Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.

A/N: My newest universe entitled "2 Sons" will tell the story of Jax Teller and Happy Lowman. Fresh out of Stockton Prison, two Sons—each with a different temperament and agenda—find themselves pulling together during the most turbulent time in the Club's history. As loyalties shift within SAMCRO, hard choices will need to be made and anyone's life could be at risk.

This fiction will incorporate canon from every season with a healthy dose of AU material. My hope is that this universe will be more realistic, deeply-detailed and grittier than anything I have written before. While this universe centers around Jax and Happy, it has been developed so that the entire and wonderful SOA cast of characters is heard from at some point. 2 Sons is intended to be a sweeping saga combining the criminal aspect, black comedy, tragedy and romance that we are familiar with thanks to the genius that is Kurt Sutter. My goal is to complete a trilogy of stories in this universe, the first of which is Call of Duty.

Two OCs will be introduced in this universe and they will both have a direct effect on Jax and Happy. I hope that readers will take a chance to get to know these two characters, whom I believe are special in their own way. The first to make an appearance will be Marlowe Guthrie, an "outsider" of sorts and my second attempt at creating an OFC (the first being Jolene Morrow). Please check my profile for the awesome artwork created by Bobbysidjit, as well as additional links to pictures of my Marlowe. I should warn you guys ahead of time that it's going to take a minute before all of the central characters meet up in Charming as I needed to give you guys some time to get to know each character's personality, back stories and personal struggles, so please be patient with me.

Now I know there are some readers who don't care for multiple OCs in one universe or an OFC and Tara, but them are da breaks this time around! Just give it a fair shot, will ya? :)

This story has been in development for well over a year, but has been on the back burner until I could wrap up several other stories first. In my mind, I have a certain tone and methodology that I want to convey, so this story has been carefully researched and scripted over a period of time and only now am I starting to post it chapter by chapter, having banked nearly twenty chapters to date. Depending on the response I get from you, I may decide to post two chapters a week for the short term, so your reviews will play a big part in that decision.

Marlowe won't be Jolene 2.0, but I do hope that if you decide to read this story, you'll stick with it. If not, I hope you will continue reading the Jaxene Universe, which I intend to return to some time in the near future. And if you find that neither universe interests you, the great thing about this website is that there is something for everyone and I wish you well and much enjoyment in checking out other stories! (Walking Dead fics are a particular fav of mine.)

Your reviews are very important and the more explicit they are in the details, the more they help and encourage me. It takes a lot of time and effort to share the crazy thoughts inside my head, so I really appreciate it when people not only take the time to read my work but to also share with me how it made them feel. It doesn't take a lot of time to fill in that box at the end of a chapter and it truly lights up my world when I hear from you.

When it comes to reviews, my skin has sufficiently thickened over the last two years, so I genuinely appreciate criticism of my stories when done in a way that is not mean-spirited and is meant to help me improve the story. However, I'm not interested in taking pot shots from disgruntled readers and there is a very thin line between providing constructive criticism and being just plain spiteful. I've been really lucky that the majority of my reviewers have been great and extremely kind, but there have been a handful of times when the flaming was not appreciated. If you must flame, please do me the courtesy of signing in so I may have the opportunity to respond. Otherwise, anonymous flames will be ignored and/or deleted.

Whew! I needed to get that off my chest. The plan going forward is to eliminate the need for author's notes entirely. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to PM me or drop me a line at harleequinn518 at . I'd love to hear from more than just the voices in my head!

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy Call of Duty!

Bakersfield, CA – Friday, January 30, 2009

"Come on, you piece of shit!" Marlowe growled under her breath. "Just a couple more fuckin' miles, for chrissakes! Please, don't fail me now," she begged as she gripped the wheel until her knuckles turned white and rattled it angrily.

Marlowe quickly stopped her pointless act of aggression, however, as it suddenly felt almost wobbly in her grasp. It would serve her right to lose control of the POS if she had further loosened the steering wheel to the point that it came flying off. Marlowe made a mental note of just another thing that was wrong with her "new" car.

The inconsistent rat-a-tat knocking of the 1999 Ford Escort's engine had started about an hour into the 3½-hour drive. It had steadily increased from that of a dull whisper to a very consistent thrumming as the car's lone occupant made her way first on the I-5N and then the CA-99N. Marlowe had taken a calculated risk buying a car from the first smarmy used car salesman she came across back in Miramar, but the idea of taking a Greyhound bus to Bakersfield had been particularly unappealing.

Actually, the thought of willingly spending a significant amount of time crowded into an enclosed space with complete strangers made her flesh crawl. She'd had enough of that shit to last her a lifetime. Besides, having her own means of transportation was more suited to Marlowe's independent spirit which had been stifled and nearly suffocated for far too long. Unfortunately, she let the unpleasant thought of spending another night within the confines of San Diego impact her better judgment and, in her haste to escape, it was becoming increasingly clear that she had bought herself a fuckin' lemon.

Marlowe reached out to fiddle with the radio's preset buttons, hoping to find another station. Anything would be better than the twangy voice of some female country singer crooning about her man doing her wrong, yet loving him despite all of his unforgivably shitty antics. The radio, it seemed though, was a piece of crap like the rest of the car because she kept getting nothing but static. What she needed was the jarring noise of some hard rock to distract her from her nervous anticipation, which had caused her shoulders to tense and her stomach to shrivel into a tight ball of angst the closer she got to Bakersfield. To distract herself, Marlowe took in the shabby interior of her most recent purchase and cataloged the numerous ways she had gotten screwed.

Maybe I should have let that slimy asshole at the dealership screw me blind for a better ride at the same price like he offered, Marlowe thought, wrinkling her nose as she recalled the leering face of the middle-aged Lothario with the greased back hair and leathery tanned skin. Nice to know the world hasn't changed all that much in the last two years.

Ultimately, Marlowe had declined the offer of a "special discount" and settled on the Escort, even though she would have much preferred the even older, but serviceable 4×4 Jeep Wrangler she had eyed first. The Wrangler, however, had been almost $2500 more and money wasn't exactly growing on trees nowadays and digging into her one and only savings account to buy a car, even a cheap one, would put a good-sized dent in it.

With no job and no hope of one on the horizon any time soon, her meager savings were all Marlowe had left to fall back on. After all, there was no way to know if the welcome mat would be rolled out for her once she got home. That is if she could even call Bakersfield home after a ten-year absence. But in spite of her fears of a lukewarm reception, Marlowe knew that the small white house with dark blue trim and slate gray shutters was probably the only real home she had ever known. And when you felt broken and bruised and needed a safe harbor where you could lick your wounds and pick up the pieces of a broken life, there really was no place like home.

Narrowing her gold-flecked gray eyes, Marlowe noted the signs for the exit onto California Avenue. Just another mile or two and she would be home again.

And then, God help us all.

It was nearly midnight when Amelia Lowman received the shock of her life.

Picking up the universal remote from the coffee table, Amelia shut the television off with a sigh. The sudden silence fell like a heavy blanket over the small living room and reverberated in her head. Amelia couldn't abide such quiet, but neither could she tolerate the droning commentary of Charlie Rose nor the inane chatter of late-night talk shows. Lately it seemed that nothing was enough to distract her from the fact that she was bored to death. Always alone and mostly confined to the house, Amelia's boredom almost had her desperate enough to consider giving her sister a call and inviting her to spend the night. But while Amelia wanted company, she wasn't in the mood to fight with her baby sister. Celia's current bone of contention was Amelia's situation and she wasn't interested in rehashing the same old shit again.

Bracing one hand on the armrest and the other on the handle of her quad cane, Amelia slowly pushed herself up from the comfortable, but well-worn recliner and made her way to the kitchen. It was slow going at first as the articular cartilage damage in her right knee was only getting worse, but short of having surgery there really was no help for it. With medications and home remedies rarely helping to alleviate the pain nowadays, her bad knee was just one of many ailments she had learned to live with.

In spite of the considerable pain she seemed to suffer from on a near-daily basis, walking into her kitchen almost always brought a smile to Amelia's face. It was easily the biggest room in her small house and her most favorite. Surrounded by the knickknacks she had collected over the years or had received as gifts, gleaming pots and pans hung from a wrought iron rack over the kitchen island as bottles of flavored olive oils dotted the counter and pots of fresh herbs sat on the windowsill. Filled to the brim, several bins held the garden fresh vegetables that were staples of the Cuban cuisine of her childhood in Miami, such as onions, peppers, plantains and yucca and the room smelled richly of spices like saffron and coriander.

The bright yellow paint on the walls contrasted beautifully with the cherry wood of the brightly shining cabinets that Amelia had only recently polished herself with lemon oil. She had been feeling better than usual on that particular day and, deciding to make the best of it, had accomplished the task by standing on an old stool. Unfortunately, getting caught by her sister during one of her unannounced visits had been the basis of their last argument and the reason Amelia hadn't spoken to Celia in over a week.

Maldita! Had I broken a hip, it would have been all Ceci's fault. She scared the crap out of me sneaking in the back door like that, Amelia thought to herself irritably as she bustled around the kitchen island. Grabbing the red tea kettle sitting on a trivet, she filled it with water before placing it on one of the six burners of her oversized white enamel stove.

Grabbing her favorite mug, Amelia dropped a Tetley tea bag into it and grabbed a small plate from one of the cupboards. In the mood for a piece of Entenmann's guava and cheese danish, she was heading over to the sturdy oak table on the other side of the kitchen but paused, thinking she had heard what sounded like a car pull into her driveway.

"That cannot be Ceci at this hour," Amelia reasoned with herself as she grabbed her cane and slowly puttered her way to the front door.

Well, here goes nothing, Marlowe thought grimly as she stepped out of the car.

Slamming the door behind her, she stopped at the edge of the walkway and looked up at the house. Marlowe couldn't remember the last time she had let her nerves get away from her like this. As soon as she passed Beale Park and turned onto Oleander Avenue, she had to physically fight the urge to slam on the brakes and turn the car around. She had pushed herself, however, to finish the journey she had started earlier that day which finally brought her back home.

Despite the late hour and its darkness, Marlowe could see the house quite clearly and marveled over the fact that it had not changed all that much. Its wide porch ran along the front and wrapped around the right side of the house, an esthetic concession that had been made to distract from the fact that the house was relatively small. On it were two old fashioned rocking chairs that as far as Marlowe could remember had always been there. She had spent many hours after school sitting on the warm wood of the sun bleached porch floor as Amelia gossiped socially with her neighbors while snapping string beans. If she closed her eyes, Marlowe could almost smell the flowers and tomatoes Amelia used to grow in oversized clay pots, along with the sweet scent of green peas that grew on vines along the trellis.

Bracing herself for possible rejection, Marlowe's long strides made quick work of eating up the walkway to the front door. Before she could place her combat booted foot on the first step, however, the porch light flicked on and illuminated the front door, its screen door tightly secured. Suddenly, the door was flung open and there in the doorway stood a tall figure. The glare of the porch light prevented Marlowe from seeing more than just a shadowy outline before the screen door squeaked open and someone slowly stepped out.

Marlowe could barely swallow the sudden lump in her throat as her eyes took in the woman standing above her. She shouldn't be as surprised as she was. After all, it was to be expected that Amelia would look older after so many years. What Marlowe hadn't expected was for her to look so frail.

Despite that frailty, however, Amelia's face still reflected the undeniable beauty of her youth. Pale skinned with dirty blonde hair as a child, Marlowe remembered wishing she had been blessed with Amelia's caramel skin tone, strong cheekbones, warm, almost honey-brown eyes, and strongly defined chin. The soft lines creasing the corners of her eyes and the laugh lines around her full mouth could not distract from the beauty of her oval face. Her long, sable-colored hair devoid of all gray was pulled back into an intricate roll at the nape of her long, slender neck. The dark blue housecoat she wore was draped over a figure that had lost much of its voluptuousness. The cane gripped in a liver-spotted, yet well-manicured hand spoke volumes, and yet Amelia said nothing.

Marlowe moistened her lips and found that her throat was so dry that she was barely able to croak out the words, "Hey, Tía."

A soft gasp was followed by a softly uttered exclamation. "Aye, Dios mio!"

As Marlowe slowly made her way up the porch steps, she watched as first Amelia's hands reached up to clasp themselves together as if in prayer before she extended her arms to pull Marlowe to her. As the older woman wrapped her thin arms around her shoulders, Marlowe buried her face into the crook of Amelia's neck and squeezed her back gently, afraid she would break her. As Amelia continued making loud proclamations in Spanish, Marlowe finally let loose with the tears she had been holding back for what seemed like forever as she finally heard the words she had needed to hear for so long.

"Mi hijita querida! Por fin regresaste a tu casa!"

"Two years, Marley! Two fuckin' years, cabrona, and not one damned phone call?!" Amelia raged as she looked down on the young woman she had practically raised as a daughter.

Sitting at the kitchen table like when she was a child, Marlowe kept her hands folded on her lap and her eyes downcast as Amelia bore down on her with unrelenting brown eyes. After all, she wasn't entirely surprised that Amelia would angrily rail away at her for thirty minutes, especially since as far as the older woman knew, Marlowe was dead or, at the very least, missing.

Silly me for thinking that Tía was looking kind of frail.

After happily pulling Marlowe into the kitchen and sitting her at the table, Amelia grabbed the Tupperware bowl with a whole, cut up chicken she had marinating in the refrigerator and quickly whipped together arroz con pollo, green salad with fresh avocado and sweet fried plantains. It was one of Marlowe's favorite meals and Amelia's way of killing the fatted calf for her prodigal daughter. After stuffing her with several steaming plates of the fluffy yellow rice with olives, pimentos and chucks of flavorful chicken, Amelia remembered why she had every right to be royally pissed off at the young woman and proceeded to let her have it with both barrels.

The mix of English and Spanish with a liberal sprinkling of curses and thinly-veiled threats of bodily harm was to Marlowe's ears part of the happy soundtrack from her childhood as a member of the Lowman household. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how much she had missed having someone care for her that much and suddenly felt a wave of guilt for forgetting. So after stuffing herself with the good food that Amelia was known all over the neighborhood for, Marlowe figured that taking her shit like a man would be her penance and sat quietly as Amelia continued to rant.

After venting two years of pent up frustration and fear, Amelia finally found herself winding down as Marlowe patiently waited for her to calm down. To Amelia's way of thinking, it just showed how much the girl had changed since leaving California, and she shook her head with wonder as she pondered these subtle changes in her personality. Initially, it appeared that Marlowe Guthrie had not physically changed all that much in the ten years she had been gone from Bakersfield. Yet, looking into her gray eyes and noting the shadows in them, Amelia saw beyond the strange, quiet attitude to the woman underneath. Her heart ached as she wondered just what kind of shit Marlowe had gotten herself into since they had last spoken over two years ago.

Suddenly, Amelia felt overwhelmingly tired and fumbled to pull out a chair. Quickly jumping to her feet, Marlowe gently grabbed her by her slight shoulders and carefully guided Amelia until she was comfortably settled in the chair.

"Now that you're finished tearing me a new asshole," Marlowe said with a raised eyebrow, "maybe you can finally enjoy that cup of tea." She motioned to the neglected mug with its unused tea bag inside.

"Actually, I think I'd prefer some coffee," Amelia replied, sounding slightly winded.

"Really? It's almost three in the morning," Marlowe queried.

"I'm old. I don't need to sleep as much as I want some coffee," Amelia insisted.

Making her way to the cupboard, from memory Marlowe was able to locate the large canister of Café Bustelo and the raw cane sugar Amelia kept in a pretty blue and white-speckled canister. Retrieving the stove top espresso maker kept in its customary place in the cabinet above the sink, Marlowe started the process of making proper Cuban coffee.

Amelia smiled as she watched Marlowe puttering around her kitchen. "It's good to see that you haven't forgotten everything I taught you."

"It would be pretty hard to forget since I learned from the best," Marlowe replied with a slight smile as she concentrated on the task at hand.

Going to another cupboard, she pulled out tiny white cups and matching saucers and set them on the table. Finally pouring out two servings of the rich, creamy and sweetly thickened coffee, the two women settled down in silence as they sipped on their Café Cubano. Hit with sudden nostalgia, Marlowe realized just how much she had missed this kitchen and the companionable silence she shared with the woman that had been such a force in her life.

Now as Amelia placed the small cup on its saucer with a slight click, Marlowe realized that the time for reminiscing on the past was over. "So, do you want to fill me in on why you haven't bothered to pick up the phone to call me in two years, hija?"

Marlowe slumped against the high-backed chair and sighed. The response to that logical query would be a difficult conversation to have and one that she would have to ease herself into. Right now wasn't the time, but Marlowe knew that for now she owed Amelia something of an answer.

"I guess you could say I got a little caught up in my work," she offered hesitantly without really saying much at all.

"A 'little caught up', Marley?" Amelia questioned, her voice rife with doubt. "A month, maybe even two I can understand, but it's been twenty-six. I know that what you do makes it difficult to stay in touch, but nothing for over two years? Not even a postcard. Is it any wonder why I was so worried? I thought you were dead."

"I know, Tía, and I'm so sorry, but it was unavoidable," Marlowe lied. "You don't have to worry about me any more, though because I'm home for good." She watched with bated breath as Amelia's shoulders slackened and the pinched look on her face softened into an expression of relief. Hopefully, that would be enough of an explanation for now.

"¿De verdad, querida?" Amelia reached over to cover Marlowe's hand with her own, her eyes wide and moist. "No more adventures?"

Marlowe shook her head, trying hard to hide her own sadness in light of the joy beaming at her from Amelia's face. "That's a done deal for me, Tía." Not that I had a choice, but it's not like I could really deal with that shit anyway.

Amelia let her right hand rest over her heart and laughed, giddy with relief. "I can't say that I'm sorry because I'm not. I know I told you that I would always support your decision, but in my heart I never wanted that life for you, Marley. And you know I wasn't alone on that—" Amelia started, but Marlowe cut her off.

"Maybe, but at least you didn't act like a flaming asshole about it," she retorted, now even more put off by the conversation, something she hadn't thought possible.

"Marley, your brother—"

"Is a flaming asshole and not my brother. He got off on acting more like my father than anything else," she replied angrily.

Not at all surprised by the sudden turn in conversation, Amelia was glad to see the spark return to the eyes of the young woman she had never known as having a problem speaking her mind. "Only because he loves your stubborn ass," Amelia said quietly. "You can't really fault him for that."

In the span of five minutes, Marlowe felt herself regressing into the petulant tween Happy had dumped on his mother so many years ago as she rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he loves me soooo much that he hasn't spoken to me in ten fuckin' years."

"Because you're not as pig-headed as he is, right?" Amelia countered evenly. "If I didn't know better, I would say he is indeed your father because you're just as bad as he is. You could have just as easily reached out to him, you know."

With no snappy barb at the ready to aim at Amelia's son, Marlowe relented. "And you know, I really hate when you take that quiet rational tone with me."

"Because you know I'm right and it pisses you off. Just another way you are so much like Enrique," Amelia retorted with a sly grin.

Marlowe narrowed her gaze at Amelia. "Maybe, but there's absolutely no question as to where he got it from, now is there?"

From the moment Marlowe had laid eyes on her surrogate mother, a nagging sensation had settled in the pit of her stomach. She had been so happy and relieved to have been welcomed back with open arms that Marlowe had avoided acknowledging that there was something wrong. Now that Amelia had opened the door to unpleasant topics—at least that's what Marlowe considered any conversation involving Happy—she realized that she couldn't avoid it any longer.

"You're sick, aren't you?" Marlowe asked calmly and without panic. She quickly internalized the shock of pain that shot through her heart when Amelia nodded matter of fact.

"Yes, I am." Pulling at the neckline of her housecoat, Amelia reached inside to pull out a soft piece of silicone and with a smirk tossed it into Marlowe's lap.

Momentarily perplexed, Marlowe looked down to examine the soft but fleshy lump before raising startled eyes to look into Amelia's wry face.

"What the fuck, Tía?"

Glossary

Tía: Aunt

Maldita: Damn (used as an expletive).

Aye Dios mio: Oh my God.

Mi hijita querida: my beloved (or darling) little girl (daughter).

Por fin regresaste a tu casa: You've come home at last.

¿De verdad, querida?: Is that true?

Cabrona: bitch