself, before finally coming to a stop with a huff, and yanking the door open. An awkward grimace comes to her mouth, not wanting to wake the children…or Jenny for that matter.
Tip-toeing down the hallway, a path she’d taken more than once as a teenager, knowing the long running rug would quiet the footfall until she made it to her destination. She hesitates in opening the door, putting an ear to the the wooden structure first, hearing nothing. Slowly, she creaks open the door, squeaking her entrance to its inhabitant, and her hands come out as if to silence the noise, cursing under her breath.
Peering into the room, she expects the usually light sleeper to be sat bolt upright, but instead finds him curled up into his pillow, eyes tightly shut. She bites back a laugh, shaking her head a bit, letting the frustration settle for just a moment, while she takes in the ridiculous human splayed out before her.
Having given up the pretense of being quiet, she walks over to the side of the bed, her shadow covering his face against the moonlight streaming through the window. Raising her hand, she reaches for his head, before curling her fingers, and giving a flick to his ear.
“Ifrinn!” He lets out rather loudly, and she has to once again stifle the laugh she wants to let out, instead letting her frustration bubble to the surface once more. The paid he’d had draped over him having slid down to reveal a bare chest to her wandering eyes. “What was that for?”
“I knew you weren’t asleep,” she warns with a glance towards him, causing only a slightly sheepish look to cross his face, as he rubs his ear between his fingers. “Figured it was the best way to get your attention,” she says with a shrug.
He mumbles something under his breath in Gaelic that she can’t understand, before looking back up at his ruffled curls from what she suspected was a night spent tossing and turning. The thought that she’d had some sort of affect on him made her heart jump. Maybe he was feeling as uneasy as she was.
“What was that earlier?” She blurts out, pacing at the side of his bed, a bit of a glide in her step as her socks slip against the floor.
His brow raises, unsure of what she’s talking about.
“’Tis fine,” she mocks, stopping right in front of him, so she can see him choking back a grunt at her terrible accent.
“I could ask ye the same thing, aye?” He counters, his hand making a fist on the bed, the tendons giving away the stress clearly etched upon his face at the conversation. “Earlier, wi’…Frank,” he hesitates to even give credence to the man who’d cornered her earlier.
“This has nothing to do with Frank. Your sister invited him,” she says dismissively.
“It does,” he admits, and she balks.
“I haven’t seen him since—“
“That night, I ken well enough, Sassenach,” a look of defeat crosses his face, his fist relaxing, instead coming to scrub over his face in exhaustive contemplation.
“You saw us?” She nearly whispers, although she knows she has nothing to feel guilty about.
“Aye.” A gravelly admittance.
“Nothing happened, we were just going through Uncle Lamb’s things,” she pleads.
“Aye, I ken, but…”
“But what?” She practically yells.
“It doesna matter,” he says, quickly getting out of the bed, pushing past her, but she grabs his wrist, her thin fingers wrapping around him, afraid if she let go, she’d lose what little of him she had left.
“It does matter,” she breathes, squeezing her hand against his arm.
He turns, his eyes taking on an icy blue of emotion in the moonlit room, tracing over her with his gaze, gooseflesh spreading quickly over her with it’s chill following in a shiver.
He moves his arm, releasing her grip, and her breath hitches at the lack of contact, before he reaches up, cradling her head in his large hands, delicately ghosting over the arch of her cheekbone, until his thumb rests at her temple, undoubtedly feeling the racing pulse beneath.
“Ye deserve better than me, Claire,” her given name very rarely uttered from his mouth, causing her eyes to close, a soft stroke of his thumb, having them flutter open once more, wanting to see the fall she was sure to never recover from. “I saw that wi’ Frank. I had nothin’ to offer ye back then, I still do no’…” he admits with a shrug.
She’s already shaking her head before he continues.
“So I picked a fight, told ye it was better if we parted ways. Ye were heading off to University, there was nothin’ for ye here,” his eyes sinking to the floor, unable to even look at her at his confession.
“Nothing for me here?” She nearly wrenches from his grasp, instead choosing to place her own hands on his face, reeling his eyes to meet her’s. “Why do you think I kept coming back every year?”
“Twas my fault, mo graidh, I was weak, I couldna let ye go, no’ fully,” he speaks as if it were his secret shame, the inability to relinquish all ties to her. And if she were being honest, she had done the same. She’d used the excuse of not wanting to be alone during Christmas, but the truth of the matter had always been that she didn’t want to be without Jamie.
The tears that had been building the whole time threaten to spill over, her fingers threading through the curls at his neck. Standing on her toes so she’s eye level with his lips, she peers up at him, the first tear streaking down her face.
“Jamie,” she murmurs, her forehead coming to rest on his chin. “I came back every year for you. Some of you was better than none of you.”
She feels the billow of his breath being let out against the top of her head, causing her to look up at the watery smile of the man she had loved for so long.
“I’ll have you in whatever way I can,” she says with such conviction, wrapping her arms around his neck, her lips hovering over his in anticipation.
“Can I kiss ye now?” He asks with a smirk of his lips, one in which brushes away with her own lips coming down upon his, her yes sufficiently swallowed. The chill from before dissipating immediately, kindling a fire in her belly, igniting through her blood, until the pulse fluttering beneath her screams in time with beat she can feel through Jamie’s bare chest.
Her hand rests firmly against him, having slid from his neck, the taste of his tongue on her bottom lip, and she bites down, eliciting a hiss from him.
“Bed, now,” she commands, his hand coming to rest on her ass, backing her up against the bed he’d just vacated. Her body hits the cold sheets with a oomph and a soft giggle, the weight of him crushing her beneath him, the warmth settling over her, the feel of his muscle moving above her making her squirm. The groan escapes him into the silence of the room before hoisting himself up. Jamie hovers above, his gaze piercing her skin. She knew that look, the one in which he reverently traced every part of her, as if committing her to memory, a still in time, one he could call upon when she was not with him.
Her hands move to wrap around his neck, pulling his lips back down to her, wanting to insure that they were never parted again, the memory just one of many that would fill their future.
He doesn’t miss the gasp that moves past her mouth, a wisp of air that floats by his ear as he attaches his mouth to the sensitive spot behind her ear, just at her neck, the sound spurring on his trail. His teeth nipping at the soft flesh, bringing his tongue to soothe the sting, his breath leaving a tingle.
Rucking up her shirt, she helps him, pulling the garment off and tossing it across the room. His eyes going wide with lust at the sight of her completely naked, except her socks, beneath.
“Christ, Sassenach,” he mutters, his hands now free to glide across the expanse of her milky skin. Her nipples hardening underneath his gaze, even more still when his mouth takes the place of his eyes. A whimper assuring a swirl of his tongue that increases the volume of her incoherent plea for more, a grin imprinted against her breast, searing its way to heart.
“Jamie,” she moans, bucking her hips up, causing his hand to still her movements, pushing down with his hips to steady her, the evidence of his ministrations of her pressing firmly into her stomach. Her wandering hands yanking at his knickers, slipping her hands inside, a shuttering groan hitting her squarely in the chest as she grips her fingers around him. “Off, now,” she demands, releasing him so he’s kicking off the offending garment from his narrow hips.
“What,” he presses a kiss to each breast. “Do,” the next kiss landing just below belly button, causing her stomach to sink in, the stubble pricking her. “Ye,” his lips hitting the juncture of her right hip, his thumb trailing back and forth over the curve as he peers up at her. “Want,” he finishes, his eyes hooded with a haze of want.
Her hand shakily reaches for him, gripping her hold in the curls of his hair, stroking gently, before yanking with a grunt, that has him laughing. Sloping down his arm, her fingers dance over the flexed muscles holding up his weight, finding purchase in his hand. interlacing their fingers, the C etched on the base of his thumb, aligning with the J resting in the same exact spot on her thumb.
You.
Her thought whispered in a hum, as he enters her slowly, every inch of him careening towards home, a place they’d so often visited before - but this time, their silent promises are met with the feel that this wasn’t a fleeting meeting ending in a goodbye, but rather allowing their minds to finally catch up to what their bodies had been screaming at them all this time, that there is no letting go.
This was it.
They move in tandem, her legs wrapping around him, crossing at his back, clinging to a rising feeling that threatens to overtake her. His head buries in the curve of her neck, incoherent Gaelic words murmured into her skin, tattooing themselves on her heart, her nails scratching at the hard muscle of his back, engraving their meaning back to him.
The desperation that was usually present, the need to so eagerly have the other, afraid the moment would pass just as quickly as it had arrived, threatening their delicate balance between former lovers and each other’s everything always lying on the precipice of one wrong move leaving them alone, that was no longer present. As he moved inside her, she found the fear dissipating, the once hollow grip of solitude no longer teasing her, but rather the warm embrace of forever tempting her with each thrust of his hips.
Her mouth falls open, a guttural moan escapes from her swollen lips.
“Look at me,” he practically pleads, her eyes fluttering open to meet the intense blue staring down at her, his brow knit together, a pure, unadulterated love raining down on her her, threatening to drown her right here and now.
She angles her hips, his fingers gripping her tighter, the bloom of bruises sure to make their appearance tomorrow, the pressure of him hitting just where she wants him, stealing her breath, two more deep thrusts, and a silent gasp bellows through her, claiming her body, her mind, her soul as his, before he follows her over into the ravine, every part of him just as much her’s. Forever.
xxxxx
The sharp prickle of Jamie’s stubble glides over her temple, but rather than wiggle her away, she manages to bring herself closer, his nose getting lost in the tangle of her curls. His arm is slung over her middle, her side molded to his chest, and her fingers dance their way over his arm.
It’s the wee hours of the morning, just before the sound of the children sneaking out of bed to see if Santa had really come. Claire finds herself basking in the quiet before the flurry of activity, wrapped in Jamie’s arms, for the first time in years, the she’s not running away from the truth, but rather choosing to lay comfortably with it, buried beneath the colours of Fraser spread over them.
“What are ye thinking?” He asks, a blush springing to her cheeks, her bottom lip making its way between her teeth.
“Nothing,” she tries, but he playfully grips her tight, his thumb moving over her ribs, dipping in a tickle to her skin. “It’s just…something Geillis text me. It’s not important.”
Leaning up in interest, his head now resting on his arm, propped up to see her.
“She’s been giving me a hard time about you, it seems she thought that you and I were…inevitable,” she brushes the comment off, refusing to look him in the eye.
“And that makes ye blush?” He teases. “She sounds like Jenny - ye sure they didna both conspire wi’ Frank to get us here?”
“It was more her phrasing…something about…puttingabairninme,” she says quickly, hoping he doesn’t actually hear what she said, her blush furiously spreading over her body.
She expects him to laugh or choke on his own tongue at the mere mention, but instead he smiles against her, placing a delicate kiss on her neck, right on the blush that threatens to overtake her.
“If it so pleases ye,” he shrugs, as if the thought of them having children wasn’t some crude euphemism by a friend nor a far off notion he’d never considered, but rather a promise he intended to keep, it it so pleased her.
Good God, Beauchamp. You’ll be pregnant by next Christmas.
The thought not even remotely scaring her, instead filling her with the hope of a future with him. Together.
“Nollaig Chirdheil, mo chridhe,” he whispers, and she curls further into him.
“Happy Christmas, Jamie.”