Piecing Ourselves Back Together
Sussex, Virginia
30th March 1858

He was a work of art; a masterpiece. His face was artistry in and of itself, but God, his body. Every line and curve of him was sculpted to perfection. From the broad set of his shoulders, to the flat planes of his back. Then there was the way his muscles moved just beneath his skin, and the way his mouth parted slightly when he looked at her. Red flames of hair against ocean blue eyes–it was burning and drowning all at the same time, and it was heaven.

His gaze ignited the smoldering embers that had been burning ever since that night: when a wayward stranger stumbled into an empty tavern in the middle of God knows where; those embers were now a blazing inferno, consuming each and every inch of her.

The heat pooled low in her belly, spreading to the space in between her thighs. She was burning for him; her entire body ached for his touch, feeling as though she might die without it.

She wanted him– no, needed–him

She closed the space between them so that they were flush against each other; and the flames went higher, consuming them both.

His mouth captured hers, claiming her and marking her as his.

It was torture, and she couldn't get enough; writhing and clawing in his arms, doing anything and everything to urge him forward.

His large hands burned against her skin as they slid down her back. They didn't stop until they reached her arse, finding purchase in the flesh that was there.

He pulled her hard against him, her hips meeting his. She could feel every inch of his arousal against her; the intensity of her own making itself known.

She took him in her hand–her one and only goal: to drive him absolutely mad.

And oh was she succeeding.

Jamie let out a groan, his eyes rolling back into his head as she stroked him. When she took her hand away, he groaned and looked at her in the same way a predator looks at its prey.

He picked her up bodily, pressing her against him until they reached her bed. He half set her down, half dropped her, his patience wearing thin.

He crawled on top of her, that predatory glare still sparking his eyes; and sealed his mouth against hers. One hand came up to briefly massage her breast before working its way down to grasp her hip.

A finger stroked the wet expanse of her, dipping inside of her every so often–teasing her, making her beg.

She whimpered into his mouth, her hips rising up from the mattress to meet his.

Then in one swift move , he slammed home.

It was the scream that woke her, only to realize that it had come from her own mouth. Claire sat bolt upright in bed, her chest heaving and the the thin cotton of her shift sticking to her damp and heated skin.

"Jesus bloody Christ!" She whispered to herself, still able to feel the violent throbbing between her legs.

What the fuck was that, Beauchamp?

The knock at her door nearly made her heart stop.

"Claire?! Are ye alright?! I heard a scream!" He tried to keep his voice as low as possible, but it was hardly short of a yell–the fear and concern in his voice was coming across loud and clear.

Claire quickly pulled the bedclothes up around her shoulders, shielding herself as if he could see her through the door.

"Yes! I'm fine! P-promise." She had tried to sound reassuring, but the memory of her dream had stolen the breath from her lungs and left her body trembling.

She could almost see the look on his face. "Ye don't sound fine."

Christ, Jamie! Can you stop being the bloody hero for once?!

She cleared her throat before speaking, but the words died before they could reach her lips.

She heard him shifting his feet outside the door, and then the small metallic rattle as his hand came into contact with the handle.

Please don't come in, please don't come in! Whatever you do, please DON'T. COME. IN!

"May I come in?" He whispered.

"NO! I mean, no. I'm… I'm not decent. I'll meet you downstairs?" She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that he would agree.

There was a long pause before he finally responded, "Aye. I'll see ye soon."

She fell back against the pillows, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, as she listened to his footsteps receding down the hall.

Calm down, Beauchamp. Everything is fine. You'll just go downstairs and talk to him and it'll be like nothing ever even happened…

Oh fuck, how the hell can I even look at him?!

The dream had come out of nowhere; the night before had been spent digging up painful memories and reliving the very worst parts of their lives that were meant to stay buried. If anything, she expected another night terror, not… that–and now she had to look at the man who had seemed so real in her dream. The man who drove her over the edge again and again… and again. It dawned on her the reality of the situation: he had no notion of what happened once her head hit the pillow.

Who was to say he even felt that way? Hell, she didn't even know her own feelings.

She spent several minutes pacing her room before finally deciding to just get it over with. It's not like I can avoid it.

Yet for as much as she dreaded facing him, another part of her couldn't wait. Like anything would actually happen, she chided herself.

She froze in front of the door, her heart dropping into the very pit of her stomach as she faced the reality of what was about to happen.

Well, it's now or never.

Is never an option?

"Not bloody likely." She muttered to herself, before finally opening the door.

He practically ran to her once she reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Sassenach, are you alright?" One large hand came to rest on her shoulder, his voice soft and tentative as though he were speaking to a small child.

Her body came to life once more at his touch, and she did everything she could to try and suppress the primal urge of jumping his bones right then and there.

When she spoke, her voice sounded mechanical. "Yes, I'm fine." She refused to look at him, so afraid of what he might see.

Ruddy brows knitted together in concern, and his grip on her arm tightened. "Are ye sure? It wasn't… Randall?" He spat the name out, like it were some putrid thing rotting in his mouth.

Her entire body went numb, and her mind was no longer present–disappearing into a void where the entire world ceased to exist. Whatever she had been feeling before had disappeared entirely. Her entire world narrowed down into a single point, the trauma she pushed into the deepest recesses of her mind, never to see the light of day again.

He slowly pulled his arm away as he felt her entire body go rigid.

No, not Randall.

"Claire, I'm-"

"Don't." She hissed, eyes dark and piercing, slicing him to the core.

Claire stormed outside, unable to speak to him despite everything that happened the night before.

"We'll never bring this up again. It's in the past, and that is where it will remain."

"I can't do it again, Jamie. I can't go back there."

I was just starting to piece myself back together, so please, don't make me fall apart again.

It was still dark out, the sun having not yet risen. Despite it being Spring, the temperature had dropped dramatically overnight; the warmth of her breath disturbing the bitter cold that had settled over the land. A layer of frost had come to occupy anything its icy grip could reach, pushing the new life of spring back into a state of dormancy. Neither the moon or the stars could be found among the inky black sky; heavy clouds obscured anything that laid above them, leaving the world cold and black–much like the fate they would all meet, sooner or later.

Wrapping the cloak tighter around her herself, Claire made her way over to a bench that sat a few feet away from an herb garden–the one that held herbs she found useful for her medicinal practices, and for a future once thought lost, but could now be reclaimed.

As the sun began to rise, turning black into a pale blue, Claire took solace in her surroundings; reminding herself that she was alive and, in that, there was hope.