Chapter Text
The Thistle was already buzzing when Claire walked in with Geillis, John, and Frank. Warm lights, clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation — it should’ve felt comforting. It didn’t. Not when she kept glancing toward the door. Not when she kept checking the bar. Not when she kept pretending she wasn’t looking for him. Jamie didn’t come. And the realization hit her harder than she expected — a sharp, hollow ache right beneath her ribs. He chose not to come. He chose not to see her. He chose distance. She told herself that’s what she wanted. Because she hadn't invited him. She'd pushed him away. She tried to remind herself this was better for the both of them. It didn’t feel like it.
They grabbed a booth, ordered food, and Claire immediately pulled out her notes. She spread her textbooks across the table like a shield. Geillis groaned. “Claire, for God’s sake, put the anatomy away.”
“I have an exam,” Claire muttered, highlighting aggressively.
“You also have a life,” Geillis countered, stealing her highlighter.
John leaned over her shoulder. “You’re the only person I know who studies in a pub.”
Frank added, “It’s honestly impressive.”
Claire forced a smile. “I’m behind.” She wasn’t behind. She just needed something to focus on that wasn’t six‑foot‑three with red curls and a heart too big for his own good.
After dinner, the drinks started coming — whisky, cider, something neon that Geillis insisted was “medicinal.” Claire tried to pace herself, but Geillis was a menace and John was an enabler. They quizzed each other on anatomy flashcards, dissolving into giggles every time someone got an answer wrong. “What’s the name of the ligament—hic—that attaches the liver to the anterior abdominal wall?” Geillis slurred.
Claire squinted. “The… falciform ligament.”
John clapped. “Brilliant!”
“To the falciform ligament!” Frank raised his glass. They all cheered like idiots. Claire felt warm. Loose. Almost happy. Almost.
At some point, John slid three small pills onto the table between them. “Adderall,” he said casually. “For studying. Or staying awake. Or both.”
Geillis snatched it immediately. “Bless you.”
Claire hesitated. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But she was tired. Emotionally wrung out. Desperate for anything that would keep her from thinking. She took it. John grinned. “Atta girl.”
The music got louder. The lights got warmer. The room got softer around the edges. Claire and Geillis ended up on the dance floor, laughing, spinning, clinging to each other. John joined them, then Frank, and suddenly they were all tangled together — hands on hips, arms around shoulders, kisses on cheeks, lips brushing lips in the chaotic, affectionate way of drunk friends who needed to feel something. Claire kissed Geillis. Geillis kissed John. John kissed Claire. Frank kissed everyone. It was messy and harmless and exactly the kind of distraction Claire craved. For a moment, she forgot the ache in her chest. For a moment, she forgot Jamie.
From behind the bar, Dougal watched them with a knowing smirk — the kind older men get when they’ve seen this scene a thousand times. He didn’t judge. He didn’t interfere. He just poured drinks and let the young ones burn off their chaos. Claire caught his eye once, breathless and flushed, and he gave her a small nod — the kind that said I see you. I know you’re hurting. Go on, lass. Dance it out. So she did.
She danced harder. Laughed louder. Held her friends tighter. Trying to drown the ache. Trying to forget the man who didn’t walk through the door. Trying to outrun the truth: She wanted Jamie. And he stayed away. By the time the group spilled out of the Black Thistle, they were a tangle of limbs and laughter. Geillis clung to Claire’s arm, John draped himself over Frank’s shoulders, and Frank kept insisting he was “perfectly sober” while tripping over every crack in the pavement. Claire wasn’t drunk enough to forget Jamie. But she was drunk enough to pretend she had.
They stumbled down the street toward her flat, singing off‑key, arguing about anatomy terms, stopping every few feet because someone dropped something or someone kissed someone else or someone needed to pee behind a bush. By the time they reached her building, Claire’s cheeks hurt from laughing and her heart hurt from everything else. They collapsed inside her flat in a heap of jackets, shoes, and half‑finished conversations. Someone put on music. Someone else found snacks. Claire didn’t remember who ended up where — only that eventually, the chaos blurred into sleep.
A pounding headache woke her first.
A pounding knock woke her second.
Claire groaned, rolling over on the couch — or was it the floor? — and immediately regretted it. Her mouth tasted like whisky and regret. Her hair was a disaster. Her shirt was… where was her shirt? The knocking came again. She stumbled to her feet, tugging a t-shirt over her head and stepping over a pile of textbooks, a half‑eaten bag of crisps, and what looked suspiciously like someone's discarded underwear. She opened the door.
And froze. Jamie stood there. Clean. Steady. Beautiful. His red curls — usually wild, unruly, charmingly chaotic — had been tamed and brushed back, the soft waves catching the light like burnished copper. His suit was pristine, the dark fabric pressed to perfection, shoulders broad and sure beneath it. His shoes shone like he’d polished them twice, maybe three times, because he wanted today to be right.
He smelled of sandalwood and cedar, warm and grounding, the scent wrapping around her like a memory she hadn’t lived yet. Freshly shaven, his jaw looked sharper, his skin smooth, his eyes impossibly bright — that clear, startling blue that always saw straight through her. And he was looking at her like he’d been standing there long enough to worry. Long enough to imagine the worst. Long enough to breathe again only when he saw her. Jamie Fraser, dressed like a man ready to promise her forever, staring at her with a tenderness so fierce it made her chest ache.
“Sassenach,” he said softly, relief flooding his face. “Thank God. I was—” He stopped. Because he finally took in the scene.
Claire — standing in the doorway, half dressed, her wild curls plastered to her cheeks in tangled, chaotic spirals. Mascara smudged beneath her eyes like bruised shadows. Her bare legs pale under the hem of a T‑shirt that was unmistakably not hers — too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves, hitting her mid thigh. And beneath it all, the sharp, unmistakable scent of whisky clinging to her skin, her breath, the air around her. Not enough to suggest danger — just enough to tell him she’d been spiraling, thinking too much, hurting quietly in the way she always did when she thought no one was watching.
Behind her, the flat was a battlefield — empty glasses on the counter, scattered notes across the floor, textbooks open and abandoned, a jacket that definitely belonged to Jamie thrown over the back of a chair, and a pair of Geillis’s heels kicked halfway under the sofa. Chaos. Her chaos. And Claire stood in the middle of it, looking like a storm that had finally blown itself out. Jamie’s breath caught — not in judgment, not in anger, but in something far deeper. Something like heartbreak. Something like love.
Because she looked lost. And she looked like she’d been alone in it for far too long. And then— A burst of laughter from behind her. Geillis stumbled out first, wearing Claire’s robe and a goofy grin. “Claire, darling, do you have any—oh!” She spotted Jamie and grinned. “Weel, good morning highlander.”
John appeared next, shirtless, hair sticking up in every direction. “Is that the postman? Tell him we don’t want any—oh. Not the postman.”
Frank stumbled out next, yawning so wide his jaw cracked, a blanket slung haphazardly around his waist and exactly one sock clinging to his foot like it had survived a war. “Who’s at the—” He stopped mid‑sentence, blinking at Jamie. “Oh. Oh dear.” The three of them stood there in a chaotic cluster, blinking at Jamie like startled woodland creatures. Claire wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. Jamie’s expression was impossible to read. Not angry. Not judgmental. Just… stunned. And hurt. And trying very, very hard not to show it.
Claire swallowed. “Jamie… I—this isn’t—”
Behind her, Geillis stage‑whispered — loudly enough to wake the dead, “Is that the red‑haired lad from the pub?”
John elbowed her without looking. “Geillis. For the love of God. Stop talking.”
Frank, wrapped in his blanket like a disappointed philosopher, nodded gravely. “Yes. Definitely the red‑haired one. The same one we saw on campus. The tall one. With the shoulders.”
Geillis snorted. “Aye, the one Claire kept pretending not to stare at.”
John groaned. “Please. Please stop.”
Claire closed her eyes. This was her nightmare. This was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. Jamie seeing her like this — messy, chaotic, surrounded by people who didn’t mean what he meant. She opened her eyes again. Jamie was still there. Still looking at her. Still waiting. And Claire had no idea what to say. For a long, breathless moment, Claire and Jamie just stared at each other in the doorway — her half‑dressed and mortified, him steady and unreadable. Then John, bless his chaotic soul, leaned around Claire’s shoulder and beamed. “Oh! Jamie! Come in, come in!” Before Claire could protest, John had ushered him inside with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever.
Jamie stepped over the threshold… and immediately had to step over a pile of clothes, a tipped‑over backpack, and Geillis’s bra. He blinked. Once. Slowly. Claire wanted to die. They made their way toward the kitchen, weaving through the battlefield of last night’s chaos. The kitchen was no better — dishes everywhere, textbooks stacked on the counter, a half‑eaten sandwich on the stove, and someone’s sock hanging off the kettle. Jamie took it all in with a quiet, stunned politeness that somehow made it worse. Geillis swept into the kitchen like she owned the place, still wearing only Claire’s robe. “Tea?” she chirped, already rummaging through the cupboards. Before Claire could stop her, Geillis pulled out the expensive tin — the one Jamie had sent Claire weeks ago — and popped it open with a delighted gasp. “Oh, this is the good stuff.”
Claire’s stomach dropped. “Geillis—” But it was too late. She was already scooping it into the teapot. Jamie’s eyes flicked to Claire, softening with something like surprise… and something else she couldn’t name.
John, meanwhile, had his entire upper body in the fridge. “Claire, darling, why do you only have mustard and leftover curry? Do you people not eat?”
Frank’s voice drifted down the hallway, echoing with the weary confusion of a man who’d made several poor choices in a row. “Has anyone seen my underwear? Anyone at all? I distinctly remember taking them off… somewhere.”
Claire closed her eyes. This was hell. Jamie sat at the tiny kitchen table, hands folded politely, as if he were visiting a dignified home instead of a disaster zone. Geillis poured tea for everyone, plopping the mug in front of Jamie with a wink. “Hope you like it strong.” Jamie nodded, though he looked like he wasn’t sure if he should drink it or perform a ritual over it. Claire sat across from him, cheeks burning.
Just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, John plopped down beside her, dropping a small orange bottle onto the table with a clatter. “Alright, troops! Who needs a little help staying awake today?”
Claire’s blood ran cold. “John—”
He shook the bottle. “Adderall for everyone!”
Geillis cheered. Frank yelled from the hallway, “Save me one!”
Claire wanted to crawl under the table. Jamie’s brows shot up, his expression a mix of concern, disbelief, and that quiet Highlander judgment he didn’t even try to hide. Claire’s voice cracked. “John, put that away.”
John blinked at her. “What? We've all taken them before. We’re fine.”
Jamie’s eyes snapped to Claire. She felt the heat rise up her neck. Her stomach twisted. Her shame was a physical thing. “John,” she hissed, “put it away.” John shrugged and tucked the bottle back into his pocket, oblivious to the emotional carnage he’d just caused. Claire couldn’t look at Jamie.
Not at his steady eyes. Not at the quiet hurt. Not at the confusion. Not at the way he was trying so hard not to judge her, even though she could feel it — the shift, the worry, the disappointment. She stared at her tea instead, hands trembling around the mug. Her friends were laughing, shouting, searching for clothes, making a mess of everything. And Jamie sat in the middle of it — calm, gentle, heartbreakingly out of place. Claire swallowed hard. This was exactly why she’d tried to push him away. Because he didn’t belong in her chaos. Because she didn’t deserve someone like him. Because she was terrified he’d see her life — her real life — and finally understand she wasn’t worth the trouble.
And now he had.
Geillis left first, of course — blowing Jamie an exaggerated kiss over Claire’s shoulder and whispering, far too loudly, “He’s even hotter in daylight, darling.” Claire wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. Frank wandered out next, still on his tragic quest for his missing underwear. He pressed a dramatic kiss to Claire’s cheek — blanket slipping dangerously low — before stumbling into the hallway like a man fleeing the scene of his own crimes.
John lingered the longest. He pulled Claire into a warm, steady hug, kissed her forehead, and murmured, “Text me if you need anything, my dear. And don’t forget about Friday.” Claire groaned, shoved him out the door, and shut it firmly behind him. And then— Silence. Just Claire. Jamie. And the wreckage of her night spread across the flat like a crime scene.
She didn’t look at him at first. She couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on the chaos — the clothes strewn everywhere, the empty glasses, the half‑open textbooks, the jacket she’d stolen from him, the mess that mirrored exactly how she felt inside. Shame rose in her chest like a tide, hot and choking. Finally, she found her voice. Small. Tired. Defeated.
“This,” she said, gesturing around the room, “is exactly why I didn’t want you to be a part of my life.” Jamie didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Just watched her with those steady blue eyes that made everything worse. Claire swallowed hard. “I’m young, Jamie. I’m in school. My life is… this.” She waved a hand at the disaster around them. “And you’re—” She finally looked at him. “You’re mature. You have your shit together. You have a real home, a real life, real stability. And I’m—” Her voice cracked. “I’m a mess.”
Jamie’s expression softened, but he didn’t rush to contradict her. He let her speak. Let her unravel. Claire wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. “You don’t belong in this,” she whispered. “In my chaos. In my… disaster of a life.” She looked away again, blinking hard. “You deserve better than this. Better than me.” The words hung in the air between them — heavy, trembling, honest. And Jamie finally stepped forward. He didn’t argue with her. He didn’t tell her she was wrong. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. A slow, steady embrace — warm, solid, unshakeable.
Claire froze for half a second, her breath catching in her throat… and then she melted. Completely. Her forehead pressed to his chest, her hands fisting lightly in his shirt as if she needed something to anchor her. Jamie rested his chin gently on the top of her head, his breath soft against her hair. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence was its own kind of comfort — patient, grounding, safe. Claire inhaled shakily, the scent of him familiar and devastating. Her voice came out small, muffled against his chest. “I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered. “You saw all of that. You saw… everything. The mess. The chaos. My friends. Me.”
Jamie’s arms tightened just a fraction — not possessive, not demanding, just reassuring. “Sassenach,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “ye dinna need to be embarrassed wi’ me.”
She shook her head against him, her cheeks burning. “But I am. God, Jamie, I’m mortified. You shouldn’t have seen any of that. I didn’t want you to.”
He pulled back just enough to look down at her, his hands still warm on her arms. “Why?” he asked softly. “Why hide the parts of your life that make ye human?”
Her eyes flicked away, shame tightening her throat. “Because you’re… you,” she whispered. “And I’m… this.”
Jamie’s expression softened, something tender and fierce flickering in his eyes. He brushed a thumb gently along her cheek, guiding her gaze back to his. “Claire,” he said quietly, “I’m here because I care. No' because yer life is tidy. No' because ye’re perfect. I’m here because it’s ye.”
Claire eased out of Jamie’s arms, the warmth of his chest lingering against her cheek long after she stepped back. The flat came back into focus — the clothes on the floor, the empty glasses, the textbooks, the chaos of last night’s laughter and distraction. She pressed her fingers to her temples, eyes closing briefly. “I can’t do this today,” she muttered, voice low and exhausted. Not panicked. Not spiraling. Just… done.
Jamie didn’t move toward her. Didn’t rush to reassure her. Didn’t try to fix the words out of her mouth. He simply nodded once, quiet and steady, as if she’d said something perfectly reasonable. “Aye,” he said softly. “It’s a lot.”
Claire let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She expected him to lecture her, or judge her, or tell her she needed to get her life together. He didn’t. Instead, he bent down and picked up a stray textbook from the floor. He didn’t comment on it. Didn’t look at her for approval. Just set it gently on the table. Then he picked up a mug. Rinsed it. Set it in the sink. No fuss. No noise. No performance. Just… helping.
Claire watched him, her throat tightening. Something warm and unfamiliar curled in her chest — not panic, not shame, but a quiet ache. He wasn’t fixing her. He wasn’t rescuing her. He wasn’t judging her. He was simply making the world a little easier to stand in. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Jamie… you don’t have to—”
“I ken,” he said, still gentle. “I’m no’ doin’ it because I have to.” He picked up another glass, setting it beside the first. “I’m doin’ it because ye look like ye could use a wee bit o' help.” Claire’s breath hitched — not from fear this time, but from something dangerously close to relief. The first crack in the armor. She didn’t tell him to stop. She didn’t tell him to leave. She didn’t tell him she could handle it alone. She just stood there, watching him move through her chaos with calm, patient hands. And for the first time, she let him. Jamie bent to pick up another mug, moving with that quiet, deliberate steadiness that made Claire’s chest ache. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t making a show of it. He wasn’t even looking at her. He was just… helping.
Claire rubbed her temples again, exhaling slowly. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “I’m a grown woman. I should be able to keep my flat from looking like a frat house.”
Jamie glanced at the pile of clothes on the floor. “Weel… I’ve seen worse.”
She shot him a look. “Liar.”
He shrugged, lips twitching. “Aye. But it seemed the polite thing to say.”
Despite herself, Claire huffed a laugh. “You don’t have to be polite. It’s a disaster.”
Jamie nudged a pair of trousers with his foot. “It’s no’ that bad.”
“Jamie, that’s Frank’s underwear.”
He paused. Looked down. Blinked. “Aye… that part’s bad.”
Claire snorted, covering her face with her hands. “Oh God.”
Jamie set the mug in the sink and turned back to her, leaning a hip against the counter. “Claire. It’s just a mess. It happens.”
“Not to you,” she said before she could stop herself.
Jamie raised a brow. “Ye think my place is spotless?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
He laughed — a warm, surprised sound that loosened something tight inside her. “Weel, it’s no’ spotless. I just dinna have three half‑naked friends runnin’ about makin’ it worse.”
Claire groaned. “Please don’t remind me.”
Jamie picked up a crumpled anatomy worksheet and smoothed it out. “Ye study hard. Ye work long hours. Ye’re human. Humans make messes.”
She blinked at him. “You’re really not judging me?”
He looked genuinely confused. “Why would I judge ye for livin’ yer life Sassenach?” Claire opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound pathetic. Jamie handed her the worksheet. “Here. This one’s got a footprint on it, but I think it’ll survive.”
She took it, shaking her head. “This is humiliating.”
“Only if ye let it be,” he said gently.
She stared at him — at the way he moved through her chaos without flinching, without recoiling, without making her feel small. He picked up a blanket from the couch and folded it neatly. “Besides,” he added, “yer friends were great entertainment this morning.”
Claire laughed — a real, warm laugh that surprised them both. Jamie’s eyes softened. “There ye are.”
She swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was. “I’m still embarrassed.”
“Aye,” he said, “but ye’re laughin’ too.” She was. And she didn’t even realize when she’d started.
Once the flat was clean enough to breathe in, Claire disappeared into her bedroom to get dressed. Jamie stayed in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, surveying the barren cupboards like a man preparing for battle. He found bread. And a toaster. And that was it. So he made toast — two slices, slightly uneven, one a bit more burnt than the other. He set them on a plate with the kind of care most people reserved for fine china. When Claire emerged, hair pulled back, bag slung over her shoulder, she blinked at the plate on the counter. “You made toast?”
Jamie shrugged. “It was either that or mustard.”
A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. “Toast is perfect.” She took a bite, and something in her shoulders loosened — a tiny, unconscious release of tension. Jamie noticed. He didn’t comment.
They left the flat together without discussing it. Claire locked the door, turned, and simply… walked beside him. Down the stairs. Out the building. Across the street. She didn’t think about it. Didn’t question it. Didn’t panic. Her body just moved, relaxed and unguarded, as if this were normal — as if walking with Jamie were part of her morning routine. It wasn’t until they reached the parking lot that she blinked and realized where they were. “Oh,” she murmured. “Your car.”
Jamie opened the passenger door for her. “Aye.” She hesitated for half a heartbeat… then got in. She moved on autopilot, her body responding before her mind caught up — because somewhere along the way, she’d grown comfortable with him. Safe with him. Safe in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.
The drive was quiet in the best way — no tension, no awkwardness, just the hum of the engine and the soft morning light filtering through the windshield. Claire stared out the window, nibbling her toast, feeling strangely peaceful. Jamie glanced at her once, saw the calm on her face, and let himself smile. He didn’t speak. He didn’t push. He just drove. When he pulled up in front of the medical building, Claire reached for the door handle — but Jamie stopped her gently. “Wait.” She turned. He held out, her jacket, an apple and a water bottle. All neatly gathered from her flat without her noticing. “Ye’ll need these,” he said simply.
Claire stared at the items, then at him. “Jamie… you didn’t have to—”
“I ken,” he said softly. “But ye’ve a long day ahead.”
Her throat tightened — not with panic, but with something warm and unfamiliar. She took the things from him, their fingers brushing briefly. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Jamie nodded once, eyes warm. “Have a good class, Claire.” She stepped out of the car, jacket over her arm, apple in hand, water bottle tucked into her bag. And she walked toward the building… Smiling. Not because she forced it. Not because she was pretending. But because for the first time in days, she felt light. She didn’t realize it yet, but Jamie Fraser had just slipped into her morning routine. And she let him.