Chapter Text
Against Better Judgment
I walked into the patient room with no expectation of what I’d find there. I was utterly shocked to find a man, bloodied and bruised on the exam table. He seemed to be unconscious, and I approached him with caution, looking to the dark-haired woman beside him, assuming she was his wife. “Hullo, I’m Dr. Randall. I’ll be Mr. Fraser’s attending today.”
The woman looked up at me with an expression, half anger, half worry. She reached out a hand in greeting, “Hullo there lass, I'm Janet Fraser.” The wife then. I silently noted. “This eejit here is James,” she huffed, “Jamie, as everyone calls him, my cloitheid of a brother.” OH. So, she’s not the wife. She's the sister. The seemingly very angry sister.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked as I gently examined the patient before me, prying his eyes open to check his pupils, and listening to his breathing while assessing his injuries to determine my plan of attack.
“Nae I cannae. He showed up at my door lookin’ like this at 3am, no word in four years and this is how he chooses to reappear.” She growls, “Scarrit the shite out of me, is what he did.”
I met her gaze with quiet sympathy. “I can imagine.”
Turning back to the man, I took in the evidence of violence etched across his body—blood dried in uneven patches, a split lip, a cut along his brow. One eye was already swelling into a dark bruise, and his shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, clearly dislocated. He looked every bit the aftermath of a brutal fight. The shoulder was the most urgent concern, but I needed a fuller picture. Lifting his shirt, I uncovered a constellation of bruises spreading across his ribs, each mark telling its own story of impact. To understand the extent of his injuries, I needed him conscious.
Leaning closer, I tried to rouse him. “Mr. Fraser, can you hear me?” My voice was low, coaxing. His eyelid fluttered, a faint response, but refused to open.
Claire leaned closer, brushing a hand lightly against his temple. “Mr. Fraser… Jamie… can you hear me?” Her voice was steady, coaxing, but his only response was a faint twitch of his lashes, a flutter that never became sight. She tried again, firmer this time, but his body remained slack, lost to unconsciousness. She exhaled, straightening, and turned to Janet, who hovered anxiously at her brother’s side. “He’s not waking yet,” Claire said gently, her tone both reassuring and grave. “The shoulder is badly dislocated, but I can’t attempt to set it without knowing the full extent of his injuries. There may be fractures beneath the bruising.”
Janet’s eyes widened, her hands twisting the hem of her shirt. “What must be done?”
“X-rays first,” Claire replied firmly. “It’s the only way to see what’s happening inside before I touch that shoulder. If there are breaks in the ribs or damage near the joint, forcing it back could do more harm than good.” She softened her voice, meeting Janet’s worried gaze. “We’ll need to get him stable, then arrange imaging as soon as possible. Until then, the best thing we can do is keep him still and monitor his breathing.”
Claire moved quickly, her team falling into rhythm around her. Oxygen was secured, vitals monitored, and IV lines placed with practiced efficiency. Jamie stirred faintly under their hands—his lips parted, a low sound escaping—but his eyes never opened. Semi-responsive, yet still locked in the haze of unconsciousness. “Let’s get him stable for imaging,” Claire instructed; her voice clipped but calm. They transferred him carefully, immobilizing the shoulder and ribs as best they could before sending him down to radiology.
Back in her office, Claire sat forward in her chair, elbows braced on the desk, eyes fixed on the monitor. She told herself it was routine—just another patient, another case—but her pulse betrayed her. Why was she so invested in Mr. Fraser? She had treated countless men before, some far worse off, yet something about him unsettled her.
To distract herself, she pulled up his chart. The words leapt out at her: repeat offender. Assault charges. Prior admissions for similar injuries. A man who had been here before, bruised and broken, the cycle repeating. Claire’s jaw tightened.
The scans finally uploaded, black-and-white images blooming across the screen. She leaned in, studying every line and shadow. The ribs were battered but intact. The shoulder, however, told a different story—dislocated far too long, the joint distorted, the damage extensive. Her decision was immediate, clinical, and absolute. “Surgery,” she murmured aloud. “It’s the only way.”
She sat back, the weight of it pressing against her chest. Professional duty demanded she treat him as any patient. Yet beneath it, a quiet voice whispered: Why does this man matter to me more than he should?
Jamie stirred awake in the ICU, his breath ragged, eyes unfocused. The nurses leaned in, but his voice broke through first—hoarse, insistent. “There was a woman… she cared for me. I remember her voice.” His gaze darted, searching. “I dinnae ken her name. She’s a sassenach.”
The word hung in the air like a curse. The nurses froze, exchanging horrified glances. One whispered, “Did he say… sassenach?”
Jamie’s jaw tightened, his pain sharpening his temper. He snapped at every question, defiant even as he winced. When one nurse suggested calling his sister, his voice rose into a howl. “Dinnae call her!” His fury echoed through the ward, startling everyone nearby. "I dinnae want her here!"
The tension broke only when Claire stepped into the room. Calm, steady, she met his glare head-on. “Mr. Fraser,” she said firmly, “your sister was the one who brought you here. You should be grateful.”
At once, his mood shifted. His eyes locked onto her, recognition flickering like a spark. The nurses moved to intercept, warning her in hushed tones. “Doctor, he’s been aggressive. He could lash out.”
Claire brushed past them, her resolve unshaken. “Mr. Fraser wouldn’t hurt me.” She stopped at his bedside, meeting his eyes—and for a moment, her confidence faltered. Her voice caught, softer now. “Would you, Jamie?” His defiance crumbled into stunned silence. He stared at her, as if the question itself had disarmed him. She seized the moment, leaning in to examine him with practiced hands. “How are you feeling?” she asked, her tone professional but edged with something more.
His lips parted, the fight gone from his voice. “Better now,” he murmured, eyes never leaving hers.
Claire perched on the edge of his bed, close enough to steady him but still maintaining her professional air. Her fingers traced lightly along the line of his shoulder, careful not to provoke more pain. “I performed the surgery myself last night,” she explained, her voice calm, matter-of-fact. “The joint had been dislocated far too long—it couldn’t be set without intervention.” She glanced at him, gauging his awareness. “How long had it been out of place?”
Jamie gave a habitual shrug, the motion instinctive, and immediately winced as pain shot through him. Claire’s tone sharpened, firmer than she intended. “Do not do that. Your shoulder will be sore for a week or more. You have to rest it.”
The reprimand silenced him, but instead of bristling, he seemed to settle. Something about her presence eased the restless defiance that had marked him earlier. His breathing slowed, his gaze softened. For the first time in a long while, he felt calm. After a moment, he asked, voice low and rough, “My sister… why was she here? What happened?”
Claire met his eyes, steady and unflinching. “Janet said you showed up at her door at three in the morning—bloodied, broken. You collapsed before she could get a word out. She brought you in unconscious.”
Jamie’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flickered with something deeper—shame, gratitude, perhaps both. He turned his face slightly away, but his voice was softer now. “She shouldnae have had to see me like that.”
Claire studied him, her hand still resting lightly near his shoulder. “She did what any sister would do. And you’re here because of it.”
The next morning, as Claire made her rounds, a sudden commotion erupted down the corridor—raised voices, sharp and frantic. She quickened her pace, heart pounding, and pushed into the room to find Jamie and his sister locked in a furious shouting match. A nurse hovered helplessly nearby, and Claire caught the tail end of the chaos: Jamie had lashed out at one of the staff, and Jenny’s reprimand only stoked his anger further. His voice thundered, hers rose to meet it, the air thick with rage and frustration.
“Enough,” Claire snapped, her authority cutting through the din. She gestured sharply to the nurse. “Please, take Mrs. Fraser into the hallway.”
Jenny protested, but the nurse guided her out, Claire’s voice still echoed in the corridor as she turned back to him, shutting out the nurse’s protests for her not to be alone with the patient. The room was suddenly quiet, save for Jamie’s ragged breathing. His eyes locked on hers, defiance flickering, but beneath it something raw—something wounded.
“She’s right,” he said at last, his voice low, almost resigned. “Ye shouldna be in here wi’ me.”
Claire arched a brow, refusing to yield. “And why is that? Do you intend to hurt me, Mr. Fraser?”
He bit his lip, the fight draining from his posture. “Jamie,” he corrected softly. “And nae… I dinnae plan to hurt ye, Sassenach. But I dinnae plan to hurt her either.” His eyes met her pleading for her to understand, "but I dinnae realize she was going to touch me and she caught me unaware."
The words hung heavy between them. Claire’s sharp retort faltered as she studied him more closely—the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled, the haunted look in his eyes. This wasn’t simple anger. It was something deeper, something that lived beneath the surface and lashed out when cornered. Her chest tightened with understanding. PTSD, she thought. The aggression, the volatility, the fear tangled with guilt—it all fit. He wasn’t just fighting her, or Jenny, or the nurses. He was fighting ghosts.
She softened her tone, stepping closer despite the warnings. “I completely understand. Ms. Mackenzie should have known better." she pulled up the empty chair, silently asking permission before sitting, "You’re not alone in this, Jamie,” she said quietly, deliberately using his name. “But you have to let me help you. Fighting everyone who tries will only make it worse.”
The day of Mr. Fraser’s discharge, I wasn’t scheduled to be on duty. Still, I felt compelled to come. I wanted him to understand the importance of his aftercare instructions, to know how vital it was that he protect that shoulder. More than that—I wanted him to realize he wasn’t alone. And yet, once he walked out of the hospital doors, I couldn’t shake the fear that I might never see him again.
I arrived early, determined not to miss him. But when I reached the nurses’ station and glanced toward his room, my stomach dropped—it was empty. Heart pounding, I redirected my steps and pushed through the door. Gone. Jamie was gone.
“Dr. Randall?” Louise, the head nurse, called across the hall. Her voice barely registered. I stood frozen in the doorway, the truth pressing down like a weight. “Claire!” she called again, sharper this time. I turned, and whatever expression I wore must have answered her unspoken questions. Louise hesitated, then said, “Mr. Fraser demanded to be released last night.”
I blinked, disbelief tightening my voice. “I hadn’t signed his discharge papers, Louise.”
She braced herself, sighing. “Yes, well… he chose to leave against medical advice.”
I didn’t reprimand her. I didn’t say anything at all. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked straight to my office, my thoughts a storm. Why was I so shaken over a man I had only just met? A man with a criminal record, no less. And yet, the hollow ache in my chest refused to be dismissed.