#the slow build of tension and feral energy in the music while the voice stays haunting and low. that fucking Scream

[whimsicalcotton]

okay after listening to Spiracle like 6000 more times it's not just those last few lines. the whole fuckin thing is Saturated in pricefield flavors.

[kkruml]

STAY Ch 12

Thank you to @sassenachwaffles for your tireless cheerleading of my half-baked ideas, and to @missclairebelle- I know I interupted a bubble bath with a late night panic attack over the end of this chapter. Words just aren’t enough for you both.

Mood Music

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

AO3

Previously

“Jamie… for so long I’ve never felt like I belonged.” She paused, taking a breath before continuing. Her voice was quiet, but steady, “My parents and I- we did travel quite a bit. Boston never really felt like home- it was just a place to land for a spell before we were off to the next adventure.”

His mind conjured images of his own childhood.

The large stone buildings and secret passages through the woods that carved and molded his memories. The very stone walls of Lallybroch had been home, at least long ago. He’d always imagined being Laird, with his lady by his side. A mix of tradition and adolescent daydreams that had once seemed like the logical step in his life’s trajectory. It had been an all but foregone conclusion until a dark night and the sound of twisted metal that scattered his future to the wind… until now.

Her fingers found his hand and intertwined her fingers with his, “Home- it’s always been an idea, but not a place for me, Jamie.”

Home. Loving her was now home to him.

The weight of her hand in his anchored him to the bench as he struggled to keep a clear mind. “What is home to ye now, Sassenach?”

Golden amber glowed in the early evening sun. “Home to me… is you, Jamie.”

Claire

“Are ye sure about this, Sassenach?” Jamie’s eyes were slanted with concern as he watched her hands carefully travel over the document, her pen deftly situated in her hand.

With her heart pounding in her chest and a swell of happiness curling her lips into a smile, she met his gaze. His eyebrows were pressed together in concern, and she lifted her hand to his cheek, feeling the stubble prickle under her touch. The word bubbled from her chest and sent a warm wave of contentment through her veins. “Yes.”

The pen swirled and dipped against the paper in a flourish as she finished her signature.

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

A heaviness lifted, and her heart constricted as the last fleeting memories came rushing back to her.

This house. This place. Her parents. So many things that would never be. But so much more that was now possible.

Gently placing the pen next to the fresh ink, she nodded. “And that’s that.”

“What happens now?”

“Uncle Lamb will handle the particulars,” she paused, feeling a large arm snake around her shoulder and she leaned into the warmth.

They had given her the gift of her past. It was time for her to turn towards her future.

“It will take some time, but the foundation will be able to convert this place into a proper home for…  parentless children.”

Orphans.

The word she couldn’t quite say aloud. The place she’d known for so long would be the soft place to land for children less fortunate than she, but also so similar in their loss and longing for a family.

The weight of his hand brought her back to the present. The pattern of swirls his fingers traced prickling her skin were as comforting as they were intoxicating. Tilting her face to his, she was met with a tranquil sea of blue, framed by auburn lashes.

“Yer parents would be proud, Claire,” his voice was soft, the lilt of his accent wrapping around the words and catching at her name. His fingers curled around her shoulder as he gave it a gentle squeeze.

Settling against his side, she sighed and felt the release of tension between her shoulder blades, feeling the weight of the last several weeks fade away. “Take me home- to Scotland.”

Jamie

Should he ask her now?

Wait til she gets through the door ye dolt.  

He’d prepared a late-night meal for her, too planned to be a casual affair. She’d know he was up to something.

Like memorizing lyrics, he rehearsed the words over and over in his head.

My flat is two blocks closer to the hospital. Ye’ve spent all yer nights here since Boston- almost two weeks now. Why pay for a flat when yer never there?

His thoughts jumped from one point to the next in a dizzying pace until all thoughts blurred and he was left with the simple truth-

I want ye here with me.

A smile played at his lips- to know she’d be here every night, to wake up to every morning… to find in the darkness between sleeping and waking. To start planning for things to come.

‘Home to me… is you.’

Her words echoed in the quiet moments of his day, finding strength as he thought about that night in Boston.

He was ready; that much he knew. He just hoped she was, too.

His fingers fidgeted with the spare key, eyeing the clock.

11:15pm. Surgery must have gone long.

After watching the rugby highlights again, he checked his phone- 12:45am, and a new text from Claire.

               Sorry love. Likely another hour to go. Save my spot.

His heart sank as he sighed, the hope of her delicate form materializing from around the corner disappeared. Picking up his phone, he tapped out a response.

               Dinna fash, Sassenach. Yer spot’s here waitin’ for ye.

Rubbing his bleary eyes, he shuffled from the couch to the kitchen to put away dinner. Leaning against the counter, he eyed the couch- the cushions still pressed to resemble his shape after hours of surfing the tube. His gaze traveled down the hallway in the direction of their bedroom.

I’ll rest my eyes- just for a few minutes.

Trudging the dozen steps to his bed, he collapsed face first into his pillow, consciousness slowly slipping away as darkness conjured sleep.

The ringtone jolted him awake. Fumbling for the phone on his nightstand, the time stared back at him: 4:10am.

Stretching his limbs, his hand searched for the wig of curls that should be sprawled on the pillow next to him but found it empty.

Squinting through the haze of sleep, there was nothing from Claire, but there were two missed calls.

His pulse quickened, and his blood ran cold. Geillis- at 2:17am and 4:09am. He blinked at the screen.

Why would she be calling him- and why now?

It had taken all of thirty seconds for him to grab his coat and shoes before he was out the door, down the stairwell, and onto the pavement in the direction of the hospital.

He stared at the doctor as he explained her injuries, his lips moving but the sounds barely registering.

She had stepped off the curb a moment too early.

A car rushing into the A&E driven by a frantic father-to-be with his wife in labor.

The vehicle struck her side.

Blunt force trauma due to the impact.

A cascade of words unraveled as he tried to process them.

Claire. She was hurt.

His chest constricted as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. The fluorescent lights of the waiting room flickered as his knees buckled. Stumbling backwards into a chair, his fingers gripped the wooden armrests, desperate for something -anything- to anchor him to the present.

Time slowly ticked by; seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. He perked to every pair of footsteps, hoping for an update or some word of her condition. Each fragile flutter of hope he felt swell in his chest was dashed as the sounds faded, echoing off the hospital walls.

His fingers drummed against his thigh, a constant rhythm that matched his heartbeat. Between slow, painful blinks he caught sight of fiery red hair, and he leapt to his feet- a sudden jolt of energy coursing through his veins.

“How is she?” His voice shook.

“She’s stable.” Geillis’s voice was husky, an octave lower than it should be. Her usual smirk was gone, replaced with lips drawn into a somber line. The look unsettled him. “Nasty concussion, they had a fitful time resetting the break in her arm. A few broken ribs, and some cuts and scrapes. She’s resting now.”

His stomach flipped as he conjured her face- lifeless, pale, and bleeding on the pavement. Every muscle in his body tensed, taut as a tightrope suspended somewhere between two limitless points. Once misstep and he’d come completely undone.

A wave of nausea flooded his senses, his eyes snapped shut as he heard faint sounds of tires screeching. The sound mixed with the thrumming of his pulse in his ears. He had seen this before. And he had been helpless. He’d sworn an oath of protection to Claire- that she was safe with him. He would have sacrificed his body to protect her. But here he was, hands shaking at his sides in a waiting room while she lay in a hospital bed, alone.

“Can I take ye to her?” Her voice was quiet, soft as if trying to tame a feral animal.

He nodded almost imperceptibly and shuffled behind her, barely allowing a half-step between them.

The beep of the monitors filled his ears, his eyes found her face immediately. A cut marred her perfect ivory skin lining the curve of her cheek.

Stepping slowly, cautiously, he eyed the empty chair next to her.

Geillis’s eyes traveled to the empty seat, her words urging him forward, “She’ll want ye here when she wakes.”

When she wakes.

He grasped onto the word- when- and watched it slowly morph, the letters contorting and disappearing until a thought grabbed hold of him and persisted.

If she wakes.

His eyes traveled down the lines of her thin frame, angles long ago memorized but suddenly fleeting. The urge to remember every detail overcame him. Cautiously, his fingers drifted to her hand, slowly taking it in his own. Warm and soft, he felt her blood pulsing through her veins and he exhaled in relief.

She was real, immediate, alive.

The sound of humming perked his ears and he looked around. Finding the room empty, he realized it was the sound of his own voice.

That song.

“Sassenach…” he cleared his throat to stop it from shaking. “The thing is… I’ve got this song.”

He waited, checking to see if she’d wake up. After two heartbeats and a deafening silence, he swallowed hard and continued.

“I’ve been hearin’ this melody since the night I met ye.” Gently stroking her hand, soft skin almost translucent in this light, his fingers trembled. She was too still, too quiet. He longed to feel her fingers lace into his. His voice was hollow, “I just need ye to wake up and help me with the lyrics.”

He conjured the words that had been seared into his heart- words that brought the sensation of her lips and the warmth of her touch when he needed them most. The words had flooded the still moments in his day, tangled themselves in his thoughts, but he couldn’t quite reach out and touch them and make them real.

The sound of the heart monitor pierced through the silence.

“A calm sea once clear blue,” he started, pausing to take a shaky breath as his throat tightened. “Ye came to me and turned my world to whisky.”

Her face at the bar filled his vision –– her cheeks were so rosy, the whisky in her eyes so clear.

Steeling himself, he whispered, “Taste you on my tongue, feel you on my skin…” 

The first time they had kissed – his hand molded to the soft curve of her cheek, the taste of her breath, crisp and warm.

“A bird in flight, black lines against ivory rippling across the bay.”

That heron etched into her skin, the memories she entrusted to him.

"Nothing is lost- only changed. But please…” his voice cracked as a wall of tears threatened to blur his vision. Thoughts skipped across his mind as the last of the lyrics danced on his tongue, his plea to her, “Please stay.”