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She pauses from her work and swipes a shaking hand across her forehead, smoothing back curls, now tinted grey, that have fallen from her loose chignon. Gripping the edge of the exam table’s smooth surface, her eyes squeeze shut and she calculates her breathing. One, two, three. In, pause, and out. Small beads of sweat begin to dust her temples. The hole in the center of her chest cracks open without warning; the wound carved there over twenty years ago flaying and bleeding.
It happens on occasion, unexpectedly during routine chores, preparing her instruments for the day’s patients…in the middle of the night. She will gasp awake, bottom lip trembling as the tears well, and rub the center of her chest with the palm of her hand; an attempt to quell the physical ache there.
She is not left unmarked, no matter how lovingly and carefully her husband has worked to stitch her back together, for old scars are never fully healed. She recalls sharing this information with a handful of her patients complaining of phantom pain months, years, after surgery.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of unbearable loneliness, sleepless nights devoid of any sort of touch, arms curled around herself on her side of the bed, heavy tears streaming down her face, soaking her pillow; missing Jamie so badly it took her breath away, her sobs muffled into a fisted hand so Frank wouldn’t hear.
She was never allowed to grieve.
And she’s learned to recognize these responses within herself. PTSD. She knows the symptoms, the tells. She is not unfamiliar with the repercussions of repressed trauma, of being forced to shove the loss of the very beat of her heart, the father of her child, to the recesses of her mind, never spoken of again.
She finds him in the study, Félicité’s small form next to her husband as he helps guide the quill in their granddaughter’s unsteady hand along a series of straight lines sketched carefully onto clean parchment paper. Her heart warms as she catches a glimpse of the two words repeated on the page. Félicité Fraser.
The both of them sense her presence simultaneously and she is met with two pairs of shining eyes; the quill forgotten as enthusiastic, small arms wind about her grandmother’s waist, face hidden in the pleats of Claire’s skirts.
“Hello, my darling,” she speaks softly, gently stroking the dark locks atop the little girl’s head, “what do we have here?” Her eyes catch Jamie’s and she watches the piercing blue tighten, concern etching itself into lines that form between his furrowed brows.
“Grand-père taught me to write my name!” she beams up at Claire; proud, toothy grin on full display.
“I see that,” she makes a show of carefully inspecting the shakily written letters, “well done, sweetheart!”
Jamie reaches into his pocket, producing a small piece of hard candy, and successfully convinces the little girl to give her grandparents some much needed privacy and seek out her Auntie Brianna to finish the alphabet lesson.
“Close the door on your way out, mo chridhe,” he says, and the little girl nods. “Good lass.”
The staccato of small steps gradually disappears down the hallway, leaving the two of them in silence.
A large hand reaches out towards her immediately, beckoning her forward.
She stomps the urge to feel foolish at seeking him out for no reason other than an inability to function on her own. He loves you, she chides herself.
“Can I have a cuddle?”
No sooner than the words have left her mouth he is pulling her onto his lap.
“Always,” he murmurs, as she settles her head onto his shoulder, planting her face into his neck. Her eyes flutter as his fingers wind themselves into her hair, the other hand running soothingly down her back.
He doesn’t ask questions, just holds her while she breathes him in, taking comfort in the solidity of his body. He is so very real and here ; a tangible thing in her arms rather than memories she must rely on herself to conjure up in instances, so many times, she needed him.
"Dè tha dol, mo ghràidh?" he whispers in her ear. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Hot tears streak down into the collar of his shirt. “Claire?” His voice is increasingly concerned as he asserts gentle pressure on her shoulders. She wants nothing of the sort and tightens her grip on him, burrowing further into him as much as the chair will allow.
“I’ll be fine, Jamie,” she answers. “I promise.”
She feels his stubbled cheek (she’d asked him not to shave again, purely for selfish reasons. She likes the feel of it against her thighs.) nod in acceptance.
“I just needed you.” There is no more profound or simple truth. “Just hold me.”
And he does. He holds her until the sun is bidding farewell for the evening, until they are surrounded by the dimming of the day.
She exhales, slumped against him, and wonders if he’s fallen asleep. His head lolling against her own confirms he has. Laughing softly she extracts herself from his embrace and he jolts awake, glancing around the darkened room, groggy headed. The scent of the night’s meal wafts from the kitchen and Claire’s stomach emits an audible grumble.
“Dinner, Sassenach?” he asks, adding, “as much I do love your arse, my legs are fallin’ asleep from the weight of it.”
She pinches his arm and he laughs, kissing the tip of her nose and moving down to her mouth, planting soft pecks in rapid succession until they are both laughing, all teeth and sloppy lips.
When they break apart, he tilts her face gently to meet his eyes; brows raised as he traces her earlobe with his thumb and hums in question.
Resting her forehead against his, she nods. I’m okay.
More than okay.
*Dè tha dol, mo ghràidh?—What’s happening, my love?