A time Traveler's Wife fic of a slightly different calibur. It's not in the traditional perspectives of Clare and Henry but in the third person. Enjoy.


Henry turned slightly to look at Clare. Her perfect frame was washed out by the sunlight behind her. She was reading something. A novel. He hoped it was something that he had introduced to her. Her hair was tossed slightly by a breeze and she pushed it behind her ears, never taking her eyes off her book. Henry turned his attention to the sky. It was a lazy summer day. They didn't have much of anything to do.

He ran his fingertips over the arch of her foot, counting all the bones and ligaments and muscles. He had hard hands that cracked and dried from flipping though as many pages as there were people in the world.

Stars in the sky.

You can always tell when your boyfriend is a librarian: He has more scars on his fingers than the rest of his body. They are all from paper cuts. Each may have a story. A story of what book he was reading when it attacked, suddenly and he has the scar to prove it.

Cry, the Beloved Country!

A Tale of Two Cites.

Crime and Punishment.

The Stranger.

Novels that Clare was sure Henry had mentioned as his assailants. The scars on his hand were small in comparison to others on his body, but nonetheless there. She had counted them carefully one day and labeled each one with a pen by title. He had told her how he had received said wound and how being a librarian was so hard and tiresome. Clare laughed.

Clare moved her toes and Henry looked up smiling at her. He traced the protrusion of her anklebone and closed his eyes thoughtfully. Henry felt the smoothness of a scar under his rough thumb and smiled continuing to map her skin carefully.

Dainty feet like a princess. Cinderella's perfect fit for a glass slipper. For a pair of ruby reds. Henry smiled at the thought. He traced circles in her foot with his index finger, thinking with Clare's soft breathing to lull him into an almost sleep. He was happy at this place.

In this time.

This time.

Clare leaned over him, her hair falling around him like a curtain. She was asking about a new scab on his finger. Something that was recently acquired. From what book?

From what time?

An anachronism.

A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.