#i know that he stares into traffic too long. i know that it makes fergus antsy

[llewnanith]

gavin grieve makes me want to start eating my floorboards like i cannot stop thinking about him and the grieve family. i can’t stop thinking about gavin knowing how to duck and weave between clawing to get people to look at him and knowing how to make people’s eyes slide off of him for safety. how his first spell was a silencing spell on his room. how he was shocked when his family got rid of his stuff - as if he knew he was unloveable but didnt know he was that unloveable. how he was willing to maim himself for the chance to win, just for the approval of it all. how even he didn’t think he’d live. i can’t stop thinking about scenarios where he would have eaten separately from his family, hearing talking from the room over. how no matter how many times he searched those pictures he still was disappointed about not being in them. how when his family talked about his death as already having happened, he would have had to learn to stop arguing, to find an exit as quick as possible. to swallow his grief of his own life. how he probably feels stranded with no concrete plans of the future. how he probably learned to cry silently. how he brushes off his family treatment as something inevitable, typical, deserved. how the taste of neglect is something that fits in his mouth like a bit, silencing him at night when he wants to scream from it all. literally how do you recover from this. when you build your life around your own ghost, what happens after that’s gone and all that’s left is you?

[caffeineivore]

M/N fic for Wils!

For @nelwynp aka The Ebil Enabler. I actually wrote this longhand on a notebook as is my habit during long plane rides and so on. Recently got back from a two week vacation to Spain and Portugal so... there was a lot of plane time. Also chilling time post-evening sangria. I managed to write a few ficlets during this trip, and will tag them all under “travel ficscribble”.

Set in a ficverse not yet really published, but the same as the last few things I posted. Will eventually compile everything after the main fic is published for the @ssrevminibang.

Prompt: M/N, “Buffoon”, “I hope you’re miserable”

**

“You great buffoon! Why in the names of all the saints would you attempt to keep up with me Uncle Murphy, then? It’s tea and dry toast for you this morning, and possibly into this afternoon, too.”

There’s an army of mad leprechauns doing an Irish step dance in the space in his skull where his brain used to reside before it was pickled to death by a gallon of Guinness last night. His mouth tastes like the Sonoran Desert, scorpions and lizards and all, and Noah is pretty sure that if he attempts to move his limbs, they might fall off. Had it been any other person than Mary Kathleen talking to him and breaking the silence of the room, he might have cussed them out. Or at least made plans to do so sometime in the near future once the room stopped spinning. 

“Your Uncle Murphy was the one who kept refilling my cup! I wasn’t trying to start anything with him! Does he hate Americans or something? I mean, we are kind of a bunch of assholes, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t personally do anything to him.”

Mary Kathleen tsks at him, but sets down the tray of toast and tea on the nightstand by his bed. Noah is not above admiring the glimpse down her shirt as she bends over. He might be suffering the Hangover From Hell, but the day he couldn’t find the wherewithal to appreciate Mary Kathleen’s incredibly fabulous boobs, he’d have to be blind, dying or both.

Not that he thought of her in some sort of sleazy, disrespectful, sexual object type of way. And certainly not anything he’d admit to, aloud. Mary Kathleen was a friend-- they’d kept in touch since meeting each other at her graduation two years ago-- and besides, he wasn’t going to discount the fact that she could quite possibly kick his ass. Or at least make his life a complete living hell. Nor was he about to make things awkward, particularly on her home turf.

It’s his first time in Ireland and certainly it’s a pretty big departure from America. Mary Kathleen’s family comes from a tiny village that looks like something out of a postcard, and just the other day, they were stuck behind the local idea of a traffic jam-- a flock of sheep taking their sweet time to cross the road. The land is a bit hilly, but lush and green, with a great deal more rain than he was accustomed to. But he could hardly complain. Not when it never came close to the downright dangerous temperatures of a sweltering Arizona summer, and especially not to Mary Kathleen’s exceptionally friendly family.

She’d told him, perhaps a year ago, that she’d lost both parents in her teens to a plane crash, and that she’d been taken in by an aunt and uncle afterwards, who’d lived in London at the time. They’d since moved back to Ireland after Uncle Murphy had retired, and though the sleepy little village of her youth certainly offered less by way of employment opportunities, there was no other place she’d rather be in the summers between school terms.

And so, as her friend, and as Zack’s unofficial babysitter, here he was. At least, that is to say, he got Zack safely into the UK and dropped him off into the competent hands of Amy, then embarked upon this little detour. And though he hadn’t exactly done anything super exciting thus far, it was worth it just to see this side of Mary Kathleen’s life, in her natural habitat, as it were.

He was never going to spend an evening at the pub with Uncle Murphy again, however. Everything that people said about the Irish and their alcohol tolerance was true.

About two hours later, Noah is roughly human again, after about four slices of dry toast, three cups of tea and two cat naps. He blearily makes his way towards the direction of the bathroom, which is tiny and adorable and had lace curtains on the windows, but also a shower about the size of a shoebox. The water pressure leaves something to be desired, but at least it does get good and hot. He sweats out the last little bit of alcohol left in his system, gets dressed, and wanders outside in search of his elusive hostess.

He finds her-- or at least a pair of very long and shapely legs that definitely look like hers-- sticking out from underneath a rusted, ancient jalopy of a car in a shade of brown-green usually associated with bird droppings or guacamole past its prime. The car is parked in a neighbour’s yard, and the neighbour in question seems to be a fairly ancient man wearing a sweater and a cap, who calls out when he sees Noah approaching.

“Yer Yank’s here, Mary Kathleen, and sure and he’s looking a lot more lively now than last night.”

“Me Yank’s a great buffoon who can’t handle his drink, but at least he conducts himself well enough when he’s half-pissed. I remember the time when Fergus McLean ran bare-arsed through the village singing ‘Whiskey In The Jar’, and if he wasn’t a walking advert for the evils of over-indulgence, I’m sure I can’t think of a one who’d suit it better.” Mary Kathleen, butt wiggling in her well-worn jeans, shimmies out from underneath the fugly car, a streak of black grease on one cheek, and grins up at him from her prone position on the ground. “I’m changing the oil of Flynn Malone’s car for him. He’ll be giving me some fresh eggs and a loaf of his wife’s soda bread for tomorrow’s breakfast, and perhaps if he’s feeling particularly generous and kindly, a pot of fresh butter as well, for none make better bread and sweeter butter than our Bridget Malone, aye?”

“‘Tis why I married her, to be sure,” Flynn Malone says agreeably, even as he gives Noah an unmistakable side-eye. “Now, my Bridget’s Da was fit to string me up by the bollocks, he was, when he caught me singing for her at her window in the moonlight before we were married. Our Mary Kathleen’s quite the prize herself, and I’d be happy to stand in for her Da if a lad comes sniffling after her and doesn’t do right by her.”

“I’m pretty sure if I did anything untoward in her presence, let alone directed at her, Mary Kathleen’s completely capable of kicking my ass herself,” Noah remarks in as polite a tone as he can muster, considering the conversation topic. “Therefore, I’m not going to try anything funny. I want to live.”

“Oy, yer smarter than ye look,” Flynn Malone guffaws as Mary Kathleen ducks back under the car to finish up. “We had our doubts. A body who makes a living getting pictures taken of his naked chest doesn’t always have a great deal going on upstairs.”

“The Yank’s working on his post-graduate in Physics at his Uni, and I’d thank you to be nice to my company, Flynn Malone.” Mary Kathleen reappears out from underneath that car. “Don’t be troubling him too much, or I’ll be tying a knot in your fuel line.”

Mary Kathleen wipes her hands and face clean with a damp towel, and Flynn Malone hands her a covered wicker basket full of the agreed-upon bread and eggs and butter, and after bidding her neighbour farewell, she and Noah head back to the house of her Uncle and Aunt.

“So, you never answered my question.” Noah carefully steers clear of any implications of his intentions towards Mary Kathleen. Not that they’re dishonourable, per se, but why bring a beautiful friendship into an awkward and potentially disastrous direction? Mary Kathleen, he knew, would never consider getting on a plane to even visit the United States, let alone move over there. “Do people here hate Americans, or do they just enjoy messing with me? I mean, I’m not mad. Just kind of curious.”

“Oh, you’re not from around here, and moreover you’re a male non-relative visiting my home. This part of Ireland is still quite traditional with things, so me neighbours probably want to make sure you’re not here to shag me and whistle off on your merry way, leaving me pregnant and unwed.” Noah’s eyes go wide at the last part of her explanation, and to his chagrin, Mary Kathleen blithely misinterprets his expression. “Not to fret, lad. I know you’ve no interest in such a matter. You’re quite safe from the parson’s trap. In the day and age of Flynn Malone, a man and a woman could scarce smile at each other without threats of the Banns being read, but I’m expecting naught from you of that sort.”

“Sure. I’m safe with you. Just not with any other number of people who’d like to see me miserable. Sounds good.”

“Maybe you should improve your constitution before we visit the pub again.” Mary Kathleen smirks up at him. “At least you no longer look like you’re fit to go to the Devil. You’re not quite to shirtless kilt standards, yet, but perhaps a nice walk in the fresh air will help you.”

“As long as I don’t step in any more cow shit.”

“I make no promises. You should have been more careful and watched your step.”

Noah says nothing about the fact that he’d been distracted staring at the freckles on her nose, and the glint of gold in her green eyes, and the way her t-shirt clung to her in a way white cotton had no business doing to anyone at any time, and follows her down the lane. He’d perhaps die in Ireland, but at least he’d die happy.

[winchesterprincessbride]

The Dirty Girl Diaries-Part 1

A/N: So I decided the whole Patreon thing isn’t for me. I don’t like making people pay to read my writing. It’s too much pressure for me. So I’m not doing it anymore. So I am posting this here. I am taking the story in a different direction, and have changed some things to reflect this. As always, thanks for your support of my writing.  <3  <3  Jen

Strolling through the restaurant, you knew that everyone’s eyes were on you the instant you entered.  Image was everything in this town, and you had your facade down pat. Not classically pretty, you exuded such confidence that every man in the room involuntarily watched the sway of your hips as you sashayed toward the VIP table.

“Senator Crowley, so sorry I’m late. Traffic was horrible.” You murmured as you kissed his cheek.  “Please tell me you ordered me a drink?”

Fergus Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Who do you take me for? A Highball is on its way as we speak.”

You leaned forward in your chair, your hair spilling over your shoulder. “As much as I’d like to think this is just a social call, Crowley, nothing’s ever what it seems with you.”

The waiter appeared out of nowhere and handed you the drink. “Let’s eat, and then we’ll talk.” The senator said in a silky voice that made it sound more like a request than the order it was.

Crowley knew you back in the old days, and you owed him, so you were just going to have to let him have his fun.  Glancing over at the waiter, you folded your menu and handed it back to him.  “I’ll have the salmon, please.”

After some meaningless small talk over dinner, the senator was finally ready to get to the matter at hand. After giving the room a cursory sweep for prying eyes, he leaned in.  “I’m planning a little soiree next week,  and there will be some heavy-hitters attending.  They have very sophisticated tastes.”

You smiled easily at him over your drink.  “I’ll just bet they do.”  Now he was speaking your language. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

It would not have surprised you in the slightest to know you were the topic of conversation at other tables. That was how Washington worked. Everyone was in everyone else’s business.

“I heard she was born rich but her family disowned her years ago.” A Congressman’s wife whispered to her friends. Then a patrician-looking blond whose face barely moved swore you’d married a man three times your age and then murdered him for his money.

“You’re both wrong!” The third woman with them said.  “She used to be his mistress once upon a time.   My husband told me.”  All three women glared at you with a mixture of fear and fascination.

That was the thing about you.  No one knew exactly what your story was. You had this air of mystery about you that was out of place in D.C. You definitely had money,  you were always seen at the best parties, often in the company of important men. You knew everyone yet mingled with a chosen few. You seemed completely unimpressed with the social pecking order, and that rubbed many women the wrong way.

“Do you see the legs on that woman with Crowley?’ Dean Winchester asked his brother.

“I’m not blind. Of course, I saw. You’re a Congressman now, Dean. Try to act like one.”

“Why did I bring you with me again?” Dean asked in an annoyed tone.

“Because your meeting ran long and you love my company so much?” Sam said with a snarky grin.

“Try again.”

“Because we have exactly….” he stared at his watch. “Fifteen minutes until our next meeting and this was the closest place to grab dinner.”

Dean looked alarmed. “Dammit, Sammy! We have to go now! Go take care of the check, I’ll gather up the notes.  I’ll meet you at the door.”

Sam’s mind was on five other things as he headed to the front to take care of the check, watching where he was going wasn’t one of them. He heard a soft hiss of pain as he plowed into you, practically knocking you over. His arms fell to your waist to steady you.

He heard the slight hiss of pain you gave as he almost knocked you off your feet. Your eyes met and held a second too long before you finally blinked.

“There are much less painful ways of getting my attention, Handsome,” you told him as you rubbed your elbow.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

“Sam!” Dean said impatiently from the front door.  He turned his head at the sound, and then quickly back, looking torn.

“I have to go. I really am sorry.” Smiling apologetically, he leaned in and whispered as he walked past. “You can knock me off my feet next time, I promise.”

Staring for a moment as he headed for the door, you shivered, but not from the cold. “Who says there will be a next time?” You yelled at him as he reached the door.  He grinned at you and he slipped out.

@skybinx-blog @percywinchester27 @a-sea-of-fandoms @dorky-and-i-know-it@tokyoghoulyz @pinknerdpanda  @atc74 @jayankles  @notnaturalanahi @midnightjazzmine @moonlitskinwalker @we-are-band-sexuals @winchestergirl-love @gecko9596 @ronnie248-blog @essie1876 @bohowitch @just-another-busy-fangirl @jotink78 @captainradicalpassion @keelzy2 @disneymarina @kittenofdoomage @mrswhozeewhatsis @oriona75 @frankiea1998 @akshi8278 @stylinson531 @valynsia @dr-dean @theoutlinez  @imweirdandobsessed @growningupgeek    @luciisthebest  @laurenisnot @maddieburcham1  @canadianjelly @muliermalefici @brewsthespirit-blog @ilsawasanacrobat @nanie5 @weasleywinchester @samisimportant-blog @fatalcrossbow  @violetsamalamb @letmusicguideu @grantsgorgeousgirl @faegal04 @feelmyroarrrr @kay18115@milkymilky-cocopuff  @mikimausiii @the-greatest-temptation @superpanicromancesummer   @emoryhemsworth @squirrel-moose-winchester @jennifromtheblock1013 @spnbaby-67 @mogaruke @sweetmisseddreams2002 @redheadbedhead2002 @negan–is–god @spnwoman @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @maximumkillshot @sweetpeamoose @mrs-meghan-winchester @woodworthti666  @herbologystudent252 @sandlee44 @blackcherrywhiskey @andkatiethings  @wildefire @thoughtfullyfurryangel @apeshit7x @klanceiscannon14 @curly-haired-disaster @becca-ca @deliciouslydisturbed365 @fandomismyspirit @healojane @thewinchesterchronicles @emmii4

[turtlesoupstories]

Advent #3

Hi all! it’s Marlo (@marlosbooknook) the resident Jew of the TSS ladies! So, for my advent piece, I wanted to bring a bit of the Hanukkah spirit! This was super in to write, and is just plain silly! Is it well written and dynamic? Definitely not. But did it crack me up while I was writing it? Absolutely. I hope you enjoy!

-Mar

The snow was coming down hard outside, and Claire found herself in bumper to bumper traffic waiting outside of Brianna’s primary school. The result of the inclement weather was an early dismissal, a blessing for the children and a nightmare for the parents.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” Claire blasted the horn in frustration, urging the cars to move forward. She could see the children filtering out of the school, throwing snow into the air and shrieking in laughter. If she wasn’t so aggravated, Claire would have found the whole scene rather adorable. She attempted to spot her daughter, but in the Scottish highlands, her fiery red hair didn’t stand out as distinctly as it would have elsewhere. It was the furry bunny ear decorations sticking out of Brianna’s ear muffs that signaled Claire of her daughter's presence. Rolling down the window, she called out, the cold air biting her skin as the wind rushed into her car.

“Brianna!”  Bree’s head swiveled and, bidding a quick farewell to her friends, bounded over to Claire, sending white powder into the air in her wake.

Bree’s face was cherry red from the frosty air as she took off her mittens and buckled her seatbelt. Claire turned up the heat before twisting around in her seat to speak to her daughter.

“How was your day sweetie? Did you do anything fun?”

There was no response.

Bree’s face was contemplative and solemn as she stared out the window, watching the highland winter fly by in a sea of white. Claire’s smile faltered as she observed her daughter. Something was clearly wrong.

“Bree, honey, is everything ok? You seem upset.”

Bree inhaled. “Mama.” she said before stopping herself, trying to come up with with something to say. Claire felt her stomach drop. It was rare that Brianna was at a loss for words.

“Yes, Bree? Did something happen at school today? You need to tell me if anything’s wrong so your father or I can fix it for you.”

“Mama, why don’t we celebrate Hanukkah?”

Claire’s concern vanished as an amused smile crossed her face.

“Why do you want to celebrate Hanukkah?”

“Well we were having a holiday party in school today and Adam said he couldn’t do it because he celebrates Hanukkah. He said that he was extra special because he got eight days of presents and I don’t see why we can’t have eight days of presents, either. I want us to be special, too! ”

Bree was speaking at a mile a minute, and her cheeks were flushing scarlet to match her hair.

Claire struggled to come up with an answer.

“Well… Only Jewish people get to celebrate Hanukkah. We aren’t Jewish, so we celebrate Christmas…”

“But why can’t we be Jewish too? Adam said that his parents told him that they were some of the only people in all of Scotland to celebrate Hanukkah, and I don’t want him to be lonely!”

A snort managed to escape Claire’s throat. Claire was confident that the Scottish highlands did not bolster a large Jewish population. Still, Bree was becoming increasingly upset, and Claire knew she needed to come up with a solution quickly.

“Well maybe I can call Adam’s mother and see if you can come over and spend a night of Hanukkah at their house…”

“But it’s not the same!” Bree was shrieking now, and Claire could see the incoming flood of tears through her rear view mirror. “I want to be Jewish and I want to celebrate Hanukkah at our house with you and Da and Fergus and Auntie Jenny and Uncle Ian! Why won’t you let me be Jewish?!”

“Bree, sweetie, It’s not a matter of not letting you celebrate Hanukkah or being Jewish, it’s that we can’t...We can’t pick and choose a religion based off of one holiday. Besides, if we celebrate Hanukkah, then we can’t celebrate Christmas or Hogmanay!”

Bree sniffled, clearly thinking about what Claire said.

“But… but…” The tears started again. “But if Adam can be Jewish than so can I, and if Adam can celebrate Hanukkah then I can to!”

There’s nothing I can do here… Claire realized. No matter what she said, Bree would not stop until she had her Hanukkah. They pulled up onto the long gravel driveway of Lallybroch. Claire breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Jamie open up the front door and step outside to greet them. As soon as the car stopped, Bree launched herself into her father’s arms sobbing.

Claire could only make out pieces of what she was saying pressed up against Jamie’s shirt.

“Mama said we can’t be Jewish… Tell her Da, tell her she’s wrong!”

Jamie bent down and kissed the top of her head, murmuring soothing words in Gaelic, before meeting Claire’s eyes with an amused expression. Bree glanced up at her after, wiping away ears with the back of her hand. Jamie bent down and whispered something in her ear, and she scampered off inside, a smile finally creeping onto her face.

Claire walked over and wrapped her arms around Jamie’s neck, exhaling with a groan and resting her head on his shoulder.

“What was that all about, Sassenach?” Jamie inquired.

“Hell if I know. Apparently a boy in Bree’s class is Jewish…”

“A Jew? In the Highlands?”

“I know. I thought the exact same thing. But Bree is upset because this boy told her all about Hanukkah, and now she wants to celebrate.”

“Weel, Could you contact the boy’s mother, and see if Bree could go to their home to celebrate?”

“I already tried that, but Bree refuses to budge. She inherited the Fraser stubbornness.”

“Well, then I guess we ought to give her a Hanukkah she’ll never forget.”

It took days to prepare everything, mostly because tracking down a menorah proved rather difficult. It was Jenny that found one, buried in the back corner of a dirty thrift store in Inverness.

Claire looked up a recipe for latkes, which she and Mrs. Crook dutifully prepared.

They sent Bree to a friends house after school. She appeared to have forgotten about the Hanukkah debacle, but Jamie was determined. He would do anything to make his little girl happy. The lights were dim outside, and the lights of Lallybroch were off, save for the flickering candlelight of the menorah. A glittering wrapped present sat on the coffee table. The Fraser-Murray clan sat gathered  in anticipation. The family had united together in this endeavor, and despite being hesitant at first, everyone was reveling in the holiday spirit.

The sound of the front door turning sent hushed whispers throughout the room. Bree waked in, a puzzled look on her face as she squinted in the dark.

“Mama? Da? Where are you?”

Claire turned on the lights, and everyone let out an uproarious cry of “Surprise!”

Bree squeaked in surprise, but when she saw the scene before her, her eyes widened and her eyes began to brim with tears. She ran into her parents arms. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Claire and Jamie smiled down at her as she raced around the room, observing every last detail. She stood transfixed in front of the menorah, the light of the candles making her hair glow.

Claire put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“We spoke to Adam’s parents to make sure everything was just right. Are you happy?”

“Yes! This is the best Hanukkah ever!”

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Flood my Mornings: Unimaginable

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

See all past installments via Bonnie’s Master List

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

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

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

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

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

Late April, 1951; Harvard University Hospital 

“Fine—Sweetheart—I’m fine!” 

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

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

“But Nancy said ye were in hospital.” 

“At the hospital—at Harvard—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that…?”

“Yes,” I choked out, “that’s him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And he’s—alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lambert?” Jamie said. 

I smiled fondly, but shook my head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ian. 

It was painful—but perfect. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sickficsbypyroyoshi]

Pyro’s archived fics #1: Carl gets carsick

Hey guys, long time no post. I apologize for neglecting this blog. I’ve finally got not just a job but a career (electrician, and I’m really enjoying it), plus I’ve been working on a lot of other creative projects that aren’t related to sick fics at all. Financially I haven’t been doing so great, but now that I’ve got a better job, that’ll change. I still haven’t completed any new sick fics, as I just don’t have as much time as I used to.

So, I’ll try holding you over by posting a series of puke without plot stories I wrote in the past. Like my newer stories, their all OC centric, there won’t be any fan fiction. Here’s the first.

Carl bit his lip as his stomach clenched in anticipation. Not because he was sick, but because he was both extremely exited and a little nervous.

He was exited because tonight he was going to see Nile, his favorite band, live for the fourth time. Each time he saw them, the experience was better and more mind blowing. In his opinion, they were some of the most talented musicians in modern technical death metal, and few bands put as much effort into their work as they did. Tonight they would be playing a double set, which was guaranteed to be twice the epicness.

The nervousness came from the fact that he had been given the opportunity to meet and interview George Kollias, the drummer for Nile. He wasn’t a journalist, nor did he want to be, but this was a once in a lifetime chance that he couldn’t pass up. He just hoped he wouldn’t say something incredibly stupid during the interview or do something else to make an ass out of himself in front of his musical prodigy.

Apparently, his friend Danica knew Nile’s tour manager, and she had secured a pre show interview with George. She and Carl hadn’t seen each other in a few months, but they were close friends, like brother and sister almost, as he had been the first person she called.

Carl’s iphone buzzed, and he got a text from Danica saying that she would be at his house in approximately ten minutes. All he’d really need were his iphone and his wallet, and since he had both of those things, he made sure his outfit was appropriate. He wasn’t a very high maintenance guy, as he had thrown it on in about a minute. A Nile tour shirt from last year, black pants, and his work boots. He considered putting on a hat, but decided that would be stupid, because it would come off anyway.

Content with his look, he waited outside for Danica to show up. She had a tendency to always be a few minutes late, but there was more than enough time. It was a little past two in the afternoon, and the show didn’t start until eight.

It was at Station 4 in St. Paul, so it would be a long drive from his currently location of Fergus Falls. He had lived in St.Paul last year, but couldn’t keep his apartment since he was unable to find a decent job due to the crappy economy. Thus, he was currently living with his parents at age twenty three. Not that it was a bad thing, as he knew plenty of people older than him who still lived at home. He just didn’t like living so far from the cities.

He didn’t know what kind of car she would be driving, but he hoped that it had a good air conditioning system, as it was a hot day. It was very humid and had to be near ninety degrees, as he had only been outside for a few minutes, yet he already felt like he was sitting in an oven.

Sure enough, Danica was about five minutes late. At about two thirty, she pulled up in an old nineties Toyota and waved from the window.

Carl got up and excitedly bound towards the car.

“Hey you, it’s been to long. What’s going on?” Danica asked him eagerly when he got in. Before he could answer, she jumped at him from across the seats to give him a bear hug.

“Take it easy, it’s only been four months, you act like you haven’t seen me in years.” Carl smirked.

“It felt like years.” Danica pouted.

“Oh come on, you know I missed you too.” Carl squeezed her shoulder. He knew that she liked him as more than a friend, though he didn’t return those feelings. It’s not that Danica was an unattractive girl, she definitely wasn’t. In fact, she was fairly good looking. She was average bodied, with blue eyes and dark hair cropped into a 1920’s flapper girl style bobcut. Like Carl, she was clad in a Nile tour shirt, though hers was a little older. No, he simply didn’t return those feelings because he thought of her as a sister. Dating her would be too risky, as if they broke up, the friendship would suffer.

As Danica started the car, Carl looked around the interior. It was definitely dated, as it still had a working cigarette lighter in the control panel. It did have a modern touch in that the CD player had been ripped out in favor of an MP3 player and ipod dock.

“I’ve got to ask, what’s with the old car?”

“It was my cousin’s. She gave it to me after she got a brand new mini van. Why she got that thing, I’ll never know, as its a vehicular eyesore. Anyway, we have a long drive ahead of us. It’ll probably take about four hours to get there, so we’ll have plenty of time to get something to eat along the way.” she informed.

“Sounds good to me.” Carl said. However, as exited as he was, he didn’t really like spending many hours inside of a car. He had been prone to motion sickness as a kid, and one particular incident stuck out in his mind. When he was ten, he went with his parents and siblings on a road trip to Canada, and had gotten carsick on the way. Eventually, he had puked on his younger brother and sister, which in turn made both of them puke as well. He had stopped getting carsick around thirteen, so he knew he didn’t have anything to worry about. Pushing those thoughts out of his head, he hooked his ipod up to the dock.

“I think some preparation is in order.” he had every Nile album on his ipod, but was undecided as to which song to play.

“Oh! Play Unas, Slayer Of the Gods!” Danica suggested.

“Good idea. I was just thinking about playing that one.” Carl highlighted it on his ipod and turned the volume way up.

The two of them proceeded to thrash along to the music and snarl the vocals. Or tried, in Danica’s case. The sad truth is that women’s vocal chords just aren’t made to produce such sounds.

People in other cars stared at them like they had a disemboweled hooker in the backseat, but they didn’t care. After they had been driving for about forty five minutes, they decided to stop and get something to eat at a Noodles & Company.

Carl wasn’t terribly hungry, as he strangely still felt a bit full from lunch, which he had over two hours ago. This wasn’t normal for him, but he shrugged it off, as he wasn’t the type to turn down food.

He had the pesto cavatappi sans mushrooms, and Danica had the pad thai. They conversed about various things as they consumed their food, catching up with each other in the process.

They both decided to get refills on their drinks before they left. Since there was a considerable line in front of the touch screen soda machine, they had to wait a few minutes.

After they both got some more Coke, they were all set. Once they were on the road again, the music resumed, as did the casual bantering.

About half an hour later, they were on the freeway, but as luck would have it, a massive traffic jam had formed. Apparently, there had been an accident several miles up, and traffic had ground to a near halt, with cars bumper to bumper further than the eye could see.

Danica scowled at the vibrant orange electronic road sign, which displayed how long they should expect to wait. “You’ve got to be kidding. There’s miles of this? That sucks.”

Carl didn’t pay very much attention to her ranting. He felt bloated and uncomfortably full, which was odd since he hadn’t even eaten all of his food. The seatbelt felt extremely tight, almost like it was firmly squeezing his torso, so he fidgeted with it in an effort to loosen it. His effort was in vain, as it snapped back in place, bringing more discomfort as it did so. Not only that, but the sweltering heat was beginning to get to him. Even though Danica’s window was all the way down, the car was incredibly stuffy, and he was beginning to feel a slight twinge of nausea.

“Can you turn on the AC?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not. Sorry, but this car is a hunk of crap. The AC is pretty much shot and the passenger window only rolls down halfway.” Danica said.

Figuring that was better than nothing, Carl rolled his window down as far as it would go. It did nothing to lessen the humidity, but it did let in even more exhaust since the traffic jam was still in full swing.

Normally exhaust didn’t bother him, but it wasn’t exactly making things better. The small twinge of nausea he felt increased slightly. Not by much, but just barely enough to cause him to notice. Another twenty minutes passed before the jam lightened, and they were on their way once more. Even though they were now cruising along at seventy five miles per hour with both windows down as far as they could go, Carl still felt hot, bloated, and a little sick. He wasn’t terribly concerned, as he was sure it would pass before too long. However, as the minutes went by, the unpleasant feelings remained the same. He wasn’t feeling much worse, but he wasn’t feeling better either.

Danica seemed to take notice of this, as she turned down the music and glanced over at him. “You’ve gotten quiet. Are you alright?” she asked.

“I don’t feel so good. It’s probably just the heat.” Carl said.

“Yeah, it is pretty stuffy in here. At least we’re halfway there.” Danica reassured. “Maybe some Rotting Christ will take your mind off it.” she stopped the song that was currently playing and put on Rotting Christ’s A Dead Poem album.

Carl sat back and tried to focus on the music. Usually hearing his favorite songs always helped when he had a cold or a respiratory flu, but it wasn’t helping much now. His confidence that the feeling would pass was beginning to wane, and he felt hotter than ever. He noticed that he was sweating, and his shoulder length hair was adhering to the sides of his face. Since his window only rolled down a few inches, he was denied any possibility of cool air.

“I think we need some ice cold water. That might help reduce the heat just a little.” Danica offered. “We can stop at the next town.”

“How far is it?”

“Uh, to be honest, I have no idea. Sorry.”

Not liking that information, Carl wordlessly looked out the window. He tried to distract himself from the growing pain and queasiness in his stomach by attempting to count how many cows were in each pasture they drove by. His thoughts drifted from the cows to the BBQ pulled pork sandwiches he’d had for lunch, and he could almost taste them. Usually he relished the thought, but at the moment the mere thought of food made him feel sicker.

All he saw outside was grass and cows, which kept reminding him of food. Every time he thought about it, he felt just slightly worse. This continued until he was experiencing full blown nausea. He shifted positions, facing the side and resting his head on the window, but it did nothing to help.

“Do you still feel sick?” Danica asked.

Carl nodded. “I feel considerably worse.”

“Just lay back and shut your eyes. Try to sleep. If you need me to pull over, tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Silence fell over the car as Danica unhooked the ipod. Carl leaned back against the headrest and shut his eyes, attempting to fall asleep. He must have dozed off somehow, as sometime later he was awakened by Danica prodding him. It was then he noticed they were stopped at a gas station.

“You’ve been asleep for awhile.” Danica said, presenting him with a cold bottle of water.

As he became fully awake, the nausea came back full swing, and worse than ever. He was about to inform Danica of this, but she was already pulling out of the parking lot and speeding down the road.

Hoping the water might quell the sickly feeling, Carl opened the bottle and took a sip. So far, so good. A few small sips didn’t seem to hurt. He took a larger swig and regretted it immediately, as his stomach churned in protest. He grimaced, put the water in the cup holder and shut his eyes again. He hadn’t felt this bad in several years, as not only did he feel sick and a little dizzy, he could feel everything he ate earlier moving around inside of him.

All the excitement he had felt earlier had evaporated, and he was having second thoughts about this whole thing, especially the interview. He’d let Danica do it instead, because the last thing he wanted was to throw up in front of George Kollias. Or even worse, on him. Then what would happen? Would he get escorted out by security? Would he start a chain reaction? He didn’t want to find out, but the terrifying thoughts came anyway. He imagined himself puking on George, who would puke on Danica, who would puke on someone else, until every single person in the building either was or was on the verge of puking.

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt a wave of really intense nausea wash over him, causing him to sit up with a start. As he did so, he saw that they had arrived in the cities, and were driving through uptown Minneapolis.

After a few seconds, it seemed to be subsiding. Figuring he’d make it after all, he deemed it safe to have a little more water. He’d only downed two gulps when it hit him again, even stronger this time.

Carl sat strait up, feeling the acid begin to crawl up his widening throat. “Danica, stop the car, I’m going to puke!” he said with urgency in his voice.

Danica’s eyes widened. “Oh shit! I can’t stop here, we’re in the middle of an intersection. Look for a bag or something.” she said.

As much as he wanted to, Carl felt too sick to move, and there was so much pressure in his belly that he knew he was only a few seconds from exploding. He felt the car jolt to a start again as Danica peeled out of the intersection to find a suitable place to pull over, but she wasn’t quick enough.

Carl clamped his hand over his mouth in a futile effort to hold it in, but he retched and  felt warm puke start to run through his fingers. The second retch was the one that did it. He couldn’t hold it back anymore and forcefully threw up all over the inside of the door, sending it splashing onto the window, dashboard, and himself.

The car screeched to a stop beneath an underpass, and he flung the door open and leaned out halfway. Before he could even yank the seatbelt off, Carl heaved again, producing a torrent of chunky brown liquid. It spread out over the pavement, forming a pool.

He realized that Danica was leaning over him, as he felt her gather his hair in one hand and hold it back out of his face, while she massaged his back with her free hand. He wanted to thank her for doing that, but was in no position to speak. His stomach contracted and he brought up two more voluminous waves, then he used the small gap between heaves to catch his breath before puking again. It still had lots of solids, as he could make out fragments of pulled pork, pesto cavatappi, and whatever else he had eaten. Since it hadn’t had time to digest fully, the taste wasn’t as sour or acidic as he expected it to be.

The heaving ceased for a couple seconds, but Carl still felt very sick. He didn’t move quite yet, as he figured he probably wasn’t done. His head was spinning, so he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the rest to come up. About ten seconds later, his whole body convulsed and he continued puking. Another sizable wave came up, followed by two smaller ones and a dry heave. No more appeared to be forthcoming after that, so he spat out the lingering string, wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and slumped back into the car.

Danica caressed his shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked, concern evident.

“I guess so, but I still feel sick.” Carl said. As he recuperated, he realized the extent of the damage.

There was puke all over the door, on the window, dripping into the cracks, and streaking down the dashboard. The car hadn’t been the only victim, as he had also gotten it all over his shirt and right hand.

Danica furrowed her brows as she took in the sight. “It looks like a murder scene in here. But don’t worry about it, just wipe off what you can, I can get it professionally cleaned tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Carl inquired.

Danica nodded and fished around in the backseat until she found a travel pack of kleenexes. “You’ll have to use these.”

Carl took them and wiped off as much of the puke as he could, dropping the tainted tissues outside into the pool on the ground. When he was done with that, he climbed into the backseat and laid down for the remainder of the drive.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Station 4 and were lucky enough to find a good parking spot. A long queue of people waiting in line stretched from the front doors down the block. Since they had RSVP tickets, they could bypass the line and go right in.

“How are you feeling? A little better?” Danica asked.

“Still shitty. This isn’t going to go well, I just know it.” Carl replied. Even so, he joined his friend outside, and the two of them walked towards the venue.

He started feeling uneasy again as they neared the door. In addition to still feeling queasy and knowing he’d probably be due for a repeat performance, all the nervousness he felt earlier came rushing back. Even though he was about to meet the man who inspired him to start playing the drums, his instinct told him it wasn’t going to end well.

[yellowfeather84]

Hello you! I'm looking for a chapter in which Jamie explain to Claire his life in Ardsmuir, the chains, the Iron's noise and the fact that because of that he was ashamed of touch himself when he dreamed of her.. I cant remember the chapter or even the book... I hope you could help me! Thanks

Hi! The section that you’re looking for is in Voyager, chapter 44.

“I,” said Jamie, “am a fool.” He spoke broodingly, watching Fergus and Marsali, who were absorbed in close conversation by the rail on the opposite side of the ship. 

“What makes you think so?” I asked, though I had a reasonably good idea. The fact that all four of the married persons aboard were living in unwilling celibacy had given rise to a certain air of suppressed amusement among the members of the crew, whose celibacy was involuntary. 

“I have spent twenty years longing to have ye in my bed,” he said, verifying my assumption, “and within a month of having ye back again, I’ve arranged matters so that I canna even kiss ye without sneakin’ behind a hatch cover, and even then, half the time I look round to find Fergus looking cross-eyed down his nose at me, the little bastard! And no one to blame for it but my own foolishness. What did I think I was doing?” he demanded rhetorically, glaring at the pair across the way, who were nuzzling each other with open affection. 

“Well, Marsali is only fifteen,” I said mildly. “I expect you thought you were being fatherly— or stepfatherly.” 

“Aye, I did.” He looked down at me with a grudging smile. “The reward for my tender concern being that I canna even touch my own wife!” 

“Oh, you can touch me,” I said. I took one of his hands, caressing the palm gently with my thumb. “You just can’t engage in acts of unbridled carnality.” 

We had had a few abortive attempts along those lines, all frustrated by either the inopportune arrival of a crew member or the sheer uncongeniality of any nook aboard the Artemis sufficiently secluded as to be private. One late-night foray into the after hold had ended abruptly when a large rat had leapt from a stack of hides onto Jamie’s bare shoulder, sending me into hysterics and depriving Jamie abruptly of any desire to continue what he was doing.

He glanced down at our linked hands, where my thumb continued to make secret love to his palm, and narrowed his eyes at me, but let me continue. He closed his fingers gently round my hand, his own thumb feather-light on my pulse. The simple fact was that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other— no more than Fergus and Marsali could— despite the fact that we knew very well such behavior would lead only to greater frustration. 

“Aye, well, in my own defense, I meant well,” he said ruefully, smiling down into my eyes. 

“Well, you know what they say about good intentions.” 

“What do they say?” His thumb was stroking gently up and down my wrist, sending small fluttering sensations through the pit of my stomach. I thought it must be true what Mr. Willoughby said, about sensations on one part of the body affecting another. 

“They pave the road to Hell.” I gave his hand a squeeze, and tried to take mine away, but he wouldn’t let go. 

“Mmphm.” His eyes were on Fergus, who was teasing Marsali with an albatross’s feather, holding her by one arm and tickling her beneath the chin as she struggled ineffectually to get away. 

“Verra true,” he said. “I meant to make sure the lass had a chance to think what she was about before the matter was too late for mending. The end result of my interference being that I lie awake half the night trying not to think about you, and listening to Fergus lust across the cabin, and come up in the morning to find the crew all grinning in their beards whenever they see me.” He aimed a vicious glare at Maitland, who was passing by. The beardless cabin boy looked startled, and edged carefully away, glancing nervously back over his shoulder. 

“How do you hear someone lust?” I asked, fascinated. 

He glanced down at me, looking mildly flustered. 

“Oh! Well … it’s only …” 

He paused for a moment, then rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was beginning to redden in the sharp breeze. 

“Have ye any idea what men in a prison do, Sassenach, having no women for a verra long time?” 

“I could guess,” I said, thinking that perhaps I didn’t really want to hear, firsthand. He hadn’t spoken to me before about his time in Ardsmuir. 

“I imagine ye could,” he said dryly. “And ye’d be right, too. There’s the three choices; use each other, go a bit mad, or deal with the matter by yourself, aye?” 

He turned to look out to sea, and bent his head slightly to look down at me, a slight smile visible on his lips. “D’ye think me mad, Sassenach?” 

“Not most of the time,” I replied honestly, turning round beside him. He laughed and shook his head ruefully. 

“No, I dinna seem able to manage it. I now and then wished I could go mad”— he said thoughtfully “— it seemed a great deal easier than having always to think what to do next— but it doesna seem to come natural to me. Nor does buggery,” he added, with a wry twist of his mouth. 

“No, I shouldn’t think so.” Men who might in the ordinary way recoil in horror from the thought of using another man could still bring themselves to the act, out of desperate need. Not Jamie. Knowing what I did of his experiences at the hands of Jack Randall, I suspected that he very likely would have gone mad before seeking such resort himself. 

He shrugged slightly, and stood silent, looking out to sea. Then he glanced down at his hands, spread before him, clutching the rail. 

“I fought them— the soldiers who took me. I’d promised Jenny I wouldn’t— she thought they’d hurt me— but when the time came, I couldna seem to help it.” He shrugged again, and slowly opened and closed his right hand. It was his crippled hand, the third finger marked by a thick scar that ran the length of the first two joints, the fourth finger’s second joint fused into stiffness, so that the finger stuck out awkwardly, even when he made a fist. 

“I broke this again then, against a dragoon’s jaw,” he said ruefully, waggling the finger slightly. “That was the third time; the second was at Culloden. I didna mind it much. But they put me in chains, and I minded that a great deal.” 

“I’d think you would.” It was hard— not difficult, but surprisingly painful— to think of that lithe, powerful body subdued by metal, bound and humbled. 

“There’s nay privacy in prison,” he said. “I minded that more than the fetters, I think. Day and night, always in sight of someone, wi’ no guard for your thoughts but to feign sleep. As for the other …” He snorted briefly, and shoved the loose hair back behind his ear. “Well, ye wait for the light to go, for the only modesty there is, is darkness.” 

The cells were not large, and the men lay close together for warmth in the night. With no modesty save darkness, and no privacy save silence, it was impossible to remain unaware of the accommodation each man made to his own needs. 

“I was in irons for more than a year, Sassenach,” he said. He lifted his arms, spread them eighteen inches apart, and stopped abruptly, as though reaching some invisible limit. “I could move that far— and nay more,” he said, staring at his immobile hands. “And I couldna move my hands at all without the chain makin’ a sound.” 

Torn between shame and need, he would wait in the dark, breathing in the stale and brutish scent of the surrounding men, listening to the murmurous breath of his companions, until the stealthy sounds nearby told him that the telltale clinking of his irons would be ignored. 

“If there’s one thing I ken verra well, Sassenach,” he said quietly, with a brief glance at Fergus, “it’s the sound of a man makin’ love to a woman who’s not there.” 

He shrugged and jerked his hands suddenly, spreading them wide on the rail, bursting his invisible chains. He looked down at me then with a half-smile, and I saw the dark memories at the back of his eyes, under the mocking humor. 

I saw too the terrible need there, the desire strong enough to have endured loneliness and degradation, squalor and separation. 

We stood quite still, looking at each other, oblivious of the deck traffic passing by. He knew better than any man how to hide his thoughts, but he wasn’t hiding them from me. 

The hunger in him went bone-deep, and my own bones seemed to dissolve in recognition of it. His hand was an inch from mine, resting on the wooden rail, long-fingered and powerful. … If I touched him, I thought suddenly, he would turn and take me, here, on the deck boards. 

As though hearing my thought, he took my hand suddenly, pressing it tight against the hard muscle of his thigh. 

“How many times have we lain together, since ye came back to me?” he whispered. “Once, twice, in the brothel. Three times in the heather. And then at Lallybroch, again in Paris.” His fingers tapped lightly against my wrist, one after the other, in time with my pulse. 

“Each time, I left your bed as hungry as ever I came to it. It takes no more to ready me now than the scent of your hair brushing past my face, or the feel of your thigh against mine when we sit to eat. And to see ye stand on deck, wi’ the wind pressing your gown tight to your body …” 

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he looked at me. I could see the pulse beat strong in the hollow of his throat, his skin flushed with wind and desire. 

“There are moments, Sassenach, when for one copper penny, I’d have ye on the spot, back against the mast and your skirts about your waist, and devil take the bloody crew!” 

My fingers convulsed against his palm, and he tightened his grasp, nodding pleasantly in response to the greeting of the gunner, coming past on his way toward the quarter-gallery.

[ailidh-rps]

it feels (like it might rain on me) chergus h/c bingo [hp au] prompt: survivor’s guilt

The war is done.

It’s something Fergus tells himself every morning when he opens his eyes. Exhaustion, a new kind, seeps in and he slowly sits up.

Every morning, he takes catalogue of the things in the room with him. Charlie (sleeping, good), Lady (stirring, nuzzling closer to the sleeping man), wand (on the bedside table).

A deep breath, and Fergus is able to swing his legs over the side of the bed and convince himself that the next hour or so is important. At the very least, breakfast needs to be made and the dog is going to want a run. Fergus pulls on clothes like he’s moving through water. Every leg lifted takes effort to the point that he nearly strains, and midway through pulling on his sweater (eyes closed, breath halfway out) he wants to pause and stay there forever. In the nearly-dark light, warm and safe.

He tugs his head through the hole and finishes with a sigh.

Lady scampers out of bed now that he’s dressed and Charlie, still mostly asleep, gives a bereft moan and gropes around for the source of warmth again.

“Morning, darling.” Fergus murmurs, and brushes a kiss to Charlie’s forehead.

Charlie’s hand clutches Fergus’ beard and he sighs a little. “Really?”

Ferg can’t help the faint smile, chest swooping with a sickly feeling at the moment of happiness and he kisses Charlie once more. “You could have breakfast in bed?”

Charlie squirms a little, and the hand curled amongst Fergus’ beard wanders. He plays a little with the hairs that curl at the base of Fergus’ skull and shakes his head with a final decision. “I’ll come out when the coffee’s ready.”

Fergus pulls gently at his boyfriend’s hand and brushes a kiss to his knuckles as he excuses himself. He drinks a glass of water, and fills the coffee machine in a sort of robotic way, and stares out of the window into the front garden for a long few moments until Lady is nudging Fergus’ hand. “Yes, alright, alright…” He scritches behind her ears. “Get your leash, girl.”

“Going for a run!” Fergus calls from the front door, and not hearing a reply from Charlie he calls once again “Coffee’s on!”

Running at least feels good. He’s got to keep up with Lady’s large strides and that’s something. His lungs burn, and it’s too early for there to be people. When there’s people out, Fergus feels himself falling back into the position of an Order member. Calculating the strange comings and goings, paranoia consuming him.

Once, he’d come back to the house in his Animagus form, very sure that Death Eaters were on the verge of finding them.

Today though, he and Lady run and run, and there are no people and so it’s about as good of a start as one could ask for. They take a more leisurely pace back, and so when he ducks into the little house that he and Charlie share the older man is awake.

Barely, but he’s sitting at the table with the bed’s covers bundled around him and sipping at coffee.

The Daily Prophet sits on the table, untouched but delivered dutifully as always by Odette. 

Fergus is pretty sure he can hear her preening in the mud room. He feels nervous, and is unsure why.

Lady rushes to Charlie’s side and he greets her with as much enthusiasm as he can manage in the morning. She’s content with it, and licks at his face until he starts to laugh and push her a little. “Good run, cher?” Charlie looks to Fergus standing in the doorway with a curious glance. Fergus knows he’s trying to gauge how he’s doing this morning, so he makes himself smile.

“Yeah, still a little foggy out so there wasn’t much traffic.” Fergus says, takes the hand that Charlie holds out, and moves into the older man’s space.

He is struck by how beautiful Charlie is in that moment, tilting his head back to look up at Fergus properly. His neck is exposed, and even though neither of them have managed a shower in a few days his light hair still looks golden to Fergus in the faint morning light. He leans down for a small kiss, bracing his free hand against the breakfast table.

Charlie tastes like coffee. A little sugar, a little cream. He’s probably had a slice of toast, because Fergus can taste some faint butter there, and as the kiss grows from the small moment that he’d meant it to be, he can feel Charlie’s lips twitching into a smile.

“I love you.” Fergus murmurs, soft and into Charlie’s mouth.

Charlie’s smile grows, “I love you too.”

There’s a beat, and Fergus should see it coming but it catches him by surprise.

“When did you sign us up for the Daily Prophet?” Charlie asks, still smiling but the question is more than that.

Fergus tries not to frown, but caught off-guard by the question he moves out of Charlie’s space. The man’s smile fades ever so slightly. Like he knows that the charmed moment is broken, and it won’t go back to what it was a few seconds ago.

“Last week.” Fergus is honest, he knows that at least being honest is worth it. Lies will only ruin this, the little haven they’ve carved out for each other.

Charlie’s eyebrows raise faintly. “A whole week?” “I put them in the compost before you get out of bed.” Fergus nods.

Charlie sets the coffee cup down and takes what Fergus knows to be a measured breath. Fergus lets him think, lets him stew in the moment and decide what kind of discussion this is going to be. He finally looks up. Fergus knows he just wants answers, but he’s not sure that he can give them and that thought in particular scares him.

“Why?”

Fergus’ throat grows thick and he finds himself trapped. He opens his mouth, and takes a deep breath in. He’s ready for the words to come out, the ones that run around in his head at a mile a minute. Fergus holds out his hand, and Charlie’s slips into it with ease. He squeezes tight as Charlie’s thumb strokes over his skin, soothing and understanding. He’s the only person who can watch Fergus while he struggles and not leave him frustrated.

“Our friends.” Fergus finally manages.

Charlie’s shoulders sink slightly. Not disappointed, just… “Fergus, we can’t…”

“Please don’t say it.” Fergus cuts him off. He doesn’t mean to, they promised each other they wouldn’t do that but he just can’t hear it. “I’m sorry. I need to. I need to know.”

Charlie’s face finally cracks from the calm and understanding mask he’d been putting up, and Fergus hates that he looks hurt. “Blaming yourself will not bring any of them back. Isn’t that what you say to me?”

“Yes.” Fergus’ voice is quiet, and he looks to the Prophet sitting on the table. “I know.”

“So, why torture yourself with who’s dead?” Charlie’s voice cracks and, Christ, if Fergus could have been home sooner and hidden the Prophet just for a few more days…

He forces himself to swallow and steady himself. “Because we’re not.” Fergus’ voice is gravel, and every word feels like little stabs in his chest, but dragging this truth out of himself is more important than anything else, so Charlie can understand, and suddenly that little tug brings more words tumbling out of his mouth than he anticipated. “There’s just so many of them gone, Charlie. We went to school with them. I bought my school supplies from them. We fought beside them, and there’s so many. So, so many. The Prophet’s dedicating a whole week to their names. The back three pages, Charlie. Imagine that. A whole week of the back three pages. Of witches, and wizards who are just gone from this world. A-And that doesn’t even count the Muggles that we couldn’t save.”

Fergus finally looks to Charlie, raw and bare, crying though he’s not sure when that started.

“They’re gone, and we’re still here, and I can’t believe it. I hate myself for it.”

Charlie stands, and wraps his arms around Fergus’ head, holding it tight to his chest as Fergus sobs. He’s not sure how long they stand there, Fergus’ hands gripping Charlie’s forearms tightly and his face hidden in a safe little space created by Charlie’s arms but soon, Lady’s whining breaks through and Fergus finds himself forced to chuckle.

It’s a wet sound, not quite real but not too far from it. Their hands tangle together in Lady’s fur, soothing the big dog and Charlie kisses Fergus’ forehead.

“Better?” The older man asks.

“Yeah,” Fergus nods faintly. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Charlie tugs his beard gently, turning Fergus’ face until he looks the man in the eye. “I get it.” Charlie’s lips twist into something approximating a smile, but it’s too empty. Too sad. “I don’t sleep either. I feel it. Right here,” Charlie’s hand finds the exact spot on Fergus’ chest and presses a little. “It burns. I get it.”

Fergus lets out a long breath. “I thought it would be easier. If I could see it.” He feels a little numb now, insides scooped out. Charlie’s hand smooths along his cheek and he watches the man nod.

“I know.”

“It isn’t.”

“Oh, cher… I know.”

They stay, heads bowed together and eyes closed for a few long minutes. The anxiety that sits in Fergus’ chest most days is back and he knows that Charlie feels it too. Sick with worry that the man he loves might be ripped from the world because he wasn’t born to a full blood family. Fergus wonders when the pure blooded families will come back for revenge, when they will punish him and Charlie for their part in the Order.

“Do you think…” Charlie’s voice wavers, and Fergus knows he needs to cut off that line of questioning before it goes anywhere so he surges up for a kiss.

Lady scampers, shocked by Fergus who stands and pulls Charlie so close. A hand curled through his hair and searching for something more in the kiss. A sense of peace. He finds something close to it, feeling Charlie’s breath rush over his face and the sound their lips make when they break apart for Charlie to let out a choked laugh.

“You wanna know what I think?” Ferg tilts his head, looking down the few inches to Charlie’s eyes.

“Yes,” Charlie’s voice is quiet, a little hopeful.

“We need a bath, and breakfast and I think we should have it in bed.”

Charlie’s laugh this time is a little more real, it won’t be right for a while. Fergus knows because he won’t be right for a while either, but they’ll scrape together some sort of normality here. Together.