There is something comforting in routine. In going through the same motions every day, in making the sights familiar. It's soothing, and it allows Jamie to not think too hard about - well, anything. Especially not Claire. He's here, alone, and he has things to keep himself occupied while he is. It's working, up to a certain point.
Of course, then he drinks himself to sleep every night, an attempt to fend off the worst of the nightmares and the screaming chasm of despair at the memory of her disappearing through the stone.
He can't set her aside completely, and even here, even in his routine, he sometimes catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye that makes him think, for a moment. Or a voice which, even if only briefly, reminds him of hers.
Or a familiar curse.
The words stop him dead in his tracks, and he turns, unwilling to believe his own ears. No one says those particular words, in that particular order, in that particular cadence. No one, except -
"Sassenach." The word is torn from his throat roughly, disbelief warring with the desire, the need, for this to really be her. For this to be real. For her to be real, and here, and alive.
oh ym goddddddddddd
Of course, then he drinks himself to sleep every night, an attempt to fend off the worst of the nightmares and the screaming chasm of despair at the memory of her disappearing through the stone.
He can't set her aside completely, and even here, even in his routine, he sometimes catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye that makes him think, for a moment. Or a voice which, even if only briefly, reminds him of hers.
Or a familiar curse.
The words stop him dead in his tracks, and he turns, unwilling to believe his own ears. No one says those particular words, in that particular order, in that particular cadence. No one, except -
"Sassenach." The word is torn from his throat roughly, disbelief warring with the desire, the need, for this to really be her. For this to be real. For her to be real, and here, and alive.