The kitchen at the back of Fraser's Ridge, a cozy-atmosphered casual dining restaurant, is always busy. From the outside looking in, it seems like chaos, but at the center of it all is the head chef and owner, Jamie Fraser. He commands the kitchen with ease, and it's popular with the locals of Edinburgh. It's good food, sourced from his father's farm, and his sister makes the desserts.
At the close of business, once his staff has finished cleaning, Jamie walks to the front of the restaurant to unlock the door and let one very bonny, very curly-haired lass into the restaurant.
He'd met Claire Beauchamp at the hospital, after his niece, in his care, smashed her hand in the door and broke a finger. He'd driven her to the emergency room, and there she was; likely one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Somehow he'd wound up with her number and now, on their fourth meeting, he's cooking for her in his kitchen.
"No' too late, is it?" he asks, holding the door for her and then taking her coat once she's inside. He locks the door, then turns before greeting her properly, a soft kiss to the lips before leading her through the restaurant to the kitchen.
Claire gives him a look. She's a creature of he night with the shifts she pulls at the hospital, but such is the life of an intern. Edinburgh was only supposed to be yet another pin on the map. A few years here, more experience and recommendations, and she'd be trying to find work in London. Dating was never the plan, but then she met Jamie Fraser and now she's finding herself seriously considering extending her stay.
Ridiculous, after only a handful of dates (their meeting in the hospital didn't count), but he's a ridiculously charming and sweet man. It's already hard to imagine not having him in her life.
So, here she is, all smiles and her hand firmly attached to his.
"No. I'm only starved."
No time for a snack, but time to do her hair and make up.
"What would ye like, then? Anythin', on or off the menu," he offers, a thumb stroking along the inside of her wrist.
The kitchen's already clean from dinner, but the lighting is dimmer, and he has a stool from the bar at the counter so she can watch him cook. Then, he pours a glass of wine for each of them, handing her one, watching the way she moves, the curves of her, and not subtly.
She manages to only let go of his hand long enough for him to pour the wine, taking the glass in one hand and finding his again with the other. He makes her feel like the only woman in the world when he looks at her. It's really quite the feat.
You, Claire almost says, but just barely stops herself. She just grins, enjoying the night already. Enjoying just being with him.
Claire sits, cupping her hands around her glass now that his are otherwise occupied. The nickname makes her smile. God, her cheeks are already sore from how much she smiles around this man.
"Do you want the edited version?"
Working at a hospital means she sometimes blabs about gore and things most people don't want to hear over dinner.
"No," he says, coming back out with everything he needs to begin cooking, keeping it a surprise for her.
"I'm no' squeamish, go ahead," he urges as he begins to cook, working right in front of her, not measuring anything, his knife work easy and effortless. Mostly, he just likes hearing her talk, and he means it, he has a strong enough stomach.
He asked for it. Claire takes a drink before beginning.
"Well, the flu's been going about, and so that means the waiting room's been full to the brim with people..."
Claire carries on, telling him about several instances of vomiting (that induced more vomiting), a poor woman that soiled herself from the other end, and to top it all off a workman came in near the end of her shift with a nail through his palm and barely batted an eye. She seems most excited about the physical wounds she gets to treat, when she shares her stories, and so there's a bit more light in her eyes as she explains how she removed the nail and really only needed to patch up the hole left.
"The man didn't even ask for pain killers! Absurd. Scottish men are like that, I'm told."
Jamie listens intently, asking questions every now and again, and at her statement, he scoffs.
"Long as we're breathin', no cause for alarm," he tells her, flashing a grin as the protein he's seasoned goes into a cast iron skillet with browning butter.
"What made ye want to become a doctor?" he asks her curiously.
He's easy to talk to. A good listener, and an active one, asking the right things to make her laugh or carry on. And Christ. That smile. It warms her more than the wine.
"Are you asking me all these questions to distract me from what your doing? So I don't ask what it is you're cooking over there?"
But he relents, not wanting her to feel as though he's drilling her. "I only like gettin' to know ye, is all. But ye dinna have to answer anything ye'd like not to," he promises.
"... meat?" She offers. Claire is no cook. The small flat she shares with a roommate is stocked full of instant meals and salad mixes, with the occasional cup noodle on the side.
She takes a drink from her glass, then softly continues on.
"I don't mind telling you things. It's just not very special, I don't think. I'm not going to cure cancer or save every baby that needs to be saved. I just... found something I enjoyed, and that I was good at, and I chased after it. What about you, hmm?"
"Ye take care of people when they need ye. I promise, yer special to that person, that day. Or their family," he tells her quietly, meaning it as he meets her gaze.
Flipping the correctly guessed mystery meat over to sear on the other side, he shrugs a bit, going to chop a few pieces of veg.
"Was somethin' my mam always wanted to do. She taught me most of what I ken, always wanted to open a homey little place."
Fixing his niece's finger that day was nothing, really, but the praise makes her cheeks flush pink. She's quickly come to learn he's good at being painfully sincerely and it's terribly sweet.
"She must have been quite the woman to have a son like you."
"She was. She didna get the chance to see me open, but she named the restaurant, a long time ago, made the drawings of how she wanted it to look. We have a farm that my da runs, where all the food comes from, so she even had a menu planned," he explains.
"I went to school in France to hone my skills and worked my way up. Saved everythin' I had for five years, then opened near on two years ago now."
"Good job at making my story sound like shit," Claire laughs, but she's charmed and it's fatal. But she's quick to settle into something more serious, because if she's learned anything about Jamie Fraser since meeting him, it's that he loves his family.
"I'm sure she'd be so proud of you. This place really is something, Jamie. I'm sure it'll be something that stays in your family for a long time."
"It was nothin'," he promises. "I just want ye to enjoy it," he urges, sitting across from her with his own plate now.
"Anytime ye want to come in from now on, come in over there," he says, pointing. "Cannae promise if it's peak time I can stop and chat, but, there's a table in the corner. Ye sit there, they'll bring ye plates of things every now and again."
He'd like it, he thinks, to be able to look over and see her there sometimes.
"Walk," she says, and cuts into the meat that practically melts at the touch of her knife. She puts it into her mouth and immediately sighs with pleasure.
"My God. This is sinful."
It's great. Claire grunts in approval before taking another bite.
"I'm going to have to roll home because I'm going to eat every single bite of this. Might have to lick the plate, too."
"Ye walk alone this late at night?" he asks, then just shakes his head as he reaches for his glass of wine.
"I'll drive ye, Sassenach. I dinna much like the idea of ye walking by yerself after dark."
Rolling or not, but he does circle back to her comment on his cooking. The best thing, for him, is watching someone enjoy his food. Double when said someone is a beautiful woman.
"I am glad ye like the food. Though if ye save room, I saved a slice of dessert from Jen for ye. Whisky cake wi' whipped cream and a caramel sauce."
He takes no credit for the desserts, that's all his sister.
"I was hoping you'd say that." Claire grins over her fork. The city is safe, she feels, and there would be no problem walking home in the dark--but she's not turning down a ride because it means more time with him.
"Been a while since I had someone to spoil. And speakin' of which..."
He glances at his watch; ten minutes to midnight.
"Close enough to twelve, I reckon," he decides aloud, reaching into his pocket and pulling an envelope with two tickets to a smoky blues-jazz lounge the next night, her birthday.
"Our second date, ye reached over and turned the radio up to hear the advert for this better. So, I took a chance," he explains once she opens it. It's rare that he leaves the restaurant, but it's a Sunday and service should be light enough for his sous chef to handle it fine.
"And dinner afterward, but no' here. I want to sit wi' ye proper for yer birthday." He's arranged it already, at a prime steakhouse down the street from his own restaurant.
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seventeenfortythree) wrote2019-10-19 09:38 pm
no subject
At the close of business, once his staff has finished cleaning, Jamie walks to the front of the restaurant to unlock the door and let one very bonny, very curly-haired lass into the restaurant.
He'd met Claire Beauchamp at the hospital, after his niece, in his care, smashed her hand in the door and broke a finger. He'd driven her to the emergency room, and there she was; likely one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Somehow he'd wound up with her number and now, on their fourth meeting, he's cooking for her in his kitchen.
"No' too late, is it?" he asks, holding the door for her and then taking her coat once she's inside. He locks the door, then turns before greeting her properly, a soft kiss to the lips before leading her through the restaurant to the kitchen.
no subject
Ridiculous, after only a handful of dates (their meeting in the hospital didn't count), but he's a ridiculously charming and sweet man. It's already hard to imagine not having him in her life.
So, here she is, all smiles and her hand firmly attached to his.
"No. I'm only starved."
No time for a snack, but time to do her hair and make up.
no subject
The kitchen's already clean from dinner, but the lighting is dimmer, and he has a stool from the bar at the counter so she can watch him cook. Then, he pours a glass of wine for each of them, handing her one, watching the way she moves, the curves of her, and not subtly.
no subject
You, Claire almost says, but just barely stops herself. She just grins, enjoying the night already. Enjoying just being with him.
"Chef's choice. Surprise me, Jamie. I trust you."
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"Tell me, how was yer day, Sasseanch?" he asks her, using the nickname he's apparently grown fond of.
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"Do you want the edited version?"
Working at a hospital means she sometimes blabs about gore and things most people don't want to hear over dinner.
no subject
"I'm no' squeamish, go ahead," he urges as he begins to cook, working right in front of her, not measuring anything, his knife work easy and effortless. Mostly, he just likes hearing her talk, and he means it, he has a strong enough stomach.
no subject
"Well, the flu's been going about, and so that means the waiting room's been full to the brim with people..."
Claire carries on, telling him about several instances of vomiting (that induced more vomiting), a poor woman that soiled herself from the other end, and to top it all off a workman came in near the end of her shift with a nail through his palm and barely batted an eye. She seems most excited about the physical wounds she gets to treat, when she shares her stories, and so there's a bit more light in her eyes as she explains how she removed the nail and really only needed to patch up the hole left.
"The man didn't even ask for pain killers! Absurd. Scottish men are like that, I'm told."
Proud.
no subject
"Long as we're breathin', no cause for alarm," he tells her, flashing a grin as the protein he's seasoned goes into a cast iron skillet with browning butter.
"What made ye want to become a doctor?" he asks her curiously.
no subject
"Are you asking me all these questions to distract me from what your doing? So I don't ask what it is you're cooking over there?"
no subject
But he relents, not wanting her to feel as though he's drilling her. "I only like gettin' to know ye, is all. But ye dinna have to answer anything ye'd like not to," he promises.
no subject
She takes a drink from her glass, then softly continues on.
"I don't mind telling you things. It's just not very special, I don't think. I'm not going to cure cancer or save every baby that needs to be saved. I just... found something I enjoyed, and that I was good at, and I chased after it. What about you, hmm?"
She motions to their surroundings.
"What made you want this life?"
no subject
Flipping the correctly guessed mystery meat over to sear on the other side, he shrugs a bit, going to chop a few pieces of veg.
"Was somethin' my mam always wanted to do. She taught me most of what I ken, always wanted to open a homey little place."
no subject
"She must have been quite the woman to have a son like you."
no subject
"She was. She didna get the chance to see me open, but she named the restaurant, a long time ago, made the drawings of how she wanted it to look. We have a farm that my da runs, where all the food comes from, so she even had a menu planned," he explains.
"I went to school in France to hone my skills and worked my way up. Saved everythin' I had for five years, then opened near on two years ago now."
no subject
"I'm sure she'd be so proud of you. This place really is something, Jamie. I'm sure it'll be something that stays in your family for a long time."
no subject
He thinks she's incredible, thinks she's smart and sharp-tongued and perfect, and he slides her plate in front of her.
"Seared duck, whipped potatoes, and candied carrots for ye, Sasseanch."
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"Jesus Christ that smells and looks fantastic, Jamie. I'm... touched, truly."
It's a little fancier than she expected.
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"Anytime ye want to come in from now on, come in over there," he says, pointing. "Cannae promise if it's peak time I can stop and chat, but, there's a table in the corner. Ye sit there, they'll bring ye plates of things every now and again."
He'd like it, he thinks, to be able to look over and see her there sometimes.
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Just the two of them, alone, sharing a meal.
"I shouldn't keep you up too late, though."
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Truthfully, being exhausted would be worth it for her.
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"My God. This is sinful."
It's great. Claire grunts in approval before taking another bite.
"I'm going to have to roll home because I'm going to eat every single bite of this. Might have to lick the plate, too."
no subject
"Ye walk alone this late at night?" he asks, then just shakes his head as he reaches for his glass of wine.
"I'll drive ye, Sassenach. I dinna much like the idea of ye walking by yerself after dark."
Rolling or not, but he does circle back to her comment on his cooking. The best thing, for him, is watching someone enjoy his food. Double when said someone is a beautiful woman.
"I am glad ye like the food. Though if ye save room, I saved a slice of dessert from Jen for ye. Whisky cake wi' whipped cream and a caramel sauce."
He takes no credit for the desserts, that's all his sister.
no subject
"You spoil me, you know."
And she adores it.
no subject
He glances at his watch; ten minutes to midnight.
"Close enough to twelve, I reckon," he decides aloud, reaching into his pocket and pulling an envelope with two tickets to a smoky blues-jazz lounge the next night, her birthday.
"Our second date, ye reached over and turned the radio up to hear the advert for this better. So, I took a chance," he explains once she opens it. It's rare that he leaves the restaurant, but it's a Sunday and service should be light enough for his sous chef to handle it fine.
"And dinner afterward, but no' here. I want to sit wi' ye proper for yer birthday." He's arranged it already, at a prime steakhouse down the street from his own restaurant.
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