Work Text:
December 7, 2016, Brick Lane, Spittalfields, London
It was pissing rain in that persistently dreary way perfected by London. Scottish rain at least had the decency to change its speed and trajectory every few minutes, but this was perpendicular monotony. Jamie tugged his coat collar towards his jaw and leaned into the night, looking forward to a warm shower and a dry bed once he got home.
He couldn’t say what instinct caused him to raise his gaze at that precise moment, but Claire Beauchamp was walking towards him when he did. Even swathed in a black pea coat, singular eyes cast on the slick cobbled street, she was unmistakable.
They’d crossed paths a few times since his aborted revelation at the hospital the previous year. Twice at the same pub where they’d met (a meeting she still didn’t remember) and once at a charity fundraiser for Crisis UK. He wouldn’t say they were friends, but they were more than passing acquaintances. By his estimation, that formed sufficient grounds to greet her, rain be damned.
“G’d evenin’ tae ye, Nurse Beauchamp.”
She stopped and peered at him through a curtain of curls, corkscrewing madly in the damp air. Her expression was a mixture of consternation and woe, calling to mind a lost kitten he’d found hiding in the barn at Lallybroch once.
“Hello, Jamie. I didn’t see you there. Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
“Oh, aye. Perfect for a wee ramble in the neighbourhood. Are ye on yer way home from work, then?”
A taxi hissed past, and they both stepped to the edge of the street where a closed shop awning provided poor shelter.
“I would be, were it not for my own idiocy,” Claire responded.
“Lost, are ye? Weel, ye follow the lane until Heneage, then take a left...” he teased, amused by her disarray.
“Very droll. I haven’t lost my flat, only the keys to... wait a second. How do you know where I live?”
It was Jamie’s turn for discomposure. He hadn’t meant to invoke that first night, when a drunken Claire had captivated him, but he’d slept with her friend instead.
“I, err...” he could feel warm blood pumping against the chilled skin of his cheeks.
“Right. Geillis.”
They both cleared their throats and peered off into the gloom, but neither made any attempt to leave.
“Speaking o’ Ms. Duncan, canna she let ye in? Tae yer flat?”
“She’s out on the town with her latest suitor. I don’t expect her back before dawn, if then.”
“Ah.” A rivulet escaped one of his curls, dampening his under-jaw.
“Sorry,” she interrupted his thoughts after some moments.
“Wha’ for?” He’d been trying to locate his misplaced courage. Perhaps it had run off with Claire’s keys.
“For mentioning Geillis’ new man. I know you and she...” She made a vague gesture with her gloved hand.
“Nah. Dinna fash. I was only thinkin’... Did ye wanna come home wi’ me?”
Before he could continue she took two steps backwards into the lane, her face transformed by astonished anger.
“I bloody well think not, Jamie Fraser!”
“That wasna what I was implyin’ at all!” he jumped to explain. “What kind o’ man do ye take me for? I was merely offerin’ a warm, dry place tae wait out the night, but ‘ave it yer way, ye obstinate woman! G’night tae ye. Claire.” He pronounced her name with as much rancour as he could inject into a single syllable.
Truth be told, it was himself he was angry with. He’d made a right mess of the situation each time he crossed Claire’s path, regardless of his intentions. Perhaps he should take the universe’s advice and leave her well enough alone.
“Jamie,” her voice called from where he’d left her, standing in the rain. Despite himself, he stopped and turned. Her arms hung loose at her sides like a grieving Madonna. The streetlight reflected off the raindrops caught in her hair, making them glisten like diamonds. It didn’t matter what she said next; he wouldn’t be leaving her here.
“I’m sorry."
***
Jamie’s flat was in a converted warehouse just off Commercial Street. A wall of windows overlooked a concrete lot dotted with parked food trucks and picnic tables. Water cascaded down the gritty glass, obscuring the view.
“Is your flatmate away?” she asked as Jamie opened the lights and began noisily preparing the kettle for tea. It was after midnight.
“Aye, inna manner o’ speaking. He moved back tae the Midlands, where he’s from. Couldna stand livin’ in London. Do ye take anything wi’ yer tea, Claire?”
“Honey, if it’s no bother. Otherwise, black is fine.”
She looked around the open living area. There was a comfortable-looking couch facing a flat screen TV mounted on the wall. Several gaming console controllers shared the low coffee table with a stack of magazines. A large metal shelving unit took up the opposite wall next to the kitchen, holding groupings of books, picture frames and the occasional potted plant. Christ, there was even art on the walls. What kind of bachelor lived like this? She’d been expecting empty take-away containers and hastily concealed porn.
“Will you stay on here?” she asked, curious. “It’s a lovely space, but I can’t imagine it’s cheap.”
“Ach, no, it isna. I’m in the market fer a new flatmate, if ye know of one. There’s usually a lad at the station lookin’ fer lodging, but I find I’m gettin’ particular in my auld age. This last one snored somethin’ fierce, so as he always reminded me of a con-”
“... congested hippo,” Claire finished for him, startled. Jamie stared back at her until the whistling kettle broke the silence.
He returned from the kitchen with an earthenware mug in each hand. Taking a long sip, she smiled at the saccharine kiss of honey. Jamie sat at the far end of the couch and watched her through the rising steam.
“Ye remember meeting me, then?” he asked cautiously.
“Not until that very moment. You wanted my beer,” she combed her mind for the buried memory. “I made you beg. God, I was an absolute ass,” she grimaced.
“Aye. Ye were. But under the circumstances, ye deserved tha’ lager more than I,” he conceded.
“You were pretty ungracious in defeat, from what I remember.”
“Tha’s constitutional, no' personal.”
They both smiled, then turned their attention to their tea. Jamie eventually offered her the first shower. Once clean she changed into jogging pants so long they encased her bare feet in warmth and a worn cotton t-shirt that slipped off her shoulder like a caress.
The second bedroom was bare except for a single futon. Jamie had lain out a duvet and spare pillow while she showered. Exchanging awkward goodnights, she entered the room and closed the door behind her.
***
The strobe of lightning woke her from within a dream. She counted to nine slowly before the old bones of the city shook with answering thunder. London seldom experienced thunderstorms, but she’d loved them as a little girl travelling abroad. Snuggling under the covers, she listened for the approaching crescendo.
A bright pulse lit the doorframe, now filled with a towering shadow.
“Christ, Jamie, you fucking scared me! What are you doing?”
The shadow shifted, but didn’t reply. She knew it was him. She’d recognize those shoulders anywhere.
“Jamie?” she asked more tentatively, wondering if he was sleep-walking.
“Go back tae sleep, Claire,” he murmured.
That wasn’t very likely to happen while she was being observed so intently. Something about his voice sounded off. Strained, like he was speaking around a clenched jaw.
She rose and approached him slowly, assessing the situation. Another flash, followed shortly by a deep snare drum-roll. This close, she could see the terror in his blackened eyes. She’d treated enough shell-shocked soldiers to recognize the signs.
“It still haunts you, doesn’t it?” she asked during the next lull.
“Aye. No’ all the time, mind. Bright flashes. Sudden loud noises.”
“So, pretty much every shift you work as a firefighter,” she remarked.
He chuffed. “Pretty much, yeah.” Then continued, subdued, “I’m sorry, Claire. I didna mean tae scare ye. I jus’ thought if I could see ye sleepin’, I would ken I was fine.” He shook his head. “Tha’ doesna make any sense.”
“It’s alright. Let’s go into the other room. Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”
Sitting facing each other on the couch, Claire led Jamie through a meditation exercise she'd learned in Afghanistan. Counting upwards from one to ten, he touched his thumb to the end of each finger in turn, taking a deep breath for each number. Then slowly back from ten to one, reversing the sequence. Outside, the storm began to abate, and inside as well. By the time the skies were quiet, they were both dulcet and calm, eyes smudgy with sleep.
“Thank ye, Claire. Truly.” He stood at the threshold of her room.
“Think nothing of it. It’s the least I could do, after you brought me in out of the rain. Goodnight, Jamie.”
“G’night. Claire.”
This time, the door remained open.