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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 year

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The Only Survivor

CW: PTSD, recovery whump, two former whumpees meet, referenced murder

Jameson Masterlist | Death Valley (Finn’s story)

For @amonthofwhump, day 2: Unhappy family reunion

"Just hang out in the den for a few minutes, okay?" Nat gestures to the room, but Jameson doesn’t get why she calls it a den at all. It’s just another living room as far as he can tell, only smaller and with warm wood-paneled walls that feel decades out of place

There's a couch, a couple of armchairs, a coffee table with a scattering of books and magazines and a TV hanging off the wall. Some blankets are thrown around, thrift store buys on their sixth or seventh home. Some of them, he thinks, might even have been patched.

Who patches a thrift store blanket?

People who need to make them last, he figures, and whose hands work better than this.

There are other rescues around here, somewhere, but they're staying upstairs and Jameson would rather claw his own face off than make small talk with Domestics and Platonics who think he must have done something to earn all those scars, that he's something to fear.

Or worse, that he’s a silly brainless slut who can’t be trusted not to try and jump them one by one so he can feel alive.

Maybe he was that, once upon a time, before he was torn to shreds, but he doesn't want to think about it right now. It doesn’t feel true, but he can’t say it isn’t. He can’t face their stares, the whispers behind their hands, their murmuring about how he must have been ruined by his scars, so ruined no one would want him any longer even for resale.

He can’t listen to it.

So he just glares at the ground, very much aware he looks more sullen and sulking than angry, but unable to help himself. "You said we would take me to get Allyn's present-"

"I will." Nat puts a hand on his arm and Jameson doesn't even bristle anymore, just rubs at the back of his neck with his other hand, leaning his weight on the crutch and the leg bothering him less. Her voice is low and gentle, not irritated or snapping, even in the face of his impatience.

From another room, he can hear low conversation - other people who run safe houses - but he can't quite pick up their words.

Nat waits, until he looks at her. Then she smiles. "This will take ten minutes, maybe twenty tops, I promise. Okay? There's a couple people here tonight that I don't usually get to see."

Jameson nods, expression softening against his will. He leans the crutches against the wall and sits down in one of the armchairs, picking up a TV remote. His fingers twitch, the tendons and bones protesting even this small independent movement, and he nearly drops the stupid thing before he clamps down on it so hard it hurts. "Yeah, okay. Don't make me sit here all fucking night, though, yeah?"

"I won't. Girl Scout promise." Nat shoots him a wider smile - one he finds himself returning - and walks out the door and down to the room with the others. He watches her braid, the rich brown more and more streaked with silver, swinging against her back as she goes, against her eternal flannel shirt.

Her voice is added to the chorus of the others, muffled by walls and distance. People greet her with cheerful exclamations and she calls back. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the hugging.

He can taste all their voices, layering over and around each other, some in conflict and some in harmony.

He shudders, pulling a blanket over his lap.

His fingers curl around the bunched fabric, giving him a visual excuse when they won't straighten out, if anyone notices. Nobody's in here, but the motion is still automatic. When his fingers twitch, there's nothing to drop on the ground, nothing to look at.

Jameson finds some dumbass cop show on TV and mostly ignores it, focusing instead on spending a few minutes slowly reclining his chair, bit by bit, until his feet rest almost straight out from his body. The throb of pain that stretches down his thighs to his ankles is at its baseline, medication holding back the worst of it.

Thank God for the fucking pills.

One of his knees jerks, bends like a reflex after being hit with a hammer, but the more he takes deep, even breaths the more he is able to slowly unfold it again. Finally, he sits back and relaxes into the low ache. It's so familiar and constant that he wonders what it would feel like if one day his legs didn't hurt at all.

Would it feel like they'd been cut off, if they stopped hurting? Is it the only way he even remembers he has them, still?

There's a figure in the doorway. It’s not Nat, he can tell that much, so he doesn’t look up. He’s very aware that from this angle, whoever it is will see the scar across his face, the way some of his hair is shorter than the rest, growing more slowly as it comes back. If he keeps his chin down, he can hide the worst of it, maybe hold off questions he doesn’t want to answer.

Maybe, with the blanket, they won't notice anything else. Won’t notice his fucked-up legs. But, wait, the crutches on the wall…

The guy - it’s a guy, he thinks, not that he can see more than a blur without looking directly - is just standing there, silent. It makes Jameson feel uncomfortable, prickly and uncertain that he’s really welcome here, whatever Nat says.

Is it another rescue?

Another runaway, one who will run upstairs and hiss to the others, Nat Yoder brought one of the whores, what do we do?

Don’t let them touch you. They can’t stop, if they touch you. They can’t stop.

Joke’s on those assholes, Jameson thinks, hunching his shoulders up nearly to his chin. He never wanted to start in the first place, not with anyone but Nanda, not with anyone but… but Allyn.

You don’t have to get me anything, they’d said, laughing with their hair a mess, a halo on the pillow, as he’d kissed them. I don’t think I celebrated Christmas.

I want to celebrate you, I don’t care what we call the holiday we do it on.

They’d slid their arms around his neck, and pulled him down to them, bit at his lower lip until he hissed from the pain. The memory spreads like liquid warmth through him, then freezes as he realizes the guy is still just standing in the doorway.

“You need fucking permission? Just sit down, if you want, I'm just waiting for Nat to finish." The words come out a gravelly near-croak, more hostile than he means to be. He tells himself to apologize.

I’m sorry. It’s that easy.

He can’t make the words come out.

The guy just shrugs and sits on the couch. Close, but still more than arms' length away, neither of them an immediate danger to the other.

Jameson, trying not to look, has an impression from the corner of his eye of a brown canvas coat lined with corduroy at the collar and ribbed knit at the cuffs, a thatch of ashy blond hair nearly shaved at the sides and longer on top - brutally neat compared to Jameson's growing messy mop of dark hair. Pale under a driving tan, not like the way Jameson looks now that he sees the sun, the way it feels like his skin was just waiting to soak it up again.

There's an angular jaw and a blank expression.

Jameson doesn't offer a greeting - neither does the guy.

They just sit in silence for a while. On the screen, police officers investigate the disappearance of a rich woman's Domestic as time runs out before the kidnapper's deadline. One of them shakes the other by the shoulders, insisting we’re running out of time to save them! You have to help me!

"Hmph." There's a world of derision in that simple single sound the man makes.

Jameson glances sidelong at him. Something is familiar about his profile, but he doesn't know what, exactly. Maybe he's seen him at other meetings before. He's good-looking, yeah, but hard and bitter, you can see it in his face.

Jameson's own scars itch. Just like you can see it in me.

"Be nice if they actually cared that fucking much when someone hurts us," He says, half-joking. Maybe he means it as a kind of apology for being an asshole earlier. The guy's not big but he has muscle, Jameson can see that, too, and it sets something in him on edge. They're alone in here. Anything could happen.

He tells himself that Nat is in the next room, that he could call for help if he had to. He could fight him off, no matter how much it hurt. But all the guy does is turn to look at him, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other.

He looks like someone Jameson saw in a supermarket a few times, the way you start to catalog familiarity in the world around you even if you’ve never spoken to someone.

Something about it sets Jameson’s heart to beating faster, and he fights back a wince as his fingers feel like they throb harder in response.

"It would be nice if they look this much for anyone missing," He says, voice slightly raspy. Just a little, not as bad as Jameson's, but he sounds like he's been hoarse for a long time. His voice tastes like cherry sauce on cheesecake. Jameson fucking hates cheesecake.

He has an accent, mouth open a little too much when he speaks. His th in this comes out like it’s dis. Some kind of European thing.

And, all at once, Jameson feels the thunderclap roll through him. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stands up and he knows why this guy seems so familiar, suddenly.

His mouth goes dry, but he swallows hard and closes his fingers tightly around the blanket. “Hey, are you… uh. Sorry, I’m not great at this kind of fucking-... are you Charles Ingvall?"

The guy stills, briefly, and then levels an even analytical stare at him. After a moment, he snorts and sits back, shrugging as his eyes go back to the TV screen, where two detectives beg a shadowy man to just let her go, just let her walk away, nobody has to die here today. "Chaz," He says, after a beat. "Mostly I am called Chaz when I use that name.”

"The cops are looking f-for you, I saw-... uh, an announcement or something-"

"I see it, too. They aren't looking very hard. Thank you for telling me, though.” Sank you for tellingk me. The accent makes him feel a little bit sick. “Is it the police in Utah? They are irritating. Idaho is worse. Montana, they leave me alone mostly.”

Jameson swallows, his throat feeling oddly small and constricted. He looks away - and then forces himself to look back, to meet the man's gaze. He has to see how he reacts.

He has to be sure.

"They, uh. Yeah, but also… um. They’re looking for you here in California, too.”

Charles Ingvall’s eyebrows raise. They’re darker than his hair, just a little. “California? I do nothing here yet.”

“You’ve… been here, though?” Jameson’s voice is getting worse, rasping itself into a whisper as his throat tries to close. He doesn’t want to talk about Robert. He doesn’t want to admit-

But someone else survived Robert.

Someone else lived.

Jameson wants to know why.

“Yeah,” Charles Ingvall says, and looks away from him again. He picks at the seam of his thick denim blue jeans. The word comes out yah, as hoarse as Jameson’s voice. Not quite as ruined, but not much better.

How often did he hurt you to make you scream? The question dies before Jameson can ask it. Instead, he just says, “They found your fingerprints."

The man closes his eyes. There’s a breath, a beat, and then he shakes his head. "Damn. Where? I thought I had wiped them from the last truck. That is irritating. Next time I will ask for help to be sure. This is what I get for trying to do alone, right?”

Jameson’s heart is racing. He feels almost faint with it, and the constant pain of his hands and legs fades a little under the buzzing adrenaline flooding his system. If he had to, right now, he could still run. His body always comes through in a pinch, when he has to run.

For a while, anyway.

Before his legs give out and he collapses on a sidewalk, unseen, just another WRU runaway starving in the street who should have just stayed and hurt and burned and bled for the pleasure of-

“Robert Weber.”

The words come out like flytrap stickiness, nearly gumming his tongue and lips together with the taste. Just saying it makes Jameson smell, briefly, the scent of lemon cleaning products layered over decay. Dead people stuck up his nose, down his throat, stuffing up his ears with their screams for help that wasn’t coming, help that would never come, help that was locked in a cage with his hands over his ears wishing they would just die already so he could stop caring about them so much.

The man goes still when he hears the name. He seems briefly carved from stone, except for the flare of the whites around his eyes. "Who?"

"You… you know goddamn well who.” Jameson’s voice is thready and thin, barely there. His own voice on his tongue has lost nearly all its taste. “They found your fingerprints in a closet in his house. They’re looking for you, you’re-... your family is still looking for you.”

“I don’t have a family.” Charles Ingvall stands abruptly. “And I do not know Robert Weber.”

“Yeah, you do. Hey, don’t-” Ingvall’s moving away, about to walk out the door, and Jameson pushes himself up, too, nearly crashing right back to the ground before he manages to grab one of his crutches, jamming his arm into the grips and holding tight to the handle. The other one clatters and thumps against the hardwood floor. “Shit! Fuck, don’t leave, look-”

Ingvall pauses in the doorway, looking down at the crutch, then back up at Jameson. “You are injured.” He doesn’t sound pitying. Just someone pointing out a truth. “Let me get that. I don’t want to talk about Robert Weber.” He reaches down and picks up the crutch, helping Jameson get his arm through the guides so he can balance again. “Do you understand? I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Yeah, well-... I do.”

“I don’t care.” Ingvall turns away again, and Jameson closes his eyes.

He never admits how bad it was.

He never tells anyone what it was like living in Robert’s house.

He’s swallowed down the pain and the fear and shoved it as far as it can go. But this is his only chance to know someone who has survived what he has, and he can’t stand to lose it. So he follows, thumping along behind Ingvall, and says in a rush, “The cage was made for you, wasn’t it?”

Ingvall stills once more.

Jameson keeps going, his mouth with a mind of its own driving the words even as he feels his shaking get worse. “He bought it for you, but he put me in it, too.”

Ingvall stands there with one hand on the doorframe. His fingernails dig into the painted wood and Jameson wonders if he’ll leave little half-moon marks there, signals of someone who felt something so much bigger than his body and had nowhere for that feeling to go.

Then he looks back at Jameson, over one shoulder. “He did not buy the cage only for me,” He says, heavily. His cheesecake voice weighs down Jameson’s tongue, sticky cherry sauce on top. “He bought it for someone like me. It was there when he brought me into his home. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If I had not stopped my car to check directions…”

“I didn’t know anyone survived. I thought everyone went into the basement or... you know.”

“Or out, in the barrels.” Ingvall looks down at the ground, closing his eyes and taking a deep, deep breath. Then he turns back to Jameson entirely. “He called me his little Mouse.”

“He called me the goddamn dog,” Jameson says, and finds himself smiling, just a little. He feels it pull at the scar that cuts through the corner of his mouth. “You got out and decided to help the-... the runaways?”

“I was rescued by a man who helped them. He thought I was one, until he met me. I owe him my life, so I have given it to him, to doing his work. You…” Ingvall’s eyes drop to Jameson’s wrist, taking in the tattoo still there just peeking out beneath one sleeve, faded and scarred over but visible. “Robert bought one?”

“No. I… I ran away a long time before that. I just needed a ride.” Jameson is swallowing too much, he knows it, but he can’t seem to stop. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t seem to get around. “He offered me a ride. There was a bottle of-... of water. He drank a little of it, so I didn’t think…”

“Yeah.” Yah, the accent softer as Ingvall’s voice lowers. “I drank the water, too.”

“Why didn’t…” Jameson hesitates. This isn’t any of his fucking business, but… “You remember who you are. You remember yourself, that you’re… whatever the name was, I don’t remember-”

“Finn Schneider.” Ingvall says the words like they’re made of pins, sticking him with pain with every movement of lips, teeth, and tongue. “I remember the name.”

“Why didn’t you go home? You had a home to go to… why didn’t you just fucking go home?”

Ingvall blinks at him, as if he’s suddenly started singing in Spanish. “Because I was not Finn Schneider any longer,” He says, matter of fact. “Were you sold, too? Did he trade you for something new?”

Jameson’s fingers clench and unclench on the grips on his crutches. “No.”

“Oh. Then how did you-”

“I beat him to death with a goddamn shovel when he made me help him bury another body.” The words are flat and blunt.

“You… you what?” Ingvall’s eyes are wide again, and some of the hardness and the years fall off of his face. Jameson thinks he can see, now, what Robert saw - just a little - in a younger man who could look worried and vulnerable and not simply hardened. Had he looked like that, when he still felt hopeful, before he knew almost everyone was just shit and would fuck you as soon as look at you, would hit you faster than they’d help you?

“I beat him to death,” Jameson repeats, slowly, “With a goddamn shovel.”

“You-... you killed him?”

“Yeah. I… I was tired of watching people die, just really… fucking tired. And… I didn’t want him to kill anyone else anymore. So I made sure he couldn’t, and then I left.” Jameson feels the strength go out of him all at once, and the crutches are the only thing that keeps him standing. He loves these fucking things so much.

“I never thought to kill him-”

“Yeah, I know. If you had, maybe I wouldn’t be this fucked up.”

It hits Ingvall like a punch to the face, and his eyes close as he flinches at the simple, honest truth in the words. “... I-... I never thought I could-”

“I don’t blame you. I know it sounds like I do, but I don’t, fucking swear it. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Just… We’re the only two of his who lived. I know that doesn’t mean anything, not really, because like… there’s always people who survive bullshit, but… it kind of means something to me. That there’s somebody else.”

Ingvall’s jaw works as he looks down at Jameson - funny, neither of them are very tall at all, but Ingvall’s still tall enough to look down. “Does it?”

“Does it not, to you? Mean… mean, fuck, something that there’s two of us? That we aren’t alone?”

Ingvall’s smile is bitter. It’s not really a smile at all, just an upward tilt of the lips that goes nowhere near his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“But-”

“I am glad you lived,” Ingvall says, softening his voice a little. “I am. But we are all of us alone, in what we survive or what we don’t. All we have between us is a man who could have killed us and didn’t. That isn’t very much. Besides that…”

Jameson’s cheeks burn red, embarrassed and a little angry, too, at the casual disdain in Ingvall’s voice. He looks down, but his voice has fled - all his angry retorts wither up and die in the face of having his attempt to speak to someone, to… what, fucking bond or something… looked at with such distant dismissal.

Ingvall goes quiet, for a second, just watching him.

“What? Just fucking say whatever you’re gonna say and stop fucking staring at me.” His left knee throbs with his pulse, a sudden wash of pain that makes his leg twitch. It pulls Ingvall’s gaze to it, and Jameson’s face burns hotter - and so does his anger. “Don’t fucking stare, it’s fucking rude.”

“Sorry.” That’s sincere, at least. Ingvall closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long… I don’t know how to talk about it. I shouldn’t… I have been cruel. I’m sorry. I meant only to say… I guess I just mean-... scheisse.”

Jameson snorts. “Bet I can guess what that word means.”

“Your language stole a curse or two from mine, to be sure.” Ingvall’s voice lightens a little. “I mostly curse in English, but sometimes when I really mean it, well. Scheisse feels more real. What’s your name? I haven’t asked.”

“Jameson. I… I named myself Jameson.”

“The bottles on the fireplace,” Ingvall murmurs. “He always had so many, lining them up-”

“I could read. He didn’t know, usually they make it so we can’t but it didn’t work on me. I could read, and I would sit in the cage-”

“And read the bottles, over and over.” Ingvall nods, just a little. His hands go into his pockets, and he’s still smiling, just a little. Some of the tension has bled out of him. “I did, too. Jameson, what I meant to say, before I was… rude, I was trying to say that we are not the only two who survived him.”

“... we aren’t? There was someone else?” Hope, thin as a thread through the eye of a needle, that there might be other people out there who didn’t end up in the basement or the blue barrels, other people who walked out of that house, or crawled, or-

“You are the only survivor, Jameson.” Ingvall turns away again, and then time he doesn’t turn back.

“... what? What do you mean, you’re right here-”

“Finn Schneider died in the cage. I left as only his Mouse. I go by many names now, but if you called Mouse, this many years later, still I would run to the call."

"But-"

"Listen to me." His voice stays quietly steady, even as Jameson's has begun to tremble. "We are not survivors. We do not share the journey. The stupid trusting silly boy I was, the one who went into that house? He did not leave it."

Jameson stays silent, when Ingvall pauses this time. His face burns even as his stomach twists cold and grows ice from his pelvis to his heart. “Yeah, okay.” He finds himself mumbling and he can’t make himself look any higher than the guy’s knees.

Ingvall sighs. "I am glad someone did survive, Jameson. But I did not. Do not say Finn Schneider to me again. I don't know that man."

He walks away and leaves Jameson standing there in the room with the credits of the cop show playing pointlessly on the television behind him.

When Nat comes to tell him they can go shopping now, he tells her to forget about it, he’s hurting too much anyway, and asks to just go home. She nods, watching him as she gets her car keys out of her pocket, but he says nothing else. While she drives, she keeps giving him sidelong looks, but all her soft well-meaning, careful questions get nothing but grunts.

He makes it to the shower and gets his clothes off before his legs give out entirely.

He sits in the tub with hot water beating down on his back and shoulders, trickling through his mop of hair, hands over his face, whispering fuck fuck fuck fuck to himself while Trash Cat paws at the other side of the door and meows for him. He doesn’t even try to let her in.

He just lets the scalding water burn against his scars.

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp

@whumperfully @pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #day 2: unhappy family reunion #unhappy family reunion #whump #jameson bb #finn schneider #ptsd tw #traumatized whumpee #runaway whumpee #escaped whumpee #whumpees meet #disabled oc #disabled whumpee #chronic pain tw #scars tw #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #survivor guilt

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hathorneheiress · 6 months

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Libby and Nash family head cannons

They would have two children. Twin girls.

Born on November ninth, Elizabeth was born ten minutes before her younger twin Margret.

They both were born with a head full of light brown hair, making it quite clear they were going to look like their father as they grew up.

Libby cried when she found out she was pregnant and cried even more when she found out it was twins. She was so happy, yet scared to be a mother. But Nash was able to calm her down, telling her what an amazing parent she would be.

Libby got really bad morning sickness, and had to stay in bed for most of her third trimester.

Avery, max and Xander went to see her regularly when she was confined to her bed. Even Jameson and Grayson came to visit her a few times.

When she found out she was going to be having twins, she asked Grayson for Acacia's number and gave her a call. She wanted some advice on how to prepare for twins, and Acacia knew what that was like.

Grayson's step mother was more then willing to give advice, and over time her and Libby became fast friends. Even if it was over the telephone. When Libby was alone, waiting for Nash to come home, she would give Acacia a call and they would talk for hours. It started at just talking about the babies, but over time they began to talk about everything. Which Libby loved.

She went into labor early, but didn't have the babies till a week later.

During that time Nash was a wreck, but he found solace in his brother's company and Avery's as well.

Nash cried when he got to hold his little girls. Libby cried too.

She was able to go home after two days in the hospital. One she was strong enough there was a big gathering, celebrating the twins birth.

The twins were very well behaved as babies but also as toddlers. Elizabeth was more of a screamer, where Margret was quiet, occasionally fussy here and there.

Libby would dress them up in matching outfits. Ruffles and lace were her go to.

Nash wasn't big on spending money, but for his girls he would.

For their first birthday, he bought them matching rocking horses. Elizabeth had a purple ribbon on her horse's neck. Margret had pink.

The girls were the best of friends. They did everything together.

Elizabeth was more out going. Extroverted. Margret was timid. Preferring to be by herself.

Both adore animals, especially horses. They got their own mini ponies when they were 5. When they turned ten Nash surprised Elizabeth with a Morgan and Margret with an Appaloosa.

Margret named her horse Perdita, after the mom dog from 101 Dalmatians. Shasta was what Elizabeth decided for her horse.

They are very close with all their cousins.

Surprisingly though, they love going over to their uncle Grayson's house the most. He doesn't scare them. Actually, they adore him to pieces.

They are also really close with Caroline, Grayson's daughter, as well. When they were young, they loved playing dress up and dolls. As they got older, shopping trips to extravagant malls and runways were high favorites.

One time, all the cousins got together and spent a week at True North. And to make it interesting, they decided to cook and clean for themselves the whole week they were there. It actually went along very well. But they all decided they prefer having someone else do it.

Margret loves to bake, and Libby adores teaching her. Every week she sets aside time for them to show off their baking skills.

When Libby is with Margret, Nash takes Elizabeth out to go horse back riding. She loves her father/daughter time.

Just as Nash said in TFG his daughters mean the world to him and he has never raised his voice with them. He has never made them feel like they aren't enough for him. He accepts them for who they are. They don't have to be perfect. He loves them, faults and all.

Libby also adores her children. Sometimes, they can get on her nerves with their bickering. But after sitting them down and talking about it, she feels better.

Nash and Libby made sure their children were raised to respect their elders and also to do things themselves. Of course, there are the servants, but they learned they don't have to rely on them for everything.

They both had a tenancy to fall in love with the same boy, which would cause them to fight. It got so bad Nash threatened to lock them up together with no contact with the outside world till they resolved their issues. Thankfully, he didn't have to carry out that threat. It was the only time he ever threatened his children.

He is though VERY protective of them. They can't be alone without a chaperon. Even if together. He has Oren do lots of research and back ground checks on the men who are dating his girls. If any of them have even the slightest record, Nash makes them disappear. (In a good way. Not by murdering them)

He has at one point threatened a young man to shoot him if he harmed his daughter in anyway. Let's say the young man never came back, which proved to Nash he wasn't worthy of his daughter.

They got married on the same day. Nash cried both times he walked his daughter down the aisle. Libby was bawling her eyes out too.

Elizabeth had three children. Margret two. They made Nash and Libby the proudest grandparents ever.

And Nash never treated his grandchildren like he was treated. They were loved and adored in ways that only a grandchild should be treated.

Well, that's it for now. Sorry for it being a little disorganized at the begining.

Also, I want to thank @reminiscentreader for reminding and encouraging me to do this. I had thought of making a family head cannon for all the brothers, but kind of forgot. Thanks again!!

Xander and his family will be next!!!!

#the brothers hawthorne #the inheritance games #grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #xander hawthorne #avery grambs #libby grambs #family #daughters #twins #head cannons #wedding

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