Chapter Text
“Holy shit.”
There was a long, stunned pause, then Gillian said again, louder, “Holy shit!”
Claire sat with her chin on her knees, and remained carefully expressionless as she watched realization dawn on her friend’s face.
“So… so this whole time, the man in the road was Jamie?” At Claire’s small, miserable nod, Gillian flopped backwards across the bed, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. “I just— ye ken that’s like… that’s insane. I mean that’s… that’s like somethin’ out of daytime telly.” She went silent for a few seconds before popping back up again. “So wait, did ye ken about this all along?!”
“Not at first. I thought he was dead, it never occurred to me that…” Claire gave a listless shrug, then turned her head so her cheek rested on her kneecap. “But the more I talked to him, the more the coincidences began to line up. And when I went to look in his H&P…”
“Fuck,” Gill moaned, shaking her head in glazed disbelief. She fell quiet again for a minute, then suddenly snapped her eyes up, reaching out without warning to smack Claire’s upper arm. “And ye never told me about this?!”
Claire sat motionless, non-reactive. She took in a deep breath, filling her lungs until they ached. “I didn’t want you to think I was this… terrible person,” she admitted on the exhale.
Gill made a scoffing noise. “Fer what? Getting sloshed and jerkin’ off yer boyfriend? Jesus, Claire, if that was the worst thing I’d ever done…”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I really don’t.” The Scot maneuvered herself backwards on the bed until she was side-by-side with Claire, drawing her own knees up to mirror her friend’s posture. She studied her for a moment, then leaned over to bump her shoulder gently. “Hey. Listen to me. Ye did everything ye could for him. Ye always have.”
A single tear quivered on Claire’s lashes, and slipped down her cheek when she closed her eyes. “I didn’t do enough,” she whispered.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Gill reached over to brush the tear away, then leaned her forehead against Claire’s temple. “He’s alive, isn’t he? Alive and well. That’s down to you, ye ken. I cannae even count the number of times ye saved that boy’s life.”
“He only needed saving because of what I did to him in the first place.”
“More like what yer rat bastard ex did.”
Claire shook her head. “It wasn’t just Frank. It was my fault too.”
Pulling back to frown at her, Gillian insisted, “Aye, but at least you tried to make amends. Ye’ve been feckin’ killin’ yerself this whole time tryin’ to make it right.”
Claire shrugged slowly, wiping her eyes and nose on her knee. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing I ever said or did could make this any better for him. I ruined his life, Gill.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” She lifted her head to fix her friend with a trembling, teary-eyed glare. “Do you realize what I’ve cost him? His girlfriend, his internship, his…” Her voice cracked. “His father.”
Apparently, Gillian had run out of platitudes; a few times she took a breath as if to say something, then thought better of it and resumed their miserable silence.
“Do ye want some wine, hen?” she asked finally. “Or something stronger, mebbe? I can run to the corner store and get the good stuff.”
“No, thank you,” Claire whispered, as another heavy tear rolled down her cheek. “I think I just want to be alone for a little while.”
“Aye. I understand.” Gill bent to place a kiss on the crown of her head, then smoothed the hair down. “Get some rest, hm? And drink some water, ye’re dehydrated. Dinnae make me come back here with an IV start kit and a banana bag.” She smirked, giving a playful wink, but Claire couldn’t quite summon the strength to smile back. Gill’s face fell again, her brow creasing in concern as she shifted her hand down to hold Claire’s shoulder. “I work a twelve tonight, but I’ll be back in the morning to check on ye, alright? I’ll bring breakfast.”
Eyes glassed over, Claire reached up slowly to clasp her friend’s hand. “I’m grateful to you, Gill,” she said, low and tremulous. “For everything you’ve done for me. For—” She faltered, tipped her chin. “For Jamie. I want you to know that.”
Gillian scrutinized her with an assessing nurse’s gaze, any trace of humor permanently dissolved. “Are ye sure ye dinna want me to stay?” she pressed. “I have the PTO, I can call in right now—”
“I’m sure.”
She heard Gill take a hesitant half-breath, release it, then take another before she conceded, “Alright, but… remember, I’m only a text away if ye need anything. Seriously, Claire. Any time, day or night. I can be back here in ten minutes.”
“I know.” She tried to smile for her friend’s benefit, and must have been marginally more successful this time, because Gill finally, reluctantly, climbed to her feet and picked up her handbag from where she’d dropped it on the floor.
“I’ll see ye in the morning, then. Or sooner, if ye need me.”
She was at the bedroom door when Claire’s voice stopped her. “Gill?”
“Aye, love?”
There was one last thing.
One last thing she needed to know.
Claire could feel her throat closing over the words, and had to stop to swallow, to steady her voice enough to be understood. “What does ‘mo cree’ mean?”
“Mo chridhe?” There was silence for several aching moments as Gillian struggled to decide how to respond. “It’s, em… it’s a term of endearment.” She wrung the strap of her handbag, apology written into every line of her face. “It means ‘my heart.’”
“Alright.” Through the speaker phone, Jamie heard the metallic clang of a pot being thrown forcefully into the sink. “That’s it, I’m hangin’ up and callin’ Ned.”
His brow furrowed; he was too far gone with drink, too distraught, and too sleep-deprived to catch his sister’s meaning straightaway. “Ned who?” he asked around the rim of his glass before taking a long sip of whisky.
“She means Ned Gowan,” his brother-in-law’s voice answered, even as Jenny began to speak over him.
“I ken ye’ll probably need a fancy, high-powered American attorney to take this to court in Boston.” Her voice was clipped, tight with rage, her words punctuated by the rasp of steel wool over the pot she was scouring. “But he could at least advise ye in the meantime. He’s kent ye since before ye were a gleam in Mam’s eye. We can trust him.”
“Jen…” Jamie sat his whisky tumbler on the coffee table in front of him, rubbing his hands over bleary eyes as his sister prattled on.
“I’m sure the prof will have the best lawyer at Harvard on retainer, but if ye can get a confession out of the bitch who—”
“Stop.” His voice was sharp enough to elicit complete silence on the other end of the line; even the scrubbing came to an abrupt halt. For a moment Jamie sat completely still, holding his head in his hands, before he took a steadying breath and said more quietly, but with no less conviction, “I’m no’ taking this to court, Jen. I dinnae want anything more to do wi’ it. I just...” He shook his head faintly, then heaved a bone-deep sigh. “I just want to go home and try to get on wi’ my life.”
Several more beats of strained silence passed before the rasp of steel wool started up again, his sister having fallen uncharacteristically quiet.
It was Ian, surprisingly, who answered at last, his voice gentle, but concerned. “I understand that, Jamie. I do. But mebbe ye… ye might think on it awhile before ye make a final decision? Ye havena yet seen the hospital bill for yer stay. The insurance will cover some of it, aye, but if ye dinnae get recompense from the people who did this to ye, ye may find yerself saddled wi’ a debt that would put off startin’ yer life over the way ye want it for quite some time.”
It was all Jamie could do to close his eyes and breathe. His brother-in-law was right, of course. Any hopes he had of starting up a business would have to be put off indefinitely if he was faced with crippling medical debt.
But the thought of actually having to go to court made his wame drop and his heart wrench.
It meant he would have to see her again. Sit across from her at a negotiation table, watch her give her account from the witness stand. Have to listen to her confess again, with tears streaming down her face, the role she’d played in the night that had broken him.
He couldn’t do it.
Not for all the money in the world.
Still, to pacify the two people who meant the most to him, he lied quietly, “Aye. I’ll think on it.”
They let it go, thank Christ, though he could almost hear the thoughts crashing about his sister’s head.
Out loud, though, she said only, “When are ye coming home, a bràthair?”
“Fly out Monday morning,” he answered gruffly, picking up his whisky again and draining the last of it in a burning swallow. “I should be home by suppertime.”
“It’ll be good to have ye back,” Ian said.
“The bairns’ll be fit to burst when we tell ‘em,” Jenny added, a smile in her voice. “Wee Jamie asks about ye every day, ye ken. He misses his Jedi Master.”
The sudden sting in Jamie’s eyes had nothing to do with the whisky. He put a hand to his mouth to smother a shaking breath, struck by a pang of homesickness more profound than he’d known in weeks.
Since before Cla—
“Aye,” he choked out, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Aye, tell him I miss him too.”
In that moment, he held onto the image of his nephew’s jack-o-lantern grin with everything in him.
Of the hearth at Lallybroch, crackling with a merry fire.
Of the rolling hills of the farm, dusted with snow, glittering blue in the moonlight.
Of his sister’s arms, small but fierce, wrapped tight around his ribs.
It was enough, he reminded himself as he scrubbed desperate tears from his eyes.
It had to be enough.
She didn’t get up immediately when Gill left.
There was no rush, no real sense of urgency.
It wasn’t that Claire was eager for death. It was only that she couldn’t find any reason to go on living.
Not like this.
Her great purpose in life, her driving force, had always been to heal others. It had finally occurred to her, though, that perhaps that was selfish too — perhaps it was only a coping mechanism, soothing some deep ache in her to be needed, somehow.
But she wasn’t, really.
She’d called off for weeks at a time to be at Jamie’s side when he contracted the meningitis — maxed out all of her paid time off during the holiday season, when staffing needs were critical.
And they’d made do without her.
There’d been no scrambling, no chaos, no patients left unattended. It was a wake-up call, of sorts, for how easily replaceable she truly was. There was no question in Claire’s mind that by the end of the day, Glenna Fitzgibbons would have a stack of resumes on her desk from highly qualified nurses, eager to take her job.
She would be forgotten. Massachusetts General would carry on without a hitch, at no great loss for the lack of her.
Her friends would mourn her, of course. She knew that. Gillian would take it especially hard. Joe too. Mary. Elias. Lisa and Shariah, maybe.
But they had their own lives. Families. Other friends. They would be alright.
Claire didn’t have anything.
And she never would.
That had been her great and fatal mistake: allowing herself to believe, for one naïve moment, that she could finally have someone. That she could love, and be loved in return.
She knew better. Or she should have.
She didn’t get to keep the people she loved.
That was the punishment for her sins. For her selfishness.
She just couldn’t bear it any more.
And so, at some unremarkable point in the quiet of the morning, Claire rose from her bed and went to her medicine cabinet.
The offerings within were over-the-counter stock, for the most part. She had a sneaking suspicion several of the meds were expired, though that hardly mattered now. With glazed eyes and a steady hand, she began to pluck the plastic bottles and foil-wrapped packets from their shelves and spread them one by one across the countertop.
Advil. Ambien. Benadryl. Robitussin. Tylenol. Xanax.
All benign individually, and with proper dosing. But if she took the whole bottle of each, all at once...
It would be peaceful, painless. She’d simply drift into a stupor, fall asleep and never wake up.
There was always the risk, though, that Gillian’s sixth sense for trouble would intervene. A few missed calls or texts, and she knew her friend would barge back in, perhaps find her in enough time to get help.
Claire stood motionless for a long moment, then, feeling dreamlike, went to the kitchen and pulled a boning knife from the knife block. It was sharp; the edge gleamed raw and silver.
It would be sure, and it would be fast.
Pushing back the sleeve of her sleep shirt, she placed the tip of the knife midway up her forearm. During her time in the A&E, she’d seen many unsuccessful suicides — those who slashed their wrists from side to side, the wounds like small mouths that cried for help. And she’d seen those who meant it. The proper way was to slit the veins lengthwise; deep, sure cuts that would drain her of blood in minutes, assure unconsciousness in seconds.
Quickly, experimentally, she shifted the knife tip into the flesh, to see how well it would serve. At once, a bead of dark red blood welled from the pinprick and began to trickle down the length of her arm.
Oh, it would do well enough.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath to steel herself.
One last cut, Beauchamp.
The thought came automatically, unbidden — and with it, a sudden swell of emotion that knocked the breath from her lungs.
Jamie.
It seemed impossible, somehow, that he had been the one person she hadn’t considered in this plan. He’d occupied every one of her thoughts for so long, and now…
She hadn’t even stopped to think about what this would do to him.
With a hand that shook violently, she threw the knife into the sink with a clatter and took a horrified step back, panting as if waking from a nightmare.
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t lay another death at his feet.
He would be shattered.
Never mind what he thought of her — how he despised her. That wouldn’t matter.
She knew Jamie Fraser’s heart.
He would blame himself, even if the fault was entirely hers.
If surviving like this — and that’s all it would be, surviving — meant that he would be spared any more pain by her hand, she could do it. She could be brave. She could face a life sentence of loneliness if it meant...
A sharp breath, and her eyes snapped up, lucid and blinking — clear, for the first time in seven days.
That was it.
Jesus H. Christ, why hadn’t she thought of it before?
Claire left the kitchen on trembling legs, feeling her veins flood with relief.
If she was going to throw away the rest of her life, let it be with purpose.