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anoutlandishfanfic · 5 years ago

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Metamorphosis Ch. 22

The Premise: What if Claire had conceived on her wedding night with Jamie? How would this change the the plot points we all know and love?

Last chapter left a newly rescued Jamie from Wentworth, the lovebirds finally reunited. We pick up shortly after that. You can find more here or on AO3.

Mad props to @thefraserwitch for taking the absolute mess I dumped on you, accurately picked up on what I was trying to get at, and helped me refine it into the magic it is now. She’s a genius and a saint, y’all.

Some time later, Christmas Eve 1743.

We finally came to a rattling stop within the abbey’s inner courtyard and were immediately surrounded by helping hands. A stretcher materialized out of nowhere, toted by the monk who climbed aboard without any sort of official greeting, and everyone seemed to set about transferring Jamie onto it at once.

“Watch his hand,” I hastily urged, leaning forward and reaching out my own to ensure it was positioned stably across his chest as they moved him.

I struggled to my feet in the space just vacated, my spirit longing to bound after them, but my body having another idea entirely and I groaned internally as Dougal offered to help me up.

No. Go away, you fucking vulture.

Dougal had been there, hovering in the background, watching and waiting as we’d made our plans. I’d been wary when he’d volunteered to go to the abbey, sure he was doing everything he could to subvert our mission and would return without a sanctuary secured.

He hadn’t entirely thwarted our plans — for he had gotten the approval we needed — but he also ensured he would be within arm’s reach to snatch me up, should the men or I fail.

“Don’t touch me,” I growled as I moved towards the end of the wagon. Willie, whatever he’d been doing now complete, offered his assistance as well and I took it immediately, my feet finally touching solid ground as he lifted me out of the wagon bed.

Trailing after Jamie and his entourage, Willie stayed by my side and Dougal directly on my heels as we wound our way through a maze of stone corridors, one bending and turning into the next until we arrived at the room the brothers had prepared for us. It was small and sparsely furnished, but it would do.

“Father Anselm, this is Misses Fraser,” Dougal coolly introduced me to an elderly priest with a kind expression. “He’s agreed to you shelter until… we can find a more permanent solution.”

He’d covered it nicely, but I knew what he’d meant.

Until I failed.

But, I wouldn’t fail.

I would piece together Jamie’s hand and bring him back to health… back me, back to us.

“Thank you, Father,” I smiled, my gratitude genuine as I ignored Dougal’s veiled threats. “We are most grateful.”

“Think nothing of it,” his returned smile made me want to weep, the almost parental gaze tearing down the facades I’d held in place for far too long as he assured me, “We shall talk later.”

I nodded, suddenly remembering the supplies I’d requested, blurting, “I’m going to need—“

“Your husband’s uncle has given us your instructions, my child,” he cut me off and patted my hand, warming it between his own.

“You’ll find everything you need on the table there.”

A deep sigh left my lips before I could stop it as I squeezed his hand, meaning what I said with every fiber of my being as I repeated, “Thank you.”

He stepped away at this, revealing Dougal, who had been waiting in the weeds for a perfect time to pounce.

“Claire, I must speak with ye,” he begged, this time making no effort to hide his motives.

I side-stepped around him with a huff and tried to continue towards my destination, but he caught hold of my elbow, keeping me in my place.

“If I don’t set that hand, he’ll be crippled for life,” I seethed, leveling him with a look that should have incapacitated him on the spot.

Instead, his blue eyes turned ice cold and a sickening smile tugged at his lips as his voice dropped, snidely commenting, “That long?”

I was just about ready to slap him in that smug face of his, but Jamie’s voice gave me the exit I needed.

“Claire?”

My heart lurched as I instantly turned my attention to him, dismissing Dougal coldly and succinctly as I hurried to my husband’s side, “If you’ll excuse us.”

Snagging a low stool from along the wall, I deposited it beside the bed and eased myself down onto it. His head turned on the pillow, his brow furrowed and eyes screwed up tight in agony as he rasped, “Claire…”

My left hand reached for his — his whole and dominant one — taking hold of him, assuring, “I’m right here, luv.”

The other hand gravitated to his face, pulled by the overwhelming need to take him into my arms. I cupped his cheek with my palm, my thumb tenderly stroking his chilled skin as he struggled to open his eyes.

“I’ve got you, Jamie,” I promised, silently vowing to never let him go, ever again.

His blue eyes found mine for the first time, clouded with pain and shrouded with an inner turmoil that cut me to my very core. He frowned as he studied me, searching for something in my face that he couldn’t quite find.

“Claire,” Jamie murmured again.

I bent my head, kissing him gently but urgently and I felt a good deal of tension leave his body in a shuddering sigh. My eyes slid shut as I pressed my brow to his, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed beside him, to fall into mind numbing slumber and wake to find this had all been a terrible dream.

But it hadn’t been a dream.

I’d very nearly lost him forever.

“You’re safe,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears that threatened to fall.

Jamie let go of my hand and his good arm slipped around my neck, pulling my head to his. I twisted, shifting onto the bed beside him as my body tried to bend that way. The bulk of me made things cumbersome and I struggled to be as close to my husband as I wanted to be. I began to tremble, shaking from head to toe as we clung to each other, the events of the past twenty-four hours suddenly hitting me with the force of a freight train.

“You’re safe,” I repeated, as much to remind myself as it was to reassure him.

So many things could have gone wrong.

Should have gone wrong.

A gaggle of Highland warriors and their herd of cows should not have been able to break into a fortified British prison, recover a highly guarded inmate, and escape again without losing a single man.

It shouldn’t have worked.

But it had.

And Jamie was safe, here in my arms.

“Oh God, Jamie,” I hiccuped, unable to hold back my tears any longer.

I felt him nod against me, his breath catching as he pushed me away ever so slightly, his chin dipping as he stared at what was left of my waist.

“The bairns?”

I half laughed, half sobbed as I moved his hand against me, guiding it to the place where our children were currently objecting to my bent position. They were busy, thriving within me despite all I’d been through on the road. Relief washed over his face as they demonstrated well-being, dancing and rejoicing at their father’s touch.

But, soon, the muscles of his jaw began to tighten as he seemed to process a great many things and his head dropped back down onto the pillow… almost in defeat.

My heart lurched as I murmured, “What is it, luv?”

His left hand drifted over to his right forearm — just above the carnage — as his gaze fixated on a distant spot on the wall, unable to look at me.

“Will it mend?”

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.

A knock on the door sounded before I could elaborate, Murtaugh’s inquiring a nighean? announcing his presence.

“Come in,” I called reluctantly, hastily wiping my cheeks as Murtagh stuck his head in the door.

“Is there anythin’ I can be fetchin’ for ye?”

Jamie’s head turned on the pillow in response to his godfather’s question and, with an effort, I stood again, forcing a smile as I gathered my resolve.

I wanted nothing more than to send Murtagh off for a doctor, to whisk Jamie off to the nearest hospital where a team of surgeons could repair his hand and I could simply be his wife… allowed to be fearful, to sit in a chair and wait and pray.

But that option was not available to me.

Pull it together. Jamie needs you to have a clear head.

Taking one deep breath and then another, I asked, “Do you have a flask of whisky on you?”

“Aye, always,” a slow smile stretched across Murtagh’s face.

I lifted my chin, clenching my fists at my sides as I insisted, “Then let’s do this.”

I moved away from the bed, heading towards the wash basin that stood in the corner. I slowly cleaned my hands, washing away the grime as I my mind returned to the task at hand.

What a horrible pun, I flinched and shook my head, trying to rid myself of the connection.

“Sassenach?”

Jamie’s rasping voice snapped my head to the side, catching sight of him out of the corner of my eye. He was studying me intently, the gears of his mind working something over.

“Are you alright?”

The soap slipped out of my hand and into the basin with a splash, tears blurring my vision once more.

“Yes,” I answered a little too quickly, turning back to washing my hands and fishing the soap back out so he wouldn’t see my face.

Only Jamie would ask such a question.

His tender care of me was nothing new, but now —while he was incapacitated and in excruciating pain — it sucked the very air from my lungs, bending me over the basin as I gripped the sides.

“Claire?”

The concern in his voice rose, but I knew I had to keep it together, knowing that if I turned back to face him in this moment, I wouldn't be able to.

And so, I dried my hands absently as I lied, “I’m fine.”

Murtagh returned just then and extinguished any further discussion over how I was feeling. I set him to work, directing him as to where I needed things while I sterilized my hands the few instruments I had in the whisky, leaving him to do the heavy lifting in relative silence.

I collected the stack of clean cloths from the table and crossed the room, placing them beside the bucket of fresh water as I tried to settle myself to my work. Standing at the table Murtagh had placed next to the bed, I began arraigning things so that they’d be within easy reach, struggling to put up a calm front before I faced Jamie again. I could hear Murtagh helping Jamie to drink the whisky he’d procured and let him care for his godson for a good many moments as I took the time to deeply inhale and exhale, to harden my resolve and commit to having a clear, objective mindset.

Finally turning around, I found Jamie’s eyes firmly shut again, caught up in his pain. Murtagh had moved over to the other side of the bed, giving me room to work, and I stiffly positioned myself on my work stool. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was better than being on my feet and bending over him.

I checked his pulse, finding it steady beneath my fingers and noticing that his breathing had begun to even out as the whisky took on its second use as an analgesic.

“Sorcha?”

My heart crashed through the floorboards beneath my feet as his lips slowly formed the syllables of my Gaelic name and the sound of it simultaneously tore down the wall I’d hastily built to protect myself, flaying my heart wide open before him— even as it bolstered and sustained me, giving me the wherewithal to do what I needed to do… to operate on my own husband.

My hands stilled as I returned my attention to him, my lips forming a wobbly smile as I met his gaze. I saw the vestiges of pain still remaining in the corners of his consciousness, but the magical elixir of alcohol told him he no longer need care about it and he bought that lie hook, line, and sinker.

“Right here, luv,” I murmured, dipping my head.

“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You shouldna… you should be… I’m so sorry, mo nighean donn.”

“Jamie,” his name tumbled from my lips as I pressed my cheek to his, crooning in his ear, but he continued.

“You should be a’ Lallybroch broodin’... makin’ yer nest jes the way you like it… no’ slavin’ to mend what canna be mended.”

“Your hand will heal,” I lifted my head in order to look him right in the eyes. He started to disagree, but I stopped him, emphatically repeating myself, “Your hand will heal… and I can’t build my nest without you.”

Infection was my main concern, mostly in his pinky, but I was confident the bones would heal with time. He would likely experience stiffness in the joints and could possibly lose some degree of range of motion as well, but I would do everything within my power to make sure he stood the best chance of a full and total recovery.

He squeezed my hand as his eyes slid shut with a sigh, his questions now answered and his mind at relative ease. I squeezed back, patting his hand gently as my spirit offered up a prayer that my words would prove true.

...

I’d treated horrific injuries in the war, many more unfathomable than the task before me… but none had been my husband.

The wounded soldier had always been a stranger.

Sure, I’d gotten to know many as they recuperated, but they were unknown souls as they lay broken before me on the operating table. But now, for better or for worse, both the soldier and the surgery were completely mine.

I knew every inch of my husband’s body… I could map out his every line, every curve with my eyes closed.

But could I operate on him?

Could I set aside the swirling maelstrom of self-doubt and fear of failing and perform a surgery that would place him in more pain than he was already in, even though I knew it would lessen his pain in the future? Could I overcome the suffocating grief at seeing Jamie like this and overwhelming rage I felt towards the sadistic monster who’d inflicted the wounds in order for me to heal them?

Did I really have a choice?

No.

I slid my eyes shut as I pressed my palms against the table, forcing myself to swallow my emotions, to bury them deep within me. I took a deep breath… and another… and then one more.

My head stopped spinning and clarity was restored to me bit by bit as I began to go about the surgery in my mind. I knew that it would be a long, nerve wracking job and that I’d need to be focused, to be completely in tune with the workings of Jamie’s body.

I was halfway across the room before I even realized I was moving, returning to Jamie out of pure instinct and a blind need to feel his pulse thrumming beneath my fingertips. Sinking down beside him, I remembered something he’d done on our wedding night…

He’d held my hand, even taken me into his arms when sharing our hearts was painful. He’d said that it would be easier if we were touching and it had always proven to be true.

Why would it not be now?

I gently positioned Jamie’s right arm the way I needed it, but the jostling was enough to rouse him from the drunken slumber he’d settled into, his face contorting in pain.

Stopping this and twisting to pick up the measured amount of laudanum, I offered it to him.

“Here, this will help.”

Jamie took the cup and downed its contents gladly, only protesting once he’d swallowed it in one gulp. He screwed up his face in disgust, his jaw dropping and his tongue sticking out as he complained, “A dhia, Sassenach… tha’s foul.”

“It’s strong,” I half apologized, half explained, “but it does the trick.”

He nodded, taking this in stride as he handed me back the cup, holding my hand once his was empty once more. His grip was surprisingly tight and I paused to study his face, finding stark fear under the layers of alcohol and physical pain.

“It’ll be alright,” I assured him, trying to make myself believe it as well.

“Oh, aye, mo nighean donn,” his chin tilted up to look at me as he settled himself against the pillows. “Tis no’ the pain… but what I’ll find once it’s gone, aye?”

I watched him struggle for a moment and then could bear it no longer. Dipping my head, I kissed him long and hard, only coming up for air when I finally felt him relax beneath me.

I pressed my brow against his, whispering, “Find me.”

“I’ll be right here with you, Jamie… at your side when you wake and along with you in your dreams.”

A deep, heavy sigh escaped him and I could tell the laudanum was beginning to take effect. His gaze was distant as he struggled to keep his eyes open, fighting to stay alert instead of letting the drug’s numbing tide take him under.

“I’ve got you, Jamie,” I murmured, my thumb stroking his cheek.

“You’re safe.”

I kissed him again and the last vestiges of tension left his body as he finally drifted off, the lines of pain disappearing from his face, leaving him very much like the last morning I’d spent with him… completely at peace.

“I’ll fetch a few more lamps for ye, lass,” Murtagh murmured, quietly taking his leave.

I sat up after a moment, taking a deep breath and setting my sights on Jamie’s right hand.

“Bone of my bone, mmm?” I intoned wryly, speaking to him even though he couldn’t — wouldn’t — respond.

But... if there was a small chance… even a remote possibility that hearing my voice would keep his demons at bay while he was unconscious, I’d eagerly read him the entire Encyclopedia Britannica without hesitation.

Checking his pulse briefly and finding it still strong, I heaved myself back up and moved away to clean my hands again. It was well worth going about the sanitization process an extra time to be able to touch Jamie, to reassure him as he went under, but I mentally chastised myself for not moving the necessary supplies closer.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bar of carbolic soap or a team of qualified surgeons… but, here we are,” I sighed. “Although, come to think of it, I don’t believe you’d protest much about being stuck with me and a bottle of strong whisky under any normal circumstances…”

Shaking my head at the thought, I let out a decided snort.

“And just what exactly is normal for us, James Fraser?”

Traipsing around the Highlands in every sort of weather? Evading the grasp of the latest in a string of people bent on killing one or both of us?

No, Jamie and I never had anything resembling normal our almost six months of marriage…

I peeked over my shoulder at him, needing to be reassured that he really was here with me, and found exactly what I’d expected… he hadn’t moved so much as a fraction of an inch. Jamie’s chest rose and fell at steady, slow increments, effectively qualming the ridiculous notion that he’d stopped breathing while my back was turned.

Tucking my lower lip firmly between my teeth, I gnawed at it as I resumed my work, going about the meticulous process of getting my hands as clean as I possibly could.

Murtagh returned with the extra lamps in hand as I was rinsing my hands in the whisky for a third time. He set them down, then drifted back to my side, studying me intently as he inquired, “What else can I do, a nighean?”

I paused and shifted my attention back to our patient. We’d removed what was left of Jamie’s clothing long ago, giving our patient a quick once over to get most of the grime off of him, but there was still far more dirt in and around his more minor wounds than I was comfortable with.

“The gashes on his chest… could you wash them again? Rinse them with the whisky?”

Murtagh looked relieved to be of use as he nodded and I gave him a weary smile in return. We worked together but separately, settling into a comfortable silence as we gave our full attention to our respective tasks, caring for the one that our hearts both loved.

With the hand finally clean, I could now begin to reassemble what was left of Jamie’s pinky finger. The very tip of it had been left behind in whatever hell-hole he’d inhabited and the bones that remained were splintered almost beyond repair… but with hours of meticulous attention, I was able to get it to the place where it stood a chance of healing properly.

This having been accomplished, I moved on to his ring finger. He had impressive compound fractures in both his middle and proximal phalanx and it took considerable force to draw the ends of the bones back through the skin, eliciting concern from my ragtag assistant.

“What the hell are ye doin’?!”

Murtagh was opposite me in an instant, gaping at me from across the work table. I tried to ignore him, hoping he’d take the hint and go back to whatever it was that he was doing, but he remained. He hovered in my peripheral vision, arms tightly crossed and disapproval radiating from every ounce of him.

“Setting — his — fucking — finger,” I finally grunted in answer when I could.

Proximal phalanx now in place, I quickly glanced up at him and found a look of half astonished wonder and half complete disquiet at what he’d just witnessed. Murtagh had seen his fair share of violence and wounds it produced in his life, I was sure, but watching someone exert relatively brute force to heal another would be an occurrence of absolute rarity.

I returned my focus to completing my work, but the interruption made me realize just how much I’d lost awareness of anything outside the job I was doing. I noticed that ache of my stiff joints began to settle in as I finished off the final stitch, the fatigue burning my eyes as I carefully splinted the hand, surgery now complete. I felt myself begin to tremble as I bandaged Jamie’s hand, finalizing this first step in his recovery process.

The end of the roll slipped out of my grasp before I could stop it and Murtagh quickly ushered me to a chair along the wall, sturdier and more comfortable than the low stool I’d been occupying. He opened the window a tiny bit, letting in the cold, clean air and I took great gulps of it.

I tipped my head back, letting my eyes slide shut as I fought a sudden wave of dizzying nausea. My hands took great fistfuls of my makeshift apron as I filled my lungs with the night air, trying to rid my nose of the heavy scent of blood.

Jamie’s blood.

Much to my immediate relief, I found that an empty bucket was within arm’s reach and stuck my head into it just in time. I could hear Murtagh’s muttered grumblings as he hurried back to my side, but paid him no heed as everything I’d repressed in the last hours came rushing to the forefront. I began to tremble violently as every muscle in my body gave out, my chest heaving with the sobs I could no longer contain.

“Shh, a leannan,” he crooned and took me into his arms, setting aside the bucket and paying no heed to my complete and utter disarray.

“Ye’ve done it… tis over now.”

It’s over.

It’d taken everything within me and then some, but I had done it. I had successfully set, sutured, and stabilized every injured finger on Jamie’s hand… I had wielded every weapon within my arsenal and came out the other side victorious.

“I can finish yer bandagin’, a nighean,” he assured me, his voice kind but insistent. “My coverin’ will keep til morn… he willna be movin it about much, aye?”

The smile I found in his eyes gave me what I needed to keep my wits about me. I nodded wearily and watched as he — to my surprise — wrapped Jamie’s hand quite efficiently in the cloth bandage. It certainly wouldn’t hold if Jamie used the arm, but our patient wouldn’t be conscious for a good while yet and in no shape to do much more than breathe when he was.

No, as Murtagh so eloquently stated, it would keep until the morn.

My chest heaved as my head slowly cleared and I opened my eyes, blinking down at Murtagh — who was now kneeling at my feet — through my tears. There was something eating at him, words he wanted to say, but chose for the moment to keep to himself.

“Spit it out,” I grumbled, “or else it’s going to choke you.”

Kind concern lit his eyes and it was this that kept me from descending into abject panic as he gently urged, “Go to bed, lass.”

Still, the very suggestion had my heart rate skyrocketing and my mouth completely dry.

“I’m not leaving him,” I choked out.

“An’ ye think I will?” he snorted, one brow nearly reaching the ceiling.

I shook my head, unwilling to so much as budge from this chair.

“I’ll stay wi’ him through the night, a nighean,” he coaxed. “Ye said yerself he wouldna wake before morn and ye need to sleep.”

I didn’t think he would.

My dosage of the laudanum had been approximate, wanting him to be completely under for the procedure but not so much as to cause problems. I’d never worked with the substance before, the bottle remaining untouched in my medicine box until now, and therefore had no more than a general idea of when Jamie would wake. The combination of his hangover and pain from the wounds would no doubt keep him unconscious for a time after that and I could only hope that he’d sleep away what was left of the dark night.

I chewed on my bottom lip as I struggled between not wanting to leave my husbands side ever again for so much as a minute and the overwhelming desire to crawl into an actual bed and sleep until the next millennia… and slumber’s tow was winning.

I eyed him cautiously, testing, “You’ll send for me if there’s any change?”

“Without hesitation,” he promised.

“And not let Dougal so much as touch him?”

“Oh, aye,” Murtagh’s voice dropped to a near growl. “No one save Father Anselm himself will step through that door until you do.”

My gaze shifted to where Jamie’s prostrate form lay on the bed, the slight rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was still alive.

“Go,” Murtagh squeezed my hand, bringing my attention back to my husband’s godfather.

“I’ll see him through.”

A weary smile tugged at the corners of my mouth and, taking this as a sign of committal, Murtagh helped me to my feet. I swayed slightly, my head spinning, and his grip on me tightened, supporting me fully should I need it.

Oh God, did I ever.

Jamie had said to me once that he could bear pain himself, but he couldn’t bear mine… that it would take more strength than he had.

He was right, it did take strength.

I only hoped that each of us had enough.

Instead of heading towards the door, I turned to the wash basin, longing to rid myself of the last remnants of Jamie’s blood from my hands. Murtagh made small noises of protestation, but eventually saw the logic in this and acquiesced.

The soft refrains of the Gloria drifted through the crack at the bottom of the chamber’s door and my hands stilled as I dried them off, my head tipping to one side.

“What time is it?”

Murtagh looked towards the door too, pondering, “Long past midnight, to be sure.”

“Then it’s Christmas,” I murmured in reverent awe.

“Aye,” his voice lowered as well, “so it is.”

Murtagh knew where I was headed I even before I took a step and smoothly led me back to Jamie’s side without so much as a grumble, helping me to sit down on the edge of the bed. I took hold of Jamie’s right hand, pulling it into my lap, and clung to it.

“Happy Christmas,” I murmured to him, picking back up the pattern of speaking my thoughts out loud… hoping he could hear me, that my words would keep his demons at bay for even a short while.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #Metamorphosis AU #chapter 22

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