#why did this turn into a fanfic

[ginwhitlock]

Wanna tell us your headcanons about Jasper being married in his human life? How does that history come into play in his vampire life?

You are an oasis in the desert THANK YOU YES (this is going to be very long bc of background I’m sorry)

Alright (I say that... too much) in the time period Jasper was in, early/late 1860s, it actually wasn’t a huge thing for him to be married by 19. What I mean by that is: most people were not married that young, even soldiers (on either side). Is that shocking? It was to me when I found out because weren’t we all told that ppl were popping out babies at 16? (And some were, and actually MOST women around that time period were pregnant on their wedding day according to birth records (read: baptismal records)) But marriage wasn’t usually occurring, especially for men, until about 22 or 23 (my family records from that time period show that).

So history doesn’t tell us he had to be married. BUT what do we know about Jas? Mans a romantic (at least when he’s not fighting for his life) and I believe he would’ve gotten married before signing up for the war. I believe he was 19 when he was turned and around 16/17 when he signed up because he faked how old he was to get in. So married very very young. But it wasnt super uncommon even if the normal age was like 22.

Okay, so... Mrs.Whitlock. Childhood sweethearts. Most likely the daughter of someone in the town closest to him, or in his town, maybe the sheriff (haha yeah this could be a time travel jasper/Bella fic) or another farmer. My favorite idea is that she’s the daughter of the local preacher. In the modern day south (I have experience in both rural Texas and rural/small town South Carolina), you’ve got a church on every corner. But it wasn’t exactly that way back then. You had one, or a couple maybe, and they were of one faith or the other. Methodist was the biggest in that time in that region, so I’m going with that (which works because... I’m the granddaughter of a Methodist preacher... I’m definitely not self inserting...). Let’s say her name is Adelaide (but Bell would also be quite a common name).

Okay so daughter of the preacher, Jasper had loved her his entire life. From birth, to working the fields, to the day when the succession was announced: he kept Adelaide close. With the war looming it was only a matter of time before he was forced into grey. There was a very hard conversation with his father, ending in a stiff ‘yes’ to be allowed to propose to her, as they had been courting, supervised, for quite a long time.

Their wedding was small, those who could make it could come, any northern parts of either family were obviously not in attendance. Adelaide learned a multitude of things in those long hours: Jasper can dance quite well (evidenced by the sullen imprint of his little sisters hell on his boot toe), Jasper’s mother treated her like a porcelain doll in every way that count for an unknown reason, and her husband never took his eyes off of her the entire ceremony.

They had never had time alone when they were courting, just the occasional refreshment fetching when he was out in the field, but her mother always watched from the house. Once, his oldest sister Birdie had run off after telling Jasper’s father she’d go with them to supervise a horse ride. In the small time they got that afternoon he had pressed his lips faintly into the corner of her mouth, not wanting to corrupt the preachers daughter who had just spent the last sun-filled hour reading to him from a book of poems she wasn’t supposed to have. Chaste kisses after that day have never been enough. They would never been enough.

When he got called away for duty, it felt like a funeral. The tears in his sisters eyes wouldn’t stop running, his small compared to his tall frame, look even more fragile. The only thing he could find of life in her was her unusually pink skin and the shine of her brunette curls.

Jasper went off with a picture of Adelaide in his breast pocket, a locket with his parents inside, and left behind the one and only child he didn’t think he had.

He doesn’t return home before the baby is born, and by the time he recieves news of his son’, he’s already on Maria’s guard.

They say that human memories fade, and for the most part that’s a truth, but the stubborn ones, the ones that hurt, stay. It isn’t until Peter and Charoltte leave him to travel the earth by himself that he goes to her grave. Maria let him keep her picture, if not to remind him he can never go back.

He finds his parents, his sisters all with unsurprising last names, even one for him— empty like the rest of the soldiers he’s forgotten. The grave next to his is... shiney. I mean, not like some granite plot you’d find in modern times but clean enough for evidence of upkeep. His delicate fingertips run over the imprint of letters, her name swirls just slightly in the stone, her birth date a known one, her death date... too young. She was in her 40s when she passed, only one child listed.

“She died of a broken heart.”

The voice somehow startles Jasper and he jumps to his feet, the want to bear his teeth just under his skin. Years from Maria have only slightly built his resolve. His red eyes shine into the young man infront of him, a bouquet of lillies hanging from his fist. He doesn’t look frightened.

“My great great grandfather always said that about his mother. It’s a shame how she went. Always waiting for another letter.” The man with his mouth walks past the vampires form and settles the flower into the soil. Jasper feels as if he has no air in his lungs. The man carries on. “He’s the one that wrote to do this. Come care for her after all this time.” He stood, rubbed the dirt off his knees and stepped back, almost shoulder to shoulder with the blond.

“He has this wild idea his father would come back for her. Come see what he left for himself.” He sighed and looked to the still silent man. “Everyone knows he was killed on one of those battle fields. His heart just couldn’t take it. Kinda like hers, ya know?”

Jasper had only found his voice as the man who looked far too much like him for his own comfort, who he knew was wearing his last name, who he created not out of bloodshed but of love, turned to walk to the truck at the end of the field.

“What’s your name?”

The man rose up a hand and flashed a smile at the “stranger” who’s picture had been hanging in his foyer for as long as time wished.

“Jasper Whitlock, sir.”