#I dinna ken how to tag fic

[darth-mortem]

This is a fifth chapter of my COD fic "At the Crossroads of the Worlds" translated by @g8se.

Task force "141" was sent to clean up a secret laboratory, the research of which was financed by states recognized as sponsors of terrorism. The soldiers broke into a bunker located in the Caucasus Mountains on the Russian-Georgian border. At first, everything went according to plan, but after the fighters split up, Ghost came across a strange room, the door of which locked automatically the moment he was inside. Without knowing it, Simon Riley had set off an experiment that had been brewing here for years, and now he would have to be very strong to finally return home.

First chapter | Second chapter | Third chapter | Fourth chapter

Chapter 5 of 6. 826 words (it's small, but important)

Past character death, angst, action, secret lab, experiment, parallel worlds

August 18, 2016. Temporary base of TF 141. Iran. Zagros Range. Coordinates classified. Experiment status: concluded. Subject has completed reverse transportation. Reality LW414/2016.

“So, when you woke up, he was already gone," Captain Price summed up, glancing at Lieutenant Riley, who nodded. "Well, I hope he made it home in one piece. Although I can't help but admit, I was somewhat hoping he'd stay. A soldier like him would be a nice addition to the 141.”

"And I never properly thanked him," Sergeant Sanderson shook his head. "He saved my life."

"I'm sure he knows everything you could say or do," Captain MacTavish spoke, his tone also tinged with sadness.

All four fell silent, sipping their coffee and puffing on cigarettes and cigars. Then Johnny got up, extinguished his cigarette, and left the room. Simon watched him go, stayed for a minute or so, then got up and followed suit, determined.

Roach glanced at the door, then turned back to Captain Price and tilted his head slightly to the side. The captain only shook his head, as if to say he had no idea what was going on, then got up, collected the cups, and carried them to the kitchen.

Simon found Johnny just where he had been talking to Ghost yesterday. MacTavish was hiding from the sun in the shadow of a shabby building, casually twirling a lighter in his hand, not in a hurry to light up. The lieutenant approached as quietly as ever but intentionally stepped on some debris to announce his presence.

"Oh, it's ye, Simon," Soap turned at the sound and smiled. "Well, I can ca' ye Ghost again. Ye dinnae like it when people use yer real name."

"I want to talk to you," the lieutenant said, ignoring MacTavish's remark. "There's something I need to tell you."

"I'm listening," Soap dropped the playful tone and looked at Ghost with some concern. "Is something wrong?"

The lieutenant took a deep breath and clenched Captain Riley's tags in his hand through his clothes. His resolve wavered, but he gathered his courage quickly, not wanting to back out completely, and blurted out:

"I like you!" Then, after a moment's thought, he added more softly, "Not as a commander or a fellow soldier, but... differently."

"I like ye too," Johnny replied calmly, and a smile returned tae his lips. "Actually, I've liked ye for quite a while. I just dinnae want tae say anythin' because, well, ye know... ye're a bit... no yersel' lately. I dinnae want tae upset ye, ken?"

"Yeah," Simon nodded, then stepped closer.

MacTavish cautiously placed his hands on his waist and pulled him closer, ready to let go at any moment. Riley, however, didn't try to break free or resist. Quite the opposite, he wrapped his arms around Johnny's neck and looked into his eyes.

"Lift yer balaclava," Soap requested. "No all the way, if ye dinnae want tae. Jist a wee bit."

Ghost remembered his older double’s tale of struggling to trust and how much time he lost with his Johnny because of it; he remembered Captain Riley calling him beautiful. Anxiety clenched in his chest, his heart quickened its pace, but the lieutenant overcame himself once more, took hold of the edge of his balaclava, and pulled it up completely, tucking the piece of fabric into his pocket.

Johnny's eyes widened in surprise. Then he raised his hand and gently stroked Simon's scarred cheek before tenderly and passionately kissing him.

They didn't have time to savour this newfound connection between them. Captain Price received the information they had all been waiting for, and 141 began preparing for departure. The pilot double-checked all helicopter systems for the last time, the soldiers gathered and donned their gear, as well as what the mysterious visitor from another world had given them, who had managed to become a good friend to all of them. Sitting in the cargo hold and heading towards a new objective, which might lead them to Makarov and allow the soldiers to redeem their names, Gary brought up Captain Riley again. They exchanged a few words, and then Simon, holding the MX25 on his knees, spoke with sorrow in his voice:

“He helped all of us. It's just a shame we won't be able to do anything for him.”

“Hold on, Ghost," Captain Price objected. "We know that certain people and events in our world and his are identical. We know when his MacTavish died. We know where and when in his world that lab was built. So what if we can still help him, just not now, but later?”

“Later for us, but not for him!" Johnny caught on to the thought, rubbing his palms.

“2030?" Roach smiled. "Well, that's not too far off. We'll make it.”

“We have to make it," Riley said seriously and reached his hand downwards.

MacTavish covered it with his own, then Price and Sanderson joined in. Having sealed their promise, they settled in more comfortably and switched to discussing current affairs. A new battle awaited them, one they simply couldn't afford to lose.

[queermentaldisaster]

“The Hunt Is My Muse”

Holy fucking shit y'all, it's been a while since I've updated this fic. Finally managed to finish this chapter, so here you go! I don't remember if there was a tag list or not so uh...woe be upon ye ig, lol. Enjoy!

“Thank you for letting us use your interrogation room, Alejandro.” Price thanked him, as Soap kept Graves moving forward, Ghost at his side, in panther form.

Graves stayed quiet, even as Alejandro shot him a glare, before speaking to Price. “It’s no problem. You all are a part of this force as far as we are concerned,” Alejandro said, with a soft smile. “Mi casa es tu casa. It means that my home is your home.”

Price smiled. “Gracias, Alejandro.”

Soap pushed Graves into the interrogation room, Ghost following behind. Graves went to the chair without a single fuss, sitting down and letting Soap restrain him. Soap’s eyes narrowed. ‘Suspicious.’ He thought, before grabbing Graves’ chin. “Where’s all yer fight, ye bawbag?” Soap demanded. Ghost tilted his head, watching Graves closely.

Graves looked Soap in the eyes, his face expressionless. He didn’t say a word, which only raised Soap’s suspicions. Ghost let out a low growl, stepping closer, his tail lashing. Price stepped in, crossing his arms. “What’s going on, Soap?” The older man asked, and Soap looked back at Price.

“He’s doin’ nothin’. Nae dout he’s up tae somethin’.” Soap spat, his eyes narrowed further. He let go of Graves’ chin, stepping back. Graves let his head hang low, visibly refusing to do anything but sit there. Ghost snarled, just as Gaz entered the room who let out a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring.

“Alright, everyone out, I need to work.” Gaz ordered, and Soap nodded, leaving with Ghost and Price.

•��-----------------------------------✧•

Gaz came out about an hour later, sitting on the couch in the lounge, right next to Roach, who was rambling to Ghost and Soap. Soap looked up. “Any luck?” He asked.

Gaz shook his head. “Not exactly. He told me what we already knew, but nothing more.” He grumped, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Soap hummed, idly picking at a scab on his arm.

“Hm. He's bein’ too cooperative.” He muttered, mostly to himself as he stared into the distance. “I cannae tell if he's daft or suicidal.”

Ghost chuffed and put a paw on Soap's hand, drawing him back to reality. He looked down at the panther and used his free hand to scratch behind his ears. “Och, ah dinnae ken if it matters either. He's no’ goin’ free.”

Gaz hummed, tapping his fingers on the holster of his gun. “Not sure it's either of those.” He murmured, causing the others to look at him with confusion. Gaz shrugged, looking directly at Soap. “He mentioned something in passing as I was leaving. Something about how he just wanted to keep what he'd managed to build.”

Roach arched an eyebrow. “Shepherd threatened to destroy his life?” Gaz shrugged again and Ghost's ears flicked in irritation from the repeated tapping on the holster.

Soap slipped Gaz a pen to twirl as the other man began speaking. “Maybe. But I'm not so sure that it's that simple. I'ma talk to Price, see if he and Laswell can dig up Graves’ files. We're missing a piece here.”

Ghost growled, displeased with what Gaz was implying. Gaz looked at him with a sigh. “I know, you want him six feet under, but he could have extra information we need and I need to know where to push to get that information.”

Soap scratched Ghost's head, nodding at Gaz. “Aye, we can understand that. We're nae goin’ tae be happy about it though.”

[theawkwardterrier]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by the wonderful @walkinginland! I feel simultaneously like I still want to be lowkey about the fact that I'm even writing at all because there's always a chance that I'll just give up and I don't want to raise any expectations, and also like I've somehow managed to share half of this fic via tumblr previews ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

They are halfway to home before she takes in a breath and says, "When you were readin' the bible there, what were you thinkin' about?" Da looks surprised to hear her voice for a moment, then contemplative in a way that makes her wonder whether he is going to answer. "I was thinking of yer mother," he says finally, a filtered version of that smile coming over his face once more, and Bree finally knows why she came today. "If ye can look like that when ye think of her," she asks, "then how could ye do what you did?" She is no longer speaking in the aggrieved, demanding way she has been since that first day, but with a true curiosity, a yearning to try to understand how this could have happened. Da seems to realize that. His eyes move between her and the road, and his mouth takes on a thinking sort of firmness. Finally he says, "There are things about what happened, things about that time, that I canna tell you. Some because it's no' only my story to tell, and some because…because it’s something about the world that I dinna want you ever to have to know. And perhaps I put ye at a disadvantage, no' teaching you about it myself, no' preparing ye for life as a parent should, but…" He stops, swallows, stares ahead without speaking. The sky suddenly fills with starlings once more, and in the middle of the empty road, Da slows and stops, the two of them watching through the windscreen until the last one is gone and they can no longer hear even the sounds of their wings or their cries. "You've such a–a brightness about ye, Brianna," Da says into the quiet when it is only the two of them again. He keeps his hands on the wheel, fingers tight, but he looks at her with great gentleness. "I saw it on the day you were born. I’ve seen it every day since. And I hope that my word and yer mother's on this matter can be enough, because the thought of givin' you the answers you want and seeing some of that brightness drain away frightens me. So, please, a leannan, try to make yer peace with it, because I dinna ken that I can ever be the one to tell ye what you're looking to know." She nods, her words gone for now, and settles her head back against the window, closing her eyes. She is suddenly conscious of what has been beneath the anger for so long: an understanding of her father’s fear, a knowledge that there was evidence of his fallibility in the story that he had been keeping from her, and her own horror over facing such a thing.

Not sure who's writing something these days (other than @flyinghome-againstthewind, who's already been tagged), but if you are, consider yourself tagged and shaaaare

[arrthurpendragon]

⌨️ + Entreat Me Not to Leave (tag you’re it)

I was thankful when Mrs. Fitz finally left me on my own to brush and braid my hair.  Not that I didn’t appreciate her, but I didn’t need anymore teasing if I was actually going to follow through with my plan.  I was sorely tempted to decide to try another day when Caitriona waltzed into my room with a sly grin on her face.

“I’ve arranged for ye take a basket of lunch down to the stables for the lad,” Caitriona said as she took over arranging my hair for me. “Ye’ll have to mind Auld Alec o’ course. But dinna fash, I already snuck some extra food in the basket.”

“Will he think me entirely too forward?” I groaned as my face began to flush. “Jamie that is, not Auld Alec.”

Caitriona chuckled. “I ken who ye meant, lass.”

I wasn’t entirely sure how I was supposed to feel about this situation.  I was learning the art of flirting in the eighteenth century from my mother–in–law, whose son I was no longer married to.  If the whole time travel thing seemed too far-fetched, this was the cherry on the proverbial cake.

Send me ⌨ + title to one of my fics and I’ll write a sentence for that fic! (if you want one back - add "tag you're it" to your ask)

[thetranquilteal]

The Gift [AO3] by @thetranquilteal​

Jamie has spent almost every night of his deployment yearning to be with his wife and newborn child. When he is given the opportunity to be home for Brianna's first Christmas, however, he unexpectedly finds himself torn between the past, present and future. 

A modern day short story inspired by @thelallybrochlibrary Holiday Prompt: "Soldier Jamie returns from his deployment in time for Brianna’s first Christmas” submitted by @becc127.

Part I: Home For Christmas

Jamie looked down at the photograph resting in the palm of his hand. 

There sat his beautiful wife, their brand new wean resting in her arms. The stark contrast between Claire’s dark and unruly curls lightly brushing their daughter’s red tuft was only highlighted by Claire’s dark blouse and the cream coloured crochet blanket she had wrapped Brianna in. 

He chuckled to himself and raised his eyes as if to follow the sound carrying away with the wind into the mountains lit only by moonlight shining through sparse clouds.

He could still remember the moment Claire had announced her name over the phone.

“Brianna,” the mouthed to himself and smiled again. He had made a fuss at the time but it had been token, half-hearted at most, as he hadn't truly minded. How could he? After what had happened with Faith -

He shook his head quickly in an attempt to dispel the thought.

He loved Faith. A Dhia, he loved her. So much so that it hurt to think of her - their first, a daughter born too early, too silent and too still - let alone speak of her out loud and, truthfully, he could only deal with so much heartache on a dark night like this, where stars were dulled by lingering clouds and death curled around them like unwelcome hot breath. 

His hold on the photograph tightened as his throat constricted and heart thumped in his chest. 

It had been a standard patrol. Standard. There was a scoff bubbling up from within but he hadn’t enough energy to dispel it, instead opting to let it simmer in the barely controlled but well-concealed anger that had been plaguing him for hours. It was supposed to be standard, damn it! Instead, they had stumbled across an IED. 

Unmarked. Unexpected. Deadly.

Now, instead of continuing their assignment as planned, they would be departing at first light to escort Angus' body home. 

Christ, how he wished he could speak to Claire. Touch her. Feel her. Wrap his arms around and just hold her. 

During her time as a Combat Medical Technician, she had been on two tours of her own and had seen such violent harm up close and intimately more times than he would wish upon any soul. Unlike any other Tech here in this God-forsaken desert, however, she had the ability to heal a lot more than just physical wounds. She had hands that wove stories across the skin, lips that formed words to heal the soul, and a heart more loving than anyone - including he - could ever deserve.

From the very first, when she had come and laid a hand on him to reset a dislocated shoulder, he had known - she was everything. 

Everything he knew he wanted.

Everything he hadn’t known he needed. 

Leaving her, just weeks pregnant with their second bairn, to go on this tour had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and news of a happy and healthy daughter had provided incredible relief. For a moment in time, he was devoid of the burden that had been tying him down ever since he had step foot on the aircraft and the weightlessness had left him giddy with the feeling he could do anything - achieve anything.

But all too soon that feeling had been replaced with something new. A yearning, almost.

A calling. 

On nights he managed more than an hour or two of solid sleep, he would dream of Brianna. Shifting within her swaddle, asleep in her crib. Small fingers wrapped tight around one of Claire's. Crying out blindly in hunger only to be soothed by her mother’s scent shifting closer. 

The following day the images would linger, there in the background of his mind, as they cleaned their rifles and organised equipment, long after shifts changed and there were no words to fill the silence that fell down upon them, and every time they paused to take refuge from the hot sun beating down upon them. 

Despite their continued occurrence, he resisted speaking of them out loud, too afraid that the sound might interrupt the ethereal connection that existed between the two of them. That he might be left even more alone than he already was. 

The mere thought made him grit his teeth. 

In his youth loneliness hadn’t bothered him - if anything he had welcomed it. First, it was the solitude that came with working in the Highland fields as a teenager and, then, the freedom that came with being an entry-level soldier travelling between various stations and training grounds, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots or form any serious relationships outside of work.

Then he had met Claire. 

While, from that point onward, he had spent his days afield eagerly awaiting their next reunion, their intimate relationship had had very little impact on life in the Armed Forces. It was one that the two of them were used to and one that continued on even after they had wed. When Claire, pregnant and suffering from terrible morning sickness, was released from active duty, however, things changed. It was then he had come to truly understand what it meant to be ‘away’. Away from his wife. His family. His home. And now, another daughter. 

One that would be there when he returned. 

The thought gave him hope - a small flicker somewhere deep down beneath the bone-weary exhaustion and budding sense of desperation.

The sound of worn boots upon dusty gravel grew nearer and he turned slightly, more so due to a long instilled need to keep anything and everything within his line of vision than simple curiosity. 

He shifted again as Murtagh sat down next to him and waited. 

It wasn’t uncommon for the two to sit side by side in comfortable silence from time to time but he knew the man, both godfather and superior, had sought him out with purpose. 

"Received confirmation from Stuart - schedule remains unchanged,” Murtagh stated casually. “Dougal's putting together the last of the equipment. Thought it would be best to leave Rupert be fer now."

Jamie nodded his approval. While Rupert had not been severely injured by the blast, he remained in the medic station for a long while before making his way to Angus' cot to start packing his best friend's belongings and it had been second nature for the team to unofficially take the man off rotation, wordlessly absorbing any and all remaining jobs between them. 

"I should double-check the paperwork's been lodged," Jamie replied though he made no move to stand and Murtagh did the same, having obviously decided it was his own turn to wait. Minutes went by unchecked until he finally said aloud, “I always thought this job couldnae get any harder,” the words spontaneous and providing little to no detail for their use. 

Still, his Godfather understood.

“Tomorrow may be harder than most, aye," Murtagh brushed a hand over his bearded chin and then waved it towards Jamie’s own, "but at the end of it, you’ll be home. In time fer the bairn’s first Christmas, no less.”

"Christmas," Jamie echoed, mostly to himself, nodding his head slowly before looking back down at the photograph. “I'll be home for Christmas.”

When Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder and stood, he dipped his head in acknowledgement but continued looking a moment longer, before tucking it back into his chest pocket and rising himself. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck - a long practised method used to replace the battered armour he had worn for far, far too long but destined to wear a little while longer yet. 

He would be home for Christmas but until that day came, he reminded himself, he had a job to do. And a promise to keep.

A/N: For a lot of people, Christmas is not a time of joy but of sadness, anxiety and distress. There can be an overwhelming sense of pressure to be happy and this underlying notion that expressing anything different is not only inappropriate but harmful to those around us. It leaves many - like Jamie in this AU and myself in real life - conflicted, confused and, at times, hopeless and lost. This story is dedicated not only to all service-men, -women and their families but to all of those who struggle during the holiday season. Please know that I am thinking of you and hope that you, like Jamie towards the end of this story, are blessed with a sense of inner peace and many restful nights. A x

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 5

A/N  Know what this fic needs?  More Geillis.  No really, I think you guys are going to like where I’m going with this.   Just bear with me.   Only one more chapter to go after this one, plus an epilogue.   Thanks for coming on the journey with me!  With due credit to Sia, this chapter’s title is Fire, Meet Gasoline.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my AO3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

Geillis Duncan drove much the way she approached life, which was to say without much regard for rules and at white-knuckle speed.  I gripped her Range Rover’s leather cushion and swallowed any exclamations of dismay as we ricocheted through Edinburgh’s late afternoon traffic.  When we finally slid into an underground parking spot and emerged into the bustling festivity of the Princes Street Christmas Market, I felt the tension of imminent disaster abandon my shoulders.

“Where to first, then?” Geillis asked, looking far too animated by the prospect of accompanying someone while they did their Christmas shopping.

Geillis and I had kept in touch and met for coffee a few times over the past months.  When I explained that I wouldn’t be taking any more cooking classes at Ginger Snap because Jamie was giving me at-home lessons, her reaction was a moonbeam grin.

“Look at ye, wee vixen!  I ne’er wouldha thought ye had it in ya, Claire.  Tho I canna say as I blame ye.”

No matter how much I protested that I was together with Frank and that my relationship with Jamie was purely professional, she refused to believe me.  The ongoing absence of a ring from my left hand didn’t help.

“Now,” Geillis exclaimed once we’d taken in the sights and sounds of the market, “let’s have a keek at yer list.  Where should we start?”

I pulled out my phone and opened the Notes app.  As she read, my friend’s nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Trouser socks, shoe stays, Moleskine notebook, Rive Gauche...  who are ye shopping for, yer grandparents?”

“No,” I protested.  “The first three are for Frank.  The perfume is for me.”

When I explained that Frank had made a list of the items he would like to give me for Christmas, Geillis grew incensed.

“Ye mean he has ye doin’ his gift buying fer him?  Tha’s the least romantic thing I’ve e’er heard.  Do ye even like Rive Gauche, Claire?  And dinna lie tae me, fer I can read yer feelings all o’er yer face.”

Truthfully, I didn’t much care for the flowery scent.  My personal taste ran more towards woodsy or herbaceous aromas.  But it was Frank’s favourite, and it pleased me to please him.  Or it had.  I was beginning to wonder when it would be my turn to please myself.

“Right,” Geillis interrupted my thoughts.  “Marks and Sparks will do jes fine for yer wee granny list.   And then you and I are going shopping fer yer real gift.”

Geillis was a force to be reckoned with in a retail environment.  She navigated like a guided missile from one department to the next.   Twenty minutes later, we were back on the pavement, which glistened with the colourful reflections of decorations strung above.

“Your car is the other way,” I explained as Geillis turned left.

“Aye, tis, but our destination is right o’er here.  House of Fraser.  See?  Tis practically calling yer name, Claire.”

Inside the venerable old building was an astonishing multi-tiered arcade reaching over five stories to a massive skylit ceiling.  The central space was dominated by a fifteen metre-high Christmas tree (a Fraser fir, of course) and every archway of every arcade was dripping with lights.  The impression was like stepping into a Fabergé egg.

Geillis dragged me, slack-jawed, towards the ladies’ wear section.  Circling the racks like a hawk on the wind, she eyed my body, sizing me up quite literally, then thrust several pieces into my hands.

“Geillis,” I hissed, wary of the sales staff hovering nearby, no doubt smelling an excessive commission in the offing.  “I don’t need a new outfit.  And I certainly don’t need,” I shook the garments in question, “something like this.  Wherever would I wear it?”

“Well, fer starters, ye’d wear it tae dinner t’night.  I dinna wish tae offend ye, Claire, but I canna in good conscience allow ye tae set foot in the Timberyard dressed fer a job interview as a primary school teacher.”

With that she shoved me in the direction of the changing rooms.  Deciding to humour her, I was unbuttoning my top when two lacy bits of nothing came flying over the door.

“Start wi’ these.  And dinna think I willna notice if ye’re no’ wearing them!”

I stripped down to my panties, bemusedly wondering how she knew my exact bra size. 

Upon seeing me exit the dressing room in her choice of clothing, Geillis let out a squeal of delight.   She insisted I rip out the tags and leave the store wearing my new outfit, declaring it was her Christmas gift to me.  

I felt tremendously self-conscious as we walked towards the restaurant.  The aubergine velvet jeans clung to my legs in an unfamiliar way and the black turtleneck, while technically not revealing, hinted at kink with its many heavy zippers and fastenings.  Together with my unruly hair, unstraightened for once, I felt like another woman entirely.  I didn’t recognize her, but I felt like she might be someone I’d like to get to know.

The Timberyard was a modern restaurant in a rugged old warehouse, not far from the farmer’s market I’d visited with Jamie.  We were joined there by several of Geillis’ friends, and we ate, drank and laughed until my sides were sore. 

As I wobbled to the loo, I noticed the bartender following me with an appreciative gaze.  It had been a long time since a man had looked at me that way, and it gave me a guilty thrill.

We left the restaurant just before midnight. I pulled Geillis into an impulsive hug.

“Wha’ was that for, hen?” she asked.

“Nothing.  Everything.  Just, thank you for being you, Geil.”

“Och, tis my pleasure, lass.  I only want tae see ye happy.  Now, what do ye say to a digestif?”

After only a slight protest on my part, the two of us piled into an Uber.  Our destination was another restaurant, this time in a converted whisky warehouse by the harbour in Leith.  It was well past last sitting, but when I mentioned this to Geillis she explained away my concern. 

“I ken the owner, who’s also the chef.  Tis a popular spot fer locals in the restaurant scene tae meet after they close up fer a few drinks afore heading home tae their beds.”

Inside, the walls were rough stone, supported in places by industrial metal beams.  The kitchen was open to the main dining area, and I grinned as I thought of Frank’s strong opinion on the matter.  Near the back of the room, lit by dim naked bulbs and the glow from several open fireplaces, was a huge square table surrounded by nearly twenty chairs upholstered in bright yellow plaid.  Around the table was gathered a motley assortment of men and women, all talking and laughing and sipping on a variety of drinks.  And in their midst, his copper hair shining in the firelight, sat Jamie.

A shout went up from the table as Geillis approached.  I hung back, tugging at the hem of my new turtleneck as though I could stretch it to cover my arse.  Besides Jamie, I recognized Jenny, Angus and Murtagh, but I only had eyes for the big ginger chef.  He sat at one corner, probably in deference to his long legs which were stretched out before him, wrapped in black denim.  A black leather jacket hung over the chair behind him.  He looked dangerous.  It was a very good look for him.

Dragging me by the elbow, Geillis nudged and bumped Angus to one side despite his vulgar protests, then practically pushed me down into the chair directly next to the chef.  With a smug smile of satisfaction, she then retired to the opposite side of the table.

I looked anywhere but directly at Jamie, but I could feel his butane eyes on me.  I was certain he would scorch right through my outer layers and down to where Geillis’ choice in lingerie burned against my tender skin.  The noise from the rest of the table faded away.

“Ye look bonnie t’night, Arsonist.”  His voice was low and gruff and it sent a quickening through my veins.

“Thank you, Jamie. It was Geillis’ Christmas gift to me, and I feel, well... let’s just say it isn’t my usual look.”

“It suits ye, I think.”  He reached out and lightly touched the silver tab of a zipper that ended near my wrist, setting it swinging.  I swallowed and looked frantically around.  Several open bottles of liquor stood nearby. Grabbing the nearest one, I poured myself a generous serving and knocked it back, all in one go.  I tried to steady my breathing.

“Look, Jamie...”

Just then a blond man in chef’s whites called to Jamie from across the table.  An exchange involving a lot of Scottish cursing and an off-colour reference to someone’s lobster pot ensued.  I tried to convince myself I needed to leave.  It was late, I was half-drunk, and whatever I intended to say to Jamie should definitely wait for another moment.  Maybe never.

A hand on my thigh broke my preoccupation.

“Sorry, Arsonist, ye were sayin’ something?”

I wet my lips, frantically trying to recall anything but the feeling of Jamie’s strong fingers, stroking me through the velvet of my jeans.

“I...”

At that moment, the woman on Jamie’s far side broke into song.  The rest of the table cheered and clapped along, and it was impossible to hear anything except the concussive pounding of my heart against my eardrums.

Jamie grabbed my clammy hand.

“Come wi’ me,” he instructed, grabbing our outerwear and pulling me towards the door.  Geillis watched our departure with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

Outside the air was dense and cold, a briny slap after the stuffy warmth of the restaurant.  Jamie obviously had a destination in mind, and we walked hand-in-hand along the cobbled streets for several minutes before finally emerging at the port.  A jetty struck out into the inky sea, and it was there that we ended up.  Besides a few gulls and the winking of a nearby lighthouse, we were all alone.  The sodium street lights caught Jamie’s curls and made them burn.

“Forgive me, Arsonist.  I couldna hear myself think in there.  Tho, come tae think of it, tis no’ much better now.”  Rather than release me, as he spoke Jamie stroked my hand, running calloused fingers over each vein and every knuckle.  I don’t think he even realized he was doing it, but it stole every thought from my head.

“No ring,” he remarked, stroking the finger in question.

“No,” I whispered in response.  

And then it burst out of me, like a tidal wave of feeling that I never saw coming.  I told him everything.  My childhood roaming the globe with my uncle, pre-occupied and rootless, dreaming of stability.  Meeting Frank at Harvard, and realizing that he represented all the things that my life to date had lacked: structure, security, a solid foundation, a home.  And how it took moving to Scotland and coming into contact with a group of near-strangers to make me realize that the price I had paid for that stability was higher than I’d ever imagined.  I’d given up my dream of becoming a doctor. I’d become so lost in Frank’s vision of who I should be that I’d almost lost sight of who I actually was.

By the time the flood of words left me, I was in Jamie’s arms, crying into his leather jacket.  He hushed me with quiet murmurs and languorous stroking of my hair, as one would a child who has woken from a nightmare.

I stepped out of his embrace and rubbed my sleeve across my face.  I must have looked an absolute mess, but he still watched me with those earnest, patient eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I began, “I don’t know what...”

“Claire,” he interrupted.  I’d never before realized just how many consonants were in my given name.  “Ye dinna need tae apologize tae me.  But ye may want tae consider an apology tae yerself.”  At my raised eyebrow, he continued.

“I’m no’ the kind of man tae tell another what they should and shouldna do.  But ye strike me as someone who’s made decisions fer the right reasons, yet ended up in the wrong place.”  Here he paused, as though carefully weighing his words.  “There’s no sin in changin’ yer mind, Arsonist.  Tis very well tae be hungry, so long as ye ken what ye hunger for.”

“And what do you hunger for, James Fraser?”  The provocative words had left my lips before I had the chance to censor them.  His answer came in the form of a blistering look that left no doubt as to its meaning.  Then he gathered himself, banking the fire I’d unconsciously ignited.

“Many things.  Regular, ordinary things, mostly.  My family’s health and happiness.  A faster bike.  My own restaurant.”

“Like Tom’s there?” I asked, gesturing towards the harbour.

“Och, Tom is a braw chef, and worthy o’ every accolade tha’s been showered upon him.  But the hospitality scene in Edinburgh is cut-throat, an’ suitable locations cost a fortune.  Nah, Jenny and I want tae buy back our childhood home in the Highlands.  Tis called Lallybroch, and when our Da passed, our Mam sold it tae her brother.  We’d turn it inta a country inn, wi’ Jenny running the lodging side o’ things and I the dining.  Tha’s the dream anyway,” he ended with a shrug.

I rested my hand on his forearm.  “That sounds like a wonderful plan, Jamie.”

Before he could reply, an enormous yawn burst from my lungs.

“Time tae get ye home tae yer bed, Arsonist,” Jamie grinned.   “Come, I’ll give ye a ride.”

“Wait, haven’t you been drinking?” I inquired as we walked back down the jetty.

“Three years sober,” he explained with no hint of embarrassment.  “I went somewhere pretty dark after my Mam died, an’ it took a near-fatal crash tae scare me straight.”  His eyes squinted in a poor approximation of a wink as he added, “Besides, there are better ways tae chase a rush than in the bottom of a bottle.”

“Such as?” I asked brazenly.

Which was how I found myself on the back on a black motorcycle, my arms twined around Jamie’s waist.  Rather than take me directly home, he steered us north, following the coast.  It was very late, with hardly another vehicle about.  We merged onto the motorway, and Jamie picked up speed.  My thighs tightened around his lean hips, the vibration of the motor beneath us shivering up my spine.  As we emerged beneath the hastate lights of the Queensferry Bridge, I stretched my arms wide, icy air ripping against the sleeves of my jacket.  I laughed, although no-one could hear me.  I yelled, and only the wind yelled back.  I was flying.

***

It was nearly dawn when Jamie pulled up in front of my flat.  My legs thrummed, my eyes were dry with fatigue, and my heart ached, but I felt better than I could ever remember.  I handed Jamie back his spare helmet and shook out my curls.  He watched me in that half-sleepy, half-vigilant way of his that I now recognized as desire.

“I don’t know what I could ever say to thank you, Jamie.”

“Ye needn’t say anything at all, Arsonist.  Nae matter what ye decide, it has been my very great honour tae get tae know you.”

Without another word, he kick-started the engine and drove off into the early morning mist.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to his vanishing shadow.

***

The lamp above the couch was lit, and Frank lay still beneath its glow.  I realized he had fallen asleep waiting for me to come home.  Instead of regret, what I felt in that moment was pity.

The sound of my jacket being unzipped woke him.  He blinked in confusion and then in shock.

“I’m very sorry if you were worried,” I began.

“Worried?  Do you have any idea what time it is?  My God, Claire, I don’t know what to make of you these days.  You’ve never behaved irresponsibly before, and now you’re out at all hours and you’re wearing,” he gestured wildly with his hand at my new outfit which I had, quite honestly, forgotten I was wearing.  “And your hair, Claire!” he finished, as though the manic state of my curls was definitive evidence of my fall from grace.  Despite my exhaustion, I stood tall.

“Frank, we need to talk.”

[iihappydaysii]

title: it doesn’t have to hurt

rated: e (tags on ao3)

pairing: john/jamie, jamie/claire, past john/claire, implied john/jamie/claire

word count: 6.6k

notes: for 2020 Cocoa and Kink fic event hosted by @lordjohngreyreadingnook​, featuring dirty talk.

summary: When Claire confesses to Jamie that she slept with Lord John when they thought Jamie was dead, Jamie is forced to confront a lie he's been telling himself for years.

excerpt: 

They entered John’s office, and he shut the door behind them. “Tell me. What’s wrong? How can I help?” Grey laid a hand on Jamie’s arm. 

The muscles of Jamie’s arm went tense under John’s hand, and his jaw was starting to throb. “Oh, I think ye’ve helped enough.” 

“What does that mean?” John shook his head, brow furrowed. “Jamie, please. Just talk to me.” 

“I’ve just had a rather upsetting conversation wi’ my wife.” Jamie forced himself to take a full breath when he started to see spots in front of his eyes. “I dinnae suppose ye could have just talked to her though?” 

John studied Jamie for a moment before an incomprehensible expression crossed his face. He took a step forward. “You know, don’t you? That I’ve had carnal knowledge of your wife.” 

“Aye, I do,” Jamie bit out. “What I dinnae ken is why. Claire told me her reasons, but I’d like to hear yers now.”

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[bee-kathony]

Fraser Memorial | Ch. 1 “Sutures”

Thank you @sassenachwaffles for being my beta on this chapter and thank you @jules-fraser for approving of my pictures and indulging me as I started another fic! 

2015 | Scotland

The emergency room had been quiet all morning, only three people had come in with minor injuries that were fixed in minutes. My fingers ached to suture someone’s skin, fix a broken nose... anything that would take my focus off of my ex.

Frank Randall had cheated on me. Simple as that.

But it wasn’t simple, he was my fiancé, we’d been together for six years and had plans. Hopes and dreams that involved us buying a house, getting married, children… he ruined them when he slept with one of his students. A history professor at Oxford University, Frank had wooed me in my last year of school. He was a new professor and I was smitten with the teacher.

I should have known that something like this could have happened.

I was once the student, crushing on their professor, hoping he would ask to see me after class so we could talk those extra five minutes without anyone else around.

It’d only been three months since I found out he was sleeping with her and in that short time I had relocated to Edinburgh to get away from him and my shattered dreams. Thankfully the hospital accepted my transfer. It was rare that they would take on a resident from another hospital, especially since I was English.

I glanced down at my watch, only ten minutes had passed since I’d last checked it. Sighing, I ran my hand through my mass of curls, getting my finger stuck in a knot. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I cursed, yanking my hand and managing to make matters worse.

“Ye need scissors?” Geillis, a fellow resident, asked from behind the nurses station.

I huffed, “No, thank you. I’ve almost,” I pulled a bit more, “Got it!” My hand came free and only a few loose strands drifted to the white tiled floor.

“Ye ever think about cutting it? Yer hair?” Geillis pointed to my bird’s nest.

Shaking my head, I pulled my hair tie off my wrist and started putting it in a messy bun, “I would look horrific if I cut my hair,” I laughed, tucking loose bits into the bun. “They would stick out even more, if that’s even possible.”

“Aye, yer probably right.” She laughed and then we both turned our heads to the emergency room doors that were now opening with a bang. Finally.

A man with a slight limp walked through the doors, holding up a very large red headed man who appeared to be doubled over in pain.

“Mine!” I called before Geillis could and raced off to meet the men, leaving Geillis’ shouts of complaint behind me.

“How can I help?” I asked, my eyes taking stock of what was before me. The larger man’s face was twisted in pain, and his hand was clutching his opposite shoulder. Dislocated. There was also blood, and a lot of it, running down his arm.

“This idiot here thought he could lift a box of about forty-five bottles of whisky, clumsy dolt.” The blonde man laughed through his words, “Happened walkin’ up the stairs. Smashed all the whisky o’ course.” I chuckled lightly to myself, clearly the man was not too concerned about his friends pain.

“Come with me, we’ll get you set up in a bed and I’ll take a look at that shoulder.” I led the two men who slowly followed over to the row of beds. The large man laid down, wincing as he fell back against the pillows.

“You’ll probably want to sit up and not lean on that arm.” I instructed and moved my fingers in a ‘come forward’ motion.

“Aye, I think it’s broken.” The red haired man said, groaning as he sat up in the bed.

I laid my hand gently on his shoulder to assess the damage, it was in fact dislocated. This would be an easy fix. “It’s not broken, only dislocated.”

“Only,” he laughed and I looked into his eyes for the first time to find that they were the brightest blue I’d ever seen. Caught off guard, I shook my head slightly and turned my attention back to his shoulder.

“I’m going to pop it back into place, it’ll hurt but then feel a whole lot better.” I placed my hands firmly on his arm and he nodded, gritting his teeth and looked straight ahead.

Applying pressure, I forced his shoulder back and then up and it made a sort of popping noise as it reset. The man grunted but then let out his breath, looking down at his shoulder to see it good as new.

“Ah Dhia, it feels a thousand times better, thank ye Sassenach.” He smiled up at me and I felt my belly do a little flip.

“You’re welcome. It really wasn’t very — wait… what did you call me?” I shot my eyebrows up at him. I’m pretty sure that ‘Sassenach’ was not a very nice name to call someone.

The man blushed, his ears turning pink as he met my gaze full on, “Och, I didna mean it in a bad way, of course not, yer English are ye no’?”

“Well, yes I am.” I crossed my arms in front of me and waited for further explanation.

“So…” he drew out the word, “’Tis only a way of calling ye that, yer an outlander, lass. Please dinna take offense because I truly didna mean to offend ye. ’Tis only I dinna ken yer name.”

I looked down at my chest where my name tag should’ve been but it had somehow fallen off during the day. “Oh, I’m Claire. Claire Beauchamp.” I smiled and then I remembered the man’s friend and turned my head to him as well, offering him the same smile.

“This is Ian, my brother-in-law,” the man pointed to his friend with the limp, “and I’m Jamie. Now that we ken each other’s names maybe ye could attend to this blood that hasna stopped drippin’ out of my arm?”

I cursed under my breath. Christ, I had completely forgotten that he had been bleeding. His eyes were a distraction and his Scottish lilt was rather enchanting. Of course, I knew that by moving to Scotland, I would in fact hear plenty of Scottish accents but there was something in the Highland-lilt -- something about the way he said ‘Sassenach’.

“Jesus! I’m sorry,” my cheeks turned red and I moved over to the cabinet beside the bed, quickly pulling out what I would need. Definitely sutures, bandages, antiseptic and tweezers to pull out any remaining glass.

Once I set up the tray and had it arranged neatly, I rolled the small cart over beside the bed. “Hold out your arm please.”

Jamie lifted his arm, and I sucked in the air between my teeth, there was a large piece of glass sticking out. I normally had a strong stomach but sometimes, there were things that put me over the edge.

“Jamie, yer doctor’s afraid of blood. I told ye we shoulda gone to the other hospital,” Ian laughed and put his hand on Jamie’s back.

“I’m normally fine, blood doesn’t make me ill but seeing that,” I looked down at his arm again, “has made me just a wee bit nauseous.”

“Dinna fash, Sassenach. If ye throw up, I promise to make sure none of that hair on top of yer head gets in the vomit.” Jamie laughed and I would have hit him on the arm if he wasn’t injured.

“Thank you,” I said sarcastically and turned to grab the antiseptic and cloth to clean around his wound before I dislodged the glass shard.

While I cleaned his wound, Jamie didn’t complain, only pressed his lips tightly together and put on a brave face. “This may hurt,” I said in a soft tone as I held my tweezers near the glass.

“Just do it, lass.”

The glass came out easily enough, and thankfully it wasn’t very deep into his skin but he would definitely need sutures. I laid the shard on the tray and grabbed another cloth to clean him and this time Jamie let out a little yelp as the antiseptic touched his wound.

“Can deal with a dislocated shoulder but not a little sting?” I mused, smiling up at him as I continued to clean the remaining blood.

His arm twitched slightly but he didn’t pull it back, “Och, the stinging is verra painful, Sassenach, dinna make fun of me!”

“He’s a big baby, Claire, dinna listen to him,” Ian chimed, “He cries in sappy romantic movies too, don’t ye?”

Jamie glared at Ian, but there was a slight mischievous glint in his eye.

“I dinna cry, I have allergies,” Jamie grumbled, puffing out his chest a little.

I grabbed the needle and threaded the suture through the small hole and brought it to his skin. “I have allergies too, you know like when I watch ‘Titanic’ and Jack dies, somehow I always get allergies during that scene,” I joked, which earned me a nudge from Jamie’s other hand into my side.

“Dinna joke about ‘Titanic, Claire, ’tis verra serious, their love was forever.” He laughed and I had to admit to myself that he was very interesting. Jamie was such a large presence, one wouldn’t think at first glance that he was into romantic movies and even cried during them.

“Seems like ye’ll be awhile,” Ian said, “I’m gonna go and grab a snack out of the vending machine, ye need anything, Fraser?”

Fraser? Surely not…

I waited until Ian had walked away before asking Jamie what was currently making me freak out.

“Fraser? That’s your last name?” He jumped slightly as I poked him with the needle and began to suture his wound.

“Aye, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, to be exact.”

“As in… Fraser Memorial… the name of this hospital?” I paused my work on his arm to look up into his face.

Jamie’s ear’s turned pink again, “Aye, well ’tis no’ like it’s me who owns the hospital. That’d be my Da Brian. One day though… it’ll be mine.”

He was practically my boss and here I was picturing late nights cuddled up next to him on the couch watching ‘Titanic’ and crying.

“So it’s named after your dad then? Kind of odd to name a hospital after yourself, aye?” I resumed suturing his wound, nearly done.

“Och, no. It’s named after my older brother Willie.” He replied, looking down to watch the needle go through the last bit of skin and I clipped the end and tied it off. “He passed away when I was a lad.” I watched as I saw his blue eyes go gray and his smile faded for a moment. “He had cancer.”

My hand lingered on his arm, offering comfort, “I’m so sorry Jamie. Was he treated at this hospital?”

“Aye,” his voice trembled, as if he was remembering his brother now, “My father partnered with a man and bought the hospital a year after Willie died. Then they renamed it for him, to remember.”

I bandaged his arm in silence, not quite knowing what to say, what could I ever say to that?

“You’re all done.” I tucked in the end of the bandage underneath, “You need to clean the wound daily, and for the first couple of days you’ll need to change out the bandage, some blood seeping through is normal.” I assured him, and looked over to see Ian returning with bags of crisps and candy in his arms.

“Och, yer finished? I had to go to three different floors to find what I wanted.” He groaned and offered Jamie a bag of crisps.

“Thank ye, Sassenach. For healing me wi’ yer wee hands so well.” Jamie grabbed my hand and placed his lips on the back of it. I could have sworn he heard my heart beating frantically in my chest.

“No problem at all, anything for a Fraser,” I laughed, hoping I didn’t sound like I was trying to suck up to the owner’s son.

“Will I need to come back to get the sutures taken out?”

“Oh, yes! Come back in about three weeks and I’ll take them out for you.” I only prayed that when he returned I would be on shift.

“Aye, three weeks then, Claire.” Jamie smiled and turned to leave with Ian, who was munching on a Snickers bar, going on and on about how stupid Jamie was to lift that heavy of a box.

My eyes never left the back of his head as I watched them walk away and just before they turned around the corner, Jamie’s eyes met mine and he grinned, setting butterflies loose in my belly.

Present day

I checked my reflection in the mirror, applying one more coat of mascara before I decided my make-up would just have to do for the evening. My dress was a simple black, that hugged every curve and line of my body. Just the way my husband liked, or so he showed me.

“Sassenach!” He called from the living room, “Are ye ready? We dinna want to be late!”

“Such an impatient man,” I fussed, grabbing my coat from the bed and slipping it on over my shoulders. Jamie was waiting for me, his arms crossed, looking down at his watch.

“I’m ready. I swear it!” I smiled and kissed him on the cheek as he turned his face to press his lips to mine.

“Don’t!” I pulled back, “You’ll mess up my lipstick and I don’t think you want to wait around for me to fix it.”

“I’d love to mess up yer lipstick, Sassenach. And that wee dress of yers too,” the color of his eyes turned into a deep blue, “but yer right, we must go.” He sighed, frowning as he settled for a kiss to my forehead and took my hand, leading me to the door.

“Are you nervous, Jamie?” I squeezed his hand as we walked to the car parked on the street.

“Aye, a wee bit.”

“Your speech will be great, I know it.” He stopped us before we climbed into the car, his hands slid down my body to rest on my hips.

“’Tis a big responsibility, bein’ an owner of a hospital.” He squeezed my sides making me jump, “With my father retiring and all, I ken it has to be me but I just worry I willna be good at it.”

Not caring about my lipstick or the stain it would leave on his lips, I pressed forward and closed our mouths together. “Jamie Fraser, you’re the bravest man I know. You’re ready for this, your father has trained you well. Besides…” I smirked, my hands sliding down over his arse, “I can’t wait until I can say I sleep with the boss.”

Jamie laughed and pressed his lips to mine again, “I love ye, Sassenach. Truly, I do.”

“And I you, Jamie. Now let’s go! It’s bloody freezing out here, and I need those heated seats!”

He let go of my hips and opened the passenger door for me. The entire drive over, his hand never left mine - I squeezed it off and on, a matter of habit, to remind him I was there. I was always going to be there, I was always going to be his biggest supporter.

The tension was seeping out of his body. No normal person would have known that, but I knew James Fraser, and I knew just how big of a night this retirement gala at Fraser Memorial was going to be.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Complementary (Collins x OC) Chapter 10: Drown

Summary: Cracks start to show in the current patriarch of the Collins' household.

Tagging: @you-are-the-first-dream

Previous Chapter     Masterlist     Next Chapter     Gif Credit 

 So far, Genevieve had been enjoying her time with Jack and Cora. She’d fitted right in with the cleaning schedule and Cora never pushed her into saying anything she didn’t want. Most importantly, today she’d managed to get a letter to her family to tell them she was ok and would be home soon.

 Jack however was closed off more recently, almost as if they had swapped personas. He had disappeared at five past four without his coat. Cora and Genevieve knew that it was because he was drinking a lot more now he had access to a bigger supply of whiskey and had stalked off to the pub after a confrontation with his ma. Not wanting to get between them, Genevieve had stayed in her room.

 But now it was getting late and Jack hadn’t returned. So in spite of her anxiety, she was now walking towards the local in search of her friend.

 The bar was packed with strangers, so tightly that one couldn’t move through the room without bumping into at least five people and getting something spilt down your front. In Genevieve’s case it was four people on the way in and a splash of white wine down her coat.

 Slipping past some of the more sober patrons, Genevieve spotted her mark and tapped Jack on the shoulder, “Hello.”

 “’S th’ light of me life!” Jack cheered over the rabble. His speech was noticeably slower and more emphasised, like he’d spent hours deciding on what his words were going to be. What were more indicative of his drunken state were his eyes – bloodshot – and his movements – sluggish and sloppy. Not to mention the fact that his nose was bright red and shiny.

Genevieve was a tad surprised. Usually Jack was incredibly bad-tempered before and after a drink. All the physical symptoms were the same. It was just his persona.

 “What are you doing?”

 “I didnae drown in me Spitfire! But I’ll drown in whiskey!” He held out his glass, spilling some of the whiskey onto the floor. He was grinning with obvious pleasure at his play-on words.

 “Ok,” Genevieve took the glass out of his hand, already extremely uncomfortable with the scenario, “Home time, your ma’s waiting.”

 “Wha’? Already? But s’happy hour in a bit!” Jack attempted to down the rest of his drink in time for his departure but Genevieve took the glass away, ignoring his childish protests, and dragged him out of the door. He whined the whole way home, clinging to her side and vying for her attention.

 As they got through the door, Cora was waiting by the banister with a blank expression on her face. It was more terrifying than any shouting Genevieve had received at the hands of a parent; she shied away from Cora as she stepped up to her son with folded arms.

 “I have no words for you but rest assured, I will have plenty for you tomorrow,” She spoke with calm anger.

 “Ma! I ‘ave words too! I love you.” Jack beamed at her widely and unaffected by this threat, wiping his feet on the mat obediently.

 “Do you want me to get him upstairs?” Cora looked at Genevieve, her face now relaxed in a sympathetic smile, “I really appreciate you going to fetch him. You must be tired.”

 “It’s alright, you head upstairs. I’ll sort him out.”

 “Oooo, you’ll sort me oooot,” Jack swooned with his over-the-top girly tone, leaning backwards so that, despite facing away from her, he was resting his head against Genevieve’s shoulder. Straightening him up, Genevieve dedicated all energy to helping Jack up the stairs. He tried to help himself but he nearly knocked them both backwards.

 Eventually they made it to his room. By that time, Genevieve was too tired for any complex instructions.

 “Jack, go get changed.”

 “No, I don’ wanna,” He whined, “I wanna dance.”

 “You can dance tomorrow. Now you change into your pyjamas and go to bed.”

 “I don’ like me jammies.”

 Genevieve hid her face in her hand, “Jesus Christ.”

 “You can call me Ja-” He prepared to spin around with the rest of his quippy one-liner but lost his balance and landed on the bed. Genuine laughter nearly escaped Genevieve’s chest but she held it in with a stoic face. Then Jack sat up violently and his eyes widened. He made a dash for the bathroom. Genevieve followed in time to see him throw up the contents of his stomach into the bath. Dropping beside him, she rubbed his back.

 “Ok, sweetie, it’s gonna be ok,” She ran her fingers through his hair as he clung to the bath’s rim. His gibberish was gone now. Taking the silence that followed as the signal that Jack’s stomach was now empty, Genevieve topped up a glass of water and, with a flannel under his chin, helped Jack drink it.

 She was refilling the glass when she heard a small voice say, “I miss Farrier.”

 Genevieve looked at his reflection. His hand was over his shoulder and still clinging to the rim of the tub. His glassy eyes stared dully without seeing. Gentle with his face, Genevieve helped him sip the rest of his drink before placing the glass back on the side.

 “Come on. Let’s get you ready for bed.”

 “I’m a real lightweight,” Jack had a nostalgic smile on his face, “Farrier used to have to carry me back, like you did tonight!”

 “That was nice of him,” Genevieve offered him a sympathetic smile

 “The two people I love helpin’ me home when I’m pissed. Coincidence or wha’?”

 Tensing slightly, Genevieve pulled him up to his feet and moved him back to the bedroom to change him out of his clothes. She managed to get him down to his undershirt and his underwear before he started giggling again but he was already in bed by this point. Genevieve tucked him in as he wriggled into the duvet with a pout. The pout subsided into a goofy grin when Genevieve smoothed the hair off his forehead.

 “I do think I love you,” Jack mumbled into the duvet. Genevieve tensed again before speaking.

 “I think you’re drunk.”

 “I know am drunk,” He lifted his head up, knocking his forehead against hers with a girly giggle, “So, by process of elimination, that means I know I love you!”

 “Jack, you’ve known me two weeks,” Genevieve sat up with a frown, “You’re drunk, you won’t remember this, why am I applying logic to this?”

 “Because love is illogicalalal!” Jack babbled as he sat up with her.

 “That’s… countering your argument. Lie down.”

 “I dinnae ken wha’ I’m saying! ’M drunk! I shan’t!”

 With a sigh, Genevieve straightened out the covers again as Jack stuck his arms out and met her annoyed stare with a face of shining innocence. She stood to leave but Jack grabbed her hand and tugged it.

 “Please stay,” He said, his bottom lip quivering, his eyes impossibly wide with begging. In no mood to argue, Genevieve sat beside him to pull off her socks. Eagerly, Jack patted the side of his bed where she lay down on her back with no intention of falling asleep. After moving one of his pillows into the centre of the bed, he rolled onto his side and stared at her.

 Without looking at him, Genevieve told him, “Close your eyes, Jack.” She watched at the ceiling, following the winding crack along to the wall where the white paint flaked and fluttered to the floor.

 “Do you hate me?”

 Frowning, Genevieve turned her head to face Jack with his big blue eyes still on her, “No, I don’t. Where did you get that idea from?”

 “I dinnae ken. ’Ve been grumpy all week and I made you go in a bar to get me and I know you dinnae like ‘em,” Jack snuggled into his blankets, “I don’ want you to hate me.”

 “I swear you’re going through the seven stages of grief,” Genevieve raised an eyebrow with a smile – the first of the evening.

 He gave a throaty stuttering laugh, “You’re funny, Genevieve, and so pretty when you smile.” He reached a clumsy hand out and grazed her cheek. So as not to insult him, Genevieve restrained her recoil, opting instead to ease away from his touch. Jack nodded, as if he understood, flopping his arm on top of the pillow – a respectable distance from her. Drunk Jack truly was a rollercoaster of emotions.

 “Come on, Jack. Time for sleep,” Genevieve coaxed softly. Moving his head, Jack nestled into the pillows with a mumble before drifting off.

 Genevieve felt odd keeping watch on Jack as he slept. It was weird to stare at someone, regardless of scenario, so him passed out was not high on the list of acceptable things to do. He did look beautiful though, peaceful for once. With his head propped up on the pillow, he was vaguely reminiscent of a cherub asleep on a cloud.

 Her mind drifted to what he had said, more specifically what he had said about Farrier. Could she…?

 Drool started to dribble out of his mouth. Using the blanket, Genevieve gently wiped his mouth clean whilst managing not to groan at him. Retracting her hand, she carefully got off the bed and went into the bathroom. Unsure of how bad his morning was going to be, she rooted around for an aspirin in the bathroom cupboards. She retrieved the last one in the bottle. They would have to go shopping tomorrow.

 Jack was writhing about in his sleep, trying to find a more comfortable spot. He settled with a snore as Genevieve placed the aspirin with his newly topped up glass of water. She left the room with barely a creak of the floorboards to alert Jack of her absence.

  AN: Oooooo spicy shit is going down and we're only halfway through the fic! Also, just imagine Jack staring at you with completely drunk adoration. I would probably melt.