But one day I saw the moon came out... @whitenightowl-blog - Tumblr Blog

It's the In Between

The In Between moments. The BTS. The “extra” (as one insightful blogger put it - my apologies; I don’t remember who originated the term).

The split seconds that are just beyond what we’re supposed to see.

The finger … or hand … or hug … that jumps the fence between artistic staging and intimacy.

I don’t get much from the dramatized covers, however evocative. I don’t get much from the stylized embraces. I don’t even get much from the almost-or-actual kisses.

But I get a lot from the In Between.

Credit to @yellowfeather84 and @outlander-starz for their gif-making skills

How are you feeling? How is your hand? 🤒⛑👋🏼

Hi Nonny, it is finally getting better. Thank you dear for asking!

It has been so long since we had an update of "Just across the park", so I have been wondering if we will get one anytime soon?? I am aware that you have been injured, but surely there is a way to type slooowly, with the other hand or else after such a long time? If people start a story, and this one is great btw, I always appreciate it if they continue with it and don't let the captivated audience "hanging", so pretty please?

hi Nonny, I know and I´m sorry. I´ve just lost my appetite for writing after my injure, but good news is that it is coming back. I´ve opened the document once more and getting back to the story. Thanks for your patience!

dpcphotography

Summer 🍃 Autumn 🍂 Winter ❄️

lulu-tan79

“To all of those we have lost.”

scotianostra

Good Morning from Scotland.

Calanais Sunrise

mssassenach

“Come and let us live, my dear. Let us love and never fear. Then let amourous kisses dwell. On our lips, begin and tell. A thousand and a hundred score. A hundred and a thousand more”

abreathofsnowandashes-deactivat

Okay, this scene has taken on a whole new meaning for me now that we know that she sees him during the separation. I had always viewed this as a goodbye, as this being first the time she had such a vision, as her trying to lay him to rest, but now all I can see is her imploring, “Come back to me.” And what if it worked? What if being in these places, *their* places, where the veils of time are more pliable, he heard her and the world shifted just enough to make it so.

thesketchingwitch

@abreathofsnowandashes Stop.Doing.This. I. Can’t. Take. It.

kalendraashtar

Fanfiction - Broken Crown 3.0

Previously

Broken Crown

3.0

Like liquid metal, I was to be forged into something new. Some scraps of Claire Beauchamp would be used to create Claire Randall; others I would have to abandon entirely. Bury them on a deep grave, holding on to the hope that I’d be able to find them, following an invisible treasure map, when the time to be myself came again.

The safe house – which I had envisioned as a small and dark apartment, with walls stained with dubious spatters - was more of a small manor, with spacious grounds and a treeline of giant oaks, making it fairly secluded. It was actually quite lovely. One would never think it was crawling with spies.

Jamie was my main instructor and clearly the leader in the house, but there were other agents there to help. The schedule they prepared for me was nothing short of gruelling, designed to reshape both my body and mind.

I woke up before the sun was even up for the first part of my training – self-defence classes, following the ancient principles of Krav Maga. They didn’t want to turn me into an assassin, but I’d have to hold my own if the occasion presented itself. I was taught by an agent called Willie, a good natured young man with a vicious right hook. He made jokes and tried to make it as pleasant as possible, but after three days my skin was covered with bruises nonetheless.

In the early afternoon I had to train my disguise. On my bedside table there was a thick book, filled with the life, heartbreaks and dreams of a woman called Claire Randall. They had used some things of my own life, thinking it easier for me if the lies were interspersed with some truths. She was an orphan and a doctor, a trauma surgeon like myself. But she was the widow of a history professor, Frank Randall, her lifetime sweetheart. She still wore his wedding ring. Her friends had other names, other occupations. She had lived in Paris and Boston. Claire Randall dressed differently and carried herself in a more dignified manner. Not even her favourite dish was the same as mine.

Every afternoon a different agent would come and interrogate me. What is your name? What is your favourite colour? What is your mother’s maiden name? Where were you on Christmas two years ago? What do you think of Scotland’s separatist movement? How many men have you fucked with?

Any hesitation or confusion – when I fell back into myself and out of Claire Randall – was rewarded with a grave and disappointed head shake. Again. Again. Again.

But the end of my days, usually until very late at night, were spent with Jamie. He trained me in the art of surveillance and counter-surveillance. How to know when I was being watched and followed, how to mislead my enemies, how to use the accessories in my wardrobe to send messages. He was a good teacher, patient and clear in his explanations, but I remained cold and indifferent. If I was to wear an armour, I would wear it at all times – I wouldn’t be fooled again by pretty eyes and seductive smiles.

The other part of his duties was teaching me the Gaidhlig. Apparently any useful information I was likely to acquire once I was infiltrated, was likely to be presented in that archaic language.

“Ciamar a tha thu Sorcha?” He greeted me when he entered the study. He had clearly taken a shower after spending the better part of two hours following me between the oak trees, in the pouring rain. I was embarrassed to admit I wasn’t able to delude him yet, not even close – he had seen me placing a message between the branches and had been successful in capturing it after I was out of sight. I flared my nostrils in irritation – his soap smelt splendidly.

“Gu math Tannasg.” I smiled wickedly. I had learned that one quickly enough. “What are we to learn today? Colours or numbers?”

“Neither.” Jamie sat in the armchair near the fireplace, instead of going behind the desk as per usual. “Ye dinna trust me and maybe rightfully so. But we need to work together, Sassenach. There will come a time, soon enough, when I’ll be the only soul that’s on yer side. Tonight I tell ye my story.”

whitenightowl-blog

oh, you´re back! reblogging for later

abbydebeaupreposts

This Is Us- Chapter 14

Into the Mystic/Kiss Me

Catch up on earlier chapters here.

I am not typically someone who would recommend a reading and music pairing. However, there is something that cuts me about the way Van Morrison delivers the line I don’t have to fear it, I want to rock your gypsy soul right before the horns that haunts me. Also Kiss Me- Six Pence None the Richer if ever there was a song of joy about the heady goofiness of falling in love sweetly, that one is it. The rainbow shots– Slainte!

After dinner had been served, the dancing began. Jamie was correct, the band was wonderful. There were dozens of couples already dancing. Claire had made her way over to the elaborate bar set along the tent’s side wall. She smiled as she caught Jamie’s eye, he was headed in the same direction.

A blonde haired man, jeans and a button down slid off his stool just as they converged at the edge of the bar. Jamie laughed happily and greeted him, shaking hands and ending in what Claire had come to think of as a particularly masculine kind of embrace customary for old friends.

“John you’re a bit far afield, would ye be here in yer official capacity?” Jamie teased.

“Perish the thought, no! I’m off duty, I didn’t even bring my badge.” He replied.

Claire’s eyebrows rose.

“Claire, may I present detective constable John Grey?” Claire found her hand grasped in a crisp warm one.

“Enchante, Ms.—” he trailed off hoping someone would supply the missing information.

Before Claire could speak up Geneva announced, “That is Ms. Dr. Beauchamp, to you, DC Gray!”

John’s mouth broke into a wide grin.

“Geneva D!” He arched his brows at her. “My goodness, you do live well, in such company.” John was hugging Geneva to him.

“The good doctor saved my life, today, I’m not speaking in euphemism, John.” Geneva said in all honesty.

Claire’s cheeks grew a little flushed. Having heard enough praise over what she considered to be rather routine services, Claire diverted attention away from herself by asking,

“So I take it you and Geneva are acquainted?”

John’s eyes stayed on Geneva’s and then flicked over to Jamie’s, trying to discern the story there but politeness dictated he respond.

“Our families go back for generations.” John assured her.

“How are you adjusting to the wilds of Scotland, my dear?” He asked Geneva.

“It’s been a lovely change of pace from Helwater.” Then she glanced at Jamie, “Shut yours ears, Mr Fraser, if you please. We are building a great company, one I’m proud to work for, and Jamie’s a great boss. But, of course, you would know that, wouldn’t you?”

Claire made a uhmmm? Sound that went unanswered, her only response Jamie’s demure smile.

Geneva continued, “Care to demonstrate a little of what earned the two of you back to back Bartending Flair Championship trophies?”

“Bartending what?” Claire asked.

“I told you, I’m off duty.” John attempted to decline, but that was all hogwash, it’s why he had come, after all. That and to see Jamie.

John was a glutton for punishment. For some reason he always thought that this….infatuation with the man would wear itself out. That one day he’d see Jamie and his heart wouldn’t flutter in his chest. That day was not today, and not when Jamie was looking like that and in kilt, no less. John knew he hadn’t managed to get over James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser yet.

It had plagued him since he was a teenager. His family was on vacation at a resort in Belize. He’d been only 17 at the time and unexpectedly found himself targeted by a gang of very drunk islanders. To this day he had no idea why they had singled him out. The obvious, of course, with the maturity of years, he’d come to understand that much. But why him? Why that day? Why attack a lone teen boy minding his own business?

He’d been sitting in a makeshift hut bar well away from the usual tourist spots and had just grabbed a second beer when he was thrown to the ground and looked up to find himself flung into the dirt and surrounded by an angry gang carrying crude weapons. Scared witness, he braced himself, wondered if his mother would know he’d been thinking of her, how Hal would cope with the loss and prepared to go down fighting. Then, out of the shadows came Jamie Fraser Neither one of them had gotten out unscathed. They’d both eventually healed, though Jamie had paid the higher price. Yet, he’d never held it– any of it– against John.

When John found himself at loose ends, uncertain what he wanted to do with his life but knowing he needed a little time away from his loving, but ever present, family to figure it out, it was Jamie who’d welcomed him and put him to work.

They’d had a hell of a good time for a couple of years and yes, won some modest acclaim in certain circles. But that had been several years ago and both he and Jamie had moved on. John felt a bit rusty and said as much to Geneva.

However, Ms. Geneva Dunsany was an excellent attorney, in part due to the undeniable fact that she never took no for an answer.

Jamie had known this was coming, of course, for that matter so had John. He’d not seen John in several months and was quite pleased John managed to make it in time.

He and Fergus had set up the lighting for dramatic effect and the band had been clued in beforehand. It was time. Jamie flipped the hatch on the bar.

“Lord John?” his eyebrows rose up in invitation as he raised index finger and thumb to his lips and whistled loudly calling Fergus to them.

Claire watched in amazement as spotlights turned on and John and Jamie, with Fergus’s timely assistance unleashed a performance worthy of a Vegas review– in the very best way possible. As the band played a perfectly cued set, Jamie and John flipped, spun, juggled and poured in a dizzying array of choreographed moves that had the crowd cheering.

Peppered here and there Fergus would tell wickedly naughty jokes or Jamie would tell a funny story from his past. More than just bottles and ice flying, slight of hand and shadow moves, shots were set on fire, inverted in pyramids, shaken and poured in long rows, passing their end results out to be shared among the crowd.

Still rattled a bit from their earlier encounter in the hall, Claire was conscious of wanting to keep some distance from Jamie. She deliberately sat a stool at the far end of the bar closer to John’s coverage area.

She was therefore in the privileged position of being able to sample a little bit of everything they were making. By far her favorite trick came in the form of the the rainbow shots that poured five different colored shots from the same cocktail shaker. Very pretty and quite impressive.

By the time the show had wound down, Claire thought she’d had just enough to drink to not be self-conscious when Jared Fraser tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to dance. As she floated away in a lovely haze of good times, Claire realized it had been a very long time since she’d enjoyed herself so much.

*****************

Jamie was officially off duty, sweat soaked shirt gently cooling in the breeze that was lifting strands of his sister’s hair as she sat next to him. They were on the bench under the huge oak tree the tent was erected around. Each branch lit with fairy lights, twinkling and sparkling as the leaves moved around. It gave a particularly ethereal glow to the scene.

They watched the band adjust and shift, the iconic strands of Van Morrison’s Into The Mystic began and guests started coupling up. Lord John, a man of many talents, was walking upstage now, strapping his saxophone onto the clip around his neck.

Many a night in his younger days had been spent listening to John play, the instrument reflecting the man’s every mood from giddy joy to mournful heartache. Jamie smiled to see him with it now and was glad he’d been able to talk John into coming up for this. They were not performance perfect but enough of it had come back to them to justify their reputations and all the onlookers had had a great time.

The male lead opened:

We were borne before the wind,

Also younger than the sun,

Ere the bonnie boat was won….

Jenny watched as Murtagh spun into view with Claire in his arms, she looked over, knowing even as she did so Jamie’s eyes would have unerringly spotted her the second she was in range.

Jamie briefly debated it but there was little point in prevarication, he’d shared his heart with her since they were children, she knew what was in it whether the words were spoken or not.

“Da said I’d know her when I met her, the lass I’d love,” he began.

And when that foghorn blows

I will be coming home

“He just never told me I’d love her like a lunatic. No’ sleep at night for dreaming of her, no hour of the day no’ filled with thoughts of her.”

I don’t have to fear it

I want to rock gypsy soul

They watched as Murtagh gripped Claire firmly and swung her around. She whooped with laughter. Her smile warmed Jamie right to his backbone just as John’s sax started the iconic horn break.

Jenny sighed and turned to him, knowing his eye would be glued to the dance floor.

“You ken fathers talk differently to their daughters?” She asked and watched Jamie nod. “They tend to be more protective of them, want to keep them safe?”

Jamie glanced for a second sideways at her. He kent that all too well.

“What Da told me was something else. He warned me to guard my heart because there’s no taking it back. He said it was like the ducks imprinting. Once a Fraser finds his love, that person becomes his home. If ever parted, a Fraser will fight to the death to get home again.”

Jamie mmphed.

They watched Murtagh as he and Claire swayed together; John continued to blow, the melody filling the tent. The look on Murtagh’s face let them know he was imagining a time long before tonight and a different girl entirely.

“I think that’s what killed him, Da, I mean. His home had been lost. For years he tried to get back again and couldna, it wore him down in the end.”

Jamie made a sound of protest.

“Nah, Jamie dinna say it. I kent he loved us and would have done everything he could for us but I also know it took all his will to keep going day by day.”

And together we will sail into the mystic

Come on girl,

Too late to stop now…

“I’m no so much worrit about dying just now. What I need to know is how do I live wi’ it? Nothing feels the same, nothing looks the same. Not since the day I met her.”

Jamie appeared so displeased about it Jenny laughed.

“‘Tis a mighty inconvenience to be sure, but a brathair, it has its compensations, ken. You’ve have sex and plenty of it, I’m sure. But I’d wager my last farthing ye’ve never made love. If ye think ye dinna sleep well now, wait till yer lying next to her and ye wake up in the dead of night, already panting and shaking with need and no idea why only to realize that every cell of her body has been calling out to every cell of yours. Ye dinna ken how rare that kind of passion is until ye experience it for yourself, though most folk never will. On those nights you’ll start aching even before ye can touch her. Ye willna get back to bed until ye take her, the two of you so deep in each other ye couldn’t say where one begins and the other ends. There is no feeling in this world like it.” She sighed.

Jamie’s face turned beet red. Jenny often could do that to him in the span of a couple of sentences. It didn’t help he was watching Claire just as the song ended pressed up to Murtagh giving him a cute but sloppy hug of thanks.

How many shots had John poured down her throat? Quite a few by the looks of it.

They both watched Claire as she turned, laughing at herself while she tripped a bit trying to exit the floor. Face flushed from the dancing and her own silliness, she looked radiant.

“I dinna ken what to tell ye, lad. Though I think I know what Da would say.”

“Oh, aye?” Jamie was all ears.

“Aye, Father would tell ye: Jamie, the Lord gave ye a rare woman. Dinna fuck it up.”

***

Jamie intercepted Claire just as she was about to exit the dance floor.

“Sassenach, dance wi’ me,” he said huskily as he made a bow, knowing how it set his plain swinging and hoping she still found it fetching. Claire laughed and curtsied in return.

The female lead had come back on mic. The guitar strings started a distinctive open, Sixpence None the Richer, Kiss Me. His eyes flew to Jenny, standing back under the oak looking straight at him and laughing her pot-stirring head off. Minx, she had switched around the song order.

Kiss me out of the bearded barley

Lightly beside the green green grass

Jamie loved this song and Jenny knew it, the perfect tempo for a couple’s dance– not so slow it was awkward to hold someone you were not sleeping with and not too fast that you couldn’t move cheek to cheek and spin a girl around.

One thing Jamie could say for Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, the lass knew how to move. Hips swaying to the beat, he felt the answering throb deep down as his heart quickened. He rocked his leg between hers, then they were gliding together around the makeshift dance floor.

A heady feeling, his pulse beat in his ears, his palms drifting down her back to where he imagined he could feel two little dimples. He clasped her tightly to him as he slowed their movements. In response, she rested her head on his shoulder.

Their bodies floated together in time to the music, her pelvis connecting firmly with his, ass gyrating ever so slightly against his fingertips. Instinctively working in tune together. He never wanted the song to end.

Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance

Silvermoon’s sparkling

So kiss me

He breathed in the scent of her, not even pretending he was doing something else and all the while the lyrics invited him to do exactly what he’d been yearning to do for weeks.

Claire’s skin was flushed, her hair had come down around her shoulders. Her wrap dress revealing the tender skin between her breasts and yes, he’d noticed the chill in the wind had caused her nipples to harden. Delicate fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. He shivered. Claire’s cheek touching to his, making little circles as she softly hummed along with the song. He recognized that she was tipsy, not drunk. But still, he told himself, ‘twas his duty to help her keep her balance by clenching her a little harder against him as he led them away from crowds that she might accidentally twirl into.

Kiss me beneath the milky twilight

Lead me out of the moonlit floor

They were still pretending to dance but really he was just reveling in the joy of moving their bodies in harmony, loving how she felt gliding against him. He tucked his face against her ear and at the delicate apex of her neck and shoulder. When he made a deep noise in the back of his throat she clutched him tighter in her arms. Somehow, a little bit before the song ended, they ended up near the back of the oak, on the far side where it was deserted.

The only illumination at this end of the tent coming from the fairy lights strung high up in the branches above. He pulled back to look at her as he moved one hand up to stroke her hair. His fingers traced her collarbone. They stared deeply into one another’s eyes. Her hand tucked against his chest.

Jamie’s body was rousing to hers, she had to feel it through his kilt. An aching need rising up, both of them panting a bit and all the while their eyes stayed glued to one another. Her free hand snaked over his hip then pushed around to his back moving so slowly he could feel each individual digit petting the soft folds of his plaid as they traveled around his body. An aching moan on a breath when Claire firmly cupped his buttock, pulling him even closer. She was grinding up against him; there was no other interpretation for her movement and he groaned loudly.

Suddenly, they were knocked off balance. One of them had caught a root underfoot. Jamie twisted their bodies at the last moment so it was him who hit the ground first.

He grunted as he felt the root that had tripped them up under him. But he couldn’t bring himself to care just then. Claire had landed flat out on top of him, their arms still locked together. Her leg fitted between his, tangled in his plaid.

Jamie felt her body change position, inching up against his. She was floating now right there above him. He was holding his breath and released it slowly, feeling a little dizzy.

“Sassenach,” he murmured as his hand came up and cupped the back of her head moving her mouth toward his.

“Yes–” she said in a whisper that was agreement and not a question.

“Oh, lass—” his mouth slightly open and he paused to savor the moment.

He could feel her lips as they parted, hovering over his. Jamie closed his eyes willing her to kiss him.

Caught on the edge of eternity, he didn’t dare move. The demands of his body held in check by a thin thread of will.

“Oh thank god! Dr. Beauchamp, come quick, Geillis is in trouble!”

He felt her tongue flick out slightly, it might have nipped his upper lip, he couldn’t be sure.

“Please Dr. B– Claire!” Her head snapped left and he turned his dazed eyes to follow.

“John?” Jamie questioned, head and shoulders rising up off the ground, confused, his nerves completely jangled.

“Geillis, I think she is having an allergic reaction to the meds given by the EMTs.”

He gave a grunt of surprise and pain as Claire used her elbows and levered herself off his chest and abdomen.

Quick as a shot, his arms aching and empty. His body crashed down to the ground. Jesus, Mary and Michael! His harsh breaths his only company, his heartbeat still racing.

betweenthescenes

The sexual tension is so thick, you can cut it with a knife! I love that you paired music with this chapter. Kiss me is the perfect song for Jamie and Claire to fall in love to on the dance floor. ❤

diversemediums

Well done but OMG THE TENSION

yellowfeather84

When Starz’s hit time traveling romance Outlander returns for its third season on Sept. 10, fans might be surprised to discover that the show’s swashbuckling, kilt-wearing hero, Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan) has become… a humble 18th-century printer? “Apparently, that studly warrior goes and becomes a

madamoutlander

🎥 VIDEO: The Complete Outlander Panel in a better quality 😊

thebeautyis

The full Outlander panel!

imagineclaireandjamie

A Hundred Lesser Faces: (Nine)

The first section of this story stems from the premise: what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh?

The second section will explore the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together.

Section One {A Hundred Lesser Faces} : [(One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six) (Seven)

Section Two {A Hundred More}: [ (Eight) ]

(Nine)

A kiss in my hair and a murmured, “Good morning, Sassenach,” brought me out of my stupor.

“Is it?” I croaked. I made a bleary-eyed reconnaissance, but could ascertain only that I was a) on a horse, b) in front of Jamie on the saddle, my head lolling on his shoulder, and c) blissfully warm against his chest.

…d) quite unbelievably happy.

“Is it good?” He tightened his arm around my waist, and I could hear the smile in his voice as he leaned his head against mine. “Aye, never better.”

“No,” I laughed sleepily, snuggling back into him and squeezing his arm, as it was the only bit of him I could reach. “Is it morning?”

“Nay, quite a few hours to dawn, still; but we’ve arrived in good time.”

The cloak—tucked around us both like his plaid might once have been—slipped a little, and the chill rushed through my clothes as I peered out into the darkness. Inverness. The streets were quite dark and it was hard to discern much of anything other than that we were making our way down a reasonably wide street or avenue. To be frank, though, I couldn’t have given a fig for sightseeing at the moment, in any case. All that mattered was that we were in a reasonably modern town with an inn, meaning a hot meal and a warm bed were mere minutes away.

Jamie kicked up the horse and turned down a sidestreet, his hand instinctively coming up to keep me from getting whiplash as we made the turn at speed. I don’t know why such a practical movement should touch me so, but there came a sudden lump to my throat, and I clutched him back as tight as I could, closing my eyes to savor him. Jamie.

God, it still hardly felt real. It was like…

…like trying to sleep after you’ve spent the day on seaboard, or swimming in the ocean. Even if it’s hours and hours later, lying on the mattress that night, you still feel the rise and fall of the water in your body, the memory of it, something within you triggered into perpetual motion, no matter how much you might have hated the waves nor how many miles your bed may be from the sea. There, then, on the horse, in my body and behind closed eyes, I still felt the physical sense of running up that terrible, screaming hill. I still was being eviscerated with every heartbeat in the knowledge that I had to let him go forever, again; that I would never see him again; that it was the end

But it was all over. He wasn’t happily married; I wasn’t making him choose between me and his own children. His life was ready and waiting for me. Thank you, I whispered silently to whomever might be listening. Thank you, thank you, a thousand times more, *thank you.*

Jamie had slept in my arms, there on the hill. Not for very long, certainly no more than an hour, all told. But oh, how I was glad of it, of the chance to just hold him in peace, to hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing, counting every rise and every fall against my chest, knowing he was safe and mine (How many times had I held his daughter in just that way, in just that peace?) …and beyond that, to immediately cement the intimacy between us.

It was that, I think, that kept either of us from suggesting a move down the hill into the relative warmth of the cottage. At face value, it was an excellent and obvious plan. While the snow had tapered off to a mere scattering of flakes here and there, it was bloody well freezing, and the wind was not gentle. And yet such a notion had felt to me an enormous risk, one I wasn’t willing to take.

We were afraid not to be touching, I think; fearful of any gap, however momentary, that might form between us if physically separated. Something would snap out of place, a voice within me had screamed in warning; hesitations or fears or the awkwardnesses resulting from TWO DECADES of separation. If we weren’t touching, those things might so easily slip into the still-gaping cracks—gorges—that existed between his life and mine.

For my part, even if he had suggested moving down to the cottage— I felt an icy chill come over me at the very thought. There were just too many ghosts in that place, both of twenty years ago and of mere hours. It’s where I had said two devastating goodbyes to the love of my life, and even under these ecstatic circumstances of our reunion, I didn’t think I could bear being under that roof again. It would have reminded me too viciously of the loss and regret and wasted time that lay beneath the surface of our joy, and those were raw and throbbing enough as it was.

No, that cottage could not be a house of joy for me, again.

And so, when he’d awoken, temporarily refreshed from his hellish ride, we’d taken care to always stay linked—even if only hand in hand—as he located satchel and horse (he’d whistled, and the beast had bloody appeared! A veritable John Wayne!), and got us on our way toward Inverness. A few hours’ ride, we’d decided, was well worth having a good meal and a warm bed awaiting us at the end, and the method of travel allowed us to stay holding each other the whole way.

A warm bed.

A warm….husband.

Before my mind could fully articulate the anxieties underpinning those two words in relation to this evening, there came a Gaelic command rumbling richly against my back and we slowed to a halt.

The dingy public house was torchlit and reasonably inviting-looking, I was surprised to find. A stable-boy came promptly up and Jamie exchanged a few words in Gaelic while hopping down from the saddle, swiveling his satchel to the back, and reaching up to help me dismount.

I swung my leg over and made to slip down into his outstretched arms, but then froze dead like scented prey. “What? For God’s sake, WHAT??” I wanted to crawl out of my skin. He was looking—staring—up at my face as though in horror. “Jamie,” I croaked in dread, “just bloody say—”

“—most beautiful woman…I’ve ever seen.”

The breath left me in a whoosh. I smiled down at him, but—nervously. “That’s very sweet, Jamie.”

He was being kind, and I didn’t doubt he was happy to see me, but I was staunchly middle-aged, and no two ways around it. My face—however much I took care of it—had been weathered by time and parenting and more than a decade of a punishingly-demanding job, and in that moment, I wanted to bloody crawl into the ground to hide from him and never ever come out.

“Truly kind, love,” I repeated tightly, trying to move things along, “but you really don’t have to say—”

“I do,” he said at once, his eyes never once leaving mine as he lifted me slowly down. “I must, for it’s the truth.”

“To you,” I started to say.

“To any man that’s the eyes wi’ which he was born. Claire, mo chridhe, ye are….you…You’re the same.”

And even the scattered snowflakes seemed to slow as we looked at each other, there in the flickering torchlight.

We’d both been so frantic on the hill. I personally had spent tremendous energy in trying specifically NOT to look at his face, and by the time we’d finally fallen into each others’ arms, it had been full-dark. That time held close under my cloak had kept us in darkness, too, meaning that this was the first time we’d gotten the chance to truly study each other at length. And God…even filthy and matted and half-dead with fatigue, he was unspeakably beautiful; he was Jamie.

So slowly, he lifted both hands and cupped my face between them, drinking me in still deeper, shaking his head wordlessly.

“Dear holy God…” he whispered after a few endless heartbeats. “So ye are a witch, then?”

He said it with the exact same expression on his face as back on the hill when he’d first gotten sight of my face. Is that what had made him stagger back? My smile back to him was genuine, playful, almost. “If you like.”

But there was no jest in his own eye. “Claire….Jesus…” And he could say no more.

I was fairly well speechless, too, and could only pulled him down to me, taking his lips softly and slowly.

But then, the distance did wedge between us, and fast.

It happened quite naturally, likely without a thought, on his part. He simply let go my hand as he passed through the tavern door to go speak with the proprietor, and I felt a cold emptiness fall between me and him, like a sudden eclipse. In that darkness, the doubts assaulted me in great, unrelenting barrages, one after another, after another.

You need to guard your heart more carefully, Beauchamp. The other shoe will drop any moment.

You and Jamie are just riding the high of being together. This isn’t real life—this is only the honeymoon. This might fall apart in weeks.

Even if everything with Laoghaire goes right, WE might go wrong.

What if we can’t stand each other after a time just like happened with them?

Beauchamp, that’s poppycock, and you know it. You wouldn’t have come back for him—left BREE for him—if you weren’t certain.

That was so. That was comfort, at least; and everything we’d experienced thusfar since crashing together on that hill had felt right, had felt true.

But GOD, the anxieties had the upper hand, now, and I felt as though I were the only person for miles, alone in some wasteland in my heart. Fear. So much fear.

I had thudded down onto one of the long benches, apparently, for I blinked and was looking at my hands before me on a table. Claw-like, they seemed. The hands of an old woman.

He’d spoken true when he had looked into my face and proclaimed beauty, for I’d seen it in his eyes and heard it in his voice, but it wasn’t him I was worried about, so much, but me. Us. It was truly occurring to me for the first time that it had been a long, long time since I had been actually intimate—fully intimate—with a man, and that perhaps it had been too long. I could feel the truth of that fear in my very bones: that perhaps I wasn’t capable of such an intimacy any longer. Yes, I acknowledged, feeling a vice tightening around my chest, something in me would certainly have been lost.

There had been sex in my years with Frank, yes, plenty of it, but not passion; need and urgency, of course, but never anything coming even remotely close to that sense of one-ness that Jamie and I had shared so naturally, so instinctively from the beginning. Frank…Frank was….

I felt my body seize up, a great weight pressing down upon my face to smother me. So many years ….So many long years in which the very concept of being touched by a man (….my only experience with being touched in that way by another human being…) was inextricably linked with having hurt him, being resented by him, resenting HIM right back. Sex meant sensing the other women on his skin and not being able to say a damned word (because of the other man—THE man— that still lingered in mine!). It meant wanting—needing—so badly to touch and be touched, and yet being unable to get true relief, nor seek it elsewhere or ANYWHERE, and being left only with this writhing, seething, screaming —

Jesus.

Yes.

Time was not the only thing that had been lost.

Those aging hands were shaking and my entire body jumped in panic when a steaming platter appeared on the table. “The cook was awake, thank God,” Jamie said enthusiastically, taking the seat across from me and tucking into the bread and cheese and honey with gusto.

There was a savory broth as well, making it an excellent meal in any century, but I couldn’t seem to taste or smell anything. That didn’t keep me from fixing my eyes carefully on the food, though. It was something to occupy my hands and my attention.

Warm bed.

Warm husband.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I screamed weakly into nothing. What if I couldn’t do this anymore? What if I could do…that anymore? The way it ought to be done? The way I wanted to be with him? The way—GOD, the way I’d craved for twenty fucking—?

“Are ye quite well, mo nighean donn?”

I started and the piece of bread I’d been pinching and balling up rolled away off the edge of the table. “Yes, I—Sorry, just—” I smiled, though it could hardly have been convincing. “Lost in thought.”

“Aye,” he said, graciously not pressing me. “Is it enough food? Shall I get more?”

I shook my head and demurred, feeling as though I would vomit or faint from the dark storm roiling within my heart.

He went back to his food, inhaling it at lightning speed.

Just take my hand, I begged him silently, but couldn’t get my lips, my lungs to comply, nor my own fingers to move. Just grab onto me, Jamie, and then everything can be alright. Everything *might*….God, Jamie, please…

But I could see that he was already preparing to leave the table, sopping up the last of his broth with bread. “You go on up to the room, mo nighean donn. Top of the stairs on the left. I need to go directly to talk to the keeper (while he’s still awake) about buying a shirt off him, and perhaps a mirror to shave, and then I’ll be up to join ye presently.”

The room.

The expectations—his AND mine—

No, it was mine. My own expectations were the ones making the room spin, along with the knowledge that I almost certainly couldn’t meet—

“You don’t need to shave for my sake, Jamie,” I said hastily, not meeting his eye, trying (failing) to sound casual. “I’m sure you’re bone-tired.”

He caught the implication immediately and only nodded. “I am, and I thank ye, but I’ll be shaving all the same. I want to—to be presentable for my wife,” he said formally, not meeting my eye either. He started to say something else, but then stood quite suddenly and brushed crumbs off his hands as he walked around the table, making for the kitchens. “I willna be long, I swear it.”

I jumped to my feet, violently enough that my head spun. “Jamie, wait, I—” but I stopped, my mouth working vainly before I shut it again. He was looking down at me expectantly, with a hint, I thought, of a keen anxiety in his own eye.

My mouth was slack. I didn’t bloody know how to say it. Well, no, I did.

You don’t HAVE to have sex with me tonight, Jamie, if you don’t want to.

I DO want to have sex with you—want it a great fucking deal, in fact—

….but I’m also TERRIFIED of it—Almost more terrified than I’ve EVER been at the prospect of going to a man’s bed…And it will be next to impossible to explain why and it will likely make you angry or sad or both and so I shall avoid it like the plague…

….and even though I just said you don’t HAVE to have sex with me, on some ridiculous, vain level, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if somehow you DON’T want me, or if you can’t find me sexually attractive or—

Before I could voice any of this, he stepped directly in front of me, took my face in his hands and kissed me. I’m here, the kiss said.

And then he dropped a hand to my hip and pulled me tight—gently, but nonetheless firmly—against him, so I could feel—

…Oh…

He nodded and gave the tiniest smile.

I blinked, taken aback. “How do you bloody do that? STILL??”

“I’m none so verra decrepit, Sassenach.” The corner of his mouth twitched in that way that still drove me wild. “And as for how, if ye dinna ken the process by now, I’m none so verra—”

“Not that,” I groaned, laughing but completely serious. “How can you still know exactly what I’m thinking?”

He quieted and took a pace back, studying me, though thank God he didn’t let go my waist. “Ye think just because we were apart these twenty years, I stopped thinking of ye?”

That startled me. “Well, no, Jamie, of course not, but—”

“Not just about ye,” he clarified. “Thinking of ye as though we were speaking to one another, throughout the day, throughout the years…..What ye’d say in a conversation that was wearying to me….What your face would have done in seeing some sight or other at my side…..When—whether—ye’d laugh or only roll your bonny eyes when I made a joke….” He cupped my cheek. “… And picturing always how your truth would ever be in plain sight on that face for me to find. Ye’ve kept me company, these twenty years, Sassenach, whether ye willed it or no’. Naught but a lonely man’s pitiful longings, true, but ye stayed wi’ me.” He swallowed, his voice going still more hoarse as he finished, “And I’ve been given a gift this day to learn that my pale imitation was a true image, Claire….for you’re exactly as I recall. I ken ye like I ken the sound of my own voice.” The last was a whisper. “STILL.”

I dipped my head so he couldn’t see that I was trying not to cry.

He brought my chin back up and kissed me softly, kissed my closed, tear-straining eyes and my brow and my temple, before whispering in my ear and pulling me once more against him. “And aye, Sassenach…I want ye.”

And that meant a great deal, I reflected, watching his long hair swishing behind him as he disappeared down the corridor to the scullery. It was one great weight off my mind, the weight of vanity and fretfulness over the body. While I chided myself for its foolishness, it had NOT been a meaningless burden in honest reality. Hadn’t getting Joe Abernathy’s sworn statement regarding my sexual attractiveness been (absurdly, I grant you) one of my pre-requisites for deciding to find Jamie at all?

Yes, Jamie wanted me, and Lord knew I wanted him back.

But could we truly be one again, in that way that had changed everything all those years ago? We might, in some abstract sense, yes, for whatever it was between us it was still there; but in looking at the bald facts and making a clinical assessment, was I still able to supply my half of us, and all that it entailed? Was I still ‘me’ enough to love him, truly love him, body and soul?

I honestly don’t know.

That honest admission had the seams of my heart—so new, so fragile—aching. Anxiety and dread and shame in myself dogged me in every lonely step up to our empty chamber.

Just touch me, Jamie. And forgive me if I fall apart.

whitenightowl-blog

I´m dead and buried. I don´t know how you manage to be so briliant in every fucking chapter of this fic? But I do know why Diana hates fics - because this is at least as good as the canon if not better. I salute you Bonnie!