Not the Meek and Obedient Type

a dumb wind down before bed

Outlander | Jamie & Claire

Beau Taplin

What if Claire realized much sooner The John Problem is The Wentworth Problem? What if Claire and Jamie spent a lot of time having recuperative sex?

Chapter 1 is up now, all the spicy sexcapades are in Chapter 2, which will be up in about a week.

It was Buck Mackenzie who finally summoned the courage to address the proverbial elephant in the room. Breakfast, to that point, had been spent in a collective, stunned silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of spoons.

“Aye, well. S’pose I’ll be the one to ask, then, shall I?” he offered abruptly. All eyes around the campfire moved in unison from his face to mine, and I nodded, humming earnest approval around a mouthful of parritch.

Much like his father before him, he wasn’t one to mince words. “What… are ye, exactly?”

I managed, with no small effort, to move the glob of paste to the back of my mouth and swallow. “How do you mean?”

Buck’s blue eyes darted about in search of aid. Finding none, he expounded with a bit more reluctance, “Beggin’ yer pardon, mistress, but t’isnae a mere mortal can raise a man from the dead.” 

“Nor walk through solid stone,” Jamie warned, his glare lethal, “yet here ye are.”

Even as Buck raised a palm in concession, Young Ian chimed in to his left. “He’s right, Uncle. We’ve a fair number of time travelers among us, and none of them can do what Auntie did.”

I took a moment to study the faces of each of the three men sitting with us before meeting my husband’s gaze. An entire conversation passed unspoken between us as we tried to decide who should speak and what we should share. Jamie was afraid, and that fear made him want to keep his cards close to his chest until we had more answers. While I understood his reservations, I also recognized that we might never know more — and our loved ones deserved honesty, particularly if we were asking for their help. 

He didn’t like it, but he dropped his gaze to his parritch nonetheless, two fingers tapping restlessly on the side of the bowl.

“I’m not sure if there is a name for a person with my… ability,” I began slowly and carefully, shifting my focus back to Ian. “But you’re right that it’s something separate from the time travel, or… well, at least it’s not necessarily part of the trait. I’ve only ever known one other person who could do this, and I’m not even sure if he was a traveler.”

All three sets of eyebrows raised at that, though it was Roger who clarified this time: “You’ve known someone else who could raise the dead?”

So Fair Art Thou

Jamie finds Brianna on the porch, her gaze intent on Claire. Her brows drew together when the cloud of bees grows, becoming a small storm in the distance.

“Dinna fash, she knows what she’s about.”

“I used to think they taught it in medical school, that self-assurance.” Brianna laughs, and it is a blessing in itself the sound is so familiar.

Jamie warms with memory. “Nay, I saw that from the first. It’s wi’ her always.”

Claire emerges from her beekeeper’s veil. As she strides closer, he can see her dawning smile.

“Bonnie,” Jamie breathes.

Time had been such a convoluted thing since the day we’d left the Ridge, and none the simpler for the wee matter of my death.

When I dredged myself up from the muck of a black and dreamless sleep, my pocketwatch wasn’t to hand — still tucked away in my sporran somewhere, strewn haphazardly about the tent with the rest of our clothes. I hadn’t any idea of the hour, but birdsong drifted sweetly through the trees overhead, and the light filtering through the canvas was the soft rose-gold of morning. 

We’d slept through a full day and night, then, at the least. 

Claire had been tucked into the same position all the while, even when I rolled one way or the other. Her joints wouldn’t thank her for it — neither had mine after Monmouth, when I’d slept propped between two chairs or on the floor beside her bed. Here, at least, the two of us fit on the cot together.

And this time, there was no bullet wound to avoid.

That was my first marvel, upon waking. I didn’t know what I expected to find… perhaps a freshly-scabbed pock like the birdshot had left, or even something akin to a burn where she’d seared the hole shut. But there was nothing: no trace of injury old or new, no indication whatsoever that I’d taken a bullet to the heart. Eyes narrowed, I grazed my fingertips back and forth over the unbroken skin, then probed a bit harder, testing. The muscle ached as though I’d worked too many hours splitting wood or hammering at a forge, but otherwise—

Evidently, my poking and prodding were more disruptive than I meant; inhaling a deep breath through her nose, Claire nuzzled into my ribs, then shifted her head to peer up at me.

Her beautiful… snow white head.