oh my fucking god

so my dad is planning a surprise trip to Scotland this summer for himself and my mom, because she loves Scotland and consequently loves the Outlander series

this year they also had their 30th anniversary but idk if that has to do with it at all

and he just came into my room to ask me to take this image

and photoshop my mom’s face onto the woman’s face 

so that it can be part of when he unveils the surprise

F a t h e r  w h y  h a s t  t h o u  f o r s a k e n  m e


“Hmm?” I glanced up, jerked out of the text, to see Jamie regarding me with a mixture of sympathy and amusement.

“Ye need spectacles, don’t ye?” he said. “I hadna realized.”

“Nonsense!” I said, though my heart gave a small jump. “I see perfectly well.”

“Oh, aye?” He moved beside me and took the book out of my hand. Opening it to the middle, he held it in front of me. “Read that.”

I leaned backward, and he advanced in front of me.

“Stop that!” I said. “How do you expect me to read anything that close?”

“Stand still, then,” he said, and moved the book away from my face. “Can ye see the letters clear yet?”

“No,” I said crossly. “Farther. Farther. No, bloody farther!”

And at last was obliged to admit that I could not bring the letters into focus at a distance of nearer than about eighteen inches.

“Well, it’s very small type!” I said, flustered and discomfited. I had, of course, been aware that my eyesight was not so keen as it once had been, but to be so rudely confronted with the evidence that I was, if not blind as a bat, definitely in competition with moles in the farsight sweepstakes was a trifle upsetting.

“Twelve-point Caslon,” Jamie said, giving the text a professional glance. “I will say the leading’s terrible,” he added critically. “And the gutters are half what they should be. Even so—” He flipped the book shut and looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Ye need spectacles, a nighean,” he repeated gently.

“Hmph!” I said. And on impulse picked up the book, opened it, and handed it to him. “So—read it yourself, why don’t you?”

Looking surprised and a little wary, he took the book and looked into it. Then extended his arm a little. And a little more. I watched, experiencing that same odd mix of amusement and sympathy, as he finally held the book nearly at arm’s length, and read, “So that the life of a writer, whatever he might fancy to the contrary, was not so much a state of composition, as a state of warfare; and his probation in it, precisely that of any other man militant upon earth—both depending alike, not half so much upon the degrees of his WIT—as his RESISTANCE.”

He closed it and looked at me, the edge of his mouth tucked back.

“Aye, well,” he said. “I can still shoot, at least.”

“And I can tell one herb from another by smell, I suppose,” I said, and laughed.

—  An Echo in the Bone (Outlander series) - Diana Gabaldon
She was in the window of their bedroom, watching out to wave to them as they rode past, her hairbrush in her hand. Her hair was standing out in a great curly swash round her head, and the early-morning sun caught in it like flames in a thornbush. It gave him a sudden queer feeling to see her thus so disordered, half-naked in her shift. A sense of strong desire, despite what he’d done to her not an hour past. And something almost fear, as though he might never see her again.
—  A Breath of Snow and Ashes, chapter 25 “Ashes to Ashes”
Jamie stirred and snorted next to me, and I laid a hand on the back of his neck to soothe him. His lips curved at once in a soft, reflexive smile, then relaxed into sleep once more.
Jenny, watching him, said, “That’s funny, that is. I’ve not seen him do that since he was quite small.”
“Do what?”
She nodded. “Smile in his sleep. He used always to do it, if ye came by and petted him in his cradle, or even later, in his trundle. Sometimes Mother and I would take it in turns to stroke his head and see could we make him smile; he always would.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” I experimented, running a hand gently down the back of his head and neck. Sure enough, I was rewarded at once by a singularly sweet smile that lingered for a moment before the lines of his face relaxed once more into the rather stern expression he presented when asleep.
“I wonder why he does that,” I said, watching him in fascination. Jenny shrugged and grinned at me.
“I imagine it means he’s happy.
—  Outlander, Diana Gabaldon
He turned the hand to and fro, holding it before his face, watching the stiff, twisted fingers and the ugly scars, mercilessly vivid in the sunlight. Then he suddenly bent his head, clutching the injured hand to his chest, covering it protectively with the sound one. He made no sound, but the wide shoulders trembled briefly.
“Jamie.” I crossed the room swiftly and knelt beside him, putting my hand softly on his knee.
“Jamie, I’m sorry,” I said. “I did the best I could.”
He looked down at me in astonishment. The thick auburn lashes sparkled with tears in the sunlight, and he dashed them hastily away with the back of his hand.
“What?” he said, gulping, clearly taken aback by my sudden appearance. “Sorry? For what, Sassenach?”
“Your hand.” I reached out and took it, lightly tracing the crooked lines of the fingers, touching the sunken scar on the back.
“It will get better,” I assured him anxiously.“Really it will. I know it seems stiff and useless right now, but that’s only because it’s been splinted so long, and the bones haven’t fully knitted yet. I can show you how to exercise, and massage. You’ll get back a good deal of the use of it, honestly -”
 He stopped me by laying his good hand along my cheek.
“Did you mean…?” He started, then stopped, shaking his head in disbelief. “You thought…?” He stopped once more and started over.
“Sassenach,” he said, “ye didna think that I was grieving for a stiff finger and a few more scars?” He smiled, a little crookedly. “I’m a vain man, maybe, but it doesna go that deep, I hope.”
“But you -” I began. He took both my hands in both of his and stood up, drawing me to my feet. I reached up and smoothed away the single tear that had rolled down his cheek. The tiny smear of moisture was warm on my thumb.
“I was crying for joy, my Sassenach,” he said softly. He reached out slowly and took my face between his hands. “And thanking God that I have two hands. That I have two hands to hold you with. To serve you, to love you with. Thanking God that I am a whole man still, because of you.”
I put my own hands up, cupping his.
“But why wouldn’t you be?” I asked. And then I remembered the butcherous assortment of saws and knives I had seen among Beaton’s implements at Leoch, and I knew. Knew what I had forgotten when I had been faced with the emergency. That in the days before antibiotics, the usual - the only - cure for an infected extremity was amputation of the limb.
“Oh, Jamie,” I said. I was weak-kneed at the thought, and sat down on the stool rather abruptly.
“I never thought of it.” I looked up at him. “Jamie. If I’d thought of it, I probably would have done it. To save your life.”
“It’s not how…they don’t do it that way, then, in…your time?”
I shook my head. “No. There are drugs to stop infections. So I didn’t even think of it.” I marveled. I looked up suddenly. “Did you?”
He nodded. “I was expecting it. It’s why I asked you to let me die, that once. I was thinking of it, in between the bouts of muzzy-headedness, and - just for that one moment -I didna think I could bear to live like that.
—  Outlander, Diana Gabaldon