Toes wiggle further underneath the blanket, chipped black varnish sinking her deeper into the darkness she sits in. Pale freckles against even paler skin, hip bones jutting out through the sliver of space exposed in the stolen, oversized shirt she drowns in. Half truths burn on her lips, screaming loudly in the settled wine at the bottom of her stomach. Bound coffee stained words rest in her lap, speaking to a universal yearning for something she can't utter but felt she'd grasped once before, fleetingly slipping through her gold ringed fingers. Grown out, curly, dark fringe lays a veil over pools of blue, blearily leaving an image of what once was, the swirling memory of regret that continues to grow.

"You are my home," she'd whispered to him, tears having threatened to mix with the beauty disguised as chaos, a breath away from ending them both.

For somewhere, once, she thought she had been truly seen, but found she was soon forgotten.

xxxxx

ONE YEAR EARLIER

Claire sets the plate back down, blowing her curly tendrils away from her forehead, an exasperated sigh escaping along with her patience with this day.

"What's wrong this time?" She hears Rupert ask, bending to see her through the metal of soon to be waiting dishes, the heat lamp setting off a warmth that only leaves her feeling sweaty, her curls threatening to throw a tantrum along with the customers.

"They want the inside of the bread taken out…'too many calories'," she says, momentarily ditching her English accent to put on her best impersonation of what she knew to be the typical toned voice that frequented the establishment, with a roll of her eyes, letting Rupert know she thought it was just as ridiculous as the raised eyebrows staring back at her.

She doesn't miss his murmuring curse, and fights back a laugh - Rupert being one of the few friendly faces that has been around as long as she, working the trenches of customer service day in, day out.

Turning to wait for the remade food, she rests against the counter. It's a relatively slow day at the restaurant, the lunch crowd having subsided, only the few stragglers, straddling a meal at a time of day that made little sense, but allowing her more time to make a mental list of things she needed to do when she got off. At the top of the list, stop and get cat food before Adso decided to lay claws to the walls in protest of his lack of sustenance.

"I just had a guy tell me he wished I had more Daddy issues so I'd work at a strip club," Claire's coworker, Gillian, says with a flourish of her hands.

Claire makes a grimace, her face scrunching up in disgust.

"Not even the worst thing I've heard this week," Gillian says with a shrug, blowing off the comment along with all the others that were meant to go in one ear and out the other, an endless cycle of demeaning words thrown at them, expected to be swallowed with a smile all in the name of "customer service."

Claire traces the silver line indented on her hand, as the plate of remade food makes its appearance once more, ready to be served.

"Thanks, Rupert," she tosses over her shoulder at the grisly man, Gillian staying behind, waiting for her.

"So are you doing the catering job tonight," Gillian throws back at her, as Claire comes back to the cutlery station, meticulously folding forks and knives into linen napkins.

"I don't think so," she shrugs, blowing her fringe out of her face once more. An errant curl refusing to submit to her frustration, dangling over her eyes, bouncing with the movement of her head.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Gillian hits Claire's hip with her side, their heights significantly varied. A raised brow and a quirk of her mouth suggesting there was no way that this party would be fun in the slightest.

"A bunch of rich, entitled people…" Claire starts, only to be interrupted.

"Eating out of the palms of our hands…literally," Gillian says with a wink.

"I hope not literally," Claire teases, sticking out her flat tongue.

"Think of the extra money…and you know, if you happen to meet a rich guy that can give you a good fuck," she says a bit louder than intended, a customer looking up from their meal.

Claire shoots a knowing glance at her friend.

Flashing a smile at the appalled woman, Gillian throws her head back.

"I'm gonna pay for that one," she says with a shake of her head. "See, now we have to pick it up, because I'm not getting a tip from that prude," she gestures towards the woman.

"She's your table, not mine," Claire says with a smirk. "I'm going to pass," she says, putting the linen bundles into their bin. "I've got a new book and I…don't do actors," she says with a huff.

"Come on, I'll drive, it'll be…"

"If you say, 'fun' I'm definitely not doing it," Claire warns.

"Fine, it'll be…monetarily beneficial," she grins.

xxxxx

The flutes of champagne balance precariously on the serving tray Claire carries with her, her hands attempting not to shake enough that she send the gold liquid onto anyone, but as she scans the room of men who think they hold more power than they do, congratulating themselves on being masters of their craft,women lapping up the chance to be in their presence, she can't help but picture a slip of the hand that's not so accidental.

Glancing back, she sees the event coordinator motioning for her to smile, and she turns back, her eyes threatening to roll all the way back into her head.

It doesn't matter, as long as you're wearing this uniform, you're invisible, Beauchamp.

The thought echoing a sentiment that had taken root in her for some time, yanking on a thread that could potentially unravel her ever so carefully constructed shield, whose protection she'd shrouded herself in before facing the day, for without it would leave her bare to the thoughts that would surely leave her with nothing but the ugly truth.

Her finger rubs at her hand, her eyes darting around at the extravagant decor of flowers and crystal jewels, only the biggest and best for, whoever this celebration was for. Another Hollywood party that mattered very little, a host of people begging for the attention that would make a connection, garner them a return for the years of hustle they'd put in. Exhausting. The smiles on their faces were likely as fake as the one she now had plastered to her own face, looking more like a grimace than anything close to resembling happiness, as she offered up more alcohol to people that surely didn't need anymore courage to make bad decisions.

"Whiskey on the rocks, sweetheart," she hears behind her, turning around to find a balding man with a graying beard and a sinister grin on his face, suggesting he was a man who always got what he wanted, and as his eyes did a slow once over her, catching on the open button of her shirt, she finds herself wanting to shrink into herself, her hand running over her palm, the bloom of panic tingling, before rising to her full height, which isn't much shorter than this man, biting her tongue at the urge to tell him to go fuck himself.

"Right away," she says with a grit of her teeth, quickly turning to head to the bar to grab the request. Giving the bartender the order, the woman looks as irritated as the rest of them, but throws a knowing grin her way.

"Fucking Americans and their ice," she mutters under her breath.

"Careful, Sassenach, they might hear ye," the soft bur of an accent sends a jolt through her, causing her to hit the tray, sending the remaining few glasses of champagne everywhere. The shattering of glass attracting the attention of the guests only briefly, a stray comment thrown out about clumsy help hitting its target, before they go back to ignoring her.

"Fuck," she says under her breath.

Turning quickly, she fumbles to pick up the broken glass, a rise of red lighting her cheeks on fire, incensed with anger and frustration.

Reaching for a piece of glass, she sees the tray in question appear before her, an offering to gather the mess she'd created. Looking up, she sees the man with the voice that had sent her reeling, a mop of curly red hair, looking like it had been attempted to be tamed, but had given up and decided instead to hang in perfect disarray.

"You don't have to—" she tries to get out, but he's already gathered most of the remaining bits of glass onto the tray, peeking at her through his curls she sees a glimpse of blue that seem to pierce her, a flicker of something close to recognition passes through the sea like a wave, gone just as quickly, paired with a grin of understanding bristled in a stubble that begs to prick her finger and break the spell that seems to surround them.

"It's the least I can do, seeing as it's my fault," he shrugs, the grin only growing wider, as he lifts his head, his bent stance has the kilt he's wearing rucked up to where the muscles in his legs tease her, and she quickly averts her eyes, catching the raise of his eyebrows at having seemingly caught her glance.

"You're right, it is your fault," she says, straightening to a stand, and he peers up at her for a second, making her shift nervously from foot to foot before he stands, her eyes catching the glint of a scar contouring his cheekbone in the light. An imperfection that grounds him in reality. She moves to push her hair back from her face, having a hard time reconciling what she must look like next to this man.

She hears his gruff laugh, and swears it vibrates through her chest.

"I uhh, didn't get you, did I?" She asks, her flustered mind only kicking itself at the excuse to roam over the expanse of his chest, slightly soaked, she immediately turns to grab a napkin on the bar, moving to blot his shirt, pressing gently on his chest, only having it dawn on her that she's touching him when his hand comes to gently grab her wrist. Her breath momentarily stilted, his fingers warm on her pulse - simultaneously skittering her heart to beat faster while leaving her with a sense of peace, like being held too close to the sun, a tranquil warmth threatening to burst her into flames, she pulls back on reflex, and he lets go, freeing her, instead of keeping hold.

"'Tis alright, Sassenach, a wee bit of spilled alcohol never hurt anyone," the breath of his words washing over her, and she steps back with the napkin. Her nose scrunching at the derogatory word he kept using like it was an endearment. His smile rises at her blowing a stray curl out of her face. "Especially when it's champagne, " he playfully grimaces, clearly not a fan of the bubbly.

"Too true," she shrugs, turning to grab the whiskey she'd all but forgotten in her haste to completely drown this charming man in her work. Her usual response to flee begins to rise in her - the calm she'd felt in his presence shifting, as the man whose whiskey she held approached the makeshift stage with a microphone. "Ugh, here we go," she rolls her eyes.

"Not a fan?" He asks, looking amused by her clear disdain.

"The only thing worse than actors are the people in charge of them," she says, before catching the eye of Gillian, a curious smirk on her face, making her way towards Claire. "Anyway, I hope I didn't keep you from…whatever it is you're doing here," she looks down at his kilt again. "Are you the entertainment?"

His eyes widen at the suggestion before biting back a laugh.

"Something like that," he says with what she swears is a twinkle in his eye.

"And now help me in introducing the reason we're all here, actor James Fraser…"

The applause of the entire party seems to grow exponentially around her. Glancing around, she tries to find where the man in question is hiding, until she feels the words whispered in her ear.

"At least I'm not the worst…"

The curly mop of red making his way towards the stage, shirt soaked, kilt swaying with every step, and a smile that keeps glancing back at her.

Bloody Hell, Beauchamp.