He just cried

the whole Pas­sage from AbOSAA:

I COULD LIFT A HAND for a moment or two, but was too weak even to lift my head, let alone sit up. Roger help­ful­ly dragged me semi-upright against piled pil­lows, and put his hand at the back of my head to pre­vent wob­bling, hold­ing a cup of water to my dry lips. It was the odd feel of his hand on the bare skin of my neck that began a dim process of real­iza­tion. Then I felt the warmth of his hand, vivid and imme­di­ate, at the back of my head, and jerked like a gaffed salmon, send­ing the cup fly­ing. “What? What?” I splut­tered, clutch­ing my head, too shocked to for­mu­late a com­plete sen­tence, and obliv­i­ous to the cold water soak­ing through the sheets. “WHAT?!” Roger looked near­ly as shocked as I felt. He swal­lowed, search­ing for words. “I … I … I thought you knew,” he stam­mered, voice break­ing. “Didn’t you … ? I mean … I thought … look, it’ll grow!” I could feel my mouth work­ing, vain­ly try­ing dif­fer­ent shapes that might approx­i­mate words, but there was no con­nec­tion between tongue and brain—there was room for noth­ing but the real­iza­tion that the accus­tomed soft, heavy weight of my hair was gone, replaced by a fuzz of bris­tles. “Mal­va and Mrs. Bug cut it off, day before yes­ter­day,” Roger said, all in a rush. “They—we weren’t here, Bree nor I, we wouldn’t have let them, of course we wouldn’t—but they thought it’s what you do for some­one with a ter­ri­ble fever, it is what peo­ple do now. Bree was furi­ous with them, but they thought—they tru­ly thought they were help­ing save your life—oh, God, Claire, don’t look like that, please!” His face had dis­ap­peared in a star­burst of light, a cur­tain of shim­mer­ing water sud­den­ly com­ing down to pro­tect me from the gaze of the world. I wasn’t con­scious of cry­ing, at all. Grief sim­ply burst from me, like wine spray­ing from a wine­skin stabbed with a knife. Pur­ple-red as bone mar­row, splat­ter­ing and drip­ping every­where. “I’ll fetch Jamie!” he croaked. “NO!” I seized him by the sleeve, with more strength than I would have imag­ined I pos­sessed. “God, no! I don’t want him to see me like this!” His momen­tary silence told me, but I kept stub­born hold of his sleeve, unable to think how else to pre­vent the unthink­able. I blinked, water slid­ing over my face like a stream over rock, and Roger wavered once more into vis­i­bil­i­ty, blurred around the edges. “He’s … er … he’s seen you,” Roger said gruffly. He looked down, not want­i­ng to meet my eyes. “It. Already. I mean—” He waved a hand vague­ly in the vicin­i­ty of his own black locks. “He saw it.” “He did?” This was near­ly as much a shock as the ini­tial dis­cov­ery. “What—what did he say?” He took a deep breath and looked back up, like some­one fear­ing to see a Gor­gon. Or the anti-Gor­gon, I thought bit­ter­ly. “He didn’t say any­thing,” Roger said quite gen­tly, and put a hand on my arm. “He—he just cried.” I was still cry­ing, too, but in a more ortho­dox fash­ion now. Less of the gasp­ing note. The sense of bone-deep cold had passed, and my limbs felt warm now, though I still felt a dis­con­cert­ing­ly chilly breeze on my scalp.…

All rights for the Pic­ture from Out­lander go to the right­ful own­er Starz/Sony
Quote and Excerpt by Diana Gabal­don from “A BREATH of SNOW and ASHES”
I own noth­ing but the editing