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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

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The Crying: Savvie on Trial

CW: Whumper POV, intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, video of whumpee's child, intense child therapy recording, referenced shock collar and past drugging, emotional/physical abuse, trauma response, child re-enacting trauma

Note: CW for whumper’s justifications for their abuse in internal monologue

@comfy-whumpee‘s Jax Gallagher finally escapes Savannah Marcoset’s obsession with him, with two children in tow and nearly a decade of abuse and trauma written in his mind and on his skin.

Determined to ensure his children will be protected from the Marcoset family’s potential revenge, Jax goes to court one more time - taking down Savvie, her uncle Isaac, and most of his children in the process.

Savvie sees the second trial, with its ironclad evidence against her, as Jax’s betrayal of her love for him. When a video of their daughter is shown in court, Savvie and Jax are both surprised - and react in very different ways.

While Savvie does not interact with her children, her thought process is... intense. And so is a brief video depicted in the piece.

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Even Savvie understands she can't charm her way out of this one.

It was one thing to be in her early twenties and beautiful, full of innocent misunderstandings, to tell anyone and everyone that she hadn't known he wasn't above-board (she had), she had thought she was doing a good thing letting him speak to his father (now that was a mistake), he was her best friend and her rock in the hard days after her parents' loss and she simply couldn't remember life without him (that was never a lie).

The earnest sincerity in her tone as she explained to her prison therapist how hard she was working at understanding the consequences and working to improve herself had simply been more believable then than it could ever be now.

You can’t very well have the love of your life abducted twice without it becoming a very difficult decision to defend.

This time, she understands that batting her eyelashes can't make her seem like simply another victim of all these terrible cruelties of the world. She is not going to leave the walls of prison once she walks inside. Not this time.

After all, the second time, she had had her uncle abduct him out of his own father’s apartment and steal his passport and every other form of ID he might have.

Isaac had drugged him, the Marcoset family employees had stolen his passport and identification, kept him slurred, floppy and hardly conscious on a private plane ride that took just a little less than eight hours, drugged again, and driven to her house to wake up tied to a chair in her practice room, right back where he belonged.

He probably didn’t even enjoy the luxury of the plane. It occurs to Savvie now that she never once asked him if he remembered any of the time he’d spent on the plane with Isaac, if he remembered anything between the men who grabbed him and Savvie bringing her violin up to welcome him home.

You can hardly blame that whole re-abduction thing on being young and foolish, and you definitely can't blame it on the indiscretions of youth when you are thirty years old.

Thirty-seven.

She dismisses the thought.

She is clearly only thirty. She doesn't look a day older, and Jax looks… younger, she thinks, mildly surprised at the realization. Younger, with more weight on him and a set to his jaw that she hasn't seen since… since the first day of his return, when he spit insults at her before she drugged him again, and he was so lax, so pliant, and she had known he would marry her one day from that first moment he curled back up and fell asleep with her hands on him. She just hadn't told him that, at first.

No one here understands how thoroughly Jax belongs to her, not even him, not anymore. He no longer wears his wedding ring, though she thinks there's still a hint of a tan line there. Maybe not. Might just be a scar.

He's changed his pretty platinum piercings out for duller metal, plus added back the ones she'd taken out of him herself. They're defiant, those bits of rebellion she never allowed him put back in place. She pictures when she took them out, the way he kept his eyes down for it, swaying a little from what she'd given him in his water. Felt a thrill run up her spine at the memory, his soft slurred voice murmuring Yes, Miss Savvie, one of her favorite sounds in the world.

He looked better the other way. Her way.

All his scars are definitely still hers, though. He can't forget her. He can wear new rings in his ears and eyebrow and lip and he can dress in grubby low-class clothing that isn't even tailored, but every single scar is a scar she has memorized, and he can’t erase them. They all belong to her, and he knows it, and he knows his body is hers and has been and will always be.

The scars around his neck - her scars, the little circular spots she wants to trace with her fingernails over and over until he begs her to stop, until she forces him to hold his breath, to get that faraway look in his eyes, until he leans in for a carefully cultivated kiss - give too much away. He can't hide them all.

The ones on his hands, too, are hers, although those are mostly accidental. There are some on his back, subtle, hidden by his button-up shirt and suit jacket where he sits, so close to her and impossibly far away.

The back, she did on purpose, dragging nails through his skin until blood welled up, streaks of red that stained her manicured nails, sitting on his lower back leaning over him, her hair a waterfall that brushed his skin. She can remember clearly the way he fought to stay still for her, remembers the pain she gave him with his daughter soft and sweet and so very new in a bassinet only a few feet away, how he'd bled from his palms and stained her sheets in his effort to keep himself quiet enough not to wake the baby.

She's never going to forget that.

Unfortunately... neither will the jury.

He's banking on it, she thinks, throwing everything out there that he might have kept hidden otherwise. Everything she thought he wouldn't want his father to know, or to be televised… he gets up on the stand, or he sits next to his lawyer, and he gives away all of it.

He tells them about the wedding, the judge who knew her family and married them with her uncle Isaac and his family as witnesses and guests. He describes, detached from what clearly horrifies the jury, how during his worst injuries, she made the simple task of giving him the pain medication he needed into a game of how good he could be to earn it. He even tells them, with a strange sort of tone in his voice, about the day she told him she was pregnant with Isabella.

On the stand, he says the day she had him open the box to find the custom cake with CONGRATULATIONS, DADDY written in frosting was the worst day of them all.

And yet… and yet, after sitting up there telling the jury, and the witnesses in the courtroom, and the judge how unhappy he was… still, he won’t let her anywhere near her son and daughter, not even to say goodbye.

He bleeds out all his pain, just to keep her from seeing her own children. Just to keep her from having access to what belongs to her.

Her daughter, her son… him.

Her husband, the love of her life, handing every scar and welt and night they spent together over in his bid to keep her from ever touching him again. It’s cruelty, is what it is. She had never known how cruel he was until he ran away from her.

He had stared at something far away while he related the story of her uncle dislocating his shoulder and breaking his arm (which, that had been a little much, but she’d made sure Isaac never did it again!), his weeks of pure perfect helpless dependence on her.

She had watched him speak, remembering the way he leaned forward those days when she made sure that dinner was soup, taking each bite from the spoon she held in her hand. The thrill of leaving him just a little bit hungry, that much more willing to be sweet the next morning.

He belongs to her, and he is going to take everything away.

His scars, the story written on his body of how she loves him, will be her ruin, this time. Well, that, and the existence of the children he has already turned against her. The children she has already been court-ordered never to see or speak to again. She won't even legally be their mother anymore, he and his devious fucking lawyer are even scheming to take her rights as their mother away. Those children are hers, and how dare he take them, when they were hers first.

He didn't even want them, when they were born - and now he acts like he is the only parent they have.

The worst part, though...

He won't look at her. It's fucking infuriating.

She tries to catch his eye, now and then, and fails. She looks at him with her head tilted to make her hair fall against her cheekbone when he enters the courtroom with his hair all chopped off again.

He ignores her.

She shifts in her elegant, tailored dress - no low neckline or sheer fabric, all sobriety and seriousness to show she will be a model defendant. She wears a silver locket she bought years ago, based on an old Victorian design - a lock of his hair is inside it, curled just so.

He still doesn’t look, even though he knows his hair is in the locket, she showed him when she put it there. She’d cut it while he was sleeping, and showed him when he woke, to see his face go still, his eyes raise to her face only with effort. If she’s honest... she wanted that hesitation, that uncertainty.

In a deep ocean blue, her pale skin and bright, wide blue eyes are set against her dark brown hair, pulled carefully back each day. She looks stylish, and still modest.

She looks innocent.

It just... doesn’t matter anymore how she looks. The problem is that she isn’t innocent, and no amount of cultivating an image can overcome the evidence against her. But at least she’s trying.

Now, Jax… She's pretty sure he wore that same gray suit to her last trial. It had hung on him before, too big for how underweight he was. She had liked the way it sharpened his cheekbones, then. Yes… it's definitely the same suit.

She would remember, of course - she had spent the whole trial, all those years ago, staring at him, wondering if she would ever see him again. He'd mostly looked at the floor, then, but she had gotten his eyes on hers a time or two, seen him stare after her as she was led from the courtroom. She had spent the time mourning his loss, before he ever truly left, and then coming to the certainty that she would never allow him to be taken away from her, not forever. No, they were made for each other, meant to be together forever. She had been convinced his father had tricked in, told him lies about her.

Even after she knew, deep down, that he wanted to stay gone, she knew just as firmly she would never allow that.

Planning to bring him home again, before he ever stepped foot on the plane that carried him across the ocean away from her, had filled all her days and nights. It had made prison seem so short, just a pause before she could bring him home. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

If he would only look at her...

She tries to catch his eye, but he never looks at her once. It rankles, makes her teeth itch, to see him stare straight ahead, look at the judge or his lawyer, and never at her. He's doing it on purpose - he must be. He's messing with her. That son of a bitch is messing with her, while he takes away her marriage, her money, her house, her entire life, her children.

She still loves him, even though he keeps his eyes turned away. She still loves him so much, more than he could ever deserve. She would tell him that, if she could, if they’d just give her a chance. She’ll find a way, somehow. She’ll find a way to remind him that she is never, ever going to let him just walk away. Break his legs, maybe.

The judge says something, and she blinks.

She wasn't paying attention, too busy watching Jax not watch her, and now there is a TV on a stand being wheeled in front of them all. Savvie gives a surreptitious glance around the courtroom, but no one else looks surprised. The jury looks bored, mostly, maybe. Or like they hate her.

It's not as easy to win over the jury now. She’s a woman whose children have been stolen by their vindictive, cruel father, who with his soft sad voice calls himself a captive during his testimony, stammering through the stories that explain all his scars. She’s no longer a violin prodigy in mourning, a young ingenue who just didn't understand what she'd done wrong.

Or who pretended not to, at least.

There were parts she genuinely hadn’t understood, maybe, although she is no longer young enough to want to lie to herself completely. He was never just her best friend, her confidant, the thing she loved most in the world. He was always going to be more than that.

God, he looks good today. Jax shifts in his seat, slight creak of the wood, whispers something to his lawyer. She just sees his eyes, in her general direction but not on her, as he moves. The lawyer whispers back, puts a hand on his shoulder.

He might look confused, as he and the lawyer speak. No, not confused. Troubled? She knows just how to smooth the crease from between his eyebrows, how to lay her hand on his forehead until he gives her a slight soft smile, turns his face to nuzzle against her palm. She knows how to leverage his fear enough to get what she wants from him, again and again and again. The lawyer doesn’t do that.

Jax just speaks, even and strong.

The lawyer doesn’t know what he sounds like when he trembles, has never slid the blindfold over his eyes with a knife in the room, not planning to use it, just wanting him to think she will.

No one will ever, ever, know him the way she does.

Savvie straightens her posture, moves just enough to make her locket glint in the light, hoping it will catch him enough to raise his eyes to hers.

Look at me. Look at me, sweetie. You don't get to stay gone for good, I don't care what you did, look at me. I still love you. Fucking look at me, Jax. Just one look.

He keeps his eyes slightly down as he shifts away and back to look towards the TV, but he's tense. She knows every inch of the muscles under that old gray suit, how they move under his skin. No one, no one, knows that body as well as she does. She made the scar that runs soft as a kiss over a shoulder blade, and she knows he’s nervous about something now. Unhappiness runs under her skin like an electric charge as she understands that what he’s nervous about isn’t her.

She follows his gaze to the rolled-in television, one of the big heavy ones that must be ten years out of date, and she frowns, folding her hands in her lap, as Jax’s lawyer stands and speaks briefly to the judge, and then moves to the TV with something in his hands.

“What is this?” She whispers to her own lawyer, one of her hands sliding up to run over the flowers etched in tiny relief into the surface of the locket.

Her lawyer shakes his head, either he doesn’t know or he won’t explain. He’s doing what he can, she thinks, but of course she was never going to be acquitted. The scars she loves are evidence against her, the children are evidence all their own - he didn’t even want them, she grumbles within herself again. She told Bella that, over and over again, that her father didn’t even want her to be born, that Jax had struggled to even feign happiness, and still the little girl was ripped out of her hands just so he could get his revenge on her. James was just an infant, he wasn’t old enough - but Bella could have come running back in, before Jax walked away.

Bella could have warned her that her father was going to steal their passports and her money and run out of the hotel, get on trains going different directions to throw her off, and finally head back to his fucking father, who she should have killed years ago when she had the chance.

Isabella should have warned her. It’s her fault, really, all of this. It’s her daughter’s fault that she will never see the outside of a prison again.

How many times did she tell her daughter how much her father must hate her for existing? And still… still, the little girl chose him. Savvie’s fingers close over the locket until the point at the bottom of the heart presses painfully into her skin. Her children, her daughter, her son, her husband. Taken from her, and she’s the villain here?

How dare he.

The TV lights up flat blue until the lawyer gets the recording to start playing, and Savvie blinks as it opens on a recorded scene, showcasing a large room with deep green carpet standing in for ‘grass’, the walls painted with a nonstop mural of rolling hills, flowers, trees, blue sky. Daisies dot the wall, flowers made by tiny handprints in bright colors, each fingerprint a petal, with a yellow circle in the center and a green stem. She can see a yellow sun painted in one corner. Shelves line the painted walls, with toys and big blocky board books, stuffed animals spill out of a basket in the corner. There are blocks, faded with time and use of many little hands.

At a small table painted with dancing animals, sitting in a chair, is Savvie’s daughter Isabella.

She sits up, hearing her own chair creak, and glances sidelong to see Jax suddenly stiffen, eyes widening just the smallest bit. He’s surprised, too, she thinks, and then her eyes go to the jury, trying to read them. The twelve of them - eight women and four men - don’t look at her or Jax. Only the television.

This isn’t a new recording - Bella is so young, with her gorgeous brown hair so like her mother’s spilling in an overwhelming heap around her. This must be from six months or less after Jax stole them in the first place. Savvie fiddles with the locket, nervous in a way she can’t explain. Her little girl isn’t even wearing a dress, but instead swings her little feet in sneakers, wearing jeans and a Paw Patrol t-shirt, humming to herself.

On the table sits a dollhouse, one of those elaborate plastic affairs. Savvie can see a small claw-foot bathtub, a big four-poster bed, an overstuffed armchair. All of it faded, patched, or repaired as small hands have broken or torn or played rough.

Bella, though, sits quietly, and she is gentle with the dolls as she moves them through the house. She has in one hand a doll wearing a blouse and skirt and a brown ponytail, and in the other a doll in a suit with a tie.

“What are we pretending, Izzy?” A man’s voice asks, and he comes into view, settling right down next to her. Savvie’s lip curls. Izzy? What an awful nickname for her beautiful delicate pretty little girl. Who would see such a lovely little thing, and hear as gorgeous a name as Isabella, and choose to call her Izzy?

“Mom and Dad,” The little girl answers, faint in the way of a distracted child. “I’m playing Mom and Dad.”

Savvie hasn’t heard her daughter’s voice in… in so long, now. She feels a twist of envy that the sound of that high piping voice has been taken from her, too. Jax is taking everything from her, piece by piece. She glances at him - his gaze is fixed on the television screen, mouth slightly open. Her husband, handsome if rumpled and ruined by changing his hair and his appearance, doesn’t take his eyes off his daughter.

He won’t look at her, no, his wife and the only thing that should matter, but he’ll fucking stare at a recording of his child.

Not her husband anymore, or so he says, and technically he never legally was, but that’s not really important. They’re married for life. It doesn’t matter what Jax thinks. It doesn’t matter what he wants. It doesn’t matter that he took her children and he’s throwing himself in front of them like he thinks Savvie is a moving bus, all to get her locked away. It doesn’t matter.

He still belongs to her.

He does.

“‘Don’t look at her,’” The little girl says in a voice she deepens a little, looming the Mom doll over the Dad one. “‘Look at me.’”

“Is the Mommy doll saying that to the Daddy doll?” The man in the recording keeps his voice even, and curious. Jax, to her right, shifts in his seat and leans slightly forward. His hands are folded in his lap, closed into fists.

“Yes,” Bella answers, glancing briefly at the man, then going back to her game. “She doesn’t like when the Dad looks at the little girl too much.”

“And why doesn’t she like that?”

“Because everyone is supposed to always look at the Mom.” Bella sets the female doll down briefly and picks up a smaller one, a little girl with pigtails and a pink dress. “The little girl scraped her leg and it is bloody,” She informs the man, very seriously. “She didn’t mean to make her dad look at her.” She has big brown eyes, and Savvie swallows, thinking now she understands why this video is being shown to the court. She remembers this - she doesn’t remember a lot of what Jax would complain to her about, what he kept calling abuse until she shocked him often and severely enough to make him stop, but she… remembers this.

“How did she scrape her leg, Izzy?”

Savvie swallows against a burst of rage. Don’t you dare say it, Bella, don’t you fucking dare.

“Mommy shoved her,” Bella answers, and the courtroom around Savvie is so silent she can hear her own pulse, blood rushing in her ears. “Because she was crying.” Her tiny voice is matter-of-fact, it doesn’t shake with real tears or upset. She simply relates a thing that happened, play-acting it out in her game as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“‘Don’t hurt her,’” Bella says in a low voice, shaking the male doll over the female one. “The Dad says that. He is telling the Mom that the little girl didn’t mean to cry. The little girl says that she will be good and stop crying now, but the Mom doesn’t believe her.”

“Why was the little girl crying?” The man’s voice is so soft and kind. Savvie feels a sudden urge to find him in whatever hellhole office in Britain he works out of and strangle him to death with her bare hands.

“The Mom told her she is a bad girl,” Bella replies, and droops a little, now.

“Why would she say that?”

“Because she is,” Bella says, softer than ever. At his table, next to his lawyer, Jax makes a sound. It’s not a word, it’s not understandable. It’s hardly audible - Savvie thinks even the jury likely didn’t hear it. But she did, and she looks subtly over at him to see his face is pale and his hazel-brown eyes are oddly glittery under the fluorescent lights. “She isn’t very good at being a little girl, she’s so bad. She made noises when the mom didn’t want her to.”

“Izzy-”

“‘Don’t say that,’” Bella makes the dad doll say, shaking him in the air, angry, picking up the mom doll to face off with him, their two plastic carved faces with fake smiles inches apart. “‘Don’t say that, Savvie. She is a good little girl and you are mean to her, you are being a mean mommy.’”

Savvie closes her eyes. Fuck.

“‘How dare you,’” The mom doll says, and Savvie can’t quite force herself to miss how perfectly her daughter can echo her anger, how her voice rises with it. “‘She is mine and I will say whatever I want! She is mine mine mine.’”

Well… she is.

“‘Yes, Savvie,’” The dad doll says, Bella’s little-girl voice feigning depth, and from the corner of her eye she sees Jax shudder, the slightest movement of his body, barely perceptible. “‘But you can’t talk mean to little girls and boys.’”

“‘I am the mom and I can do whatever I want.’” Bella, expression deeply serious, sets the mom doll down and starts fiddling with the dad doll’s legs. She bites down on her lower lip as she works, finally figuring it out and Savvie feels her stomach drop as Bella sets the dad doll up - kneeling on the floor.

“What happens now, Izzy? What are you doing?”

Bella looks up at the doctor, and the grainy video of the recording blurs and lessens the impact, Savvie hopes. She doesn’t dare look at the jury now. Instead, she tries to think of what she’ll say - it’s a lie, Bella was coached, Jax and the lawyer and this Dr. Marty are all teaching Bella to tell lies, he hates her so much he’s poisoning her babies against her. Something, she’ll say something-

“‘Get on your knees for discipline,’” Bella says, in her mom-voice.

Jax, at his table, closes his eyes and leans forward, one hand over his mouth. His shoulders shake, once, and it reminds her of every time she set off his collar, but much too quick for that. She can’t stop watching him - she shouldn’t, it doesn’t look good when a video like this is playing, but she can’t… stop. He looks so fucking good.

There’s a red streak, a flush, in his cheekbone but otherwise his face is nearly white, the piercings standing out even more than before. His hand grips over his mouth, and she thinks about every time she has pressed her own hand there, with a smile, to mute his objections. His eyes open to look back at the screen, not like he wants to but like he can’t stop himself, like he’s drawn to watch against his will.

“How often does that happen?” The man asks, in his casually neutral voice, and Savvie would put a bullet between his eyes if she could. How dare he, this is leading. At the same time, she feels a sudden swell of rage towards the little girl being led. Bella knew how to keep secrets before Jax left, did she forget so soon? He must have told her-... but no, no, he’s as surprised to see this video as Savvie is. No, this little game is entirely Bella’s fault. Savvie takes in a breath, lets the anger sweep through her, loathes her own child, so thoroughly turned against her now.

She can lay all of this at the feet of a four-year-old girl. Well, not four any longer. But four when this happened. Or five. When is Bella’s birthday?

How old is she, now?

Bella only shrugs at the question, lost in her game now. She has the mom doll tell the dad doll to stay quiet - “‘You’ll upset her, honey, you know better than to say no to me’” - and then acts out the dad doll shaking from the shocks, and finally makes him scream, the sound deafening loud in the silent courtroom.

She does a pretty good impression of the way Jax sounds when he’s screaming, actually. If the jury didn’t hate Savvie before, they definitely do now.

The man in the video looks surprised and sits back a little, then asks, almost tentatively, “And what does the little girl do?"

Bella sets the dolls down and picks the little girl one up, frowning at her. “She watches,” She says, voice low and soft.

“Why does the little girl watch?”

“Because it’s her fault.” Bella’s voice trembles. “If she looks away, her mom will make it worse. She can’t-... she can’t help.” She looks at the doctor, something imploring in big brown eyes and her rounded small-child face. “She tries and tries and she can’t keep her dad safe.”

Damn straight it’s your fault. Savvie fights to keep her irritation and annoyance from showing on her face, tries to look sympathetic, maybe even worried. She’s usually good at this, but at the moment, she’s so angry at Bella for repeating this on a video, for giving Jax another tool to hurt her with, that she isn’t quite sure if she pulls off a sad expression at all.

“It’s not a little girl’s job to keep her daddy safe, Izzy,” The man says, softly, soothing. Reassuring.

“It is her job,” Bella says, and shakes her head, looking at the little girl in her hand. “But she’s not good enough at it. She’s too little, she can’t do anything. I hate her!” She throws the doll across the room in a sudden burst of anger - it flies offscreen, but the clatter of it hitting something is audible - then claps her hands over her mouth, staring wide-eyed in horror. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I’m not angry I’m sorry, I know better, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-”

The man speaks to her, trying to interrupt the flow of apologies, It’s all right, Izzy, nothing is broken, you are allowed to feel angry, you are allowed to be angry about this, hoping to hold back the waterfall of her sudden fear. The little girl turns her face away from him, pulls her hands down and rubs them compulsively, nervously along the seams of her leggings. She shakes her head at something the man says and looks down at the floor, the green-grass carpet, her own brightly colored tennis shoes.

Her hands close into fists, as tightly as they can, a perfect echo of her father.

Jax’s shoulders shake again, and this time Savvie recognizes the sound, it sings deep down into her soul. It’s a sob, desperately muffled. He’s trying to hide it, but he can’t hide, not from her. She knows all his sounds of pain by heart. He says something to his lawyer, less whispered, less controlled.

She thinks she hears a please, and hates him for giving that word to anyone but her.

The video cuts off, and Jax’s lawyer calls for a recess. Savvie rolls her eyes when the judge grants it - theater, that’s all this is, make Jax look all bothered by a stupid video, so he’s the sad scared little man and she’s the big bad witch. It’s so transparent, really. He does a good job acting, though, his face is reddened and she can see the faintest glimmer of a tear track as his hated awful father stands, from his own spot in the first row, to take him by the arm. Jax leans, just barely, away from him and he never looks up as he’s led down the aisle and out. They’re talking to each other, in voices too low for her to overhear, except to hear Jax’s crack a little.

Oh. Maybe he’s not entirely acting.

Savvie stands as the courtroom erupts into whispers, ignoring the weight of every eye on her and her lawyer’s attempts to get her to sit back down, looking after the two of them, and she wonders what about the video upset him so much.

Maybe it was just the crying.

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@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whumpiary @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

#izzy fucking gallagher #whump #intimate whumper #savvie marcoset #creepy whumper #sadistic whumper #child trauma tw #recorded therapy #whumper pov #whumper on trial #captivity #referenced past drugging #referenced shock collar #emotional abuse tw #parental abuse tw #the catharsis of writing this out was immense #digging into savvie's mental space and motivations and also into the darkness that Jax and his kids climb out of #let me tell you I would not have been able to write the new rescues stuff if I wasn't getting a lot out through writing this #there is a reason izzy took me over in january

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