Work Text:
How Do You Feel?
The ever-familiar “Cut!” is called and this time, it’s followed by a rare, thick silence. She stays desperately curled against him. He vaguely hears the footsteps of the limited crew allowed on set for this scene as they exit, but his eyes stay on her. It’s just them and the silence in here now.
Sam strokes her hair gently, like she might break, and for the first time in all their years together on the show and off, he wonders fleetingly if she has, just a little. This whole episode was a lot in so many ways, and they actually filmed this last scene last, a rare occurrence in their production.
She takes a shuddering breath and that’s when he realizes she’s not actually here with him, not yet. She is still Claire-- a woman bruised in mind, body, and spirit. Even though he’s (mostly) shaken off Jamie already, Sam still treats her like Claire in this moment.
“Mo nighean dubh," he whispers, his voice sounding somewhere between Jamie’s and his own, moving his gentle ministrations from her hair to her arm. “It’s just like you said nae but a few moments ago. You are safe. You are safe and I’ve got you.”
She trembles at his words, sniffles, and wipes the tears from her eyes. Then she finally looks at him, looks deep into his blue eyes with her own, and something shifts. He knows Claire has been tucked away in Caitríona’s mind to heal and rest, just like Jamie has been in his.
“There you are,” Sam says in his own voice, his Scottish accent a bit lighter. He smiles softly and tries to project as much comfort as he can onto his off-screen wife as he had when she was playing his onscreen wife just minutes ago. “Hi, love.”
She smiles back. “Hi,” she replies in a half-whisper. She wrinkles her brow and looks around in confusion. “Where the fuck is everybody?”
Sam chuckles at this and savors the sound of Caitríona swearing in her Irish accent tinged with a hint of American from her decade-plus in the States. A voice uniquely hers.
“I think they saw we needed a moment alone after that last take,” he says. “You really let Claire take over there and it was absolutely gorgeous, but --”
“-- But terrifying,” she finished for him.
“Aye.” (Ah, there’s the bit of Jamie that isn't quite so tucked away yet.)
Sam eyes roam over Cait’s face, examining every detail of the beautiful countenance he knows so well, looking for signs of additional distress. “Are you okay?”
Cait takes a deep cleansing breath and nods. “I’m exhausted, though. And could do with a whisky.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
He gives her a quick peck on the cheek, then involuntarily shudders and grimaces at the sight of the fake bruises mottling her ivory skin. It’s only a split second before he schools his features into a neutral expression, but she doesn’t miss the initial reaction.
“Sam. They’re not real, darling.” Now it’s Caitríona’s turn to stroke his face.
“I know, I know. It’s just, watching you film the attacks, the beating, the --” He pauses. He doesn’t even want to say rape or even simulated rape to be more accurate and clinical about it. He doesn’t want to have to think of those scenes ever again. “It’s been tough on all of us,” he finishes lamely. It has and always will be hardest on her.
Cait could make a cheesy “Captain Obvious” joke here, but just nods her agreement before capturing his lips with her own in a surprisingly deep kiss. “Come on,” she says, pulling away and sitting up. “Let’s go home.”
He watches her lithe naked form move with a grace that still leaves him stunned despite seeing it every day. She pulls her fluffy midnight blue robe off a nearby chair, breasts swaying slightly as she puts each arm in the sleeves before cinching it closed with the belt. A warrior putting her armor back on.
Their ride home is quiet. Their driver, a new guy who’s name escapes Sam at the moment, takes one look at Cait as she slides into the backseat of the SUV with a perfunctory “hello” and a wan smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and he knows not to even ask about the day or music they might like to listen to during the drive. He returns Sam’s own weary glance with a quick nod and turns off the radio completely, even its soft jazz too much for right now.
Cait snuggles against Sam and he feels her breathing transition to the slow and rhythmic breaths of sleep within moments. He knows she’s not fully asleep, though, because he knows her. By this time in their ride, she is usually reflecting on her performance, wondering if she truly did her best, if she gave the story what it needed to come to life. Ever the perfectionist, she is, and ever the fierce guardian of Claire, the character who changed her life.
Tonight, though, her normal pensivity is replaced by desperation in the way she clings to his arm, the way she tries too hard to drop into full slumber so that she can remove herself just a bit more from the harsh day. He says a quick, silent prayer that she won’t have to endure more of the “assaults” in nightmares tonight. She had been acting and everyone, especially Sam, had made sure she felt as safe and cared for as possible between takes, but it won’t change the unavoidable and real trauma that would pass through Claire and touch Cait’s soul from this experience.
Thank Christ for her therapist, who has helped her process how the toughest, most emotionally taxing scenes on Outlander affect her before and after she shoots them. He charges an hourly rate approaching the GDP of Scotland, but it’s worth it for Cait, she tells him, often adding that maybe Sam might benefit from a therapist of his own. He’s considering it more seriously now, as he’s a little lost about how to deal with the emotional aftermath of the episode himself.
Sam absently strokes Caitríona’s hand resting limply in his lap. The exhaustion he’s been trying to ignore suddenly hits him like an exploding grenade. What seems like 30 seconds later, he feels a gentle shake on his knee and hears Cait call his name. He jerks awake and the two of them get out of the car, waving goodbye to the driver before shuffling up their front steps like a pair of zombies moving only by instinct.
Cait says just one word before disappearing down the corridor: “Bath.” Sam watches her go and once she’s out of his sight, he lets out a shuddering sigh, giving himself a moment to feel the terror he’s been trying to hide. Knowing the difficult scenes they filmed were fake did nothing to rid him of the primal urge to protect her nor the dread in the pit of his stomach telling him that he hadn’t. Trying to rationalize with these basest, most human instincts was of course impossible, but his distress was also not something he wanted to further burden Caitríona with right now.
Sam walks over to their whisky shelf in the living room, grabs one of his favorite glasses, a diamond line crystal one from a set Cait got him last Christmas, and pours himself a double. He hadn’t had to give any thought to which whisky they’d be drinking tonight. It has to be the one he worked so hard to create, the one named after his wife’s Outlander character. The Sassenach.
He gulps half of it down quickly, letting the burn of the alcohol cleanse him of the day to the small extent it can. He grabs a matching glass and pours Caitríona a dram. Before he starts down the corridor to give it to her in the bathroom, Sam pauses in front of the bottle of The Sassenach. Taking in the word, letting himself feel just a wee bit of pity for Claire, and Cait, and himself over the emotional toll his chosen profession can create alongside great performances and storytelling. He takes a deep breath and replaces the pity with gratitude for all the ways this job has changed his life, then goes to the person he’d forever be the most grateful for finding through it.
When he reaches Cait, she’s sunken into the deep clawfoot tub she loves so much, surrounded by so many neck-deep bubbles that Sam almost can’t see her head. The whole room smells of rosewater. She gives him a tired but grateful smile, then pulls one dripping, bubbly hand out of the water to take the glass. Sam shakes his head, kneels down beside her, and holds the glass of whisky to her lips. Cait giggles and takes an awkward sip, causing her to cough and sputter as she swallows the amber liquid. She’s laughing again as she regains her breath and this time he joins her. Wordlessly, she lifts her hand out of the water again and Sam gives her the glass.
“Sláinte,” he toasts, and they both drink deeply, emptying the heavy textured glasses in one go.
Cait lets out a satisfied sigh and Sam knows she recognizes her drink as The Sassenach. “It always hits the spot,” she says, pride in her voice. “You make one hell of a whisky, Heughan.”
Sam takes her empty glass, setting it next to his on the wide bathroom counter. “Can I join you?” he asks. There’s not even a hint of innuendo in his request. He just wants to hold her, skin-to-skin, in a place that is comforting and comfortable and theirs, a world away from the set where he last held her that way.
At Caitríona’s silent nod, Sam shucks off his clothes, carefully sliding into the tub and pulling her back against him. She leans her head back onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms around her middle. He gives the side of her cheek a small kiss as the water he disturbed by getting in the tub starts to calm again. Quiet returns.
The whisky and water and woman have warmed him now, and Sam can feel himself relaxing. He feels Cait relaxing, too, her tense shoulders finally giving way to the peace they’ve created here together.
Their breathing synchronizes as it slows and Sam knows they need to get out soon lest they both fall asleep and disappear under those rosewater bubbles. He opens his mouth to tell Cait this, but what comes out instead is the last line he delivered during filming today, one as important to him and Caitríona now as it was to Jamie and Claire then.
“How do you feel?”
Caitríona twists in his arms and meets his blue gaze with her own before she answers just as Claire did in the scene.
“Safe,” she whispers.
THE END