#dinna fash

[loverofwhump216]

I present to you my Fandom Wall. It's not much right now, but it will grow.

So far on the Wall is:

A poster of Nicole from Cafae Latte

A sticker banner also from Cafae Latte

A Jack Skellington plush from Nightmare Before Christmas

Jack Skellington and Oogie Boogie ornaments also from Nightmare Before Christmas

A pin from Outlander

A TARDIS Beanie from Doctor Who

A Doctor Who quote poster with the 10th Doctor

A PRIDE Flag triangle cloth piece

and a PRIDE Mickey Mouse pin

[let-the-dream-begin]

How far down Jamie’s throat do you think John’s c*ck can go?

HAHAHAHAHAHA OK LEGEND ASKING THE GOOD QUESTIONS I wish I could answer😫 prolly really far if they practice😌😌

[booksandshowsandmovies-ohmy]

So I know it’s been a minute since I’ve really been on here but I figured I try to update anyone who was still around and followed me on my life. I’m gonna be opening up my own Etsy shop!! It’s going to be called CourtlyStitchings and I’ll be selling a bunch of awesome cross stitch projects. Pictured below are one for Halloween that I’m still working on and an Outlander one that I just finished. Both will be available to purchase once my shop is opened! Just a disclaimer, these patterns were not created by me but by OhMyStitchesShop and by KookyCrossStitch

[magnoliasinbloom]

The Midwife - II

AO3 :: Previously

II

The walls of Castle Leoch loomed before me. I trudged through the muddy yard in search of the head steward or housekeeper. I hoisted the bundle that held a spare set of clothes, a medicine box of dried herbs and tonics, some money, and a letter of introduction. Jamie’s pearls were sewn into the hem of my skirt. The thought that he was near spurred me on.

I spotted a blonde waif of a girl, carrying a basket of eggs. I approached her with a cautious smile. “Good evening. Might I ask, do you know where I might find the head housekeeper?”

“Aye, mistress, she’s my grandmother,” she responded courteously. “Are ye selling something?”

“No, child,” I said. “I’m a healer. I wondered if perhaps there was need of my services here.”

“Perhaps, but ‘tis the laird makes these decisions.” She pursed her lips. “Follow me, mistress, we’ll see if aught can be done.”

I walked behind her to the castle kitchens. Inside, it was warm, a welcome respite from the early spring chill in the air. Setting the basket carefully on a table, the girl went in search of her grandmother. I looked around; the kitchen was large and extremely clean. This seemed like a good sign. A few girls lingered in the corner, kneading bread and giggling.

“Ma’am?” The girl was back with an older, stout lady with grizzled hair in tow. “Here’s Mistress Fitzgibbons, my granny.”

“Och, dearie, ye can call me Mrs. Fitz like everybody else. My granddaughter says ye’re a healer. Are ye a Beaton?”

“Pardon, a Beaton?”

“The Beatons are a long line of distinguished and rare healers. One of them, Davie Beaton, bided here, but he passed away recently. Lockjaw—nasty thing.”

I cleared my throat. “I am not a Beaton, but I have recently come from an apprenticeship as a healer, in Paris. I am skilled in midwifery as well. If you would care to present the matter to the laird directly.” I felt a cold sweat break out underneath my dress.

“I think he’ll be glad to have ye, lass. The Gathering is near, and I cannot manage the food and the cleaning as well as tending to all the folk that need care.” Mrs. Fitz gestured for me to sit. “After Davie’s death, we have Father Bain to rely on to heal bodies and souls, but he’s all the way out in Cranesmuir. Ye’ll have passed through the village?”

I nodded. The village had seemed small and drab, all muddy lanes and leaning houses. “I’ve never traveled this far north in Scotland.”

“All I have are home remedies and old wives’ lore, and that does for a turn. In the woods…” here she lowered her voice to a whisper. “There’s a wise-woman, ye ken? She has medicines too—but only if ye’re desperate enough.”

I shivered. “I hope no one will be desperate, now that I’m here. If the laird will have me, of course.”

“Aye, I’m sure he will! Here, lass.” Mrs. Fitz set out bread and cheese for me. “I shall return presently with an answer.” She bustled away, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders before stopping abruptly and turning. “Silly me, dearie. I never asked for yer name!”

“Beauchamp. Julia Beauchamp.”

* * *

Sister Madeleine had found me an hour or so after Malva disappeared. She had warmed me up with mulled wine and a dry shift. I told her what the evil salope had done with Mother Hildegarde and myself. The sister had apologized profusely for leaving me alone; but I knew that Malva would have bided her time for the perfect opportunity. I was lucky she had wished to make it seem like a natural death—she could have just as easily stabbed or strangled me.

We realized that Mother Hildegarde and I had not had smallpox at all; we had never broken out in spots. The symptoms of the illness corresponded to typhoid. In the panic of the epidemic, we had just written off the disease as smallpox. Slowly, gradually, I regained my health. My recovery was sluggish but steady. I spent weeks rebuilding my appetite and strength; I nagged the nuns so much eventually they relented and allowed me to care for a few patients for short periods.

My heart ached fiercely for Jamie. I wrote to him, letters that would likely never make it to Scotland. Few messengers went there, but most went through Jared—and I knew I could not trust him for the world. By the time I could stand without becoming dizzy, it was the end of January. I wondered what Jamie was doing every hour of the day, every moment. The hurt was always present, like a wound that would not heal. I missed my courses that month, but thought nothing of it; I had been ill and undernourished, which was cause enough. I would not think the unthinkable—that I was alone in Paris, with child, and without my husband. There were no other symptoms. I did not dare hope.

At first I thought Jamie would come back for me soon. Surely, he would not let his uncle keep us apart. He must have escaped at the first opportunity. It was obvious what I was up against: the might of the Fraser and MacKenzie clam, who did not approve of our marriage and who had ruthlessly taken Jamie away from me. So I lingered in Paris, uncertain of what to do next. I worked at l’hôpital, picking up the pieces the smallpox epidemic had left behind. The city woke up piecemeal, but soon recovered most of its bustle and vibrancy. Weeks passed, but Jamie did not return. My courses did, once I had regained some of the weight I had lost. There was no child then, nothing to tie me to Jamie but memories and a string of pearls that were almost as precious to me as Jamie himself.

Mother Hildegarde had called me into her study, stout and imposing once more. It was impossible to imagine the convent and l’hôpital without her. I sat with a cup of tea poured by the abbess herself.

“Ma chère, qu’est que vous faites ici?”

“I am working, finishing the apprenticeship,” I said cautiously.

“I meant, why have you not gone to your husband?”

I felt a twinge in my chest and looked down at my idle hands, chapped from the vinegar and constant washing. “A woman traveling alone—”

“That had been your mother’s fate, and yours until you came here. You are more than qualified to make your way in the world, with your husband by your side. God gave James Fraser to you, and you to him. Go, seek your husband.”

Seek the red man.

Mother Hildegarde gave me a purse of money, part wages and the donation Jamie had made on the day we parted. You’ll have need of it, she said. I booked passage on a packing boat down the Seine, and journeyed to northern France. At Le Havre I sailed across the channel on a larger ship. Safely tucked into my bag was a letter of introduction Mother Hildegarde had written for me, should need arise – I had a feeling it would.

Bordering the coast of England, we stopped briefly at certain ports along the way. I acted as the ship’s physician as soon as I had proven myself competent. I made friends with a young lad called Elias Pound.

We were only a few years apart, but we bonded quickly, each of us lonely and yearning—Elias for his mother, myself for Jamie. Elias’s company provided certain protection as well from unwelcome advances by rude sailors.

We made landfall at Inverness. I bid Elias goodbye, with instructions to eat green things to prevent scurvy. He squeezed my hand and with a reverent Godspeed, Mistress Beauchamp, we parted. I breathed in Scotland, its green and rolling hills dominating the view. This was the landscape that held my husband’s heart, and I could see why for myself now. The pure air was so different from the scents of Paris. It was now the end of April.

I joined a caravan of entertainers, mummers and musicians, who welcomed me heartily upon learning my trade. They would travel to small towns, including Cranesmuir near Leoch—I had asked specifically, heart pounding. Jamie was so close. During the journey north, I had delivered a healthy boy for a performer’s wife, and had joined them in a dram of whisky to celebrate. That had been weeks ago.

I finished my food. Mrs. Fitzgibbons returned at length, and heated up a basinful of hot water for washing. She lent me a brown ribbon for my hair. “You’ll want to look presentable for dinner in the hall,” she said. Would Jamie be there? I hoped so. I didn’t dare ask for him by name, not even to Mrs. Fitz—it wouldn’t be seemly to ask after a man, until I knew the lay of the land.  

We made our way to the hall. At the appropriate time, Mrs. Fitz pushed me gently forward, and I heard my new name as I was introduced—Mistress Julia Beauchamp. I walked the length of the hall, my knees shaking but my back straight. Dougal was tall, almost as tall as Jamie, with a fierce countenance that brooked no disobedience. This was the man that had separated us. I met his stare steadily, even as I curtsied. Defiance.

I rose, eyes boring into my back. My neck prickled and my heart seemed to sink and rise at once. I turned my head and met his sapphire gaze. Jamie.

[bee-kathony]

The Oath | Ch. 1 - “Discoveries”

Reeling from a bad breakup, Claire finds comfort with a stranger, Jamie Fraser — owner of Fraser & Co. the newest Whisky company in Edinburgh. They share their pain, loss and dreams, after all… it was just supposed to be one night together.

a/n: Hello there! This is a brand new fic I’ve been working on and am so excited to finally share this with everyone! I hope you enjoy and can’t wait for the rest of this story to unfold xx

January 20th, 2019

Claire was running late (as usual), and had just texted Frank to let him know she was on her way home from work. Being promoted to Chief Resident at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, while amazing and the highlight of her career thus far, also came with its obvious stress. She had been late more times than she had been early since her new role and while Frank was a forgiving man, Claire knew he could only take so much of her tardiness.

But it’s not like Frank had been perfectly punctual in their entire four year relationship. A history professor at Edinburgh University, Frank Randall had his fair share of late nights grading papers and tutoring students.

A quiet ding came from Claire’s pocket and she pulled it out to check the message.

Frank: No rush

“No rush he says,” Claire muttered under her breath as she wrapped her scarf loosely around her neck. “We’ll see if you’re in the same mood when I get home, shall we?”

Claire had an awful habit of talking to herself and had received her fair share of odd looks on the street and on public transportation. She held her own however, being born and raised in England by strong and loving parents, Claire wasn’t afraid to be herself — strange habits and all.

Edinburgh had become a second home to her after she finished university at Oxford. That’s where she had met Frank who was a teaching assistant in one of her classes. They began dating, taking things slow at first but soon Claire found herself packing her bags and following him to Scotland — a country she had never even been to before.

Call it love, call it a foolish thing to do, but Claire adored Frank and had no regrets about uprooting her life.

Twenty minutes later, Claire unlocked the door to her home, relishing in the warmth as she stomped her snow clad feet on the welcome mat.

“Frank, I’m home!” She called out, but heard no response.

Unbuttoning her brown tweed coat, Claire slid her arms out of it and laid it across the chair in the entryway. How odd. Frank was usually home at this time of day and always called out to her when she entered.

Brushing it off as nothing but good thick walls, Claire strolled into the kitchen to see what Frank was making for dinner. Even odder. There was nothing on the stove — no pots or pans, and no glasses of wine waiting on the counter to welcome her home after a long day.

This wasn’t like Frank to not cook dinner, especially on Fridays, their home date nights. Checking her phone for any missed messages, she saw no new notifications and so she laid her phone out on the counter and resolved to search the house.

“Frank?” She called out his name as she climbed the stairs to their bedroom. If she was being honest with herself, his lack of presence around the house shouldn’t be too out of character… especially recently.

They had been having problems, as most couples do at some point in their relationship. Claire wasn’t too much of a fool in love to admit that Frank had his flaws — as did she. At times, she found herself flinching when he raised his voice above normal volume because the phone company had billed them wrong again. Or when he smashed his fists down on the table angrily whenever Claire had told him about applying for the Chief position at work.

He was always supportive of her dreams, but not when they got in the way of their time as a couple. This was all very understandable — who wouldn’t be upset that their significant other would ultimately be spending less time with them? But Frank had held it over her head… her commitment to her job. Even if he didn’t voice his every thought out loud to her, Claire had felt the iciness in his touch the past couple of months and the greedy way he came to her in the night, spreading her legs and entering her without warning.

She often wondered what her parents would think of Frank if they were still alive. Henry and Julia Beauchamp died in a terrible car accident when she was only fourteen and since then she had been under her Uncle Lamb’s guardianship. Her uncle had been her rock when she lost both her parents, and had encouraged her to follow her dream to become a doctor and save lives — making up for the sheer fact that she wasn’t able to save her parents lives.

The light was on at the end of the hall in their bedroom, and for some reason Claire felt that she needed to be quiet as she padded down the hardwood floor.

“Frank?” She tapped her knuckles softly on the door before pushing it open. “Are you in here, love?”

“In the bathroom, Claire! Just a moment,” came Frank’s muffled voice from behind another closed door to her right.

Looking around the room, Claire noticed that their bedroom was slightly disheveled and wondered what Frank had been doing. He always kept the house in tip top shape, not a chair out of place which frankly annoyed Claire to no end. A home was supposed to be lived in, not simply a shell to hold furniture and things.

Her feet were sore from a long day of speed walking through the hospital hallways and Claire stepped out of her tennis shoes — boring and bland, the kind that were stereotypical for doctors. The sound of running water came from the bathroom and Claire sighed to herself, impatient for Frank to come out.

As she took another look around her room, Claire noticed something sparkle out of the corner of her eye on the nightstand. With her heart racing, Claire glanced at the bathroom door before going over to inspect the sparkly object.

It was an earring. And not one of hers.

In a matter of a few short seconds, Claire’s world turned on its axis. She looked down at the small diamond in her hand and felt hot tears well in her eyes. Her throat was tight and her breath caught in between her ribs like someone had punched her.

She should have known. Frank had been somewhat aloof the past few weeks, his attitude completely shifted from how he used to act. What used to be heated arguments over dinner about her attending another work conference over the weekend, turned into a nod of the head and a “See you on Monday,” farewell.

But he clearly still felt comfortable using her body for pleasure whenever he needed it. Just last night, Frank had kissed the back of her neck sending a chill down her spine. Needing to feel some kind of human comfort from the stress of her hectic week, Claire had rolled over to face him and joined together with him.

Her belly was coiled tight now and she slid her fingers down over her neck, breasts and stomach, fingers trembling at the thought of those same fingers she knew well on another woman.

The bathroom door opened with an ear splitting creak and Claire froze, her back turned away from him.

“Sorry about that darling, I was just in the shower — had a hard day at work,” Frank said and came up behind her, his hands sliding up her back and over her shoulders.

“Don’t touch me,” she whispered and she wondered if he had even heard her. An answering squeeze to the tight knots in her shoulders told her that he hadn’t.

“I said don’t touch me, Frank,” Claire said it a little louder and finally turned around to face him. The sight of his face — the hard lines that decorated his cheeks, the chiseled jaw and brown eyes made her sick now, almost violently so.

“Claire, what’s gotten into you?” He looked at her with almost a scowl, as if it was her that had done something wrong.

Afraid that her words would fail her, she lifted up her fist to Frank and slowly, one finger at a time opened her hand to reveal the diamond earring of his lover.

“Fuck,” he said under bated breath. So it was true.

Claire dropped the traitorous piece of jewelry onto the floor between their feet and stormed for the door. She was jerked back by Frank’s grip on her arm and she whirled around, slapping him with a force so strong her hand stung.

“Jesus, Claire!”

“A hard day at work?!” Claire felt the strength return to her voice as she spoke, and smirked as he rubbed his red cheek. “The only thing that was hard about your day was your cock, Frank.”

“Claire,” he sighed and his hands rested on his hips which were only clad in a towel. “Can we please be civil about this? You must have known, surely—“

“Civil? For fucks sake, Frank!” Claire scoffed and spun on her heel, heading towards the closet to retrieve an overnight bag. Thankfully her best friend, Geillis lived just a few streets over. There was no way Claire could fathom spending another night under this roof.

The fact that Frank wasn’t putting up a fight gave her mixed emotions. On one hand, it made it easy to hate him, but on the other… it only crushed her, making her feel pathetic — like she wasn’t someone worth fighting for.

“Just tell me,” she said seriously as she came back into the room, bag hastily packed. “Do I know her?”

She saw the twitch of his eye and thought she might be sick right there on the carpet.

“You’ve met her a few times,” he confirmed and sat down on the bed. “Her name is Sandy and she works with—“

“Oh spare me the details, please!”

“I’m sorry, Claire. This isn’t exactly how I wanted this to happen.”

Claire looked at him, a feeling of grief for their relationship washing over her, and only felt hatred for this man.

“It isn’t?” She laughed, an almost evil witch sounding laugh. “So you were planning on still sleeping with me while you had your affair? Were you ever planning on telling me?”

“There were conversations,” he mumbled, “Between Sandy and I about ending it.”

“Ending your affair?”

“No,” he said defensively and looked up at her. “About ending our relationship.”

Claire closed her eyes, counted to three, took a deep breath and walked out of the room. There was no use in further discussion with Frank because it wouldn’t be a discussion, only an excuse to make her look like a bigger fool than she already felt.

When she reached the front door, she heard footsteps on the stairs behind her and paused, her hand on the doorknob.

“Claire?”

“Yes?” She said this to the door. Claire wouldn’t spend another minute looking at his face. A face she had loved and spent lazy mornings running her fingertips over. A face that had once looked at her with so much love it was as if she was his whole world.

“You will come back to collect the rest of your things, right?”

“Fuck you, Frank Randall.” She opened the door quickly and slammed it shut behind her, clutching her overnight bag tightly.

As she walked down the street, every step taking her closer to Geillis, she began to look for her phone to tell her friend she was coming over.

“Damn it,” she cursed, her hands franticly searching her jean pockets for her phone. Claire began to shiver in the cold January air and realized that in her haste to get out, she had left her coat on the front chair… along with her phone on the kitchen counter.

There was no way she could return to that house, even if it was to retrieve her phone. Her dignity would not be squashed another time tonight. Instead, Claire wiped away the few frustrated tears that leaked from her eyes and kept walking, only hoping that Geillis was home.

When her trembling hand rang the doorbell and the red headed woman opened the door, Claire’s bottom lip shook and she collapsed into her open arms.

++++++

“There, that’ll fix ye right up,” the ginger scot said as she handed Claire a full glass of whisky. They had stood on Geillis’ doorstep for five minutes before Claire managed to pull herself together enough to make it to the couch.

“Now,” Geillis took a seat beside her, pulling the fuzzy blanket over her feet. “Will ye tell me what the hell happened tonight?

Taking a long sip for bravery, Claire swallowed deeply letting the liquid burn down her throat. Her right hand fidgeted with a loose thread on the couch and she kept her eyes forward on the roaring fire as she spoke, giving Geillis a play by play of her eventful evening.

“That fucking bastard!” Geillis all but stood up, her face beaming red to match her hair. She set aside her own glass of whisky and gathered Claire into her arms. “I’m sae sorry, lass.”

“I just feel so stupid,” Claire wiped at her nose. “When I think back, I knew there was something off but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I just didn’t want to let myself think he would still be sleeping with me while he had an affair.”

“He’s a damn fool, Claire. I never liked him and ye ken it well. The moment ye introduced us, I felt my wame turn and I got weird vibes,” Geillis rose from the couch and refilled both their glasses.

Claire welcomed the whisky as it warmed her body. It was like a balm to her wounded soul and made her mind fuzzy. She wanted to curl up in a ball under the covers and imagine that this entire night hadn’t happened.

“Ye ken yer welcome to stay here as long as ye need.”

“Thank you,” Claire smiled sadly and then remembered. “I will need a massive favor from you.”

“Of course, I’ll do anythin’ for ye,” Geillis smiled and gave her leg a gentle pat.

“I don’t think I can face going back into that house. Would you be able to collect my things for me tomorrow? I also left my phone on the kitchen counter,” she sighed.

Geillis nodded and pulled out her own phone. “I’ll make a list of everything so I dinna forget.”

“You really are the best friend a girl could ever ask for,” Claire smiled and then felt a new wave of tears come about, but this time they were happy tears of gratitude.

“Och, dinna cry, Claire — ye’ll only make me start,” Geillis pulled her in to another embrace, stroking her unruly mop of curls between her fingers.

“Sorry,” she sniffed again.

“Ye’ve nothin’ to be sorry about, lass. Now… tomorrow I’ll go and get all yer wee things, but I’m afraid tomorrow evenin’ I canna be wi’ ye, that is unless ye wanted to come wi’ me to Broch Mordha.”

“Broch Mordha? What’s up there?” Claire sat up slightly, trying to recall the geography of Scotland.

“Och, tis a small town, but a few friends of mine ken of a local distillery that is launching their new whisky and I promised to go wi’ them to the grand opening.”

“Oh,” Claire thought about her work schedule and realized thankfully that she had the next three days off. “I don’t mind tagging along, that is if it’s alright.”

“Are ye sure?” Geillis asked. “I would prefer if ye did come just so I can keep an eye on ye to make sure ye dinna off yerself.”

“Geillis!” Claire laughed, a welcome sound and hit her friend on the arm. “I’m not there… yet.”

Geillis winked at her and pulled her into another hug, “That’s my lass. Let’s get ye into a nice hot bubble bath and then off to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll deal wi’ whatever comes yer way.”

They both rose from the couch and Claire followed Geillis to the bathroom. For the first time that day, Claire looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. Her riotous brown curls were a frizzy mess around her slim face which was looking haggard. Bags under her red eyes from the crying and puffy cheeks to add — she didn’t feel too hot.

Once the bath was ready, she shed her layers and climbed in slowly, letting her body adjust to the changing temperature. Claire laid her head back against the bath, eyes fixated above her on a black speck on the white ceiling.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she muttered and submerged herself under the water, letting the weight of the world wash away.

Chapter 2 “Strange Whisky Man” 

[turtlesoupstories]

time is a cold wind: part one

@bonnie-wee-swordsman asked: Prompt: what if Jamie was the one that grew up in the 20th century, and he met Claire after he travels to the 18th?

thank you for such an intriguing prompt, bon! i hope that i can do it justice.

many thanks to the loves of my life @jamieclaire and the other bairns who helped me iron out all the kinks in this plot. don’t know what i’d do without ya! i hope you all enjoy and, as always, let me know what you think!

- kait

title inspiration chapter title inspiration

PART ONE: Disappear/Reappear

By the time his car had broken down, he was about a hundred miles southeast of Lallybroch. It had been sputtering and jerking the whole ride down the bumpy back-roads, and thus he should’ve expected its eventual demise. But this didn’t stop the frustration from coursing through his veins, the feeling of utter exasperation that caused him to slam his fist against the steering wheel; it truly was a piece of metal shite, as Murtagh had once called it. He scrambled out of the accursed vehicle, closed the door and ran straight into the woods. At this point, he had only one destination: elsewhere.

He knew that they’d be after him eventually; Murtagh and Jenny had been prepared for it, keeping him locked away in the cellar whenever visitors came to pay their respects. During the entirety of the funeral, he was locked up in that dank, windowless room, wallowing in his own self-pity as others mourned just up the stairs. Despite how much he wanted to be up there, he knew that Jenny wasn’t keen on taking any risks–he wouldn’t fight her about it, especially in her fragile state.

There were times when he had regretted what he had done. His country needed him, needed anyone who was able-bodied enough to fight, and yet here he was, running from the law like an escaped convict. Although, he thought wryly to himself as he weaved his way around the trees, I suppose in some ways, I am just that.

The more he dwelled on the idea, however, (especially now, as he ran for his life in the darkness of the Scottish wilderness), the less he regretted his decision. To be able to see his mother, albeit not for long, was worth the escaping, the plotting, the running… and not only to see his mother at the last, but to be there for his sister as she quietly–thoroughly–fell to pieces; to care for her when she felt she could not, as well as to provide for the estate and all of those who lived there.

Not much good I’d be doing them, now. Running from the law.

Before he knew it, he had entered a clearing, the trees seeming to part just for him as he ran through the dark wood. It was then that he saw the hill.

He’d known the stories, of course: the old folk tales his mother had told him at night before bed; the Woman of Balnain, the folk tale of the woman who’d gone through the stones and traveled far away from her own land. The dancers, the druids, and the faeries: carrying torches whilst wearing what seemed to be bed sheets, mesmerizing and beautiful and magical as they swirled around the stones while the sun rose.

There had been children that had gone missing at the site, with a brief scattering of adults and, as far as he knew, none of them had ever returned. The parents and loved ones would send out search parties, put the faces of those lost in newspapers and on posters, but to no avail; they’d bury tiny caskets full of flowers, stuffed animals, clothes… all to remember the child that seemed to have been ripped from time and space itself.

Whether these legends and stories of the stones were true, Jamie was never sure. As a child, he had believed in them as one would of faeries and dragons and aliens in far-off galaxies, but as an adult…

He hadn’t realized he had stopped moving until he heard the roaring of engines in the distance. Breaking from his train of thought, he lunged up the hill in long, heavy strides, the intentions of his actions clear. Whether the tales were truly tales or not, he was about to find out.truly tales or not, he was about to find out.

Upon approaching the hill, he noticed a dull roar, almost like the buzzing of a bee’s hive, that came from the center of the circle, crescendoing as he came closer to the tallest stone. Cleft at the center, the stone rose high above the rest, it’s granite face as menacing as some ancient ruin. It’s warning was clear: death occurred here. But James Fraser wasn’t going to take any chances, especially if his life was on the line.

He took a step, then another, and another towards the stone. The bees roared in his ears, pounding in his head and causing his eyes to strain, but he pushed himself forward until his hands were touching the cold surface. The sound of gunshots echoed through the air as everything around him faded to black.

When he awoke, he wasn’t staring at the sky, as he thought he should’ve been. Instead, he was face to face with a woman, her hair–a riotous mass of chestnut waves–tickling his nose as she was fumbling with the leg of his pants. What she was doing to him, he wasn’t entirely sure, and as he went to assess the face of the woman on top of him, a sharp pain shot down his left leg.

Her head lifted, revealing to him the face of an ethereal goddess. At first he thought she was Aphrodite–for she must be, with a face like that and eyes the color of polished sapphires–but upon closer inspection, he figured she’d have been Athena: a beautiful woman with a sharp tongue and wisdom held in check. She pushed him back down carefully, her entire weight resting in his stomach.

“Don’t move,” She warned, her voice reminiscent of a matron in a hospital. “You’ve been shot in the leg.”

The memory of gunshots replayed in his mind momentarily, and he winced. They must’ve knicked him right…

His train of thought halted immediately and before he could stop himself, he was sitting upright, scrambling to stand. The woman pushed him down–roughly, but not so rough that it seemed malicious–and hissed through her teeth, “I told you not to bloody move!”

“Please, I need ta know; what’s the date?”

Her eyebrow quirked skeptically before she replied. “It’s the first of November.”

“The year?”

She was looking at him strangely now. Instead of answering his question, she leaned forward and looked into his eyes, pulling at his eyelids and prodding at his temples. Shying away from her cold hands, she answered the unasked question instead. “I’m checking to see if you hit your head; you might have a concussion.”

“Nae, I’m fine,” he muttered, scooting away from her. He winced, however, when the pain in his leg grew steadily worse; nodding once to the leg, he muttered, “Besides that.”

A soft “hm” escaped from behind closed lips as she looked him over once more. Leaning forward to continue tending to his leg, she murmured, “How did you find your way to the faerie hill? And with a bullet wound, no less?”

“How d’ye”–he winced as she prodded at the wound with an alcohol-soaked cloth–“Expect me ta answer that when you havena even answered my question?”

She looked up from her work, a look of alarm passing across her glass face. “The year is 1743.”

He must’ve passed out again, for when he woke once more, the mysterious woman had finished cleaning out his wound. The leg of his pants had been rolled back down and his shoes were removed and placed neatly by the door. No longer on the floor, he had been moved into a small cot placed in the corner of the one-room cabin, right beside the fire. Rolling his head from the roaring flames back to her form, he stared as she went about her business, fiddling with different vials full of herbs and various colored liquids.

“Blink,” he heard her say, not taking her eyes off of the vial she had been inspecting. “If you stare too long, your eyes will start to strain.”

Listening to her orders, he blinked a few times, trying to clear the cloud that had formed around his mind. She met his eyes a moment later and answered the question he was about to ask. “You lost consciousness; I’m sure it’s because of the loss of blood from your wound.”

He tried not to stare as he observed her, the muscles of her back contorting this way and that as she moved about the small table, examining the contents of each vial and placing them into different cases. As he looked on, he had a strange feeling that he had met this woman before, but couldn’t quite place where.

“I thank ye for your help… Sassenach,” he stuttered the last word as he suddenly realized that he hadn’t caught her name. Carefully, he sat up against the headboard of the small bed and winced. “I’m sorry ta take up yer only bed.”

She waved a hand dismissively, placing the vial she had in her hands down on the table and making her way across the room. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she fiddled with the fraying edge of her apron. “Can I ask you a question? And please know, you don’t have to answer me.” After he nodded his assent, she took a breath. “Where is it that you’re from? Your clothes are so… finely made… you have to have come from somewhere pretty far from here.”

Jamie paused, unsure of how to explain any of it. How would he be able to tell this person, a woman he had just met, that he had fallen through time–two hundred years into the past–without thinking him mad? Any sane person would, and probably send him to a nut house to let him rot in his own insanity.

After a moment of debating what to tell her, he reached across and reached for her hand. Hesitating, he instead picked at the edge of her apron as well, tearing off a few small pieces of loose string. “I dinna think that I can tell ye that just yet.” Before she could answer, he continued speaking. “But I swear to ye, before I leave, you will know the whole truth.”

She nodded once, twice, seeming to take his word as a good enough answer. A smile formed on her lips as she murmured, “I suppose that’s a gallant enough answer, seeing as I never asked you what your name was.”

He smiled, “Neither have you.”

Her laugh filled the space of the room, echoing off of the tiny walls of the cabin. His heart lightened with it, and a large smile spread across his face.

“Claire,” She murmured, biting her lip to fight off her smile. “My name is Claire Beauchamp.”

Something in his mind clicked at the sound of her name, spoken aloud–Claire Beauchamp. Claire. He had heard the name before, on multiple different occasions, but couldn’t quite place where. No reason presented itself clearly to him, for how would he have known the name of some random medicine woman from the eighteenth century?

Before the silence became too prolonged, he reciprocated in kind. “James Fraser,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. Her face flushed red as he kissed her knuckles. “At your service, ma’am.”

to be continued…

[gotham-ruaidh]

Go away, salty anons

I don’t have time - in fact, I *never* have time - for any of you.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Imagine that after Helwater Jamie comes home and Jenny insists he marry Mary McNab instead of Laoghaire.  Jamie finally relents and they set up a happy home filled with respect that develops into real, deep phileo love.  It may not be the rock your world type of love that Jamie and Claire had/have but it is solid. Then after 20 years, Claire returns… This one could be really, really angst filled. Thanks for your time mods! 

@jerribwarren submitted:  We all know that if Jamie had to remarry,  Laoghaire was probably the best person for him to marry as a marriage to her was never going to work (between her unrealistic expectations, her jealousy of Claire and Jamie’s apathy after his return from Helwater).  My question is:  don’t you think that if he had married someone (like a Mary McNabb but who wouldn’t necessarily have seen him with Claire) other than Laoghaire, someone he might have actually become friends with and grown to have a genuine affection for, it would have been much harder to reconcile the situation after Claire’s return especially if they had actually had a child or children together?  I would think that he wouldn’t have left his second wife in this situation or would have brought her with him to Edinburgh. I’d appreciate a discussion or even an AU on this subject about how this situation could/would have been resolved.  Thanks and I really love all of the writers for imagine.

Love in Other Words  (Part One of Two)

“I know why the Jews and Muslims have nine hundred names for God; one small word is not enough for love.” - Claire in Voyager

The ancient Greeks had at least four words for love: agape (unconditional love); eros (romantic, passionate, sexual love); storge (familial love); and philia (the love of friendship, regard). 

Jamie and Claire together share all four.

– Mod Lenny

It was Claire. She was really here in the shop with him. At least, he was pretty sure she was real. He could feel the warmth of her in his trembling arms, could smell that fresh, clean scent of her, heard her saying more than just his whispered name. But there was only one way to be completely sure…

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked quietly.

She nodded and blinked at the wetness in her eyes before closing them and tilting her face towards his. Swallowing hard, he refused to close his own eyes as his lips met hers, afraid that she would dissolve just as she had so many times before in his dreams.

But her lips were soft and pliant beneath his own and he let his eyes close as he let his lips part and breathed her in, tasting her as her mouth opened too and their kiss became more desperate, deeper, hungrier.

They parted with a shuddering sigh of relief, knowing they had both felt the same need, the same desire, the same flame that had been there all those years ago. It was still there for them to reclaim if they chose to and heaven help him, but he wanted to––wanted her––more than anything.

He was still getting drunk on the whiskey in her eyes when he heard the door at the front of the shop and Mary’s voice calling his name.

“Jamie? Ye’ll never guess who––” Mary cut off abruptly with a surprised gasp.

“Who’s that?” a familiar voice asked with louder surprise.

Claire stiffened in his arms and her gaze broke from his as she looked over he shoulder at the intruders. He froze, unable to find the words he needed to explain, to push the encroaching world back away from them and the moment they had been sharing when hope had reignited in his heart.

“Oh god,” Claire gasped, pulling away.

Jamie remained speechless and numb in the moment, his mind telling his body to act but his limbs not responding.

Soon after he returned from his parole, Jenny had made the off-hand suggestion that he marry again. He thought he had made his position on the matter clear but come Hogmanay it became apparent that Jenny hadn’t abandoned her opinion and had, in fact, started to take actions of her own to ensure it happened.

When he’d seen her talking with Laoghaire and leading the young widow in his direction, he knew it was with one aim in mind. Before they could reach him he had turned to Mary MacNab who was refilling guests’ drinks and he asked her to dance, setting the half-empty bottle she carried aside before she could find her words. Later, Jenny scolded him about the way he’d avoided Laoghaire all evening.

“Ye want me to court the woman tha’ tried to get Claire burnt for a witch?” he had asked Jenny who looked momentarily surprised but then rolled her eyes.

“No Laoghaire then but ye ought to be wed again and to someone who might give ye bairns. Ye deserve to be happy again, brother.”

“What I deserve is for ye to leave me in peace,” he spat back.

But Jenny’s hints and efforts persisted and Jamie’s resistance wore thin. Jenny wouldn’t leave him be and he knew eventually she would have her way. The best he could hope for was to choose for himself. The thought of having someone to take care of wasn’t completely unwelcome but the memory of Claire and the thought of their child made the idea of raising a family with another woman… He had no desire for that.

He’d been contemplating his prospects when Mary had come to fetch him for Ian and that’s when it occurred to him to marry her. It had been several years since her Rabbie had gone south to London seeking a different life for himself while she remained behind; she too was separated from the person she loved most. He thought she might be able to understand him better than most.

“You’re… you’ve…” Claire stammered glancing between him and Mary before shaking her head and darting away from him and out of the shop.

His mind hadn’t quite caught up to everything that had just happened. Maybe it had all been a vision after all…

Mary’s hand was on his shoulder, rubbing him reassuringly and guiding him to a nearby chair. He could tell she was talking and her tone was soothing but all he could think about was that Claire was gone… again. The flame of hope that had been reignited sputtered and shrank leaving him cold.

The fog of confusion began to clear and he sat up straighter in the chair feeling his face flush with guilt and shame. What must Mary think of it all, walking in and seeing him and Claire like that with…

“Where’s Ian?” he asked, glancing frantically around the shop. It wouldn’t be the first time his nephew had appeared on their doorstep without warning and Mary always made sure to bring the lad to the shop since Jamie was one of the few people he would heed.

“I sent him after Claire,” Mary told him, her posture relaxing now that she could be sure he was coming back to himself. “He’ll slow her down at the least till we can find them and ye can talk to her proper like.”

Jamie looked back at the printing press; he hadn’t finished fixing it––couldn’t remember what had been wrong with it, at the moment––and he had orders still to fill, customers who wouldn’t care that a rug had been pulled out from under his feet and he was still sitting on the floor uncertain whether standing again was possible or if the fall had caused something to break.

“I dinna ken that there’s anything I can say to her that’ll make much difference,” he murmured.

“I think there’s a great deal ye can tell her,” Mary disagreed. “And if you dinna want to say it, then I will. Ye can start by askin’ her no to go again.”

At that he looked at Mary whose eyes crinkled with her familiar, quiet amusement.

“Did ye really think I’d ask ye to let her go?” she asked him, reaching up and tucking in the end of his stock.

“I canna do that to ye,” he protested weakly, “set ye aside like that and leave ye alone without someone to provide for ye.”

“Ye wouldna be settin’ me aside,” she argued softly. “I’m perfectly able to step’ aside wi’out yer help. You and I both ken it willna be difficult for either of us to secure an annulment.”

The ceremony had been smaller even than the hastily arranged one he’d had when he married Claire. He wasn’t as nervous during the ceremony as he had expected to be but by the time they arrived at their small renovated cottage after nightfall, nerves had begun to twist his belly.

Neither had said much of anything to the other as they took in the small space that would now be theirs. One large main room with a hearth and small pantry constituted kitchen, parlor, and study; there was a door to the back that led to the small bedroom.

Mary took off her cloak as Jamie set about shutting the cottage up for the night. When he turned, she had disappeared––presumably into the bedroom––and he sighed with relief.

He shouldn’t overthink this; it wasn’t as though he hadn’t bedded a woman before––it wasn’t as though he hadn’t bedded Mary before. But it had all been different then. I know the look of a true love, and it’s not in my mind to make ye feel ye’ve betrayed it… What I want is to give ye something different. Something less, mayhap, but something ye can use; something to keep ye whole. He wondered if she’d known then that he hadn’t been whole to begin with. But she had given him something and it had helped him then as he faced Ardsmuir. But now… I never had that, she’d confessed. He couldn’t give it to her now either but maybe he could give her something like what she’d given to him in that cave some ten years before.

When he worked up his courage and eased open the bedroom door he could just make out the shape of the bed in the light of the candle. He stopped, puzzled. He didn’t think he’d been standing out in the main room for very long but maybe it had been longer than he realized.

Mary was in bed with the blankets pulled up over her chest; she was turned on her side, her back to the middle of the bed and he could see the stark white of her new shift standing out against the darker wool of the blankets. She appeared to already be asleep.

Quietly, so as not to wake her, he slipped inside enough to close the door behind him and began stripping down to his shirt then eased himself beneath the covers next to her. He lay there on his back with his fingers nervously tapping his chest as he listened to her steady breathing. Should he wake her up so they could get it over with? He scolded himself for thinking of it in such terms; she was his wife now and she deserved more thought and care than that. Still, he didn’t think he’d be able to settle to anything until it was over and the nerves in his belly could be calmed.

But Mary wasn’t asleep.

“Ye ken it doesna have to be like that between us,” she said quietly, startling him.

He froze beside her, felt the bedding shift under him as she strained to look at him over her shoulder.

“I ken ye didna wed me because ye wanted to bed me,” she continued, no self-pity in her voice. “And I dinna want ye that way if ye only see it as bein’ yer duty.”

“It’s no as though we havena… before,” he answered.

“And I ken it helped and hurt ye to do it then. Ye feel yerself bound to yer Claire still and I’ll no have ye takin’ me to bed only to feel regretful about it later. I’ve been in marriages where one of us was lyin’ wi’ the other from duty and I’ll no be the one askin’ ye to do the same; it doesna make for the best of marriages in my experience.”

He felt a stab of sorrow both for himself and for her. He would forever feel himself bound to Claire and sorrowed that Mary seemed so resigned she would never know what a love like that felt like. But he couldn’t give that to her, whether she wanted that or not and she had wed him knowing that.

“So why did ye agree to marry me then?” he couldn’t help asking.

“I suppose for the same reason you asked me.”

“Was Jenny tryin’ to make a match wi’ you and another fellow ye didna care for so much?” The joke caught him by surprise but to his relief Mary laughed. It was a quiet laugh, startled by itself.

“No,” she finally said with a sigh. “I’ve been servin’ yer family at Lallybroch for years now––as ye well know––but since my Rabbie left… It’s different, servin’ folk an’ no buildin’ a home for yerself… no havin’ someone to really care for, to build a home with…”

“Aye…” Jamie murmured. “I ken what ye mean.”

“I thought ye would,” Mary said with satisfaction. “Caidil gu math… Jamie,” she added with hesitation.

“Caidil gu math, Mary,” Jamie responded, relaxing into the warmth of a shared bed and the quiet night. It was becoming clear that navigating this new marriage wouldn’t quite be what he had expected earlier but he was also beginning to suspect that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Claire hadn’t looked back as she burst into the street. She was still too disoriented by everything. Seeing Jamie again––touching him, holding him and being held by him––that had all been overwhelming and emotional, more than she could have imagined. And she had known that there was a possibility that he had moved on, that he would have known she believed him dead at Culloden and therefore unlikely to ever return for him. Life was too long to be lived alone; too short to waste it wallowing in grief and sorrow.

“Hey!” she heard a youthful voice calling behind her and made to step out of the way so the lad could get past and reach whomever it was he was trying to catch up with.

But then she felt him reach out and tap her on the arm repeating, “Hey,” breathlessly.

“Me?” she asked in disbelief even as she searched his face for a resemblance to Brianna. The shape of the eyes was right but his coloring was all wrong and while he had the promise of Jamie’s height, he hadn’t endured the growth spurt that would give him the muscles his father possessed.

“Aye,” the boy panted. “Ye’re…”

“I’m leaving,” she interrupted. “You can go home and tell your mother that I won’t be bothering you again.”

The lad’s face twisted with confusion. “My mam? Ye mean Mary? She’s no my mam and Uncle Jamie’s no my da.”

The wave of relief nearly knocked Claire off her feet. The boy wasn’t Jamie’s. And the more she looked at him the more she could see the marks of Jenny and Ian in him––the Fraser slanted eyes if not the color and his gangliness was certainly more in the vein of Ian’s build than Jamie’s. “You’re Jenny and Ian’s boy,” she guessed.

“Aye. Named for my da. Will ye no come back, Auntie Claire? Ye are my Auntie Claire, are ye no? Mary said it’s who ye were. I ken a bit about ye––Mam and Da always said ye were deid but they’d tell tales about ye of a time when Uncle Jamie wasna around. It always makes him sad to talk of ye, even after he wed Mary MacNab,” young Ian Murray rambled. “Mam thinks it’s why they left Lallybroch for Edinburgh; said they’ve too many ghosts roaming there between them. She blames herself for stirrin’ up yer ghost by pushing Uncle Jamie to wed agin though she also says she’d as soon he be content in Edinburgh than miserable at Lallybroch.”

The sheer volume of words and the pace at which he spoke them left Claire blinking and uncertain.

“I… I am Claire,” she said, no longer quite sure of even that simple fact. “But… I’m not interested in disrupting anything. I just thought… I had heard that Jamie… I don’t know what I was thinking,” she confessed turning to continue up the road. She wasn’t even sure if she was headed in the right direction.

“But… ye came back for him… Ye canna just leave,” Ian objected.

“And I can’t just stay, either,” Claire retorted, unsure why she was bothering to argue with the young teenager. “What about his wife?”

Ian shrugged dismissively. “She’s the one sent me to get ye.”

“What? Why would she do that?”

“I dinna ken. Why don’t ye come wi’ me and ask her?”

Claire looked at the eager lad, her heart aching to believe that if she went with him there was a chance it might stop and curious to see what Jamie’s new wife might have to say.

In the early days of their marriage, Jamie was surprised by how little he knew about Mary and how much she knew about him.

“I served at Lallybroch for near twenty years,” Mary pointed out with a laugh when he expressed his surprise aloud. “Ye think I wouldna notice such about everyone that lived there––especially the laird himself?”

Jamie flushed. “I’m no the laird and Lallybroch’s no mine anymore; and how many of those twenty years did I live under the roof, eh? No even five did ye string all the nights together.”

“Yer nephew may be possessed of the land and the house, but ye ken weel enough to all the tenants as are old enough to remember, ye’ll be the true laird till the day ye die. No sense denyin’ it.”

He chose not to argue but rather to change the subject.

“Have ye heard from Rabbie of late? He’s settled in London still?”

“Aye,” she had smiled before giving Jamie a summary of the last letter she’d had from him.

It took time and effort to get her to talk about herself and her past. As she began to trust him with more of the details of herself and her first two marriages, he found himself sharing more than he expected about his past as well, specifically Claire. He had long ago gotten used to the ache and yearning for her; it was simply a part of him at that point. The comfort of being able to talk of her though, that was new. He couldn’t understand why talking of her with Mary was more soothing and less painful than talking of Claire with people who had known her better––Jenny or Ian. Perhaps it was because Mary didn’t seem to pity him for having been broken by the loss; she too was a little broken.

Though they grew to understand and appreciate each other, the match itself was considered an odd one by the families that lived and worked around the estate. Mary had been right about folk still viewing Jamie as the laird and the laird––even one as respected and compassionate as Jamie––was not supposed to marry one of his servants. It was a fact that might have been overlooked were it not for the never-to-be-forgotten fact of Ronald MacNab and his betrayal.

Everyone had pitied Mary at the time and quietly judged Ronald for what he did to his wife and child whenever he’d been drinking. Everyone who heard about the beating Jamie had given the man his mistreatment of those whose care belonged to him had agreed the bullying drunkard deserved it. Everyone had banded together to see justice done for their laird when Ronald betrayed Jamie. Everyone had settled down to their lives after the fire, content that balance had been restored when Mary along with her Rabbie were taken in at Lallybroch and given occupation.

But Jamie marrying Mary––even so many years later––unsettled that balance in ways that couldn’t be explained. It cast events long past in a questionable light; it elicited narrowed eyes; it encouraged tongues to wag.

Neither Jamie nor Mary was oblivious to the change and neither wanted to be at the center of such attentions. After going to Edinburgh to fetch some things that Jenny wanted for up at the main house, Jamie proposed a change and Mary agreed that one fresh start deserved another.

“I want ye to be happy,” Mary insisted quietly to Jamie.

“I wasna unhappy,” he pointed out to her, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Before I was but… no wi’ you.”

“I’m glad of that,” she told him with a smile. “But I ken ye well enough to know that ye will be if ye let her go again. She can give ye more of what ye need than I can. I’m no ashamed to admit it.”

“And have you been happy?” Jamie asked in turn, suddenly afraid.

“Aye,” she assured him with a nod. “It’s been a peace I didna ken was possible in marriage and for that I’ll always be thankful to ye. I dinna want ye thinkin’ ye havena treated me well.”

“What does it matter how I’ve treated ye in our marriage if I leave it to end like this? I’ll no leave ye wi’out someone to provide for ye.”

“I ken well ye’re too honorable a man to do somethin’ like that, James Fraser.”

“Ye canna stay in a city like this on yer own and goin’ back to Lallybroch would be an insult to ye that I couldna countenance. And there’s nothin’ to say that Claire… She may no want me back…”

“Well, ye’ll never ken for certain if ye dinna talk wi’ her. And ye’re right about Lallybroch; we left for a reason. But ye ken Rabbie’s been after me to visit him in London. He’s wed now and I’ve yet to meet the lass,” Mary mused. “First things first, though. Go after Claire.”

Jamie nodded and rose brushing himself off. Mary set about untying his heavy leather apron for him and gave him directions for the way Ian had set off after Claire.

“I’ll speak wi’ Geordie and lock up here,” she told him. “Then I’ll stop at the butcher and start on supper. Ian will be lookin’ for food after runnin’ about. Mhá lorg thu i.”

(To be continued)