Chapter Text
Claire didn’t even think about it — her body moved before her mind caught up. One shift of her knee, one soft press of her hand against his chest, and suddenly she was straddling Jamie’s hips, settling into him like she’d been made to fit there. Jamie’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull her closer or push for more. He just held her waist, steady and warm, letting her set the pace. Their mouths met again, slow and hungry in a way that wasn’t rushed or frantic — just full of everything they’d been holding back. Claire kissed him like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, this exact softness, this exact safety.
Jamie kissed her like he couldn’t believe she was real. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. His fingers traced the curve of her back, gentle, grounding, encouraging without ever demanding. She deepened the kiss, and he answered her with a low sound that vibrated through her, but neither of them pushed further. They didn’t need to. The closeness alone was enough — more than enough. Claire pulled back just a little, breath mingling with his, her forehead resting against his. Jamie’s hands stayed on her hips, thumbs brushing slow circles that made her shiver.
She looked at him — really looked — and he saw the question in her eyes.
Is this okay? Am I okay? Are we okay?
Jamie smiled, soft and sure. “Aye,” he whispered, voice warm and rough. “We’re just fine.” Her shoulders relaxed. She leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his jaw, then rested her head against his shoulder, breathing him in. Jamie wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, letting the moment settle around them like sunlight. No rush. No pressure. Just them.
After a long, quiet stretch — her heartbeat steady against his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back — Claire finally lifted her head. Jamie brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his touch feather‑light. “Ye hungry, lass?” he murmured.
Claire blinked, still half‑lost in the warmth of him. “A little.”
Jamie’s smile widened, soft and teasing. “Good. Because I’d like to make ye breakfast.”
She laughed — a small, sleepy sound — and slid off his lap, settling beside him on the bed. “Jamie Fraser,” she said, nudging his shoulder, “you’re going to spoil me.”
He stood, offering her his hand. “Aye. That’s the idea.”
Claire padded into the kitchen still wearing her baggy t‑shirt and sweats, hair a sleepy mess, cheeks flushed from the warmth of his bed. Jamie was already at the stove, barefoot, hair sticking up in every direction, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a folk tune. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard her. “There ye are Sassenach.”
She smiled, slow and soft. “Here I am.”
“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the counter. “Breakfast is nearly done.”
She hopped up onto the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a fondness she didn’t bother hiding. “What are you making?”
“Eggs, sausage, toast,” he said. “A proper breakfast. No mustard involved.”
She groaned. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“No’ a chance.” She threw a dish towel at him. He caught it without turning, smirking. Jamie poured her a cup of coffee and handed it over.
She took a sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God. This is perfect.”
“Aye,” he said, flipping the eggs. “I figured ye needed something strong after last night.”
She raised a brow. “Last night?”
Jamie shot her a look over his shoulder. “Ye fell asleep on me halfway through the movie.”
Claire gasped. “I did not.”
“Aye, ye did. Right here.” He tapped his shoulder. “Snorin’ softly like a wee kitten.”
“I do not snore.”
Jamie grinned. “Ye do.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’d never lie to ye, Sassenach.” She threw another towel at him. He dodged again, laughing. Claire slid off the counter and joined him at the table, still smiling.
She took a bite and moaned. “Jamie. This is incredible.”
He puffed up a little. “Aye, weel, I try.”
“You’re showing off.”
“Only a wee bit.”
She nudged his foot under the table. “You like cooking for me.”
Jamie didn’t deny it. “Aye. I do.” Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t look away. At one point, she reached for the butter at the same time he did, their fingers brushing. Neither pulled away. Jamie’s eyes softened. Claire’s breath caught. But instead of panicking, she smiled. A small, quiet smile that said she felt safe. That she felt good here. That she didn’t want to leave. Jamie reached for her plate to take it to the sink, but she grabbed his wrist gently.
“Jamie?”
“Aye?”
She held his gaze, steady and warm. “Thank you. For last night. For this morning. For… all of it.”
Jamie’s expression softened into something tender and fierce all at once. “Ye dinna need to thank me, Claire,” he said. “I’m glad ye’re here.” And he was. More than she’d realized.
(3 Months later)
Mid‑semester, Claire found herself reaching for her phone more often than she cared to admit — and always for the same person. It wasn’t intentional, not at first. She’d see a bizarre patient case during rounds and snap off a quick message to Jamie, half expecting him to be too busy to respond. But he always did. Then it was a joke John told in the cafeteria that made her snort into her coffee; she sent it to Jamie before she even finished laughing. A ridiculous meme from Geillis? Straight to Jamie. A photo of the sad, unidentifiable mush she called lunch? Jamie got that too — along with a picture of his handwriting from the notes he’d left on her counter, which she’d teased him about mercilessly.
And every single time, without fail, he replied. Always. Sometimes he sent back a sarcastic quip that made her roll her eyes and smile at the same time. Sometimes he offered quiet encouragement, the kind that didn’t feel heavy or patronizing — just steady.
It wasn’t until she caught herself typing out another message — fingers moving before her brain caught up — that she paused and realized something had shifted. Jamie had become the first person she wanted to tell things to. The first person she reached for. The first person who came to mind when something funny, strange, frustrating, or wonderful happened. She didn’t remember when that happened. But it had. And she didn’t want it to stop.
It started with an email. A name she hadn’t seen in years. Lamb's attorney. A reminder she never wanted. A problem she thought she’d planned for. Claire stared at the screen until the words blurred, her chest tightening, her breath coming too fast. All the old shame, the old fear, the old self‑loathing she’d worked so hard to bury came roaring back like a wave she couldn’t stop.
Jamie was at Lallybroch for the weekend, helping Jenny with something on the farm. He’d texted her pictures of the kids, a video of the goats, a selfie with mud streaked across his cheek. He looked happy. Relaxed. At ease in a way she didn’t see often enough. And she didn’t want to ruin that. She didn’t want to be the reason his smile dimmed. She didn’t want to be the weight that dragged him back into her storms. Not again. Not like before.
The email sat open on her laptop, a single email that had detonated something inside her. Her pulse raced. Her hands shook. Her thoughts spiraled so fast she couldn’t catch them. She reached for her phone. Her thumb hovered over Jamie’s name.
Call him. Don’t call him. He’ll help you. You’ll ruin his weekend. He’d want to know. He deserves a break from you.
She pressed his name. His contact card filled the screen, and there it was — the little photo they’d taken at the distillery on their first trip together. Jamie grinning so wide his eyes crinkled, her lips pressed to his cheek, both of them flushed with laughter and whisky and the dizzying newness of being happy. They were happy. She was doing well. Things were good. She clung to that thought like a lifeline, willing it to anchor her, to keep her from slipping back into the old, familiar undertow. The one that whispered she didn’t deserve him. The one that told her she was too much, too messy, too broken.
Her thumb hovered over the call button. She fought the urge — the instinct — to fall into that pattern again. To panic. To reach for him like he was the only thing keeping her upright. Because he wasn’t supposed to save her anymore. She was supposed to save herself. Her breath hitched. And she panicked dropping the phone onto the couch like it had burned her. “No,” she whispered to the empty room. “No, no, no. Don’t drag him into this. Not again.” She paced. Sat. Stood again. Ran her hands through her hair. Tried to breathe. Failed.
Her gaze drifted to the kitchen. To the cabinet. To the bottle she kept “just in case.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head hard. “No. Not that. Not again. You’re better than this.” She wasn’t sure if she believed it. She opened the cabinet anyway. Stared at the bottle. Closed it again with a slam that echoed through the flat. “Walk,” she told herself. “Just walk. Fresh air. Clear your head.” She grabbed her coat. Keys. Phone. She stepped outside, the cold air biting her cheeks, grounding her for half a second. She walked. Not home. Not to a friend. Not anywhere safe. Her feet carried her on instinct, down familiar streets, past familiar corners, toward the place she always swore she wouldn’t return to. The neon sign flickered in the distance. The Black Thistle. And Claire walked straight through the familiar door.
The place was loud, warm, familiar in the worst way. She ordered a drink. Then another. Then another. The noise drowned out the thoughts, the shame, the panic clawing at her ribs. She felt the old numbness creeping in — the one she used to rely on.
The Black Thistle throbbed with bass, lights flashing in dizzy bursts across the crowded room. Claire sat hunched at the bar beside Geillis, the two of them pressed shoulder‑to‑shoulder while John and Frank flailed joyfully on the dance floor behind them.
“I don’t deserve someone like Jamie!” Claire shouted, trying to be heard over the pulsing music. Her voice cracked, half‑laugh, half‑sob. “I just… I’m me and he’s AMAZING.” She tossed back a shot with the determination of a woman trying to outrun her own thoughts. “Bloody amazing,” she added, slamming the glass down.
Geillis nodded, leaning in, eyes wide and rapt. “Aye. He’s a good man, Claire.”
Claire’s eyes bulged dramatically. “RIGHT!” She grabbed another shot, lifted it toward Geillis, and they clinked glasses before dissolving into breathless laughter. “And here I am,” Claire said, laughter dying into a groan as she dropped her head onto the sticky bar top. “Right back where I bloody started. He can’t even go away with his family without me doing daft shite like this.”
Geillis rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, her voice softening. “Maybe we should take ye home, hen.”
Claire’s head snapped up, curls wild, eyes glassy. “Please don’t! I don’t want to be alone right now, Gelly.” She turned toward the dance floor, where John was attempting a spin and Frank was clapping off‑beat like a proud, drunken uncle. Claire raised her eyebrows, mischief and desperation tangled together. “Let’s dance.”
Geillis gave her a soft, knowing smile — the kind that held both sympathy and resignation. She knew Claire should go home, should sleep this off, should stop the spiral before it dug in deeper. But pushing her now, forcing her, dragging her out by the elbow? That would only make Claire crack harder. So Geillis squeezed her hand instead, choosing the gentler path. “Aye, then,” she said quietly, steadying Claire with her voice. “Let’s.”
They slid off their stools and sauntered toward the chaos, leaving Claire’s phone abandoned on the bar. The screen lit up. Two missed calls from Jamie. One currently incoming. And Claire? She had no idea.
The music swallowed them whole. Claire let herself be pulled into the crush of bodies, Geillis’s hand in hers, Frank and John flanking them like mismatched backup dancers. The four of them moved together in a loose, laughing tangle — hips swaying, arms thrown around shoulders, the kind of dancing that was more chaos than choreography. Frank spun her once, dramatically. John caught her before she toppled. Geillis whooped and bumped her hip against Claire’s.
They were close — too close, maybe — the kind of close that, in another life, another night, another version of Claire, might have blurred into something reckless. Something messy. Something she’d regret. But tonight? Even drunk, even spiraling, even with the room tilting just slightly — she didn’t cross that line. She didn’t even think about crossing it. Not consciously. Not deliberately. Just… instinctively. Every time Frank leaned in too far, she laughed and turned away. Every time John’s hands settled a little too warmly at her waist, she shifted just enough to keep it friendly. Every time Geillis tried to pull her into something wild and wicked, Claire shook her head with a grin and kept it playful. She danced close — close enough to feel the heat of them, close enough to forget her thoughts for a moment — but never close enough to feel dishonest. Not to Jamie.
Even if she couldn’t admit that to herself. By the time the song ended, they were breathless and sweaty and laughing so hard Claire’s ribs hurt. They stumbled back toward the bar in a tangled cluster, collapsing against the counter like survivors of some vodka‑soaked battle. “Shots!” Geillis declared, slamming her palm on the bar. The bartender lined them up. Four glasses. Four reckless decisions. Four friends clinging to the edge of the night. They tossed them back in unison, the burn hitting Claire’s throat like fire and relief all at once.
They exhaled together, catching their breath, leaning on each other, the world spinning just a little too fast. And Claire — flushed, dizzy, heart pounding — didn’t notice the phone she’d left behind on the bar. Didn’t see the screen light up at first but then Her phone buzzed. Jamie. She ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. Finally, she answered — mostly because she couldn’t stand the sound anymore. “Claire?” Jamie’s voice was sharp. Worried. “Where are ye? I’ve been callin’ for an hour.”
She winced at the sheer volume blasting from her phone. “Jamie! Hi. I’m— I’m fine. Totally fine.” The slur in her voice made a liar of her.
Jamie’s tone shifted instantly, dropping into something tight and controlled. “Are ye drunk?”
Claire barked out a laugh, far too loud. “Maybe a little.”
“Where are ye?” No softness. No teasing. Just worry sharpened into command. She spun the camera around, giving him a dizzying view of the bar — Geillis waving, John and Frank dancing like unhinged puppets, four empty shot glasses lined up like evidence. “The Black Thistle! I haven’t been here in ages and I just needed—” A loud, pained groan crackled through the speaker, cutting her off. She lifted a finger toward her friends — one minute — and stumbled her way toward the door, pushing outside into the cool night air. The sudden quiet made her head swim.
Jamie didn’t speak at first. She could hear his jaw clench through the silence. “Claire,” he said finally, voice low and strained. “Why did ye no’ call me?”
“Because you’re with your family,” she snapped, suddenly defensive. “You’re happy. I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“Ruin it?” Jamie’s voice rose, not in anger — in fear. “Claire, ye could never—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off, voice cracking. “Don’t say that. You don’t know. You don’t understand why I needed this. You don’t—”
“Claire,” he said, softer now, “what happened?”
She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “I’m a mess, Jamie. I always ruin things. I always— I always end up here. I thought I was better. I thought—” Her breath hitched. Her voice broke. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to hold herself together.
Jamie’s voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it — fear, frustration, helplessness. “Sassenach. Listen to me. Ye dinna need to face this alone. Ye should have called me.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” she whispered.
Jamie swore under his breath — not at her, but at the situation, at the distance between them. “Ye are never a bother. Never. Do ye hear me?”
She shook her head, tears falling. “You’re angry.”
“Aye,” he said honestly. “I am. Because ye’re hurtin’ and ye didna tell me. Because ye went back to the one place that makes ye feel worse. Because ye think ye have to face everything alone.”
Claire closed her eyes, shame washing over her. “I’m sorry.”
“Dinna apologize,” he said, voice breaking. “Just… let me in, Claire.” Her voice was already wobbling, her words slurred around the edges, when Jamie said her name again — soft, steady, trying to anchor her. “Claire. Listen tae me, aye? Tell me what happened.” Before she could answer, another voice burst through the phone speaker.
“CLAAAAAIRE!” John. Drunk. Loud. Absolutely unhelpful had staggered out to find her.
Claire flinched. “Oh God— John, not now—”
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” he shouted, practically climbing into the frame. “I’ve been looking everywhere! Come back dance with me!"
Claire groaned, pressing her palm to her forehead. “John, I’m on the phone—”
“WITH WHO?” He squinted at the screen. “Is that— that's JAMIE! JAMIE FRASER! Oh my God, Claire, are you drunk‑dialing your boyfriend?”
Jamie winced. “John, lad, could ye—”
But John was already yelling again. “CLAIRE, COME BACK INSIDE! THEY’RE PLAYING OUR SONG!” Claire tried to hang up.
Jamie saw her thumb move. “Claire— dinna do that. Please. Dinna hang up.”
Her hand froze. Just for a heartbeat. Then something in her face shifted — the soft, wobbling sadness collapsing in on itself, hardening into something jagged and familiar. The old instinct. The old armor. The version of herself she hated but knew too well. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes went flat. Anger rose — not at Jamie, never at Jamie — but at herself, at the shame clawing up her throat, at the proof that she was still capable of ruining everything. “Jamie,” she said, her voice turning sharp and brittle, the kind of dangerous calm that only comes from someone spiraling. “I told you not to get close to me.” Her breath hitched, but she pushed through it, letting the anger shield her from the disappointment burning in her chest. “I warned you. Multiple times. I knew this would happen.” The words came out like she was punishing herself by saying them — and punishing him for caring.
His breath caught. “Claire—”
“I ruin everything,” she whispered, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Everything I touch falls apart. You should’ve listened.”
“Claire, no— that’s no’ true—”
But she was already shaking her head, tears spilling, panic and shame twisting her features. “I can’t do this,” she choked out. “Not with you. Not when you’re good and I’m—”
“Claire,” Jamie begged, voice cracking, “please dinnae hang up. Talk to me. Just talk to me, mo chridhe—” But she didn’t. She hit the button. The screen went black. Jamie stared at his reflection in the darkened phone, heart pounding, fear clawing at his ribs.
The door of the Black Thistle swung open, spilling warm light and pulsing music into the cool night as Claire stepped back inside with John at her side. Her breath hitched, her eyes still wet and her shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. John had followed her back inside after she abruptly hung up the phone, his steps careful, steady — the only steady thing in her world at that moment. As soon as they crossed the threshold, the noise hit them again — the thrum of bass, the laughter, the clatter of glasses. But John wasn’t listening to any of it. He was looking at her. Really looking.
And even through the haze of whisky, even with his own cheeks flushed and his tie hanging crooked around his neck, something in him sharpened. Sobriety creeping in at the edges. Concern anchoring him. “Claire,” he said softly, leaning down so she could hear him over the music. “My dear… what’s the matter?” She tried to smile. Tried to brush it off. Tried to pretend her eyes weren’t stinging and her throat wasn’t tight and her hands weren’t shaking from something far deeper than cold. But the smile wobbled. Collapsed. Fell apart. Her voice cracked before she even got a word out.
“I—” She swallowed hard, blinking fast. “I messed up, John.”
He placed a gentle hand on her arm, guiding her away from the crush of bodies, away from the bar where the others were still laughing, oblivious. “You didn’t mess up,” he said, steady as bedrock. “You’re overwhelmed. That’s all.”
She shook her head, tears threatening again. “No. No, it’s more than that. I— I hung up on him. I just… I couldn’t—” Her breath hitched, and she pressed her fingers to her forehead, as if she could hold herself together by force alone.
John’s expression softened, all warmth and quiet heartbreak. “Oh, Claire.” He didn’t scold. He didn’t judge. He didn’t tell her she was being dramatic or drunk or ridiculous. He just stood there with her, in the middle of the noise and the lights and the chaos, offering the one thing she couldn’t give herself. A moment of stillness. “Come here,” he murmured, pulling her into a gentle, grounding hug. “You’re alright. We’ll sort it out.” And for the first time since the email, since the panic, since the spiral began, Claire let herself lean into someone. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.