#special thanks to my friend jenny on discord for giving me this idea | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

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New Ways of Turning Into Stone

A/N Another long drive, another Outlander fanfic idea that dropped into my brain out of nowhere, shoving aside the historical AU I have been wrestling with for months. Here’s the pitch: Claire Beauchamp is a psychiatrist specializing in grief counselling. Jamie Fraser is referred to her by his sister, who is worried for his well-being after a series of family tragedies. You can probably guess the rest, but I’m going to write it anyway. The title is taken from a song by the amazing Phantogram that was playing as the story idea came to me.

After losing my WIP virginity posting Ginger Snap, I’m going out on that limb again and posting this first chapter with only a rough outline mapped out in my head. You people are a terrible influence! Also, there will be some trigger warnings on future chapters, so please watch out for those. And now, on with our show.

Claire Beauchamp glanced down at the leather-bound calendar open on her desk. The ivory page for Thursday was packed to the margins, each hourly block filled with the name of a patient followed by a series of cuneiform symbols she used to remind herself of the last session, course of treatment, overall progress, all while maintaining strict confidentiality. Not even Geillis Duncan, her office administrator and very good friend, knew how to decode the script.

Geillis liked to laugh at the old-fashioned day planner, reminding Claire that their practice utilized software that could perform the same function electronically, but she enjoyed the act of physically logging each session. The solid heft of her Mont Blanc pen in her hand, a medical school graduation gift from her Uncle Lamb. The scratch and grab of the nub as it bled black ink over virgin paper. It was a tactile ceremony in a detached world. Geillis would nod and then tell her she needed to get laid.

Speak of the devil, a sharp rap on her office door was followed by the appearance of her strawberry blonde head. blue eyes alight with mischief.

“Yer two o’clock is here. Did ye need more time tae finish bolting down tha’ chaff ye call a salad, or can I show him in?”

“It’s kale,” she defended. “It’s full of anti-oxidants.”

A disdainful scoff was the only response.

“Yes, Geil, please show Mister...” she glanced down at her planner, “...Fraser in, thank you.”

The tiny rectangle contained only a name, which meant this was their first appointment. Geillis vetted all prospective patients, but Claire preferred to go into the first meeting blind, with no assumptions or pre-conceptions.

She wondered what misfortune had caused Mr. Fraser to seek out her psychiatric services. The death of a child, perhaps, or the end of an extra-marital affair. People grieved for very different reasons and worked through or around that grief with a surprising variety of coping mechanisms. Most called upon her practice in much the same way they would a breakdown truck when their car’s engine failed. They simply wanted to get back on the road to happiness.

Despite the degrees and accreditations that decorated her office wall, Claire wasn’t certain such a thing was possible. In her experience, grief was a phantom limb that never really went away. The best one could hope for was to learn healthier ways of living with it.

The sound of Geillis clearing her throat snapped her back to the present.

“Was there something else, Geil?”

“Och, no’ really. Just, when yer considerin’ how tae thank me later on, remember tha’ my favourite stone is an emerald, that I prefer gold tae silver, but platinum is ne’er amiss.”

“What are you on about, Duncan?” But her friend had already disappeared back into the reception area, leaving behind only the glow of her Cheshire smile. Claire was shaking her head, bemused, when another knock rang out, this one considerably heavier than the first.

“Come in,” she called as she looked up. And up. And up some more.

The man who now practically filled her office door had to be at least six foot four, with powerful shoulders and a broad torso encased in a blue henley. His nearly endless legs were likewise muscular, as testified by the stretch of his jeans across each thigh. As if his physique wasn’t remarkable enough, he had a head of outrageously wavy red hair, worn long enough to graze the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck, but swept back from a high brow by a judicious use of product. His face was angular in a pleasingly unique way, with a day or two’s growth of beard counter-balancing an almost youthful, earnest appearance. But his most striking feature by far were his aquamarine eyes that shimmered like a tropical sea. Eyes that were currently observing her with perplexity.

“Dr. Beauchamp?” a deep Scottish brogue inquired. He pronounced it as though she were French.

“Yes,” she startled. “That’s me. And it’s pronounced Beecham. Please, come in Mister Fraser.” She shuffled a few items around her desk needlessly as she tried to compose herself. Damn Geillis for not giving her a bit more warning that her newest client was some sort of fitness model.

“Thank ye,” he replied. “An’ it’s pronounced Jamie, if ye please.” She added wit to the growing list of the man’s attributes.

If anything, he grew even more impressive as he approached. She could see he was nervous, although hiding it well. His striking eyes darted about the room, trying to get a sense of his environment. She indicated the well-upholstered armchair that sat to one side of her desk.

“Have a seat,” she invited.

With a surprising amount of grace for one so tall, he eased into the chair but didn’t lean back. The fingers of his left hand tapped restlessly against his thigh. She watched him quietly, waiting for him to speak. This was a trick she had learned when she first started practicing psychiatry, but in this case it also allowed her to continue her appraisal. He was, she concluded, the most attractive man she’d ever seen in the flesh.

“No couch,” he finally observed.

“No. That’s a bit of a Hollywood trope, I’m afraid. Lying prone in front of a stranger is hardly conducive to feeling at ease.”

He nodded his acceptance of her logic, but was otherwise silent.

“So,” she spoke at last, unable to wait him out, “what caused you to seek out counselling, Jamie?” His name suited him, she thought as she spoke it for the first time. Both boyish and imposing at once.

“I didna. Twas my sister, Jenny, who insisted I see a doctor.” His mobile mouth twisted into a grimace. She could imagine the sibling discord that such a demand would have caused. Whoever this Jenny was, she was made of strong stuff. Unfortunately for her, a hostile patient would receive no benefit from merely visiting her office. Counselling was a participatory process, and she could tell from the stubborn set of Jamie’s shoulders that he had no intention of participating.

“I see,” she said carefully. “Well, it’s your time and your dime, Mr. Fraser. This session lasts for forty-five minutes, and you’ve not been here for five. There’s a carafe of hot water on the table over there, if you care for some tea. Or you’re welcome to just enjoy that comfortable chair for another forty minutes. I’ll be working on some administrative necessities.”

She turned her chair away from him, but from the corner of her eye she could see his gobsmacked expression. He had clearly expected her to cajole and manipulate him into co-operating, but that simply wasn’t her style.

“I meant no offence, doctor. I’m certain ye’re verra good at what ye do. Tis only... well, Jenny is my older sister, ye ken. She practically raised me. And so ofttimes she treats me like a muckle-sized bairn, and no’ a man who’s capable of lookin’ after himself.”

As he spoke, Jamie leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, expressive hands gesturing in front of his face. Hostile to the notion of counselling he might be, but he clearly wanted her to understand it wasn’t a slight. As a physician, she had been trained to never take a patient’s reactions personally, but it didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the effort.

“No offence taken, Jamie. If you don’t need my assistance, I’m happy for you. That’s one less person hurting in the world.”

“I didna say I wasna hurting. But I can handle it my own way. I am handling it, that is,” he hurried to add.

Unable to sit still any longer, he rose and walked over to the small table where she kept an assortment of herbal teas and a tray of Geillis’ homemade biscuits. Bending over, Jamie set about making himself some; chamomile by the smell of it. The sound of spoon ringing off porcelain as he stirred in some honey made her smile, reminding her of Lamb and his obsession with the lost art of afternoon tea.

“Can I make ye a cup?”

The question was so unexpected, it took her a moment to process it. The tea was there as a distraction for her patients, to give them something to do with their bodies as they worked through difficult emotions. None of them had ever thought to offer her a reprieve as well.

“No, thank you. I just finished lunch.”

He dipped a shortbread into the steaming tea, then ate it in a single bite. Instead of sitting back down, he began to browse the framed certificates and photographs along the far wall as he sipped his tea. With his back turned, her eyes dipped to admire his ass, which filled out his jeans perfectly. When she caught herself, she gave her head a shake, appalled at her lack of professional detachment. Maybe Geillis was right. Maybe she really did need to get laid.

“How long have ye been a doctor?” Jamie asked without turning around.

“Ten years,” she replied. “But I’ve only been a psychiatrist for the last two.”

It was a dangerous topic, and she blamed his ass for letting the words slip out. Fortunately, his inquisitiveness took him in an entirely different direction.

“Were ye some kind of prodigy, then? Ye hardly seem old enough tae have yer own practice, let alone fer a decade. If ye dinna mind me sayin’ so,” he added quickly, as though realizing what he’d just said.

“Not at all. And you hardly seem young enough to be a, what was it? A muckle-sized bairn?”

As he turned to look her way, she understood the expression ‘shot-gun smile’ for the first time. It spread across his face like a sunbeam, transforming what was already remarkable into a work of art. If she hadn’t been sitting, she likely would have stumbled backward from the force of the blow. Scrambling for something familiar to keep her from making a very grave fool of herself in front of this man, she clasped her clinical training with both hands.

“Are you and your sister close?”

“Aye, when we’re no’ tryin’ not tae kill the other. Our Mam died when I was only four, and with Da workin’ dawn til dark on the farm, Jenny was parent, teacher an’ playmate all rolled inta one.”

“You’re not from Edinburgh, then?” Although what that had to do with his counselling, she hadn’t a clue.

“Nah, I hail from a wee village in the Highlands ye’ve likely ne’er heard of called Broch Mordha.” She shook her head to indicate she was indeed unfamiliar with it. Jamie launched into a detailed description of the place, his hands sculpting the landscape out of thin air. He obviously cared very deeply for his home, and she felt a twinge of jealousy, having never known that feeling of deep belonging herself.

“And what brought you to Old Smoky?” she asked as he wound down, her interest piqued. It was like slamming a lead door on his previously sunny disposition.

“Family obligations.” Said in such a way as to make it clear that no further words would be forthcoming on the topic. She regretted her nosiness immediately, despite what it revealed about his emotional state. Jamie was most certainly grieving something, but handling it he was not.

Before she could find a way back to the easy flow of conversation, a chime from her laptop indicated that the session was up. She couldn’t bear to dismiss him without trying to set things right.

“Listen, Jamie, I understand that you only came here today to humour your sister, but I want you to consider something. Whether we’re grieving or angry or jealous, or any destabilizing feeling, we’re often the worst surveyors of our own landscape. Just like you can’t know your place on the sea without referencing the stars, it takes something external to ourselves to measure how far adrift we have become. Your sister obviously loves you. Ask yourself, what has she seen in you that prompted her to force you to seek help?”

They parted with cordial but muted goodbyes. The door closed behind him, leaving Claire to stare at the blank rectangle in her planner that bore his name. No coded symbols flowed from her pen. When the door re-opened, it was Geillis, closing it firmly behind her.

“Weel, did I no’ tell ye? Wee fox, tha’ one. And he told me he liked my shortbread!” Geillis said this as though it was some kind of sexual euphemism, which for all Claire knew, it was.

“Yes,” she replied distractedly. “He’s very nice.”

“Nice! Nice? Tha’ man is tae nice what Wagyu is tae beef jerky. Have ye completely lost yer senses, woman?”

“Yes, well, he’s a patient, Geillis, as you well know. And not one I’m likely to see again,�� she added, acknowledging out loud what she already knew.

“Oh, no?” Geillis sing-songed. “Thas’ strange, as he just made an appointment fer the same time next week.”

Claire’s eyes flew to where her friend looked on, smug as could be.

“Yer three o’clock called tae say she was runnin’ five minutes late. I’ll leave ye tae think about yer... patient.”

Claire picked up her pen, trying to pull together something resembling a professional summary of her first appointment with Jamie. Her mind replayed their interaction, but all she could remember was the way his eyes crinkled when he was listening attentively, the tidy half-moons of his fingernails, the seam of his jeans as it contoured his thigh, and the cymbal-crash in her chest that accompanied his smile.

Patient, she reminded herself. Jamie Fraser is your patient.

#my writing #outlander

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