Beginning Notes: Warnings for Graphic Depictions of Violence and Rape/Non-Consensual Sex. I used this as a story arch against JT because it's heavily implied in the Sons of Anarchy series (or at least, to me) that the sole basis of his relationship with her began as sex and evolved into love. And according to what he told Maureen, she greatly believed Gemma was a whore. So I promise, this isn't just fanfiction authors saying 'yay lol let's use rape because it's fun'.

she bruises, coughs (she splutters pistol shots)

She's everything that he should not - could not, for fuck's sake - want but he bites his bottom lip thinking about her and his heart skips a beat at the sound of her name. He misses her every moment of the day that he's not with her and he knows he shouldn't. Knows that inevitably, it'll come to a crashing halt - ending with nothing but heartbreak because women that got involved with the Winchester men didn't die easy and they didn't die clean either. He knows it's for the best that she's on the West Coast and he's on the East but the coffee in his hands is cold and so is the indent in his bed and all he can think of is her.

When he met her, he was doing a stakeout near the biker gang's Clubhouse where she mostly hung out. The vampire he was hunting was trying to recruit young girls that hung around the motorcyclists and lure them in with the sense of danger they chased in the bikers. He'd managed to take the bastard down before he could do any real damage, catching him in one of the back rooms with a young blonde and driving the stake through his chest. The poor girl had run out screaming and blubbering, and he'd accepted a round of gratitude shots from the men in leather around him.

And that was where he met her. She was behind the bar, pouring up the shots and watching the bikers slurring at her fondly. They were all either drunk or on the path to getting incredibly so, and she seems to be the only around that's sober.

He has to admit, everything about her is breathtakingly sexy - so much so, that his shot glass nearly slips from his hands when he sees her. From the coal black five inch heel ankle boots, to the shapely legs clad in equally dark, skintight material, up to her full breasts sitting high on her chest - marked ominously by a five inch scar that settles directly between them, and the blonde streaked black hair that falls over her chest. Her eyes are masked by heavy black eyeliner and mascara, but he gets a glimpse of mint green eyes twinkling at him when she serves the shot.

When he inquires, he finds out several things about her. Firstly, 'her' name is Gemma Teller, and she's three years younger than him. She's currently married - and that alone should scare him off, he knew better, he did - but her husband is in Belfast with Irish pussy, as she so spitefully calls it. She's got two biological sons, but she's basically adopted the entirety of her husband's Club as some variety of family - whether a brother, a son, a nephew or an uncle. And by the way they keep shooting him shoddy, protective looks - they feel the same themselves.

John tells himself not to get involved when she pours him another and leans over the bar in a way that could only be read as intentional. She tilts her head when he mentions his sons, bows her head with a quiet snort when he mentions their ages - dangerously close to that of her own boys. He smirks, blows out a breath of air in place of a chuckle. For a small while, it's innocent enough - two parents bonding over a mutual understanding of raising children in a general age group, albeit children with two extremely different lifestyles. But then her hand extends - traces a scarring over welt on his arm, and she blinks up at him through those heavy dark lashes.

Despite everything inside of him screaming not to do it, he lets her lead him to one of the back bedrooms - teasing smile on her lips, deviance in her shimmering eyes. He can't help it - it's been so long since the presence of another has warmed his bed. He had begun to miss the way a woman's soft skin felt beneath his calloused fingertips, or the way she'd cling to his muscles when she rode bitch in his lap - lewd and filthy. He'd also begun to miss the way they smelled - delicate, feminine, dainty. Like Mary.

He loved his sons dearly, but there was just something about a woman's company that they simply couldn't replicate.

And when he wakes up screaming for his sons to run in the middle of the night, clawing at the sheets besides him, she cups his face and kisses him back to sleep. She whispers sweet nothings into his ear to soothe him - like it hasn't been done for so many years, like he hasn't felt for so many years and for a moment, just for a moment, he mistakes the blonde highlights for wheat colored hair and the sticky chapstick for the soft red lipstick of his wife. So while he knows it's wrong, and he knows that she's another man's wife, he pulls her close and bites her skin so that he doesn't sob, fucks her silly again so that he doesn't spill a lifetime of woes at her feet.

It's a moment of weakness that he shouldn't succumb to, but that he does.

The next morning, he tiptoes out while she's still asleep. Her slightly wet - from the sweat of sex - black and blonde locks a gorgeous display against the yellowed pillowcase, her face young and sweet in the cast of morning light. He wonders how he could've ever mistaken her with Mary - she's clearly younger, and despite being desperate not be seen as this way, much gentler than Mary could've ever been. He closes his eyes at the thought - he doesn't even know why he's comparing. She's been dead going on three years now.

He leaves her a quick scribble on the back of a piece of paper in one of the drawers and kisses her temple before John swaggers out of the Clubhouse - his needs satisfied for the time being. What he does not know, is that she was watching him the entire time - her heavy black mascara hiding those bright mint orbs of hers as he pulled his jeans into place and the paper beside the bed.

Now sitting with his cold coffee and broken heart, John wonders what she ever did with it. Had she thrown it away, in hopes of staying faithful afterwards? That's the most likely outcome, although he so desperately wishes it wasn't.

He's just about to pour the coffee down the sink and go wake the boys - get them back on the road, towards the Roadhouse where Bill said he had a hunt waiting on him. Bobby was only hospitable for so long, he didn't need to be a bother for any longer than necessary. But then the man's doorbell rings - loud and vociferous compared to the otherwise quiet morning. Not wanting to wake the kid's just yet, he saunters towards the door and swings it open.

"Gemma," he exhales. He had not expected that surprise - especially considering he had just been thinking about her.

And yes, Gemma Teller stands there in all her mentally destructive glory with mascara tracks running down her cheeks - every bit the damsel in distress to trigger John Winchester's White Knight complex. There are car keys gripped tightly enough in her fist to draw blood and a gun held loosely in the other - almost as if she was too scared (too scarred) to hold it. Her white tank top, ripped jeans and face are all splattered with sprays of red, but she herself is sporting a few bruises, as well as a rapidly purpling black eye that makes his blood boil for no apparent reason. This was not his woman. He had no reason to protect her.

The air is knocked out John Winchester's chest just as soon as he tries to inhale, and his first instinct is to pull her into Bobby's house before anyone could see her - before he could be filed as an accomplice for anything. She mutters something about her kids - asleep outside in her car, she needs to get to them - and he doesn't worry about that because there are bigger fish to fry, bigger bodies to hide. By now the old man he'd left his kids with has stumbled out of his bedroom, bleary eyed and in search of fresh coffee, and the sight of the battered woman has him eyeing John warily.

What'd you do now? The glance asks, and John winces at the idea. God, had he really fallen that far from his grace?

"Stop it, Bobby. This ain't on me," he snarls, gesturing to her disheveled self. Gemma pitches in to help - gives positive affirmation, laughs bitterly that it was a different John. Briefly, prostitution flits through his mind - she certainly looks the part - but then he remembers her husband. John Teller - which brings him back to this… mess that she'd brought to his door and laid properly at his feet. "Gemma, what did you do?"

"He was going to kill me," she sniffs, pressing the back of her hand to her nose as the tears pour down her face - a steady stream of grief, falling from gorgeous eyes and spilling onto the dusty kitchen floor. He notices when she talks that her mouth is full of blood, wonders just how brutal this attack was. "Take my boys to Ireland, with his fucking whore Friday and their bastard child- raise them like some sort of fuckin' family, like I wasn't gonna fight for 'em. I told him that Clay'd never let him leave and I bragged about sleepin' around… god, I know it's bad. But… he got mad. I'd shattered his ego, let other men inside me while I was his wife… he was fucking furious… he beat the everloving shit out of me - tried to make it look like one of his gang affiliations just trying to get to his family, too. I- I was so scared. I thought I was gonna die… and then… and then he unbuckles his pants and he says… he says… I know who you are. I know what you are. I know where whores belong. And he-"

She bows her head and she staggers on her heels a bit before burying her fists into the cloth of his red flannel and her face into his ebony shirt. John awkwardly holds her as she sobs, and over her shoulder Bobby shoots confused - and extremely annoyed - looks. But the younger man doesn't have time to explain - Gemma's shooting another confession out of her mouth.

"I-I killed him. God, I- I took his gun from it's holster and I blew his fucking brains out the back of his head… and he collapsed on top of me… and Tommy found him and me… he doesn't understand. All he saw was a lot of blood and his drunk father passed out inside of his mom. That poor kid- John, I- I can't go away for this. Jax and Tommy - they don't know a life without their mom. I can't make them lose both parents. I can't."

"Salt and burn," the words fly from Bobby's mouth before John has time to think. Gemma turns to peer at the man, and he shrugs lamely - sipping his bitter coffee before swallowing it whole. "It's what we do to- it's what we do. Salt the body and it burns nicely for ya, sweetheart. No body, no evidence."

"I appreciate the help but what about my kids? I can't go back to the Club after this- they'll kill me," she splutters, wiping her tears hastily. John hands her a paper towel and she flashes him a grateful smile before turning back to Bobby. "I just murdered their President- friend or foe, I gotta pay. Money or blood, and it definitely won't be money - I killed the President. Covering up his body don't mean shit because I'm gonna die anyways. I gotta be there for them. I'm all they got now."

"You can stay here," Bobby sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face tiredly. John is surprised - the man was opening up his home to a woman he barely met. Maybe he wasn't the only one around with a White Knight complex. And moreover - maybe he wasn't the only one around with a pining for Gemma. "Er-?"

"Gemma. You?"

"Bobby. I got spare rooms - how many rascals we talkin'?" he asks, after another sips of coffee. She shakes her head - obviously still in a daze, and visibly shaken. John gives her waist a helpful squeeze and she looks briefly to him before turning back to Bobby.

"Two. Jax and Thomas - they're quiet, for the most part," she wipes another tear and swallows hard. "Jax- he fucking hates me, to cut it bluntly. He idolizes his father and he doesn't understand yet. So, he doesn't talk much, and when he does, I'm a biker whore that likes to be passed around. Something JT taught him- to get back at me for sleeping with you, John, I guess. For the most, he just doesn't talk to me… and Tommy, he's an excitable kid- he loves anyone that loves him. But, he's not going to be a problem. It won't be long. Nate doesn't live far from here."

"Nate?" John asks, wondering just how many men this woman was juggling in her life. Gemma nods at him - obviously expecting the shock, and somehow managing to process it.

"Natural thing to assume. Not another boyfriend. He's my brother - he has a ranch near Norco, I can go there. Raise the boys with him. Jax will remember his father but… Tommy won't. Nate'll stand-in. I just needed somewhere to- someone to-" she starts hyperventilating, and breaks away from John - looking helplessly around the kitchen. It's a pretty small space, but it leads to a bigger one that she quickly moves to - her heels clicking along the hardwood floor.

"Where can I smoke? Or I need a- I need to- I need something," she pants, pressing her hand to the scar on her chest. It's surrounded by sweat and blood, but John eyes it warily. Scars around that general area were usual signs of open heart surgery, so he wonders if she has heart issues. He wonders if her heart is acting up, and is nauseous at the idea of it.

"What kind of something, sweetheart?" Bobby asks. Gemma's eyes find the man in obvious horror and she shakes her head before storming out the front door. John stares after her before going to follow, but his longtime friend catches his arm - preventing him from taking a single step forward.

"What the fuck was that, huh? What's wrong with you?" John hisses, snatching away from the grip of his buddy. He too is horrified by Bobby's comment, and he can already tell that Gemma is mortified to have been sniffed out so easily.

"She just killed a man that raped her," says the elder hunter, brushing red locks of hair from of his eyes. John stiffens at the word 'rape', but Bobby's stare is smoldering. "She does drugs - multiple, from what I'm seeing, just look at her. She's tweaking out. You sure you want to get mixed in with this?"

"Bobby-"

"You miss Mary," the man relents, releasing his arm. "and the touch of a woman. I do too. But don't let that cloud your judgement, okay?"

"You're out of line," John growls.

"Am I?"

John storms away from him, pushing out the front door. He finds Gemma under the porch, her fingers fumbling with her lighter as she presses what looks to be a carefully rolled marijuana cigarette between her lips. Wincing, John approaches her.

"Here - let me help," John sighs, taking the lighter. He cups the flame and brings it close to her cigarette. The flames eagerly lick at the white paper, burning it back and forcing an offending acrid smell into his nose. But Gemma inhales the smoke eagerly - like an alcoholic lapping up the last drops of alcohol. She shudders when she exhales and visibly relaxes. Bobby's words bite at the edges of his mind, and eventually he exhales tiredly. "Why did you come to me, Gemma? Huh? Why not immediately to your brother or this… Clay?"

She turns to look at him, bright mint eyes glistening under the glow of the morning son. "I told you. Clay would have to kill me - he'd become the presiding President, and that'd be his first order of business. My brother… bless his soul, he loves me but he would've called the local cops. He wouldn't have helped me - not like you."

"Why did you come to me? I was a one night stand, Gemma."

"That night… when you were screaming… you called me Mary. And you begged me save you - save you from hell. I- I asked you where you were, and you said Bobby's but that it was burning so hurry. Surprisingly ain't that many Bobby's in the area, John," Gemma sighs with an exhalation of smoke. "I know I'm steppin' in on somethin' or someone's toes. You and your boyfriend seem real happy and I'm sorry for barging in, I just need-"

"Gemma!" John snaps, shaking her so that she could finally listen to him. She stares at him with wide, scared eyes and he furrows his brows, even though a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "What made you think Bobby and I were a… a thing?"

He almost laughs at the notion - the forming of the idea. He and Bobby. It's not even the insinuation of being gay that makes it bad - it's the insinuation that he'd settle with Bobby. He doesn't think he'd be able to take the drinking, cursing and farting for such long periods of time. Besides - John can do much better than Bobby. At the very least, she could've said Bill.

It doesn't strike him that she doesn't know Bill.

"I- he seemed so… protective, I thought- thought he loved you beyond what was deemed friendly," Gemma laughs shakily, taking another long, suffering pull from her cigarette. She shakes her head - still in a sort of daze, he thinks. "I was confused too because I wondered why you would have sex with me if- forget it."

"Yeah. That was… yeah. I'm strictly chickly," he exhales, looking out on the sunrise and clasping his hands in front of him, leaning on the porch. Gemma bows her head, exhaling the smoke and a soft laugh from the back of her nose.

"Yeah… I remember," she says, bumping her hip against his playfully. She has calmed considerably, and now it seems as if she's ready to move past the event. "I was there."

John nods and chews the inside of his lip. The bruises on her face worsen by the second, and the sticky blood on her shirt doesn't make it any easier. He couldn't just laugh and grin with her like she wasn't a victim and a murderer - like what took place, hadn't just took place. He needed to be an adult about this. It's alright however - Gemma is already moving past whatever that moment had been between them. She gives him as kiss on the corner of the mouth - the wretched smell of smoke horrid on her breath - and descends the steps of the porch, calling something about checking up on her kids.

Yeah, he thinks tiredly, turning back towards Bobby's creaky old house. Good idea.