#and there was this whole other layer of our office holiday party being tomorrow and him having offered to go (a shock in and of itself!!!) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

isitgintimeyet · 4 years

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Just a Friend

So I finally started to write another story...

I will try and post weekly, but can’t promise on account of real life and my inability to actually focus on translating what’s in my head onto paper (or screen!)

Getting the courage to post never gets any easier, but here goes. I hope you enjoy this frothy bit of fun. I will also post on AO3.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for being an excellent beta.

Chapter 1: From Airport to Aggravation

Bank holiday crowds, on the whole, are hell.

And this one is rapidly turning into an even deeper level of purgatory. The hottest May for years in Scotland and I’m stuck at Glasgow airport with a dozen women, collectively known as ‘Geillis’s Hen Party Posse’, each displaying varying degrees of inebriation, hangover or general sleep deprivation, and all aiming for the luggage carousel showing the flight from Barcelona. Which apparently is where several hundred other disembarked passengers are also heading.

Eventually, I manage to get a view of the bags and cases slowly making their way around the belt. They’re pretty picked over by this time, apart from the couple of boxes covered in gaffer tape that always seem to be first off a plane—any plane—and last to be collected. They’re always there, on every flight. Why is that?

I pause from my musings to wave frantically at Geillis, who now has a trolley and is clearing a path straight towards me.

“I got us a trolley.” she informs me, stating the obvious. “I thought it’d be easier. Have ye seen ours yet, Claire? I canna see the others. They must have already gone through.”

“No,” I answer, keeping my eyes firmly on the little hatch, willing our bags to appear. All I want is to go home, put my sleep mask on and try and get some sleep. Three days in Barcelona celebrating Geillis’s forthcoming nuptials have worn me out, and, I glance at my watch, I am due in theatre in approximately seventeen hours time.

"It's there, it's there," Geillis points excitedly at the neon pink and green leopard print bag making its way towards us.

She makes a grab for it as I continue to look for my bag. Predictably, it’s one of the last ones on the carousel. I recognise it immediately from the piece of red gift ribbon tied to the handle of the plain black Samsonite. I load it onto the trolley and Geillis and I head through customs to join the rest of the posse.

We say our goodbyes loudly, with much hugging and kisses. A stranger viewing this scene might imagine we won’t be seeing each other again for weeks or even months. In truth, I’ll be seeing most of them in the next week or so at the hospital as our schedules coincide.

“Shall we two get a taxi, then?” Geillis asks me.

I start to answer as my mobile pings — a text from Frank...very nice, very caring, very predictable.

Darling, it’s been a long three days without you. I am ready to collect you from the airport if you would like. If not, might I see you later this evening? xxx

And that is very clearly Frank. Correct grammar and punctuation, even on his texts. I shake my head as if to drive away my inner bitch and pretend I haven’t read it. I will respond, of course, just later when I’m back at home.

So, I smile at Geillis and agree. “Of course, we can go halves.”

***********

As I walk into my flat, the peace and quiet and sheer bloody calm wraps itself around me like a swaddling cloth. It’s blissfully cool too, with all the shutters closed.

It’s not that I didn’t have a good time in Barcelona. It was actually great. But being in the company of others twenty four hours a day is wearing, much as I love them. And we all had to do everything together. No sneaking off for a solitary walk, or escaping to bed for a little siesta.

I deposit my suitcase by the bedroom door, slip off my converse, pour myself a glass of orange juice, settle down on the sofa and figure out how best to tell Frank not tonight without offending him.

Frank, Sorry but tonight isn’t —

I delete and try again.

Thanks for the offer to pick me up. I was already in the taxi when I got it. Can we give tonight a miss? Theatre in the morning and I’m knackered totally exhausted. You know what Geillis is like. Speak tomorrow, I promise. C

Frank knows what Geillis is like. Frank thinks Geillis is a bad influence on me, with her larger than life personality and wild ideas. I think Frank doesn’t really know me at all if he believes I can be influenced like that. I hang out with Geillis and my friends because they’re fun and we laugh… a lot.

Without realising, I feel my shoulder muscles relax as soon as I’ve sent the message. These are not good signs for my relationship with Frank. He’s investing far more into ‘us’ than I am willing to do. But as long as I’m honest with him…

There are advantages to being with Frank, of course. He’s punctual, very organised and a proficient and considerate lover. He always makes sure I come, even if I sometimes...er… exaggerate my reactions to hurry things along. So much for honesty, then.

I finish my orange juice and plan my evening. Four things to do - unpack, grab some food, shower and sleep. Not even going to wash my hair. That would really be too much effort, struggling with my untameable mane, and it’s going to be stuck under a surgical cap for most of tomorrow anyway.

It takes a bit of effort to actually move from the sofa. I could quite happily fall asleep there. But then I’d wake up in the middle of the night—starving hungry and still smelling of sweaty airports. Reluctantly, I haul myself into a vertical position and head for my bedroom picking up my suitcase en route.

Opening the suitcase, I am not greeted with the expected haphazard mass of sun dresses, t shirts and shorts—all with the evocative aroma of Hawaiian Tropic—but a layer of white dress shirts, immaculately folded and the faint scent of a musky cologne.

Shit, shit, shit!! Some else has walked off with my black samsonite with the red ribbon on the handle. My evening plans are rapidly going awry. I delve into my handbag praying that I kept my boarding pass with the sticky bar code luggage receipt. The relief when I find it lurking in the bottom of my bag is immense. Quickly I google the airline lost baggage number and dial.

After a few bars of some god awful plinky plinky hold music, I hear a recorded message. “Your call is important to us, please hold. Your call is important to us, please hold.”

Good to know, then back to the plinky plinky before another message. “The office you are trying to reach is now closed. Please try again during office hours nine am to five thirty. Thank you.”

“If my call is so important to you, why is no one there at six o’clock?” I yell down the phone, but the plinky plinky ignores me and continues its irritating melody.

I sigh. I don’t want to have to wait until tomorrow morning to sort this out. Besides, by nine am tomorrow morning, I will be somewhat unavailable - reshaping the hip bone of a seven year old boy. So, I have no alternative. I will have to have a bit of a dig around this stranger’s suitcase, looking for any clue or contact details.

As I start to have a feel around, it occurs to me that some stranger might, at this very moment, be doing exactly the same thing — having a poke around my suitcase in the hope of finding my details. No doubt judging me based on my choice of holiday attire. And, I suddenly realise, his judgement may well be coloured by the discovery of some items of a more adult nature.

I say ‘he’, based on the XL white shirts, the pair of battered jeans and faded Scotland rugby shirt, but I could be wrong. I don’t have to dig any further into the case as I spy, in a mesh pocket, a neat rectangle of card with a name — James Fraser — a mobile number and an email address.

Relief sweeps over me. Perhaps we can get this all sorted tonight. Unless this James Fraser lives miles away and was just passing through Glasgow on his way to, say, the Outer Hebrides. That could be a whole other level of problem.

I quickly reach for my phone. Another message from Frank awaits.

Are you sure, darling? I’m looking forward to seeing you. Would tomorrow evening work for you?

I ignore it for the moment. Let me sort my luggage issue out first.

I dial the number on the card and begin to pace around my bedroom as it rings and rings. I am just about to give up when, thankfully, it’s answered.

“Hello?” A female voice asks warily.

I clear my throat and put on my most pleasant phone voice. “Is there a James Fraser there please?”

“Ye’ve the wrong number.”

“Oh, sorry, I must have mis—“ I begin, but find myself apologising to dead air.

I try again, carefully comparing each digit to those written, very neatly, on the card.

“Hello?” The same female voice answers, more than a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“I’m sorry, but this is the number I have for James Fra—“

“And I already told ye, ye’ve the wrong number. Dinna bother again.”

In the days before mobiles, I’m sure this would have been accompanied by a deafening crash as the receiver hit the cradle. Pressing a soft key doesn’t have the same dramatic effect. But I get the message anyway.

So, new plan needed. All I can do is email this James Fraser and hope he actually has written down the correct email address. If not, I’ll have to sort it out with the airline tomorrow afternoon.

My stomach rumbles and I suddenly realise that I’ve not eaten since breakfast, unless you count the slices of fruit in my jug of sangria. I wander into the kitchen and peruse the contents of my cupboards and fridge. I’m not the most gifted cook, but I’m not too bad and can usually rustle up something edible and fairly tasty. The bread feels a bit on the dry side but will be fine toasted, and I know I have eggs.

I put a knob of butter in a pan and text Frank while I’m waiting for it to sizzle.

Think tomoz will be ok. Talk 2morrow. C

I don’t normally use text speak at all, but something about Frank’s perfectly formed text messages always makes me want to rebel. I can imagine him wincing right now. He’s a professor at the university and is forever complaining about the standard of literacy amongst his undergraduates. If he thinks he has problems, he should try dealing with junior doctors.

With my scrambled egg on toast all eaten, I focus my attention on the email to James Fraser. I write it quickly, brief and to the point: I have your suitcase and therefore presume you have mine, can we meet to swap them over and here’s my phone number.

The longing for a shower and then bed is now overwhelming. I strip off and bundle all my clothes into the laundry basket, tie my hair up with a scrunchie and step into my shower. This is undoubtedly one of my favourite places on earth and possibly the reason that I bought this flat. Large enough for two, I suppose. Although none have yet been invited to partake in this heavenly experience. Maybe I’m saving that for someone extra special. It has a huge overhead rainfall shower head and a handheld shower head too.

My indulgences are all in here — a selection of expensive shower gels, scrubs and lotions and an assortment of huge fluffy bath towels. I choose a lavender scented gel and scrub all traces of the day from my skin.

Wrapping myself in one of my pristine white towels, I slather shea butter lotion on my slightly sun-burnt skin, noticing the uneven red patches where the sun cream hadn’t quite reached but at least it’s not sore.

A quick check of my emails shows there’s no word from James Fraser as yet, so I decide to just settle down to sleep and leave luggage worries until the morning. Fortunately, I had changed the sheets before my weekend away, so I simply unwrap my towel, leaving it in a heap on the floor and slide into bed. The feeling of the cool, crisp bedding against my skin is wonderful. I assume a sort of diagonal starfish position, not having to worry about any other occupants. It crosses my mind whether to reach for the tiny vibrator in my bedside drawer, but I’m too comfortable and drowsy for that, so instead I check my alarm and settle down for sleep.

#outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #Just a Friend #chapter 1 #Here goes

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nat-roman0ff · 4 years

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lover - pt. 2

lover, pt. 2 - the first kiss take me out, and take me home. -- words: 2k warnings: fluff, more gin and tonic, snow

The early winter chill cuts you to the core as a gust of wind blows by, knocking the air from your lungs. It had been a hell of a day at work, and you stomp as quickly as you can to the bar to meet with your sorta-kinda “friend-boy”, Shawn, for drinks.

It was new. So new, in fact, that you weren’t quite sure what to call it yet. You were definitely exclusive, but exclusively what was still up for debate. The lamp posts that line the city streets twinkle, wrapped in Christmas lights and the air is sterile and crisp with the smell of the upcoming winter.

Another gust slices you while you struggle with the front door to the bar you’re meeting Shawn at. He’s already there, and you feel like an asshole for being late, but also grateful that he reserved a spot for the two of you towards the back of the room. Work had been stressful, and you were ready to swig back a couple drinks and eat some greasy bar food.

You spot him first, tapping away on his phone, brows scrunched and that one little S curl hanging in the middle of his forehead. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, something you picked up on quickly as a nervous habit for him. His eyes scan the room nervously, melting when they lock on you.

Shawn waves you over and pulls the seat out at the table by the picture window. It has just the right amount of glow and the he looks absolutely divine in the dimly lit bar (although you could argue he just about looked divine anywhere). You shrug off your coat and plop into the seat across from him.

“Rough day at the office?” He asks with a chuckle.

You groan, “that obvious, huh?”

Shawn laughs, “when you texted me ‘I need to fucking drink tonight’ I figured it was a trying time. I hope you don’t mind, but I already ordered us some beer.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, “oh thank god. As long as it’s not Corona.”

Shawn’s face goes white.

“So I ordered myself some beers,” he answers.

You laugh, “it’s fine, drink your piss water. I’ll have a big girl drink.”

He smirks and the two of you sit in a sort of comfortable silence. It takes your fingers and toes a few moments to warm up, and your senses start to clear as your body melts from the freezing cold outside to the toastiness of the bar. The quiet doesn’t make either of you uncomfortable. He’s the first person you’d ever met that didn’t need to fill a room with noise or chatter. The two of you, sitting together with the harmony of the jukebox and clinking glasses brings peace.

“So what was your day like?” You ask when your drink arrives, “anything exceptional going on in the world of Shawn Mendes?”

He shakes his head, “if laundry and leg day are exceptional, then yes.”

“Everything you do is exceptional,” you let out, not even mad that your lips spoke before your brain had a second to edit.

Shawn tilts his head, his lips curling up at the corners, “you really think so?”

You nod, “of course. You’re probably the most down to Earth and normal person I know. Which is terrifying considering you’re, ya know, you. I’m sure you find my office talk very boring when you’re Snapchatting John Mayer.”

His smile fades, “oh.”

“No not like that!” You defend, “Not like, ‘oh you’re normal for a famous guy’. I just mean…I don’t know, I’ve never known someone that’s had success like you before. I just figured you’d have a big head or something. Like your head physically is quite large. Maybe it’s the hair. Shit, I’m fucking rambling. Sorry.”

You pick at your chipping nail polish under the table, looking to your hands and avoiding Shawn’s gaze at all costs.

“It’s just hard to get to know people,” he starts, “It’s hard to get to know people who are genuinely in it for me, or in it for everything that comes along with it. I can’t hide who I am or what I do or pretend that it doesn’t exist. But I certainly hope that you’re here because you like me.”

You smile, “I do.”

Shawn’s eyes catch yours, and though you both don’t know it yet, it’s not the first time he’ll hear you say those words.

The winter never suited you. Despite living your entire life in a place with a frigid winter climate, there was something about the bone chilling cold that just hurt. You huddle as closely to Shawn as you can while you walk the short distance from the bar to his condo. He holds your frozen hand tight in his, occasionally rubbing the soft skin at the back of your hand with his thumb.

The treetops shine with Christmas lights, some even zigzagged across the road, illuminating the streets below while the early winter snow dusts the streets. Your body shakes involuntarily against the cold as you feel it seep through all your layers.

“I could give you my coat if you want?” Shawn says, feeling you shiver beside him.

“No, s’fine. Just a wuss when it comes to the cold.”

“Hold onto my arm,” he says, “come in a little closer, you’ll be warmer.”

There’s a blueprint of a smile when he says it, but it goes as quickly as it came.

Have you ever been able to pinpoint a single moment in your life where you know it’s the beginning of a radical change? An absolute millisecond of realization that nothing going forward will ever be the same?

It happens as quickly as blinking, you think. One second he’s the boy sitting across from you and the next he’s the man you’re going to fall in love with (although neither of you know that just yet). It’s something like electricity, a sort of static that buzzes and you know the universe is colliding with all it’s little atoms and although you can’t see it you can feel it. It’s in the air, in the way that it pricks your skin and leaves your hair on edge. It’s in the unrhythmic beating of your heart, in how it surges the blood in your veins. Every particle is thick and palpable and you can feel the universe shift around you, for you.

“You okay?” He asks, his hand giving yours a quick squeeze.

You nod. He lets you stay quiet, and you think that’s what you enjoy the most about him. He doesn’t need to fill the air with noise or words, doesn’t have to fill the space between you with promises of tomorrows and Sundays. Just the buzzing of the air and the flurry-lined streets of Toronto are enough to satisfy.

“We’re close, my place is right here,” Shawn says, pointing to the building across the street.

Breathing a sigh of relief you loosen your grip on him a touch, giving him space to fish out his keys. He’d never taken you home before, on the few dates here and there that you had been on. Usually you just parted ways wherever you were meeting your he ordered you an Uber to get home safely. It had been his suggestion that you go back to his, and with the promise of fuzzy blankets, a comfy couch, a fireplace, and Christmas movies, it was a hard offer to pass up.

The condo surprised you, but not in a bad way. It was much smaller than you’d imagined. A simple one bedroom; modern with clean lines but nothing over the top. It was unusually clean too, but then you remembered he was rarely home enough to get comfortable before taking off again to live the life that came along with being him.

That was going to take some getting used to.

“This is different than what I expected,” you say, shrugging off your coat and placing it on the hook by the door, neatly lining up your shoes beside his.

Shawn couldn’t help but think how perfect your things looked beside his, and it wouldn’t be for another year and a half when he’d ask you to leave them there permanently.

“Different?” He asks, “Like, bad? Were you expecting a waterfall? Trophy case? A renaissance style portrait of Drake above the fireplace?”

You laugh and pinch his side. In one swoop he pulls you into his arms, pressing his forehead against yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours. You think he’s going to kiss you but instead he lets you go and takes a half step back, worried he’s moved too fast, too soon.

“It’s...cozy. It’s simple,” you point at the streamlined kitchen, “but also unequivocally you.”

He follows your gaze to the array of photos on the wall of friends and family. There’s even a photobooth strip of the two of you from the wedding you met at just a couple months ago.

“Do you want a drink?” He asks, pointing to the bar cart in the living room.

You scoff, “is that even a question?”

Shawn smirks, “Gin and tonic, right?”

You nod, and he starts to busy himself with making your drinks. You scan his gallery wall, smile so wide it hurts your cheeks as you look at childhood photos, recognizing old faces in younger days.

“So what are you doing for the holidays?” He asks when he hands you a drink.

You shrug, “just a boring Christmas at my parents. Presents in our pajamas, a good home cooked meal and some movies. Nothing crazy, we keep it pretty low key.”

Shawn smiles, “that sounds perfect.”

You take the first sip of your drink. Honestly, it’s shit.

“What about you? Any big plans?”

He shakes his head, “not really. We keep it pretty quiet on Christmas day. But, my parents do throw a big party on Christmas Eve. The whole family is there, close friends, things like that,” he pauses for a second and chews the inside of his cheek, “I was...wonderingifmaybeyou’dliketocome?” He says in one quick breath.

You purse your lips together to try and hide the shit eating grin on your face, “I’d love to.”

Shawn looks at you, like really looks at you. He’s searching for something in your face, eyes focusing on yours and a deep crease forms between his brows. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he speaks.

“Can I show you something?” He asks.

You shrug, “sure.”

He plucks your glass from your hand and places it on the coffee table next to his. With your hand in his, he brings you to the other side of the living room, where a small desk studio is set up overlooking the city lights of Toronto. He sits down and starts clicking around the computer’s desktop for something, opening a program with a bunch of notches and lines and nothing that makes sense to you.

“Can I play you a new song?”

All the air is sucked from your lungs before you can speak, “absolutely, yeah,” you manage to choke out.

Shawn smiles wide and clicks play, turning up the speakers on the desk. It starts slow, a wedding band type of slow that you picture slow dancing with your Lover to. It makes you feel...warm, and safe, and happy, and at home. The room melts around you as the tempo picks up into the chorus and Shawn’s voice is so delicate and raw that you almost feel embarrassed for listening in. You stand facing the floor to ceiling window, watching the snow blanket the city and swirl around you like a living snow globe. You’re not sure at which point Shawn stands next to you, but his fingers intertwine through yours as you both stare out of the window in front of you, his song echoing off the walls.

It ends on a single chord that leaves your ears ringing and he waits a few seconds before turning his head to look at you.

“So what did you think?” He asks, his voice shaky.

He doesn’t have the nerve yet to tell you he wrote it for you the day after you first met.

“Can I kiss you?” You respond.

Shawn relaxes a touch, a smile tugging at his lips, “yeah, I think I would love that.”

#shawn mendes #Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fanfiction #lover #shawn mendes blurb

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