Infinite thanks to @lcbeauchampoftarth and @anna-swims for being awesome betas.
AO3 :: Previously
5: Awkward [Claire]
Somehow, that kiss Jamie gave me right before he left made me feel stupid and giddier than waking up next to him. Even though nothing had happened. Maybe I kind of wished something had happened.
I wasn’t the type for one-night stands. I’d been in a committed relationship with Frank for so long… even if it was only really committed on my part. The wanker.
I pulled into Sainsbury with these thoughts in my head. I grabbed a trolley and scouted the aisles for the groceries I needed. I pulled a milk jug from the refrigerator and suddenly remembered Frank’s photographs, torn and burnt, covered in Weetabix and sour milk. I wondered why Jamie had refused breakfast that morning. Was he more of a Cookie Crisp kind of fellow?
I realized I knew practically nothing about him, other than his name, his ex-girlfriend, and his penchant for Laphroaig. I took my phone from my bag, hoping he had at least put in his last name. My thumb scrolled down the contact list. There he was.
Fraser. Jamie Fraser.
I had vaguely heard of the family name. I recalled he had mentioned they ran a distillery. I felt better, as though he wasn’t a perfect stranger anymore.
Jamie was handsome (alright, just plain bloody beautiful), fun to hang out with, had a steady job, a family. He danced, had blue eyes, and was willing to beat Frank with lead pipes.
I tossed in some instant macaroni and cheese, water crackers, a hunk of cheap brie. I considered an equally cheap wine bottle, but settled on sparkling water instead. I wondered what Jamie had thought of my sad food staples at home. I decided to go looking for cereal options and turned abruptly, accidentally bumping my trolley against another.
“Oh, sorry.” I pulled it back hastily and was about to drive away when I heard my name.
“Claire? Mon Dieu, is that you?” Before I could react, I was engulfed in a tight hug and lots of fluffy brown hair in my face. I recognized the accent—French, but thankfully not Annalise’s.
“Louise?” The trolley’s handlebar was really digging into my stomach. I pushed her away gently and met her luminous grin. I hadn’t seen her since we graduated 6th Form College.
“Comment ça va? What have you been up to?”
“Oh, well, you know, work. The usual. I own a flower shop.” I shrugged. She might have known, although we were not following each other on social media, but we had friends in common, like Geillis. I should really give Geillis a call to tell her about Jamie. Then I realized that Louise was talking.
“That is great! I think us meeting today was meant to be! I’ll be needing a florist soon. Guess what? I’m getting married!” Louise shoved her left hand in my face and wiggled it around. A white gold band with a brilliant diamond sparkled on her third finger.
“Congratulations!” Jesus H. Christ, another engagement. I faked a smile for her. “Who is the lucky fellow?”
“Charlie, Charles Stewart. He’s a banker, very well-off financially.” She lowered her voice. “Works at Coutts, you know.”
“Oh.” I did know. His name caught my attention. “Did you say his name is Charles—”
“Ah, yes! Like Bonnie Prince Charlie! Family name, and all that,” Louise said proudly.
“Well, whenever you have time, look me up. It’s Beauchamp’s Blooms, I’m on Facebook and Instagram.”
“Of course, merci! You know, I’d just been thinking about you.” We both moved out of the way of an elderly lady who wanted to go by. I dragged the trolley out of the middle of the aisle and nodded absently. “I would like for everyone from our class to come to the wedding. So, expect your invitation in the mail soon, oui?”
“Absolutely, thanks!” I smiled and went to push my trolley away. Everyone in our class? But that would mean…
“Oh, Claire?” Louise’s tone was careful, curious. Oh, fuck.
“Yes?” I turned, gripping the handlebar with white knuckles.
“I was recently catching up with Frank Randall—works with the Duke of Sandringham, you know, close friend of Charlie’s—and he happened to mention that you two were no longer together.” It was a question.
Frank still found ways to humiliate me.
“Um, no, we’re not… together. Anymore,” I stammered, blushing to the roots of my hair.
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I only mention it now because the invitations are at the printers and are labeled ‘plus one’. But if you are not comfortable with that, I mean with Frank there, you do not have to—”
“You know, Louise? That is perfectly alright. I’d be delighted to come to your wedding. I appreciate the thought and I will be there. Plus one,” I said brightly, manufacturing a smile and pasting it on.
“Bien! Well, I will call you about the flowers soon. I cannot wait for you to meet Charlie! He is really wonderful.” Louise smiled.
It was then that I realized I was being a bloody bitch. God, could I be more cynical, that I could begrudge Louise her happiness when it took nothing from me?
I relented and caught her by surprise when I leaned in again for a hug of my own. “Congratulations again, Lulu,” I said, using her old nickname. “I look forward to meeting your Charlie.” I let go of her quickly and made my way to the next aisle, no doubt leaving her a bit confused.
In that moment, I understood Jamie’s breakdown in front of Annalise. Were we so incapable of moving on that we resorted to feeling attacked and vulnerable every time someone else was remotely happy around us?
Jamie’s breakdown. Jamie.
James Fraser.
Bloody hell. Now I needed a date for Louise’s wedding. When we had given each other our numbers for emergencies, I didn’t realize I’d be having one five minutes later. How desperate would it be if I called him? Did it qualify as an emergency or just pathetic and sad? There was about a month to go before the wedding, I calculated.
I went through the check-out line and put the carrier bags in the back of the van. I raced home as fast as I dared in the slick streets to stash the groceries away.
I went to my room and flopped onto the unmade bed. I caught a whiff of scent on my sheets. It was part delicious cologne, part stale cigarette smoke, and a little bit of whisky fumes. It was strangely enticing.
I yanked my phone from my bag again and found Jamie’s contact information. I put my thumb over the name, barely touching the screen. To call him, or not to call him, to ask him for a major favor. I should call him. Just do it. And say what? Hey, it’s Claire. Remember me? The half-naked girl from this morning?
The phone rang.
Jamie Fraser flashed on the screen.
Bloody hell. Was he psychic? What could he be calling for? I had just seen him a couple of hours ago. The phone kept ringing. I dropped it on the bed and my clumsy fingers fumbled among the sheets. Quick, answer before he hangs up!
Not really a word, but… how about “i love you JK/yn”
no love confessions in this ch 🥲 sorry! but here’s a long one with “love” instead
••••••••••
“He changed afterwards.”
Your mind immediately supplies images, not the reckless Jungkook you’ve once learned to love but the present one.
His careful pauses, his protective instincts, his odd tendency to carry responsibility that isn’t his as though he’s checking everyone’s still safe.
And with that, all the pieces begin connecting.
“He became frightened of losing people.” She nods to herself, eyes drifting aimlessly. “Terrified, just like Hara.”
You suddenly wonder how much fear was hiding beneath things you’d mistaken for certainty.
This particular possibility unsettles you the most, because people are so much easier when they’re villains, and pain becomes manageable when somebody is clearly wrong.
Love, though, becomes far more complicated when everyone is carrying invisible wounds.
Haha such a cool idea for your ccl5 editing process 😁i technically have two words 👀 “without you”
Also, sending you lots of love 🫶🏻
aww thank you 🤍 lots of love back!
•••••••
Not a word - the poorest way of telling you the truth. Maybe it was a way of telling you he’d now be able to live without you. But this time, you’re not going down without a fight. You’re not going to let it slide, show sympathy, or run away like you used to. You’re going to poke the bear, load your voice like a gun, and fire each word, wrapped like bullets, at him until he’s exploding - his carefully tucked-away thoughts, forced to stay silent due to trauma or otherwise, bursting out of him.
Make him talk. This time, there will be no what-ifs left. So you let your fists loose and let your eyes wander back up to Jungkook, who’s still facing the view, as you cock, aim, and pull the trigger on everything that was and could never be.
