#OutlanderEdit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lilpotatjj · 2 days ago

Text

Couldn't wait to write it all down. Our sweetheart Cait became emotional after taking off her wig for the last time. And we all ken that there's only one person she gets the comfort right? Here ye go (it's a wee bit longer as I thought..should I be sorry?..nae ;) )

Warning: sweet comfort and some sadness and a wee bit of drama. And a Sam that is so in scots character 😂👀

One last time

There it lay...a simple scrap of hair. Simple? It was anything but simple. This wig was a part of her existence, her life. It had been with her for eleven years and it was hard to believe that this was the last time it would be taken off. She tried to pull herself together and put the mobile aside, the tears still in her eyes. Recorded for eternity and for those who made it possible to embody Claire Fraser for so long. The fans. She looked silently into the mirror and suppressed a small sob as she fixed the rest of her own hair. Sam hadn't finished when she got up and left the trailer quietly and without a word. He looked after her anxiously and thoughtfully, oblivious to the fact that he had unfamiliar hands halfway down his face. A smile, a small and heavy smile was on her face as she left and she tried to keep her composure. She always did. Pretending to be strong and trying to look professional, which she usually managed quite well, but...not today.

When Sam had finished, he stood up in a flash, like a horse just waiting to race to the starting line. He came out and looked around. There were other smaller trailers everywhere. It was already starting to get dark and the whole set was in an after-work mood. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Sam walked slowly through the various crowds. Cait had been tense all day, then the photo for 'The Last Wrap'. She didn't have a single second to herself. He kept getting a hand slapped on his shoulder or back as a sign of excellent work and gratitude, but he hardly bothered to respond. Here and there a small nod of thanks and a smile as he meandered past the people.

He couldn't find her, not even in her trailer. He decided to go into the hall to the set and bumped into Sophie. "Have you seen Cait?" he asked her, unconsciously worried.

"Sam! Ah...yes, she was walking towards Lallybroch's set" she said, adding "Are you coming to the bar for drinks tonight too?"

He raised his hand in thanks and nodded, but left without saying anything to Sophie's astonishment.

"Okay?" she mumbled quietly, shrugging her shoulders as she left too.

A huge room with green and blue screens opened up to him as he entered. Parts of masonry could be seen. Lallybroch. The heart of the set. There she stood in the middle of the walls. He went to her and gave her space, standing a little apart behind her to enjoy the silence with her. It's so ironic, the usually loud hustle and bustle of the set during filming was stifled. You'd think no one had been here for centuries, as if only ghosts were wandering around. She didn't move, although she knew it was Sam standing with her. She could feel his aura very clearly, the same as every day. It could have been anyone, but she would recognize his from thousands.

He finally came a little closer to her, stood close behind her and followed her gaze across the huge set. She wiped her face, not turning an inch. She knew that if she did that now, the dam of her whole frame would break. The actually positive advantage of being able to let herself go with him and only him. But now she felt it was a weakness. She didn't want to cry, not over something so trivial. That's what she thought. Sam took a quiet breath and cleared his throat. He knows her and knows that it's better not to push her now. She'll come to him when she needs him, just like always.

"The others want to go partying, have a drink. Are you coming?" He asked carefully to give her room to breathe. "Of course!" she sounded completely normal as she turned to him. There it was, the smile that could have melted him, but... it had a bitter aftertaste. "Let's go, I want to freshen up quickly and then we can go," she said, playing relaxed. Yes...acting, but she can't do that to him. If anyone could keep their composure, it was Sam. Not Cait. She was Claire through and through when it came to interpreting emotions, she couldn't lie. In front of anyone else...but not in front of him.

He followed her to the trailer and didn't bother to wait outside. He didn't care what anyone else on the set thought. He had to stay with her now, make sure he was there at all times. After all these years, he just wanted to think about her and not worry about what others were saying or thinking about either of them. Cait looked at him in surprise for a moment, hesitantly closed the door and followed Sam with her gaze, who simply sat down on one of the small benches and stared out of the window. She paused briefly, then went to change her clothes and freshen up, only to stand in front of him ten minutes later, ready to go. He stood up and grinned at the sight of her. "You're far too pretty for tonight my dear" he said more proudly than jealously. She smiled sweetly at him and studied him silently for a moment, giving him a kiss on the cheek. It was breathy, almost apologetic, which was why he scanned her curiously.

"We should go before I change my mind mo chridhe" She giggled affectionately at his words and they both left the trailer.

When they arrived at the bar, they joined the others. There were quite a few of them. Sophie, Richard, Lauren, John and César were also there. When they arrived at the table, the others cheered them loudly, glasses were raised and everyone roared. Sam laughed contentedly, gently placed his hand on Caits back and took one of the whisky glasses to clink glasses. Cait gave Sophie a hug and took a glass too.

"Slainte!" the Scot called out loudly and everyone joined in. with one big draught, almost everyone drank the glass empty together while the music played loudly in the background. "So James Fraser!" said Sophie and continued with a smile. "Let you and your Sassenach celebrate hard today!"

His face lit up with joy and he raised his newly refilled whisky glass. "Not just me, but my wonderful partner Cait, as well as all of you!" They raised their glasses again, but at Sam's words, the Irishwoman stared at him silently for a moment, then drained her glass in one go, which Sam just looked at silently. They all talked about the wonderful memories of the last eleven years. Everyone had a lot to say, except Cait, who was quite silent. Had agreed here and there or made a quick comment. Richard was in his own world, having another drink.

As Cait poured herself her 5th glass, the Scot stopped her without thinking. "Ok, slow down babe the evening is still young" She looked at him in disbelief. He knows what her limit is, but she didn't really care at the moment. Fully focused on Cait, Sam didn't notice the looks from the others, which he had caught with her nickname.

Now it was Richard who interrupted the tension and drew the puzzled looks when he distracted the group with a question.

"Do you have any ideas or other projects for the future?" Everyone joined in and suggested ideas or said no, including Cait. "I'm sure it won't be easy to switch off Claire after all this time. But you have so much talent, you could play anything," Sophie said without thinking and received a serious look from the Irishwoman for this statement. Cait stood up and politely excused herself, all eyes fixed on her. Sam did the same and rose to follow her. She went out into the fresh air, breathing faster, doing her best not to lose her composure completely now. Sam came out to her and saw her pacing back and forth, slightly upset and with tears in her eyes. He stood there, still hesitating, he knew her.

"Do you want to go?" he asked calmly and she looked to him for help. That was the hint. He went to her, took her in his arms and simply held her tightly. "We're going..." he whispered softly and lovingly and she just nodded silently, hiding her face in his chest. Sam gave her time and gently hugged her tighter, then took her to his car. Thank God he only had two whiskies.

"I'll let the others know," came from him briefly and as quickly as he was in, he was out again. She sat quietly in the passenger seat, looking at him apologetically as he got behind the wheel. "You don't have to look like that, it's all right. The others are having fun without us," he said in his soft voice, but she looked out of the window briefly as he started the engine. "That's not it. I didn't want to ruin your evening," she said, again with an innocent look. Sam snorted in amusement. "Cait as long as I'm with you every night is saved" he spoke seriously and smiled sincerely at her. "I just need you mo chridhe"

She gave him a wistful smile, she was happy. He stroked her chin and smiled at her with his typical wide grin. "And now let's check into the hotel" he drove off, concentrating on the road and sensing that Cait was still tense.

When he arrived, he looked at her quietly.

"So Claire Fraser" he rolled the 'R' especially and started speaking in Jamie's accent. God she loved his Scottish accent, but it's exactly what her heart doesn't want to hear right now. Cait ignored him and fussed with her hair. "Ye cannae hold it in forever," he said, letting Jamie hang out in full conversational tone. "Stop it Sam, we're not on set anymore," she said annoyed and snappy. He raised his typical eyebrow and walked slowly towards her. "it winnae get any better if ye dinnae let it out...~Claire~!" He emphasized the name of her second life again and made zero effort to stop. She turned to him and scowled. "You're not Jamie!" she commanded rather than saying it. "hm.. nae?" he couldn't ask more Scottishly and grabbed her arm, gently but firmly. "Cait, we've lived these roles for eleven years, they're a part of us and they'll be a part of us forever!" he said sternly, not even thinking about locking the Jamie inside him away. "But it's over now, damn it!" she hissed and tried to pull away. He was beginning to feel like he was filming a scene on set with Claire rather than arguing with Cait herself. She finally clung to him as she gave up. She knew he was right... right from the beginning. But the painful thought that it's over forever is too great.

At last he had her where he wanted her. She could no longer hold back the tears and hid her face in his chest while he held her and stroked her head. The Scotsman gave her a gentle kiss on the head every now and then. It took a while before she finally calmed down. She swallowed it for too long and didn't let it out. Otherwise so tough, it's still not such an easy path. After all, it is the goal that has been irrevocably achieved.

Eleven years of hard work and so many memories. The fact that she had met and fallen in love with her husband there weighed deeply. He picked her up bridal style and carried her to the couch in the room. "It's okay my love...I'm so proud of you. You've done such a great job all these years" she laid her head on his lap. "That's what the right person says...without you, the show would only be half as good!" she said with charming sweet but tired smile and grabbed his chin with his slight beard stubble.

He returned her smile just as lovingly, leaned down and gave her a kiss on the lips. "It doesn't matter what the future holds for us, as long as we're together I don't care," he couldn't say it any sweeter and stroked her silky, dark hair lovingly. She just looked at him in love, the blush on her face full of happiness to have him with her.

"Do you want to watch something?" he asked and she nodded silently. Sam switched on the TV and pulled her closer to him. "My Sassenach," he said quietly and proudly.

"My red-haired, stubborn and hot-headed Highlander"

57 notes · View notes

sassenach77yle · 2 days ago

Text

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 5 EPISODE 11 || JOURNEYCAKE||

#83daysofoutlander☆

It had taken some experimentation to put the microscope together properly; it wasn’t much like a modern version, particularly when reduced to its component parts for storage in Dr. Rawlings’s handsome box. Still, the lenses were recognizable, and with that as a starting point, I had managed to fit the optical bits into the stand without much trouble. Obtaining sufficient light, though, had been more difficult, and I was thrilled finally to have got it working.

“What are ye doing, Sassenach?” Jamie, with a piece of toast in one hand, paused in the doorway.

“Seeing things,” I said, adjusting the focus.

“Oh, aye? What sorts of things?” He came into the room, smiling. “Not ghosties, I trust. I will have had enough o’ those.”

“Come look,” I said, stepping back from the microscope. Mildly puzzled, he bent and peered through the eyepiece, screwing up his other eye in concentration.

He squinted for a moment, then gave an exclamation of pleased surprise. “I see them! Wee things with tails, swimming all about!” He straightened up, smiling at me with a look of delight, then bent at once to look again. I felt a warm glow of pride in my new toy.

“Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Aye, marvelous,” he said, absorbed. “Look at them. Such busy wee strivers as they are, all pushing and writhing against one another—and such a mass of them!”

He watched for a few moments more, exclaiming under his breath, then straightened up, shaking his head in amazement.

“I’ve never seen such a thing, Sassenach. Ye’d told me about the germs, aye, but I never in life imagined them so! I thought they might have wee teeth, and they don’t—but I never kent they would have such handsome, lashing wee tails, or swim about in such numbers.”

“Well, some microorganisms do,” I said, moving to peer into the eyepiece again myself. “These particular little beasts aren’t germs, though—they’re sperms.” “They’re what?” He looked quite blank. “Sperms,” I said patiently. “Male reproductive cells. You know, what makes babies?” I thought he might just possibly choke. His mouth opened, and a very pretty shade of rose suffused his countenance.

“Ye mean seed?” he croaked. “Spunk?” “Well . . . yes.” Watching him narrowly, I poured steaming tea into a clean beaker and handed it to him as a restorative. He ignored it, though, his eyes fixed on the microscope as though something might spring out of the eyepiece at any moment and go writhing across the floor at our feet. “Sperms,” he muttered to himself. “Sperms.” He shook his head vigorously, then turned to me, a frightful thought having just occurred to him. “Whose are they?” he asked, his tone one of darkest suspicion. “Er . . . well, yours, of course.” I cleared my throat, mildly embarrassed. “Who else’s would they be?” His hand darted reflexively between his legs, and he clutched himself protectively. “How the hell did ye get them?” “How do you think?” I said, rather coldly. “I woke up in custody of them this morning.” His hand relaxed, but a deep blush of mortification stained his cheeks dark crimson. He picked up the beaker of tea and drained it at a gulp, temperature notwithstanding. “I see,” he said, and coughed. There was a moment of deep silence. “I . . . um . . . didna ken they could stay alive,” he said at last. “Errrrm . . . outside, I mean.” “Well, if you leave them in a splotch on the sheet to dry out, they don’t,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Keep them from drying out, though”—I gestured at the small, covered beaker, with its small puddle of whitish fluid—“and they’ll do for a few hours. In their proper habitat, though, they can live for up to a week after . . . er . . . release.” “Proper habitat,” he repeated, looking pensive. He darted a quick glance at me. “Ye do mean—” “I do,” I said, with some asperity. “Mmphm.” At this point, he recalled the piece of toast he still held, and took a bite, chewing meditatively. “Do folk know about this? Now, I mean?” “Know what? What sperm look like? Almost certainly. Microscopes have been around for well over a hundred years, and the first thing anyone with a working microscope does is to look at everything within reach. Given that the inventor of the microscope was a man, I should certainly think that . . . Don’t you?” He gave me a look, and took another bite of toast, chewing in a marked manner. “I shouldna quite like to refer to it as ‘within reach,’ Sassenach,” he said, through a mouthful of crumbs, and swallowed. “But I do take your meaning.”

As though compelled by some irresistible force, he drifted toward the microscope, bending to peer into it once more. “They seem verra fierce,” he ventured, after a few moments’ inspection. “Well, they do need to be,” I said, suppressing a smile at his faintly abashed air of pride in his gametes’ prowess. “It’s a long slog, after all, and a terrific fight at the end of it. Only one gets the honor, you know.” He looked up, blank-faced. It dawned on me that he didn’t know. He’d studied languages, mathematics, and Greek and Latin philosophy in Paris, not medicine. And even if natural scientists of the time were aware of sperm as separate entities, rather than a homogenous substance, it occurred to me that they probably didn’t have any idea what sperm actually did. “Wherever did you think babies came from?” I demanded, after a certain amount of enlightenment regarding eggs, sperms, zygotes, and the like, which left Jamie distinctly squiggle-eyed. He gave me a rather cold look. “And me a farmer all my life? I ken precisely where they come from,” he informed me. “I just didna ken that . . . er . . . that all of this daffery was going on. I thought . . . well, I thought a man plants his seed into a woman’s belly, and it . . . well . . . grows.” He waved vaguely in the direction of my stomach. “You know—like . . . seed. Neeps, corn, melons, and the like. I didna ken they swim about like tadpoles.” “I see.” I rubbed a finger beneath my nose, trying not to laugh. “Hence the agricultural designation of women as being either fertile or barren!” “Mmphm.” Dismissing this with a wave of his hand, he frowned thoughtfully at the teeming slide. “A week, ye said. So it’s possible that the wee lad really is the Thrush’s get?” Early in the day as it was, it took half a second or so for me to make the leap from theory to practical application. “Oh—Jemmy, you mean? Yes, it’s quite possible that he’s Roger’s child.” Roger and Bonnet had lain with Brianna within two days of each other. “I told you—and Bree—so.” He nodded, looking abstracted, then remembered the toast and pushed the rest of it into his mouth. Chewing, he bent for another look through the eyepiece. “Are they different, then? One man’s from another, I mean?” “Er . . . not to look at, no.” I picked up my cup of tea and had a sip, enjoying the delicate flavor. “They are different, of course—they carry the characteristics a man passes to his offspring. . . .” That was about as far as I thought it prudent to go; he was sufficiently staggered by my description of fertilization; an explanation of genes and chromosomes might be rather excessive at the moment. “But you can’t see the differences, even with a microscope.”

He grunted at that, swallowed the mouthful of toast, and straightened up. “Why are ye looking, then?” “Just curiosity.” I gestured at the collection of bottles and beakers on the countertop. “I wanted to see how fine the resolution of the microscope was, what sorts of things I might be able to see.” “Oh, aye? And what then? What’s the purpose of it, I mean?” “Well, to help me diagnose things. If I can take a sample of a person’s stool, for instance, and see that he has internal parasites, then I’d know better what medicine to give him.” Jamie looked as though he would have preferred not to hear about such things right after breakfast, but nodded. He drained his beaker and set it down on the counter. “Aye, that’s sensible. I’ll leave ye to get on with it, then.”

He bent and kissed me briefly, then headed for the door. Just short of it, though, he turned back.

“The, um, sperms . . .” he said, a little awkwardly. “Yes?”

“Can ye not take them out and give them decent burial or something?” I hid a smile in my teacup.

“I’ll take good care of them,” I promised. “I always do, don’t I?”

36 WORLDS UNSEEN ~THE FIERY CROSS