One of the things I love the most about Claire x Jamie is how giddy they are and how happy they make each other - they are just so extraordinarily joyful and playful and comfortable together, so that making love becomes not just this grand, passionate, fraught gesture but also a ridiculously fun, fresh, healthy thing.
It is so realistic for a functional relationship and yet so rarely shown on-screen. I have no words how much I love that they can crack jokes and make each other’s bones melt at the same time.
“Because I wanted you.” He turned from the window to face me. “More than I ever wanted anything in my life,” he added softly.I continued staring at him, dumbstruck. Whatever I had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Seeing my openmouthed expression, he continued lightly. “When I asked my da how ye knew which was the right woman, he told me when the time came, I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t. When I woke in the dark under that tree on the road to Leoch, with you sitting on my chest, cursing me for bleeding to death, I said to myself, ‘Jamie Fraser, for all ye canna see what she looks like, and for all she weighs as much as a good draft horse, this is the woman’” I started toward him, and he backed away, talking rapidly. “I said to myself, ‘She’s mended ye twice in as many hours, me lad; life amongst the MacKenzies being what it is, it might be as well to wed a woman as can stanch a wound and set broken bones.’ And I said to myself, 'Jamie, lad, if her touch feels so bonny on your collarbone, imagine what it might feel like lower down…’"He dodged around a chair. "Of course, I thought it might ha’ just been the effects of spending four months in a monastery, without benefit of female companionship, but then that ride through the dark together”–he paused to sigh theatrically, neatly evading my grab at his sleeve–“with that lovely broad arse wedged between my thighs”–he ducked a blow aimed at his left ear and sidestepped, getting a low table between us–“and that rock-solid head thumping me in the chest”–a small metal ornament bounced off his own head and went clanging to the floor–“I said to myself…"He was laughing so hard at this point that he had to gasp for breath between phrases. "Jamie…I said…for all she’s a Sassenach bitch…with a tongue like an adder’s …with a bum like that…what does it matter if she’s a f-face like a sh-sh-eep?"I tripped him neatly and landed on his stomach with both knees as he hit the floor with a crash that shook the house. "You mean to tell me that you married me out of love?” I demanded. He raised his eyebrows, struggling to draw in breath.
“Have I not…just been…saying so?”
I woke three times in the dark predawn. First in sorrow, then in joy, and at the last, in solitude. The tears of a bone-deep loss woke me slowly, bathing my face like the comforting touch of a damp cloth in soothing hands. I turned my face to the wet pillow and sailed a salty river into the caverns of grief remembered, into the subterranean depths of sleep.
“What about Da?” “What about him?” “Does he—is he one who knows what he is, do you think?” Claire’s hands stilled, the clanking pestle falling silent. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He knows.” “A laird? Is that what you’d call it?” Her mother hesitated, thinking. “No,” she said at last. She took up the pestle and began to grind again. The fragrance of dried marjoram filled the room like incense. “He’s a man,” she said, “and that’s no small thing to be.”