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Flood my Mornings: Unimaginable

This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

See all past installments via Bonnie’s Master List

Previous installment: The Battle of the Gamete (Jamie helps Claire study)

@themusicsweetly asked: For when Claire eventually is preggers, their first time with an ultrasound machine.

So here’s the thing: 1951 is at *least* ten years too early for fetal ultrasound.

HOWEVER, this was one of the first FMM scenes I wrote after the reunion (even before this prescient ask!) and at the time, I wasn’t even thinking about historical accuracy. Soooooo, I’ll ask you to put on your suspenders of disbelief (TM @stageandhistory‘s teacher) and just enjoy the anachronistic ride.

[Also, there’s a bit more of a time jump on this one than I normally go for, but I was feeling antsy to get to a landmark scene, so HERE WE ARE. (but I’ve got some planned flashbacks in the works for later, so don’t hesitate to request scenes from the months I passed over, if you’ve got a need!)]

Late April, 1951; Harvard University Hospital

“Fine—Sweetheart—I’m fine!”

The words were barely more than a muffled mumble into his shirt. Based on how tightly he was clutching me, I should have insisted to speak with him directly instead of leaving the message with the Fernacre receptionist; or at the very least, I should have been more emphatic with her that there was absolutely no emergency at hand.

I hugged him tighter in reassurance. “I’m so sorry, darling—I truly didn’t mean to frighten you. Everything’s fine, I promise.”

“But Nancy said ye were in hospital.”

“At the hospital—at Harvard—”

“Aye, not your proper hospital—and I was in the furthest pastures—” he said in a rush, cupping my head hard. “It took them so long to ride out to track me down—that—and then the Traffic—I thought—the bairn—”

God, and what must he have thought? With my being several weeks past six months, the same time at which—

“We’re fine, Jamie, I swear. See? We’re in the academic wing, not intensive care.” I pulled out of his arms and tugged him toward the open door nearby. “Come with me: I have something to show you.” Trying to suppress my grin, I ushered him into an empty lecture hall and closed the door behind us.

Standing there, still in his work clothes and smelling of horse, Jamie was breathing heavily and looking as though he meant to either cry or fight someone or both. “Please say what’s happened so I can stop this aching in my chest.”

Despite his agitation, I managed at length to get him to sit in the professor’s chair. I leaned against the desk facing him, trying to keep back the storm of happiness. “You know I had my final examinations this morning?”

A nod, a pause, and then a tentative, “…Did they go well?”

“Very well, I think. But as I was gathering my things and headed out, my professor suddenly stopped me and asked if I’d be willing to assist one of the med-tech research departments with a demonstration. I was taken aback of course, but I trust Dr. Gordon—you remember, he’s the one that’s been so impressed and supportive?— so I was willing to see what was what, at least.”

This exposition did not seem to have done anything to lessen Jamie’s tension; in fact, he looked downright ALARMED at mention of me participating in some sort of vague experiment. Well, so had I been!

I went on, hastily. “And so he led me to the research wing and introduced me, and—And well, I called Fernacre as soon as they explained what it was that they were going to be testing out, because—Oh, Jamie, it would have been absolutely magical to show you as it was happening. But I managed to get the next best thing.”

I handed him the glossy print, heart thudding. “It’s something like an X-ray, see? This was only a prototype—very few people in the world have used this technology.” He kept staring down, and I babbled anxiously to fill the silence. “It isn’t even a good likeness of the fuzzy readout I saw. I badgered someone to find a camera, and the flashbulb reflecting against the glass television screen makes it quite hard to see, and I’m sure the print itself isn’t great, either—I badgered another department to develop it for me quickly, so it’s barely more than a blur, but…”

For more than half a minute Jamie had stared down at it, turning it this way and that—

But finally, the image must have clicked into place, for he gasped and nearly dropped it.

“You see it?” I was beaming, holding back tears. “Can you see?

“Is that…?”

“Yes,” I choked out, “that’s him.”

So engrossed was Jamie in the image before him that he didn’t immediately seem to hear me. Then, he looked up so sharply it must have hurt his neck, blinking like he’d stepped into bright sun. “H—him??”

“You can’t tell in this shot,” I whispered, not meaning it to be a whisper, but so hoarse with feeling I couldn’t help it, “but the technician was certain.“

“We’re going—” Jamie was grinning like an utter addle-pated simpleton. “—to have a—a wee lad?”

I nodded, smiling back but also weeping, lips pursed tight, and suddenly unable to speak at all through the lump of happiness in my throat.

“Oh, Claire…” Jamie was on his feet in a second, laughing and holding me as tightly as in the hallway, but this time in joy. “Oh, LOVE!”

The next I knew, he was beaming into my eyes, holding my face. “I’d have been just as thrilled wi’ a wee lassie, mo chridhe, but….Jesus, God, to KNOW—!! It’s…absolutely miraculous.”

“Honestly, this is— unimaginable to me, too,” I whispered, leaning my forehead against his as I looked down at my belly (at my son!). “To be able to see an unborn child….To be able to see right into the womb without cutting! I never even dreamed of such a thing. Jamie, it…I saw him.”

“And he’s—alright?”

“As far as they could tell.” I sighed and smiled, giving in. “Yes…yes, he’s alright.”

If two sane people could be delirious with joy and relief, it was us. We must have looked quite out of our senses to any passerby, so intensely we were beaming and grinning and clinging tightly to faces and hands.

Without preamble, Jamie stuck the precious photograph in his breast pocket, swept me up into his arms (ignoring any protest against handling my massive bulk), and settled back into the chair, cradling me in his lap.

We sat there in beatific silence for I don’t know how long, with soft touches and wordless sounds of tenderness and awe.

At last, Jamie simply couldn’t contain himself. “What will we name him? Our—son?”

We hadn’t discussed names at all, to date—both of us perhaps afraid to tempt fate until the birth was closer at hand. But I had seen him, today—seen the outlines of his tiny feet move at the same exact moment I’d felt him kick—And it changed everything. There was still risk, and there was still fear; but the hope in me was glowing and radiating throughout my entire being. This child, this little boy, was alive and well. He would be well. And he needed a name.

“Well, let’s see….” I beamed and traced patterns on Jamie’s shoulder. “I suppose we can’t have a Brian AND a Brianna.”

Jamie laughed, “No, indeed. The first Brian Fraser will get the big head up in heaven. Though what about your Da? Henry’s a good, strong name, aye? What d’ye think?”

“I’d very much like to use it as a second or third name… but I can’t quite see it as his first.”

“’His,’” Jamie echoed in a gleeful murmur. “…He’s a him.”

My delighted giggle hit me mid-kiss. “Yes, darling,” I crooned against his lips, “he’s a him.”

Jamie brightened. “Say, now, what about Robert? That was my wee brother’s name, and one of my Da’s as well.”

I must have made a face at this, for he smiled and rubbed my belly, leaning down to whisper confidentially, “Your mam doesna like your name one bit, wee Rabbie.”

I laughed and amended, fairly, “If you feel strongly about it, I might be persuaded. I’ve just—Honestly, I’ve never liked the name Robert. Robert…. ROBERT….” I tried the name several more times, making grotesque faces as I tasted the syllables. “No, sorry, just won’t do.”

Jamie wasn’t offended, and in fact, we both repeated the rejected name a few more times each, trying out ridiculous accents and intonations to completely rule it out as a frontrunner until we were little more than a mass of giggles there in the professor’s chair.

Then, as if by magnetic force, we quieted and turned our eyes back to my belly—to our little him.

We were still for a long time, both of us imagining we could see our son curled up asleep, as I had so briefly and hazily today.

“Lambert?” Jamie said.

I smiled fondly, but shook my head.

“William?” I offered softly, a while later. “For your brother?”

Jamie made a sound of acknowledgment, thinking, but said nothing.

There was a bird singing outside the tall, sunny window. Leafy sun-shadows spangled the walls and a tiny breeze brought the scent of spring to surround us.

And as a second bird chimed in outside our little haven, Jamie’s hand tightened lightly, significantly, on my belly, eyes shining. “What about…Ian?”

“…Ian…” I breathed back, putting my hand over his, feeling something settle perfectly into place. “Oh, yes, that’s….Ian…”

Not the blood-brother long-mourned: the brother of Jamie’s heart whose loss was still an open wound. They’d known each other all their lives; had fought together and defended one another, had been each others’ champions in battle and at home. And it struck me for the first time that Ian Murray was the only brother I myself had ever known, too. Ian had been a true kindred spirit, ever an ally in our den of blood-Frasers. And beyond that, Ian was—had been my friend. I missed his ready smile and his wit, his compassion….

Ian.

It was painful—but perfect.

“Ian…Henry,” Jamie murmured reverently. “A fine name.”

“Ian Henry…Fergus?…” I offered, my voice cracking.

I felt the convulsion go through Jamie and I touched his face. I know, love. I know.

Lord, the grief—the grief of holding one son between us and longing for the one we’d left behind; and for Jamie, how much more raw that grief. For Fergus had been there with him for those two broken years, had been a joy and a comfort to him when little else could be; and we could never see him again.

“Aye,” Jamie said at last, smiling weakly through reddened eyes. “Ian. Henry. Fergus. Beauchamp—”

“Fraser,” we finished together in a whisper, all four hands covering our little boy. Life and loss, joy and mourning, so inextricably intertwined.

There were tears in Jamie’s eyes, as there were in mine, and his voice was deep and husky with love as he looked down at our hands and rubbed gently. “You’ll do them all proud, Ian.”

And damn me, if our little guy didn’t kick, right on cue.

#;mod bonnie #Flood my mornings #Introducing....