glasgow museum of modern art

anonymous asked:

I've been seriously traumatised by a comic book. I need some family fluff, don't even care if it's canon or an AU.

Less ‘family’, more ‘fluff’ in this case, Anon:

‘Follow the steps to the stars’, the note read, its linked script almost perfectly written across the cream page.

Climbing the steep steps, Claire tucked the last cryptic clue into the front pocket of her jeans. She had spent nearly half the night happily trotting all over Glasgow in search of these little snippets, each one more difficult than the last.

But knowing him as she did, it wasn’t hard for her to break the code and find the next.

With Valentines fast approaching, Claire had been eager to know what had been planned for her, but he had been incredibly savvy this year and had managed to keep it all a secret until the last minute.

She had started on the bench by the Clyde where they had first met all those months ago, worked her way through the city to the Glasgow Museum of Modern Art where he had taken her to a very strange opening on their first date and into Queen Street train station where they’d had their first kiss. He had carefully hidden all of his wee notes, a tiny Lindt chocolate buried in the centre of the paper –her favourites.

Now, twenty clues down and one to go, Claire found herself hiking through the very desolate mausoleum, the stars twinkling in the sky above her. Just as the clue had described.

Burrowing her frigid hands into the fur lined pockets of her coat, she pulled the thick material around her chest, her scarf dangling around her neck, swaying to and fro in the light evening breeze.

Ahead she could hear the light fluttering of music as it floated through the air towards her, guiding her forwards. The beautiful melodious piano cut through the silence, gradually getting louder and louder as she turned the final corner, weaving through the larger tombs as the ostentatious crypts began to dwarf her.

Reaching the central shrine, Claire’s heart picked up pace, the cold air prickling the back of her throat as she swallowed.

There, written in candles across the risen grass mound at the base of the thick brick tomb, lay a message that stole the oxygen from her lungs and caused moisture to spring in her eyes.

“Oh…my…” she sighed, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she pulled them from her pockets and rubbed her eyes, as if she might suddenly wake up to discover that it had all been a dream.

“It’s real, Claire,” Jamie whispered, stepping out from behind the crypt, a fresh bunch of chrysanthemums sitting prettily between his clasped hands. “What do ye say, sassenach, will ye?”

Glancing between the glowing words and Jamie, Claire shuffled her feet in the gravel, the sound of the crunching echoing in her ears as she breathed in a number of jagged breaths.

“But w-we’ve…” she began, trying to steady the thrum of her pulse.

“I ken that, aye? But does that really matter?”

Shaking her head, Claire closed the gap between them, letting the tears fall as she placed her cold hands over his warm ones, sniffling as she tried to find the words.

Behind them the small tea lights sparked, the wind dancing through the flames of the message that read:

‘Claire, will you marry me?’

Jesus…H Roosevelt Christ, Jamie Fraser. You’re mad. And I love the bones of you…”

“So, is that a–?”

“Yes,” she interrupted, not wanting him to impatiently take her acceptance from her, “it means yes, of course, yes…always *yes*.”