Work Header

Green Card

Chapter Text

I keep getting in Jamie's way as he cooks.

Poor boy.

I had one arm around him while he made the toast and opened the packet of smoked salmon, and two arms around him while he fried the eggs, cobbled together a double boiler, assembled the hollandaise ingredients, and melted the butter.

Now, I keep bumping my hip into his, slowly sliding our legs together while he butters the toast, layers the fish on it, and then the eggs on the fish.

He keeps giving me bemused glances, but never actually manages to tell me to stop.

Finally, he turns on me, seemingly in exasperation, and presses me between the cold block of the refrigerator and the warm length of his body. The double thickness of our bathrobes is the only thing separating us at all. . .

"Now then, Sassenach," he rumbles, giving a very good impression of an annoyed professional – but there is a rasp of passion behind it all, and the way his hips are pressing into mine does not convince me he is in the least annoyed - "D'ye want ta learn how ta make this wee sauce, or don't ye?"

My eyes fix on the curves at the base of his neck, just visible behind the soft, folded collar of his robe, "Oh, yes. I want you to show me everything," I purr, and nudge my face into his smooth, hot, fragrant skin, nipping and sucking on his collarbone, "Everything, Jamie – don't leave anything out."

He growls, either in reaction or response I'm not sure, and then he picks me up entirely, spins us around, and twists me by the shoulders so I face the stove. I make a noise which is very much like a squeal, but he ignores it, instead taking one of my wrists in each of his hands, forcefully showing me what I must do.

And then his body is flush up against my back, his breath whispering instructions hotly in my ears.

I smirk. This is what I wanted, but it is also much much more than I ever expected. . .

"Ye start here, mo ghràidh, wi' these things here, in the pot like this," he puts the sauce ingredients into the double boiler, "An' ye take that-" he clamps one of my hands around a whisk, "An' that-" and wraps my other hand around the bowl to hold it steady, "An' now – don't stop."

He makes the hand I have holding the whisk begin to whip the mixture – quickly and unceasingly.

And then there are all kinds of swishing noises from the egg yolks and the mustard, and a sharp, pattering clack-clack from the whisk wires, and the slow, slippery dripping of butter, and a soft, steady hum from the gas stove, and all the rustling, shifting sounds of two active bodies dressed in nothing but bathrobes, but behind it all is the deep, almost tangible silence of midnight, and behind that - two hearts, beating wildly, two sets of lungs, gasping for air, two pairs of dry lips finding moisture only in each other, and the slick, restless pulsing of-

"Don' stop," he whispers again, slowly streaming in melted butter from a small jug.

I try and focus on the pale, creamy mixture developing in the bowl, desperate to hold back the great waves of memories I seem to be living in at the moment.

Not to mention that I seem to involuntarily shiver every time he touches me now. . .

He pours another long, thin stream of sweet, oily butter. This time his lips brush the rim of my ear as he whispers, "Tha's it, ye'er almost thear. Keep goin'."

I shudder, and almost drop the whisk, but I brace against his solid bulk behind me, get a firmer grasp, and actually speed up.

"Aye, tha's perfect, mo chridhe. . ."

He streams in more butter. . .

I draw my lower lip between my teeth, knowing I can't keep it up for long. . .

"An' ye'er done."

In one smooth motion he sets down the empty butter jug, turns off the stove, and lifts the bowl with the finished sauce. Then he pours it into another jug nearby, using short, smooth sweeps with a rubber spatula, not wasting a drop.

With a long, long sigh of relief, I lean against the counter, and lick the whisk.

"Mmm. Wow."

Jamie gives a great guffaw of laughter, teasingly bumping his hip into mine.

"Wow indeed, Sassenach."

He pours a healthy – or rather, probably very un-healthy – portion of the sauce over our salmon and eggs on toast, then lifts both plates over to the dining table, wordlessly indicating for me to follow him.

He sets both plates down in front of just one chair, then he seats himself, and reaches his arms out to me, smiling a silent question to me at the same time.

Indulgently, I smile back, and settle myself on his lap.

We lift our toast at the same time, tap the edges together in salute, and proceed to dig in.

It's so good, I can't help talking with my mouth full, "Hmmmm, ish so tangy, Jamie. An creamy an rish an smooth. . . "

He smiles softly at me, using his thumb to flick crumbs from one side of my mouth, "Oh, aye. An' the sauce isnae so bad either."

Briefly, we put our toast down, and I give him a long, sweet kiss. In fact, it lasts so long, it is decidedly not sweet by the time I pull away.

The arm he has steadying me on his lap tightens convulsively, his glazed eyes meeting mine in a look that practically crackles.

With hunger.

With want.

Want that knows what it could be having right now, and is practically screaming from its deprivation. . .

But I shake my head at him, and give a tiny wink, mouthing the words "not yet". My heart races as I peck him on the chin - I'm feeling more and more delightfully like the world's naughtiest tease by the second.

His free hand comes up, as if to grab the collar of my robe and pull it down. . . but brushes past me and picks up his toast again instead. I smirk, and follow suit.

"So does this dish have a name?" I muse, "It isn't eggs Benedict, exactly. . ."

He grins and takes another bite, "Mmphm. Aye. It does. Eggs Fraser."

I chuckle, and he leans his forehead on my cheek. It's such a sweetly intimate gesture that all of a sudden my throat thickens with tears. This man.

This man.

He. . .

He. . .

I put down my toast, and clutch him to me, running my fingers through his hair, across his shoulders and up and down his back.

I know so little about him still. What his childhood was like, what he used to do over the summer holidays, if he's ever broken a bone, if he can make an origami crane. . . Does he like licorice? Can he change a tire?

But at the same time I know things about him I don't know about people I've known my whole life.

I know the sounds he makes when I run a fingernail up his neck and behind his ear.

I know how steady he is on his feet, even when a frantic wild woman is trying to remove his jeans. . .

I know how soft his heart is, and how sensitive his soul.

I know he is wise, and strong, and kind, and generous, and funny, and interesting, and passionate, and yes, horribly stubborn.

But I know I trust him with my life. In fact, I trust him with even more than that.

I trust him with my pride.

And I know he trusts me with his.

We're friends. Best friends. Allies. Comrades. I don't just have his heart, I have his respect as well. And he has mine.

And holding him in my arms feels like having an army at my back.

I've never become friends with anyone this fast. Never. Let alone. . .

I scritch the back of his neck, and he purrs, sidling his shoulders and arching into my touch like a cat. I reach beneath the collar of his robe and scratch lightly along the skin of his shoulders, and he groans, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

"Och, I'll give ye forty thousand years ta stop that, Sassenach."

"Feel nice?"

"Mmphm. Tha's one way ye might put it. . ." he gives an exaggerated stretch and a yawn, and then picks up his toast again.

I shift in his lap, and pick up mine again as well.

Whatever this is between us, it is clearly meant to be. Fate, or destiny, or what have you. There's no other explanation for each of us just finding our soul mate – just being effortlessly delivered to each other like we were.

Here he is – the love of my life. And I didn't even have to look. . .

"So. . ." Jamie says, slowly chewing and swallowing his last bite, "Now that we've eaten the breakfast I'd planned fer tamorrow-" he glances at the clock above the stove, "-nine hours early – d'ye have any suggestions as ta what we should do for breakfast tamorrow?"

I shake my head, and grin knowingly, "No. But I have a few educated guesses."

"Oh? D'ye now?"

"I do."

I wipe my fingers and mouth, and hand him a napkin so he can do the same. Then I coil my arms around his neck, and cuddle into his lap a bit, "In the first place – there have to be porridge fixings-"

"But ye dinna-"

I hold a finger against his lips, "Let me finish – that's just in the first place. Second place – leftovers. I know we still have some. You can make me some authentic rumbledethumps – how about that?"

His eyes glitter, and his mouth twitches, "Oh aye, tha's fine. . ."

"And thirdly – we can ask room service to send us some bananas, and baked beans, and some fried ham, and maybe some mince and skirlie-"

"But – Sassenach. . ." he pauses, looking genuinely confused, "Why would ye want all that for breakfast?"

"Oh, I won't," I grin mischievously, "But you might."

He only looks more confused. I lower my head to his ear, and whisper, with long, drawn-out vowels,

"Prooteein. . ."

After that, I can tell by the look in his eyes that neither of us is going to be getting much more sleep tonight. . .

But, what little we do get is surprisingly refreshing.