august 1951

September approaching…I feel I owe myself a brief respite of leisure and no rushing around. I can’t face the dead reality. I want rainy days, lanterns and a hundred moons twining in dark leaves, music spilling out and echoing yet inside my head.
—  Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Aurelia Plath written c. August 1951
10

“Dad was, is and always will be one of the kindest, most generous, gentlest souls I’ve ever known, and while there are few things I know for certain right now, one of them is that not just my world, but the entire world is forever a little darker, less colourful and less full of laughter in his absence. We’ll just have to work twice as hard to fill it back up again.” - Zelda Williams

In loving memory of Robin Williams (July 21, 1951 – August 11, 2014)
We miss you every day ♥

Flood my Mornings: The Look
  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

August, 1951


“Hey….um…. hey, Mummy?” came the voice from the bedroom. 

“Yes, pumpkin?” 

“….Um….I forgot…” 

Jamie grinned, straightening from tying his work boots at the kitchen table. As much as part of him fairly rejoiced at the prospect of getting out of the house into the fresh air again (not to mention a reprieve from the constant vigilance of newborn care), thought of leaving the three of them felt, in that moment, like loss: as though he might miss some moment in Ian’s life that would never be seen again. 

Take comfort, man, he counseled himself, there are only so many different ways that a wean can shit and sleep and make sweet wee gruntings, aye? 

Still, his heart ached with an anxious kind of warmth as he walked softly through the house to stand in the doorway of the bedroom, watching his still-pajama-ed family prepare for their day. 

“Mummy?” Bree was saying again as Claire lowered Ian down onto the bed to be changed. 

Yes, sweetheart?” 

To his surprise, Bree immediately sighed, sounding defeated. “I really love him.”

“Oh, lovey, I’m so glad you do,” Claire said, bending down to kiss her. 

The lass started to clamber up onto the bed. “But, I really do.” 

“Aww, well, Ian loves you, too, even if he can’t say so, yet.”

Bree took up a protective spot at the wean’s side, gingerly stroking his head while Claire busied herself with gathering the diapering supplies. “How come Beeyin’s hair doesna look like me?”

“So we can tell the two of you loons apart,” Jamie said, coming to join them. 

Bree scrambled to her knees and was halfway through a squeal of greeting before she stopped, surveyed his attire, and cast him a look that would have done her Auntie Jenny proud. “Where’you goin’, Da?”

“I have to go to work today, lass,” he said, settling on the edge of the bed on Ian’s other side. 

Bree scoffed. “No you dinna. You got’s to stay!”

“I must go, cub,” he said, a bit sadly. “Mr. Tom has been verra gracious wi’ time away, but I need to go check on all the horses, aye?”

“Are they sick?” Bree pressed, as Claire bent over Ian and began unfastening the pins. 

“Nay, I’m sure they’re just fine, but it’s been a few weeks since I saw them, and I mustn’t neglect my duties, ye see? Dinna fash, though,” he added, quickly forestalling the inevitable grumbles, “I’ll not even be gone the whole day. I’ll just be there a few hours, and then I shall be bac— MIND THE—”

He acted on pure instinct. By the time he truly took stock of things, the scene was a perfect tableau. The babe was still laying serenely on his back, exposed to all the world and best pleased for it. Bree, next to him, was giggling uncontrollably, her wee face red and redder every moment from not being able to draw breath. Claire’s face, though—that was the pearl beyond price: dumbfounded with shock and dazzlingly lovely….even with piss dripping liberally off cheek and jaw. Jamie had shot out his hand quickly enough to block most of the stream, but….

“He didna get ye IN the mouth, did he?” he asked, struggling mightily to look only sympathetic. 

She shook her head, open-mouthed, unable to move or speak, just blinking wide-eyed an emitting a most un-Claire-like whimper. 

“Do ye ken, Sassenach…” he said, his voice shaking with mirth even as piss dripped off of his hand, “…I dinna think I’ve ever once in my entire life seen ye completely speechless.”

She tried to remedy that point, but then only shuddered and hiccuped with a spluttering laugh as she wiped a sleeve over her face, groaning. 

“Ian, a bhalaich,” Jamie crooned approvingly, rubbing the boy’s fat, piss-soaked belly with a spare cloth, “that’s quite an aim ye’ve got! You’ll make a fine marksman one day.” 

“Mummy!” Bree demanded of a sudden, shouting urgently over Claire’s muttering about direct bloody hit alright, “what is that?”

Claire wiped the last of the damp from her face with an enormous sigh, though her eyes were sparkling with merriment. “That would be urine, darling. Pee.

“NO, what is THAT.”

They followed the direction in which she was pointing, then shared The Look:  that moment of unspoken hilarity, love, and what-the-hell-next that surely was common to all happy parents. Jamie’s belly was shaking as he inclined his head toward his wife, completing things with the second act: you’d best handle this one. 

To her credit, though, Claire rallied herself quickly, and said quite simply, “That’s a penis, sweetheart. It’s what boys piss from.”

All boys do?”

Claire shrugged as she bent over the baby once more, her hands now tentative, waiting for a second barrage to unleash. “All the ones I know.”

Bree’s eyebrows were scrunched up as she considered this new information. Then, as slow and ominous as an owl sighting prey, her head swiveled in his direction. “Da…. are you a boy?”

“A supremely logical mind, your daughter has, Jamie,” Claire said in wry amusement. “If Ian’s a marksman, Bree has a future in the law!” 

Jamie could do nothing but reply, rather tightly, “Aye, Bree, I am.”

She nodded, once. “Do you have a…uh….”  She searched for the word. “Pee-nits?”

“Yes, a leannan,” he conceded after a subterranean groan that had Claire biting her lips together to keep quiet. “I do, indeed.”

Bree eyed him with interest, but no great consternation as she asked, “….Do ye laugh at it?”

“Do I—What? Oh, hush yourself, Sassenach, it’s no’ that funny.” 

“Bloody well IS, according to Bree!” she howled, leaning against the bed with one hand and covering her eyes with the other. 

Brianna, delighted by her mother’s apparent support for her budding train of thought, grinned wildly. “If I had one of them, those, um, pee-nitses, I would laugh at it every day!!

“Bree—Br—Bree, lovey,” Claire hooted, trying to catch her breath, “whatever makes you say that??”

Mummy,” Bree drawled, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world, gesturing toward Ian. “LOOK at it!”

Claire did.

And then suddenly, Jamie’s wife and daughter had vanished, their places taken up by two fiendish witches, cackling uproariously in one another’s arms and reigning in feminine superiority over their domain for all to behold. 

Jamie finished diapering the lad himself with a show (a very bad show, mind) of indignation. “Dinna listen to the foul besoms, Ian. Funny in appearance, mayhap, but infinitely agreeable, and may the right lassie give ye cause to ken it, someday.” 


Flood my Mornings: When the child’s come
  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

Early August, 1951

“Oh, sweetheart….please be reasonable for Mummy…..Claire’s whisper, he registered, as it pulled him up out of sleep, cracking with quiet desperation. 

He pushed himself up off the pillows—2:51, the clock revealed—and she immediately gave a little whimper of regret at seeing his movement. “I promise, I wasn’t trying to wake you.” 

“Dinna fash, my Sassenach.” He got to his feet and crept over to the rocking chair. She looked like some magnificent pagan goddess, all gilded by the glow of the streetlight with her nightgown puddled around her waist and a babe at her breast. Aye, he thought, as he settled into a comfortable crouch beside them, and if I encountered her in some primeval forest, I would worship her without question, would I not?  

Uttering a silent contrition for casual blasphemy, he kissed Claire’s bare shoulder, his hand automatically coming up to cup the wee, brown head. “What’s he done to upset ye, then?” 

“It’s what he’s not doing.” She gave the wean a nudging shake, then closed her eyes with a sigh that was bordering on a sob. It was a credit to her, though, how gentle her hands upon him remained, her thumb softly stroking him even as her fatigue and frustration were clearly mounting.  “He wakes up crying about how hungry he is, and then doesn’t even have the decency to finish the whole meal.”

“Och, Ian,” he chided softly, unable to keep from smiling, “that’s bad form, son.” For the babe was indeed fast asleep, the nipple still in his slack mouth. 

“He only got halfway through one side and didn’t even touch the second, and—”  She winced. “Jesus H. Christ, I’m so goddamn full it aches like the —Jamie— no, no, Jamie, what are you doing?” 

For he had stood and begun to extricate the bairn with gentle hands.  

“Darling,” she protested, almost despairingly as he carefully lifted the sleeping lad into his arms. “I have to get him to nurse, else I’ll never sleep.” 

“He’ll no’ be waking anytime soon, lass,” he said firmly, moving toward the large closet where Ian had his crib. “He’s had his fill and must sleep it off, aye?”

As he settled Ian carefully down, so as not to wake him, he heard her exhaling in a great rush, but the sound was muffled, as though she had put her face in both hands. She often did so when trying to calm herself from some great emotional turmoil or stress. Lord, and she had every reason to be prey to both. Caring for a newborn, he’d learned—even without the enormous responsibility of being their only source of nourishment—was one of the more punishing varieties of joy. 

She had both her arms wrapped about herself, he saw, as he returned to the room and closed the door behind him, and she had her breasts cupped and lifted to ease their weight.  “Will you fetch me the pump?” she was saying, still agitated. Her voice was tight with wavering control, eyes glassy. “I can’t even bloody bear to—Oh!….Oh…. Jamie….”

For he had knelt between her knees, right on the floor before her. Slowly, he laid his hand atop hers, where it cradled one breast.  “May I?” 

“Love….” Every trace of the burdens of the night vanished from her eyes. They were misty and soft as she slipped her hand free and reached out to touch his face. “Always.” 

A whisper of a memory pulsed through him. Her, too. 

High ceilings and rich, dark wood. Scents of cassoulet—sweet woodsmoke— that infernal beeswax mingled with sweet, green things. Fine silks. The bleariness of late nights and dawns too soon broken. Worry and planning and fear…. but also, unspeakable joy. Healing. Mornings flooded with love and sunlight. Tiny flutterings. Claire.

Always, Jamie,” she whispered again as she guided him to her breast. 

He groaned at the instant rush of her milk in response to his touch; hot and sweet, rich and thick, strange as some exotic fruit, and yet somehow as familiar to him as his own scent. Her skin was so unutterably soft under his fingertips, against his tongue. He moaned again and wrapped both his arms fully around her, holding her at hip and shoulder as he surrendered to the bliss of her, of following the call of some instinct long-dormant within him.  She had her fingers twined in his hair, cupping him closer against her, making soft noises of relief and love, even as she begged him. Harder. He obeyed, an acolyte, moving, slowing, pausing, hurrying, responding, worshipping her in this act of intimate service.

And blasphemy though it might be, this was a holy thing, Jamie knew, holy and utterly powerful. The sheer ascendancy of her body: to be able to give life and sustain it thereafter; and for he himself to be fed at that source—

His body responded mightily to her power, yes, but he forced himself to stay quiet and still, even when she pulled herself gently free and took his face in her hands, the task complete. A kiss, long and warm and sweet with milk, and then his cheek was pressed between her breasts, her hands holding him in tender peace. He would happily remain there, always; eyes closed, knowing nothing more than a lifetime of singing the prayer of her in his heart, held surely and safe against her own.   

Aye. Without question. 



Robin Williams

Robin Williams was…

A captain

 

A doctor

A genie

A penguin

An actor in animated studio

A hot dog

A housekeeper

A fruit bat 

A young boy who grow 

A young boy who was liberated by a 5

A science teacher

 A soldier

A robot 

And more…

But what we remember more about Robin Williams was his happiness. It’s been a month that Robin killed himself. It’s been a month that we lost one of the best person in the world. Robin Williams will always be an idol for me. I’ll always remember him.

Robin Williams : July 21 1951 - August 11 2014